#Deal with the devil

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[wyxxiee]

Whatever shit of a deal he got himself into surely as fuck looks terrifying and traumatizing because are you telling me that SOMEONE stitched his smile on? OR he’s some sort of Voodoo Doll for someone to play on or control? 😧

[lionofstone]

BODYSHARE is a queer fantasy novella that follows Luke Milton, a recent college graduate and divorcee who, in exchange for success in his music career, agrees to share his body with the devil. Coming to a website near you on 8th October 2024!

You can PRE-ORDER the novella here or apply to be an advance reader here!

And here's the entire summary:

Luke Milton made a deal with the devil. Now, he's getting everything he ever wanted: musical opportunities, charting albums, world tours, and a thriving fanbase. The only cost? His body, which he now shares with the devil itself as it goes about its mysterious business. All in all, the tradeoff isn't too bad. He's also always wanted an intimate connection.

After both his college diploma and his divorce papers are signed, twenty-two-year-old Luke Milton is approached by the devil—an energetic force that's been present in one way or another for his whole life—who lauds him with praise for his musical skill and insists that it could help him further his career. When initial reviews of his EP are shaky, it doesn't take long before Luke is agreeing, even though the terms of the deal require him making space in his body for the devil the share.

Luke's career develops rapidly, and so does his relationship with the devil. As they work together through album releases and world tours, they become further and further intertwined, and Luke has to wonder if it's worth it.

Explore fame, self-worth, and sacrifice in this queer fantasy thriller.

[porceauxchop]

wip of raphael LET A BROTHA SPEAK HIS RIDDLES 🗣🗣🗣

[growth-opportunities]

Lilah's A cups fit her edgy, alt style, but she always wanted more. The Big Titty Goth GF aesthetic was one that she had always aspired to, wanting to add her own flair to it, but she lacked one of the key ingredients. The idea of Big Titties being indelibly tied to your identity was one that she found endlessly alluring. But, lacking them entirely, she threw herself into other aspects, immersing herself in the occult. She bored your ear off about various topics, from unholy sacrament to satanic symbology, her encyclopedic knowledge of demons impressive but a little overwhelming at times.

Turns out her interest was more than purely academic. Shadayim was shocked to find out just how prepared Lilah was, knowing exactly how to capture it and even pulling out a notebook with her carefully worded wish. As the smell of sulfur cleared her room, Lilah was overwhelmed with a pleasurable, surging sensation in her chest. Her sacrificial tank top held on as long as it could, flesh bulging out from the collar and underneath the arms, before it finally gave up, ripping down the middle. The demon had given Lilah exactly what she wanted: breasts that were larger, more sensitive, continuously growing but never getting so large that it would be impossible for her to carry them. Her wording was so specific that there was almost no room for any sort of trickery or wish bending.

Almost.

She had specified ever-growing, but had failed to specify a means. Impressed with her forethought (and her tendency towards Lust and Greed), the demon had blessed her with an impressive pair, but made it such that they wouldn't grow another inch unless touched by another person.

Thankfully for Lilah, she knew just who to turn to. She may act like it's an imposition, like your obsession with her new bust is something to be endured, but that's her only defense against her own greed. If you knew exactly how badly she needed your touch, wanted you to help her grow, how good it felt to have your hands kneading her breasts and teasing her nipples, you'd never let go. And she'd never ask you to.

"Ugh, fine, go ahead. Just... at least try not to stretch my bra out this time, okay? They're starting to get expensive!"

[tadpolesonalgae]

Deal With The Devil[***]

Dark!Rhysand x Reader

a/n: Another little drabble to add to the Desk Pet series

warnings: Dark!Rhys, fingering, collar/leash, Court of Nightmares, smut, noncon

word count: 5,096

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Put this on.” 

You stare at the dress he has over his arm, unable to fully understand what you’re looking at. After having spent so long being denied your own clothing, for him to now offer it to you, no— order you to wear it…alarm bells are chiming in your head, body frozen as he throws off your habits, succinctly disrupting your routine. Rhysand raises a brow, free hand sliding into his pocket as his cruel lips curve, an amused glint in his violent gaze. “I would have thought you’d jump at the opportunity to hide yourself from me,” he drawls, and you swallow thickly at the implication, eyeing the dress warily—it must be a trick of some kind, but he never doesn’t have you backed into a corner. As usual, you have no choice when it comes to him. Hairs rise at the nape of your neck—you have to approach him. 

He enjoys playing mind games like this, the subtle manipulation of forcing you to come to him, to put yourself more at his mercy than you are already, naturally and through his own machinations. Steeling your spine, you keep the tremble from your fingers as you walk forward, every sense on high alert as you get closer, and closer…personal circles overlapping as you cross into his space, hastily reaching for the dress, practically snatching it from his arm before making to hurriedly get away.

Rhys grabs you, hand gripping your waist as he tugs you into him with a force you can’t resist, internally recoiling as the finely tailored fabric of his shirt grazes against the bare skin of your breasts, pressed flush to his upper body as he towers over you. You crane your neck, giving yourself no choice but to meet his intense gaze, to force yourself to look him in the eye with every ounce of hatred you can pull together. His lips curve, a look of approving amusement on his hell-hewn features. “I would tell you not to misbehave tonight,” he murmurs, lowering himself so his mouth brushes the sensitive shell of your ear, hand settling with revolting entitlement on the bare skin of your waist, able to feel every finger, every joint as they curl into you. “But I think you know I quite enjoy it when you try to be fierce. When you try to fight back.” 

You twist your head away from him, feeling as your hands begin to shake as you dig the heels of your palms into his chest, trying not to push him away but to keep him from closing the little distance there is left—not openly fighting back, but trying to preserve what space you have. The low drag of his chuckle sends a shiver down your spine and you wonder if he intentionally chooses clothing that’ll feel abrasive against your bare skin. “Now be good, and go and put this on for me, or would you like me to do it for you?” He muses, mouth lowering so his lips brush against the intimate slope of your throat, your breath hitching. “I can’t promise to keep my hands to myself—I’m sure you already know that, though.” 

Then he releases you, and you step out of his immediate circle, holding his gaze for a second before turning away. Any chance you have to show defiance, you need to take. But it’s difficult navigating your own emotions. At times you’re so tired, so worn down you don’t want to protest, want to fall into unconsciousness while he puts his harsh touch over your body, want to obey and please just so it might pass more swiftly—even if you know he would never let you get away with it. He would find a way to make it last regardless of how you act. It feels so pointless—even when you’re completely immobile, numb to him as you spiral he finds a way to wring pleasure from your body. It’s unfair. 

“You have two hours,” he says, both hands now settled in his pockets, and you’re unable to suppress the blink you give, the sign that he’s caught you off guard again. A cold feeling licks over your skin. What’s he planning?

But he only smiles slightly. “I’ll come and find you when your time is up,” he says, violet eyes gleaming with that almost constant hunger. “It’s going to be a long night.” 

————

You’re surprised by how claustrophobic it feels to have your skin covered, in spite of the lightness of the material, its thin breathability. He probably factored that into the dress’ design though, and you dislike the amount of thought he’s given. 

The neckline is wide although surprisingly not particularly low as it sits just shy of your shoulders, offering an elegant view of your collar bones while keeping your chest covered by the way the two pieces of fabric overlap when joined to the seam of the skirts. Another surprise there. The skirts are made up of four long, rectangular panels of pale fabric that also overlap, and while you’d like to think it’s to keep it from being too restrictive of your movement you know it’s made that way to facilitate his ease of use. It’ll be less trouble to get the skirts out of the way, if he wants.  

You glance over to the wardrobe, knowing it contains a full-body mirror on the inner door. You don’t want to look though. 

You don’t want to see how much you’ve changed. 

———

The floor has fallen out from beneath your feet, skin slicked in a cold, slimy residue as you recognise the darkness of these hallways. You’ve never been in person before—never had a reason to, nor has he ever allowed you to—but none of that prevents you from understanding where he’s brought you to. To the deepest part of his Court, rife with evil and oozing malice. 

Why are you here?

The sounds of voices grow louder, and your stomach drops, figuring out what will happen. He’s told you of the person he becomes here, what he’s like when he’s sat on that throne—with hindsight you know he doesn’t become anyone. The mask is simply removed. 

He rounds a corner, and you can see the double doors at the other end of the hallway, can hear the muffled voices from behind it, and fresh fear saturates your skin. You’d grown accustomed to the touches he’s infected you with, had grown used to his kind of inflictions that leave bruises aching within your body, teeth that mark and bite mercilessly for the sake of his own twisted pleasure. 

Your feet stop of their own accord, staring ahead to the doors, unable to make your body move like it should, like you’re commanding it to so he won’t figure out how terrified you are. He’ll only exploit your weakness, and he’s taken advantage of you enough, you can’t do anymore. You really might fall apart this time. 

Rhys pauses, glancing back at you with that look on his face that’s a mix between hunger and amusement. It feels like he already knows what you’re thinking, the desperation that’s rapidly taking over your body, overwhelming your mind, pulse increasing in frequency and weight as you look at those doors, then to him. “What’s…what’s behind there?” You ask, hating how weak you sound. 

“My Court,” he answers simply, turning so he’s facing you, cruel silver-ringed hands sheathed in his pockets. “Why…why are you—…” you choke on the rest of the question, unable to help the small retreating step, the way your legs tremble and your arms raise up to cross over your body as if it will serve any kind of protection. You can manage in solitude. When it’s only him who’ll witness your degradation. Your humiliation is kept secure within a vacuum, strange and out of context in the horrid privacy of his home. Between two people, there’s no real confirmation, no reason to believe one over the other. But if he takes you into that room…takes you in front of his court…you can’t fight against the beliefs of so many people. 

If they believe you to be his whore, you’ll become it. 

“I’m not…” you whisper, subconsciously taking another half-step back, fingers trembling as they curl over your shoulder, grip around your waist. “No…” you breathe, shaking your head. Violet eyes gleam, hunger deepening as he takes a step toward you. Then another, and another after that. He’s getting closer, long legs effortlessly covering the ground between you, and you can see as time slows the way his hand raises from his pocket, reaching to grab you. To drag you before his court, and shove you to your knees at his feet for everyone to see. To your knees…

It’s the only pathway you can find, one that might keep you safe, so as Rhys’ hand reaches for you, you lower your head, one leg bending at the knee before the other is following, lowering yourself into a kneel. Hands tuck into your lap, trying to calm their shaking as you keep your head cast downward, feeling humiliation settle on your shoulders, breathing shallow and uneven. “Please,” you whisper, brows pulled tight together in regret, ashamed you can’t summon the courage to fight him. That you have to beg. Yielding to the cage he’s been trying to put you in for…you don’t know how long it’s been. 

Dark leather shoes step into your vision, and your eyes briefly close, wanting to shut him out. “Please…what?” He asks, voice a touch fainter than you’re accustomed to. “Please, not in front of them,” you whisper, nails beginning to press into the tops of your thighs, not at all certain your gamble will even pay off. If it’ll make a difference, or if it’ll be all for nothing. 

Quiet pulls between you, Rhys remaining silent as you keep your head bowed. 

“How about a bargain?” He murmurs, but you’re so overcome with fear you make nothing of the lack of cruelty in his voice. “I’ll keep you to myself, no one will see you, and in return, you will do as I say, without complaint, for one night.” 

Ice filters directly into your blood, a cold sweat dripping down your back as you register the offer. But is there anything he could ask of you that he hasn’t made you do already? “As long as no one will know what you ask of me,” you whisper in reply, putting what little faith you have left into the Mother, trusting she will hear this final, desperate cry, and at last have mercy on you. “Then I agree.”

“Very well,” Rhys answers quietly, and you flinch as the bargain inks itself on your flesh. His hand comes into view, silver rings twinkling in the low light as he holds out his palm for you to take. You fight against the shaking of your body, but you tremble nonetheless as your fingers slide over his own, letting him pull you to your bare feet. 

His violet eyes gleam, and then he’s guiding you towards those doors at the end of the hallway, keeping your arm linked with his own. He’d said no one would see you, had felt the bargain on your flesh, and know he’d spoken true, and yet you can’t help the instinctive resistance as he guides you to his Court. 

The mouth that will lead you to the belly of the beast. 

————

Rhys had already explained how no one could see you, how he had worked his way into the minds of his subjects, and erased you from their sight, and still you doubt.

You suppress a flinch as his palm grazes up your waist, nerves on edge from being surrounded by so many people after having spent so long with just him. It’s almost overwhelming, in a way, and you have to wonder if he intended this. 

You’re sat on his thigh, hands in your lap to keep from having to touch him any more than you need to, shoulder perpendicular to his chest, head turned away from him to keep an anxious eye on the writhing crowd before you on the floor below the raised platform of the dais. Violet eyes brush over your cheek, his attention stroking over your exposed skin and you’re horrified you’ve become so attuned to him you can recognise when he’s watching.

His hand rises, knuckles brushing below your breast, and your breath catches, body turning rigid with apprehension as his hot lips graze your throat. “You’re still anxious, aren’t you?” He muses just shy of your ear. “They can’t see you,” he says, mirth clear in his voice as his palm moves slowly to cup your breast intimately. “You’re all mine.” 

You swallow thickly at the reminder, that he’s manipulated it into being you desiring only his attention, that he’s so gently twisting the narrative you can hardly tell what the original was. 

His lips curve, then his touch is receding, instead pushing you to your feet between his legs and you turn to look at him warily, distrust blatant in your eyes as they meet his own, amused set. 

“Go play,” he tells you, mouth quirked, brow raised slightly. “You can see for yourself—I don’t mind. Just don’t touch anyone.” The curve of his mouth shifts into a slow smile, barely restrained violence glinting beneath the darkness of his eyes. The threat is clear enough. It takes a few seconds before you’re turning away from him, slowly making your way step by step down the dais, slowly getting further and further from his presence. Nothing significant, though. You’re not sure if any distance would be significant enough to have you feeling safe. 

Gathering courage, you make your way over to a male who’s sipping on his drink, eyes wearily cast in the direction you’ve come from, glancing up at the High Lord who’s sat on his throne atop the dais. He doesn’t even look at you as you approach, and your throat rolls as you pause before him. Hesitantly, you wave your hand in front of his face, a few inches from him, and yet there’s not even a single sign he sees you, or is even aware of your existence.

“I told you,” Rhys’s shadowy voice calls from the dais, amusement clear. “Are you satisfied now, little lamb?” You grit your teeth, pulling your hand back to your body before turning to face him, the writhing crowd at your back as you look up at him on his throne. “Why do you call me that?” Rhys smirks, leaning into the support of his thumb and index finger, middle digit curved to slightly obscure the sinful quirk of his lips, as if trying to keep his amusement to himself. 

Your brows narrow slightly, resentment pushing through your features that you usually try to keep neutral for the sake of not stirring anything in him. He seems most interested in you when you’ll give him reactions of some kind. Not that being numb and expressionless, or even asleep has ever given him pause. 

His eyes run over you with interest, but you can’t quite regret the question. It wasn’t like he was going to bring you here without violating you in some way. Putting his defiling touch into your body with those cruel, elegant fingers. 

“Why—”

“Crawl to me,” he orders softly, that soul-deep hunger pinning you to the ground with its quiet ferocity. A starvation so deep it has your legs trembling slightly. You have to make a decision here, antagonise him further by refusing to do as he says, or undertake the humiliation of crawling back up the dais to him, where he’ll likely keep you knelt between his legs like a pet, occasionally running his fingers through your hair soothingly. As if to thaw out a beast. 

“I have to admit,” he says, drawing your attention, his silky voice cutting through the generic noise of his nightmarish court. “Out of everything I’ve had you do, every position I’ve put you in and every angle I’ve fucked you from, I liked it when you knelt for me. When you did it for yourself.” You freeze, staring at him, horror unspooling in your gut at the soft drawl of his confession. “I think it’s an avenue I’d like to explore with you,” he muses, and that cold sweat returns. 

His eyes close briefly, lips curving as he smiles to himself, offering you precious seconds to regain composure before they’re opening again, previous…something, gone, replaced by that familiarly cruel, cold glint. Hungry and merciless. “Now come here,” he commands roughly, and darkness shoves at the back of your legs, shoving you to your knees as it wraps around your throat like a collar. “I’ve given you enough time to work yourself up, so crawl.” 

Rhys’ fingers flex as a leash of darkness appears in his grip, a dark, shadowy band wrapped firmly around his knuckles as he tugs on it punishingly, forcing you to fall forward onto your arms. Fear springs up in your flesh, as you face what you’ll have to do. You swallow once, before regretfully bringing your knee forward, hands moving distantly as your body starts into resentful motion, movements forced to be somewhat exaggerated to avoid kneeling on the fabric of the dress he’d put you in, the cold, unforgiving stone biting into the bare skin of your palms. 

“I think I quite like it when you’re obedient,” he muses, tugging lightly on your leash, encouraging you to raise your gaze to meet his once you’ve reached the foot of his throne though he doesn’t allow you to sit upright, forcing you to remain on all fours as you look up from between his long legs. “I’m sure you do,” you reply, trying to keep your expression neutral but unable to keep the bite form your tone. “Does it make you feel better?” 

Rhys blinks, violet eyes running over you with a foreign look in his features—interested and…anticipating…? But it’s gone as quickly as it came, vanished in less than a fraction of a second, leaving you unsure if you’d even seen it in the first place. “You’re rather talkative,” he muses neutrally, gazing down at you. You hold his gaze, trying to remain steady without showing too much resistance, hold your ground without being too compliant. 

His lips curve, “are you in a good mood?” 

You’re a fucking piece of work, you think vehemently, not quite possessing enough restraint to muffle your thoughts. His eyes twinkle like he’s heard it, but makes no comment on it, instead pulling on your collar. “Up here,” he instructs, and your heart drops. 

He guides you into his lap, and you fight against the urge to squirm as he pulls your back against his front, then, with sickening tenderness, gently hooks your legs either side of his thighs, pushing them apart. It’s exactly as you predicted, and you watch from somewhere far off in your mind as his hand trails across your stomach, keeping you slightly slouched against him. “You know what’s so wonderful about this dress?” He asks idly, fingers trailing up between your breasts leisurely, like he isn’t actively violating your body. 

Violet eyes glance sidewards to you, your head resting reluctantly against his shoulder, feet hooked around his calves to keep from sliding down his body. You know he won’t let you back up if you fall, and you hate it when he uses your mouth. When he finishes down your throat. Coating your tongue. Sometimes your face if he’s feeling particularly perverse. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway,” you mutter softly, trying to keep the shake from your hands. 

Rhys hums amusedly, pressing a small kiss to your temple, your body wishing to recoil at the twisted display of gentle affection. “Why don’t I show you, instead?” He asks, hearing the resigned sigh that breathes from your lips, eyes sliding shut briefly as you brace for his touch. His lips curve because they have to, and then he’s guiding the panels of your skirts to the sides so only one lays between your legs. 

Pressed so intimately against him, he can feel the slight flinch you give as his fingers dip down, running almost experimentally over your bare cunt, pressing lightly to your entrance. You grit your teeth, keeping your eyes shut as he drags them back up, settling over your clit, unable to help the way you wind your feet a little closer around his calves, to assure you of some kind of stability as your body becomes more rigid. 

“You should open your eyes,” he muses beside your ear, fingers leaving you to press up against your lips, pushing lightly against your tongue. “It’s not everyday you’ll get to sit upon a throne like this.” 

I don’t want to sit on a throne, you think, eyes remaining shut as he coats his digits in saliva before circling your entrance again with those delicate, teasing fingers. An image of you sat neatly in his lap close to how you are now except his cock is buried inside of you pushes into your mind, your eyes shut, lips parted and brows curved in needful pleasure, and you startle. Rhys’s arm bands across your waist to keep you from jerking upright, and you can hear his dark laughter brushing softly against your skin. 

His digits rub over your entrance lightly, before again raising to circle your clit, and you hate how heat is beginning to gather in response to his touch. The pads of his fingers circling lightly as the arm across your waist raises to grip your jaw, turning so your head is facing forward. “Open your eyes,” he commands lowly, digits continuing with the horrid movements. Trying to steel yourself, you follow the order, gazing across the crowd that has no idea you’re even up in his lap with Rhys simply feeding them an illusion of something else. Do they even know their High Lord is here, or has he removed himself from their minds too? 

“See all those people?” He asks, digits slowly sinking into your heat as your gaze follows his direction, scanning across the crowd. “All those people, and none of them have a clue what you’re doing.” 

“What you’re making me do,” you correct resentfully, but quietly. 

“Not for much longer,” he counters, lips parting in a secretive smile beside your temple, curling his fingers against one of those spots he’s become sickeningly familiar with. They scissor inside of you, and the image returns to your mind, how your back had curved, his hands on your hips while yours rested on his thighs, your legs spread over him as he kept you facing his court, forcing you to look at them—how oblivious they were to your suffering. 

He pushes you so you’re upright, and you swallow thickly, knowing his hands have moved to the ties of his trousers, working himself free. 

Rhys’ hands return to your hips, dark magic moving the back panel out of the way as he guides you against him, lining himself up with your cunt. 

“Sit down,” he orders quietly, and your hands tremble where they’ve settled on his thighs. Slowly, shakily, you settle in his lap, shuddering as he fills you up, spine curving a little as his cock pushes inside of you until you’re pressed tight together. 

Heat flushes your skin, head lowered at how good it feels to have him inside of you, how easy it’s becoming to fall into the pleasure just to escape from hatred and disgust. To give into heat and touch and physical stimuli in favour of waging this psychological war. You can’t help how you squeeze him, cunt tightening as you pant heavily, feeling as his fingers trace up the curve of your back—absently, idly, as if he’s waiting for you to adjust to him before he starts with his torturous ministrations. 

Teeth bite hard at your lip—why is it always him giving the orders, always him in control, always him surprising you and catching you off guard. You hate it. 

But earlier, when you’d gone to your knees, there had been a second there where he seemed taken aback. Even though it had been you yielding power, it had felt, for a moment, as though you had control. 

Rhys’ hands stutter over your skin as you raise your hips, then slowly settle back down. Repeating the minimal motions, the slight circles as you wind over him without him having said anything.

Violet eyes are glued to the sweep of your hips, the fluid movement of your spine as you roll against him, nails piercing into his flesh, hands nearly fumbling, overcome with an intense sensation in his muscles, like he’s paralysed as he watches you move of your own accord. 

At your back, you can feel his attention but his grip has lightened almost entirely, practically having fallen away and you wonder what he’s thinking, what’s going through that dark mind of his. You wish you didn’t spend so much of your time pausing on that, wondering why, trying to figure him out. It should be as simple as he’s evil—cruel, selfish, and utterly monstrous—but he’d managed to worm his way into your heart before he’d revealed his true colours, and you haven’t been able to entirely remove him since. The contrast between the male you knew and the male his is, is startling; jarring. Unresolvable. 

But why does it have to be about him? Why do you have to care about what he thinks of you still? He’s proven to be a monster—why should you care what a monster thinks of you? 

His cock touches a part inside of you, just grazing it lightly, but it’s enough to have you searching for it again, shifting your hips in attempts to have him rubbing against it, but—you’ve lost it. A huff wants to work its way up your throat, but you keep it down, head raising upward, eyes closed as you try to continue searching for it, rocking your hips over him, grinding against him, raising up and down…

Surprise filters through your blood as Rhys’ hands find you again, holding your waist as he directs you, and your eyes peek open, fluttering around him as he shows you where that spot is, a rich moan falling from your lips as satisfaction fills your chest. A pleased feeling improves your mood, and you follow the motions, lids tempted to shut again to bask in the sweetness of the heat. 

Why hadn’t you done this sooner? Ignored him entirely and just taken what you could get? A tiny part of you whispers her doubts at where those thoughts have come from, but the pleasure softens her too as she liquefies without much resistance, melting into the pleasured chambers of your mind. 

When Rhys guides your hips higher, you follow thoughtlessly, his grip sliding you up and down the thick length of his cock and your lips part on a sharp breath, chasing after the pleasure that’s swiftly building in your lower abdomen, breathing becoming shallow with every touch of his cock. His hips buck suddenly, and your eyes fly open from the sharp spike of pleasure. 

Thoughtlessly, you resign yourself over to him, and he wastes no time in taking advantage of your lapse in judgement, his grip tightening on your hips as he effortlessly leverages your hips, slamming you back down on him in a way that repeatedly knocks the breath from your lungs. 

Doesn’t this feel good? He asks into your mind, a shiver running down your spine at the low caress of his voice. Doesn’t it feel so much better when you aren’t fighting against me? 

I thought you liked that, you think, having no control over what crops up in your mind, the vulnerability not nearly as terrifying as it should be, though. And I thought you didn’t care what I liked, he replies, darkness gathering at your shoulders, pushing the overlapping panels of fabric away so the sleeves fall over your arms, baring your breasts to the cool air of the underground court. 

True, you think, unable to push him away but not really wanting to. 

True? He repeats, a strange note in his voice but you’re not really concentrating on him as darkness swirls at your breasts, grazing across your sensitive nipples. That you don’t care what I like, or that it’s better when you’re good? 

Both.

Rhys’ breath hitches, grip momentarily fumbling at the sharp belief of the word, but you continue, chasing the high you’re approaching, soft moans spilling from your lips and he feels his mask slipping, panic rising in his chest as the desire to turn you around, to take you away from this court, to take you back to the safety of his house in Velaris, grows with startling strength. 

Your eyes slide shut as the orgasm blossoms throughout your body, breath catching at the intensity of the pleasure. “Rhys…” his name flutters from your tongue, pouring from your mouth as heat swarms your mind, muddling your thoughts further, forgetting time and context. “Fuck, Rhys…”

The High Lord regains his control, slamming you down on his cock as he hears his name pronounced in your lovely voice, soft and delicate despite the brutality of his bruising touch. 

“Fuck, say my name again.”

Say my name again.

The command comes from both sides, external and internal, the soft order whispering up your spine as you shake and tremble in his lap, overwhelmed. 

“Rhys…”

Rhys…

He groans roughly, and you feel as he spills inside of you, touch softening ever so slightly as he shifts behind you, brow resting on the back of your shoulder, feeling as his breath fans across your skin. Your spine curves, darkness still lightly playing with your breasts, more soothing than teasing now.

You glance down at yourself, and catch sight of jet black ink in your skin, the bargain mark stamped between your breasts, and you recall, not entirely fearfully, the deal you’d made with him. 

He had forced you into a position of compromise, and as usual you feel you were manipulated into yielding more than him. 

An entire night, under absolute obedience. 

What will he ask for? 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick walks down the long hall of the temple, past the lit braziers and litany of offerings.  The temple has proven a popular one in the last few days.

Of course it has.  They're preparing for war.

Dick has prayed at several temples over the fortnight.  Wisdom, to find a path out of this mess.  The Earth Mother, to ask for his family's safe return.  The Protector, the sun god himself, to safeguard Dick's home.  He has left rich offerings and offered vast riches.  He has promised everything he has to give.

And all he has received is silence.

The gods do not heed his prayers.  Tim is gone, lost on a quest from the deceitful Shadow King to find Bruce and return him to the land of the living.  Jason is likewise away, too busy being a vengeful avatar of Death to care about Gotham.  Gotham's defenses consist of Dick, the precocious ten-year-old halfblood Talia dropped off without so much as a by-your-leave, and Alfred.

The fight will be a slaughter.  Too few generals, too few fighting men.  The only thing that can help them is the intercession of the gods and there is only one god left to try.

Dick takes a deep breath and kneels at the altar.  The knife he draws isn't his flashiest or his oldest.  But its hilt matches the color of his eyes.

Dick knows this, because that was what the god whispered when he curled Dick's fingers around it.

The slice of his skin is the barest line of fire.  The blood drips onto the altar.  One.  Two.  Three.

"I pray to the God of War.  Heed my call."

The silence continues, only broken by the soft plink of blood meeting steel.  Dick stays on his knees and doesn't fidget.  He has all night.

War begins on the morrow.

"I pray to the God of War.  Heed my call."

~#~

He doesn’t know if it’s the hundredth or the thousandth time he says it when he finally gets a response.

"Hello, little bird."

A large part of Dick relaxes at the slow drawl.  Everything else tenses.

"My lord," Dick says formally, drawing his hand back and clenching it to halt further bleeding.  Deathstroke steps out from his altar, smirk already in place as he beholds Dick.  "I pray for your assistance."

"I'm listening."  Deathstroke steps around Dick, heavy boots treading on marble, circling Dick like wounded prey.

"There is an army at Gotham's borders.  Tomorrow we ride to war."

"I'm aware."  Deathstroke smiles, a bloodthirsty, wicked thing.

"I--I beseech you, my lord, to favor Gotham on the battlefield.  I know we are the weaker side--we have less men, and the terrain, and the supplies--we will never last a siege--"

Deathstroke cuts off his babbling with a frown.  For all the time Dick spent entreating the gods, he hasn't thought much about what to say when one finally listens.

Dick waits as Deathstroke completes his turn and stands before him once more.  In the shadow of the altar, he looks like nothing more than a man--dressed for combat, broadsword strapped to his back, dark eyepatch hiding the damage even a god couldn't heal.  The other icy blue eye stares down at Dick with the searing intensity of a thousand suns.

In the shadow of his altar, he looks like a god.

"Why?" Deathstroke asks curiously.  "Why should I favor you?"

There is a hint of poison in the tone.  Dick refused Deathstroke's offer to be his champion once, when Dick was still a child, and gods do not forget.  Gods do not forgive.

"I will give you anything," Dick says, painfully honest now that he has everything to lose.  "Anything that is mine to give."

Deathstroke's eye flashes.  "A tempting offer, little bird," he rumbles.

"It is yours.  Entirely yours, so long as you help."

Deathstroke reaches out and Dick stays where he is.  Lets the god trace the lines of his face with fingers that feel molten.  Hardly dares to breathe.

"Very well, little bird.  We have a deal."

The clasp of hands feels like shackles around Dick's wrists.  He breathes in and out and keeps the god's stare.

He doesn't let himself think about what he agreed to.  Tomorrow is war.  The consequences come after.

~#~

"Where have you been?" Damian accosts him the moment he enters the manor.  "We practically tore the walls apart looking for you--"

"I was praying," Dick says, heading straight for his room and his armor.  "For victory in today's battle."

Damian puffs up.  It's almost adorable, if Dick wasn't focused on buckling everything in place.  "You are very nearly late for that same battle--"

"I am here now," Dick says shortly, strapping on his sword.  "Enough.  Are you prepared?"

"I still insist I am better utilized with you, in the vanguard--"

"No."  In the case that Bruce does return, Dick will not be the one to tell him that he got his ten-year-old killed.  "You will stay and defend the manor in case of an incursion."  It is a way to keep the kid out of the fighting and he knows it.  "Do you understand?"

Damian makes a face.  "Yes," he grumbles.

Dick does not trust him, but he doesn't have the time.  Dawn's first light is breaking and the battle will begin soon.  He has no way to know what shape or form Deathstroke's assistance will take.  He will not sit around and wait for it.

He has begged long enough.  The time has come to fight.

Gotham's forces array out, facing those of neighboring Metropolis.  Someone is whispering in Luthor's ear, someone enticed him to attack.  Someone is keeping the other gods at bay.  The deck is already stacked against Dick.

The first charge begins.  Dick motions for his forces to stay steady and let the archers answer.  A hail of arrows arc over the battlefield.

A wind blows strong enough to sweep them all aside.

Interference.  Dick wants to close his eyes and weep.  Unfortunately, he does not have that luxury.

He grimly motions for the attack.

The clash of two armies is a terrible thing.  The noise of a hundred blades striking each other, the squelch of blood spraying free, the cries and shouts and screams of killers and the killed.  Dick hates it and yet he rides to it.  There is no other way.

Right before the armies meet, there is an unfurling in the middle, a man straightening like he was always there.  And maybe he was.

Deathstroke turns unerringly towards Dick, meeting his gaze despite the lengths that separate them, and unsheathes his sword to point it straight at Dick in salute.

He's smiling.  It is a terrifying thing.

And then he turns and attacks.

The armies meet as the God of War scythes his way through Dick's enemies, blood splattering and steel ringing, and sunlight flashing off that enormous sword that Deathstroke wields one-handed like it weighs as much as a feather.

Dick cannot look away.

There is nothing in the world more alluring than the sight of a god in their element.

Nothing more dangerous either.

~#~

In the end, it doesn't matter who whispers in Luthor's ear or snatches arrows from the sky.  Nothing in the world, mortal or not, is strong enough to defeat the God of War on a battlefield.

Gotham wins handily.  People cheer on the streets, soldiers clutch each other and weep, and the injured outnumber the dead.  An occasion to celebrate.

Dick finishes the letter he is writing and carefully presses it shut.  Ties it and leaves it on his desk.  They will find it easily enough when they search for him.  He has kept it vague, only commanding them not to look for him.  He is not lost.

Dick made this choice willingly.  Now he has to pay the price.

He slips from the manor, ducking past festive crowds and out of the way of laughter and celebration.  He clings to the memory of the relief on Damian's face when Dick returned.  Alfred's quiet joy.

The determination on Tim's face when he left.  The burning green fire in Jason's, utterly alien but at least alive.  The implacable strength of Bruce, a mountain Dick has never been able to match.

Dick hoped that whatever Deathstroke asked for, he could stand to lose.  Something minor, a quest perhaps, nothing that would steal him from his family.  At the very worst, the binding Dick refused once.  Being War's champion would severely curtail Dick's freedom, but he would still be able to visit home.

But Deathstroke didn't bless their swords to strike true or their arrows to hit their targets.  He didn't shift battlefield currents to their favor or tilt luck on their side.  He showed up to fight and slaughtered his way through a good portion of the enemy.

For that much destruction, there can be only one price.

The temple is empty, though offerings fill it from end to end.  Dick steps past them all, to the very end of the hall and the altar looming above him.  The last offering.

His arm trembles as he stretches it out.  But the blade slices cleanly, carving a line up his forearm, blood spilling far faster than before.  He switches the grip, the blade jerky in his bleeding hand, and manages a shaky slice up the other forearm.  The knife goes clattering against the altar.  Dick breathes raggedly and squeezes his eyes against the tears.

It's the pain, that's all.  Nothing more.

When he opens them, Deathstroke is right in front of him.  Dick doesn't flinch, even when Deathstroke grabs his bleeding arms.

"What is this?" the god hisses, one eye burning furiously.  It feels curiously distant though.  Possibly because the world is blurring out.

"The price," Dick reminds him with a tongue that feels too big.  "You helped.  I have to pay."

He can almost feel Jason's shock, can see his little brother turning towards him from far, far away.  He wonders if Jay can visit him in the Underworld.

"Foolish little bird," he hears Deathstroke sigh somewhere above him.  The burning in his arms changes to burning, sharp, fiery pain racing along the cut and making him scream.  "Only life can pay for death."

[kasumitanart]

The Chains of Avernus

Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a savior? That’s for certain.

Love drawing a sinister Raphael 🫠.

[rea-grimm]

Deal with the devil - Shanks

You've been sailing with Shanks and his crew for quite some time now. You followed him from East Blue to the Grand Line. However, you had no idea what was waiting for you.

A few days after you got to the 3rd island, you got sick. No one knew what was wrong with you. You had fevers and chills for the first few days, but then that went away and all that was left was fatigue.

You originally thought you were cured, but when you passed out out of the blue, it was clear you weren't quite fit. Every day you got more tired and ended up lying in bed or outside in the hammock.

You spent most of the day alone in a hammock on the beach. Someone always came to see you and you also slept a lot.

Shanks was already slightly tipsy from the bar, but he still took the bottle and went over to you to keep you company.

"How do you feel?" he asked you and kissed your cheek.

“Tired,” you replied and gave a weak smile. You had no idea why, but his presence always cheered you up.

“Hongo is working on a cure and so are we,” he said taking your hand.

“I know,” you smiled weakly. You knew they had been working hard on it and that they too needed a little rest.

“You'll get over it for sure,” he said and in that moment you truly believed his words.

"You'll get better and then we'll have a proper celebration, as it should be." 

Shanks sat down next to the hammock and told you everything that had happened during the day. What happened that was interesting or what brought a smile to your face.

It was slowly getting dark and you still enjoyed the sunset next to the man you loved before falling asleep.

You still faintly felt him cover you with his coat and kiss your forehead good night before you fell completely asleep.

Once you fell asleep, Shanks went to get another bottle. He was worried about your health, but he knew that he wouldn't help you with worries.

With his new bottle, he sat down next to you again and drank. He wanted to help you get better, but he had no idea what could save your life.

He even thought about getting a devil fruit for you, but he didn't know of any free ones that could save your life.

Shanks was almost halfway through the bottle when he noticed a strange figure looking at you.

“A very nice flower. Although she looks like she's slowly withering away,” the stranger spoke before Shanks could say anything.

"I'm sure she'll get over it," Shanks replied, setting the bottle down and focusing on the stranger he didn't like at all.

"What if I told you I could heal her?" said the devil looking at the redheaded captain. At the same time, his eyes shone like two flames at night.

“Y/N doesn't need help from someone like you,” he replied sternly, resting his hand on the Gryphon's hilt.

"How about I offer you a new hand on top of that, hmm?" he didn't give up.

"Try making your offers somewhere other than my crew," Shanks said sternly. The devil tried to give him a few more tempting offers, one better than the other, but it didn't work with Shanks.

Demon tried another offer, but the captain ran out of patience and used Conqueror Haki on him. The devil crouches to the ground under his gaze before disappearing completely.

Shanks didn't see the demon anywhere for the next day and figured he had given up. He was glad for that and stood up for you that you were strong enough to overcome your illness. You didn't need any shady deals to get out of this.

On this day, the crew decided to take a day off. Although they drank yesterday, they also had enough from the hunt for the cure and deserved at least a day off. Despite all that, Hongo was working on your cure.

The rest of the crew had been drinking since morning itself, and of course, Shanks joined them. He went to get a bottle of rum when he noticed the box with the last bottle.

He had the impression that he had never seen such a bottle before, uncorked it and smelled it. He didn't have to think twice and drank straight away. He had no idea that he had such good rum on board. He guessed that you could have bought it while you were still well.

He followed the others with the bottle. He was having a good time and almost forgot about the devil. He was having such a good time that he didn't even notice when he put the bottle aside for a moment that it had disappeared. No one noticed this little detail at all.

Shanks managed to get so drunk that he barely staggered over to you. Before you could ask him anything, he collapsed next to the palm tree and fell asleep.

It was surprisingly strange to see Shanke so drunk. Most of the time, no one was enough for him to drink. You also fell asleep after a while.

After a few hours, you woke up full of energy like never before. You had the impression that your body was full of power.

You were even able to climb out of the hammock by yourself. You couldn't even describe how amazing it felt to stand on your feet again without someone supporting you, threatening to collapse to the ground.

As you climbed out of the hammock, Shanks, who had been snoring lightly until now, woke up. He stretched and squinted around before finally coming to his senses. His eyes then fell on you as you stood outside the net and a wide smile spread across his face. At that moment the hangover was gone.

"You stand! How do you feel?" he scrambled to his feet and took your hand. 

“Much better and full of energy,” you smiled. Shanks nodded his head in satisfaction before hugging you. It was as if a giant weight had been lifted from his heart. This is a celebration!

And with this plan, everyone drank properly that you were recovering. The rum was flowing and everyone was celebrating.

Originally, it was supposed to be celebrated until the very morning and later. However, no one expected that the captain would be affected by alcohol.

Sometime in the middle of the evening, he began to feel dizzy, and his head ached excruciatingly as if it was going to burst. It was the first time you had seen him in such a state.

This time you were the one who had to support Shanks. You were worried if he was overdoing it, but you knew he would be better in the morning.

You led him to the boat and helped him to bed. There he collapsed himself and dragged you down with him. You bumped into him and noticed how his pupils were unnaturally narrowed.

“Get some rest,” You told him, running your fingers through your hair. Shanks groaned in pain and you felt like you felt his bump on his skull. You wondered if he hit his head.

“Sorry,” you apologized and kissed his forehead. Despite all of that, he gave you a weak smile before pulling you into a hug and very soon fell asleep.

A little after midnight, Shanks woke up. He felt like he was on fire, his body was writhing in convulsions and he felt like his head was going to explode.

“I'll go get you something for the pain,” you said and went to Hongo to get some medicine.

In no time you were back with the medicine. You gave a drink to Shanks and it seemed to work as he fell asleep within minutes.

You stayed with him all night and kept watch over him. However, after a while, you also fell asleep.

In the morning, you were only woken up by the light that filtered into the cabin. Despite all that, you didn't want to leave the bed. Maybe also because Shanks was holding you around the waist.

You still closed your eyes and wanted to wait until the captain woke up too, when you felt something wrap around your leg.

You immediately thought it was a snake. In no time you were wide awake and fell out of bed in shock.

From the ground, you still had your foot on the bed, around which you had something wrapped. It seriously reminded you of a black snake, but it didn't have scales and was relatively soft. Besides, you couldn't see the head anywhere.

You carefully unwrapped it at the seams of your leg when you noticed that it led from the captain. Only then did you experience the shock. Shanks was still asleep, but dark, twisted horns were sticking out of his head.

“Shanks,” you said shaking him. "Get up." The captain slowly woke up and looked sleepily at you with red almost glowing eyes.

"Is it morning yet?" he asked still sleepy trying to pull you close.

"Did you eat the devil's fruit?" you asked as it seemed like the only possible explanation.

"No, why?" and he ran a hand through his hair. When he did, he was immediately startled, as he felt horns that he certainly hadn't had there before. Shock immediately replaced his carefree expression.

“Shall I come for Hongo?” you asked. But Shanks just shook his head, as he had the impression that it had nothing to do with the doctor.

He rubbed his chin and thought. He immediately thought of the strange man who had been circling you a day ago. He offered him healing in exchange for something. But he never told him what the price was.

It was too many coincidences at once. Demon, good booze, your healing and his change. However, he was sure that he had rejected him.

On the one hand, he was glad that you had recovered, but this was bothering him. Besides, he wasn't sure what he had traded for your health. Sure, he looked more like a demon now, but he hoped that was the end of it.

"Do you know what it is?" you asked him sitting down next to him. You took his hand and noticed he had long claws instead of fingernails.

"I have a hunch," he replied and told them what had happened and what he thought it was.

“I didn't want to accept it because I know how strong you are,” he said looking into your eyes. His were a little different now, but his warmth hadn't disappeared from them. His new tail wrapped itself around your leg like a snake, as if he was looking for comfort near you.

Shanks Masterlist

[sjaneart]

Check out my webcomic!!! https://www.webtoons.com/en/canvas/ink/list?title_no=964558

A little context for the story: the main character made a deal with the devil and now she’s stuck in purgatory. A demon is letting the audience vote on what happens to her during her time in Hell.

[vertigoartgore]

Brian De Palma's Phantom of the Paradise (turning 50 today, feel old yet ?) movie poster by artist Richard Corben.

[justcallmeanobsessor]

-A Deal With The Devil-

-Trigger Warnings: Dud-Con, Sexual Content, Size Difference, Mentions of Claws, oral sex

-Pairings: Demon! Male x gn Witch! reader

INTRO:

Only an orange glow of candle light lit up the sight in front of me. His yellow eyes stared up at me with hunger, claws digging into my thighs as his tongue dipped deeper into my depths. Reaching every spot it can, he left no crevice untouched as if he was claiming me for himself. This wasn't how I thought this would go. All I wanted was a simple contract to help me with my endeavors, instead I have this demonic creature on his knees, groaning at the taste of me.

Many would say my thirst for knowledge knows no bounds for what I am about to attempt but others would say I'm just plain stupid and maybe I am. It's not every day that you call on the forces of hell to help you with discovering the secrets of the universe and accomplish your life goals but I also guess for my kind it's just as natural as adopting a new cat. Though this cat is much larger and has a few tricks up its sleeves that most definitely shouldn't be taken lightly unless you want to be left with a few less limbs.

In a cottage, I knelt beside a pentagram that sat in the midst of a circle of dark red candles. A book of seances and spells sat in my hands. My courage to go on with the summons was starting to slowly fade as everything became a bit more real but the thoughts of what I'd gain from this pushed me to finally start the chanting.

After a while I had gotten to the end of the lengthy paragraphs written in old latin. Nothing happened. Not even a flicker of candle light. ‘Great, Well this was a waste of time’ I thought as I stood from my kneeling position moving to start cleaning up the mess I had made, no need to start an unwanted conspiracy by someone stumbling upon this sight. 

Just as I was about to smudge a line in the pentagram a strong light emitted from it painting the walls of the room in blood red. My wonder was short lived for just like it had started in only a few seconds it was gone even sooner.

My eyes took a couple of seconds to adjust again but once they did what stood before me left me in awe. A beautiful man was standing there and a scowl of what looked to be annoyance sat on his pale face. He narrowed his brightly glowing eyes at me examining my body and then moving to the room around us, glancing and inspecting every crevice yet not moving a foot from where he stood. ‘Why have I been summoned, Witch.’ he spat out the word ‘witch’ with absolute disgust, crossing his arms in the process. “I-i-i…..” I stammered trying to get the words out but failing miserably. “Well! Spit it out, I don't have all day!” His annoyance with this whole situation seemed to increase exponentially more with every passing second. “I-um I want to make a contract with you!” The end of my sentence came out rushed and more demanding than I had wanted. 

He crosses his arms and stands straighter, looming over me. “You, an insolent little witch, want to make a contract with me?” “Yes, I do.” I straighten my posture as well, looking up into his golden eyes. “I want you to help me with my discoveries, I want knowledge and nothing more.” I started to get a bit more confident but the sudden condescending laugh he let out diminished that quickly. “And what do you have that I would want in return for giving you this ‘knowledge’ that you desperately seek?” I froze, I had entirely forgotten that I needed to give something in exchange. How could I forget this?! 

Most witches would use a valuable object or artifact in return for the demon's help but I had yet to obtain anything of the sort. I didn't have anything that would be of value to a demon, all that I really owned was myself and the clothes on my back, everything else belonged to the coven. Wait. “Well, what do you have, little witch?” This may be the stupidest idea ever but this is my last and only chance. “I'll give you myself.” “What?” He looked down at me with shock and confusion. “My body and soul are yours if only you complete my requests and help me in my endeavors!” his shock turns into a smug grin mockingly. “Do you even know what you are proposing little witch?” “Yes-yes I do!” I'm unsure of what he means by that. I'm basically offering myself up as a puppet for his biddings. “I'm unsure if you know the extent of what you have offered me but I guess that's more fun.” confusion washes across my face. Damn demons and their games. “Well, do you agree?” He closes his eyes, holding his chin in between his clawed thumb and pointer finger in thought. “It seems with such a precious offer I have no other choice but to accept.” He purred, holding out his hand to seal the contract between us. I lift mine into his and as he holds my hand our difference in size becomes even more noticeable. He could break me in half with little to no effort. 

Our hands were wrapped in a golden light, scaring the skin below and ceiling the contract with it. I had moved to pull my hand from his, he had different plans. Pulling my smaller frame into his chest and bringing his mouth to my ear he spoke. “I think it's time to show you exactly what you have offered up.” I still was utterly confused as to what he was talking about but everything became more obvious to what he had been alluding to when his tongue licked up the side of my ear, his teeth nibbling on the tip causing a moan to ripple from throat. My hands came up to my mouth, horrified at the noise I had just made. The demon chuckled, prying my hands off my mouth. “Don't hide those pretty noises from me, little witch.” With those growled words a blush had made its way to my face and a fog of lust began to wash over my mind. 

He went back to his work, licking at the shell of my ear then moving downwards leaving kisses and bites in his path. As he got to the base of my neck he sucked hard enough to leave a deep bruise that would be noticeable to anyone who even glanced at it, in a way, he seemed to be marking me as his. 

He was slow with his actions but they were calculated and rough, making me shiver with pure pleasure. No matter how much one half of me wanted to refuse, I just couldn't bring myself to, not even as he removed my shirt and made his way down to my chest. Not even as his tongue circled around my nipple, sucking and nibbling at it while his hand tugged and twisted the other between his fingers. I had no knowledge of just how sensitive I was until this very moment, with both the work of his mouth and hands sending waves after waves of pleasure towards my nethers. My knees had begun to buckle underneath me but before I had the chance to be taken by the pleasure completely and fall to the ground below, he caught me in his arms leading me to lay on the wooden planks of the cottage as he finished stripping me of my clothing. 

He knelt between my legs spreading my thighs apart, groaning at the sight of my throbbing hole. He wasted no time in dipping his head down and liking at my entrance causing a moan to fall from my lips. He lifted his golden eyes to look at me, a smirk forming on his face as he plunged his tongue into my depths not moving his eyes away from me. 

My head whipped back as I held myself up on my elbows. His tongue licked over every inch of my insides not leaving anything untouched, claiming everything he could reach. Hitting every pleasurable spot inside me, taking all I am for his own and leaving me only wanting more so much more. “Please please!” He pulled his tongue out from my hole leaving me whining to be filled again. “Please what? Use your words little witch.” “Please, more.” I whined just wanting something inside me. “Hmm I don't think you deserve more just yet.” What was he talking about? He can't be serious, is he really playing games right now? “Fuck! I'll do anything Just do something!” I yelled out in frustration. “I don't like being ordered around, little witch.” He growled lowly as he pulled me up by my hair, shoving my face into his crotch. His hard cock resting against my cheek. “Suck.” He commanded. I didn't fight back, licking a line up to his head and then suckling on the tip. Swirling my tongue as he groaned, putting his hand on the back of my head and shoving me down his length till my nose hit his pelvis. 

As I was Gagging and struggling to breath he pulled back thrusting into my throat again. I breathed through my nose as he continued his relentless thrusts. My fingernails digging into his thighs leaving crescent indents. Tears pricked my eyes with the strength he was using, my lips starting to get sore. As his thrusts started to spasm he shoved his whole cock in my mouth when a thick warm liquid ran down my throat. “Swallow.” he demanded, then removed his length from my mouth. I did as he said, gulping down the salty liquid and opening my mouth to him to prove that I had. “Good, little witch, maybe next time I'll reward you.” Wait he isnt going to leave me like this is he? “What? but i-!” 

“You didn't actually think I'd give you something in return after how you spoke to me?” I went quiet, looking down in shame and frustration as he started to clean himself up. “Like I said you don't deserve it yet, little witch.” This smug ass fucker. The next thing I knew he was gone leaving me desperate and frustrated. This is not at all how I thought this would turn out.

[yoursghouly]

Source: Occult Memes For Esoteric Teens

[noname-404s-blog]

"She has other monsters to deal with right now"

Art by Ana Ciorcila 🖤

[gingerchip03]

I'm motivated to help you little vampling