#yes I’m saying devil and not demon

[getoutofmytardis]

insane that i’m the biggest disappointment of a child for smoking weed but the child that’s emotionally abusive is fine

[tsukimefuku]

voice kink: the reckoning (or so you thought) ♪ nanami kento

This is the continuation drabble to that because this teasy man occupied my every waking moment, it’s not even funny. Have my horny once again.

You thought you had the upper hand when Nanami got back home at night after relentlessly teasing you in the morning. You had confessed finding his voice sexy and oh did he leave you completely pent up after whispering dirty talk inches away from your ears and leaving for the day.

Needless to say, you body slammed him onto the mattress the minute he stepped inside the apartment, thinking you had surprised him.

However, the only upper hand you had was both of your hands pinned above your head as he pounded you on the bed relentlessly and whispered obscenities in your ear.

“Were you needy like this... ah... all day long? Horny for... ah...  this? To have me fucking you... like this?” His warm breath tickled all around your cheek and earlobe, and it just added another layer of sensations sending shivers down your entire body.

His low, usually well collected voice was now breathier, raspier and slightly stuttered in between his own moans.

Your brain had turned to complete mush by this point, and that very familiar pooling heat began concentrating in your body, the lewd sounds of his cock slapping in and out of your folds filling the room along with your whimpers.

“Y-yes... Kento I-I’m... I’m gonna... kiss me-“ you begged, wanting nothing more than his tongue — by this point completely glazed with your taste after he made sure he had his dinner before giving you what you were begging for — thrust into your mouth.

“No... how would you hear me if- ah... I’m kissing you...?” This time, his tone was a little more playful, but just as intense and truthful. 

Oh no. No no no. Ohhhhh he did not.

He was very serious about it.

The teasing demon had not only not left his body, it was actually trying to kill you. You were sure of it.

The heat in your belly was unsteady, wavering, and you were nothing short of desperate for it to burst — something especially hard to do when your man would deny you that warm, sloppy wet kiss he’d always give you to tip you off the edge.

“K-kento... please please oh- I’m begging I’m ahhh- please, p-please, God... I’ll die... don’t, I’m... fuck, pleas-” you weren’t even making sense anymore. All that came out of your mouth were senseless begging pleas through whimpers and pathetic moans.

He chuckled.

That relentless little devil chuckled.

“Die? Ah... don’t be so dramatic-“ he huffed, honeyed tone gnawing at your frustration by the second, “cum and I’ll kiss you”

He’s trying to kill me.

“I c-can’t... I just... please, please please- I can’t Kento I can’t without-”

You sounded pitiful.

“Come on... be a... good girl for me, love...” Nanami answered, husky voice brushing over your skin before he planted a warm kiss on your cheek.

To help you out, Nanami drew one of his hands down and began circling his thumb over your throbbing, desperate clit.

It took less than five seconds to have all of your pent up frustration and desire completely bursting at the seams. Your entire body jolted and convulsed as you came with a strained cry, blabbering away his name and your own desperation, your cunt tightening with ungodly strength around his cock.

“Good girl,” he cooed, before sliding his tongue wetly over your cheek and thrusting it inside your open mouth, giving you the taste you had been begging for those past few minutes.

His hip thrusts became erratic, his moans broke into your breath, and he, too, reached his peak.

You felt his thick, white cum blossoming warm inside you, and for a second, you felt like you had a tiny second orgasm just from it.

Letting go of your pinned hands, Nanami held your waist and parted his lips from yours. 

“Is this what you wanted when you attacked me by the door?” Nanami asked with a sly smile to his face, panting as he locked his gaze to yours under his completely messy, disheveled hair.

“Shut up, Kento. Just shut up.” 

He let out a soft chuckle before pressing his lips on yours again.

Little devil.

[hazelfoureyes]

Hello! Not sure if you're taking requests, so do ignore this if you feel like it.

I adore your work sm!! Rewatching the Stayed Gone mv, Vox had a picture of a bootleg Alastor and pointing to his microphone were the words "dildo?"

Do you think you could write an Alastor x Reader, or just Alastor pleasuring himself with the microphone? (That sounds weird now-)

Thank you for taking the time to read this!

-🍺

Good Vibrations

the way I immediately knew what to do is proof of my depravity. I know it isn’t exactly what you meant but this is what I’m comfortable with writing. This was a quick little 30 minute write, I hope it still brings you joy 🎙️

After you make an offhand comment about doubting if his microphone actually works, Alastor finds a creative way to convince you while at dinner with the group.

tags/warnings/promises: Alastor x Reader, erotic but not smut?, smut is explicit, this is just horny, the microphone does in fact work, vibrator

Rarely was Alastor without his microphone. Even Vox made note of it. But, his voice sounded like it came from his mouth. Sure there was a radio affect to it, but he was a demon after all. You couldn’t figure out how it worked. Or rather, if it worked.

As you all waited to take your seats for dinner, Niffty having turned out to be a surprisingly good cook, you were caught staring.

“Is there something I can do for you?”, Alastor leaned down to meet your eyeline.

You blinked, “Oh, sorry. Just wondering if that even works.”

“If what works?”

“Your microphone.”

He knew it worked, of course. But your question felt… offensive. “Do you think I’d carry a functionless microphone around?”

Without hesitation you replied, “I do, yes.”

“Oh absolutely!” Angel pushed between you two.

“You do have a flare for the dramatic, boss.” Husk took his seat beside Angel.

Charlie nervously scratched her cheek, “I always wondered that too! But it worked in Cannibal Town, so I’m a believer now.”

“But wait-,” Vaggie looked to Charlie, “If it worked when you put it to your mouth why doesn’t he have to? It’s literally everywhere but his mouth.”

Alastor’s forced grin strained against this cheeks, black gums showing. You gave him a shrug and joined the group. He took his seat opposite you, pulling his chair in all the way.

You’d already forgotten the conversation when you felt something graze across your lap. Before you could investigate, Alastor spoke, “Why don’t we all say what we did today! I’ll go first!” Your knees shot up, knocking the table as a strong vibration lit up your crotch.

Vaggie leaned in, “You good?”

Slowly, eyes wide, you looked up to meet Alastor’s wicked smile.

“I went downtown to grab a fresh cut of venison. Niffty makes the best venison roast this side of Pentagram City.” You white knuckled the edge of the table, glancing down to see the microphone resting between your thighs. The top was nestled firmly above your mound.

“Hmmm what else? Oh! I got some deviled eggs. My, what a treat. My mother made the best deviled eggs. You know-,” as he droned on, you tried to push your chair away from the table. “Ah ah! It’s so rude to leave while someone is speaking.” He leaned back, foot reaching under the table to hook around your chair’s leg and pull you forward.

“Aww Al, you never talk so much! This is great. What else did you do today?” Charlie rested her cheek on her hand, eyes sparkling at Alastor.

“I am so glad you asked! Let me think, hmmmmm” He drew out the consonant, the sound making a rougher vibration than others. You were hunched over the table, biting your bottom lip to keep quiet. “Oh I went to— what is it called again? Ummmmm,” Your leg shot up again, the silverware clanking against your plate.

“Will you just fucking say it?!” You spit it out louder than you meant.

“Woah! That’s not very nice.” Charlie gave you a disappointed look, pulling a groan from you, “What’s gotten into you?”

Angel looked over to you, “You doin’ alright? You’re like… sweatin’.”

“What indeed, Charlie. Well, anyway! I think I’ve made my point!” You felt the weight of the microphone slide down your thighs and past your knees. You took in a deep breath, finally able to relax your body.

“You’re pretty pale…”, Husk commented, “You sick or something?”

Angel pushed your hair from your forehead, “That face looks so familiar.”

Before you could answer, Alastor opened his mouth, “I think she should lie down. Allow me to escort you to bed, my dear.”

“You are so sweet today! I love it! Fuck yeah!” Charlie punched the air. Alastor came behind you and pulled your chair back for you. “Take your time, if she’s sick maybe she shouldn’t be alone.”

“If you say so!” Alastor practically sang the words. With both hands on your shoulders, he guided you out of the room.

“He’s the best.” Charlie beamed, “Alright whose next?”

༻Masterlist༺

[writing-fanics]

don’t mess with the devil ii

Part I final

Chapter ii: Home is with you

[warning: mentions of sex]

Lucifer Morningstar x human!Reader

Y/n

Y/n?

Sweetie?

The smell of chemicals wafted through your nose, and the occasional beeps that sounded like a heartbeat monitor? You groaned, and your vision still blurry. “L-Lu?..” Your voice hoarse, but the voice didn’t respond.

“It’s me mom.” The voice said, causing you to sit up quickly in response. “Whoa, slow down.” Your mother, said placing a hand on your back. “I-I’m back..” You whispered, and your mother looked at you worriedly. She gently rubbed your hand, “Yes you’re. Thank Heavens.” She said, planting a kiss on the side of your head.

You sat there and said nothing, staring blankly at the blanket. Processing everything, you were no longer in Hell. No longer with Lucifer. You were back home on Earth with your mother. Like you always wanted right? Then why did you feel so cold? So empty?

You felt as if a piece of you was missing. Like you were missing your other half. Your Lucifer. You missed his warmth, his smile, and his goofy personality at times. He always found a way to make you smile whenever you were feeling down, and you would return that sentiment.

You didn’t tell him you loved him yet, he’s told you. But he respected that you might not be ready to saw it yet. He understood completely, once you explained it to him. Having told him about your bad relationships in the past. Now, that all seemed to end right now. You were never going to see him again.

“Y/n, oh sweetie you look pale.” Your mother said, snapping you out of your thoughts. As she placed her hand on your forehead. “I’ll be right back.” She said, and you assumed she left to get the doctor. You frowned, as you laid back down in the hospital bed. The hospital gown fabric scratchy, and the sound of the heart monitor made you sick.

You laid on your side, back towards the door. Your stomach grumbled, but you didn’t feel like eating anything. Laying in the single bed made you, the king sized bed you shared with the king of hell.

The satin sheets and the comfortable bed. Mainly you missed, laying in bed with him cuddling or just laying there to relax. Or of course doing the ol devils tango. You missed the smell of the caramel apple candle that filled the bedroom. The smell of freshly baked apple by on Saturday mornings.

Tears trickled down your cheeks, as you hid your head into your pillow. As much as you were happy to be back home, seeing your mom again. Somehow, what was once home no longer felt like it.

You opened your closed hand to reveal, a golden ring with wing like textures engraved into it. Tears welled up in your eyes, as you were filled with so much regret.

“I should’ve told him..” you sniffled, as you closed your hand again. Hiding your face into your pillow once again. “How much I love him.” You whimpered, as you sobbed.

back in hell

Weeks later

Lucifer sighed, as he leaned forward onto his desk. His eyes wandered towards the framed picture on his desk, of you and him at Lu Lu World. “This is way better than Disney!” He remembered you said, after which you showed him pictures. He knew of another park called ‘Hellsney’.

You had faded away from his hands, and a part of him knew you were going back to the living world. He felt it when part of his magic he shared with you, returned to him. He didn’t even get to say goodbye, tell you how much he loved you before you faded away in his arms.

At least, he knew you were much sadder up there than here. He couldn’t bear the site of your beaten and battered body. Adam was lucky that Charlie was there to keep him, from killing him.

Lucifer stared down at Adam, as he held Charlie in his arms. His voice distorted and demonic. “You come at me my daughter and my partner!” said Lucifer, as his daughter stepped down onto the ground.

He lunged towards Adam, and stood over him. Eyes red glowing filled with rage, “Don’t forget your in my house now bitch!” He laughed, demonically as he threw punch after punch. With the intent to kill. You don’t mess with the devil or his family.

He’s going to miss that smile of yours, that infectious laughter. Your voice, and your delicious cooking that rivaled his. He never thought he’d find love again after, Lilith left. Yet, here you come in six years later. A human no doubt ending up in hell so suddenly, and he fell in love with you.

Now, you left too. Not by choice but you were gone as well. He was still recovering from Lilith leaving him while the two of you, were still in a relationship. You told him that you understood, being together for as long as they did you understood.

You being there with him helped seemed to heal that wound. Then fixing his relationship with his daughter helped too. But now that wound in his heart, seemed to open back up. Hells, he loved you god so fucking much. You were special there was something about you, maybe the two of you were soulmates.

A silly thing to think but it could be possible?

He reached towards the photo, and stared at it longingly. You had a goofy smile on your face.

He remembered that day, after that photo was taken. A hellbird flew down, and stole his caramel apple. You gave yours to him, and the two of you shared it.

God he was going to miss you..

“Come on.” A distorted voice said, he turned around in his chair. “Who’s there?!” He called out, but saw nothing. Was it all in his head. He could’ve sworn that voice sounded familiar.

“Lu!” A voice called out, a faint yellow glow as if a portal trying to manifest itself appeared behind him. He didn’t notice a hand reaching out to touch him, through the tiny hole.

He thought it must’ve been that Alastor, pulling some sick twisted prank on him. But he could’ve sworn, he felt a little bit of his magic leave him.. That could only mean..

Taglist: @96jnie

[eupheme]

Um I don't know if anyone's requested this yet but uh.... The Ghoul x Reader cockwarming? 😳 Maybe she's being punished and has to sit in his lap... And we all know how patient Cooper can be.

oooh omg yes!! 👀💖 I couldn’t stop thinking about this!!

— he’s a demon, he’s a devil

cooper howard | the ghoul x f!reader

rated e | 900 words

tags: power dynamics, cock warming, begging, mirrors, punishment, references to rough piv & overstim

“Stop your squirmin’.”

Cooper’s voice is harsh - a hot fan of breath in your ear, as his fingers tighten against your hips, “Supposed to be your punishment, for runnin' off like that.”

Too curious, too foolhardy. You hadn’t meant to leave his sight, but the pull of the empty house and the possibility of food inside had been too great.

He had been furious with you - bared teeth and snarling when you’d nearly upset a nest of radscorpions.

“Teach you a little somethin’ about patience.”

Teeth nip at your neck, then - a reminder to pay attention to what he’s telling you. Knowing that your mind is currently more occupied with much more pressing matters.

Like how he has your thighs spread wide, hooked over is. Unmoving for some unknown amount of time now - you’re not sure if it’s been minutes, or if time has been creeping closer to an hour.

It’s almost as if time has no meaning for him. As if it stopped ticking a long time ago.

Content to keep you here, just like this.

But all you can think about is the thick stretch of him inside you. Stuffing you to the brim while three fingers tuck against possessively against your cunt.

Two split to frame, the middle pressed right up against the tight, slick bud of your clit. Just enough pressure to keep you leaking around him, wound up.

Pinching, whenever you move. A silent warning.

You wonder if he can feel your pulse. The rapid racing of your heart, how it flutters behind your ribs. How much you need him.

The rough texture of his skin nudges against your walls each time you squirm - an effort to feel him move, just a little. Exactly what he was scolding you about now.

It’s not your fault. You’re not used to this.

Too used to him taking. Cruel thrusts that seem to carve you out from the inside, only so he can fill you himself.

Bruises that match the grip of his fingers, denting your skin. The too much of him giving you one, and then another, and the one more - just to hear the way you beg, only to turn around and sob with overstimulation.

This withholding - it is more torture than you can say.

Your toes curl inside your boots. Fingers pinching against your bare thighs, nails biting into your palms until they leave crescent-moon marks.

Trying to ignore the brush of his broad chest against your back as he breathes. The rough sound of it in your ear, making you shiver - resting the urge to clench down around him, because he will feel it and he will know.

Even trying to distract yourself brings no relief.

The room is plain - yellowed peeling wallpaper, a sun-bleached floor, broken furniture. The patterns all ones your eyes have already grown tired of tracing over.

Always going back to tipped-over vanity against the wall, the mirror spider-web cracked in its frame. It’s impossible not to look into it, at your angle.

To be drawn to it.

To the spread of his thighs reflected within, the lean stretch of his legs in the oversized chair. Fractures of where he splits you open. The broad cup of his weathered hand. The thick base of him, his sack beneath hanging full and shining with your slick, where it’s dripped down from your pussy.

Seven years bad luck, and right now it feels like you’re the one that broke it.

His fingers twitch and you can’t bite the soft moan back, as it slips from your throat. The slightest buck of your hips before the hand at your waist tightens. Pinning you firmly against him with a growled-out warning.

“Don’t make me start over.”

The thought of that has your heart plummeting, your words coming in a rush.

“No, I’ll be good. I’m sorry-” You beg, voice pitching up with your whine.

He clicks his tongue, and you swear you can almost feel him throb inside you.

“Are you, now? ‘m not so sure.” He rasps, “Can feel just how much your cunt wants to squeeze me. She’s aching’ for it’, ain’t she?”

A low drawl, as his fingers press slightly against you again in a cruel tease. Trying to coax you into moving again, though this time you try hard to stay still.

But you still can’t help the desperation that tinges your words, the syllable drawn-out.

“Please-”

The hum he makes is paired with a long sigh of mock-disappointment. As if this is torture, in any way, for him. As if he’s not getting off to it.

Just how needy you are for him. Testing the limits of your obedience.

“Maybe when I see some tears leakin’, sweetheart.” Cooper husks, his drawl making each word come out syrupy-slow. Sealing your fate.

“Then I’ll know you’ve learned somethin’.”

The ragged sound you make is pathetic.

Eyes flitting to the mirror again, and they meet his this time - a kaleidoscope of hazel in the cracked pieces of glass.

Where he’s been keeping an eye on you this whole time. Each greedy glance at where you’re joined, every shift of your hips.

Cooper hums, a rough sound of amusement, when he sees your expression. A silent answer with the tilt of his head, a sharp peek of teeth.

It tells you that you can whine all you want.

He’s got all fuckin’ day.

thank you so much for sending this in!! so perfect for him! 💖

[midascrow]

Lucifer x GN!Reader

A Fan of the Devil?

———————//————

synopsis: Charlie’s father is introduced to the hotels “Gardener”, and comes to find out that they’re a fallen soul from above. He’s also surprised to learn that they’re a fan of his.

warnings: religious pressure(?)

an: Part 1? If this is well received ofc. This is told from Lucifer’s perspective and therefore his view and inner thoughts regarding what’s going on around him. I also threw in the idea that he’s bad with names cuz that feels very accurate to me lol

—————————————————————-

He hadn’t expected his daughter’s friends to be so….eccentric, upon meeting them. Of course he knew Charlie’s heart bled gold for any sinner around, but he thought-, more so he hoped that she would keep somewhat better company.

Especially in the revelation of this “RaDiO DEmOn”.

Baggie- Mag- Vaggie, was alright he supposed. She loves his daughter, perhaps just as much as he does,that much he was sure. And while he was a bit disheartened by having not known of their relationship prior, he was still content and moved by the way the two leaned towards each others embrace as they spoke.

His heart ached. Just a bit.

“Are they up in their room again?”

“I think they’re in the Garden again, hon.”

Garden? The hotel had a garden?

“Oh! Oh maybe we could-“

“I don’t know…you know how they can be about us going in there..”

“Pshhhh! I’m sure it’ll be fine Vaggie! Plus remember how they always talked about meeting him??”

Meeting who? Who’s meeting who??

Was there some kind of owl in here?

“Dad!”

“Ah!”

Charlie blinked down at her father in an awkward beam, watching his red eyes dart around nervously, for a moment or two. “Who?!-“ His throat dried and swelled in embarrassment, cracking his voice as he fixed his pride with a dust off his hat. “Uhm…Yes? Char?” Nailed it. Totally. Very cool and suave of you big boss.

His daughter smiled, a crease in her brow before she clasped his arm and tugged him forward, away from the peering eyes of the others and down a long corridor. “There’s someone- Well-there’s someone who’s been dying to meet you! Yknow ever since they arrived here it’s just be non stop-“

Someone wanted to meet him? Why??

Surely they were a weirdo.

His grimace must’ve given him away, because Vaggie, who he hadnt noticed following them till the moment of, gave a small hum, to cut through her girlfriends words.

“They were a bit of a fanatic on earth apparently.”

He dead panned.

“A cultist.”

“No.”

“A satanist?”

“That’s not even what satanists do!”

“…..”

“….A banker-“

“Just-!….Wait and you’ll see.”

He fell silent at that, a frown pulled onto his pale lips as his feet dragged him towards wherever they were headed.

He was a bit stumped when they came upon two large doors, both decorated in shimmering glass mozaics, depicting two dividing scenes. An Angel; hands carefully cupped around a beautifully red apple, kneeled down towards the other mural, was depicted on the right. And on the Left, in the same position, with the same red apple, a demon.

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Wow Honey! I uh- Didn’t know this door even existed! It’s very cool, yes yes very cool- now let’s head back to the-!” He called nervously, a half witted laugh leaving his sharp tooth smile as Charlie nodded vigorously, shiney eyes aglow as she took hold of the golden handles of the ornate doors, pulling them open with a mighty huff as a golden light spilled from inside.

It was startling to say the least, fact proven by how Lucifer felt his wings practically shoot from his back in defense, feathers cascading down in time with the petals and leaves that followed an imaginary breeze through the threshold.

His ears strained to hear the quiet sound of rushing water and leaves shaking, birds chirping and insects buzzing quietly somewhere in the back.

His skin warmed. Not in the way it naturally did from hells weather, but as if the sun was beaming down on his skin for the first time in eons. Of course, he knew it was fake. But it was so close.

“Oh- shit! Charlie!” A voice barked beyond the golden glow of the garden, a figure stepping out from the shadows of a large bush, covered in leaves and flowers as they stumbled clumsily through, racing towards the door and slamming it shut, completely ignorant to the king beside their hip, who’s gaze pierced them in silent wonder.

He hadn’t felt that in a while.

“What did I tell you about coming in unannounced! You could throw off the entire ecosystem! The slightest temperature shift might make one of the flowers wilt or one of the fruits shrivel! At least warn me before-“

“Ahem.”

The sinner paused, shoulders jumping stiffly as they froze, finger pointed towards Charlie rudely from their rant before their gaze shifted to the side.

He heard the way their breath hitched, and his chest puffed slightly in pride, wings fluttering just slightly.

“Hello there.” He was being cheeky, he knew that, though his smile felt a tad too genuine, caused by the sheer awe that glimmered across the sinners face at the sight of him. “Lucifer Morningstar, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

He couldn’t find it in himself to dislike that look. He was the avatar of pride after all.

And a small part of him took a rather large enjoyment in the stuttering and stumbling of the sinner before him.

“Y-Your highness! Oh my gosh-“ He grinned “I wasn’t expecting your company- I would’ve dressed more- well I-“ Vaggie coughed from the side, redirecting their attention as they picked the stray foliage form their hair and clothes in a frenzy, towards the garden around them.

With a startled gasp they quickly stepped to the side, nearly tumbling in their haste as they held their arm out, presenting the garden to the king. “It’s..it’s an honor to meet you Sir.” Your voice was steadier, but still thick with anxiety that stuck like molasses to your tongue.

He watched your hand tremble, just slightly. Like his.

His wings fluttered again. A warm feeling bursting through his chest and into his eyes, giving them that shine that reflected the faux golden glow of the sun in the large green room. “The pleasures all mine, My dear. Do you mind explaining what it is you have-.…here”

His smile faltered, gaze stuck on the tree that stood tall and proud in the center of the spacious garden. Its leaves and branches stretched far, each adorned by beautiful red..apples, that hung and shimmered in the light. He expected the familiar ache of guilt to swarm his heart, but was surprised when he found himself breathless instead.

“I hope it’s..somewhat accurate. I’ve only seen recreations of course, never the real thing..” Your voice was a bit muffled in his mind.

He felt you step cautiously beside him, as he continued to gaze reverently at the scene before him. Shadows and memories danced past his eyes and through the patches of sun that decorated the floor. He swore he could hear quiet calls and whispers mix with the rustling leaves.

“You made this?” It wasn’t really a question.

Plants weren’t common in hell. Especially none such as this. They simply couldn’t grow in the rotted soil that spread across his kingdom. And there was simply no pure water to be found that could sustain them. So how-

“I might’ve take a few things before I fell.” You laughed shyly, cheeks warmed under the sun and the intense gaze of the King that snapped towards you.

Lucifer finally got a proper look at you. At your eyes and your features. Your afflictions. There was no denying you were a human soul. It was clear as day and still beat deep in your being. But..

“You were in heaven?” He gasped, eyes wide, mouth agape as he turned fully towards you, the grip on his cane tight as he scanned over the few demonic markings that lined your body, and the big golden X that flashed across your entire being. For only his eyes to see.

A virtuous soul cast out? Was that even possible? To turn away a true, virtuous soul, one of the few who had made it into heavens gate from their life on earth-

“It’s safe to say I didn’t truly agree with heavens teachings. It was too…polished.” There was an easy going smile that matched your tone, as you let your eyes wander towards the tree that wisely outshined every other plant in the garden. You continued.

“Heaven wasn’t my first choice. Frankly I didnt believe in it to begin with. But my folks were..somewhat of zealots. They wanted the best for me, I know that. But I missed…” You paused, seemingly thoughtful as Lucifer watched you with rapt attention, you both becoming ignorant to the two lovers that slipped out.

Charlie smiled softly to herself. Her dad needed this.

“I missed the free will that their religion took away from me.” Your gaze was knowing, almost wise like the tree when it peered back into his own, and Lucifer swore he felt something crack. Something lift from his shoulders and pulled his wings away, letting them spread proudly, in a way he hadn’t felt or experienced in years. Possibly ever.

“You know….I always enjoyed the story of you they told on earth.” Lucifer grimaced again, the vision of you dimming for a moment as he glanced away.

“Is that so? I’m sure they’re singing my praises.” It was a dry laugh, his hands gesturing in a faux confidence, but his lips quirked when he heard your muffled one.

“No, many aren’t. Most seem to align themselves with Heavens view…” You hummed thoughtfully and stepped forwards into the soft grass that peaked through the cracks of brimstone. Lucifer followed, instinctively. He felt leashed by your presence, though not necessarily in a bad way.

“Though there are plenty, who think a little more like me. There’s many versions of your story. I always knew that the original couldn’t be the full story. Too..one sided. Time on earth taught me that there was always a second side. Someone’s else thoughts-, perspective. Falling only confirmed that.”

You words tangled with your fingers that fluttered across the branches of a close bush, caressing a small flower that curled into your touch. “The first thing I did was look for the story. Of the garden. I wanted to replicate it, though admittedly there was never much detail to go off!”

You laughed again and the sound was quickly becoming a favorite of his. It was gentle..understanding. It almost hurt.

“And when I read the story..it was different. More romantic for sure.” You flushed softly, cheeks warm again as you recalled the way the story of Lucifer and Lilith warmed your soul. “But..more honest. Heart breaking even. I couldn’t believe how horrible it was must’ve been…and never knowing how amazing your gift was..” you turned to him again, your gaze so earnest and true that it made him step back.

Lucifer couldn’t deny the warmth in his own cheeks. You were pretty..pretty? That felt mundane. You practically glowed in the garden. And while it wasn’t a perfect representation of what Eden had been, it was better.

Eden had always been..one dimensional. It lacked the depth and feeling that Lucifer had hoped to give humanity. It was gorgeous, there was no denying that. But it wasn’t real.

This…This, is what he had hoped for the garden to be. Alive. Truly alive.

And…you brought it life…because of him? It didn’t feel right in a way. Having spent so many years locked away by himself and mourning the sin and ruin he had created from his own selfish wish.

Selfish? Had it been selfish? At the time, when he had done it, it didn’t feel selfish. He wanted humanity to live. To be alive! Truly, and honestly alive.

And you were so Alive. You were dead here in hell and yet you were breathing life into this gorgeous scene because you chose to. You chose to fall too. You chose to be in hell.

Because of him? Because of his…gift?

It was ironic almost. Laughable even.

Your lips pursed, a worried sweat on your brow as you lost that roaring confidence that bled into your words prior. “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to preach or anything-“ He stopped you.

“So-.…you’re a fan?” His lips screwed into a wobbly smile, embarrassment creeping up his neck at his less then poetic comment, though the laugh you graced him with almost made the shame worth it.

“You could say that. I personally think I hold the title of number one fan, but you know beggars can’t be choosers I suppose.” You gestured animatedly, a small smirk on your lips as you professed your..favor towards the king, and he gleamed.

“Well!” His hands flew to his suit, straightening it out and letting his chest puff out from its slumped frame. “May I know the name of my, alleged, number one fan?” His words were coy, smug as he gestured to you with a flourish that he had shown to the other residents. (Of course till you had so rudely stunned him to silence)

The smile you gifted him was holy.

“(Y/N)…Your highness.” Your bow was playful, a little awkward and strained, but it made him laugh.

“(Y/n), hm? I’ll be sure to remember that.” His throat cleared briefly, “I…hope you wouldn’t mind me stopping by sometime again soon..I’d like to hear a bit more about your garden.” He liked the way you looked at him in this moment. Disbelieving but so hopeful. Like he was something, someone to gaze at in such a way.

“I’d be honored.”

Maybe you had a fan of your own now, as well.

———————☆

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

FIVE YEARS LATER

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.

But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.

Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.

On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.

But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.

The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain. 

This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.

It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.

Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?

The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.

You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.

You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.

Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.

By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—

—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.

There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.

You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.

On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.

Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.

Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside. 

He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.

He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.

You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”

Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”

There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.

“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?

You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.

Your throat locks up with tears.

Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”

Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”

Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.

“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.

There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.

“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.

You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.

He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”

When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”

Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.

“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”

Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”

You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”

You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.

Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.

“You’re really not saying yes?”

Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.

Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.

“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”

You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.

Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.

After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.

“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”

This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.

He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”

This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.

“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”

You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”

Okay. Weird.

Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”

They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?

But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”

Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.

You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.

He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.

The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.

“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.

There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.

“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”

Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”

You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.

When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”

You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.

Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”

You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”

…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”

That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”

You squint at him. Liar.

“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”

A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.

Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”

Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”

Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.

It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him. 

You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!

There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.

“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.

You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”

Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”

The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.

Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.

You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—

—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.

In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”

Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.

The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.

He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.

The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.

It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already. 

Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.

Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—

You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.

“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”

You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?

He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”

You stop.

This is. This is new.

There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.

Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.

“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.

He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.

It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to. 

He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.

…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.

“Sammy,” you sob out.

“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”

He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.

“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.

Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.

“Take it off,” he rasps.

This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.

He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”

Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.

You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”

It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”

A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.

You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.

“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”

Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.

“Then don’t.” He begs.

If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 

You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.

You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”

Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”

The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.

You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.

“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.

You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.

This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.

Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”

And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.

Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”

“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”

“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.

Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”

Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.

The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”

As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”

Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”

Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.

Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.

“God, I love you,” he moans.

Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.

“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.

There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.

“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”

You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”

It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.

“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”

“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.

He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.

When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.

“Sammy!” You choke.

That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”

Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.

You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—

…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!

“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”

The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”

He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.

“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.

You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”

You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—

In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.

A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”

If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”

You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”

His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.

You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”

The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.

With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.

You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.

When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you. 

“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”

Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.

You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.

“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.

The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.

You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?

Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.

What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?

Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness. 

Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.

Lie to me, you’d begged him. 

…And Sam had.

_

The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.

Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?

Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.

The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.

Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.

To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.

You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.

“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.

…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.

You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.

You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…

Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—

…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

dark raphael, possessive/jealous devil, devils being devils i guess

Read on AO3

-

“Mm…Haarlep…”

It’s over the moment that single word leaves your mouth. The strange, moody tension that’s been strangling the room reaches its crescendo. Raphael’s fraying patience snaps. Bursts into flame just like the shattered glass of wine in his hand.

“Enough.”

He’s at the bed in the blink of an eye, snarling like the fiend he is. Sharp shining teeth bared. He grabs Haarlep by the hair, twists, and rips the incubus away. Haarlep lands in a sprawled heap on the ground, but they don’t look pained or even angry. Insidious amusement paints their borrowed features instead, because this is exactly what they’ve been waiting for. What they knew was going to happen from the start.

“Leave,” barks Raphael, addressing Haarlep but never taking his dark eyes off you, naked and trembling on his red velvet sheets. “Now.”

Haarlep blows you a kiss and vanishes. You’re alone with your master. The man who owns you, literally, body and soul. The man who put you in this bed in the first place. It’s easier to watch his tail angrily thrash to and fro than it is to look him in the face. His gaze burns, devours you. Claims what is already his. He seethes with arousal, and jealousy. You’re afraid, confused, but your mind is so foggy with Haarlep’s aphrodisiac that Raphael’s mercurial temper only makes him more desirable. Only makes the ache in your cunt stronger.

“My little pet,” he murmurs, deliberate emphasis on every word. He looms over you. Grabs your chin, squeezing just hard enough to hurt. Presses the tip of his thumb claw on the soft plush of your bottom lip, pushing until blood beads beneath it. You whimper; nuzzle into his touch in the same breath. “There is only one name that should be uttered from your lips. Mine.”

“I’m sorry,” you plead, knowing it’s not enough to mollify him. This isn’t your fault. It’s his. But you’ll be punished for it anyway, because a devil like him isn’t going to admit he was wrong. He isn’t going to confess that he’s letting his jealous, coveting nature get the better of him. No, instead he’s going to do what he always does: indulge.

It was his idea to let you “play” with Haarlep. You were reluctant, your animosity towards the incubus stagnant yet secure, but it was what Raphael seemed to want, now that he and his pet demon are on touching terms once more. You’re always so good for Raphael, your Master. So obedient. Of course you couldn’t say no, and as soon as Haarlep’s spittle got to work, you forgot all of your gripes with them anyway.

Raphael, however, did not.

Maybe he thought he’d enjoy watching his likeness take you apart in sexual ruin, like he had countless times before with countless different people. Maybe he thought he was “rewarding” you for your loyalty and dedication. Maybe he just didn’t consider that he’d feel so possessive over such a mundane, unremarkable trinket like your soul. He has thousands upon thousands, after all. There is nothing particularly special about yours. And yet, even as arousal coursed through his body and fattened his cock while he watched and felt the things Haarlep was doing to you, he’d clawed gouges into the armrest of the chaise where he’d been sitting – his private seat of power. Glared at your entwined bodies with mounting hate and envy.

It’s a beautiful and terrible reality, to be an object of Raphael’s affection. That’s the one and only thing you and Haarlep could ever agree on.

“Say it,” Raphael commands, slowly tightening his grip.

“Ah…say what?” It’s tough to think. You fight to stop yourself squirming, from rubbing your damp thighs together for some friction on your lonely, swollen clit.

“My name.” He’s holding you so tightly your bones creak. Instinctively you buck against him, gasping when your cunt throbs. Hungrily drools slick.

“Raphael!”

“Yes,” the devil hisses, eyes glittering in satisfaction at your small torment. He climbs onto the bed, crawls on top of you. Crushes you with his size and weight. The huge canopy of his wings block out the sight of all but him. His breath scalds your lips and cheeks, smells like smoke and wine. “You are mine. You belong to me. I own everything you are, and everything you ever will be. Never again will you think of another. Never will a name that isn’t mine tumble so sweetly from your lips. I am your eternity.”

He is your past, your present, your future. The Master of the House. His law, His word.

“Yes, Raphael!” You choke out. He’s squeezing your throat now. A trickle of blood leaks from your lip. His long forked tongue eagerly slurps it up, lingering on the wound he made. Tears well in your eyes but don’t fall, not yet. Tears of pain. Tears of frustration.

“There, now. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Raphael croons. You jolt when he wedges his thick thigh between yours. Your body moves without your input, grinding your wet cunt desperately against the surface offered to you. Black spots appear in the corners of your vision. He cuts off your airway to the point where you can barely breathe. You’ve always been afraid of suffocation, but with incubus spit muddling your senses, the endorphins and adrenaline just fan the raging flames of your desire. You rut harder against Raphael, mewling like a bitch. He sneers. “How pathetic.”

Yet, when he clicks his fingers and his clothes disappear, his cherry-red cock is so hard and heavy with blood it can barely stand up. Pearlescent globs of precum leak from its tip, catching on ridges, barbs and veins. His balls hang fat and flush and full, begging to be emptied. Sweat beads at his temples. His pupils expand to consume his fiery irises. As always, his biology gives him away, and such interesting biology it is. He runs hot, almost unbearably so, his rough and scaly skin near-scalding the sensitive flesh of your mons. You whine and whinge even as you press yourself closer, growing faint and weak from lack of oxygen. Instinct makes you flail and scratch at your Master. You would never try to hurt him otherwise. You adore him. You worship him.

He entertains himself for a moment watching you struggle. Watching you wonder if he intends to snuff the life out of your fragile mortal shell, unable to do anything but pine for a release of any kind. Fuck me, kill me, whatever you want. You can’t die, not in the traditional sense. Your soul is bound to Raphael, to the House of Hope. He’s murdered debtors before in fits of rage and they always end up roaming the halls again eventually. You don’t find out how today. He lets go of you, lets you suck in huge gulps of air. So magnanimous even in his disdain. Every heaving gasp is glorious, orgasmic. Your lungs burn. You burn. Raphael watches it all with black, sadistic pleasure. A crown of twisted horns upon his head for a king of sadism.

“Say it again,” he demands.

“Raphael,” you rasp. Obedient to a fault.

The devil growls. Thin lips peel back over his fangs. He manhandles you, grabbing your legs to part them further, push your knees up by your head to better expose your weeping cunt. He’s not gentle. His claws raze stinging welts down the backs of your thighs. He’s done toying. He wants to fuck. He wants to come. He wants.

He’s too big like this. He won’t fit. He doesn’t care.

One brutal, precise snap of his hips and he stuffs his infernal cock deep inside your cunt. You’re so wet he slides right in and just keeps going. The sound is obscene, but you can’t hear it. You’re screaming. The agony of his vicious prick, barbed and fat and intrusive, is also ecstasy. Union. Hurtling you into the abyss of orgasm you’ve teetered at the edge of for what feels like forever. You writhe and you cry and you sob and you beg, your cunt clenching hard, milking Raphael’s cock with every contraction. He endures it for barely a moment. This isn’t about you.

“Such a good pet,” he snarls, grunting with effort. His rhythm is cruel, fast, his thrusts unforgiving. Sloppy. He’s still upset. Will be until he’s satisfied. He cannot and will not be reasoned with until then. “Haarlep won’t touch you ever again. No one will. Only me. Isn’t that right?”

“Yuh-yes,” you eke out. Wracked by pain and pleasure in tandem. The kind that strikes you dumb, that brands itself into every iota of your being. Imprints a legacy upon you that you will spend the rest of the forever attempting to achieve again. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and Raphael is not here to help you navigate the waters. He’s the one drowning you. He crowds you, fucks deeper, harder, yearning for your womb’s slick, soft squeeze. Rocks your body with each flex. His tight balls bump your backside. Every nudge of your clit when your pelvises meet sends a lance racing up your spine. The head of his cock kisses your cervix, demands entrance. He pants, open-mouthed, eyes half-lidded. Groans in delirious delight when he sees the tears finally streaming down your cheeks. Feasts on them. You’re so overstimulated even his slippery tongue feels like broken glass. Gods it hurts so good.

“Delicious,” purrs the devil. He’s unravelling. “Sweeter than all the wines of Baator. And it’s all for me.”

He pushes his face into the crook of your neck, and when he comes – a great, shuddering climax, his cock erupting into your womb with spurts of liquid heat, more and more and more – he bites down, making a perfect imprint of his teeth into your nubile, sweat-slicked flesh. You squeal, you can’t help it. He seems to like that, if the throb of his cock and its extra squirt or two of cum is anything to go by. Raphael stays there, breathing hard through his nose, muscles twitching as he rides out his orgasm. All you can do is lay still and grip the bed. You’ve never felt so full. Eventually, when he softens and pulls out, the two of you moan in unison for different reasons, copious amounts of his seed leaking from your bruised, aching hole to stain the sheets. The devil lays on his side, satiated (for now). You, however…

With the greatest highs come even greater lows. Haarlep’s venom is wearing off, taking with it the cushion of pleasure protecting you from the full force of Raphael’s harsh treatment. Bruising around your throat, scratches and bites and stretched ligaments… Of course, your cunt has it the worst. What starts as a dull, yawning ache becomes sharp, searing. Your fingers and toes curl with the effort not to howl. You couldn’t anyway, your voice too raw from screaming. What you make instead is a quiet keen of distress. Raphael, who was perhaps dozing, takes notice.

“Oh, you poor little thing,” he croons lazily, only after admiring his work. The state of you. There’s no real sympathy in his voice. No regret. You didn’t expect any. In a show of mercy, however, he does click his fingers and move the two of you into his rejuvenation pool. You’re soothed in an instant. Except for the bite. Raphael makes it very clear that’s there to stay.

[her-satanic-wiles]

October 3rd

Hate Sex, Papa Emeritus II x Catholic!Reader

Masterlist

Words: 3.4k

Warnings: Hate sex; mean dom!Secondo; virgin!Reader; catholic!Reader (for now); degradation; piv; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it); semi-public sex; corruption kink; cunnilingus; multiple orgasms; dubcon; choking; breeding kink?; cum eating (because I’m a slut for it okay? I’ll see you in the goddamn parking lot); vaginal sex; loss of virginity;

🔞 MDNI 🔞

Your father becoming the Pope was not something you anticipated, but it was definitely a dream of his. As his daughter, you had your own responsibilities to the church that you had to maintain, as well as making sure your father’s reputation and standing in the Catholic church remained good and respectable.

You had made it your mission to save as many souls as possible, but only one you had given up on. He was the second son of a man named Nihil Emeritus - a lowly man who called himself Papa and claimed to be the anti-Pope for the Satanic Church. The leader of the opposition. His second son, known simply as Secondo, was cardinal to his father, and was a real piece of work.

You had, in previous years, tried to show him the way of the light, the way of the Lord. But he would always counter you with ridiculous quips and notions about Him that made your blood boil. How can one person be so blind to the rulers that oppress them as much as Satan did? How can they follow a beast so blindly and stray so far from all that was pure?

Constant talks between Satanic and Catholic churches would happen to set specific boundaries both physical and spiritual, but once a year, the Vatican and the Ministry would meet to set an example to followers on both sides - though everyone hated these meetings and wanted them to end, it was important for your church to be seen at the very least converting the dark ones with kindness and love that our Lord had shown you and taught you to be.

This year, for the first time in a hundred years, the Ministry were to host the talks and you were nervous to say the least. You were uncomfortable entering such a sinful building, filled with demons and lost souls, covered in pentagrams and statues of the Devil. As you walked through the white marble halls, you clutched onto your crucifix necklace and prayed quietly for the Lord to keep you safe.

Outside, they had a press conference and photo opportunity. Your father and the blasphemous Nihil had their pictures taken together, shaking hands and pretending to engage in important conversations for the sake of the press, before the rest of the churches were invited to take photos together like a NATO Summit. He was placed next to you.

His ungodly mismatched eyes hidden underneath layers of thick, black paint making him look like a bald panda. Not a single hair underneath his zucchetto, instead the only hair on his head coming from his eyebrows and his moustache. It would be unseemly to compare his aesthetic to a certain kind of video, but he definitely looked like he came straight out of it. You were both in our twenties but his choice of appearance made him look so much older than you. Yet there he was, confidently standing in a respected Cardinal’s uniform, soiling it with a grucifix and a perverted smile.

For the photograph, he put his arm around you, and rested his large, leather gloved hand on your bicep. Though your face was smiling like you were happy to be there, your insides were crawling with disgust. You shoved him off you as soon as the cameras had switched off. “Get your filthy hands off me, you creep!”

“Only for the photo, dipshit. Believe me, looking at you makes my dick soft.”

“Must you always be so vulgar?”

“Must you always be a prude?”

“You know, you are such a-”

“Children,” You heard your father’s voice and immediately silenced yourself, “come.”

“Yes, father.” As you walked towards your father, you brushed passed Secondo’s shoulder hard and held your head up high, preserving what remained of your dignity. You knew your father would force you into penance later for your emotional outburst.

The day was seemingly endless, and you often found your mind drifting away with itself thinking of other things. At first, your mind went to lunch - what would those hellish kitchens serve you? No doubt ground up fetus spaghetti. But when your eyes met Cardinal Secondo’s, your thoughts drifted to him instead. If he wasn’t so brutish, he would be attractive. If he was Catholic he would be attractive. But he was Satanic, an abomination. He needed saving.

Finally, you were granted a break and ran to the restroom as quickly as you could. Coming out, however, you ran into Secondo again.

“Oh, look! It’s the little snob.” He said, his face as stoic as usual. “Probably pissed out the holy water she drinks.”

“Go stick your face in it, see how it feels to burn.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were into that.”

“You should repent. Beg the Lord for forgiveness. Turn to the light.”

“I’m much happier under the watchful eye of the fallen archangel, thanks.”

“You’ll burn in Hell.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Filthy sinners deserve to rot there. You and your family will suffer if you don’t-”

He moved towards you and grabbed your chin with his index finger and thumb, his eyes filled with anger and hate. You felt your heart rate spike in fear, yes, but there was also something else you couldn’t identify. “Listen to me, you stupid little sheep. I couldn’t give a fuck about your Lord, your God or the idiots who follow you. I don’t care about that fucking book you live and breathe by and I don’t care about you. You dare to come into my house and dictate what I do? I’ll do what I please, and worship who I please. Maybe you should repent, Sathanas would appreciate how you looked on your knees.”

“Get off me!” You shoved him as hard as you could and freed yourself from his touch. “You vile, filthy pig!” You hit his shoulder. “You sinful, disgusting cockroach! I would never get on my knees for evil bastards like you or your deranged goat god!”

“But you would get on your knees. Unless of course, you’re a virgin.”

You hit him again.

He gasped. “You are!” He laughed. “Saving yourself for marriage, huh? Keeping yourself pure and holy for a god that would kill you with no thoughts of regret.” He grasped onto your chin again. “I could save you, you know? Show you a better way of living. Worshiping a god who worships you back, and sends you the greatest pleasures you’ve ever known.” As he spoke, his face got closer and closer to yours until he was a single inch away from you. You could feel his breath on your face, smell the coffee from his break just moments ago. “Tell me to stop, little lamb, and I will.”

You should have. You don’t know why you didn’t. Maybe there was a part of you that hated how controlled you were by your father. Maybe there was a part of you that wanted to be tempted by a servant of sin. You weren’t sure about the reason, but you knew that when his lips touched yours and he pulled you in for the most passionate kiss you’ve ever had, or the only kiss you’d ever had, you were tasting a glimpse of the pleasure he offered you. His tongue immediately sought entry to your mouth, and you granted the permission, letting him take the lead and teach you what to do. It felt so good. You had to stop. This was wrong.

You pushed him off you one final time and slapped his face. No words were spoken, there wasn’t anything to say. He didn’t look offended by your slap, nor did he look put off by it. He still looked at you with the same lustful expression he had moments ago. And you couldn’t stop yourself.

Your hands gripped his cassock and pulled him back in for another kiss, this one more violent and desperate than it was before. It was messy, all teeth and tongues and no finesse to it whatsoever. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer to his body, before gripping onto your ass. The feel of his covered hands clutching onto you sent a thrill through your frame you’d never felt before. Before you knew it, a moan had escaped from your lips and caught up onto his, which made him smile.

The sound of people approaching made you both pull away from each other. You began to panic. You were sure you looked disheveled enough from the kiss alone, and the Cardinal’s cheek was beginning to redden where you slapped it. In a panic, you grabbed hold of his hand and ran into the first unlocked door you could find, keeping the lights off and shutting yourselves in as quietly as you can. Secondo was chuckling at you, but you simply held a hand over his mouth and kept as quiet as you possibly could. You couldn’t be seen being intimate with a member of the Satanic church! It would ruin everything. When the people left, you sighed in relief.

You had unknowingly pulled both of you into an office of some kind, but you didn’t know whose office it was, or if they’d even be back. It was in the silence of the room that you realised what you’d just done. And how close you were to Secondo. Before more doubts could sneak back in, your lips found each other’s again. You don’t know who started it, but now that you had, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. His zucchetto was the first thing to hit the floor, followed by your own hat and your heels.

Secondo’s mouth travelled to your neck and began placing open mouthed kisses there, driving you mad with want. You couldn’t think of anything else other than him. You loathed him, he was evil. But he felt so good.

He backed you up against the desk in the room and continued to kiss your neck, his hands roaming all over your body. His were the first to touch you in so many places: your shoulders, your arms, your waist, your stomach, your breasts and now your thighs.

Your legs opened for him automatically so he could slot comfortably between them. Your sun dress hiked up over your thighs, giving him perfect access to your panties which were now drenched in your arousal. It wasn’t long before his hands made their way under your skirts and stroking over your vulva. He barely pulled away from your neck to utter his words, “the good Catholic girl, soaking wet for the Devil’s son. Do you think your god is watching, little lamb? Hm?” His fingers moved your panties aside. “Do you think he’s disappointed in you giving into temptation?”

“Yes.”

He stood up straight, his forehead touching yours as his finger rolled over your clit. You released a strangled noise at the new sensation, and your hips bucked. “You’ve been a good girl up until now, haven’t you? Keeping yourself pure for your god. My god sent me to you,” he pushed one finger inside your wet heat tapping upwards immediately, “I am His gift to you. Tell me, little lamb, will you accept His gift, even just for today? Will you let the one you hate the most defile you?”

“Yes!”

He kissed your lips again as his fingers hooked into your pure white panties and pulled them off you. He got onto his knees and directed your legs to rest onto his shoulders. You couldn’t help it. “I hate you so fucking much - ah!”

He silenced you by wrapping his lips around your clitoris and sucking hard, not giving you any chance to ease into this. You could feel him smirk into your cunt as he lapped up your juices, shaking his head and licking away until he was convinced you were seeing stars.

Your hands flew to his head, holding onto him as if you were about to float away. The pleasure was so overwhelming, and nothing like anything you’d ever felt before. Sexual pleasure of all types was a sin - and you had never indulged at all. You were too scared to. You were an adult, so sheltered about adult things you knew nothing of what your body could do. But now here you were, legs spread with the son of the anti-pope licking up your arousal like he was eating his first meal in days.

That same son was now inserting a finger inside of you again, tapping up and making you cry out. Your noises were uncontrollable and loud, but there was nothing you could do about it. Silence didn’t feel like an option. You needed to make noise and you couldn’t explain why. You gasped when he added a second finger. Your hips moved on their own accord and you bucked into the pleasure, simultaneously wanting to escape it but also get as close to it as physically possible.

“W-wait!” You said. Your words were slurred and your voice full of panic. “S-something’s happening. You - mmm - you have t-to stop please!”

He ignored you entirely, refusing to stop his ministrations no matter how much you squirmed. “Stop, y-you sack of sh-shit. Oh my God!” His other hand, somehow so powerful, stopped your hips from wriggling away and pinned you to the desk. You were helpless when you toppled over the edge, seeing black as you came for the first time. Secondo worked you until you were overstimulated and collapsed back onto the cold wood of the desk. Your body covered in sweat and your breathing laboured. Your head was spinning from the intensity and you could barely move.

Secondo stood, his hand on his crotch moving his cassock out the way to free himself. His cock was big, or to you it was anyway, girthy and as long as his hand. He gripped your hips and pulled you towards the edge, making sure you were easy access for him. He lined his cock up to your vulva once more, but instead of pushing inside he rubbed himself against your folds, groaning at the feel. “This is your last chance,” he told you, “tell me to leave and I will. If you don’t, I will sodomise this virgin cunt of yours.”

The feel of his cock against your folds was torturous. Your hole was clenching around nothing, screaming for him to enter you and have his way with you. There was a small voice in your head telling you to run, leave now while you still could. Your whimpers and the sound of your wetness was now the only noise in the room.

“What do you want, little lamb? Do you want me to stop?”

“No!”

He stopped his ministrations and placed the head of his cock at your entrance and pushed in the smallest amount, not enough to completely penetrate you, but enough to drive you insane. “Tell me what you want.”

“F-fuck me.” The request tasted weird but you meant it.

Secondo nodded. He grabbed hold of your hand and held it. “Look at me.” He told you.

For a second, you looked vulnerable and it made his dick throb. You sat up and placed your hand on his chest, nervously pushing him away with no force. “Will it hurt?” You had always been told that it would hurt, and now you were scared you’d be in pain.

His own tough facade dissipated briefly, and the hand that wasn’t gripped in yours went to cup your face. “No.” He said gently. “You are wet enough and my fingers stretched you. But if it hurts too much you must tell me.”

You nodded.

With you now concentrating on him, he began to push into you. His thick cock spread your walls a little further than his fingers did, and the pressure was a lot. Both of your hands moved up to his neck, grasping onto him, as your eyebrows worried and your mouth fell open. Every time you thought he would stop he just kept going.

“You good?”

Your body was on fire. There were too many things to feel. “Yes. Oh God!”

The toughness returned to his demeanour and there was a dark glint in his eye. “Your god can’t help you now, little lamb.”

Before you had the chance to process his words, he pulled out of you and then slammed all the way back in, causing you to scream It felt Earth-shatteringly good to have him inside you. He did it again. And again. “You sadistic bastard!” You exclaimed in between moans.

He laughed but said nothing, instead concentrating his gaze on where your bodies met. Every rough thrust sent you a little further across the desk, and your back couldn’t remain upright. You allowed yourself to lie back down again, your body jiggling violently with every movement. You had to bite your finger to keep you from screaming again.

“Look at you,” Secondo began, “lying there with your - fuck - your legs spread like a c-common whore.” You tightened. “The whore likes being reminded of who she is, hm?”

His hips moved faster and faster as he got more into his head, watching your tits bounce as he defiled you.

“What’s the matter, little lamb? Devil steal that tongue? Mm, shit. No smart remark? Wh-where’s that snobby cunt who keeps telling me to repent now?” He pulled out of you and manhandled you off the desk, spinning you around and bending you over it slightly. He slammed into you once more. His hand wrapped around your throat. “Oh, that’s right, she’s booking herself a one way ticket to Hell.”

“Fuck you!” You hissed.

“Giving yourself willingly to the son of Satan. Oh, how the righteous fall from grace.”

His other hand ran seductively down your body, and as his teeth began to bite your ear, his finger stroked your clit in circles. His breath in your ear, his hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, it was all too much. You were surrounded by him, breathing him. He was everywhere and difficult to escape. But you didn’t want to escape. This was the most free you’d ever felt, the best you’d ever felt. You came around his cock this time, tugging at his cassock and gasping for air, collapsing back onto the table.

In your mind, you saw the crucifix within your private quarters at the Vatican - the very same one that was gifted to you by the previous pope. You could see Jesus as if he were right in front of you. The look of disappointment present on his face as he watched you give into temptation and gift your most sacred gift to the Devil. The disappointment didn’t make you feel guilty for once in your life.

With that thought in your mind and the fog cleared, you began taking control, meeting Secondo’s thrusts with as much passion as he was giving which stole a guttural moan from him. “Oh, fuck, just like that. Let me fuck this tight, virgin cunt. Take my cock, you fucking whore.” Both of his hands grasped your hips with such tightness, you thought he would bruise you. “You’re gonna make me cum. Is that what you want, little lamb? Shit! You want me to cum deep in this cunt? Knock you up with the fucking Antichrist, hm?”

No. It was too risky. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Cum inside me. Give me your filth!” You heard yourself say.

With a growl, Secondo stilled and emptied himself into you, letting his own body fall forward and pin you down to the desk. You had no choice now, you were forced to take all his cum whether you wanted it or not. How would you beg for forgiveness now that the Devil’s seed was spilling into your willing womb?

Despite his exhaustion, Secondo dropped to his knees again and ran his tongue through your folds, collecting his cum from your pussy and working you towards your third and final orgasm. This was bordering on pain, but it felt so good. Your knuckles turned white from how hard you gripped the desk. Turning to look behind you, you saw him practically worshiping your cunt, and that alone was enough to tip you back over the edge.

When all had finished, and you were both redressing in silence, you realised the implications of what had just happened. You had committed the ultimate sin… and you didn’t want to go back…

Previous Day ⛧ Next Day ⛧ Part 2

[mammomlette]

OBEY ME YOUNGER BROTHERS AS SOULMATE TROPES!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3(WIP rn)]

Includes: Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, GN!Reader/MC

Warnings: Spoilers for lesson 16 in Belphies (not explicitly said but obvious foreshadowing for a twist), implied manipulation (Belphies) (not sure if that needs a warning but better safe than sorry)

Notes: I’m still quite new to fanfics and Tumblr, and honestly just writing in my free time in general so constructive criticism is defo encouraged!! Also I won’t lie to you, Satan did seem a tad ooc erm…

SATAN: writing/drawings on hands appear on eachother

* As soon as you turned 18, you noticed small phrases and notes appearing on your right hand

* It started off with small things like “page 562” or “British shorthair.” Just things to keep as a reminder or to be able to search it up later

* However, as time went by, the notes became a bit more… concerning

* Concerning book quotes from old literature, sometimes in other languages, and nefarious plans to prank someone called ‘Lucifer’

* Your soulmate plans to prank the devil himself. Haha. What a great idea.

* You brushed it off for a while, appreciating the occasional cat fact or chapter reminder and just ignoring the angry words about Lucifer.

* Eventually, you began to build up the courage to respond. Small things relating to things your soulmate wrote, like cat doodles (good or bad as your art skill may be) or going over the writing of the reminder when you notice it started to fade

* Not knowing if it was your place to write down your own notes or just not quite having that amount of bravery, you still did those little things to let your soulmate know that hey, you’re there and you’re always reading what they have to say.

* Satan thought he was hallucinating.

* Thousands of years spent just jotting things down to remind himself of things at a later date, frequently on his hand, and suddenly things started to change?

* He had wrote “British shorthair” on his palm in hopes of being able to look it up later, and a few minutes later he looks down to his palm to search it up and sees a… cat?? It’s really not clear. It’s round, with two points on the top of its head… yeah thats a cat.

* He’s become so obsessed he’s hallucinating badly drawn cats, which is probably a cause for concern, so naturally he confides in his brothers about this and is comforted that no he’s not hallucinating, however cats are just randomly appearing on his hand.

* They continue to appear, circles with two triangles, some looking better than others and some with more odd features likes birthday hats or weird outfits

* He finally decided to read up on what could be happening and was quickly met with the term ‘soulmates’

* He had heard of this a long time ago from one of his brothers while he was still young (for a demon) and brushed it off as a fairy tale. Why had his soulmate only started communicating with his just now?

* He moved on eventually and time passed, a new human being introduced to his home and his family.

* It took an embarrassingly long time to realise that his human was also his soulmate, it wasn’t until you were both just chilling in his room and you were doodling something next to some words on your arm that he noticed a cat appearing on his own arm.

* “Look! The cat thing is happening!” He shouted, a lot more emotion out into it that he would’ve liked due to the sheer shock

* You stopped what you were doing and look at his arm, the cat drawing having ceased its being drawn while you stared at the cat, face turning into shock and then seriousness. Because that is the cat that you just drew.

* “Satan.” You said, just staring into his eyes without any expression

* “Yes, MC?” He responded, worried at your monotony. His mouth then gaped open and you showed him your arm, cat half doodled next to the words “page 236, sticky notes needed”

* You both just made dead eye contact for a second before your eyes both began to flick back and forth and your lips slowly started to quiver

* Both of your sweet laughters filled the room, how ironic that such a common book trope would be what flew under Satan’s nose for so long.

ASMODEUS: soulmate telepathy

* Ever since you turned 18, you had been hearing a voice in your head.

* Not necessarily in a concerning way! In the way it happens when you and your soulmate have both turned 18 and can finally communicate.

* At first, you thought that you were hearing things. Things like “Ooo, this would be a great touch to my outfit! ♡” and “Can’t believe my bath wasn’t 3 hours long today…” flooding your mind. Since when were you SO picky about your clothes and hygiene, even when not in the process of dressing or washing? And since when were your baths 3 hours?

* Quickly though, you realised that this voice wasn’t your own. It was a melodic sounding voice that felt like honey and most definitely did not belong to you.

* You had heard from your family growing up and your friends recently that once you had become an adult you would be able to communicate with your soulmate through your thoughts, proof of the bond your souls shared, thoughts intertwining together.

* You found that whenever you were deep in thought and rambling to yourself you’d be met with a “hon, slow down” in your mind or that whenever you were trying to figure out an outfit your soulmate would chime in to offer their expert advice without hesitation

* No hesitation at all, because Asmo had waited his entire life for this.

* Thousands of years of life believing that he had no soulmate, destined to forever be a player

* So long spent reading and gushing over cute romance stories where soulmate meet and finding comfort in romcoms about that very topic, and here he was finally with his own soulmate in his mind

* The way you would thank him for his advice before his mind went quiet from your thoughts again until you later told him how well everything went and the way you would ramble internally to him without even realising you were connected to his mind made his heart flutter, even without your face your voice and soul were beautiful

* One day he had been summoned alongside his brothers to the student council room to welcome the new human exchange student. It was a hassle that could be spent doing something more productive like his skincare or extra time in the bath, but he was still just so excited he had to tell you how excited he was to meet the new human!

* “New human?” You thought, but had no response from your soulmate before you appeared inside of a council room in front of 5 attractive strange men.

* You panicked and were kind of in autopilot mode as a tall man in all red introduced you to your situation and a slightly-less-tall man in black started to introduce you to his brothers

* You still had small responses in your shock, and a certain demon recognised your voice.

* You were immediately snapped out of autopilot when you heard the voice of the second brother you were introduced to, an admitted handsome man with slightly-pink-tinted light brown hair and stunning orangeish eyes said “Oh come now. Really? You should be that you get to introduce such a sweet and charming little brother like me!” And you froze.

* You looked like a deer in headlights to lucifer who was trying to introduce you to a blonde demon, but to Asmo, you looked like the most beautiful creature to ever walk the three realms (asides from himself, naturally) and the only person worthy of him.

* Asmo saw beauty in everyone, but everyone else paled in comparison to your face in this moment and your voice every other previous time he had heard it.

* He looked at you with knowing eyes and your eyes finally softened from your shocked face, finally understanding what he meant earlier by “new human”

* It would take time for you to get used to being in a new world with a demon as your soulmate, it would take time for him to get used to loving someone more intimately than as lust, but you both had eachother and the bond that ties your minds together and that’s all you needed.

BEELZEBUB: you share (some of) your soulmate’s pain

* It was growing unbearable.

* The slight yet constant ache in your stomach, a pit that was never quite full.

* For years you mistook it for your own hunger, not sure if you should be eating more or not

* It was always there, always something that disctracted you whenever you were left alone in silence or trying to sleep at night, always waiting for you to finish a meal just to make you feel that familiar ache again.

* It was just insufferable.

* It wasn’t just the hunger, though. There would be times where your muscles would ache like you had been working out without a proper cool down or your arms felt like they had bruised from defending or blocking against something

* You inquired with your friends about this and were just told that it would be your soulmate. You shared pain with your soulmate, and your soulmate always seemed in pain

* It wasn’t a pain that came from attacks or falling, just a pit that always felt so empty it hurt but could never be filled.

* Was your soulmate starving to death? You wished there was a way to help them, to soothe the pain, but without knowing who they are there was no way to fix it.

* As of present, you had been sent into the devildom a few weeks ago and had began to slowly feel adjusted to the devildom and your roommates and you had grown fond of one in particular: Beelzebub, the avatar of gluttony.

* You sympathised with him and his constant hunger since you yourself always felt a small bit of this hunger, even if you’d learnt by now that it wasn’t yours to fix

* So naturally, you hung a round him more

* You spent time with him whenever you could just because you wanted to, accompanying him to the gym or treating him to Hell’s Kitchen or even just sitting with him when he was lonely and missing his brother who had gone to the human world

* And it felt like every time you gave him the food you were craving so much, that pit in your stomach was filled just a bit

* Always there, never going away, but it felt just that bit more bearable and ignorable for a short while

* Who knew you were such an empath?

* Of course it crossed your mind of that Beel could be your soulmate, but what are the chances? You dismissed the thought whenever it appeared, not wanting to get your hopes up

* However, your hopes were validated one night in the kitchen with Beel.

* You were preparing him a small snack, just cutting up some devildom-style bread for him when you accidentally put your finger down at the wrong time in the wrong place and cut it

* You hissed at the pain, putting down the knife to look at your finger and you thought you heard Beel grunt.

* “MC, are you okay?” He inquired, approaching you to look at your finger while slightly cradling his own for some reason

* “Uh, yeah, I just need a plaster or something, would you mind..?” “Yeah, of course.” He continued to clutch his finger while reaching for the cabinet, letting go for a second to open it and grab you a plaster

* “Are you okay? You’re holding your finger too.” You were slightly worried by his mannerisms even though you didn’t see a cut on his fingers.

* “Yeah, my finger just hurt all of a sudden. It’s fine though. Here, I’ll put the plaster on for you.”

* You fell into comfortable silence as he opened the plaster and began pressing in down, but he pressed down a bit too hard which hurt you, causing both of you to hiss.

* “Seriously Beel, are you okay?” He nodded. “Yeah, it’s just like whenever you get hurt my finger hurts too.”

* Lightbulb. You realised finally that those slight considerations were valid and the connection you felt with Beel was real. The hunger you felt wasn’t yours and the reason it was numbed when you gave him food is because it was his.

* He seemed to have realised this too, because he paused and looked at you, slowly smiling.

* “MC, I just realised something. I think that-“ you cut him off with a kiss, smiling now too.

BELPHEGOR: you have a countdown until your soulmate’s death

* Surely there was an error in the system.

* Call you crazy but you didn’t quite think that 378,691,205,018 seconds is applicable to the human life span.

* You had come to the conclusion that your soulmate was either non-existent and the universe was fucking with you or they were some kind of non human entity and obviously both of these answers were stupid but at least the former was possible.

* You’d grown accepting overtime that you didn’t have a soulmate unlike how most of your friends did and that you’d never have that sort of unconditional love

* Not having a soulmate wasn’t unheard of, just uncommon.

* And you got the short end of the stick. That’s all there was to it.

* UNTIL you got randomly abducted one day into literal hell where pretty much all beings there loved for thousands of years.

* ‘Maybe I have a chance now?’ You crossed the thought out from your mind. First of all, these were demons and most of them had made attempts on your life at some point or another, and secondly almost all of them either a) didn’t have a timer, which meant no soulmate, b) had an insanely high timer that you’d never be able to reach or c) had already found their soulmate

* You sighed to yourself and began to lose hope again, walking up the stairs to the attic

* A short while ago, you had found a human locked in the attic, who had asked you to help him. You clicked, something in that moment just felt like it had been put in place like the final puzzle piece so you trusted him without really knowing why

* But you had even more recently found out from his brother that he was bulshitting you and that he was probably the demon Belphegor, so now you just wanted to figure out what was going on

* You continued to march up the stairs and finally arrived at the attic to confront him or at least question him

* “Are you Belphegor?” You cut to the chase not wanting to bother with any more of his lies.

* He was silent for a second before grinning, devilish look that you’d expect from the decent ruler or the underworld gleaming in his eyes as he said “Aww, so you’ve already figured me out, have you? Well, you’re no fun at all.”

* You glared, and tried to decide whether declaring he was a liar or asking why he was a liar would be a better idea

* But he spoke up again before you could decide.

* “That timer on your neck, what does it say?”

* You paused, not knowing the exact number. “Um, like, there’s hundred billion seconds-ish? Why?”

* “Because I’m a demon. I’m going to live long enough to fulfil that. Look at my timer, here. It has 13,140,014 seconds. No demon would live that short.”

* “And is thirteen million a lot of time?”

* “About a human lifespan, bit under.”

* You hummed. It made sense to you looking at it at the moment, though you could’ve sworn it was a little bit under your guess, you trusted him.

* Why? He lied to you about being a human, so why do you trust him?

* Because he’s your soulmate. There’s no doubt in your mind. The click, the need to trust him, even seeing him in your dreams. It was right.

* So you believed him, and didn’t give the thirteen million seconds much question. You were going to save him, save your soulmate.

* Because thirteen million seems like a long time, and I guess it was long enough for you to save him. Just not enough to do much more.

[r0-boat]

*Free falls from the sky*

Hello there, I’m 🦩anon! I come from the land of being terrified to send asks but finally got the courage to when it comes to the hot demons from WHB

I absolutely loved your Mammon Headcanons (totally not because I go feral for him, and also loved the dark/more twisted ones)

Do you by chance have more? If not then that’s ok!

🦩

Let's get some very sweet headcannons I don't have a lot but I have a few of certain characters so here's a mess of them!

Wholesome what in hell is bad headcanons various demons

Gehanna eddition

Let's give some love to the nobles!

Belial

Your Belial's first love, You're the apple of his eye. He constantly daydreams about you. And he's always eager to go on cute dates with you.

Belial before he lost his voice was a very good singer now you can only hear little bits of it when he hums. Someone hadn't heard his voice in a long time so he's a little shy about his singing.

Belial is always staring, please don't mind him He just likes looking at you listening to your voice. You could talk for hours and he could listen. Only for him to respond 'I love you.'

Leraye

When he gives you gifts he always gives you stuffed animals.

Leraye will randomly text you just to remind you that you're beautiful and great and sexy and that he loves you. Sometimes you'll just send you texts or at a context photos throughout his day He just likes telling you about himself.

Leraye feeds stray cats every time You see him, He is surrounded by stray kitties purring and cuddling up to him as he's trying to feed them. He has the biggest smile on his face as he tries to give them all attention and food.

Paimon

Paimon always shares his food with you, It is His love language He doesn't let anyone else do it but you. Sometimes he'll order big sizes just so you can eat it together. Paimon will even feed you.

If you have feminine clothing paimon will ask to borrow it. If not Paimon will buy outfits to match with you. They even bought you two little keychains to match.

Paimon loves to do those couples challenges with you. every time they find a new one they get so happy and then text you sending you the link to it and asks if you want to do it with them the next time you come over.

Sitri

A very overworked demon as much as your heartbeat turns him on it also calms him down when he lays against your chest he starts falling asleep.

Sitri is very touch starved He loves when you calm your hands through his hair melting into your touch and when you pull away he whimpers asking why you stopped.

Yes he does get annoyed when Leraye is hogging your attention but to be honest he's kind of happy that Leraye And you get along so well he hopes he could take care of you and you can take care of him part of him kind of hope you will choose him. Leraye is it good demon.

Zagen

Zagen is a really good artist, when he's bored he doodles for fun and those doodles look like works of art. During a meeting Zagen and Belial started doodling on a piece of paper. Despite Belial's crappy drawings Zagen says they're absolutely amazing and Belial should draw more so now they draw together! Zagen Even teaches Belial some art techniques and he's getting better Zagen is so proud! Leraye and Zagen still go to the gym together.

Zagen even though his rank is lower he still feels like a big brother to all of the other devils. He's very stoic protective yet caring and sweet. Zagen is a gentle giant. He may look scary but he's actually pretty shy. One compliment and his face is turning red, trying to hide that blushing face.

Zagen always reminds you to eat, He wants you to be strong by eating healthy. He knows how to cook because he makes his own healthy meals. You will never go hungry when he's around and he is happy to cook for you.

Astaroth

Instead of texting which he does do sometimes, He sends letters to you. Some of them are rather... Spicy, but all of them are filled with poetic and lovely words that make your heart flutter. It feels as though you are in the middle ages getting a love letter from your beloved fiance. Every word drips with love and you could practically feel the emotion on the paper. He even puts a little wax stamp on it before sending it to you the letter isn't an envelope smelling of his cologne.

Astaroth imagine is himself as the main character and you as love interest when he reads romantic novels. You can't help but imagine the two of you in those lovely situations sometimes he even writes it himself.

When he does text you he pours his heart out in a longing text. Telling you how much he longs for you. How his heart aches when he's not near you. How he feels as though he has lost without your touch. He knows just what to make you swoon.

[alphajocklover]

Hey 😈 I wish someone would help me become a massive gay bodybuilding whore. I’m already on my way gaining weight, but I wanna be gigantic. Think you could help?

So you want to become, in your own words, a massive gay bodybuilding whore. That shouldn’t be too hard. As I’ve already shown you through my other post, there are numerous ways that people can get transformed into different types of jocks. The fact you want to specifically be a slutty gay jock does complicate things a little, since certain methods would turn you straight, but it’s still pretty simple. Instajock comes to mind as a good method for example, although I’ve talked about that app quite a bit recently and would rather discuss something new. There are many ways people can transform that I haven’t mentioned in the slightest, and your question actually brings up one I’ve been wanting to talk about for a long time. Mainly the emoji you used. Yep, for this transformation we’re going to get some help from someone very special: the Devil.

When I say the devil, I don’t really mean ‘The Devil’. Don’t get me wrong, he is a devil, but he’s not the devil from the bible. He just… works for him. I know that sounds bad, and honestly it definitely is. I don’t know much about the religious side of the magical world, but I do know that the Devil, with a capital D, does exist. He might be a fallen angel who wants to turn humanity to sin like from religious text, or he might just be a very powerful magical being using human religion to boost his own reputation, but either way he definitely exists. And just like in the old folk stories, he makes deals with people in exchange for their souls. Strangely, as the stories had spread and grown more prevalent, the demand for a deal with the Devil has actually skyrocketed. You’d think a bunch of stories about how making a deal for your soul is a bad idea would discourage people, but surprisingly it’s only increased business. Because of that the Devil’s operation has grown. The Devil is powerful, but he’s not god, he isn’t omniscient. So, to keep up with demand, he began to delegate. Instead of doing one deal at a time and seeing to every deal personally, he has a large team of demons that make deals for him. That's where my friend Nick comes in.

Nick isn’t his real name, but since humans can’t really pronounce his name he just lets me call him Nick. He is one of the more powerful demons working for the Devil, and specializes in making sexually explicit deals. As you can probably guess, he deals with a lot of people and has made a lot of deals. He’s not as outright evil as you might expect though, and he was actually a close friend of my Uncle. He had a sort of soft spot for my Uncle, and would often help him out with certain things. I don’t know how they met or why my Uncle seemed to be friends with a literal demon, but they got along really well. Now that my Uncle’s gone though, he helps me instead. I think he does it a bit out of guilt. He couldn’t protect my Uncle, his favorite mortal, from being turned into a jock, so now he protects me. Because of this I like to send him a willing victim now and then, as a thank you.

So, your first instinct is probably to say no. I mean, as much as you want to be a gay jock slut, you probably don’t want to sell your soul and be doomed to an eternity in hell. The thing is, these days they usually don’t ask for your soul. The Devil long figured out that there were more subtle ways to get what he wanted, so usually the contracts ask for something else. Sometimes it’s something significant, sometimes it’s almost nothing. Whatever it is usually works into his very complicated plans somehow in a way we almost can’t comprehend, but he never asks for your soul anymore. In exchange for becoming a massive gay bodybuilder jock, all Nick would require is… your car.

Yes, the devil wants your car. You’re probably wondering why, and honestly I don’t know. It’s not even a new car, and it’s kind of lame. But that's what he wants, and in exchange he’ll give you the body and mind of your dreams. I know you’re probably pretty skeptical, and If I’m being honest there probably is some sort of catch, but-

Oh! Ok, so, you’re doing it. I was expecting a bit more resistance but you seem pretty sure. Well, I do hope it works out for you. All you have to do is write your name on the contract and the deal will be sealed. Just write your name at the bottom there… and perfect! You’ve just made a deal with a devil!

I know you feel a little confused, but give it a second, it will pass. A sudden change in your body is always disorienting, but you’ll get used to the new you pretty quickly. I mean, look at you! You’re absolutely massive! Those arms, those pecs, those shoulders! God you really got a great deal. You get to live out your fantasy life, and all you had to do was get rid of a piece of shit car. I can’t be sure why he wanted it, but my best guess was that it’s going to cause a butterfly effect where, because your car didn’t cause a traffic jam when it broke down or something, something else will never happen. But there isn’t any use in dwelling on it anymore. You’ve made the deal, so fucking enjoy it! Go out there and have hot gay sex with as many guys as you can! You made a deal with the devil, you might as well get all you can out of it!

**hey everyone! Been a little bit! I’ve been kind of distracted and busy lately but I’m still alive and kicking! Hope you guys like this story and keep tuned for more! I also wanna make clear I am not trying to offend any religious group. I just love the deal with the devil idea.**

[tsukimefuku]

nanamin ❖ nanami kento

summary: you decide to ask nanami why he keeps getting called ‘nanamin’.

tags: jujutsu kaisen, f!reader, soft/implied nanami x reader, crack drabble, reader is a relentless little devil.

wc: 0.4K

notes, etc: this poor, poor man. this drabble references wardrobe malfunction.

❖ collection of stories: "jujutsu partners au" → masterlist for fics listed in chronological order of events

“So… I couldn’t help but notice Yuuji keeps calling you ‘Nanamin’ like Gojo used to do,” you noted as you were both walking down the streets of Tokyo towards your next mission.

He involuntarily sighed as he answered, “yes, he does.” 

“So… Why is that?” 

“I couldn’t say. Kids are… Something.” 

“Gojo isn’t a k-” you halted for a second, as Nanami looked at you, and you proceeded with, “you know what, nevermind.” 

After a few seconds, you felt the urge creeping up on you.

The teasing demon was taking hold.

“Hey, what if I called you Nanamin?” 

“I’d slap you,” he answered, not missing a beat.

You chuckled lightly.

“You’re way above hitting me.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he answered, in his characteristically nonchalant way. “Why are you so hellbent on nicknaming me since… always?”

“Because it’s fun!” you replied, grinning widely, “it’s a way to show you appreciate someone, and that you get to poke fun at them with affection and such.” 

He looked at you and lifted an eyebrow.

“Should I start calling you public indecency then, considering the time you called me to lend you some clothes because you blew yours up in the middle of a mission?” 

You stopped in your tracks immediately, and blushed for a second.

Nanami realized he might have taken this a little too far, knowing he could come off as harsh sometimes.

“N-nanami, I-I… I mean… Uh…”

You were stuttering for a moment, remembering the silly debacle.

“I… I apologize,” he offered in earnest, as you were still standing there, looking away.

To be fair, your embarrassment was real in the first few moments, but realizing he was actually feeling bad about it kind of stirred up your antics. So you kept going.

“I mean, we had an agreement we’d never talk about it again… how could you…?” you remarked in the most gut wrenching way possible.

Even under his stoic facade, he seemed to pale.

“I’m truly sorry, I really didn’t mean to… I-” 

The man was faltering.

You couldn’t hold your laughter, and when he realized what you were doing, his eyes were completely taken by annoyance.

“Were you pretending to be mortified?” 

“Not in the beginning, but your face-” you interrupted yourself with another cackle.

He sighed and resumed his stride, saying, “I am not addressing you for the remainder of the day.”

Wiping a few tears from your face, you sprinted slightly to follow him.

“Oh, come on, Nanamin… Don’t sulk… Nanami? Nanami!” 

He did, in fact, ignore you for the rest of the day. 

[lonely-lost-soul]

Day One: Mammon

Day 1: Breeding Kink

The Avatar of Greed was your first demon, just as you were his first human. Much to his other brother's frustration, he was your first pact and the first of his brothers you fell in love with. So he also considered himself your partner, which, in his mind, meant he had certain privileges involving you; mainly, Mammon felt he had a right to all your ‘firsts.’ Have them he did, first kiss, first oral experience, and of course, the first man inside you. Whenever his brothers argue with him, he never ceases to bring up that fact, even if it causes you to hit him on the back of the head. And Mammon was proud of that fact; it was his way to be greedy with you, to indulge in his sin without stowing you away in his dragon hoard. That was why when he found out you and Diavlao had been discussing the first human-demon hybrid in being born Devildom to improve human/devil relations, he almost lost his shit. 

“With the Demon Lord?” Mammon whined out, “How did this even come up!”

“He brought it up, Mammon, not me!” You argued, crossing your arms over your chest, huffing, “What did you even think I said to him? We just started dating!” 

“nuh-uh. This is not happening, treasure.”

“I know you did not just nuh-uh me.” You shot your partner a look, and he puffed out his cheeks. 

“Diavalo hasn’t even told Devildom you guys are official yet!” Mammon argued, sitting next to you on his pool table, plopping his head in your lap like a sad puppy. “And you wanna have a baby with him? HIM?”

“Mammon-”

“Like, what does he have that I don’t? I’m your first, ya’ know. I mean-”

“Mammon.” You carded your fingers through his white hair, and he ceased all talking to look into your eyes. “I’m not having a baby with Dia,” His eyes lit up like shiny gold coins, “I told him no. Especially because we just made ourselves official. If we said yes, we would’ve skipped like a thousand steps in a new relationship, plus-”

“And cause he’s totally lame, right, and not hot at all. Okay, maybe a little hot his tits are like so much bigger than yours.” Mammon rambled, reaching up and squeezing your breast for emphasis, and you shot him a dirty look. He smirked, “Honk,” he squeezed it teasingly, and you sighed at his antics. 

“No idiot. I told him no because I want to have a baby with you first.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Mammon jolted up, hand still on your boob, “You wanna have a baby with me.” You swore if he had a tail, it’d be wagging, “and not the Demon Lord? All mine?”

“You’re making it weird, Mammon…” you couldn’t hide the smile from spreading across your lips, “but yeah, I promised you, didn’t I? That you’d be the first to everything. What do you say,” mused watching as horns fizzled onto his forehead “Want to be the first to make me a mommy?”

“Fuck yeah, treasure.” Mammon flipped you over so your back was pressed against the cool pool table. His wings spread behind him as he pinned you against the table; you hummed pleasantly, laying your hands against his chest, nails tapping on the buttons. 

“Off puppy.” 

“Yes, ma’am!” Mammon barked, unbuttoning his top and tossing it aside, flexing his muscles, keeping an eye out for your reactions. It seemed optimistic as you eyed him hungrily, tongue sticking out of your bottom lip, “You too, treasure. Wanna see my pact mark.” He purred, leaning down to nip tenderly at your ear. He felt your chest move with a soft giggle, 

“Don’t you want to rip it off me?” You teased, and Mammon’s wings fluttered a few beats, tearing your top down the middle and letting your breasts bounce in your bra. It was a gorgeous black with gold accents on cups, just Mammon’s style. 

“God, look at you,” He practically pants, hand palming your breast through your bra, squeezing tenderly, “perfect for me. Perfect for my babies.” He licked his fangs as you shuddered under his touch, your legs squeezed around his toned waist. “Aw? Does that turn you on? Me talking about making you a mommy?” You flushed, looking away from him, and he tutted, pointing a painted nail under your chin, “Come on baby, tell me you want it.” 

“I want it.” You breathed, looking him dead in the eyes, “wanna be a mommy, have your babies.” And Mammon sucked in a breath through his fangs, 

“Fuck yeah, you do. That’s so hot.” Mammon grinned, pressing a kiss to the middle of your breasts right where your pact mark with him sat, and it caused you both to shudder. “Do my brothers know?” 

“No, only you. Don’t you think Levi would let me anywhere near you if I told him you’d be my first-” You groaned as Mammon’s hips ground against yours, clearly enjoying this secret between you, “Or even Asmo. Still, we would have the opposite problem, and he’d fight you for who could get me pregnant first.” You teased with a hitching breath, feeling Mammon’s hand unclip your bra with ease, moving his mouth to take a nipple in your mouth. You moan, hands grabbing onto his horns, and he visibly shuddered under your hands, groaning around your bud. 

“Just imagining these puppies even bigger, as they fill with milk, is making me so fucking hard.” Mammon grinned, sucking marks onto the swell of your breaths, causing you to moan sweetly and squirm. 

“Stop teasing me.” You argue, tugging on his horns and pulling him away from your breasts; he tossed his head back with a deep groan, arms and body visibility quivering.

“Stop the pulling,” He growled voice low and gravely, 

“Why? You gonna cum?” You purred, rolling your hips against his prevalent hard-on, causing him to moan again. 

“Stop being a brat,” He hissed, but you both knew he didn’t have the same bite that Lucifer or Satan did when commanding you. So you just smirked, sliding your hand down Mammon’s low-rise jeans and cupping his heaviness gently. “S-Shit treasure come o-n-” A simple touch, and you have the Avatar of Greed in the palm of your hand, literally. You could practically see the tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as you worked him out of his jeans, “I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you.” He panted, kicking his pants to the side while sliding yours down and ripping your new panties to shreds. 

“Mammon! Those were new!” 

“You look better this way anyway.” Mammon mused, flicking your clit expertly with his fingers, causing you to twitch and suck in a breath through your teeth. “Shit baby, you’re so wet for me; you really wanna have my baby huh?” He slid his long fingers into you, and you moaned, your back arching off the table hotly. 

“Yes. Yes. Yes Mammon. Please fill me up; I want to feel you stretching me to my limit.” 

“Fuck yeah. Fuck baby,” He panted, sliding down his underwear messily, his cock springing free. You always loved his cock, it wasn’t overly large, but fuck was it thick and filled you up just perfectly.  “Lemme put it inside,”

“Do it.” You demanded, skipping the usual foreplay between the two of you; the atmosphere was too hot and heavy to skip to the main event. “Make me scream.” Mammon didn’t need any more encouragement as he slammed his entire length into you and screamed you did as nails dug into Mammon’s broad shoulders. His eyes were flared in greedy hunger, taking in the sigh of you taking his cock so well, relishing how your walls fluttered around him. 

“So tight, we’ll fix that right up,” Mammon groaned, consumed by lust. “Gonna pump you so full you’ll be dripping with me for days, and if none of my seed takes this time,” he slowly pumped his hips in and out of your body as the sound of skin on skin slapping filled the room. “We’ll fuck as many times a day it takes till you’re swollen with my litter,” He purred. Sticking his tongue out and licking a hot stripe up your neck, the room filled with your sounds of pleasure. “I know how much of a slut you are; how many of my babies do you want in you? Cause now that we’re getting started, I ain’t stopping.” He teased, hearing your whines pick up as you moved your hips in rhythm with his own. He could see the outline of his cock as it bulged inside you; he pressed down on his cock inside you, causing you both to moan loudly. “My little golden whore,” Mammon mused, kissing your lips and swallowing your moans with his mouth and tongue. Mammon felt the way your breathing began to hitch, “You close?” He watched you nod rapidly drool pooling out of your mouth, “Damn, I fucked you stupid, huh?” He snickered, and you moaned louder as he began to piston out of you at a much more aggressive rate. You could feel the tip of his cock brush against your cervix, begging for entrance into your fertile womb.

“MAMMON!” 

“That’s it. Say my name as you cum,” He hissed, watching your pact light up in a golden yellow. Your walls clenched around him like a vice grip, legs locking him in place as you tossed your head back in gorgeous ecstasy. Seeing the sight alone had Mammon howling and biting into your neck as he spilled inside you, pump after pump of his seed filling your womb full as you babbled nonsense against his chest as he purred. “Good girl did so well for me,” He whispered, peppering kisses over your forehead. “You’re gonna make such a good Mommy.”

[heavenlyraindrops]

♱ Father Forgive Me (For I have Sinned) ~Chapter Thirteen ♱

Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Chapter Thirteen Warnings: profanity Click on the first tag to see all the other chapters

♱Where the purest soul in Heaven falls for the Devil♱

[Chapter Thirteen]

♱♱♱

One month had passed. Your decision was approaching, faster than you had thought it would. What would you say?

You still didn’t know.

“I’ll be back from the extermination,” Adam said smugly, Lute crossing her arms behind him. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Decided yet?”

“Yes,” you lied through your teeth.

“Not coming this year?” Lute smirked, unaware of your and Adam’s whispered conversation going on in front of her. Adam’s eyes slid to you, then he rolled them, making you scowl.

“No,” you said flatly. Adam’s eyes hardened.

“We’re gonna go after Lucifer’s brat’s shitty hotel first,” he sneered. “Shame you can’t be there to watch it.”

“Shame,” you replied, heart pounding against your ribcage.

You watched them disappear down the portal to Hell, along with another rush of the exterminators, eager for bloodshed, before the portal closed up completely.

You rubbed your eyes.

“Keep Charlie safe,” you muttered, as if it was a prayer, except one in a god you were slowly losing faith in.

♱♱♱

Adam was dead.

It had been almost a week since they had left for the extermination. Everyone was in such a flurry, a mess, that no one bothered to pay any attention to you or answer your questions. Sure, you were the great [name], but you were just another angel when it came to status.

Sera was stressed. Emily was in shock. You were in shock. And the last time you had seen Lute was the last time you had seen Adam.

What seemed to scare everyone to their core, however, wasn’t just Adam’s death: it was the fact that angels could die. You remembered Avery, and her missing friend. No doubt the girl was dead. You fiddled with your bracelet, before ripping it off and tossing it onto the table.

You hadn’t heard from Lucifer, either.

The front door creaked open, spilling pale light into your dim living room. You shot up as Lute entered.

“Lute, God, you’re okay,” you breathed, your concern for her shocking the both of you. Your eyes fell to her shoulder, and your heart leapt into your throat. “Where’s your arm?”

She stared at you, and you could have swore her eyes were glowing with barely restrained fury. You took her by the shoulder and steered her into the room, sitting her down where you were before.

“Do you need anything?”

She stared at you, and you wondered if she was ever going to speak. And then, finally, she did.

“Water.”

“On it,” you said, rushing to the kitchen for a glass.

You thrust it towards her, a few droplets spilling over the edge and rolling down the glass. She took it with her remaining hand. You sat next to her.

“Tell me everything.”

She downed the water, but her voice was still raspy. You couldn’t place the aura that surrounded her, but you could see the anger in her tensed muscles, her furrowed brow. “Adam’s dead,” she muttered, setting the glass down. “We were fucking winning, then Lucifer showed up and…” she rubbed her eyes, albeit aggressively. You noticed them glistening with unshed tears. “That stupid child, demon, thing- stabbed the shit out of him.” She looked away again, as if to hide her grief from you. You rubbed her back soothingly, and she tensed up, turning back to look up at you.

“If you ever need to talk,” you murmured. “I’m here.”

She sighed, doubling over. You decided to prompt her to speak with another question.

“What happened to your arm?” You pressed gently. Her lip curled.

“That bitch Vagina-“

“Huh?”

“Vaggie,” she seethed. She buried her head in her hand, shoulders shaking. You pressed your arm against hers, trying to offer her as much comfort as possible. She wouldn’t elaborate on the single name she had mentioned, and you wondered if Vaggie had cut her arm off.

“Adam told me something,” Lute said abruptly. “Before he died.” She looked at you, and you could feel your heart rate picking up, beating so hard it was painful. You stopped yourself from pulling away in case it would seem suspicous.

“What did he say?” You asked gently, doing your best to keep the tremor out of your voice. She shook her head soundlessly. “That’s fine. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

A few more minutes of sitting in comfortable silence before she had stood up, mumbling that she had to go. You showed her outside, before hugging her fiercely while still being mindful of her arm.

She’d left and you went back inside, staring out the window and watching her fly away into the sky. Your stomach churned.

You looked down at your clenched fists. He was dead. Lute’s affirmation had let it sink in for you properly now. You felt sick and relieved at the same time.

Because your secret died with him.

You stumbled to the bathroom. You were going to throw up- again, and you did, all into the toilet. You flushed it, slumping down onto the bathroom floor and breathing heavily. Adam was dead. You didn’t have to marry him. You didn’t have to choose. No one in the world knew anymore- except you, and Lucifer. You stood up with trembling legs, scraping yourself together and steadying yourself on the sink, staring at your reflection. Your face had gone pale.

He was dead. He was really dead.

He wouldn’t barge into your house without knocking like he used to, anymore. He wouldn’t scream your name down the street. He wouldn’t laugh the raucous way he did, that you had gotten so used to. You stifled any regretful feelings, pushing them down, not allowing yourself to cry. He was an asshole to you. It was for the best.

You went to the living room, and your eyes fell on Lute’s half-empty glass. You suddenly remembered the bracelet, the one you had tossed onto the table where the glass now sat, your link between you and Lucifer. Your eyes skimmed across the table to the spot you had last left it, and…

It wasn’t there.

♱♱♱

A/N: second chapter of the double release! Damn exams are killing me. Njoyy (Coco if ur reading this. I made the cliffhanger bcuz ur such a nosey bitch 😡😡)

hey guys I thought I posted this but turned out that I didn’t and it was just sitting in my drafts like an abandoned child