#that's how i ROLL BABYYY

[general-kalani]

what is your duality?

Wainwright Jakobs

big bear; little princess

this is a fun dynamic isn't it? a big burly character, often aloof, finding warmth and love while caring for a little helpless person or animal. and so that's the duality here, one where you can be tough and butch and gruff, but that's because you're protecting a deep sense of wonder and delight for what you love that others have poked at before. it's not selfish to enjoy that side of yourself, and it's not weak to show it either.

tagged by: @strongfuck // thmk <3 //

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Mordecai

moon curse of the werewolf

you have found yourself hungered or sickened or ambitious to the point of emotional carnage. you are fine, until you're not, and then you could rip someone in your way apart with your bared teeth by complete accident, and later claw at yourself in fits of pain trying to apologize. do you look at the moon that blessed you in her name, at her marred beauty and baneful eyes, and wish she could just crush that loving-hateful heart of yours before it crushes itself? every bite you take out of flesh is a response to the threads of silver bullets in you that haven't healed. the duality is that the human inside is howling too, gnashing, and without the wolf pelt, everyone can ignore it and turn away. at some point, you got tired of the moon being your only witness. now the wolf is there to make sure others know that you are hurt, and deserving of humanity, of attention to wounds.

tagged by: @munro-of-europa​ // thmk <3 //

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Abelt Dessler

dentist tasked with a child piranha

you are very scared of many many things but you are also incredibly determined to do as much as you can. how is this about a doctor and a fish-child? well let me explain. you are fearful and so you bite and flop, but you are also someone who loves the world and the people in it and you want to achieve things and so sometimes. you have to strap that fish to a chair and floss and rinse and do things anyways. this is a battle every time and so i respect you thoroughly for keeping those pearly whites shining, even though the bit is chomped.

tagged by: @irrfahrer​ // thmk <3 //

tagging: Whoever wants to do this!

[ustwoforsaken]

mischas MaDD askgame!!

warning (long)

💬 if you could tell your para one thing, what would it be?

⌚ if your para was sent 10 years into the past, where would they be? how would they react? what would they do with 10 years of more knowledge? what would they fix? what would they not fix?

🐣 ^ building off of this, how would your para react to a younger version of themself?

❗ if your para could tell their younger self one thing, what would it be?

🗺 what countries exist in your paracosm? if theyre fictional, whats their national language? do they have one? whats the culture surrounding death like? what are their funeral arrangements like? do they celebrate birthdays? do they celebrate any unique holidays? is it more fantasy-like, or more grounded in reality?

🖋 are there any quotes/poetry that remind you of your para? which quotes?

🎨 when you daydream, do you picture your paras as lifelike people or as drawings?

👕 how would your para react to merch of themself?

📺 how would your para react to a fanbase dedicated to them?

💋 fuck marry kill with three of your paras (paras decided by the asker)

🩸write down a list of your paras and use a website to randomly pick one of them; you are now locked in a room with said para for 12 hours. are you making it out alive?

📬 your para has to send a postcard to the person who fucked up their life most. what are they writing?

💞 whats your paras PDA level?

💍 how would they react if they were publicly proposed to?

☎ your para is in jail. they have one phonecall. who are they calling

🌀 if your para could do one thing with absolutely no consequences, what would they do?

🌇 whats your paras ideal future? do they have one? if they dont, why not?

🪤 your para finds a baby mouse in one of those glue mousetraps. what do they do?

🎶 if your para had to pick one song to die to, which song would it be?

📔are any of your paras religious? which religion do they belong to? is their family religious as well? if its a fictional religion, who do they worship? why? does their god give blessings? what is the general community like? stifling, uplifting...?

🌙 does your para have nightmares? how frequently? what are they about? how do they deal with them afterwards? do any of your other paras comfort them? how do they react to that comfort?

🧸 does your para have any sentimental items? what are they? where did they get it? did somebody give them it? how would they react if it was stolen or broken?

❤‍🔥 does your para still care about the person who hurt them most? how do they cope with those conflicted feelings? do they cope?

👶 is your para good with children? how would they react if they suddenly had to take care of a baby for a week?

💤 is your para a light sleeper or a deep sleeper? do they sleep with sound or silence?

[screampied]

‘ BIG OLE FREAK !! ★

𝜗℘ feat. toji, gojo, nanami, geto, choso, sukuna. whipped jujutsu kaisen men who can’t last a second without you or your puśsy.

cw. fem! reader, unprotected, overstim, pussydrunk men, dumbification, ōral (f! receiving) messy eating, car sēx (geto), slight dom choso, manhandling, boob fondling, size kinks, brēeding, phone sēx (toji), fıngering, premature ejac, impact play, dirty talk, praise.

an. thank you megan thee stallion

☆ GOJO: “HE THROW A FIT WHEN I LEAVE HIM.”

“but babyyy,” satoru pouts, pink rumpled lips curling up into a frown once you start to moderater slow your hips down. “hmph. missed you all day today,” and you moan, feeling his hot breath aerate into the inner junction of your neck. he’s so touchy, he’s got two open hands pasted to your active torso as you’re being fucked dumb. as you’re bouncing on his cock, that same canorous drawn out moan that rips from your throat never fails to sound like a harmony. “fuck, don’t go. don’t leave yet. ‘m not done with my pretty girls.”

and as he babbles his pleads for you to stay a bit longer, his hands creep toward your neglected breasts. his ‘girls’ being you and your tits. so rounded and plump. your nipples were all perky and aroused. he just had to skim a fat thumb near your sensitive nubs. as you’re leisurely riding him in reverse, you let off another moan once his reddened tip thrashes repeatedly against your achy clit. “toru, ngh. you do this everytime,” and with each bounce, your brain starts to short circuit. he’s stretching you open so much that your mouth sags open. “fuck, you’re such a brat.”

“your brat, baby,” he coos, correcting you in a sweet voice against your ear. his tone was forevermore cheeky. despite how you were ferociously riding him stupid, he still had a bit of playfulness left in him. vigorously, sharp swats of loose skin smack against each other in desperate hits and you’re feeling yourself start to froth from such elated pleasure. satoru’s broad hands remain cupped on your tits before he squeezes them, licking a wet long stripe near your neck. “but god, you’re so fuckin’ hot. gonna cum jus’ from your voice, angel.”

panting, your hips swivel in a circular rotation before you roll your eyes—hovering the weight of your knees over and into his bulky thighs. “you’d cum jus’ from me breathing, satoru.”

“you know me so well, heh,” the white-haired male sucks against your tender collarbone. so sweet, but even though he’s trying to tease you he’s already about to cum. satoru presses his thumbs into your sides before groaning gruffly. “fuck, i’m not gonna last baby. s- serious.”

“you never last, ‘toru,” you mewl out sweetly, matching the intervals of his pants.

his towering cock pokes and prods in all the right spots of your cunt repeatedly. sloppy strings of slick stick and glue against his cock and your bare ass as if it was some sort of adhesive substance. you grind your hips quicker into him, watching as he leans his head into your chest. with a gasp leaving out of your pursed lips, satoru then grabs ahold of one of your breasts, merrily popping it into his mouth. “ngh, satoru.” you whine, feeling your tender nipple get fondled by his warm damp tongue. within seconds—his licks turn into sucks and his eyes close, savoring the tasteless taste of your breast in his mouth.

with the way you’re frantically bouncing on his lap, you’re barely even steady anymore and he has to hold your tit in place so it can stay in his mouth without slipping out. satoru doesn’t mind though, as long as he gets a good taste.

your knees continue to dig into his thighs as he’s sucking on each of your tits — you whimper, watching as his pretty snowy white lashes flutter close. he’s got the most pussy-drunken grin curving against his face, faint dimples making an appearance near the crevices of his lips. he’s so pretty, you can’t help but wrap an arm around him, holding him close. “s- so good,” he whines, briefly removing his mouth from your plump mounds. with low half-lidded eyes, you watch as strands of thin spit depart away from his lips. he’s so messy, and yet he doesn’t care. satoru catches you staring before he licks near your chin real slow and seductive like. “i know ‘m pretty baby but i didn’t say you could s- stop riding m— fuck.”

he gets crudely cut off by you wrapping a hand around his slim throat, quickening your bouncy hips. satoru moans out a slutty moan and his abs as if on cue, clench and tighten. everything’s so good, he feels like he’s about to break with the way you ride him. he’s in love.

“h- hey, that’s kinda kinky,” he sheepishly says, his cock still thrusting in and out of you. satoru’s just laid back, allowing you to do all the work with your unpredictable hips. you looked so good like this though—straddling on top of him, gradually choking him. he had literal heart eyes in his pupils and your actions only made him ten times more whipped. “shit.”

but you let off a moan once he reached a certain spot after a while. it’s abrupt, and you turn dimwitted almost immediately. satoru ends up getting much closer before you though, because you can tell purely from his body language. with the way your ass circles and throws itself around his pelvis, he’s already done for. that recoil of yours could make anyone hungry for more. “fuck, ‘toruuuu,” you hiss his name, the crude skin slapping of both frail limbs making you bite the inside of your cheek. he’s holding both of your hips before with the rough clashing of rutting bodies, he whines. satoru doesn’t realize he’s cumming until you actually start to feel it pour into you.

it shoots quick into your womb, velvety ropes that make you bite your lip. it’s so so much that you feel hot spurts of it dribble down between your inner thighs. satoru’s panting heavily against your ear, ivory brows curling up together and he’s always got such the prettiest orgasm face.

his mouth remains open and a bit of drool seeps out the cracking corners. you kiss near his swollen lips as he’s dumping yet another load into you. “ughhh,” he shivers, two big hands squeezing your ass for comfort. satoru feels a slimy wad of his cum trickle past your folds and coat onto his base and he stares at it, then at you. he’s got the most feral look in his eyes before he lets off a bashful whimper. “h- have my kids, please.”

☆ TOJI — “AIN’T NOBODY FREAK LIKE ME.”

“c’mon, babygirl. put ‘er on the phone. let me listen,” toji purrs, his voice on the other end of the line raspy yet staticky.

as you sit up on the comforter with your legs prettily sprawled out, you were heavily panting. you missed him, you missed him bad. toji, like usual had work. he never exactly told you what he does for a living nor did you really care to ask. but he’d be away for hours and you couldn’t help but text or call him about your little ‘situation’ whenever you tried to touch yourself. you try to touch yourself in the way that he does but it never works. no one’s fingers could compare to his.

“o- okay,” you swallow, using a thumb to press down against the white speaker button on your phone. pulling the speaker part of the phone down towards your sopping cunt, you grow quiet, letting him get a good listen. right away, you heard the sounds of toji’s heavy breaths. he grows quiet for a good twenty seconds and you’re growing impatient. “toji? are you still th-”

“ah ah. shut the fuck up, baby. ‘m tryna hear my girl,” and you pout, dragging your middle finger down your dribbling pussy. you were a bit overly sensitive, considering. just a few minutes ago, you ended up finishing with the help of your vibrator. his voice was so stern yet you listened anyway. toji feels a strain forming inside the heavy wranglers he wore. you’re so wet, he wishes he was there just as much as you did. toji holds the phone up to his ear before grunting. “spank her for me. tell her i’ll be there real soon.”

you let off another soft moan, bringing a gentle spank towards your weeping cunt. toji hears it all, the sharp contact of your palm that thwacks against your folds goes echoes right through the phone’s speakers. your teeth dig into your bottom lip at the brief pang of pleasure that shortly follows. “toji, please. need you, can’t do this by myself.”

“aw, that’s what you get f’r not waitin’ for me to get home anyway, little girl,” a husky voice replies. you heard the groan trying to wretch from his throat as he spoke. toji was most definitely hard, but you knew more than anything, he hated whenever you touched yourself. especially whenever he wasn’t around, he thinks it’s amusing. “sound so fuckin’ wet though. jus’ pretend y’er fingers are mine, baby.”

slumping back in frustration—you sigh, hearing a gruff cackle follow seconds later. “but i can’t, ‘s not the same, toji. you do it better.”

“damn right, babygirl,” toji snickers, and his voice pitched so deep in a way that you felt yourself throbbing. the creeping timbre that rides his tone makes your toes curl up. you need him bad, it seemed like it’s been years since he’d left but it’s only been just a few hours. by now, two fingers of yours were crumped up in your drooling cunt. you make an attempt at trying to copy how toji usually does it - swirling two fingers around the inside it reaches that spongey texture. you whimper on the phone, invading your gummy walls with twin whirling digits before your pants grow louder against the speaker. “so cute. tryin’ so hard, huh. wish toji was here to spank that pussy right, hm?”

“y- yes,” you chew on your words, chafing trembly pathetic fingers near your needy cunt. you didn’t care how dumb you sounded - you wanted toji to come home. you hadn’t even realized you were now flipped over, grinding against your pillow. technically, his pillow — you were laid on his side of the bed for a reason. in hot sharp breaths, you hold the phone up to your mouth, letting off another elongated moan. toji huffs at your sweet sounds, having to turn his volume down multiple notches due to you being so loud. “toji please, come home. ‘m gonna cum without you again.”

a sly smirk compresses against his lips before he grouses through the phone. “hm. fine, hang up ‘n gimme a sec, baby.”

you didn’t know what kind of trick he had up his sleeve but you hang up. you’re panting so much, it’s almost as if you some kind of dog in hear. your fingers that remain helplessly buried in your cunt felt like they were starting to grow numb. once your thumb presses against the button to end the call, the room suddenly goes quiet.

but abruptly, the front door opens and it’s toji.

you furrow your eyebrows, confused on how he got here so quick but right as you were about to greet him with a hug, he pokes your forehead. “not so fast, baby. y’er in trouble,” and you gasp once he goes toward you, picking you up and tossing you to lie on your chest. with a rude spank, he smacks your ass. “gonna have ‘ta discipline this sloppy pussy all over again. now now, you know the drill. ass up, face fuckin’ down.”

☆ SUKUNA — “NEED YOU TO SPIT MAKE THAT MOTHERF*CKER GLISTEN.”

“tch. can’t hear or are ya jus’ plain stupid, brat? spread ‘em,” sukuna snarls, hovering right over your body.

his dark heightened stare made you gulp - just menacingly looking at you as if you was prey. his prey. crimson red eyes bore into your pretty physique as you left off a shaky breath, slowly spreading your legs apart from him. “good girl. glad ‘ta hear you can follow directions.”

a pout stretches against your lips but that soon switches once his tongue laps against your folds. you shudder, feeling the faint spiky texture of his forked tongue flick down your sobbing cunt in small strokes. from the slit, you’re drenched and he’s been craving a taste for a while. you’re laid back against the mattress whilst your toes involuntarily curl up. when it comes to sukuna, he’s never one to waste his precious time—especially whenever it came to pussy. you let off a whimper the moment he grabs ahold of your thighs, squeezing them in place. “sukuna, fuck.”

you’re met with a rude glower as he’s positioned right between your thighs. he’s moving his head side to side as he creates a long sloppy slurp.

you feel the snapping muscles in your tummy tense as his plump lips then munch against your sensitive clit.

“fuckin’ slut. walkin’ around with a cunt this soaked,” he grumbles in a muffled tone—savoring your sweet taste entirely. your stomach curls up as he’s feasting between your thighs, button tip of his nose occasionally swiping against your slobbering slit. the edges of sukuna’s serrated nails scrap down your skin gently, leaving a few noticeable marks. if it was anything the demon loved to do—it was to mark you, claim you as his. with red eyes meeting yours once more, he growls right against your pussy. “and don’t think about hidin’ those pretty moans from me this time. i wanna hear screams this time, brat.”

“f- fuck,” you whine. using a hand to grab onto the crown of his head, you comb a few fingers through his pink tresses—already feeling the weak pangs of pleasure surge through your thighs. by any second, you just knew your weak legs were gonna collapse. sukuna’s tongue was stupid, swirling everywhere inside of your pussy before his jaw starts to lock right away. “mmm, ‘kuna, spit on it.”

your cunt gets hit with an abrupt smack and you gasp, moaning from the abrupt twinge of throbs before you glance down at him.

“woman don’t tell me how to eat pussy,” he eyes you, voice full of curt. as he’s glaring at you the entire time—sukuna delves two fingers inside your sopping entrance though, scissoring his folds in your core just to watch you squirm. albeit, he does in fact spit on your pussy. it’s a stringy glossy wad, and the way it trails from his pink lips makes you convulse even quicker. sukuna’s eyes remain on you the entire time before he pulls his fingers out, slurping the new lustrous mess clean. “was gonna do that anyway, little girl.”

you almost giggle from his irritation before he playfully bites your clit — you whine, yanking his unkempt strands forward and he groans. “easy on the fuckin’ hair,” he murmurs, and as he pulls his head up a bit for air, you glance at the slick sheet of your own juices streaming down his chin. so pretty, it’s got its own kind of shine. to think that’s coming all from you, you were drenched.

“sorry,” you timidly utter, slumping back against the plump pillows. sukuna rolls his eyes at you in response, creating tender kisses against your soddened folds. with the way your thighs were trembling, it was adorable. you couldn’t stay still to save your life. he was sucking everything out of you, vacuuming all of your juices with just his mouth. the slurps were so lewd and loud that it bounced off the walls. “ohmygoddd.” you squeal, growing more whiny the harder his sucks become. sukuna’s pace of his tongue never falters and every few seconds, he spits against your pussy just to lap it right back up again.

the demon groans, staring at his mess he made. his own saliva pours down your slit and its pretty.

he drags a middle finger down, dipping it inside of your wet folds. the noises you made too were just carnal. sloshes of crying squelches reverberate through his royal chambers and he snickers. how pathetic, getting this soaked for someone like him. sukuna doesn’t care that his jaw tightens and locks. he groans, slowly trailing his tongue everywhere. he even guides it toward your puckering hole that’s drooling with slick too.

“can’t forget about her,” he groans, feeling himself get hard. sukuna most definitely had a boner, he had one every time he went down on you. “fuckin’ sloppy girl. ‘s exactly what you are,” and he moves his tongue back up toward your cunt before starting to tongue fuck you. you moan, still having a hand attached to his hair like it was velcro. “my sloppy girl though. ain’t that right?”

and before you were about to speak again, he spanks your cunt raw, spurts of your wetness slicking another glossy sheet onto his palm. sukuna’s eyes are at your pussy, barely even acknowledging your presence anymore. “keh. thought so. good girl.”

☆ NANAMI — “MY BODY ADDICTIVE IT’S DRIVIN’ HIM CRAZY.”

gentle fawn eyes ogle at you up and down as you’re prettily sprawled out on the bed. nanami can’t help but press a soft kiss onto your forehead as he’s slowly inserting himself inside.

“so perfect,” he murmurs, showering your skin with even more kisses. his lips were tender. you feel the prodding tip of his cock gradually disappear inside of your cunt before you exhale deeply. “mhm, always clamp around me so good. that’s it just relax. eyes on me, gorgeous.”

you look up at him and nanami’s face softens. teasingly, he tilts his head as he sees you biting your lip—making a cute attempt at trying to suppress any incoming moans. “hi, my love,” a gruffly sweet tone utters to you, softly gripping your chin. “there’s those pretty eyes i fell in love with.”

“k- kento,” you whimper, your back involuntarily starting to arch the further he pushes his dick inside. nanami groans, feeling himself being in brief shock by just how warm you were from the inside. whine after whine robs out of your throat before he’s trying to get you adjusted—he’s already starting to feel your slick treacle juices slabber down his lengthy base. it’s a squelching ‘pop’ once he’s finally in and his slender long fingers intertwine with yours. “fuck, kento.”

nanami shakes his head from each swear that comes from your lips. it’s cute. blond brows curl up together before he gently lifts up your leg, making it sling up over his tense right shoulder.

“my my, you’ve got quite the filthy mouth, honey,” and his words were as smooth as silk. as he’s making sure not to be too rough, his body continues to rut into you, respectfully pounding you into the creamy cottony sheets. a thumb of his curls against your bottom lip before he deepens his angle just a tad bit. “m- my love, oh,” and for a split second, nanami’s voice cracks. your cunt’s so good and drenched that he for one was practically speechless. nanami squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. he huffs out individual heavy pants from his full lungs before his hands roam all over your body. you were perfect, his fingers were hot and burning with parched heat - the same kind of heat that radiates against your skin. he’s hovering over your body, tenderly grinding his sharpened hips into you whilst his mushroom tip repeats to thrash against your throbbing clit.

nanami was always respectful when he fucks. missionary was forever his favorite because of the loving eye contact.

he’s stuffing you full of inches while staring right in your eyes, serenading you with a song of all the right compliments. you’d always throb, feeling that same mixture of glutinous slick trickle its way down your thighs. “kento don’t stop, please,” your arms throw around him, using a thumb to strum down his fading undercut. it’s soft, bristles of hair glide against your digit before the screeching squelches of your pussy abruptly snap you back to reality. as the bed wails and dips from the constant jerks and jarring movement - you start to grow dumb. his cock stretches right through you, curling its way into your walls while making its very mark. with the way your mouth was hanging open, he can’t help but silence your sweet forbidden moans with a kiss. “mmph.”

moans, now muffled get poured into his lips as his body continues to shift against you. he’s so warm that it’s almost a burning hot. nanami’s hands gingerly run down your skin, touching you everywhere just so he can feel you shiver from his contact. “i know, i know,” he whispers between sultry kisses, briefly sucking against your bottom lip. his balls were always swollen whenever it came to you. you whine, feeling a few strands of his hair tickle against your forehead—he’s so close. minty breath gets caught by your nostrils as your legs wrap themselves around his waist. “that’s it. jus’ let me love you, let your husband remind you how perfect you are, good girl.”

his words create a school of fluttering butterflies in your tummy. nanami can’t keep his hands off you, literally. he touches everywhere, nipping a few kisses at your skin as he’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear. he’s purring against your nude flesh as you try to match his crazed pace. “kento, ‘m gonna cum. gonna cum, fuckk,” you suddenly babble out, shaking directly underneath him. you were so cute—his eyes soften as you’re stammering about your incoming release. plump soft lips press against your forehead as he’s still sweetly driving his hips into your walls. “please.”

by this point, both lips were departed from each other and he’s got two buff arms resting on opposite sides of your body. the smell of the air in the room was almost too strong. a mixturing scent of sweat and devoted bodies moving together in harmony. he groans into your neck, pressing a few more kisses at your skin. “c’mon, you can make a mess on me,” and he cups your face, witnessing right before his eyes as you’re about to approach your calamitous rapture. it’s like a wave but it’s crashing at full speed. you whine, collected breaths starting to pick up as the crown of his cock steadily thrashes around the shallow depths insides of your swollen cunt. nanami can feel your throbbing intensify and he starts to grow just a bit more relentless with his tempo. “make a mess, yeah. ‘s okay, your husband’s gonna clean you right up like always.”

nanami’s words were so sweet — he’s talking you through it whilst he’s got his hands cupping your face. strangled moans die from your throat before one tap of his cock against that spot was the final straw. your pussy constricts around his thickset base before you whimper. “f- fuuuuck,” a long moan leaves out of you as the build up pressure finally releases. his body lies flat against you as he’s gradually slowing down, whispering all sorts of praises against your ear in a shaky voice as you’re finally coming undone on his weighty shaft. your eyes widen before you bite into his neck, muffling your loud moans as you cream all the way down to his hilting base.

you’re speechless—and with your breath literally being taken away from you, your arms remain fragile, thrown over nanami’s shoulders. again, you’re met with the most kindest fawn eyes and he sheepishly smiles at you, sweat beads racing down the sides of his forehead. “such a good girl. even as a mess you’re still so p- perfect— fuck,”and he chokes up on his sentence, his voice suddenly turning raspy. your cunt grips him tight, never wanting to let go and he grits his teeth at the feeling. mousy dilated pupils flicker back until a flashing color of white could only be seen from his sockets. it was sexy, nanami loses himself for a moment before he slumps into your chest, hiccuping at how he came and sounded so so lewd—so pussy drunken all of a sudden. “oh, forgive me for my foul language m- my love. you really—made a mess out of me too it seems.”

☆ GETO — “THESE WINDOWS TINTED SO NOBODY SAW.”

“that’s my good girl,” geto leans back against the leather driver seat, occasionally using a palm to swat against your ass.

he’s smacking the right cheek specifically, featuring skin against skin sticking amongst each other from the perspiring sweat. he groans at the springy recoil your ass gives him every time before he gives your rear a squeeze. “fuckin’ ride it, yeah. slut this sloppy pussy all over me, sweetheart.”

“s- suguru,” you whine staring deep into his eyes. he’s so pretty, lazily slouched and reclined back with the most smuggest grin on his lips. the only sounds that could be heard in the parked vehicle was the sounds you, your sloppy cunt, and the loud bangs of raindrops that hit against his tinted windows. you continue to grind your hips into him before he spanks your ass again and again. “fuck, ‘s big. you’re always so fuckin’ big.”

“someone complaining?” he raises a brow, although you know he’s just teasing. like always, he’s watching as you struggle to keep up your pace. his fat cock was perfectly tugged into your walls and you felt like at any given moment, he’d split your pretty pussy open. “hm?” he opens his mouth tauntingly, the car’s entire build starting to jerk and judder from the powerful movements. a hand of his cups your chin before he rubs a thumb over your spit-glossed lips. “yeah, no back talk now huh, princess. less talkin’ more riding, uh huh.”

you wanted to roll your eyes but you couldn’t. he’s staring at you and eating up all of your dramatic facial expressions. the way your brows knead together and your lips part — that sweet sweet ‘o’ that forms from your mouth prying open, blissful whines tearing from your windpipe. he’s so thick, it’s almost unfair. the car continues to shake as your bouncing against his dick progresses at a more hurried speed. “s- shut up suguru.”

“ooh,” he hums, teasingly starting to bounce his thigh. even more friction, and both rows of your teeth clench together before you let off a sweet battle-crying moan. right there, his tip starts to smack and kiss up against a stretchy part that’s dug directly into your walls. you feel it and multiple hairs stand up near the nape of your neck. geto watches as your eyelids become droopy and you’re already so dick-drunk. it’s adorable, weak arms of yours toss themselves over his broad built shoulders and you feel a sudden quiver shockwave inside your thighs. “yeah, fuck me girl. don’t slow down. give it t’ me. shut me up with your pussy, how ‘bout that, huh.”

you give him a glare but geto only snickers, bringing another open palm toward your left ass cheek to spank it. you moan, your angered scrunched up muscles in your face relaxing before you whimper. “fuck, fuck,” and his turgid balls resume to pummel all through your gripping walls. there’s a candied taste in your mouth, the quicker you ride him—the more you taste it. it’s salty, bittersweet until your throat starts to leisurely grow dry. geto groans, sliding his foot away from the brake before he grabs ahold of your hips once more. “suguru, ‘m gettin’ close, fuck.”

“yeah, yeah,” he huffs, dark eyes glancing toward your chest — he observes the way your tits bounce, matching your rhythm by slamming you further down on his cock. it’s so cute, you were an entire mess. whilst you’re losing yourself on his dick, he pulls you close into him. “easy. baby. slow down a bit for me. ‘s not a rush, mhm,” and as his husky voice purrs into your ear, your cunt throbs. he even flicks his tongue against the shell of your ear just to hear you whimper louder. his cologne was loud, invading the entire space of the car. it was a mixture of burning leather and geto’s rich manly scent. it was no denying, he smelled so good that it was just intoxicating. obediently, you start to slow your hips crazed tempi to his liking and he sexily throws his head back - adam’s apple bobbing in response. “fuck, yeah. right there, jus’ like that. i gotcha. nice ‘n slow, good fuckin’ girl.”

the sounds of your sopping pussy only get louder before his teeth tenderly bite into your neck. you moan, feeling a balmy chill ghost near the hairs that run down your collarbone. he’s letting you fuck yourself stupid and it’s almost like you were floating. whining, you reach between your legs to feel your convulsing cunt. you’re close, so close.

“s- sugu,” you whimper, feeling that familiar sensation of heat swimming its way toward the lower pits of your stomach. “fuck, fuck.”

“cum with me baby,” he coos to you, guiding your hips with two big hands. your ears felt like they were constantly popping the more you rode him. he’s groaning from your sloppy rhythm and how good your ass thwacks and thwacks. against him. but just as he whispered those words—geto squints his eyes at his rear view mirror. with a hand still attached to your hips, he spots a luminescent light mixture of blue and red. he grows sheepish, realizing he probably shouldn’t have pulled over at this particular spot. .

as you’re still riding him, he grunts as he spots the officer steeping out. slouching back against the driver seat and running a hand through his darkened sable locks, he sighs.

“well shit.”

☆ CHOSO — “I GOT ‘EM ADDICTED HE FIENDIN’.”

“princess, y’know i don’t like when you run from me,” choso groans, reeling your hips back into him.

you gasp, hearing the slight rasp in his tone. his thick cock plummets through your walls and without the support of his hands, you’d have well collapse on the mattress. your limbs were already weak and flimsy enough as it was. he’s been fucking you for hours, nonstop. choso couldn’t get enough. “c’mere, don’t run from me.”

a tiny whine pours from your lips as you feel a few fingers of his curl around your neck. your back naturally arches and you bite your lip. “fuck, ‘cho,” you huff, the sharp smacks of your hips roughly hitting against his pelvis making him hiss. his favorite part. dark irises glance down toward your ass before he spanks you. one spank turns into one, then two, then three. the bed cries from the combining pounds of weight as he’s drilling into you, having the stamina equivalent to a stallion. “ohmygod, choso. right there baby, ngh.”

your lewd little moans alone were enough to get him off. arched thin brows tug together as he drags you back closer into him. he’s still got a hand wrapped around your throat before he pushes his hips further into you at full throttle.

“mhm, good girl. take it, fuckin’ take it,” and you can hear the hoarse in his tone pitching his delivery. your cunt’s weak ily squelching and squealing out all kinds of noises. you were soaked. choso’s droopy eyes continue to stare down your ass, spotting a few sweat droplets race down your spine. “so pretty. all mine, pussy’s all mine,” he grunts through gritted teeth, and your ass gets met with another smack. “c’mon, baby. gotta meet me halfway though. arch better, yeah?”

“s- sorry,” you sheepishly murmur, feeling another incoming moan try to choke its way out of your throat. he’s hitting you so deep, choso’s ravaging your walls and massaging them thoroughly. every part, every corner, every crevice. through and through—you straighten your arch before feeling his hips grind slower into you. with his pace, it’s almost hypnotic. “shit,” you whimper, trying to match his sudden changed rhythm. he’s fucking you slow but deep, tongue already starting to loll out. “choso, ‘m gonna cum.”

you hear a scoff before he leans further in, planting a wet kiss near your back. “nuh uh. not yet,” and with a piston of his hips, he lightly pushes your head into the silky sheets with a hand. “fuck, soakin’ me so good, princess. nasty girl,” he breathes, hearing your gurgled moans escape from your lips. your pussy was almost louder than you — a plethora of sloppy sounds sing out of your folds and he purposely grows quiet just to hear it. “heh, love when she does that. always got so much to say.”

“c- choso,” you squeak, shimmying your hips back into him. the dark-haired male can’t help but press two thumbs into your hips, feeling against the entire curvature - so pretty. you had his entire cock drenched with your gooey slick and he only wanted more. you’re pawing desperately at the satiny sheets to hang on as he’s continuing to jut his fat cock further into you. “ngh, cumming!”

choso holds your hips steadily in place—but he groans, feeling his swollen balls approach its peak at the same exact time. thick fingers of his pierce into your skin before abruptly, a geyser ripples right out your folds. you’re creaming all down his cock, gasping before he shortly follows. it’s runny, pumps and pumps of sweltering hot cum dribbles into your sobbing cunt. choso’s hair was shaggy, few black tresses of strands stick against his skin with the help of clingy sweat before he growls. “fuck . . me,” and his chiseled abs clench with his head throwing itself back. yet as he’s stuffing you full of load, his hips start up again and you let off a moan. “baby, can’t let it go to waste. keep up, need it. need you.”

you let off a moan, ruthlessly being pounded into the fat cushions of the mattress before unexpectedly—you hear a ear splitting crack. choso ignores it, still driving his hips deeply into your core before that’s right when the headboard falls with a blaring shatter. your eyes widen as you flinch at the now broken furniture—feeling the weight of the bed collapse inward. the bed breaks but chcoso’s entirely unfazed. “c- choso, the bed b- broke.”

“so?”

“s- so?” you moan, his blushing tip repeatedly kissing up against your swollen sweetest spots. “the bed’s broken—”

“baby, ‘s okay,” a low voice murmurs, watching with blown pupils as your slick coats an entire translucent colored ring around his hefty base. choso groans, licking his lips before slowly pulling out, only to plug his weeping spilling cum right back into your cunt.

“don’t worry about the bed. gonna break your pussy next, anyway, heh.”

[shawtuzi]

thinkin’ about 69ing w toji!!

cw include: 69 position, pussydrunk toji, whiny reader, a smidge of overstimulation

“fuckkk yeah honey, jus’ like that.”

you whimpered around toji’s dick as he moaned shamelessly into your pussy, his tongue drawing sloppy figure eights around your clit. a mixture of your essence and his drool was dripping down his chin and right into his already sweaty chest, but he didn’t mind in the slightest.

you felt the tip of his nose nudge into your entrance, the movements from his tongue now switching to move side to side. you choked around his dick, fat tears brimming at your lash line.

“mmph, do that again honey. make that throat tighten up ‘round me,” he purred, sucking your folds into his mouth. he ran his rough hands up the backs of your thighs, grabbing a handful of your ass before giving the left cheek a sharp smack!

you opened your mouth wider taking more of his thick cock into your mouth. your tongue wagged against the underside, the the two thick veins that ran upside it throbbing against your tongue. you felt the tip of his dick nudge against the back of your throat, a semi-violent gag slipping past your drooling lips.

your hand cupped his balls, squeezing them ever so softly. toji let out a particularly loud slurp against your pussy, pulling away slightly just to spit on it. he watched the glob of spit dribble from your entrance to your clit, his tongue peeking out to swipe over his lips as he watched you clench around nothing.

“such a pretty pussy…look how wet she is,” toji murmured to himself, spreading your lips with his thumbs. you pulled off of toji’s dick with a wet gasp, your back arching when you felt the tip of his thumb push into your hole. “toji—hah!” your backside pushed against toji’s face when you felt his hand swat at your ass a second time. “be still,” he grunted, relishing in the squelching noises that your pussy made each time he pulled his thumb out.

he circled his thumb around your entrance, his nostrils flaring when you took his throbbing cock back into your mouth. you suckled on the pudgy, pink tip before kissing your way down the base. “a-ah shit,” toji grunted, his hips bucking upwards when you took one of his balls into your mouth. his cock throbbed against your cheek, the pearls of pre that dribbled from the tip smeared onto your cheek, adding further to the mess.

toji’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his tongue lolling completely out of his mouth to allow you to fuck yourself on the wet muscle. you let out a squeak when you felt your head being shoved down followed by toji’s quick, harsh thrusts into your mouth. your jaw completely unhinged, toes curling as you let him use your mouth.

the noisy gluck! gluck! gluck! sounds you made as he fucked your throat had toji’s balls tightening, the coil in his stomach becoming more and more wound up. “babyyy fuck,” toji moaned against your pussy, the movements of his hips stuttering.

“i-i’m close daddy,” you whined, your hand wrapping around the base of his dick. you jerked him off quick, but not too quickly, your tongue circling over his slit. “n-no baby don’t do th—hat!” toji’s thighs began to tremble, his mouth dropping open as the first spurt of his cum landed on your tongue. you continued to circle your tongue over his slit, fighting back a smile at how whiny he was becoming.

with one final sloppy suck to your clit you were cumming all over toji’s tongue, your cum hitting the back of his throat in tiny gushes. you wanted more, you need more—so without warning you sat your entire weight on his face, both of your hands wrapping around his dick to milk his orgasm.

toji was hot—very hot and breathless, but that didn’t stop him from sucking your clit with fervor, the obscene slurping noises bringing heat to your already warm cheeks. he weakly tapped your thigh three times, signaling for you to get up.

“what a mess,” toji chuckled breathlessly, his fingers swiping against the wetness on his chest. he held them out to you, smirking when you started to suck on his fingers like you would his dick, your tongue swirling around the digits.

“mm let’s go again but this time i want you to nut in me,” you gave him a dopey smile, your fingers trailing down his sweaty chest. “ah, i don’t know sweet thing i might need a m-minute,” toji nearly choked on his spit when you wrapped your hand around his now soft cock, teeth biting down harshly on his tongue when you gave it a soft squeeze.

you cuddled more into his side, tilting your chin up for a kiss. toji hungrily pressed his lips against yours, his abs clenching when you started slowly stroking his cock. his mouth dropped open the tiniest bit allowing you to slip your tongue between his lips. “you’re gonna be the death of me y’know that?” he groaned against your lips, his dick now semi hard.

“i know but i’m fine with that. now get comfy m’gonna ride you till you pass out.”

[gojosprettyprincess]

THAT GIRL IS...POISON!!!

Overstimulation, slight somno, Not proofread

A/n - hello! I know I haven’t been posting that much recently because I’m on a small tumblr break but I still decided to schedule this post so I hope everyone enjoys it!

˖ ⊹ ﾟ｡ ✧

Sweetheart—hahh fuck! Don’t you think you’re going too ngh-fast, Ohh fuckkk!” His moans escaped in a mixture of desperation and pleasure, his voice husky and filled with desire as he struggled to maintain his hold on your waist in an attempt to steady himself properly—Fuck, Satoru felt so lightheaded and dizzy, his thighs trembled as he weakly tried to recover from his pasting orgasms which was the…third one?? In a row.

It wasn’t really your intention for it to be this way. Dealing with difficult coworkers all day was challenging enough, but having to cover a shift last minute because of someone else's absence made things even tougher for you. So least to say when you finally came home from work you were sooo frustrated and had to let off some steam and you don’t know what, but something came over you seeing your pretty boyfriend, shirtless with his grey sweatpants hanging low by his hips, revealing a glimpse of his mouth-watering happy trail and v line in the kitchen cooking dinner for the two of you. It’s like it triggered something inside of your brain.

And that's how you found yourself on top of him on the living room couch, his snowy-white hair tickling his forehead, damped with sweat as he gazed up at you with half-lidden eyes in a mixture of exhaustion and desire. His sticky cum from the last three rounds marinating inside your cunt as you continued milking him for the forth, sure your thighs were quivering and aching but it’s nothing compared to the overwhelming amount of pleasure you got from fucking your boyfriend like this. Your feet gently rested on his toned thighs as you bounced up and down on his cock, trying to cum once again and get him as stimulated as possible.

His jaw fell slack and his eyes rolled back repeatedly in sheer ecstasy at the lewd sight of you fucking down at him like this—sure Satoru loved being in control and fucking you absolutely stupid as you drooled and cried into his expensive bed sheets while he pounds your sloppy little cunt from behind but there’s just something about seeing his feisty, persistent little girlfriend being so demanding and treating him like your personal toy to fuck yourself on made him lose his mind. He loved it so so much.

He enjoys being your dildo to cream on—even if he’s on the verge of literal tears right now from the overstimulation of you bouncing your ass on his twitching, overused cock. he didn’t even had the power to try and get you off from his oversensitive dick—all he could do is lie there and take it. You won’t lie, you carried a lot of pride in having the strongest a whimpering and moaning mess alll because of you.

“Babyyy, Goddd! you’re so fucking crazy” his voice cracked as he flashed a fucked out smile at you as you ran your fingertips along the defined ridges of his abs before trailing them upwards to his chest—feeling every bit of muscle from his body that you could possibly reach. “You look so shit!- fucking beautiful”.

“Yeahhh? Oh you look so pretty like this too toruuu” you cooed, his cock was filling you up so well, just the way you wanted. You raked your hand over his chest, groping it before you accidentally did something. Which made his cock jump inside of you, throbbing and pulsating—you felt it and it made you questioned, why you never thought about it before?

“Whatthefuck—Holy shitt nghh” he groaned out, a lump forming in his throat.

You pinched both of his nipples, twisting and toying with the hardened bud before he lets out a high-pitched whine, his ragged breaths quickening as he came, spilling whatever bit of cum was left inside his balls into your already stuffed and leaking pussy, the action catching you off guard, causing your back arched slightly, the overwhelming pleasure consumed you as your rhythm got sloppy. You quickly chased your high following him—his gooey cum coating your sensitive clit and dripping down all over his balls and sheets as his balls throbbed with his release, his seed getting fucked so deep inside you as you continued bouncing on him.

His pretty pathetic whimpers and moans were like music to your ears, you were actually starting to feel bad but you were soo desperate to cum, you had to—even if you already did it about four times. It felt so fucking good and seeing Satoru like this made you even hornier.

You moved your hand down to rub your clit, feeling the intense pleasure building up as three of your fingers carefully circled the sensitive bundle of nerves as Satoru weakly looked up at you, if it wasn’t for his bright ass blue eyes peaking out faintly, you wouldn’t have even noticed. He had no power or energy to do anything, it’s like your pussy snatched his soul from his body and he’s just laying there lifeless but with his cock still throbbing with need and joy.

“Mmm fuck baby, M’ gonna cum on your cock again, gonna make a creamy little mess on you toru” you moaned out, your head falling back as you squeezed a handful of your bouncing tits, he whines eagerly at your exclamations. The pit of your stomach flutters as you came undone on your boyfriend's cock once again, your juices leaking all around his shaft as your pussy squeezes around him like a vice, at this point, Satoru’s cheeks were so flushed and feverish.

Your body collapsed onto his with his cock still nested and marinating in your warm, cum-filled pussy as you brushed the stands of stray hairs that veiled his eyes before planting a sweet, gentle kiss on his forehead. There for no doubt that Satoru wasn’t asleep right now, you could just tell from his breathing patterns and it was sooo adorable to you.

Maybe you’ll give him some time to wake up before round five orrr was it six? starts again.

[rumisgf]

“mama”

denki didn’t know if he could see himself being a good father. sure, he was actually really good with kids, but he was still in his early 20’s and didn’t know if he was ready to take on such responsibility.

however,

it’s just something about the way his pretty girlfriend’s pussy hugs his walls so good. the way you squeeze his dick just right as he rolls his hips, stroking your walls just right and with so much purpose.

“fuck baby~ so fuckin’ tight…”

“a-ah god~..kamiii~!”

you shakily respond with an “i love you” through your moans, and his smiles grows wider. he’s coaxed you through two orgasms by now, and at this point he’s way too pussy drunk to even consider stopping. all he can think about is how good you feel around him and how hot you look right now. how hot you look every time you take his dick. how hot you would look taking his cum as he fills you up. how hot you would look all pretty and round with his kids-

“you want me to fill you up…? huh..? huh baby..?”

“ye…yeah~…”

a soft moan escapes his lips, and by now he’s completely far gone. you can feel him twitch inside you as you respond to him. his thrust become harder and much deeper, him getting closer to your face as you feel his breath against your lips.

“yeah? you want my kids?”

his smile is more apparent, his pants puffing on your face as he slightly tilts his head, craving another broken-worded response.

“mmm…mhmm~”

“yeahhh? you wanna be my wife too? take my last name..? you want a family baby?

you weakly nod, looking at him half lidded. as you look at him, you see the absolute admiration in his dilated pupils. he licks his lips, his hands lifting your thighs up to fuck you at an even better angle.

“mhm- you’d be a pretty mama huh? all mine~”

you moan, your walls clenching around him. he gasps, gripping your hips tightly.

“y-yeah you are babyyy… gonna get you nice and round with my kids. how many kids you want, baby..?”

moans fly out your mouth uncontrollably, feeling him all the way deep in your stomach. he only angles himself deeper, hitting your sweet spot repeatedly as he coaxes an answer out of you.

“t-tw…wo~..”

“mm she talkin’ to me mama… you want two kids baby…?”

the squelching sound of you making a complete mess on him gets even louder, your slick forming a ring around his dick. his breathes get heavier as he puts his thumb in your mouth, watching your face crease as he pounds you relentlessly.

“m-mmm~!”

“there you go, i got ya baby..”

the sounds of your whines and loud moans vibrate against his thumb as he smiles at your expression. he moans, feeling you creaming around him and your walls fluttering around him. it’s enough to bring him closer to his own orgasm.

“fuck. m’gonna fill that pretty pussy….’m gonna get you n-ice and pregnant.. gonna give you all my kids..”

it doesn’t matter that you’re on birth control– he still needs to pump you full of his cum. the idea of you carrying his baby, walking around all swollen because of him does more to him than he’d like to admit. you bring something out of him that he didn’t even know was there.

[lxnarphase]

━━ ❝ i'll give you the fire i keep inside ❞

up to the challenge : ⌞no nut november⌝ edition [ pt 2 - pt 3 - pt 4 ]

☾₊‧⁺...ft. : gojo satoru + geto suguru

☾₊‧⁺...cw : pussy eating, praise kink, begging, premature ejaculation, clothed sex, whiny reader (gojo), smug reader (geto), satoru overestimating himself, suguru 'just the tip' geto

☾₊‧⁺...synopsis : it's nowhere near november, but i need to write this. it's based off an old post of mine from 4 years ago! so, i have no excuse 🖤

✧ g. satoru lasts : 2 days

oh, satoru is so confident that he'll easily make it through the entirety of november. the moment he coos to you about how excited he is to participate in 'no nut november' as a challenge against suguru, he's walking around with his chest puffed out. however, he doesn't take into account that you'd be a little upset after he tells you, thinking you have to go a whole month without sex with your boyfriend. but everyone knows satoru is the best boyfriend, right? he'd neeeever let his pretty lil' mochi feel unsatisfied. so, on the second day of November, he's got you up on the kitchen counter, mouth buried between your thighs as he practically devours your cunt, messily licking and sucking at your clit as his eyes roll back just from the taste of you. after all, there's no way he'd lose this way!

it had only been two days since satoru had fucked you, how were you this wet and needy? you were dripping down his chin, soaking his fucking face, and god, he was in heaven. "c'mon, baby, grind that clit into my mouth," he fucking whines, kissing your pussy between slurps, hands holding you spread open for him to keep testing you. satoru's so hard, it hurts, his cock rubbing and twitching against the rough fabric of his sweatpants, but he couldn't touch, he wouldn't let himself. he'd be fine, all he needed was to make sure he made his baby cum. "hhf, 't-toru, 'toruuuu, i-i miss you, i miss youuu," you pitifully whine, pretty eyes filling with tears as you grew closer and closer to cumming all over his face. but just hearing you say that you miss him when it hasn't even been a fucking week almost makes satoru cum, almost. "baby, babyyy, don't say that shit," satoru whimpers, about to pull away from your dripping slit, dizzy from your words. but you don't let him, no, not when you're this close. with the cutest little huff, you look him right in his pretty blue eyes and grab a fistful of his hair, smashing his mouth right back against your cunt as you cry his name. and oh, the noise he lets out against your pussy feels so gooddd, feeling his tongue desperately licking up your cum. god, you were practically suffocating him. all that Satoru could process was you, you, you. jesus, he didn't think he'd be able to leave you alone the rest of the month, not when just going two days got you this desperate...he really was fucking you that good that you got addicted, huh? it's okay because honestly? he missed your pussy so fucking much. "'toru, satoruuu, p-please, i-i don't like this challenge anymore, miss when you stuff me w-with your cum," you whine as you ride out the last waves of your orgasm, giving him one last tug into your pussy so his mouth was right over your clit. have you always been this fucking whiny and demanding? god, satoru couldn't remember. but, you didn't realize how seriously all the tugging and those filthy, desperate words of yours would affect him. hell, he didn't know how badly it would affect him. once he separates himself from you, he's avoiding eye contact, and he's getting red. embarrassed. flustered. all it took was a quick glance down to see what the issue was. "b-baby, you...i just...how—" "'toru, did you cum in your pants?"

✧ g. suguru lasts : 2.5 weeks

the only reason suguru decided to participate in this was because satoru roped him into it. not that he didn't think he could do it, but because he knew satoru was going to lose against him. he's so thankful that you're nothing but supportive, eager for him to win this challenge with the promise of a reward of his choosing once he made it to December 1st. it's honestly not that hard. as long as he's able to still be affectionate with you, suguru is content. sure, sometimes he has to stop his imagination, but otherwise, he's fine. at least, that's until he comes home to you wearing the cutest purple thigh highs with little skulls on them. it starts off with suguru pulling you closer, making you stand between his legs as his hands rub up and down your plush thighs...but next thing you know, your legs are over his shoulders as he drags his cock up and down your slit.

"just—just the tip, okay? i can't put anymore in, princess." "suguruuuuu, just! put it in! stop teasing!" those pretty legs of yours would always be his downfall, suguru could never resist them. there wasn't anything even sexual about it, but just seeing how they squeezed your thighs so perfectly...he couldn't help himself. but if he only let himself put the tip of his dick inside that tight little hole of yours, he'd be fine...yeah, he just needed a small feel, and he'd be fine. without any more hesitation, suguru slowly sunk into your puffy pussy, letting out a shaky groan as his head fell down onto your shoulder. shit, shit, shit, it was only the tip, but you felt so good, too fucking good. "g-god, why's this cunt so wet and warm, baby? it's not fair," suguru hissed, lifting his head to look down to where you both were connected. "s'not my fault you wanted to do this dumb challenge," you hummed, a little smug smile on your face. "stop listenin' to satoru, you'll get stupid like him." it made him laugh, you were so amused by him barely holding himself together...and he couldn't blame you, he wasn't the type to break so easily... "s-suguruuu, wait, you said just the tip, that's—suguuuu!" suguru let out the most scandalized gasp when he realized his entire cock was being hugged by your soft, hot walls. it was so cute, though, how you tried to help him, to let him know so he didn't lose. such a sweetheart, weren't you? but, suguru was too far gone. he had slowly begun inching himself inside of you, not even realizing it until it was too late. not being able to stop his hips from moving, thrusting in and out of you, creating a little ring of cream around the base of his cock as his dick dragged against those soft spots inside you that made you keen his name. "oh, princess, angel, you're so sweet, you know that? s-shit, listen to that pussy...she missed this? she missed the feeling of her sugu inside? hm? fuuuck, fuck it, 'm-'m gonna give you what you need, baby, d-don't worry," he says in a needy rasp, pressing his forehead against yours, giving you a delirious little grin. yeah, suguru knew he was going to lose today...he'd be damned if he didn't cum all over this sweet cunt. all because of some stupidly cute socks.

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[aerinaga]

Paige with a size kink like here me out this girl is like 6’0 and got muscles I can totally see her making fun of her girl and stuff like in bed too yk

baby babyyy.

paige bueckers x short!reader

warnings: smut (eating out, size kink, praising kink, choking, bulge kink)

you woke up to paige eating you out.

you had fallen asleep while using your phone in your bedroom, paige had been teasing at you that you were tiny since this morning. it wasn’t always this annoying, but today was somehow different.

you weren’t that small, its just that paige is a six footer and everybody just looks like ants in her vision.

your eyes were half-lidded, not fully aware of what was happening. all you felt was pleasure. it was your favorite thing for her to eat you out. your hands immediately gripped onto her hair that was tied in a perfect bun, creating messy strands and dents on her head.

she held your legs down with her muscles, restraining you from closing your legs. your legs were shaking, the grip on her hair was getting tighter. you were about to cum.

about to. paige got up, went to the bathroom and came out with a strap hanging off her hips. your inner thighs were wet, but it got wetter. paige hovered above you, your eyes meeting each other. your eyes were pierced against hers as she inserts herself in you. your head throws back from the pain and pleasure, moans coming out of you pretty mouth.

“sorry baby, i needed to be in you badly.”

paige stares as you admirably, acknowledging the fact that you’re a wet mess because of her.

she fastens her pace, pushing in and out of you. the room echoes with wet slaps and moans. you could hear how wet you were. “doing so good for me baby.” she whispers against your ear, earning a soft moan from you.

“you’re so tiny beneath me, its pretty cute.” she laughs at you. you roll your eyes, but as soon as you do, her fingers wrap around your throat. she puts slight pressure on the sides of your neck, while fucking you in a faster pace than earlier.

you loved how she would just fuck the attitude out of you.

“feel s-so big, p.” you stutter in moans, the pleasure overtaking you.

paige loves that. she loves the fact that you tell her that she feels big.

“do you feel this hm?” paige asks you as she guides your hand on your lower stomach. there was a bulge.

“oh…” you trail off. “i’m that big, baby.” she doesn’t waste any time fucking you senselessly. you were shaking at this point, the knot in your stomach feeling tighter by the minute.

it took one last time for paige to hit your g-spot. thats when all the pressure was released in your body.

[wosola]

Not in the mood - Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: Your girlfriend Alexia is back from a couple of days away for football. She has a rest day, but when you come back from work you are not in the mood... or so you tell Alexia. Genre: Fluff / Smut Warnings: Minors do not interact, 18+

You had tried to go home as quick as possible when your workday was done. Today was a rest day for Alexia and that meant one of the rare occasions you and her could spend some quality time together.

She had texted you throughout the day about the things she´d been up to and about how much she was missing you.

You adored her, she was doing the laundry at home even though she was a six figure earner, while you made a mediocre salary. She was almost never home, and when she was she helped out in the house hold.

She was the perfect girlfriend. It is cool that she is a football player ofcourse, but that wasn´t why you had fallen in love with her. No.

You had fallen for the sweet, soft and caring woman that was called Alexia Putellas. Who also happened to be a pro football player, earning her the nickname ´la Reina´. Rightfully so, she really was a queen.

You stepped through the front door of the apartment the two of you shared. Having moved in together after a small 7 months of dating. Now it was already close to you two´s 2 year celebration, and things where still going as good as ever. Maybe even better if that was possible.

´´Good afternoon babyyy.´´ You called out in the hallway while dropping your bag, taking of your shoes and putting your coat on the rack.

You walked in to the apartment to be met with alexia watching tv and folding laundry simultaneously. She looked cute, her attention completely turned to the show she was watching. That was such an Alexia thing, always having her whole heart in the things she did.

´´Ale.´´ You chuckled, softly. You didn´t want to startle her.

She blinked and looked up, she turned to you and smiled. ´´heyyy.´´ She put the towel she was holding next to her and stood up from the couch, ´´I missed you.´´

´´I missed you too, how was your day?’’ you asked walking towards her.

She took you in her arms, holding you close, ‘’mmmm,’’ she swayed you back and forth, ‘’my day was good, I did absolutely nothing though, so I can’t wait to train again tomorrow.’’

You chuckled against her chest, ‘’you did laundry, you did the dishes, you vacuumed and made the bed,’’ you looked up and kissed her jaw, ‘’I think you did a lot for a so called ‘rest day’, ‘’

‘’Hm,’’ Alexia let out a disagreeing hum, but kissed the top of your head, ‘’and how was your day.’’

‘’Oh good,’’ you smiled, peeling yourself away from her slightly so you could see her face, ‘’I had a really good talk with that one client I told you about and I got a lot of paperwork done, so I had a very productive day.’’

Alexia smiled, ‘’I am proud of you.’’

You smiled back, ‘’I am proud of you too, my superstar.’’

Alexia rolled her eyes at the way you said ‘my superstar’, you always had to reply to compliments either jokingly, sarcastically or denyingly, she whished you would just accept her compliments for once.

You ignored her with a chuckle and kissed her, ‘’so what do you want to do this afternoon?’’ you murmured after slightly pulling away again.

Alexia blinked, thinking a second before pulling you in for another kiss. ‘’mm maybe we can cuddle on the couch?’’ she said after breaking the kiss.

You smiled, ‘’mm that would be nice, let me put on some comfy clothes and I’ll join you.’’

Alexia nodded, ‘’perfect, I’ll finish the laundry and put it away.’’

-

Alexia didn’t finish the folding, instead she took the laundry, half folded, half not. In the basket back to the room, following just a few moments behind you.

You had just taken your blouse and skirt off, sitting on the bed to take of your tights without creating any ladders.

You shook your head as you saw alexia standing in the doorway with the basket of laundry.

‘’You where right, I have done enough things for my rest day.’’ She explained, setting the basket down.

She stayed there, leaning against the wall, watching now as you had stood up and opened the closet.

You turned around with sweatpants, throwing them on the bed. You caught her gaze flicking up from your ass, quickly to land on your face. You smirked, ‘’sure no other reason you followed me?’’

Alexia walked over to you and wrapped herself around you, ‘’mm yes actually, wanted to tell you to put one of my sweaters on,’’ she kissed your neck as she reached out and grabbed a dark blue Barça hoodie from her stack of clothes, ‘’this one is very comfy.’’

You chuckled as you turned around and took the hoodie, which you had already worn maybe a hundred times, from her. ‘’Oh thank you, how considerate.’’

She nodded, ‘’only the best for my girl.’’

You shook your head amused as you threw the sweater on the bed as well, then you grabbed an undershirt and turned to the bed.

First you put on the sweatpants, then you removed your bra. You knew Alexia was watching but you didn’t give her any attention, it amused you. Then you put on the shirt and the hoodie and turned to her, ‘’very comfy.’’

She looked at you triumphantly. ‘’Do I deserve a kiss for helping you?’’

Chuckling, you took her hand to pull her closer, ‘’you always deserve a kiss.’’

She smiled like a kid who had just been told they could have as many pieces of candy from the jar as they wanted.

Alexia held your face and pecked your lips about a dozen times before giving you a proper kiss.

After a couple minutes you pulled back, you chuckled. ‘’Alright, lets get to the couch then.’’

A bit dazy, alexia looked at you, ‘’mhm, yes ofcourse, the couch.’’

-

You laid down on the couch as Alexia made two cups of tea.

She came back setting the cups down and next to your tea she laid down a cookie with one bite out of it.

‘’Mm nice,’’ you chuckled, ‘’a chewed cookie.’’ Often when Alexia brought you a snack it had a little bite missing, she always said the same;

‘’made sure it’s safe for you, and I can confirm there’s no poison in it.’’ alexia said with a serious face, knowing damn well she had done it with the other 4 cookies from this same pack as well the last days.

‘’I’m so lucky,’’ you rolled your eyes, ‘’you protect me from all the evils of the world.’’

‘’mhm,’’ alexia nodded proudly, ‘’now, can I lie behind you?’’ she asked, eying the bit of space you had left, balancing on the edge of the couch.

you nodded, leaning even more towards the edge.

alexia stepped behind you and tugged a blanket along with her. covering the both of you as she wiggled until she was happy with both of your positions.

‘’Shall we watch this,’’ you said, pointing with the remote at the show selected, ‘’looks fun.’’

‘’Mhm,’’ Alexia didn’t even look at the screen, her face nuzzled in your neck and her hand searching for the hem of your sweater.

You put the show on and put the remote on the coffee table as you felt alexia’s hand creeping below your shirt. You shivered as her cool hands traced the skin of your stomach.

‘’Ale, its colddd.’’ You said, trying to take her hand away from under your shirt.

‘’But I want to hold you.’’ She pouted, her lips finding your neck, kissing you softly as her hand crept up further and further, ‘’can I hold them? I missed them.’’ She pouted innocently.

You scooched back further against her, feeling her warmth against your back. You sighed and agreed halfheartedly, ‘’fine.’’

She smiled against your neck, ‘’mmm I love you,’’ she murmured as she gave both of your boobs some attention before cupping one and settling like that.

With one arm below your head, one hand under your shirt and her back flush against your front the two of you laid there for a while.

Every now and then you took a sip of the tea until it was finished and your cookie was gone too.

You where pretty invested in the show you had put on, it was some show about lawyers. Overly dramatized ofcourse, but entertaining nonetheless.

Alexia seemed to be contend too, she place kisses in your neck every once in a while and her hand was rested comfortably on your chest. Now that her hand was warmed to the same temperature as you where, it was fine.

-

All of a sudden you noticed Alexia removing her hand from your boob, trailing lower. It send a shiver along your spine.

She moved a bit, straightening herself against you as her hand was on your stomach.

‘’Ale’’ You said, your voice sounding in a tone somewhere between warning and absence, your gaze still on the tv.

“What?” she asked softly, her hand finding your hip, pulling you impossibly closer.

You took her hand, guiding her arm around you and clasping it gently with both of yours. Preventing her further distractions.

In response, she began placing soft kisses along your neck, each one lingering just enough to make your skin tingle. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“We were just going to cuddle,” you sighed, trying to hold onto the original plan.

“We are cuddling,” she whispered in your ear, her breath warm and teasing. “I just missed you.”

A shiver ran down your spine as goosebumps spread along your neck. “I missed you too, Ale,” you murmured, your attention now drifting completely away from the show. Just yesterday, Alexia had returned from a three-day trip to Germany for a Champions League match.

Turning around to face her, you smiled, your forehead nearly touching hers. “But now you’re home, hm?”

She didn’t seem to hear, her gaze fixed on your lips as if transfixed.

“Ale?” you chuckled softly.

She blinked, finally meeting your eyes. “Yeah, you’re my home.”

You rolled your eyes, cupping her face and brushing your thumbs gently over her cheeks. “Where’s your head at?”

“What?” She tilted her head, eyebrows knitting together. “My head is right here—with you. I’m thinking about you.”

You chuckled, unconvinced. “Mhm.”

“It’s true,” she murmured, tilting her face closer to yours, “and I want a kiss, please.”

You leaned in and kissed her, soft at first, but Alexia’s hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into her. The kiss quickly grew hungrier, her lips moving against yours like she’d been waiting forever.

When you broke away to breathe, she didn’t let you go far, her mouth already trailing to your jaw and then your neck, her kisses soft but clearly needy. Her hands slid to your hips, tugging you tight against her.

“What are you after?” you teased, trying to hide your smile.

“Missed you,” she murmured against your skin, her tone so earnest it made you chuckle.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell,” you replied, laughing a little, even as her lips found the spot on your neck that always made you melt.

She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a playful glint dancing in hers. “Let me show you,” she whispered, her hands sliding lower as she leaned closer, “déjame mostrarte how much I missed you.”

The way she said it—serious and full of adoration—made you laugh again. You kissed her because she was adorable.

Alexia kissed you back, but not with the same playful energy. Her lips moved hungrily, her grip tightening on your hips.

You pressed a hand to her chest, holding her back just enough to catch your breath and calm her down.

“What?” Alexia said breathlessly, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. “Something wrong?”

You bit your lip. “I’m not really in the mood, Ale.”

Alexia’s face fell, her pout so exaggerated you almost laughed. “¿No? No quieres? You don’t want to have sex?”

“I’m just a little tired,” you admitted, watching her expression turn soft but still a little dramatic. “I know it’s been a while. Maybe tomorrow.”

Her lips pressed into a thin smile, nodding. “Okay, mañana…” She pulled you closer, then grinned mischievously. “Orrr…” Before you could react, she rolled you onto your back and leaned over you.

“You can just relax,” she whispered in your ear, her voice low and teasing, “and I’ll make you feel good.” Her lips brushed against your skin as she added, “Then we’ll order food and eat it in bed.” She raised her eyebrows at you playfully, wagging them suggestively.

“Are you seriously trying to turn me on by mentioning ordering sushi?” you asked, unable to hide your smile.

“Is it working?”

“Almost.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, leaning down to press her lips to your neck. “What if I give you a massage, then we order sushi, and while we wait…” Her kisses grew slower, her breath warm against your skin. “I’ll give you head.”

Your mouth fell open. “Alexia!”

“What?” she asked innocently, her lips brushing your collarbone. “You love getting head, no?”

“Who even taught you to say that?” you said, clicking your tongue disapprovingly.

“TikTok,” Alexia replied proudly, her grin too pleased with herself.

You let out a short laugh. “I still can’t believe Vicky convinced you to get on TikTok.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, you knew what I meant, so I guess we’re both bad.”

You shook your head, stroking her hair fondly. “You’re not bad—you’re cute. I was just caught off guard.”

Alexia beamed, then kissed your neck again, nuzzling her nose against your skin. “So… back to my plan,” she murmured, her lips brushing the pulse point on your neck as her tongue flicked teasingly. “I’ll give you a massage, we’ll order sushi, and then…” her voice slowed as she pressed another kiss to your neck. “I’ll give you head. Make you feel really, really good.”

-

After a couple more words you agreed. Alexia grabbed her phone and ordered sushi, barely glancing at the menu before hitting confirm. “forty minutes,” she said with a triumphant grin.

You rolled your eyes playfully as you stood up and made your way to the bed. “Plenty of time for that massage you promised, then.”

She followed you, practically bouncing and waited as you stretched out on your stomach, the soft sheets cool against your skin.

‘’At least take the sweatshirt off amor.’’

You shifted, taking the sweater off and laid back down on your stomach, your arms besides your body. Your head sideways, sending her a smile. ‘’mkay, I’m ready,’’ you chuckled.  

Her hands were on you almost immediately, warm and firm, starting at your shoulders.

“Just relax,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

Her thumbs worked into the knots in your shoulders, and you sighed as the tension began to melt away.

Suddenly she sat up, ’’I think you need to take off the clothes, then I can massage you better.’’

You staid quiet, finally relaxed, waiting for her to continue if you just ignored her. When she didn’t you rolled over and looked at her.

Alexia shot you a small smile, ‘’massage oil.’’ She offered innocently.

You rolled your eyes but smiled at her, ‘’okay but let’s put a big towel on the bed then, you just changed the sheets.’’

-

It wasn’t long before Alexia’s hands wandered your skin again, her palms smoothing over your back with a deliberate slowness, her lips following. She pressed kisses to your shoulder blades, then down your spine, her breath warm against your skin.

“This is a massage, not a make-out session,” you teased, voice muffled by the sheets.

“Shhh, it’s both,” she said with a grin, her hands sliding to your sides, fingers brushing your ribs in a way that made you squirm. “Feels good, no?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, but the way her lips lingered just a little too long at the small of your back made you suspicious.

Her hands drifted lower, kneading at your hips, then your thighs, her touch deliberate but clearly suggestive. “You’ve got such a perfect body, querida” she murmured, her voice low as she placed another kiss just above the curve of the waistband of your underwear.

“Alexia…” you said, a warning tone in your voice, but it lacked any real conviction.

“What?” she asked innocently, her hands trailing back up to your shoulders, only to work their way back down, slower this time.

By the time her lips started leaving kisses along the backs of your thighs, you were biting your lip to keep from whining—or moaning. “You know exactly what you are doing,” you muttered, turning your head to glance back at her.

“Making my love feel good,” she replied with a grin, her hands sliding up your sides again, her lips brushing the sensitive skin of your lower back. “I’m just doing what feels right.”

You rolled onto your back, her hands quickly finding your waist as she hovered over you, a smug little smirk on her face. “You’re so annoying,” you said, but your cheeks were flushed, and she noticed.

“Annoying? I think you secretly like it,” she teased, leaning down to kiss your collarbone. “You like it when I take care of you, cariño, don’t you?”

Her lips trailed lower and the heat building between you became impossible to ignore. You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers finding her hair as her kisses moved toward your stomach. “You’re not going to stop until I say it, are you?”

She looked up at you, grinning but completely serious. “Say what?”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning as you pulled her closer. “Okay I like it, fuck, I want you.”

Her smirk grew impossibly wider, her eyes lighting up. “Now that,” she said, kissing just below your navel, “is the only thing you needed to tell me.”

Her hands slid lower, and you let your head fall back, your laughter turning into a soft sigh as she kissed her way down, wasting no time making good on her promise.

You lifted your legs when she tugged of your only remaining piece of clothing, your panties.

Alexia’s lips traveled up the inside of your thighs, slow and teasing, leaving a trail of heat in their path.

 Her hands gripped your hips firmly, holding you in place as her kisses grew closer, breath fanning against your skin. She let out a low groan, her nose brushing along your sensitive skin as she murmured, “Dios… I missed this.”

You shivered at her words, your hands tangling in her hair as she kissed closer and closer. “Missed the way you taste,” she said softly, her voice laced with hunger and then her tongue flicked against you, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.

Her movements were slow at first as she savored every moment. She groaned again, this time louder, as if the sound itself was pulled from her chest. “You’re my favorite taste,” she muttered between strokes, the reverence in her tone making your head spin.

Your back arched as she found the perfect rhythm, her tongue and lips working to push you closer to the edge. You could feel the pressure building, your breathing ragged as your thighs trembled around her head.

It went on like that for a couple minutes, but just as you felt yourself slipping over the edge, the doorbell rang.

You tensed, eyes flying open as Alexia paused, looking up at you apologetically. “Sorry, baby. One second.” She started to pull away, but your hand tightened in her hair.

“Alexia, don’t you dare stop,” you said breathlessly, glaring down at her.

She gave you an adorably sheepish look, her lips glistening, but she gently pried your hand from her hair. “I’ll be right back,” she said, kissing your inner thigh before grabbing a piece of the towel and wiping her mouth quickly.

You let out a frustrated groan, flopping back onto the bed as she hurried to the door, throwing it open with a too-sweet smile at the delivery driver. “Gracias,” she said briskly, practically snatching the sushi bag before shutting the door and rushing back to the bedroom.

She dropped the bag onto the bedside table and crawled back onto the bed, her grin smug as she settled between your thighs again. “So,” she said, kissing the inside of your knee before moving upward, “now you do want me, huh?”

“Alexia,” you growled, your tone both annoyed and desperate.

She laughed softly, her hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer. “Relax, cariño. I’ll take care of you.”

And with that, her mouth was on you again, picking up right where she left off, her teasing forgotten as she focused on one thing; finishing what she’d started.

She made you come with eagerness that left you breathless, her name tumbling from your lips as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

Afterward, she pressed soft kisses to your thighs and stomach, murmuring sweet words in Spanish before she cleaned you up with gentle care.

-

Minutes later, the two of you were curled up in bed, the glow of satisfaction and warmth surrounding you as you plucked a piece of sushi from the box and held it to Alexia's lips with a grin. “Your turn to be spoiled,” you chuckled.

She laughed softly, taking the bite before grabbing a piece to feed you in return. “I love spoiling you, my love.''

[girlygguk]

which jk is this

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DARadnbs3fa/?igsh=MWxhY2M5cnpuMGt4ZA==

i could picture crazy! jk in my mind HAHHDHAHS maybe he'd be like 'baby stabbhh it i have r e p u t a t i o n!!!!!'

a/n PLEASEEEEE no because... crazy!jk 😭 i definitely got carried away w this (1.1k wc for an ask god what am i doing) and it's not 100% accurate to the vid butttt this is how i envision it :P

au: crazy timeline: crazy1 era warnings? tooth rotting fluff, softie subby-ish jk, he’s sleepy n soft & oc shoots her shot, suggestive talk, yn plays with his butt (over his pants ya horndogs!!).... under the fabric is main chapter shit yknow... :')

“you sleepy, baby?”

“mhm,” jungkook mumbles into your chest, his hair still slightly damp from the shower you both took, smelling faintly of your shampoo. your fingers run through his strands, a soft smile tugging at your lips as he melts into your touch.

his eyes are closed, his breathing soft and even, and you can’t help but coo, “look so cute in your pyjamas, my love,” you giggle, referring to the matching black silk his-and-hers pajamas you just bought and forced him into—because no cute pajamas, no cuddles. obviously.

his lips twitch slightly, a small grumble vibrating through his throat as your hand slides down from his hair to trace over his back. “makes your bum look good,” you hum, running your hand over the curve of his ass, giving it a soft pat.

jungkook groans halfheartedly, shifting a little but making no effort to pull away. you pinch his asscheek, adjusting your other hand to get the right angle with your phone.

“look at your butt, babyyy,” you snicker, tapping your fingers over the fabric of his pajama pants. “so cute. i wanna eat it.”

he hums back, still half-asleep as his head burrows further into your neck. “yeah? y’wanna eat it, baby?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin.

“uh-huh,” you hum softly, sliding your hand over his ass again. “and you’ll let me, won’t you? let your girl do anything she wants, hmm?”

jungkook nods sleepily, a little noise of approval lifting from his throat as his nose nudges your jaw. “yeah, you will,” you grin, leaning down to kiss the top of his head, your fingers pinching his left cheek. “my good boy, huh?”

his breath hitches, his lips pressing lazily against your neck. “mm, your good boy,” he mumbles, his voice softer, melting into your praise.

you bite your lip, trying to stay focused as you lift the phone a little higher, capturing how utterly soft he looks resting on your chest. “yeah you are,” you whisper, giving his ass a light smack. his body shudders slightly, but he doesn’t protest, only letting out a soft grunt.

your fingers almost lose grip on the phone, the sensation of his lips sucking gently at your skin making you lose focus. jungkook’s eyes flutter open at the movement, catching sight of your phone in selfie mode. his cheeks are flushed, his hair a mess, and he stares at his reflection, seeing both of you in the frame.

“y/n,” he growls, pushing himself off your chest as you burst into giggles at his annoyed pout. his hair is all over the place, his cheeks still flushed. so fucking cute. “don’t post that shit.”

you can’t stop laughing, switching the camera to record him stomping away from the bed, his boner more than obvious in his thin victoria’s secret silk pants. “baby, come onnnn,” you cheese as you zoom in on his bulge, knowing damn well you weren't going to let anyone see the video anyway. his butt was in it, and that's yours. but you still liked to tease him.

“you’re so cute, kookie. wanna show everyone you’re not always a grumpy old man.”

he shoots you a look, crossing his arms over his chest, but the soft pajamas make him look so... sweet, you can’t help but coo.

“ahhhh, baby wait,” you gasp, switching to photo mode. “stay like that, i’m gonna take a picture instead.”

“no,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes and stepping toward the bed again.

“baby, stop! get back, or no more cuddles,” you whine, lifting your bare foot to push at his belly.

he huffs, his jaw ticking as he stands there, obviously debating if he’s just going to flop on you and force the cuddles anyway. “don’t post this,” he grunts, “people at work could see. ’ve got a reputation…”

you almost kick your feet at how adorable he looks, lips tugging at his lip ring, cheeks still flushed from his almost-nap. “i won’t, my love. but i want this as my new lockscreen. hurry up, baby, cross your arms again.”

he shakes his head but gives in, crossing his arms the same way, his tongue poking his cheek as he fights back a smile.

“yummmmmmy,” you groan, spamming the capture button. “twirl, baby, i want more poses.”

jungkook can’t help but laugh at your serious tone, his lips pulling into that crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “babyyyyy,” you whine, snapping more pictures. “fuck meeeee, you’re so pretty.”

he shakes his head again, finally returning and flopping back onto the bed, resting his cheek on your chest as you scroll through the million photos you just took.

“gorgeous,” you hum, satisfied, setting one of them as your lockscreen immediately. you press a soft kiss to his forehead, your nose burying into his now dry hair.

opening the camera app once more, you switch it back to selfie mode. jungkook’s dazy gaze reflects in the screen, his face resting against your chest while your fingers brush through his fluffy hair. he doesn’t move—he knows you’re going to take your photos, and he’s long since given up fighting it.

you adjust slightly, taking a few different poses. one hand rests gently under his chin, tilting it up so you can peck his lips and snap a pic. then you cup his soft cheeks with your fingers, turning his head back toward the camera to snap another. then you lean in, pressing your lips against his right cheek while your hand rests over his left for the next shot.

he lets you move him around like a doll, smiling when you tell him to, pouting when you tell him to. when you’re finally satisfied, you let him settle back down on your boobs, giving him a soft “cutie” and pressing a kiss to his nose before turning back to your screen.

jungkook just quietly watches as you swipe to the instagram app, your thumb tapping the ‘switch users’ button to change from his account to yours. you pick three of your favorite close-ups, his soft chuckle vibrating against your chest when you’re torn between two that look identical to him. he grunts in disapproval when you finish off the set of four with one where he’s standing at the end of the bed, rolling his eyes and looking like a bratty dream.

“baby,” he groans, his hand lazily lifting to drag that photo to the bin icon, clicking on one of the close-ups instead, one where your tongue was dragging over his cheek.

“really, mylove… do you actually not want me to post any of just you?” you whine softly but don’t fight him on it, clicking next and swiping through the filters.

jungkook's head doesn’t move, but his gaze shifts up to the pout forming on your lips. “you can barely even see the pajamas, and you look so cute and soft…” you mumble, dragging out your typing when you can feel him beginning to cave.

“aish, brat. hurry up then,” he grunts, and you grin, clicking the back button and happily adding the picture again, bringing the total from 4 to 5. he bites back a smile when you pepper his forehead with kisses as you hit post.

@ yourinstagram: I think he’s the one… idk though

[meetmypointlessaddiction]

opposites attract | l.howlett

Summary: Logan is a grump but you're his sunshine

Tags: fluff, slightly ooc Logan, empty threats to throw reader off a cliff (?)

Logan Howlett was a grump. It was a well-known fact, he never tried to deny it, in fact he was proud of it. The students were terrified of him, he never got approached for babysitting duty, life was great. That was… until you showed up at the school. 

You and Logan were complete polar opposites, night and day, ying and yang, grumpy and sunshine but as the age old saying goes, opposites attract. He might be a grump, but he was your grump and that was all that mattered. Logan loved you, honestly he did, but sometimes your sunshineness was too much for him. 

~~~~~~~~~~

“Babyyy get up. You promised we’d go for a walk this morning. You pinky promised!” You poked Logan’s side as you laid beside him in bed, the older man’s eyes closed and one hand flipping you off while the other held you close to him. 

“How in the hell are you so fuckin’ cheery at 5am? Do you get coffee infused into your veins?” He glared at you and you just rolled your eyes.

“Baby you promised me. C’mon, you gotta get up or we’re gonna miss the sunrise and then it’ll all be for nothing.” Logan groaned and sat up, his hand covering your mouth just before you squeal. 

“One more squeak out of you and I throw you out of the window.” You smiled behind his hand and just nodded, going in the bathroom to brush your teeth and get changed while Logan threw on his typical jeans and white wife beater. “You’re gonna need a jacket bub, it’ll be cold out.” 

“Nuh uh. Weather app says it’s warm, it’ll be fine.” You protested and he rolled his eyes, putting on his own jacket with a look that clearly said ‘don’t try stealing mine’. The walk to this bench you raved about wasn’t too far, a steady ten minutes, twenty with Logan by your side as you insisted on stopping and making him sniff every flower you passed. When you finally reached the bench, Logan realised that maybe getting up this early was worth it. The bench looked out over a cliff, the sun just starting to peak over the horizon and the waves crashing against the rocks below. “Pretty right?” Logan just nodded in response and sat next to you on the bench, slipping off his jacket as he notices your shivers and wrapping it around your shoulders as you give him a smug look. 

“Not a word or you’re going straight off the cliff and in the water, sunshine.”

First little drabble for Logan. Please like and repost if you enjoyed, it encourages me to write more :)

Divider: @coolcatsgraphics

[latenighttalkinqwp]

partying with paige!

based off of this video!

“hey yall.” ice shouted, looking down at the live. currently, she and a few other girls were sitting at a random table inside a random bar. “i’m bored and my friends left me so i decided to go live.” you sighed, walking up to ice. “have you seen p? i’ve been looking around for her.” ice shook her head, thinking of where the girl could’ve went.

“can we get another round?” one of the girls asked the waiter, smiling whenever he said that he would be right back. “i think she’s at the bar- oh wait! here she is!” ice pointed to the blonde who was walking over. “hi babyyy.” paige smiled with her eyes, pulling you in by the waist for a kiss. “hey p. where did you venture off too?” you kiss her back, wrapping your arms around her shoulders.

“kk wanted me to order her a drink. she said the guy wouldnt take her fake.” she sighed, putting her forehead against yours. “i missed you when i was gone.” you giggled, having no option but to look her in the eye. “you were only gone for like..two minutes.” she rolled her eyes, pulling back from your face. “two minutes too long.” you nod, moving her hands from your waist so you could go sit by ice and talk to the live. the waiter came back, handing the shots to paige. she looked down at them, raising an eyebrow. she took a shot off the tray and put it on the table.

“yo- who ordered shots?” she yelled, not realizing how loud she was being. your eyes widened, looking down at the live. “paige! shut up.” kk laughed, taking one of the shots. “no, you shut up kk.” she said, coming to stand behind you as she wrapped her arms around your neck. “stop leaving me.” paige whispered, nodding along to the music that was playing.

you leaned your back against paige’s front, looking down at your phone. “what time do you wanna head out?” paige shrugged her shoulders, waving at the live. you rolled your eyes, feeling the blonde wrap her arms around your shoulders tighter. it felt like the more intoxicated paige got, the touchier she was. “okay, well if i order the uber right now it should get here in like, fifteen minutes. is that okay with you?” paige nodded, raising her eyebrows as “whatever she wants” by bryson tiller started playing. “yoo- this song is fire.” kk nodded her head at paige, singing the lyrics.

the blonde pulled out her phone, taking a video. you grimaced, pushing her head away from your ear. “you just screamed right in my ear, babe.” she kissed your cheek, putting the camera up close in your face. you smiled, looking up at your girlfriend. “i love you.” paige blushed, looking away from you. “i love you too.”

- thank you so much for reading all the way through! 🥰

- i genuinely did not know how to end this….but let me know if this met the expectations 🥲🥲 i genuinely hate this so much!!!

[kissitbttr]

short mma!toji and his pretty pop star girlfriend being cutesies!

—

“let me see baby!” you rush in pure excitement with your skin tight leather pink dress and white gogo boots, wanting to see your man in makeup for your newest music video release,

it took a while for him to finally agree, because could you imagine having the number one world class fighter to be in his girlfriend’s girly music video? my god, the sports entertainment would probably laugh at him.

but seeing the look in your doe eyes was enough to make him fold. plus, his manager shiu and the PR team thought it would be a great idea anyway.

“he doesn’t want you to see him like this, y/n” the makeup stylist laughs as she opens the door slightly to poke her head out,

you pout at that, tip toeing to see whether or not you can catch a glimpse of him. “well that wouldn’t make sense! because we are starting in an hour! toji, can i come in?”

“i look so ridiculous, ma” he calls out with a grunt, head shaking as he eyes himself in the mirror. the fake bruises and cut lips makes him scoff. “these are so unrealistic, real battered face look way worse than this”

rolling your eyes, you thank the makeup stylist before going in. the moment you see his reflection in the mirror, a gasp flies off your mouth. seeing your boyfriend perched on the small chair, his large muscled body adorned in a black tank and dark jeans. handsome face touched with bits of makeup that makes it look like he had just gotten off a street fight.

oh dear, he look fine as hell.

he notices your stare, causing him to smirk and chuckle. “come e’re baby girl” his hand pats his meaty thigh, waiting for you to come near,

“babyyy” you giggle, practically skipping towards him before wrapping your arms around his neck from behind. “you look so so handsome” a squeal spills from your lips, before attaching them against his cheek. leaving a sheer stain of lipgloss,

his arm circles around the back, resting a hand just below her rear. “do i? i feel ridiculous. i’ve never had a makeup on before”

you nod, perching yourself on his thigh before he secures both arms around your waist. “you don’t ji-ji! you look just like a movie star already!”

he laughs at your compliment, kissing your neck. “thank you, ma”

“are you ready? the director wants us out now” you tilt your head to the side, thumb going up to remove the stain off his cheek,

he nods, running his hand through his hair. “ready as i am doll”

—

toji was in fact, not ready.

because how the hell was he supposed to act right with the cameras rolling when his girlfriend look that fucking good enough to eat?

the cups of her dress pushes her tits upwards to make them look fuller, and her plush thighs were wrapped tightly with white garters that all toji wanted to do was to pull them off with his teeth. his eyes keep falling at the sight of her pretty lips too.

was he supposed to just let it slide and still follow the script?

“toji, for the last time” the director grumbles, feeling irritated at the repeated delay because of the fighter’s mistake. “your hands should be on her face—not her ass”

he emphasizes on the last word while glaring at the man. you could only giggle seeing your boyfriend getting scolded, though you reminded him prior to be on his best behavior,

however toji is known to be a man who hates to follow simple rules,

“can you blame me?” toji’s hands squeeze your ass harder while looking at the director. “my girlfriend is hot as fuck, and you’re telling me you’re not tempted by that?”

“i wouldn’t know motherfucker, i’m gay”

toji could only snort, pulling you closer to his chest. “my bad, man i’m sorry” you reach up to kiss his jaw, and it only makes toji to yearn more of your touch,

“now—what should i do again?” he asks for the hundredth time that day,

the director rolls his eyes, but decides to answer anyway. “look into her eyes, hands on her face. she’s going to sing the lines to—toji fucking fushiguro, hands off her tits! that’s not how it’s supposed to go!”

-

@spideyyeet inspired me to make this one😩🩷

[creativewritersposts]

delirious state - Luke Hughes

summary; Luke Hughes x reader

Luke gets injured and the painkillers kick him into a delirious state, which is quite funny.

warning(s); mention of injury, it's more fluff and funny, real head injuries are no fun! , maybe grammar errors

author's note; old but good! 4/4 fics done! Good night everyone ✨

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

"Luke Hughes left the game and is on the way to get medical help".

This is how the disaster began. You stand in the emergency department waiting for Luke, completely worried and walking circles. "Mrs. Hughes? Mr. Hughes asked for you", an older nurse speaks with papers under her arm. You didnt know you're his wife but you're completely fine with that. Together with his nurse you arrive on a station where you can smell the typical disinfection scent.

"I'll leave you alone with your husband. Our doctor had to sew a wound on his head, two broken rips and a swollen nose. Because of the medical drugs and painkillers he can speak confused. He needs to rest. Are there any questions?", the nurse looks up from her pinning map with all informations, you don't care right now. You want to know if he's okay. "No i just want to see my husband, thank you". The nurse nods and walks back where they came from.

Quietly you open the door, afraid to wake Luke. Your poor Lukey. But damn you're wrong. Your poor Lukey smiles high and looks at you absolutely awake. He has a black eye, a neck support and plaster on his head where the doctors had to shave his head. He looks not good, hockey is a dangerous sport.

"Hey babbbyyy! Nice to see you", he waves with his hand and his voice sounds higher than usual.

"Hey, are you okay? My poor Lukey. Your family will be here in one hour. Traffic", you pet his curly hair and sit on his bed. "Oh yeah. Do you want to go to the cinema with me?", Luke smiles again not knowing what he tells. "You're not in the condition so I don't think", you giggle. It feels like you talk to a child. "You are soooo pretty", Luke does a gesture to show how much and curls your hair with his finger.

"You are pretty, too. Even with your destroyed face", you smirk. Luke is never that cheesy but as long he won't get angry you tolerate it.

"I really wanna have sex with you", he says without warning. It's atypical for him, he's very shy.

"Baby I dont think that works out right now",

"but whyyy?", Luke gets tearful.

"You have an head injury!".

"You think I'm a sucker in bed!", he replies in a stubborn tone.

"No don't get me wrong!", you never imagined you both have this conversation in the hospital one day.

"Yes you do. I'm lucky I married you before you could leave me because of that", his monitor signals louder because his heartbeat gets faster.

"You really need to rest and chill baby", you hope the topic is closed now.

"Just if you tell me you want to have Sex with me too!", you roll your eyes. "I won't say this!", you place your hands on your hip. A nurse comes in and controls his vital values until he speaks out, "Marriage is hard", he huffs. The nurse laughs off.

"We're not married. Before we reach this step you have to ask me!", your poor nerves. Honestly you need a drink to get through this. And chocolate cake.

Luke wants to stand up out of his bed, "babyyy lets go! I'm ready to get some actionnn with youu", he tipsy says. Luke's cheeks are rosy and and he looks like he gets fever. You lovely push him back to bed. "Lukey I love having sex with you but god damn lay down or I'll cain you on this bed!".

"Uhh I love when you take control", he smirks.

"Man you knocked out on ice and all you can think is about this?! and y'all say I'm the cheeky one!", you turn around behind you, hearing a familiar voice. It was his older brother.

Ellen, Jim and Jack watched this amused scenario. "Mooom", Luke groans. Ellen goes straight to his bed, hugs him and strokes his curly hair. "Can I help you with something? It looked really bad!", his mother says. "Why have you to interrupt me and my wife? Its getting hot in there", Luke is outraged.

"Lukey its fever and no sexual attraction, I'm sorry guys, he's dazed from the drugs", you try the best to get out of his embarrassing moment. "Mooom?", he calls her name again in a wailing way. "Yes?", she holds his other hand and focused. "Can I borrow your ring? I need to do a proposal". Ellen don't know what to say. Jim stays quite in the cornor as opposed to Jack. He grins the whole time and records some videos. "I have to send this to Quinn! Made my day!".

"Don't be so mean", Jim replies. "Daaaadddd?", comes from the big boy in bed. Jim steps next to Ellen, looking down to his son. "Why I'm the third one and not the first child? Didn't you make any effort to get me?", he whines. "Can't believe my smartest son asks such a stupid question", Jim shakes his head and hugs Luke, too. They don't care about this delirious state, the ony thing that matters is, he's okay. (Of course Jack will show their whole family these videos later).

[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.

*࿐.

[cheolieji]

Maybe Svt reaction to you getting shipped with another member ?

i love thisss thank you for the request!!

request: Seventeen's reaction to you getting shipped with another member

° don't be shy to request!!

♡ I hope you guys liked this one. It's my first time writing all the members at once, and it's very fun to write. Hehe, ( i made this in 40 minutes, and im so out of ideas😬)

context or wtvr: we're just gonna say you're the 14th member and is dating one of them, but fans don't know

Seungcheol: Very confused because he's been making it VERY obvious you guys are dating. "What... Mingyu? why him– i'm right here" ( will go on his secret account to call bullshit but he's the one getting flamed on twt )

Jeonghan: Wouldn't really care, honestly. you get shipped with every member, and it's another normal day in caratland BUTTT if you're in the same room as him, and he came across a post about the ship "that's insane, what the hell? seriously? babe, look at this. They're shipping you with joshua. " he's actually annoyed, and you're just laughing in his face

Joshua: he wouldn't know until you or another member told him. This dude does not check his social media, nor does he care, maybe a little jealous, but at the end of the day, you're his

Jun: Will call all the way from china just to tell you, "Hello, baby, did you see Wonwoo being shipped with you? that's crazy. i mean, you guys are close, yes. but I'm dating youuu. How could they imagine you and wonwoo wahh thats crazy" is ranting as if he's not your boyfriend. will go on and on about how unreal and an insane phenomenon it is

Soonyoung: is lowkey mad even though it's just a little ship fans made. "No sense in dating! I'm always all over you, and they don't notice? but when coups look at you a little, they go crazy, " he says as he's rolling his eyes

Wonwoo: Bro does not care. I'm sorry, he knows you're his and his only (there is a hint of jealousy thooo

Jihoon: is too busy to give a shit and just like wonwoo, he doesn't care. Plus, Carats ships you with everyone

Seokmin: Is more concerned about your feelings than the ship itself. "babyyy, how are you feeling? you know i love you, right?" he's acting as if he's the one getting shipped with another idol

Mingyu: too cocky to care. he's hot, and he knows it. Also, you'll never leave him for another man, lmaoo

Minghao: is jealous, of course, but has to put on that. "So what? i don't care" face of his — "i mean, i guess, im jealous. come on it so obvious we're dating, no?" ( no, not really. hao, but you do you, bae )

Seungkwan: "Should we just reveal our relationship? because you getting shipped with hoshi is out of hand. " — ''you're just saying that because you had a fight with him earlier.' '' stillll its ridiculous, and it doesn't sound like a bad idea, right?" "You're just jealous boo go to bed, istg"

Vernon: isn't jealous but thinks it's interesting(?) because why minghao and not him? he's usually holding your hand and hugging you, but for some reason, fans just think it's cute friends holding and hugging each other and not a couply thing....

Chan: When he found out about the ship, he'll get more clingy and start to hug you around the camera more, and you're just like, tf?. "You okay chan?" "Absolutely! just making sure they see me hugging you. " said as he's practically choking you (uhh, i think they see you, honey)