#love marrow's daddy

[mlarty]

For the glory of Bhaal 💀🎶

Bones bones, roses roses...

[gladiatorcunt]

- # 🍁 THE NEMEAN LION !!

feels so ugly when i’m honest

cw: afab reader, ambiguous era, dubcon coded, insp. by this ask, patrick and reader have noncon somno fantasies about the other (so rlly it’s more cnc), patrick is gross and mean, situationship/roommate!patrick, unprotected p in v sex & relying on the pull out method, weed mention and wine mention, art guest star appearance (patrick mentions him), oral (afab reader receiving), hints of: foot fetish, dacryphilia, cnc in general, plus sized!reader, mythological themes, 3k words of me losing my marbles, one use of daddy, we don’t gotta be in love you knowweeeeee i don’t gotta be the oneeee you knowweeeeeeeeew

You’re making him crazy, Patrick knows it. He shouldn’t spend his mornings humping his pillows that you hold in your lap during movie nights. He definitely shouldn’t be stealing your panties and strangling his cock with the lacey fabric that’s going to end up smelling so foul from how much he’ll use the same pair over and over. He thinks he can catch your scent on his clothes when you’ve never actually been close enough to leave a reminder of you behind. Sometimes Patrick gets so frustrated with continuing at this same snail’s pace that he wishes he could just grab your face and smush it into his musky crotch. He’d let you go if you were about to pass out, maybe. You can’t get shit twisted if you’re unconscious.

He’s telling you another one of his stories, hoping to see a twinge of… something swirling in your irises. You just hum too much and squirm a bit, ever the overactive listener. Patrick would cut off his balls if it meant that he could hear anything resembling a moan from you, not just little signs that you’re listening and not speaking. The transformer movie’s reached a point where you don’t really have to pay attention, so you cutely shuffle your mess of blankets around on the couch so you can give Patrick your undivided attention. He’s had to start keeping space in his closet for the large throw blankets you bring along even though you refuse to let him turn the fan off.

“Yeah, I was with Art actually. We ate each other out back in the day, y’know, to see what it was like. He sat on my face and fuckin’ almost broke my neck, his thighs were gripping me so tight.” He coyly tilts his head to the side, pretending to be shy about the whole thing.

He narrows his eyes and analyzes your reaction. You dart your gaze around the room for a split second, struggling to tamper down the blossoming warmth in your stomach and the insecurity that comes with never being able to catch up with Patrick. You’ve confessed to it a couple times, usually after a couple of bottles of whatever cheap alchohol he’s got on hand. His nails shred into his palms with the effort it takes not to give you something to talk about, even if you think they’re only dreams.

“When was the first time someone ate you out? I can’t be the only one shoving my foot in my mouth here.”

God, what he’d give to have your feet in his mouth, and vice versa.

You play with the fluffy black blanket in your lap, making eye contact with one of the cartoon nutcrackers on it and not Patrick as you answer his question. “Oh… I’ve actually never been eaten out, maybe that’s why no one’s made me cum.”

It’s a like his world has been hit by an unexpected asteroid and blown to smithereens, bits of membrane and curdled dna scattered across the milky way. The gross-ness imbued in his bone marrow leaks out into vaccum of space as he processes this truly fucking suprising piece of information. Never in his life has Patrick been told something that just can’t be true, not when there are still good things in the world. Not when that helpful little tidbit will split him open and take over his every waking and sleeping thought.

He shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “What? What the hell do you mean no one’s ever eaten your pussy?”

“I, I don’t know. The people I've been with have just never gone out of their way to do it and I didn't make a big deal out of it.”

His heart’s breaking in half and you clearly have no idea. Patrick scrambles to sit up and grabs your hands to stop them from fiddling with the blanket anymore. There are a thousand things he wants and needs and just has to say but all he can do in the present moment is keep shaking his head and crowding you against the right arm of his tattered gray couch.

“Then they’re so fucking stupid, I can’t believe you don’t know what it feels like to have a tongue up your cunt.” He states, a firm declaration that has you throwing out a hand on his bicep to ground yourself.

Patrick looks crazed above you, dark hair impossibly soft and pupils steadily expanding outward. You slide your hand up his arm (trying to ignore the muscle there, what it’d be like when they flex as he picks you up by your ass) to place it on his firm chest. You open your mouth, trying to cobble together any kind of response you can think of but your mind is blank. Patrick seizes the opportunity and smahes his mouth against yours, when the clashing of your lips is over there’s more blood than spit. He flicks his tongue out to catch the little drops of blood dripping from your lips, moaning after he swallows each one.

You’re catching your breath, “You… you can’t… just do that.”

He rolls his eyes and grins, “I did. I can hear you through the walls at night you know? Rubbing your pussy on one of my pillows that you think I don't know you stole, crying for me.”

Damn, that’s what you get for making risky decisions while you’re ovulating. You knew you washed it and should’ve snuck in while he was out to throw it on his plaid comforter and act like it never happened. The longer you kept it stuffed between your plush thighs, smothering it in the natural scent of your pussy, the more your shyness grew. It was easier to spend your nights like that then explore the possibility of doing something else with your time, but now you’re just wishing that you hopped on Patrick’s stupidly huge dick while he was passed out and snoring and called it a day.

“I… I’m sorry, okay? You can have it back.” You say and keep the grumpiness out of your tone, having to come to terms with hoarding nothing that smells like him anymore.

“Just shut up and be happy, be good for me.” He punctuates it with a mean squeeze to your face, slowly sliding his hand down to hang around your throat and falling to his knees in front of the couch.

Maybe it’s the cheap white wine, maybe it’s the subpar edible you had earlier, but you throw caution to the wind and sink your fingers into Patrick’s hair. Your breath happily flies out of your lungs when he pushes your knees apart, coaxing your white lace panties off with his teeth. The bright lights from the TV cast a glow around him, and you hate how pretty he looks. Like if Hercules was a modern porn star, muscles rippling and eyes spearing through you as he catapults you to the stars.

The roughness of his fingers feels heavenly as he smooths them down your inner thighs, “Nice and fat pussy, dripping all over the place. Saying hi, right? It’d be rude of me to not say anything back.”

So he does, spitting right on your clit and spreading it all over your pussy. Patrick shuffles closer and takes several big lungfuls, humping the air with every whiff of your artificial body wash combined with your much more attractive musk. He opens his mouth wide and latches onto your soaking folds, flattening his tongue and licking broad stripes up your cunt. He laps up your juices sloppily, almost wagging his tongue wildly in an effort to suck up whatever he can.

There’s a coil forming in the pit of your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every swipe of Patrick’s wet tongue. Your face flames in embarrassment once again, you don’t really know if you look bad from his point of view but you can’t stop yourself from throwing your head back against the couch and scrunching your face up. He gives your asshole an open mouthed kiss, half to tease you even further and half because he just couldn’t resist. It was glistening and winking at him and everything.

“Fuck! Fuck! That’s so- how are you so good at this?” You mewl, raking through his hair thoroughly like you’re searching for something you lost.

Patrick’s ego grows in size and he smiles as he moves to your clit, hollowing his cheeks and suckling rapidly. He buries his face in your pussy and drinks you down in several gulps, picking up speed when you resign yourself to telltale moans about much you need to cum. He flicks the tip of his tongue against your swollen clit and slows down right when you’re apart to fall over the edge. He actually chuckles into your mound and winks when you glare at him. He cuts off whatever bratty retort you armed yourself with by going back to nearly inhaling your clit without warning.

“Ungh- I really-really fucking hate you, but don’t you dare stop, I’ll kill you.”

Each suck sends pulses shooting up your core, and that scary coil in the depth of your guts tightens blissfully. You squirm, the very definition of a hot mess as you grind against his face. The friction was never enough but you keep corralling his nose into your pubic hair, fruitlessly rutting your hips with no end goal other than the urge to hump whatever’s available. You panic for a second that you’ll suffocate him or he’ll be grossed out by you not shaving, but you shouldn’t underestimate him. If anything, Patrick groans at the heady smell. Getting it straight from the source and fucking the air during his suckling.

His eyes never stray from you. Your agonized face straight out of a renaissance painting, too strung out and burning with pleasure to resemble anything normal. Your thick thighs, jiggling with every move you make, you can’t seem to decide between humping his mouth like a bitch in heat or trying to squeeze his head like a watermelon. Your sounds, wails and cries and moans and whines, he’ll have to record you next time, play it anytime and anywhere in case you misunderstand what this is. The first documentation of how much cum and fluid you can paint him in, whatever color or thickness you’ve got for him. He’ll wring it all out of you eventually, film a home movie series to chronicle every squirting session and the like.

Gun to his head, you taste like those old fashioned butterscotch hard candies. Decadent and sweet, if he could he’d sink his teeth into the slippery supple flesh and pull and rip.

After several rounds of cruel edging, your brain whites out so hard, you can almost form the blurry shapes in your peripheral vision into a red spiked tail and horned wings. Patrick’s ruining you entirely, you know that now, and the movie’s already over but you don’t spare the scrawling credits more than a weary glance. Your soul is probably cartoonishly swimming through the putrid air towards your body, but your sweaty body is shaking too much to receive it. There’s a ringing in your ears as you blink yourself into awareness, Patrick unbuckles his jeans and a blunt pressure stretches your hole out.

“Sorry, ‘m out of condoms, I’ll pull out, baby.” He huffs out, praying to whatever’s listening that he doesn’t just start pummeling your shit.

You feel your stomach bunching up before you see Patrick’s dick disappearing into you. The feeling of being split open on something so thick has you reeling, no one else you’ve been with has left you spiraling quite like this. In a room full of dicks you’d be able to spot his, you’d just have to find the one that has the back of your throat tingling and going dry just from a sniff and a look. You’d cry if he pulled out now, it’s already too late for you. This is such a stupid decision, sloppy rough sex with your roomate-turned-situationship on his worn out couch that’s older than the both of you combined.

It’s one hell of a story, and maybe some moments in life should be allowed to boil down to that. The hand loosely wrapped around your throat tightens its hold, you welcome the thumb pushing into your mouth without prompting. The depravity of it all makes you feel owned, has you seriously considering living your life as some guy’s exclusive pet whore. The ‘squelch’s and the ‘schlick’s that come with his savage thrusts and milk white strings connecting the base of his cock to your puffy pussy.

Every breath you think you’re going to be able to take, he steals from you and mocks your whimpery “unh-unh-unh~”’s in his raspy mid-fuck voice.

“This is the only dick you’ll be hanging off of from now on, got it? Can’t let some lousy jackass try to sew his balls to this pussy when it’s not even gonna cream around him.” You say yes to that hissed demand, yes of course, Daddy.

Patrick plunges his cock to the hilt into your cunt in one sharp stroke, gasping and gripping your hip to distract himself from the way your walls are clenching around his length. Every part of you is greedy apparently, you’re perfect for each other then. The position he has you in is so filthy, he’s standing and hosting your legs up over his shoulders, folding you in half on the couch. His dirty levi’s pool around his feet and the sound of his belt hitting the floor inspires awful thoughts in you. Your sweat mixes together and trickles down your legs, sticking to his leg hair.

You can have it soft once he’s gotten this demon off his back and out of his system, you can ride him while you’re cozied up in bed, lazily rolling your hips until you get tired a couple minutes later and clinging to the caresses on your love handles. Patrick has to destroy something before he can even stand to think about putting it back together, your insides and you yourself are no exception. Your walls feel like the finest quality silk around his throbbing cock, leaking inside of you as he clutches onto your ankles. The TV’s automatically shut off by now, and the lack of background noise enhances his animalistic grunts and deep moans.

“Gonna fuck your tits next time, fuck-what the fuck-you’re too damn tight, massage them for you after, rub your cunt raw-“

Patrick fucks like he’s staking claim on a spoil of war, you’re learning, as if the pale ferryman’s hot on his heels and this sliver of time is the only sacred thing he’ll ever get in his wretched mortal life. All his, gone limp between bloody jaws and killing hands. He snarls in your face as he pounds your pussy, angling his hips to stab deeper in you than should be medically possible. You don’t when you start tearing up, but Patrick does nothing to wipe away your tears, not even lick them up. He just fucks you to the point where you’re crying, shutting his eyes as he throws his head back so you can’t see that he’s crying too. The both of you borrow from different sources of emotion.

“You sounded so scared when you were cumming, made my balls twitch, was cute.” Patrick tells you in between messy kisses, more focused on almost eating your face than properly locking lips with you.

His tongue hangs out of his mouth as he abruptly yanks himself out of you and lavishes your belly in ropes after ropes of cum. You’d reach down to dip a finger in and taste it, but you’re too annoyed at the thought that he’s depriving you of an orgasm again. You haven’t even decided whether you’re going to pout or flatbout get up and leave when Patrick’s sliding home once more. You give him a punched out gasp, sort of pained and kind of relieved, in response. He hisses through his teeth, grinding them together like it’s burning the flesh on his cock to plunge back into your searing pussy. Actively breaking and remaking you. Both of your muscles tense up as the wave threatens to crash over you.

“You can cry some more, if you want, I'd like that a lot. Beg me to save you from what I’m doing to you, to this tight pussy.”

Happy or sad, doesn’t matter. He knows you like it when he keeps you from fighting back, you suit being manhandled and made to take dick better than anyone else he’s slummed it with.

He hunches his back forward to kiss you again, and you claw red stripes down it as your tongue maps out every inch of his mouth. He pulls back and you spend several seconds like that sharing breath. You don’t realize what you’re saying out loud, things like ‘Holy shit you’re so fucking big-so good-it’s so fucking good’ and ‘Feels better than i thought it would, how is that even possible?’ It’s like your own little sex obsessed podcast, centering every episode around how situationship dick is on another level and will irrevocably destroy you. Patrick chuckles, he can’t wait to hold every treasured compliment from you over your head. You could say you’re done with whatever this is when he leaves the toilet seat up again but he’ll never forget you howling for him and his cock to never leave you.

Patrick will swing himself over the net into overstimulation before the next time your pussy’s clamping down on his thick cock and spasming, but he’ll be damned if you’re not gonna end up passed out and drooling while the sun rises. You can spend future movie nights cockwarming him, if you can stand to endure the sickeningly perfect stretch without being allowed to get your cunt beat. You’re mewling when you froth the base of his dick again, your walls pulse around him like you’re a cat laving up your favorite cream. Tonight’s not the night where you’ll be getting it straight from the source, maybe when you’re willing to take certain risks. His smiles are the most genuine when you drag out your whine to follow the speed in which he pulls out to paint your body. Tangy ribbons hanging over your love handles and dripping down to your ass cheeks.

[lipglossanon]

Desire (I’m Hungry)

Corrupt Cop!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

<< previous installment >>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Leon POV, dark thoughts, being filmed without consent aka Leon’s making a sex tape and reader has no clue, dirty talk, daddy kink, kissing, biting, blood kink, oral (m & f receiving), pussy spanking, clit biting, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread ✌️

today marks one year that I officially published my first Leon x reader fic that just happened to be Corrupt Cop Leon! 💜 so happy anniversary to the OG! 😘

Title from Desire by Meg Myers 💜

It’s not unusual to see a police cruiser parked outside the library on any given night. Especially when you’re inside, finishing up whatever class work you can before heading home. 

Leon leans back against the passenger door, one leg crossed over the ankle of the other, arms folded over his chest. His walkie’s turned off since he’s not on duty and he can hear the whispers of people passing him by, from the curious looks of kids to loose women giving him sultry smiles. Except for a cursory glance, his mind doesn’t linger on any single one of them. 

Drumming his fingers on his bicep, he tilts his head as he catalogs the outside of the building. He’s done this a thousand times at this point. Even before you knew he came around, when he would follow you home and watch you from his squad car. He kind of misses those days.    

The sound of a door opening pulls his attention up the library steps. Once you fully step out into the cool evening air, your eyes immediately seek him out. Satisfaction coils deep in his gut as your face breaks out into a bright smile at seeing him. Although he loved quietly following you, having you seek him out is much better. His eyes track your body as you carefully take the stairs and walk over to him. 

He only had to chastise you one time about not rushing down the steps. (You cried so prettily on his cock after he spanked your pussy raw. But the lesson stuck and he hasn’t had to remind you once, such a good girl). 

“Hi,” your soft voice hits his ears and he’s smirking at your shyness. 

“Hi, pretty girl, ready to go?”

You nod, “All set. Thank you for taking me home.”

“Of course, don’t want you getting hurt,” he murmurs, uncrossing his arms to brush a thumb across your cheekbone, “here, let me take your bag.”

Eyes fond, you hand him your book bag and wait for him to open the passenger door for you. Watching as you sit, he sees when your skirt rucks up around your thighs and it makes his blood run hot, pulse quickening in his neck. He walks around the trunk of the car, placing your bag in the back before climbing into the driver seat. 

He checks his mirrors and blind spots before pulling away from the curb. As soon as he’s on the street, his hand grips the dough of your thigh closest to the gear shift. A giddy thrum of excitement bleeds through his thoughts when he hears your little gasp. You’re so easy for him. His pretty, perfect girl. 

He no longer stifles those thoughts or impulses that once might have gotten him locked up. You invite his dark urges in with wet eyes and an even wetter cunt. Today’s special even if you don’t know it. He’s planned a little surprise, something he’s been wanting to do for a while now. 

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he watches you surreptitiously, taking in the  changing expressions as he drives closer and closer to your house. Just seeing your face makes him ache all the way down to his marrow. He wants to sink his teeth into you until he tastes blood.

“Should we eat out for dinner?”

He glances over at you and tightens his fingers, giving your thigh a quick squeeze. 

“Sure, sweetheart.”

He parks outside your house, letting you walk up to your front stoop first as he grabs your bag. You unlock the door as soon as he joins you, his hand palming your lower back to usher you into the house. Dropping your school bag down onto the floor, he uses both hands to grip your hips, pushing you back against the closed front door. 

Desire pulses throughout his body, a deep seated hunger that makes him want to crack open your rib cage and crawl inside. He’s sure your beating heart would sate this visceral reaction to the possessive want that engulfs his thoughts.

But kissing you will have to suffice for now. 

Your lips part on a sigh as he licks into your mouth, tongue greedy and hot as he tastes you deeply. His fingers dig into your skin, thumbs pressed uncomfortably against your hip bones; he gloats to himself as the twinge of pain has you arching into him. If he could, Leon would rip you apart at the seams, swallow you whole til nothing’s left. 

You whimper into his harsh kisses while your hands grab onto his chest, badge nearly pricking your fingers as you try to find purchase against his uniform. He lets go of your waist to circle his fingers around your wrists, pushing them against the door on either side of your head. Pulling back, his sea dark eyes take in your dilated pupils and swollen lips. 

Now, he thinks, is the perfect time to drag you into your room.

Leon kisses you again, heatedly, pulling you into the bedroom with little preamble. For the surprise he’s been planning, he made sure to sneak into your house earlier in the day. He then hid a camera perfectly angled on your nightstand where you couldn’t see it. 

His mouth waters at the thought of filming everything he wants to do to you. Excitement heightens his aggressiveness. He can’t wait to take you apart in front of the lens, especially without you knowing. He shivers as he licks hungrily into your mouth. 

“Leon,” you whisper when he drags his mouth down to bite your neck, “thought we were going out to dinner?”

“Well, I am gonna eat you out,” he crudely states with a grin, “but first let’s see those pretty tits.”

Biting your bottom lip softly, you step back and pull your shirt off. His eyes watch as you nervously take off your bra and drop it into the floor with your shirt. Leon lets his hands reach out to grope and pinch your hard nipples. His cock throbs where it’s trapped in his pants.

“Get naked, pretty girl, wanna see you,” he coaxes, smile wicked when you do as he says.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, he faces the camera, pulling you down into his lap, your back to his chest. The juxtaposition of having you completely naked on his lap while he’s in uniform makes him bite down on your shoulder hard. You squeal and try to move, but he wraps his arms around you, pinning you in place. 

After you settle down, his hands move to squeeze the fat of your breasts until it dimples between his fingers. Your nipples tighten even further under his palms as he runs them across the stiff buds. 

“Such a good girl,” he kisses the side of your neck, eyes glinting when they look over to the hidden device, “bet that cute pussy’s soaked, sweetheart.”

Squirming against him, you whine pitifully, grinding your wet cunt down onto his bulge, “Daddy, please.”

“Such a well mannered girl,” he coos sweetly, luring you into relaxing against him further. 

The flat of his fingers come down in a hard slap against your pussy, a sharp gasp parting your pretty lips. Leon spanks across your fat cunt until you’re hiccuping little cries, tears streaming down your face to drip onto your chest. Even with the pain, you still part your legs for him, letting him drag his fingers across your wet slit. 

He wonders absently as he toys with your clit if you’d let him bite you here, sink his teeth in your sweet little bud til you scream. That thought alone has precum dripping from his tip, making his briefs damp. 

“Such a slutty cunt,” he whispers in your ear, feeling you shiver, “like when daddy shows you who’s in charge, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir,” you sniffle wetly. 

That ugly need to hurt you ramps up again and he pinches your clit roughly until you bleat in pain. 

“Good girl,” he chuckles, fingers softly petting your cunt, “my perfect girl.”

“All yours, daddy,” you automatically respond. 

Your voice is hoarse from all your crying and it makes his chest burn like his solar plexus is caving in.

“That’s right,” he croons, cupping your breasts in his hands, thumbs swiping across your nipples, “daddy’s got such a smart pretty girl.”

He wants to laugh at how those words make you press against him, praise making you stupid and pliant for him.

“Get on the floor,” he pushes at your shoulders, “think that sweet mouth deserves a reward.”

Eagerly, you slide off his lap onto your knees, turning around to face him. He unbuckles his belt and undoes his pants, pushing them down his thighs so he can tuck his briefs underneath his balls comfortably. His weeping cock bobs in front of your face, tip brushing across your cheek and smearing precum across your skin. 

“Kiss it, baby, show me how much you want daddy in your mouth,” he grins at you. 

Your shyness just makes him harder as you press a feather light kiss to his dick. He watches as your lips and tongue work in tandem to gently kiss and lick at his fat cockhead. You sigh hard enough he feels the dampness of your breath before your tongue lathes underneath the foreskin, lapping up the sticky precum dripping from his slit. You moan while you taste him, eyes fluttering closed as you get more and more eager at sucking him off. 

Thighs twitching, he grunts when you suck him into your warm mouth, tongue cupping the head when you withdraw, lips tightly wrapped around the tip of his dick. He feels as you circle the head of his cock with your tongue, dipping the slick muscle into his slit to draw out more precum. 

“Good girl,” he groans when your mouth drops down to kiss and suck at his balls. 

Leon keeps his gaze on you as you try to suck both of his balls into your wet mouth, whimpering when you can only fit one. Smearing your own spit across your face, you nuzzle into his squishy sac, mouthing and lapping at the sensitive skin before sucking each of his balls again. 

Whining, you eagerly lap at his sac, tongue slowly tracing up the seam. Your lips meet the base of his cock before you flick your tongue back around his balls. Reaching down, he grabs the back of your neck, pulling your mouth up to suck on his cock. A choked off moan reverberates around his dick as your lips part to sink down around the first few inches. His abs tense when he feels the spit drip down his dick onto his balls. 

“So good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, halfway tempted to gag you on his dick— maybe even choke you on it til you pass out.

More precum blurts across your tongue as he pictures your eyes rolling back, body going limp from lack of air. His fingers spasm around your neck as the tip bumps into the back of your throat. Bucking up into your mouth, the tightness around his cock increases and you retch loudly. 

“Take it or I’m going to get mean with you,” he narrows his eyes down at you.

You cough again, a wet dirty sound as he pulls his cock halfway out of your mouth only to press back in deep, the fat head kissing the back of your throat immediately. It would be easy to keep you here, swallowing around him til he came or you blacked out. His eyes cut to the hidden camera before flicking back down to you. Maybe next time he’ll try it, but for now he wants to make this last longer for the video. 

Rolling his neck til it cracks, he lets you go, watching with hidden glee as you pull off with a gross coughing fit and wet eyes. The dough of your thighs press together drawing his gaze where he can actually see a light sheen of slick coating them. Taking a hitched shuddery breath, you lean forward and kitten lick the head, soft tongue cleaning up any precum spilling from the slit down his cock. 

A flash of your mouth split open and a bloody chin makes Leon place his hands under your armpits and yank you up, turning sideways to toss you onto the bed. He crawls on top of you and kisses you hard enough to bruise. Sinking teeth into your lower lip, he brings his vision to life as he works the wet skin til it splits, the warm taste of pennies flooding his mouth. 

Growling like an animal, he sucks your bloody lip raw. He finally leans up, taking in the mess of your mouth with unreasonable pride. 

“So pretty,” he smiles down at you, blood coating his teeth, “my sweet girl.”

“Yours,” you nod dazedly, eyes blown in arousal, “m’yours, daddy.” 

He moves off the bed and begins to undress, taking extra care to set his holster and gun on top of your dresser. Once his uniform is off, he lays it out on a nearby chair in order to keep it off the floor. It just wouldn’t do to get it unnecessarily dirty. 

He climbs back onto the bed, eyes zeroing in on your bleeding mouth with the awareness of a predator tracking prey. He smiles and grabs your thighs, shoving them up until they’re nearly touching your shoulders. 

“Think it’s time I kiss my sweet girl hello,” his eyes drop from yours down to your soaked cunt, “aww, she always cries so hard for me, baby.”

He shuffles down onto his stomach, hands still pressing on your thighs as he leans in and kisses your swollen cunt.

“Greedy little pussy,” he chuckles derisively, “always begging for more.”

He slides his hands down from your thighs to the outside of your cunt, pulling your pussy lips apart to spit on your clenching hole. 

“Daddy!” 

He hears your voice crack before you gasp when he plunges his tongue into your pussy, fluttering the wet muscle as deep as possible into your spasming walls. You always taste like heaven, like he could die suffocated on your cunt and he’ll never find anything better. His eyes roll back when your slick floods his mouth, clit fat and swollen against his nose as your cunt squeezes down on his tongue.

Leon’s tongue laps at your hole before he runs the wet muscle up your slit to suck sloppily at your clit. He’s being as messy as possible; he knows you love it when your cunt’s coated in his spit after eating you out. The only thing better is when he cums all over your pussy, making you wear your panties to keep that sweet cunt wet and sticky with his seed. 

Your cries and whines fall on deaf ears as he eats you out at his leisure. He makes you cum twice before finally trying out the little earworm that has eaten away at his brain since earlier. Thighs shaking from the last orgasm, you're completely out of it when Leon dips his head and bites down on your fat throbbing clit. 

He growls and humps the bed as you thrash under him, hips trying to buck up to throw him off, hands digging into his hair but he doesn’t budge. He closes his teeth even tighter around your swollen bud and you screech, legs kicking out at him. Leon laughs at you, arms coming up and pinning your lower half down onto the bed. He readjusts his mouth and bites your clit harder than before. 

“No, no, daddy! Please!”

You sob brokenly and Leon feels like he’s going to cum all over the sheets. Letting go, Leon pulls his mouth away for a second wanting to see your tortured little bundle of nerves. It looks so swollen that it makes his jaw ache. He licks and kisses over your clit until you’re whimpering in pleasure, hips writhing as Leon bathes your cunt with rough swipes of his tongue. He works you up to another orgasm and right as your pussy cums, clenching around nothing, he sinks his teeth back into your clit with a groan. 

“Daddy, daddy! Leon, please!”

Your cunt gushes slick as the pain morphs into pleasure, babbling and pleading for more even as Leon sucks your bud into his mouth, hot tongue circling your abused clit. 

“Ready for daddy to to fuck your pretty little cunt?” He rumbles, tongue lashing across your bundle of nerves making you whine. 

“Please, daddy.”

There’s drool and blood all down your chin and he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon. If he were a better man, he would tell you so. 

Leon crawls back up your body, dragging his cock against your thighs until the tip bumps against your sopping wet pussy. His eyes catalog your wince when his dick drags across your clit and he kisses you until spit runs down your jaw. Balancing himself on one forearm, he brings his other hand down to notch the tip of his cock at your soaked hole. 

“Let me in, pretty girl,” he licks up the blood on your chin as he works his cock into your cunt, “let me stuff this soft little pussy with cum.”

Keening high in your throat, you grind your head against the pillow and Leon takes that opportunity to savagely bite into the side of your neck. He can feel you wheeze in pain underneath his teeth at the same time your pussy walls flutter and clamp down on his cock. Sweet satisfaction hums like electricity in his blood. He trails kisses from the nasty bite mark up to your ear, nipping the lobe. 

“You like what I do to you, don’t you, sweetheart?” He kisses your temple before shifting until his forearms are on either side of your neck, hips rolling back before thrusting forward. 

The tight clutch of your pussy makes him dizzy with lust, knowing he can do anything to you and you’ll not only take it, but like it. The camera is practically an afterthought by this point. Leon’s focus is now on making your hot little pussy cream all over his cock before he shoots his load deep into your hole. 

“Always take it so well,” his baritone rumbles low in his chest and you shudder under him, “got daddy addicted to your soft chubby pussy, baby, always wanna be buried in her.”

Your nails dig into his skin but he loves the stinging scratches you leave on him; proof that you need him just as much as he needs you. He has half a mind to drag this out for hours and hours, but he really wants to send the tape over to Chris. Smugly show off his pretty girl and the sweet sounds she makes for him. 

Leon prides himself on keeping his cool even when he’s buried to the hilt inside your deliciously hot pussy. This time, his nerves fray quicker than he’s used to; too many fun things have happened and all in front of the camera so he can look back on it later. Being able to watch your face again as he bites your clit makes his hips rabbit fast and hard against yours, pussy squelching loudly between your bodies. 

“Got me so worked up,” he laughs, one forearm moving all he can glide his fingers down your side and across your hip, seeking out your sore clit, “squeeze the cum out of me, sweetheart, let daddy give you a nice thick creampie.”

“Ohhh,” you moan shakily, “daddy, please, w’nt it.”

“You’re gonna get it,” he promises, voice dark, “you’re gonna take everything I give you.”

The hot pulsing walls of your pussy makes his hips flex harder, bullying his cock into your cervix, needing to get as deep as possible in your body. 

“Sucking me in,” he murmurs, fingers gently circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, “your sweet cunt’s made for this, isn’t she baby?”

“Yes, Leon, ‘m made for you,” you babble out, eyelashes sticking together from tears as you pant and moan, “daddy, I’m g’nna cum.”

“Fuck, then do it, pretty girl, cream all over me, work this cum into that sweet hole,” he groans when your walls clamp down on his dick. 

He swipes across your clit a few more times as he ruts his cock in and out of your pussy, grinding the fat tip across your g-spot until your back arches, a loud scream pouring from your mouth. 

“Good girl,” he praises, knowing you can't hear him, “doing so well for me, sweetheart.”

As your soft walls pulse and flutter around his dick, he adjusts his hands to hold him up above your body so he can rail you into the mattress. 

“Too much,” you whimper, “Leon, s’too deep.”

“Shhh,” he reaches down to twist a nipple until you clench around his cock, “let me rearrange those guts, baby, daddy needs to cum, too.”

You nod, tears falling down your temples to collect on the pillow and his hips snap harder— the sight of you crying on his cock always does him in quick. He thrusts half a dozen more times before his hips begin to stutter. Burying himself balls deep, Leon’s cock kicks and throbs while he spills hot sticky cum all inside your clenching pussy walls. 

While he fills your cunt with rope after rope of thick jizz, he groans long and low against your ear, “Perfect baby, taking it so well for me.”

“Leon,” you whisper lightly, hands carding through his hair and giving him goosebumps.

He settles his body weight down on you, cock plugging up your pussy so his cum doesn’t leak out onto the bedspread. 

“Gotta surprise for you,” he kisses the side of your head and slowly maneuvers until he can quickly shuffle you around to face the hidden lens. 

He pulls out his half chubbed cock, cream colored slick oozing from your pussy when he spreads it open. 

Smiling up at you, he nods to your nightstand, “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. Show’em what a messy little pussy looks like.”

He watches in utter delight as your brows pinch together before realization dawns across your face. Tears bead in your eyes and he chuckles. 

“Aww don’t be that way,” he croons, fingers digging into your used hole to work more cum into spilling out between your thighs, “be a good girl and let everyone see the creampie daddy left in your pretty cunt.”

Your cubby lips stay spread as he fingers more of his cum out of your hole. 

“So swollen baby,” he groans, fingers glancing across your fat clit, “can’t wait to watch this back.”

You squirm but he catches the hitched breath and dilated eyes. Grinning darkly, he nuzzles against your ear. 

“Maybe next time it’ll be a livestream of how I ream my pretty girl’s tight little pussy,” he kisses the shell of your ear as you moan quietly, “yeah, or maybe we’ll get someone in to watch me take you apart.”

You shiver and writhe against him, pussy sucking his fingers in even as he slowly drags them out of your spent cunt. 

“Guess we’ll need to save that for later though,” he clicks his tongue, moving away from you to shut the camera off, “now let’s go get a shower so we can go out to dinner, sweetheart.”

[luxthestrange]

DunMeshi Incorrect quotes#10 Labour-

Kobold!Y/n: I love it when people are like "Aww you look like your Adventuring team!~"OBVIOUSLY I LOOK LIKE ADVENTURE TEAM-THOSE ARE MY PUPS!!!

Laois & Falin*Both standing behind you smiling*???

Kobold!Y/n*Making a pose to show how proud you are of them* THERE WAS NO ADOPTION PROCESS HERE I BIRTHED THEM-WE HAVE THE SAME DNA THEY TOOK MY BONE MARROW OR WHATEVER!?!

Kobold!Y/n*Hugging the two humans and nuzzling your face into their cheeks affectionately*100% ME and you may be thinking~

"Oh that's just a mentorship-"

Kobold!Y/n*Snarling at pub "friends"*I WENT INTO LABOUR-

Part 2 of:

[deebris]

Welcome to my masterlist! Here you will find all the stories I've written. Some genre indicators:

✎ 🌸fluffy,💧 angst, ⚠️ dark, 🧸Platonic, 🌹 romantic

⤿ The Fractured Bonds (🧸💧)

Mark finds himself facing an unexpected threat to his family when Angstrom Levy decides to hold his mother and sister hostage. Despite the family turmoil they've endured and Nolan's departure, he returns to rescue his daughter. Mark Grayson x sister reader, Nolan Grayson x daughter reader

⤿ The Mysterious Visitor: masterlist (🧸💧🌸)

On a cold, snowy dawn, a naive young girl knocks on the door of Wayne Manor in search of her brother, whom she hasn't seen in a long time. Batfamily x batsis

⤿ Seems like destiny (🌹💧⚠️)

After spending years in the bone marrow donation system, encouraged by the army, Simon was finally notified that they had found a match. He just didn't expect to find out that he would be donating it to his own son, who he had with his teenage love and never knew. Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader

⤿ Weight of Care (🧸🌸)

Simon, your older brother, has been your guardian since you were a baby. Amid the collapse of your family, he made the courageous choice to take you out of the house, raising you as if you were his own. However, despite being happy, your relationship is complicated. While you see Simon as a paternal figure, he struggles with the pain of being mistaken for one. His heart tightens every time you call him "daddy," and he thought you had managed to move past that—until you do it again one night. Simon Riley x little sister Reader

⤿ Guilty (🌹💧⚠️)

Your husband never put a drop of alcohol in his mouth, and that was one of the things that made you give him a chance in the past due to family traumas that you carried because of it. But after years of relationship, one day he just surprises you by coming home late at night and out of his mind. Satoru Gojo x wife reader

⤿ Melancoly: part 1, part 2 (🌹💧⚠️)

You and Kakashi were never passionate, but you got married and developed an affection for each other. You had two children together and your life was peaceful. But a single winter night destroyed you two forever. Kakashi Hatake x wife reader

⤿ Redemption (🧸💧)

You're the twin sister of Shoto and save him and Endeavor from Toya. Todoroki Clan x Todoroki reader

⤿ From annoying to beloved (🌸🌹)

The new member of the Seven annoys Captain Patria with their habit of doodling in the corners all the time, but he didn't expect to end up liking it. Homelander x fem!Reader

⤿ Save you from yourself (🌹💧🌸)

The tender moment between you and your daughter, Jinx, is interrupted by your sudden fainting, and Silco takes control of the situation. Silco x Wife reader

[cowgurrrl]

Look For the Light- Joel Miller x fem!reader + platonic Ellie Williams x fem!reader

"I'm all bloody knuckles, longing for home. If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone." - Second Chances by Gregory Alan Isakov

Summary: When you left Boston with Joel Miller and a little girl named Ellie, you never thought it would land you in Jackson, Wyoming with a tiny family.

Warnings: Allusions to/depictions of PTSD, reader has lost a child, swearing, family fluff, pregnancy/child birth (nothing graphic), out of order but will be adding context!

Alone and Forsaken: You and Joel meet for the first time [3.0k] 🥀

Marrow: The beginning of your journey [1.5k] 🥀

Sweet Jane: Joel finds out about your daughter [2.3k]🥀❤️‍🩹🪩

What Do We Do Now?: You and Joel talk about the past [1k] 🥀

Chosen to Deserve: Jackson sparks some feelings from everyone [3.6k] 🥀

If We Make It Through December: Winter part. 1 [1.9k] 🥀

Day After Tomorrow: Winter part ii [3.0k] 🥀

Killer: Winter part iii [2.7k] 🥀

Let The Light In: In the aftermath of Salt Lake City, you and Joel work together to put the memories together 🥀

Raining in June: You and Joel get married 🍓

What Sarah Said: You and Joel talk about having more kids [1.7k]🍓❤️‍🩹

Evergreen: You find out you’re pregnant 🍓 [1.5k]

Shrapnel: A person from your past makes their way back [2.3k] 🥀❤️‍🩹

Graceland Too: Your family prepares for an addition [1.1k] 🍓

Dancing Barefoot: You and the baby can’t sleep so Joel tries to help [800] 🍓❤️‍🩹

darlin’ i’d wait for you: You and Joel welcome your baby [3.0k] 🍓❤️‍🩹🪩

Sweet Creature: Ellie comes to the rescue 🍓❤️‍🩹 [1.3k]

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby: Charlie gets sick for the first time and reopens some old wounds 🥀 [1.2k]

To Build A Home: A daddy-daughter day 🍓 [1.4k]

Charlie says Dada for the first time

Sooner: Charlie turns one [1.1k] 🍓

Never Grow Up: Charlie walks for the first time [1k] 🍓

I Know the End: You and Ellie talk about what’s important 🍓 [2.1k]

Never Going Back Again: Family lake day [1.4k] 🍓

Charlotte Sometimes: Joel does Charlie’s hair [1.4k] 🍓

August: Charlie starts school [1.1k] 🍓

Honey, It’s Alright: Ellie comes to your door with shocking news [1.2k] 🍓

When You Wash Your Hair: A Miller tradition comes full circle [1.3k] 🍓

Blue Sunday: Ellie calls you mom for the first time 🍓 [1.1k]

Love’s Gonna Live Here: The story of the Museum Day [1.1k] 🍓

Until I Found You: Charlie goes missing and nearly gives you a heart attack 🥀

This Time Around: A different September 26th 🥀🍓

Fifteen: Charlie turns 15 [1.5k] 🥀

Never Grew Up With You: A visit home [1.5k] 🥀

April, Come She Will: The next generation of Millers find their way [3.6k] 🍓

[dangermousie]

Watching dad stew as a top scholar and his direct superior both heap praise on his least favorite son is rejuvenating!!!

Dad has lost control a long time ago. He can't really hurt LSY emotionally (since LSY dislikes him and expects nothing, and has people who genuinely like him) or even practically since LSY now has important supporters and his own income. There is nothing between them to threaten or push or bribe.

BWAHAHA LSY's answer was epic but also all dad is concerned about is how it looks. He's the worst.

LSY is filmed below daddy but it's so clear he's the one with the upper hand. And I love how openly he shows he gives no fucks. And once again, I love that daddy's lashing out genuinely doesn't hurt LSY one bit because you can only be emotionally hurt if you care about that person's opinion, if you want some positive feelings from them or feel such feelings for them. LSY just feels mild disgust that's about it.

He just walks away!

Granny is a bad mom/grandma who plays favorites as much as her son, but what she has that he lacks is self-awareness. She knows she does it and expects the outcome she does. I actually love that she has come to tell dad to put LSY on the pedigree and as heir no less, but not because she's discovered affection for him - she just saw that LSY is smart as hell and good at important in that society stuff and she realizes he can elevate the family. She is pragmatic to the marrow - her relationship with LSY is very much business like on both sides; neither of them will ever love or even like the other, but they can respect the other and work together because both have brains. More than Dad does.

[inkykeiji]

omgomg clari about that ask of sukuna phisically hurting reader how do you think is aftercare after putting her through all that pain? if there’s any haha

ooooh anon this is SUCH a good question!! well first, i think if sukuna ‘fell in love’ with you (aka became extremely possessive and obsessive with you, utterly infatuated with you, completely addicted to you, the closest he can come to ‘true’ love) he would be unbelievably thorough with you. yes, he loves hurting you, loves the way your facial features wring up into the cutest little wince, loves the way his name splinters into the sweetest little yelps in your throat, loves the way you sob and sniffle and stutter when he screws his face into mock concern, lips jutted out in an exaggerated pout and forehead wrinkled with false worry as he coos out aw, sweetheart, did that hurt? but at the end of the day, you’re still his. you’re still his to take care of, his to fix, his to make better. and despite how sadistic and malicious he is, right down to the very marrow of his bones, right down to the gaping black pit where his soul should be, he still takes meticulously good care of his things. 

as such, he always mends those of his things that he breaks, and he does so with a rigorous sort of fastidiousness. he’s damn near methodical with it, and it would feel cold and sterile if not for his quiet murmurs as shockingly gentle fingers, claws retracted, piece you back together, patch you up, put you in the right order again. so good, baby, you’re doing so good for me, he praises, words void of their usual, characteristic tinge of patronization as he snaps those tiny, tiny bones back into place, sets them straight and secures them in a splint.  

and you, you’re so sweet, so soft, so stupidly naive, consistently lulled into some sort of inexplicable sense of safety and security and solace every single time, that it makes it that much more fun to shatter you to absolute bits again, to have you shuddering in his arms or his lap as you wail into his neck and cling to the demon that desecrates you, that destroys you, over and over and over. but it’s all okay, because you know as much as he loves to ruin you so beautifully, to smear your face with spit and sweat and tears, to leave your body mangled and stained and scarred with him—thick gouges from claws down your back and over your ass, imprints of his fangs engraved in your neck, stamps of four handprints encircling your arms and wrists and thighs—Daddy would never break you beyond repair, Daddy will always make it right again, no matter what. 

[netherfeildren]

Forfeiting My Mystique

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

Summary: You're a girl made of golden gossamer, a work of art come to life, and Ezra, well he's dedicated his life to collecting beautiful things.

-OR-

An Ezra Art Collector AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: voyeurism; kind of objectifying? (not sure how to tag the strange shit going on here); ezra’s weird; mommy issues; references to past childhood abuse; touch aversion/touch starved (at the same time); sugar daddy vibes; size difference; oral sex (f! receiving); butt stuff lite; dom/sub undertones; power dynamics; self esteem issues x2; panty thieving; masturbation; obsessive behavior; possessive behavior; brief mention of recreational drug use; brief discussion of parent death

A/N: This is extremely self indulgent - basically I wrote it for me, but you guys can read it too. I know I took some liberties with Ezra's characterization but whatever.

Inspo (and some of the dialogue) pulled from Lenny Kravitz’s Paris town house Vogue tour, Jeremy Strong’s favorite things GQ interview, and “Marianne” from Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin.

Title is from the poem by the same name by Kaveh Akbar.

Word Count: 12K

Read on AO3

Ezra has always loved beautiful things. Since he was a child, his mother taught him to instill an appreciation for beauty into all facets of his world. She herself, a gorgeously beautiful creature, was well versed in such a life. But beautiful as she was, she was also cruel, selfish, capricious to her very core, and she’d turned him into a strange amalgamation of a man by proxy. At once also cruel and selfish and capricious, but hurt and soft and gnarled, as well, so that he was also made gentle and aware and hopeful. That above all else, his greatest weakness, always hopeful. Perhaps, to the point of naivety, the point of peril. For he looked for beauty in all things, and to do that, he was forced to bestow his hopeful eye upon even the ugly and harsh things of the world. 

And so he’d dedicated his life to finding those beautiful things. An art collector by virtue, they called him. A vulture, a scavenger, a treasure hunter. A man full of greed and pride, demons and too much money. All he thought of himself as, was hungry. So yes, perhaps a scavenger, a morsel of greed within the marrow of his bones, always looking for the next sublime artifact, painting, statue – person. But he also liked to think of himself as a protector of those beautiful things, of historic things. Things that changed the very face of humanity, shifted the tide of the world. A collector – always in search of the next life changing sight. Always certain the world was filled with endless possibilities for beauty, for loveliness, for sensuality, for something to captivate, to overwhelm him.

-

The first thing he sees are your feet. Standing in the gallery over from the one you’re inhabiting, people he doesnt know or give a fuck about talking at him, schmoozing and preening and prostrating themselves. Probably hoping he’ll cough up a couple million euro for whatever cause they’re pretending to crusade behind at the moment. He can see only the quarter bottom half of the famed performance artist he’d heard so much about. The entire exhibit tonight had been built around you, and it had the whole of Paris raving and ravenous for a piece of the lovely morsel they so claimed you posed as. Shallow and vain creatures that the peers of his echelon were, they were easily amused and easily bored by the smallest passing fads. At once desperate to be the first to see or speak of a thing, and consequently, the first to discard it as dépassé. 

He’d made the trek all the way to the Left Bank from his townhouse in the 16th arrondissement, to see the performance of the woman whom his associate, Oruf, had said would change the way he thought of a living creature forevermore. Big words from a little man, Ezra had no real inclination to believe. 

The angle of the wall blocks most of you from his view – granting him the sight of only your knees down. Your feet are small, he can see the tiny square shape of your nails, the gleam of them under the soft warm overhead light – lying on your side, one slotted above the other. The fine architecture of your ankles – delicate, the blue hued veins crawling like vines up the top of your foot, lost to the pale of your skin. The smooth, glossy slope of your calf, up to the flat round of your patella. It’s all he can admire from where he stands. Pretty legs, but nothing to lose one’s head over so far. 

The person talking at him is interminably long winded. Ezra would like nothing more than to beg them to shut the fuck up and be on his way. He wants another drink. He wants to see you in full. He’d heard so much about the woman sitting for the live art exhibit. You’d been heralded into a creature of myth by the wagging tongues of Paris. He wanted to discern for himself the level of sanctity you deserved. He wanted to see your face. 

Finally, he’s able to demure from the conversation, the promise of ten million euro for the charity of the sycophant’s choice, promised off-handedly – any amount of money would’ve been too little to get the gaping, begging maw to quit it’s yapping. 

He slinks along the shadows of the walls, a vulture in its natural habitat. The lights brought down to a low warm hue, meant to shape itself along the contours of your skin, bring out the soft gleam within you. Surely the oldest trick in the book, that of light and shadows. He moves further into the room slowly, your back to him. The plush round of your bottom comes into view, two little dimples gracing the low of your back, the notches of your spine, up, up, to the heavy mantle of your hair. You’re resting on your hip, your torso twisted so your chest is pressed to the chaise you lounge on, your head laying cradled in the circle of your bent arms. There is a tiny, delicate outline of a sparrow tattooed at your shoulder. He watches the slow rise and fall of your back, the shadow of your ribs – he’d feed you more if you were his. The thought comes unbidden – a little shocking – a lovely bottom, beautiful, long hair, but for a man like Ezra – one who so wholly avoided any sort of ownership by another or over another, the thought of such intimacy, something to cause revulsion, not desire, coming from his own psyche, it’s almost distressing to acknowledge as his own. 

The crown of your head gleams like a halo in the soft overhead gallery light. The room is muted, voices hushed, and the patrons rove around your unmoving body, the rhythm of your breath the only discernible sign of life on your form from back here. Oruf had claimed that you did not move a single millimeter during the entirety of the three hour long performance. He sure as fuck didn’t believe that. He was having a quite, self proclaimed, contrary and bitter season, by his own choosing, and was prone to bouts of obstinance and general disagreement at anything and everything that presented itself to him. He was choosing, as of now, to not believe in your myth.

He moves further around the center where you lay in repose. He needs to see your face. That will give him the answer he’s come here for. 

There’s a large group standing right in front of you – rudely pointing, whispering, and he feels a surge of annoyance at the sight of them. You were here to be observed, appreciated, not fucking ogled like some cheap attraction, and he was here to see you – they needed to get the fuck out of his way. 

Finally, they shuffle off, leaving the space directly in front of you open. He makes the final round above your head, comes to stand before you. Oruf had said the only part of you that moved were your eyes.

They fall on Ezra now. 

It could have been as if, in that moment, you’d gotten up, naked as Venus, to shriek directly in his face. That powerful was the force behind your gaze – a punch to the gut, his mothers handbag swinging unexpectedly, purposefully into his stomach as he scurried meekly behind her as a child. 

He pulls his Jacques Marie Mage frames from his nose. He needs to look away from the searing power of your attention. He needs a moment to collect himself, taking deep breaths as he studies the glasses, runs the tip of his finger over the bridge. He’s held frozen in place by the feel of your gaze still upon him. 

He decides in that very instant he has to have you. 

When he looks back at you, your eyes flit away. He is dismissed – made ravenous. On the verge of tears, perhaps. Look back at me, look back at me, look back at me. What sort of reaction is this to a woman whose name he doesn’t even know? Nonsensical. Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation – the edibles he’d downed before coming, maybe he’s having a bad reaction. 

But the gift of your slow, lazy gaze roves around the space he inhabits now, everywhere but directly at him, almost like a punishment for having looked away from you first – even for a second. 

He’s never considered the prospect of trying to buy a person. The moral question or dilemma of it. He decides he doesn’t necessarily care. Whatever he has to do to get you to leave this place with him, he’ll do. What he’ll be able to bring himself to let happen after that,  if he’ll even be able to touch you, be brave enough to let you touch him, remains to be seen. Inconsequential too, he finds. 

He circles the gallery for close to an hour before he can no longer help himself, can no longer feign casualness. The rest of the art here is pale and dull in the light of your luminescence. He finally comes to a stop in a corner diagonal from where you face, in the shadow of the sculpture of Paolo e Virginia. At this moment, he feels certain Puttinati prophecised your existence, to so depict the vision of reverence he’s feeling for you in this moment. 

The performance is three hours long. In that time you don’t move your body at all, Oruf was right – lying with the stillness of marble. The only thing that moves are your eyes, and you watch the patrons closely, examine them. Your gaze is part of the art, part of the power of it. 

The visage of you is shocking, not for your nudity, but because in a lifetime filled with unimaginably lovely things, you are, by far, the most magnificently gorgeous creature Ezra has ever laid eyes on. It is like a recurring bullet to the temple over and over again for the visceral shock you pull out of him. 

Finally, finally, your gaze falls on him again. The meeting of your eyes, like the strike of lightning against the earth. He can feel his cock thicken, grow heavy, just at the touch of your gaze. It’s voyeuristic – unexpected – he can’t remember the last time he got hard. He feels almost perverted, sporting an erection at the mere sight of you, surrounded by all these people in this crowded gallery.

He can’t see your breasts entirely, pressed to the chaise as they are, only the full, pale sides. He wonders desperately at the color of your nipples, the shade, the hue. He’d like to imprint it in his mind. Know the taste of them, as well, of all your skin – wonders if the color there matches that of the skin between your legs. The thought causes hunger to climb like fire up his chest into his throat, saliva pooling heavy in his mouth at the mere suggestion of your cunt in his mind.

His eyes leave you for a moment, to cast the wide net of his gaze around the room, at the other men. He wonders if they’re hard too, if only your naked skin, lying still in repose, has the power to make their blood rush, their muscles thicken. He is not pleased by the thought of that. And when he comes back to you, you’re still on him. Gaze roaming down his body, taking in the fine cashmere sweater, his perfectly tailored suit, built to hang in a precisely designed loose cut over his shoulders, down his long legs, the incongruous sneakers, back, back up to his face, the spot of blonde at the front of his hair. A single delicate eyebrow crooks in a minute arch at him. It is all the answer he needs

You are looking back at him. It’s all he needs to know. 

As the three hour mark comes to a head the lights dim even further until only a singular overhead spotlight falls upon your form. Your skin glows, seems to flare brighter for a single moment, and then a golden sheet of gossamer begins to slowly fall from the ceiling, and right before it lands upon your body, you finally move. Your body stretches, toes pointing and curling, long arms stretched in an arc over your head. The fine lines and slopes of your body coming into startling clarity for one moment, and then you turn over, away from him, where he can’t see your face anymore, and curl in on yourself. The golden gusset falls upon your coiled form, as if you’ve finally been put to rest. The lights dim until all that’s visible is the luminous gleam of the shroud over your curled body. 

You are a girl made of golden myth and gossamer, and he must have you. 

-

“Hello, Sparrow.” He steps into the small, warm space of your dressing room.

You turn to face him, you’ve been waiting for him. “Hello,” you say slowly. “You were watching me.”

“Everyone was watching you.”

“Not like you were–”

“No… not like I was.” His accent is some strange sort of concoction of eclectic European – at once French, but also slightly Germanic, with an inflection of deep American South at the end. The vowels and consonants rolling off his tongue, smooth and hypnotizing like the warm pour of honey, and then, suddenly, inflected with a bout of sharpness. Something that snaps you awake, forces you to come to attention, to pay attention to him. That was all it was really, you could tell, a forceful, demanding grab for attention at all times. He called it to himself, seduced the people around him into ardor. Whether they knowingly chose to be entranced or not, was not up to them.

“Ezra,” he gives an imitation of a little flourished bow. You give him your own name in return. “You were watching me back.” 

“I couldn’t help it.” He had demanded it of you, after all, no need to lie now. 

“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.” You turn back to continue packing your bag. 

“I’m not very hungry.” You feel him come closer, hear the subtle hint of pleading desperation in his sensual voice that has pleasure coiling deep in your belly. 

“A drink then.”

You’d like to be on clear ground with this man who you can see, even now, is an enigma not to be trifled with unconscionably. “Where? At your house?” you turn to crook a sardonic brow at him.

“Would you like me to take you to my house?”

“Yes. If that’s what you want too.” You’d already decided, didn’t see the point in prolonging the game. 

-

His security takes you out the back of the gallery, dark Maybach rolling smoothly up as soon as you reach the curb, and you feel the searing phantom  heat of his large palm hovering over the small of your back. 

He hasn’t touched you a single time yet, and everything within you is coiled tight, waiting for that first graze. 

He pulls the car door open for you himself, and then his driver is there, smoothly offering you his hand to help you step into the sleek interior. The leather beneath you is buttery chocolate brown and you press your thighs together. His security had taken your bag from you, and you felt bereft and listless without the protective clutch of it within your hands now. 

He follows after you, sliding gracefully onto the seat across. You can see he’s wearing two gold chains around his neck that rest in the dip of his collarbones, and your mouth waters at the sight. The car pulls quietly away from the curb and then you’re merging into the busy city traffic, ensconced in the quiet of this liminal space he’s stolen you into with him. 

He crosses one knee over the other, one thick arm thrown languidly over the back of the seat. You can see a small gold signet ring gracing his pinky – some sort of crest emblazoned on it. 

Fucking family crest kind of rich. God. You don’t know if you’re prepared for this. 

You cock your head to the side, the muscles in your neck are a little stiff and sore from holding your pose for so long, and you let your neck roll back on the head rest. 

He’s quiet, still observing, as if you’re still existing within the walls of the gallery, and not being spirited away to his home so that he might have his way with you. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” Might as well be blunt, you think, now that you’re here. He was so gorgeous in that room, watching you, circling you like a beast hunting in the wild. There was really no other way this night was destined to end, but with you beneath him, taking him into your cunt. 

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t respond, only gives you a melodic little non-committal hum, continues to look at you from the seat across with those deceptively guileless eyes. You want him to snatch you by the chin and spit in your mouth.

-

The drive ends in front of the grand façade of a pristine Parisian townhouse on a secluded street in the 16th arrondissement – flanked by national embassies, no less. 

You are very, very far from home. In a Paris you’ve not ventured into in all your years of living here. 

He helps you from the car, finally, finally, finally, thick palm wrapping entirely around the thin of your wrist. Everything within you coils and pulses, tight and wet. His skin is warm and dry, you can feel the pull of rough calluses on his palm. You’re sure he can feel the hammering staccato of your pulse through the thin membrane as you stare at the way his fingers overlap completely around the circumference of your limb.

He lets you step into the foyer ahead of him as one of his staff sweeps the door open for the two of you, ready and waiting for their master to return with a respectably quiet, monsieur, mademoiselle, in greeting. There’s a huge Basquiat in the entrance hall, across from the sweeping staircase.

“Lots of his art came my way,” he says at your obvious admiration, shock, desire to tuck tail and run back home. “We weren’t friends, but I was roommates with a guy he’d lived with. His last girlfriend was best friends with my girlfriend at the time, so when he died we had one of the first calls.”

“It’s wonderful–” Your voice is full of awe, eyes taking in a type of home you’ve never seen before up close like this. Something out of a picture book that sits on the coffee table of someone wishing for more. 

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Well… they get used for different things – so I’m not sure. Let’s call it eight.”

You huff a small laugh, run your finger along the keys of the opulent crystal Steinway. “Let’s call it eight, sure.”

Now that you’re here, that he hasn’t overtly said he’s brought you here for sex, you don’t really know what it is he wants from you. A bad thought, but an honest one. 

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He leads you into an elegantly lush reception room, hovering hand again at the place above the small of your back. There’s a gargantuan crystal chandelier hanging at the center of the room, two enormous elephant tusks flank the elaborate mantelpiece. The room is a mix of eclectic eccentricities, both neutrally elegant and demure in its obvious wealth, but inflected with touches of vibrant color and idiosyncrasies to bring the room together in a way that you think must reflect the house’s owner. 

He moves to the bar, choosing the green bottle of twenty year Laphroaig and pours a knuckle into two crystal tumblers. He’s quiet, subdued, and the lack of small talk to fill the silence has the backs of your knees itching and sweating. 

There’s a glossy red panther sculpture prowling across a gold and ivory lacquered coffee table. He comes to hand your glass to you. “That’s a museum piece. I can’t remember where I got it, but it’s rare.” You can’t tell if he’s trying to boast, to impress you, or merely share his satisfaction at owning a piece of art worthy of a museum's gallery. You’d already discerned that at the Basquiat’s first glance, shit, at the first sight of the house. It was a veritable museum on its own. You were sure the number of museum pieces in every room were too many to count in a single night, nay week. 

You don’t sit as he goes to do, but start to slowly circle the room. An imitation of his slow roving of you earlier at the gallery. The peat whisky is bold and smoky, a surprising hint of something akin to seawater, but also mellowly sweet. You think that this must be what his skin tastes like, his come – an amalgamation of all the different flavors on the wheel. Saliva pools heavy on your tongue and you take a deeper sip, eyes flitting to him. 

“Three hours is a long time to lay so still,” he says. 

“It is. But I’m used to it by now.”

“You must be tired.”

“Not particularly – perhaps a bit stiff.”

“Have you been doing this for a long time?”

“Not so long, but not so short, either.”

“So just the right amount?”

“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment then, still watching, watching, watching. His gaze upon you feels like the drag of a specter’s fingers along your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. You wonder if this is how he felt while you watched him in the low light of the gallery. Hunted. But no, you imagine there isn’t anything that could make a man such as this feel like prey. 

“Can I draw you a bath?” You pause at this – firmer, more familiar ground, finally. This is what you’ve been waiting for. His request for you to get naked for him, to let him into your body. It’s what you want also. He’s not rushing this, and it’s making you feel unstable, unsure of the ground you’re treading here together. 

“Yes, I’d like that.”

-

He leads you upstairs, to one of the guest bedrooms. The en suite, one of his favorites in the house – dark marble tub in the center of the room under a low hanging crystal chandelier. The French windows let in the soft glow of the moon outside, and he draws the bath for you as you peer through the glass. The reflection of your face in the windows, eternally distracting. 

When the water is warm and ready, a splash of Neroli Portofino Body Oil poured under the stream, he turns to you. He’s hesitant – both of himself and you, equally. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a body not his own, and he feels the slight anxious tremor of his hands. Although he can’t be sure if that’s strictly attributed to nerves, or all the blood in his body pooling in his cock at the moment. 

“Can I take your clothes off?” said as gently as possible, so as not to spook you.

Your gaze is as direct as it was while you lay watching him, surrounded by half of Paris. “Yes.”

He starts at the tiny bow holding the front of your soft silk blouse together – the weave so fine, it’s almost translucent, and he can see the outline of your evasive nipples he’s been so desperate to see. He pulls on the string letting the neck of the blouse fall open, then down to the tiny pearl buttons holding the rest of it together. All without touching your skin. 

You’re panting, face already flushed, eyes bright, almost fevered. His balls are tight and heavy, ready to come, just with this. Just at the mere fucking vision of you ready and panting for him. His belly clenches and then he pushes the silk off the fine bones of your shoulders. The wings of your collarbones, the shadow of the dip in them the most tempting image he’s ever beheld in his entire life. He wants to dip his tongue into the tiny pool, fill them with ambrosia and drink directly from your skin. 

He feels his cock begin to leak. 

The zipper at the side of your skirt is next. He watches the rise and fall of your ribs, the tremble of your throat as he pulls it down slowly, revealing the rest of your skin to him. There’s a tiny lace thong around your hips, robin's egg blue. Oh, he will be stealing that for himself. 

He finally lets himself touch your skin as he pushes the scrap of lace down your legs, crouching smoothly to his knees to help you step out of it. He takes in the sight of your small feet up close now. The fine tendons of your musculature entirely too fucking beguiling. He ghosts the tip of a single finger over the top of your foot and you moan for him. So goddamn sweet and wanton. 

He unfolds to his full height and pockets your panties. To be inspected at a later time, pressed to his nose and mouth so that he might drink the scent of you down into himself. He tips his chin at the tub now, holding your wild gaze, breaths coming in short little gasps. Your cheeks are flushed the color of your nipples. The tiny wisps of hair at your neck and temples beginning to curl deliciously in the humidity of the bathroom. He could spill his seed just at the look in your eyes, he’s sure of it. 

“In,” he orders, crowds you towards the edge of the tub and grips the bend of your elbow between his thumb and index finger – as little contact as possible – to help you into the water. “Sit.”

You immediately obey, and that fills him with more pleasure than the sight of your naked skin. The control you’re granting him right now, allowing him the privilege of ordering you for the sake of his own comfort – he’s going to reward you very well for being so good for him.

He bends over the edge of the tub, hovering over your beseeching upturned face. He brushes his thumb softly over your full bottom lip. “Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut, you look down into the water, a lovely pink blush blossoming over your cheeks. “Relax. Soak for a while.”

He can tell you want him. Badly. The flush of your cheeks down to your breasts, rosy little nipples peaked, your quick breath. That want, compounded doubly by his refusal so far to really touch you — his inability. The more he stays his hand, the more you want him, and the more you want him the harder his cock grows, the more frightened he becomes. He thinks it’s very true, that old adage, the harder you try to push a woman away from a man, the closer she will go to him by virtue of rebellion.

You sit in the warm bath for close to an hour, and he watches rapturously, hypnotized by the slick wet of the water rolling over your skin, from his seat on an ottoman at the center of the room. The weight of his gaze on your skin, almost violent in its intense desire. He wants to lick every single droplet from your body and then bite into the heavy lush weight of your tits until his teeth are imprinted in the soft flesh, bruises sucked into the pale globes. He hopes you’ll let him. He hopes he’ll let himself. 

Your returning look is equally wanton. He watches your gaze trained and hungry on the heft of his cock hiding beneath his trousers. You spread your legs for him beneath the water as you wash yourself, putting on another show, private, just for him. An unjustly jealous wrath stirs within him, coiled and hissing, at the thought of any other human on earth ever getting to see you the way he is now. Largely a passive man, the violence that surges within him has him surprised and not, in equal measures. For he thinks that no being ever having beheld you, could ever possibly be driven to feel any other way than obsessively possessive over such a creature as yourself. You’re like a siren in this moment, languishing in the warm water of his bath, in his house, where you agreed to come with him tonight. A nymph willingly slinking into the depth of Tartarus, knowing she’s in peril of being wholly devoured by the beasts that lay at its depths, and still going anyways. 

He helps you out after a while, tiny little fingers and toes soaked to wrinkles, elbow once again caught between his two fingers, and the heat rolling off your skin sears him. Has a violent tremble running jaggedly down his vertebrae. 

He wraps you in a plush white towel, pulled from the warming rack, helps you dry your long hair. Then goes to his room for one of his shirts to put you in. He pulls one he’d worn a few days ago off the pile from the chair in the corner. He wants to know you’re sleeping in something that’s already been on his skin, that smells like him, that you’re soaking now in his own scent. 

As he pulls the towel from around your body to once again reveal your bare form to him he presses a soft kiss to your naked waist – can’t help himself, the soft slope entirely too beguiling. Overtaking any apprehensions he may have, and his gut clenches with fear and desire. He can feel the weeping of his cock dribble down his thigh as he presses his lips to the warm, fragrant skin. 

You’re quiet, watching him, letting him do with you as he wants. His own little sentient doll, created for his pleasure only. “I have a farm in Brazil,” he says. He rounds your form, starts to braid the long strands of your hair into a single plait. You put up no protest – it feels like water, slipping through his hands.  “We grow organic fruit and vegetables and there’s cows, lots of cows. We never kill them, they just live there, graze.” One of his favorite places in the entire world, but perhaps, second to the place he resides now, staring at you, dressing you, touching your hair. “I love it there, I’ll take you.”

“Okay,” you say easily. “I’d like that,” the gift of the gentle curve of your smile. He wants to lick into your mouth, fuck you with his tongue, slap your pussy and watch the blood rush to the surface, feel the tight clench of your asshole as he fills you with his come. 

“Will you let me watch you play with your cunt?” he asks gently.

“Won’t you do it?”

“I’m scared to touch you yet – to find out if you’re actually real.” He feels an uncharacteristically self conscious blush mar his cheeks. “I–I’m not ready. I want to watch first.” He comes to kneel between your parted thighs that dangle off the high bed. “Pet your cunt for me – show me how you like it, sweet girl. Please.” He is not above begging. Not for this. Not for you – for the sight of you playing with your wet, pink pussy. 

You spread your legs wider, give him the tantalizing peak of your bare sex, your glistening folds. You’re already fucking wet for him. He feels an unrestrained growl claw up his throat like fire. His mouth goes dry, parched. The only way to sate himself, to drink straight from the source of your glossy slick. 

You press your fingers to the pearl of your clit, swollen and needy already, he can see. You start to swirl little circles over your slippery flesh, your wet mouth falling open in a gasp. “That’s it, yeah–” he whispers, bringing his face in closer to the apex of your thighs so he can smell you directly from the source. His eyes flutter as he breathes in the scent of you, the deep amber and citrus from the bath oil, but beneath that, entwined in the rich notes, the musky scent of you. Fucking mouthwatering. He hears himself moan, the sound pulled almost unconsciously from his body. 

“Inside– put your fingers inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” You press a single finger in, all the way to the last knuckle, and start to rock your hips. He can feel your gaze on his face, the weight of it heavy and pleading.

“Ezra– p–please, please, you do it,” you beg, let your head roll back as you press another finger in and start to rock your clit against the mound of your palm in earnest.

“But you’re doing so well, sweet girl. About to make that little cunt come for me. Look–” He gives you the weight of a single palm on the bend of your knee and you moan deep and ragged at just that compact touch. He can’t help himself – he pulls the edge of the t-shirt up to bare your tits to him and holds it up against the base of your throat where he cradles the delicate column in his hand – the entire large span of him completely engulfing your smallness. “Your thighs are trembling, treasure. You’re going to do it just for me, aren’t you?.”

“Y–Yes, yes–” 

He pushes your knee in his grasp wider, opening you more for the fileting of gaze. “Make yourself come – I want to see it. Fucking come,” it’s a demand you answer, just the sound of it causing the heat of your skin to seemingly ricochet even higher. You start to come – he watches the clenching of the muscles in your stomach as you grind your fingers deep. He can hear how wet you are, the sopping wet squelch of your pulsing cunt, and he worries for one second that he’s about to come in his pants. 

You let out a reed high mewl, like you’re singing just for him. “What a good, good girl you are,” he praises, and your eyes flutter shut, pulling your fingers away so that he’s left to admire the clenching of your stretched hole. He can see the glossy shine of your slick sliding down the crevice of your ass, and he wants to lick through your sticky arousal so fucking badly he bites down on his cheek until he tastes blood. He bends his head to press his brow to the edge of the bed between your spread thighs, tightening his grip around your knee until you whimper in pain. He loosens his hold immediately, thumb brushing soothingly over the bend before he stands, lets out a long breath. He stares down at your panting, flushed form. Wet and sated after your orgasm. Fuck all the art in the world. He’d set fire to every single masterpiece he owns in this very moment if he was granted the gift of getting to watch you come even one single time more. 

He passes his palm over his mouth, feeling the soft bristles of his scruff. He’d like to see the smooth insides of your thighs rubbed raw with it, he’d like to see the stretch of your cunt as he stuffs you full of himself, the milky white of his spend leaking from all your holes. 

“It’s time to put you to bed,” he says instead. 

Your brow creases in the sweetest little frown, red mouth puckering, still panting. “You’re not staying?” 

“No, sweet girl. I think it’s best if you sleep here tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But–”

“It’s alright. There’s no rush.” He leans over you to press a lingering kiss to your brow, pulls his shirt down to cover your breasts. You give him a little whimper, and he allows your hand to come up to clutch the thick swell of his bicep, the heavy muscle there bunching at the feel of your grip. He moves to help you settle beneath the silk duvet, pleased beyond belief at the sight of you tucked into a bed in his home, wearing his clothes, flushed and wearing the sated look of a recent orgasm. 

“Goodnight, treasure.”

“Goodnight, Ezra.”

-

You find his room later. You can’t help yourself, following the glow of the soft light spilling between the crack of his slightly open door, like he’d left you a bread crumb trail to follow, like he knew you’d come searching. You can’t sleep knowing he’s so close, this dazzling creature come straight from a dream. Twisting and turning in the plush monstrosity of a bed he’d left you in. His shirt, butter soft, the dark, gray blue swimming around your much smaller frame. It smells like him, his cologne – you recognize the scent of Le Labo Another 13. Musky with the softest most subtle hint of jasmine, paired with something earthier – greener, and folded between all that: the soft saltiness of his sweat.  Why would you sleep when a figure from your very fantasies was right here in the flesh. Your cunt clenches, wet and aching, even after he’d watched you make yourself come. You need more, want to feel the press of his cock inside of you, the heavy weight of it. 

He’s sitting up in bed, reading something on an iPad, glasses propped low on his nose. He looks up at your small knock, not waiting for his permission to slip inside. 

“I promise, I’ll be good.” You hold your hands up in surrender. “I won’t touch you. We can put a pillow between us if you like.” You move towards the bed.

There’s a large stack of books sitting on his bedside table, flooded by the warm moss stained light of the antique Tiffany lamp. A single idiosyncrasy of old world charm in a room made stark by its bright modernity. The pile is made up of a book of paintings by Howard Hodgkin, the diaries of Alma Mahler, The Spectator Bird by Wallace Stegner, the fourth volume of In Search of Lost Time – you appreciate his excellent taste – and at the very top, laying open, facedown, as if he’d just put it down a moment ago, My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgaard. You find it fascinating to see a book that spoke of life in such a granular way — realistic, simple, a normal man in a normal world, speaking in such extensive, caring detail on the small things in his life — on the bedside table of this enigma, this person who seemed to be, by far and large, a different species to all other men you’d ever met before. To see the spine so cracked and worn — as if he’d read it over and over again, in search of the equation for that simplicity, to thus inject into his own existence – a way to embalm his own world in such appreciation for the small but infinitely significant moments. You wonder if it’s taught him much— if he’s been able to find and implement whatever it was he’d searched for through so many reads. 

“Alright,” he says easily, but the look in his eyes is slightly wary. You recognize Glenn Gould’s rendition of the Goldberg Variations playing softly on the surround sound as you crawl into his bed – under the silk smooth sheets, bringing a pillow to blockade you from him, protect him. You don’t want him to be uncomfortable, but you desperately want to be close to him also. The two of you have barely talked tonight – too caught up in the observation of one another, like two animals circling in the wild. You want to talk to him. Want to hear the sound of his deep voice vibrate through your nerve endings. 

“Intimacy is… difficult for me,” he says slowly, swallowing. “It’s hard for me to get close to people… emotionally, physically. I need time to — I suppose, to warm up to them.”

“That’s — that’s okay. I understand,” you say, because you do, because you’re the same in many ways. 

“It’s why I love art,” he continues. “You can be close to something, feel its warmth, beauty – whatever feeling it is the artist intended to pull out of you, from a distance. Untouched – it’s untouchable. That comforts me for some reason.”

“I think – I think I understand that as well. Something, perhaps, about the idea of a thing remaining as it was initially conceived as, for all time, undisturbed by outside influences.”

“Yes – yes, exactly.” His eyes are alive with the fire of being understood.

You look down at his straining erection. You can’t help it. “You’re hard,” you say. You want to touch him so badly it’s a physical ache inside of you. 

“I’ve been hard since I first saw you.”

“Let me help.”

He shakes his head, “Not yet.”

“I was embarrassed that the other patrons would be able to tell how wet my pussy was lying there staring at you.” Shocking words. His eyes flutter shut, fuck, he murmurs under his breath, brings his hand up to rub at his jaw. You’ve noticed he does that a lot – a tell of sorts. He takes several deep breaths, the tension seeming to seep out of his body by sheer force of will. 

You take him in as he settles back into the pillows, relaxing, or at least pretending to. His face, smooth and serene, laying there watching you, despite his heavy erection, but the look in his eyes – it’s also slightly provoking. As if he wants you to challenge him, question him, but also afraid, perhaps, that you’ll force his hand, that he’ll be forced to give in to what you both want before he’s ready. You decide to choose mercy – change the subject. More curious to see how he chooses to play this out.

“Let’s play the question game.”

“The question game?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he turns to lay on his side, facing you. Both of your hands are tucked beneath your cheeks. He’s wearing a soft, worn sweater, a tiny hole at the collar, the sleeves stretched and overly long. Oh, this may just be too much for you to handle. 

“We’ll start with something easy – what’s your favorite color?”

“That’s easy?”

“Yes.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing.

“Depends on the day,” he says very seriously. His blinks are slow, his pupils huge and dilated in the warm light of the lamp. You wonder if he’s taken something. Every time he blinks the thick fringe of his lashes fans over his cheeks, the pause of his languor allows you a moment to appreciate them.

“That’s not an answer – you have to give a real answer.” You want to reach your finger out and brush along that thick fringe, through the patchy hair on his face, threaded through with the smallest hint of silver, stick your nose in his hair and smell him right at the source. 

“It’s the only real answer there is – no one’s favorite color stays their favorite color forever.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

“What’s that?”

“Make things purposely difficult.”

A flash of his brilliant white teeth, “Oh, always.” You want very badly for him to bite into your flesh. 

“Okay, fine. What’s your favorite color right now?”

Without hesitation: “The color of your eyes – they’re very strange,” you can tell it’s a compliment, and he finally touches you again. A single finger, just the tip, to the point of your chin, tilting your head back slightly for his inspection, as if you were one of the pieces in his collection. You think you may become one by the end of this. You think you’d like that very much. You can feel the slight edge of his fingernail dig into your soft skin. 

“I already agreed to fuck you. You don’t have to woo me,” you breathe. You realize that, as of yet, he’s not overtly asked you to have sex with him – you throw the words out anyways, hoping to provoke him. This is too much. This man is too much. You don’t know what it is about him, but you want him desperately, like no one you’ve ever wanted before. You want him to overwhelm you – to take you by force. To take all choice and will and autonomy from your hands. You don’t care what will come of this, what will become of you after he’s done with you, if he discards you, forgets you –  none of that matters. All you care about, in this moment, is that he finally decides to take you, that he gives you the opportunity to let go, to relinquish control. To unfold from the pose for just a moment. A slightly deranged spark fizzes in your belly. Your heart pinches a burning little pain at the thought that he hasn’t kissed you yet, that you still don’t know the taste of his mouth. 

“None of my answers satisfy you. And yes, I do need to woo you. I find it very necessary.”

You try and emulate an unaffected scoff, his finger is still on your chin, but you feel your brow unwittingly fold into a confused frown. There is a tight knot of want coiled at the very center of you, burning hot and smoldering, and you need him to pick it apart with these strong fingers. He takes his hand away. The look on his face is very telling. He can read everything going on in your mind, you can tell. He looks like the cat that ate the goddamn canary. You try and take a deep, calming breath. “Alright, now you have to ask me one?” you divert. 

“Me?”

“Yes, you – that’s how the game works. I do one, you do one.”

“Alright,” he’s quiet for a second, contemplating, “Do you have siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child. Do you?”

“I had a brother, Damon. He died when we were younger.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, well– it was a very long time ago. But thank you. His daughter, Cee, is my ward now. ” Not his niece, not someone mentioned in any capacity as his family. The connection, maintained as if at a distance — his ward — cold. But he gives himself away, his tender vulnerability made transparent, with the sudden flash of bright fondness in his eyes at her name, despite his trying to remain aloof. You are not so easily fooled. You see him despite his attempts to deflect from the true core of himself. 

His gaze is so mercurial – at once relaxed, uncaring, and then flaring into something bright hot like a flash fire. But remote, remote always. Like the very center of him, his true gaze is very far away, very deep within him, and this gaze, the one he presents to the world, is merely a farce, a mask. A shroud he pulls over himself to keep others out. His own golden gossamer. You’re shocked that he’s shared this with you. 

“My parents died when I was very young,” you offer, your own morsel of ragged soul in the face of his sudden vulnerability. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, as well.”

“It wasn’t so bad, after the fact. I went to live with my aunt – my mother’s sister. She was a dancer. My childhood was… unconventional, but wonderful.”

“What about it was unconventional?”

You laugh a little, looking up at the coffered ceiling above you, the thick beams a rich, glossy mahogany. You feel his gaze on your face like a brand. He has not stopped looking at you since he first started. In a sea of years being observed, his gaze is singular in the pleasure it brings you.

“She was a dancer. I mean—” you hum, “What wasn’t unconventional about it? We lived in New York for several years, then Budapest for a time, and then she brought us here, to Paris, where we stayed until her death – where I’ve stayed since. Her girlfriends were always around – fellow dancers, costumes and makeup, drinking and men. They taught me how to smoke when I was eight — Gauloises like a fucking chimney, at all hours of the day, after that — I forced myself to stop a few years ago. Now I only have one on special occasions, sometimes.” He looks at you like he knows you’re the sort to make a special occasion out of a trip to the market. “She had many lovers. Parties… disaster everywhere, but the riotous, happy sort – not the tragic kind.”

“No?”

“No. Perhaps, to the outside eye it may have appeared different… I don’t know. No life for a child, I think. But it was wonderful. She always protected me. But– but never like a mother. She was never like a mother – more like – a friend, or an older sister.” You laugh fondly at the memories, but also a little sadly. In the eyes of an adult now, you’d never want such a life for a child of your own, as exciting as it was at the time.

“One time someone told me I ended up as I did, naked for the world to ogle at, as a means to earn money, because of her. Because of how she was. And perhaps they were right, but… but not in the way they meant —  to insult me. She taught me what art was, gave me the means to turn myself into it.” 

“Who the fuck said that to you?” His tone makes you look back at him now. All the mystery in his gaze is gone, only fury burns now – very clearly. If he’d let you, you’d cup his cheek, soothe him. 

You can see he isn’t ready yet, though. So all you say is: no one that really mattered – the truth, but you can see that it does not soothe him. 

 “What about you? What was your mother like?” You can appreciate how easily distracted he pretends to be, the deception of it, merely another shroud. 

Another one of his long pauses, filled with his eyes on you. He gives you the gift of his touch again. Thick fingers picking up a strand of your hair, running it between his grasp. You feel the slight ghost-like tingle of the tug along your scalp, there but also not, and a jerking shiver moves through you. All the hair on your body standing on end. Fuck, this man. 

“She was very beautiful – very cruel,” he says slowly, mesmerized by your hair sliding through his fingers. 

“Cruel to you?”

“To the world.”

“Why?”

“But also me.” Succinct in its truth. The thought is a terrible one – for anyone to have been cruel to this magnificent dream of a man. The backs of your eyes pinch. Another long pause. “Hmm,” he tilts his head side to side, still sliding your hair through his fingers, twisting it gently around his hair. He gives it a tiny tug, and you want to scoot forward, even just the smallest bit, just to be a little closer to him, to feel the brush of his belly against yours with the movement of his breathing. “It’s difficult to say – unhappiness, bitterness, boredom. A great and complicated concoction of things that made her into the eternally complex creature she was.”

“She died?”

“Yes. She killed herself.”

“Ezra– I’m so sorry,” the words leave you choked and breathless. 

He says it so plainly, starkly, like a slap to the face, one not meant to cause pain or harm, but shock. One meant to cause fear, something to say, look at how fucked up I am, stay away or I’ll infect you with it too. You scoot closer now, you can’t help it, and he goes immediately still, frozen – eyes wide, hesitant, but you don’t touch him. Your hair is still clutched in his hand, and his eyes move back and forth between your own and his hold on you. You’re close enough now, though, that you can feel the heat rolling off his body. Your eyes flutter shut, you say again: “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“She was too vain to grow to old age.” You feel him relax, comforted by the indication that you’re not going to touch him just yet. “I think she felt it was the only recourse for her.”

You open your eyes again, and he’s still staring at you. You so badly want to know what he’s thinking, to feel the press of his mouth against yours, to know the taste of his tongue, the feel of his incisors pressing into your skin. 

You pivot three-sixty again: “Do you want kids?” He lets out a loud barking laugh at that, head thrown back so the tendons in his neck jump out starkly. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Wet and jealous. 

“This is a very difficult game,” he says, giving you a sly look. 

“We don’t have to play anymore, if you don’t want to.” A great lie – you never want to stop playing with him. 

“No, I want to keep going.” He slides his whole hand into your hair now, palm cupping the entire side of your head in its broad expanse, and you can’t help the desperate moan that claws out of your throat. His responding hum is all-knowing.  “I don’t know. But I love being… I like being able to imagine it.”

Your mind has been lost to a daze induced by the heat of his palm. “Children?” you murmur.

“Yes.”

Your fingers are twisted into the front of your shirt, clawing at yourself to maintain respect for his boundaries. “I want them. Lots of them. I hated being an only child. I always felt alone. I want to have lots of babies.” And his eyes flare with heat at that. The first blazing sign of lust in them tonight. Everything else before this, you realize, was merely a low simmering boil. The fist in your hair tightens so that your head tilts back slightly, the line of your throat exposed for his eyes to follow. 

“Lots of them?” You nod your head minutely, wide eyed, equally ensnared by that look in his gaze as you are by his hand. 

“Then you shall have them, Sparrow.” You let out a shuddering breath, turn your face into the pillow, enjoying the slight pull to your sensitive scalp as his hand follows, try to breathe deep, temper your racing heart. You’re so wet, you can feel it seeping out of you in a constant throbbing stream. The conversation serving as a more intense form of foreplay than anything else you’ve ever done with a man. 

“It’s my turn again. When was the last time you fucked someone?” Blunt – thrown at your face to throw you off kilter. Oh, he fucking loves this. A broken little whimper claws out of your throat at that. Your cheeks are flushed, you can feel them burning, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. The smug look in his eyes taunts you, tells you he knows just how soaked you are. But it is also wild, as wanting as you are. 

“Hmm?” he presses.

“Three years ago.” It’s his turn to be shocked now. You see the pause of surprise in that bright light within his gaze. 

“Three years? Why?”

“You’re not the only one who finds it difficult to be close to people.”

“And yet you agreed to come here with me?”

“And yet I agreed to come here with you.” You don’t return the question. You wouldn’t like to know, you don’t think. And you can tell he sees that in your gaze, for he doesn’t offer up the information either. You like the mystique of him. Like some eldritch beast, a deity of old, something amorphous, not to be contained or understood. The unknowable aspect of him is appealing to you for reasons you haven't quite figured out yet, despite this game of questions you’re flirting with. 

You go next: “Are you lonely?”

“Yes, very.” A pause, and then: “You are too.” This is no question. He can see it, recognizes the same scent of it that permeates the air around him, following you. “You seemed it, laying in the center of that crowded room, naked – bared for everyone to see.” It is not said cruelly. He is only telling you that which you already know about yourself, that which is plain for the whole world to see. “And then shrouded in gold, as if you wanted to hide that vein of aloneness that flows through you – it didn’t work very well.”

“Do you think everyone could see it?”

“No.” Good. You only wanted him. 

You take another turn, you can’t help but break the rules with him. “Have you ever been with someone who– who you didn’t really want to be with, but you were– you were so lonely and needed… something… or someone?” All the surety you’d posed your previous questions with is gone now. He’s already discerned so much of you, what’s a little more bared skin? “So you just– you just settled for being with that person even though you knew it was wrong, and the only thing on your mind was the other person you really wanted to be with?”

Without hesitation: “Yes.”

“I think that’s the only type of relationship I’ve ever had. Although, the other person hasn’t really existed – just – just something I’ve thought up in my own head.”

“I accidentally called her by the other person’s name. She never spoke to me again. It was terrible– terrible of me.”

“I want to touch you so badly,” you plead suddenly. Unable to hold it in anymore in the light of all he’s shared with you. Your voice cracking and begging. “I want you to touch me, so badly.”

“I know.” Yes, he does. “You want me to fuck you.” All you can do is let your eyes flutter shut, try to continue to breathe, nod your head. 

“Why was your mother cruel to you? What did she do?” You feel like crying now. 

“Many things… I had terrible night terrors as a child. Scared her half to death. I’d scream and cry and sleep walk. For years. She didn’t know what to make of me. Some sort of demon come from her very womb to possess and haunt her house. She hated me – would lock me in a closet furthest from her bedroom to keep my howling away from her.” 

The blazing heat of anger floods your cheeks, your eyes filled with tears, and he clicks his tongue, smoothes his thumb over the slope of your cheek. “None of that, sweet girl.”

“You were just a little boy – she should have– she should have comforted you. Helped you.”

“It wasn’t in her nature. You cannot fault a thing for not being what it was never made to be. She was a killer of soft things – within herself, within me too, I think. Or she tried, at least. She tried to kill everything soft she came into contact with. But she did love me. In her own way – a wrong way, but she did. That comforts me immensely.”

“That she loved you even if it was the wrong way?”

He nods, “And that I loved her – despite all her flaws.”

“Why?”

“I… I appreciate the idea of being a bad person, and still being able to find someone to love you.”

“You’re a killer.” It is not a question for you already know the answer – you can see it in his eyes, it is his inheritance. You know that either way, it won’t make a difference to you. 

“I am, indeed. But, are you?.” The soft curve of his cunning smile is so incredibly beguiling. The most tempting thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life. You shake your head, you’re not, you never have been. You think it must be very obvious at first glance, for the patronizing look he gives you as he asks anyways. 

“Sometimes I can be very bad,” he whispers slowly, drags the tip of his finger over your shoulder, down the swell of your breast, stopping just shy of your peaked nipple, circling the point. 

“What do you do?” your voice is breathless, beseeching. 

He smooths his thumb over your bottom lip, pushes between to get inside, presses down on the hard edge of your bottom teeth to inspect the wet gleam of your tongue. “I steal beautiful things for myself–” His voice is like smoke – his confession fortuitous, on the verge of disappearing. His mystique enshrouds the both of you. You hope you disappear alongside him. 

“Is that what you’re doing now? Stealing me?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like being stolen.”

-

He wakes, very late into the night, or very early in the morning, the confounding blue hue of the outside world seeping in through the heavy drapes over the tall windows. Shielding the two of you from the real world.

Your body is entirely draped over his own. You’ve invaded him in your sleep, taken over all the space and air and thought he’s ever possessed. The soft weight of your breasts presses into his chest, your head tucked in the hollow of his clavicle so that he can feel each pass of your damp breath wash over his throat and chin. He expects to feel overwhelmed, uncomfortable, perhaps even disgusted, so much skin, so much heat, your legs intertwined with his – but all he can focus on is the fullness of your tits pressed up against him, the hot wet apex of your cunt against his thigh. You’re wet in your sleep for him – he can feel your dampness seeping through the silk of your extra panties. 

One of your hands is curled over his shoulder and he brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to the soft, small palm. His hand dwarfs yours, swallows it whole. He sucks each one of the tips of your fingers into his mouth, bites down as gently as he can. Your hips start to shift over him, needy cunt trying to unconsciously rub up against his thigh. 

He’s going to fuck you now. His cock is hard, aching, leaking, balls heavy – has been for ages, but finally, finally his mind has caught up. Thank fuck. 

He passes his palm down the smooth line of your back, pushes his t-shirt you’re wearing up your back to get to your skin. This lovely smooth back he’d spent almost an hour staring at in that gallery. He feels a terrible, unfounded curl of jealousy, once again, that anyone else in the world has ever gazed upon the magnificence that is your skin. He wants it to be only for him, he wants you to be only for him – to own you.

His hand moves down to clutch the full swell of your bottom, pushes under your panties to take a handful of your bare flesh. He bends his knee slightly to put more pressure on your core and starts to roll your hips over him. You let out a soft little moan, sleepy, so sweet. 

“It’s time to wake up, Sparrow. I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Ezra–” you murmur, coming to. Your body seems to take stock of the situation before your mind does, little cunt suddenly grinding down more firmly onto his thigh. You let out a moan that goes straight to his cock. He grips your hips and flips you over, settling between the spread of your thighs, slotting his length into your wet cleft, he starts a slow rock that has his head pressing up and into your clit. 

“Tell me how you want to be fucked.”

Your eyes are glassy, dazed and confused. He says again, “Tell me how you want to be fucked, or I will decide for you.”

And then your soft little voice, grabbing him by the balls and showing him that as sleepy or drowsy or small as you may appear, you’re still aware of the power you hold over him: “I think I’d like you to decide for me, please.”

Fuck– he deepens the pressure of his thrusts so that his tip presses into your opening over your panties. Your jaw is hinged open, panting wet breaths as you moan for him. 

He sits back on his heels then, pulls his t-shirt up over your head and then slides your panties over your hips and down your legs, grips your knees to spread your legs wide for him. 

He was right, your cunt is the same color as your nipples. Beautiful. 

It’s drooling, begging for him, and oh, how that fills him with pleasure – for such a beautiful thing to desire him, as much as he desires it. He ghosts the back of his knuckles over your slit, using his thumbs to spread your lips wide – he bends for a taste, moans deep and long from his chest. 

“Fuck, you’re so sweet. Do you want me to feed your cunt, baby?”

“Ezra, please – yes – I want it so bad.”

“I know, I could see – all night, I could see how hungry you were. I’m going to eat you now.”

Please, please. 

He settles between your thighs. Soft little licks to your swollen clit, then down to thrust his tongue into your hole. He grips the back of one thigh to press it up and back into your chest, uses his other hand to press down low on your pelvis, gives you more pressure as he sucks your clit back into his mouth. He can feel the clench of your pussy around his tongue, the shake in your thighs. Your keening moans move through him, have him grinding his aching cock into the mattress. You’re going to come in his mouth, he can feel it, taste it, your slick running from you, sweet and musky, all for him. 

Your hands clutch at his curls, pulling and tugging hard as you arch your back and start to orgasm. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra. It’s a litany, a benediction. You are a work of art come to life to sing into his ear. 

He gentles his mouth over your quivering sex, laps slowly at your pulsing entrance. He wipes his mouth over the tender slope of your inner thigh and goes back to his knees, licks his palm of your wet as he watches your gaze on him. 

He cradles your small foot in his hold. He likes the thought that he can grasp that which has carried you through your life, in his hand. For some reason, it fills him with immense pleasure, the feel of your soft foot, the thought of you walking through life, walking through the world, towards him, to find him. Always him, only him. 

There is a wound in him, dark, and putrid, overwhelming his existence always. It was only through the cathartic fulfillment of holding a beautiful thing in his hands that he felt reprieved of the terrible thing. He feels that reprieve in this moment, with the delicate weight of your small foot cradled within his palm. 

He brings it to his mouth and digs his thumb harshly into the elegant arch, forcing a moan out of you, deepening the curve of your spine, then drags his teeth along the instep, presses a soft kiss to your first toe. He can see the clench of your little hole at his ministrations, the flush of your skin from the peaks of your breasts to your cheeks. 

Your breath is hitching, breasts quivering with your gasps. He bends to lick into your mouth, thin ankle still held in his grasp, finally, finally taking the taste of your tongue onto his own and you moan, wanton and desperate, your legs wrapping around his waist to bring him closer. 

“I’m going to give you my cock now,” he presses into your skin, open mouthed kisses to your throat, your neck, your breasts. He nips a gentle bite to one swollen little nipple. 

He grasps the base of his cock, passes his hand slowly from root to tip once, twice, and then presses the flushed head to your clit, grinds there for a moment, you jerk, then moves down to your hole, feeds you just the tip. You cant your hips, try and take him deeper, but he holds back, pulls out and moves back up to circle your clit again, and then back down again to press inside. “No, no, no, Ezra, please – I need it so badly – so badly.” He watches a tiny tear, track down your temple and back into your hair, and he gives you the entire thick length of him at that, fucks inside, all the way to the end of you. 

“There? How’s that?” He presses a kiss to your breast, sucks it into his mouth. The taste of you is godly. “Is that better, needy thing?”

“So good – so good,” you sigh. Stretching your arms high above your head, arching your back to let him in deeper. 

“Fuck, yes–” he groans. He sits back on his heels, grips your hips and starts to give it to you hard. The strong swing of his hips causing the soft jiggle of your tits with every thrust. Your eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, soft mouth open and wet. So fucking beautiful. 

“Will you let me fuck your ass too?” Your head is already nodding, all rational thought currently being fucked out of you. “You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes – anything you want.”

“Good girl.”

He changes the angle, fucks up into that spongy devastating part of you he plans to own after this is done, and he starts to feel the tight pull of your inner muscles working to suck him deeper. “That’s it, beautiful, just like that. Taking me so wonderfully.” 

“God– I– I’m–” you press your palms to his belly and he brings one of your ankles up to his shoulder, presses a kiss to the bone. 

“God isn’t here right now – just me–” He grits his teeth, gives it to you harder. He can feel his orgasm start to pool, hot and liquid, at the base of his spine, balls drawing up tight. 

“Give me another, Sparrow, one more. Need to feel it around my cock,” spit through clenched teeth. 

“Oh, fuck – that’s so good,” you moan, and then you’re milking him, pulling his come out of him with the tight wet clutch of your muscles. 

“Fucking perfect, yes – just like that.” He lets his head roll back on his neck, hand grasping your ankle as he fills you. 

-

He watches you eat your pain au chocolat. Sitting in the warm morning sun of the observatory. Tiny bites of the flaky sweet bread, dollop of chocolate sitting at the corner of your mouth that he plans to lick off in a second. He is mesmerized. He knows, empirically, he probably looks like a fucking creep, staring you down as he is, but he can also see the subtle preen in your gaze when you glance up at him every so often. You enjoy this part of your play as much as he does, so it seems. The watching. 

“Will you let me take you somewhere today?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Brazil? I’d show you the farm.”

You swallow, the most guileless eyes he’s ever beheld, shining in the light. “Brazil? Really?”

“Of course, treasure. Or anywhere you want. Your happiness is mine to watch over now. I would do anything for you.” As he says it, he can tell, you did not lie when you said you’d like to be stolen. 

[depraveddame]

The second chapter of my omegaverse fic Tempt, is up!

Hello all 💖 This immediately follows the first chapter after omega Crowley returns home after visiting a glory hole in a sex club and getting his mouth fucked and knotted by alpha Aziraphale, where we find out he's the mate of Lucius (my Lucifer in AUs) and they're in a lovingly passionate polyamorous relationship. He finally gets the knot he's craving and we find out a bit more about Aziraphale in this universe as well as Lucius.

CW’s: Vaginal knotting, Daddy kink, sub bottom Crowley, Dom Lucifer, top Lucifer, polyamory, open relationships, jealousy/possessiveness kink, scent kink, cunnilingus, dirty talk, slight slut shaming, mafia/organized crime AU, slight feminization

Excerpt:

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice as velvety as the caramel that drips from it, and his pupils are expanding, they’re nearly obscuring the green of his irises, “someone’s worked my demon up into quite a frenzy, haven’t they? How many times did you come— three?”

“Twice,” Crowley whimpers as he kicks his stilettos off and climbs onto the massive bed to crawl on top of Lucius, straddling his hips and immediately grinding down onto him as he bends to kiss his inked neck with a mouth so needy to be occupied despite the soreness of his jaw, the smoky sweet taste of his alpha’s fragrant skin both a balm and accelerant to his want.

It’s a relief to be so close to his mate even after a few hours apart, it’s a marrow deep righteousness that even temporarily soothes the cavernous ache inside as his slick drenched inner thighs bracket massively strong ones, as he sinks down into his lap and blankets the hardening length of Lucius with his cunt. His alpha keeps breathing deeply as the thunder in his chest grows louder and more primal, and Crowley knows he’s smelling the alien alpha scent clinging to him, he’s cataloging the notes and memorizing the pheromones mingling with his own.

The way his purr blooms into an envy tinged yet feral growl as his cock twitches between Crowley’s legs is a rather decent indicator that he likes this particular cocktail of aromas; he clenches in response as Lucius starts luxuriously licking his neck between drawing calculating breaths through his nose, no doubt tasting the remnants of Aziraphale’s come that had escaped from Crowley’s mouth as he’d knotted it, his mouth a hungry inferno all over Crowley’s sensitive skin. He lifts his head to rest against Lucius’, granting him better access to his neck and jaw, his own gently humming purr peppered with whines and mewls as he keeps chasing delicious friction with shakily rocking hips.

*

Continue on AO3!

I know this isn’t eveyone’s cup of tea but if you read it I hope you’ll enjoy it! I’ve been in love with Crowley/Lucifer as a pairing but haven’t seen them in positive healthy relationships, so I have set out to change that 😂✨

@goodomensafterdark

[bwoahtastic]

Umm, for your brocedes agenda,

Nico doing his pundit job without knowing he’s pregnant after a one night stand with Lewis. It took him vomiting his guts out and almost fainting in Jenson and Mark’s arms in the paddock, before they convinced him to get himself checked. Ofc, the paddock doctor easily finds out that he’s pregnant, and seeing how Nico was accompanied by both JB and Mark, said doctor asked who among them is the father so he can brief them about what to expect from here on out. Nico says it doesn’t matter, because really, Lewis doesn’t even deign to give him the time of day when being interviewed, how much more now? That man literally hates him to the marrow of his bone (or at least that’s what he thought), and seeing the hurt and quiet resignation in Nico’s face, both JB and Mark scrambles to insist that they are the father, getting a bewildered look from the doctor, and a weirded out one from Nico. The doctor ofc seeks to clarify what just happened, but the two (Mark and JB) just insists to know what they have to prepare for, which the doctor reluctantly explained. Fast forward to Nico shopping for baby essentials with either Mark or JB, then getting captured while doing so, so now, the rumors are in full blast. Lewis and Nico eventually met one time then, in the harbor in Monaco, and Lewis who’s only source of news about Nico are the rumors, can only go, “ur pregnant?” And Nico, answers, “obviously,” signaling towards his belly, “how long?” Lewis asked, and Nico coldly replied, “none of ur concern” before walking away, nursing his broken heart, chanting to himself that it’s better this way. Nico gives birth, the child a boy looking everything like Lewis except for the hair and skin color, that was Nico’s. Nico was content raising their child by himself along with Mark and JB who visited and helped him frequently as the ‘daddy uncles’, but yeah, a single picture is all it took for Lewis to have and confirm his suspicions, the child was his. Up to u how u want them to meet or how Lewis gets to know his child.

Plss Nico being in denial after a one night stand with Lewis and the signs are there but he refuses to believe he is pregnant, keeps saying he has food poisoning but jenson and Mark convince him to see a doctor after he almost faints.

Nico is stressing out so bad hearing he is pregnant and so sad because in another life, he would have loved to do it together with Lewis. He looks so sad and scared and jwnson and Mark both scramble to help, to pretend they are the dad and its chaos but sweet. They would support Nico so much! Take turns checking in on him and going out with him when he goes shopping for the baby because sure, nico would never ask for help but they cannot let him be all alone in this! He deserves better! Ofcourse they get seen and rumours start bur Nico just ignores it and tries to be as ready to be a momma as he can be.

Lewis hearing the rumours but not daring to ask until he sees Nico in monaco, so clearly with a baby bump that he protectively keeps his hand on. Lewis asks him how longhe has been pregnant and nico gets pissed off because they haven't spoken since Lewis left in the morning without saying goodbye and now he can't even ask Nico how he is? He snaps at Lewis and leaves, has the baby with judt his family and jenson and Mark there. Nico cries a lot the first days because the little one looks like Lewis a lot and he misses Lewis so much 🥺 and Lewis seeing the pic wnd he knows its his baby and I think they would meet up,eventually? Nico wants Lewis involved and Lewis wants to meet his son!

[infinite-orangepeel]

✨steddie ficlet: switchy energy, eddie tops then steve does, boys in love and filthy about it, face slapping, choking, religious imagery, daddy kink, breeding kink, pet play, brief reference to somnophilia, dacryphilia

eddie munson fucks like he’s reconciling with tragedy, has something septic and lethal clawing it’s way out of his ribs, and needs to beat the odds before doomsday arrives.

his touch is quick. hot. fervent and skimming—reading between the lines so he can drag steve straight to the end with him.

there is no sanctity about the beginning or middle. everything made there is a blur of sticky heat and noise. slicking off their writhing bodies like midsummer rain.

hipbones jagged. ink infecting every available inch of his skin. eddie’s thrusts are punishing. his moans knock the wind from steve’s lungs.

there is a rapid pulse, brief reprise, and the desperate need to be the concrete vessel for each other’s pain and pleasure.

slaps followed by a dirty kiss. gnawing lips. sucking marrow. red everywhere in the dim light of the room.

they dig their hearts out to present as gifts. small thanks for a lifetime of whatever this is. filthy. lovely. reciprocal confessions kept behind teeth.

they touch each other and the world is remade.

“daddy’s little toy,” eddie growls into steve’s ear; biting, licking, choking, and bruising as he grinds impossibly deeper into a place no one else has ever been, “gonna fuck you so dumb you forget your own name, baby. gonna fuck you so dumb, you only remember mine.”

it’s ravenous. starvation. pulling hair. salted tears. lighting matches. naked truth and a reckless fire that burns from within. annihilates everything in its path.

hand in hand; they break flesh only to repair it under the influence of divine creation.

body to body.

face to face.

heart to heart.

violet stains across their skin. graciously erasing the damages done by those who were too afraid to love them back.

“i love you. i’d kill for you.”

steve’s voice bubbles up to the surface like cheap jewelry tossed into the river at the conclusion of a tired romance.

“there’s a monster in you, isn’t there, baby boy?”

“yes,” steve utters like a devestatimg hymn, “and there’s one in you. in your heart. next to mine. vicious and beautiful.”

eddie’s strong. dominant. hands locked into place on steve’s slender waist like it’s life or death or something greater. beyond him. beyond them. hold tight or die trying.

“i love you and your violent teeth. i love you and your bitchy attitude—all the terrible extremes you’re capable of,” eddie’s breath hitches, but his hands never falter as he fucks him harder, “slap me hard, baby boy—fuck—i’m yours. make it so no one else ever wonders if they can have me.”

“they can’t,” steve whimpers brokenly as he slaps eddie across the face with the utmost adoration, “i’d ruin anyone who tried—fuck—you feel so good, daddy.”

when they switch positions, it’s steve’s knees failing to uphold their promise. collapsing face down into sweat, musk, the stained pillowcase, and abundant sensation.

trembling. shaking. pathetic.

drifting off into lust and want and worship.

babbling ‘more,’ ‘harder,’ ‘faster,’ ‘please, sir;’ like those are the only words he knows.

but, no matter how low he gets, no matter how far he slips—steve will not break.

eddie won’t let him.

eddie will sink his own ship, decimate the grounds, throw himself overboard, before he ever lets steve fade to black.

it’s a cruel love.

damned. perfect. edging sin and purity at the same time.

taking them to the brink and yanking the chain back at the final moment.

letting everything oxidize for longer than is ever necessary. torture. agony. young love.

poetry in the making.

“dumb puppy,” eddie berates, grazing a soothing hand over steve’s reddened ass—spanked ruthlessly by the man he loves, “rutt against the bed—rub yourself raw. that’s it—good boy. perfect boy. best boy for daddy. like you dirty. like you messy. so pretty.”

eddie pours salt into steve’s wounds, laughs giddily at his groans, licks them clean. starts again. pretends.

kisses scars and smirks as he bites down on the constellations covering steve’s back.

breaking apart the universe in his mouth like a confectionary gobstopper. shattered into shrapnel. slack at the tease of thick fingers wrapping around his throat.

nothing will ever be the same and he likes it that way.

“daddy, ‘s so good—wanna be your slut forever. would let you use me in my sleep—trust you—love you—need you—“

steve sobs into damp sheets. fucks his ass back onto eddie’s cock. tastes heat and pennies and holy worship on his lolling tongue.

brave boy takes whatever’s given to him. a beating, fist in his ass, teeth to his jugular, cock spurting load after load into his puffy hole. accepts it all with thanks and gratitude and brown eyes as dark and muse-worthy as the midnight sky.

“cumming inside you, pup. gonna fill you until your tummy’s fat and pregnant. gonna make it take this time. promise.”

eddie links their pinkies next to steve’s head on the mattress—the old thing creaks. smacks into the wall. calls out to neighbors and friends and pedestrians that this is where love is being born and made.

raw. wet. obscene and borderline criminal if you were to walk in at precisely the wrong moment.

make no mistake.

this is heaven. this is where they belong.

paradisium. the end all be all. nothing compares. rose colored glasses stay on for the show and ever after. they are blind to any other possibility. bravely human in the midst of something distinctly wild.

“i’m a mommy,” steve laughs deliriously when eddie cums with a roaring moan and a chorus of sweet declarations to his boy, “i’m a mommy. mommy. mommy. gonna get all round so quick—everyone’s gonna know. i’m gonna be beautiful.”

when steve cums it’s quieter. tangled up in innocent delusion and blushing fantasy—he sees stars in the familiar trap of eddie’s fist. stroking. bleating. aching as his balls tighten up and his head feels featherlight as if full of gossamer fabric.

release is near silent. choked out. eddie laps at his stomach in the aftermath. dips the tip of his tongue in his bellybutton. sparks tears of joy and sighs into his neck where he nuzzles and praises the love of his life for every good deed he’s ever done.

and the bad ones, too.

in the bath.

later.

they share dreams. touch for a second time. slow and easy. fingers caressing tender spots and pushing love into each other where it’s needed.

steve with his legs spread wide. eddie moving up and down with a gentle rhythm. rocking his hips to the beat of steve harrington’s golden heart. spit. bubbles. cum. water that finally runs cold.

“i wish i could live inside you,” eddie whispers when it’s over.

“you already do.”

thank you for reading !! please feel free to live feedback, pop into my inbox with your thoughts, or comment here (it always brightens my day to read through 💛)

taglist (message me to be added or removed at any time <3): @estrellami-1 @disastardly @ilovecupcakesandtea @the-redthread @asbealthgn @bestofbucky @vampireinthesun @carlyv @shrimply-a-menace @lordrrascal @jjoesjonas @malachitedevil @anxiouseds @gay-little-bitch @jhrc666 @pinkdaisies1998 @mcneen @perseus-notjackson @eiddets @corroded-coffin-groupie @three-possums-playing-human @stevesbipanic @plutoshelm @arkenstoned @indiearr @they-reap-what-we-sow @gleek4twd @bunnyweasley23 @livingoutload @a-little-unsteddie @novelnovella @rugbertgoeshome @neverlandwaitingforme @anglhrts @swiss-cheeze @livsters @messrs-weasley

[drarryspecificrecsdaily]

2023.11.26

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. Dirty Talk by @apricitydays-lazynights, @b-vul, @jtimu, @rainstormradish [M, 3k]

►Draco is desperate to improve his chances for the prestigious Marrow of the Year award, but Neville’s gardening instructions are almost impenetrable.

2. I've Got a Beautiful Feeling (Everything's Going My Way) by toomuchplor [E, 3k]

►“I’ve got such a boner,” Harry says, voice scratchy, just slitting his eyes open now, turning his head on his pillow to face Draco. “Oh, lovely, good morning to you, too,” Draco says.

3. New York, New Opportunities by writesbymiiso [T, 6k]

►[...] Draco didn’t know what to expect, he did know he didn’t expect to see Potter working behind a bar in New York of all places, let alone that he owns it. And for the love of everything, when did he get so good-looking?

4. Reckless Driver by @heyvirgo4 [T, 1k]

►On the road to Sunday dinner, Draco and Harry discuss the next steps in their relationship.

5. a torment of the blue variety by @dbutsu [E, 5k]

►Draco Malfoy is wearing a skirt, apparently. It's not that Harry wants to see it; he's just curious.

---

Fest/Exchange

1. You Can Call Me Daddy by @shewhomustnotbenamed [M, 37k]

►By chance, Harry finds Draco at a male strip club where he is working to scrape by on the bare minimum. Harry is immediately taken with him, his protective nature coming out, and he wants to give Draco everything that he needs. Draco has a difficult time accepting Harry's gifts and well-intentioned nature, but will he be able to let loose a little in order to gain a better life? ★ Sugarfest | @hpsugarfest​

[bringthekaos]

I saw a earlier ask, about the outfits in arcane starting to look more like the ones in LoL. I think i know how Jayce might get his coat with fur.

In arcane, we see a a picture of Jayce and his dad. The dad's coat looks similar to the one Jayce wears in LoL, it's only missing fur. I think after the whole scene with Viktor, 'in pursuit of great, we failed to do good', Jayce will stop being so ambitious. Specificly about magic, he'll stop trying to make anything that is 'world changing' like the hexgates. He'll stick with tools, like his family always had done, cause at least it will do good. Wich is where he'll start to wear his fathers coat and change.

This might also be where he and Viktor start to drift apart. Because Jayce will be stepping down NOW of all times, when they have to think outside the box to help. Wich leads to Viktor feeling like he has to something, and his path to becoming the Machine Herald starts

Oooooooo I never noticed that, it does kinda look like the Giopara jacket.

The lapel is slightly different, with Daddy Talis’s notched and Giopara’s peaked, but… the sleeve appears to be a darker color on Talis’s, just like this shot of Giopara, where the sleeves are dark navy. Either that or they’re both sleeveless/shoulder-only jackets, and that’s his shirt underneath, but still. Very similar.

That definitely adds another layer to it, it becomes Jayce sort of “giving up.” In talking to Caitlyn after his trial, he even said he’d “join the Talis hammer business,” and even she knew that he’d whither away doing that—“you can’t do that” / “No, I can’t.” And accepting the role, accepting the “look” by donning his father’s jacket… yeah, it’s a sign that he tried; he chased the dream, and it hurt people, people he loved. So he gives up, takes a step back. Because at least as a tool maker, he can’t hurt anyone. Poor baby needs a hug. 😢

And Viktor… I don’t think Viktor has much tolerance for giving up. That man is a fighter down to his bone marrow. I could definitely see this being a cause for their budding rift.

[deadboydetectives-anonmeme]

Monthly Fill Round-Up - September 2024

Complete

Edwin - He started learning magic in Hell - Scrapped to the Marrow [DW] [AO3] [TW: Gore/Body Horror]

Cat King/Edwin - Caging Spell - Fair, In A Sense [TW: Dubcon]

Charles & Edwin - Edwin seeing Charles' memories on the cliff - Tear Me Apart

Edwin & Charles - Orbwin and Chorb - First Time For Everything [DW] [AO3]

Monty/Edwin - Bird style courtship - Bottle Cap [DW] [AO3]

Charles/Edwin - Daddy Kink - Untitled

Edwin/OC(s) - More witch familiars - More Of The Same [DW] [AO3]

Simon/Edwin - Pre-canon - The Greek Vice

Charles - Charles is colourblind - The Book Search Conundrum of '24 [DW] [AO3]

Cat King/Edwin, Edwin/Charles - Non-con, Not a fair and consensual Cat King - Caging Spell [DW] [AO3] [TW: Noncon]

Simon/Edwin (one-sided) - Size kink - Seeing in Believing [DW] [AO3]

Charles/Edwin - Playing with consent - A Taste for the Truth

Edwin/Charles - Enchanted camera - A Thousand Words [DW] [AO3]

Charles/Edwin - Patient and firm Charles - Then He Whispered Would I

Charles & Dog King - Man's Best Mate [DW] [AO3]

Edwin & Sa'al - Meeting again after Port Townsend - The Night Here in the Day

Edwin/Charles - Domdrop - The Way You Do It [DW] [AO3]

Edwin/Anyone - 7 minutes in heaven - Never Been Lucky in Love [DW] [AO3]

Edwin/Charles - Argument, upset - Poisonous [DW] [AO3]

Edwin/Charles - Subspace - Close Your Eyes, Give Me Your Hand

Edwin/Charles - First time, body worship - Perfect Truths [DW] [AO3]

Edwin/Charles - First time, touch starvation - Don't Let Go [DW] [AO3]

Complete (RPF)

Jayden/George - Train thirst trap - Meet Me Behind the Railway Station

Jayden/George - Bad boy, please please please - Don't Embarrass Me

George/Jayden - Accidental stimulation - I'm Sick of Playing It Cool

Jayden/George - Jayden comes round for dinner - Sex and Super Smash

George/Jayden - Breed Me Cap'n - Breed Me Cap'n

On-Going

Simon/Monty - Ghost!Monty, Simon followed Edwin AU - Untitled [1/?]

Edwin/Charles - Ghost-mechanics-caused orgasm denial - Untitled [2/?]

On-Going (RPF)

Jayden/George - Oblivious Boys - All We Ever Do Is Talk [7/11]

[On-going fills that have not updated within the a month are not included in the list.]

[midsummer-semantics]

This Could All Be Yours

What?? Another Steddie Kinktober addition? Of course. (Once again cross-posted on ao3!)

Rating: Explicit (Obviously)

Note: Say "Hello Robin!"

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Professor Steve Harrington, Grad Student Eddie Munson, except now he's DONE!, Dom Steve Harrington, Sub Eddie Munson, Age Difference, just to clarify it's only about 10 years, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, finally and literally, Dry Humping, Daddy Kink, Possessive Steve Harrington, Impact Play, Spanking, Rimming, a touch of Manhandling, Breeding Kink, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Unsafe Sex, Creampie, Coming Untouched, I decided they're switches but Eddie just bottoms on impulse, Aftercare, Almost snuck a love confession in there, Porn with Feelings, because of course I did, Kinktober

Summary:

Dear Mr. Munson,

Your thesis “From Shakespeare to Spiritbox: An analysis of Early Modern references in Metal Music” has been accepted with minor edits—

The rest of the email is gibberish. He passed (with minor edits, but who cares). He’s done. He has his marks.

His phone is in his hand and he’s dialing Steve’s number before he can think twice about it.

Or: THEY FINALLY KISS (and other things)

[divider by @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Keep reading below for the fic! ⤵️

This Could All Be Yours 

Dear Mr. Munson, Your thesis “From Shakespeare to Spiritbox: An analysis of Early Modern references in Metal Music” has been accepted with minor edits —

The rest of the email is gibberish. He passed (with minor edits, but who cares). He’s done. He has his marks.

His phone is in his hand and he’s dialing Steve’s number before he can think twice about it.

“Hello, sweethea—”

“I passed!”

Steve chuckles on the other line. “Did you? I had no idea.”

Eddie can hear the sarcasm in his voice, knowing part of the email he received has the revision comments that are at least half Steve’s, but it does nothing to distract from the elation he currently feels. 

He passed. 

He’s not stuck at the university another year.

He and Steve can be together. Finally.

“Stevie,” Eddie whines, hoping the singular word is enough to convey everything his mind is rolling through: the longing, the desire, the need.

“Yes, my darling?” Steve asks, setting Eddie’s body aflame.

“I— uh…” Eddie stutters. He has the ability to be with Steve now, knows down to his bone marrow that this is right, but he’s suddenly unsure how to ask for the inevitable.

Steve breathes an amused sound into the phone, muttering something out of ear shot before speaking to Eddie again. “I’m very proud of you, baby. Can I show you how much?”

Eddie nods vigorously, keys already in-hand while Steve rattles off his address.

The drive over is a blur of horny desire and Eddie’s not sure how he makes it safely, but it comes to a grinding halt when the person who answers the door isn’t Steve.

“Oh Dingus,” calls the woman with a stylish bob, one hand on her hip, not even asking who Eddie is while giving him a judgmental once-over. “Your boyfriend is here.” 

“Jesus Christ, Rob, can you not?” comes Steve’s voice from somewhere behind her before the beautiful man is hip-checking her out of the way. His caramel eyes soften considerably when they land on Eddie, and the turmoil in the younger man’s stomach slows a little. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. My sister—” Steve spares a glance at the woman, eyes narrowed in challenge before turning back to Eddie, “—likes to give me shit. Ignore her.”

“Fat chance of that,” Rob (?) scoffs, turning back to Eddie. “Congrats on passing your thesis. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie mutters automatically. 

Rob’s face screws up in disgust. “Ugh. Don’t. Robin’s fine.” She turns quickly back to Steve. “I expect to meet him properly for brunch soon. Stop being a fucking idiot.”

Eddie isn’t sure he’s ever seen Steve look properly chastised before, but the older man’s shoulders are near his ears while he nods in agreement. “Yeah, of course. See you soon.”

Robin gives a perfunctory nod to Steve and then Eddie before shoving past the younger man, leaving Eddie standing in Steve’s doorway with a wave of confusion barreling through him.

Eddie continues to stand in the doorway, watching the woman’s retreating back for a moment before turning to Steve. “I don’t think she likes me.”

Steve gives him an apologetic smile as he waved the younger man inside. “She doesn’t not like you. She just doesn’t know you. And to be fair, up until this morning you were a student of mine.”

That thought shouldn’t make Eddie hot under the collar, but alas, he’s never quite had his head screwed on right.

“Sure, no I get that,” Eddie agrees, following the older man further into the house, trailing after him like a lost puppy, more like. “Should I be worried that she does want to get to know me?”

Steve stops as he reaches the fridge, giving Eddie a more sincere smile. “Probably. But just take it as a compliment for now. It means she knows how important you are to me. Something to drink?”

Eddie pulls a lock of hair across his face on instinct, trying to hide the blush at Steve’s admission that he cares about him. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him? How old is he? 

It’s only then that he remembers Robin referred to Eddie as Steve’s boyfriend, and he blushes harder.

“Eddie?” Steve prompts, reaching out to gently unlatch his hair from his grip, pushing is behind his ear instead. “We’re celebrating right? Drink?”

Eddie feels like he’s swallowed his tongue, the casual touch sending sparks through his system. He wants more. Wants Steve to wrap the hand currently still grazing his cheek around the back of his neck and manhandle him. Wants to finally get his own hands on Steve now that the looming presence of his graduation status isn’t hanging over them like a dark cloud.

“Sure,” he croaks, words and vocalization hard with Steve still touching him. He’s not sure if finally feeling Steve is better or worse for his sanity.

Steve’s lips curve into a small smirk and Eddie bites back a yelp when Steve pinches his cheek like a wiley toddler before letting his hand fall away.

“Pick your poison. I’ve got bourbon, scotch, gin, rum. Or if you’re not into something heavy there’s beer, wine, apple juice, and water.”

“Are you running a bar in here?” Eddie jokes, breathing a little easier without Steve in his immediate orbit.

Steve chuckles, his cheeks pinkening slightly. “Robin and I met when we were bartending at the same shitty dive in college. Old habits die hard.” Eddie watches the man pull down two rocks glasses from a cabinet and drops a large ice cube into both before moving over to a bar cart he hadn’t noticed before — though, to be fair, he’s barely taken his eyes off of the older man since arriving.

“Wait—” he starts, seeing Steve grab a bottle of what looks like very expensive bourbon and pouring two fingers into each glass. “I thought she was your sister.”

Steve nods as he sticks the cork back in the bottle and sets it back in its place. “Oh, she is. In every way that matters except legally. Sometimes I forget we’re not twins, if I’m honest.”

“Hmm,” Eddie hums, accepting the proffered drink with a small thank you. Steve clinks his glass against the edge of Eddie’s before they both take a sip. “I have a friend like that.”

“Chrissy, right?” Steve asks, leading them into the living room. There’s a wing-back chair that he sits in, motioning a hand to the couch next to it for Eddie. It feels a lot like a mirror of their time in Steve’s office, and the horny thoughts that sprout from that almost make him miss the fact that Steve mentioned Chrissy by name.

“Yeah,” Eddie says with a fond smile, swirling the liquid in his glass. Briefly, he thinks about the fact he can tell her about Steve now. They no longer have to hide what’s going on between them. But that thought is quickly overshadowed by another. “I just realized that you know so much about me and I know next to nothing about you.”

Steve smiles, his honey brown eyes sparkling in the lamp light. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that. But maybe not tonight.”

The older man’s voice dropped an octave on the last sentence, making Eddie’s insides burn in a way that can’t be attributed to the alcohol. 

“Oh?” he breathes, really hoping Steve isn’t just going to toy with him again. “What, uh… what did you have in mind instead?”

Steve sets his rocks glass aside, the liquid barely touched, and waves a hand to beckon Eddie over. Eddie sets his aside as well before he stands, walking the few feet to stand, once again, between Steve’s spread legs. It’s another mirror of the last time he saw Steve, before the professor ordered him out of his clothes and made him ride that dildo in his office chair, only this time, Steve doesn’t hesitate to reach out and place his hands on Eddie’s hips, drawing him closer.

“God,” Steve breathes, his hands running up and down Eddie’s sides. “I’ve been wanting to touch you for ages and now I finally can. I don’t know where to start.”

“Professor—” Eddie mutters nonsensically, but stops when Steve’s hands squeeze his hips, his long fingers brushing against his ass.

“I’m not your professor anymore, baby boy. Wanna try something else?”

Eddie’s breath hitches and he sways a little into the simple contact, bringing his own hands up to rest on Steve’s broad shoulders.

He runs through a mental list of monikers: they’ve done sir, always a personal favorite, but not big enough to encapsulate the way Eddie wants to please Steve now that he can finally do it like this. Master is too formal and frankly reminds him of D&D, which would be hot in any other setting, but not for this, and that’s not how he wants this relationship to be defined. Steve always calls him baby boy, though, which he knows is mostly because Eddie’s younger than him, and while age play is a hard no for him, he’s not opposed to the Daddy Dom dynamic in the right setting.

“Daddy?” he whispers, unsure how it’ll be received until Steve’s face lights up.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, looking like a kid on Christmas for a moment before visibly schooling himself. Eddie would laugh if he wasn’t still nervous. Steve is still smiling softly when he starts running his hands over Eddie’s sides again, this time roaming back over his ass and squeezing for a moment. “We can do that, sweetheart. I’d love to be your Daddy if that’s what you want.”

Eddie bites his lip to stop the smile — and does a terrible job because it breaks free anyway — and nods. “Yes, please. I trust you. I respect you. I want this with you.”

Steve lets his face light up again, and Eddie barely gets a squeak out before he’s hauled into Steve’s lap and the older man’s lips are on his. It’s a little awkward and includes a lot of shuffling, some grunts that aren’t tied to the kissing itself, and limbs in places they’re not meant to fit in order to get two grown men into the chair Steve’s sitting in, but once Eddie is securely straddling Steve’s lap, their mouths pressed together and their hands pulling at hair and clothing, Eddie lets himself sink into the knowledge that he can finally, finally have this.

Steve’s mouth is as sure as his words always are, taking control as he moves his tongue against Eddie’s, but yielding enough to let the younger man take as much as he wants as well. It’s a delicate balance, as all things have been with them, except now Eddie knows what Steve tastes like, knows that the low groans and hitches in breath are from Eddie’s physical weight and presence instead of the furious masturbation and images of what he couldn’t touch before.

“Steve—” Eddie groans, rolling his hips in the man’s lap, feeling the hardness under his slacks that matches the one in Eddie’s jeans. “Daddy,” he tries again.

“Fuck, say it again,” Steve begs, readjusting his hands so one is buried in Eddie’s hair and the other is palming his ass, guiding his hips to rut against him harder.

“Daddy, please.”

Steve grunts like he’s been punched in the chest, tearing his mouth away from Eddie’s to trail down his throat, sucking and biting bruises into the skin.

“I’m going to fucking own you. You’re mine. All mine,” Steve mutters, rolling his hips up to meet Eddie’s, like he can fuck him through the layers they’re still unfortunately wearing. The way Eddie feels like his cock is going to rip through his jeans, he sort of wishes it were possible.

“Yours,” he mewls, clawing at Steve’s shoulders, needing the fabric to disappear. “All yours. And all mine.”

Steve growls and pulls himself away from the no-doubt deep bruise he’s worked into Eddie’s neck before crashing their lips back together again.

“I need you naked. Now,” Steve huffs, smacking Eddie’s ass over his jeans, earning a wanton moan that Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever made before in his life. It also doesn’t go unnoticed. “Oh? You like that, baby boy?”

Eddie nods, wiggling in Steve’s lap instead of getting up, silently begging for more. “Yes, daddy.”

Steve rewards him with another swift swat before helping the younger man to his feet. “Strip and bend over the couch. There’s definitely more where that came from.”

Eddie makes quick work of his clothes, folding them neatly like he had in Steve’s office, before resting his knees on the seat of the couch, elbows braced on the back. It’s not that Steve’s never seen him in a similar position before, but he’s shaking with barely restrained energy knowing that his daddy (!!) is actually going to touch him this time. 

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds after Eddie presents himself before Steve’s hands are on him, smoothing over the globes of his ass and squeezing his thighs and hips, small hums of appreciation rolling through him.

“Holy fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Steve rasps, leaning over Eddie’s back to press open-mouthed kisses along his spine. He snuffles Eddie’s hair away from his neck, not taking his hands off where he’s kneading the softer parts of Eddie’s hips and ass, and pulling him flush against his groin as he bites down on the nape of Eddie’s neck.

Apparently he’d been so focused on his own presentation that he missed Steve undressing, because the heat of the older man’s bare chest is like fire against Eddie’s back, and only the soft cotton of Steve’s briefs are a barrier between the hard line of his cock and Eddie’s aching center.

“Daddy,” Eddie whines, using his grip on the couch back to press back against Steve. “Need you.”

Steve shushes him gently, running his hands from Eddie’s hips up his stomach and chest, bringing him more flush against Steve’s front. “I got you, baby boy. I promised I’d take care of you and I will.”

Eddie whines again, for more, to see Steve’s face while they do this, for the heavens to open and take him, he doesn’t care. Not as long as Steve keeps touching him.

His breath hitches as he gets his wish, one of Steve’s hands keeping a tight grip on Eddie’s shoulder while the other runs back down his flank and around to palm his ass again. “You want it, baby? Want me to mark you up? Make it hard to sit without the memory of my hands on you?” Steve murmurs, his breath hot in Eddie’s ear.

“Yes, daddy,” Eddie squirms, rolling his hips into the feeling of Steve’s wide palm, seeking something, anything.

Steve lets loose a dark chuckle, one that skitters up Eddie’s spine like a rat in a crawl space, before massaging his cheek harshly once more and drawing back. The strike is strong and true, stinging in a way that smarts and will leave an incriminating hand print, and Eddie wails at the sensation. Steve palms the area, a little mean and a little rough, and Eddie presses back against it, silently begging for more.

Steve does it again, a little to the left of the first one, spreading it out to get even more of him red and aching in the best way. His cock swings between his legs, hot and heavy, pre-come gathering at the tip as Steve smacks his ass and thighs a couple more times before sliding his hands over Eddie’s body to switch sides. Each time Eddie moans and begs for more, harder, just like that, and each time Steve rewards him with the right amount of pain-pleasure that has him seeing stars.

“Daddy,” Eddie whines, voice high pitched and a little broken.

“What is it, sweet thing?” Steve murmurs, rubbing his palm against the latest sweltering sting. “What do you need?”

Eddie moans at the overwhelming feeling of Steve surrounding him. He hasn’t even touched his dick and Eddie’s still so close to coming it’s kind of embarrassing.

“Fuck me,” he wheezes. “Please, daddy. I need you to fuck me.”

“Mmm, fuck, yeah absolutely,” Steve groans, pulling away slightly. “But first, I made a promise.”

Eddie lifts his head from where he’d rested it against his crossed arms, barely getting the chance to try and look over his shoulder before Steve is on his knees, his hands prying Eddie’s cheeks apart, and Steve’s tongue laving over his hole.

“AH! Steve!” Eddie cries, his body jolting with surprise and pleasure even as he shoves his hips back against Steve’s eager tongue.

The sounds are obscene as Steve eats him out, Eddie’s body trembling as he tries to keep upright through the onslaught, and every time Steve moans against him like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, the vibrations running through Eddie’s body like an electrical current, Eddie could swear he glows like a Christmas tree.

But then — holy shit — Steve gets a hand on Eddie’s dick, and from two points of contact Steve is consuming him.

And Eddie’s only human — though the absolute God eating his ass and jerking him off is definitely a demon — so he barely gets a choked off warning past his lips before he’s shooting off across Steve’s couch.

And Steve — Steve! Daddy! — is moaning the entire time like he’s the one who experienced a mind-blowing orgasm at the hands of the devil himself. 

“Sir, please,” Eddie whimpers, trying to draw away from Steve’s eagerness for a brief moment.

“Sorry,” Steve mutters, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s right ass cheek, earning a hiss when he remembers how sore and red he must be. “You just taste so good and I’ve been imagining eating your ass since day one.”

Eddie grumbles unintelligibly and sags a bit on the cushions, wrung out already even though Steve hasn’t actually fucked him yet.

“Are you okay if I leave you here for a second? Gonna grab some water,” Steve asks, once again, ever-knowing.

“Touch me again right now and I’ll explode,” Eddie warns half-heartedly.

“Didn’t you already?” Steve snarks, lightly tapping Eddie’s right cheek over a particularly sore spot, chuckling lightly when Eddie squeals before releasing him to grab a drink.

Eddie takes a moment to survey his body. Yes, his ass stings, and his knees kind of ache from the position, but he’s never felt so relaxed and pliant, even after Steve’s wrung him dry multiple times. Maybe it’s the result of Steve finally touching him, or maybe Eddie’s just so down bad that his body is easily manipulated by the older man’s efforts, but either way the thought of Steve not being done with him is almost enough to make him hard again.

“You can turn around,” Steve prompts as he comes back, and Eddie tries not to wince as he turns to take a seat on the scratchy material of the couch, accepting the proffered glass of water. Eddie takes it gratefully, leaning heavily against Steve’s side when the other man plants himself on the couch next to Eddie instead of back in his chair.

They’re quiet for several minutes, letting the afterglow wash over them, before Eddie’s brain finally returns to full function.

“Wait a minute, I asked you to fuck me.”

Steve cackles at that, head thrown back and strong neck on display. “Pretty sure I did,” he says through chuckles when he finally gains some level of composure. “I’m leaning back against the evidence of it right now.”

Eddie’s cheeks burn when Steve wriggles, knowing without a doubt that he’s rubbing the come Eddie released into his back and the couch cushion, but that’s also not what he meant.

He huffs in annoyance, setting the now empty water glass next to his abandoned bourbon and turns so he’s facing Steve. 

“Daddy,” he whines, bringing a hand up to Steve’s glorious chest before running it down the planes of his body until it settles over the rigid length tenting his briefs. Steve groans at the friction, clearly trying to stop his hips from raising and seeking out more, and Eddie feels on top of the world having this kind of power of Steve.

Really, Eddie knows he’s been in charge the whole time. Steve doesn’t make a single move without Eddie’s approval, and that’s why he trusts the older man so implicitly. But god, if he doesn’t get Steve’s dick inside him soon—

“Alright, baby, alright,” Steve mutters, yanking Eddie’s hand away, bringing it up to his mouth to place a kiss on the back of it. “But I’m not fucking you on the couch.”

In the space of a few seconds, Steve has Eddie in his arms bridal-style and walks them back to his bedroom. It shouldn’t be hot — if anything, he should be concerned about the older man’s back giving out considering they’re the same height — but Eddie’s brain has been replaced with a horny cymbal-playing monkey so sue him for the moan he lets out when Steve lays him on his bed with nary a grunt in effort.

He stands back, hands on his hips, like he’s surveying the land, and Eddie fights both the desire to cover himself and the wave of dizziness that washes over him as his dick tries to harden again too quickly.

“I thought I wanted to see you bent over my desk, but seeing you in my bed is worlds better,” Steve mutters, almost like he’s only talking to himself. Eddie squirms as the desire for the older man grows once more, fisting the sheets to stop from fisting his cock.

“Daddy, please,” he begs, though, not wanting it to be over , necessarily, but definitely needing Steve’s hands back on him sooner rather than later.

Steve takes another moment to rove his gaze over Eddie before hooking his thumbs in his briefs and shoving them down his legs. His cock sprints free, beet red and dripping at the tip. Eddie doesn’t know where to look, at the man’s face, his groin, the chest hair and wild sex-flush adorning it. He doesn’t even get a chance to take it in for very long before Steve is crawling over him, shoving Eddie back against the duvet and diving back in to kiss him.

This time, without all the clothes in the way, Eddie gets a real feel for the way they fit together, the way Steve’s body — a little soft and yielding in places from age, but still hot and hard and strong — finds a home between Eddie’s spread legs, their dicks lined up and pressing unyieldingly against each other.

“Fuck, baby,” Steve moans, rolling his hips down into Eddie’s a pulling a punched out sound with the tip of Steve’s cock catches just below the crown of Eddie’s. 

“Need you,” Eddie begs against Steve’s lips, his hands flying off from the bed to grip and pull at Steve’s sides, his hips, his perfect ass to try to coax the older man closer.

“I know what you need, baby boy,” Steve coos, kissing back down Eddie’s throat again and biting at his clavicle, his chest, the one nipple ring he has because he was too chicken-shit to get the second one done after the first hurt too much. Steve tugs on the little bar on just the right side of too harsh, laving his tongue over it to soothe the sting when Eddie arches into it. He pays equal attention to the other side, toying with Eddie until he’s whining and shaking, his cock leaving a trail of pre on his belly and seemingly never stopping.

“Please,” he begs again, and Steve relents only long enough to reach over Eddie for the lube in his bedside table. He sits back on his heels, once again devouring Eddie with his eyes, tossing the bottle up and catching it a few times. 

“I want you to ride me, sweetheart. Think you can do that?”

Eddie nods a little dumbly, muttering a quiet uh huh , before reaching for the lube bottle. Steve snatches it away.

“Absolutely not. I’ve spent the last eight months watching you finger yourself open from a distance. It’s my turn.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, glancing down at Steve’s hand like it holds the gift of life itself. Honestly, it just might.

He follows Steve’s lead, as he has the entire time, letting the older man rearrange them so Eddie’s straddling Steve’s chest, a little high up, but only so Steve doesn’t have to work at too awkward and angle as he lubes up his fingers and starts playing with Eddie’s still slightly relaxed hole.

“Next time, we’ll switch,” Steve says, eying the space between Eddie’s legs where his arm disappears, like he can see past the twitching weight of Eddie’s cock to where his fingers are gently working him open on one finger.

Eddie makes an inquisitive sound that mostly is just a moan as Steve curls that single finger inside him, a second one already massaging the tight furl of muscle, waiting for the right moment to enter.

“Oh, honey. You didn’t think I would want this,” Steve coos, bringing his other hand around to stroke Eddie’s cock torturously slowly, “inside me at some point, did you? This big, beautiful cock inside me, trying to fuck me so good.”

“Steve, don’t—” Eddie warns, already so on edge once more and Steve doesn’t even have a second finger in him yet.

The older man chuckles darkly, using the hand on Eddie’s cock to form a tight ring at the base as he works a second finger in. Eddie’s brain is still fuzzy, getting worse with every drawn out moment as Steve works him open on his fingers, the words coming out of Steve’s mouth a white noise through the haze. 

He knows he’s making all kinds of noises too, but he doesn’t have it in himself to be embarrassed, already knows he’s made all kinds of noises during their private lessons that would be mortifying in any other context, and he couldn’t even let them loose then the way he does now. Now, he doesn’t have to bite them back for fear they’re going to get caught. Now, Eddie can beg and plead and cry out as loud as he wants when Steve intentionally abuses his prostate with the pads of his fingers, and Steve just encourages him to be louder.

“That’s it, baby boy. Ride my fingers. Make yourself feel good.”

Eddie plants his hands on Steve’s shoulders and does what he’s told, so close, so so close —

“Daddyyyy,” he drags out, because he’s right there and he needs Steve inside him NOW!

Steve releases Eddie’s cock to grab his hip, stilling him before gently pulling his fingers free. Then he hands Eddie the lube. “Slick me up, baby. Make sure we’re both nice and wet for you to take me.”

Eddie’s movements are jerky and uncoordinated, and he knows he uses way too much but it doesn’t matter, because in the space of a few seconds he’s got Steve’s cock notched at his empty hole and is sinking down finally, finally.

“Fuck, Eddie, ” Steve groans, head thrown back as Eddie works himself down, taking Steve faster than he probably should but can’t seem to stop.

Only once Eddie’s settled in Steve’s lap, skin feeling like it’s on fire and like he’s going to die right here, does Steve gasp and seem to come back to himself.

“Shit, condom—”

Eddie’s already shaking his head, rolling his hips to adjust faster. “Don’t care. Breed me, daddy. Make me yours.”

“Fuuuuck, baby boy, god I can’t believe how perfect you are,” Steve praises, running his hands up Eddie’s sides and chest, plucking his nipples again. “So perfect for me. Gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna breed his tight hole, keep you full and satisfied. Mark you up inside and out.”

Then, with a perfunctory swat on his ass that reminds Eddie of the hits he’s already taken, Steve brings his legs up, feet planted on the mattress, and gives Eddie his first proper thrust.

It’s a frenzy from there, like neither man can control themselves now that they get to have this. Eddie does his best to hang on, leaning back enough so the angle of Steve’s cock hits his prostate on every pass. It’s divine, otherworldly, ethereal. The sounds Steve makes — that they’re both making — as he rearranges Eddie’s guts and Eddie tries to keep himself up is better than any music. Punctuated by the slapping of his cock against Steve’s stomach on every down pass, Eddie’s not going to last like this.

“God, holy shit,” Steve curses, using his grip on Eddie’s waist to bring him down harder on his lap. “Fuck, Eddie— I love this. Love the way you feel around me. Love how you look riding me. Love—”

Eddie doesn’t hear the rest, the ringing in his ears too great — or maybe that’s the sound of his cries as he starts coming untouched, slamming himself down over and over again on Steve’s cock while his own unloads across Steve’s stomach, his chest, his own body because he’s kind of a fire hose and can’t control it.

“Fuck, yeah, baby! Take it! Take i— AH!” Steve moans, curses, screams as he hits his own peak, and Eddie swears he can feel every pulse of Steve’s come filling him exactly as he asked. 

He collapses like a marionette shortly after, no doubt crushing Steve beneath him, but the older man just holds Eddie through the aftershocks without complaint, pressing kisses to his temple and cheeks and anywhere else he can reach. Steve’s hands smooth up and down his back like he’s afraid to let go and, honestly, Eddie’s afraid of what might happen if he does. 

They’ve built this… thing, this tentative relationship based on months of so much foreplay and trust and keeping each other at arm's length that now, in the afterglow of their new reality, Eddie is terrified that he’ll be found lacking. That now that he has Steve in his grasp, the man is going to realize it wasn’t worth the months of waiting.

“I can hear you panicking, sweet boy,” Steve mutters into the quiet, and oh god, his dick is still in Eddie’s body, softening but still present, while Eddie’s brain spirals. “I told you you were mine and you are. You are.” 

Steve’s hold on his grows tighter even as his soft cock finally slips out, and Eddie tries not to whine at the loss because Steve continues to hold him, rubbing his back and kissing his face. 

“I am,” Eddie mutters quietly against the sweaty skin of Steve’s neck. “Yours. And you’re mine?”

Steve hooks a finger under Eddie’s chin, bringing his face up to kiss him on the lips. “All yours, baby boy.”