#like what so asking for consent only counts if it’s not about art??

[bioswear]

LOL what if someone comes in and calls me performative for reblogging that last post because it has an image description in it 😂😂😂😂COULD YOU IMAGINE

[gay-dorito-dust]

Imagine Jason or Dick being jealous or pissed over Damian being a thirdwheel/cockblocked unintentionally with their gf lmao

That would be a funny sight to see. To make it worse, their gf loves spending time with Damian, viewing him as a smol tsundere cat-looking child that they want to kiss or nuzzle his cheeks whenever he's present lol. Of course with his consent.

Jason felt as though Damian had it out for him sometimes…

He couldn’t explain why as during the times that he did interrupt a sweet moment regarding you and him, they were few and far between for Jason to think that Damian was doing this coincidentally, but it happened too many times for him to count on one hand for it to not be apart of some grander scheme of his.

You however disagreed with that statement but Jason called you out on your bias towards his younger brother, meaning that your opinion was invalid.

You warned him that you wouldn’t cuddle him for a week if he tried that shit with you again…Jason was quick to concede to your demands because he honestly couldn’t live without your cuddles. But that didn’t change the fact that he truly believed that Damian not so secretly had it out for him, and it drove him to near insanity that he couldn’t prove it to you because Damian always acted prim and proper within your presence, clinging to your side from the moment you enter Wayne Manor up until you had to leave; all the wile acting like a demon spawn with him.

‘You feeling sleepy there chipmunk?’ Jason uttered softly upon noticing you trying your hardest to stay awake while mid-way through reading his book.

‘You’re being too comfortable Jaybirdie. I’m naturally going to fall asleep on you eventually.’ You murmured, snuggling closer into him to leech off of his warmth, pushing your head up so that it went from resting on his chest to resting against his shoulder and looking into his eyes. ‘Can I have a kiss?’ You asked. ‘What’s the magic word?’ Jason teased and when you pouted, he only chuckled and rested his forehead against your own, brushing his nose against yours. ‘I’m joking sweetheart, you can have all the kisses you want.’ He speaks lowly against your lips and just when he was about to kiss you, another voice spoke up from across the room.

‘Todd, l/n.’

‘Fucking- Jesus Christ.’ Jason flinched away from you and his eyes settled on Damian, who was stood at the end of the plush couch with a book of his own in hand, and asks. ‘Damian, what’re you doing here?’ You gave Jason a harsh nudge in the side along with a warning glare, only to visibly brightening upon seeing Damian. ‘Hi Damian! Don’t mind Jason he’s being a grump, would you like us to make room for you to sit down?’ Before Damian could get a word out you were already looking towards Jason and he groaned as he begrudgingly shifted to the other side of the couch.

‘Thank you l/n, I don’t know what Todd would be without your influence.’ Damian said as he took his seat in the space made available between you and Jason and cracked open his book that was filled with detailed descriptions of artists such as Claude Monet, John Constable and Jan Van Goyen just to name a few. ‘Unbelievable.’ Jason scoffed, looking anywhere other than you and Damian, impatiently tapping his finger against the arm on the couch for every second that Damian overstayed his welcome.

You however were thriving on the time you got with Damian as he showed you some of his favourite artists, telling you why that was while also information dropping interesting facts about art in general; You weren’t well versed in art and you weren’t claiming that you were but you silently thanked him for putting it into words that you could easily understand without feeling too out of your depth. After all it wasn’t very often that you visited the Wayne Manor but when you did, Damian was often the first -if not only- family member you wanted to see first and foremost.

‘You coddle him too much.’ Jason complained once after seeing you tightly hug Damian upon finding out he had come home from clearing a particularly dangerous mission all by himself. ‘I do not!’ You rebutted, crossing your arms. ‘Uh hate to break it to you chipmunk but you do in fact coddle him.’ Jason insisted, not liking the fact that he now had to share your attention with the little shit. ‘Then let’s ask him then.‘ you looked at your side where Damian was leaning against, minding his own business as he petted Alfred the cat’s black fur while the feline looked close to falling asleep. ‘Damian do I coddle you too much?’

Damian hummed as he looked into Jason’s eyes with a deadpan expression and said. ‘No you don’t, Todd’s just being jealous.’ And just like that he went back to petting Alfred the cat without a care to see the murderous look Jason was shooting him, all the while you were non the wise and were thrilled at the fact that Damian out right admitted to enjoying your company.

‘Isn’t he just the sweetest thing.’ You said to Jason who was gritting his teeth. ‘Oh ain’t he just.’ He spat and Damian smirked as he rested more of himself against you just to hear Jason growl. This was going to be a long weekend.

Dick Grayson didn’t mind Damian joining you at first, he even encouraged it purely out of the idea that Damian would get accustomed to your presence- thinking that it would form a bond between you- but Dick would soon learn that it would ultimately be his undoing.

‘Dick! Stop!’ You squealed as you poor attempts to push him away were dismissed as his hold on you tightened, pulling you further against him as he briefly put a stop to his bombardment of kisses to make a face of thought.

‘Hmmm let me think on that…I don’t think I will.’ He said as he continued to pepper kisses across your face to his heart content, all the while purposefully avoiding kissing your lips much to your growing dismay as you tried to steal at least one kiss from his lips, only to find yourself being unsuccessful in your many attempts.

‘Close but I appreciate a good attempt.’ Dick teased, pressing a kiss to your nose before cutely rubbing his nose against yours and choosing to keep his face close to your own, his lips becoming a smirk. ‘Though if a kiss is what you wanted, all you needed to do is ask and I would’ve happily obliged.’ He chuckled and pulled his face away when you tried to lean in for a kiss. ‘Stop pulling away.’ You whined and Dick couldn’t help but find it infinitely cuter when you tried to reach out to him, only for him to kiss the back of you hand before intertwine your fingers.

‘Then ask me to kiss you.’ He said. ‘Ask me to kiss you and then we’d both be happy.’ He adds on, not wanting to reveal how desperate he was for your sweet, sweet kisses just yet. However fate had other plans for him when Damian burst into the room and you had immeditly pushed Dick off of you so hard that he landed on the hard flooring of his bedroom.

‘Damian!’ You cheered. ‘How’s my favourite Wayne doing today?’

‘Your favourite?’ Dick groaned as he got up, rubbing his aching back as he looked over at the two of you, pouting. ‘I thought I was your favourite.’ Dick felt a little betrayed that you would easily discard him for his younger brother like you did, but knew that you meant nothing by it other then just raw excitement at seeing his younger brother after so long.

‘I’m doing well.’ Damian replied, giving you a small smile as he welcomed your tight hug before looking over at his older brother who looked like a kicked puppy. ‘Still putting up with Grayson and his dramatics?’ You dramatically slumped your shoulders. ‘It might as well be considered my full time job at this point.’ You joked, smiling upon hearing Dick’s gasp of disbelief.

‘I’ll have you know I am a delightful person!’ He defended himself, crossing his arms and looking away from you both. You and Damian shared a look. ‘Yeah a delightful pain in my ass.’ You whispered under your breath as you looked back at Dick while Damian smirked. ‘Are you still pouting?’ You asked.

‘Obviously!’ Dick exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air, ‘tonight was meant to be date night. Our night.’ He said, somehow managing to pout even further as he continued to glare as the opposing wall as though it had personally insulted him just now. ‘I’ll make it up to you so can you please quit with the dramatics.’ You said but Dick didn’t move and only huffed in response, showing that wasn’t good enough for him.

‘Wanna go for a walk Damian? Maybe that’ll help you with the lack of inspiration for your latest art piece?’ You then brought your attention back to the young man with the emerald eyes as he visibly perked up at the offer. ‘I could go for a walk.’ He replied and just before leaving the room he casted his eyes towards Dick. ‘What’s about him?’

‘Yeah what about him.’ Dick said sarcastically from his corner, causing you to look to the ceiling with a disbelieving smile upon your lips. ‘He can come but only on the condition that he stops being pouty.’ You said and for a minute it was silent until you felt a pair of strong arms at your waist and his face buried in your neck. ‘Only if we can go back to our regularly scheduled date night.’ Dick muttered against your skin. ‘Without Damian.’ He adds and you rub your hands over the back of his reassuringly. ‘Certainly my little dickie bird. No need to get jealous of your little brother now. It’s not a good look on you.’ You teased him this time and dick groaned. ‘Only when you stop encouraging his behaviour.’ He said.

You scoffed. ‘Says the one who was all for us having a bond.’

‘And I’ve learnt my lesson.’ Dick retorted. ‘There’s only room for one person in your heart and it’s me and I’m not sharing.’ You cooed as you pressed a kiss to his temple. ‘Careful there, you almost sound possessive.’ You taunted him, having way too much teasing him and giving him a taste of his own medicine.

‘So what if I am?’ Dick asked.

‘Then I’d say that you have nothing to worry about,’ you reassured him, picking one of his hands from your waist and kissing it before allowing it to go back to your waist, ‘you’ll always be my number one dickie bird.’

It was sad that date night didn’t go to plan but by the end of the night you, Dick and Damian were fast asleep on the couch with Dick flat on his back and holding you against his chest, while you held Damian against your chest and Damian cuddling up to the both of you and holding onto you tightly; deathly afraid of letting go but his grip going completely slack upon falling asleep.

[teaboot]

How do Canadian schools teach about indigenous Canadian history and culture? -a curious USAmerican

In my experience we learned about colonization at the same time as we learned about the formation of Canada. At first it was "European settlers came and pushed out the indigenous population", then in the higher grades we learned more about the how and the why.

For example, how carts full of men with rifles would ride around shooting Buffalo, then leaving the meat on the ground to rot, because "a dead Buffalo is a dead indian", which was so fanatical it almost wiped out wild Buffalo entirely

Also how Canadian settlers were lured in with beautiful hand-painted advertisements for cheap, beautiful, fertile land that was unpopulated and perfect, if only you'd sail over with your entire family and a pocket full of seeds- only to be met with scared, confused, and angry lawful inhabitants already run out of ten other places, and frigid winters, and rocky, forested, undeveloped dirt.

also, smallpox blankets, where "gifts" of blankets infected with smallpox were intentionally given out

And treaty violations- Either ignoring written agreements entirely, or buying them out at insanely low prices and lying about the value, or trading for farming equipment that they couldn't use because they weren't farmers.

Then in the first world war, where they told indigenous peoples here that they'd be granted Canadian citizenship if they enlisted

To Residential schools, which was straight up stealing kids for slavery, indoctrination, and medical experiments

But we also covered the building of the Canadian Railway in which Chinese immigrants were lowered into ravines with dynamite to blow out paths through the mountain for pennies on the dollar

And the Alberta Sterilization Act, where it was lawful and routine procedure to sterilize women of colour and neurodivergent people without their awareness or consent after giving birth or undergoing unrelated surgeries

But I'm rambling.

We kind of learned Aboriginal history at the same time as everything else? Like. This is when Canada was made, and this is how it was done. Now we'll read a book about someone who lived through it, and we'll write a book report. And now a documentary, and now a paper about the documentary. Onto the next unit.

And starting I think in grade 10 our English track was split between English and Aboriginals English, where you could choose to do the standard curriculum or do the same basic knowledge stuff with a focus on Aboriginal perspectives and literature. (I did that one, we read Three Day's Road and Diary Of A Part-Time Indian, and a few other titles I don't remember.)

There was also a lunch room for the Aboriginal Culture Studies where Aboriginal kids could hang out at lunch time if they wanted, full of art and projects and stuff. They'd play music or videos sometimes, that was cool

And one elective I took (not mandatory cirriculum) was a Kwakiutl course for basic Kwakwakaʼwakw language. Greetings, counting to a hundred, learning the modified alphabet, animals, etc. Still comes in handy sometimes at large gatherings cause they usually start with a land recognition thanking whoever's land we're on, with a few thanks and welcomes in their language.

And like- when I was in the US it was so weird, cause here we have Totem poles and longhouses and murals all over and yall... don't? Like there is a very distinct lack of Aboriginal art in your public spaces, at least in the areas I've been

My ex-stepfather, who was American, brought his son out once, and he was so excited to "see real indians" and was legitimately shocked to learn that there weren't many teepees to be found on the northwest coast, and was even *more* shocked when we told him that you have Aboriginal people back home too, bud. Your Aboriginal people are also named "Mike" snd "Vicky" and work as assistant manager at best buy.

If you'd ask me, I'd say that the primary difference is that USAmerica (from what I've seen, and ALSO in entirely too much of Canada) treats our European and Aboriginal conflicts as history, something that's tragic but over, like the extinction of the mammoths, instead of like. An ongoing thing involving people who are alive and numerous and right fucking here

But at the end of the day, I'm white, and there are plenty of actual Aboriginal people who are speaking out and saying much more meaningful things than I can

So I'm just gonna pass on a quote from my Stepmum, who's Cree, that's stuck with me since she said it:

"You see how they treat Mexicans in America? That's how they treat us here. Indians are the Mexicans of Canada."

[ne-videl]

𝓾𝓷𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓵 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓰𝓮

♡

yandere Poseidon x fem reader

hide your tears and smile, little goddess.

yandere, unhealthy relationships, objectification, angst, power imbalance, depressed reader, forced marriage, poor english, sfw. first half – Poseidon's pov, then yours.

word count: ~1.5k

a/n: hii everyone!! how have you been? I have no ideas. like, absolutely. art block I guess?? anyway, have some of my old stuff. this is my least favorite yandere trope, but I love angst, so sometimes I go for it. by the way, when I first started it, I wanted to write a super idolized fluff but... well, we have what we have, or "why you don't want to marry Poseidon". hehe big booba man hehehe

the endless ocean is noisy outside the huge windows.

today, the sea sings a memorial service for you.

two people at the altar – the god and his bride.

Poseidon wants to smile rapaciously at her shaking figure.

she's afraid, poor thing. who wouldn't be afraid? he is, after all, the god of all gods, known for his cruel and merciless temper, the lord of the seas.

and she will become his lady very soon.

[name].

her name spreads like ambrosia across his lips.

even her name is so ordinary, so human, as, indeed, everything else about his charming wife.

she was a priestess in Poseidon's temple: in his own, so there's nothing wrong in taking what was already his. he noticed her by accident.

[name] was sitting hunched over, touching some bright flowers with her bruised palms. he liked to visit this temple sometimes: it was quiet and peaceful in the atrium, noisy humans did not flicker before his eyes.

little human girl did not even flinch when he silently stood next to her, only continued to look with big and very sad eyes at the colorful flower bed.

at their second meeting, she greeted him.

at the third time, she dared to start an idle conversation.

the fourth, and she talked about life in the temple.

at the fifth time she asked why he was coming here.

Poseidon always stood silently next to her, looming over her like a suffocating shadow. he was amused by her chattering, and, unexpectedly for himself, found her presence soothing, pleasant, unlike other humans, the mere sight of whom made the eye of the deity twitch.

life was bad for her in the temple.

[name] told him, she was sent to this place when she was still a girl, and she spent her whole life by the cold blue sea.

new head of the temple did not like her, saying that there was nothing for women to do here. that she should get married, but who needs her?

Poseidon saw the marks of beatings on her girlish body.

so he took her with him. she served in temple made in his name, spent her short life at his domain – it is quite natural that she will become his wife.

of course, it is unheard of that god marries a human – but does he really need someone's approval?

ʚ♡⃛ɞ ______

Hades advised to propose to her. it's the way humans do it.

Poseidon did not ask for her consent, for him it was just a formality: of course she would say yes, he was sure.

he will dress her in the finest silks, she will own the most beautiful jewels on all Olympus, the sea itself would be at her feet – how could a human girl want more?

smile spreads across his face as he sees her eyes widen, as she begins to shake – no doubt, from embarrassment – and his palm rests protectively on top of her head.

of course she agreed, how could it be any other way?

his fiancee is incredibly sweet. but weak and naive at the same time, like the rest of the human race. but he will protect her, give her a better life.

she must be very grateful to him.

ʚ♡⃛ɞ ______

Poseidon remembers their wedding well, how [name] looked in amazement at the beauty of Atlantis, at the greatness of his seas.

in white robes, with downcast eyes, she swore an oath binding her life forever to a cruel deity, accompanied by singing of nymphs and the sound of the ocean.

she was now a goddess herself, whether she wanted to or not. of course, she wanted to, it couldn't be any other way. she loves him.

and, as the new lady of the seas, she will spend her now eternal life by his side. Poseidon will make sure of this no matter what.

she fearfully puts her small palm into his, while he, her husband, leads her through the corridors of the palace. [name] is silent. probably still embarrassed.

from now on, she will be the most beautiful ornament of his possessions, the shining pearl of Atlantis – his precious property, belonging only to him. and the sparkling ring on her tiny finger was proof.

ʚ♡⃛ɞ ______

"wife." – [name] immediately turns around, smiles, comes closer.

his hand rests on her waist, his grip firm, possessively strong. she doesn't notice.

or pretends not to notice.

over time, [name] got used to him, cheered up, blossomed. it couldn't have been any other way, right?

songs, dances appeared, bright flowers and ringing laughter in the cold and empty corridors.

she became friends with his brothers, was able to conquer the proud Aphrodite, whom she now called her friend with visible joy.

Poseidon is pleased to consider himself a good husband.

he loves to see his wife smiling, laughing.

even if it's not just with him. it's better to be patient for a while, he thinks, than to lose her cheerful chatting for the whole evening.

though, she's cute even when she's angry.

Poseidon was gentle with her. allowed her much, much more than others, even spoiled her. [name] was his wife, after all, so he had to make sure she looked good enough.

he's a good husband.

[name] never contradicted him, never raised her adorable voice at him, never was not too selfish.

although deep down, he would like her to become more spoiled. so that, like him, she would not tolerate anyone's presence, except, of course, her husband.

to think of it, why would she need anyone besides him? she can be quite happy within the walls of the palace.

Poseidon dismissed these thoughts from himself – for some reason, his wife liked to be in society, even if without him.

well, he's willing to put up with her quirks as long as she knows who should come first for her.

ʚ♡⃛ɞ ______

the outfit given by Aphrodite was very becoming to his spouse. Poseidon loved to see her beautiful.

in luxurious clothes, undoubtedly worthy of the wife of a sea god, or in the warm candlelight in the night darkness of their shared bedroom, happy or shedding tears, [name] was equally beautiful.

the precious treasure of Atlantis.

he was never moved by her tears – even if she was crying, of course she loved him anyway. [name] is happy. so why make a big deal about it?

none of the pathetic mortals could take care of her like he did. none of them would love her the way he does.

"you are my wife. you're not going anywhere."

ʚ♡⃛ɞ ______

you didn't tell anyone about your sorrow: didn't share it with anyone – neither with Aphrodite, nor with the nymphs and mermaids, your husband's brothers remained in the dark too.

a little human girl shedding tears by the huge waves.

an unhappy goddess, forever imprisoned in an cold palace, surrounded by hypocritical deities, in the iron grip of an unloved husband, eaten alive by sadness and suffocating hopelessness of her position.

none of them saw you as an equal: you were only a curious little thing, a way to dispel eternal divine boredom, and the Olympians, of course, did not bother to hide this fact.

you didn't know what your husband found in you, and you didn't want to. sometimes you wished that back then, many, many years ago, he would have left you in that temple, or that you would run from the garden in terror, or anything. anything.

ʚ♡⃛ɞ ______

you knew your place well.

by his side, always, no matter what. from the very day when you stood at the altar and did not dare to raise your eyes to your fiance, you were no longer anything human.

from that moment, you became an ornament, a property, a beautiful doll. nothing more.

Poseidon wanted to see you happy – and you smiled, laughed, you did everything that you thought he would like.

are you satisfied? please tell me you're happy. I'm scared.

scared.

your husband allowed you the freedom he thought his property could have, and you greedily soaked up every drop of it.

you're lucky, you told yourself, you're very, very lucky. It could have been worse. any other girl would give her soul to be in your place, – repeated, looking at your own reflection in the cold glitter of jewelry.

you must be like it yourself. a thing. a thing, of course, must have an owner, and a thing cannot be sad.

Poseidon's cold hand rests on your waist, pulls you into his arms, and you do not allow yourself to resist: you exhale into his neck, placing your small palms on his broad back.

your spouse is purring contentedly.

he's happy. you can relax a little.

ʚ♡⃛ɞ ______

sea nymphs comb your hair, weave pearls into thin braids, fold strands into an intricate hairstyle.

"what's bothering you, madam?" – the lady of the seas does not bother to answer, your dead calm gaze wanders over the high ceilings, walls and huge windows of your chambers.

a common topic of idle conversation among the Olympians was Poseidon's boundless adoration for his charming wife. cruel god who fell in love with a mere mortal – what a beautiful story.

even the ocean itself seemed to dote on you. whenever the warm waves caressed your feet on the coast, your dried-up insides were filled with melancholy. your body was here, in Atlantis, which became a prison for you, and your soul, which remained to pain in your chest human, floated far away. your tired mind wandered, and you are a little girl again, and once again the bright sun warms your childishly plump cheeks, and in your hands are colorful flowers, and the kind grandpa from the temple strokes your head.

Poseidon will be coming for you soon – as always.

as always, you will talk about something, laugh, sitting on his lap in the throne room. or in one of the living rooms, or in the bedroom – you were not allowed to leave him without permission.

you flinched when you felt his strong hand on your shoulder.

Poseidon smirked.

his wife is not going anywhere. she will stay with him.

forever.

not the best one of my works but uh well I felt like posting something

maaybe will be deleted since it doesn't look as good as I thought it would be in english

btw thinking about writing tartaglia fic soo the next one is probably gonna be genshin man again

thanks for reading!!

[toon-tales]

Hiya! Ok, so, I'm here to analyze, again. But! Not a scene. I'm here to analyze the evolution of the one and only #Broppy, from the first movie. I've been planning to include the three movies and the holiday specials, but I figured I can't add that many pics in one post. I can only add ten, soooo-

Let's take it from the beginning: the first appearance for Branch.

If you ask me, he was being rude, maybe even embarrassed Poppy in front of everyone. Yeah, I love Branch, and he's my baby and all, but dude, you shouldn't have done that, especially not in front of everyone. Like, yeah, we later know his backstory and his grandma and his brothers, but still, it's not Poppy's fault, he shouldn't have treated her like this. Sure, her believing life was all cupcakes and rainbows might have been provoking to Branch, but he's still at fault, and I think more people need to make peace with that.

Also, something I noticed, is that Branch and Poppy were close even before the events of the first movie, cause, literally everyone calls her 'Princess Poppy', except the snack pack. They just call her Poppy, and the fact that Branch also calls her Poppy just proves they were close.

Now, later, we see Branch holding Poppy's scrapbook, then staring at even more scrapbooks on the shelves. Like, cute, sure, but it's not what you feel, it's what you show, Branch.

Okay, now, this scene:

The fact that Poppy was knocking on the rock just means she never got into Branch's bunker before. But she knows the address, so that counts. Maybe he had given it to her when they first met in case she needed something after he'd found her hurt with a broken arm or something then they became friends- I'm totally drifting from the post. Sorry about that.

Now, there are two theories:

Annnywayyyy, let's focus on the scene after:

"Which is why I have to ask you..." she hesitated, before continuing, "will you go to Bergen town with me and save everyone?"

She hesitated! She freaking hesitated! Meaning? She probably never asked Branch to help her before. She surely had problems in her life, but she also had her friends, so I belive she always went to them whenever she was in trouble. But now those friends aren't here, which forces her to ask the person who she trusts the most after them. Branch. And, disappointedly, he refuses, because of the fear he's living in.

Moments later, Poppy surprisingly invites the entire village to Branch's bunker to keep them safe. Which was wrong of her. True, she was trying to protect everyone, but using Branch's house without his consent was wrong. Sorry. Sure, it was the safest place for now, but that still doesn't justify it. You can see he was clearly annoyed (which she loved). But I don't really blame her, just like I don't really blame Branch. They both did wrong.

Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip- hold... rightttt here:

Ah, yes. That scene. Now, look. He showed up, because he knew there was no way Poppy could do this by herself, and he wasn't wrong. Poppy, in return, also knew he would come, because it was the third hug time by then.

"I guess we were both right." That line. It speaks volumes for their relationship, yet no one talks about it! They both look at things from different perspectives, BUT, it doesn't mean either of them is wrong.

Like when they arrived at the troll tree: "The troll tree." "Bergen town."

Or when they found out the others were still alive: "They're alive?" "And on a silver platter too. We were both right."

Please writers and artists, we need more content with this line. Add it to your fanfics/art!

Skip, skip, another skip (yes, I skipped the part where Branch tries to avoid talking about his feelings cause it's kinda... i don't know, i just don't know what to say about it. It's sorta obvious), skiiiiiip, annnndddd, right here:

THEIR. FIRST. HUG.

My babies, oh my sweet precious babies. They've been through so much together, and finally, Branch has found it in himself to actually open up about his past (mostly).

I've spoken about this scene in more details in this post.

Now, we're going to talk about one of the most important scenes in the history of Broppy. This:

Branch is talking. He's always used to being in the shadows, never helping anyone, and here he was, helping a Bergen. If that's not a big change, I don't know what is.

And let me tell you, not only Branch was changing in this scene. See Poppy?

She's learning to look deeper into things, even persons. She's finally realizing that Branch, the grumpy, sarcastic troll, might not be as bad as she thought. They're both developing.

Until the rules are swapped.

Branch is the one to find the bright side, and Poppy is the one to cover it. And you can see how disappointed he is.

"I can't wait to see the look on your face when you realize the world isn't all cupcakes and rainbows." But when it happened, Branch realized that this wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want her to be like him, because this was him - a person who doesn't see the cupcakes and rainbows in life, not even in the slightest.

The way he was trying to cheer her up

And the way she actually smiled. Poppy was still there, her happiness was inside, not gone but hidden, and Branch was trying to find it again.

Yet she didn't even notice her own colors returning. Maybe because she was focused on the change in Branch? She wasn't startled when he sang at first, she wasn't happy, just like he used to be. He didn't use to care, until later, when his feelings began to resurface again, because Poppy helped him. Just like he was doing now. Neither did he notice his colors coming back

Aaaaaand, I think the rest doesn't really need analyzing.

Feel free to add or comment on anything.

Part two

Part three

[subeddieweek]

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[synamartia]

[ Featured Artwork © lustylita ] ❀ [ Featured Divider © cafekitsune ]

[ Story © synamartia ] ❀ [ Text banner created via TextStudio ]

Content Warnings: Alastor x Reader ; Afab!Reader ; No pronouns or Y/N used ; Use of gendered pet names like "good/dirty girl" ; Explicit / MDNI / 18+ ; Sexual situations ; Sex pollen trope (Love Potion) ; Oral (m + f receiving) ; Spanking ; Dirty talk ; Praise kink ; Dom!Alastor ; Dacryphilia ; If I missed any, let me know! Word Count: 6,183 Summoning: @hazelfoureyes ; @minkdelovely ; @sugoi-writes ; @fraugwinska ; @lustylita Author's Notes: Ya'll ready for this? don't lie now Alastor's dialogue will be in bold red, thoughts in italics red, and Reader's will be in blue. Tagging my darling moots and the lovely Kat for allowing me to use her art for a series banner~! If you would like to be added to or removed from the tag list, let me know via ask! And thank you again to Mink and Danny for helping me nail down Alastor's dialogue! You're the best! ❤

You weren't sure how you ended up here - bent over the large desk in Alastor's bedroom, but you weren't particularly worried about the circumstances surrounding your... situation. You could vaguely recall speaking with the Radio Demon about an issue regarding one of the many drug stashes belonging to Angel and what exactly each piece of paraphernalia could be - specifically, what the small spray bottle filled with a pink liquid might have been. Had you known it was an aerosolized product of Love Potion by the Vees, you never would have sprayed it on Alastor - having mistaken it for one of Angel's various colognes.

At first, the man who towered over not only you, but the entirety of the hotel staff had been upset with you, ready to give you a proper tongue-lashing for your carelessness. However, that was before the potion took effect- his original intentions went right out the window the moment it did. You had to hand it to the Vees; it only took 7.8 seconds for Alastor's pupils to dilate and his ears to flatten against his head as the drug took hold of his senses. Alastor barely held on to his sanity the second the drug went into effect - it took every single fiber of his being, every ounce of self-control to stop himself from tearing at your clothes and having his way with you right then and there. Had it not been for the distant murmurs and subtle hisses at the nearby bar, he would have. But he wouldn't subject you to such ignominy, no matter how inebriated by that god-awful concoction he was. Alastor was, first and foremost, a gentleman.

Alastor leaned in close - his face mere inches from yours, a frenzied look in his half-lidded eyes as he inhaled the distinctive spicy aroma that your minty toothpaste had given your breath. He'd rather not waste any time talking, but the one thing that horrible, awful, wonderful drug couldn't override in his brain was the innate, inherent need for consent in such acts. He could only hope you would have some mercy on the few remaining ribbons of his tattered soul and provide him with the only word he wanted to hear - yes. "I- ... I'm so sorry, Alastor- ... S-sir! I mean, M- ... Mister Alastor! I thought it was just a... a cologne..." You started - at first mistaking the look of lust in his eyes for one of malicious and sadistic intent. You had heard the rumors (who hadn't?). So when you noticed his wraithlike shadows swirling around your form and felt one of his tentacles wrap around both of your ankles, you immediately thought that you were about to be the next voice heard on his radio broadcast.

"It seems this... cologne..." you heard his voice ring out as your world went black for a few moments - the caliginous haze having engulfed both of your forms. You felt a slight breeze with how fast the darkness transported Alastor and you from the foyer up the grand flight of stairs and down the halls. At first, you had assumed he was taking you to his studio to broadcast your screams of agony for all of hell to hear. However, you were pleasantly surprised when the smoky substance dissipated, and you found yourself in the safe confines of Alastor's bedroom. "... is an aphrodisiac so potent that it's affecting even me," he said, having remained in the same bent position as he began to size you up.

"I- ... I know. I realized too late," your voice trembled as you stared back at him, fidgeting with your nails nervously. "I'm so sorry, Alastor - I'll be more caref- ...?!" The deer demon pressed a singular clawed digit against your lips to prevent you from any further stammering, shushing you as his eyes traveled down to the valley between your breasts.

"If you're truly apologetic, why don't you show me, hm?" he asked you smugly, pointed teeth parting for a moment to pull his bottom lip between them. He bit down lightly, waiting for your consent as patiently as he could manage. He refused to touch you any further until you had given him the go-ahead; he was a demon, sure - a pretty damn bad one, at that. But this was one thing he would never forego. "Will you help me through this high? After all, you are the one at fault here." You could've sworn your head was about to explode from all the blood rushing to your cheeks at that exact moment. Did he just ask you that? There's no way Alastor - one of the most feared Overlords to have ever walked the scorched wasteland of hell in recent memory; the one that broadcasts the screams of the souls that he eviscerates and atomizes for miniscule slights; the demon that has made friends with an entire town of cannibals (except one - ugh, Susan) and has brunch with their Overlord every Thursday; the man that is unapologetically contumelious and has brazenly challenged the king of hell; THE GODDAMN RADIO DEMON - is shamelessly asking if you would let him fuck you... right?

This had to be dream or an illusion of some sort. Yeah, that had to be it. But, in all honesty, it would be a lie if you said you hadn't thought about any of this - about how his lips tasted; what his nails would feel like being raked up and down your back; how far down your throat you could take him; the sweet, sweet sting of his cock stretching your walls open; or what it would feel like to have rope after rope of his hot seed spurting inside you during his climax. You wondered if he was vocal during sex, and what he would sound like while he chased that rarely sought-after release. Would it just be whimpers and sighs, or would he say the filthiest of words while he rammed his shaft into you with reckless abandon? You assumed the latter since Alastor loved to talk; to hear himself talk - you hoped he would whisper all the ways he wanted to defile you right before doing just that.

Alastor tugged your bottom lip down to reveal your bottom row of teeth as you stared at him in both bewilderment and awe, your brain struggling to process this whole exchange. After a few more moments of silence passed, you shifted your gaze down his torso to the already prominent, still-growing tent within his trousers. Using the same clawed hand that had pulled down your lip, Alastor lifted your chin so that you were forced to look him in the eye.

"Do you want this? I need an answer, Mon Ami. Now."

Having been pulled out of your dazed imagination, you took one more moment to compose yourself before responding. With a frantic nod of agreement, you threw caution to the wind as Alastor's eyes took on a subtle glow, causing your heart to race at from just the idea of sleeping with him.

C'est la vie, right?

He didn't allow you much time to think after that, immediately leaning down so that he could wrap his hands around the backsides of your thighs and hoist you up so that you were at eye-level with him. With a couple long strides, you found yourself being set down on the desk. Easing your legs apart as gently as he could, Alastor stepped between them and brought his hands up to the button-down shirt you wore, the fine layer of sweat resulting from your earlier fear of disembowelment causing patches of the white fabric to become translucent. In one swift motion, all the buttons went flying across the room as he ripped it open, exposing the black lace bra you wore beneath it. He looked like a man starved by the way his predatory gaze traveled over your half-nude form.

Your heart was pounding in your ears as you still struggled to make sense of everything that's happened so far, the anticipation of whatever else may come consuming you. Hands shaking and breath rapid, you nervously brought your hands to the black bow tie wrapped beneath the lapels of his crimson dress shirt, your trembling fingers having difficulty in undoing the knot at first. You noticed the subtle flinch and how Alastor tensed when you finally managed to get the tie undone, quickly moving your hands south to undo the buttons of his suit jacket. Inebriated or not, Alastor still struggled with any physical contact that wasn't strictly on his terms. In an attempt to ease his discomfort, you pulled your hands away and looked him in the eye. "Is it okay if I touch you?" you asked him. A moment passed, and then another; then he nodded his head, granting you permission to slide his coat off his shoulders and down his arms to fall to the floor.

Eyes locked with his, you could tell he was still a little tense; so, you took things a bit further in the hopes of calming his nerves. "I'm going to unbutton your shirt now. Is that okay?" you announced, awaiting his approval once more before you continued to undress him. With another nod, Alastor let out a barely audible sigh when he felt a sudden rush of cool air on his torso a few seconds later - his shirt now being untucked and fully unbuttoned. You took a moment to take in this rare sight: Alastor's clothes disheveled and chest bare, eyes frenzied as he began to relax into your touch little by little. The tips of your fingers traced the outlines of his toned pecs down the center line of his abs and along the few tufts of cherry red hair that were the beginnings of a happy trail (fuck, now you owed $10 to Angel) - and then back up again to his broad shoulders. Alastor practically ripped the cufflinks from his wrists, a shiver running up his spine as you moved your hands past the lapels of his shirt, pushing the fabric off in the same manner as his suit coat.

With his upper garments now pooled at his feet, Alastor let one of his arms wrap around your waist and pull you to the edge of his desk - his groin coming into contact with yours. You held his gaze as one of your hands came up to wrap around the back of his neck, your other going behind you to help support your weight as you began to shallowly roll your hips against his clothed length. A soft moan escaped your throat at the friction you created, causing Alastor's muscles to tense, his spine going rigid beneath your touch. "... Do that again," he commanded you, his cock twitching within the painfully restricting confines of his trousers. He hadn't expected such a simple noise to have this profound of an effect on him physically. "Make that noise again," he rasped, pushing his hips further into you as his other hand pushed your pencil skirt up to reveal your undergarments.

"Hhhmmm... Alastor," you obliged, adding his name in a husky whisper as you rolled your hips against his once more. Alastor growled in response just before crashing his lips down on yours, swallowing the moans that were pouring from your throat. How has he never noticed the ethereal way his name sounded rolling off your tongue until now? He wondered what it would sound like being screamed so loud, that dick Lucifer could hear it all the way up on his 'holier than thou' high horse throne. You inhaled sharply through your nose as you felt a claw tug and then eventually tear at your matching black lace panties (he was SO buying you a new set; this was your favorite pair, damn it!), your skirt now bunched up at your waist, leaning your lower half completely bare.

Breaking the kiss, you pulled back just enough to see Alastor's face - eyes half-lidded, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, a thin layer of sweat accumulating on his face and torso from the prolonged proximity. "Alastor..." you whispered his name again and his cock twitched again against the now much too uncomfortable fabric. You moved to sit up straight, bringing both of your hands to the buckle of his belt, stilling them as you opened your mouth to ask if he would let you continue. Before you could even form the question, Alastor was already granting you permission to free it from the agonizing confines of his pants with a feverishly desperate nod; his free hand maneuvering between your bodies to stroke a solitary digit through your folds. "My, my," he chuckled, voice teasing as he pushed his finger past the first ring of muscle of your embarrassingly slick entrance. "We've only just started, and you're already this aroused?" he clicked his tongue against his teeth as he teased you, deriving pleasure and amusement from the pout you gave in response.

"Dirty girl."

"I- ... It's your fault," you chided him, throwing his earlier statement back in his face. "You're the one to blame. So, are you going to help me or not?" you asked him in a mocking tone of voice, sticking your tongue out in the process. Alastor leaned in closer to your face - pretending to go for another kiss, only to lightly sink his teeth into the tip of your tongue and pull it further out of your mouth. "A-ah!" you yelped in surprise just before he wrapped his lips around the already sore muscle, sucking gently to ease the pain for a few moments. When he pulled away, he gave you a playful wink just before adding a second digit to your heated core. "I suppose I could help you," Alastor teased you right back, slowly pumping his digits in and out, careful not to hurt you with the sharpened edges of his nails.

"... But I want to hear you beg for it first."

Before you could react, Alastor pulled himself free of you and yanked you to your feet; spinning you around and forcing you to bend over the edge of his desk with his slender fingers wrapped around the back of your neck - keeping you in place. He used his other hand to wrangle both of yours, holding them together at the wrist and pressing them into the small of your back as he kicked your feet apart.

So now, here you were - bent over the smooth surface of his desk; trapped, exposed, and completely helpless.

"Come now, Mon Cher. Let me hear you beg me to fuck you," Alastor commanded you, releasing your neck and bringing that same hand down to spank against the bare skin of your ass. A yelp escaped your lips at the sudden sting of his palm striking your rear, your cheek pressed against the cool wood as you tried to angle your head just right to look back at him. Chewing on your bottom lip as you contemplated his command, you were trying to decide which route was more beneficial: compliance or defiance.

Another slap resounded throughout the room when Alastor struck your bottom again, harder this time as a warning to make up your mind quickly. Deciding that compliance would get you to that first release faster (albeit less fun), you opened your mouth to acquiesce. "P-Please!" you started, "... please, Alastor... I need you..." you whispered shyly, the words somehow making your face heat up even more. But it wasn't good enough, since Alastor smacked your ass again. "You can do better than that," he stated matter-of-factly, rubbing the palm of his hand against the reddened skin where he had struck you. Biting your lip again, you closed your eyes and tried to muster up the courage to say out loud all the thoughts running through your dirty little mind. You hoped no one was nearby to hear any of this (not that Alastor would let them live for very long if they did hear your escapades). Swallowing the saliva that was building up in your mouth, you let out a shaky breath before opening your eyes and craning your neck further back to look at Alastor again.

"Please! Please, please, PLEASE fuck me, Alastor ...! I need it so bad! I wanna feel your cock in me, please! I promise, I'll be good!" you started out, your face now rivaling Alastor's ruby hair in terms of color. "I'll be good, I swear!" you tried to wiggle your hips against his still clothed cock (having only succeeded in undoing the belt buckle and zipper before he whipped you around), only to feel another harsh slap to your ass, warning you to behave. "Please just fuck me- ...! Make me cum on your cock. I wanna cum on your cock! Alastor..." you whimpered, earning a short chuckle from him in response as he slowly began to grind against your backside, providing you with some much needed friction. "Good girl," he murmured while rubbing soothing circles on the red imprint of his hand forming on your ass cheek. Leaning over you so that his lips were right by the edge of your jaw, he let his tongue roll out and run along the length of it until he came to your ear, sharp teeth nibbling at the sensitive lobe.

"Une si bonne fille pour moi."

Alastor stood up straight once again and moved his hand between your bodies, opting to push three of his long digits into your waiting heat this time. He relished in the surprised gasp that escaped you followed by a prolonged moan, curling his fingers slightly as he started to build a pace. "A-Alasss- ...!" you tried to say his name, but the angle that his fingers were pushing in and out of you had you seeing stars even though he had just barely started, his knuckles rubbing against that one spot you always had trouble reaching with your own hand. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, your walls clenching around his fingers when you felt his thumb press against your puckered hole. Letting go of your wrists, Alastor brought his now free hand down to grab at your ass and spread your cheeks apart to get a better look; he prodded gently but never pushed past the first ring of muscle. He wanted to but felt it could wait for another time - IF there was another time after this. He didn't want to push your boundaries too far for the first time around.

"Oh, fuuucckk!" you drawled out, eyes fluttering closed as that oh-so-familiar coil began to tighten in your lower abdomen. "That's it, good girl," you heard him praise you, his words causing your muscles to tense further as he pushed you closer and closer to the precipice of ecstasy. Your hips began to roll involuntarily against his hand after a few minutes, your body automatically seeking that sweet, sweet release even faster. "Just like that, ride my fingers just like that," he whispered, the praises he was singing to you making your walls clamp down on his digits even tighter. "O-oh fuck! Ala- ... Alastor! Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna cum, oh my god!" you cried, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, hands holding a death grip on the edge of his desk.

When you felt Alastor shifting behind you, you opened your eyes and lifted your head slightly to see what he was doing - quickly finding him on his knees and moving in until his mouth replaced his fingers. Alastor let out a loud groan once he finally had a taste of you, tongue rolling out and through your slick folds, drinking in your essence like you were an oasis in the middle of the Sahara Desert. His left hand held your cheeks apart as Alastor licked and slurped and sucked, shaking his head back and forth against your core every few seconds. The tip of his nose tickled your other hole while he used his right hand to rub circles on your clit, his long tongue rolling over your g-spot whenver he would dip it inside you. You could feel your release coming at you like a freight train now, one of your hands shooting back to grab hold of something - his hair, his antlers, anything in an attempt to ground yourself. "Good girl!" his words were muffled as he kept his face pressed against your core, lifting your leg to rest on the desk before returning it to your clit, pressing down harshly on the bundle of nerves.

A loud groan rumbled through his chest as you squeezed the base of his antler, the action causing his cock to twitch and throb, begging to be released from its confines and satiated. "Don't stop, please don't stop!" you begged, your jaw falling open into a silent cry as your release began to crash over you like a tsunami. Alastor drank you in, slurping loudly at the fluids that dripped from your tight cunt, savoring your taste while he struggled to not blow his load before he even had a chance to get inside you. He pressed his face even further against your core, mouth open wide as he swallowed everything your body had to give him. How long had it been since he felt this thirsty - this starved for someone else's touch? Alastor couldn't remember the last time he was this aroused, this fucking hard. What the fuck did the Vees put in that troublesome potion?

As the pleasure coursing through your veins began to subside, your muscles relaxed and your grip on his antler loosened, occasionally tensing once more whenever you felt the tip of his tongue on your throbbing clit or the sharp edge of his teeth glide against your puffy lips. You lowered your head to rest on the polished surface, trying to catch your breath as Alastor pulled back from your heat - enjoying the way your pussy would clench around nothing when he lightly raked his claws over your reddened ass cheek. Picking up his forgotten shirt from before, Alastor used the fabric to wipe what was left of your release from his chin, discarding it after as he rose to his feet. "You did so well for me," he praised you, reaching to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear. Leaning over your slumped form he let his lips brush against your jaw, then your cheek and then your temple. "Hmm..." you hummed in response, trying not to let the fatigue take over before you could get to the main course. "Do you need a moment? Would you like to stop?" Alastor asked you, taking notice of your display of exhaustion.

Quickly, you turned your head and pushed yourself up. "No! No, I can-" you paused for a moment to stifle a yawn. The incident in the foyer that led to all of this occurred near the end of your workday, so you were fairly tired when this started. The unexpectedly hard orgasm wasn't helping any, but the promise of even more is what kept you going. Besides, you couldn't be the only one having fun here, especially since you had already agreed to help relieve him. "... I can keep going. I wanna keep going," you insisted, lowering your leg as you pushed yourself up straight, turning to face him fully now. "For you," you added, staring up at him with a look so amorous it made his breath hitch in his throat, catching him off guard. Cautiously, you raised your hands to gently cradle his face, standing on your tiptoes so you could place a soft peck on his smiling lips.

Bringing yourself back down to stand proper, you began to trace your hands down his neck and chest, not missing the way his muscles still tensed at your touch. It was going to take some time, you realized, to get him to a point where he welcomed your touch rather than shy away from it. You hoped that he would give you that time, outside of this incident that you so clumsily caused, of course. When your hands reached the waistband of his pants, you looked up at him and waited for his permission to continue - something small and near insignificant but nevertheless something he still appreciated. He would have to reward you for your thoughtfulness later. Nodding his head, Alastor watched as you slowly pushed both his trousers and briefs down past his hips to his knees, eventually falling to his ankles, his aching cock springing from its prison and slapping lightly against his lower abdomen. He looked away for a moment, unable to hide his growing discomfort with being so bare in front of another person.

Gently, you pressed on his jaw with your left hand to bring his narrowed eyes back to your face. "Hey," you called. "You can trust me, Alastor," you assured him, knowing full well that was only part of the problem. Mouth twitching, Alastor stared at you as you leaned in to place tender kisses to his chest, your eyes never once leaving his face as you sank down to your knees before him. "I promise," you spoke, voice gentle, hands tracing the defined muscles of his abs and gliding along the dips of his pelvic v. Bringing one hand up to rest on his thigh, your other gently wrapped around the base of his cock. Humming softly as you smiled up at him, you rubbed your cheek against his length, then grazed your lips over his leaking tip. "I just want to make you feel good," you continued to assure him, catching the shaky sigh he gave in response to your touches. Experimentally, you let the tip of your tongue dart past your lips and against his crying slit, his entire body tensing as one of his hands moved to tangle within your tresses.

You stared up at Alastor with such innocence in your big doe eyes - he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from forcing his cock as far down your throat as it could go. "Is that okay?" you asked after a couple more licks to his slit, savoring the salty taste of his pre dribbling out. "Will you let me make you feel good, Alastor?" you asked him so sweetly, voice dripping with honey as his name rolled off that devilish tongue of yours. You really knew how to push his buttons. With a drawn out moan vibrating through his chest and static crackling through the air, you barely had time to fully open your mouth as he pushed his hips forward and guided your head down until your nose brushed against the carmine strands at his base, his head tilting back at the long anticipated sensation finally washing over him as he breathed out a singular,

"Yes!"

Immediately, you had to fight back the urge to gag and pull away when he pushed your head down. Had it not been for his fingers laced through your hair holding you in place, you would have. You whined at the sudden intrusion, not expecting him to push so much of himself inside your mouth so quickly; his tip nearly hitting the back of your throat. Alastor tried, he truly did, to keep control and allow you some time to adjust, but the explicit desire for release was beginning to cloud his senses now that he had your lips wrapped around his dick. He gave a few shallow thrusts, trying not to go too far before you adjusted to his wide girth. After a few seconds to do just that had passed, you hummed softly as a signal that you were okay to go further now, to pick up the pace - the vibrations sending a couple unexpected shockwaves up his spine. You stared up at him, admiring the way his Adam's apple bobbed slightly when he swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Curling your tongue around his length, you pressed upward as you started to bob your head, sucking lightly and moaning every few seconds to send vibrations through his whole being. "Fuck..." you heard him whisper with each drag of your muscle on the underside of his shaft, keeping one hand wrapped around his base and squeezing lightly the part you were unable to swallow. On occasion, whenever you would pull back far enough, you would angle your head slightly so that his tip would rub against the ridges of your palate upon re-entry, causing him to inhale sharply and clench his hand, tugging on your hair each time.

You could feel his thighs tremble every time you moaned around him, sucking harshly and hollowing your cheeks, pressing your tongue up even harder to create more friction and bring him closer to his orgasm. You slurped and sucked; some drool mixed with precum beginning to froth at the corners of your mouth with each drag. "That's it, that's it," Alastor murmured as he lowered his gaze down onto you. Struggling to keep his release at bay for just a few more minutes, he nearly lost it when he saw that you were still looking up at him with those beautiful wide eyes, tears pricking at the edges and threatening to fall at any moment. "Oh, yes- ... That's my good girl, fuuuccckkk!" he breathed, relishing in the way you tried to breathe through your nose while choking on his cock.

Hearing his moans and praises were such a huge ego boost, so you decided to take it a step further by removing your hand from the base and letting it settle on the side of his thigh. Alastor let out a small grunt of disapproval at the loss of your tight grip and reached to guide your hand back, but he stopped and let his jaw fall open when you pushed yourself further down on his cock, his tip now bullying the back of your throat with each bob of your head, every thrust of his hips. He was so close after only a couple minutes of you sucking him off; he couldn't tell if it was a result of the Love Potion or not being intimate with anyone for a significant amount of time, but he didn't really care. He just knew that his head was going to explode (among other things) if he didn't paint your mouth white and shoot his cum down your throat right fucking now.

You brought your left hand down to cradle his balls and roll them between your fingers, rubbing your thighs together in an attempt to create some much needed friction. Alastor's breathing was becoming heavier and faster with every second that passed, your tongue now moving back and forth in time with each drag; your messy slurping and moans increasing in volume causing him to see stars. "Goddamn... It feels so good!" he whispered, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth as he brought his other hand to nestle in your messy hair along with the other. Alastor was beginning to lose what little control he had left as his thrusts became more frantic, more wild and frenzied. "F-fff... uuuhh-!" he whined loudly, guiding your head down as he pushed up, your nose lightly slamming against his groin as he began to full on face fuck you.

"Fffu- ...! Oh, fuck yes! Fucking- keep going, just like that! Haahhh- ...!"

You were able to breathe through your nose, but not well enough as the edges of your vision began to go dark; your ears being filled with the sloppy 'glug, glug, glug' sound of Alastor ramming his cock in and out of your mouth at a speed you didn't think possible. Clenching your eyes shut as you let him use you to chase after his high, you tried to focus more on staying conscious only to have Alastor roughly tug on your hair, then lightly slap your cheek until you opened them again. You stared up at him with a dazed expression, your eyes teary and brows furrowed as he let one hand travel down to grip your chin. "Don't you dare look away from me!" he demanded, static rippling through the air and lights flickering, his eyes shifting to radio dials and his red sclera turning black, his grip bruising as his pace quickened. "Mm- ... mmpph!" you tried to hum in response, but the sound was swallowed by the other noises he was dragging out of you.

"Is this what you wanted?" Alastor asked as you tried to keep up with his brutal pace, fat tears now rolling down your cheeks as he began to lose himself in the pleasure you offered him. If you could, you would have nodded, but his tight grip on your hair and chin was making it difficult to do anything else except take it. "Is this what you wanted, darling- mmmpph! ... Wanted me to fuck your face like this? Hm? Is this what you fucking wanted?" he groaned loudly as his climax grew closer and closer, his antlers growing longer and his girth increasing in size with each thrust. His brows were knitted together as his nose scrunched slightly, the coil in his lower abdomen tightening to an almost excruciating degree and ready to snap any second, eyes narrowed and pointed teeth grinding together as he sucked in air quickly with each movement. "Do you want it? Take it like a good girl? Hohhh- shit!" You tried to nod once more, but again his bruising digits held your head in place, so you blinked rapidly at him, hoping that he would understand what you were trying to convey.

"That's it, that's it, take it all- Oh, fuck you're so good for me-! F-fuck, I'm cu-!"

A couple more seconds went by and you were barely holding on when you felt his hips stutter and his grip tighten further on your hair. With one final thrust, Alastor was thrown over the edge as the first ropes of his warm seed shot out and down your throat, holding your face flush against his pelvis. He let out a strangled cry of gratification as he held your head in place, your nose buried in the neatly groomed crimson bush at the base of his shaft. He used the hand that had been holding your chin to catch himself on the edge of his desk, his upper body having lurched forward when his orgasm hit, arched over your kneeling form. His abs flexed with every spurt of his cum, every blissful wave that came crashing down on him, his thighs quivering as he tried to remain upright and catch his breath. He was quite vexed, unsure if it was a lack of intimacy or the results of that drug that caused him to experience such an intense release, but he didn't really care to know right now.

"Mmph! Nngghh!" Alastor heard you humming, his entire body twitching from the overstimulating vibrations as you began to frantically tap at his thighs, trying to get him to let go so you could get some much-needed oxygen into your lungs. He pulled your head back by your hair gently and you started to cough and sputter, chest heaving and drool coating your chin. He took several seconds to catch his breath, as did you, before clicking his tongue in mock disapproval at your messy state (as if he wasn't the reason behind it) - his subtle disposition to passive-aggressively disparage all those around him momentarily breaking through this rarely seen state of vulnerability.

You brought your hands to your face, swiping at the tears that spilled from your eyes with one hand while covering your mouth with the other - a sad attempt at stifling your coughing fit. Alastor untangled his fingers from your messy strands and, in an uncharacteristic display of what most would assume is affection, smoothed them out delicately as he reached to take the hand that was wiping away your tears. He pulled you to your feet before waving his hand through the air, a glass of water manifesting a moment later with a puff of green and black smoke. He offered it to you as your coughing subsided, which you gladly accepted.

"Forgive me, darling. It seems I lost myself in the heat of the moment," Alastor apologized, having regained full control of himself now - the only signs of his uncontrolled frenzy being his shirt and coat lying in a heap nearby and his pants and briefs bunched at his ankles. You took a much-needed swig of the water he had given you, only giving him a small smile in response as you reached to rub your sinuses to ease the pain he unintentionally caused. You wondered if it would cause any petechiae bruising later (it would); what with how rough he had been with you. If it did, you assumed Angel would have SOME type of numbing agent for your throat - or, at the very least a concealer if the bruising formed on your face too.

[ Master Post ] ❀ [ Chapter One ] ❀ [ Chapter Two ] ❀ [ Chapter Three ] ❀ [ Chapter Four ] ❀ [ Chapter Five ]

[gatheredfates]

Poses. Hello! 💫

I'm doing something both extremely regular and very on point for me, but also new in the grand scheme of things. Normally this single-word drive would be done as a flash prompt and be for fics only. However, with Dawntrail coming up and me taking a break from my longer asks until well after the expansion's launch, I wanted to extend the life of my single word drive and allow people to engage in creative mediums beyond writing; aka, gpose, art, meta analysis — whatever makes you happy and engaged creatively with Final Fantasy XIV!

To that end, please consider this a single-word (anything) drive!

...Okay, but what is a single-word (anything) drive?

By liking/reblogging this post, you consent for me to go into your askbox to send a one-word prompt generated from this website, picked from a selection of five, as a prompt for you do something creative with your oc. I will then queue any and all completed works to my character question tag, which can be found here.

There is no word limit or time limit, no barrier for skill, and you are welcome to ask for another prompt if the original one doesn't vibe. This is all about giving you the opportunity to explore a concept or part of your character you might not have considered, or expand upon your artistic/technical ability.

As this is a longer drive than my flash ones, I will be advertising it accordingly, and will send multiple prompts for those who'd like them. If you have finished an ask and would like another, please reply to this post with an emoji of a sea creature. 🐋 You can do this as many times as you want until the end of the drive; it counts as an extra like/reblog!

Sea, when does the drive end? I'm glad you asked! It'll end when (Count)Down To Dawntrail starts or when I manually call it — whichever comes first. It'll be announced on this post, but feel free to join my community project discord over at SEAFLOOR where you'll see (ha) me announce it in real time.

That's all for now! I'll either update or reblog this post with more information as needed, so please check the notes of this post for any updates.

[hadassah4ever]

lukas matsson x f!reader smut

warnings: decent age gap, reader has no survival instincts for plot convenience, no protection, and the fact that i haven’t written smut in such a long time, i feel like it’s not the best, but 👍👍

word count: 1,430

minors dni pls

The night was frankly, very boring.

Strolling around and seeing the art pieces that made you realize that you might’ve flushed $50,000 down the drain, but at least you got some good complimentary cocktails and horderves.

“You look bored out of your mind.” A man whispered in your ear from behind, almost making you look like a cat jumping away from a cucumber.

“I don’t like this bullshit… ‘cum on a canvas and call it a painting’ stuff either, it’s emotionle—“

“Technically it’s eliciting emotions from you by making you hate it. But maybe that’s just the art school in me.” You shrugged, turning to see a tall, blonde haired blue eyed man.

“Arts school? On daddy’s dime, huh?” He teased. “I wish.” You softly chuckled, shaking your head.

“Hm. Not a rich girl?” He asked. “I would’ve thought you were. Normally poor people don’t throw $50,000 into the trash like that.” He joked. “I have passion! I’m a starving artist!” You replied, softly chuckling and playfully rolled your eyes, not too offended at his teasing. “How’d you get in here? No offence, but I thought that looking at usele— very… meaningful, modern art was a rich person thing?” He asked, seeming genuinely more curious than insulting or gatekeepy, like most of the people here.

“They invited a student with a referral from their professor. And I was referred by my professor.” You answered. “What an insult.” He joked, you tried to shake your head and jokingly roll your eyes to dodge all of the tiny comments that made you slowly realize more and more you should’ve gone to business school, like your cousin.

“You just hate my future profession, don’t you?” You teased back. “Well, it’s the job that makes parents slowly nod and say ‘ahhh…’, so.” He shrugged, a smug smile on his face like he knew you were gonna laugh. “Ugh, I hate how true that is. I just wanna get out of here as soon as possible. It’s not boring, just terrifying.”

“You could get out of here with me.” He quickly replied, realizing he sounded way too eager. “I don’t even know your name.” You replied, coyly smiling. “Is that the only thing stopping you?” He asked. You shrugged. “I’m Lukas Matsson.” He spoke. “Now, do you wanna leave?” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes playfully and chuckle at that. He was cornier than he let on.

“You intrigue me. Sure.” You don’t think he’d have the gall to murder you or something after being so chatty in the decency crowded gallery, so what did you really have to lose?

You knew something was up when he rubbed your knee in the car. And the way he kept glancing at your tits. And giving you “fuck me” eyes.

“You’re alright with coming to my apartment right? No pressure.” He spoke, not seeming to just be covering his bases, but actually not putting too much pressure on you. “Sure, what else do I have to lose?” You joked, he softly smirked and told the driver his address.

You should’ve been aware about the fact that he could’ve been rich, but he dressed so casually, and not just the “hello fellow peasants, I am like you” kind of casual the way most rich people dress, but he was in a really nice part of town.

——

“Down for some random wine that people give me?” He asked, going into his wine cabinet, using his fingers to browse through several wines that would probably be a month's worth of rent for you, at the very least. “Gonna wine and dine me before taking me to pound town?” You joked, and as you silently cursed yourself for saying “pound town”, he chuckled.

“No, I’m just gonna wine you.” He answered, catching you off guard but still enjoying the banter. “So pound town is a non negotiable?” You joked. “Nah, we can negotiate that.” You didn’t know if he really cared this much about your consent or if he was just not trying to catch a case, maybe both, but you’d take it anyways. So far, he cared more about your consent than any person you’ve been with beforehand. Maybe you’d need to sign an NDA.

“I mean, if it’s a good journey to pound town, then I agree, but if I’m just gonna be a vessel, no thanks.” You teased, he softly laughed, picking out a bottle of wine and standing up. “I’ll make sure it’s enjoyable then.”

“Then I’m definitely aboard.” You softly chuckled, glancing at the ground and then glancing back up, Mattsson standing right in front of you, immediately leaning forward and kissing you, placing the bottle of wine on the marble counter with a soft clink.

His hands squeezed your ass, his semi-hard cock grazing against you, his hand found his way to your clit, rubbing it in somewhat rough circles, before stopping and his hand diving into your underwear, his slim fingers opening up your folds and feeling around for your slick, satisfied he grumbled a quiet, “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

“Could we move to the sofa?” You softly asked, snapping him out of his own head. “Huh? Oh yeah.” He answered, both of you scrambled to his couch, as you laid down, he placed his head between your thighs, his hands held your hips before his fingers dipped underneath the fabric of your panties, pulling them off your legs.

“You don’t seem like the guy who’s ready to eat a girl out at a moment's notice.” You flirtatiously teased, he paused for a second before breaking the brief silence with, “Not just any girl.” A similarly teasing smile but a slight, genuine look in his eyes.

That really shut you up, as you leaned back down, his mouth softly sucking your clit, his tongue and lips working together, his fingers moved around as he tried to find your entrance, quickly finding it, they dove in. You tried to resist the urge to clamp your thighs around his head, his beard softly scratching you as he ate you out, throwing your head back and moaning, you shut your eyes hard.

He was too damn good at this.

Within a few minutes he had you softly moaning about how you were about to cum, his mouth worked harder and his fingers thrusted in and out of you quicker, having you unravel faster than you ever have, he still worked his mouth and fingers even when your thighs squeezed the sides of his face, having you shaking.

He quickly pulled his head away from your core, the imprint of his cock ready to burst out from his boxer briefs. He slid them off quickly and you were a bit wary, his size was definitely gonna teeter on uncomfortable, and it was probably gonna stretch you a bit, little veins running up it, the pink tip leaking already. He opened your knees up once again and lined himself up with your entrance, “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable, ‘kay?” He spoke, after you nodded he slowly eased himself inside of you and to your surprise and delight, his size actually worked well fully inside of you.

“It’s good?” He asked, trying to suppress a groan. “Amazing.” You answered, he nodded and started to thrust inside of you, his cock curving upwards and hitting the deep, pleasurable bits inside you, he grunted and moved his fingers to your clit again, his hand resting on your pelvis as his thumb worked in circles, getting into the rhythm of it, he was eventually pounding into you, now using both of his hands to keep himself steady.

It was like a haze surrounded you, gripping onto his couch cushions and arching your back warned him of your impending orgasm, he noticed your inability to just sit still and take his cock, his hands pushed your hips down and continued to nail into you relentlessly, without any further notice, you constricted and finished around him, your breathing became shaky and every limb in your body felt like it was vibrating as he pulled out and came on your stomach, an impressive amount of warm cum hitting just underneath your belly button. His face looked like he just met god and his breathing became shaky as yours started to even out.

“Jesus.” He spoke under his breath. “Hardly anyone has been able to take me like that.” He muttered.

“Might have to pay for your tuition.” He added, in a tone you didn’t know whether or not it was a joke.

Maybe it wasn’t.

——

a/n: lukas definitely has feelings for the reader and i’d be willing to maybe add onto this if enough people want that.

[ariesqueencobra]

what we used to be |  l

Pairing: Eli Moskowitz x Fem!Reader

Summary: You meet a new kid and your feelings for your best friend are said aloud.

Warnings: mentions of bullying, mentions of slut shaming, implications of violence, implications of strict parents

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Starting my first ever series for Eli! I always wanted to do a series following his story line in the show along with a female character so I did! I'm aware of other series being done like this by other writers on here, but this will be my own unique twist. There are similarities because it does follow the show's storyline but different because of my own interpretations!

I don't consent to this work being copied, translated or reposted.

“If the limit never approaches anything, then the limit does not exist,” you listened to Eli as he helped you with your math homework. “But in this case, it does, so what is it?” he pointed at the problem on the sheet.

“Two?” you furrowed your brows, trying your best not to sound like you were guessing. 

“C’mon, Y/N, you’re in Calculus for a reason,” he encouraged.

“Only because I passed Trig with an 89, they only let me in because of pity,” you frowned. 

Calculus has been your enemy since the beginning of the semester. You really didn’t want to take the class in the first place but your parents had been adamant about you taking higher-level classes. You would’ve been fine filling up your schedule with more creative art classes like ceramics and photography, but that wasn’t the agreement. 

Math and science classes were part of the agreement. 

Thankfully, you had two smart best friends who helped you whenever you had trouble.

“My advice?” Demetri spoke up.

You and Eli glanced at him, a knowing look on both your faces.

To be honest, while you had two best friends, only one was good at helping you out. 

Demetri on the other hand? He had a habit of giving unsolicited advice. But because you loved him, you tolerated and actually encouraged him to hear what he had to say. 

“Rewatch Mean Girls,” he deadpanned. 

You let out a chuckle. “What I’m hearing is, that you guys are agreeing to watch it for our next movie night,” you grinned.

Both boys groaned.

“I’m fine watching your sci-fi, superhero films, but a girl needs her rom coms and chick flicks,” you mused. 

Being the only girl and having vastly different interests compared to the guys, there were moments where you felt outnumbered. Sometimes you have to plead for one movie night to be your pick. 

“I’d be down for Mean Girls this Friday,” Eli shrugged.

You silently clapped your hands, face creeping up with heat when you and Eli made eye contact.

“Demitiri?” you turned your attention to your other best friend.

After a minute, he rolled his eyes, agreeing.

“This Friday, my place,” you grinned. “Both my parents will be having a date night, so we’ll have the place to ourselves,”.

“Are you sure your dad will allow that?” Demetri cocked a brow. “That man is scary and I don’t want to know what will happen when he sees his daughter home alone with two boys,” he shuddered. 

“He won’t mind, he likes you guys,” you attempted to reassure. “Besides, we’re just watching a movie,”.

“We know that, but will he?” Demetri asked in a mix of sarcasm and sincerity. 

“C’mon, my dad isn’t that scary,” you trailed. 

“I-I don’t think he likes me very much,” Eli said quietly. 

“He does,” you straightened up. “Don’t worry about my dad guys, you’ve known him for ten years,” you stated.

You watched as the boys avoided your gaze, the sound of the cafeteria surrounded you when they both fell silent. Leaning back in your seat, you wondered why they were bringing this up now. 

Like he read your mind, Demetri spoke up, “I’m just pointing out an observation I’ve noticed for the last few years. The older we get, the more of a threat your dad thinks we are,” he explained. “Guess it’s the raging teenage hormones!” he gestured with his hands, joking at the end.

Eli’s lips spread out into a smirk.

Relaxing, you shook your head at the way your best friend acted, even though you found the joke to be funny.

For the next few minutes, Eli went on to explain limits to you. You were about to ask a question when a new presence stopped you.

“Hey, can I sit here?” 

You all turned your attention to a kid with dark hair and brown eyes, a tray in his hand as he gestured at the empty seat next to Eli. 

You were about to welcome him until Demitri beat you to it. 

“Check back next semester as you can see we’re entirely booked,” he said sarcastically but the new kid didn’t catch it.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he was about to walk away. 

“He’s kidding, you can sit,” you gestured to the empty seat. “I’m Y/N, that’s Demitri and Eli,” you introduced. 

“Miguel,” he nodded.

Just then, Yasmine and her entourage walked passed, causing Miguel to go into a trance. 

You frowned at his reaction. You hated that just cause they were pretty, it forgave all the terrible things they’ve done to your friends and you.

“You’re just torturing yourself,” Demetri warned. “They’re the rich girls”.

“Do you talk to them or…?” Miguel asked.

“Yeah, all the time,” Demetri feigned a smirk. “We hang out after school, make out,” he shrugged. “Eli is homecoming king, and gets laid more than anyone”.

You rolled your lips together, glancing at your lap.

“You pretty much signed away all hopes of losing your virginity before college the moment you sat at this table,” he frowned. 

Comments like that reminded you that boys will be boys. In the sense that virginity is still frowned upon. The societal pressure to lose it before a certain age disgusted you. 

What happened to not conforming to society's rules?

“Oh, great, Yasmine is looking at us,” Eli narrowed in on himself, his voice pulling you out of your thoughts. “Probably making fun of me”.

“I wouldn’t assume that,” you reassured. “She’s always going to have that nasty look on her face,” you grimaced.

Then you made eye contact with her. 

She whispered something to Moon, causing both of them to burst out laughing. 

You figured she was making fun of you again, calling you a slut or whatever. Dropping your gaze to your food, you checked your phone for the time.

“I gotta go, it was nice meeting you,” you smiled towards Miguel as you got up. 

“What about your homework?” Eli asked.

“I got limits now,” you attempted to reassure but your composure fell when you accidentally looked Yasmine’s way. “Besides I have to get my sketch done before class,” you hoisted your bag over your shoulder. 

Art was your passion. Since you could talk, you could draw. Your best friends might’ve been computer nerds, but you? You were an artistic geek. 

Still, as talented as you were, Yasmine and Moon used that area of your life to make fun of you. Whether it was a silly doodle you drew during class or an actual piece you worked your ass off for class. 

They tried to diminish your spirit with your art, but thankfully you haven’t lost it yet.

Shaking your head to brush the thoughts away, you gulped down the lump in your throat and managed to make your way down the hall to your art class twenty minutes early.

While you were gone from the lunchroom, the conversation at the table shifted, focusing on you.

“Do you like her or something?” Miguel asked Eli.

The awkward boy stilled at the newcomer’s question, opting to fidget with his fingers while staring at his tray. He didn’t think he was being obvious, the only other person who knew of his infatuation with you was Demetri. 

“He’s been in love with her since they met in kindergarten, her too but they’re too scared to admit it,” Demetri answered for him. “I think they’ll get married before either of them admit they do like each other,”.

It was true. 

You liked Eli and Eli liked you.

The moment you laid eyes on him on the playground, that was it for the two of you. But both of you are socially awkward, insecure people…neither of you had the guts to tell each other how you truly feel.

Leaving Demetri to stand and watch at the mutual pining unwind for the last ten years.

“I’m not in love with her,” Eli defended. “Besides, she wouldn’t ever like someone like me,” he folded in on himself. 

“You won’t know if you never strike first,” Miguel tried to reason. 

“Good luck with getting Eli to do that,” Demerit said.

Eli sighed, keeping his gaze down. As much as he wanted to argue, he knew deep down that his friend was right.

~

“Keep this door open,” your dad barked quickly followed by your mother scolding him.

The door had been half-way opened, or half-way closed, when he walked past. He decided it wasn’t to his standards so he made sure the door was wide, banging it against the adjacent wall.

“Sorry,” you said, not looking up from your notebook.

You were sitting in your room, Eli helping you study for your Clac quiz tomorrow. It was a routine for the two of you, hanging out after school and doing homework. Quality time well spent and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Sometimes Demetri would join but he decided to play Dungeon Lord after school today. Part of you was happy to hear he wouldn’t be joining.

Especially when that meant you spent more time with Eli. Meaning there would be more brief moments where your shoulders or knees would brush. Which would send butterflies straight to your tummy.

“Miguel seems nice,” Eli shrugged, placing his pen down. “He mentioned something about karate, he wants all of us to join,” he smiled lightly.

“Really?” you smirked. “What did Demetri say to that?” you laughed, knowing he had some highlighted opinions about it.

“Wasn’t on board, but I don’t know,” he glanced down. “Maybe it could be fun,” he said.

“If you want to,” you passed him a smile. “It’d be nice to see you kick Kyler’s ass for once,” you sighed, glancing at the problem in your book.

You missed the way he frowned but he continued, “You should join too,”. 

“Me?” your eyes widened and you glanced up to meet his gaze. 

“Yeah,” he cracked a grin. One that was big and genuine, something that only happened in front of you or Demetri. “You’d be great at kicking ass too,” he reasoned. 

“In my dreams,” you huffed out a laugh. “I can barely do a push-up,” you shook your head. 

“Maybe just think about it,” he suggested.

“Okay, I will,” you nodded. “So, how am I doing?” you licked your lips. 

You pushed your notebook between the two of you. 

Both of you leaned in, your shoulders brushing against each other. Anytime you inhaled, you smelled him. 

He smelled nice. 

“You’re doing good, you just need to remember that an open circle means the limit exists but not in the function,” he pointed at the problem you got wrong. 

“Stupid circles,” you huffed out a breath, running a hand over your hair. “Thanks again, Eli,” you pressed your lips into a soft smile. 

“You’re going to do great, okay?” he nudged his elbow with yours. 

“Okay,” you nodded, allowing yourself to believe. 

You went over the material for a few minutes, your mind getting lost in all things limits and functions. 

Unbestowent to you though, Eli was watching you. 

He watched the way your nose would scrunch when you didn’t understand what you read the first time around. The way your lashes fluttered as you scanned the page. The way you would lick your lips in concentration. The way you would crack your knuckles when they got too stiff. 

He was utterly in love with you. 

Being friends for ten years, you’d reach that point without even dating. Even if it was just puppy love, he knew one thing for sure—he likes you, a lot. 

He doubted himself when he thought about what Demetri said. And when he thought about the comment Kyler made earlier of him being a loser. He had come home crying, knowing he was never going to get a girlfriend because of the way he looked. But then his mind thought to Miguel. 

Maybe he could be wrong, maybe he could get a girlfriend. Maybe it could be you.

Without second-guessing any further, he opened his mouth.

“Hey, Y/N?” he cleared his throat. 

“Yeah?” you reached your gaze to his, your head resting in your palm. 

“I like you,” he confessed, face going pale at the fact that he actually said that to you. 

Your eyes went wide, face blank as you took in his words. You didn’t say anything for a few moments, just staring at your best friend. 

“I-you know, never mind, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he felt embarrassed, shaking his head as he went back to his homework. 

“Wait!” you reached out and touched his arm. “I like you too,” you gulped, a smile creeping up on your face. 

“Really?” he seemed taken aback.

You nodded enthusiastically. 

The two of you gazed at each other for what felt like a few minutes until you bent over in giggles, still in disbelief. 

“I’m glad you told me,” you reached for his hand on your desk, squeezing it. 

“Me too,” he squeezed it back. 

You felt your cheeks heat up before you turned back to your work. 

The rest of the night was spent with the two of you doing work, holding hands.

~

The next day at school, Eli was sitting with Demetri and Miguel. 

Having just told the news about you and him, he was feeling a little proud of himself that he actually did it. 

And more relieved that you actually reciprocate his feelings.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Demetri raised a brow.

Eli smiled, his cheeks turning pink while Miguel laughed. 

“I’m glad someone took my advice, now you see my Sensei is legit,” Miguel pointed out. 

Eli nodded, a small smile on his face.

“I’m gonna need more evidence to back it up,” Demerit crossed his arms over his chest. “This,” he gestured to Eli, “has been a work in progress for ten years, your words of encouragement just gave him enough push,” he scoffed. 

About to respond, Eli was stopped by the smell of your perfume. He turned his head to the left just in time to greet you as you approached the table.

“Hi, guys,” you greeted, taking your seat next to Eli. “Hi, Eli,” your cheeks warmed up.

“Hi, Y/N,” his eyes beamed with admiration. “You look nice,” he blushed, glancing over the pretty green sundress you wore today, but his gaze circled back to your face.

“Thanks,” you glanced down, running a hand over the skirt. “It’s been in my closet for a while, I figured it’d be happy to see the light of day,” you shrugged, unaware he wasn’t talking about the dress.

“You should wear it more often,” Eli commented.

Demetri and Miguel sent each other a knowing look before Miguel decided to cut the awkward lovey-dovey talk.

“So, Y/N, did Eli tell you about joining my karate dojo?”

You focused your gaze on him, the warmth of your cheeks dissolving when your mind was pushed away from Eli. “Uh, yeah,” you smiled. “I thought about it, but I don’t know if I want to do something like that. I need my hands for my art, I don’t want them beaten and bruised,” you stifled a laugh. 

Miguel nodded in understanding. “Thanks for thinking about it, Y/N,” he pressed his lips in a smile. 

“No problem. Anyway, do you want to join us for movie night this Friday?” you extended your invitation to him. “You can pick the movie,” you offered. 

“Sure, I’d like that,” he grinned.

“Awesome”. 

~

Friday came around and you were all seated on your couch in the living room watching Spider-Man. 

You actually enjoyed the pick, especially watching the nerdy boy become the hero. One who reminded you a lot of the boy sitting right next to you. 

Miguel was on the recliner, Demetri on the other end of the couch, and Eli in the middle with you on the other side. Except, Eli was scooted closer to you, only a bowl of popcorn separating the two of you. 

Your hands happened to brush a lot when you’d reach for the popcorn. Though, you didn’t mind. 

You had gotten to the part where Peter Parker discovered his powers, a glass in your hand as you had come back from refilling your drink.

“That’s a cool painting,” Miguel noticed the piece of art framed by the TV. 

It was an oceanscape of the beach.

“Y/N painted it,” Eli stated.

“No kidding,” Miguel said in amazement, standing up to study it. “You’re really talented, Y/N,” he smiled over to you. 

“Thanks, that was my first one so my parents framed it,” you shyly said. 

“You should see her sketchbook, it’s filled with the most awesome things,” Eli smiled.

You glanced at him, sending him a thankful look. 

“Can I see?” Miguel’s eyes beamed. “My yaya loves paintings, I’d love to show her your work,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ll grab some that you could take pictures of,” you stood up, cheeks on fire. 

It wasn’t often that you got praised for your art, mainly from your parents or your friends. So this was new. But you took the pleasure from it nonetheless. 

Heading to your room, you grabbed a few of your favorite paintings before you went to your bag in search of your sketchbook, only you couldn’t find it. 

As panic erupted, you thought back to the last time you saw it. You had it in art class and then you went to P.E. You could’ve sworn you had it then, but you guessed you were wrong. 

“I can’t find my sketchbook,” you gulped, walking back to the living room. 

“Maybe you left it in your locker or someone found it and took it to the lost and found,” Miguel offered, gesturing with his hands. 

“Yeah, it’ll turn up,” Demetri reassured. “I don’t think anyone would have wanted to steal it,” he shrugged.

“We’ll help you find it on Monday,” Eli said, reaching for your hand.

“Thanks, guys,” you blew out your breath.

You were glad you had them and you really hoped your sketchbook turned up. 

Part of you didn’t want to think about it, but you were worried about who had it if they did. And it only traced back to two girls.

~

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[miasbby]

indefinitely ours.

(teacher!reader x teacher!Ellie x Abby)

summary : You're not willing to date nor looking for anyone, but Ellie Williams, the art teacher working in the school that hired you a year ago, is making you seriously doubt that decision. With her flirting, praises and constant touches, you're all but ready to give up and ask her out. That is, until you meet her girlfriend, Abby, who to your greatest shock seems very… curious about you.

word count : 7.2k (sorry)

note : this is my first fic in the tlou fandom ever, so it'll hopefully be good and i hope the characterization is okay! i wrote this to practice writing shorter fics and failed.... it probably won't get a part 2 but who knows!

warnings : smut with a bit of plot, female anatomy reader, occasionally mean!ellie and mean!abby but they love you<3, light objectification, degradation and exhibitionism, mention of anal, alcohol use and light intoxication, sub!reader, consent is respected but there’s a few bold moments, bit of a housewife kink, crying from overstimulation, threesome.

●○●○●○●○●○●

An ordinary life is not what most aim for, but you have to be honest in that regard: there’s nothing you’ve craved to achieve more than the simple peace of life, a peace often found in modesty yet sought in extravagance. 

The primary school you joined last year has fulfilled that goal in more ways than one, allowing you the safety of a job you spent years dreaming of, a kind group of colleagues that have befriended you ever since you first arrived, and a class made up of the most adorable group of pupils, all eager to learn and earn the good graces of their favorite teacher judging by how the blue of your classroom’s walls are now entirely hidden by drawings. It’s on the outskirts of the city, in a cute area where prices had not soared just yet when you first bought a house, and the neighborhood couldn’t be more welcoming. 

Your time is well-spent: between preparing lessons, finding original ideas to keep a hyperactive group of six years old entertained, taking care of the renovations your new house still requires, and caring for a vegetable garden you did not expect to grow so well, it’s safe to say that you don’t have much time left for anything else, and that includes a relationship. You haven’t been looking, really, happy to settle down on your own until life picks up a slower rhythm and to make friends rather than losing yourself in back and forths. Your previous relationships were never particularly fulfilling and often ended up being on and off until you got tired of the uncertainty. You’re done with all of that. 

The only person that could make you doubt the choice of celibacy, however, currently has her back turned to you, rummaging through a tiny box of chalk sticks on her desk. The kids are out at lunch and you know she tends to eat on her own in here instead of the break room where all of the teachers often meet up. Of course, you only chose to come get her because she’s been a good friend, not because of any ulterior motive…

“Planning to stay hidden in there for long or are you going to come out and eat?”

Ellie doesn’t even appear startled and you wonder if she could somehow sense your presence by the door. She throws the tiny, useless pieces in the trash, reminding you to filter through your own box of it, and turns to face you with that eternally smug smile, leaning back against the side of her desk. It’s a mess, but that’s not surprising coming from Ellie. Whether it’s because she’s the art teacher in charge in the school or because that’s simply in her nature, you’re not sure, but you know to no longer be shocked by the sight of paper and paintbrushes thrown randomly on her desk. 

“Planning on distracting me for much longer or is that gonna stop at some point?” she answers back. “You can’t come in here looking like this and seriously expect me to think of lunch.” 

And that is exactly why Ellie is making you reconsider your opinion on dating. 

If it weren’t for the constant light flirting you still don’t know how to read into, you think that handsomely sweet face would have convinced you anyway. It’s not that Ellie is your style, it’s that you’re convinced no one on this planet could be more attractive to you. Today’s look isn’t helping either: that opened cargo shirt barely hides the simple white tank top she must own in four identical copies and doesn’t do much to conceal the tight, sculpted lines of her arms, blues veins running down to paint-stained fingers. 

Oh, if only you could stop thinking about how they’d feel dipping into the heat spreading from your clit down to your entrance, filling an emptiness that rings between your legs as much as it does in your heart. Unfortunately, such luck cannot be granted to you. Not yet, and perhaps not ever. 

“You’re not flattering yourself out of coming with me.” You slide your hand down to the doorknob and motion for Ellie to follow you out, but she shakes her head, grabbing her phone in the back pocket of her jeans.

“Sorry,” she says, smile dropping with hesitation before she continues. “The girlfriend forgot her lunch at home and I’ve gotta go get it for her. But I’ll see you tonight, we’re still grabbing drinks with the team, right?”

You blink, cheeks straining from the efforts required to keep your smile up even as it turns dishonest, and try to make sense of the word she just uttered, any heat in your belly extinguished by an ice storm. Did she say girl friend or… girlfriend? Why would anyway refer to their friend that way, though… Stop lying to yourself, you got the meaning right on the first try. 

Your heart does not break per se, but it skips a few beats you’re incapable of missing. In the few months you got to know each other, Ellie never mentioned a girlfriend nor did she introduce anyone to you. 

Well, there goes your only temptation for a relationship. Celibacy it will have to be.

“Of course. See you tonight.”

If Ellie notices the light dim in your eyes, she doesn’t show. 

—

That evening, you hesitate until the very last second about going home and finding a new show worth obsessing about or going out as promised. Ellie doesn’t give you much of a choice, however, when she shows up in your classroom right after the last student filters out with his father and pulls you out of your seat, refusing to take no for an answer. 

(If it’s the request that convinces you or the strong hold she has on your wrist, you’re not sure. But you still let her tug you to your car anyway.)

The ‘team’ as referred to earlier consists of five other teachers whose classrooms are all sharing a hallway with yours and with whom you spend your Friday evenings in a local beer bar next door, a place Ellie first dragged you all into when you were still relative strangers, to celebrate your arrival. Your usual table is free when you arrive, Mel and Ellie right behind you, and you suppose a beer might be the best way to forget about your stupid little crush and the shame eating at your insides for having taken friendly banter as flirting for months now. 

Overall, the night is fun, and after a few well-placed jokes at your expense, you finally manage to leave what happened earlier behind and enjoy yourself. Unfortunately, whatever superior being out there who’s decided you should, after a year of knowing each other, finally get to know all about Ellie’s girlfriend, is not on your side today. 

“Oh, hey Abs!” Mel waves behind where you and Ellie sit, still somehow pressed up against each other, and your friend immediately brightens up, turning around to face someone. “Have you finally decided to join us? I thought you’d never leave that work of yours for even one night a week.”

“Maybe next week if she forces me to come.” The woman comes into view and immediately rests a hand on Ellie’s shoulder, smirking down at her before her eyes travel to you and stay locked onto your own for one second too long for it not to feel somehow… knowing. “But nah, I only got here to take Ellie home. I bet she drank too much to drive and that none of you would have been able to convince her not to take her car.”

Mel laughs, joined by the others, and even you have to agree on that. Ellie is particularly stubborn on the average day, but she gets even worse after three beers and a few shots. 

“I’m fine, come on… I could drive on my own, a few beers have never killed me.” 

The problem is, she says that while stretching an arm over the booth seat, enveloping your shoulders and tugging you closer to her side, and the only explanation for doing that in front of that literal goddess-looking muscle-paradise girlfriend of hers has to be the alcohol. ‘Abs’ raises a curious eyebrow but her smile never dies, and you look away to focus on the bottle clutched in your hand, guts turning into a mix of nervousness and shame that does not blend well with alcohol.

Abby stays around for a bit. The whole time, her eyes remain on you, taking in the features of your face, sweeping over your figure and translating what you would interpret as unabashed attraction if it came from anyone else. It’s like she’s trying to memorize your face, your body, your soul. Like she means to lay an invisible mark on your heart you’ll feel with every beat, right next to the one Ellie has unconsciously placed there long ago. 

The arm only leaves its place on your shoulders when who you now know as Abby urges Ellie to go, and you leave soon after, sitting in the dark of your car for five minutes before your head clears enough for you to drive. 

That was… definitely something. But you could unfortunately not explain what in any way.

-

The next time you see Abby does not offer any sort of clearer explanation as to why the mood always seems odd around you and Ellie, and particularly so when she’s there with you. 

She comes around for drinks for the first time in months the following week and turns your offer to change seats down, seemingly fine with sitting next to you, her girlfriend on your other side. Her presence warms the hearts of everyone around the table but yours, stressing you out beyond sanity. You know you didn’t do anything wrong and that it’s probably a good thing that you learned of Ellie’s seemingly very joyful and fulfilling relationship now rather than after an attempted kiss or a date proposal. Yet, you cannot help but feel unsure around her - like she knows, like she can read through your heart and flick through its pages until its secrets have been bared. 

Abby never talks to you nor mentions you in her conversations, yet, she’s always got an eye trailed on your figure, always silently insists on you being aware that you’re taking all of her attention. 

And Ellie, well… Ellie has not changed, and that’s probably where the actual problem lies. 

She still smiles at you with that signature smugness you know is only reserved for her girlfriend. She still flirts and teases and touches, still makes comments about how prettily you blush and how well that shirt fits you and you never know what to answer to any of those things. This time again, one of her arms is spread over your shoulders, her fingers fiddling with the fabric of Abby’s shirt on your other side, and if anyone were to look, they’d probably think you’re dating either of them - if not both. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by her voice, and you almost let go of the glass of water you requested earlier when its now familiar murmur tickles your ear. “I like this skirt. Is it me you got it for? I’m sure Abby would like it just as much.”

Poorly disguised shock shines in your eyes but Ellie appears unphased, not even bothering with a glance at where her girlfriend listens to Mel vent about a fight between two of her students. You clear your throat, avoiding the heaviness of her stare, and shake your head timidly, scared to voice out your thoughts or to be heard. The fabric isn’t anything short per se, but it rode up your thighs through the night, and you’re suddenly far too aware of where Abby’s glances might have led to earlier. Ellie’s only response is a chuckle. 

You think that’s the end of it but that’s without counting on the end of the night - when everyone leaves but Ellie insists you stay around some more, and Abby doesn’t show any interest in moving away, her thighs spread and pressing you further into Ellie. The arm behind your back moves and this time, you can’t control the way your body jumps when she places a hand just above your knee, stroking the tight fabric of your skirt. 

“So,” you begin, trying to break the silence. “How long have you two been together?”

Abby takes a swing of her beer and your eyes follow the bulging muscle of her biceps until Ellie reminds you of her presence by patting your thigh affectionately. “Three years now. We met when Abby came around the school to renovate the gym with her crew and ended up moving in two months later. She’s a carpenter.”

“Oh,” you exclaim, interested but also still very much nervous. “That’s definitely helpful to have around at home. How long have you been doing this for?”

It’s the first time you address her directly and the kindness you’re met with feels almost surprising. You don’t think you would be kind to someone your girlfriend is two inches away from touching inappropriately right under your nose, but you suppose you should be glad that’s the case here. 

“Ever since I was a kid, really. Being a carpenter didn’t exactly fit my father’s plans but he always encouraged me anyway when I saw how much fun I had fixing things and building my own. What about you? What got you to into teaching?”

Tension leaves your back altogether when her answer reflects the smile perched on her lips and the mirth shining in her eyes. “Children, really. It started with babysitting and then all I could think about was teaching.”

Abby’s eyes dip down to your lips. “That’s cute.”

“I told you she’s adorable,” Ellie interrupts. “And beautiful too, isn’t she? I knew she’d be your type.”

Your lips part to speak but before a protest can slip past them, Abby nods, smile turning almost predatory. “I’d say she’s your own just as much. You’ve always liked your girls a bit innocent.”

“I’m not-”

“Can you blame me, though?”

Abby pretends to think for a second and gets that knowing look again, reading through the blush spreading up to your ears and the fast ups and downs of your chest in ways you fail to understand yourself. Everything’s going too fast, like a ball bouncing from one side of the court to the other, and it suddenly feels like they’re discussing you, praising you, without even including you in the conversation anymore. 

“No. I think I understand.”

Ellie chuckles, inching her hand higher up on your lap, and she allows the silence to persist for a moment longer before standing up to order another round for you. Abby never looks away. You’re still trying to comprehend what just happened, still failing to make sense of why your friend’s partner is staring at you like she’s considering the interest of throwing you over the table dirty with food crumbs and alcohol spills and flexing those fingers inside of your cunt instead of playing with the tip of her bottle. 

“Oh, you’ve got some crumbs here,” Abby says, eyes flicking down to wear your shirt wraps tightly around your chest. You follow her line of sight, wondering how that could be when you didn’t eat any of the fries they ordered earlier, and find nothing. “Here, I’ll get them off for you.”

Before a word of gratefulness can echo between the two of you, your lips part in shock, a hand positioning itself right above your breast and arching a curious eyebrow, staring into the depths of your eyes. There’s no hesitation in the action, but rather a sort of anticipation you find yourself trapped into. “Is this alright?” she asks, the “Yes,” out by your lips before you can even make sense of what she means.

Deep down, you know what it means. Deep down, you’ve got a feeling Abby might have been familiar with you far before your recent introduction. 

Once your agreement has been voiced, Abby startles you, immediately aiming for your right breast and gripping it with the whole length of her palm. A thumb rubs at soft skin only hidden by the light fabric of your shirt, almost transparent, not thick enough to act as a proper barrier, and you can feel it all - the heat of her hand, its roughness, how it’s thick enough, big enough to effortlessly envelop all of one breast.

It’s the first time her eyes have moved away from the trance they had yours stuck into, her stare dipping down to where she pretends to rub at your shirt, only reminding you of the absence of a bra to truly cover you. Your nipple hardens under her palm and that seems to be the goal because her hand changes sides, repeating the process, teasing and rubbing, the cotton fabric too rough for the sensitive little bud. Your thighs rub against each other, failing to get any sort of release from the pressure burning your cunt, hips almost bucking in a silent plea to be filled up by those very same fingers.  

Abby smiles, still kind, still honest, and shifts her hand only to roll it between two fingers, pulling a wet moan from your lips you fear the people behind you might catch. “See, that’s better now, isn’t it?” And just like that, she pulls away, hand settling back around her beer, leaving you to deal with the wetness soaking your underwear and the blush heating your face, shining like a broken christmas light. 

“Y-yeah.” It’s odd that you even manage to speak when flames circle hardened nipples, driving you into unknown depths of desire, but you’re proud to say you at least manage a coherent sound. “Thank you.”

When Ellie comes back, conversation follows a course far more normal, and if it weren’t for the hooded eyes, the pulsing heat, and the hand claiming its spot back on your lap, you’d think you hallucinated all of the tension. 

The state of your underwear when you strip down before a shower later that night, however, is all the proof you need. Yet, you fail to truly comprehend what happened. The innocence that almost shone in Abby’s eyes as she touched you is impossible to make sense of, and the next morning, you’re no longer sure of what her intentions truly were.

Did she mean to tease you like Ellie has been doing - as a friend, a friend who has a pretty interesting definition of the word platonic but a friend nonetheless? Or was this more? 

You’re not sure, but if anything, you won’t be the one to bring up the question just yet. 

-

Ellie and Abby are coming over to your house to help with the endless renovations you’ve been making. And no, it wasn’t your idea. 

You’ve been avoiding thinking about Abby and how she’s just as illegally fine as who you already considered to be the hottest woman alive, and although ignoring Ellie is impossible, you at least made some progress this past week with accepting the flirting as some meaningless fun. When you complained about the difficulties you’ve been having with painting the ceilings of two rooms and fixing the guest room bed, however, Ellie suggested that they come over to help and, well, how could you turn down such a nice proposal?

That’s how you end up watching them by the kitchen’s window as they relax around a glass of iced tea in the garden, cheeks stained with light grey paint and arms bared, water running in the sink and acting as the background noise to your current fantasies.

The mind owns a power the heart only dreams of having, capable of eternal wanderings uncontrolled by even the strongest wills. 

Yours has not resisted purposeless dreams. Dreams that once involved Ellie, a sweet craving for what could perhaps come to exist in the realm of reality - a craving for late-night guitar sessions and paintings in bold colors, for rough palms to sculpt your heart into submission and teasing smirks wiped away by kisses. Dreams that now involve someone else, a person you have yet to truly understand but who seems to perfectly fit a puzzle from which you did not believe a piece lost. Her body rings with a rigidity that’s a lot more pronounced, yet her heart appears softer, willing to lead you further into the depths of a euphoric swamp. 

A blurry motion startles you out of your thoughts and you blink to find the water is still running, the time still passing. Ellie is waving at you and Abby is staring with a raised eyebrow of curiosity. 

You smile, waving back, and turn off the tap. 

Fantasies are just that, unfortunately. You’ll have to make do with your imagination because it seems Abby isn’t intending on repeating what you’re getting more and more convinced was meaningless teasing anytime soon.

-

They spend the next weekend at your house too, fixing broken cupboards and a tall wardrobe you couldn’t figure out how to close fully, helping with the garden and any heavy objects you need to move around. 

It comes to a point where you decide that if you can’t have either of them, then dreaming is fine. The only problem is that you end up doing that a lot, and getting caught is inevitable. 

“Could I borrow your shower?” asks Ellie once the day reaches its end, the sun freefalling on the horizon. “I don’t want to dirty your couch.” Abby has fetched a chair for the same reason but you know how much Ellie like to sit beside you. Her girlfriend’s presence has not stopped the oncoming stream of cuddles she requires from you, and you’re more than happy to be held, touch-starved since the end of your last relationship. 

“Sure. I’ll get the food ready.”

You stand from the couch to head for the kitchen but before you can disappear, Ellie grips the hem of her shirt and pulls it up, revealing a glistening, tight stomach in what feels like a slow motion to you but is surely a very normal pace for anyone else. The fabric slides off her shoulders and gets thrown straight to Abby’s face but your brain is in no way capable to register anything but newly revealed skin and soft curves hidden under a white sports bra. 

“Feel free to join me,” she adds, teasingly, and you know it has to be directed at Abby who, it seems, is just as affected as you are judging by the darkened gaze she keeps directed at Ellie, but if that’s the case, then you cannot explain why Ellie is staring right at you as she says it before turning around and leaving for the bathroom. 

It’s that gaze you see once they’re gone that night, writhing on top of your bed, covers thrown to the floor and pillow wet with your spit. It’s that gaze encouraging a second, then a third finger to fit into your cunt, the pressure too much yet so far from what you wish for, from how well you know they would both fill you, breaching past undesired tightness and taking all that you’re willing to give. 

And it’s their voices, blended in as one, whispering praise into your ear and urging you to let go when you finally fall over the edge, tears pooling in your eyes and teeth aching from the marks they’ve left in that poor pillow. 

-

“You know,” you begin, words not slurring but speech clearly affected by physical exhaustion and beer. “I thought you were flirting with me before you suddenly mentioned your girlfriend.”

A chuckle greets you, but you can’t tell if it comes from Abby or Ellie, both of them cuddling on the couch in front of you as you lay on the fluffy chair you bought for decoration purposes but that’s actually pretty amazing to use when sleepy. The night has fallen and you spent a lot of time in the garden today while Abby watched over you and Ellie finished with painting touch-ups, explaining the tiredness numbing your arms and the effects of the alcohol. 

Your eyes remain closed and you shift around when air tickles the bottom of your stomach, your shirt having ridden up to reveal skin. 

“What if I was?” and this time, you know it’s Ellie - sure, because it sounds like her, but also because she’s the one who likes teasing you the most. 

You huff, internally rolling your eyes. “With a girlfriend like Abby, trust me, you were not. You’d be dumb to flirt with anyone else or want to kiss anyone else,” you say, voice barely above a murmur. That second beer should not have been handed in your hand, but Ellie has always been a bad influence and Abby drinks them with little effort. Slowly, you half-whisper, “Bet her lips are so soft.”

Abby laughs this time, reminding you of her presence, but you’re too far gone to care. “I think yours would put up a great fight in a contest,” she says, the smile evident in her voice. “Maybe even win, who knows. I know I wouldn’t mind trying you out.”

“Hey!” Ellie interrupts, “I get to try her out first. I found her. You would want me first, wouldn’t you?”

It takes a while for you to register the question and understand you’re being spoken to. “I think I want the both of you… together.”

Someone’s breath hitches, but you fall asleep before you can find out whose. 

All you remember the next morning is strong arms holding onto the back of your thighs and your back carrying you up the stairs, a pair of sweet lips leaving a kiss on your forehead, and the throbbing traces of a hand on the naked skin of your stomach. 

That must have been a fairly nice dream. 

-

You’re in the kitchen when things truly take a turn you did not expect to happen in reality, breaching the realm of fantasies and fully stepping into your life - your peaceful and joyful life that, as you will soon come to realize, was actually missing two precious souls to reach the desperate form of completion you sought. 

Abby is drying the dishes you’re washing and Ellie is… well, she’s simply being herself, avoiding any sort of chore and whistling in the living room as she chooses what movie you’ll all be watching tonight. The mood has been particularly tense today and this time, you’re glad to say it’s not your fault. Abby has been especially attentive to you, asking about your day, your past, and the shape you imagine your future to take, casually exchanging indecipherable looks with Ellie. They’re more than familiar with your house now yet they’ve never acted more like strangers scared of trespassing. 

If you didn’t know better, you would think of them as almost… afraid. 

Fortunately, the tension left as soon as night fell and you all settled back into soothing habits. At least, that’s what you think, until a shadow looms over your back, blocking the naked lightbulb from shining light on the last plate in your hand, and you realize that Ellie isn’t as busy as she made it out to be. 

“Dinner was great, thanks for preparing all of it again,” she says, supporting her weight with one hand on the countertop and the left one innocently resting on your hip. Her touch is welcomed and familiar, her palm cupping the curve to perfection. “Anyone ever told you you’d make the perfect little wife?”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes although you know she won’t be able to see it. “If that’s truly the case, there’d be a lot more people pilling up at my door, or at least one person. I think you two are just terrible cooks in desperate need of a chef.”

Abby shakes her head, nudging you with her elbow as she wipes water from a pack of forks. “You’re not wrong in thinking we’d wife you up in an instant if you wanted, but not because you’d be a great chef.”

“Yeah,” Ellie agrees, flexing her fingers where they rest on your hip. “I can think of a few other reasons. You’d be an amazing mother, for one, and you’re far more patient than either of us deserve.”

“And you’re ready to put up with her stubbornness, so a perfect match, really.” Abby’s comment makes you laugh but Ellie speaks again before you can tease her about her own issues with never doing as told. 

“All of that, and I even bet you’d be such a pretty little thing to fuck.” Your hands freeze on where you’ve just put the plate away, tension seizing unready muscles. You blink, staring by the window, the night turning it into a mirror and reflecting the shock wild in your eyes. For a second, you’re convinced to have misheard. But the silence that follows tells the opposite story. Ellie’s close, suddenly, closer than she was before, and Abby’s hands have stilled as well, her body tight with stress. “I feel like we didn’t thank you properly for all the meals you’ve prepared for us. What do you think, Abby?”

At the edge of your vision, you can sense that Abby has given in and glances at you from the corner of an eye, the sound of her breathing audible, loud. “I think she very much likes politeness, and… it would be rude not to give back after taking so much, wouldn’t it?”

“Right. And what about you, um?” The hand on your hip slowly slides closer to your front before drawing back, again and again, in what feels like a maddening caress. “Do you think we should thank you? Together, I mean.”

Later, you’ll have more than enough time to consider just how stupid it was for you, at that precise moment, to doubt the true meaning behind Ellie’s suggestion. There’s a part of you that yearns for this to be real, for it to feel real, but that part cannot be allowed to exist because it is directly connected to a risk of disappointment you’re not sure you would survive. So, when you reply a breathy little, “Yes,” you don’t actually expect what follows. 

“Good girl.” 

A whine spills past your lips but the reason behind its existence is blurry - is it the praise, vibrating through your lungs and soaking your cunt, or is it the hand that fully slides against your front, rubbing at the seam of your jeans frustratingly right above your heat, the other suddenly palming the curve of your ass and roughly kneading skin? You think you’ll never know for the first moan, but the next one is inevitably due to the second pair of hands finding a place to have some fun of their own. 

“I can feel how soaked you are already,” Ellie says, tone teasing, taunting and forcing past your defenses. “Are you sure you didn’t expect this to happen? How often did you fuck yourself wishing it was us, hmm, pretty girl?”

You think that question should not require an answer, mostly because you’re incapable of giving any, incapable of getting that brain of yours to think and function properly. But Abby doesn’t seem happy with your silence, and she finally decides to remind you of her presence. 

“We asked you a question, sweetheart.” Her voice startles you and your head turns to face her, your heart soothed by the admiration and the awe and the desire reflected in usually tight features. She’s smiling, not that usually kind expression but one that’s almost amused, and you realize you’re in serious, serious trouble with these two. Two fingers seize you by the chin, pushing it upward, and a thumb rubs at your bottom lip. “How empty did you feel thinking about how good we could take care of you?”

“I- I didn’t-” Ellie’s nails sink into the flesh of your ass, reprimanding, and Abby tuts, shaking her head disappointedly. 

“It’s alright,” she adds. “You can be honest with us. There’s not a single time we fucked since you started working here that we didn’t think about you, about how complete you’d make us.” And you’re going to process that at some point, but now will not be that time. Not when she continues to speak, stealing any hope for coherency from under your feet. “We’ll take care of you now, though. Come on, Ellie, don’t be a tease.”

Ellie hesitates, hands still, fingers flexing. They stare at each other with blazing heat in what you think could be a fight for dominance you’re not sure to make sense of when they could just take out all of that on you. 

“You better beg for it.”

When the gearwheels begin to roll again, you lose all sense of reality. 

It’s like they both observed you for months, like they figured out what button to push and with how much strength, what you love and what you’re too ashamed to admit you need. Chills of shame erupt on your arms at the idea, worsened by how smoothly Ellie works your body. 

“Let’s get these off you,” she mutters, lips hovering right next to your nape, inches away from a kiss. “You won’t be needing them around us anymore.”

There’s possessiveness in her words and there’s possessiveness in how fast she slips the button of your jeans off and tugs on the material, slowly, as if to admire what is finally hers to worship and use as she deems fit. Abby growls, watching with a well-trained eye as the tight fabric slides over your ass, and her hand moves down to press against your throat, keeping your back shamefully arched, ass raised for their eyes to feast onto. Your pants end halfway down your thighs, and you have to say there’s nothing surprising about Ellie’s eagerness to get to the source of her desires, hot between your thighs. 

“Abby told me I’d love your ass. Guess she wasn’t wrong.” You expect your underwear to follow next but she decides not to bother with that. “Ever gotten fucked there before, or are you keeping that tight little hole for when we decide to use it?”

“N-never, I- I don’t-”

Abby sighs, shaking her head warningly. “Ellie… focus.”

“Right, sorry. We’ll keep that in mind for another time, you’re ours now anyway, aren’t you? Our pretty little toy.”

You’re all but ready to cry when fingers slides into the front of your underwear, familiar roughness perceptible in the actions, immediately drenched in your desires. Your cunt aches, your core throbs, and your nipples harden. A cocktail of needs that can only be sated by much more than what you’re given. Efficient fingers part your folds before expertly reaching that little bud of sensitiveness at the top of your mound, circling it, pinching it, driving you crazy with it. 

But that’s not what truly seals the first release of the night. That only comes when Abby decides to fully join in on the fun. 

Fingers unbutton your shirt until it parts to reveal the pale pink bra that matches the current dark pink of your panties, only abandoning your neck until the offending lace has been pushed right under your breasts and returning to its hold. You think Abby’s going to kiss you, for a moment, but she’s only reveling in the hot puffs of air slipping past your lips and trying to swallow down the guttural moan that vibrates in your throat when Ellie decides she wants to take the next step.

The hand that had for now been palming your ass travels closer to your center and tugs flimsy fabric out of the way carelessly. You’re not given a warning when the first finger breaches past your entrance, only the sound of Ellie spitting on her fingers for unnecessary lube and that feeling of needing frustratingly more. A whine lodges itself at the back of your throat, and they both laugh, only turning your frustration worse. 

You want to move and fight back, tell them you’re more than capable of taking charge yourself. But there’s something about being treated as a toy meant to receive pleasure, about being admired and taken and praised, about that second finger joining the first and filling the tightness of your cunt, that forces you into a soothing form of submission, allowing every touch and taking them willingly. 

Abby palms at one breast, rolling a nipple under the strong surface in a touch that translates all of her strength. “Is that blush for us, pretty thing? You’re gonna come all over her hand like a good slut already, aren’t you?”

And, it’s cruel, but of course you do. 

Ellie flexes her fingers, increasing the speed of her arm. You can’t see it, but you know veins must shy prettily all over her forearm and biceps must be bulging from the tightness required to fuck you like she does now - like she wants to pull orgasm after orgasm from your core until you no longer understand what it means not to feel the maddening pulse of a release coursing through your body like liquid fire. Abby turns meaner, rougher, pinching a nipple between two fingers and pressing the hand further into your neck, forcing you to follow its direction and standing further on your toes. 

Four hands - teasing, fucking, taking. 

Two souls tauntingly attracting your own into their orbit, sealing an invisible lock around your heart, your body, your being itself. 

And sweet, sweet praise, whispered right under your ear, sending you into a release you’re helpless to control. 

“Ellie, Abby… I-” The moan that travels from your chest and spills past your lips is rough, guttural, connected to the inhuman waves of pleasures rocking through your body. Your cunt clenches around the fingers still thrusting in and out of your center, clinging onto the digits until they’re forced to stop, Ellie breathing heavily in your ear. Abby kisses down the curve of your throat, teeth nibbling at sensitive skin and laying a mark you refuse to ever cover. 

Your moan ends, broken off in tense breathing, your heart threatening to jump out of your chest, and that’s when you catch the groan vibrating Ellie’s throat. It, too, falls into silence. 

Abby swears against your skin, a deep, rough “Fuck,” that sends shivers down your spine. 

“Told you she’d be the cutest little thing to corrupt,” Ellie teases, slowly sliding out of you, fighting against the tightness of your walls and your eagerness to be fucked into a stupid mess. “She’s all proper and shit but I could tell she’d love it.”

“I never doubted you.” Abby says, kissing the lone tear sliding down your cheek with all of the tenderness she can conjure. “Come on, let’s get her on a proper surface.”

Heat blooms on your cheeks when Ellie steps away to allow Abby to take you into her arms, the ground suddenly disappearing from under your feet. The way they talk about you like you’re not even there, like you’re too fucked out to understand a single word, would be shameful under any other circumstance. You know it’s only a game when Ellie takes advantage of finally facing you by planting a soft kiss on your forehead, pushing away a lazy strand of hair. 

They begin to walk toward your bedroom like they perfectly know the way, and your vision turns dark right as they push the door open.

-

“Can you hold her open for me or have you been slacking at the gym?”

Your eyes remain closed, but your brain kickstarts itself into working properly again. You can feel the familiar linen of your sheets under your ass and soft naked breasts pressed against your back, another weight shifting in front of you on the bed. 

The body behind yours shakes in rhythm with a chuckle and you recognize Ellie. “Can you still eat pussy or should we trade so I can show you? Sorry we didn’t plan for your strap, I thought she might have a cock lying around but… we’ll have to take care of that next time.”

“Fuck you,” says Abby half-heartedly, the sound followed by more shifting. 

You’re fully aware again when Ellie grabs the back of your thighs and tugs them, spreading your legs and allowing air to tickle the slick still running from your center, drenched folds bared for anyone to use as they please. 

“Come on, get to it. I know you’re hungry.”

Another pair of hands holds you by the ass and your eyes flutter open, hoping to catch sight of what you once dreamed about. Abby barely spares you a glance before she all but leaps to feast on your cunt, igniting a fire not yet extinguished. 

“Abby… Abby…” You repeat her name like a plea, like a prayer. Your hips buck and trash around, your heart pauses and starts again, your releases come and come again right after each other until you exist no more, a broken toy a kid cannot help but continue to play with. 

Lips circle your clit and suck, pull and deliver rough kisses. An expert tongue gathers slicks at your entrance and spreads it all over already drenched folds, eating rather than licking, a starved woman relishing in her first and last mean. It’s all too much, too soon, too sensitive, and you’re in no way capable of pulling away, four hands keeping you all tight and secure in their hold, a prisoner to your own pleasure. 

“Keep them coming, pretty thing. I want your cunt red by the time we’re done with you tonight,” Ellie murmurs in your ear before resuming the path of tenderness her mouth trailing on down your neck. 

You only find the strength left in yourself to follow that order. 

-

An unwelcomed warmth burns your closed eyelids and you shift, attempting to escape its path. To your great despair, it doesn’t budge. A tired groan echoes in the room and you blink sleep back into your body, limbs stretching and encountering a soreness that did not exist before.

Oh. Right. Last night happened and… it was not a dream this time. 

Fear seizes your heart for a moment and you quickly look around, scared to find the bed empty save for your body. A happy sigh of relief marks the moment you see them - Abby clinging to Ellie’s back, still sound asleep and temptingly naked, and Ellie holding onto your waist, staring up at you with a smug look and a kind smile.

“Morning,” she says, voice broken from sleep. “You didn’t think we’d abandon you, did ya?”

“N-no I… I’m just happy to see you.” You cannot control the dumb smile that widens on your lips, and Ellie’s smirk only widens, her hold pulling you back into the eternal depths of the sheets. 

“We’re not going anywhere, try to get some more sleep.”

It’s a simple sentence, meaningless on the surface. 

Yet, you know it’s more than that. 

It’s a promise. 

A promise for more, meant to suppress the doubts blossoming in your chest. A promise that they’ll be there when you awake again, and again, and again.  

[thebottomfromhell]

ONE-SHOT

Female Human (later Demon) Reader becoming Muzans lover

Ok, I will be evil with this one. This is the typical "reader/oc is yeeted i to the Mary Sue role because she is oh so special" but done my own way, which is basically destroy the promt into something more in character, so it might not be everyone's taste. Also being Muzan's part from this post.

Warnings: Manga Spoilers, Sexism, Power imbalance, Non-consented body modification (being turned into a demon), Narcissistic character, and Slight yandere behavior.

Muzan would never admit humanity has impressed him more than a fingers count of times. There have been several humans he found himself amazed with, but honestly? That only makes them less special. But the fact is still the same, when a human is capable os such a thing, it means they are worth of being more. Of being... almost perfect. Because no matter how many times he finds himself linked to human, humanity is a desease. The desease of getting tired, old, injured, weak and dead.

Not that he would ever go as far as to get rid of humans completely, what would he eat if he did? And raising them as cattle seems rather cruel, not only that but he must admit he enjoys human's products. The technology, the arts, the arquitecture... it would be a waste to get rid of it.

You were, are, impressive, not at the same level of Tamayo, but still an impressive woman he met as he was passing by as human. There was something about you, something he wanted. He couldn't ignore it, even if he did try, even if he had a hard time recognizing it. Specially because he didn't know why. With Akaza, it was his strengh. With Nakime, it was his wickedness. With Enmu, it was his... oddity. With Gyutaro, it was his hatred. With Gyokko, it was his art. With Rui, it was their resemblance. With Hantengu, it was his will and madness. With Kokushibou, it was his power and pride. For fuck's sake, he transformed Douma because of his shitty eyes! But in every case he knew exactly what he was doing and why at giving them their position in the Kizuki system.

Meanwhile, you can't compare to any of them. You aren't half as strong as most humans who called up his attention, you are sane, you are normal, average. Why are you here? In his head? Why does he let you stay near him, even when he should have killed you after switching to a new life. You met Muzan as a child, an odd one, very mature and smart for his age, but also had something you couldn't describe, but it set you off. Specially as he kept staring at you while you followed your routine.

You always made sure to show him bare minimum courtesy, he was the child of someone rich, after all. You didn't really care, until a young man came to you, he was very attractive and you did consider for a few seconds asking to meet or something. You are already an adult but haven't married yet, so people talk a lot about you, mostly condensending or nosy things. Maybe getting someone would stop the talking, as, depending on particular people, can be from annoying to hurtful. But after considering a few seconds, you decided it's not worth it, since you didn't know this man. You never wanted to come off as "desperate", that would make the rumours about you worse.

The thing is that. You didn't know this man, "Hello, Y/N." and yet he knows your name. He has a sweet voice, but something upseting from... you don't even know from what. "Excuse me, do we know each other?" You ask nerviously, and every second you look at him, he somehow manages to be more scary. There is something in the air, something... almost cursed. "We do, actually. But that doesn't matter. Tell me, dear, what do you think of your life?" He asks, but honestly? It feels that this is more to make up a conversation than to actually know about you.

You answer, lying in some details, saying some things mostly because it's correct to say it. In some aspects, you don't feel like other women, like you are not like the other ladies, hence you are also treated differently, maybe that is the reason you never got a fiance, even is it's considered unsightful that a young lady doesn't get any attention at all. Most men think you are "hard to manage", so they don't. You don't really like it but at this point you learned not to care. You also tell some truths, but not really giving so much detail. You just want to leave. There is something about this guy giving you creeps.

"I see." He chuckles a bit, and while it sounded nice, melodious even, it only made you tense up. "Honestly, I don't know what I was expecting asking such a silly question. But I guess you do have something interesting, you want to scape your life." That is not odd to find, most of his demons felt that same way. Akaza wanted to scape his family's death and lack of purpose, Kokushibou wanted to scape his weakness and sense of inferiority to his brother, Douma wanted to scape the numbness of the cult, Hantengu wanted to scape his criminal record and death sentence, Nakime wanted to scape her life as a poor wife of a gambler, even Rui wanted to scape his sickness.

You are no different. You are not special. And yet, annoyingly, he can't shake off his interest towards you. Maybe, because you are not special, he should enlist you with the others. In the best case scenario, you will join the Kizuki system. At the worst? He will get bored of you when you prove to be useless. Because, while attracked, he doesn't have the patience to stay by when there is so much to do. He can only have the best and the most useful assets by his side. Prove yourself then.

You didn't even manage to blink before you feel a potent sting of pain in your skull, the smell of blood that runs through your face makes you panic, but you can't move. The pain becomes numb as a liquid, an odd liquid, is... injected to your brain. It burns, but every pain is subdued. Then you feel cold air against your flesh as he removes his hand. "Join me, my dear. Prove that you deserve to be at my side." Everything else goes in a flash, as you become more overwhealmed and your body stretches, your skin becomes ick, your blood preassure rises. Everything becomes pain for a moment... and then nothing.

No pain, no cold, no nothing. Just hunger, hunger for more blood. For him. But humans will have to do, because you are just so hungry you can't think straight. Did you ever? Because now. It's just your hunger and him what matter. "You are doing well, Y/N. Prove yourself worth it, and I will have an special gift for you." How could you reject that?

[vespidphoenix]

Entirely at your service

Tag list: @fanaticsnail @turtletaubwrites @weaversofnulbundin

It's Sanji's turn to stay on the Thousand Sunny while the rest of the Straw Hats explore a new island, so he makes his way up to the crow's nest for his watch. He is pleasantly surprised in more ways than one by what, or rather who, he finds up there.

Notes: NSFW, minors begone, lots of swearing, friends to lovers, porn with feelings, idiots in love, chubby OC, some angst, lots of fluff, praise kink, breast worship, consent really is sexy, inappropriate(?) use of observation haki, etc; word count 6.3k

AN: Baby's first fan fiction! Ya girl can have a little a shameless self-insert, as a treat. I've only seen OPLA and I'm not past the East Blue in the manga/anime yet, but I've done my best to keep everything consistent with canon.

AN 2: I use French as the language of the Celestial Dragons, and both Sanji and Amy are fluent. Most of the time, I'll put the English words in brackets at the end of the paragraph, but there are some recurring phrases that I'll leave untranslated: mère bleue is 'blue mother', as in Mother Ocean; merde is 'shit'; mon amour, chérie, and ma chère are endearments

Chapter One: you are here! | Next chapter | Masterlist

Edit: read this chapter on ao3!

(Banner courtesy of @cafekitsune)

As soon as the hatch leading to the crow’s nest clangs shut, Sanji sets his snack tray on the floor mats and collapses with a dramatic groan. 

“Fuck me raw,” he sighs.

“As appealing as that sounds, that’s gonna have to wait another couple days per Chopper’s advice,” a feminine voice deadpans behind him.

Sanji sits upright with a start, nearly knocking over his water bottle. “Mère bleue!” he exclaims as he turns to face his crew mate; “for some reason I thought you were in the landing party today.”

Amy’s reply is drowned out by the pounding of Sanji’s heart when he blinks and notices just how casually she is dressed. He recognizes her sarong as a recent gift from a grateful cloth merchant—he would stand by the assertion that everything looked good on Nami, the original recipient, but he’d have to agree with her that it suited their crew’s interpreter better—and the crocheted halter top as Amy’s own handiwork. He feels a sudden itch to find out for himself just how soft a yarn she chose for this particular work of art…

For lack of a mirror, Amy could not see what her face looked like; but she imagined that if she could, her eyes would be wide and sparkling with mischief. It’s certainly the feeling she always seems to get whenever she’s face-to-face with the handsome blond before her: a grin pressing at her cheeks to escape through the seam of lips pressed together, eyelids spread as if to take in more of him.

(Sometimes, she reckons she could spread other parts of herself for that purpose, if she thought him willing to put his money where his mouth always seems to go.)

“I’m not complaining, mind you,” she continues to say, “but this is the third—no, fourth time in a row!”

Sanji gulps and shakes the slightly-glazed expression from his face. “I’m sorry, can you say that again? I was…distracted by your beauty.” He winks one piercing blue eye, and skepticism be damned, she feels heat creeping over her body and pooling between her legs.

Amy rolls her eyes and fidgets with her sarong in lieu of making a snarky comment about blindfolds.

“As I was saying while you were ogling me, I was going to be one of the landing party, but Nami insisted on having Usopp join her in mapping the island because my handwriting is so much better than his, so I should be the one to help you with inventory. She’s not wrong, per se, but this is the third or fourth time in a row this has happened, and part of me wants to call bullshit.”

“Part of you? What about the rest of you?” Sanji asks, resolutely fixing his gaze on Amy’s eyes instead of letting it drift to her bust or the soft rolls of her exposed torso.

This time it’s Amy’s turn to deliver a blush-inducing wink. “The rest of me is simply happy to be spending time with you.”

“Well, lucky for us, sweetheart, I took the liberty of doing inventory earlier this morning so that Miss Nami would have a grocery list,” Sanji replies after taking a deep breath, “so I am…entirely at your service.” 

Entirely at your service. The words tickle Amy as she takes in Sanji’s shirtless form, supine once more and sporting that megawatt grin. As her gaze trickles down from his abs to those steel-hard thighs, she can’t even bring herself to be annoyed by how smug he looks; Mother Ocean knows how handsome he knows he is, how hard he’s worked to earn those well-toned—

“Have I rendered you speechless, mademoiselle?”

Sanji’s voice, sultry and teasing, interrupts her train of thought.

Entirely at your service.

Sanji knows he’s close to some sort of victory when Amy’s face flushes even more deeply and she still doesn’t answer right away. There’s something uniquely thrilling about fencing with words and looks the way Mosshead trains with Wado Ichimonji—maneuvering, testing, anticipating, parrying, scoring—and he reckons it has to do with the way both parties win something if one goes about it correctly.

He watches and sits up as Amy walks around to his front before she settles next to the tray of snacks. His heart thumps harder in his chest the same way that foolish thing does every time they’re in such close proximity, not quite touching but close enough that he wouldn’t even need to fully extend his arm were he to caress her cheek—

“You don’t need to sit up on my account, handsome. Maybe I’ll take you up on your offer later, but right now maybe I’ll serve you some—how does that sound?” Amy plucks a single grape from the cluster and holds it above his mouth.

Maybe I’ll serve you some.

It’s not often Sanji allows himself to contemplate what he might do with such an offer. As a child, he’d served in order to live; as an adolescent and now as an adult, he lives to serve. But sometimes it occurs to him that letting someone serve him instead can itself be an act of…well…service.

(It will take some time before he allows himself even to think the word ‘love’ in place of ‘service’, and longer still before he allows himself to speak it; but it’s there, waiting like a daffodil bulb in early March for safe conditions to bloom.)

There will be time for Sanji to unpack all of this later, when a beautiful woman is not offering him a grape that looks as sweet and delicious as the person holding it, looking at him with the inviting heat of an onsen—or perhaps it is the sort of hunger that no amount of grapes can quench but he might be able to satisfy anyway. 

All Blue forbid he keep a lady waiting. He lowers himself back onto the floor mats and opens his mouth.

“Good boy,” Amy teases in her best attempt at a sultry purr, frowning when Sanji gives her a strange look and shifts uncomfortably instead of rolling his eyes. “Sorry, does my femme fatale impression need work? Too over-the-top, not campy enough, too demeaning?”

“No, that was—no, no, you’re fine,” he replies, suddenly a little breathless. “How about that grape?”

If Amy notices the hunger filling both his mind and his gym shorts, she mercifully does not comment on it.

There’s a look in Sanji’s eyes that, if she didn’t know better, Amy might call naked desire, and the idea renders her dizzy with want, or it could be dehydration—she’s not sure, not in this weather. She drops the grape in Sanji’s waiting mouth, pats his jaw, and gets up to let a breeze in through a window.

She can hear the slight frown in Sanji’s voice when he calls, “Are you alright, darling? Can I get you something to drink? I think I saw a fountain somewhere…”

“You’re not beating the waiter allegations from Zoro anytime soon, are you?” Amy chuckles, the cooler air having relieved her flustered state.

“He can call me a scullion for all I care; it’s a small price to pay to see you satisfied.” The chef curses under his breath; there are no spare cups up here, so sharing his canteen will have to suffice. He brings it to Amy with an apologetic smile.

She takes a sip and smiles gratefully, and allows her eyes once again to wander over Sanji’s chiseled body. “I have a tall glass of water to drink from, and that’s a good place to start.”

Sanji draws a sudden breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Keep talking like that, and we might not get to finish the snacks I brought up.”

A wicked grin spreads over Amy’s face, and Sanji knows he’s fallen into his own trap.

“How about I help you finish your snack, and you help me finish mine?”

He groans and tilts his head back, and the creeping heat that became smoldering want is stoked into flame by the huskiness of his voice, by the way his neck seems further exposed, there for the kissing—

“Say the word, Amy, and all of it is yours.”

Amy merely smiles. She steps past him, hooking an arm around the far side of his waist as she goes; when he spins around to face her once again, she tugs on the hand suddenly holding hers.

“You gonna have a seat or what?” she asks, nodding toward the tray.

A moment’s hesitation, and Sanji steps forward into the gap between them.

“Are you gonna call me a good boy if I do?” he asks almost under his breath, just above a whisper.

They’re standing so, so close together now, Sanji is sure Amy can feel his breath on her forehead and the place where his shorts are almost too tight to contain him—because she might have called him a tall glass of water, but to him her eyes are Dressrosi kahlua, and he is so drunk on her gaze he would confess to a lot more than his longings, just for another shot.

“I can call you anything you like,” she breathes, “when I am entirely at your service.”

Their lips meet now in a kiss that, for all the repartee and flirtation that preceded it, is gentle and unhurried, a moment to be savored. After a few moments they pull apart, all smiles, long enough for Sanji to remark:

“I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be my line.”

The pair dissolve into giggles and quick pecks as Sanji finally lays himself down beside the snacks.

To his left, recumbent and supporting herself on one arm, Amy realizes her mistake and gestures to the tray. "Would you mind passing me those?" she asks.

"I thought you were supposed to be serving me," he replied with a mock pout and still-twinkling eyes. 

"I was always taught it was impolite to reach directly across someone's personal space." Amy raises an eyebrow, still looking amused.

Gently, tentatively, as if reaching out to pet a cat, Sanji places his left hand on the small of her back. The hitch in Amy's breath at his touch and the way her eyes widen send a tingling sensation down his spine, straight to his groin. He flashes her the most charming smile he can muster.

"Chérie, in case I haven't made it clear, I want you in my personal space; and unless I am reading you wrong, in which case I apologize sincerely..." He begins to remove his hand.

"No, no, keep doing that—"

(Amy almost doesn't recognize that plaintive voice as her own, but the way his broad palm spread across her back and the soothing way he moved his thumb in little circles have seared themselves into her mind like an addiction.)

Sanji, that smug, sexy bastard, grins and does as he is told.

“…if I am not mistaken, you want me in your personal space, too.” 

Amy is speechless for a moment with an embarrassment she can’t quite explain, but she knows exactly how to get back at Sanji. With his hand back in its place holding her, she smiles sweetly and says:

“Thank you…”

—she moves not only to reach across him for the food, but also to straddle him entirely, which she is sure was his plan to begin with; but then she leans her head close to his, and her smile turns impish—

“…or should I say ‘good boy’?”

Pulling her waist closer with one hand and pushing himself up from the floor with the other arm, Sanji kisses Amy again, trailing along her jawline with an unmistakable urgency.

“Mon amour,” he pleads, “laisse-moi te montrer ce que tu m’inspires…” [Let me show you what you inspire in me...]

“Ho-hold on, lover boy,” Amy gasps, giving the smallest yelp when his hand squeezes a plush asscheek and presses her body against his hardness. “Don’t forget what you came here to do. We don’t—fuck—we don’t waste food.” She pushes against Sanji’s chest and hopes he can see the sympathetic reluctance in her face.

He whimpers. Sanji whimpers, and the sound of it is almost enough to break her resolve; but she knows that if he loved anything in the world more than women, it would be food alone. She presses her forehead to his and a gentle kiss to his nose.

“We don’t waste food.”

If Sanji didn’t know better, he’d think he was dreaming. If he’s dreaming, then woe betide the person who wakes him up, he thinks.

The afternoon sun backlights Amy’s head like a halo, and the breeze through the window causes her brown hair to flutter like a curtain or a sacred veil. Sanji thanks whatever deities are listening—for surely the vision above him is divine in source as well as appearance—for every person before him who fumbled their chance at the privilege that is now his. Hell if he knows what a rejected-princeling-turned-pirate-cook could possibly offer that is worthy of a goddess like this; but he would devote himself to her, be her high priest, beg her to take him as her throne—anything for the heaven in her embrace, if she would only let him.

We don’t waste food.

The reminder nudges Sanji out of his angst, and he grins. “Let’s have those snacks, then, before we get carried away and fill up on something else.”

He gives Amy one more kiss on her lips, chaste yet searing, and lets her go.

The absence of his hand on her waist feels like a loss, until she sits back to reach for the grapes and feels something pressing below her tailbone. She exchanges a knowing smile with the man pinned beneath her, handsome as a demigod.

“You know, if we share those snacks, they’ll be gone faster,” he muses, before dropping his voice even lower. “Then you and I can have our ways with each other.”

“Someone’s eager.” Amy winks and picks up a piece of bruschetta.

“Eager to please you, eager to serve you, eager to feel you in the throes of bliss—yes, I am eager, and you deserve an eager lover, Amy.”

Amy looks stunned. Sanji gestures to the bread slice in her hand.

“Mind telling me how that bruschetta tastes?” he asks. “I used a different combination of cheese and seasoning since we couldn’t find any mozzarella in the last port.”

You deserve an eager lover.

Amy knows this to be true, knows that a lack of sex is better than mediocre sex; but knowing is one thing, and hearing a would-be lover echo the sentiment is another. Not only that: Sanji says it with such conviction, as if pleading with her to believe it too. It's refreshing. Arousing.

So...maybe she leans forward a bit more than necessary when she brings a morsel to Sanji's waiting mouth, and delights in the way his noises of appreciation seem to be as much for the heft of her breasts as for the acidic tang of the diced tomatoes. Maybe she grinds her bottom on his clothed cock just a little when she reaches for another handful of grapes, and smiles with the knowledge that his moaning isn't only for the bursts of sweetness on his tongue. Maybe she is uncommonly thorough when licking the sticky tangerine juice off his fingers.

Entirely at your service.

Maybe I’ll serve you some.

Swimming as their heads are with heady lust, it takes Sanji and Amy by surprise when they find the snack tray empty. They stare at it in silence for a long moment, before—

“Should I, uh—”

“That went more—”

“No, sorry, you go—”

“You go—”

Sanji sits up, laughing, and Amy kneels in front of him, head cocked to one side.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any condoms on you, or know whether Zoro keeps any up here?” Amy asks quietly.

“Hm? I think Mosshead keeps all his in his belt thing; Franky’s shooting blanks and exclusive with Miss Robin, so they don’t need any—”

“Wait, how does Franky know…”

“Apparently the Surgeon of Death also does vasectomies from time to time—wish I’d thought of that the last time we ran into them.”

“Damn. But do you have any?” Amy asks, leaning closer and poking him gently.

Sanji sighs deeply. “Don’t got any rubbers on me, but I keep some in the bunk room…”

“Hmmm, mais je ne peux plus attendre.” With her left hand on his right cheek, Amy pulls Sanji in for a lingering kiss. “J’ai besoin de toi maintenant.” [but I can't wait anymore; I need you now]

“Fuck, Amy,” Sanji groans between hungry, open-mouthed kisses, “how’m I supposed to resist you when you talk to me all sweet like that?” He slides a hand just above the waist of her sarong for emphasis, and cautiously slips a couple fingertips between fabric and skin.

Amy allows her fingernails to lightly scrape his skin as her free hand finds his spine; the hand already on his face threads through his hair. “You’re not supposed to resist me,” she murmurs into his jawline as she pulls his head back to expose his neck. “You’re supposed to forget about that snack tray, forget about our crewmates”—she places a cluster of kisses along his neck—“and enjoy some time alone with your lover—”

Your lover. The words send shivers coursing over Sanji’s skin.

“—just…enjoy yourself for a while.” She looks up at him through half-lidded eyes and allows one hand to drift down to his waistband.

“Well, when you put it like that—merde, ça me sens bien—let me at least put a towel down for us?” Sanji reluctantly extracts himself from Amy, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand when he catches a pout on her lovely face. [that feels good]

“Make it quick, mon amour…vraiment, j’ai besoin de toi…” [truly, I need you]

Sanji pulls a couple towels from a nearby rack, drapes the larger one so that it flows from the bottom step onto the floor, and sets the smaller one beside it. Approaching Amy, he holds a hand out to her with the air of a gentleman at a ball asking a lady to dance. She takes it and pulls herself up to stand in front of him.

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” she asks with an adoring smile.

Sanji cups her face in both of his hands and looks her in the eyes. “We can stop at any time and it won’t cause problems between us, y’know that, right? I want this to be enjoyable for both of us.”

Amy lets her eyes flick down to Sanji’s parted lips before meeting his gaze. “What would really be enjoyable right now is you kissing me…”

“So needy,” he teases, but obliges Amy anyway.

“‘Needy’? The love cook calls me ‘needy’?” she replies with mock outrage. “You’re the one who tricked me into straddling you and got so horny over a simple pet name that you reverted to Celestial!”

Sanji gives her a mischievous smile and another peck. “You stepped into the trap very willingly, though, didn’t you?” Another kiss, lingering a moment, and he adds: “And I know for a fact you loved it when I switched languages.”

“Quoi d’autre peux-tu faire avec ta langue, hmm?” Amy whispers against Sanji’s lips. [What else can you do with your tongue]

“S’il te plaît, chérie,” he whispers in kind, his fingers dancing lightly along one arm as he lifts it to his shoulder, “je peux te démontrer…” [If it please you, I can demonstrate]

Suddenly he bends down, and with a grunt he lifts Amy by her thighs, one on either side of his waist. He sets her down on the towel.

No sooner does Sanji let go of her legs than Amy is on him, gripping his face with both hands and kissing him voraciously. 

“That’s so—ungh—so fucking hot, Sanji,” she moans. “Fuck, you’re strong.”

“You’re not that heavy, are you?” Sanji manages to say between kisses—not that he’s complaining. “Ten stone, twelve?”

“Fourteen last I checked,” Amy murmurs into his chin. “You’re so good at what you do, I’m always hungry for more.”

Sanji chuckles at her double entendre. “Fourteen’s nothin’, long as I let my legs do the work.”

“Definitely the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen.” Amy sucks lightly at the base of Sanji’s neck, and almost erases his train of thought completely.

“Merde—since your own, of course, right?” He places his hands on her knees and ever-so-slowly moves them upward.

“Mmm, naturally,” Amy murmurs, more interested in Sanji’s collarbone.

“Are you even listening right now?” Sanji asks, grinning with amusement as he pulls away. He laughs when Amy makes a whining noise and chases him with her lips.

“Your tongue is doing way too much talking, lover boy. Starting to think maybe you’re all talk.”

Sanji narrows his eyes.

Before Amy has time even to discern anything from his smile, Sanji’s gripping the back of her head in one hand and nudging her mouth open with his tongue. His other hand slides higher along her thighs, tantalizingly close to where she suddenly realizes she needs his touch the most. She moans into Sanji’s hungry mouth, the noise sounding more like a whimper than she would have liked to admit were she clear-minded; but her senses are consumed with him, and she can’t bring herself to care. His appreciative groans are like held notes on a saxophone; he smells of musky cologne and sweat in a way that registers as the essence of virility in the back of her mind; he electrifies her skin with the slightest contact; she can taste fruit and spice on his tongue, and—

“Sanj, there’s something metal in your mouth, is that a piercing or…?”

Amy leans back to peer into Sanji’s grinning mouth, and sure enough, the frenulum is pierced with a horseshoe bar.

She puts her arms around his neck and pulls him close again. “You know, I’d heard you described as having a silver tongue,” she teases, her lips a hair’s breadth from his, “but I didn’t think Nami and Usopp were being serious.”

Sanji kisses her again, delicate and sweet like a meringue. “It’s surgical steel, love, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He chuckles and Amy rolls her eyes fondly.

“Now, why don’t we go back to your talent show?” she suggests.

“A show, hmm? I’ve never tried exhibitionism, but we can talk kinks later, sure.”

“You know what I meant!” Amy laughs, giving Sanji’s shoulder a playful backhand.

“Oh, yes, that’s right: the talent show in which I”—Sanji places one more kiss on Amy’s smiling mouth—“pleasure this lovely lady”—he whispers before kissing behind her ear and sliding his hands to the laces of her top—“with my tongue until she”—loosens the knot holding the halter-neck in place and nips an exposed shoulder, prompting her to buck against him—“begs me to make her cum on my face.” He presses his face into her cleavage, and looks up to gauge her expression. “That one?”

Amy combs a hand through Sanji’s corn-silk hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gasps with something like awe marbled with need. His lust-darkened eyes peering up at her from between her breasts might be the most erotic thing she’s ever seen.

Entirely at your service.

You deserve an eager lover.

“Oh, Sanji…” she sighs and leans back against the bench. “Please, yes, I need it…

“…do I get to serve you after?”

The question is so airy and quiet that Sanji almost doesn’t catch it, occupied as he is with the scent of Amy’s perfume and the solemn task of unbuttoning her from the other side. “What’s that, darling?”

Amy holds his face between her hands and pets his flushed cheeks with her thumbs. “Do I get to return the favor once you’ve made good on those wonderful things you said you want to do to me?”

“You may not need to. I’m pretty, ah, worked up right now—might be that I’ll follow you over the edge when you cum for me.” Sanji kisses her palm and, taking hold of her hand, guides it along the faint trail of hair leading to where he needs her touch the most.

Amy wants to press the question further, but contents herself with pressing her hand to the bulge in Sanji’s shorts. She gasps in wonder at his size and the needy cry that pours from his lips.

“Let’s find out for sure, shall we?” She turns her back to Sanji and lifts her hair out of the way.

Seating himself on the bench beside Amy, Sanji can reach the buttons just fine, but he welcomes the chance to lavish her neck with a flurry of kisses. He smiles against her skin at her giggling, and thinks of how quickly the sound is becoming one of his favorites.

Amy’s breath, already shaking, hitches when she feels her top come loose, and again when Sanji sucks lightly on the skin joining her neck to her shoulders.

“Sanji, please…”

“Shhh, darling, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs as his hands snake over the bare skin of her waist to cover hers in the front. “Your body is so soft, so beautiful. I love it.

“Can…can I just…feel it for a moment first? Explore it, admire it for a bit before I ravish you?” Sanji continues, tracing with his fingers the places that had previously been covered.

“Just as long as your body stays on mine.” Amy sighs dreamily and leans against him, eyes closed, happy to let him fill her senses once again.

There has, historically, been precious little in Sanji’s life that could be described as soft or tender. Such is a hard-working life at sea, to say nothing of what came before his stint on the Orbit; even on such a well-appointed ship as the Thousand Sunny, piracy is piracy, and the oceans swallow the weak. So when something comes Sanji’s way that could be construed as even the vaguest promise of devotion, he has learned to seize it, to enjoy it while he can, before the Blue Mother’s waves inevitably carry it out of reach.

He does not seize Amy, for she is not a pipe dream or a fantasy: she is substantial, in multiple senses of the word, generous in the warm plushness of her body and likewise in the beauty of her soul. He paces himself, like a man who has known starvation followed by plenty; though he does have to take a steadying breath when she sets aside the bralette and turns toward him, now bare-chested. One hand goes to her heartbeat, one to her shoulder, trailing downward and leaving a tingling heat in its wake.

“I want to figure you out, chérie, before I take you apart,” Sanji rasps in Amy’s ear as he engages his haki.

Amy has a hunch she’s in for some of the best sex of her life. Not that she has a great deal of first-hand experience for the love cook to exceed—men did not often stay in her life long enough for attraction to develop—but even if Sanji is as much of a serial womanizer as Nami and Zoro make him out to be, he has already proven attentive and empathetic enough to be above average. It’s not his skill she’s worried about—

The casual flick of a thumb across a now-stiffened nipple jolts Amy back into the moment with a squeal.

“Fuck, Sanji, that feels so good, do it again…”

He obliges, of course he does, and pleasure like an electric shock goes straight to her cunt, suddenly flooded with slick. She arches her back, leaning forward into his touch; and he must have heard the needy impatience in her wordless moan, because he pulls her flush with him and nibbles her ear. 

“Où d’autre, where else do you need me?” Sanji murmurs. “J’ai besoin de te plaîre…” [Where else; I need to please you]

Where doesn’t she need him? Amy wonders. “Everywhere, babe, jus’—fuck—everywhere. My neck, my hands, my tits, need you inside, everywhere.”

Sanji’s face lights up like he’s received the best news of his life, and he kisses her again. 

“As my lady commands.”

As he nibbles at her ear and her neck, Amy can’t resist rolling her hips against him, flush as she is with his hardened abdomen and his cock, and spirits it feels so good—

“Amy, my love,” Sanji pleads, “I don’t want to cum yet, let me do this for you—”

“But Sanji…”

“Amy. Don’t you want me to keep my promise to you?”

He stands and pulls her up as well, and continues: “Don’t you want to find out what my tongue can do? I should think you wouldn’t want the talent show to end so early.”

“Your fingers untying my skirt are giving me a mixed signal,” Amy mutters, though her fingers digging out the knots belie the annoyance in her words.

“I’m going to have you lay back for me, darling,” Sanji says as he folds the sarong, “and I want to have a cushion for your beautiful head.” He holds the garment out to her, and he’s looking at her with such tenderness that she feels something clench in her chest. “Your comfort matters to me.”

“And you feeling good matters to me.”

“Tell you what,” Sanji offers as his hands push gently on Amy’s hips, encouraging her to sit. “I get to taste every part of you, and you get to shower me in praise and ‘good boys’ to your heart’s content. How does that sound?”

“And then I get to play with your cock?” she asks, pouting slightly but positioning herself on the towel nevertheless.

Sanji makes a choked gasp. “Merde, yes, then you can play with my cock.”

“Sounds good to me.” Amy leans back and watches as he hems her in, elbows on either side of her shoulders, powerful legs astride her own.

Sanji takes a deep breath and considers what he learns from his haki. Amy shudders almost imperceptibly with each heaving breath; her eyes, wide and dark, dart between his eyes, his lips, his chest, and occasionally his groin. Her back is arched just enough to not have the steps’ wooden lip pressing into her, or perhaps she means to draw his attention back to her sizeable breasts; and her knees are turned outward, as though readying her legs to cage his lower torso close to her own. She smells of jasmine, sweat, and the spiced tang of arousal, so much arousal. 

He can’t wait to taste her. With no dissonance of thought or feeling in her aura to give him pause, the tasting begins.

He starts, quite naturally, with her mouth: lips that capture his sight whenever she has occasion to wear lipstick, staining his fantasies a pomegranate red; gasps and moans that spill from her like an overturned glass of sparkling wine; the lingering taste of sweet words and peppery olive oil on a tongue seeking out its counterpart to pull him closer. When the cruel need for oxygen forces them to pull apart, Sanji and his own clever tongue find the sensitive spot just behind Amy’s ear that he knows will make her nerves sing—

“SANJI, oh gods!” she cries, sure enough—

“Amy, chérie, would you be very offended if I were to leave a souvenir on your skin?” Sanji asks in a husky voice while he has her ear. “A mark of my passion, so to speak?”

Amy does not answer right away and her frenzied groping stills, but her embrace remains steady, which soothes his unease. She’s considering it, Sanji reminds himself.

Finally, she caresses his cheek, and he takes the chance to kiss her inner wrist. “Put them in places that can be covered with ease,” she replies decisively. “Whatever…this is”—for the first time since he found her in the crow’s nest Sanji hears a note of apprehension in her voice—“it’s our treasure, and I’d like to enjoy it that way for a bit before making it known to anyone else.

“We may be Straw Hats, but we are still pirates,” Amy continues with a smile returning to her face. “I think we’re allowed to be a little cagey about our hidden treasure.”

Whatever this is. Our hidden treasure. Sanji feels something shift in him at Amy’s words—not a jarring shift like a fall or a sudden change of perspective, but a shift like the changing of plans or steering a vessel in a new direction. A shift like soil making way for growing roots.

In the meantime, Sanji’s cock is twitching at the prospect of marking this woman as his, and again with the thrill of keeping a secret. “Such an angel,” he groans into her neck, “such a privilege just to touch you.”

Such a dangerous business, this whole falling-in-love thing, Amy thinks to herself. No, she’s not in love, not with one of the most notorious flirts on the Grand Line, even if he does look like he belongs on a magazine cover instead of a pirate vessel. Even if she isn’t merely imagining the heartbroken look on his face at the words ‘whatever this is’. Even if he is the most caring lover she’s ever had—because that’s just the thing: he does love generously, he loves in defiance of the sire he left behind, he loves and he loves and it would be selfish of her to want some part of it to be hers alone, wouldn’t it? No, she’s not in love with Sanji, but the cliff’s edge is right there, and the call of the void is strong.

“Chérie, have I lost you again? Is everything alright?”

Sanji’s handsome, smiling face is hovering above her chest again. Amy runs her fingers through his hair—he closes his eyes and hums at the sensation—and tucks it behind his ear.

“I was just…distracted by your beauty.” She smiles and winks.

“Using my own lines on me, are you?” Sanji growls in mock annoyance.

“What?! I’m just learning from the best.”

“Flatterer.”

“Clearly flattery works, or else you wouldn’t be straddling a mostly-naked woman right now.” Amy begins to drag one foot along Sanji’s leg for emphasis.

In lieu of an answer, he shudders and trails a finger along the side of one breast, which he lifts toward his mouth. While Amy lets her head fall back against the improvised cushion, he mouths at one pebbled areola with relish and strokes the other with a firm thumb, basking in her babbled praises over the next several minutes.

“That feels so, so good, darling, so good…

“Gods, your tongue is incredible—yes, just like that!”

“Oh, fuck—could let you do just this to me for hours…”

…and Sanji thinks, feeling the way she bucks and tenses under his caresses, he’d be willing to do it, too, his own erection be damned, if he didn’t think muscle cramps on his part would put a damper on her pleasure. If nothing else happens between him and Amy, he could at least go for months touching himself just to this memory.

Mercifully, the sound of a soft chuckle interrupts Sanji’s anxious thoughts before they have a chance to spiral. He leaves off the sucking motion of his tongue and looks into Amy’s half-lidded eyes. “Chérie?” he inquires tentatively.

She again combs his hair back with her fingers, still smiling. “It just struck me as funny, the way you looked like a boy licking his first ice cream cone of the summer.”

Sanji stares a moment before spluttering with indignation. “And what is a man supposed to look like as he is worshiping at his lady’s breasts?” 

Unfortunately, this serves only to make the lady in question laugh harder, albeit with fondness, and touch her forehead to his.

“I don’t know, I don’t know! It felt so good, but when I opened my eyes, there you were, swirling your tongue like you were afraid of letting your mint chocolate chip melt—”

“Melt?!” Sanji echoes, still playfully indignant. “Oh, I’ll make you melt—”

—to which end he pushes Amy back down and renews his ministrations with a vengeance, licking and sucking and nipping the sensitive buds, and tickling her sides. His hands slide lower and lower along her hips until he’s teasing the skin just above her panties; and when she makes no move to bat his hand away, he dips two fingers into the heat of her folds.

Amy never knew sex could be so fun.

Well, no, that’s not quite true; she’s long known, in an intellectual sort of way, that feeling safe and relaxed emotionally is conducive to both having fun and to having good sex. But the wisdom gleaned from others feels like an understatement compared to the euphoria and the anticipation suffusing her right now.

“You—” she pants, smiling, “you’re as good as your word, ah-aren’t you?”

Sanji releases a reddened nipple with a lewd smack.  “And you, love, have been melting for a while already, haven’t you?” He runs a finger along her slit, grinning wickedly at her wetness. 

“Oh fuck, Sanji, keep—keep doing that…”

“Tell me, Amy, is all of this for me?” Sanji all but purrs. Her pussy clenches at the sight of him licking her slick off of his hand and she whimpers.

A whimper is not enough for him: his fingers tease her clit, dancing around but never touching it. He flicks a nipple with his tongue. “I need words, ma chère…” he says.

Amy does not have words, though. There is nothing in Amy’s world save her body, and Sanji’s touch, and pure sensation.

“Answer me,” Sanji insists in a rumbled voice; and when he hears no answer but more wordless whimpering, he bites on Amy’s nipple and strokes her clit at the same time.

“Fuck! SANJI!” she screams, mustering the last two words in her brain as her world turns from pure sensation to white-hot ecstasy.

Likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated, especially if somehow I fucked up post formatting or my French grammar LOL

[katareyoudrilling]

The Sweepstakes: Marcus Pike (Porn Star AU)

Pairing: Porn Star Marcus Pike x Female Reader

Summary: Feeling down about your dating life, you take a chance and enter to win a night with a porn star.  Will it be as good as you imagine?

Word count: ~3.5k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only. NO MINORS)

Content Warnings: Unprotected PiV (paperwork is involved), oral sex (m and f receiving)

A/N: This thot invaded my brain over the weekend and wouldn’t let me go, so I sat down this morning and wrote it.  I’ve never written this much in one day.  I guess I was inspired! The company mentioned is heavily inspired by Bellesa and the nickname comes from one of their videos.  This is unbeta’d. I hope you enjoy!

Comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated!

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Taglist – link in my bio and on my Masterlist

You won.

What the fuck?

Your entire body flushes with heat.  Adrenaline tingles in your chest and behind your knees.  Your hands tremble.

You never expected to win.

You remember the night you filled out the form.  You were wine-drunk after another disappointing date with a guy from the apps.  You’d had a string of them.  One you liked well enough to go home with and have mediocre sex.  It takes time, you told yourself.  You liked him enough that you’d give him another try, only he went radio silent.  So much for him.

No wonder you decided to throw caution to the wind and enter the sweepstakes.

Win a night with a porn star! – sponsored by your favorite site that specializes in porn with a female gaze.  They claim all the orgasms are real, and you believe them.

What would it be like to have sex with someone who does it for a living?  Someone who really knows what he’s doing?

The temptation was too great, so you had clicked the button.

And now you’d won.

A night with a porn star.

You scroll down the informational email, taking in as much as you can in your shocked state.  They reiterate the terms you had agreed to when you first entered, but now they want to know which performer you want to spend your night with.

The choice is easy.

You’ve watched all his videos, even the silly softcore ones where he plays an FBI agent hunting down an art smuggler who is very willing to have sex with him when he catches her.

He’s boyishly handsome.  When he smiles, his eyes crinkle and sparkle.  He looks so friendly and kind… and wow can he fuck.

The women performers he’s paired with are always excited to work with him.  Those who have partnered with him before often tell the off-screen director how much fun they have had with him in the past – how the sex feels so connected with him.

The ones who haven’t worked with him yet talk about his reputation as “the human Hitachi” – a reference to the popular vibrator.

Afterwards, they confirm that it’s an apt nickname.

You check the box next to “Marcus Pike” and click submit.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You arrive at the studio office just before your designated time.  This first visit is to sign various consent forms, talk to the director, and turn in paperwork verifying your sexual history, STI status, and sexual boundaries.  You will come back later for the actual event.

The office is decorated in whites, grays, and pinks.  It soothes your jangled nerves.  If you think too much about it, you know you’ll run back out the door, so you don’t.  You go through each step slightly detached from your body.

The receptionist greets you with a friendly smile and directs you to sit on one of the plush couches while you wait for your appointment.

Only a few minutes later, you are called back into the office to talk with the director, Erin.  She greets you warmly and you sit down in the chair across from her desk.

“How are you? Nervous?” she asks and chuckles when you nod.  “It’s ok, I’m sure I would be too in your shoes, but I promise we are going to take good care of you.”

Your nerves calm slightly as she speaks with you.  She’s just a normal woman in an unusual business.  Her relaxed and professional demeanor gradually allows you to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.

You listen attentively as she talks you through the various consent forms.

“Ok, last one,” Erin places yet another sheet in front of you.  “You have the option of being recorded.  It’s totally up to you.  There won’t be anyone else in the room besides you and Marcus, great choice by the way, but we can set up a few cameras if you think you would like that.  The footage would go home with you, and we would never use it without your permission,” she pauses while you take in the information.  “Just check the box next to the option you’d like.  You can decide afterwards if you’d like our editors to take a pass at it or if you’d prefer to be the only one who ever sees it.”

You stare down at the options on the paper in front of you.  Do you want to be recorded? The rush of arousal that just flooded your pussy says yes.  You only get one night, why not give yourself the option of reliving it?  You check the box indicating you’d like to be recorded and sign your name at the bottom of the form, sliding it back across the desk.

“That’s everything for me,” she places all the papers in a neat stack on her desk and smiles at you.  “You are free for the rest of the afternoon.  Come back here at 7 for the main event.  Wear whatever makes you feel comfortable.  You and Marcus will have as much time as you need to talk and get to know each other before you do your scene.  There’s no rush.  Do you have any questions?”

You should have a million questions, but Erin has been thorough and you’re still not letting yourself think too hard, so you shake your head and stand up from your chair.  Erin leads back out to the waiting room.

“We’ll see you later tonight!” she says as she shakes your hand one last time.

- - - - - - - - -

How many videos have you watched that were filmed in this room?  You look around the simply furnished bedroom in disbelief.  You are actually here.  At the center stands a large comfortable bed, dressed in soft white linens and pillows.  The padded headboard is situated between two windows, the gauzy curtains let in the soft light of the fading sun.  On either side of the bed are nightstands stocked with towels and lube, things that are probably kept out of sight when filming for real, but they are at hand tonight in case you need them.

Cameras have been placed on tripods at a few different places around the room, but no one sits in the chairs beside them.  Lights blink on their fronts indicating they have started recording.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Erin says heading back towards the door, “Marcus will be in in a few minutes.  I’ll be down the hall if you need anything.”

You nod and she leaves.  You take a few calming breaths and sit down on the edge of the bed.  You’d chosen to wear a simple sundress over a new underwear set you picked out special for the occasion.  You smooth the fabric over your legs, drying your damp palms in the process, as you wait for Marcus.

He doesn’t make you wait long, the large doors open, and he enters with a smile.

He’s wearing a soft gray t-shirt and jeans. He’s barefoot and his short brown hair is casually mussed.  Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you stand, and he makes his way over to you.

“Hi, I’m Marcus,” he says.

“I know,” you blurt out.  He chuckles and looks down sheepishly.  “I mean, nice to meet you,” you fumble, embarrassed, then introduce yourself.

“I know,” he responds with a wink and a smile, which you return gratefully.  He’s already setting you at ease.  He gestures for you to sit back down on the bed, lowering himself to sit next to you.

“Erin says she explained everything to you, I just want to reiterate that there’s no rush.  We can talk for a while.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” you stammer.  “I… uhh… do you like working here?” you ask, grasping at the first coherent thought that flits through your head.

“I do,” he smiles.  “I love my job.  I love working with beautiful women, like yourself, and making them feel good.” His eyes trail appreciatively up your body.

Your skin warms at the compliment.

“Can I ask,” he continues, “what prompted you to enter the sweepstakes?”

“Oh, well,” you laugh nervously, “I haven’t had the best luck with men lately and the idea of being with someone who really knows what they’re doing really appealed to me.”

“I see.  You’re in good hands.  Not to brag, but I definitely know what I’m doing.” Marcus’s dark eyes flash.  Heat and want flood your body, burning away the nervousness.

“I bet you don’t have trouble dating.  That is if you’re not married… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be asking.”

“It’s ok,” he chuckles.  “I’m not married, and you’d be surprised.”  He runs a hand through his brown hair.  It looks soft. Soon, you’ll get to touch him and find out.

“I… uhh… I think I’m ready,” you swallow thickly.

“Ok,” he responds.  His deep voice rumbles through your body.  “Can I kiss you?”

You nod as he moves closer to you on the bed. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, drawing Marcus’s eye, before he closes the space between you.

His plush lips are soft on yours as he cups your jaw with his large hand.  He plies you with gentle languid kisses.  Kissing Marcus is like slipping into a warm bath.  You feel yourself melting into him as he eases you back onto the bed.

His mouth moves to explore your jawline and down your neck to your collarbone, leaving goosebumps in its wake.  He draws his nose along your throat on his way back to your mouth, lips firmer now, more insistent.

You can’t help the whimpers that escape your throat.  He responds by delving into your mouth with his tongue. His hands roam down your sides to your legs, fingers inching up under the hem of your dress.

“Is this ok?” he asks, breaking the kiss.  You nod.  He pulls your dress up and you help him draw it over your head.  He pulls his own shirt off at the same time, tossing the garments into a corner.

You’ve watched his videos so many times, but nothing has prepared you for being inches away from this glorious man in the flesh.  His golden skin glints in the fading light.  You admire the breadth of his shoulders and how his body tapers down to his trim waist.  He is not overly muscled, but strong and firm.  His jeans hang low on his hips, hiding the apex of the V that disappears into them.

Your fingers itch to touch him and you realize with a start, that you can.

As he bends back down over you, you run your hands over his warm, smooth skin – down his arms and the planes of his back.  You explore his neck with your mouth as he settles beside you and opens himself to your curiosity, humming contentedly with approval.

You make your way down his chest, touching and licking every hill and valley along the way, until you get to his jeans.  You look up at him, kneeling between his legs, mouth watering.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he smiles and sits up, abdominal muscles flexing with the effort.  “Let’s get you out of this pretty underwear first.”  He reaches around your back and unclasps your lacy bra.  You allow it to fall down your arms without any hesitation.  It feels like the most natural thing in the world to be naked with him.

Marcus’s tongue slips between his lips as he takes in the sight of your bare breasts.  He ducks his head down and pulls one nipple into his mouth.  You gasp and dig your fingers into his broad shoulders to keep yourself steady.

His mouth works you expertly, tugging and sucking in a way that sends jolts of electricity through your body.  His wide palm cups your other breast as he tweaks the nipple between his fingers.

His mouth comes off you with a wet pop.  He drags his lips up your neck then pulls you into a fevered kiss, holding you firmly against his front.  You can feel his erection against your stomach through his jeans and you whimper.

Marcus eases you down to the bed and draws your underwear down your legs.

“Can I taste you?” he rasps, needily.

“Yes,” you breathe.  “But…”

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Marcus pauses his movements, brow furrowed with concern.

“I’m… umm… I’m not as flexible as the women you work with.  I don’t think I can… hold myself... the way they do.”  You chew your bottom lip.

Marcus concern melts away, “That’s ok.  Most of those positions are just for the cameras anyway.  You tell me if anything is uncomfortable and we’ll do something else, ok?”

“Ok,” you reply.

Marcus smiles as he lowers himself between your knees.  He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you shiver.  He works his way down your leg to your center, inhaling deeply as he reaches his target.  He moans appreciatively and the sound sends tingles across your skin.

The first swipe of his tongue through your folds nearly lifts you off the bed, you’re so worked up.  Marcus wraps his arm around your hip and spreads his large hand across your abdomen to hold you down.

“Your pussy is delicious, sweetheart.”

Your breath comes in shallow pants as you look down at the beautiful man between your legs.  He holds your gaze and smirks as he lowers himself back down to your cunt.

He positively devours your pussy.  He sucks and flicks at your clit with his tongue in between long, firm strokes from your entrance to your sensitive bud.  You are reduced to a puddle of whimpers and whines under his ministrations.  You want to watch what he’s doing to you, but the pleasure is overwhelming, and you can’t help but fall back on the bed and bask in it.  His nickname is definitely correct.

He slips two fingers inside you, stroking your upper wall.  Your body shudders and shakes while Marcus watches you with hooded eyes.

“Do you want to come like this?” he asks, as though he doesn’t already know the answer.

“God, yes.  Yes, yes, please yes,” you beg, and he chuckles before sucking your clit into his mouth again.

His warm, wet, firm mouth winds the coil in your belly.  You feel yourself approach the edge of your orgasm and let go.  You’re falling… gasping… shaking… overcome with the pleasure radiating through you.

Marcus continues to stroke you through your climax, watching intently as you come back to yourself.  He draws his fingers out slowly, sucking them into his mouth with a moan, before moving back up the bed next to you.

“Do you need to take a break?”

You shake your head and look over at him, smiling.  “I want to see you.”  The post-orgasm dopamine rush is making you feel brave.

“Absolutely.” Marcus rolls off the edge of the bed and stands, looking down at you.  He unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down, freeing his erection.

You’ve seen his cock so many times, but it’s even better in person.

Thick and slightly curved.  Long but not scarily so.  In a word…

Gorgeous

“Thank you,” he says smiling, eyes crinkling, apparently you said that out loud.

You scoot to the edge of the bed and look up at him, “Can I?”

“Of course.”

You take him in your hand, reveling in the intake of his breath at your touch.  You stroke him from root to tip before dipping your head and retracing your path with your tongue.

“Fuck,” he exhales as you take him in your mouth.

He is heavy and firm on your tongue.  He places his hand on your head, not pushing you to take him deeper than you want but reassuring you that he’s there enjoying this as much as you are.

Your need for him grows with every twist of your hand and suck of your mouth.  When it becomes too much, you pop off and look up at him.

“Will you fuck me now?”

“Yes, please,” he responds, voice heavy with want.  He bends to kiss you again.  Moaning into your mouth as your tongues tangle together needily.  You scoot back to the middle of the bed, and he follows you.

“Do you have any requests?” he asks between kisses.

“You choose, you’re the expert.”

Marcus laughs as he moves between your legs and lines himself up with your entrance.  “Let’s start here.”

He slides his way in slowly, stretching you open.  Your eyes flutter closed as he fully sheathes himself in you.

“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart.”

“So do you,” you manage to choke out as he starts to thrust into you.  Each stroke of his length dragging along your walls and hitting places deep inside you that you didn’t know existed.

He pushes one of your knees up to your chest, opening you up and allowing him to go even deeper.  It’s not uncomfortable with his strong hands supporting you.

“Fuck yes,” you cry out as he repeatedly hits something inside you that curls your toes.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you and suddenly you’re spiraling again, pulsing rhythmically around his cock.

Marcus curses, pulling out of you to bury his face in your pussy, fingers gripping your thigh.  He laps at your fluttering hole as you writhe underneath him.

You’ve barely come down from your high when he urges you to roll over onto your stomach.  He spreads your legs and slides into you as he drapes his long, lean body over yours, pressing you down into the mattress.  His strong arms frame your head as you twist to see him.

He nuzzles into your neck as he slowly drags his cock in and out of your wet heat, building up the pressure in your abdomen yet again.

“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” Marcus whispers in your ear.

“I… yes… please… so good… don’t stop,” you babble.

Marcus trails his nose down the back of your neck, making you shiver, as he continues his unhurried pace, driving you higher and higher but not giving you enough to break.

He pulls out and lifts himself off you.  You whimper at the loss, but he rolls you onto your side and pulls you back into his chest, banding his arm across your ribs.

Wrapped in his embrace, he lifts your top leg and enters you from behind.  He reaches between your legs to stroke your throbbing clit.

You reach behind and grip the back of his head, burying your face in his neck as he fucks you, holding on for dear life.

You’ve never tried for three orgasms on your own, let alone with a partner, but Marcus is quickly bringing you to the brink again.

“Where do you want it,” he pants in your ear.

“On my stomach,” you whine, keening as you get closer and closer to the edge.

He presses and holds your clit as he thrusts hard and quick.  You come again with a silent scream as the force of your orgasm punches the air from your lungs.

Marcus moves from behind you, laying you on your back, to kneel next to you as he strokes himself to completion.  You manage to open your eyes and watch him grit his teeth – tendons standing out in his neck, veins bulging in his forearms – as his spend coats your stomach.  You are so glad you agreed to the recording.

He collapses on the bed next to you, breathing hard.  After a few moments, he reaches over to the nightstand to get a towel and begins gently wiping you clean.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fucking fantastic,” you answer, beaming at the ceiling, still floating in a post-orgasm haze.

“I’m glad,” he chuckles.  “This was really fun.”

“It was. Thank you.”  You both roll on your sides facing each other.

You can’t believe this actually just happened.  You’re expecting to wake up to discover it was all a dream at any moment, but your dreams are never this good.  You smile at Marcus, and he smiles back.

“I’m always hungry after filming, would you like to get something to eat?”  Marcus’s question catches you completely off guard.

“Really? You want to have dinner with me?”  You search his face for any sign that he doesn’t really mean it, but he looks completely sincere.  He has proven to be the kind, open-hearted man you thought – and hoped – he was.

“Yeah, do you like pancakes? There’s a diner I like not too far away.”

“I like pancakes.”  You answer tentatively, not sure what his intention is, but open to spending more time with his lovely man in whatever way he is willing.

“Great, it’s a date,” he winks.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Taglist – in reblog

[ms--lobotomy]

"You know, I've always wondered if things like you bleed."

I'm going to try my hand at pred/prey. The obvious choice would be anyone from the Night Lords, but Misty already wrote two fantastic fics with the concept so I'm going to go with (drumroll...) Sanguinius. Have fun!

---

summary: sanguinius gets hungry 😊

word count: 930

content warnings: pred/prey vibes, consent is kind of dubious, vampire stuff

---

The Red Tear was massive, and it was easy to get lost in. The walls were lined with art pieces done by various Blood Angels, delicately framed with ornate wood pieces. You kept a brisk pace through the flagship, your Remembrancer robes flowing behind you, only glancing at the paintings every so often. Your gaze came upon a painting of the Primarch Sanguinius whose eyes seemed to follow you around the room. You shuddered and continued on your way.

As you made your way through the winding hallway, the crowd thinned. You looked over your shoulder. Nothing but serfs and the odd space marine to be found. He would have made himself very apparent in the crowd; if his inhumanly tall figure wasn't enough, his wings gave him away.

You turned down one of the little hallways branching off of this larger one and scanned for a good place to hide. The paintings were sparser here, and not as well lit. You slowed your pace. There was an unassuming door up ahead. It looked perfect to hide in. So, you approached the door and entered the room.

You slumped against the wall, scanning the room. It must have been some sort of electrical hub, with wires and nodes all around you. It was big enough for a Primarch to fit in, but a hiding spot was a hiding spot. At least, it was until you heard footsteps heavier than any space marine's.

You felt your shoulders tense up as you pressed against the wall of this ugly room. "Did you think you could run forever, darling?" you heard a familiar voice ask from a little ways outside the room. His voice was saccharine sweet. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Don't answer. Don't answer. The footsteps slowed to an agonizing pace. You could hear each one thunk against the ground.

You had time to think. No, you had to think, you couldn't do anything else. Why was he so interested in you? What did you have that others aboard the Red Tear didn't? You had only heard of his rage, you'd only ever had one in-person interaction with him. You were tasked to create a portrait of him before he'd gone into battle one time. He'd looked you up and down, smiled at you, and uttered those damming words.

"You know, I've always wondered if things like you bleed."

You could see his fangs glint while he talked. And you and him stared at each other for a few seconds, before he let out a slight chuckle. "If I were you, I'd run the second you get back on that battleship." He turned away to face his space marines, leaving you to contend with everything.

So you'd hurried your way back onto the battleship, face warm with as many emotions as you could feel at once. Confusion? Fear? Those were normal things to feel about this interaction. But there was something else you couldn't quite put your finger on.

And you hadn't time to think about this further, as the door was all but kicked open by the Primarch Sanguinius. You saw his crazed visage scan the room for you for a split second before his eyes came upon you. You wanted to run, you wanted to try your hand at escaping him, but that feeling you couldn't put your finger on was welling up again. So you froze.

He walked slowly towards you, a satisfied expression on his face. His wings fluttered a little behind him as he walked. When he got to you, he kicked your legs open, and knelt down in front of you. You beheld him, his pallid face perfectly framed with wavy blonde hair. You saw something almost mournful in his eyes. You saw restraint. His breath was hot on your face. You wanted to ask him why, why you, why he was fixated on you out of all of the people on the Red Tear.

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the wall by your head. You balled your hands into fists. "Show me your neck," he commanded. His head was slightly below yours, threatening to meet the top of your chest.

"And..." you trailed off, trying to fit the words to what you wanted to express. "And if I don't, my lord?"

He tightened his grip on your wrists, threatening to leave a bruise. He grit his teeth slightly, his fangs visible again. "Just let me feed," he said, a desperate plea in his voice. "Please?"

"Alright," you relented, exposing your bare neck. His hand left your fist to brush a strand of hair away from your neck. His touch was impossibly light on your skin. You winced as you felt his fangs sink into your flesh, the fists that you had bared reduced to hands twitching about. You felt weak against the wall. His wings enveloped you, threatening to never let go. Just before you felt like you were going to drop to the ground, Sanguinius relented.

You looked down at him. There was a more feral desire in his eyes now, even if the color returned to his cheeks. A little bit of blood poured from the wounds that he had made, but his focus was not there. You felt his eyes roving the contours of your body again, and felt that funny feeling welling up again.

"Anything else I can help you with, my lord?" you asked as you felt a hand go up your robes.

"Just relax," he said as you felt his hand upon your chest.

[valscigarette]

Summary: How it all started for Vox and Val. (Inspired by this beautiful art by @evevsy!)

Tags: Vox/Valentino, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Canon-Typical Everything, PWP that's mostly plot, Repressed Vox, Power Plays, Background Val/Angel, Networking

Warnings: Drinking, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Background Val/Angel and all it entails, Smut.

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed tags/warnings!

WC: 9.7k | AO3

-

One thing Vox cannot be accused of is laziness. He’s given this business twenty years and counting of his afterlife. He brought television, technology, the goddamned golden age to Hell, but his era of growth has finally stalled, leaving his creativity as stagnant as the mosquito-riddled swamps Alastor adores so much.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vox?” 

If he has any hope of competing with radio, he has to come up with something. Soon. No amount of stage lights and sequins will overcome a lack of substance. For the better part of the last week, Vox has run from writer’s rooms to costume shops in a desperate search for any break to the monotony, but nothing has come to him, despite knowing he has the best eye for entertainment in Hell.

“Mr. Vox?” 

One of his assistants, newer but remarkably brave, edges into Vox's field of vision and waits to be acknowledged. As he drums his claws against his desk, their ears twitch with anxious agitation, but whatever courage allows their interruption isn’t enough for them to do more than tremble at the sight.  

“Sir?” They try again. 

“Don't bother me when I'm thinking,” Vox snaps, fully swiveling his chair to face them. “My schedule is clear until seven.”  

The assistant flinches, but takes no steps to leave. Vox flicks his hand in a shooing gesture, giving them an opportunity to rub their two braincells together and fuck off before he makes them. Nothing. Sighing, he turns fully in his chair.  

“Alright,” he sneers, electricity crackling down his antennae and through his hands, “what’s so important?” 

Holding out their clipboard like a shield, they stammer, “Your, um, schedule isn’t actually clear, sir? You’re late for the Rising Stars banquet.” When Vox stands up, they shuffle back. “Not too late, though! Fashionably late. You can definitely pull that off. Do you need a fresh suit?” 

Forgetting about the PR event of the year is almost as embarrassing as having a staff too incompetent to remind him. Tomorrow morning, Vox is going to paint the fucking floors with the blood of everyone except the demon before him.

“Of course I need a fresh fucking suit.” As they leap toward the door, Vox clears his throat. “Something nice, or I’ll feed you to my sharks.” 

“Yes, Mr. Vox. I- I'll be right back.” 

He waves them off before slumping back into his chair. Normally, Vox looks forward to the banquet; he gets to meet with overlords and demons looking for associates, while dumping the glitz and glamor on his audience. If he’s late, he’s already missed the red carpet. No one will ask him who designed his suit, shove a camera into his face for a soundbite, or get distracted by a prettier face mid-interview. Despite how exhausting the affair can be, it’s one of his biggest nights of the year, and he’s blown his entrance. All he has left are the one-on-one pitches, where Vox only has one objective at a time. He should be pissed, if not infuriated, by his own forgetfulness and his employees’ incompetence alike, but after countless hours of fruitless desperation for his next venture, he can barely muster a grimace. 

While he waits for the assistant’s return, he pulls up the guest list on one of his monitors to get an idea of how the evening will go. Most attendees this year are minor overlords with only a few souls under their belts, who should be too starstruck by VoxTek’s invitation to complain about his tardiness. Those who do are worth keeping an eye on. 

Only a few minutes later, the assistant shuffles back into his with a garment bag in their hands and a freshly polished pair of saddle shoes draped around their neck by the laces. At his desk, they unpack Vox’s clothes with practiced efficiency. At least they have taste; the suit they’ve chosen is adorned by reflective silver thread, complimenting the polished tie clip, diamond cufflinks, and starry lapel pin zipped into the accessory pouch of the garment bag. Subtle silver accents on the saddle shoes pull the entire look together.  

“That’s good,” Vox praises, shrugging off his blazer and tossing it toward the secretary. “Classy. You like fashion?” 

They fold and set aside the coat with practiced precision. “I read a lot of magazines.” 

“That's not the question I asked you.” Vox strips away his vest, button-down, and slacks too, careless about where they land in his haste to get redressed. “Do you like it?” Cool silk slides into place like a second skin. He only wears tailored, custom-made pieces these days, and it shows in the perfect fit of the collar to his neck. “Not everyone has the vision...?” Trailing off, Vox realizes he doesn’t know their name. He raises an eyebrow and holds his hand out for the next piece of his outfit, disguising the failure behind the dismissive mask they expect. “You’ll have to remind me, my dear.”

“Stanford. And I guess I’ve always been interested; you can tell a lot about someone from their clothes.” When Stanford hands Vox his tie, they gather the strength to look him in the eyes. “I love working for you, though, Mr. Vox, I promise.” 

The pin, tie-clip, and cufflinks are easy to affix while they bend to help Vox step into his new pair of shoes. “I know.” He glances at the top of Stanford’s head and considers whether the secretary would be worth fucking, if he wasn’t already late to the banquet. Getting some action could jumpstart his circuits enough to come up with an idea. “You’re more useful than the others.” They tie his shoes like it’s the most important task of the day and don’t complain when he uses their shoulder for balance. Vox appreciates the dedication. “If you’ve got dreams, I’ll make ‘em come true, Stanford. You just have to ask, you know?” 

Finally, he affixes his cufflinks and turns away from the secretary. Until he has their soul under contract, he cannot stop another overlord from worming their way into Stanford’s weak mind, and Vox needs someone he can rely on to keep a schedule,

“I’ve got to run,” he says. “Block out time in my calendar for us to talk.” 

At least the banquet is held on the fifth floor of Vox’s tower. Here, his guests enjoy the finest he can offer, from imported booze to five-star cuisine, as they cycle between schmoozing and sizing one another up for a fight. By the time he waltzes in, the social atmosphere is buzzing enough for his arrival to inspire no fanfare.  

Vox snatches a flute of champagne from a passing tray to occupy his hands as he surveys the crowd. Usually, he gives an opening speech to set the tone for the night, and he’s whisked from one conversation to another, but without announcing himself, he’s invisible in a sea of nobodies. He’s nothing.  

His invisibility shatters as a white-furred demon with one black eye—a contracted soul—glides up to Vox and taps their glasses together. “Mr. Vox? I’m a huge fan.” Startled by the squeaking Brooklyn accent, a stark contrast to the pink sweater and heart-stamped body before him, Vox doesn’t respond in time to stop the demon from excitedly shaking his hand. “The fantasies I’ve had about that desk of yours-” 

“And you would be?” Vox interrupts, subtly wiping his palm on his coat when it’s released. He has to play nice; this is a fan, after all. 

Grinning toothily, the demon places his lower set of hands on his hips and frames his face with the upper. “Angel Dust, at your service. I'm Valentino's plus-one.” Angel blows Vox a kiss, then cozies up against his side. “But we’re not exclusive or anything. Not a lotta folks compare to Val, but I bet a stud like you can.” 

“Charming,” Vox drawls. He remembers approving Valentino’s invitation: he owns several clubs and their affiliated brothels, as well as the bodies he fills them with. There’s no doubt in Vox’s mind that Angel is one of Valentino’s whores, sent to butter him up. If he had no standards, it might’ve worked. “Where’s your boss now?” 

Angel’s eyes crinkle at the edges, indiscernible between pleased and distraught. “I’ll introduce you. C’mon, handsome.”  

One of his right hands finds Vox’s waist to guide him through the crowd. At first, Vox thinks it’s part of the flirtation, but when Angel stumbles four times in under a minute, he realizes it’s for support. Ugh. If Valentino’s employee is shitfaced less than an hour into a public event, Vox has low expectations.   

They find Valentino on the balcony, smoking a long cigarette as he flirts with one of Vox’s servers. The overlord is tall, even sprawled out over a wire chair, with four toned arms, two feathery antennae, glittering red eyes, and mile long legs. For several long, humiliating seconds, Vox can’t drag his eyes off the crease of Valentino’s hip, shamelessly displayed by the high slit of his gown, and Vox’s fans spin faster to compensate for the images flashing through his imagination. Only the red smoke streaming from Val’s smirk breaks his flawless image.

“Mr. Vox, this is Valentino.” 

“Please, just Val,” Valentino corrects, cadence slow and smooth like honey. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to tonight; Angie and I love your work. Do you have a few minutes to sit and chat?” 

Vox slides into the seat opposite Valentino and takes a deep breath to collect himself. Saccharine scarlet smoke filtered through his fans still tastes sweeter than maraschino cherries on his tongue as he crosses his legs at the ankle. “Absolutely.” 

“Good. I was afraid you’d be too busy for me.” 

Humility doesn’t fit Val, but his honeyed tone smooths the dissonance almost beyond notice. There’s a performer here, wrapped in fishnet tights and glowing under the gentle golden gleam of the city beyond; Vox understands, for the first time in his afterlife, the appeal of signing over his sou with no pitch necessary. His imagination suffices.  

“Not tonight,” Vox assures. “I’m here to get to know you, your work, your business model-” he ignores Angel’s giggle, “-and find out whether we’d make a good team.” 

Val turns to blow smoke directly into Angel’s face and pat him on the head. “I brought my Angel Dust in case you wanted to sample the merchandise.” Without waiting for Vox’s response, Angel sinks down in the narrow space between Vox and Val’s knees, and turns his sultry gaze toward his boss. Valentino’s orders are the only ones that matter. “He headlines all my clubs, one each night of the week.” None of Vox’s underlings are that dedicated. “Or, if he’s not to your liking, I can call one of my girls?” 

“I’m not interested in your, ahem, dancers, Val.” 

“Right. My mistake,” Valentino hums. He flicks the toe of his boot into Angel’s ribs, sending him scuttering away from Vox’s personal space after the second rejection. “You’re old fashioned, Voxxy, I can respect that. I’ve got something for everyone though, you know.” 

The pet name should make Vox’s skin crawl, too diminutive and familiar for their first conversation, but all he can think about is how pretty it sounds in Val’s voice. “I’m familiar with your brand. Voxtek does your security cameras, as I recall, but we don’t have an official partnership on the books; was that your decision or mine?” 

“I was a small outfit at the time,” Val says by way of explanation, “but those cameras are what helped me grow.” He leans forward and whispers, “I’ve got an idea that could make us both richer than fucking Lucifer.” 

Judging by the pearls elegantly strung around Valentino’s throat and collarbone, he’s as rich as Vox already, if not more so. His power ought to feel more threatening than intoxicating. Perhaps he’s the answer. Val’s allure, beyond the souls he commands, could make for a formidable addition to the network’s cast. It would buy Vox time, if nothing else. 

“Tell me about this idea of yours.” 

“Now, I know your brand is squeaky clean, but we are in Hell.” 

“I try to reach as broad an audience as possible,” Vox defends. The less offensive, the more palatable, his content, the greater his viewership will be- a simple truth of television. “I’m the default, babe. Every television in this city comes with my channels included.” 

Val nods slowly. “Yes, I understand, but do you want to know how I bought six new clubs in the last month?” 

When Vox approved the invite list, he only owned three in total. His first thought is that Valentino has somehow contracted the previous owners and taken their businesses as spoils, but that wouldn’t be interesting; it wouldn’t warrant a question dangled like bait in front of Vox’s face.  

“By all means,” he says.  

“Hmm.” Val considers him, eyes narrowed as he ashes his cigarette over the balcony railing. “Promise your head won’t explode?” 

“I promise,” Vox answers, trying to place why he doesn’t find Valentino near as frustrating as he should, despite a more salacious demeanor than Angel Dust and a smile like he wants to eat Vox alive.   

Leaning in, Val glances to each side as if to ensure their conversation remains private. One of his antennae bends to brush Vox’s and stiffens with the static charge, but no pain distorts his expression. “Ever since you introduced playback to your cameras, I’ve been selling the tapes to my Johns. They’ll pay as much for the video as they do for ass.” 

Vox recoils. “You’re making porn.” 

“I’m making films.” His discomfort spurs Valentino on. “Imagine how much money we’d make with a real studio, your nice cameras, a couple billboards... sex sells, amor, and we could sell a lot.” 

When he tries to think about it, Vox pictures the feedback he’d get. Killjoy would resign the second he brings Valentino in, and half the girls in hair and makeup would follow her. Audience letters would pile to the ceilings in the mail room with complaints as his televisions are smashed and discarded in the streets. Alastor would eviscerate him. To attach himself to Valentino could take apart everything he’s built in a matter of days. 

“I’m just saying,” Val sing-songs, “you might be fucking celibate, but most of us need to get our rocks off somehow. If we mass-market my films, we can sell them at a lower price to the poor souls who can’t afford to touch.” 

“It’s still porn.” 

“What’s the big deal? You’ve never picked up a filthy magazine?” On his next drag, Valentino blows the smoke directly at Vox, clouding over his visual sensors before his fans absorb it and flood his mind with the sweet vapor’s taste again. “Follow the money.” 

Angel stumbles back inside for another drink, but in the seconds the door is open, a wave of warmth and noise from the banquet brings Vox back to his senses. As Val knows, it’s about the money, but he doesn’t realize how temperamental an audience the size of Vox’s can be when he fails to meet their standards. Clean is good; clean is marketable. Furrowed brows and subtle flinches follow Angel’s path through the party like an omen of the mess Valentino would make of the company, given a chance.  

“I’ll throw some funds at your project,” Vox concedes, “as long as you keep my name out of it. You can have better cameras for a twenty percent cut. Make it thirty, and I’ll give you mics and lights, too.” 

Val’s inviting grin sharpens, claws of one hand gouging the table as he clings to the flirtatious persona he arrived with. “You must be an idiot. Or you think I am.” 

“You can take or leave my offer, Valentino.” Vox’s head spins when he stands, despite only drinking half of his champagne, and he grips the back of his chair for balance lest he fall over the balcony with Val’s smoke. “Enjoy the rest of the banquet.” 

Slowly, Vox makes his way back inside without incident, and evades Angel’s sight line until he finds a new guest to evaluate. He peruses the crowd, shaking hands and making unmemorable pleasantries with those who don’t need any more persuasion than the night of luxury he’s provided. Their offers will roll into his inbox like the morning paper tomorrow. Really, the guests filled with excitement or ennui are the ones who need his attention the most, Valentino being the former; Vox finds the latter in an overlord spread out on his couch as she mutters complaints to a black-eyed frog demon. Target acquired. 

After straightening his tie, Vox sidles up to her and perches on the arm of the couch with a deep enough lean to brush her shiny pink hair. “Hello,” he coos. “Love the dress, darling, the red brings out your eye.” When she looks up at him, unimpressed, he holds out his hand. “I’m Vox.” 

“I know who you are, alright.” Her clipped accent is more irritating than Angel’s, and she doesn’t shake his hand, but he recognizes her name when she introduces herself as “Cherri Bomb.” 

“The seductress with the best explosives in Pentagram City—other than Carmilla’s, of course—what an honor to have you here.” When a quick once-over shows her glass to be empty, Vox snaps his fingers at the nearest server. “Can I get you anything?” 

“Does your fancy bar serve tequila?” 

The server scurries off without needing to be told. “While we wait for your drink, talk to me: tell me your story. What brought you here?” 

“Free food and booze,” she answers immediately, as though the answer has been on the tip of her tongue since he approached her, and rolls her eyes at Vox’s subsequent forced laugh. “Honestly didn’t think we’d talk. You seem a little... put together, compared to my kinda fun.” 

“So I keep hearing.” He spares a second to remember how Valentino had phrased it, with more affectionate condescension than open disdain, though it should irritate him as much. She isn’t entirely dissimilar to Val; both have made their names in sex, in being so irresistible that they collect souls in exchange for their touch, in leaving their property bruised by bite marks and their enemies blown to bits. Cherri, however, rotates through her boyfriends with little fanfare, discarding them aside from the occasional booty-call once another pursuit distracts her. As for those who betray her, threaten her harem, or provide any vaguely reasonable excuse, she decimates them with her namesake. Whether they work together or not, Vox gets the sense he would prefer to remain in her good graces. 

“What you should know about VoxTek, my dear Cherri, it’s that everyone loves us, and sinners don’t know how to love something without wanting to destroy it. Our security is great, but I like to stay on the cutting edge of innovation. Your talent with improvised weaponry interests me.” 

Right on time, the server arrives with a crystal glass of tequila, top shelf, for her. As she takes the first decadent sip, Vox delivers his offer.  

“Imagine what you could do with my resources,” he tells her. Cherri looks at him over her drink, which she’s not savoring so much as sipping between sighs, with her single eyebrow asymmetrically raised. He brightens his screen and allows the slightest swirl to creep into his magnified left eye. “You could have all the tequila you want, for starters. Trust me.” 

For a split second, he has her. She lowers the glass, mouth agape and pupil slowly spinning, but it clears the moment he stops speaking, and she punches his arm. “Don’t ever fucking try that with me again, you smarmy cunt,” she snaps as he fights to maintain his balance and keep the pain off his screen. He must fail, because she smirks triumphantly before adding, “I’m not working with a bitch like you.” 

Vox might kill her for that if they weren’t at a public event. He tucks the fantasy away as a background process, immaterial to his current goal of shoring up the company until he has an idea, to focus on the benefits of a business partner courageous enough to punch him on his own turf.  

“Surely there’s something you want?” he plies, rubbing the sting from his arm.  “Name your price.” 

After shooting the rest of her drink, Cherri nods toward the balcony. “You’ve met Val?” 

Vox cannot resist turning to look. Through the narrow windows, he can see one of Valentino’s hands gesticulating wildly, the shimmery brim of his hat, and a segment of his right calf. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough. When he looks to Cherri again, the excited sparks of his antennae reflecting from her eye, she huffs.  

“I’ll take that as a yes.” The sharp tone of her voice has Vox ordering another drink for them both. She drums her fingers against the outside of her glass impatiently as he does, but allows him to finish before continuing. “Listen. The only thing I want that I can’t get myself with enough elbow grease is his contract with Angel Dust.” 

“Huh.” If Vox considers Angel from an aesthetic viewpoint, he sees the appeal; in reality, the mere thought of intimacy with such a used soul makes him want to break out in hives. “Did Val steal him from you, or…?” he asks, disguising his curiosity under a blase tone.  

This time, he sees the blow coming, and dodges Cherri’s fist. “It’s not like that, dickhead. Angie’s my friend, and Val...” she hesitates for the first time. Vox stays silent, waiting for her to continue rather than upsetting the vulnerability he’s finally coaxed from her. “Valentino has the worst fucking vibes I’ve ever seen. I may not know for sure what goes on behind closed doors, but I have a pretty good idea. So.” When she goes for another sip of tequila and remembers her glass is empty, she tosses it onto the cushion next to her and fishes a tiny baggie of white powder from her cleavage. “If you want me to work with you, or whatever, that’s my condition.” 

“I can’t interfere in another Overlord’s affairs,” Vox hedges, watching her pour a jagged line on the back of her hand and snort it, “but if you were an associate of mine, I could put in a good word on your behalf. Maybe redirect Val’s temper to spare your friend?” He has a crisp salesman’s smile in place when she finishes her line. 

She laughs dryly. “Good luck trying to tell him what to do.”  

“Well then.” He stands smoothly, reaching for the server whose arrival he hadn’t noticed until his hand bumped their tray to get his fresh champagne. “If you’d like to talk realistic terms, darling, have your people contact mine.” 

He wins a scowl from her before leaving her side, a small victory, but once he’s sure she can no longer see him, he sighs and scrubs a hand down his screen. Two pitches into the night, and Vox has nothing to show for it besides a low-level buzz. Given how long it’s been since he made progress in any aspect of the business, the fear that he’s losing his touch grumbles through his gut. Time marches on without Hell on Earth, bringing new technology and slang and ideas, and no matter how well he understands the basic principles of entertainment, he finds himself floundering to keep up with the demands of the recently dead. How Alastor maintains such a strong audience without any variety to his programming, Vox will never know.  

Still, the banquet has hours to go, and he has countless other guests to speak with. He strikes a deal with a snuff photographer to join his magazine department, hires an assorted handful of overlords for additional security, contracts a puppy-like actress newly dead and still mourning her celebrity, and nurses his way through what likely amounts to an entire bottle of champagne over the course of the evening. Other small, petty conversations fill the gaps between his victories. Little by little, his guests filter out, until Vox’s underlings begin to rouse the over-intoxicated demons scattered across the room. 

Cherri Bomb is long gone, but when Vox takes inventory of the hall, he catches sight of Angel, surreptitiously sneaking a bottle of wine under his arm as he returns to the balcony. Vox shouldn’t be surprised Val and his pet haven’t left, but the idea that Valentino is waiting to speak to him again makes his heart skip in an otherwise inexplicable way. Picking his way over the trash and general mess left behind by the banquet, he runs his hands down his clothes to smooth away as many wrinkles as possible; his job for the night isn’t over yet.  

He steps onto the balcony with a megawatt grin. “Val! Glad you’re still here. Did you have time to think about my offer?” 

Over the course of the evening, what Vox assumed to be a red cloak has unfolded into a beautiful set of wings, spread behind Valentino like a velvety curtain. His immediate desire to touch them is so strong that his hand twitches at his side before he reigns himself in and meets Val’s bright gaze.  

“I did,” Val says. He takes a leisurely drag of his cigarette, and reaches to take the wine from Angel as smoke trails from his lips. “Run home now, Angel-baby; Daddy has some business to attend to.” 

Angel casts Vox a sidelong glance. “But-” 

“Angel.” The single hissed word drips with deadly sweetness. “I’ll be there before you know it.” 

“Yeah, I uh, I’m sorry, Val.” As he speaks, Angel backs away from Valentino, reaching for the door with his upper hands, hugging himself with the lower; Cherri was right that Vox doesn’t need to see behind closed doors to know this song and dance like the back of his hand. His parents, his colleagues, his marriage, half of Hell, have lived out the cliche, and while Vox has moved beyond the need for such unsophisticated techniques, there’s an old-fashioned charm to Valentino’s brusque methodology. 

Now that Angel is gone, Vox realizes how much space Val takes up, whether he means to or not. Those lanky limbs occupy half the terrace in his sprawl, his wings cut off the area behind him, and his smoke carpets the ground in a thick layer. With one of Val’s feet propped up on the chair opposite him, Vox’s only option to sit is on the table, precariously close to the deep vee of Valentino’s neckline.  

“Sorry about him,” Val says dismissively, flicking one of his wrists toward the window, “I let his leash get too loose tonight.” 

Despite Val’s apparent hope, Vox hasn’t forgotten whose idea it was for Angel to come onto him. It was a stab in the dark. He can respect making a move, but the assumption he would sink so low still stings. “Hey, no problem. I know how contracts are.” He hops onto the table, gripping its edge when it wobbles as if it would help, should his seat tip. “Doesn’t help when he’s so fucked up, he can’t walk a straight line.” 

“His talents don’t require much walking.”  Val bites the cork off his wine bottle and spits it to the floor. Before drinking, his wily tongue cleans spillage from the neck with practiced ease, and his unbroken eye contact suggests the skill is useful in more situations than this.  

“I have an image to maintain,” Vox insists. When Val offers him the wine, he figures another drink won’t hurt. Sickly sweet remnants of Valentino’s spit coat the lip of the bottle like syrup, as rich in color as the smoke and impossible not to swallow, tingling down his throat and into his stomach. He passes the bottle back. “My days are long enough without cleaning up after your sluts.” 

“You wouldn’t have to. We can hire people for that, once my films make us filthy rich.” 

Valentino has a point there, but Vox can’t get past the idea; he kept his public persona clean in life and has done the same in death, with enough success to never want for material goods. His pursuit for more power, more fame, more money, just more, has yet to lead him astray, but this feels like the last line left uncrossed and Vox is surprisingly hesitant to traverse it.  

“Bottom line here, you’ve heard my offer. I’m not risking everything I’ve built on your word alone. Get me some real evidence a studio would succeed, and I’ll think about it,” he decides. The next time Val offers the wine, Vox barely notices the sultry taste when it burns the whole way down like a stronger liquor. “As we are,” he adds, “I think my terms are more than generous.” 

After drinking, he wipes his screen on the back of his hand and comes away sappy with Valentino’s drool. Lighter in color than blood but less reflective, it reminds him of the slick oil running through his own veins, and when he looks to Val again, more drips from the corner of his mouth in wildly alluring twin trails.  

“You’re thinking too big, baby,” Val simpers, reeling Vox in with a loose curl of two fingers. “God doesn’t care what you do in Hell. I’m sure you’ve done worse than bankroll a little filth, no?” 

Worse is subjective, but Vox doubts Val can be convinced as such. “It’s about ratings-” 

“Ratings? Your ratings will go through the roof if you-” 

“Val!” Vox snaps. As he closes the last couple inches between them, his screen flashes to full brightness and the hypnotic swirl of his eye reflects back in Valentino’s glassy gaze, shutting down the argument in its tracks. “Do not fucking interrupt me.” 

“Oh, Voxxy, I’m sorry,” he purrs, entirely unapologetic, “I just want you to see things my way.” The inch of hazy air between them is charged with Vox’s static and Val’s smoke in equal measure, already claustrophobic before Valentino raises his wings around them and takes the end of Vox’s tie in one hand, his waist in another, and his substances in the final two. “Can I make it up to you somehow?” He strokes the fine silk between two gloved fingers, angling the tie in a way that both tugs Vox's neck and turns his mirror-finished tie clip the same brilliant red as the sky.  

The moment Vox tries to stand, his legs nearly fold under him, and he has no choice but to throw an arm around Val’s shoulders for balance. “You don’t have anything I want,” he insists, despite the way his heart sings at the feel of lean muscle beneath downy purple fur. “Doesn’t matter how popular you think it'd be; I know my audience. Do you want my help or not?” 

“I want a partnership.” Their bodies are already so entangled that when Valentino draws him closer, his pearl necklaces press into Vox’s chest through his suit, on the verge of uncomfortable as they dig bruises in between his body and Val’s. “We could rule Hell, you know. The only demographic you haven’t cornered is mine, and all I need is your reach.” 

“My ex-wife already tried that pitch,” Vox grumbles, “and dying didn’t get me out of alimony.” 

 Val raises his cigarette again, nearly burning Vox’s suit on its smoldering end. “Who, Katie? If you’re worried about her, you shouldn’t be; she’s a regular already. Convincing her will be,” he takes a drag of his cigarette, “honestly, easier than you.” 

“Uh-huh.” The next wave of smoke makes Vox’s head spin. He notices too late it’s affecting him, but he needs a deal to buy him time, Val seems unrushed, and he has no reason to fear the overlord before him. Besides- he wants to know what Katie Killjoy is doing in a brothel. “And I suppose Lucifer is a customer as well?” 

“I’m not fucking with you--” Val takes the bait, “--she comes in once a week to peg the everloving shit out of my dancers. Puts ‘em out of commission for a day or two. She’s probably pent up from being married to a prude.” 

“I’m not-” Vox starts, then stops to collect himself. “Just because I’m protective of my brand doesn’t mean I never have sex, Valentino.” 

Silently, Val presses the wine into Vox’s free hand. He turns his head to find space to drink, sips from the bottle, realizes they’ve managed half of it between them already, and allows it to dangle loosely at his side. When he doesn’t look back fast enough, Val tugs his tie sharply to regain his attention.  

Vox’s entire world shrinks to Valentino, the rest of the overcrowded city left outside his soft wings and demanding hands, as Vox searches his slowed processors for a coherent thought. No one, nothing, else matters anymore. Val beats him to the punch, growling, “Do you want to prove it, gorgeous?” with the smugness of someone who’s been waiting all night to put their offer on the table, confident it will be accepted.

Well, Vox did figure an orgasm would help him think. As easy as it would be to refuse the obvious bait, he doesn’t want to jeopardize the sparks Val makes him feel, like he’s alive again for the first time since he died. This can be a one night stand; Vox can have Val without compromising his brand with an investment in porn. Maybe letting loose for one night will be enough.

“It won’t get you a studio,” Vox warns, the arm around Valentino’s shoulders retracting enough to trail his hand down Val’s exposed back. “You don’t get shit for this; I don’t fuck hookers.” 

“Whatever you say,” answers Val, and then he kisses him.  

In the decades since death, Vox has only been kissed a handful of times, and still hasn’t gotten the hang of it. His screen doesn’t allow for lips, but Val finds his mouth well enough and seems more interested in feeding Vox his sweet tasting saliva straight from the source than actually making out with him. He allows himself a fraction of a second to miss real kissing. Then Val relieves him of the wine bottle, which allows him to finally touch the tantalizing stretch of Val’s waist and pull his hips closer.  

On their feet like this, closing that distance breaks the kiss and reminds Vox he only comes up to Val’s shoulders. The disparity makes him feel queasy, alone as they are, but he shoves it down in favor of slipping his hand into the slit of Val’s dress and squeezes his bare ass. 

“The wings will cover us enough,” he murmurs, “so long as you can stay quiet.” 

“Worry about yourself.” Val nudges Vox’s coat off his shoulders, pausing to undo his cufflinks, then focuses on unbuckling his belt. His four hands mean he’s everywhere at once, touching in too many places for Vox to keep track of and slowly driving him insane. “You’re a top?” he asks, winding Vox’s tie around his hand like a slowly tightening leash.  

Although Vox manages a laugh, it comes out high and glitched. “I certainly don’t fucking bottom.” 

“I’ll fix that another time,” Val hisses, kissing Vox again to distract him from questioning the response, too overwhelming for him to process anything beyond the touch. Back to seductive, he strokes the side of Vox’s screen, thumbing red drool from its corner and reaching down the waistband of his boxers simultaneously. “How are we doing this?” 

Vox knows the tables and chairs won’t hold them both, nor are they sturdy enough not to tip over while he fucks Valentino. He considers the floor and has a moment of clarity in which he processes that he’s about to have sex on the very public balcony of his tower, on a floor low enough for passersby to see, if any sinners are still on their way out the door. 

“On your back, on the ground,” he decides, “and put out the damn cigarette.” 

“Boo,” Val whines coyly, but still opens his wings to grind it out on the railing. 

He takes two steps back, trailing his fingertips along Vox’s body until he can’t reach anymore in a display that makes Vox feel cold without him. Bastard. But as Val sinks to the floor, the performer in him shines through the slow drop to his knees, followed by a languid lean back. His wings flare out as his legs fall open enough for his obscenely short skirt to ride up his waist. Preening under Vox’s attention, Val cushions his head with one arm and begins to touch himself with his lower two hands. One strokes his cock, half-hard and pink at the tip, while the other disappears behind it and comes back glittering with slick.  

“I don’t do sloppy seconds, either,” Vox says, despite his feet staying rooted to the floor when he means to walk away. 

Val drags one leg up, bending at the knee to give him a better view. “Perk of being a sex demon: I don’t need help getting wet.” 

“Guess that makes it easier.” To buy himself a few extra seconds to gather his bearings, Vox rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and tugs his belt out of place. This, Val, is too easy for his liking, and yet here he is with any reservations relegated to his subconscious processing and an aching desire to fuck Val so hard, he takes the offer Vox made him earlier in the night. “You need anything,” he asks, lowering himself to the unforgiving concrete, “or are you good? Not gonna cry on me or some shit like that?” 

A dreamy chuckle escapes Val as he nudges Vox’s ribs with his knee. “Don’t flatter yourself, baby.” 

“Fuck you,” Vox bites back. “I’m trying to be nice,” 

Val licks his lips and says, “You really don’t have to.” 

When Vox unzips his fly and shucks down his slacks and boxers, the cold night air reminds him where they are, and he pinches the edge of Valentino’s wing between his thumb and forefinger. “Cover, Val,” he reminds dryly, I'm not an exhibitionist.” He lets go in time for Val to envelop them once more, silencing everything besides the two of them. The slightest touch to Val’s soft thighs guides them, up and out of the way for Vox to scoot into position before they wrap around his waist and stiletto heels bite into the small of Vox’s back.  

As soon as Vox gets a hand on himself, the first proper touch he’s had all evening, any remnants of his self-control dissipate with a sharp crackle between his antennae. Val makes a displeased sound and snatches his wrist away. His narrow fingers, still wrapped by gloves and damp with his own juices, give Vox a few perfunctory strokes before guiding him perfectly into place.  

Valentino is soaked for him, practically blooming for Vox’s touch, like they’re the original sinners realizing what their bodies are capable of for the first time. His pants are halfway down his legs, but he doesn’t need more to push into Val. A full body shudder rolls through Valentino’s body, culminating in a squeeze that short-circuits a couple minor connections in Vox’s processor and has him collapsing face-first into Val’s chest. 

“Fucking shit,” Vox hisses. “Do that again, Val.” 

“Give me a reason,” Val chuckles. There are at least two hands on Vox right now, possibly two hundred for how overwhelming he finds them, skimming his frame so thoroughly that he wonders whether Val is making a tactile mental map. “You can get to work anytime, amorcito, I don’t mind.” 

Vox doesn’t have the presence of mind to both retort and move. He chooses the latter. After a shaky inhale to steady himself, he braces himself with his hands on Valentino’s hips, and hopes Val won’t complain before he can bruise the imprint of his palms and discover how deep he has to dig his claws to draw blood. Truthfully, it’s been months since Vox has gotten to fuck something besides his hand, longer still since his last affair with another overlord, but this shouldn’t steal his tongue as it does. He sets a slow, steady rhythm for his own benefit rather than Val’s; his ego couldn’t take a premature finish, and if Val thinks anything of it, he’s kind enough not to criticize. 

Instead, he cups the corner of Vox’s screen in one hand to direct his gaze down at where they’re joined. “See how hard you make me? And how wet?” It's obscene, the way Vox disappears inside him over and over, each thrust spilling Valentino’s pink-tinted fluids between them. “You know, if you weren’t already so big, I’d hire you. No gag reflex, that slutty little waist-” 

“Shut up,” Vox groans, shuffling forward on his knees until he physically can’t get closer to Val, barely thrusting so much as shallowly grinding into him because it feels like anything more would fry his motherboard. “I’m already fucking you, you’re not getting- shit,” his lower stomach brushes against Val’s knuckles on the hand around his dick, and it shouldn’t make Vox stutter, “-you’re not getting anything else from me.” His ability to think, already compromised from the booze and Val’s smoke, is melting faster by the second. “Don’t have to flatter me.” 

Part of him hates how composed Valentino is in comparison, but some long-suppressed corner of Vox’s mind revels in finding someone who can hold it together when he’s unable, despite this entire situation being Val’s fault to begin with. The conflict crosses wires somewhere and turns from frustration to another reason he can’t get away from the decadent oasis that is Valentino spread out beneath him.  

“Would you rather have me degrade you? I can do that, easily,” Val says, “just let me know.” 

“I want you to be fucking quiet,” hisses Vox in return, the swirls in his eye competing with color-blocked interference on his screen. He can have his eyes and ears all over Pentagram City, but evidently, fucking another overlord while trying to hypnotize them is too much of a strain on his intoxicated system, and Valentino only laughs at his attempt. 

“Aww, poor thing,” Val teases, his voice as syrupy sweet as his kisses had been. “You know, this would be easier if you let me take care of you, Voxxy. I promise it’ll be worth it.” 

If Vox could reach Val’s throat, his face, he might have a fighting chance of shutting him up, but the longer Vox kneels between his legs, barely fucking him, the more he realizes that it doesn’t matter how they arrange themselves; Val has the upper hand. This is his specialty. Vox is out of his depth, has been since the moment he sat on the table, but it’s too late to back out now.  

“You are the expert,” he mutters to himself, not quietly enough to escape Val’s notice. 

“Exactly, amorcito, I’m the expert, and you...” Valentino pinches the side of his screen condescendingly, “are extremely repressed. Let Daddy handle it, hmm?” 

“I’m not calling you that.” 

“But you’re going to let me make you feel good?” Val presses. 

Vox knows better than to hand over what little control he still has of the situation, he really does, but something about Val makes it feel like the first time again: he’s out of his depth, virginal in comparison to a man whose job is sex. All the queasy nerves are the same. And here, trapped in Valentino’s grasp, he can practically taste how good it could be if he lets go of the reins. 

“Sure, whatever.” 

“Good.” As Valentino’s grin stretches so wide it splits his face in half, he seizes Vox with all four arms and flips them over effortlessly, tightening around him in a way that fully blues-out Vox’s screen and wrenches a distorted whine through his speakers. “You have security cameras out here, right, baby?” he purrs. Something that ought to be fear twists around Vox’s heart and makes his dick twitch inside Val. “In full color, I bet.” 

“Fucking- obviously,” Vox manages to grit out, struggling to pull words together when Val is over him, on top of him, all around him, like more of a god than he’s ever worshipped, “I have every inch of the tower covered. Why?” 

Val pins him in place with all four arms, bending until their faces are inches apart. “Because tomorrow, when you miss me, you can watch the tape back,” he sighs. Finally, he begins to move with both the leverage and the self-control to properly fuck himself on Vox’s cock. His rhythm is slow but punishing, dropping down hard enough to make a dull smack each time his ass hits Vox’s clothed thighs. “After you jerk off, you can get back to me about my proposal.” 

“So that’s your angle,” Vox accuses, barely able to form the words between the huffs of air punched out of him with every thrust.

Then, Val kisses the rest of Vox’s words from his lips, flooding his tongue with more drool that washes the thought from his mind. He’s sampling the product, as Valentino intended from the beginning, and though he loathes to admit it, Vox can’t recall sex feeling this good in the entirety of his life or death. Realizing it, processing how much better Val is than he could have imagined, makes his hips jerk uselessly under Valentino’s weight.  

He’s lost in the cherry perfume clinging to Val’s skin, utterly pinned like an insect beneath a demon who, earlier in the day, Vox would be recalcitrant to touch beyond formality’s demands. He’s weak. And he knows it, Val knows it, his employees would know it if they opened the balcony door, the world could know it if they’re not careful- it would be too easy for Vox’s pristine reputation to disintegrate. The stink of the streets is only four floors down and Val could cast him out with a snap of his fingers.  

“It’s a shame you won’t bottom, you know,” Val chatters on after breaking the kiss, indifferent to his effect on Vox. “I’d ruin every other cock for you, like how right now, I’m making sure no other pussy will ever compare.” 

His taste still lingers on Vox’s teeth when he asks, “D’you need to talk to get off? Is that it?” He tests the strength of Val’s hold, finding it absolute. “Full of yourself, huh, Val?” 

“Full of you.” The correction comes with a circle of Val’s hips, squealing feedback from his system and a humiliating urgency to the need building within him. “If you want to touch, all you have to do is ask, and-” Val licks his teeth, “I don’t care if you’re gentle.” 

“Fuck off,” Vox says, automatic like the electricity sparkling between his antenna, his heart pounding like he’s done a kilo of cocaine. “You wanted to do the work, fine. Do it.” He won’t beg.  

One of Val’s hands abandons Vox’s waist for his dick, curling around it picture-perfect, angled so Vox can imagine the beauty of a foreshortened camera shot. Between the marigold lights and their bounce off Val’s carmine wings, his cock is a work of art, and the corner of Vox’s mind that’s always thinking of business sees the marketability in an adonis like Valentino, especially when his slender, practiced fingers coax a pearly bead of precum from its rosy tip. He snaps a screenshot of the sight.  

“So, you like being held down. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” 

Val sets a rhythm that rocks him between his own hand and Vox’s dick, in turn causing him to almost pulse around Vox in a pattern better than any high-tech toy or two-buck slut, and the sticky mess between them begins to cling to his dress ruinously. He must know how stunning he looks, how intoxicating he feels, when he seems more smug than surprised by the continued stream of garbled, static sounds Vox hardly recognizes as his own.  He’d give anything for this feeling to never end—though he knows it will any minute—and for a single, sick, second, he imagines this to be how Valentino ensnares the souls under his command.  

“Are you going to come for me, baby?” Val asks, as if it’s written on Vox’s screen. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to last.”  

“I’m-” Vox’s protest dies before he speaks it, every wire crossed and capacitor sparking with the overwhelming combination of input. His soul is Valentino’s for the minute it takes him to orgasm. Everything is Val. His hands. His thighs. His tongue. His wings. His cock. His pussy. It’s all him, and Vox cannot fathom a more infinite bliss than filling him up with useless, compulsive thrusts that make Val gasp more than once. 

“That looked fun,” drawls Val, still riding with steady rocks of his hips despite the way it tips Vox past his peak, “but I’m not finished. Be good for Daddy a little longer, ‘kay?” 

Valentino seems aware that Vox is too fucked out to argue, perhaps prefers it, and doesn’t pause for a response before guiding one of Vox’s slack hands to his dick and grinding against it. The light above them shatters with the intensity of Vox’s overstimulation. His entire system devotes itself to differentiating pain and pleasure but still cannot make sense of it.  

“Almost there, amor, you’re perfect.” Val clenches so tightly around Vox that he bluescreens again, his muscles seizing with a zap of electricity that Val must feel, judging by the hiccoughed moan that rumbles from his throat and the subtle frizz of his short fur. “Fuck, we’re going to have fun together.” 

When Val finishes, his cum is the palest shade of rosy pink, exaggeratedly plentiful as it splashes up Vox’s shirt, neck, and screen. Vox doesn’t have the wherewithal to be upset, be anything besides overwhelmed, until Val gracefully stands and smiles down at him. Ten feet feels like a hundred; Vox is an ant, about to be crushed under Val’s shiny patent heels, and he can’t find it in himself to get out of the way. 

“Enjoy the tape, Vox. Call me.” 

Just like that, he’s gone, inside on his way back to street level, leaving Vox a mess on the floor with his fly down and his mind scattered. He solves the first problem immediately, then searches the walls for the telltale glint of a camera lens. It has to be somewhere. There are at least four on this balcony, and if Vox had half a mind, he wouldn’t need to hunt for them at all. By the time he figures it out, what he’s just done is beginning to sink in like a bad high.  

Disappearing into the circuits to reform in his command center saps the rest of Vox’s energy. He falls into his chair like a doll with its strings cut. The cool air refreshes his overheated systems even as it feels frigid to the warm ghosts of Valentino’s hands all over him. A hard reboot would shake the jitters, but he can’t leave footage of himself and Val in the archives for a moment longer than strictly necessary. There’s still work to be done. 

He pages the good assistant—Stanford—and prays that they haven’t gone home for the night yet. Vox doesn’t make the schedules himself anymore, nor does he care to keep track of the shifts so long as he has someone around the clock. They arrive in a record 96 seconds, out of breath but alert, eyes wide and focused on Vox like he’s the center of their universe.  

“You needed me, Mr. Vox?” they say, slowly lowering their clipboard when they realize how haphazardly he occupies his chair. “Are you- is everything okay?” 

“Fucking dandy, my dear. Listen, I’ve got a couple errands for you to run, discreetly if you can manage it.” 

They open their mouth as if to argue, but think the better of it when Vox raises an eyebrow at them. He tries not to imagine how he must look, a disaster with a few pesky errors still affecting his screen every so often and spit-stains all over his button-down from Val’s careless tongue. 

Vox lifts his index finger and begins, “First, I want the footage from the security cameras on the fifth floor. Every fucking one. Inside, outside, every corner of every room. Got that?” He pauses for Stanford to jot this down, nodding vigorously, before raising a second finger. “Then, get me a change of clothes, a pot of coffee, and a brick of cocaine, in no particular order.” Without stimulants he won’t be able to trudge through the tapes. 

“Yes sir, right away,” Stanford agrees, finishing the to-do list with a flourish of their ballpoint pen.  

Once they disappear, Vox folds his arms atop his desk and rests his screen on them. He’s woozy, sleepy, too fucked up to worry about much beyond making sure no one ever sees the recording of him and Val. It was stupid to sleep with him and Vox will hate himself for it in the morning, he knows, but he can’t find it in himself to regret his moment of weakness yet.  

He distracts himself with a rerun on one of the many screens at his terminal: a sitcom, the first he produced himself, still airing overnight to profit off its small but dedicated fanbase. Color television was new to Hell then, though the novelty had begun to wear off on Earth, and it shows in the garish shades Vox cringes at as much as the choppy writing. Nonetheless, it sucks him in with its simplicity for an episode and a half before his doors swish open with Stanford’s return. 

“Your coffee,” they place a full, steaming pot on his desk, alongside his favorite ‘Fuck Alastor’ mug, “and your coke.” As Vox pours his coffee, they unfold a pair of sweatpants and a striped tee shirt from the crook of their arm. “I brought you something comfortable, since it’s late; I’ll come back with a suit before breakfast.” The back of their hand brushes his arm as they reach into their pocket for a VCR tape. “And here’s today’s CCTV from the fifth floor. Is that everything?” 

Vox takes the tape. Its hard plastic digs into his fingertips and he realizes how easy it would be to simply destroy it. This is the only copy, and if he never watches it, he could pretend the whole evening never happened. Nothing has to change.  

“I want your opinion on something as a loyal VoxTek customer.”  From the corner of Vox’s vision, Stanford shifts their weight and glances back at the door. “No right or wrong answer here, don’t worry.” When they step back, Vox reels his trademark smile onto his face. He doesn’t know if he has the energy to force an answer. “Do you like our current image?” 

“I- uh, definitely, it- it’s perfect, Mr. Vox, I love it-” 

He sighs. “Yeah, I get that. Is it important, do you think, that we keep our broadcasts clean?” 

While they mull his question over, Vox ducks under his desk to find the VCR slot. The faint glow of his screen barely lights the way, but he finds it quickly enough to avoid making a fool of himself- not that his assistant would dare to comment.  

“I’m thinking about expanding our portfolio,” he explains as he returns to his chair. “Maybe a new channel, so it doesn’t interrupt regular programming.” Instead of clearing his mind, the caffeine just burns Valentino's imprint deeper into his servers; Vox needs to see him again, more than he needs air, and a partnership would guarantee it. “Any thoughts? Or is that too complicated for you?” 

Stanford pushes their glasses up their nose. “Our viewers are loyal, sir, and... I think they’d give anything a chance, if you made it. I know I would.” 

They toe the line between flattery and honesty well, enough of a tremor in their voice that Vox can almost taste their fear of having the wrong opinion. Life on earth was similarly filled with sycophants, but if he surrounds himself with yes-men, he’ll never have a wall to bounce the shitty ideas off of. In the back of his mind, he wonders whether Val would be honest: if he would send Vox back to the drawing board, or if he’d prop him up through the failures. Relying on someone could be nice.

Then Vox remembers he’s thinking about Val, the moth demon dripping aphrodisiacs from his lips as he spins promises equal parts invigorating and appalling, and he has to consciously remind himself not to make this into more than it is. He can align his business with Valentino, for profit alone, but it doesn’t mean he will ever experience Val’s manipulative, magnificent touch again.  

“Well, off you go,” Vox chirps, spinning his chair to the side. “Remember to clear space for us to talk, and oh-” he waits for the click of Stanford’s pen, “Get an appointment with that club owner, Valentino, on the books next week.” 

“Yes, Mr. Vox. Have a good night!” 

He listens to Stanford’s feet patter away and waits for his door to clang shut before he pulls the CCTV footage up on his screens, scattering the dozens of feeds so that he can see each grainy black and white image. He scans through them, from the hallways to the conference rooms to the bars, until he finds the three cameras from the balcony Val spent the evening on. From there, Vox jumps into the machinery long enough to wind the tapes faster, spinning through useless hours of setup and chitchat until the image displays him, balanced on the table, his shark-toothed grin not enough to mask how thoroughly Val ensnared him. He knows that once he watches, he won’t have it in himself to refuse Valentino’s proposition. This, more so than allowing Val to touch him in the first place, is the line Vox can never uncross. 

Still, he sparks back to his chair, and settles in against the comfortable leather in front of his screens.