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woewriting · 17 hours

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this means a lot coming from u... u know that already but i'll never get tired of saying because i love you and your writing, bro — no homo tho 💪

pairing. cairo sweet x female reader summary. even the most honest, kind-hearted can be corrupted by evil — especially if it has brown eyes, freckles and a breathtaking smile. word count. 1180 warnings. mdni! implied sex, very brief smut at the end, blasphemy (?), nonlinear narrative. every line in italic is a quote by frederick nietzsche.

this one is for you, @wesstars | masterlist

—

As Nietzsche once said: “if you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.”

That's how it felt to stare into your eyes for Cairo — she could see all your demons, fighting the urge to escape from the depths of your mind and release their chaos into the unknown world. It was fascinating, daring even, to unveil each creature that gazed back at her when your eyes met for a hot second in the middle of the crowded classroom. And when you quoted the first sentence of said quote, with dark eyes craved on hers, a grin drew on her lips.

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.” Your voice was low, matching the sound of your high heels stomping on the wooden tiles, following a pace that, somehow, was synchronized with the beat of your heart.

Everything about you seemed well-placed, from the glasses that always slipped to the tip of your nose, forcing you to push the dark frame up every five minutes, to the white blouse that never carried a single wrinkle in the soft fabric; Cairo wanted to run her hands up and down your biceps when you brushed slightly against her as you returned to the front of the class. Even the chalk writing on the board behind you was perfect, rounded, and easy to understand.

Hell! It didn't even look like you had troubles in your life, almost as if you were friends with all the demons screaming inside your head.

There was only one that threatened to take over your muscles and move your body by itself, making you walk to the young writer that always sat at the first row, paying attention to every single movement of your body with curious eyes, staring at the window of your soul. The alluring brownish of her long hair created a delicate aura around her as the noon sun cracked through the big windows.

She was angelical, with freckles sprinkled all over her skin like the stars painted by Van Gogh, a dimple that came followed by an astounding smile. Yet, she was the devil. Forcing you to sin as you dropped to your knees to adore her; it was forceful, corrupt, making you ache as your mouth ran up and down her tasty body, thirsty, desperate.

Cairo Sweet felt like heaven, but had a soul that was grabbed from hell and thrown into the body of a girl that craved the world, to be known, to take everything she could from everyone she touched.

And you weren't different. At first, her greediness was subtle, well hidden under the facade of a lovely girl. You thought she was a “teacher's pet” — as your professor told you in one of his “preparation class” before you replaced him for the month as a graduation test, but the young writer was more than that, she was eager to please you, be it with her aggressive writing or with fingers deep inside you.

Sometimes it felt like she was the test, and you would only succeed if you survive the storm that was Cairo Sweet.

When you fell on her bed for the first time, it felt like Lucifer descending from heaven, and Cairo was your personal hell. She smoldered against your fingertips, with gray smoke leaving her mouth at every word of euphoria, sliding her tongue against your lips with a carnal desire that consumed her more and more at every sob that left your mouth.

The second time was excruciating. It melted your skin in a way that made you feel like it was written on your forehead all of your dirtiest sins, with the same perfection of your calligraphy and in every language so that all eyes on you were because of that.

Cairo was charming, with her knowledge and way with words, leaving you in awe every time she asked your opinion or answered one of your questions, effortlessly expressing her vision of the world — there's not a single poet, writer, or philosopher that's not been read by her brilliant mind.

Her favorite at the moment was Friedrich Nietzsche. For her, his view of the world was admiring, appalling. It's like he knew about the demons everyone constantly fought against, burying them deeper inside our core to prevent them from leashing them out in the open.

Little did you know, it was because of you. Because of the way your eyes lit up at the mention of his name.

While Cairo was a demon with an angel-like face, you were the opposite; with your dark clothes fitting perfectly on your curves and rough voice that always dropped one octave when you whispered her name like a prayer every morning for the past month. When you smiled, she could see the gentleness dripping like water from you, the patient you had with the students had her dumbstruck, looking at you with her chin resting on her hands, the cloth of her blouse itching her skin when you leaned forward to help a stupid classmate that only wanted to smell your perfume, leaning closer to your body as you calmly explained the most obvious subject, and that stupid smile on your face made it even harder for her to not clench her jaw over and over until you returned to your desk to finish today's reading.

When you fell the third time, it left a stain that wouldn't disappear from the cotton sheets — the white wings of a fallen angel, burned in black soot, fully corrupted and taken. This time it was brutal, lewd, and enticing with a small portion of a euphoric hunger. She savored you on her tongue with a devilishly smile tugging the corner of her lips, crawling up your body like the scarabs that loved Cairo, following her like a deity.

“Is man one of God’s blunders, or is God one of man’s blunders?” She asked, pressing her lips on your neck while her warm hands found your chest.

“I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time.” Your answer came in between a catch of breath, eyes closed and head thrown back against the soft pillow, nails digging deeper into her back, bruising the skin with long, red lines that stung.

“If I was a God, would you praise me?”

“I would adore you with every ruthlessly beautiful word known by mankind.”

With your hands firm on her waist, you pushed her to the side, fitting yourself in between her legs. Taking a deep breath turned your eyes darker than they already were; what a bewitching view it was to have you worshiping her, with lips glistening and a firm hand on her lower abdomen as you traced the stretch marks on her inner thighs with the tip of your tongue before running it up and down her slit, trying to keep her body from smearing the soot of your wings as a remain of the innocence the devil stole from you in the most graceful way possible.

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woewriting · 1 day

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Ik that’s a joke but you offered…..

keep insisting and i might give in.

#eventually...#asks #anonymous

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woewriting · 2 days

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IMPURE cairo sweet x fem reader

summary. even the most honest, kind-hearted can be corrupted by evil — especially if it has brown eyes, freckles and a breathtaking smile. word count. 1180 warnings. mdni, +18 only! implied sex, very brief smut at the end, blasphemy (?), nonlinear narrative. every line in italic is a quote by frederick nietzsche.

this one is for you, @wesstars | masterlist

──

As Nietzsche once said: “if you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.”

Hell! It didn't even look like you had troubles in your life, almost as if you were friends with all the demons screaming inside your head.

Cairo Sweet felt like heaven, but had a soul that was grabbed from hell and thrown into the body of a girl that craved the world, to be known, to take everything she could from everyone she touched.

Sometimes it felt like she was the test, and you would only succeed if you survive the storm that was Cairo Sweet.

Little did you know, it was because of you. Because of the way your eyes lit up at the mention of his name.

“Is man one of God’s blunders, or is God one of man’s blunders?” She asked, pressing her lips on your neck while her warm hands found your chest.

“If I was a God, would you praise me?”

“I would adore you with every ruthlessly beautiful word known by mankind.”

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woewriting · 2 days

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how tf y'all have that much post? this one is my 125th post 🥹

‘crush’ being my 666th post says something about cairo

#wesstars #crazyoffher

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woewriting · 2 days

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https://www.tumblr.com/woewriting/748975678903533568/if-youre-not-going-to-do-a-face-reveal-then-do-a?source=share

YES

#i was just joking...#asks #anonymous

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woewriting · 2 days

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if you're not going to do a face reveal then do a body reveal idk 😭

body reveal? you wanna see my abs or something lol

#asks #anonymous

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woewriting · 2 days

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“You’re overdressed as usual, I see.”

“Your underwear as usual, I see.” Winnie spread her legs as long as the short leather skirt allowed her to, giving you the high quality view of a lacy underwear as she takes the vodka bottle from your hands, taking a long sip, feeling the burning spreading over her chest with a satisfied hum.

“You like?”

You let out a huff, looking away. “You wish.”

“I will kiss you one day.” She said more to herself than to you, like a secret promise that escaped due to the lack of inhibition — not that she had any, even in her sober moments that word didn't exist in her vocabulary.

this is just so clever my mind turned into mush

#asks #anonymous

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woewriting · 2 days

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i was reading amae when this sudden thought of cairo in a party accidentally seeing reader and winnie hook up in one of the rooms and starts to avoid reader like the plague and reader tries to talk to her every day but she js snaps at her and lets it slip that shes jealous winnie got to you before her and readers says how she actually wished it was cairo she was fucking instead of winnie (sorry winnie) and they js have intense sex had me drowning in tears

i bet cairo would be so upset and angry that winnie got to you first when she had it all planned out in her mind already... the first kiss, first time, everything. she even knew which restaurant to take you on your first date 🥹

but when she finally confesses, with teary eyes and all, she would be so anxious to fuck you she wouldn't even remember the steps she wanted to take or the pace, she would just grab you and take you upstairs or something to finally be with you.

#asks #anonymous #cairo sweet

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woewriting · 2 days

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alright… it's coming tomorrow at 12pm (GMT-3) 🫡

would you guys be interested in a small cairo drabble? (it has 1180 words...)

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woewriting · 2 days

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YOU'RE SAYING YES JUST BECAUSE I WROTE IT FOR YOU, SMH.

would you guys be interested in a small cairo drabble? (it has 1180 words...)

#wesstars

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woewriting · 2 days

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would you guys be interested in a small cairo drabble? (it has 1180 words...)

#cairo sweet #cairo sweet x reader #spidey’s updates

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woewriting · 3 days

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YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I WAITED FOR THIS ONE AND IT'S FINNALY HERE FOR ME TO READ EVERY 5 MINUTES!

this is heavenly good, words cannot express how obsessed i am w your cairo, it's ✨ perfect ✨ as always, wessy baby boo.

crush

cairo sweet x fem!reader (no pronouns used)

summary: when cairo goes home, what comes to mind are thoughts of you. wc: 2.3k tags: explicit, minors DNI!! all characters 18+. university au. masturbation, smoking, non-linear narrative. reader is cairo’s teaching assistant, reader described as masc presenting. a/n: let me know what y’all think :) for the vibes

masterlist

“Is Professor Miller not coming?” Winnie had just dropped into her unassigned assigned seat next to Cairo, two minutes before Greco-Roman Literary Theory started. The flipping of pages punctuated the chatter of other students waiting, a comfortable sound. “He said he’d be gone today,” Cairo replied absently. “There’s a ‘guest lecturer,’ our teaching assistant.”

“Oh, right. Who’s that?”Cairo shrugged. “Who knows.”

As if on cue, the door swung open. Cairo didn’t even look up—Miller mentioned that he kept a handful of research assistants that would be there to help with the advanced reading. But honestly, Cairo wasn’t sure what they could tell her that she didn’t already know. A melodic hum fell through the air for just a moment, a chorus.

“Good morning.” At your lilting voice, rough with the edge of 10am, Cairo started. She watched you set your messenger bag on the desk. Your white shirt pulled over your shoulders; there was a glint at your collar, a necklace peeking through. A thin watch adorned your wrist. Winnie, along with some of the class, echoed your greeting, and Cairo blinked.

Late spring afternoon draped across the furniture in Cairo’s room, the quickly waning light giving easy way to a blue hour. Dropping her bag at the door, she tore off her shirt and skirt with the confidence of one standing before a crowd. Running a hand up from her sternum to her neck, she stretched languidly, sinking down onto her bed. After so many uneventful days—when she applied to Yale, she didn’t think that there would be any uneventful days—she finally had a story to turn over in her mind.

You. You were a mystery. Even as you had started the class with an introduction, telling Cairo you’d graduated from a middle-of-nowhere college in California and sought a writing career in Vermont before delving into research, she longed to lay out the details and pull them out from under the rug. Where did you learn to teach? Did you like to drive, or be driven? Mountains, or the sea? Where did you grow up? Was there coffee or tea in your cupboard? Cairo’s stomach burned to know. Her dark eyes burned the ceiling with smoke signals, searching for you even though you were god knows where in that seaside state.

Arching her back, Cairo let her hand travel down, palm flat against her stomach, to trace the seam of her upper thigh. As the class had progressed, your keenly observant nature did not elude Cairo. Maybe listening was something that your pedagogy instilled in you, but the way you held each student’s question in the cant of your head, an answer in your crinkling eyes, listening seemed to be in your nature. It was meticulous, the way you picked apart the class text, weaving in references and tying it all in. In that two hour lecture, Cairo learned that you watched the same way you listened.

Balmy as it was, the humidity made her dark waves cling to her skin, and she shivered as she brushed them back, thinking of a different pair of slim hands. Your scrutiny of each student had an intention that she couldn’t quite place; a determination that thrilled her. Cairo imagined that you’d observe her the same way, that she would be the one you were most fond of. It was only natural that her own attention would draw yours onto her. Holding the weight of your envisioned gaze made Cairo’s core twist, a pleased little flush that she prayed you could see. Your affected impartiality didn’t bother Cairo—in fact, it pulled her into your shadow. In her bed, she rolled onto her stomach then her knees, shaking her hair out.

Her hands were steady as she reached for her bedside table, thumb rolling on the wheel of her zippo as she held the cigarette to her lips. Cairo took a drag, blowing out neat smoke rings as she settled back on her heels. The skin of her own fingers was cool against her lips, and when she took the smoke away, she studied the pattern of her lipstick on the white paper as she had so many times before.

She’d watched, unabashedly and unafraid of being caught, as you drummed your fingers on the chalk tray. Would your fingertip be soft or work hardened if it pressed down her tongue? Would your skin carry the stain of her red lip as deeply, as obediently, as the malleable wrapping paper?

“Alright, class,” you cleared your throat, turning slowly around the room to make eye contact with each student. “As you know, Jonathan’s away on a conference today. I’ll start with a bit of role, just so I can learn your names. Not many of you come to my office hours, I know.” You smiled easily. It was so guileless, Cairo mused, nearly childlike. You had the class go around the rooms with names and majors, a circuit that Cairo gave no attention to other than your lilting rhythm of hums, the tapping of your foot on the floor, the way you flicked the corner of the role sheet with your thumb. Your gaze was soon on hers, waiting expectantly. She looked right back with a blink.

“Cairo Sweet. English major.”

“Cairo.” Her name rolled off your innocent little grin, making her cock her head. “Wonderful.” Fascinating. Would you whisper midnight black desires in her ear, so deep and dark they might be murmured into the ink of your own empty room?

You continued, circling back to the front and easily transitioning to the lesson plan. You had an awfully effortless way of grasping the class’ attention, holding gently and never forcing. It wasn’t like Professor Miller, who always seemed to hasten through the lecture so he could return to his research. She could tell you liked the woods of the text, to fall down into the depths of each word, feeling its weight in you and letting it rock. Just like Cairo.

She sighed into the warm air prickling up her skin, the curl of your voice around her name making her nipples harden in her bralette, even in retrospect. Exhaling around her cigarette, Cairo brought her hands up to palm her breasts, feeling the drag of her rubied nubs on her palms. Was it the high of the nicotine, the blur of smoke ridden air that made her float straight up into the lofty space you’d created in her mind? Though the feel of her own fingers scraping the lace against her skin was familiar, she found herself keen to think of your soft or callused hands. She was wet already, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten wet so fast.

The weight she imagined of your touch on her flushed skin was completely, deliciously foreign. Unbidden but intimately welcome, Cairo wished that your caress would find the map of her chest as familiar as a classic, something you had searched a million times over yet always managed to find something new. Shamelessly, Cairo trailed her fingers down her stomach, nails catching on every rib as she arched her back in the spilled moonlight. The mystery in the crossing of your long legs as you’d leaned back on the desk climbed up her belly, curling in the thump, thump, thump, of her heart. The uneven roll of your sleeves clung to the corners of her eyes, eidetic and oh, so, tempting. She had watched you so ardently—did you like to watch? Would you watch?

The space between her thighs was achingly empty, craving the set of your narrow hips. She was comfortable there, and she remembered the taut stretch of wool as you dropped into your chair and set one ankle over your knee. There was something endearing about the way your trousers had pulled up to reveal slouchy black socks, and darker her mind went as the material pulling creases around your lap made her shudder and—she reached behind to pull one of her fluffy pillows under her, smoke billowing into the air.

Cairo gave her hips an experimental roll, imagining it was the soft fabric of your slacks against her aching cunt, and grinned around her cigarette. Unlike the pillow, you would be ever so solid under her, grabbing for her thighs like a dog yearns to please. Were you more likely to bruise her skin, yanking her into you without care for blood—or would you guide her gently, make a home in her innocence and hold her more dearly than life ever could? Either way, your desire for Cairo would be so apparent that you couldn’t help yourself.

The dip of your tongue in her navel, the little smirk you’d undoubtedly wear as you went down further—would you go for her throbbing clit first, or would your lips press so warm—she didn’t know. She didn’t have to, content with all those different versions of you unfurling before her. In her bedroom, each time she moved her hips, it became easier to imagine you guiding her actions, the bump of your nose on her folds, damned if not addicting.

Cairo grinned as she fell onto her forearms, hips pushing into the soft pillow without abandon. The slide of her panties soaked with slick against her sensitive clit felt like the delicate press of your splayed hand on her desk as you’d passed, eyes occupied by the text you were holding. It had only been a split second, but it was enough for her to memorize every crease, every vein. Cairo let out a whine, a demanding little sound, as her movements grew erratic. Looking up into the heaven where you must be, she imagined that you’d murmur to her, “I’m here, I’m here, how could I be anywhere else but here?” as you traced the dip in her back. Her arousal took her down every sullied path she’d ever dreamed of, but her mind stuck on one gesture that made her mouth go dry.

She remembered the way your shirt got just a bit untucked when you stretched during the class break. You’d instinctively tucked it back in, quick as you surveyed the class. Cairo thought that you’d dress yourself back up the same way after you bent her over the desk after class, pushing her skirt up and shoving your fingers into her, painting bruises onto her hip bones with how tight you held her.

The two of you would share a mutual understanding that she wanted this, wanted it bad enough for you to take it whenever you saw fit. Cairo decided that today, this time, you’d be as rough as you pleased, a cup of pens clattering to the ground as you pushed her down, forearm across her shoulder blades. Your necklace would be cold on her warm skin, would it be cold on her tongue? You’d put two, three fingers inside, humming in that absentminded way you did. She thought you’d nuzzle into her ear, all lips and sharp teeth, asking if she’d sprayed your favorite hair mist of hers because she hoped you’d notice—she did—and take her, break her, whatever you wanted.

You’d send her plummeting down towards a deeper hell (or was it higher, up to your majestic heaven?), already knowing everything that her body needed. Cairo imagined herself coming so helplessly around the stretch of your fingers, so high strung from nights of trying to mimic the press of your touch on her clit, unable to reach the same heights you sent her to. As she held back tears, eyes on the ceiling in reverence, feeling herself drip to the floor, you’d sigh as your mind wandered to other things already, carelessly running a hand down her back.

Cairo gasped, dropping her nearly finished cigarette in favor of gripping the bed sheets. The white fabric wrinkled around her fingers, reminiscent of your shirt creasing as you’d rolled your sleeves up. This was something new you could show her, just how fast she could come and just how wet it made her. It was a marvel, feeling the fabric cling to her cunt, almost as good as how you’d feel. Resting her forehead in the crook of her elbow, she murmured your name over and over again, a little susurrus of a litany, so similar to your preoccupied hum. Panting, Cairo giggled in her bliss, soft and bright as Californian oranges clinging to rich leaves. You were dark enough to be tucked into the wrinkles in the soft pillow, dark enough for Cairo to love, as a journal loves a secret.

Sated, Cairo grabbed her phone and typed your name in. The results spilled out, and she scrolled, looking for all of the details in the background of your social media posts, curiously drunk on the year’s gap in your CV. Cairo noticed the perfect little circle where the cigarette had burned when she dropped it, and she brushed away the remnants. The gesture smeared the ash on the sheets.

—

Walking into your office with barely a knock, Cairo took in the familiar room of an academic, but with your unfamiliar knick knacks around the place. A lighter, a leather wallet, glasses and wired headphones. You didn’t look surprised as you glanced up from your laptop. Instead, you smiled.

“Cairo, isn’t it?”

A flush of pleasure shot straight into her—you remembered. She nodded. Your shelves were covered in books and stacks of reviews, the morning’s leftover cup of coffee sitting on one of the ledges. Did you smoke before, or after your coffee? The terrible, terrible want to replace the taste of smoke on your tongue with the taste of her gave Cairo just the confidence she needed.

“What can I do for you?”

Cairo leaned over your desk, watching the way your eyes dropped to her burgundy lipstick. “Would you be able to help me on the Aristophanes reading?” She pushed her copy of The Clouds towards you. “I can’t seem to grasp it.” Your eyes met hers. “Of course.”

a/n cont'd: can you read my mind, i’ve been watching you… there’s just something about you, baby… ♪ / hope you enjoyed @woewriting :)

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

masterlist

#📖#wesstars #crush #cairo sweet

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