I’ve Been Here, I’ve Done This All Before

#stashofgoodies

𝙆𝙄𝙉𝙆𝙏𝙊𝘽𝙀𝙍 2021!

welcome to lati's kinktober event!

rules/about: so my kinkstober event requests will be open early, since I don't want to overwork myself during october trying to meet the daily deadlines. so i'll do my best to work on kinktober requests during my free time!

as for requesting, it's basically a first come, first serve. send in characters plus the prompts on the list, and please specifiy if you want a dom or sub reader, a female or male reader, etc.

if that certain kink has already been requested, then i'll have to turn down your request, unfortunately.

october 1 ー rimming with diluc!

october 2 ー spanking with thoma!

october 3 ー body worship with xiao!

october 4 ー cockwarming with kazuha!

october 5 ー sexual punishment with scaramouche!

october 6 ー overstimulation with xiao!

october 7 ー double penetration with xiao!

october 8 ー breeding with aether!

october 9 ー humiliation with lisa!

october 10 ー temperature play with kaeya!

october 11 ー leather with kaeya!

october 12 ー size difference with zhongli!

october 13 ー sounding with dainsleif!

october 14 ー handcuffs with dainsleif!

october 15 ー tentacles with childe!

october 16 ー creampie with childe!

october 17 ー prostate massage with albedo!

october 18 ー orgasm denial with albedo!

october 19 ー massage with ayato kamisato!

october 20 ー scissoring with ayaka kamisato!

october 21 ー nipple play with albedo!

october 22 ー masturbation with jean!

october 23 ー stuck in wall with childe!

october 24 ー sex toys with albedo!

october 25 ー bondage with childe!

october 26 ー sensory deprivation with xiao!

october 27 ー pegging with scaramouche!

october 28 ー deepthroating with thoma!

october 29 ー facesitting with kazuha!

october 30 ー fucking machine with scaramouche!

october 31 ー love-making with zhongli!

Interview With The Vampire - Masterlist

Movie and AMC Series

** = nsfw/explicit content | yes, there are/will be poly fics

last updated | 10.21.24

𝕴𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖁𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊 (1994)

𝑳𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕 𝑫𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒕

• no works here yet! feel free to request!

𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒖 𝑳𝒂𝒄

• no works here yet! feel free to request!

𝑨𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅

• no works here yet! feel free to request!

𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚕 𝙼𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚢

• no works here yet! feel free to request!

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (2022)

𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭

ׂ╰┈➤ drabbles

ׂ╰┈➤ oneshots

ׂ╰┈➤ series

· The Roger To His Jessica Rabbit - ¹. He Makes Me Laugh** |

𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐮 𝐋𝐚𝐜

• no works here yet! feel free to request!

𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝

• no works here yet! feel free to request!

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐲

• no works here yet! feel free to request!

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

a/n : look at the cute edits I did pls, I worked so hard finding their damn faces and obviously you can see who I adore the most, sobs. Free use, anyone can use them for their own master list in the future!

Cool is...quite subjective, eh? (；・∀・)

Read the rest and many more at my ko-fi here!

pleasee I'm craving forrrr Albedo x sub fem reader where Albedo encourage them to drink aphrodisiac thennn ;)))

Hesitations — Albedo Kreideprinz

Summary: Albedo inquired of you to look after him in his laboratory and assist him to obtain the outcome of his research, But unfortunately, The temperature of the mountain the two of you in is too decisive to deal with, So he let you take some specks of 'warmth' — since you trust your Master All too Well, you decided to take his offer, Pondering nothing possibly could go wrong.

NSFW (mdni) : praise, fingering, teasing, nicknames, cursing, fem reader, sexual content, love potion (sexual pleasure) etc.

notes : IM AORRY FOR GHOSTINF YAKLL 😭😭😭

"Master Albedo, Here's the blueprints you requested me to organize for your further investigation, Is there anything else I can benefit you with?" you offered in your typical calm tone as you handed him a bundle of papers which he took in one hand and began leafing through absentmindedly.

You'd been working for him, an eccentric alchemist, run his research laboratory for about years by now and he had yet to give any variety of solutions about why precisely he was so inquisitive in doing experiments or what he longed for them for.

The fact that he regardless survives isolated on this chilly blizzarding mountain of an isle simply to make everything even more peculiar didn't rigorously help either. But it wasn't as though he ever communicated to people and when you would raise a query if you may accompany him on his work, he was surprised at the enthusiasm you put on.

"Actually, Y/n..." he initiated and hesitated to think further and began again once you shook encouragingly, "I revised your agenda for today, Could you accompany me until I finish up my calculations?" he asked and you raised an eyebrow at him skeptically but nodded nonetheless to show your compliance regardless.

"Master Albedo..! I— I Will be pleased to have the opportunity to assist you with whatever I can! But the thing is... I have never done any analysis or experiments before... So maybe staying and helping you will be an issue." you said sheepishly because you weren't very well versed in alchemy or poisons so you had no way of knowing what this dude accomplished in his spare time besides, Albedo always came back exhausted from every single one of his experiments.

"That's not it, Y/n. I have some stuff to inquire about, and I need your answer, these are things I might need some additional proficiency to achieve, and I would like you to provide that expertise," he told you calmly, and you stared at him confused before a small gasp left your lips when you realized he wanted you to be his assistant to conduct these experiments.

"What exactly do you mean?" you asked, unable to conceal your excitement as you thought over the possibilities of having such wonderful access to an alchemist's secrets and being able to get your hands on some fascinating essences and ingredients to develop your innovations and...

"—That can only get more complicated if you remain inexperienced of them and I'll ought somebody who understands about this sort of stuff to tell me all the details, but it shouldn't take too long to complete our work, and I trust you, I know you will do as good as I'm anticipating," Albedo explained with a slight hint of amusement in his voice.

"Sorry?"

"Uh, you weren't paying attention? I said if you would be interested to take on some of the brews I'm currently making. It might make you feel better after all that pressure you've gone through lately," he dwelled upon slowly and patiently, waiting for an answer you didn't appear to understand.

"And I tend to spend the rest of the day accomplishing this research with my dearest deputy, So? You don't have to respond right away, if it would cause difficulties for you, You can refuse the offer. Making you uncomfortable is the last thing I wish to see, after all." He finished and eventually gave you a genuine smile which made you redden lightly from embarrassment and shyness in comparable portions as you glanced down at your feet.

"Alright then, Master Albedo! Hopefully I don't mess up and ruin everything!" you responded and tried hard to hold in your laughter upon realizing your eagerness.

"Also..." his tone contorted seriously and he waited for you to peek up at him again before persisting, "I want you to quit calling me Master, How do I put this..? I abhor it..— It's accumulating on my nerves, And I refuse to let you attempt to behave toward me formally. If I were human then perhaps... I insist on sticking around to be addressed as Albedo." He decided and look away while you stared in shock, unable to compose words.

Finally, you recovered yourself from the initial shock of what he just said and smiled at him, "I see, If... calling you 'that' made you uneasy, My Apologies— Albedo! Although, Thanks for letting me know, Then I won't call you that anymore, alright?" You chuckled nervously and blushed slightly as Albedo looked up at you again with surprise in his eyes, and a small smile tugged at his mouth in response.

—

"Here's one of my prosperous potions that helps you warm up in a frosty atmosphere, Considering we're in Dragonspine, I'm pretty sure this would help you, Just like my previous experiments have helped you recover some lost warmth, here it's supposed to help restore heat to your body and keep you safe in this frigid climate," Albedo explained as he showed you a vial filled with liquid that had a green tinge to it. There was a small golden ring around its center and when you held it up against the light, you noticed how small the ring looked compared to the rest of the bottle and guessed it was the size of your thumbnail.

"Go on, If you felt something unconventional or out of spot, now would be a perfect moment to discover what it is," he instructed you peacefully, he turned around to negotiate the other potions while you drink the concoction. It tasted bitter and sweet at the same time. You gagged a bit when it hit the back of your throat but quickly calmed down after that, feeling a wave of relief wash over you as the liquid warmed you from the inside.

Eventually, The impact sweep throughout your whole body, warming up your limbs from the inside without sabotaging them too much. Your heart raced a bit as you felt it thumping in your chest, and your skin thrived hot from the effect. You felt your face redder and more flushed than usual, You looked towards Albedo, who remained his back turned away and completely unaffected by your situation.

'Ah... What the fuck? I feel so hot all of a sudden... Master Albedo said this helps me warm my body right? This must be the result... But I didn't predict it to affect me this firmly... Maybe I drank too much?...' you pondered as you looked back into the vial, trying to ignore the sensation that was running through your entire body. 'Shit... I... Must go home... This is bad...' You covered your mouth to prevent any undesirable responses to the potion's effects.

You shut your thighs tight concurrently as soon as you felt the burning sensation on your lower regions and sough quietly in pain, hoping that if you lingered quietly enough you would manage to evade Albedo from noticing you acting weird and fleeing. Instead, you heard him chuckle from across the area, and your cheeks burned in humiliation and from the embarrassment of your feelings toward the alchemist.

"Why are you being subtle, Right now? If I remember correctly, you were quite babbling when I first brought this subject up," he commented casually while putting away the empty glass he was carrying earlier, seemingly unbothered by your reaction. You swallowed hard, "N-No reasons," you mumbled ashamed as you rubbed your thigh in hopes that it would cool you down.

'I... Need water... This is bad... How am I supposed to answer him without sounding like a total pervert or something?! Damn it!' you thought to yourself as you looked back at the table where you'd placed the empty bottle before, and you found yourself wondering if it would've made a difference if you'd taken another sip of the potion instead.

"Did the potion work?" Albedo said with a hint of a teasing grin on his lips that somehow managed to make your cheeks burn hotter with chagrin.

"y-yes..! It works incredibly perfectly! I feel so warm all of sudden!" you looked away again, feeling extremely self-conscious as you struggled with your tongue to form the words.

"that's good to know," Albedo smiled and stood straight again, turning towards you again with a smug expression, "Because I have yet to figure out anything regarding it myself, and I certainly wouldn't want to embarrass myself with any shameful mistakes." he leaned in closer toward you and suddenly grabbed your chin as he moved your head so that you could look him directly in the eyes.

"To let you know, the effect will last for at least 5 days." Your stomach churned uncomfortably at his proximity, and you could only imagine how your body would react if he touched your face.

His teal eyes seemed like they were studying your features, trying to memorize them and analyze your facial expressions, probably because of the way they seemed to change depending on whether he was looking in your direction or watching something else entirely. 'Damn him.' you cursed silently as he finally pulled away, and your eyes flickered downwards, totally not averting his gaze.

Albedo watched your body attempt to accept the potion's effect, fascinated, before he spoke up, "I don't understand... Most people would ask someone for assistance when they feel their bodies are in heat. But it looks like for me, you don't need any help at all, You must be very satisfied right now, hm?" You could feel Albedo's intense stare burning into your face as he began walking forward to grab your hand, taking your potion out of your hand gently.

"Let me look over the tag for you, 'Aphrodisiac' indeed." He murmured amusedly, almost mockingly, as he examined your weak and trembling body before he continued speaking. "It seems like you're having quite the difficulty restraining your body's temperature." He scoffed.

"Master... I... feel restless." you stammered in a hushed whisper as you tried hard not to think about how close he was to you, and how badly you wished you could just reach out and pull him into you.

"That's the outcome, y/n. Your body will be responding unaffectedly to the potion since it'll boost the likelihood for you to attain back whatever warmth you lost and will eventually soothe down again once you did something about it," he explained calmly, though you noted how he didn't seem to have an explanation himself as well. His voice sounded deeper than normal and it was strangely hypnotic.

"What are you feeling?"

"Master... I feel... Superheated over... there and... Feels like my heart skips several beats just from hearing you talk... I don't know how long I can stay like this. I... Don't think I can take it..." " you replied softly as you slowly looked up into his shining teal eyes again. His pupils were dilated slightly with excitement and his irises seemed to glow with curiosity. 'He knows how to tease me! Fuck! Why does he do this?'

You peeked at him with a half-lidded stare, still feeling extremely aroused. He tilted his head as he examined your face, seeming to notice that you were struggling to maintain eye contact and your breathing hastened as your heart rate rose rapidly, 'Don't let him hear that.' You thought, biting your bottom lip anxiously and making an effort to control yourself.

"C-Could you, please... Help me?" You muttered huskily and Albedo seemed to stiffen slightly at the request, but a few moments later he relaxed, smiling warmly as he took off his coat and draped it over your shoulders,

"If that's what you wish. I guess I can indulge you today since I got nothing better to do." he started unbuttoning your shirt slowly, making sure to leave a little bit of space between the buttons as he carefully slid it open, revealing your brassiere.

You gasped when you saw the state you were in, You were already very hot and uncomfortable from being in such close quarters with him but this added fuel to the fire as he reached underneath your shapewear, he took it off then brushed his fingers lightly across one nipple, making it erect instantly under his touch. His fingertips brushed across your skin lightly, sending shudders down your crest at the gentle phenomenon of his soft fingertips skimming at your flesh.

"A-Albedo..! What are you—" You were cut off abruptly with a soft gasp as he leaned forward, pressing his mouth onto yours hungrily. At first, you weren't prepared for his advances. You'd assumed he was going to kiss you and then you expected him to leave to give you space, but instead, he kissed you deeply, his hands moving to cup your face as he pressed his lips harder against yours.

You inhaled again as he ran his tongue along your bottom lip, asking for entrance which you consented instantly. He pushed his tongue past your lips and explored your mouth thoroughly, making you moan softly as you felt his tongue slide against yours. It felt like he was devouring your tongue, sucking on it, savoring every second of the kiss, while you couldn't keep yourself collected at his movements.

Your legs quivered as you felt him pulling away from your lips, your arms wrapping around him tightly as you leaned forward and held onto him tightly, burying your face in his neck as you breathed heavily. You felt his hands move from your face to your waist, gripping your hips as he lifted you and carried your bridal style,

He sat you on the edge of the desk, letting his lips hover near your ear as he spoke seductively. "So captivating..." he whispered and pressed his forehead against your ear as he caressed your cheek. You shivered when his breath tickled your skin, feeling your face turn redder as a faint blush adorned your cheeks.

"P-Please... Put something inside of me... I'm not able to... Keep everything from getting out during this." You whimpered softly as you closed your eyes, hoping he would ignore the fact that you'd called yourself filthy earlier and would do whatever he asked.

He chuckled as his hand traveled down from your face to your waist, unbuttoning your shorts as well, he slipped the cloth off you gently before lowering his head and nibbling on your earlobe. "Beautiful..." A small whimper left your lips before you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, your entire body tensing up at his movement. As he trailed light kisses along your bare collarbone and chest, you could feel your body becoming hot as the temperature rose quickly, causing your nipples to prickle in response.

He continued to lick, nip and suck your nipples until they were harder. The tendencies were too severe for your mind to focus on as he continued to tease, tormenting both you and yourself with his actions. After a short time, he stopped what he was doing and placed another soft peck on your lips.

he spoke in a low tone, "Are you ready, y/n? Should I show you how much can you get someone stimulated by just letting them touch your body?" He paused in his movements, waiting for you to answer him in return before he resumed the slow kisses he left behind.

"Yes... Master— Albedo..." You mumbled quietly, barely able to contain the desire building within you as you felt his tongue trail dangerously lower, your eyes fluttered open for a split second to glance over at Albedo, noticing him smirking at your flushed state while observing your flushed face in amusement. You gulped as a shiver run through your body due to the cold wind that was hitting your naked body,

He placed kisses along your abdomen, and suddenly it hit you that he was going to remove your underwear. Your eyes shot open wide as he continued trailing his fingers over your exposed thighs,

your heart pounded uncontrollably against your chest as the tips of his fingers lightly dragged along the sensitive skin of your thighs as he continued to stroke your sex through your underwear. "Please... Stop teasing me..." You whined softly as you tugged on his hair slightly in annoyance, unable to take any more of his teasing and teasing behavior and his playful expression.

"This feels good, doesn’t it? So eager… So impatient, and yet So ravishing too… I can't help but want to devour you whole and fulfill me fully... I feel like I'm about to explode, just by looking at your flushed pink face…" He trailed off, as he glanced down at your wet swollen lips, his face turning red with arousal as his finger brushed against your clit, sending more tingles throughout your body.

He removed your underwear completely before placing his mouth with you as his hand moved back to your pussy, pushing a single digit inside of your soaked folds and stroking your clit as he sucked on your hardened nipples, causing them to become painfully sensitive.

You felt heat rushing through your veins as you clenched your teeth tight, your whole body shaking with passion as he continued to use his fingers to fuck you into oblivion, making your eyes roll up in your head.

You moaned loudly as you clutched onto his hair, your nails digging deep into his scalp, your fingernails scraping against his scalp sharply and he responded by curling his fingers deeper inside of you. He proceeded to play with your clit in rhythm, driving you crazy and making you feel the most incredible pleasure and satisfaction you had ever felt in your life.

"I-I feel something... Oh— Albedo..!" You screamed excitedly as he pulled his fingers away and placed his thumb on top of your clit, rubbing you as you released all of your pent-up desires as you arched your back and came hard right on his hand.

"It seems like you're enjoying this just as much as I am… If you continue to let yourself go that easily–"

"Master... I'm still in heat... I think..."

"Hm? of course, I won't be satisfied until you are."

Pairing: Yandere Mummy! Pharaoh x time traveler!reader Tw: manipulation, mentions of bringing harm to others , yanderes, notes:bro im so indecisive, i legit cannot decide on my banner also did you know i was obsessed with ancient egypt as a kid reblogs and comments are appreciated!

Yandere Pharaoh! who almost ended you right then and there for awakening him from his slumber until he laid his eyes upon you. He never believed in prophecies' in his rule but when he saw you he was reminded how someone once prophesied that his reign would return upon being awakened by a saviour.

Yandere Pharaoh who immediately asks you for your hand in marriage and he wouldn't take no for an answer. He doesn't care if you brought him back just so you could find out about his past, you brought him back, you brought his reign back and for that he would spoil you.

Yandere Pharaoh who wastes no time in going to confront the current pharaoh, they were unfit to rule and they deserved no throne.

Yandere Pharaoh who immediately brings you to court and declares that he was to wed you. He takes no time in getting rid of anyone who tries to convince him to get a better spouse or wed someone who actually had influence.

Yandere Pharaoh who dismisses all the concubines because he wants no one else but you.

Yandere Pharaoh who never removes his wrappings in the court but stares at you lovingly as you rewrap them at night.

Yandere Pharaoh who gives you the finest of all materials.

Yandere Pharaoh whos' well aware you're not from his time but seeing as you give him good input to rule his kingdom, he doesn't mind. He won't hesitate to punish anyone who dare says anything against you for aiding him in his rule.

jimsonweed

@meo-eiru's Micah

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

Silence regathers for a quick moment as Micah haphazardly waits for her to finish and fill him in with the time elapsed since her last confession, until he at last recognizes the disembodied voice. His chin changes place with the cheek on his palm as he casts a sideways glance to the latticed window, sparing the effort to withdraw his elbow from its seat on the sill. Through the gaps of the screen and his feathery, pale eyelashes, he manages to make out the curve of a head tilted over prayer hands, their fingertips grazing the hairline.

"Let the Lord know what weighs on your conscience, child."

He hears her shuffle from one knee to the next as she kneels, and a note to remind the custodian to replace the fraying carpet flickers in his mind. He extends and relaxes the muscles of his calves and in his ankles, just enough to stop his legs from falling asleep within the cramped space of the confessional booth. Although his pristine church was far from detoriating, having subsisted off ample donations over the years, stick him in the booth long enough and he sometimes has half the mind of tearing out the structure from the floorboards himself like a tooth from its maw.

"I caught myself asleep while caring for the courtyard today— I immediately snapped myself out of it and was able to finish with my chores, but I fear this incident arrived too close after the nuns' last reprimand of me. They have took a notice of my idleness as well."

The choice of 'nuns' instead of 'sisters' is the only thing that stands out to him from the rather bland admission. He suspects that that lack of familiarity she addresses them with would be the final extent to which she would express, likely subconsciously anyway, any discontent she harbored with the nuns' maltreatment of her.

When he opened that particular letter bidding him to permit their daughter to take her vows, he too felt a bit of mild surprise, but that dissipated as quickly it had came. Detachment over worldly affairs and petty gossip alike aside, he did not anticipate the extent to which curiousity over her pedigree would cement into controversy for the rest of the convent.

But then again, perhaps that was lack of foresight on his part, since controversy was what her family was mired in. It was not the first or the last instance that their prominent surname was uttered about in hushed tones, but the one that did them in was when a certain head priest and nun left in dishonor from the very churchdoors that separated his convent from the rest of the world. Although the guilty party in question was from a generation that seized to have survivors quite a while ago, as it would turn out she would remain as their legacy in the eyes of the less charitable. While her family became a generous benefactor for his church over the years and was now at least formally under its good grace, it still stood amongst the community the impression that charity was the only virtue that they partook in, wontingly circumventing every other.

"Have you any trouble sleeping at night?" he treads, subtly leading her to break the anonymity the booth is supposed to afford. Although he had intervened to replace the meagre room and board that the sisters had provided her, he would not be the least bit surprised if they were still somehow behind her restless nights. Once he had seen her atop a wobbling ladder as she shakily dusted the cornices of the sanctuary, and believed it was a foolhardy attempt she had herself contrived to gain the approval of the convent. However, when he got her to step down to safety she informed him that it was basically the sisters' idea to risk stumbling onto her neck with no one to watch her in case of such an accident. Not only that, but it turned to be only an instance in a laundry list of Herculean labors that they shelved for the girl. He understood that the nuns would naturally require novices to prove themselves, but this mild hazing had long run its course, if it even could still be called that. From all accounts, she was a rather plain girl, and her arrival at the convent did not dissuade that impression he had of her at all. The nuns on the other hand seemed to insist that she was a 'spoiled princess who needed to be taught a lesson or two', a conclusion they arrived at long before she did.

"Not at all," she responds, "I find the nights here to be quite peaceful and quiet. I guess it is on account of indulging in both that I've started sleeping later."

A plain answer from a rather plain girl.

"There is one other thing I suppose."

Micah makes a non-commital hum. Truthfully he usually acts much more engagingly with his parishioners and convent no matter how mind-numbingly insipid the interactions are, masterfully cajoling them to air out their grievances and guilts under his confidence, as his duty dictates. That and her being the member of family of particularly influential parishioners should really press him into wearing his best face, even with the latticed barrier between the both of them. There is something about her, though, that makes him comfortable with withdrawing such airs. If she has nothing critical to say of the nuns, he rationalizes, then his current conduct would likely not cause him to withdraw from her favor either.

"I fear that I may also be too attached to worldly possessions. I find myself often missing a personal effect I had to give up when I arrived at the convent."

He wonders if it is the silver spoon the nuns were so keen in finding on your person.

"Ah," he half-remembers. "The toy stereoscope with the moths?"

"Oh- yes," she affirms, and he hears her hands slide up and down along the skirt of her habit before meeting each other again. His cassock begins to feel itchy. "I had had it since I was a kid. I liked to- to flip between the images. Of the moths." He hears the gears shifting in her brain as she figures, yes, of course, the personal effects would eventually makes its way into the hands of the head priest, who had a vested interest in all who come to his convent to take their vows. He straightens his spine as his arms fall to his side, and resists the urge to crack his knuckles. His mind blanks on what to follow up with, and hers apparently as well, and this quiet disturbs him more than it should as his predictable inclination for the upperhand in any conversation and its flow rears its head again; perhaps it is more surprising that it had laid dormant for any amount of time. The awkward silence that follows causes him regret the breach of impersonal formalities that he was responsible for encouraging in the first place.

"The garden is especially beautiful at nighttime this time of year," she ushers out the hush that had fallen.

He hums again.

"It's lovely all day long, but the moths wake up in the evening and after which you can really see them out and about. They're especially attracted by the flowers— the groundskeeper mentioned that you're particularly careful with caring and choosing for which get planted."

"Do you have a favorite?" he abruptly asks. The waning daylight finds its way through the perforations in the door of the confessional booth, and he watches dust dance with each other before putting his palm in front of his eyes, resting his index finger across his browbone. Despite his interest in florticulture, seasonal allergies the one ailment he was invincible against since birth, that question is one he seldom broached with others. When he was much younger, he entertained the idea that you could tell a lot about a person's psychology by their preference in flowers, only to discover that oftentimes this choice was guided by the same mindlessness that usually governed the rest of their passive life. Still, he patiently waits as she pauses in contemplation.

"A feathered thorn, maybe."

His brow momentarily knits in confusion under his hand.

Oh.

She is referring to a moth.

"Thank you," he says, though he is not what for, perhaps belatedly acknowledging the compliment she gave to his garden.

"Of course, Father."

Another pause.

"Your penance is two Hail Marys, one Our Father."

"Thank you, Father."

Micah peers down on the overturned earth where a datura had once made itself home. Cold apathy wraps itself around his heart, as he remembers the detachment his father offhandedly addressed with what had once been his mother's garden. Micah's garden. The so-called queerness of flowers and foliage that were too busy resting when it came to greet daytime visitors, but awake just in time to welcome unwanted ones. Micah having to shed unnecessary externalities while he prepared to enter seminary, was reaching that age where he would become a man. He recalls his own response of selective muteness, knowing distinctly the position of a boy of twelve and his personal thoughts within the household.

He shuts his eyes, and a hand tightens around a rosary, a thumb running along a ceramic bead.

His voidlike pupils emerge from that violent blink, and he walks back into the house with placid movements, soundlessly closing the door behind him. He tears off his scarf as if it was moth-eaten.

His mother's face when she caught him pressing his chafed fingers on the delicate petals of a morning glory, careful to not tear away at them.

Micah's hair might appear endlessly soft to the touch, but it is anything but. The strands are so thick, that if one was not deliberate enough when handling them a few would inevitably pierce the skin. One of the earliest responsibilities he bestowed on himself was learning to do his own hair, sparing his mother's hands from the splinter-like cuts that would occur whilst braiding or trimming it. He could still perceive the smack of her palm against the back of his head when he ran his inflamed fingers along the stained glass windows of the church for relief. When she had startled him by calling his name as he caressed the morning glory, he instinctively expected a similar reprimand, even an echo of his father's lectures on becoming a man. As he looked up at her face with his knees digging into the ground, the only thing beating down on him was his mother's smile.

When he was smaller it was not abundantly clear to him the connection between her concern for his sickly health and her devotion to the church. Much to his father's chagrin, his mother spared his early childhood from both hard work and hard play on account of his frail constitution. Even leisurely explorations of the outside world in daylight remained scant, his pale skin and white eyelashes rebelling against the sun which punished his insolence with rashes from its heat and migraines from its brightness. The attendance of mass, however, as well as the receiving of blessings from any priest that she could seize the attention of, was an exception, and a non-negotiable one at that. Prayer, was his constant companion that formed the monotony of his life which replaced both childhood friends and the daily sunrises, save for Sunday mornings when his mother would wake him up early to attend church and catch a glimpse of bored neighborhood kids who he could not exchange a word with as they rubbed the sleep out of their eyes listening to the priests speak. So when she woke him up again at around the same time the following day, the sun still hibernating as late winter only had just began to converge with early spring, he confronted the task of cleaning the courtyard of weeds and dead leaves without question and with a vigor out of place in the frigid landscape.

Lamb's ears. Vervain. Moonflowers. Four o' clocks. Artemesia. Angel's trumpet.

Their names would have to press into his memory for quite a while before their faces could. If they pressed on a bit harder, he supposes, he would have figured out his mother's design a bit earlier. Nonetheless, underneath the watch of his widebrimmed hat, his early mornings and then his evenings too were preoccupied with watering and pruning and fertilizing, constant monitoring in general, so much so that short term changes animated him more than long term prospects would. The stems for arms and leaves for fingers that extended themselves to the sky, the vines that groped their way up trelisses and across walls. The buds which had tentatively peeked out like the head of a turtle from its shell after a long winter. These were all rewards in themselves.

It felt in some way that not only his mother, but the world, was imparting a mystery on him and that he was also a part of.

The lamb's ears would be the first to bloom, in the late spring.

Well not quite.

Micah was disappointed when his mother had informed him that despite the inexorable spread of its creeping stems as they took root in the claylike soil, it would only start to flower in its second year. She had comforted him though by reminding him of its name and that its silvery leaves are the primary reason for its residence in the gardens in which it presides, as was the case with the Artemesia that would actually blossom that mid-summer.

Further respite was that the angel's trumpets that his mother had been caring for for the past nearly five years would finally bloom in the coming months during that very same time. Micah had not even been aware that the nightshade was capable of producing flowers, and once or twice had silently questioned of such an inconspicuous plant in the garden, the sole one at that time, which also needed to be brought home inside every winter. Once he had asked his mother if she liked it because it was mentioned somewhere in the bible, and she only laughed at him although he had broached the topic in complete seriousness.

The vervain and moonflowers ended up being the first to bloom, and in tandem. He had been awoken from a nap at a call for dinner when he had decided to check the garden first, and discovered that the buds of each plant had simultaneously burst open. His heart had swelled at the sight of the bubbles of tiny purple trumpets and the giant rounded white stars swaying in the evening breeze. When his mother had come out to see what was taking him so long to set the table, she practically had to pry him away, making him rub his hands on her apron on account of the latter's poison.

When he did make it to the dinnertable after thoroughly washing his hands, he could barely contain his excitement at the new developments. Although children were raised to be seen and not heard in his household, with little restraint he waxed about the garden and repeatedly asked his mother when he could expect the rest of the blossoms. It was a conversation between mother and son mostly, as his father remained characteristically quiet after he had said grace. It seemed for the most part that he silently approved of the manual labor his son was undertaking, having spent most of his boyhood without physical exertion.

His excitement dulcified into satisfaction for the time being so he had slept well and without break that night, but when he returned that following morning to the garden, he was startled to see that while the vervain still undulated in the wind like bubbles of sea foam, the moonflower had closed up shop as quickly as she had arrived. When he scuttered back home to find his mother and tell her that something had happened to the moonflowers, a look of confusion laid on her face before blithe composure returned at his description. She briefly chastised him on his lack of discernment, because if he could not at least recall that she had already mentioned it to him, he could surmise from the name that the plant prefered moonlight over the sun. He flushes at his previous panic, as he belatedly remembers her alluding that the flower only bloomed at night; him, being mistaken that the blossoms burst forth from the buds during a particular evening, then continuously blooming for the next few months.

In June the clock would finally strike four. Their architecture was that of the poisonous moonflowers though on a smaller scale, but much more colorful, as if someone took a paintbrush to make streaks of magenta across their white and yellow basecoats. It also would bloom later in the day, though a bit earlier than dusk, and his mother joked if he needed an exact reminder of when. The humidity of the season's evening pronounced its otherwise delicate smell, until it had become synonymous with summer nights for him.

The advent of the artemesia and the angel's trumpet in mid-August would complete this party of parioshioners that would attend Micah's midnight mass. Tiny, yellow clusters abutting the lobed, white fuzzed leaves reminded him of wreaths of winterberries, the sweet, fruity quality of the flowers marrying with the camphorous, sagelike aroma of the foliage. His mother's long-awaited nightshade on the other hand was beyond comparison, hanging downwards like a sunset-colored bell that would only ring at dusk, or a trumpet directed at a headstone to awake the dead. It seemed either that the third time was a charm, or he required the whole before he could understand the unity of its parts, but was his mother's moon garden, at any point, truly incomplete? On moonless nights when the silvery foliage would glow a little dimmer? Before a moth with tea-stained wings, the same color as blood dried on strands of white hair, would stir from its slumber to visit one September evening, and have its final rest on the arbor of a clock? At every midnight mass that did happen to take place, because the lamb's ear would be cut down prematurely, without any blooms?

Unfinished, maybe, but not incomplete.

Lets break tumblr again 😈

how’s everyone doin tonight i just broke tumblr

Saving this in reblogs to read in class 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

In Silence (Kazuha x Reader) PART ONE

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗶𝗺 𝘀𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗵𝗲'𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗼 𝗰𝘂𝘁𝗲

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁: 𝗼𝗻𝗲 || 𝘁𝘄𝗼 || 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 || 𝗲𝗽𝗶𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

The boy sits alone

Whenever coming through and from Liyue Harbor, Captain Beidou would always make an effort to stop by your family home. 

The house has been passed down in your family for generations. It’s right on the water with its own little dock. From the little fishing boats to the stables and the barn, everything had been built by hand and improved upon over time. Wings had been added to make accommodation for your ever-growing family. Wood planks are replaced again and again as they grow old and grow rotten. Built-up and built again, through storm and fire. Trial and Error. Sickness and Health.

Otherwise, out where you lived, it was peaceful. The nearest neighbors were always just a speck in the distance- too hear but close enough to know they’re there. In fact, just the sound of the sea, the birds, and the wind keep you company. Hardly anyone came to visit out here. It was a two-day trip by horse to Liyue Harbor. But on the clearest nights, your grandmother swears she could see the lights. 

The next day, Captain Beidou and the Crux would always appear on your docks. 

It’s always midday. Always with just enough time to clean the kitchen after lunch. And as your family lines up outside your home, Captain Beidou would always greet your grandparents first- bowing at them respectfully. Next, she would turn to your parents- offering a more than generous stack of Mora that they’d humbly reject (every time) before she eventually made them cave and accept it (every time). Then she’d smile at you and say, “You looking out for your crew, kid?” 

And then you’d frown and remind her how you’re hardly a kid anymore considering you’re the oldest of nine, but you know your words will never change the image she has of you. After that, she’ll produce something shiny yet durable for your siblings to fight over and enter your home for a home-cooked meal and speak with your parents and grandparents about all she needs to know about her next journey. And while your grandfather would chatter about what his fishing buddies said and your mother would gossip about what she heard from the neighbor’s son, the crew of the Crux would stay outside with you. In between playing around with your siblings, they would ruffle your hair and ask to exchange stories with you. While there was hardly a dull day as one of Captain Beidou’s very own, your eight little brothers and sisters proved to be worthy adversaries to just how crazy the life of a pirate is. 

When they leave, it’s under a pitch-black sky and a big, bright, beautiful moon. Your siblings will always try to stay up long enough to see the Crux sail off, but they never get the chance. In the end, it’ll always be you, your parents, and your grandparents watching them off into the night. You stay on the docks, watching them go longer than your grandfather. He walks off muttering about how he has a chill in his bones. You stay longer than your mother, who needs to deliver a round of goodnight kisses before she heads off to bed. And when she delivers a peck to your forehead, your father decides that it’s now a good time to head inside too- to clean up and to join your mother in the comforts of their own bed. You and your grandmother stay and watch the lights of the brilliant boat disappear into the distance. And when all sound of the boisterous crew is silenced by the distance, you offer up a quick little prayer to the Archons for a safe voyage. Then you turn to your grandmother, grab her hand, lead her inside and send her off to bed. That is how things have always been. 

But in hindsight, you should have known this time would have been different. Because for a moment, last night…

…you swore you could see the Harbor too. 

~

When you woke up this morning, the sun had just barely peaked its head above the waves. The sky was a glorifying blue that faded into almost sea green color as the minutes crept by. You weren’t sure what woke you up. But all you knew was that you couldn’t fall back asleep. The house was dead silent. Not a soul was up- not even your two youngest brothers who insisted on sleeping in your bed last night to fight off the big, scary hilichurls in their bad dreams. So without much thought, you found yourself shrugging your blanket off and creeping out of your room to venture further into your house.

You don’t know what possessed you to immediately look out the windows facing the water. But you’re glad you did. Because despite the heavy morning fog that blanketed the sea during the early hours of the day, you were able to see it. The Crux. Sailing right towards your home. 

And never have you ever seen them arrive this early.

Without hesitation, you got to work. It’s a whole ordeal waking your family and preparing them for today. Your mother sends the second eldest, your younger sister sprinting up a nearby hill to fetch your father. He stayed the night at a neighbor’s house, helping them with their latest carpentry projects while you all slept. Meanwhile, your mother employs you to help her bathe and dress your siblings before sending you off to tend to your daily duties in a hurry. At the same time, your grandparents take over in the kitchen, giggling to themselves about how they haven’t had to run around like this since they were newlyweds. 

In between bites of breakfast, your siblings help you check up, feed, and count all the animals. It’s a little hard when all the little ones want to do is pull on the dog tail’s and the older ones are more content with the idea of watching the ducks swim around in lazy circles rather than taking care of them. But one quick threat about a time-out the entire time the Crux is here just so happens to be more than enough to get the remaining seven of them into shape. By the time your chores are over, your father and sister had returned with enough time to wash up and grab a little something to eat, only two of your siblings had to change their shirts and clean their faces again, and all the animals are accounted for. Although, you did count one more cat than you had yesterday. But that’s a problem for later. 

Because you could see the serious look on Captain Beidou’s face even before the anchor had lowered. 

~

There was a boy standing next to Captain Beidou. 

She bowed at your grandparents like always. Her brown hair flowing lightly behind her as the sun caught against the gold accents on her clothes as she paid her respect to them. Then, she turned to your parents with the bag of Mora. It had never been this full before. This time, your parents took it with a silent nod. There was no back and forth. There was something that needed to be done. She turned her attention to you and ruffled your hair. She didn’t call you kid this time, but that was okay. 

Because there was a boy standing with Captain Beidou. And you had a feeling his appearance meant that she needed you to be an adult now. And that was okay. 

Your siblings take that as an opportunity to rush her and the strange boy. The little ones, unused to strangers, flock to Captain Beidou and peek at the newcomer between her legs. As for your older ones, they hesitantly approach the boy, not-so-subtly gawking at his appearance. They reach out, almost as if they were going to touch him- to see if he was real- when your grandfather shakes his head with a stern expression on his face. There was something that needed to be done. 

With that look, Captain Beidou follows your parents and your grandparents inside the house. Your siblings now distract themselves with the usual members of The Crux (who seem a little more purposely energetic than they should this early in the morning) and you’re left watching the backs of the five people you respect the most disappear into the house. Before the door closes, Captain Beidou purposely stops and looks at you. 

When you catch her gaze, she stares long and hard before flicking her to the boy who stands beside you in complete silence. The kid she used to see in you is gone. She needs the oldest of nine now, and you’re more than willing to do anything for her- especially if it involves your family. Finally, she turns around and steps through the doorway, letting the door slam shut behind her. Your siblings aren’t fazed by the loud bang caused by the heavy wooden door. Neither are the members of the Crux and the boy beside you. And to be honest, you aren’t either. 

But the shouting is what catches you off guard. Because the walls to your old, old home are very thick. But there are cracks here and there. And those cracks allow for the words to escape. Words like “Fugitive” creep underfoot while the word “Samurai” escapes through the window. The word “Vision” travels to the chimney just to meet your ears. And the name “Baal” makes its grand entrance by the usage of all the little chips in the walls- the very same ones that let in the cold at night. But the grandest word of them all does not bother to hide themselves. Instead, it just allows itself to be bellowed in a great, big mighty roar. And that’s what scares you. 

Because never have you ever expected the word “Inazuma” to exit your front door as you watch on in silence. 

INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW

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

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or two. 

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

Of course he does. 

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

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

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

But all is not well. 

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

Moze. 

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

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

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

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

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

Almost. 

. *࿐

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

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

Humans and their machinations. 

This is truly a special version of hell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

You’re a demon. 

You think you can afford to be uncivil. 

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

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

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

What a strange world the human world is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s unnerving. 

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something?” 

Quit staring.

Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet. 

You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all. 

Well, opposite and a seat away. 

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

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

You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has. 

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a pickle.

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

What a pickle indeed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s dark. 

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

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

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

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

. *࿐.

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

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

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

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

It does not work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine. 

Fine.

Fine. 

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

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

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

Oh shit. 

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile. 

Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little. 

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

Really, you should be a gourmet. 

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

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

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

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

You don’t want your time here to end.  

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

There are contingencies for times like these.

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

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

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

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

There. 

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

You think you’re delirious. 

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

Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust. What a strange woman she is.

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s impossible. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

Perfect.

Perfect. 

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell is filled with humans like these. 

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

Your tongue is leaden. 

There is nothing you can say to save yourself. 

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

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

An Archangel. 

You pray your end is quick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

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

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

You can’t even beg for your life. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust. 

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

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

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

He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He notices. 

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver. 

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

Why not entertain me?

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

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

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

Angels, too, can be deceptive. 

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

Damn it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So close. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think that makes it worse. 

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

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

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

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

His gaze meets your despairing one. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

He’s not your lover. 

He’s not even his own person.

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

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

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

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

In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…

Well. 

Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido. 

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl. “Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver. 

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

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

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

He looks like sin itself.

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

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

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

You wonder what they taste like. 

Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?

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

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

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

You’ve never kissed an angel before. 

You may not even be alive right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you enjoy the show?”

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

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

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

Moze is human. 

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

Lust. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfect,” he breathes. 

The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.

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

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

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

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

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

Snap. 

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

Snap. 

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

Snap. 

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

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

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

More. 

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

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

Snap. 

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

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

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

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

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

What will you do?

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you want me to help you out?” you slur your words, clearly dazed from getting fucked by his stupid classmate. Yes, he wants to say, but he feels like some damned second place prize. Your hand brushes his crotch, and he bites his lip—hard—until the skin breaks and warm blood runs down his lips. 

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

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

He can’t help it. He really can’t. 

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

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

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

That’s all his brain is clinging to. 

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

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

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

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

They do not know better. 

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

Angels cannot lie to others. 

It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves. 

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

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

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

Good job, Sunday.

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Catching of the Incubus. 

*********

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

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

In any case, nobody’s home. 

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

Moze’s room it is. 

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

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

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

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

Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—

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

Oh.

Oh.

*࿐.

This got me feeling smth

If your still taking requests, what about a story where the boys have a mate (who came to them willingly, not by force), but she's really naive and not too bright. So they take advantage of her innocence by having her fulfill their fantasies while teaching her how fun sex can be.

"Yeah baby, sucking dick is great for sore throats. Didn't you know that?" that kind of stuff. Hope thats cool!

[A/n] To the anon who requested this, I apologize profusely for the delay! I received this prompt about a month ago and completely adored it, but I didn’t know how to execute it at the time. I’ve been working on it off and on for a while, finally getting my mojo going after brainstorming with a few mutuals. Thank you, @misslavenderlady and @that-girl-who-writes-sometimes, for the help! Anon, slide into my Ask Box and let me know if you liked it. I kind of went rogue with it toward the end. Hope you enjoy! 🙈

Smitten

[Poly!Lost Boys x Gullible!Reader]

[Modern!AU - Not set in 1987, but 35 years later.]

[Fic Warnings] 18+ MDI (SMUT) – Manipulation/Coercion, Dubious Consent, Dry Humping, Predator/Prey Dynamics, Violence/Aggression, Fellatio, Rough Sex, and Blood Drinking.

[Summary] You’re a naive little bird, and you make the mistake of allowing the boys to know how infatuated you are, something you’ll grow to regret.

All Rights Reserved. Please Do Not Copy, Plagiarize, or Reproduce.

The best prey was the kind that came willingly, foolishly wandering into their clutches with doe eyes. The boys loved the chase, the hunt, but they adored when prey foolishly put their trust in a predator. 

That’s where you came in. You were their next victim, pure and naive.

You were smitten by their manipulative charm and their irresistible good looks. They noticed you watching them coyly for weeks, googly-eyed and wanton. You worked at the local bookstore on the boardwalk, and the register had the perfect view of where they parked their bikes by the pier. 

You practically drooled when you laid eyes on them, the thundering quartet of their motorcycle engines blazing down the road, causing your innocent little loins to stir with life, slickening under your skirt. Even with that cacophony, they could hear your heart pound in your chest with unbridled lust. 

They couldn’t wait to have you moaning and writhing beneath them in sinful corruption and ecstasy. They had been patient for a while, teasing you by loitering in your presence until they were ready to lure you away, never to be seen again. 

The four hungrily slithered into your job like snakes with you in their crosshairs, intent on getting your legs open – and your blood into their bellies. 

You blushed and fidgeted when they approached the counter, your eyes cast down in delicious submission as they circled you with predatory precision. They hadn’t even worked their mojo, and you were already theirs. 

It didn’t take much for them to beguile you. They whispered a few sweet nothings, calling you ‘beautiful,’ ‘doll,’ and ‘babe,’ and you began sweating and stuttering behind the counter.

They led you to their bikes, helping you onto the back of David’s to whisk you away to their lair. 

Once there, getting you undressed was easy. You were such a silly little human! So innocent, trusting, and gullible!

All it took was some deviously slick words from Paul, and you dropped your skirt and removed your blouse in a panic, thinking a spider had crawled on you. 

“It’s okay, babe,” Paul cooed in mock concern as he soothed you, stifling a sadistic chuckle. “It’s gone,” he reassured as you sniffled in his embrace, wearing only your bra and panties.

He stroked your lower back, running his nimble fingers over your bottom before giving it a hefty slap. “Sit with David while I make you a drink,” Paul urged, leading you to his brother’s chair. “I’ll make you a White Russian. It’s delicious, trust me.”

You didn’t drink alcohol, and you timidly tried to protest as it fell on deaf ears, Paul grabbing Marko and dragging him to the tunnels, disappearing into the darkness with a bottle of Vodka, a bottle of Kahlúa, and a glass.

David leaned forward, grabbing your hand as he patted his knee. You reluctantly sat on the toned joint as you sniffled and continued wiping tears from your eyes. 

“It’s okay, dollface,” David soothed as he grabbed a tissue and began to help dry your tear-streaked face. 

“Thank you,” you whispered meekly. “Spiders are icky.”

“Yes, but don’t worry. We’ll protect you.” David purred as he lifted you by your waist, positioning you higher so you fully sat on his lap. “Comfy?” He asked slyly.

“A little,” you timidly responded as you looked at him with doe-eyes. 

“If you aren’t, feel free to get comfortable,” he suggested with a smirk as he eagerly leaned back in anticipation. 

You wiggled around until you found a soft spot on his lap that suited your comfort, but you quickly had to readjust because you felt a large bulge form beneath your bottom, prodding you between your fleshy cheeks. 

“Something’s poking me,” you muttered as you squirmed, causing David to groan with pleasure through half-lidded glacier eyes. 

“Are you okay?” You asked in concern as you watched the platinum blond voraciously eye you. 

“He’s just fine, beautiful,” Dwayne silkily replied as he stole you from David, grabbing your wrist and pulling you off his lap, causing the platinum blond to hiss with displeasure before he freed himself from his jeans, stroking his length in frustration. 

Dwayne pulled you towards him, lifting you by your waist to seat you just as David had. “This seat is the best one in the house,” he purred as you squirmed around to get settled again. But you nearly leaped two feet into the air when you felt the same uncomfortable bulge form beneath your rear – except larger and thicker.

“I’m being poked again,” you whined as you tried to remove yourself from Dwayne’s lap. The brunette wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you firmly into place as you unintentionally massaged his erection. 

Dwayne moaned, sliding his hands from your waist to your hips as you gyrated against him. You became flushed, your ditzy squirming causing stimulation for you as well. You both became slack-jawed as heat blossomed below the belt, your little loins moist and pulsing as Dwayne’s massive dick caressed your nub through his jeans and your panties. 

Unknown to the three of you, you weren’t the only ones in the midst of sweet stimulation. While David caressed himself and you cooed in Dwayne’s lap, Paul and Marko titillated each other in the tunnels, mutually masturbating until they were on the cusp of orgasm. They both eagerly came in your cup, spilling milky seed into a mixture of Vodka and Kahlúa, birthing your delectable White Russian. 

They tucked themselves into their pants, devilishly smiling, as they bounded back to the Main Cave to deliver your drink. 

The hurricane duo arrived to see you quivering in Dwayne’s lap, the brunette smirking as you twitched from orgasm, your dry humping having thrown you over the edge. 

You collapsed against his chest, nuzzling him as you panted from cumming. Dwayne had you spent, your innocent little body not used to such pleasures. But that was only an appetizer for their brother, Marko, Paul, and David could see that Dwayne was still ravenously hungry. They all were, but they had to tenderize you a little more before they dined on your virtue. 

“Here’s your drink, beautiful,” Marko cooed with a shit-eating grin as he plopped down on the couch, presenting it to you.

You stared at the concoction with sleepy eyes. “I don’t drink,” you informed the quartet drowsily, still dazed from your first orgasm. 

“There’s a first time for everything,” Dwayne muttered, jumping in to aid his brothers in tag-teaming you, something they effortlessly did when manipulating prey. 

They always worked as a unit in their malicious endeavors. 

You whined as Marko pushed the drink towards your face, Dwayne forcing you to sit up so you could imbibe. You took the warm glass in your hands, raising it to your lips as you reluctantly took a sip, pulling back as you made a face that showed your surprise.

It wasn’t bad; it was delicious with a saccharine zest, but it was strong, Marko going heavy on the Vodka, the alcohol burning your chaste throat. 

“It burns a little,” you complained as you coughed slightly, rubbing your throat as you drank. You finished the glass after their sinister urging, the four watching you suck down vampire seed disguised as heavy cream.

“My throat hurts,” you complained as your bottom lip jutted out in a pout.

“We have just the cure for that, babe,” Paul wolfishly replied as he unzipped his pants, releasing his rock-hard dick from his tattered white jeans. 

You stared wide-eyed from Dwayne’s lap as your eyes fell on the long, thick, pale appendage – cherry red at the tip and swollen as it wept. 

“What are you doing?” You asked in surprise as Paul plopped down on the chair across from the sofa, his legs wide.

“I’m trying to help you with your sore throat,” Paul purred while his brothers chuckled. “Sucking dick is great for sore throats.” 

“Really?” You asked in disbelief as your eyes fell on the appendage between his legs. 

“Yeah, baby, didn’t you know that?” He cooed as he stroked himself, beckoning you with a crooked finger. 

Dwayne coaxed you from his lap, whispering in your ear that he and David would ‘get you another drink,’ while Paul helped you with your sore throat. The brunette and the platinum blond disappeared into the tunnels with your glass, the liquor, and their erections while you knelt before a grinning Paul.

“I-I I-I’ve never, you know?” You stuttered as you looked up at the wild-haired blond. “Can you teach me?” You asked.

“Of course, babe,” Paul replied with a wicked smile. “Marko and I are the BEST teachers. Right, Bud?”

“Right, Paulie,” Marko agreed with a smirk as he nibbled his thumb, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Just open your mouth, babe; we’ll guide you.”

You bashfully parted your lips, flicking your pink tongue out to chase the milky dribbles that leaked from the blond before wrapping your lips around him. Paul sighed, throwing his head back as he became enveloped in the silky warmth of your mouth. 

“What do I do now?” You mumbled around his dick. It sounded anything but coherent, the sounds garbled and unintelligible. But with the boys’ pristine hearing and mind-reading capabilities, they knew exactly what you were saying. 

“Suck it, beautiful,” Marko urged as he toyed with strands of your hair. “Pretend like it’s a popsicle – a nice juicy popsicle. Get it all wet.” 

You did as you were told, bobbing your head up and down, using your tongue and saliva to slicken Paul’s length and sucking on him like he was your favorite ice cream treat.

“Grab it, babe,” Paul ordered through heaving breaths. “Massage it.”

You followed instructions, wrapping your dainty little hand around him and pumping, causing the wild-haired blond to writhe in his seat. You needed coaching, but you were a natural, your hot little virtuous mouth sending him to a frenzy. 

He locked eyes with Marko for a moment, he and the curly-haired blond exchanging devious thoughts as they plotted on you. Before you could register what was going on, Marko had pushed your head down, and Paul had grabbed your hair, his hips jackhammering into your mouth as he fucked your throat. 

You struggled against his groin, slapping his thighs and desperately digging your nails into his flesh in an attempt to free yourself. 

“Breathe through your nose, gorgeous,” Marko cooed as you moved to scratch at his hand, trying to untangle him from your locks. 

Neither blond budged, holding you in place as Paul fucked you, wet slapping and garbled glucking noises filling the room. 

Your eyes watered, and tears began to flow down your cheeks, pooling under your chin. You managed to get some air as you sniffled, Paul moaning and grunting as he bucked into your face with his eyes closed. 

The act felt like it went on for ages, only ending when the wild-haired blond came down your throat, warmth blossoming in your chest as you were forced to swallow his hot seed. 

He released you, laying back with a content smile as you whined at his feet.

Dwayne and David returned with your drink to see you sitting on the floor weeping into your hands, snotty and tear-stained, while Marko giggled like a madman and Paul smoked a joint. 

The two exchanged glances with raised eyebrows before investigating their brothers’ shenanigans. 

“What’s wrong, little one?” Dwyane asked with his melodic baritone. 

“Paul said sucking his,” you hesitated, “d-dick would cure my sore throat, but it only made it worse.” You sobbed. 

“Poor baby,” Dwayne purred as he knelt next to you, presenting you with your second 'White Russian,' a slightly larger serving this time. “Drink this; it will make you feel better.”

Naively, you took the glass, drinking the sinful concoction without hesitation. You grimaced. It tasted good, but it was apparent David and Dwayne had made this one stronger. 

Your stomach was empty besides the alcohol and their seed, Paul’s being the only seed you were aware of, and you were worried about becoming too tipsy. Your body was growing warm, your belly absorbing the liquor and sending it straight to your bloodstream, along with the proteins they donated. 

You didn’t have a high tolerance, so shortly after drinking your second glass, your body became languid and flushed as your pussy pulsed in need. 

David and Dwayne smirked. The first step was complete. You consumed their seed; now, you had to sacrifice your body. Dwayne passed the glass to David before gathering you into his arms, lifting you, and carrying you toward the tunnels. His brothers followed, shedding their clothing as they journeyed, leaving them nude once you arrived at your destination.

Dwayne laid you down on the bed, watching you with piercing chocolate eyes as you began to sweat and squirm – the alcohol and their euphoria of their seed taking hold. 

“She’s ready, boys,” David purred with a smirk as he crawled on top of you, looking down at you with his icy orbs. He lowered his lips to yours, kissing you deeply as you sighed in contentment, your eyes fluttering closed. 

With taloned fingers, David swiped at your bra and panties, shredding them to ribbons, exposing you to himself and his brothers. The four inhaled as your scent wafted through the air, the smell much more robust than it was moments ago. 

“This is going to hurt a little, dollface,” David warned as he mounted you, putting your legs on his shoulders as he lined himself up with your entrance. 

You nodded timidly, closing your eyes when you felt his manhood prod at your sopping wet opening. Your face twisted in discomfort, and your breath hitched as David forced himself inside, stretching you out painfully. 

The platinum blond surprisingly peppered your face with kisses, soothing you in hushed tones as you began to tear up. 

But that was the extent of his tenderness. 

David pulverized you, not bothering to take it slow because it was your first time. He took full advantage of your body, pounding, scratching, and biting you as he moaned in bliss. 

You were in pain – at first, but after a while, the platinum blond began to tease all of your tender spots, causing you to warble sinfully beneath him as his brothers paced around the bed like lions, awaiting their turn to devour your body. 

David didn’t care that his brothers were waiting; he took his time with you, savoring your velvety heat as you rippled and twitched around him, whining his name as you drooled. 

You came hard, splashing David’s stomach with your juices as you squirted. You collapsed into the pillows, spent from pleasure, but that didn’t spare you from the appetites of the others. 

When David unmounted from you after his release, another boy immediately took his place, manhandling you into the position they desired before they slid inside you. You panted, begging each of them for a break, but they granted you no mercy, rutting into you from behind, from the side, or however they wished until they fell over the edge, taking you with them. 

They fucked you for hours, the room becoming thick with the smell of sex. You could barely move when they were done with you. You were overstimulated and exhausted, laying in the middle of the bed, mouth agape in a dreamy daze. 

The boys crawled into bed with you, cuddling you as you settled down to nap in their embrace. You snuggled against David, your head on his chest as you began to drift off to dreamland – but he and the boys had other plans.  

“Do you believe in vampires?” David asked as he stroked your hair. 

“No,” you responded as the boys chuckled around you, but you were too tired to pick up on the danger – not that you could anyway. Your instincts were poor. 

“They’re just characters in books and movies. They aren't' real.”

David kissed you on your forehead, smirking against your brow. “So naive, you are, little one,” he whispered in amusement. “That's why we’re going to keep you.” 

You didn’t know what he meant. You were nearly gone, the Sandman having beckoned you long ago. You were snoring lightly when you squealed in agony, having felt a stabbing pain in your breast. 

You opened your eyes, screaming in fear, when you saw the boys with the faces of demons – blazing red eyes with golden irises, protruding brows, chiseled cheekbones, and fangs. 

They were vampires.

You wailed as they tore into your body – Marko on your breast, Paul between your legs, Dwayne on your wrist, and David on your throat. 

They drained you while you wept, your heart fluttering and slowing as they consumed your life. 

But they didn’t drain you dry, they pulled back as you began to fade in and out of consciousness, David sending Marko to retrieve the bottle.

You were propped up in David’s arms and fed their blood as you gasped and wheezed for air, the boys forcing you to fill your stomach before you slipped away from this life.

“Shhh – don’t cry,” Marko purred as he propped himself against the headboard, wiping your tears as David rocked you in his arms. “It’s okay. We have one more step in the ritual, and then you can rest.”

“Ritual?” You muttered weakly, frightened and confused by everything that was going on.  

“The mating ritual, little one,” Dwayne purred as he stroked your cheek. “We completed four steps; we have one more to go. So, don’t fight it," he purred. "Let death come.”

“No,” you mumbled as you felt yourself drifting away, unable to fight anymore because your number was up. You closed your eyes, dropping dead in David’s arms as your lungs released your last breath. 

The ritual was complete. You consumed their seed, sacrificed your body, gave your blood, consumed theirs, and gave your life. 

You were now theirs – their mate, their wife, bound to them for eternity. 

All because of your gullibility and your silly human infatuation. 

FIN.

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