Chapter Text
Sprout has always been well acquainted with the word jealousy—more than he’d like to admit. If Sam ever found out, they’d probably have a heart attack.
Because Sprout is known for sharing.
He taught Cosmo how to share.
He taught his friends how to share.
Yet here he is, gripping his phone a little too tight as the tracking app moves around and stops at a certain location. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, stewing in something ugly and unfamiliar.
He feels disgust.
Towards himself, most likely.
What kind of friend—no, what kind of family—sits in the dark, phone screen casting a pale glow on his face, watching a blinking dot move across a map? What kind of person feels their stomach twist at the thought of where Cosmo might be, who he might be with, what they might be doing?
He should put the phone down. Ignore it. Move on.
But he doesn’t.
Sprout has no idea why something so ugly would grow in him.
He’s always been the type to share—his stuff, his time, his money, his attention. Cosmo’s clothes? From him. Cosmo’s little knickknacks, the things he fiddles with when he’s lost in thought? Also from him.
Sprout has given and given, never asking for anything in return. Never expecting anything.
So why does it feel so wrong that Cosmo is slipping away?
There’s a tiny little devil whispering in his ear, giving him the answer he always chooses to ignore.
Sprout Seedly wants Cosmo all to himself.
The thought is like tar—thick, suffocating, impossible to swallow. It clings to the back of his throat, sticks to his ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Ten-year-old Sprout had already carved out a space for Cosmo in his heart—like some animal imprinting on its owner, bound by something deeper than choice.
Now, that space feels too small, too tight, squeezing something ugly out of him.
He shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t want to pull Cosmo back, keep him close, make sure no one else gets too familiar, too comfortable—biting at the hands that dare to reach for what’s his, a dog too possessive of its favorite bone.
But the truth is, he does.
No matter how much he smiles politely, his hands clench at his sides, white-knuckled, just to keep the anger from seeping through his pores.
The anger comes with sadness, a bitter mix he doesn’t know how to swallow. He truly misses the times when he could cling to Cosmo without hesitation—when he could bury his face against his warmth, feel the soft give of his body under his hands, the way Cosmo would instinctively mold against him, lazy and trusting. Cosmo has always been soft, always fit so perfectly against him, pliant and easy to hold.
But now, Sprout doesn’t allow himself to anymore.
Because the thoughts that crawl into his head when he so much as lingers too long are vile, sinful things that’ll burn him in hell. He can’t hug Cosmo without thinking about how his plush waist would feel beneath his fingertips, how his body would tremble if Sprout were to press in closer, slide his hands just a little lower. He can’t let himself get comfortable in Cosmo’s embrace without his mind conjuring up images that leave his throat dry and his stomach twisting with guilt.
Maybe that’s why Cosmo is distant now. Maybe he senses it—the way Sprout hesitates, the way his hands twitch with restraint, the way his gaze lingers too long in places it shouldn’t. Maybe he already knows. And maybe that’s why he’s slipping away.
(Vee raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, but she lets it slide. “Whatever, Cosmo. Just don’t go crying for help when a real monster shows up.” She grabs a handful of popcorn, “Maybe you’ll need the protection next time.”)
“Fuck…” Sprout rubs his face. “Fuck!”
Ugh! Even Vee is tormenting him in his thoughts!
Sprout stands up from his bed, the blanket tossed somewhere on the floor, forgotten. His body feels restless, his skin too warm, his thoughts too loud.
He gets out of his room, padding toward the kitchen in the dark, the floor cool against his bare feet. The fridge hums as he opens it, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold water.
He drinks slowly, letting the chill settle in his chest, hoping it drowns out whatever’s been burning inside him all night.
But even as the glass empties, the feeling lingers.
His phone rings, the screen lighting up with a soft glow on the counter. Most likely an email notification. Another assignment from his university—one he can’t be bothered with right now.
He exhales through his nose, setting the empty glass down with a quiet clink. His fingers hover over his phone, hesitating before he presses the power button and the screen lights up once again.
His breath catches. A message from Cosmo.
His thumb swipes across the screen before he can think twice.
Cosmo: "Still out. Don't wait up."
A second later, a photo follows.
Cosmo's face is barely in the frame, his body leaning forward against the counter. The collar of a shirt Sprout doesn’t recognize dips dangerously low, revealing the faint lines of his chest. His skin, warm under the lighting, makes Sprout's fingers tighten around his phone.
In the background, Boxten is a blur—too far to notice, too deep in conversation to realize what’s happening. But Sprout sees.
And he hates that he’s looking.
What the fuck is Cosmo trying to pull?
Sprout’s jaw tightens, thumb hovering over the keyboard before he types—
Sprout: "Fix your shirt."
The message sends, and Sprout watches the screen, heart pounding in his ears. Three dots appear, then disappear. A minute passes. Then two.
Cosmo: "Huh? Why?"
Sprout huffs sharply through his nose. He could ignore it, brush it off, pretend he didn’t see the damn picture. But that low dip of fabric, the way Cosmo’s nipple threatens to show through, the faint shadow of his collarbones—it’s seared into his brain.
Sprout: "Just do it."
Another pause. Then—
Cosmo: ":P"
A fucking emoji. Sprout scowls at the screen, his grip white-knuckled. He can almost hear Cosmo's playful laugh, the way he always brushes things off so easily. Like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Cosmo: “Fix it urself”
Sprout’s chest tightens as he stares at the message, the screen glaring back at him like a challenge. He doesn’t know what he's feeling anymore—anger, frustration, something deeper that claws at him, itching to break through. The way Cosmo acts so nonchalant, so unaffected, drives him crazy. It’s like Cosmo’s teasing him, playing some game, and Sprout's not sure whether he wants to strangle him or kiss him.
Well, maybe not kiss him.
That would be—that would be bad, he thinks.
Sprout doesn't even think about it—his fingers just type out the message before he can stop himself:
“I'm coming over.”
It’s a stupid thing to say. A stupid thing to do. But he’s already moving, already pulling his scarf from the hook by the door, wrapping it around his neck in a quick, almost frantic motion. He’s not sure what he’s doing anymore. He can’t explain the way his body is moving without him, how his feet are carrying him out of the apartment and into the cold air of the night.
His mind is still reeling, running in circles. What is he even expecting? To find Cosmo and drag him back home? To what, lecture him? He can’t even remember the last time he had an argument like this with Cosmo—this is barely even considered as one.
Hell, he can’t remember the last time Cosmo made him feel like this—so out of control, like he’s losing something he never even thought he had.
(He recalls. Not one Cosmo would remember. Because every storm that brews, rages, and passes—it all happens inside Sprout’s head.)
By the time he’s at the door to the building, supposedly where Boxten's apartment is, his fingers are trembling slightly, but he ignores it.
His phone buzzes again in his pocket, but Sprout doesn’t check it. He knows it’s probably Cosmo, probably asking why he’s suddenly so... urgent. He doesn’t want to look at it. He’s not ready for whatever excuse he's going to tell Cosmo.
Sprout steps into the lobby, the sterile smell of the building hitting him as he walks toward the front desk. His hands are still shaking, and he tries not to think about how foolish he must look. The elevator doors open with a soft chime, but he bypasses them, heading straight to the receptionist.
“Uh, hey,” he says, his voice coming out rougher than usual. He clears his throat. “I’m looking for Boxten’s apartment. Do you know what number he’s in?”
The receptionist looks up from her phone, her eyes momentarily assessing him. Sprout forces himself to stay still, not wanting to look like he's in any more of a hurry than he already is. The woman clicks her pen, then responds.
“Boxten? He’s on the third floor. Apartment 3B. Write your name down first.”
Sprout obliges, muttering a quick thanks before he walks off toward the elevator, though his heart is still hammering in his chest. He presses the button and waits, trying to steady his breath. What is he doing? What does he even expect to happen when he sees Cosmo?
The elevator doors open with a quiet ding, and Sprout steps inside. As the doors close, his reflection in the mirrored walls stares back at him. He doesn't recognize the person staring at him—this anxious, almost desperate version of himself. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Not now. Not when Cosmo’s been out there, doing... whatever it is he’s doing with Boxten.
The elevator reaches the third floor, and Sprout steps out, walking briskly down the hallway. His mind is still racing, trying to piece together his own thoughts, but all that’s left is the overwhelming pull of some primal urge.
Cosmo’s not a kid anymore. He doesn’t need Sprout hovering over him. But...
He pauses in front of the door to 3B, his hand hovering over the doorbell.
The door swings open with a soft click, and Cosmo stands there, leaning lazily against the frame. His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, though it’s quickly replaced with a withering grin.
“Well…” Cosmo drawls, raising an eyebrow as he takes in Sprout’s tense posture. “Didn’t expect you to show up here. Is there an emergency, Sprout?”
Sprout can feel his chest tightening. Cosmo looks... too relaxed. Too comfortable in that damn shirt, as if everything about him is designed to make Sprout feel something he can’t explain. He swallows hard, his grip on the doorframe tightening.
"I—" Sprout’s voice cracks for a moment, but he pushes through. "What the hell is going on, Cosmo? You just—disappear for days and send me this?"
He holds up his phone, showing Cosmo the picture, though part of him is unsure why he even needs to. Cosmo’s already seen it, probably sent it with that stupid smile.
Cosmo’s grin falters for the briefest second, his eyes flickering down to the screen before he meets Sprout's gaze again. "It’s not what you think, alright?" His voice is a little quieter now, almost defensive. "I told you, I’m fine. I don’t need you babysitting me."
Sprout’s heart pounds in his chest, his hands shaking again, though he’s not sure if it’s from anger or something else. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, voice low, eyes not leaving Cosmo. “I don’t care what you think you need. This isn’t about babysitting, Cosmo.”
He takes a step forward, the gap between them closing, his breath coming a little too fast. His mind’s telling him to calm down, to turn around and walk away, but his body ignores the warning. He’s standing there, in front of Cosmo, and it feels like something’s about to snap.
“Then what is it about?” Cosmo asks, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Something like curiosity. Or maybe even concern. "What the hell’s going on with you, Sprout?"
Sprout opens his mouth to say something, but the words get caught in his throat. He’s not sure what he’s even mad about anymore. This is so far beyond jealousy, beyond frustration. He wants to shout, to tell Cosmo everything, but the words feel... wrong.
“I just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Just fix your damn shirt, Cosmo.”
It's not what he meant to say, but somehow, it feels like the only thing he can say—the thing that keeps him from saying too much.
Sprout grumbles, feeling foolish for even showing up like this. "Is Boxten in there? Tell him I said hi."
He’s about to give up and leave, but then Cosmo tugs him by the arm, pulling him into the apartment. “He went out for emergency grocery shopping. Won’t be back for an hour. Say hi to him yourself.”
Sprout’s breath hitches as Cosmo tugs him into the apartment, the unexpected force catching him off guard. He stumbles for a moment but catches himself, glancing back at the door like he might still turn around and walk out. But Cosmo’s grip on his arm is firm, a subtle challenge in his eyes, one that makes it hard to do anything but follow.
“Cosmo,” he mutters, voice strained, trying to pull his arm free. "I don’t—"
“Relax, alright?” Cosmo’s tone softens, though there’s a teasing edge to it. He grins, the same carefree expression as always, but there’s something different in the air now—something heavier, pressing against Sprout’s skin. "Besides, you came all this way. Might as well stay a little while.”
“Stop it.” Sprout grits out, barely registering the room around him. His pulse is too loud in his ears. “I’m angry at you right now.”
“What? Why?”
The innocence in his tone is infuriating—because it’s real, or because it isn’t, Sprout doesn’t know. Either way, it makes something in his chest twist painfully.
Sprout exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “You know why!”
Cosmo tilts his head, blinking at him, still playing dumb. Or maybe he really doesn’t get it. Maybe Sprout’s just losing his mind over nothing.
“Dude, I seriously don’t,” Cosmo insists, stepping closer, the scent of whatever body wash he’s been using clinging to the air between them.
Sprout clenches his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. “The picture.”
Cosmo’s lips thin, though his eyes carry amusement. “Oh. That.” He shrugs, flopping onto the bar stool with casual indifference. “Didn’t think you’d get so worked up about it. It's just a picture.”
“Just a—” Disbelief flickers on Sprout’s tongue. He steps closer, only now realizing they’re in the very kitchen Cosmo once complimented. His foot bumps against the base of a bar stool, but he barely registers it. “Just a fucking picture?”
“Uh-huh.”
Sprout exhales sharply, his voice dropping into something rough, almost a growl. “Would you send it to Sam, then? To Shelly? To Boxten?” His eyes darken, gaze unwavering. “Are you going to show them how much of a slut you're making yourself look?”
“Parenting me around again?” Cosmo’s grin falters—just for a second—before he tilts his head, expression unreadable. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel, Sprout.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you exactly how I feel.” Sprout’s voice is low, teeth clenched. “Since you asked for it, I’ll fix that damn shirt for you.” His fingers twitch at his sides. “No—fuck that. I’ll rip it off and give you a new one.”
Cosmo lets out a sharp yelp as Sprout’s fingers tighten around the collar of his shirt and tear it down the middle.
“Sprout—! What the fuck? That’s not even mine!” Cosmo protests, voice rising in disbelief, but Sprout doesn’t give a damn.
He’s too deep in his own head, too caught up in the mess of emotions twisting inside him. His eyes flick downward—he shouldn't, but he does—and his breath hitches. The fabric hangs loosely off Cosmo’s shoulders now, exposing bare skin, the rise and fall of his fat chest. And there—hardening against the cool air—
Sprout swallows hard.
Cosmo’s face is burning, flushed red up to his ears, but Sprout doesn’t even notice. Doesn’t register the way Cosmo shifts, thighs pressing together.
Cosmo gasps, a sharp inhale cutting through the thick tension as Sprout’s cold fingers pinch at his brown nipple, tugging and twisting just enough to make his breath stutter into a low, shaky whine.
Sprout watches, chest rising and falling unevenly. His grip is firm, unrelenting, his thumb brushing over the sensitive bud before he finally looks up, meeting Cosmo’s wide, glassy eyes.
“Take a photo now,” he grumbles, voice rough. “You like showing it off, right?”
Cosmo hastily shakes his head in denial. Sprout's hand is already on him, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his chest before he shoves him back.
Cosmo stumbles, breath hitching as he catches himself against the counter behind the barstool. His palms press flat against the surface, knuckles white from the force, but his legs remain spread where he sits, Sprout standing just between them.
Cosmo lips part, maybe to protest, maybe to say something sharp—but nothing comes out. The room is thick with silence, and Sprout is still looking at him like he’s something he can’t decide whether to punish or claim.
Sprout almost laughs. “Can’t speak?” He steps in closer, so close that the heat between them is suffocating, his hips pressing just enough to make Cosmo flinch. His crotch practically kissing his center. “You always talk back to me. Come on, use that clever mouth of yours.” He sneers, teeth showing. “Show me what you’ve learned behind my back.”
Cosmo lets out a shaky breath, his fingers curling against the counter as Sprout's hands roam freely—kneading, pinching, rolling sensitive flesh between his fingers.
“S-Sprout—” His voice is barely above a whisper, breathy, unsure.
“What?” Sprout mutters, his grip tightening around the fat flesh just enough to make Cosmo jolt. “You wanted to show off, didn’t you?”
Cosmo’s breath stutters, but he doesn’t pull away. His fingers curl against the countertop behind him, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Sprout leans in, his lips hovering close to Cosmo’s ear, his voice low, steady, laced with something dangerous.
“Go on. Make it worth my time,” Sprout murmurs, hips grinding harder into him. “You want my attention, right?” His hands are still on Cosmo, firm but not cruel. “I dumped my girlfriend because of you. I miss all my homework because of you. I gave you all my time, my money…”
His cold fingertips glide down Cosmo’s sides, deliberate and slow, sending a shiver rippling through him. Cosmo twitches, breath hitching, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his legs tighten around Sprout, drawing him closer.
Sprout watches intently, catching every reaction—the slightest twitch, the way Cosmo’s breathing turns shallow. His hands spread over Cosmo’s ribs, pressing just enough to feel the tremor beneath his touch.
“You’re so damn sensitive,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You whine when you lose, you whine when things don’t go your way.” His fingers press in just a little harder, feeling the way Cosmo shudders. “Not that I mind. But I’ll make you cry for something worth whining about. What I would've done in Dandy's bathroom.”
Cosmo's eyes widen in recognition, his breath hitching as the weight of Sprout’s words settles in. The corner of his lips parts slightly, practically drooling at the sheer intensity of it.
Sprout doesn’t wait. His grip tightens around Cosmo’s thighs as he lifts them, dragging his shorts and underwear down in one smooth motion. Cosmo barely has time to react before Sprout folds him in half with just one hand, pressing his legs together with a firm grip.
Sprout sighs, his gaze heavy, sticking to every inch of Cosmo like he’s memorizing him. His fingers dig into warm skin, and something tight coils deep in his stomach.
Cosmo shifts, barely breathing, lips parted like he wants to say something—but nothing comes out.
Sprout smirks, dragging his thumb over the inside of Cosmo’s thigh, slow and deliberate. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Was this what you wanted?”
Sprout’s smirk falters for just a second when Cosmo nods without hesitation, wet eyes wide and eager—so damn trusting. It’s that look, the one that always gets to him, the one he loves a little too much.
Sprout licks his dry lips, looking down at Cosmo's cunt. He thumbs the lips wider, watching them quiver at the slightest touch. A pulse throbs there, a silent invitation.
He leans down, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin, and glides his tongue onto Cosmo's slit, up and down, then swirling around the clit. Cosmo’s hips buck, a small whimper escaping his lips.
Sprout’s fingers tighten on Cosmo’s thighs, holding him steady as he savors the sweet taste of him. The sensation sends a shudder rippling through his body—it’s surreal, intoxicating, like stepping into a dream he’s had too many times to count. But this isn’t a dream. It’s real. Cosmo is real—writhing beneath him, gasping, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
Sprout hums against him, the vibrations making Cosmo arch. He teases, circling his clit again and again, slow and deliberate, watching with fascination as Cosmo’s breath hitches, his thighs trembling in his grip. Every sound, every twitch fuels something deep and possessive inside him, and he wants more.
Sprout can feel the heat radiating off him, the tension thick and electric. Cosmo’s already on the verge of breaking from just the slightest touch, and the realization sends a sharp thrill down Sprout’s spine.
“You…” Cosmo glares at him, cheeks flushed, lips trembling as he sniffles. “You’re—you're too good at this! There's no way—no way you just know how to—” He swallows, squirming under Sprout’s grip, his voice cracking. “You’ve been dating someone, haven’t you?”
Sprout huffs out a laugh, low and rough. He leans away just enough that Cosmo can still feel his breath ghosting over him. “Is that what you think?”
Cosmo doesn’t answer, just glares harder, as if daring Sprout to deny it.
Sprout tilts his head, dragging his fingers lazily up Cosmo’s thigh. “I hate to break it to you,” he murmurs, “but I’ve just… imagined eating you out way too much.” His thumb presses down, slow and teasing. “I’ve thought about it so much that I’m practically just following the script in my head.”
Cosmo’s breath stutters. His whole body twitches, a sharp, involuntary movement that makes Sprout smile.
“Oh, fuck you,” Cosmo spits out, but there’s no heat behind it—just frustration, just sheer, helpless embarrassment.
“Isn't that the plan?” Sprout chuckles, pressing a lingering kiss against his thigh. “My Cosmo…” Another kiss, this time against his clit, slow and deliberate. His voice dips lower, almost reverent as he murmurs again, “My lovely Cosmo…”
Then he dives back in, determined to make Cosmo understand just how many times he’s imagined this—how deeply he’s craved it. His tongue dragging up the slit before flicking over the swollen bud, teasing, savoring the way Cosmo trembles beneath him. Then, without hesitation, he plunges a finger into his hole, groaning at the way Cosmo tightens around him, the heat, the sheer desperation.
Cosmo cries out, a choked mix of pleasure and surprise, his nails digging into the counter. Sprout moves his fingers slowly at first, exploring the slick heat, searching for the spots that make Cosmo arch and shudder. He watches every reaction closely, savoring the way Cosmo trembles beneath him, stretching him open with deliberate care.
Or at least, that’s how it starts. His patience thins, his own need overriding the careful pace. His fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene, his palm slapping against Cosmo’s flushed skin, sending ripples through his thighs. Any semblance of tenderness is lost in the urgency, in the way he takes what he’s wanted for so long.
Cosmo’s moans are high-pitched enough that the neighbors might as well knock with a complaint. His hips lift off the bar stool, chasing every plunge of Sprout’s fingers, desperation spilling from his parted lips. He’s lost in it—moaning, begging for more, his eyes glazed over with lust.
Sprout straightens, finally letting go of Cosmo’s legs, which fall limply over his shoulders. He leans in, his lips ghosting over Cosmo’s, teasing him with soft, fleeting kisses before finally capturing his mouth in a deep, heated embrace. He makes him taste himself—the slick evidence of his own surrender—and the thought sends a sharp thrill down Sprout’s spine.
His fingers curl deeper, pressing just right, matching the rhythm of his tongue as it tangles with Cosmo’s, swallowing every whimper, every shaky breath. Cosmo lets out another muffled whine against Sprout’s lips, his body trembling as pleasure overtakes him completely.
Cosmo's spine arches sharply, his entire body going taut as his walls flutter and convulse around Sprout’s fingers. A choked, desperate moan escapes him, his thighs trembling on either side of Sprout’s head. Then, with a sudden, uncontrollable spasm, a rush of wetness spills over Sprout’s hand, dripping down his wrist, pooling beneath Cosmo. The sheer force of it leaves Cosmo gasping, his chest rising and falling in erratic waves as aftershocks ripple through him.
Sprout stills for just a moment, mesmerized, before a slow, wicked grin stretches across his face. His fingers remain buried inside, feeling every quiver, every pulse of Cosmo’s overstimulated body.
Damn. He didn’t know he could do that.
Cosmo presses a hand to Sprout’s chest, a light push—not forceful, but enough to create space between them. His breaths come in quick, uneven gasps, his lips swollen and slick.
Sprout exhales, reluctantly pulling back. A thin string of saliva lingers between them, the only thing still connecting them. His gaze flickers from Cosmo’s dazed expression to his trembling lips, temptation gnawing at him.
But he waits. Slowly, he withdraws his fingers from Cosmo’s cunt, the slick sound filling the air—erotic, filthy, and deliberate. Cosmo shudders, his thighs twitching at the sudden emptiness, his breath hitching as he bites down on his swollen lip.
Cosmo swallows hard, eyes glazed and needy as they flicker down between them. His voice comes out breathy, almost hesitant. “I wanna see…”
Sprout tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “See what, baby?” His tone is mockingly sweet, but his eyes are dark, filled with amusement.
Cosmo shifts, clearly frustrated. His fingers curl into Sprout’s shirt, his breathing uneven. “Your… cock,” he finally manages, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sprout chuckles, shaking his head. “Can’t even say it properly, huh?” His hand cups Cosmo’s chin, tilting his head up. “All that whining and begging, and you still get shy?”
Cosmo glares, but it’s weak, his face burning.
“Cute,” Sprout murmurs before pulling back just enough to unbutton his pants, the metallic sound of the zipper cutting through the tension. He shoves them down just enough, freeing his cock, letting it stand thick and heavy between them.
Sprout’s hands slide down, fingers pressing firmly into Cosmo’s trembling thighs as he squeezes them together, lifting them upright once more. His breath is heavy, thick with desire as he positions himself between the warmth of Cosmo’s legs. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes his cock between the plush flesh, the slick heat of Cosmo’s wet slit teasing him with every slow drag forward.
The swollen tip nudges against Cosmo’s clit, sending a shudder through him, and Sprout groans at the feeling—the unbearable friction, the wetness coating him, making every movement impossibly smooth. He watches Cosmo’s face intently, taking in every dazed expression, every small gasp.
“Feel that?” Sprout murmurs, rolling his hips, rubbing against the sensitive bundle of nerves again and again. “I bet you’re dying to have me inside, aren’t you?”
Cosmo swallows hard, his voice coming out in a breathless whisper, “I am… I want you inside.” His gaze flickers down, watching intently as Sprout’s cock slides between his thighs, the thick head appearing and disappearing with every slow thrust.
Something about the sight makes his stomach twist in anticipation, heat pooling low. His fingers twitch before he reaches out, bringing his thumb close to the flushed tip, teasing the slit with the lightest touch.
Sprout hisses sharply, his grip on Cosmo’s thighs tightening. “Fuck—” His hips stutter for a second before he regains control, glaring down at him. “You really don’t know what you’re playing with, do you?”
“Oh, I know.” Cosmo grins, smug and satisfied, like a cat that got the cream. “Been playing this game for years.”
The jiggle of a doorknob stops them both cold. Sprout’s breath catches, his heart hammering in his chest. For a split second, he almost forgets—they’re not even in their apartment.
Then, the sound of keys.
Sprout doesn’t hesitate. His hands clamp down on Cosmo’s hips, lifting him with ease, instinct kicking in before either of them can think.
Sprout rushes to the first door he sees—the bathroom. He pushes inside, shutting it firmly behind them before leaning against it, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Cosmo is just as breathless, their bodies still thrumming with adrenaline.
"Cosmo?" Boxten’s voice calls from the other room.
Cosmo stiffens. "...Yeah? I'm in the bathroom!" he replies, voice just a touch too hesitant.
A pause. Then Boxten continues, casual as ever. "Got the ingredients for our next project! They had a sale on—" He suddenly stops mid-sentence, his tone shifting. "Oh, shit."
Sprout holds his breath.
"My phone—I left it at checkout," Boxten groans. "Damn it. Hey, stay put for a sec, yeah? I’ll run back and grab it."
They wait, listening for the sound of the door opening and shutting.
A few seconds pass, the tension lingering in the air. Then Cosmo shifts, wiggling in Sprout’s arms, his legs around Sprout’s torso loosening as he tries to find his footing on the cold bathroom tiles.
Sprout huffs, tightening his grip. With a firm pull, he hauls Cosmo back up against him, pressing their bodies flush together. “Where do you think you’re going?” he mutters, voice low, almost amused.
“Boxten's gonna—”
“Ah-ah,” Sprout cuts him off, straightening before pressing Cosmo firmly against the door. “You should know what happens when you tease.”
His hand guides his erection to Cosmo’s slick heat, the thick length pressing between his folds, dragging slow and deliberate. Cosmo’s breath stutters, fingers gripping at Sprout’s shoulders as the teasing friction sends sparks up his spine.
Sprout leans in, his breath hot against Cosmo’s ear. “Since you’ve been playing for years…” His voice drops lower, rough with intent. “You better keep up.”
Then, without warning, he rolls his hips forward, setting a rhythm that demands all of Cosmo’s attention.
Cosmo keens at the stretch, the thick intrusion stealing the breath from his lungs. His walls flutter around Sprout, struggling to accommodate the size, the sensation toeing the line between overwhelming and intoxicating. His nails dig into Sprout’s shoulders, searching for something to ground himself as pleasure coils hot and tight in his belly.
Sprout groans, feeling every pulse, every desperate squeeze. He presses in deeper, his hands gripping Cosmo’s hips possessively as he thrusts again, fast and sadistic. “Look at you,” he murmurs against Cosmo’s ear, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Taking me so well.”
Each roll of his hips sends a shudder through Cosmo, the wet, obscene sounds filling the small space. His breath comes in short, uneven gasps, his body surrendering completely to the rhythm Sprout sets—one that promises to unravel him piece by piece.
Sprout bites down at the junction of Cosmo’s neck, hard enough to make him gasp, as if determined to leave a mark that will never fade. There’s no gentle lick to soothe the sting, no moment of hesitation—just raw, unrelenting possession.
His grip tightens on Cosmo’s hips as he thrusts upward, each snap of his hips sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through them both. The impact grinds against Cosmo’s clit, the friction making his legs tremble, his breath stuttering into a broken moan.
Sprout doesn’t let up. His pace is brutal, unrelenting, each movement deliberate, pushing Cosmo further and further into the haze of sensation. “My Cosmo,” he growls against Cosmo’s skin, voice rough, like he’s staking a claim. “You feel that?” Another thrust, sharper this time. “That’s what you do to me.”
“Ha—” Cosmo hiccups, babbling, his body tensing, coiling tighter and tighter. “Inside—inside me… please…”
Sprout groans at the desperation in Cosmo’s voice, his grip tightening as he thrusts deeper, grinding into him with purpose. “Yeah?” he murmurs, his breath hot against Cosmo’s ear. “That what you want?”
Cosmo nods frantically, his hands grasping at Sprout’s shoulders, at anything to keep himself grounded. His body pulls tight, every nerve alight, the pleasure cresting dangerously close.
Sprout doesn’t hold back. He pounds into him harder, chasing that peak, his own control fraying at the edges. “Then take it,” he rasps, voice thick with need. “Every. Damn. Drop.”
Frantic and stuttering, he drops Cosmo onto his cock, driving deeper with the same motion. Sprout hisses at the unbearable tightness, at the way Cosmo’s walls convulse around him, squeezing, milking him dry.
The mirror beside them fogs from the heat radiating off their bodies, sweat rolling between them as they pant and huff like animals. Sprout watches, mesmerized, as thick white cum bubbles from where Cosmo’s cunt stretches around the base of his cock, a filthy testament to what they’ve done.
Cosmo looks up at him, glowing—his eyes wet, lips parted, drool drying at the corner of his mouth. An I love you lingers at the tip of his cute, pink tongue.
Cosmo won the war.
But how the hell is he supposed to explain this to Sam?