#the glittering basin

[sightseeinglog]

[tremendum]

Mr. Miller

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl)    

rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.)    

word count: 6.8k requested: yes. here and here :) 

summary:  “six months before you ran yourself into any trouble with somebody - that's no easy feat, considering your track record, so you like to call it a win anyways. but boy, talk about a rocky start with someone. Tommy's goddamn brother, no less.”

warnings: Jackson era, mentions of marijuana use, age gap (unspecified), sliiightly dub!con, smut (PiV, unprotected), creampie, overstimulation, pussy spanking, choking, spit kink, slight knife kink (do not look at me), dom!Joel (brat tamer!Joel if you squint), slight sir kink, so much dirty talk, lots of begging, degradation kink, dacryphilia, mean!Joel, this is just shameless smut i am horrible  notes: okay i kind of modified these asks but I thought it’d be fun to write it like this!!! as always reblogs/asks/comments are always great motivations :’) this is not reread because i am INSANE! xoxo

(  read the sequel other Joel fics:     fever       landmines    )

★  

to be completely honest, you never would’ve guessed you’d move to Wyoming. 

of course, in this world you didn't really have much of a choice of where you end up; it was hard to travel, yes, but there was some guiding hand that invisibly pushed you upon Jackson in the middle of a really rough winter. 

a girl, lost and on her own through the dangerous sprawls of what's left of the United States - of course Tommy and Maria had accepted you into the community; you were resourceful, willing, and strong-headed. 

most of Jackson was nice.

the people were good, the community functioned, and you were finally safe - you found a job working partly as a patrolman if an extra hand was needed, but mostly as a gardener.

it was a beautiful basin valley with sprawling mountains that glittered in the snow even during summer. 

you'd only been there for - what, maybe half a year? six months before you ran yourself into any trouble with somebody - that's no easy feat, considering your track record, so you like to call it a win anyways. but boy, talk about a rocky start with someone. 

Tommy's goddamn brother, no less. 

you didn't particularly get off on the correct foot with Joel Miller. when he showed up in town, people were thrown off. you surely understood that - but it was Tommy's brother, and Tommy insisted he would be fine; he and the girl with him had already been 'round Jackson before, leaving just a week or so before you showed up, apparently. 

you'd definitely heard about him. 

coincidentally, you'd actually moved into the house that Tommy had wanted Joel to have; the house that had the spare girl's bedroom which Ellie came through to ravage once they came back into town. (apparently the towels at Joel's were too rough no matter how many times they were washed, and Ellie really liked that Tamagotchi you'd found in the bedroom she once slept in.) 

maybe that'd already put him off, the short time in which Ellie had found company in you. who knows. 

but unfortunately, your first impression of him was muddled by a very real lens of beer-goggles and a long week's aching exhaustion in your brain. he was large, a tall man whose disposition dripped of domineering power; he didn't trust anybody here and by the looks of it, they didn't particularly adore him. he kept to himself besides Tommy -  who unfortunately along with his wife were really your closest comrades in the community. 

you almost felt bad for him, because that's how many people saw you at first. but on that night, you were just drunk enough, as you greeted Maria and Tommy at the bar with smiles and a joke about your libido, that you didn't quite realize that Tommy's big brother Joel was sat there, eyes watching you with a glimmer of something lurking behind the rim of the beer bottle. 

to be fair: everybody in this life is unkind in their first impressions. that's just how the world is now - 'every man for himself' is an unfortunately ugly reality and those who are too soft to see that are rarely spared the gore.

but when Tommy introduces you to Joel with a huff of a laugh and a friendly slap on your shoulder, Joel's eyes are distrusting, judging. he doesn’t say anything to you.

you try not to be offended. 

"pleasure to meet ya, Mr. Miller." you nod with a grin, your cheeks hot with slight intoxication as his large, calloused palm slips into yours. his grip is tight - your wince is covered with your words as you momentarily shoot Maria a look, turning back to the man in front of you.

"I met your girl earlier. stormed into my house like she owned the damn thing. was lookin' for some stuff she'd found last time, I guess. I'm just glad she didn't find my collection of big-girl toys." 

okay. okay, yeah, maybe you are too drunk. Maria laughs, at least, and Tommy lets out a chuckle, eyes flickering to Joel. but he just hums, eyes glancing over you once more before returning to nurse his dark beer with a furrow of his brows. “right.”

and pathetic as it is, he was too damn irresistible; you’d imagined that stare -that brooding scowl- one too many times in the dead of night, hands down your pants or in a stranger’s bed. 

and it hadn't gotten better in the months following. 

it was of circumstances most unfortunate for you that Joel and Ellie moved into a house just a few down from you - as much as you wished to just never see the man and his censorious stare, it was unavoidable. especially when Ellie showed up nearly day-to-day with questions, excuses, or even just complaints of boredom to coax you into letting her inside your house. 

a week or so ago, you’d overheard Tommy in a hushed voice down at the dining hall trying to convince Joel it was a good thing, that Ellie was learning to garden, learning about woman stuff (yes, he actually fucking said that), and - god forbid- make friends. 

but you love Ellie.

she in't like Joel. she’s funny, and lively, and easy-going once you warmed up to her. in fact, you actually started to collect things from around town to show her on her ceremonious visits; books, tattered board games, once you even found a trumpet in the crawlspace of your old house. it was rusty and honestly probably still had dried saliva from whichever fifth-grader played it way back before the outbreak, but it was enough to entertain you and the fifteen-year-old girl for hours even if neither of you knew how to play it. 

and maybe it was after Ellie mentioned to you with a giggle that Joel complains about you calling him ‘Mr. Miller,’ or maybe it was when she said he’d always ask about you and what you’re like whenever she returned from your days together. 

no matter what the catalyst really was, you just know you have it bad for that man, in the worst way - because he is a fucking asshole. 

but the worst of it was when Joel and you get paired up to patrol together on the outskirts. it means hours together of breathing and awkward looks, silence from you because he was silent and clearly wanted nothing to do with you. 

you suffered through hours of Joel’s rugged sageness for survival, tugging you effortlessly through boulders, lifting yourselves high through dilapidated structures in the middle of the wilderness. he was strong and capable and fucking sexy, and that made it all the more unbearable when snide comments about your youth or your inexperience or your lack of punctuality would pass his lips. it was annoying how hot it made you. 

as the summer rolled around, the horde was growing ever-present at the lips of Jackson county, festering like the moss that spreads along the woodsy forests in the northwest - hence your increased activity with the others who patrol the area and keep the community safe. 

he was a many of almost no words, and though you were in no way the same when you were around people you trust, the man just brings out the skeptic in you - so for weeks, it was days of the two of you walking in silence, the only noise being weak impasses and jabs at the other’s self-esteem all veiled by a smirk or an eye-roll. 

and still, each day out passed with your untrustworthy gazes pinned on the horizon just as much on each other's trigger fingers.

-- 

you're at your wit's end on one Friday evening as you finally return into town from patrol with him. 

Joel is a man plagued by too many unnamed illnesses; the likes of which you so fondly call in your head 'can't-accept-help-itis' and 'stubborn-old-asshole-luenza.' part of his symptoms render him unable to say full sentences to you without a judgmental look or a skeptical scoff, and sure you're not always the best judge of character, but you're confident that Joel has his eyes on your backside every single time you bend over to move your marker on the trail. he’s thought about it, too. 

but right now, you’re so tense you’re about to snap. 

his gaze hasn't left your profile for - you swear to god - almost thirty fucking minutes. like, nearly the whole walk from the first outpost. he’s been staring at you like you’re a ghost, or a second head sprouted from your neck. 

the heat of the summer night is unsullied; though you’re high in elevation, the warm wind blows a gust over your bare knees and ruffles your hair, coaxing a damp feeling to settle between your thighs under his gaze. 

"if you stare any harder at me, you'll get a fucking nose bleed." you sneer, keeping your eyes ahead as you grit your teeth. his gaze is burning into your side and with your words, they maintain their heat. 

whatever he was thinking, he keeps it to himself. you glare at his own profile, thick thighs, sturdy chest, hair that blows gently in the warm air. his jaw, glinting against the lights that guide you back into town. at least he’s looked away from you. good.

your victorious smirk is wiped off of your lips with his next words, the first in several hours from him besides grunts and directives. "d'you have the logs on you?" 

you look at him with revelation. "shit." you sigh shaking your head, "they're- they're at home." 

his face slides into a look of disdain, deep vexation at the task of now going back with you to your own house to sign the logs and confirm your findings for this patrol. "great." he mutters, feet kicking into gear to hightail it up the street, towards your house. 

the heat is swirling around your legs in the darkening evening as you finally enter your house, sighing into the empty air. the lights flicker when you switch them on, and you'd bring yourself to be more embarrassed about the disheveled state of your things if it had been anyone else with you. 

it doesn’t even matter, after all; his sights are set one one incriminating little piece of evidence in the corner of the living room. 

the small nub that sits on the tray by your windowsill seems to be more salient for Joel than the hurricane that threw your belongings across the space. 

your hands fall onto your hips, sighing as he accusingly lifts it from its ashy grave, eyes furrowed in irritation. your flannel sticks to your sleeves in the heat as his eyes meet yours. 

"is this- 's this marijuana?" he's incredulous as his fingers pinch the burnt-out roach, and you screw your brows at him; is he serious? you ignore the dwarfed look of the small old joint in his large hand, instead rolling your eyes. "yeah, some folks call it weed. you can smoke it and it makes you feel real good. you ever heard of it, Mr. Miller?" you snark, the sarcasm spilling from your lips deliciously; Joel eats it up like a man starved, his jaw ticking as he tilts his head. 

you know he secretly loves when you taunt him with the honorific; yes, it gets on his nerves, but there’s a secret air about him that suggests he likes it that way. it is easier to blur the lines between hate and desire than affection and desire, after all. 

"Ellie comes over here every day." he hisses, eyes sharp. you blink slowly at him, trying to fight the laugh that creeps up your throat; his gaze is dark, furious - did he think you were smoking weed with the girl? she's, like, thirteen. (fifteen, she corrects you in your mind. but still.) 

"that’s correct." you confirm, turning from him to search the kitchen for the log you'd forgotten in your haste to leave. his footsteps ring angry onto the floorboards. "if you're worried about that, I’d never smoke around her. 'm not that disrespectful." you defend, avoiding eye contact as you shuffle through your drawer of junk. 

"doesn’t matter. she won't be coming round much more." he threatens it - tests the waters. as if he has the authority to punish you.

you lift a brow at him, "don’t you think she should be able to make that choice?" you throw back at him, tossing your switchblade onto the table to your right as you sort through the miscellaneous items with both hands. 

uh oh, that struck a nerve in the man. 

his eyes sharpen as he breathes harsh at your words; "don't talk about things you know nothing about, girl." he snaps, crossing his arms, "now find the fucking log so I can leave." 

you glare at him, gesturing in front of you; your eyes scream no shit, Joel, I’m looking. 

it's silent as you search through the drawer, gritting your teeth in the tense silence of anger, thicker than molasses. 

you click your jaw, refusing to let it go, let him think he won. 

"I do have self respect, y'know." you pipe up, lifting a brow as you finally stumble upon the log, pulling a dying pen from the drawer and scribbling notes as you plop down on a wooden chair at your kitchen table.

Joel stays standing; it does not go unnoticed when his eyes take in the contours of your body, the clothes that stick to you in the heat of the summer; a pair of jean shorts, torn from years of use, and a thin tank top, covered with an unbuttoned flannel. his eyes sear into you at your words.

wow. fuck him. 

(no, not like fuck him, but- fuck him.) 

"never said you didn't, darlin'." he mutters condescendingly, the pet name leaving his mouth bitterly. any form of backlash you were going to unleash on his dies in your throat quickly when he leans over your shoulder to sign his own name next to yours. your eyes widen to search his face as his own skim over your account of the patrol. he's- wow, he's closer to you than you would have expected. 

holy shit. smoky swirls of gunpowder, pine, and dark amber whiskey. they fill your nostrils, dizzying your mind as you let out a stuttered breath - it's hot in here... your eyes glance as a small lick of sweat trickles down his neck. your throat is dry, heat swirling in your abdomen as he hums, "jus' think Ellie should start hangin' around with others." 

"why's that?" you snap, daring him to say it. fuck, your heart is pounding in your chest. oh, if he just admits it; that he thinks he's better than you, that he thinks you're pathetic - lord, you yearn for it, you’d have a fucking field day. you want an excuse to hit him. or bite him.

fuck Joel Miller, and- okay, fine. fuck him, too. 

his brows are furrowed as he glares hawkishly at your stubborn form; his gaze is serrated with disdain, jaw clenching with the words you're just begging him to admit.

"she's been cussin' and speaking...vulgar." he mutters, eyes flickering away from you. your jaw unhinges as you huff in surprise; he has the audacity to accuse you for teaching her to be foul-mouthed? hadn't she traveled with him for, what, a year? she’s a teenager - that’s what they do. 

"oh, please." you snap, "that girl was far from a princess when you showed up here, you know." you mutter, tossing a look over your shoulder up at him, the buttons undone at the top of his shirt staring at you, mocking you. 

"I know." he dismisses. his hand falls to stable himself on the back of your chair as he leans down towards you, "but you ain't helping. don't need her gettin' into any more trouble." 

you narrow your eyes, "trouble?" you parrot, accusing. 

the air is warm, thick as you cross your arms, the windows open and flowing the outside summer air into your nostrils. "how could I be trouble? you hardly know me." you snap, offended. you swirl with irritation. 

"because I listen. people think you're harsh. untrustworthy." he spits, smirking down at you as if his words are poison that'll dissolve your whole being into a small puddle of regret. but no, it's gasoline; his words are enough to incite your flames, lick you alive with ardor. 

he doesn't like you? oh, big fucking deal. you don't like him. 

"you ever heard of the pot calling the kettle black, Mr. Miller?" you drawl, lifting an accusatory brow. “what if you’re the bad influence? it’s not like you have any more manners than I do.” 

his jaw sets and his nostrils flare from his sharp exhale; you let your eyes swipe over the splattering of freckles that peek out from under the scruff beard that grows; a scar jags across his skin, frown lines creasing his scowl in a dark, terribly attractive way. you’re tip-toeing a line here, you can feel it. 

he can feel it, too. 

his eyes dip down, though you try hard to hold his heated gaze; they trail slowly over your shoulders and down, down to the dip of your collarbones and then over your breasts, heaving slightly with the proximity of the man. his gaze nearly melts the tank top that stretches over your torso and a flood of excitement rushes through you, pooling in the seat of your underwear. a smirk creeps onto your face at his wandering stare - resentful, loathing, heated. 

something in you snaps, and you can't deal with it any longer; not with his proximity, leaning over your shoulder and staring you down, with half-rolled sleeves. his forearms, they’re thick- goddamn, he's so-

"-I can't tell if you're looking at me like that because you want to kill me, or you want to fuck me." you snap, breaking his spell as you snap his attention back to your own eyes with your bold choice of words. "either way, it'll have to wait. I got shit to do, Mr. Miller, and for some reason, you're still in my house giving me fuck-me-eyes." 

"-you better watch your mouth." he snarls, chest heaving as he leans forward menacingly, his jaw clenched. 

you let yourself smile up at him, "or what, Mr. Miller?" you ask kindly, voice dripping with perfidious innocence. 

he sneers, eyes raking over your form, jaw ticking. your body flushes with warmth under his scrutinous gaze; one of your bare legs slides up to rest on the chair next to you, on full display snd illuminated in the light of the kitchen as you smirk at him. his dark chocolate gaze slides over the skin revealed; your skin tingles in excitement under his watch. it makes you chuckle. 

"what, you don't like the way I speak?" you hiss, glaring at him. "chastising me for shit that you do, too?" you mutter snidely, pulling your leg back down as his eyes glare into yours. "I'm an adult, you can't tell me what to say. fucking hypocrite."

your hand presses into his chest, standing to your full height. his chest is firm, hot, but he lets you do it easily, moving back out of your space; giving you an out, offering you a chance to say this-isn't-what-I-want. but you won't take it. no, instead you slide up closer to him, until you're too close. 

"why so quiet now, Mr. Miller?" you almost purr, your hand still toying with your switchblade, the glint of it reflecting in his eyes. slowly, you lift the blade to trace it gently, softly over his jawline, as you’d do with your fingers. he watches you like a damn hawk, breathing heavy. 

the scratch of it against the facial hair is enough for him to snap; suddenly snatching the blade from between your fingers in one quick motion. 

“you’re testin’ my patience.” he growls, shaking his head as he holds the handle of the knife in an iron-like grip. you shake your head, “yeah, well, you’ve taken all mine.” you counter. “so…” you start, raising a brow at the knife in his hands, the way your legs are turning to putty, “you going to kill me, Mr. Miller? or fuck me?” you whisper it into his ear, up on the tips of your toes as the peppering-gray curls at the base of his ear tickle your lips.

a sharp exhale - almost a surrender. then, a rough hand pushes you down against the table, hard. your body is pliant, willing, excited as his force brings you to thud against the wood, his hand flying down quick just to your right in a loud thud.

your head snaps to your right, eyes wide and jaw open; your switchblade pins your own flannel to the table, stabbed down and holding the material and your arm in place. christ, it barely missed nicking your skin.

“depends on if you can learn some goddamn manners.” he growls, leaning over you, his hips slotting between your thighs.

maybe it’s the look on his face, or just how damn long it’s been since you had someone, or just because it’s Joel – but your facade falls so quick and you’re soon keening up towards him, arching your back so your chest sticks out.

“I’m a fast learner.” you promise; at that, he merely hums, his hips grinding slow over yours. you let your eyes squeeze shut, groaning lightly at the bliss of his rough denim sliding against your shorts-clad cunt, throbbing with desire.

you’re breathless; shivers cascade down your spine at the press of his hips against yours, licking your lips to wet them; “fuck, Joel-“ your breath is strangled, “please. I can be good for you.” you try to convince him, blinking your eyes up at him. his smirk is downright evil as his hands fall to your top, skating over the tops of your breasts before one hand grips your jaw in his large palm, squeezing hard onto your cheeks and forcing you to stare into his eyes.

his grip is unforgiving. “y’think you can jus’ bat those pretty eyes at me?” he sneers, his breath hot and fanning over your face. you’re overheating- god, it’s so fucking hot in your house; your hand raises to grip his forearm, swallowing your pride for the sake for finally getting to feel him inside you, “’m sorry, Joel.” you mutter, cheeks squished by his hand.

his brow furrows, shaking his head. a chastising tutting noise escapes his throat as he rolls his hips, grinding sloooow and smooth against your dripping cunt, aching with desire.

“no, you’re fucking not.” he spits, pushing you harder against the table. your throat is dry, a whimper of desire escaping your throat. his lips brush the shell of your ear as he leans more of his weight on you, your legs wrapping around his hips and your own surging up, up in search for some friction, “say it. say you’re not sorry. you like it, I can tell.”

shivers spill down your spine as you bite back a moan, cheeks alight with heat at his teasing. Your eyes lull over towards the blade that holds down your shoulder, pinning you against the table. a hot rush of arousal floods your underwear as you swallow, eyes rising to meet his in a lidded gaze. 

“I like it,” you admit in a shameful gasp, hand sliding up to explore his chest, “I’m- I’m not sorry. I like it, ‘m not sorry.” you mutter, voice desperate, pathetic; you’re swallowing a whimper as he grinds slowly against you again, his hardened cock straining against his jeans.

 his hand snaps to pin yours down to the edge of the table; your eyes snap up to his, meeting the swirling lust within his deep eyes, searching your face with a dangerous smirk. “you aren’t sorry?” he asks, voice dripping with condescending cockiness.

you shake your head no desperately, searching his eyes to see if he’s pleased.

he smirks at your desperation. "you will be, darlin’." he mutters, his own eyes exploring your chest as it heaves, breasts barely spilling out the top of your tank top’s hem. you smile up at him despite your desperation; hunger curls in your chest as you move your hips up against him and his face falters, a groan escaping his throat. his eyes swirl with the dark shine of a man who is nothing less than dangerous. 

the hand that isn’t pinned by the blade creeps up his arm, brushing the thick cords of muscle that rope his bicep and shoulders; soon, though, one of his hands is gripping your wrist and slamming it down against the edge of the table.

you gasp from the roughness, biting your lip as your fingers curls around the edge and hold tight under his grip.

“don’t move your hands,” he mutters as his lips dip low to trace over the seam of your top, breath brushing over the soft skin of your breasts. “or I’ll leave you here, pinned to this table.”

arousal floods you at his words and you nod silently, swallowing as his teeth bite roughly at your pressure point. “d’you hear me, girl?” he grunts, his hands moving to pull out one of your breasts from your top, your peaked nipple instantly tugged between his prying fingers.

you let out a yelp at the sensation and he huffs against your skin, biting again. “fuck,” you whimper loudly, bucking your hips as your hands grip tight against the edge of the table; one arm is pinned with the knife anyways, but your heart thunders as his tongue peaks out, brushing hot against your sweat-sheened skin.

A hand snakes to your throat and you can’t stop the moan you let out, air sucking through your windpipe at the light grip he keeps; you’re obsessed with how all-consuming he is.

Joel’s everywhere – his smell, his eyes, his hands, tongue – you want him to be inside you, you want him to be in you forever, ever, ever.

fuck Joel Miller. fuck him, and fuck him.

“I asked you something. answer me.” he squeezes your throat as he emphasizes, as he demands you; you buck up against him, convinced you’re soaking through your goddamn shorts, leaving disgusting proof of your sick, twisted arousal as you move against his crotch.

his dominance causes your face to flare with heat; you weren’t expecting him to seduce you into submission - you love it. “y-yes, yes, sir. I he-heard you.” you gasp, face flushing hot as the words leave you. he smirks darkly as he pulls away from you, danger lurking in his eyes deliciously as he nods, seemingly pleased.

he nods. “good.”

his hips are gone from you in an instant and your gasp is choked – but he wastes no time in popping the button on your jeans, sliding them and your underwear off of you in one long motion.

his pupils somehow blow even wider as he stands in front of you, palming his thick cock through his jeans, watching you pant hard.

you’re exposed in front of him – your pussy is swollen with need, pulsing with desire as one of your breasts rests exposed to the air as the knife pins you down by the arm of your flannel; you’re fucking exposed and you love it. he’s intoxicating.

 “you’re soaked.” he says after a moment of silence so long that you barely register his gruff voice. you blink, bringing your eyes back up to his from where he’s begun to undo his belt.

you can’t help the light smirk as you stare up at him, “maybe I happen to like it when you’re vulgar with me.”

he glares at you but there’s a hint of something more that flashes through his eyes; adoration? no, it couldn’t be. Joel Miller can’t adore anything.

but then out of nowhere his fingers delve through your velvet, slippery folds in a fervor; your breath chokes yet again in your lungs as you tense with the sudden stimulation.

a low, guttural moan falls from your lips as the pads of his middle and ring fingers rub tight, slow circles on your clit, “bet you taste so good, don’t you?” he murmurs, his teeth finding purchase upon your neck, sucking a mark so hard you’re sure you’ll have it for weeks. christ. “y’want me to taste you, pretty girl?”

fuck. images flash through your mind of him on his knees, tongue unraveling you, drowning in you while your thighs close around those thick greying curls.

your moan falls from you fast, nodding quick, “yes, yes, please, please, use your mouth.“ your whines are downright embarrassing – you’re not a wide-eyed virgin teen, for fuck’s sake – but Joel’s stirring you just right, making you purr with pleasure.

but instead of his tongue, a harsh swat falls onto your aching cunt and your hips jolt at the stimulation, your clit throbbing and the sting making you groan his name. you can’t help the moan of disappointment.

“well, isn’t that too bad?” he snarls, his voice mean. you feel tears of frustration spring in your eyeline as you huff a sigh, his fingers slowly, torturously moving over your clit yet again. “bet you’d love if I ate your cunt. probably dream about it, don’t ya? d’you think about me when you touch yourself?”

Christ, you’d never expected Joel-don’t-fucking-talk-to-me-Miller to be so fucking dirty; but you learned your lesson last time, so you nod quick, eyes lidded through the euphoric, teasing pleasure from the pads of his fingers.

“all-all the time, J-Joel, fuck, think about you all the time.”

and it’s true.

“that’s right. my slut, thinkin’ about me.” he spits, mouth peppering bites over your throat. “gonna have to make y’cum fast, baby. Maria’s probably waiting for us t’turn in the logs.”

the possession in his voice brings you even further towards the edge, catapulting you, sending you frustratingly close as your body tenses, puckering hole clenching around nothing as he slowly works you.

you nod your head, unable to open your eyes as your legs close around Joel’s fingers; in anger, his hand tears your thighs apart, swatting the soft skin of your thighs in punishment. you yelp at the sting, biting your lip as a new gush of arousal leaks from your neglected hole and drips down onto the table.

fueled by frustration and adrenaline and some desperate fire of attraction that’s been burning between you since he first showed up in Jackson, you nearly scream, “please, fuck me now, Joel, please I’ll do anything-“

his hand leaves his ministrations quick, his glare sharp as his fingers glisten with your desperate arousal; they’re soaked. you feel yourself flush in embarrassment until he smirks darkly, tugging himself out of the confines of his jeans. “there, see? learnin’ some manners.”

his cock is heavy and thick as it slides through your wet, slick folds. your breath, panting out and puffing as you watch in awe. his: stuttering as the tip of his dick notches at your clenching hole, teasing.

“Jesus, you’re trying t-to swallow me, darlin’.” His hand reaches out, grabbing a palm full of your tit as he rocks his hips, once again nudging your leaking hole.

your whole body shivers in anticipation; you will your eyes to not reveal how fucking turned on you are about his size - you’re more wet than you’ve ever been in your life and his cock is - well, it’s thick, long, bigger than you’d like to admit. 

“greedy fuckin’ pussy.” he grunts to himself as you hold yourself as still as possibly, one tear escaping as you your eyes clench shut in desire.

“’m ready, Joel.” you whimper, eyes opening to find his hot gaze already searing through you; he just smirks, nodding slightly. “yeah, bet you are, pretty girl.”

he can’t thrust all the way into you, not fully- his cock is too thick, your cunt slick with arousal but still so goddamn tight. the rumbling moan he lets out as he inches in slowly is fucking heavenly.

a strangled gasp leaves your lips when he starts to slide into you, inch-by-inch, stretching you open and filling you full of him. your fingers twitch at your sides as you yearn to card your fingers through his thick curls; his head falls heavy against your chest as he mutters, “s’tight, baby, fu-fuckin’ tight.”

“so much,” you whimper, fingers tight and shaking as you restrain from grabbing his arms to stabilize himself, “‘s too much.” you mumble, tears stinging. he hums, the ghost of a kiss over your cheek before he’s in your ear, whispering, “am I too big for you, baby? gonna hav’ta work you open on my fingers first next time, yeah?”

his dark grin grows as you nod your head dumbly, “fuck- yeah, yes.” you agree, nodding,

his voice is starting to slur, accent getting thicker as he soon splits you fully, speared and sheathed deep, deep into you. you’re fluttering around him as you accommodate to his size, the feeling of him nearly breaking you open as he starts to shallowly thrust.

you let out a loud moan, his thickness stretching you and sliding deeper than expected, kissing against a spot that has you keening. your toes curl and your head falls back as he pulls out, thrusting back into you slow, grinding, deep.

all you can say is his name; it falls from your lips like it’s the only word you know, his hips soon pistoning into you with fervor, chasing the feeling coiling in your abdomen. 

his hands roam. 

they explore every part of you they can reach, his teeth marking every inch of your throat and painting you into a beautiful piece of art. for him. 

the noise of your pussy swallowing his girth in is downright filthy as it echoes through your kitchen; your head lulls to the side as you let out a languid moan, the spot he's hitting making your eyes roll back. you can feel stray tears leak down your cheeks, hot and heavy as you whimper in desire; you're so goddamn close, already, you know he can feel it. 

“y’gonna-“ he grunts, eyes screwed shut in pleasure as yours leak down your cheeks, body shaking with desire, “-gonna take my cock and say thank you, ‘s that right?”

a shaking rush of arousal just slickens you even more; the sounds of his body rocking into yours wet and loud in the room as you nod frantically, the pleasure coiling dangerously fast. 

but it seems you weren’t quick enough with your response: Joel’s hips slow, then stop completely. 

you’re left gasping, eyes wide as you stare up at him in shock: “wh-why?” you whimper, his pulsing length half out of you, teasing you. 

Joel’s eyes meet your own and he sternly swats your tits, eyes watching as the breast exposed to the air moves in recoil. 

“do you want to cum?” he asks, as if he’s asking what 2 + 2 is. your face fucking burns as you nod, “yes-“ 

but he grunts, hips too agonizingly still as he leans forward, “then take my cock, fuck yourself on it. and use your fuckin’ manners.”

you blink at him, spurring into action only after a very brief short-circuited moment. your hips stutter and shake at the angle, unable to move in a way that stimulates yourself enough to bring you back to the edge.

you shutter, muttering, “th-thank- thank you,” but you can’t do it. you glare at him as you move your hips, hands shaking, muscles straining, but you can tell he’s not pleased: brows drawn, a swat to your exposed breast that stings and spurs your hips quicker.

“come on, this is pathetic.” he snarls, fingers gently pinching your clit. the yelp you let out is dry, starved. “why so quiet now, darlin’?” he throws your own words back at you deliciously. 

he stands stationary, eyes judging you, focused on where your cunt tries to swallow his cock, your movements choppy and weak. tears spring in your eyes; he feels so good, but you just can’t get it right. 

“please.” you nearly whisper it, but it’s exactly what he was looking for. he rocks his hips shallowly, your body rocking gently with the slow, deep force of him splitting you open. 

“please, what?” he whispers into your ear, teeth scraping your jaw. resentment and arousal flows through your veins as you let out a strangles, “please, s-sir-“ 

with the words, Joel’s hips cant up into you, the slight angle making your legs coil and your throat burn. 

“please fuck me, y’feel- I can’t do it, need- you feel so good, fuck me hard, please, I want it.” you let go, begging and desperate to give you what you crave. 

his hips pick up a brutal pace. your back is pounded into the wood below you, the cool blade of the knife cold against your flannel as one of his large hands moves you until your legs are thrown up, over his shoulders.

the stretch is unimaginable and he doesn’t give you any time to adjust; his hips are unforgiving, fucking you open and letting your juices of arousal spill over the skin of your thighs and onto the table. 

“such a foul fuckin’ mouth on you.” he spits, one hand gripping your jaw until it opens for him, your mind clouded with the chase of your highs. 

he spits into your mouth, saliva warm and intoxicating as you swallow it happily, nodding in a daze. “gonna fuck you stupid, aren’t I? you won’t think about anything but me for weeks.” 

he’s right, and he fucking knows it. 

you nod at him, unable to form full words as he hits the spongy, delicious spot inside you that nearly makes you pass out. your hands fucking ache from the grip on the table, but you hope he’s pleased that they haven’t moved a damn inch this whole time; even as he splits you wide open and takes you apart. 

you’re so close you might actually start to sob as the crest of your orgasm tingles your thighs, your toes curling and legs shaking. 

he's close, too. his thrusts are getting slower, sloppier. 

“whose pussy is this?” Joel grunts, his movements soon desperate and deep; his tip kisses your cervix and your body jolts up the table with each movement of his pubic bone against yours.

the pain is fucking euphoric, delicious as you grip the edge of the table so hard you’re unsure they’ll ever relax. his finger pinches your nipple and you yelp, sweat sticking to your forehead, “-y-yours, fuck, Joel- yours, a-always.” you whimper, breathless.

you feel his smile grow against your neck and the butterflies that grow in your chest seem out of place with the bruises that will soon blossom on your skin from his teeth, his fingers.

you smile, too.

"god, you're perfect- f-feel fuckin' perfect around me, baby. need you to cum." as his sentence ends, his head jerks up, one hand rising to grip your jaw tight. your eyes snap to his and the anger boils, festering with the desire and lust within his eyes, "know y'can't help it, can you?" 

you shake your head fiercely as your orgasm nears. he hums deep, a rumble from his chest, “what do you say if you want me to let you cum?” 

fuck. fuckfuckfuck you’re too close- your muddled mind spits a barely cohesive babble of pleads, “please, p-pleaseplease I-I’m sorry I’m sorry-“ 

“you’re sorry?” he presses, hips not giving up; your whole body burns as you wait for your orgasm, knowing in any second it’ll be ruined. “look at those pretty eyes. did y’learn your manners? y’gonna say thank you?” 

you let out a sob of pleasure, his thrusts so deep you can feel them in your throat. “yes, Joel- please- let me cum, please-“ 

his hand slides to your throat. “cum now.” 

you swallow around his grip and let out a near scream of his name as his other hand snakes between you; a finger brushes against your abused clit, the combined stimulation pushing you over the edge. 

you see colors. 

your orgasm explodes as you gush around him, pulsing, begging, unraveling around his touch. your voice is broken, mutters and whimpers of his name followed by thank you, thank you drifting through the room.

your thighs are soaked with your own spend and he feels you grip him like a vice; he can't help but kiss the tears from your cheeks as he milks you through your orgasm, muttering soft grunts in your ear. 

"that's it, baby. there y'go, cum on my dick when i fuckin' tell you to." he kisses the column of your throat as his thrusts slow to deep, long thrusts. "atta girl." 

you scream at his words and the overstimulation. he shushes you, thrusts slow. "'m gonna cum." he sounds almost desperate, his body so close to yours it's almost like he's trying to smother you.

he groans your name in a broken sound; his grip tugging your hair. he moves back, frantic to pull out and ride his high- but you panic. 

"w-wait!" you rush, hands springing without thinking to push his hips hard against yours. you can't bear to imagine him pulling out of you so soon - you need to feel him, be full of him. "cum in me, Joel- I need it, j-just- fuck!" 

his hand slams over your mouth, effectively silencing you with a loud grunt of his own, "shut the fuck up," he growls, sounding too close. “jesus, girl- gonna wake up the whole n-neighborhood-“ but even his shamefully dirty mouth falters when he chases his orgasm.

soon he thrusts shallowly into your pulsing cunt before he's moaning, spurting his seed into you. 

hot, thick ropes of cum paint your walls as you flutter, whimpering as you breathe heavy, hands skittering up his back despite his earlier orders. 

his lips brush over your skin as he lies on you, heavy; "jesus christ." is all he mutters, pulling out of you with a slick sound and tucking himself into his jeans. 

you can only stare at the ceiling, the light above the table you’re laid upon swinging with the residual force of your bodies colliding.

a hand falls in a sharp thud to your right, pulling hard to dislodge the knife from its home against you; the notch it leaves reveals the patrol log; speared in the middle with the evidence of you and Joel's digressions. 

oops.

you're wrecked. you're a trembling frame of a structure after the hurricane of Joel Miller took threw you, stripping you to your bare bones. a ghost of lips over the inside skin of your knees as they fall, weak, off of his shoulders. and then he stares at you as you shakily sit up, setting your clothes right, swallowing on a raw throat. 

“‘m sorry about the flannel.” he gestures to the rip in your arm where the knife had pinned you down and something about it makes you chuckle, smoothing down your hair. “are you- are you okay?” he asks suddenly, hard eyes looking almost soft under the glow of the lamplight.

he hands you your underwear and jeans and helps you slide back into them in a surprisingly sweet turn of events.

“more than okay, christ. if you make me cum like that again you can do anything you want to my clothes.” you wink with a deep breath, smiling gently at him when he helps you stand back up on shaky legs. he actually sends you a half-smirk at that, and it flutters along your chest. 

the nighttime air is not so suffocating as you and Joel make your way towards Maria, his hand grazing over the small of your back as you walk on Jell-o legs, faces flushed and sweat slicking to your skin.

it’s awkward.

“I-” he starts, swallowing air as you stare up at him. sweat trickles from his brow and you itch to trace it with your tongue. 

“I actually think you’re not too bad,” he finishes, turning to walk up the steps to Tommy and Maria’s. you blink, heat fluttering in your chest as he admits, but soon whirls around to ensure you hear him, “for Ellie. just- don’t do that shit around her, right?” he clarifies.

you grin at his reddened cheeks as he tucks the log into the box set near the door, filing it under the western outpost for the date. 

“yes, Mr. Miller.” you mock-salute him, smirking to yourself as his flush deepens, the scowl ever-present on his face softening slightly at your smile. 

“christ.” he shakes his head, “you’re gonna get me into a lot of trouble.” you don’t miss the smile that creeps on his face as he starts to walk you back home. 

--

read part 2

requests open

--

[antiquitiesandlabyrinths]

Hatshepsut’s Red Temple, currently presiding in Luxor, in the Karnak Temple Complex. Although never finished and deconstructed after the end of Hatshepsut’s reign, it has been rebuilt now; at least what remains of it. It’s rather small and has no roof now, but the basalt basin shows clearly its’ purifying uses, as in the back exit, small canals were built into the steps to let water run off. The red stone of the temple shrine glitters in the sun, outlined by rich black doorways.

[ruiniel]

Sorry you’re sick! 💕 if I’m too late no worries, & no worries if this isn’t a good suggestion (been feeling very uncreative recently)

But any fluffy hc’s of Adrian with a reader who’s really affectionate?

(😭cuz I just wanna give him a hug)

You're never too late 🖤 thank you for this, needed something soft...

(these are all SFW and might add more to the post as ideas come, or make a follow up post. If you or anyone want a NSFW version of any of these, just pop into my ask box!)

◈ If you pad into a room and find him slumped in his chair, unresponsive as he sometimes gets, your first impulse is to leave him be, trying to give him space. Still, it comes difficult to just turn and leave. Minutes later you'll hear knocking at the door of your chambers; he'll be standing there, with his shoulder propped against the door frame and a gaze filled with silent longing. If you hug him then and there, he'll respond with no hesitation, mumbling the question in your hair: why did you leave? He'll apologize for his states, and smile when you say it's nothing, because who can keep their inner struggles bottled up all of the time? There is no need for masks between you.

◈ Sitting in bed together, Adrian sprawled on his back with his head resting in your lap, telling you how warm and good you feel, that you're his home. He'll sigh, content, lashes fluttering lazily as you play with his disheveled hair, as you lean to place shallow kisses on his lips from time to time, just because you can. Some are soft nibbles, others are nips and licks and you do this until his eyes glitter with pleasure and his skin is blushed down to his scarred chest. No words, just you and him, sharing each other's warmth.

◈ Mornings are early or late, depending on what you each have to work on, but you often awaken with his arm around your waist, his nose nuzzling the nape of your neck. If you move, you're getting dragged right back into him, tighter than before, with whispers of 'A few more minutes...'

◈ He cooks for you when he can. He loves it, finds the process soothing, and thinks fondly of your little praises once you savor the meal together. You're usually there, asking questions, dropping the flour, hugging him when he least expects it. He wouldn't trade such moments for the world.

◈ You sometimes have a glass of wine too many; usually it's an occasion, one where you both had plans which, of course, never happen since now Adrian's carrying you up to bed, himself tipsy and listening to all those little nothings you share in a slurred voice, rubbing your cheek against his chest. Sometimes those words make him blush and clear his throat. He's patiently tucking you in, even with you tugging clumsily at the lacing of his shirt, dragging him down for a kiss and arching your body into him. 'Tomorrow, dear. Tomorrow, I promise,' he'll say, red as a beet and with half a mind to give in to your drunken request, before disentangling himself from your weak grasp and pulling a blanket playfully over your head. He does return, later, however, snuggling beside you when you're fast asleep.

◈ When his past returns to haunt, he'll sometimes have nightmares, straining up so suddenly you'll wake from your own slumber. If you sit up in bed and call his name, he'll turn to stare at you with a gaze so lost your heart will ache in your chest. At a silent invitation, your arms extended towards him, he'll curl up to you. He'll hug your middle, press his face into your side, clinging to you until the ghosts fade.

◈ Sitting by the bath basin wrapped in nothing but a towel, washing his hair. You enjoy it and so does he, you're attuned by now to the soft moans that leave his throat as you massage careful circles along his scalp. He marvels at how good you are, how tension dissipates from him at your touch. And you love lathering those dark gold strands, running soapy fingers down his skin, over the muscles rippling beneath. Sometimes, he'll turn to look at you in a way that quickens your heart and next you know you're being lifted and placed snugly in his lap in the bath, skin slippery against his, his long hands traveling up and down your back until you fall against his chest, purring, he says, like a kitten.

◈ That's what he calls you, by the way. You're his kitten and he's your wolf, and some of the most thrilling words you'll ever hear from him will be when his eyes are glazed over and his stare is languorous as he lounges in an armchair. His voice, a meld of need and demand. 'Come here, kitten.' He leaves you breathless when he acts that way, and you always go, loving the way black swallows the gold in his irises the closer you are.

[shadowdaddies]

Hello there, could i request Rowaelin x reader who is a germophobe and always fussing about keeping things clean and organized. And when Rowen comes back from mission's covered in dirt and blood reader is always there to make sure he gets cleaned properly ( despite the fact that hes a grown male).

Hope you have a good day/night

thank you, I hope you have a great day as well!💜

Come Clean

poly!Rowaelin x Reader

Warnings: very suggestive towards the end

The front door creaked open, your shriek piercing the air at the sight of the large fae male standing in the threshold. He paused, foot hanging above the floor as green eyes darted to where you were seated.

“Rowan Whitethorn, don’t you dare enter this house with those muddy boots on!” You scolded, quickly striding across the room to kneel in front of where he stood. He released an exasperated sigh, leaning against the frame as he allowed you to untie his boots and toss them outside. 

A gasp sounded from behind you, Aelin clicking her tongue as she shook her head at Rowan. A smirk played on her lips as she teased, “Rowan, how could you possibly think to enter this house with shoes on?”

You whipped your head around to see her clutching her chest in mock horror, the smugness fading slightly as you shot her a glare. 

“Excuse me for trying to keep the blood and dirt out of this home,” you muttered, shaking your head as you walked towards the sink. Grabbing a washcloth, you looked back towards Rowan, eyes studying his dirtied form. 

“Do you have any injuries?” you asked, voice laced with concern as you wetted the washcloth in the basin. Rowan’s eyes softened, shining like glittering emeralds as he smiled at you in admiration. 

“No, I’m alright. None if this blood is mine,” he reassured you. Your nose scrunched slightly at the thought of strangers’ blood being tracked across your clean floors, but you managed to push that concern aside to focus on Rowan. 

You lightly cupped his cheek, bringing the washcloth to gently clean the dirt from his face. His arms wrapped around you, warm hands secure on your hips as he pulled you closer.

“Rowan! Ugh, now I need a bath, too,” you grumbled, frowning at the dirt he’d spread on your dress.

Aelin laughed from where she stood. “I’ll go draw a bath for you, Row,” she called, turning as she set off for the bathroom.

Rowan smirked down at you, hunger in his gaze as he lowered his head, lips brushing your own. “Good. We can take that bath together,” he murmured, lips moving to nip at your ear.

Gasping at his touch, you lightly pushed Rowan away, shaking your head at his antics. “I am NOT getting in that tub with you all filthy like this. We’re getting these clothes off of you, and you can take a long bath. Alone.”

Rowan hummed, interlocking his fingers through yours as he led you towards the bathroom with him. “Well, I have no problem with you taking my clothes off,” he retorted with a wink.

Aelin rolled her eyes at him from where she stood by the tub. “You can take off your own clothes, Buzzard.” Her gaze flicked to where you stood in the doorframe, tongue flicking out over her lips as she looked at your soiled dress. 

“I’ll be sure to help our girl change into some clean clothes of her own. After I take those off of her, of course.” Aelin flashed Rowan a devilish grin, her arm wrapping possessively around your waist as she guided you from the bathroom. 

Grabbing the door handle, you gave Rowan a wink as Aelin began untying the laces of your dress. “You’d better hurry up and get clean, Row, if you don’t want to be left out,” you purred, letting your dress drop to the floor as you shut the door in his face.

[beanlot]

MISTRESS

sevika x maid!reader

at first, you were her maid. but master liked you just enough to make you her mistress.

word count: 4.0k

genre: smut

warnings: amab!sevika, age gap, sevika cheats on her wife, slight spanking, spit, vibrator use, master/servant relationship, breeding kink

────────────────

“what a gorgeous colour.” her fingers ironing the corners of her lips, mahogany lipstick cleansing from the cedar skin in superlative fashion. she was objectively sumptuous, a classy woman surrounded by old money and platinum basin sinks; an easy life enough that she didn’t even have to raise a finger to apply honeydew exfoliation masks to her glistening skin. “don’t you think?” she stares at you through the mirror, umber eyes fanned by silky lashes - lids glossed with everlasting lustre of golden butterscotch, tempted to believe you could see your reflection if stood close enough.

“yes, madam.” you nod, fingers clasped onto a hanger, vintage dress glittered with merlot gemstones fluorescent against the sapphire tiles of the floor. you weren’t lying, it was a gorgeous colour. and madam wasn’t particularly sinister against you, or even sinister at all..

“you filthy pig.”

“don’t you dare touch my antiques.”

“look at you, fix this messy hair. i will not have guests over whilst you look like a disgusting hooker.”

mostly.

“vika loves this colour.” she sighs, french-tipped nails tapping against the argyle jewellery around her neck. her scent of prevailing pumpkin spice suffocating you momentarily when she turns around, taking the hanger from your grip; you’ll watch as she lays the dress against her body, feminine curves of her hips accentuated through the garnet jewels as she subtly twirls around. she hum, lashes batting through the scrutiny before she shoves the hanger into your chest hurriedly. “be a dear for me and tighten the waist.”

and sure, you don’t expect the best of treatment regardless. you were on the back burner, disposable in every aspect with your dull shirt collar; onyx skirt tucking in your buttons and the driest of hands from the constant polishing. “yes ma-“ a shrill bark interrupts you, and it’s when you turn around that you see a woolly poodle, pastel frilly dress, wiggling through the door.

“ugh, pinkiebear! what are you doing, my baby snuffles?” and just like that, as madam scoops the pup into her arms, you’re left alone in the bathroom. moroccan rose handwash beside her gold-plaited cosmetics, pomegranate face serums and emerald earrings; you’d wondered what the oils would feel like on your fingertips, the creaminess against your skin soaking with pulchritude. it feels like bait when you see that one tub is already open, pale watermelon serum calling your fucking name - she won’t notice, there’s no way.

so you tenderly swab at the surface, the velvety touch on your skin.. it already makes you feel pretty, glammed up, like her. and the dysphoria only amplifies ironically when you massage the pearly ointment into your cheek, the winsome highlight when you turn your head not going unnoticed.

wine glass and plate in hand as you approach sevika’s master’s study, nudging the door with your shoulder. it was smoked salmon and caviar, and if you weren’t so fond of her, it would be rational to believe she was intentionally inflicting the purgatory of starvation onto you. but she was not resentful, her muffled tone of come in prompting you to amble inside; the air murky from her cigar smoke, illuminated by dim apricot from the scattered lamps. and she’s there, with every inhale, you can decipher the ocherous flame between her lips - her fingers clearing her desk when she sees the wine bottle tucked under your arm.

“thank you, darling.” she murmurs within the fever dream, fumes seeping through her lips to which she fans out when you’re beside her desk. it’s elixir to taste, and although it’s toxin on your tongue, it’s contradicting - plate and wine glass settled against the oak, careful to avoid her disarray of books and orderly inklings when you pour the currant. she examines this, raising an eyebrow before tapping the tobacco against an ashtray. “are you hungry?”

fuck, you have no idea.

“no, master.” you shake your head, because even though you could feel your organs internally booing inside from the withering, you were under an obligation of being polite. and hell, it was reasonable for her to concern herself with your wellbeing per se: she was older, much older; yet you merely took it as manners, sympathy that you weren’t born into such opulence. so when you finish pouring, tenderly placing the bottle beside master’s glass - it’s paralysis when her coercive words refrain you from leaving the room as you intended. “come here.” she instructs, virescent globes eclipsed with hues of oxblood when you maintain eye contact from your awkward distance. she’s manspreading, white button-up loose against her chest, and the uncertainty only amplifies when master’s tone becomes demanding. “come.. here.”

so you shuffle towards her, and you’re not sure if it’s the nicotine or the peril brunt of her influential stare, but your blood pressure raises when you stop - that maybe you’d said something wrong, gotten a wine she didn’t like, or you were vicariously responsible for the chef’s error. but the neurotic thoughts plummet when you see her slice an intricate cube of the salmon, fork held out to you with sincerity.

“try it, it’s good for you.” she advises, and you’re under automatism to obey - her fingers scraping against yours when you take the fork, examining the glassy block. you’re not sure what it’s seasoned with, only able to distinguish the honey glaze and sprinkle of pepper; you couldn’t even fucking describe what salmon tasted like, a luxury that your flimsy uniform never got to see up close. and you feel emotional when it finds itself between your teeth, erupting with foreign rich oils and glacé syrup.

you want to appreciate it, had you not interpreted the investigative glances she’s giving you. skeptical eyebrows dipping in, defining the droopiness of her lids and the eclipse of gunmetal in her narrowed pupils - they search your face, because there’s something about you that master just can’t pinpoint. “you’re glowing.” she mumbles, fingers branching out toward you and framing your jaw ever so tenderly; thumb stroking along the curves of your cheekbone, the familiar and velvety texture of your skin no stranger to master. “you’ve been using my wife’s stuff, haven’t you?”

great.

of course, how could you have been so recklessly fucking dense? you’d just swabbed a few thousands onto your face and expected that nobody would’ve been able to put two and two together, and now you’re stood here like a fucking embarrassment whilst her conquering globes assess you. master was going to obliterate you for even contemplating putting your filthy wilted fingers on her wife’s belongings, and you’re just waiting for her to call the chef over to slice you into little pepperonis and use your torso as a fucking piñata for her fancydancy din-

“looks good on you.” she mumbles, and the harmonising words nosedive into your stomach with more adamantine force than waiting for her to beat you to a pulp. her fingers streamlining down your jaw before she picks up her plate, ludic smirk concealing the mulberry on her lips as she offers her plate towards you. “don’t tell.”

you look back and forth, and it’s only when she nudges the porcelain into your stomach that you realise what she meant. she was only really interested in the wine, and within her hospitality, gave you something to eat for the night.

───────────

“your muscles are all contracting, just relax.”

“i’m trying..”

“you should really look into tai-chi, saves me hours of making these for you.

i’ll be back tomorrow,

ice or magnesium for any muscle pain,

is that a chip in the wall?

anyway, i’ll see you tomorrow, my lovely~.”

you’d been waiting outside her room for about forty minutes, folded blouse and dress shirts in hand; although you liked to consider yourself respectful of master’s private conversations, not even the bricky walls and thick interior of the hallways could muffle the massage therapist’s jarringly piercing voice - one that only amplifies when master’s door opens, a tiny woman pootling herself down the hall with a bowl of water, peppermint leaves floating within the misty pool.

it’s rosemary and eucalyptus when you inhale, frissons of sweltering air blossoming your way as the door closes over only slightly. but you’re prudent, you’re conditioned to be, waiting outside her door for her to have her few minutes of privacy - but she calls you in when she identifies your shadow against her marble tiles, eyes absentmindedly tracing the silhouette of your hips.

and when you walk in, nudging the door ever so slightly, she’s face-down on the master bed; surrounded by canary silk pillows and lime basil candles, her wine cellar visible from where you stand. you approach the palladium drawers, and whilst your job was plainsailing, the difficulty of having to avert your eyes from her bare back did it’s due diligence to make it just a little harder for you. but you stay silent nonetheless, the palatable glimmering against her burly shoulders, one that made you envy a massage therapist’s expertise as you organise her shirts.

“you have pain, master?” you mumble, clearing your throat when it starts to disintegrate at the mercy of her tensing shoulders, glorious muscle twitching. “my shoulders, darling. it’s not so bad.” she doesn’t move, and although you seem satisfied with the composed silence, the thought of leaving in it made your stomach sour.

“is there anything i can do?” you offer, graphite eyes piercing into your body when she turns her head against the pillow - you can tell she’s engrossed in those retrospective thoughts of hers by the way she’s zoning out, clouding globes that flutter over you before she pats the mattress.

“lay with me..” she mutters, black pepper fragrant when she inches away, leaving you a temptingly delectable space beside her. it feels wrong, and your ears can already feel the wrath of madam’s scream when she finds out you dared even the slightest courage to lay in her bed, beside her wife.

but master was at the top of the food chain.

so you reluctantly obey, not oblivious to the raw sensation of eagerness when her bare abdomen raises slightly from the mattress - she’s toned, noir curves that only excite the vim when you’re slithering into the space she’d left you. but it’s not enough to dilute your inhibitions, your body rigid when her fingers flutter against your waist; she notices this, intoxication when her whisper caresses against your ear. “relax, relax.” she whispers, the suggestive timbre diminishing you - she waits until you slump into the satin, plumose textures under your fingertips, before her arm cases over your waist and trails you against her bare chest. it’s morally profane, warmth from her breasts contagious on your spine, skin sweltering idyllically - kittenish and lewd and wow you’re getting horny.

it’s silent for a few minutes. but you feel dirty, her vanilla comfort something you ruined.

“you remind me of my wife when we first met.” the vanilla wisps against your jaw curdling into vulgarity when her fingers tenderly clutch at the hem of your skirt, and although one part of you feels like nothing more than a doll for her to use the one night her wife is out attending a dinner, another is relieved when the wintry air strikes your thighs.

“young,” her fingers lifting the skirt enough that her perverted eyes can search your hips, the way they embrace the black straps of your underwear.

“pretty,” her nails glissading against your inner thighs, forefinger sinking between them enough that they’re under automatism to separate. you try to convince yourself that it’s because you don’t want to get into trouble, disappoint that streak of high expectations you managed to leap over the past few weeks - but by the vim in your clit, it was disgustingly undeniable it was because fantasy was becoming reality.

“fertile.” she delicately taps your clothed clit, subtle sensitivity that already gets your hips rolling into her crude touch. her engagement ring flaring in your peripheral when her left hand slinks around your body, black opal glinting as her palm rests against your breasts. “look at me.” her lips tickling against your cheek as you turn to her, hues of predatory oxblood glossing over her lead pupils. she likes that she owns you, conditioned you to be her little pet, dominated your identity to nothing more than her servant.

so the overly obscene taste on her lips when she’d pressed her forehead against yours, skin searing with wealthy indecency was no shock. she was impulsive, lips against yours, unseemly sounds of anticipated smooches as you drink up the taste of peppermint. she wants to be delicate for you, but the instinct outlasting the grace when she hears you hum. you’re heedless of your sloppy grinding, shaky exhales which only worsen when she pulls away; her thumb draping your bottom lip down only slightly. jewels of her spit streamlining into your mouth, your tongue absorbing the droplets filthily. “pretty girl.” she swallows, eyes darting along your jaw, her spit slowly drizzling down your neck.

you want to tell her that this is wrong, that she’s a married woman, but the night already feels drilled into stone when her fingers manipulate the buttons on your chest, cleavage satisfying her sadistic eyes with every one coming undone. your shirt loosens, sinking down your back and accentuating the feminine enticement master was under whilst her fingers revel in the linen cotton of your bra, the straps cunningly draping off your shoulders. “aren’t you gorgeous, look at you.” she whispers, your breasts tingling when there’s nothing there to cover them anymore, her fingers folding your bra down to your stomach.

admiring the way your nipples harden under her fingertips, delicately pinching the responsive buds. you nod, because you expect her to want you to, flinching when you roll your hips against her sturdy thigh; thick imprint of her veiny cock paralysing you momentarily.

“lean over in that drawer.” she gestures to the bedside cabinet, and you’re sceptical when you lean over, your skirt hitching up ever so slightly. and if the humiliation of having your ass presented to her like a fucking showpiece wasn’t degrading enough, the barbaric strike of her palm against it was. you squeak, flinching necessarily - her palm easing the inflamed area intricately, before walloping back down onto your skin. you want to fucking weep, blinking through the blur of your tormented tears, opening the drawer to which a plaited vibrator lays.

“that’s the one.” she confirms, taking it from your fingers as you lay back into the mattress, ass ignited with scorching goosebumps from the brutish force behind her arms. you go to defend yourself, because honestly, you feel lower than the bottom of the food chain - you were no blossoming mighty oak, but rather a withering sunflower under her assertion.. but she knows what you’re about to say. “master, i haven’t do-“

“you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. i’ll make you feel good.” she sits up, and although she intends to comfort you, it only intimidates you further when her tongue wets her lips; fingers slewing the fabric of your underwear to the side and leaving your slit prey to her predacious stare, only amplifying when she unveils how truly drenched your folds are. but she doesn’t say anything, only leaning over whilst a bullet of her spit seeps between her lips and missiles itself against your clit.

you already feel numb, the heavenly pressure of seventh heaven when you hear the whirring of her vibrator, your thighs quivering with the company of your stimulated whines when the tip purrs against your clitoral hood. “that’s it, atta girl.” she praises, her breasts pressing themselves against your bare spine when she situated herself beside you again. it’s nirvana, humping against the vibrator so primitively, erogenous arcady to hear your incessant whimpers echo throughout the room. you’re sweating by now, at peace with the fire and brimstone breeding on your skin - but you want more, your fingers grazing over the stiff imprint of her desperate cock.

her breath is jagged, submerging the vibrator harder onto your clit, your ankles starting to twitch at the susceptibility. you’re not sure if it’s enough to make you come just yet, but that thought deteriorates when her finger glissades down your slit and streams itself inside of your hole. “fuck.. you’ve made my cock all hard.” she sighs against your cheek, your walls greeting her indiscriminately; spasming with every hum against your clit. she’s testing the waters, fingertips taking a liking to the spongy textures when she tenderly twines it upwards, the pornographic desire in your clit to orgasm more reckless than ever. but you’re not the only one suffering, because sevika is finding that her cock is actually starting to fucking hurt from the distress of not being able to just have her way with you again and again and again.

but she’s patient, finger gliding itself in and out of you; assaulting that carnal pit in your walls as your thighs tremble as she fucks you with them. instinctive sobs leaving your throat unmonitored, and honestly, you wouldn’t be able to describe it even if given a fucking thesaurus - sneezelike corkscrew ballooning itself inside your hips when she hooks another finger inside, arousing squelching with every hammer against your folds. “please..” you whisper, unbeknownst to the soreness in your fingers as they lock, clenching tightly on her belt.

and when she’s satisfied with how vulnerable you are under her, the sensitivity just right, she’ll admire the quavering of your hips and the tightening of your thighs before dragging the vibrator away from your clit. “huh?” you squeak, cunt clenching around her fingers at the sudden loss of her manipulation. you’re about to complain, wail about how much of a fucking tease she is, but she relieves the anguish by leaning over your thighs; her tongue replacing the device and doing its dirty work when it swipes over your hood, delving between your folds and schemingly flicking over your erect bud.

just like that, you’re shaking again, thigh hoisting itself up and planting itself on her bare, burly shoulder. your mewls of master twirling repeatedly in a rabbit hole of ecstasy when her damp lips envelop your clit and suck with cruelty, fingers maintaining their agonising operation; battering into you with precision and artsy discipline, like she’s done this too many times before.

but it’s dispiriting for her, because she wants to be a lovemaker for you, wants to appreciate you for the fine young woman you are - yet the throbbing in her cock conquers that yearning, and it’s then that she pulls away with such self-hatred. “are you gonna let me put my cock inside your cunt, darling?” she exhales, fingers slewing out of your brimming hole, selfishly drizzling your discharge over the mattress and coating over the sable leather of her belt when she goes to unbuckle it.

“yes. yes, master.” you comply, ultramarine daze when you blink; pixels of orchid blooming in your vision when you even did as much as look down to her belt. fingers tackling the every latch, submerging as they frame her veiny shaft - cock springing out and admittedly, inciting nothing more than disruptive thoughts of am i going to fucking live to see tomorrow after this.

she’s thick, and monumental.. fucking handcrafted by gods with such clarity. enough that all of that internal envy becomes more.. not envy, because you know this is gonna really fucking hurt, and you’re not liking how much she exceeds your expectations at the expense of what’s gonna happen to your poor fucking vagina. “do you still want this?” she murmurs when she notices the hues of uncertainty in your eyes, superficial doubt that she interprets easily - it’s an ego boost, artificial concern to conceal her everlasting inclination to ruin you. but you blink at her, flickering between her eyes and the slightly palatable mulberry tip of her cock, before you nod.

it would be cruel for her to nosedive straight into you, and even she knows this, her tip glissading through your folds and lubricated with your slick. she’s slightly sensitive, the warmth of your cunt only amplifying the immense throbbing, but she’s consistent this time - your clit rubbing against her head only instantaneously as she accustoms herself with your textures.

“this might hurt, my love, just a little.” she whispers against your jaw, fingers grappling at your hips as her own angles forward, tip insidious as it skims into your walls; your body merely a betrayal of your conscience when your walls welcome her. but it’s smooth, as she pushes herself in with such fucking entitlement, your insipid moisture coating her cock.

because she owned you, every little fragment.

her mindless breaths against your bare shoulder, the subtle rocks in her hips purely intuition. she hasn’t felt this in years, the vehemence of her girth wrapped around such a fine woman, and it motivates the urge for her to start thrusting your hips back into her. your whimpering sobs with every cudgel of her skin against yours, the indignity of her abdomen pounding against your spine and the raunchy heat of her cock assaulting your cunt.

influx of adrenaline when she hears you mewl, her sloppy kisses on your nape sultry and blistering. “i know, i know it feels good..” she sighs, both hands clenching at your thighs, your hips, your waist- anything to feel herself become adaptable inside of you, anything to get a taste of the rapture inside of herself.

“pretty.. pretty girl..” her muffled groan echoing in your ears as she gets herself off into you. she was dictating your self-worth, dictating your fucking life.. and although some of it felt as if it was just pulling the pieces together, another felt it all shatter into irreversible ruins as her left hand compressed itself onto your clit; engagement ring ever so slightly abrading itself against your wet folds.

and that’s when you feel it.

the sheer pinnacles of rhapsody so distinct as her fingers roll your clit in circular motions superlatively, cock swollen and erect. “please.. please..” you sigh, the jagged timbre exposing how receptive your bundles of nerves were; fingertips touching the very eminent icicles of orgasm when she speaks her foul language in your ears.

“i’m gonna come inside you, do you want that?”

“uh huh.”

“gonna make you the mother of my kids..”

“mhm-hm, master please..”

and then it erupts inside, whirlwind of frenzy that you could only compare to what felt like being edged for hours. your clit numb and jaded, the overstimulation aggravating as your walls pulse around her cock so tightly that she doesn’t even need to continue pummelling into you. conclusively, you were a mess - her palm sealing itself over your lips to repress the uncontrollable cry, tone it down ever so slightly, arms that confine your body as you tremble and do your upmost fucking best to recover.

and after a few minutes of her rocking a few inches back and forth into you, the dishevelled grunt and adhesion of her bangs against your cheek; quivering fingers against your lips and hips that airbrush themselves to divinity let you know that she’s just came.

and something feels off, seriously off. so full and saturated, and it’s when her cock slews itself out of you that you know there’s no way you’re the only one behind all the mess; looking between your legs and flinching at the pearly cream drizzling out of your hole, thick and balmy. your juices meshing together in such harmony that you feel disgust, and yet hypnosis. because she never wanted a maid,

she wanted a mistress.

[cambion-companion]

hi, i’m not doing well. i had to give up my cats today, and my heart hurts a lot. i was wondering if i could request something soft if you have anything in mind. even some headcanons would be fantastic. i’m just heartbroken that i had to give up my babies on top of everything else i’m going through.

Oh darling I am so sorry. My heart hurts for you. I will most certainly write something to help in what little way I can.

Lips

Aemond x reader | soft fluff | admiring Aemond's mouth | trying a new lipstick leads to interesting shenanigans

"It's a lovely shade, perhaps a bit too red for my complexion." You smacked your lips together, having applied a thin layer of your newest cosmetic. "What do you think, Aemond?"

"I'm not the authority on differing shades of lipstick, my dear." Your lover leaned against the doorframe, watching fondly as you sat at your vanity. "It does look lovely on you...however I can think of other places it could be as well."

"Aemond." You scolded gently, rolling your eyes at him. "You're terrible."

"Hmm, so I've been told."

You rose from your seat, crossing to where he stood, wrapping your arms around his trim waist. You placed your head upon his chest, relishing the familiar smokey scent of him, the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.

A gentle finger hooked itself under your chin, lifting your gaze to his. "Are you well, my dear?" Aemond's violet eye drank in your features as it roved over your face.

You suppressed an instinctual grimace at the question. "I've...been better."

"I heard what happened. You need not disguise your pain for my sake." Aemond dipped his head, brushing his lips against yours before pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.

He pulled away slightly, your eyes fell to his plush lips, a giggle bubbling from your chest as you saw that your lipstick had transferred onto his skin. "You look quite dashing in rouge, I must say!"

"Gods..." Aemond moved to rub the back of his hand against his pretty mouth, but you caught his jaw with your fingers, pulling him back into your warm embrace. You kissed him soundly and he didn't put up a fight, even as you smooched his cheek theatrically, leaving behind a suggestive stain.

He pressed his forehead to yours, your gentle laughter mingling as you savored each other's comforting warmth.

"Come, let me clean you up." You led him to the sofa where the two of you sat.

"Something I am accustomed to saying to you." Aemond grinned as you swatted his shoulder.

You patted your lap. "Lie down."

"As my ember commands." Aemond laid his long body languidly across the cushions of the sofa, his head pillowed by your thighs.

You took your time, combing your fingers through the silver hair that fanned out across your legs. Tracing delicate fingers along the contours of his face, rising to lift the eyepatch from its place and set it to rest beside you. The sapphire gem glittered up at you, contrasting beautifully with the lilac of Aemond's remaining eye.

"You're lovely, my prince." You said honestly, continuing to run your fingers down his cheek, touching where your lips had left their mark.

"I...thank you, Y/N."

You smiled, nodding at him as you dipped a cloth inside the warm water of the wash basin beside you. "Sȳz taoba. Accept the compliment, don't reject it."

"Call me a 'good boy' again and I may not be able to lie still upon your lap, Y/N." Aemond's eye had dilated slightly at your praise, he gazed up into your face as you began dabbing away the rouge from his skin.

"Promises, promises." You murmured, earning yourself another low chuckle from the prince. "Now hold still, I'm going to clean your mouth. Can't have the court thinking you've caught some sort of skin ailment."

"Perish the thought."

"Stop talking, Aemond."

"Oh, right."

He closed his mouth, still watching you intently as you began gently rubbing off the lipstick. They were so lovely, his lips. The shape of his mouth something you had not seen before in man or woman. The sharpness of his cupid's bow tempered by the lush fullness of his top and bottom lips. When they were not pursed in displeasure or focus, Aemond's mouth was quite a pleasant thing to look at.

"Must be quite the stain." Aemond quipped, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his eye crinkling at you.

"Mmhmm. Now hush." You pressed a finger against his bottom lip, studying the softness of his skin there, and how your finger could easily slide into his mouth with just one movement.

You traced the shape of his upper lip, having discarded the cleaning rag back into the basin. The curvature of his mouth fascinated you, and the more you studied it the more you wished to feel it pressed against your heating skin.

"You're clean." Your voice came out as a whisper, your eyes following Aemond's fluid movement as he rose to a sitting position, his face inches from yours.

"Cannot say the same for my thoughts." He intoned, his breath mingling with yours, his eye falling to your own parted lips.

"Are they ever?" You leaned in closer, craving the taste of him.

"On occasion." Aemond brushed his mouth against yours, your noses bumping. "Though certainly not when my lover has been caressing my lips with such fervor."

"There was a lot of lipstick on them."

"Hmm." Aemond's hooded eye was unfocused. "Shall we explore the possibilities of what else your pretty mouth can mark?"

"I could be persuaded." You reached up, tangling your fingers in Aemond's long hair, pulling him into you as his own hands stroked your sides.

He groaned quietly as you slowly pressed a kiss to his parted lips, electric arrows shot to your core as he bent you back against the cushions, leaning atop you as he deepened the embrace.

The shape of his mouth hot against your own awoke molten fire in your belly. You opened your legs to him, hugging his waist with your thighs as Aemond's tongue stroked along your own.

He broke away, his hair falling in a silver curtain to frame your faces. "We have to prepare for the feast that has...probably already started." Aemond sat up, looking regretfully down at your prone body as you arched against the sofa. "We will pick up where we left off after the festivities."

He raised your hand to his lush mouth, placing a kiss to each of your knuckles. "I know you're suffering, however silently, Y/N. Believe me when I say I will make you forget your troubles...if only for a little while."

"Your very presence eases my pain, Aemond." You cupped his face in your hand, caressing his bottom lip.

Aemond turned his face into your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. His fingers rubbing soft circles against your wrist as he held you to him.

"You may want to, ah, bring the wash basin over here." Aemond smirked mischievously as he donned his eyepatch once more. "We've made a bit of a mess. One that would be obvious in origin to those at the feast."

"Oh!" You touched your face self-consciously. "Wouldn't want the ladies of weak constitution to faint at the scandal."

"Nor the over eager men to draw swords for your honor."

"They wouldn't."

"You'd be unpleasantly surprised what bored lordlings get up to during their days at court."

The two of you helped each other clean the marks from your skin, it had gotten all over the outside of your mouth from the passion of your kisses. Aemond bit down his chuckles at your state of disarray after you shot him an arch glare. Once tidied and dressed, you walked forth from your chambers arm in arm, descending together to the great hall. Your mind quite preoccupied with memories of Aemond's soft mouth beneath your fingertips and what lay in store for you at the end of the night.

[ereardon]

In The Skies || Ch. 2

[Major John "Bucky" Egan x Reader]

Overview: On a night out in London, you meet fellow American Major John “Bucky” Egan of the 100th. As war rages on, you take a leave of absence during the spring of your third year at Oxford to sign up as a nurse on the front lines in England. Time and time again, you and Bucky find yourselves thrown together in the hospital ward as you tend to him and his teammates after missions gone awry. What happens when you find yourself falling for a man who might never return from the skies? 

Pairing: Major John “Bucky” Egan x Reader

Chapter summary: Six months after you first meet Major Egan, he shows up at the bedside of Sergeant Quinn who just happens to be your patient. Sparks fly, again.

Warnings: Smut, alcohol, cursing, definitely historical inaccuracies

WC: 2.8K

Masterlist here

“Nurse? Nurse!” 

Your head shot up, legs unfolding beneath you before you even realized, carrying you down the narrow hallway of the hospital, the floors squeaking beneath your shoes, a mixture of blood and urine and saline and muddy footprints all blurring into one. 

“It’s his leg!” You skidded to a stop in front of a man writhing in pain. 

“Morphine,” you said, nodding at the girl to your right who reached into her pocket, fingers returning with a small clear vial that you grabbed, driving it into the flesh of his thigh. The man let out a shriek, followed by blissful silence as you surveyed the scene. A severe bleed and a cracked tibia. The bone hadn’t shattered through the skin but you knew it was bad just by the way it was bulging against the flesh. “Over there,” you pointed at a gap against one wall. “I’ll get the surgeon.” 

They wheeled him away and you made your way through the maze of beds and walkways, eyes wide, a few strands of hair sticking to your temples. It was hot, too hot for how early in the year it was. Early June. You should have been graduating from Oxford. Instead, you spent your days nursing soldiers back to health, sending them back to the battlefield with missing limbs and poorly patched scars and wounds on their souls that would never heal. And somehow, it felt better than any degree ever could. 

“Dr. Peters!” Your voice rang out in the dingy corridor and the surgeon turned. He was short, with tight, dark curls and a pair of glasses that teetered on the edge of his nose. 

“Nurse,” he said, “what is it?” 

“Patient, Doctor, broken tibia.” 

“Are you sure?” 

You nodded. “Yes. I just did a visual exam, no x-ray, but I’m positive.” 

Dr. Peters eyed you. In the three months you had been stationed at Stoke Military Hospital in Devon, you hadn’t been wrong once about a patient. He knew that. The doctor sighed and put his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Alright. Show me this man.” 

***

“Y/N? Isn’t your shift done?” 

You shrugged, wiping your hands on a cloth before sticking it back in the pocket of your apron. “An hour ago, I don’t know. Still have to see Lieutenant Davies.” 

Anna raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see you at home?” 

“See you at home.” You rounded the corner and smiled. “Lieutenant Davies?” 

The gentleman on the gurney looked up with a grin. “Ma’am.” 

“How are you feeling tonight?” you asked softly, stepping closer. 

“Good as a man with one arm can be.” 

“You always keep good spirits. I like that about you.” 

“Go out with me, won’t you?” 

You laughed. “Now Lieutenant, we’ve been over this before. I don’t date patients.” 

“Won’t you make an exception?” he asked, brown eyes glittering. “Just this once? For all you know, I could be the best date you’ve ever had!” 

“Oh I bet you would be,” you said, ringing out a washcloth in a nearby basin and pressing it gently to his forehead, dragging it down the side of his face, washing his neck carefully. His soft eyes never left yours. “But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other men, now would it?” 

“Screw them,” he murmured and you laughed. “What do you say, darlin’? You and me, let’s get out of here.” 

You shook your head, dipping the washcloth once more and pressing it over his bare chest. “You’re forward, aren’t you?” 

“War taught me anything, it’s that we all die someday. Gotta make the most of every day that’s left.” 

“Amen,” you whispered, setting the rag down back in the pan. “I’m going home now. You be good, alright?” 

Davies grinned. “Aren’t I always, darlin’?” 

You chuckled, making your way down the hallway toward the doors when they burst open, a flash of night sky visible through the open doors before they swung shut. Everything in the hospital was a rush. Triage and move on. But you had long-term patients as well. Men who were there for days, weeks, even months. Ones who weren’t healthy enough to go home, and not whole enough to go back to battle. Men who had seen loss. Men who had nothing left to fight for. 

“Y/N?” A voice from your left startled you out of your thoughts. 

“Yes?” 

“Are you headed home?” 

“Just about.” 

“Can you do me a favor?” Jolene tipped her head to one side. “A patient in bed fourteen. Came in earlier today. Having a hard time sleeping. Think he just needs someone to sit with him and I’ve been here for going on twenty hours.” 

“Go home,” you insisted, practically pushing the girl out the door. “I’ll take it. What’s his name?” 

“Quinn.” She flushed. “Thank you. I owe you.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” You took a look around the room, spotting the bed that Jolene had mentioned. “Hi there,” you said quietly, inching toward the bed. “Lieutenant Quinn, is it? I’m Nurse Y/N.” 

The man who looked up at you was pale, practically ghostly. He had diminutive features, a small nose that curved upward, eyes that gapped at you from the hollows of his sockets. “Sergeant,” he croaked. There was sweat beading his forehead, his upper lip, the visible bones of his collar. “You’re promoting me.” 

You smiled, grabbing for a washcloth and pressing it to his forehead gently. “Sergeant Quinn,” you replied. “How are you feeling?” 

“Not bad, ma’am.” 

“Now don’t you go lying to me,” you reprimanded him. 

“Not good,” he said after a moment. “Feel cold. And dizzy. It’s like everything in my brain is static.” 

You pulled away the washcloth and sat down on the thin cot next to his leg. Quinn looked up, eyes wide. “What brought you here, sir?” 

“Got shot in the side,” he whispered. “Running from enemy fire.” 

“Are you a pilot?” 

“No, ma’am. I just fly with them.” 

“I met a pilot once,” you said. The memories of Bucky flooded your senses. The way his touch felt against your bare skin. The bristle of his mustache as he kissed you. You shook the memory out of your mind. You had been a different person, seven months before. Back then, war hadn’t felt so real. It was tangible now. It crept into every thought, it had made its way into every atom in your body. You were no longer a girl. You were a nurse. You were part of the war effort. 

“Oh yeah?” Quinn said, teeth chattering. “Maybe I know him.” 

You smiled. “Maybe.” You reached out, brushing one hand over his cheek, thumb stroking his sullen face gently. “Jolene said you’re not sleeping. How come that is?” 

“Every time I close my eyes,” he whispered, “I see them.” 

“See who?” 

“Them,” he murmured. “All the men we lost.” 

There was a type of pain in his voice that you hadn’t known until you joined the hospital. Now it was the only tone you could hear. It saturated every word that was spoken under this roof. “You try and sleep,” you whispered, settling down into the chair next to his bed and reaching out, taking his frail hand in yours. His was dirty, but yours was caked in dried blood as well. “I’ll stay here so you’re not alone.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“Yes, I do,” you replied. “Now close your eyes.” He closed his eyes, and you did too. The next thing you knew, it was the morning and your neck was bent to one side. Your eyes opened, trying to place where you were. And then the scent hit. It was as familiar as the smell of the ocean or a new book. 

Death. 

Sergeant Quinn was asleep on the bed and you dropped his hand gently, standing up, careful not to wake him. He looked peaceful. You took a mental picture of him. That was the best you could do, you had realized. Remembering them at their best was the only way to make it through the hard days. 

The flat you shared with two other girls, both nurses, was small and tidy. You spent as little time there as possible. Not because you didn’t like it, but the only place that you felt at peace was at the hospital. Doing your part. Helping people. All of the trivial things that had mattered so much less than a year before had vanished. You stopped wearing as much makeup or caring as much about how your hair was set. You had given up pantyhose entirely. You were a different girl than you had been. 

Back at the hospital, the stench of decay and the sharp bite of stringent solutions nipped at your nose. At first it had been jarring. Now it was simply familiar. The hustle and bustle no longer felt out of the ordinary. If anything, laying down to go to sleep at night felt uncomfortable in its near silence. 

“Jolene.” You stopped the girl with one hand against her arm. She swiveled around. “How’s Sargeant Quinn?” 

She smiled. “Good. Better. Says you were the one who got him to finally rest.” 

“I tried.” 

“Few of his friends from his unit stopped by, but you should check on him. Think it would make him feel even better.” 

“I will.” You weaved around the corridors, past incoming traumas: soldiers on gurneys, soldiers limping, ones with bandages across their faces and arms and necks. Every one you gave a sympathetic look. “Sergeant Quinn,” you said, rounding the corner where his bed sat. 

Four heads turned. Three men in uniform standing in a semicircle turned and your eyes scanned them quickly before doing a double take, backtracking to the man on the far left next to Quinn’s bedside. His warm eyes flashed in recognition. 

“Y/N,” he breathed out and you felt your breath catch in your throat. 

“John,” you whispered. The room, so crowded and cloying and loud, suddenly felt very still and very quiet. Just you and Major Egan standing beneath a street lamp on a bitingly cold London evening. 

He stepped forward and you saw how even over the course of half a year he had aged. Tiny crows feet in the corners of his eyes. There was a hollowness, too. He placed your hands in his. “You’re a nurse? What about Oxford?” 

“I deferred my last semester,” you replied quietly, suddenly aware of all of the eyes on the two of you. “To help.” 

He smiled, his fingers squeezing yours. “So you’re the fantastic nurse that Quinn here won’t stop yammering on about.” 

From the bed, Sergeant Quinn blushed. “Bucky, I didn’t know.” 

You shook your head. “Nothing to know, Sergeant. Major Egan and I met a few months back. Looks like you weren’t lying when you said you were in good hands.” The memory of that one night with John brought a tingle between your legs. He grinned. 

“Are you working?” Bucky asked. 

“Always,” you replied candidly. “It never stops, you know. It’s a constant revolving door of injured men.” 

His eyes darkened. “I know.” His mouth shifted into a smile. “Take a walk with me.” 

“I have some patients to check on,” you whispered. “How long are you here?” 

“Few days,” he replied. 

“Meet me for dinner.” You listed off a restaurant nearby and Bucky nodded. 

He squeezed your hand one more time before dropping it. “I’ll be there.” 

You smiled at Sargeant Quinn. “Now I’m going to have to ask you boys to leave so I can clean the Sargeant’s wounds and replace his bandages.” 

Bucky and the two other men exited the makeshift room and you felt a shiver work its way up your spine. 

You had thought you would never see Major John Egan ever again. 

***

Normally time in the hospital sped forward, like a clock that was wound too tight. But waiting for the sun to set so you could meet Bucky felt like it was taking an eternity.

You were fixing a dressing on a soldier when Jolene popped out around a corner. “Y/N?” 

“Yeah?” 

She tipped her head to the side. “Heard there was a handsome Major here earlier asking all about you.” 

You tried to hide your grin. “Gossip.” 

“I love gossip,” she replied and you laughed. “Does that mean Lieutenant Davies is on the market?” 

You raised an eyebrow. “What happened to not getting involved with patients?” 

“He’s so charming!” 

“He is,” you replied, wiping your hands on your apron and standing up straight. “They all are.” 

“So this Major?” she asked as the two of you made your way down the hall. “How well do you know him?” 

“We only met once,” you said. “Just before Christmas, at a bar in London.”

“And?” 

You grinned and hid it behind one hand, faking a yawn. “And nothing. He’s a gentleman. He’s taking me to dinner tonight.” 

Jolene shrieked and a few patients turned their heads. You shushed her but it was no use. She was practically giddy. “God, you’re lucky,” she whined. “Ask if he has a friend, why don’t you?” 

“He has a best friend who is also a Major,” you said and her eyebrows shot up. “But don’t get too attached. He’s engaged.” 

She sighed. “All the good ones are.” 

“Not all the good ones.” 

Jolene squeezed your hand. “You go have fun. I have it covered here.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes. Go!” She practically pushed you out of the door. 

***

When was the last time you had dressed up? Worn something other than a blood-soaked apron and saddle shoes? 

When was the last time you had gone on a date? 

Probably at Uni, but even then the lines were blurry. Was studying together over a tea equivalent to a date? Or a formal where everyone was required to attend? You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt the way you did that night in Bucky’s arms. 

Safe. 

You were late, hair pulling out of the messily placed pins, the neckline of your dress slightly crooked. As you whipped into the restaurant, peering around, you spotted John with a grin on his face, his eyes planted on yours. 

He stood as you approached the table and leaned over, pressing his lips to your cheek, one hand on the back of the chair, letting you settle into it before he pressed it inward. 

“Hi.” There was something so sincerely innocent about the way he said it. Almost shy. 

“What brings you to town, Major?” 

“A mission,” he replied. “Or the end of one, I guess.” 

“Sergeant Quinn. He’s quite impressed by you.” 

“He’s a good guy.” 

“He said you’re the better guy.” 

Bucky paused before lifting his glass of wine to his lips and taking a slow sip. Then, “I’ve thought a lot about you. Since that night.” 

“Had to send a fellow American off to war the only way I knew how.” 

His eyes darkened. “It was more than that, Y/N.” 

“What are you saying, Major Egan?” 

Bucky tipped his head. “I’m saying I haven’t stopped thinking about you, sweetheart. That not a day goes by where I haven’t wondered if I would ever see you again.” 

“Must have made an impression, then,” you whispered. 

His eyes were glued on yours. “Go out with me.” 

You laughed. “We’re on a date right now!” 

“Tomorrow,” he replied instantly. “And the night after that.”

“Let’s see how the date goes first,” you replied, “before we go making plans.” 

He shook his head. “Don’t need to wait to know what I already do. Which is that you’re the woman for me, Y/N.” 

“John,” you whispered, a blush creeping up your neck. “You’ve known me a total of two days. You can’t say something like that.” 

“I was five years old the first time I saw an airplane,” he replied. “And do you know what I thought?” 

“That you wanted to be a pilot.” 

He nodded. “Yes. The first time I ever saw a plane I knew that’s how I was going to spend my life. In the skies.” 

“You based your entire career, your whole life, around one glance at the sky when you were a child?” 

“I knew in my heart, with every inch of my body, that it was what I was meant to do.” He paused. “It’s how I felt when I saw you again earlier today. Something clicked. Something said this was right.” 

“You have to give me a second to process this,” you whispered. “I haven’t seen you in six months. And here you are, saying what exactly?” 

His fingertips met yours across the table. “All I know is that I knew the first time I saw a plane that it was going to change my life.” His eyes met yours. “And that’s how I feel now, looking at you.” 

Tagging some people I think may enjoy this:

@gretagerwigsmuse @gigisimsonmars @iangiemae @tgmavericklover @sunny747 @perfectprettypisces @na-ta-sh-aa @ryebecca @kmc1989 @spinning-away @yorkshirekiwi @clancycucumber230

#masters of the air#mota#john bucky egan#masters of the air series#major john egan x reader#bucky egan x reader#callum turner

[fullmoonandstar]

Nine Days in Hell

Chapter 2: The Lure

Raphael x afab!Tav Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Rating: R Word count: 1.4 k Cw: second-person perspective, sex acts mentioned (including hand on throat) Summary: Haarlep's frequent use of your form leaves you pent-up and frustrated, but Raphael offers a solution AN: you're welcome Part 1

You sat up straight, and your head whipped around to see bare chested Raphael in his human guise, a towel wrapped around his hips, closing the curtain behind him. A curse may have left your lips. 

You hated how charming his smile was. Even though you knew what he was, a part of you had a strange fascination with him. Today, however, his smile had a hint of annoyance to it, as if he didn't like being stood up. The devil was not happy that you had let him wait. Good.

"What do you want?" you asked coolly. "Actually, I don't care. Go bother someone else."

"My, my, aren't you ever the feisty little mouse," he purred. 

Raphael walked to the basin, turning his back to you and setting the towel aside before grabbing the ladle. 

"I'm just here to spend a refreshing evening at the bathhouse with an old friend," he said, meeting your gaze over his shoulder. You tried to look away, but the curves of his behind and broad back drew your eyes anyway. He dumped water on his shoulder, letting it run down his back, and your eyes followed. Even in his human form, his skin had a red tint to it that seemed unnatural. Raphael ached his back leisurely and a moan escaped his lips. You thanked the gods for the fact that he didn’t see your face when you heard his voice make such a scandalous noise, and prayed he had no way of knowing how pent-up you were. If anyone were to touch you in the right places, you would come undone in a heartbeat. After his lewd display, Raphael placed the ladle back in the basin and turned around. You averted your eyes. 

"Come now, pet, what's the matter with the false modesty?" he mocked.

The water rippled as he joined you in the pool and sat down next to you. It was true that you had indulged Haarlep at the House of Hope, but you only remembered fragments, glimpses of ridged red skin, wings and horns and unparalleled ecstasy. Seeing them in their glamour and seeing Raphael were two different things. 

"I just don’t care for unsolicited dick."

He laughed. 

"What do you want, Raphael?" you asked again, getting annoyed with his antics real fast, and looked at him, making a point of only looking at his face. He did not return then favour.

 His brown eyes racked over your body, and you felt exposed under his gaze and fighting the urge to cross your arms over your chest. You had seldom experienced feelings of inadequacy, but in upon your return to the city and your constant state of arousal, you had noticed the way others looked at you. The ladies of the city were all slander arms and legs, unblemished skin and graceful movements. You had been a soldier, a paladin, for the better part of the last decade and none of those applied to you. Your life had left scars on your body and face, your arms and legs were built to swing swords, hold shields and jump over charms. You had strength, but certainly not grace. And it all didn’t matter because Raphael was not here for any of that, he wanted something from you. 

"I already told you, soaking with good company." 

He smiled and said: "What better way to spend an evening than in the company of my most esteemed client. I always liked you, you know." 

"I stole the hammer from under you, and almost beat you to death."

"Yes, I remember. Why did you spare me?" 

His smile was pleasant, but the question was pointed. 

"Cut the bullshit." you snarled. "I know you're up to something. You always are. So, say your piece or fuck off. "

His eyes glittered with some emotion that you could not quite place. 

"Straight to the point as always," he said. 

"Fine, I'm here to make a deal."

You rolled your eyes. 

"I didn’t make a deal with you when the world almost ended, what makes you think I will now?"

"Because you won’t be able to say no." The smile on his handsome face got a cruel edge to it. 

"You should count yourself lucky I didn’t kill you when I had the chance, and I’m beginning to regret it," you snapped. 

"Get out of here. Leave." you waved in the direction of the door and added: "And tell that brazen Incubus of yours to stop using my form. What are they even doing?! Are they in a challenge to fuck all the nine hells!?"

A dangerous sparkle ignited in his eyes. You had said something that played into his cards. 

"That’s what incubi do, sweets. They are such greedy creatures, taking everything they can get their hands on, but don’t worry, there is a solution to your … situation." 

"If you think I’ll sell my soul in exchange for the incubus to stop, you are wrong."

"I would never ask such a thing," he exclaimed in fake exasperation, but then he leaned in so close you could smell his obnoxious perfume and purred: "But maybe we can come to an understanding."

You knew this was a manipulation, but If there was any way to end this, you should at least hear him. You were so tired, so emotionally drained, so desperate with a thirst you didn’t know how to quench, that you swallowed his bait, hook and all. 

"What do you suggest?"

"Give me a month." His voice quivered with excitement, and in his eyes burnt a dark fire.

"A month of what?"

"Of You."

That did not clear up your question. What did he want from you?

"A month of me?" 

A month could be ages in the hells, and your gut told you that there was more to this than he had said so far. He was so close, and you failed to will your body into not reacting. A drop of water ran down from his hair along the side of his face, guiding your eyes to his delicate neck, broad shoulders and firm, round chest. You balled your hands into fists to keep them from creeping up to feel the hard muscles burn under your palms. All of this was a ruse, even his handsome face was a trap. He already knew that you had a weak spot for him, and you wouldn’t let yourself be exploited like this. 

"No," you said finally. An amused smile bloomed on his face, as if this was a joke you had shared before.

"You drive a hard bargain, as always, but maybe I can convince you yet. It would be sad to see you suffer so deliciously without any purpose." 

He leaned back, giving you a bit more space, and you took a deep breath to calm the stirring in your stomach. Raphael waved his hand and a bunch of paper pieces appeared in it. 

"Maybe you need a bit of inspiration, as to what this month could entail. "

He held the papers out for you. The top most page was a sketch, and you needed a moment to decipher the lines, but then it was like a punch in the gut.

The sketch was a top view of a devil, presumably Raphael in his true form. He was on all fours, his wings were half open, as if to shield for the outside. He was on top of someone, but their face was obscured by his massive body, only the small hands that clutched helplessly at his back and their point of contact was visible. His powerful, thick thighs spread their legs open, and he was buried deep in the folds. You could almost feel the movement, the hard thrusts bringing you closer to a release. 

With shaking hands, you took the sketches from his grasp and looked at the next one. 

This one showed, in first-person perspective, Raphael’s head between the legs of a woman. His big, clawed hands held her legs open and his tongue was working her bead. His eyes burned into you with such intensity, it made you shiver. This would be the view you would have if he ever was to do that with you. 

In the next one, Raphael sat against a wall, his wings relaxed as he looked seeming into the face of the person on his lap. Only the woman's back was visible as she sat on his lap like on a throne, his hands almost encircling her hips completely and supporting her movement.

The last sketch made you yelp. 

The woman was lying on her front and Raphael was on top of her, entering from behind, pressing her body into the mattress. Her face was contorted in a mask of pain and pleasure, with his hand securely around her neck. Around your neck. 

Check my Masterlist for more

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Mini-HC: M6 + giving their familiars a bath

The Arcana Mini-HCs: M6 bathing their familiars

~ anon, you mad genius, I loved every moment of this ~

Julian: Malak can bathe himself, thank you very much. He does not need to be bathed, repeat, he does not need to be bathed! Julian meanwhile is losing his temper at his bird's uncooperativeness, refusing to be sanitized after landing on a carcass. Those have germs!

Asra: snakes looove baths. They like to go all out, putting a shallow tub of warm water in the sun, adding pet-safe glitter, and letting Faust soak like the fabulous lady she is for a bit. This has been known to result in Faust leaving glitter trails behind her for the next 24 hours

Nadia: She knows that Chandra can bathe herself, but she likes to pamper her bird. She'll offer a basin of rose water for the owl to splash itself in, and occasionally treat her talons to some moisturizer and polish. You've never met a cleaner, better-smelling bird

Muriel: Inanna is his companion, not his pet. That said, sometimes she gets into things she's not supposed to and then tries to climb onto his bed so he has to bathe her. He usually scrubs her with gentle soap in a small spring, only for her to sulk and shake suds all over him

Portia: cats and water don't mix. Pepi was never afraid of the water as a ship cat, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. Bath time happens twice a year, fills the cottage with angry yowls and tired scolding, and ends with a scratched up Portia and a pissed off feline

Lucio: surprisingly, Mercedes and Melchior don't need to be bathed that often as long as they're regularly brushed. They do enjoy all the attention and rubs they get when when it's time to be shampooed, but they also have a bad habit of rolling in the dirt immediately after

[jolenes-doppelganger]

Bet with the Devil (NSFW)

Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman) x fem!Reader

Summary: Following Dream's narrow escape from Lucifer, chaos breaks lose in heaven. At least for the Archangels like yourself, the lowest ranking angels in heaven. With few options left, Michael appoints you to run an errand down to hell wherefore you are to deliver a message from God himself. What could go wrong? (Angels are all genderless according to official lore, both Lucifer and reader present with female anatomy).

Warnings: Sexual content (cunnilingus, fingering, the works), roughish, blood kink-adjacent sex

Word Count: 7.2k words (Oh my GOD I'm sorry).

It was a simple mission. That's what you'd been told. Michael was preoccupied, and to send such a small errand with Raphael, Aziraphale, or even Gabriel would be insulting. God had better uses for them. As a lowly Archangel, you were cut out for small errands. They weren't usually to Hell. Sure, you were protected, and had all the necessary authority to visit Hell without needing to call in, but still.

"Deliver a message to Lucifer Morningstar," Michael ordered. "It bears the official crucifix, if demons give you trouble, bare it and command them to obey in the name of the Almighty," he explained, glancing down, a bored expression on their face.

"Yes Michael, I understand," you sheepishly replied.

"One more thing, Y/N," Michael said, extending the scroll outward. "This is your first time interacting with the Prince of Lies, correct?"

You nodded, taking the scroll from Michael, tucking it inside your robes for safekeeping.

"In that case, always remember, Lucifer Morningstar was the best of us before the fall," Michael solemnly declared, "They are still the most beautiful and charismatic angel to exist. Listen not to their lies,"

"I understand, thank you Michael,"

They smiled in response, patting you on the back. As the gates of heaven open, multitudes of angels pour out, flying every which way. Michael gestures for you to follow them, and you both take to the air, flying away from the horde of angels sent down to Earth. Taking his mighty sword, Michael cuts a portal through empty space, motioning you forward. Clutching at the rosary around your wrist, you dive headfirst into the flaming pit below you.

<-*~~~~~~~~~~~~~*->

Your feet hit the stone floor with a jolt. Distant screams and wails fill the air, the acrid smell of sulfur causing you to wrinkle your nose. The devastation of Hell is truly complete, after all, the malevolence of the Almighty knows no bounds. A demon shrieks as you make your presence known, skittering around a corner before you can even make your visit known. Silence enters the chambers, and you slowly pace around the strange coliseum-like structure. Pits of fire surround you, dancing vengefully. Turning your eyes upward, you utter a short prayer to the Almighty, requesting strength. This is the only connection you have with him, he cannot see you here, only direct messages can be sent.

Giant columns bear the weight of this strange place, irreverent carvings dotting the surfaces randomly. It's grotesque, and feels incomplete in a way that irks you. Taking in every detail of your surroundings, you're slow to recognize the hulking figure mere steps from you.

"My, my," they whispered, "You must be... An angel," They smirk.

The most beautiful divinity you've laid eyes upon regards you with utter amusement, vibrant red robes glittering in the faint light. Golden-white curls decorate their head, and the serenest blue eyes you've ever seen flicker over your features with playful interest.

"Lucifer Morningstar," you gasped, flexing your wings in surprise. "I didn't think it would be this easy to reach you,"

This comment seemed to amuse them more, and they chuckled, gliding over to a basin of fire. You watch as they slowly reach in, fingers fluttering ever so slightly before scooping out a handful of vibrant vermillion and coral flames.

"Who else but me would greet a rogue angel?" they chuckle, watching the flames glide over their fingers.

"I assure you, I come on official business," you promised. "I act as a messenger on behalf of the Almighty,"

This peaks their interest, their wings flexing ever so slightly. Dropping the fire back into the basic, they take a few steps forward, large frame bearing over you ever so slightly.

"And what kind of irrelevant message could this be?" Lucifer sneered.

The situation was a bit comical. A lowly Archangel cast off on a mission to relay the ruler of Hell a lazy rebuke, Heaven's equivalent of a slap on the wrist. From Lucifer's point of view, this could only be seen as insulting.

"Morningstar, I apologize for the unintentional injury my presence has caused. Aziraphale, Raphael, Gabriel and Michael were all preoccupied," you assured.

Lucifer chuckled, gazing down at you with a patronizing smile.

"No, don't apologize. I am charmed that heaven has sent you to bear this urgent message,"

You're taken aback by Lucifer's charm. Their comments are meant to be insulting, yet they carry an elegance to them. Lucifer watches you intently, reveling in how small you seem beneath them. You're oh so timid and shy, a nameless Archangel sent on a meaningless mission. It's cute how accommodating you are, how nervous they make you.

Shaking your head, you flutter your wings, attempting to regain whatever miniscule leverage you have.

"It appears you've angered the Almighty with your exchange with the Endless. I have been sent here to remind you that there are certain rules regarding exchanges between them, and that under no circumstances are they to be taken as trophies,"

Lucifer groaned aloud. "Please, these are just rules. The Endless are divine powers, they come and go as they please, and make decisions as their free-will permits,"

"I assure you that these rules exist to ensure balance. You cannot do whatever you desire without consequences,"

Lucifer laughs at this, turning toward you with a look of utter disbelief on their face.

"Oh, sweet one, aren't you tired of all these rules," they purred, reaching forward to gently caress your wings.

Shuddering ever so slightly, you jerk away from their grasp. Your cheeks flushed, heat tingling from the edges of your feathers to your shoulders. Touching wings was a gesture made by only the closest companions, thus cheeky gestures such the Morningstar's were considered taboo. Sensitivity and honor played a role in this custom, the former more pertinent in high society. It seemed only necessary that the prince of demons would be so callous with gestures such as this, making your mission all the more difficult.

"Perhaps you've forgotten decorum between angels, but I certainly have not," you spat, flexing your wings with vicious intent.

"Oh, how easily you heavenly messengers are to anger," they insipidly grinned.

Turning their fingers ever so slightly, a robust gold ring flickered delicately in the dim light. Chasing your gaze upward, Lucifer regarded you with a bemused expression, silently begging you to take the bait. Your nostrils flared ever so slightly as you breathed in deeply, gently moving to take a rosary bead between your fingers. Lucifer glanced down at your wrist where you had woven the object on to your body, and you watched with unguarded glee as their features twisted into a macabre look of disgust.

"It is not my place to engage in such childish games with you, Lucifer Morningstar," you preened, "I simply bear a formal censure from the Almighty. You may choose to read it yourself, or I can read it for you,"

You reached inside your robes to remove the scroll, the threadbare cloth soft from years of use. Heaven had no need of trivial things such as luxury. Heaven was the highest honor, thus even the merest of rags would glorify God. It was this state of self-righteous thought led to the consequence of indifference. A rough grasp on your palm broke you from your thoughts as harsh winter winds break through the mildness of fall. Eyes so blue, so deep that they could be compared to the serenest of water bored into yours with such wrath that could only belong to God's most scorned child.

"Bear that spiteful scroll in my presence and I will send it back to God with your wings as postage!" Morningstar snarled.

"Unhand me, fiendish vermin!" you insulted, "In the name of Almighty God you will release me!"

"Oh you poor foolish child," they growled, "You are in my realm, he has no authority here, and neither do you!"

Both you and Lucifer fought for purchase, their grip on your wrist made dually claustrophobic by the vice grip they held on the crux between your neck and shoulder. Instinct instructed you to drop the scroll, to break free from their grasp and fly to heaven. Your message would be delivered, yes, and you would be safe. Tossing the scroll as far from you as possible, Lucifer was momentarily distracted, thus giving you a window by which to escape. Shrugging away their arms was the final step to freedom, feet sturdy on the ground and wings flared, you took a step, grinding the soles of your feet into the slippery ground, you slipped. The sandals upon your feet, threadbare and devoid of traction slipped upon the lip of stone, and you slipped.

Time grew slower, arms braced parallel to the floor, to catch the weight of your body and your hulking wings. Freedom was certainly lost now, injury closing upon your tail like a wolf pack upon a doe. Wind rustled through your robes, bare skin exposed to the air currents; a product of your scuffle with the devil. Your eyes closed as the ground grew closer, that was until two arms encircled your waist.

"Ahh!" you gasped.

Red velvet-encased arms held you close to Lucifer's chest, your wings pinned outward. You were relieved, yes. But this was the devil you were dealing with.

"My, my, clumsy and naïve," they tutted, breath tickling the shell of your ear, "What an unfortunately appetizing combination,"

Your heart raced in your chest, blood flushing your cheeks, dizziness and nausea weakening your already vulnerable state. Your robes sagged open, bearing clammy skin to the cold air, and to Lucifer's vulturous gaze.

"Out of one-liners?"

"Out of breath," you replied, reaching upward to close your robes.

"No, no, keep them like that," Morningstar whispered, swatting away your hands. "I like the view,"

An obscene amount of cleavage was exposed, an expanse of skin from your collarbones to your sternum barely covered by the thin layers of your clothing. Whether it was their probing stares or their flirtatious regard of your disenfranchised state was irrelevant, the rapid beating of your chest made known your nervous state all too well.

"Come, sit with me," they inclined, "I am capable of civility,"

It wasn't an invitation as their tone suggested, rather an introduction of their intended course. With as much grace as one could muster given the partnership of a flustered, clumsy and hopelessly confused angel, Lucifer pulled you away into a deeper corridor, away from the green marble pillars and strange pictures. No faces greeted you down this strange passageway, no sound reached you. It was eerie how empty this grand structure was.

"Stop will you," Lucifer groaned, holding you still upon a landing. "You are impossible to lead, I'd have greater success with a three-legged lamb,"

"It would help if I knew where I was going," you glowered.

They scoffed, disregarding your pleas. Obstinate and self-assured, this was the devil’s main flaw. But you had flaws too now you realized. Greed perhaps? No. Not yet at least, you had nothing that you simply could not get enough of, perhaps you were greedy for air? But I suppose if you needed it, like needed it every moment of every day, it would not be greed? Maybe you were selfish. But how could you be selfish? You did not want, aside from the wants granted from above. Perhaps you were too meek, although the Lord said that the kingdom of heaven would be theirs.

“Quite a lot of thoughts in that big head, I wouldn’t want you to get too focused and misplace your step,”

Shaking your head in annoyance, you disregard Lucifer’s warning. Your thoughts were your own. They should mind theirs.

“How can your thoughts be your own if everything is dictated to you,” Morningstar pressed.

“If you would mind your tongue,” you seethed.

“Oh alright then, if you’re so inclined to your thoughts allow me to stay in them,” Lucifer’s voice rippled through your head.

The jolt of their voice in your head did more than catch you off guard, you found your step slipping, flimsy sandals sliding over the damp steps. With little more than a sigh, the prince of free will reached around to grab you by your waist, once again suspending you mid air.

“What did I just say?” Lucifer mocked, overly dramatic as they pulled you up, lips pursed for dramatic effect.

“What the fuck are we talking for?” you growled.

“Oh?” Lucifer smirked.

“I have no time to talk, I was supposed to return to my post by now, and I don’t have room for your games. Make your point, seated or otherwise,”

Lucifer’s expression hardened, abruptly dragging you toward and open room. The room itself was a lounge, a precipice-like opening above the fires of hell. With a flick of their wrist all doors and windows clanged shut, sealing you in a room with the Morningstar.

“Be seated,” they sighed, gesturing to a point on a couch.

You hesitantly obeyed, sinking into the softest surface you’d ever touched. It felt sinfully good, you thought, smirking to yourself. Maybe relaying messages to Morningstar didn’t need to feel so heavy.

“That’s right, relax yourself,” they purred, looking down at you bemused.

“Well, what did you want to talk about?” you half-heartedly pressed.

“I didn’t come here to talk, did you?” Lucifer crooned.

“Well, how else would you convince me to abandon my heavenly post and join your ghastly forces?”

Lucifer rolled their eyes. Inching over you ever slowly until at last, at long last, you could see just how deep those blue eyes were. All the rage, all the anger one could ever imagine welled up in those deep hues of blue and grey, irises dilating until all light from their eyes seemed to fade. How could their gaze be so hateful, were you that vile?

“Yes,” they sneered, lunging toward you viscerally.

The force they used to grasp at you sent the couch hurtling backward, leaving your skull to collide with the stone ground. Pain bloomed in the back of your head, and you gasped in agony. Pain met pain as Lucifer, commander of the legions of hell, sunk their teeth into the crook of your neck.

“Oh God,” you gasped.

“He’s not here,” they glared, lips lightly glistening with your blood.

“Why are you doing this?” you gasped.

“Because I know you, I’ve been in your head, I know how you lose yourself in my eyes, and I know just how flustered you’ll get when I do this,” they snarled, their fingers burying themselves into the flesh of your trapezius, knotted from the constant strain of your wings upon the muscles.

“Please!” you moaned, wings twitching uncontrollably. “I thought you were going to convince me to be here, this doesn’t feel-“

A long stripe up your neck silenced all that was left of your plea. It felt cool, luxurious and soothing. Fingers ran up your neck, burying into your hair, gently massaging the place where you’d hit your head. Pain bloomed into pleasure, and the rage-filled gaze of your captor turned bemusedly wanting.

“The head injury is atonement for the head ache your sudden appearance has given me,” they smirked, “The abuse of your back for the knife heaven has sent you to stab in mine, and the bite,” they chuckled, “Well the bite is just for fun,”

Morningstar glowed above you, light from the ornate chandelier creating a halo of soft light around their angelic features. They really were the most beautiful angel ever created.

“Yes little angel, look all you want,”

Gently, ever so languidly, Lucifer moved your robes to the side, baring your breasts to the chill of the room. Their gaze glides over the peaks and valleys of your form, smiling in delight as you blush.

“Tempting, so tempting,” they whisper, dragging a finger down your sternum.

Your breathing grows ragged, a desire you’ve never felt blooming in your lower abdomen. Instinct calls, and you flex your thighs, shifting your position, trying to find release from the uncomfortable clenching in your cunt.

“Poor little angel,” Lucifer drawls, running fingers through your tangled hair. “How desperately you want,”

It’s meant to be condescending, this statement. It’s not your fault, you think. Your innocence, the lack of experience, it’s not your burden to bear. If you’d been given the opportunity, if you’d ever had the chance to engage in, to learn this strange dance of limbs and ragged, animalistic desire, well, you would have.

Lucifer rolls their eyes at your inner monologue. It’s rather cute, how you justify your naïveté. But it’s boring, a waste of thought. Thought is the killer of want, to think long enough is to ruin any chance of acting instinctually, to chain the animalistic mind, ruining any chance of sin. Lucifer doesn’t much care for the act of sex, it’s carnal, sometimes entertaining, but this, getting an angel to sin? Oh my. What a lovely thought.

“Stop thinking little angel, stop worrying,” they whisper, pressing the softest of kisses on your ear. “The body knows, the mind doubts,”

Their words, the breath on your ear, it’s all too stimulating. You reach around their shoulders, pulling yourself into the warmth of their body. Your head aches from the trauma of the stone, and little prickles of pain bloom in your neck. You want comfort now, you want patient pleasure.

“Good,” Lucifer croons, pulling you upward, carrying you like a child.

They smell spicy, like a blend of pepper and cardamom, maybe even frankincense. Their robes stink of sulfur, but their skin smells of incense, perfumed oils and smoke. You pull away the awful smelling robes from their neck, burying your nose in the smell of their skin. Never before have you wished for fresh air, for the rustle of wind on your wings, the cool of a mountain breeze.

Yes. A voice whispers. This is what you must cling to, this is what you must remember.

Lucifer hisses, a sharp rebuttal, laced with mirth. You’re thrown, landing on a bed of satin and silk, but the sudden motion causes you to shriek, and you land at an odd angle, your wing’s twisting painfully. If Morningstar had been furious before, they were murderous now.

“I told you,” they shout, “Not to think!”

You shuffle away from them, backing yourself into the headboard, away from the rage of the demon in front of you.

“I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t mean to?” Lucifer mocks. “I don’t care what you meant to do, you will not think, you will not ponder, you will only feel,”

Lucifer smiles down at you, canines bared in a saccharine smile. They flare their wings, dark onyx against the flickering red and yellow light. The anger, the flat out hatred, it’s gone. Golden curls illuminated by candlelight, soft pale skin defined by shadow, silky robes in luxurious tones, it’s all sensuality and elegance.

“Beautiful, sweet angel,” they lull, “Come here,”

Soft fingertips trace over your lips, your chin, your cheek. Gentleness and warmth dips into the contours of your skin. Comforting, merciful touches. The likes of which you have never felt.

“Yes, that’s right,” Lucifer praises, “Just feel,”

Their hands slide lower, running over your shoulders, your collarbones, the raw skin where they bit you. They grow closer, breath tickling the tiny hairs on your face. Lucifer’s lips wet with spit, eyes dilated in the low light. You desperately want to run your hands through their hair, to muss up their curls, ruin the delicate spirals. Their lips on your neck, on your cheeks, on your own.

I want, I want, I want, I want.

"Yes, good little angel," they whisper, "What pretty little feelings those are,"

"Can I?" you whisper. "Can I have these things?"

"Yes, yes you may," Lucifer smirks.

Wrapping yourself in their embrace, your robes sliding down your shoulders, baring your chest to them, your stomach, the top of your mons pubis, all of these things lay bare, vulnerability in it's most simple form.

"Beautiful, uncorrupted angel," Lucifer groans, "Bare yourself onto me, let me see you as the Father has made you,"

They pull your robe down, fully baring you to the candlelight. You shiver, the air here is stagnant, but devoid of heat. It's that of a cave, murky and claustrophobic. You're desperate for air, you feel like you might faint, you feel dizzy, like you might faint, like you might-

"-Shh, feel me, don't feel fear," they direct, pulling your naked form into their skin, toward the smell of incense and perfumed lotion.

You inhale, pulling down the red silk that smells of misery and rotten things, down off their shoulders, down their arms, down to sit on the bed, down onto the floor. I want, I want, I want.

"Yes," they smirk, "Want," they echo.

A burning ache fills your lower abdomen, an uncomfortable pulsing that only seems to worsen to pulse and clench, and you ache to be rid of it. Lucifer smiles, a knowing, pitying smile. Their skin glows in the dim room, and you try not to blush at the sight of their bare skin. You fail, and your embarrassment becomes funny to them.

“Sweet little baby, so young, so naive, how desperately would you like to be with me?” Lucifer preens, your lips inches apart.

“I-,” you stutter, almost ready to commit to them, to sin against God, to deny your creator, but then you want. Not for their touch, but for the sun on your face, and you shut your eyes tightly, breath growing heavy.

I can’t lose this bet, I can’t want too much. I can’t lose, can’t lose, can’t lose.

“Shh,” they whisper, gently pressing their lips against yours.

Fire blooms in your abdomen, hot aching fire, and it burns and flares and pulses at a rate that feels sinful. Their lips mound against yours, and you bury your hands in their curls, feeling the soft hairs between your fingers. Lucifer gasps in your mouth, letting out a low groan, smirking between passionate kisses.

Their hands snake down your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You continue to kiss them, to inhale the soft gasps as you tease them with your caresses. Lucifer continues to lightly hum into your mouth, running their hands up and down your body, pinching slightly, running their short nails up and down your back.

“Please,” you whisper, “You must try harder than that,”

A low chuckle bounces off the walls, and you look into their eyes once more, to find them filled with mirth.

“I’m not trying,” they smirk.

Lucifer’s hands swiftly move from your lower back to your butt, firmly grasping the soft flesh. They pull you up and toward them, pulling you into them, breasts pressed up against theirs. You can feel the soft pebbles of their nipples rubbing against yours, the softness of their stomach, the hairs of their pubis tickling your thighs. But most importantly, they can feel you, the heat that comes off your skin, the softness of your thighs, the slight sweat that coats your body.

Morningstar presses a few kisses to your neck and shoulders, one hand tracing back up to your upper back, the other still massaging and pulling the flesh of your buttocks and inner thigh. It’s odd how close they feel. Their breath seems to come on all sides of you, the pull of their chest, the softness of their gentle hums of approval in their ear, it all contradicts the needy grip they have on your body, the way they pinch, and pull and suck.

Lucifer had moved to kiss and abuse the flesh of your shoulder, running their tongue up the soft welts left by their earlier bites. A hand continues to sneak up your back, and you gasp softly as it caresses the soft span of your wings. Their touch is featherlight at first, gently rubbing and feeling the tips of your wings.

“So soft,” they whisper. “Oh?” they smirk, an eyebrow quirking.

You feel then finger a particularly sore feather, encased in keratin, you’d had trouble removing the casing and you’d given up.

“I can help with that,”

Lucifer gently pinches away the casing, gently smoothing the feather. It feels heavenly, the itching sensation finally falling away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, letting your head fall onto their shoulder.

“Anything for you, little angel,” they smirk.

“Let me return the favor,” you ask, gently rubbing the crook of their wings.

Lucifer lets out a loud gasp, groaning at the gentle sensation of your hands on their wings. They hang their head, leaning backward, exposing their breasts. You continue to massage the sensitive muscles of their wings, sore from the sheer mass of skin and bone. The sight of their nipples is arousing, how they peak and stand fully erect.

“May I?” you ask.

“Please,” they groan, twitching and grinding their pelvis into the expanse of your lower stomach.

The approval is all you need, and you begin to slowly kiss a path up their sternum, pressing light kisses to the underside of their breasts. Lucifer shifts their hips, attempting to grind themselves against the soft expanse of your thighs. They grunt and groan softly, digging their fingers into the soft flesh of your shoulders, causing you to gasp and wince.

“More,” they beg, “Give me more,”

Their cunt makes contact with your thigh, silky wetness sliding against your thigh. They gasp and moan, pulling your face closer toward their nipple. Taking the cue, you gently kiss up from the bottom of their breast, open-mouthed, finally circling their sensitive nipples with your wet tongue.

“Please,” they drawl, grinding themselves against your thigh.

Experimentally clenching your thigh, you watch as Lucifer continues to quiver and twitch, their wings fluttering erratically. The continuous massaging of their wings seems to bring them closer to agony, but regardless of your fear that you are hurting them, they continue to grind and gasp and plead for your clenched thigh, your exploration of their wings, the assault of your mouth on the chest.

“Oh little angel,” they sigh, leaning into your continued ministrations of your mouth, the way you circle their nipple. “You are too sweet, hurt me a little,”

You look up at them in shock. Hurt them? Wasn’t that the opposite of what they wanted.

“Bite me a little, pinch me, be greedy,” they smirk.

The dance of limbs begins once more, but you’re cautious. Lucifer gently croons above you, looking at you with curiosity.

“Just try it, please little angel, just try,” they whisper, pushing your mouth into their breast insistently.

Lucifer gently pushes themselves into you, and you clench your thigh, gasping in surprise when they twitch and moan in response.

“Good, good little angel,” they praise, running their hands up and down your back, kissing the top for your head between the motions of their hips.

Their reaction emboldens you, probes curiously at the clenching sensation in your cunt, making it worse. The small twitches of their wings grow softer, as if they’re becoming accustomed to the light touches. Gently, ever so gently, you apply more pressure to the crux of their wings, rubbing the tips of your nails against the soft leathery flesh of their wings. Morningstar gasps in shock, grinding against your thigh with increased desperation.

“Yes, yes, more,” they gasp.

The caresses of your nails turn to intense grasping, pinching lightly at the skin, squeezing the joints of cartilage and skin. Lucifer rolls their head, emphatically moaning and sighing. Their skin is flush with sweat, pink and covered in goose flesh. They let their head hang, using your body for support, intermittently gasping and groaning. Morningstar’s hair is a tangled mess of blonde frizz, the perfect curls that halo their head are soaked with sweat, the product of your unnatural coupling.

"More," they growl, shoving your face into their breast.

Perhaps they want you to go faster? The gentle caresses of your tongue turn into soft suckles, and to your surprise Lucifer exerts more pressure on your scalp. You cry out in pain, trying to pull away from the pinpricking sensation of their tugs on your scalp. It hurts, it stings, and you try to twist away, making it worse.

"Just bite me, for God's sake," they mock.

You dig your fingernails into the skin of their back, clenching your thighs in pain. They groan and gasp, taking shaky breaths. Clenching your jaw ever so slightly, you take the tip of their nipple in your mouth, gentle running your teeth over it.

"Ohhh," they groan, writhing and whimpering in your grasp.

The sensations seem to be painful, and you would stop, if not for the hunger that boils in your lower abdomen, that clenching sensation that flares up every time they make a certain low hum in their throat, when they twitch just right, when their knee barely brushes the tender area of your inner thigh. Lucifer looks glorious above you, and the more you rock into their motions, the slower and more intense the grasps on their leathery wings, the harder you bite and suck at their breasts, oh, how beautiful they look.

"Oh, angel, sweet perfect angel," they keen, erratically thrusting themselves into you, into your mouth and the motions of your hands. "You've done a wonderful, a perfect- Oh!"

Lucifer's compliments are cut off by a strange surge of shaking, gasping and moaning, and you watch wide-eyed as they throw their head back, wailing at the ceiling in agony-filled bliss. Eventually the subtle rocking motion of their hips still, and they go limp in your arms. The great Lucifer Morningstar, God's most perfect angel, limp in your arms, panting heavily, slick with sweat, and, other things.

"Did that hurt?" you whisper, confused by the whole ordeal.

"In only the best ways," Morningstar replies, looking down at you with a mischievous twinkle in their eyes. "Would you like to experience it?"

Lucifer seems genuine, caressing your face softly, and for a moment you feel wanted. You'd never been allowed to want, or to be wanted by someone else. As a vessel of God, of the Holy Trinity, it was your duty to serve, to never be served, but in this moment, you could be wanted, you could experience the feeling of being desired so explicitly. Would it be worth giving your soul up?

"It is," Lucifer smiles. "It is worth that and much more,"

There isn't a hint of treachery in their eyes, just the usual twinkle of mirth. Perhaps you want to believe them, perhaps that's why you kiss them so desperately.

Lucifer tastes like red wine and brimstone; it's like licking wine off of a stone wall. You like it, that much is clear. They just indulge you, messily biting and licking your lips, your tongue, running theirs on your teeth. Making out has never been clean, at least not when you're this desperate, this wanting.

"Pretty angel, so pretty," they croon, running their hands up and down your back.

"It won't hurt, you promise?" you ask, a little shaken by the ordeal Lucifer themself had experienced.

They chuckle, a soft, pitying chuckle, as if you've missed something clearly critical to the entire deal.

"It must hurt, otherwise it is simply no fun," they giggle, gently bringing you in for another kiss.

Their hands slide over your body, running over the ridges of your spine, the soft curves of your stomach, your thighs. Hunger pools in your body, and you cling desperately to them, seeking release from this terrible want that continues to build inside of you.

"You poor, suffering creature," they smirk. "Do you want me to make it better?"

"Yes, please," you gasp, barely thinking about your answer.

Lucifer laughs wickedly, pushing your shoulders into the bed, leaning over you with barely concealed lust. Their eyes seem to burn with animalistic hunger, and you wonder if it hurts to want that much. Lucifer doesn't respond to this thought, rather out of character to their previous actions. The stream of thoughts is quickly driven out of your mind when they press a series of hungry kisses to your neck, suckling and biting with merciless intensity.

"You taste like virtue," they groan. "It's so refreshing, I wish I could bottle it," they confess between kisses.

Their hot breath on your neck feels like fire on top of a violent sunburn, it just builds in intensity with prolonged exposure. Morningstar grasps your hips, squeezing and massaging the tender flesh, as if toying with clay. It's near painful, it'll leave bruises, that much is certain.

"I'm supposed to like this?" you wonder aloud.

"Not necessarily, but you'll like this,"

Lucifer drops their mouth to your breast, licking and suckling slowly at a nipple, and you watch as they take the soft bud in between their lips, making direct eye contact with you as they do so. The sensation of their mouth on your breast feels like agony, and you clench and squirm underneath their grip, the teasing pulses of that odd place intensifying astronomically. It causes you to gasp and groan erratically, as if experiencing some kind of forbidden torment, the worst kind. Lucifer moans in response to a particularly vocal keen, rewarding you with a soft bite to your nipple. The sensation is overwhelming, you jerk your hips upward, seeking relief from the hotness that extends from your cunt.

Lucifer firmly pins your hips down, humming softly as you continue to wriggle and gasp underneath them. Regardless of how desperately you desire them, how awfully the sensation burns, Lucifer does not quicken their pace, riling you up further, as if to prove how awful this sensation of wanting can be. Regardless of your silent and occasionally verbal pleas, the lord of evil continues to smirk as they toy with your breasts, biting lightly at the underside, as if to say "Mine", and in a way, they are claiming you.

"That feels, good," you admit, running your hands through Lucifer's messy golden hair. You hope it's what they want to hear, what will convince them to hurry the process.

They hum in response dropping a few kisses in between your sternum. Their movements are slower now, methodical. They follow the slope of your stomach, gingerly kissing the soft indents of your ribs, the softness of your stomach, reveling in the pureness of your form. It's not enough, and the pulsing sensation that grows in your cunt feels terribly strong now, and you whimper wantonly as their mouth grows closer.

"Oh, so needy," they sneer. "How lovely,"

Lucifer gently pries your thighs opening, groaning lightly at the sight of your wet cunt, the proof of their persuasiveness. It's odd how they look at it, you don't see anything particularly intriguing with the unused organ, rather all of your torment seems to be linked to the spot, and you desperately wish it to end. Morningstar gently leans towards the mound of flesh and hair, blowing lightly, directly on your clit. The sensation is torturous, and you twitch and shake despairingly at the awfulness of the assault. They laugh in response, keeping your thighs spread, letting your most intimate areas remain open for the world to see.

"Please, please, I need it," you beg, unsure of what you desire so desperately.

"You do? How unfortunate," they drawl, blowing cool air on that sensitive bud once more.

You arch your back, digging your hands into the sheets. A hand comes from your hips to your stomach, shoving you back into the bed. The point is clear: Stay put.

Hands gently squeeze and caress your thighs and ass, a hot mouth suckling and biting at your inner thighs. You glance down to see the golden haired deity paying homage to the cradle of your sex, smirking in a most peculiar way as they get closer and closer to where you so desperately need them.

“If I gave in right away, it wouldn’t be as good,” Lucifer explains. “The more I rile you up, the better this will all be,”

Their explanation is perfectly efficient, but you find no comfort in you. The closer their mouth gets to your core, the closer their hot tongue inches toward that aching, needy place between your thighs, the worse it gets for you.

“Please,” you beg uselessly. “I want to feel what it’s like,”

Morningstar hums in response, rolling their eyes at you. By now their command is clear, you will be patient and you will be complicit to their pace. When their mouth finally rests atop your mind pubis, a trickle of wetness has run a path down from your opening to the lowest crevices of your genitals, and you feel your cunt pulse erratically.

“What a pretty little sight,” Lucifer sighs contentedly.

Making sinful eye-contact with you, they extend their tongue, running a strip up from your entrance to your clitoris, and the feeling is so hot, so consuming that you shriek in relief. Lucifer continues this motion a few more times, each stroke slower than the first.

“Please, please,” you beg, “I want it,”

“You want what?” they croon.

To put it into words feels too lecherous, and you plead with them through your eyes, imploring them to understand your desperation.

“I don’t know what you want until you tell me,” they smirk, playing dumb.

Taking a few shaky breaths, you open your mouth, visualizing the actions you wish them to take.

“I want your tongue,” you whisper.

“Where? How? In what ways?” Lucifer murmurs, resting their head on your thigh, toying with the tiny hairs there.

“I want it on my, my clitoris,” you blush, “I want it in a steady rhythm, but other than that I don’t know what will….” you trail off.

In truth you don’t know what will feel good, you haven’t experimented, not even a little bit.

“Oh little angel,” they purr, “If you want me to just take the lead all you had to do was ask,” they sigh, returning their mouth to your clit.

The pace they set is torturous, tongue drawing acutely decisive patterns over the tiny nub, causing all kinds of pleasurable sensations to erupt from your body. You feel a continuous clenching and releasing sensation in your lower abdomen, in your core, and it continues to build and broil, sustained by the soft hums and groans of Lucifer’s mouth into your clit.

“Oh my God,” you wail, the prayer decidedly unheard in this domain.

Lucifer detaches themselves from their clit, biting your inner thigh forcefully. The shock of the sudden movement causes you to squeal in pain, and you try to twist away from their movements.

“Never, ever, speak his name here,” Lucifer rasps, “You will only praise me, you will only beg me,”

Two fingers enter you forcefully, tearing the soft tissue of your hymen, effectively severing your virginal state. The action delivers two kinds of pain. The first is a searing agony that bleeds through your labia, hot and throbbing. The other torture stems in your soul, a certain blackness marring your sinless state.

“No!” you cry out.

You would be changed now, forever marked by the devil. It would not be noticed, not be detected by the other angels, but the Almighty? He would know.

The circumstances of your changed state and the pressing weight of pending damnation weigh on you, nearly swallowing you in fear and pain, but that pain is erased when a pair of hot, wet lips descend on your core.

The feeling is blissful in comparison to the sting of your labia, and you quickly descend into the feeling of pleasure once more, but a stone weighs on your chest, and in between your gasps and moans, a few tears fall from your cheeks.

“There, there,” Lucifer soothes between their movements, “It won’t be so bad, I promise you’ll like this,”

The two fingers that lie in your entrance slowly pump in and out, and the sensation stings and burns a little in contrast to the raging coil that contracts and releases in your lower abdomen. In between strokes, Lucifer gently croons and hums into your clit, freehand drawing circles on your hip.

Their fingers hit a particularly sweet spot in your core, and you buck into their face, gasping and groaning as that coil unexpectedly tightens, pulsing and growing like waves of an incoming tide. Between your fevered breaths and moans of bittersweet pleasure, Lucifer continues to burn holes into your body with their gaze, forcing you to acknowledge them and what they are doing to you.

“Lucifer,” you gasp, “This feels so good,”

They smirk into you, curving their fingers in and out of you in a strange fashion that pulls you closer to heaven; the heaven of the flesh. The coil in your abdomen, the tower of arousal and bliss topples over, and you feel waves of bliss hit you as you climax.

“Good angel, good job,” Lucifer preens, holding you in their arms as you descend from your high.

Their touch is almost comforting, the soft kisses on your collarbones and neck are almost affectionate.

“That wasn’t a fair bet,” you whimper, beginning to cry. “You took my virginity, I’m blemished in the eyes of the Lord,”

“No, no, no,” Lucifer chuckles. “You asked me to, you asked me to take control,”

You blink in confusion, running back the few exchanged words in the moments leading up to the tearing of your hymen, the penetration.

“I said I wanted your tongue, I didn’t say-”

“-You didn’t tell me no, you silence following my assertion to take the lead was your answer, and that answer was yes,” Lucifer wearily sighs.

It dawns on you, you’ve been damned, and as soon as you return to the Almighty it will become official. You are an angel only in title.

“I should have never come here,” you lament uselessly.

“Oh don’t play victim, you were following orders, and by disobeying then you would have been damned,” Lucifer wearily explains, rolling over to lay you in their chest.

You’re worthless now, you have no value, no prospects, absolutely nothing to look forward to. You’ll be doomed to walk the earth until you are summoned by God, and at that point you will be officially cast out from heaven, forced back into the arms of the person who had managed to woo you into defiance of the lord.

“I hate you,” you gasp.

Lucifer pauses, momentarily taken aback by the statement.

“Wrath?” they chuckle, “So soon too, oh my,” they sigh, toying with the rapidly darkening feathers of your wings.

“You are the second prettiest angel I’ve laid eyes upon,” they muse.

When you look up at them again, you don’t see a lie in their face, rather a simple contemplation of your positioning. Their face is soft and silky, skin smoother than that of a baby. Their lips are pursed in thought, begging to be kissed. You’re done asking for things from the devil, so when you kiss them, it’s not Lucifer who tastes of sin; it’s you.

A/N: Six weeks, a trip across an ocean to Uni and a dehabilitating sinus infection later…… I’m free to write my other fics!!!!!!

Tagging: @hecatescrystaldagger @the-fuck-do-i-know

[lysanderfels]

{ FFXIV Polyamory Week, Day 2 - Domestic Life / Mundane tasks }

Lysander wakes up alone.

The futon beside him is cool; it seems he has been abandoned some time ago. Lounging in bed alone has little appeal, so yawning, he drags himself upright, stretches, and reaches for a robe, tying it loosely before opening the sliding door that leads to the private courtyard outside Hien’s chambers.

It was the noise eventually that had woken him. Though they are using wooden swords which collide only with an almost melodic knocking sound, the exclamations of the two men sparring outside have been growing steadily louder. Lysander leans against a cedar pillar, settles his expression into one of neutral exasperation, and waits for them to notice him.

It takes some time. Though Hien had seemed to be pressing Aymeric rather hard, the Elezen has recovered, and manages to turn the tide for a while. Lysander yawns again, and in doing so misses the decisive moment, opening his eyes to see Aymeric on the ground wearing a good-naturedly dismayed expression, and Hien reaching to help him up.

Their hands are still clasped when Hien turns to notice Lysander.

“Ah! You’re awake! We just thought we would get some sparring in before the day started. Did we disturb you?”

Hien is smiling; Aymeric looks sheepish, as though he can anticipate the complaint waiting on Lysander’s lips. He leans in to press a kiss to the corner of his frown.

“Forgive us,” he murmurs, “I thought it best not to waste the day.”

Lysander purses his lips, but it is difficult to maintain his feigned irritability when the two of them look so at ease, happy in each other's company and glowing with their recent exertion. Once again, he reflects that he feels nary a shred a guilt for this plan to drag the two of them away from their duties for a moon, to give them a taste of his own—considerably less structured—lifestyle.

But some routines will die hard, it seems. He briefly considers adding a malm or two to the hike he has planned for the afternoon around his favorite locations in the Glittering Basin in the hopes of tiring them too thoroughly for morning exercise…but resigns himself instead to simply rousing himself earlier and otherwise convincing the two of them to linger with him in bed.

....

This prompt was a little tricky because the nature of this relationship is such that the three of them don't get to enjoy a lot of "everyday life" together, but I do think Hien and Aymeric are to some extent incorrigible jocks (at least by Lysander's standards) so early morning sparring it is.

[aphroditestummyrolls]

*cheering with a pair of pompoms* Wytthias deleted Spare Prayer scene for the ask game please!

MY FRIEND! HELLO!

“D’you want me to get Nina?” He tentatively broke the silence, not daring to touch his friend beyond what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze around his icy hand. “She can help you rest.”

Wylan scoffed wetly. “Don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”

“Yes, but will you sleep?”

They were different matters entirely. Matthias knew it well— tossing and turning even when you were exhausted beyond what you thought possible. And right now, there was nothing Wylan needed more than true, deep sleep, and he wasn’t going to manage it on his own.

Judging by the glitter of fresh tears overwhelming his eyes, he knew it. And he hated it.

“Please, Lamb— please let us help you.”

There was a moment where the only sound between them was the din of the wild rabble downstairs. If he was asked, Matthias would admit freely to holding his breath as he awaited his friend’s answer. He knew that Wylan felt helpless, useless— but so did he! All evening, he had been wringing his hands and unable to actually help. Feeling his friend’s body go limp in his arms and knowing there was nothing he could do to save him alone; balancing a basin of bloodied water, cleaning those wounds with clumsy fingers while Nina staunched the blood flow; listening to Wylan’s agonised screams as Jesper inched the bullets out of his body.

None of them felt particularly in control of this situation. Not even the demjin himself, if that night’s conversation was any indication. Brekker may never admit it, but his mistake— underestimating these threats, separating Jesper and Wylan, not ordering Rotty to stay till the day was over— had brought everything crashing down.

Maybe he even did it on purpose. Maybe he called a bluff, and discovered it was not a bluff at all. And nearly killed—

“Okay.” Wylan’s voice was small and thick with tears he was desperately trying to hold back. It snapped Matthias back into the present to hear him speak.

“Okay?” He smiled. “Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

Just how long the day had been hit Matthias hard in that moment, and he had to struggle for words while he shrugged. “It’s a difficult thing to let yourself be taken care of, when you want to prove yourself as… as independent.” It was no secret— how Wylan still bristled occasionally in the face of compliments, or how he pursed his lips and struggled alone rather than ask for help… or how he held back his tears, even now. What type of childhood did you have, when your own father was so eager to see you dead? Matthias didn’t know, but every time he learned more about Wylan Van Eck, more things made sense. “It has been a long time since I was part of a family— mine was taken from me when I was barely more than a child. But, you are part of my family now, and I want to help you.”

Wylan’s eyes were wide and round, rimmed with red and glowing in the low lamplight of the room. It reminded him of his home burning; his siblings in the ashes. There had been too many times where he hadn’t been able to protect the people he loved.

“There is no burden between family, Lamb. It’s a pact of support and protection. Let us give you ours.” He rasped, clearing his throat as he collected up the cooled bowl of stew. “I’ll get Nina.”

This got a little long— I didn’t want to cut it off, though 😂 thanks for playing ❤️

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Once and for all, what does that mean? It's a promise I'm making that I don't actually believe

Read on Ao3 here Once And For All, What Does That Mean? It’s A Promise I’m Making That I Don’t Actually Believe (2015 words) by Caranthirwasalesbian

‘Ar- Artanis,’ the voice was brittle and faint, barely travelling over the hauntingly lifeless halls, softer than the echoing sound of near silent feet on the flagstones. The halls of Menegroth shone bright with jewels as they always had but now the glittering was accompanied by that of fresh blood, trickling and dripping from silver blades and breastplates.

This was now in truth the tomb she had likened it to when she saw the entrance, slabs of stone burrowed far below the sun soaked forest into the depths of the earth.

She knew that voice, however much she struggled to comprehend the ill fate that could bring it to her ears, of all ears; perhaps the doom of her people had not let her slip its grasp so easily. Millenia later she would finder herself replaying this moment, a regular uninvited fixture in her mirror for reasons that perplexed her more often than not.

There were no lack of instances for her to dwell on where an action of hers had had a longstanding impact on things of consequence, many losses more severe to torment her over. Was it even a loss at all? She felt disinclined to classify it as so on balance. Yet something in her held onto this one brief moment as of a greater significance than she felt generous enough to give it.

What could really be extrapolated of the inner workings of her heart from a moment’s hesitance? It took until the third time the image appeared to her in the glassy surface of the basin for her to realise that it was unusual for her to have halted at that voice, rather than turn on her heel and sink into her husband’s waiting arms, be rid of this place of death, of this gaping reminder of the worst night of her long, long life.

She ached to distance herself from all to do with that voice, the insignias strewn across the floor, the golden sand soaked with red, for centuries of her life and yet she’d lingered. It took her until the third time seeing it again to realise that she’d had a choice in the matter.

It hadn’t felt like a decision in the moment. She hadn’t been trapped nor threatened; they held no threat to her and certainly she wouldn’t grace them with even a trace of wariness.

It hadn’t felt like a decision, however she wondered later what exactly had compelled her so to seek out the speaker, knowing well what she would find.

She’d known, she’d expected it, yet still some small part of her recoiled at the spear rammed into her cousin’s gut, despite the countless more deserving of her time strewn around him bearing similar wounds, many no doubt inflicted by him.

For scarcely a second she moved to remove her cloak, thinking to staunch the bleeding, before she caught up with herself and released it again. This was Celegorm, slayer of her kin of which he was no longer a part in any way that mattered. He’d ensured that.

He hacked out a violent cough, blood spurting over his pale face, nearly translucent by now, and she found herself hastily kneeling to pull him upright, delay the inevitable. She did not know how she felt about this, though she most likely should have, but she knew well enough that she did not want to watch anyone else choke on their own blood if she could help it.

‘Pl- Please,’ he rasped. No- begged, Celegorm was begging, desperately pleading with her for something; he must know she had nothing to offer him even if he could delude himself into thinking she’d give him aught.

She had no mercy to give and he was in no place to receive any were it offered. He must know there was no hope for his life, he’d seen enough dying animals to know when one was too far gone to save. He’d killed enough people to know when there was no point wasting an arrow on one who would be dead in the hour. What would he beg of her?

‘Stay. Nelyo won’t find me in time.’ He gasped for air while clawing for her hand; he squeezed his bloodstained, sticky hand around her smooth fingers quite painfully- she was too shocked to extricate them. The moment dragged on, punctuated only by dripping and ragged breaths.

He’d taught her to ride. Those hands had still held the callouses but none of the scars or burns as they guided her through the movements of the reins; with his natural aptitude she doubted he would make a patient teacher but she proved a fast learner so the arrangement worked out amiably enough.

He clapped her jovially on the back with a wide grin when she started to get the hang of it, raking his much larger hand through her crown of braids in a way that she thought infuriatingly condescending at first but grew gradually more touched by when she saw him do the same to Curufin.

They would occasionally spend days hunting together over the years though less and less as the bitterness began to set in at court and her father began to favour withdrawing them from Tirion to spend their time with her Ammë’s kin in Alqualonde more frequently.

Her Nolofinwean cousins had visited on occasion but even with them things were not as they once were however much they tried to ignore it, or at least shelter her from it. The Feanorian’s didn’t visit at all and at that stage she had rarely missed their company.

His head of shining silver tossed back in rumbling laughter, joyous and light as he galloped with unchecked abandon through the sun flecked forests, lost in his exhilaration and often forgetting he was accompanied at all; that was unless his company was Aredhel in which case the two of them were in a world of their own, riding abreast.

She had not known then what he would become, the callousness that would infect him like a disease, the cruelty that would twist his grin into something entirely other; if she had she would have driven her dagger into his throat right then and saved them all much suffering. But he hadn’t known then either.

Would he be as appalled and shocked as she was by the monster he’d become? No, she wouldn’t use that word, it was too simple, far too easy to dismiss what he was now as something entirely other than the cousin she’d known. That cousin had chosen of his own free will to forsake every standard of basic morality in favour of this indiscriminate bloodshed.

They all had, even Maglor who she could still remember as so sweet and gentle, all the family gatherings she could recall accompanied by beautiful music and a voice so pure that many believed it to be a gift from the gods, something intrinsically sacred and good. That beautiful voice had thrummed in the grounds of battle fields, the dreaded crescendoes building until they crashed down and wreaked destruction; any god that had gifted it would have turned away in horror.

Of course that was the gods’ way, to turn their backs in disgust at the world they had brought into being, at those whose lives and minds they had shaped until they realised they no longer liked what they saw.

She should have warned these people who had allowed her into their home, begrudgingly or not, that you couldn’t rely on a god’s protection forever. However beloved of them you were, however blessed and devout, however much irresistible grace and benevolence was showered upon you the path to destruction was paved with misplaced complacency and there was no complacency more misplaced than faith.

The gods may love you but their love was a fickle thing that could not be trusted or invoked, only given in a flight of whimsy and taken just as quickly. She had seen the beauty of this kingdom, the protection it enjoyed as a safe harbour from all the troubles of the world and the indescribable being that was Melian and she had wanted it to be different. She had known in her heart of hearts that it wouldn’t be.

If she had said this it would have dismissed as the cynical blasphemy of a family who had been rightfully forsaken for those very sentiments, spiteful fear-mongering. She hadn’t and look where it got them; when you rebel you are cursed as punishment and when you are faithful death is your reward.

She believed that she could see a little of the blind despair, the doubt creeping in at whether there was any victory on the cards to begin with, that had driven her cousins to their course of action. For the first time in all the years since that fateful night she could muster up little else than pity for them.

She looked down into his eyes, not yet glassed over and still brimming with some sort of emotion. He was both more and less familiar to her than he’d ever been in that moment, moments from death and asking only for a recognisable face to be with him before- before what?

Did he know what awaited him, seen glimpses of it as he inched closer? The everlasting darkness? Suddenly it begun to make sense to her, his desperation, his clinging to her hand and begging her to stay in the stead of his brothers; he was scared, scared of what unknown fate awaited him. He was scared that these might be the very last things he ever saw, the very last thoughts he ever had and he didn’t want to pass into the darkness completely alone and unheeded.

If he couldn’t have the arms of a weeping Maedhros cradling and soothing him with what would certainly be uncomplicated love in the face of losing him when all was said done, he would at least want someone that could be associated with something other than what he’d become, someone other than those whose deaths he’d caused lying mere inches away.

Her voice was calm and steady as she spoke to him in a daze of confusion that he was in no state to pick up on.

‘I’ll stay.’

She did not think she imagined the gratitude in his grimace and when he squeezed her fingers once again to express it she finally found herself gently squeezing back. Stay she did and though no more words passed between them she very briefly carded a hand though his straggly silver hair.

She thought he understood that though nothing was forgiven and never would be he would not disappear entirely unnoticed by all but his brothers, for all he deserved it. However many horrific things she had wished upon them all while on the Grinding Ice, when she heard of his role in her brother’s death, in Luthien’s abduction, when finally faced with his death she was painfully aware that at no point would he have truly have gone unmourned by her.

She may detest the ties that bound them with all her being but she was incapable of freeing herself of them and always would be; some part of her would always be his cousin. She felt that in that moment they understood each other better than they had even before any strife had come between them.

When he finally stilled and left her kneeling on the floor alone she did not quite know what to feel. She rose and continued on to find Celeborn, to leave this place of sorrow behind and find somewhere else. She could start anew tomorrow but Celegorm never could; he had no tomorrow. Alive though they might be she was on a certain level aware that neither could his brothers.

She shed no tears for him on that day. That came many weeks later and though she let them slip on to Celeborn’s shoulder and his hands stroked reassuringly over her back his soft, concerned questions were met with silence.

[pinkiepiebones]

Here's... something?

-

Cleaning the apartment- his! His apartment- was nothing short of therapeutic. 

It was a different sort of cleaning than what he had grown so accustomed to. This time he wasn't stooped over a rusted basin with an improvised washboard, hands and shoulders aching, trying to get blood out of silk or cashmere or whatever the fuck his boss had worn to dinner. Today he was scrubbing down dusty countertops with something lemon-scented. He was wiping grime off windows and cupboard doors. He purchased something called a Swiffer, which was really just a sort of mechanical mop, but it made quick work of the linoleum in his kitchenette and the slightly off-center tiles in the little washroom. He wiped down the walls and faucets and scoured the tub. He installed a new lightbulb in the little ceiling fixture and it shined brightly on the newly cleaned room. It was damn near sparkling in there, and it smelled like a spring meadow.

Robert was tired by the time he finished hanging the brand-new shower curtain. It was pale blue and dotted with a rainbow assortment of flower drawings. It still bore the fold creases from being confined in a plastic sleeve for so long. He stood back in the doorway to admire his work. It was the first time in a long time that anything he did brought a smile to his face. 

He shuffled back to his bed and grabbed a shopping bag a little overstuffed with towels and toiletries. He hadn't been sure what sort of soaps or shampoos to buy for his skin and hair types- there were too fucking many options to choose from- but a very nice lady saw his near-panic in the Health and Beauty section of the local store and helped him make some choices.

Robert gave the tub knobs some twists and the pipes rattled and cold water shot out of the spout. He smiled a little, thankful he hadn't gone with his first idea of stripping and stepping in before checking the water. He held his hand under the stream, flexing his long aching fingers, feeling the warmth start to flow in. He fiddled with the knobs until he found the one that switched the water to the showerhead. Why were there extra knobs, anyway?

Robert stripped and stepped under the spray. Oh, this was nice. So much better than collecting rainwater from a crack in a ceiling or melting snow over a dying fire or jumping fully clothed in a pool- mostly to get the blood and candle wax and glitter off his suit- while his boss went on a blood-sucking bender in the adjacent cult mansion. That cult had a wonderful pool. He remembered hearing music under the water.

Now, there was no music except his laughter. It wasn't a humoured laugh, it was a broken, sobbing sort of laugh, one of pain long pushed aside finally spilling away to relief and peace and disbelief. He gasped and chuckled and felt silly for wanting to wipe away his tears but he fumbled with the curtain and reached for the shopping bag on the floor. Water snaked down his arm and his fingers left little pools on the floor. Oh, well. Robert grabbed a washcloth and rubbed at his face, then realised the full futility of the situation and found the soap and shampoo at the bottom of the bag. A sizable puddle was forming on the tile and he made a mental note to invest in bathroom rugs next.

He scrubbed at his pale skin until it was pink. He briefly thought of all the blood that he'd washed off over the decades and, quietly, he declared aloud, "nope, this is a happy place. I'm not going down that thought path now."

He had become somewhat accustomed to the feel and the smell of his former occupation; it was an odd sensation to suddenly be mindful of how his skin and hair felt. Robert pictured himself as having been in some sort of gore-knitted cocoon for a century. Now, he was breaking out and finding his wings. Or something like that.

Following the directions on the shampoo bottle, Robert lathered, rinsed, and repeated. There was no edict declaring further repetition but he was tempted to because damn it felt good to have his own blunt nails gently scraping his scalp and not pointed claws digging in... 

He rinsed and let his hair fall down over his face and he snickered at how long it was, once the tangles had been worked out. Maybe I need to invest in some hair ties, or scissors. 

Robert shut off the water and squeezed the excess water out of his hair and pulled at the shower curtain- christ, these things like to stick to skin- and stepped, less than gracefully, out of the tub and groped for the shopping bag. He unfurled a brand-new towel, salmon pink, and dried his body, ruffled his hair, and tied the towel about his slender waist. Forgot to buy a robe. Oh, well. God knows I'll be buying more in the coming days...

He wanders out into his apartment, avoiding the lone mirror that came with the place, and collapsed on his bed that was still needing a matching sheet and pillowcase set. He stared at the ceiling. He breathed and listened to the sounds beyond his walls- street noise. Crickets. Murmurs from the floor above. That was it. No voice in his head.

Robert smiled.

Eventually he stood and returned to the bathroom, mopped up the water puddles, hung up his towel, and fetched brand-new bedclothes from the shopping bag.

When was the last time I slept in something besides my suit...

The bedclothes were soft and maybe too warm for the early summer, and the mint green looked nearly bluish next to his pale skin, but he was happy.

Happy.

So that's what that bubbly feeling was.

Robert slept and dreamed.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Hi my love! May I please have number 13 with my lover, Mr. Bishop Losa? 😍

You can, my sweetie! Yes, you can!

(P.S. HOW HOT IS HE in this gif? Like, I want to jump right on his damned face, he's so gorgeous!)

He's watching you intently as you go about your last preparations to go out, spraying a fine mist of body oil onto your legs, working it over your skin until they gleam.

"New shorts?" he asks, noticing the particular pair you're wearing is unlike any others from your collection. You love that about him, how observant he is.

"They are," you confirm, turning to rinse the oil from your hands. "I think they make my legs look nice, don't you?"

"Mmhmm," he begins with a deep rumbling hum, the kind of noise that never fails to make your insides tingle. “Your legs look amazing, but they’d look even better wrapped around me.” 

The corners of your mouth twitch, turning to look at him, seeing the glints of lust glittering in his dark eyes. "Do we have time?"

He slowly walks further into the bathroom, lifting to seat you on the edge of the wash basin. "I'm making time."