Feb 10, 2025
Kitchen Sink
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Kitchen Sink
Two nickels worth of pokemon rivals who decided since they sucked so bad at beating up animals the easier option would be to get a PhD
you can tell that a horror story is going to be bad if it starts its title with "i'm a" and whether its awful or just mediocre depends on if they follow up with something along the lines of "cryptid hunter for the u.s. state military" or "worker at a mcdonalds"
exposition, rising action, climax ✒
⋆.𐙚 ̊. an interrobang oneshot ⋆.𐙚 ̊.
au · editor!clark kent x author!reader, 9.5k
when Planet Publishing’s editor Clark Kent was given a steamy romance for his next project, he vowed to treat it like any other assignment: professionally. a sentiment he shared with the author herself—except it wasn’t the only thing they had in common…
🖊️ WARNINGS & TAGS: coworkers to friends with benefits?; virgins; mutual yearning; some jealousy; drunken confessions; SMUT (mentions of masturbation, oral, they're both switches, big dick clark, fingering, dirty talk, praise, size kink, tummy bulge, virginity loss, unprotected sex, creampie)
📓 READER NOTES: afab!reader; no use of y/n; reader drinks alcohol and eats meat... not clark's meat, although she does that too
☕️ AUTHOR'S NOTES: @theworstwolvie @pinksplace @tw1sters thank you for giving this a quick read while it was still a fetus—your encouragement carried me here to the post button <3
i hope everyone likes this fic because between this and another in july i don't think i'll be working on anything else... alexa play see you again by charlie puth wiz khalifa
1
Cassius traced a line with his darkened eyes. It dragged heat down Vesra’s body: first her lips, then her throat, then her naked, heaving chest. The corset that damned him all night was tugged loose, but not off, instead supporting her flesh in a way more salacious than it was designed to.
“Look at you,” he growled, the rumble reverberating in the inches between their bodies. “Better than I’ve dreamed.”
Vesra had a tease at the tip of her tongue—something about Cassius having dreamt of her—but the words evaporated the moment his lips took a pert nipple between them. She gasped instead, fingers finding his dark locks, tugging gently at them in a plea for more. If he was bothered by the touch, he didn’t show it: the first kisses turned quickly into suckles and testing bites.
The warmth of Cassius’s mouth bled into her veins. It spiked into a fever when he ground his hips into hers.
“Cass,” she cried, unbidden.
He groaned, mouth still on her tit. “Feel what you do to me? That’s all your fault.”
The question was rhetorical. Vesra felt it more than enough to answer: the outline of his shaft pressed against—
Someone clears their throat.
Clark Kent looks up. So do you from the book you’re reciting.
A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. He’s clearly walked into worse in his career.
“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.
“I’m good, thanks,” you smile sweetly in response, “but please get me another bottle of soju.”
“One soju, then,” he repeats, before stepping away from your table.
Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.
A warm pendant light looks back at him.
The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the house’s wing.
It’s the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.
Now Clark didn’t edit that book. He’s just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.
And you certainly didn’t let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishing’s money with someone special—maybe a boyfriend.
(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didn’t have one?)
So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.
Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because it’s the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, you’re in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.
That dress you are wearing isn’t low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) It’s not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.
But that smile… The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideas—because the only ideas he’s getting are rather untoward.
Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, there’s no way to misinterpret that smile.
Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether you’re into them. Except Clark—if he were to admit at gunpoint—would say that being ‘into’ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling he’s dealing with.
You’re under his skin like an influence.
“Now where was I…?” you hum, scanning the page of an open book.
You point at the page. “Oh, right. His shaft.”
Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word ‘shaft’ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.
“That scene was good,” Clark coughs. And he doesn’t just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. “It’s sexy. And vulnerable.”
The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a “clit-throbbing” smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understands—the first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.
The latter part? He can only dream.
“Thanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,” you beam. “I have a praise kink.”
Gosh, it’s so darn warm in here. (The charcoal’s been dead for a while now.)
“I was being serious.”
“Really? You think it was good?” you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. “I was worried we were getting repetitive—M and I could only substitute the word ‘cock’ so many times.”
Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.
If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get ID’ed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.
And M? She’s the reason he’s working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.
M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.
Alanis Morissette would like a word.
“I’m sure ‘thrust’ is the same,” Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.
You give the comment a thought. “Actually, not really.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm,” you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. “I suppose… it’s the sensation that I find difficult to write.”
Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. That’s the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you can’t edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you don’t take it seriously.
And the two of you haven’t gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. There’s nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.
Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.
“How so?” he asks.
Your gaze shifts away from his. That’s rare.
“Well,” you begin, tone light as a feather, “it’s hard to write about something I haven’t felt before.”
A beat of silence. Then two.
“Sorry, what?” he pipes up, voice comically tiny. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
There’s nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because you’re grinning back at him like that wasn’t a dropped bomb. He’d blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, you’re the kind of woman who just… shoots it straight.
God knows he loves it—his heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.
Like right now.
“I think you did, Clark,” you giggle, “and now you’re getting shy about it.”
“It’s the makgeolli,” he defends, though feebly.
“I’m a virgin,” you announce.
As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.
As if the waiter didn’t just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.
You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.
You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.
“And I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.”
“No, yes, of course,” Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?
Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.
Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.
He’s jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.
It’s the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesn’t need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.
His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.
“But with your experience, Mr. Editor,” you smile coyly, “you’ll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?”
Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Pa’s education, but Clark Kent can’t lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.
He tries to make it sound casual.
“You know, I haven’t done it, either.”
Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.
“Really. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.”
There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.
A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think he’s a catch.
Or maybe you’re just being nice.
You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.
“The meal was fantastic,” you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely sober—save for the warm lilt in your voice.
The subject is dropped just like that.
Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how you’ve never.
And how you know he’s never, either.
୨୧
When you reach the hotel, he’s not sure if you’ll even remember anything in the morning, because you’re giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.
He’s not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your room—to make sure you’re safe, of course.
The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.
He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.
Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.
You’re safe. He isn’t.
Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.
A moan—airy, short.
Yours.
It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls aren’t as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasn’t loud—just him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.
A concrete slab, sure, but still.
And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when you’re involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.
He’d spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his name—that’s how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.
Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. It’s in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.
He’s about to leave when you grab his hand.
“Don’t go,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazed—with both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he can’t bare to subject you to—and he folds easily.
The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.
You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.
But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.
“Clark?” you slur.
“Hm?”
“You know I’d give it to you, right?”
“Give me what?”
“My virginity.”
Oh.
How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.
“Go to sleep,” he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.
But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didn’t make it sound like his name.
You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.
He drifts off soon after.
2
You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.
That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.
On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheets…
…and the things you told him.
Oh.
Well, you said what you said. It certainly isn’t the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.
Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.
On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clark’s doing.
You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water won’t quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.
And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself it’s the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cut—yet you’re not salivating at the sight.
“Good morning,” you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.
He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.
“Thanks for the Advil.”
“It’s no problem.” He smiles back at you. You sense immense politeness—more than usual. “How did you sleep?”
“Really well. You?”
“Yup, out like a light.”
“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.
It would’ve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.
“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”
You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.
You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just don’t know if this is his normal display of shyness or if he’d rather die than admit it.
Either way, it’s just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.
Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.
The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.
Small talk makes it worse—and for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.
Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.
ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets
she can’t tell anyone including cass
figure out b plot
cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her
she obv stonewalls
angst haha
resolve b plot
cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex
That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasn’t moved for the last seven.
You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.
୨୧
Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesn’t. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.
Your apartment is just up ahead. He’s slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.
There’s no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like it’s a secret. There’s no way he isn’t aware—he wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. And you’ve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and he’d think it’s because they want to talk business.
If you do this, he’s probably going to think you’re even more shameless than he initially thought.
What he doesn’t know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.
“Clark?” you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isn’t fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than you’re used to.
“Hm?” he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.
You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like that’s going to help you breathe in better.
“Something happened yesterday.”
His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You aren’t asking a question.
“Yes. We slept toge—I mean, I fell asleep on your bed.”
Clark Kent isn’t a good liar by nature, but you’d be lying, too, if you said you didn’t pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and there’s a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. You’ve known him long enough to learn his tells.
“And?” you ask.
He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.
“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”
You don’t spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.
“And so are you.”
He nods. “Yep.” There’s a pop on the ‘p’, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.
Your lip twitches up in amusement—he looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.
“Gosh,” Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, “you don’t think that’s funny, do you?”
That catches you off-guard and a little offended. “Why would I? We’re in the same boat.”
“No, yes, of course,” he stammers. “I'm sorry, I just—"
“—thought an erotic novelist can’t possibly be a virgin?"
There’s a pause.
" Yes,” he admits. “I mean, it’s my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.”
You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.
“It’s okay. I was just—” you search for the right word, “tickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.”
He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.
“Not that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,” you add, just to make sure you’re not staring at him too much. “You’re a good editor, Clark.”
He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.
“That’s because you’re a great writer.”
He ends that sentence with your name, spoken it’s holy. Something in you cracks open.
The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.
He’s the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until he’s shaped like a man who wants you.
Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.
You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe it’s not.
Because his face takes on a kind of expression you’ve only written about.
His eyes darken.
“Clark?”
“Yes?” he replies, a microsecond too fast. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both.
Either way, you are too—because there’s no turning back after this.
“That’s not all I told you, was it?”
You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.
“No.”
Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.
The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.
“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.
His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.
“I’d give it to you.”
He needs to know you mean it.
As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.
He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.
That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.
The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.
Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.
“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”
His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.
“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”
“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”
The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.
He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.
You fix it with a smile.
“Come upstairs.”
3
Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.
Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.
By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.
Everything smells like you.
Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.
He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.
“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”
He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.
Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.
“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”
“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.
You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”
“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”
As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.
He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.
He likes it.
You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.
“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”
“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.
He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.
“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.
“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.
It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.
Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.
All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.
Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.
A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.
You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.
And you haven’t even done anything.
Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.
Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.
“Can I kiss you here?”
Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.
“Yes.”
Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.
“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.
Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.
You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.
“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”
Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.
“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…
You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.
The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.
One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.
An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.
“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.
“Uh-uh. Stay still.”
Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.
Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.
It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.
But then he catches you look up at him.
The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:
Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.
“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”
The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”
He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”
For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.
Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.
Says it too, even if it’s whispered.
He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”
You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.
He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.
He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.
He looks up.
You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.
Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…
“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”
You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.
“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”
He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.
It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.
“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.
He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.
Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.
Your soaked cunt winking at him.
“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”
“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”
He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.
“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.
You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”
His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.
“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”
Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.
“Clark—”
“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”
Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.
The base of his palm presses against your clit.
Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.
“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”
When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:
He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.
“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.
One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:
And I mean that in the PIV sense.
Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?
Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.
“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”
You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.
He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.
“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”
He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.
But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.
An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.
Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.
“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”
Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.
“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”
Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.
He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.
He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.
Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.
The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.
“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.
“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”
You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.
He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.
When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.
You follow his gaze.
It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.
There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.
“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”
When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?
“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”
Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.
Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.
The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.
Like he’s not just as wrecked.
Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.
But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:
“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”
How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.
“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.
The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.
Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.
You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.
“I’m only halfway in, baby.”
A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.
He pushes in.
Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.
This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.
“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”
Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.
“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.
This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.
Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.
The sight makes you clench and he moans.
“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.
That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.
He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”
“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.
“Gonna make me c-come.”
You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.
The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.
And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.
It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.
Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.
“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”
When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.
Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.
Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.
This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.
The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.
“Fuck—!”
You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.
“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”
“Aah—”
“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”
Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.
“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.
“—a-nghh—”
“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”
The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.
The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.
You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.
“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.
“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”
He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.
The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.
You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.
With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”
It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.
He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.
You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.
The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.
He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:
The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.
He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.
He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.
You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.
Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.
“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”
“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”
“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”
That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.
“I can’t, honey, I—”
It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.
“Gah—nggh—”
The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.
He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.
The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.
Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.
Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.
You slowly take them off.
Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.
Concern.
“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”
He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?
“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”
You stare, wordless. He stares back.
“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”
His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.
“Thank goodness.”
That makes you giggle.
“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”
A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”
He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.
“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”
You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.
He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.
“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”
His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.
You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”
He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”
You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”
Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.
“So you like me, too?”
“Yep. Like, a lot.”
୨୧
Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.
The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.
Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.
Huh. You’re… inspired.
Maybe you should do this more often.
Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.
He notices.
You turn to face him.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”
He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.”
THREE MONTHS LATER
“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”
Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.
Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.
It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.
You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.
He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.
His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.
Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…
Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.
You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.
“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”
Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.
Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.
BONUS
Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant
Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.
A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.
Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”
A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!
Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?
At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.
A: Let’s just say I have good source material.
taglist: @ultimatewolverine @singulartoast @sparklingsin
Abel (Hazbin Hotel) x GN!Reader Smut Headcanons
Summary: Another one of my smut-filled ramblings in the form of headcanons.
Contents/Possible Warnings: Fluff, Soft sex, Praise kink, SMUT, MDNI
Jumping into things, Abel is a very gentle, attentive lover to be with, especially when it comes to sex. Words alone cannot accurately describe just how much he cares about making sure things are pleasurable for you both, with your enjoyment always coming before his. He goes above and beyond in every way possible when it comes to that. You want music playing while doing the deed? He's making a whole playlist of your favorite songs that fit the mood. You want snacks afterwards? He's already got a whole assortment ready for afterwards with treats galore. He's got you covered with any request you give him.
Sex is a very emotionally intimate thing for him. He rarely does one-night stands or even friends with benefits situations, so it's very likely you two won't be doing anything past kissing until he knows you two are something more serious. He's very traditional in the sense that to him, sex is supposed to be between two people who love each other. He needs to know you're just as interested in him in the same way he is in you before any type of sex.
When it comes to actually doing things, he's very soft. He doesn't want to hurt you in any way, so except for special situations or him getting carried away, don't expect him to be rough with you. To him, you're to be cherished and cared for when you're making love, so he's not into degradation either.
In fact, he has a praise kink, both receiving and giving. When he's giving nothing makes him happier to tell you just how well you're doing for him and how beautiful/handsome you look. It turns him on to know you care about him enough to be so intimate with him, so expect praise after praise coming from him. When receiving it turns him on even more to know he's doing things right and making you feel amazing, so please return that same praise he gave you. Tell him he's handsome, or even that he's making you feel so good. He'd probably faint if you ever told him how big his cock was, though. (It's not a lie, it is pretty big...)
He can be very hesitant at first when you two settle into your relationship, being unsure of many things and a bit awkward as things start out. You have to give him a lot of reassurance as you go along, and tell him straight up (but gently) what does, or doesn't, make you feel good. He's a quick learner.
PLEASE KISS HIM. He loves being kissed during sex. A sweet kiss, a heated kiss, something more sloppy, it doesn't matter; he absolutely adores each and every one.
He's a switch. Regardless of gender or parts, he doesn't mind being a bit more submissive or in gentle control; he's a pretty flexible lover in that regard.
He can suck dick/eat pussy like a man starved. He's going absolutely feral, which is about the most you'll ever get out of him when it comes to roughness. It's a whole different type of high for him to give you oral. If you have a cock, he's swallowing. If you have a pussy, he's licking up every last bit of your release.
He loves being ridden. He thinks it's the sexiest thing ever to see you on top of him. He LOVES the sight of your chest while you do it.
His favorite type of sex is soft morning sex that happens shortly after you two wake up, bodies clumsily moving together as you shake away the lingering drowsiness. Something about it makes things so much more loving to him.
Abel also loves to cuddle after sex. As mentioned previously, it's a very emotional act for him, so please reassure him that he did a good job at the end by snuggling with him. He has a lot of self-doubts, some of which will show themselves if you're distant after sex, so please cuddle him; he needs it.
Summertime Subliminals.
yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, non-con, breeding, baby-trapping, tentacle sex, delusion, obsession, drugging (via octo-mer venom), pathetic pervert azul note - thank you very much to a wonderful anon for commissioning me!!! ⸜(｡ ˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
Azul has been in worse predicaments than this.
Or so he’s currently telling himself in an effort to power through inventory. Summer vacation is winding to a close and, with just a month left until the school year starts, he’s returned to land to prepare the Mostro Lounge. The morning went well. He signed off for a delivery of new chinaware, carefully inspected each, and arranged them in storage. They’ll be set out for when the Lounge runs its late-summer to autumn menu.
Afterwards, he checked the aquarium to ensure Crowley made good on his promise to employ only the finest caretaker. It’s no surprise the task fell into (Name)’s lap, but if there’s anyone who can surpass his expectations it’s you. The coral and aquatic plants shimmer with vitality, and the assortment of sea creatures swim about happily. Pleased with this, he wrote a mental note to pay you back for your services at his soonest possible convenience.
So it really wasn’t so bad…until mid-afternoon when a prickle of discomfort rolled up his spine. From then on, the sense that something wasn’t right with his biology continued to poke at him, leaving him unusually hot and disoriented in the cool, temperature-regulated Lounge.
Now he’s forced to set his clipboard down, his count temporarily thrown off, to gather himself. Inhaling deeply, Azul smooths the front of his shirt down and considers every possibility. Perhaps he’s still adjusting to being in human form after spending so much time in the sea? It shouldn’t be nearly as shocking to his system since he's undergone the rigmarole of land boot camp. More to the point, this will be his third year on land. Surely his biology has adjusted by now!
Sighing, he drags his hand through his hair. He can’t take inventory when he’s distracted, so he resolves to do so once he’s feeling better.
I’ll rest for a bit and then return to finish this.
It’s when Azul rises to his feet, stumbling against a nearby table in the process, that the realization strikes him. The stifling heat mixed with the cold sweat. The strange, creeping sense of octo-mer hindbrain kicking on. The itchiness beneath his clothes, as if he’s only just wearing them for the first time.
He’s in season.
“Fuck,” he seethes, doing away with corporate cordial. There’s no one around to witness it. He can be as candid as he wants here.
Still, it doesn’t erase the fact that he’s gone into heat. He should’ve known this was coming.
I was certain I had another week or so until then! he mourns as he balances himself against a booth. The world is about to collapse in on itself, turned over like an hourglass. He shuts his eyes against the dizzy spell and takes a slow, even breath.
Heats are miserable experiences. There’s no human equivalent that can match the sheer helplessness brought on by biological necessity. Sure, humans ovulate or get aroused. But this—the maddening need to mate or be mated—overpowers every other sense, logical and otherwise. Normally, he’d spend them alone in his octopus pot, shut away from society for a few days, only eating at the behest of his family. But he’s on land now, and no one’s around to remind him to stay hydrated.
The only relief about being stranded in Octavinelle is that it’s essentially a second home. Though it’s magically contained in its own separate space, its familiarity soothes the anxiety threatening to take root.
He doesn’t bother to lock up the Lounge as he retreats through the tunnel hall into the dorm. It’s when he spots his reflection staring back at him, wide-eyed and fearful like prey, that he breaks into a run—his least favorite thing to do on land! That’s how he knows it’s bad.
In his feverish, tunnel-visioned state, he’s just able to tear his clothes off before flopping into the pool. Saltwater sprays in a splash the moment it receives him and, rather than surface, he sinks to the very bottom, his mer features finally breaking through the human veneer. There’s no avoiding it: he’ll have to suffer through it here. He swears the moment this passes he’s going to treat himself to a fried chicken feast! He’ll have earned it after this mess.
Curled at the bottom of the pool, suckered to the corner, he shuts his eyes and drifts off into a dreamless sleep. The last of his rationality goes with his consciousness.
— — —
Movement catches his attention next. It could be minutes or hours later; he can’t gauge the time. He blinks through the haze that’s fallen over his eyes and takes stock of his surroundings. Flexing a tentacle, it doesn’t take long for him to realize he’s not alone. He can smell it. Sticky-sweet and floral like glacé, it’s the alluring scent of someone familiar. Someone he hasn’t seen all summer.
Detaching himself from the wall, he moves through the water slowly, searching out the source of the smell. Not an intruder, although you’ve certainly disturbed what little peace he’s clinging to. Azul inches closer to the surface, hesitant, obscured in shadow. He spots a foot and then a leg, bubbles burbling upwards from the force of your kicking.
Is that…? It’s (Name)! he realizes with a start and immediately halts his gradual ascent to the surface. No, no, no! You’re not supposed to be here. Not yet!
You don’t know this—how could you?—but he’s been plotting out the perfect plan to entice you into a partnership. The greedy, hungry side of him was tempted to trick you into a life contract, but you wouldn’t be too fond of that. Thus, he spent all of last year revising his scheme in preparation for the start of the semester. He’s had plenty of time to consider the best meet-cute options, and while the two of you are already acquainted he can’t possibly allow this year to slip past cultivating strictly platonic friendship! That’s why he’s written out a detailed plan, each step leading up to a natural shift from friends to lovers. That’s the route he’s aiming for! It’s just as Idia said at a board game club meeting: “It can’t get better than two friends deciding to become OTP. Talk about wholesomeness to the max.”
Wholesome high school sweethearts—yes, that’s what he wants! The type of relationship the both of you can look back on and fawn over once you’re older and have started a family. Oh, the stories you’d tell your children… That’s why it’s essential he follows his plan to the letter. He needs this to work.
But you’re not supposed to be here, offering yourself up to him with your hypnotic, swishing legs. Of course he’s not going to complain, but he can’t possibly charm you when he’s a clumsy, heat-brained octo-mer! It’s the suave sycophant you need, not the octopus who ties his tentacles into knots just thinking about you.
Oh, but you smell so tempting. Appetizing in the way a five-course meal is and certainly just as filling. And right there, hidden between your legs, is the most precious part of all: a warm, soft, gooey pussy.
Taking care in his approach, curiosity trumping trepidation, he moves in to get a closer look. He’ll admire you in secret for a moment and then return to his corner, alone and unnoticed. But just as he’s plotting these actions out, determined to court you the human way come next month, his tentacles shoot out to latch onto your unsuspecting legs. One even coils around your waist. He’s not sure what he’s doing, and he cringes when he hears a muffled shriek. There’s no time to flounder about uselessly in hopes that he’ll release you. Panic overrides fine motor controls, and as a result you’re yanked beneath the water without a second thought.
So much for being discreet… You can’t do anything smoothly, can you? She must think you’re a brute!
It takes you a minute to adjust, but soon you’ve peeled your eyes open to find his face amidst the dim depths. Azul stares, mystified.
It’s you. He didn’t imagine this. It’s really you.
You’re just as pretty as he remembers—perhaps even more so. But that could be the heat muddling his brain. You’ve always been beautiful to him, inside and out, but now…
He swallows thickly, his tentacles squeezing only slightly. He can taste you beneath his suckers. The perfume you’ve spritzed on yourself. The soap you used to shave your legs last night. You’ve been living here all by yourself since classes let out for the summer, haven’t you? And you took it upon yourself to use Octavinelle’s pool for…what, exactly? For fun? Because you knew he’d be here, waiting, desperate to alleviate this burning, aching desire?
He’s snapped out of it when you reach to touch his cheek. You’re struggling to get a word out and it occurs to Azul that you’re not just shocked. You can’t breathe! He’s kept you under too long.
Gathering you in a firmer hold, he propels himself towards the surface. His tentacles work to push you up, allowing you to get air first. You break with a gasp, and he feels terrible for endangering you.
Clumsy, clumsy, clumsy, he chides himself, hateful.
“A-Azul!” you sputter between great gulps of oxygen. “What… What’re you doing here? And in your mer form, too! Did something happen? I thought you were still in the Coral Sea. Are you—”
The words just barely reach his ears. He’s more fixated on your mouth. The inviting plumpness of your lips… It’s useless to follow his plans now. Too many steps have been skipped, but it’s not as if he hasn’t planned to account for mishaps like these. He can afford a little risk-taking.
Before you can react, instinct seizes him and he surges forward to press his mouth to yours. Your startled squeak is silenced in a ravenous kiss. When you attempt to pull away, a tentacle slithers up your back to cradle your head, forcing you right back against him. Now you’ve resorted to struggling with more force, your hands pressing against his chest. Humans are so weak it’s laughable. He could bully you just like so and he wouldn’t even need all eight tentacles to do that! You’d crumble under just one.
You manage to rip yourself away just as he parts slightly for air. “Hey! What gives?!” You look small wrapped up in his tentacles, like prey cornered and captured. Perhaps if you had sharper teeth and razored fins he might’ve considered adjusting his approach, erring on the side of caution. But you’re a human and he’s a mer, bigger and stronger than you could ever hope to be.
Your arms stretch for the ledge, as if you intend to pull yourself up and out of his grasp. “S-Seriously… You’re not acting like yourself, Azul.” You’re refusing to look at him, but he senses the offended astonishment. “You’re not sick, are you?”
How sweet. Even if you think he’s ocean litter, you’re concerned for him.
His sharp gaze softens with fondness. He’s being too rash. Slowly. He mustn’t get ahead of himself.
“Not sick,” he confirms, eyeing the water droplets cascading down your shoulders. He replaces them with a tentacle, the curious thing trailing up the length of your arm. Even though you’re in a swimsuit, you might as well be naked. He can smell you through the flimsy material. He can’t think properly, but—damn it!—he’s trying. For you, he’s exercising every bit of restraint he has so he won’t scare you off.
The things I do for you… Please notice and be grateful.
“So then… What are you…” That question dies in your throat when a tentacle pokes at your stomach. You stiffen. “W-Wait—”
Fertile… Right here. He tracks the path from pussy to womb and recalls the diagrams in the anatomy books. The place where humans have babies… And your place is begging for it. I can smell it. I could probably taste it, too.
Something moves between your thighs, the sucker-stamped underside pressed up against your clothed pussy. You yelp when it grinds against you, a sucker brushing your clit.
“No… Azul, stop. I don’t know what’s going on, but you can’t—I don’t—” You shake your head and fix him with pleading eyes. “P-Please… Let go of me. I’m sorry for trespassing. I… I didn’t know…”
“Oh, you poor soul… You should be sorry. You’ve ruined my whole plan,” he mutters, clicking his tongue. But he isn’t truly angry with you. He could never be.
There’s a brief pause. You suck in air through your teeth and exhale it in a terrified question: “What?”
“All my hard work…” He shakes his head, chuckling. “Every day spent tailoring myself to suit you, to pique your interest, to keep you thinking of me… Every subtle subliminal sent your way… It’s all but capsized now.”
“I’m not understanding but—” You squirm, grunting with the effort. “Whatever this is, stop it. You’ve made your point. I’ll leave.”
“Leave? No, I don’t think so.” His voice drops to a chilly octave. “You can’t.”
That sets you off. Now you’re kicking up a fuss, thrashing in his tentacles like a headless chicken. When one limb is freed, another is quickly restrained. He doesn’t want to wrestle you into submission—not when the chances of hurting you or worse are so high. So he bites his inner cheek with a sharp canine and tears skin so blue blood and saliva mix into a venomous combination. An inky-black tendril curls around your throat. There’s no one around to heed your cries for help, and no matter how much you twist your head away he still has you pinned between himself and the pool ledge.
“No, stop! Don’t—mmph!”
He kisses you forcefully, spreading your lips with his tongue. Your saliva mixes with his, the venom tinging your tastebuds and sliding down your throat. You choke on it, but he persists, pressing in until he’s certain you’ve ingested most of it.
While you cough, a tentacle tends to your face, swiping the saliva dribbling down your chin away and patting you on the head.
“Ew—ugh, gross! W-What the hell was that? What did you just give me?”
“I’d never do anything to hurt you. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Fuck no! That doesn’t answer my question. Let go of me!”
He’s content to watch you struggle, holding you above the water in a tangle of tentacles. You’re so cute. He can see your nipples poking through your swimsuit. The press of your pussy against the fabric, as if straining to be released from its confines, begging to be stretched and stuffed full. It won’t be long until you’re limp in his grasp, so in the meantime he tugs the front of your suit down so your breasts come spilling out. You gasp, scandalized, and when you scold him next your voice wobbles.
Oh, is he going to make you cry?
“D-Don’t look… Please, Azul, I’m begging you.” You can’t move your hands to shield your face, for he has a tentacle pinning them above your head, so all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and sob. “I’m sorry for whatever I did. So please—please don’t do this!”
But he’s not listening. Your chest rises and falls with every heaving cry; he’s mesmerized by the shape of your tits. How perky your nipples are when hardened by the cool, crisp air. Two tentacles slide under them, curling greedily. You shift awkwardly when his suckers latch onto each, teeth grit to stop the rising whine.
“N-No…”
“Aww, are you sensitive here?”
“F-Fuck you,” you spit, cracking your eyes open to glare at him. “You’re a pervert.”
His mind isn’t moving fast enough to keep up with the biting insult. And, really, you’ve got a point. Looking at you now, half-exposed and shaking, he can only picture the many ways in which he could ravish you. Every part of you looks so marshmallow-soft, as if you’re primed for being bred. Azul thinks it’s a filthy word—not very flattering whatsoever—but there’s no other word that can be used to describe what he plans to do to this lewd body of yours.
In fact, why are you still wearing that swimsuit? There’s no need for that.
You open your mouth to protest, but the words come out slurred. “Waaait… Nyooo, not my shute…”
Good. The venom’s working. You’ve already stopped moving about like bait on a hook.
He grabs hold of the leg opening with the tip of a tentacle and pulls roughly, impatiently. The swimsuit comes away with a noisy riiiip. As he thought, these things are too easy to destroy. You’d be better off in the nude.
And, oh, aren’t you a sight? He’s had dreams of this very moment. Cushy hips, a pretty pussy, bare legs, exposed midriff, squishy armpits, a naked neck… All areas unclaimed and unmarked, his for the taking.
He knows he’s gone well past the point of no return, but his sensibilities have been put on mute and his mind is already made up. He’ll have you right here and now—put a baby in you and you’ll have no choice but to be his. Forever.
The tentacles lavishing your body with squeezes tease the loveliest sounds from the back of your throat. He could listen to them all day.
“Mm, aahn… Aah-zul… N-Not there—mmph!” The tip of a tentacle delivers a gentle peck to your mouth, slipping in heavy against your tongue. Maybe it’s the effect of the venom, but you open your mouth wider to receive it.
When he peers at your face, he notices the glaze that’s fallen over your teary eyes.
“You have no idea, do you?” he asks, kneading your breasts like a cat. He wonders if he can stimulate lactation with this. Perhaps not this early, but the idea of seeing milk leak in creamy trails down your heavy tits makes him salivate. Fuck, you’d better get pregnant quickly. “Just how long I’ve waited. I was willing to wait longer, too, had you not fallen right into the palm of my hand. I suppose I’m not so misfortunate now. Besides, even if this isn’t in line with my plans for you, it saves me time. Efficient girl… You’ve always been good at muddling my plans, haven’t you?”
You look confused, even more so when his tentacles pull your pussy lips apart, revealing your velvety, gaping insides. You whimper against the tentacle in your mouth.
“There’s no need to be afraid. I’ll be very gentle.” He sighs dreamily. “I am the most considerate, after all.”
Pitiful thing, my venom’s made you so weak. You can’t even muster the strength to bite down.
Azul can hardly summon the patience when his hectocotylus dips shallowly into your spread pussy. You’re so deliciously wet already, walls clamping down as if starved. Whatever protests you’re trying to voice—all those scared nos and don’ts—come out garbled with the appendage stuffed down your throat. He’s sorry, but he’d be even more sorry if he didn’t take advantage of this glorious opportunity to mate you before anyone else can. A lot can happen in a year. He sees the way some of your friends look at you.
Regardless of how subliminal he might’ve been with his affections over the past year, it’s rendered meaningless the moment he sinks inside your tight, gummy heat. The squeeze leaves him delirious, and he drags you in close, his arms moving to wrap around your paralyzed form. Humans often hold each other when they copulate. Perhaps doing so will ease some of the tension in your spine.
“Finally,” he breathes, pushing in deeper until the tip bumps something doughy. A tremor wracks through you, and your face contorts in pain-pleasure. A wild grin breaks out on his face, adding sadistic light to his heat-dazed eyes. “Aah, did I just kiss your special place? The entrance to the baby’s grotto—it’s right here, isn’t it?”
Another tentacle drapes across your belly to poke the approximation of the place he’s currently nudging. You slump bonelessly in his arms and rest your head against his shoulder. Withdrawing the tentacle from your mouth, he admires the strings of dewy saliva hanging from your lips. Your low moan reaches his ears, and it’s just the right encouragement he needs when his tentacles arrange your arms to wrap around his neck.
“You’re so soft… So warm and tight inside. Aah, I love you. I’ve loved you for so long now, (Name). Everything about you has me hopelessly infatuated. I can’t bear to be apart from you.” He really does attempt gentle lovemaking, but every rough thrust elicits more pornographic squeals. He needs more. “If—ngh—it wasn’t for you, I’d probably lead a solitary romantic life. Octo-mers don’t populate as frequently as other species beneath the se—aah. S-Sea… That’s why I need you. Need you to be mine. Need you to have my babies. We’ll make such a lovely family, you and I.”
It’s too much all at once. The suckers affixed to your nipples and clit. The tentacles squeezing your thighs, sliding between your armpits, and holding your wrists hostage. Maybe next time he’ll claim your ass for himself, but for now he’s careful not to break you. At least, not physically. Not yet.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chants and buries his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. Flowers and saltwater, sweat and sex. “Oh, angelfish, let’s get married as soon as possible. I promise to give you the world and everything in it, so never leave me.”
He clings even tighter when he cums, pumping your womb full of the thick, viscous substance. There’s so much it leaves your stomach slightly distended. The tiny bump makes you look like you’re just starting to show, and it fills Azul with newly renewed baby fever. He’ll make use of this heat to put one or two or three inside you. Enough so that you’ll never know an empty womb again. The thought of it has him giggling. Pretty mate full of his seed and, soon, babies. His babies.
“You feel the same, don’t you? You want to get married and start a family with me.”
When you don’t reply, he peels you off of him to observe your half-conscious, fucked-out face.
Right, of course.
You’re too knackered to even process any of his obsessive ramblings. No matter. You’ll realize the full weight of his love very soon, once your belly rounds out with his child.
Heat seasons are a nightmare, but with you here, now his mate and someday his wife, it’s a dream come true.
He couldn’t have hoped to find himself in a better predicament.
gifts — lohen x reader, SFW, oneshot
summary — lohen wasn't used to romantic customs. bringing you a gift everyday was bound to be the surefire way to your heart…right?
themes — fluff and humor, developing relationship, librarian!reader, flustered!lohen, first kiss, confessing feelings, gift giving, kind of a lohen can’t communicate spinoff idea i suppose
WC: 1.3k
As far as Lohen was concerned, gift giving was (probably) the best way to a woman’s heart. Picking the gifts was no concern, but figuring out when to give them was certainly proving to be a challenge.
“Oh,” you said, your eyes wide. “Is that for me?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “What, you don’t want it?”
“Oh, no, I do,” you sputtered, your eyes flicking between his face and his hands. “I’m just wondering what the occasion is?”
“Occasion?”
“Uh, well.” Your hands curled around the gift box as you spoke. “It’s just, you…just gave me something yesterday. And the day before that too. So I was wondering…if something special is happening? Oh, but please don’t get me wrong. I’m not ungrateful!”
The way you shook your head and looked at him with clear concern in your eyes gave him goosebumps. Rubbing the back of his neck, Lohen turned his gaze to the wall. His face was warming up again, and even with the use of his cryo vision, he couldn’t fully contain it. He wracked his mind for an answer to your question, but found none.
He couldn’t just up and tell you that he liked you. What if you thought he was weird? If you shot him down, he’d probably want to die right then and there.
“I just,” he sputtered, “thought you might like it. You, uh…you like reading stuff, right? I was just out and about and I saw a book stand thing, so…”
“Oh, is that what’s in here?” You smiled from ear-to-ear, wrecking his nervous system. “Thank you, Lohen. You’re so sweet.”
He laughed awkwardly, feeling the pound of his heart against his rib cage. Words trickled out of his mouth like an uncontrollable stream.
“Pft, it’s not…I mean, it’s not really…not like it’s a big deal or anything. Calling a guy like me sweet is one hell of a decision.”
“A guy like you?” You raised an eyebrow, but your smile remained. “Is there something about you that makes you unworthy of being called sweet?”
“I mean,” he stammered, “I’m kind of. I kill things. A lot of things. And I like it.”
“So…you like your job. I like mine, too.”
“Huh.” Lohen’s tense shoulders fell slack, his eyes blinking. “You know, I never really thought about it that way.”
You giggled. He winced, feeling awfully embarrassed all over again.
“Well, I got you something too,” you said. “I wasn’t sure when to give it to you, but…I think now would be a good time.”
He blinked. “You…got me something?”
“Of course. I can’t just take all your gifts without giving you something in return.” You rummaged through your cedar-topped desk, eventually withdrawing a box wrapped in cute, mint-green paper. Turning to face him with a big smile, you said, “Here.”
To say he hadn’t been expecting this would be an understatement. The box wasn’t light or heavy, but rather something in between that shrouded it in mystery. It rattled when you passed it to him, and with a bewildered glance between you and the gift in his hands, he immediately said, “You didn’t have to give me anything back. It’s not like it’s my birthday or anything.”
“It’s not mine either,” you laughed. “But you keep bringing me gifts anyway. Just open it, won’t you?”
He supposed you had a point. When he ripped away the green paper, he was presented with a hand-crafted wooden box with a latch on it. Opening that latch revealed an assortment of items—fine cloths, maintenance oil, little nylon brushes, and a stone-forged blade sharpener.
His jaw dropped. “A knife maintenance set.”
“Mhm. You’re always spinning that dagger of yours around, so I thought it might be useful.”
“You’re so freakin’ observant,” he said breathlessly. “I wanna marry you.”
Silence fell between you both. Your eyes were wide, as were his, and as the tension between you grew hotter and hotter, Lohen whirled on his heel. Eyes wide and ears burning red hot, he stammered, “Woah, what was that? Must have been the wind! Anyway, I gotta get to work, so—!”
“Wait.”
Your hand curled into the end of his cape, stopping him in his tracks. When he turned back around, you were smiling with your head lowered towards the fabric between your fingers. As you played your thumb along the blue silk, you murmured, “That was really sweet of you to say.”
“Oh. Uh, well.” He cleared his throat. “Does that mean you, uh…you liked it?”
Your eyes rose to his, the smile on your face wringing his throat tighter than the choker around his neck. You stepped a touch closer, Lohen’s eyes blew wide, and with the most gentle of movements, you kissed his cheek.
Immediately, he felt as though he was consumed by a raging storm of pyro. Stammering, gasping a little, and feeling his arm tremble like the present in his hand weighed a thousand pounds, Lohen felt like death was on the horizon. But even if he did end up dying right in front of you, he wouldn’t have regretted it for a second, because sweet Barbatos—was that kiss of yours so worth it.
“It’s a little soon to get married,” you said with a giggle, bringing him back to reality. “But I wouldn’t mind going on a date with you, Vice Captain.”
“Holy shit,” he said, his eyes wide. “You mean it?”
You grinned with your teeth. When you nodded, his knees felt weak.
“I really like you,” he blurted. “You’re really pretty and you always smell like flowers.”
You dropped your gaze from his, giggling so infectiously, he couldn’t resist a smile. Wringing his cape in your hand, you said, “Thank you. I really like you too, Lohen. I know people think you're scary, but…you’re always so kind to me. I really appreciate that.”
You looked at him again, smiling so fondly that he wanted to know what it felt like against his skin. He opened his mouth, his gaze trained on your lips, but he couldn’t manage the words.
“You want a kiss?” you asked inquisitively.
“God,” he sighed, “I love how you can always read my mind, Bunny.”
“I wouldn’t say always,” you laughed. “It was just a hunch.”
You lifted your hand to his burning hot cheek. When your lips pressed to his, Lohen’s eyes squeezed shut, his hands grasping the knife maintenance kit between them like it was his last anchor to the mortal world. You pulled away as quickly as you came, and when Lohen’s eyes fluttered back open, you smiled.
“That felt really good,” he said, blinking rapidly. “The only girl I’ve ever kissed on the mouth is my mom.”
You laughed, and he immediately stiffened up. Smiling still, he closed eyes and said, “Yeah, I’m not very good at this.”
“It’s okay. The only man I’ve ever kissed on the mouth is you.”
Lohen’s heart skipped a beat. “…Really?”
“My family’s not very affectionate,” you explained. “I’m lucky if I can even get a hug.”
“I’ll give you a hug,” he said immediately. “I mean, I will if you want one.”
You lifted your fist to your smiling mouth. “You know what? I think that’d make a nice gift for next time, Vice Captain.”
“I can give you more than one gift on the same day,” he answered chipperly. “We don’t need any occasions or anything, right?”
“Right.” You giggled. “Well, then. When should I expect my next present?”
He dug his teeth into his lower lip, giggling cheekily. Sliding his gift onto your wooden desk, he crooned, “I’ll give it to you right now, Bunny.”
His arms looped around you, yours looped around him, and as your delighted laughter filled the library, Lohen knew that Celestia was a place on Teyvat.
a/n: well i wasn't gonna upload today, but i've got so many drabbles/oneshots already written that i figured why not xD you'll notice my posting schedule slow down a tad cause i'm gonna be getting busier, and i also have some big projects underway. anyway, if you liked what you read, please consider leaving a me a heart! (˶>⩊<˶) ♡ reblogs and comments appreciated! icymi! chai's last lohen post: debutant adventurer, lohen sfw (370 notes) masterlist
⊹ ˖ fellow authors, i do not mind if you are inspired by my works to write something similar, but please credit me if you are. these concepts mean a lot to me, so i would really like to be credited for any of my personal ideas that inspire you.
Minajael Headcanons & RSA MinaMayu Notes 2
[Part 1]
Spent the past few days grinding this post and it is done at last... please enjoy some assorted Minajael headcanons & the RSA AU Minajael & Mayu timeline, with several drawings in between 🙂↕️
A lot of these are a mix of extrapolating from his brief appearance & based on Jasmine from the film, starting with
Canon info we know ⬇️
He’s super chill and a bit nii-san coded even though we don’t know if he has any siblings, thought I personally hc he’s an only child like Jasmine.
He’s very casual when he talks in canon, e.g. using “dachi” instead of the full word “tomodachi.” He hates being referred to as prince, finds palace-life suffocating, hates that he’s being arranged to marry someone he doesn’t even know (although unclear if he’s actually engaged)
He’s also pretty sharp based on how he clocked Jamil right away, and definitely super smart based on how he finished high school at 14 and seems to just be repeating it at RSA for mmmaybe fun? They didn’t give the reason but I wouldn’t put it past him to repeat high school on taxpayer money just to get away from home 😭
General Headcanons (ft. some RSA Mayu)
Continuing from my comic here based on Jasmine’s bazaar scene, he uh… LARPs peasants commoners for fun 😭. He likes to sneak out in disguise and explore, though it’s debatable how good that disguise is and whether or not the locals just pretend to not recognize him 💀
I’m really capitalizing on one single movie reference here, but I hc that (in a sense) “whole new world” to him is like, the world of commoners which he envies the freedom of & is curious about. Being in school is one way of experiencing that life (I presume not all RSA students come from affluent backgrounds), and befriending someone like Mayu who both comes from a complete other world and is familiar with how things work for commoners was like… gaining a “guide” to show him the World of the Peasants (💀) so he’s definitely asking her lots of questions like "Hey. Could you show me this “McDonald’s” thing? I’ve never been to one."
Mina after paying for the KPDH Gakemo collab meal for them both: Appreciate the help, it’s hard to find someone at school to teach me the basics. Though… (looks at the food) is this truly what you eat? Mayu:
He ironically avoids the most obvious oblivious rich guy stuff he could say (like asking for a fork & knife at McDonald’s) because he has some common sense, but asks something else that’s ridiculous like “Where’s the wet wipes?” (For his hands)
Mina after finishing his last “maginugget”: (wiping his hands with the low quality paper napkin) I think the food at our cafeteria is better. This was fun though. Mayu:
(He has smug cat energy. I just know he has ragebaiter potential.)
Re: the common sense thing, with his rebellious nature he’d probably like learning to do stuff himself (against other people’s protest), so he’d know how to do his own laundry, clean his own room, use a microwave etc., but probably still doesn’t know how to cook, since that’s a bit harder. Cue him sending pics of really poorly peeled boiled eggs to Mayu asking her why it didn’t work (bro doesn’t know he needs to dunk them in cold water or just steam them).
He’s genuinely pretty chill and hard to upset. He hates feeling like people are walking on eggshells around him, so he enjoys anything that makes him feel normal/like an equal. If he got told to “kys” he would just find it funny. Would’ve found it funny if NRC Mayu had thrown the apple at him in part 1 too.
Mina after sneaking out in disguise: Bumped into someone the other day and they turned around and told me to kill myself. Actually amazing.
Probably really enjoys certain “peasant” things such as instant coffee or cup noodles. I hope Mayu introduces him to onigiri and he is Enlightened™ by these little rice triangles.
Mayu, getting up from her chair: I’m going to the store- Mina: Oh wait, can you grab me a few of those rice things again? (sends her way more money than she’ll ever need) Mina, later: How much are these anyway? Mayu: Um. Like 300 madol each (~$3). Mina, who sent her 5000: Eh. Mina: Save the rest for next time. (Proceeds to forget about it)
Crazy high spice tolerance. 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Probably would travel to TWST Thailand to destroy his tastebuds with the spiciest pad thai. Mayu, upon knowing he likes instant ramen, introduces him to Buldak and warns him it’s really spicy, but then he just downs the entire thing without batting an eye. It’s his new vice now (although he will, like Umamusume Fine Motion, make the mistake of thinking cooking it longer will make it tastier)
Mayu: Three minutes Minapai, three. Mina: But imagine. [Insert really depressingly soggy plate of Buldak that he later sends her with a 😢]
He can’t keep getting away with it, so I hope he has Buldak for lunch one day but he's too carried away chatting with his buddies and it accidentally goes down the wrong pipe, and for once his 9999 spice tolerance ass feels genuine pain as he's coughing and Mayu just watches him as he experiences peasant food biting back.
Actually. Do you think he’d choke on boba the first time he had it too because Mayu forgot to warn him about The Balls 💀. Y’know what. Yeah.
If he’s online much, then he’s probably decently aware of online jokes too. Maybe even has a ragebait account where he poses as just Some Guy to join mageddit discussions, but little things here and there (like mentioning his shoe closet or something) makes people clock him as rich anyway 😭 howdoyoudofellowcommoners.jpg
Mina: That’s not very skibidi sigma of you, Mayu-chan. Mayu: …Never say those string of words ever again. Mina: Oh. Is it outdated already? Mayu: No I just. I can’t accept that coming out of you… 😰
He speaks so casually all the time that sometimes he accidentally uses casual lingo in the wrong context. He’s at some formal royal event and gets asked what he thinks about it, and he just goes “Meh. Kinda mid.” before he notices the person staring in confusion and quickly corrects his language like “Middle of the road, I would say.”
(Prince who doesn't talk like a prince and also knows a lot about current phrases because he has a ragebaiting alt, while trying out Buldak: Wow. This slaps actually.)
Has the original magic carpet and he loves to speed on it, because the wind in his face feels like freedom. Insert imagery of him slapping the roof (whatever that is) of his magic carpet like that car salesman meme like “And this here, is my baby.”
He doesn’t have a driver’s license but he does have a flying license, and he is the local air traffic nightmare because he loves to fly without telling anyone. Our planes worry about birds colliding with the engines, Scalding Sands Airlines have to worry about their own prince 😭
He has definitely received a parking ticket before. He came back to where he parked the carpet (illegally) and found it surrounded by parking tickets that it kept shaking off like a dog until the officer gave up.
I know it’s popular to depict him with a pet tiger, but I think it’d be funny if he’s just like Jamil with parrots - doesn’t own one but really wants one and underestimates how much work it is. “It’s just a tiger, it’s like a huge cat - how hard can it be?” Mina you do not want to know…
He’s genuinely nice, but also has that unique brand of obliviousness and ignorance that’s a product of his background. He wants freedom and loves experiencing commoner things for fun, but isn’t fully aware of what runs behind that so-called freedom. He probably has some awareness as a prince, of course, but ultimately studying about or pretending to be something is never going to be the same as actually living that life yourself. Things he can experience for a day and walk away from may very well be someone else’s permanent reality.
In true “hero/princess” fashion, he also has a strong sense of justice and a bit of a saviour complex. Guy who hardly says no if you ask for help, and who’d also try to convince you to stop liking red flags such as NRC boys /j
Mina would most likely keep his friendships (with non-royals especially) a secret, because associating with royalty puts a target on your back, plus his parents might do a crazy background check on anyone he knew. So publicly he’d claim he doesn’t know Mayu, for her safety. She’s definitely not featured in any of his Magicam posts, because there are psychos out there who’d zoom into her reflection on his uniform button and track her down 💀
Alt RSA AU version of the apple incident ™ at the bazaar, where Mayu argues with the vendor like “The prince let me have it though” and the vendor’s like “Suuuuure, you want me to believe you know the prince.” She tries showing him photos of them on her phone, but just gets accused of using AI 💔
She plops an apple down on his desk the next day and
Mina: Oh hey. Did you like it? Mayu: Minapai… nobody believes we’re friends and I am 2000 madol poorer. Mina:
There’s also a thing where she won against him in an Uno tournament that I wanna draw where he’s down to his last card and smirking like
Mina: This is too easy. Meanwhile, Mayu with a handful of +4s: Minapai, I will show you a whole new world.
He keeps bringing up having a rematch, but she just never gives him a chance (me when I keep planning to play games or watch movies with friends but we never get around to it bc busy)
RSA Mayu
Ironically, RSA Mayu would happen in the event the mirror did make a mistake.
There’s a huge chunk of context with Mayu’s pre-TWST background that I’ve only shared with some people in her detailed lore document (which I’ve yet to post publicly just because I’m so determined to release it as a comic, but maybe I should just drop it some day with inserted art like this post…), but to very briefly sum up the relevant parts:
Mayu was an only child raised by her mother who unexpectedly passed away, leaving a staggering amount of debt that fell upon her next of kin (Mayu) to pay off. Mayu had no clue about this, because her mom tried very hard to hide it so that her daughter wouldn’t worry about it and could carry on a normal, carefree life as a regular student - but at the same time, she was barely at home because she had to work so hard.
This meant that Mayu never got the chance to make many memories with her mom, thinking she’d always still have “next time,” until she didn’t. Stubbornly refusing to give up on her home that was her only remaining connection to her mom, Mayu juggled multiple jobs to make ends meet and try to survive, but it was still far too much to handle by herself. She gradually withdrew further and further from school & friends, until she just didn’t show up anymore. Permanent 99+ notifications never answered, piles of mail demanding payments laid out on the kitchen table, meals replaced by convenience store food wrappers stuffed into the trash… you get the picture.
There’s something that happens that causes her to get isekai’d to TWST after this that I shall… keep a secret for now, because although it does explain her current personality, it’s not relevant for this post 👍 But she approximately had enough in the bank to keep payments going for ~1-2 yrs after disappearing to TWST, so she has incentive to get back before that runs out.
I hc that RSA is nicer than NRC in that Ambrose gives her an actual roof over her head (instead of some place like Ramshackle), and given her circumstances, she’s allowed to have whatever she likes in the cafeteria for free. She takes full advantage of this Oguri Cap style (which I do have a joke to draw where Minajael can never catch her in the act - he sees her with platefuls of food and the moment he gets distracted for a second it’s all gone, and if he asks about it she’s just like “Eh… it’s a bit embarrassing to have someone watch me eat.” He’s still trying to figure out how that works.)
But despite it being so nice, there’s that special kind of loneliness where you’re surrounded by genuinely great people, but you never feel like you quite fit in with them. There’s people like Ruggie and Jamil who she’d relate to at NRC, but it’s harder to find someone like that among the RSA students. So Mayu likes the people there, but deliberately shares nothing about her past (because nobody needs to know) and is more inclined to go home than NRC Mayu.
Also at RSA she’s kinda surrounded by princes/royalty so uh… she gets a bit desensitized 😭 Mina’s a great friend, but he definitely wouldn’t really understand the life she lived before this.
A few other things that changed with RSA!Mayu:
Assuming no other Yuu replaced her, there’s no Grimmy at NRC because Grim can’t attend NRC without a Yuu. He either gets dealt with by Styx, or just turned away at the door and goes back to wherever he came from, living by himself.
Neither Mayu nor Grimmy ever know the other exists.
The overblots at NRC play out differently and are handled by the students themselves without her.
Isekai Vacation Arc
POV you’re gathered together to send your isekai friend off because she's going home and for some reason your buddy Minajael is not around, so you assume he must've unfortunately had other commitments, but then after she disappears into the mirror a fuckass magic carpet nyooms in outta nowhere and follows her before the mirror closes
I joked in my first post “what if he hitchhiked to her world,” and I think Mayu mentions enough tidbits about her world that Minajael becomes convinced it’d be an interesting place to check out for himself. Plus, with his whole rebellious nature - what better place to run off to than a whole (new) different world? Especially one where his title & status would mean nothing.
So when Mayu’s time in Twisted Wonderland comes to an end, he does exactly that. In sunglasses, bags packed and everything. As a treat.
Under normal circumstances there’s a chance he’d never be able to get back home, but uh… for the sake of Convenience™ let’s say somehow the mirror was kept open the moment they realized he went in too, so that he’d be able to come back any time.
Mayu wasn’t lying about there being no magic though, the moment he lands on the other side, the magic carpet deflates and he has to roll it up and carry it with him (💔)
Poor Mayu gets home thinking it’s going to be lonely again and turns around to lock the door and Mina’s just Right There, arms crossed and smiling like “I was wondering when you’d address me (elephant.jpg)” and she screams 😭
Cue Minajael being in Mayu’s position this time with no identification in an isekai and nowhere to go 💀 she doesn’t have the heart to just dump him on the streets (if any harm came to the literal PRINCE she’s so cooked), so he temporarily crashes on her couch and isn’t allowed to go anywhere without her Supervision. A bit annoying, but hey, small price to pay for getting to explore another world.
Mayu later: Hey maybe you should go home… like I bet people are panicking back home thinking you got kidnapped 🥹 Mina: Mmm 🤔 yeah they’re probably putting up wanted posters of you all over Scalding Sands. Mayu: (Jamil will see this on the news and get an aneurysm)
He also discovers that uh, yeah, his credit card doesn’t work in another world. First time in his life ever that it declines and he’s just like
Mina: Hm. That’s a first. Mayu: Minapai if you make me pay for your stuff I will bleach your favourite commoner clothes 🙂
But hey, it’s time to Swipe That Face Card, Minajael. By Twst standards he’s already attractive, by Earth standards?? Dude. At some point the discussion comes up that he needs to Get a Job while he’s here (she cannot afford to support them both), and he’s like sure where do I start (every new experience is fun to him). So they go to the nearest convenience store that’s hiring and Mayu’s coaching him on what to say so he can get hired without ID/a resume, but bro’s so attractive he just gets hired on the spot and she’s like 😟
And he frustratingly gets the hang of the job really quickly, because y’know, he’s a fast learner (reference)
So despite being here on a trip, he’s now the talk of the neighbourhood as the cute conbini new hire. He genuinely has a blast working there too, because there’s just so much stuff at the average Japanese conbini that he never runs out of things to check out. At some point it really seems like bro’s gonna refuse to leave.
A few weeks later, Mayu: Are you bored/sick of working yet. Do you want to go home 🥹 Mina: Let me think- Nope! Not yet. Mayu: Mina: This is still more fun than being stuck at the palace, so. Mayu: Mina: Also, it makes me kinda sad you're trying so hard to kick me out. Aren't we friends?
It also takes him a bit to adjust to not being able to use any magic. Like dude can’t just do his makeup & hair in 5 seconds with magic anymore, he has to have a routine like the rest of us PEASANTS.
Mayu: You can't spend 2 hours in the bathroom every morning ok Mina: Sorry, I’m still getting used to it.
Except just working isn’t enough, this trip is a once in a lifetime chance and he wants to make the most of it. Maybe check out other spots in the city, maybe even check out Mayu’s school- Wait. School? He realizes she hasn’t mentioned a single thing about school since they got here. He didn’t think to question it at first, assuming it would eventually come up after things settled down.
So he asks her about it, and that’s when she explains she just… kinda can’t go back to school right now. She’s been gone for ages and doesn't even know how to re-enroll after unofficially dropping out (by going missing), plus she can’t attend anyway - she needs to sort out her bills first and reapply to jobs. There’s payments to catch up on, documents to sort through, banks to visit and interviews to attend (if she’s lucky enough - it kinda stings he landed a job so easily, though she won’t say that). He was aware what she’d been working on, but he never quite understood how bad things were, until she finally explains she’s still up to her neck in debt and money still dictates her life right now, so she might not get to finish high school for a while, much less apply for college.
Mayu’s pretty awkward about it because she never wanted anyone to find out, and now the truth’s kinda… forced out of her because he followed her back unexpectedly. Mina has a “Wait… this was your life back home?” moment and she admits yeah, she didn’t say anything for a reason.
I think that’s when it genuinely dawns on him he didn’t really know much about her, despite being friends for a decent amount of time. I’ve done like… a bad job at establishing it, but Mina at some point developed a bit of a crush. There’s that thing where he always wished for someone who’d see him for who he is, and he likes that she treated him like anyone else and enjoyed learning about all sorts of things from her. But now, she suddenly feels like a stranger.
I’ve seen many fanworks depict Minajael as being the confident teasing/flirtatious type, but what if he actually falters when he actually cares? Like he wants someone who’d see him for who he is so badly - titles & labels be damned - that if said person is someone he considers a friend, he’d weigh his options and decide that preserving the friendship’s more important to him than possibly ruining it all. So he maybe toes the line a bit but never crosses it, because he genuinely cares and doesn’t want to lose that person. Guy who makes a friend that treats him like a normal person then doesn't really wanna ruin the friendship by doing anything to shake it up.jpg, so despite his crush he never really let it show around Mayu either.
But now he’s quite conflicted about it, the way he might’ve liked her for what she brought to his life but didn’t really know her, until now. Her stories about her original world piqued his curiosity and he jumped on the opportunity, not realizing she hid a lot about her world from him too. For all his curiosity about the world out there, he didn’t pay attention to the person right beside him.
And now he’s intruding upon her home while she’s working on getting her life back together (he struggles to understand why she couldn’t just stay in Twisted Wonderland too, everything seemed easier there), and he really wants to help (because he’s genuinely a nice person and cares about his friend), but is left without any real means to do so. His title means nothing here, his money has no value here, it’s the most uncomfortable thing ever that he’s forced to feel useless while witnessing the reality of a commoner’s life that happens every day.
At the very least, he has more than enough time to think while staying here. There’s a slight shift in his mood for the next while as their daily life continues at its steady rhythm.
Realistically, I think he would eventually end up going home no matter what. Because as much of a rebel he is, I can't picture him actually being able to completely throw his entire life, family, and friends away. He's still a prince with responsibilities and connections, and probably cares about what he left behind, so this was always going to be just a short trip to another world for him. Plus, despite having a hard time understanding it, he ultimately respects her decision to go home and deal with her life herself. And so, all things must eventually come to an end.
Without Mayu even bringing it up again, he just casually drops one day (after closing the book he’s reading or something), “I think I’m going home.”
Fast-forward to his departure, Mina has his bags all packed and he’s carrying his rolled up magic carpet over his shoulder, and he’s standing in front of the mirror ready to go
Mina: So. I think this probably means I’ll never see you again. Mayu: Probably. It was fun to get to spend a bit more time with you though! Mina: Mhm… (turning around to leave) Y’know. Minajael Tealrajah, first prince of the Scalding Sands, someone who valued keeping his friendship over anything else, now finally with nothing to lose: I liked you.
He steps into the mirror, and doesn’t look back.
(Something something “I’m not leaving without telling you something that won’t let you forget me” kinda mf, Scalding Sands men that make you wanna kill them or something 💀)
End
The way I expanded one passing thought of “what if he hitchhiked” this much 😭 there’s a reason I’ve been saying I’ve written him like he’s my own OC
Said isekai vacation was another "fun" thing and in Mina’s rebel nature to do, but the experience made him self-reflect and realize that, yeah he still hates not having freedom, but he also has a duty and a lot of learning to do. He’s been enjoying “commoner stuff,” but someone in his position should also genuinely care about the people he’ll be ruling over eventually. He isn’t ordinary, and he holds the power to really make a difference if he wanted to.
Freedom was technically right within Minajael’s grasp - he could’ve just ran away for real, or chased love over everything else, but he’s choosing instead to willingly shouldering the responsibilities he once desperately tried to run away from. Because he doesn't want people - his people - to suffer the way the girl he once loved did. He may hate being a prince, but he knows he’ll hate being a coward even more.
About the whole arranged marriage thing - no, I still don’t see him simply accepting it even if he gave up on Mayu, but I think he’ll be more open to trying to talk to his parents about it once he gets back. Y’know, the Sultan made an exception for Jasmine, so I have faith in Mina.
Oh and, he definitely got shoved a bunch of Japanese goodies by the store manager when he quit.
Bonus if he sneakily left Mayu some stuff (e.g. his family heirloom earrings/necklaces) to help her out. It’s not like he’d miss it. When questioned about it back in Twisted Wonderland, he just claims he carelessly lost them in the other world. Or claim he got robbed. (Mayu’s list of crimes against royalty now include both kidnapping and robbery 😭)
As to why he didn’t just offer it while he was there… he knew she’d probably refuse the offer anyway, so the only option was to leave it there as a surprise. If they ever meet again somehow and he learns that it worked he can be like "Wait. If you got into college on my dime… that means you can’t say anything about me repeating high school on the taxpayer's dime now." (Does that tap fist on palm thing like he had an eureka) (Not that I think they’ll meet again)
In the end, Minajael left a dear friend behind. But if you asked him about certain things, like why he knows the best way to cook an egg for his ramen-