『 R E Q U E S T S , C L O S E D 』AnimeCharacters x Reader

52. Mystogan x Reader | NSFW

》character: Mystogan | Fairy Tail

》requested by: _Fire_Empress_

》01042018

》Not taking your eyes off of his cock, you moan urgently; "Give it to me." And with little hesitation, he complied.

[a/n]: as shown above, this fic is NSFW, and contains sexual content! if you're uncomfortable with reading that, then please go back. {Obviously y'all came here for the smut, so you may proceed.}

「 part 1: into you 」

It seemed perfect to you. Dark sheets on a bed that wasn't yours, the perfect image of a man focused into stillness above you, smiling like you're the first sunrise after an eternity of darkness (Exaggeration and comparison go hand in hand, so much that is has become the language of love and the essence of a poet's bloodstream.)

He was every puzzle piece put together; every question mark straightened out into exclamations of your affections; every single figment of your teenage imaginations brought to life; he was every sunset of your youth spent wondering if your fabled other half would ever come and complete you.

Once, he was nothing but a hopeless dream. Now, he's everything that you've been dreaming of.

You never let him slip through your fingertips when you lie together, back turned to the door and facing forward to nothing less than a future. It begins as small talk, because he was awfully quiet after a mission, deep in thought.

A lot of "How did it go?" and "Alright," until you stir him out of the pockets he hides his hands and his wonderful stories in. He recounts his tales, pouring hot drinks until your hands are warmed enough to hold in the late December weather.

"Until the end of the year," he promises you, then he tells you about the dreams he's been keeping to himself.

To you it seemed perfect enough, his human dreams, that you started dreaming about it, too. And in this cold afternoon, where the wind tucks you into bed faster than you do yourself, on bed sheets that weren't yours, you watch him close the curtains.

He embraces you after, in his own way of self-praise, keeping you near when the curtains howl out the beginnings of light rain.

"I hope it passes soon," he murmurs, before the words tangle right along the sheets. There are high hopes, one would think, as the rain quiets to just as soft as his breaths of relief.

"What don't you like about the rain?" you ask him, feeling his hands on your sweater, like many other similar afternoons.

"It gets too loud sometimes," he says, "too hard to think."

"Sometimes," you repeat to him, and his hands wander up as your stomach grows hot and you devour the attention. You laugh, because he tickles you the way he climbs up your ribs like it's a ladder.

"Sometimes," he says, sounding aware; climbing past the topmost rib and onto your collarbone. Your sweater rises up enough that he looks back down more than once, eyes opened wider each time. His own shirt, a souvenir from one of his many travels, hangs loosely off of him like all he had to do was to shake like a wet dog to make it come off.