#DAMMMNNNNNNN | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lunarxdaydream · 3 years ago

Text

Jealous Cyrus

She could handle herself, this much he knew for certain.

But that didn’t stop the steady nagging in the bottom of his gut as he watched the scene unfold. They were out in public, somewhere that the average person likely didn’t have any clue who they were talking to. So it was understandable that they were as bold as this to approach not only Abrielle but to harbor no sense of the fear that most hold when seeing him in her close proximity. It is because of him that some of become... more distant and reluctant to approach Abrielle. Though that is another thing he feels the need to apologize for. His reputation ruining anything for her.

He enjoyed traveling outside the covens locations, where those around them didn’t watch the pair every second. That the whispers didn’t spread at the sight of them or the rumors didn’t spread. Though that left them open to situations like this. It was her decision whether or not to accept this man’s advances, but he still a spark of something unfamiliar wedged itself beneath his skin as green eyes unknowingly continued to glare over at the pair.

He waited another moment. Then another. Annoyance setting in before he pushed himself forward, cane in hand as he came to stand beside Abrielle. Vivid irises narrow towards the man, posture stern as he never let his eyes shift from him. “Pardon me, may I have your name please?” Head tilts, noting the confusion and suspicion that now spread across the other’s face as eyes flickered between the two witches standing before him. “I will need to know the name of man whose grave I am about to dig. Surely you’d like a tombstone, no?”

His words had anger flashing across the man’s face, though the expression didn’t shift on Cyrus’ features any. “Ah, I see, you didn’t like that, hm? Well then, perhaps next time before you approach a woman such as her with such outlandish comments, you’d think before you speak. Such comments could very well end up being the death of you.” Frame shifts, turning back towards Abrielle as his head tilts in a small bow. “I do not understand how these later generations have all completely forgotten their manners. It is as if they’ve reverted back to cavemen in the more recent years. You, my darling, do not deserve to be treated in such a repulsive manner.”

The witch shook his head in disappointment, arm extending out towards her. “Please allow me to show you how a true gentleman behaves.”

( jealousy prompt )

They are the most foolish of advances she has ever witnessed. No finesse. No manner of poise. To even claim they are making an 'attempt' is too generous a compliment. Boorish fools is what she considers them. And unlike her cousin, Abrielle holds little patience for this. Could there be something to benefit from it? Potentially. And yet, the witch has no desire to dare entertain something so ridiculous. Lest she wish to lose her own intelligence by listening to them for another minute.

Mental retort has no use when a familiar figure stands in her peripheral. Where calm composure is known, another seems to take its place. A threat made so openly that even Abrielle cannot help but be taken aback. Like a predator hovering over his prey, Cyrus dares not lose sight of the man. Features come alive with anger upon the stranger. Irritation for his interference and yet, her companion is not deterred. Controlled wrath is frightening to witness as it is awe inspiring. For in all her years on this Earth, none have ever come to stand before her and take such a stand as he did.

'darling'

But it is in such a simple word where Abrielle has now come to find a fluster rise. By no means does she expect him to use it in anything romantic but the effect remains. Like a roller coaster, Abrielle must gain her bearings just before another fall. Her senses, far too rattled, over the unexpected behavior set in display.

"Oh!" But is in the extension of his arm where finally there seems to be a coherent response. Graceful motion takes hold of him. Linked and close, in full acceptance to the invitation he has so kindly made. "Please do, dear Cyrus." It is a miracle in itself that she has mustered enough to speak. Once more, the legends behind him are challenged. A disservice to the man who existed beneath the haunted name of Stein.

|| @cxrsedsouls ||

#( Abrielle || thread )#( Abrielle & Cyrus )#( dammmnnnnnnn cyrus!!!! )#( even abrielle was completely shocked here!!! )#cxrsedsouls

1 note · View note

daniegraceg · 1 year ago

Text

God dammmnnnnnnn that was so hot 🥵🥵🥵

Garden of Earthly Delights - one shot

sub!Joel Miller x f!dom!reader

A/N: I've been sick and sort of in a feverish fugue state for a couple of days and I wrote this. Definitely inspired by reading this excellent sub!Joel fic by @haylzcyon, but it turned out quite a bit darker. So, welcome to my horny fever dream I guess? Summary: Joel gets dommed by a bratty shopgirl he meets in the Boston QZ and discovers a very unexpected side of himself Rating: explicit 18+ MDNI Word count: 3.5k Warnings/tags: no use of y/n, irresponsible dom behavior (don't dom people you meet on the street kids. And for god's sake, use a safe word), reader described as young and has hair, slapping, spitting, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV sex, premature ejaculation, cum eating, praise, degradation, pet names (good boy, baby boy, kitten, mama), submissive produce washing

Joel was tired, and hungry, and he wanted to go home. At home he had half a bottle left of some dark moonshine that approximated whiskey, and a day off tomorrow to sleep through its aftereffects. But his cupboards were otherwise empty, and he knew he needed to lay in some supplies.

Unfortunately, it was the end of first shift and half of the goddamn QZ was thinking the same thing. The line snaking up to the counter at the ration shop was moving slower than he even thought possible, and he shifted irritably from side to side. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to find a way to stand that didn’t make his whole body hurt.

Even more maddening, only one person was working the counter today. He was sympathetic with operations being short staffed, but that clearly wasn’t the case. He could see right past the greasy hair of the young guy doling out food, and another person was back there, just leaning against the wall. Looking bored.

He watched you as you idly checked your nails. He watched you as you ran your fingers through your hair. He watched you cock one hip to the side and lean down to pull a shiny red apple from a burlap sack, then toss it loosely back and forth between your hands. Like you had all the time in the goddamn world.

You were beautiful.

You were young.

You weren’t bothered one bit by the grumbling line of customers stretching down the street.

He fucking hated you.

Finally, he reached the front, throwing down a thick sheaf of ration cards. “Two loaves a’ bread. Cooking oil. And a couple apples,” he grunted out.

“Sorry, out of apples,” the gormless kid answered. Behind him, he watched as you lifted the smooth red fruit to your lips and bit down, hard, the flesh giving way with a gratifying crunch. You noted with satisfaction that it was a particularly good apple— tart, sweet, crisp.

The shop boy saw Joel glaring and shrugged. “Last one.” Joel looked over at where you stood again, one knee bent with your foot pressed oh-so-casually against the cinderblock wall. Beside you, the burlap sack bulged with the shape of a good dozen round, suspiciously apple-sized lumps.

A thin rivulet of juice dripped out from the fruit in your hand, sliding down the curve of your wrist. You saw him watching you, and you bent your head to run your tongue along your skin, lapping up every last, sweet drop.

You liked the way he was looking at you. An older guy, gray streaking through his dark hair and down his stubbled jawline. But fucking built, the solid shape of his shoulders stretching out the worn chambray of his work shirt. His eyes were narrowed, his strong brow pinched. The cut of his jaw practically vibrating with tension.

He wanted to kill you. He also, definitely, wanted to fuck you. Maybe both at the same time. And below all of that simmering ferociousness, there was a hint of something else in his big brown eyes. Something that definitely interested you.

He’d been halfway home when a FEDRA sweep forced him back in the direction of the shops. He wasted a good hour waiting for a bunch of fifteen-year-olds in body armor to “clear the area,” then finally got back on his way.

He was deep in thought, thinking about a smuggling trip he was planning for late next week. Wondering if the soldier he was bribing for intel was too far gone on oxy to be reliable anymore. He didn’t want a repeat of last November, inches away from being gunned down as his crew sprinted across what was supposed to be an unguarded field at the edge of town.

So he didn’t see you coming until you were only a couple yards in front of him, walking home yourself— bag of apples slung over your shoulder.

When his eyes flicked up, finally, you’d stopped walking and were standing there in a wide stance with one hand on your hip. You saw the way his eyes widened briefly, then narrowed again, shining darkly as you watched him watching you. You ran your tongue around the perimeter of your lips, and his gaze followed its slow swirl.

Then you reached into your bag and pulled out an apple. You gave your arm a desultory swing and let it loose. It bounced to the ground, rolling toward his boots, then came to a stop just an inch away from him.

He looked at the apple.

He looked at you.

“Thought you might like a taste.”

The loathing that poured over his features was so intense that for a moment, you thought you might’ve misread things. But no, you could see it there in his face again. That bloom of need.

This poor, beautiful man needed to be taken care of.

And sure enough, you watched as he crouched down there in the street to pick up the apple. You watched as he straightened himself up, his knees crackling audibly.

“Good. Now take a bite.”

The apple, tasty as it was sure to be, had just rolled across the godforsaken ground of Boston QZ. Across dust and ash and human detritus, ground down to a smudging blackness that covered every surface here. He didn’t even know why he’d picked the thing up, and he sure as shit wasn’t going to put his mouth on it.

He shook his head, lip curling in a sneer.

“Don’t think so, honey.”

You tutted softly, walking forward to close the gap between you. He held the apple down at one side, the other hand hooked into his belt loop. Shoulders squaring up to you as you neared. Even as he was doing it, he felt like a fool. What exactly did he have to prove to this bratty little shopgirl? And why wasn’t he walking away?

“That’s really too bad,” you said, letting your words drip slowly from your mouth. “I thought you were gonna be a good boy for me.”

You were right in front of him now, close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing quickened.

“‘Cause I know how to take really good care of good boys.”

Joel closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t understand why, but his cock had swollen to half-mast just from crouching down to pick up that apple while you stood over him. And every time you spoke he felt more warmth pooling in his groin. He wasn’t sure if he was going to have to pay for what you were offering, or if you’d do it for free. But he knew he wanted it, unexpectedly, very badly.

He clenched his hand around the smooth skin of the fruit, and against his conscious judgement he felt his arm lifting it up toward his face.

You watched him moving, his eyes still closed, a smile slowly spreading across your face. As the fruit approached his gently parting lips, you reached up to grab him by the wrist, stilling him. You could feel the jump of his pulse below the rough skin.

“Not so fast, boy.” His eyes blinked open, their soft brown blown out to black. “I think since you’re being so good, we can go back to your place and get that apple nice and clean for you. And then you can show me how pretty you are when you eat.”

His place was nicer than many, a handful of rooms that were worn but clean. Functional furniture, a radio, a shelf with books. He clearly was doing okay for himself. The ones who needed this the most usually were.

He led you inside with a nervous energy that told you he hadn’t done this before. He’d surely brought women to his apartment, with those broad shoulders and that roughly handsome face. But never someone like you. And he wasn’t sure what to do. He stood in the living room, still holding the apple in one hand, his other hand clenching and opening at his side.

You looked him up and down. “What’s your name?”

You saw him hesitate. Wondering if this was a good idea— if you were a psychopath about to rob him or worse. But then he swallowed.

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you purred. “Do you have soap, Joel?” He looked blank for a second, then nodded. “Then go and wash that filthy apple off like a good boy.”

He paused again, and then gave a bewildered shake of his head before walking off toward the kitchen. There was a table in the room, across from an unmade bed. You pulled yourself up to sit on top of it, resting your feet on the seat of a battered old chair, and waited.

Joel returned after a minute, holding the now damp and glistening apple. He still wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Or his body. He held the fruit out to you, watched the bored way your eyes ran down his form as you sat there.

You made a soft tsk. “I see a speck of dirt. Better try again, boy.”

Joel looked at the spotless apple, then back at you. His heart felt like it was going to beat right through the wall of his chest.

He hated you.

And he wanted to hear you call him a good boy again.

He stalked off to the kitchen and stood by the sink, carefully running the damp, soapy washrag back and forth across the smooth, hard peel. The apple was a deep red, flecked with burgundy. Joel held it up in the light that filtered through his window, turning it in circles to inspect for any blemish. When he was satisfied, he carried it carefully back to you. Despite himself, he could feel his brow draw up, his expression pleading, as he offered it again.

You gestured desultorily at the table beside you, and he set down the apple gently. You ignored it.

He was uncomfortably hard now, straining against the too-tight denim of his pants. You looked down at the thick shape of him, and raised a single eyebrow.

“I think you better take your clothes off, kitten. Before you make a mess of yourself.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

You watched as he unbuttoned and zipped down his fly, the relief washing over his face as his cock sprung free and bobbed up toward his stomach. You had to fight to keep your face impassive as you took in the sight— you were impressed by the sheer size of him, thick and long and richly veined. The swollen head was stained almost purple as the blood pulsed through him, slick from where he’d been weeping against his boxers.

You had a good feeling about this one. A very good feeling.

“All of your clothes.”

You waited, arms crossed over your chest in a posture of impatience, as he slid all the way out of his pants and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the curving planes of his muscles and the dusting of dark hair. A little soft right around his tummy and thick thighs, the perfect counterpoint to everything that was hard and rigid about him.

He saw how you were looking at him, and he moved toward you, desperation painting his face.

“Please, baby— I—I need you,” he stuttered, his dark eyes wide and desperate.

Your hand slapped across his face, hard and fast.

He stumbled backward, stunned momentarily as his hand flew up to cup his stinging cheek.

“Did I tell you you could speak?”

Part of him wanted to throw you against the wall, and part of him wanted to fall to his knees and beg your forgiveness. He felt his cock twitch, growing somehow even harder, a thick bead of precum oozing from the slit.

You watched him, smirking. “I think you liked that, didn’t you, boy?”

A hot blush seeped up his neck as you looked down at his needy cock. He knew you were right. If you kept slapping him like that, looking at him like that, talking to him like that— he’d come harder than he ever had in his life.

“Now,” you said, pointing down at the floor. “Kneel for me.”

Joel lowered himself to the hardwood floor, unconcerned with how his knees were going to feel tomorrow. He watched as you pulled the fabric of your skirt up around your waist, revealing a thin pair of cotton panties, sopping wet where the fabric ran between your legs.

“See what you can do for me when you’re a good boy?” You ran a finger up and down along the slick cloth, ghosting over the shape of your slit.

Then he watched, mesmerized, as you slid the underwear down your legs. Leaving your pussy bare, drenched, and just out of reach.

God, you were perfect.

His tongue darted out to moisten his lips as he stared at you, desperate for a taste.

You smiled. “It looks like you’re ready to serve me already. And you’re very, very lucky today. Because I’m going to let you eat me out, if you just ask nicely. Are you ready to ask nicely?”

He nodded eagerly. You noted with satisfaction that his face was loosening— the jaw no longer so tensed, the deep furrow between his brows softening. He was relinquishing himself to you, little by little. You reached down with one finger and tipped his chin upward, to look into your face.

“Okay, sweet boy. You can ask me now.”

“Please, please let me eat your pretty pussy,” he spoke, his voice hoarse with need. His eyes, looking up at you, were all pupil— hungry pools of black.

You nodded appreciatively, then you reached your hands around to the back of his head and pulled him into you. Your fingers threaded through the thick, salt-and-pepper curls, holding him tightly in place as he began to lick. His beard was scratchy against your sensitive skin, but his lips were surprisingly soft.

You gave him directions— how hard to suck against your swollen clit, how fast to draw his tongue through your folds— and tugged him by the hair to adjust his angle. You could feel the vibration of him whimpering against you.

“Good boy,” you cooed down at him. “Eating that pussy so good for me.” And he was, following your every instruction, responding to the subtlest tap and tug. Like he was born to do this. As you felt your orgasm building, you pressed him deeper against your core, squeezing him between your thighs. He was trapped, and clearly loving it. Below you, you could see the muscular swell of his ass, clenching as he thrust his hips up against nothing.

“That’s it, that’s it. Make Mama come like a good boy.” You pulled hard on his hair as you pressed your hips forward, toes curling, waves of pleasure crashing through you. He moaned just as loudly as you did, your cunt spasming against the press of his hot tongue.

You took your time catching your breath, still holding Joel by the hair. When you finally pulled him free of you, the sight was delicious. Skin blotched and red, your glistening juices smeared everywhere. Hair tousled and sticking out, breath coming fast and hard.

You smiled down at him.

“Don’t worry, pet. We’re not done yet. Now—” you pointed over at the unmade bed—“you’re gonna be my little toy. You’re gonna lie down over there and let me ride you.”

Joel felt a rush of relief at the thought of you finally touching his achy, leaking cock. He nodded up at you, rising to his feet. The sheets of the bed were cool and smooth against his flushed skin.

You took your time, sliding down off the table top and languidly stretching your arms out. Enjoying the way Joel looked lying there, waiting for you with his giant erection jutting up into the air. Finally, you made your way over to the mattress and climbed up on your knees, straddling him.

Your sweet cunt was hovering in the air, inches above the tip of his cock. You paused there, and smiled condescendingly down at him.

“Beg me for it, little boy.”

“Please, please, please.” The words spilled out of his lips, his voice cracked and shameless.

“Please what?”

“Please ride me. Please fuck yourself on my cock like it’s your little toy.”

You reached down and wrapped one hand around his thickness, the grip sending sparks through his body. Then you began to slide his head along your drenched lips, wetting it down. Instead of moving him toward your entrance, you guided the tip to nudge against your clit, and began to tap it against the swollen nub, again and again. His poor, sensitive cockhead was so engorged by now that it hurt, and he whimpered each time you pressed against him.

Then, finally, you slid him down to the hot, wet center of you. You drove your hips down, throwing your head back as you filled yourself with him. He could only fit halfway in your tight little pussy on that first downward thrust, and you whined as you reared up and down again, spearing yourself on his cock. He felt his thighs shaking as you pushed yourself further and further down, until finally he bottomed out inside you. You paused there, letting yourself settle around the heavy length of him.

And then— fuck— he felt that familiar warmth growing in his abdomen, his balls tightening upward. His face screwed up, as he tensed and fought to pull back from the edge.

“Oh, poor boy,” you said, smiling down at him as you began to move your hips in a slow, easy roll. “You’re trying so hard not to come, aren’t you?” The warm slide of your pussy was unbelievable, and Joel’s mind scrambled for something to distract him— think about work detail, plumbing repair, fucking baseball, anything.

“But you can’t hold back, can you? You’re not even gonna make it another minute in this tight little cunt, are you?” You were right. Of course you were right. He grabbed fistfuls of bedsheet in each hand, gripping as hard as he could, knuckles going white as he fought against his hips that wanted to thrust, thrust, thrust into you. He screwed his eyes shut tight.

His eyes flew back open as a spray of warm spit hit his face.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Your voice jolted through him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he moaned.

“Tell me you’re sorry for coming so fast, you filthy little boy.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m a filthy little boy and I’m going to come.” The words poured out of Joel, his hips bucking uncontrollably as the electric warmth spilled over. “I’m sorry Mama, I’m coming, I’m so sorry, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He began to shoot into you, spurt after helpless spurt, coming so hard he thought for a second he might pass out.

It was only when his cock and his hips finally stilled that he realized he was crying. Hot tears rolled down the sides of his face to pool against the sheets.

You leaned down, stroking your hand along his stubbled cheeks. “Shhh, shhh. It’s okay baby. Mama forgives you.” You slid yourself off his sticky, half-hard cock and moved forward, still straddling him. Your soft hands gently combed through his messy curls.

“Don’t worry, baby boy. You can clean up this mess and I’ll be good as new.” Your hips pushed forward, and you pulled one hand back to hold yourself open, showing Joel where his milky seed was dripping down between your folds.

He nodded, looking up at your encouraging smile. His tongue slipped out between his lips, and he took a first, tentative lick along your slit. The sweet tang of your slick mixed with his own bitter, salty spend.

“That’s a good boy. Clean it all up.” He lapped at you, gathering speed. His tongue pressed inside you, curling against your walls to release every last drop.

Finally, when you were satisfied he’d done his job, you pulled away. He released his mouth from you with a mournful groan, and you sat down against the head of his bed.

You looked him over from head to toe. He was a fucked out mess of a man. Flushed skin, limbs sprawling. Sticky cock still swollen against his thigh. Lips slick with his own come, and yours.

“Come here, sweet boy,” you murmured softly. You pulled his head into your lap, cradling him there as you gently petted him. “You did good. Close your eyes, Joel. I’ve got you.”

His eyes drifted shut, and in less than a minute he’d fallen asleep. Dark, deep, dreamless sleep— the best sleep he’d had in a long, long time.

When he woke up, it was morning and you were gone. On his table, you’d left the core of an apple, its sweetness slowly turning brown.

168 notes · View notes