toby is not smooth about being obsessed with you at all
he gets twitchy and obvious, like he is trying not to stare but keeps doing it anyway, and sometimes it feels like he wants to crawl inside your skin just to make sure nobody else can get near you
if someone makes you laugh, his jaw goes tight immediately, fingers twitching near the handle of his hatchet, muttering under his breath like he is trying to talk himself out of doing something stupid, but the jealousy comes fast and ugly with him
he does not do quiet jealousy well, he disappears for ten minutes and comes back with blood on his sleeves, breathing too hard, acting like nothing happened even though his hatchet is still dripping somewhere outside
then the second you look at him again, he melts completely, all that anger turning needy in seconds, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into an empty room, voice cracking when he asks why you were looking at them like that
sex with him is desperate and messy, like he still has adrenaline under his skin, like he came back from doing something awful and now the only thing keeping him together is your hands on him
he holds on like he thinks you will disappear if he lets go, shaking fingers gripping too hard, face buried in your neck, hips moving too fast because he cannot calm himself down once he has you under him
he gets loud when you call him a good boy. it breaks him every time, whining, begging, cursing, trying to act like he is not falling apart even though he absolutely is
he loves hearing his name when you are close. if you moan "toby," he gets this wild look and goes harder, asking for it again and again like he needs it more than air
afterward, he goes quiet and stares at the marks he left on you, bites, fingerprints, scratches, anything that proves he was there, like he does not know whether to feel guilty or turned on
he gets clingy after, arms locked around you, face pressed into your skin, muttering "don't leave" before he can stop himself
if you tell him you are staying, he goes soft all at once, still flushed, still breathing hard, still smelling faintly like metal and rain and whatever he dragged in with him
š¦· BEN DROWNED
ben is different because he does not even pretend to be ashamed
he thinks it is funny when he makes your phone glitch when someone texts you, your camera turn off for half a second, and your laptop freeze when you are talking to someone he does not like
he calls it "checking in," like that makes it normal, like you are supposed to find it cute that he is always there, always watching, always one black screen away from ruining someoneās life
his jealousy is quieter than tobyās, sharper too, someone flirts with you and their phone starts overheating, their lights flicker, their messages corrupt, their socials vanish one by one until it feels like they never existed
he does not need a hatchet to be scary, he just smiles from a screen while someoneās whole world starts breaking around them
with you, though, he gets smug and mean, little comments that make your stomach twist, asking if he should be jealous or if he should just make sure you forget their name
when he gets his hands on you, he likes dragging it out, making you frustrated, making you admit what you want, making you glare at him because you hate how badly you need him
he talks filthy against your thigh like it is normal, saying the nastiest things in that lazy, smug voice, like he is not still buzzing with the thrill of making somebody disappear from your notifications
he loves overstimulation because he likes watching you lose the ability to be mad at him, keeps going even when you push at his shoulders, then gets smug when you pull him closer instead
the eye contact he wants is intense in a way that feels creepy more than romantic, like he wants to watch the exact second your brain goes blank
he fucks slow at first. he's controlled and mean about it, then switches fast when he loses that control, rougher hips, tighter grip, voice glitching around your name
he knows things about you that no one else does, where you're sensitive, how you sound when you're close, what makes you beg, what makes you shake, and he uses all of it
afterward, ben acts casual like nothing happened, like he did not just ruin you, like there is not some poor bastardās phone still sparking in a gutter somewhere because they smiled at you too long
A Ben drowned x f!reader smut where reader is masterbating to a picture of Ben on her phone, and Ben is watching through her camera (like a creep) and jerking off to reader masturbating?
If that makes sense.
You can do whatever you want with this I fr fr have nothing going on in my life šāļø
Watching you masturbate!Ā ft. ben drowned x f!reader
includes: ben drowned
content warning: f!reader, reader has a v, explicit sexual content/language, dubcon, voyeurism, masturbation...
š: thanks anon! hopefully this is okay c:
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Your room was dark apart from the blue-white glow of your phone.
It stood propped against your pillow, the screen tilting towards you. Ben's face stared back at you from the glass, that arrogant, knowing expression you had seen on him countless times. Everything else in the room blurred into darkness. Laundry hanging over your chair. Drawn curtains. A distant hum of electronics nearby.
You should have felt stupid about it.
Instead, your legs were sprawled out on your sheets, one of your hands placed on your side of the bed, the other slowly stroking yourself as you looked at his picture.
It was embarrassing how quickly that picture worked on you. Just a picture of Ben's face on your screen, his grin, those sharp eyes of his, and the memory of his voice in your head, lazy and mocking and too close.
Your fingers slid into the moisture gathered between your thighs and your breath caught in your throat.
"Fuck," you whispered, too quietly for yourself to hear.
The camera light never flashed on. This was the worst thing about it. There was no flicker, no sign, nothing telling you that Ben was watching you from the other side of the screen with his cock in his hand, rubbing it while he watched you pleasure yourself.
He was quiet to start with, too shocked and too proud of himself to say anything aloud to anyone, even himself.
On the other side of the screen, your bed filled the screen with a grainy and intimate picture. You on your bed, your legs open, your fingers slick and slowly working on you while you stared at his face in front of you.
Ben's grin widened even more.
"No fucking way," he whispered with a distorted voice, too quiet and distorted in the empty digital space around him. "All that for me?"
You rubbed your clit faster, and Ben stroked his cock even faster.
This wasn't porn, this wasn't some fantasy floating in the background. It was Ben, his picture staring back at you from your phone, his name lingering behind your lips like you were desperately trying not to let it slip too soon.
Ben moved closer to the feed, his pupils dilating, one hand bracing on nothing while another was working on his cock.
"Fuck, look at you," he mumbled, his voice hoarse as he watched you shifting your hips in time to your movements. "All spread for me and you don't even know it."
Your fingers dipped lower, teasing your slit, and Ben chuckled roughly.
Ben zoomed in without shame.
Camera adjusted to his movement, the picture sharpening a little bit to give him a clear view of the shine between your thighs, your slow fingers, your body twitching whenever your fingers found your clit.
"Bet you'd let me watch if I asked you nicely."
You didn't hear him. Instead, you only saw the picture flickering briefly.
That grin of his seemed too wide on the picture.
You paused, breath coming quickly, your fingers still pressing against your wetness. It was quiet in the room. The picture looking back at you, frozen and harmless.
Mostly harmless.
You swallowed, embarrassed at the heat rising to your cheeks, and then kept going.
Ben's laugh was broken.
"That's it," he whispered, stroking himself faster. "Keep using your fingers."
You inserted one finger into yourself slowly and then faster, your head tipping back against the pillows. The noise you made was soft and obscene and almost swallowed by your breath but Ben heard it all the same.
He spit into his palm and then slicked himself up, jerking his hips in time to your movements as he watched you fuck yourself.
He enjoyed that you tried to be quiet. That you failed.
A breath, a little whimper and a soft, shuddering moan when your thumb touched your clit again. And then his name slipped out of your mouth.
"Ben."
He snapped.
The connection glitched so badly that it made your screen distort and fill with green and blue static, splitting your view of Ben into jagged little pieces. The speakers hissed as you listened to your own breathing and the sick noise from the other end of the line.
You froze.
Ben panted now, jerking himself rough and fast, his eyes glued on the feed like he wanted to crawl through it somehow.
"Yeah, baby," he whispered through the static. "Use your fingers. Fuck yourself for me."
Your heart beats loudly in your chest.
You should have stopped.
You didn't.
Your fingers moved even faster, slick and warm, working in and out of your tight heat while your thumb circled your clit faster. The other hand gripping the sheet. The phone was still standing next to you, his picture glowing on your screen.
"Wish I was there, don't you?"
Your hips lifted up in response to your own hand.
"Ben," you moaned, breathless and humiliated by how desperate it sounded.
On the other end, he was now completely quiet. No more smug little comments. Only his heavy breathing, frantic jerking and the sheer pleasure of watching you come for him when you thought you were all alone.
He moved in sync with you like he was chasing you.
Whenever your fingers worked faster, he stroked himself faster too. Whenever your thighs trembled, he clenched his jaw and whenever your lips parted in a little gasp, he leaned forward in anticipation of you breaking.
Your orgasm came while you were still staring at his picture.
Your body clenching and twitching, your thighs trembling as you worked through your orgasm, and then his name escaped your lips, softer and broken.
Ben came right after you.
He groaned into the phone, jerking himself in time to you until he came, staining his hand and watching your slackened and flushed face with pure pleasure. Both of you stayed motionless for a few seconds.
Your breathing filling the room.
And then your phone froze.
Ben's picture distorting so badly it started bleeding into pixels, green and blue static crawling over the screen like mold and eating away his picture piece by piece.
Camera suddenly opened itself.
Your own flushed face staring back at you from the screen. Messy hair, lips slightly parted, rising and falling too fast, still-open thighs below the frame.
A message appeared on your screen.
cute show
Your stomach dropped to the floor.
Another one appeared while you were still frozen with shock.
next time, angle the camera lower
The screen went black.
For a single second, the room was quiet.
Then the speaker hissed and distorted.
A broken and sick little laugh escaped from the phone.
The glass began rippling.
Not cracking. Not glowing. Rippling.
The reflection on your screen bending unnaturally as if the inside of the screen became dark and liquid. Cold fingers breaking the surface of it first, glitching at the edges, dragging little squares of green static into reality.
Then a wrist. Then an arm.
You stared at him, unable to move as Ben ripped himself out of your phone as if the device was too small to contain him.
His shoulder jerking through the screen and distorting it with a burst of green static. His hoodie following in pieces of broken pixels, the green fabric flashing from solid to transparent. His body constantly flickering as reality rejected him but he was trying to force himself out anyway.
His knee touched the mattress first. Then the other one.
Bed dipped under his weight.
He was finally real enough to be able to touch.
Real enough to grab your wrist and prevent you from pulling it away from your core.
His skin was cold. Not dead, not quite. More like the chill of the screen left glowing in the dark room. Static cracking under his fingertips as he held you by the wrist.
Ben glanced at your wet fingers, and then at your face.
His grin was sharp and sickening.
"Don't stop now."
His voice distorted in the middle, sounding both sweet and terrible at the same time.
He crawled over you, like he couldn't wait any longer. Cold hands sliding along your thighs and pushing them apart while his gaze dropped to the mess between them. You were still wet from your fingers. Still sensitive. Still staring at him as if you couldn't comprehend what was happening.
Ben laughed quietly.
"Fuck," he whispered reverently. "You really did touch yourself because of me."
He grabbed your wrist and slowly took away your fingers from your pussy. His gaze still fixed on your hand.
And then he put his fingers there instead.
Two cold fingers rubbing through the moisture of your core, slow and deliberate, circling your clit in the rhythm he had learned to watch from you. You gasped and arched your back against the mattress, and Ben groaned, like he had waited all night to hear it.
"How you spread your legs for my picture," he murmured.
His fingers gliding lower, teasing your slit with that nasty grin on his face.
"How you called me when you came."
Second finger slipping inside of you.
Cold, until it began thrusting.
You gasped, your back arching once again, and Ben growled in delight.
"How you called my name."
His fingers gliding inside of you again, stretching your walls and making your breath catch in your throat. Your hands flying to his hoodie and clutching the fabric that was constantly flickering under your touch.
Ben watched your face intently.
There was no screen now. No camera feed. No picture to pretend was harmless.
Only Ben above you, thrusting his fingers inside of you, that sickening grin of his in the dark.
"So much better without the screen in the way," he whispered.
toby eats pussy like heās nervous, starving, and a little obsessed with proving heās good at something, all shaky hands on your thighs, messy mouth, broken little moans, and that twitchy desperation that gets worse every time you say his name <3
š: thanks so much for this request, anon! feel free to leave some more if you'd like :)
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laughing jack is not the cute clingy kind of yandere. he's the "standing too still in your doorway at 3 a.m. with a grin too wide for his face" kind
he gets manic when he wants you. all giggles, twitchy hands, pupils blown huge, voice syrupy sweet while he says the most fucked up possessive shit like it's a bedtime story
he likes making you nervous because he can smell the difference between fear and arousal, and both make him worse
sex with him is loud, messy, and mean. he laughs against your mouth, digs his nails into your hips, and talks you through every dirty little reaction like heās collecting proof that you belong to him
heās obsessed with your sounds. moans, whimpers, gasps, sobby little "fuck"s. he wants all of it. tries to drag them out of you until youāre embarrassed and shaking
heās so possessive it gets creepy fast. bite marks, bruises, cum on your thighs, smeared makeup, ruined clothes; anything that makes you look touched, claimed, and impossible to mistake as anyone else's
he calls you pretty in the worst moments. when his hand is tight on your jaw, when his grin is inches from your face, when he's buried in you and laughing like heās finally found his favorite toy again
his dirty talk is unhinged. half praise, half threat, all sugar rotted and wrong. "good thing you sound so sweet, doll. i mightāve gotten bored otherwise"
he does not get soft after. he gets clingy. too much smiling, face tucked into your neck while he hums like nothing happened, like he didnāt just fuck you stupid and mark you up
the scariest part is how happy he gets. not calm. not satisfied. happy. bright eyed, giggly, breathless, already thinking about next time
includes: jeff the killer, eyeless jack, masky, hoodie, ticci toby, ben drowned, laughing jack, bloody painter / helen, slenderman, the puppeteer, jane the killer, nina the killer, clockwork, liu / homicidal liu...
content warning: 18+ content, swearing, descriptions of moaning.
š: my first post in years! this is a creepypasta version of the famous obey me post I did years ago. hopefully you all like it <3
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JEFF THE KILLER
acts like he doesnāt moan, then absolutely does
low, mean groans through clenched teeth
breathes like heās pissed off at himself for enjoying it
lots of rough little curses under his breath
laughs when heās overwhelmed, but it comes out shaky and ugly
the more worked up he gets, the nastier and less controlled he sounds
EYELESS JACK
doesnāt really moan at first, he growls
deep, chest-heavy sounds, almost animal
lots of harsh breathing right against your skin
tries to stay controlled, but it slips fast
makes low hungry noises when heās too far gone
sounds like heās holding himself back from biting down
MASKY
similar to jeff but less manic
super restrained, but not soft
low groans, sharp exhales, jaw clenched
sounds frustrated more than needy
tries so hard to stay quiet that it makes every sound hotter
his moans come out rough, like he hates losing control
very āangry that he wants you this badlyā energy
HOODIE
creepy quiet most of the time
muffled groans through his mask
shaky breathing when heās close
keeps his sounds low and private
buries his face so you feel the noise more than hear it
when he slips, itās a rough little grunt that gives him away instantly
TICCI TOBY
messy, loud, and embarrassed about it
broken whines, shaky laughs, stuttery moans
tries to talk, but it falls apart into half-words
gets louder when heās flustered
praise makes him sound completely ruined
desperate, twitchy, needy noises all the way through
BEN DROWNED
starts out fake-moaning to be annoying
smug little hums and overdramatic sighs
loses the attitude once it actually gets to him
voice gets breathy and glitchy
moans come out broken, like corrupted audio
tries to tease, but cuts himself off with gasps
LAUGHING JACK
loud and shameless
moans like heās putting on a show at first
lots of dirty laughs between sounds
starts playful, then gets raspy and mean
voice drops when heās actually worked up
sounds like heās enjoying how wrong it feels
SLENDER MAN
doesnāt moan like a person
more like static, pressure, and low humming
the room feels heavier when heās pleased
deep inhuman rumbles instead of normal sounds
unsettling, possessive, and way too intense
if he does speak, it's telepathically
BLOODY PAINTER
quiet in a tense, intense way
soft exhales and low hums
barely-there moans that slip out when heās focused
one small sound from him feels worse than someone else being loud
gets embarrassed when he sounds too needy
strained groans, shaky breaths, quiet curses
THE PUPPETEER
performs at first
low, silky, fake-sweet sounds
uses his voice on purpose because he knows it works
act slips when he actually gets affected
slower groans, possessive hums, rougher breathing
JANE THE KILLER
controlled and smooth at first
low sighs, soft groans, very intentional
gets rougher when pushed too far
pretty sounds turn into curses and sharp breathing
voice drops when sheās really into it
NINA THE KILLER
loud, nasty, and dramatic
breathy whines, sharp gasps, shameless moans
does not care who hears
probably likes knowing someone might hear
giggles when sheās worked up
talks way too much because she cannot shut up when sheās needy
CLOCKWORK
rough and clipped
more groans and curses than pretty moans
hates sounding vulnerable
breathes through her teeth to stay quiet
gets annoyed if a real moan slips out
very mean, dirty, āshut upā energy while obviously losing control
LIU / HOMICIDAL LIU
liu starts softer and more restrained
quiet groans, shaky breaths, trying to stay gentle
sully is rougher, meaner, and smug about it
low dirty moans with breathless little laughs
sounds amused by how messy things are getting
the contrast makes it worse: one careful, one completely shameless
summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.
But the night you finally say come ināhe breaks.
Now that heās inside, heās never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.
wc: 5.4k
a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333
warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
Masterlist
You've never let him in. Not once.
And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockworkābarefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.
Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hungerās rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight heās feral.
You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.
āYou cruel little thing,ā he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.
āYāgonā make me crawl again, huh? āCause I will. Iāll fuckināāIāll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.ā
His jawās slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.
āLet me in,ā he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.
āPlease, IāI caināt stand it no more. I caināt fuckinā breathe without you. Let me in. Iāll behave. Iāll worship you. IāllāIāll starve if you donāt.ā
Your just watch him, tilt your glass.
āYou've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?ā
He nods, drooling harder, trembling.
āYes maāam. Iād beg for thirteen more if it meant youād finally say the word.ā
You donāt answer him at first.
Just lift your drinkāslow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargicāand watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.
The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva thatās already puddled beneath him. He doesnāt even wipe it away anymore. Doesnāt flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer heāll be to what you want.
Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.
Your bare toes flex against the doorframeāpropped up, exposed, painted peachāand his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like heās fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.
āYou gone quiet, sugar,ā he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. āYou planninā to kill me out here?ā
You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.
Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what youāre doing. You always know.
āYou look like shit, Remmick.ā
He moansāmoansālike the insult made him hard.
āIāI know, baby. I know,ā he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. āIād tear out my fuckinā ribs if it meant youād give me one more breath. Just one. IāmāIām so close to beinā bones out here.ā
His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.
But he wonāt cross the threshold. Canāt.
Not unless you say the word.
You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesnāt beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chestāpart growl, part sobāand his head drops forward.
He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.
āYouāre a goddamn sickness,ā you whisper, soft and cruel.
āI am, baby,ā he breathes. āYou made me sick. Ruined me good, didnāt you?ā
And oh, how he sounds ruined.
You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like itās the only one he remembers anymore.
A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of youāhibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it allāand Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like heās fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.
āLet me in,ā he begs again, softer now. āLet me in before I do somethinā wicked.ā
You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.
āYou already are wicked.ā
He smiles, wild and ruined.
āYes maāam. And Iād be worse for you.ā
You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.
Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.
But you say nothing.
You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.
And Remmick?
He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasnāt meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.
| six months ago |
You didnāt move here expecting silence.
You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a waspās nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.
But not the silence.
Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like itās trying to time its own.
The houseāyour house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you donāt rememberāis old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.
But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.
And the silence? Youāve started to like it.
Until one night, it breaks.
Itās not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighborās dog. Itās slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.
You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. Youāre sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robeās open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You havenāt seen a soul all week.
And thenā
āEveninā, darlinā.ā
You look up.
Thereās a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere youāve never livedāboots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like itās been carved from heartbreak.
You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.
You donāt move. Neither does he.
Heās handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. Thereās a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.
In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.
Still, you donāt get up. You donāt speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.
He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.
āYou look like you could use some company.ā
You donāt invite him in.
You donāt say much at all.
Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like heās trying to look harmless.
But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.
You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.
First, itās flowers.
Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.
Then itās peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.
Then itās a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.
Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you donāt recognize scribbled inside the cover.
Then the sound of hummingājust past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.
You donāt see him again for a week.
And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like heās been summoned.
You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. Youāre not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.
Ripe.
He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.
āYou aināt said my name yet.ā
āI donāt know it,ā you say.
He smiles like that hurts him.
āYou donāt need it,ā he says. āYou already own me without it.ā
Itās hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.
The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is aliveādense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.
And there he is. Again.
You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonightānot all the way, just ajarāand the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.
He doesnāt knock.
He never does anymore.
Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But itās not. You know itās not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.
You donāt speak.
You just watch.
The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You donāt. You could invite him inābut thatās not the game.
Youāve seen how he suffers.
And you love the way he suffers.
Heās filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hairās a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like heās been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.
When he drops to his knees, itās not a performance. Not anymore. Thereās no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.
He whispers something you donāt quite catchāyour name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like heās trying to carve your initials into the floor.
āI dreamed of you again,ā he rasps.
His voice is shredded. Used up.
āYou were wearinā that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlinā and I almost cried.ā
You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You donāt think he notices, but he does.
His eyes flick to the motion and he moansāsoft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like itās consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, youāll take pity.
āPlease.ā
The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.
āPlease, IāI donāt care what you do to me. Donāt even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethinā. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.ā
You shift in the doorway.
Then you speakāfinallyāvoice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.
āWhy do you keep coming here?ā
He whimpers.
āāCause I caināt not. āCause youāve got me chained up in hereāā He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. āāand I like it. I fuckinā like it, baby. Aināt that sick?ā
You donāt respond.
Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.
āYou want to come in?ā you murmur.
His breath catches.
Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.
āYes. Yes maāam. Please.ā
You tilt your head.
āWhy?ā
He blinks. Heās confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.
āBecause IāI need you. Need whatās inside. I caināt smell nothinā else but you. Youāre in my fuckinā blood, sweetheart, and I aināt never tasted you but itās killinā me just knowinā youāre behind that door.ā
He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts outānot quite licking it, but closeāand you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like heās ashamed of it, like he wasnāt supposed to let you see that part of him.
Your stomach flips.
You almost say it. Almost.
But then you pull back.
And he breaks.
He wasnāt always like this.
You remember that. You remind yourself of it oftenābecause it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.
Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like maāam and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, donāt you, sugar?
Now?
Heās a wreck.
On all fours.
Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog thatās been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.
His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.
You can see the way it splits when he pantsālike he canāt decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.
He looks up at you through his lashes, and itās not seductive.
Itās pleading.
Pathetic.
Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. Heās shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.
You tilt your glass. Take a sip.
He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.
āGod, please,ā he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like heās drunk on the smell of you. āPlease, I canātāI canāt take it no more, baby. Youāre killinā me. Killinā me soft and slow and I fuckinā love it.ā
You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.
His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.
āIāll be so good to you,ā he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. āYou donātāyou donāt know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayinā for a dream of your fuckinā voice.ā
You raise an eyebrow. But you donāt stop him. And thatās all the permission he needs.
āIād eat it for hours,ā he blurts, voice breaking. āIād keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. Iād fuckinā cry for the chance, darlinā. You donāt know what Iād do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.ā
He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.
āIād make it good for you,ā he groans. āBetter than anyone. Iād hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. Iād tear my fuckinā throat out if it made you wet.ā
You stay silent.
Let him spiral.
Let him beg.
Let him drown in everything youāll never give him.
His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesnāt even seem to notice. His hips rock forward onceāpatheticallyālike heās rutting against the air just from being this close.
Thenā
āSay it,ā he croaks, wrecked and delirious. āSay the word. Just the once. Just once and Iāll die happy. Iāll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ātil Iām nothing but bones and thank you for it. Iāll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.ā
You watch him twitch.
You donāt speak.
And that silence?
It undoes him.
He presses his face into the porch and sobsāone sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clenchāand you think, maybe next time.
Maybe.
But not tonight.
Itās late.
Later than you usually sit up for him.
The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. Youāve just bathedāskin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.
The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moonās a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.
But heās louder.
Heās already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkillāon his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.
But when he hears the door creak, he moves.
Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moansālow and open-mouthed, like heās just caught your scent for the first time all over again.
āSweetheart,ā he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. āSweetheart, IāI dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.ā
You say nothing.
He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darkerāsomething old. You donāt ask. Heās trembling.
You step forward.
And he growls.
Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes outāforked, twitchingāand he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.
āYou smell like soap,ā he whimpers. āLike youāre clean and warm and wantinā. You did it on purpose, didnāt you? You always do.ā
You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.
He chokes.
You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.
And then you whisper it.
Soft. Small.
The word.
āCome in.ā
He doesnāt believe you at first.
His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.
āWh-what?ā he croaks.
āYou heard me,ā you say, voice low. āYou can come in.ā
And thatās all it takes.
He lunges.
Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurtsābut in a way he wants.
He weeps.
On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.
And he wailsāthe sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man whoās tasted Heaven and is terrified heāll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and youāre seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.
āIāll be so gentle,ā he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. āIāll be good. Iāll be sweet, sugar, I swear itāI wonāt bite unless you ask. Iāll eat and eat ātil you shake and sob and soak my chin and then Iāll fuckinā beg for seconds.ā
You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.
He sees it.
And loses whatās left of his composure.
He goes slow at firstāpainfully, reverently slow.
Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.
And you do.
Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:
āSo sweetāso sweet, fuckānever tasted anything like youāplease, let me die hereālet me drownālet me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckinā leash, baby, Iāll be anythingāā
You come on his tongue once, and he doesnāt stop.
Doesnāt even pause.
Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and heās been crawling the desert for years.
You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.
āCan I fuck you?ā he begs against your cunt. āPlease, can I? Iāll go slow. Iāll go soft. Iāll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? Iāll give you rough. Want it sweet? Iāll make you sob. Iāll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ātil the walls crack.ā
He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.
āTell me I can fuck you.ā
You nod.
He breaks again.
And thenā
He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groansāchoked and low and obsceneāwhen the head of it brushes against your entrance.
He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.
āYou sure?ā he whispers. Like heās asking permission to live.
You nod again.
āThen hold on to me, sugar,ā he says, voice raw and trembling. āI ain't never cominā back from this.ā
And he pushes inā
Slow. So slow. Like heās scared youāll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.
He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.
āFuck,ā he whimpers, voice shattered. āYou feel likeālike you were made for me. IāmāIām not gonna last. I ainātāplease donāt let go of me.ā
You clutch his shoulders.
He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man whoās finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.
He doesnāt move at first.
Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside youāthick, hot, leakingāand for a moment you think he might cry again.
Then he growls.
Low. Deep. Possessive.
And moves.
One slow pull outāalmost all the wayāfollowed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.
āFuck,ā he chokes, already shaking. āOh, sugar. Oh, baby, youāyou donāt know what youāve done. What you let loose.ā
He doesnāt wait for permission anymore. Doesnāt need it. You gave it the second you said come in.
Now heās fucking like itās all he knows how to do.
His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.
Youāre soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like itās the only prayer youāve got.
āYou wanted me like this, didnāt you?ā he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. āWanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckinā am.ā
He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.
He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.
āYou feel that?ā he whispers against your mouth. āThatās me in you. Deep as I can go. Youāll feel me for days. Iāll make sure of it.ā
And he does.
He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he canāt stop. Like if he slows down, heāll die.
You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.
āLet me taste you,ā he begs. āLet me drink while Iām inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.ā
You nod.
He doesnāt even hesitate.
His mouth opens wide and you feel the biteāsharp, electric, perfectāright where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.
It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.
You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like itās sacred, like heās breaking apart inside your body.
You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.
āGonna come,ā he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. āGonnaāfuck, sugar, Iām gonna fill youāgonna mark youāmake you mineāmineāmineāā
And he does.
Hot and thick and endless.
He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into youāclaiming you, over and over, like his body doesnāt know how to stop. Like his need has no end.
He finally stills, trembling.
Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like heās worshipping it.
And thenā
He kisses the bite.
Soft.
Gentle.
His hands cradle your face like youāre glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.
āYou saved me,ā he breathes.
And for once, you donāt correct him.
You donāt know how long you lie there.
Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The stormās long gone, but you can still smell the raināsweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.
You feel it when he finally starts to move.
Just a shift.
The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like heās reminding himself youāre real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like heās afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.
You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.
He makes a soundāsmall, shatteredāand curls tighter against you.
āDonāt go,ā he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. āDonāt make me leave. Not after that. IāllāIāll be good. Iāll be so good.ā
You donāt answer. You donāt need to.
Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.
Thereās blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, rawābut it doesnāt hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.
You glance down.
Heās watching you.
Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almostāfaint and strange, like heās lit from within. Thereās a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesnāt wipe it away.
You wonder if heās ever looked more peaceful.
āYou taste like sunlight,ā he murmurs, dream-drunk. āLike nectar. Like the end of the world.ā
You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.
āDonāt get poetic on me now.ā
āI aināt,ā he slurs, eyes fluttering. āJust honest.ā
He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like heās still trying to memorize it. His hands roamāslow, aimless, like he doesnāt know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.
āI aināt lettinā you go,ā he mumbles. āNot after this. You said it. You let me in.ā
You nod. You did.
And you meant it.
He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.
āIāll be good,ā he repeats, softer now. āYou just tell me what to do, and Iāll do it. You want a house? Iāll build it. You want blood? Iāll bring you the whole fuckinā town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as Iām yours.ā
āYouāre mine,ā you whisper.
And he moans.
Like the words filled him with something heās never had in thirteen centuries.
You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you donāt move.
Neither does he.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You know because the grip he has on you loosensābut only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.
And you?
You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.
The blood on your neck has dried.
The slick between your thighs has cooled.
But his body stays warm against you.
And outside, the sky hasnāt yet begun to lighten.
No birds. No blue.
Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.
Because he canāt survive the sun.
And tonight, for once, you donāt want the morning to come either.
content warning: 18+ content, humiliation, swearing, mentions of corruption and public sex.
š: you requested it so, hereās part two!
PART ONE HEREĀ ft. obey me brothers
āshh, prettyā¦ā solomon grunted in your ear. āyouāre being too loud, someone will hear us. you wouldnāt want that, would you?ā
you choked back a moan when he thrusted into you again from behind, shaking your head at his question. your underwear was pushed to the side and you were leaning forward against the couch, barely able to hold yourself up from the pleasure coursing through your veins. it didnāt help that he was radiating magical energy that made your skin buzz with life.
āgood puppy..ā solomon cooed, biting your earlobe. āI bet you are enjoying being fucked where anyone could walk in at anytime, hm?ā
before you could moan out a response, the door to the side of the common room opened and you gasped, trying to tell solomon to stop but he didnāt notice the intruder, pressing your face into the couch.
The brothers' reaction to walking into your room while you and Solomon are doing the do
WALKING IN ON YOU & SOLOMON ft. obey me brothers !
includes: obey me! brothers x reader
content warning: 18+ content, swearing, violence, dubcon, possessive behaviour and a threesome insinuated.
š: hopefully you guys enjoy it! thank you for the request! I also changed it up to the common room because I'm pretty sure solomon would have made a magical barrier on your door if he wanted to keep things private haha
PART TWO HEREĀ ft. the dateables
"shh, pretty..." solomon grunted in your ear. "you're being too loud, someone will hear us. you wouldn't want that, would you?"
you choked back a moan when he thrusted into you again from behind, shaking your head at his question. your underwear was pushed to the side and you were leaning forward against the couch, barely able to hold yourself up from the pleasure coursing through your veins. it didn't help that he was radiating magical energy that made your skin buzz with life.
"good puppy.." solomon cooed, biting your earlobe. "I bet you are enjoying being fucked where anyone could walk in at anytime, hm?"
before you could moan out a response, the door to the side of the common room opened and you gasped, trying to tell solomon to stop but he didn't notice the intruder, pressing your face into the couch.
LUCIFER
when he sees you bent over the couch, solomon fucking you from behind, he freezes where he stands in the doorway
his eyes trail from the spot between your legs all the way up to your glistening eyes and it makes his cock twitch in his dress pants
he coughs, crossing his arms with a frown on his face and watches as solomon pulls away from you, shocked from the sudden noise
"l-lucifer-"
"mc, you better have a good reason why you're allowing solomon to defile you in a public space such as this. I better see you in my office when I come back from my meeting with diavolo."
he watches as your eyes fill with fear and he turns to leave, a smug smirk on his face
let's just say, you didn't leave his office until you could barely walk back to your room
MAMMON
oh boy, he gets so jealous
how could his beloved mc, HIS human, have sex with a MERE HUMAN when they could have the GREAT MAMMON: the 2nd strongest demon in the student council, your first pact and your first man?!
he rushes forward, a blush on his cheeks and he throws solomon off you, lifting you up and hanging you over his shoulder
you punch at his back and yell at him to put you down but he ignores it, stomping out of the room with you
"y-you're mine, damn it!"
"why him?! why didn't you come to me!?"
"you're my human, remember!?"
he'll whine to you all the way to his room where he shows you how good he can make you feel
LEVIATHAN
it was like out of the anime leviathan watched called a demon finds his master sleeping with a sorcerer and he nearly passes out from the sight
"m-mc.." he stutters over his words, eyes fixated on solomon's cock thrusting into you
solomon stills his movements and looks back over his shoulder to see the demon behind him and swears under his breath
you push solomon off you gently and fix your clothes, cheeks red from embarrassment
you mumble shyly, fingers playing with the hem of your blazer, "um, levi, could you maybe.."
before you could finish your sentence, leviathan transforms into his demon form, eyes filled with envy and you gasp moving to stand behind solomon, but levi's tail wraps around you, lifting you into the air to stop you
"w-we're going to my room, mc, now!" he hisses, his cock straining against his pants and he leaves with you in his tail's grasp
poor solomon
SATAN
satan usually is able to hold himself together but when it comes to you with solomon, his rage seeps through the cracks of his demeanor
he growls, stalking over to you and ripping the sorcerer off of you to the floor
all he can see is red and he beats solomon until you have to stop him from killing him
"please! satan, stop! down!"
satan spins around, grabs your wrist and drags you to his room, roughly throwing you against a bookcase and trapping you with his arms
he hisses, leaning down to leave possessive bite marks on your neck "are you really that naĆÆve that you need to go to a human when you have seven demons just waiting for you to let them fuck you?!"
you whine, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes and lucifer has to come into the room to stop him from taking his anger out on you
after a few hours, satan comes back to apologize, a bouquet of flowers in his hands and a promise to read you your favourite book until you fall into a comfortable sleep snuggled up to him
ASMODEUS
"well, well, look what we have here."
asmodeus giggles, fanning his face at the sight of his two masters fucking in the common room
his cheeks were red from arousal
"how come I wasn't invited?"
you blush, feeling solomon pull out of you, and you stand up off the couch, unable to meet the eye of the 5th oldest demon brother
"aw, come on now, don't be shy.. I'm sure you wouldn't mind me joining you? I am extremely gorgeous, after all."
you watch as admodeus stalks towards you and you find yourself pressed up against the chest of solomon with the demonās hand caressing your cheek, his body against your front
you were trapped in between their bodies and your head turns to look up at solomon, noticing a smirk on his face
that's when you knew you were in for a long night and you weren't complaining
BEELZEBUB
beelzebub walks into the common room with his head filled with only the thoughts of food
he glances at you both and walks over to grab the cookies he left on the coffee table
the smell of your arousal makes his tummy grumble, but he is too distracted to care
he shrugs at you and leaves the room, munching on a the cookies in his hand
you and solomon are both in shock from the strange encounter, stopping your actions
you were surprised by the way he acted, you'd think he would've been a tad bit jealous
when you go back to your room, you find yourself pressed against your bed and a head of orange hair drooling between your legs
you were correct, he was a tad bit jealous and he was starvingĀ for a taste of his master
BELPHAGOR
honestly, belphie doesn't notice at first
it's probably because he's sleepy, hands rubbing his eyes as he moves into the common room
but when he hears your whine, his eyes snap open and he notices the position you're in
he grimaces, finding it slightly disgusting
he doesn't exactly like the idea of solomon fucking you instead of it being him
he leaves the room silently so solomon doesn't notice, but when you come to sleep with him at night, he will press himself up against you, begging to touch you better
how could you say no?
he'll tease you, smirking against your skin when he leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses there
Gojo LOVES attention, and in the bed it is no different
The cocky motherfucker is loud and proud!
He wants you to know that he is loving every second and he won't have a problem with whining loudly in your ear with every thrust of his hips, telling you how good you feel
Gojo is also not ashamed of anything, so he will talk dirty with no hesitation, and sometimes you wonder how the words come out of his mouth so easily...
However, there are times when he is quiet;
This is usually when he is going through a hard time mentally, especially with his sorcerer work, and he just wants to focus on you and the feeling of being inside of you
