I go by Ryan / Kome, I'm 20, and I like writing!
He / they pronouns please!
I'm always willing to listen to any requests, but keep in mind that it might take me some time to complete them. You can request any fandom you'd like! JJK/GI/HSR/TWST/MHA/etc. I tend to write f!reader/gn!reader, though xD
Current & Upcoming Projects:
HSR
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Sunday's Secretary (Includes NSFW!)
Sunday x Reader : You are the rather timid but hardworking secretary of Sunday Oak, who harbors a deep obsession towards you. Unfortunately, his methods are a bit... manipulative.
Parts: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7
Genshin
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Scara x F!Reader (NSFW)
Childe x Reader (NSFW)
themes/content: smut, depictions of violence. p in v, there's like literally no prep, you are both a little insane, also relatively explicit descriptions of a battle/war and its aftermath but i think it's still kinda hot (wk: 2.4k)
a/n: happy early birthday to my boy <3
There’s ash in his lungs and blood on his hands and Childe wants so, so badly. He wants in a way he’s never wanted for something before, in a way that feels like those cold hands laying on the ground are trying to claw their way from inside him. He needs to get it out he needs to run he needs to do something-
-until across the plains he finds you, and watches the way you pull your blade from another, lesser man’s chest as he falls to the ground. The body collapses with an unceremonious thud, and you turn, searching for something.
It’s only when your eyes meet does Childe realize you were searching for him.
He’s running to you, then.
Perhaps as a blessing, his mind ignores the crumpled bodies he navigates between on the shortest path towards you. They meant nothing to him, not really, not when they rose against the great Tsaritsa, not when they met you on the battlefield, and certainly not when they were slain by his hands. And yours.
The moment he reaches you, time stops. The uneven rise and fall of your chest, strained with exertion, slows; the wildness in his gaze, fueled by battle and by victory, calms.
Hands grab your face, and bring it to his own.
When he kisses you, it’s not gentle or tender. It’s urgent, ravenous, teeth clashing and lips pressed so hard they bruise. He kisses you as though he could breathe the air from your lungs and return it to you, still smelling like the smoke that’s settled deep within his chest.
He nips at your lower lip, and you respond with a strained hum. It’s one of satisfaction, he knows from when you’ve managed to land a well-placed strike to his abdomen during a spar, or when the moon had risen above the clouds and in the haven of your bed he had angled himself inside you just right and brought you to the pinnacle of bliss.
You aren’t sure how or when you hit the ground, but it knocks a groan from your throat as sore muscles scrape against soiled dirt. Resting on top of you, his body is heavy but not crushing. It doesn’t drain the oxygen from between your ribs nor dampen the dizzy beating of your heart, certainly nothing like a hard strike between your shoulder blades or the hurl of a sword. It’s a weight you know well, one that makes you wish for cooler days spent in dew-damp grass under a kinder sun. But before you can wish for too long, his tongue finds yours and searches for some salvation in the softness of your mouth.
He must have found it when he groans into you, when his hips press into yours and the familiar hardness between them grazes your core.
Then, those rough and hungry hands tear beneath your clothes. Through layers of tanned leather irrevocably stained red, through cloth soaked in well-earned sweat, until they land upon your waist.
Childe releases another sigh at the contact, at the proof that there is something warm and safe and alive still here on this wretched field. That it is something he would give his body and his soul for in order to protect. That it is not something that needs protecting. For you, you brave, righteous being, have no need to be saved. And yet, you let him pretend in these moments (the thought has crossed his mind that it is not you, though, but him who must be saved; he pretends that he deserves it, too).
(The bodies around you would disagree, of course. They would say he is vile and cruel and deserving of the worst fate that could befall a man. But he does not hear them, for they have no means with which to voice their opinions when the vitality has been stolen from their hearts and given to him. He uses it, every last drop of energy to tell you with wind-hardened skin how much he wants you, how much he constantly, eternally needs you.)
Drowned by the eagerness, by your own haste, you reach into the near-nonexistent space between your bodies, down to the waistband of his trousers, and rip apart the cage that bars you from your prize. The buttons that held his clothes together forfeit with little protest.
The action is quickly returned, your pants tugged down past your thighs to reveal the waiting heat beneath them.
Childe never breaks the kiss, not for a second, not even as he strokes his length and brings himself to his full size, not even as he pulls your underwear away and nearly shreds it to pieces in the process, not even as he finally allows the head of his cock to breach the yearning warmth inside you.
The wetness that had begun to pool within your folds the instant your eyes sought his after that final, fatal blow thankfully lessens the resistance, but as always, the stretch still burns for a moment. But it’s nothing worse than that of your aching muscles, nothing that won’t be soothed by use. He told you, once, that you have to train until you feel like your bones could fall apart; at the time, you thought it was silly, and laughed at him, until you sparred for six hours and the sun had set and you worried that the pressure within your chest could spread into your head and kill you - and not once had Childe tired.
He certainly has not tired yet, despite the battle that raged here mere moments ago, the one that left fallen heroes and cowards littered around you, until the two sole victors emerged.
And now, these lucky champions shall claim their winnings.
This grand prize comes in the form of Childe’s rasped whine as he slowly enters you.
Every bulging vein slides through you until you’re sculpted into a shape that could never hold anybody else. When he’s finally fully inside you, his pelvis brushing your own, you realize that neither of you have spoken. Too consumed by the all-encompassing chaos and thrill of conquest, there was no need to speak, not until he looks down at you with those beautiful, frenzied eyes and you wish there were words for the pride that blooms between your ribs.
“You were incredible,” you say with a voice roughened by barking orders at now-dead subordinates and comrades for the last eight hours.
It seems to have done its job when a smile cracks apart his face and a blush stains beneath those freckles you have come to love (on calmer, quieter nights, away from slaughter and loss, you had counted them and graced each one with a kiss, until the two of you were left giddy, giggling messes, and were no richer in body counts or honor, but in one-hundred and thirty-four presses of your lips to his cheeks).
“You were too,” he sighs through a laugh. “You never fail to amaze me, you know that?”
Before you can respond, he pulls his cock from within you, and pushes himself entirely back in. That gnawing ecstasy returns, and you arch into him.
“See? Incredible,” he says with a smile brighter than the sun.
After another few thrusts, he settles on a deep and uneven pace (perhaps even the great Tartaglia has exhausted himself today, you dare to think before remembering how he earned that title and decide against it). And yet, it is enough to have you chasing your own pleasure, ignoring the scorching light overhead and the uneven gravel that digs into your back. You clench and moan around him and he glows.
Somewhere off in the distance, a fire burns, one left over from a last-ditch attempt at defense. It smells horrid, and the smoke makes your eyes sting and you have no choice but to close them. Without facing the glaring carnage, your senses are free to roam - to Childe’s firm palms along your hips, to the tip of his cock pulsing at your cervix, to the metal and mint that hangs in his breath.
Every movement is erratic and when his lips crash into yours it’s desperate and violent and you think he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever had the privilege of touching.
He knows it, too. He’s seen the light that bursts from inside him because he sees the same in you, shining his reflection back to him.
(You’d let him kill you, you think. With it comes the idea that maybe one day you’ll be forced to kill him. But those thoughts don’t serve you well; instead, you focus on a particularly hard thrust that rips a mewl from your throat and has him grinning.)
“Cocky bastard. You’re just trying to earn a few compliments now, aren’t you,” you manage to get out once your breathing has regulated and your body has adjusted to his size (you’d think by now you would be used to it, but something about him precludes prediction - perhaps that’s why you’ve never managed to beat him in a fight, or why you still have to take more than a few deep inhales to steady yourself when he offers you the privilege of his body).
But Childe provides you little respite - nothing new, of course, not when he drinks the sounds you make with a dry throat, when he claims them with his tongue and his teeth. With another punctuated jolt of his pelvis, he chokes the air straight from your lungs, and laughs.
“Aw, c’mon. I don’t need to beg for your praise. I know what I am.”
“Oh? And what is that?” you ask, barely registering his words through the haze of your lust and devotion.
With a wicked grin, he pushes himself so deep within you that you can do nothing but claw at his shoulders and whine.
His head settles within the space beneath your chin, hot breath puffing against your neck.
“I’m the one who’s going to kill gods.”
At that, his hips become faster, his cock stretching you until you’re near delirious, his own head swimming in the depths of his indulgence (after the months you’ve spent training with him, you know it’s not just from the earlier bloodshed - dedication and enjoyment are distinct entities).
It’s you, this time, who brings his face to yours, foreheads touching and breathing each other’s air with open, aching mouths. Your knuckles tangle in his hair, damp and matted, and he groans under your touch.
It’s a mystery how, even in this state, Childe manages to be heavenly stunning. How the roll of his back is graceful, how the hand that snakes its way down your torso until it finds that tempting bundle of nerves between your thighs moves with such precision.
But then, moments of the battle that played out under a hot and heavy sun return to your mind, and the poise with which he conducts himself even in the throes of combat shows itself once more. The crack of a blade as he effortlessly cuts through armor and metal and down to flesh and bone. The flex of shoulders that know the feel of your nails, the crouch of thighs that know the planes of your hands, the tilt of a neck that knows the points of your teeth. A perfectly welded being whose strength could - will - rival that of the gods.
He once called himself a weapon, but a weapon can only be wielded for one reason; here, with one hand resting upon your cheek and the other brushing against your clit, with his eyebrows pulled together and ocean-blue eyes trained upon your own, he has carved himself another purpose.
You realize a moment too late that he’s speaking to you.
“-if you’d like.”
“What?” you say, mind and body pulled in too many directions between the sole deliverer of perfection above you and the feverish tension coiling within your stomach.
His laugh quells any soreness in your overused muscles and joints, and only further spurs the fluttering euphoria inside you. “I said, you should come with me. To the top. To conquer this world and make it ours.” A brief pause, one you’d be tempted to call hesitation. “If you’d like, that is.”
Your lips mirror his as they spread into an unruly grin.
“I’d love to.”
Hysterical in your own hedonism, the two of you, away from the battlefield and the hierarchies and the servitude, craft your own world for just a moment. One of endless joy and clear skies and pleasure so intense it threatens to open your chests only to find that there is already space made for one another inside them.
It’s at that moment that Childe begins to shudder above you.
Your legs wrap firmly around his waist, holding tight as to not let him pull away (as if he’d ever leave you, as if there’s any place in the world he’d rather be than right here with glory thrumming in his veins and a mind clouded with hubris and havoc).
With his cock twitching along the smooth heat inside you, his thumb still circling your clit in frantic motions, it’s enough to unleash the light that had been burning within you.
As he releases with a silken moan, one too breathtaking and holy for a place like this, you finish around him, writhing into the rocks and dirt below that don’t seem half as bothersome now.
Somehow, his arms manage to catch him before he fully collapses onto you (in all your time training together, you really have never seen him tire - perhaps it truly is impossible).
You love him, you think, or at least this version of him that fights and conquers and wins. But then, there’s the other version, too, the one who brews you coffee in the mornings and who kisses your forehead at night, who tells you stories about heroes and the stars. Perhaps they are the same person in some way: a boy who falls from the sky always yearns to return to it. And how lucky you are to be invited on this grand journey.
Both of you rejoin your lips in unison, and despite the filth and ash that clings to your bodies, it is nothing short of pure.
“You are incredible,” he whispers into your skin, and you brush the dirt from his hair, and pull him into the bright space within your chest.
ps: what a wonderful way to end my many months long writers block :’) here’s to the most darling, daring boy :3 i love him so much i’d go to war with him any day he makes me want to bite him and never let go <3
cw: mentions of abuse, sexual encounter with dubious consent. a character driven piece
It was the first day of summer.
Fireworks scattered across the sky, just far enough away for the fat of their blooms to be concealed by the inky treeline. They whistled up, they fizzled down, forming a slow pattern that cut through the cicada song. The sound sizzled like fire and the night burned nearly as hot.
Cursed energy moved the same way fireworks did: unpredictably and variation in patterns. Fractions of light that flitted between almost everything, it flitted and flowed in an unsteady beat, dissipating into the air and forming fractals that spiraled out into nothing. When items got close enough to each other, they fully connected, sparked webbings that looped and laced endlessly a beautiful and lonely world for only Gojo Satoru's eyes to see.
The meeting house seemed to cling to remnants of curses, its walls tacky with faded imprints. Nothing more than ghosts of people who had once past through and the brighter, soft haze of you.
There was sorcerer somewhere in your bloodline, but only the silhouette of it was left for you, broad strokes with no real power behind it. When he was young, the men on the grounds had whispered about what a shame it was that you weren't like your father.
Sometimes, he agreed. Other times the sentence sat heavy in his stomach.
Gojo pushed off the shoulders of his yukata, but being bare chested did nothing to break the sweat. Heat still hung heavy on his skin. This house was not only stagnant in energies; wind passed over the tree tops, but didn't reach down to touch anything air on the property.
A fuzzy, invisible string connected and Gojo knew you were near. He turned from the window before you even opened the door.
"Master Gojo." You bowed as you spoke, gaze cast low to the floor. The shadows moved heavy on your face and, for that moment, you looked like your mother in all the ways Gojo knew you would hate.
Over the years and infrequent meetings, he had learned a few things about you. Breakfast and lunch were your responsibilities, but dinner was deemed too important to be yours. You didn't sleep well at night, so you watched the stars and thought about everything and nothing. The fall weather always made you sneeze, your mother always made you cry.
That night, your eyes were puffy and bloodshot, more so than they usually were.
"Master, huh?" He cocks his head and a droplet of sweat follows the new curve of his neck, trailing down, down, down. "Kind of kinky to call me that when we're alone."
Your eyes followed the beadlet for a moment and a pride swelled in his chest. He was used to women looking - they've been vying for his attention since he was too young to understand what those gentle touches and long glances meant. Power attracted desire, even long before he could reciprocate.
The way you looked at him feels different. It felt earned.
"You're still a cunt, aren't you?" you breathed, incredulous.
And suddenly, it felt like you'd really entered the room. Those fractals rotated, sparks spun. For once, he was thankful to be the only one who could see this version of the world. If anyone else could, he might have been embarrassed at how palpable his joy really was.
"How's my favorite maid?" He patted the porch next to where he sat, "Sit with me. It's an order."
Just as you always did, you obeyed, walking across the room and coming down by his side. Usually, you'd have shed your traditional garments for something more casual to sleep in, but that night you were still dressed properly, with skirts pulled tight and neckline high. An unfamiliar scent clung to your skin, something much too mature for someone as young as you. Your mother wasn't someone to wear perfume, so he imagined you stole it from in between the pages of a magazine.
"You didn't bring your pretty friend this time."
Gojo wasn't aware of the silence between you until you broke it. A myriad of orange sparkles across the sky, fading out just as quickly as it had arrived.
"Oh? Which one?"
You stretched out, extending your legs past the perimeters of your skirts and pulling them back again. The fold of your leg pushed the fabric up, exposing much more thigh than Gojo is ready for. You've been beautiful since you were a child - beautiful in innocent ways, beautiful inherently- but you'd grown past that. You were beautiful in ways that made him want.
"The one with the fox eyes," you said, “Geto Suguru.”
The recent memory of betrayal was bitter between Gojo's teeth. The news of it all had spread so quickly, ripping through whispers and gasps, that he hadn’t thought of the possibility of someone not knowing.
"Nah." He sucked the word through his teeth. It would have been impossible, but he swore he tasted gunpowder and sulfur on the air, “We aren’t friends anymore.”
You nodded as if you could possibly understand.
"Gojo, I'm here to ask something from you."
You twisted to face him, eyes set strong and serious. Even in the dim of night he could make out how you sucked in air through your pursed lips to steady yourself.
"Have you ever..." You walked forward on your hands, pressing into his personal space. The tips of your fingers brushed against the sides of his thighs, so delicate he could barely feel it through the fabric. "Been with anyone?"
He scoffed and chuckled at the same time, almost choking on his own spit. Attention was not new, but touch? Touch was unexplored.
"Yeah," he lied. He moved in sync with you, leaning back on to his elbows to make space for your body to slot above his. It was unnatural and strange, but welcome all the same, "And I’m good at it.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you breathed. He tilted his chin up, closing the gap between your faces as much as he dared; any closer and it would have shattered the cocky swagger he feigned. It was you who broke the tension, slipping your fingers under the rim of his glasses and lifting them off, “And you’re lying through your teeth.”
The air pulsed with color - the deep blues and reds of his own energy absorbing yours for a moment, so vivid that it was all he could see.
“Is that why you came here?” he said, conceit dripping from his voice, “Come to steal the great Gojo Satoru’s V-card?”
“No," you replied, “I’m here to give you mine.”
You discarded your shirt. With an ease, your bra followed suit, tits exposed to the night air. It struck him that you were the first woman he'd ever seen naked in real life, imperfect in all the ways porn hadn't prepared him for, but incredibly, wonderfully real.
"Well?"
Gojo realized he had fallen still. You were there, waiting for an answer.
He would've been stupid to say no. Men don’t turn down beautiful women, men don’t say no to sex. Despite that, a bitterness clung to the back of his throat. He swallowed it down as he brought his hand to the elastic band of his underwear and pushed it down.
"If Geto was here, would you have sat on his cock instead?"
You don't hesitate. "No, I don't want my first time to be with a stranger."
That struck him as odd; despite the occasional encounter, he barely knew you at all, and yet you were straddling his waist, skirts gathered at your hips. If anything, the relationship between you was nothing more than a childish dream, something Gojo held on to when he needed to feel human.
"I thought it'd be…" You cocked your head as you gripped his penis, much too tight to be comfortable, "Firmer."
"Ouch," Gojo cooed, only part of his anguish performative, "Give a man a chance to warm up."
"We don't have time for a warm up," you insisted, "He'll kill me if he finds me here."
Before he could question, you moved again. Your panties were suddenly pushed to the side and he was suddenly very aware of just how close you were, core pressed against core. His body reacted the way you wanted it too, but that sick, bile taste rose again-
In some ways, Geto tore holes when he left, nibbled, frayed edges where trust should be. Whatever was between the two of you was different than whatever Gojo had with him, but those jagged pieces ached the same.
"At least-" Gojo fumbled forward, grasping for your face and any semblance of control. Once he had you, long fingers completely covering your cheeks and buried into your hair, Gojo tugged you close, noses bumping, "Kiss me first, damn."
When his lips met yours, you laughed. It's not what he expected, not what he imagined all those times the thought had crossed his mind. It was wild and arrhythmic and loud, uncontrolled and unrefined, so much so that he had to stop so your teeth didn't clash against his. When he dipped in for another kiss, you didn't stop, laughing against his lips and vibrating his face with sweet sounds. It's so sweet that he swore he could taste it, thick and lingering like honey, a flavor he hoped he could sear into his mouth and chest, never to forget.
Then, the taste of salt tinted his tongue.
Gojo pulled back just far enough to see your tears shimmer in the afterglow of fireworks. Suddenly, you didn't seem grown; you were just a child in the same ways he was. Comfort did not come naturally to him, instead locking his joints still in shock.
"Shit, you crying?" he said without thinking.
Wiping your eyes with the palm of your hand, you tried to dip back in for more, but a firm hand from Gojo denied you. That was the final straw; you slumped.
"I don't-" You huffed in, sobs trembling in the corners of your voice, "I'm sorry, I don't wanna do this-"
Gojo knew the taste of mania. The high, the bad choices, all of it followed by the crashing, horrible lows; he should have known something was wrong with you much earlier.
“I’m a little insulted you only want to fuck me because you’re having a mental break down- oi, quick cryin’, I’m kidding," He insisted, but you just kept sobbing, each moment growing louder and louder. When you were younger, your mother would bruise the backs of your thighs with a wooden spoon when she found you talking to guests when it was ‘unearned.’ It was fucked up then, but now, in his arms, it felt much, much worse. If he wasn’t here, would you have cried on your own? Would you hold in your feelings in silence?
“Shh,” Gojo patted your side, “Just say what's wrong.”
The night sat deep, the fireworks gone and the moon only a sliver. Even with his blackout glasses off, he can barely see you; the limited magic you carried dimmed itself down to nothing but dim. Like those glow in the dark stars kids hung on ceilings, he thought, a light so low he wasn’t sure if it was really there.
"Satoru."
Oh. That sat strange in his stomach. Satoru: so strange, so simple.
It struck him that he didn’t remember your name.The whispers about you were always Maid, Daughter, Idiot, Useless.
"Satoru, I'm getting married."
His stomach twisted again. No ring sat on your finger, no excitement laced your voice.
"Oh, shit. When?" Gojo said, “To who?”
"In ten hours," you said miserably, "Some Zen'in cuck//."
Gojo barked out a laugh at that.
"It's not funny!” You were always funny, even when you didn’t mean to be. “They paid my mom for me and this stupid house and now I’m gonna have to spread my legs for some- some- some-.”
It took a moment for Gojo to swallow this. Arranged marriage was supposed to be for the elites, people who carried some sort of weight with their family name, but it wasn’t uncommon for the Zen’in clan to use it to their advantage. This meeting house was a neutral ground, holy in the same ways as a shrine; if you -a beautiful girl with just enough potential to guarantee a curse-user heir- were the consolation prize for owning property…
He doubted a man would turn down this deal.
“Can’t you just… say no?”
You scoffed and covered your chest, suddenly aware of your own nudity like Eve bit the apple.
“Not all of us are important, Satoru."
Since childhood, Gojo had thought of you as normal. You were human, flesh and blood in the simplest, purest of ways, but that spark he had loved years ago had long been stamped out by the world.
And Gojo hadn’t treated you much better. Teasing you through the years, claiming you as a ‘girlfriend’, never learning your name; it was like you were a doll, a simple plaything he could abandon here and return to only when he felt like it.
Geto flashed in his mind for a moment. He’d revel in the ways you saw yourself deserving of this.
Riko would have liked you, he thought. It was a shame you never got to meet.
The world shouldn’t be allowed to cannibalize both of you.
“You should go.”
You pulled away and watched him with wild, wild eyes. Gojo thought that, for the first time in his life, someone might be seeing more clearly than him.
“What?”
He gestured into the forest. The boundaries of it had disappeared into the night, forming a single neverending block. The whole world was in that nothingness, waiting for the night to end or for you to explore it.
"You should run and never, ever come back to this shithole.”
You didn’t even consider it, drawing back away from him.You clutched for your shirt, pulling it back on sloppily.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.” you press, “Where am I going to go? What am I going to do?”
He didn’t know the answer to that. It was possible you didn’t even have a proper education, let alone experience outside these walls. The human world wouldn’t be kind to you-
But this world never offered you any kindness either.
“I dunno,” he said, “But it’s gotta be better than staying."
.
The next morning, the buzz started before sunrise. The anger, followed by panic. For the first time maybe ever, he heard others call for you by name, searching every nook and cranny for a girl that had long disappeared. Your mother cried, but Gojo doubted the tears were really for you.
About midday, a dark haired man ducked into his room, wrinkles deepened in fury.
“Have you seen that-” The stranger bit back a curse, “That maid?”
He said maid the same way Gojo used to, with unnecessary weight to the word. If he had less sense, Gojo would have corrected him, but instead he shrugged.
“Why would I pay attention to a housekeeper?”
Luckily, the bra you had forgotten last night was tucked into his luggage already.
As tiny chaos unfurled, Gojo hung onto the memory of your figure disappearing into the night, only sparing him the smallest of glances before you were gone.
That was the last time he’d ever see you, he knew.
The room is filled with chintz, most of it golden, all of it dust covered. All of it catches the dancing light of the candle between you two, every item glimmering like the fire itself.
There's no need for the candle, but most of your clients like the show of it all, the pageantry.
The man in front of you isn't a usual client.
"I don't usually give this spiel. I'm not one to talk myself out of a sale," you say, hands working together, building warmth. There's always a chill in the air around you, an energy you can't quite shake. "But this isn't going to go the way you think it is."
The red head nods with understanding. He's an especially broad man, shoulders so square that his jacket barely fits over them, with a tiny scar over one of his eyes. When he smiles, it's apologetic, like he's inconveniencing you.
"You aren't going to get some magical closure or anything," you say. "It's probably going to make you feel worse."
Kirishima just nods again. The bags under his eyes are deep, creasing with stress. He keeps watching himself in the crystal ball you have in the corner -- another part of your show.
"People who die..." You want to say horrifically. Violently. "Under stress tend to be emotional."
It's an understatement if you've ever heard one.
"It's okay," he says. "I can handle it."
There's rumblings across the veil. You can't make out any of the voices clearly, but they are there, waiting, clawing. It's unusual to have a proper in your midst, especially one that's recently been in the news. It's funny; the dead who stick around tend to love television.
"Alright. It only lasts five minutes, but it's going to feel like forever." you settle back into your chair. "You have her article of clothing?"
That's actually use for that. Kirishima produces a simple gold chain, clasp shattered, but pendant intact. It's a blood red ruby, dust encrusted in the corners. It's not clothing, but it'll do. You close your hand around it until the stone cuts into your hand and exhale slowly, dragging out every cubic centimeter of air until your lungs ache, until you think your vision might go into pinpricks.
Suddenly, the world seems to go right while you go left. Your body still feels like yours, but it also doesn't. It's like being a passenger, stepping away from the wheel and hoping someone grabs it before you crash into on coming traffic. There's a long moment where your body slumps, no breathing, no blinking, and you think this is it, this is the time it doesn't work.
And then someone grabs the wheel and yanks your body back to life.
Kirishima nearly falls out of his chair when your body lerches forward with a violent, deep hacking cough, so deep that you nearly vomit on the table. Other you pulls in breath after breath, like she's run a marathon coming in here today.
"Are you alright?" Kirishima asks. "Did it work-?"
"Are my kids okay!?" The other you is half way across the table, panic and tears stuck in her throat. "Is my husband okay?"
It takes a moment for the man to gather himself. He settles back into his chair and swallows, then swallows again, working his trembling hands together.
"They're okay," Kirishima says. "Your youngest is in the hospital, but she's going to be fine."
"Oh," your body heaves with relief. The other you -her- throws a hand over her chest. The sensation of making other people's expressions is strange; your face moves in ways you'd never think to move it. "Oh, my baby.. My baby got out."
You'd seen it on the news, of course. Apartment complex collapsed after an earthquake. The heroes saved 13 people, and lost one. Nara Yuki: aged 29, mother to three. Kirishima was one of the heroes on the scene, the one who had found her body.
"Did-" He's going to ask a stupid question. They always ask a stupid question. You roll your eyes, but your body doesn't respond. "Did it hurt?"
She was crushed by a building, of course it hurt.
The woman in your body shrinks back a bit, her sorrow changing direction inwards.
"I was so scared," she whispers. Her voice creeps louder with every word crescendoing upwards. "It hurt so bad, I-- I couldn't breathe, my lungs, my lungs were filling with my own blood and I just couldn't cough, I couldn't -"
Your eyes flit to him, narrowed and sharp. You can practically feel the memory, how your lungs betrayed you, how each breath with jagged with pain.
"It hurt, and I was scared, and I could hear my baby crying." Grief spirals in the dead. It holds them just as it holds the living. "Why didn't you find me?"
The man's lip quivers. He fights his tears, catches his lip in his teeth as if the pain controls him-
"My baby's never going to know me. She hasn't even walked-" you continue. "I'm never going to see my boys get married-- why didn't you find me?"
That breaks Kirishima. He hunches over himself, hand over his mouth
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he sobs. "I tried, I tried so hard."
Together, you two cry, snot and tears and all the awful things that come with it. You howl with anguish, with anger, with grief and all the other emotions that come with it.
And then the world snaps back together again. As abruptly as it started, it all ends. Your tears dry, your voice cuts off mid wail- you're just you again, no one else behind the wheel.
The silence knocks Kirishima over if his spiral. Sniveling, he picks himself back up, trying to collect himself as quickly as you and failing.
(You can't get emotionally attached to the spirits. That sort of sadness would eat you from the inside out.)
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry."
"She can't hear you anymore."
You can still hear her, coughing and coughing and coughing-
"I know, I'm apologizing to you."
The candle wax has dripped onto the tablecloth. The flame is stronger than usual, which means nothing. Against your better judgment, you reach across the table and take his hand.
"She knows her family's okay now." You aren't good at this emotional junk, but you try. "She might not be around to watch her baby walk, but the kid's gonna walk."
The man holds you back, squeezing your knuckle in an oddly intimate way.
"But I didn't save her."
You don't charge him anything for the visit, like a schumck.
a/n: getting this out of my drafts... iirc this was inspired by another scara fic i read months ago but i forgot what lolol
nsfw! cunnilungus, fingering, bickering, light exhibitionism
---
You grit your teeth. "Can you ask least close the door? Someone's gonna hear us at this rate."
Scara's lips move away from your clit with a wet pop, and he immediately scoffs.
"Stop being a baby. Who gives a shit if people hear us?" His nails dig into your thighs, spreading them further apart. He laughs, adding "Worst case scenario, someone gets jealous of you."
You frown, a fist balling up his hair as his tongue darts in to lick another stripe over your cunt. Another whine fights it way up your throat, and the only way you can keep yourself from letting it through is to squeeze your thighs around Scaramouche's head. He pushes back, thankful that you can't see how wide of a grin he has on his face.
"Come on~" Scara coos. "If you want me to stop, I will. I won't keep going if you aren't enjoying yourself."
The two of you are mutually aware that he is, in fact, lying. You buck your hips into his face, but keep silent.
Scaramouche lets out another laugh once you start whining again. "You're so pathetic that it's hilarious. I bet I could get you to cum for me right now without even trying too hard."
"In your dreams!"
You feel a pair of Scara's deft fingers shove their way into your cunt, and your taunt is immediately undermined by an involuntary moan. Your mind grows too hazy to notice it, but Scaramouche is so intent on proving you wrong that he shuts up entirely, instead circling his tongue over your clit with a calculated intensity. As your legs start to shake and give way, he keeps you propped up against the wall with his other hand, then his shoulders.
Stupid slut, he scoffs to himself in his own head. Though, it isn't as if tonguefucking a girl out in the open would be as fun if she wasn't a spitfire like you. Someone who could just roll over and take it would be a bore, he reasons, whereas forcing an orgasm out of you would actually feel like an accomplishment—Taming the shrew, as it were.
"Fucking slow down! I told you, someone's going to hear us!"
Scaramouche frowns, but doesn't respond. They fucking better, he muses. Not like any of those worthless shitheads are getting laid this well. If somebody started palming themselves to the sound of him fucking you with his fingers, he'd think nothing of it. Typical behavior of those types and all, pathetic virgins who'd never even touched the elbow of the opposite sex, much less gotten this far.
"Ghk-" You almost aspirate on your own spit from holding back another cry. "When I squirt down your fucking throat I hope you choke on it."
"Go on, then," he taunts. "Do your worst."
It would be a lie to say you aren't trying to break his nose when you start thrusting at him, his tongue now back inside your cunt as he holds you up against the wall with both hands. Still, even as you ride out your orgasm, he unfortunately escapes unharmed.
"Told you I wouldn't have to try too hard," Scaramouche grins, licking his lips. "I'd say I pity you... but I really don't."
to love him is to remember him, to immortalize him in this moment, in his perfection, in his lust
pairing: veritas ratio x f!reader
themes/content: smut. there is no plot to this at all it’s literally just riding him idk there's like a little bit of thigh riding + jerking him off (wk: 1.4k)
a/n: 'i don't want to fuck this guy' <- guy who wrote 1k words about explicitly fucking this guy
Stone and statues could never compare, you think, to the planes of Veritas’s chest; more grand than any marble, more magnificent than any granite. He should be immortalized in this moment, in the heavy rise and fall of his ribs, the smooth planes beneath your fingers.
It took so little to get him here, too. Nothing more than a firm embrace (one he could break out of if he wanted to; he never wants to) and hushed words of, “You’re so beautiful, Veritas.”
He grumbled, as he often does when met with praise he doesn’t know what to do with, when it gets stuck in the gears of his mind and they struggle a bit more with each turn. But it’s an easy enough fix, at least for you, at least after all this time.
So, your lips carved a path down his throat, your fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt to give you more canvas to paint with your teeth and nails. An artist known only by your love for him, the only thing you could create; in every form, it finds itself: Veritas.
“May I show you, my love?” It’s whispered into his chest, into the divot of his sternum, a groove wide enough to hold it. “May I show you how beautiful you are?”
A momentary pause, and you're sure he's staring down at you, even if you can't see the picturesque gaze. “As you wish.”
You pretended to ignore the tremble in his voice, the shake within his hands as they came to rest upon your shoulders.
That’s the drawback of this brittleness: it’s all the easier to break.
So yes, it takes very little to get him bare and desperate, although he’d never call it that, even with one of your hands wrapped around his cock, aching and heavy as your hips draw the same pattern across his thigh. Instead, he’d let his sighs and stifled sounds and all the things that go unsaid speak for him, let the raging pulse and burning skin chisel their own meaning.
“Don’t tease,” he says, low and raspy and gods, what that voice does to you, the way it’s sweeter than any honey, riper than any fruit. You’d let it drip down your chin and onto your chest, peel it with careful fingers that are all too quick to turn ravenous.
“I’m not teasing,” you smile back, pulp held tight between your molars. You squeeze his length within your hand. “I’m just taking my time. What is it you always say, my dear? ‘Patience breeds success’?”
He scoffs - or rather, he attempts to scoff. But with the pitched-up sound doing little to convey its intended displeasure, it only makes you giggle.
“Aw, what’s wrong my love?” You offer him a look of innocence, one he rewards with a scowl.
“Just, mm, get on with it already.”
“Okay, okay,” you placate, palms resting on his pecs, steadying, despite the blooming smile that leaks sun beams. “As you wish.”
Your hips strain as you adjust, no longer centering you upon his thigh; as you rise, the muscled skin glimmers under the low lights, proof of your arousal left behind. It was a pretty thing to grind on, nearly enough friction to get the job done, you suppose, but it was never truly your goal - not when his cock lies so beautifully against his stomach.
His own desire sparkles from the tip, pearls of precum dribbling down his length, a worthy reaction to having watched you ‘tease,’ as he so fondly called it. The hand that had been slowly, gently, ever-so graciously stroking his length comes to a stop, instead guiding his tip to your entrance.
“Is this what you desire, my dear?”
This part is always fun, to make him flustered, make him verbalize those ‘filthy desires,’ as he’s so prone to calling them. ‘Don’t be crass,’ he often says when you push it, make him beg a tad too explicitly, but he always manages to choke the words out nonetheless.
“Obviously.” The words likely should have a bite, if they came out as intended, but with the flush painted down his torso and up to his ears, it reads as rather endearing; you hum, and watch his cheeks redden further.
As you sink down, your gaze never leaves his - not even when his eyelashes flutter, not even when his chest stutters, not even when your back arches from how he fills you and your hips nearly pause with the overwhelming sensation of it all. Each agonizing centimeter as he goes further inside your pulsing core, a silent code only he could dare to understand, one ripe with hunger and a carnal need he'd dare to call primitive, if he was any less affected by it.
But finally, finally, you rest atop his pelvis, flush and full and somehow still aching.
The first roll of your hips is languid, measured, while you’re still cognizant enough to hold yourself together. It earns you a warbled groan from Veritas, whose fists have begun to dig into the sheets. Cute, you think, the way he’s trying to maintain his composure, even with the sweat beading down his temple and his cock twitching inside you.
His eyes, meanwhile, struggle to land on a single destination. They roam your face, your neck, your chest, flitting across the inviting space of your body as though he can’t quite make up his mind where to focus. Ah, indecision, the paralysis of a man who can’t stop thinking. But no matter - you can help (you’ll always be there to help).
With your hands placed behind you on his thighs, you lean back, an arch to your spine that lets your head fall. Up, your hips stir, and you whine as his cock is dragged from your warmth.
Through the bottom of your lashes, you catch it: those sunset-rich eyes set their heated gaze on where the two of you are joined, the growing expanse of his skin that glistens from where it had been inside you. His pupils dilate, an ever-expanding eclipse, as he silently watches you lower yourself onto him. This time, you let a moan warm the air until you feel him in your chest.
Oh, and he’s beautiful, lungs heaving and heavier than stone, watching you fuck yourself on him, watching you take him so perfectly again, and again, and again. You’re making a show of it, he knows you are, with the way you refuse to look away, but he can’t bring himself to object.
Veritas is, though, a proud man. Perhaps that’s why his teeth sink into his lower lip until it blooms the same red that’s now swallowed in his irises.
But that won’t do.
“Veritas,” you say, more of a breath, what with the air forced from your lungs with each self-imposed thrust. “My love, let me hear you.”
A flicker of attention to your face, and you almost wonder if he can truly understand you behind the glassy sheen to his eyes, the weak grip on the bedding. When he makes no move to free the flesh from his canines, you lean forward.
A thumb to his cheek. His jaw. His lower lip.
Ah. Finally, he lets the weight of your skin coax his mouth open. You wish there was a sculptor that could capture his beauty in this moment, the oblivious ecstasy of a chronically attentive man; to see him lose himself so entirely, to trust you in his heedless pleasure, is the most magnificent thing, you think.
“There you go, my darling,” you hum.
And perhaps it’s the words, the praise he desperately claims not to need, or perhaps it’s the way you sink down even deeper, slower, sweeter, but the moan he releases is thicker than gold. You hadn’t known he could make such an exquisite sound, nor make it for so long, but it must fully empty the air clamoring to his breath as it spills and spills from his throat.
That is the thing about Veritas, a man of constancy and contradictions (perhaps that is another one in and of itself, too): how could one be so solid, more stable than stone, and yet so alive? The sound he makes vibrates low between your ribs, down your spine, to where the two of you are connected, humming with vitality.
You clench around him, and he twitches inside you again. A living, breathing picture of beauty, one no statue could ever dream to capture.
Ochako takes Izuku by the hand, that sweet, rosy smile filling her cheeks. The whole table whoops and hollers as Izuku brings her hand to his mouth and places a kiss directly on the engagement ring.
"I think we're pretty lucky too," Izuku whispers. Sero gags, finger in his throat, and Denki collapses into giggles. From across the table, Iida joins in, covering his smile with the back of his hand.
Tomorrow night, they'll be married. The ceremony is small, just a handful of friends and family, so most of you here won't be attending. You're fine with that- a couple of fancy cocktails is enough celebration for you.
"High school sweethearts," you sigh, "How romantic. I wish someone liked me in high school."
Sero snorts and Ochako sighs; you immediately know something is up. When you glance around the table, everyone is either avoiding your gaze or sniggering, partaking in some sort of shared secret. Turning to Iida for information, you find that he's the worst of them all, adjusting his glasses over and over again.
"You mean someone else," Denki says after a while.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Denki jerks his head to the side with a conspiratorial grin, "Iida was rock hard for you all through high school."
The man in question sputters-- hard. Iida chokes on his beer and dissolves into a round of coughs, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he tries to gather himself again. The rest of the table is a cacophony of sound: Izuku thumping the poor man's back, Sero and Denki are howling with laughter, Ochako scolding the gang. You want to laugh too because the idea feels impossible -Iida, the collected, calm, polite one of the group, certainly couldn't have been 'hard' for you-- but then you see his face.
"I-" Iida's glasses are halfway down is his nose, "That is not--"
"Oh my god, dude-- you're bright red!"
Iida really is scarlet. It runs down to his chest, shirt unbuttoned just enough that you can get a peek. He can't meet your eye, looking up and down aimlessly. You've never seen him like this before-- not with his exes, not with crushes; that makes something inside you flutter.
"Are you guys just teasing me?" You manage to laugh.
"You didn't know?" Izuku asks.
"No!"
"Are you kidding? Everyone else knew. This guy-" Sero pats Iida's broad chest, overly familiar - "Would lament about you all the time. About how you walked, how you dressed-"
"Sero Hanta-" Iida chides.
"-how you rolled your skirt after training," Denki finishes.
"I did not!" Iida quickly defends himself. His hands are wringing around his beer, tracing the same pattern over and over again as he glances around the group. His eyes never make it your way.
"Oh, you kinda did," Ochako cuts in with a giggle.
"Sorry, Iida. You did," Izuku agrees.
"Well, it wasn't- It's not because I thought you were--" he huffs, "The school dress code said skirts had to be past fingertip length, and yours were- You rolled the hem and--"
Iida swallows hard and finally meets your eye. He looks miserable, lips drawn into a straight line.
"Well, I wish you would have told me you liked me-"
"I did not like you."
"I would have rolled my skirts shorter."
The table breaks into laughter again, but Iida just grows pinker.
Weeks later, at another social gathering, you arrive first, with Iida arriving shortly after. He greets you normally as he shuts the door behind him.
"You look nice," he offers. You give him a little spin, heels clicking on the tile. Your skirt flares a bit from the movement ans you have to smooth it back into place.
"Thanks! I was worried my skirt was a little too short-"
Iida sighs, suddenly remembering your conversation from that night.
"I think it's fine," he says as evenly as he can muster, but his eyes do flicker down for a brief moment.
"Oh, then let me-" You wriggle the skirt up and fold the waistband over itself, pulling your hem up about an inch. It's now a bit too short for your comfort. "How's this?"
He's less flustered this time, now just huffing, but there's a tickle of pink to his cheeks.
"Yes, that's-" he stumbles over his words, "That's less appropriate. "
Your friends arrival saves him from more teasing, but later that night, after a couple drinks, you find him saddling up behind you. You go to speak, but his shushes you as his hands find your waist.
"If you're going to tease me-" His thumbs hook under your skirt and your body runs hot fron the touch- "Do it right."
He folds it over again, then once more.
"You always folded it three times," he says under his breath, right into the shell of your ear. "Remember?"
"Yeah." When you tilt your head back to see him, Iida is only a breath away. "I remember."
request | event masterlist | smut : trapped in a snowstorm (fingering, 1.2k)
the breath comes from your lips like a ghost, grey and foggy, almost real but never quite; you shiver.
“we might be stuck here,” suguru says, the first sign he’s returned with those light steps that carry him silently. he says the words carefully, placing them into the otherwise empty room besides the couch you’ve curled up into and the half-broken fireplace in the opposite corner. dark eyes watch for your reaction, wait for you to panic, or worse, cry.
“i think…i think the heat is b-broken.”
yes, you shiver, and yes, you look nearly frozen against the cracked leather cushions, but you don’t look terrified. when the tears never come, suguru laughs, and you swear the temperature goes up a few degrees.
“yeah, it is. i don’t think there’s any power in this place, at least not that i could find outside.” your chapped lips curl into a frown, and he chuckles again. “but i did find some wood out there. let’s light a fire and make the most of this, yeah?”
at the question, he tilts his head, remnants of snowflakes falling from his shoulders and onto the cabin’s old wooden floorboards. it makes you giggle when he does that - ‘you look like a dog’ you used to say, and he’d just smile. ‘i’d happily be your dog.’ - and sigh. “okay.”
“okay.” he claps his hands together and is gone.
when he returns, it’s with stacks of logs and more snow decorating his hair, friendly stars in an unfamiliar night sky. it’s dark outside now, you’re sure of it, even with the windows boarded closed to keep the wind out.
the attempt to drive in this weather had been stupid, you knew it was stupid, but both of you were too headstrong to heed anyone’s warnings. the resort was only a few hours away, how bad could it really be? and how long had it been since the two of you took a vacation together? no, you weren’t about to miss it for a few flurries.
ah. how stupid you had been. at least this abandoned little house had appeared through the blinding white just in time, the car’s wheels nearly spinning out as you pulled into the overgrown driveway.
a loud crackle pulls you back, back to the unfamiliar living room, the cold leather on your back, the icy air in your lungs. but then, a spark, and flames burn softly in the tiny fireplace.
suguru stares at it proudly, dusting a few remaining wood chips from his palms.
“how did you do that?” you ask - he loves when you get excited about things like this, when he gets to show off just a little.
“what can i say,” he grins, pride blooming between his teeth, “i’m a man of many talents.”
before you can even laugh, he’s pulled you into his lap, thick arms encasing your torso and holding you against him. with more frosty air circling around your body, you shiver again.
“now, let’s get you warmed up, yeah?”
“yeah,” you hum, nuzzling into his chest.
it’s better already, with his cotton t-shirt on your skin, with his heartbeat below your cheek. your shaking slows, but doesn’t stop; above you, suguru frowns.
“your clothes are wet.”
“oh,” you murmur, “probably from the snow when we ran inside.”
three beats of his heart - he’s thinking. “you won’t get warm if your clothes are wet.”
“wha-”
before you can ask, he’s picked you up and placed you back on the couch (in his spot, where the leather is warmer), and gone into another room. this time, when he returns, blankets spill over his elbows and graze the floor.
they’re set next to you on the couch, before he’s leaning over you; hot breath tickles your ear when he speaks.
“you’ll never warm up with those clothes on. why don’t you take them off?” for me, goes unsaid.
when you shiver, it’s not from the cold.
the damp cloth is peeled painstakingly from your body - you wince at the loss, before being immediately wrapped in something softer. two layers of blankets, and suguru pulls you down next to him.
“there,” he sighs, letting his fingers trail over your jaw, the nape of your neck. “isn’t that better?”
it’s just the warmth that makes your cheeks burn, you swear - not the way he’s looking at you like you lit the sun, nor the way his lips curl to show teeth as if he’d like to swallow it whole.
“mhm.”
“ah,” he corrects, tapping a thumb to your lips. “what do we say?”
your skin tingles, vibrating, hot. “t-thank you suguru.”
“good,” he purrs.
there’s a giggle when he pulls his hand away and you let out a little whine, a small protest at the loss of contact, chilled in the absence of his palm.
“aw, still cold?”
you nod into his shoulder.
“well,” he breathes, pulling you further into him until you’re both laying across the couch, trapped under wool blankets, “i can help, if you’d like.”
“yes, please, suguru.” the words come out in a single exhale; he grins.
then, his hands are trailing lower. they dance along your collarbones, over your chest. one remains there, kneading the tender flesh of your tits, pinching already-hardened nipples (you’d blame the cold, if he asked; he’d let you lie to his face).
the other, meanwhile, ventures further.
down over your ribs, your stomach, your thighs. even in those narrow, lithe fingertips, everything is hot in their wake.
when they find their way between your legs, you shiver again. suguru chuckles, a puff of frosted air in the ever-closing space between you.
“still cold?” he chides, but the words have no bite to them, even when you can see his canines digging into his lower lip. “so needy.”
a whimper escapes your throat, but that seems to be the correct response, because suguru finally brushes his thumb against your clit. it makes you gasp, and nearly choke from the stiff air filling your lungs. he just grins.
“aw, you really do need me to help you, don’t you?”
“y-yes.”
“yes, what?”
“yes, please, suguru.”
“good.” teeth that could chew apart stars; a finger finally sunk into your aching cunt. you keen, and the hand on your chest holds you tighter.
a second finger, and you’re writhing in his grasp. when he kisses you, it sucks the light from every corner of the room, until he’s glowing (he’d provide for you in every way if he could; he’d be your sun and pull the moon from the sky so night never touched you, so you’d only ever need him, his warmth).
hot fingertips press into you, into the spot that has your legs shaking, skin sweating. each pant clouds between your open mouth and his, aching, pulling, burning.
“suguru, i’m gonna-”
a low hum, one that emanates from his chest. a correction, a reminder.
“suguru, c-can i please cum?”
soft lips smile against your chapped ones. “of course.”
and with that, his wrist picks up, deeper, harder, faster. fingers pull and pinch at your nipples, teeth sink into your neck. you whine out his name as you finish, until you’re foggy and limp in his arms.
you barely catch the way he pulls his hand from your legs, lifting it to his lips and sucking your cum from it, but you taste it when he kisses you again, hot and claiming.
a soft palm rubs up your spine, and you melt into the touch. he tucks you into his shoulder for safe keeping.
“warm enough?” he asks. you mutter something, liquid words he knows are ‘yes, suguru,’ into his skin. the flickering fire dances across his eyes, and he holds you tighter.
a/n: KAIROOOO I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!! THANK YOU FOR LOVING THIS STRANGE COMPLEX MAN WITH ME!!!!!!!!! I LOVE YOUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!
do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes. put to death that which is earthly inside you.
pairing: priest!sunday x succubus!f!reader
themes/content: dubcon (char!receiving - he says "stop" and it's basically ignored, and there's some heavy coercion/corruption stuff going on here), somno depending on how you look at it (succubi technically visit people in their dreams, so he's asleep ? sorta?), lots of religious guilt around sex, heavy catholic religious imagery (literally straight up bible verses). smut. handjobs, fingering/masturbation, p in v. i wanted to explore the rigidity and internalized shame sunday feels so uh . here's this ! (wk: 3.6k)
a/n: me when he's burdened and tormented (also i had to put my religious trauma somewhere ! hope it's yummy) :3333
The first night is always the most fun.
They never wake, not on this visit; the mind is a simple thing to trick, eager to make excuses for the gentle touches trailing over one’s torso, down their chest. A dream, they call it, a ready and waiting path to forgiveness.
The second night is usually the same - feather-light hands, breathy kisses - but you find Sunday to be a near-impossibly light sleeper when he begins to stir beneath you. Pinned under thighs that straddle his waist, his eyelashes flutter, nearly roused; his lips part, almost a sigh. It’s an uncanny thing to be so beautiful and so unaware; you wonder if he’s grateful for this gift. With a quick peck, you send him back into the waiting arms of slumber.
The third night you visit him, his eyes open slowly, still clouded by dreams. It’s rather obviously unexpected to be found in this position, with a stranger resting over him, smiling, trapped beneath their weight.
“Who are you?” he breathes, barely above a whisper. There’s no fear behind his gaze, only shimmering curiosity.
“Who do you think I am?”
Your fingers trail lower, tracing circles into his abdomen. It’s a fitting pattern for what you’ve seen of him: controlled, precise, predictable. No hard edges or uncertainty, just smooth and calm. Something about a vow, you think, has made him like this. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. A promise to a power too self-righteous for your taste.
His eyebrows furrow as he attempts to focus upon you, vision still blurry. The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, curves casting shadows under the fading starlight, black lace and soft skin. Then, there’s a flash of horns, a flicker of your tail, the markings below your abdomen pulsing through the dark. He swallows. “What are you?”
Ruby lips spread into a grin, one that veers sinister - he’s such a cute little thing, a chocolate covered strawberry, all sweet and flesh and blood. “An angel.”
The silk pillowcase rustles as he shakes his head, too innocent, too naive to do anything but be truthful. “No, you’re not.”
“No,” you lean forward, feeling his pulse thrum below your palm. “I’m not.” You kiss his cheek, and whisper a goodnight.
The fourth night, he’s more awake, but less verbal. Instead, sun-bright eyes follow your movements, the crackling fingerprints that travel his skin. He lets you touch him, lets you trace out the muscles lying below the surface, feel the nerves and arteries that quicken under your touch. Drowsy little whines leave his throat, barely a sound, as you work. Up wrists, over shoulders, to collarbones, counting ribs and diving into his hips, along his thighs, and back again. It’s a beautiful routine, just light enough to keep him half-slumbering.
From there, it’s mostly the same - you touch and trace and tease him, and he watches, silent and mostly unconscious. A week passes, maybe two. The time doesn’t matter, not to you, not really. What matters is the way his skin sparks beneath your fingertips, the way his eyelashes flutter under the moon’s silken glow.
You aren’t granted the privilege of visiting him awake, not yet, at least. There’s no way for you to see the way he pours over text, books with cracked spines and dusty pages, to find the source of these…dreams, of the being that visits him and steals him from the respite of sleep. The word succubus is heavy in his mouth, more bitter than communion wine, with no unleavened sanctity coming after to dull the taste.
On the seventeenth night (you think, if your count is right), he wakes in a notably different position, no longer cradled by the mattress upon which he put himself to bed. Under the mottled moonlight, he finds himself sitting upright, the bare skin of his back resting against something much warmer than the wooden headboard.
“Good morning, Sunday,” you purr into his ear from behind.
He murmurs something, slowly turning over his shoulder to face you. For the briefest moment, you think you catch the flicker of a smile.
“Good morning, demon.”
“Oh?” you let out an airy chuckle. “So you’ve figured it out then. Good, I was worried all you priests were nothing more than fools.”
The lightest laugh brushes past his lips, allowing his eyes to rest for a moment. “I’m no fool. Now tell me, why are you here, demon?”
Through a feigned pout, your hands make their way back to his chest. “What, are you sick of me already? You don’t like me, is that it?”
“I have no particular feelings towards you.” He’s quick to respond, quicker even to remind himself of his place, of his duties, as your palms threaten to burn through his skin. Poverty. Celibacy. Obedience. Important ideals. Good ideals. Holy ones, at that.
Through a hum, you travel lower over his body. It’s a test, really, to see if he’ll stop you, grab your wrists and yank you from behind him and banish you from this place forever. It would take so little: a splash of holy water, or even a simple curse, and he’d be rid of you. Surely he found that little fact in his readings.
And yet, he simply follows your path downward with his gaze (you can’t say you’re truly that surprised - it has become your routine, after all. And Sunday cherishes his routines).
“No feelings for me, you say,” you say, pensively. Lower, and lower, and lower.
Just as his lips open to speak, to throw some calculated retort, your fingertips brush between his legs and the sound twists into something else, something needier, a noise he couldn’t have controlled with all the constitution in heaven.
You gasp at the response, too, awe bubbling inside your cheeks.
“Oh, Sunday,” you breathe. “You poor thing, you must be so pent up.”
“I- mmm.” With a second run of your palm over his hardening length, his eyes dance shut, his entire body shuddering.
“Don’t they allow you to touch yourselves here?”
It’s evil, this touch, coursing with sin and dark, dirty blasphemy. He ought to shut his mouth, rip out his vocal cords if that’s what it takes, and wait. Perhaps a blood smear above his lips would protect him, make you pass him over tonight and all nights thereafter.
“N-not in the monastery,” he chokes out. “It’s against the rules.”
He grants you the privilege of grazing his warming skin, before letting out a shaky breath. Thou shalt not covet. Dispel desire.
“You…you should stop.”
“Stop?” The absurdity leaks into your voice. “You’ve given up so much for this silly church, don’t you think? Why give this up, too? Don’t you deserve it?”
A pause, a steadying breath, to quiet your dissatisfaction disguised as rage.
“And besides, look how badly you need this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” An angel, caught in your trap; to think you may not even have to clip his wings. “Don’t you want to feel good, my dear Sunday?”
Eyelashes delve into the creases of his eyelids as he tightens them closed, lips pulled into a gasping frown. Everything in his mind, in the years of his training, of memorizing verses and teachings and sermons and rules and rules and rules, tells him to say no, to force a stop to this nonsense.
“And,” you perk up at his hesitation, “it won’t even be violating your so-called ‘rules’ if I’m the one touching you, right?”
Even through the feather-light touches, Sunday worries he’s losing his mind, like your fist might as well be piercing through his chest and ripping his soul from it, dragging it into hell with you. The thoughts that make it up his spine are too blurry with lust to let the more sluggish Reason through.
“Right.”
Smiling into his neck, you feel his carotid jump under your teeth. “Good, good. So just let me do this, okay?”
So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires.
He says the words over, and over, and over in his mind.
Do not be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshiping the things of this world.
He knows better than to make idols.
And yet, all he can do is nod his head.
He doesn’t face you, of course, buried under the shame of it. If the church was any older, he’d worry the brick would collapse in on him at any second, to punish him for the sin he was too weak to avoid committing. Perhaps he should be turned to salt, a fate befitting of his pathetic disobedience.
“Okay.”
It’s immediate, the way he relaxes when you finally reach below his boxers. The heat of your touch melts him, his throat craning as it releases strained whines. He’s heavy in your hand, a weight his so-called gods would surely commend, if they could spare such thoughts. Soft skin, unsoiled, untainted. Utterly holy.
As you stroke him with a tenderness only known to the clouds of salvation, he looks nothing short of angelic, the arch of his spine making space where wings ought to be, the tickle of his hair soft like a crowned halo. And you, wrapped around him like a flame, carry him through the air. Lower, and lower, and lower. To soften the blow when one falls from grace.
It takes so little for him to shake, to shudder and cry and bend, until you worry his shoulders may snap if you weren’t caging his torso against yours. His head falls back, slack-jawed and awe-struck, as he releases into your palm, pumps of white coating your hand.
It’s a beautiful thing, the sounds he makes, the purity of it. White and cream and gold, just as you’d imagine heaven to be.
There’s waves of pleasure, his stomach clenching with each one, pushing him further and further into you, and you swallow him whole, welcoming with open arms.
Slowly, you press your lips to his cheek, scalding hot.
“Goodnight, Sunday.” And he falls into your chest.
It grows increasingly difficult for him to hide the dreams (at least, that’s what he would convince himself they are). It’s been months now, although truthfully, you’ve stopped counting.
Every night, he falls into a troubled, humid sleep. Every morning, he wakes to a mess, still half-hard and panting.
And yet, he’s more relaxed, his shoulders less tense. When he turns to the parish, his neck moves more easily. As a well-educated (well-trained) man, he assumes he hides it well, but his relief is palpable, a taste too thick to anyone who knows him.
“You seem different lately, Sunday,” Father Wood observes casually.
With his back facing him, Sunday conceals the way his spine tightens. “How do you mean, Father?”
Pensively, Father Wood lights the altar’s candles, an honor given only to those most highly ordained, an honor Sunday used to dream of performing (now, of course, his dreams are consumed by other desires).
“Just…different, is all.”
Sunday’s attention falls to the flames before him, to the way they dance nervously despite the still, stagnant air inside the church. Perhaps they know something he doesn’t.
“I’ve been spending more time in the library lately. Perhaps my reading has enlightened me.”
“Perhaps,” Father Wood echoes. With quiet purpose, he lights the final candle. “This church is your home, my boy. You had nothing before you came here. I remember the day we took you in, the day you were saved.”
There’s a pit in his stomach, one that grows and grows and grows; he’d expect it to taste like acid, but all he gets is honey. “I remember it, too.”
Father Wood hums, facing away. “‘If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.’” A pause, a flickering flame. “Sunday, I trust you not to forget the oaths you swore.”
A shiver runs up his neck. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. “Of course not, Father.”
That night, you meet Sunday in bed. Normally it’s little trouble to untuck the sheets, to find the welcoming skin of his thighs, but tonight he seems determined to bury himself within the blankets.
“Sunday,” you say. He fails to respond, but his ears twitch. “Sunday, I know you’re awake.”
One eye slowly cracks open, revealing the sun behind his eyelids. “Go away.”
“Excuse me?” you choke a laugh. “You want me to ‘go away’?”
Closing his eyes, he hums in affirmation.
Within your chest, your heart flutters - he’s so cute when he thinks he’s in control. Perhaps that’s why you chose him (the chase is always the most fun, the tension of it all; you think Eve’s first bite of the apple must have been underwhelming compared to its weight in her palm).
Perhaps your routine will bring him back. Slowly, you trail a finger along his collarbone - before he pulls away. Curling himself onto his side, he tucks his knees to his chest and shuts you out.
This is certainly a novel development. And it certainly will not do.
“Fine then,” you state, leaning back to the corner of the mattress.
In response, his left ear twitches, but he gives no other response. So be it.
Against the wooden footboard, you open your legs, visible if he were only to turn towards you. With well-practiced hands, you easily slide the black lace panties down your knees, letting them fall at your ankles and leaving you bare (it requires few garments to do your work successfully, after all - they’re made for this).
Silently, you spread your ever-wet folds open. With your other hand, you draw circles around your clit, slowly, tauntingly. Delving into your own heat, a sound of relief comes as an exhale, one that finally has Sunday’s gaze peeking from between his eyelashes.
“What are you doing?”
“If you don’t want me to touch you, I guess I’ll just have to touch myself instead,” you say. The words flow easily, thick like milk and honey, something sweet, something to help him sleep.
This time, his eyes remain open.
His mouth does, too.
Silent except for the ragged breaths coming past his lips, he watches you pleasure yourself, the way your fingers curl, knuckles disappearing only to reappear shining. The inky pattern adorning your womb morphs and glows; a spot of saliva catches in the dim light, and he makes no move to wipe it away.
With an arch of your back and a tilt of your head, you beckon him closer - always such an obedient little thing, your Sunday (he was praised for it, once); he slowly rises. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, holding it unsteadily, as he crawls towards you. Unwavering attention held raptly between your thighs.
“Sunday,” you say, to snap him out of the trance that pulls him towards you. He says nothing, a small trail of drool spilling from the corner of his perfectly eager lips. “Sunday.”
His eyes snap up to yours, the sun eclipsed behind the growing shadow of his pupils.
Your palm cradles his jaw, thumb wiping away the glistening desire. “Are you going to behave now?”
A blank stare.
A fragile nod.
“Good.” Your grin splits the earth open with wicked flames, poking between your teeth. He drinks in the heat with a starving throat, ignoring the way it burns (or reveling in it).
A sparkling star shines in his eyes, nearly glowing. You pull the two fingers from your cunt, still warm and sticky and sweet, and hold them before his face.
You don’t even have to tell him to open his mouth - obedience is such a lovely thing.
When your taste lands upon his tongue, he releases a moan like molten gold. His lips close around your fingers and he sucks and licks the essence from them, hungry and gnawing. Your fingertips glide over his molars and he fights the urge to bite, to claim (a well-trained dog is still just a dog, after all).
There’s a half-hearted whine when you remove your skin from his, one that makes your cheeks ache.
“Tell me what you want, my dear Sunday. Anything you want.”
If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.
Perhaps dying here tonight, with your taste still lingering in his throat, would be a graceful demise. A martyr of his sacrilege.
Already, he looks ravished, his cheeks dusted red and eyes wild and unfocused. The pretty ones are always the most fun to ruin, to dirty with desecration; they look so beautiful as they fall.
“I want-” there’s a lump in his throat where his servitude lives, where the years of holiness coalesced and stayed. He swallows heavily. “I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good.”
“Ah,” you breathe. “I suppose I can do that.”
“But-” he catches himself. Rules, and rules, and rules. They clog up his esophagus, his vocal cords straining to get past them.
With a gentle finger, you hush his worries. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good, okay?”
He exhales, a shaky sound. “Okay.”
It takes little pressure to recline him onto the bed, the sheets already dampening from the sweat collected in the hollows of his back. He lets you undress him, lets you place scalding kisses into his skin, soft and sweet as a fig. Ripe like one, too.
Only two pumps of your fist up his length and he’s already leaking, twitching and aching.
“So eager,” you coo when his hips rut into the air, chasing your touch.
“M-my apologies,” he says weakly.
“Nothing to be sorry for, my sweet Sunday. Pleasure is a thing to be worshiped, don’t you think?”
They’d bury him for this. The other priests would crucify him and leave his body out to rot. He’d deserve it, he wouldn’t even complain, he’d be perfectly obedient until his very last breath.
As your thighs encase his, as you line his tip to your entrance, as you sink down, slowly, slowly, slowly, until you’re flush with him, until you’ve swallowed him whole and nestled him inside of you, his vision goes white and he feels the warm smile of forgiveness.
“Yes.”
From behind, your tail twitches into his peripheral vision. A cruel reminder, a crash and burn. Melted wings and the sea. But then your hips circle, once, twice, and he forgets himself again, he enjoys the fall.
His hands fly to your waist, before they’re swatted away with a click of your tongue and a sparkle in your eyes. “Ah, no touching me, remember? Those are your rules, after all.”
“Right.” Instead, his fists dig into the sheets, knuckles turning white.
With each plunge of your warmth up and down his cock, he’s reborn, fresh and gasping, each breath burning like the first. Crescent moons carve into his palms, and he groans.
“Is this…is this real?”
A chuckle bubbles from your throat. “Do you want it to be?”
He hesitates for a moment, lets your hand rest on his unsteady heart, lets your skin stick to his. Just below it, a knot forms, the strings tightening and tightening and tightening under years of strain.
“Yes.”
You fill his vision, all-consuming, eating the space between you with sharp teeth. When you speak, it’s a low sound, a rumbling purr. It makes his stomach clench. “Good.”
His breaths come in faster, now that he knows it’s real, that the heat creeping up his neck and down his legs is real, that this is happening. That something exists that feels this fucking good.
And then, all at once, the knot unties itself. The moans he releases are holy, more beautiful than a choir with all its ordained voices.
Damp palms grab at your hips, and you let them. With greedy fingers he holds you in place, fucking himself up into you. Tears well in his eyes and in the blurry haze, he thinks he sees heaven. It opens itself before him, warm and beckoning, in the space between your thighs.
“God, fuck,” he exhales, and you grin.
“How blasphemous, Sunday.”
If he hears you, he gives no indication. Curses tumble from his lips, raw edges cutting his lungs.
He chases a high with urgency, with uncoordinated thrusts and a too-tight grip. His dedication is truly a virtue.
It’s only a moment before he stills, eyes widening, jaw falling open to release an angelic cry. Truly beautiful as he falls, as he comes undone. In the space below his arched spine, you swear there’s a momentary flutter of wings.
Eyelashes open and close, as if to prove that this is not, in fact, real. But the heat still encircling him is proof enough. He shivers.
“Fuck,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.
“Oh Sunday,” you hum, fingers tracing ribs that rise and fall unevenly. There’s a twinge of something mixed into the pride, something sadder, something longing. “This certainly has been fun.”
“Fuck,” he says again. Dread settles on his shoulders, heavy, heavier than duty or scriptures or a grave, than a cross. “Will I…?”
“Be excommunicated for this? Probably not,” you smirk.
Weakly, he shakes his head, sweaty strands of hair sticking to the pillowcase below. “Will I see you again?”
The question makes your heart flutter. How cute.
“If you’d like to, my dear.” With a gentle hand, you brush the fringe from his forehead. “Anything you want.”
At that, he relaxes, his shoulders sinking deeper. With heavy eyelids, his blinking slows. “Good.”
How beautiful he looks like this, half-conscious and spent, utterly debauched. Utterly holy.
“But for now, get some rest.” Warm lips press into his cheek, and he leans into them with a hum. “Goodnight, Sunday.”
you’re ruining me, i’m shaking, barely coherent, and you have the audacity to say “i know, baby, it’s a lot, huh?” all sweet and condescending like yeah??? obviously??? but are you stopping? no :( you just keep going, all soft and sweet, acting like you feel bad while actively making it worse. it’s sick and i need more of it immediately.
