#is blue dream a good strain

[spotaus]

Okay! This one is less rendered than the other two, but here's some doodles of Tulpa figuring out how to co-exist! (Aka Fresh not taking training seriously while Dream is trying desperately to get his friends to think he's normal.)

When Dream first returns to the Star Sans', he finds himself in a pickle, because he needs Fresh to move his body. Sure, they made a tentative agreement that Dream trusted Fresh not to break, but Dream hadn't been specific enough with the guidelines.

Fresh pilots Dream's body based on the commands from his soul, but more often than not Fresh simply decides not to listen. Sometimes when they're training, Fresh will suddenly make Dream fumble his bow or send an arrow flying way off-target. Dream is always frustrated by this, unaware that Fresh it doing it for his own good and is forcing the guardian to take a break.

Blue was also made aware of Fresh very early on. One day he was passing the kitchen where Dream was cooking and spotted how Fresh's little form was wiggling out of the hole on Dream's skull. Blue made Eye-contact with Fresh, but said nothing since it seemed like Dream was aware and didn't mind. He waited until Dream told him to acknowledge the parasite directly, but suddenly a bunch of Dream's weird actions made sense to him. Blue regularly makes sure to check in on Dream, before abd after he's aware of Fresh, because he knows Dream works himself into the ground.

Dream (eventually) figures out that Fresh was being clumsy for his sake and nearly cries about it (even his mother and the villagers never did that for him, and Blue was the only other person to ever pull him away from training for his own good) so he gets a bit emotional. He feels bad for how angry he used to get at Fresh for doing that, but Fresh never gave him a proper explanation either, so it was a two-way street.

And while Fresh was lienent around Blue and Ink, he never slipped up around Nightmare's gang. Though, he did fight seriously, which to him might look like goofing off, which is completely separate from Dream's fighting style. (For now Dream uses Arrows and his Bow, but I'm thinking Tulpa has a T-Shirt Canon or a Nerf Gun by the time they make-up.)

Ideally Fresh cannot be seen during combat because he actually pilots from around Dream's soul, but sometimes his parasite form expands to support Dream's weak joints and act like a shock-absorber.

[yueebby]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. period piece, forbidden love

contents. ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior (5k words of gojo pining), lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. inspired by the apothecary diaries and this post. loosely based off of ancient japan (this is basically its own world). this is the prologue to the series where everything can generally be read as a standalone ! (fic under the cut)

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emperor!gojo who broke a hundred year tradition to take you as his only lover. despite your role as a concubine, everyone in the imperial palace knew he was going to make you his empress.

emperor!gojo who had not meant to fall in love with you, but you have managed to somehow charm him. a man that single handedly brought his own clan to power– weak in your hands. hushed whispers around the imperial palace call you a witch, but they never reach your ears. not as long as he is alive.

emperor!gojo shamelessly showering you with love. he pays no mind that it is highly frowned upon, he will have his hands on you every time you are in the same room.

emperor!gojo who is livid when there is an attempt on your life. his usual ocean eyes turned to blue flames like a wild animal. servants and clan elders alike scurry under his gaze. the assailant is taken care of by his own hands. 

emperor!gojo who is forced to satiate the clan elders into submission by taking in another concubine from an influential clan. he insists to you that it is no more than a political formality. who are you to meddle into imperial affairs?

emperor!gojo who can’t help himself and ends up falling for another girl who his clan elders demand he must wed. she is much younger than you, beautiful and is well bred; a perfect match for the emperor. 

emperor!gojo whose frequent visits to you come to an end, forcing you to move from his chambers and back to the consorts’ pavilion.

There was a time when you had everything. A place to call home in the Inner Court, a beautiful palace with anything you could have ever dreamed of. Servants, admirers, riches; you had it all. But what was most dear to you was your lover– a man so divine, many thought he was directly blessed by the hand of God. It was too good to be true. A woman of lowly birth like you, paid as homage for the sins of her clan against the new reigning family of Japan, becoming a concubine of the Heavenly Emperor. 

You remembered it all too well.

His brilliant mind that once strategized the downfall of the previous imperial family, calculating its next move in a game of Go against you. You can still remember the shock on his face upon his first defeat. The way he would keep you from leaving to fulfill your other duties until he was satisfied, eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to keep up with you. No matter how hard he tried, you remained victorious. It drove him mad.

You remembered the stolen kisses while you made your rounds in the Inner Palace with your ladies in waiting. It took you quite a while to learn to tune out their giggles every time the Emperor dips you down to taste your lips in broad daylight. The grin that he wore after was enough to leave your legs weak.

Above all, you'll always remember how safe you felt in his strong, reassuring embrace. You’ve seen him train, and it was no wonder the Gojo clan rose to power so quickly as a result of one man. The way he wields the katana is unlike any man on the face of the earth. Those arms were your sanctuary. You can still vividly recall the attempt on your life, orchestrated by a traditionalist incensed by the Gojo clan's swift ascent to power. The emperor, outraged by the assassination plot, personally saw to the man's execution. 

However, the damage was done and it caused great strain in the Imperial Palace.

To appease the old geezers that were forced out of power, Emperor Gojo had taken in another concubine from one of the Big Three families of Japan— a beautiful Zenin girl. Her flowing, silky hair and saccharine voice enchanted everyone in the Inner Palace, captivating the Emperor, most of all. She was younger than you, with perkier breasts and soft skin that was enough to capture the attention of any man. 

You don’t blame her for taking the Emperor’s attention away. Though you would be a liar if you said it did not hurt you. Deep down, you cannot deny the agony that sears your soul, realizing that the only semblance of love you've ever tasted remains unrequited. With a heavy heart, you resign yourself to the bitter truth of your existence, knowing all too well the cruel confines of your place in this world.

You were merely a pawn, and the Emperor did not want you anymore.

That was made clear months later when you received a scroll from the Emperor’s advisor, a man you were once well acquainted with, Geto Suguru. 

“What is this?” You asked him quietly, your heart silently begging the Heavens it was not what you had suspected it to be. The black haired man in front of you does not respond, and you feel something pierce into your heart. Despite being a part of the Emperor’s court, it was rare that you received letters directly.

Your suspicions were confirmed when your shaky hands finally opened the scroll to read the familiar kanji written by your beloved.

“The Emperor decrees the termination of your role as concubine." Geto spares you the trouble of deciphering the characters neatly written in ink. “In his mercy, you are to be moved as a servant in the Outer Court. You are to serve the Imperial Physician.”

What you remember most was the silence. The Emperor’s silence after the stressful months you had to endure alone. The silence shared between you and Geto when you were forced out of the Imperial Court. All that was left was the sound of your heart breaking and the wood creaking underneath Geto’s feet as he walked away. Satoru never bothered to see you off.

Seasons change and by the next spring, you’re busying your hands with collecting herbs for the Imperial Physician, a man by the name of Yaga Masamichi. He is a kind man, pitying you enough to fill your days with laborious tasks to prevent your mind from wandering to thoughts of the unfortunate turn your life has taken. He is even generous enough to supply you with a new wardrobe of clothing full of light fabrics, a luxury you thought you would lose in the Outer Palace. Though the initial humiliation has worn off with the passing of time, you are still constantly reminded of your fall from grace.

Looks by the mix of condolences and disgust are shared when you roam the walls of the Outer Palace. You hear whispers of how the Emperor is infatuated with his newer, shinier toy. It is enough for you to swallow the bile that makes its way up your throat. 

“It is no wonder the Emperor tossed away a wildflower like her in exchange for a cherry blossom. He needed someone to rival his own greatness.” A particular comment stopped you in your tracks. Your grip tightens on the woven basket in your hand filled with medicinal herbs you had collected earlier that morning. 

“Have some pity on her.” Another eunuch whispers. Your breath falters, but you continue your walk with your head held up. You’ve heard the rumors. The beautiful Zenin Himiko has charmed the Emperor enough that there are rumors of a royal marriage to come. It doesn’t help that the Emperor has remained monogamous to her since he had banished you from his court.

A comforting hand links itself with your arm, “Ignore them. I saw Yaga shooing away a crowd of suitors that were lined up for your hand.” Ieiri Shoko scoffs, secretly sending you a wink. She has been studying medicine under Yaga for nearly a decade, eagerly accepting you as a companion upon your arrival. You feel your cheeks heat up at her flattery. You know she’s just trying to make you feel better.

Although your beauty never faded, it seems as though you are no longer sought after in the marriage market. Not that it matters, considering the new life that you’re living. You’re now a personal servant to the Imperial Physician, leaving no time to worry about suitors and such. Your days are filled with good work— tending to Yaga’s cherished garden that he has sowed for decades rather than frivolous games and attending the Emperor. It may not be glorious compared to your former life, but it was the best a woman of your status could receive. 

When you and Shoko return to Yaga’s estate, you’re surprised to see the somber look that has settled on his aging features. Shoko makes an offhand comment that he will age faster if he keeps scowling. She receives a scolding.

“Is something the matter?” You gently place down your basket full of herbs. 

Yaga sighs, calloused hands rolling up a scroll with the Imperial Seal. “It appears the Emperor’s consort has fallen ill and His Majesty commands my presence in the Imperial Palace.” 

The Royal Consort. The woman that dethroned you: Zenin Himiko.

“I understand.” You nod, maintaining your composure while two sets of eyes scrutinize you with keen observation. It was only natural the emperor wanted the best doctor in the country for his object of affection. “Shall I close up the shop while you journey into the Inner Palace?” 

Yaga shakes his head, “That won’t be necessary. I will have Shoko act as my stand-in.” He remarks with a quick glance in her direction “You, on the other hand, will accompany me.” 

Your eyes widen. 

“You cannot be serious.”

“Typically, one of my apprentices would accompany me on such journeys. However, now that I have acquired a personal attendant,” He gestures towards you with a flick of his hand, “It shall no longer be necessary.” As he speaks, he runs his hand absentmindedly through his well trimmed beard, gaging your reaction.

"I—" Your words falter and fade away. "Yes, sir," you respond, inclining your head in deference, a stark reminder of your place. While you may have concealed it, you were seething with humiliation. Returning to the Imperial Palace after a year of exile to serve the woman who took your spot was mortifying beyond measure.

“Very well. Pack enough for one week’s time. I doubt the Emperor would have called me if this was a light ailment.” He says gruffly. “We leave at dawn.” His gaze shifted to the horizon outside.

1 YEAR AGO

“Your Grace,” You purr at the feeling of his large hands scratching your head. 

The smile that rests on his face is almost ravenous. “Yes, my love?”

“I think—“ A soft sigh escapes your lips when he presses on your weak points. “I should g-go.”

His ministrations stop almost immediately. 

“Go?” His eyes peer down at you in his lap. It is now that you realize the weight of his piercing gaze. “Have I commanded you to leave yet?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have nowhere else to be.” He huffs, unintentionally puffing his cheeks out. You stifle the giggle that nearly escapes from your lips. He vaguely resembles a pufferfish– or so you think. Though you’ve never seen the round creature with your very own eyes, you’ve heard that the delicacy was something only members of the aristocratic class would feast on. 

Your mouth waters at the thought.

“What are you thinking about that could possibly be so important? Keep your eyes on me,” A strong hand squishes your cheeks together and firmly guides your face back upon him. 

You should be embarrassed; ashamed at the intimate position His Majesty has trapped you in. The way your head is tucked away in his lap as he peers down at you, nothing to shield you away from him. It was incredibly scandalous, considering that you were an unmarried woman! But it seemed like the Emperor had taken no mind towards it. You would even dare to say that he was enjoying it, with the way his lips quirk upward at the sight of you squirming. 

“Your Grace,” You repeat, determined to free yourself from his hold. His eyebrows furrow.

“Satoru,” He reminds you. You purse your lips. The position you hold in his court is simply not high enough to grant you the privilege of calling him by his given name.

“Your Grace,” You try again, the title rolling off of your tongue naturally. A man like him did not deserve any title less than.

“You’re breaking my heart, sweetheart. Indulge a man, won’t you?” He pouts down at you. As stubborn as ever, you don’t relent.

“I would be overstepping my boundaries as your consort to call you as such. That privilege is reserved for your future bride.” You take advantage of his guard let down to sit up and escape his hold. If he could have caught you, he made no effort.

“I am a simple man.” He follows you to your vanity. A giggle escapes your mouth. He is anything but. “I want my love to call me by my name.” 

You turn around to cup his cheek. He eagerly leans into your touch, sighing happily at the contact.

“I wonder how Lord Kento and Geto would react to you like this.” You tease, a smile unknowingly painting itself on your lips. 

Satoru’s face falls, features morphing into an appalled expression. You watch him close the distance between you through the mirror.

“Kento?” His voice had a dangerous lilt in it. You blink, unsure what spurred on the sudden tension in the room. “Since when were you so comfortable around him? He cannot satisfy you like I can.” He reminds you of the man’s castrated state as an eunuch. You wince.

“I have not gotten comfortable,” You’re careful to pick your words. Gojo’s possessiveness was something that was not easily tamed. “He simply provides good conversation while you are away.The palace is far too big and lonely while you’re away dealing with clan matters.” 

The only response you get is a quiet grumble. “You’re lucky that you’re pretty.” His large hand creeps its way into your hair again, undoing the hairstyle your ladies in waiting had spent a copious amount of time on earlier that morning. Gojo carefully plucks the extravagant silver hairpin from your hair, the dangling pearls clicking softly at the sudden movement.  His hands slowly make their way down to the kimono that you are wearing, hands ready to undo the obi.

Your hands softly hover his, “I fear that our roles have been reversed. Should it not be me who gets you unready, Your Grace?”

He chuckles and through the mirror you can see a smirk make his way to his lips, “I’d let you undress me any day. Just say the word, beloved.” 

You roll your eyes, but allow him to continue. It was moments like these with the Emperor that led you on to believe that there was a semblance of love between the two of you. 

How wrong you were.

PRESENT DAY

The sun has yet to meet the horizon when you arrive at the Inner Palace. The horse-drawn carriage that you and Yaga had taken is the only sound at the scene, clopping down the stone road and back to the Inner Court. You miss the serenity of the beautiful palace you once resided in, knowing that it will be bustling with life in just a few short hours.

In front of the large doors of the primary ceremonial hall where the Emperor spends most of his time, stands Lord Nanami, a counsellor to the Emperor himself. Time has only made his face sterner, but his neatly styled hair and blue and yellow dyed court attire remained the same. He waits patiently while you and Yaga make your way up the flight up stairs that lead up to the hall.

“I am glad to see you in good health, Yaga.” Nanami bows. 

The man next to you promptly waves his politeness off, thanking him for his hospitality. You stand silently while the two men engage in conversation regally.

Lord Nanami sighs, “His Majesty has been plagued by stress lately. To say I am relieved by your presence would be an understatement.” His statement is a subtle reminder that you must harden your heart upon entering the palace walls. The meticulously built walls were no longer a sanctuary for you, rather, a painful testament that you were no longer wanted. 

Yaga lets out a hearty laugh and it reveals a rare sight, Lord Nanami’s lips curving upwards by a slight. “I highly doubt the boy would be glad to see me. The appearance of the Imperial Physician is portentous.” He scratches his beard. You tilt your head in confusion at how he referred to the Emperor.

“I suppose, yet I am intrigued to find out how he will react upon seeing his object of affection flourishing anew despite the sting of frost.” Nanami audibly wonders. Even a fool could understand his eloquent comparison. The Emperor would be thrilled to see his consort in full bloom once again. You pray that the Heavens would grant you some mercy from witnessing such a scene.

“Youth,” Yaga shakes his head, chuckling to himself before regaining composure. “I mustn't keep the Emperor waiting. [Name], please gather the herbal ingredients to treat the young Consort as you seem fit. I shall confer with His Majesty and meet you in her chambers to declare a proper diagnosis.”

You bow, “Yes sir.”

While Yaga prepares to enter the doors where The Heavenly Emperor resides, your eyes couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the large bronze doors. 

“You seem well,” Nanami addresses you for the first time in over a year. Your eyes trail from the Emperor’s door to the blonde man in front of you. “Allow me to guide you to our herbal stock.” Nanami offers you his arm as you start to make your way down the stairs. 

You take it, lightly holding his arm.  “Thank you, Lord Nanami. Time away from the Inner Palace has been like a breath of fresh air,” You respond, ensuring your voice carries no malice. You hear the large palace doors from behind you open, the metal creaking loudly in the quiet dawn. 

“I must ask you to call me Kento,” He leads you down the stone steps. “We are old friends, it is strange to hear anything but.” 

You focus on your steps down the stairs, only responding once your feet meet the solid ground, “I fear that our social statuses have changed since then. It would be the cause of a scandal should anyone hear I am calling the Imperial Counselor by his given name. Your admirers would have my head on a stick.”

“Your imagination is amusing as always, [Name].” He gives you a closed eyes smile. You huff.

“I am only speaking the truth!” You insist. He chuckles.

“It is quite refreshing to see both you and Yaga again. I’m not sure how long it has been since I have been at the imperial physician.” 

You gape at his confession. “You mustn't skip your annual visits to the physician, Kento. It is in the best interest of your health!” You lightly scold him, lifting your hand to flick his forehead. It was a force of habit. “Perhaps if I have time after treating the Consort, I shall do a check up on you.”

Nanami clears his throat at your comment, the twinkle in his eyes dissipating as if your direct touch had burned him. 

“I would rather not lose my head.” He mumbles, eyes scanning the courtyard around the two of you. You knit your eyebrows, confused.

Nanami leaves you to fulfill his duties once you arrive at the Royal Kitchens to retrieve all the necessary items to treat Consort Himiko. You are glad that he did not accompany you into the kitchens to prepare Consort Himiko’s herbal soup. 

The memory of it still irks you.

“You’re late,” One of Consort Himiko’s ladies in waiting snaps just as you enter the kitchen. You look up to see a young girl, dressed in a light purple kimono. It must be Himiko’s signature, you note. It was strange to see someone outside of the Imperial family donning the color, but you suppose it was only a grand display of Himiko’s influence.

“You’re a lot more plain than I anticipated,” The other lady in waiting quirks an eyebrow, eyeing your appearance. You furrow your eyebrows, shocked by their rudeness.Their undying loyalty to their Lady was enough to fuel an unspoken hatred for you. Though you’re not sure that the two coincide, you don’t blame them.

The two are mixing a concoction that you don’t recognize to be used to treat the sick. The taller one adds some aromatics and herbs in and you see the other one unwrap a cloth to reveal a rare delicacy from the West. Cocoa, you believed they called it. 

Then it hits you– the two are not making a medicinal soup for their Lady, rather they are making an aphrodisiac! The image that conjures in your head makes you blanch. Back in the Outer Palace, Shoko had shown you the effects of the stimulant (you shiver at the memory of her shoving a treat laced with it into your mouth). It was certainly a night to remember.

“How pathetic,” You mutter underneath your breath, quickly rushing to obtain the ingredients you needed without making conversation with the two girls.

Fortunately, they pay you no further attention for the time you’re in the kitchen.

“Please excuse me,” You bow upon entering the Emperor’s chambers. Despite the Consort’s Pavilion being similar in size to a small town, you remember spending most of your time in the Emperor’s chambers rather than your own. It was probably the same case with Consort Himiko. You slowly place the tray carrying broth and medicinal herbs to treat the Consort down on the circular wooden table in the middle of the room.

Out of curiosity, your eyes can’t help but soak in the Emperor’s room. Not much has changed since you’ve left. His Majesty’s preference for minimalist decorations have stayed the same, along with his natural musk that fills your nose. You feel your face heat up at your own thoughts. How could you think of such a thing when you are about to meet his new lover?

Your gaze moves to his bed, where Consort Himiko resides– only to find nothing.

“Huh?” 

You observe his bed, silk sheets neatly made, seemingly untouched. The sounds of your sock clad feet patter on the wooden floor as you make your way to feel the bedsheets for any signs of warmth, but you are met with nothing.

“Don’t you know that entering the Emperor’s chambers can be punishable by death?” A deep voice from behind you causes you to jump in your spot. 

Your guard is immediately raised, head whipping to the sound. In hindsight, you should have never agreed to accompany Yaga on his trip. It was a foolish idea all along, you think as all of the air in your lungs dissipates upon seeing your former lover. 

Standing at the entrance of his own sleeping quarters is Gojo Satoru, his frame big enough to tower over the doorway. His arms are crossed over each other, electric blue eyes focused on nothing else but you. You press your thighs together tightly to avoid squirming anymore than you are.  He has loosened his dark blue kimono to expose some of his hardened chest, a sight any woman in the nation would die to catch a glimpse.  Even underneath all of the fabric, anyone can see his divinely sculpted physique.

“Your Grace,” You waste no time to dip your body deeply, praying that he will allow you to keep your head by sunset. “I apologize for the intrusion, I was under the pretense that Consort Himiko resided in your quarters–” Your voice loses itself in your throat when you see his shadow quickly encroaching.

“Himiko stays in her Pavilion,” He towers over you, eyes gazing down on you. “But one might suspect that you already knew that.”

Your eyes frantically meet his feet, desperate to salvage what was left of your dignity, “I assure you that I speak of the truth, Your Majesty.”

When he doesn’t respond, you slowly lift your head.

The flustered look on your face must have been amusing to him, as he makes his way closer to you, bending down to interrogate you further.

“Is that so?” He hums, enjoying every second of cornering you into his chambers. The back of your legs have met his bed, trapping you. You inhale sharply, trying to keep your breaths even, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing the effect he had on you.

He continues, “You’re awfully skittish for someone who was happily skipping around my territory in the arms of another man just earlier.” His predatory gaze seems to darken. 

“Kento?” When his name leaves your lips, the man in front of you grits his teeth. You turn your head to the side, deliberately avoiding him. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, but I don’t see how Kento and I’s relationship is any of your concern,” He does not take your actions well, his gaze searing into you.

“It certainly is when the woman in question is you,” Gojo’s voice loses its feral lilt, distress flashing across his face. There’s a newfound desperation in it that chips away at your resolve. His hand raises to your face so slowly, as if he did not want to startle you.

“This is wrong. I– I saw a couple of servants earlier making aphrodisiacs, perhaps you could have unknowingly consumed them.” You tell him, frantic eyes meeting him. It is not unusual for couples to use aphrodisiacs, you know that after under Yaga. The Emperor must have mistaken the laced dessert for his usual. 

He shakes his head, running a hand through his white hair.

“You are mistaken. This is solely your effect on me.” He promises. You could barely believe his words, stuck between feeling offended or shocked.

“How could you stand to be so cruel?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. There are no tears in your eyes this time.  “I am not a courtesan you can buy for the night,” You snap, pointing a harsh finger to his chest. 

“What do you mean?” He sounds breathless.

“Whatever do I mean?” You scoff, a dry laugh escaping your mouth. “For a year, all I have gotten is pity from the world, because you decided I was no longer entertaining. You could have at least banished me away yourself. Instead, you sent Suguru who couldn’t even look me in the eye! Don’t you know how humiliating that is?” With every word that left your lips, more venom seemed to drip. Anger was prickling you all over, taking control of the rational part of you.

Gojo seemed to be taken aback by your outburst. It was far too late to take anything back now. If you lose your head by nightfall, so be it.

You dig a deeper grave for yourself when you take advantage of his moment of weakness to flee. He’s quick to react, attempting to grip your wrist.

“Wait, [Name], beloved–” He uses that all too familiar term of endearment, but it doesn't deter you.

You accidentally bump into the circular wooden table placed in the middle of the room. What an awful place to keep it, watching in horror as the Consort’s medicine shatters on the floor. To add salt to the wound, a vase you recognize to be specially gifted to the Emperor from a foreign nation tips off too before you can catch it. The sound of porcelain shattering fills the room.

“[Name]! Are you alright?” You hear Gojo ask from behind you, but you run over the broken shards before he can catch you.

Had you bothered to pay closer attention, you would have noticed articles of your clothing and a couple of your missing belongings littered all over the room– creating a faux impression that you never really left the palace.

Days passed by after the incident, and luckily, your head was still attached to your body despite offending and nearly endangering the Emperor. Yaga’s disappointment when you had told him what happened was made evident when he sent you home early after hearing the events that transpired, insisting that he can handle the Consort on his own. Normally you would have argued, but you knew better than to inflict Yaga’s wrath.

“Now you’ve really done it,” Shoko whistles lowly, walking in from the front of Yaga’s shop. 

You hide your face in your hands, “I made an absolute fool of myself, didn’t I?”

“A fool? No. A conspirator against the Emperor? Perhaps.” She dangles a scroll with a familiar seal on it. The Gojo Clan’s familiar emblem reflects off of the sunlight spilling into the room. Your heart drops.

“Oh, they’ll have my head.” You moan, hands instinctively lifting to shield your neck.

“Though I’m quite impressed that Yaga only sent you back here. He used to have worse punishments.” She shudders before impatiently unraveling the scroll. You watch her eyes gradually widen as they read the contents of the letter. The scroll falls from her hand.

You rush to it, desperate to read your fate.

To [Last Name] [First Name],

Greetings and prosperity unto you.

By the mandate of the heavens and the authority vested in Us, We hereby extend Our solemn words to you, [Last Name] [First Name], servant of the realm, in acknowledgement of your debt to the Empire.

In response to your unmeritorious deeds, The Emperor bestows upon you His imperial pardon from capital punishment. In consideration of your obligations and the harmony of the realm, it is hereby decreed that you shall serve as an indentured servant to the Imperial Household for a period commensurate with your debt. During this time, you shall labor faithfully and diligently under the supervision of Our Heavenly Emperor, performing duties essential to the welfare of the Empire.

By fulfilling your obligations with diligence and humility, you may yet earn favor and esteem in Our sight.

The Imperial Court

A loud gasp escapes your mouth.

You feel your legs weaken, your emotions running wild. Shoko’s eyes meet yours, mirroring your frantic gaze. In that moment, you are met with the same suffocating sense of hopelessness.

extra!

gojo was kicking his feet happily as he watched suguru draft out his letter to you. suguru thought it rather cruel, while the white haired male was too busy purring happily as he fantasized about having you back into his grasp.

[sasha-psychedelia]

The Provably Worst Gun for Home Defense

What is provably the WORST gun for home defense? A .22 single shot rifle is at least small and quick to point. A Barrett M82 is at least going to instantly stop whatever it hits. Even a good old fashioned musket is going to do good damage and won't hurt your ears. No, I wanted to know what the undisputable worst home defense gun in the world is; and I have found it.

This is the .950 JDJ Fat Mac. It is a 100 pound, 5 foot long rifle that shoots a one pound solid brass bullet at 2200 FPS. It is a non-NFA item only because the ATF gave it a sporting exemption as a joke as if anybody is going to hunt with this. This round would be overkill for hunting blue whales.

I would like to paint a picture for you. It's 2AM and you hear a window break in your living room. This is the worst day this could happen, as every single one of your guns was lost in a tragic boating accident this morning. All were lost except for one. You look across your room in dread at your anti-kaiju rifle. You know what you have to do, but you don't know if you have the strength to do it, both literally and figuratively.

Heaving the rifle into your arms, you load a .950 cartridge and begin to waddle towards the door. Your feet make a loud "thud" as you take each 6" step. You know the intruders hear you. You hope they do, for perhaps they will run and spare the world the suffering that is about to befall it.

You try to set the rifle down, but end up clipping your bedroom door and it is immediately knocked off its hinges by this battering ram in your hands. You attempt to round the corner, bonking the muzzle against the doorframe and adjacent wall across the hall at least 4 times.

To your horror, two invaders stand there at the end of the hall.

With a heavy heart, you raise the rifle to your shoulder while making inhuman grunting noises from the strain of attempting some semblance of a shooting position. The burglars simply stare in disbelief, unable to process the situation they are witnessing, as if in a dream.

You cannot aim the rifle, as the last time you fired the gun, it turned your $3000 Leopuld into a kaleidoscope. You simply hold it at an angle that appears correct and fire.

You are immediately knocked to the floor as if hit by a semi truck going 20 MPH. The shot connected with one of the criminals and it erased him from existence. Even the memories of him have been destroyed and you're wondering why you just shot into an empty hallway. The shot continues to travel through at least 4 houses, a car, and a 10 ton boulder before lodging itself 20 feet into a nearby hill, never to be seen again.

It is at this point, you realize you cannot hear.

The surviving burglar can't hear either but he's also on fire from the muzzle blast and is currently vacating your home. You don't care. Your shoulder is dislocated and there is a hole in your brand new AR500 refrigerator.

You're crying now.

The police arrive and, upon seeing the scene, start laughing. You start crying harder.

[bunny-jpeg]

baby showers & bright ideas

simon "ghost" riley

cw: smut/pwp, rough sex, breeding kink, baby fever, doggy style, unprotected sex (duh), size difference/kink

love the fic? leave a comment! really love the fic? suggest your own!

congratulations captain john price. he found himself a missus and now they were having a baby. mrs. price was practically glowing with her pregnancy even if she was waddling around a little. heavy price brat at her hips. price had a hand on her back and helped her whenever he could, he was a doting husband.

while simon enjoyed the food and the drinks, it was nothing compared to the pit in his stomach. why couldn't his missus' sprout a little belly like that? a nice riley babe in your soft womb, wouldn't that be a dream? it all came to a head when he overheard garrick's wife ask when you and simon were having a baby. he saw your got red before you shooed away the question.

the answer was simple, tonight. you were going to make a baby tonight.

being misses riley was no easy feat. simon riley was all scarring inside and out, even his scarred hand on your soft, unblemished thigh was such a contrast. from the scar that ran down his lip to the one that ran across his hip, he needed a tough woman.

but, you were quite far from tough. at least physically, you couldn't even hurt a spider. he watched you move it out the window of your apartment and into a flower box. you were pretty tiddies and a squishy tummy. wide hips and soft smiles. plush in a way that simon could get lost in. the kind of woman that he could bully his cock into, to make a proper mama.

once you got home from the baby shower, simon was on you like a shadow. his hands on your hips as he guided you to the bedroom, barely giving you time to get your sandals off. his erection strained in his blue jeans as he bent you over the bed with your face against the mattress and you ass leveled his his cock.

"there she is." he said as he ran his hand across your pussy over your skirt, "there's my girl." he said in a low grumble of a voice. it reverberated in your brain as you felt all sense leave out your ears.

you clung to the covers as he took your skirt off, and your pretty daffodil coloured panties. you only let go of the covers to let simon get your shirt and bra off of you. you looked over your shoulder at him once you were nude and could feel his hungry brown eyes on you. you squirmed a little bit with your breasts rubbed against the covers which only excited you more.

simon got out of his clothes. you heard the rustle of his belt hitting the ground and saw his shirt being thrown to the head of the bed. your husband was soon naked and his cock was pressed up against you and your hips were pushed up.

"pretty thing. pretty girl." he said. he was just so much more bigger than you, he made you feel so small even when the blunt head of his cock was pressed up against your tight cunt, "you'll look pretty with a baby at your hip. already got the body to have babies, not some twig. a proper woman to have my babies." he sank into your pussy and your back arched with the feeling. the stretch of his length inside of you.

"si." you whimpered.

"i saw ya at the baby shower. how could i not. if price's girl wasn't so heavily pregnant, everyone would be lookin' at ya. bein' a little helper to the price's, bein' a good girl." he said, "ya know all about bein' good. i couldn't take my eyes off of ya. especially with the cut of that sundress. why haven't i seen it before?"

you whimpered, "i wanted to save it for a special occasion. no time felt right except for today."

"your fat tits could barely be kept in it. not quite right for a baby shower. unless you were hopin' to walk away with more than just a gift bag. i bet ya were a little jealous. seein' how the captain treats his wife." simon's voice was honey on your brain. it made you feel hot all over and a little hazy in the brain.

"mmm, si."

"i got ya, always do. that's what a husband does. he provides. but, ya gotta do me a favour, beautiful. get pregnant, let me get you pregnant." his started to pick up the pace and you groaned loudly. you could feel the rattle in your soul from the intensity of his pace.

everything from euphoric and hot, you felt good in the best way you could use that term. it was a heat that could be felt in the tips of your fingers and the tips of your toes. you moaned and panted against your soft bedding.

simon pressed your hips further up, almost holding you up against him as he thrusted in and out of you. such a powerful man, no matter the size, you were easily picked up by your hulking mass of a husband. he was a strong brick wall, and you were delicate like a bed of flowers.

eventually simon got you fully onto the bed with him standing at the end with his cock still inside of you. he worked himself against you and you felt the thump of pleasure in your body. you felt his cock nudge against some of your softest parts and you panted wildly.

"so pretty." he said, "only get more pretty when you're carryin' my kid around. i promise i'll be there every step of the way. my woman won't go without." he could imagine you with the baby weight at your hips, and eventually the chunky riley baby at your hip while you worked through the house.

that was his dream. a nice house, a soft wife, a couple of kids in the yard. it was a simple life, but simon yearned for it. eat dinner, put the kids to bed, show his missus' some lovin'. he continued to rut against you while he leaned over you and wrapped his strong arms around your middle. letting his cock nudge against your cervix, a friendly greeting. a promise that he was gonna keep that cunt warm.

"please, si." you couldn't deny it. his words were hot and you were feeling flustered at the baby shower. you could feel the pull to have a baby, and it was good that you and your hubby were on the same page.

you blushed against the covers, he was still so smitten with you. he loved every curve and mole. he loved every inch of soft skin against his calloused hands. you could hear him panting for you, wanting you more than anything. you whimpered a little bit from the feeling of his cock hitting against all the right spots.

simon knew how to drive you mad with a sexual heat.

his heavy thrusts went to your head and before you knew it, you were panting like an animal in heat with your back arched like a good girl. a good wife.

"yeah, you'll keep my belly and my cock warm, huh? that's what a good missus' does. takin' care of her hubby and the kids he gave her." he felt your cunt clench around his cock. that got you excited. he continued to rut against you until you tensed up under him during climax.

you clawed at the covers a little as the pleasure hit you. your eyes rolled back a little and your husband continued to fuck you. he moved you against his cock and watched your back. a few more thrusts after your climax as simon was finishing as well.

"that's it, that's it. good girl. good girl." he purred lowly, "a good missus riley." the words made you shudder. he felt the heat under his skin. he felt alive.

but it wasn't long before his body craved for more. while he pulled out of you, he got onto the bed and between your legs. his cock gleamed with your wetness, but still painfully hard. he needed more.

after all, he needed to make sure it all took.

-

"there's my missus." simon said with his voice filled with love. he strong arms wrapped around you swollen middle and his nose up against your shoulder, "pretty as always."

this was your second pregnancy in two years, and your firstborn, a baby girl was sound asleep in her playpen while you cooked breakfast for you and simon. you looked like a proper wife, a good wife.

maybe it was a bit of an overkill to have two babies so close together, but simon couldn't help himself. it didn't help that you only got hotter when you were being such a good mama to his daughter. his large hands roamed your swollen middle. a few more months and you'll be having a boy.

"not feeling too pretty." you yawned. you tilted your head up and simon leaned down a little to kiss you square on the lips, "why don't you go check on our little peanut and i'll plate our food."

"of course, love." anything for his wife.

your little family felt complete, that was until simon got a itch to have baby number three. <3

[loserlvrss]

.. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐘 ( 김.𝐒𝐖 )

( 八月 ). ──you gets partnered up with the one athlete everyone at your school is obsessed with 김선우 &fem!rea. ⟡ one shot, smut warn. language, unprotected sex, dirty talk, spitting, biting wc : 5034THOU 노트 i got carried away mb gang

The harsh ultra-violet rays warmed your skin, sending a gentle goosebump-ridden pattern over it. You looked out ahead, watching as the soccer team practiced hard—almost daily now (only taking a break on Wednesdays). A breeze passed through the air, weaving its way all around your body, which was wearing the school’s uniform loosely. You sighed, looking up to the wave of lustrously-green trees against the clear-blue sky. 

Your body was relaxed, leaning ever-so-slightly back against the bleacher behind you. Your hand came up when a particularly bright ray shined through the dark leaves of late spring and you blocked it. Then, just as you were about to let it fall back down, your attention caught on one particular member of the team, when a shout of victory wafted into your ears: Kim Sunwoo. 

He was the main character of your daydreams, racing heartbeats, and physical ache. You knew it was stupid to be caught in his grasp, like the rest of the school was. You knew you weren’t special in the way you’d look at him longingly—so desperate for any kind of appraisal from the athlete. 

However, unlike the rest of the female (and male) population, you were contemptuous with your delusion over him. Even if it was an unrequited love, you were closer with yourself—and schooling—in its result. Your parents definitely weren’t complaining with your top-student status and class president tasks.

It seemed like a win-win, but still, you sometimes caught yourself wishing for more in the loneliness of the night, when your mind was the best at focusing on things it shouldn’t. You’d imagine things you’d rather keep in the depths of your archives. Secrets you were prepared to take to the grave: everyone loved Sunwoo, but no one knew you did as well.

The prejudice was that you were too caught up in said studies to even look up, especially not in his direction. You had only a couple of friends, ones you truly trusted with your life, and even they had no clue about your feelings for the soccer player.

You watched his celebration, a fist pumped into the air and a bright smile that caused a blush to litter your cheeks. In moments like these, you were glad he really had no idea you existed when you weren't standing right in front of him. He high-fived the team members, walking over to the sidelines and throwing a small towel over his shoulder. 

It was honestly a little pathetic the way you couldn't peel your eyes from the way his muscles strained against the spandex of the shirt, or the way the sweat would roll down his perfectly sun-kissed skin. The softness of the genuine smile that pressed against his mouth and up into his eyes, the ones that flirted so effortlessly with his slow and cool mannerisms. 

Genuinely, when he looked so good, it made it hard for you to not drift off into another fantasy, one where he’d walk up to you and sweep you off your feet like a prince in a fairytale…and, he always looked this good. 

You huffed out a breath, one you weren’t even sure if you were holding or not, and crossed your legs over one-another. You narrowed your eyes (in some weird attempt at zooming in), swearing you could see the man of your dreams—and reality—walking in your direction. 

He flashed a devilish smile, you weren’t convinced was meant for you, breaking from the teammates he’d been walking with. his eyes met yours, and for a moment you thought you were asleep—or dead. 

frankly, you think this scenario would suit a chuckle from the athlete who watched your eyes go wide as he further approached.

he took a long drink from the bottle in his hand, holding said eye contact as he lightly swallowed. you mimicked him with a dry throat, admiring how his adamsapple bobbed with each gulp. 

he straddled the bench, setting his things between his open thighs. “y/n?” he asked as he raked a hand through his sweaty hair. you couldn’t look away, like a must-watch thriller that you’d spent your hard earned money on. you could feel the way your heart rattled your ribcage, just aching to escape and feel his against it. 

an audible hum left your lips in reply. you could feel the heat that radiated your features and spread throughout your body. and, you knew, despite opposition, that he could see its pink shade.  

the one-sided tension was suffocating. you shifted uncomfortably—or maybe in some desperate attempt to ease the ache—and clasped your hands together. then, once again, he smiled at you. your heart didn’t know whether to shatter or melt in the presence, which you’ve only been able to see up close a couple of times. 

“your place or mine?” 

you wouldn’t have believed the way your eyes could grow three-sizes larger than they already had previously. 

“w-what?” you choked out. 

he chuckled at your flustered state. “ms. park posted the partners for the group-projects.” he stated matter-of-factly. “and, guess what class president?” you all but asked what; gulping loudly, tensing your legs together, as well as your fingers and lips. “we’re partnered.” 

you wanted to play it cool, but the excitement at the revelation was fast-approaching. you’d never had the opportunity to see him outside of school—and granted, it was still over school-work but, a win was still a win in your book. 

“o-oh!” you ragged out along with a shaky breath. “right, i was waiting until after practice to ask you about it.”

you lied.

you had no idea that the groups were announced. you just spent your free-time on this bench pretending to do work often enough that it seemed reliable.

his eyebrows rose, like he could see right through your antics. it was honestly a little intimidating; or maybe that’s not exactly the right word to describe the feeling hot-spotted in you.

he glanced back at the field momentarily, watching the rest of his teammates leave the outlined grass. “whatever you say, class president, but i knew exactly where to find you… except on wednesdays.” the undertone was something you couldn’t read, just out of your depth, but still plunged you further into curiosity. “we’ll go to my place then, and i’ll shower while you get started. how’s that sound? practice is done anyways.”

you wanted to protest his offer, but there was something intoxicating about seeing his room and smelling the cologne that lingered in the air. the shampoo and body wash that would waft out to you. you’d dreamt about it, and simply, you wanted to see if it was anything like the picture you painted in your head.

“i can just meet you later—you can shower in peace.” you started to pull the phone from the bag at your side, opening it, and holding it in his direction. “maybe, in like two hours?”

he took hold of the machinery. “what’s the fun in that? you could’ve joined me if you got too bored.”

you laughed painfully, shifting once again at the heat between your thighs. you wanted to accept the offer more than anything, however you know you shouldn’t.

but, what was the fun in that?

“a shame.” he chuckled lightly, holding the phone back out to you after inputting his number and texting himself the address. “i’ll see you then, y/n.”

it was the exact house number you were now staring at, eyes shifting between the text on your screen and the apartment door. it had been a little over two-hours, you having to hype yourself up before you left. and you had decided to relax by taking a bath as well, getting a little carried away with your imagination—which ultimately caused you to be late as well—but, you didn’t think delinquent-athlete, sunwoo, would care all too much.

“you could’ve knocked,” you hadn’t realized the door was now open, revealing the dimly lit (because the curtains were closed and it was approaching 6pm) living space. “or called.”

“s-sorry. i wasn’t sure if this was the right place.” you watched as he moved aside, creating just enough room for you to brush past him, giving you an oh-so desired smell of his cologne.

you cursed yourself for getting so worked up over the little things he’d do, but now you were finding it hard to believe that that wasn’t his intention. he kept you coming back for more, and you were always eager.

“do you want any water?” he asked, watching your frame stand awkwardly in his living room. “my rooms over there, i have a couple of things for you.”

you choked again. “f-for me?”

he laughed. “to use on the poster, y/n.” and he mumbled something after that you weren’t able to catch.

your head panned as he walked to the kitchen, ears listening to the light rattle of glass cups and running water. you plastered your hands to one another politely, scanning over the couple pictures sunwoo did have laying about; his apartment only had the necessities. the few pictures were ones of a younger girl, who you assumed to be his little sister—who he obviously loved enough to display. but you thought there must’ve been more to them, to him, and deep down you knew you’d like to find out one day; to comfort him in his time of need. to be his.

sunwoo came back, two glasses in his hands as he motioned for the closed door on your left. “you can open it, i’ve got nothing to hide from you.”

you don’t know why those words made you blush, maybe it’s because they’re from him, and anything from the athlete is enough to send you reeling.

your hand trembled as it reached to the knob. “oh, okay.” you said, trying to block it with your body. “i was thinking we could start with reading the book a little bit more, to familiarize ourselves with the data before making the final draft. that’s if you don’t mind?”

the door swung against its hinges, making the site of a dark, but minimalistic room meet your view. you took in the smell of cologne, but it didn’t seem to be overpowering like he had just sprayed it around carelessly. his bed was neatly made, black sheets and black pillows placed meticulously: as if a house keeper had been around to do it for him.

he placed the glasses against the wood of his nightstand, a charger and lamp being the only other decor on it.

he pressed the lamp and illuminated the room just a little more. “not confident, class president?”

“that’s not it,” you blurted out, his brows knit and arms crossed as he awaited your explanation. you could barely look in his direction, biting your tongue to not say: i just get flustered enough to forget around you.

“i, uh, it’s just that… nevermind. let’s begin!”

he huffed out another laugh, his actions too fast for you to process as his hands met your shoulders, pushing you to sit on his bed.

your eyes seemed to be in a perpetually widened state, but you found it telling that you put up no protest. the bag on your back made it into your lap, and you unzipped it, taking out multiple pens, markers and whatnot to make a decent poster. sunwoo had grabbed a paper, putting it on the floor and holding out his book for you to take. your hands brushed as you accepted it, and it sent a shiver up your spine.

you began to lay a couple of your class-taken notes onto his bedding, and sunwoo made his way around to the other side. he plopped down onto his stomach, making you bounce slightly.

“you know, class prez, people think you’re scary. you’re always studying, you barely look up, and when you do it’s to tell people off because they’re interrupting said studying.” you tried to read over the notes, but found it hard to ignore the harmonies within his voice. and that your leisure-clothes were getting too warm around your skin. “but they don’t know you, i guess. you’re smart but i bet you know how to have, at least, a little fun, don’t you? and, it’s no secret the school thinks your looks are top-tear. it’s just a shame you reject everyone that asks you out. it’s a waste of your time, i presume. anyways, that’s enough. let’s get started, shall we?”

“w-why?” you asked in such a hushed breath that sunwoo barely heard it. and if he lived with anyone else, or if a car or plane went by at the perfect time, he wouldn’t have. “why is that a shame?”

“because you are beautiful, y/n.”

fuck your clothes, your skin was getting too hot against you. your breath was labored, and now the words on the paper were congregating. you couldn’t focus with sunwoo next to you, and that’s exactly what you feared.

why’d you have to ask? curiosity did kill the cat.

the way you shifted didn’t go unnoticed by the athlete and he let out a chuckle that should just be his signature at this point.

he sat up now, burning his eyes into the side of your head. “what’s wrong, y/n?” he asked, but you refused to look away from the notes, even if you couldn’t get your mind to read them. “has no one ever called you that before?”

you bit your lip, thumbs ripping at the skin around the nail. truthfully, yes, one person has called you that, but it didn’t feel the same as when he did it. sunwoo made your heart beat out of your chest, breath leave your lungs so fast it made you lightheaded. he made you weak in the knees, like you were just jelly to begin with, melting in the sun.

you felt a soft hand reach across you, taking the farthest cheek within his palm and focusing your vision towards himself.

his skin felt like fire against you, but even this smallest touch made you crave more, made you need him in a more than innocent way. and, you were starting to believe his intentions were exactly the same as yours.

your eyes finally focused at the feeling on his hand sliding to rest against the side of your neck, as if he was caressing it, running his thumb over your windpipe gently.

you’d never seen sunwoo so close to your face, but you had imagined it, and it was nothing in comparison. he was beyond beautiful, a sight to see: tan skin untainted by pores and blemishes, soft features like his lips that contradicted, but complimented shaper ones such as his eyes and nose. he was the perfect harmony in your opinion, the perfect—

“god, y/n. i must be crazy.” he broke you from your admiration, breath hitting your lips. “would you treat me any different from the guys who have asked you out in the past?”

god, yes.

your stomach was beyond knots now, the whole damn zoo being let loose. your hands were gripping the sheets at the anticipation that seemed to be agonizing enough to kill you where you sat. in reality, sunwoo wasn’t even doing anything, but he had you at his fingertips, and you weren’t convinced you couldn’t pass out right now.

“fuck, maybe i am crazy…” his eyes flicked to your lips momentarily. “do you want this? i know i’d be interrupting your studying, class president.”

and you don’t know where your confidence came from, but the way you closed the gap was desperate. however, sunwoo put up no protest, and quickly gained control over the situation.

his other palm pulled you by your cheek to deepen the kiss. well, that was until he had enough of the angle you were sat at and gripped your thigh to fully get you onto his bed.

he was a good kisser, a great one in fact, and it made you crave his lips in other places to experience the full effect.

now he was pushing your body by your lower back, trying to get you as close to him a possible, and as if you could read minds, you threw your leg over him to straddle his lap.

he broke the kiss. “good girl.” he said before reconnecting with the skin on your neck, and smiling against it when he heard you whine quietly. you could feel him growing hard underneath you, and wondered if he’d take this all the way, wondered if he wanted you like that. “you do want this, don’t you?”

inside your head you couldn’t help thinking that maybe you weren’t desirable, maybe he was only doing this to prove a point: that the whole school was within his grasp. maybe it was to brag tomorrow, as locker room chatter before soccer practice, because why would sunwoo like you outside of your delusions?

his arms caged you against him, stoping all minor movements and actions. he looked into your eyes, and for a moment it’s like the world had ceased. the only thing you could hear was the thumping within your own chest and the echoes of your doubts.

“do you want me, sunwoo?”

he kissed your lips gently—almost lovingly—before stating. “more than anything right now.”

and you wanted to ask if it was only right now that he wanted you, but you couldn’t will that to leave your lips, as his eyes locked onto your own, mixing like watercolor.

you’d wanted him to want you for a long time, so you hoped it wasn’t only now that he felt the same.

“are you okay?”

your palms now laid against his cheeks, biting your bottom lip, half-nervously and half from feeling his hands curve where the seams of your thighs met the underside of your ass. you pulled him quickly back to you, breaking away only to mumble a quiet yes before being fully taken over by your lust.

he flipped you over quickly, and you found comfort between his soft pillows and blanket. he pushed your thighs apart, slotting himself in between to attach back on your already swollen lips.

his voice came out in a hushed tone, only for you. “class prez, has anyone had you like this? have they seen how perfect you look with messy hair and puffy lips? i bet you’d look so cute crying, wouldn’t you?” you whimpered at the words—the thought—you wanted him to think you were cute, attractive in any way, it was human nature after all; and everything about this was primal. “how far do you want me to go?”

your voice was once again barely audible over your own heartbeat. “whatever you want.”

“yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

you were beginning—ignoring all previous warnings—to feel overwhelmed, his tongue sending you into overdrive. you didn’t know what to do as you felt him ghost his lips on your collar bone, then down over your chest, eventually landing at your stomach. he pushed the fabric up, latching down onto your hip bone, which had you shifting to get any sort of friction on your core.

all his minuscule teasing was actually beginning to feel painful, but he got the hint. you knew he would.

sunwoo grabbed at the waistband on your pants, looking up to you for reassurance, but you just lifted your hips to make it easier for him. he chuckled, pulling both of the fabrics blocking you from him down.

you heard him mumble something along the lines of pretty as he placed open-mouth kisses against your inner thighs.

one thing about sunwoo is that he left you no room to feel self-conscious or embarrassed. he knew how to love you right, (you didn’t want to know why that was) and was determined to show you that.

you might not have believed this was something more than locker-room chatter, but now…

you moaned when he finally attached to your aching clit, sucking gently before alternating between kissing and licking at your slit. your hand covered your mouth out of embarrassment at the sounds that you couldn’t stop from making. truthfully, the last (and only) guy you were with didn’t even make you finish, so you didn’t have to worry about being too loud—or god forbid, annoying.

but, sunwoo hated that you weren’t letting him hear how good he was doing. he wanted the praise just at much as you did, nonetheless he let you continue. he’d let you until you were completely at his mercy, malleable under his touch. he’d let you because that made you comfortable.

and, to be honest, it still fueled his ego.

“c-close,” you managed to mumble through your fingers, eyes squeezed shut and head lulled back. “woo, please?”

and that fact that you had asked him almost made him cum untouched. so, you were his? he thought to himself, before he groaned into your pussy at the feeling of your fingers attaching to his hair, only adding to your pleasure.

the hands squeezing your plush thighs pulled you closer to his face, close enough to suffocate, but he’d die a happy man.

he continued to eat you out like a starved man, only bedrudgingly pulling away right before you had the chance to properly orgasm.

“w-wait!” you tried to push him back, frantically searching for the edge you were just about to topple off. “w-wh—sunwoo, fuck, d-don’t stop. please.”

tears were pricking your eyes out of frustration—the whole thing being so emotionally and vulnerably charged, you weren’t sure you could hold them back. then, shivers were sent throughout your shaking body as he soothed over your sides and stomach with his hands, lips back to their spot on your thighs.

he propped himself up, staring down at the godly figure he never truly thought you’d let him see. and after a minute, you got embarrassed at the strong gaze on your glistening core; your knees coming together.

his fingers slotted between them, pulling your legs apart. “don’t hide from me, baby. you’re so beautiful—god, all for me, right?”

you whined, quickly sitting up and reaching out for anything he’d give you.

sunwoo kissed your lips again, keeping you at his level with a hand on the small of your back and one gripping the hem of your shirt. you were dizzy from the taste of yourself on him, sunwoo only breaking apart to get the fabric up, and fully over your head. he took off your bra and suddenly the realization that you were fully naked in front of the prized soccer captain, while he was fully clothed, sunk in.

you whined again, too drunk off him to formulate anything coherent. he laughed at how desperately you were pawing at his sweats. “what’s wrong?”

you looked up at him. “fuck me?” and if your eyes weren’t the definition of puppy-dog, he didn’t know what was.

he smiled, grabbing your wrist. “patience, baby. i’ll give you what you want.”

you fell back again, opting to obey him because you were honestly too far gone to come up with anything else to do.

and he did, taking off his sweats, along with the rest of his clothes and pressing his body to yours. his lips were connected back to you and you clawed at his shoulders—anything to ground yourself—while his held your torso down firmly.

he looked between your bodies as he lined himself with your entrance. your head was thrown back, and he pressed a chaste kiss to the middle of your neck before mumbling. “you are pretty when you cry, y/n.” and pushing in slowly.

the stretch only burned for a minute until you moaned almost embarrassingly loud with each shallow thrust. a hand instinctively come up to hide them away. but, that only lasted so long until sunwoo intertwined his fingers with yours, pushing them into the bed on either side of your head.

“don’t hide them, baby,” he sighed against your lips. “please.”

and, whether you wanted to or not, you didn’t have a choice. the noises fell freely from your lips into his shoulder, as he sucked and nipped at your neck again.

“i-is it good?” you could barely hear him, your ears ringing with pleasure; was it good? is he stupid?

you choked on a chuckle, feeling him angle himself just perfectly inside you to brush against your g-spot. “holy fuck,”

“right there, baby?” he did it again, taking notes and storing them away in the back of his mind. your head lulled back again, and he watched your face contort, mouth falling open. “does it feel good?” you couldn’t reply, his thrusts only getting harder after that.

you could feel the band in your stomach tightening, and you feared you wouldn’t even be able to tell him you were getting so close, so fast—too fast.

but, somewhere deep-down, he already knew.

“fuck, you feel so good, y/n.” he sighed, lips ghosting over yours. “i must be the luckiest man in the world, right?” it was rhetorical, but even if you felt the need to answer, all that was coming out of your mouth was moans, groans, and mewls. “perfect body—fuck—perfect personality, perfect pussy, perfect fucking mouth,” he grabbed your chin, your free hand now going to clutch into the skin on his arm. his eyes met your tear-filled, and blurry ones. “open your mouth,”

there was a fire within you when you did as he said, mouth falling open. he spat on your tongue, and you didn’t know whether you came right then or just flat-out died.

“swallow it,” he said—no, demanded—almost making it an impossible task by putting his fingers into your mouth, pushing them to the back of your throat, and making you gag around him. he felt you clench harder at the act. “gonna fuck this throat one day, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

you would.

but, he was spewing heated words into a brick wall. “you’re mine, right?” he asked, taking his saliva-covered fingers from your mouth and bringing them between your bodies.

the moment his fingers landed on your clit, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. the hand that was still intertwined with his was losing circulation from how hard your were gripping it, and the other was scratching his perfect skin hard enough to bleed.

no one had ever made you feel so cold, yet so fucking warm at the same time. nothing you've ever experienced has been as intense and kim sunwoo; the delinquent soccer player. you feared no one could ever make you feel like this again.

so, of course you were his.

“look at me, y/n.” he whispered, kissing along your jaw gently—in contrast to the heavy and hard thrusts he kept at a steady rhythm. “c’mon, y/n, be a good girl. please.”

you felt the impending desire to now, head leveling. his forehead then came to rest against it, fighting off your urge to let it roll back again.

he pecked your lips between sentences. “mine, right?” god, he kept asking an obvious question. “be mine, okay? cum for me,” he circled your clit faster, determined to make you finish one last time. “i got you.”

his voice alone was enough to make you topple over the edge, your noises raising a couple octaves. your vision went white, body convulsing under sunwoo, who kept his eyes on your face the entire time; in awe of you. he fucked you through it of course, mumbling praises, before the overwhelming feeling of fire bloomed between you two; disguised by overstimulation.

you mewled. “woo, p-please stop.” he kissed you quiet, slowing down. but, you didn’t actually want him to stop. “h-hurts… just a little,”

his hand intertwined with yours again. “being such a good girl—taking it so well. just a little more, okay? i promise,” he sighed, feeling the way your walls clenched him in, barely letting him pull out, only causing him to thrust harder. “almost there, y/n, where do you want it?”

your legs caged him against you. “fill me up, please.” and you weren’t above begging for it, especially not in a state of post-euphoria. “cum in me.”

he threw his head back momentarily, fighting off a strong urge to start a second round. how in gods name did he get so lucky? he thought to himself, bringing his forehead back to yours.

he locked eyes onto you. “yeah?” you nodded slightly, eyes full of tears you didn’t know if you’d shed. “gonna be so good and take it all?”

you moaned when he started grinding against you, your clit being stimulated by his pubic-bone.

“could fuck you forever.” he admitted. “do you want me to?”

you spewed out a quiet yes, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was being serious—maybe he was. you were too far gone to even begin guessing.

he kissed you again, desperately fighting your tongue with his. he continued to kiss down your jaw and into your neck, leaving glistening marks in his wake. he sucked on your collarbone, finding a sweet-spot you didn’t even know you had, and biting down for a second. your mouth fell open in a silent scream, an orgasm you didn’t even know was there, washing over you.

sunwoo just kept forcing you to learn about yourself—you guess, it’s a good thing you’ve always been known for studying, isn’t it?

your intense orgasm triggered his, a soft groan leaving his lips as uneven thrusts made sure you both were fully satisfied.

you felt fuzzy, brain completely melted under his touch. your heavy breathing mixed with his, his body fully collapsing from exhaustion. however, his weight wasn’t enough to suffocate you, so you let him stay where he was, breaking your hand from his and threading it into his damp hair.

the silence was loud—heartbeats intertwined—as you both came down, the reality about to set in.

would he push you away after this? did he even mea—

“i meant it, by the way.” your eyebrows creased. you weren’t even sure if you had imagined that. and, if you didn’t feel the rumbling of his chest on yours as he spoke, you might’ve believed it was only in your head. “be mine, okay?”

little did he know, you already were.

you whispered out a reply. “okay.”

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[chikaras-garden]

Batboys as things that go bump in the night

So what if he’s not human?

Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne x fem!reader

Contains: Monsterfucking. Dubcon. Unprotected piv sex in Dick’s, Jason’s, and Damian’s. Blood in Bruce’s. Somnophilia and light breeding kink in Dick’s. Knotting in Jason’s. Oral sex (f!receiving) in Tim’s. Degradation in Damian’s.

Notes: 18+ or you’ll be blocked. Happy Halloweekend angels!

BRUCE WAYNE 🦇

A loner. A constant shadow over Gotham. A collector of all things macabre. And now, he has his sights set on you. You’re a pretty thing, dressed in all black at a late-autumn gala, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze on you even when your back is turned.

So it’s no surprise that, when you tempt fate by rounding a corner into a deserted hallway, you are not alone.

Stepping out of the shadows, Bruce’s hand clamps around one side of your throat, leaving just one side—the side of your pulse—exposed for his lips. He kisses you there far more than he kisses your lips, nibbling and suckling the soft flesh over your pulse. Your heart beats faster and faster as your knees go weak, but his arm tightens around you.

“I have you, darling,” he husks. His skin is cold against yours, but perhaps that’s because the all-consuming presence of a man like this makes your blood run hot.

His other hand comes up to cup your flushed cheek, thumb dragging along the shape of your face as if he’s trying to memorize you.

“So warm. Such soft skin,” he murmurs, bending his head low and kissing your neck. “Such a beautiful creature.”

Something twists in your stomach when he says that—creature. An instinct tells you to run, but you quickly realize that the look in his eyes has you completely enthralled. He’s watching you with purpose, always keeping your eyes locked as if looking away from you will break the spell he has you under.

“I have to taste you,” he whispers, voice raw with a strain whose source you cannot place. He inhales deeply and lets out a low, feral noise before you feel a twinned shock of pain that makes you gasp: blood rushes to your neck and spills from your broken skin onto his waiting tongue, which greedily laps at the sweet nectar he just stole.

DICK GRAYSON 🦇

You never remember what happened the morning after your nights with your blue-eyed visitor in black, but you can’t stop the way your body aches for the mysterious stranger. At first, you thought he was a dream, but even you know that your unconscious can’t conjure up something as beautiful as him.

He wakes you by laying on top of you, pushing his hot-as-Hell flesh against yours. You didn’t go to sleep naked, but you’re naked now; your clothes are gone, but you’re covered with him, his mouth latched onto one of your nipples, one of his hands painfully squeezing the other, and his red-tipped cock already bullying its way into your slick folds. 

It hurts, but the ache is so dizzying that you can’t bring yourself to care, especially when you’re aware that you won’t remember this by morning anyway. You feel as if you’re being burned alive and made new in just the way he wants you. And that feels good, doesn’t it? Why else would you have woken up with your pussy soaking wet? 

He picks his head up just enough to watch you watch him while his tongue traces the outer edge of your areola and flicks your nipple in slow strokes, teasing it into hardness with just the tip of his tongue. He’s kneeling between your legs, and his free hand slides down to gently stroke your belly—which is when you notice that his fingers, like his cock, are tipped with blood-red skin.

Then comes his dark murmur, “Let me fill you, pretty thing. Let me give you a little gift to help you remember me.”

Your breath catches and, once again, he latches on—teeth first, this time.

At the same time, he thrusts into you, cock heavy and fire-hot, searing your skin and all but tearing you open while you keen and grasp at him, fingernails scraping down his back. His warmth is inescapable as he thrusts into you with inhuman force.

And you swear that, when he comes, filling you with his infernal seed, you catch a glimpse of a ruby glimmer in his once-blue eyes.

JASON TODD 🦇

Honestly, you handled finding out that your boyfriend is a werewolf remarkably well. But because you’re a human, he has one rule: no knotting. That is, until an October full moon has him more feral than usual, trapped in a rut that he’s powerless to fight against.

Jason has you hiked up against his chest, barely balanced on his thick thighs with your panties shoved aside. One finger is pressed firmly against your clit, the claws that come with his half-transformed state lightly grazing your sensitive skin. He’s already buried inside of you, thrusting so shallowly that he may as well be humping your innermost walls.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. His skin rages with heat while his muscles tremble, lips mouthing along any inch of your skin that he can reach. Head heavy on your shoulder, he rasps out broken sentences, each cut off by animalistic whimpers and whines. “God, fuck— I can’t— I shouldn’t— You’re—”

You have one hand tangled in his hair, thumbing the soft black-and-white fur that crawls up along his hybrid ears. His cock, impossibly thick already, stretches you even more open than you already were, and you throw your head back to let out a moan of mixed pleasure-pain.

“Fuck,” he whispers, because he feels it too. “Baby, I’m— It’s—”

“Let it,” you gasp, feeling lightheaded with the pain of Jason filling you so completely, cockhead swelling so full that he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. “Please, please, Jason, I need it.”

All that gets you is another guttural groan from him, a sound as close to a howl as he can make without being fully transformed. Still swelling, his cock is thick, heavy, hot—pulsing inside of you, begging to stay there, to fill you, to mark and mate with you. You can’t imagine what it must look like, but you know that the feeling is divine: this oneness, this wholeness, is something you’ve never felt before. It’s almost enough to dull how much your pussy aches.

“Jason,” you moan, tears filling your eyes.

“I know,” he soothes, trying to stay sturdy and stable for you even though his whole body is trembling. “Fuck, it— Baby, you feel so good. Such a good fucking girl, letting me mate with you. Gonna make you feel amazing, I promise.”

TIM DRAKE 🦇

“Stay still,” Tim teases, clawed fingers clamping down on your hip. “Or no rewards.”

Your back is pressed against the chilly, damp wall of the bat cave, and your clothes are shreds around your feet. You know this is all your fault, that you should have avoided the man who has only made his obsession with you painfully clear. As soon as the half-dragon spotted you—his treasure, his paramour, his little human love—he pounced. 

Half changed with pewter green scales climbing up his skin and pupils narrowed into reptilian slits, Tim wastes no time in turning your clothes into ribbons of fabric in effort to get to you.

And then he drops to his knees, burying his face in between your legs.

The forked tongue laves up and down the folds of your pussy, skirting along the outside of your sopping hole until you’re shuddering, clinging to him. His hand digs in harder, talons piercing the soft skin of your ass, scaly palm forcing your cunt against his mouth until you feel the sting of sharpened teeth against your mound.

Even though his teeth sting your pulsing flesh, even though his licks are too fast to be completely pleasurable, you feel yourself grow slick around his tongue. Your head falls back against the wall and you begin to pant, heart beating so fast that you start to feel faint, teetering on the edge of consciousness.

His forked tongue reaches impossibly deep within you. The fleshy muscle feels wrong but also so good, skin fading from soft pink to greenish-black, its texture rough and bumpy, stimulating you from more directions than you have ever felt at once. 

He licks all the way to your cervix—a thing no mere mortal man could ever do to you—greedily biting, sucking, and growling against your throbbing, abused pussy until finally you come with a pitiful, worn-out scream.

You feel his ice-cold lips pull into a smile as he breathes, “Good human. Now give me another—or three more. Maybe five.”

DAMIAN WAYNE 🦇

You go to the guardian of an ancient library for help but, poor you, the sphinx’s riddles prove too challenging for you. In accordance with the legends, you expect to be smited on the spot, or at least banished, but instead—the sphinx shifts to his human form and decides that you are his.

How lucky it is that Damian decides he likes you enough to keep you captive instead of simply killing you as punishment. How lucky it is that he is clever enough to find a use for your frail human form. How lucky it is that he doesn’t find mating with you as repulsive as he originally thought.

“At least work for it,” he drawls, stifling a yawn while he leans back on the emerald-green settee. His arms are spread, powerful shoulders and biceps making him look even bigger than he already is. No, he never touches you—that would be demeaning—but he does offer you the privilege of riding his cock until you make yourself come.

You close your eyes and drive your hips forward and down, trying to strike the spot inside you that only he can reach. No sooner than your eyes flutter closed, though, he snaps his fingers in front of you.

“Look at me, pet.” His head rests on the back of the chair, lips parted with every breath that makes his chest slowly rise and fall. His face looks warm and you wonder what it might feel like to kiss those plush lips—but you’re also coherent enough to realize that he’s measuring his breaths on purpose.

You’re getting to him. You think. You hope. Maybe if you please him, he’ll let you go. 

He shifts his hips up and you cry out, nearly losing your balance on his powerful thighs, but a warm hand suddenly cups your ass to drag you back into place. He leans forward, stomach flexing, and murmurs in your ear, “Can’t even do this without help, can you? Useless little human.”

[fungateshortcakes]

Crochet me a mistletoe

Got this idea because, well, it's christmas and I recently started crocheting! I am nowwhere near as good as I described the skills of the reader. I can't even crochet a simple scarf. But practice makes perfect, and a girl can dream right? (Reader is gender neutral)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x reader

Summary: Its christmas at the mansion and you've crocheted everyone a special gift. What will Logan think about the present you made especially for him?

Wordcount: 4.9k

Warnings/tags: english is not my first language, none, fluff, slowburn-ish, friends to lovers, reader can crochet, painfully sappy, missunderstandings?, itty bitty bits of angst, happy ending

The x-men mansion in december felt like stepping into a festive snow globe. Frosted windows framed the place, a hord of students racing through the halls as they were excited to spent the christmas holidays at home with their families, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of christmas jingles that seemed to follow you wherever you went.

The large tree in the main living room was a masterpiece, each ornament carefully placed by a team effort of students and teachers. Even Logan had been forced politely asked to string the lights, grumbling about it the whole time while he was secretly ensuring that every lightbulb was perfectly in its place. Despite your reassurance that it was fine and that he could come down from the ladder already, he shook his head, a deep frown on his face as he munched on his bottom lip as he rearranged the lights for the 1000th time.

You sighed with a smile, deciding to let him do his thing. Yet you found yourself sneaking glances at him, something you had been doing more often than you cared to admit over the last few months.

He was rugged, rough around the edges and seemingly utterly out of place among the cheery holiday decorations, but there was something about seeing him standing by the firelight, a string of glittery garlands for the tree slung over his shoulder, that made your heart flutter.

But Logan was just your friend. A good one. And you weren’t about to mess that up by acting on a silly crush that wasn't anything more than that. So, instead of drooling at the way his muscles strained and dipped under the wife beater he wore even in this freezing weather while he helped decorating the place, you threw yourself into your newest hobby: crocheting.

For weeks, you had been holed up in your room, learning and practicing how to crochet everything from scarves, mittens and hats to cute plushies and useful items such as cup coasters or little bags.

It had started as a way to pass the time, especially when there was no mission you were sent to. And now that you were deep into the christmas holidays, you didn't even have a class to teach. That's when you realised you had nothing to do and it was time to find a new hobby.

But once you got the hang of it and felt like it wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be, the idea of creating handmade gifts for your friends at the mansion had blossomed and you were eager to make a perfect present for everyone.

The work was slow but rewarding. You had already finished a soft scarf for Ororo in her favorite lavender colour that complimented her snow white hair and a set of soft, fingerless gloves for Hank in a deep navy blue. Each project felt like a little piece of yourself, stitched into every loop and knot.

But Logans gift had been different from the start.

It had taken you three tries to find the right yarn until you finally settled on a charcoal gray that would suit his style and features without standing out too much.

You decided on a sweater, something warm and practical that he could wear during the long, cold nights he spent patrolling the grounds. And, because you couldn’t help yourself, you added a small, personal touch. A tiny design embroidered over the heart, a pair of crossed claws encircled by a wreath of holly. You might as well, right? This project would take you a long ass time anyway, so a little embroidery wouldn’t hurt.

Crocheting actual clothing pieces like sweaters and jackets was a painstacking process, taking up lots and lots of yarn and taking forever. Only people you loved were worth that effort. You hoped Logan would know that once he held the finished products in hand.

Now with christmas eve approaching fast, the sweater was nearly finished. But you had other projects that you worked on simultaniously. If the task of crocheting another long chain for a scarf became too dreading and boring, you switched it up by continuing to work on a plushie.

“Darlin’, you’re gonna get yourself snowed in if you keep sittin’ there.”

Logans voice startled you, making you lose the stitch you were in. You looked up from your crocheting to find him leaning against the doorframe of the common room. The fireplace crackled warm beside you and outside the tall open window, there were snowflakes swirling in a gentle flurry. You sat cozy on the windowsill in your warmest clothes, enjoying the crisp breeze against your face and watching how the snow painted the garden of the mansion in a dazzling bright white, all while absentmindely crocheting your gifts.

“I like the view” you answered him with a soft smile, the yarn rolling between your feet as you pull at it “And I’m almost done.”

Logan left his spot at the door and stepped into the room, his boots making soft thuds on the wooden floor. “What’re you makin’?” You shook your head as you did only a little to hide the plushie you were crocheting “It’s a surprise” you teased.

Logan raised an eyebrow, hand in his pant pockets, his lips quirking into a smirk. “For me?”

You rolled your eyes with a soft giggle. “Only if you want a teddy bear plush in Scott's outfit" you said, throwing him a knowing look.

He shuddered in mild disgust, chuckled, then settled into the armchair across from you. “Nah, I'm good" he replied, putting his hands up in defence. Then his gaze landed on the bottom of the sweater, his soon to be sweater, that poked out from under your blanket draped over your lap. He pointed to it "I think one of 'em ugly christmas sweaters you are makin' would suit Summers better" he joked, thinking you would laugh along, but he noted your slight hurt frown. Him saying that he thought christmas sweaters were ugly made your heart sting painfully. You pulled the sweater under your blanket completely, shielding it from Logan. “It’s not ugly,” you mumbled, averting eyecontact with him.

In that moment, you weren't too sure about your gift for Logan anymore. The sweater you would give him wasn’t the usual christmas sweater with bright colours and corny patterns, but still, maybe he wasn't a sweater person? What if he didn't like it? He would never say it to your face, but just imagining his unimpressed face, a forced smile as he reluctantly thanked you, already thinking about the best and fastes way to get rid of the clothing piece, it made you want to cry already. All this effort for nothing?

You hadn't realised that you stared at Logan while you where deep in thought, a lit cigar hanging lazily between his lips. “Why’re you always starin’ at me?” Logan asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

Your face heated. “I wasn’t staring. Just thinking” you pressed out, quickly picking up your crocheting again.

Logan blew smoke from out of his nostrils “Sure you weren’t” he said, but there was no teasing in his tone. If anything, he sounded curious, curious of what exactly you where thinking with your brows knitted together.

You focused on the yarn in your hands, on the way your hook looped easily through every stitch, willing yourself to act normal. This was fine. You were fine. “You’re workin’ too hard” Logan muttered after a moment. “Spendin’ all your time on this.”

You shrugged “It’s worth it” you smiled without looking up. “I want everyone to have something special this year. And what's more special than a present made especially for them. I guess the best gift is when someone thinks of you”

Logan looked at you. Looked at you for a long second and didn’t respond right away. When you finally glanced at him, his expression was unreadable, his gaze already turned away and fixed on the fire. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Your heart skipped a beat, but before you could respond, ask him what he meant by that, Logan stood up, stretching his arms over his head. His white tank top rode up slightly as he stretched, your eyes staring at the dimples on his back before you shook your head, your cheeks on fire.

“Don’t stay up too late” he called, heading towards the door. “Santa don’t visit if you’re awake.”

You laughed, nodding your head dismissive manner “Goodnight, Logan.”

Logan smiled softly as he looked back at you one more time “Night, darlin’.” And then he was gone. You looked down at the half-finished sweater under your blanket, your chest tight as you sighed.

The mansion was alive with holiday excitement the next morning, despite the kids not being there. But if they were, you just knew that they would be buzzing about presents and sneaking peaks under the towering Christmas tree already.

You spent most of the day putting the finishing touches to most of your gifts, tucked away in a quiet corner of the common room. All your presents were nearly finished, except for the sweater you had planned on gifting Logan. You couldn't bring yourself to work on it anymore. You couldn't even look at it, too ashamed that you even came up with this idea.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Logan appeared in the common room, carrying an armful of firewood. He always looked so effortlessly strong when he carried stuff, it almost made you drool over his forearms and hands. His flannel shirt was rolled up to his elbows, exposing his hairy forearms that had tiny snowflakes clinging to it.

You glanced up from your crocheting, trying not to stare too obviously.

“You been at that all day?” Logan asked, dropping the firewood near the fireplace with a loud thunk. He tried not to smile as he saw you bundled up with balls of yarn and wrapping paper surrounding you, a few ready gifts already stacked on top of the other, a hot cocoa with marshmallows steaming next to you on the coffee table.

“Almost done wrapping everything” you cheered, holding up a crocheted beanie for charles to keep his head warm.

Logans gaze locked onto the garment in your hands. His expression softened for a brief moment before he caught himself and cleared his throat. “Looks good” he said gruffly, turning his attention to the fireplace again.

You smiled faintly, folding the beanie neatly and tucking it into a small box with a gift card and putting it on the stack of finished presents after you wrote Charles name on it “Thanks.”

Logan unsheathed his claws and striked a match on one of them, shaking the tiny flame on a stick before throwing it to the pile of freshly chooped logs “You should take a break. All that knittin' and crochetin' must your fingers” Logan grumbled, blowing at the fire until the flames started to flicker to life, casting a warm glow across the room.

“I will once I am done with all of this” you replied to him, wrapping the next present aside. “it won't take long" Logan straightened back up, brushing his rugged hands on his jeans. “So, what are your plans tonight? Besides playin’ Santa Claus.”

“Ororo planned to watch a christmas movie with the team, I guess I will join them later” you replied, stretching your back a littlesince you had been sitting like a shrimp for the past few days, hunched over your projects. “Why, what about you?”

Logan shrugged "Not much" he cleared his throat “Might head out for a bit. Get some air.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

Logan gave a small, almost shy smile and shrugged “Never been much for all the holiday stuff.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You could stay in. Watch the movie with us.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours. “Yeah? You think they wouldn’t mind?”

Your eyebrows raised as he seemed so unsure “Of course not" you denied, smiling warmly. “I can promise that they all want you there, Logan. I know I do"

That evening, the two of you settled into the couch along with Jean and Scott, a bowl of popcorn between you. Ororo sat draped over the seat next to the sofa, Rouge and Remy sitting in front of you on the ground while Kurt was sprawled out right in front of the TV, looking up at the flimmering box with a toothy smile. Even Charles had rolled in to join.

The movie, a classic Christmas move, The Grinch, to be exact, played on the screen, and even though it was one of your favourite christmas movies, you found yourself paying more attention to Logan than the plot.

He was unusually relaxed despite everyone being so huddled up together, leaning back against the cushions with his arms crossed over his chest. You fleetingly looked over to the present neatly tucked away under the tree. His sweater. You had decided to finish it after bickering over it for so long. Well, you didn't exactly have time to make him anything else. And if you did, it would only be half assed. And you didn't want that, Logan deserved more. Something special.

Halfway through the movie, Logan reached for the popcorn, his hand brushing against yours briefly. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a spark up your arm and you felt like you were part of a cheesy and cliche slowburn fanfiction.

You quickly pulled your hand away, your heart racing. “Sorry” he muttered, his voice gruff and quiet as to not alert the others. “It’s okay” you whispered back, trying to sound normal.

The room fell into a comfortable silence again, the only sounds coming from the TV, the crackling fire and a little hushed banter between Rouge and Remy. But you couldn’t stop stealing glances at Logan, your chest tightening with every second you spent sitting so close to him.

“Thanks for talkin' me into this” Logan said suddenly, his voice low. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy it much, but… it’s nice.” Your lips curved into a soft smile. “I’m glad.”

He looked at you then, his dark eyes catching the light of the fire. There was something in his gaze you couldn’t quite place, something warm and unguarded, even though a lot of people were around that could potentionally witness it. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world disappeared, leaving just the two of you sitting by the fire, the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting in his eyes.

Then Logan cleared his throat quietly, breaking the spell. “You’re really something else, I hope you know that” he muttered, his voice rough but sincere.

Your cheeks heated, and you looked down at your lap. There they were again, his words from yesterday. The thoughts you had repeated in your head the whole night, not knowing what they represented. “What do you mean?”

“You put all this work into makin’ people happy, to make 'em feel included even though they weren't into it at first.” He explained, draping a muscled arm over the frame of the couch. "You force people into their luck, ya know? Haven't seen anything quite like it"

You brushed a lock behind your ear. "I guess I just wanted to do something nice” you smiled softly. Logan let out a deep, content breath through his nose, looking at you, his eyes soft “Well, you did." Logan said, his gaze lingering on you.

For a second, you thought he might reach out and let the arm that rested over the couch snake around your shoulder to pull you into him, but then he shifted in his seat, his hand retreating to his side.

By the time the movie ended, everyone said their goodbyes and goodnights, swarming out to their rooms to sleep, letting the mansion fall quiet. Only Logan and you were left. You also wanted to just fall into your bed and sleep, but you were too tired already to get yourself moving.

Logan was the first to stand, stretching his arms over his head and giving you a good view of the prominent vein that cascaded below his waistband. You started to think he was doing this on purpose. “Guess I’ll head to bed too" he yawned, his tone thick.

Goodnight, Logan” you replied, watching as he headed toward the door.

He paused before leaving, turning back to look at you. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was soft when he spoke. “Night, darlin’. Sleep well.”

When he was gone, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

The morning sun filtered through the frosted windows of the mansion, bathing the common room in a golden glow.

Christmas Day had finally arrived, and the mansion buzzed with the christmas spirit of all. It was a bit overwhelming to see everyone in their christmas pyjamas sitting around the tree, eager for presents.

Logan was already there too, leaning against the mantle with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Well, you liked to sleep in okay? It wasn’t hard to be down in the common room before you.

Logans presence was as steady as ever, but there was a quiet contentment to him this morning, you noted. He looked up as you entered and something in his expression softened.

“Mornin’” he greeted, his voice low, smooth and warm from the hot coffee he was drinking. You lifted your hand in a tiny wave “Morning” you yawned, smiling as you made your way to the tree, the rest of carefully wrapped gifts in your arms that you had finished just the night before after the movie. You couldn't sleep anyway since the thought of Logan made you stay awake, might as well perfect your presents.

After a while, it was your turn to hand out your presents. You crawled under the large tree, gifting them one by one. You watched in glee as the room filled with laughter and delighted exclamations. Ororo beamed when she unwrapped the lavender scarf you had made for her and Hank was already slipping on his navy gloves. Charles shooked his head with a chuckle as he saw the beanie you had crocheted for him, letting his fingers trace over it.

Logan waited patiently, allthough he didn'texpect there to be something for him, his dark eyes following you as you worked your way through the pile of gifts, quietly enjoying the unfiltered reactions from everyone.

When there was only one wrapped gift left you had to hand out, Logan wondered who it could be for since everyone had gotten their present already. But as you turned to him, handing him the neatly wrapped box containing his sweater, his brow lifted in surprise.

“For me?” he asked, as if the idea of receiving a gift was foreign to him.

You giggled at his reaction "Of course. Did you really think I wouldn't give you something?" you asked, smiling shyly. You were just as nervous for him to open the present as he was.

Logan carefully peeled back the paper, his hands oddly delicate for a man who seemed to handle everything with brute strength. When the sweater emerged, he stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the tiny embroidered design near the heart. He remembered the colour. This was the sweater he had called ugly. He had called your thoughtful gift ugly. He was a horrible person.

“You made this? For me?" he whispered in awe, a little more to himself, his eyes tearing up slightly.

“I did” you nodded, fiddling with your fingers as your nerves ate away at your insides. “Do you like it?”

He looked up at you, his gaze piercing. “I...this is…” he trailed off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he unfolded the sweater and pulled it on right then and there over his tank top. The fit was perfect and the sight of him in something you made with your own hands sent a warm flush through your chest. He looked like a chunky teddy bear and the urge to hug him was growing strong in your chest.

“Looks good on you” you said instead.

Logan’s lips twitched into a rare smile. “Feels good, too. Thank you.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of holiday cheer, but you couldn’t help noticing how Logan stuck close to you. He lingered near the kitchen while you baked cookies with Ororo and Rouge, his presence steady and reassuring. At one point, you caught him running his fingers over the sweaters fabric, his expression distant but content. He protected the sweater with his life, making sure no one ruined it by accidentally pouring wine over it. If just one atom of a cookie crumb were to touch the fabric, he would lash out.

It wasn’t until later that evening, after most had gone to bed and the mansion had settled into a peaceful quiet, that Logan found you sitting by the fire.

“You’ve been busy” he mumbled, his voice low as he sat down beside you.

“I guess I have,” you said, smiling. “It was worth it, though.”

Logan studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable like usual. Then he shifted and the next second, his big hand presented you a tiny wooden figurine, a little cat, carefully hand carved by him. "S'for you" he muttered, averting his gaze. The light of the fire did only so little to hide his embarrassed blush.

You gasped, taking the cat into your hands as if it was made out of glass and would break if you looked at it the wrong way "Did you....did you make this?" you asked him and he nodded reluctantly. You never thought Logan was into wood carving. But now that you knew, it made sense. "Yeah...didn't want to give it to you when everyone else was 'round. No need for 'em to know I have this hobby" he explained to you, picking at a loose thread on his sweater. Your stomach felt warm as you thanked him, holding onto his little present tightly.

You could feel Logans gaze on you as you admired his neat craftmansship, warm and steady and it took everything in you not to lean into him.

“Y’know” he said, breaking the drawn out silence between you “this is the best christmas I’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever.”

You looked up at him “Really?” you asked, your mouth agape in wonder.

“Yeah” he said, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile that was rare to see from him “And I think I’ve got you to thank for that.” Your heart swelled and before you could stop yourself, you reached out and placed your hand over his. Logan stiffened for only a short moment, his gaze darting to your hand, but then he relaxed, his fingers curling around yours.

“You’re welcome” you whispered softly. Logan didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

The fire started to die out, only faintly gleaming but still enough to wrap you and Logan in a light of warmth. Logans hand was still in yours, his warmth seeping into your skin as the quiet surrounded you both. You couldn’t remember how long you had been sitting there, since when you started to lean against him, head on his shoulder, but time seemed to stretch and slow, every second weighted with something unsaid.

“Darlin’” Logan finally murmured, his voice so soft it felt like it was meant for you alone. “Do you ever think about… settlin’ down?” the question caught you off guard for a second and you turned your head to look at him, your heart thudding in your chest. “Settling down?”

“Yeah” he breathed, his gaze fixed on the low fire. He found an iron rod to dig and shove between the wooden logs that had long turned into coal and ash, trying to distract himself so the words would come easier. “Findin’ somethin’, someone, you can hold onto. Somethin’ real. Y'know, not these kinds of meaningless situationships.”

Your breath hitched and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Logan, the man who had always seemed like a force of nature. Wild, untamed and unyielding—looked almost vulnerable now, his expression open and unguarded.

“I guess I’ve thought about it. It would be nice to have that someone. The right person you can lean onto any time” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. You felt like you were leaning against that one person just now. “Have you?”

He let out a soft, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t think I had to. Thought I wasn’t the type for all that. But lately…” He trailed off, finally turning to meet your gaze, looking down at you cuddled up against him “Lately, I’ve been thinkin’ maybe I was wrong.”

The room felt impossibly still, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket. “Logan” you began, your voice trembling slightly “what are you trying to say?” allthough the answer seemed obvious, you feared you weren't understanding him correctly.

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m tryin’ to say that I care about you. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time. And I know I’m not the easiest guy to be around, but… you make me wanna try. Make me wanna be better.”

Your chest tightened, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Logan…” were you imagining things? Were you actually by the windowstill, all alone, dying from the cold Logan warned you about? The cold that looked gorgeous from inside a warm room but was vicious in its beauty, killing you because you wouldn't listen and close the window? Were you just taking your last breath, your mind tricking you into dreaming about what could be?

“I know I’m probably messin’ this up" he swallowed deeply, his voice rough with emotion. “But I had to tell you. Couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

His words were real, his warmth, his soft breath fanning across your face. You weren't dying. You were just starting to live. “You’re not messing anything up" you shook your head, voice breaking slightly.

His eyes searched yours and for the first time, you saw a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “You mean that?”

Instead of answering, you leaned up, closing the space between you. Logan froze for a split second before his arms came around you, pulling you close into his lap as your lips met in a kiss that felt like coming home after a harsh and straining day out in the cold.

It was soft and tentative at first, but as the seconds stretched on, it deepened, the barriers between you dissolving like snow in the sun. Your hands laid flat against his chest, feeling the warm and fuzzy fabric underneath your fingers. Logan sighed from his nose as the kiss deepened, a quiet, longing noise forming in the back of his throat.

When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the silence of the room.

“I care about you too” you whispered. “More than I can even put into words.”

Logan let out a soft, shaky laugh, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Guess that makes us both pretty bad at talkin’ about feelings.”

You laughed, the sound light and full of relief. “Maybe. But I think we’re doing okay.”

Logan nodded “Better than okay" he murmured, pressing another kiss to your mouth. He was already getting addicted to this.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of warmth and quiet joy. Logan stayed by your side, his hand never straying far from yours as the two of you talked about everything and nothing. You felt like two teenagers that had sneaked away from everyone else to enjoy the thrill of making out and cuddling like in a sappy romance novel.

By the time the first light of dawn crept through the windows, you found yourselves curled up on the couch together, a soft blanket draped over you both. Logans arm was around your shoulders, and your head rested against his chest, the steady beat of his heart lulling you into a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in a long while. The sweater he still hadn't taken off (and wouldn’t for a while) acting like a soft pillow under your face.

“Good night, darlin'” Logan murmured, his lips brushing against your hair before he looked out the window, the sun rising slowly. He knew it wouldn’t take long before the others flodded the room, but he wanted you to sleep and rest, even if it was just for an hour. He kind of felt bad for keeping you up until the sun literally rose again, but how was he supposed to fall asleep when he just found out you loved him back?

“Good night, Logan” you whispered, smiling as you closed your eyes.

For the first time, you knew without a doubt that this was where you were meant to be - wrapped in Logans arms, your hearts stitched together like the threads of a handmade gift, stronger and more beautiful for the care put into every moment you shared with him.

I've never tried putting dividers like this before, how do we like it? I am also sorry that I am not quite posting this on christmas anymore. I just always get the ideas so late and randomly that I can't get it out on time.

I can't type anymore bc my hands are literally that cold and now, update, i read over it and corrected some mistakes. If you still see any, im sorry😔🙏🏻 I've fallen you all

Merry christmas🎄🎀

[slowd1ving]

INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW

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

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or two. 

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

Of course he does. 

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

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

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

But all is not well. 

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

Moze. 

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

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

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

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

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

Almost. 

. *࿐

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

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

Humans and their machinations. 

This is truly a special version of hell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

You’re a demon. 

You think you can afford to be uncivil. 

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

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

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

What a strange world the human world is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s unnerving. 

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something?” 

Quit staring.

Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet. 

You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all. 

Well, opposite and a seat away. 

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

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

You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has. 

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a pickle.

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

What a pickle indeed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s dark. 

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

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

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

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

. *࿐.

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

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

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

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

It does not work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine. 

Fine.

Fine. 

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

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

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

Oh shit. 

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile. 

Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little. 

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

Really, you should be a gourmet. 

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

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

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

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

You don’t want your time here to end.  

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

There are contingencies for times like these.

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

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

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

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

There. 

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

You think you’re delirious. 

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

Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust. What a strange woman she is.

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s impossible. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

Perfect.

Perfect. 

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell is filled with humans like these. 

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

Your tongue is leaden. 

There is nothing you can say to save yourself. 

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

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

An Archangel. 

You pray your end is quick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

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

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

You can’t even beg for your life. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust. 

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

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

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

He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He notices. 

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver. 

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

Why not entertain me?

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

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

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

Angels, too, can be deceptive. 

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

Damn it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So close. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think that makes it worse. 

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

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

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

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

His gaze meets your despairing one. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

He’s not your lover. 

He’s not even his own person.

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

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

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

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

In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…

Well. 

Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido. 

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl. “Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver. 

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

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

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

He looks like sin itself.

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

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

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

You wonder what they taste like. 

Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?

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

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

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

You’ve never kissed an angel before. 

You may not even be alive right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you enjoy the show?”

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

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

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

Moze is human. 

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

Lust. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfect,” he breathes. 

The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.

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

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

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

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

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

Snap. 

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

Snap. 

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

Snap. 

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

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

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

More. 

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

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

Snap. 

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

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

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

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

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

What will you do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t help it. He really can’t. 

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

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

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

That’s all his brain is clinging to. 

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

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

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

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

They do not know better. 

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

Angels cannot lie to others. 

It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves. 

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

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

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

Good job, Sunday.

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Catching of the Incubus. 

*********

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

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

In any case, nobody’s home. 

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

Moze’s room it is. 

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

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

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

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

Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—

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

Oh.

Oh.

*࿐.

[guiltyasdave]

gold rush

pairing: modern!Oberyn Martell x f!reader x Dave York

word count: ~5.1k

summary: “You like him, princess?” Oberyn asks, a grin obvious in his tone. 

You nod silently, your eyes still trained on the man behind the boat’s steering wheel.

“So do I.” 

warnings/tags: explicit smut (-> 18+ only!), alcohol consumption, able-bodied reader, reader has hair that can be tugged, no use of y/n, kinda dom!Oberyn&Dave but they're just bossy really, unprotected p in v (which you shouldn't do with someone you just met), oral m&f receiving, threesome, a bit of m/m action but reader is the main character here, dirty talk, fingering, anal play (m receiving), praise kink, these three are freaky and i'm sure that i forgot something, if so please let me know <3

takes place in my modern!Oberyn universe but can be read as a standalone!

a/n: my plan was to write this for @secretelephanttattoo's secret springs event, which i'm criminally late to (i'm sorry, el!), but that is where the idea for dolphin tour dave came from. i didn't expect to go this feral with it lol

big hugs and thank you to @jolapeno for letting me cry about the complications of writing threesomes and figuring out the plot (read: positions) with me and @sizzlingcloudmentality for listening to me complain about this nonstop and gushing over the million snippets i sent and taking me seriously when i came to her with “i have an important question about giving head”

i'm very grateful that so many people seemed excited about this idea, i hope that it's everything you wished for and that you have a good time reading it!

dividers by @firefly-graphics <3

notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here

Waves are lapping against the boat’s hull, the ocean reflecting the soft orange and golden hues of the sun setting over the horizon. 

You’re leaning against the railing, relishing in the warmth that has sunk into your skin from the day on the water. A beaming smile seems to have permanently settled on your features after today’s trip, a cruise around the shore that resulted in fulfilling one of your lifelong dreams — getting to see dolphins in the open water, watching them race through the waves right beside you, their fins breaking through the surface.

You had squealed, unable to contain your excitement, committing every second to memory. A once in a lifetime experience, making this trip to Secret Springs one of the best vacations you’ve ever had. 

With the shore now rapidly approaching again, you’re drinking in your surroundings for the last few minutes, committing the whole day to memory, until it’s time to set foot on the mainland again.

However, your gaze keeps flitting back to the man steering the boat, who had been introduced as Dave and your captain for the day by the tour guide when you first boarded. You hadn’t been able to keep your eyes off of him all day, taking in the broadness of his shoulders, the way his biceps was straining against the seams of his light blue t-shirt, the sharp jawline and the quiet concentration and competence that he exuded. 

Contrary to the tour guide, who kept chatting away, his mouth remained shut, full lips pursed, jaw clenching and unclenching. His eyes were piercing, keeping track of every movement, both out on the water and on the boat. There was no way he hadn’t noticed your staring, with the way his eyes had met yours a few times, his lips curling into a small smirk each time before he turned away again. 

Your boyfriend’s arms wrap around you from behind, his chin hooking over your shoulder. Hot breath fans against your skin, the wiry hairs of his beard scratching over your cheek as he places a swift kiss there. 

He follows your line of sight, an amused rumble from his bare chest vibrating against your backside. 

“You like him, princess?” Oberyn asks, a grin obvious in his tone. 

You nod silently, your eyes still trained on the man behind the boat’s steering wheel. He kisses you again, longer this time, lips lingering on the soft skin right behind your ear, his tongue catching a taste of the salt that has seeped into your whole body after the day of the water. 

“So do I.” 

You giggle, sinking deeper into his embrace. 

Dave is closed off at first when you walk up to him after he’s the last person to step off the boat. His jaw firmly set, giving the same air of quiet confidence that you’ve felt drawn to all day, but his fingers are twitching at his side when you approach him, his eyes flickering between you and Oberyn’s figure a few steps behind you. 

“Hey,” you smile sweetly, not missing the way his gaze quickly trails down your body in your short summer dress, before it flies back up to meet your eyes. “We were thinking, as a local you know all the best places around here, right?”

A wry grin grows on his face at the term local, but he hums in agreement. “Sure. How can I help you?” 

His voice travels right through you, deep and gravely, his words clipped with precision. Polite, but efficient. Entirely unlike Oberyn’s drawling purrs, but not any less intriguing. The cold exterior is drawing you in, challenging you to uncover what’s underneath.

“We wanted to go get a drink tonight, maybe you can show us the best spot for that?”

“Allow us to buy you one as well,” Oberyn chimes in from behind you, stepping closer and snaking one arm around your body. His hand comes to rest at your waist, sending warmth through the thin fabric that’s covering you. His thumb glides against the underside of your breast in a calculated movement, just short of grazing your nipple.

Even as you swallow down your responding whine, Dave’s gaze zones in on the movement, one eyebrow rising as his pupils dilate, his eyes turning darker. One corner of his mouth turns upwards.

He’s a quiet shadow moving beside the both of you, but he still keeps catching your glances at him, his pouty lips curling into a smirk each time. 

The bar he takes you to is less crowded than the ones right next to the beach that you’ve already visited, and the drinks aren’t as overpriced, but just as delicious. There’s a large deck on one side, with twinkling lights strung up between the poles and the scent of the surrounding flowers wafting through the air. 

Sinking into comfortable chairs in a corner, you sip on your drink and watch as Oberyn tries to get to know your companion better. He’s the more talkative one of the both of you, exuding the smooth charm and confidence that immediately drew you in when you first met him, but Dave doesn’t crack nearly as easily. 

His answers stay short, every word from his lips calculated, no information about him given freely. Heat is already gathering between your thighs, just from watching them. Both their presences overwhelming in the best way, both of them making you want them. 

It leaves you antsy, desperate to do something, something to be closer. You rise to your feet, extending a hand to Dave. “Dance with me?” 

His eyes widen a fraction, looking from your outstretched hand to Oberyn, who hasn’t moved an inch. “You don’t want to?”

Oberyn smirks, settling deeper into his seat, a picture of relaxation, but the tension of underlying excitement sparkling in his eyes isn’t lost on you. 

“No. I am enjoying myself right here.” 

Dave seems to consider for another moment, before he shrugs and his hand closes around yours. You love the feel of it, the warmth of his skin sinking into yours where you’re touching, his fingers calloused and rough against yours. The sight of him leaves your mouth dry, the shades of his face in the dim light, the dark pools of his eyes. They’re exactly the same shade as Oberyn’s, but where Oberyn is familiar, his eyes telling stories of love and joy every time he looks at you, like a warm bath that you can sink into, Dave’s eyes are like steel. Cold. Watchful. Not any less interesting. 

You start dancing, moving your body to the beat that’s playing from the speakers, a sensual rhythm that makes it easy to get closer to him, to get a taste of how his body would feel against yours. Letting yourself get lost in the high of the day, in the soft haze of the alcohol in your veins, in the nervous energy that’s bubbling inside of you at the prospect of this new adventure right in front of you.

As you grind against him, one hand curls around your hips, strong and determined, effortlessly stopping your movements. The simple touch is enough to make your knees go weak, holding the promise of power, of everything you want from him. He firmly holds you where you stand, putting some distance between the two of you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His tone is still clipped, challenging in a way that sends heat through you. You like the no nonsense attitude, like the way his eyes are firmly trained on your face, the spark of something darker in them that makes you want more. 

“Dancing,” you pout, eyes widened in mock innocence. 

“Don’t bullshit me. Your boyfriend’s right there, sweetheart.” 

You turn to look at Oberyn, who’s already observing the both of you. He still seems relaxed, knees spread wide, lounging in his seat, but the hunger is burning in his expression. He teasingly raises an eyebrow at you and you return it with a grin, before your gaze finds Dave again. 

You take a step closer to him, leaning in to whisper into his ear. A small shudder runs through him.

“He doesn’t mind sharing.” 

The grip on your hips tightens, a low growl raising in Dave’s throat at your sudden proximity. 

“Is that so?”

You nod quietly, trailing your fingers over his chest. “He likes it.” 

His mouth is so close, close enough that you give in to the temptation and brush your lips against his. He growls again, louder this time, one hand curling around your neck to hold you right there as his teeth dig into your bottom lip. You sigh against his mouth, pliant under his grip, delighted at the change in his demeanor. 

His touch travels higher, up your sides until he’s almost in reach of your breasts and you’re slowly unraveling, your body desperate for more.

“Having all the fun without me, princess?” Oberyn turns up behind you, caging you between the both of them, mouthing at your neck and you whimper into Dave's mouth. 

“Thought— thought you were happy watching,” you gasp when he grinds against you and you feel his growing stiffness against your ass. 

He bites your neck gently, and you shudder again. 

A quiet look passes between the two men. You see the quiet question in Dave’s eyes, the evident satisfaction at what he finds in Oberyn’s, before he squares his shoulders and pulls up to his full height. 

A pleasant shiver travels up your spine as you watch the silent exchange. They’re two sides of the same coin, the same kind of energy, all confident and strong, but channeled so differently. Where Oberyn is all smooth, flowing like water and wrapping himself all around you, all-encompassing but almost impossible to grasp, Dave is nothing but hard edges, sharp enough to cut if you’re not careful. You want them both.

It’s dark in Dave’s apartment, only the faint glow from the moon and the streetlights filtering in through the windows. The rooms are almost eerily tidy, barely lived in. Your skin is still warm, both from the humid evening air outside and the heat that’s steadily growing inside of you at the prospect of what the night has in store for you. 

Still, the space you just entered somehow feels cold, much like the man that it belongs to. Except that, right now, that man’s lips are finding your neck, sucking at the same spots where Oberyn’s mouth had been not too long ago, his tongue hot against your skin as he pushes you down the hall. 

Your fingers reach for Oberyn instinctively, a silent breath leaving you when they intertwine with his. Feeling Dave on you is so new, so different, leaving you dizzy with excitement. He’s intense already, his touch demanding and firm, hands digging into your flesh as he steers you towards his bedroom. The anticipation makes you nervous, makes you long for the familiar touch of the other man to ground you. 

It’s a tangle of limbs, two pairs of hands on you as you stumble into Dave’s bedroom. The interior is minimalistic, functional, no personal items that you can make out in the dark. No photos, not even a dried up plant on the windowsill. You briefly wonder what kind of person he is, outside of this. If he has friends, hobbies, what he does when he’s not working. 

The train of thought dissolves when Oberyn’s mouth finds yours, his nose bumping into your cheek and his beard scratching against your chin. So similar to Dave’s kisses, and at the same time, not similar at all. One hand cups the back of your head, pushes you into the kiss, its touch vaguely unfamiliar. 

Your eyelids blink open, catching Dave’s, whose gaze is dancing between the both of you, watching, raw hunger behind his dark irises. You flick your tongue against Oberyn’s, relishing in his responding groan, and in the way Dave’s eyes darken further, trained on your boyfriend now. 

Oberyn pulls away, linking his hand with Dave’s that’s still resting at the back of your head. You’re hypnotized by the sight of both of them touching, even if just for a brief moment, before Oberyn places Dave’s hand on your shoulder, hooking the other man’s fingers under the thin strap of your dress. 

Winking at the both of you, he saunters over to the bed, spreading out on top of the covers, an expectant glint in his eyes. He looks so good like this, so easily commanding every setting he finds himself in, the confidence surrounding him at all times. Your attention wavers when Dave tugs at the straps, goosebumps forming on your skin where his fingers skim over you. 

He raises his eyebrows in question, toying with the fabric, waiting for your confirmation.

“Go ahead,” you breathe, excitement weighing out the flicker of nerves. 

He nods, determination painting his features, the kind of calm assuredness that has you pressing your thighs together when he slides the straps off your shoulders. 

The flowy dress lands in a heap at your feet, leaving you in just your panties, your breasts braless and already bare for him. 

Dave’s eyes widen, a mumbled Fuck tumbling from his lips. A proud smirk passes over Oberyn’s features. 

“She is just a dream, is she not?” 

“She is,” Dave growls, his broad hands roaming over your skin, pulling you closer. 

“Touch her,” Oberyn’s voice sounds from the bed. “She likes being played with.” The casual authority oozing from his tone, paired with being talked about as if you’re not there, is almost enough to get the heat blazing through you to boil over. 

“Does she now?” Dave murmurs, cocking his head and dragging his gaze down your body, purposefully slow. You start squirming when his fingers glide over your nipples, playfully tugging at the hardened buds. You whine in reaction, a needy sound that has both men chuckling. “Yeah, you do,” he coos, nipping at your throat. Your responding whine to the sharp pinpricks of his teeth is even louder this time.

His touch travels lower, skims over your stomach, stopping just short of your panties, beneath which you’re already dripping for him. 

“May I?” It’s low, almost reverential. His gaze burns into yours, glinting darkly when you nod, a please, Dave falling from your lips. 

He finds you wet with slick, the fabric covering you completely soaked through, a moan breathy and high in your throat when he rubs at you through the fabric. 

“Please, more,” you whimper, all dignity lost to the hope of what it might feel like to have his thick fingers inside of you soon. His lips chase your mouth as he pulls your panties to the side, swirls a finger through your wetness and up to your clit. Your moan comes out muffled, licked out of your mouth by his tongue. 

You grab at his t-shirt, eagerly pulling at the hem, desperate to see all of him, to feel all of him. He helps you pull it over his head, exposing his upper body, all wide shoulders and massive chest, to your hungry eyes. You’re overcome with the need to touch him, the fire burning inside of you fueled by how strong he feels, how his muscles are flexing under your exploring fingers. 

In the lack of light, it takes a second until it catches up to you that his torso is littered with scars, white lines that shine dimly, skin that’s uneven under your touch. There’s a particularly large cut near his left collarbone, one that you mindlessly trace with a finger, until his hand closes around your wrist in a harsh grip. He pulls it away abruptly, the look on his face bordering on dangerous. 

Your whispered sorry isn’t met with an acknowledgement. His eyes close and open with a deep exhale before he meets your gaze again, pointing a curt nod towards the bed. 

“Hands and knees. Now.” 

You’re quick to obey, even more eager to please now, the harsher demeanor only driving your arousal to new heights. Dave’s hands span over your ass as you lock eyes with Oberyn. Your boyfriend has already rid himself of his clothes, languidly stroking his cock and regarding you with a teasing smile. 

The sight has you clenching with need, knowing how much he loves seeing you like this, knowing how much his pleasure grows from seeing yours, from being able to give you this. 

Behind you, Dave pulls your panties down your legs, leaving you naked and on full display for him. A deep moan escapes him at the sight, spurring you on to arch your back a bit more as you turn your head to look back towards him. He’s staring, the weight of it heavy on your bare skin.

“Such a pretty pussy, sweetheart,” he rasps, before he kneels down behind you and licks a broad stripe through your folds. His groan at the taste reverberates through you, your slick flooding his tongue, your whole body pulsing with need, each lick sending a new wave through you. 

When his tongue lets up on its ministrations and he sinks two fingers into you instead, thumbing at your clit, you cry out in pleasure at the sudden sensation. Your eyes find Oberyn again, touching himself more urgently now, keeping eye contact with you. He’s still smiling.

It’s impossible to take anymore, impossible to bear not feeling full for another moment, the stretch of Dave’s fingers not nearly enough. “Please,” you whine, turning towards him again, “I need you to fuck me. Please.” 

Dave chuckles darkly. 

“Need it, huh?” 

You don’t mind the condescending tone, don’t mind how desperate it makes you look, you just nod, silently pleading with him to have mercy on you. He indulges you, lets you watch eagerly as he takes off his pants and his cock springs free, thick and heavy and everything you need right now. 

A moan leaves you at the sight, earning you a smug grin from him, before he steps closer. You feel him nudge at your soaked entrance, one hand resting on your hip while he’s taking his time to tease you. Helplessly, you grind against him, wanting to feel him, needing to feel him. 

“Give it to her hard,” Oberyn purrs, leaning forward to cup your face. “I want to hear her scream.”

You’re still shuddering from his words when Dave finally sinks inside you with one sharp snap of his hips that punches the air from your lungs. He gives you no time to adjust, immediately sets a punishing rhythm. It jostles your whole body, would push you up the mattress if he didn’t pull you back onto him by your hips. 

It hits just as deep, stretches you just as wide as you wished for, screams and sobs of his name falling from your mouth as raw pleasure is spreading through you like wildfire.

Oberyn’s mouth is on your lips, on your whole face, drinking your pleasure straight from the source. 

“Is he as good as you imagined, princess?”

You can only whine and nod, incoherent babbles of yes, fuck yes the best that you’re able to manage. 

“Do you hear that?” he purrs, flashing a feral grin towards the other man. “She is feeling so good, so drunk on your cock that she can barely talk.”

He moves away from you, gets up from the bed and steps behind Dave instead, his hands gliding over the man’s shoulders, his eyes glued to where Dave keeps thrusting into you harshly. You can only imagine the obscenity of the sight based on the wet sounds that ring through the bedroom. With a quiet laugh and a pat on your ass, Oberyn shifts again. “I want a closer look.”

Rustling hits your ears, but when you crane your head to try and see what’s going on, Dave’s fingers tangle in your hair, forming a fist and pulling. It’s forcing your back into an almost painful arch and your head to point forward again. He leans over you, bringing one foot up on the mattress, growling into your ear while his cock somehow reaches new depths with the change of position. 

“You focus right here. You wanted me so bad, huh? Pay attention to me, then.” 

He plunges into you even harder, the sensations right on the pleasurable side of overwhelming. You twitch violently in his grasp when another touch reaches you, the familiar feeling of Oberyn’s tongue teasing at your clit all of a sudden, the coarse hairs of his beard scratching against the sensitive flesh. His chuckle at your reaction vibrates against your pussy, causing you to writhe between them, pushing back against Dave’s thrusts while trying to chase Oberyn’s mouth at the same time. 

Dave groans at the way you’re tightening and twitching around him, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, holding you in place. Oberyn licks and sucks at you, knowing your body better than you know it yourself, bringing you to the brink of ecstasy almost instantly. 

“Getting so— fucking tight,” Dave grits out from behind you, landing a slap on your ass that has you squealing. The sharp bite of pain sends you tumbling over the edge, pulsing around his cock, still sheathed deep inside you. Your hands uselessly grab at the sheets, skin stretching over knuckles, anything to keep you grounded as pleasure burns its way through you. 

Oberyn never lets up on his attention on your clit, soft licks and kisses that prolong the aftershocks of your orgasm until you’re trembling, your head falling forward, sweaty forehead connecting with the soft blanket on Dave’s bed. 

“Good girl,” Dave coos from behind you, one large hand gently rubbing over your back. “You’re doing so good.” He gives a tentative thrust, picking up his movements again when no protest of overstimulation comes from you. “You can give us more, can’t you?” 

You manage a nod and a soft yes, your mind still too lost in the lingering haze of your climax, but your body is already responding to the sensations of his cock dragging through your tight walls again. He stretches you just right, reaches so deep inside of you. 

“You are so wet, princess,” Oberyn’s voice sounds in your ears, his breath hot against your folds. “Tastes so sweet.”

His tongue moves away from your clit, licking through you, until Dave’s sharp intake of breath makes it clear that Oberyn has moved on from teasing just you.

“Is this okay?” 

You know that your boyfriend’s question isn’t aimed at you, that he’s well aware how okay with this you are, but the husky drag of his voice has you clenching around the other man anyway. 

“Fuck,” Dave groans, his thrusts slowing, chasing more than just your tight heat now. “I’ve never— yes. Yes, it’s okay.” Another breath. “Please.”

There’s more rustling, more movement between your legs, until Dave’s cock slides out of you, leaving you empty and wanting. You open your eyes, peering down at where Oberyn’s head rests on the mattress underneath you. His hand is wrapped around Dave’s cock, moving slowly, letting the other man adjust to the new experience. 

You slide your own fingers down, tangling in his hair, chasing the connection between all three of you. Your eyes meet for a moment, burning hunger passing between you. Then Oberyn pulls on Dave’s hips and closes his lips around the head of his cock, shiny with precum and your arousal. 

Both men’s voices float around you; throaty, needy sounds. Oberyn sucks Dave deeper into his mouth, and the grip on your waist tightens once more. You loosen your hold on Oberyn and prop yourself up on shaky arms to turn around again, desperate to catch a glimpse at Dave’s face. 

He looks wrecked, teeth digging into his bottom lip, eyes pinched closed, his breath coming in pants, his bare chest shining with sweat. You reach for him instead, intertwining your fingers with the ones that had been holding on to your waist. His eyes fly open, a grin spreading over his face when he catches you looking at him. A grin that you eagerly return. 

“We’re going to make you feel good, too,” you breathe. An emotion that you can’t place passes over his face, so quick that you almost think you imagined it. For just one second, he almost seemed vulnerable. 

Oberyn chooses this moment to position Dave’s cock back at your entrance, where you’re more than ready to take him again, your hips instinctively pushing back against him, your walls engulfing him once more. 

“Yeah, you are,” he growls, plunging into you again, the sudden return of the stretch forcing another moan and a fresh wave of slick out of you. He’s still holding your hand, pinning it against your lower back, jostling your body with every snap of his hips as if you were a doll. The deep thrusts hit your g-spot again and again, reducing you back to a babbling mess within minutes. The only words on your tongue are their names, mixed together by a string of pleads. 

You miss the fullness, the drag of his cock each time he pulls out of you, but knowing that when he’s not filling your pussy, he’s in Oberyn’s mouth, is enough to keep your arousal burning until he sinks back into you. 

A second orgasm catches up to you almost embarrassingly fast, pulsing around him and screaming your pleasure into the sheets. Dave fucks you through it slowly, keeps the high coursing through your body, until you’re nothing but quiet whines, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding you up. 

“Shhh, princess,” Oberyn’s voice floats to you, his familiar touch grazing your legs. You watch hazily as he retreats from beneath you, directing your body until you’re lying on the bed, everything around you soft and warm like a cloud. 

“Take a little break, yeah?” he whispers, leaning down to capture your lips. “I’ll finish what you started.” 

You watch in awe as his fingers trails over Dave’s chest, mesmerized as a shudder ripples through the other man, how he hesitantly but determined reaches out to Oberyn to return the touch. They’re a sight together, and you still want them both, still don’t feel sated.

With your eyes widening, you witness Oberyn slowly sinking to his knees in front of Dave. Seeing him in an act of such obvious submission is rare, the way he takes Dave deep into his throat, swallows him down. 

His hands are on Dave’s thighs, where the muscles are flexing under his fingers, his fingers that are wandering up further, sliding over Dave’s ass, out of your line of sight. What you can see is how Oberyn’s eyes are trained on Dave’s face, gauging his reaction to the touches. You can see the pure ecstasy written over Dave’s features as he comes with a loud groan, the shuddering pull of his abs as he’s spilling his release into Oberyn’s eager mouth, the fingers tangled in his hair and holding him in place.

Oberyn lets out a satisfied rumble at the taste, a sound that adds to the insistent burning between your thighs. You reach out for your boyfriend, tugging at his shoulder. 

“I want a taste,” you demand in a breathless voice.

Dave makes a sound like all air has been punched from his lungs, watching as if hypnotized while Oberyn leans towards you, cupping your jaw before he kisses you deeply. He’s licking into your mouth, sharing Dave’s taste with you, a taste that you can’t get enough of, your tongue tangled with his until he gently pulls away, calls you an insatiable little thing. 

A laugh escapes Dave at that, sinking onto the mattress and pulling you into him. You melt into his touch, let him maneuver you until he’s leaning against the headboard with your back resting against his chest. He’s lazily toying with you, mouthing at your neck and gently circling your nipples, giving you the occasional tug to force small, high sounds from your throat. 

You’re writhing against him, but your eyes are trained on Oberyn, who’s slowly advancing towards you. “Do you still want more, princess?” he coos, swirling a single digit through the slick between your legs, still overflowing with need. 

“Please,” you sigh, parting your legs further, making room for him. He sinks into you easily, filling you perfectly, both your lips parted in pleasure. He rocks into you, pressing your body against Dave who’s holding you tight, still playing with your breasts and whispering into your ear.

“Dirty girl… You gonna give us one more?”

You’re overwhelmed by their touches, feeling so close to another high, their scent engulfing you, huge hands all over your body, a heat that’s about to scorch you. You think that you’re pleading with them, but you can’t be sure, can’t focus on anything but how good it all feels. 

Oberyn leans forward, sinking even deeper into you, pressing your legs into your chest. “Taste yourself,” he husks, connecting his lips with Dave’s. The sight of both men’s tongues intertwined, paired with the sensation of Oberyn’s cock nestled impossibly deep inside of you, is enough to tip you over the edge one more time. 

Blackness is tugging at the edges of your vision, but fire is burning in your veins, coursing through you until your whole body is left a trembling mess. When you come back to yourself, both men are holding you close, shushing you and peppering every inch of your skin that they can reach with kisses. It’s soft, it’s warm, it’s safe. It’s heaven. 

The three of you end up in a tangle of limbs and bedsheets, intertwined with one another as closely as possible. You wrap your arms around Dave, whose eyes are already closed, but he leans into the touch instantly. 

“Thank you. You were fun,” you tell him with a giggle, your heart pulsing at the sight of an earnest smile on his face, possibly the first one that you’ve seen. Oberyn’s fingers are linked with yours, wordlessly sharing the deep joy that you both feel. You fall asleep like this, in a bubble so dreamy that you wish you could stay like this forever. 

When you wake up to the sounds of birds and waves in the distance coming through the open windows in the morning, your head resting on Oberyn’s chest as sunlight is filtering into the room, the other side of the bed is empty.

Dave is gone, leaving the both of you in an apartment that looks even less personal in the daylight, with no signs of the man who you spent the night with.

thank you for reading <3 comments, reblog & asks are greatly appreciated!

[littleprinces]

Day 29: BWC

Dayeon x OC

Kinkvember Day 29

Dayeon, the lead vocalist of the popular K-pop girl group "Kep1er" was no stranger to the spotlight. With her captivating voice and stunning visuals, she had a massive fanbase worldwide. Today, however, she was not on stage but rather enjoying a quiet afternoon in a quaint café in Seoul. She was sipping her latte, watching the world outside through the window, when she noticed him. A tall, muscular American man with short blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He was new to the city, and his eyes scanned the café with curiosity. Dayeon couldn't help but feel drawn to him.

"Excuse me," Dayeon said, standing up and walking toward him. "Are you new here?"

He turned to her, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Yes, I am. Just moved from New York. You're Dayeon, right? From Kep1er?"

Dayeon nodded, surprised. "Yes, that's me. And you are?"

"Jake," he introduced himself. "Nice to meet you, Dayeon."

A few days later, they met again at a local art gallery. Jake had a keen interest in art, and Dayeon found it fascinating to learn about his perspectives on various paintings and sculptures. As they strolled through the gallery, their hands brushed against each other, and Dayeon felt a spark.

"You have very soft hands," Jake commented, his voice low. "It's unusual for someone so famous to be so... touchable."

Dayeon smiled, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I'm glad you think so. Not many people get to see this side of me."

Their conversations grew deeper and more intimate over the following weeks. They shared stories, dreams, and fears. One evening, as they sat in Jake's apartment, Dayeon noticed the tension between them. She could see the desire in his eyes, and it mirrored her own feelings.

"Jake," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I want you."

Jake leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a soft, gentle kiss. It deepened, their tongues exploring each other's mouths. Dayeon moaned softly, her hands running through his short blonde hair.

"You're so beautiful, Dayeon," Jake whispered against her lips. "I've been wanting to do this since the first moment I saw you."

Dayeon led him to the bedroom, her heart pounding with anticipation. She started undressing him, her fingers tracing the muscles of his chest. Jake, in turn, unzipped her dress, letting it fall to the floor. He took a step back to admire her in her lacy black bra and thong.

"God, you're perfect," he murmured, his eyes drinking her in.

Dayeon smiled, her confidence growing. "And you're so big," she said, her gaze dropping to his bulge.

Jake chuckled, stepping closer to her. "Is that right?"

Dayeon nodded, her fingers reaching for his belt. "Let me see."

She unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants, revealing his large, thick cock. Dayeon gasped, her eyes widening. "Wow," she breathed. "That's big."

Jake laughed, his cock twitching in response to her words. "And you're about to find out just how big."

Dayeon knelt down, her hand wrapping around his shaft. She licked the tip, tasting the pre-cum that had gathered there. Jake groaned, his hands going to her hair.

"Fuck, Dayeon," he moaned. "That feels so good."

She took him into her mouth, her head bobbing up and down. Jake watched her, his breath coming in short gasps. "You look so hot doing that," he said, his voice strained. "But I want to fuck you. I want to feel your pussy around my cock."

Dayeon stood up, her lips glistening with his precum. "I want that too," she said, her voice husky.

Jake picked her up, carrying her to the bed. He laid her down, his body covering hers. He kissed her deeply, his hands roaming her body. He sucked on her neck, making her squirm with pleasure.

"You taste so good," he murmured against her skin.

He moved down her body, his tongue tracing her collarbone, her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and nibbling on it. Dayeon moaned, her hands gripping the sheets.

"Yes," she gasped. "More."

Jake moved to her other breast, giving it the same attention. He then continued his journey down her stomach, his fingers hooking into her thong and pulling it off. He spread her legs, his eyes taking in her glistening pussy.

"Beautiful," he said, his voice hoarse.

He leaned in, his tongue licking her from her entrance to her clit. Dayeon cried out, her hips bucking. Jake repeated the motion, his tongue circling her clit before dipping back into her pussy.

"Oh god, Jake," Dayeon moaned. "That feels so good."

Jake continued to lick and suck her, his fingers joining in. He slipped two fingers into her, curling them to hit her G-spot. Dayeon screamed, her orgasm crashing over her.

"Fuck, Jake," she panted. "I need your cock inside me."

Jake smiled, his cock throbbing with need. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cockhead nudging her. Dayeon bit her lip, her eyes meeting his.

"Are you ready for this, Dayeon?" Jake asked, his voice low.

Dayeon nodded, her breath hitching. "Yes," she said. "I'm ready."

Jake pushed into her, his cock stretching her. Dayeon moaned, her hands going to his hips. "Ouch, yes," she said. "You're so big."

Jake grinned, his cock pulsing inside her. "And you feel so tight."

He started moving, his cock sliding in and out of her. Dayeon met his thrusts, her body moving in sync with his. Their moans filled the room, their bodies slapping together.

"Yes, Jake," Dayeon panted. "Faster."

Jake complied, his pace quickening. He leaned down, his lips meeting hers. They kissed deeply, their tongues clashing. Dayeon's nails dug into his back, her body tensing.

"I'm close," she gasped.

"Me too," Jake groaned. "Come with me, Dayeon."

He thrust into her harder, faster. Dayeon screamed, her orgasm ripping through her. Jake followed, his cock pulsing inside her as he came.

"Fuck, Dayeon," he panted, his forehead resting on hers. "That was incredible."

They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies entwined. Then, Jake rolled off her, his cock slipping out of her. Dayeon smiled, her fingers tracing his chest.

"That was amazing," she said. "I want to do it again."

Jake laughed, his arms wrapping around her. "Any time you want, Dayeon. Any time you want."

[rewiringtoheal]

My Darling, You Enchant Me

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: a little teasing and a lot of pleasing.

Words: 1,453

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, strap-on, soft smut

A/N: The first few paragraphs are from a scrapped piece but I flushed it out and made it for Natasha. Thank you for the support. You guys are awesome.

You are mesmerized by the goddess astride you. The stunning flush that painted her once creamy white skin is breathtaking. Those green eyes you adore are set ablaze as they look upon you begging for release. 

Your eyes trail down her body appreciating the long crimson hair cascading down Natasha’s left shoulder. And the soft full breasts swaying with the motion of her hips as she rides your fingers. 

Your mind is lost in a haze. All you see is her. All you feel is her. The tensing of her thighs, the rolling of her hips, and the feeling of being inside of her is enchanting. 

The walls of her core welcome you like an old friend. They stretch around your fingers with familiarity. Your hand strains as a cramp runs through your wrist but you double your efforts wanting to please her. 

“So good, baby. Don’t fucking stop.” Natasha whimpers. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, love” You husk. 

You feel small hands digging into your shoulders, nails tear into your flesh, leaving crescent marks in their wake. Your free hand flutters down the smooth warm skin of her back landing on her hip trying to help stabilize her as she loses herself in you.

The rhythm you’ve had thus far is becoming erratic as Natasha starts to mindlessly hump your hand as she chases her release. Indecipherable words leave her kiss swollen mouth. You know she’s close; with practiced ease you curl your fingers into the sweet spongy spot inside of her. Your thumb slides through slick folds to stimulate her clit. It is the catalyst that pushes her over the edge.

“Fuck, Detka. So good.” Natasha cries out.

She is a sight to behold as she reaches her climax. A sheen of sweat coats her taut body, strands of her red hair are stuck to her forehead, and her eyebrows are furrowed. Full pink lips drop open with a whimper as she basks in her pleasure. 

Small trembles work their way through her body as she slumps into you. She burrows her nose into your neck and the warmth of her breath sends shivers down your spine. You kiss the side of her head, lingering there for a little while, relishing in this closeness. 

You eventually withdraw your fingers from Natasha with reluctance.  She nips at your neck in displeasure causing you to chuckle. 

“Darling, as much as I would like too. I can’t stay inside of you forever.” Fondness coats your voice as you clean your slick covered hand in the navy blue sheets of your shared bed. 

“I know but I like feeling full.” Natasha mumbles into you. 

“Oh baby, I know you do. If you want I can fill you up properly? We won’t even need any lube with how wet you still are.” 

She withdraws from your neck, with a playful smirk, and green eyes filled with mischief. “Detka, the wetness our lower halves are drowning in is as much your fault as it is mine.” That perfect eyebrow of hers lifts sassily. “Don’t even pretend you aren’t going absolutely feral at the thought of fucking me with your strap.”

 Your hands creep up Natasha’s sides, landing just below her ribs, shooting her a cocky smirk of your own. “My little spy thinks she’s so funny, doesn’t she? Mhmm. Something definitely needs to be done about all of that sass…” 

Natasha anticipates your next move but it’s too late. She's caught in your clutches. You roll her over onto her back with a burst of adrenaline and you start tickling her in earnest. The most adorable squeak leaves the redhead before transforming into giggles.

You’re smiling so hard from the sounds of her happiness. It’s a privilege to know that you are the only one who gets to experience this side of her. The playful, loving and goofy woman that most people wouldn’t believe is hidden underneath the black widow persona. Is the same woman you get to love. What a wonderful life you lead.

“Baby, please stop tickling me.” Natasha manages to get out in between giggles.

Your heart fills with undeniable affection as you look upon her. The small smile she so rarely gets to wear outside of your home is present and you adore seeing her look so content. She’s covered in sweat, sticky with your shared arousal, and yet she looks at peace. You couldn’t help but match her energy. 

Your hands slow down, tickling transforms into a gentle caress, the mood between you shifting into something more tender. “Alright, my darling. No more tickling… I think it’s time I finally fill you up. Don’t you?”

Natasha hums in agreement. Her small hands push you towards the nightstand, urgent, you know how much she loves watching you prepare. 

You wink at her cheekily, before reaching towards your nightstands drawer and grabbing your well loved leather harness. Her gaze burns into you as you clamber off the bed to buckle yourself in. 

You reach back into the nightstand drawer, grabbing Natasha’s favorite toy, and shove it through the o-ring. The thick piece of silicone stands erect between your powerful thighs. 

Natasha’s hands are on you within seconds. She’s pulling you as close to her as she can get. Grasping onto your lower back and hips like her life depends on it as you settle between her legs. 

“Don’t worry, my love. I’m gonna take good care of you.” You murmur, allowing yourself to be drawn in. You push forward slightly just enough to grind against Natasha’s clit for a minute or so; making sure that the toy is coated in her slick.

She squirms beneath you; hips rutting against you in desperate need. “Detka, please. I need you inside.” 

You can’t deny her when she asks so sweetly and in truth you want to be inside of her as much as she does. You cradle Natasha in your arms, resting your forehead against hers, loving the intimacy. Her shaky inhale caresses your lips as you slowly push the tip in.

You push forward, at a leisure pace, until you are fully buried inside of her. Nails dig into your hips encouraging you to move. Your initial thrusts are mindful, wanting Natasha to adjust to your thickness, before you set a familiar pace. 

A slow sensual grind of pelvises, as you clutch to one another. You glide your nose along Natasha’s savoring her warmth. Stopping to draw her into a deep kiss; it’s all tongue, teeth and incoordination. 

You trail kisses down her jawline, pausing to suck an irresistible  earlobe into your mouth, nipping at the soft piece of flesh. A low moan echoes from beside you. You travel down her neck, leaving a wet path of saliva and love bites in your wake.

Natasha’s thighs tighten around your hips; begging you to go faster. 

“Oh god, fuck baby filling me so good.” Natasha keened.

You grunt in agreement. The toy is rubbing against your clit in the most delicious way every time she rocks against you. 

“Shit, babe. You feel so fucking good.” You nuzzle your nose into the crook of her neck. “Taking me so well. No one can make you feel as full as I can.” You anchor your hands on Natasha’s thighs, setting a faster pace, incoherent mumbling spews from supple lips.

“So full. Fuck, Jesus christ” Natasha mewls.

The two of you are rutting against each other like wild animals as you both chase your release. You know it won’t take long for either of you to cum with the franticness of your movements. 

Every thrust into Natasha is met with resistance as her walls tighten around your strap and her thighs start to shake. 

“Come with me, baby” one of your hands trails through dripping wet red curls to rub circles around Natasha’s clit. 

She tenses up with a shout of your name, fingers dig into your shoulder blades, holding on for dear life.  As shockwaves of pleasure ripple through her body. 

You cry out, as your own orgasm overtakes you. The neglected pressure in your loins finally being taken care of.

The adrenaline seeps out of you and the only thing you’re left with is bone deep exhaustion as you collapse onto Natasha.

The two of you curl around each other, breathing heavy, but satisfied.

“Damn, we really need to shower at some point but I don’t know if I will be able to stand anytime soon.” Natasha pants.

“Fuck, I know we are so sticky but I don’t want to get up.” You whine.

She hums in agreement. Neither of you try to move. You just stay there snuggled together and joined in the most intimate way. 

[redheadspark]

Bliss

Summary - Druig knows how to bring you bliss

*Got the idea for this one shot from this Gif*

Warnings - SMUT SMUT SMUT! This is 18+, NO MINORS ALLOWED FROM HERE ON OUT!

A/N - I am no SMUT writer by trade, so bear with me :D

You fell back into the bed, your breath barely on your lips as your thighs were trembling and your orgasm was now dwindling to a small simmer.  Sweat itched along your skin, thanks to the solid body on top of you that was holding you close and still buried deep inside of you, watching your body shake from your post orgasm.  His eyes were wide, nearly black with no evidence of the sapphire blue they naturally were, his lisp plump to almost crimson in the moonlight, and his skin with its sheen of sweat along his porcelain skin.  

"That was…..I can't even talk" You tried to say, but your voice was nearly gone with a small smile on your lips as the man above you merely chuckled and ruffled his own brown hair from his eyes.

"Don't say a single word, darlin'." He hummed, leaning back down to have his arms on the mattress below you, digging his forehead against your shoulder as he rolled his hips deeply and slowly.  You mewled, arching into him as you clung onto his shoulders, knowing fully well that he was not done with you.

Neither you were done, not with what you went through.

This was not the first time you two were in bed together, nor would it be the last.  But it felt like your first time, not with the intensity and the lust that was seeping under your skin as you both were gasping for air and pouring your love to one another, but with the intense love you both had for one another for centuries and centuries on end.  

Being together on the Domo for some time as friends before realizing your feelings for one another brought your paths together as lovers, then as a married couple.  You never thought in your wildest dreams that the Mind Controlling Eternal, the very one who was aloof to outsiders and sarcastic by nature, would fall head over heels in love with someone like you. He was wrapped around your heart so naturally and organically that before you knew it, you realized that your heart was taken by him and there was no way to be without him.  

You both went along with the evolution of humans, seeing the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Even within your own family of Eternals and how straining it was getting with one another, you both stayed side by side.  Druig's heart was beyond massive for the sake of the humans, for wishing them peace and tranquility on that small and fragile planet.  So when he decided to walk away after seeing a genocide unfold in front of his eyes, you joined him. How could you stay behind and let the love of your life walk away?  He was part of your soul, half of your heart, and neither one of you wished to be parted. 

"Uggh….Oh fuck Druig," you moaned against his head as his hips were staying consistent, rolling sleep and slow as you felt his cock slide in and out of you.  You were feeling that tension again, the burning in your thigh muscles since your legs were bracketing Druig's hips with ease, your arms shaking while you clung onto his muscular shoulders, and your core finding that flicker of pleasure again while he kissed your skin over and over.  One of his hands moved from under the pillow where you were, bracing your jawline to have your head stay in one spot while he was still fucking you deeply.  You loved when he did this, his actions were both filthy and intimate at the same time.  Holding you close as you fucked, perhaps thinking that you two could blend into one as he made you cum multiple times.  

This was how he loved you: showing you with his actions along with his words how he loved you and would never stop loving you.

You moved your head to kiss his palm that was against your jawline, feeling him thrust again to have you moan silently and feel his thumb trace your lower lip.  Without you thinking about it and merely thinking about the pleasure that was now etched within you, you slide his thumb into your mouth.  He moaned against your neck.

"Fuck," he growled, his thrust never slowing as your hand moved down to grasp at his ass through the thin sheet that was covering it.  He huffed and moved his head to gaze at you with heavy eyes, seeing his thumb in your mouth as you locked eyes with him with a blissed-out face, "You want me to make you cum again, don't ya?"

Releasing his thumb with a pop, you grinned as he gave a particularly hard thrust, you moaned out, "Do it,"

His eyes narrowed: challenged accepted.

Having this kind of love with Druig was nothing short of amazing.  Built on the solid foundation of friendship and devotion, you both could take on the world if you wanted to.  Yet you and Druig didn't wish for that, you both instead settled for your little village in the Amazon.  A slice of paradise amongst the soldiers that followed Druig, underneath the massive trees, and hidden from the rest of the world.  The love that was blossoming over time between you and Druig was now thriving and evolving, spending mornings in bed together and long walks amongst the trees.  Druig never strayed from you, and he proved it again and again.

Druig loved running the village and caring for the families that were growing as the years went by, and you saw the new side of Druig that was hidden for so long because of his inability to step in and help humans.  It made you proud to see him care for his villagers, to see the brightness in his eyes and within his tone, and you wished that would never go away.  

Even after 500 years when your Eternals family came back to find you two to stop the ending of the world with them, nothing seemed to slow the pair of you down.

Moans were filling the room for the pair of you now as Druig was now determined to make you cum again, you letting him as his hips were now snapping and his eyes never leaving your face as you were melting with the sensation.  You felt that drive in his hold along your body, in his whimpers along his lips,  and in his eyes as he was watching you get closer and closer to teetering over the edge.  He knew just how to make you cum: his rough fingers along your body or inside of you, his sweet and yet filthy words in your ear, and even his cock that was perfect in length and girth that seemed to be created to only fit inside of you.  Inwardly, you thanked your lucky stars that you both were Eternals with extended energy, being able to fuck all night without a single need for a break.  

This led to your record: 14 straight hours back in the Amazon when you two went off together on your anniversary back in 1869.

This time, this was more than a simple act of love or fuck session.  The world almost ended, and you all almost lost everything you knew thanks to Arishem and his need to bring Tiamut to life and a new balance to the universe.  Yet you all stopped it, not wishing to let this planet go to waste since you grew to love it over the centuries. It was a relief that there was no more danger for any of you to worry about, and to think that you were so close to losing Druig at the hands of Ikaris, you thought of the worst.  

Seeing him walk up to you with a few cuts and bruises, yet alive and well, you had to hold him close and engrain him in your mind.

He must have felt the same, whisking you away from the rest of your group. Which then brought you to your current predicament.

"I'm close…I'm close Druig…" You moaned against his head as he was not slowing down with his hips and his open-mouth kisses against your jawline.  He hummed, his spare hand moving down to rub his thumb against your clit as he was thrusting deeper and deeper.  You moan hotly from the touch, your legs sprawling out at this point as he keeps the adrenaline going.  

"You don't have to tell me, I can feel ya flutterin' against my cock," he growled as you were feeling that sensation in your toes moving up to be along your spine, "I know your body and what makes ya tick, right?  I know where to touch, where to lick, where to….where to fuck," 

He rubbed your clit hard, making you moan with no abandon as he chuckled to pause and sit up a bit.  He looked down at your body, seeing him undone you were yet at the same time tight wound.  Your hair askew, your breast etched in hickies and exposed for him to savor, even the gorgeous sight of where you two were connected along your hips.  

But what got him was your eyes, the same eyes that he fell for when he first saw you on the Domo.  The same eyes that saw his painful and tear-jerking moments throughout the years but never repeated.  The same eyes that poured love into his own when he felt he was undeserving.  He swore a long time ago when he first kissed you at sunset, he would do anything and everything in his power to keep you in his life.  

Centuries later, he held onto that promise. 

"I love you," He hummed, the tone of lust simmered as you gazed up at him with lust in your own eyes.  You felt that love seep under your skin, even in the heat of fucking you both would find a way to have another layer of intimacy with each other.  Perhaps you were thinking that he was going to die because of Ikaris, or that was world was so close to ending, but you two looked at one another as if nothing else existed in the world, or in that little room.  

You leaned up, moaning as you did since he was involuntarily thrusting in you to make you tremble.  Druig moaned too, though it was silenced by you kissing him softly.  He kissed you back,  feeling that gentleness along your lips as you framed his face in your hands.  Although you knew of it being a distraction, moving one hand to be placed in his chest to give him a push.

Within a second, he was sprawled on his back as you were now riding him.  He grinned as you gently grasped his throat, feeling him gulp as you too locked eyes with that intensity again.

"Love you more," You replied, then giving one hard roll.  Druig moaned loudly as his eyes rolled back in bliss.

The End

tagging - @a-lumos-in-the-nox @heliosphere8 @virtueassassin @pemberlyy @botanicalbarnes @reader6898 @eternalslover

[d0llcuries]

HIIII 🫶 i wanted to ask if i could request a neteyam x omatikaya readerrr where she’s caring for him while he’s healing from the bullet so it’s like just a bit after the war (bc in my head he didn’t die 😔😔😔) and she’s checking up on him making sure he’s okay distracting him from pain/the situation hopefully that makes some sense just some cute stuff like that hehe. (im delusional 💓)

THANKS BABE

KISS YOU BETTER

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: healing is a process. a slow, lonely and frightful one. you do what you can to be there for him, forever thankful to eywa that he still has breath in his lungs.

author's note: i am the world's fattest dillydallyer, i fear. bear with me folks please and thankss!!

neteyam’s chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, his skin too warm under your palm where his heartbeat drums, faint, beneath layers of gauze and healing paste. the evening light, watery and red through the fibers of the marui pod, filters down over him, casting a glow that makes his blue skin look brighter.

a faint lustre of sweat lies at his temples. you can’t tell if it is the heat or the strain of healing that makes him look fragile, but it is unsettling. it feels like months have passed since that day. the bullet. the blood. the scream that ripped from your throat like you could tear the world in half with it.

he's been in and out of it for days. sometimes, he wakes with a shudder, his fingers twitching as if he’s reaching for his knife or his bow or something to hold onto before his muscles relax and he lays dormant once again. you wonder, not for the first time, what he dreams of now. if he’s still out there, somewhere between life and death, between the stars and the ground, or if he’s here, with you, feeling the soft pressure of your fingers on his skin, the warmth of your breath on his neck. you wonder if he feels the way your hands shake, if he knows how scared you are, even though you don’t say it.

“yawne,” he murmurs, voice raspy, cracking around the edges. it’s the only word he seems to have the strength for lately. my love. you could hear it a thousand times, and still, it would twist your insides in knots, the feeling churning beneath your ribs like roots digging into soil that’s too dry to give way. he says it like it is his only bind to the world.

the air inside the tent is sticky, thick, a little too sweet with the musk of old herbs and the iron tang of blood. you can taste it on your tongue as you breathe, cloying, like when you bite too hard into a mango and the juice drips down your chin, half-spoiled, but still too good to stop. the world is settling outside the night drawing in like a slow breath and inside, the hush of it, the weight of it, sinks into your skin, pools behind your eyes, heavy and aching.

his lashes cast long shadows across his cheeks, his lips chapped and parted as he pulls in uneven breaths. you move carefully, your hands trembling just a little as they skim over his ribs, up to his face, cradling his jaw in your palms. he feels fragile. your body aches in ways you can’t describe, the knots in your muscles from sleeping beside him, always curled up in awkward positions, always watchful. your knees are sore from kneeling too long, your neck stiff from leaning against the wooden posts of the tent. but all that discomfort it feels so small, so inconsequential, in the face of his suffering.

you stroke his hair back, letting the braids slip through your fingers one by one. the roots are damp, curls matted against his scalp. you hum a little under your breath, some half-forgotten melody your mother used to sing when you were small, when the days felt longer and the nights less lonely. the sound barely reaches your ears, swallowed by the thick air, but neteyam stirs, just a fraction, his lips twitching like he's trying to smile, trying to remember how.

dried blood like rust staining the fresh bandages you’ve wrapped around him. your hands know the routine now. the careful unraveling of cloth, the soft hiss of his breath when the cool air touches the wound, the gentle pat of the herbs pressed to his skin. you move like you’re in a trance, like this is a dream, and maybe it is. maybe none of this is real.

you press another kiss to his lips this time, barely more than a whisper of touch, but it feels like a promise. i’m here. i’m staying.

you trace the lines of his collarbone, the curve of his jaw, your touch light, as if you’re afraid he’ll shatter under your hands. you won’t leave me, you think, pressing your lips to the hollow of his throat, you can’t.

you kiss him again, soft, featherlight kisses that brush his skin like a promise, like a prayer. and with each one, you hope—this one will heal him. this one will be enough. but hope is like the wind, you think. it slips through your fingers no matter how tightly you hold on.

so you lie there, listening to the sound of his breathing, the faint rustle of the tent, the hum of the forest, and you wonder how many more kisses it will take before he’s whole again.

his presence is a tether, thin as it may be, binding you here. holding you together, even though the world outside feels as though it has unraveled completely. you sit beside him, legs curled under you, skin tingling with exhaustion. your bones feel like they might fold in on themselves, but none of that matters. wake up.

a sound escapes him. his lips move—just the faintest twitch, but it is something. he is here.

“neteyam,” you whisper. saying his name and it aches to let it out.

his lips part, a dry rasp of breath slipping through, and you reach for the gourd beside you, lifting it to his mouth. the water pools in the curve of his lips, slow and steady.

“drink,” you murmur, your voice catching on the word.

he drinks, the water moving down his throat in quiet gulps, each one easing the tightness there, smoothing the lines of strain from his face. you watch the way his throat moves, the tension softening just a little. when he is done, you lower the gourd, your thumb brushing against his lips, catching the drops that linger there.

your breath catches in your throat as neteyam’s eyes flutter open, the softest sliver of gold peeking through the lashes you have been watching so closely, day after day. your heart leaps before you can even stop it, a wild, untamed thing in your chest, and you do not know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. your hands hover above him, trembling with the need to touch him, to pull him into you, but you stop yourself, knowing how fragile he still is. every fiber of your being is vibrating with joy, your body a live wire of emotions, but you hold yourself back, afraid of overwhelming him, of hurting him.

“nete!” you breathe, the word coming out as half-laughter, half-sob, and you are trembling with the effort it takes not to throw yourself into his arms. your fingers brush his cheek, feather-light, as if he might disappear if you press too hard. the ache in your chest is too much, too bright, and all you can do is smile down at him, wide and breathless, blinking back the tears that blur your vision. he is here, really here, and you do not know how to contain it, how to quiet the storm of happiness that surges through you. you lean down, your forehead just barely touching his, and whisper, “you are awake!” your voice shaking with the weight of all the things you cannot say, all the joy you cannot express without breaking apart.

“you should be resting,” he says, and the sound of it makes your breath catch again. you have heard this voice so many times, but now it feels new, fragile.

you let out a soft laugh, half surprise, half relief, your fingers drifting through his hair, catching the strands that have come loose from his braids. “so should you,” you whisper, feeling the way his body hums beneath your touch, the way his presence pulls you in like the tide, slow and unrelenting.

he makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and it vibrates through your bones, quiet and deep. his hand tightens on yours, just a little, but enough. enough to remind you that he is here, that you are tethered to him still.

“i missed you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them, too heavy with meaning. it is not just the missing of these last few days, these long, aching hours. it is the missing of something bigger, something that stretches across time. something that you cannot name.

he hums again, and you feel it in the space between your ribs, that soft agreement. you missed him too, even though you were never really gone. his breathing slows, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there is peace on his face.

“you are going to get better,” you whisper, as if saying it out loud might make it true. as if the words might stitch him back together, might pull him from the edge of whatever dark place he has been hovering near. you press your lips to his brow, kissing the smooth skin there, untouched by the pain that has tried to claim him.

another kiss, this one softer, to the tip of his nose, then his jaw, your lips trailing down to the place where his pulse beats steadily beneath the surface of his skin. he is still here.

you press your mouth to that spot, feeling the rhythm of his life under your lips, and you think, “you know,” you murmur against his skin, “if kissing you could heal you faster, you would be running by now.”

his chest moves with a low sound, something between a chuckle and a breath, and it fills the space between you like music. it makes you smile, makes your heart stutter and swell, and you nuzzle into him, your face pressed against the warmth of his neck, your hand splayed over his chest, trying to anchor yourself in this moment.

“you are doing a good job, then,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but it is full of something light, something playful.

your heart leaps at the sound, and you lift your head to look at him, to see the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. his eyes are still closed, but there is life in him now, a flicker of the boy you know—the boy who makes you laugh, the one who makes you feel like the world is not such a terrible place after all.

“then i will keep doing it,” you say, pressing another kiss to his cheek, your smile wide and soft, full of too much feeling.

“do not stop,” he murmurs, and it is almost playful, almost light, and you can feel your heart swelling again, pushing against your chest like it might burst.

you press your forehead to his, your body melting into his warmth, and the world outside feels so far away now, like it cannot reach you here.

“i will not,” you promise, the words slipping from your lips like a vow, like something sacred.

the silence returns, but it is full now, heavy with the weight of everything you have not said, everything you do not need to say. his breathing steadies, slow and rhythmic, and your body sinks into his, your exhaustion finally easing, replaced by something softer. something that feels like peace.

and in this quiet, in this small, fragile moment, you feel it—the hope that has been hiding in the corners of your heart. you feel it blooming, slow and tentative, but there, growing in the space between you.

because he is still here. and you are still here. and that, somehow, is enough.

the sun was unforgiving, but you dug your fingers into the sand anyway, letting it gather beneath your nails, small grains cool against the heat that pressed down on your skin. the ocean sang before you, waves rolling softly toward the shore, brushing against your toes before retreating, almost shy in their touch. you tilted your face up toward the sky, letting the light cascade over you, trying to soak in its warmth, trying to let it chase away the heavy ache in your chest.

you didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there, but it didn’t matter. you came here often now, to this spot just beyond the village, where you could hear the water breathing, feel the sand shift beneath you, and pretend, for a moment, that everything was right. you dug your fingers in deeper, the sensation grounding you, pulling you back from the thoughts that threatened to drag you under.

neteyam was healing. slowly, carefully, but the wounds were still fresh, the memory of his blood staining your hands still too sharp. there were nights you woke with that same metallic scent in your nose, the image of him falling, so still and quiet, burned behind your eyelids. even now, as the sun beat down on you, your mind circled back to it—over and over.

you curled your fingers into fists, the sand slipping through them, leaving nothing but the feel of it sticking to your palms. you hated this. this waiting, this stillness. but you hated it more for him. neteyam wasn’t made to lie still. he was built for movement, for the hunt, for the wild freedom of the forest and sky. now, he was trapped. and in a way, so were you.

your eyes flickered toward the horizon, where the sea stretched out in endless blue. there was a celebration tonight—the metkayina’s way of welcoming a new season. you remembered the last one, how the village had come alive, vibrant and wild. you’d danced with neteyam then, under the stars, laughing as the ocean crashed around your feet. everything had felt light, easy. before.

now, the thought of going felt… wrong. how could you join in their joy when so much of yours was tethered to him, back in that marui, lying still and quiet? how could you celebrate without him by your side?

you pushed yourself up slowly, your body resisting the movement, as if it too was reluctant to leave this spot. you wiped the sand from your hands, shaking your head at your own thoughts. no neteyam, no joy. it was simple, really. without him, nothing felt complete.

the marui was bathed in soft light when you returned, the warm glow of the afternoon filtering in through the slats. it was quieter now, the village settling into the rhythm of evening. inside, neteyam lay where you left him, though his eyes fluttered open as you stepped closer. kiri and tuk were still there, but kiri shot you a small, tired smile, relief evident in the way her shoulders sagged.

“thank you,” she murmured, barely audible, as she stood, tugging tuk up gently. tuk looked up at you, her eyes bright as she offered a tiny smile, her fingers brushing your leg as she passed by. “he’s all yours.”

you nodded, giving her a grateful look before she slipped out of the marui, tuk trailing behind her, the sound of their soft footsteps disappearing into the distance. and then there was only the quiet. the kind of quiet that settled easily between you and neteyam, comfortable, familiar, as if it had always been this way.

you knelt beside him, your eyes tracing the lines of his face, studying the way the light played over his skin. his breathing was slow, steady, and for a moment, all you could do was watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitched slightly as if he was reaching for something just out of grasp.

“they are gone?” his voice broke the silence, soft and low, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“they are gone,” you confirmed, your hand instinctively reaching for his cheek, fingers brushing over the warmth of his skin. it was a simple touch, one you found yourself craving more and more, needing the reassurance of his presence, of his life beneath your fingertips.

he leaned into your touch, his smile widening just a fraction, though it didn’t quite chase away the exhaustion that lingered in his eyes. “good.”

for a moment, you just sat there, letting the quiet stretch between you, not needing to fill it with words. you had said everything already, in the days following his injury, in the long hours spent by his side, watching over him while he healed. the words weren’t important. this was. being here. being with him.

the soft hum of the village outside broke the stillness, the faint sounds of preparation for the celebration beginning to drift into the marui. laughter echoed from somewhere far off, the rhythm of drums picking up in the distance, the promise of festivity hanging in the air. but you didn’t care for it, not tonight. not when neteyam was still here, still recovering. the idea of leaving him behind, of being anywhere without him, felt impossible.

“the festival,” he murmured suddenly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. his eyes opened fully now, locking onto yours with a quiet intensity. “you should go.”

your brow furrowed in confusion, tilting your head slightly as you searched his face. “why?”

“because you should,” he replied, as though the answer was obvious, his gaze flickering with something you couldn’t quite name. “you have not been out… you have not done anything in forever.”

“i do not need to,” you said simply, shrugging as though the thought had never occurred to you. because it hadn’t.

he shifted slightly, discomfort flashing briefly across his face, though he hid it well. “you should nkt miss out because of me. it is not fair.”

you blinked, the frustration flaring just beneath the surface. how could he think that? how could he even suggest that any of this was his fault, or that you were missing out on anything at all? he was here. and that was enough.

“neteyam,” you began softly, your fingers brushing over the curve of his cheekbone, trying to soothe the tension you saw building there. “i have fun wherever you are. it does not matter what is happening outside.”

his frown deepened, like he didn’t quite believe you, like he was still carrying the weight of guilt for everything that had happened—for being hurt, for making you stay. but you didn’t press him further. you knew he needed time to understand. you weren’t missing anything. the world could celebrate all it wanted outside; you’d remain here, tethered to him, with him.

the rest of the day unfolded in small moments. the kind that didn’t need words to fill them. you stayed by his side, sometimes talking, other times letting the soft sounds of the village drift in from outside, the lull of the ocean a constant, gentle presence. he watched you in those quiet moments, his eyes following you as you moved around the marui, his gaze lingering as though he needed the reassurance that you were still there, still with him.

the sun was low in the sky now, casting everything in hues of gold and pink. the sounds of the festival had grown louder, laughter mingling with the rhythmic beat of drums, the clinking of shells as decorations were strung along the walkways. the energy outside was palpable, the village alive with celebration, but inside your marui, the quiet remained.

neteyam shifted again, his body protesting the movement, though he masked the discomfort as best he could. his eyes flickered toward the entrance of the marui, the faintest trace of music filtering through the air.

he turned back to you, his gaze more focused this time, more determined. “go get something to eat.”

you blinked, your brows knitting together as you stared at him. “what?”

“food,” he repeated, his tone light but insistent. “from the festival. go grab some.”

narrowing your eyes, you studied his face. he hadn’t let you out of his sight for more than a few minutes in the past days, and now he was practically urging you to leave. “what are you planning?”

“nothing,” he replied. “i am hungry. go. please?”

your lips pressed into a thin line, clearly unconvinced, but you rose to your feet anyway, giving him one last look before slipping out of the marui. the air outside was cooler now, the night settling in around you, and you could feel the pulse of the village as you made your way toward the center, where the celebration was in full swing. your mind already drifted back to neteyam, wondering what he was up to, why he was so adamant about sending you away. it wasn’t like him. not now, not when he needed you.

the food spread along the long, low tables is almost too much to look at, piles of bright fruits and roasted fish, grains and herbs twisted into fragrant shapes, everything vibrant and rich, as though the night itself has bloomed into this feast. your fingers brush over the cool surface of a carved bowl, feeling the delicate grooves, the weight of the work that went into every small detail. you carefully fill your basket, trying not to disturb too much of the display, slipping a few extra pieces of fruit between the flatbread and smoked meats, thinking of tuk’s bright eyes when she sees what you have brought back. the thought brings a smile to your lips, but it is fleeting, tempered by the pull of responsibility that sits low in your stomach. neteyam is still weak, and you know he will not eat unless you bring him something.

“you are not staying?” tsireya’s voice is soft but lilting, a note of surprise carried by the night air as she steps toward you, her hair catching in the lantern light, strands of it glowing like spun copper. her eyes are wide and kind, her arms laden with shells strung together on thin threads, swaying with the easy grace of the ocean. she leans in, “you are always leaving so quickly. you should enjoy yourself tonight.”

you smile at her, tucking the basket closer to your side. “i wish i could,” you say, and it is the truth, though it feels like a half-formed thing on your tongue, like something left out in the sun too long. even as you speak, you feel the quiet distance between you and the festival, like you are watching it all from the other side of a glass wall. tsireya’s face softens, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes, but before she can say anything else, tuk comes bounding up, her small hands tugging at the hem of your skirt, her face lit up with excitement.

“you have to stay for the dancing!” tuk’s voice is bright, her breath coming quick from her running. she looks up at you with such earnestness that it tugs at something in your chest, the way only a child can, her wide eyes reflecting the shimmering lights around you like she is holding the stars themselves. tsireya gives you a look, one that is all gentle encouragement, a soft nudge in the direction of the night’s festivities, and for a moment, just a moment, you consider it. staying. letting the music and laughter carry you for just a little while, letting the world slip away for a few hours. but then the weight of the basket shifts in your hands again, grounding you back to reality, and you know you cannot. not tonight.

“another time,” you say, your voice softer now, tinged with a quiet apology you hope they will understand. you brush a hand over tuk's cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin. “i promise.”

you returned as quickly as you could, stepping back into the marui with the scent of roasted fish and fruit clinging to the air. but the moment you walked inside, the food forgotten in your hands, you froze.

neteyam was standing.

his body was trembling slightly, one hand gripping the wall for support, but he was standing, his eyes bright with determination, his grin wide and boyish as he watched your stunned reaction.

“neteyam,” you whispered, barely able to speak, the shock freezing you in place. “what are you doing?”

“we are dancing,” he said simply, his voice soft but firm, as though this was the most natural thing in the world. as though this wasn’t a miracle.

you shook your head, taking a hesitant step forward, torn between wanting to scold him for pushing himself too far and being so overwhelmed with love for him you thought you might burst. “you should not be standing. you—”

but before you could finish, he reached for you, his hand catching yours gently, pulling you closer. “come on. just for a while.”

the music from the festival floated through the air, the soft, distant beat of the drums like a heartbeat, slow and steady. you let him guide you, your hands finding their way to his waist, careful not to press too hard, not to disturb the bandages still wrapped around his middle.

he moved slowly, his steps tentative but deliberate, and you moved with him, letting the rhythm carry you both, swaying gently in the small space of the marui. his breath was warm against your skin, his forehead resting against yours as you danced together, the world outside falling away.

“this is all i need,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “just you.”

you pressed your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, the warmth of his skin against yours. your heart swelled in your chest, the love you felt for him spilling over, too big to contain.

“you are all i need too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, your arms tightening around him.

and as the faint music played on, you stayed there, swaying together in the dim light of the marui, the world outside forgotten, everything you needed right here, in this moment, in each other.

[princessbrunette]

i woke up humping my pillow today . felt like this was a very pup experience n thought about this but with jombee :(

୨♡୧ 🎀 ᰔ 🎀 ໒ྀི꒰ ◞ ‌ ◟ ꒱ྀིა

you were in and out of dreams, delicious dirty dreams that left you wet and aching even in your slumber.

john b was a light sleeper. always had been, as he never had the luxury of feeling totally and one hundred percent safe up until this point. he hadn’t had to hide from anyone in a few years, but old habits die hard. he stirs from his sleep when his ears pick up on a quiet raspy whimper from beside him.

the morning light is being strained through the blinds and he takes a moment to adjust, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before turning to look at you. a warm and sleepy smile finds its way onto his face when he spots you beside him — cheek smushed to the one pillow beneath your head, drool darkening the light blue of the cover, you’re peaceful, except the occasional furrow of your twitching brows and your eyes squeezing harder shut. both of your arms are nestled beneath you, wearing just his tshirt and your panties you hold a pillow beneath your crotch, circling your hips and writhing your legs to stimulate yourself.

his smile turns to a chuckle as he sucks in a long inhale, shuffling closer on the bed. “oh sweetheart. what’s going on here, hm?” he cooes, his voice extra deep and raspy from his long rest. his slow speech is so soothing it doesn’t yet wake you, instead only encourages another quiet moan from your lips, humping a little harder. he kisses the back of your neck, warm hands finding your hips and helping you with your movement. “need daddy’s help, bub?” he mutters, and this time you wake up fully — whining in disorientation.

you go to turn, trying to figure out what’s going on and he shushes you before you can ask, taking the pillow and sliding it away from you. “yeah uh, i’d like my girlfriend back now.” he seems to address the pillow— effortlessly dragging your body to rest over his, replacing what you were grinding on before with his warm thick thigh. “have at it, puppy. let me help you, yeah?”

you brace your hands on his chest and your hips automatically move, yet you look up at him in confusion. “whats—”

“well, i woke up and you were making yourself feel good. thought i’d… help you out.” he smiles simply, shrugging a shoulder and you nod dumbly, so used to just accepting anything he said to you — and you were even more docile in this sleepy state.

you let out a small cry, pressing your mouth against his tshirt as he pushes his thigh a little firmer between your legs, humping to your hearts delight.

“yep, iiiiii know.” he hums, a hand slipping down between you and fighting your panties to the side so you could rut your bare cunt against his leg. your moans grow in volume and he nods to himself. “there you go.”

there were worse ways to start your day.

୨♡୧ 🎀 ᰔ 🎀 ໒ྀི꒰ ◞ ‌ ◟ ꒱ྀིა

[ivesambrose]

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

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The next chapter of your life indicates a period of discipline, structure and determination. Long term plans or goals instead of short term gratification. I feel previous months of stagnation, struggle and mental turmoil has led to you having the mindset of being rather unfazed towards anything because you have likely realised that regardless of what you 'see' you're in control. You've learnt to trust your intuition and inner guidance over anyone else. You might encounter power struggles in between but this will lead to emotional growth nonetheless.

There is a lot of joy, celebration and new connections to look forward to as well. It might seem like despite the good happening to you and what you've wanted for so long finally being yours, you feel rather defensive. Remember to push through despite past struggles. To fully be in the present and enjoy what you have and what you deserve. For some of you I do see you making really good friends but due to past experiences you're rather guarded towards them. The message I'm getting is that yes, do use discernment when dealing with people. Do establish necessary boundaries. But don't let promising friendships falter due to fears.

You can also expect your dreams to be more within reach, renewal and unexpected help coming through, the path getting clear when you least expect it, healing from mental strain that have remained unspoken.

Lastly, you will experience a balance in giving and receiving. This will be necessary when it comes to your material and spiritual growth.

The next chapter of your life calls for adjustment and change. Drastic ones. If it's causing you some tension know that this area of your life requires that change. You can't expect to step into the next chapter of your life otherwise. I see that this involves your daily routine, health, work, with opportunities of personal growth and recognition in those areas. You may also be stepping into a new role of responsibility that requires self discipline on your part. You will be pushed to focus on your physical health a lot more. So if you feel like you're getting sick often it's a sign to stress less about it and take mindful steps towards it instead. Be it getting a proper check up or holding yourself accountable. You don't have to rush anything however, improvement will happen gradually. Some of you likely just need more movement but not the kind that puts your body on overdrive. There will be rapid progress and sudden opportunities coming your way out of the blue, a lot of communication and even travel. Career wise, it's looking really good! You will also be transitioning away from a very difficult time of your life. You may also have new intellectual pursuits, you'd want to learn new things or will be acquiring a lot of necessary knowledge. you will also find yourself juggling many tasks or projects at once but this will lead to a sort of mastery over your life You'll be feeling rather accomplished.

The next chapter calls for self expression, communication as well as creativity however some challenges or conflicts might arise as you assert your individuality or learn to find your voice in new environments.

You can however, look forward to emotional growth, new beginnings in your emotional life as well creative expressions.

Steady and solid growth when it comes to your finances as well. Something that makes you feel like you don't need to rely on others and you have financial freedom so one less thing to feel anxious about that has possibly been weighing down on you far too much .

Once again, try not to over exhert yourself or you'll end up attaching the experience to something that should come to you rather smoothly. In other words, you really need to drop the mindsets of the people that have been projected onto you and have become your belief systems. It's time to make some of your own without losing sight of what you truly value.

You can also expect more mental clarity and better insights in regards to what to do, where to invest, your life's purpose and what truly brings you joy. But instead of running from it like you did before, you'll embrace it.

You might feel more drawn towards arts, aesthetics, cooking, gardening etc as well.

Having time and proper consideration towards things you earlier didn't have the state of mind for.