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slowd1ving · 8 months ago

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INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW

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

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or two.

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

Of course he does.

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

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

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

But all is not well.

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

Moze.

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

. *࿐

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

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

Humans and their machinations.

This is truly a special version of hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

You’re a demon.

You think you can afford to be uncivil.

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

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

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

What a strange world the human world is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s unnerving.

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something?”

Quit staring.

Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet.

You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all.

Well, opposite and a seat away.

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

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

You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has.

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a pickle.

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

What a pickle indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s dark.

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

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

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

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

. *࿐.

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

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

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

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

It does not work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine.

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

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

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

Oh shit.

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile.

Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little.

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

Really, you should be a gourmet.

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

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

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

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

You don’t want your time here to end.

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

There are contingencies for times like these.

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

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

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

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

There.

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

You think you’re delirious.

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

Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust. What a strange woman she is.

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell is filled with humans like these.

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

Your tongue is leaden.

There is nothing you can say to save yourself.

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

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

An Archangel.

You pray your end is quick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

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

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

You can’t even beg for your life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust.

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

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

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

He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He notices.

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver.

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

Why not entertain me?

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

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

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

Angels, too, can be deceptive.

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

Damn it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think that makes it worse.

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

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

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

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

His gaze meets your despairing one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

He’s not your lover.

He’s not even his own person.

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

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

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

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

In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…

Well.

Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido.

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl. “Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver.

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

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

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

He looks like sin itself.

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

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

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

You wonder what they taste like.

Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?

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

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

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

You’ve never kissed an angel before.

You may not even be alive right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you enjoy the show?”

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

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

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

Moze is human.

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

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfect,” he breathes.

The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.

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

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

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

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

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

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

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

More.

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

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

Snap.

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

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

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

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

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

What will you do?

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

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

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

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

“Don��t you want me to help you out?” you slur your words, clearly dazed from getting fucked by his stupid classmate. Yes, he wants to say, but he feels like some damned second place prize. Your hand brushes his crotch, and he bites his lip—hard—until the skin breaks and warm blood runs down his lips.

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

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

He can’t help it. He really can’t.

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

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

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

That’s all his brain is clinging to.

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

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

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

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

They do not know better.

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

Angels cannot lie to others.

It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves.

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

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

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

Good job, Sunday.

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Catching of the Incubus.

*********

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

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

In any case, nobody’s home.

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

Moze’s room it is.

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

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

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

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

Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—

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

Oh.

*࿐.

441 notes · View notes

sai-int · 4 months ago

Text

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | AO3 . MLIST

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes.

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?

…

You decide to send him a letter.

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper.

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is.

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.

It doesn’t.

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten, the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate.

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is.

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”

You could slap him.

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

“Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

21K notes · View notes

dollykitty333 · 2 months ago

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Nobody understands how much I yearn for this man.😖

#sinners remmick #jack o'connell #remmick x reader #remmick smut #lady chatterley's lover #oliver mellors #sinners #sinners 2025 #remmick #james cook #skins uk

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carnalcrows · 1 month ago

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Terms and Conditions Applied

pariring: gangster! male OC x male reader [profile]

summary: You're a single dad, drowning in debt, barely holding it together for your daughter. But when loan collectors come knocking a little too hard, you find out your debt belongs to someone far more dangerous: Felix Marino, the quiet but infamous head of one of the most powerful mafia syndicates in the world. He makes you a deal—your freedom, for a job. One job. But nothing is ever that simple in his world. Especially when you're not sure what terrifies you more: the blood on your hands, or the way Felix looks at you like you belong to him.

content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, explicit violence, blood and trauma aftermath, mild panic attack / dissociation, threats and coercion, organized crime themes, single parenthood under duress, mild sexual content, handjob (reader receiving), power imbalance, emotional manipulation, PTSD-like symptoms.

word count: 4.9k

The knocks came hard and fast.

They rattled the apartment door like gunfire—three hits, pause, two more, and a final slam that made the hinges groan. You froze mid-step, a half-unpacked grocery bag dangling from your fingers. Inside it, a bruised apple rolled to the floor.

Not again.

You scanned the room automatically, as if the act of tidying clutter might somehow soften the blow of reality. But the apartment was already bare. Sparse. Clean, in that way that says we don’t have much, but we’re trying.

A soft voice drifted from the hallway behind you. “Papa?”

You turned. There she was—your daughter. Four years old, hair mussed from a post-nap world, her favourite stuffed rabbit trailing from one hand. She rubbed her eyes with the other, blinking at you.

Your heart clenched.

“It’s okay, baby,” you said quietly. “Go back to your room, yeah? I’ll be right there.”

“But who—”

“Just the mailman,” you lied, kneeling down to smooth her hair. “He’s loud today.”

She stared up at you for a beat longer than usual, as if her tiny brain could already tell something wasn’t quite right. Then she nodded solemnly and padded back down the hallway, the rabbit dragging behind her like a weary soldier.

The knocking came again. Louder this time.

You straightened up, set the bag on the counter, and took a breath.

When you opened the door, the two men standing on the other side looked like they'd been born in leather jackets—one tall, one squat. Neither looked thrilled to be here, but they sure weren’t leaving empty-handed.

“Morning,” said the taller one, stepping forward without waiting for an invitation. “Nice day, huh?”

You didn’t respond. He took that as agreement.

“Mr. [Last Name],” said the shorter one. “We’re here about the debt.”

“I know.”

“Good.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you also know your payment was due four days ago.”

“I told you,” you said. “I’m working extra shifts. I’m doing what I can.”

The taller man walked a slow circle around your living room, peering at the cheap furniture like it offended him. “A place like this, I’m surprised you haven’t sold the kid’s toys yet.”

Your jaw tensed. “She’s four.”

The shorter man clucked his tongue. “And if you don’t have something by Friday, you’re going to be explaining that to the Boss in person. You know how he feels about delays.”

“I’m trying—”

“Try harder.”

They left without another word. The taller one flicked a crumpled cigarette onto your doormat and stomped it out as a parting gift.

You shut the door. Locked it. Then leaned against it with your eyes closed.

⋆｡°✩

The silence in the apartment returned slowly, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of small feet against tile.

“Papa?”

You opened your eyes and looked down. She was back, rabbit in hand.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She wrapped her little arms around your leg, hugging you as best she could. Her cheek pressed against your jeans. “You’re not sad?”

You knelt again and pulled her into your arms properly, breathing in the smell of strawberry shampoo and comfort.

“I’m okay now,” you whispered into her hair. “Because I have you.”

⋆｡°✩

You made pancakes for dinner.

It wasn’t your best work. The batter was too thin, the pan unevenly heated, and the only syrup left was the cheap, knockoff kind that smelled more like corn than maple. But she still grinned when you put the plate in front of her, legs swinging from the dining chair as she kicked at nothing in particular.

“Can I put peanut butter on it too?” she asked, already reaching for the jar.

“Only if you save a piece for Mr. Bun.”

“I always do,” she said with a solemn nod, as if it were some sacred pact between her and the stuffed rabbit.

You watched her eat, chewing slower than usual, trying to stall the moment. The kitchen light flickered overhead. The stack of unpaid bills on the counter seemed to grow by the day, and rent was due in less than a week. You didn’t know how you were going to pay off the collectors by Friday, let alone face the man behind them— the one they called their boss, in hushed, clipped tones.

A name you’d never heard until two weeks ago. A name that now haunted every idle moment.

You’d tried not to ask too many questions, but the way the others spoke about him made your skin crawl. Not loud, not showy — but dangerous. Not because of violence, but because of how controlled he was. And how rarely he needed to raise his voice to get things done.

You only owed him money because your original lender sold the debt off.

It wasn’t supposed to get this far.

“Papa?”

You blinked out of it. “Yeah, bug?”

She looked at you with peanut butter smeared on her chin. “Can we read the owl book again tonight?”

You smiled, even if it felt thin on your face. “Of course.”

⋆｡°✩

She fell asleep curled beside you on the couch, mid-sentence, head tucked against your arm. The copy of The Owl Who Wasn’t Afraid of the Dark lay open in your lap, thumb still pressed to the page.

You didn’t dare move her. Not yet.

The room was quiet now, except for the muffled hum of the hallway outside. You could still hear footsteps every now and then—neighbours coming home, doors opening and shutting. It was the kind of rundown apartment block where the walls had ears, but no one cared enough to listen.

You leaned your head back and stared at the ceiling, one hand gently smoothing your daughter’s hair.

Then came the buzz of your phone.

You fumbled for it quietly, careful not to wake her.

Unknown Number

You stared at it. A second buzz followed — a text.

[ The Boss would like a word. You’ll want to make yourself available.

Tomorrow. 10 PM. Zia’s Diner. Come alone. ]

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to. Whoever sent it would already know you’d be there.

⋆｡°✩

Zia’s Diner looked like it hadn’t changed since the '80s. Flickering neon sign. Red leather booths dulled from wear. Grease-stained menus laminated so many times the corners curled like dying leaves. It was the kind of place that smelled like burnt coffee and fried onions no matter what time of day you walked in. The kind of place where someone like you belonged.

Someone like the one you owe money to? Not so much.

You got there ten minutes early. Sat in the back corner booth, facing the entrance like you’d seen people do in mob movies. Ridiculous, really — like knowing who sat where would make any of this easier.

The waitress came by once, chewing gum and offering you a tired, sceptical look. “You ordering, or you waiting?”

“Just coffee,” you muttered, and she poured you a cup without a word.

You kept checking the time.

10:00 PM sharp, the bell above the door jingled.

He didn’t walk in with an entourage. No theatrics. No broad-shouldered bodyguards or gaudy suits. Just a man in a black wool coat, collar turned up against the wind, dark hair swept back with the ease of someone who didn’t need to try.

He didn’t look like a loan shark. He looked like he could be an architect. Or maybe a violinist. His features were clean-cut but strangely gentle, like someone who hadn’t always belonged to a world like this.

And then he looked at you.

A quick once-over. Not judgmental. Just... observant.

He made his way over with unhurried steps, slid into the booth across from you, and removed his gloves one finger at a time. The silence stretched, thick and taut.

“I’m glad you came,” he said at last. His voice was low, smooth, but not performative. Not like someone trying to play a role. “I didn’t want this to become unpleasant.”

You swallowed hard. “I figured it already was.”

He tilted his head slightly, almost like he was considering you. “It doesn’t have to be.”

You didn’t answer.

The waitress reappeared, looking more alert this time. “Coffee?”

“Tea,” he said, without looking at her. “Chamomile, if you have it.”

You blinked. Tea?

Once she left, he turned his gaze back to you. “You’re a difficult man to track down, considering you haven’t left your apartment in three days.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’ve been with my daughter.”

“I know.” His tone didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes now. Not softness — but interest. “She’s the one who likes the owl book, right?”

You stiffened. “You’ve been watching us?”

“I have people. They were concerned. It’s their job.”

“Concerned about what?”

He paused. Then: “About how a man ends up this deep in debt when he’s clearly not reckless.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Because the worst part was— he wasn’t wrong.

He leaned back, resting his hands on the table. His fingers were long, elegant— with tattoos running across them.

“I didn’t call you here to threaten you,” he said calmly. “If I wanted to scare you, I’d have sent someone else.”

“So why did you call me here?”

His lips parted slightly, like he was about to answer. But then the tea arrived. He thanked the waitress with a quiet nod, waited until she was gone again.

And then he said:

“Because I don’t think you belong in this mess. And I’m interested in seeing how you get out of it.”

You stared at him, not sure if it was a trap. A test. Some kind of manipulation.

“Why?” you asked, voice quiet now. Honest.

He stirred a packet of honey into his tea. No rush. No tension. “You remind me of someone.”

That shut you up.

Not because you knew what it meant, but because of how he said it. Like it hurt to say. Like the memory was still raw, even if the delivery wasn’t.

He took a sip of his tea, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let’s talk about your debt,” he said.

⋆｡°✩

You tried to read him. Failed.

Everything about him was composed — the measured way he spoke, the way he held his tea with both hands like it was a habit rather than a choice. His voice was quiet but sure, like he’d never once had to raise it to be heard.

He didn’t move like a man used to violence, but you knew better than to trust that.

“You said you wanted to talk about my debt,” you said after a beat, keeping your voice steady. “So talk.”

He gave a soft hum, almost amused. “Alright.”

From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled out a thin leather folio and opened it on the table. You caught your name on one of the papers. Your signature on another. A string of numbers you didn’t want to look too closely at.

“I assume you know how much you owe.”

You nodded once. “Too much.”

“You’re not wrong.” He tapped a finger against the paper, not unkindly. “You took out the first loan eighteen months ago. Medical bills, yes?”

You stiffened. “My daughter was in the hospital. Pneumonia. We didn’t have insurance.”

He nodded like he already knew, which he probably did.

“And the second loan,” he continued, “was for rent, food, and utilities. You were out of work.”

“My hours got cut,” you muttered.

“And the third?”

You looked away. “Funeral expenses.”

Silence settled again. Not judgmental. Just quiet.

He closed the folder gently and folded his hands on top of it. “There are… less generous men you could’ve borrowed from. Men who would’ve already left a message on your doorstep. Or through your window.”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice in where the loans came from,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to.

He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just watched you like he’d been expecting that edge to come out eventually.

“You’re right,” he said. “You didn’t. But you have one now.”

That gave you pause. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned back, eyes steady.

“It means I’m offering to restructure your debt. Reduce the interest. Extend the timeline. Provide resources, if you need them.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

He didn’t smile — but his mouth twitched, like he almost did.

“I told you. You remind me of someone.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is to me.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. Couldn’t decide if this was some twisted act of pity or a long con. But you weren’t used to people giving you anything. Especially not someone with this much power—with hands that clean, a gaze that calm, and a reputation like his.

He took another sip of his tea.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” he said, almost kindly. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. But I want you to understand— I’m not doing this to trap you.”

“Then what do you want?”

His fingers paused on the edge of the cup.

“I want you to keep your daughter,” he said simply. “I want her to grow up safe. With her father.”

Something in your chest twisted. You looked down, jaw tight.

“That’s not your business.”

“Maybe not. But I’ve made it mine.”

You looked up again, and this time, there was no softness in your voice. “What do you get out of it?”

A longer pause.

He studied you, not like a man considering what to say, but like he was wondering how much you could handle. Like he’d already made up his mind.

“I’m not the villain you think I am,” he said finally. “But I’ve been one before. I know what it takes to get out.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your hands curled around your coffee cup, suddenly aware of the chipped ceramic, the cool air from the vents brushing your neck. A waitress refilled a glass of soda at another table. The world kept moving.

He stood slowly, gathering the folder and slipping it back into his coat.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he said. “But I’ll have someone drop off the new terms tomorrow. Look them over. Think about your kid.”

He turned to leave, then paused and glanced back at you one last time.

“And think about who you want to be when she looks back on this.”

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t expect it to come in an envelope.

White. Thick. No return address.

It was on your doorstep when you got home from picking Nora up from daycare — tucked under the welcome mat like some dead thing left by a cat. You stared at it for a full minute before bending to pick it up, heart low in your chest.

She tugged on your sleeve. “What’s that, Daddy?”

“Nothing, bug.” You smiled, but your voice didn’t rise with it. “Go on in. I’ll be right there.”

She slipped past you with a squeal, barreling into the apartment and tossing her little backpack onto the floor. You shut the door behind her, thumb tracing the edge of the envelope as you walked to the kitchen. The light through the window was already fading to that washed-out grey of too-late afternoons. You tore it open without ceremony.

Inside: four pages, paper thick enough to feel expensive. No header, no signature — but you recognised the same smooth, sparse formatting from the mans’s folder at Zia’s—the new terms.

You skimmed.

Then read slower.

Then stopped.

He was serious.

— Outstanding balance: reduced by 40%. — Interest: frozen, pending further review. — Monthly payments: deferred for 3 months. — Conditions:

That last part made your stomach twist.

1. You will be reachable at all times. 2. You will submit proof of employment weekly. 3. You will meet with Mr. Marino in person at a time and place of his choosing. Frequency: open. 4. You will not attempt to renegotiate through any party other than Mr. Marino himself. 5. You will not disappear.

Regards,

Felix Marino

That last line wasn’t underlined. But it didn’t need to be.

You sat down, the chair scraping across the tile.

It was clean. Too clean. He’d carved out the brutality and left behind something you could stomach — just enough rope to pull yourself up. Or hang yourself with.

In the distance, you heard Nora humming a song from her cartoons.

And you realised: you were already considering it.

⋆｡°✩

The house is quiet after Nora falls asleep, sprawled out in her tiny bed with her stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. You'd cleaned the chocolate from her face, tucked her in, and kissed her forehead like always. Pretended like nothing was wrong. Like there wasn’t a folded letter in your coat pocket that felt like it weighed more than your whole damn life.

You sit at the kitchen table, hands steepled, staring down at it again.

Felix Marino’s terms are clear:

Six months of contracted work

Weekly check-ins at a private location downtown

No questions asked about the nature of the work.

No outside contact with “competing interests”

Nora is off-limits. Her name isn’t even mentioned.

That part almost makes it worse.

Because you don’t think Felix left her out of the contract out of kindness.

You think it’s because he sees her as yours. And what belongs to you, by extension, belongs to him now.

You grip the paper until the crease deepens. This is a deal with the devil, no matter how cleanly it’s written. Still, you’ve seen worse. You’ve lived worse. And if this means keeping Nora safe—keeping your home, your job, your sanity—then what choice do you really have?

You’ll meet his terms. But you won’t let him sink his claws in.

You won’t let him think he has you.

Your phone buzzes on the table. A message. Just a location, a time.

[ Tomorrow, 11 AM.

Wear something decent. ]

You stare at the screen for a while before flipping it over and standing up. You clean the counter. Rinse the mugs. Check the locks on the doors twice. It’s routine, but you do it slower tonight.

Just before bed, you peek in on Nora one more time.

Her tiny chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. There’s drool on her pillow. You swallow the knot in your throat.

You hope to god she never has to know how close you came to losing everything.

⋆｡°✩

The address Felix gave leads to a storefront with blackout windows and no signage. Inside, it's cleaner than expected. Sleek. Minimal. You’re greeted by a man in a tailored suit who doesn’t ask your name — just waves you through with a nod like you’re already known here.

You are, apparently.

A hallway. A door. A quiet room with a view of the city skyline. Felix is seated behind a polished desk, flipping lazily through a folder.

He doesn’t look up when he says, “You came.”

“Not like I had a choice.”

“Sure you did. You just didn’t like the alternatives.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. You sit, tense.

He finally lifts his gaze, eyes still unreadable. “How’s Nora?”

You narrow your eyes. “Fine. And she’s not part of this.”

“I never said she was.” He leans back, steepling his fingers. “Though you should know, this isn’t charity. You’ll work. I’ll watch. If I don’t like what I see, the terms change.”

“And if I don’t like what I see?”

“Then I’ll be disappointed,” Felix says, smooth as silk. “And trust me — you don’t want that.”

There’s a pause. You hate how calm he is. Like this is all part of some carefully laid plan. Maybe it is.

“You always recruit desperate dads into your service?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

You clench your jaw. “Why me?”

Felix shrugs, almost too casually. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it does matter. You can feel it.

The way he looks at you sometimes. Like he’s trying to find someone else in your face. Like you’re unfinished business.

You stand. “I’ll do what you asked. But keep the personal shit out of it.”

Felix watches you with that same unreadable gaze. “Whatever you say.”

But you can tell he’s already rewriting the rules.

⋆｡°✩

You’d expected something bloodier.

Maybe it was the envelope. Maybe it was Felix’s eyes, the way he looked at you like you were already halfway his. Or maybe it was just the way his name lingered like a shadow behind every line of those new “terms.” Whatever it was, you thought there’d be blood. Screaming. A pipe wrench. Something straight out of a bad movie.

Instead, you’re standing outside a warehouse that looks too clean to be dangerous, which somehow makes it worse.

You glance down at the slip of paper again. One name. One address. Gallo. That’s all he gave you. No instructions. No backup. Just the duffel bag in your hand and a phone in your pocket that vibrated exactly once with a location pin and then went dead silent.

You should walk away. You should. But you think of Nora. Think of the groceries on the table this morning — not from your wallet. Think of the sharp suits you saw at your building’s entrance yesterday. Men who didn’t belong there. Men who made eye contact just long enough to remind you that you were being watched.

So you step inside.

The warehouse isn’t abandoned, but it’s not busy either. The air smells like oil and dust, and the lights overhead buzz faintly with age. You follow the sound of metal scraping across concrete until you see him — mid-40s, thick arms, cigarette tucked into the side of his mouth like it’s permanent.

“You Gallo?” you ask.

He looks up, unimpressed. “Who’s asking?”

You don’t answer. Just unzip the duffel and pull out the envelope inside — thick, sealed, and marked with the same insignia that was embossed into Felix’s letterhead.

He snorts. “About time.”

You hand it over. He rips it open, eyes scanning quickly. You can’t see the paper, but whatever’s written on it makes his jaw twitch.

“I paid last week,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You don’t move. Felix never said what to do after delivering the message. But you know better than to leave right away.

Gallo crumples the paper. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters. Then louder, “Tell Marino if he wants more outta me, he can come collect it himself.”

You exhale slowly. “I don’t think that’s how this works.”

He steps forward, chest puffed. “No? Then how does it work, ragazzo di merda?”

There’s a tension now — heavy and tight, like the moment before thunder. You don’t flinch, even when he gets close enough for you to smell the smoke on his breath. But your fingers twitch.

This isn’t a test of violence. It’s a test of restraint.

And you’re not sure which you’re worse at.

He laughs like he’s already won. Then, just when the silence threatens to stretch too far, he spits — right at your shoes.

You move fast. Maybe too fast. You don’t pull the knife, don’t throw a punch, but your hands are around his throat in a blink, and you shove him back hard enough that he slams against a shelf with a clang. A box of screws topples somewhere behind him.

“Try it again,” you say, low and even. “See what happens.”

You don’t remember drawing the knife.

All you remember is the way the air changed — thick, metallic, sharp with panic. One moment, Gallo’s guys were just shouting, posturing like men with too much testosterone and not enough brains. The next one of them rushed you. Pulled a gun. A warning shot, maybe. But it grazed your arm, and that was all it took to tip something inside you.

The rest is a blur. Screaming. A crash. A warm spray across your face that wasn’t your own.

You’re not trained for this.

You’re not supposed to be the guy standing in a warehouse full of broken bones and gasping, bloodied men, clutching a blade that’s slippery in your hand. You were a barista three years ago. A father. A husband, once.

But right now, you’re just a wreck. Shaking, breath jagged, body slick with sweat and blood — most of it not yours. The knife hits the floor with a metallic clatter. Your legs feel like paper.

The phone in your pocket buzzes once.

A location pin.

No words.

Your hands are still trembling as you stumble out into the alley, back pressed to the cool brick wall as your knees threaten to buckle. You press your palm to the wound on your arm, but you can’t even tell if it’s deep. All you can feel is the adrenaline, burning like acid through your veins.

The car pulls up exactly two minutes later.

Sleek. Black. Expensive in the quiet, menacing kind of way.

The passenger door opens, and Felix is already waiting inside.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then you climb in, dragging the bloodied duffel with you. You don’t speak. You can’t.

He says nothing at first. Just watches. His gaze skims your face, your hands, the splotches on your shirt. His nostrils flare, faintly. His jaw clenches.

Then his voice comes, low and velvety.

“You did well.”

You flinch.

Well?

Is this what “well” looks like?

You open your mouth to say something — anything — but it all dies on your tongue. You feel like you're floating outside yourself, like your body isn’t quite yours. Like you're going to pass out.

Felix notices. Of course he does.

He leans in, slow and deliberate. His hand moves to your jaw— firm, and tilts your face toward him.

“You’re shaking.”

No shit. You laugh — a broken, awful sound that doesn’t feel real.

Felix hums, then shifts in his seat. The partition behind you slides up without a sound, cloaking the two of you in soft shadows.

“I told you I wanted to see what you could handle,” he murmurs. “You didn’t disappoint.”

“I almost died,” you manage to whisper.

“Mm,” he says, thumb brushing along your cheek. “But you didn’t.”

You don’t realise your hands are clenched in your lap until he notices. He undoes your seatbelt. Leans down.

“I can help,” he says softly, fingers already trailing down your thigh. “Let me.”

You’re still bloodstained. You still feel sick. But your cock betrays you — twitching in your jeans under his touch like it doesn’t care that you’re half-feral from adrenaline and trauma.

He smiles faintly. Like he expected that.

“Poor thing,” Felix says, voice thick with amusement and something deeper. “All wound up. All that fear. All that pressure.”

His hand slides over the bulge in your pants, slow and possessive. Your breath catches.

“You’re shaking so much,” he murmurs. “You need to calm down. Just relax.”

You don’t. Can’t. But your hips twitch anyway.

Felix is patient. Cruel in his gentleness. His fingers undo your jeans with practised ease, and the second he wraps his hand around your cock— warm, firm, steady— you nearly choke on a gasp. The pleasure spikes sharply and fast, edged with guilt and something darker.

You shouldn’t want this. Not now. Not here. Not after—

“Don’t think,” he says quietly. “Just feel.”

Your head hits the seat behind you. Your hands tremble uselessly in your lap as he strokes you—not fast, not slow, just right. His thumb circles the head on every upward pull, milking soft, breathless moans out of you.

“You’ve been good,” he whispers, voice like velvet steel. “Brave. I take care of what’s mine.”

You don’t know when that happened — when you became his. But it’s too late now. His hand keeps working you through it, coaxing you toward a high you didn’t ask for but can’t stop chasing. Heat pools low in your belly. Your eyes squeeze shut. You’re going to—

“Come for me,” he breathes, leaning in. “That’s it. Let go.”

And you do.

It rips out of you like a sob. Messy. Shuddering. You curl in on yourself as your body wracks with release, nerves flayed raw.

Felix doesn’t flinch at the mess. He just wipes his hand, then guides your head down to rest against his shoulder. You’re still panting, still dazed, blood drying on your clothes — and he strokes your hair like you’re something precious.

Like you're his favourite broken thing.

⋆｡°✩

You leave the bathroom light on.

Not because Nora’s scared of the dark anymore. She’s been sleeping through the night since she was three. It’s for you.

You’re the one who wakes up in cold sweats now. You’re the one who flinches at door hinges creaking and cars idling too long outside the window. You’re the one staring at the nursery monitor like something might crawl through it.

There’s no crying. Just the soft hum of static.

She’s curled up on her side, one arm flung above her head, mouth open in that completely unselfconscious way only kids manage. Her stuffed bear is trapped beneath her chest like a casualty, and you don’t dare move it. You don’t dare move anything.

You sit on the edge of your bed, clothes still crusted in spots with things you scrubbed off hours ago. You’re not sure how you’re still breathing. Or why you are.

Your hands shake. Not like before—this is quieter. Numb.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. You don’t check it. You already know who it is.

You already know what he’ll say. Good work. I told you you could handle it. You’re not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or a warning.

The monitor hisses softly, then goes silent. You keep watching it anyway.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sooniebby @seomn

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drugsorgasmsandcheese · 3 months ago

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my womanhood has never been threatened by a trans woman. i have never felt threatened by the existence of trans people. i am disgusted and repulsed by the actions of the uk supreme court. trans rights are human rights.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tommy miller x reader #logan howlett x reader #tommy miller x you #pedro pascal characters #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x reader #uk politics #trans rights

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sooniebby · 7 months ago

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ఌ 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐄

w.c › 11k

plot › this Drabble I had, but expanded. And changed the ending for this part.

warnings › for all characters in the group — faceclaim. Bottom male reader. Age gap, reader is four years older than OC. Reader’s last name is Hong. Unreliable narrator. Slow burn, Mingi is the main romance but you do dabble with the other members.

kinks › body worship, cross dressing, size difference

Words to know › maknae (막내) — youngest. Hyung (형) — a term a younger male with call an older male. Dongsaeng (동생) — little brother/sister, doesn’t have to be a biological sibling/can be a friend. Aegyo(애교) — a way of acting cute in Korea culture.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

At the age of twenty-one, you thought had run out of time to debut. You did end up debuting with five other boys, as the leader no less. Of course being from a small company meant your debut wasn’t that big but it was better than nothing.

The group was called 미라클 (Miracle). The company wanted a boy group to sell a boyfriend fantasy to fans, especially female fans.

You and your group were even advertise as specific types of boyfriends.

Hong (Name), leader of Miracle had a nice ring to it. Advertised as the no-nonsense boyfriend, cold but caring.

박요한 (Park Yohan), sub vocalist and lead dancer of Miracle. Debuted at the age of twenty. Advertised as the athletic boyfriend, energetic and upbeat.

김기현 (Kim Kihyun), lead vocalist and main dancer of Miracle. He was the same age as Yohan. Advertised as the artistic boyfriend, writes music just for you (the fan).

박도하 (Park Doha), main rapper of Miracle. Debuted at the age of nineteen. Advertised as the bad boy, with a hidden heart of gold.

양효진 (Yang Hyojin), sub vocalist and lead rapper of Miracle, under the stage name Jin. Debuted at the age of eighteen. Advertised as the guitarist boyfriend, shy but sweet.

최민기 (Choi Mingi), main vocalist of Miracle. The maknae, debuting at age seventeen. Advertised as the golden retriever boyfriend, naive and well meaning.

With the two underage members, you were a bit worried about them being used to portray a fantasy. But any worries you had were always pushed aside. In the end you ended up trying to protect Mingi and Hyojin by yourself, and even the other members.

Which led to the first two years of your group to label you as “Miracle’s Dad.”

It didn’t bother you, though it did ruin the whole boyfriend image for you. Most of the fans could only really see you as the group’s parent, and by extension, their own.

The company ended up leaning into it. Follow the money or whatever.

The groups debut was school boy concept. It made sense though you felt weird being twenty-one dancing in a school uniform. Over time as the members grew older, the company allowed you guys to experiment to more mature music.

But the group really blew up when the group was four years old. You had turned twenty-five and basically begged the company to finally allow the group to have a sensual concept.

They refused, obviously. But they allowed the b-side that you’d guys promote be just a little bit sensual.

Embarrassing to say that you quickly leaned into it. You performed the b-side as if your rent was due. In the end it worked out for you.

Who knew acting sexual on stage would make people like you more. It also helped that you wore revealing clothes in comparison to everyone else. The stylist practically went to town with your outfit.

Skin tight leather pants that had a hole on your right thigh. A black crop top that showed off your stomach, a waist chain, and heavy black eye makeup. Most of all, a freaking choker that you purposefully played with during the performance.

In any case, your little performance helped bring Miracle more fans. The next fan meeting was sold out in just one day! A first for your group.

Which lead to today, the fan meeting.

“Are you going to wear a choker again?”

You flinched as a chin rest on your shoulder. Your eyes moved from your phone as you glanced over at Yohan, who had just finished makeup. Yohan gave you a cheeky smirk as you rolled your eyes and pushed him away.

“Why would I wear it for a fan meeting? The theme is costumes.” You said, checking the time. You were next to get your outfit and makeup down. The fan meeting had fallen on Halloween so the company took the chance to have you all dress up.

Yohan was a butler by the looks of it. His dyed pink hair slicked back, a pair of fake glasses on the bridge of his nose. He pulled out his phone, “you sure you don’t want to get a side account? The fans are funny as fuck.”

He’d been pestering you about seeing what everyone online thought about you but you weren’t exactly into that. Besides, it’s for the fans mostly, wouldn’t it be weird if you bothered them?

“Hong (Name).”

“Gotta go.” You said, getting up.

“I hope they put you in another choker!”

Yohan was right, you would be getting a choker again.

But not in the way you thought.

You stared in the mirror just as a few staff members told your group that the fans were here.

You were dressed a princess, Cinderella to be exact. Y’know, you expected something to go with the recent rise of your popularity. Something sexy, not this cute outfit. The blonde wig was cheap but still managed to look decent due to the stylist’s touches.

The dress was blue and puffy, somehow fitting you. It was knee length, possibly due to your height. There was a bit of tightness around your chest. Was this originally for a girl? You shook your head. There was a blue little choker that matched the light blue gloves you wore.

The shoes you wore were just sneakers, the stylist got lazy at the end. You had on white thigh highs that had a frilly top at the end. Despite your slight disappointment, you couldn’t lie that you were cute.

The stylist did perfect girlish make up on you, somehow managing to make your face look feminine. Oh well, you could cross off cross dressing on your bucket list!

“Looking good, Princess!” Yohan appeared behind you, grinning. Kihyun was right beside him, taking in your outfit.

Kihyun was a cowboy. His hat slipping down when he looked back up at you. “You look good, Hyung. Did you shave?” He pushed the hat back up.

“I usually shave.” You said, shrugging. “Hairless legs feel nice.”

Yohan hummed. “Hm,” he fixed your wig when it looked tilted. “Maybe I should shave. Hey, Kihyun, wanna help a hyung out?”

“Don’t even come near me.” Kihyun rolled his eyes, quickly walking away.

“Look at him… Our dongsaengs are so mean nowadays.” Yohan shook his head as he let out an exasperated sigh. You rolled your eyes and began to drag Yohan out to the back of the stage.

Everyone else was already there.

The staff motioned for you all to rush out onto stage one by one. The youngest went first. You almost felt nervous going out but stood tall as you walked out last.

The fans screams were almost deafening. You almost covered your ears subconsciously. Your lips twitched as you tried to fight back a smile, it was one of the few times they ever screamed that loud when you came on stage.

It was always Mingi or Kihyun, the most biased out of the group.

The fan meet went as it always does. Miras, Miracle’s fandom name, were excited to see the group. Little dances or karaoke performances of other groups songs. For the first time, fans actually called out your name to take more pictures of you.

Any nervousness you had over the dress was long gone by this point. You decided to let loose and get into the ‘princess’ persona. Doha was dressed a vampire so you posed together for the fan cameras.

“Bite him!”

“Bite him, Doha-Ssi!”

Doha glanced over at you. You could instantly tell the mischievous aura that was beaming from him as his lips slowly pulled into a smirk. Before you could even attempt to run away his hand grabbed your arm as he pulled you close.

Miras screamed as he playfully bit your neck. You squirmed as you could only laugh, reaching to push him away but he easily grabbed both of your wrists. He held them tight as he held his pose so the fan girls could take as many pictures as possible.

Finally he pulled away. You glared at him and quickly got your revenge by ‘accidentally’ hitting your knee against his crotch. Doha went down with a whimper.

Yohan quickly walked over, but not to help as he kneeled and took a quick selfie. “I hope they make memes of this!” He laughed, moving to sit on top of Doha’s back as the younger muttered out a short prayer for his crotch.

You glanced over to see what the other members were doing. Mingi was being told to do multiple poses while Kihyun and Hyojin were trying on different hand bands Miras had brought on. That gave you the idea to find one for yourself.

Hopefully it wouldn’t miss with your wig. Wouldn’t want to go bald on stage.

You were sitting on top of the table on the stage, grabbing one of the gifts that Miras brought in. As you debated between the cat ears or frog hat, a hand suddenly gripped your thigh.

Your body jumped as you glanced up to see who was touching you to see it was only Mingi. He was dressed in an ancient Korean costume, complimented with a Korean hat. It was no wonder the fans kept telling him to be an actor.

He looked straight out of a historical kdrama.

“Something wrong?” You finally asked, calming down when you realized it was just him. Weirdly enough he was covering you from the fans. Hm.

Mingi stared down at you, his face blank. His dyed blonde hair was pulled into a little bun to fit into the hat. Light makeup applied to his fox like features, red lipstick on his lips. You didn’t mean to but you stared at his lips for a moment before quickly looking back up.

His eyes narrowed in on your neck. You reached up to touch your neck and felt the teeth marks Doha left. Damn, you didn’t realize he had bitten that hard. Just as you glanced up at Mingi he was looking at your face.

“Your dress is short.” Mingi said, a grin pulling on his lips. But it didn’t reach his eyes. “You almost flashed everyone else.”

You gasped, glancing back at the fans. “Really?! Did they see anything?”

“No, I came just in time. They just…” Mingi glanced down at your thighs. The dress had ridden up to show off the bare skin of your thighs that weren’t covered by your socks. It was really close to showing the boxers you were wearing.

Mingi shook his head. “They didn’t see anything. Be careful next time, Hyung. Wouldn’t want anyone to… see you like this.”

“Thanks.” You simply said, giving him a little smile. Your lips pursed as you glanced back at the cat ears and frog hat. “Minnie, which one should I wear? Cat ears or frog hat?” You held up the two items.

He took the two from your hand before placing the cat ears back on the table. You made the attempt to reach for the frog hat, believing that’s what he chose for you until he stopped you.

You watched as he untied the hat he was wearing, taking it off before resting it on your head. He placed the frog hat on his head and then tied the Korean hat properly on you, making sure it was stable before pulling away.

“I wanted the frog hat. I think it’ll look better on me.” Mingi smirked. He fixed your dress, pulling it down to give you some modesty before stepping away to stop covering you.

“Ah…” You could only stare at him. That felt weird but you didn’t know why. He just wanted to switch hats. That’s all. You were making it weird.

He’s someone you have to take care of! You pinched yourself to push any weird thoughts in your head as you slipped off the table.

The rest of the fan meet was smooth sailing. Mingi didn’t bother you. Doha was mewing for the camera while Yohan would randomly start breakdancing for no reason. Kihyun and Hyojin were once again in their own little world.

Though they were nice enough to let you sit on the sideline. You sometimes wondered if they had something on side. In a hour or so the fan meet was done.

You all practically rushed to get home. While you loved interacting with fans, you always felt insanely tired after. There was always a certain persona you had to have—especially the one that the company had given you.

As you sat in the company van, you glanced over at Yohan. He was snickering at something on his phone. You leaned closer to see what it was.

It was a video of you hitting Doha in the balls. From the angle, it was so obvious it wasn’t an accident. As Yohan swiped down to the comments, so many fans were laughing. Lots of them saying Doha had to say goodbye to having children.

“It’s funny, right?” Yohan suddenly asked, looking up at you.

You flinched before nodding, not seeing the purpose of lying now. “Yeah, I guess. Is that all they do?”

“They do fan edits and even fan art. I found an edit of my breakdancing already.” Yohan showed the video. The edit made his dancing look cooler than it actually was. You rolled your eyes, of course Yohan would like it.

“You should really just take a look,” Yohan looked back down at his phone. “It’s cool seeing how they talk about us.”

The driver started the car as you glanced out the window. Maybe Yohan wasn’t wrong. It wouldn’t hurt to take a little peek at what Miras are doing.

Besides… you wanted to see if maybe Miras saw you outside of being ‘Miracle’s Dad.’

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

After taking a nice shower, you got dressed in some loose pajamas. Since Miracle was a four year group, the company finally allowed you all to not room in one apartment as six men.

Though they could only afford a three apartments, meaning you would still have to room with someone. The apartments were all on the same floor and right near each other. Meaning there were days your band mates would still bother you like a little kid.

Yohan and Doha were roommates.

Kihyun and Hyojin, unsurprising to everyone.

That left you and Mingi. You thought he would’ve been upset about that but he was calm. If you were delusional enough, you would’ve thought he was even happy.

But you aren’t delusional.

You could hear Mingi gaming in the living room. You almost attempted to go out and ask him to keep the volume down but just as you opened the door, the volume was already low. Hm, he was a smart guy.

With that settled, you turned on your colorful fairy lights and plopped down onto your bed. You responded to any text messages that came up when you got bored.

Your finger pressed on Twitter. You were logged onto the group’s official account. As you scrolled past what the company posted—you suddenly got the urge to see what the fans were doing.

Just for a second. Just for a little bit.

You got to work and logged out of the account, making a side account. To better infiltrate Miras, you made a small little fan account.

Perhaps you are a little bit conceited but you decided to use your own picture as the profile picture. You used one from the fan meet today. That blonde wig was really pretty on you, why shouldn’t you enjoy it a bit more?

After creating the account, you began scrolling through the more major fan accounts. There were of course a lot for Kihyun and Mingi. That much you expected it.

There were many viral tweets of Mingi in his costume. So many Miras squealing that he would make a perfect actor. One post had over 100k likes.

As you scrolled through the many posts of Miras saying they wanted to “bounce on that dick” you came across a profile that an ‘18+’ in their handle.

What could they be posting to have such an handle?

Curiosity got the best of you. You pressed in their account to check it out. The account had Yohan as their profile, an older one of him, possibly at your debut. It was named @hanniesmira

The first few posts were just of Yohan taken at the fan meet. Her captions were pretty sweet, you wondered how bad things could get. Until you came across a tweet she had of Yohan and Doha.

It was when Yohan had just finished his ridiculous breakdancing. You remembered Miras yelling for Doha to bite him since he was in arms length of him.

The caption read:

→ you cant tell me DH hasn’t fucked Yhn in this type of position before!!!

‘DH?’ ‘Yhn?’ Why did she censor their name like that? You didn’t question it and decided to see how she could possibly get this perverted idea of Yohan and Doha. The video started with Yohan standing up after his breakdancing, breathing heavily as he wiped at his face.

The Miras in the video began to tell Doha to quickly bite Yohan while he’s distracted. Doha gave them a thumb ups before inching close to an oblivious Yohan. Yohan seemed to notice something was wrong judging by the giggles from Miras.

He made an attempt to run when Doha delivered his attack. Two of Doha’s fingers easily hooked itself in Yohan’s belt hoops of his pants and pulled him back with ease. His free hand reached up and gripped Yohan’s chin as he harshly tilted his head to the right.

Doha delivered the quick bite into Yohan’s neck. Yohan winced as his free hand reached up and gripped Doha’s hair as he could only take Doha’s attack. The video ended just as Doha pulled away and Yohan turned to face him, an unreadable expression on his face.

Oh.

Okay you could see it. That was a bit…

You must’ve been daydreaming to not have noticed that oddly sexually charged interaction. So maybe this girl wasn’t crazy. Now intrigued, you decided to continue on.

There were other videos of the fan meet. Though she wasn’t just a Yohan and Doha solo fan. She retweeted a few posts of Kihyun and Hyojin.

Kihyun was leaning over to wipe something off Hyojin’s lips. You didn’t see how any of that was romantic but thought back to the fact you practically did that for every member multiple times.

You really did act like a dad…

Time passed as you started to sink deeper into the ‘NSFW’ side of Miras. You learned Miras ‘censored’ names to hide posts from the searches. Kihyun and Hyojin were a major couple, many fan fictions made about them. Almost every Mira agreed that they were secretly dating.

Yohan and Doha was a different story. It seemed most people fought over who would top.

Then there was other ships. Hyojin and Doha. Yohan and Kihyun. Kihyun and Doha. Hyojin and Yohan. Even with Mingi. Mingi was mostly shipped with Hyojin. You wondered why you weren’t showing up at much, feeling oddly left out.

Weird, you were wondering why no one was over analyzing your sex life!

Just as you were about to call it a night, you came across a post finally discussing you. Hanniesmira was quote tweeting someone else’s tweet.

→ Is this really yalls alpha daddy? Not with those omega eyes!!

Omega eyes?! You took a look at just what she was quoting. It was of your fan page. A gif of today’s fan meet. You were in the Cinderella costume, fixing your wig before looking up, grinning at the crowd. Whatever omega eyes meant, you kinda understood what she meant.

You certainly didn’t look anything like how you usually presented yourself.

As you looked at the comments, an account caught your eye. @itsokokok. The account had you as the profile picture. It was of you on stage for the sensual b-side you guys promoted. Much to your surprise, the account had over 78k followers.

It was getting late but you wanted to see what an account about you said. Were you the top? You hoped so.

It seemed the owner of this account was a guy! Shocking, it was the first male fan you came across.

The account was of you… and pretty much only you. He retweeted a lot of pictures of you in the Cinderella costume. Others of your performance in the infamous choker. Multiple gifs of you pulling at the choker as you stared at the camera. You never realized how dark the eye makeup was.

Clothes and makeup could really change how you looked. It was like night and day compared to the Cinderella costume.

@bluemuuun

↳ tip sticky…

@slipslickk

↳ oh but if I say Hong (Name) is a slut asking to be fucked I’m the bad guy?

@hanniesmira

↳ someone creampie this man!!!

@hyunkikii

↳ need him… need him bouncing on it…

@hyoojinie

↳ 143 entertainment knew to keep this (Name) away from me cuz imma about to defy the laws of biology and get this man pregnant

@dohasflatass

↳ yall should see how Min looked at him during the performance ㅋㅋㅋㅋ he was about to combust

You clicked on the account @dohasflatass was linking to. It was a Mingi fan account, judging by the account having him as their profile picture. The caption wasn’t something you expected, not in your wildest dreams.

→ min wants to fuck him so bad

The video had you delivering your killer move, tugging at your choker as you stared at the camera, biting your lip. It suddenly switched to Mingi. He was delivering his dance moves but his eyes laser focused on you. You hadn’t noticed because you were in the center.

Even though you didn’t think he wanted to fuck you, he was certainly staring at you like you were a three course meal.

The account, @mingihongi had other videos of Mingi supposedly staring at you when you never noticed. One that caught your attention was from today’s fan meet. It was when Doha had restrained you.

The camera zoomed into Mingi, who was standing not too far from you. He was staring straight at you and Doha. There was no subtlety to the anger on his face. His eyebrows furrowed as he gripped at the toy prop he was holding.

Another video was of when you were on the table. Your dress was riding up, your legs swinging absentmindedly as you tried to figure out what to wear. Just as the dress was about to uncover your boxers—Mingi was suddenly in front of you. The video quickly ended after that.

@hyoojinie

↳ someone jelly… forget shipping (Name) with anyone else ㅋㅋㅋㅋ min would murder them

@hanniesmira

↳ (name) shaves?! I need min to bite his thighs!!!

@hyunkikii

↳ alpha daddy my ass… that man is Miracle’s mommy and min’s slut

@hyoojinie

↳ real. (Name) is honestly more like a mom—good thing I love MILFS!!! ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

@dohasflatass

↳ if only people didn’t just see him as the ‘dad’.. they’re missing out on seeing min fight every fiber in on his body to not fuck his leader on stage

@slipslickk

↳ remember the live stream?? Min wanted that cookie so fucking bad ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

@dohasflatass

↳ which one ㅎㅎㅎ min always stares at (name) like he needs to fuck him or he’ll die

“Hyung.”

You squealed, tossing your phone across the bed as the door opened. Mingi walked in as he rubbed at his face. His eyes were struggling to say open as he moved over to your bed.

“Something wrong?” You asked, trying to forget what you just read. Miras were fucking freaky.

“Hm.” Mingi shrugged as he reached over and pushed you to lay back down. You didn’t fight him as you raised an eyebrow at his behavior. He turned off your nightstand as he crawled over you before plopping down on the bed beside you.

He yawned as he wrapped his arms around your waist and easily pulled you against his body. You flinched but did nothing to stop him. This was normal, he used to do this back during your pre-debut days. One time he got a nightmare and cuddled with you that night… after that you never refused him whenever he asked again.

Even if you knew he couldn’t be possibly having nightmares every night. He stopped saying he had a nightmare and just got comfortable in bed with you.

It had been awhile since he had done that after moving into this apartment. You assumed he had outgrown it being that he was twenty-one now and you twenty-five. But as he got comfortable, you couldn’t stop yourself from gently playing with a strand of his hair.

“Night, Minnie.” You whispered. He hummed before cuddling you closer.

Everything would be okay. Whatever Miras were talking about was rubbish. You were Miracle’s Dad and would continue taking care of them, especially the maknae.

He didn’t want you that way…

Right?

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

After your descent into madness only being two weeks ago, you unfortunately began to view Yohan and Doha a bit differently. You already thought Kihyun and Hyojin had a special bond but never with Yohan and Doha.

“We should do an Instagram live today.” You said, staring over at Yohan.

The two of you were in the dance practice room. Yohan had wanted to show you a few moves which led to you two being in there for over two hours. The man was a dance machine and you were too nice to tell him that you wanted to go home.

It was around 10:00 pm but it was a Friday night.

You grabbed your phone and opened the groups Instagram, @Yourmiracle, not waiting for Yohan to respond. Yohan plopped down beside you on the small couch that was in the room. He wrapped his arm underneath your waist and rest his head on your chest.

Yohan was naturally cuddly so you didn’t say anything, pressing the live button. It didn’t take long for Miras to immediately start rushing in.

“Hi hi~! Miras, I have a special gift for you today: Sweaty Yohan!” You grinned, panning your phone down to get Yohan in frame.

He rolled his eyes and used his free hand to push it away. You laughed and steady your hand, making sure only the top of his hair was in frame. Your hand absentmindedly began to play with his hair as you read the comments flooding in.

“Yohan’s hair looks fried?” You read, snickering when Yohan let out a disgruntled grunt. “Miras are saying you should do black hair for the next comeback.”

“If I do black I can’t die my hair ever again,” Yohan whined, burying his face into your neck.

You flinched at his sweat now touching your neck,“You’re sweaty!! Get off, Hannie.” Though you made no real attempt to push Yohan away.

→ Their boyfriends are gonna be so mad ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

One of the comments caught your eye. Boyfriends? Who could they be talking about? You began paying more attention as a few other comments either told the person to shut up or began joking around with them as well.

They did mean Doha? Maybe they just meant Yohan’s boyfriend would be mad.

Yohan suddenly yawned as he moved to sit up, his face fully showing now. He rubbed at his eyes before pressing his nose against your cheek.

“End the live I wanna go home now.”

“Haha, now you wanna go home?” You teased, “you had me here for almost two hours, just to show me some dance moves! You can sit still for thirty minutes.”

A displeased grunt left Yohan as he pulled away a bit, a pout on his lips. He was obviously trying to do puppy dog eyes at you. You rolled your eyes and shook your head, turning your attention back to comments.

“Hyungie…” Yohan whined again as he reached up and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His face was inches from yours—his nose brushed against yours, causing you to flinch. “Please..? For your favorite member?”

All you could really think about was the fact he wasn’t your favorite member. Not the fact that this could be viewed as oddly romantic.

“Who said you were my favorite?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. “My favorite is Hyo—!”

Yohan squished your face as he glared at you. Your lips were now puckered out, eyes wide as you stared at Yohan in shock. The phone was almost slipping out of your hand, forgetting all about keeping it steady.

“Really? I’m not your favorite?” Yohan whispered, his eyes gazing into yours. You blinked, wondering what on Earth was happening. Why was he so close?

Your body tensed as your spare hand reached up to grip at Yohan’s shirt as you felt your face heat up. “Han—”

“—what are you doing to my favorite hyung?��

The door to the room was pushed open, walking in was Doha and Mingi. Doha chuckled as he plopped down on the couch right beside Yohan. He wrapped his arm around Yohan’s neck and pulled him away from you.

Yohan released your face as you quickly pulled away, rubbing at your sore cheeks. Mingi didn’t say anything as he stood in front of you. He kneeled down, sliding his arms around your waist and underneath your legs, much to your shock.

A complaint was on the tip of your tongue as he easily manhandled you to move away from Yohan. Mingi sat down in the now free space, grabbing your phone that was still on live.

You could only watch as Doha and Mingi took over the live with a disgruntled Yohan in between them. There was something off about what just happened but you couldn’t explain why.

As your dongsaengs continued on, you couldn’t help but feel a bit… left out? Weird. You shook your head and sighed. Now you wanted to go home. Things were getting weird.

You turned over to face the three of them, scooting in close to Mingi. Doha was talking about what he did today while Mingi occasionally chimed in. Yohan was practically dozing off by now, his head resting on Doha’s shoulder.

Usually, you could just command the members and they’d do whatever you ask. Other times you would act ‘cute’ to get them disgusted enough to do whatever you want. Since you didn’t exactly feel like putting on the usual leader persona, you mustered up a disgustingly cute ‘aegyo.’

“Minnie~” you whispered, moving to rest your head on Mingi’s shoulder. His body flinched immediately with your touch. There was a slight sting in your heart at his reaction but you pushed through, using your hand to grip at his shirt as you gazed up at him.

You batted your eyelashes, pouting your lips. “I wanna go home… but not without you~” you let out a particularly high pitched whine before a little giggle spilled out. You’d rarely do aegyo as the leader that it was hilarious to yourself whenever you did, especially with the reaction your members usually gave you.

“Holy shit.” Doha suddenly said, catching your attention.

“Doha!” You said, your act long gone. “No cussing on live!” Just as you were about to reprimand him even more, Mingi ended the live swiftly. He slipped your phone in his pocket and sat up so fast you got whiplash for him. “Minnie—?”

Mingi grabbed your hand and pulled you up without any effort. You could only watch in shock as he tugged you out of the dance practice room. Doha was heard laughing behind you.

“Wait for us, lovebirds!”

Lovebirds?

“Minnie, was it that bad?” You asked, not bothering to pull your hand away as Mingi guided you to the company’s van to take you home. “I won’t do it again if it bothered you—!”

You squealed as Mingi suddenly turned around, his hands now grasping your shoulders as he stared down at you. Wait, when did he get taller? Were you always shoulder height in comparison to him?

“Don’t.” Mingi said, his grip tightening. “Don’t stop. I liked it.”

Your eyes widen as you stared at him. Like? He liked it? Your cheeks flushed before you pushed away any weird thought in your head. “Haha, yeah, it’s funny seeing someone like me do aegyo, huh?”

Mingi’s eyes narrowed as he was about to speak until Doha walked outside with Yohan on his back. Yohan was knocked out cold as he snored. Doha walked over to you two and smirked, ignoring the glare Mingi sent his way.

“Too slow, Mingi. Better luck next time~!” Doha chuckled, going over to the van as the driver opened the door.

“Hm?” You asked, tilting your head. “Next time for what..?”

Mingi shook his head, releasing his grip on you. “Nothing. Let’s go. It’s late.” He pulled out your phone and handed it over to you. “You said you’ll only go home with me.”

You blushed. “Ah, yeah. Let’s go home.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

It wasn’t even a full hour when the NSFW side already had photos and clips of the live. You were going to sleep as soon as you got home but was itching to see what was happening online.

Unsurprisingly it was mostly of Mingi. You understood why, he was handsome. Even barefaced he looked like a god in comparison to you. But even then you couldn’t help but feel bitter.

You decided to visit the accounts you got to know from before. They were mostly talking about the little Doha and Yohan moment. It was actually pretty sweet.

A few talked about Yohan’s weird attack on you but mostly on how dominate he was. Just gushing about how sexy he was, nothing about you.

You almost just went to bed when you came across a post of you and Mingi.

It was of your aegyo. Through the video you got to see Mingi’s face as you touched him. It was different than what you had originally thought. You had thought he was annoyed or even disgusted by your actions… but in the video that couldn’t be further from the truth.

His eyes practically laser focused on you as soon as you rested your head on his shoulder. Mingi’s free hand twitched, almost reaching over to touch you before quickly resting back down on his lap.

It’s after you say you wanted to go home with Mingi that his jaw tightens and the live ends immediately.

That doesn’t make sense, why did you affect him that much?

You scrolled through the comments before seeing one that made you pause.

→ he’s so fucking cringy… why does he keep bothering Minnie like that? He’s not even cute like Hyojin

Huh. Your first ever hate comment… that you’ve seen. You couldn’t help but want to defend yourself but you didn’t need to. A few Miras had already taken to defending you against the other so called Mira. You sighed and turned off your phone, knowing that if you stayed any longer you’d go too deep into the rabbit hole of hate spewed against you.

You tried to ignore the words you read, knowing that the thoughts of someone you don’t know doesn’t matter. But it’s easier said than done. Just as you begin wallowing in self pity, your bedroom door opens.

Mingi slips into your room, making no attempt to explain himself as he gets on your bed. He almost goes straight to bed before seeing your face. His sleepy demeanor is gone as he sits up, reaching over to turn on the lamp on your nightstand.

Your eyes squint as you cover the bright light with your hand, “Minnie, warning next time.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm..? What do you mean?”

Mingi frowned. “Your face. You look upset. What happened?”

“It’s nothing. I just… I just y’know, poked into fan territory.” You said, deciding to just leave it at that.

“Why do you care about what they think?”

“They’re our fans, they support us.”

Mingi rolled his eyes, “so? Just because they give us their money, they get to talk shit about us? What did you read?”

Your lips pursed as you looked away, not wanting to continue the conversation. But you had no choice as Mingi reached over and grabbed your face, turning your head to face him again. What’s with it and people grabbing your face?!

“Tell me, Hong (Name).”

If you weren’t shocked you would’ve reprimanded him for saying your name without any honorifics.

“Someone… said that I’m cringy. It’s silly, I know. But I’ve… I’ve noticed that not many Miras like me, haha.” You bit your lip, feeling tears well in your eyes. “It’s nothing serious but I wish.. I wish they liked me like they like you.”

The embarrassment began to rise in your chest as you wanted to hide underneath the covers.

“Stop caring about what they think.” Mingi said, his thumb wiping at the tear that managed to escape down your cheek. “Only care about what I… our group thinks about you.” He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours as you sniffled.

“Okay. Okay.” You whispered, letting out a laugh. “It’s so bad, I’m crying to the maknae about something so trivial.”

Mingi didn’t share that sentiment. His gaze harden as his brows furrowed, “you always do this.” He suddenly said.

“What—?”

“—you just view me as the maknae. I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m not a kid.”

“I.. I know but I’m just used to taking care of you..”

“Well stop.” He said it with such finality that it caused you to panic. What did he mean stop? Did he.. did he not need you anymore?!

“Stop..? But.. but…”

“Let me take care of you.” Mingi whispered, causing your breath to hitch. You didn’t get to question him as his lips pressed against yours. Your eyes widen as you reached up and gripped at his shirt, unable to put in the effort to push him away.

Why were you keeping him so close?

Mingi’s soft kiss felt as if he was fearful to really touch you. But as he noticed you weren’t putting up a fight, he immediately deepened the kiss. His lips claimed yours as he hungrily kissed you, one of his hands sliding down to reach underneath you and grip your ass.

You gasped into the kiss, allowing his tongue to slip in with ease. Your hands pathetically gripped at his shirt as you could only go through with the motions. Mingi seemed so experienced, did he kiss people before?

But you wouldn’t know…

Mingi was your first kiss.

Hong (Name), twenty-five years old who hasn’t so much as held hands romantically with someone.

You’d never imagine your maknae would be your first kiss. Especially for him to take the lead like this.

When his hand suddenly moved to your pajama pants, you quickly regain control over yourself. You pulled away from the kiss and gripped Mingi’s hand. The kiss practically took your breath away as you stared up at him.

Mingi didn’t look embarrassed at all, he looked relieved. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while now.”

You blushed. “H..Huh? Mingi, what are you saying?”

“I like you. I’ve liked you for years. But you always kept me at a distance.” He said, leaning in close to press a chaste kiss on your lips. You wished you could say you hated it. As he pulled away, he looked you in the eye before smiling. “It’s ok. I don’t expect a response right now.”

“Response..?”

Mingi only hummed. “But now I’ll do what I’ve always wanted to do.” He pulled away from you.

You watched as he got up from the bed. “Where are you going?”

“To take care of something. Go to sleep, Hyung.” Mingi said, giving you slight grin as he left your room.

It didn’t take a genius to know what he was referring to. Your cheeks felt hot as you glanced down at your own crotch, checking to see if it was hard. Luckily you didn’t get hard from a simple kiss.

But Mingi did…

Was he.. was he that excited about finally confessing?

You cursed to yourself, lying down on your bed. You were going to need a few days.. weeks even to make sense of this.

The boy you took care for four years straight just told you that he never thought of you as an older brother figure. He wanted you romantically.

That means… this entire time, you’ve been reading the relationship wrong!

Fuck, what if you had the wrong idea about how your other relationships with the group was like?

You weren’t going to be able to sleep tonight!!

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

You haven’t been able to sleep in general. It had only been two weeks since Mingi’s confession and he hasn’t acted out of character since. Sure he was a bit more touchy but he acted relatively normal. You wondered if you dreamt that night.

The other members could immediately tell something happened but you weren’t privy to their conversation.

Seemed like they had a group chat without you.

You certainly weren’t feeling left out, no way.

The group was holding a small little fan meeting outside the company. It was something the company did occasionally to allow people that couldn’t pay for real fan meetings to see you guys.

Perhaps one of the few good things your company did.

Since it wasn’t a real fan meeting you all just dressed in your regular outfits and really had no set plan on what to do.

While you liked it the whole outside fan meets, you soon started dreading them. You were always left on the side lines. Although Kihyun and Mingi were the most popular—Doha, Yohan, and Hyojin still had people calling their name.

You hardly had people call your name. But it was okay. You were the leader, you were strong. Though it honestly felt like Miras didn’t see you as a member but as a manager.

How they got to this conclusion was beyond your comprehension but the company actually tried to fix this. However that hardly helped. Yohan had believed it was because of the stupid persona they assigned to you didn’t fit your personality at all.

And while you agreed, the company wasn’t going to change your branding. So long as Miras didn’t hate you—you’d just have to deal with being ignored.

So, here you were, outside in the large courtyard the company had blocked off for the fan meet. There was a slight barrier between you and Miras as extra security since the fandom had grown heavily compared to last time.

There were way more Miras than last time. Especially more male Miras. The fanbase was majority girls, so it was shocking to see guys.

You stood in the center right between Kihyun and Hyojin. Miras were asking short questions for each member but you were getting skipped repeatedly. Hyojin seemed to notice based on the glance he gave you when they skipped you to ask him another question.

��(Name) Hyung,” Hyojin said, holding the mic up to his face as he gave you slight grin. His black hair was brushed back into a cute little ponytail. “Do you know any girl group dances?”

He gave the question directed to him to you. You couldn’t help but grin. He was your favorite for a reason, though you really loved each member equally.

You pursed your lips as you exaggerated your body language, “hmmmm, maybe~? Do you wanna see Hyung dance?”

“Waaah!” Yohan suddenly yelled into his mic, “dance, dance!! I wanna see!”

Kihyun hummed in agreement. “Dance for us, Hyung.”

They all suddenly gave you some space, making you realize they were serious. You glanced over at Mingi who was watching you like a hawk. His gaze was so intense that you quickly looked away.

You pulled off your trench coat, earning a teasing whistle from Doha. Kihyun took your coat for you as you walked over to the manager who was controlling the speaker. As you whispered the song to him, you walked back to the center and tried to fight back any embarrassment.

You danced in a choker for god sakes, you can do do a short little dance for a crowd of 100 people.

As the song started, Miras went silent in shock.

Miniskirt by AOA.

You immediately began the dance to the chorus, trying your best to fight the urge to laugh. The song cut off after you finished the chorus. It was embarrassing to say the least as you grabbed your mic from off the ground.

Before you could even say anything, Miras immediately began screaming. You shook your head as Kihyun handed over your coat.

“Sexy, Hyung~” Yohan teased, walking over to you as he wrapped his arm around your neck. “When did you learn that dance?”

“You’re not the only one who learns dances in his spare time.” You answered, grinning when Yohan pouted in response.

“Hyung is getting too sexy,” Kihyun suddenly said, “we’ll have to leash him soon.”

Mingi hummed in response, his gaze right on you, “I’ll have to tame him.”

Tame? You blushed at Mingi’s words. Why did he only say I?! If any of the other members noticed, they didn’t say anything. Doha immediately took over with the next question.

The rest of the hour was spent with other silly stuff. You would get a bit more questions this time around which was nice. Yohan and Mingi were now on either side of you.

Yohan still had his arm around your neck, occasionally giving his own questions over to you.

Mingi would just ignore the question to ask you something instead.

It was rounding near the end of the meet, the temperature beginning to drop. You subconsciously pressed closer to Yohan for some warmth. Yohan was only two inches taller than you.

Almost everyone had grown taller than you despite you not noticing.

“Miras, thank you for coming to see us. We have a special announcement coming next week, I hope you’re ready!” You said, grinning.

Miras began yelling out “I love you” to their own bias. This was always your least favorite part, you usually never got anything. It was always so awkward when it was your turn and they ended just giving you a pity “I love you.”

But this time, when it was your turn, it was hardly silent.

A male voice yelled, “사랑해요, (Name)-Ssi♡♡♡!!!”

You stared into the crowd in shock as you tried to see which guy it was before another guy yelled out “I love you” to you. A few more guys yelled it right after them as you felt your lip quiver.

Your eyes welled with tears as you tried your best to deliver a quick “thank you,” only to end up whimpering into the mic instead. You were already crying as Yohan patted your back, tugging you closer.

“Aigoo, you’re so emotional, Hyung.” Yohan joked, though his hand was comforting on your back. You sniffled in his shoulder before wiping at your face. The idea that you’d cry over something so small felt like a sick joke, but here you are.

When you finally parted from Yohan to say goodbye, a hand slipped into yours. You looked over to see Mingi staring straight ahead. His hand tightened around yours.

You almost felt like crying again, which you did. Yohan took over to say the final goodbyes once he realized you couldn’t say anything now.

Mingi kept his grip on your hand tight as you all walked back into the company building. He didn’t let go even when you attempted to pull away.

“Are you okay, Hyung?” Hyojin asked, handing you a tissue. You graciously accepted it and wiped at your face. You did not want to know how pathetic you looked right now.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen guys at our fan meet,” Doha laughed, shaking his head. “Looks like they only came for you.”

You blew your nose before looking over at Doha, “what do you mean?”

“They didn’t say anything for us.” Kihyun said. “They only cared about you.”

They only came for you…? That didn’t—

“(Name), Gaeul and I need to talk with you for a minute.”

You looked back to see your manager walking over to you. His name was Dawon. He was only one year older than you, your only hyung. Miracle had two managers, Dawon and Gaeul. The company thought having Dawon was good, since he was close in age.

Gaeul was near the door, nodding her head as she motioned for you to come over. She was older but only in her mid thirties.

Mingi’s hand suddenly tightened its grip when you made the attempt to pull away. You glanced back over at him, tilting your head. Mingi was staring straight at Dawon, a strange scowl on his face.

What could he be angry about?

Dawon only rolled his eyes. “It’s just a business talk. C’mon, (Name).” He didn’t wait to see if you were coming as he walked over to Gaeul.

“Minnie, let go.” You said, reaching down to gently pry Mingi’s hand away. He subconsciously tightened his grip before pulling away as if he was burned.

Before you could even question why he was acting so strangely, Doha wrapped his arm on Mingi’s shoulder. “We’ll wait for you in the van.”

The others waved as they walked away. It took a minute before Doha could properly pull Mingi away. You only watched, wondering what was happening to your maknae. So weird.

You shook your head and walked over to Dawon and Gaeul. They stopped whatever conversation they had to look over at you. Dawon was good at hiding his emotions so you knew not to look at him for any answers.

Gaeul however was practically bouncing on the ball of her heels. “(Name)! I have good news for you.” She said, a grin spread on her lips.

“What is it?”

“So,” she started, clearing her throat. “You know how I’ve been trying to get the company to stop with the ridiculous boyfriend marketing… and while I haven’t gotten anywhere—they are changing the marketing for you specifically!”

You glanced over at Dawon who only nodded. “Change my marketing? Why are they changing their mind?”

“Because of this!” Gaeul pulled out her phone and showed a picture. It took a minute before you could properly understand what the picture meant.

It was of a list, a ranking of male idols favorited by gay/bisexual men. And you were in top twenty?!

“None of the members ever made it to the top fifty but you shot up to top twenty in only three weeks!” She squealed. “Ever since the whole choker performance, your fancam went viral outside of Miras space and hit it within the gay men community.”

Dawon hummed. “They found you sexy mostly.” He pulled out his own phone to show you something. “The sales of your solo photo book sold out quickly, even though you were usually the one to have more than half left.”

You tried not to be upset at Dawon’s slight dig. It wasn’t like he was wrong.

“But!” Gaeul cut in, the excitement not leaving her face. “They don’t only find you sexy, they find you cute!”

“Was it because of the Cinderella costume?” You asked, frowning slightly.

“No. Well they did like that but someone started posting old videos of you before the company started making you tone down your personality—they love your real personality the most! Almost everyone can tell you’re not stoic at all.” Gaeul hummed.

“Okay…” you muttered, slightly happy at it seemed people could appreciate the real you.. but still, it wasn’t like it was Miras. “Well how are they changing my marketing?”

Dawon patted your back. “They’re making you do a special stage in a month for the comeback.”

“Like a solo song..?”

“Yup! It’s technically a test to how well solo songs in albums will do but also to see just how much these fanboys will do cheer you on.” Gaeul grinned. “Aren’t you excited?! You no longer have to put on a fake act anymore for the cameras.”

“Though it’s not like you were exactly good at it,” Dawon laughed, poking your cheek. “You could only keep the persona for a second before cracking. You’re too sweet.”

You blushed, pushing his hand away. “How will the boys feel about this..? I don’t want to do anything to strain our relationship, it only feels like recently that they’ve…”

“I’ll talk to them.” Dawon said. “I was the one to tell them about you first anyway, I can do it again.”

Gaeul nodded. “I think they’ll be happy for you. Besides you’ve guys done solid stages before when preforming other people’s songs, this time you’re preforming an original song. You’ll finally get solo activities!”

Your ears peaked up at that. Solo activities? Almost everyone else had attended an event or interview by themselves at least once. You had none…

Maybe this was your big break..? Not to leave the group, but to finally not feel like a filler member?

“Anyway,” Gaeul said, breaking your thoughts. “You’ll learn more when we get close to the mini album promotion. All I know is that you’ll preform the solo song before the album comes out to draw out hype.”

That made your heart drop to your ass. You..? You alone?! No one way the company was going to use you to draw out hype. It felt whiplash—the filler member to being used for promotion.

You needed to rest and cry and laugh in excitement and fear.

After promising to not tell the other members until Dawon did, you walked to the van outside. The members didn’t seem to care about what happened or at the very least knew you probably wouldn’t tell them.

You moved to sit down beside Hyojin, putting on your seatbelt. However, just as the driver was about to drive, Mingi suddenly made Hyojin switch seats so now he sat in the middle, you right beside him.

Mingi didn’t say anything as he just pulled out his phone and typed away. You could only stare at him before shaking your head, unable to stop the slight smile on your lips.

He was so clingy.

The drive was quick as you all made it back to the apartment complex. Everyone immediately went to their room, ready to drop dead and sleep.

Mingi seemed to want to take care of you tonight as he decided to cook instead of ordering takeout.

As you watched him cook, being forced to sit down in the dining room when you tried to help, you couldn’t help but wonder why Mingi liked you. You didn’t believe you treated him any different from the others.

Each member had a cute nickname that you gave them.

Hannie for Yohan.

Hyunnie for Kihyun.

Dodo for Doha, (he hated it).

Jinnie for Hyojin.

Minnie for Mingi.

You would take each of them out for solo dinner dates once a month, speaking of which you need to plan them before September ends. Each of them got a thoughtful gift for their birthdays. You gave each of them affection, if they wanted, Doha wasn’t exactly into skinship.

What was it that made Mingi fall for you?

Was it your looks? But you were never complimented on your looks. Past companies even refused you because you didn’t have the ‘idol looks’ despite being a great singer and dancer.

Maybe he just wrongly assumed that he had romantic feelings for you… Yeah, that makes more sense.

No way someone like Mingi could ever—

“—stop thinking.”

Your back straightened up as you felt Mingi’s breath tease the tip of your ear. You stayed still, waiting to see what he was planning to do. How did he even know you were thinking?

“I can’t leave you alone with your thoughts for too long,” Mingi muttered, sighing softly. “You always manage to destroy any self worth I try to build within you.”

“How’d you…?” You whispered.

“There’s a certain face you make.” He said. “It’s obvious now—to me at least. I don’t know about the others. I usually pay attention to you alone.”

“Only me?”

Mingi pulled away from you, walking back to the kitchen. You didn’t even hear him walk over to you. He really was a light walker. Mingi came back after a minute or so with a bowl of noodles. It wasn’t anything extravagant—you guys needed to go grocery shopping.

“Eat, Hyung.” Mingi said, handing you a pair of chopsticks. “I’ll be sad if you don’t eat everything.” A smirk pulled on his lips as you grabbed the chopsticks.

Of course he’d guilt trip you. Hopefully the noodles are good.

Mingi sat down across from you, watching you eat.

“Where’s your bowl?”

“I’ll eat after you.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“So I can watch you. You’re cute when you eat.”

“Cute—?!”

“Mhm,” he hummed absentmindedly. “I don’t know why the company made me the ‘golden retriever boyfriend’ it suits you more.”

“The whole assigned personality traits we were given were so stupid.” You said honestly. You always made a point to never talk badly about the company in front of the others. But you thought back to what Mingi had said, he wasn’t a kid anymore.

Maybe you needed to change how you treat him. While he hasn’t directly complained, he must be upset about you treating him as if he was still the clueless naive seventeen year old.

But then you’d have to grapple with the thought that he’d never need you anymore…

That’s all you were good for, being needed? The company had said that you were the last member to be added. They just needed an extra vocalist and you were the only trainee that could carry a high note without straining. You were last place then just like now. Perhaps you’re just scared.

Scared that Mingi and everyone else will realize how much better they would be without you.

“I thought I told you to stop thinking.”

You blinked as you glanced up, seeing an irritated Mingi. He sighed and rolled his eyes. The thought of upsetting him made you forget all about your own self pity. You placed your chopsticks down and stood up, walking over to his side of the table.

Mingi glanced up, raising an eyebrow. He pushed out of his chair but just as he was going to stand up you placed your hand on his shoulder. Despite the confusion on his face, he followed your silent order.

His body was now fully facing you as you knelt down, inches from his legs. Mingi flinched as his eyes widen. In the moment, you weren’t thinking about how he’d take this position.

All you could think about was when you knelt down to him before, back before you all debuted. It was possibly the only time you were ever truthful to him concerning your emotions.

Your hand reached out and grasped his leg, your eyes gazing up at him. “I’m sorry, Mingi. I… I don’t think I can tell you everything now but it’s not your concern that I am this way.”

“Hyung—”

“—let me finish.” You interrupted him. “I put myself on pause when we debuted because I knew I was only there to fill in an extra spot. But I thought that if I took great care of you guys, you all would like me, maybe even appreciate me.. but then I started to like taking care of you guys. I love you all so much but then learning Miras don’t even think about me hurts so much.

“I wish I didn’t care about what others think but watching you and everyone else get the love you deserve… I just want it too.” You finished, resting your head on the inner part of Mingi’s leg.

Mingi flinched but his hand soon brushed against your face. “What about my love?”

You glanced up at him. “Your love..? Mingi, I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t deserve it from you—not someone as special as you.”

“You’re putting me on a pedestal. It’s so fucking annoying.” Mingi sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Pedestal..?”

“Hyung, you’re special to me.” He reached down and grabbed your hand, staring right at you as you blush. “Being by your side of four years, I learned so much about you, that I—”

You quickly press your free hand against Mingi’s mouth, silencing him. He stared at you in disbelief before narrowing his eyes. That word. He was going to say it. It was different hearing it from fans—to hear it from Mingi felt like a joke.

“Don’t… not.. not yet.” You whispered, biting the bottom of your lip.

Mingi released his grip on your other hand as he reached up, grasping your wrist. He stared right at you just as you felt a tongue tease the palm of your hand. You gasp and try to pull away but his hand tightens around your wrist.

His gaze doesn’t soften as he presses soft wet kisses on your hand. You can only whimper and watch. He trails a kiss up to your wrist before reaching your arm.

You blush, feeling his lips now trail up your arm. He left light bites, occasionally suckling on the skin. Your lower body flinched as you tried to pull your arm away. But his grip doesn’t loosen. In fact, he tugs you even closer.

Your body slipped further between his legs as he reached the tip of your shoulder. He wasted no time before tugging you to stand up. His hands grip your waist before you could attempt to pull away.

His hands gently push your shirt up as he pressed a wet kiss on your stomach. “I can just show you how much I appreciate you.”

“Mingi…” You whimpered, your eyes widening.

“Mhm?” He chuckled. “C’mon, let me do this.”

Mingi returned to leaving soft kisses on your stomach, biting at your skin. One of his hands grasping your jeans as he unbuckled it. Your hands gripped at his shoulders as you simply watched him pull your pants down enough for your boxers to be free.

His hands eagerly grabbed a handful of your ass, kneading it. “It’s is fat…. Those pants they put you in flatten your ass, Hyung.”

“Mingi…! Don’t—!”

“—Don’t what?” His hands grasp your briefs as the sound of fabric tearing filled the room.

You shrieked, attempting to pull away but that didn’t work with Mingi’s arms around your hips. He hummed in satisfaction as he tore the rest of your briefs off. The torn briefs fell to your feet as you stood half nude in front of your maknae.

This had to be a joke!

“You’re smaller than I thought.” Mingi suddenly said.

“Smaller?!” You cried out, feeling a sharp hit at your self-confidence. While you knew you might’ve been on the smaller side—hearing someone else say it wasn’t exactly nice.

A kiss on your cock caused you to flinch, watching as Mingi kissed the entirety of your lower half. Right on your hips and close to your inner thighs.

“So pretty, Hyung.” He whispered against your skin. “Pretty just for me.” His hands grasped your hips as he licked the tip of your cock.

You whimpered, biting your lip as you gripped at his shirt. Your first ever blowjob by your maknae… holy shit.

The thought should’ve made you throw up but instead you were feeling anything but.

“Wait, wait..” You whined pathetically just as Mingi began to suck on your tip. Your body tensed as a strained moan left your tightly closed lips. Mingi pulled away, watching as your cock began to leak before pathetically cumming.

The cum dripped onto the floor as you took a deep breath, embarrassment rising in your chest. Holy shit, you came… you came before anything really happened!

You tried to rationalize it to yourself. You’ve never even held hands with a partner and while you masturbated, you had never been touched by someone else.

But Mingi wouldn’t have known that! And you weren’t exactly eager to tell your maknae that you were an inexperienced virgin… especially that he was your first kiss.

“Hyung…”

You glanced down at Mingi, ready for him to look at you weirdly when your breath hitched. He was staring at you like you were a full course meal. It reminded you of the video of you dancing on stage while he watched.

“Are you… inexperienced?” He asked, obviously trying to not embarrass you. His grip subconsciously tightened on your waist when you tried to move away.

“S..So what if I am..” you whispered.

Mingi smirked. “I thought you just knew how to hide your partners.. but you really were celibate.”

“S..So..? It’s not a big deal..” you wanted to put some clothes on now. “It’s nothing serious, I mean I gave you my first kiss.”

Time seemed to stop after your confession.

His grip felt harsh, nails digging into your skin.

“I’m… Hyung.. you don’t know what this information does to me.” He whispered, pressing his head against your stomach. Now that you couldn’t see his face, you wondered if he was upset.

It took a minute before he sighed, pulling away, staring right up at you.

“I’m going to fuck you, Hyung. But I need to get you ready for that.”

“Huh?!” You cried out, blushing heavily. “R..Ready?! Why?”

Mingi’s jaw tightened. “Because if I fucked you right now, especially with how inexperienced you are, I’ll scare you away… and I can’t fuck you tonight because I want you to choke on my dick.”

You sputtered, eyes widening. “Choi Mingi!”

“Hong (Name).” He smirked. “I’ll get you ready for me, Hyung… and once you’re ready..”

His teeth brushed against your skin as you flinched, unable to pull away due to his death grip.

“I’ll ruin you so that you won’t want to taste anyone else but me.”

Your sweet and innocent maknae was nothing like himself back when he was seventeen. Those stupid NSFW accounts were fucking right! He did want you.

You were screwed.

Literally, but you seemed to be making no effort to truly stop him.

Four years ago

Choi Mingi didn’t like you at first. How could he when Miracle was set to debut as five? He was already close to his other hyungs, why does he need another one? Especially one that was taking away half of his lines in the debut.

The other members, besides Hyojin, were also not too keen on your late addition to the group. Hyojin just didn’t care all that much in general.

Yohan was the most angry, he was the leader and now he was losing it to you! Someone he didn’t even know.

The first meet the group was going to have with you was with the choreographer. Luckily they hadn’t started teaching it but the choreographer had to change it to accommodate six people.

Mingi was particularly angry as they got to the practice room. He walked into the room only to notice the others seemed oddly quiet..? At seventeen he was still a bit short so he had to push through to the front to see what the commotion was.

And.. woah? From what he had heard from other trainees, you were supposedly ‘ugly’ in the company’s eyes, that’s why you hadn’t debuted.

But uh, he didn’t understand that at all seeing you front of him. You were cute, so fucking cute as you laughed at whatever the choreographer said to you.

Through the entire dance practice/meeting, he watched you like a hawk. Everyone except Hyojin didn’t say anything to you. Hyojin acted normal and treated you like a person, not some enemy.

But Mingi was stubborn—he wasn’t going to talk to you. He plopped down on the couch during the short break, pulling out his phone only for it to slip onto the ground. He groaned, sitting with his legs far apart as he tried to gain the willpower to get his phone.

However he didn’t need to when you kneeled down between his legs, grabbing the phone. You handed it over to him. Your eyes gazing up at him as you gave him a slight smile, obviously a bit nervous.

To think that the company said you didn’t have an ‘idol image!’ You were so handsome—no, cute. You were so cute that Mingi wondered if you’d end up getting the golden retriever persona he was given. It would suit you so much more than him.

Mingi reached over to take his phone from your hand. You leaned in closer, your free hand moving to rest on Mingi’s leg when you almost lost your balance. Mingi’s body tensed as he felt your warmth, of course he had to wear shorts.

“Sorry, Mingi-Ssi.” You said, your voice soft and sweet. Your singing voice was probably perfect. After handing over his phone, you stood up and walked over to Hyojin.

Mingi quickly closed his legs now that you were gone.

He had a fucking boner.

Yall don’t even gotta ask. Writing part 2 immediately, it’s a slow burn in that there’s not gonna no penetration sex just yet. Part 2 gonna have more cross dressing/NSFW tweets, this lowkey is a setup lmaoo

Tag list:

@secretivemessenger @euthymiko @the-ultimate-librarian @chill-guy-but-cooler @star-3214 @cherry-blossoms-187 @rhetorical-conscience @mooncarvers-world @remdayz @tomoeroi @ofclyde @iwishtobeacrow @smellwell @kiiyoooo @mello-life25 @tehyunnie @yuzuukix @bensontrechic @glittervame @love-kha1

#bottom male reader #x male reader #sub male reader #uke male reader #male reader #oc x reader #mlm ns/fw #smut drabble #male bottom reader #original character

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servicpop · 7 months ago

Text

family trip adrien ( deliquent oc ) x bttm m reader

ⓘ established relationship au

Through the excessive amount of visiting each other's houses almost everyday of the week, it was only natural that your families would grow close.

It wasn't a surprise when you received a pretty little invitation by Adrien to come join him and his family on a small trip to the coast. Since you had nothing better to do that weekend, you gladly accepted. Adrien brought up his family's van and offered you a ride in which you also agreed.

You never thought to ask Adrien about his family, assuming it was a topic he didn't particularly like as he never talked about them anyways. So seeing two little girls and a young boy that were the splitting image of Adrien if not his parents. They were a rather rowdy bunch as Adrien's mother rounded up the little troublemakers into the 2nd row of the van while her husband was busy packing things into the trunk.

“Why didn't you tell me you had siblings? And so many,” You question, turning to Adrien who seemed to be on his last straw trying to get his siblings to calm down.

“Didn't think I seemed like an only child,” he quipped.

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes when Adrien's mother walks up to you. She's gorgeous, straight nut brown hair, short and slim like a doe. It's strikingly different from Adrien's rough appearance.

“Oh dear, it seems like there's only one chair left,” Mrs Castillo's voice is like a hydrating balm to the soul as she places a hand on her cheek.

You open your mouth to propose a solution — as the responsible person you are — but you're acutely cut off by prince charming himself.

“He can sit on my lap, no problem.” You can see the relieved expression Adrien's mother carries before she walks off into the passenger's side of the van, leaving you absolutely speechless.

“Since when did I agree to that?” You sigh, but it's ultimately the only solution you can think of on the spot.

Adrien slips into the back seat first, getting himself comfortable before patting his thighs. There's a sour expression on your face as you climb in, settling yourself on Adrien's lap. He slips on the seatbelt from behind you and slides his arms around your waist, holding you close.

“Don't worry, I'll be your seatbelt.”

“I wasn't worrying.”

The ride was anything but smooth. You were profoundly aware of every single movement Adrien made underneath you, the soft thumping of his heart rattled against his chest every time you leaned back to rest.

Not to mention his demon-like siblings turning around to ask you bizarre questions.

“Did Adrien kidnap you?” “Do you think you can do a cartwheel and then the splits because I can.” “How much money did he pay you to be here?”

You couldn't even answer one question before another was interjected. Even Adrien seemed annoyed by this constant noise.

“Stop bothering him,” His tone caught you off-guard; it was harsh and grounded like he truly meant it. It didn't seem like the kids understood the message until Adrien swatted at them to turn around.

He sighed, leaning back into the car seat, pulling you down with him.

“They can be a damn handful sometimes,” He exhaled, letting his forehead rest on your shoulder.

The soft gesture, the heat radiating off his face to your shoulder, and his forearms locked tightly around your waist made something in your heart ache ever so slightly. Your fingers hesitantly move to rest on Adrien's arm, patting it gently like you're consoling him.

A few more hours pass by and the kids have already fallen asleep, not a sign of liveliness from the three. Your own eyelids start to grow heavy until the van drives over a rather large speed bump. From the scratchy sound of tires crunching along gravel, you can pretty much assume that the road is going to be filled with dents and bumps.

A barely audible groan comes out from Adrien's throat and you freeze up. Did you hurt him? Your movements are cautious as you turn your torso to look back at him, trying not to move so much so you don't hurt him further.

“Shit, are you okay?” Your eyes narrow and your nose crinkles in concern, Adrien has his head lowered before he lifts it up to meet your gaze.

The hands planted firmly around your body tighten and he pulls you back up against him.

“Just— Stay still,” he grunts out, forehead returning back to your shoulder.

You shuffle just back to get comfortable just enough that you practically grind against the tent growing in Adrien's pants. It takes you a moment to realize what was happening. A small gasp escapes your lips as you grip the flesh on his arm, keeping your head dipped.

The van drives over another bump and you feel it now. Adrien's hand clasps around your shoulder blade and he muffles a strangled grunt again. Your body grows hotter by the second, heat pooling in your lower half.

Now you were both hard.

“Ah shit, prez, you're gonna kill me,” He lets out a dry chuckle, hips twitching from underneath you. You crave it just as bad as you're rocking your body against his in a steady pace. There were too many people in the van, it was way too dangerous to fix the little problem.

“Wait it out,” You whisper, patting his arm once more like trying to calm down a dog.

He doesn't respond, instead, he grumbles into your shoulder.

The van finally comes to a stop. The engine whirrs off and the kids are hustled out of the doors before you and Adrien climb out behind them. There's a satisfying crackle and pop of your joints as you stretch, letting the good ol' sunlight kiss your deprived skin.

Getting the bags out of the trunk wasn't much work since you packed only for 3 days so you rolled your suitcase into the lobby alongside Adrien's family. A small notification pops up on your screen, a check-in from your family which you happily reply to.

Since it was such a large gathering, the family had split into different rooms with you and Adrien sharing one.

The reception hands Adrien's mother the keycard to each room and she hands them out, passing one to Adrien.

You turn your attention to him to see the guy already racing his way towards you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you past his family. You can hear a brief exchange of words between him and his dad, picking up on the lousy excuse that you're 'tired.'

Through the lobby, past the pools, around the bar and to your shared room. Adrien smashes the key card against the reader and he slams the door open.

“Fucking finally,” he sighs, shutting the door behind himself and burying his hands into the back of your head. He's tangling his fingers in your hair, pulling it back before latching his mouth onto yours.

He's practically welding himself to you, devouring your lips in a heated kiss. He pulls back to look into your eyes before he goes in for a second serving. Adrien guides you towards the bedroom, lips never leaving yours as he gently pushes you back onto the bed.

“You know how hard it was to keep myself in line?” Adrien chuckled against your cheek, his hands beginning to descend your body, tracing all the way down to the waistband of your pants.

“That's your job baby, not mine.”

You have half the heart to complain when he's pulling off your pants, lifting your hips off the bed to help him slide your clothes off. He pulls both your legs up and over his shoulders before kneeling onto the ground beside the bed.

“Adrien,” you call out his name almost breathlessly, fingers finding purchase in his thick hair.

He responds with a small hum that causes his throat to vibrate ever so slightly. Adrien's hands are coiled around your thighs, palms laying flat on your lower stomach as he leans in to kiss your inner thigh.

His lips tickle your skin and you can't help but jerk your leg from the sensation—which you're prevented from doing so by his arms holding your legs hostage.

Warmth envelops your lower half as Adrien wraps his mouth around your cock. His breath is hot against your trembling skin and he forces the most obscene noises out his throat. Slick slurping sounds mixed with groans and sighs like he's been starved a hearty meal.

The hand on your stomach slides up, pushing your shirt further so he could feel the flat plane of your torso. Your squirms and thigh twitches are held down by his built arms—it honestly seems like he trains just for this.

“Could do this for days.” its hard to tell what he's saying since all his words and muffled and gurgled.

He pulls off for one second to fish out lubricant from the hotel drawers, applying a hefty amount to his fingers before returning back to you.

Sliding back down to his knees, he prods a finger to your winking hole, teasing and pushing past that ring of muscle and pulling it back out just to watch it shiver from the loss.

“Pervert,” You grumble under your breath.

“Who's the one who asked me out?”

You shoot Adrien an irked glare but the annoyance fades from your face the moment he wraps his mouth around your dick once more. Your eyes flutter as he finally pushes that finger in, sliding in a second to slowly scissor you loose.

He's more skilled than you with his tongue and you can't help but wonder what his past experiences were like; you dismiss that thought as quick as it came.

You look down at him from half-closed eyes, watching as he hollows his cheeks to take in more. You're practically whining and thrashing around in his grip. He's buried his face to the hilt, nose brushing against your pelvic bone. Its almost a ticklish sensation, feeling him breathe against your skin.

His fingers press and pressure your walls, pushing them apart to ready you for his cock. He's rhythmically pushing his fingers deeper, curling at the apex before pulling them back, repeating that process in a steady pace. You can feel them hit your prostate, sending jolts straight to your dick.

It's too much for you to handle; your hips are rising to meet the bob of his head, back arching off the satin white sheets.

“Wait— Adrien pull off I don't want you to—” Your words are all diced up, spoken in short gasps as you try to pry his head off from your aching cock.

You succeed—for a bit—before he's dipping all the way down again, holding your hips steady as he forces you down his throat. He's fucking loving it too, moaning with your dick in his mouth as his fingers speed up, pistioning two fingers into your hole.

Your hips raise even more and he encourages it.

His name comes spilling out of your mouth like a mantra as your muscles spasm from the intensity of your orgasm. Adrien keeps sucking like he's trying to wring every last drop from you. You feel his tongue swirl over your slit, lapping up your sweet fluids.

He slides himself off of you, letting you rest on the bed for a bit as he tilts his head back. His Adam's apple bobs while he swallows, and he lowers his head back down to smile at you.

“Don't tell me you're tired already, I haven't even taken off my pants yet,” he tsks at you, shaking his head disapprovingly while he joins you on the bed. You're still dazed from how hard you just came but a warm hand pulls you back down to earth.

Adrien's hand grazes over your cheek delicately as he hovers over you, caging you in with two arms on either side of your head.

“Just relax prez, I'll do all the work, 'kay?” He takes your little grunt as an 'okay,' rolling you onto your stomach and guiding your head to rest on the pillow. It smells so distinctly of freshly cleaned hotel sheets with a hint of citrus and bleach that you take a moment to close your eyes and enjoy the scent.

You can feel the mattress dip on either sides of your hips as he plants his knees there. He leans his head down to peek at your blissed-out face, pressing a light kiss to your cheek. You can feel his hands run down the curve of your spine, running over your lower back before he settles them on your waist.

“Are you relaxed?” He hums, leisurely rolling his hips against you. His tone is so sultry it causes your muscles to visibly relax under the siren call of his voice.

A hand moves down to where your leg meets the curve of your ass, parting the round flesh for him to comfortably slide in. He had stretched you out enough that it slipped in with ease, hugged by your warm velvet walls.

He sucks in air between his teeth while he steadily rocks his body back and forth, tuning into the wet squelching sound with each thrust.

“Feel it yet?” He chuckles, poking fun at the fact that you've been too dazed to respond to him. You nod against the pillow, your hair spilling over the silk case like spilt water. A small, shaky exhale leaves your nose as he begins to hasten his thrusts. It's almost bruising as he slams himself against your tailbone—you know you'll be whining about the soreness tomorrow morning.

Your voice gradually gets louder as he pounds you into the bed, fingers curled up in the sheets as he slams his pelvis against your ass. You can feel him throb from inside you, twitching and ready.

A particularly deep thrust has you crying out into the pillow but you can't squirm, not when Adrien is pinning you down with his body weight. He's pushing against your prostate over and over again and you can feel that familiar feeling of an orgasm creeping up on you.

“Fuck, Adrien,” You hiccup, muffled by the fluff of the pillow, eyes flickering like you're struggling to keep them open.

“Yeah baby?” You can hear the smirk in his tone as he keeps at the rough pace. He's hitting all the right spots and your dick appreciates. You feel a hand dip under your neck, cupping the curve of your throat as Adrien lifts your head up to face him.

He moves in to kiss you, soft and gentle as he wraps his arms around your whole body, holding you in a tight grip while continuously slamming himself deeper into you. Your loud cries and moans are enveloped by Adrien's mouth, swallowed up.

“You gonna cum? Feels so good you just can't hold it in?” He cooes, chuckling against your swollen lips as he feels you tremble underneath him. You swear stars enter your vision and your eyes roll back, muscles jerking and tensing as you let out a string of whimpers while your orgasm comes crashing onto you.

Adrien buries himself to the hilt before emptying out all he's worth, coating your insides with his dna. He groans as he pulls out halfway just to watch his semen flood out of your hole, still tightly clenched around his cock.

He sits up, raking his fingers through his tousled hair and sighs with satisfaction like drinking an ice cold soda in a hot summer day.

“You tired prez?” He asks, smiling down at you. His eyes narrow and concern settles in when you don't move or answer him.

“Baby?” He quickly leans back down to look at your face only to see your peaceful expression, eyes closed and mouth slightly agape. He lets out a relieved chuckle before pulling out, sliding off the bed to grab a towel.

He figured he'd get you some fruit to replenish your energy, pulling on some of his clothes after cleaning you up and getting you comfortable in the bed. He makes his way to the buffet, piling all favorite fruits and sweets onto his plate before he spots his family.

“Where's your boyfriend?” Adrien's mother asks, also holding a plate of food. Seemed like the two of you missed lunch.

“He's uh—” Adrien tenses knowing that he can't just openly admit to his mother that he fucked the daylights out of you.

“Taking a nap.”

#servicpop — fics/drabbles #bottom male reader #sub male reader #x bottom male reader #x male reader #x male reader smut #amab reader #oc x male reader #mlm nsft #uke male reader #oc x reader

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soaln · 4 months ago

Note

can i request hcs of monster trio and ace/law getting jealous of someone stealing reader’s attention?

𝓗𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 ﹒ ౨ৎ

𓏵 ﹒ ┈ warnings : none, pure fluff, gender isn't mentioned I think ｡— ◟ 𖦹

𝓜𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐃. 𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐘

Luffy, despite his carefree and unrefined nature, is open about his feelings for you. His youthful exuberance and boundless energy make his attachment to you both overwhelming and endearing. If someone tries to take your attention away, he doesn’t hesitate to express his feelings. His face scrunches up into an exaggerated pout, his lips puffing out as he declares, “Hey! That’s my [Y/N]!” in a tone that is both childish and possessive.

Luffy usually doesn’t care much about competition, but when it comes to you, he will go to great lengths to capture your attention. Whether it’s interrupting conversations with his signature enthusiasm or pulling you into a tight, playful hug, he makes sure everyone knows you are his priority.

If someone continues to ignore him, Luffy's behavior will become even more outrageous. He might start doing silly stunts, telling jokes, or even challenging the intruder to a goofy competition—all to get your attention back. His actions are loud, chaotic, and completely in character, but they stem from a place of genuine affection.

𝓡𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐀 𝐙𝐎𝐑𝐎

Zoro’s jealousy is as sharp and precise as his swordsmanship. He’s not one to wear his emotions openly, but when someone catches your attention, his stoic demeanor becomes a little more intense. His arms cross, his gaze narrows, and his silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t need words to convey his displeasure.

If the situation escalates, Zoro's pride won't allow him to stand by without taking action. He'll find a way to involve himself, often pretending that he needs your help with something trivial, like adjusting his swords or reaching for a drink. His movements are deliberate, and his tone remains casual, but his piercing gaze is always fixed on the intruder.

Zoro’s jealousy is subtle yet powerful. He doesn’t create a scene, but his actions and presence are enough to remind everyone—especially you—that he’s not someone to be underestimated when it comes to matters of the heart.

𝓥𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈

Sanji’s jealousy is as intense and dramatic as his personality. When someone tries to capture your attention, his romantic nature ignites like a storm. His words are filled with passion and possessiveness, and his voice drips with charming sweetness as he declares, “Darling, you should know, no one could ever treat you the way I do!”

His jealousy is anything but subtle. He showers you with flirtatious compliments while his eyes smolder with intensity, casting pointed glances at anyone he sees as a threat. Sanji's love language revolves around grand gestures, which he uses to remind you—and everyone else—that you are his muse, his one and only.

If the situation requires it, Sanji will go all out. He might prepare an extravagant meal just for you, presenting it with a theatrical bow and flourish. His jealousy is intertwined with passion, spectacle, and an unwavering devotion that is impossible to ignore.

𝓟𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐆𝐀𝐒 𝐃. 𝐀𝐂𝐄

Ace’s jealousy is subtle, reflecting his laid-back personality, yet it runs deep. When someone captures your attention, he observes from a distance, maintaining a calm expression while his gaze remains intense. A quiet tension fills the air, and a slight change in his demeanor reveals the depth of his feelings.

If the intruder persists, Ace will step in with his trademark charm and ease. His words are teasing, his tone light, but there’s a possessiveness lurking beneath the surface. “Careful, they might bite,” he might say with a smirk, his voice smooth and affectionate. “You wouldn’t want to get too close.”

Ace’s jealousy is never overt, but it’s always present. He doesn’t need grand gestures or dramatic declarations to remind you where his heart lies. His quiet confidence and subtle actions speak louder than words ever could.

𝓣𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐃. 𝓦𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐖

Law's jealousy is a masterclass in restraint and quiet intensity. He doesn't engage in loud displays of emotion, but when someone attracts too much of your attention, his presence becomes unmistakable. He lingers in the background, his posture rigid and his gaze sharp, while his silence is heavy with unspoken possessiveness.

His actions are intentional and thoughtful. A gentle touch, a soft word, or a slight change in distance is enough to remind you—and everyone else—that you belong to him. “You seem… quite interested in them,” he might murmur, his tone cool but tinged with a hint of irritation.

When Law's patience begins to wear thin, his jealousy becomes more evident. A slight scowl, a protective arm around you, or a sharp glare at the intruder acts as a silent warning. His love is deep and intimate, and he won't hesitate to defend it with the same precision he uses in battle.

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nyursi · 4 months ago

Text

NASTY DOG. . .ᐟ

⫘⫘⫘ㅤmale reader, brat taming, size difference, age gap (around 20-40 ig), ass eating, yeahhhh,,, livestock guardian dog x recon cat reader!!!ㅤ♪ㅤ───ㅤwc: 3k

"Ow, ow, ow!" You yelped, the fingertips digging into your scalp causing whimpers. Face scrunched up— brows furrowed, lips pulled into a pout. Like a proper hurt brat.

Dean meanwhile, had ignored your struggles and continued to drag you through the field, eyes narrowed. The sharp blades of grass (freshly cut) dug into your skin, leaving red lines to mark up your thighs.

He had a firm grip on your hair, tugging harshly. Let it fall it out for all he cares. "Tsk. Stop complainin', it's hurting my ears." Dean huffed, pulling your head upwards for a sharp jolt. Relishing in the quick yelp that followed afterwards— echoing in the field.

With no warning, he dropped you down onto the ground, leaving you to keel, curling up like a worm. Dean crossed his arms, large and meaty, waiting for you to get up. "I already told ya, quit whining' and get up."

You huffed and rolled your eyes— getting up to stand. Dusting off any dirt and grime on your clothes, you crossed your own arms and gazed at him. Eyes narrowed. "What is your problem?" You hissed. "Why'd ya have to— to drag me back!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "This is exactly why. Your attitude won't cut it in this line of work, for cryin' out loud." He pinched his temple, right between his thick brows, the lines on his face more prominent than ever. You did a really good job at making him age by the second— and he was already old as is!

The old dog was the definition of loyal. Having been working for the ranchers since he was young. And now, with greying hair and decades of experience under his belt, Dean was the perfect mentor in their eyes. The hell were they thinking? The hell was he thinking?

"Yeah, sure,'' Dean said. Not paying any mind to the farmer's request. Something about some cat arriving next week. He's trained a couple of their guardians before, whats a recon cat to him? He's the top dog 'round this place, second in command if you may. Any new faces got to deal with him first.

Unfortunately, the pretty little cat they took in was far from easy.

A hellspawn he'd called you. Not outright of course. Dean still had some decency left in him, no matter how much you tested him. But he did imply it, a more passive aggressive approach. Let you know he was really disappointed with such a brat to deal with. Huffing and puffing like some wolf 'bout to blow the hay.

"Yeah well you didn't have to grab me by the hair!" He eyed the finger pointed at him, scoffing. Completely unthreatened. Dean was big, a tank that won't be moved so easily. That dainty little finger you waved around? Laughable. Course, he did stare at it a bit too long for his own comfort— unsure why thoughts of how easy it would be to just... handle and carry you around like a sack of feathers.

"Boy, you're givin' me a damn headache. Recon cats are supposed to be— what? Agile? Quick? Behaved? Is chasing butterflies your job or what?" Dean raised his voice. You winced at the jab. He frowned, eyes softening the tiniest bit.

"C'mon kid. The farm’s still away. We don't wanna get stuck out in the dark." Dean nodded his head to the distance, a faint silhouette of your new home. He trudged forward without waiting for you.

You sighed, posture slumping. Yet you followed along anyway, dragging your feet on the ground.

"Stupid fuckin' old dog," you murmured, plopping down on your bed. It was small and creaky, put together last minute. Much like your room. Pretty sure it was an old storage closet without the shelfs lining the walls to make room.

It was dusty, and cramped. Reeaaal welcoming. Guess they thought a room small as this would be fine, considering you weren't that hunkering anyway. At least Dean gets a proper room.

You sneer, feeling your blood boil at the thought of his name. "Who does he think he is? He's not the boss of me." Well... he kinda is. But whatever! It's not like you signed up for this anyway. Some boring countryside life looking out for barn animals and whatnot? Psh. Boooring!

"Some big old hunk bossin' me around... hmph." You lay on your back, the mattress was thin and barely did anything to soften the rough wood of your bed frame. Pretty sure your back’s gonna ache quicker than Deans.

A small snicker escapes you, lips curling into a smile. The image sends you a rush of amusement. Tiny giggles echo in your room— sounding like some maniac locked up in a padded cell with only his ideas to keep him company.

Dean stops outside your door. Hand raised midway the air, curled into a fist. He was about to call you out for dinner, escort you to the kitchen so you wouldn't get into any more trouble. But your laughter made him stop dead in his tracks.

He was dumbfounded, kinda. You sounded so innocent despite your... behaviour. Huh. It was almost cute. Endearing, even. Dean coughs, shaking his head. An annoyed frown tugged on his lips.

Ain't no way in hell. Never in my life would I...

Ah. But he has already fallen for you? Slowly and surely, even if he was unaware. The day you arrived on the farm, all prickly like a cactus. He almost found it cute (he did). But he wasn't sure if the intense feelings that were harbored deep in his chest was a really intense anger or something else entirely.

Something Dean had never thought to consider.

Affection.

Affection? For him? Dean blanched. He stepped back from the door like it burned him.The fucking cat? With his naughty attitude and god-forsaken defiance? Dean couldn't count how many times you stuck your tongue out at him, getting him all riled up. But fuck, maybe he did find it cute. So what? He's just a lonely old man, what's he supposed to do when the heavens throw a feline right into his arms?

A feline that'd fit in them all nice and snug, with how small you were compared to him. That's the first thing that came to mind when he laid his eyes on your form.

"Are ya tryin' ta kill me? That little thing's our recon?" Dean scoffed that night, complaining his heart out. "I don't know what you were thinkin'— what's he gonna do against coyotes? Wriggle and squirm?"

And unfortunately, it had only plagued him more as time went on. When he was introducing himself to you— albeit begrudgingly. You were just standing there, leaning against the wall. Acting all smug as if Dean didn't dwarf you by a landslide. Like he couldn't just pick ya up if he wanted to, swing you over his shoulders.

The thought made him a bit too excited.

When he was tourin' you 'round the barn. Walking behind him like some shadow. Even his sharp ears couldn't hear your footsteps— feel your presence. Light as a feather, indeed. Maybe he doubted you too much.

Earlier when he was dragging you on the field. Truth be told, he didn't mean to be so rough. Never in his life has Dean laid his hands on his juniors. But with you? It was an entirely different story. There was something about you that ignited feelings he didn't even know he could feel! It was a whole new area for him.

But god. Temptation had been building up, and Dean was only a man who could hold on for so long. He'd lost control, when those sinful thoughts kept him up. Shame welling in his being for every lewd image his mind conjured up in the middle of the night, keeping him from sleeping and getting some shut eye like an old dog should, as you said.

Gods, and how many times had you jabbed at his age? He ain't even that old!

It only made him feel guiltier. You were a young thing— all pretty and shiny. Like a brand new chew toy for Dean to maul on. Sink his teeth into your pristine skin, leave red marks that'd prove his territory. (Territory. And this guy has the nerve to act like he doesn't have feelings for you!) What sounds would you make? If he bit deep and hard, licked up the marks afterwards. Dirty dog.

"Fuck," Dean snarled, dragging a calloused palm down his face. He stood in the hallway, trying to cancel out your laughter. What was he here for again? Right. Dinner.

Well shit, ain't Dean got dinner right here? Beyond that door, laying on the bed...

He turned his head away swiftly, ragged breaths leaving his chapped lips. Chest heaving up and down. "No, no... calm down. You ain't feel like that—" Dean chuckled. But it sounded more like a pathetic strain. "Not for him."

He didn't call you out for dinner, and he didn't eat either. But that hunger would get you both sooner or later.

"Just... a little... bit... more...!" You groaned, hand outstretched. Curse these tall cabinets. It's not like giants live here! And what the fuck was up with Dean? He was supposed to call you for dinner!

You actually fell asleep but that doesn't matter.

What matters now, is the hunger in your stomach driving you crazy. The rumbles could echo in the barn if they got any louder. It was embarrassing enough as it is.

Sneaking around, avoiding the creaky floorboards. Ears raised and alert for any and every sound made. What were you? A spy? You live here!

"Goddammit, coulda saved me some leftovers. Even a grain would've been nice." You grumbled, sighing and rolling your eyes. Pouting at the thought of the meal you missed. Damn barn animals and their never ending greed. Not even a single scrap was put away for little ol' you.

You were so caught up in your actions that you failed to notice a figure entering the kitchen, getting a nice front view of your behind. Huh. Why were you archin' your back like that anyway?

Dean froze, mind blue screening temporarily as his eyes registered your ass all puckered out in the dark.

He had given in to his hunger, forgetting about dinner after his... ahem, revelations. Curled up in bed, sulking in denial like he was about to be put down. Pathetic really. Since when did Dean get worked up over pretty kitties?

Since you, apparently.

He thought about it. Since you were their first recon cat, he didn't have much experience with felines. Only knew that they were playful, independent, and incredibly alluring. Dangerously so that when you've fallen for one, oh brother, there is no getting back up.

Might as well dig yourself a hole in the ground to live in.

Playful, when you gave jokes he wouldn't understand. Quick-witted, aren't you? With a smart little mouth that said all sorts of things. Curiosities and glimpses of your personality past the shallow image of a no-good cat. That twinkle in your eyes every time your soft lips curved into a smile, a triumphant "hmph!". You just loved being right, didn't you?

Independent, always going off on your own. No matter how many times Dean reprimanded you, kept you from wandering too far. Curiosity kills the cat, after all. That's what he said, and that was the first time you rolled your eyes at him too. Wonder what it'd look like if he made them roll back for a different reason. Dean could only sigh and expect a headache to form whenever you weren't round the barn. Away from the fence and enjoying the scenery like some tourist.

And finally: Alluring.

As much as he didn't want to admit it. You had this charm that... well, charmed him. He beat himself up over it. But everytime he promised himself to stop— the obsession only got more intense. Every time you weren't looking he'd catch a quick glimpse. Admire your features, rake his eyes down your figure in silent appreciation. Whenever he entered a room, Dean found himself looking for you. And when you entered one? He'd feel your presence immediately.

It was ridiculous, how downright bad he was.

Maybe it was fate. Here, with you oblivious to his presence, arching your back and presenting yourself (unknowingly) to Dean.

He stepped closer, silently. A shadow casted over his face.

You could only widen your eyes and gasp in shock when two hands placed themselves onto your hips, keeping you in place. "Gah! Dean!?" You yelped, blinking at him curiously. Sweat built up on your temple, heart caught in your throat.

"I wasn't doing anything! Just... looking for food, I swear!" You reasoned, still planted on your palms for balance.

Dean only hummed, massaging invisible circles into your skin with his thumbs. "That so?" He said. You shivered. What the hell? What was that? Why did he sound so... intense?

"What're you doin' up late at night?" He asked, brow raised. Eyes boring into yours. Had the nerve to sound suspicious, too. "You were supposed to call me for dinner, don't act surprised." You huffed, turning away.

Dean only tugged you closer— hips meeting yours. Stupid kitty. Even now you have the nerve to act so high and mighty. Maybe Dean should teach you humbleness, take you from your throne for a little while.

"Don't test me," Dean growled, satisfaction creeping in his blood as he watched you tremble. "Mh," he hummed. Yeah. You were tiny.

"Test you? What the hell are you—" Riiip! In an instant, the cold air had latched itself onto your skin. Dean tore apart the seam in your shorts— right in the cleft of your ass. His tail has begun to wag, eyeing the cute rim staring at him.

You were too shocked to make a sound, and even then, before you could react, Dean had dove right in, licking and nibbling at your pucker. "Huh- ah!" Your claws dug onto the wooden counter, leaving scratch marks. Dean slobbered up your hole like a man starved, saliva dripping down your chin.

He licked and licked, made you dizzy til' your hole was nice and soft. His tongue was rough and textured, making your cock tingle and come to life. "W-wait, it's dirty down there!"

Dean wrapped his hand around the base of your tail, tugging it upwards to bury his face deeper into your behind. Slowly, he breached your insides, licking up at your gummy walls. Your soft whimpers was like music to his ears. Oh, he felt fulfilled.

But not quite.

"O-oh..." you gasped softly, blush blooming on your cheeks. Dean was massaging your insides with his tongue, desperate and needy. His movements were quick yet deep and stimulating— as if he was looking for something.

"Hnn!~" Your tongue lolled out, thighs tensing up. Unkowingly, you began to thrust your hips baclwards, meeting Deans licks. His tongue rolled onto a soft bud inside— a sensitive cluster of nerves that made you weak in the knees. "F-fuck..."

Dean continued his assault on your prostate, never once breaking his pace. His eyes were closed shut, as if he was trying to savor the taste and feeling— keep this memory in his mind forever. His own cock jumped in his jeans, straining to be released.

You were so warm... so tight. He couldn't wait to bury his cock to the hilt, make your belly bulge and fill you to the brim. Hump you like a dog in rut— fuck. "Uh... guh!"

Dean parted himself from your ass, panting and heaving. Your rim was shiny with spit, legs trembling and cock leaking pre pathetically.

It was silent for a moment. Until you heard a belt buckle, followed by a zipper and the sound of fabric falling to the floor.

And then you felt it.

Deans cock. Hard and hot— rubbing against your behind. Fuck. How big was that? It felt huge! You whined softly, fear striking you. But there was excitement as well, you had never done this before, and for someone like Dean to make you experience it...

Naughty.

You had been nothing but a brat your time here, but you couldn't deny that Dean was a good looking man when you first met. Tall and buff, yet soft. Hair on his arms and chest, a little grey in his hair. Lines around his eyes and lips... you shivered. God. What did his cock look like?

What would it feel like, to take him nice and deep?

You bit your lip. Dean continued to rub his length between your cheeks for a goodwhile, like he was easing you into the harsh fucking to come. "Fuck, can't wait anymore." Dean groaned, and pushed his tip against your tight vice.

He held your hips firmly, keeping you in place as you wriggled. He was big! Your pathetic rim struggled to envelop his tip.

Dean's mind raced as his hips rocked up, driving his thick cock deep into your tight hole. The boy was so small, so delicate compared to his large frame. Your slender body bounced with each thrust.

"Fuck, boy..." Dean groaned, fingers digging into the cat's hips hard enough to leave marks. "You feel s' good around my cock. So hot 'n tight..."

He knew this was wrong. You were his junior, and Dean was supposed to be disciplining you, teachin' you the ways 'round the barn. Not... fucking you senseless. But god, the way your velvety walls clenched around him, the sweet little noises spilling from those plush lips— it was too much to resist.

Dean's balls slapped against your ass as he pistoned his hips faster, chasing his rapidly approaching climax. "Fuck, fuck," he snarled. "Take it."

The lewd squelch of saliva and the slap of skin on skin filled the kitchen. He could feel you shaking apart on his cock, the boy's neglected dick bobbing between their bellies, flushed an angry red and leaking steadily.

He reached around to palm your cock, jerking you in time with his erratic thrusts. Huh. For and old dog— he sure had stamina.

Dean's thumb swiped over the sensitive head, smearing the copious precum. You let out a high, keening wail, back arching as his orgasm crashed over him. Pearly ropes of cum painted Dean's fist and splattered across the counter as your hole clamped down around his pistoning length.

The pressure sent Dean hurtling over the edge. With a guttural groan, he slammed you back onto his cock, all the way down to the hilt. Bulging your belly. At the same time, he had bit onto your shoulder, breaking skin and leaking blood.

Your body twitched, eyes rolled back and unfocused. You leaned forward, finding support on the wooden counter (now littered with scratch marks) as Dean massaged your hips. "Hah.. haahh.."

Uncontrollable sighs escaped you, bones melting against Dean. Smaller spurts of semen shooting out of Dean's tip sent shocks down your spine, smaller cock red and spent. With your cum dribbling down onto your tiny balls.

Sweat trickled down their skin, breaths heavy. Illuminated in the moons light.

Finally, with a groan, Dean pulled out (albeit begrudgingly) of your warm hole.

He watched, transfixed, as a string of his cum connected his softening cock to your puffy, well-used hole. The sight made his spent dick twitch with interest. Fuck, he could do this all night.

Ah... but you seemed tired. He chuckled, eyeing your spent form. All sweaty and twitchy. Particularly focused on the bite mark that stuck out on your shoulder.

"Congratulations, boy. Now yer a true, fully-fledged recon cat.”

this was supposed to be lamb reader but idk,,, let me see how this does first then ill think abt it :3 ALSO WHAT IS IT WITH ME AND CAT READER??? ffuckin cat burglar n heavenly,,, urg. So sorry guys idk. I just love pussy!!

#っω=`)ㅤ⎯⎯ㅤmy works...#bottom male reader #bottom reader #sub male reader #uke male reader #male reader smut #x male reader #male reader #oc #mlm

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sleep-0-deprived · 5 months ago

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Toji’s valentine day special smut thoughts~! ✮⋆˙

──★──★──★ ──★──★──★ ──★──★──★ ──★

Jus thinkin bout toji not buyin any pretty gifts, jus some cheap O’l set of chocolates and flowers if anything at all— sayin his real gift T’ you was his cock, havin him fuckin you in every position you can think of til your thighs can’t hold open N’ they start burning N’ cramping, your arms held behind your back while you gasp N’ take him whole

Jus thinkin bout toji havin you in a pair of cheap panties on valentines makin you wear them just so he can tear em off with his teeth N’ devour you, his canines grazin your thigh leaving a small reddish mark in your flesh before he grips your hips all right N’ shoves his face down into your ass eating you out like’ah starved man with his young jus greedily lickin away at your hole, he’d sent his precious “blessing” off to a friends house so he could spend the whole night goin at it with you

Jus thinkin bout toji wantin his gift to be you ridin him like your life depends on it, he wants you ridin his cock- his face N’ everything in between. He wants your thighs on the sides of his head while he greedily grips N’ holds the gloves of your ass cheeks gettin a good feel while he huffs against your skin lazily lookin up at you while grunting out talkin bout “that’s it, just like that pretty boy” and “arch’ ya back a lil f’me”

Jus thinkin bout Toji havin you sit up on his cock bouncin with your thighs all weak barely able T’ lift yourself when another load gets forced inside your tummy leaving you a whiny mess on top of him. His hands grip your hips tightly bruising the plush skin N’ keepin you from getting off his cock- god he was treating you like a total fleshlight right noww!! “I can’t do it anymore Tojii- I’m gonna burst~” you’d squeal everytime you were dropped back down on his full length makin your eyes water an’ stars start poppin up in the room.

Taglist : @miyaisastar @asher-is-hotxp @silvern1006 @unstab1eperson2 @yyuinaa @dewday1 @blond3ang3l @creepy141dollie @m4r13ll @ihavezeropancreas @sooobiinn @just-ignore-them @fuckingmxonlight @nightwinglover101 @chasingknives @littlelilithsposts

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clarkeyszn · 2 months ago

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# A BOY WHO’S JACKED & KIND ! george clarke

summary: you convince george to film a tiktok video with you. warnings: none although it is mentioned that george is able to lift reader onto his shoulder?? pairing: george clarke x fem! reader, established relationship. word count: 1.3k author’s note: inspired by the tiktok the useless hotline boys made bc i wish it was me! this wasn't proofread very well as i, yet again, prioritised my writing over my life commitments and i am now running late for work 👍

slim pickins — sabrina carpenter

it starts on a quiet friday afternoon. you and george both had a day off work and so you had taken the opportunity to have a cozy day in, just the two of you. you're sprawled on the sofa, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. george was spread out next to you, half asleep, when you nudge him with your phone.

when he doesn’t respond, you nudge him again. “george.”

“hm?” he mumbles, peeking one eye open.

“can we do this tiktok?” you showed him your phone. it was from one of your friend’s account to sabrina carpenter’s ‘slim pickins’ where her boyfriend lifts her up onto his shoulder.

“you want me to lift you up for a tiktok video?” he blinked.

“yeah,” you nodded, enthusiastically.

“absolutley not,” he laughed, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes.

you sat up straighter, “what? why?”

"i'm not doing a trend called 'slim pickins'. what even is that?"

"don't act like i didn't catch you saving sabrina carpenter edits into a folder." you glared at him, "all you have to do is pick me up. what's even the point of all that muscle if you don't wanna use them?" you pinched his arm.

"first of all, ouch." he glared at you, "secondly, it's cringe."

you huff and flop back against the cushions of the sofa,, dramitically wounded. "you're so boring."

"i'm saving us from tiktok humiliation." he says, "the lads'll never let it go if i start doing coupley tiktoks." he complains, already closing his eyes again like the conversations over.

"please." you scoff, "you're mpre affectionate with chris and arthur than you are with me."

george just snorted, eyes still closed.

you sulk for exactly ten minutes, then you let it go. for now.

the next day

you woke up the next morning alone. george had left early, before the sun even rose, to film the next episode of the useless hotline. this meant you got to enjoy yet another blissfully quiet day.

that is, until you open your tiktok for you page.

there he was, your boyfriend, with his podcast co-host on his shoulder to the sound of the exact sabrina carpenter song you had shown him not even twelve hours prior, grinning like it was the most fun he had in weeks.

it was funny, of course, the running joke that you and andrew were merely side pieces in max and george's borderline romantic dynamic. but, still, you weren't letting this go easily.

later that night, you're sitting cross-legged on the bed, phone in hand. waiting for george to finish streaming. he's been live for hours now. talking, laughing, completely unbothered as he plays games for the people watching. eventually, you get bored of waiting, so you get up with your phone in hand and walk down the hall.

george is mid-sentence, laughing at something on his screen, when the door creaks open behind him. at first, he doesn't notice you, not until his chat explodes.

'Y/N!!!' 'she looks so done 😭' 'uh oh george is in trouble'

george grinned at the chat before turning in his chair to face you, "hey, baby. what's up?"

"not much." you shrugged, walking over to him and standing behind his chair, leaning down so you were visible on stream, "whatcha doin'?"

"watching random tiktoks." he said, showing you his screen.

you gasped, "oh! i saw a really good one earlier, can i show you?"

"yeah, go for it." he nodded, getting up from the chair so you could use the pc.

you took a seat and began typing into the search bar.

@/theuselesshotlinepod

you clicked onto the profile and went to the most recent video.

"oh no," george sighed and started nervously laughing behind you, hiding behind his gaming chair.

"no, no!" you said sweetly, tapping his arm like you weren't plotting his downfall, "watch it."

you pull up the video in full screen and hit play. sabrina carpenter's voice began echoing through the room.

"a boy who's jacked and kind—"

"it was max and calum's idea, i swear." he laughed.

"was it?" you asked, "chat, i literally asked him to do this exact video yesterday. and he said no!" you laughed.

'LMAOOO' 'the other woman😭' 'i wonder if andrew feels the same' 'she bought RECEIPTS.'

george hides behind the chair again. "i'm being cyberbullied."

"you deserve it." you grinned.

you let the video play one more time, just to drag it out a little while longer. then, satisfied, you grabbed your phone, said goodbye to the chat and left the room.

a while later, you were curled up on the sofa, still scrolling through tiktok when george emerged from his streaming room with a sheepish smile on his face.

"are you actually upset?" he asked, standing in front of you.

"not upset, upset." you shrugged, "but it would be nice if my boyfriend would make tiktoks with me."

he grabbed your hands and pulled you up from your place on the sofa, wrapping his arms around you in a hug. "you're so petty." he chuckled, kissing your forehead.

you hummed, burying you head into his chest. "you love it."

he pulled away, picking your phone up from where you left it on the coffee table. "i do. that's why i'm gonna do it once. and if i throw my back out, you owe me physio."

you looked up at him, "you're not doing this out of guilt, are you?"

"absolutley not," he said, already walking over to the window sill. "i'm doing it because i'm jacked and kind."

his poor joke made you burst into laughter, "you're so annoying."

"come on, let me hoist you."

you clapped your hands, jumping up and down on the spot. "thank you! thank you! thank you!"

the two of you prop your phone up on a stack of cookbooks that have never been touched and an empty coffee mug like this tiktok was some high-level production.

you queue up the audio, bounce on your feet a little as the countdown begins, you turn to george. "ready?"

"not really." he huffed, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper as the music starts playing.

you stood in front of him, his hands found their place securely around your waist.

"a boy who's jacked and kind..."

george lifts you up, effortlessly, onto his shoulder. for a second, everything's going perfectly. you're sitting on his shoulder, balanced like a princess, while he beams at the camera.

"can't find his ass to save my life."

then, because he cannot be serious for one minute, he pretends to wobble.

"george!" you shriek, grabbing a fistful of his hair for stability.

"you're fine!"

you're both laughing so hard, he actually nearly drops you the next time. but he manages to power through to the end of the audio and gently, and safely, lowers you to the floor.

you stuble your way over to your phone, still laughing, george comes up behind you, the pair of you watching the video back before you posted it.

it looks like it was filmed by a couple of sleep-deprived toddlers, which honestly checks out.

within minutes, the comments start rolling in.

'THIS is couple goals.' 'she won 😭' 'petty always wins, ladies.' 'max_balegde: jealousy wasn't a good look on you, babe x'

george scrolls through them from where he’s flopped next to you on the sofa, grinning. “okay, i’ll admit,” he says, nudging your knee, “that was kind of fun.”

you smile, nudging him back. “told you.”

he tilts his head, watching you for a second. “still not doing another one, though.”

“sure,” you say, already opening your tiktok app and queuing up the next audio.

he groans, dragging a pillow over his face. “i’ve created a monster.”

but when you peek over the pillow and raise an eyebrow, he’s already laughing, and you know damn well he’ll do it again.

#clarkeyszn #george clarkey #george clarke #george clarke fics #george clarke x reader #george clarkeey #georgeclarkeey #george clarke fluff #george clarke fanfic #arthur hill #chrismd #uk youtubers #sidemen

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axetivev · 1 month ago

Text

— Summary: After your performance and fan meetup, a guy asked you out on a date. Though, your manager wanted to refuse. You, being a solo musician with nothing much better to do decided to accept his date. You thought he might be a random fan that paid a lot to go on a date with you. Little did you know, he was a popular idol!

— Warnings/Tags: Smut + Fluff, Oral sex (oc!receiving), Ridding, Ass slapping, Porn with Plot, Photography, Obsessive Oc, Taking Pictures without Consent, Hair pulling, Overstimulation.

— Words: 4.8k (God...)

— A/N: okay... ill do three ocs for now. i actually had many ideas for creating another oc. but this is enough for now. at least, since i had my own desires to write other characters. that's all really. also... there's parts of this fic that's inspired by @sooniebby. (hope you don't mind, heh) as my usual. I hope you enjoyed this fic !!

— Pairing: Oc!Sato Hiroshi x Male!Reader

The sound of music echoed through the empty studio, you stood there alone, companied by a violin over your shoulder as your dominant hand gliding the bow to the strings—your other hand, your fingers moved gently as you played Canon in D. You closed your eyes—letting the music consumed you for a moment, until you stopped.

“[Name],” a voice of a woman entered the room. Her tag in her suit was clear as day—Yamada Haruka. Your manager. “The agency is going to do held a huge performance next month! Are you in?”

Haruka was the woman who was like an actual mother to you. Unlike your actual mother—you first met her after a few weeks you dropped out medic school for wanting to be a violist, your mother never supported that idea in the slightest. Not to mention that she barely even supported you other then being a doctor. Kicking you out and cutting all contact.

You found yourself playing with the same violin you loved since high school—the last thing from your father remains. Even though life was rough, you played music endlessly with an open heart. Money slowly coming and after five months of you solo and having some experience, you found Haruka in a cemetery looking down at a grave—two of them. Actually, you stop mid track. Your heart wanted to approach her, but your mind said something so absurd like it was came from a cartoon; “What if she was a ghost? Capturing it’s pray by acting someone grieving?”

But you ignored that thought, even it felt weird to comfort a stranger. You stood beside her, placing your hand over your shoulder as you read both names that are carved on those stones.

Yamada Sakura — Yamada Fuuji

You look down at the woman who’s still kneeling down as she wiped her tears. Her business suit was messy, she pulled out a handkerchief as she tried to wipe her tears, her make up was messed up her tears. You didn’t want to ask—well, you just wanted to comfort her. But it ended up snowballing into her asking you to join the music company she was in—“you had potential!” was all she said. That alone, you never obtained from your mother.

Back to the present day. You sat across Haruka, she pulled out her phone, showing it to you. The poster of your agency from Instagram—that you and a popular female idol group had a show in Tokyo—with some other idol groups that had a possibility of preforming. That group had a big name. Like, 30 million worth big—your eyes slowly flickered over that group, Twilight, from the agency Hymnn.

Even though Hymnn is a big agency, most of their assets come from their male idol group—Twilight, which was filled by five members. But you sometimes questioned yourself, how could they get such good looking men? You remembered that time, somehow. Haruka allowed you to go out with your old friends, which was spend to watch Twilight’s performance. The screams of their fans was enough to make you go deaf, if not thanks for you forgetting to pulled out your earbuds.

“Again…?” You pouted, you look at Haruka with your classic puppy eyes—which Haruka replied with a pinch on your cheek. “Ha—ru—kaaaa!!”

“Kiddo, you’ve skipped your show for three times in a row. Everyone is practically coping over your posts with grave yards!” Haruka slightly pulled your cheek before releasing your skin, making you whine as you straighten up.

You suddenly remembered the last time your preformed was eight months ago, your agency’s both Instagram and Twitter accounts that had your last performance was filled by your fans spamming grave yard emojis and dead roses. You didn’t expect your fans could be so desperate for your comeback, it’s laughable but also sad at the same time.

Haruka leaned back against the navy couch, her right hand moved to take the glass of water over the table. The silence stretched for a moment, you just stared at your manager’s phone in your hand. Mindlessly scrolling to the pages of your agency, when you stopped at the last post of yours, your eyes slowly read on who liked your post.

Liked by TwiHiroshii.

“TwiHiroshii…?” You muttered under your breath. You gave Haruka’s phone back, back to the original topic of you preforming. You nodded your head. “Okay then, guess I’ll perform on the show.”

Haruka’s face slightly lighted up as she straighten up. “Well then! I’ll informed you about everything about the event later on, I’m going in a meeting. Food is in the counter, don’t forget to practice. See ya kiddo!”

Haruka practically ran out of the studio, you sighed while shaking your head amusingly. Even though she was in her mid 40s, she’s sometimes like a teen like you do even at your 20s. Well, since Haruka isn’t here. Procrastinating sounds like a great idea…

You opened your Instagram, you barely opened your socials. Which sounds unrealistic but hey, at least you had a life. You checked your notifications, your eyes slightly widened when that same account liked all of your posts. You stood up from the couch and moved you way to the counter as you scrolled on your fyp, there’s already a plate of curry that’s still hot. You took a chair and sit down.

You clicked on the TwiHiroshii account, you aren’t really surprised that it was Sato Hiroshi, the member of Twilight. But why does he liked your posts? You thought it might be a mistake, but what mistake that made him liked all of your posts?

Some fans of Twilight reached out to your account. And you finally checked your followers, you titled your head. Since when your followers was 940k? The last time you checked or even remembered, you only had 500k-ish. You slowly looked through your posts, your most popular post was of you in the stage of your last performance. Holding your violin—your face was stoic, unlike the actual you behind the face of many. You looked at the comments, which was somewhat concerning.

_Shar. 3w

HIROSHI LIKED [NAME]’S POSTS!?

acheron’swife 2w

i’m going to make a fic out of them…

ㅤㅤ@ acheron’swife 1w

DID IT!!!!! HERE’S MY AO3 !! *****

Hiroshifann!! 1w

Hiroshi love men ! ? I mean…. If it’s [Name]… They matched hello!?

HiroLennisthebest!1! 2d

Hiroshi x [Name] suck… but cool ig

—Starlight!— 2w

CARNIVALVIOLIN IS DEFINITELY THEIR SHIPNAME!1!1! 🎡🎻

[Name]’sbutth0l3 5d

Hiroshi tops. I saw everything.

Your spoon fall into the plate, just in time as the door opened wide—you jolted to see Haruka crossing her arms to her chest as she leaned to the door frame, there’s one thing in her face; she doesn’t looked amused at all. Your face turned red—fast.

“SORRY—!”

When the day of your performance. You were behind stage, your performance was placed last. You heard from people were screaming and singing the lyrics of the female idol group who preformed before you. Their fans’ screams was loud. Full of energy.

“Violin tuned?” Haruka came up from the blinds, her face was weary. You nodded to her question, a weary smile formed between her lips. “Get ready, your time to shine…”

You nodded your head, as Haruka gave you a thumbs up, the female idols already off the stage. You slowly emerged, your eyes slightly widened seeing the many people sitting there screaming your name. their eyes were practically beaming at your figure—holding a violin on your left hand and the bow at the right. You bow down in front of your fans as you get into position.

You poured your heart to your violin; specially with the song your original song. Your fingers gliding beautifully to the strings like when you were in the studio. You closed your eyes and held your breath—the bow was dancing with the strings. The slow rhyme was calming—until you paused your bow, doing the killer move. You exhale, your hand instinctually moved where your bow met with the A and E strings—even with the AC of the stage was at it’s lowest, you still feel yourself sweating. You can’t mess this up. You can do it, [Name]!

As you ended up your song by holding the bow that still pressed with the strings. You felt your fingers and hands sweaty as you opened your eyes, your eyes met with the crowd. They all shout.

It's not like her shouting… it’s genuinely people shouting and screaming at your name like gold. Cheering at your name.

You bow down, giving everyone a smile that could probably blinded people. Your eyes still scanned around the crowd. Your fans were in a mixed of man and woman, but your eyes landed on someone.

You aren’t sure, but you suspected it was a guy. He swears a black hat from NY Yankees, he wears a black mask. But you saw his hair was ash blonde—maybe it was dyed, covering his identity, and he was holding a paper banner.

“ 好き, [Name] !!! ”

— SaHi

A moment you stared at that specific figure. Who’s even SaHi? But thanks to Haruka’s voice coming from your earbuds, you suddenly snapped and rushed to the back stage. Meeting Haruka and a black haired man talking to each other.

“I’m sorry, I got a little distracted. Yamada-san.” You bowed—trying to act like a professional. “Is there something in the matter?”

Haruka slowly moved your attention to you, she smiled as she shook her head. “It’s nothing! However, I forgot to mention that you’ll had a fan meet-up!”

You honestly wanted to whine, but seeing Haruka’s face? You can’t let down your mom—manager! You put down your violin to the closes table as you rolled your shoulders, damn. Sure playing one of the hardest instruments is sure painful. You put on your smile, Haruka seemed hesitant for a moment. But you nodded your head, you still see it however. Her worried expression.

“Alright then!” Haruka declared, clasping her hands to each other. “[Name], the idol group is still having their meet-up. I suppose you can wait here.” She said, as she gave you a bottle of water.

“Will it took a while?” You asked, talking the water from Haruka as you drank. She shook her head. “Maybe 15 more minutes. Are you… okay with it?”

Ah, maybe that’s why. She’s just worried that you actually don’t want to… but you don’t want to see her sad! You nodded your head. Giving her a thumbs up.

Seems like she was relieved…

Fan meet-ups. You usually don’t like socializing, but fan meet-ups is actually fun…

You just sit there, comfortably with fans coming to you and praising you—some, even. Give you gifts! Who doesn’t love free goodies? Not to mentioned the artists that drew you, their arts are always good no matter what.

And seemed like your fan meet-up this time never changed. Well, many more because of your fans increasing. Some of your fans gave you snacks, candies, chips you name it. Hats? Everything! Even somehow free clothing. The line was kinda long until you met the same guy before. He doesn’t change in any way too. But the audacity that he didn’t bring you gifts… such an insult!

“You—uh… [L.Name]-san?” He spoke, his voice was rather deep. Sounded a bit… familiar. But, where?

You looked behind him—no one was there. You looked around and found most of your fans were already gone, you were slightly confused by how fast they were gone. But what can you do about it? It’s their choice. You then bring back your attention to him—a smile formed kn your lips.

But before you could say something—he cuts you off. “Let’s go on a date.”

Well that was sudden.

Haruka, who was suddenly behind you glared at the guy, her left arm was covering you. As if she protected you from a beast. “Sorry, young man. But I should apologize that [Name]’s schedule is—”

“Hell yeah. Let’s go then!” Haruka’s head immediately turned to you. You can see her visibility get angry at you, you smirked, pulling your puppy eyes. “Haruka!! Please…?”

“I won’t procrastinate during training for a week I swear!”

“Two months.” Haruka said sharply.

“But—”

“Two months.”

“I—fine…. two months….” You grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. You saw Haruka and that hat guy having a conversation, you’re honestly too tired to care. You took a KitKat bar from a female fan earlier menacingly bite the middle part.

You took your phone that was beside the cat plushie your fan gave, you sighed as you opened Twitter. Scrolling for a moment, a post—a very recent one opened. The post is from the Twilight account, basically stating that their comeback will be delayed because of “personal” reasons. You tapped on the Twilight’s Twitter, the first thing you saw was their banner concluding their five members.

Kaguya Mizukii, Sato Hiroshi, Yamato Lenn, Furukawa Tenma, Furukawa Junn. You believe, is from the oldest to youngest member.

Mizukii was the oldest—well, from his appearance. He looked like he was 26, and the leader of Twilight. Sato Hiroshi, well you suspected to be two years older then you, he was known to be the most popular member, but was known to be somewhat rebellious. Lenn was known to be the quiet one in the group, with the title joke; “the quiet kid”. From his appearance? Maybe… a year younger then you.

Furukawa Tenma and Junn were siblings, the seconds most popular. They weren’t twins, and fans sometimes fight over who shall take the second most favorite, which. Took crown by two of them.

While you were distracted on your own world, just staring at Sato Hiroshi. You heard a loud slam—stacks of Yen was in front of your eyes, you don’t know exactly how much. But you knew it was stacks of ¥10,000, your eyes beamed, but then you heard Haruka cursed under her breath. “…Deal.”

“Great!” That hat guy smiled under his mask, his hand grabbed your wrist as you shamelessly took the money. He practically dashed out from the fan meetup, you still had money in hand and wearing your dress suit.

How much money does this guy pay to go on a date with you?

You theorized it’s actually more, perhaps. Before those stacks of ¥10,000, he already payed Haruka before but she still refused. But he still insisted of trying. Well, you don’t know much about the outside of music… music and music.

Sitting on a random guy’s car sure is something… sure—he rides a Honda. Nothing very expensive or whatever, maybe he doesn’t want to flex his money. Sitting on the left, your eyes scanning around the front. Looks… too clean.

“No offense but…” As that guy stared the car, you awkwardly rubbed your nape. “What’s your name?”

The guy stared at you for moment—before he let out a laugh, hitting his knees. You didn’t seemed to be amused, just stared at him… dumbly.

“Call me Hi…Kazuki!” Kazuki smirked under his mask, starts his car, and moved at the speed of light—atleast, I thought he drove his car in the speed of light.

First date, on a carnival….

It’s not bad or anything, but going to a carnival isn’t really in your list to go on dates. But seems like Kazuki liked carnivals, you can’t lie, honestly. You felt excited yourself since you never really been to events. Twilight’s concert was honestly your first.

The sun already turned to the beautiful moon—the colorful lights lighting the grass. And many people running around and some going on dates, your eyes scanned around you. You swore your younger self would be jumping to go on somewhere like this, even though. You sometime hated the outside world. Kazuki then came out from the car—still using his clothes from your concert earlier.

“Eh? First time?” Kazuki grinned as he slipped his arm over your waist. You slowly nodded to his question as you then mentality thanked yourself that thought you’re popular, you’re not extremely. “Something caught your eye, babe?”

You’re face slowly reddened—but you fake a cough as you slowly looked around, the games here looked so modern… “How about that one?” You pointed at a game, with ducks in a something like bowl.

When the two of you were near the game—there’s the huge sign on top of the stripped red and white. “DUCK POND!”. Kazuki looked at the owner, a quick talk and you were then given a stick with a hooked end, Kazuki slowly pushed you forward. “Do I need to explain this to you?”

“…I can do it myself.” You pouted at his words, with trembling hands. You barely even took a single duck. Even some people around you looked at you with a lot of questions in their minds.

You were inexperienced for this! You pulled out your tongue, trying to focus. Which was broke when a flash from a phone flickered, you turned your head. Kazuki looked at you, he pulled out his index and thumb like a gun and pointed at you. Where was the light came from…

“I give up.” You sighed defeated, giving the stick to Kazuki.

Kazuki smirked, rubbing his covered nose with his mask. “Watch, and learn. Pretty boy.”

You mostly tried to ignore his last words. But he lean to your ears. Whispering in a low tone that was enough to make you shiver; “Don’t blink.”

Thankfully, you didn’t. But your jaw nearly dropped seeing… 7 ducks at once in the hook. Kazuki looked at it—rolling his eyes, muttering about only getting 7 ducks. The owner’s face isn’t far behind like yours—is this actually humanly possible? But the both of you can’t really answer.

“Here ya go, old man!” Kazuki gave the stick at the owner. He gulped nervously as he nodded, he immediately gave you a teddy bear—not too big nor small. You haven’t get anytime to say thank you—but Kazuki already dragged out away to the next stop.

After many games later. You sat tiredly on the bench near by where Kazuki played an game of shooting, you looked at the ash blonde guy—he doesn’t look tired at all!? He sat next to you, dango in hand and other prices from his winnings. You were about to take it with your hand, but he was insisted that he feed you. So you just allowed him.

The dango was sweet—but not overpowering. Like a typical dango, Kazuki looked at you, you slightly took a peek over his eyes—raven. Kazuki titled his head, he played a smile under his mask.

“Is there something wrong with my… face?” He pointed a finger out at himself. You shook your head. “Nothing…”

“I just… noticed you have raven eyes.” You look at his eyes, you swore you saw his cheeks flushed. But you smiled sweetly—at least, that’s what Kazuki sees. “It looks good on you.”

Kazuki slightly shifted from his seat. His hands trembled, you don’t know what he was going to do. Does people flustered like this or is it just Kazuki? You tried to reached your hand at him, but he froze on spot.

The wind blew behind you, it was harsh. Perhaps, there would be rain sooner or later. The wind blowing your hair and Kazuki’s hat, his hair is indeed ash blonde… but somehow, his mask also from the second harsh wind that blew from Kazuki’s back—wait.

Sato Hiroshi—!?

“IS THAT SATO HIROSHI FROM TWILIGHT!?” There’s a girl screaming from a distance, you look at Kazuki—no. Hiroshi. He immediately grabbed your wrist, speeding at the speed of light. You then hear some phone clicking—and people shouting “CARNIVALVIOLIN IS REAL!?”

You were seated in the middle by Hiroshi, he didn’t even think twice once to start his car and drove off—in the middle seat, you were praying for ATLEAST, he didn’t break any traffic rules. Because it would most definitely be a nightmare…

You honestly had so so so many questions. Well, you understand that why Hiroshi lied about his name, he’s famous. But from many questions, why does he wants you!? You swore you were average, but guess people have their own opinions…

Hiroshi carried you, to what you thought might be an apartment—with so much staff that was staring at you. Even some, trying to talk to Hiroshi but he brushed them off, he practically rushed to the elevator and ran to his room—and make you flop on his bed. As much as you want to put a serious face, it failed miserably by how much his room has you. From your albums and merch, basically everything.

For a moment he just stare—his eyes were blank. The awkward silence stretched, just your eyes and his raven eyes staring at each other. The silence wouldn’t be broke if you didn’t say something that’s kind of stupid; “Did you bring the stuff from the carnival?”

Your lips then straighten, Hiroshi just stared at you for a good couple minutes, he let out a chuckle, shaking his head amusingly.

“Of course,” he said, sitting next to you. Hiroshi then turned his gaze to the wall in front of him, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, sorry. I panicked earlier.”

Hiroshi stared at the floor, his eyes slowly flickered when you sat up next to him. He was mostly silent, he just watched your movements. You hesitantly grabbed his hand, intertwining them with yours, your similar smile formed on your lips that made Hiroshi giddy in his heart.

“Being an idol is a nightmare for you, huh?” You leaned forward, Hiroshi’s nose and your met. “Don’t worry about it, though—we are popularity different. I understand what you’re going through.”

“Sometimes, idol’s life can be more heavy then a violinist, therefore; please… warn me next time.”

Hiroshi stared at you, his smirk was gone—non insight. You weren’t sure what’s going on in that mind of his, but you just smiled at him. Hiroshi looked from the top of your head and knees, his face just reddened even more as he closed his hips.

He huffed—sounded annoyed. But you can’t really find any sense of that, he gripped your wrist. “I—I don’t need this bullshit anymore—!” With a single hand, he grabbed both of your wrists and crossing them. He leaned forward to pressed his lips against yours—it felt rough. You thought it would at least be soft, guess you’re wrong.

When yours lips parted, Hiroshi grabbed your shoulders—with force that’s enough to not actually hurt you, he placed you down on to the floor. Putting you on your knees, you look straight—a huge tent was in sight. How big is even this is..?

You felt Hiroshi’s hand moved to the back of your head, slightly making you leaned forward. You gulped, slowly yet hesitantly, your hands slowly unzipped his pants, Hiroshi’s cock was in front of your face, it’s shadow hovering over your head. You gulped nervously, but Hiroshi was impatient.

“C’mon, use your mouth. Don’t you know how to give someone a blowjob?” He huffed, he pulled your forward, the veins of Hiroshi’s cock was touching your nose.

You let out a quiet sigh, you place your over Hiroshi’s hips. You opened your mouth, Hiroshi looked down the moment your mouth was wrapping around his glans, slowly moving your way down to take his dick shamelessly. He pulled out his phone when you slightly gagged by his cock, thankfully, his phone isn’t in flash like earlier in the carnival.

“Use your fingers to open yourself.” Hiroshi command, he put down his phone and with his right hand—he pulled your hair as his cock was hitting at the back of your throat.

You can deny him… but you were horny, using your left hand, you swiftly opened the button of your pants. Your fingers slipped under your boxers, inserting your index and middle finger. You choked out a moan, sucking Hiroshi and opening yourself up is weird, well. You’ve opened yourself up before. But doing this both at the same time is weird.

Weird but you liked it.

Hiroshi then pulled your mouth from his cock, precums slowly coming from the slit of his glans as he used his thumb and index, he gently pulled your tongue out. There were some of his precums in your mouth, your face was red—Hiroshi ‘s eyes narrowed at your mouth. “Stood up.”

Hiroshi looked at you the moment you stood—his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you over his lap, his cock was in front of your clothed stomach, Hiroshi then pulled down your pants and throwing them to the floor. With your lower now bare, he ripped the dress shirt—the buttons scattering everywhere. Your hand grabbed his wrists but your chest is now bare. It’s unfair… he’s still using his jacket!

A smirk played on Hiroshi’s lips as his hands moved over your hips, lifting you up. He moved you where your hole and his dick brushed over each other, you shivered by that. Hiroshi slowly pushed you down over his cock, his glans were inside of you—it stretched you out so much. You didn’t measure it would stretched you this much, but thanks to his precums, at least. It doesn’t hurt.

Hiroshi’s hand grabbed your ass and squeezed your flesh, before he landed aloud smack that made you whined. You swore it would leave a mark, so Hiroshi gently soothed the sting with his hand. He whispered sweet nothings, he thrust his hips upwards—making you whimpered.

His cock was big, thick and enough to rubbed over your prostate. Your mind was fuzzy, his hands were all over you too… his lips kept pressing to your neck with his unforgiving pace, his fingers traced your body like it was a hidden treasure. Your own dick twitched, moans you struggled to keep down kept spilling from your lips.

And Hiroshi knew, he looked at your cockdumb face, he hummed softly next to your ear as he rested his chin over your shoulder. He stopped his face, Hiroshi’s free hand slapped your ass—a finger entered your hole, you hissed as you moved at your own pace since, well. He isn’t moving and you were desperate to cum.

Hiroshi’s finger was next to his cock, your hands gripped to his jacket when you finally—come undone. A loud moan that you didn’t expect came from your lips, you were a whimpering—whining mess. You stained Hiroshi’s jacket you knew was expensive as fuck. But you’re too tired, at least. For now.

You tried to shifted—trying to get a comfy position when you felt warmth filling your hole, you twitched as Hiroshi pulled out his cock from your puffy hole. You let out a silent whine, Hiroshi looked down. Damn, he sure made a mess out of you, he was about to apologize when he saw you already sleeping in his hold, he fisted his hand, trying not to go horny.

“Good… good night.”

The morning from the window of Hiroshi’s room was annoying for you, do all idols woke up so early in the morning?

You sat up, your body was sore as fuck. Hiroshi was sleeping beside you, hair messy and his arms wrapping around your waist. You tried to pray him off—which ended with a tightened grip. Well, that was useless.

You turned your head over your phone that was charged on the nightstand, you suspected who do it was Hiroshi, but you just shrugged, thinking about it later. You opened your phone, the amount of notifications?

Haruka (mom, lmao) 10 hours ago

Missed Called

Haruka (mom, lmao) 10 hours ago

Missed Called

Haruka (mom, lmao) 10 hours ago

Missed Called

You forgot about Haruka. Shit—! You slightly panicked, Hiroshi groaned when you squirm, his arms tightened once more—making you nearly unable to breath.

“Hiros—Sato-san! Please, get of me. My manager—” Hiroshi leaned forward to placed a kiss over your lips, silencing enough as he pulled the kiss. Pressing his finger over your lips.

“…Just Hiroshi. Please,” he begged, his voice was deep. Maybe from his sleep, Hiroshi sat next to you, giving you his jacket as he stood up. “Get ready then, I’ll bring you to Yamada-san.”

You sat there dumbfounded as Hiroshi then walked away to his kitchen, opening his fridge calmly, like he didn’t do anything lewd last night with you.

Hiroshi fun facts — !

🎡 — Hiroshi canonically fly to the Philippines, because he heard in a fast-food restaurant that shall be unnamed were having a collab with you, and actually paid the restaurant to buy the cutouts of you.

🎡 — Hiroshi, being the horny and creepy man that he was, goon to your pics. And, unfortunately for Tenma, he saw him and Hiroshi just... shrugged. Continuing his lewd act.

🎭 — taglist : @onementally-unstabel-kid @starrykie @carnalcrows (lmao you didn't specify so both tagged it is)

#axetive's works !#oc #oc x reader #oc x male reader #male reader #x male reader #bottom male reader #uke male reader

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thedropsofblood · 6 months ago

Text

A wolf in hunter's clothing

Warnings: Dub-con, age gap (????), mostly gender neutral but made with male reader in mind, size difference, started as rough -> slightly sweet mid-way, bratty reader, overstimulation, blindfolding, implied obsessive behaviour.

Word count: 8k

Minors DNI, do not report, I WILL cry /nsrs

Isekai, the act of transporting a person from earth to a different planet, world, universe, usually of a novel or a video game. It was a childish concept that you haven't bothered and never intended to look into, until you got 'isekaied' yourself.

Unlike what your younger siblings have told you, instead of beautiful vast magical worlds filled with sub-human species and a logical storyplot, you ended up in the most boring case scenario, a fairy tale. Specifically, the "Red Riding Hood" children's book that fell out of the shelf and onto the ground next to you while you were at a bookstore.

As any normal person does, you picked up the book, hoping to put it back to it's original spot, but got your body sucked into the pages instead. To be fair, it could've been worse, so, so much worse. You luckily didn't become the new Red Riding Hood, instead, you became the older brother of the Red Riding Hood.

It's not as bad as it sounds, like, you have a loving and caring family of both parents and an adorable younger sister, as well as a grandmother who you occasionally visits for the first 18 years of your life. What more could you ask for?

The life of your younger sister, that's what you could ask for. Even if they're technically not real, you couldn't help but care for them, care for the years of family meetings, the little happy moments, the vacations, even something as trivial as a meal together. And yet, imagine how your heart sunk in once you heard your mother tell your sister to deliver the cookies to your grandmother tomorrow after hearing rumors of the hunter being on break on the same day.

It made your anxiety levels go wayhire. Your sister's and your grandmother's life depended on the hunter after all, what would happen to them if there's no more hunter? Will they die under the wolf's hands? Can you even escape this book if they die?

Would you be trapped here forever then? What about your family outside of this? Would they even still remember you after 18 years? Worse, what if they just, hate you now?

Why should you even leave this place if that's the case?...

You crawled onto a ball on your bed, hugging onto the soft pillow in search of even a little bit of comfort. This place wasn't real, none of this is, your world was simply a scramble of words combined together by some random old man hundreds of years back, hell, you weren't even supposed to be here, why would you care if your supposed 'sister' and 'grandmother' dies?

Yet you found yourself restless. You had an idea on what to do, god knows if it'll work, but... It'll never hurt to try, right?

You throw your pillow away and change into warmer clothes, turning off the lights before sneaking out of the house through the window, heading directly towards the bright tavern in the middle of the town.

"Brother, why are you not eating? Do you not like it?" The voice of your sister knocked you right out of your thoughts, scrambling to take a bite out of the sandwich she made for you.

"No no- it's good, it's good, I'm just thinking about what I need to get for groceries." Your sister barely bought your excuse, barely. You can still see her crossing her arms and pouting in the corner of your eyes. She was glaring at you for a few solid minutes, as if trying to pry the truth from you. With a huff, she leaned back against the chair and muttered under her breath.

"Remember to buy some candy for me while you're at it then, I'm gonna go now. I don't wanna leave grandma waiting." You let out a mental sigh of relief, ruffling your little sister's hair. "You're just as childish as ever." You chuckled.

Before you sister leaves, she jumped into your arms to give you a hug causing a small smile escapes from your mouth. Your hand reached up to pat her on the head, if you had to be honest, you don't know if you regret your deal with the hunter or not anymore.

"Shit... If I knew slacking off would get you on my dick, I would've taken so many vacations."

The hunter chuckled, leaning in to place a loving kiss on your forehead. You pushed his head back to give him a glare, well, as best as a glare could be with the blindfold covering your eyes. You barked, gritting your teeth as you tried to kick him in the stomach.

"Shut the fuck up and just get it done with already. This deal was only for my family, bastard. Bet you can't even get anyone else to get into bed with you without forcing them into shitty deals-" Your words were cut mid way when he firmly slapped you across your face, his other hand gripping your ankle and hosteling your leg onto his shoulder.

You hissed in annoyance, yet a part of you felt pride for successfully pissing the hunter off. You can only assume what his face was like right now, is he glaring down at you like a lamb in the slaughter or is that stupid smug smirk on his face away? You didn't even have time to guess twice before he shoved his fingers into your mouth with a firm "Suck."

You held yourself back from laughing when you got your answer immediately, this guy was pissed as fuck. You decided to comply anyways, sucking on his fingers and making sure to bite them lightly as you pulled back.

"Sweetheart, did nobody teach you to not play with fire?" His hand wandered down to thrust his fingers roughing into you, his other hand gripping onto your chin to muffle your noises with a kiss.

This fucking bastard didn't even give you a warning before he turned you into puddy over his fingers, you bit onto the bottom of his lips, but instead of him pulling away, he continued on, ignoring the way you clawed onto his back as if you were trying to murder him.

Your hands reach up to try and remove your blindfold out of annoyance, leading to his hand snapping up to hold your wrists together, the other one pulling out of you to unbuckle his belt. "Good boys don't disobey their orders, sweetheart." He chuckled half-heartedly.

That scratched you in the worst way possible, but before you could even react, he thrust the tip of his dick into you, stealing all the air out of your lungs. "Fucking! Ugh- Warn me!" Your nails dug onto your palm, you felt like all your body strength just disappeared into thin air.

You didn't even have time to complain about it after he thrusted fully into you, huffing at the sight of your body shaking like a leaf under him. It was adorable how your attitude went away as soon as he entered, but to be fair, you would probably be more horrified when you realized his dick made a small bump on your stomach.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" He chuckled, placing a kiss on your forehead as he started moving at a fairly gentle pace. He freed your wrists to grip onto your hips, leaning forward to place comforting kisses on your neck. "Come on, let me hear those beautiful noises of yours, sweetheart."

You bit the bottom of your lip to the point of drawing blood, your hands gripping onto the bedsheets underneath to the point of your knuckles turning white. Despite your efforts, some small muffled noises still managed to escape your throat, which was enough for him to speed up his ravage with a satisfied grin.

"You're truly so, so adorable, sweetheart." He groaned, hugging you and burying his face into your collarbone. Your hand moved to grip onto his hair to try and push him away, but it barely felt like anything to him due to the lack of strength in your body. Your antics didn't last long anyways, you were already a cock-drunk moaning mess under him, and at this point, he thinks he likes you better this way.

Those thoughts made him bite your neck roughly as he threw away all self control he had, prioritizing on chasing his own pleasure instead. You wouldn't have complained if you didn't get overstimulated from that, you already came a few moments beforehand, and he didn't even give you a break from abusing your sweet spot even more.

You couldn't be bothered to try and stay quiet when you felt like you would break under him. As a warm feeling filled your stomach, you felt lightheaded as you closed your eyes, trying to calm yourself down from the climax.

He pulled you into a hug, his hand patting you on the back of your head as he pulled out and rested you on your side. Before you drifted off to sleep, you felt a kiss on your cheek as he muttered something you couldn't make out.

A/N: This was supposed to be wolf X reader but I felt like writing some dilfs today, wondering if I should start writing more dilfs...

#bottom male reader #male reader #x bottom male reader #uke male reader #sub male reader #idk what tags to add #orginal post #mlm nsft #mlm #isekai #vel fic #gender neutral nsft #gender neutral reader #male reader smut #x male reader #male reader insert #oc x male reader

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carnalcrows · 19 days ago

Text

STUDY ME

pairing: perfect student! male OC x male reader [faceclaim]

synopsis: No one’s ever ranked higher than Haruki Mikage—until you do. You’re new, unsettlingly smart, and partnered with him for a major project. Haruki’s trying to stay composed, but your odd habits, offhanded comments, and freakish talent in the kitchen are messing with his head. He should’ve ignored you. He doesn’t.

content warnings : 18+, academic rivals to something else, reader is creepy-smart and says weird shit unprovoked, golden boy Haruki smokes under pressure, slow burn with freaky tension, blowjob at the end of ch1 (reader giving), reader’s thoughts are not normal, shared trauma over academic excellence, high-school setting, light humiliation kink energy, some bullying, borderline-obsessive chemistry, they’re both unwell but in different fonts. also: the project does get submitted on time. barely.

word count: 3.4k

The paper wasn’t even all the way up on the board before someone in the hallway let out a low whistle.

“Yo, he’s not first anymore.”

The teacher pressed the last corner of the sheet flat against the corkboard with her palm, used a pin to anchor it in place. She stepped back. The crowd surged forward.

Haruki Mikage didn’t move from his desk.

He didn’t have to. He already knew what it said.

He’d been top-ranked every semester since middle school—longer, if you counted the city-wide assessments and mock entrance exams his mother used to post on the fridge like they were participation ribbons. Everyone knew his name. They whispered it before exams, hated him for it after. Professors adored him. Classmates tolerated him. His grades were a forgone conclusion.

But still, there was that whistle.

That murmur again.

The skin between his shoulder blades prickled with something unfamiliar.

He’s not first anymore.

He set his pen down.

Someone pressed a palm to the open door. “Mikage.”

Haruki looked up.

It was Kinoshita from 2-A. Always too loud, always too nosey.

“There’s a new name up there,” Kinoshita said, eyes wide, half in disbelief and half in that messy kind of glee people reserved for perfect students slipping. “You’re second.”

Haruki blinked once.

Kinoshita grinned. “They only wrote the family name. No one knows who it is yet.”

Haruki didn’t answer. He just turned back to his notebook and wrote the date in the top right corner. Kinoshita lingered in the doorway a second longer, waiting for something. A reaction. A twitch. Even a shrug.

He got nothing.

Haruki didn’t even look bothered.

But the tip of his pen was pressed too hard into the paper. Ink pooling.

∘₊✧

He didn’t go look at the list.

Not during lunch, not after school. Everyone else swarmed the board. The hall smelled like shoe rubber and shampoo and stress. A few people snapped photos. One girl squealed. Someone muttered your last name and said, “It has to be a mistake.”

It wasn’t.

Your name was written in blocky black print above Haruki’s, the gap between your scores barely two digits wide—but it was enough. It was real.

You weren’t in his class last year. No one knew who you were. You didn’t even have a photo in the club yearbook. No whispers, no rumors, no posts online. Just a name no one recognized and a score too high to ignore.

That should’ve been the end of it.

One test. One fluke.

People were curious, but curiosity burned out fast here. Unless you were someone interesting, someone visible, someone like Haruki—nobody lasted more than a few weeks before fading back into academic noise.

Except you didn’t fade. You didn’t do anything. You just existed in the background.

Quiet. Distant. Present. Like static. Like a blank space on a page that never stopped drawing the eye.

He should’ve forgotten it.

But your name kept coming up—softly, between other people’s conversations. No one knew where you were from. Or why your name was never on any club roster. Or what kind of person beat Haruki Mikage and then refused to show their face.

Someone in class said you were weird. That you mumbled to yourself. That you drew creepy shit in the corners of your worksheet margins and then never turned them in.

Another said you laughed in the middle of a chemistry lecture, and no one knew why.

Someone else said they saw you eating cold rice balls under the gym stairs, headphones on, eyes closed, mouthing the words to something that didn’t exist.

None of that made sense.

None of it matched the clean, precise writing next to the top score on the midterm report.

But Haruki remembered it anyway.

∘₊✧

The first time he saw you was two weeks later.

There was no grand entrance. You just walked in a little after the second bell, half-zipped jacket, hair a mess, notebooks clutched to your chest like a bribe.

Haruki was already seated. Already organised. Already done with the warm-up quiz.

You didn’t look at him.

You walked past him, past everyone, and sat in the back corner of the room by the window. The only desk that hadn’t been claimed.

You slumped down. Dropped your bag. Took out a pencil that had bite marks in it and started copying notes from the board with a half-lidded stare.

Haruki stared. He couldn’t help it.

There were no rumours about how you looked—no pictures online, no Instagram stories. But this wasn’t what he expected.

You weren’t particularly neat. Or polished. Your uniform didn’t fit right, like it had been ironed two days ago and then slept in. Your fingers were ink-stained. Your collar slightly crooked.

You were pretty. But in a way that felt… accidental. Or wrong. Like a painting flipped upside down.

There was something strange about your face. Or maybe your mouth. It looked like it wanted to smile, but didn’t know how.

You looked up once during the lecture. Your eyes met his.

Then you winked.

Haruki turned back to his textbook immediately, his throat dry.

He didn’t look at you again for the rest of the period.

But he felt you looking.

∘₊✧

The class project was announced the next week.

“Pairs of two,” the teacher said, holding up a glass bowl with folded slips inside. “We’re going to assign them randomly. You’ll have three weeks to put your presentations together. Graded on both content and performance.”

She walked between rows with the bowl.

Haruki reached in, pulled a number: 9.

He waited patiently while the others filed through their slips. Then your name was called.

You pulled yours out. Paused. Tapped it twice against your palm.

You looked right at him when you said, “Nine.”

Haruki’s fingers twitched around his pen.

∘₊✧

He didn’t say anything until after class.

You were still packing up, slow and disorganised. You dropped your folder and didn’t bother to pick up half the papers that slid out. A few had doodles in the margins. They looked like vines. Or veins.

“Haruki Mikage,” he said.

You blinked up at him, surprised. “Yeah?”

He stared. Then, “That’s my name.”

You tilted your head.

“I know,” you said. “You're the guy with the stupidly perfect eyebrows.”

He stared harder.

You reached for your bag, smiling faintly. “Are we gonna start working on this project, or are you gonna keep staring at me like I just spit in your bento?”

Haruki didn’t respond.

You laughed softly—barely audible. Like you hadn’t meant to do it.

Then you leaned forward and whispered, “You always look like you’re trying not to judge me. It’s okay. You can. It makes your mouth look sharper.”

His stomach twisted. He stepped back.

You turned and walked off like nothing happened.

Like you hadn’t just said the first thing that’s ever made him lose his breath.

∘₊✧

The two of you met for the first study session in the back corner of the library, because, of course, you suggested it, and of course, Haruki said yes, even though it went against his better judgment, instincts, and every fibre of his tightly-wound existence.

“This is where the ghosts live,” you said, dropping your bag to the floor and immediately sitting cross-legged on the chair. “They’re chill, though. As long as you don’t read anything out loud in Latin.”

Haruki blinked at you over the top of his textbook. “I don’t read Latin,” he said flatly.

You grinned. “That’s good. You’ve got exorcism hands, not summoning hands.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s a compliment.” It didn’t sound like one. But also—it kind of did?

You kicked your leg a little, humming under your breath. Then you reached over and grabbed his pen. Didn’t even ask. Just took it. Twirled it between your fingers like a wand and said, “Alright, Harvard. Let’s get this nerd orgy started.”

“…Excuse me?”

You looked at him innocently. “You’re telling me you don’t think studying is a group kink?”

Haruki did not dignify that with a response.

You leaned back in your seat and tilted your head, staring at him like you were taking inventory of something beneath his skin. Then:

“Have you always been like this?”

“…Like what?”

“Like a boy who was genetically engineered to be the president of every club. Like a human version of whatever’s in those vitamin gummies for your brain.”

Haruki frowned, flipping to the next page of the syllabus. “And you’ve always been like this?”

“Unfortunately,” you replied, deadpan. “I tried being normal once. Got a nosebleed.”

He didn’t believe a single word out of your mouth.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Not in the overt, obvious way. Just… his eyes kept landing on the curve of your neck when you tilted your head back to think. Or the way your lips moved when you mouthed words to yourself under your breath. You chewed your pen sometimes, distractedly.

You had a pretty mouth. Haruki wondered what it would feel like around his fingers.

You tapped your fingers against your leg in a rhythm he couldn’t decipher. You made references he didn’t understand.

“Did you know Freud had a raging thing for eels?”

“…What?”

“He dissected like so many of them. Never found the testes. Drove him insane. I feel like you’re my eel.”

Haruki slowly set his pen down.

“I’m… what.”

“I don’t get you,” you said, voice lighter. Not teasing now. Just honest. “You’re like this shiny, polished, student council-approved perfection android. But then you make these tiny expressions when no one’s looking. Like you’re pissed. Or bored. Or like you wanna scream into a pillow for eight hours.”

He stared. Speechless.

You tilted your head again. “Have you ever screamed into a pillow?”

“No,” he said slowly, carefully. “Have you?”

You smiled. “Only when someone's on top of me.”

Haruki’s brain short-circuited for a second.

You opened your notebook like you hadn’t just dropped a sentence that would require him to pray afterwards. “Okay, let’s start with the thesis breakdown. We can decide if you wanna present or I wanna present, but either way, I get to say the weird part.”

“There’s… a weird part?”

“There’s always a weird part,” you said, eyes sparkling. “It’s the whole point of writing anything. Gotta add the bite.”

He didn’t know what you meant, but his pulse ticked up anyway.

You worked surprisingly well together.

You were smart. Not just academically, but weird smart. You pulled random quotes from obscure films, recalled footnotes Haruki had skimmed past, and made connections he hadn’t even considered. And the worst part was—your instincts were always right.

You were completely unserious about your own reputation, but deadly serious about the work. Which meant that Haruki—perfectionist, ruthless, prideful Haruki—couldn’t even hate you for beating him.

All he could do was sit across from you while you explained why you thought the author used soil erosion as a metaphor for emotional decay and pretend his leg wasn’t bouncing under the table.

When the session ended, you leaned over his side of the desk to grab your drink—and stayed there.

You were too close.

Too casual.

Your hair was a little messy. Your breath smelled like melon soda and mints. And when you pulled away, you laughed like you knew exactly what you were doing.

“I’ll text you,” you said, swinging your bag over one shoulder. “Unless you’d prefer I send smoke signals from the roof.”

“I don’t have your number.”

You blinked.

“Oh. Right.”

You held your hand out. Palm up. Waiting.

Haruki hesitated. Then handed over his phone.

You typed something fast, then handed it back.

The name you saved in his contacts wasn’t your name.

It just said: [threat level: weirdly hot]

He didn’t correct it.

∘₊✧

Haruki stepped out onto the rooftop with his blazer slung over his shoulder, tie loosened just enough not to look sloppy. He didn’t really care if people saw the cigarette between his fingers — nobody ever said anything. Not to him. It was the kind of privilege that came with being him.

Top grades. National mock test finalist. MVP of the volleyball team. Editor of the student journal. The golden boy. Your mother’s favorite. Your teacher’s pride. The one who always knew the answer but never rubbed it in.

And here he was, burning through his second cigarette of the afternoon, hoping it would quiet the spinning in his head.

He hated that it didn’t.

The shouting started before he even made it down the last step.

“Why don’t you just eat somewhere else?” someone hissed.

“I’m not in the mood to deal with this freak show today—seriously, you always pick the corner seat like it’s your kingdom or something.”

Haruki’s foot hit the bottom stair.

He knew that voice. Loud. Entitled. A second-year student from the basketball team who walked around like he owned the school just because he had abs and rich parents. The group around him laughed, but it sounded more like barking.

You were sitting alone, lunch in your lap, face unreadable. Picking at your rice like you couldn’t hear them.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. But your hands had gone still.

Haruki’s voice cut in before he could think about it.

“You talk a lot for someone that far below average,” he said flatly.

Silence.

The air shifted.

The guy whipped around, only to pale when he saw Haruki standing there, jacket off, sleeves rolled, cigarette still burning between his fingers.

Haruki didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Keep walking,” he added.

The group scattered. No one apologised. No one even made eye contact. They just fled, like hyenas realising the lion hadn’t left after all.

You glanced up at him with a half-smile. “Wow. My hero.”

“You shouldn’t let them get to you.”

“I don’t.” You popped a cherry tomato into your mouth. “I just added them to the list.”

“…What list.”

You didn’t answer. You just chewed and smiled.

∘₊✧

Later that week.

You opened the door in a loose black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, hair wet from a shower and sticking to your forehead in damp, clinging strands. You looked cosy in a way that made Haruki’s lungs feel too tight.

“You made it,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. “Wanna see something cool?”

Haruki followed you in, expecting weird posters, weird books, and maybe an Ouija board or something.

What he didn’t expect was—

The kitchen.

Clean. Lived-in. There was a wooden cutting board already dusted with flour. Soy sauce, mirin, and sesame oil lined up neatly on the counter. A cast iron pot simmering quietly on the stove, steam curling like the first exhale of a ghost.

You tied an apron around your waist and turned slightly. “Sit.”

He did.

The scent was unreal.

Rich and savoury. Ginger and garlic blooming in oil, followed by a splash of sake and the quiet crackle of meat hitting the pan. Chicken thighs, if he wasn’t mistaken—bone-in, skin crisping in real time as you basted it with soy and sugar.

The sauce thickened into a lacquered glaze, caramel-dark and glistening. You flipped the pieces with casual precision, face calm in a way he’d never seen in class. Focused. Almost elegant.

You weren’t speaking. Just humming. A low, tuneless little rhythm under your breath.

He watched the way your fingers moved—quick and practised as you sliced scallions into fine curls, sprinkled furikake over the steaming rice. You moved like you lived in the kitchen, like it wasn’t a performance.

The food was simple, but the kind of simple that only comes from knowing what you're doing. Like you’d made this a hundred times for someone you cared about.

No one had ever cooked for Haruki before.

He didn’t realise how tightly he was gripping the edge of the chair until you set the plate in front of him and the smell hit him like a memory he didn’t have.

He blinked. “This is…”

“Chicken nanban,” you said. “I made the tartar sauce from scratch.”

Haruki picked up his chopsticks, swallowed something thick in his throat, and took a bite.

The chicken cracked at the surface, still hot enough to burn, still sweet from the soy and vinegar glaze. The homemade tartar had bits of pickles and onion, just sharp enough to cut through the richness. The rice underneath had soaked up some of the sauce, sticky and warm.

It was stupidly good.

He kept eating quietly. You sat down beside him with your own plate and started scrolling through your phone, legs tucked up under you.

“Why do you know how to cook like this?” he asked finally.

You shrugged. “I like taking care of things.”

“…People?”

“Depends,” you said, tone lazy. “You wanna be taken care of?”

He looked at you. You didn’t look up.

The silence between you stretched like sugar—warm, sticky, slow.

He put his chopsticks down.

You turned to him.

And smiled.

Haruki wasn’t sure what he expected your room to look like, but it wasn’t this.

Simple, mostly. Clean. A little lived-in. The walls were bare except for a stack of books pushed into a crooked shelf, a futon folded neatly in one corner, and a secondhand desk with a few pens left uncapped. A soft hum filled the silence — maybe a fan from the hall or the fridge ticking quietly through the wall.

You tossed your bag down and sat on the floor like you didn’t feel the shift in the air. Haruki did. His skin felt too tight. The space between your bodies suddenly felt loaded.

“So this is where you hide,” he said, trying to sound casual.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. Then shrugged.

“I like quiet,” you murmured. “It’s hard to find in school.”

Haruki didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all.

You watched him for a long beat, then patted the space in front of you.

“C’mere.”

He hesitated. You raised a brow. And then he moved — sat down across from you with crossed legs and a heart that wouldn’t stop thudding.

You didn’t touch him at first. Just stared. Haruki stared back. He wasn’t used to that, either — being looked at like he was something to be read, not admired. It made him feel strange. Exposed.

“Haruki,” you said, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “Do you ever stop thinking?”

His mouth opened — then closed. He didn’t have an answer.

You leaned in, slow like a question. Gave him time to stop it.

He didn’t.

So you kissed him.

Just once, at first — a slow press, the kind that didn’t demand anything. Then again, this time deeper. Haruki inhaled sharply, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to put them. You pulled back only slightly.

“You can touch me.”

The words were soft. Not teasing. Just an offer.

Haruki’s fingers found your shoulders, then your jaw, then finally threaded into your hair like it made sense.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Until you shifted, pushed gently at his chest. He leaned back onto his elbows, lips parted, breath shaky. You sank to your knees in front of him, palms brushing the hem of his shirt.

He watched, stunned, as your hands moved with practised ease — unbuttoning, unzipping, until he was bare from the waist down. The air was cool against his erection. Your breath was warm.

“Wait—” he managed, voice a little broken. “Are you… sure?”

You looked up at him with the faintest smile.

“Very.”

And then you lowered your head.

The first touch of your mouth on his cock made his breath stutter. He’d never—no one had ever—

He clutched at the sheets beneath him, back arching slightly. You didn’t rush. Just took him in slow, deep, unhurried. Your hands on his thighs kept him steady, kept him grounded.

Haruki didn’t know where to look. Your lips, your eyelashes, the ceiling — nothing helped. His brain was static.

You hummed against him, the vibration sending a full-body shiver up his spine.

“Fuck,” he gasped, hands fisting the blanket. “That—wait—don’t—”

But he didn’t want you to stop. Not really. And you knew that.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper, “It’s okay. You can let go.”

And when he did, it was quiet.

His jaw went slack. His head tipped back. Your name curled off his tongue like something reverent. He was shaking.

You swallowed, slow and clean, and wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

Then you looked up at him.

Smiled like it was just another Tuesday.

“You taste like stress and bad decisions.”

Haruki lay there, bare and ruined, heartbeat in his throat.

You stood, grabbed your water bottle, and stretched like a cat.

“Wanna stay for dinner?”

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