#i want to look at pretty walls and sketch sexy buildings not study how to keep them cold during summer through fucking maths

[redflagsandbanners]

I love studying mechanics but I hate studying mechanics you know?

[avengerscompound]

Canvas

Canvas: A Captain America Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count:  1844

Warnings:  smut (vaginal sex, messy sex,)

Synopsis:  Steve has been painting you for a while.  In a lot of ways you’ve been his must.  This time, he has decided to use a whole different canvas to practice his art on.

Canvas

The brush was soft and tickled your skin.  Paired with the cool, wet paint, it set off a ripple of goosebumps in its wake.

Steve was an artist.  You hadn’t known that when you’d first started seeing each other.  The serious and stoic Steve Rogers who had devoted his life to protect the world as Captain America didn’t seem to be the soft artistic type.

He had surprised you though.  First with the fact he wasn’t as serious as he made himself seem when he was in uniform.  He was funny and snarky, and he cared deeply about people.

And he liked to paint.

You’d first discovered his artistic side when you’d woken up to find him sitting on the end of the bed sketching a picture of you sleeping.  There was a way about Steve - an open vulnerability - that meant he could get away with doing things like watching you sleep that didn’t feel creepy.  There was something romantic about the way that he wanted to capture the moment.  Not with a camera to show how it was, but with a pencil to show how it made him feel.

Since that day he’d gotten more and more into his art when he was around you.  Your place and his became littered with sketches and drawings, mostly of you, but sometimes just of things that made him feel real.  Not the symbol of America, but a real man who wanted a quiet life with someone he loved.

When the painting started, you would sit for him.  You were his muse and when you would sit for him, you’d find yourself holding all kinds of unlikely positions, in a variety of different states of undress.

It was a strange feeling being his life model.  Sexy.  Uncomfortable.  Flattering.  Safe.  The best part was seeing the finished product.  It was like getting to see yourself through the eyes of the person who loved you most and there was nothing more intimate than that.

Today Steve was interested in a different canvas.

You stood naked in his home office, a drop cloth below you to capture any stray drops of paint.  Steve had his shirt off too, and there were already a few smears of paint on his perfectly sculpted chest.  There was something sexy about the look.  Like the mess made him seem raw and unbridled in a way Steve rarely was outside of sex and battle.

The brush moved down and around the curve of our breast in a long sweeping motion.  You shivered as the cool of the paint sent a tingle up your spine.  Your nipples hardened and you weren’t sure if that was only because of the cold.  Steve’s eyes drifted from the line of his paint to your breasts and his cheeks turned slightly pink.  “Is it very cold?”  He asked.

“It’s cold, but I’m not sure that’s the whole problem,” you coyly answered.

The blush deepened in Steve’s cheeks and his tongue glided over his plump bottom lip.  “Mm… for me too,” he said and leaned down, pressing his mouth to your breast.  Your nipple fit perfectly between his soft lips, and as his tongue swirled over it, you let out a sharp breath.

“Steve…” you sighed, your hand going to his shoulder to steady yourself.  He sucked on your tender flesh, his tongue curling around your hardened nipple, and as he pulled back, his teeth grazed over it, making a buzz spiral out under your skin.

He returned his attention to his art, leaving you trembling slightly from the brief interlude.  You blinked and shook your head as you tried to focus on the art, rather than the heat building between your legs.

You watched as he added some black to the blue he was painting on your skin, darkening the shade as he filled in the color under your stomach.  “What are you painting?”  You asked.

“You’re just going to have to wait and see,” he said.

“It’s not a flag, is it?”  You asked.  “I don’t want you to paint me to look like a flag.”

Steve laughed softly and shook his head.  “No.  It’s not a flag.”

He dipped his thumb into the purple on his pallet and ran it down between the two shades of blue on your stomach.  It tickled and you squirmed away from him a little.

“I need you to try and stay still, sweetheart,” Steve said.

“You try it when someone’s doing this to you,” you teased, and poked him in the abs.  He jumped away with a laugh.

“That’s cheating,” he said, grabbing your wrist.

You giggled and he kissed your hand before letting your wrist go again.  His fingerprints remained on your skin.  Blue spots to mark where he’d held you.  You studied them as he returned to painting.  Admiring the way they marked how easily his large hands wrapped around your wrists.

You took one of Steve’s spare brushes and dipped it into the red paint.

“What are you doing?”  Steve asked, raising his eyebrow though he didn’t look away from his work.

“Thought I’d do a little bit of body painting too,” you said and pressed your red palm against his chest.  When your hand left his body, the perfect impression of your hand was left in scarlet against his pale milk skin.

Steve’s lips quirked at the side and he shook his head.  “Very pretty,” he said.  “Shall I give you one?”

“Won’t it mess up your design?”  You asked.

“I can paint over it,” he said as he began painting his palm with purple paint.  “Where should I put this?”  He teased, waving it in front of you.

You squealed but your body seemed to curve toward him like it was aching for his touch.  He hovered his hand over your breast.  “Here?”  he whispered and watched as you shivered slightly, pushing your chest out toward him.  He licked his lips and moved his hand up to your neck.  “Maybe here?”

You swallowed thickly.  “Please?”

He moved his hand down around your waist and smacked it down on your ass.  It was firm and made a sharp crack as his skin met yours, but it wasn’t painful.  You gasped and he dragged your forward, his fingers digging into your ass.  “Here?”  He said, bringing his lips to yours.

You kissed him hungrily, his other arm curling around your waist.  You moaned into his lips and pressed your body against him.  You could picture the mark on your ass.  His large palm staining your skin purple.  His hands slid around your waist, smearing the paint as he moved them, leaving a wet trail up to your ribs.  His fingers tightened and he pushed you back against the wall.  You submitted to him, melting under his touch.  His hands gripped your chest just under your breasts and he dragged them up, breaking the kiss so he could lean down and suck your breasts.  You let your head fall back against the wall and wrapped a leg around him, pulling your bare cunt against his clothed crotch.  His cock was hard and strained against the thick fabric of his khakis.  You cunt smeared your fluids on his jeans as the friction drew them from you, sending a hot tingle spiraling out through you.

He sucked and bit at your breasts like a hungry man.  Dutifully moving from one to the other and back again, sending a dull ache down to your core.

“Steve,” you moaned.  “I need you.”

He groaned and spun you guiding you back to the tarp and knocking his paints to the floor so they splattered over the drop cloth.  He lay you down, ignoring the paint as it pooled around your body.  You put your hands in the wet mess and watched as he hurriedly unfastened his pants.  As he positioned himself above you, you spread your legs wide and wrapped your arms around him, welcoming him in and marking him as your own.

He was kissing you again, hard and passionately.  You matched him, bringing your tongue to meet his and swirling it around.  He lined himself up and with a hard thrust, he was inside you.  You gasped arching up into him as an eclectic pulse passed through your body.  He didn’t wait for you to adjust, he just began thrusting into you again and again.  The head of his cock hitting your cervix and sending sharp jolts through you again and again.

You cried out and bunched your hands in his hair.  The paint on your hands clung to the strands, sticking them together and making them stick up in clumps.  You could feel your climax building, and you nudged him.  He took the hint flipping you over.

The paint you’d been lying in dripped down your back onto his thighs.  He smeared his hands through it and then used it to finger paint on your body as you rode him.  You started slowly, swirling your hips like you were doing a seated dance, his cock moving inside you and pressing against your walls.  You began to move faster, bouncing on his cock.  Steve groaned as he watched you, his hands caressing his body.  Faster and faster you moved, up and down, up and down.  Sweat mixed with the paint as you chased your orgasm.  Steve began to snap his hips up into you, your bodies slapping together each time you connected.

He pushed you back, first so you were seated face to face, you sitting in his lap, and then pushing you back on the floor again.  He pushed your legs up so they were pressed against your chest.  His cock penetrated you so deeply you thought it was going to split you in two.  You cried out and your orgasm hit, shuddering through you and making all your muscles seize up.  Steve kept thrusting, fucking you through it, and as he reached his own climax, he pulled out pumping his cock in his fist and releasing, spattering your stomach and chest with thick white ropes that stood out against the rainbow of paint.

You lay back panting as you came down from your orgasm high and Steve lay down beside you.  “God, you’re beautiful,” he sighed.

“We ruined your art,” you said, looking down at yourself.

“I think we made it better,” he said.  “I know I’m going to remember you like this for a long time.  My gorgeous artwork.”

He brought his lips to yours and kissed you deeply and tenderly.  You closed your eyes and hummed, relaxing into it.  When he pulled back he smiled at you.  “We really should go shower.”

You giggled and Steve helped you to stand.  He looked down at the drop sheet below him and smiled.  “I think I might frame that,” he said.

You looked down at the colors.  They swirled together, but you could see everywhere the two of you had touched.  You liked the idea of hanging it in the apartment.  A permanent reminder of what you and Steve had.

[hatari-translations]

Klemens interview about his furniture, 24.5.20

On May 24th, an interview with Klemens about the furniture he’s made was published on mbl.is. It’s a pretty interesting one, as he mentions having ADHD, talks a lot about his thoughts on art in a way more elaborate manner than any previous interview, and makes some quirky jokes such as declaring that one of his favorite things to do at home is picking his nose.

Below is a bullet point translation of what's said in the interview (not a word-for-word translation of the entire thing, but everything new said in it is there, and there are a lot of full quotes).

(Content warning: bodily fluids mention.)

The intro explains that Klemens thinks visually and contributes stylistically both to Hatari and his home. He learned carpentry before he joined a band, and he's worked on designing furniture alongside his composing.

"I learned furniture building at the Technical College Reykjavík and then went into product design at the Academy of the Arts, but found my passions lay elsewhere. I needed a broader spectrum to create and found an outlet for my ADHD in visual art. My wife Ronja Mogensen and I are classmates at the Academy of the Arts."

Klemens has always been creating things, for as long as he can remember. "I've always found joy in creating, and nothing is as creative as a childlike nature. After all, you lose your innocence somewhere on an abandoned playground and then spend most of your life trying to find it again. Creativity makes the world go round endlessly in our heads and sparks our imagination, which lets us have the most magnificent adventures, express and cope with loss, grief, fear, disappointment, joy, hope, the entire spectrum of emotions that are often so difficult to spit out. I've always sought out music as an outlet for that, but also carpentry and visual art, whether it's making cucumbers out of mud, making sculptures out of semen and hair, or making chairs out of wood."

The interviewer asks what makes a good home in his mind. "They say that home is where your family is, and there's a lot to that. Some years ago I might not have said that, and would never have imagined being a father of two and engaged in a passionate relationship, but the home and love go hand in hand, and you need to decide on where you want to live and die, so I see the home as more of a state of mind. A good home is a decently healthy mind, but if I were to imagine my dream home as a physical place, it's a house in the countryside with a workshop, a place to make music, some chickens and maybe a goat called Old Túbal, a brook that we can wade into naked, a vegetable garden and a greenhouse with fruit, a giant treehouse castle that we can climb in, and we built the house and everything in it ourselves."

He first discovered carpentry in a woodworking class in primary school; as far as he can remember, the first thing he made was a lamp for his parents with a face carved into it, though he's not sure if it was meant to be a self-portrait. He also made a baseball bat, which was subsequently stolen. The first proper furniture he did was for the Technical College when he was nineteen, a chair and a cabinet in a 70s-esque style with a modern touch. He found joy in creating a unique, useful object that you could carry with you throughout your life and perhaps even longer.

The interviewer says she heard his graduation project was sold on the spot. He corrects her and says he actually made a second copy to interior designer Thelma Friðriksdóttir's specifications, because he wanted to let his grandkids inherit the original.

Klemens recites a poem that he wrote with Matthías to encompass the core of Klemens' art sensibilities. It reads thus: I am a naivist perfectionist. I take making a fool of myself very seriously. I contemplate my own navel with humility. I'm willing to do the work of pitying myself. I capitulate to art. I want to have perfect control over my art.

"I notice that when I myself am in frame, it takes on a different tone than when the painting, the sculpture, the furniture, the evidence get to speak for themselves. On the one hand, I myself take on the role of the artist and the subject, comment on the medium through the medium and poke fun at myself while I'm at it. The artist Klemens creates a photo series that parodies the concept of photo series and simultaneously parodies Klemens. When Klemens takes on the role of 'pop star in a political supergroup' it means a radical staging where he embodies the sexy porn boy, a perverted narcissist in the depths of self-pity. Even if you use humour as a shield, you have to face that in the end, art comes from yourself. Thus, you're always vulnerable before art. It becomes an endless navel-gazing at the same time as I hope it encompasses some wider context - is bigger than my own personal experiences. When I step out of frame you see a totally different tone, like with the cabinet or the sculptures. I'm more humble before my creation and I seek a texture that could simultaneously be called naivistic, expressionistic but also formalistic and colored by a palate-driven compulsion. Unrestrained figures emerge and take on a life of their own without being commentary on the medium of painting and parodying the one who paints it."

When the interviewer asks about his studies at the Academy of the Arts, he admits he was on paternity leave for a year and also missed the second half of the first year because of Hatari's ESC journey, but it was fun and he's looking forward to continuing in the fall.

What can you tell me about the furniture you've made for your home? "It gives the house a certain character and I'm proud of it."

During the COVID-19 epidemic, he made a set of bookshelves for his parents, which he says was mostly them wanting to support a poor unemployed artist in a difficult time. Originally he was going to do something very simple from existing components but then he just kind of unthinkingly started making it all from scratch without even drawing up more than a rough sketch, and he was as excited as his parents to see how it'd turn out.

How would you describe your home? "Muy grandioso!"

Who lives in your home and do you and your fiancée have the same tastes? "The pillar of the household is my wife Ronja, and then we share it with our daughters Valkyrja and Aþena, 'V-kay and A-J'. Aþena doesn't have much in the way of taste yet as she's only ten months old, two-year-old Valkyrja admires everything and thinks everything is art, so she's not picky except when it comes to precisely how you dunk Graham crackers into a glass of milk. Ronja and I may not have similar tastes, but her strengths make up for my weaknesses and she's very patient with my perfectionism."

What's your favorite thing to do at home? "Watching the kids laugh and cry, watering the plants, picking my nose and passing time."

Klemens doesn't currently have his own workshop, but the owners of a small furniture business have kindly given him access to their workshop, and the Academy of the Arts has a good one as well.

As far as Klemens is concerned he's already living the dream, asked if there's anything he'd do with nothing holding him back.

Klemens will mix together furniture he's received for free or bought used and tries to make it work. He tries to avoid mass-produced furniture even though it can be beautiful; what he loves most is uniqueness. He wants to build as much himself as he can.

What time periods in furniture design appeal to you most? "Mid-century modern and slick."

When you look for ideas, where do you look? "Into the depths of my subconscious and to Foucault."

Is a garden or outside area important when you have kids? "Oh yes. The new trampoline, admittedly mass-produced, has really delivered."

What's your favorite kind of wood to build out of? "Oak."

What's your favorite color to paint your walls? "That depends completely on the context of the room, the lighting and the shape of it, but I love really bright colors and want a lot of those."

Is there anything you're good at at home that nobody knows about? "I'm naturally very limber."

[killmongerdreams]

angel on fire

Summary: Your job was supposed to be simple: watch over Steve Rogers. Never did it occur to you that someone else would attempting to corrupt him. || demon!bucky x angel!reader || oneshot (?)

Warnings: smut and all that entails it ends kinda abruptly though, shitty ending, cursing, mentions of blood/violence, dub consent(??????), overuse of the name angel 

Notes: @sanjariti helped me with the title lol, its from a halsey song, im sorry this is terrible

“He saw darkness in her beauty, and she saw beauty in his darkness.”

The job seemed simple enough at first – watch over Steve Rogers and keep his soul on the path of good. It didn’t seem all that hard to you, seeing as the guy had a heart made of gold. Sure, he attracted fights like a flame attracted a moth; maybe he was a little too strongly opinioned on certain topics, but Steve Rogers was a passionate, fiercely loyal man who strived to make the world a better place as best as he could.  You’d been on the Earth for a very, very long time – lived so many lifetimes and assumed so many identities that you’d lost count - but you’d never seen a man like Steve Rogers.

You thought it’d be smooth sailing watching Steve Rogers, but boy, you were wrong.

Never once did it occur to you to think about the fact that someone might be trying to corrupt him.

His name was James, and he was sinfully attractive.

The first time you met the demon – the King of Hell himself, to be exact – he was standing outside the apartment you acquired for the time being, leaning beside the door with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette hanging from his pretty lips. His eyes were gleaming pools of black as he glared at you.

“Do tell why a patron of your…status is slumming it in a rundown apartment building on the less than savory side of Brooklyn?” he simply raised an eyebrow at you. You leaned against the opposite wall, cocking your head to the side as you studied him. Honestly, he was nothing you expected him to be. You were banking on the King of all things sin to be an ostentatious, grandeur, well-put together ruler who wore nothing but lavish suits, not a man who looked like he just rolled out of bed after a week of consecutive, nonstop partying. His hair was too long to be dignified, tied into a knot at the base of his neck. He was wearing a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off his Mark. The blood-red brand shone proudly against the skin of his forearm. The hilt of an angel blade stuck out of his front pocket of his dark, unbelievably tight jeans, an unsubtle way of reminding you of how dangerous he could be.

“I don’t see why it’s any of your concern, filth,” you sneer at him. The bastard merely smirks at you, unaffected by your obvious disdain for his presence.

“You see, babe,” your eyes narrow at the nickname and he grins like a jester, enjoying your annoyance like a kid in a candy shop. He points to the door you’re standing next to, voice accusing when he says, “You’re living right across from Steve Rogers.”

You have two options: either lie about knowing that the possible prodigal savior is your neighbor or come clean as to why you’re living in the middle of a demon-infested neighborhood. Now, being an angel, most would expect you to tell the truth. You simply shrugged, “Are you talking about the blonde guy? Steve’s his name? He’s sweet, helped me bring in boxes the other day.”

“You know damn well what else he is, babe,” a snarl pulled at his lips, all traces of the unaffected ruler gone. He stubbed this cherry of his cigarette out on the palm of his hand, tossing the half-smoke butt to the floor before he crowded you against the wall, hands on either side of you. He dipped his head, lips brushing against your ear. “Don’t think you can save him,” his voice was low, breath hot on your skin. It made a shiver run through your body, your blood boiling with the closeness of him. “He’ll be ours. Our weapon to wield, to slaughter all you holy little pests.”

With a dark laugh, he pushes away from you. He winks. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, babe. I’ll see you later.”

And then he’s gone with a snap of his fingers.

You see him again about two weeks later, in an abandoned warehouse turned sleazy nightclub – Hydra, you hear it’s called.

“I didn’t know angels were capable of looking sinful,”

This time, his eyes are blue, almost shining grey with how pale the hue is. They slide over your body, taking in the skin-tight, risqué ensemble you’ve picked out for the evening. You’re clad in a crimson red dress that absolutely clings to your body, the neckline plunging low enough between your breasts that it exposes your bellybutton.

“I had to blend in,” you shrug your shoulders, kinking an eyebrow at him. The bastard’s dressed in white. How ironic.

“I suppose we’re here for the same reason,” James nods toward the blonde sitting at a table in the back, whom of which is chatting up a pretty brunette woman. You ignore the demon, eyes peering around the place curiously, taking in the bright lights and the sexy atmosphere. You’d never actually been to a place like this before. “Want to dance, angel?”

You cast a glance to the dance floor, taking in the sweaty, too-close bodies swaying against one another. That type of dancing was indecent at best, a felony at worst.  “No.”

“Why not?” he was the audacity to look offended, lower lip jutting out in a pout. He steps closer to the barstool you’re on, stepping between your legs. Now, if you weren’t in such a public place, you’d break his own glass over his head. You couldn’t do that, because Steve couldn’t know you were here. “Dance with me, angel.”

He sets his drink on the counter, hands falling to settle on your knees. The touch is electrifying, to say the least, skin almost burning against yours. You wonder if it’s because you’re two completely different beings, your divinity trying to repel his damnation. “Dance with me,” he repeats.

“No.” the word didn’t exactly come out as strong as you wanted to. But nonetheless, James straightens up, hands sliding smoothly into his pockets.

“Okay, angel,” he takes a step back, eyes flashing dark before he gives you a crooked smile. “I’ll see you later.”

He quite literally disappears into thin air. You almost mourn his absence.

The third time you see him, almost a month later, he’s broke in to your apartment. You find him on your couch, black blood oozing from his body in a number of places. He looks barely conscious, black eyes dropping and mouth ajar in pain. His breathing is shallow, ragged as he coughs around the blood in his lungs. “Angel,” he croaks.

You don’t move, staring at the King of Hell’s broken form blankly. You could kill him, right here and right now, take your blade to his throat and end him once and for all. You wouldn’t have to worry about him corrupting Steve, the savior. You could watch over him and live peacefully and not have to worry about the demon interfering.

“Angel,” he reaches a hand out, gritting his teeth together.

You don’t know what compels you to move, but the next thing you know you’re kneeling beside the couch, assessing his body for injuries. His shirt is torn to pieces, letting you see the wounds decorating his torso. The handle of a Christ dagger is shoved right underneath his ribs, searing the skin around it.

You realize why he came to you. He can’t touch it without it causing him more pain. Christ daggers were forged from vibranium, sigils inscribed on the metal to make it impossible for a demon to touch. Only angels and humans could. So as long as it stayed imbedded in James’ body, he couldn’t heal, couldn’t use any of his powers to fend for himself.

Your hands wrap around the hilt, accidentally pushing the weapon in further. He bites back a scream, adam’s apple bobbing in what you recognize as fear.

It would be so easy, so easy to just kill him.

You don’t know why you pull it from his skin, instead. “The stains better be gone by morning.”

When you appear from your bedroom the next morning, there’s a brand-new dark blue couch sitting in your living room, the old, blood-soaked couch nowhere to be seen. Besides the new furniture, the only trace of James is left by a note on the table, elegant handwriting scribed across the paper in blood red ink.

I never figured that I’d be in the debt of an angel. Thank you. – James

For some reason, you spend the rest of the day with a smile on your face.

There are a few human indulgences that you find yourself enjoying. Coffee is one of them. You’re sitting at a table in the back of Marvel’s Coffee House, something called a caramel macchiato sitting in front of you. Steve’s sitting not too far away from you, attention immersed in whatever he was sketching. You’ve learned that Steve could sit at Marvel’s for hours, so you’ve taken the initiative of bringing a book with you this time, Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

“’People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more than in what they consider right and wrong,’” you look up at the voice of the quote, watching as James slides into the seat across from you, large hands cradling his own cup of coffee.

“Never would’ve pegged you to be a fan of classic literature,” you mutter snidely. “I thought your only hobbies were bleeding out on someone’s couches and bartering for souls, maybe a little bit of whoring yourself out here and there.” Your snarky attitude makes him smile, pink lips curving up at the edges.

“There’s a lot about me that would surprise you.” he shrugs. You raise an eyebrow at him as if to say ‘like what?’ and he laughs, pulling a handful of Hershey’s kisses out of his jacket pocket. “I’m a sucker for chocolate.”

The rest of the time is spent just talking, your book long forgotten as you drink your coffee and share chocolate with one another.

The next time James is in your apartment, you think he’s on a mission to kill you. He bursts through the door with an angel blade clutched tight in his hand, eyes inky pools of hatred. He’s got his free hand around your throat before you can even think to grab a weapon, pinning your body against the wall so hard it cracks the plaster. “You fucking killed them – every last one of them,”

“It was either kill or be killed. You know how it goes.” you can’t help the smirk that graces your lips. You should be scared. You should be absolutely terrified. You should be shaking with fear, but instead you can feel your body simmering with heat, your stomach tightening in a feeling you don’t recognize.

“I should kill you, angel.” there’s a sadistic smile on his face as he tightens his hold around your throat, and you can feel the fire in your blood grow stronger. Your knees almost buckle at the pressure. “I have another idea, though.”

“What are you going to do?” you gasp around his fist, the words coming out breathier than you intended, “Torture me?”

“Something like that,” he chuckles darkly, removing his hand. The angel blade drops to the floor with a muted thud and it takes everything in your willpower not to flinch. “Show me where your room is.”

“Why?” the slap he lands to your face has you tasting salt. He pouts at you, mocking your pain as he swipes away the blood trickling down your chin.

“I don’t want to hurt you, angel, but if you don’t listen, I will.” his voice is quiet, almost hypnotizing as he gazes down at you. “Show me.”

You don’t know how it happens but James gets you naked, spread out across your bed for his eyes to ogle.

“Tell me, angel, have you ever been touched by another?” he trails his fingers over your skin, and the shiver that runs through your body can’t be controlled. You don’t answer him, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at him. He growls at your silence, smacking your thigh hard enough to bring tears to your eyes. “If I ask you a question then I expect an answer. Have you ever been touched by another?”

“No,” your voice sounds small and he smiles at that, gingerly smoothing his palm over where he hit you.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he pushes your thighs apart with a grin, exposing the most intimate part of you. Shame flashes through your body and you whimper, trying to close your legs and twist away from him. Holding your legs open, he brings his hand down, slapping your cunt harshly. You cry out, back arching into his half-clothed body.

You’re at his mercy. Embarrassment washes over you when you realize that you like it, that you want it.  

“Answer my question, angel, before I have to hit you again.”

“N-no,” you whisper, “I’ve never touched myself.”

He rewards you with a series of kisses to your neck. He’s gentle, all lips and tongue, and it makes you relax, body almost melting into the bed. “That’s it, angel, just relax. I’m going to take care of you.” His voice is so soft, dare you say sweet, and you just want to close your eyes and listen to him all night.

“James.” he looks up when you whisper his name, takes in your pleading face and watery, hazy eyes. He decides he likes that look on you, but he also knows he’ll like it even more when you’re thoroughly taken apart, completely debauched.

“What do you want, angel?” he asked, watching as you bit down on your lip, thinking. He’s patient with you this time, letting you sort out your desires slowly. This is new to you; you’re going to want to think a little bit more.

“Kiss me.”

If your request surprises him, he doesn’t let it show. That annoying smirk you’ve come to adore flitters across his lips before he’s slanting them over yours in a messy, filthy kiss. A possessive sort of pride flushes through him at being the first to taste you like this. He’s the first to have you whimpering in need, hands pulling on his messy mane as he slides his tongue over yours.

He’s going to be the first to take you.

James feels like he’s on fire. His skin simpers with heat, burning him from the inside out as he rocks against you. Your hands slide down his back, searing his flesh. It hurts – it hurts to be touched this intimately by an angel, but fuck it all, he can’t stop. He enjoys the pain, enjoys how it mixes with his pleasure. He’s nearly drunk with the feeling.

When his fingers skim across your folds, you keen. The noise takes you off guard and you wrench away from him, titling your head away as your eyes squeeze closed in mortification. James chuckles, nuzzling underneath your jaw. “It’s alright, angel.” he murmurs, “Make as much noise as you want.”

He watches your face intently as he explores, gathering the wetness pooling at your entrance. With wide eyes, you watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them as he tastes you. “That’s filthy.” there’s a blush staining high on your cheeks as you stare at him, pupils as large as they can be, nearly obscuring all the color they held.

“Oh, angel, you haven’t seen filthy yet.”  The grin he gives you is your only warning before he’s ducking his head, tongue sliding against your taint. You two moan at the same time – yours high-pitched and needy, his low and feral, a sound coming deep from his gut.

James licks a broad stripe through your folds, swirling around your clit with enough pressure to have you dizzy with pleasure. The moans that spill from your mouth without restraint, growing louder with each passing moment. There’s a knot forming in your stomach, tightening to the point it’s almost overwhelming. “James,” you’re begging, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you cry out. “What’s-?” you cut yourself off with another lewd moan, as he slides a finger into you.

“Just relax, baby.” he soothes, “Let it happen.”

He seems to work harder, tongue focusing on that tiny bundle of nerves with fervor, finger thrusting into you slow and deep. He adds another one before curling them, stroking shallower and a little rougher. He presses against something that has you nearly screaming, hips bucking to push yourself harder against his mouth. “There it is.”

Before long that knot inside you finally breaks and your vision goes white, pleasure and heat zooming through your body to send you into a state of euphoria. You don’t know how long it takes you to come back to yourself but when you do, James is leaning on his side, one hand propped up to hold his head while the other strokes your hip gently. His eyes are that pale color again, shining with smug satisfaction as he gazes at you.

“Who knew sinning could feel so divine?”

You’re sat astride his hips, fingers gently tracing the contours of his muscles, looking between where your touching and his face, watching for his reactions. His eyes had long since turned dark again, too consumed with finding his end. Your fingers leave a red, scorching trail across his skin, no matter how lightly you touch him. He seems to enjoy it – the way you burn him. The longer you explore, the more impatient he becomes, hips titling up to grind against you. “C’mon, angel, ‘m getting impatient here.” his hands clamp down on your hips, pressing you harder against him with a quiet moan.

“I’m nervous.” you admit quietly. He sighs, jaw clenching in frustration.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want.” It seems like the words pain him to say, but he lets you go, hands falling slack by his sides. You’re surprised that he’s sacrificing his pleasure for your comfort, even when he already brought you to orgasm. You figured he’d be adamant on equal participation, a tit for tat sort of thing. You always expected him to take what he wanted, yet here he is, willing to let you go.

Seems the Devil has a heart after all. Who would’ve known?

“I want to,” it’s a quiet confession, one that makes your heart race. Oh, if only your brothers and sisters could see you now, giving your virtue to the man who could destroy the world. You’d be stripped of your wings, thrown into purgatory, maybe even killed. “Take me, James.”

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

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