Jimsonweed
jimsonweed
@meo-eiru's Micah
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
Silence regathers for a quick moment as Micah haphazardly waits for her to finish and fill him in with the time elapsed since her last confession, until he at last recognizes the disembodied voice. His chin changes place with the cheek on his palm as he casts a sideways glance to the latticed window, sparing the effort to withdraw his elbow from its seat on the sill. Through the gaps of the screen and his feathery, pale eyelashes, he manages to make out the curve of a head tilted over prayer hands, their fingertips grazing the hairline.
"Let the Lord know what weighs on your conscience, child."
He hears her shuffle from one knee to the next as she kneels, and a note to remind the custodian to replace the fraying carpet flickers in his mind. He extends and relaxes the muscles of his calves and in his ankles, just enough to stop his legs from falling asleep within the cramped space of the confessional booth. Although his pristine church was far from detoriating, having subsisted off ample donations over the years, stick him in the booth long enough and he sometimes has half the mind of tearing out the structure from the floorboards himself like a tooth from its maw.
"I caught myself asleep while caring for the courtyard today— I immediately snapped myself out of it and was able to finish with my chores, but I fear this incident arrived too close after the nuns' last reprimand of me. They have took a notice of my idleness as well."
The choice of 'nuns' instead of 'sisters' is the only thing that stands out to him from the rather bland admission. He suspects that that lack of familiarity she addresses them with would be the final extent to which she would express, likely subconsciously anyway, any discontent she harbored with the nuns' maltreatment of her.
When he opened that particular letter bidding him to permit their daughter to take her vows, he too felt a bit of mild surprise, but that dissipated as quickly it had came. Detachment over worldly affairs and petty gossip alike aside, he did not anticipate the extent to which curiousity over her pedigree would cement into controversy for the rest of the convent.
But then again, perhaps that was lack of foresight on his part, since controversy was what her family was mired in. It was not the first or the last instance that their prominent surname was uttered about in hushed tones, but the one that did them in was when a certain head priest and nun left in dishonor from the very churchdoors that separated his convent from the rest of the world. Although the guilty party in question was from a generation that seized to have survivors quite a while ago, as it would turn out she would remain as their legacy in the eyes of the less charitable. While her family became a generous benefactor for his church over the years and was now at least formally under its good grace, it still stood amongst the community the impression that charity was the only virtue that they partook in, wontingly circumventing every other.
"Have you any trouble sleeping at night?" he treads, subtly leading her to break the anonymity the booth is supposed to afford. Although he had intervened to replace the meagre room and board that the sisters had provided her, he would not be the least bit surprised if they were still somehow behind her restless nights. Once he had seen her atop a wobbling ladder as she shakily dusted the cornices of the sanctuary, and believed it was a foolhardy attempt she had herself contrived to gain the approval of the convent. However, when he got her to step down to safety she informed him that it was basically the sisters' idea to risk stumbling onto her neck with no one to watch her in case of such an accident. Not only that, but it turned to be only an instance in a laundry list of Herculean labors that they shelved for the girl. He understood that the nuns would naturally require novices to prove themselves, but this mild hazing had long run its course, if it even could still be called that. From all accounts, she was a rather plain girl, and her arrival at the convent did not dissuade that impression he had of her at all. The nuns on the other hand seemed to insist that she was a 'spoiled princess who needed to be taught a lesson or two', a conclusion they arrived at long before she did.
"Not at all," she responds, "I find the nights here to be quite peaceful and quiet. I guess it is on account of indulging in both that I've started sleeping later."
A plain answer from a rather plain girl.
"There is one other thing I suppose."
Micah makes a non-commital hum. Truthfully he usually acts much more engagingly with his parishioners and convent no matter how mind-numbingly insipid the interactions are, masterfully cajoling them to air out their grievances and guilts under his confidence, as his duty dictates. That and her being the member of family of particularly influential parishioners should really press him into wearing his best face, even with the latticed barrier between the both of them. There is something about her, though, that makes him comfortable with withdrawing such airs. If she has nothing critical to say of the nuns, he rationalizes, then his current conduct would likely not cause him to withdraw from her favor either.
"I fear that I may also be too attached to worldly possessions. I find myself often missing a personal effect I had to give up when I arrived at the convent."
He wonders if it is the silver spoon the nuns were so keen in finding on your person.
"Ah," he half-remembers. "The toy stereoscope with the moths?"
"Oh- yes," she affirms, and he hears her hands slide up and down along the skirt of her habit before meeting each other again. His cassock begins to feel itchy. "I had had it since I was a kid. I liked to- to flip between the images. Of the moths." He hears the gears shifting in her brain as she figures, yes, of course, the personal effects would eventually makes its way into the hands of the head priest, who had a vested interest in all who come to his convent to take their vows. He straightens his spine as his arms fall to his side, and resists the urge to crack his knuckles. His mind blanks on what to follow up with, and hers apparently as well, and this quiet disturbs him more than it should as his predictable inclination for the upperhand in any conversation and its flow rears its head again; perhaps it is more surprising that it had laid dormant for any amount of time. The awkward silence that follows causes him regret the breach of impersonal formalities that he was responsible for encouraging in the first place.
"The garden is especially beautiful at nighttime this time of year," she ushers out the hush that had fallen.
He hums again.
"It's lovely all day long, but the moths wake up in the evening and after which you can really see them out and about. They're especially attracted by the flowers— the groundskeeper mentioned that you're particularly careful with caring and choosing for which get planted."
"Do you have a favorite?" he abruptly asks. The waning daylight finds its way through the perforations in the door of the confessional booth, and he watches dust dance with each other before putting his palm in front of his eyes, resting his index finger across his browbone. Despite his interest in florticulture, seasonal allergies the one ailment he was invincible against since birth, that question is one he seldom broached with others. When he was much younger, he entertained the idea that you could tell a lot about a person's psychology by their preference in flowers, only to discover that oftentimes this choice was guided by the same mindlessness that usually governed the rest of their passive life. Still, he patiently waits as she pauses in contemplation.
"A feathered thorn, maybe."
His brow momentarily knits in confusion under his hand.
Oh.
She is referring to a moth.
"Thank you," he says, though he is not what for, perhaps belatedly acknowledging the compliment she gave to his garden.
"Of course, Father."
Another pause.
"Your penance is two Hail Marys, one Our Father."
"Thank you, Father."
Micah peers down on the overturned earth where a datura had once made itself home. Cold apathy wraps itself around his heart, as he remembers the detachment his father offhandedly addressed with what had once been his mother's garden. Micah's garden. The so-called queerness of flowers and foliage that were too busy resting when it came to greet daytime visitors, but awake just in time to welcome unwanted ones. Micah having to shed unnecessary externalities while he prepared to enter seminary, was reaching that age where he would become a man. He recalls his own response of selective muteness, knowing distinctly the position of a boy of twelve and his personal thoughts within the household.
He shuts his eyes, and a hand tightens around a rosary, a thumb running along a ceramic bead.
His voidlike pupils emerge from that violent blink, and he walks back into the house with placid movements, soundlessly closing the door behind him. He tears off his scarf as if it was moth-eaten.
His mother's face when she caught him pressing his chafed fingers on the delicate petals of a morning glory, careful to not tear away at them.
Micah's hair might appear endlessly soft to the touch, but it is anything but. The strands are so thick, that if one was not deliberate enough when handling them a few would inevitably pierce the skin. One of the earliest responsibilities he bestowed on himself was learning to do his own hair, sparing his mother's hands from the splinter-like cuts that would occur whilst braiding or trimming it. He could still perceive the smack of her palm against the back of his head when he ran his inflamed fingers along the stained glass windows of the church for relief. When she had startled him by calling his name as he caressed the morning glory, he instinctively expected a similar reprimand, even an echo of his father's lectures on becoming a man. As he looked up at her face with his knees digging into the ground, the only thing beating down on him was his mother's smile.
When he was smaller it was not abundantly clear to him the connection between her concern for his sickly health and her devotion to the church. Much to his father's chagrin, his mother spared his early childhood from both hard work and hard play on account of his frail constitution. Even leisurely explorations of the outside world in daylight remained scant, his pale skin and white eyelashes rebelling against the sun which punished his insolence with rashes from its heat and migraines from its brightness. The attendance of mass, however, as well as the receiving of blessings from any priest that she could seize the attention of, was an exception, and a non-negotiable one at that. Prayer, was his constant companion that formed the monotony of his life which replaced both childhood friends and the daily sunrises, save for Sunday mornings when his mother would wake him up early to attend church and catch a glimpse of bored neighborhood kids who he could not exchange a word with as they rubbed the sleep out of their eyes listening to the priests speak. So when she woke him up again at around the same time the following day, the sun still hibernating as late winter only had just began to converge with early spring, he confronted the task of cleaning the courtyard of weeds and dead leaves without question and with a vigor out of place in the frigid landscape.
Lamb's ears. Vervain. Moonflowers. Four o' clocks. Artemesia. Angel's trumpet.
Their names would have to press into his memory for quite a while before their faces could. If they pressed on a bit harder, he supposes, he would have figured out his mother's design a bit earlier. Nonetheless, underneath the watch of his widebrimmed hat, his early mornings and then his evenings too were preoccupied with watering and pruning and fertilizing, constant monitoring in general, so much so that short term changes animated him more than long term prospects would. The stems for arms and leaves for fingers that extended themselves to the sky, the vines that groped their way up trelisses and across walls. The buds which had tentatively peeked out like the head of a turtle from its shell after a long winter. These were all rewards in themselves.
It felt in some way that not only his mother, but the world, was imparting a mystery on him and that he was also a part of.
The lamb's ears would be the first to bloom, in the late spring.
Well not quite.
Micah was disappointed when his mother had informed him that despite the inexorable spread of its creeping stems as they took root in the claylike soil, it would only start to flower in its second year. She had comforted him though by reminding him of its name and that its silvery leaves are the primary reason for its residence in the gardens in which it presides, as was the case with the Artemesia that would actually blossom that mid-summer.
Further respite was that the angel's trumpets that his mother had been caring for for the past nearly five years would finally bloom in the coming months during that very same time. Micah had not even been aware that the nightshade was capable of producing flowers, and once or twice had silently questioned of such an inconspicuous plant in the garden, the sole one at that time, which also needed to be brought home inside every winter. Once he had asked his mother if she liked it because it was mentioned somewhere in the bible, and she only laughed at him although he had broached the topic in complete seriousness.
The vervain and moonflowers ended up being the first to bloom, and in tandem. He had been awoken from a nap at a call for dinner when he had decided to check the garden first, and discovered that the buds of each plant had simultaneously burst open. His heart had swelled at the sight of the bubbles of tiny purple trumpets and the giant rounded white stars swaying in the evening breeze. When his mother had come out to see what was taking him so long to set the table, she practically had to pry him away, making him rub his hands on her apron on account of the latter's poison.
When he did make it to the dinnertable after thoroughly washing his hands, he could barely contain his excitement at the new developments. Although children were raised to be seen and not heard in his household, with little restraint he waxed about the garden and repeatedly asked his mother when he could expect the rest of the blossoms. It was a conversation between mother and son mostly, as his father remained characteristically quiet after he had said grace. It seemed for the most part that he silently approved of the manual labor his son was undertaking, having spent most of his boyhood without physical exertion.
His excitement dulcified into satisfaction for the time being so he had slept well and without break that night, but when he returned that following morning to the garden, he was startled to see that while the vervain still undulated in the wind like bubbles of sea foam, the moonflower had closed up shop as quickly as she had arrived. When he scuttered back home to find his mother and tell her that something had happened to the moonflowers, a look of confusion laid on her face before blithe composure returned at his description. She briefly chastised him on his lack of discernment, because if he could not at least recall that she had already mentioned it to him, he could surmise from the name that the plant prefered moonlight over the sun. He flushes at his previous panic, as he belatedly remembers her alluding that the flower only bloomed at night; him, being mistaken that the blossoms burst forth from the buds during a particular evening, then continuously blooming for the next few months.
In June the clock would finally strike four. Their architecture was that of the poisonous moonflowers though on a smaller scale, but much more colorful, as if someone took a paintbrush to make streaks of magenta across their white and yellow basecoats. It also would bloom later in the day, though a bit earlier than dusk, and his mother joked if he needed an exact reminder of when. The humidity of the season's evening pronounced its otherwise delicate smell, until it had become synonymous with summer nights for him.
The advent of the artemesia and the angel's trumpet in mid-August would complete this party of parioshioners that would attend Micah's midnight mass. Tiny, yellow clusters abutting the lobed, white fuzzed leaves reminded him of wreaths of winterberries, the sweet, fruity quality of the flowers marrying with the camphorous, sagelike aroma of the foliage. His mother's long-awaited nightshade on the other hand was beyond comparison, hanging downwards like a sunset-colored bell that would only ring at dusk, or a trumpet directed at a headstone to awake the dead. It seemed either that the third time was a charm, or he required the whole before he could understand the unity of its parts, but was his mother's moon garden, at any point, truly incomplete? On moonless nights when the silvery foliage would glow a little dimmer? Before a moth with tea-stained wings, the same color as blood dried on strands of white hair, would stir from its slumber to visit one September evening, and have its final rest on the arbor of a clock? At every midnight mass that did happen to take place, because the lamb's ear would be cut down prematurely, without any blooms?
Unfinished, maybe, but not incomplete.
More Posts from Cryastre and Others
just posted a kazuha fan fic for his birthday today <3
Oh, but as much I hate those feminism-hating, men submitting trad-wives on social media, you just know a yandere would eat it the fuck up.
Like those misogynistic, tate fuckers? The gymbros? The so-called alpha males? They're lovestruck by a pretty little housewife who loves God and prances around the house in modest, yet cute clothes. They think she's adorable, makes them want to just protect her.
A reader like that, would give them a bad case of cuteness aggression. Probably for the best, honestly.
It's funny. Almost hilarious. Because a yandere like that would be so easy to manipulate. For a while, let's just entertain the idea of a trad-wife reader being two-faced. On the surface level, she's a pure, innocent little thing who just wants to stay home vacuuming and tidying up the house for her husband. But deep down.. she's really just playing it safe, you know?
I mean, she doesn't really want this life, per say. Her husband thinks it's in his nature to be dominant and doesn't believe in the government or vaccinating. To some degrees, it's bearable, but then he starts talking about how raw milk is the way to go and how his future children would surely be home-schooled.
And frankly, well, you start to think he's quite idiotic.
It was an arranged marriage. And while you were raised to be a traditional, submissive homemaker, you start to realise that this isn't what you wanted. Not what you'll ever want.
So from there? It's all manipulation and playing coy.
Just smile and bake him sweet pies. Live in to the chauvinistic fantasy he has fragmented and feed into his ego.
Now would you get spoiled? Realistically, no. But if it's a yandere? Hell, yes.
Only the most gorgeous diamonds for you, dear wife. And pretty ass dresses. If that isn't how usually dress... better change your style.
Coo into his ear as he comes home from a long day of work; rub his shoulders and press soft kisses to his jaw; call him your strong, dependable husband who you'd love forever.
1, 2, 3.. anddd, he's putty in your hands.
Tell him you'll take care of his children as he lavishes you in luxury. That new house by the seaside you wanted? Done. He'd prefer living in the countryside instead, but oh well. You're the future mother of his kids, of course you deserve the best.
And of course, discreetly continue to take your birth control pills.
°˖✧ sweet ✧˖°
Soft Yan!Kazuha x fem!Reader (NSFW) - Request
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
SUMMARY: Kazuha proves to you why he's the only person worth thinking about and having in your life.
WARNING(S): Yandere, mentions of abuse, mentions of torture, gaslighting, manipulation, slight non-con, unprotected sex, overstim
CHARACTER(S): Kazuha
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I gave the reader a bad backstory, so they compare Kazuha to this person and use that as proof that Kazuha is good for them. This is basically a mockery of healthy communication, expression, and care.
You gasped, your eyes snapping open. The nightmare, the same one that had been plaguing you ever since he did that to you—abruptly faded away, replaced with the ceiling of the bedroom you shared with Kazuha.
You sat up in bed, your breath coming in loud, deep gasps. You tried to slow your breathing. You could hear your heart pounding in your ears.
Calm down, you told yourself. It's not real. Not anymore, at least. It's over. It's over. Kazuha had saved you from him, from all the terrible things he did to your body, to your heart, to your mind. There wasn't a single part of you that hadn't been violated.
You told yourself you were fine, but you could remember the screaming, the torture, the begging, the breaking. You didn't think you would ever forget. You wanted to, but you couldn't.
But you were happier now. Kazuha had saved you. You could look forward to happy days instead of cringing from the next cycle of sun and moon, from every second of living.
You looked out the window, watching the first rays of dawn reach tentative fingers into the room, chasing away the remnants of your nightmare. You watched the room fill with the cheery glow of morning.
"Mmmh," Kazuha mumbled. You felt him stir beside you. "Up already, darling? Did you sleep well?" He sat up, putting his head on your shoulder and gazing at the sunrise.
"No," you murmured, playing with Kazuha's hair. "It... it happened again. I..." Your voice trailed off.
Kazuha wrapped his arms around you, nuzzling into your neck. "You don't have to worry anymore, (y/n). I promise." His breath was warm on your skin.
You loved Kazuha's affection, but it was also your greatest fear, your greatest weakness. You depended on his praise and approval; there were few other joys in your life. He made you happy.
But you were scared that Kazuha would leave you one day. Good things surely couldn't last forever, not for someone like you. You were scared that once he saw all of your flaws and faults, he would no longer want you.
You started to get up from the bed, but Kazuha wrapped his arms tighter around you, holding you in place. "Mmmrh. Don't go, (y/n)."
You reluctantly sat back down. Kazuha pulled you into his lap, cuddling you.
"I'm scared you're the one who's going to go," you whispered, then cringed. "Uh..." You'd meant to say it in your head.
Kazuha lifted his head. "What?"
"Ah... nothing." You lowered your gaze, embarrassed.
Kazuha gripped your wrist, fully awake. "Tell me." He grabbed both of your hands, pinning them between your legs.
You squirmed, knowing that Kazuha wouldn't let you go until you told him. "Kazuha..." you whined. If he was in a good mood, whining would get him to relent.
It didn't work this time. Kazuha's expression hardened along with his grip on your wrists. "Tell me. Now." You whimpered, looking down. You didn't want him to see this part of you.
Kazuha got up on his knees, looming over you. "We don't keep secrets, (y/n)." His red eyes were eerily blank as he gently held your chin between two fingers. "Now." His grip tightened. "Tell me."
You gulped. Kazuha dug his fingernails in, and you gasped. "Okay, okay! I'll tell you. Just let go. Please."
Instantly, Kazuha's body melted against yours. He molded himself against your back, stroking your waist and murmuring comforting words into your ear. "Thank you, darling. You know I hate it when you keep secrets from me." This was true, and you knew it; you weren't really allowed to go outside or do much on your own. Not that you wanted to; you knew how it made Kazuha feel.
"I'm scared you're going to leave me because everyone else already has. I don't want to be alone. I'm scared," you said in a rush. "All my friends hate me, and I don't even know what I did. Did I do something, Kazuha? They only left after you met them..."
"No, you didn't do anything wrong, (y/n)," Kazuha murmured, gently kissing your hand. He didn't look you in the eyes. "They left because they were bad. But I won't leave. You can stay with me forever." You exhaled; Kazuha must really love you if he hadn't left you, right? He must really care about you to let you stay.
"But why did they all leave me?" you whispered. "I thought—"
"Don't think about them. Don't care about them." Kazuha's voice was flat and emotionless. "They certainly don't think about you." You flinched at this. "They don't deserve you, darling." He kissed you on the lips, gently pushing you down onto the bed and climbing on top of you.
"K-Kazuha..." you began hesitantly. "I-I don't think—"
"Shh. You think too much, darling." He pulled apart your shirt, kissing his way down your neck and squeezing your tits. You whimpered as he rolled and pinched your buds between his fingers. You felt your body warm at his touch.
"A-Ahh..." you gasped as Kazuha began to gently suck on one of your buds. His tongue swirled around it, and your eyes fluttered at how soft his mouth was. "Ow!" You jolted as you felt Kazuha bite down, his tongue lapping the sore spots. "Mmmnh..." You felt Kazuha pull off your pants.
Kazuha hooked a finger into the side of your underwear, tugging it down. "You're very wet for me, (y/n). That's good. Your body knows that I'm all you need." He slipped a finger inside you, twisting it in your growing wetness. You sighed at the sensation.
"Look at this, (y/n)." He pulled his finger out. It was coated with strands of clear, sticky liquid, which Kazuha lapped up. "You taste so sweet, darling." You blushed.
Kazuha pushed his finger back inside, adding another finger and undoing his pants with his other hand. He curled his fingers right into your sweet spot, making you arch your back.
"A-Ahh... Kazuha..." you moaned, your body dripping with lust.
"See? I'm all you need to think about, darling. Nothing else." Kazuha knelt between your knees, and you spread your legs, anticipating the pleasure as Kazuha lined himself up with your entrance. He smiled at you.
"A-AHHH—" You let out a wail as Kazuha sheathed himself inside in one smooth stroke, filling you to the brim. You squirmed, feeling your walls, slick with heat and desire, tighten around him. Kazuha smiled down at you, holding a thigh in each hand. "Kazuha... wait, please..."
"You'll be alright, darling. I promise." Kazuha snapped his hips forward, setting a vicious pace.
"Ah—AH—K-Kazu—ahh—s-slower, Ka—o-oh—" you gasped, pleasure throbbing in your body as Kazuha fucked you relentlessly, never missing your sweet spot. "S-Slow down, plea—AH—ahhh—nnngh—" Your eyes rolled back in your head, your body turning to molten wax as Kazuha pounded into you.
"See, darling?" Kazuha purred, holding up your legs. "You look so sweet for me, and I haven't even done anything."
You were powerless, utterly incapable of doing anything, your body immobilized by the overwhelming pleasure. You could only submit. And why not submit, when it was so good? You moaned, feeling your orgasm start to build. Your cunt throbbed around his cock.
Your eyes widened as you felt Kazuha's thumb on your clit. "No, Kazuha, not there, not there, please..." you begged, getting up on your elbows. Kazuha bounced your hips a little harder, and you fell back onto the bed, your body spasming. "Kazuha! Please..." you mewled. "Please!"
Kazuha's finger gently pushed up the little hood of skin that covered your nub. You threw your head back as he began to ruthlessly rub your clit, squeezing and rolling it mercilessly. "AHHH—no—NO—ugh—too—good—AHHHH—ahhh... a-ahh..." Your legs shuddered, your orgasm growing as Kazuha continued to stimulate the most sensitive parts of your body.
"C-cumming—ah—AH—n-no—cumming—" You screamed as you came, bliss ripping through your body. You felt yourself cream around Kazuha's cock, your walls pulsing and clenching around him. "Stop, stop, no, nnngh, no more..." you babbled, your clit burning as Kazuha pressed down on it, pinching it hard enough to cause a throb of pain. He lifted your hips, hitting so deep inside you that you saw stars. "No no no just came no no no no more please—"
"No more? I haven't reached my peak yet, and you already beg me to stop? That's not nice, darling." Kazuha pounded into you hard enough to remove all semblance of speech. He tugged gently on your clit, squeezing it. "Maybe I should try licking this next time. You seem to like it very much." You shuddered, your eyes unfocusing from the bliss.
"You look very good like this, darling. Very sweet. You should see your face right now." Kazuha idly toyed with your throbbing clit, the little nub swollen from his movements. "This feels good, right, darling?" You nodded, your head swimming with heat. "Good." He massaged your clit, flicking it with a fingertip. You moaned, pleasure throbbing inside you.
You heard Kazuha's breathing quicken, his pace growing more frantic and less precise. The sound of skin slapping and sliding wetly against skin filled the room, both of you rendered speechless by the pleasure, the waves and waves of bliss carrying you away.
"CUMMING—CUMMING—AHHHH!" You collapsed, no strength left in your body as you came for the second time, your tired walls fluttering. Kazuha grunted, pushing in all the way. He whimpered as he came, hot ropes of cum spilling into you. He made sure none of it was spilling out before leaning forward and gripping your chin, lifting up your tired head.
"Now do you see? You only need me, darling." he rasped in your ear. He bounced his hips a little, making you whine as he touched your sweet spot. He tapped your swollen, overstimulated clit with a single finger, making your entire body jolt with electricity. "See?"
You nodded groggily, letting Kazuha cuddle you. "Just you."
for ba bao fan | fem!reader
you, wandering around the house with a swollen belly. calling his name to ask for food and care and comfort. made me foam on the mouth holy shit, need that to become a shirt fr, continuing that one ask, imagine his lover did actually got pregnant, now months into the pregnancy she became quite clingy at times, especially when he came home late at night, because she knew, she couldn't actually get out that often anymore to join him in the casino when carrying a child, too much risk. so, she just resorts to actually voicing it on their late-night talk-cuddle, “y'know… you should take a rest tomorrow, i’m missing you too much to let you go.. this place doesn't feel like home when you're not around.”
if he actually does? well, as much she'll struggle with her growing stomach, let's just say she's ready to get down on one knee if he hasn't already or rainfall of tears, whole lotta of them
˖⁺. ﹙ the demon-possessed casino owner x afab!fem!reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁
. . . I would never leave you my dear !! 🍒 : casino owner ˖ grim reaper ˖ demon cw : pregnant reader﹙ verse 1311 hàoyǔ. ﹚
your husband stays home to make sure you are doing alright with your pregnancy
of course he’d stay with you! his heart always hurt having to leave you in the day and return at night. he knew he couldn’t keep it up for too long - at some point he would need to be there for you.
casino be damned, the second you said that there was no way that he was leaving you alone ever again. not until you give birth and even then - he’ll wait a few extra months. one of his highers can tend to the casino until he’s back. he’ll simply check in through myrr whenever he can.
you would awake to your lover not beside you. tummy twisting and pregnant hormones making your heart break more than it should.
finding the will to rise out of bed and find your way out of the bedroom - you’ll catch whiff of something in the kitchen. a stir of hope. excitedly your feet carry you down the hallway. your tears doubling at the sight of your boyfriend adding the finishing touches to breakfast.
“now, why the tears?” hàoyǔ ‘s deep croon only makes them fall faster. he senses your next move and in an instant is in front of you so that you do not race over. a gentle hand to your stomach and another cupping your face.
“I-I thought -”
“Sshh,” he murmurs. A cold kiss presses to your forehead and he slowly rubs at your tummy. “Did you really think I’d leave you here after last night? Not leaving any time soon, my darling.”
GOOD LORD HEAVENS HAVE MERCY CUZ I JUST BUSTED
My inmate
Wriothesley x male reader.
Cw : inmate reader, office fucking, reader is called pretty boy and good boy.
🔞Minors do not interact! Adult situations stay adult situations.🔞
A commissions from a friend.
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You’re an odd inmate, one Wriothesley keeps his eyes on. Most would assume it’s because you’re an escape artist, though they’d only be half right. You love the thrill of breaking into places you don’t belong, but it’s never to truly get out of the fortress of Meropide.
Your antics have Wriothesley enamored, you always break into his office just to visit him, and it’s given him many laughs at seeing you at his desk waving at him.
But he can’t deny the risk.
And how much he loves it, like he does you.
“C’mon pretty boy, that’s it. Fuck, doing so good for me.”
You whine, feeling his hot breath fan across your neck before he litters your bare skin with kisses.
“Mm…W-Wriothesley it’s so much.”
Your back is against his chest, your legs spread being kept open with his, leaving your needy cock on his display for anyone who’d walk into his office.
He made sure to lock the door, however, you’re for his eyes only.
His dick throbs at your whines.
“My poor little inmate. Don’t worry, I know you can take it.”
His dick is only halfway inside you, and from your other encounters with him, you know you still have so much to go.
“Shhh there we go, almost in, handsome.”
He slides a calloused hand up your stomach and to your pecs, thumb rubbing across your nipples. Wriothesley chuckles at your jerky reaction, watching your body twitch against his gentle touches, while his cock carefully slides into your ass.
He bites his bite, breathing out heavily before tossing his head back against his chair.
“Shit!…fuckin’ hell, you feel so good. Relax, you’re squeezing me so tightly.”
“M’sorry! Just, feels good, so deep.”
You lean your head back against his shoulder, trying to take deep breaths and relax for him. Wriothesley leans forward, kissing your cheek and nuzzling against your neck. His free hand stroking your inner thigh until he can move again.
“Can you go faster? Please?” You plead breathlessly, but he’s happy to oblige.
“Want more, baby boy?” You can feel his sharp grin on your neck.
“Who am I to deny such a good boy, asking so politely.”
You choke on the air, feeling your breath being punched from your lungs from him pushing his cock inside you. Wriothesley always fills you up so well, making you feel so full.
“Move..! Please please Wrio move!”
His rough and calloused hands move to your hips, lifting you halfway off his cock before swiftly pulling you back down. You arch your back, tossing your head back against his shoulder as you cry out. Your hands gripping his, clawing at them for something to hold onto you.
Wriothesley bites his lip groaning at how your ass squeezes around him so nicely, like you want him to cum.
Your squeals echo in his office. Your drool slides down your chin as he fucks you, slamming deeper and deeper inside you, before your shriek, your body tensing only to fall limp.
“Oh? My pretty boy liked that?” He moans in your ear, nipping at your neck.
You try to grind back in time with each rut of his hips but his movements are too quick, using you like a well-loved toy. Your cock smacks against your stomach with his feverish thrusts, getting your pre everywhere.
“M-m’close! Gonna cum!”
The tip of his cock hits your prostate, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. You practically shriek, feeling one of his hands grab your dick, stroking it in time with his thrusts.
“Too much! Oh fuck—!!”
“Give it to me, c’mon make a mess on me.”
Your cock is twitching in his hand, while you can feel his throbbing inside you.
With one final thrust you break, wailing as your cum coats his desk, thighs, and stomach. Your tear-filled eyes roll back at feeling his thick hot cum painting your insides white.
“I love that face when you cum. You’re addicting.”
You pant, laying limp against the large man, but can’t stop the airy chuckle that leaves you as he kisses your neck and cheek.
“How do you feel?”
“Amazing….archons above that was so good.”
You can feel him puffing with pride.
With light shuffling you blink, seeing his coat being placed over your bare body.
“Wait, wait it’ll get dirty.” You panic, but he brushes your worries away.
“It’ll be an easy clean, I wanna keep you here a little longer before cleaning you up.”
He wants you to keep his cock warm while he lavishes you in kisses.
“You did so good, such a good boy for me. I love you.”
You snuggle against him, holding his coat tightly around you in the comfort of his arms.
“Love you too, handsome.”
He knows you two can’t stay like this for long with his work, but he’s going to take every chance he gets to keep you like this.
He doesn’t want you to leave just yet.
An Honour to be Had - [Genshin Impact SAGAU] GN
![An Honour To Be Had - [Genshin Impact SAGAU] GN](https://64.media.tumblr.com/11b2c835134f56f5b9e4fa779ada6e65/9d8279a4fa8e506a-51/s500x750/d99607821bd5af58008d262962e1338ced6af313.png)
blurb:
Imagine, being isaeki'd into miHoYo's most popular open-world rpg gatcha game and discovering yourself to be interpreted as Teyvat's most beloved All-Maker--a God above Gods, with even Celestia in the palm of your hands. You'd read fanfictions--FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY--so when you first arrived you promptly freaked the fuck out and stayed away from any form of civilisation. You'd hung out with the hilichurls and regisvines and other non-human mobs whom happily cuddled up to you and kept you fed, but you didn't stay in one place for long. However, you got lazy in Sumeru, loving the shade and the Aranaras and their music--that was your downfall. But not really, because it turns out you weren't being hunted. Eventually, after accustomising to your odd new life as Teyvat's Beloved (a title which you felt you very strongly did not need nor deserve), someway, somehow, the topic of your love life comes up. Of course, ensues much embarassment on your end, and much excitement from everyone else on the other.
![An Honour To Be Had - [Genshin Impact SAGAU] GN](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d76b25650cbbc736974039b67c415312/9d8279a4fa8e506a-dd/s500x750/3cc5d8db33862bbfb419c693780b3a531aa1f1b4.png)
cw: not edited, second-person-pov, teyvat simps over you, you are the most beloved as should be <3, [name] freaking out from being surrounded by such gorgeous people all the time, fluff, Mild Fontaine Quest Spoilers!
| masterlist | genshin impact collection |
next.> [GN 18+ MDNI] afab! ver. | amab! ver.
[3.1k]
Being the Beloved of Teyvat--you could not very well agree with being 'the Creator' seeing as you very well did not code and encrypt and design genshin, though you didn't deem yourself its 'beloved' either but whatever, you win some you lose some--was incredibly overwhelming.
Particularly at first, after having been fearful for your very life and sanity and then being thrust into the limelight of literally the entire world, but you've learned to make do.
Though at times still, it was intimidating. Constantly dining on only the finest, wearing the rarest (and sometimes impractical) jewels and cloth (of which now you've put on hold until festivals), and living in an ethereal estate situated in the middle of the waters bordering the lands of Liyue, Sumeru, and Fontaine.
You're duties--which, admittedly, was a slow learning process for you--consisted of overseeing the people of Teyvat. At first, you'd often times be thrown into the deep end with various meeting from Liyue Officials, Sumeru Sages, Inazuman Leaders, and all the like, wherein you kept to yourself unless directly spoken to (which was... all the time).
Eventually you'd eased into the life, speaking up for yourself and declaring the authoritive entities for each nation capable of their acts, henceforth relieving you of such meetings unless absolutely necessary.
Really, you just got bored and all the important politics and finesses they talked about stressed you out.
You were still given many reports to oversee, along with an almost never ending number of letters from both important figures and common folk whom hoped to either wish you well or seek audience with you.
Unlike in historic transcripts, this time (apparently) you'd decided to take a more hands on approach in your duties. This being adventuring the lands and meeting with the people in person.
Honestly though, your social anxiety killed you but you were too meek to say anything much about that. Besides, it got you out of just slinking around the esate (castle? Palace??) so, whatever.
You don't think you'd ever be able to wrap your head around the whole 'our holy creator' thing though.
If this is what being famous was like, you didn't want it.
You had no idea what these people liked about you, enough to keep worshipping you even after meeting normal old you in the flesh.
But... that wasn't for you to decide, you suppose. Odd as it is.
"Your Grace~"
You jerk up at the sudden voice, almost loosing your page in your surprise.
You look up to see Venti smiling at you with closed eyes and his familiar carefree smile, and you close your romance book with a light hum in acknowledgement.
"Lunch is served~ Come, come! The picnic's been all set out now!"
Your shy suggestion of a day out in the forests of Inazuma had been clearly heard and happily granted, wherein the Yashiro Commision itself volunteered to make themselves available to cater to you.
You dusted yourself off from the grass and make your way over with the unnecessary help of Venti clinging to your arm. But he looked so happy, so you didn't compain.
Having made your way past the tree line from the cliffs and into a natural clearing, you were surprised at the number of faces whom you saw.
You spot Zhongli, Ningguang, the Traveller (Aether), Paimon and Tartaglia, and Nahida and Kaveh alongside Tighnari, Cyno, and Nilou. Lisa and Kaeya were chatting over a glass of champagne, with Diluc and Jean politely keeping to themselves. The sight of Furina and Neuvilette gave you whiplash--you figured the latter would have been much too busy with Fontainian matters.
You think you spy Xiao keeping an eye on things somewhere in the trees.
What shocked you moreso was also the appearance of the Yashiro Commision representatives themselves, Ayaka and Ayato, accompanied by their ever helpful housekeeper, Thoma, and Yae Miko and Ei.
The small crowd gave you the jitters before Venti dragged you into the centre of it all, guiding you to a purposefully situated pile of pillows to sit on.
You follow graciously, bowing your head politely at everyone with a quiet greeting.
Everyone else regards you with much more flourish before taking seats themselves. Many other pillows were scattered around, though you saw Itto (who somehow managed to crash in) happily laying on his side on a grass edge.
You place your book on a pillow beside you, thanking Zhongli when he passes you a plate of fruits he's noticed you'd come to favour.
"Thank you," You start slowly after moments of deliberating how much courage you had left for the day, "for organising this. Uh, especially on such short notice. I really wouldn't have minded just setting things up myself."
"Think nothing of it, your Grace," Ayato inclines his head towards you with a warm smile, "it is our utmost pleasure, I assure you."
You nod slowly, "Mm. And... thank you, all, for uh, coming out, as well. You certainly didn't have to."
You sweatdrop slightly, glancing towards Zhongli who sips his tea contently without a single worry. You don't doubt he was the one spread the word, given his proclaimed title as your most devoted.
"Nonsense!" Kaveh bows towards you, "I'd accept any invitation to spend time with you, your Holiness."
Itto lets out a belch after downing one too many tri-flavoured skewers.
"Yeah! Besides, we love having you here!" He grins unabashedly.
You bite back a smile behind a glass of fonta. Itto is funny.
You spot Tighnari narrowing his eyes at him from his lack of manners. You snicker through a bite of sushi.
Yae Miko spies the book beside you and hums, "Oh? Is that a book from my publishment?"
You side eye the item, not so subtly pushing it behind you with a small nod. She doesn't let up.
"Ah, one of our better known romances! How delightful~"
You can't help but feel embarassed at the proclamation, shrinking at the number of eyes that snap to you with interest.
"You like to read, your Grace?" Neuvilette tilts his head curiously despite it being more of an observatory statement than a question.
"Yeah, it's a nice--pastime, of mine."
"Oh? What types of genres do you prefer?" Lisa inquires from her place on a decorative, plush euro cushion.
"You know," Yae leans forwards with a mischevious glint in her eyes, "it's implied that the types of books people read are what they desire, particularly in romance."
"Is that so?" Nilou blinks innocently, and Yae Miko hums affirmatively in response.
"Oh, how lovely!" Nahida claps her hands, "your Grace, what types of romances have you read? Which ones appeal to you the most?"
The eagerness of her expression makes you feel bad if you don't answer, but the expectant looks of the others makes you reluctant. You take an obnoxiously large mouthful of yakisoba and motion at your inability to speak.
"Or is it the love interests that intrigue you the most?"
You want to deadpan at Kaeya's implicit undertone.
You roughly swallow your mouthful of food, just managing to avoid borderline choking on it to dismiss everyone's prying, "It doesn't really matter."
"On the contrary!" Venti grins cheerily, "I'm sure it's safe to say that most of us are very curious about our Grace's most intimate interests~"
You eye him wearily before slowly shrugging--there isn't much to tell. Prior to your iseaki'd life you didn't really care to mingle, instead prioritising your studies and friendships over romantic relations. You'd heard that some people had the occasional crush on you, but you never really explored your own preferences.
And fictional characters do not count.
So, like hell you'd say anything about them to them.
"Uh, well, don't get excited. I don't really have anything to tell."
"What do you mean, your Grace?" Ei's gentle prying has you shrugging once more, "have you not previously aquired a suitable consort?"
"But your Holiness," Venti gasps dramatically, "you must have had plenty of suitors!"
You wince at his loudness, stressing over his words. Would they think you pathetic? Would they believe you to be a prude? Or that you had some sort of twisted whore like behaviour?
"N-No," You sweatdrop, "I don't think anyone had been interested in me long term, and I was more focused on my pursuits than anything."
"Truly?" Yae Miko hums, "then surely now you must be at a stage of yearning, yes?"
"I mean, I-I guess..? Wait. No--" You feel a sense of dread wash over you as soon as the words leave your lips. You didn't really even mean them in the first place, you just wanted her to drop the topic--
"Oh! Your Grace is looking for a spouse?" Nilou brightens, clasping her hands together estatically.
"Hang on--"
Diluc raises a brow, "Is that really any of our business?"
"--this isn't--"
"As their most trusted acolytes, yes, indeed it is," Zhongli sits up straighter, amber eyes glowing with a sharp (if not determined) glint, "it is my, moreso yet, our duty to ensure our Dearest Beloved has only the best whilst simultaneously adhearing to their needs and preferences."
"Then wouldn't it make sense for our Creator's beloved to be one of their most reliable acolytes?" Tartaglia's words strike a chord within the group, each individual going still while you sit there stressing on top your pile of pillows.
It wasn't long after that picnic when the news of Teyvat's Beloved seeking a partnership broke out. The incident spread like wildfire, alongside information about your less than experiences.
While some were awed at your purity, more made speculations about your witholding until your chosen, and others praised you for your prioritising your duties over oneself.
It really wasn't that deep, but whatever.
Soon enough scholars and akademics from everywhere began debating on the choice of your potential spouse, namely between yours closest and most faithful acolytes.
One of the archons would be the most obvious choice. Each with their own nation and wider prospects, the only subjugation between them and you was celestia--of course you'd pick one of the Seven!
The strongest contender was Liyue's Rex Lapis--one of the remaining from the original. Known by many revered names, whether it be the God of Contracts or the God of War, Morax is and always had been without a doubt one of the Creator's most devoted.
He is known to be one of (if not the) most attentive to you, at your beck and call however you please. And though your wishes are so too his without question, he is also most discernable with his wisdom and experience. Should you need a guiding hand or a pliant ear, both your caretaker and your spear, Morax is your first choice.
The Electro Archon's dedication to you is undoubtable, as proved with her ideals towards eternity. While some argue it is only her recent disposition that sits her in legence as a suitor, others agree that having the Raiden Shogun by your side is a clear sign of strength and resolve.
In this, many agree that having her as your chosen would very well place her people at ease. Your connection to Beelzebub implicates a more personal approach to her duties, solidifying the nation's current state of peace and leaving the Sukoku Decree as history.
Aside from Mondstadt, many were skeptical about the Anemo Archon's potential to being your chosen. He's an inactive Archon, and whimsical in nature. To Mondstadt however, it does make some sort of sense for him to be a suitor.
After all, what is freedom if demanded by a God? In this comes the freedom of choice. Barbatos, in his presence, while inactive, has never abandoned his people. With him as your lover, you are guaranteed both flourishing love and solidarity. He won't be your pillar, but he will be the gentle wind caressing your cheeks, and the refreshing breeze leading you forth and easing your worries.
The Hydro Archon, while technically no longer their Archon, is still up for debate as a suitor. While some disapprove of her being a choice, like the others, her devotion to you is absolute. Unlike the others, Furina is moreso a celebrity to her people than a figure of worship.
Choosing Furina signifies a life of luxury and limelight. Entertainment is her forte, so keeping you light-hearted and well loved would never be a problem with her as your chosen! With that, your relationship would establish a stronger presence of a God amongst people, exceeding beyond your duties as the Creator.
If not an Archon, mayhaps one of the nations Officials?
How about Mondstadt's Acting Grand Master?
Jean is very meticulous in her work, and incredibly diligent. Living up to her name as the Dandelion Knight, Jean is steadfast and strong willed without lacking empathy. Aside from her tendency to overwork, with you she would without a doubt find a way to better manage her time.
Not only would you teach her to treat herself kindly, but she too would reveal to you the love and care any mortal could only dream to have the privilege of showing their Beloved.
Liyue's Ningguang is another strong competitor. She has all the funds and luxuries she could offer teyvat's Divinity, with her you would no doubt be bathed and lavished in everything the land could possibly offer.
Though some of her time might be torn towards her work, her attention would be yours so long as you so much as breathe for it.
Many believe that none other than Inazuma's Yashiro Commissioner would be the most suitable choice. In a matter of both wealth and diligence, Ayato Kamisato has it all. Without a doubt would he cater to your needs and preferences, worshipping you as you deserve.
While his work is of utmost importance, his heart belongs to none else. Plus, the people of Teyvat can rest assured of your person's protection thanks to the Shuumatsuban.
But don't disregard Sumeru's Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham.
Although aloof and forthright, Alhaitham offers much more than meets the eye.
Though he lives humbly, he holds much wealth to look after and spoil his Beloved. In addition, his work ethic and nature deems him quick to return to your side from whatever he was called away for. Effecient and effective, Alhaitham holds a much deeper admiration than he lets on.
This is evident through his attentiveness and intimidatingly accurate deductions and observations--though, that just makes him all the better choice for a suitor.
Now last, but certainly not least, Fontaine's Hydro Soveriegn, Iudex Monsieur Neuvillette.
Despite his reserved lifestyle, many have noted his gentle nature, particularly when in the company of the Melusines. With this, alongside his reverence in court, he is labelled as another much suited choice for their Grace.
Bound to live a fulfilling life in Neuvillette's care, his worship of you is evident, ensuring you a reliable shoulder and adoring partner should he be chosen.
If not any of them, well, you still have plenty of faithful acolytes to choose from!
Mondstadt contains many delegates and powerful influences. After all, Master Diluc is known as the city of freedom's most eligible bachelor. Strong and independent, aloof but not apathetic, Diluc would be sure to take care of you, whatever you may want or need.
Cavalry Captain Kaeya is another suitable candidate, alongside the Favonius Knights' Librarian, Lisa.
Both are romantic in their own rights, with Kaeya you're bound to be wine and dined with a side of suave sweet nothings, whereas Lisa offers a peaceful night in with open windows and flustering praises.
Outrider Amber is a well known face in Mondstadt! With her, your days would never be gloomy, the girl would do her utmost to keep you well taken care of and happy with your spontaneous adventures!
Looking at Liyue, there are many of whom desire your holy praise.
Within the bustling city is Keqing, Ganyu, Baizhu, and Yelan--all of whom would rightfully drop their work and serve their most Beloved to their utmost.
Outbound towards the plains and cliffs are the adepti pladged to Liyue, particularly, Xiao and Xianyun. Although they are in oath under Rex Lapis, even his orders may be overruled in favour of a simple contented sigh from their Grace.
Similarly in Inazuma, you have many at your beck and call.
Yae Miko is one of the strongest candidates in this area, closely followed by the Yashiro Commission's Shirasagi Himegimi, Kamisato Ayaka. Both are respectable figures, though with vastly differing attributes to cater to their Beloved's preferences.
Perhaps the Tenryou Commission's Kujou Sara, or the Divine Priestess Sangnomiya Kokomi? Moreover, there's General Gorou, and Inazuma's renouned detective Shikanoin Heizou. Even the young, wandering samurai Kazuha from the former Kaedehara Clan.
If you so truly wished, there is also the infamous oni, Arataki Itto, alongside the ever skillful Kuki Shinobu and Thoma--all of whom would stop at nothing to ensure their Grace's happiness and comfort for all their days.
Sumeru is certainly not short of devotees.
Take the ever illustrious Kaveh, who would spoil you with the sweetest words one could utter with his dedication to you, or the ever shining Nilou, who dedicates her elegant arts to you.
So too would many others be of suit to stand by your side: Cadance, Deyha, Tighnari, and Cyno, even the every so prickly Wanderer would be awed as your lover.
As it is in Fontaine, the people readily introduce Navia as a suitor, even the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide has proved to be a potential partner! Despite his intimidating stature, his ideals and desposition deem him worthy.
Ignoring public scrutiny, those within the Fortress positively root for their warden; Wriothesley would no doubt be one of the best suitors for their Creator.
Outwardly, no one really addresses Snezhnaya on the matter, but even then they have to admit that while no one other than that nation wants them to be chosen, they are indeed rather suitable candidates.
The Tsaritsa, for one. Formidable, strong, steadfast and ambitious, however, her people know her to be elegant and, while icy, her cold touch is known to sooth those of whom she cares for. Aside from Rex Lapis, and if not for her underground state of affairs, she would surely be one of the most preferred suitors.
Each to their own, even the Harbingers harbour the potential to be their Beloved's chosen. With the Eleven playing to their utmost strengths, the main few with the strongest potential are Pantalone, Il Capitano, Arlecchino, and Tartaglia.
But overall, that's all only to name some of the strongest contenders to be their Grace's chosen!
Oh boy...
INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW
“Think of what it could have been, Think of all the suffering, Nights of crying, wondering, Tell me what awe you’re in?” Deception comes second-nature to incubi; twisting serpents lay dormant in their flesh. This is truth. It is also true that for a wayward incubus, it is particularly hard to disguise one's demonic nature in the presence of an angel and an irritatingly sharp human. You don't recommend it at all, actually. I MADE IT BEFORE MIDNIGHT!! halloween babyyy!!! anyways I promised to deliver a halloween fic and I did :3 this idea lowkey came to me in a dream and I think it's singlehandedly the freakiest shit i've ever written edit: see I knew I was rushing to post when I forgot art creds Moze drawing by @ma_mori74 and sunday is by @nai_pizx pairings: angel sunday, human moze + incubus m reader (+ some foxian jiaoqiu) warnings: nsfw, male reader, voyeurism, lowkey stalkerish moze, mentions of death/hell etc, religious imagery wc: 16.1k
HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION
. *࿐
Tinny music crackles in your earphones that knot haphazardly at your chest, almost in sync with the subdued spark from your lighter. The song isn’t particularly good (neither is the weather: a drizzle that always seems to drip from a perpetually ultramarine sky), but any shitty song would do to liven up the ambience of the smoking area in this particularly bleak corner of the campus.
It’s blue, you note boredly. The smoke, that is, mingling with the vapour wisps of condensed breathing. There’s a certain meaning to be found in standing outside in subzero temperatures, finding peak entertainment in the clouds produced from your mouth as if you were some child. You just haven’t quite found it. Meaning, that is.
You’re sure there’s one or two bad songs about it, if you scroll through the playlist enough.
Inhale. Bitter menthol washes over your tongue–you’ve long gotten used to the flavour. Of course, the glaringly red car that slows down on the road in front of you also helps in forgetting to appreciate any new notes of the stick between your lips, but you digress.
A window rolls down. The street-lamp glowing a frigid lazuline flickers precariously. You exhale, watching the smoke trace shapes over the bloody car—some boxy shape that could totally be used as a muscle car. These things happen simultaneously. These things also wash the murky taints of calculus from your mind and instil some form of amusement into your week.
If you don’t count maintaining your cover at a human university as being thrilling enough to regale anyone with.
Brusquely, a hand sticks out into the drizzle to wave at you—self-consciously, you wave back with a question clouding your mind. Though, it is almost immediately answered when street-lamp strains a bit more and you finally see the outline of an acquaintance you met while hauling boxes into your new dorm room at the beginning of the semester.
A tentative alliance, more like, with the both of you sniffing something off about the other.
“Yo, Jiaoqiu,” you greet back after he beckons you closer. His glasses are slipping off his face, and your hand itches to push them back up.
Of course, it perhaps doesn’t hurt in establishing closeness by being guts deep in him just a week ago.
“You’ll be there for the Film Fair, right?” he murmurs. You can’t possibly miss how his eyes flick to your lips briefly: how his pretty throat is wrapped tight with a scarf tonight to protect from both the boreal chill and prying eyes, how his glasses can’t seem to hide his incandescent gaze on the marks on your body, barely hidden by the loose shirt draped over you today.
He was on the culinary course, he’d told you a week ago, but you could’ve figured out that much from the exquisite breakfast he’d cooked for you in the morning: one you didn’t need to eat. Instead, the sanguine flesh of berries had ended up being smeared on his skin alongside the mellow cream—you could’ve surmised his degree from the divine taste of his body, easily. That, in your opinion, had been your best meal for a good while yet.
“You want me there?” You take another drag of your cigarette, watching him watch you. In his eagerness, your keen eyes pick up on the glamour disguising his fluffy ears starting to wane; and unbidden, a memory rises to mind of a night much like this. Those same ears, pressed flat to his head, with that lilt of his voice sounding far less confident.
A friendship is forged with a good fuck, you wisely conclude.
“Yeah, duh,” he breathes, and the vapour coming out of his mouth mingles with the smoke pouring from your own.
Or two.
“Send me the details,” you smile, a slanted one that mirrors your lax attitude. “You still have my number, right?”
Of course he does.
“Yeah, I do,” he clears his throat, almost shaking himself out of a stupor that he never noticed he was in. There’s a tense dance occurring between both of you constantly, and unfortunately for him, he can never quite outpace you. It’s present in the regretful line of his mouth as he glances at the time on his phone, the lingering gaze that traces your being, and the downturned mirage of his ears—as if he forgets that you can see through his glamour. “I’ll see you.”
“See you,” you return, savouring the rich scent of energy that exudes from him—one he can never mask, for he cannot himself tell that it even exists.
As the cherry-red Mustang—or whatever car it is—rolls away, you stroll back to the smoking area to appreciate the remnants of your cigarette: something you hadn’t been able to due to all the distractions, as you’d like to put it.
But all is not well.
Instead, you resume your road-and-cigarette-smoke watching only to discover another pair of eyes meeting your own from the shadows cast by the lamplight across the street. With the prussic overcast to the sky, you once more don’t recognise the figure afore you initially; until a car drives past and its glaring headlights reveal him for all but three seconds.
Moze.
You think you’ve seen him around Jiaoqiu several times—perhaps enough to rationalise that they are indeed friends, forged with something a bit more innocuous than a one-night stand.
But regardless of how you stand tangentially with your mutual buddy (or fuck-buddy in your case), the common threads that bind you also included that as of this year, he is your roommate. And classmate, too, in perhaps one of the most obscure classes to ever be known to man. If you had less of a spine, you might’ve waved—but as it stands, the wintry chill between the two of you suits you just fine. If anything, the fact that he hasn’t beaten you up for sleeping with his friend leaves a positively amicable aftertaste in your mouth.
Absent-mindedly, you stub the cigarette into the already-bleak wall, leaving a rather abstract trail of ash behind. His nose wrinkles in distaste, but you ignore it.
Is it a sin for an incubus to be any more addicted to human creation? Wow. You really should’ve been a philosopher.
Well, any more than it is being an abomination, you muse one final time, almost ruefully.
Almost.
. *࿐
This ill-fated relationship begins as it does ordinarily—by the two of you both taking an elective nobody else takes.
Well, more accurately, it begins the morning you see a poster for the strangest night class you’d ever seen.
Humans and their machinations.
This is truly a special version of hell.
Fragile wisps of breath condense in the autumn chill as you carefully read the poster pasted on the bulletin—formal black and white typeset, so painfully tasteless amongst the vibrant leaflets nestled around it. Though, the size eight lettering and bland format soon becomes the least of your irritations as your eyes wander down.
“What a joke,” you scoff incredulously, a bit too invested in your human persona to truly grasp that you’re losing the plot. Just a bit.
Really? ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ was granted approval to be introduced as a new class, whereas the Cryptology course had been defunded and subsequently discontinued? The thought burns your mind, your soul, your very being.
“How stupid,” you mutter, swiping open your phone.
The irritation surges, until it gnaws and bites at the cartilage of your sternum in a desperate attempt to free itself from the confines of your chest.
“Really, are they crazy?” you shake your head, typing your name right onto the form that finally materialises.
You may be loyal to your Cryptology elective, but it’s not like it ultimately makes a difference.
A class is a class, and your tenure in the human world relies on your ability to assimilate into this stupid place.
. *࿐
You lied earlier, by the way. The piddling number of students in ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ is not two, but three. Your moody roommate (whom you barely saw yesterday), you (who, as an incubus, really shouldn’t be here) and the distinguished Sunday (who is also weirdly out of place but in the opposite way). Honestly, he probably knows this too—glancing at the way your clothes are never weather-appropriate and always tousled as though you were wrestling in bed for a nap (given your nature, you probably were doing some form of wrestling), whereas his own shirts and slacks are always immaculately pressed and ironed. He’s even got a damn overcoat for every day of the week, for fuck’s sake. Honestly, you’re half convinced the guy’s running some cult.
Regardless of how mismatched the Professor’s three students are, the bigger problem is how awkward the lecture hall is when the damn chairs outnumber the students. You can barely concentrate on Professor Hopkins’ droning on selkie characteristics when you, Sunday and Moze are arranged artfully in an equidistant triangle from one another. Any more civil person would perhaps sit next to one of them to make the air a tad bit warmer, but you’re not even a person.
You’re a demon.
You think you can afford to be uncivil.
Or at least, it’s the very bare minimum of rudeness you should maintain. You’ve suffered enough askance looks from both of them (which they never seem to level at each other) to comfortably assume that they have some sort of problem with you that they’ve formed a business partnership over. Shaking hands, all for the pursuit of disliking you more efficiently.
During the next lecture on kelpies, it’s the same story. Even the damned coordinates of the triangle are the same, thus when you stride in a minute before the Professor, you make the creative decision to shift one chair to the left to ruin whatever coordination they’ve got going on. It doesn’t deign a glare, but you can feel the air grow even frostier. Amused, you stop paying attention to the information you could probably recite in your sleep, and instead decide to just people-watch the three sad individuals before you.
There’s Professor Hopkins—perhaps one of the most insane people you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. He’s human through and through: reeking of such a scent that would put most madmen to shame. Alas, this madman is perhaps one of the most unrecognised in the realm of mortality—considering only three people are taking his class, and a solid third is the very thing he is lecturing the dangers of. You’ve met your fair share of people who believe in monsters, but you’re amazed every time you walk into the elective: both by his zealousness and by the fact this class even got approved.
What a strange world the human world is.
There’s Moze. Over to your far left, and one row up—the perfect place to observe the whole hall, but also the perfect place to look like a weirdo considering there are only three students and one stout little teacher yelling his wee lungs out at the front. You don’t actually know why he’s taking this class, considering his other class is something on forensics. Or something. You’re not exactly on amicable enough terms to interact with him, but you’d hoped that you had a somewhat sane roommate.
It’s somewhat hard to hold onto that hope when he shoots you that look whenever Hopkins starts speaking. Actually, you can’t exactly see the look considering he’s behind you, but you can feel the white-hot stare pierce your back: rolling energy tainted with suspicion.
Perhaps it was stupid to disguise yourself in an institute of higher learning where one would hope its students had an ounce of critical thinking.
But you’re choosing to ignore his glare to protect your own peace. The only person who’d ever believe his deductions would be the madman lecturing now. Or not even him, since you’ve been such a model student—already knowing so much about these creatures of the night.
Then there’s Sunday. You’ve perhaps had half an interaction with the man, earning a polite, utterly distant ‘thank you’ as you arrived before him for once and held the door open behind you. Impeccable manners, straight-A student, and perhaps the most confounding. Your suspicions of him running a cult are only confirmed when you overhear he also studies Theology.
He’s polite. Very polite. A bit too polite, so much that it honestly creeps you out more than any eldritch stuck in hell does. Because, why be that courteous to someone if you’re not planning on sacrificing them? However, you’re half convinced that behind those eyes, he’s planning some elaborate exorcism that nobody apart from himself knows about. And maybe you now.
It’s unnerving.
Up close, the flow of his energy is human—too perfectly so. There’s never any malice, or anger, or even boredom that taints the low thrum running through his vessels. Yes, the base is undoubtedly mortal, but with none of the complexities that make up the average human experience.
He regards you with a similar look to Moze’s—fixing you with a stare that appears to be figuring you out and picking you apart. A scrutiny that should fall under its very own brand of suspicion, one that makes the heat under flesh and sinew only increase—for you don’t think you’ll be able to predict his next move, not if you can’t ever read how he truly feels.
Or maybe that is how he feels—and you don’t know if that’s more terrifying.
Unfortunately, these three profiles suggest your lunastic of a professor is the safest to be around, since the ebb and flow of zealousness pretty much remains consistent for each lecture (seriously, they approved this guy?). He poses a far lesser danger to you (the one who took this elective for fun) than the two other students (who took this elective for nefarious purposes, you’re sure). And he actually likes you; despite him conservatively eyeing the attire you wear in subzero temperatures, you’re a pro at his essays!
Alas, your propensity for avoiding your classmates has not worked out for you, you miserably conclude.
. *࿐
You should’ve stuck with your regular dinner of passively absorbing peoples’ horny thoughts like some weird fucking sponge.
You really should’ve, and now you’re cursing yourself as you morosely shovel what appears to be some inscrutable form of soggy college food past your stony lips. The food isn’t the problem, though any self-respecting college student would probably be wincing and picking at it rather than dispassionately taking bite after bite like you are. It’s a bit disheartening to know your cover could be blown from how you seem to truly appreciate the cooking, but in another life you’d argue your soullessness befits the statistics analysis you’re half-reading, half-doom scrolling past.
But the differential equations aren’t the fucking problem either.
The problem is the man sitting across from you. Or more accurately, across and one seat to the left, because apparently he’s gracious like that.
You thought nothing of the flash of soft, dove-grey that you saw from your peripherals at first—nor the fluttering scarf that brushed ever so slightly by your bare shoulder. You were, after all, too preoccupied with clicking and unclicking your pen in irritation at the thick stack of paper by your tray. A bit too preoccupied, but you look up and suddenly you’ve got a cult member all up in your face with way too many slices of raspberry cheesecake on his plate.
That’s what you notice at first, then you look up and it’s fucking Sunday of all people, resembling a word problem a bit too much with how many pieces are on his plate.
You disguise your shock. You hope it’s successful, but judging by his soft cough of surprise, you don’t think you are. Mind racing, you turn back to your own plate and equations, connecting some dots far better than others (judging by the mindless scribbles on the sheet). Just to check, you observe his energy fluctuations a little longer—they’re still as incomprehensible as ever.
Inordinate amount of food. Emotions you can’t read. A penchant for ignoring the finer points of human assimilation, such as staring at others a bit too fucking much.
“Do you need something?”
Quit staring.
Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet.
You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all.
Well, opposite and a seat away.
When you finally look back up, his usually cold gaze is even colder—you wish you never said anything, even if it’s making your concentration in statistics flounder. With bated breath, you pray it’s simply because he doesn’t like you, not because he’s about to possibly exsanguinate you—then you laugh at yourself because you’re a demon, therefore no god will listen to your prayers. No matter how earnestly you try, nobody will hear your plea.
No demon would knowingly provoke an angel like this, or at least you hope they wouldn’t. But you’re not most demons—you don’t actually want to be sent back down to hell.
You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has.
“No,” he finally replies. His voice is strangely soothing, but you know that angels are never depicted as the temptation your kind are painted as. And as your eyes flick to your surroundings, you notice that some of the people sitting nearby are glaring daggers at you for even breathing in his presence. You half wonder if he’s recruited them into his cult already. “Professor Hopkins told me to notify you that we’ll have a group project briefing for the next lecture.”
“Right.” And he couldn’t send an email? And this was important enough to break your silence for? And this merits your staring? The words, though poignant, die down on your tongue, but you’re sure he can feel the vexation contributing to global warming, just a little. Angels are unable to discern the rich nuance of lust and love, but even a plant would wilt from the shockwaves bursting from your tension headache. “Message duly noted.”
He does not leave like you’d hoped. His fork instead cuts deep into the raspberry cheesecake, and you watch it bleed out on his plate.
He’s no longer staring at you, but you know he is just as keenly aware of you as you are of him.
. *࿐
It’s not like you can avoid your damn roommate either, because that would probably raise more questions than you’re comfortable answering.
You’re thankful Moze’s quiet, though that gratitude is somewhat abated by him in general. He’s too quiet, and in contrast anything you say will be far more incriminating. And while he stays in his room most of the time, you can’t help but notice he seems to hang around on the living room couch a little too often whenever you stumble home late at night: reeking of a perfume not your own with kiss-bitten lips and a satisfied smile on your face. Like some fat cat licking its chops after a particularly gratifying meal.
Except you’re avaricious, and you come to the dorm often enough to recognise the pattern.
Not tonight though. Devil forbid you whore yourself out on a respectable Sunday evening (it’s totally not because the angel named thusly will know somehow, spotting the faint shimmer of tattoos, horns and a tail materialising in a brief mirage). Somehow.
On Sunday you rest. Or more accurately, you study from home—glasses carefully perched on your nose, pen substituting a cigarette as you teeth at it with canines a little too sharp to be comfortable. You can’t be expected to be biblical about it—for good measure, you crack open a bottle of red wine with it, drinking straight from the bottle as you stare down the thick pack of proofs that are due tomorrow morning.
It’s not hard to imagine why so many humans in hell become overseers, rather than good, hard-working demons.
Humans can simply be more evil and still convince themselves that this is for the better.
It may be foolish to display your vices sprawled in the living room armchair, but you blame both the wine, the record player you brought, and the sensuous ambience you’ve carefully curated in the space. Is it a sin to do work in an environment that makes your heart pump just a beat faster?
Well, the seriousness of your crime is weighed against the salient fact of the matter: that you’re trying to avoid your roommate, not maximise your chances of encountering him.
What a pickle.
You, like the hard-working demon you are, would prefer to not fail your degree and thus decide prudently to remain where you can wallow in both languor and academia. With cherry wine staining your lips, and the flicker of a warm cedarwood candle perched on the coffee table, it’s no wonder you’ve settled into a strange rhythm. Or maybe it’s something in the air, like the doleful sounds of old records you’ve collected throughout the years—ones you’ll always regretfully dismiss as replicas, but who knows?
What a pickle indeed.
Tonight, the roles have switched. At around ten, you hear the almost-silent glide of keys in your lock, and you brace yourself for the maelstrom that Moze’s presence will inevitably bring. Like clockwork, you scrutinise the flow of energy that you can dimly feel—only to be completely blindsided when you feel a distinctly familiar one beside it. Two presences that are much too observant, but one that’s withdrawn and almost curling in on itself, whereas the other flows with ease.
Brusquely, the door is shouldered open. You lock eyes with the Moze who prowls in, the Moze who is uncharacteristically gazing right back at you, the Moze who still for the life of him can’t soften that guarded expression that casts deep shadows onto his eyes. Then, despite yourself, your focus shifts to the one behind him—Jiaoqiu.
The waves radiating from the Foxian seem to expand on seeing you, and almost immediately the taste feels warmer as you absorb it—a perfect consistency you know he’s feeling as an embarrassed prickle beneath his skin. Even if you weren’t an incubus, you could put two and two together from his slightly parted lips, the peony gently brushing over his features like watercolour, and his tentative steps into the dorm.
He murmurs your name in surprise, and perhaps that’s the most conversation these walls have ever heard since you and Moze became roommates.
“I didn’t know you and Moze were rooming together,” he begins with that soft cadence of his. Subconsciously, you sit a little straighter—keenly aware of him, after learning the signs of his body so well.
But before you can reply, Moze answers for you—the most you’ve ever heard him speak.
“Didn’t get round to telling you.” Each word is heavier than you can comprehend, tainted with a bluntness that suits him. It makes your gaze snap back to his face, and you swear the corner of his lip twitches upwards before he turns to you to talk. “Hope you don’t mind me having him over for a bit.”
“It’s fine. I like him,” you shrug, and the corner resumes its neutrality once more. Not like you see it—you’ve turned back to your work as if there isn’t a gnawing hunger slowly uncoiling under fragile dermis, as if you can’t smell every speck of desire and bashfulness slowly undulating within Jiaoqiu. You do like him, and not just as a meal. His tongue cuts sharp, beneath his fumbling, clumsy touches that seem so graceful when not encumbered by sheets.
You just hope you won’t die of starvation before you wrap up the calculus. That would be an embarrassment for the ages.
Alas, you don’t actually end up finishing your work. The sanguine liquid pooling into your mouth may not be enough to intoxicate you, but you can feel a pleasant warmth buzz through your veins. Of course, there’s warmth from that and warmth coming from sitting close to two heated bodies in a tipsy screening of some horror movie you’ve never seen.
Calculus can wait another day. When Jiaoqiu stumbled from Moze’s room with a sweetness on his breath and a tight grip around your wrist, you gladly let yourself be rescued by the surprisingly strong Foxian. He led you right back in, and you were practically floored at how easily you just… stepped into the space, with Moze simply eyeing you rather than that cautious glare he so often wore.
The Foxian pushed you into soft carpet, and you could feel Moze’s body tense up as your side collided with his own—the floor space was just about large enough for three guys to sit, but he made no move to move, thus you attributed it to the buzz he felt.
It’s dark.
It’s dark, and you’ve got your reticent classmate on one side of you, and the acquaintance-or-not on your other, practically curled up into your body with how he’s draped himself.
Naturally, you don’t end up paying attention to any of the movie—some flick you think you saw a century ago. Sure, the screams are totally realistic, but who can blame you for being distracted? You’ve got the object of your avoidance on one side, and then someone you think is deliberately pushing himself into your ‘hungry’ radar.
You would be quite partial to imploding, but unfortunately that is not a power you possess.
But despite all your gripes, this is nice in its own, painfully ironic sort of way.
. *࿐.
Of course you don’t end up stealing a kiss outside the building—Moze taking the opportunity to clean the bathroom obsessively while buzzing from the liquor, while you walk Jiaoqiu out.
Of course you don’t mean to, but you’re drunkenly complaining of the professor for your statistics module, and he’s merely gazing. When the sun’s long gone to its slumber—and the only light available is the halo around your head from the flickering streetlamp—who can blame him for the way his eyes drink your pout in, the way he’s getting lost in the way you smell? Menthol cigarettes and something sweeter, something his nose picks up that could be caramel but could also thrum deep in your veins to intoxicate others.
He cuts you off when it gets too much for him, right when you push your glasses up to continue to ramble comfortably.
“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—”
You swear up-and-down you weren’t planning this; you’re taken completely aback as he surges, pressing you up against the rough brick of the building. He’s warm, you think deliriously—with his hand cradling your cheek and his other nestled in the back of the loose pullover you’re wearing, you’re warmer than you’ve been in weeks.
It’s not desperate, but you can feel the build-up of emotion behind it: taste the cherry on your breath, the tequila on his. Alcohol may have prompted this, but even a fool could savour the heavy yearning on his tongue.
“Jiaoqiu,” you mumble, but he merely tilts your head, nipping at your slicked lips with an eagerness he only seems to display when it’s the witching hours. He’s shorter than you, yet tonight he’s the one caging you in an inescapable lock—so hungry, so avaricious and naturally, you oblige, raking your hands in his pink hair.
You taste blood. You taste life as you feel his steady pulse against your body, lust as he groans and melts into your touch, desperation as he entwines his arms around you with the sole goal of pressing himself into you even further.
You are equally insatiable, gradually feeling the vivid colours flow from his tongue onto your own.
You are equally gluttonous, but your work isn’t going to finish itself and you’re quite a good demon, if you do say so yourself.
You are equally voracious, and perhaps completely degenerate, yet still you wistfully and regretfully ease your lips from his—though your hands remain white-hot on his body.
It’s enough energy to get through the rest of this day and then some. It’ll do. It has to do.
“I’ll see you at the Film Festival,” he murmurs, but the two of you know the encounter between you both will be sooner—a clandestine encounter between sheets, in fact.
He’s walking home, so you watch him disappear into the night—and when his small figure is swallowed up in the void space between street lamps, you watch a little while longer.
Unbeknownst to you, someone else has been watching this entire time too.
*࿐.
Film - demons, seduction, succubi and incubi, you scrawl in your notebook, already feeling a healthy dose of apprehension, amusement and mild horror at Professor Hopkins’ chosen group project.
“...due a week from now. Since there are only three of you, why don’t you boys work together?” Clearly, he is impervious to the chill that still lingers between you and your fellow classmates—the triangle is still at its maximum area, and you don’t envision it changing any time soon. Horror upon horrors, he then adds something that makes you shiver in your seat. “I’ll play it as our department’s submission for the Film Festival.”
Once more, you wonder how the department was approved in the first place.
Then, the thought slips your mind as you first lock eyes with Sunday, then Moze only a minute later. I’m screwed. You don’t think you’ve ever been on such a tightrope before: wildly cartwheeling your arms back-and-forth while dangling over a fatal precipice. You will not survive this—not the research on incubi, nor the actual group project.
You can only pray your two intelligent classmates do not put two and two together for once. After all, you’re the mathematician out of this mismatched trio. Any semblance of hope you had at making it through the year is slowly dissipating.
*࿐.
“…edit it documentary style. It’s professional, organised, and will suit the Professor’s tastes.” Sunday’s mellifluous voice washes over you as you sit in the campus library with your classmates, desperately trying to look engaged.
It does not work.
Sunday’s fountain pen wavers in the air and turns on you, and your heart jolts and skips past a few beats—it looks far too close to a weapon for your liking, and you would not trust an angel with a dagger for the life of you. Or without the dagger. He does not inch it closer, but it’s rather an unconscious mirroring of his thinking that betrays that he’s about to scold you for falling asleep. You’re thankful for the table that separates the two of you, but you fear wood can only do so much to counter flames of divine punishment.
But before he can lecture you, Moze beats him to it. And for the record, you don’t know how he ended up sitting right next to you, and you’d like to complain.
Leaning across his chair, he gets unnecessarily close to talk to you, and it’s not like whatever he’s saying is important.
“Do you have anything to add—” and here his leg ghosts up against yours, but you don’t flinch. At least, you don’t think you do. “—or did you not get enough sleep last night?”
His voice is low—enough that there’s an undercurrent of tension without him even trying. You choose not to reply directly to him; instead, you look at Sunday once more, and you swear you feel a spike of irritation from the angel. But, surely not, right?
Mulling your words over, you carefully select a sequence that won’t land you a one-way ticket back to hell. There’s a certain trick to this, you see—and that’s crossing your fingers and thinking of an escape plan in the event you fail, or the shameless cowardly demon approach. It may not land you a spot among the Lieutenants, but it sure is better than being skewered by some angel.
Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace.
“Uhh,” you wrack your brains, before settling on the first thing your mind falls upon—yesterday night, all cozied up with Jiaoqiu. Fuck. “A horror movie.”
You can feel Moze’s stare burn into dermis, sizzle a bit, then singe your very bones.
“That’s an— unconventional idea,” Sunday coughs, and you remind yourself that angels are way meaner than you’d expect.
“If you think it’s ill-founded, then I would like to remind you our professor’s maturity doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll enjoy an orthodox style,” you argue, suddenly remembering that angels are also ill-suited for debates and ‘gotchas’, and also that incubi can honey their tongue to saccharine degree.
Fuck. You’ve really spent too much time in the human realm.
Before Sunday can get a word in, you keep talking, desperate to look enthusiastic to discuss incubi and possibly give yourself away. “If it’s being entered into the Film Festival, a mockumentary or a horror film could be both informative and entertaining. Or even a silent film.”
“It’s succubi and incubi,” Moze mutters. “If there were more people I’d bet there’d be one group submitting porn.”
You stifle a cough, but you don’t think you did it well.
“What, with Hopkins as the intended audience?” you glance at him, and see the traces of laughter on his mouth, and suddenly your own feels somewhat dry. Just a little.
“Yeah, imagine,” he matches your airy tone—and the proximity forces your heart to lapse. Just a little.
Sunday’s glare bores into both of you. “Can the two of you take this seriously? We are absolutely not doing that.”
If you ever forgot he was an angel, this is a poignant reminder. Should you squint, you think you can see a faint halo around his head, but that could also honestly just be the library light causing the incandescence.
“Yes, which is why we should do horror or a mockumentary,” you interrupt. This is the only fight you’d ever attempt with an angel, and boy do you deserve a medal for it like the humans do. “The topic isn’t particularly… uh… safe for work, so horror would convey the right message that we investigate in each class, while still having space for detail. Think something like found footage horror films or something.”
“You raise a good point,” Sunday deliberates—if there was anything good to say about angels, it would be that they are gracious with their concessions. Some concessions. “Fine.”
Fine.
Fine.
Fine.
With glee, you save the moment to brag about when you next visit downstairs. I got an angel to agree with me.
But simultaneously, you compose your face, knowing the next item on the agenda will inevitably be the very topic of the proposal.
Suddenly, you no longer feel the glee of just a minute ago.
Oh shit.
*࿐.
The most abject misfortune in your long life, it should be duly noted, does not in fact occur that particular night.
It occurs the next night. Perhaps it was too much to ask for when you pleaded for just this year: uninterrupted, normal, uninterrupted. It might’ve stemmed from you spamming omg on social media too much, but it’s not like you could realistically use any other alternative without getting flagged as suspicious. Call it a habit caused by humans, or whatever.
Disregarding the blasphemy, the day starts normally, and gives you hope (ill-founded, you know). Like all mornings, you begin with breakfast, a coffee and a cigarette outside—and a quick dose of Moze’s early-morning glare. As with all days, you ignore it—but there seems to be something underlying beneath its surface. Something deeper, as if he’s trying to figure you out; as though his eyes are meticulously stripping away your dermis with forensic precision, paring away sinew from your bones and finding the interweaved remnants of your blackened soul.
It’s a Friday, with exactly one morning lecture on probability—then a project research session with Hostile and Hostiler in the comically empty lecture hall.
Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile.
Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork.
The bowl of cereal from this morning does nothing to suppress the ravenous feeling that’s slowly taking over your mind. It would be fine if you didn’t have a morning class, but alas nobody ever seems to hear your prayers as you sit through two hours of quite possibly the most onerous yammering you’ve ever heard—and you’ve heard the Avatar of Pride yap.
Every day your hypothesis seems to be proved right—humans would do a fine job running hell.
But no one will ever listen to the humble incubus, you muse as you sling your books onto your bed and pick up the folder you’ve compiled on incubi, succubi and demons of seduction. It’s detailed, but everything is neatly cited and completely untraceable to your brains specifically. If you rang up your friends and falsified a few sources along the way, who could possibly be able to tell?
Strewn within the sheets is some inaccurate information. If they correct you on it, it’s all well and good, but perhaps even better if they gain some misconceptions along the way.
You don’t mind cheating a little in academia, if the subject is idiotic enough.
And if your perfectly perfect human life stays intact because of it, you don’t mind being a little unethical with your information practices.
Just a little.
Irregardless of your questionable academic ethics, you’re beginning to feel light-headed by the early afternoon. Some would say it’s karma for defiling the sanctity of this fine learning establishment, but you know full well it was the measly kiss you’ve had as a proper meal—something insubstantial and far too light to count as a true dinner. Jiaoqiu was more of a snack, and already you’re reminiscing over the flavour of his lips.
Really, you should be a gourmet.
…It’s also becoming increasingly clear that your thoughts are veering substantially off-track, though who can blame you when your head is beginning to throb and your mouth is becoming more parched by the minute.
You don’t think it’s ever been this bad before, but then again you’re one of the oldest of your species—your full maturation is only moons away. Or more. Or less. It’s hard to conceptualise the time of the underworld when you’re on the surface.
Tonight, your skin will likely burn like molten rock, reshaping and rekindling you into a form better than yesterday’s. Hunger will only intensify the process, making it far more painful. And you are hungry, with a body practically screaming at you to absorb some emotion. Anger. Hatred. Misery. All of these are copious in this highly pressurised environment, but these are fleeting on your tongue—bitter and grainy and not worth the effort of satiating yourself with.
The clock is only ticking forward. You can’t not make it to your project meeting—that would for sure rouse the angel’s suspicion, and you cannot afford that. Not tonight. Not any night, actually, if you can help it.
You don’t want your time here to end.
With each step towards the door, your ribcage feels like it’s about to swallow you whole—so insatiable it might’ve been easier for you to be labelled as an Avatar of Gluttony instead. Not a lot of sand remains in your hourglass, though you’re not stupid.
There are contingencies for times like these.
Jiaoqiu has class, you wrack your brains. If there’s anyone…
It would probably be the Avatar of Lust who’d be able to help you—you think you’ve seen her several times around before, feeling the familiar ‘fingerprint’ of demons amidst a crowd of human energy.
The walls are far too grey as you roam the halls. At some point, you think you start seeing the people you pass morph into a singular identity, filled with the same struggles, crises and misery as everyone else.
It’s barely enough to sate the throbbing that beats in tandem with the seconds—a dull ache that only grows more poignant with time. If you tried, you could probably manually take your mind and crack it like a pomegranate to quell the pain, but alas you haven’t quite figured that one out yet.
There.
“Wow, you look a mess.” Bleary-eyed, you watch as the colours coalesce into a faint figure, but it may just be delirium. Her cold hands brush across your face and tilt it from side to side, and you hear her whistle lowly at the heat from your skin.
You think you’re delirious.
“Most definitely are,” the woman shrouded in purple replies. Can she read minds? “Poor little incubus, babbling his little heart out. So, what will it be? I can bring you the finest strains of human joy and wreckage, or I can send you straight back from whence you came for your metamorphosis. Pretty boy, I could even get you set up for the night with a few humans.”
Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.
“Got a meeting for a group project right now,” you slur. Your sluggish register of your surroundings makes it impossible to sense the faint, familiar energy so far off in the distance. It’s a soft dove-grey, and utterly neutral—so removed from the filth of the human realm that you’d stop and admire it any other day. “Could you make this go away for a bit? I’m screwed if I don’t.”
“Oh?” Lust bursts out in a too-loud peal of laughter, slamming her hand on the wall behind her to stabilise herself. You wish someone would do the same to your head. “I see. I’ve heard the rumours, but I didn’t think you’d be this deprived.”
She doesn’t make any sense, you note wonderingly, but strangely her giggles make you slightly more reassured.
“I make all the sense,” Lust informs you. “What a rude little demon you are. But don’t worry—”
Her nails dig into your skin, and you feel the air grow slightly colder, as if some equilibrium has finally been disrupted. Or maybe you’re stupid, and you’re finally succumbing to whatever this process will require.
But she glances behind you, and brings your face closer to hers a brief second later. “—I just found somebody very interesting to help you out, and I barely need to do anything to help you.”
“What?” you mumble. The strange feeling you’re getting from the distance is growing stronger. Just a bit, but you don’t really think it matters.
What truly matters is that your group project meeting is only twenty minutes away, and you’re barely holding on to the wisps of your sanity that still linger.
“You haven’t been very helpful,” you add, but then her eyes roll exasperatedly and Lust kisses you with all the weight of a butterfly. You don’t think you’ve ever kissed anyone this casually, as though it’s the absent-minded brush of powder across one’s nose, or the faint tap of blotting lipstick. She tastes like the rich last bite of cake, and she pulls away with the speed it typically gets eaten with.
“Uh, thanks?” you mutter perplexedly, for the emotion of other demons simply doesn’t satiate incubi the same way other species’ do, but it is appreciated nonetheless. At least, it temporarily soothes the faint pounding of hands against your cranium like an Ibuprofen does a head-splitting migraine. She’s still close to your face, and you can see a self-satisfied smirk slowly unfolding under that maraschino gloss—all pink and conniving.
Lust. What a strange woman she is.
“I think you’ll be fine,” she whispers one last time, before traces of bergamot and vanilla seep into the candy-tinged air. She really doesn’t make any sense, you drowsily reaffirm, but before you can ask her to elaborate on her cryptic message, something vice-like tightens around your wrist and wrenches you from Lust’s clutches.
You’re being dragged, practically, by something attached to a soft pearl-hued glove. A hand. No, a person. No, an angel whom you were so careful to not touch—who is now gripping onto your arm as if you could possibly run away.
It takes you precious few sand grains to realise the true gravity of the situation.
Shit. Shit shit shit. To make matters worse, your lucid thoughts are limited to only one section of your brain—the rest are all struggling to keep up with his fast pace.
“What’s wrong?” you ask the wall of grey before you, and for a brief moment you think you see the flash of a halo in the dim hallway. You think you can feel the impenetrably icy wall of his composure crack, just a little.
But that’s impossible.
Angels aren’t subjected to the sorrows of human experience.
“Sunday.” You say his name for the first time, tainting the angel’s identity with a tongue that has been coated by filth and sweetened with the most saccharic honey. “Sunday.”
He casts a long look over his shoulder, one that reflects his usual disapproving stare. Without looking, he easily fits the key into the ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ lecture theatre, and you must remind yourself once more that this is the most simple of child’s play to a being like him.
“It is time to work on our project, is it not?”
Can he feel your fever? Can he feel the tense energy that you’re struggling to control?
Your eyes slip past him onto the clock, which still indicates a good ten minutes remain until the pencilled slot. “Almost. Moze’s not here, either.”
His grip tightens, minutely. “He’ll join us later. I’ve asked him to purchase some film and get a better camera from the Media department.”
Then, he lets you go abruptly as though burnt—you’re left clutching your folder and with a profoundly confused expression on your face.
“Right,” you mention awkwardly, rubbing at your wrist and wincing at the painful feverish heat you’ve been emitting. There’s still that awful dry feeling in your mouth, but you’d rather keel over and die rather than give yourself away in front of an angel. “No time like the present, am I right?”
“That truly is the principle we should strive to embody.” Sunday’s voice grows muffled as he carefully rummages around in the cupboard at the front of the auditorium—you take the opportunity to both pat your back for diffusing the tension, and place your folder neatly on the large table that also loiters at the front. You’d normally take your seat at the back of the lecture hall, but tonight the eve grows dark and the only light is the harsh fluorescent one that shines from above and casts only the table in a clinical ambience.
“We can start slightly earlier,” he murmurs, closer than you anticipated, standing right behind you as you sink into the swivel chair by your research. You fight back a scream at his sudden appearance—the unexpected pop-up of an angel never bodes well, after all.
“That’s… not a problem,” you smile, ignoring the pounding headache that seems to have decided to make itself known once more. “Do you want to compare research first to make sure we’re on the same page?”
“Naturally.” His voice is slightly lower than it normally is, and you attribute it to the lull of the lecture hall and its secluded location within the building. Even on the most busy of days, you never actually see anyone walk past the glass windows that panel a strip in the door—you swallow nervously at the thought of being sequestered here with an angel. “Is it alright if I record the behind-the-scenes process of our progress?”
“Like to bolster the found footage feeling, or using it to bolster the mockumentary?” you probe, trying to conceptualise his earlier ramblings of sending Moze off for a better camera. He appears to notice the puzzling expression you sport.
“There was a rather grainy camera in the cupboard here. We should record with both to compare the texture,” he explains, and you accept it with relative ease.
After all, angels can’t lie. “Alright.”
He murmurs something under his breath, a low ‘perfect’ before he’s setting the camera up to capture both of you.
Perfect.
Perfect.
Perfect.
The word lingers in your mind. You don’t quite know why.
*࿐.
“....incubi are thought to feed on the life force and emotions of their victims, and may also cause sleep paralysis. They are male demons who seduce their victims, particularly women, and have sexual intercourse with them,” Sunday pauses. You’re acutely aware of his knee brushed up against yours, how he monitors your face and notes between reading out whatever he’s written in neat, looping handwriting.
He’s warm. He’s warm, but you’re scalding to the touch: feverish and more than somewhat delirious. Sunday’s words fade in and out like the two of you are underwater; you can only curse at Lust for misleading you, as help is nowhere in fucking sight. Instead, she’s doomed you to be stuck with an angel scrutinising every move you make.
“That’s what I got too,” you mumble, shuffling your sheets to find the relevant information. Your glasses slip down your nose, but before you can push them up, a pale glove gently slides them up your face—and you startle. “Ah, thanks.”
“No problem,” he smiles, yet it doesn’t reach his pale eyes. “Did you get any more information?”
“Not that I can think of…” you trail off, mind going blank at the most critical time. “Sorry, I’m a bit under the weather tonight.”
“Don’t worry,” he chuckles, but there’s something that’s sharper than usual in the cloud of energy surrounding him. Something off in the angel masquerading as human, in the computer designed by the creator. “I’ve already got some ideas on how to portray these ideas in the film.”
There’s a slight sheen on your face—half nerves, half the fever that’s consuming mind and body at a ferocious pace. With glazed eyes, you can only nod.
“Poor thing,” he hums, sympathetically distant in the way only angels can be.
Something’s wrong.
The cold back of a gloved hand touches your forehead tenderly, like if he were cradling the divine metal of his weapon.
“Didn’t get enough emotions lately?” he asks condescendingly, and you freeze.
“What?” you squint up at him through the lenses, still trying to play it off—but really, you’re attempting to process what he said.
“I’m joking,” he smiles once more, but there’s something awfully false in the curl of his lips—something wrong and twisted in how his hand shifts to cradling your face in his palm. Still so gentle, but now with a terrifying sort of control that was not there a mere second ago.
“Right,” you mumble, peering up at him with wide, hazy eyes. It’s no longer the fluorescent lighting that’s hurting your eyes—but rather the emergence of a halo behind his head that you force yourself not to react to. That would be a dead giveaway.
You can barely breathe. No longer does oxygen circulate through your vessels—there is only the thick undercurrent of tension you swallow, only the suffocating grasp he has on you, both physically and mentally.
Too close. He’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong, as though you aren’t a filthy demon and can still be forgiven if you merely clasp your hands like the humans do and confess your sins.
Hell is filled with humans like these.
“It must be so hard…” he breathes. A soft, gloved thumb strokes your cheek, feather light, but you barely feel it over the hummingbird thrum of your heart and mind beating in sync. Like trapped prey, you’re honed in to each and every move; and like trapped prey, you’re wondering why the executioner chooses to trace the path of the arrow over your body.
Your tongue is leaden.
There is nothing you can say to save yourself.
“It must be so hard being a demon,” he purrs with that quiet, lenient tone of his.
A feather brushes past your cheek; the angel’s wings have now unfurled.
An Archangel.
You pray your end is quick.
His hand moves up, and with demulcent grace, he thumbs the ridged edge of the horns that spiral from your head, ones that you didn’t even notice had appeared.
Your mouth opens and closes, but embarrassingly the honeyed tongue you so valued has failed you with your neck on the line.
“Now, now, you didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you?” he soothes, and you feel each and every ministration the Archangel delivers to the manifestations of your otherness on your head.
This only feels more cruel—a disturbing mercy to grant a prisoner about to be executed.
“I…” the sinner closes his mouth, already knowing it’s futile.
“You,” Sunday repeats, tilting his head. The halo tilts with him—large, unblinking eyes interspersed with smaller ones, all honed in on you. They’ve all got the same psychedelic quality, and in any other life you may have been fascinated with how they gaze so earnestly at somebody’s soul. But not tonight.
Tonight, they’re the eyes that will see through you and judge the very mettle intertwined with sinew and flesh and blood.
“Please kill me quickly,” you murmur. Perhaps the Archangel will grant you a final mercy that’s never afforded to even the most pious of humans. The uncertainty of death is infinitely long—grain upon grain upon grain of sand. If your soul burns up in those divine flames angels so like to use on your kind, you’re not sure you’ll even regenerate back in hell.
His hand pauses—it’s settled on top of your head now, brushing past the hair and merely resting upon it. He’s not looked away from you all this time: watching how your eyes grew wide with denial, with fear, and now how your eyelids lower with the weight of resignation. What a heavy burden, he may be thinking, but you wouldn’t know for it’s impossible to guess what an angel thinks, and an Archangel specifically.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Slowly, experimentally, his gloved hand bows your head far enough that you’re forced off the chair and onto the ground with your knees scraping the frigid linoleum. Like this, you’re a sculpture of repentance: hands desperately clutching each other, lips open in what appears to be grief, and perhaps the anguish of the unknown that resides deeply in each pupil. Of course, if you were human that would be one thing, but on your head lie two jagged horns, sweeping the ground is a long tail, and inked across your arms and lower back are constant reminders of your sin.
You are an abomination masquerading as human, gazing up at the being who holds your lengthy life in his hands.
There’s a painful sort of irony in this situation.
You can’t even beg for your life.
“Poor little lamb,” he repeats, with an empty sort of pity in his eyes. Empty, for what you’re finally feeling rolling off him in waves isn’t pity, nor sympathy, but something that makes you believe you’re truly hallucinating. Maybe the shock made you go mad.
He leans down to examine you, and the wings that flutter—nestled in dove-grey hair—brush carefully over your face, with softness you still remain puzzled by,
Bitterly, you smile at him—a wretched thing, tasting acerbic and of your birth on caustic brimstone.
“There’s no point in dragging this out,” you mutter, too tired from the pain of your growth and the exhaustion of fear to prolong this any longer.
There’s a sudden jolt of irritation in the tranquil waves emanating from the angel, and you’re starting to think that maybe that first emotion you felt from him wasn’t a hallucination.
You glance up finally, and the expression on Sunday’s face is mired by shadow with a faint flush beneath it: like he’s the one besieged by a fever and not you.
“I could help you, you know,” he breathes, and it’s then you’re able to finally put a name to the feeling clouding whatever the hell was going on with his energy waves.
Lust.
There’s also something so painfully ironic about this—the emotions you’re absorbing from an Archangel are enough to snap you out of your trance. In fact, their purity and abundance are hastening your transformation—he’s aiding you, and the very fact makes you quiet.
“You won’t survive even if I don’t kill you, demon.” His gaze is cold, but he’s entrancing.
You focus your attention on his legs spread in the chair—the pressed and meticulously ironed grey slacks he wears in particular. They’re soft, wool-blend, worth several thousand easily. Imbued within each strand is the intrinsic scent of him: the bergamot, the vanilla, the faint vestiges of cake. But beneath that is a clean scent—not quite the fragrance of fresh laundry, but one that seems to perfume the air with sunlight.
He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.
“Go on,” he goads, voice all breathy. An Archangel far too used to authority, who’s currently cradling your life in glove-covered hands.
“Sunday,” you murmur, trailing a finger along the neat crease in his slacks. While he stares down at you stonily, there are monumental cracks in his composure that you detect—the tensing of his thighs, and the sudden spike in vitality from your readings. “You really wanna make a mess of these?”
His face flushes a more delicate pink, yet to his credit the angel doesn’t waver at the implication.
“They can be cleaned, can they not?” He’s pristine. Without a doubt, you ruining the almost sacrosanct cleanliness of Archangel Sunday signals a shift far too corrupted.
You swallow, resting your hands right where each thigh is plush with muscle. He’s watching: every move carefully documented, every sin filed away, every blasphemy to be recited at the confessional. The first wrinkle in his clothes by your fingers marks the irreversible transgression you’re about to commit. The camera, too, silently records this clandestine affair.
(“Will your creator see this?” you want to ask.)
(More importantly: will he forgive you, Archangel Sunday?)
You wet your lips, tasting the residual cherry gloss that lingers on the flesh. He keeps vigil: taking in how your tongue darts out, how you lower your head until your cheek is a mere breath away from his thigh.
He feels it, the hot air slowly being blown onto the muscle—as evidenced by the further hues decorating his energy. A twinge of impatience now taints the otherwise unsoiled intensity; it causes far more marvel in you than you would’ve thought.
Every minute shift of hands against fabric is distinctly felt. You know this—you see it in his slacks growing a little tighter, in how his chest briefly stops its rise and fall.
Sunday is no better at playing an angel than he is at playing man.
Pointedly, you peer upwards as you let your mouth finally osculate the fabric. Once soft, grey and perfect, they are now stained and mired—an ever-tangible reminder of the decision of two non-humans in this lecture theatre. You hope the camera captures the small, strangled noise Sunday lets out—something halfway betwixt cough and splutter, approximating to a gasp.
Kiss after kiss you press to his thighs, inching closer and closer to his half-hard dick: so agonisingly slowly you can hear his teeth grind in frustration.
“Incubus,” he breathes in a horrified sort of fascination. “You’re doing this on purpose—ah—”
You easily cut him off, letting the heat from your mouth linger on his hardon as you gradually unzip his slacks: tooth by tooth, until the poor man practically shivers in his seat. No, you forget. Archangel. There’s an Archangel whom you’re scraping your knees for—whose undiluted energy is allowing for you to safely undergo your maturation. This situation is ludicrous—only spotted in the most sordid of underworld printings, and even then you’d be hard-pressed to find something as blasphemous as this.
His fingers wrap tightly around your horn, and you suppress a groan at the frigid sensation. Maybe if you were a better man, you’d keep your composure and remain sluggish for him to get used to every new sensation.
But you are neither better nor man, so you ignore the thought. Instead, you increase your pace, just as he so desperately wanted. Hooking his briefs down, you take a moment to appreciate his hiss as the cold air hits him, followed only by how pretty his dick looks in the fluorescent light: flushed the same delicate pink cast across his features, trimmed neatly and already a drop of pre is pressed against the very tip like pearls.
“You’re evil,” he gasps as you experimentally twist your hand, and the length of flesh twitches. You smile.
“You think?” You finally speak, gently circling the flushed head with your thumb.
His amber eyes glare down at you like two suns, and that is perhaps the warmest you’ve ever seen him. Those boreal fingers practically fracture your horn as he squeezes, and you glare back.
“Taking advantage of a defenceless demon,” you chide; every syllable is accompanied by the motion of your hand as it begins moving up, then back down again. Sunday bites down on his lip, clearly attempting to stifle the sounds that would no doubt emerge when you speed up. “How shameful, Archangel.”
“Mmh–” Sunday shuts his mouth, and the camera takes it all in: how you lower your mouth to the head, licking the salt from his skin and the pre, and how he squeezes those slacks around your shoulders—fuck. There’s heat crawling all under your skin like millions of fire ants.
You move deeper, rocking yourself against the floor to quell the ache in your lower stomach: sucking and using your hands at the base to elicit more of those sounds from him. He tastes like rays of light on a cold winter morning: a clean energy you can’t help but swallow eagerly, ravenous for this stupid, misguided angel. Your hands roam his thighs, the smooth curve of his waist, and finally settle right where it begins curving into his plush ass: gripping the fat tightly as you continue taking him down your throat.
“You were born for this, weren’t you,” he mutters, and you can hear his wings flutter and rustle at your ministrations. His low voice forces your eyes shut, but it’s not just that. Gazing at the long strings of precum that are leaking down is beginning to stir unbearable warmth in your chest, while your breathing is slowly becoming more laboured as you choke on his girth. If anything, you’re the one getting off on this: tightening the muscles in your thighs to keep feeling that dull ache in your gut.
He notices.
Of course he does; those hawkish eyes that shine from his face and from his halo are attuned to every little move you make, every little sigh that leaves your nose.
“How shameful,” he mocks, echoing your previous words. Adjusting his leg, he presses a polished shoe against your bulge, and you moan around his dick.
Fuck.
He rocks the sole onto you, hard; you can’t help but grind up into the impeccable leather, already feeling a damp patch growing on the front of your pants. Each sensation is only exacerbated by the lack of airflow caused by his fat cock in your mouth—amplifying your senses to a dizzying, heady state.
You’re gazing with teary eyes right up at him, and you swear he throbs in your mouth; but the thought leaves just as quickly when his hand comes to cradle the side of your face, wiping the salty liquid away with a gentle thumb and bringing it to his own lips to taste.
“You want to get off too, huh?” he coos sympathetically: a pink tongue darting out to lick his thumb clean. In tandem, his foot presses even further down, and you can feel the frigid linoleum press up against you.
“Ah,” you choke around his dick. No words dribble from your lips, but Sunday feels the plea regardless. Those gloved hands of his pull you off his length with a pop and retract just as quickly. He grabs your arms as if he were handling a ragdoll—sitting you up on the desk in front of him as though you only weighed that much—and you need to remind yourself that he is not human, he is something far superior in strength and agility.
It’s also aptly demonstrated in how he handles the buckles of your pants: deftly and expertly opening each clasp with monstrous speed, before tugging on them until they pool on the auditorium floor.
You shiver.
“Go on,” he encourages. “Since you so clearly can’t focus, why not entertain me?”
Why not entertain me?
“What?” you mumble, but he levels you with a stare that feels far more sadistic than anything you’ve faced before. You’re not faced with a human, nor the warmth of your fellow demons—but rather a damn Archangel that’s making you feel more exposed than ever.
“What?” He’s the picture of innocence, though he’s got his dick in his own hand now—keeping his hand slowly moving as he speaks, and your eyes hone in on the motion. You can’t help but focus on it, how it looks against the pearl-white glove, how it tasted in your mouth. “You’re desperate, aren’t you?”
His words and the crude tone behind them stir a coiling tension in your stomach; you can only stare at the sudden change.
Angels, too, can be deceptive.
“Go on,” he repeats, tilting his head. “Here’s your opportunity.”
Damn it.
Hesitantly, you pull down your boxers: exposing your cock that’s slowly been dribbling precum in your pants, exposing everything to the angel. Heat rises to your face, but his eyes on you also make the heat pool at your gut; you can’t help but slip a hand down your body to wrap around your dick, so desperate to be attended to.
The effect is immediate. With a hand already slicked wet, the tight grip you have on yourself, and the voyeur who’s watching each and every one of your moves with his pairs of eyes, it’s apparent you won’t last long. You gaze at him, embarrassed, with a face sheened with sweat and eyes clouded with lust on your own.
“Sunday,” you bite out—the fist he’s making clenches ever so slightly, and you think his breath hitches.
He reaches over for the camera, tilting it towards you and capturing each and every expression, every single moan you let out as you succumb to the soothing rhythm of getting yourself off.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and you feel your abdomen tighten. “But you can hold on a little longer, right?”
Your eyes snap wide open as a slick, gloved finger trails the curve of your ass and around your hole; Sunday’s expression is of utmost concentration as he records each minute detail.
“What—ngh,” you whine as he probes just the fingertip in; the glove has been dampened by his precum already, but still feels so powdery and dry as it slowly enters deeper. He’s cold, and his fingers are downright glacial; the sudden change in temperature has you tightening around the digit as your hand flies to steady yourself on his shirt.
So close.
You can feel his breathing fan across your face; it’s shallow and reeks of lust, the kind that’s always the most dangerous.
“Keep going,” he hums, gradually pumping the finger in and out until it’s almost completely covered with the wet precum leaking from your tip and down your cock. The burn in your abdomen is indescribable—you can barely focus on the simple, mindless motion of up and down, when he’s so close like this, when he’s pressing another finger right in and stretching you out with ease that belies his inexperience.
In. Out. In. Out. You can barely breathe with the pace that he’s setting, seeming to deliberately miss that particular spot inside you that would end this oh-so-quickly.
The camera captures it all: the oozing, non-human precum that trails and coats his gloves, the careful scissoring motions he’s doing to ease you open, and the desperate heaves of your stomach as you fight off the tightening of your abdomen.
“Sunday, please,” you moan, and you jolt as his fingers pull out and the same damp hand wraps around your tail to bring it to where he was just mere moments ago. Sluggishly, you barely register what’s going on until he opens his mouth—and his proximity makes his words reverberate and coalesce in your sternum, tightening your very chest.
“I won’t do it all for you,” he croons, but he’s setting the camera on the desk next to you and adjusting his gloves once more. Your scaly tail is further pushed in, and the strange sensation forces your eyes back into your skull. What the fuck? The Archangel uses your own tail to get you off, and the conflicting sensation between your legs and inside you is hurtling you towards an orgasm you don’t think you’ll ever forget.
But he’s not done.
His wet hands trace up your sides, bundling the shirt you’re wearing until it’s at your neck. “Open wide.”
Blearily, you do as you’re told; fabric is shoved into your mouth as he uses you to hold your own shirt up, while he appreciatively hums at the metal pierced through your nipples. Cold, slick hands massage your tits, and even with the thick wad of material in your mouth you can’t help but moan loudly.
“So sensitive,” he mutters condescendingly. His thumbs brush rough circles against the pierced nipples, and involuntarily you feel your legs tighten around his waist. He’s callous with his motions; it’s slowly growing overwhelming for you, what with the tail stuck inside you, your hand still moving, and now his hands stimulating the tender skin around your chest.
It’s not until you look down that you see his dick rubbing up against your own, and the sight almost makes you let go right there and then.
“Mmph–” you groan as he lowers his head to your chest, rubbing one areola affectionately while his tongue swirls around the other.
With the hand now freed up in place of his mouth, he presses both your dicks together tightly, just barely moving his hand for the minimal amount of friction.
You think that makes it worse.
Tears leak from your eyes uncontrollably, and the tautness in your stomach feels as though it’ll claw out by itself if you don’t let go.
You move your tail just a whisper—it’s growing unbearable, just how overwhelming the rush of stimuli is. Sunday’s teeth graze your tit in such a way you desperately grit down on your shirt to not cum right there and then, but it’s growing impossibly hard when the motions of both his hands speed up: stroking you both in such a way that rubs precum everywhere and feels like fucking heaven.
You mewl as he bites down on the flesh, hard, leaving a throbbing mark as he laves his tongue right over it.
“Please,” you babble incomprehensibly through the fabric. “Sunday.”
His gaze meets your despairing one.
“Poor little thing,” he whispers, which only blows air over the saliva-slicked area and forces even more tears from your eyes. “Go on.”
He wrenches his hand particularly tightly, and you wail—a choked, garbled thing that comes right from the chest. Your back arches as your orgasm washes over you and blinds you for a brief moment: mind completely blank with only the purest form of pleasure hazing it, scalding robes of white staining your shirt, his shirt, and ending up on your face.
“What a mess,” he murmurs, rocking his hand as the waves hit you with full force.
“Ah—” you sob out as he continues through the waning ebb and flow: your legs twitch around him, and you’re sure he can feel the shallow, heaving breaths you’re taking to desperately cope with his continued movements. Your tail slips out from between your legs, and the sudden exit is followed by even more white dripping down your legs and onto the desk.
“There, there,” he coos. “That wasn’t so hard, was it now?”
He peels off the ruined gloves and tosses them to the side, tenderly wiping away the tears that streak your face—you’re still reeling, still feeling the aftershocks of intense, mind-ruining pleasure.
What the fuck?
He handles you like a proper lover—an absurd scene between lowly incubus and overmighty Archangel—settling his hands on your waist in something that could almost resemble an embrace. Some bastardised, corrupted version of one, anyway.
He’s not your lover.
He’s not even his own person.
You meet those deceptive eyes: as old as you, yet far more lonely.
“Is it my turn now?” he asks, a smile curving on his face like it truly was nothing that you witnessed in his amber gaze.
The Archangel, true to his inquiry, lulls in his movements: body freezing in both motion and temperature, while he tilts his head in a silent question. Do you want to continue?
The nature of an incubus is simple. Every act of consuming energy inevitably makes the incubus far more alluring, while it naturally replenishes whatever fatigue the demon has.
In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…
Well.
Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido.
In response to his question, you wrap a scorching hand around his dick; now a furiously flushed red, with a desperately leaking tip that’s practically begging for attention.
“Not like that,” he says lowly, and it’s not until he’s lifting you with strong arms and sitting you on his spread thighs that you vaguely realise what he’s doing. “You’re nice and stretched out now, right?”
Those long fingers of his trace the slope and dip of your waist, rubbing small circles in wait of your response.
This can’t be Sunday’s first time, you instead wonder; those piercing amber eyes of his make you feel the blushing violet instead. His heavy gaze burns where it lands: taunting and prickling your skin with a nervous fire that further kindles the one that revived in your stomach mere moments ago.
“Need something?” He tilts his head, and the taunting smile stretching on his face brings up the words you spoke all those days ago.
You scowl. “Shut up.”
“I think—” he trails off, lifting you partially out of your straddle with ease. Even as your mind goes blank, you feel each and every sensation that fires within your neurons. “—you have a problem with being honest with yourself.”
“Stick to your theology degree, angel,” you bite out, looping your arms around his neck to stabilise yourself and your racing heart. You quit breathing, momentarily. There’s something hard pressed onto the bottom of your thigh, imprinting stiffly and hotly into the flesh like some brand; naturally, you squeeze your eyes shut. Waiting. Anticipating Sunday’s movements, just as he anticipates yours.
“Which psychology is studied in,” he returns, goading you. He’s got his hand underneath you now, adjusting himself but still not pushing the engorged head in. Your frown deepens. “What, no please?”
“You can’t seriously be lecturing me about manners right—ah—”
Your sharp nails dig into the muscle of his trapezius as he cuts you off by stuffing the tip right in; he groans low in his throat at how damn tight you are, but also the feeling of poignant pain that’s beginning to sting across his shoulders.
You think you can smell the faint coppery scent of blood, but you only half-feel bad.
“You have a damn problem in not listening—hng–to others,” you pant. He’s tightened his grip on your ass, kneading and squeezing so tightly as he struggles to control his own breathing. The two of you linger in the lull for precious few moments; it seems time has capriciously stopped for the pair washed in fluorescent light, so desperately entwined yet ever at odds with each other.
“And you think you’re any better?” he counters. If you were more lucid, you’d be able to properly understand the tension in his arms and how he leans fully back on the chair, letting those wings brush past your body and practically engulf the two of you.
You shiver.
“Yes,” you hiss indignantly. “I actually—fuck—
You paw uselessly at his chest as he slams you down, and your sore throat lets out a choked out wail at the sudden sensation of being filled to the hilt—stuffed so full you almost feel him in your throat.
Each vein, each stupid ridge is vividly felt with every motion—his chest urgently rising and falling, your own spiralling into a sweat-slicked display of ecstasy, and his face. It contorts into the basest expression you’ve seen yet: flushed, mouth half-open, with a burning gaze honed right onto your own.
He looks like sin itself.
Sunday’s losing his composure, fast (you are too).
“Fuck—oh, shit, Sunday.” Imprecations cascade from your lips like waterfalls as the angel begins his movements, building up from a slow roll of his hips to accustom both of you to the sensation.
Like this, with his face mere inches away, you can’t help but stare a little at his face—honed in on his soft lips that wobble despite his struggle to keep his composure.
You wonder what they taste like.
Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?
His lust-stricken gaze darkens somewhat as he appears to look over your shoulder briefly, but you’re too lost in the way he’s rocking himself into you to notice. But you do notice when his soft hand slides up your spine and cradles your nape. You do notice when he pulls you down so his breath mingles with yours–as he searches your eyes for any signs of discomfort and finds none.
“The fuck are you planning?” you murmur, and this time he actually lets you finish speaking before he cuts you off. Except, this time, it differs from his usual modus operandi. One moment, you’re staring intently at the angel beneath you; the next, he’s capturing your open mouth with his, and the effect is instantaneous. You moan into his mouth upon tasting him: not quite placing the saccharic flavour, but he’s fucking divine.
He’s languorous with his motions—to any outsider, it would look like he’s done this a thousand times and still wishes to savour the rest, pulling you so you’re finally flush with his chest.
You’ve never kissed an angel before.
You may not even be alive right now.
It’s only natural, then, that your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts to kiss him more deeply to relish in this final mercy. He’s biting at your lips, and the iron tang of blood combined with your dick rubbing against the soft material of his shirt begins the slow spiral into maddening pleasure.
You cannot see. Your eyes are shut, thus the only semblance you have of the visual situation is the light shining through the blood vessels in your lids; not the way Sunday isn’t looking at you, but glaring at the door far behind you.
Practically on cue, it opens, and you hear the clatter of wood against wood—someone stumbles in, then abruptly freezes in place.
Eyes blown wide open, you attempt to pull away from Sunday, only to have his hand keep pressing firmly against your neck to keep you in place while his mouth begins exploring lower down your neck.
The person behind you doesn’t leave like you expected.
“Ignore him,” Sunday breathes against your neck, and it’s then you look to your left and see your roommate shrouded in the shadow not reached by the clinical lighting. He’s holding a camera and film, and clearly fell into the room—judging by his hand steadying himself on the desk, and from what you can see, the dishevelled look on his face.
What you miss, concealed by the darkness, is the deep red flush that mires his face, and the straining hard-on against his pants.
“What the fuck?” you attempt to sit up, but Sunday’s next words make you freeze in place just like Moze. “Moze?”
“Did you enjoy the show?”
The question is quiet, but Sunday’s soft voice makes it carry across the auditorium regardless—and despite its polite form, the cadence beneath it hides a frightening sort of irritation. No surprise like you might’ve thought, but exasperation.
“What are you talking about?” you mutter, but it’s hard to concentrate on your roommate when Sunday’s busy thumbing your slit.
“He’s been watching for the past few minutes. I was wondering when he’d reveal himself,” he sighs, less bothered than you would’ve thought—what with the horns coming from your head, and the wings and halo sprouting from his own body.
Moze is human.
He’s human, so you finally turn your eye to him and watch him make his way closer, until you can easily identify the most prominent emotion that radiates from his body.
Lust.
You swallow. Despite the new information, you’re not a mind reader. You can’t tell exactly what Moze is thinking as he sits just a few seats away, irritably tapping a finger against the camera he’s holding.
“You’re early,” Sunday comments, making sure to sit up so Moze has a full view of how well you’re taking him—and the angel doesn’t miss how you tighten around him.
“Did you plan this?” Moze’s voice enters the hall for the first time this evening, and Sunday definitely doesn’t miss how the low reverberations make you practically flutter against him.
“So what if I did?” the angel replies boredly. “It’s not like you haven’t figured out who I am. And it’s not like you weren’t eagerly lapping up what was going here when you were watching us through the door.”
Moze stays silent, but you swear you can hear your roommate’s teeth grind as he shifts in place—and this time, his bulge is prominent in the blinding lights. The sight, though Moze doesn’t hear, makes you whimper quietly in Sunday’s ear; the angel’s eyes turn to you, each and every pair.
“What a slut,” he murmurs, and you shiver at his tone: so crude, so mocking. “You just can’t stop, can you?”
You moan as he tightens his grip around your weeping cock and slowly begins circling a stiff nipple with his other hand. On your back, you can feel a burning stare, and the knowledge that Moze is getting off on this only makes you feel it deeper in your gut.
“You’re lucky he’s all hard at the thought of someone watching,” Sunday coos, and through your hazy thoughts you barely work out if he’s talking to you or Moze. His thumbnail presses right onto the side of the head—which makes you almost fucking writhe—before you flop onto his shoulder in a daze.
Sunday goes quiet as he focuses on moving; it seems he’s said all he’s needed to say to the man, and you really don’t mind having an extra energy source to draw such salient waves of lust from. With that being said, you take the opportunity to sit back up and gaze at Moze while Sunday’s moving his pelvis beneath you—only to find that he’s already staring at you.
He’s pretty like this, you realise, dazed. His pupils are almost completely blown out as he takes in every inch of you; there’s hardly any hints of opalescence left in those eyes. Deep cerise coats his cheeks, and he’s almost trembling as he keeps vigil of the scene afore him—with hands that desperately crack the arm rests, intensely avoiding his lower body.
His breathing is in tandem with your own. Shallow. Fucked-out.
Those pretty eyes of his flick up to meet your stare directly, and you tighten around Sunday; he’s hissing and digging his nails into your waist once more as he manoeuvres you. As if to distract you, he slams himself deeply in—and you fucking buckle as you sob out a moan, blearily watching while the man at your side picks up the camera he came late because of and looks through the viewfinder.
“Perfect,” he breathes.
The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.
“Fuck,” you sob; the harsh tug of Sunday is gradually overwhelming you, and the quiet snap of each photo numbs your mind. You know Moze’s getting each shot in detail; his meticulous nature comes through in the way he murmurs ‘just like that’ and ‘beautiful’—syllables that only contribute to the heat you feel in your body, spreading effortlessly throughout your face.
Any train of thought is cut off when the angel’s lips brush against the junction of your shoulder, and he bites. Sharp pain will undoubtedly be followed by a deeper bruise, but in that moment the ache makes the wave of pleasure increase twofold.
“Sunday—ah,” you groan, knotting your hands in his grey locks. “Please.”
You don’t quite know, in the end, why you’re begging.
You don’t, but when Sunday pulls back with his soft mouth stained red and a hazed look in his eyes, you think you’ve got it figured out.
Snap.
Blinding white goes off behind your eyelids as you slam your lips desperately into the Archangel’s. He tastes of iron, of an intrinsic saccharine flavour that nobody else could possibly replicate.
Snap.
With each roll of his hips against yours, you feel him lazily pressing up against that spot inside you—inch by inch, building up on slow pleasure that trickles viscously through you like honey.
Snap.
You lock eyes with Moze, and the intense look he wears while he gazes at you feels like he’s parsing through the layers of dermis, sifting through the nerves and sinew, and finally exhuming your bones and tendons. It’s quickly driving you past the brink, everything about him is. His laboured breathing, the way his eyes remain honed on you despite the faint agony tainting his deep lust.
Snap.
“Right— there,” you choke out. Moze’s still staring, absorbing each minute detail: the sheen of sweat on your body, the way your torso and legs tremble as you attempt to keep it together, and perhaps most poignantly the expression on your face as you stare at him.
Snap.
“Perfect,” he repeats, and it’s this particular version that finally pushes you over that precipice.
You sob out as your vision blurs, pawing uselessly at Sunday’s chest. His hands are firmly back on your hips, letting you rock the waves out—uncaring of the white ropes that ruin his shirt, or perhaps savouring them instead. Or perhaps he’s not paying attention. After all, you hear him swear for the first time since meeting him, and a mere moment later you feel spurts of heat leaking into you.
He shudders. By the god you don’t pray to, this angel groans so sweetly as he comes—that fact alone has you twitching around him.
More.
He still hasn’t softened, but that isn’t enough.
By chance, or maybe the best timing of your life, your eyes land on your roommate again—his eyes, too, meet yours through the screen on the camera.
Snap.
“Moze,” you whine, and the camera ceases in its photo-taking and filming. Well, except for an image of you looking so sweetly at him as you call his name out.
“What?” your laconic roommate murmurs, standing and casting his shadow over the two of you.
What a joke this is: a human watching an entangled demon and angel, and being completely captivated by it. There’s a buzz in his veins tonight—some from an awe-ful sort of fear at having his conjectures confirmed—but most of it is from the object of his desire finally within his grasp. An insufferable idiot, he may add, but one he cannot help but be captivated by.
Maybe he’s the fool, reaching for the moon, but tonight he no longer feels so foolish.
Your clawed hand fists his shirt, and he swallows: stone-still, watching with bated breath for your next move.
What will you do?
He gets his answer when you drag him down: tasting of blood and that inexplicable caramel sensation you always seem to carry. Your tongue is hot against his—impatient enough to keep your mouth open, but he is too. His hands, cold from the biting wind and the frigid irritation he’s been building within, fly to cradle your face.
Moze has enough sense to memorise this feeling of your lips on his, moaning and twining a lazy hand around his neck.
He thinks he feels a particular angel glaring at him, but it's none of his business, really.
“He’s not enough?” he mocks when you pull back, poignantly aware of the front of his pants ever-so-slightly brushing against you—how he fucking bites down on any sound attempting to escape his mouth.
“Don’t you want me to help you out?” you slur your words, clearly dazed from getting fucked by his stupid classmate. Yes, he wants to say, but he feels like some damned second place prize. Your hand brushes his crotch, and he bites his lip—hard—until the skin breaks and warm blood runs down his lips.
“Shit,” he hisses. Moze’s self-control is normally iron-hard, but it’s been so incessantly worn down today by two certain idiots that he can’t help but let the damned thing snap. Within moments, his hand is deep in your hair, tugging as he nips at the flush of your lips—letting copper entangle you two together in something he hopes can twist your fates together forever, even if he ends up in hell for it.
“Ah—Moze,” you groan, and it really doesn’t help his situation: dick pressed against your side, painfully hard due to a combination of factors that all have you (in bold, capital letters) written all over them.
He can’t help it. He really can’t.
He can’t help it when you pump him from base to shaft with hands far warmer than his—he can’t help stealing your lips away from the angel you’re still fucking riding. He can’t help it, either, when you gaze at him like that—he just has to press his tip against your ass. You’ve been complaining about it not being enough, haven’t you? What’s the problem?
There’s a mutual agreement between human and heavens for just this night. That being, to make you spiral into a mess.
Thus, Moze doesn’t baulk at the thought of sharing this night—not when you’re sinking down on both of them, not when the added tightness makes his head black out for a moment. Fuck.
That’s all his brain is clinging to.
How fucking good you feel—how warm your back feels pressed to his chest. He’s desperately trying not to bust, doing so by biting over the mark in the juncture that damned angel left. If you ever think of the man in front of you, you need to think of him too.
This is far better than any stupid porno—astronomically so than fisting his cock and imagining you in his hand’s place.
Moze buries his face in your shoulder, letting his hands roam around your body—supple skin that yields beneath his greedy fingers. His hands find your nipples, rolling and twisting the peaks to hear you let out sounds far louder than what he’s heard so far. That little fact makes him smile despite himself.
On the other side, Sunday’s grown accustomed to how your breath hitches when his finger scrapes past a particular vein on your weeping cock, how your pupils dilate just a little more when he squeezes particularly tightly. No, he’s grown accustomed to you—all the small tells of your body. It’s why he endures the arrogant human across from him, for all humans deserve grace.
They do not know better.
It’s just for tonight, he rationalises. If he wants to successfully remain undercover to achieve the goal of his operative, he must not do anything to draw attention. That’s why he’s helped you out, nothing else.
Angels cannot lie to others.
It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves.
Despite Sunday’s heart that skips a beat whenever you look his way and all you see is him, he doesn’t acknowledge the racing thrum of the organ. In fact, as he’s sucking and licking marks into your skin as a reminder of this—of your sin—he reminds himself that he’s doing you a favour.
He’s doing the rest of the pitiful humans a favour as well. The more he takes up your attention, the less time you have to seduce them.
Actually, this is probably the most rational solution for getting one of the oldest incubi under control.
Good job, Sunday.
A plethora of broken imprecations are forced out of your mouth as they slam into you—when one slips out half-way, the other nails your prostate, over and over and over. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full—not by any other demon, and certainly not by any human.
This counts for your mind too—stretched tight by what seems to be an eternity of satiation, and perhaps on the verge of breaking. You’ve forgotten the name of your project, the class you’re in, and why you’re here in the first place; and these broken trains of thought are interspersed with the quiet flash of the camera as it captures your fucked-out state.
“Please.”
It seems to be a permanent fixture on your lips, though you still don’t know what you’re asking for. No, you do know—more.
More, as streaks of white stain your thighs and drip onto the cold linoleum floor. More, as your lips bleed from the number of times you’ve been kissed, and kissed them yourself. More, as you wind up on the outskirts between consciousness and unconsciousness.
You’re barely lucid—having gone through a metamorphosis safely—but they seem to be more insatiable than you are. The energy store that pulses behind your heart has never experienced such satiation; in your drowsy state all you can focus on is the drunk high you’re getting off this.
It’s well into the night now, and perhaps the only thing that fully snaps you back into consciousness is the feeling of something wet laving away the mess between your legs—Moze. His tongue is warm as he clears the salt and white globs from your thighs, and when he sees those eyes of yours finally focus on him, he leaves a chaste kiss pressed against the side of your leg: continuing while you drowsily stroke the strands from his sweat-slicked forehead.
Only then are you aware of the warmth at your back: the angel behind you holds you fast to his chest with wings that envelope the two of you in a damn cocoon.
And finally, beside you and displayed on the laptop on the desk, is a video file paused with the name across the title bar:
The Catching of the Incubus.
*********
There has long existed a pact between a certain human boy and a pink-haired Foxian. Well, it’s not truly a pact, but more like a casual agreement that’s never been broken: the exchange of emergency keys, for the two trust the other will have his back.
It’s used today, when Jiaoqiu’s looking for the culinary textbook he left the last time he came around, a mere week ago. He may have been frustrated with himself for it, but there’s something about coming to Moze’s dorm that he looks forward to each time—and if he said the incubus that lives in the room opposite the reticent man’s, he wouldn’t be lying.
In any case, nobody’s home.
Jiaoqiu quietly slips his shoes off, checking first the living room. Nothing. Your room? Also nothing, though he lingers a little longer and takes in the burnt caramel scent that pervades the space—one that’s only gotten stronger, it seems.
Moze’s room it is.
The first thing he sees is the thick book, neatly aligned on Moze’s dresser with a meticulous pile of forensic texts. The next is two cameras, tucked away on the shelf behind it. They’re just sitting there innocuously, but Jiaoqiu’s curiosity is piqued. The man seemingly never takes interest in things other than crime scenes and keeping everything tidy, so the Foxian carefully picks up one and turns it on.
These Succubi Suck, the file reads, and he’s immediately hit in the face with unedited footage of what appears to be the most slapdash mockumentary he’s ever seen—clips and retakes and bloopers in a long reel that he skips through amusedly, gazing at your face a little too long when you’re speaking.
This is their film submission? He whistles lowly, impressed by the quality despite only having three people in your class.
He’s about to turn it off, when he spots the only other file that remains in the camera, something something incubus.
Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—
The Foxian’s face suddenly heats up, and he presses a hand to the lower half of his face.
Oh.
Oh.
*࿐.
⋆ ˚ ｡⋆୨୧˚ Masterlist 1 ˚୨୧⋆｡ ˚
Yandere oc ages
Yandere sizes
Yandere heights
Yandere pretty boy introduction
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
Description Drawing
Yandere jock introduction
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
Yandere roommate introduction
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
Yandere pervert introduction
Part 1
Description
Yandere victim introduction
Yandere stripper introduction
Yandere octopus introduction
Yandere bunnyboy introduction
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Yandere streamer introduction
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Drawing 1
Yandere mean prince introduction
Part 1
Yandere masochist introduction
Part 1 Part 2
Yandere gangster introduction
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Yandere cupid introduction
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Yandere zoo introduction
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Yandere aquarium introduction
Part 1
Yandere vampire introduction
Part 1
Yandere council president introduction
Yandere best friend introduction
Yandere immortal introduction
Yandere monster introduction
Yandere playboy introduction
Yandere dogboy introduction
Yandere catboy introduction
Yandere foxboy introduction
Yandere actor introduction
Part 1
Yandere harpy introduction
Part 1
Yandere incubus introduction
Part 1
Yandere nerd introduction
Part 1
Yandere robot introduction
Part 1
Yandere cute prince introduction
Yandere merman introduction
Part 1
Work Ethics [Age Gap AU]
FEATURING : DAISUKE YUICHI (OC) x male reader
The new intern took a liking to you, it went unnoticed by you, his boss sadly. However, he would prove how deep his admiration was when the both of you were drunk, alone in the building with the exception of his hard cock.
![Work Ethics [Age Gap AU]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/9325c6f4a55fe5e59f55b429e31ede1e/0a2e27219b69f897-f0/s500x750/640d2dcee533dd7157e198ad1f3cdb94201ef47c.jpg)
age gap, bit dubcon. not much plot just sex, profile
Find out more under the cut!
"Hnngg- f-fuck stop! Wait wait I'm gonna-"
(m/n) clasped his hand over his whimpering mouth, his hips bucking up while a stronger grip clawed on his waist, urging him to lay still on the wooden desk. He was squirming, his pants gone and his briefs dangling on his left ankle.
Daisuke hummed as he proceeded to swallow (m/n)'s load of cum in his mouth. He was on his knees, his hands holding (m/n) down while giving the latter a blowjob. "Did I do good, sir?"
The (h/c) could only mewl, his dick flaccid and slobbered with spit as Daisuke stood and climbed over him. Their dynamic was interesting, to others if they had noticed. (m/n) was head of department for his sector and Daisuke Yuichi was the new intern they had received.
Well, he wasn't just an intern. He was one of the shareholder's son so all treated him like royalty once he stepped foot in the company. (m/n) didn't care, treating him like he was any normal intern and there was the obvious age gap between them.
A good six years apart with Daisuke still in university with an internship as part of his education programme. He could've been 20 or 21. So why was someone like him messing around with (m/n) who was at the end of his twenties?
Daisuke probed his fingers into (m/n)'s mouth who screamed and gagged around his thick digits, knuckles brushing against his palate and poking his uvula. He coughed with his mouth full and the ravenette kissed him on his cheek.
"Am I better than any of those geezers? Their old bodies couldn't ever pleasure you...at least up to my standards."
The ravenette took his fingers out of the (h/c)'s mouth and trailed lower, reaching his crotch and (m/n) gripped his wrist when Daisuke poked his virgin hole. "Y-You brat- I never fucking touched there- anhh!"
"Really? I'm glad. I would be pretty sad if someone else had slammed their dick in there instead of me. I was born a bit too late hm?" Daisuke shoved a finger inside, stretching his rim and pistoned against his twitching walls.
(m/n) spread his legs wider, his hips stuttering as he moaned more, his veins coursing with unknown pleasure. His button-up rustled against the frame of the desk, his desk to be exact. The (h/c) was Daisuke's superior, HR had reached out to him, asking him to take special care of the new intern and (m/n) was annoyed and ignored it to say the least.
He didn't realise how much the intern admired him, how black eyes adorned into his mannerisms, his body language, the way (m/n) carried himself as a person. Adoring gaze lingered on the (h/c) whenever the department had a meeting and (m/n) was presenting his slides upfront.
How the (h/c)'s blazer would hike up every time he lifted his arms, his pants hugging his tight ass with those two back pockets mocking Daisuke with how the ravenette had wished how much he was those fabric instead...
It was a planned dinner for their department, Daisuke however had forgotten his USB drive that had documents he needed to finish up for the night and (m/n) offered to follow him along, saying he himself needed to retrieve a few things.
And when (m/n) thought Daisuke was heading for his cubicle, he in his tipsy state did not realise the ravenette had followed him into his office and pounced on him.
"Do you feel the same way as me, Mr. (l/n)? Is that why you offered to take me back here?" Daisuke had drunk a lot, his mind was much more intoxicated than (m/n)'s after he had gotten hazed by his seniors. His dick was hard and being alone with his hot crush didn't make it any better.
"What the-? Daisuke, what do you think you're doing??" (m/n) yelled, attempting to push the younger man away as the latter started to pepper kisses all over his neck. "I'm making love to you, sir. My boss is such a cool person." He kissed his the complaining man's forehead. "And cool people should fuck together."
Maybe (m/n) should keep up with the times, trying to relate more to younger people who's almost a decade apart but he couldn't understand how Daisuke's loose mouth easily spat. It was good around his dick too.
He tried to resist, pushing against the younger's strong rock hard body but he instantly melted when Daisuke pulled his pants down and shoved his open mouth, swallowing his hard penis.
Now he was bent over his own messy desk, his shirt ripped and his ass being pulled back and forth against Daisuke's crotch. Their bodies were hot and wet squelches rang from where their skin connected together. Hands around his waist tightened, fingers digging into his abdomen and he was sure a bruise would appear tomorrow.
"Aanh anh angg!" He never thought he would cry like a girl, like a woman would whenever he would sleep with the opposite gender. "You sound so good, (m/n). Your ass is so fucking thick too." Daisuke whispered into his ear, his fat chest pressing against the (h/c)'s shoulder blades as he continued humping into his boss, pounding his dick into the older man's once virgined asshole.
"C-Calm down- mmffhh! Y-You're too deep- nggh!" Did young people had this amount of energy? Or maybe it was (m/n)'s age catching up to him since he was getting tired of Daisuke's never-ending bunny fuck with him.
He cried out when the ravenette came inside, complaining about the lack of condoms and Daisuke bit his nape in return, asking him to be a good boss and let the younger one do all the work. Although the ravenette was putting in overtime as he came inside the (h/c) for the fifth time that night, (m/n) only twice for a bitchy reason.
Fat tears slipped down his lower lashes, drooping down his (s/c) cheeks as he struggled with his restrained arms above his head, Daisuke tying his wrists with his own tie when (m/n) started to complain and wanted to switch.
He was back laying on his desk, his nipples getting twisted by Daisuke's fingers whose face was flushed pink, his eyes half-lidded gazing down at his naked boss who was tied up under him, his wet dick still deep inside his cum-filled anus.
(m/n)'s cock was also tied up, a thin felt string Daisuke had snatched, carefully roping it around his tip. The textile scratched against his sensitive cock but the pressure wasn't letting him burst, precum spilling all over his base, leaking onto his crotch and abdomen.
"W-Wanna cum- mmff! I wan cum too- angg!" (m/n) mumbled, his face flushed as he flinched when Daisuke pressed his cock deep, squirting more of his cum inside his already full ass.
His stomach felt queasy, the high taking his body, the remains of his attire was ripped to pieces earlier and he had been denied of his orgasm ever since he mentioned wanting to top.
"Really? Boss wants to cum? (m/n) wants some cum?" The (h/c) irked, feeling degraded by the smirking ravenette who was usually nice and polite, except he was drunk and fucking his ass at 1 AM in the office.
He hesitatingly nodded, his head fuzzy and his hole spilling semen, dripping down his desk and onto his carpeted floor. "I want to hear it from your mouth. Your really cute fucking mouth." Daisuke peered, his dark eyes open focusing on the whimpering man beneath him, his lips stretching into a smile.
"I want to cum. Let me cum. I can't just- mfff I wanna cummm-" (m/n) whined and he never thought a noise like that would come out of his mouth. Daisuke lightly sucked in his cheeks, collecting his saliva in the middle of his tongue and his fingers pried (m/n)'s open. He opened his mouth and extended his tongue down to (m/n)'s, letting his drool drip into the (h/c)'s mouth.
The (h/c) had confused noises slipping out of his throat as he was forced to swallow Daisuke's spit. "Angh angg ngghh-" He mewled, struggling with the continous saliva flowing into his mouth by the excited ravenette.
Daisuke stopped, feeling satisfied seeing the panting and slobbering (h/c) as he leaned down once again. "Kiss me." (m/n) mumbled, hazy and drowsy as Daisuke further edged him. "Kiss me and I'll pull it off." His finger pinched the edge of the string and (m/n) frowned, annoyed at this young man's bold behaviour.
"Anhh-" He propped himself up with his elbows, (m/n) sticking out his tongue to reach the ravenette who teased him by slowly inching away. But the (h/c) grabbed his jaw and slammed his mouth on his lips, his tongue sloppily pressing against Daisuke's.
The younger was definitely better at fucking but (m/n) had the upper hand in kissing. Daisuke melted, moaning in his mouth as he desperately hugged his boss close, his eyes rolling behind while his cock rubbed against his slipping hole.
(m/n) tilted his head, angling his lips as he slipped in his tongue into Daisuke's mouth, the latter teasingly pulled off the string and clenched his tip tight. The (h/c) hissed as he started to lap at his wet muscle, making out with the younger ravenette.
Their faces were flushed, alcohol still lingering in their system, especially Daisuke whose cheeks had a nice pink hue. (m/n)'s heart was beating in his chest, his cock was gripped by the ravenette twitched and threathened to burst as he bucked his hips up, wanting release.
"Mmff- angh! Call me Yuichi first- mmn!" (m/n) pulled away from the messy make-out, his lips slick with spit and he furrowed his eyebrows. "Yuichi?" "Daisuke is a family name. I'm the one up your ass moments ago, not my whole lineage. Unless-?"
His cheek was firmly slapped, (m/n) frowning annoyed his release denied as he jutted a finger in his face. "Behave." "...Yes, sir." Yuichi smirked, licking his lips. The slap wasn't strong, but it was enough to awaken the ravenette who started to jack him off.
The (h/c) gritted his teeth, clenching his eyes shut as he squirmed under the mercy of the ravenette who was estatic to see his boss submit under him. "Y-Yuichi..." (m/n) breathily spoke as he wrapped his arms around ravenette's ears.
Yuichi's cock immediately sprang up, his hands pulling the (h/c) off the table as he sat on a nearby ergonomic chair, (m/n) on his lap. The ravenette bit his neck, leaving a mark on the skin as he slammed (m/n) onto his cock, the latter yelping and instantly came.
Ropes of cum spilled from his tip, his eyes continued to dwell tears as he yelled at Yuichi for bouncing him on his cock while he was cumming, his orgasm rode out for so long, a good 20 seconds. His hole could barely fit anything, wet and slobbering. The rim was strained, being pounded by Yuichi's long cock for so long as (m/n) felt like he was going to cum again.
"Aanhh angg mmhh! Fuck fuck- khh mmnh!" Curses and whimpers spilled from his lips as he tightened around Yuichi, the latter pulling him into a kiss as he stilled himself balls deep inside the (h/c) while cumming for the nth time that night. (m/n) held onto the ravenette with his still restrained arms around neck as he squirted onto Yuichi's stomach, his watery cum coating his abs as the ravenette continued to face fuck his boss.
It was a blur after that, he wasn't sure where he ended up but he woke up in an unknown apartment, Yuichi hugging him while sleeping. The ravenette took him to his home, a very expensive home at that after their drunken affair and the younger one kept pestering the boss.
"You like me now, right sir? We can date outside the office." (m/n) rolled his eyes, whacking a document on Yuichi's forehead as he pulled the hands off that was tugging on his vest. "Finish the e-memo and I'll talk to you, Yuichi."
It may seem that the boss was still as cold towards the intern, but the fact that he's using his given name was a sign of endearment. Older men really had it different, huh?
Yuichi was ecstatic as he sneaked into (m/n)'s office whenever it was past closing hours, the latter having to stay back for numerous reasons. One of them to entertain his intern.
Although he never let Yuichi sleep with him in his office again, praying that the poor cleaner wouldn't ask who he had brought in during the late night a few days ago.
[END SCENE]
[unedited]
Afterthoughts :
i need to STOP putting daisuke in office settings...he's just perfect for it. a nepo baby taking a liking to u HAHAHHAHA ME WAN JADIKHHIGSAHJK; anywyas im so stressed out recently. but the worst part's over so i gotta suck it up argh.
THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A RESPONSE TO AN INBOX BUT I GOT HORNY SO I WROTE A DAMN FIC INSTEAD 😭😭
I wrote this in like two hours w sleep in between. Hence, the lack of like good stuff sorry.
comment for more!
Edit : i did not implement the dynamic a younger top and older bottom is supposed to have...forgive me. I wrote this at 3am. Expect a drabble soon
Taglist :
@tehyunnie @rainnyydaysworld @webwanderer @a-short-ass-disappointment @chikai-k @mello-life25 @miyuuuki @simpsations @sugar-p0p @kiiyoooo
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
ㅤㅤㅤ❝𝐌𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⤷ Kinktober men
Welcome to my Kinktober list! This list is going to be separate, one part is all prompts with my Oc's and then there's going to be the prompt list with M!Reader. Note: These prompts might also continue after the month as I'm not going to be able to write everyday an entire prompt. Note: As of now I don't have a set Kinktober list for 2024 so I'm just gonna rawdog it
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ㅤㅤ𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒
ㅤ𝐎𝐂'𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Soon to be filled.
ㅤ𝐌!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
𖹭. Day 1 Vampire x !bottom M!Reader
𖹭. Day 2 A!Werewolf x O!M!Reader
𖹭. Day 3 Demon x !bottom M!Reader
𖹭.Day 4 Incubus x !top M!Reader
𖹭.Day 5 Dragonshifter x !bottom M!Reader
𖹭.Day 6
𖹭.Day 7
𖹭.Day 8
𖹭.Day 9
𖹭.Day 10
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