#sunday smut

[muscatt]

SUNDAY PHAINON AND RATIO??????? AHHHHHHHHAHDLKEWBDAKLBSCKOAWBDKABDCABSDKDKDNA and that annoying enemy ig….

art creds! - @/yuelinpanp98413 on twt!

[chrollogy]

𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝓟𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 | sunday x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: Penacony is riddled with rumours about infighting within The Family, resulting in Penaconians and tourists to question the stability of the Dreamscape and whether the Five Great Lineages are actually ‘harmonious’. As a solution, the Dreammaster assigns you—Third to the Iris Family Head—to marry Sunday, the revered Head of the Oak Family. A symbolic pair meant to embody harmony within The Family and refute hearsay.

Beneath the spectacle, however, lies unresolved affection, quiet hesitation, and the painful question of whether your ‘perfect’ marriage is merely performance—or something real.

CONTENT WARNING: arranged marriage, halovian!reader, actress!reader, reader is referred to as miss & mrs, loosely follows canon lore, fluff, angst, SLOW BURN, one sided pining but eventually turns to mutual pining, requited unrequited love, childhood friends, forbidden lovers if you squint, petname (my love), OCs mentioned, plot with p*rn, smut (mdni), virgin!sunday, masturbation (m), body worship if you squint, guided fingering, virginity loss (m), p in v, creampie, sunday cums a lot lol, not beta read.

WORD COUNT: 22,994

NOTES: this is prob the most slowburn fic i’ve ever written >< sunday fic for my birthmonth hehe enjoy!! div: diviniyae

Moment of Morning Dew

The chandeliers of Dewlight Pavilion glimmered like suspended constellations, their fractured light spilling across polished marble in soft gold and pale violet. Even in the Dreamscape—where beauty was manufactured to perfection—this place still carried a certain weight; a stillness that pressed gently against one’s lungs. Amidst the grandeur of the Pavilion, you stood a step behind Maeven Ellis’s absence—your adoptive mother—her authority as Iris Family Head lingered in your posture in the way attendants lowered their gaze as you passed.

Third to the Head of the Iris Family, yet today, you felt oddly like a child again; waiting in a suffocating office as you were summoned by the Dreammaster himself, you weren’t aware of the reason why he had called upon your name but judging from your senses, you weren’t going to like it.

Across the room, not far off from where you stood, was Sunday, he was situated beneath a stained glass window, its colours painted him in shifting hues of amber, indigo and rose where it bounced off his gleaming halo, depicting him as some kind of reverend being. When you had entered the Dreammaster’s office, you were greeted by the Oak Family Head—a mere formality, a simple nod of his head. No words, no nothing.

It had been a while since you’ve last stood in his presence like this, most of the time you’d see him around Penacony or during grand Family banquets but that was about it, nothing more than a hollow distance between the two of you.

Minutes of deafening silence passed before the doors to the office opened once again and in came Mr. Gopher Wood, it wasn’t his original form, merely someone else’s body—presumably someone from the Oak Family—he had possessed.

“Come closer.” He had instructed before taking a seat behind the wooden desk, his tone was calm yet it held unparalleled authority—as a child, it would always send chills down your spine; countless Family gatherings where he spoke to your mother in such a tone. The Dreammaster was a kind man yet something about him unsettled you.

Without another word, you stepped forward just short of his desk, heels echoing faintly against the marble floors. Sunday mirrored your actions, standing a few centimetres away from you—it was enough to get a whiff of his scent.

Vanilla and musk, something sweet yet pierced one’s senses. You tried to ignore the way his shoulder almost brushed your own and how his figure towered you.

“I’m sure you’re both well aware of rumours that are circulating around the Dreamscape,” Mr. Gopher Wood began, hands folded neatly atop the desk.

You sucked in a small breath, you’d heard them too. Whispers that drifted through velvet corridors, murmured between the cracks of reality that there was in-fighting between The Family lineages which ultimately questioned the Dreamscape’s stability. For a space designed to eliminate unfavourable factors, it wasn’t hard for negativity such as baseless rumours to start circulating within its walls.

Dangerous words which challenged The Family.

But . . as for summoning you and Sunday, you were clueless. Why did the Dreammaster specifically choose you? You weren’t skeptic about Sunday as he held authority over the Oak Family, in other words, he was Mr. Gopher Wood’s successor but as for you . . it didn’t quite make sense.

Neither of you answered, instead, you both waited for the Dreammaster to speak once more. 

“Rumours are . . fragile things, if they are left unchecked, they fracture trust. And in Penacony, trust is the foundation upon which dreams stand.”

The Dreammaster continued, “Thus, we shall give Penacony something stronger than baseless rumours—a symbol of eternal harmony.” Something inside your stomach tightened, you didn’t like the tone in his sentence, as if it was final and had no room for if’s or but’s; an idea that was already concrete before it came into existence.

“You two will be married.” Mr. Gopher Wood stated as if discussing something as simple as a change in décor.

Silence fell.

If the previous silence felt suffocating, this one was much, much worse. It felt heavier and pressed onto your skin tighter as though it was determined to live inside your bones. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint hum of the warm chandeliers—even its glimmering lights felt hot against your skin, a searing burn.

Was the Dreammaster serious? An arranged marriage between you and Sunday? In your eyes, marriage weighed more than a coin being tossed in a bucket, it symbolised unity between two individuals who loved and cherished one another, not a façade to combat baseless rumours, and especially not a lie.

A million emotions surged through you; the thought of eternal unity with Sunday was something you had always dreamed of ever since you were a child. The first time you laid eyes upon him was when you were both naïve and wide-eyed, and something inside your young heart stirred when he laughed at your jokes or tugged at your hands with his, running away from panicked attendants assigned to look after you.

Back then, your adoptive mother would bring you over to the old Oak Family manor for play dates with Sunday and his younger twin sister—a young trio built on mischief and pure wander. The three of you were inseparable until the day duties and career came into talk, where days filled with innocent laughter turned into monotonous lessons that prepared one for the burden of authority.

Yes, you weren’t going to deny it, you had feelings for Sunday that stemmed a long while back but being married to him under a contract that screamed nothing but business was not what younger you would’ve wanted, no, she had dreamed of a blossoming, genuine love.

There was also unease for the role entrusted upon you; how would being in a false marriage affect your naïve heart? You were well aware Sunday didn’t mirror your feelings at all but having him pretend and play the part of a husband was beyond dangerous. It was ironic to think that this marriage was akin to Penacony’s Dreamscape itself—a dream becoming a reality.

But . . was it your dream to be married off to Sunday in the name of falsehood?

With the Charmony Festival inching closer, it wasn’t a surprise the Dreammaster was becoming desperate for a solution.

You laughed. A humourless sound that conveyed the disbelief in your heart; you were raised to be a respectful, refined woman especially in the presence of esteemed Elders but not when said Elder proposed such a bizarre idea. This was marriage the Dreammaster was talking about, a life long commitment—a life long role that was anything but real.

“Pardon my brazenness, Mr. Gopher Wood but . . are you serious?”

The Dreammaster didn’t so much as blink, “Completely.”

At his affirmative reply, you slowly turned your head to the side towards Sunday; he remained expressionless, the glimmer in his citrine eyes hiding more than just pure emotions. His posture remained straight, one hand tucked behind his back just as he had been taught by the Oak Family Elders. Whether the idea affected him or not, Sunday didn’t let on, not even a twitch of his brow nor a rustle of his ivory wings.

“A union between the Oak and Iris Family presented as one of harmony—of perfection. A model pair for Penaconians to look up to, and once the people see The Family’s harmony upon supporting this marriage, rumours will fade.” Mr. Gopher Wood continued, which turned your attention back to him.

The Dreammaster had a point, with two significant figures in the five lineages getting married, Penaconians would witness The Family working together to ensure it happens flawlessly—the Oak Family would be tasked with organization, the Alfalfa Family with financing, the Bloodhound Family with security, the Iris Family with reception entertainment, and the Nightingale Family with decorations. All in perfect harmony.

“And what it needs to see,” You murmured quietly. “Is a lie?” You knew it was only a matter of time before the Dreammaster exhausted his patience and snapped. He had always been fond of you but knew to draw the line at disrespect.

His gaze remained fixated on you, it wasn’t unkind but it was firm, unwilling to back down from the challenge you had presented; he noticed the way your wings rustled imperceptibly, how it curled inwards as if to display silent retaliation.

“The Dreamscape needs stability.”

That wasn’t the answer you were looking for.

Slowly, you exhaled then fully turned toward Sunday, his golden halo glimmered brighter than ever, “Sun—Mr. Sunday.” He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a split second—just a flicker—you saw it. Something from years ago when he used to grin at you over ice cream and toys.

“Are you okay with this?” The question came out softer than you’d expected, laced with vulnerability. Sunday held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then, parted his lips to speak, 

“As Oak Family Head, it is my duty to ensure that everything within the Dreamscape remains in order.”

“. . That’s not what I asked.”

Were you surprised, though? You’ve always known Sunday was a selfless individual, especially when it came to Robin but you wished—more than anything—that he’d be a bit more selfish; to do something that he truly wanted and not because he was bound by duty and expectations.

“This arrangement fulfills its purpose.” As expected, Sunday spoke like this matter was nothing more than another responsibility to be managed, throwing out the fact that he was to be married off to someone he didn’t love.

You nodded, “Right.” A small, hollow sound. And once more, you were hit with the harsh reality that this Sunday wouldn’t run away the same way he did during the lessons he found boring, no, instead this Sunday would build the cage himself if it meant keeping everything intact and under his control.

Hesitantly, you looked away first, directing your attention back to the Dreammaster—any second longer looking at those citrine eyes was far too dangerous for your heart, “Apologies, Mr. Gopher Wood but I need time. This isn’t . . exactly a small decision.”

But did you even have the luxury to make a choice? Nonetheless, Mr. Gopher Wood inclined his head slightly and indulged you in your request, “You will have what time is necessary but do understand, the longer uncertainty lingers, the more damage rumours may cause.”

A gentle threat wrapped in silk.

You nodded calmly, though your thoughts were nowhere nearly as composed. Marriage. To Sunday. It was as though the stars were playing a nasty elaborate prank on you but as twisted as it was, a part of you—one buried within the depths of your being—was happy.

Could you blame yourself though? You’ve pined for Sunday for eons because maybe, just maybe, he would finally look at you the same way you’ve looked at him: under the light of romance.

“Then, I shall take my leave. Mr. Gopher Wood. Mr. Sunday.” After necessary formalities, you turned to leave, light from the chandeliers above stretching your meek shadow across the marble floor.

“Maeven Ellis’s daughter.”

You paused. It was the Dreammaster’s voice once again, “You are an actress, are you not?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you spoke up, “Yes.”

“Then think of this as your most important role.”

At his words, your lips pressed into a thin line. That was easier said than done. A performance, of course, everything in Penacony was. You didn’t bother responding, instead, you kept walking, heels echoing with each careful step, out of the Dreammaster’s office and away from Sunday.

Moment of Golden Hour

Despite the name of Golden Hour, sunlight didn’t spill like liquid gold in the Moment but the Dreamscape was as beautiful as ever. After the impromptu meeting with the Dreammaster and Sunday, you found yourself sitting on an iron bench at Aideen Park—a quiet corner devoid of commotion to collect your thoughts. In the distance, laughter echoed and soft music the band performed.

On your lap rested an important document for an upcoming film, pages and pages of a bound script to read and remember but for once, you didn’t feel like reading. Not when your mind wandered off to the encounter a few system hours back, you couldn’t help but replay Mr. Gopher Woods words—that you’d be married to Sunday.

Amidst the serenity of the Moment, your ears perked up at the sound of familiar footsteps coming closer—calculated and sharp—but you didn’t bother looking up.

“I thought you might be here.”

The owner of the calm voice was no other than Sunday, you were more than certain of it because only he had the power to make your heart stutter. You didn’t let on—didn’t show an ounce of emotion just as you’ve been doing for the past years you’ve known him. Slowly, you exhaled, gaze still fixed on the inked pages atop your lap.

“The Oak Family Head seeking an audience with me? What a lucky woman I am.” You chuckled humourlessly. Sunday didn’t reply and you almost felt bad for greeting him with such a sour state, so you spoke up again, “. . Are you surprised? You know my hiding spots better than anyone.”

Growing up, Sunday learned that whenever you had something in mind, you always seemed to seek out quiet spots to unwind and one of them happened to be in Aideen Park—a tucked little area away from everyone while still able to bask in the Moment’s luxury.

“You never changed them.” Sunday whispered in a soft tone, if you hadn’t caught it, you’d think he was merely murmuring to himself. There was something in his voice you didn’t quite recognize, one that made you curl your fingers tighter around the pages.

“Is there . . something you need, Oak Family Head?”

As much as he appreciated authority, Sunday never did like it when you addressed him with formality but he’d rather sever his halo than admit it to your face. After all, it was merely a silly thought. He let your question linger in the air for a while, letting the background noise of the park fill the space between the two of you, then, he spoke,

“I came for your answer.” Straight to it. Of course he did.

A quiet, humourless laugh slipped past your lips, you finally turned to look at him. The golden lights of Aideen Park engulfed his pale blue strands, it softened the edges of his otherwise composed expression but it didn’t make him easier to read. You couldn’t lie, Sunday looked absolutely breathtaking and it pained your heart at how effortless it was for him; his citrine gaze shone the same way his halo did, bright and blinding.

“My answer? That’s what this is to you? And here I thought you came to seek me out as a—I don’t know, maybe a friend?”

It was microscopic but you saw the way Sunday’s shoulders sagged and how the wings behind his ears lowered but you weren’t about to be moved by something minute; what the Dreammaster had asked of you—and Sunday—wasn’t something simple, it asked for your soul, to play a never ending role built on lies.

“It’s a matter that requires resolution.” He replied evenly. Your chest tightened, “Do you know what you’re asking of me, Sunday?” The question came out sharper than intended but you didn’t take it back and for the first time, something flickered across his face, maybe it was surprise, maybe it was discomfort, you didn’t bother deciphering.

“I am aware of the implications—” “No.” You cut him, shaking your head as you stood, the script on your lap swiftly falling onto the ground, long forgotten. “No, you’re aware of the politics of it—the outcome.”

Frustration rose within your body, a scowl forming on your face as you stepped forward. Sunday had never seen such a look painted on your face, he had only ever seen pleasant expressions from you, especially directed towards him.

“You’re asking me to stand beside you in front of all of Penacony and smile like it means something. To let them believe—” Your voice caught slightly but pushed through it, “—to let them believe this is real.”

“That’s the role we’ve been assigned.” He said quietly. “Assigned,” You echoed, almost incredulous. “Is that all this is to you? Another duty? Another piece of the Dreamscape you have to keep polished and intact?”

“If you think I have the luxury to treat it as anything else then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Then, let me ask you one thing, Oak Family Head. Did you have a hand at choosing your . . partner?” With Sunday willing to fulfill such a role, you were certain Mr. Gopher Wood had already told him about the proposal prior to the meeting earlier, and you were sure the latter had at least given him freedom to choose.

Sunday nodded, “Yes.”

You let out a shaky breath, your scowl turning into something much softer. Sadness. “But why? Why me, Sunday? Don’t—Don’t you know how cruel that is? To ask for something that big?” You looked away, unable to see the way regret briefly shadowed his face. His chest tightened at your pitiful form, he didn’t mean to put you in a troubled spot but he wasn’t entirely innocent either.

Marriage meant the two of you were bound to each other for eternity with divorce was absolutely out of the table, especially for prominent figures like you and Sunday; it made sense for a planet that worshipped the Aeon of Harmony.

“. . Because I assumed you wouldn’t be scared doing it with me, at least—doing it by my side.”

Oh, your foolish, foolish heart shouldn’t have skipped a beat at his reply but it did and it angered you even more that it did because despite it all, you still loved him. And maybe you were willing to comply but a greater part of you was stubborn.

“Do not try to mold me with flattery, Sunday. What about us, hm? We’re not symbols—not the ‘model pair’ the Dreammaster deems us to be. We’re people with lives of our own! I cannot dictate for you but I know marriage is something I want to be organic. To fall in love with a man who cherishes and loves me back.”

Words hung heavy in the air, fragile and bare. For a split second, you were convinced he was going to take a step closer and say something that wasn’t measured or wrapped in a silken ribbon called duty. And maybe some twisted part of you wished Sunday would have told you that he’d at least try to love you—to reassure and tell you that your heart has a home in his hands but he didn’t. 

Instead, he said: “We are what Penacony needs us to be.”

Silence settled once more, you didn’t answer this time as you were reminded that you and Sunday held very different dreams. You closed your eyes to steady yourself briefly, and when you opened them again, your expression had shifted, something more resigned, “. . Fine.”

Sunday’s ears perked, wings spreading ever so slightly as if to convey shock. You straightened slightly, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from your clothes—a habit you’ve picked up before you stepped in front of rolling cameras.

There was no use arguing with Sunday or pushing your ideals to him, he was stubborn and he’d do anything to ensure the stability of the Dreamscape, even if it meant carrying the weight of falsehood his whole life. Besides, arguing like this in public was sure to garner unwanted attention, it was only a matter of time before someone heard of the conversation.

“If this is the role entrusted to me then I’ll play it. I’ll accept the marriage.” The words felt foreign on your tongue—too final but you didn’t waver. 

Sunday carefully studied you as if to search for something beneath your composure, “Are you certain?”

You laughed humourlessly, “Do you think I have a choice? But if you want me to be honest, no. But I’ll do it anyway.” For you, you wanted to add. You bent down to swiftly pick up your script, dusting it off lightly, and when you returned his gaze, your expression had settled into something practiced.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it believable.” The corners of your lips tugged upwards despite its heaviness.

“I . . never doubted that. You are one of Penacony’s greatest actresses.” Sunday intended to lighten the mood, to flatter your skills and forget about the tension in the air but for some reason, his words hurt more than anything else. You put too much faith in me, Sunday. You thought.

Sure, acting came easily to you but not when you had to play the eternal role of a loving wife for a man you’ve pined for. For years. It was a twisted game that tested the borders between a dream and reality, and you could only hope to build a cage around your naïve heart.

Moment of Morning Dew

Wedding preparations commenced shortly after meeting with the Dreammaster once more to confirm your stance on his idea; everything was a blur, from colleagues and close friends congratulating you on your engagement (even Robin who sent a congratulatory letter despite being aware of everything) to exclusive interview appearances—sometimes accompanied by Sunday—to talk about every detail.

Of course, since the engagement came out of the blue, it was met with a lot of speculation, and rightfully so as not a single soul had seen you and Sunday together outside Family gatherings but even in banquets, neither you nor him would really converse.

But, those speculations were easily dismissed by letting interviewers know that you hid your relationship with him for personal reasons; it wasn’t foreign for celebrities to do such things. Though, the only truth you uttered during those interviews was probably the fact that you loved Sunday.

There was no denying that, and for Penaconians, that alone was believable. Aside from planned appearances on interviews, you hadn’t seen much of your . .  fiancé but maybe it was for the best, the more he remained at a distance behind closed doors, the more your naïve heart wouldn’t mistake the relationship for something real.

Silk draped from the ceiling in soft, cascading layers, mirrors framed in gold caged you in, it reflected you in every angle, each one just slightly more flattering than the last. Assistants moved like whispers—adjusting and smoothing but never loud enough to cause unnecessary chaos.

The Dewlight Pavilion served many purposes for The Family—the main being a place where Heads discussed important matters but you didn’t expect it to host a fitting room specifically curated for wedding preparations; it only made sense with how busy your schedule was, not to mention how you just finished a table-read two system hours ago which meant the script was still swimming in your mind and so was exhaustion.

“Hold still, please.”

A quiet exhale escaped through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget as a pair of hands adjusted the fall of fabric at your waist; you just wanted to go home. “I am still.” You murmured.

“Still-er.” The head assistant replied gently.

Tired, you bit back a comment, there was no point arguing with anyone. It was evening and you wanted this over and done with, the more you cooperated, the faster this whole thing would be finished.

The gown itself was unsurprisingly perfect. White—of course—but not the stark kind, it shimmered faintly like it had been spun from light filtered through clouds. Intricate golden embroidery traced along the bodice, delicate and intentional. 

“There. All done! How does it feel, miss?”

The head assistant’s dainty voice faded into as you looked at the mirror, it was the first time you stared at your reflection since standing inside this fitting room yet strangely enough, an actress stared right back—the ‘you’ all of Penacony knew, the one in front of flashing lights and rolling cameras.

“You’re truly beautiful, miss!” Another one of the assistants gasped, her reddened face tucked between the hearts of her palms.

“. . Thank you. The dress feels . . fine, it’s not too heavy.” The staff dismissed the absentmindedness laced in your voice, mistaking it for pure awe. You didn’t know what to feel seeing yourself in a wedding dress because even with an exquisite ring wrapped around your finger, you still couldn’t believe you were getting married.

“Turn slightly, please.” The head assistant instructed and you did. The skirt fanned out like a blooming flower, its silken fabric faintly glimmering beneath the lights.

“Perfect.” She breathed out.

Perfect. The word followed you everywhere these days—about your relationship with Sunday, about the engagement ring, and now about the dress. You were about to give her a practised reply, the same one you’ve been giving everyone else—a ‘thank you’ and a smile that reached your eyes—until the atmosphere shifted.

The curtains behind you weren't drawn yet but you knew who was beyond them and you were certain the attendants knew as well from the way their backs straightened, immediately stepping away from the raised platform you stood upon.

“Pardon my intrusion, may I step inside?” 

Sunday’s voice filled the silence. As if on cue, heat blanketed your cheeks, heart racing at the thought of him seeing you in a wedding dress. Your gaze landed on the head assistant through the reflection, giving her a slight nod to which she immediately understood and swiftly drew the curtains back.

As Sunday stepped inside, both attendants silently bowed their heads and headed out, closing the curtains behind them to give privacy. Alone in a small space with him with too many mirrors; you swallowed thickly and smoothed down the skirt of the dress, “I wasn’t aware of your visit.” You murmured, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.

“I was told preparations were underway. I wanted to ensure there were no complications.” 

Of course.

“Well?” You started, head tilted slightly. “You came all this way, you should at least give your evaluation.” Your hands found its way atop your clothed hip. It was half a joke, half a challenge yet you awaited for his words.

Sunday didn’t reply immediately, instead, his gaze settled on you—steady and unreadable. You observed how his amber eyes lingered on the bodice of your dress a second or two longer before moving on to the bloomed skirt. Beneath his wandering gaze, something in your chest tightened, cheeks burning deeper, it almost felt like a thousand needles prickling your skin.

“. . It suits you.” He said at last.

You blinked, brows knitting together, “That’s it?”

“You expected more?”

“I expected something. I’m about to be married off to the Oak Family Head and become the half of Penacony’s model pair, surely that warrants something far better than ‘it suits you’.”

“You always did prefer honest reponses.” That caught you off guard. Sunday wasn’t one to reminisce about the past—at least not with you—but he has done it twice now, once back at Aideen Park and once today.

You didn’t reply nor did you acknowledge how his gaze softened slightly, “Well, if you want honesty then . . you look exquisite and the dress harmonizes with your beauty perfectly,” The end of his sentence ended awkwardly, as if he wanted to speak more but ultimately decided to hold back.

You were well aware there was no romance behind his compliment, it was merely an honest, straightforward one but you couldn’t help suck in a breath. You looked away, clearing your throat lightly, once again smoothing a none existent crease on the dress, “That’s the goal, isn’t it? To make me look presentable for the big day.”

Sunday hummed absentmindedly causing you to risk a glance at him once more, his eyes were still on you but this time he wasn’t assessing, he was admiring.

“How is it then? Convincing enough for you, Mr. Sunday?”

His gaze finally drew upwards ‘til it met your own, a strange glint flickered in his honeyed eyes, “. . Too convincing.”

Whatever that meant

Before you could respond, the head assistant spoke just beyond the drawn curtains, effectively breaking the . . moment between you and Sunday. Akin to a deer caught in headlights, you slightly stepped away from the latter; funnily enough, there was already a great distance between the two of you but somehow you just felt like distancing yourself further.

“Miss, we need to finalize the veil fitting.”

You cleared your throat, trying to burn down Sunday’s weighted stare, “Of course.”

“. . I should take my leave then.” His gaze lingered on your face but you didn’t dare meet it. With that, he let out a soft sigh, turning around to part the curtains and leave but before he could even take one step, you called out his name, tone laced with . . desperation?

“S-Sunday . . ?” You weren’t sure why you did it or what possessed you to even utter his name yet somehow, you felt it was necessary to do so; though, you didn’t know what to say because now, Sunday looked over his shoulder—citrine gaze, full of hidden curiosity, just above his ivory wing—waiting for what was to come next.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” What did that even mean? Why did you say that? You were certain Sunday was just as confused about your reply as you were but he didn’t seem to let on, in fact, without so much of a hitch, he tilted his head, gave a little smile—one that had you biting the inside of your cheek—and replied, “Of course.”

Then, without another word, he gave both attendants a nod of acknowledgement before heading for the door.

Moment of Blue Hour

After two strenuous weeks of running around the Dreamscape—whether it be for work or for wedding preparations—the big day finally came, and in all honesty, you weren’t sure what to feel. The morning felt like a huge blur, attendants rushed in and out of the bridal suite to tend to you, and several loved ones visited in between, it served as a gentle reminder that you weren’t entirely alone. At least not today.

The first to check on you was Robin, she had peeked into your suite with a warm smile on her face, though, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You didn’t blame her, she knew of the situation and you assumed she also didn’t know how to feel for you—happiness seemed too cruel but sadness would also dampen the unsteady mood that lingered within the atmosphere.

The least she could leave you with was encouragement and a few good words about her brother: “I know you know my older brother well enough so I won’t say much but . . he will never hurt you. You and I both know he wants the best for everyone, and that includes you.”

The next two who visited were Ms. Maeven Ellis and Siobhan who stayed a little longer with you, especially the latter—out of the three, Lady Siobhan was probably the only one who understood your emotions the most as she, too, was pressured with countless expectations within the Iris Family as the second to the Head.

Being an adoptive older sister, she always looked out for you, most of them during young days where Ms. Maeven Ellis would push you to take acting classes. Though, despite the former’s efforts of letting you choose your own path, you did eventually end up in the artistic industry just like everyone else in the Iris Family.

The Eventide was as romantic as ever, docked in the Sea of Dreams where its tranquil waters lulled guests with awe. Warm lights illuminated the expansive boat, it bathed everything in a gentle gleam of gold; its cathedral-like structure effortlessly blended reverence and spectacle, a quiet yet bold message that The Family did not hold back on this grand event. 

Rows upon rows of guests filled the hall, a sea of fine silk and polished smiles—though, however warm they may be, all you could feel were the weight of their stares, a sense of anticipation that settled over your shoulders, it seemed to be heavier than the gown you wore.

The cameras also didn’t help, the subtle click of the shutter every second or so, they hovered discreetly and blended within the crowd but you knew they were there, capturing every movement and emotion etched into your face.

And as you stood at the altar facing Sunday, your hands resting atop his bigger ones, you trembled slightly—a barely noticeable crack on the surface of the glass. He must have noticed because within the next second, his hands squeezed your own, a gentle action to ground you, to serve as a reminder that only you and him mattered in this moment—not the officiant, not the guests, just you and him. A soft, shaky breath escaped your crimson-stained lips, you mirrored Sunday’s action. A small thank you.

The officiant’s voice carried smoothly through the air, unwavering as he spoke of harmony and unity, of two individuals converging into one for the sake of something greater; you heard his words but they felt far away, almost muffled and dream-like. Your focus drifted over to the feeling of Sunday’s hands in yours, to the warmth of it, to the quiet reminder that despite everything, this moment was real

Well, at least parts of it were but you wanted to believe that softness in Sunday’s gaze as he watched you walk down the aisle earlier was genuine—that it wasn’t a mask he prepared and wore for this ceremony but you’d be lying to yourself. To you, Sunday was the hardest book to decipher, the more you read in between lines and paragraphs, the more you’d doubt your thoughts.

“. . And by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you—”

Your breath caught and the room seemed to still.

“—Husband and wife.” The officiant paused for a split second, letting the words linger in the air and manifest into existence. Then, he continued,

“You may now kiss the bride.”

As his words echoed in your mind, your gaze slowly lifted to Sunday’s and for a moment, you both hesitated. He was the first to move, his head inclined towards you—eyes fluttering shut—slowly leaning in, his hands rested on either side of your waist; the quiet hum of the Dreamscape faded into the background as the space between your faces narrowed with each long second.

This was a part of the performance, you both knew that but it wasn’t something that was rehearsed, and even though you were an actress yourself—where kissing co-actors came naturally—this felt entirely different.

You closed your eyes, heart stuttering, the traitorous beast banging against the cold bars of your chest; for a second, you wondered if Sunday could hear it but upon noticing the unreadable expression on his face, you assumed he was focused on how to approach the kiss everyone anticipated—the subtle pause in his breath was enough to tell you it wasn’t easy for him either.

And just as Sunday was about to seal the kiss, he gracefully lifted a wing to obscure the view, leaving everyone unaware of the small distance between you and him; it was deliberate yet to everyone else, the veil of feathers seemed natural given the way your faces were angled slightly. The perfect illusion of an elegant kiss.

“Forgive me, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable in front of everyone. This . . should suffice, we do not have to go all the way.” Sunday whispered dangerously close, your knees almost buckled at the feel of his hot breath ghosting over your lips.

Your hands, which rested atop his clothed chest, curled slightly, nails digging into the hearts of your palms, “Right . .” You whispered back.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that Sunday only thought of respecting your boundaries—as a matter of fact, you should even be grateful that he didn’t force you and yet something in your chest dipped in disappointment. Albeit small and quiet, it was significant enough to feel it within your ribcage, the low murmur of your heart.

Of course. Sunday would never force something like that and you respected him for it! But . . you couldn’t help think that he simply didn’t want to kiss you. As childish as it sounded, you were convinced.

You bit the insides of your cheeks, lids tightly pressed against your eyes, you didn’t dare take a small peak. Not when his face was barely centimetres away from your own and absolutely not when his intoxicating scent invaded your senses. The wings behind your ears rustled briefly, brushing against Sunday’s.

Slowly, the moment passed; each camera click and quiet gasps from the guests enveloped the enchanting scene at the altar. A few seconds later, his wing lowered—as graceful as ever—once again revealing you both to everyone else, and it was like the entire room breathed out a long sigh.

The guests responded instantly, applause swelled throughout the Eventide, everyone wore a smile on their faces, completely convinced by what they’d witnessed.

You pulled away first, immediately turning to the crowd with the most genuine smile you could muster, trying to mirror everyone else’s joyous expression.

Among the guests, you caught Robin’s gaze who sat on the front row pew—she wore a smile like everyone else but her cerulean eyes gleamed with apology; you assumed she felt partly responsible for her brother’s decision regarding the marriage but you never blamed her, if there was anyone to blame it would be the Dreammaster but you’d never dare utter it into existence. After all, you were just pawns in his Dreamscape.

Funnily enough, as the person who decided you and Sunday to be married, he didn’t attend today, you’ve heard whispers within the Dewlight Pavilion that the Dreammaster wasn’t feeling too well these days, not that you cared about the man. You may have grew up with him around but that doesn't mean you’ve warmed up to him; he still carried the same unsettling aura he had when you were a kid.

After the long awaited ceremony, everyone settled into the reception where an abundance of congratulatory greetings and hugs were given to you and Sunday; most of them came from close co-actors who you’ve worked with on previous films, they also took the time to converse with him and didn’t hold back with such questions.

“Okay, this might be a bit silly to ask but who fell in love first?” Cassian—a co-actor you’ve grown close with—asked with pure curiosity, his hazelnut gaze darted between the two of you, he nursed a half empty glass of SoulGlad, swishing the golden liquid within as he stood before the table you and Sunday sat on.

You briefly looked over to Sunday who already had his eyes on you. “I did,” You started, setting your gaze back to Cassian and pairing it with a small smile.

“This is actually the first time I’m admitting this but . . I’ve had a crush on him ever since we were kids so I’m assuming it was me who fell in love first—I mean, who wouldn’t, right? He was kind and caring, and from then on, my young heart knew who it wanted.”

With every word that rolled from your tongue, heat that blanketed your cheeks intensified. Obviously, everything you stated was the truth but saying it aloud in front of him was rather embarrassing even if he didn’t have a clue how real it was.

A confession veiled as a lie.

You could feel Sunday’s honeyed gaze boring into the side of your face but you kept your eyes on Cassian who animatedly cooed in response, “Well, aren’t you a lucky one, Mr. Sunday!” The brunette inclined his glass towards the two of you as if making a toast.

Sunday chuckled softly in response, uttering a small ‘Indeed, I am.’ You ignored the stutter in your chest.

“Do you guys have a destination for the honeymoon? There are so many worlds to choose from!”

You let out a cough, the heat from your cheeks spreading down the column of your neck and onto your chest where it bloomed, “A-Ah, well! Sunday and I decided that we’ll have to push back our honeymoon for a while. With the Charmony Festival approaching in less than a few months, he’d be busy with preparation and as for my schedule, it’s packed with shoots—you should know.”

Cassian enthusiastically nodded, “That’s right! We’ve an upcoming film together—I can’t believe I forgot! Well, I shouldn’t take up anymore of your time, the two of you should enjoy your first few moments as husband and wife. Haha! I’ll get going then. Oh and I’ll see you on set!” With that, the brunette excused himself and headed for the open bar.

“I wasn’t aware Mr. Cassian is going to play the lead role along with you.” Sunday curiously stated. You shrugged, “I wasn’t aware you were interested in my matters but yes, we will be in a romance film together. Why? Interested in seeing it in the theatres once it comes out, Mr. Sunday?”

He let out a humourless laugh, “I liked your little story earlier. The one you told Mr. Cassian.”

Little story. Well, little did he know how true it all was.

This was supposed to be a happy day but with the amount of times Sunday had unknowingly shattered your naïve heart into more and more pieces today alone, you weren’t certain how long you’d last in this foolish charade, and you couldn’t blame him at all—not that you had anyone else to blame but your feelings.

“What can I say? I’ve been told I’m amazing when it comes to improvising.” You didn’t meet his gaze, instead, your eyes scanned around the room, pretending to skim and scan, feigning interest in the uninteresting.

Well, at least the guests looked like they were having more fun than you—they laughed over clinked glasses and exquisite Penaconian dishes, a genuine expression of joy painted on their alcohol tinted faces.

Sunday left the conversation at that and tended to his own glass, briefly swirling the liquid inside before taking a calculated sip; the golden beverage blanketed his tastebuds, its familiar sweetness putting his mind at ease. He wasn’t certain of the reason but he felt somewhat odd upon hearing your reply, the feeling irked him down to the bone.

Clearly, it was an uncharted territory and Sunday despised places he couldn’t control—the unknown and the unpredictable. He hated the thought of not knowing how to unpack his emotions.

But the real question was: Why did he feel this way? and what was the root of it? Maybe it was stress getting to him, he rarely got decent sleep and his daily schedule was always packed. Yeah, definitely stress.

Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)

A few tiring system hours later, you and Sunday were finally surrounded by pure silence—no prying eyes, no endless questions, just silence. The two of you found yourselves inside the old Oak Family manor, a separate building from the Hotel that stood in Reality but remained just as grand and expansive.

“So . . you’re the only one who lives here now? What about the Dreammaster?”

The manor stood like a quiet declaration of wealth—just as you’ve always remembered it to be—it gleamed like polished marble kissed by dawn, its towering windows framed with intricate carvings and draped with silken curtains.

Everything felt all too familiar and with every turn of your head, an old, tucked memory resurfaced like a bubble floating upwards—the curved staircase you and the twins would sit on to tell ghost stories, the expansive field outside where you’d spend afternoons running around, and . . Sunday’s room where he and Robin would ‘perform’ concerts .

The very room both of you stood in.

You had spent enough time in the old Oak Family manor to know that his room barely changed—sure, his toys were replaced with endless stacks of books and documents, and his bed no longer housed soft plushes but apart from those, everything was the same.

“Ever since I was appointed Head, this manor was entrusted to me. I am not aware of Mr. Gopher Wood’s whereabouts nor do I question it.”

“You don’t have company?” “I have attendants.”

You let out a snort which earned a raised brow from him, “That’s different, Sunday. The attendants work here.” The manor used to be so lively, now it felt completely empty and a little cold; you couldn’t help but wonder if Sunday ever felt lonely, especially with a building so vast—was he haunted by the echoes of his lone footsteps? Did he ever avoid eating in the dining room because he’d be the only one sitting at the long table?

“Nevermind, disregard my last question. Though, I do have another one, are you sure you’re comfortable with me sleeping here? I mean, there are tons of other rooms in this manor.” Naturally, since you were now married to Sunday, it only made sense to reside together in the Oak Family manor, however, you didn’t expect to actually share a room with him.

“You’re my wife, are you not? If anything, it’d only rouse suspicions from attendants about us sleeping in different rooms,”

He had a point.

 “And just because our marriage stands on falsehoods does not mean I won’t uphold my role as your husband. I’m sure you’re aware I’m not that kind of man.” Sunday continued. Again, he was right, he certainly wasn’t the type of person to slack off just because he was out of the spotlight and you didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse.

“I suggest you wash up first, it has been a long day, after all, and your clothes are in the closet.” Oh, that’s right, you almost forgot about your belongings, thanks to the help of the Bloodhound Family, all of them were transported to the manor safe and sound; you assumed the attendants must have unpacked it all for you.

You absentmindedly nodded, trying to process the fact that you were now bound not only to Sunday but the manor as well for the rest of your life—that you would come home every single night and sleep beside him.

A foreign feeling washed over your body, the feeling that would grow from the depths of your core in response to a drastic change in your life. It wasn’t unsettling nor uncomfortable per se but it was extremely hard to ignore.

Bathing beneath the warm water took a lot longer than you’d intended, the feel of it against your bare skin soothed you so much that it almost felt like someone had wrapped you in a cozy hug, one that you’ve been deprived of these days.

Now, sitting on your side of the bed—the left side—in your silken nightie, you carefully combed your freshly dried hair, a thousand thoughts coursing through your mind and none of them were coherent.

Sure, what you were wearing was designed entirely for sleeping but Xipe above! You felt absolutely exposed; the way its flimsy straps slid down your shoulders every other minute didn’t help at all.

Even the way Sunday’s honeyed eyes widened when you walked out of the bathroom clearly meant he was taken aback by the brazenness of your attire—or the lack of it. But could you really blame yourself? Prior to tonight, you lived alone and that meant you could wear whatever you wanted to bed with no one to judge.

Setting the comb on the night stand beside you, you quickly tucked yourself beneath the ivory duvet upon hearing the shower turn off; if you hid yourself inside the bed, it would make you feel less exposed to Sunday, you pulled on the duvet ‘til it covered all the way up to the base of your neck.

Yeah, this seemed about right.

He stepped out of the bathroom, clad in a pair of matching pyjamas, hair and wings damp, it took him only about three steps before he stopped in his tracks, gaze fixated on you.

“Is the temperature too cold for your liking . . ?” Sunday stood there dumbfounded at the silly sight before him—you, on the bed with just your head and neck sticking out from under the duvet.

“No, it’s perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” You shook your head, blinking up at him. He replied with a small sigh, “If this is about your . . attire then rest assured I do not mind but if you feel uncomfortable, I can offer you a top to wear over.” He immediately looked away, feigning a cough.

His reply may have been nonchalant but you caught how the tips of his ears flushed a deep pink hue; obviously he, too, was as embarrassed as you were, only he was better at hiding it.

Once again, you shook your head, “I don’t want to bother you with such trivial matters. Besides, I’ll be going to sleep soon.”

Sunday wordlessly nodded before turning off the lights and proceeding to walk towards the shared bed—towards you.

As darkness filled the entire room in an instant, you swallowed thickly, trying to calm your poor, poor heart as his footsteps echoed closer than the last; you closed your eyes as he lifted the duvet—a breeze of cool air momentarily enveloping your bare skin—he slipped inside and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, it made you realise just how small of a space there was between your bodies.

Not enough to have your bare arm brushing against his clothed one but enough to feel warmth that radiated from him.

“Pardon me but would you have trouble sleeping if I turned on a lamp?” Sunday whispered into the darkness.

“I don’t mind but are you not going to sleep? It’s well past midnight.” You opened your eyes and inclined your head, facing him.

“I’ll be writing for a bit as sleep has not yet caught up to me.” The bedside lamp turned on with a soft click which immediately illuminated his half of the bed, casting a warm gentle glow on his softened features. You replied with a wordless nod before turning your back to him and letting the faint sound of pen and paper sully you into endless clouds of dreams.

A couple of pages and half a system hour later, Sunday finally looked up from the inked pages of his book. Curious, he glanced over at your sleeping form which remained with your back towards him, he watched the rhythmic rise and fall with every shallow breath.

Compared to earlier, more of your torso peeked from beneath the duvet, he noticed how the flimsy strap of your nightie had fallen from your shoulder and took the initiative—after whispering an apology for his brazen behaviour—to lean over and fix it.

Sunday let out a sigh, he pulled the shared duvet upwards to cover your shoulder before returning to his side of the bed.

For some reason, he couldn’t help but feel that you held disdain for him—and honestly? Rightfully so because truthfully speaking, he had foolishly roped you into an eternal duty without your consent, without considering how you would feel about the entire idea. It wasn’t like him to involve others in such serious matters, and if given the opportunity to shoulder the problem alone, he would’ve done so in a heartbeat.

Sunday gazed down at his book once more, catching a glimpse of glimmering gold wrapped around a digit of his left hand—his wedding band, it shone quietly beneath the warm glow of the lamp. He brought his hand up to examine the piece of jewellery, honeyed gaze following each curve of the intricate pattern engraved on it. Despite its small size, it sat heavy on his finger and whether it was the weight of burden or something more, he had no idea.

Funnily enough, never in a million years did he think he’d be married before Robin; sure, he was the older twin but relationships and marriage rarely crossed his mind, and as embarrassing as it was, flirting definitely wasn’t for him either.

Moment of Morning Dew

“So what you’re suggesting is a date?”

“Indeed.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you were quite the romantic, Oak Family Head.”

“To be frank, it wasn’t my idea. It was merely suggested to me and I think it’d be appropriate to make occasional appearances in public as husband and wife.”

Well, there goes romance out of the window. So it was tied to duty after all, and here you were thinking Sunday acted out of his own will for once but if there was anyone to blame the feeling of slight disappointment, it would be none other than you and your naïve heart.

It had only been a little over a month after the marriage yet you’ve already been met with disappointments and you hated yourself for feeling that way because it wasn’t even Sunday’s fault—he was only upholding his role but you? You had mistaken his actions for reality.

The chaste forehead kisses whenever he visited you on set paired with a humble bouquet of flowers, the endearments he called you in front of your co-actors, holding your hand—all these were initiated by him and every single time, like a fool, you had mistaken it for something sincere.

How ironic that between the two of you, Sunday would be the better actor. You’ve paid him a visit countless times in Dewlight Pavilion when you weren’t needed on set—brought him food, offered him a shoulder massage whenever he seemed visibly stressed, and even tried convincing him to take a breather but you were rigid and hesitant.

Today just happened to be one of those days where you visited him. As usual, you were as stiff as a board and your words barely held any sincerity in them, as if you merely read off a script. 

And maybe that’s why he took the initiative to lead because he had sensed your hesitancy regarding everything.

“Where are we headed?” You raised a brow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Sunday gathered every document on his table and stacked them neatly in a pile before placing it to the side, “Aideen Park. I heard there was a small event happening there and I thought we could pay a visit.”

Moment of Golden Hour

Aideen Park was livelier than normal, people lined up for several reasons—food trucks, photobooths, and even a mini ferris wheel ride. Naturally, the band which usually performed at the heart of the Park gained quite a crowd as well, they played an upbeat melody to fit the joyous atmosphere. Several booths and signage within the vicinity was enough to deduce that this public event was run by SoulGlad with their iconic logo plastered everywhere.

“Hm? Did SoulGlad release a new flavour?” You fell into a step beside Sunday, eyes fixated on a stall where a staff happily gave away freebies and judging by the unfamiliar packaging of SoulGlad in his hand, it had to be a new flavour.

He nodded, jutting out his right arm which you wordlessly held on to, “Indeed, SoulGlad has released a new flavour called Charmony to honour the Charmony Festival. I figured I’d acquire several bottles for Robin.”

You hummed at his reply. It was nice knowing he still thought about his sister even in her absence, at heart, Sunday was truly just an older brother taking care of his family and it warmed your heart more than anything.

You’ve always wondered how he felt when Robin left Penacony; from what you could remember, it was a crucial turning point in their lives as well as yours—her music career was taking off, Sunday was training to be Bronze Melodia, and you had just secured your first lead role.

“Have you had the chance to try the new flavour?” You asked, shaking the thoughts away.

At your question, he shook his head, “I have heard from several people that it has its own unique twist to it. Now, I know we have personal security around but it’s best to stay close to me with this many people present.”

With his free arm, he adjusted your hand on his clothed bicep, allowing you to hold him better. “It’s not like I’m going to run away.” You murmured, ignoring the blanket of heat settling on your cheeks.

There had already been a few instances where you had held Sunday by his bicep like this or his hand but you’ve never gotten used to the feeling of his body pressed closely against your own.

Even through the fabric of his blazer, merely touching him seared your skin like a thousand flames—it felt like it was forbidden to do so yet at the same time, you couldn’t quite pull away even if you wanted to.

Sunday led the two of you to a food truck lined with customers and on the way there, you were both excitedly greeted by many event goers and passerbys, with some even coming up to you for autographs and photos.

You only managed to get through three autographs and two photos before Sunday came up behind you, a chivalrous hand hovering on the small of your back as he gently ushered you away, a wing curled around the back of your head, “We should get going before people start shoving one another to get signatures and such.”

Nodding, you smiled apologetically before bidding them good bye, “It was nice seeing you all! I hope everyone enjoys this SoulGlad event!”

“Pardon my intrusion but I noticed you were getting quite flustered so I took matters into my own hands.” Sunday apologised, not realising his hand—which rested on your lower back—had protectively snaked around your waist, it pulled you closer to him, effectively turning your legs into jello. If it wasn’t for his hold, you would’ve already kissed the grounds of Aideen Park.

Oh god, you hoped he hadn’t noticed how your torso shook with a small shudder. You feigned a cough, “T-That’s quite okay, Sunday. Thank you. What did you want to ord—”

“Mr and Mrs Sunday! How lovely to see Penacony’s harmonious couple in our humble event!” One of the SoulGlad staff at the food truck rushed over to the back of the line where you and Sunday stood, effectively gaining attention from customers in the queue. They turned around and whispered amongst themselves, not-so-subtly pointing at you both.

Sunday greeted the Pepeshi staff with a smile, “Ah, hello. Thank you for having us.” 

“Are you two seeking to order? I can take it in advance so the two of you won’t have to wait!” He excitedly spoke, the fluff ball atop his head vigorously swinging back and forth.

In unison, you and Sunday both shook your heads, declining his kind offer, “We shan’t. She and I are here as humble customers, we don’t mind waiting a little while. It would be unfair for those who are before us.”

“No such thing! Mr. Sunday and Mrs are our esteemed guests! You know what? I’ll go ahead and get two servings of our best seller—Clockie Pizza!” Before the two of you could humbly decline once more, the Pepeshi had already taken off towards the food truck, excitement budding with every step he took.

Within a few minutes, he came running back with two servings of Clockie Pizza on a paper plate, steam which radiated from the slices indicated it was freshly taken from the oven.

“Here you are! Two slices for our very special customers, enjoy!” Both of you thanked the Pepeshi staff as he handed the plate over to Sunday, he gave the two of you another excited smile before skipping off towards the food truck. You and Sunday could only exchange lopsided smiles, not really knowing what to make out of the situation; as much as you felt bad, you were pretty hungry so you were absolutely more than thankful.

After eating, the two of you found yourselves in one of the photobooths (Embarrassingly, Sunday had noticed you were staring intently at them while you were eating and asked if you wanted to go). Naturally, the booth had limited space inside which meant you two had to squeeze yourselves on the bench—arms and legs flushed against one another.

You tried not to think about how your wing momentarily brushed his own, his ivory feathers tickling yours; Halovians’ wings were a sensitive area and one couldn’t just reach out and have a feel of it, many Halovians treat their wings as the most important part of their body and consider it an intimate gesture if they willingly let someone touch it.

“How does one operate this?” He drew the crimson curtain on his left side to close off the booth before turning to you with a hint of confusion on his face. At his question, you  mirrored his expression, brows drawn together, “Have you not tried one before?—Nevermind. We simply press this button on the screen to get started and once it starts, the camera takes three pictures so we have to think of different poses for each frame.”

“And oh, it’s timed so efficiency is needed.”

“Seems quite pressuring, no?” Sunday humourlessly laughed. This was his first time trying out a photobooth machine and the thought of coming up with three different poses in a span of mere seconds . . He couldn’t even think of one off the top of his head.

“Oh? Is the Oak Family Head intimidated by a photobooth? Well, if you ever feel stuck, you can go ahead and copy my poses. Ready?” You glanced over at him who only nodded in response, honeyed pupils gleaming beneath the harsh lights of the booth.

Without another word, you leaned over and  pressed the button in the middle before quickly getting into a pose—the classic smile with a peace sign.

On the other hand, Sunday blinked as he watched numbers on the screen count down. 3. Ah, what pose should he do? 2. Maybe just a smile? Would that be too formal? 1. He quickly looked over to you to imitate your pose but before he could even get his hand in position, the camera brightly flashed indicating that the first photo had been taken.

“Quick! Finish off the other half of this heart!”

As the screen began counting down once more, Sunday hesitantly mirrored your gesture with his left hand. Four fingers curl like so . . and how does the thumb go? Ah, straight down at an angle. Then, place it against her hand. While he mused over how to complete the hand heart, the camera flashed once again. Another photo taken, another frame where he wasn’t ready. Why are photobooths so hard?

“Why don’t we just do a smile?” 

Finally, something he could get behind. The two of you instinctively squeezed closer, inclining your heads towards one another with smiles on your face, then, the camera flashed. Sunday let out a soft sigh, it’s as if weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

A small laugh escaped your lips as the two of you exited the booth, “Not bad for your first photobooth experience, huh?” You didn’t notice how heated your skin had become ‘til the air outside pressed against you like an icy envelope.

“You are teasing.” Sunday stared at you with a deadpan expression which only pulled another laugh.

The small machine whirred to life, producing two copies of the strip, you took them both and handed one over to him, “This one is yours, Mr. Oak Family Head.”

You took the time to examine each frame and couldn’t help but crack a smile at how clueless he looked in the first two photos; the first one was him blankly glancing over at you while on the second one, he wore a confused expression while glancing down at his half of the hand heart.

As for the third photo, you didn’t want to look at it for too long. Not because it was hideous or any of that sort—quite the opposite—but because both of you looked like an actual happy couple, a pair who loved one another. You swallowed thickly.

“Where shall we head next? Up for a ferris wheel ride?” Tucking the photo strip inside the pocket of your jacket, you looked up at Sunday with a calculated smile on your face. His gaze lingered on you for a second longer as if to search for something but nonetheless, he nodded.

The ferris wheel carriage was quite small, meaning either you and Sunday would have to squeeze together—again—on one side of the carriage or sit on opposite sides; obviously, both of you opted for the latter, which despite facing one another, at least gave you room to breathe.

You avoided fully facing him by slightly angling yourself sideways to gaze beyond the carriage; the ride wasn’t as grand as the one in Clock Studios Theme Park  but it was able to reveal a great area of Golden Hour once at the top.

Below, Penaconians went on about their day as usual—whether it be shopping, working or simply taking a leisurely stroll in the Moment, you watched as they led their own lives, wondering what it felt like to be a normal Penaconian.

But what did normal mean for you, exactly? You wished you had the answer.

Sunday knew it was rude to stare but he simply couldn’t bring himself to stop either. Earlier, when you were examining the photo strip, he had noticed the solemn expression on your face; how the corners of your lips sunk ever so slightly and the faint gleam of sadness in your eyes.

A wave of regret hit him once more, the same way it had done for the past month—hard. And now as he watched you observe the Dreamscape below, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for your sadness. There had been many instances where he had caught you with a somber expression but he never dared address it, though now seemed like a great opportunity.

“Are you quite alright?”

Turning your head to him, you drew your brows together, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sunday pressed his lips in a thin line, “You . . can always talk to me. As a friend.”

You chuckled, adjusting your body so you could face him fully, “Is the Oak Family Head missing his Bronze Melodia days?”

Deflecting—that’s what you were doing, a habit he never once liked from you but as concerned as he was, he didn’t press any further. Doing so would most likely only worsen whatever you housed inside your chest, and he didn’t want to be the cause of that. Maybe some day you’d finally open up to him about all your worries and feelings but for now, he’d wait even if it meant waiting for eons.

Moment of Sol

“Ah, Mr. Sunday! Lovely to see you here once again. As you can see, we’re about to start filming so it’s best to keep quiet. Other than that, feel free to watch.” The director—who he had come to know as Thaddeus—gleefully whispered before heading to his seat. The former wasn’t old, most likely in his early forties but he did don several silvery strands on his head along with a full beard.

Sunday made his way over to a quiet corner behind all the film crew with a decent view of the scene unfolding before him. The set was a large bedroom dimmed to convey a sultry atmosphere, in the middle sat a large bed draped in crimson sheets where you and Cassian were positioned. Judging by this, he could easily deduce that the scene you were filming was rather intimate—it was a romance film after all.

During the previous times he had visited you, the scenes he witnessed were more . . family friendly. Scenes where Celestine—the character you played—merely caught up with her friends in a coffee shop and all of that sort; there was one that Sunday particularly took a liking to, where you and Cassian argued back and forth—an intense quarrel between two lovers.

It reminded him how much of an amazing actress you were, he didn’t want to admit it but that scene moved him enough to make his eyes water, he could only imagine what it would look like on the big screen. But this scene was entirely different, Sunday had never seen you act intimately before and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

“Quiet on set! Pictures up! Roll sound! Roll camera! Marker . . and action!”

Clap!

The slate’s sound echoed throughout the entire set and Sunday watched as you and Cassian instantly got into character. He sucked in a breath as the two of you slowly inched closer to one another, sealing each other’s lips in a heated kiss.

Soft, wet sounds filled the room, the kiss deepened and turned into something less innocent  and for a brief moment, Sunday forgot he was in a set, and that the scene before him was scripted.

He swallowed thickly, shifting his weight from one foot to another as Cassian roamed his hands all over your body, even going as far as raking his palms along your clothed chest and the area behind your wings. A dainty whimper slipped past your kiss-bitten slips in between breaths, followed by a whisper of his name. 

Something strange bubbled within Sunday’s chest, he was well aware everything was scripted but seeing another man brazenly touch you with lust and fervour, and hearing you breathe out someone else’s name did not feel right at all. Was he jealous? No. But he wasn’t entirely fine with this either. 

Nonetheless, Sunday didn’t have the right to have a say on these matters so he kept quiet and continued watching how Cassian eagerly shoved his tongue past your lips like a hungry beast. He didn’t even realise his jaw had tightened and the tips of his fingers had dug into the hearts of his palms ‘til the Thaddeus yelled ‘Cut!’ ultimately breaking immersion. The two of you pulled away from one another, breathless and hair mussed.

“Cassian, remember to angle your arm slightly or else we won’t be able to see her face—” 

As the director gave him instructions, you managed to spot a familiar face within the small crowd of film crew, his golden halo shone lightly beneath the artificial set lighting—Sunday.

Xipe above, you almost forgot he was going to pay you a visit today, not that you didn’t want him to come, it’s just that having him watch an erotic scene with yourself and Cassian felt odd. You were embarrassed, to say the least. As an actress, you took yourself out of comfort zones countless times for different roles and they were no easy feat but who knew you’d be struggling to act in an intimate scene before Sunday?

With a lopsided smile, you shyly waved at him to which he responded with an incline of his head. Whether he had a smile on his face or not, you weren’t sure, you couldn’t see clearly beyond the lighting.

Sunday, in fact, did not have a smile on his face

It was childish and idiotic to sulk over such a minor thing and if he could stop his chest from tightening weirdly, he would have done so already but he couldn’t, and now a subtle frown blanketed his face. He tried to look at the bright side—how talented you were at acting and how proud he was that you’ve come so far but god he was powerless to his own thoughts.

“Alright, from the top! Sound! Cameras! Marker and . . action!”

Clap!

Again, the entire room snapped into place, including you and Cassian. For the second time, Sunday watched in silence as the two of you passionately made out once more, this time the scene escalated to him pushing you down on the mattress below, lips still locked onto your own, and hands pinned against the pillows.

Even with your eyes closed and even with Cassian smothering you like there was no tomorrow, you could feel the heat of Sunday’s gaze from beyond the cameras and lights—the intensity of it. Getting into the zone was second nature to you yet you couldn’t shake off the nagging thought that he was watching you, it felt like you were cheating right in front of his face; Sunday probably didn’t mind at all but still.

This went on for a few more minutes until Thaddeus was satisfied with the outcome and wrapped up the scene, “Actors, we need you in a wardrobe change and can we please rearrange lighting on the set for the next scene?”

With that, you stood up from the bed and walked over to Sunday who greeted you with a small smile, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here.” You mirrored his smile before loosely wrapping your arms around his waist. A simple performance in front of everyone. He did the same and placed a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“You did well, my love.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Mm, really? I’m glad you think so.”

“Well, I shan’t take up any more of your time. Mr. Thaddeus did mention a wardrobe change for you, right?” Sunday slightly pulled back, a warm smile on his face as he gazed down at you. Ah, you wished he stayed for a little longer even though embarrassment ate you alive in his presence  but alas, he was a busy man, so you simply nodded,

“I’ll see you around?” The corners of your lips curled into a smile.

He hummed, he gave you another chaste kiss, this time on your forehead before completely letting go of you. Oh, god. Was it merely your imagination or was he acting extra . . touchy? You wouldn’t even dream of putting Sunday and touchy in the same sentence—they were like two magnets with the same side that repelled one another but his actions proved otherwise. Or maybe you were highly delusional.

Before he could walk away any further, you called out to him, “Sunday?” He turned around, an expectant look painted on his face.

“I . .” Love you? Was that what you were going to say? There was no harm in that, right? Right? Come to think of it, neither of you had ever uttered those words—were you about to start now? Technically, the two of you were married and expressing love to one another was normal. God, why were you even overthinking—

Whatever.

“I love you.”

Sunday’s wings momentarily rustled, a hint of shock washed over his face, albeit subtle, you caught on. His chest tightened but it wasn’t the same feeling as earlier, it didn’t hurt, instead, it felt like a dainty butterfly fluttering inside his ribcage. He stared at you momentarily, the rush of everyone else around fading into the background, his breaths turned shallow and slightly uneven. Was he sick?

“I . . love you, too.” And without another word, he left.

Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake!

You reminded yourself this marriage was fake and so was his response but your heart believed otherwise because now it pounded against the bars of your ribs, it wanted to leap out and find comfort in the warmth of his palms. Heat spread from your cheeks, along the column of your neck, and all the way down to your chest—it bloomed like a fiery flower, its blazing petals hungry for more. 

The urge to tell Sunday as soon as possible settled in your heart.

The night before the Charmony Festival, Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)

Unfortunately, with both your schedules tightly packed, you rarely saw Sunday within the past week—only some nights during ungodly hours where he carefully slipped next to you in bed but other than that, no words were exchanged, and as much as you wanted to talk to him, exhaustion weighed on your body. And as soon as you were enveloped by the softness of the bed, it immediately lulled you into a deep sweet dream.

Tonight wasn’t any different, you came home to yet another empty house—save for the attendants—without Sunday and frankly, you were worried he wasn’t getting the proper rest he needed. You did leave him a couple of messages earlier between your shoots simply asking how he was but he never replied to them, though that wasn't surprising given how close the festival was.

The shared bed felt a lot colder and bigger as you slipped beneath the covers, you turned to face Sunday’s side, stretching out an arm as if to reach for him only to be met with emptiness. A small sigh slipped past your lips, you silently prayed to Xipe that THEY would answer your wishes to see him soon. 

For now, you closed your eyes and went to sleep.

11 system hours later

Ri█—ng!

█Rin█g!

Ring!

At the sound of your phone, you stirred awake in bed, sleep still weighed heavy on your body. Was that your alarm? You didn’t remember setting one last night . . Nonetheless, you slowly opened your eyes and reached for the device atop the wooden nightstand, bringing it to your face. You blinked a few times, doing your best to adjust the blur of your vision to see better.

Mr. Oti Alfalfa

Huh? Why was the Alfalfa Family Head calling you? As if your entire body was doused in icy water, you quickly shot up, fingers raked through your mussed hair as you answered, “H-Hello?”

“Ah, it seems you’ve finally woken up, Miss.”

“Mr. Oti Alfalfa! My sincere apologies, it had been a long night . . May I ask why you’re calling?” You rubbed your temples, looking at the wall clock to check the time—11 system hours?! You’ve been asleep for 11 system hours? Just how tired were you last night? Though, with the weight of sleep on you, it did feel like you slept for quite a while, almost like a never ending dream.

“The Family has cleared your schedule for today, we require your presence at the Dewlight Pavilion right this moment. There are important matters to be discussed.”

At the mention of The Family’s residence, you looked over to your right. No Sunday, an empty space. Seeing as how they required your presence, that meant they asked for him too, right? He must’ve been at the Pavilion already but why didn’t he wake you up from your sleep?

There were a thousand questions that ran through your mind regarding the whole situation but what could they possibly need to discuss with you? They even cleared your schedule which meant it had to be something very serious, not to mention how you could sense the urgency in old Oti’s tone as he spoke of important matters. 

It made you somewhat uneasy.

“Alright. I will be there in a few minutes.”

With that, you quickly got dressed and headed for the Dreamscape.

Moment of Morning Dew

The Dewlight Pavilion housed more members of The Family than usual, its entrance had at least six Bloodhound Family security officers guarding the doors, and the inside wasn’t any better. What was going on? Today was the Charmony Festival, right? So why was almost everyone present in the Pavilion? You walked down its long halls, each step taken heavier than the last.

There was a slight tension in the air, you felt it and it made your stomach churn; you noticed how some attendants gazed at you as if you were some kind of criminal. 

Was . . something wrong? Nonetheless, you ignored them and kept walking ‘til you reached the Council Chamber.

Inside, gathered four Family Heads, they gathered at the heart of the chamber, sitting around a vast circular table. Robin was also present but where was Sunday? Shouldn’t he be present as well? 

“. . May I ask what this is all about?” Your brows furrowed, a small frown forming on your lips; you looked over at Robin who only gave you a solemn expression, even the look on your adoptive mother’s face was hard to explain.

“Are you aware of what has transpired in Penacony?” Oti Alfalfa spoke up.

Slowly, you made your way over to situate yourself next to Robin. “No . .  I have been asleep and only woke up from your call. Did something terrible happen in the Dreamscape?” You felt asking that question would do more harm than good but there had to be a clear reason as to why they needed you here.

The atmosphere was unbearable. Every Head, including Robin wore an unreadable expression, it’s as if all of them were in on some kind of secret and no one dared to inform you about it. Sunday’s absence in this meeting made you all the more nervous. All of them shared strange looks with one another before Oti Alfalfa spoke up once again,

“. . The Oak Family Head and the Dreammaster had committed the highest act of treason—not only to The Family but to the entirety of Penacony. Sunday usurped the Harmony and revived Ena The Order to use THEIR power to create an eternal dream paradise.”

You didn’t know what to say. Was there even anything appropriate to say? 

It didn’t feel real at all, you were hoping they were merely playing a sick, elaborate prank on you but the look on their faces proved otherwise. Old Oti’s words reached your ears the same way nightmares did—fragmented, disjointed, and absolutely impossible to process all at once.

Sunday. Treason. Eternal dream paradise.

No. That wasn’t the Sunday you knew, he couldn’t have possibly done something like that, not the man who had spent most of his life looking out for others—putting their needs before his. It felt contradictory to everything he was. But did it really? Your mind scrambled for reason and context, for some kind of missing piece that would make everything make sense but there was nothing. 

Among the million of questions, your mind raised another: What exactly had your marriage been for? 

You stood with him before all of Penacony yet all this time he secretly worked with the Dreammaster to dismantle the very concept you and he were assigned to uphold—Harmony. A deep, aching sorrow settled beneath your ribs.

“Rightfully, the former Oak Family Head was imprisoned but it has come to our attention that he had managed to flee from prison, he is now deemed a wanted fugitive. We asked you to join this meeting because we have a few questions regarding your husband.” Flee from prison? How? And who aided him? A part of you was relieved that Sunday managed to flee from The Family’s wrath but you were also scared of what he might face once they found him.

You knew what was coming next.

Maeven Ellis parted her crimson-stained lips, she still held onto that unreadable expression, “Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, please sear her tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that she will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”

“Everyone in this room is aware regarding the status of your marriage with the former Oak Family Head, orchestrated to refute rumours within the Dreamscape. Were you an accomplice to him and the Dreammaster? Was your marriage merely a disguise to direct Penacony’s attention from their dark schemes?”

You shook your head, “No. I was only aware that our marriage was a solution against those rumours.”

Why were they asking you this? Each Family Head had already agreed to the Dreammaster’s proposal of having you and Sunday marry one another, why was Oti Alfalfa acting as if he wasn’t in favour of the proposal?

“Did you have a hand at helping the former Oak Family Head escape?”

Once again, you shook your head, “No. As I mentioned earlier, I just woke up. I came home from a long shoot last night and went to bed as soon as I could.”

“Did the former Oak Family Head tell you of his schemes?”

You were getting sick of this, twice you’ve already told them you weren’t aware of the Dreammaster and Sunday’s plans, why were they so insistent you had a hand at their schemes? Your mother—out of all people—knew you’d never get involved with something like that. Sure, you had the third highest ranking in the Iris Family but you were merely an actress and stayed out of The Family’s business.

“No.”

Oti Alfalfa nodded, briefly glancing at the golden band around your finger, “That is all but let me tell you this, once The Family finds out you have made contact without any notice or you are actively helping the former Oak Family Head hide, you will be met with punishment for aiding and abetting. This applies to you as well, Miss Robin.”

He didn’t have to verbally say it yet you knew between those words he spoke, he wanted to remind you that The Family was always watching.

After being dismissed by Old Oti, you headed straight to Golden Hour to clear your head—you still couldn’t wrap your head around the whole incident. Did he really manage to revive a dead Aeon? The one that Xipe assimilated? The severity of the entire thing was beyond you and there was no easy way to process all this.

Moment of Golden Hour

“You know, Sunny, won’t it be better to bid farewell to her instead of staring at her poster like a total creep?” 

“That implies we won’t see each other again and I do not intend to keep it that way. Even so, I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this even with a disguise. It’s far too risky, Wonweek. I am a fugitive, after all.”

Amidst the glittering luxuries, billboards, and rush of people in the Moment, Sunday—disguised as an Intellitron—stood before an expansive poster of you at Oti Mall, his honeyed gaze traced over your features once, twice, thrice as if to engrave them in his mind.

He was aware the poster was merely an advertisement for a skin care brand yet you looked extremely happy in it and he could only wish the same for you now. With the amount of Bloodhound Family security patrolling around, he assumed news had already broken out regarding his escape, and that you were also aware of it—of everything he had done.

The Pepeshi—Wonweek—who stood next to him hummed, “Oh, really? Not even when she’s right there crying?"

Sunday immediately turned to his companion, “What?” He followed the Pepeshi’s line of sight, it took a few seconds before finally spotting your familiar figure—you sat on a bench in front of Clock Diner, arms crossed over your chest, seemingly staring into nothing. Even though you wore a hat and sunglasses, Sunday could still tell it was you.

“W-Well, maybe not crying but she certainly doesn’t look okay to me.”

“Stay here . .” Sunday absentmindedly murmured, his eyes remained fixated on you, and as if his feet had a mind of its own, he started walking towards you.

“Hey! What the heck happened to ‘I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this’!” Wonweek called out to him, mocking his voice but didn’t bother interfering, he figured the two of you needed to talk, even if it was indirectly.

This wasn’t Sunday’s plan at all, he wasn’t supposed to approach you yet here he was merely three steps away; he had to remind himself not to get carried away with things and that he had a disguise which meant he was a stranger to you.

“Pardon my intrusion, Miss but are you okay?”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, you immediately snapped out of your thoughts and shifted your gaze to its owner who stood to your left, just beyond your line of sight—it was an Intellitron clad in a long plum coloured dress. Despite their unmoving facial features, you could sense the hint of concern in their voice.

“O-Oh, um! Yes, of course thank you for asking . . Apologies for my rudeness! Did you want to sit down?” You feigned a cough and adjusted the sunglasses atop your nosebridge before scooting to the edge of the bench to make room. The Intellitron murmured a small thank you as she sat down, smoothing the skirt of her dress.

“My apologies if you were taken aback by my brazenness.”

“Not at all! I’m grateful to have someone look out for me, Miss . . ?”

“Wonweek.” The Intellitron replied.

“Miss Wonweek! What a lovely name . . Thank you, again. It’s just that it’s been a long day and, uh, a . . dear friend of mine has gone somewhere far, far away from me, and I am not certain when I will see him next. Or if I will ever see him again.” You tried your best to stabilize your voice but as each word slipped past your lips, they trembled harder than the last, and the only way to calm yourself down was to caress the golden band wrapped around your ring finger.

“This friend . . he seems quite important to you, no?”

Letting out a shaky sigh, you nodded, “He’s someone I hold very dear to my heart and all I wish for is to talk to him. I’ve been meaning to tell him something.” Sunday swallowed thickly, what could that something possibly be? He’d rather not get his hopes up.

“Your friend may have gone off somewhere far away but I am certain once the time is right, destiny will intertwine your paths once more.”

“Of course. And should the path he chooses not include me in the future, I can only hope it’s a path where he is genuinely happy. I am willing to sacrifice that.” After all, your ties with The Family would make the situation difficult—Oti Alfalfa had already warned you earlier that they had eyes and ears everywhere.

“I may not know your friend well but I am certain he would not want a future without you in it.”

3 months and 3 weeks later, Consternation Starzone, Planarcadia

“Ugh, come on! You already picked the last movie, Stelle! Let me pick one for movie night this time!”

As Sunday walked into the hotel room, he was immediately met with a scene of his bickering companions, however, one of them remained seated in a corner with his arms folded across his chest and eyes closed.

“Great, Sunday’s here! He can back me up on this one! Can you please convince her to watch this movie?” The pink haired woman —who he had come to know as Miss March 7th—eagerly walked over to him and shoved her phone before his face, presenting an opened browser tab for an overview of a movie.

Love and Devotion (1h 49m): Estranged childhood best friends find their way back to one another which results in a trip down memory lane and a blossoming love. Faced with obstacles from their contrasting paths, they navigate through difficulties together, ultimately challenging their relationship.

Cast: Mr. Cassian Noctis, Mrs.—

She swiftly pulled away her phone before he could read any further, an expectant look in her eyes. That was your movie, March 7th wanted to watch your movie—he made a promise to himself he’d make time to watch it once it comes out but ever since he boarded the Express, it had only been missions after missions. Though, he was updated enough to know that it received a lot of love not only in Penacony but across the cosmos as well.

“Do you even know what you’re asking of him? That’s his wife in that movie!” Stelle—the other woman March argued with earlier—scratched the back of her head, whisper-yelling the other half of her sentence. She sat on the edge of the bed, a pillow tucked beneath her arms.

The latter quickly connected the dots, her eyes wide with realisation, “O-Oh! Um! You know what, I think we can go with the movie you picked!”

It wasn’t a secret among the Crew that Sunday was married but they figured the topic was sensitive to him as he barely talked about you, even the mention of Penacony had him wearing a solemn expression.

Though it was the complete opposite for him, Sunday wanted to talk about you—about his homeworld but he was afraid doing so would only get his hopes up for nothing. For the past few months he had been hoping to at least get a glimpse of you during his journey around the cosmos, you were an actress after all, you occasionally went on film press tours.

“I don’t mind at all. I had the opportunity to watch behind the scenes while they were shooting and I was more than intrigued to see the finished piece.” Sunday shook his head, he handed March their room keycard she gave him earlier before sitting next to his dark haired companion on the couch.

“Really? That’s so cool! Ugh, I wish I could get her autograph! You know, I was quite surprised when news broke out that she was engaged! I’ve also seen some of the wedding photos and you two looked absolutely stunning! Anyway, how about you Dan Heng? Do you have any movies you wanna watch?” March turned to the man next to Sunday.

Dan Heng opened his eyes and slowly shook his head, “I’m okay with any movie you guys pick.”

After a few more minutes of going back and forth, all lights were turned off and everyone eventually settled on Love and Devotion. Sunday was the most intrigued—even more than March 7th who initially convinced all to watch the movie; he knew of your acting prowess yet  he was completely speechless.

Every single time you appeared on screen, his heart seemed to skip a beat or two, he chalked it up to not having seen your face for a while which is why excitement enveloped him every now and then. 

However, half way through the movie while a particular scene played—the scene he vividly remembered watching on set—a foreign feeling enveloped his entire body, a hint of heat and something more.

Subtly, Sunday looked around to see his companions’ reactions, March 7th and Stelle who were sitting on the bed were unfazed by the escalating scene of the movie whereas Dan Heng merely scrolled on his dimmed phone, a slight blanket of pink dusting his cheeks.

With the volume turned all the way up, wet kissing sounds filled all four walls of the hotel room, it made Sunday’s stomach churn in a way that had him digging the tips of his fingers on his palms.

You and Cassian were only kissing but the intensity and lewd noises you made sent an icy shudder down his spine.

This wasn’t good.

A quiet, shaky sigh left his lips as his pants tightened with each passing second. Oh god, was he . . aroused? He didn’t remember feeling this way when he was on set—quite the opposite—so why now?

Sure, the room was dark enough to hide his growing erection but it wasn’t exactly ideal to experience one around three people. Besides, it was uncouth and he needed to leave. Now.

Sunday immediately stood up, gaining curious glances from everyone else, he tried to subtly cover pants, “Uh, I-I need to get something in Dan Heng and I’s room. Feel free to keep watching.” He didn’t bother waiting for anyone else to respond and immediately headed for the door.

As he stepped out onto the hallway, he breathed out a sigh of relief, at least there wasn’t anyone else around the corridors this late at night. Carefully, he walked towards the shared room, trying his best to avoid further friction in his pants or else it would be a very embarrassing moment for him—it was  humiliating enough to walk with a weird gait, anything more and he’d bury himself in the ground.

Thankfully, Sunday reached the room which he hastily opened with the keycard tucked inside his pocket, he swiftly slipped inside and sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.

Silence settled in the air, it was accompanied by his heavy, uneven breaths as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He felt extremely filthy—to think of you in such a lustful light without your knowledge, it was beyond unmannerly. 

“F-Forgive me . . for my vulgar thoughts and for what I am about to do.”

In the blink of an eye, Sunday found himself inside the bathroom, door locked and back pressed against it.

Dizziness washed over him and embarrassment ate away at his feverish skin as he reached for the waistband of his pants, he hastily pulled it down with his underwear, a sharp hiss leaving his lips, cock slapping against his lower abdomen. It wore a deep blush of pink and oozed with pearlescent pre-cum, he wondered how his cock would look against your face while you licked and sucked at it.

The soft fabric shamelessly pooled around his ankles which completely exposed his lower half, the cool air against his legs left an icy shudder. Sunday brought the hem of his shirt to his face, biting down at it so it didn’t get in the way.

He wrapped a trembling hand around the base and squeezed, a loud moan immediately spilling from his lips, pre-cum that decorated his sensitive cockhead trickled down.

A pearlescent sheen covered the entirety of Sunday’s cock as he eagerly spread it from tip to base—up and down, up and down, a couple of languid strokes that had him panting heavily.

A vivid imagery of you pumping his cock plagued his mind as he shut his eyes closed, both hands wrapped around the length of his shaft while your tongue gave experimental licks, “Ngh—ah! Mhm!” Sunday whimpered, free hand gripping the cool surface of the bathroom door behind him, he hadn't been doing this for long yet his knees were ready to give up from the immense weight of pleasure.

His chest vigorously rose and fell as each inhale and exhale turned more shallow than the last, he picked up the pace, stroking himself a little faster.

Pure bliss gnawed at his feverish skin, it sank its teeth into him ‘til it reached his very bones, engulfing his entire body in an intoxicating pleasured state.

“Ah—! Haah! Oh, god!”

Despite the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Sunday replayed the sinful moans you made in the movie, how your face contorted in pleasure as Cassian kissed down your neck—lips parted and brows tightly knitted together.

You sang the most exquisite melody he has ever heard and he could only hope to pull the very same ones, maybe something even better, one that would flawlessly intertwine with his own to create an immoral tune.

He bucked his hips into his curled hand at the thought of having sex with you. Embarrassingly, Sunday had never gotten intimate with anyone—his days were packed with duty on top of duty and he wasn’t given the chance to get into a relationship as it was the last thing he had in mind as (former) Oak Family Head. All he knew was to govern the Lineage he grew up in.

But he wondered . . How would you feel around his cock? Were you warm and soft?—maybe even a hint of greediness where you readily swallowed him whole.

It almost pained him that you weren’t in front of him right this moment because now, he had to settle for his inexperienced hand and just the thought of that grew a bud of frustration within his chest. Sunday wanted you—he needed you. 

Badly.

He desired to bury his shaft deep inside and have you come undone around him once, twice, as much as you wanted—‘til your legs trembled around his waist, ‘til your throat ran dry from repeatedly calling his name like a sacred prayer, and even then, he wasn’t sure if his thirst would be satiated.

This wasn’t just lust anymore. No. Sunday wasn’t merely aroused by a heated scene in your movie, he held something much deeper for you in his heart. It had always been there from the start but remained dormant and quiet enough to go unnoticed by him but now that it has bloomed into something greater, he realised that what he held for you was love.

Sunday loved you. Deeply, truly, and agonizingly.

At the sudden realisation, the coil inside him snapped instantaneously, spurts of hot cum spilled from his cock, he came with a loud wanton moan which echoed throughout the bathroom walls. His body trembled and pleasure which engulfed his entire body took him to places he’s never been before.

Sunday grunted as he milked his cock, shamelessly pumping it ‘til it emptied; he slumped against the door, filth settling over him while he tried to catch his breath.

Despite his lust-clouded mind, he only thought of one thing—to tell you how he truly felt.

As morning finally came, Sunday stepped outside the hotel to gather his thoughts after last night’s realisation, he figured getting some fresh air while walking amongst the locals and taking in the beauty of Ahatopia would quench the yearning in his heart.

Duomension City was as busy as ever with students, office workers and early risers trying to get through the morning rush, even at this hour the City remained lively—this world wasn’t entirely different from Penacony, teeming with large and colourful animated posters, it reminded Sunday of Moment of Golden Hour which also brimmed with bright billboards, music, and the surge of Penaconians out and about, it made him miss home even more.

But Planarcadia was different, it was a world that devoured silence and perhaps that’s why Sunday had grown to relax a little because silence left too much room to think. He adjusted the collar of his coat as he stepped through the crowded avenue, weaving between strangers with practised ease.

The cool air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee and expensive perfume, it blended seamlessly with the sounds of passing conversations and the quiet hum of cars.

A group of students rushed past him suddenly, laughing too loudly and nearly colliding with his shoulder. Sunday stepped aside instinctively, accidentally knocking into a stranger; the sound of a distinct thud reached his ears, an object falling onto the ground.

He halted his tracks to pick up the fallen object—a bottle of iced coffee—and return it to its owner. Ah, he should really watch his surroundings.

“My apologies for bumping into you, I should’ve been more aware of my—” Sunday stopped mid sentence as he faced the owner of the beverage.

The world didn’t go silent, no, if anything, Planarcadia only grew louder around him—footsteps rushing past, the distant sound of train announcements echoing, laughter from down the street but all of it blurred into meaningless noise because standing only a few inches away was you.

There was no mistaking it with your ivory wings and gleaming halo.

Was he dreaming? It had to be an elaborate prank, no? This was the world of Elation after all, maybe some Fool decided to play a sick joke on him. But the look on your face mirrored his own—shock and confusion.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the sea of people in the vicinity weaved their way around—they split and reformed like water around stone. Strangers brushed against his shoulders unaware that his world had just tilted violently off its axis.

You weren’t doing any better at all, it's as though your heart had forgotten how to beat. Sunday looked different, it wasn’t a drastic change but it was enough for you to notice.

The pristine perfection once attached to him had frayed at the edges, his attire was less . . uniform, and his eyes gleamed with more sincerity but there was undeniable exhaustion on his face, as if the last few months had carved something deeper into him.

And yet it was still him—your Sunday.

“. . You’re here . . ?” He broke the loud silence first.

“So are you.” You breathed out.

He looked down, suddenly remembering the bottle which rested on his palm. Carefully, he stepped closer and held it out, you took it with your left hand, fingers brushing against his gloved hand.

Sunday sucked in a sharp breath as he noticed the familiar band of gold around your ring finger, “You—You still wear your ring?” He asked with a hint of hope evident in his tone.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of his observation but curiosity soon followed, “We are still married, after all. People notice everything, if they don’t see a ring on me, they’d immediately assume divorce. It’s not exactly easy given your absence in Penacony. Why? Do you not wear yours anymore?”

Oh. So you only kept the ring on to avoid speculation and here he thought it meant something more to you but he didn’t have the luxury to sulk about it because every second spent in his presence faced bigger punishment for you—he knew The Family, they weren’t lenient.

He didn’t wear his ring anymore but kept it with him at all times, it was tucked safely inside the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart. He refused to wear it for the same reason he severed his halo back in Penacony—to feel pain. Albeit not physically, he felt the emotional pain of being undeserving of loving you and being loved by you.

“I think I should go. We—We shouldn’t be talking . .” Sunday shook his head and slowly stepped backwards which earned a baffled expression from you.

That’s it?

After not seeing each other for months, he was just going to chicken out and refuse to talk? You were well aware he only cared for your safety but you believed you needed answers from him and besides, the confession in your heart sat long enough—it was finally time to set it free.

“Really, Sunday?”

The sound of your voice uttering his name had him swallowing thickly. “Because if I remember correctly, you still had the guts to talk to me back in Penacony hours after you became a fugitive.”

He stopped in his tracks, now it was his turn to be confused, “You saw through my disguise?”

“. . I had a hunch it was you. I’ve replayed that conversation a million times for the past few months—over and over ‘til it finally dawned on me. So, please, let’s talk? You told me in that very conversation you wouldn’t want a future without me in it, right?”

Sunday couldn’t refuse.

The two of you found yourselves back at your hotel room—he would’ve offered his room if he wasn’t sharing it with Dan Heng—both of you figured it wasn’t best to talk about such matters in public, especially since merely being seen together with Sunday was already a crime itself.

The hotel you stayed at was more luxurious, a suite which offered a generous view of the bustling city below and its panoramic skyline, and carefully selected artwork adorned its beige painted walls.

“Are you here for a press tour?” He asked, eyeing the expansive room. 

“I’m here on vacation.”

Silence stretched and tension grew thicker with each second, you and Sunday stood a few metres apart from one another, sticking out like sore thumbs. Neither of you dared to speak with the amount of thoughts that raced in your minds—there was simply a lot to talk about that none of you knew where to start at all.

Should you address the elephant in the room? What he did back in Penacony and the fact that he was now a wanted criminal? Or should you tell him the very words in your heart that desired to be known?

Yes, Sunday committed the highest act of treason against his homeland, its people, and The Family but what exactly could you even say to him regarding that matter? Get angry and berate him further like everyone else did in his absence? Doing so still wouldn’t change what he had done. You’ve heard every word The Family higher ups spoke of him—they were rightfully angry, of course, you wouldn’t deny them that feeling but it pained you.

“I need to tell you something.” Both of you spoke up in unison, urgency in your tones equally evident.

“You go ahead first.” Sunday cleared his throat. If he was being honest, he hasn’t been able to sit still ever since he last spoke to you in Penacony—you mentioned how you wanted to tell him something, and judging by the look on your face, he could only assume what you wanted to say was regarding that matter.

Letting out a sigh, you nodded, never in a million years did you think you’d be confessing to him in a luxury hotel room, in a foreign world, stars away from Penacony,

“I know our marriage requires us to . . act in certain ways to make it believable but I have something I’ve buried inside my chest for as long as I can remember and no matter how many times I push it down or simply ignore it, it just won’t go away . . What am I even rambling about? What I’m trying to say is . . I have feelings for you, Sunday—even before this whole marriage act, ever since we were children.”

You looked away and stared at the abstract painting near the bed, you simply couldn’t handle returning Sunday’s stare, especially not when silence grew. Maybe you should have just kept your mouth closed and let him go first because now you were starting to regret it—what if he wanted to get a divorce?

Clearly there was no point in your marriage anymore, he has been absent in public for months and there was no reason to keep up the charade.

Even though your marriage was sealed with a legitimate contract, none of The Family Heads acknowledged its authenticity; your mother and Robin were a different case—it was more so out of respect while the rest did so out of disdain but still, the Dreammaster who orchestrated this unity was already dead which meant it held no significance at all.

Just an empty legal document.

“I . . feel the same way.”

. . What?

“It was foolish of me not to realize sooner. It was easy for me to show affection for you because what I have in my heart is genuine but I merely hid it behind the reason of duty because I wasn’t entirely sure of these feelings at all.” 

Now, it was Sunday’s turn to look away in embarrassment, a hue of deep rose graced his pale cheeks and heat prickled his skin.

Your breath stopped and the city below seemed to disappear, his words weren’t grand but they were honest, probably the most honest it has been since for as long as you could remember, it was a simple truth laid bare beneath a foreign sky.

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak because part of you had wanted this—you dreamed of this for so long now that it felt entirely cruel.

Cruel because you couldn’t be with him, not by your side, not in Penacony, not elsewhere, and now that your hearts were on the table, you simply couldn’t stand the thought of separation.

But for now, you wanted to cherish this moment. To convince yourself that you and Sunday had a future together where he didn’t have to run from The Family and face consequences, that the two of you weren’t bound for interminable separation.

“This is so unfair.” With a shaky breath, you buried your face in the hearts of your palms. You were certain if Aha was aware of the situation you and Sunday were in right now, THEY would be laughing. What a cruel joke from the cosmos.

He closed the distance between the two of you, protectively wrapping his arms around your body as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. It’d be absolutely selfish of him to ask for something more but he couldn’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.

He pulled back and pried your hands away from your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheeks as he cupped them, tentative  in a way that almost undid you more than certainty would have.

“. . May I?” He whispered. The warmth of his hand against your skin sent something sharp and aching through your chest.

“You may.”

Sunday slowly leaned in and for a moment, you remembered the ‘kiss’ at Eventide, only this time, it was as real as it got. The kiss wasn’t dramatic nor theatrical—it was merely his lips pressed against your own, soft with a small tremble, as if almost unsure if this was the right thing to do.

One hand found your waist carefully, drawing you closer with a reverence that made your knees feel less reliable all of a sudden. The kiss deepened but not with force but with feeling, slow and tender.

It felt like grief and relief at the same time, as though the two of you mourned the past few months but also treasuring the fact that, somehow, there was still the present and the future.

His lips were warm and softer than you’d imagined in moments you had long since stopped permitting yourself to imagine. Every slight shift was careful, as though he was memorizing the map of your lips. For the first time, this moment was entirely yours and Sunday’s—no ivory wing to shield the kiss, no cameras, and definitely not out of duty.

Your hands found their way to his collar, fingers curling more firmly into him which pulled the faintest sound, something quiet and surprised that sent a shiver down your spine. When you finally parted, it was only enough to breathe; your foreheads rested together, the city below spinning while the morning seemed to hold itself still around you.

“. . So,” You whispered, still breathless, “That was significantly better than the wedding.”

Sunday’s shoulders shifted slightly, he laughed, “I would hope so.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, and perhaps he saw something equally dangerous in your expression because his gaze softened into something so openly affectionate it nearly stole your breath all over again. You pulled him back down on you, this time the kiss was less hesitant but just as tender than the last, and maybe also a bit rougher—full of desire and hunger.

Sunday’s hand remained at your waist, steady and warm as though he feared everything might vanish if he held on too tightly but this second kiss had already undone that illusion, there was nothing uncertain left in the way you leaned into him, nothing hesitant in the way your fingers dug into the fabric of his coat.

The kiss deepened not with urgency alone but with the quiet ache of something long denied, every touch seemed to carry the weight of love restrained far too long.

“Tell me to stop.” Sunday breathed out between kisses, a shaky whisper. His words weren’t obligation, they were reverence as he would simply not take what was not freely given. 

Your answer came not in words but in the way your hands rose to cradle his face, the way you kissed him again with a certainty that made his breath hitch, and that was enough for him. His restraint broke softly akin to silk slipping loose, not reckless, never reckless but what laid beneath the silken veil was a brewing storm of desire—the feelings of yesterday suddenly coming back to him.

The hand on your waist carefully slid upward, the tips of his fingers tracing your clothed body before he gently ushers you out of your jacket, it fell onto the polished floors with a soft thud—one layer deeper, closer to what you both wanted.

But before you could go any further, Sunday completely pulled away from the kiss, cheeks bitten with pink and lips parted as he breathed heavily.

There was a hint of hesitancy in his face, “I’ve never done this before but I want you . .” He whispered, trailing off as embarrassment engulfed him.

You gave him a small smile and leaned in to kiss his lips, “That’s okay,” Then, the column of his neck, “You can simply,” And the spot beneath his wing, “Follow my lead.”

Oh, you’d be the death of him.

Soon, your hands slid down to unfasten his coat, easing him out of his outer layer ‘til it met yours on the ground.

There was something so heartbreakingly human about this moment—two individuals who had once stood at the altar of Eventide, beneath thousands of watchful eyes, now trembling more in private than both have ever had in public.

No words were spoken as each layer was shed, only the quiet rustle of fabric, shared kisses, and the growing anticipation as you bared your feelings to one another.

Sunday barely noticed you had guided him over to the bed ‘til his back kissed the soft ivory sheets, he was so caught up in the heat of the moment he almost forgot to drink you in—to bask in the sheer beauty of your naked body.

Through tinted cheeks and wet lashes, he looked up at you with pure desire and slowly raked his honeyed gaze all over your body—from your breasts, to the dip of your waist, and all the way down to the apex of your thighs. Sunday let out a shaky breath as he felt his cock hardening even further.

“You’re exquisite.” He breathed out. Paired with your glimmering halo and the wings behind your ears, you were a sight for the heavens.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Sunday.”

A small chuckle escaped your lips, it was clearly a tease to mask the fact that his naked form drove you to the brink of insanity. Beautiful was an understatement—there wasn’t a word in the thesaurus that could describe the angelic sight before you.

The shy look on his face was ironic because his cock stood prouder than ever, begging to be inside you. It flushed pink and leaked a generous amount of pre-cum, and it took all your will power not to lap it up right then and there.

“Wait,” He started. “I want to please you.”

At his request, you switched positions, only this time you sat up on the edge of the bed. Sunday slowly got on his knees before you as he placed a trail of chaste kisses down your neck, collarbones, and just above the valley of your breasts. Sensing slight hesitation from him, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and guided his hand to your chest,

“It feels good when you massage and squeeze it—ah! Just—mhm! Just like that.” You moaned as he gave an experimental squeeze, brain short-circuiting at your immediate reaction to his touch; his palms were expansive and his fingers were long which allowed him to stimulate most of the sensitive area.

Sunday brought both hands to cup each breast, gently massaging them while his eyes darted between your chest and face, he wore an expression full of wonder and curiosity, rosy lips lightly parted as he breathed heavily.

Curious, he eagerly wrapped his lips around a mound, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple, causing your hands to fly to his hair.

“S-Sunday—!”

He responded with a hum which sent vibrations across your skin as you gently tugged at his hair. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing and his actions were merely fuelled by the sounds and expressions you made.

With one hand still on your other breast, he gently fondled your sensitive nipple between his lithe fingers, you arched your back, pressing your chest further into his face. Your skin was extremely warm and soft beneath his touch it almost felt unreal; he couldn’t believe he was right in front of you, intimate and vulnerable.

Sunday then switched between your breasts, giving the other the same amount of attention and stimulation before he trailed downwards.

Gentle and hot, he placed wet open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your chest and along your stomach, taking the time to lap up the sensitive area just above your bellybutton.

Once he reached your sex, he looked up at you briefly to look for any discomfort in your face, and upon not finding any, he slowly pried your legs open, revealing your sopping entrance.

All for him?

Though, it felt rather daunting not really knowing where to start. With two fingers, Sunday gently rubbed up and down your slit a couple of times, observing your reaction—you bit the bottom of your lip and your brows slightly knitted together.

So far, so good.

“Y-You can—ngh! Wet your index and—ah—ring finger with your mouth and put them inside.” You let out a soft moan, one hand planted firmly on the mattress to support your crumbling torso while the other explored his hair. Sunday may have been inexperienced but god did he pleasure you effortlessly, he hasn’t even touched you properly yet you were already trembling.

At your words, he paused slightly. Put his fingers inside his mouth? What a bizarre thing to do. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red as he wrapped his lips around his digits, effectively wetting them as instructed, he could taste a hint of you.

You could only watch in awe as the sight before you unfolded, never in your lifetime did you think you’d see the revered Sunday—former Bronze Melodia and former Oak Family Head—stick his fingers inside his mouth.

“Now, with your palm facing the ceiling, slowly push them in one by one.”

A soft pop echoed in the silence as he removed his digits from his mouth and brought them down to your sopping cunt. Slowly, he pushed his index finger past your folds and immediately sought your reaction—a soft sigh.

Oh, how warm you were, it felt like he was dipping his hand in a pot of warm honey, slick and smooth, and maybe even as sweet. Sunday gave a few shallow experimental pumps before adding the second digit, eliciting a shaky whimper from you.

“Haa—ah! C-Curl your fingers upwards and—yes! Oh, god! Just like that, Sunday—mhm!” You threw your head back as he curled his fingers, face contorted in pure pleasure.

At your pornographic reaction, he swallowed thickly; he tried not to think about how much his cock ached, being untouched for so long, it’d have to wait for a little while, he wanted to please you ‘til you were satisfied.

Deep in a haze of lust, you tried your best to form a coherent sentence, “Can you—oh, that feels good. Can you feel a spongy texture? Gently apply pressure and rub it back a-and forth—hngh!”

Sunday absentmindedly nodded, he could feel the area you mentioned just above the pads of his fingers. As you instructed, he pressed on it lightly, afraid he’d hurt you if he did more. With a grind of your hips, you let out a wanton moan in the shape of his name.

“Is this okay . . ?” He breathed out.

“Y-You’re doing good. Just keep a delicate, steady pace . .” Your hand on his hair snaked down to the apex of your legs to spread open your cunt, “If you want—haah! You can also kiss at this spot here at the top and—oh, fuck! Sunday!”

Before you could finish your sentence, his lips were already flushed against your entrance, closely following every word you uttered. A slight shudder washed over your naked body as his feathered wings brushed against the insides of your thighs.

“Yes! Lightly suck on it like tha—aah! Ngh! Haah, I’m so close. Don’t—mhm! Don’t stop, please”

With the combined stimulation of his fingers inside you and his lips around your clit, a string of colourful moans left your lips as you slowly sank deeper into the depths of bliss. The sounds you made were music to his ears which only fuelled his actions further.

With a forceful grunt, you threw your head back as you came on Sunday’s fingers—toes curling and thighs shaking at the immense wave of pleasure that hit you.

He slowed down his movements and resorted to languid strokes which allowed you to grind your hips and ride out your orgasm. He let out a shaky moan at the sensation of your walls tightening around his fingers, oddly enough, it felt satisfying for him.

Coming down from your high, you slumped down on the bed, face extremely heated and lips parted to catch your breath.

Wide eyed and in slight awe, Sunday slowly pulled out his slick coated fingers which earned a low whine from you, he curiously examined his soaked digits, they were faintly trembling from the repeated motion.

Without a second thought, he wrapped his lips around them with the sweetness of your taste settling on his tongue. Oh, how dangerously addicting you were. Wet sounds slipped from his mouth as he sucked his digits clean from your saccharine slick, earning a curious glance from you as you lifted your head off the mattress.

He was trying to kill you.

The two of you found yourselves situated further up the bed with Sunday slotted between your parted legs, he hovered over you with one palm firmly planted beside your head while the other languidly pumped his hard cock just before your wet cunt.

He let out soft pants above you, flushed face contorting with pleasure, “A-Are you sure?” Even with his mind entirely clouded by lust he prioritised your comfort.

“As long as it's you, I can never be more sure.”

He smiled in response and placed a chaste kiss on your lips before slowly guiding the tip to your folds. Snaking a hand between your bodies, you helped Sunday position his cock correctly—a few centimetres down—then, you loosely circled your arms around his neck, allowing him to go at his own pace. 

The morning glow surrounded him like a serene aura, it bounced off his pale skin which gave him a heavenly glow. With a shaky exhale, he pushed his cockhead inch by inch which immediately earned a sharp gasp from both of you.

The feeling of you around him was foreign yet oddly comforting, your walls were warm—extremely warm—it almost felt like he was soaking inside a hot tub of water and it made his head spin in a good way.

Sunday met your gaze with his starry ones, a light sheen of tears coating his eyes at how amazing you felt around him.

He couldn’t believe he was inside you, buried deep inside the woman he truly loved; he prayed in the back of his lust-fogged mind hoping that this wasn’t a dream.

You bit your lip as he bottomed out, watching the way Sunday’s body reacted to everything—how his wings curled inwards, how his abdomen tightened and untightened, and how his breathing grew uneven with every passing second. He genuinely looked like he was on cloud nine.

Unwrapping an arm from his neck, you slotted your hand against his jaw—just at the spot below his ear and wing—to caress his cheek, “You okay . . ?”

A small nod, then, his eyes fluttered shut, the tips of his lashes brushing against his rosy stained cheeks. Sunday leaned into your touch with a faint whimper, one that had your brain short-circuiting.

For a minute or two, he stilled inside, allowing you both to adjust to the feeling; this wasn’t your first time but the sheer length of his cock reached spots you didn’t know even existed to the point where you had to count to ten just to steer yourself away from spiraling and cumming right then and there.

“S-So tight—ngh. You feel good.” Sunday slowly pulled back about halfway before thrusting back inside, drawing wanton moans from both of you.

He resorted to languid, deep thrusts which allowed you to feel every inch of him—for your sopping cunt to remember the exact shape of his cock—and each time he bottomed out, his cockhead deliciously kissed your sweet spot.

With the slow rhythm set, the bed creaked and groaned in time with the movements of his hips, sounds of light skin slapping and lewd squelching filled all four walls of the entire room.

Everything felt sinful—from the pornographic moans you let out to the slick that covered his cock and your inner thighs but god was it completely addicting. 

Sunday’s face remained a mere breath away from yours, keeping eye contact, his honeyed gaze pulled you into the depths of warm bliss, akin to a gentle hug that enveloped one’s body.

Every intentional push and pull of his hips knocked out oxygen from your lungs which had you incoherently gasping for his name.

A light sheen of sweat coated your bodies as the morning air grew impossibly thick, the ivory sheets beneath your back clung onto you like second skin, and Sunday’s hair stuck to his forehead but neither of you cared about the filthiness of it, not when your bodies pleasured one another like there was no tomorrow.

Not when he firmly pressed his cock with every thrust inside you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, effectively pulling him closer and allowing him to reach you a little deeper than before; your hands spread across his shoulder blades, curling inwards to decorate his back with rubied streaks.

The sharp sting of your nails sent Sunday forward, his head fell onto the pillows beneath your own, shamelessly moaning dangerously close to your ear.

“Haah—ah! Ah! I’m s-so close, Sunday! God! Please don’t sto—ngh! Don’t stop!”

At the sound of your moans, he picked up his pace, his cock hitting your g-spot a little harder. He also neared his climax and with the way your greedy cunt tightened around him and he knew he wasn’t going to last any longer.

Using all the strength he had left, Sunday lifted himself with trembling arms and gave you an open-mouthed kiss, it was messier than he had intended but the mere feeling of your mouths slotting against one another with your saliva mixing only fuelled the drive of his hips further.

He pulled away slightly, a thin string of spit connecting his lips to yours, “Please cum for me! Ngh—ah! Haah! C-Cum with me!”

With a few more sloppy thrusts, Sunday sheathed the entire length of his cock, firmly pressing into your sensitive spot as he came with a loud, shameless moan, ear feathers shaking from pleasure. You followed shortly after, nails digging into his skin which left red crescent shaped marks all across his back.

Ribbons of thick, warm cum generously coated your walls, you’ve never been this full before but you weren’t complaining, the feeling of Sunday filling you to the brim had you whimpering beneath him.

His cock several times twitched inside you as it emptied itself; he came so much to the point where his cum had started spilling out of you and dripped onto the sheets below, effectively soiling them but he couldn’t just simply stop himself even if he wanted to—it kept coming out in waves ‘til there was nothing left.

Embarrassed, Sunday buried his face at the junction of your neck, prickly heat creeping up his cheeks. A breathless chuckle left your lips, hands soothing over the reddened trails you left on his back, who knew he could actually get embarrassed over something as little as cumming too much?

How adorable.

He rolled over with a grunt and plopped onto the empty spot next to you, you curled next to him, the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheeks somewhat pulling you back into reality.

One of his arms rested loosely around you, absentmindedly tracing slow, soothing patterns against your back as if he reassured himself that you weren’t just a dream, that you were real and remained right next to him.

For a while, neither of you spoke—the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, just your breaths slowly steadying itself with each second.

A saddened expression washed over your face as reality settled on your shoulders akin to cold seeping through glass—slowly yet adamant—and you were immediately reminded of the predicament you both faced. Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested against him and Sunday noticed immediately,

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He whispered, confusion painted on his face; his voice was much softer—achingly gentle.

You shook your head, gaze lifting towards the expansive windows and the horizon beyond it, “I just . . I was just reminded of what you and I have to face and I’m scared, Sunday. What—What if The Family finds out you’re here in Planarcadia and—I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do. I’m scared for us because . . I finally have you and I don’t know if that means we’ll be separated again . .”

Really, there was nothing you could do but you wanted to be with Sunday, you wanted to spend your days with him out in the open, not a single care in the cosmos about The Family being after him—you wanted him back home and beside you.

Beside you, he shifted closer, he carefully tilted your chin upward ‘til you had no choice but to look at him. Funnily enough, for all the uncertainty ahead, his gaze remained steady, “We won’t lose one another.”

“Sunday—” “Listen to me.” He softly interrupted, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye before tears could fully gather.

“I do not know what the next month will look like—or the next year, and I cannot promise you our union either but I can promise you this: when the time comes, I will face it all and I will do everything in my power to rightfully earn the spot beside you.”

Your lips trembled, not only from sadness but from the fragile, terrifying hope that began to bloom beneath your chest.

“The Family won’t stop.” You whispered.

“I know.”

“They won’t forgive easily.”

“I know.”

“There’s a real chance we could be eternally separated.”

Sunday smiled, not because it was funny but because somehow—despite everything—he felt almost fond of your catastrophizing, “Then we shall simply find our way back to one another the same way we did today, no?”

Your laugh came unexpectedly—it was humourless and full of disbelief but purely light hearted, “You make that sound very simple.”

“It won’t be but difficult has never meant impossible.” He murmured, brushing a strand of stray hair from your face with unbearable tenderness. 

Mirroring his smile, you shifted closer to bury yourself against his bare skin as though you were anchoring your heart to him. Sunday’s arm tightened around you immediately, protective without thought before pressing a quiet kiss to your forehead.

And as though all worries dissipated into the skies of Planarcadia, the once lonely suite had transformed into something far more lived-in—the bed remained half unmade, blankets tangled and abandoned, heated remnants of earlier faded into something more wholesome. Room service trays sat on the wooden coffee table, silver lids pushed aside in favour of half-finished lunch.

Sunday was seated on the floor—pants and top messily thrown over his body—eating a fruit. He looked up from where he sat, brows lifting slightly as you eagerly rummaged through your luggage near the entryway. You returned to him with your arms full, a couple of somewhat familiar-looking objects tucked inside.

“What is that?” He blinked

You grinned with entirely too much satisfaction, “Emergency provisions.” 

His confusion turned to suspicion but nonetheless, you carefully set your haul onto the polished floor one by one like priceless contraband:

Sweet dream cloud candies in iridescent wrappers. Golden lullaby honey crisps. Starfall sugar biscuits dusted in edible shimmer. Moondew fruit chews. SoulGlad. And finally, 

“Chocolate pudding tarts.” Sunday breathed out. He stared at the familiar dessert packaging as though it had appeared through divine intervention. 

“I brought these snacks with me so I wouldn’t get homesick while on vacation. I often do the same during press tours—”

Before you could speak any further, the lighthearted atmosphere shifted subtly but you noticed it—the way an expression of sadness crept up his face.

Sunday was homesick.

You hadn’t thought he’d be—no, that wasn’t true, you had thought about it, you just didn’t expect something so minor to make it visible.

Slowly, you opened the packaging and offered the pudding tart. For a second, he simply stared at it but carefully took it nonetheless. He grabbed a silver spoon from one of the trays and scooped a small amount, as if indulging any further was forbidden.

Its familiar sweetness melted on his tongue and you watched as his expression changed into something more nostalgic.

You knew where he had immediately gone—to childhood, to the happier memories where he only worried about how to sneak in more pudding tarts in between music lessons, and what to write in the letter he’d regularly send to Robin (There was just too much to talk about!)

“It tastes the same as I remember . . I—thank you.”

You shook your head, “You don’t have to thank me. I just thought you’d miss some snacks from home.”

You and Sunday spent the entire morning and afternoon holed up in the suite reminiscing about the colourful past, revealing how one deciphered their feelings for the other; he also took the time to give you a proper apology for involving your name and reputation in his affairs to which you accepted.

Maybe it was fate playing a hand.

Once full of worry and fear for the uncertainty that the future held, you learned to slow down and appreciate the present—the fact that Sunday was right beside you, safe and healthy.

For now, you’d cherish this moment in a foreign world, and whatever the future may bring, you knew nothing could pry you and Sunday apart, that was something you were certain of. And this time without any hesitation, you spoke up,

“I love you, Sunday.”

“I love you, too.”

[riricatria]

Hello, hello~

"Freaky Shit They Do" as in... Freaky shit they do. Essentially, smut with very little plot for all of the yandere men. Literally all the men I write for. I just really wanted to write smut ok 😭😭😭 Anyway, come get your food y'all ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

☆ Some of these have some plot, and some go straight into action; there's some variation between each part. The content warnings are difficult to mark here individually, so I'll instead mark them under each name in the post. There are, however, certain reoccurring themes which appear in all or most of the parts, so I'll list those here!

Characters include: EVERY SINGLE ONE; Anaxa, Argenti, Aventurine, Blade, Boothill, Dan Heng, Gallagher, Gepard, Jiaoqiu, Jing Yuan, Luocha, Moze, Mydei, Phainon, Dr. Ratio, Mr. Reca, Sampo, Sunday (Pre-AE), Sunday (AE) and Welt General content warnings include: SMUT, NONCON, cisfem!Reader (all parts), general yandere themes (possessiveness, obsessiveness, manipulation...), coercion, more kinks than you can list, various types of bindings, and (bringing my favourite tag back) this is 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓪𝓼 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴. ⋆ Around 20,1k words, which means around 1,0k for each man. Minors, do not interact. ⋆ Genre: Humble and honest horny content

˗ˏˋ ★ Anaxa

☆ Content warnings include: A fucking machine, bondage, overstimulation, and he's really mean in this one.

You detest him. Most of the time, you’re mostly a bit startled by his presence, if not outright scared of him — he has a certain, obnoxious kind of domineering aura to him that has your heart rate picking up — but right now, you can’t help but hate the man to his core. 

The device Anaxa has set out for you is utter torture. For the better part of the last hour, the phallic tip of the machine has been ramming right into your most sensitive spot without as much as a minute’s break. You’re certain that he angled the thing like that on purpose, too: He knows your body inside-out, he’s aware of every last erogenous zone of yours, down to the ones you yourself didn’t even know existed, and he has taken advantage of that fact wholly. 

Your knees chafe against the ground due to how you’re set. The man was merciful enough to provide you with a short stool to rest your chest against, but even then, the position can’t exactly be called a comfortable one. He didn’t grant you the luxury of supporting yourself with your arms, of course: Your hands are neatly connected to the collar locked around your neck.

You have long since lost the will to resist the unrelenting pleasure or trying to tune out the inplacable haze of overstimulation. The proof of your predicament lies between your legs in a clear puddle consisting of both your own essence and artificial one, which Anaxa now decides to add onto.

Yet again, he walks over to you from where he has been sitting and enjoying the show with a much-too-obvious bulge in his pants. As he passes your front, he makes sure to dangle a small bottle right in front of your nose, taunting you with a complacent grin on his face. You would snap at him, spit unimaginably vile insults at him, but unfortunately, he prepared for that exact scenario: You’re unable to get a single, coherent word out through the metallic, ring-shaped gag in your mouth. 

Disappearing from your field of view, Anaxa makes his way to your back where the device is thrusting into your entrance. Popping the container in his hand open, he tips it over your behind until yet another, generous glob of lube lands on the base of the machine’s tip. The liquid is immediately swallowed by your cunt with a nauseating, sloshing sound as the thing continues filling you up over and over again.

”Ahn-ash-a”, you try to call out for him, but with the gag, the task proves impossible.

”Oho, that’s most certainly the most unique variation I have heard of my name”, Anaxa walks back over to your front, sneering down at your tear-stained, flushed face. ”Though, I don’t recall giving you the permission to call me that.”

He doesn’t bother to even crouch down in front of you — a gesture like that would be far beneath someone like him. Instead, he settles for bending over a little to be able to grab your jaw. You let out a pitiful whine in response to the action, but it only serves to widen the smirk on his face. 

”Let us give an attempt to it together, then”, Anaxa says, tilting your chin so you’re looking him in the eye. ”A-nak-sa-go-ras. Anaxagoras.”

You hiss out an unintelligible string of profanities and pleas which the man answers with a shake of his head and a disapproving tut of his tongue. 

”That’s not quite it. What’s the matter?” he cocks his head to the side. ”Is it truly that daunting of a task for you?”

You’re only barely able to stomach the way Anaxa looks down at you without bursting into tears. His natural ability to provoke, to arouse commotion with a single glance is nothing short of unhinged. The person in front of you is the definition of vociferous, and with how skilled he is at picking you apart, you’re certain that sooner or later, you’re going to lose your mind for good. 

Anaxa lets go of your jaw, allowing your chin to fall to your chest. He then proceeds to circle you in slow, daunting steps like strolling around in an exhibit. It’s probably quite close to what you are to him, anyway; a piece of interest to poke and prod at for his own entertainment.

A sigh breaks past his lips as he leans to the side to be able to trail his fingers down the curve of your back. Unhurriedly, he makes his way to the machine behind you yet again. 

”I suppose you’re ready for another one”, he then speaks, kneeling down beside your lower half.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, you start flailing around to the best of your ability, hysterically yanking your hands against where they’re connected to your neck, but to no avail. Desperately craning your neck to see what’s going on behind you, you catch the way Anaxa rolls his eyes with an amused snort before he snakes his hand around your stomach. 

Reaching for what’s between your legs, he uses his index and ring finger to spread your labia apart before setting the middle digit on your clit. There, without a further warning, he begins rubbing the pearl in a rapid, precise motion. 

You shriek through your gag, doing your best to clamp your thighs shut and push his hand away, to get him off of you, but it does nothing to stop Anaxa from forcing yet another climax out of you. With methodical motions, he knows just where to press to get you to fall apart under his touch, and no matter how you try to fight the stimulation, you can’t loosen up the coil that’s building up in your abdomen. 

Within seconds, he has you coming on his hand with a shrill, tearful cry. The rush is sudden and intense, much like the previous ones he has pulled out of you, but even then, he doesn’t let you rest for the least bit. On the contrary, he wishes to prolong your suffering: He strokes your clit through the high, making sure you feel every last bit of the orgasm he just gave you. For good measure, he pulls back the hood of your bud and pinches the bared bit in between the pads of his fingers. It’s only when your sobs get loud enough that he deems the round to be a success and detaches his hand from your sore cunt. 

You can hardly hold your head up by the time he stands up from between your legs and returns to his spectator seat with a vile smirk on his features. He sits down, crosses his legs, and gets comfortable waiting for when the machine is about to collect yet another climax from you, and so the cycle begins anew. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Argenti

☆ Content warnings include: Fingering, a mirror, and rose thorns (lol).

Argenti isn’t one to ever hurt you. He wouldn’t dare to lay a single finger on your ethereal beauty, fearing that even the smallest touch could ruin you forever. You’ve grown to trust that sentiment, to lean against it when you defy his whims, but alas, he, too, has his limits. You have come to see that though he has sworn to never do harm to you, it doesn’t mean that he won’t utilize the threat of pain if it means the results will be in his favour. 

You rest in his lap, back against his chest, on the plush sheets of your shared bed. Though the position is comfortable, you find it hard to relax against him due to how coils of thorny vines snake along your naked legs and wrists. The prickles are just shy of digging into your most sensitive bits, lingering mere millimiters above your skin — given that you don’t move an inch, that is. 

You find it difficult to keep still with how much is going on around you. Aside from the bindings, there’s Argenti’s feather-light yet all the more intense touch lingering on you: The pads of his fingers glide back and forth along your inner thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake. His bright red hair falls over your shoulder and down your chest in thick waves as he buries his nose into the crook of your neck, greedily inhaling your scent. 

Even that isn’t enough for him. Though you’ve been doing your best to avoid the sight, your gaze wanders to the foot of the bed yet again where the most intimate part of your undoing lies. In the reflection of the tall, crystal-clear mirror he has set out for you, you meet your own, hazy gaze. Not only does the view of your bare body against his own make you want to hide yourself away forever, but your heart staggers uncomfortably as your eyes stray upwards and settle on the deep flush that covers Argenti’s cheeks. 

He sighs against your skin. The air tickles your neck, but you don’t get much time to focus on an individual detail like that as his hands have begun making their way inward. 

The one bit of mercy he has graciously granted you is that his actions are never capricious: His goal never is to catch you off-guard, and so, he makes sure to take his sweet time caressing the skin around your core before even entertaining the idea of dipping in. His fingertips travel over your hips and along the bend of your groin, just shy of touching where you’re the most sensitive. 

Then, his touch abandons your lower half and instead moves up your waist, your sides, and finally, to your chest. 

A light caress over your nipples has you twitch involuntarily. You choke out a quiet yelp, catching yourself just in time not to have the thorny vines sink into your thighs. Argenti hums into your shoulder, singing an unknown melody in his rich, soothing timbre. His long lashes finally flutter open, and he leans forward to be able to catch a glance at your face. 

”Does it feel good, my love?” he asks in a breathy voice, his smile as gentle as ever. 

You can’t find it in yourself to answer him. Instead, you swallow down the lump in your throat, let out a near-silent whimper, and squeeze your eyes shut. Though he has done nothing worth instilling fear in your fragile being, you can’t help the way your heart races in something akin to panic when he looks at you. 

He brings his hand to your jaw. Tenderly, Argenti takes hold of your chin and directs your attention forward to where the mirror stands.

”You’re as breathtaking as the last rays of a scarlet sunset”, he muses as his free hand creeps down your stomach and slips in between your thighs. ”I could sing you praises until my tongue shrivells up.” 

His words go in one of your ears and right out of the other. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything else but the way the pad of his middle finger presses directly against your clit in a terribly gentle yet all the more intense touch. It’s what he excels in: Even at the start, it didn’t take him long to learn how to have you come apart under his attention.

Your breath hitches as Argenti begins moving his finger back and forth along your slit. He takes immense care to apply precisely the correct amount of pressure to dance the line between too much and too little, and oh, does he bring honour to his title with how he does it. It’s so easy, it comes so naturally to him.

You suck in a sharp gasp of air as his fingers hit a particularly good spot. Your reaction seems to please him, and as his touch once again slides lower, his digits carefully breach your entrance. 

He makes sure not to go too fast — he spends his sweet time slowly wiggling his way in with one finger before adding another — and then, with a hauntingly dexterous movement, he curls them right into your sweet spot. 

Your back arches off Argenti’s body. The vines once again threaten to pierce your skin, and he has to softly coax you to settle down and lean back against his chest. Though, he makes no effort to stop what he’s doing: Instead, he puts all his attention into prodding the front wall of your insides, gently massaging the spot without a hurry in the world. Even with how the head of his cock is pressing up against your lower back, he doesn’t dare rush the experience; not when it comes to you.

You make the mistake of allowing your eyes to return to your reflection once again. Right in front of you, staring back at you, you’re presented with every single inch of yourself, all in your impuissant glory. You can’t help the way your gaze strays lower and lower until you’re met with the sight of Argenti’s fingers sliding deep into your hole while his thumb circles your clit in slow, meticulous circles.

Argenti smiles against your skin. 

”I am most glad”, he responds to your unsaid words, just as he begins working another finger in.

˗ˏˋ ★ Aventurine

☆ Content warnings include: Toys, bondage and overstimulation.

It’s not easy to balance on one’s knees only. It’s the unfortunate reality you have come to face as you have yet again been subjected to one of Aventurine’s whims. If there’s one thing to be said about the man, it’s that he doesn’t do minimalism, and that fact is precisely why you have ended up where you are. 

Your entire lower body trembles from the strain of trying to keep yourself upright in the awkward position he has forced you into. Having taken care to strap your calves against the back of your thighs, the man has made sure you’re not going anywhere under his watch. The case is the same with your arms: His belt connects your wrists behind your back in a neat yet sturdy loop.

It’s not the bindings that are the most alarming part of the setting, however. The main attraction stands in between your legs, inches away from your bare bits. The wildly vibrating saddle-like apparatus that’s situated directly underneath your tottering body is difficult to ignore. If you were to lose your balance, even for a single moment, the surface you would land on is none other than the seat on the sybian.

”Hey now, don’t be difficult”, Aventurine sings behind you, rubbing his hands along your shoulders. ”I spent quite a fortune on this one, don’t you wanna try it out?” 

You would answer him with a retort if it wasn’t for the 8-ball-shaped gag stuffed in your mouth. You’ve gathered that, out of his vast collection of toys to use on you, it’s among his very favourites. It’s not even because of the actual function of the item — it’s way more about the humiliation factor. 

Aventurine’s hands move lower, trailing down your sides before resting over the curve of your hips. Gently, he urges your bottom lower, pressing down on the front of your thighs with just enough strength to waver your posture. You let out an alarmed squeal in response, shaking your head and trying to somehow convey your distress to the man, but alas, he seems to take a twisted sort of pleasure in witnessing your struggle. 

”C’mon”, he nudges a little harder. 

The phallic tip of the sybian grows closer to your entrance with each second as Aventurine shifts more and more force on you. His laboured breathing blows against the shell of your ear, and you can feel the way his hard-on presses against your back. His chin rests on your shoulder as he takes in the sight of you with a frenzied, hungry glint in his eyes. 

”Hey, it’s not even that bad”, he insists, wrapping one of his arms around your waist to keep you still. The side of his face is warm against your jaw. ”Plus, that’s only the lowest setting, you know? We’re in for so much fun tonight, so relax a bit for me, hm?”

He looks at you expectantly, one brow raised in an expectant expression. You don’t offer him an answer, however, nor are you able to properly meet his gaze with how you’re concentrating on staying upright. With how your legs tremble, you know that you’re on the brink of collapsing, but even then, fighting against the strain, you remain standing. 

Aventurine lets out a small, amused puff of air through his nose. 

Suddenly, he forces his entire weight on you, and with the shift, your thighs finally give in under the stress. A singular, strangled yelp is the only thing that makes it out of your mouth before your entrance is speared on the sybian’s rod, and your cunt is pressed flush against the ribbed surface of the saddle. 

The sensation is instant and unbelievably intense. Your entire lower half rumbles along with the device as the vibrations reach deep into the pits of your stomach and fry every last nerve ending they make contact with. It’s way too much, beyond anything he has ever had you go through with his regular tools, and your immediate, reflexive response is to try to get yourself off of the toy. It’s a futile effort, however: Aventurine keeps you still against him and snugly seated on the saddle, preventing you from as little as correcting your position. 

One of his palms rests down over your stomach where he feels how your rapid, uneven breaths force your muscles to go tense. Leaning into the side of your head, he lets out a mocking, whiny moan directly into your ear. 

”Mmh, that must feel so nice, yeah?” Aventurine groans, punctuating the words with a wet kiss on your temple. 

As if the torment wasn’t already cruel enough, the hand on your abdomen creeps down to where your cunt connects to the sybian. There, he slides his fingers between your folds and pinches your clit between the pad of his thumb and the ribbed saddle of the machine.

Ignoring your wails and cries, he presses his chest against your spine and begins rocking you back and forth against the seat, all the while making sure that your cunt stays firmly connected to its textured surface. He hisses out loud, biting his lower lip as he watches the way your bits tremble along with the toy. 

You try to find a better posture, any position in which your clit doesn’t feel like it’s going to fall off, but each one seems to feel more excruciating than the last. The rod inside of you nudges directly against your sweet spot with every push Aventurine gives you, and with how he drags your cunt along the bumps on the saddle, to your horror, you come to realize that the torture has begun building up to a climax. 

He seems to be very aware of the same fact as well. You don’t need to do as much as glance at his face to understand what the implication entails. In a desperate attempt to postpone your rapidly approaching ruin, you try to rise back onto your knees, but instead of succeeding in your endeavour, you only fall back against the saddle. Aventurine lets out a mean laugh at your failure, landing a sharp smack on the side of your thigh as a punishment. Your broken sobs are muffled by the ball in your mouth. 

In your delirium, you can barely out the sweet nothings he utters in your ear as he continues urging you closer and closer to the edge. No matter how you try to drown out even a bit of the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure raking your entire lower half, before long, you understand that there’s only one outcome that the man will find satisfactory. 

Soon, the simultaneously rapturous and excruciating sensation bursts in the depths of your abdomen. Your back arches against Aventurine’s body as your whole being tenses in response to the sudden, unbearably powerful climax. 

However, what pleasure was to be found in it is soon overshadowed by searing overstimulation. The sensation evokes the same sort of panic as if you were being tickled, but instead of being able to pull away, the feeling is completely inescapable. Your muscles constrict against their bindings in a desperate, uncoordinated effort to get away from the source of the affliction, only to be forced to weather it even more as the man presses you further down the toy. 

Though, even that doesn’t satiate his hunger: With a tremulous gasp, as if he was the one on the receiving end of the suffering, he reaches to the side for the control box in an awkward manoeuvre. A nearly inhuman shriek erupts from your throat as the sybian’s vibrations suddenly spike even higher. 

”That’s more like it”, Aventurine pants in your ear, stroking his hands up and down your weakly twitching thighs. 

Your eyes roll back into your head. Tears have long since spilled past your lashes, and your head falls back, resting limp against his shoulder. Letting out a dreamy sigh, he plants his lips on your cheek with an overly emphasized “mwah”-sound, all the while his hand slides back in between your thighs.

˗ˏˋ ★ Blade

☆ Content warnings include: Cockwarming, mild manhandling and little size kink.

Your sobs and sniffles are the only thing that can be heard in the small room you and him are spending the night in. At the start of the evening, you were afraid of the noise travelling to the other side of the wall, but the concern for that has long since dissipated into unadulterated panic that fills the entirety of your chest and causes an uncontrollable jitter in your limbs. 

You’re sitting on Blade’s lap with your back resting against his chest — though ”resting” is a bit of a generous term: Every last muscle in your body has gone tense from terror, and in his usual fashion, he has set his large hand over your eyes to obscure your vision. His bandages scratch against the bridge of your nose as you quietly weep, staining the torn fabric with your distress. 

His cock sits heavy inside of your cunt. Not only are you not the least bit relaxed, but with his size, it’s nearly impossible for you not to have an overwhelming need to squirm off of him. He doesn’t let you, though: His bicep is loosely wrapped around your neck, just shy of but uncomfortably close to pressing up against your throat. In the back of your affrighted mind, you know that he won’t actually choke you — at least as long as you don’t give him a reason to — but the threat itself is enough to set your anxiety haywire. 

A strangled, shrill cry erupts from your throat as Blade adjusts your position in his lap, unintentionally bouncing you up and down on his dick. He lets out a deep groan in response to the noise as if you were being a general annoyance to him, and the arm around your windpipe tightens the slightest bit. You immediately click your jaw shut, even though your pursed lips can hardly hold back the wails that are about to spill out. 

You’re not sure where you should put your hands, and so, they find solace in hanging onto his forearm like your life depended on it. His presence is much too overpowering to escape by dissociating yourself from the situation, and the only way you can hope to ground yourself is to latch onto him with all that’s in you. He doesn’t seem to mind the way you grip him; on the contrary, he loosens his own hold on you the tiniest bit, allowing you a little more space to rest.

You feel his breath on the shell of your ear. Using the hand over your eyes to tilt your head to the side, he buries his nose into your hair before inhaling deeply. The sensation makes your skin crawl violently, and your cunt clamps down around his cock. A hiss slips past his lips. 

”Sorry, sorry, please-please-please, I’m sorry”, barely intelligible apologies fall out of your mouth as an automatic response. The reaction has grown so customary that you hardly even register uttering it out before the words have already been spoken.  

Blade’s brows knit together against the side of your head. Concurrently, the arm around your neck lets up even more, and his hand trails down your stomach to where his body connects with yours. Your thighs quiver wildly as you feel the rough pads of his fingers settle over your clit. For a moment, he merely listens to how your gasps grow more and more hysterical by the minute, and as he begins rubbing your pearl up and down, you give up the fruitless efforts of trying to hold back your cries. 

His cock twitches inside of you as a series of sobs spew out of your mouth. You hug his arm like a lifeline, digging your nails into his coat’s sleeve, but he hardly reacts to your movements. Instead, he settles his chin on your shoulder, presumably to observe what his hand is busied with in between your thighs. 

”Please-please-please...”, you continue your mindless babbling, unsure of what you’re even begging him for. 

You hear him grunt against the side of your head. Next, his fingers leave your clit in favour of being able to slip his arm beneath your knees. You’re far too gone to understand what he’s doing until he bunches your legs up and lifts your body up his chest. A tiny gasp is the only thing that makes it past your lips as his cock slides out of you along with the movement, all the way until only his tip is still inside — and then he drops you back down.

A wail echoes around the room. Though you’ve had plenty of time to adjust to his length, the stretch is just as unendurable as it has been for the past half an hour. No matter how hard you’ve tried to will your lower half to relax, it’s an impossible endeavor to see through; it’s impossible with him. 

Blade doesn’t say a thing — he never does. Instead, with a low grunt, he moves the arm under your knees around your waist before leaning forward. In a somewhat clumsy movement, he forces you on your hands and knees with his cock still inside of you. Paying no mind to how you whimper out pleas for mercy, he instead presses his hand down just above your pubic phone, feeling the shape of his cock underneath.

”Stay still”, he snarls in your ear before he begins thrusting into you.

˗ˏˋ ★ Boothill

☆ Content warnings include: Rope, biting, and a tiny bit of blood.

Your neck is straining against the grip Boothill has on your hair. His metallic fingers have bunched up your locks, tugging on the back of your head surprisingly gently, just shy of crossing the line of being painful. It’s not that he’s trying to make it to be that way, necessarily: It’s more that his focus is elsewhere — he seems to be more keen on seeing what’s going on on your face. 

You weren’t exactly aware that he was skilled with rope, but considering his profession, it should have come as no surprise that he would know his way around lassos. You have gotten to witness it with your very own eyes: A rope is snugly coiled around both of your hips, connecting your butt to his crotch with not as much as an inch in between, and — more saliently — it’s making sure that his mechanical cock doesn’t slip out of your cunt. 

Holding one end of the rope in his fist, Boothill pulls the thing taut. The movement causes his dick to slide even deeper into you, eliciting a quiet mix of a sob and a moan from you. Your arms tremble from having to support the weight of your upper body, and your head is drooping limp against the pillows at the head of the bed. A sigh slips past his lips. 

”What’s with the tears, Sugar?” he asks you, tugging your hair back enough to force you to reveal your face. ”Did I bite too hard?”

A bright red indent of a row of razor-sharp teeth adorns the side of your neck. Speckles of blood have risen onto the skin at the points where his fangs sunk the deepest. 

”N’aww”, Boothill leans down next to your head with a much too obvious smirk on his features. He then gives a long lick to the shell of your ear, all the way from the base to the top. ”Sorry, pretty thing. You don’t know what you do to me.”

Eagerly, he thrusts his hips forward. His steel-hard cock works its way further into your insides, unforgiving in its intrusion. Unlike one of flesh, his member doesn’t cut you any slack: Your cunt is unable to adapt to the foreign shape of it, and the metal doesn’t give in even the slightest bit. Taking the foreign nature of his bits into account, it could be considered a miracle that he even managed to fit the thing in your slit. 

”You’re really forkin’ tight down there”, he then comments on the matter, letting go of your hair in favour of landing a spank on your rear. ”Loosen up for me, will ya?”

You bury your face in the cushions as Boothill pushes down on your upper back, coercing your arms to give out from under you. Consequently, his cock bends into a different angle, now prodding against the back wall of your core. You whine out your discomfort, weakly reaching for the bedpost ahead of you for something to hold onto, but he doesn’t let you have even the smallest bits of solace. 

”Don’t flee from me, Darlin’”, he warns you with a frisky click of his tongue, giving another tug to the rope that connects the two of you. ”Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

As if making a point, he snaps his pelvis forward again. However, this time around, he doesn’t pause his actions: Twisting his hips into a more comfortable slant, he starts fucking into you with steady, vigorous thrusts.

Your hands ball into fists as you gather up handfuls of the sheets to hold onto. Desperate for relief, you whine out a piping, disconsolate plea for him to go gentler on you, but your complaints go on deaf ears. Instead, Boothill disciplines you with a few harsher thrusts directly where he knows it feels the best for you, all the while he yanks on the rope so hard that it chafes against your hips. In the midst of his fun, he lets out an amused snort, reaching down to your head to ruffle your already matted hair. 

”That’s the spot, yeah?” he taunts you, once again grabbing a fistful of your locks. ”Yeah?”

He repeats his words with a tenacious tug on the strands, causing your chin to tilt up from where you’ve hidden it in the bedding. Cracking one of your tightly shut eyes open, you get to watch the way he swipes his long tongue over his teeth in a wolfish manner.

”Think I’m gonna have to get something for your mouth the next time”, he then remarks, moving to idly nibble on your earlobe. ”I’m not plannin’ to share you with the wall neighbours.”

You let out a disconcerted yelp, craning your neck to look back at the man with wide eyes, but he pushes your body back down on the mattress with very little regard to the amount of force he uses in doing so. Again, he lands a smack on your behind — on the side of your thigh, this time. Simultaneously, his teeth abandon your ear and instead go for the back of your neck. 

”Settle down, Sweetheart”, he tells you, languidly thrusting into you. ”Am gonna take care of you.”

Boothill latches his lips onto your shoulder, harshly sucking on the bitemark there. The spot is still far too tender, and though he’s taking care to watch his gnashers, the ferocious way in which he suckles on the mark brings you very little pleasure. Half unwillingly, you make your discomfort known with the whimper you let out, but even then, he doesn’t seem to be too concerned with your reactions, as he’s much too busy chasing his own enjoyment. WIth the same enthusiasm, he puts more vigour into his thrusts, driving your spent body deeper into the mattress with each movement.

You’re not certain what it is that he gets out of fucking you — you’ve gotten the image that the mechanical cock doesn’t quite function the same as a human one — but regardless, the intent behind his actions isn’t a detail you’re actively concentrating on. As you mentally prepare yourself to take all he has in store for you, the man continues his joyride without a care in the world.

˗ˏˋ ★ Dan Heng

☆ Content warnings include: Double dihh and double penetration, and an extra warning for the thalassophobes.

The grip you have on his shoulders is trembling wildly. You’ve latched your hands onto the man like a vice, holding on for dear life as your bodies slowly sink into the chilly waters of Scalegorge Waterscape, one polished stone step at a time. Goosebumps cover the entirety of your bare body — a notable contrast to Dan Heng, who doesn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by the temperature. 

His long hair spreads over the sea’s rippling surface like oil. Fixed on the sight of the vast sea ahead, his eyes have gone cloudy. Though you have already seen his Vidyadharan form a handful of times, you still haven’t quite gotten used to the subtle change in his aura: His mere presence demands your attention.

You can’t help but wince when the water rises over your waist. In a desperate, reflexive attempt to postpone the inevitable, you wrap your arms around your captor’s neck, scrabbling at his head to find something more stable to grasp onto, but your flailing only serves to splash the water around.

Having grown agitated with your squirming, Dan Heng tightens the hold he has around your waist, hoisting you into a better position. 

”Dan-, Dan-Heng-Dan-Heng-Dan-Heng-stop-!” you squeal his name in an alarmed, shrill tone as you do your best to climb up his body, all the while he immerses the two of you deeper into the Scalegorge’s waters. 

He doesn’t respond to your pleas. He does, however, let out a small, exasperated grunt as one of your restless hands finds leverage in his dragonic horns.

”Stop”, he simply commands, digging his sharp nails into the sensitive skin of your hips as a warning. ”You’ll get used to it.”

”No, Dan Heng, I don’t want-!”

”I said stop.”

He brings one of his hands to the back of your head before shoving your face against the crook of his neck, effectively silencing you. Without much of a reaction, he listens to your rapid gasps of air as the rocky stairs finally run out under him. With one last stride, he surrenders the two of you to the swirling of the gorge’s waves. 

Your knuckles have gone white, both due to the cold and the iron grip you have on him. Your thighs squeeze around his waist with every last bit of strength you hold, hopelessly trying to prevent yourself from sliding off of his body, not even daring to think what would happen if he were to let go of you. It’s not like he would let you fall, of course — he if anyone is accustomed to the unpredictable patterns of the currents — but you’re unable to beat down the terror growing inside of you, even when it’s what you should be the least worried about.

At the very same time as you remember the actual reason for your visit to his kin’s sacred home, Dan Heng proceeds to the next step of his ritual. As he once more adjusts you in his arms, you feel not one but two somethings poking at your behind. 

”No-no-no-no...”, you rapidly shake your head, hopelessly trying to squirm your way out of his grasp.

Sighing, he sets his hand on the back of your head.

”You’re fine”, he claims, clearly making an attempt at comforting you, but the stoic nature of his words does very little to alleviate your panic. ”It’s not going to hurt.”

It’s an empty promise. Regardless of how many times he has taken you, you don’t think you’ll ever get accustomed to having both of his cocks inside of you. Each time feels like it was the very first: The stretch is always a feat to overcome, no matter how long he spends preparing you for the deed.

Choking down a sob, you hide your face in Dan Heng’s shoulder as he aligns the heads of his members with each of your holes. With his free hand, he caresses the nape of your neck in a soothing motion.

Your lower half is much too tense to allow the intrusion. Even as he takes his time, gently coaxing your entrance to give way to him, he’s unable to push into you.

Letting out a soft huff as if he was disappointed in your performance, he makes the decision to take you straight to the deep end. With a swift nudge of his hips, he has you fall onto his cocks in a single motion. 

Your breath lodges in your throat, and the shriek that nearly erupts from your lungs instead comes out as a barely audible, repressed cry. The inescapable feeling of fullness empties your head of all thoughts, rendering you unable to do anything but gasp for air in short, spasmodic wheezes. Dan Heng listens to your hiccups silently, floating still in the water as he allows you a brief while to get used to the invasion. 

”There you go”, he pats your back as you sniffle into his shoulder. ”You’re fine.”

The sickening taste of salt lingers on your tongue. Your wettened hair clings to your face like a mat, concealing your pitiable expression and quivering lips from the man. You shiver against his body, fluttering like a leaf. 

His hand moves to the base of your head where he softly tugs at your hair, urging you to withdraw from your hiding place. Weakly, you raise your face from the crook of his neck to peek at him. Although you’re sure he notices the misery swimming in your eyes, he doesn’t comment on the matter. Instead, after wordlessly observing your features for a few moments, he leans in.

You dodge the attempt at a kiss, and in consequence, Dan Heng’s lips land on the side of your jaw. Displeased with your show of resistance, he proceeds to grab a fistful of your hair before forcibly pressing his mouth against yours. 

His unnaturally long dragonic tongue slides into your mouth and down your throat. At the same time, you feel him realign your bodies, and finally, he lets the two of you sink under the waves. The only thing you can hear is the relentless murmuring of the water filling your ears as Dan Heng finally releases his impatience upon you.

˗ˏˋ ★ Gallagher

☆ Content warnings include: Drugging, alcohol (not consumed), anal, fingering, and he's a prick.

You don’t have the faintest idea on what exactly was in that drink. It looked identical to the ordinary ones he makes for you every now and then, and you had no reason to be suspicious of him — at least not until the tingling started. Not long after, your entire body fell to the floor, flushed and unable to move. 

No matter how you try to will your mouth to open, how you beg your vocal cords to work, no coherent sound comes out from between your lips. You want to say something, anything, to get him to stop his torment, but the drug coursing through your veins has proved itself much too potent. It has rendered you completely helpless, utterly defenseless at the man’s mercy.

Nevertheless, the effect itself isn’t even the worst part of it all, no. By design, the concoction hasn’t messed with your sense of touch at all, and because of that, you’re able to feel every last inch of the cock inside your ass. 

A high-pitched, garbled whine spills out of your mouth as Gallagher hits you with a particularly mean thrust, going as deep as he’s possibly able. He then proceeds to grab your hips, holding your lower half up and flush against his, grinding against your butt in steady, unhurried movements.

He has to hold your body up in general, to be perfectly clear: Due to the drug, you’re unable to even wiggle your fingers. With your ass up and the rest of your body lying limp on the wooden floor beside the bar counter, there’s not much you can do other than take every bit of him as he has his way with you. He lets out a deep, complacent groan, and next, you feel yet another glass of wine poured over your bare back. 

Gallagher pays no mind to how his loosened tie is stained by the drink as the piece of fabric hangs over your body. The sickeningly sweet liquid sticks onto your skin and drips down onto the floor where it gathers under you in a puddle. He leans down, pressing his chest against your spine before licking a long stripe all the way up from the juncture of your nape to the base of your ear. He chuckles against the side of your face, planting a sloppy kiss on your cheekbone. 

”Look at you”, he sighs contently. You can feel the curve of his smirk against your temple. ”How is it?”

He knows you’re unable to answer him, yet he still questions you out of pure malice. Tears sting at your lashline, and there’s hardly anything you can do to stop them from falling. 

”Aww”, Gallagher brings one of his hands to your hair, ruffling it until there’s a huge, wine-soiled tangle at the crown of your head. ”Does it feel nice?” 

He then slides his arm down your stomach and over to where your bodies are connected. There, his large fingers dip down into your cunt while the pad of his thumb begins drawing lazy circles over your clit. 

Fat tears roll down your cheeks and catch on the pillow he has so graciously placed under your head. As heartless as the man is, he isn’t as evil as to have you bang your skull against the floor with each of his thrusts. Though, the gesture hardly brings you any further comfort as you feel his free hand on the back of your neck. Pressing his hips even flusher against yours, he forces your back into a deeper arch and starts fucking into you with newfound verve.

A tiny, whimper-like sound is the only thing you can muster in response. As if trying to console you, the fingers that work on your cunt hasten their pace. Gallagher rolls your clit in a routinely manner, targeting just where he knows will feel the best for you. It doesn’t take him long to have your bits start quivering around him.

The sound of skin slapping against skin is deafening. Even as you feel the peak of your climax approaching, you’re unable to muster up the strength to lift yourself off the ground. Instead, your arms lie uselessly by the sides of your head, unable to even bend the slightest bit. 

Moans slip out of your mouth as the pleasure grows greater and greater. Gallagher seems to encourage the act: His fingers leave the entrance of your cunt in favour of properly rubbing your clit in a swift, steady rhythm. His cock drives deep into your ass with every snap of his hips, and soon enough, you feel yourself being driven over the edge. Your lower half convulses wildly as you come around his dick. 

”Ahh, that’s what I’m talking about”, he leans down into your ear, slowing his thrusts down to a lazy, even rhythm. 

His touch on your cunt is on the verge of becoming overstimulating, but as if sensing your discomfort, he pulls his hand away. Similarly, his dick slides out of you with a wet, squelching sound. 

”Don’t worry, pretty thing”, he sighs into your hair. ”The drink’s gonna wear off in an hour or so. You’ll be alright.”

˗ˏˋ ★ Gepard

☆ Content warnings include: Sort of bondage, rimming, plus Geppie is losing aura.

In normal circumstances, considering the alternatives, you have very little complaints about Gepard’s behaviour. He rarely ever gets harsh with you — you don’t think he would be able to, even if he tried — and moreover, he isn’t one to be unpredictable. He takes vast pride in having you rely on him fully, and that can’t include him doing just anything he wants. 

He does, however, have a tendency to fall into temptation every once in a while. It’s not that he means to frighten you with his actions but the fact that he’s just completely and utterly unable to practice self-restraint at times. 

It didn’t even worry you too much when he pushed you down on the bed. The man occasionally has his moments, and though he sometimes gets impatient, you didn’t know to expect anything too out of the ordinary. 

”Gepard”, you speak out his name in a much more alarmed tone than you would like. 

Your hands are stuck above your head in a clump of his peculiar, blue ice. Strangely enough, it isn’t exactly freezing, but the pointy crystals are digging into the delicate skin of your wrists, mildly threatening. Moreover, you’re much more focused on the fact that your bottoms now lie in a pile on the floor beside the bed; you’re entirely bare from the waist down. 

He sits on his knees in between your legs, shirtless, and with a heavy blush travelling all the way from his face to the base of his neck. His hands are trembling visibly, and his mouth is hanging ajar. Most notably, though, the way he’s staring at you with hazy, unblinking eyes evokes the most concern in you. 

”Gepar-, Geppie”, you call him by his nickname in hopes of appealing to his gentler side. ”Please, Geppie, listen to me!”

To your dismay, you come to find that the trick holds very little effect. You’re about to call for him for one more time, but coincidentally, at the same time, your attention happens to travel from his face to his lower body. There, your gaze encounters the sight of his cock pathetically twitching in his pants. If the way his thighs quiver is anything to go buy, your words only managed to make him more excited. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you helplessly struggle against the ice around your hands. He watches your actions with an unreadable, detached expression. 

”Geppie, please, I’m-, I’m scared”, you speak to him, mustering up your best commanding tone. 

You swear that with your own two eyes, you see his pupils expand as the sentence leaves your mouth. Not only does the reaction itself evoke fear in you, but what follows raises the hairs on the back of your neck. 

”I’m... I’m sorry, I just need to...”, Gepard speaks in a thin, desperate tone that’s a far cry from the assertive front he puts up for his duties.

His hands settle over your knees before he coils his arms around the back of your thighs. A drop of drool hangs at the corner of his mouth. 

”I’m so sorry, just please let me...”, he looks down at your alarmed expression with clouded irises. 

Without a further warning, Gepard pushes your legs back, effectively folding your entire body in half. You shriek out in surprise, nearly landing a kick at the man’s face, but the grip he has on you is as unforgiving as his ice. 

With your eyes blown wide open, you’re about to question his actions, but quickly he answers your concerns without even hearing them: His eyes drop to your exposed ass, and with one more split-second worth of consideration, his mouth latches onto your rear hole. 

He goes from zero to one hundred in the span of a single moment. There’s nothing that could even remotely be called a warm-up: Trying to reach as deep into you as possible, the man urges your thighs apart and wriggles his tongue inside your ass like it’s the last thing he will do in his lifetime. His brows fall flat in something akin to relief. 

You’re much too nonplussed to do anything more than stare at the ceiling with your mouth wide open. The feeling of him breaching your most vulnerable points with so little prudence has you utterly incapable of forming even a single word to stop him. 

A string of saliva connects his lips to your hole as he comes up to inhale in the midst of devouring you. He briefly holds shaky eye contact with you before diving right back down. 

Though you do your best to force him off by clenching your thighs together, he isn’t deterred by one bit. Moreover, he snakes his arms over to your breasts where he greedily grabs handfuls of the mounds. He catches your nipples in between his fingers, gently rolling them around with his thumbs, all the while his mouth is busy licking and sucking everything it can touch. 

In your disoriented state, you barely make note of the way Gepard has begun humping against the mattress like a dog in heat. He’s whining out loud against your ass as he fucks you with his tongue, and with the vigour which he performs the actions with, you’re hardly able to fight the pleasure he provides you with. 

”Sorry, sorry, sorry...”, he mumbles between gulps of air, continuing to eat you out like his life depended on it. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Jiaoqiu

☆ Content warnings include: Drugging, sounding, and a needle is used.

Though Jiaoqiu is unable to actually lay his gaze upon your body, not once with him have you had the privilege of truly evading his scrutiny. It’s not about the way his undivided attention is on you — it’s never about that — but about how he seems to be able to pick you apart with as little as his presence alone. The terrifying mix of tenderness and cruelty never fails to get under your skin, just as it does now. 

An empty syringe rests on the nightstand beside the bed you’re lying on. It’s not often that he resorts to using it, but occasionally, he deems it necessary. He wasn’t cruel about injecting the drug to you this time around, either: On the contrary, he made sure to go as gently as he could, even giving you a countdown before the needle pierced the skin on your upper arm. 

In a tender, sort of compassionate manner, Jiaoqiu brushes his hand through your hair before moving a little lower to swipe his thumb under your lower lid where a few of your stray tears have leaked past your lashes. He looks down at you with a soft tilt of his head and a sympathetic expression, but something tells you that he isn’t exactly apologetic about his actions. 

You attempt to move your face away from him, pursing your lips together and averting your gaze, but your body only listens to your commands in sluggish, uncoordinated nudges. You’re certain he’s aware of the same fact, but out of courtesy, he doesn’t show it on his countenance. Instead, he gives you his usual, unintelligible smile before proceeding to reach for something on the shelf beside the bed. 

”What are... you...”, you try to speak out, but the words slur together as if you had just consumed copious amounts of alcohol. 

”Worry not”, Jiaoqiu responds to your incomplete question, his voice a little too cheerful to your taste, considering the situation at hand. ”There is nothing to be frightened of.”

It’s what he always says, regardless of what he’s about to do. Though, when your gaze flickers to his hands, you can’t help but dread that the black container he has picked up from the ledge doesn’t entail anything pleasant. 

With a small sigh, Jiaoqiu sits down by your feet on the mattress. He sets his free hand on your bare thigh, caressing along the limb for a moment before his touch creeps further up and under the hem of your flimsy gown. There’s not much you can do to resist as his fingers find the trim of your underwear, nor are you able to fight him when he pulls the garment down your legs. 

”I know it must not be pleasant”, he says as he lays his palms on each of your knees before gently nudging them apart, ”but it’s crucial for you to be still for this.”

He clicks the container open. For a brief moment, you can’t make sense of the thin, metallic item he pulls out, but as you slowly come to understand what you’re looking at, your eyes fly wide open. 

”No-no-no, please...”, you plead, trying to get your legs to rise off the sheets, but the most you’re able to do is have your thighs twitch a few times. 

”As I said, there’s nothing to be frightened of”, Jiaoqiu reassures you as he  proceeds to lather the metal rod in a clear substance. ”Relax for me, please.”

His words do very little to ease your panic. He has an unfortunate habit of using a sort of clinical language with you from time to time, and while it doesn’t usually bother you, right now, the professional part of him instills more fear in you than anything else possibly could, especially as you feel the cold tip of the tool prodding at your cunt. 

A fresh wave of tears gathers at your waterlines, spilling past your lashes and rolling down the sides of your head as you squeeze your eyes shut. Jiaoqiu isn’t deterred by your reaction, however: Instead, he uses his thumb to gently pull back the hood of your clit to reveal the tiny opening of your urethra beneath it. With a steady hand and precise movements, he inserts the sound into where you thought you would never be penetrated. 

You let out a tiny, strangled noise at the intrusion, making an attempt to tense the muscles in your abdomen, but it’s a futile effort. A sob makes it past your lips. 

”Are you in pain?” Jiaoqiu then asks you, not even bothering to raise his attention from the task at hand. As an offer of consolation, he swipes a few, quick circles over your clit with the pad of his thumb. 

”Feels-... Feels bad”, you squeeze out in a wavering voice. 

”But it doesn’t hurt, does it?” Jiaoqiu cracks his eyes open for the slightest bit; just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his yellow irises. 

You don’t answer him. Not minding your lack of a response, he simply gives you yet another, unbothered smile. He then draws a few more measured circles over your clit, but the push of the rod doesn’t relent. The cold metal presses up against spots you never knew could even be touched, and with him as your guide, you come to find that they’re oh-so-sensitive.

˗ˏˋ ★ Jing Yuan

☆ Content warnings include: Shibari, fingering, implied cunnilingus, and improper use of his glaive.

You lie on the soft sheets of your shared bed. Bright red, ornate patterns of rope adorn your nude body, crossing over your stomach, travelling between the mounds of your breasts, connecting your wrists to the headboard. “Embarrassed” would be an understatement to how you feel at the moment, but then again, considering your captor, it’s no wonder that you’ve ended up where you have: The person guilty of putting you in such a position is none other than the General seated in between your open thighs. 

Finishing the last bit of his handiwork — namely, tying a secure knot on the point that attaches one of your ankles to the end of his glaive — he leans back to admire the fruit of his labour with a content smile on his face. 

”Is anything too tight?” he asks, swiping his hair over his shoulder. 

You know better than to lie to his face. You have tried that before, attempting to delay what awaits you, but something like that is of no use with him: Jing Yuan sees right through your bluffs, even more than you would like to admit. 

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of answering him, you hide your face in your upstretched arm. He lets out a gentle hum, conveying something akin to endearment at your show of diffidence. 

”It would be best if you refrained from moving your legs too much”, he then says, stroking his warm hand along your thigh. ”I did the best I could, but the rope is prone to slipping.”

You don’t know where in the world he got the idea of using his weapon as a spreader bar. The General isn’t usually one to deviate from his usual patterns, but the case seems to be different today. Though the blade of his weapon is sheathed to protect your foot from getting sliced open, you’re not keen to find out what would happen if the cover were to slide off. 

You don’t get to dwell on the details for too long, however: With a thoughtful hum, Jing Yuan lifts the haft of the glaive enough to be able to duck underneath it. The heat radiates off of his body as he climbs over yours, and with his shirt long since discarded on the floor, his bare skin presses against your chest. 

”What would you like today?” he inquires in his deep, gentle voice.

You wince as he leans into you, shuddering at the way his breath tickles the shell of your ear. He seems to take note of the reaction, but instead of giving you space to breathe, he nudges the bridge of his nose against the side of your head in a loving manner. 

Travelling a little lower, he sets his lips on the spot beneath your jaw, planting a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on the sensitive skin. He then continues downward, licking a stripe up your neck, leaving a wet trail in his wake. Simultaneously, you feel his hand creep to one of your breasts where he begins tenderly caressing around the general area of your nipple. 

”No preferences?” he quirks his brow at you. 

You remain silent. 

”I think I know what to do, then.”

Jing Yuan presses a final, languid kiss on the side of your face before he withdraws. 

Retracing his previous movements, he gently lifts the glaive’s handle over his head and pulls back from your body, but you only get a quick moment to breathe before he suddenly raises the haft in the air. Before you can speak out a protest, he presses the bar towards your head, effectively folding you in half and — more acutely — revealing your bare bits to his hungry eyes. 

A faint blush covers his chiselled face as he gazes down at the sight, taking in every last detail of your form. The way he looks at you has a certain, distinct quality to it: How he observes you, how his eyes wander over your form — it never fails to leave you feeling horribly self-conscious, no matter the context. 

”Try to relax a little”, he instructs you as his free hand creeps along your inner thigh, inching closer to your cunt. ”I’m going to be gentle.”

Your stomach lurches as you feel two of his fingers breach your entrance in a slow, careful motion. He wastes no time pressing his thumb against your clit to aid you in allowing the intrusion, and even with your best efforts, you can’t fight the way he curls his digits into the front wall of your insides. Having long since learned your body by heart, he immediately begins massaging the spot with his usual, tender yet strict manner. 

You crack open one of your eyes to peek at the man’s expression. Coincidentally, you do so just in time to see a strange glint in his gaze. 

The glaive prevents you from squeezing your thighs shut as Jing Yuan leans down in between them, bringing his face to where his fingers are already deep in you. He lets out a soft, content sigh before his mouth makes contact with your cunt.

˗ˏˋ ★ Luocha

☆ Content warnings include: Bondage, sensory deprivation, lowkey sadistic man.

There’s a blindfold over your eyes. It’s thick enough for you to not see proper outlines through the fabric, but at the same time, it lets in just the tiniest bit of light. Through the hazy filter, the only thing you’re able to see is Luocha’s form flickering in and out of your field of view. 

Much like he likes to do nearly every time, your hands have been tied above your head with a silk ribbon. Though the material doesn’t dig into your wrists — he always takes utmost care to ensure you’re comfortable — the notion itself has you dangling on the edge of hysteria. You hear him shuffle around you, clearly preparing something. His steps are eerily quiet, and you’re having a hard time determining where exactly he is. 

A hand sets itself on your knee. You jolt at the contact, involuntarily tugging against your restraints. Luocha, taking a seat by your side on the bed, lets out a short, amused sigh as he draws idle circles along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tracing his fingers along the veins. 

”Did I startle you?” he asks in his serene voice. 

You purse your lips together as you feel a stray strand of his hair land on your abdomen, right on the bare patch of your stomach that peeks out from under your top. It tickles, and an involuntary shiver has you raising your back off the mattress. 

”I hope I did not”, Luocha continues, moving to caress the side of your hip.

It’s remarkable how he’s able to spew such thinly veiled lies in a perfectly calm tone. You’re certain that the man takes pleasure in seeing your heart jump, but with how impeccable his facade is, it’s incredibly challenging to fight back at his whims. 

His touch withdraws from you. Inhaling deeply, you anxiously wait for his next move, holding your breath and trying to listen for the tiniest sound he might make. 

”I’m going to move to your abdomen now”, he then informs you, releasing you from the present suspense — only to create another right after. 

You shudder as Luocha’s fingertips make contact with your side. Gently, he slides his digits under your top where he traces the shape of your ribs underneath your skin. His hands are cold, and you can’t help but twitch away from him as his fingers near your chest. 

His free hand settles over your stomach to keep you still as the other finds your nipple. Tenderly circling the bud with his thumb, he teases it until it pebbles up, and only then does he move to the other one. You take it all without a single sound making it past your lips, biting the inside of your lower cheek and fighting the inexplicable sense of terror that threatens to rise into your throat. 

As if sensing your thoughts, Luocha slips the hand resting over your stomach beneath the waistband of your bottoms, and with that, you finally let go of your composure. Letting out a meek wail, you shake your head from side to side, squirming away from his prying touch. 

He follows your movements, however. No matter which direction you try to move in, his hand comes along, and you’re unable to rid yourself of him. Silently, he ignores every single one of your pleading “no”s and “don’t”s, firmly keeping his skin against yours. Patiently, he waits until your little fit of disobedience is over, and only then does he proceed. 

”I’m not going to hurt you”, he assures you in the same, calm tone as always. 

However, the tiny, off ring in his voice tells you that he isn’t completely unaffected by your struggling. You’ve come to recognize the tiny, nearly unnoticeable shift in his tone when his patience is starting to run thin. 

Confirming your fears, his fingers creep closer and closer to your bits underneath your clothes. With little dwadling, his fingers crawl past the waistband of your bottoms and continue downward until they slip in between your folds. You hold your breath.

The hand on your breast moves to the middle of your chest where he gently presses down, urging you to rest back on the mattress. It’s easier said than done, though: In between your legs, his rigid touch has found exactly where you’re the most vulnerable. Paying very little mind to how your bottom lip quivers at the feeling, wordlessly, he gets to work.

With ease, Luocha plays you like an instrument. With each tiny caress, he coaxes a reaction out of you, whether that be a shiver, a moan, or a sob. He takes his sweet time searching for the spots that draw the most intense sounds out of you, poking and prodding around until your jaw clenches and tiny, wet dots appear on your blindfold. 

The hand on your chest moves up to your head where he begins gently weaving his fingers through your hair. Tenderly, he combs the strands out of your face and behind your ear, quietly humming as he continues to torment you. The contrast between his actions is much too great for you to comprehend, and soon, you’ve been reduced to the sniffling, whimpering mess he seems to enjoy seeing so much.

Listening to your sobs, Luocha’s hand moves past your face and beneath your neck where he finds a tiny curl of baby hair. Gently, he begins twirling the strand around in a comforting manner. 

”Breathe”, Luocha instructs you, all the while the pads of his fingers dance along the underside of your clit. ”It’s going to be far more pleasant for you that way. As I said, I won’t hurt you. Settle down.”

His digits slip into your entrance.

˗ˏˋ ★ Moze

☆ Content warnings include: Daggers, a little blood, fingering, and fearplay.

The blade of his dagger is a mere inch away from sinking into your exposed throat. Looking down with wide eyes, you’re just barely able to see the metallic sheen of the weapon as it lingers right above your carotid — an unrelenting threat. 

The position Moze has put you in is nothing short of straining: Beads of sweat have risen onto your skin from having to balance on your toes with your chest pressed against the wall of your shared bedroom. You’re not sure how much longer you’re going to be able to keep the posture up with how your legs are trembling, and as if the physical aspect itself wasn’t enough, your captor seems to be putting his best efforts into getting you to falter. 

He has slid his hand inside the back of your bottoms, and two of his fingers are knuckle-deep inside you, prodding around to find any spot potent enough to shake your resolve. His chest is glued flush against your back, trapping your body in between him and the pale yellow wallpaper. 

Moze truly appears to want you to waver, to allow your neck to fall victim to his dagger with how insistently he’s playing with your bits, but then again, it’s now like he would ever actually let you. The act is about the sense of power it grants him — nothing less, nothing more. 

”I wouldn’t move too much if I were you”, he comments in his nonchalant tone, taking note of how a tremor travels up your leg. ”The blade will pierce you like butter.”

You’re unable to offer him an answer, much less a nod. With how your head is craned all the way back to avoid your untimely demise, it’s nearly impossible for you to move in any direction; certainly not forward. 

”Your blood would splatter all over the walls. It would be a hassle to clean up”, he continues the macabre remarks without a single hint of sympathy in his voice. 

You clench your teeth together and bend your back into a deeper curve as Moze attempts to wiggle a third finger inside you. His task proves difficult, however, as it's a challenge for you to loosen up with the imminent doom lodged against your pulse. 

As his efforts bear no fruit, his digits pull out of your entrance and instead curve around to reach your clit. He nudges the pearl back and forth in a somewhat tender motion while his thumb opts to sink into your cunt instead. At the same time, he inches the dagger further up your neck until the flat side makes contact with the tip of your chin. A tiny, choked sound escapes your mouth. 

”How does it feel?” Moze breathes directly into your ear, raising the hairs on the nape of your neck. 

You would be unable to speak out your answer, even if you had one: You’re afraid that if you were to open your mouth even the tiniest bit, the blade would sink into the underside of your jaw. 

He doesn’t cut you the least bit of slack: He clicks his tongue in a nearly performative manner before jabbing the thumb inside you and against the front wall of your cunt, persistently massaging the spot in circular motions. The stimulation is enough to draw a frightened whimper out from between your pursed lips, but even that doesn’t seem to be enough to satisfy him. 

”Does it scare you?” he presses, all the while he continues mercilessly fiddling with your bits. 

You cave in. 

One of your legs gives out from underneath you, and you reel to the side. Just as your life flashes before your eyes, Moze is lightning fast to pull the dagger away from your throat, quite literally saving your life. 

Unexpectedly, though, he doesn’t support your weight as you fall: Instead, he allows your body to stumble down on the floor with a quiet thud. Bracing yourself for the impact, you squeeze your lashes shut, but at the very last moment, he catches you by the back of your neck. Gently, he lowers your body down on the ground. 

As you weakly prop yourself onto your elbows and open your eyes, you come to find that the torment isn’t over quite yet. Blinking a few times, you take a moment to comprehend that you’re staring at the needle-sharp tip of the dagger pointed directly at your pupil. 

”Lie down”, Moze then commands, edging the blade closer to you, forcing you to rest flat on the floor. 

You gape at him with your mouth ajar, softly shaking your head and silently pleading with him, but it’s no use. His expression is as cold as his blade — although, it would be impossible not to notice the flush that plays at his cheekbones. 

Climbing on top of you, the man glares you down as the point of his weapon creeps closer and closer to your face until it settles in between your eyes. The metal makes contact with your skin, pricking a minuscule pinhole on the bridge of your nose. The touch is so steady that you barely feel it pierce your skin, but you become aware of the wound as you squint your eyes and see the dot of blood that rises onto the nick. 

You swallow thickly. Looking up at him through the sheen of tears gathering at your lashline, you can’t make sense of the look on his features. The moment only lasts for a second or two, however, as next, you feel his hand slide underneath the waist of your bottoms yet again.

˗ˏˋ ★ Mydei

☆ Content warnings include: Penetration, anal, improper use of his crystal thingies, mild degradation, kinda rough boombayah, predator/prey dynamics.

Your breath is wheezing so bad that you wonder if your throat is going to close in on itself soon. Even as you’ve been running for the better part of an hour, your legs are still going, though they have long since gone numb from the exertion. 

Despite the murmur of your blood coursing through your veins drowning out the majority of other sounds, you can still distinctly hear the clinking of Mydei’s armour behind you. The steady thud of his footsteps is right on your tail, unwavering in pace. Even though you understand that your efforts are futile, you can’t help but entertain the tiny slice of hope you have of outrunning him — but, alas, your journey is to end nowhere else but the destination he has set for you: His crystal-clad throne in the middle of Castrum Kremnos’ arena. 

Slowly, your steps grow slower and slower as you arrive at the centre of the stadium. Still holding onto the last bits of your dwindling spirit, you frantically look around, trying to find any direction to make your escape in, but quickly, you come to realize that there’s nothing but vast, open space to be found around you. 

”Have you finally admitted defeat, woman?” you hear Mydei roar from behind you as he, too, comes to a halt. 

You don’t answer him. Instead, you bolt for the throne. You don’t exactly have a plan in mind — it’s more of a reflex, more of an instinct to directly run away from the dangers that is him — but nevertheless, you don’t make it far. Just as you reach the deep red crystals, you feel a hand on your back.

Mydei forces your stomach against the throne’s flat surface, bending your arms behind your back with one hand. In his feral state, he hardly pays any mind to how you wail out as he yanks your flimsy nightwear aside in favour of getting to your bits. You can feel the heat emanating from his body; he drowns you in the sheer intensity of his presence alone.

In an act of mercy, he shakes his gauntlet off before sinking two of his fingers into your entrance. The article clanks against the ground a few times before settling somewhere next to him, but the distraction does nothing to deter him from his goal. He finds your sweet spot without delay, focusing all of his attention into pressing up against it, jabbing the vulnerable area with strength that’s right at the border of being too aggressive. 

The man growls directly into your ear, making his intentions known without having to speak a word. Having long since grown much too impatient for his own good, after a mere few moments, his digits are already being replaced by the tip of his dick. 

With a swift, forceful movement, he slides his cock into you. Your jaw falls open at the sting of the stretch, but instead of slowing down in favour of caring for you, your reactions only seem to fuel his fire.

He isn’t one to talk during the deed or really let you know what he’s about to do before he goes through with something, and that’s the case this time around, too. Rather than warning you about what is to come, out of nowhere, he takes the liberty of spitting on your rear hole. Straining your neck, you try to look at him over your shoulder to figure out what’s going on, but the only thing you manage to catch a glimpse of is a chunk of something deep red in his hand. 

”Mydei!” you call out for him in a desperate tone. 

”Weak thing”, he berates you, throwing his dishevelled hair back. ”There is nowhere left for you to run.”

You’re about to respond to him, but the words die on your tongue as you feel the warm head of a crystal — a phallic, sizable one — pressing up against your ass. A broken shriek is the only thing that makes it past your lips before the item sinks into your rear hole. 

”Mydei, no-!” you yelp out, but your sentence is cut short as he suddenly pulls back and slams the entirety of his cock into you yet again.

It feels like the air has been knocked out of your lungs, and to top it all, Mydei pushes the makeshift toy inside you to the hilt, filling you up to the brim. Not wasting any more time, the man begins fucking you in earnest, finally letting go of his restraint and thrusting into you with ardour unimaginable. 

The sensation is way too intense for you to bear. In a weak effort to rid yourself of him, you try to wriggle your arms out of his grasp, but he doesn’t take kindly to the effort. Instead, he lets out a deep, guttural grunt and presses you even flusher against the seat of his throne.

Mydei lets go of the crystal lodged in your ass in favour of weaving his hand in your hair, gathering the strands in a good grip before pulling your head back. He doesn’t perform the action in a violent manner, however: Rather, he seems to offer you an act of tenderness with how he leans down beside your head and latches his lips on your earlobe. The gesture sends a tingle down your spine, and in consequence, your cunt constricts around his cock. You feel his grin against the side of your head.

˗ˏˋ ★ Phainon

☆ Content warnings include: Anal again, cunnilingus, he talks you through it, fingering, and lowkey manhandling.

”Come on, hey, look at me”, Phainon speaks in a tender, comforting tone — much too soft compared to the situation at hand. 

He has pinned you underneath him on the bed, one hand holding both of your wrists in an unyielding grip while the other presses down in the middle of your unclothed chest, forcing you flat against the mattress. His face hovers above yours, bright blue eyes observing your agitated expression with curiosity. 

The smile on his face is a complete contrast to how he’s treating you. The weight of his knees propped atop of your thighs keeps your legs separated, and most alarmingly, the head of his cock stands much too short of a distance away from your nethers. Having already lathered his member and your entire downstairs in a generous layer of lube, you thought it was going to be another few rounds of fucking you into the sheets, but alas, he had different thoughts in mind. 

”I’m not gonna make it hurt, you can trust me”, Phainon assures you, letting go of your chest in favour of brushing his fingers through your hair as if to console you, all while gazing down at you with way too much excitement in his countenance. ”I can put my fingers in first, and then the stretch won’t be as bad. Doesn’t that sound alright?”

”No, Phainon, it’s not gonna-, it’s-, your thing will...”, your gaze travels down your body and in between your thighs where his dick is already twitching excitedly. 

”Hey, don’t be like that”, his brows fall flat in a sympathetic expression, but you’re unable to find any solace in it as simultaneously, his hand leaves your hair and instead goes for your bits. 

Understanding what is about to come, you start doing your best to wriggle yourself out of his grasp, clawing at his hand and trying to dislodge your thigh out from under him, but it’s a useless effort. You can hardly even budge, let alone get him off of you. He isn’t the slightest bit affected, and as if the notion itself wasn’t enough, you feel his fingers circling your rear hole. 

”To my understanding, it’s not that different from here”, his touch brushes over the entrance of your cunt, a little above his eventual target, ”and as long as I go slow, it’s gonna feel so good to you that you won’t be able to get a single word out!”

You stare at the man with your mouth ajar, listening to him babble in utter disbelief. He doesn’t allow you to linger in your bewilderment for longer than a moment, though, because the following second, you feel his fingers pushing into your ass. 

”Try not to clamp down on me so hard, heh”, Phainon chuckles, stroking his thumb along your wrist in an affectionate manner. ”It doesn’t feel bad, does it? I’d give your little button right here some attention if you didn’t try to escape me the moment I do, but do your best to relax, okay?”

Facing a little resistance, the fingers in your hole pull out a little before pushing back in with a bit more force. The man’s attention is mostly on your face, busy observing for even the tiniest changes in your expression as he gently works his digits in. 

Then, out of nowhere, it’s like a lantern had lit up above his head. 

”Hold on, I guess I could...”, the gears in his head turn for a good second before a wide smile finds itself on his features. 

You watch in horror as he manoeuvres himself into a position so awkward that a weaker-bodied person attempting the same would surely have fallen face first onto the mattress. It’s of no difficulty to him, however, and with a strenuous movement, he lowers his face down to your cunt while still holding your hands above your head. 

You feel his breathing fanning in between your thighs as he inspects your bits with an embarrassing amount of scrutiny. You clench your jaw and do your best to find the heat that creeps up your lower body, all the while Phainon takes his sweet time ogling at your most vulnerable spots. You let out a tiny whine, but all it gets out of him is a warm, airy chuckle. 

”That’s better”, he then comments, right before his mouth connects with your clit. 

You voice out a startled shriek as the man immediately goes for sucking the bud, not wasting any time on allowing you to adjust to the sensation. Your hips jump in a sudden jerk, almost causing his fingers to fall out of you, but he’s quick to get the situation under control again. Utilizing the brief moment of stir, he wiggles his digits all the way in. 

”Attagirl”, he mumbles into your cunt, unintentionally stimulating you even further with how his voice vibrates against your bits. 

Despite your protests and wails, he continues to pleasure you. Pushing a third finger in alongside the first two, he pays no attention to how his shoulders ache from the difficult angle he has set himself in. Putting all of his attention into overloading you with all he has to give, he refuses to pull up to even catch his breath.

Unintelligible wails, moans and cries spill out of your wide open mouth as you weather the relentless torture he puts you through. Gasping for air like you were drowning, there’s nothing you can do when you feel your climax building up, and within moments, Phainon has you coming on his tongue like the job required nothing of him. 

Your back arches off the mattress as you finish. Your muscles spasm wildly as your hole constricts around his fingers, but even then, the man doesn’t show you a single sign of slowing down. The pleasure quickly turns into intense overstimulation, yet no matter how you try to pull away from him, his mouth stays latched onto your much-too-sensitive clit. It’s only when your wails and ”stop”s grow loud enough that he finally gives your cunt one last lick and raises his head. 

His chin glistens with the remnants of your essence as he gets up from between your legs, rolling his neck back with a beyond-satisfied grin on his face. Carefully, he pulls his fingers out of you. 

”That must have been quite enjoyable for you, I hope”, he then sighs, finishing the comment with a gentle laugh. 

You’re much too out of it to even truly register his words. Your chest heaves up and down with each of your rapid inhales, and despite the way your thighs are still quivering from the force of your orgasm, Phainon isn’t ready to slow down any time soon. 

Aligning the head of his cock with your ass once more, he leans down to plant a chaste kiss on your sweat-clad forehead. 

”You can trust me”, he hums against your skin. 

Without further delay, he starts pushing into you.

˗ˏˋ ★ Dr. Ratio

☆ Content warnings include: Bath sex, degradation, penetration and anal.

You don’t quite understand what exactly you did to warrant such a reaction from him. One moment, you were resting in his lap in the bath, patiently waiting for the man to finish the chapter on whatever book he was reading, and the next, you’re clutching the side of the porcelain tub with both of your hands, holding on for dear life as Ratio drives his cock into your insides. 

The position is awkward for both of you, even to your standards: Not only is the water splashing all around the spacious bathroom, but you’re sure that one of you is going to slip sooner or later, and the session will end up with a cracked skull. 

Though, you can’t exactly say it’s the danger that you’re focusing on. Your train of thought is regularly interrupted by a mean, resounding spank on your bare, gleaming butt. 

You let out a yelp as the palm of Ratio’s hand makes contact with your behind yet again. The water does nothing to soften the impact — the complete opposite, in fact. Both the smacks and the rhythmic slapping of his crotch against yours seem to have been amplified by the wet sheen that covers your bodies. His other hand is busy pressing your back into an arch. With each of his thrusts, your chest is squeezed flatter and flatter against the cold side of the tub. As tightly as you’re clutching the bath’s edge, you feel your knees threatening to buckle under the strain. 

”I thought I asked you to stay still?” Ratio speaks in his usual, nonchalant tone. 

”I-”, you try to get a word in, but before you can even properly open your mouth, he shuts your response down with another spank on your rear. 

“Deplorable.”

In a desperate attempt to gain even a semblance of control over the situation, you reach your arms over the tub’s border. The action rebounds, however: Ratio immediately retracts his hand from your back and instead wraps it around your stomach, pulling you right back to him in a prompt, curt movement. As a result, his cock sinks as deep into your cunt as it’s possibly able, nudging up against a spot that sends a mean sensation up your stomach. 

”You’re utterly hopeless”, he leans down to sigh in your ear. ”Are there any bright thoughts to be found in that little head of yours?”

His fist comes up to your temple. He then knocks his knuckles against your skull, adding to the mocking tone of his previous statement. 

It feels like a punch in the gut not to be able to muster up a defence for yourself, but then again, it’s not like he would take you seriously even if you did. For the greater good, you decide to keep your mouth shut for the time being, but instead of savouring the silence as he usually does, Ratio decides to reach for your face next.

Before you can do as much as flinch away, he squeezes your cheeks together so that your lips fall open, and when they do, he seizes the opportunity to push his thumb past your teeth. The pad of his finger presses down on your tongue as if in search of something. He scoffs, moving the hand on your waist to deliver a particularly harsh hit on your thigh. You whine out an incomprehensible response, weakly shaking your head, but as is common, your complaints do very little to deter Ratio from what he has set his mind to. 

”You truly are a simpleton”, he berates you. 

As a final addition to his treatment, he rubs his palm up and down along your reddened butt for a moment before his touch creeps towards the middle. For a fleeting moment, his fingers circle along the rim of your other hole, and the next second, he pushes in. 

A pathetic squeal escapes out of your ajar mouth as Ratio suddenly hooks his thumb into your ass, purposefully searching for an ankle that would feel the most intense for you. As he finds it, he takes care to squeeze his digit in all the way to the root, poking and prodding around in a near clinical manner. Simultaneously, he pushes two more fingers past your lips, staining them in your drool and reaching for the root of your tongue. 

The bathwater sloshes around along with the rhythm of his thrusts, and with each one, he makes sure to drive the digitin your ass at least as deep as his cock. Although he no longer has a free hand to smack your behind with, the force with which his hips slap against your rear nearly achieves the same effect. 

”Perhaps I should plug you up before bathing from now on?” Ratio comments, idly jabbing his fingers around in your mouth, purposefully allowing saliva to drip down your chin. ”This blathering mouth, and this here”, he curls the thumb inside your butt, ”would be much better off with ample filling, no?”

You can only whimper in response. 

”How pitiable”, he continues, scoffing blatantly. ”Though, I suppose you were never meant to be anything greater than this.”

˗ˏˋ ★ Mr. Reca

☆ Content warnings include: Fingering + fisting, bondage, praise, and he records you while you're at it.

You can’t recall you’ve ever felt as vulnerable as you do at the moment. You know the device looming right above your face is nothing more than a bunch of plates and screws, but even understanding that, you can’t help but shy away from it — or, you would if your hands weren’t tied somewhere over your head where you lie on a mattress, completely bare. The lens of the camera stares right into your soul, carefully reaching into your deepest fears and most scandalous secrets, and no matter how you try to remind yourself that it’s no living being, you feel like you’re under the scrutiny of a giant eye. 

Due to the black veil that falls around your head and cuts your upper body from the rest of it, you’re unable to see what Mr. Reca is fiddling around with, but going by the sound, you’re certain that he’s lingering in the room: The never-ending melody of his quiet humming echoes around the walls, and judging from the faint clinking, he’s tinkering with something. Unlike you, the man appears to be in very high spirits. 

You test the give of your bindings. Even as you tug on them with a considerable amount of force, your wrists don’t budge a single inch. The same is with your legs: Though you can’t see them from behind the curtain, it’s not difficult to decipher that they’re tied to something. More worryingly, you become aware of the fact that your bare bits must be completely visible to him. 

”Reca, I...”, you speak, doing your best to sound resolute, but you can’t hide the way your voice wavers. 

”Patience, Dear”, his voice rings out from somewhere in the room. ”I’m almost ready.”

”Reca, please, I don’t like-”

”Oh, hush”, he cuts off your words with a chuckle. ”Would you truly be as cruel as to deprive me of admiring such a work of art?”

Reca has always been plentiful with words, even when there isn’t exactly a need for it, you have noticed. From what you’ve seen, he has a natural, terrifyingly accurate talent of tuning into people’s emotions and acting accordingly to whatever intentions he has in mind. Typically, he would excel in the arts of getting you to calm down even under the most fraught situations, but this time around, his words do nothing to relieve the dread that’s building up in your chest. 

His footsteps grow closer to you. Next, the camera lens that looms above your face makes a small, whirling noise, and the shutter flickers. The man lets out a satisfied hum. 

Bashfully, you try to hide your face in the crook of your neck, but the job proves difficult with your body restrained. Though you’re unable to see him, it’s not hard to guess what sort of a reaction your visible discomfort elicits in him. 

”Very good, very good”, Reca comments, both to you and to himself. ”You may look in the camera or somewhere else entirely, whatever feels the most natural to you.”

”Please”, the word comes out no louder than a whisper through your quivering lips. 

For a moment, the only thing that remains between the two of you is a deafening silence. As the seconds stretch on, your plea remains unanswered. 

You jolt as you feel his fingers ghosting over your inner thigh. Notably, his hand is bare, unlike usual: He much prefers to keep his gloves on, no matter the occasion, but not this time. The sensation couldn’t possibly be mistaken for anything else. 

”You needn’t do anything more than relax”, Reca instructs you in a soft voice, gently caressing your bare hip. 

You swallow down the lump in your throat as his touch lingers on your body. Though, your anxiety doesn’t truly jump until, without as little as a verbal warning, his fingers slip in between your legs. Reflexively, you shut your thighs around his hand, but you’re unable to prevent the intrusion: The man merely chuckles and gives your knee a fleeting, consoling pat. 

The camera stares you down, observing even the tiniest details of your expression with great curiosity. It records the way you squeeze your eyes shut as Reca tips a generous amount of lube over the general area of your core, supposedly messing around on purpose. 

”Relax, relax”, he sings, all the while his now slippery thumb strokes along the dip between your hip and thigh, taking his sweet time savouring your little whimpers and twitches. “Oh, sweet thing.”

He lets out an ecstatic, dreamy sigh. Then, without prolonging the anticipation further, he wiggles two of his fingers inside of you. 

Your entire lower body tenses up in response, but Reca has never been one to slow down when he has his mind set on something. Hence, you feel him force a third digit in right away, not allowing you even a minimal timeframe to get properly adjusted to the first two. He knows just how to play your body, however: Even with the sting of the stretch, he prods directly at your front wall an inch or two in, attacking the spot with tender precision. Using his free hand, he applies pressure on your lower abdomen, pushing right against the pads of his fingers inside you. Lastly, his little appendage prods at the side of your entrance before it, too, is slipped in along with the rest. 

You can hardly control your breathing anymore, and it’s difficult for your bits not to go taut under the demand he has put you in. You feel completely full, but even then, the man doesn’t appear to be satisfied. 

”Don’t fret now”, he encourages you, continuing his ministrations despite the way your thighs have begun trembling against his wrist. ”You’re merely one away.”

You bite in a gulp of air, nearly choking on your own saliva as finally, you feel his thumb prodding against your thoroughly filled cunt.

”No”, you whisper out in a small, frightened tone.

The hand on your abdomen lets up, instead moving a little lower.

”I know, I know”, Reca sighs as he begins rubbing at your clit, quite obviously on the peak of his own bliss. ”Shh, Dear, you’re faring great.”

Then, with an insistent shove, his entire hand slides into you with a sound that can only be described as nauseating. In the span of a single second, it feels like your lower half has simultaneously been set on fire and overloaded with the most pleasure you could possibly ever handle. The sensation is so unbelievably intense that you’re unable to produce a single sound for a long, agonizing moment. Even then, despite your reaction, Reca doesn’t pause. 

You can’t stop the sob that bursts out of your mouth as you desperately tug on your bindings, only to find that the more you pull, the tighter the rope gets. He doesn’t mind your resistance one bit: Instead, as if prodding at a control panel, he insistently presses on your pearl while inching his fingers further inside you. 

”Yes, yes, you’re doing spectacular”, he inhales in a tone that leaves very little to your imagination. 

Gasping for air, you clench your teeth together. Abiding by your reactions in his own, terribly twisted way, Reca speeds up his actions, both inside and outside of you. With relentless vigour, he fucks you with his entire hand, not leaving a single spot untouched. In the end, you can do nothing but surrender to him as he takes you to your climax, reduced to your smallest and utterly helpless. 

At the very same time as your cunt constricts around his hand, he lets out an obnoxiously loud, wanton moan. With the last few curls of his fingers, accompanied by a string of airy, barely comprehensible praises, he pulls out of you with a wet squelch. 

”My beautiful, beautiful Darling”, he sighs. 

The tears that have pooled in your eyes spill down the sides of your face like a river.

˗ˏˋ ★ Sampo

☆ Content warnings include: Predator/prey, hypothermia, sucking the d, fingering, he's an asshole.

It’s arduous to run with how your bare feet sink into the snow with every step. You should have thought twice, you should have known better than to take the very obvious chance he presented you with, but nevertheless, it’s much too late for regretting your choices now. No matter how the freezing cold pricks your skin, you don’t stop for even a second to rest. 

Somewhere behind you, much, much closer than you would like, you hear the sound of Sampo tailing you. The man isn’t making an effort to be stealthy as he would in any other situation: Though the unforgiving noise of the snow squall drowns out most other sounds, you can make out the revoltingly familiar, distinct melody of his humming. 

Muffling your hacking cough into the sleeve of your sweater, you ignore the sense of sheer terror that threatens to consume you whole and continue your way through the wilderness. You don’t exactly know where you’re going — in every direction, the scenery consists of the same, cruel bedrock and measly, shrivelled-up trees — but you understand that the path you pick isn’t of that much importance. After all, in the back of your mind, you’re aware that you’re just postponing the inevitable. 

At the very same moment as the despair of reality catches up to you, a dagger swishes past your leg, tearing a gash into the side of your calf. You don’t even bother to silence the cry that erupts from your throat as you stagger to the side. Though you’re much too high on adrenaline to actually feel the pain that shoots up your limb, the bright red blots that spread over the pure white leave very little doubt of the injury’s severity in your mind. 

One, two, and on the third step, your knees give out. You tumble down onto the ground hands first, sinking into the powdery snow that welcomes you with a soft, silent fall like a frigid pile of feathers. 

Your limbs have long since gone frigid, and you’re unable to even feel the temperature anymore. Yet, the ice still seeps into your skin like a thousand, tiny needles. The only remaining signs of life in you are the flush that covers your cheeks and the puffs of steam that rise from your mouth with every rapid pant you let out. 

”Ooh, ouch”, Sampo’s mellifluous voice rings out from behind you. 

You don’t bother trying to raise your head to peek at his silhouette as it gradually comes into view through the dense snowfall. Seemingly in high spirits, he takes his sweet time walking over to your pitiful form, leisurely spinning his secondary dagger around his finger while dangling a heat lantern in the other hand. 

”Now, now, what do we have here?” he crouches down next to you and sets the lamp down beside your head.

Clenching your teeth, you jerk your arm towards him and attempt to land a hit on him, but the action is pitiably slow due to your state. He catches you by your wrist with ease, stopping the pathetic failure of a punch without having to use a single ounce of strength. He inspects your ice-cold limb with a smug smirk on his features, softly shaking it as if it were a malfunctioning gadget. 

”How cruel of you to go out to play without your dear Sampo”, the man then muses out, pursing his lips into a theatrical pout. ”How could this be? Could I possibly have left the window unlocked?”

He taps the tip of his chin with his fingers as if he was actually pondering the question. 

”Aww”, he moves to gently pat your head as plump tears swell up in your eyes. ”But I do think you owe little old me a favour after chasing you all the way up here.”

If you still had energy in you, your eyes would have flown open at his words. Instead, all you’re able to muster is a weak sob. It doesn’t evoke any sympathy in Sampo, though: As he’s done messing up your damp, partially frozen hair hair, his fingers go to his belt. 

You scrunch your face up as he pulls his already hard cock out of his pants, giving it a good few strokes. He then directs his attention to you, swiping his tongue over his teeth in a predator-like show. As he inches his member closer to your mouth, you do your best to pull away, even as the movement causes a sharp ache at your injured leg. 

”Hey”, he gives you a pitiful excuse of a frown, nudging the head of his cock against your pursed lips. ”What’s the hold-up? Or would you like it in another place?”

The implication is enough of a threat for you to forget your spite. With your eyes squeezed shut, you allow your lips to fall ajar. Sampo doesn’t waste a single second: Smirking widely, he slides his dick into your mouth with tangible excitement. A wanton, exaggerated moan erupts from his throat.

His free hand creeps down your back and slips past the waist of your bottoms. Taking care to make the experience as unbearable for you as possible, he makes sure to convey his truer feelings to you via touch: He tickles around the area just above your risqué bits, he stops to give a pinch to your inner thigh, and finally, his fingers press up against your cunt. No matter how you try to clench your thighs together, you’re unable to resist him as his prying digits find your entrance and push in.

˗ˏˋ ★ Sunday (Pre-AE)

☆ Content warnings include: Bondage, BDSM dynamics, mind control, shoe-grinding, a booty plug, he's lowkey very degrading.

If there’s one thing Sunday excels in, it’s evoking the kind of primordial rage in you that could very well summon Nanook with the sheer magnitude of the emotion. However, as strong as that urge is, he does, unfortunately, also have a talent for knowing just how to get you where he wants, whether that be via psychological torment or the terribly handy tool of Harmony. It’s a cocktail so unsavoury that each day, you wonder how you’re able to survive with him, but then again, you have come to see that the elasticity of the human psyche has very vast bounds. 

The man’s methods of manipulation are beyond anything you ever thought were possible. You can resist or comply, it will all end up the same, and regardless, he isn’t satisfied with anything short of utter and complete dominance over you. 

He sits on his chair with his legs crossed, all high and mighty, hands in his lap like he was in an official meeting. You, in contrast, sit by his feet on your knees with nothing but your see-through nightdress on — it’s his favourite one, precisely for its aforementioned quality. 

A heavy flush of humiliation dances on your cheeks. With your hands tied behind your back, you feel like a piece of interest at an exhibition, every last inch of you vulnerable to your captor to use as he sees fit. 

A plug of considerable size in your ass presses up against your insides with even the smallest movements you make. Yet again, he had to resort to tampering with your mind to get it inside of you, but now that you’re neatly bound up, he doesn’t have to worry about you getting the thing out. You think you might be imagining it, but compared to the usual ones he uses, the toy inside you is a little larger in size. 

Sunday lets out a quiet sigh through his nose. He tilts his head to the side before making a rotating motion with his hand.

You stare at the floor by his feet, unmoving.

”Was there ambiguity in the instructions?” he asks, raising his brows in a querying manner. 

Misery burns at your eyes, but you force yourself not to bare another inch of your vulnerability to him. Still, no matter how determined you are not to let them fall, you don’t need to be a member of the Intelligentsia Guild to know that he’s all too aware of your thoughts — probably even more than you yourself are. 

”Stop”, you let out a meek plea through your pursed lips, softly shaking your head.

”I’m sure you’re aware you’re not the one to make the decisions here?” Sunday squints his eyes the slightest bit, expressing more emotion with a single gesture than he could ever convey via words. 

”...”

You try to think of a suitable answer to his remark, but as the silence grows longer, you see the unmistakable, maddening hues circling your field of vision — like a faint, electric current buzzing through your brain. With your head hanging low, you waddle around on your knees in an awkward manoeuvre, turning your back to him. He lets out an approving hum. 

”Bend over”, Sunday then instructs, soft yet full of authority. 

You open your mouth to speak, but against all your mind is screaming at you to say to him, you remain silent. Instead, in a slow, shaky motion, you lean down and rest your head against the ground, exposing your bare behind to him. 

”Good girl”, Sunday praises you, though the phrase rolls off his tongue more condescending than commending. 

Wordlessly, with your heart in your throat, you expect him to do something, to stand up from his throne to get to whatever he has planned for the evening. He seems to thrive in your anticipation, to take pleasure in seeing you frightened and uncertain, so he prolongs the moment until you can hardly contain your anxiety, and then, only then does he proceed. 

The sole of his shoe makes contact with your behind. You let out a strained, barely audible sound in response to the action, but he hardly reacts to it. Instead, he aligns his ankle so that the tip of his foot nudges on the base of the plug in your ass, forcing the thing deeper into you. In an attempt to escape the stimulation, you arch your back, leaning forward into an even more uncomfortable position, but his shoe follows you, unrelenting. 

”Stay still”, he orders, giving a particularly mean shove to the toy. 

The command is easier said than done, especially as his touch moves down to your cunt where he prods at your entrance, deliberately getting your essence onto the shiny material of his footwear. 

Your shoulder strains from grinding against the floor with each push, but even with the ache, there’s an undeniable, awful scintilla of pleasure to be found in the way his shoe prods your clit. Clenching your teeth together and ignoring the way a tear slips down the bridge of your nose, you press your cheek against the cold ground. 

Sunday doesn’t let you distance yourself from the situation, however. Instead of allowing you to sink into despair, he once again utilizes the Harmony to get into your head, rummaging through all the sensations he’s offering you, until he finds a certain, specific one he wants to amplify. 

A sudden, overwhelming wave of pleasure spreads in your abdomen, nearly having you climax on the spot. You gasp out loud at the feeling, your eyes flying open at the sheer intensity of it, but at the very same time, the realization of its artificiality registers in your mind. Your eyes squeeze shut. 

Sunday lets out a soft chuckle. 

”I think I see how it is”, he speaks, the amusement audible in his voice. ”Enjoy yourself, by all means. You are to take all I give you.”

˗ˏˋ ★ Sunday (AE)

☆ Content warnings include: A vibrator, very mild breathplay, Welt mention, this is lowkey the sweetest one.

”Sunday, what-, what are you doing?!” 

You rest in Sunday’s lap on the Express’ wine-coloured couch in an awkward, half-sitting-half-lying position. The setting is far from comfortable; mostly due to the fact that you have refused to stay still in his hold. His arm has an uncharacteristically firm grip around your chest, though he still isn’t being harsh by any means — quite the opposite, considering how persistentlyyou’re wriggling in your seat. 

In his free hand, he holds a wand-shaped vibrator: Round-headed, textured, and most prominently, the size of your entire forearm. He brings the device closer to his face, inspecting the control buttons with a mildly intrigued look on his typically unexpressive features. As if the tool wasn’t already looking intimidating enough, he presses one of the switches, and the toy whirs to life with strength you don’t even want to imagine having any point of your body subjected to. 

”Sunday!” you repeat his name in a more desperate tone, smacking the arm he has around you. 

”Yes?” he asks, his voice as nonchalant as ever, hardly even bothering to glance at your face over your shoulder while fiddling with the thing’s controls. 

”What are you gonna do with that?!”

”... You have been disagreeable.”

You’ve come to find that Sunday has never been great at talking about sexual things, but then again, the degree of it is sometimes nearly enough to make you crack up. You choke down the terrified, jittery laugh that nearly slips past your lips. 

”Wait, okay-okay-okay, hold on, where’d you get that?” you stare at the device in horror as instead of toning the vibrator’s intensity down, the man ramps the speed up. ”Sunday, where’d you-”

”Please keep it down. The others have already gone to bed”, he answers, not a single ounce of sympathy to be found in his words. 

You open your mouth to express your mind, but the words on your tongue pull back as you see the vibrator closing in on your thinly clothed groin. 

”Sunday-Sunday-Sunday, stop, seriously-!” you kick at the couch cushions to the best of your ability but to no avail. 

”Please stop”, Sunday sighs, stopping his advances for a moment in favour of pulling you back against him. ”It appears much more frightening than it is”, he sets the wildly vibrating head of the wand against your thigh, causing you to jolt, ”and Mr. Yang was gracious enough to provide me with it. Please don’t waste his kindness.”

”Huh?!” you strain your neck to look at him, wide-eyed. ”Hold-, wai-, Sunday, wait, what did you-uuh-!”

Cutting off your stream of words, Sunday presses the vibrator firmly against your covered bits. Simultaneously, clearly having predicted your reaction, he tightens his hold around you before you can flinch away from the sensation. Though you put a considerable amount of effort into trying to disconnect the toy from your cunt, he doesn’t budge an inch. 

As the first strategy doesn’t work, you desperately try to squeeze your knees back together — half out of reflex, partly to deliberately get the thing off of you — but you come to find that Sunday isn’t particularly pleased with the effort either way. Letting out a soft, mildly frustrated huff through his nose, he carefully wrestles your legs apart by forcing his own over them. As if to make a point, he switches the vibrator on a higher setting still.

”Please keep it down”, he repeats his earlier words while pressing the vibrator directly over your clit in gentle, circular motions. 

”Sunday, stop-stop-stop-stop-!”

Sighing, he lets go of your upper body in favour of bringing a gloved hand over your mouth. Though you immediately start throwing your head from side to side to hopelessly attempt to reopen your airways, you quickly come to find that he isn’t goint to let you go through with your whims: Carefully, he makes sure to trace your every movement, keeping his hand securely over your whiny mouth. Your whimpers and wails are muffled by his palm, and even as you start clawing at his arm to get him to let go of you, he calmly resorts to pinching your nose shut for a moment, silently warning you of the further consequences. As much as you hate the effectiveness of the method, with a great amount of mental strain, you force yourself to give up the struggle.

After an embarrassingly short while of resisting him, you surrender to your fate, doing your best to rest against his chest even as your lower half is tormented by the relentless stimuli. Satisfied with your compliance, Sunday moves his arm back around your upper body and returns his full attention to what’s going on in between your legs. 

One of his Halovian wings comes to rest over the side of your face in an affectionate manner. He idly strokes his thumb over the bare skin of your shoulder, all while his other hand focuses on nudging the vibrator back and forth, left to right, clockwise and counter-clockwise. Finding the sight too much to bear, you squeeze your eyes shut and instead try to drown yourself in the relentless buzzing noise that fills the dim room. 

Sunday isn’t yet particularly skilled in taking you to your peak, but the more times he has done it, the better he has gotten. After not that long of a while, the muscles in your lower half tighten, and the tingling sensation of an oncoming climax have you once again trying to clamp your thighs shut. He doesn’t let you, however — instead pressing the toy flusher against your bits — and after a moment or two, you reach your peak. 

He takes you through your high carefully, silently observing your expression to pinpoint exactly where the pleasure is on the brink of turning into overstimulation. Just as you’re about to open your mouth to beg him to stop his ministrations, he removes the toy from your bits. 

Completely drained, trying your best  to catch your breath, you rest limp in Sunday’s arms as he switches the vibrator off and sets it aside. With his hand now free, he proceeds to silently wrap the same arm around you as well, wordlessly lingering in your afterglow, taking in the feeling of your limp form against his. Slightly adjusting your position to be able to properly embrace you, he sinks his nose into the crook of your bare, heated shoulder.

˗ˏˋ ★ Welt

☆ Content warnings include: Fingering with a tiny bit of angst sprinkled in.

You hug the blanket closer to your chest, even though the fabric is already bunched up as close to your skin as it can. The cover provides you with a sense of comfort, even if the feelings the man behind you evokes from you are the complete opposite of that. 

It’s one of those days again. Welt has given you plenty of time to prepare for yourself for what is to come, but despite the merciful frame he has granted you, you’re feeling as anxious as always. It’s of no matter, though: Nothing you couöd have said or done would have gotten you out of it, anyway. 

You sit on your knees in between his legs with your bare back facing him. Though he doesn’t allow you the privilege of clothes, he never really minds it when you hide yourself in the comforter. If there’s one good thing to be said about the man, it’s that he at least tries, to the best of his ability, to take your emotions into account. 

Your shoulders jump as the warm palm of his hand settles in between your scapulae. The ritual is more or less the same each time around: He makes an attempt to familiarize you with his touch before he takes you to the deep end of the pool, but no matter how many times he does so, you can never help the way you jolt. 

Welt lets out a quiet sigh through his nose. Dragging himself forward on the bed, he shortens the gap between the two of you. Though you don’t dare to peek at him, you’re all too aware of the expression his face must have moulded into: A heart-lurching mix of tenderness, forlornness, and twisted adoration that goes far deeper than you could ever even begin to imagine. 

The hand on your back moves downwards. You try to curb the chills that rake your spine as the pads of his fingers glide over each vertebra, travelling downwards until they reach the curve of your waist. 

Something wet makes contact with the back of your neck. In your jittery state, it takes you a second to figure out that it’s his lips, and you’re unable to hold back the fearful gasp that slips out of your throat. As if to comfort you, his hand slides past your side and underneath the blanket you hold onto, settling over your stomach, warm and grounding. Disconnecting his mouth from your skin, he instead plants little pecks along the shape of your collarbone and down your back. 

You’re doing your best to keep your breathing at bay, but even then, your inhales have grown thin. He takes note of the shift, of course, but instead of stopping altogether, his solution is to slow his pace down a little. Where he would normally slip his free hand to your bare breasts, he now settles for resting it over your thigh. 

You bury your face in the blanket in your arms, quivering as he caresses the side of your hip in gentle, soothing motions. You listen to the near-silent, wet sounds his lips produce as he works his way to your other shoulder, leaving traces of saliva over your heated skin. Then, you feel the fingers on your stomach creep downwards. 

”Please tell me if anything feels uncomfortable”, Welt whispers into your skin, his voice wearied yet still maintaining the same, steadfast tone his composed demeanour is known for. 

He doesn’t mean the mental aspect, of course. Though he claims to care for it deeply, in moments like these, he seems to force the thoughts to the back of his mind entirely. 

You wince as the hand on your thigh urges you to spread your legs wider. The gesture barely makes a difference, but in the end, it’s more of a forewarning to you than anything more. Deeming the adjustment period long enough, he allows his fingers to dip into your nethers. 

The contact makes you shudder. Welt is much too far in to stop, however: Rather than pausing his actions, he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him until your back touches his bare chest. His skin is warm against yours, his scent lingers all around you, you hear him breathe against the crook of your neck, but out of everything, the way his fingers dance along the slit of your cunt has your stomach sinking the most. 

None of it hurts, though — he makes sure he never gets rough with you unless your behaviour warrants it, just as he has promised to you countless times. Even as one of his digits breaches your entrance, he takes care to go as slowly as he’s possibly able to, coaxing lubrication out of you with feather-light touches. 

His mouth travels up to the back of your ear where he plants one last kiss against the sensitive skin. 

”Try to relax”, he murmurs into your hair. ”It’s going to be easier that way.”

A/N

Oh my-my-my, long time no see. Welcome to the pink Riri-era. I needed to improvise on the post's appearance a bit because there was no way I could fit twenty different men into the banner picture, but I hope the change in looks isn't too jarring ( ദ്ദി ˙ᗜ˙ )

Which voiceover do you use? I myself use the JP dub, and sometimes, when I do research on the characters to get the dialogue and such accurately, I end up facing the dilemma that the vibe which I'm used to isn't translated in the EN lines, like, at all. I occasionally notice in game that some lines might even be entirely different in contents when comparing the voice to the text 💀 For characters like, say, Mydei, characterization is easy because the EN and JP versions convey more or less the exact same type of personality, but with Sampo, for example, the JP and the EN are like two completely different characters due to the VAs' personal interpretations. At the end of the day, I prefer to characterize by voice, and so if you get a strange vibe from certain characters, it might be because of that! Or, alternatively, I have missed the mark and need to be sent to fanfic writer bootcamp. I'll leave that up to you to decide.

[alcannetta]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ thinking of interspecies reviewers x hsr ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

aka monster! hsr boys x gn! reader smut blurbs, ooc?! ps, pls lmk if i accidentally used some specific genitalia xx

amazonian mydei: your personal trainer at the gym cum succushop run by athletic amazonians. a very popular succuboy, with his strict but warm exercise and diet programmes all personalised for each customer. and also for his undeniably attractive physique, with tattoos that stretch and emphasise his muscles whenever he moves. he rewards you after every session with massages, including ones where his hands dip between the curves of your asscheeks to touch your sex with the excuse that you need to relax your lower muscles too. so much for relaxation, since you'll find yourself back to exercising as you bounce on his cock in the private rooms.

angel sunday: he yearns, he pleases, he gets tied up. an angel who wanted to save all those engaged in the vice of intercourse, yet ended up becoming corrupted himself. a rare and prized beauty, so his demand is high and only the richest customers can become his patrons. his wings are very sensitive, and he cheeps melodiously like a birdmaid when they’re touched. he’s into sensory depravation, so blindfold him, tie him to the bed and have your way with him. trace your fingers along his smooth angelic flesh and bruise it with the red rope, leave your mark on this lowly fallen angel. take him back to heaven when you sink on top of him, edging him while he’s hopeless to do anything but cry at the tightness of your warmth.

dragon dan heng: double dick danger. more vanilla than the others, his real defining features are his two dicks. apart from that he seems cold during first impressions due to his strict professionalism, but his skill is no joke and his aftercare is warm for a cold-blooded serpentine species. he’s a safe choice for beginners and virgins, starting out with just one dick depending on your comfort, but the way he praises you when you’re taking both his dicks makes you quickly become a repeat patron. moreover, it’s cute when he smiles so demurely at you when he sees that you’ve visited him again. during his ruts, he only receives long-time customers since he’s more animalistic then, even breaking the bed on certain occasion, much to the exasperation of the receptionist.

ghost moze: he may turn invisible at will and you can't touch him, but he can touch you. the succushop is modelled like a gothic haunted house, and the succuboys are ghosts, spectres and other undead. it's exciting, not knowing when you'll be pounced on by invisible hands as you walk through the dim candlelit hallways, pulled into a private room adorned with golden ornaments and onto silken sheets to be penetrated on ghostly dick. he loves to make you watch your gaping hole squeeze seemingly around nothing in the mirror. you’ll be all covered in ectoplasm by the time he’s done with you.

golem boothill: an old golem who was used as a gun-slinging mercenary, now repurposed to become a sex toy! the main appeal about golems is creating your own unique sexual partner for the day, so used golems are usually second class succuboys. boothill, however, managed to overcome the stigma by the sheer charisma of his design and personality. he’s an old-school gentleman, who holds the door open and fucks you into the mattress like he’s just returned from a gruelling mission, desperate for relief. he groans into your ear about how you’re taking his cum like a good spouse as he folds you into a mating press. very hot, also, he has a vibrating dick.

human aventurine: a gambler who you can't win against, and has his way with you every time you lose. sex with him is as much as an addiction as gambling. ever since your first humiliating defeat, where he made you crawl to him on all fours, call him master, suck him off, then finally fucked you, you’ve been coming back in hopes of beating him, only to get beat by his meat (not that you mind that part). the way he finally pounds into you makes you see stars and almost forget his grating personality. his smug smirk is basically tattooed onto the back of your eyelids. oh dear, you still can’t find out how he’s cheating, can you? what games shall he play with his dear toy today…

salamander phainon: a certified good boy who lives to please. since salamanders burn almost everything they touch, save for fellow fire-resistant species and materials, he’s only managed to find employment at this salamander barbecue succujoint, as the grill of course. it’s hard to keep your hands off him when the oils drip tantalisingly down his pecs and abs, and he sucks the sausages enthusiastically with a full intent of cooking them perfectly. his heat also makes your mind fog, making you lose your inhibitions. if you can take his flames though, you'll be pleasured by our oiled up salamander and his warm dick, nesting heavy and snug inside you. he’s also a great choice for afab customers on their periods!

witch anaxa: a portal specialist and researcher. when you first enter the shop, you’ll be directed to a workshop for creating a pocket pussy modelled after your very own using his patented state-of-the-art technology, which you can then take home after the session. do note that it’ll cost extra to have more holes made. you can try sorts of positions and stimulations with his portals. for example, he can both fuck you on his dick and his frustratingly good tongue as he holds your own custom pocket pussy up to his lips. you can even watch the erotic way your inner walls squeeze against his penetration. expect multiple penetration with him, as he uses several of his own magical dildos and toys on your holes. his own chest is also a portal and erogenous zone so have your way with him too even while he pleasures you by playing with the celestial hole on his chest. he moans oh so cutely when you do, of course!

special mention to birdmaid robin who has the most angelic voice. her songs are heavenly, and so are the little chirps she involuntary tweet out when you overstimulate her!

[miyaz6ki]

omg have you see the new clip of sunday where his eyes are covered with his wings and thorns around his body? PLEASE PLEASE I NEED A FIC OF THIS where we overstimulate him, thank you !

overstimming sub! sunday whose wrists are bound together || m's note: you got it twin

warn. cough cough wing play cough, nsfw & 18+ content ahead, overstimulation kink, afab anatomy used on reader, riding, mommy is a term used ............................

"whh- p—please! [n-name] i c... can't handle anymore-" his hands were bound by thorns around his wrists, it had been hours since you two last actually left your shared bedroom,

well, sunday swore he doesn't come undone so easily, it sounded like a challenge; so how come he was already in pure bliss of what was supposed to be a punishment?

"mngh, fuck—p- please, i'm sorry..." you could spot the tears that welled up in his eyes, instinctively on every time you bounced down all the way down onto the base of his cock. "hnngh, shit wait! s-stop, i'm.... whaaa—close again!"

his eyes fluster shut with his wings covering his eyes to replace what his hands could've done for himself. oh the justice your hips did, your hand felt amazing, but not as warm as your walls were around his length.

you could see how his fists were clammed shut as they were raised above his head, but as soon as your arms decide to place themselves around his neck, quietly tugging at his silverlocks, effectively make him reach his own peak again.

his face fell flushed once more when he let out a choked moan of your name, or whatever he could muster up. lifting your hips up, and off of his dick for a moment to see how all of his length was completely covered in the mix of your slick and his load, shining obscenely before the both of you.

the tip was flushed an angry pink fading to red, his slit alread yweeping another small yet steady stream of precum all ready for you. your cold finger start to envelop his length once more, your free hand reaches out to rub against a wing that covered his eye. "mmmf... please m- mommy, i jus' came..." trying to flap your hand away, you simply slide yourself to his side, placing your head in the crook of his neck, smiling sweetly,

your palm slowly starts to stroke his shaft again, making him squirm on the spot. his voice cracks, "nnhh- holy... i c- can't, i really can't—please, there's nothing left...!"

you get up from your spot to sit up properly, hand still on his cock but your free hand moved to stroke his wing in unison. "gghhn- t'much! please-" — "then use the word, baby, i don't wanna force you."

...

"that's what i thought."

[taoisms]

─── 星穹铁道 POSITIONS

ft dan heng, jing yuan, aventurine, sunday, phainon, mydei; smut/fluff (mostly smut), missionary, doggy, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, prone bone, mating press, incoherent bullletpointed ramblings, lapslock, no "y/n", this is deeply unsrs

summary: switchin' up positions for you (jk, they all have their favs)

a/n: i have no excuse. none.

─── 丹恒 DAN HENG

missionary boi

not bc he's boring or anything like that, but mainly bc he's never been the best with words, so he likes it when he can look at you, likes it when he can see you, and you can see him too

he wishes he had the words (sometimes, he wonders what the point of living so many different lives might be if he can't even summon the words to describe them) to tell you how much he loves this, how much he loves --

"is this... is this okay?" "yeah -- it's m-more than okay -- dan heng please --"

he'd have to hold back, even though the feel of your body beneath his feels something like resolution -- and it's always been strange, living in a body that he knows had not always belonged to him, but like this, buried inside you, somehow, he feels at home.

because he can kiss you, graze his lips along yours, pant against your mouth, bury his face in the star-kissed skin of your shoulder when he feels the tide coming, and he lets it come --

"s-sorry... that was..." but you shake your head, laughing, carding a hand through his slightly sweaty bangs, "don't... it was good." dan heng pushes up, his eyes flickering across the planes of your face; something coils in his gut -- desire, or perhaps something more insidious -- the swirling grip of a dragon's greed -- twisting inside him till he he groans, his cock twitching inside you once more.

you hiss, and yes, he thinks, there's no other way he'd have this, have you, than splayed out beneath him, moaning his name, nose to nose, face to face.

─── 景元 JING YUAN

mating press

bc he loves seeing you folded in half, tears pearling along your bottom lashline, your cheeks red, your lips bruised from how hard you've been biting it, fucking down into you till you're writhing in pleasure

he like the feeling of your ankles in his palms, the way he can see when he hits that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your whole body jolt, likes it when you can't get his full name out, or even better, when the only thing you can manage is a choked out "g-general --!"

bc he loves teasing you, grinning when you hiccup at the way his cock pummels your cervix, or the way he pushes down on your tummy just to keep his own tip press against his palm, "hm? what was that, little dove? it's too much? oh... i think you can take it, right? you've always been so good at taking it for me."

likes the access he has like this, to turn his head and kiss at your calf, or to simply lower his mouth and sink his teeth into the plump of your thigh, revel in the reddened ring it leaves along your skin as you keen beneath him

"fuck, you always get so wet when i fuck you like this -- is it that good? hm?" he chuckles at the way you try to nod, cocks his head, groans at the squelch of his cock sinking into you over and over and over again

"yeah... that's good. that's a good girl for me."

─── 砂金 AVENTURINE

cowgirl

the roi is high with this one; all he's gotta do is lay back and enjoy the view -- ofc, he doesn't let you do all the work -- he'll watch you work yourself up, tease at your nipples, tug on them with his fingers, his eyes half-lidded, an easy smirk painted over his lips, before rolling his hips up into yours just to see you jolt, feel the way you tip forward, how your pussy flutters around his length, hard enough to make his stomach clench

he likes the way you whine when your thighs get sore, likes it when you pout down at him with those watery eyes of yours, beg him to make you cum (because only he can)

"aven-enturine -- 'm so close --" "oh yeah? cum then -- i'm right here, aren't i?" he asks, rubbing his thumb in placating little circles on your thighs, his other hand still pillowed behind his head

he'd make you beg, if only because you sound so damn pretty doing it, but he's not an unfair man -- that'd be bad for business -- so he relents eventually, rocks you down with his palms on your hips, groaning as he feels you tighten with every languid thrust of his cock

shifts his legs up to ruck you up further, better support for your back this way, easier for him to dig his heels into the mattress and fuck up into you till you're bouncing on his cock just the way he likes

"that's right -- ride me -- i know you can do it -- make it all messy for me."

─── 星期日 SUNDAY

prone bone

bc this is a day of rest -- no, but he enjoys the control (sometimes, he wonders what that says about him, still), enjoys how he can feel every inch of your skin pressed against every inch of his, how his breath warms the nape of your neck and he can smell the sweet, milky scent of your shampoo

"shh... just let me -- nngh -- make you feel -- good --"

obsessed with kissing your neck, lacing his fingers between yours, brushing your hair from your back as he fucks you slow; likes the way you tighten around you, the way it feels so much more intimate this way, even though he can't see your face, he can see each tremor as it works through your body, see every goosebump that rises along your skin

(and he really does like the control, like having you beneath him like this, the way you're so soft, how he can shift you this way and that, tug you closer, press you deeper into the sheets, how his cock looks nestled between your ass-cheeks, the friction of it as the bottoms out inside you)

"sunday... ah --" "does it feel good? tell me... tell me what you like --" "w-want more --"

and he'd give it to you, fuck you as hard and as deep as you'd like, till his name on your lips starts to sound like a prayer, till you wrapped around him starts to feel like redemption

"come for me -- show me what you look like --" he breathes, pressing his forehead to the nape of your neck, thrusting down into you hard enough to make the bed rock, "please -- please," he has never been one to beg, but for you -- "please."

─── 白厄 PHAINON

doggy

bc he likes the versatility and faithfulness, he knows the angles, knows just how you like to be fucked -- like this, his hands on your hips, pulling you back, the dull smack of skin on skin echoing around his bedchambers, the linens crumpled beneath your fingers

and occasionally, he likes to reach out, wrap your hair around his palm and tug -- gently, of course, only a small sting, but he's long since learned that a spot of pain might elicit the most mind-numbing pleasure -- after all, isn't that why men have always thirsted for war? for the pain of victory, the delirium of conquering

"f-fucki -- phainon --!" "mm -- that's good -- c-can you keep -- keep going?" he asks, soothing at your waist with his fingers

you nod, and he laughs, a not un-kind sound, nodding as he redoubles his efforts, pressing a palm to the back of your head, pushing down till your cheek is against his pillows; he groans at the tightness of your cunt, the way you push your ass back into him, eager, desperate for more, and he tries to stop himself from going too hard, too fast, but he's never claimed to be the strongest soldier

"ph-phainon --!" your voice breaks along the line of his voice, and he feels the coil burst inside him, fingers digging into your hips, hard enough to leave tiny crescent-moon divots in your skin; he hisses as he shudders, forcing himself to keep fucking into you till he feels you come undone around him as well, a fluttering flurry of heat clamping down around him

he drops his face into your back, breathes out and drops a kiss there, his vision flickering slightly as he steadies himself and tugs you into his arms, the pair of you collapsing onto the bed

"mm... that was good," he remarks, twisting to grin at you with bright, sea-foam eyes, "what do you say to another few rounds?"

─── 万敌 MYDEI

reverse cowgirl

bc he likes to yank on your hair like a pair of reins, likes the way you keen above him, the way you glance over your shoulder with your wide, reproachful eyes, likes smacking at your ass cheeks just to watch you bounce on top of him, harder, harder

"that's it -- that's right -- god that feels good --" and he'd know, wouldn't he? all that fire and ichor running through his veins, he should suffer the pleasure of you, such a priceless treasure, worthy of a king

he likes the noises you make, how you can never keep quiet, whining and whimpering, even as you work yourself up into a frenzy above him, likes the thought of you using him, getting yourself off on his cock, just like this, your eyes half-shut, your hands braced along his thighs

"c'mon, you can do better," he says, "th-that's a good girl," he gasps, grunting as you swirl your hips in a quick figure 8, the friction making his vision dance; he tugs on your hair, your head jerking back as you give a small gasp of pain; he groans as you clench down around him

there's slick running down your inner thighs, sticking to his hips as he lets go of your hair; you tip forward, your ass pushing back; he lets out an appreciative hiss as he reaches forward to grab two handfuls of your ass, helping you work along his cock -- up and down, forward and back

"mydei -- mydei --" you chant his name, half-reproachful, half-pleading; he lets out a puff of breath, giving your ass a quick smack, "almost there, i can feel you -- gonna fill you up, hm? that what you want? wanna be fucked full, don't you?"

your answering keen is all he needs before he makes good on his promise, and in the sweaty-drenched aftermath, he takes you into his arms, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, and cradles you in his arms, "rest," he murmurs against you, "we've got a long night ahead of us yet."

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

ARE YOU A P★RN STAR?

paring : phainon, mydei, anaxa, aventurine, sunday x f!reader

tws : nsfw / smut, creampie (vaginal), cow-girl, nipple play, biting, hair pulling, tit-fucking, slight slut-shaming, breeding kink, licking, spitting in mouth, degradation, humiliation, nasty sēx, filthy sēx, cōck-drunk reader, slight pūssy drunk Sunday and spanking.

synopsis : when the fucking is sooo good he thinks you’re a pornstar. minors do not interact.

☆ PHAINON !

Your thighs are shaking from the effort, hips grinding slow but deep, taking every inch of Phainon’s cock like you were born for it. His back is relaxed against the headboard, long white hair draped across the pillows like silk, armor undone just enough to expose his pale chest and the faint sheen of sweat catching in the hollow of his throat. He watches you ride him like it’s a performance made just for him—those blue eyes soft, but hungry.

His hands are everywhere. One draped low on your waist, thumb brushing just beneath your bellybutton, right over the obscene bulge his cock makes inside you. The other? Pinching your nipple between gloved fingers, tugging and rolling until your breath stutters and your body clenches down around him.

“Mmnh—fuck, P-Phainon…” you whimper, already a wreck.

He laughs softly—low, intimate, like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

“You ride me like you’ve done this before,” he murmurs, gaze lazily trailing from your tits to your hips. “You fuck me like you’re on camera. Should I be tipping you for this performance?”

Your face burns, but you moan when he rolls his hips up into you, stretching you even deeper. The size of him still makes you twitch, even after being split open for so long—your cunt sucking around him greedily, sloppy and wet, strings of slick coating his thighs. He’s so thick it hurts, but you don’t stop riding. You can’t.

Phainon leans forward with a soft growl, grabs your jaw, and coos, “Open.”

You obey, mouth wide and tongue out like a good little pet—and he spits. Warm and slow. It hits your tongue and you moan, dizzy and desperate. His smirk deepens as he watches you swallow it without hesitation.

“That’s it… fuck, you’re perfect. Filthy little thing,” he whispers, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb. “So sweet when you beg for it, but look at you now. You’re just a slut when I let you ride, hm? Just a tight little hole to milk me dry?”

His words make your hips stutter, your body starting to fold forward, overwhelmed and clenching.

“Aww,” he croons, mocking gently, “You gonna cum from that? From just being used? Go ahead, baby. Cum on it—show me how bad you want to be full.”

He grabs your hips, holding you steady, and fucks up into you with slow, brutal force. Every thrust is heavy, obscene—your soaked cunt squelching around him, drool slipping from your lips as you cry out, helpless to stop it.

“I’m gonna cum—!” you sob, nails digging into his shoulders, body trembling violently.

Phainon’s voice is low and rough now, breath hitting your ear. “You’re gonna take every drop. You hear me? I’m gonna fuck it so deep it sticks. I want it dripping out of you for hours, ruining your thighs—soak the sheets, make a mess. That’s what this pretty pussy’s for.”

You scream his name as you cum, hard and loud, pussy locking down around him in waves. And he keeps going.

Keeps. Fucking. Up. Into. You.

He watches your eyes roll, your body twitch and convulse, your moans turning to dumb little cries as you drool down onto his chest.

And then he groans—deep. Loud. Body tensing. He thrusts up and stays buried, cock twitching inside you as he cums. Hot. So much. You can feel it pulse, feel your insides getting filled, and the warmth makes your legs give out.

But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks it in. Keeps thrusting slow, deep, holding your hips down while he pumps every last drop inside. You’re whimpering, overstimulated, already full—but he groans again, voice raw with hunger.

“Did I say I was done?”

His hand reaches between your legs, fingers to your clit, rubbing in slow, cruel circles.

“I want to see it spill. I want to watch you leak all over me. But not yet—not till I’ve filled you again. You’ll take it. All of it. You’re mine. You were made to be fucked like this.”

You sob, nodding, brain white-noise and legs trembling.

And Phainon smiles, soft and wicked.

“That’s my good little star. Keep riding. We’re not stopping, ‘till you can’t take it anymore.”

☆ MYDEIMOS !

Mydei’s hands are brutal on your hair, gripping thick strands and yanking your head back just enough to expose your neck. You gasp, mouth open, lips wet and trembling from how badly you need him. Your body is a trembling mess—so soaked, so hungry for every inch of him that your thighs won’t stop trembling, your hips nearly losing all control.

He leans in, teeth grazing your skin with sharp bites, lips trailing down your neck in hot, sloppy licks that leave you gasping and squirming.

“You ride me like you’re some kind of fucking pornstar,” he growls, voice low and ragged, dragging you down to his level by your hair. His golden eyes flash with fire and something darker—pure, raw hunger. “How the fuck do you ride this big cock like that? You trying to make me cum everywhere?”

You whimper and moan against him, your tongue slipping out to taste the salty skin beneath his jaw. Your mouth moves on instinct, licking and biting his neck with a desperate need that makes him snarl in pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. So goddamn messy. You’re leaking all over me, babe. You want me to breed you, huh?” His grip tightens, fingers clawing into your hair harder, making your head jerk back. “Tell me you want to be full of me. Tell me you want me to fill you up till you can’t walk.”

You nod, breath coming in desperate gasps, voice trembling but raw with need. “Please, Mydei… fuck me so hard. Fill me up. I want all of you.”

He snarls, pushing into you with a force that steals your breath, hips slamming up with hard, punishing thrusts that make your whole body scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders, clutching him like a lifeline as he fucks you deep, balls slapping against your slick folds.

His mouth finds your throat, teeth sinking in just enough to leave marks as he growls, “You’re mine—mine to breed, mine to ruin. You’re gonna take every last drop, you hear me? Fill you up so full you’re dripping and leaking all over my cock.”

Your moans come out choked and messy, your head spinning from how good it feels and how much you want more. Your pussy clenches uncontrollably around him, soaking him through and through, desperate for every thrust.

Mydei’s hand moves down to your breast, grabbing hard, fingers pinching your nipple until you cry out and arch into him, your mouth falling open in a shaky gasp.

“You’re a filthy slut for this, huh?” he spits, voice thick. “Riding me like I’m the only one who’s ever fucked you right. Like you belong to me.”

You whimper, biting your lip hard, tongue flicking out to taste the salty mix of sweat and spit that drips from his mouth.

“You’re such a whore, aren’t you? Can’t get enough, can you? Riding me like your whole world depends on it.” His thrusts get faster, rougher—pounding you deep and hard until you’re nothing but heat and wetness and trembling flesh.

He growls again, voice low and deadly, “Cum for me. Show me how bad you want it. Show me you’re mine.”

You scream his name, cumming so hard it feels like your body’s going to shatter. Your legs shake violently as he keeps fucking you through every wave, dragging you down into a dark, filthy haze where nothing exists but him pounding into your dripping cunt.

When he finally cums, his roar is deafening, hips jerking hard as he spills inside you, filling you so full you swear you can feel every hot drop.

He holds you tight, fingers tangled in your hair, and breathes out, “Goddamn… you fuck like you’re getting paid, baby. You’re mine.”

Mydei’s not done making you his messy, dripping little breeding prize yet—he’s got you right where he wants you, and he’s about to push you even further over the edge.

His heavy breaths fog up the room as he pulls out just enough to watch your body tremble, slick and swollen around him. Your pussy is dripping wet, dripping all over his thick cock, and he’s gripping your hips hard—like he’s marking you, claiming you as his.

“Look at you,” he snarls, eyes dark and wild, “so fucking needy and fucked out already. You want more, don’t you? You want me to fuck you again and again till you’re shaking and begging?”

You’re panting, cheeks flushed and slick with sweat, mouth open in a desperate pant. You nod, words falling apart in your throat, but your body screams the truth—soaked, slick, full of that raw hunger only he can feed.

His hand snaps forward, grabbing a fistful of your hair again and yanking your head back hard enough to make you gasp in pain and pleasure. His lips find your jawline, biting harshly then licking the bite like a cruel lover savoring his prize.

“You’re mine,” he growls, voice rough like gravel, “and I’m gonna breed you so hard you won’t remember your own name. You’re gonna ride me until you’re leaking all over my cock, crying my name like the filthy slut you are.”

You moan, trembling, the words like fire in your veins. You feel so empty and so full at once—your pussy dripping, clenching, burning from how much you’ve already taken, but still aching for more.

Without warning, he flips you over with brutal strength, pressing your chest down to the mattress. Your breath catches as he slaps your ass hard, a loud smack echoing in the room.

“On your hands and knees. Take it like the good slut you are.”

You obey instantly, hips jerking back when he lines up and slams back inside you. His cock stretches you deep and hard, driving into you with rough, punishing thrusts that make your vision swim.

His hands grip your hips and then slide up to your waist, squeezing hard, one hand trailing down to find your clit. He rubs it fast, cruel, making you squeal and shake as he fucks you harder.

“Look at this pussy—mine, dripping all over my cock,” he growls, voice thick with lust and satisfaction. “You gonna take every drop I give you? Gonna let me breed you full?”

You’re choking on a sob, biting your lip so hard it bleeds, body trembling in pure overstimulation. His cock pushes deeper, hitting places that make you scream.

His hand shoots forward, grabbing your hair again, yanking your head back so you meet his gaze.

“Say it,” he commands, teeth flashing, “Say you’re mine.”

“Mine…” you gasp, tears streaming,

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His thrusts speed up, pounding into you with merciless force, hitting deeper, stretching you wide until you’re shaking violently beneath him.

Your moans turn into desperate cries as you cum again, hard and wild, pussy clenching so tight around him he groans deep in his throat.

And then—his own body tenses, hips jerking as he empties inside you, filling you with hot, sticky ropes of cum. You’re so full you feel like you might burst, but he holds you tight, fucking you through every pulse until he’s spent.

Finally, he collapses next to you, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you close.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice low and satisfied, “always.”

☆ ANAXAGORAS !

Anaxa’s eye bore into yours like a predator sizing up his prize. The heat in the room was thick enough to suffocate, but you barely noticed—because you were already drowning in the feeling of him beneath you, the way his body pressed up, claiming every inch of your skin.

He smirked, that slow, dangerous smile that promised both pleasure and pain. “Are you sure you’re not some kind of fucking porn star?” His voice was low, teasing, laced with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

You flushed, heart pounding as you rolled your hips over him, feeling the thick length of his cock pressing deliciously against your slick core. “Maybe I am,” you whispered, biting your lip. “Maybe you’re just lucky enough to find out.”

Anaxa chuckled, a throaty sound that sent vibrations right through your bones. His hands slid up your sides, fingers curling around your ribs before slipping under your shirt to cup your tits. The warmth of his palms set your skin on fire.

His thumbs found your nipples instantly, flicking and pinching with expert precision. You gasped, hips stuttering as a sharp spike of pleasure radiated through you. “God, you’re so fucking sensitive,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with cruel delight.

You whimpered, arching into his touch as he tightened his grip. “Don’t stop,” you begged breathlessly. “Please.”

Anaxa’s grin deepened. “You’re such a dirty little girl, begging like that.” His fingers pinched harder, rolling your nipples between thumb and forefinger until you squirmed under his hands.

You leaned forward, lips brushing against his jaw, breath hot and shaky. “Make me yours,” you whispered, “Breed me, Anaxa. Fill me up.”

His hands dropped from your chest, one sliding to grip your hip firmly while the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough so you met his smoldering gaze.

“Ride me like you mean it,” he growled, voice low and dangerous.

You lowered yourself slowly onto him, every inch of his thick cock sliding deep inside you. The sensation was overwhelming—hot, full, and utterly consuming. You closed your eyes, savoring the way he stretched you, the way your bodies fit perfectly together.

Anaxa’s hands gripped your hips, steadying you as you began to move. You set a slow, steady rhythm, hips rolling forward, grinding down onto him like you were claiming him as yours.

He moaned, low and rough, fingers digging into your skin. “That’s it, Show me how badly you want this.”

You bit your lip, cheeks flushing hotter as you picked up the pace, bouncing on him harder, hips snapping with urgent need. The slick sound of skin sliding against skin filled the room.

Anaxa’s hands roamed your body—down your back, tracing the curve of your ass, up your sides again, before settling on your breasts. His thumbs returned to your nipples, flicking and twisting them with expert teasing.

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. The mixture of pain and pleasure was intoxicating.

“You’re such a fucking good girl for me,” he whispered, voice thick with desire. “So wet, so ready. You’re made to take me like this.”

You gasped as his cock pulsed inside you, hitting deep with every thrust. You felt your body tightening, the coil of pleasure building faster and faster.

Anaxa leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re going to come for me, I want to see you lose control.”

Your hands clenched into fists at his shoulders as your hips moved frantically, desperate for release. The warmth in your tummy bloomed, spreading out in waves of heat and dizzying pleasure.

“Fuck, yes,” you moaned, voice breaking. “Anaxa—please.”

He growled, thrusting up harder, faster. His grip on your hips tightened, nails biting into your skin as he chased his own climax.

Your body tensed, muscles trembling as the first orgasm crashed over you, hot and overwhelming. You cried out, head thrown back as you rode the wave, trembling beneath him.

Anaxa didn’t let up, driving into you with fierce determination, pushing you through your high and straight into his own.

His breath came out ragged, voice thick with need as he cursed your name, releasing deep inside you with a shudder.

The heat of his seed filled you completely, and you felt yourself soften around him, a delicious haze settling over your senses.

He pulled you close, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“Mine,” he whispered, lips brushing over your temple. “Always mine.”

You smiled, heart pounding, chest rising and falling beneath his steady hands. “Forever.”

Anaxa’s fingers drifted back to your nipples, pinching and rolling the sensitive buds even as he held you. “Look at you—marked, full, and dripping for me.”

You shivered, nerves raw and trembling, but burning with satisfaction.

“You’re my perfect girl,” he murmured, voice rough with pride. “And I’m never letting you go.”

Your breath hitched again as his lips trailed down your neck, teeth grazing softly.

“Ride you again?” you whispered, needy and bold.

Anaxa laughed, deep and satisfied. “Always.”

You rose up, hips moving slow at first, savoring the feeling of his cock filling you, then faster, harder, until the room echoed with your cries and his low groans.

He teased your nipples mercilessly, flicking and pinching, the pleasure sharp and delicious, pushing you closer to the edge again and again.

“Come for me, baby doll,” he growled. “Fill me up, show me how good you are.”

Your body clenched, eyes closing tight as another shuddering orgasm tore through you.

Anaxa matched you, crashing over the edge with a groan, his seed hot and wild inside you.

You collapsed together, sweat-slick skin pressed tight.

“Porn star,” he whispered with a smirk, voice teasing but full of love. “That’s exactly what you are.”

☆ AVENTURINE !

Aventurine’s grin was slow and knowing as he watched you settle onto his lap, the heat between your bodies already thick enough to choke on. His fingers traced lazy patterns across your thighs, teasing the bare skin visible beneath your skirt as you straddled him like you owned every inch of the bed.

“You like sitting on me like this?” His voice was low, smooth, carrying that teasing edge that made your pulse race. His hands slid up, palms pressing against your hips, fingers digging in just a little, reminding you he was in charge even as you took the lead.

You smirked, hips rocking gently in response, feeling him hard and ready beneath you. “Maybe I do.”

His breath hitched as you pressed closer, the wet heat of your slick folds brushing his cock, already thick and aching inside his pants. He tugged at the waistband of his trousers, sliding them down with a lazy, possessive tug until his length sprang free—long, thick, and already glistening with precome.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he murmured, hands gripping your hips tighter, thumbs tracing circles on your skin. “Look at you, all wet and hungry.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw, voice breathy and low, “You want to taste me?”

Without hesitation, he tipped his head, catching your mouth in a slow, deep kiss that burned with heat and promise. His tongue slipped inside, exploring, claiming, as his hands roamed your back, pulling you flush against him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails raking gently, teasing him as you slid your hips forward, rubbing yourself against his bare cock. The slick, sloppy sound of skin meeting skin filled the air, wet and messy.

He groaned into your mouth, hands moving to your breasts, cupping them hard. His thumbs flicked over your nipples, rolling the hardened buds until you shivered against him, breath hitching.

“God, your tits are fucking perfect,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing lightly, sucking and biting with delicious possessiveness.

You gasped, arching into him, slick folds grinding harder against his cock as you felt him pressing up, aching to slide inside you. His hands moved lower, gripping your hips as he lifted you up and down, slow and steady.

“Ride me,” he commanded softly, voice thick with need. “Make a mess on me.”

You sank down onto him, slick warmth swallowing his length as you moved in a steady, slow rhythm. The bed creaked beneath you, the slick, sloppy sounds of your bodies moving together filling the room.

His hands gripped your waist, thumbs digging in as he held you close, pressing his chest to your back. His lips brushed the curve of your neck, leaving hot kisses that made you shiver.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice low and possessive. “So fucking perfect.”

You leaned forward, hands on his chest, grinding harder as the coil inside you tightened. His cock pulsed inside you, thick and demanding, filling you completely.

His fingers slid under your shirt again, squeezing your tits roughly, thumbs flicking your nipples as he thrust up into you. The mixture of his hands on your tits and the feeling of him deep inside sent your breath spiraling.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, voice trembling.

He didn’t. His hands rolled your nipples between fingers and thumb, pinching harder now, his cock pistoning inside you with relentless, messy force.

You cried out, the pleasure spilling over, burning through your veins as you came hard, muscles clenching around him, squeezing him deep.

He groaned, voice rough as he followed, releasing with a shuddering growl, thick ropes of cum flooding into you, hot and heavy and marking you.

You collapsed against his chest, breath ragged and sweat-slicked skin pressed tight. His hands still kneaded your tits, thumbs flicking the sensitive nipples as he whispered against your ear, “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

You whimpered, lips brushing his neck. “More.”

He laughed low and dark, hips still twitching as he slid one hand down to your dripping folds, fingers slipping inside you to stroke and tease.

“Always more,” he promised, eyes burning with hunger.

You pushed up, grinding back onto his fingers as he sucked your neck, marking you, claiming you.

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head back gently so he could look at you. “You like being my messy little slut?”

You nodded breathlessly, lips parting in a needy smile.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in another deep, possessive kiss before rolling you onto your back. His hands roamed your body like he was memorizing every curve, every inch of wet skin.

He cupped your breasts again, this time bringing them together as he lined his cock up with your mouth. “Show me how much you want it,” he murmured.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, sucking him slowly, tasting yourself on him, the slick warmth mingling with his salt and musk.

He groaned, hips jerking as you deepened the kiss, his cock filling your mouth, hands tangled in your hair to hold you steady.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and hungry. “Such a fucking good girl.”

He flipped you back onto your hands and knees, pressing you into the bed as he knelt behind you. His hands gripped your hips hard, spreading your legs wide.

“You’re so wet,” he growled, pressing his cock against your entrance before sliding inside with a slow, deep thrust that stole your breath.

You cried out, his length stretching you open, filling you completely.

His hands slid up to your chest, squeezing your tits roughly, thumbs pinching your nipples as he started pounding into you from behind, messy and relentless.

The slick sounds of your bodies slapping together filled the room, mixing with your cries and his low, filthy growls.

He reached around to cup your face, brushing your hair back as he whispered, “You’re mine, and I’m never letting go.”

You shivered, body trembling as the coil of pleasure built again, thick and wild.

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, voice rough. “Let me fill you up again.”

Your body clenched, muscles spasming as you came hard, hot, and wild.

He followed, releasing deep inside you once more, his breath ragged as he held you close.

You collapsed together, slick and tangled, the mess of cum and sweat marking the proof of your fire.

He kissed your shoulder, voice soft but still thick with want. “You’re perfect. Always.”

You smiled, flushed and trembling. “Yours.”

☆ SUNDAY !

Sunday doesn’t stop staring.

From the moment you straddle him, skirt rucked up around your waist and nothing underneath, his pretty yellow eyes go wide. His tongue darts across his lip as you sink down, slow, letting him feel every second of his thick cock sliding into your soaking heat.

“Ah—fuck,” he gasps, hands trembling against your thighs, grip tightening like he’s scared you might disappear. “You’re… you feel… you’re too good, it’s too much—”

You lean in, planting both hands on his chest, your hips starting a steady grind, slow at first, then with a messy slap that makes both of you gasp. His wings twitch. Delicate, those opalescent wings behind his ears flutter once—like a flicker of his pleasure leaking out without his permission.

You smirk. “You always this sensitive, or is it just me?”

He groans, high and desperate, his hands flying up to cup your hips. “Just you. Fuck, just you. I never—never felt anyone like this—”

Your pussy squeezes around him hard and he shakes.

“God,” he pants, “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You roll your hips in a deep, dragging circle, the sound of your soaked cunt taking his cock again and again filling the air, lewd and obscene. His head falls back against the pillows, neck exposed, flushed and gleaming with sweat.

“You gonna cum already?” you whisper sweetly, nails dragging across his chest, over the silk of his shirt. “Just from me bouncing on it a little?”

“D-Don’t say it like that—!” His hands jerk against your thighs, trying to grip harder, control something, anything, but you keep riding him with that same smooth rhythm, your pace unbothered, steady, cruel.

He bites his lip hard, hips stuttering underneath you. “I can’t—fuck—slow down—I can’t—”

You grab a fistful of his soft silver hair and yank his head up.

His gasp is filthy, his whole body jolting. The wings twitch twice, shivering behind his ears like they’re about to start fluttering full-on.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” you coo, watching the heat bloom across his cheeks. “Good boy.”

A noise slips from his throat—high, broken—and he chokes on his own breath, trying to thrust up into you even as you keep control of the rhythm. His cock twitches deep inside you, so hot and swollen you can feel the desperation in every twitch of his hips.

“I wanna fill you,” he babbles, helpless. “I need to. You’re gonna take it, right? All of it? Let me stuff you full—make you mine—”

You laugh, filthy and delighted, and bounce harder, the lewd sounds of your bodies clapping together echoing around the room.

“Then do it,” you purr. “Breed me, Sunday.”

His eyes flutter back in his head, hands flying to your ass, squeezing hard as his body tenses—

And then the wings behind his ears start flapping.

Not twitching, flapping. Fast, erratic, panicked with pleasure as he cums inside you hard, his breath stalling, mouth open, hips jerking helplessly. Thick warmth spills inside you, pulsing deep as he fills you to the brim.

“Ahhh—oh fuckfuckfuck—!” he whimpers, panting as your pussy keeps milking him through every wave of orgasm. “It’s so good—I’m gonna—gonna—nghh—”

You don’t stop.

Even as he shakes and trembles, you keep moving, rolling your hips slow and mean, making sure every drop stays buried deep inside. His cock twitches again, and he sobs, clinging to you like his life depends on it.

“I can’t—can’t stop cumming—” he gasps, voice thick and wrecked. “Feels too good—too fucking good—!”

You grab his face, tilting it toward you as you ride him into overstimulation.

“Then don’t stop,” you whisper, voice syrup-sweet. “You wanted to fill me, right? Then make sure it sticks.”

He cries out, hands tangled in your skirt, his breath ragged and broken. His wings keep flapping, wild and frantic with every wave of pleasure that wrecks him.

You slow the pace, dragging his cock deep inside with each bounce, making him feel every squeeze of your walls, every slick movement. He’s whining now, legs trembling, face buried in your chest.

“More…” he breathes. “I need more—can’t stop—I wanna do it again, wanna fill you up again—fuckfuckfuck—”

You grin, raking your fingers through his messy hair.

“You really are needy,” you hum. “Cute.”

He looks up at you, face flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide. “Say it again,” he pleads. “Say I’m yours. Say you want it—want me to breed you again—”

You ride him slow, deliberate, dragging his cock out almost to the tip before sinking back down with a wet, squelching sound that makes you both moan.

“Breed me again, Sunday,” you whisper, voice hot in his ear. “Put another load in me. Ruin me.”

He whimpers.

His cock twitches violently, already hard again despite the mess dripping between your thighs. He grabs your hips and begs— “Pleasepleaseplease, let me, I can, I swear, I’m gonna give you everything—”

You lean down, mouth at his ear, whispering filth while grinding your clit against him.

His wings flutter again, light and frantic, like they’re betraying every desperate, aching feeling he can’t put into words.

You kiss his cheek, sweet and cruel.

“Then give me everything, sweetheart.”

Sunday is panting underneath you, his flushed chest rising and falling fast like he just ran a marathon. His soft white hair sticks to his forehead, his yellow eyes glazed over as he tries to remember how to speak.

You’re still on top, your thighs sticky and sore, cum dripping out of you in slow, hot spurts, but you don’t move. His cock is still buried inside, twitching weakly, too sensitive, too hard again.

His trembling fingers trail up to your hips. You watch him gulp, throat bobbing, his mouth barely working before he blurts out—

“…Are you a porn star or somethin’?”

You blink. Then laugh, hard.

He looks up at you like you’re magic and sin wrapped together, his pretty little wings flapping weakly behind his ears as he stares in complete awe.

“I’m serious,” he breathes, sounding dazed. “That was—that was not normal. No one’s ever—fucked me like that—talked like that—rode me like—like you knew exactly how to break me—”

You smirk, leaning down, your lips brushing over his jaw.

“Poor baby,” you purr, voice like warm syrup. “You thought you could handle it. Thought you could just lie back and breed me like it was gonna be easy.”

He groans like you punched the air out of his lungs.

“You made me—f-fuck, I came so hard I think I blacked out,” he admits, his cheeks bright red. “My legs don’t even work. You milked me.”

Your hips roll again, slow and taunting. He yelps, body jolting underneath you, tears prickling in the corners of his pretty golden eyes.

“You’re still hard,” you whisper, amused, “and you’re still inside. You wanna go again?”

He makes a broken, needy sound in the back of his throat, hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“Yes,” he pants. “God, yes. Please, again. I’ll cum again, I swear—I’ll give you so much—I wanna fill you until it leaks out when you walk—‘til I can see it dripping down your thighs—”

His wings twitch harder, that fluttering picking up again. You grab one fistful of his hair and pull, and he moans.

“Such a messy little thing,” you say sweetly. “You like that your cum’s dripping out of me, huh?”

“Yes,” he whimpers.

You clench around him on purpose, just to watch his jaw go slack and his back arch off the sheets.

“That’s why you thought I was a porn star?” you tease, licking along his cheek. “Because no one’s ever let you cum this much?”

“N-No one’s ever—talked like that—fucked like that—”

You start to move again, your pace a little meaner now, riding him slow but deep, messy wet sounds filling the air as another rush of cum spills from between your thighs.

His head falls back, mouth open, eyes fluttering.

“Oh fuck—again—” he gasps. “You’re gonna make me cum again—so fast—ah—ahhh fuck, you’re perfect—”

You lean close to his ear, your voice low and hot.

“Gonna knock me up this time?” you whisper. “Gonna make it take?”

He screams.

His hands dig into your hips, slamming you down onto him as he cums again, hard and fast, stuffing you even fuller than before. His wings beat out of control behind his ears, frantic, like they’re about to lift him off the bed.

“Oh fuck—baby—fuck—it’s so much—!” he moans, sobbing as he pumps you full again. “I can feel it—it’s everywhere—fuckfuckfuck—”

You rock against him gently as he twitches, body shaking under you.

By the time you finally still, both of you ruined and soaking in his cum, he’s just staring up at you. In love. Destroyed. Worshipful.

“…You gotta tell me if this was real,” he whispers, hoarse. “Because if you’re not a porn star, I think I just saw God.”

You grin.

“I’m not a porn star, sweetheart,” you whisper, brushing his hair out of his eyes, “I’m worse.”

And Sunday’s pretty little wings shiver all over again.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 12 — COCKWARMING

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — aventurine, phainon, mydei, sunday

— warnings. — fem! reader, cockwarming, big dicks yeah, size difference, some teasing here n there

⚝ AVENTURINE

it’s disgusting how much of aventurine was inside of you— how wide he's forced you open at this point, how deep he's buried himself within the tight force of your walls, like he's staking a claim somewhere no one else could reach.

every pulse of his cock has your insides clenching down desperately, spasming in wet, sticky aftershocks that left your vision spinning as he cockily grins against your mouth, so full of unbearable satisfaction you could sob from it, truly, rutting his hips lazily forward just to feel you tighten again.

the mess between your bodies was sinful — thick and sticky cum gushing through your hole and coating his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you as you try to move against him harder, fucking yourself against his cock while at the same time, escaping the unbearable sensitivity.

well, he just laughs in return before locking you in place with his large hands, "you don't get to run this time," his pace stops sloppily as your body aches, fuck— it's like he had been caught between pleading and devouring, breath snagging on the edge of something that tastes too much like love and madness when he got himself comfortably settled within your cunt, "wanna stay there like this," as his breath fans hotly against your neck.

"you're lucky i'm not making you beg for more," as your toes curl through another thick trickle of his cum spills out of you, yet aventurine just stays, savoring every second.

⚝ PHAINON

you're certain that your body cannot take phainon's torture anymore, cannot make sense of how impossibly stuffed you are with him refusing to move, the ache of being stretched past what you thought was possible adding an unbearable stretch of him anchored low in your gut, pulsing like he's trying to nest there.

your entire frame was twitching, your gushing arousal multiplying by the searing pressure of him lodged against your deepest parts, like he's hammering into something precious just to watch it break.

you sob quietly into his neck, back arching up into him as phainon groans and throws his head back before biting down cruelly at your shoulder, unable to pretend he's anything but obsessed with you, it's like a curse, like divine punishment— your tight, wet heat sucking him in with every flutter of your walls, a growing vice that made his thighs shake and his breath catch, muscles locking as though your body was dragging the soul straight out of him.

it's unbearable, yes, but exquisite? obviously, and he swears he can feel the shape of your cunt clinging to every ridge of him, a maddening pressure that made his spine arch and his stomach clench, as if he's being wrung out from the inside just by staying sheathed in you.

the heat between your bodies was suffocating as your thighs tremble violently from how hard you're pressing him in, a hot craving to milk him more crawling through your body, "you're so fucking pretty like this," he snarls against your ear, his voice low and shattered, "you love it, don't you? stretched wide around me, dripping, yeah?," as you can barely hold onto his muscular arms for support, nails scratching at his biceps, the weight of his cock and the endless flood of him inside you making your whole stomach feel bruised and hot, heavy with lust.

⚝ MYDEI

mydei was insufferable whenever he did that little trick on you— his soft, dragging length pulsing inside you after fucking your brains out for hours, yet now refusing to continue while filling you so full you swore you could feel him under your ribs.

mydei doesn't thrust anymore, doesn't even rock his hips because, well, he just stays locked instead, caged over you, hands trembling slightly where they grip your wrists against the mattress. he's breathing like he's in agony, forehead pressed to yours as his pink tongue was darting out to wet his lips as he fights to stay still.

your walls flutter helplessly around him— was he too tight or too slick? fuck, it's hitting you from all the right places as you resort back to squeezing him in slow, involuntary spasms that had him cursing brokenly underneath his shaken heaves.

the mess between your bodies illuminated the hours from before, every tiny movement sending another gush of slick and cum down the curve of your ass and plastering your skin, "perfect," his breath catches in a low, fractured rasp as his hips twitch forward before he slams the restraint back down, as if any more of your pussy taking him so well might ruin him entirely, "you're too perfect, don't let me go now,"

you choke on a sob at his words, ankles snapping tight around his waist like your body was begging on instinct, needing more of him even when you're already split open like that, yet fuck— can he just move already? you're already so full it feels like your insides are bending to fit him, reshaping by the weight and the searing hotness of his cock nestling within you, although for mydei not nearly deep enough.

⚝ SUNDAY

you're shaking, because hey, how else were you supposed to react with the sudden flip in sunday's movements— he's big, agonizingly thick and presses into your swollen walls, worst part? you can feel him everywhere.

in your gut and your spine as the nerves in your body were slowly set on fire— an overflowing wholeness which never ends, like your body was made only to hold the thickness of him and take it, because sunday knew you could take it, yeah? every tiny shift, every bare clench of him inside you sending raw sparks scraping through your arched back, burning you open from the inside out.

with him, it wasn't the rhythm in his thrusts that would ruin you whenever the both of you were intimate— instead, it's the unbearable stillness he uses whenever he felt like you've been a bit of a brat this time as his cock lodges further with a greedy grind as something inside you breaks to make room for him— with your walls contorting to the swelling veins on his length, the shape of him carved into your flesh like a curse.

it wasn't just that, it was so much more, as if your body was folding in on itself to take him and keep him inside forevermore, like you were built to be stretched wide and stuffed full until the ache becomes your newly found identity.

sunday buries his face in your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise your skin as he fights against the instinct to fuck you through the mattress as he breathes like he's drowning, ragged gasps dragging in between filthy, broken moans as he rolls his hips just the slightest bit— enough to feel the way you clamp down so hard you nearly force another spill out of him.

"you were made for this," he drawls, the impaled sensation of his cock rooted deeply in your cunt, every twitch a cruel reminder that he wasn't done yet, "made to keep me inside you, forever," as his hands slip under your ass, gripping you so tightly you begin to whimper out his name before he's shoving you against him again.

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own