Demon Slayer Lover

"Gonna' cum-" Lohen groans into the curve of your shoulder, his face tucked against your neck. Bloody bite marks litter your skin, sitting far too high for your clothes to hide, and you know he did it on purpose just to be a brat. You're going to get so many pained looks tomorrow. The entire city is going to know exactly what the two of you have been up to. Again. Though you suppose you cannot exactly play the innocent card. Not when you spend far too much time standing in front of the mirror, absentmindedly tracing the indents and bruises scattered across your skin. Not when your nails are stained red from how often you pick at the scabs, never quite giving them enough time to heal properly.

"Y-You need to- ah! You... hah-You need to pull out," Your words cut off in a whine as Lohen jostles you higher in his arm. His fingers dig into your thighs as he adjusts his hold, folding you closer against him. Your stomach clenches, both because he's attempting to carve a space for his dick there and it's working, and the weightlessness now that your back isn't supported against the wall anymore. Everything but your shoulder and head is relying entirely on Lohen's strength, and your heart flutters at the display of strength. It's your second-favourite thing about him.

"Yeah, yeah, 'heard you the first time," Lohen is infuriatingly blasé about your stipulation, too busy making the most of you finally letting him fuck you raw. He's been away for weeks working on a solo mission. Something about an auction, though you cannot be entirely sure those were the exact words when you had been too distracted by sucking on his tongue. Regretfully, your gaze drifts down to the floor, where two broken condoms lie discarded nearby. Two failures in a row seem unlikely enough to be bad luck rather than anything else. Probably just a bad batch. It would be a shame to end the night over so soon, so as long as he pulls out, everything will be fine.

He's surely wasting no time making up for the weeks he spent away, returning all of his pent-up desire tenfold as he fucks into you mercilessly. His hips never stop moving as he holds your thighs apart, keeping you pinned between him and the wall. It feels deliriously good, enough to leave you dizzy with it, your body clenching around his cock, sucking him in deeper. In, out, in, out, in, in, in-

"Hey."

Your hands fly to his face, pulling him down until he's forced to meet your gaze. It's the clearest your eyes have been all night. You draw him closer, your lips brushing his as you whisper the words directly against them.

"If you cum in me, I'll get pregnant."

There is nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and the sting of nails digging into each other's skin as Lohen stares at you with half-lidded, clouded eyes. Then, like the stupid little pervert he is, his cock twitches inside of you. Warm thick cum floods where it shouldn't, and you're too stunned that Lohen seriously just came at that. Only when you feel yourself being lowered gently to the ground does he let out a quiet grunt, pulling out to watch your combined slick and cum ooze out of you, little wet sounds splattering onto the floor.

"You-" you're about to bitch and cry, ready to find the nearest object to break over his head because this isn't fair! If you seriously get pregnant from this, you're going to drug him and ride him until his hips snap in half! Your murderous thoughts come to an abrupt halt when you hear giggling. Lohen has a hand clamped over his mouth in a pathetic attempt to muffle it, but with how hard he's trying and failing to hold back a full laugh, it isn't working. His head tips low enough that his bangs fall across his face, and his other hand scoops the cum that leaked onto the floor. Lighting his hand, he slightly spreads his fingers before dipping them into his mouth to suck clean, and you frown at how gross he's being again. The cum is supposed to go into you; has he never attended a sex ed class before?

A soft pop sounds when he pulls his now-clean fingers from his mouth. He pushes his sweat-damp hair back, finally giving you a clear view of his face, and you shiver at his expression. That same deranged smile still plays at the corners of his lips, but his eyes look almost blown wide, so dark you could swear they're glowing red. He plants his hands on either side of your head and leans over you until his shadow swallows you whole, until all you can see is him.

It's hot. You're breathing each other's air, neither of you making any effort to pull away. Your legs remain locked around his waist, and he doesn't move back to give you space. You can feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest just as surely as he can feel yours. Occasionally, you wonder how you let it get this bad. How someone could have such a monopoly over your life to the point you'd find any reason to keep them with you.

"You still think I'm the one being trapped?"

Before you can answer, his hands fall back to your thighs, and with a single pull, you're flat on your back again, your knees bent so far they nearly brush your head. He cracks his neck, then proceeds to slam in so hard you can feel him in your throat. So hard that you see stars behind your eyes. Hard enough that every coherent thought scatters, dissolving into nothing but a barely intelligible string of Lohen, baby, Lohen, baby.

When you manage to look up at him, you find his gaze already fixed on your face. You can feel the intensity of it as he takes in your parted lips, the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, the fresh bite marks blooming darker against your neck. You see the tenseness of Lohen's mouth, still smiling but undeniably strained from pleasure, pleasure that you're giving him, drowning him in-

Lohen grunts under his breath, closing his eyes, enjoying the feeling of you swallowing every inch of him. He looks like a man on a mission, teeth grinding together, you can almost hear them crack from how tense his jaw is. His fingers bend at odd angles, lifting you and slamming you down that nearly gives you whiplash at each push and pull against sensitive nerves. At this point, you're more of a sleeve than an actual human being. You couldn't imagine anyone touching you like this, let alone fucking you. Thank the Archons, you hadn't done this on a table. Jean might actually kick both of you out if you showed up asking for another budget increase to replace broken furniture. Considering the look she'd given you after the bookshelf incident, you'd be lucky if she didn't start assigning the two of you retraining orders.

"S-Slow- slow- down-! You promised you- you wouldn't!!" You sob, fat tears slipping from your eyes. Despite your words, your nails dig into his skin, your ankles digging into his back to pull him closer. You'll fucking kill him if he doesn't cum in you again.

"Shut up-" Lohen rarely curses, so it's always a treat to hear him lose that princely appearance. Not that you have long to relish in your small victory when his hand slams beside your head, cracking the floor from the strength of his fist. With half your support gone, you feel yourself tilting to the side, the sudden movement making you tense up, clamping down on him. He lets out a low hiss, leaning forward to fully pin your body to the ground, as he buries himself deep on one last particularly bone-shattering thrust. You let your head drop harshly onto the floor as he cums, a burst of warmth that fills your stomach. You're shaking in his arms as his hips instinctively grind to ride out the waves that went on far longer than usual, throbbing in heavy pulses as he somehow dumps even more cum into you. It feels so good that you can't help but follow him, finally letting that wire inside you snap free.

You both don’t move for a while, just taking the time to catch your breath and settle back into each other’s presence. It has been getting increasingly lonelier each time Lohen gets sent halfway across the world. While you can understand his role as vice-captain, you don't appreciate seeing him fewer and fewer times. You move your hand to settle over your stomach, hope in your eyes, that hopefully now he'll have a better reason to stay.

“Sorry, I know I promised, but I couldn’t resist,” he says easily, voice soft as he presses a few lingering kisses to your cheek, yet making no move to pull out, “I’ll get you something for it tomorrow morning, alright?”

With your body fully caged in by Lohen, there's no wiggle room for you to kick him away or knee him in the gut to let you go. It's almost as if the past few minutes never existed. That same deceptively gentle smile sits on his lips, eyes catching faintly in the low light as he moves his hand on top of yours, lacing your fingers together. He raises it, pressing a small kiss on the back of your hand, whispering, "Don’t worry, nothing bad will happen."

Tomorrow morning, when you are still sleepy and woozy, Lohen will coax you into opening your mouth so he can slip in the same two white tablets, and you will groan and complain the entire time. They're oddly sweet for morning-after pills, and you've never been fond of sugar.

- 🐑

You felt a nervous sweat dot your brow. Wringing your fingers before yourself, you said, “Um, show me again?”

“Sure, sure. Step back like this…one fist to your chin, the other in front…then wham!”

The way Lohen’s fist punched through the air was already giving you a heart attack. You gawked at him when he started to bounce back and forth on his heels, explaining to you, “You can even throw a jab like this! Then a straight! Then a good old uppercut!”

His lithe body moved through the steps as your mind struggled to come to terms with them. Massaging your hands together, you winced when Lohen let out an excited laugh. His crimson eyes twinkled as they stared at you, a smirk pushing one corner of his lips higher than the other.

“Oh, don’t look so scared. It kinda turns me on.”

“Shut up,” you said, heat pooling in your cheeks. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“What? That’s, like, kinda the whole point.” He grinned, popping his eyebrows at you. “Come on, you know you wanna try it. Give it a go. Hit me!”

He spanned his arms out like he was waiting for a hug, but you knew Lohen better than to assume that. You probably would have preferred if he was in a snuggling mood, though, because you weren’t even sure how to approach the act of punching your boyfriend in the face.

“I don’t know,” you stammered. “It doesn’t really feel natural. Like…I don’t think I’d be able to hit you just because you asked me to.”

“Bun, you’re overthinking it.” He flapped his fingers inwards, towards himself. The smug grin on his face persisted when he said, “Just do it. Will it help if I tell you I want it?”

Not really, because you could already tell that’s what he wanted.

“Hm.” Lohen crossed one arm over his chest, the other coming up with his pensive fist. He rubbed his chin, observing you with a raised eyebrow as he continued to let out thoughtful hums. He raised one eyebrow, let it fall, then raised the other eyebrow, and let that one fall too.

“Stop doing that,” you mumbled. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Oh yeah?” Lohen asked, shifting his brows across his forehead again. “Does it make you mad?”

“Not mad, just uncomfortable—.”

“What if I burned down the library?” he asked chipperly. “Would that make you mad?”

“What?! I’d be devastated!” you shot back. “Lisa and I have spent so long arranging every text in that library! There’s centuries of knowledge in there! You can’t just go and burn it down!”

“Mm,” Lohen said, his teeth biting into his grinning lower lip. “I like it when you yell at me…but I’m afraid that won’t stop me from burning your precious books to the ground, sweetheart.”

“You’re not actually going to do something like that. I know you’re just saying that. R-right?!”

The words left your lips, but your brain was already fixated on an image of chaos. Lohen, sneaking into the Knights of Favonius library with a match in his hand, waiting for you to organize every last book return and label each new addition before casually setting the place ablaze.

Oh, that was definitely a possible outcome. Knowing him, he’d be so covert about it that you wouldn’t even notice until the whole place was nothing but ashes.

“You’re maaad,” he said in a sing-song voice. “So mad you could punch me. Right?”

“Are you trying to threaten me into beating you?!”

“Pft! Oh, come on, you know I’d never do that! It’s just a bit of light coercion.”

Was he bluffing or was he serious? Did you really want to wait around and find out?

“Hey, what was the name of that porn book you’ve been reading?” Lohen asked, tapping his chin. “The one from that series you’ve been waiting on for the past two years?”

Your cheeks smoldered into flames. Indignantly, you snapped, “Fate’s Glimmer is not a porn book! It’s a romantic tragedy that analyzes the conflicts between conquest and birthright—!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Lohen waved his hand dismissively, his smirk growing wider. “I’m pretty sure you left your porn book on my nightstand. Wouldn’t you just hate if something were to happen to it? I mean, you went and got the collector’s edition and all…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Waste of money if you ask me. Why read porn when you could just fuck me—!”

—WHAP!

Lohen’s head whirled from the impact of your fist against his cheek, his words struck dead on his tongue. Your knuckles protested with throbbing pain, but by the Archons if it didn’t feel good to wipe that smug smile off his face. It was one thing for him to burn down the library, but to incinerate Fate’s Glimmer: Collector’s Edition Vol. 24? He had gone too far!

“It’s a romantic tragedy!” you barked. “It's a brilliant analysis on how war impacts families and intimate relationships! Any explicit content is solely for the purpose of accompanying the plot, but you wouldn’t understand that, you…! You…! Ugh!”

Lohen’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide during your whole tirade. As you came down from your moment of fury, you quickly snapped back to your senses.

You had just punched Lohen in the face. Over a book. You assaulted your boyfriend; over a novel.

You winced. “I’m sorry—.”

“—fuck,” Lohen said over you, red seeping into his face. He tongued at the inside of his cheek, moaning. “Good job, Bun. Now do it again.”

“You are just so—!” Your hands curled up into fists before you let out a ragged sigh. “No, I’m not going to hit you again!”

His eyes turned half-lidded, a perverse smile settling across his lips. Slowly, he drawled, “Then I guess I’m gonna piss in your porn book.”

Before you could stop yourself, your body was launching across the room, barreling straight into his.

Lohen liked playfighting a bit too much. Maybe it was because you’d stand no chance against him in a real fight—and you wouldn’t ever be foolish enough to try. Since he couldn’t spar with you, he spent most of his time finding other ways to force you into a tussle.

His face loomed over yours, cackling.

“Hey, Bun! Remind me what the characters in your ‘romantic tragedy’ were doing in that last chapter you told me about?!”

You let out an anguished groan, heat bathing your cheeks as you stared into his mocking red eyes. Lohen laughed, his hands pinning your shoulders to the ground, and in a teasing voice asked, “Why the hesitation, sweetheart? I thought it was an analysis on war!”

“Ugh, screw you!” you spat, pushing up into his chest with the flat of your palms. “Corina and Zand finally reunited after a whole year! It’s only natural for there to be tension!”

“And what did they do during their glorious reunion? What’d they do with all that tension—huh, Bun? Enlighten me!”

You shoved your body weight forward, and even though he was far stronger than you, he pretended to flip onto the ground anyway. He grinned from ear-to-ear as you sat atop of him, your hands curled into the collar of his shirt.

“They’re in love!” you sputtered, the burning sensation in your face intensifying. “They haven’t seen each other in a year! It’s only logical they would…!”

“It’s only logical they would…!” he mocked in a high-pitched, girly voice. “Logical they would what, Bun? Do a little bit of this?!”

You yelped when he bucked his hips underneath you, sending you bouncing atop his lap as his laughter filled your ears. You pressed your hand to his mouth, trying to suffocate those uncontrolled chortles under your palm, but Lohen only moaned and bit you.

“Ow!”

“You like that, bunny?” he asked, his grin splitting his face in two. “You wanna bounce on me just like Corina bounced on Zand?”

“Stop!” you whined, stuck between a strange cross of irritated and horny. “You’re so annoying!”

“That didn’t sound like a no to me!”

His hips popped up into yours again, the bulge in his trousers meeting the skirt of your dress. Glaring at him, you snapped, “You can’t seriously be horny right now!”

“Oh, yeah,” he groaned exaggeratedly. “Yell at me some more, won’t you, babe? I might just bust.”

“Why are you like this?!”

“Oh, I can be worse! Wanna hear my best impression of you when you’re bouncing on my dick?”

“No, of course I don’t—!”

“Ah, ah, ah!” he mimicked, rutting up against you all the while. “Lohen, slow down! I’m gonna cuuum!”

With a furious scream, you lifted him by his collar—which he let you do—before thrusting him back into the ground. His laugh was borderline-maniacal, tears budding at the corners of his eyes as he play-struggled beneath you. But before you could think to move, your world was spinning, and with your back pressed solidly into the ground, Lohen was on top of you again. He rutted against you with sharp, sporadic thrusts, mimicking, “Lohen, Lohen, Lohen!”

“Fucking stop it!” you blurted.

“Oh, but you’re wet, aren’t you? I don’t even have to touch you to feel it.”

No you were not wet for Lohen while he dryhumped you across the floor of your living room and imitated the way you moaned for him when he fucked the living soul out of you—.

“I’m wet,” you mumbled, your heart pounding against your ears.

“Of course you are,” he purred. “Your brain’s all addled from that porn book of yours. You don’t even notice how horny you get when you read it, do you?”

“Stop,” you complained, pressing your eyes closed. “I most definitely do not get horny while reading it.”

“You do,” he purred, hips rocking, hands rising to your face. “I sit and watch you read sometimes. When you start biting your lip, that’s how I know you’re at the smut part.”

“I don’t do that,” you protested.

“Yeah you do, Bun. And you start looking around too, trying to make sure I can’t see those filthy little pages of yours.”

Of course Lohen would notice something like that, even when you thought you were being covert about it. There wasn’t much you could hold over his head in the surprise variety—you even stopped trying to hide his birthday presents after the third foiled attempt. After you got together, he suggested that next time you cut the gimmicks and show up with a bow taped to your tits and a dagger in your hand.

Lohen’s laughter drove the scene from your mind. He leaned down to press a chaste kiss to your mouth, after which he said, “Want me to fuck you?”

You closed your eyes and whimpered, “Yes.”

Your fingers curled into Lohen’s shoulders as he moved atop of you. Legs tucked over his back, you encouraged the forward motion of his hips with each of his hard thrusts. Lohen nibbled at your chin, his nails scratching against the hardwood floor beside your head.

“You’re so embarrassed,” Lohen said, laughing against your jaw. “How adorable.”

Your cunt throbbed in response to his provocation, squeezing around his girth. Lohen’s tongue plopped onto your chin, and with a lazy drag upwards, smeared his wet saliva all over your face. When he reached your mouth, you stubbornly kept your lips pressed closed.

“Huh?” he asked. “You don’t want your kisses? When you’re the one who always whines about them?”

He snapped his hips forward again, making you release a strained moan into the air. The way Lohen fucked into you mashed against the sweet bundle of nerves pocketed inside, and he wasn’t a stranger to abusing that. He angled himself better for it, and it was somewhat painful when he stabbed into it again, but your pleasure was undeniable. Lohen tried for your mouth again, and you quickly clamped your panting lips shut.

He chuckled, his teeth nipping your upper lip. You flinched, and he giggled more.

“You mad at me?” he asked teasingly. “Just ‘cause I made fun of you for reading erotica?”

Your brows furrowed together. “It’s not eroti—! Mm!”

Ah, he had gotten you with that one. While your mouth was open, snapping at him, he had leaned down to slot his against yours. His hot tongue broke past your lips, waltzing around between your teeth like it owned the place. He moaned against you, stroking his thumbs over your cheeks, and gave you another solid thrust.

Your nails dug into the fabric of his shirt. Eyes fluttering shut, you felt yourself slip into a state of pure bliss.

But then things started to get cold. You thought you were imagining it at first, that maybe it was just a shiver, but then your teeth started chattering against the soft of Lohen’s tongue. He crooned a naughty little giggle, and the reason behind your frigid state became startlingly clear.

Shuddering, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling his body further into yours. You turned your face away from his kiss, clinging to his warm frame as you barked, “Why are you doing that?”

Of course, you were referring to his inappropriate use of his cryo vision. Lohen snickered.

“I like it when you cling onto me,” he purred. “Makes me feel good.”

“It’s c-cold,” you complained.

“Then I guess you’ll have to cling a little bit harder.”

“Lohen…”

You groaned, but you wrapped yourself around him tighter anyway. With both arms and legs holding him in a vice-like grip, you hooked your chin over his shoulder, your cheeks warm. He nuzzled into the side of your face, pressing sloppy kisses to your cheek all the while. For a guy who complained about the mundanity of kisses and cuddles, he sure was a hypocrite whenever he was on top of you like this. You had even started wondering if he liked it more than you did.

Your palms, flat against his back, stroked across his blue button down. He let out a breath against your cheek.

“You feel good,” you murmured.

His hips stuttered. Lifting his face back over yours, Lohen grinned at you, red consuming his cheeks from ear to ear.

“Yeah?” he said. “You like me or something, Bun?”

You cracked a smile back, rolling your eyes. “You’re so silly.”

“Heh…cheeky girl. I’ll show you silly.”

He rammed into you harder, his brows furrowed, but with a satisfied smile still etched across his face. You moaned his name, your eyes trained on that wicked grin of his. When his mouth descended onto yours, you dug your nails into the fabric of his shirt.

“Mm,” he moaned. Between wet, sloppy mashes of his mouth against yours, “Gonna fuck you silly, Bun.”

Embarrassing, but you liked the sound of it.

“Gonna make you go, oh, Lohen!”

Okay, now he was just being a dick. Your cunt was still throbbing though, so what did that say about you?

“Ah, Lohen, stop!” he mocked, his shoulders shaking with his laughs. “Good impression, no?”

“Can you not make fun of me while you’re fucking me?!”

“Aw, but I like it! You’re so cute when you’re mad, Bun!”

“Just shut up and fuck me!” you sputtered.

“Ha! Well, if you insist.”

“Oh,” you moaned suddenly, feeling the stroke of his cock shift into a pound. His tip fucked that spot you adored like he’d never get a chance at it again, and as pleasure shot through your core in hot waves, you sputtered, “Yeah, just…just like that.”

“I’m gonna make a bingo card next time,” he purred. “Fill it full of the shit you say when you’re about to cum.”

Why, oh why did you like it when he made fun of you like that?

“I wonder if it’s gonna be slow down! or not yet! this time. What do you think, Bun?”

“Slow down,” you slurred, your heels digging into his hips. “Fuck, Lohen, slow down.”

“Like music to my ears.”

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered. “Please stop.”

“But I want you to cum, pretty girl.”

Oh fuck him.

Lohen laughed when you slipped into it, your hands clawing at the back of his shirt while you mewled and moaned the exact way he had made fun of you for. You felt the sting of his hips into yours, a bit of biting cold that he couldn’t control, preceded by the lively throb of his dick inside you. Your back arched as though you were being pulled to Celestia, but Lohen’s body kept you tethered, holding you right where you were.

“Fuuuck,” he drawled, his eyes unfocused. He grinned, but the expression twitched, shifting his face between a smug one and a desperate one. Fingers clawing into the floor beneath you, Lohen half-spat, half-moaned, “Bunny.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were cumming again—.

“Good…good job,” he said, his voice lilting into a whimper. “You’re my…my everything, Bunny.”

Tears budded at the corners of your eyes. Holding him ever so tight, you whined back, “I love you.”

He exhaled a shaky laugh. Lowering his head, the tip of his nose brushed against yours.

“Pretty girl,” he crooned. “I love you more.”

With an ear-splitting smile, tears ran down your cheeks as you laughed. Lohen craned down to kiss you, swallowing your giggles and salty tears along with your hot tongue.

“Mm,” he said when he withdrew. “Still gonna make that bingo card.”

Your smile immediately fell flat. Whamming your fists against his shoulders, Lohen only nuzzled into you and laughed.

What a pain of a boyfriend. He was stupid, reckless, and borderline psychotic.

Yet in the depths of your heart, you knew you wouldn’t want him any other way.

"Ugh, quit blinking, you keep making me mess up, Kuni!" You snap, yanking your boyfriend by the jaw closer to you.

He opens his right eye, the one you already applied eyeliner on, and glares, his eye rolling before closing back again. "I'm not blinking, and I'm staying perfectly still. It's your fault if you mess up, not mine. Don't get mad at me that you're shitty at this."

You take a deep breath, repressing the urge to slap him hard in the face, because you know it's useless. Your boyfriend lives to ragebait the shit out of you. You don't say anything in response; you scoot closer to his standing frame, your feet dangling off the bathroom counter as you continue working on his left eye.

"Do you want the wing straight up or straight out?" You ask, pausing with one hand on his jaw, and the other on his cheek, with the eyeliner hovering right above his lashline.

Kuni opens both of his eyes this time, stares straight at you, and rolls his eyes at your question like it should be obvious, "Neither? Obviously." He narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as he adds, "When have you ever seen me with that? You're my girlfriend, you're supposed to know that it goes out slanted. Not up, not straight. Slanted."

You narrow your eyes back at him, tightening your grip on his jaw in retaliation, "How am I supposed to know when you're ultra specific about everything and change your answer every time I ask? Two days ago, you told me to make it straight."

He flicks his eyes to the side like he's side-eyeing some invisible camera, and his eyes look annoyingly perfect when he does it. With the base shadow on his lids and the dark smudge along his lower lash line, and the contacts he doesn't need to wear.

His natural eyes are blue, but he insists on wearing indigo colored contacts because it's "more accurate", and you've learned not to argue with him about Scaramouche lore because you will lose. Every single time.

He glances back at you, his tone dry, "I told you that because last time was Xiao, not Scaramouche like today. Obviously. How many times do I need to say it for you to understand?"

You glance at him, copying his dry tone, "Just one more time, and I'll poke this pen through your eyelid. You wouldn't need someone to do your eyeliner by then."

He gives you a challenging smirk in response, "Do it, then. You wouldn't get that far to do any actual damage. I'll sue you and use the settlement money to hire someone who can actually do eyeliner."

You don't dignify that with a response. You tilt his head back with your grip on his jaw, angling it so you can drag the liner across his lash line in one smooth stroke.

You smile involuntarily when it comes out clean and matches the other side perfectly. It always comes out good when he stops being a little bitch about it… which is never, but today sufficed that never.

"The other side matches," you say, leaning back to check your work, watching as his eyes open slowly like he's unsure if you're done or not. "Perfect, like always, because I did it. Not you."

He scoffs, stepping back and moving toward the bathroom mirror, examining just what you're calling 'perfection'. You watch as he tilts his face to the left, then right, and as he leans in, he narrows his eyes.

The eyeliner is actually the last step of a much longer process. This part, the eyeliner, takes ten minutes tops. The puppet joints took an hour.

Every time he cosplays Scaramouche, Kuni sits in front of his vanity mirror with a palette of dark shadow and a thin, angled brush that he uses to paint puppet joints onto his own skin.

Knuckles first, every finger, dark, then his wrists, then his belows. He does his shoulders himself too, twisting in the mirror to get the angle right on the backs of them, and the concentration on his face while he does it is almost scary.

He's already head-to-toe in cosplay, minus the hat. As cringeworthy as it is to say, your boyfriend does look like Scaramouche reborn, and it's not just because of how accurate the clothes look on him, or how invested he is in cosplaying him. He looks exactly like Scaramouche would if he were real and not 3D.

The height… the weight… even his fingers match Scara perfectly. Skinny and long, the puppet joints make him look more biblically accurate.

He hates wigs, absolutely despises them, and as any person who finds their 'celebrity lookalike', or any 'lookalike' in general, he dyed and cut his real hair to match Scaramouches.

His hair is naturally black, and after an abnormally long hair appointment, the hairdresser was able to cut and style Kuni's hair to match Scaramouches without looking like some botched bowlcut.

"It's not a bowlcut," Kunikuzushi told the hairdresser, probably 4 times, just to get his point clear, "It's a mullet, mixed with a hime-cut in the front, and don't you dare forget the lighter colored streak in the back."

You remember being told that day to stick around, not in the waiting room, but in a chair beside the table your boyfriend was getting his hair done at. You had to get up at least 9 times to reassure Kuni that the hairdresser was getting the back right.

And after that day, after every time he put on his cosplay for this character that he's so obsessed with… he didn't look like your boyfriend anymore.

But you don't really complain.

"It's… acceptable," Kuni says to his reflection, the tiniest praise for the war you just went through, while doing his eyeliner.

You hop off the counter, tossing your hair back, while holding eye contact with his gaze in the mirror, "It's perfect, actually. You're welcome." You poke his arm from behind, giggling at the way he makes a disgusted face in response. "I love you too, you ungrateful man."

He doesn't respond to that; he just walks out of the bathroom and into his room.

He's already in the corner when you step in, adjusting his tripod and ring light, and you know the drill by now. Stay out of frame, stay quiet during takes, and entertain yourself until he's done being internet famous.

You grab your phone off his nightstand and settle onto his bed on your stomach, feet up, pulling up Genshin Impact. It feels like a chore to open this game up now, but you have to, for that stupid free constellation event where you have to complete your commissions and spend 120 resin.

You spawn in Nod-Krai, already moving your joystick to run towards the crafting bench, planning to craft your resin into condensed resin, but to your dismay, you already have 5 crafted resin from the previous days you tried this trick.

Domains it is.

You can hear your boyfriend in the background recording the same TikTok, over and over, trying to get the perfect take while you're teleporting to a random domain. It's annoying, and all you can focus on while you wait for people to join your world.

Once people join your world, and you start the domain, you move on autopilot. You don't really pay attention, probably fighting air every now and then, until a notification pops up from the top of your screen.

Even though you're in a co-up domain, your thumb his the notification before you can even finish reading.

The video loads, and it's what seems to be some sort of POV shot. It's like you're some enemy Lohen just knocked flat, because the view is from below, on the ground. His hand reaches down and grabs you, or the camera's face, dragging you to his height, and you spot his other hand raising a weapon, but you aren't even focused on the weapon… you're focused on the face he makes.

A grin with manic eyes, the expression of someone who doesn't just enjoy violence… someone who's aroused by it.

It happens so quickly that you watch it again, on loop. You watch the jaw grab again, the way he yanks whoever it is upward, the way his grin widens before the hit. You screenshot the maniac grin on the 4th loop… then watch it play through again.

Your thighs press together.

You scroll to the comments after the 7th rewatch, needing to see if everyone's losing their minds as hard as you are.

@scaramouchewho okay so we're all in agreement that lohen is what scaramouche COULD have been if hoyo let him be unhinged, right?

@kuniscaraworshiper everyone in the lohen tag better remember who paved the way. Scaramouche is the ORIGINAL unhinged short king… y'all are so disrespectful

@touchinggrassfearsme i just want lohen and scara to kiss… then me at the same time next… then they can kiss each other again after THEN THE SAME THING AGAIN

@mpreglover6769angie GET PREGNANT GET PREGNANT

You laugh seeing this comment, and when you tap on it, you're left with…

(This comment has been deleted.)

@lohennation BREED ME LOHEN. BREED ME. TEASE ME. USE ME. DEGRADE ME. oh and scara can watch ig… (yes i changed my user because of this video)

@wanderermybeIoved, you people don't know one thing about Scaramouche, and I don't want people talking about him when you clearly don't care about his character development or lore. He's more than just a "hot angry guy." Lohen fans (who just became fans of him less than an hour ago, mind you) wouldn't survive 5 minutes of scara's actual story because their reading comprehension is lower than a 4th grader's due to their goon-rotted brains.

@fatuiworshipper the way Lohen is just Scaramouche if he wasn't busy being sad all the time. he's happy to be evil… that's so hot

You scroll back up and watch the burst animation again. Your thighs squeeze together, and your bottom lip is caught between your teeth. You've watched this video at least 20 times now, and around the 10th time, your underwear became a wet, sticky mess.

"Hey."

You don't hear him, you don't even flinch.

"… Hello??"

Nothing.

"Did you actually die? Should I call someone or check your pulse first?"

You don't hear your boyfriend because you're still on that Lohen video, grinning at some dumb comment of yet another person leaving scaranation for lohennation.

"You've been ignoring me for like ten minutes," Kuni says from across the room, and you can hear the shift in his tone, the way it goes from casual annoyance to genuine irritation, "what is so interesting about your phone that you can't look up for even a second?"

You look up from your phone before he can accuse you of cheating, which technically, in some tiny way… You kinda were.

He's standing by his setup, ring light off, his phone in his hand with his arms crossed. His expression looks like he's in between choosing to be mean about it, or letting it slide. He looks annoyed enough that he won't let it slide, and 10 minutes is a long time, unless he was just exaggerating.

"…Hi." You say, sweet and innocent, still lying on your stomach, still with the phone in your hand as you glance at it just once, like a random comment, before looking back at him, not fully engaged.

His gaze drops to your phone in your hand, then lifts back up to your face. The corner of his mouth lifts with slow, unbelieving amusement, like your delayed little “hi” is almost too stupid to be real. "Welcome the fuck back. Where did you go?"

"Remember Lohen from that one quest in Mondstadt?" You don't wait for a response, voice breathier than intended because your brain is still stuck on that video, "His burst animation just got leaked…"

You watch as your boyfriend's face changes into reluctant curiosity that fights with the irritation of being ignored. He walks over to his bed and drops down next to you. "Really? Show me."

You sit up, holding your phone out, and he just takes it, angling the screen toward himself. You watch his face as the animation plays, how his jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, and his gaze cuts back to you once it's over. "It's okay." He says, tone devoid of any emotion you can pick up on.

"Just… okay? Kuni. Did you see the grab, the way… the way that the angle is like a POV, like that's you, he's grabbing… the way he just, his hand goes like-" You mimic the way Lohen's hand, holding the weapon, goes from behind and towards who he's about to stab.

Kuni glances at your hand, then back at your face, your phone still in his hand. "Mhm. I saw the exact same video as you." His tone feigns nonchalance.

You drop your hand, continuing to yap while not reading the room, "And the grin… Kuni, the grin? It looks like he's about to-"

"I said I saw it." He hands your phone back, using his own to open TikTok, scrolling through his feed with such focused intensity that it doesn't do a good job of hiding how little he cares about this. "People are going to lose it over this."

"They already are, have you seen the comments?" You're already scrolling through them on your phone, looking for one that doesn't say anything about Scaramouche, but it's practically impossible. "Everyone's saying-"

"I know what they're saying, I don't need to see the comments to know." His thumb flicks through posts, and you can see his jaw working, yet again. "Same shit that infected my feed when Lohen was in that quest, and people barely had info on him. 'Scara's done.' 'We're switching.' Like their loyalty has a shelf life of milk."

He keeps scrolling through his TikTok feed, and annoyingly enough, every video that comes up is about Lohen. He's talking, ranting about character depth versus surface-level hype, something about Scara's arc having actual emotional complexity while Lohen is, "just a boy with a violence kink." He is making good points, but you aren't fully paying attention.

You're still scrolling through Twitter, lying back against the pillows, reposting mindlessly on fan art that already exists of Lohen, and trying not to laugh at the posts comparing Lohen to Scaramouche.

He turns his head to you, and he stops talking, because he notices your attention is elsewhere. You don't notice the sudden silence because your brain is so far inside your phone that the real world doesn't exist right now.

His lips touch your neck, a soft, tiny kiss with the warm press of his mouth against the spot below your ear, and he shifts closer. His hand lands on your thigh, his thumb drawing a slow line along the inside where the hem of your sleep shorts sits.

You tilt your head up slightly, giving him access without giving him your attention, as your gaze is still on your phone. Your body just responds to him on autopilot because of months of this exact pattern, him kissing your neck while you doomscroll, except this time you're scrolling through posts and posts of his… replacement.

His tongue touches the skin at your neck, a quick and wet drag followed by his teeth grazing that same area. His fingers itch higher under your shorts, pushing the fabric up your thigh.

"Kuni, not right now, I'm looking at something-"

He cuts you off with a "Mmhmm," not stopping at all because just a second after, he's sucking on your neck. His fingertips graze the edge of your underwear, tracing the elastic back and forth, back and forth. It's light enough that it could be an accident, but what he's doing to you is clearly intentional.

You're still scrolling even as your boyfriend, in cosplay, is practically making love to your neck, and his fingers… they slide down from the hem of your underwear, to where your slit is, through the fabric.

You let out a soft, quiet, "Mm…" moan, still not looking up. The only reply he gets is the little sound you make and the wetness between your legs.

His middle finger traces your clothed slit in a lazy back-and-forth, that's designed for teasing and nothing else. His mouth is still at your neck, and he bites softly at it while that Lohen video coincidentally pops up on your feed again. Involuntarily, your hips shift up against his hand while your eyes are still glued to the screen.

His fingers slide up from your slit, back up to your waistband. You let out the tiniest whine, but that whine turns into your breath catching when his fingers dip beneath your underwear and make direct contact through your folds.

"You're so soaked," he says against your neck. His tone makes your thumb pause just as you're about to click on the comment section. His cadence shifted into something that sounds less like your boyfriend and more like the boy he's currently cosplaying as. "And it's not because of me. It's hard to believe a pixel on a screen could make you this turned on… but I guess anything's possible with someone like you."

You feel his middle finger circling your clit, slow and teasing, not giving you anything that you want while you watch that video on loop, again. The pattern of it doesn't stop, but the desperation and need to have him stroke you properly makes your hips twitch, and your focus shifts from your phone to his hand, and only his hand, at an alarming rate.

"It must be embarrassing," he starts, the same condescending drawl Scaramouche's voice has, and it fits in his mouth uncannily well, "getting this worked up over a character animation. Over something that can never," the same index that was teasing at your clit pushes inside you, knuckle deep, and you clench around it, "touch you."

He's quick to add a second finger, his ring finger, because one isn't ever enough for you. He curls them upward, finding that spot he mapped ages ago. Your phone screen goes dark from inactivity.

He doesn't leave any achy part of your cunt unoccupied, especially if his thumb is currently being useless. His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs in circles while his fingers curl inside you. The dual stimulation makes your mouth fall open, and your phone falls out of your hand. Your phone hits the side of your stomach and falls down face-first beside you.

"There it is," he says against your skin, pressing a kiss to the mark he left on your neck. "Phone's finally down. Took you long enough."

He pulls his fingers out, and before you can even whine about it, he shifts on top of you, sliding down between your legs. You look down at him, and the visual of Scaramouche slipping under the covers and pulling at the waistband of your shorts is doing something to you that ten replays of Lohen's burst animation could never replicate. Because this is actually real.

He's sliding your shorts down when you mistakenly whimper out, "Kuni…"

He stops, hands pausing on the fabric at your knees. "Mm… no. That's not my name tonight." He pulls the shorts off completely, tossing them wherever without looking in his room, and his fingers hook into your underwear next.

"It's Scaramouche. That's who you're looking at… That's who's touching you. And, that's the only name I want to hear coming out of your mouth. Not Kuni, and definitely not Lohen. If you even try saying his name, I'm cutting your tongue out." He drags your underwear down your thighs, his eyes never leaving your face. "Scaramouche. Understood?"

You nod, too distracted by what he was saying to even realize you're bare from below, and you realize that the moment his mouth is on you.

His tongue drags flat across your clit, and you let out an involuntary, unfiltered moan at the contact. You'd care about his neighbors hearing if his mouth wasn't making you forget that other people exist.

It feels like he's reformatting your brain as he eats you out. Like every lick is deleting thoughts about Lohen and replacing them all with himself. His tongue works on your clit in patterns that make you let out dumb, uncontrollable moans. Two fingers slip inside you without warning, curling against your spot, and you can't help but grab onto his hair, that perfectly styled, dyed Scaramouche hair, and hold on.

Your hips twitch up, grinding into his face while your head tips back. "H-aah… f-fuck… Sca-"

He pulls back from your clit, fingers still working inside you, but at an even faster rhythm, "Louder than that."

You listen, brainless, doing whatever he says, "Scara… Scaramouche, I'm… hah… s-so close…"

He dives back onto your clit, mouth sealed on it, making you cum embarrassingly fast with his fingers curling inside your spongy walls. Your thighs shake around his head, and your grip on his hair tightens as you grind onto his face, clenching around his fingers. He goes slower once the aftershocks are over, and when you finally let go of his hair, completely out of breath, he pulls his mouth off your clit with a wet pop.

He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, the cosplay sleeve dragging across his face from his cosplay. The sight of that is so absurd and so hot that you almost cum again from that visual alone. The puppet joints look slightly faded on the two fingers he was fucking you with, and somehow that makes it worse.

He grabs one of the detached sleeves and slips it off his outfit. You watch him, brain still sluggish from the orgasm, fold it into a thick band, and you furrow your brows, confused. "What are you…"

"Scaramouche wouldn't let you see him lose composure." He slides up from between your legs, wrapping the fabric around your eyes, tying it behind your head before you can even protest. You can't see anything now, just darkness, and the sound of his breathing close to your face. "So you don't get to either."

You feel him move back and settle between your thighs, sliding them apart. You're still so sensitive from your orgasm that feeling his cock suddenly press against you makes an involuntary whimper slip out. He wastes no time slipping in, but he does it slow, stretching you open inch by inch, and you grab fistfuls of his sheets because the fact that you're missing one of your senses is making everything amplified.

"Oh my god…"

"Say my name," he says, and he feels deep enough inside of you that you can't tell how much more of him there is. You only know the stretch, the pressure, and how full you already feel.

A faint moan slips out of you before you manage, breathless, "Scara…"

"Yeah?" He says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, he knows you can barely think. "Too full to say it properly?"

Your fingers curl helplessly in the sheets. "Sc… Scaramouche…"

He starts moving, and because of the blindfold, every thrust feels amplified tenfold, so much deeper. His hands are gripping at your hips hard enough to bruise. You feel him closer, by your ear, voice still in character, "You think some new character is going to replace me?" He puncuates the end with a hard thrust, and your mouth hangs open with a gasp.

"Some battle maniac with a grin? Pathetic. I've been your favorite since 1.1," another thrust, and it hits you deep, he grinds into that same spot, "and no amount of leaked animations is going to change that."

"I know… hah… I know-"

He pulls back just enough that you feel the loss of him even though he's still inside. Your hips chase him up, a needy whimper spilling out because you don't feel him moving anymore, and you wonder why. You feel his hand leaving your hip to pull the blindfold off your eyes.

Light hits your pupils, and you squint, disoriented, and the first thing you see isn't him. It's your phone, held inches from your face, bright and open on the password screen. In a flash, your phone's unlocked from just your face, and just as fast as that happens, he turns your phone back to him.

"Wha… what are you doing?" You're still catching up, blinking through your vision that's trying to adjust, even more now that a phone was shoved up in your face. He's swiping through your apps with one hand while the other pins your hip to the mattress. His cock is still inside you, not moving at all, and it almost feels painful with how much you're craving him to.

He pulls up Twitter, looking at your feed first before checking your reposts, because of course, the first thing that comes up is someone reposting that Lohen burst animation for the millionth time, like people haven't seen it already. He scoffs, tapping on your profile picture on the side, and looking through your reposts.

"This one says," he starts, scrolling with his thumb, his tone almost bored as he reads your reposts out loud, while he finally starts grinding into you, but it's slow, painfully slow. "I would let Lohen degrade, breed me, use me, and rearrange my insides until I pass out… You liked that one, reposted it from the same account that has your face on it. How dense can you be?"

You face heats up realizing just how embarrassing that is, only after doing it a while ago, "That's… that was just a joke-"

"Let's go to your replies tab and see if you did anything other than mindlessly repost whatever you saw," you watch as his thumb moves across your phone, he shifts his hips forward in a slow grind that makes your breath hitch, "Oh, so you did comment on something… that's it? Three fire emojis and a fucking… crying emoji? That's your contribution to the discourse? Really? Was your brain rotting that badly that you couldn't even type words?"

You don't even try to come up with a coherent response for that, and he doesn't wait for one. He throws your phone somewhere on his bed and leans down, propping himself up on his forearms on either side of your head, and the closeness of him in full cosplay makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You know what's funny to me?" His eyes never leave your face as he rolls his hips, still a slow grind that drags his cock against your walls in such a way that keeps you in between being able to think and not. "You have a cosplayer. An actual, real person who dresses up as your favorite character and fucks you in it. And instead of appreciating that… you're reposting about a character that doesn't even have a release date yet."

A weak protest slips out before you can stop it. "I do appreciate-"

"Do you?" He thrusts hard this time, and it makes your back arch, your hands flying up to grab his shoulders as he continues at the same deep pace, watching your face change with every thrust. "Because I'm literally inside of you in a Scaramouche cosplay right now, and 20 minutes ago you were eye-fucking a burst animation while I was standing 12 feet away."

Your face burns, "That's not…" You swallow, trying to gather a thought that doesn't sound pathetic, "That's not fair, he's just a character, you're-"

"I'm right here." Another deep thrust, his hand slides up to cup the side of your face, tilting it so you're looking directly at him. At the eyeliner you did for him, the contacts, and the hair you even helped style. "And I'm the closest thing to a fictional character you're ever going to get. So maybe," he grinds into your spot, and your eyes roll, "act like it."

Humiliation and want feel like they're tangling so tightly that you can't separate them anymore. You can't even form a proper response for that, only being able to muster out a, "F-fuck… Scara…." as your fingers curl harder into the sheets.

"Mm." He keeps the angle, keeps rolling into that same spot, watching as it makes you go stupider quicker while his thumb traces your cheekbone. "You know what you should repost? A video of this. Me, in cosplay, between your legs. See how many likes that gets compared to a leaked animation."

Your brain decides this is the moment to let something slip. Completely irrational. "A lohen cosplay would probably get more likes because he's… trending." You don't even mean it as a dig; you say it in the normal, supportive tone you always give when he talks about content, while getting dicked down.

And the second those words leave your mouth, everything goes silent. He stops, completely. Cock buried inside you, and his hand on your face tightens. His thumb presses harder into your cheekbone. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes do. It's this flat, cold look you can see even with the contacts, and the silence stretches long enough that you realize what you just did.

You scramble to backtrack, "I didn't mean-"

"No, don't backtrack now," he cuts in, voice eerily calm, tilting his head like he's studying any new reaction you'd make, "You sounded very sure of yourself a second ago. I want the same answer you gave before you realize I didn't like it."

You sink back into the pillows, head shaking, "Scara, you know that's not what I meant…" but you stop at the end when you see the look in his eyes darken.

He lets go of your face and pulls almost all the way out to slam back in, both of his hands gripping on the backs of your thighs, pushing them apart. He's fucking into you at a new pace that's faster and rougher than anything before this, every thrust feeling like a point he's making without words.

"He's an animation," he says between trusts, his voice strained, but he's still in character. "He doesn't feel like this…" A thrust so deep it pushes you closer to the headboard. "He doesn't sound like this." Another one, harder, and the sound that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable.

"And he doesn't know that if he hits this angle," he shifts his hips and nails your spot dead-on, and your vision whites out at the edges completely, "you make that exact face."

Your legs are shaking around his grip, your hands grasping at anything, his shoulders, his arm, the sheets, the only thought in your mind is him, the body between your legs trying to prove a point with his entire being.

Then, your phone lights up next to your head. It's a Twitter notification, something about Lohen, and the timing is so cosmically cruel. He sees it, and before you can even squint to see what it's about, he scoots back, letting your head fall off the pillow. You look at him, confused, completely innocent to the change of position that's about to happen.

His hands leave your thighs to grab at your hips, and in one inhuman motion, he lifts you off the bed almost entirely. Your back leaves the mattress, the entire room feels like it's tilting as he hauls your legs over his shoulders, your full weight being suspended against his body. His hands grip the front of your thighs, your arms scrambling for anything, and they end up gripping at the backs of his thighs. Your head is still on the mattress, and your arms, but everything else is up in the air.

He's about to fuck you upside down.

You yell out of panic, "Wha… SCARA-"

"You were about to check your phone." He says, voice unbothered like he isn't holding you in the air with his dick buried inside of you. "While I'm inside of you… While Scaramouche is inside of you." He adjusts his grip, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs, and slides his hips back before slamming into you hard, forcing himself so deep that you see white. "Do I not have your full attention?"

Even as full, and thought empty as you are, you still try to defend yourself, "You do… hah… You do, I wasn't-"

"You were reaching for it," another hard slam, and you cry out, your nails digging into the backs of his thighs. "Your hand almost moved. Almost. You were going to look at a notification while im fucking you."

He fucks into you, over and over, your legs dangling on his shoulders, the angle hitting something so deep inside of you that your body doesn't know how to process it apart from going completely boneless.

You're limp, even being fucked upside down. Your muscles gave up, and now you're just a body he's holding in the air and fucking into.

Your weight being nothing to him, your pleasure being everything.

"Scara… Scara, oh my god, I can't… f-fuck… I can't-"

"Can't what?" His voice is annoyingly steady, controlled, even though he's holding you up and thrusting into you with a force that should effect both of you, but it seems like you're the only effected one. Moaning sounds that aren't even words anymore, just vowels and air. "Can't think? Good. You shouldn't be thinking. The only thing in your head right now should be my name, and the fact that no pixel on a screen," he thrusts up, sharp, and the sound you make is practically a scream, "has ever made you feel like this."

Even with your mind blank, you can process his words enough to know that he's right. Because he's here, and real, and holding you in the air and fucking the coherence out of your skull. "SCARAMOUCHE- fuck, please… please don't stop-"

His pace only grows faster, his grip on your thighs tightening in such a way that you know it will end in bruises when you wake up tomorrow. You cum with the lower half of your body, suspended in the air. Your body locks up, ankles rolling, feet clenching around his shoulders as the orgasm rips through you in waves so intense that you can't even keep your eyes open, can't even suppress or care for how dumb you sound.

You can do anything except convulse around him while he holds you through it like you weigh nothing.

He cums exactly five seconds after, the way your walls clench around his cock not letting him pull himself back any longer. He buries himself deep with one final thrust up that pins you against his hips. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, filling you up as his fingers flex on your thighs.

There's so much that your body can't contain it, even in this position, you can feel some of his cum leak around where he's still inside you, dripping down between your ass cheeks.

He holds you there for a moment, catching his breath and you still catching yours, and then he finally sets you down. He moves back, lowering you, and you bounce back on the sheets, still out of breath, gasping, legs shaking, cum pooling more properly between your thighs now that you aren't in the air.

He's already pulling at the cosplay before his breathing even levels out.

"Finally," he mutters, yanking at the chest piece with the urgency of someone escaping a straitjacket, "I can take this stupid fucking thing off."

The outer layer comes off first, and he gets out of bed to toss it onto his desk chair without looking. Then the arm pieces, what's left of them, since one sleeve is still tied in a crumpled blindfold shape somewhere in the sheets. He pulls the one he's wearing off and throws it on top of the outer layers on the chair.

He's left in the sleeveless undershirt, the tight black one that sits flush against his chest and shows the puppet joints he spent way too long on at his shoulders. The shadow has smudged from the sweat, the edges bleeding where the lines used to be clean.

"I was literally cooking alive in that," he says, working at the fabric that sits on his hips next, "do you know how many layers this cosplay has? About four. Four fucking layers in a room with one fan and a broken AC because Ei cares more about being at work all the time than actually caring about a home she's barely at."

You don't respond because you are, at this moment, a puddle of a human being with no functioning brain cells and shaking legs. You're lying exactly where he put you down, staring up at the ceiling, legs still open because closing them feels like an exercise right now.

He glances at you once the majority of the cosplay is off, just the undershirt and shorts, and he gets quieter. He disappears into the bathroom that's connected to his bedroom and comes back with a warm, damp towel.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pushes your thigh to the side, wiping between your legs without saying anything. His movements are careful, clinical, almost, like the same precision he gives his cosplay goes into this too.

He cleans the cum off your inner thighs, the crease where your thigh meets your hip, folds the towel to the clean side, and gets the rest.

You flinch at the contact, still sensitive, and his other hand presses flat against your lower stomach to keep you still. "Stop squirming."

"But… It's sensitive," you say, finally, voice weak.

"I know it's sensitive. I'm the one who made it sensitive. Stay still."

He tosses the towel onto the bathroom floor when he's done, then goes to his dresser, pulling out a sleep set and underwear that are yours. A cropped top and matching shorts that somehow migrated into his drawer because you're here more than your actual house.

He comes back and slides the underwear up first, lifting your hips with one hand to pull them over your ass. Then, the shorts come next, doing the same motion he did for the underwear. He grabs the top next, and this part requires sitting you up, and you're not cooperative.

You're practically dead weight.

He pulls you up by the arms like a ragdoll, gets the shirt over your head, and guides each of your arms through the sleeves. You keep going limp on purpose, and it's irritating him. "You're not helping," he says, which isn't a helpful remark on his part.

You can't do anything but let out a tired, annoyed sigh, voice moving slowly as you say, "I can't feel my legs, Kuni."

He pauses as he's trying to pull the top down, giving you a sideways look, "That's a you-ca n't-help problem, that's a you-won't-help problem. Your arms should work fine."

You give him a fake, straight smile, shrugging at a languid speed, "They don't, actually. You broke those too when you held me upside down, and I had to hold onto your thighs for dear life."

He scoffs, dropping you back against the pillows, and you sink into them, boneless, dressed, clean, happy that you've trained him well enough to do this much after sex, because it pays off every time.

He pulls the covers out from under you, and this time you actually scoot to give him space to tuck them over your body. He grabs both of your phones and plugs them in, then walks to his closet to take the top off and replace it with a plain black t-shirt, and tugs on a pair of grey sweats. When he's done, he always backs toward the bed to get into the covers beside you, but you stop him.

"Kuni, can you please get me water?" You ask, with a tiny pout.

The exhale he lets out is so deep it could qualify as a controlled breathing exercise. He stands there for a full three seconds, covers still bunched in his hand, staring at you with the expression of a man who wants to only pass out in bed and rot.

"You couldn't have said that before I walked toward the bed?"

You look up, pretending to think, mouth curling up when you glance back at him, "I wasn't thirsty before you walked toward the bed."

He rolls his eyes, his hand coming up to rub his fingers at his temple in annoyance at all of this, "That doesn't even make sense."

You clasp your hands together, pouting, again, putting on a sweet expression just to mess with him further, "Please?"

He drops the covers and leaves the room. You hear his footsteps down the hallway, and they're loud enough that you know he's being loud on purpose.

Because Kuni doesn't make noise when he walks unless he wants you to know he's annoyed.

His house is massive; you spend 99 percent of your time in his room, so you actually get jumpscared every time you leave it. The hallways are long, or probably longer than an apartment floor in general, with marble flooring and clear walls with art on them that his mother picked out and he's never looked at once.

The kitchen is insane. Countertops that stretch for what feels like miles, a center island bigger than your own bed, and appliances that look like they belong in a once luxurious restaurant. Every surface is spotless because the housekeeper comes three times a week, and Kuni is already a clean freak on his own, so the combination creates a kitchen that looks perpetually unlived in.

He opens the cabinet, grabs a glass, fills it from the filtered tap, and when he turns around, his mother is sitting at the island.

She's been there the whole time, apparently.

Ei is on a barstool at the center island, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of red wine in her right hand and her phone in her left. Her hair is long and ink-black, pin-straight, falling over one shoulder, and in the dim kitchen light, she looks less like a person and more like a portrait someone painted and forgot to hang.

She looks up from her phone at the sound of the glass filling.

Her eyes move over him, at the messed-up hair, the contacts he forgot to take out, and the faded puppet joints still visible on his knuckles.

And also the fact that he's getting a glass of water at one in the morning in a post-sex haze that he thinks isn't obvious but is extremely obvious.

"You're still awake," she says, her voice carrying that same low, unbothered tone that makes everything she says sound like an observation.

"You're home," he replies, matching her energy beat for beat, turning off the tap without looking at her. "When did your flight land?"

"Three hours ago." She takes a sip of wine. "I didn't want to interrupt."

The silence that follows is loud. He knows what that means, she knows that he knows, and neither of them will say it directly because everyone in this family treats emotional honesty like it's some disease.

"Right." He grabs the glass and turns to leave as fast as possible.

"Kunikuzushi."

He stops, but he doesn't turn around, his grip on the glass tightening.

"Eat something tomorrow. The fridge is stocked." She pauses to take a sip before continuing, "And take your contacts out before you sleep. They'll irritate your eyes."

He stands there for a second, then another, then another, then walks away without responding. And his footsteps down the hallway are quieter this time. Not on purpose.

He gets back to his room and shuts the door behind him with his foot. He walks up towards the bed and reaches over to hand you the glass. You take it, sitting up slightly, drinking half of it in one go while he stands there watching you like you just made him walk a marathon for a cup of water.

"Happy?" He asks, pulling the covers back.

You roll your eyes and hand him back the glass. He sets it on the nightstand and gets into bed, lying flat on his back. You immediately roll onto his chest like a magnet, your cheek pressing against the cotton of his t-shirt, and you can hear his heartbeat, still a little fast, coming down.

His hand finds your hair, starts that absent, repetitive thing he does, threading his fingers through the strands over and over. You press closer to him, tangling your legs with his under the covers, and his arm tightens around your back.

You close your eyes, and his fingers never stop moving through your hair.

He doesn't tell you he loves you; he never does first. But his thumb traces a slow circle against your scalp, and his breathing evens out underneath you, and he doesn't move even when your weight goes fully dead against his chest.

That's how you know.

You're in your room today, not at your boyfriend's house like you usually are. You do like being in his room and hanging out with him constantly, but it's also constantly exhausting. Some days, you'd just prefer to be… alone.

Your room is the complete opposite of Kunikuzushi's aesthetic. Light beige walls so you can hang up cute pink miscellaneous things on your wall without them clashing. A fluffy, soft, pink bed that used to be a canopy until you woke up to a fat spider next to your face, as if it was their bed too. Plushies… lots of them, on your bed, some kept on a large shelf you bought to store the expensive anime figures Kuni always buys you. Long story short, the general vibe of your room makes you seem like someone whose entire personality is soft and sweet.

You're lying on your stomach on the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the fallout of the Lohen leak from 3 days ago. The internet has still not calmed down… if anything, it's worse.

@scaranation4LIFE scaranation we STAND. Every character had their tiny moment of fame… our show lasted four years. FOUR. We were even on the news… lohen's gonna last one patch and you're all going to be crawling back

@lohenxscarabeliever i don't want lohen OR scara… i want them BOTH to ruin my life SIMULTANEOUSLY. Why is this so hard to understand

@wanderersfavoritebuttplug scara… I’d never replace you for that sadistic twink (maybe) (we’ll see)

The comments are always talking about the same thing, at least every comment section under a Lohen Twitter post, as the diehard simp, the one who wants Lohen and Scara to fuck each other, the one who wants to cuck Scara in front of Lohen, and the very few actual loyal Scara fans.

… You feel like you're a bit of both.

You're deep in the comments, simultaneously looking at edits of Lohen on TikTok, then taking a Twitter break, then TikTok, when at some strange point, your bedroom door opens.

You don't look up, you assume it's Kuni because your parents aren't home, and you gave him the key ages ago. "Hey, Kuni," you say, still scrolling, legs swinging behind you, "if you're here to yell at me about using your newest Flower Knows palette before you did, it's not that big of a deal-"

You stop because when you look up, what you see is something you'd never, ever expect from a surprise visit from your boyfriend.

Kunikuzushi is standing in your doorway in full-on, perfectly accurate, as always, cosplay. But it's not Scaramouche, or some other male in the game… It's Lohen.

Your phone hits the mattress.

The character you've been losing your mind over for 3 days, the one you've seen on your phone screen a genuinely convincing number of times, is here, in real life, standing in your pink bedroom doorway.

"When did you-" your voice comes out strangled, your mouth feeling dry, and your throat feeling so tight that you cut yourself off. Your eyes scan the cosplay, again and again, confused at why he didn't tell you about this. Especially ordering a unique cosplay of a character that hasn't even fully come out. "When… when did you order this??"

He grins, a toothy, sharp-eyed grin that looks nothing like Scara's smirk. It's so strangely accurate to the expression Lohen would make, and you wonder if he's spent the last 3 days practicing for this.

"I've been tracking you all day," he says, and his voice is different than normal, more confident, louder, less… restrained on what's deemed as good. "You've been hard to pin down."

He crosses the room, and your body does something it doesn't do with Kuni. It tenses out of something close to fear, but closer to not knowing what's coming next. His hand grabs the front of your tank top and yanks you off the bed. You yelp in a way that's higher, more startled, more genuinely caught off guard than anything Scara has gotten out of you in months.

"Nervous?" He questions, his grin widening, and his fists twist in your shirt, pulling you closer, until your chest is against his. He can feel your heartbeat… at least you assume he can, because you can hear it going haywire through your ears to the point that you'd believe it's audible even if he wasn't this close.

You deny because you hate admitting things to him when he's acting smug, even though anything you could say would be utterly pointless, as your face and the way you're barely moving prove his point way too well. "I'm not nervous…" You try a distraction, any, "Are you really wearing a wig, Kun-" but it gets cut off quicker than you can even finish the last word.

"Your heart feels like it's about to explode out of your chest." He leans in, his mouth next to your ear, and his voice drops, but he still keeps the edge of it in character, "What's different? You let Scaramouche do whatever he wants to you. But Lohen shows up and suddenly… You can't even talk?"

You knit your eyebrows, staggering to say anything that sounds like you're not any less dumb, "That's… it's different, you're usually-"

"Usually what? Predictable?" He pulls back to look at you, and you glance up and down at his cosplay once more, and it's even more annoyingly perfect up close. You seriously don't know how he does it; he even looks good in a wig, even though he hates them. "You know every move Scaramouche makes before he makes it. You're comfortable with that, and that's boring." He says it like an insult, and his grin drops suddenly, his eyes not leaving you once as he says, "I'm not comfortable. Are you scared of me?"

You answer a simple, "No." But the way you still haven't moved on your own since he appeared at your door proves without words otherwise.

"Liar." He shoves you, and you fall back before you can catch yourself on the bed, bouncing on the pink sheets, your tank top riding up slightly in the process. "Your voice had the tiniest crack in it."

He's on top of you before you can sit up, his knee between your thighs, his hand going to your jaw… and he does it.

The burst animation.

His fingers close around your jaw as he lifts your face toward his, slow, and the grin is right there, a perfect replica of the video you've watched on your screen more than 100 times.

"There's my favorite prey," he says, holding the pose for three seconds, and instead of reaching his arm back and stabbing you, he leans in to kiss you.

It's violent, that's the only word to describe it. Non ceremonial, just teeth, tongue, and a lot of force by him. His hand is still gripping your jaw, controlling the angle, and also making sure you don't pull away so soon. You make a sound into his mouth that's between a moan and a whimper, that's even more vulnerable than anything you've made during sex when he cosplays as Scaramouche.

He pulls back, unbuckling one of the belts on the cosplay, a strap that's a part of Lohen's design, and he wraps it around your wrists, binding them above your head against the bed.

"Every battle maniac needs a sparring partner," he says, tying the knot with one hand while the other shoves your tank top up above your breasts. "And you looked at me like you volunteered."

He strips your shorts, then your underwear, and he doesn't bother about being sweet with it. He yanks them down your legs and throws them somewhere behind him, and then his hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes them up toward your chest.

Mating press, that's what he's doing.

Your knees are at your shoulders, your hips are tilted up, and he's on the bed, kneeling over you. His weight is driving your thighs down, folding you in half. Your wrists are bound above your head; you're just completely open and trapped.

"L.. Lohen…" You whimper out in the voice of both someone in awe, and in the tiniest fear of what's coming next.

"Hmm." He unzips his pants, frees his hard cock from his underwear, which he slides down just enough, and positions himself at your entrance, and he pushes in.

The first thrust is the full length of him burying himself deep inside you in one stroke; the angel of the mating press makes it feel deeper than it should. His cock presses against your cervix, and the sound that leaks out of you is closer to a sob than a moan.

"AH- oh fuck oh fuck oh-"

"Too much?" He asks, and his grin, that fucking grin, is right there, his face inches from yours because the mating press puts him on top of you… over you, covering you entirely.

"N-no, just- hah-" You get cut off with the way he pulls back and slams back in, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, before just fully closing.

"Not convincing." He pulls back, again, slamming into you harder than the last one, like he's powering up his thrusts, and your back tries to arch off the bed, but his weight is pressing you flat, and you have nowhere to go. You feel his hands at your face. "Your eyes are watering."

You open your eyes back up to look at him, head shaking, even though you do feel something hot and wet sliding softly down your cheeks. "You're lying, they're n-not-" You're studdering from the way he's repeditely fucking into you, especially hitting your deeper spots on purpose when you try speaking, but he cuts you off anyway.

"They are." He leans down and licks a tear off your cheekbone. The act is so different from the way he's currently fucking into you, brutally, and you're turning incoherent faster than ever, moans spilling out uncontrollably as the sound of his hips plaping against your ass fills the room.

"You cry for Scaramouche because it feels good. You're crying for me because you don't know what I'm going to do next." Both of his hands leave your face; one goes back onto your thigh, the other finds your throat. "And that scares you… Doesn't it?"

His fingers close around your neck, and he doesn't choke you the same way Kuni does during normal sex. This version is different, new, something you've never felt before. Lohen's choke. His fingers press into the sides of your throat, squeezing the muscles, not your windpipe, but the tissue around it. The difference, the way this feels new, is because it feels like it's designed to hurt, not to just cut off air. The pain is sharp, and you can still breathe, technically, but every inhale aches, and the compression makes the blood rush to your head in a way that amplifies every sensation that a blindfold never could.

You can't move your hands, even as they itch to grab or instinctively hold at his wrists, you're reminded that they're bound together by his belt. Your moans just get more amplified thrust after thrust after squeeze, "Nghh- Lohen… hah…"

"You can barely even say my name." He squeezes harder, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat, and the pressure pushes you right to the edge of too much. "Scaramouche gets full sentences out of you… Full moans… Full 'please'. But me?" He thrusts deep, grinding, holding himself inside you while his hand tightens on your throat. "I get syllables… Half-words… or just plain denial over anything I say. You're so nervous you can't even beg for anything properly."

He fucks you into the mating press until your thighs are shaking against his hands, and your voice is hoarse from the sounds he's pulling out of you. His hand stays on your throat. The pressure of his squeeze fluctuates a lot, from him tightening when he thrusts hard, loosening when he grinds slowly, a cycle of both pain and relief that keeps you permanently on the edge of too much without ever crossing into too much.

Because Kuni knows your body, he knows how much it can take. He pushes you close enough to passing out that your vision darkens at the edges, your mouth falls open, your eyes lose focus, and then he loosens his grip and lets the blood rush back.

And the gasp you take is almost an orgasm on its own. "Please- hah… please, I can't… too much-"

"You can handle it, you just don't know it yet." He squeezes your throat and fucks into you hard enough that a plushie falls off the bed. The grin on his face is still, still beautifully intact, and it's the most terrifyingly perfect thing you've ever seen from this close.

"You know what's funny? You were scared when I walked in. Nervous. Couldn't even talk to me." He leans down until his lips brush yours, his hand still on your throat. "But you're not trying to stop me, are you? Your hands are tied, your legs are pinned, and we have a safeword you could've used at any point, and you won't, because you and I both know this is exactly the type of 'too much' that you crave."

You cum with his hand on your throat and his cock buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach. The orgasm hits different in a mating press, so much more intense. Your walls clench around him in rhythmic pulses that you feel in your entire pelvic floor, and he fucks you through it, his pace not slowing, his hand not loosening.

And by the time the aftershock fades, you're boneless, twitching, and making sounds that are barely human.

He cums inside you, you feel the heat of it, thick, pulsating, his hips pressing flush against yours and staying there while his cock throbs. His hand finally loosens on your throat, and his forehead drops against yours.

His breathing is ragged, and it's the first time you've ever heard him lose the composure of the character, and for one second, between the last pulse and first exhale, it's just Kuni.

Then the Lohen grin slides back. He stays inside you for a moment more, his cock still twitching with the last of it, before pulling out in one motion that makes your body clench around nothing.

You feel the immediate emptiness, the warmth of his cum already starting to leak, but you don't get to process that because his hands are on your hips and he's flipping you.

Your stomach hits the mattress, your face presses into your pillow, and the shift of his cock inside you during the rotation makes a wet, obscene sound that you both pretend not to hear. Your wrists are still bound with the belt, and they're now pinned beneath you. You feel him reach under you, fingers finding the leather, working the buckle loose with one hand, while the other grips your hip to keep you from sliding forward.

The belt falls away from your wrists, you roll them instinctively, flexing your fingers, and before you can even appreciate the freedom, you feel the belt loop around your neck instead.

He pulls it taut from behind. He doesn't choke you with it just yet; he just lets it sit snug against your throat with his fist gripping the trailing end like it's some sort of handle.

"Ass up," he says, and you barely get your knees under you before he gives up on waiting and pulls your hips back toward him.

He slams in at a rough, fast, punishing pace. The sound of his hips against your ass is echoing off your room in a rhythm that makes your plushies at the edge of the bed vibrate, causing a couple of them to fall.

He uses the belt as a way to anchor his thrusts while he rails into you with a force that has your fingers twisting in your sheets, and your neck being forced to arch back.

"Fu- oh my g-god, Loh-" You can't even finish his name, it just dissolves into a broken moan as he hits your spot from this angle. The deepness of the backshots makes your toes curl against the bedsheets.

He keeps going, his pace not slowing down at all, and you're too far gone that you barely register it when his rhythm stutters for a second, especially when you hear him mutter something under his breath that doesn't sound like Lohen.

"This stupid fucking…"

Your brain is somewhere between your legs; the only sound that's audible and coherent to you is the sound of his hips against your ass, and your endless moans.

He thrusts hard, and you let out a whimper, your fingers flexing on the sheets, and your feet coming up, clenching, then dropping again. But between the next few thrusts, you catch pieces of something that doesn't match the character he's trying to play.

His voice sounds like it's shifting, not into Scara like it's some muscle memory he has, but into Kuni, your boyfriend, sounding genuinely irritated about something that has nothing to do with sex.

"I swear to god, it keeps sliding," he mutters, and his grip on the belt loosens for a second as his other hand does something behind you that you can't see. He does another hard thrust, and your face falls against the pillow now that he isn't yanking on your neck. But he doesn't pull you back, choke you, or do whatever you expect him to do.

He complains.

"This is the last time I'll wear a wig. The last fucking time. I told you I hate these things and you always ignore it and tell me to suck it up when it's a character that isn't him-" a thrust that makes your spine arch, "and now I have gross, synthetic hair scratching at my face, and I'm going to lose my mind."

You're barely processing any of this, still, it all sounds like fragments to you that don't make sense because of the thick haze of being fucked into your mattress.

He grunts, clear frustration, and you hear something that sounds like a clip, or whatever mechanism that's keeping his wig attached to his actual hair, and his pace slows down enough that curiosity overtakes the pleasure for one stupid second.

You turn your head.

And it's Kuni behind you, one hand still on the belt at your neck, and the other holding the Lohen wig that he just pulled off his head. His real hair is back, dark indigo, messy, slightly matted from the wig cap he also tore off. He hasn't noticed you looking yet; he's too busy glaring at the wig with genuine contempt.

He's out of character, fully, completely, for once mid-fuck. He never breaks character, and something comes over you… Maybe it's the absurdity of the visual, maybe it's because you're fucked stupid enough that impulse control is just completely gone.

Maybe it's because the opportunity is just too perfect to pass, and you've seen that TikTok audio one too many times.

You gasp, loud, dramatic, your voice coming out in that exaggerated, scandalized tone that you know he's going to hate, "he's BALD. He's bald, and he's torturing people who have HAIR!"

The silence that follows lasts exactly one and a half seconds.

His eyes snap to you, and you're looking at him over your shoulder, half of your face pressed into the pillow, and you're grinning. That kind of stupid, shit-eating grin that you know is about to have severe consequences.

His expression goes through several stages in rapid succession. Disbelief comes first, processing it comes second, then recognition of the reference, and on the last and final stage, something dark and focused appears that makes your grin falter just slightly.

He throws the wig, and it hits your vanity mirror, sliding off somewhere that you don't care to watch, and his now-free hand shoves your head back down into the pillow. It's not gentle. His palm is flat against the back of your skull, pressing your face into the fabric, and your giggle gets muffled by cotton.

"You think that's funny?" His voice drops back into Lohen's, but it's rougher now, meaner, the edge of genuine irritation soaking through the character because you made a dumb joke while he was inside of you. "You think you're clever?"

You're trying to respond, but your face is pressed into a pillow, and his hand is keeping it there. What comes out next is a muffled, "Mm srrhyy-" that dissolves into a yelp when he slams into you so hard your knees slide forward on the sheets.

"Every prey animal thinks it's funny right before the teeth close." He fucks into you at a pace that's brutal, and way faster than anything before. Each thrust is showing you further into the mattress while his hand keeps your head pinned, and the belt around your neck pulls tight from the motion. "You want to make jokes? I'll give you something to scream about instead."

His other hand leaves the belt to grab at your hip, yanking you back onto his cock with every thrust, and the force of being pushed down and pulled back simultaneously has you making sounds into the pillow that are just broken, raw sounds. Your hands claw at the sheets above your head, your back arching down, while your ass stays up, and you can feel his fingers digging bruises into your hip while the belt drags against your throat.

"Mmph- wait, f-fuck, I'm sorryyy, I was k-kidding-" you manage between thrusts, your words slurring against the pillow, saliva starting to collect at the corner of your mouth because your jaw won't close properly. "Loh-hen, please, 'm sorry, I didn't m-mean-"

"You have a funny way of apologizing," he grinds out, and his hand on the back of your head shifts, his fingers curling into your hair and pulling your face just barely off the pillow, enough that your moans aren't muffled anymore. "Usually, people apologize without laughing. You're still smiling about it, I can hear it in your voice."

He's not wrong. You are still smiling, with tears in your eyes, getting absolutely destroyed because the image of your boyfriend ripping off a wig mid-sex with that look on his face will live in your brain rent-free forever. "Liar… 'M not smiling-"

"You are." A thrust so deep your smile actually drops because your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open around a moan that's more of a wail. "There… fixed it."

His other hand releases your hair and goes to his own head. You can feel the shift in his movements, slightly distracted, one-handed thrusts that are still devastating but less focused as he runs his fingers through his real hair, fixing it through the vanity mirror on the far side of your room.

Because even while he's railing at you, Kunikuzushi will not be caught dead with bad hair.

He's multitasking, fucking you into the mattress with one hand on the belt, and styling his hair with the other… the worst part is, he doesn't even slow down.

He pulls the belt back just enough that you're forced to arch your spine, the pressure on your throat lifting your chest slightly off the mattress, and the angle change makes his cock hit differently, shallower but dragging against your front wall with every stroke, and the sound that comes out of you is embarrassingly close to a squeal.

"Ah ah AH, oh m-my god, oh my god, right there, don't- nghhh don't move from that, please plea-hease..." Your words are tumbling out in a slurred mess, your brain is completely out of your control, and your hips are pushing back against his on their own because the angle is too good.

He cums with a groan, pressing into the back of your shoulder, biting down on your skin through a moan he clearly didn't want to let out. You feel his cock pulse inside you, the heat spreading, and his hips grind forward in small, lazy rolls as he empties everything. His hand goes slack on the belt, and his forehead drops against the space between your shoulder blades.

He stays there for a second, breathing, then he pulls back, letting go completely of the belt, and you fall forward because he was the one pulling your practically limp body against him. Your ass is up in the air, and you feel him slide out, and the gush of cum that follows is immediate. It's thick, warm, spilling out of you and down between your thighs.

He sits back and watches it, you know, because you hear the sheets shift, and you can tell by the way he doesn't move or speak, just watches the mess he made ooze out of you.

His thumb presses against your entrance at the rim, and more cum leaks out around the pressure, sliding down in a slow trail toward your clit. "Look at that," he murmurs, his voice back in character for Lohen, in an amused, fascinated tone. "You can't keep any of it in."

His other hand comes up and spreads you open with his thumb and forefinger, holding your folds apart, and you can feel the cool air hit the mess inside you. You feel more of his cum spill out from being exposed. You bury your face deeper into the pillow because the visual you can't even see is somehow still the most embarrassing part of this entire night.

"Lohen, don't just… stare at it-" You mumble into the pillow, voice a bit pitchy as your thighs try to close, but his knee is in between your legs before you can even try to hide.

"Why not?" His thumb traces through the cum leaking down your folds, collecting it, spreading it in a slow circle around your clit, and your hips jerk at the contact because you're so overstimulated. "It's mine, I put it there, and I'll stare at it for as long as I want."

He leans down, and you feel his breath warm against your swollen, sensitive skin. Then you feel his tongue, a single slow lick from your clit up to your folds that collects everything in its path. You let out a sound that's halfway between a moan and a sob, your fingers crushing at the sheets. His mouth seals around your clit and sucks one, hard, before pulling off with a wet pop that's so loud it echoes.

"Ahh- hhah, that's... you c-can't just do that and stop..." You whine, your hips chasing his mouth, but he's already sitting up, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"I can do whatever I want." He says, like it's a fact, and his thumb pushes inside you lazily, scooping cum out and watching it drip off his finger before sliding it back in. "And right now I want to watch you try to keep it together while I play with the mess I made."

He does this for longer than is reasonable. Sliding his finger in, pulling it out with cum on it, pressing his thumb against your clit, watching you flinch and twitch and moan into the pillow while your body can't decide if it wants more or if it wants him to stop.

When you finally lift your head enough to look back at him, your vision is blurry, and your cheeks are wet, and your hair… let's not talk about that. But his hair, however…

It's perfect.

His actual hair, styled in Scaramouche's cut, falls over his forehead in a way that makes him look like a character rendered by someone who accidentally released him into the real world. He fixed it while he was fucking you, which means at some point of the most brutal backshots of your life, your boyfriend was simultaneously running his fingers through his hair to make sure it looked good.

And it does, it looks like Scaramouche wearing Lohen's clothes, the dark blue and silver of the cosplay framing his face differently than Scara's outfit does, and the combination of his real hair with Lohen's costume is somehow hotter than either one on its own.

"Your hair…" You start, breathless, head tilting, staring at him.

"I know." He doesn't elaborate, and for a second you did forget just where his fingers still are, but then you get instantly reminded when his thumb circles your clit again. His expression is annoyingly smug for someone who was complaining about a wig 4 minutes ago.

He slides back into you without warning, and you gasp, your head dropping back down, because you're still so unbelievably sensitive. Even though he did slurp some of it out, you still have his cum inside of you, and the re-entry just pushed every bit of the leftovers deeper. He does exactly two, slow thrusts from behind, enough to hear the wet sound of it, and enough to feel you clench around him involuntarily, and then he moves.

His hand wraps the belt tighter around your neck and pulls backward toward him. Your upper body lifts off the mattress as the leather digs into your throat. And at the same time, as if he's some pro multitasker, his other hand hooks under your thigh, and hauls you up.

The room tilts as he rearranges your body like you're a doll getting repositioned on a shelf.

He sits back on his heels, then further, his legs extending toward the foot of the bed, and he pulls you down onto his lap with your back against his chest. His cock is still inside you, and the angle of his cock in your folds shifts as gravity does the work of seating you fully onto him. Your weight pushes him impossibly deep.

"Oh my- f-fuck..." Your head falls back against his shoulder, your mouth open, eyes unfocused on the ceiling. You can feel him everywhere. The depth of this position, your full weight on his lap, is the kind of full that makes your brain actually go blank.

The belt is still around your neck. He grips the loose end in one fist, his other hand settling on your hip, and he snaps his hips up.

It's different from behind, and the mating press, and just any position he's ever tried with you. Every thrust pushes up into you while your own weight pushes down. The collision of both forces means he's hitting your cervix with almost every stroke. The belt pulls at your throat in time with his rhythm, and it's like a constant tug that keeps you slightly alert. He's using it as a leash while he fucks up into you.

"Lohen… Lohen, oh my g-god, that's so… hhh…" Your hands grip his thighs behind you for leverage, your nails pressing crescent moons into his skin through the dark fabric of the cosplay pants. Every thrust forces a sound out of you that you didn't choose. The sound ranges from breathy moans to hiccuped whimpers to full, unfiltered whines that bounce off your bedroom walls.

"Mm, good girl… Keep saying my name just like that." He says against the shell of your ear, his grin pressing into your hair, and his hips don't slow down at all while his free hand leaves your hip to cup your breast, squeezing it through your bunched-up tank top.

Then, suddenly, the pace changes. It slows like someone pressing on the brakes. The frantic upward thrusts melt into something grinding, deliberate, circular. His hips roll instead of slamming. His hand on the belt adjusts, and you can feel the leather pulling higher on your throat, the pressure shifting from the side of your neck to the front, directly on your windpipe, cutting your air down. It makes the room tilt and your head go light.

"Lohen is fun. I'll give him that."

Your walls clench around him so hard that you feel his breath catch, a tiny fracture in his composure that he covers immediately. The shift from Lohen's energy to Scara's is like someone swapped an entire soundtrack mid-song, same instruments but a completely different vibe.

"But fun is temporary." His hips roll in that slow, calculated grind that's purely Scaramouche. The one that doesn't just find your spot but sits on it, presses into it, with the exact amount of pressure needed to make your eyes cross. "Chaos without control is just noise."

He thrusts so deep that your vision goes white at the edges and your mouth opens around a shameless sound you can't hold back. "I'm not noise." He pulls the belt tighter, your air growing thinner as your head feels floaty and warm. "I'm the only voice in your head that stays."

"Scara…" It comes out of your mouth before he can ask for it, before he can demand it, your body just defaulting to the name it knows and has moaned out more times than you can count. Just the same as muscle memory.

"There she is." His voice sounds satisfied in a way that Lohen's never was. It's settled, fully sure, like something just got confirmed that he already knew. His thumb traces the edge of the belt for exactly one second.

Then his pace goes feral, the leash yanks tight, and you can feel the grin return against the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin. The whiplash of Scara's controlled grind slamming into Lohen's chaos makes your entire body jerk against his chest.

Then he goes back to Scara, slow, precise, the belt adjusting to hit your windpipe just like before, and your vision goes soft and dreamy.

Then Lohen, again, fast and reckless, the belt pulling to the sides, sharp and painful. Your vision snaps back, too clear… too much.

Then Scara.

Then Lohen.

The switches accelerate, and you're caught between two different rhythms that you don't even have time to get used to either one before it switches back and forth, and you're left shaking, trembling, your thighs quivering helplessly on either side of his.

"You feel so fucking good-" you can hear Lohen's signature grin in his tone, his hips snapping up hard enough that you bounce on his lap, "You think you can handle more?"

And then, like a light to a switch, Scara's back, his thrusts slowing into a grind that feels torturous. "Of course you can't… You never could. You just pretend."

"Mm… mmnhh, I c-cant, it's too much," you're babbling, the words coming out in disconnected fragments that don't form a single coherent thought, "both of you at the s-same time… I can't… my brain… can't…"

Your body is trying to process two characters and one cock, and one belt on your throat that keeps changing how tight and how rough it's being pulled, and the gravity pinning you down, and his hands on you everywhere. "Please jus- hha, pick one, p-please, I can't think when you keep switching, I-"

"No." It doesn't sound like either character he's playing as he says that, almost himself. "You don't get to pick, you get both."

You cum on the fault line. On the exact millisecond where Lohen's chaos collides with Scara's control. The two rhythms are crashing together inside your body like a wave hitting a wall. The orgasm rips through you so hard that your vision actually blacks out for a second.

Your walls seize around him in rhythmic, violent clenches, your back arching against his chest, the belt pulling taut as your body contorts, and the sound you make is raw, unformed, the kind of noise a person makes when their brain short-circuits.

He cums with you, his groan is buried in the crook of your neck as his teeth bite down on your shoulder. The belt goes slack in his hand, and his hips stutter up as he fills you again. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, and his hands grip your hips hard.

His breathing is ragged against your neck, not in character, just Kuni, just like before, catching a breath he doesn't need to catch because the adrenaline is still making his body do human things.

He lets go of the belt and unloops it from your neck. The leather slides off your skin, leaving a warm, raw line that you'll see in the mirror tomorrow. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, all the urgency gone.

He turns you around, rotating you by your hips without pulling out. Your legs swing around until you're facing him, straddling his hips. When your eyes meet his, it's your boyfriend looking at you, Kuni, with his makeup smudged, his real hair messy and falling into his eyes, wearing another character's clothes with his own face underneath.

He grinds up into you, slow, not thrusting, just rolling his hips with his cock still inside you, his cum still inside, and the wet sound fills the quiet room.

He kisses you, a slow kiss where his hand cups the back of your neck. His tongue slides against yours, and your hands find his face, holding his jaw the same way you hold it when you do his eyeliner. Your fingers on his cheekbones, your thumbs at the corners of his mouth… the grip is so familiar that your chest aches with it.

He pulls out, the gush of everything between you spills onto his thighs, and you whimper at the loss, your hips chasing him involuntarily, still kissing him, before settling.

He leans back, lies flat, and looks up at you. "Sit on my face." He instructs, his hands already going for his bottoms, shoving the waistband down with both hands, lifting his hips, and kicking the pants and underwear off in one motion that sends them somewhere on the bed. He settles back onto the mattress with his cock resting against his stomach and the rest of Lohen's cosplay still on his upper half.

You're still on top of him, and you start to move toward his face, swinging your leg over to straddle his chest, and just as you're about to lower yourself down facing the wall, he stops you.

"Other way." His hands catch your hips, holding you in place before you can settle. "Face my cock, not the headboard."

You turn, shifting on your knees so you're facing his legs instead, and the second your thighs are on either side of his face, his hands pull you down. He doesn't ease you into it, his fingers dig into your hips and yank you flat on him. His mouth meets your cunt like he's been starving for it. His tongue is on you immediately, flat and broad, licking through the mess of his cum and yours that's still leaking, and the groan he lets out against your folds vibrates through your entire lower half.

"Ah- oh my god, Loh-" Your hands brace against his stomach, fingers splaying across his chest, your body jerking at the contact because you're still so overstimulated that even his breath against you would be too much, let alone his entire mouth sealed to your cunt like he's trying to milk you dry.

He doesn't let up; his tongue pushes between your folds, lapping at the cum he left inside you, alternating between long drags up your clit, and pointed flicks that make your thighs clamp around his head. His hands keep your hips pinned to his face, and every time you try to lift yourself even slightly because it's too much, he pulls you back down harder.

You look down past his stomach, past his lips, and his cock is right there. Hard again, flushed at the tip, twitching every time you moan. It looks helpless, which is a stupid word to use for a dick, but that's what it looks like.

Just lying there… hard… neglected, pulsing at nothing while his mouth does all the work on you. The visual of that all, combined with the way his tongue just circles your clit makes your mouth water and your body move on its own.

You lean down, lips pressing against the tip, soft, barely any contact, and you feel his hips twitch upward at even that little touch. You open your mouth wider, about to take him in, settling your weight forward onto your forearms on either side of his hips, and then his hands move.

They leave your hips, and you feel them slide down your back, his arms wrapping around your torso, his palms pressing flat against your shoulder blades from behind, and before you can even register the shift in grip, he lifts you.

Your knees leave the mattress, your thighs slide up his shoulders until they're hooked over them, his arms anchored around your back. You aren't straddling his face anymore; you're suspended above him, upside down, your entire lower body held up by his arms, and your upper body hangs between his legs with his cock directly in front of your face.

"KUNI- what the HELL-" Your hands scramble for something to hold, and the only thing available is his back, his sides, your fingers digging into whatever part of him you can reach. "Stop putting me upside down!! How are you even this strong??"

He ignores you, his mouth is still on your cunt like the position change was nothing, like rearranging your entire body didn't interrupt the rhythm of his tongue.

Your thighs are wrapped around his shoulders, your calves pressed against the sides of his head, and his arms are locked around your lower back and hips, creating a cage of muscle that keeps you from falling. Your stomach is pressed against his chest, your breasts squished between your body and his, and your face is hovering directly over his cock with your hair hanging down.

He doesn't pause to let you adjust; his tongue pushes inside you from below, curling, and the moan that rips out of you vibrates against his inner thigh because your mouth is right there, inches from his cock, and you can't even hold back the sound.

You take him in your mouth because his cock is right there, hard, flushed, leaking from the tip, and this is the only logical response you can think of.

Your lips close around the head, and you can hear, feel, his groan vibrate against your clit from below. The sensation travels through you, making your thighs tighten around his shoulders, and you take him deeper in response, your jaw stretching as you slide down his shaft.

His hips start moving, and he's fucking up into your mouth with thrusts that push his cock past your tongue and into the back of your throat. The angle of being upside down makes your gag reflex hit differently, sharper, your throat constricting around him with every push.

"Mmph-" You gag around him, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth and running up toward your nose because gravity is working against you, and your eyes water as he pushes in deep enough that your lips press flush against his base.

He pulls your hips down against his face at the same time, grinding your cunt onto his mouth, and the dual sensation of his tongue on your clit and his cock in your throat creates a never-ending loop.

Every sound you make around him vibrates through his cock and makes his groan against you, and every groan he makes against you vibrates through your clit and makes you moan louder, and the cycle just keeps building on itself until neither of you is making sounds that qualify as human.

Your hands grip the backs of his thighs, nails biting into his skin, your only anchor while the rest of you is suspended in the air, getting destroyed from both ends. His arms tighten around your back whenever your body jerks too hard, keeping you steady, and the strength required to hold you like this while simultaneously eating you out and thrusting into your mouth is something you'll think about later, when you have brain cells to think with.

His tongue circles your clit and then seals over it, sucking hard, and your entire body arches in his grip. Your moan around his cock is muffled and obscene, a wet, gargled sound that would be embarrassing if you had any shame left, and the vibration of it makes his hips stutter up so hard you choke.

"Mmngh-" Spit drips down your chin, or up your chin technically because you're upside down, and his cock slides out of your mouth for a second while you cough and gasp, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft.

He doesn't give you a break. His mouth doesn't leave your cunt, his tongue pressing harder, faster, relentless, and your mouth finds his cock again through the haze, taking him back in because even choking on him feels better than the alternative of not having him in your mouth.

His hips roll up in longer strokes now, less frantic but deeper, and you can feel the tension building in his thighs, the muscles tightening under your fingers. His arms squeeze around your back, pulling your hips down harder against his mouth, and his tongue works your clit in tight, focused circles that are designed to break you.

Everything builds at the same time. His cock pulsing heavier against your tongue, your walls clenching against his mouth, the pressure in your core climbing toward something massive, and his breathing getting faster against your cunt, his groans getting louder, less controlled, desperate in a way he only gets when he's close.

You cum first, barely, by maybe a second.

Your walls seize, and your thighs clamp around his shoulders, and the orgasm crashes through you in a wave so intense your jaw locks around his cock. The constriction of your throat, squeezing around him, plus the vibration of your moan, plus the way your entire body shakes in his grip, is what sends him over.

He cums in your mouth with a groan so deep you feel it in your spine. His hips push up one final time, his cock pulsing thick against your tongue, and you swallow around him because there's nothing else to do in this position, the cum sliding down your throat (or up, gravity is still confusing) while his tongue works you through the last aftershocks.

His arms loosen, not all at once, because if he did, you'd drop violently onto the bed. He eases the tension gradually, lowering your hips back toward the mattress, and you let his cock slip from your mouth with a wet sound that you're too brain dead to be embarrassed about.

"Put me down," you mumble against his thigh, your voice wrecked, your arms shaking. "Please, Kuni, put me down before I die in this position, and you have to explain it to my parents."

He lowers you down carefully, his hands guiding your hips and legs until your back is flat on the mattress beside him. Your head is at the foot of the bed, and your feet are near the pillows, but you don't really care because you're horizontal and alive, and that's enough.

He sits up, looks at you sideways on the bed, completely destroyed, and he doesn't say anything. He just moves you, his hands sliding under your back and your knees as he repositions you properly to put your head up against the pillows where it belongs.

He's quiet when he cleans you up this time, zero commentary about you squirming, no dry remarks about sensitivity, just the warm cloth from the bathroom, careful movements between your legs while his other hand stays on your hip to keep you still when you flinch.

He brings new clothes from your dresser, a pair of underwear, which goes on you first, slides up your legs, then shorts, then a top he pulls over your head and feeds through your arms without asking for your cooperation because he's already learned you won't give it.

He doesn't talk the whole time, which is unusual, because Kuni always has something to say, always has a complaint or a remark or a correction. But right now he's just doing it quietly, focused, tucking the hem of your top down with his fingers before standing up and walking toward your closet.

He changes into the pajama pants and black shirt he keeps in your drawer, and he pulls the Lohen cosplay off in pieces as he does it, dropping each part onto the chair by your desk.

"I'm never wearing that thing again," he says, pulling the top layer of Lohen's outfit off his shoulders with a grimace, his tone flat and final. "Whoever designed this character hates the human body. It feels like it's over 6 layers, especially with the long-sleeve, the cape thing… everything." He drops the last piece and kicks it under the chair. "Scara's cosplay isn't even that heavy because Scara was designed by someone with common sense."

You watch him from the bed, half-lidded, sinking into the pillows, your body so heavy that you feel like you're melting into your own mattress.

He walks back and pulls the covers up, sliding in beside you without ceremony. The second he's horizontal, you're already moving toward him, pressing your face into his chest, your hand curling into the front of his shirt, and his arm wraps about your back.

He kisses your forehead, soft, and then the bridge of your nose when you lift your face up enough, then the corner of your mouth. It's small, quiet presses of his lips against your skin that feel nothing like Scaramouche or Lohen. These are Kuni kisses, the ones he gives when no character is being performed.

The ones he probably doesn't even realize he's giving because they come out of him the same way breathing does.

He tips your chin up with his finger, and his eyes are just blue. Not indigo contacts, not the ones he wore for the Lohen cosplay, just his natural, stupid, annoyingly pretty blue that you fell for before you even knew that you cosplayed.

"Who do you want?" He asks, his voice low, and it's the softest you've heard it all night.

You look at him, at the messy hair, at the body who dyes his hair for a fictional character and hates wigs and complains about having to style his hair everyday and who buys you an abmormal amount of primogems, and probably would get you c6 r5 Lohen the minute he drops because he does that for every character, even when he gets jealous when you simp for a character that you don't just ask him to cosplay like any other logical person dating a cosplayer.

"Kuni," you say, and your voice is small and sure. "Just Kuni."

His mouth twitches, and you can see the shape of a smile trying to form before he catches it and pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin and pressing his lips to your hair.

"Good answer," he murmurs into your scalp, so quiet that you almost miss it.

You close your eyes, your face against the fabric of his shirt, and you're asleep before you can respond. He stays awake for a minute more, his hand moving through your hair in slow repetitive movements. He stares at the ceiling fan, and he doesn't say anything.

He doesn't need to.

I have a Discord now! 18+, for readers, writers, and anyone who wants early wips and a place to chat!! (link)

taglist: @vvalentiqq, @jellyfishesandroses, @staarflowerr, @literallyibanny, @justwandererforever, @hanakokunzz , @bvlletwound, @kas1sh1bas1ke, @maomaoyuki, @xaeevie @pwushizz, @txyyyyyyyyyssssssss, @livvysoxytocin, @ventiij, @ruoussss, @kunimooch, @morangosdocesdsuki, @yumi-rxiden, @heavyonsloth, @saviiamzz129, @hilaryinumaki1

─── ISAGI YOICHI brought the idea up, he had heard some of his teammates talking about it in the locker rooms after practice. so he brought it up with you, thinking it would be a nice challenge for the both of you. boy, did he think wrong.

↳ FIRST WEEK :

isagi’s plan for this whole thing? he’s gonna be productive! he will spend more time on football! he will win this challenge and you’ll give him a reward for it! he’s going to flex to rin about this! he’s going to be the better—yeah, you get it. 

isagi was going through it. the five stages of dickpression. and you did not make it easy for him, you walked around the house in those stupidly slutty shorts which hugged all your curves just right and how did you expect isagi to not salivate like a rabid dog at that? 

everytime you walked past him his puppy dog eyes would follow you like he was trailing after your scent. but it’s just the first week! gosh, man up isagi! you need to push through! — isagi would chant to himself like a mantra, well, it’s working so far..?

 “you do this on purpose, right?” isagi whispered against your skin, he was spooning you from behind. his arms wrapped tightly around your waist to keep you from moving and messing up his 5 days of sheer will. 

“mm? do what, pretty boy?” you giggled, a sweet sound but it only set isagi’s skin on fire. he snuffed the feeling out but his grip on your waist tightened, his hand moved to slip his fingers underneath the waistband of your shorts. 

“wearing this—you know what we’re doing..right?” isagi sucked in rather harshly, struggling to hold the reins of his libido. “yeahh. does it make you wanna’ lose, yoichi?” you cooed teasingly, isagi’s left nut twitched and he went blind in his right leg. you were seriously going to be the end of him.

↳ SECOND WEEK :

isagi is gnawing at the walls. he physically cannot stay in the same room as you without wanting to chew your clothes off. he is buzzing with pent up energy, and it’s worse every single time he comes home from practice because the adrenaline rushes straight south.

and of course, you just HAVE to step your own game up. if the shorts were the death of him, this silky lingerie you wear to bed will drag him to hell on all fours and he would gladly go. 

how does he cope? well, showers are more his personal edging sessions now. every night before bed, he rubs himself off under the shower head. fuck, he bites into his arm and tears up trying to hold himself back. he knows nobody would know if he were to just bust a load in the shower drain but he is an honest, sweet (not so much) boy. he can’t just lie! 

but he has been doing a good job, so far. yeah! he’s going to make it, right? please tell him he’s going to make it. he’s so close to crying.

 it was late into the night but isagi couldn’t sleep no matter what he did. he had switched sides of his pillow almost ten times now and was just tossing and turning around on the bed now. yet nothing worked.

really, how could it work? how could anyone expect him to sleep when you’re sleeping so soundly beside him, so peaceful and pretty. fuck, he almost feels bad for what he is about to do.

he tugs the covers off your soft body gently, his hungry gaze drinking in every inch of your exposed skin through the lingerie you’ve begun wearing to bed. he runs a hand over your bare thighs, feeling goosebumps rise on your sensitive skin and making you squirm.

gosh, you were adorable. 

he reached into his sleep shorts with his other hand and fished out his hard, throbbing cock. his engorged tip leaking precum dripping onto the sheets. he stroked it a couple of times before his hand which was on your thigh gripped onto the supple flesh and spread your thighs to slot his aching length between those beautiful thighs.

isagi muffled a groan into his palm, your thighs felt so beautiful wrapped around him. he needed this, he had been pent up for so long.

this doesn’t count as cheating right? not if he doesn’t cum. so he begins thrusting his cock in and out of the tiny gap between your thighs and clothed pussy. the tip of his cock catching onto your clit through the fabric of your panties which sent an involuntary shiver down his body. 

shit, he felt like a virgin.

↳ THIRD WEEK :

lol, what third week? 

“ah—shit, i missed this—! fuck—i missed you!” isagi grunted in-between thrusts, his chest pressed against your back and his nails dug crescents into the supple skin of your hips as he held you flush to him. his cock drove in and out of you in a bed-breaking pace. his breath came out in hot puffs against your cheek.

“a‐aah! yoichi! slow—” you whined, your eyes rolled back. your boyfriend was so impossibly deep inside of you, it actually made no sense. you felt him raise your leg up to spread you open for him, even more. his cock hit at a new angle now, his tip kissing your swollen g-spot with each single snap of his hips. 

“slow? you—fuckin’—want slow?” isagi growled in your ear, his hips now slowing down so he could pound you slower but more fuller. “after teasing me—for so. damn. long? shut up and take it.” isagi huffed, each thrust of him made sure every inch of his cock was buried snug inside of you, and when he pulled out, you could feel the same inches drag against your warm insides. 

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

well, of course, he lost. like a sore loser. but the loss felt better than the win.

record: 19 days. clap for him.

“soo, same time next november?” you wiggled your eyebrows cheekily at isagi who was giving you the nastiest side eye. he turned over on the bed, his back facing you. “shut up.” he sighed, rolling his eyes. he wasn’t mad at you, he was mad at himself for losing. but gosh did his balls feel lighter. 

you just laughed and began spooning isagi from behind, best november ever.

─── BACHIRA MEGURU saw the thing on tiktok, late at night at exactly 4:03 am on november 1st. you were sleeping soundly beside him, he looked over at you and grinned wide and devilishly. the cogs in his mind cranked and something was cooking up in that factory. 

↳ FIRST WEEK :

bachira’s plan for this whole thing is to make it unbearable for you. he knows you’re absolutely whipped for him, and would cave if he just whispered a soft little ‘please :(’. so why not use it to his advantage?

he introduced you to the challenge, saying it would be fun! and it would strengthen the bond. tch, he just wanted to fuck with you a little. regardless, you agreed once he pouted all sweetly. how could you say no to that?

the first week was a breeze, bachira was being his usual self save for some heated glances, fleeting touches and whispered promises of filth. hey, you had spent enooouuggh time with bachira to be able to resist him. right?

you were cooking dinner in the kitchen when bachira crewed up behind you and pressed his chest to your back, resting his chin on your head. “heyy cutie. whatcha’ making?” bachira giggled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head trying to distract you from his hips which were subtly rocking up into you. 

“megu’ stop humping me.” you sighed like a disappointed mother, shaking your head. you could feel bachira pout behind you and bury his nose into your hair to inhale the scent of your shampoo. “mm—ugh, i thought you would crack by noooww!” bachira whined, stomping his feet softly. 

 you picked up the ladle you were using to stir the curry and scooped a tiny bit of the food before holding it up to bachira’s lips. “taste it.” bachira huffed indignantly but still opened his mouth to taste the food. “mm. yum.” he smacked his lips while eating, same way his hips were still smacking yours. 

“can you stop dryhumping me now?” you clicked your tongue, bachira tightened his grip on you even more. “no.” he stuck his tongue out. fairs.

↳ SECOND WEEK :

at this point, bachira was confused. he was trying EVERYTHING. he had humped you through your clothes in the morning in bed, he had grinded against you like a stripper with a pole during the afternoons and now he’s quite literally roaming around the house in just his boxers and you still haven’t lost your mind over him? he feels offended. so, SO offended.

he lays beside you wherever you are sat. on the couch? he’s draping himself over the loveseat with am arm on his forehead like he’s a damsel in distress. on the bed? he’s laying beside you on his side, posed all tantalizingly like he’s asking you to paint him like one of your french girls. unfortunately, he just looks awkward flopping around like a fish in just his underwear but A for effort!

bachira was sprawled across your sheets like a starfish, his boxers stretched taut over his legs and his bulge just shy of peeking out. you worked beside him on your laptop, pushing your reading glasses further up your nose you finally decided to spare him just a shard of your attention.

 “meguru? can you put on some clothes?” you perked up without even glancing at him. yet that was enough for bachira to resume his embarassing attempt at appearing seductive. “am i bothering youu? heh, come do something about it then.” he purred, arching his back off the bed. your grip on your laptop tightened, your nonchalant facade slowly tearing at the sides. would you really make it through this month?

“no thank you. i’m quite busy.” you quipped back and it hit bachira like a punch square to his face. his teasing smirk broke and he looked baffled, how were you still holding up! 

↳ THIRD WEEK :

bachira was getting desperate. at this point he had begun to sleep naked next to you in hopes you would atleast look at him with those beautiful eyes :((!! but you always slept with your back turned to him. you were making this hard for him! it’s supposed to be the other way around!

and it’s not even fair you look so pretty, glowing and pure and bachira is just so pent-up and needy. he’s so close to just getting on all fours and barking for you so you could give him a scrap of your attention. 

he’s whining like a damn dog who got denied his favourite treat, which is you. how can you be so mean to him!

“baby—baby—please—” bachira whined, throwing a leg over your waist to grind harder against your butt. he was dry humping you when you both were supposed to be sleeping but he is just so needy. needy for you.

“just give in! i won’t even rub it in your face—fuck—let me have you..” bachira nuzzled into your neck, his cock was rapidly hardening and you could feel it press against the cleft of your ass. his grip on your hips tightened impossibly to hold you flush to him.

“meguru, i have work tommorow. go to bed—” you tried complaining but you couldn’t resist either, the sound of your boyfriend whimpering so wantonly in your ear. the heat emitting from his body, it was all so much. with a grunt you reached back to wrap your hand around his cock. bachira gasped, eyes rolling back at the warmth of your hand engulfing him.

“hngh—yeah, stroke me—fuuckk—” bachira babbled, bucking his hips up to fuck your fist. his precum leaked over your fist, his engorged tip twitching like crazy. as bachira’s lustful frenzy reached a fervor pitch you pulled your hand away, tearing your warmth from him and he whined so pitifully it made your heart ache.

“why—!” bachira whined, curling into you even more. “uh-uh, gotta’ win this, babyboy.” you shushed him with your finger, you smirked so evilly. bachira was quiet, you looked so hot.

↳ FOURTH WEEK :

bachira couldn’t hold it in anymore. but luckily you worked overtime alot this week so bachira couldn’t pounce on you and fuck you seven days till sunday. it was all so unfair! 

he was so pent-up he grinded against the pillow you slept on, rubbing his aching length on the plush surface. he was sniffing like an animal, reveling in the scent of you. 

on 30th november, at exactly 12:00 am you had came back home after a long tiring day of work fully expecting to greet your boyfriend and maybe reward him for getting through the whole month without sex. you ascended the stairs and opened the door to the bedroom you shared with him and oh, oh.

bachira was humping the pillow—your pillow—like a mad animal, whimpering your name. what a bad boy. and he wasn’t even the least bit ashamed that you caught him.

“dirty, dirty boy.” you clicked your tongue, tugging harshly on the leash you had planted on his neck. bachira panted, totally committing to the act of being a disobedient puppy, your puppy.

 “mm—did ‘ya really expect me to not? you just—” bachira sniffed your inner thigh, eyes half-lidded. “smell sooo good and—” bachira buried his face in your crotch, licking over your dampening slit through the fabric of your panties. “taste even better..” bachira groaned low in his throat but he winced when you tugged the leash harder and reeled him away. 

“you gotta earn it, baby.” you tutted, your grip firm on the leash. bachira looked up, a shaky smirk playing at his lips. his cock already hardening at how you were bossing him around.

“anyway you want..! i’ll do anything..” bachira panted, moving to hump your ankle. his tip leaving dirty streaks of precum all over your calve. “anything at all..”

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

winnerrr!!! and he’s nutting all over the place, he deserves it!

record: 30 full days!!!!

you were completely soaked in bachira’s cum, he really came like a broken faucet, poor baby must’ve been holding back a ton! bachira was half-asleep spooning you naked with a dopey grin on his face. perfectly sated and full of love for you. 

  “heh—loovee youu..” bachira slurred out sleepily, adding a yawn at the end. he nuzzled into your neck, mouthing at the skin there. you sighed but smiled softly, reaching to gently pet his cheek. “love you too, meguru.”

─── ITOSHI RIN didn’t want to do the challenge at first. he had heard about it in the past, through his teammates but once he heard isagi muttering something about it to hiori. rin settled on doing the challenge, and winning. he was better than that shitty isagi.

↳ FIRST WEEK :

he powered through the first week on absolute determination and sheer will. he barely batted an eye at you and completely plunged himself into football and working out, anything to snuff out that screaming feeling of getting his dick wet.

he tried his best to act normal around you too, and to be honest? he was doing a pretty good job at it! atleast he thought so. little did he know he looked like a wet chihuahua growling at you everytime you came near like it was YOUR fault he took up this challenge.

“stop doing that.” rin growled low in his throat when you walked by him when he was working out in the private gym you guys have in your home—yes, fancy. 

“stop doing what?” you batted your lashes down at rin who was in-between a plank session. his abdomen was clenching so deliciously, all of his six or seven packs were stretched taut and damn—he just looked edible enough to eat. sadly, you couldn’t.

rin peered up at you over his shoulder, this angle from the floor gave him view to everything you had under your skirt. and truth be told, you had nothing underneath. just your bare cunny which was absolutely destroying rin’s mental. he had to tear his eyes away, he couldn’t lose. not when bragging rights against dumb yoichi were at stake.

“just—just go.” rin panted, looking ahead of himself. you just shrugged and walked out of the gym, but you felt rin’s gaze devouring every deliberate sway of your hips.

↳ SECOND WEEK :

second week was sliiigghtlyy better. rin had an upcoming match and he trained day and night for it, though it was just a simple friendly match against argentina, anything would work, anything which would get his mind off you. 

his teammates noticed too, he was working himself out. it’s not new, of course, but this time they feel like something else is motivating him other than the match at hand. even bachira, who is normally lost in his own different world notices it. aiku says he must be having girlfriend problems, well he is sort of correct!

though it didn’t exactly stop him from opening that secret password protected folder in his gallery, one which stored all the videos he has taken of you during sex. of both of you during sex.

and what would he do while watching them? literally what any normal man with a hot as shit girlfriend would do. jack off, duh. 

“hnngh—! shit—so fuckin’ tight..” rin snarled low in his throat, he had one hand wrapped tightly around his length while one was holding his phone. he had a particularly long home video playing on full blast, your moans combined with his echoing in the empty shower stall. rin was standing directly under the stream, but it did nothing to cool his heating body. 

rin choked his cock in his fist as he bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. fuck, he was trying his best to stay quiet but it was getting so hard. he swiped at the precum beading on his tip, leaking precum didn’t count as losing the challenge right? riiightt?? 

outside the shower, karasu and otoya had stayed back to shower after everyone was done. they didn’t expect rin to be beating his meat, in public, in the locker rooms. 

“how long do you think he’ll last?” karasu poked otoya’s shoulder. “ehh—give it a few days.” otoya shrugged and walked ahead. 

↳ THIRD WEEK :

match is over. they’re all on break. but rin is breaking here. home used to be his safe place where he could cuddle with you, maybe watch something or you know just spend some quality time with you. BUT NO.

this stupid no nut november challenge and this stupid isagi for bringing it up and TEMPTING rin to do the challenge like it was  a personal blow to his ego. nobody actually tempted him, rin just has some personal feelings towards isagi. 

rin is scared to even touch you, scared he would immediately nut in his pants like a virgin. that would be generational aura loss and he wouldn’t hear the end of it from you. so he ignores you like you did something to offend him. 

you kinda did piss him off by being so gorgeous and beautiful and sexy and—

“rin, do you want something from the store? i’m gonna get groceries.” you called out from the front door where you were slipping on your uggs to go outside. rin stared at your back from his spot on the couch, his fingers digging into the meat of his thigh.

“rin?” you called out again, turning to look at him once you noticed he wasn’t responding. rin’s eyes were glazed over, running up and over your body like he was undressing you with his smoldering gaze. you waved your hand infront of his face and he finally seemed to snap out of it.

“huh? oh—yeah, just, get whatever. i don’t care.” rin crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. what a fake idgafer, he definitely cared.

↳ FOURTH WEEK :

every day felt like a new hurdle for rin. every time he woke up in the bed he immediately picked up his phone and checked the date. november 27th?? he closed his eyes and felt a singular tear run down his cheek as he pondered about if taking up this challenge was even worth it. 

but then, the clock hit 12 on november 30th and it was all free game. rin had his eyes peeled on the clock in the living room while you were in the kitchen washing up after dinner. 

rin stalked over towards you with a predator’s grace. the air in the kitchen went cold, you turned around whilst drying your hands off on a towel and were immediately met with rin pinning you against the counter with a growl. 

well, shit.

“fuckin’ hell—’ya really fucked me over with this—shit—challenge..” rin panted in your ear, his thrusts pushing you further up the counter until your back hit the tiled walls of the kitchen. your legs wrapped tightly around rin’s waist for leverage and to hold yourself down unless you wanted your soul to ascend to god because damn—rin was not holding back.

“riiinn—slowerrr—hngh!” you whined sweetly but rin didn’t take it. “none of that.” rin growled, slapping your ass and then kneading the reddening flesh with his large palm. “y’re gonna take it like a good girl. so stop whining.” rin demanded with a cold finality in his tone which made all your protests turn to helpless little whines.

rin pulled out until just the head of his cock remained inside of you, he kept fucking you with the tip until you got impatient enough to claw at his back. “rin! ungh—put it backkk!” you huffed, all bratty. and who was rin to deny you when you begged so sweetly? he rammed back into you which knocked all the air out your lungs and all the sense out your brain.

 gosh, you loved it when your rinnie got all rough.

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

of course he won! did you really think he wouldn’t?

record: he cracked at exactly 12 am! 30 whole days!

rin was massaging your sore thighs as you both cuddled in bed, with his other hand he was on his phone typing something. “rin? who are you texting?” you perked up, trying to peek into his phone. “isagi.” rin shrugged and showed you his screen, he was texting isagi about how he won nnn. isagi replied with how he wasn’t even doing the challenge in the first place, rin read the text and tossed his phone away with a deep, guttural groan. 

fuck november.

─── ITOSHI SAE who was equipped for this challenge on a daily. amidst flying out for matches every week or so, november had become practically every month for mister blue balled—you were sure they actually looked blue from how pent-up he was. that said, he was the one making this hard for you.

↳ FIRST WEEK :

he only came home on 4th of november and as soon as you opened the door to him, he brushed past you. he was wearing that cologne you mentioned you really liked in passing yet you never thought he would wear it considering he doesn’t like anything fruity yet here he was completely drowning in scent and smelled exactly like an acai bowl. 

you had to press your thighs together to keep from pouncing on your boyfriend when he was still in his outside clothes. 

and this man had the audacity to take his clothes off in the living room. all his back muscles flexing, was he doing this on purpose?

“sae.” you called out from the bed, sae was changing into his sleep clothes. “mm?” he perked up, blinking at you. his bangs were down, his hair not gelled for once. he looked absolutely adorable, and adorably yours. 

you sucked in a breath and forced yourself to look away, “nothing.” you cuddled into the sheets, trying to hide yourself in them. sae seemed to notice what was going on, he crawled onto the bed, over you. pinning you. 

he peered down at you, he looked so gorgeous. he leaned forward until his whole face was shoved in yours, “is it really nothing?” he breathed out, his hot breath was fanning directly over your face. and you swore you could fuck this challenge right there.

but sae broke the contact as soon as it came, he parted with a chaste kiss pressed to your plush lips and he fell over to the side. scooting over to his side of the bed, he pulled the covers over himself and reached to turn off the lights. “good night.” he whispered and closed his eyes shut.

did the blue balled just blue ball you? 

↳ SECOND WEEK :

second week was just a normal week. for sae. you were spending every living moment trying to keep from losing your shit and embarrassingly failing to do so. how could you! sae was just strutting around the house like he knew he was making your life a living hell with every breath of his. 

he looked well-rested, well-fed and beautiful. you loved when he looked like this, he looked prettier and healthier, much better than how he looked on the pitch. well, he looked hot any way.

and it didn’t make it any better he was being gentle with you, gentler than usual. for example, he held onto your waist and pressed you close whenever you want to stand beside him. in the bed, he spoons you from behind protectively and possesively. and he kisses your neck, your whole body goes weak.

“come closer. why are you avoiding me?” sae grabs your wrist to pull you closer to him. it was movie night and usually you two would be snuggled up all cozy under the sheets but you were avoiding him. sae knew why, but he pretended to be clueless and that only pissed you off more. because how were you going to tell him you wanted him to fuck you silly?

either way, you shifted closer until your thighs touched. you flinched at that, the feel of his larger thigh pressed against your smaller one, you could barely keep your gaze from trailing southwards to the visible bulge in his sweatpants. this wasn’t supposed to turn you on, but c’mon, you were a woman parched of your boyfriend. you would take anything you could get.

sae noticed your gaze and his lips quirked into the littlest smirk, imperceptible but there. sae wordlessly grabbed your wrist and pressed it against his bulge, your fingers twitched and you gasped. “s-sae—!” you tried taking your wrist away but sae held it firmly to his bulge, making you palm him through his sweats. 

“it’s all yours, princess. have it.” sae whispered, his grip on your wrist tightened. “you want it? then you take it. as simple as that.” sae laid his other arm around your waist and dragged you onto his lap, he gripped your waist with both hands and rubbed your love handles with his thumbs. “i don’t care about this stupid—november thing. if you won’t have me, i’ll have you.” sae shrugged, his hand traveled up your side to cup your cherubim cheek.

“what will it be?” sae asked, his green eyes boring into yours intensely. and, truthfully, would you be able to resist?

no. and that’s exactly what happened. 

sae had you folded up into a mean mating press, his cock drilling itself inside of you over and over again until you were gasping and crying, clawing at his abs for him to slow down. “sae—sae—sae—!!!!” you babbled and cried his name, it was nothing but music to his ears. his hand wrapped around your throat to shut you up, you squirmed around. 

“shut—shut up..take it..” sae growled out in-between thrusts. craning his neck forwards to bite into your neck, you whined even louder at that. sae threw your leg over his shoulder and he drove impossibly deep into you, his tip smashing against your g-spot again. and again. and again. until you came gushing over his length, but sae still hadn’t cum yet. 

“again. i’m not done.” sae demanded, biting into your thigh.

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

yeah, lost. he didn’t wanna do this anyway smh.

record: 10 days. hey!!! his birthday!!!!

“thank you..” sae whispered, it almost missed your ear. he was wiping you down with a warm towel after drilling you into the mattress. “huh—?” you perked up weakly. sae felt a faint blush color his cheek, he glanced away. 

“i didn’t want to waste my holiday, we already get such little time together. thanks for letting me—you know.” sae bunched the towel in his fist and tossed it away before crawling over you, pinning you beneath him. you gazed up at him like a lost fawn and he pursed his lips, cupping your cheek and pressing kisses all over your face. “love you.” he muttered against your skin in-between kisses.

“love you too.” you giggled.

─── MIKAGE REO who was the one to bring this challenge up. he knew about this, of course, but he didn’t understand why people did it. willingly practice abstinence? must be a joke. reo indulged, thats what he did. regardless, he still took up the challenge. little did he know, how hard it would be.

↳ FIRST WEEK :

first week barely registered into reo’s brain. you know first week was always the easiest, atleast thats what reo thought. he managed to hold off quite well! some might even think he would win this. even you were surprised because how would this man—who has probably the highest sex drive you’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing—manage to ignore you for a whole month?

except he was doing that, he really was. but was he succeeding? so far, yes.

“hey baby.” reo pulled you in by the waist and planted a sweet kiss to your cheek. you smiled and returned it back. reo had just come back from work and he looked sooo fuckin’ hot in his work clothes. 

“gonna go take a shower, you comin’?” reo asked while loosening his tie with one very veiny hand. fuck, fuckk, how much you wanted to bite that hand of his. you had to disagree with him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it so you just solemnly shook your head. 

reo pouted but his lips soon curled into a smirk once he realized what you were doing. “oh, november?” reo checked the calendar then faced you again. “suit yourself.” he shrugged, so nonchalantly then began unbuttoning his shirt. you had to tear your eyes away, with much struggle. 

were all rich boys this annoying? 

↳ SECOND WEEK :

this was not easy. no, fuck this month, fuck this, fuck everything, fuck you—he wishes he could. BUT DANG IT ALL. he is going to shrivel up and die if he doesn’t get to fuck you now, and he means it. now. just the tip then—? or maybe just—MAN. GIVE HIM SOMETHING TO GO OFF OF.

in-between business meetings, interviews, appearances. he barely finds time anymore to be with you, he guesses thats good. but he just misses you sooo much. he’s someone who thrives on constant physical connection so this is really at odds with what he is actually supposed to do this month which is the exact opposite. he’s dying inside, his colleagues aren’t using all of their braincells, the management is in shambles and worst of all—he has, events to appear to. with you. as his spouse.

so he has to bear with seeing you in that sexy little outfit and not rip it off you as soon as you both come home drunk on wine and eachother.

“babeee—yer’ kinda killin’ me here..” reo whispered in your ear, his hand rested firmly on your inner thigh under the table. all around you, important people from all over the globe sat oblivious to what ministrations reo was performing on your thigh. 

“reoo..not here—” you were cut off by a small gasp escaping your lips, reo’s fingers had slid your panties to the side and were ghosting over your slick folds. “a-ah—” you barely held in the noises escaping you. your grip on the table tightening, trying your best to seem composed. the last thing you wanted to do was embarass yourself and reo infront of such big businessmen and women.

however reo was not at all fazed by the company, if he wanted to, he could bend you over the table right now and make everyone watch. but he wouldn’t, he wasn’t an animal. not yet..

“what is it, hm?” reo plunged one finger into your sopping entrance, your body tensed up and your hips bucked into his palm instinctively. you tried forming a response but reo slipped in another finger alongside the first. “cat got your tongue?” reo smirked, his fingers fucking into you in a rhythmic pattern. 

you tried to be quiet, to be good. but reo was so mean, the people sitting around you seemed to catch on, giving you both weird looks. reo noticed it and he just curled his fingers inside you, pressing them against that spot inside of you which made you see stars. 

“don’t think about them, babe. smile for the camera.” reo pointed towards a cameraman approaching for a picture and he flashed that beautiful, charming grin. you gave a shaky smile, barely reaching your eyes. 

reo was kind enough to pull out right after and not make you ruin your dress. gosh, you should’ve returned this mikage boy to his parents. especially when he sucked his fingers clean and winked at you like that. 

but november was still very much going on. and neither of you had nutted. 

↳ THIRD WEEK :

okay. reo should not have played around that night, he did NOT expect you to bite back at him this hard. okay, where should he start from—

FIRST OF ALL. you’ve begun spoiling him, not with material things of course—he has alot of that already—but in love and affection. and he is so starved, especially because of you know what month. he just takes it like a good boy. he feels rotten for hogging all of your attention but when you’re just lavishing it all on him like that how could he say no? indulging is what he does.

SECCOOONNDDD. possibly the most meanest thing you have done, you’ve started to use his card. you know, that black amex card he just slipped into your wallet one morning and blew a teasing kiss at you. but you never spent a single penny from it, WHY!?!?@ do you not like him? do you not want him???!? 

you had reassured him, telling him you saw him as more than just a piggy bank and that you would use it one day. that day was today. gosh, reo loved it when you spent his money. it was all yours after all, all of him was yours. 

he watches (insert lego batman gif) as you come home with loads of bags with stuff you bought using that very card. definitely spent well over a million yen but why would reo care? he pops a boner everytime you spoil yourself with his cash.

“reo, how does this look?” you turned around infront of a mirror, clad in something silky and skimpy yet it hugged your body so perfectly. accentuating every curve and contour of your beautiful form. reo was salivating like a dog.

“woah..” reo gawked, eyes nearly popping out of his head. you looked like a wet dream—something which he was having quite regularly nowadays. “y-you—look—fuck..” reo stammered, nothing forming in that smart brain of his.

“bad? yeah—i should take it o—” you were interrupted by reo sinking to his knees infront of you, “no! no—nuh uh. you look absolutely gorgeous. beautiful. prettystunningsweetyummydeliciousiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou—” his rambling was interrupted by a sweet giggle from you. oh he was falling all over again.

“reo, get up.” you laughed, but reo did not get up. he buried his face in your stomach, inhaling your scent. his hands wrapping around your waist tightly to keep you still, he nosed against your inner thigh like a puppy, gazing up at you from under his lashes. 

“no.” you knew what his intentions were, you couldn’t fail nnn when you had come so far already. he looked absolutely heartbroken and destroyed. how could you! he stood up and dusted himself off, casting you with a look which spoke volumes about the betrayal you had just caused on him. and he returned back to his seat with a flip of his hair.

↳ FOURTH WEEK :

yea reo had been praying for this week to end as soon as it had come. he remembers checking his phone and doing that guy breaking his chains pose. and you awoke beside him and gave him the nastiest side-eye, reo immediately shriveled up in embarrassment.

reo was buzzing on energy the whole week, like he was on something, he definitely was. because all that energy built up to this very moment—

it was night, you were getting ready for bed but you purposefully wore that purple silk robe you knew reo was a goner for. and of course, paired with nothing underneath, you were sure to get your insides rearranged. 

the shower abruptly stopped and after hearing a rustling inside of the bathroom—probably reo messing with the towel—the door opened and from the steam stepped out a very drenched and very sexy reo. 

with just a towel wrapped around his slender waist and his whole top-half bare, water running down his drenched purple locks, he looked like a vision which immediately got you biting your lip. reo approached you and cupped your cheek, smirking. “it’s time.”— okay, horny mariah carey.

and time it was, because reo had you folded up in missionary, his hand cupping your face and another hand rubbing circles on your clit. “you feel it yeah? how much i—fuckin’—need you.” reo panted in your ear, his thumb swiping at the drool seeping from your lips. 

each snap of his hips into you shook the whole bed, his cock a blur of absolute speed as he messed up your insides. the robe you had slipped on earlier lay in tatters on the floor. 

but you couldn’t care less, not when your husband fucked you so messy and so good. reo gripped your face harder and forced you to look up at the mirror installed in the ceiling overlooking the bed, “see how dumb you look? gushing all over m’ cock like a little slut.” reo drawled, his hand dropping from your chin to wrap around your throat, choking you softly.

“mmh—! reoo—more—!” you babbled mindlessly, eyes crossed up. “can’t even speak huh? right, all stupid. not a single thought in that brain of yours.” reo chuckled, his hips now slowing down to a languid pace, rolling into you to stir up your already full insides. every roll of his hips made you leak around his cock, so dirty.

“fuckk—keep leakin’ like that and i‘ll go crazy..” reo leaned forward to bury his face in your neck, sucking a dark hickey on your sensitive flesh. 

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

another winner!! woohoo!!

record: 30 days aayyyeee 

“we’re never doing this again. this whole..november thing.” reo muttered against your skin as he spooned you from behind. the early morning rays creeped in through the curtains and got in your eyes, making you squint and groan. “uh-oh.” reo laughed, covering your eyes with his palm, but it covered your whole face.

“little baby can’t handle a little sun?” reo mocked you in a baby-ish voice and you grabbed a pillow to whack him in the face. “shut up!” you pouted and reo only laughed, grabbing your waist and flipping you over so he was on top of you. 

he leaned forwards to nuzzle his nose with yours. “don’t pout, you’re making me wanna kiss you.” reo confessed, pressing a kiss to your jaw. you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him up to look at you. “then kiss me.” you dared. 

and kiss you he did.

─── NAGI SEISHIRO found out about this challenge from reo. he was not doing this bro. he noped out on the first day itself.

↳ FIRST WEEK :

lol shut up what first week he barely made it through the first day

“haah—mm—’s so good..’yer so good..” nagi panted, his large hand tangled in your hair to push your head down on his cock. he heard your throat muscles contract and choke around his length and he bucked his hips up.

“can’t believe i was plannin’ on stayin’ away from this sweet throat all monthh.” nagi leaned back in his gaming chair and you popped his cock out of your mouth. nagi shivered softly, feeling the cold air of his room hit against his sensitive cock. you gasped for air before gathering saliva in your mouth and spitting down on nagi’s tip and spreading it around nagi’s length.

“good thing you didn’t, sei’.” you giggled, taking nagi’s cock back into your mouth and bobbing your head up and down on it. nagi was big in all the right ways and no matter how much you hollowed your mouth out, you never seemed to fit him in completely. 

it poked your cheek and made it bulge, your lips were swollen and flushed from sucking on his dick. you dipped your head and deepthroated his big dick, fuck, it was so meaty and veiny. you could feel each of his veins pulse against the inner walls of your throat as you massaged his length with your throat.

nagi tugged you off his cock by your hair and began fishing his cock. he aimed it right at your face, this bastard. “watch.” you stuck your tongue out, a messy mixture of nagi’s precum and your spit dripping from your tongue. 

with a few more strokes, nagi nutted all on your face. painting you with his cum, he panted heavily, his broad chest rising and falling with each huff. “i just finished on youu, ooh.”

you picked up some of the cum on your finger and brought it into your mouth, sucking your digit clean. nagi got very—very. turned on by that, his dick twitching back to life even after he just came.

and right after that, he hauled you onto his lap and pushed your panties to the side, exposing your soaked pussy to his ravaging gaze. “shit—you’re so wet just from sucking me off?” nagi commented blankly, you squirmed and a flush quickly coated your cheeks.

“sei’!” you smacked his chest and he grabbed your wrist, bringing your small palm upto his face to press a kiss to it. only to distract you from how he shoved his dick right into your sopping wet cunt, a lewd squelch echoing through the room as he bottomed out in one swift thrust. you gasped, your back arching so beautifully.

“yeah, stay like that babygirl.” nagi kissed your neck, massaging your hip with one hand to ease you despite how absolutely full you felt. with the other hand he unmuted his mic to speak into it. 

“right here. sorry, my girlfriend wanted me.” nagi shrugged, from his headphones you could hear the whistles and cheers of his friends. nagi clamped a hand on your mouth, “gotta stay quiet, okay babe?” he then shifted his attention to his game, making you cockwarm him while he played games on call with his friends.

you muffled a whine into his shoulder. this was going to be a really, really long night.

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

a loser but he does not gaf. nnn?? nagi nut november 😳

record: 12 hours. he nutted at exactly 2 am on a tuesday night.

you were getting desperate now, you were leaking your juices all over him and some of it even spilled onto his gaming chair. yet nagi had not even moved once, let alone cum. you had been bouncing on his dick for what felt like an eternity, your clit was all swollen and flushed from grinding against his pelvis so much and your thighs were shaking, knees struggling to hold yourself up. your hips were cramping and you could barely hold yourself up.

“seiii’—baby pleaaaaseee—” you whined so needily you were sure his friends on the call could hear, nagi’s gaze flicked from the game to you then back to the screen. he clicked his tongue in faux annoyance.

“you already came twice on me and i haven’t even moved.” nagi remarked blankly, like this was daily news for him. gosh, this boy frustrated you to no end. if it wasn’t for you using him like a living breathing dildo to get yourself off, you would’ve strangled him already. nagi seemed to notice your frustration and with a small sigh he unmuted his mic

“gonna go afk guys. my girlfriend wants me again, can’t say no.” nagi didn’t wait for a response from the other side and took his headphones off, resting them on his neck and grabbing ahold of your hips. 

“where was i?” nagi tilted his head and began pounding into you until your eyes rolled back. on his computer screen, his valorant avatar died and his friends were yelling at him for dipping mid match. but he was clearly aiming for something else.

─── SHIDOU RYUSEI didn’t even think about this challenge. he barely even remembered until you brought it up to him one night while he was humping your thigh while scrolling instagram. no but seriously, did you reaaallyy expect this jerkmate grandmaster baiter, gooner supreme, to not nut for a whole month? he’d rather eat glass and like it.

↳ FIRST DAY : 

yeah, first day. because he is not lasting more than that.

heck, he barely lasted the first hour.

“haah? ‘ya ain’t serious right?” shidou drawled out. he thought you would’ve taken the hint that he just cannot physically function without busting a load every other day. not doing that for a whole month is practically a death sentence for him, even more-so because you’re his hot, beautiful, perfect girlfriend.

but your serious expression threw him off, you were not joking. “fiinnee. guess i could play along for like—an hour.” shidou yawned, rolling his eyes. but his hand immediately found it’s way to your thigh, squeezing it. “let me just keep it there.” shidou gave you a sidelong glance. 

you shook your head, you knew he would tap out soon.

and he did, oh dear. shidou had you folded up in a full nelson. his big toned arms hooked under your knees, your back pressed flush to his chest. his cock thrust in and out of you hard and fast, every thrust made his pelvis connect with your asscheeks and a loud filthy slap echoed through the room.

“fuck—g’na nut all in this bitch. yeah? this pussy keeps sucking me in like ‘ye can’t get enough.” shidou grinned wildly, his hand creeped lower to rub circles on your clit as he grinded against your cunt, trying to stuff himself deeper.

“ryuuuu’—harder!—gimme moreee!” you screamed his name, your words slurring as shidou fucked you into oblivion. “yeah? more? fuckin’ greedy little slut.” shidou cackled, sweat rolling down his abs and neck, resuming his earlier pace. his hands reached to grip your ass, spreading your cheeks to drive himself deeper into you. the crown of his cock kissed your cervix with each thrust making you cry out.

“mmh—ryu’! cummin’—!” your eyes rolled to the back of your skull, toes curling as you gushed over shidou’s cock for the nth time that night. “cream all over my dick—yeah, jus’ like that, what a good gal.” shidou panted, eventually he buried himself to the hilt inside you, balls slapping against your ruined pussy as he emptied yet another load inside of your creamy little cunt.

“one more, ‘kay?”

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

what made you think he would win..?

record: 1. singular. hour. this man does not care.

shidou held you close while he was back to scrolling through instagram. you cuddled up into his side, wrapped up in his hoodie which drowned you in it. the sleeves fell way past your hands and thighs and it smelled so undoubtedly like him. that feral scent of his.

shidou laughed at a dumb reel, his thumb rubbing circles on your hips. he didn’t say anything, the silence already spoke volumes. it was comfortable like this, just the two of you and nothing else. 

eventually though, shidou cradled the back of his head with his palm and pressed a kiss to your forehead. your eyes fluttered closed, a small giggle escaping you. music to his ears.

“did i go too hard? are ‘ya hungry?” shidou asked, showing the rare softness which was only reserved for you. his eyes were half-lidded, gazing down at you with so much adoration it stole your breath. 

you shook your head and buried your face in his chest, wrapping (barely) your arms around his bare upper half and pulling him flush to you. “nuh uh—mmf just wan’ you.” your voice was muffled into his warm skin. 

shidou laughed, not his usual devilish cackles but a rare genuine laugh. he pressed another kiss, this time to your cheek and resumed watching his stupid reels. 

─── MICHAEL KAISER was another boaster, he knew he was going to win this challenge. how could he not? it’s not like you were thaaatt tempting!

↳ FIRST WEEK:

this was not a challenge. this was not a challenge. this was not a challenge. this was not a challenge. okay maybe it kind of was.

would it hurt you to stop being so sexy and hot and lovely and — for just one second? really, you were doing this on purpose. and kaiser would not fall for it, no he wouldn’t. nuh uh.

“micha’! you’re home!” you hopped up from the couch to go greet kaiser at the front door, kaiser was clad in a warm hoodie and sweatpants. yet he could feel a shiver run down his body as soon as you wrapped your small arms around him. 

yet he forced himself to act normal, he could not give up now. unless he wanted to be the laughing stock of the whole bastard münchen team for the coming year. 

“liebe, did you miss me?” kaiser wrapped his arms around you too, crushing you against him with more force than necessary. his cold hands trailed all over your body, slipping lower to cup your round ass, squeezing the fat and feeling it spill from between his fingers. you were so perfect.

“mm—sure i did. you’re dirty micha’, go wash up.” you giggled, pulling away and helping kaiser take his hoodie off. kaiser pouted softly but chased after your lips for a kiss, you pulled back and grimaced, “eww, you’ll get me sick.” kaiser rolled his eyes, “germaphobe. just say you don’t want me.” 

“drama queen.” you sighed but your words held no real bite, you tugged kaiser’s hoodie off his frame and folded it in your arms. “go shower, for real now.” and kaiser reluctantly obliged like a very bratty toddler. what’s up with his attitude?

↳ SECOND WEEK:

his palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy — mom’s spaghetti. 

he cannot do this anymore. he regrets ever boasting about this, he regrets even taking up this damned challenge! he can’t even touch you without wanting to rip your clothes off and bend you over the nearest possible surface that’s how down bad he has become.

and it has been showing during football practice too, his teammates are always keeping a safe distance from him lest he kick the ball in their balls. then it will really be no nut november.

every shot kaiser made seemed to make the net scream every time he landed a goal, and by the end of practice, kaiser was always buzzing with energy now even more-so that he hasn’t nutted in weeks.

“kaiser misses a goal in latest match against brazil. is the german legend slipping up?” you read out the news headline to kaiser who was fuming beside you on the bed. you could literally see his head emitting smoke, almost. 

you bit back a giggle and turned to lay on your side, running a hand over kaiser’s chest and making him shudder. “what’s wrong, big guy?” you feigned concern when you actually knew all too well what’s wrong with him. and kaiser hated that, you teasing little minx.

kaiser grabbed onto your hips and lifted you onto his lap, “you know exactly what’s wrong with me.” kaiser deadpanned, he looked some parts mad and some parts desperate. he began grinding you on his lap, feeling your cunt rub against his bulge from the fabric of your panties under your sinfully short skirt.

“getting desperate, are we now, micha?” you teased, leaning forwards and hiking your tiny tee up, allowing your tits to spill free and gods, they filled up kaiser’s face.

“mmhmm..” kaiser’s voice was muffled from in-between your round, perfect boobs. his hands crept higher up your skirt to grab handfuls of your perky ass and grind you harder against him. he was so lost in the sauce he didn’t even notice your juices ruining his sweatpants.

“michaa—! ye’ can’t cum yet, remember?” you rolled off kaiser’s lap and began pulling your clothes back in place. kaiser’s hand went down to palm himself through his damp sweats, gosh his outline was so thick it had you drooling. 

“please, prinzessin.” kaiser whispered, loud and clear but you pretended not to hear anyway. just to hurt his already fragile ego even more. “mm? please what?” you smirked, running a hand down kaiser’s chest again.

“please just—let me put the tip in. please! that doesn’t—that doesn’t count as losing, yeah?” kaiser pleaded, desperation lacing every syllable of his speech. and how could you resist him when he was like this?

you shook your head with small laugh and flipped your skirt up, pushing your panties to the side with your finger. “just the tip, ‘kay? no more.” kaiser ogled but then fished his cock out from his pants and he was already so hard. poor boy, must’ve been soooo needy.

he stroked his cock a few times, his tip was drooling pre and looked so flushed and pretty. he pressed it against your sopping wet pussy and slid it up and down your folds, smacking your clit with it making you cry out sweetly.

eventually, kaiser pressed just his huge, flared tip inside of you and immediately a groan which he seemed to have been holding in for ages slipped out of his mouth. 

“scheiße—yer’ squeezin’ the life outta’ me, liebe..” kaiser choked out, head thrown back over the pillows, heels digging into the mattress trying to hold back from thrusting up into you. because he knows if he does,

he won’t pull out till he nuts.

↳ THIRD WEEK:

by week three, kaiser has become a problem.

not for you. not for his teammates. not for isagi (okay, maybe for isagi). no, no—kaiser has become a problem for himself.

the man wakes up hard. he goes to bed hard. he breathes too fast and he’s hard. like a beast of erectile dysfunction, at this point he’s convinced his body is staging his downfall. 

he’s snappy, irritable, and painfully pretty (just like usual but this time he is suffering). everyone around him knows something is off—they been knew—he’s quieter in the locker room, always sitting with his legs crossed like a victorian lady in the medieval ages trying to hide her ankles except he’s trying to hide his boner.

AND god forbid you so much as bend down to pick something up in front of him. the moment you do, you can literally hear his last two braincells arguing: 

“im gonna nut”

“dude sybau we gotta survive this”

“i can’t do this anymore twin”

“get up.” kaiser ordered, but his voice was a little pitched up. you were bent over, cleaning the bookshelf and of course you wore the tightest little booty shorts to just rub it in even more. 

he knew you were doing this on purpose, showing yourself around knowing he can’t do anything about it?  

you peered over your shoulder to look at him, your hips giving a teasing little sway. “what is it, micha? can’t i clean around a little?” you pouted, batting your dolly lashes up at kaiser. 

“you can..but stop—fuckin’ hell.” kaiser ran his inked hand down his face, his eyes zeroed in on your plump ass. how much he wanted to just grab two handfuls of that perfect bouncy fat and feel it slap against his hips everytime he fucked into your creamy little cunt.

you seemed to read his thoughts, with how your lips curled into the tiniest smirk. “what? use your words..” you cooed mockingly, arching your back even more. 

kaiser wasn’t having any of it, he simply stood up and walked away. because he knew if he stayed, it would be much, much worse.

↳ FOURTH WEEK:

oh, hallelujah. november is almost coming to an end, kaiser swore he would actually shave his head and retreat retreated a monastery in taiwan to lead the life of a monk if this month wore on any loner.

the morning of 30th november was the longest ever in his life, every passing second was a second closer to salvation and kaiser couldn’t wait. 

it had gotten so bad that he skipped practice unless he wanted to pop a boner in the middle of the field. sure his team was confused, kaiser never skipped practice or literally anything to do with football then they looked at the calender and a collective ‘ohhh’ was sounded.

and as soon as the clock hit 12? baby, kaiser was not. holding. back.

“you little fuckin’ tease.” kaiser bounced you on his lap in reverse cowgirl, one hand tightly gripping your hips and his tattooed hand wrapped tightly around your throat. “you made my life a livin’ hell with this—sweet little cunt.” kaiser growled, his hips bucking up to fuck more of his big cock into your drooling pussy. 

“mmhh—! micha—please—too much!” you whined loudly, tapping his meaty thigh weakly with two fingers. “too much?” kaiser laughed humorlessly, “yer’ leaking all over m’ cock and you say is too much?” kaiser nipped at your earlobe. 

kaiser’s hands slid down to harshly cup your bouncing tits and kneaded the firm mounds in his hands. you threw your head back on his shoulder with a cry. “fuckk yeah—look at these perfect little tits. all fuckin’ mine.” kaiser punctuated his words with a particularly hard thrust into you, his tip kissing that spot inside of you which made you see stars behind your eyelids.

kaiser then grabbed his phone from the bedside table and opened his camera app, he then gripped your chin and forced you to look at yourself, messy and dumb, in the phone. “smile, liebling.” kaiser chirped and winked at the screen while you tried your best to smile with your swollen lips and drool down your chin.

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

kaiser never loses, what did you think?

record: 30 full days. barely made it.

“look how fucked out you look here.” kaiser laughed, showing you the selfie of you he took earlier. “micha! stop it—” you giggled and pushed the phone away, kaiser curled an arm around you and hugged you closer to his side. his nose buried in your hair to inhale the sweet scent of your shampoo—something delicate like you. “can’t believe i survived without fuckin’ ‘ya for a month.” kaiser commented with a small chuckle, his words buried into the crown of your head. 

“..‘m never doing this again.” kaiser shook his head and spooned you closer to him.

he is definitely doing this again.

─── ALEXIS NESS who saw you mention doing the no nut november challenge once and immediately started sulking like a puppy who got his favourite toy taken away. 

he is not going to deprive himself of you for a whole month, what do you think he is? stupid?

↳ FIRST WEEK:

day 1. ness has lost vision in his left leg and has a fracture in his right eye. no seriously, he feels like he’s walking on a pile of glass barefoot—and he would rather do that than actually do this challenge.

but since you pleaded him so sweetly, how could he say no? he tried to keep his act up for atleassstt a couple of days. maybe 6 or 7.

day 3. he caved, like a dumbass. no you can’t even blame him this time! poor baby just couldn’t resist it when you went to the shower and left your panties lying on the floor. he was just cleaning up after you—but fuck, he just couldn’t help himself from pressing the lacy pair to his face and taking a big sniff. gosh, he was drooling like a puppy.

one thing lead to another and he was jerking off with your panties wrapped around his cock. so disgusting. he didn’t even notice when you stepped out of the bathroom in just a skimpy little towel, and caught him right in the act. using your panties to get himself off.

and you wouldn’t let him get away with that, would you?

“you stupid little puppy, just can’t keep your dick in your pants, can’t you?” you cooed, rubbing your dripping cunt on ness’s face. you were sitting on ness’s face, eyes locked onto his where his face was peeking out from between your thighs. 

gosh, he was in heaven, he loved when you took charge of him. his tongue licked between your folds, gulping down mouthfuls of your slick. you grinded down against his mouth and up until your clit caught on his nose.

“mmh, you’re gonna nut just from this, huh?” you tilted your head to the side, fingers tangling into ness’s soft magenta locks to hold him in place as you rode his face. ness’s hands gripped your thighs to press you harder against him but you swatted them away. 

“no touching. you don’t deserve it.” you clicked your tongue, you lifted yourself up from his face and looked down. ness whined, “m-mommy! please—fuck—sit back down!” he demanded, and you did. ness’s lips immediately latched onto your clit and he began sucking until your pearl was flushed and aching. 

ness bucked his hips up, fucking the air. mumbling ‘love you’s and endless praises into your pussy. he was so pussy-drunk he couldn’t even stop himself from cumming untouched. ropes of his cum splattering over his own stomach. 

↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?

he was destined to lose!!

record: 3 days, atleast he lasted half a week?

“a-ah! mommy—y’re so tight and mm—so good!” ness babbled in your ear as he fucked into you mindlessly, he pressed his forehead against yours, hands cupping your face. “love you—love you so fuckin’ much—and love this tight lil’ pussy..” ness whispered against your lips before capturing them in a wet, messy kiss. 

ness fucked vigorously into your sloppy pussy, pressing wet, smacking kisses all over your fucked out face. his thrusts eventually got sloppier and with a few more, he buried himself deep inside of you and shooter his seed right into your warm, waiting womb. he pressed on your belly with a shaky hand.

“mmgh—mommy yer’ gonna have m’ baby?”

Encouraged enough to wrap your fingers around his horns and get a good grasp on them while drawing your hips high up above his length, that sloppy wet tip of his slipping out of you with something gooey oozing out of the centered slit already.

"Fuck—damn human—I said.. wait," Dabura attempts to warn again. His voice comes out slow ‘n heavy, lacking the previous sense of mockery and amusement he had when this whole thing started. The syllables used to nastily glide off of his tongue but now they’re falling out with an almost pathetic rasp. Hands sliding up to hold your waist firmly, grasping at every stretch of skin available there, he then squeezes as if to warn you or something.

Do you heed said warning?

Fuck no.

Your grip on his horns gets even tighter and he's still trying to tug his head away from you, something suddenly fogging up his gaze as you maintain your hold on him and plop your warmth back down onto his firmly-standing cock. “Let go,” He groans deeply, the sound vibrating against his inked throat. Ignoring the poor alien, you smile and arch forward all sensual-like,

“Mmnh, see? I knew you could make other faces!” You exclaim all excitedly as you drink in the sight of his eyes failing to uphold that hardened look from before.

He couldn't keep up with his glares no matter how hard he tried, not when you've got your palms rubbing up pressed against his horns. No one ever touches them, especially not in a situation like this but, here you are.

He should've known better than to agree with you about doing all this for science or-, whatever bullshit it was you uttered to him before all this. “I demand you release my horns this-, hahh..." His lashes flutter rapidly and his hips begin to unconsciously lift up to meet yours slightly, "—this instant, angh.” Dabura groans.

Now you're the one smiling, “But, mmngh! You feel like you’re enjoying it,” You point out softly just as your hips come flush with his and you start to grind with his cock knocking around your insides, “I wonder what happens if I move my hands… up, like this,” With your little narration, your touch on his horns begins to travel in a way that's far too stimulating.

So much so that Dabura's jaw falls open and something whiny runs out of his throat. “Fuhh-, fuck. Don’t-,” Pausing to swallow thickly, “Don’t stroke them, slut—" He's cut off by the spinning of his own mind. Suddenly, he didn't know where to focus his attention. There was too much pleasure: the sensation of your hands caressing his horns, your pussy greedily gulping in every inch of his all the way down to his deftly sat base, and then the way you squirm in reaction to him being flustered. "Please? I… I meant to say please,” He corrects.

“Awwww," You mock, trying to get back at him for each time he'd done so earlier, "That was a cute attempt at trying to regain control here, really."

Dabura's eyelids lower a bit more, hiding the way his vision is slightly fogging over with something watery, “I could-, mngh.." His jaw tenses tightly enough to flash a vein decorating his sharp jawline, "I could have you under me within seconds. You’re already pushing your luck here, as if it was not you who begged for me like this.” He argues with a sudden thrust upwards.

The motion throws you off your balance for just a second, causing your voice to leave you all shaky-like, “I did n-not beg.”

“You did," He protests further, leaning-, no, slouching back and then letting his sharp fingernails dig into your skin, "You whined for me to let you play around with my cock and now that its toying around inside that sloppy pussy of yours, you’ve the nerve to get—fuck—bold with me.”

“Anh! Dabura-,” You're moaning again while he uses his firm grip on you to fuck himself deeper—impossibly deeper—inside you.

Something whorish splays out across his lips and you think he's drooling for a split second as his shaft ever-so-rudely thump! thump! thumps! against somewhere new, “You should be more appreciative of what I give you," He grunts hotly, maw beginning to dangle open whilst something feral coats his gaze, “Especially when my cock is so snug inside you like this. Can you feel that? The way I kiss the depths of this pussy?”

You hate how swiftly he had you looking like some stupidly-fucked whore on top of him, “Y-Yes, fuck! That feels s’good.”

His brows furrow with true curiosity, “Does it?” He asks, a faint softness caught in his throat. When you start nodding again, he pulls at your body so that you can resume your needy grinding, “Mmh. Prove it to me.” At that, its almost like you snap out of your daze. Your hands don't just grip onto his horns to tease him, no, no. This time around you roll your hips forwards and hold onto his horns just to keep yourself steady. Dabura tries prying his head away from you again, gasping, “Ah-, that’s cheating.”

You ignore him, of course, and with your perfect hold on him, you begin to bouce—frantically so—the sounds of your skin slapping down against his flying throughout the room and leaving everything to sound a slicked mess of sex. “Not my fault you’re sensitive here," You taunt.

“I am not—ohfuck," Dabura tried to fight back this time, he really, really did. But with the way you rut your hips back 'n forth and back 'n forth before switching to that up 'n down, hungry bounce of yours, he just couldn't keep up.

The rest of his taut frame falls into something submissive and he whimpers when you jerk him forward by the horns to match your pace. Husking, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” like a broken little mantra as his pupils blow out and he starts to lean into your touches, “Fuck me good, keep fucking me like this.” He encourages in between the hot flashes of something rigidity and heavy building up inside him, “Yesyesyes-, I’m gonna cum-," The alien gasps with abruptinly bucking hips, "I'm gonna-, mmmgh, fuck!”

You lose your balance again and almost flop forward entirely but his hold on your hips keeps you upright, leaving your hands to gravitate to his face just as a single tear of pleasure rolls out of his left eye. The moment he feels it and you notice it, he starts thrusting up faster in an attempt to distract you from it.

“Ah! Mmgh," You moan, feeling the way he tries exasperatedly to bring you to tears instead, only to fail no matter how many times his cockhead weeps tender thwaks! against your cervix. "Cum inside me?" You choke, "B-But—“

“Wanna stuff you with all of me,” Dabura pours out throatily. It was like talking to a brick wall at this point, he was already smearing something warm 'n creamy into you as he spoke, “You’ll be so pretty with my seed dripping out of you so, please,” Another pitchy gasp cuts through the air, “Take it, let it be yours—for... for science, remember?”

Just then, you almost laugh. You probably would've if you weren't busy agreeing to his babbled words, nodding your head and chuckling, “Uhuhh, cum inside me then. M-Mmnh! For science."

banner art by Rororogi Mogera || tags (people who showed interest):

Leona - who’s been close enough to you to memorize the scent. He knows the brand. Knows the make and year. Some cheap body spray that barely lasts longer than a few hours. Like gum. He sprays some on his pillows before bed, burying his nose between them and pretends it’s you.

Ruggie - who couldn’t help himself. He swiped your half-empty bottle with practiced ease. Using it sparingly, down to the last drop, spritzing just enough on his collar to make it through the hard times. Doesn’t matter the price now. He tries to tell himself ‘when it’s out, i’m done’ but he said that when you left and look at him now.

Jack - who forgets entirely. Until weeks pass and he finds one of ‘your’ sweaters in his room. A little travel sized perfume in the pocket. He sprays some on the collar and presses it to his nose. For a moment, you’re there.

Azul - who’s paid for new couches in the VIP room. Scent permeates into leather and you’ve spent night after night curled on the originals. They’re moved to his bedroom, where he sleeps on them more than his own bed.

Floyd - who’s used to everything smelling too big. The surface world’s full of more pungent notes. He asks (demands) rather garishly for whatever you had. Soap, perfume, lotion - he doesn’t care. In a world where smells are too big, yours has become too small.

Jade - who brews the same blend of tea every night. Serves it in the same cup, pours out of the same pot, and doesn’t take a single sip. He lets the scent evaporate into the air because it smells faintly of someone who would dab some on their pulse points. Just for him.

Kalim - who supplied your entire wardrobe. Who wouldn’t budge on it, and made sure you had clean clothes besides your uniform. You looked so pretty, so happy, and your gratitude made him feel so loved. He didn’t stop there either. You complimented his bedroom once and that was enough to send more blankets than you’d ever need. Especially after seeing how cold Ramshackle could get. They were for you. So why are these the only blankets he can sleep in? If he closes his eyes, pulls them close, breathes - you’re hugging him, right? From wherever you are.

Jamil - who’s struggling to clean his room. There isn’t much time to dawdle. His sheets need to be washed. His uniform ironed. Then he has to finish his duties, shower, and ready for bed. He opens the top drawer for a new set of sheets and is hit with you. That’s right. You did the laundry last week…he closes the drawer and goes to borrow a set from Kalim. The urge to pull them out strong, but Jamil’s always been resistant to his needs.

Vil - who’s suddenly caught wearing a brand far beneath his normal standards. He rarely shows preference to one over the other. Yet this cheap, poorly balanced - honest to goodness mockery of a perfume has become his favorite. No one knows why.

Epel - who let you use his cardigan one time. More like you stole it during your stay at Harveston. Grandma said she’d make you one for when you came back. You still hogged his. The fibers picked your scent and he’s afraid to wash it. What was supposed to bring homely comfort, now fills him with yearning and nostalgia.

Rook - who seats himself in front of the fire. Barely lit, dim, and more for the mood. To light this abandoned room in a new emotion. He takes one last inhale from the most intoxicating scent known to Twisted Wonderland, and then tosses it to the flames.

Idia - who fingers a little glass bottle between thumb and index. It’s almost gone. He could buy more. Make some. The tags were peeled off, but Ortho could dissect the contents with just a drop. He’s clinging. Idia knows this as he pops the cap and presses his nose to it.

Ortho - who’s learning how to make friends. With new emotions and freedom. He’s studied the senses and how they influence emotions. When asked if there’s anything he’d like from Ramshackle, he thinks of what his brother might like. Idia won’t ask for himself. Yet Ortho’s own thoughts surprise him, because why does he want this little bottle of perfume so badly? It’s nothing special. He can locate 10 online listings with competitive prices and quantities. Yet he specifically wants this one.

Malleus - who slips into Ramshackle at the height of midnight. A ruin once again with relics upon relics of a beautiful soul now gone. He loiters and avoids your bedroom. Yet when he enters the bathroom, he looks at his reflection in the vanity. His eye catches the smallest glass bottle…and he takes it. He dares to spray it once on his cuff. The yearning causes him to stow it away for the next century. Until he craves to feel their warmth and searches.

Lilia - who smiles fondly, pressing the lapels of your blazer down and into a box. Taking it in before that sense begins to dull too. Committing it to memory. In a decade or two he’ll cross its path again, and remember .

Sebek - who chases. Who shamefully gives in to instinct and attachment. Who sprays the last of some generic, cheap, alcohol based scent that was an assault to him with bittersweet yearning. He traps it on your portrait and seals it in a glass frame. If temptation’s going to linger in him, then let it drive him forward.

Silver - whose eyes open easily for the first time. His heart stuttering, mind shifting, attention sharp … the call of your name on his lips, as a random student shakes him awake during class. He asks what perfume they wear and commits it to memory.

That’s why you’re here now, standing out of apartment 5B at peak rush hour, desperately knocking on his door. Your boss had called you just a half hour ago, asking—demanding, really—that you cover someone else’s 6PM shift. Calum stands beside you, blinking slowly, still drowsy after his nap earlier that afternoon, but there’s an eager look on his face as he anticipates spending the evening at Clark’s. His favourite Superman plushy is tucked under his arm, a little dirty from being dragged around all day, every day.

“Claaark, you in there?” You call out, rapping your fingers on the hard wood, your movements lazy and irritated.

It doesn’t take much longer before he  finally answers the stupid door. He’s a little out of breath, like he’s just run a marathon, but his normally messy hair is gelled back, a single curly strand resting against his forehead. His glasses are askew on his nose, a little tilted as putting them on was an afterthought. He gives you a onceover, taking in your wrinkled uniform —if he notices your sweater tag sticking out below your chin, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Hey. Sorry, I was… on a work call.”

You start to frown. A work call? At 5PM? And he didn’t hear you once? 

Unusual as his schedule may seem, you shake the thought away. “My boss scheduled me for a shift last minute. Can you look after Calum while I’m gone?”

Before Clark can even consider opening his mouth to answer you, your son comes barrelling in, throwing himself into Clark’s arms with a screech. “Hi, Mr Clark!”

“Hi, buddy.” Clark laughs, but there’s an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it. And more than anything, he looks tired, like a little bit of mental rest is all he needs. 

“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” you say apologetically, quickly rethinking your decision to leave Calum with him. You’re already holding your hand out, ready to take Cal back as the alternatives rush through your mind—Mrs Vanderbilt downstairs adores taking care of kids, but you know he hates her food. Janet-three-doors-down used to babysit when she was younger, though she’s been known to bring people around lately to do God knows what with God knows who.

“Stop.” Clark interrupts your spiralling thoughts, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. “It’s okay. I’ve got him. Go to work—I know the drill.” 

And he does. Clark’s been helping out for weeks now, and they follow the same routine every time without fail: play with Krypto, read a book, have a snack. If it’s late at night, Clark’s gracious enough to feed Calum dinner and put him to bed. He’s carried your son from his apartment to yours a floor down enough times now, a sleeping Calum in his arms as he does you favour after favour. 

You’ve tried to pay him back, but he refuses your money every time. 

“You need it more than I do,” he always says gently, routinely guiding you out the door before you can argue. Since then, you’ve done what you can: you offer him a plate of food when you know he’s been working late, and you walk Krypto some mornings on your daily run. It’s nothing compared to the things he does for you—but if it’s all he’ll accept, then you’re willing to repay him a hundred times over.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, clutching the strap of your handbag tighter. You reach out to Calum, still nestled in Clark’s arms, and kiss his forehead. “Be good for Mr Clark, okay, baby?”

He nods eagerly, waving goodbye as you turn away.

The moment the front door closes behind you, Clark lowers Calum to the ground. Immediately, the young boy whirls around to face him. 

“You promised we’d play superheroes today,” he says accusingly, his small frame already filled with so much conviction that Clark can only wonder what he’ll be like when he’s older. 

“Did I?” Clark raises his brow, a playful frown on his lips as he pretends to think. “I don’t remember promising that.”

“Yes, you did!” Calum insists. “You said you’ll take me around like Superman again—!”

 “Hm, maybe you’re thinking about another Superman, buddy.”

“No!” The boy tries to protest, hopping around Clark with an energy the older man has never been able to suppress. 

“I’m serious, bud,” Clark says, feigning innocence. “I think you’re thinking about another Superman.”

Calum giggles. “You’re silly.”

Clark just gasps, turning around as if to look for someone else Calum could be talking about before pointing at himself with mock offence. “Me? Silly?” 

“Yes, you! You can’t lie—Mama says it’s bad.” 

“Ah,” Clark pretends to groan, but the smile on his lips gives him away. “You’ve caught me—thought I could get away with it, sorry, bud. Promise you won’t tell your mum that I lied?”

Truth be told, Clark hadn’t meant for his neighbour’s kid to find out his real identity. It’d happened as a mistake. A minor slip up that could have cost him his life. But the thing about kids? No one believes them, especially not the ones who have their heads in the clouds—ones like Calum. 

He still remembers the day that Calum had found out.

It was one of the first times he’d ever taken care of Calum for you—probably the third or fourth time—and he’d had his back turned to Calum and Krypto, who were playing in the living room. His glasses had been off, smudged with fingerprints and specks of dust that had gathered throughout the day. He’d been wiping them with the hem of his shirt when he felt a tap on his lower back. Calum had already been yapping away—something about his day at the park—and, as Clark turned around to face him, the boy shrieked. It was a sharp, shrill sound that had him glancing up hurriedly to figure out what was wrong; a spider behind him, perhaps or—

“Superman.” 

The kid’s voice had come out as a gasp, unintentionally low as he pointed straight at Clark. Clark frowned, but it was hard to deny the sinking feeling in his stomach—shit.

“Calum, no—” Clark had started to protest, but Calum’s shouts only grew louder. 

“You’re Superman! You’re Superman!” 

Clark had to clamp his hand shut over Calum’s mouth then, forcing the little boy silent lest the neighbours heard that the man next door was Superman. His shouts were muffled under the weight of Clark’s but eventually became more subdued as he gave in to the authority behind the older man’s hold.

“Yes,” Clark gritted out, almost reluctant to admit it. “Yeah, bud. I’m Superman—”

After a moment, when he was sure Calum had settled, Clark took his hand off the kid’s mouth and stepped back warily, ready to jump back in if he decided to have another random burst of energy.

Calum just stared up at him, his tiny expression filled with awe and amazement, like a kid in a candy store. His voice was soft, in a way Clark had never heard before, as he whispered, “You’re my hero.”

Clark was sure he melted then, and looking back sometimes, he’s still shocked he hadn’t become a part of the floor when Calum had told him that. And he’s never been much for sentiment, but there’s something about it, knowing that a child looked up to a hero—to him—that warmed his heart more than anything else.

Since then, it’s become a well-kept secret between him and Clark. In exchange for Calum’s silence, Clark gave him a taste of the superhero life. The suit, the flying—he even cooked breakfast turkey with his eye lasers once, at Calum’s behest. (Never again.)

“Tell you what, bud,” Clark says, dropping to one knee in front of Calum. “You eat your dinner, and then maybe we can play heroes. Deal?”

He holds up his pinkie finger, a promise. 

Calum beams as he wraps his tiny hand around it. “Deal!”

— 

It’s 11:30PM when you knock on Clark’s door for the second time that night. 

When he opens the door, he’s changed into pyjamas since you last saw him earlier that evening. A white tee hugs his arms and chest, flannel pants loose and low on his hips. His hair is tousled, like he’s been rolling around—and judging by the state of Calum when he appears behind Clark—he probably has been. 

“Mama!” Calum screams, darting towards you. He wraps his arms around your legs, squeezing tightly. 

You rake your fingers through his hair gently. “You boys roughhousing again?” 

Clark only laughs, nodding his head. “You know it.”

“Thank you so much for looking after him again,” you say softly, an apologetic smile playing at your lips. A small part of you feels so guilty for leaving your son in his care so often, but there’s no one else willing to babysit a kid on such short notice—and for free as well. “It means a lot to me.”

“Seriously, it’s no worries,” he responds with a smile just as kind. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve seen all day.. “Calum’s a great kid and he’s great company. I love having him around.”

“Are you sure—?” 

He holds a hand up, silencing you before you can continue protesting. “I’m sure. I promise. Anytime you need me to look after him, just knock or call, you have my number.I’ll clear my schedule up—just ask.”

A wave of gratitude crashes over you. Since moving to Metropolis, it’s been hard for you to make friends on top of making a living—being a young, single mum in the city isn’t easy. You work long hours most days, take extra shifts just to afford rent and send Calum to preschool during the week. Work had been especially rough today. You’d had half a mind to quit on the spot before your shift even reached halfway; the chefs kept yelling at you for minor mistakes even though most of them weren’t even your fault, and you’d traded tables multiple times, with the excuse of, “Oh, but you’re so much better at dealing with the bad customers”. 

But you can’t tell him all that, not without making it weird, so you settle for, “You’re the best.”

Clark shrugs modestly, softening like he’s used to the praise. “Well, someone’s got to keep that troublemaker in check.”

“I’m not a troublemaker! I’m the boss!” Calum giggles, reaching out to tug on the hem of Clark’s tee. “You said so!”

“Sure, boss.” Clark rolls his eyes playfully as he ruffles Calum’s hair. “Whatever you say, buddy.”

You glance between them, your expression softening despite the exhaustion that feels like it’s dragging you down. 

“Well, even bosses need to sleep, so say bye to Mr Clark, honey,” you tell Calum gently, already turning away. His grip on your hand loosens as he stays back to hug Clark goodbye. 

“Bye, buddy,” Clark says. And then, easy as anything—

“See you next time, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

The word rolls off his tongue like it’s nothing. He says it so normally, like he’s always called you that.

A shiver runs down your spine at the sound of it, so natural and right. You pause. Not visibly, you hope, but he’s the kind of guy who notices the small details regardless. Still, something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest, as your throat works around a swallow, but the dryness sticks. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s just a word. A casual term of endearment.

Except it isn’t. Not when he says it like that. 

That’s when you force yourself to turn, a tiny shift to confront his gaze. 

He’s still in the doorway, smile playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A little cocky, but the gentleness in his gaze tells you otherwise, those wispy black curls falling over his eyes in a way that make you want to brush it away. 

All you say is, “See you, Clark,” and you start to make your way home.

Clark’s door closes behind you. Calum follows you down the hallway, little legs scurrying to keep up with your pace. He’s holding his Superman plushy to the ground, not caring that it’s getting dirtied on the stained carpet. You make a mental note to chuck that in the wash while he’s sleeping.

“Mama! Mama! Mam—” 

His chanting echoes throughout the staircase as he follows you back home, not quite caring that his loud volume could wake the neighbours.

“Yes, baby?” you hum when you stop in front of your door. “What’s wrong?”

Calum pauses. Blinks. And then he steps back, as if reconsidering his words, before blurting out, “Mr Clark is Superman!”

You just raise a brow, glancing down at him as you rummage through your bag for the keys to your apartment. “That’s nice, honey.”

“No, but actually,” Calum insists, pulling on your sleeve. “He showed me his suit! It’s got the ‘S’ and everything!”

“Right,” you mutter, jamming the key into the lock. The door swings open with a click and you flick on the lights, dumping your bags by the door. Calum bounds in after you. “And I’m Batman.”

He stops in his tracks, blinking up at you rapidly. “But… you’re a girl.”

“And Mr Clark is a journalist, Cal—I promise you, the closest he’s gotten to Superman is like… interviewing him or something,” you say with a shrug.

Cal’s always been the imaginative type—god knows how many trees you’ve had to coax him out of when he’s played superheroes at the park. So him pretending that your hunk of a neighbour is Superman is the furthest thing from unusual. 

Even then, you can’t help the flicker of curiosity that sparks inside of you, wondering, for just a moment, if Clark Kent really is more than just meets the eye. Honestly? You can kind of see it—not that you’ve actually paid attention to what Superman looks like or anything, but Clark really does fit the whole ‘friendly neighbourhood hero’ stereotype. Tall, strong, with biceps that look like they could—

You’re drawn back to the moment he called you ‘sweetheart’, voice rough because of the late hour but it had been like honey dripping from his mouth. So sweet that it makes your stomach turn even now. You’ve been called it before—by flirty waiters, by creepy customers who don’t understand personal space, by strangers on the streets. But when Clark had said it, it had been different. Honest. 

Calum pulls you back to Earth with his relentless squawking. He’s waving his arms about, walking in circles around you in a desperate attempt to get you to believe him. “But he flew me around his apartment, Mama!”

“Mhm,” you hum, scooping him into your arms. With a small boop on his nose, you carry him to the kitchen, setting him on the marbletop counter so he can’t escape. “And did you time travel too, or just regular flying today?”

“Superman can’t time travel, Mama.” It comes out in a huff, and his arms are crossed over his chest. 

You frown down at him. “He can’t? Oh. I didn’t know that. Well… was it just… regular flying, then?” That’s when your frown deepens, as your work-addled brain finally kickstarts back to life, and you realise—“Hey, Mr Clark’s got a small apartment. How was he supposed to fly around without knocking anything over, huh?”

Calum just gasps, as if you’ve caught him out on a lie. “He did! He floated me around!”

Maybe you’re just too tired to even think straight, but somehow, your four-year-old son sounds a little too convincing right now. He stares up at you with those wide eyes, a small, frustrated pout on his face, as if truly offended that you don’t believe him. And, for a split second—

Nope. Nope. Clark Kent is not Superman and you’re just easily swayed by your little boy with his unfairly persuasive eyes. 

“You’re funny, baby.”

“Mama—!” He tries to protest when you hook your hands under his armpits, swinging him down to the floor. “Go get ready for bed, Calum. And you better be changed by the time I get to your room or I’ll get Mr Clark to…” Shit, I don’t know. “... I’ll get him to fly your favourite teddy across the world and you’ll never see it again.”

You know how much that toy means to him—it’s his favourite thing to play with besides his Superman figurines. A genuine look of terror crosses Calum’s face, a plea at the tip of his tongue. But the thin line of your lips shows him that you mean business and he scurries away with a yelped, “Don’t call Mr Clark!”  

As you watch Calum disappear down the hall, you can’t shake away the warmth in your chest. Clark’s voice echoes through your head, the sight of him seared into your mind—

See you next time, sweetheart.

He’d said it like a promise, like he was so sure that you’d be back soon. A buzz of excitement tingles at your fingertips, already anticipating seeing him again the next time you need him to take care of Calum—even if for a moment. 

Yeah. You’re so fucked.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, it becomes routine to drop Calum off at Clark’s place every evening. Not because you have work, but because Cal just likes spending time with Clark.

And, despite how busy he is, Clark always makes time for your son. 

Some nights, you bring over dinner—plates of rice and meat in foil trays, fresh salads in glass bowls covered in clingwrap. 

You don’t stay. 

Staying means that you and Clark Kent are friends. It means that there’s something between you and there isn’t. He’s just your neighbour, one you trust enough to leave your son with on a daily basis. The guy who does you the same massive favour time and time even though you’re still unsure of how to repay him, and who, for some reason, calls you sweetheart more than your own name. 

Clark Kent is just your neighbour. 

You have to remind yourself this every time you see him, so dropping Calum off is limited to a strict routine: knock. Smile. Say bye. Leave. Clark seems to understand this unspoken rule you have with yourself, respects it enough to never drag conversation beyond the casual “How are you?”.

So it’s a… surprise when he swings the door open wider one day to invite you in, one that catches you off guard. Calum has already wandered in, and you’d heard him let out a loud shriek when he saw Krypto. You’re sure you hear a crash come from inside but Clark doesn’t even seem phased. 

He just smiles warmly and gestures you inside. “You’re  welcome to come in.”

You freeze. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. Every possibility runs through your head—every potential lie, excuse and story known to man that sounds respectable and believable all at once—that could possibly help you get out. Avoid conversation. Connection. 

But a sharp gasp comes from inside Clark’s apartment, and small feet patter against the tiled floor as Calum scurries up to the door. Krypto is hanging over his arm, tongue lolled out as they both stare up at you. 

“You’re staying?” Calum’s voice comes out as a garble, muffled by Krypto’s fur bunched up in his face. His eyes are bright, like he’s been waiting for this day to come—his two worlds, colliding. 

“No, not today, baby. I…” You stammer, trying to find a reasonable excuse, but the words die on your tongue when you catch the hopeful look on his face. 

Somehow, Clark clocks your bullshit before you can even think of a plausible excuse. He points out, matter-of-factly, “You don’t have work. You’re not in uniform.”

Dammit. “Uh… I was… planning on spending the night watching TV—”

“I have a TV.” He says it like it’s enough to immediately convince you. 

“I know you have a TV,” you throw back. “But I… am watching Netflix.”

You’ve got him now, you’re sure. There’s no way he—

“I also have Netflix,” he adds, a small smirk splitting his face. “So you should come in, sweetheart.” 

There’s that stupid word again. Sweetheart. And when he pairs it with that smirk, it makes your chest squeeze. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath to compose yourself again before straightening your back and meeting his gaze head-on. 

“Fine,” you relent with a sigh, but no amount of feigned resignation could hide the relenting smile teasing at your lips. 

“Yay!” 

Calum claps, best as he can as he holds Krypto, before he attempts to reach out and drag you further into Clark’s apartment. One of his tiny hands is clasped in yours, the other arm struggling to keep Krypto above ground as he guides you inside. You can hear Clark lock the door behind you, following you in with a steady gait that screams comfort and familiarity. 

Calum drops your hand then and scurries off somewhere without you. 

You don’t really know where to go from here. 

Clark’s place is clean, unsurprisingly so. It seems as though he cleans it almost pedantically, like he’s comfortable with using a vacuum and a mop. Somehow, that’s the most attractive part of him—most men wouldn’t even know the difference between a vacuum and a mop. Turning into the living room, you take the whole scene in: Calum is sitting on the carpet, a picture book in hand as Krypto lies down next to him. Grey blankets are strewn over the arm of his black leather couch. Books stacked high in a pile that looks seconds from toppling over. Magazines and newspapers and research all laid out on the floor. A fake potted plant set on the coffee table.

So he’s a plant dad. Or close to one. Same difference. 

“Calum gets his hands into them,” Clark says by way of explanation, standing next to you when he notices where your gaze is focused at. 

“That’s why I don’t keep anything potted in my house.”

“I was like that when I was younger.” There a reminiscent smile on his face as he talks, one that warms your own heart. “I loved getting into the dirt and all that. My Ma would always yell at me, ‘Clark Joseph Kent! Get your dirty shoes out of my house or so help me God—!”

That gets a laugh out of you. “She sounds like my kinda girl.”

He turns to look at you properly, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he says, “Oh, she’d love you, that’s for sure.” And then, after a second, he asks, “Can I get you anything?”

“No—” you start to say, but he just nods, as if a no isn’t an answer at all. “Soda, it is.”

Clark doesn’t wait for a response before moving to the kitchen. On his way, he pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and pats the seat, motioning for you to sit. Settling down onto the cushion, you lean forward to rest your chin in your palms as you look over at him. He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a can before he digs into the freezer for ice. 

His motions are robotic, practiced almost, as he spoons the ice into a cup. Flips the tab up, and the can opens with a satisfying hiss. He pours it into the glass before sliding it over to you. 

“Enjoy,” he says with a wink, and you can only roll your eyes playfully.

You don’t drink straight away though, just keep a watchful eye as he pours his own cup. It’s then that you catch the pots on the stove, still steaming with a heat that suggests he just cooked.

“Well, colour me surprised,” you say sarcastically, “Clark Kent can cook. And to think, I spent all this time giving you food because I thought you were just another helpless manchild.”

That’s a lie. You’ve always known he was capable—you’d never have left Calum with him so often if not. But you like pushing his buttons and his reaction—a mildly offended frown as he stammers to defend himself—sends a thrill down your spine.

Clark gathers himself quickly, a retort sharp on his tongue.

“Unless you count pouring a drink as being a chef—” he shrugs, taking a sip—“Then yeah, I’m a chef.”

After a while, he sits up in his chair, reaching over to straighten a placeholder that’s already set out perfectly. “My mother raised me to be self-sufficient. Cooking, cleaning… it was her way or the highway.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, to this little snippet of a life you were never supposed to be privy to. You’re only neighbours after all—acquaintances, at most. Never once did you expect your relationship with Clark to go beyond that. Being invited into his apartment is one of the last things you expected to happen.

And though it’s sweet, the way he’s accepted you and Calum as a permanent fixture in his daily life, you’re not sure if you’re ready for him to become a permanent fixture in yours.

So, to divert the conversation, all you say is, “Your dog is weird,” as you watch as Krypto drags Calum around by the collar of his shirt.

He wears a Superman cape in place of a collar and you can’t help but find it strange—you’d never pegged Clark as a Superman fan, per se, though you’ve always known he’s worked closely with the hero. If anything, the sight amuses you. It makes you giggle every time you see it.

Clark follows your gaze and practically does a double take when he sees what they’re up to. “Krypto, no—!”

The dog in question growls before letting Calum go and he hits the floor with a muted thud. Calum just laughs, scrambling after him.

“So…” Clark starts the conversation back up.

“So,” you echo.

“How’ve you been?” 

But before you can even get a word out, Clark tells you, almost warningly, “And don’t lie to me, sweetheart. I’m not here to judge you.”

You sigh, a soft exhale that spokes volumes about the weariness that bears heavy on your shoulders. “Work’s been good, like normal—”

“You,” he cuts in, “not work.”

“I… have been tired,” you admit quietly. You use your finger to trace the drops of water that run down the side of the glass, doodling in the condensation. It’s your best attempt at avoiding his gaze as it bears into you, persistent. “You know, work has been a lot… Cal’s been a lot and there’s only so much I can handle, y’know—”

“I know,” he reassures. He pauses before saying, “Calum’s great company. Most of the time.”

Your brows quirk up. “Most of the time?” 

“He makes a mess more often than not,” he says with a shrug, “but he’s good company. A smart kid.” 

“Ah, he’s always been like that,” you murmur. “Too… everything… for his own good. Sometimes, I wonder how I ever managed to raise him on my own these last few years. He’s a handful, to say the least. But you’ve been a lot of help, you know that, right?”

A knowing smile playing at his lips, and he just shrugs, unfazed. You’ve said it enough times ever since he started babysitting, and you’re sure he’s sick of it by now, but it hardly scrapes the surface of the appreciation you have towards him.

“I know,” he says simply. 

“And… I’m really thankful for it,” you continue, and the weight of your gratitude—a debt unpaid—weighs down heavy on your shoulders.

“I know,” he repeats, the look never leaving his eyes. Like he knows exactly how you feel. 

“And if there’s any way to make it up to you—”

“Sweetheart.” Clark cuts you off before you , and reaches over to squeeze your upper arm, his massive palm warm even through the thick material of your jumper. His hand drifts up, finger hooking beneath your chin to redirect your focus to him. Your breath catches—between every sweetheart, every lingering look… he hasn’t dared touch you so closely. So familiar.

“Parenthood takes time, that’s what my Pa always tells me,” he rumbles. “The offer always stands—if you ever need help… you know where to find me.”

— 

Clark holds onto his end of the promise. 

The setting sun creeps through the sheer material of your living room curtains, basking your apartment in a warm, golden glow. He is in your kitchen, elbow-deep in your sink as he scrubs the dishes with careful, soapy hands. 

He’d made a beeline for the kitchen the second you’d opened the door for him. You could only watch as he put the kettle on, manoeuvring your space like he knows exactly where to find what he needs—and he does. He’s watched you do it enough times now. Two spoons of sugar, one teabag, no milk, piping hot water. Your favourite pink mug. Just the way you like it.

Clark has been spending a lot of time at your place lately. He likes to joke that “it’s a pitstop before I get home”, but a small part of you thinks that he’s just lonely. So, you welcome him into your home every time he knocks, so he knows that he’s not alone. 

You’ve heard bits and pieces of his story since he’s come to Metropolis—his job at the Daily Planet, every failed date and messed up girl he’s been out with. The old ladies at his favourite cafe across the road from work, who never fail to give him a free pastry every morning because he’s “the handsomest thing they’d ever seen”. How his boss is an ass most days, and Jimmy Olsen always has something to say, while Lois is the only one really standing up for him. You met her once, Lois Lane, when 

And on quiet days, he indulges you. Tells you about his life back in Smallville. You’ve come to know about his parents, Pa and Ma Kent, and the farm he lived on for more than half his life. How leaving home, although a blessing and an opportunity, was one of the biggest challenges he’s ever faced. 

Every time he talks about home, there’s always a faraway look in his eyes. Like he’s dreaming about a place he can’t quite call home anymore, not in the way he calls Metropolis home now. You’re tempted to ask more, find out about the fields he once played in, the girls he kissed behind his parents’ barn. But you don’t pry. It’s a part of his life, his past, that you feel like you have no right over—no matter how close you two get, you’ve come to accept that you might always be disconnected from a part of him he’s not yet ready to show. 

You enjoy listening to him talk though. Every word he says is a story, every story a lesson and you’re a thousand percent sure you want to keep learning. 

In return, he treats you, with cups of tea and the occasional hot chocolate on the nights it’s particularly chilly. Some days, he arrives with groceries if he’s noticed you’re running low on something you have yet to replenish—fresh milk, fruits and vegetables, and a specific pack of blueberry muffins that he knows Calum loves. 

“You didn’t have to come over,” you say quietly, clutching the steaming mug of tea he’d made you. 

“I don’t mind helping,” he shrugs. He sounds honest about it. Perhaps that’s the worst thing about your friendship with Clark. He’s willing to give and give and give. You still don’t know how to pay him back. 

Unsure of what to say, you fall quiet, the familiar noises of the city below settling in the cracks of the silence. Then you pipe up, “And you don’t need to wash my dishes—”

“I don’t mind helping,” he repeats, firmer now as he fixes you with a stern look that brooks no argument. “You’ve left it for hours. Any longer and it would start to stink.”

All you can do is wrinkle your nose and pout, hating to admit that he’s right. 

Today is one of those days where Calum is at your cousin’s house. She has kids his age and you’re just glad that he’s connecting with family when you aren’t able to take him yourself. And despite the fact that Cal isn’t here, you don’t mind that Clark has come over. Ironically, that’s when you enjoy his company the most. When there’s no Calum or Krypto running amok, and it’s just the two of you, coexisting in a single space, sharing the same air and the same silence. 

Your apartment is a picturesque thing, the type that comes up when you search ‘apartment inspo’ on Pinterest—it smells like cinnamon and vanilla and there are fairy lights strewn up around the window sill. It’s perfect for you and Calum, decorated and lived in in a way that’s perfect for a mother and son. Grey coloured carpet that miraculously never gets dirty, despite the fact that there’s a four-year-old wandering around all day. House slippers by the front door—a small Lightning McQueen themed pair for Calum, another pink and fluffy one for yourself. 

And, as Clark began to assimilate into your life, spending more time in your home, little bits of him started to seep into parts of you.  

Now, he has a spare jacket hanging from the hook on the door of the linens closet. He’d left it there a couple weeks ago and never bothered to take it home—you’ve stopped reminding him too. “In case I need it one day,” he’d told you the first time you tried giving it back, taking the liberty to hang it on the hook himself. You could only watch as he beamed at you, that face so full of pride, before stepping back with an approving nod. That hoodie feels like a brand, an unspoken symbol of Clark’s presence, and, even though you’re hesitant to admit it, his importance in your life.

You’re even sure that, sometime in the last few weeks, he brought in his favourite coffee powder. It sits on your countertop, beside your sugar, honey and teabags. He leaves it open sometimes, on the days that he comes over and forgets to close it after using you. You’ve grown accustomed to closing it now, a small step in your routine that you do without second thought.  

Somehow, Clark Kent has become a part of your life and you didn’t even realise it. 

“You know… My Ma would love it if I had kids.” 

Clark’s words shatter the silence you’ve grown comfortable in, making you glance up with a frown. His confession is unexpected, sure, but you’re just glad that he’s willing to open up to you. 

 Sipping lightly at your tea, the liquid is still warm, settling comfortably in your stomach and easing the stress of the day. “What’s the holdup?”

“Work,” he says simply before pausing. His gaze falls to your lips before it flicks away, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. Recently, you’ve come to notice that, when Clark blushes, his neck, along with the tips of his ears, turns red. It’s endearing, you think. There’s something so incredibly boyish about it, the way his whole face scrunches up as if to hide the embarrassment he feels every time he gets flustered. 

After a moment’s pause, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Just looking for the right girl, really.”  

“What about Lois—?” 

The question is halfway out of your mouth before he whirls around, the soapy plate in his hands clattering into the sink. His eyes are wide with something close to terror. Maybe it’s offense. Or maybe he’s just insulted by the fact that you even suggested it in the first place, like the idea of being with Lois never crossed his own mind. 

“God, no,” Clark sputters, an appalled look in his eyes. Then, as if concerned that his words might come off as rude, he says, “Lois is… just a friend.”

“Just a friend,” you repeat, a knowing grin on your face. You cock your brow and shrug. “Sure. Whatever you say, Clark.”

“I swear!” His voice cracks a little as he turns back to the sink, rinsing the plate he’d dropped. He stacks it in the rack, moving on to the next one before clearing his throat. “She—Lois says I need to get out more. I think this counts. Being here. With you.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoy my company.”

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. 

The dark screen lights up to reveal the photo of Calum on your wallpaper—it’s only recent, one you snapped a few weeks ago at the local park. You’d gotten ice cream that day, shared a cone under the hot yellow sun, sheltered beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Triple choc chip, you still remember it. Clark had introduced it to Calum while babysitting him and it’s been your son’s favourite ever since. His face is smeared with ice cream in the photo, and the gaps where two of his baby teeth have fallen out are on full display as he beams up at you.

And at the bottom of your screen, above all the other notifications, is a message from your cousin. 

Gonna drop Cal off at your place soon

Says he misses you, mama xx

A rush of warmth courses through your veins as you smile down at the message. A day without Calum is a day too long for you. Quickly, you type up a message before sending it off.

“Hey, Clark?” 

Clark glances up when you speak and his face is pinched in confusion, waiting for you to continue.

Pocketing your phone, you hop off the stool to place your mug in the sink. The corners of your eyes crinkle as you offer him a soft grin and murmur, “I’m sure you’ll find her one day. The ‘right girl’, I mean. Most of the time, the right person is right in front of you.”

“I hope so,” he mutters, voice low and bitter, like he’s been waiting too long for a future that doesn’t seem eager to arrive. 

“Thank you.” Gravitating closer towards him, you rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

He stills under your touch before relaxing into it. And, with a familiarity that makes your heart stutter, his soapy hand finds your waist, resting against the curve of it for a short moment. Then you step back, pulling away from his touch entirely. But the moment doesn’t shatter. The stillness remains, a comfort that you both bask in while it’s there. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replies, and you know he means it. 

— 

Four months after the very first time Clark invited you into his house as ‘friends’, you’ve begun to frequent each other’s apartments more often. Calum is almost always in tow, of course, like a squirmy little parasite that giggles too much when someone looks at it. 

But nowadays, it’s more about seeing each other than anything else. 

On the days that you’re not working, sometimes he makes his way to your apartment during his lunchbreak so that the two of you can enjoy a meal together. He claims that it’s because one of your homecooked meals is far better than running out to a Chipotle. And other times, when Clark has long since settled himself on your couch, he’ll flick through Netflix in search of a show to bingewatch, and so far, you’ve been through Gilmore Girls, Brooklyn-99 and Stranger Things.  

Your favourite shared pastime, though, is sitting on the other’s couch, soda in hand—since neither of you drink much—as you gossip about anything and everything in the world. And today, it’s—

“Does Calum ever ask about his dad?”

The question takes you by surprise and you blink up at him from where you sit beside him, sunken into the couch. There’s a soft blanket thrown over your lap, phone in hand, Instagram opened and forgotten. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again to take a deep breath. 

Clark has never pried before. Doesn’t ask for more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t blame his curiosity, not really. Not when he’s been so patient with you, never going beyond what you need—a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold.  

“Not really,” you murmur eventually, indulging him in just the slightest of ways. “It’s just been me and him since before he was born, I don’t think he realises someone is… missing from our family.”

“Is there?” He asks softly, but you hear the weight in it—like he’s asking something bigger than you’re ready to answer. 

You can only laugh in response, but it sounds almost forced, like you’re trying to alleviate a weight on your chest. A reality you’re not willing to face. “I don’t know.”

Maybe.

“You don’t know,” he repeats slowly.

Deliberately avoiding his gaze, you just shrug. Ever since you were a young girl, you’d always looked up to your parents. 

They were, in theory and in practice, the perfect couple. 

Your father had swept your mother off her feet when they were only in college—you’ve heard stories, seen the photos of how he charmed her over. A simple smile every time he looked at her, white teeth on display and a spark in his eyes that only she could seem to light up. Coffee every morning without fail, waiting on your mother’s bedside table for when she wakes up, that perfect sip that would remind her why she fell for your father in the first place. 

You still see it now, in the way they answer every FaceTime call side by side, beaming faces as they look at you and Calum. How, without fail, they do everything together. Afternoon walks in the park, hand in hand, your father purposefully walking slower to keep up with your mother’s leisurely pace. Trips to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings to pick up more of their favourite jams and breads, and dinners at the dining table every night—even though it’s been particularly quiet since you and Cal moved away to the big city.

And ever since you were a young girl, you’d always imagined that the perfect family—your perfect family—would be the exact same way. A husband, who would love and care for you the same way you’d love and care for him. A simple life, without empty spaces. Without holes. 

You’d thought you’d get the chance to have that with your ex. Turns out, men like your father don’t exist. 

“I’m… waiting, I guess,” you mumble. “Just looking for the right guy.”

The words sound unsettlingly familiar to Clark. He shifts in his spot, trying to recall where he had heard them. It’s a faint memory, one he can’t quite grasp onto. So, he just asks, “And, this ‘right guy’. What’s he like?”

“He has to love Calum,” you say immediately, certainly. “His love for me means nothing if he doesn’t love Calum.”

Clark just remains silent. Listening attentively as he nods, absorbing every word. Gaze soft, like he can see the genuine yearning behind your eyes for a love that transcends the moment—something so out of reach, yet so close each time you imagine it. Your own gaze reflects his own emotions—a storm that begs to be tamed, a heart screaming for connection. Flowers on your birthday and Valentine’s Day and any day in between, just because. Kisses in bed and late mornings after sleeping tangled in the same sheets. 

“He’d be kind,” you say wistfully, “the kind of man who loves me because I’m someone worth loving. He’d know what I want before I even say it, and if I’m ever mad, he’ll do whatever he can to make me happier again because seeing me smile is the best part of his day. And… he should think that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. I need to be important to him—he’d bring me flowers every Sunday, take me out for dinner dates, and all that. I want to be the girl he looks at like I’m his world.”

“Ah, so you want to be spoiled?” He grins down at you. “That’s pretty high maintenance of you, sweetheart.”

You just roll your eyes. “I prefer the term ‘princess treatment’.”

“And… does this lucky man have any particular appearance in here?” He taps your forehead with his forefinger, almost teasing in the act. His touch lingers, brushing a stray hair out of your eyes before pulling away entirely. 

Chewing on your bottom lip, you think for a moment. You can see your lucky man in your head, clear as day. You’d be lying if you didn’t imagine about him sometimes, when the lights are low or work is quiet. His face is fuzzy, like a figure in a dream you see often enough to recognise, but too fleetingly to truly remember. 

Gathering what you can recall, you settle on, “Tall.”

Clark raises a brow. “Just tall?”

“Tall,” you repeat with a shrug. “‘Six foot four’ kind of tall. He’d be… ideally, he’d be big. Like, broad, almost? I want him to be able to just… completely engulf me every time he hugs me. Dark-haired dudes are pretty sexy too—”

He cuts in with a laugh, a rumble deep from within his chest as he looks at you amusedly. “Could you be any more specific?”

You continue on, a small smile playing at your lips as you shake off his playful comments. “Light eyes… a strong jaw… big nose. Glasses, maybe. Tan skin—but not too dark to the point where it looks fake, y’know? There’s nothing more unattractive than a fake t—”

But then Clark’s fingers are hooking under your chin, drawing your focus back to him and your tangent falters. He searches your face with a darkened gaze, as if looking for something in your eyes, seeking to be let in.

“It doesn’t matter what he looks like. All that matters is you.”

It comes out as a murmur, a slight rasp on his lips. Honest.

Your breath hitches, and all you can do is take him in. Clark Kent with those stupid blue eyes, an ocean in and of itself that makes you want to throw all caution to the wind and drown in them. His hair is ruffled from resting his head back on the couch, and you’re tempted to run your fingers through them to smooth it back. Strong jaw that could cut glass and the bluest eyes that remind you of the sky lit up by the yellow sun. 

Everything you’d described made flesh and bone and blood. All that you want in a man. Or maybe just all that you want. 

His nose brushes against yours. “Sweetheart… you’re giving me that look again.”

“What look?” 

“Like you want me.” 

You don’t answer at first. Just search his gaze for the words to voice a truth you’re tempted to deny. And then finally, “I don’t look at you like that.”

Clark chuckles, hiding the amused smile that tugs at his lips. “Sure, you don’t.”

“I don’t—” you start to protest, but your voice is weak and you’re putty in his hands, practically melting the moment he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip. “I don’t look at you like I…”

You can’t finish that sentence. 

“Yes,” he says, the smile never fading. “You do. When you think I’m not looking, or from across the room. I notice, sweetheart. When it comes to you, I always do.”

There’s a scratch in your throat, one that doesn’t disappear even as you swallow to get rid of it. “You’re just… weirdly observant.”

He doesn’t respond. He just draws closer, palm shifting to cup your face properly, until his forehead rests on yours. There’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn, nervous and anticipatory all at once. It has you relaxing against him, your body pliant in his hold.

“Give me the word and I’ll stop,” he whispers, a soft murmur that washes over you like the waves of a rolling tide. 

“I don’t want you to stop,” you breathe out. Almost afraid that, if you were to speak too loudly, the tension would snap and the moment would end—like it never existed to begin with.

His lips are a hairsbreadth away from yours and he pauses. “Sweetheart, are you sure?” 

All you offer is a tiny, imperceptible nod of your head, so small it could have been mistaken for a twitch—but he notices. He’s right. He always notices.

Clark doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth finds yours in an instant, warm, wanting and so sure. It starts gentle, like he’s holding back, terrified of scaring you off or backing you into a corner. But when you melt into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens the kiss. 

And it’s as if something just clicks into place.

One hand drifts down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as the other remains cradling your jaw. You can taste a hint of the soda from earlier on his breath, the steady thrum his heart strong beneath your fingertips.

Clark kisses you like he’s memorising you. Or maybe he has something to prove and words alone aren’t enough.

By the time he pulls back, just an inch, your breath catches in your throat. Your lips part, pink and puffy, as his eyes search yours. Waiting. 

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s both of you at the same, acting on instinct and base nature—but then you’re kissing again, and this time it’s messier, hungrier.

A nagging thought lurks in the back of your mind as he wrecks you, mind and soul—the dam between you has finally broken and you’re both helpless to stop what’s spilling out. 

— 

Somehow, you find yourself on Clark’s couch, in his bed and his arms more often than not. It never ventures further than making out though. He knows—can already read you better than anyone—that you’re not ready. And he’s the last person to pressure you. So, he’s been patient. Stolen kisses in the kitchen, with you perched on the countertop so that you’re eye-level with him, while Calum plays in the background, oblivious to the act, but not the connection. It gets more desperate the longer you’re alone—parted lips beneath chasing hands, sharing breath like it’s the only language you both understand.

Despite it all—the endless passion and desire—there’s a permanent hunger you can’t seem to satiate. 

“We shouldn’t,” you pant out, breaking away from the kiss. 

You’re lying on your back on his couch, as Clark leans over you. He supports himself with one hand, making sure not to put his weight on you, while the other cups your face.

“Sweetheart, we’ve been ‘friends’ for months, and you’re only now telling me ‘we shouldn’t’?” His thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek in a soothing back-and-forth motion that has you leaning into his touch instinctively. 

Damn him and his stupid nice-guy act, you think, eyes narrowing as you take him in. There’s lipstick around his mouth, a chocolatey pink identical to the mess he’s made of you. You brush your fingers over his lips, smudging away the soft flush of colour. He tilts his head and presses a featherlight kiss to your fingertips. 

He’s got a twinkle in his eye that tells you, even though he’s enjoying the banter, he wants more. He’s ready for more. 

The idea alone terrifies you. 

It’s been months since you last slept with someone, let alone with a guy you’ve come to know so well. It’s been longer since you were actually invested in one. 

Clark is a good man, there’s no denying that. Kind and sweet and a gentle giant, the kind you bring home to your dad. God knows he would love it if you brought Clark home after the whole experience with Calum’s father. That’s exactly the thing, though. Navigating single life with a young kid isn’t easy. Every guy you’ve dated in the years since giving birth has either been clingy with mommy issues or too much of a weirdo to be able to bring around Calum. You never would have thought that the man for you had been just one floor up.

And now you’re laid back on his couch where he’s holding you like he’s already yours. Smelling like citrus and safety and a little smoke, gazing down at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars and shaped his world with gentle hands. 

That’s what scares you the most. Because what if this is the part where it all goes wrong? What if Clark decides that the hassle of you—of Calum, and raising your son by your side—isn’t worth the trouble? What if you let him in, just to lose him before you truly have him?

“I just—”

He catches the worried look in your eye almost immediately, and he holds a finger to your lips, silencing you. “Hey. I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m sorry.”

A faint blush colours your cheeks. His genuine concern causes a warm feeling to flood through your chest, and you can’t help but look away—his stare is intense. Honest. His grip shifts, tightening around your chin before you can pull away entirely. It forces you to look at him.

“I don’t know who hurt you,” he murmurs, searching your eyes, “but I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say quietly. 

It’s a bold promise after all, one you’re sure he won’t be able to keep. 

“Do you, though?”

“Yes,” but it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. 

Clark simply leans in closer. “Do you?”

This time, you don’t respond. There’s something about the look in his eyes that tells you he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. At your silence, he nudges your chin up with his nose, his lips finding your throat to suckle on the soft skin almost immediately. Your breathy sigh—while unwarranted—is like a church choir, an angel’s chorus as it descends from Heaven, and as sweet as the pop of a ripe pomegranate seed between his teeth. He takes a moment to breathe in it, revel in it—allowing himself to imagine how you would moan beneath him when he finally stops holding back. How the sweetness of your essence would drip from his lips, a dirty mess but one that he’s ready to savour. 

Somehow, the air feels thicker. Filled with something akin to want. 

It makes your fingers twitch, a tingle running down your body, electric where his skin meets yours. 

“Can I show you?” he murmurs, slowly shifting until he’s lying between your thighs. His hands find purchase on your hips, never venturing too far. The broad width of his shoulders forces your legs apart. 

When you don’t respond, he glances up at you. 

“Can I, sweetheart?” 

A mellow whimper leaves your lips as your eyelids flutter shut, pure bliss tingling throughout your body. And just like the first time he kissed you, all you offer him is a jerk of your head. It’s slightly forced, but you can’t find your voice—because you know that if you open your mouth now, you might just start begging.

“I need words, angel,” Clark rasps, looking up at you through the thick of his lashes. His fingers trail down your leg, teasing the skin below the hem of your shorts. He drags it higher, tantalisingly slow and deliberate, until the curve of your thigh is bared to him. His touch is featherlight, maddening, and you press closer, desperate to feel the heat of him through his shirt.

“Clark…” you whisper, fingers finding his jaw so you can tilt his face up. His gaze locks on you—there’s a hunger in his stare, a desire that pools in the depths of his soul, so pure and honest that you’re ready to throw it all to the wind and say ‘Yes’ to whatever he wants. 

“Say it,” he urges, voice husky but gentle, like you’re porcelain he needs to handle with care. 

You lick your lips, still cradling his jaw. “Yes,” you breathe out. “You can.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds you there, strong hands anchoring you to the couch as his breath ghosts over your skin, waiting for you to change your mind. When it’s clear that you’re not going back, he drags the waistband of your shorts down, baring you slowly. 

“Beautiful,” he groans, taking in the sight of your exposed legs. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”

A faint blush dusts your cheeks as your legs close on instinct. But he pries them open again, his fervent touch almost reverent in the act. His fingers brush against the underside of your jaw, tilting your head down to look at him. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he pleads. “I wanna see. Please, let me see you—”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” He immediately goes to tug your panties off. It’s just a simple pink pair but he still rumbles out, “So pretty, sweetheart. Everything about you is.”

Soft kisses travel down your thigh, and he takes his time worshipping you, until you’re left writhing below him. His warm breath hits your skin, and, with a soft whine, you press your head back into the pillow, back arching to curve into his body. He steadies you, the tip of his nose nudging the point above your mound.

“Please, Clark…” 

He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds your core, tongue flicking out to lick through your slit— 

And the first taste is fucking heaven. 

— 

Clark’s not too sure why he brought wine. 

It’s a nice bottle of red, straight from the vineyards in Napa Valley. He’d flown there right after work, and he can only imagine how strange it must have been: Superman casually buying a bottle of wine, thousands of miles from home. He’s certain you can’t tell the difference between store bought wine and something fancier. You’re not a drinker, after all—he’s made you enough mugs of tea and hot chocolate to know that.  

But he remembers you once mentioning that you haven’t had a drink since Calum was born. And tonight, he wanted to treat you. 

Surprise you, more like, because you technically don’t know he’s coming for a ‘date night’ at your place. The second you messaged him that morning, saying you were off night shifts for the rest of the week and planned on dropping Cal off to your cousin’s again to spend the night, he’d instantly made plans to indulge you. Breakfast for dinner, wine, desserts and a romcom on your couch. Just the two of you.

The gesture is romantic in his head, and he finds himself rehearsing what he wants to say to you on the walk downstairs, from his apartment to yours. 

“‘Hey, sweetheart’,” he recites to himself, “‘I’m here to… surprise you.’ No, that’s weird. ‘Surprise’? Boring. ‘Clear up your schedule, tonight it’s just me, you and Netflix’—?”

That last one makes him recoil, the sound of it forced on his tongue. For all that it’s worth, he’s not the flashy type, and he’s terribly uncorny. He’s not good at keeping surprises, even worse at setting them up. For you though, he’s willing to try.

Clark rounds the corner leading out of the stairwell, stepping into the main hallway, where he can hear voices echoing faintly down the hallway. He can barely make out the words—two people, one of them whose voice is sharp, laced with mockery. The other sounds more nervous, insistent as they drive 

Clark inhales sharply when he finally sees you. Fists clenched and face set in a frown, unable to hide the fear—and repulsion—in your eyes. By your body language alone, Clark knows exactly who’s at the door.

Your ex-boyfriend. Calum’s father. 

“You gonna invite me in or what?” The man sneers, looking past your shoulder in an attempt to peer into your home. He’s tall-ish and lean, with a denim jacket that hangs loose off his shoulders, a smirk that makes Clark shiver and greasy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed for days.

 Clark instantly clocks what–or rather, who—he’s looking for. But he knows that Calum’s with your cousin, and he can’t help but exhale in relief, knowing that it means your son is out of reach.

You don’t seem to notice Clark yet. Not until he comes up behind your ex, his footsteps purposeful. His presence fills the hallway in an instant, blanketing it with something close to comfort and security. You can sense it almost immediately, only looking up when you feel his stare burning into you.

Your name is a soft rumble in his chest, and—

“Clark,” you breathe out, relief easing the tension in your fingers and they relax visibly at your sides.

Your ex whirls around, taken off guard, only to be greeted by Clark’s towering frame and an unreadable expression. Clark’s tall—always has been, so the guy has to step back a little just to meet Clark’s stare dead-on. 

Clark’s gaze flicks to your ex for just a moment before focusing on you again, as if your ex doesn’t exist. “Hey,” Clark says, his voice neutral but clipped. “I didn’t know you had company.”

You blink. “Dylan was just… stopping by—”

“Dylan?” Clark frowns, his head swivelling between you and your ex to gauge the true nature of ‘Dylan’s’ visit .

“I’m Calum’s father.” Dylan steps forward, holding a hand out to Clark. There’s an air of confidence, self-proclaimed familiarity in the way he carries himself—and an arrogance that makes Clark’s blood simmer. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Clark doesn't immediately take his hand. His eyes flick to you for a beat, brows drawing in to pinch in the subtlest frown. You avoid his gaze. He finally reaches out and clasps Dylan’s hand, but it’s brief. Cold. Just enough pressure to make a point.

“Clark Kent,” he says, taking Dylan’s hand gingerly. “I’m her upstairs neighbour.”

“He takes care of Calum when I’m at work sometimes—” you begin explaining, but Clark interrupts you to ask Dylan, “So, what brings you around?”

“I was just having a conversation with my baby mama. Didn’t realise I needed to clear it with you, big guy.”

Clark takes a step forward. Not by much, but just enough that Dylan’s smirk twitches. He catches himself quickly though, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders as if to size Clark up. You might’ve giggled if you weren’t so stressed—Clark still towers over Dylan by over six inches, his broad frame making him almost colossal next to your ex. 

“Funny.” Clark’s tone is flat, unamused. “Because last I checked, fathers who actually show up don’t need to justify it.”

Dylan’s jaw tightens and he quickly retorts, “I don’t need to be lectured by a guy who plays house with someone else’s kid.”

Clark clenches his fists, the twitch in them unmistakeable. Slip up, he thinks, give me a reason to hurt you the way you’ve hurt her. “I take care of your son when she’s working. That’s hardly playing house.”

“You telling me you haven’t fucked her yet? Haven’t even wanted to?”

The venom—and truth—in his words makes you recoil. A subtle flinch that Clark notices immediately. Dylan doesn’t seem to be any the wiser to the way you react though, oblivious to the way his words hit their mark. 

“Pretty boy’s all up in our business, brings a bottle of wine with him, hair combed back like he’s on a date, and you’re seriously trying to tell me he hasn’t been in your pants.” Dylan lets out a mocking scoff, rolling his eyes dismissively as his hand extends, grasping your sleeve with sticky fingers. “C’mon, babe.” 

“Get your dirty hands off her,” Clark growls, wrenching Dylan’s arm away from you with an irontight grip. Clark’s fingers wrap around his wrist, twisting it around until it's pinned behind the other man’s body. “Don’t touch her.”

“Or what?” 

“Stop it, you two,” you snap, stepping in to push them apart before it can get any worse. “This isn’t a fucking dick-measusing competition or whatever you boys like to do in your free time. You can either show Clark some respect or you can leave, Dylan.”

It’s clear, by just your voice alone, that you’re not putting up with their childish argument. “Dylan—” you warn, moving closer between them, when you notice that your son’s father isn’t about to back off. 

“Don’t.” Clark cuts in to hold you back.

“So you’re telling me that you leave our kid with some random fucker, and suddenly, he’s your daddy or something too—?” 

Clark’s hand shoots out, gripping the collar of Dylan’s shirt. Dragging him forward until they’re face to face, Clark growls, “You disrespect her one more time, you touch her one more time… and I won’t be this gentle. Do you see me breaking anything? Because I could.”

He leans in closer, his grip on Dylan’s shirt sliding up to wrap around his neck. Clark isn’t violent—or at least, the Clark you know isn’t violent, so the sudden display of anger rubs you the wrong way. The Clark you know is gentle, holds you with loving hands, and he murmurs sweet nothings into your ear late at night. 

Dylan opens his mouth to protest. 

Wrong choice. 

Clark surges forward, slamming Dylan against the wall opposite your apartment, so hard you can hear the doors rattle in their frames. But before he makes another move, Clark finds you standing behind him with the tiniest tilt of his head and his stance relaxes instantly. The moment is short-lived though, when he immediately turns back to look at Dylan, who looks like he’s about to piss himself out of fear.

“Get inside,” Clark tells you lowly.

“But—”

“Get inside.”

You’ve never heard him speak like that, or look at anyone—let alone you—the way he’s looking at Dylan now. Like there’s something about Dylan’s presence that sets off something inside him. But you trust him, don’t even hesitate. The door shuts with a quiet click when you slip back into your apartment. 

The moment it closes, you hear it. 

Bone meets bone. Flesh splitting flesh. Just once.

Dylan lets out a groan, high-pitched as he begins to plead. No, no, no—you hear. 

You wait one… two… three seconds before a low growl splits the silence. It sounds fuzzy though, and you know it’s Clark speaking but you can’t tell what he’s saying. A threat, you reckon. Something that makes Dylan blabber out, “Okay, yes, I will—”.

Then a thud as—you’re safe to assume—Clark throws Dylan to the ground. He lands with an oof, before—

“Open the door.”

Clark’s voice floats through the wood, gruff and deep in a way that sends a chill running down your spine. Hurriedly, you unlatch the door and yank him in before Dylan can think about forcing his own way in—though at this point, he’d be out of his mind to even try. With a weary sigh, you slump against the wall, squeezing your eyes shut as if to block out the stress and tension of the argument. 

“What the hell was that, Clark?” 

You don’t mean to snap, but it comes out sharp, like you’re scolding a reckless ten-year-old boy, not a fully grown man. You’ve never seen him lose his temper so easily, never seen him get so violent so quickly—a moment ago, you didn’t even know he was capable of packing a punch like that.

“He was an ass.”

Clark says it like it’s explanation enough, all the reason he needs. The TV is on, playing a movie you’d put on before Dylan had disrupted your evening. There's a box of takeout sitting on the coffee table in front of where you’d been sitting and it’s clear you hadn’t been expecting any visitors at all. He recognises the actor in the movie—some dark hair, blue-eyed dude called Henry Cavill. It’s background noise to him as he moves through your apartment, heading straight for the kitchen to set the bottle of wine down on the countertop. 

That’s when you notice it.

“You brought wine.”

He doesn’t respond. Just opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it. “I wanted to treat you.”

You follow Clark into the kitchen, catching his hand and flipping it over to examine both sides. His knuckles are slightly red and swollen, his fingers tense in your hold, flexing to relieve the strain in his bones. Oddly enough, it already looks like it’s getting better, like packing a punch barely hurts him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You don’t know whether you mean the wine or beating up your ex. Both feel like something to thank him for. 

“I wanted to,” he responds, matter-of-factly. No hesitation, no justification. Just that. He finally faces you, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. It’s clear that he found the whole ordeal amusing, but deliberately held himself back for your sake. And then, softer, more consoling, “I didn’t hurt myself that bad, sweetheart. I promise, it’s okay.”

“He’s harmless—” you start to insist, but you cut yourself off when it’s clear that he’s not listening to you. He just gives you a look, one that says, Too late, sweetheart.

Clark reaches for the wine, popping the cork open with a twist of his hand. You hadn’t even known something like that was possible, to open a bottle without a corkscrew. But before you can address it, his hand finds your cheek, cradling your jaw as his thumb brushes the tender skin under your eye. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss, and for a second, the anger burning in your chest stutters—not because he’s right, but because he’s him. 

When he pulls away, he murmurs again, firmer this time, like a vow. “I wanted to.”

He wraps his arm around your waist, the bottle of wine still in hand, as he leads you to the living room. He takes a seat on your couch, and drags you down with him. Tucks you close to his body, until your head is resting on his chest, hair soft beneath his chin. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t push you. Simply waits in silence until you’re ready to talk. When you speak, your voice is low. As if you’re not keen to talk but, for him, you’ll open up. 

“Dylan… he left the day I told him I was pregnant. Didn’t even look back, that fucker. Just walked out like I was some inconvenience he couldn’t be bothered with.” You tilt your head, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “You know, we were prom king and queen. We were supposed to be together forever—that’s just how it is when you’re young and in senior year. Highschool sweethearts stay sweethearts and he just—he left, Clark.”

A bitter laugh slips past your lips, like the weight of his abandonment still sits heavy on your chest after all these years. “It’s not as if I’m still in love with him or anything—he’s a complete asshole, trust me. And a little part of me is glad that you beat him up, but I—”

You cut yourself off with a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief as the memory of Dylan leaving plays through your head. “It’s just—honestly. How can he ditch his pregnant girlfriend and then have the audacity to rock up to my place years later, pretending like everything is okay?”

He holds out the bottle to you, and you take a deep swig, the smooth liquid travelling down your throat like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. The taste is sweet and unfamiliar, but you welcome it freely—anything to distract you. 

Clark doesn’t say a single word. He gives you room to talk freely. Without judgement, without fear. Just a sturdy shoulder to rest your head on and an ear he’s willing to get yapped off. 

“I was right out of high school when he got me pregnant,” you murmur. “I ended up staying with my parents, went to college closer to home. It wasn’t ideal but we made it work.”

“Jesus,” Clark mutters finally, giving you a concerned look. “You were a baby—”

“I was old enough to know how to use protection,” you correct, “and I paid the price for not using it. But… I don’t regret it.”

Your gaze flicks to Calum’s bedroom door, carefully painted blue and red—Superman’s colour. And despite the fact that your landlord had explicitly mentioned you couldn’t change any of the interior, you’d still done it. Making your son happy far outweighs the consequences of a few fees. His door has the Superman logo on it, that iconic yellow ‘S’ painted with the brushstroke of a mother’s dedicated hand. 

Calum was two the first time either of you had ever seen Superman in person, flying high above the Metropolis skyline. Everyone had marvelled at the sight, but no one had been more entranced than your baby as he watched, wide eyed, as Superman swooped down to save a man falling from an office building. From that day, he’d been obsessed. 

Truthfully, you haven’t taken much to your son’s interests—god only knows where you could find the time to. But that’s not to deny the fact that you love to indulge him, anything to make him happy—Superman themed bedsheets, plates and clothes. He’s dressed up as Metropolis’s hero for two Halloweens in a row now, and his smile only gets bigger each time he wears that costume. 

“He’s my blessing. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”

“You’re a good mother.” His lips brush over your temple, featherlight. But it grounds you, reminds you that he’s here—always has been. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you concede, and before he can protest, you say, “Calum loves you. You’re… more of a father figure than Dylan has ever been.”

It’s a heavy truth. But, in the grand scheme of things, Clark has been more present in the past months than Dylan has in Cal’s whole life. 

Clark takes the bottle from you, placing it onto the coffee table before draping his arm over your thighs. He just holds you like that, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath your cheek.

“It’s been hard,” you say quietly. 

He just nods. “I know.”

“And… at first, the…” you trail off, unsure of how to continue, but he just squeezes you.

I’m here, it says, it’s okay.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, leaning further into his hold. “After giving birth, I hated myself. So much. I didn’t… I didn’t feel like me; I didn’t feel like a mother. I just… felt like a fraud. But you… Clark, you’re the first person who’s made me feel normal in the last four years. Like I’m not alone in this, and I—I couldn’t be more grateful.” 

“You’re worth it,” he rasps, nose nudging your hairline, his soft breaths teasing the baby hairs. “You and Calum, both.”

For the first time in a long time, you believe him. 

—

It’s a quiet morning when Clark steps through your front door without so much as a knock. You’d given him a key to your apartment a few days ago, and it’s safe to say that he’s enjoying the privilege. Very much so. 

The smell of raisin toast—your favourite go-to breakfast—drifts through the air as you nurse a cup of tea in your hands. You’re sitting on one of the stools on the kitchen island and you just call out, “In here!” the moment you hear the doorknob turn. 

He doesn’t announce himself, but you immediately know it’s him. Not just because you’ve already given him a key, but because a small part of you knows his body better than your own at this point—every curve, every scar, every blemish on his skin. It’s engraved in your memory, a permanent fixation in the back of your mind. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coming up behind you. A soft kiss lands on your cheek and you lean into his touch, the curve of your face moulding perfectly against his. You can feel him frown, cheeks turning down in the way it does whenever he’s unimpressed with something. “You made your own tea.”

“You took ages to get here,” you say. 

He just scoffs. You know he hates it when you do things for yourself—he much prefers doing it for you. A favour, he calls it but you know it’s really just princess treatment. “How’d you sleep?”

“The bed was cold,” you tease. “I was, unfortunately, missing a six-foot-four giant. He hogs all the blankets despite always running hot and he never sleeps with a shirt on. Oh, and he’s like, super sexy—have you seen him?”

He just rolls his eyes, swivelling the chair to turn you around in his arms. Clark’s mouth finds yours almost instantly, an eager kiss that speaks volumes about his desire for you, as his hand palms your ass through your pyjama pants. It’s far too early in the morning for this, so you let him control the pace and the movement. You haven’t brushed your teeth yet, but if he’s realised, he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand cups your cheek, steadying you beneath him before he pulls away—albeit a little reluctantly.

“I do not hog all the blankets,” he grumbles, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Liar.” You stick your tongue out playfully.

He just rolls his eyes with a suppressed grin, muttering, “Brat.”

The toaster dings and, before you can head for it, Clark is handling it for you. He pulls away from you, making his way around your kitchen with ease—he finds your favourite breakfast dish, plates the toast, then slathers it with butter, just the way you like it. A flash of fondness lights up your gaze, softening the moment altogether. The thoughtfulness of the act—even though it’s just fucking toast and butter—warms your heart, and it makes your chest ache with something dangerously close to love.

—

“He thinks you’re Superman,” you tell Clark with an eye roll. Chinese takeout is spread out on the dining table in front of you. Clark had gotten it on his way home, where you’d already been waiting in his apartment with Calum. It’s become a daily occurrence for you to rock up to each other’s apartments nowadays, and you eat at his place more often than not. Clark still takes care of Calum when you’ve got work, but lately, you’ve been spending more time together as a couple than anything else. 

Clark freezes, a split second where his whole body tenses up and his heart just stops. You don’t notice—of course you don’t. He’s too good at masking his emotions and you’re preoccupied with keeping an eye on Calum as he rolls around on the floor with Krypto. 

So he just laughs, wanting to come off as nonchalant, but it sounds slightly strained. “What? No way, sweetheart. Me? Superman? Seriously?” 

You can only grin, his shock only adding to your entertainment. “Honestly, I don’t know who he gets it from. I sure as hell wasn’t as imaginative as him at this age—” That’s when you turn to him with a smirk. “Are you brainwashing my son or something?”

He grins, leaning forward. His arm rests on the table, other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “The only thing I’m teaching him are some manners.” He frowns jokingly. “Haven’t you realised, sweetheart? I’ve got him pushing chairs in after dinner and everything.”

“Ah,” you play along, “of course. He even offered to clear up the table the other day! I was so surprised.”

Clark’s pretend-frown deepens. “He only offered to clean up? I had him mopping and vacuuming when you dropped him off the other week. Maybe he just likes to help me more.”

You burst into giggles at the thought of your four-year-old son holding a mop twice his height, dragging it across Clark’s living room floor. “God, you wish you had a servant. You need to start paying him for his labour.”

“Hey,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re real good with my kid, Superman.”

It’s only a joke, but Clark’s heart clenches at the truth behind the name. “He makes it easy.” He pauses, before murmuring, “You both do.”

You keep your head on his shoulder, but you tip your gaze up just enough to watch him. There’s something careful in his expression, like he’s weighing what not to say. 

“Okay, but… seriously,” you murmur, your voice laced with something akin to amusement laced with curiosity. “Are you like… friends with Superman, or something?” 

He doesn’t say a word, just presses a soft kiss to your hair, so gentle it almost distracts you. Almost.

Calum must have been listening in because, at the mention of Superman, he abandons Krypto and the floor and comes clambering onto your lap. You brush his hair away from his face with a smile. Clark’s still silent so you continue speaking. “I know you interview him a lot, right? For work.”

“Mhm.”

There’s something odd about the way he avoids eye contact and it throws you off a bit— “So do you, like… bring him around and stuff? To play with Calum?”

“He does!” Calum giggles, but the older man doesn’t answer right away. You can feel him tense again, like a rope stretched taut. 

“I guess you could say that.”

“Say what?” you raise a questioning brow.

“I suppose that Superman is…. my friend,” he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, but he disguises his hesitation with a casual shrug. “Started calling in a favour with him after that first day you asked me to look after Cal. When I found out he likes Superman, I just thought it’d be a nice thing to do.”

That’s the thing: it is. It’s the sweetest gesture, one you never would've expected him to do for a child that he, at the time, barely knew. 

“Does he visit often?”

Clark shrugs. “It’s on an… availability basis.”

“That’s nice of him,” you hum before grinning up at him mischievously, as you nudge him with your elbow. “You should introduce me to him one day.”

“Absolutely not,” Clark interjects before you can entertain that thought any longer. He glances at Calum—the little kid is notorious for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. So Clark throws him a look of warning that screams ‘Don’t you dare say a word’, and to his relief, Calum just runs his fingers over his lips in the universal ‘shut your mouth and throw away the key’  motion. Clark exhales in relief, slumping  back in his chair. 

“Why?” Your lips purse in a tight frown, just as a knowing look crosses your face and your eyes light up. “Is someone jealous?”

Clark’s neck flushes pink, his cheeks warming up as a wave of embarrassment crashes over him. “I… that’s not why—”

You don’t think much of his stammering. If anything, you find his supposed “jealousy” endearing. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, leaning up to peck his lips. “Superman’s just a guy in spandex. I already have you.”

—

Metropolis, for the first time in a long time, is quiet. 

A peaceful Tuesday morning, something you haven’t had in months. For once, there are no aliens terrorising the streets, the Justice League isn’t flying around flaunting their powers, and Superman is nowhere to be seen. With a matcha in hand, handbag slung over one shoulder, and the knowledge that Calum is safe at daycare, this is what you would call a perfect day. 

Of course, you’re nothing if not unlucky. 

It’s not long before a stranger breaks the peaceful bubble you’ve been trapped in for the last odd hour or so as they rush past you, a blur in the busy city street. Their shoulder knocks against you, shoving you forward, and your matcha tumbles to the ground, a puddle of green pooling at your feet. 

“Shit,” you snap lowly, turning around to give the person a piece of your mind.

But it’s then that you notice the stampede of people heading straight towards you—and in the distance, a large brown ugly thing with bulging eyes stomps through the city square. 

A low curse leaves your lips when you realise what it is. Fucking aliens. Always disturbing your peace in this goddamn city.

“What are you doing?” Some lady yells at you when she catches you staring at the monster, transfixed. “Run!”

You don’t hesitate.

The years spent living in Metropolis have shaped your reaction time—you’re fast now, faster than you’ve ever been, at responding to threats like it’s second natur. An act that is now as familiar to you as feeding or cleaning Calum. It feels like a stampede more than anything else—the quiet Tuesday morning atmosphere is shattered by the shouts of corporate assholes who shove their way to the front so they can be as far away from the danger as possible.

It takes a short while, but eventually, there’s a whoosh in the sky—a telltale sign that Superman is here. A flash of blue and red streaks through the sky, and despite yourself, you stop to marvel at it. You all do, because when Superman comes in, he demands attention—the ‘S’ on his chest is like a homing beacon, reminding people of hope and happiness and a life without hardship here in Metropolis.

Everyone lets out a whoop as they watch him fly overhead, raising their hands in a loud cheer. Still, you can’t bring yourself to celebrate, not with the monster still looming closer and closer with every passing. And especially not with the way that—

Oddly enough, it seems like he’s getting bigger and bigger, until it feels like he’s heading straight for you.

Terror seeps through your bone like marrow, weighing you down so that you’re frozen in place as Superman reaches for you in front of everyone. A strong arm of steel bands around your waist, yanking you away from the danger and suddenly, you’re flying.

A loud, panicked yelp leaves your lips as the gravity of what is happening finally hits you—Superman just flew in and saved you. You, of all people. His breath ruffles the hair at your temple, and beneath the rush of blood in your ears, you can make out his voice reassuring you... it’s gonna be okay. I’m getting you to safety.

Floating above the Metropolis skyline, the sea of skyscrapers stretching out in front of you before melting into the vast distance. You can see the monster-alien-thing rampaging down below, its tail swinging into trees. But Superman doesn’t pay it much attention.

It takes two... three... four seconds of flying before he approaches a familiar looking building. He gently lowers you down to the balcony, like you’re precious cargo—there’s a rug pushed up against the the doorstep, and it reminds you of the same one you keep outside. Blue with white floral patterns bordering the edges. The fake potted plants that... Clark Kent gave you a few weeks ago. Your underwear, hanging on the line, dry and waiting to be collected.

Home. He’s taken you home.

You turn to face him where he’s still hovering, just a few metres above the floor. In any other circumstance, you’re sure he would have gone back by now, to help the rest of the Justice League. But now, he just stays there, watching you intently with his arms crossed over his chest and an expectant look in his eyes—his stare doesn’t put you off though. If anything, it warms your heart, a familiarity in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe beneath his scrutinising stare. Perhaps, that’s the most unsettling part of it all.

“How…” There’s a thick lump in your throat, unease churning in your stomach as you step away from him. “How do you know where I live?” 

His eyes dart to the balcony right above yours before meeting your eyes again, and there’s a tiny, knowing smile on his face—one you’ve seen aimed at you for months now.

That’s when it all clicks. 

“Clark.”

His name is a whisper on your tongue, strained and hesitant. A small part of you is afraid that, if you speak too loud, you’re going to say something you’ll regret.

That single curly strand of hair flops over his forehead and you remember the first time you saw it up close—at his place, when he’d answered the door, sweaty and slightly out of breath. “A work call,” he’d said then, and now you want to laugh. How stupid had you been to trust him? Even stupider, you’re sure, considering that Calum has literally been telling you the truth for months now. 

Superman—Clark, you correct yourself mentally—floats down to the ground, landing with a light step right in front of you. “Sweetheart…”

He doesn’t deny it.

“You should’ve told me,” you say quietly, almost accusatorily. 

“I wanted to—” he tries to defend himself, but he doesn’t look all that remorseful for lying.

“But you didn’t,” you interrupt. “You made the choice to…” ‘Lie’ feels wrong. Too strong a word. “You made the choice to continuously pretend that Superman was just your ‘friend’. “You let me humiliate myself in front of you while my four-year-old son knew all along. You just… you lied to me.”

“That wasn’t my intention, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but you step back, a pained look crossing your face. Anger simmers in your blood, hardly daring to boil over lest you say something you regret. 

“I think your friends are looking for you,” you say quietly when you spot the Justice League flying around in the background. They look lost without him, ducklings wandering aimlessly without their mother. Green Lantern’s got some contraption in place, and it pokes the monster’s eye repetitively. You wince at the sight of it. Hakwgirl is a tiny speck in the sky as she flies in circles around its head in an attempt to disorient. Any bystander could tell that, without Superman by their side, they’re not exactly doing the best job at taking down the alien.

Clark follows your gaze and he recoils when he sees Green Lantern get swatted out of the sky.

“They’re not my friends—” He starts to protest, but he falters off once he realises how stupid that sounds when he says it out loud. “I mean, they are, but they’re not…”

Important? Special?

You?

You shake the thought off before it can fester. Lowly, you tel him, “They need you, Clark. Go… save the city, or whatever it is that you do.”

“Please—” Clark’s face contorts with a desperation of sorts as he reaches out for you, gripping your hand tightly. His hold loosens just as quickly when he notices the blank look on your face. Spaced out, like you’re not fully there. At least, not in the way he wishes you were.

“Okay,” he concedes with a nod, swallowing thickly. “Okay, but this isn’t over. We’re talking about this later.”

All you can do is nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watch him step back, shooting off into the sky in a blur of red and blue. Tonight, then. Though, you’re not quite sure if it’s a conversation you’re looking forward to. 

—

That night, you find yourself sitting at Clark’s dining table. 

The kitchen light is dim, casting a shadow over you as Clark busies himself with making hot chocolate for the two of you. His back is to you, muscles rippling beneath the tight fabric of his sleep tee. On any other occasion, you would’ve been by his side, running a hand down his spine, teasing the skin just above the waistband of his pants. He’d turn, that familiar smile etched on his beautiful face—half fondness, half amused—and pull you in for a kiss. Two, if you were lucky.

Now, you can hardly stomach the thought of touching him. 

Nothing about him has changed though, since you found out the truth this morning. If you were to touch him now, his skin would be as soft as it always is, calloused hands just as strong and comforting, eyes still as bright as the sun. The same hands that held you so tenderly every day are the same ones that come home battered and bruised by villains and extraterrestrials beings and evil metahumans. The same lips you kissed are the same ones that lied to you. 

It hits you then, the weight of it. 

Clark Kent is Superman and your son has known all along. And somehow, through all the late nights and stolen kisses and whispered promises, he still chose not to tell you. He still chose to lie. 

Eventually, the noise in the kitchen quietens down as he approaches, two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. He sets a cup in front of you before taking a seat opposite you. For a while, neither of you say anything. The only movement in his small apartment is the rustle of the curtains by the open window, and cold air drafts in. The hot chocolate is a small reprieve from the awkwardness, but it does little to ease the cold distance that’s settled between you.  

Clark hesitates, before reaching up and taking his glasses off his face. With a precision and calmness that belies the tension in the room, he folds the arms of the frame, setting it down on the table between you.

“You look different,” you say quietly. Handsome, like a veil has lifted between you and you’re finally seeing him.

The real Clark.

Somehow, without the glasses, he looks far more muscular, his body filling out his tee in a way that makes the average gym goer look small. His eyes are bluer, clearer like you can see the world he comes from within them. Krypton. You’d once read about it in a paper that Clark had written about Superman—himself. The irony isn’t lost on you. 

All he does is nod. He never breaks eye contact once—sky blue eyes hold your gaze, an air of confidence that rattles your bones. You want to reach over the table and grab his neck, throttle him a little. 

Show some emotion, you have half a mind to yell. Tell me you’re sorry, tell me that I meant something to you, tell me that what we had wasn’t just a lie.

“I’m sorry,” is all he murmurs.

“No, you’re not.” 

He exhales sharply, looking away momentarily as his fingers tighten around his mug. “No, I’m not.”

Silence stretches between you before he clears his throat. “I just… I just wanted to protect you.”

“I let you around my son—” I loved you, you want to say, but that would be admitting that, despite everything that’s happened—the danger he’s put Calum in, time and time again—you still love him.

You’ve never said it out loud. Saying it now feels like a lie, no matter how much your heart wants it to be true—possible. It feels like a betrayal of sorts. To yourself, to your son and to the part of you that knows love shouldn’t have to come with this kind of cost.

“I would never do anything to harm him,” he pleads. “I care about Calum, I swear I do.”

“It’s not about harming him, Clark,” you snap, “it’s about the fact that you lied to me! It’s about the fact that, when I asked you if you were Superman—regardless of if it was a joke or not—you told me ‘no’.”

“Sweetheart…” He falters, unsure of what to say. His voice is a rasp when he settles, “I love that kid, okay? I didn’t plan to, but I do, just like I love yo—”

“Don’t.” 

The chair squeals against the hardwood floor when you stand up, the hot chocolate he’d made you untouched. “I’d prefer it if you just… stay away from us. Please.”

Clark doesn’t listen to you. The thing about him is, he never does—too stubborn for his own good and too in love to think straight. He stands up, stepping closer to you. “You’re the reason I come back home everyday. You and Calum. The reason I keep fighting, the reason I want to be better, to make the world better—because the two of you deserve a world that’s good, and kind, and safe. And if I can be the one to give that to you, then why shouldn’t I try?” 

“Because you can put us in danger—”

“And I can protect you!” The words end in a crack, like it’s taking everything to just keep himself together. “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”

His words are like a gunshot to your already wounded heart. Count on him to bring Dylan up when he knows you’re vulnerable—a bullet that had been waiting to meet its mark.

“I know,” you respond firmly—you refuse to let yourself waver. “I know you’re not him but that doesn’t mean you won’t break me the same way.”

Your voice is steady, but your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curled and digging crescents into your palms. “It doesn’t mean you won’t leave pieces of me behind when you go. I won’t put myself through that again.”

His face crumples, the desperate hope in his eyes dimming slightly, like a candle flickering in the wind. “But I won’t go. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you could get hurt, Clark!” You burst out, and this time, you can’t hide the tears that threaten to spill over. “You could get hurt, you could bring enemies home, you could put my son in danger! One day, you might not come home at all and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“I saved your life today!” 

“You broke my trust today!” 

“Sweetheart—” he starts to protest, faltering when you hold a hand up to stop him. His face crumples, resignation dampening the light in his eyes. His voice is almost a croak, weak and accepting, as he nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll… keep my distance. I promise.” 

He pauses, head hung low as though instinctively leaning into a touch that isn’t there—resting his forehead against your is his favourite act of intimacy. Sharing a single breath with you, both your eyes closed, noses brushing. It’s a feeling he will never get enough of, a peace he yearns for after long days and longer nights—a quiet only you could give. Well… gave.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, lower this time, like he knows it’s not enough. Like it never has been.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid, sorry hope in his eyes—the one he wears like a wound when he looks like you, so painfully raw and open. It makes you want to hold him together, stitch the pieces of his heart with the loose threads of your own soul. 

Krypto whines when you turn away, darting between your feet as if to make you stay. He nips at the hem of your pants, insistent and tempting, almost like he could drag you back inside with his teeth alone. You can’t bear to acknowledge him, knowing damn well that he’s more than capable of having you turn around, back into Clark’s waiting arms.

When he realises that Krypto isn’t leaving your side  anytime soon, Clark lets out a low, sharp whistle that has the puppy’s ears perking up—almost Pavlovian in the act. That’s when you look down at him, a small apologetic smile on your lips—the kind people give when they’ve already made up their mind—and he backs away. Then quietly, he whimpers, before scampering off to Clark’s side.

“You don’t need to go,” Clark says hoarsely as you reach for the handle. It’s not a plea, not quite. But it hangs between you like one, hope and resignation twisted together in an unbreakable promise.

You finally glance at him. A mistake.

He’s standing there, right where you left him, looking at you like you’re his salvation and his ruination. Like if you took one step forward, he’d welcome you home with open arms—where, deep down, you know you belong. But if you took a step back, he’d let you, because he cherishes you too much to beg for a love you’re not ready to give. 

And dear God, but that’s worse.

“I do, Clark,” you whisper. “I really do.”

—

Dinner is a simple affair—it’s been the same meal every night for the past couple weeks. Calum is starting to get sick of it, you can see it in the way he slumps over the table, head in his hand as he pushes the rice around the plate. 

“Baby,” you start, “you need to eat it—”

“I am eating,” he grumbles, shovelling a spoonful in his mouth. He’s gotten grumpier since the whole ordeal with Clark and his sour mood only makes your heart ache. He hardly plays anymore. Barely even talks to you. Just sits by the window day and night, his Superman figurine by his side as he waits for a blur in the sky—a glimpse of his favourite person. 

“Calum.”

Your tone is stern, brooking no argument. The meaning behind it is clear: you won’t tolerate his attitude.

A thought pops into your head then, unwarranted and unexpected—Clark. You can imagine him sitting beside Calum, that serious look softening into something patient yet firm as he says, “Cal, listen to your mother.” His voice—quiet but unshakable—would cut through the tension because that’s what Clark’s always been best at. Stepping in when you needed a break, when the ‘bad cop’ act wore thin and your patience ran dry.  

You swallow hard, pushing down the ache his absence has left behind as it blooms quietly in your chest. Calum still hasn’t looked at you, muttering quietly to himself. His anger—and his pain—is clear in the way he hides away from you, and the guilt hits you all at once. He’s struggling as much as you are. Now’s not the time to be selfish.

“Hey,” you say, moving from your spot on the opposite side of the table to crouch down beside him. Shifting his chair, you force him to meet your gaze. “Look at me, Calum. What’s wrong?”

He’s still silent, but he looks at you almost hesitantly, as if it’s somehow a scary ordeal. You know exactly what this is about—you just want to hear it from his own lips. 

“Look, I’m sorry about Clark. I am. I swear I am. I miss him too, more than you know, buddy—” 

“He said… he said he loves you,” Calum murmurs, glancing away, focusing his attention on a spot somewhere over your shoulder. 

“I know, baby,” you whisper back, “I love him too.”

You’ve never said those words out loud—not to yourself, not to Clark. But saying them to Calum feels like a confession, a truth you can’t deny or take back, and a promise that’ll never be fulfilled, all at once.

“Then why can’t he come over?” His bottom lip trembles, baby blues welling with tears. “You said that people who love each other are nice to each other. And you’re being mean to him—”

“That’s different, Calum. You’re my son—”

“And he’s Mr Clark!” 

It doesn’t slip past you, the fact that he says ‘Mr Clark’. Over the past couple of months, as the three of you had grown closer, forming a small family in the purest sense of the word, Calum had dropped the ‘Mr’, and Clark had simply become ‘Clark’. 

Now, Calum just says Mr Clark like it means something. It did once. You just don’t know what it means anymore. 

“Honey…” you say softly, cupping his cheek tenderly. “Mr Clark… he broke Mama’s trust. You remember what I taught you about trust, right?” 

Calum doesn’t respond as stubborn tears begin to fall down his face. Your throat closes up, a choked emotion you can’t show Calum, lest your own sadness affect his even more. So you force a smile—he can’t tell the difference between that and the usual twinkle in your eyes, but that doesn’t make faking it any easier. The curve of your mouth trembles and the sheer effort of pretending that everything is fine when it’s not forces a heavy weight on your shoulders. It’s a pain you haven’t felt in a long, long time—not since Clark Kent offered to bear it for you. 

“Mr Clark broke Mama’s trust,” you continue, and your voice is barely above a whisper, threatening to crack at any given moment. “And… I only want people I trust around you, Calum. Because I want you to be safe, okay? I want to protect you and I can’t do that if Mr Clark lied to me.”

Calum bursts into tears then, collapsing off his chair and into your arms. The sob he lets out is heartwrenching.“But I want him!” 

“I know, baby,” you hush softly, running over hand up and down his back. Tucking his head against your chest, his tears soak your shirt as he hiccups between sobs. “I miss him too.”

You hold Calum there, close to your chest with your cheek pressed to his head. It’s hard to soothe a child who’s hurting, and much harder to soothe a child who doesn’t want you, no matter how fleeting his anger is. The ache in your heart only grows, until you’re terrified you’ll bleed out on the ground, without a single person capable of stitching you back together. 

—

Clark Kent is, by nature, one of the most caring men you’ve met. And his absence leaves a gaping hole in your life. 

There was something so right about having him around, his presence like a blanket of security that wrapped you in safety and security—around him, you didn’t have to worry. You didn’t even have to lift a finger.

For the longest time, Clark had been the one holding you together. He’d been the one to make sure you ate and showered when your mind wandered too far to remind yourself. The one to answer your call in the middle of the night when you needed help—or when you were just lonely. He was the person who plated your dinner, washed the dishes after you’d spent the evening cooking for him, a labour of love born out of kindness. Now the dishes remain untouched, piling up high until you force yourself to get up and wash them yourself. 

You’re not a lazy mother, not by a long shot. You’ve spent the last five years dedicating your life, and all your time, and energy to a little boy who’s become the center of your world. But a small part of you had gotten used to being treasured and treated like someone worth being cared for, the way he cared for you. 

Before Clark had ripped it away from you.

The resentment still coils in your chest every time you pass him in the apartment lobby, or see his name under an article on the front page of the newspaper. And sometimes, you want to curse at the sky, in hopes that Superman might just hear you. 

But most times, you just sit in bed, pretending that your blanket around your shoulders is half as comforting as Clark’s arms. It’s a dangerous thing—imagination—and it has you wondering what would happen if you were to call him up now. 

A little part of you knows that he’d answer without hesitation. His voice would be soft on the other side, patient and understanding. It’d be the balm to your weary soul, an antidote that you know will work wonders the moment you get your hands on it. The larger part of you though—the one that thinks with logic and common sense and everything that is painfully pessimistic—hopes that he wouldn’t. Because answering means he still cares. It means that he’s not angry and, in a worst case scenario, it means that he doesn’t feel guilty about breaking your trust. 

It’s late Sunday night when you hear a knock on your apartment door. Calum is already asleep, has been for hours now. You’ve been rotting on the couch since you put him to bed, some crappy Netflix original series playing on the TV screen but you’re not really paying attention. Your thoughts are somewhere in the past, stuck in sunny skies and yellow suns and baby blue eyes. 

That’s when you hear it. 

Two heavy knocks on your door. 

Standing up with a heavy sigh, you pause the TV. The soles of your pink fluffy slippers squeak against the floorboards as you shuffle down the hallway. “Coming!”

The latches come undone, chains falling with a soft clink and the door creaks in that familiar way it always does. You recognise his shoes first, worn loafers that have become scuffed from months of use.

Clark. 

He’s the last person you expected to see, especially not so close to midnight. 

He’s not wearing his glasses. 

He looks different without them, you’d realised this the night you left. Handsomer. The thought crosses your mind like last time, unbidden. 

 The second thing you notice is that he’s tired—his eyes are sunken, dark bags circled below them, with his brows furrowed tightly as he squints down at you. 

The third thing you spot is the bouquet of flowers in his hands. White lilies and white peonies, bunched together at the stem with a cream-coloured wrapping paper. It’s a gorgeous assortment, not bright enough to be an eyesore, but so not dull that it feels lazy. Simple, not understated.

Your favourite kind. 

“I… I got these for you,” he says quietly, holding out the bouquet. No ‘hi’. No ‘I missed you’. Just ‘here’. As if he has a right to come out of nowhere and bring you flowers, like a boyfriend making it up to his girl after a fight. 

As if it hasn’t been weeks since you’ve seen him, let alone spoken to him. 

Still, you reach for it almost instinctively before reconsidering, drawing your hand back to your side. “Why?”

“You said…” he pauses, clearing his throat. His gaze flicks up to meet your eyes before he looks away, bashful. “You told me that day… you’d want flowers every Sunday.”

Your eyes widen imperceptibly, something fleeting passing through your chest before it’s tamped down. That was the last thing you’d expected him to say. Hell, you didn’t even think he’d remember that conversation, let alone act on it. 

“By the man I love.” It comes out flat, blunt in a way you don’t recognise. Unimpressed, like the fact that he came over to bring you flowers means nothing at all. 

“And I love you,” he rasps softly. “That’s excuse enough for me.”

 “You don’t have a right to say that.” Not anymore.

The venom in your words makes Clark’s heart clench. There was a time, not too long ago, when you looked at him with stars in your eyes, spoke to him with a honey-sweet voice that sent fire rushing through his veins. He’s certain it still would—you always seemed to have that effect on him, the way you make his head spin with the possibilities of what he could do to you, body and soul. And beneath that, a shining awe at the fact that, even if for just a little while, you were his. 

And now this is what you’ve become—what he’s done to you. Lost to a distance and drift that he could’ve held together on his own if he’d just given himself the chance.  

“You’re right,” he rectifies hurriedly, worried that a moment’s pause would seem too much like hesitation—or worse, ignorance. His gaze softens. “I’m sorry.”

His hand comes up to hover at your cheek to reach out and touch you. It wavers midair, a split second of hesitation before it cups your face. Clark’s palm is big—always has been, in a way that makes you feel small and protected—warm against your cheek and you lean into his touch, the gesture automatic in nature. 

Clark pauses for a moment, wallowing over the words he wants to say.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says lowly. “I never meant to lie to you, or keep secrets from you. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to make sure that, no matter what happens to me, or to Metropolis or any-fucking-one else, you would be safe. Hate me. Yell at me. Hell, hit me. But please… don’t keep me away. Don’t make me spend another day apart from you. I can’t survive that. I won’t. Because I meant what I said, sweetheart. You’re the reason I come home everyday. You give me a reason to want to make this world a better place.”

Those were the words he said to you the night he left, and you remember vividly like a branded mark seared into your mind. The fight replays in your head more often than you’d like, and every time it makes your heart ache a little bit more than before. 

 “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”

You flinch at the memory, the reminder that Clark’s love, though sorely painful, is nothing like Dylan’s. Quiet and unspoken, but so resolute that it could become a constant in your life to fill in the spaces of an empty void. It had been empty for so long, dry and barren, waiting for a love to bear the hurt on their shoulders for you.

That had been Clark. 

And some nights, you let your mind wander to that dangerous place, teetering on the edge of rationality and foolish hope—to wonder if letting him leave was the wrong choice. What if you had decided to hear him out instead? What if you had simply given him a chance?

He notices your flinch—and immediately, his other hand flies up to cradle your face properly now. “Hey… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

Because that’s Clark for you. Always pouring out of his own cup just to make sure yours is full. Looking back, you hadn’t been as grateful as you should’ve been during your time together. Maybe that’s where your faults first started—tiny cracks that quickly, and quietly,  

“I’m scared,” you admit, and your voice breaks, delicate in a way that you fear makes you seem weak. 

He doesn’t need to ask why. Just a tilt of his head that you can read like a book. Scared of what, he asks you with a look, begging, almost to let him in.

A self-deprecating laugh bubbles up from your throat, like you couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of not being scared. For the longest time, the world has dealt nothing but blows—rolling punch after punch until you’re bruised and battered and broken.

So you can’t help but to blurt out, “What if you realise you don’t want me and Calum?” 

Clark doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s never going to happen,” he insists, but you cut him off with a shake of your head. 

“He’s not your son.”

“I love him like one,” he counters.

There’s a conviction in his voice that makes your chest constrict, like a snake finding a home in the crevice of your ribs, a makeshift cage that squeezes, tighter and tighter until your breath becomes weak and shaky. Clark’s arm bands around your waist without warning, pulling you closer until you’re flush against him. His mouth ghosts over yours, and you can practically taste the minty gum that he’s always chewing lingering on his breath. He shakes his head, a pained noise escaping his lips, like he wants to steal away all the hurt that you feel—that  he inflicted on you—and carry it for you. 

“Stop that,” Clark pleads, and his voice cracks with the sheer effort of holding back. “Stop diminishing how much I love you. How much I need you. Don’t you see? Sweetheart, you’ve made Metropolis home for me.”

Your heart beats in your throat, a slow pain seizing your body as he holds you close, the same reverence in his eyes that he’s always looked at you with.

“Clark…” you breathe out, but when his jaw bumps against your cheek, warm skin on warm skin, you’re a goner. You fist the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s a lifeline. Turning your head, your nose brushes his, closer and closer, until you’re sharing the same breath. You don’t let yourself hesitate. “I know.”

“You know but you’re not believing it—” Clark starts to insist, but a small voice quiets through the blanketed silence of the night.

“Mama?”

The sound of Calum calling out your name has you jumping away from Clark’s hold. Somehow, it feels like you’re sixteen again, caught sneaking out to meet up with a boy you shouldn’t be seeing, and a wave of guilt washes over you.

Calum’s bedroom door clicks shut behind him as he waddles towards you, rubbing his eyes to remove the disorientation. Even half-asleep, he seeks out your comfort. “Mama, what’s happening?”

“Nothing, baby,” you say softly. It’s hard to miss the way Clark watches him, with the longing of a father who misses holding his son—for years, you’d prayed Dylan would look at Calum like that. It only hurts more now that it’s Clark in his place. Your hand lands on Calum’s shoulder when he finds his place beside you, already redirecting him back to bed. “Go back inside—”

“What’s Mr Clark doin’ here?” Calum blinks up at Clark, confused, like he’s not quite if Clark is really there or just a figment of his wild imagination.

“He’s… just dropping by, Cal.” The lie feels unnatural on your tongue, but Calum doesn’t quite buy it. Though, to be fair, you’ve never been the best liar.

He just stares up at Clark, eyes squinted and hands on his hips as he frowns. “Are you here to make Mama happy again?”

The expression in Clark’s eyes shatters as his gaze finds yours in the dimly lit corridor. He just shakes his head, and, for once in his lifetime, he’s at a loss for words. His mouth opens, and closes, looking for the perfect answer as if it would automatically slip out of his tongue.  

“If your mother wants to be happy, then…”

Then I’ll stay, is what he doesn’t say.

“In,” you repeat again to your son, sterner this time. Turning into your home, you tell Clark, “I’ll see you around.”

But you both know that’s a lie—you’ve been avoiding him for months now. You even go out of your way just to make sure you don’t pass him in the hallways of your apartment building. To you, not seeing him at all is easier than confronting him, even if just for a moment. It’s simpler to deprive yourself of him entirely than to risk brushing against him in the lobby when you’re both collecting mail, or having to wait for the same elevator that’ll take the both of you to a home that the other is no longer welcome in.

Clark, for all that it’s worth, doesn’t seem quite ready to let you go again, especially not so soon. He calls your name, but it falls short on his tongue—too painful to say out loud, but not too lost a love to shy away from fighting for it. For you.

For a single moment, you freeze. Then you turn around, angling your body, just so, to be able to hear him. 

“Let me try again,” Clark pleads, words rushed like he’s worried that taking too long will shatter the moment—or worse, whatever remains of your trust. His hand finds yours in the din, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you close. It forces you look at him, and meet his gaze. “No secrets, no lies—just us.”

It’s tempting. God knows, it’s tempting, but the hurt of his betrayal still lingers, still a fresh wound despite the weeks he’s given you space to put yourself back together. Clark can sense it somehow, because his hand finds your chest, palm flat in the space just above your breasts, and he can feel your heart beating rapidly beneath his touch. “I know I hurt you—”

“Stop that,” you echo his earlier sentiment, and an unfamiliar anger simmers at the pits of your stomach, hot and painful. You thought you’d left it in the past, during those first few weeks after you walked out, but here it is, stronger than ever. But this time, maybe the hatred that stirs within you isn’t aimed at Clark alone—you know that this aching need in your chest is your own doing, more than anything.

“Just… stop.” The words come out choked, shaking your head as you blink back tears. “You made me strong once, Clark. And I needed you more than anything in this world. So fuck you for making me still need you.”

Not an outright rejection, but not an honest acceptance. 

Clark’s eyes soften when he realises that you’re offering him a middle ground—a chance to start over again.

He waits for a heartbeat.

Then two.

And on the third, he takes a chance. His hand drifts up, the pad of his thumb wiping away the single tear that slips down your cheek. “Can I come inside?”

You pause—hesitation clips at the forefront of your mind, before your heart takes over, honest and true. Leaning into his touch with a gentleness that borders on tense, you nod slowly, and a small smile carves your face as you warn, “I haven’t washed dishes in three days, though.”

Clark just laughs, warm lips finding your forehead in the dim hallway. “Why am I not surprised?”

He pulls you close, one large arm banding around your waist that feels equal parts comforting and possessive. He tugs you into your apartment, and the door closes shut behind you with a quiet click—for good.

Unbirthday parties at NRC always follow the rules—the oh-so-“questionable” rules of Heartslabyul—but for some reason, whether it’s the music or the sheer number of another dorms guests, the tension released after finals, or maybe just the chaos of other dorms sharing food, sweets, and drinks right in Riddle’s territory, this party doesn’t even feel… unusual anymore.

Maybe it’s also the fact that Ace is way too quiet in the corner, hunched over himself, trying (and failing) to hide a rather large vial in his hand. You know that when Ace has that mischievous smile and not a shred of remorse in sight, nothing good can come out of the redhead; and this occasion won’t be an exception. Especially not after you saw him pour that very vial into the punch bowl.

“Trappola tradition,” you hear him say. It seems his older brother has passed down the baton for the worst prank.

Whatever Ace poured in there, the air gets sweeter, tinged with a rainbow of colors, with that feeling you get when you finally come of age and know exactly what you want and desire, and that hint of something not entirely legal for a school campus.

Someone, probably Floyd, starts chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” and Epel’s already on his second drink, trying to prove he can handle alcohol better than anyone. Grim, meanwhile, is busy fishing out slices of floating fruit, muttering about the injustice of being banned from the dessert table.

Riddle tries to keep his composure, doing his best not to think about the countless rules being broken in his own lounge, but the blush on his cheeks and the way he wobbles from side to side give him away—he’s not immune to the spirit of the party… and maybe he’s already had a taste of the punch.

You try to take it easy, but it’s hard when everyone keeps handing you drinks, plates of fruit, little candies with mysterious fillings. The world feels slow and slippery, like honey running through your veins, and suddenly you’re part of a tightly packed crowd in the lounge, shoulders pressed together, glasses raised, clinking them to the beat of a song nobody quite remembers the words to.

You catch Ruggie stuffing three types of chocolate into his pockets—not before slipping a couple into your hands, though. “Eat up! Or you’ll regret it tomorrow.” Kalim drags you onto the dance floor, his laughter easy, his hands never still, bracelets jingling as he spins you through the crowd.

The drinks get sweeter, the candies and fruits stronger. You lose track of how much you’ve had after the third glass. Laughter floats in the air, yours mixing with theirs.

You remember Vil’s perfume enveloping you as his knuckles brush along your cheek, making you shiver. “Having fun, darling?”

You just nod before walking to the other side of the room to separate Ace and Deuce—apparently both are on the verge of causing nuclear disaster in the middle of the lounge over who can fit more marshmallows in their mouth. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Leona sprawling even lazier than usual across the sofa, and Malleus… well, laughing and making the air tremble a little.

Everything that came after you remember in lazy waves: laughter blooming warm in your chest, the tickle of someone’s breath on your ear; someone tucking a wildflower behind your ear—was it a white or red rose? It doesn’t matter, 'cause seconds later someone else snatches it away with their teeth and a grin that’s barely even trying to be subtle.

The music pounds in your ears until, at some point, everything settles and you’re wrapped in silence. You remember flashes in that quiet: lips tasting of chocolate pressed to yours, teeth biting your throat, hands brushing your skin under your clothes, laughter melting into moans.

Your hands are everywhere, entwined with someone else’s, tangled in soft strands of hair, clutching a shirt as you fumble with the buttons, at a belt, at the bedsheets, everything is heat, color, and taste. The world tilts and spins and you let go, trusting in the madness of it all, in the hands gripping your waist, in the mouth claiming you, in that lovely sensation of being wanted, claimed, and utterly ruined all at once and in every possible way.

When you finally wake up, the light is all wrong and comes in without asking permission, your thighs feel heavy and there’s that pleasant tingle between them, something itches at your neck, and you’ve got hair in your face.

Your head hurts—no, scratch that, your head is pounding and trying to open your eyes is a very bad idea right now. You take a deep breath and the pain’s still there, hammering away, demanding you face the day.

╌╌╌╌╌╌𖤐☽༓☾𖤐╌╌╌╌╌╌𖤐☽༓☾𖤐╌╌╌╌

Trey

When you slowly turn your head, you find Trey sleeping on his stomach, one lazy arm under the pillow, hair a mess but annoyingly attractive. You assume his glasses are on his nightstand, the sheets dangerously low over his hips.

His hips… bare.

His chest is bare too.

You look down at your own body and—bingo—you’re naked too.

And these aren’t your sheets, this isn’t your pillow, and obviously, this isn’t your dorm bed.

Holy… fuck.

You try to remember, even with the pounding headache, half mortified, half… half what, exactly? Surprised? Embarrassed? Or just utterly satisfied to have such a god lying next to you?

Flashes hit you without warning: the warmth of Trey’s hand guiding you away from the crowd, his soft laughter by your ear, both of you laughing at some joke only the two of you found funny, stumbling together until you crashed into bed.

The taste of icing and the sweetness of strawberries on Trey’s lips when he kissed you fiercely; did he feed you with his fingers, or did you steal the flavor right from his mouth?

His hands roaming every inch of you, his palms warm; his tongue scandalous, licking you slow and deep, teasing your clit, sliding between your wet folds, holding your hips so you couldn’t escape.

Him straightening up, wiping his mouth with his thumb, looking you right in the eyes.

You felt the tip of his cock pressing against your wet pussy, sliding in slowly, panting against your lips, deep strokes, but completely sensual.

“You like how I fill you up, right? You’re so wet, so beautiful,” he’d murmured against your ear, holding one of your legs up over his shoulder to push even deeper.

The way he held both your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half, thrusting over and over, deep, hitting your sweet spot, probably making you scream.

Trey’s name on your lips when he made you cum, slipping two fingers inside you to stretch you even more while his cock was still buried deep.

The moment he held you after it was all over, the fingers of one hand tangled in your hair and the other lazily drawing circles on your back.

Trey shifts, stretching and opening one eye, still half-asleep. He gives you a small, crooked smile when he sees you—serene… and breath taking.

“Good morning.”

Goddamn, even his voice is too sexy...add that rough, low tone and you’re already wet again.

“Did you sleep well? Headache?”

Is it that obvious?

“Uh… yeah, yeah, a little.”

Trey sits up and the sheets slide dangerously lower, lower, on his hips. You try not to look… but fail.

Obviously you fail, who are we kidding? The view of this man’s torso alone is enough to make you start drooling. Those strong arms from all that kneading, the abs, the broad shoulders, and…

Marks?

He has marks on his neck?

Some are obviously hickeys… others look like the start of scratches that trail down his back.

You bite your lip, desperate to look at his back, to see the scratches you obviously left, and see how strong his muscles are there.

“Did we…?” It’s a dumb question—you obviously had sex—but you need to hear it from him.

“Yup… several times, actually.”

The heat that rushes to your cheeks is uncontrollable, almost the same shade of red as his bed curtains.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

“Are you regretting it?”

Please, this man can’t be any sweeter or he’d cause diabetes.

Trey kisses your temple when he realizes there’s not even a hint of regret, or fear, or doubt.

Then, he gets up and starts looking for something to wear before going to get breakfast.

OH MY GOD THAT BODY!!!

And the scratch marks from your nails down his back, and his ass… and his cock, half-hard.

Trey notices you’re basically devouring him with your eyes… “Do you want breakfast, or do you want me to jog your memory with another round?”

He winks at you before pulling on his glasses, boxers and uniform pants and leaving the room to get you something to eat and something for your hangover.

Ah… you could die peacefully in that bed.

Leona

It’s the heat that you notice first—something heavy and solid pressing against you from behind, half-sprawled over your side, as if you were a possession. His possession

Your nose fills with a musky, warm, spiced scent, with hints of something… wild. It’s accompanied by the soft, steady sound of breathing.

You try to open your eyes, but the light only makes things worse, so you’re forced to rely on your other instincts and sensations.

You feel something wrapping around your leg, something soft, moving, tickling you lightly with part of its fur.

Wait… fur?

Is he holding you with a tail?

A TAIL?!

You force one eye open and the first thing you see, in all its glorious splendor, is Leona’s bare chest pressed against your back, one arm wrapped around your stomach.

You follow the line of that arm and realize you’re naked too…

You lift the sheets. Yep. Very naked.

Your skin tingles and your hips ache, your thighs feel like jelly, clear evidence that the bed wasn’t used just for sleeping.

You try to move, but Leona’s arm is like an iron bar, stopping you from even sitting up, his fingers tightening possessively on your hip. A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his tail slide upward, his ears twitch.

“Going somewhere, little mouse?” His voice is deep and rough right by your ear.

You turn your head and meet the lion’s wide green eyes, far too awake for this early in the morning. He gives you a half-smile, one fang showing, dangerously smug and a little arrogant… well, very arrogant.

That look is unmistakably that of a predator about to pounce on its prey.

You pull the sheets up to cover yourself a bit more, as if there were any way to hide a nakedness that had clearly already been explored hours ago for… quite a while.

“What happened last night?” Your mind is racing and your heart feels like it’s about to leap out of your chest.

Leona growls softly, though he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest that you’re covering your “modesty.”

“After how loud you were all night, I figured you’d remember at least something.”

Your face goes nuclear red. You clutch the sheet tighter, but it’s useless. You’re in his bed, in his territory.

“Did we… sleep together?”

“Sleep?” You hear a low, amused scoff from his chest. “Oh, we did more than sleep… want me to remind you?”

He doesn’t need to. Your body does it for him.

Not only do you feel the dampness between your thighs, but there are bite marks along them, already starting to bruise, traitors that reveal just how intimate last night was.

You can feel a few on your neck and collarbone too; they don’t hurt, but you know they’re going to be bright red well into the morning.

Your own memories begin to surface: your hands in his hair as you both devoured each other’s mouths in the hallway, his low, rough voice murmuring when he finally pulled back, “Do you want me to take you to my bed, or do you want me to wreck you right here in the hallway?”

His lips moving from your shoulder down to your breasts, massaging one with his large palm while he trapped your nipple between his lips, licking it and making you arch your back.

“Say my name, again. Do it again” every time you moaned with each thrust. Your face buried in the pillow while he took you from behind, relentless and unhurried, panting heavily over you.

His hands roaming your entire body, strong, confident, taking what he wanted without asking; his teeth grazing your neck. Was it just one bite he left, or several?

His name on your lips every time he made you cum, even when he was nowhere near finishing himself. Pride mixing with hunger as he felt you clench those soft walls around his cock.

The boldness in your voice when you begged for more and more. “Please, harder… harder, Leona” How could he possibly say no?

You remember being on top of him, legs spread wide as you rode him desperately, thighs shaking; him leaning back, hands behind his head, enjoying his private show.

His strong hands on your ass, “helping” you move faster, impaling you with every thrust.

Leona coming inside you, holding you tight against him. “That’s it, little mouse, fill yourself up with me”

“You were wild—I barely managed to get your clothes off,” Leona pulls you out of your thoughts as he props himself up on one arm without a hint of shame, his body fully on display.

“Not that I’m complaining. You were pretty insistent when you rode me and asked for a second round. And a third.”

You let out a small squeak and cover your face with both hands. “Please, stop.”

Leona straightens and takes your hands in his, pinning them above your head against the pillow; he flips you onto your back with ridiculous ease, looming over you with a feral grin. You’re caged, completely at his mercy.

And gods, his body lit by the morning sunlight is far too delicious.

“You look incredibly tempting.” His gaze roams over your face and body, barely covered by the sheets.

He gives your shoulder a small bite and laughs when you let out a little yelp. “Want another round? Or breakfast so you don’t pass out on top of me?”

You glare at him, cheeks burning; you want to strangle him. Or kiss him. Possibly both.

“Breakfast… then we’ll see.”

He pecks your lips softly. “Good girl.” And then he gets out of bed without the slightest bit of modesty, tail swaying, letting you admire the scratch marks trailing down his back.

Jade

Why does the silence feel like you’ve been swallowed by the sea?

And why does it smell like seawater? And sea salt?

The room is so dim that the few rays of light filtering through the curtains make strange patterns on the bed.

And it’s a kind of dimness you haven’t seen in Ramshackle for a long time… which means, this is not your room.

Everything hurts; your throat is raw, your lips are swollen, your body heavy, like something squeezed you until there was nothing left.

You try to move but there’s a hand on your belly, a thumb lazily drawing small circles on your bare skin.

Bare skin…

BARE SKIN?!?!

You sit up—and it’s a very bad idea. The hangover slams into your head and you bring your hand up to your temple.

“Ah… looks like you’ve got a hangover, and considering how eager you were last night…”

You turn your head to find Jade’s smile—small and polite, but absolutely terrifying.

“Does my pearl need something to make her morning… more productive?”

“Jade…” your voice comes out hoarse and rough, and you cough, trying to clear the discomfort.

“Ah, I warned you I might wear you out. Seems I was right, hm?”

The memories hit you so hard they make your headache worse:

Jade pulling you away from the party, an astute glint in his eyes and his voice serene yet venomous, coaxing you into the comfort of his room—his bed.

His hands stripping away every piece of clothing until you stood naked before him, his fingers mapping your sensitive skin, anticipating every tremor, seeking out what made you sigh, moan, or arch.

Your boldness as you made him sit and you knelt in front of him, your lips around his cock, trying to take him deeper and deeper. His praises made your pussy wet and made you want to do better, his hands in your hair guiding you, helping you choke on him.

Your eyes brimming with tears when you looked up and saw him smiling, pleased, fingers caressing your cheek before plunging you into a fast, unkind rhythm, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

Your own mouth screaming in pleasure as he took you from behind, you on all fours on the bed, ass up, completely at the mercy of his hands and hips.

“Come on, little pearl, cum for me” the authority in his voice, impossible to resist, every word a praise tangled with a command.

Your climax hitting so hard it left you sprawled on the bed; Jade grabbing your head so you couldn’t move, your screams muffled by the pillow as he found a better angle to fuck you, making you cum again.

The taste of his cum when he made you take him back into your mouth and spill inside.

You swallow, trying to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky, ruined, “holy shit”

He runs his thumb over your hip bone, where the bruise from his grip is already fading… only to grab you there again, just as hard as you barely remember.

“Overwhelmed, maybe? Though I must say… you were so hungry for me you nearly made me mistake you for a predator.”

Jade sits up and the sheets slide even lower on his hips. He’s so tall it feels like he could cover you completely. He admires the bites and marks he left all over your chest, shoulders, and neck.

You’re his own personal canvas, and the fact that there are still places left unmarked… it’s intoxicating to him.

He pushes you back, slipping between your legs again, hands running along your sides before gripping your thighs and positioning them around his hips.

“Dare to tell me you regret it, little one.” When you shake your head, terrified but just as aroused, he adjusts your legs around his hips, letting you feel how half-hard and hungry for you he still is.

“Excellent,” he kisses the tip of your nose before rolling his hips, brushing against your clit. “So, do you want another round or some tea for that poor throat?”

You shiver, completely lost to his movements and the pleasure slowly building inside you.

“I won’t let you surface just yet, my pearl”

Jamil

For a few blissful seconds you think you’re safe in your own bed, within the walls of Ramshackle… until the scent of countless spices fills the air. Clove, cinnamon, something deep and intoxicating, spicy.

Yeah… you’re not in Ramshackle.

Is it wise to open your eyes with the sunlight filtering in through the window? Unfortunately, you’ll have to.

Eyes open and a hammering headache, you recognize the décor: elegant, gold details, Arabic architecture… Looks like you ended up in Scarabia.

Okay, one problem solved; now… who’s breathing against your neck, slow and steady?

You turn just enough to see the mess of dark tousled hair belonging to Jamil, splayed across the sheets and pillow. He’s on his stomach, facing you, eyes closed but with a small smile on his lips; his arm stretched out across your hips, giving you slow, gentle caresses.

You blink—once, twice, three times.

One more, just to give your brain a chance to process that his torso is bare and the sheets are dangerously low.

You freeze, memories hitting you in dizzying flashes through your hangover: his eyes shining in the half-light, pinning you with his gaze from across the lounge, like he was drawing you to him with nothing but his eyes.

Your body pressed to his while he whispered something in your ear that had nothing to do with the party, but still made your cheeks flush… more than they already were from the punch.

His hands, so careful with everything he handles, guiding you into a different kind of dance—one that didn’t need music or an audience; your laughter mixing with his before finding your lips, his mouth hungry.

The taste of spicy spices, and a hint of mint, with every kiss and stroke of his tongue across your skin, intoxicating and making you shiver.

Jamil kneeling at the edge of the bed, grabbing your feet and pulling you toward the edge so he could run his tongue along your soaked folds and slip it inside. Sucking on your clit until you were shaking.

The cry of his name when he made you cum with his fingers inside, curved and massaging your most sensitive spot.

His voice in your ear, soft but commanding, ordering, “Look at me, habibti” every word coaxing you closer to the edge. Sharp images of your wrists pinned above your head by his hands, of how he made you arch for him, Jamil’s long hair falling over your face as he watched you from above, his pupils blown wide and a bead of sweat trailing down his neck.

Your legs shaking, the pressure of his hand on your throat while he pounded into you again and again, his hips driving hard, his abs rubbing against your belly; his movements calculated, slow when you were desperate, brutal when you begged.

You let out a whimper, and that’s when Jamil opens his eyes. He blinks, then his gaze sharpens, lazy and sly.

“Morning”

Your mouth is dry, cheeks blazing. “Oh my Sevens… what happened last night?”

Jamil kisses your shoulder, moving up to your collarbone, your neck, up to your jaw before giving you a little bite.

“You don’t remember anything?”

“Fr-fragments.”

You feel his hand sliding down your thigh… and realize you’re also naked under the sheets.

Okay, yep, we fucked… got it.

“You were bold. Even eager.”

His hand slides up, up, reaching the wetness between your legs. Your skin lights up and a jolt runs down your spine.

“I regret not doing this sooner,” is all he says before claiming your lips again, his fingers slipping inside.

You moan into his mouth, biting his lower lip, heart stumbling—but all you care about is melting in Jamil’s arms.

“Let me take care of you, habibti,” he murmurs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll make you forget about your hangover”

And when Jamil pulls you back under the sheets, you’re pretty sure you don’t want to remember anything but this.

Idia

The silence in the room is so intense it feels like you can hear your own breathing and heartbeat.

The first thing you notice is that the bed feels… off—not the pseudo-comfort you remember from your bed in Ramshackle.

Second, your head is about to explode; third, you’re naked and there’s a chill in the air, as if warmth doesn’t exist, making every hair on your body stand on end.

You crack one eye open, grateful that the blue light is diffuse and not too harsh, though it still hurts to look at.

Blue light… you turn your head and see a glowing skull. On the other side, way too many monitors crammed onto a single desk, one of those screens has thirty code windows open.

You bolt upright when you realize you’re not just in Idia’s room… you’re completely naked in Idia’s room.

There’s a groan beside you, the creak of bedsheets, and movement.

You turn around; a chaos of blue hair, pale bare shoulders, and a pair of yellow glowing eyes blinking at you from behind a curtain of messy hair.

Idia stares at you, mouth open, emitting a high-pitched, static-like whine; the ends of his blue hair turning pink, then pure red from embarrassment.

There’s a sound like a computer blue-screening right before Idia lets out a strangled squeak, scrambling backwards to put distance between you...then promptly falls off the bed with a loud crash.

“HOLY SHIT, IDIA!! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

“N-NO!! I’M NOT OKAY!! Wh-what did we do last night? Ohgodoh godohgodohgod—”

Idia grabs a pillow, but no matter how hard he tries, he’s bigger and taller than it.

He’s about to combust

“I died last night and on my way to the dorm something hit my head and I died again, and got isekai’d to some forbidden erotic world…”

You reach over and pinch his arm hard to bring him back to reality. “Ow!”

“This is real, Idia! We actually had sex!”

Heat rushes up your neck as flashes of last night come back: your hands on his, surprisingly warm, pulling him close to you in the middle of the party. Shy smiles, nervous giggles.

Idia’s inexperienced lips on your neck, his hands awkwardly squeezing your hips until you taught him how to hold you right.

His monotone voice now a whisper, full of need and want, “Are you sure? I-I’ve never—” and yours, suddenly bold, telling him you want him now.

The blue fire of his hair lighting up the darkness of his room and the naked skin of you both; the nervous way he looked at you and touched you, learning with every move of your hands over his on your hips, your breasts.

His eyes going wide as you guided his fingers to your clit and whispered in his ear how wet you were for him; his long, slender fingers working magic between your folds, barely realizing what he was doing.

Idia stammering as he tried to put on the condom backwards and failed—twice—begging you for help between gasps and awkward laughter. “Why is this so complicated? This… never happens in doujins…”

The exact moment he entered you for the first time, his breath hitching, a sharp, surprised moan as he felt himself inside you—slick and completely ready for him to go deeper, harder; to be entirely his.

Him finishing ‘embarrassingly’ fast (according to him). But all it did was make you want another round, and another, and another.

His lips traveling down your neck and, in a moment of sheer daring and lust, squeezing your breasts together to suck and bite your nipples at the same time, making you arch your back to give him more and more.

The way he moaned your name when you rode him for the first time, desperate not to finish too soon again, but absolutely mesmerized by the sight of your body so free and needy for him.

You taking complete control, hands on his chest, grinding your hips to rub your clit against his pelvis and clench your soft walls around his cock.

Idia groans with embarrassment, interrupting your lascivious memories.

“I-it’s not like… I mean, I’m not complaining or anything, it’s just… this is… max difficulty! Like, y-you’re like a goddess… most beautiful OP character… y-yeah and I—”

“And you’re Idia… was it at least good for you?”

His voice turns to static and he locks eyes with you in a rare burst of confidence.

“Good?! It was… it was overlord level. Uh. You were… really… really—”

Another memory hits: Idia clutching the sheets with every roll of your hips, moaning in time with you. His hands grabbing your hips, squeezing your thighs and holding on to you like his life depended on it.

After a while, still avoiding your gaze, Idia returns to the bed, hiding behind the pillow again. It’s almost cute...

No, it’s very cute. And funny.

You take the pillow away and let him curl up beside you again. For now, both of you log out of reality outside his room and let Idia melt under your touch.

Game over for virginity, am I right?

Silver

You wake up with the weight of an arm draped across your waist and the warmth of a body pressed against your back. The bed is way too comfortable, and your body… way too happy, though aching and with a hangover that could flatten you in the sun.

Little memories float to the surface: lights, very loud music, punch spiked with alcohol, a whirlwind of colors… and something silver blurring your vision.

Silver’s hair between your fingers as you kissed, his eyes—clear and bright—locked on yours in the middle of the chaos, giving you a look that told you both to take this moment somewhere else.

The feel of soft, sweet sheets on your bare skin stops your thoughts in their tracks, making you open your eyes and turn your head to the side.

Girl… you’ve got Silver, completely naked, behind you. His strong, well-trained arm pinning you against his chest.

Ahhhh… his chest; bare, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He’s beautiful in that fairytale way that only storybooks promise.

How can someone, even while asleep, look so utterly tempting?

Why is there a tingling between your legs? And why can’t you feel them? Or rather… why do they feel so wet?

Your heart skips several beats. Holy. Shit.

I slept with Silver. I slept with Silver.

You can’t stop staring at the perfect physique of the man beside you, so muscular, drinking in the view, flashes of the night before returning in blinding white bursts:

Your laughter muffled against his shoulder in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, his voice low but steady whispering sweet things—and something that made your pussy throb, needy and expectant. The warmth of his hand on your waist as he led you to a deserted hallway to devour your mouth right there.

The taste of his lips, sweet and a little shy at first, but no less hungry and full of desire, his tongue sliding into your mouth and both hands gripping your thighs to lift you up and pin you to the wall.

His fingers playing with every button and fold of your clothes, peeling you out of each layer until you were completely exposed for him; the pressure as they slipped inside you and a moan escaped your lips.

His warm, solid body over you, until he sat you on his lap; face to face, your breasts pressed to his chest, your nipples rubbing against his skin as you bounced with each thrust of his hips, his arms holding you tight against him.

Gentle, noble kisses on your cheeks, your shoulders, even your knuckles; kissing you softly, slowly, savoring you and making you feel wanted and loved.

His cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy with ease, not too fast, not too slow, wanting to set a pace that could last all night.

But your moans and pleas for him to go faster—“More, Silver, please, more”—made it a little difficult.

“I’ll give you everything, beautiful, just hold on tight”

And you did; to his shoulders, his arms, even to the sheets themselves when the pace sped up, laying you down on the bed, your legs thrown over his shoulders, the new angle making you cum again and again and again, so easily it was almost ridiculous.

You feel the tingling intensify down low and you shift.

Silver stirs and blinks awake. A few seconds of confusion before he notices your face, your bare shoulders, the way you’re clutching the sheet… adorable.

“Good morning beautiful”

And he says it with the most natural, gentle tone in the world.

“Are you alright?” he squeezes your waist and pulls you a little closer.

Boom, straight to the heart.

For a moment, he hesitates, thinking maybe… maybe, there’s regret in your eyes, maybe even shame.

Finding none, he gives you a soft kiss on the forehead and settles you against his chest; he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You look so beautiful in the morning, I want to wake up like this every day”

A soft kiss on your cheek, then another on your nose, then one more on your neck.

And, to finish, one slow, sweet kiss on your lips—savoring the promise of more in the future.

“If you want me to stop, just tell me.”

Anticipation shivers under your skin.

“Don’t stop”

╌╌╌╌╌╌𖤐☽༓☾𖤐╌╌╌╌╌╌𖤐☽༓☾𖤐╌╌╌╌

Ace … and ... Deuce

You wake up with the worst hangover of your life—moving is a lost cause and opening your eyes isn’t even an option. You feel like you might throw up at any second and then just go back to sleep.

There’s a pounding behind your eyes, the kind that makes you swear you’ll never drink punch again… never drink punch that’s been tampered with by Ace; hell, you’ll never go to another party again.

You roll over and two things hit you: first, you’re naked, like, obscenely naked; second, someone is snoring rudely right in your ear.

A sharp flash stabs through your skull. You remember being squished from all sides while dancing, multiple hands on your waist, and two pairs of lips on your neck.

Turning left, you see Ace waking up. Looks like the hangover is killing him too. He grabs his head as he sits up, elbow propped on the mattress, lets out a heavy sigh and tries to open his eyes—and they lock with yours.

God knows how, but this bastardly redhead manages to give you the cockiest, most infuriating grin that makes you want to punch him right in the face.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty”

“Call me that again and I’ll shove your uniform shoe up your ass, Ace.”

Ace just grins wider and lets out a little laugh… followed by a pained groan as he closes his eyes, keeping the pain under control.

You smack his arm to wipe that smile off his face...and realize he’s just as naked as you.

“Ace… what the hell did you do?”

You blush, covering yourself with the sheets as much as you can, actually, even more. All that’s left is to cover your face and you’d be a mummy.

“Aww, don’t make that face, you’re the one who climbed on top of me after the punch.”

“You’re the one who spiked it!!”

“Didn’t hear you complaining when you were begging us for more—”

You smack him on the head with a pillow; your shrieks and his, plus the loud thump of the pillow, echo through the whole room.

“What the fuck… why are you two so noisy?”

Deuce’s voice sounds from behind you, raspy and just as hungover as you two.

You look at him… he looks at you… his eyes travel down to his own equally naked body… Confusion turns to horror, horror into high-pitched groans.

“What happened? What did we do? Why are we naked?!”

Between the throbbing headache and Deuce’s panicking, you try to remember a little more of this… wild rebellious night.

You remember being with the dynamic duo on the dance floor, Ace whispering dirty promises in your ear, Deuce pulling you closer to him. Then both of them trapping you between them.

Their taste—Ace like candy and mischief, Deuce like cinnamon and adrenaline.

The three of you running through Ramshackle’s halls, stumbling, sometimes collapsing in a tangle of laughs, hands, and feet.

The bed—Sevens, the bed. Sheets scattered everywhere; Ace’s mouth on your neck, Deuce’s trembling hands pulling off your clothes, both fighting over who would take off the last piece.

Spoiler: both of them did it with confident hands before lunging for your lips, your breasts, your legs.

Kisses mixed with laughter, limbs tangled, the chemistry between these two as they made you cume; sloppy at first, then more assured.

The pressure of one sliding between your legs, spreading you open and burying himself deep; the other opening your lips to take him in your mouth. Both working as a team, building a rhythm, admiring how your body adapted to being fucked from both ends.

“Look how we’re breaking you, baby. You’re so wet… I could drown in here,” Ace groaning, rough and loud, grabbing your hair and pushing you down on Deuce’s pelvis with every thrust.

“That’s it, pretty, just like that, don’t stop, swallow it all,” Deuce murmuring as his cock slides down your throat, robbing you of breath for a few delicious seconds.

The way they took turns—one in your pussy, the other in your mouth… but you also remember a sharper pressure at your ass.

The moment when they both wanted to be in your wet pussy together; when one pulled out, the other pushed in, stretching you until you screamed their names, rubbing together inside your softest, most sensitive spot.

The moment you didn’t just cum with both their cocks inside, but, thanks to the pressure and the delicious way they filled you...you squirted, soaking the bed, your belly, and probably Ace’s too.

You moaned, screamed, writhed; the boys turned on by seeing you so free, so full of them, Ace twisting your already-sensitive nipples, Deuce running his tongue over your dripping pussy.

Dizzy flashes of being held in the air, legs around Deuce hips, hands and arms held by Ace, your arms wrapped around his waist too. Each of them fucking you from a different end, watching your tits bounce with every thrust; a mess of spit, sweat, tears, and their cum leaking from both your holes.

The three of you collapsed in bed, panting; Deuce’s arm wrapped around your waist, Ace curled around your chest, fondling your extra-sensitive tit in a playful way—until he switched to gentle caresses. Both seeking your warmth and your touch.

Your breath catches with all the memories. The heat rises not just to your cheeks, but a lot, lot lower.

“I’m never drinking your punch ever again,” Deuce growls, holding his head.

“Don’t you wanna know how good we are at sharing this pretty princess?”

Deuce tosses a pillow at him, but with no force, Ace catches it with one hand, laughing.

The redhead just gets cockier, trapping you in his arms, your back pressed to his chest. You feel his lips leaving little kisses on your nape and cheeks.

Deuce, still hungover and dying of embarrassment, scoots in front of you, wrapping you up with one strong… very strong… arm.

Both of them attack you with twice as many kisses.

neighbor!dilf grayson who starts calling you sweetheart in a low, rough voice that makes your knees buckle. First time was accidental (he was half-asleep, handing you a package). Now he says it every chance he gets, watching you bite your lip and try not to melt.

neighbor!dilf grayson who hears you drop something heavy in your apartment at 2 a.m. and is at your door in thirty seconds, hair tousled, voice gravelly with sleep: “You okay in there, baby?” You open the door in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else, and he has to grip the doorframe to keep from pinning you to the wall right then.

neighbor!dilf grayson who finally snaps the night you knock on his door at midnight, eyes red from crying over some asshole who ghosted you. He pulls you inside without a word, sits you on his counter, and kisses you slow and deep until you’re gasping his name into his mouth.

neighbor!dilf grayson who doesn’t let you speak for the first ten minutes. Just kisses you like he’s starving (slow, filthy, tongue stroking yours until your hands fist in his shirt and you’re trying to climb him right there on the counter). He tastes like whiskey and the mint gum he chews when he’s thinking about you too hard.

neighbor!dilf grayson who lifts you off the counter like you weigh nothing, hands under your thighs, and carries you to the kitchen island. Sets you down, spreads your legs wide and drops to his knees without a word. Rips your panties off with his teeth. The first swipe of his tongue is so gentle you sob, the second is so rough you see stars.

neighbor!dilf grayson who eats you out like it’s his last meal on earth (slow licks, then fast flicks, then sucking your clit until your thighs clamp around his head and you’re grinding against his face). He growls “come on my tongue, baby” and you do, back arching off the marble.

neighbor!dilf grayson who stands up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and kisses you so you taste yourself on him. Then spins you around, bends you over the island and fucks you from behind with one hand fisted in your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. He leans over you, mouth at your ear: “This what you needed, sweetheart? Someone who knows how to take care of you?”

neighbor!dilf grayson who pulls out just to flip you onto your back on the couch, hooks your knees over his shoulders and slides back in so deep you feel him in your throat. He fucks you slow now, eyes locked on yours, watching every expression like he’s memorizing it. When you come again he swallows your moans with a kiss and keeps going until you’re begging.

neighbor!dilf grayson who carries you to the shower, pins you to the tile, and fucks you standing up (water pounding down your back, his hand between your legs rubbing tight circles until you’re coming again, legs shaking so hard he has to hold you up). He comes inside you with a low groan after he practically beg you to let him stay inside.

neighbor!dilf grayson who wraps you in his robe after, carries you to his bed to cuddle. He lasts five minutes before he's fucking you lazily on your side. One arm under your neck and his cock dragging in and out like he's savoring every second.

neighbor!dilf grayson who kisses your shoulder, your neck, your tears, and tells you “no one’s ever gonna hurt you again” right as you come one last time, clenching around him so hard he follows you over.

neighbor!dilf grayson who, when you’re both wrecked and trembling, pulls you into his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back, and murmurs, “Stay the night, yeah?”

How could you say no to him?

There was something of a Holiday Party occurring - A new tradition since the Community Centre had been cleaned up, spacious for the entirety of the town to attend, freely mingling and dancing away with a few pocket groups chatting on the sidelines. The more “Adult-Adults” - The Parents of many young people of the Valley - Congregated by the fire, letting the flicking warmth absorb into their skin, soothed from the chilling bite of the outside with their own fire burning up in their guts, born out of the little treat of alcohol they sipped at. Others mingled elsewhere, spread across the varying rooms, even the children ran and played in the crafts room, welcomed now that festivities didn't have to take place in the depths of the Saloon or the frosty outside of the Town Square.

You were with your usual gaggle of friends; Samson, Abigail and Sebastian, tucked away by the storage pantry, sat on crates and barrels filled to the brim with bits and bobs. You giggle airily at Sam and his usual antics, nursing your cup of eggnog while you shift on your makeshift box-seat, careful to avoid lodging a splinter in Yoba knows where. The vibe was cozy, wrapped in a glowy warm as you look between your friends, a buzz in your tummy leaving your head a little light, lips a tad looser than before.

Your eyes land on Sebastian, propped up on his own crate, chin tilted up high enough to reach the crack of an open window, blowing hot nicotine smoke from his lips into the brisk chill outside. He drags his cigarette hard, the end firing to life with a burn of hot orange, ashes flecking off of the edge before it dies away, smoke carried into his lungs to settle before he blows out once again. He was methodical, practiced in the movements as if he’d sneaked a puff of tobacco before, pierced tongue wetting over his lips, spit surely warm enough to battle the cold kiss of night air reddening his mouth with a blush.

You can’t help but watch him, eyes soft with puppy-love, attention easily slipping away from the present conversation. It was a known fact that you harboured a few feelings for the dark and mysterious man - To you and your other friends at least - Having Samson and Abigail on your back about just asking Sebastian on some sort of date, heck, they’d even offered to set the entire thing up! But there was something that nibbled at your subconscious, a whisper chanting doubts into your thoughts like an earworm, suck on repeat as if it were a bad but catchy song. They assured you, swore up and down that he totally felt the same! But you couldn't let yourself believe it, stuck in a loop of pitiful pining, drooling like a dog with its favourite treat just out of reach, dangled above your head like the sweetest forbidden fruit.

You're snapped out of your trance with a soft kick to your shin, Abigail’s boot tip connecting with the bone enough to jump a startle out of you. She was snickering, and so was Sam, eyebrows raised with a soft mocking cat call, ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ whistled slyly under their breaths lest the other man notice. You pout at them, hiding the expression behind another sip of spiked eggnog, eyes squinted enough to show off your unamusement and potential embarrassment. 

The thick brandy-laced custard slides down your throat with a swallow, adding to the warmth flushing inside your tummy, aided with the bashful sear brought on by Sam’s continued pokes. The alcohol leaves a subtle burn on your tongue, a bubbling in your stomach, turning the sweet and giddy fizz of a crush into something thick and near nauseating. You smack your lips, letting them pout into a small frown, tongue poking past in a childish manner before you let yourself giggle again.

Abigail hops up, sauntering to Sebastian to bum a cigarette off of him, joining by the slight crack of the window on the other side of the room, out of earshot for the next few babbles Sam had for you.

“He looks good tonight, doesn’t he?” Samson ever the lightweight dares to slur your way, cheekily taunting at the crush he knew you harboured for the other man. At first it was all comforts and sweet reassurances, repeating the same lines over and over- Of course you're pretty, of course you're his type, he looks at you too you know? - Until it morphed into not-so-subtle teases and jabs, Sam and Abigail growing tired at the same song and dance of reassurances, opting to wiggle their eyebrows and wink with a coo every time they caught you even glancing at Sebastian. They cared still, obviously, soothed away at the sharp stabs of insecurity that wriggled it’s way past the wall of your inner thoughts and out to them, these days the comforts presented themselves in a sly glance and a knock on your back forcing you to bump into the dark-haired man.

It was true that he did look good tonight; Hoodie swapped for a fitted black button down, coat forgotten at the door with the swallow of warmth inside the building. Piercings all matched with a dark silver sheen with rings to pair on a few of his fingers, bracelets and necklaces tied everything together, sheening behind his unbuttoned collar and rolled up sleeves.

You always hung out with the man in a group, surrounded by the others as a social buffer. Of course you had settled down in Abigail's room many nights past, eating snacks and playing video games until the ranch rooster crowed and the sun kissed its way up and over the horizon. Heck, you'd even spend afternoons with Sam, walking him home from work and staying until dinner, brainstorming music and chatting general nothingness until his mother had politely asked you to head home. 

But Sebastian was another story. How could you invade his sacred space for your own amusement? You could barely open the door to his home for his mother's services without biting your bottom lip and looking at each nail in the floorboards for a distraction, heart tingling at the idea of just seeing him in his natural habitat. A group meant safety, in numbers and outlets, avenues to sprint down in case of an emergency - The emergency being your hopeless and stumbly feelings for him.

Of course you talked to him, chatting away at your interests and his alike, walking drinks from the bar to the pool table with your eyes locked all doe on his face. You had a fair amount in common as well, but that darn bubble in your stomach often kept your feet glued to one spot, a half smile directed towards him in acknowledgement to whatever he would say.

– “You reckon that ring’s new? Looks kinda new…” Sam continues, pondering his astute observation, prying his way past the protective wall you had meticulously crafted surrounding your social body, urging for a comment.

“Maybe..” Your reply is short, safely guarded behind the fear of alcohol loosening your tongue. Sam hums, tilting his head, not at all hiding the fact that he was analysing the man by the window, smoking his way through a conversation, puffs of thick nicotine coming with the replies he had for Abigail before he sticks his head out of the window to blow again. You try not to stare, missing the way Abigail points your way, beaded bracelets on her wrist giving a clacking jingle, her own teasing comments falling off of her tongue with a steady drip of amusement.

“Should ask him.” Sam’s voice chirps again. Subtle teases, as always, trying to push the pair of you together like a girl does with her dolls, announcing the prophet of “Now Kiss!” while smushing their plastic faces together. It had happened once; Sam convinced you to go against him at the pool table, clumsily cracking the triangle of billiard balls with his pool cue, unmanaging to sink either solids or stripes. You admitted you hadn't a clue about how to play, and you were sure you were off the hook until the sunshine boy beams that cheeky, toothy smile at you.

“Sebastian will help!” he had exclaimed, failing to hide his grin when the raven-haired man shrugged and stood from the worn-out Saloon armchair he had been resting in. Though a little initially shy, Sebastian was one to open up with a little push.

That night was something of a struggle. Feeling the warmth of Sebastian's chest laying over your back, lengthy, nimble fingers drowning your own as he guided the pool cue, digits wrapping around the thrumming artery that pulsed in your wrist with a squeeze, just enough to have your head reeling. Click and clack went the sheeny resin balls, sinking into the holes of the pool table with an easy thrust of the cue thanks to Sebastian’s assistance, practically babying you through the process. His cologne stuck to you that night, soft and spicy and barely a hint of sweetness, bled into the threads of your top- Yoba, you’d never properly admit it but you didn’t wash the poor thing for far too long, not until the thick stain had properly lost its essence. The imprint of his body was something unforgettable, towering over your back, chin tucked by your ear, breaths slow and careful, full of focus as he whispered instructions with every turn, guiding your body as if you were his puppet. 

Ever since, it seemed to be Samson’s mischievous mission to pin the two of you together.

There were countless attempts only ending in hot embarrassment, the need to recreate a one off moment only becoming a tangled mess with its execution, like a failed flash mob two counts out of time. But you couldn’t be mad at Sam, in the end he was only trying (and mostly failing) to be your wingman. You squint at him, watching the blonde obnoxiously play with the bar lodged in his tongue, leaned back upon a box from his spot on the floor, eyes fuzzed out of focus in deep thought. Well, as deep as Samson could manage with the clear wash of tipsiness leaking from his body language. He huffs a sigh and chuckles, a goofy, lopsided grin leaning your way before it's hidden by his own sip of his drink, his pierced eyebrow raising as if to dismiss the curious thoughts you had swirling around behind your forehead. 

Sam hops up, a sway in his movement, humming under his breath as he explores a nearby storage closet, spewing out Christmas decor used to add Holiday Charm around the rooms. Ever so nonchalant. He rifles loudly, snickering to himself when he finds a dusty Santa hat, putting the wretched thing over his mane of hair before he continues on. The other pair make their way back over, the window now fully shut, locking in the warmth of the Community Centre, any remnants of the bristly chill snuffed out with a warm wash. Sam’s antics were loud, hands roughly exploring the space, pulling things out that surely shouldn’t be touched - At least not by him of all people. Sebastian and Abigail sit either side of you, the male opting to share a corner of the wooden pallet crate you had situated yourself on, very nearly pressing his bicep into your own as he watches Sam.

“Duuuude..” The blonde calls with a hiccuped laugh, practically jumping into a box to nab at something. Sebastian tilts his head, an amused quirk of a smile plastered on his pierced lips, the point of a double vertical labret (Not snakebites as Sam always annoyingly calls them) lifting with the action.

“That can’t be good.” Sebastian’s voice cracks soft, tone low enough for only you to hear, like a hidden inside joke. Of course, you giggle, top teeth sinking into your bottom lip to stifle the noise, your brain letting you laugh so effortlessly, as if you were a crushing school girl - Yoba it felt silly, and yet your body strives to work against you.

“I’m scared..” You mock a wobbly tone, a fake frown on your face which easily turns upwards as Sam yelps, coming up with his lucky-dip mystery prize he’d yanked up from the box. 

“Ooho..” The blonde calls, lifting up the very thing he had practically dived for; A stringy and sad looking worn-out piece of plastic mistletoe, decorated with a gnarly bright red ribbon in the beginnings of the end of its life, fraying right at the edges in wispy fabric feathers. His grin turns shit-eating, eyes darkening in your direction, dangling the sad plastic plant as if it were poison ivy, ready to rash anything it touched. “Ohh, Sebby-Webs~” He teases, making a wet, spit-filled kissy face at the other man. 

Sebastian rolls his eyes with a huff, pulling out his lighter and flicking the flame to life with a hearty click, a silent threat against the very existence of the sad excuse of mistletoe. Sam makes a show of pouting, sniffling faux snot up his nose in defeat before his attentions turn to you.

“He’s so mean, right?” He keeps up his pout, fake tears in his eyes. “You’ll smooch me, right?” He looked like a kicked puppy, bottom lip wobbling as he neared you, holding the plastic piece above your head. He looks to Sebastian, a glint in his eyes and a near smirk daring to twitch on his lip, stirring the pot, so to say. You fake a gag, looking to Sebastian to spout a joke but the man looked.. Well, tense. Brow furrowed just enough, body stiff in his spot beside you compared to the lucid and wobbled movements of Sam. “Just oneeee~” The blonde begs, teasing at you, making another puckered kissy face as he dramatically leans in.

Another one of his forced proximity plans perhaps-

A lean hand smushes into Sam’s lips, ring clad fingers squishing his cheeks, firmly but gently shaking his head. Oh, it was on now. A roughhousing play fight between the two men, giggles and fake insults, Sam and his mistletoe with pucker kissing noises now directed back to Sebastian. “Kiss meeee, kiss me- You know you want to~” Sam would sing, only to be refuted by Sebastian calling him some sort of choice word. You and Abigail can only look to one another, a stifled smile as the boys go at each other- Until an unhealthy crashing tumble occurs.

Sebastian yelps a swear, falling back on a box within the closet space, saved by the crinkle of tinsel rather than any sharp and nasty decorations. You don’t think, jumping to your feet, eggnog forgotten as you spring to help him.

“Seb-! Are you alright?” You reach him, lending your arm for him to use you as leverage, doing your best to pull him free. You get him up and standing, faced with his collarbones with his height compared to your own, closer than you initially had thought you'd be, the space tighter than it seemed with all the storage boxes-

A chuckle comes from the door, Sam with a teeth-filled and lopsided grin, one hand on the frame and the other tossing the sad little plastic mistletoe right at you before the door comes to a hearty, thunking close. Boisterous laughter is muffled, taunts of “Behaving” going nearly unheard as crates scrape against the hardwood floors, only logically being pressed against the door, successfully locking yourself and Sebastian inside of the tiny storage closet.

This felt juvenile, as if you were thrown into a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven, the door un-opening as you try your best to push - No luck. 

A hand rests snugly on your waist as Sebastian leans over, trying his luck at pushing the door to get it moving along its hinges, palm and fingers spread flat over the wood. It's a futile attempt. He chokes around a pant as he tries again, breath straining with a soft whine right at the back of his throat with his pushing, forming into a weak and disheartened groan of a sigh when he fails again. He swallows, breathing huffed, squared to catch himself before he braces to try again.

“Seb-” Your voice calls with a crack, your hand daring to reach for his bicep, giving him a soft squeeze, heavy with your touch thanks to the soft swirl of alcohol in your stomach. “Hey..” You try again before he relents, face snapping to yours in the dimmed-down closet, barely illuminated by the crack under the door. His breaths huff against your lips, hot and laced with tobacco and a wash of mint in a feeble attempt to mask the smell. He had managed to work up a small sweat with his attempts, smoker lungs surely fiery behind his ribs, puffs coming to an easy slow, air still coming from past his lips, brushing into yours like a faux kiss.

His hand on your waist doesn't move, plastered stuck right in place before the other joins, holding you right there - Closer than arm's length. You hear him swallow, see the bare brush of his tongue swiping over his lips, wetting them with saliva, piercings glinting with the bare shine of light. “Fuck..” Comes his voice, barely above a whisper, more rounded with the shape of his mouth and that harsh digraph sound nestled at the back of his throat.

It's quiet - So, so quiet. Save for the shake of your breaths, coming into a rhythm, forced into tandem as you try to make out Sebastian’s face in the dim. Your pulse thrums in your ears, thumping like a ball in your throat, gushing red-hot anxious blood to your head, already washy and tipsy drunk off of that damned eggnog- The air between you seared, hot tension rising as you come to terms with exactly what just happened, a heavy weight of mortification washing down your shoulders and to your toes, curdling the contents of your stomach into something bubbly-sick. It was as if a kettlebell fell down on your head right as you’d jumped down from high up, a spiking shock running up your legs and down your shoulders, meeting up in the middle. Your hand moves to come off of his bicep, the squeeze of your fingers off from his flesh-

One slender hand moves up, cupping at your ribs as if to stop you, accompanied by a short and startled disapproving hum, rumbled from Sebastian’s throat. You stare at him, he stares back, eyes searching left, right, left, right, flicking and unknowing of where exactly to look- Until he sighs, air punched from his gut before his head drops, carefully landing on your shoulder, face turned into your neck. His piercings barely press a graze to your sensitive skin, poking dully on your pulse, scraping as he speaks right under your ear.

“Sorry.. C-Can..” Your body sparks a shiver. “Can I..?” He asks, such an open-ended question had your brain searching all the ‘what ifs’. You mouth his name with a whisper, a questioning tone pitched up before he hums a long sound from his chest. “I can’t take it anymore- Really.. Fuck- Can I just..” He huffs another breath, a thick swallow following down his throat. His lips graze a trail up, pressed right by your ear as he asks; “Please-” exacerbation and frustration, it oozes off of him, “Tell me I can kiss you- Yoba I can’t...” 

Was this an eggnog induced hallucination? Was your sick pining something mutual? No more clawing through the six feet of thick insecurity to grasp at measly straws or long over the reassurances Sam and Abigail had gifted you? It was your turn to beg a short please of your own before your lips were captured in a desperate lock - All teeth and tongue, clumsy in movement, heads turning to find the perfect fit. Sebastian's hands wander, caressing up and down your sides, to the small of your back, letting them dive further to cup the fat of your ass as his tongue moves to take over your mouth. It swirls lovingly over your own, the ball of his tongue bar rolling and lapping, tastebuds dragging rough against each other, sloppy with spit and tipsiness, each and every breath of his tainted with a moan that cracked its way up his throat. His piercings poke against your lips, kissing them raw with every move of his mouth on your own until he lets your bottom lip thread through his teeth with a needy bite.

He pecks you hard, capturing your lips in a short frenzy before he's back on you again, deep and needy, pulling your body towards his own, soft in comparison to his lean build. You throw your arms around his neck, fingers twirling girlishly into the back of his hair, giving him a sweet tug with every few kisses you give back. His tongue is on you again, lips parting with a groan as he licks into your mouth, the mixed taste of whiskey tainted custard-cream and spiced smoked tobacco swaps with your spit. The air around you thickens, noses huffing against each others cheeks as you try to catch your breath, unwilling to part from the sloppy lock of your lips - Curse the need to breathe, Sebastian pops off with a wet puckered sound, a line of spit still connecting you together. His arms tighten, fingers turning into a claw to grab at you, anything he could get his hands on, his lungs huffed up choked breaths, head shaking in some form of disbelief.

“Fuck.. Yoba-” His lowered voice calls. Your response is barely a squeak before he's on you again, capturing your lips between his in a hot and heavy manner, pulling you into his body, pressing himself against you, the finality of having you in his arms coursing a magma-hot sear through his blood. His knee rests between your legs, an arm caged around your upper back, caressing and rubbing in a feverish frenzy, bundling the fabric of your clothes into desperate fists while the other rubs circles into your hip, tugging right at the waist of your pants. You feel it, the hot pulse of something down below, the strain of his cock pressing up against the seam of his jeans and by proxy, poking against your own body. “I.. Fucken’... Need you.” It’s said between kisses, slurred against your lips, “F’So… Long.. Too fucken’.. Shit-.. Too, mmph.. pussy to say-” That's when you cut him off, a sweet tug to his hair with one hand and a cup to his chin with the other, tippy-toeing your way to press against him, kissing up, chasing his mouth.

“Shh..” You soothe, your own desperation showing as your palms come down to massage his shoulders, caressing up and down his chest over the sheeny smooth fabric of his button down. Your fingers trace against his collar, dipping past the edge of his shirt, already slightly unbuttoned from the top to show off the silver chain of his necklace. Another swear comes from his pierced lips, hands leaving your body for barely a moment for him to tug at the strip of fabric housing the plastic buttons, pulling the poor placket open with a needy tug, losing at least one rounded badge with a snap, the poor little thing landing on the floor with a bounce before it was forgotten completely. His chest was exposed, milky skin bright enough to see in the dim light, sparsely dotted moles dancing over his otherwise clear skin. It's warm against your touch, tacky with the rise of sweet arousal, in the beginning stages of working up a heated sweat.

His hands are back on your body, reaching for the hem of the ‘ugly sweater’ you’d picked out for the night, decorated with kitschy Holiday motifs sewn into the knit. It was one of your last layers you wore to the party that night, a warm and cuddly jumper and scarf left to sit in a neat pile. Off it came with a tug over your head before his bare hands were on your skin, forcing sweet shivers in every spot he touched, sparking like needle pricks with every squeeze and brush. His lips brush into your neck with open mouthed kisses, bites and bruises peppered into your skin- Your nails dig into his shoulder, dragging down his front before your palms flatten, taking in the feeling of his body against your fingertips. “Sebastian~.. Mmnn..” Your head tilts back with a sweet chirpy moan, giving the man all the access he could ever want to your body, thoughts swirling behind your closed eyes, dizzy with the slur of alcohol inebriating your finer thinking ability. Yoba, you didn’t care- Couldn't care less towards the fact.

Sebastian bites against the strap of your bra, the elastic snapping against your shoulder before he mouths at your collar bone, sinking down to the valley of your breasts, bent over to press tender kisses and love bites into the once untouched and hidden skin. You reach back and fumble with the clasp of your bra, picking at the stubborn latch to free your tits, feeling the wet spit of his kisses linger coolly with the huff of his breath.

“Hahh.. Shit..” His voice pipes up again. Kisses come back up, arms wrapping snug around your body to squeeze you into him, tits squishing into his nude chest all soft and pretty, the rougher poke of his necklace making an imprint into your skin. His hands are grabby, arms flexing to hug and pull at you, teeth sinking into your neck, over your collarbones, wet kisses smothered up your jaw to your awaiting lips.

“S-Seb-!” He only groans in response, head nodding as if to say ‘I Know,’ pierced lips dragging into your skin with the movement. Your hands grab his face, cupping his jaw on either side, thumbs caressing in rough swipes, feeling the subtle grain of his shaved face under the pads of them. You grab back at him, palm sliding down his neck, massaging into the bob of his Adam’s apple, against the slope of his shoulder into that tender trap muscle, skin soft with peach fuzz until you move to his chest, feeling the slightest wiry rough of chest hair, barely enough to frame his torso. You rub the expanse of his chest, hands between your pressed bodies, kissing hot and sloppy, tongues swirling, lips fully parting to moan into his mouth as your thumb brushes over his bare nipple, feeling the hard metal of a piercing. It sends a thick course of arousal to your core, throbbing behind the press of your pants. 

You squirm, rubbing your thighs together for a sweet release, anything to feel the sticky heat of friction against your budding arousal- Yoba you don’t have to chase it though. 

It's like he reads your mind, his hand allowing itself to press between your legs, long and dexterous ring-clad fingers pushing against your mound in a caress, palm pressing richly hot pressure against your clit. Your lips part in another moan, eyes rolling softly, allowing your lashes to flutter into a dreamy close, body melting as if you were moulded out of thick molasses. Things were getting hotter - Heavier - Pleasures beginning to spark under fingers and they soothe and caress, as Sebastian’s palm grounds rough at the seam of your pants, fingertips pressing their pads against your clothed fluttering hole. Your lips part from his with a breathy gasp, his name hot on your tongue, barely whispered, those syllables rounded as you suck air into your starving lungs. Yoba, it's all you can say - A mantra of his name over and over with every few seconds, spewing from your lips as if you knew nothing else. 

He breathes your own name back to you, rasped off of his pierced tongue before his kisses are on your throat, nose nuzzling in slow shakes of his head. His hand comes up, swiping the button to your pants with his thumb and forefinger, zipping down the fly enough for him to connect closer - His fingers dip behind your panties, the taught elastic band surely digging into the back of his hand as he glides his digits over your drooly folds. He outwardly groans, another ‘Fuck’ grit through his teeth. You whimper, head leaning into him for comfort, thighs squishing around his teasing hand. Ohhh that was it- The sweet dip of his long middle finger sinking into your wetness, past the weepy ring of your cunt, coated in sweet drool as he dares to curl. You bite into your bottom lip, a long and keened hum following his actions.

“God- Yoba..” He stains, his finger working its magic, curling sweet caresses, a beckoning of ‘come here, come here!’ over and over again. “You’re so.. Fuck- so wet..” He says in bewilderment, tongue running over his kiss-bitten lips, past the metal pierced through them. You nod, an ‘All f’you’ about to drip off of your tongue if it weren't for the grind of his palm sparking a delicious pressure against your clit- Instead you moan, a pathetic affirmation of a noise whining out. One became two, the slip of his ring finger clad with a ring, in fact, easily being stained with the sweet and creamy nectar of your cunt.

Oh, how he works them into you. Cupping your pussy with his lean hand, lengthy fingers rolling sweet curls against the gummy little spot inside of you, giving you his palm to grind back on, lips kissing at the top of your head, huffing an enamoured chuckle each time you clench your squishy thighs against the bone of his wrist and the dig of his bracelets. Yoba, it forces him to be rougher with you, a game to push past the tight trap of your thighs, free himself from the confines all so he could fuck into you. You look up at him, eyes glassy from the abuse of his fingers, pressing right where you needed him. You flutter a blink, bubbles of tears threatening to fall past your bottom lash, doe and unfocused with a pouty bite to your lip.

“Hohhh.. Fuck, that's it.” He holds you into him as your legs go jelly-soft, a hot wash of ditzy dizziness creeping up your knees as his fingers fuck and curl. He stares right at you, brows furrowed in an upward pinch, a tug of a frown born out of hot arousal and focus appearing right at the corner of his lip. Your breaths hitch, rapid, in pace with a sinful hiccup tainting any feeble attempt at speaking-

“Seb.. ast-tian~” It's almost like a warning, sharp with arousal and stuttered in pleasure, breathed inward as you gasp, hands fisting into the fabric of his open button-down like a lifeline.

“Hmmn?” He hums with a nod - Right there. Sebastian was right where you needed him, his fingers mashing into that supple little spot inside of you, that sweet and spongy swell that had your brain all foggy. “What is it, Princess..?” The name alone had you melting further than you thought was possible, your entire body rippling with a sensation that felt as though you were on fire. Your fingers tighten on the fabric of his shirt, chin tilting up in a desperate plea, lip bitten raw and in need of more kisses.

Of course, he obliges, hearing your begs despite the lack of a peep chirped from your throat - Slow and deep - That's how he kisses you. Capturing your lips with a sweet bite of teeth, tongue caressing your own with a loving lick, out of time with the hot and feverish way his fingers fuck your cunt. The juxtaposition only adds to the wobble in your body, coming closer and closer to the very edge, moans drunk up by his lips, swallowed with a happy humming in his throat. One hand comes off of his shirt collar, fingers curling around Sebastian's arm, your soft palm feeling the bump of his wrist bone press into it, greedily pushing him into you while your hips hump back on his digits.

“I..- I’m.!” You can barely formulate your sentences, whipped thicker than cream under his spell, the sinful caress of his fingers beckoning in your cunt.

“Fuckk, Babe.. S’okay- I gotcha’..” Sebastian promises. You cling to him for dear life, your body leaning its weight against him, pushing him further into the wedge of shelves supporting the both of you. You feel it, that spark right at the bottom of your tummy, twisting and turning, firing into ignition as your thighs clench and squirm. So close- So, so close!

Any attempt at a legible sentence is easily cut with a gaspy whimper, crying out as you cream over his knuckles, properly messing up the fabric of your panties with gushy slick, bleeding pat and surely leaving a messy wet spot on your pants. Even with the taut press of your waistband limiting the man’s movements, he doesn't let up, curing those lengthy fingers through the rush of your orgasm, feeling the clenchy release lovingly pulse on his knuckles. He works you through it, eyes wide and enamoured with the way he had you, closer than arm's length, the sole reason for the sweet bliss that rushed through your body - “Shit- That's it.. Thaaat’s it- Fuck.. Look at me.. Look at me-” You obey, fucked out eyes flicking up to his, seeing the wash of arousal pool and swirl behind his dark lashes, his lip bitten bruised as he focuses on you, enamoured. “Feels good? Hmmn?” He nearly begs for reassurance, huffing a relieved laugh when you nod, your body twitching with each sweet pulse.

His lips attack yours, hungry and hot, throat groaning up a delicious noise you couldn’t help but eat up, body on fire with the way his palm rides you through the remnants of your hot burst of arousal. 

“Fuck..” His hand softens its press, fingers giving a last curl before he carefully pulls them from the confines of your pants. They're drenched and sticky, dribbles of arousal sticking to his fingers like a lattice, spider webbing with a sinful drip that had you clenching your thighs once again. It drips over his rings, cream and slick mixing with the precious metal, soaked knuckles curling as his lips part, tongue lapping a lick before they’re suckled into his mouth.

The groan he lets out is near animalistic, needy and punched from the depths of his lungs, his own arousal going painfully unnoticed only pressing harder and stricter against the seam of his jeans. The man murmurs, words raspy-hot on his tongue; “Need more of’ya-”

It felt almost comical to describe the next moments as a blur, but the post-orgasm airiness lingering in your boozed tipsy brain had your perception flicking with a whack of whiplash. Turned from your position, the skin of your naked back now pressing into a collection of forgotten Holiday decorations, a slight itch thanks to the plastic of a faux wreath. Your pants are tugged down, eager fingers hooking into your waistband and stripping you of your bottoms, it's a short fumble, hot and clumsy, the air within the closet turned stuffy with breath and sweet arousal-induced sweat. 

Hands are on you, flat palms squishing into the flesh of your bare thighs, fingers still slick, pressing their pads into the sensitive, rarely caressed skin - Thumbs daring to dig just enough to have you squirming. His lips are next, sharp with the bud of his piercings and the nips of his teeth, daring to suckle a bruising kiss against your inner thigh, piping up a squeak from your throat, another call of his name. You search for Sebastian in the dim, eyes focusing on the milk of his skin reflecting off of the crack of light, his being nestled comfortably between your legs. His dark hair parts with an affectionate caress of your fingers, looping themselves through his locks to pat him. He hums against your flesh, warm on your skin, breath moist with humidity born out of the hot and tacky stick of arousal leaching into the air from your bodies.

He smacks his lips on the skin of your thighs, itching up and up, further into the centre of your heat, nails digging loving crescent marks into your skin with every eager grope. He kisses against your bikini line, right by the taut elastic hugging at your upper leg, hiding away the sweetness of your cunt behind a wall of silky pantie fabric. He nuzzles his nose into the crevice connecting your thigh to torso, the point of it dragging over your clothed cunt with an affectionate press accompanied by a shameless inhale. Sebastian sighs something dreamy, lips peppering kisses that had your breath hitching, right over the mound of your heat - So pretty and accentuated with the tight and taught pull of your panties, outlining the swell of your pussy. Yoba, he swallows thick, gulping down saliva that dared to pool under his pierced tongue. 

Your arousal sticks to his lips, pooling a clear wet spot in your panties, a target for him to kiss at, to tentatively lick at, feeling the slick remnants of your previous orgasm wet on his tongue. He groans- More of that taste on his tongue, eyes heavy as they look up at you, washed over with need. Your fingers twitch, straining against his scalp, tugging his dark strands enough to have him diving right in.

His lips latch to your clothed cunt, impatient to get more of you on his tongue. The soft prick of his lip piercings press a spiky pressure on your sensitive mound, a reminder harsher than the eager lap of his tongue- Yoba.. Fuck- His tongue, strong and flat, licking between your pantie clad folds, adding his own drooly spit to the mess staining the poor fabric. His lips purse against your pussy as he indulges, eyes fluttered shut, thick, dark brows creased into an affectionate scrunch, full of focus.

“O-Ohhh.. Seb… I’m.. I need..” You breathe past the burn of your lungs, panting with jolty huffs each time his lips and tongue brush over the fabric covering the sensitive bud of your clit.

“Hmm.. Mhmmn-” He hums, smacking a harsh kiss before he pulls off, “Need to- Fuck, need my tongue on you. Gotta-” He shakes his head, kissing at his teeth with a ‘tut’ before his thumb dares to leave your thigh, hooking at the fabric of your panties in a motion to pull them aside. He looks to you, a thick gulp down his throat as he watches your head bob- Nod, nod, nod goes your head, almost in desperation to just feel him again, fingers curling in his hair, clenched with arousal and the budding frustration to just make him take you already. Yoba, he was sweet, though, the sentiment of him asking such things, checking in with a silent ask for consent, making your back teeth grit in hot enamourment.

Sebastian takes it, your gifting nod, and eagerly yanks your underwear to the side. His thumb pulls your panties taut, shifted aside to show off the wet glisten of your folds, gushy with your last orgasm, puffy and swollen thanks to the prior abuse of his fingers, good enough to kiss-

Obviously, he does. Planting a wet and obnoxious open-mouthed kiss to your budding clit, lips smacking together before he properly dives into you, selfishly savouring all the sweetly creamed arousal you had for him. You gasp, fingers tightening in the twirls of his hair, surely enough to leave a harsh sting but Yoba- It doesn't seem like he cares. If anything it spurs the man on, a hot groan erupting from his chest, lips parting, the prick of his piercings digging a delicious pressure into your cunt. He’s messy with you, hungry slurps uncaring of the vulgar noise - The sharp and uncomfortable itch of the Holiday wreath biting at your skin was incomparable to the searing hot pleasure ripped from your pussy, stinging with overstimulation, forcing an endless string of whines from your lips.

Your throat hiccups, panting hot swears and the syllables of his name, rounded easily from your lips as he takes to you. It's easy for another orgasm to threaten your body, the feeling eager to roll from your cunt, twisting sweet and stabby like a suckled on candy cane, licked into a pin-thin spike poking at your gut- Especially with the works of Sebastian's tongue, swirly with his movements, tongue fat and flat as the metal ball of his piercing kisses at the bud of your clit in his rhythmic laps. He’s vocal with you, only spurring you on; Sweet hums tainting each breath he sucked in, feeble attempts to get oxygen in his lungs. You’re not sure he cares, not with the hearty mash of his lips against your mound, pursed with a stingy-sweet suckle directed right against your clit, teeth grazing at the supple soft swell of your pussy. 

You can’t help the hot babble, the filthy cry you speak next, steadily rushing to the very edge- Wanting to just take him- Damn any refractory period, you needed to feel the pulsy stab of his length drilling you over the edge. 

“Fuck me- Please- please, please Sebby just- Ahhnn..~” You whine, fingers giving his hair some grace, opting to feverishly pet him, clumsy affection in your fingers as you work them in a soothe. “Want you- Want you so, so bad- Y’know? F’so long-” You don't have to convince him.

He pops off of your cunt- Not without leaving several plants of hot kisses, pecking hotly on your clit before he tugs your panties down. His cock comes free with the jangle of a belt buckle, the leather sliding from his belt loops with a zip, metal buckle daring to clank on the floor before he’s working at the button and zip of his fly. His lips kiss at yours, the taste of your cunt on his tongue, sweetly salty and drenched in arousal, twinged with the last remnants of spicy nicotine and cream-sweet eggnog, swapped with the swirly spitty lap of your tongues mingling together in a hot collide.

It feels like a hot blur, motions moving quickly, Sebastian's arm jutting as he fists his free cock- Weepy dribbly tip all swollen and pink, finally free from the tight seam of his jeans. You squirm, lips clumsy on his own, arousal knocking you into an instinct-driven motion, oh so needy, “Seb..- Please.. Fuck… Fuck me~” You beg, muted between hot kisses, words slurred with the lick of his tongue, cutting you off with his mouth.

You move in tandem, arms throwing themselves around his neck as he grips the squish of your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around his lean hip, hooking you into him as he lines himself up. He pops off of your lips enough to breathe, murmuring filthy things against them, coated in hot spit and your sweet arousal; “M’gonna fuck you- Promise, God- Yoba I promise, Princess-” He throws more sweet pet names your way, “Wanted me? Hmm? Wanted- Fuck.. Wanted you f’so long..” He promises. You feel the pudge of his cock press to your cunt, sparking a drooly clench of your drippy hole. He grinds on you, hips rolling, tip weeping as if it were crying, dribbling its milky pre over your puffy clit, pathetically kissing against your folds as his hips rut.

“Fuuuuckkk..” The ring of your cunt hugs his tip, suckling him in as he finally makes an effort to press in, he groans out a moan, matching the supple whine of your throat as you take him. Slow and sweet was something that could surely come later- The pressing itch of desperation easily taking over between you. Heavy rolls turn into needy fucks, hips jutting, pudgy cock tip making love to your cervix, kissing hot and lovingly hard pecks against the sweet mush in the depths of your pussy.

It's easy for his hips to roll into you, the base of his cock pounding against your mound, grinding the wiry curls that decorated him into the sensitive bud of your clit. Plap, plap, plap goes his hips on yours, skin to skin, sticky and sweat sheened, tacky to the touch as your bodies collide. You brace one arm on a shelf behind you, swiping off any stray decorations with a clamouring clutter, mystery items bouncing off into the depths of the closet, rolling on the floor. Your other arm hangs loosely on his neck, doe eyes fucked out and glossed as they look up at him, lips parted sweetly, kiss bitten and spit-shined, captured in a heated tongue and teeth-filled kiss before Sebastian groans. 

“Everythin’ I fucken’ dreamed of-” It's said between gritted teeth, his gaze snapping from your wet eyes to your drooling cunt, huffing an arousal filled chuckled laced up in disbelief, seeing that drooly ring of cream coat over his length, making a mess between yourselves. “So fucking perfect- Fuhhhck m’not gonna last long- Hahh.” You nod in agreement, eyes closing, that bubble of tears falling down your cheeks with a streak. Closer and closer came the tight twist of your next orgasm, your poor and abused pussy clenching loving squeezes on his cock, spurred on with the hot sting of overstimulation- Your thigh cramped, spread over his hip for him, tits bouncing with every thrust, lungs stuck in a sweet burn.

Your skin sweats, lips drool, eyes blink all glossy and dumb, brain firing off every time you have the pleasure of looking at him- Closer, closer - Your clit throbs, hips pathetically humping back into his fucks, chasing the hot high that threatened to gush!

There's sudden laughter, slurred and obnoxious, rasped from an all-too-happy voice. It leaks from beneath the crack in the door, the outside world leaching into your little space, a phantom chill washing over your body as if the door has swung open to the fresh fall of snow that blanketed the street. A crash occurs, a feminine voice scolding someone, furniture scraping against the wood floor of the outside. You hadn't noticed your attention had wandered, not until Sebastian grips your chin, turning you back to lock into another searing kiss-

“Oiii-” A fist bashes against the door, rattling the thing on its hinges. Sebastian’s hand moves, coming between your legs to rub at your poor bud- The fiery thrill of a threat- A burning fear of being caught by a drunken Sam had your body twitching. Sebastian seemed to feel the same, making something of a challenge to get you off before the blonde had the audacity to finally clear the doorway. “Ha- ‘ave you kissed yet?” Yoba knows you’ve done so much more.

Sebastian presses you harder into the shelves, hips snapping rough, filthy words spat into your ears as his hand worked overtime on your poor clit- His hips roll sloppily, breathes coming into a hard and slow pant, huffing in your ear- “Fuck.. M’ Gonna fucken’ cum- Yeah? G-Gonna take it? Hmmn? Look so pretty like this-” he babbles, tone heavy in his throat. “Gonna make it up t’you- Yeah? Promise.. Hnng fuck- P-Promise..” His fucks turn snappy, jut, jut, jutting- Punching at your poor cervix, cunt mashing against the base of his cock.

“Seb- As.. Tian~” You choke, head lulling back with an eye roll, teeth biting into your lips as you finally gush again, wetting his cock with a weepy clench of your pussy, filthily kissing at his length, adding to the wonderful mess between your legs. So sweet and squeezy, your velvety walls massage the length of his cock as you cum, pussy suckling him in, inviting the hot pulse of his own orgasm with a loving hug.

His hips snap in sharp staccatos, throat stuck in a perpetual growl with each lingering fuck as he spurts. He creams into you, hot and ropey filling up the depths of your sweetness, milked off by your squeezing. His sweaty forehead comes to rest in the crook of your neck, fingers holding your thigh up squeezing a grab, a stingy dig of his nails leaving desperate crescent marks behind. He rasps a drawn-out groan, nosing into the tacky, sweaty skin of your neck, mouthy kisses back on your shoulder, just adding to the bitey kiss marks he’d left on you already.

You jolt when another knock rasps against the door, sloppy and full, thunks formed by a fist connecting to the wood. “Alright, you guys, you've definitely been in there long-e-fucking-nough." Sam’s voice calls with a snort, a failed attempt at stifling his laughter. “Don’ make me open this door~” He sings.

“They’ve been starin’ at us all night, ya know.” 

Mina sits next to you on the little leather lounge couch situated at the back of the club near the bar which has started to trickle down with activity. You and Mina have been here for over an hour, so the buzz of the night is starting to die down a bit, but the dance floor is packed and the drinks are still flowing. 

And the eyes are still staring. A pair of two in particular that you can see piercing at you and your girlfriend from across the way. The two smoldering pairs of eyes belong to two very attractive men dressed in their best designer.

They each have features that stand out to you as intriguing: the tallest one sitting on the right has long, black hair you bet is soft to the touch while the one on the left has arms roped in tattoos and lip piercings. 

They are both hot. That much is clear. And their alluring, lustful stares are definitely piping you up as you sit nice and pretty with your girlfriend, a second fruity cocktail in your hand that will soon turn into a third. But though they are hot, you know four other men that are way hotter and that you would rather be here with you and Mina tonight. 

But noooo, they’re just too damn busy to make time for their pretty girlfriends. 

You mean towards Mina, dipping low to speak into her ear over the music blasting from the speakers overhead. “They can stare all they want,” you retort. “I’m way more interested in the four idiots that aren’t here right now.” 

Mina scoffs, sipping on her second tequila sunrise of the night. You both love your girly drinks. “Waiting on them to come?” she chuckles, the flashing club lights making her ink-black eyes gleam.

You flush in your mini dress, feeling hot despite the AC blasting and the exposed skin your little get-up provides. “You’ll be waiting a loooong time then, baby girl,” Mina scoffs, crossing her smooth, muscular legs over one another. “You know they’re at that meeting tonight discussing business or whatever.” 

She rolls her eyes, ever the brat of your relationship. But you’re not exactly the opposite though. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t pissed that your boyfriends aren’t here, buying you and Mina all of the pretty drinks you want, giving you those lustful stares on the dance floor, and hyping you up in your outfits. 

You made sure to look hotter than hot tonight. Like hot enough to make a man nut in his pants as soon as he sees you. You had raided your closet and pulled out a short, backless mini dress that made your legs look longer and showed off the curve of your spine sliding down towards your ass where a rhinestone G-string snugly sits below your stomach and in your ass crack.

You love, love, love this dress–how beautiful the pink fabric looks against your skin; how sexy it makes you feel. Not to mention how the hem of it barely covers your ass. If you are to bend over right now, everyone would get a good view of your ass that looks even plumper from the sparkly G-string.  

The dress is one of your boys’ favorites. They’ve torn it off of you many, many times before. Combined with your heeled sandals, fresh mani and pedi, the perfume adorning your wrists and the back of your knees, and long braids that caress your back, you feel like a damn vixen. 

Mina looks good enough to eat too. She decided on a mesh bodysuit that is skintight against her body and breasts, exposing the black bra she wears underneath, red pumps, and a leather mini skirt that doesn’t do much to cover the bottom of her asscheeks. You’re not sure if she’s wearing any panties, but knowing Mina and her bratty self, she did that for a reason. 

She was the one who came up with this little plan to rile your busy pro boyfriends’ up. One hot afternoon while lounging by your pool at your shared condo, you two were more than pissed that your boys were still at work after saying they’d be home by two.

“Sorry, babes,” Denki sighed over speakerphone. “Patrol is takin’ much longer than we thought it would, so we’re still out here in the street. It’s hot as a bitch out here too.” You could hear the frustrations in his usually-upbeat tone as he gave you and Mina the rundown. 

“Well, you could just leave early, can’t you?” you ask. “Aren’t there other pros working besides you, Sero, Kiri, and ‘Suki?” 

You hear Sero make a “tsk” sound into the phone. “We wish we could, mama,” he sighs. “Almost everybody called out ‘cause of the heat, so we’re pretty much the only ones workin’ still, but we get a fat bonus out of this.” 

“We’d better!” Katsuki hollers in the background. “It’s so hot out here, my fuckin’ balls are sweating. You two brats complainin’ aren’t makin’ things better for me either.” 

You and Mina stared at each other in your designer sunglasses, mouths agape and offended. “Hey!” Mina scoffed, taking your phone from you. “It’s not our fault we feel neglected! You four have been blowin’ us off for weeks now to do work!” 

And she’s right. The usual attention you and Mina get from your adoring, hot boyfriends has since been dwindling down ever since they started taking on more work at their agency. Now it’s all about work. 

You try to get one of them to go out with you for a night in the city? “Sorry, babe, but I’ll be in the office late.” 

You want to cuddle? “Baby, I can’t; this paperwork ain’t gonna do itself. Maybe later tonight.” 

You want one of them to blow your back out and fucking do something about the ache between your legs? “Don’t you got one of your toys? We can do that later, alright?” That response was from Katsuki a week ago stressing over the whereabouts of a villain committing petty theft all over the city. 

This dry spell has been happening for weeks now. And when you say a “dry spell”, you mean that shit. Not only have the boys been blowing you and Mina off for time alone, but the bedroom is dryer than the fucking Sahara desert. 

While sex isn’t always between the six of you every single time, you miss it being that way--the connection you all have being together, touching and teasing each other; giving each other pleasure. You miss your favorite men aka your Daddies domming you and Mina into submission, taking turns on your bodies and poor little pussies until you’re both aching for release.

And more than anything, you miss the aftercare. You miss the cuddle piles; the soft kisses from Kiri; the the mindless touches from Sero; the nuzzles from Denki; and the soft humming from a very sleepy Katsuki. 

Recently, you and Mina have had to spent time with each other in the bedroom by yourselves without your daddies, if not use your toys. Though your rose toy and vibrator get the job done, toys never compare to physical touch. You need your boys. But they’re just too busy. 

So Mina came up with the perfect idea after Katsuki told her to “sit her ass down, watch her mouth, and wait for them to get home” before hanging up and proceeding with their patrol. “We should go out,” she said as you began to put sun tan oil on her muscular back. Her eyes were closed and her face was relaxed. 

“What, like, tonight?” you asked, rubbing your hands together once more to heat up the oil. Mina softly moaned as your hands knead into her back muscles, the sounds going straight to your clit. “Why not?” she replied. “Or this weekend. Maybe we can go dancing and meet some guys that’ll give us the attention we’re cravin’.” 

She giggled at this, but you could tell she was serious. “I don’t know, Mina,” you hesitantly said, rubbing oil into her shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong; I love the idea of goin’ out to shake my ass and look cute, but without the guys? You know how they feel about other guys checkin’ us out.”

You stopped rubbing her down and she looked back at you, concerned. “What if they get mad?” you timidly ask. 

You’ve seen the boys mad before and didn’t want to face that wrath…or did you? The idea of riling your daddies up so much that they punished you with enough spanks to make your ass sting and filled your throat up to the point your eyes teared appealed to you more than you’d like to admit. 

Mina could tell you were thinking it over and turned over, exposing her gorgeous breasts in her gold bikini top to you. “So what if they get mad?” she scoffed. “They’d better put that aggression into fucking us if that happens. We’ve been trying to get their asses to show us a little attention for weeks, but it’s always about work!”

She sat up, taking your hands in hers. “So if they don’t want to pay attention to us, then we’ll make them pay attention––by wearing our hottest shit and spending time with some dudes that would gladly give us what we want.”

She smirked at you, mischief in her eyes. “So what do you say, baby girl? This Saturday?” 

All you could do was smile back as an excited flutter formed in your tummy. Now here you were one a hot Saturday night, wearing your sluttiest outfits and getting checked out without your boys here to keep an eye on you. Just like you and Mina planned.

“You really think they won’t show up?” you ask, slight disappointment blooming in you. “We posted our pics all over IG, so you know they saw.” 

“They probably did,” Mina says, wrapping her glossy, sparkly lips around her straw to sip her cocktail. “If they aren’t tied up at work, that is. Can you imagine them walking in here right now? Katsuki would probably have us bent over this couch.” 

You laugh along with her, cackling at your boyfriend’s reaction. “Or Sero would tie us up and drag us out of here,” you giggle.

Your eyes then glide up and down your girlfriend’s form in her clothes, your mouth suddenly dry. “You know, you really look so good tonight. I almost don’t even want the boys to have you.” 

She giggles, pressing a sticky kiss to your cheek. “Thank you, babe,” she purrs into your ear. “You look absolutely delicious.”

Her hand glides down to her ass, squeezing it. “Y’know, I bet those guys over there would say the same thing. Don’t wanna waste this little fit, do you?” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the long-haired hottie take a drag of his blunt that suddenly looks very appealing to you.

‘Fuck it,’ you think. You came here to not only rile up your boys, but to also let loose and have some fun. Why stay back here and act like you aren’t interested in these two? 

So you stand and take Mina’s hand in yours. “Let’s go and say hi,” you purr.

Mina giggles excitedly from beside you, sipping on her drink like it’s justice as you walk her over to the leering duo. Their stares get even more lustful and lecherous as you get closer to them, their eyes gliding over your legs, hips, thighs, and titties jiggling with every step. 

You know what they want and there is no way you’re going to give it up to them. You wouldn’t dare ruin your amazing, romantic, poly relationship with Mina and your boys. But the idea of acting up with them enough to ruffle the feathers of your boyfriends makes your heart skip a beat and your pussy leak.

You stop in front of them with Mina, smiling down at them. “Are those seats taken?” you ask, a breathless, sexy tone leaking into your voice. You point one manicured finger at the empty spots beside either one of them. 

The duo look at the empty seats then at each other before smirking up at you both. “Not at all,” the tattooed one answers. “Please, join us. We’ve been waitin’ on you two all night.”

Mina giggles as she sits down next to him while you take a seat next to the long-haired one. “We can tell; you two have been starin’ at us almost all night.” 

The tattooed man laughs, flashing his pearly whites at your girlfriend. “Well, it’s not every day you see a pro hero and her pretty friend walk into a club.”

At the mention of 'friend', you look at Mina, trying not to laugh at her wobbling lips as she struggles to keep in her giggles. 

“Well, you’re in luck then,” you chuckle. “I’m Y/N and of course, you know Mina aka Pinkie.”

The long-haired hottie takes short puff of his blunt, making sure to blow it out of your face. “I’m Aki and this here is Kanaki,” he says in a deep, raspy voice that would make any woman’s pussy wet. His friend, Kanaki, gives you a nod. “We just got done some boxing practice and came here for a night out.” 

“Oh, you’re boxers?” Mina asks, interested. Kanaki smiles at her, dimples popping in his cheeks. He’s a panty-dropper too. “Best in the business,” he cockily replies. “We come here often for relaxation, but we’ve never seen you two before.” 

“Work unfortunately keeps us busy,” Mina explains, “but tonight was a good night for us. We’re just here for a good time.” Kanaki smirks at Aki before turning back to Mina, his intentions pure to you. “So are we,” he rasps, . “I bet we could all have some fun together.” 

Aki nods in agreement, taking another puff of his blunt. He sees you watching him and removes the blunt from his lips, a puff of smoke billowing from between his lips. “Want a hit?” he asks. “You smoke?” 

“Not often,” you sheepishly reply, “but I’m here to relax so…if you don’t mind…”

Aki passes you the blunt without another word and you take a small hit, coughing a bit as the smoke fills your lungs. When you take another short puff, you already feel the weed take effect on you and let the smoke billow from your parted, glossed lips. Aki watches your mouth, hypnotized. 

“You ladies want some drinks?” Kanaki asks, already whipping out his wallet. “We’re buying.”

You and Mina share an excited look and look at the drink menu before ordering a round of Patron shots with a side of lemon, lime, and salt. You and Mina finish your cocktails before indulging in the shots with Aki and Kanaki, pretending not to notice them staring at your lips when you suck on the lemon and lime slices. 

Suddenly, one shot turns into two. Then three. Then four. And then two puffs of Aki’s joint turn into four.

Before you know it, you are absolutely fucking gone. And before you know it, an hour later after meeting the two, you’re on the dance floor with them and Mina, the weed making you feel relaxed and the alcohol making you feel like you could touch the moon.

You feel light as a feather, giggly, and bubbly. The world is spinning and slightly blurry, but it also seems beautiful and nice to you. Everything is good. Everyone is sexy. 

Especially your girlfriend. She grinds against you now, her body pressed against yours as you rock against each other to the R&B song playing. Your hands are under her skirt, grasping her asscheeks and giving Kanaki a flash of her jiggling, pink cheeks that he can’t seem to keep his eyes off of. 

Aki is the same. He stands beside you two in the crowd of grinding bodies under the flashing lights, ogling at your bodies grinding against each other. You giggle with Mina’s arms still snaked around your waist, her hips flush against yours as you pull your phone out of your purse.

You fumble to tap in your code and open the camera app, but once you do, you raise your phone up towards your girlfriend and your “friends” for the night. “Smile, y’all!” you drunkenly shout. “Smile for the camera!” 

You smile at your phone, big and bright. Mina gives your phone the middle finger and a devious smile while Kanaki and Aki barely look at the phone when the flash goes off. You can’t even put your phone away before Mina is all over you again, tossing her arms around your neck.

“Gimme a kiss, Y/N,” she whines, puckering her lips at you. Drunk off of her and everything around you, you grip the back of her head and pull her in close for a sloppy, lustful kiss. 

You plunge your fingers through her messy, pink girls while she trails her hands down to your ass, gripping it. You moan into her mouth, giving her the opportunity to slip her tongue into it and swirl it with yours. Soft moans and giggles emit between you, floating in the air and to the ears of Kanaki and Aki that have gotten much closer to you and Mina, watching the scene unfolding before them. 

Your phone suddenly vibrates and you pull away from a pouty Mina, a string of saliva connected to your bottom lips. “Hold up, I’m getting a call!” you laugh. “I’ll be right back, babe.”

You give Mina a wink before stumbling off of the dance floor, pulling down your skirt in the back as much as you can. You decide to go to the nearest ladies’ room and lean against the wall where the long line is before answering the call.

You look down at the caller ID, grinning when you see one of your boyfriends’ names there. With a drunk giggle, you answer. “Hellooo?” you sing into the phone. 

“There the fuck you are!” Katsuki huffs with relief. “Where the fuck are you two? We’ve been calling you two all night! Texting you, blowin’ up your phone!” You scowl confusedly at this newfound information. “You have?” you ask, confused. 

Briefly, you pull your phone away from your ear and check your missed calls and texts. Sure enough, Katsuki is right: you have two missed calls Kiri, one from Denki, a text from Sero asking if you’re okay, and three calls and a very angry text from Katsuki asking where the fuck you are. “Oh!” you giggle, continuing the call. “Sorry, my ringer is off.” 

As you thought, Katsuki is not happy about that at all. “Why the fuck is your ringer off, Y/N?” he growls. “And where are you? It’s loud as fuck in there. I can’t even hear you.” 

You put one foot up on the wall, leaning your back flush against the cool tiles. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” you scoff. Katsuki pauses, obviously not believing you just said that. Do you want to die? 

But it isn’t Katsuki who speaks this time––it’s Kiri. “Yes, we do,” he replies in a voice you’ve never heard from him before. It sounds like it’s taking everything in him to not reach through the phone and spank you. “Don’t play with us right now, Y/N. Where are you and Mina?” 

Your stomach twirls nervously at the undercurrent of anger in Kiri’s voice, but it also causes heat to pool between your legs. Kiri isn’t the type to get worked up so easily, so to see it now is kind of hot. “Well, for your information, shark boy,” you scoff, “my girlfriend and I are at a nice club havin’ nice drinks with these very nice guys we met since you four are too busy for us.”

You take a lock of your braids and twirl it around your finger as more word vomit rises to the surface. “Oh, they bought us shots too. And one said he likes my dress.” 

“You’re wearin’ that pink one?” Denki asks, sounding excited. You giggle giddily in response, finding humor in his whine. But Katsuki stomps on that giddiness real quick. “Dammit, why’d you have to pull that one out?!” he snaps. 

You take the phone away from your ear for a moment, scowling at it. Who the fuck is he yelling at?!

“Because you four idiots are too busy to take care of us!” you snap right back. “So we’re out here doin’ it ourselves. We’ve been asking you four to spend time with us for weeks, but it’s always, ‘Noooo, Y/N, we’ve got paperwork to finish’. ‘No sex tonight, Mina; we’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning’.” 

You lean your foot back down to the ground and cross your arm over your midsection, suddenly feeling cold and small. “We’re just feelin’ neglected,” you weakly say. “We miss our boys.” 

The other side of the phone is silent, the boys obviously dumbfounded at the truth in your and Mina’s horrible decision. “Baby, just come home, okay?” Kiri soothingly says. “We can talk about then.”

Sero agrees, taking the phone. “Yeah, mama, just relax and we can discuss it at all in private,” he coos. “Here, let me order you two a Lyft and–“ 

“I don’t want a Lyft,” you shortly reply. “I wanna dance. I wanna have fun. So I’m gonna go now.” 

“Wait, Y/N!” Katsuki shouts, but your finger is already hovering over the button to end the call.

“Byeeee!” you shriek into the phone before hanging up. The illusion of pride overflows inside of you as you strut back over to the dance floor.

‘I told them,’ you think proudly with a giggle, not even thinking about how you’re going to get your pussy beaten black and blue later for this little charade. 

When you shimmy back onto the dance floor, Mina is twirling her lips like it’s no one’s business and holding a new drink. “Ooooh, what’s that?” you ask, pointing at her glass. It is orange and topped with ice and chopped oranges and strawberries, reminding you of a tequila sunrise but better.

Mina gives you a deviously sexy look, her gold eyes shimmering. You know exactly what she wants. “Wanna taste it?” she giggles, and you nod, practically salivating for another taste of her. 

You let her yank you over to her before she takes a sip of the drink. Instantly, you open your mouth wide and tilt your head back, allowing her to hover her mouth over yours and spit the alcohol and her saliva right into your mouth. You hum appealingly at the taste of her and the fruity drink, the nasty act making you gush in your thong.

Kanaki and Aki are close to falling out from the scene. “Fuck!” Aki groans. “Can you do that to me too please?” 

Mina turns to the boys, wagging her finger at them. “Mm-mm, sorry,” she giggles. “That’s reserved for my girl.” She wraps an arm around you, pulling you close into her perfume-soaked neck. “And our daddies,” she whispers. “You think they’re mad at us?” 

You know for a fact from the phone call that they are livid, but you can’t bring yourself to care too much. The alcohol, the music, and Mina’s lips don’t allow you to. All you want right now is her.

You wordlessly lean in to kiss her again, your lips moving sloppily against each other. You both moan into each other’s mouths as your tongues swirl and flick against one another, too drunk to realize that you two are tongue kissing in public. 

“God, you two are so fucking hot,” Aki groans from behind you. “I’d kill to touch either of you.” 

Mina pulls away, all of her lipgloss gone and somewhere on your mouth. “We know!” she giggles. “Butcha can’t, can they, Y/N?” She winks playfully at you, wrapping her arms securely around your body. “We already belong to someone…well, somebodies.” 

You giddily nod, turning to Aki. He has gotten closer, so close than you can see the bulge that has begun to protrude from his pants. “As sexy as you two are?” he scoffs, leering down at you under the strobe lights. “Of course, but they ain’t here, are they?” 

“I wouldn’t put money on that, pal,” Kiri replies from behind him.

Wait…Kiri?! 

You and Minajump like you see a ghost as soon as you lay eyes on the big and buff redheaded hunk. He stands there behind Aki with his inked, muscled arms crossed over his broad chest covered by a black muscle tee. And he doesn’t look the least bit happy.

Aki jumps at the sight of him, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Red Riot?!” he asks you and Mina, shocked. “You’re dating Red Riot?!” 

You and Mina don’t answer, too flabbergasted at the presence of your boyfriend standing there, looking very disappointed in both of his girls. “So this is where you two headed off to,” he sighs, shaking his head in disapproval. “I knew Denki would recognize the place from your IG stories.”

His red eyes tick between the two of you. “You two are in big trouble, you know that, right?” 

You and Mina look at each other, faces pale and fear in your eyes. You two are fucked. “K-Kiri, we…” Your mouth runs dry, your tongue too heavy for words. Kiri’s brows raise expectantly. 

“You…what?” he asks. “You decided to be two needy little brats and make us worry over you? You wanted to get a rise out of us?” The corner of his pierced lips curl into a crooked, dry smirk. “Well, baby girls, you did.” 

Your body is on fire, but not out of excitement. You know damn well you’re going to get an earful about this from all of them, not just your platinum blonde-haired Chihuahua of a boyfriend. “Kiri, we’re sorry,” Mina weakly says, staring up at the redhead through her lashes.

Usually, her soft, puppy-dog eyes work, but not this time. “Oh, it ain’t just me you’re gonna have to apologize to, baby girl,” Kiri chuckles darkly. “You’ve also got these three.” 

His eyes tick above your heads. Even without turning around, you can sense the presence of your three other boyfriends standing behind you.

When you and Mina slowly turn, you’re met with the very ticked-off Katsuki, Sero, and Denki standing behind you, arms crossed over their buff chests and anger radiating off of them in waves. 

Oh, shit. 

Your eyes widen as Mina grabs your hand, gripping it tightly. You both know you’re fucked. “What’s up, mamis?” Sero snickers, staring down at you and Mina with a dark look. “You look scared.”

Denki grins deviously at you, practically licking his chops. “Both of them do,” he giggles. “Like they’re lookin’ at their death.” 

Bakugou barely moves except for the slight twitch by his eye––a sign that he is very, very angry. “Not till we get ‘em home,” he growls.

His eyes then tick up to Aki and Kanaki still standing near you, their eyes wide with shock. “Da fuck are you two still standin’ there for, huh?” Bakugou snarls. “They’re ours. Now back the fuck up if you know what’s good for you.”

He raises his hand and the crackle of his sweat glistening in his palm is all it takes to send the two men scrambling off. 

You and Mina are practically shivering in your boots as your four boyfriends stand over you, the fear of the unknown taking over your bodies. What’s going to happen when they get you home? Are they going to spank your asses until they’re red? Are they going to edge you until you’re both crying and begging for release?

Or, even worse...are they just going to do nothing at all? No touching or teasing? Neither one of their thick cocks filling you up? 

Katsuki’s crimson eyes flick around the room, noticing the club-goers watching them in awe.

“Let’s get outta here,” he grumbles lowly. “Too many eyes.”

Sero gives a nod before raising his elbows and shooting several yards of sticky tape at you and Mina. You girls shriek as the tape sticks to your wrists and ankles, tying them together so movement is nearly impossible. Before you can protest, Katsuki is hosting you over his shoulder while Kiri scoops Mina up bridal style, much to her dismay. 

“Wait!” you shout, batting your fists against Katsuki’s muscular back. “Put me down!” This only gets you a hard smack on the ass that has you gasping and tears stinging in your eyes.

It only gets worse as he travels through the club and you catch the wandering eyes of strangers. Some have their phones out, taking pictures and recording, laughing and gossiping. It’s so humiliating. All you want to do is hide under your covers and never come out again. 

You’ve never felt more revealed until you’re outside at the valet, the cool air soothing your clammy, hot skin. When you finally get to the sleek, black Range Rover that the boys each share among each other (you have a white one while Mina’s is pink), Katsuki and Kiri finally lower you and Mina down onto the pavement. You don’t bother pulling down your dress, your dignity already ruined. 

Katsuki looks like he’s about to blow a damn fuse judging from the vein pulsing in his neck. “Can’t believe you two did this shit,” he angrily growls. “Had me stressin’ at work, blowin’ up your goddamn phone, wondering if you two were okay…only to see that you two brats were flashin’ your pussies for those two extras in there.”

You stare down at your shoes, pissed at your boyfriends’ behavior but also at your own. You just wanted some attention is all. Mina peers up at Katsuki through her black lashes with her ink-black eyes, her lips smudged of her lipgloss. “Katsuki,” she weakly says.

Katsuki’s eyes sharpen at his government name being used. “Who?” he growls, crossing his beefy arms over his chest. You and Mina share the same ‘uh-oh’ look, realizing that your man has now switched into fully Daddy Dom mode. You’re sure the other three have done the same. And that is so, so hot. 

Mina nervously licks her lips, squeezing her thighs together. “D-Daddy,” she whimpers. “Please, guys, it was all my idea. I wanted to–“ 

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki growls. Mina buttons her lip as he opens the door to the backseat, jutting his chin inside the car. “Get your asses in the car, now.”

You and Mina have no choice but to climb into the backseat of the car, getting two harsh smacks on the ass in the process. Denki and Sero get in behind you and position themselves in their seats first before having you and Mina sit in their laps. 

When Katsuki and Kiri get in the front seats, Katsuki practically jams his key into the ignition and tails out of the valet like a bat out of hell. He has gotten plenty of tickets before for his driving which becomes exceedingly more reckless when he is pissed.

Only now now he is pissed and also horny: a dangerous combination. Kiri turns on the stereo and bumps a City Girls song; one that you particularly like and always gets you dancing. 

Denki grips your hips from underneath you, nearly digging his nails into your mini dress. “Oooh, you two are gonna get it at home,” he growls, a devious edge to his voice. You sit rigidly on top of him, legs closed and hands in your lap. “But before that happens…”

You feel his warm hand on your cheek, turning you to face him and those electric, golden eyes. “Now show us exactly what you were doin’ with those two in there, princess,” he hums. “It was pretty good music. I bet you were grinding this pussy all over them on that dance floor, weren’t you?” 

His hands slide down your sides to your thighs, squeezing them generously, before using one hand to pry your legs open to reveal your glittery thong. You whimper as his fingers begin to slide up and down the tiny cloth covering above your pussy. “Mmm, so wet already,” he coos to you. “Was that because of those guys or ‘cause you knew we’d fuck you up when you finally got home?” 

You don’t answer, not sure how to. Plus, Denki’s fingers rubbing circles around your clit is making it hard to think straight. “Katsuki, turn up the music,” he orders.

The platinum-blonde glaringly stares at his golden-haired boyfriend through the rearview mirror. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he growls, but does so anyway. The music is soon bumping through the speakers as Katsuki zooms down the highway, swerving lanes like a madman. 

Denki begins to swerve and swirl his hips underneath you, bumping his hard-on against your pussy and ass. “Dance for us, princess,” he demands, taking his hand to give your thigh a smack.

He turns to Mina who has her skirt up her thighs, Sero’s hands all over her. “That goes for you too, Pinkie. Show us exactly how hard you got those losers in there.” 

You press your lips together disapprovingly. “But they weren’t–“

You’re cut off by a sharp hiss from your lips when Denki grabs your hair, yanking on it. “Is that lip?” he asks, a growl in his voice. Heat pools between your thighs at his switch in character.

Usually, though mischievous, Denki is very laid-back, so to see him way out of his element and being so dominant with you is a major turn-on for you. You slowly shake your head and he releases your hair though your scalp stings. “That’s what I thought. Now get to it.” 

So you and Mina dance for the men sitting underneath you, your asses twirling and grinding into their laps and hardened cocks underneath their pants. You place your hands firmly on Denki’s knees and your feet on the car floor as you toot your ass up and down for him, shaking it as much as you can in the backseat. The more you dance, the more Denki ogles and grabs, the more turned-on he gets. 

“Look at this lil’ dress ridin’ up,” he coos, his hands back under your dress. “I bet it was like that on the dance floor, wasn’t it? And what’s this here?”

He roughly pulls you back down to sit on his lap and lifts your dress up high to reveal your sparkly thong. “My favorite thong too?” A deep, aroused growl emits from his throat. “I didn't realize you were wearin’ it, babe. You’re just lookin’ to get fucked, aren’t you?” 

He begins to rub circles along your clit again, sending sparks of pleasure deep into your core. Before you can say anything to stop him, his fingers are creeping under your thong to move them aside, revealing your aching, puffy, wet pussy to him, Sero, and Kiri and Katsuki who stare in the rearview mirror.

“Denki,” you whimper, your thighs quivering as his fingers ghost over your pussy, teasing you even more. 

“You’re wearin’ that glittery shit?” Katsuki rumbles, his knuckles turning white from how tight he’s gripping the wheel. “You’re gonna fuckin’ get it later, I hope you know that.” 

“This one ain’t no better,” Sero comments along with Mina’s soft whimpers. You turn, finding his fingers under Mina’s dress. “Just look at this shit!” He cackles as he lifts her dress up to reveal her bare, apple-bottomed, pink ass to the whole car.

Kiri turns around now, staring into the backseat. “No panties, babe?” he laughs in awe. “Guess you two were desperate for everyone to know how slutty you are.” 

You watch as Sero begins to toy with Mina, pressing his mouth on both of her asscheeks to nibble and kiss at them. Mina wantonly moans, her eyes fluttering closed as her boyfriend’s hands move to her sides, his fingers sliding up and down them.

You’re so distracted that you don’t even realize that Denki has removed his hand from your thong to replace it with his knee. His solid knee feels so good on your throbbing pussy and clit, giving you the relief you need as you begin to grind your cunt against his thigh. “Denki,” you whimper. “Please.” 

Denki moves his hand to place on your throat, not squeezing but letting you know it’s there. “Please what, princess?” he hums. “Hm? You wanna stop?”

You weakly shake your head, words dying in your throat as whimpers and moans bubble to the surface. Denki chuckles and grips your neck harder now, causing you to gasp. “Of course, you don’t, you little slut,” he whispers into your ear. “Of course you like grinding on my thigh like the desperate cumslut you are.” 

“Fuck, Sero!” Mina suddenly squeals from beside you. In the haze of your pleasure, you turn, finding Mina with her legs open wide and Sero’s finger curling into her wet pussy. As he slowly fingerfucks her, you can hear how wet Mina’s pussy is, the lewd sounds making you grind harder against Denki’s thigh. 

“Fuck!” Katsuki grunts. “I can hear how wet they are. You two brats are lucky I’m driving.” Kiri is just about dying, ogling at the two of you from the passenger’s seat. “God, that’s so hot,” he groans. “I can't wait to get you two home.” 

And only when you two get home. Making that clear, Denki forces you to stop by gripping your waist and Sero pauses his fingerfucking to give you both a firm glare. “Don’t cum,” Katsuki orders, staring sharply at both of you girls in the rearview mirror. “Neither one of you. If you cum now, you won’t be able to cum later, understood?” 

Though dizzy with pleasure, you and Mina manage to answer him the way he wants to be answered: “Yes, daddy,” you both weakly say, chests heaving, hearts racing, and pussies wet. 

When you finally get in the house fifteen minutes later after flying across the city, you barely have any time to get your shoes off before the boys are hustling you and Mina upstairs.

At some point, Katsuki throws you over his shoulder and Kiri hikes Mina up in his arms, running up the steps with you girls as you squeal in protest. When you get to your master bedroom, Katsuki kicks the door open and tosses you onto the bed. You shriek as you go flying before hitting the mattress, bouncing a bit as you do. 

Mina goes flying too as Kiri tosses her down beside you. You two them lay on your backs, staring up at your four boyfriends looming over your tinier figures, staring down at you almost predator-like.

“What should we do with them first?” Denki excitedly asks, lust in his eyes.

Katsuki deviously smirks at you and Mina, filling you with dread. “I’ve got just the thing,” he chuckles before glaring down at you girls. “Get on your knees, hands behind your back.” 

Sharing a withering look, you and Mina slowly do as Katsuki says. As you sit with your pretty asses facing them in such a submissive position, the four groan at the sight, making you bite your lip in utter anticipation.

The throbbing in your pussy only gets worse when Sero reapplies the tape to your ankles and wrists, making it hard to move or escape. You’ve never been this horny before. What is it about pissing your boyfriends off that makes you so damn wet? 

Sero then steps back to admire his handiwork. “Now neither one of you can run from us,” he deviously hums. “We can do whatever the fuck we want with you now.”

That turns you on even more: to be so helpless under their touches; to be completely at their mercy. Sero runs a finger down your cheek, his touch making you quiver. ”But you wouldn’t run away even if you didn’t have my tape wrapped around your wrists, would you?” 

You know the answer: hell no. And Mina knows it too. 

“Bend ‘em over,” Katsuki grunts, foreplay be damned. “I need to teach these two greedy sluts a lesson in obedience.”

Sero and Kiri do as they are ordered and position you and Mina so you’re both bent over, knees and the soles of your feet dug into the mattress. “Are we being punished?” Mina asks, her voice slightly muffled from the mattress. 

You adjust your head slightly to look behind you, finding Katsuki glaring at her from above. He then yanks her skirt over her pink ass before doing the same to you, leaving the thong on.

“What the fuck do you think?” he hisses before his hand is colliding with the meat of her ass. A loud whine leaves Mina’s lips and you flinch at the harsh sound of skin colliding with skin. 

You don’t have much time to prepare when Katsuki is giving you the same treatment. His hands are rough from years of pro-hero work, so his slaps hurt like hell. They are rough and sting like fire licking across your skin. You gasp and gnaw harshly on your lip to avoid crying out.

He continues to do this to both you and Mina, making your asses jiggle and tears spring into your eyes. “Is this what you wanted?” he grunts. “To get punished like this? Make me lose my mind like this?” 

You dig your face into the mattress, muffling your screams of pain at merciless spanks.

Finally, Kiri tags in, putting a hand on Katsuki’s chest to stop him. “My turn,” he darkly chuckles. “Brace yourself, ladies. You know my hand is heavy.”

And boy, is it. Way more than Katsuki’s because of his quirk. His hands are hard and rough, his palms calloused. 

And they hurt even worse when they collide with your ass. Adding new, fresh spanks on top of the ones Katsuki already gave you is the worse pain you’ve ever felt. It’s excruciating. You’re so sure that your ass is red despite your skin tone at this point with how harsh Kiri is being.

“Don’t flinch,” he orders. “You wanted this shit, then you’ve got it. All the attention you could ask for."

He gives both you and Mina the same treatment, wailing in on your asses like he's trying to get some gold rings out of you. He babbles about how fat your asses are and how they jiggle whenever he smacks them, obviously enjoying how they move.

Then it’s Denki’s turn. Ever the sadist, when he brings his hand down upon you, he makes sure to slip his quirk in too. As his hand collides with your ass, a tiny spark shoots from his palm to your ass straight through your ass. You quiver and shake at the short electrocution, a gasp leaving your lips.

“Oops!” he mockingly says. “Guess I let my quirk slip.” Though you can’t see it with your face still in the mattress, you can hear Mina’s shriek and feel her body shivering when Denki gives her the same treatment. 

“Fuck, that shiver was so cute,” Kiri groans. “Do that again, Denks.”

Denki does so to both you and Mina, giving you two shock after shock. Each one is more intense than the next, making you feel as if you are repeatedly being poked with an electric rod. Then it’s Sero’s turn and though he gives your asses some wet kisses first to soothe the pain, all of that goes to shit when his hands collide with your asscheeks too. 

Minutes feel like hours the more hits you take from them, one after the other. Your and Mina’s cries fill the bedroom, bouncing off of the walls for no one to hear. Your ass begins to ache and sting to the point where you’re crying, the comforter wet beneath you.

“Please stop!” you tearfully beg. “It hurts!” Mina sniffles beside you, softly crying at the pain. 

Though the spanks luckily stop, you feel two rough, thick fingers peel your soaked thong away from your cunt and play with your pussy, easing some of the fiery stings along your asscheeks.

“Your pussy says something completely different,” Katsuki tsks. “Little slut. You still need to be taught a lesson, don’t you?”

You then suddenly feel his thick, wet tongue sliding along your wet folds, sucking on your pussy lips and on the sensitive bud of your clit. Your mouth falls open at the feeling, your ass shamelessly arching into his face. “F-Fuck, ‘Suki!” you moan. 

You turn your head to look at Mina, finding Kiri kneeling behind her ass, his hands prying her cheeks apart. “Don’t think you don’t get the same treatment, bratty girl,” he teasingly purrs before his mouth is on Mina’s pretty, pink pussy, devouring every inch of it. 

Katsuki isn’t at all slow or loving. He eats every single part of your pussy, sucking harshly on the right places and being more gentle yet merciless with the other, more sensitive parts of you. You even feel his finger sliding against the puckered hole of your asshole, making your body quiver from the sheer among of pleasure you’re feeling.

The sounds that leave your lips are loud and lewd, bouncing off of the bedroom walls. From beside you, you can hear the sobbing, wet sounds of Kiri licking Mina’s pussy as she moans and whines, her face buried deep into the bed. Katsuki pulls away from your clit momentarily to bark, “Sero, Denki; plug up those other holes of there’s.” 

You weakly look up to find Denki and Sero kneeling in front of you and Mina, looking excited and extremely devilish. “Oooh, I love this part,” Denki happily sighs. “I’ve been wantin’ to fuck their throats all night!”

He settles in front of Mina, forcing her to look up at him by gripping her hair and hoisting her up onto her forearms. He then yanks down his pants with one hand, revealing his hardened cock protruding from a patch of golden, trimmed curls. 

Sero smirks down at you, his hands working his zipper down. “Guess I get you tonight, mami,” he purrs. “No matter. Both of your pretty little throats make me happy either way.”

Then his pants are coming off too, revealing a hard, thick cock jumping against his toned lower stomach, the boubous head bubbling with precum.

“Open up,” he growls and you have no choice but to do so when Katsuki plunges his tongue inside of your pussy, tongue-fucking you without warning. As your mouth opens on a long whine, Sero plunges his cock deep into your mouth. 

“That’s it, mama,” he groans as his thick cock stretches out your mouth. “Take me deep. Don’t be distracted.” You whine around his length, nearly choking it from how deep it goes until you nearly feel it touch the back of your throat.

“Fuck!” Sero growls, his hand moving to the back of your head to wind your braids around his fist. It becomes even harder to focus when he begins fucking your face, his stomach pressing against your nose again and again as he plunges his dick in and out of your mouth, emitting gargled gasps and muffled whines from you. 

While all you smell and taste is Sero, you don’t just feel his thick cock stretching your jaw. The fact that you feel him and Katsuki both fucking your holes makes it so hard to focus on anything. You feel yourself going slack, your limbs growing tired and your jaw aching from Sero repeatedly fucking your throat.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he grunts, the black hairs from his mullet in his face. “You just wanted to get fucked like the sweet lil’ slut you are?” 

You gargle in response and he removes his cock, now dripping in your saliva, from your mouth. You are awarded air then and gulp down as much as you can, coughing. Sero grips your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Sorry, mama; I couldn’t hear you,” he chuckles. “Now say it again. Let the guys hear you.” 

You can tell without looking that Katsuki, Kiri, and Denki are listening intently to you, waiting for you to say what they already know. Sero squeezes your cheeks together, making it hard to speak, but you manage to do so, your voice soft and weak from your throat being fucked.

“Yes, Papi,” you answer, peering up at Sero through your lashes. “Your baby girl just wanted to get fucked. We both did.”

Mina wines pitifully beside you, proving your statement. 

This makes your boys go completely feral. Sero plugs your mouth back with his cock and fucks it like it’s his last time doing so, Denki following suit with Mina’s throat. Katsuki is having a ball behind you, his hands roughly gripping your ass and his tongue flicking along your clit the way you like.

“Slutty lil’ bimbo, makin’ me so worried for you,” he growls into your cunt, the vibrations filling your core with pleasure. “All just ‘cause you wanted some dick.” His tongue then plunges deep into your pussy, making you whine around Sero’s cock. 

It doesn’t take long for Sero or Denki to cum. You know Sero is close by how hard he starts gripping your hair, nearly yanking the braids out of your scalp. His thrusts are rougher and harder, his abs slamming against your mouth and his heavy balls swinging against your chin. “Gonna cum,” he growls. “Such a good girl takin’ this dick, baby.” 

Denki is a whining, overly dramatic mess. His moans are loud and bounce off the walls as he slams his cock deep into Mina’s throat while Kiri continues to eat her out like she’s his last meal. “Gonna cum!” Denki shouts, his head thrown back in ecstasy. “Gonna cum deep down your slutty throat!”

Mina whines in response as Kiri nibbles lightly on her pussy lips with his sharp teeth, chuckling at her reactions. 

You get no kind of warning when Sero finally floods your mouth with his cum, swearing in Spanish as he does so. There is so much nut that it spills out of your mouth and dribbles down your chin. “Hold it,” he demands as he slips his semi-hard cock out of your mouth. “Lemme see my cum in your mouth, puta.”

You carefully tilt your chin up to hold his cum in your mouth, showing the creamy substance on your tongue. Sero grins down at you proudly. “Good girl,” he coos, pecking your forward. “Now swallow.” 

As soon as Denki and Sero cum in your and Mina’s mouth, you know that you’re deep in for a night of punishment. The rest of the things your men do to you and your girlfriend are one torturous yet pleasurable blur that is only heightened by the weed you smoked and the shots of alcohol you threw back earlier at the club.

Katsuki and Kiri don’t let you or Mina cum, pulling away when you’re just about to burst all over their faces. “Not yet,” Katsuki growls. “You two sluts don't get to cum until we say so.” 

Before you know what’s happening, Sero is repositioning your tired arms up high over your head and laying you down on your back so you’re side by side with Mina. You stare into her inkwell eyes and at her soft, pink lips when you’re both suddenly filled by Katsuki and Kiri at the same time. Kiri and Katsuki switch between you and Mina’s pussies, taking turns filling you and fucking you dumb into the mattress. 

Kiri is more loving and slow with his strokes but still all the more merciless. He slings your leg over his broad shoulder and kisses your foot while his cock fills you, stroking the wet, gummy walls of your pussy. “So good,” he groans, his face as red as his hair. “You feel so good around me, baby girl. Keep grippin’ me just like that.”

More praise and sweet nothings leave his lips as he pummels you as hard as you want, relishing the broken moans and whines that leave your lips. 

Meanwhile, Katsuki is rough, wild, and feral. He fucks you into the bed in a mating press position, his feet on the bed and his dick pummeling into your pussy over and over again. Squelching sounds emit from down below as your juices and flavored lube slip down your asscrack to the bed, making your walls even slipperier and causing Katsuki to have an easier time fucking you silly.

His large hand grips your throat and his nose touches yours, making the sex even more intense with him so close. “You like that, slut?” he snarls in your face. “You like me fucking you dumb?”

All you can do is whine in response. Words are meaningless at this point. Katsuki forces you to open your mouth and spits in it in response before swirling his tongue with yours, tasting himself.

While Sero sits against the headboard, lazily stroking his cock to the sights and sounds of his girls, Denki gets right in the mix. His sneaky fingers tweak and tug on your nipples and play with your clit while Kiri and Katsuki continue to plunge deep into your squelching, sobbing, wet pussies over and over again. Every single touch from Denki is twinged with a zap of electricity that sends you farther over the edge, trying to balance that pain and pleasure. 

You don’t even realize that you’re drooling until Denki points it out. “Awww, she’s drooling!” he cackles. He leans in close to you despite Katsuki still pounding you into the bed.

His thumb swipes across your bottom lip to catch your saliva and he sucks on his thumb, humming at the taste of you. “Is Bakugou fucking you dumb, slutty girl, hm?” he teasingly asks. "Or am I just fryin’ that pretty brain of yours?”

You whine weakly in response, too distracted by Katsuki’s delicious cock bullying your insides. 

When Katsuki finally cums inside of you, it’s messy and big. He cums with an uncharacteristic, almost animalistic roar as he spills his nut deep inside of your cunt, his hand still pinning you to the bed. Kiri cums too, a loud moan of Mina’s name leaving his lips as he nuts deep inside of her tight walls. You girls take every ounce of their cum, just as you do when they flip you back over onto your hands and knees.

They don’t allow you to recover or rest. “Sluts don't get to rest,” Katsuki tells you, a dark chuckle in his voice. “They only get what they deserve. And you two bimbos deserve to be fucked until your pussies are mush.” 

And he sticks to his word. Each one of them do. When you and Mina are flipped back onto your hands and knees, your men plug up your pretty, wet holes again. Katsuki and Kiri fuck your throats while Denki and Sero kneel behind you, plunging their cocks deep inside of your pussies to fuck you doggystyle.

You get Denki this time and shit, are you in for it. The man makes sure you fuck you stupid, his foot on the bed and hands grappling your tits to zap your poor little nipples. He even dips under your thighs to rub your clit, his fingertips pulsing with electricity. It has you whimpering and shivering as the short currents of electricity course through you. 

When he finally cums inside of you, you’re just about done and filled to the brim, but then Kiri takes you. He has you lay down on your stomach and fucks you prone bone style. “Don't do anything, baby,” he coos as his cock strokes your sensitive, gushy walls. “Just lemme do all the work, m’kay? Be a good girl and take me.” 

And you do. You don’t have much of a choice. You can only lie there and let Kiri fuck your body like his own personal fleshlight, his thick cock sliding against your G-spot. Your body is tired and your pussy is screaming for release, but Kiri doesn’t let you cum.

Neither of them let Mina cum either. She is spread out against the headboard, Denki’s face in her pussy while Katsuki and Sero have their cocks in her face, taking turns sliding them in and out of her wet mouth. 

When Kiri cums, it is just as messy and explosive as Katsuki’s nut is. He grips your hips and pins you down to the bed as his big body tenses above you, pleasure coursing through his veins.

“Fuck!” he whines, the sound nearly pushing you over the edge. “Such a good girl!” And like a good girl, you take every ounce of his cum pumping inside of you, groaning softly as you feel it slide down your thighs. 

“Goddammit, please, Daddies!” Mina sobs. “Please just let us cum!” She is only met with callused laughter from the guys, humored at her pain. “You cum when we say so,” Katsuki growls. “Now shut the fuck up and get on your fuckin’ knees for us so you can have your treat.” 

Mina does as she is told, sliding onto her knees on the bed in front of you. You barely know what’s happening, too exhausted and dazed to realize it. When you suddenly feel Mina’s tongue sliding against your cum-covered, fucked-silly pussy, her hands prying your legs apart, your soul just about leaves your body.

“N-No,” you weakly protest. “No, please…t-too much! Please, Daddies, stop!” 

Your sobs and pleas of mercy fall on deaf ears as Katsuki, Kiri, and Sero surround you once more, their hard cocks and gorgeous bodies in your face.

Denki situates himself behind Mina and slides inside of her as she eats you out. He doesn’t take his time or let her adjust first before fucking deep into her, his stomach slamming against her ass and his fingers tweaking her nipples, emitting screams and wails from her as she greedily eats your cunt. 

“Shut up and open your mouth,” Katsuki cooly says. “Or you don’t cum at all tonight. Believe me, baby: you know we’ll do it.”

That threat is worse than death to you at this point, so you open your mouth and let the trio fuck your throat raw and yank on your braids. They start to morph into one the more you endure, each cock becoming more of the same one. You’re losing it, the combination of pain and pleasure fogging your brain and making reality nothing more than an illusion. 

“Such a good little toy for us,” Kiri coos, watching you take Katsuki’s cock with awe, his hand pumping his own in time with his boyfriend’s thrusts. Sero does the same, stroking his dick right next to your face.

“Does our little girl wanna cum?” he teases. “You wanna cum all over Mina’s face while she creams on Denki’s dick?” 

You lazily nod with tears pricking your eyes despite Katsuki’s cock in your throat while Mina eagerly moans in agreement, her tongue slashing your clit again and again. You can feel your body getting closer to that release. You don’t know what you’ll do if they deny your release again.

Fortunately, that doesn’t happen. To your shock and relief, Katsuki pulls his cock out of your mouth and pumps it right in your face, his hand working himself furiously. “Cum for us, slut,” he demands. “Both of you. Do it now before I change my mind.” 

‘Finally,’ you think. You sob in delirious happiness while Mina babbles grateful thanks into your cunt. “Thank you, daddies!” she whines as Denki fucks her harder. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

You swear that when you cum, it’s an out-of-body experience. Your soul practically leaves you and sees heaven when the pleasure washes over you, plunging you into a sea of bliss. Your orgasm rips through you at the same time as Mina, your moans and screams of release filling the bedroom. 

When you burst all over Mina’s face, she eagerly and hungrily cleans you up, sucking on your inner thighs and sliding her tongue down your asscrack to catch the rest of your cum. When she picks up her head to stare at you from between your thighs, her mouth is coated in your juices, making her lips shine with you.

“God, that’s so hot!” Denki pitifully whines. “I’m gonna cum so hard!” 

“Not inside of her, Denks,” Kiri warns, his teeth gritted as his orgasm begins to rise. “Do it on her face. Come over here and help us coat their pretty faces.”

Denki doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides out of Mina and practically tosses her beside you, forcing your faces to tilt up at them. 

Just as they like, you stick your tongues out and keep your eyes on them and their cocks, hypnotized at how fast their hands pump their cocks. Just for their girls. Their grunts and moans fill the air, making your sensitive pussies throb despite just cumming, signaling that they’re close.

“This is what you get,” Katsuki grunts. “This is what you get for bein’ brats.” 

You and Mina get the point when your men finally cum all over you. You get no warning, but even if you did, you would still be surprised at how much there is.

Their cum is explosive and messy, coating your faces, lips, tits, and even sliding down your stomaches. Cries and growls of unison fill the air as their nut splashes all over your skin, coating you in their scent and making a very clear statement: ‘You’re ours.’

A delirious laugh bubbles from deep in your chest when their warm cum splashes all over you, the intensity of tonight finally ebbing. 

Finally free from the constraints of edge play, you and Mina fall back onto the mattress side by side, exhausted, spent, and still covered in cum. The boys recover above you, breathing raggedly and coated in sweat.

“Well,” Sero huffs, “that was something.” Denki laughs from beside him. “I’ll say!” 

Kiri tilts his head up to the ceiling, his muscles glistening in perspiration. “I think we’re all in need of a hot bath,” he sighs. “Anybody in for a dip in our whirlpool tub for the night?”

The guys hum in agreement. Though you want to agree too, all you can let out is a tiny, weak moan. 

“We’re all takin’ a bath,” Katsuki gruffly states, “but before that, I need an answer." You suddenly feel him hover over you, his crimson eyes glaring at you and Mina.

“So are you gonna pull that shit again with us?” he asks, his voice dangerously low and daring you to fuck with him. 

You and Mina stare at each other, exhaustion written all over your sticky faces. You each turn back to your boyfriends sitting above you and shake your heads. “No, Daddies,” you obediently reply. “We promise we won’t.” 

The boys grin proudly and each press a wet kiss to your lips in appreciation for your obedience.

But even they know that’s a damn lie, and they look forward to the next time they’ll get to teach you and Mina a lesson. 

Let’s consider exactly the type of person Trey is.

Ever since he’s started school at NRC, he’s always taken a bit of a parental role in Heartslabyul, even before he became vice housewarden. Even Cater would joke about it when they first became friends:

“You’re, like, a total big bro! O-M-G, no! You’re like a dad friend! I’m totes willing to bet that the incoming freshmen are gonna slip up! Call you Dad or something!”

Evidently, when Riddle came into the picture and Trey was appointed his vice, Cater was proven right. He didn’t mind it too much, despite what others might think. 

He liked the familiarity of it, being the oldest at home, it translated well into his position at Heartslabyul, and it came with the added bonus of being able to minimize any chaos that arose. 

That was his main goal, especially with Riddle’s temper during his freshman and at the beginning of his sophomore year. Honestly, he had phenomenal conflict resolution skills, and he just wanted to make his life as easy as possible. 

Everyone at this school liked to make that difficult, though, especially the freshmen of this year.

“Oh fu—I mean sh—dam—fuc—shi—FIDDLESTICKS!”

“Dude, just say fuck, why you gotta say the corniest shit—OW—Treyyy! Deuce hit me!”

Deuce had a guilty look on his face as Trey looked up from his notebook to raise a brow at the two.

“W-well, Ace cussed, so he has to put money in the swear jar!”

“Aw what! Come on Trey!” Ace whined, shoving Deuce’s face to the side as the latter grunted and started pulling at his cheeks and arm. “Riddle’s not here, he’ll never know, so I don’t gotta! Don’t make me!”

Trey simply smirked and gestured to the jar on the fireplace mantle, helpfully available to everyone in the lounge. 

“You know the rules, bud, two thaurmarks for the f-bomb and a .50 cent for the other.”

Ace tossed his head back and groaned, begrudgingly dragging himself over to the jar as he dug around his pocket for change.

“Don’t be rude to your father, Ace.” A few giggles and snorts vibrated amongst the small group studying in the lounge as you wagged a finger at Ace, Grim squinting angrily at the book in your lap. 

Your lips quivered as you hid a laugh, jokingly chastising the ginger. 

“No need to be a brat.”

Trey had to withhold a snort at that comment, rich coming from you. He knew better than anyone that you could be as much of a brat as you were another parental figure.

“Oh ha-ha, very funny, Prefect. What, does that make you, Mom or Dad 2?” Ace stuck his tongue out at you as you grinned and focused back on Grim. 

“Okay Grimmy, so remember, what alchemy recipes need mandrake root?”

Watching from the corner of his eye, Trey watched fondly as you murmured soft words to Grim. It reminded him of his Mom talking to his siblings after a nightmare, or of his Dad after one of them would get hurt in the kitchen. 

Soft, soothing, parental. You’d make an excellent parent one day. 

Trey felt himself get warm at the thought, adjusting himself in his seat and looking back at his musicology notes. He couldn’t sing very well, but he can memorize notes, and that’s what the upcoming exam was focused on. 

That’s what he needed to focus on, not the way you cradled Grim against you like a parent with their child. Focus on his alchemy flashcards, and not the way you cleaned up the mess on the table so you could bring everyone a tray of snacks he’d prepared earlier that day. Focus on the history textbook in front of him, and not the way you cleaned up the lounge as it got later and later.

It wasn’t fair. It was so unfair how well you fell into the role. Cleaning and humming, one of his spare aprons on you as you wiped down the tables of crumbs and stacked a pile of dishes. It was unfair how sweetly you murmured to the few remaining students, and told them to go to bed and rest up. 

They obliged, probably half asleep at this rate, since it was an hour until midnight. Ace and Deuce had retired a while ago, the latter leaning on the former as they haphazardly stumbled to their room. 

Riddle had dropped by after his housewarden meeting, satisfied by the study group, but ultimately stuck to his very strict evening routine. 

Now it was just you two. Even Grim had been tugged along with Ace and Deuce earlier, not unlike a rag doll slung over their shoulders. 

“Trey? Honey, when are you going to sleep? It’s almost midnight.” His eyes fluttered tiredly as he felt your hands slide over his shoulders and a kiss pressed against his temple.

He felt warm again, heat pooling in his belly. You were so unfair. 

“You should go to bed soon, come on, I’ll take care of you.”

He can think of a few ways you could ‘take care’ of him. 

“It’s fine, why don’t you get Grim and head back to Ramshackle? Curfew is in 30 minutes, you know?”

You rolled your eyes, sighing into his ear, making a tingle go down his spine.

“Okay, but please go to bed soon? I left you a little birthday surprise in your bedroom~”

Trey perked up at that, eyeing your mischievous grin as you waved your fingers goodbye, going down the hallway to the dorms to grab Grim.

To be honest, he’d forgotten that his birthday was tomorrow, he’d been so focused on his midterms that it just slipped his mind. Well, he can’t say he’s not excited to see what you got him, especially since you’d been not too subtly probing him for preferences.

He groaned, running his hands over his face and sighing, heavy and exhausted.

“Ugh, just a bit more and I’ll retire for the night.” Trey reassured himself, eyes straining as he looked between the books in front of him. 

The words on the papers blurred after a bit, the sound of the grandclock lulling him further into sleep, his head nodding off until a ping from his phone started him awake.

It was Cater, his Magicam user popping up on his screen. 

cay-cay_diamond: hbd trey!! 🥳🎉🎉🎉grats on being an old man now!

Blinking at the clock, Trey realized that it was now a few minutes past midnight, so it was technically his birthday. He’s lucky that Riddle followed his own sleep schedule so rigorously, or else he’d be getting a scolding for breaking curfew.

luckyclover: Old? I’m only like 4 months older than you cay-cay_diamond: yeah. old. cay-cay_diamond: anyways! enjoy the gift in ur room!!! i helped (name) pick out the wrapping 😘😘😘

Trey hummed, a small smile on his face as he imagined the two of you bickering over wrapping paper and messily wrapping up a box with a bow. You did seem very excited for him to find it earlier, maybe you two picked something out together. 

He was curious on what exactly you got him and why you hadn’t waited to give it to him at his actual birthday party. And why did you need Cater to help you…you’d always shoo him away when he’d tried helping you with gifts for other’s birthdays. 

Stacking his books into his left hand and walking towards the junior dorm rooms, Trey looked at his phone as it pinged again. 

cay-cay_diamond: on that topic thooo…u should rly go 2 ur room and get ur present! the poor thing! they’ve been w8ing very patiently 4 u~ luckyclover: Waiting? (Name)??? cay-cay_diamond: 🤭🤫😉

Trey sighed, shaking his head and tucking his phone away and digging out his room keys. It was times like these, deep into the night, when he was thankful for having his own room. He felt a bit bad now, you probably fell asleep in his bed waiting for him. 

Though, the thought of you clutching one of his pillows, maybe in one of his sweaters to keep warm, made him smile. Then he could come in, gently take your clothes and shoes off to get you more comfortable, and dress down himself to slip in right behind you.

As he finally managed to get to his room, he heard shuffling as he turned the keys. Trey smirked, noticing that only his rose lamp remained on, and all the drapes to his canopy were now closed. 

He could just barely make out the shadow of you moving behind them, hearing you gasp and the bed squeak, making him let out a soft laugh under his breath.

“You’re breaking curfew, you should be asleep you know? You're such a troublemaker sometimes.” Trey teased you as placed his books on his desk, tossing his hat onto its stand and slipping his shoes off to throw them into his wardrobe and grab his slippers. 

He yawned, the late night really starting to sink into his body as he started undressing, his jacket and vest getting hung back up in the closet as he worked on his sash and unbuttoning his pants.  

“Only like a third of the time!” You whined, the bed softly squeaking as you followed his movements behind the canopy. “Besides, I really wanted to give you your present. Don’t you want to unwrap me?”

Trey paused at the purr in your voice, narrowing his gaze as he saw your hand ever so slightly move the curtain at the end of the bed to peek at him. You were still mostly shrouded in darkness, but there was a very soft glow coming from inside the canopy, so he could just barely make out your mischievous smile.

Though, you quickly frowned, eyeing him up and down out of concern. 

“Not if you’re too tired though, you have bags under your eyes, Trey. Do you just wanna go to sleep?”

Giving you a weary smile, Trey finally tossed his sash to the side and reached for the curtains, pushing them to the side to finally take a look at your “mysterious” present. 

“In a bit, let me see what you got me…”

Trey’s breath hitched, he suddenly felt very wide awake as his eyes roamed up and down your body. 

From the corner of his eye, he could see that you set up string lights along the top of the canopy for ambiance, making you look like you were almost glowing. Though it wasn’t that that made him lose his voice. 

You were sitting on the edge of his bed with your legs curled underneath you, dressed in the most darling sage-green, sheer baby doll dress. The dress's puffy sleeves and hem were lacy, matching the lace on the stockings. 

Holy shit you were wearing stockings.

“Ha, I wanted to surprise you, I thought you could use a stress reliever.”

You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?

“I should’ve realized that you’d be tired from studying for midterms, sorry.”

You're trying to rile him up, right?

“But, still, do you like it? I wrapped myself up just for you~”

He's supposed to be the responsible, big brother of Heartslabyul, he tries so hard. So, so hard to stay out of trouble and have a normal day-to-day life. To behave.

“In any case,” You shifted onto your knees, the dress splitting in the middle, the only thing keeping it together being a small bow at the base of your neck, revealing the lack of undergarments, just your bare skin underneath. “Even if you’re too tired and just want to sleep, I just wanted to say…”

Trey leaned in as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in, batting your eyelashes and ghosting your lips over his with a teasing smile. Your hands caressed the back of his neck, a thumb rubbing soothing circles, making him melt. 

“Happy Birthday Trey~”

It’s now that he noticed that you even added a gloss to your lips, and he could smell the warm perfume on your neck as you pressed your lips to his, tongue swiping over his mouth, asking for permission to enter. Obliging, Trey sighed into the kiss and tangled his tongue with yours, his hands slipping underneath the baby doll and squeezing at your waist.

He really should go to sleep. He has to wake up early for the party. He has to dress in his birthday robes. He has to make sure that the others don’t burn down the kitchen or damage his expensive bakeware as they made his cake. 

But the way your skin felt under his gloved hands, skin meeting skin, lace, skin, and lace again.

How could he be expected to sleep now?

Trey used to pride himself on his level headedness and restraint, but that all went out the window into a swan dive into the lake when he saw you in his bed in that damn one-piece.

Humming in delight against your mouth, Trey slid his hands down, as you curled into his body in response, and squeezed at the fat of your thighs before picking you up. 

A yelp left your mouth as he picked you up and tossed you up the bed, pulling off his shirt and tossing it behind him as he crawled on top of you.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he saw the way the dress fell open to expose your body, your chest moving up and down as you watched him with a giddy smile. 

“Oh! I guess you’re not that tired—ah!”

You gasped as Trey grabbed your calves, tugging you up to place the back of your knees on his shoulders. He leaned in to press a chaste kiss to your right thigh, smirking against the lace. 

“I was tired. I should be asleep,” Trey murmured against your stocking laced skin, pressing kisses as he went farther and farther down. “Resting—kiss—Up—kiss—but no.”

He gave you a half-hearted glare, which you responded with a smile and lacing your hands through his hair as he pressed another kiss to the bend where your thigh met your sex. 

“You broke curfew, you wanted to keep me up with your little ‘present’, you know I’d get in trouble for hiding you out in my room.”

Trey gave you a bite on your thigh, groaning as he felt your hands tighten in his hair, moving back to press a soothing kiss to the mark he left.

“Are you trying to get me in trouble? Throw me in the doghouse?”  “Cause I’ll make sure you come right with me, after a little taste of my birthday treat.”

The same time he ran his tongue up your sex, Trey could feel you shiver and pull on his hair as he ate you feverishly, like a man starved from food or water for ages. 

“Mmm! Trey!” You threw your head back, bringing one hand up to slam a hand over your mouth to muffle your cries, the walls here weren’t known to be sound-proof. 

He should probably care a bit more, especially when you let out a particularly high-pitched squeal as his tongue began fucking into your hole. 

“Trey! Oooh, Trey~” 

Bringing a finger to join his tongue, Trey smiled against your skin as you squeezed your thighs around his head, using his free hand to push his pants and underwear down to palm at his dick. 

“Trey—aaaah—wait, let me—mmph—Honey—” You let out a shuddering gasp, pulling his head up from your sex. Trey locked eyes with you, leaning into the hand you slid down to cup his cheek and caress his lower lips, wiping the slick and drool from the corner of his mouth.

“Yes? Honey?” Removing his hand from inside you to cover your own hand and kiss your palm, Trey smiled and hummed, “I like that, you know, reminds me of a husband coming home to his spouse.”

Pressing kisses up your body, soft and tingly, up your neck, and back to your lips where they belonged.

“Hmm, I really like the sound of that, (Name) Clover.” You murmured against his lips, smiling as you wrapped a leg around his waist to bring his dick closer to your sex, rubbing against him as you both sighed into each other’s mouths. 

“Is that what you want? You want me to be a cute little spouse? Dress up in a cute apron? Greet you when you come home from work?”

So focused on the softness of your lips and the wetness sliding against his dick, Trey didn’t even notice you twisting your body to turn him onto his back, the back of his head hitting the back of his pillows as you sat on top with a cheeky grin. 

“Hm? How would my husband want me to welcome him home? A hug? A kiss? Mm, what about…me?” Trey watched you with flushed cheeks as you kissed down his body, mimicking his earlier actions as you helped him tug off the rest of his clothes. 

“Oh, how nice it would be for you to come back to a warm, clean home with a spouse…” Looking up at him through your eyelashes and giving him a kitten lick to his tip. “...ready to give soft wet holes for you to fill~”

Giving him a vision into that sweet, sweet future, you swallowed his tip, down his shaft, and started sucking. 

“Haaah—”

Trey lolled his head back into his pillow, letting out a breathless moan as you bobbed your head up and down his length, your hand working the rest that didn’t fit into your mouth. 

“Fuuuuck. That does sound nice—mmh!” Reaching his hand down, you immediately took one of your hands to lace it with his, squeezing it as you hummed around his cock. 

“My lovely spouse—nnnngh—their pretty mouth—unnnh—soft holes—aaaah—all for me to come home to every day, what a dream~”

A particularly harsh suck made Trey arch his back and squeeze your hand harder, a giggle vibrating his dick as you pulled off. 

“Hehe, is this your way of proposing? Kinda dirty to do it with your dick on my mouth.” You giggled, pressing kisses and quick licks along his shaft. 

“That’s okay though, you and I both know that deep down, you’re a bit of a pervert. Right?”

Trey scoffed, tugging you up with a bemused smile. “Yeah? How can you tell? Thought I hid that pretty well.”

A soft laugh escaping you, you held both of his hands, bringing them up to press kisses on his knuckles, making the green-haired man sigh fondly. 

“The way you look at me sometimes, like you’re undressing me. It makes me feel all warm and tingly, especially when I piss you off.”

Both of you let out a breathless moan as your wetness rubbed against his hard dick, grinding against one another as the tip occasionally caught against your hole, making you shiver. 

“Is it bad that sometimes I wanna get you mad so you’ll fuck me real mean? Is it bad that I want you to use me? To fuck your stress out with me?”

A lump forming in his throat, Trey let go of your hands to pull at the string holding your flimsy baby doll together. Eyes half lidded, he pushed the fabric off your shoulders, watching it pool at your elbows as you placed your hands on his chest to steady yourself as your grinding turned into vigorous humping against him, making you both gasp in pleasure. 

“Ooh, Trey, honey, baby, hubby~ Won’t you use me? Be a little mean? Pleeeease? Fuck me, fill me up like I know you want! Pleeeeease Trey? Pretty, pretty please?”

Lips smashed against yours as Trey bolted up, groaning into your mouth as he grabbed your hips in an almost painful grip. 

He picked you up once again, throwing you on all fours, covers tangling against your knees and hands, as he ripped your dress off and tossed it. 

Trey’s left hand placed itself on your hip, while his right pushed down on your back, following up your spine to the base of your neck where he pushed you down to shove your face into the sheets, forcing you into a doggy pose.

“So you do like getting me in trouble, little brat. Fine, I’ll be mean.” 

Trey lined his dick against your throbbing hole, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your ear and moving the hand on your neck to wove with your right, squeezing it reassuringly. 

“Squeeze three times if you need me to stop, otherwise, I’m going to fuck that brain right out of your pretty little head, since you don’t seem to be wanting to use it.”

In one, swift move, Trey slammed his hips to your ass, sinking nearly half his length into your warm, waiting hole. 

“FUCK! YES—MMMPH” Burying your face into the sheets to muffle your cries, Trey did the same into your shoulder, shivering at your tightness around him. 

Setting a rhythm, hips smacking into your ass, Trey worked the rest of his cock into you until he could hear the smack of your ass against his hips, the sound echoing with the creak of the bed.

Your tightness around him was heavenly, as was the sight of you sinking further into the bed and arching your ass to sloppily meet his thrusts. Straightening again, bending your arm back so that your hands could remain intertwined.

His left hand caressed your back and the fat of your behind, before bringing it down in a harsh slap to your ass, making you yelp and squeeze his hand in a vice grip, though you also tightened around his cock. 

Rubbing a soothing circle against the reddening skin, slowed his thrusts, making you whine and push against him. 

“Haaah, that okay? Feel good?” Trey murmured, smiling at the frantic nod and wiggle against him. “Want me to keep going?”

“Mmmph... yessshh... mmmore, mmmore... pleeeashh, honey~” Your sounds were muffled as you bit into the blanket, getting higher and higher as he obliged, not one to deny you after all. 

Every other thrust was met with a slap to one cheek, then the other, the skin turning redder and redder with his handprints marking you. The harder he went, the more and more slack you went, until he was eventually just fucking you like his personal toy. 

Though, you did offer yourself as his present, didn’t you? So it was only fair that he got to use his present as he wished, and right now, he wanted to feel you cumming around him. 

Ceasing his smacks, making you whine, Trey instead melded his body against yours, the weight both overwhelming and comforting, as his left hand instead moved to your sex to rub you to completion. 

Trey watched as you gasped for breath, completely burying your head into the bed to muffled your screams as you came around him, trembling and squeezing him. 

The feeling of your walls pulsating around his shaft was becoming dangerously addicting, and he was very greedy for more of that. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m so close! You can give me another one, right?”

Slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you up, Trey adjusted you so that you sat on his dick, kissing the side of your neck for reassurance as he let go of your hand to quickly slide his arms under your knees. 

From all his years of tossing bags of flour and sugar, from kneading dough, from all the labor he’s done as a baker, picking you up was like child’s play. 

Folding your knees up to your chest so he could hold you, back flush to his chest, was nothing for him. Everything for you, though, your over sensitive hole squeezing down on him again.  

“FUCK! I caaame! Treytreytreytrey—” You dug a hand into his arm, tossing your head back and lolling your tongue out with a dumb, drooly smile on your lips. 

“A-almost there—nngh—just squeeze if I need to stop—I’m so close~”

Smashing his lips against yours for an open mouth, wet kiss, Trey pounded faster into you, determined to feel your walls pulsate again, this time as he filled your insides up like one of his pastries. 

Then, an awful, perverted thought filled his head, like a devil was whispering in his ear. 

Why doesn’t he fill them up with his kids? Don’t stop until his cum is drooling out of their hole, and go again to make up for the lost seed. He already wants them to be his spouse, why not add a few little ones to that picture?

Trey was losing any bit of restraint that he may have had as he was now determined to fullfill his fantasy. Even if you couldn’t do it, magic made anything here possible, and right now is good practice anyway.

“I’m—aaaahhh—I’m gonna come inside, okay? Fill you up, yeah?”

Digging your nails into his skin, you nodded against his mouth and whined. 

“Yessssss! Fill me up! Inside! Gimme a baby Trey! I wanna make you a daaaaddy~”

Squeezing your legs further against your chest, Trey pounded faster and faster, trembling as he reached close and closer to his peak. 

Warmth flooded his body, tingles, and he swears sparks, flying over his skin as he felt you clamp down on him for a third time. 

Your voice squealed higher and higher, any previous attempt to be quiet for naught as you practically screamed.

Trey shuddered as he finally came, cum flooding your warm insides as you went limp in his arms. 

Panting for air, both of you remained still for a minute, the bed feeling stuffy with the curtains still closed. After another minute, Trey pulled you up and off of him, shaky as his now limp dick left your warm, comfortable embrace.

Doing his best to gently place you on the bed, Trey let out a breathless laugh as you collapsed on the bed like a rag doll, blinking your eyes tiredly at the ceiling of the canopy. 

“Haah, sorry, I went too hard there, huh?”

You shook your head, giving him a tired smile and reaching a hand for him, which he took and brought up to kiss. 

“It was good, really, good. You liked your present?”

Snorting and nodding, Trey carefully scooped you up to move your head onto the pillows and gently roll off your garter stocking, thumbs rubbing soothing circles as he did. 

“Yeah, I did. Come on, let me get you a shirt.”

You whined as he pulled away, exhaustion starting to steep into him as he tied back the curtains to the canopy to let the stuffiness out. Trey picked up the baby doll he’d tossed earlier, placing it into his wardrobe drawer as he dug out a shirt and sweatpants for himself and a shirt for you.

As he closed the drawer, he noticed your backpack hidden underneath it, digging in it to grab you some underwear. You had packed a pair of pajamas, apparently, but…he’d rather see you in his clothes. 

“Hmm, honey? Come to bed…” You whined, hands reaching out for him impatiently as he slipped on his clothes, crawling over to you and helping you slip your underwear and his shirt on. 

“I’m here, I’m here.”

Trey slowly blinked, eyelids heavy as he scoop you up to place you two under the covers, the soft mattress making him practically become one with the bed and you as you nestled into his chest. 

Your legs tangled with his as Trey wrapped his arms around you and tucked your head under his chin. He could feel fatigue and sleep quickly taking over him as your voice vibrated against his chest, soft and sleepy. 

“Happy birthday honey, I—yawn—love…you…”

A different kind of warmth, soft and sweet, filled him as he squeezed you tighter against him, murmuring back. 

“I love you too…”

*Riiiing* *Riiiiiiiing* *Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing*

An irritating, loud noise filled Trey’s ears as he groaned, half-awake as he turned over to smack his hand on his phone, silencing the alarm. 

“Aah…Noisy…hhggh.” Trey groaned, rolling over, careful to not crush you under him to blindly reach for his glasses. 

“Glasses…glasses…ah..”

Plastic and glass finally under his palm, Trey slipped his glasses on his face, ultimately throwing himself back into bed next to you, who’d begun shifting awake.

“Mmm, honey?” 

Grunting in response, Trey threw an arm over his eyes, irritated at the sun seeping through the window into his eyes. 

“Early…”

You chuckled, a yawn escaping you as you decided to move closer and slip a hand under his shirt to rub at his chest, pressing kisses into his neck as well. 

“You’re so grumpy in the morning. Come on, you've got a big day ahead.”

“…Ugh, I do?”

Snorting at his response, Trey grunted as he felt you move, peaking under his arm to see you resting on your elbow. You had puffy, dark circles under your eyes from the little sleep you managed to get. 

“Birthdays are a pretty big deal, right?” Smiling at him, Trey squinted an eye and groaned, squeezing his eyes shut in protest.

“Ugggh, yeah…”

Hearing you hum, Trey groaned in surprise as he felt you straddle his waist and caress his neck and cheeks, making him remove his arm to blink up at you. 

Your hair was a tangled mess, sticking up in all sorts of places. The bags under your eyes more noticeable under the night. His shirt dwarfed you. You were a hot mess, all things considered. 

He probably wouldn’t say it out loud, with how cute you were last night, but he thinks you look most beautiful like this. Better than any frilly, skimpy, or tight outfit.

“Come on, Birthday Boy, want me to give you a little pick me up?”

Kissing him with a smile, Trey moaned into the lazy, sloppy morning kiss, tilting his head back as you pressed kissed down his neck, deciding to work on leaving a love bite at the nape of his neck.

Trey’s phone chimed, making him sigh as he reached for it, letting you continue your love bites and kisses, 

Squinting at the few messages, it seemed like a few of his friends and classmates were already sending him birthday wishes. Though, a message from Cater made him blot up, a sudden shock of alertness running down his spine. 

“Ah! Trey, what is it?”

cay-cay_diamond: morning!! happy bday 2 the bday boi again! thought i let u no tht u owe me a favor, had 2 cast a silencing spell on ur roum last nite. totes ruined my beauty sleep! cay-cay_diamond: also i know u got ur lil cutie 2 distract ya, but liek dont b l8 2 ur bday breakfast, grimmy might eat it!

“Shit, we were too loud, Cater had to cast a silencing spell on the room.”

You made an ‘oh’ shape with your mouth, giving Trey an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, but at least you enjoyed it, right?”

Trey smiled, more awake now, and nodded, sharing a sweet kiss with you. 

“Definitely. You might have to consider making your go-to gift for now on, it’s gotta be my favorite one I’ve ever gotten.”

He solidified that statement with one more, firm, assuring kiss with you, before having to leave your sweet dream into the real world. 

At least he could have one part of that dream with him at his side from now on: you. 

Really, though, people tend to write Floyd off as a clown—and for good reason, because he certainly acts like one sometimes, but he’s smarter than he appears. On the first day of classes when he’d slid into the seat next to yours, you immediately wondered aloud why he was taking biology his third year instead of his second, which would’ve been usual protocol. Had he flunked it or something? 

“Subbed it for Ancient Magic last year since bio sounded boring,” he’d explained, kicking his feet up on the chair in front of him (Crewel, sauntering around all dramatic-like before the bell, passed by and batted them to the ground, muttering bad), “but they wouldn’t let me get away with flakin’ out on it entirely.” 

Ancient Magic was usually strictly reserved for third years, so you guessed it was no small academic feat that he’d managed to wiggle in a year early. Even Jade’s test scores didn’t quite rival his brother’s. 

And despite this quiet academic prowess (or maybe because of it), he seemed to really be dreading biology. You kind of scrunched up your nose when he complained—you wished your biggest worry was being too bored by college level subject material, even if it was just a gen ed—but in that lovingly compensatory Floyd way, he’d wrapped up his lamenting with some slyly sweet comment about how it couldn’t be that bad as long as he had his Shrimpy with him. 

So you’d just rolled your eyes and smiled, returning the sentiment. As long as you had boy-eel-genius Floyd Leech to steal test answers from, you supposed you’d be alright. (He’d dismissed such a title with that radiating laugh of his, and so you were certain.) 

And to this present day, he’s been a shining classmate, honestly. Meticulous lab partner, halfway decent notetaker. When he’s in the mood for it, is what everyone usually bellyaches about his redeeming qualities, but you have yet to experience a Floyd so stormy that he’s unwilling to lend you a hand or be sweet to you. And you’ve been waiting for it to happen, you really have—to catch him on a bad day, to be the one to say or do the thing that sours his mood before you can blink. 

But it hasn’t, and you haven’t. 

Ace and Deuce theorize it’s for reasons that make you go warm in the face. Please, who else is he that nice to but you? Because Floyd is notoriously an individualist to his core. Yes, he has a reputation for scaring underclassmen straight with a single glare. Yes, he heckles professors every chance he gets. Yes, he likes to skip out of class and wander the halls when lecture falls into a lull, but when he drags you with him, he never disappoints his MO of loathing boredom. He keeps you guessing—but, somehow, in a way that never exhausts or overwhelms you. If you’re thankful for nothing else that’s come out of the entire ordeal of being isekai’d into this terribly absurd pocket of existence, you’re at least softened by the opportunity to find beauty in places no one else gets to see, even if those places are renowned idiot Floyd Leech. 

Like so many other things in Twisted Wonderland, he looks scarier than he is; the simple reality is that he doesn’t pay any mind to the narratives others fit him into, nor is he lacking in the depth that’s endeared him to you beyond your own expectations. He’s funny, he’s chaotic, he’s a quiet mind and a loud lover, reliable in his own right, predictable in his penchant for unpredictability. And one of your best friends!

Okay, so biology with Floyd goes better than what you might’ve expected it to.

It’s not like you’re going to complain. If he weren’t six-foot-whatever and heartwrenchingly pretty, you’d be so content with just best friends, but again, you’re picking your battles here. And Floyd, thankfully, doesn’t have to be one of them.

“Shrimpy,” he snaps, but when you look over, he’s grinning. Floyd tips your textbook shut for you; people are filing out of the classroom. You must’ve tuned out the bell. “Class is over. D’ja hear me?” 

“Sorry,” you mumble, grabbing your bag. “What’s up?” 

“I said you should study with me later,” he says, folding his arms beside you and tucking his chin into them. He looks up at you adorably. “Anatomy section’s kinda kickin’ my ass.”

Liar, you think at first—but then, maybe he’s not. Despite zoning out today, you recall the content of the past few classes—particularly, a class from last week, in which Crewel spent a whopping five whole minutes (if you were generous) taking a detour to a flimsy conclusion about how marine anatomy and physiology is so often glossed over on land, just by nature, by expectation, by separation or whatever, and for that reason, there isn’t really room for it in the syllabus. Or whatever. 

You don’t remember the smart comment Floyd made at this gap in the curriculum, but you remember he made one. And if landfolk life science is by and large as foreign to merfolk as vice versa, you figure maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’ll actually study for once instead of goofing off like you usually do, ending up on the roof of Ramshackle, scrounging in the cafeteria for late-night snacks, or sneaking onto the bus to Foothill Town; his kicked puppy stare tells you so. 

“Of course,” you say, gathering your things. “Mine or yours?” 

“Mine, duh.” Floyd stands to trail behind you to your astrology class; he has a break after bio, but he always walks with you anyway. “Or send Sealie away, at least, if we do yours. Gotta get serious about this test next week.” 

He still jars you a little when he talks so sensibly, but you chuckle anyway. “I can ask the uncles to babysit.” Your two now-sophomore Heartslabyul friends, you mean. 

“You’re the best, Shrimpy.” Floyd tosses a jovial arm around your shoulders, and you tuck yours around his waist to keep yourself from tripping on his feet. “Can’t get ya to Trein late or he’ll have both of our asses. What were ya thinkin’ about just now, anyway?” 

You, you could blurt, but you don’t. His fingertips toying with the shoulder of your blazer always make it harder for you to think clearly. Shouldn’t you have grown used to this by now? Floyd’s so open with physical affection when it comes to his friends; you hate when your brain makes it into something it obviously isn’t. Only it isn’t obvious that it isn’t, and you’d only ask if you were an iota more certain. 

You hum. “Can’t remember.” 

“Too bad. You looked real concentrated.” His chin knocks into your head, and you swat him away, laughing. “Love that lil’ brain of yours.” 

Please, shut up. You’re not an easily flustered Shrimpy; Night Raven College knows this about you. So, you think, what the hell? “J’you just call my brain little, Leech?” 

Cue sunshine laugh again. He doesn’t deny, nor does he confirm, but you know it’s out of love. Friendly love. Fuck, you’ve got it bad. 

Before you break away from him to cross the threshold into astrology, Floyd takes you by the shoulders. 

“I’m serious, I need help.” He’s got that whiplashingly serious look in his eyes when they snap to yours. “I’ll see you after dinner, yeah?” 

You nod, smiling as you internally curse the indelible flush in your skin. You’re so irritatingly sensitive to his charms today. No doubt if he does end up wanting to bail on studying later, you’ll give in. “I’ll text you.” 

“Cool.” In an instant, that toothy grin is back. He presses an amiable smooch to the top of your head (complete with loud mwah) and you swear you feel ten degrees cooler as soon as he begins retreating down the hallway. “See ya later!” 

You toss him a wave as you duck into Trein’s. Kalim greets you brightly—he also immediately asks you why you look sweaty. You blink, sheepish, and say, “Good afternoon to you, too.” 

What you didn’t expect out of biology was to have it so horribly for Floyd Leech.

Night Raven College knows, too, that you generally do a bad job at picking your battles. 

It really kind of blows for the mer-students at Night Raven that they don’t teach their fucking anatomy and physiology in bio. Sure, the majority of them probably learn about it under the sea, but then to be thrown into landfolk A&P with no frame of reference to accompany? Talk about a learning curve. 

It blows even worse that, right now, Floyd’s zeroed in on two blown-up diagrams right next to each other—the female and male reproductive systems—tongue poking out from behind his sharp teeth, brows knitted as he struggles to remember the names of everything he’s looking at. You’re pretty sure he was joking when he referred to the lymphatic system the limp-fantastic system (and maybe halfway intentional in making it sound like it moonlights as a Bizkit cover band instead of regulating fluids), but it is a lot to take in. Imagine him recounting the bones in the lower extremities some thirty minutes ago before getting to this. 

“So, these are the…” Floyd’s circling both illustrations tentatively with his fingertip, and then taps harshly on one. “Okay, I know this is a penis. That’s a wiener. Duh.” He drags his finger, panning over to the other as you snort. “And this is where the babies are made. This is the babymaker. Yep.”

Your chin drops to your chest (even though he’s technically correct) and you sigh through a laugh. “Well, they… yeah.”

“Sorry,” he whines petulantly, more for himself than you, “this is hard! I ain’t never seen any of this stuff before, you know.” 

But it’s less his human-anatomical incompetence that’s got you more dismissive than you ought to be for such intense material, and more the fact that since astrology all you’ve been thinking about is Floyd, Floyd, Floyd, just like you always do, like you’re a pathetic middle schooler lovesick for the first time, for their best friend no less. And now, words like penis and babymaker are leaving his mouth, and even though physiology specifically has got to be up there next to abstract algebra as one of the unsexiest areas of rote studying, having the guy you’ve got a massive crush on pick apart the literal stuff that’s inside you is making you feel some inconvenient (but not entirely unwelcome) things. You swear it felt a little romantic just watching and listening to him label the arteries, veins, and capillaries on and around the human heart. 

“Weird as all hell I’m part’a this whole new species and I don’t hardly know shit about it.” He grumbles briefly about technicalities and vocabulary as he flops onto his stomach; your mattress creaks out its protest, but he just buries his head in his arms. You hear, muffled, “I’m sick’a this, Shrimpy, let’s do somethin’ else.” 

Right, his borrowed human form. 

It’s not even a second before you’re trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s inhabiting a body incredibly biologically compatible with yours. You disguise this train of thought beneath the sound of your textbook smacking closed before you opt to flop next to him, nosediving into your own arms in a similar fashion. Your skin feels like it itches. 

Stupid Floyd and his stupid study session and his stupid mouth that never shuts up and that you absolutely want to kiss. You miss the way he peeks up at you quizically with one golden eye, but if you would’ve noticed, you’d be cursing his stupid receptivity that no one ever expects because he acts like a moron. You need to pull it together now. Quit being distracted by your stupid, attractive best friend, quit reminding yourself of his stupid human anatomy, and especially quit wondering if you could get him as worked up over nothing as he’s got you, in mer-form or otherwise, and how it would feel for him—if he’d like it, if he’d like you… If he’d—quit it, quit it, quit it, your stupid human brain chants like a mantra. 

Think about anything else. His true form is probably so incompatible with yours, think about that. Think about how he’s actually, like, half a fish. Yeah. There. Crisis averted, battle picked. 

“D’you feel alright?” he asks, fingers curling around your arm to feel your forehead. Ruined it, just like that. “You’re warm.” 

“I’m fine,” you don’t mean to snap, but you do—even so, his hand doesn’t recoil. Floyd scratches your hair a little, the way one might do to a dog. You could scream at him not to touch you if you didn’t like it so much, but you do—painfully so—which is why you turn your head to face him while his fingers trace lazy half-shapes from your hairline to your temple. You try to sound chipper and not at all strained when you concede, “Let’s do something else. What’d’you wanna do?” 

He blinks at you slowly, obviously dissatisfied with your dodge. He still traces, brushing your cheekbone as he studies you. “Something’s on your mind, Shrimpy.” 

Stupid receptivity. “Just information overload,” which isn’t entirely a lie. “And I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. No marine A&P, my ass. You’ve got marine communities well within reach here, so not teaching it’s an outdated excuse for ignorance, if you ask me. But I guess humans are good for that wherever you go.” 

Floyd hums, pulling away from you, rolling onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Yeah, that pissed me off, too.” 

“‘M pissed for you.” You do give a shit, really, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have something to channel your intensity into right now. 

Quiet settles over you both. You allow yourself a few seconds more of stewing and admiring his side profile, his sharp nose and bitten lips; Floyd looks like he’s pondering. You wish you could pick apart what’s inside him, too. He’s fascinating to you—you love his lil’ brain, too, you know, in more ways than one. It really is an injustice that landfolk don’t know more about merfolk and their glaring similarities and yet, major differences; Floyd’s an emotional, physical, scientific marvel to you. You don’t think you’ve met anyone more interesting. Or easier to love, for that matter. 

Fuck.

“I know!” In an instant, he’s on his feet. “Let’s hit the pool. You’re all warm, it’ll cool you off—” He’s tugging you to your feet, grabbing his bag, bright, pointy smile lighting up all at once, “—it’ll be so fun. You can relax, and I haven’t swam in days…” 

“That actually sounds perfect.” Yes, back to fish-form with the heathen. You’re quick to toss together a bag of swim things, eager to put mind-numbing, rage-inducing study material and complicated emotions alike to rest for the night. His unreserved laugh when you agree so readily still makes your heart flutter, but you plan to leave it at the door. 

Surely, you can leave it at the door. 

On the way to the mirror chamber, you’re so eager to leave it behind that you’re asking questions—your mood flipping with his, incidentally—because you’re disgustingly susceptible to him and, as noted before, you do give a shit. Ardent and full of curiosity, just like you always are with him, you shed the limitations of textbook-sanctioned inquiry and launch yourself full-force at reclamation of your own wall-hitting; you can and will get a fucking grip and be normal. 

“Is it super different?” you ask. 

“What?” Floyd’s rummaging in his bag as you both walk, already aware he forgot a notebook in your room. “Merfolk stuff?” 

“Yeah.” You adjust your own bag on your shoulder. “Like, your A&P is probably as different to me as mine is to you. Where I’m from, scientists haven’t observed a whole load of shit about the ocean—it’s more of a mystery to us than outer space. There’s tons we don’t know about morays, you know.” 

“Oh, yeah, I mean skeletal system-wise, there are bony fish, and then ones with more cartilage. And either way, the whole structure and makeup is so different since we got no legs, and…” 

You listen to him talk all the way through the mirror, into the halls of Octavinelle, past the lounge and onto the sprawling pool deck—it’s empty, much to your relief, sparkling and humid; when you reach down to skim your fingers across the water, it’s refreshingly cool. Floyd’s submerged before you can blink, hardly pausing his spiel; you lift your shirt off and toss it aside, and suddenly he’s aquamarine and soft green, scaly and shiny and webbed and you would tell him to look away while you slip your bottoms on but it’s you who’s staring, really. 

“And then merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish when it comes to reproduction and shit. Don’t really know how that happened, and I don’t even know how—I don’t think…”

For once in his life, he trails off. You settle at the edge of the pool, dipped in up to your knees, and he swims up to you. Wanna play mermaids? is what you’d usually joke, but as your kicking feet slow to a stop and Floyd’s arms curl up across your lap, all you can do is look down at him, ruminative and a little mystified (no matter how many times you see him in his true form, you’re always taken by its elegance). 

“Whatever.” It’s the day of Floyd burying his face in his elbows and looking up at you in a way that makes you want to take a page out of his book and squeeze him until he pops; it certainly doesn’t help that, absentmindedly, your fingers move to card through his wet hair and he hums, low and sweet as you do, so that you feel it in your stomach. “Not like lookin’ at anything on a piece of paper does squat. I’m more of a hands-on learner.”

He blinks up at you through his wet lashes—it should be a criminal offense—and you grin down at him as he splays his palms across your thighs, tracing, tracing little shapes again (fuck, and now you’re looking at his biceps. Stop that!). Your face burns, but you mock confusion to play it off. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re flirting with me, Floyd Leech.” 

Less a bold move and more placing the ball in his court because with Floyd, what you see is mostly what you get. Yes, he’s a horrible trickster, but you know him. And if you know him as well as you think you do, he’ll laugh that radiant laugh (which he does) and, next, you’re confident, brush you off and yank you into the water yelling about how his Shrimpy needs to learn to swim like he does so you can keep up with him—yes, he’ll wave the silly little theatrics behind you both and forget it even happened before tomorrow peeks over the horizon. 

But he muses, “I am,” not at all coy, because coyness and Floyd don’t go hand in hand. 

And you blink at him, all at once a little giddy and disbelieving. “No, you’re not.” 

“D’ya not want me to be?” Schroedinger’s flirt. I mean it if you do, but if you don’t, then of course I’m totally joking. 

His mismatched gaze is locked steadily on you. You wish he would ever let you hear the end of it if you covered your face with your hands, but he won’t, so you don’t; you just giggle, unable to not, unable to confirm or deny, unable to decide if it’d be better or not for him to say he’s messing with you. It’s always straightforward, except when it isn’t. 

“Shrimpy, I’m serious,” he continues when you finally look at him again. He does feign urgency—or maybe he’s not feigning, like his words would imply, as he positively bores into you. “Do you not want me to flirt with you?” 

“I—” You suppress your trepidation, doing your best to match his air. “I never said I don’t want you to.” 

“Get in the damn pool, then,” he snaps a little bit, impatient—impatient for you, you realize; you’re smirking as he slinks down to tug at your ankles with no real consequence. “C’mon.” 

“Make me,” you tease, and something dangerous ingnites in his eyes—something that makes you want to toy with your fingers and look away, but you don’t, because it’s always worth stifling yourself to feed Floyd a little bit of his own medicine. You’ve never watched it have this particular effect on him, though; when you grin evilly at him, he plants his palms on either side of you and rises out of the water to your eye level. 

“Don’t piss me off,” he half-barks in your face—sometimes, if you poke him hard enough, you do feel like you’re catching a glimpse of the scary Floyd everyone’s warned you about, but you don’t slink away from it. You kick at him, go to pinch his nose—he makes an attempt to bite your fingers and you laugh and laugh, and he does, too, eventually, the two of you in a duel where you have the upper hand only because he chooses to give it to you (and his hands are literally occupied with holding himself above water). 

You wrastle with him, landing a jab to his (infuriatingly well-defined) stomach, snapping your fingers in his face a bit, blowing air in his eyes—before you gather his cheeks between your fingers, squishing his face in a way that makes him scrunch his nose, lips puckered unwillingly, and you—you fucking kiss him. You land a quick peck to his mouth without even thinking, and you release him immediately; he pulls back, but only a few inches, just enough to look at you. 

For a moment you think he’ll really get mad. You try not to shrink. 

It’s quiet and you can’t tell if his expression is starstruck or disgusted. 

A few seconds is a century. 

“Kiss me again,” he barks right at you. Like he thinks you won’t. 

Your face feels stuck, contorted into a sheepish grin; Floyd’s open mouth, taunting you, luring you in, lets you watch his tongue flick between his rows of sharp teeth and the thought of what they’d feel like in your neck jolts you toward him, your hands grabbing for his strong shoulders; he’s not sure if you’re about to shove him off or devour him whole, but he hangs in that lightning-quick moment of anxiety, thrilled to have your hands on him, all at once assured and with the only hint of apprehension you think you’ve ever seen on his face and you decide you have to, you must—what else could you possibly do but throttle yourself forward, into him, not at all soft or scared as the water envelops you from head to toe and he does just the same? 

Beneath the surface is a pillowy, noise-cancelling limbo—you feel like you’ve plunged into a dream, eyes screwed shut and senses dulled where the only vivid things are his hands clutching your waist and his lips on yours. And you kiss him and kiss him, drifting up, suspended, cupping his jaw like you’d start breathing him if you could. 

Before you hit oxygen, pockets of air bubble out from between both of your mouths; you’re laughing before you’re inhaling, finding yourself panting to catch your breath—unlike Floyd, who giggles so fully and unapologetic it echoes around the pool deck. The next thing you feel is a cool, slick tail twining around you—your hips, your waist, so you don’t have to flail to stay afloat. 

“Here, hold onto me.” His tail slips away with his tense disposition, replaced by laughter that doesn’t cease as you link your ankles behind him at the spot where his human back gives way to his mer-half, and your wrists at the base of his neck. “There ya go.”

You’re not sure if you’re tingling from the impact to the water or from the way his pale teal chest rises and falls so rapidly against yours. He sways back and forth so subtly you’d almost think it was only the rippling of the water; you wane into silence in the crook of his shoulder, like you don’t want to be the first to speak. 

But he does (you’d be nervous if he were to be quiet); large, clawed hands slide from your waist to hold you up from beneath your ass. 

“I could kiss you again,” he offers into your ear like it’s the most obvious thing—a was that okay? of Floyd fashion, an opening to tell him he’s silly, this was silly, to let you go. He listens to you for alarm bells. You don’t set any off. “Always wanted to do that. Could do anything you want, baby.” 

Baby? 

What world were you transported to when you resurfaced? It’s the first time he’s called you anything other than Shrimpy, or your name. Something flares in your chest, unfurls down your arms and into your fingertips which trail down to the planes of his chest.

Anything? 

Your manner of yes, of promptly shutting that window, is a series of fluttering kisses beneath his ear, over subtle, pulsing gills you’ve never been close enough to notice before, let alone touch. You really can’t curse the A&P curriculum now—it’d be blasphemy. Look where it got you: nipping at your best friend’s throat, quick to wonder what bruises would look like blooming on his aqua skin. You tear into him gently, hearing him hum over hitched breath when you do. 

“I mean, I think I could use an interactive lesson if I’m gonna have a shot on this test.” A minute ago, you were the one gasping for breath; now, Floyd sighs to maintain composure, accidentally puncturing your bottoms with his nails while you lick across his jaw. You can’t see his erection, but you can feel it, beginning to press up beneath you as his arousal grows. Merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish, he had said; maybe you’re more compatible that you originally assumed, and the fact that you have him hard just from a little bit of kissing and biting is so pathetically cute. Floyd might look real tough, but he’s practically falling apart just the way you fantasized he would earlier today, just as quick if not quicker than you, his cute lil’ Shrimpy—his baby—who’s clearly had more control over him than he’s let onto until now. 

You pull back to look into his olivey eyes and he’s half-lidded with something just to the left of restless yearning—like how a predator must look when it’s got its prey backed into a corner. 

But you’re hardly prey.

His head cocks like a puppy waiting for a treat. “Ain’t’cha gonna help me out?” 

Later, you’ll swear this was him begging, and he’ll deny it; he tries to distract you from it with that sly confidence, his eternal air of never taking anything too seriously, but you have him right where you want him. 

Even if he does get one final jab in, sing-songy, grasping onto the last of his smugness. “You could get a little marine anatomy lesson in return, y’know.” 

You want to make him squirm back—so you concede, “Alright,” like you’re doing him a favor. In reality, it’s so sweetly dizzying and surprising to drink in his desperation after he’s made you feel crazy for as long as he has. You untangle yourself from him, backing up until you hit the wall so you can hoist yourself upon it once more. 

Floyd treads back up to you without having to be told. When you slip your bottoms off, you don’t ask him not to look. 

“Ever touched a human like this before?” you ask, more to put him through answering than actually looking to know; you have a pretty good idea, anyway, from the way he just pouts up at you—an answer in itself. You prop one heel up on the edge of the pool and push his drenched hair away from his forehead as he settles a shoulder beneath your still submerged calf, downturned eyes shining. 

You look at him so fondly, drag your gentle touch down his face before tilting his chin toward the apex of your thighs; if eels could blush, you’re certain you’d have gotten him with the way you wiggle forward to the edge and spread yourself open with two fingers. 

You’d be kidding yourself if you said his hungry gaze and warm breath on your cunt doesn’t affect you just as terribly. 

“So,” you clear your throat—this is an anatomy lesson, after all. You’re nothing if not committed to the bit. “A lot of my reproductive anatomy is inside—totally unreachable. But this—”

You demonstratively swipe a finger over your clit. 

“—feels real good if you touch it.” 

Floyd, self-proclaimed hands-on learner, doesn’t waste a second replacing your finger with his thumb. 

You yelp, jumping a bit, for more than one reason. “Watch the claws, Leech.” 

He bites his lip through a focused smile—he really is so hot when he actually gives his full, undivided attention to something, and the fact that you’re the something is even better. “Sorry.” He’s hardly sorry. 

But he struggles to avoid scratching you up. 

“Tell me what to do, baby,” he insists at your ow, ow, ow, lower and more invested than usual—it makes you clench around nothing, makes you feel so empty. You wish his fingers inside you wouldn’t maim you. You suppose that’s an excursion for his other form. His hands instead busy themselves grabbing at your thighs, opening you up, wanting more. “Can I just…?” 

You don’t know if oral sex exists under the sea and you don’t really care—either way, Floyd’s unhinged enough to just go for it without you having to tell him, and you simply guide his head the rest of the way to you as his tongue licks a long, experimental stripe up your slit. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, “yeah, that feels—” 

He keeps licking. Enthusiastically, like one might an ice cream cone. You cover your smiling mouth for a split second before you continue, pushing him away to show him.

“Here, here, here.” Again, you touch yourself—so pulsing and hot compared to how chilly he is. “This little—above the hole, is the—”

“The Exorcist,” he insists, looking deadpan up at you, so Floyd in timing, that you can’t tell if he’s joking or not. 

You try so hard not to snort. Sevens, what kind of media has he been consuming up here? At least he’s maybe, sort of trying? (His bio grade does depend on it, after all.)

“Clitoris,” you correct him, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of this whole situation. It’ll catch up to you in embarrassment if you don’t get his mouth on you in the next five seconds, you’re pretty sure. “See it? Feels really good to touch, lick, suck o—oh!”

Before you can breathe, he’s latched onto you—licking again and pausing where you’ve instructed him, suckling around you and twirling his tongue in a way has you pushing him into you instead of away, now, and you’re going to keep your voice, of course; you’d go as far as to call him somewhat of a natural, but you’re still going to instruct him like a good tutor. 

“Y-yeah, that’s it,” you encourage him; his tongue feels long and a little frigid, so unlike anything you’ve felt before, and it’s certainly not working against him. “Just—don’t move down—yeah, like that. G-good boy, Floyd.” 

He must like that, because he hums into you; the vibration sends your hips rolling forward into his mouth—you prop your other heel up to spread yourself even wider—and he peers up at you wetly like he wants you to say it again. 

When you don’t, his eyes flutter shut, his brow furrows, and his tongue works harder—making you arch, making you croon.

And it falls from your mouth like you can’t help it, “Good boy, right there—mhm!” 

Said tongue slips down, prodding your hole; you’re gasping all over again, biting into the back of your hand when Floyd moans into your pussy once more like he’s unaware of the shockwave it sends through you (he probably is), his hands landing at the small of your back to tug you into grinding on his face. He seems to enjoy alternating between tonguefucking you and making out with your clit—if how tight he’s holding you is anything to go off of, anyway, and with the way he moves, the way his elbows come up to rest under you, tense and holding himself up, it seems like he’s humping the pool wall. 

The fact that he’s getting off on going down on you makes you want to lay back and curl your thighs around his head. But as much as you’d love to cum in his mouth, as good as his tongue feels drinking you down, now that you know he has a cock, you pretty much need him to fuck you with it. 

“Floyd,” you whine, wriggling away from him. He’s hesitant to let you go; his eyes fly open like you’re taking away his favorite toy, which you may as well be. “Floyd—ah, I want you t’fuck me, please?” 

That has him happily departing with a lewd smack, nails letting up on your flesh; he looks up at you with a dopey smile, like you’ve just injected him with something that’s sent him skyward, but it doesn’t last long—he’s determined as he pulls you back into the water with real firmness, catching you beneath your arms as you squint for the splash. 

When you open your eyes, you’re met with a satisfied and glistening mouth, tongue poking out, lapping you up. “You taste good, Shrimpy.” 

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me Shrimpy while we’re fucking.” 

Floyd snickers. “Ya like baby better? Maybe I’ll use that all the time from now on.” 

“You should,” you agree before he’s kissing you; you’re coiled around him again in an instant, tasting yourself in his spit, sliding a restless hand under the water between both your bodies to thumb his tip. 

Floyd bites your lip as you circle him; you half-wish you could see him from an outside point of view, how his eyes are screwed shut, how his jaw flexes and releases when he chokes on his breath, but you know you can’t be anywhere but here—you fully don’t want to be anywhere but here—pleased at the way he bucks into your hand all needy. 

When you maneuver him down to drag your cunt along him, you earn your first nasally, full-bodied moan from Floyd Leech—all at once obscene and uncorrupted; you wonder if he’s ever made himself sound like this, if he would even know how to; you nearly growl into his open mouth as his ridges and veins catch on your clit, your entrance. You wonder, too, just how soaked you are right now, riding along his length, which does not by any means feel small, by the way. When you close yourself around him to let him fuck your thighs, you feel his tip reaching past your ass. 

And now that he’s started, he’s not going to shut up. “Oh, shit, that feels—Shrim—baby, oh, fuck.” 

You wish you’d have dedicated some time to learning his cock—when you catch a glimpse beneath the surface, it seems to be the same darker shade of blue-green that contours the edges of the rest of his body; it’s undoubtedly naturally slick, also not unlike the rest of him, probably as pretty as it feels. 

You bite into the freckles across his collarbone as you thrash against each other, all sweat and water and stickiness and teeth. “Want you,” you mumble in his webbed ear. “Spare me the lesson.” 

“Alright,” he hisses, letting up like it’s painful. “Your turn.” 

It’s in Floyd’s nature to turn on a dime. He was so docile while you let him explore you. His razor-sharp grin threatens you with ruin now that you’re letting him take what he wants, forgetting all about the subject at hand—the topic that got you here in the first place. Nonetheless, he intends to be strict, you can tell—even if you’re the one palming his cock, wetting your lips for more of his rough kisses, hooking your knees over his elbows and guiding him into your cunt. 

“This how ya do it?” But he’s got the basics down by now—and with you lining him up, he’s got little more to do than thrust himself forward, but he decides the best way to go about this is to shake his head dismissively, almost annoyed, and bend your knees up to your shoulders, damn near to the pool wall, and all at once he’s in you, filling you up, hitting you deep. 

“Floyd!” you squeal, stretched in more ways than one. “Chill!” 

“Fuck—can’t,” he groans brokenly; he’s fucking into you already, steady and rigid. His next sentence tumbles out more like one long word, like it might be the last thing he ever says: “Oh, fuck, it feels so good, I gotta move.” 

His long tail comes to wind tight and writhing around your middle as he pins you, leveraging your whole body as he keeps an experimental pace, but already, speech escapes him; still, Floyd doesn’t shut up, groaning through uneven whimpers, unabashed and frantic to let you know how you good you feel even if you’ve stolen his voice. 

Water swashes around you and you can do nothing but cry out, tangling both hands in Floyd’s drenched hair, your forehead pressed to his. 

“‘S’okay, baby, I want it all,” you whine. 

And in a second, his hips are brutal against yours. 

You can’t see anything below—the way he fucks you deliriously stirs up the water—but you reach down to touch yourself again, jaw slack to your chest as he bends and pounds you; Floyd’s so damn loud you’d worry about being heard if it wasn’t for the way you can feel his dick, ruthless in your guts, turning your brain to pitiable mush. He looks so pretty, eyes all teary and borderline crazed, teeth clenching closed just to be pried open by pitchy moans that send waves of heat straight to the orgasm building in your core. 

When he gets his voice back, you’re losing yourself—reminding yourself to keep your eyes open, keep your gaze on him, because you’d rather die than miss the way Floyd looks when he opens his pretty mouth again. 

“If you—fuck, ‘m gonna cum in you—‘f you could take it, I’d keep—keep fuckin’ you…” 

“Want it,” you breathe, words all strung out and slurred, whole body jostling with the way he batters against your insides, “ngh’I want y’r cum.” 

Floyd cusses a few more times—mouth just as filthy as the rest of him for you as you goad him—because you want him, you want him to cum in you, you’re so fucking tight and perfect around him that he knows he’s growing more and more addicting with each rapid-fire slam of his tip against your cervix but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, and from the way your hips jerk to the flexing and curling of your toes and the whines and moans you sing, muddled and noisy, into the air for him, he doesn’t think there’s a world that exists where he’d want to. 

“This is where you’d release your clutch, if ya had one—oh,” he explains, breath quick and hot against your neck as you twitch—you’re so close, he can feel it, the way you clamp around him erratically as each stroke, each thrust distresses his words into little more than gasping and rambling. “A-and I’d—hah, fuck, I’d knock you up so good—” 

In your hazy, foggy, humid upswing of pleasure your melting mind remembers his unfinished thought from earlier: I don’t even know how—I don’t think… And oh, fuck, just the thought of it sends you hurdling over the edge, cumming hard, but 

the words, too, are leaving you before you can stop them, before you can think too hard about what it is your clipped and breathy voice is babbling— 

“G’na breed me? Wanna fill me up with your kids, Floyd? Huh?” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah—” he chants back, ruined, “G’na fuckin’ take it all for me, aren’t’cha, baby?” 

“Fuck, I need it,” you’re unsure if you whisper or scream—your nails are harsh in his shoulders and his teeth are buried in your neck, muffling rough, rhythmic cries as he cums, throbbing inside you; he cums so fucking much, you can feel it, filling you to the brim, coating every inch of you he can reach, trembling and spasming and fuck, he can’t stop—it feels like forever and too soon when he slows to a stop, buried in you, letting up on your neck and dropping your legs to grab either side of your head and kiss you long and hard, both of you half-humming, half-whining into each other. 

Between labored breaths and lazy kisses you spend a good few minutes rocking into one another—biting at lips, hands wandering, tongues poking, until eventually you’re both just play-fighting, snickering quietly, touching in ways that are spent of sex and yet still wholly intimate.  

When he calms a bit, scarily serious in that way only Floyd can get, he asks you, “You gonna be mine ‘er what?” 

“I’m already yours, Leech.” You flick water at him, resigned, and wriggle a bit. One golden eye winks to dodge, and he’s grinning, so familiar; as he untangles himself from you, helping you back up onto the tile, he mocks relief.

 ”Good. Would be kinda awkward if you weren’t.” 

Water settling is the only sound across the pool deck as you towel off, shuffle your shorts back on. In the silence, Floyd twirls around the water and starts to sing a stupid little song—totally off-key and fully content, I love my Shrimpy, I love my Shrimpy… 

Until the lights start to flicker, and you hear the extremely vexed voice of a certain Mostro Lounge owner from the far hallway— 

“If you’re done, get the fuck out! My students are trying to sleep!” 

“Cameron Cade, so help me, God, if you are not here at 5 o’clock, i will not be tutoring your ass anymore,” you threatened, pinching the bridge of your nose in exasperation, as you huffed and shifted your position on the couch, leaning back against it and crossing one of your legs over the other, “because the last time we met up, you didn’t show up at the library until 8 and i was in there waitin’ on you for 3 damn hours. i’m not waitin’ on you this time.”

“a’ight, a’ight, i hear you, damn. you want me at your place at 5 o’clock and i’m gon’ be there on time, okay? stop trippin’ so much.” the sound of Cameron’s dismissive tone through the speaker of your phone made your jaw clench and you deeply rolled your eyes as a sharp exhale of irritation fell from your mouth, a furrow forming between your eyebrows while your hand dropped from your face.

you honestly weren’t in the mood for having to tutor Cameron since you didn’t necessarily have the best day on campus today, but you made a promise to your professor and his coach that you’d help him get his grade up, even if it meant having to endure his irritable antics like showing up later to your Friday tutor sessions than he was supposed to and flirting with you when he should be trying to understand the material you’re teaching him.

it was obvious Cameron was more focused on football than his education, but if he didn’t get his grade up, he’d be benched until it was brought up to at least a C, so you tried your hardest to be patient with him because you knew how much football meant to him — everyone did, really.

but your patience was much thinner today than usual.

you overslept 15 minutes for your first class because you were up almost all night studying for an exam in your second class and by the time you made it, there was only 30 minutes left before it was over — it was an hour and 15 minutes long, halfway across campus, and on the third floor, so you had a very long walk from your dorm to get there.

after that, you went to your second class, took your exam, and ended up only making a 60% on it, which technically wasn’t that bad since it was a D, but you didn’t lose all those hours of sleep to study for that exam and be late to your first class because of it just to make a 60% out of all of the percentages there was.

your third and final class went by pretty smoothly except for the group of girls that sat behind you whispering, giggling, and gossiping to each other for the entire class period, which was only 50 minutes. you could hardly give your professor your full attention because you couldn’t concentrate with them murmuring behind you, so you gave up and recorded the rest of the lecture on your phone to listen to when you got back to your on-campus apartment.

after that, you went to the dining hall to get some food in you since you had forgotten to eat due to the adrenaline pumping through you from almost missing your first class mixed with the irritation of practically bombing the exam you studied your ass off for, but your appetite for food was quickly destroyed after a group of distracted boys bumped into you and made your plate of food spill all over your clothes and the floor.

what made getting covered by food so infuriating for you wasn’t the act itself, and it wasn’t the fact that some of the students in the dining hall were either staring at you or laughing at your now dirty clothes. it was the fact the specific boy who bumped into you didn’t even properly apologize to you — he just said “my bad.” and him and the other boys walked away like nothing happened.

that was your last straw for the day.

you didn’t even bother trying to clean the stains or wipe off the rest of the food on you, you just grabbed your backpack and hauled ass back to your apartment, anger written all over your facial features. as soon as you opened the door to your apartment, you tossed your bag on the couch and went straight to the bathroom, roughly discarding your clothes like they’d disrespected you.

you didn’t leave your apartment after that, and quite frankly, you didn’t want to. you were fed up with that campus and you had no interest in walking back towards it, which is why you ordered Cameron to come over instead of meeting him at the library like you usually would — except this time, if he wasn’t going to show up on time, you were through with him.

as much as you liked to stay true to your promises, Cameron’s late arrivals angered you more than his flirting did. you were a stickler for punctuality, so the fact that Cameron couldn’t show up on time for something so important to not only his education, but his football career as well, frustrated you in ways you didn’t even know were possible.

“i would ‘stop trippin’’ if you started actin’ like you cared enough about your grades to actually show up at the times i tell you to, so i can properly tutor you, Cameron,” you remarked, your tone snarkier than before, as your jaw flexed a bit and you looked over at the analog clock on the wall, your eyes landing on ‘3:25’, “look, you got an hour and 35 minutes to decide on if gettin’ tutored is worth your damn time because, like i said, if you’re not here by 5 o’clock, you don’t gotta’ worry about seein’ me no more.”

you hung up in his face before he could say anything back and you let out a soft huff as you tossed your phone aside and covered your face with your hands, a groan of irritation falling from your lips and into your palms while you ran them down your face.

you were truly ready for this day to be over.

as you adjusted your notes and laptop on your coffee table, three firm knocks sounded off at your door, and your head turned towards it before your eyes flickered over to the clock, your eyebrows furrowing a little at the sight of ‘4:50’ staring back at you.

getting up from the couch, you adjusted your sweatshirt and walked over to the door as you twisted the lock and pulled the door open, your eyes landing on Cameron Cade with a backpack slung over one of his broad shoulders.

“you know you’re 10 minutes early, right?” you asked in surprise, raising your eyebrows a little, as you stepped to the side and allowed him in, watching his tall frame fill up your apartment while you closed and locked the door behind him.

“i know. since you be on my ass about comin’ late all the time, i figured i should come early this time around,” Cameron shrugged, walking over to your couch, as he took a seat on it and pulled his backpack off of his shoulder to sit it on the floor beside his shoes, “plus, you sound like you been through some shit today and i ain’t really wanna make your day worse.”

you visibly tensed up at the recollection of how your day went and Cameron noticed, but he decided not to say anything since he knew he had to tread lightly with you since you explicitly stated you were sick of his shit an hour ago when you two were on the phone.

“okay, let’s get started.” you mumbled, purposely deflecting from the topic of your day, as you adjusted your braids in their low ponytail and walked over to the couch, taking a seat on it and grabbing your binder to flip to the lessons you and Cameron would be going over today.

it was now around 7 o’clock and you and Cameron were now wrapping things up, somehow managing to get through your tutor session without him flirting with you. you assumed threatening to quit on him must’ve knocked some sense into him because for the first time since you’ve started tutoring him, he actually paid attention and retained the information you were teaching him, which made you proud but you couldn’t properly show it like you wanted to since you were still kind of ticked off about how your day went.

as you slipped your notes into the inside pocket of binder and closed the cover of it, you could feel eyes practically staring a hole into your side profile and you briefly glanced over at Cameron before doing a double take, realizing he was in fact staring at you.

“what?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing a little, as you sat your binder on the coffee table and leaned over to your laptop, closing out the tabs you had open and turning it off before shutting it.

“you been tense since i been here. probably even before i got here, too,” Cameron acknowledged, his eyes scanning your posture, as you looked over at him and leaned back against the couch, resting your back against the cushions, “what’s wrong wit’ you?”

“nothing.” you lied straight through your teeth and your body language reflected it because your jaw clenched as the words left your mouth, and as always, Cameron Cade noticed it.

“you really gon’ look me in the eyes and lie to me like that?” Cameron asked, his eyebrows furrowing a little, as you slightly narrowed your eyes at him and crossed your arms, “look, you been helpin’ me with this math shit for the past few weeks, the least i could do is help you take all that weight off your shoulders. i know i ain’t the most ideal person to vent to, but i’m here if you need somebody.”

you didn’t know what it was, but something about his tone made your shoulders slightly drop, and you searched his colored eyes for a moment before letting out a soft huff and slowly uncrossing your arms.

“…i was up almost all night studyin’ last night for an exam in one of my classes and i completely bombed that shit and made a 60. then on top of that, because i stayed up so late, i ended up oversleeping and missed over half of my first class, which is way across campus,” you explained, a furrow slowly forming between your eyebrows, as your jaw flexed a bit and you ran your hands down your face, “then!— then, these yappin’ ass bitches in my last class was behind me whispering and giggling and all types of shit and i couldn’t even fuckin’ pay attention so i had to record the damn lecture on my phone and listen to it when i got here so i could take notes.”

“and that’s not even the worse of the shit!” you suddenly exclaimed, flailing your hands a little, as Cameron’s eyebrows raised and he looked at you in amusement mixed with sympathy, “after that class, i went to the weak ass dining hall ‘cause i forgot to eat breakfast since i was rushin’ and shit, so obviously, i was hungry as hell. i’m holdin’ my plate in one hand and my cup in the other hand, right? and i’m just mindin’ my business and walkin’ back to my table, right?”

“please tell me why in the fuck this random ass group of niggas bumped into me and made the damn plate slide down my clothes and hit the floor?!” you screeched in bewilderment as you flailed your arms like a madman, “and you wanna know what made that shit worse? it wasn’t the fact that i got my clothes dirty or that people was staring at me and laughing and all that other shit. it was the fact that the specific nigga who bumped into me didn’t even properly apologize to me! that bitch ass nigga said ‘my bad’ and went on his merry way! like what the fuck?!”

“hold on, pause,” Cameron suddenly spoke as his eyebrows furrowed and he raised his hand to stop you from speaking, “he ain’t say sorry? he ain’t try to clean you up or offer to get you some more food or somethin’?”

“no, he didn’t,” you scoffed, crossing your arms, your jaw clenched and you exhaled sharply through your nostrils, “and i had to walk all the way back here with my clothes all fuckin’ dirty with food stains on ‘em.”

“who did it?” Cameron asked, the furrow between his brows deepening, as you raised your hands and dramatically shrugged your shoulders, mimicking the shrugging emoji before recrossing your arms.

“shit, i don’t know. some brown-skinned and dark-skinned niggas with football shirts on from that high ass bookstore,” you answered carelessly as you rolled your eyes a little and a scowl crossed your face, “the one that bumped into me, though, was some brown-skinned dude with dreads. he had his shit in like a ponytail or a bun or something— i’ma be honest, i don’t remember, i was mad. i’m still mad, too.”

“don’t worry ‘bout it, i’ma handle it.” Cameron chuckled, though the sound was merely humorless, as you watched him slip his notes and homework back into his backpack and your eyebrows furrowed a little.

“you gon’ handle it?” you repeated in confusion, watching Cameron zip up his bag and rest it against the side of the couch, as Cameron met your gaze and casually nodded his head, causing the furrow between your eyebrows to deepen while you watched him lean back against the couch, “what you mean you gon’ ‘handle it’, Cam?”

“you think i’ma let some of my teammates drench you in food and get away with it?” Cameron asked, raising an eyebrow, as he scoffed lowly and shook his head, crossing his arms and shifting his position to sit in a man-spread, “that shit ain’t happenin’.”

“Cam—”

“no matter what you say to me, it won’t change my mind,” Cameron quickly interrupted your sentence and shook his head again as he leaned his head back against the back of the couch and maintained eye contact with you, “i’m not just gon’ let some niggas disrespect you like that, especially if it’s some niggas i know. like i said, that shit ain’t happenin’.”

you paused before you could add a rebuttal and your eyes searched his as you went quiet, the room now filled with comfortable silence after Cameron’s chivalrous words. you always thought Cameron flirted with you just to tease you or see if he could make you blush, but it was starting to dawn on you that it was much deeper than that, and your brain was struggling to comprehend it.

Cameron Cade, the star player on your college’s football team, had a crush on you, his Statistics tutor.

“Cameron, why is this such a big deal to you?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing a little, as you tilted your head a little and tried to read him, but all he did was grin widely in response.

“you too smart not to know the difference between somebody flirting with you as a joke and somebody flirting with you ‘cause they want you,” Cameron chuckled softly as he tucked his arms behind his head and leaned his head against them, his muscular biceps slightly flexing from the action, “you be thinkin’ i’m playin’ when i flirt with you and whole time, i been waitin’ for you to stop playin’ and let a nigga cuff you.”

your eyebrows raised before you could stop them, a look of surprise mixed with amusement written along your features as you let out a soft amused chuckle.

“in that case, say it with your chest then, Cameron,” you challenged as you grinned widely and crossed your arms, “if you really want me, i wanna actually hear you say it.”

“i been wantin’ you before you was even my tutor,” Cameron confessed, chuckling softly, as his lips curled up into a smirk, “i used to see your lil’ pretty ass all the time on campus with your headphones on or with your head in your books, so i ain’t try to approach you. i thought i wasn’t your type, anyway.”

“and what exactly do you think my type is?” you asked in amusement, your eyebrows raising, as you laughed at his words and Cameron shrugged a little before removing his arms from behind his head.

“definitely not athletes… shit, probably nerds,” Cameron grinned playfully, earning a hearty laugh from you, as he chuckled softly at your laughter and his grin slowly contorted into a genuine smile, “you can’t blame me for thinkin’ i wasn’t your type, girl, c’mon now.”

“well, you are,” you admitted, grinning at him, as his eyebrows raised in surprise and he slightly narrowed his eyes at you, as if trying to tell if you were telling the truth or trying to spare his feelings, “you’re right though, i usually don’t go for athletes, but unfortunately, this one athlete done got me.”

“and who’s that one athlete?” Cameron rhetorically asked, a cocky smirk on his face, as you smacked your lips and your grin spread a little wider, playfully rolling your eyes at his cockiness.

“the talented Cameron Cade that’s been gettin’ on my damn nerves since i started tutoring him,” you chuckled, raising an eyebrow, as Cameron’s smirk widened and you laughed softly at the sight, “don’t let this shit go to your head.”

“too late,” Cameron cockily smirked, shifting closer to you, as a look of amusement crossed your face at him moving closer and he noticed it, making him chuckle softly, “i got the most beautiful and smartest girl as my girlfriend.”

“you never ask—”

Cameron’s lips were on yours before you could even get your sentence out, and the tension in your shoulders vanished at the action as you returned the kiss and cupped his jaw with one hand and cradled the nape of his neck with the other hand, holding him close while his big hands settled against your waist. the kiss was soft, slow, and tender — something you deeply needed after the rough day you had. it had a bit of determination in it also, which was Cameron’s way of letting you know he meant business.

he didn’t flirt with you for fun. he didn’t flirt with you because he wanted to fuck you and leave. he flirted with you because he wanted you, and he didn’t want you thinking otherwise.

Cameron pulled back from the kiss and rested his forehead against yours as you let out a soft heavy exhale, the deep kiss practically sucking all of the oxygen out of your lungs while you met his gaze.

“will you be my girlfriend?” Cameron asked softly, his colored eyes searching yours intensely, as a wide smile slowly spread across your face and you nodded your head.

“yeah,” you smiled as you watched a smile that matched yours spread across his face and you let out a soft chuckle, “about damn time you asked.”

“shut up and gimme’ another kiss.” and you did just as he asked.

as your lips met his again, Cameron’s hands shifted from your waist to your back and he pulled you closer as his lips moved in tandem with yours, the kiss filled with all of the intense “hidden” feelings between the two of you. your hands moved from his neck and jaw to his upper arms and you held onto them as the two of you gradually shifted positions, Cameron’s body moving to tower over you while you laid back against the couch.

as he got comfortable between your legs, your laptop and binder were so far gone from your mind that you forgot you and him even did a tutor session today. all you could focus on at that moment was him — his cologne, how his mouth tasted, how his hands felt caressing your figure, how his lips felt against yours, and how his body felt on top of yours. eventually, both of you broke the kiss and Cameron planted one last sweet kiss against your lips before burying his head in the crook of your neck, his lips trailing soft kisses against your melanated skin while you tilted your head to further expose more of you.

one of your hands moved up from his upper arm to the back of his head and you cradled it in your palm as you moaned softly, feeling his lips and tongue press against particularly erogenous spot against your neck. noticing your reaction, Cameron paid special attention to that area, sucking, kissing, licking, and gently nipping against it while his hands rubbed up and down your sides.

“Cam…” you whimpered softly, your body arching into his touch, as you suddenly froze and your eyes widened, your hands abruptly moving to push at his shoulders, “wait, wait, wait.”

“what?” Cameron asked, raising his head from your neck to look down at you, “i do somethin’ wrong?”

“no, it’s not you, but we can’t, uh… do this right here,” you admitted sheepishly as you cracked a small shy grin, “i have a roommate, Cam, and she could come in any second.”

“shit, we could give her a show,” Cameron smirked playfully, earning a laugh from you, as he wrapped his arms around your figure and stood up from the couch with you in his arms, a squeal coming from your mouth while you locked your legs around his waist and held onto his shoulders to steady yourself, “a’ight, where yo’ room at, ma?”

“it’s down the hall to the left.”

“C-Caaaam…” you whined, your eyebrows furrowing, as your jaw dropped and your head lolled back between your pillows, your hands cradling the back of Cameron’s head while his mouth skillfully worked between your legs, “baby, that feels soooo gooddd…”

Cameron hummed against you in response, and the feeling sent vibrations through you that made you squeal, your body jerking while your eyes rolled back into your head. his hands firmly gripped your thighs to keep them spread as wide as they could go and his tongue followed the lead of his lips as he kissed, sucked, and licked on every part of your pussy he could get his mouth on, occasionally showering your clit with personal attention before he resumed focusing on your entire pussy as a whole.

your body had become so relaxed that you felt like mush laying underneath him, but it was the best feeling in the world. granted, you had your own ways to de-stress after a bad day, but there was something about Cameron Cade eating the attitude out of you that gave you a feeling like no other, and you could feel the intense pleasure coursing through your veins and practically lighting your body on fire.

“oh, fuuuck— Cameron!”

“just like that, baby, shiiit!”

“C-Cam— ooh, fuck— nnnngh, God!”

your cries and moans bounced off of the walls of your bedroom as your climax crashed down on you like a bucket of a bricks, a broken cry ripping through your chest while your eyes screwed shut.

“y-yes! ohhh, yes, yessss— fuck!” you cried through your orgasm as your hips jolted wildly and your body arched up from the bed, a desperate mewl falling from your lips while Cameron ate you through your orgasmic aftershocks.

“that’s it, baby, there you go,” Cameron cooed, lapping up your juices, as he raised his head from between your legs and licked his lips, his fingertips rubbing your thighs while he looked down at you, “you so pretty, mama.”

your eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice and you looked up at him, a small grin creeping onto your face once you met his gaze and noticed how the lower half of his face was glistening.

“you… damn, give me a second,” you panted heavily, shaking your head a little, as Cameron’s lips curled up into a proud smirk and he let out a hearty laugh while his hands massaged your thighs, “stop laughin’ at me!”

“aw, i’m sorry, pretty, c’mere.” Cameron cooed teasingly as he moved to the other side of the bed and sat with his back against the headboard before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you onto his lap.

“no, you not,” you dramatically pouted, sticking out your bottom lip, as you straddled his lap and rested your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, “you think it’s funny seein’ be struggle to catch my breath after you just ate the soul outta’ my pussy.”

“‘funny’ ain’t the word i’d use, mama,” Cameron chuckled, smirking mischievously, as he grabbed your hips and pushed them down a little, making his bare erection press against you, “i think it’s sexy as hell watchin’ you cum on my face like that.”

your pout instantly vanished once you felt his dick press against you and your expression contorted into a small smirk instead as you leaned down and kissed him deeply, cupping his jaw in one of your hands while his hands moved from your hips to your ass. the kiss was slow for a moment, but it picked up momentum once his tongue slipped inside your mouth, a soft moan emitting from your vocal cords while your tongue wrestled with his.

as the two of you kissed feverishly, your unoccupied hand maneuvered down his body and reached down to grab his dick, a groan coming from him once your fingers latched around it. his grip slightly tightened on your ass and he used his grip to raise your hips a bit as you placed his tip at your entrance and slowly slid down on it, causing a moan to spill out from both of you that accidentally made the kiss break.

your hands clutched his shoulders and his colored eyes stared up at you as you gradually took more and more of his inches in until you were fully seated on his lap, a heavy exhale falling from your lips at how full you felt. you started off bouncing at a slow pace, getting yourself used to his size and the way he felt inside you, and a soft moan fell from your lips as Cameron leaned forward and pressed soft kisses against your jawline before dipping his head into the crook of your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your warm skin while his hands guided you up and down on his dick by your asscheeks.

one of your hands cradled the back of his head and the other held onto his upper back as a blissful moan fell from your lips and you tilted your head to further expose your neck, your eyes slowly closing while you lost yourself in a pleasurable haze.

“Cameron…” you moaned, a small furrow forming between your eyebrows, as your jaw dropped a little and you whimpered with need, your hips now starting to move at a steady pace while your hand moved from the back of Cameron’s head to the nape of his neck.

“i’m right here, baby,” Cameron murmured against your neck, sucking faint hickeys into your skin, as his hands moved to your hips and he held them to keep you steady while his mouth moved towards your collarbone, “i ain’t goin’ nowhere, mama, keep ridin’ this dick like a good girl.”

you moaned at his words and your head lolled back as your jaw went slack and your eyebrows furrowed, both of your hands now clutching Cameron’s upper back and holding onto him for stability. without warning, Cameron started thrusting upward to meet your bounces, and a sharp cry fell from your lips as your body jerked and your eyes rolled back, the furrow between your eyebrows deepening while Cameron’s arms wrapped around your body and pulled you against his chest.

“C-Cam!” you squealed, your head falling forward and resting against his forehead, as the two of you locked eyes and a mewl fell from your mouth, both of your breaths coming out as ragged pants while you fucked each other back, “j-just like that, baby, fuuuck!”

“you feel so fuckin’ good,” Cameron groaned, his eyebrows furrowing a bit, as he tightened his arms around you and sped up his thrusts, pulling another cry from you while your nails sunk into his upper back, “you so wet for me, baby. i can feel her drenchin’ my shit and you ain’t even came yet. you takin’ this dick so good for me, pretty girl.”

“ohhh, fuck! oooh, fuck! f-fuck, fuck— uuuuugh!” you felt so good that you couldn’t do anything but curse up a storm, your eyes rolling back again while your jaw went slack and your mouth hung open. your hips worked quicker to match Cameron’s thrusts, which only intensified the pleasure both of you felt, as you threw your head back and cried out loudly, your cries and his groans mixing together with the sound of skin-slapping to create a sound of harmony.

“i-i’m cummin’! fuuuck, baby, i’m cummin’! uuuuugh, yes! yes, yes, yesss!” you whimpered loudly, your eyes screwing shut, as you gripped Cameron’s upper back tighter and he groaned at the feeling, his back and arm muscles flexing against you while he continued thrusting through your orgasm.

“that’s it, baby, keep cummin’. cum all over this dick, pretty girl, i wanna ease that stress on your shoulders.”