Thinking about how Ingellvar!Rook being in a relationship with Emmrich looks to the rest of the Mourn Watch.
One of the most high ranking and respected Mourn Watchers goes on sabbatical to apparently help save the world?? And he comes back with motherfucking Ingellvar??? Y'know, that crypt orphan Watcher who took one for the team so hard that they had to be sent out of the fucking country to keep the nobles from getting nasty???? And apparently they're back at it again with the taking one for the team schtick, because they're the one spearheading the saving the world thing????? And people call them Rook now??????
But amidst all that, the real kicker is that Volkarin and Ingellvar are obviously fucking. And possibly 10 seconds away from getting married. The amount of Not Giving A Shit What The Nobility Think coming off of Volkarin for this is staggering. The brass balls on that man. And what a comeback for Ingellvar. Left in big trouble, returned on the arm of The Hot Professor. No one is doing it like them.
I like to think that Myrna is proud of them both in different ways, Emmrich for letting himself make such a connection and Rook for choosing an excellent partner. Vorgoth is offering their wishes of ABUNDANT EXULTATION or some shit.
Meanwhile, the rest of the order is either losing their shit in various ways or just straight up confused. Either way, these two have got to be the talk of the Necropolis.
i was training a young person at work, and she referred to sexual assault as "SA" out loud, and i immediately was like, "no, it's sexual assault, call it what it is," bc idgaf if the algorithm overlords have taught y'all that you should fear direct language, how tf do any of you expect to ever address real issues with any amount of seriousness if you can't even say the words? imagine an advocate looking a sexual assault survivor in the eyes and asking "did he grape you?" it's absolutely fucking absurd, but these young interns and new hires are coming into an environment where we deal with survivors of all different kinds of abuse, and they're coming with the mindset that the words are as bad as the actions, and that makes them shitty at the job and look juvenile af
i HATE self-censorship for a lot of reasons, but being in crisis work makes it even more frustrating. who are you censoring for? like i am being so fr, WHO are you censoring for? have you even thought it through? people who have been raped know that they have been raped. if someone attempts suicide or is grieving someone who did, saying "sewer slide" isn't going to protect them from any of the feelings. a murder victim's family isn't going to feel better bc you said "unalived" instead of murdered. if anything, it's just extremely invalidating and othering. it's saying "what happened to you is so bad that i won't even say the word," which is NOT trauma-informed care. you are not protecting survivors/victims when you self-censor. the ONLY things you protect when you self-censor are the puritanical ideologies that are being encouraged by rich fascists who want your money and obedience
say the fucking words, guys. just say the goddamn words before i go insane!!!
Continuation of this post for Selene, Ashur, and Tarquin
Rook awoke to find herself staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, painted fancifully a night sky. Her body felt heavy, pressed into the bed, and the amount of effort it took to try and lift her head had her groaning. She let her head flop back onto the pillow with a sigh.
"You demonstrate a remarkable constitution," Viago de Riva's familiar voice informed her. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head and blinked at him, surprised to find the Fifth Talon of all people standing beside her bed and carefully measuring out a dark green liquid into a vial.
"V-Viago?" It look her a moment to find her voice.
"Yes," he informed her simply, "I am going to help you sit up and you're going to drink this antidote. This is the second dose."
It took a great deal of energy for her to sit, even with his help, and knock the vial down her throat. He held her at an angle to ensure she swallowed it properly before dropping her back onto the pillows.
Her head ached, and she said as much.
"Yes, side effect of the poison your would be assassin used," Viago informed her. "Imagine my surprise when an elven servant in the Archon's livery came bursting through the Eluvian at the Diamond, asking for the Crow's aid with a poisoning." His blue eyes were grave. "Your Archon was wise to call us. That poison should have killed you, given the concentration they used." He looked thoughtful. "I wonder if it might have anything to do with Warden physiology."
It came flooding back: the fight with the assassin, their knife slicing through the sleeve of her dress, their death when she rammed their head into a stone statue, then the burning sensation and lightheadedness. The last thing she remembered was hearing Tarquin yell at her.
She winced, "How much of a spectacle did I cause?"
"I believe the Archon's ball was still ongoing when I arrived," the Crow informed her. He set a series of vials, carefully stoppered, on the bedside table. "You will have one more dose you will need to take to ensure the poison is truly neutralized. Other than that, it will likely take several days before you regain your full strength." His gaze was serious. "You are extremely lucky to be alive, Rook. I believe Lucanis and Teia would prefer you remain so. Teia is oddly fond of you and Neve for individuals who are not Crows."
The door opened then, admitting Neve, her brow creased and a tension on her step that only eased when she saw Rook was awake. "Thank you, Viago," the detective told the Fifth Talon.
Rook took a deep breath. "Thank you for your help, Viago, and my life. I owe you."
Viago snorted, "With all you have done for the Crows, no, Rook, you do not. But if you need a contract, feel free to contact us. I shall return to Treviso and advise Lucanis that you are still alive."
She'd only been awake for a few minutes, but she already felt exhausted. Rook drooped against her pillows as Neve took a seat in the chair beside the bed. "Maker, Rook, next time someone tries to kill you, please find help rather than hiding in a hallway."
Rook gave her a wane smile, "Too much risk, can't let them see I'm too weak, not with the position Ashur's in."
"Mm, about that," Neve smirked, "You have a very angry Knight Divine, Divine, Archon, and Magister who are all going to want to scold you. We're lucky Tarquin came looking for you."
"Shit," Rook groaned. "Please tell me Tarquin's with Ashur at least?"
"As much as he wishes he could split himself in two, yes. As near as we can tell, you were the assassin's sole target, but the Inquisitor is remaining near Dorian and the Knight Divine is sticking to the Divine like a burr. Your door is also, guarded, by the way."
"Thank goodness for small favors," Rook murmured.
Neve touched her face, and Rook felt the cooling touch of ice chasing some of the pain in her head away. "Sleep now, Rook, the lectures can wait until later."
pairing: harry wells x reader
warnings: fluff, slow burn, mutual pining
word count: 1.3k
୨୧ ─────────── ୨୧
Masterlist ₊˚⊹ Taglist
Harry should have known better. That was the singular, frustrating conclusion he'd reached exactly three hours after learning that you were Catwoman. He should have known better than to allow himself to become so intensely curious, because curiosity inevitably led to questions, questions led to answers, and Harry Wells had never been particularly good at leaving a mystery unsolved.
Unfortunately for Harry, you appeared entirely determined to make yourself a mystery—and a deeply captivating, frustratingly attractive one at its core. The real problem was that now Harry finally knew exactly where to look. The playful, lingering smiles, the ridiculously revealing outfits, and the constant, brazen theft of Cisco's food all suddenly looked different under a new lens. It was intentional.
A calculated distraction. A flawless performance. And Harry absolutely hated being manipulated, especially when he couldn't figure out the underlying why.
Which was precisely why he found himself aggressively staring at a security report instead of focusing on the calibration project he'd actually intended to work on. The document detailed a high-profile break-in that had occurred three months ago: no alarms tripped, no physical evidence left behind, and absolutely no signs of forced entry. Nothing. Whoever had entered the building had bypassed six separate, state-of-the-art security systems without leaving so much as a single fingerprint.
Harry was impressed—annoyingly, deeply impressed. Suddenly, a familiar shadow cast itself across the surface of his desk. Harry didn't even bother to look up from his screen. "If you've come to steal something, make it quick," he spoke flatly, his fingers tapping against the keys.
A soft, familiar laugh answered him, sending a ridiculous jolt through his chest. "You make me sound so rude," you hummed, your sweet voice filling the quiet room.
"You are rude," Harry countered bluntly.
"Fair," you shrugged.
Harry finally lifted his gaze, only to find you leaning precariously over the edge of his desk, placing yourself entirely inside his personal space once again. A fresh cup of coffee sat cradled in your hand—definitely not yours, and in all probability, stolen from a defenseless lab tech.
Your plush fur coat hung wide open, silver necklaces layered beautifully across your collarbone, highlighting the black lacy bra you wore for the whole world to see. Your signature smirk was already firmly in place; it truly seemed to be your default expression. "You're staring at security reports," you noted smoothly, your eyes darting to the monitor.
Harry immediately minimized the file with a sharp click. You grinned instantly at the defensive reflex. "Suspicious," you sang in a teasing, singsong voice.
"I wasn't aware that reading was considered suspicious," Harry quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms.
"It is when you slam your laptop shut like that."
Harry frowned, letting out a heavy sigh. "When exactly did you get so observant?"
You dramatically gasped, placing a hand against your chest in mock betrayal. "When did I get observant? Oh my God," you continued, shaking your head in mock despair. "Harry thinks I'm stupid."
"I did not say that," Harry corrected, a rare, faint smirk ghosting his own lips despite his best efforts.
"You implied it."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did!"
Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. "You spend half your day stealing fries."
"I'm multi-talented," you shrugged carelessly.
"You sit on expensive laboratory equipment," he pointed an accusing finger at you.
"I sit gracefully."
"You once spent twenty minutes arguing with Cisco about whether cereal is considered a soup."
"Because it is!" you immediately rose to the defense of the argument, your eyes flashing playfully.
"It is not."
"It is."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, utterly exhausted by the logic. Suddenly, from all the way across the cortex, Cisco's voice echoed through the speakers, yelling, "It's definitely soup!"
"Thank you!" you shouted back over your shoulder, thoroughly delighted. Harry decided right then and there that he hated all of them.
.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡
Later that afternoon, Harry was diligently reviewing system diagnostics when he heard a commotion outside the cortex. Raised voices—angry ones—sliced through the usual hum of the lab, and his attention immediately sharpened. A strange man stood near the main entrance, aggressively arguing with one of S.T.A.R. Labs' security officers. The officer looked deeply frustrated, while the stranger looked completely furious. Harry watched the interaction unfold for a moment, but then he froze.
You had gone completely, utterly still beside him. No jokes, no playful smiles, no teasing smirk. Nothing. The transformation was immediate and deeply unsettling. You just stared blankly at the man, your breath catching, while the angry stranger never even noticed your presence.
Then, just as quickly as the tension had gripped you, you looked away, forcing a bright smile back onto your face as the heavy moment vanished into thin air. But Harry had seen it. Interesting. Very interesting. Because for the first time since meeting you, he hadn't just seen another layer of the performance—he had caught a glimpse of something entirely real.
.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡
That night, Harry found you sitting alone on the roof. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd gone looking for you in the first place, and the convenient explanation he settled on was lingering irritation. Unfortunately, deep down, he highly suspected that was a total lie.
You sat dangerously close to the sheer edge of the building, your combat boots hanging over the open air while the vibrant city lights stretched out endlessly beneath you, the faint sound of Thursday night traffic rumbling far below. You didn't look even remotely surprised when his footsteps echoed behind you.
"You know," you said quietly, keeping your eyes on the sprawling view of Central City, "most people use doors."
"Most people don't climb buildings," Harry retorted, stopping right beside you.
"Fair," you murmured.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke, and the quiet night air felt surprisingly, deeply comfortable between you. Then, the burning question left his lips before Harry could even think to stop it. "Who was he?"
You glanced sideways at him, the shadows of the roof making Harry's striking blue eyes look dark and unreadable. "Who?" you asked, trying to play it off with a casual shrug, though you knew exactly who he meant.
"The man from earlier," Harry clarified, his voice dropping.
The lingering trace of your smile disappeared completely. It was just enough of a shift to make Harry worry, which was a terrifying realization in itself. Harry hadn't worried about you since the day he met you. In fact, you annoyed him on a daily basis and were a chaotic problem he simply couldn't get rid of.
He loved it, and he hated it all at the exact same time—this terrifying reality of growing attached to you. He liked the smug little smirk you always wore; he even liked the way you pouted when Cisco told you to stop stealing his food. But the way your armor completely vanished now was enough for Harry to know his instincts were right.
For once, you didn't crack a joke. You didn't dodge the question, and you didn't redirect his focus. You simply looked back out across the glittering city.
"Nobody important," you shrugged softly.
Harry studied your profile in the moonlight. It was a lie, and judging by the subtle way you looked down, knowing he'd noticed the shift, you knew he caught it, too. For a brief second, your eyes met his. The teasing expression was entirely gone—the playful attitude, the constant, dazzling performance, all of it stripped away.
And in that fleeting second, Harry caught a breathtaking glimpse of the raw woman underneath the mask, the one you kept so fiercely hidden away from the world.
Then, you forced a small smile, and the protective mask slipped right back into place. "You're doing the thinking thing again," you commented lightly.
"You keep saying that," Harry sighed, leaning against the rooftop railing.
"Because you keep doing it," you pointed out, your voice returning to its familiar, melodic lilt.
"Maybe you should stop being so incredibly suspicious."
"Never," you laughed softly.
Harry absolutely loved that sound. The way you looked when you genuinely laughed was entirely different from the performative grin you always wore for the team. It was raw, real, and maybe the only part of yourself that you didn't hide behind revealing outfits and cute, calculated mannerisms. And for reasons Harry couldn't even begin to explain to himself, he found himself looking forward to the challenge of breaking down your walls.
Rolan x Tav (my own). I always felt insecure abt posting my ocs with canon characters but screw it, too many w.i.ps sitting in my folder. I will make some canon x YC comms out of few, since there's too many X3
We need to comfort Lucifer/Alastor after what happened to them in s2🥀🥀
LIKE MOVE BICHES IM COMING TO GIVE MY BABIES THE BEST PRINCESS TREATMENT THEY COULD EVER GET
Comforting Luci & Al after s2 𐙚˙⋆.˚
a/n 𝜗ৎ absolute drek but whatever i needed to at least write SOMETHING
warning 𝜗ৎ SFW, headcanons, Alastor being Alastor, short, not proofread at all
Lucifer ⋆.˚
Initially, coming home and treated his wounds, wrapping bandages around scorched skin, and kissing the bandaid
He’d usually be really flustered and feel guilty you’re giving this much attention to him, but he’s probably still dazed from literally being electrocuted over and over again, so he just complains about it hurting.
soooooo clingy. Practically glued to your side.
especially if you’re doting on him and giving him special treatment, he’ll be so needy even when he’s starting to feel fine.
It’d actually be hard to give him princess treatment because he never lets you get up.
Just nuzzles into your side further and holds you tighter.
Alastor ⋆.˚
okay so he’s much more begrudging to letting you help him out. He feels fine — not like he just had what was probably the second biggest fight in his life. Maybe third, he hasn’t thought about it.
But he’s very independent and wouldn’t much care for doting, swatting your hand away and when your fingers roam attentively over his wounds.
You’d really have to bargain with him to do anything for him, and occasionally he’d oblige.
Incredibly irritated he’d be like, “For goodness sake, fine. Clean the blasted cut if you’re going to be so pestilent about it.”
But then his ears twitch downward, and he leans into your subtle touches. it’s nice to have someone actually care every now and then.
𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ a/n this happened because I had a dream about it and I woke up like a sleeper agent hearing trigger words
𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ warnings dom reader, sub lucifer, reader has female anatomy and also an outie sorry, p in v, fingering, cockwarming, premature finishing , lucifer needs to get laid
𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ summary After you’re first date with the King of Hell, you take him back to you’re place. Basically you have sex with the devil and he’s pathetic about it.
The King of Hell was not what you expected.
He did not command respect when he walked into the room; he did not leave sinners groveling at his feet; and he certainly did not intimidate.
What he did instead, was fumble with shaking hands at your belt as he haphazardly cushioned you between himself and the front door.
Your make out session had slowed considerably, with Lucifer spewing out anxious words inbetween kisses.
“Funny— belts, ha… see when I was younger we didn’t really have these. I mean— not in a ‘i’m super old’ way, just in a… we were all naked… way” he sputtered nervously, sweat beading at his forehead and he pulls your belt from its loops. “That’s a weird thing to say during a first date- ha… that’s really weird.”
He began to unbutton your pants, before you stopped him.
“Relax,” you instructed, hands brushed Lucifer’s half unbuttoned shirt. You tried considerable hard to not show your surprise at his lack of confidence. “This is supposed to be fun. How long has it been since you’ve had sex, Luci?”
He flushed, “Come on, not that long— I mean, what’s seven years in the grand scheme of all eternity.”
You cupped his cheek gently, “apparently enough.”
He gulped, the soft contact was enough for him to grow fully hard in seconds. Jesus, he knew he was lonely but he could’ve sworn he used to be smoother than this.
Leading him back to the bed, you straddled him, continuing to unbutton his dress shirt. “Arms up,” You said absentmindedly.
Relieved at the opportunity to follow a command, he complied. His moment of relaxation was short lived, as it took everything in him not to cream his pants when you muttered “very good” at his obedience.
He bite back a whine, trying to not let his eyes roll back as your hands ran across his chest. Lucifer’s cock strained hard in his pants, nearly throbbing already at the innocent contact.
“You’re such a pretty boy,” you remarked, almost to yourself. But your tone — so achingly genuine. Like you really liked him.
“Wa- hah, wait—“ He warned, but your hands trailed down to the bulge in his underwear.
Tracing his length like gentle hands around a ready weapon, you muttered the trigger words. “Are you gonna be good for me, Luci?”
He whined loudly, before slapping a hand around his mouth. Furious ropes of white shot into in his briefs, and he recoiled from you.
“Oh my god—“ he caught his breath, nervous laughter caught in his throat, “That doesn’t usually happen, I usually last very long..”
You sat up, confused, and Lucifer stared back at you in silence. Tears threatened in his eyes momentarily before he blinked away with a ridged smile, hopping off the bed, and grabbing his coat from the ground.
“Well time to go for me, what a wonderful time, i’ll be sure to keep in touch to make sure this can happen again, i’m just loving every second—“
You caught his wrist.
“Lucifer—“ you breathed. “It’s okay.”
He looked up at you, blinking.
“You did good, you sounded good,” you reassured softly, rubbing his hands with your thumbs. “and I thought it was sweet you were so eager for me. You’re such a sweet boy.”
You really didn’t want him to go, he had been nervous all night in such an adorable way. He was probably the only man in all of hell that actually thought about someone other than himself. Unlike Lucifer, you had been on dates in the past seven years.
Before him you were starting to think no man in hell would ever be worth your while.
Before him.
Lucifer flushed once again, glanced down. “Well there’s more where that came from,” he managed, voice pitched and unsure.
You ended up on the bed again, straddling him while lowering yourself onto his dick. This time, you took notice to the faces he made, slowing yourself when he looked too desperate, trying elongating the moment.
He gasped he felt half of himself inside you. He’d forgotten the warmth of sex, the closeness— he chocked for a moment, before breathing “You feel so good.”
“Is that right, baby?” You begin to ride him slowly, maintaining eye contact as his own eyes fluttered below you.
He nodded, “Fuck— ‘forgot how good this felt. Ah—“
Lucifer bucked up into you slightly and you pulled off of him in swift movement.
He cried out sadly before you slammed back down on him. “Be good, Lucifer. Aren’t we going to control ourselves this time?”
Gasping for air between nods, he gazed up at you in desperate compliance. “I- hah, ‘m usually more talented.. ah— than this—“
“I think you’re doing just fine, sweetheart,” you said absentmindedly, trying to hit your own spot with Lucifer’s length.
His cock was genuinely impressive for someone so small. Not extremely long, but average and thick, enough to stretch you out, filling your walls nicely. Much nicer than anyone else you’ve had in Hell.
“Your dick feels so good, honey.” You sigh, contently, leaning down to practically breathe into his mouth — open and heaving.
He whined up at you, already completely undone and clearly trying to hold himself back from bucking into you.
Still, his mind stuck to your breath on his lips, warm and smelling of gum he saw you slide into your mouth earlier in the night, after a glass of wine.
He thought it was nice you wanted to be appealing for him. One might think everyone in hell wanted to appeal to the King but really, no one cared. It’d been years since Lucifer had even went to a meeting outside his house, and god knows the servants don’t make good conversation.
But you…
You leaned into his mouth, kissing him with comfortable ease. He moaned into it like a virgin. Lucifer was only half embarrassed of his behavior — it’d been so long since he had any form of sexual contact with anyone he might as well as been a virgin.
Still, sex was usually one of his strong suits. Making this … an undeniable flop. You were doing all of the work and he was just basking in the reward.
You probably think of him as a pillow princess; the thought made him frown. He’s really not, and he felt bad being one. Submissive? Yes, absolutely. But he also liked to give.
So why couldn’t he bring himself to do anything but lay there and moan?
You felt him frowning against your lips, and you pulled away for a second. You tilted his chin up at you.
“Why the frown, sweetheart?” You say gently, smiling to yourself as you continued to ride him.
He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was gurgled moans. Lucifer squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get a hold of himself. “I—ah, I want to, help—“
You raised your eyebrow. After years of not getting laid, he wanted his to be about you. You were actively giving him the opportunity to be taken care of, and he didn’t want it.
You slowly pulled your hands off of his pinned wrists. “Show me what you got, pretty boy.”
Lucifer whined, as he sat up, looking at you shyly. “You’re so nice,” he almost whimpered. “No ones— ah— ever this nice—“
He was cute. Sweat beaded at the top of his forehead, eyes glazed over as he looked up at you almost entranced. Shaking hands reached out to your thighs and then found their way to the front of your vagina.
Lucifer’s face flushed with nervousness, although he had nearly no trouble finding your clit.
You inhaled, eyes landing out him with something he could only describe as proudness. “Atta boy,” you said, no humor in your voice. Just genuine adoration.
He whimpered, leaning into you, hoping for a kiss. You obliged, and let your hand fall to his throat, using it as an anchor while you rode him.
His two fingers rubbed your clit with a confidence that must’ve been muscle memory, because his obvious experience did not match the anxious mess in front of you.
“Oh, honey,” the nickname fell from your lips with comfortable ease — like you’d known him forever. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He practically glowed everytime you praised him, “re—really?”
You sped up on his cock, wanting to reward him for his behavior.
“Yes,” you said, leaning into his neck, planting kisses that gradually become more like careful bites, “and so sweet—“ a kiss his lower neck, “and beautiful—“ his collar bone, “and—ah— so cute.”
Tears threatened to spill over Lucifer’s eyes as he squirmed, somehow still keeping a good rhythm on your clit.
“Ah… mmh, fuck— I can’t,” He tried, sniffing loudly before letting out a loud sob. “Oh god— ‘m sorry, ‘m gonna cum—“
You suddenly slowed to a stop on his cock completely, and he cried out in distress. Fat tears tipped over his eyelids and stained his face with the remains of eyeliner.
He expected you to punish him for his lack of control, to degrade him for his behavior — and you expected it too.
But you couldn’t find it in you.
His eyes were puffy with tears, and his natural rosie cheeks were exemplified from the crying. And his eyes: dilated and half lidded with pleasure, completely desperate for more. Desperate for you.
Your hand squeezed around his neck ever so slightly, and he shut his eyes.
“You are completely perfect,” you observed softly, almost shocked at the truth of it.
He moaned loudly, and his hand let up on your clit. “I—I—ah, no—“
He squirmed, and you locked your thighs down hard, stopping him from moving.
“No—no sweetheart. You don’t come until I do, understand?” You said sweetly. “I know my perfect boy wouldn’t let me down.”
He shook his head fiercely, moving his fingers the way you like. “No— I, I’ll be good—“
Obediently, Lucifer rubbed your clit with enough pressure to make the pleasure build, while also not being so aggressive it hurts. You’d be thinking about the impressiveness of that if you weren’t struggling to think.
You leaned into Lucifer while chasing your climax, planting kisses on his cheek, forehead, and finally lips.
As you deepened the kiss, Lucifer’s fingers shifted to the head of the clit, fingers positioned dead center while moving left-to-right, left-to-right.
“You’re so good, baby. Such a good boy for me,” you sighed into his mouth. He moaned in response, breathy and on the verge of tears as he tried his hardest not to rock up into you.
Thankfully for Lucifer, your climax built fast. The pressure was enough to dizzy you on his lap and your fingers dug into skin on his neck, making him cry out.
To his surprise, you didn’t catch your breath for too long before shoving him down on the bed and riding him at an unmatched pace.
The sudden sensation was enough to make his wings pop out, as he let out a long whimper. You tried not the let the sudden appearance of multiple sets of wings slow you down, despite the surprise.
They naturally curled around you, making a sort of structure that engulfed the two of you. They fluttered softly as you pet Lucifer’s chest.
“You’re so beautiful,” you spoke hoarsely. “Taking it so good, honey.”
Lucifer seemed unaware of his surroundings, and writhed underneath you, muttering ‘thank you’s in between girlish whining.
It was then, you took in all of his glory. His porcelain skin contrasted from the wasteland around you in a way that made him almost glow. Hell was ruins; buildings dilapidated and putrid, amongst a sea of the damned, molding and wearing from the neglect of their heavenly father. Like maggots over a sea of wreckage.
But Lucifer was beautiful.
He was masterwork of ceramics, gorgeous in a way that was ever so slightly off; skin that was too smooth, hair that was too bright, eyes that were too innocent for the father of sin.
That kind of nearly perfect could only be captured in oil paintings of lilies and flowerbeds.
“Cum whenever you want, baby boy. You earned it,” you spoke, and something in Lucifer’s face broke.
Whatever he was holding back burst through, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head, achingly thankful for your approval and happy to release.
He came with a loud whimper. His wings fluttered around you for a moment until they fell motionless around Lucifer. He breathed desperately on the bed.
His eyes were closed for a moment, and you leaned in to kiss his tears away.
They fluttered open. “That was— that—“ he tried, still panting. “Thank you.”
You kissed his forehead. Absentmindedly, it crosses your mind that Lucifer is the only man in hell you’ve ever planned to take on a second date.
Headcanon that when Alastor gets truly close with someone he has this toxic trait where he will tell them to go away, he will insult them, he will act like he’s mad at them when they get him show emotions in front of others. And then… he’ll get mad they went away, felt hurt or decided they didn’t want to deal with him anymore because clearly he ACTUALLY meant the opposite and they should know him better and they are selfish for not being with him 24/7
Alastor bursts into readers room*
Alastor: you better have a good explanation for avoiding me
Reader: what? You asked me to leave you alone
Alastor: of course but you weren’t supposed to actually do it. You haven’t talked to me in a week
Reader: you told me not to talk to you!
Alastor: again! You should know I never meant it. And now you are hanging out with Lucifer to make me angry
Reader: YOU LITERALLY SAID GO HANG OUT WITH LUCIFER INSTEAD BECAUSE HE IS THE ONE WHO IS ACTUALLY LONELY
Alastor: but I didn’t actually expect you to!
Reader: Alastor! Do you think I can READ MINDS!?!?
Marc Spector masterlist • Moon Knight Masterlist • Main Masterlist
Marc Spector x gn!reader • angst, domestic fluff, food, mentions of Moon-Knight-typical violence, mention of death • wc: 533
☾ ⋆*･:⋆*･☾ ⋆*･:⋆*･☾ ⋆*･:⋆*･
Sometimes Marc seems to forget, somehow, that you love him.
The way he slightly flinches when you rush to hug him as he walks through the front door.
You learned a while ago it isn't withdrawal, rejection.
He's not afraid of you. He just forgets, when he leaves the house, that you'll be that happy to see him when he returns.
Or the way he almost shrugs you off when you kiss his cheek in the kitchen.
He's trying to cook a meal for you. It's one of the only things he can actually do for you. Do right.
And you go and re-wire his brain with a soft kiss on his cheek in between tasks.
His face scrunches up and he shakes his head through a reluctant, half-smiling smirk.
"I'm cooking," he'll mutter, concentrating on chopping while you beam at him adoringly.
When he gets home from a mission and you pull his head down to your chest, in bed.
You rake your fingers through his curls while he listens to your steady heartbeat.
He resists you sometimes. That’s when you know he’s taken a life.
He forgets you can love him then. He forgets you understand, he only takes life to save life.
You reach for him, but he shrugs one shoulder. “‘s okay. I’ll go shower.”
He’ll stand there til the water runs cold and beyond, if you let him. If you don’t step in there with him, wrap your arms around his torso from behind. Or at least turn the water off for him and wrap him up in a big, fluffy towel.
"You're supposed to be sleeping," he mumbles as you towel dry his hair.
"Sleep better with you." Your gentle touch makes him tremble.
Your eyebrows arch, questioning if he needs space.
He whispers your name brokenly, fingertips brushing hesitantly at the hem of your sleeve.
He might as well be throwing his arms around you.
"Bed or couch?" You ask him, tracing your fingertips underneath his palm. You give him time to remove his hand or grasp yours.
"It's 2 A.M." He shakes his head once. You're tired. You shouldn't have to do all this for him.
"Bed...or couch?" You repeat, relieved as he grips your hand. "Or kitchen?" You smile at him, which reminds him how much you love a late night (or early morning) snack.
He works his lips in a straight line of contemplation at first, then a slight pout at himself, for always putting you in these situations. A snack will definitely make up for some of it, and he is the only one who can cook a damn thing.
"Nachos? And a DVD." His eyes go wide and hopeful.
"Something sweet," you counter, inching closer. "And nothing from the 80s."
"Done." He nods. “But you gotta sleep, baby.”
“Done,” you echo.
An hour later, the worst DVD from 1992 plays softly. Desserts plates are stashed messily on the coffee table.
You rest across Marc’s lap, asleep. His fingertips trace up and down the length of your arm.
An ache blooms in his chest.
But not from shame or regret. Not this time.
He just forgets, sometimes, how much you love him.
☾ ⋆*･:⋆*･☾ ⋆*･:⋆*･☾ ⋆*･:⋆*･
Marc Spector masterlist • Moon Knight Masterlist • Main Masterlist
Idk how else to say it but you made me a lover of Haytham with that x reader fic you made. I'm just curious if you are able to write simple fluff on the guy, preferably comfort fluff? But that's only if you're comfortable doing it of course! Love how you write ❤️
( all credits to @bankaizen from this phenomenal gifset ! )
✠ | DARLING, DEAREST ; HAYTHAM KENWAY
summ. You fall asleep in Haytham’s office. He’s vexed.
or: Haytham refuses to admit he’s been… charmed.
pairing. haytham kenway / ex-assassin!f!reader
w.count. 3k.
tags. tooth-rotting fluff , slow burn, Haytham-centric POV , cat-&-mouse established relationship , Haytham is SMITTEN & fighting his demons
a/n. Thank you requesting dear anon, & I hope this was to your satisfaction! I tried my best </3
WINTER SEASON HAS set in, and so they’ve lost the light quicker these days.
“How fares your progress?” Haytham muses, by the… fifth? Sixth? hour of his and yours’ meticulous decryption.
The Brotherhood’s cipher both you and Shay had (very painstakingly) misappropriated has proven tediously difficult to crack— even for an ex-Assassin such as yourself. Your partner in crime had already conveniently vanished sometime ago under the pretense of ‘stretchin’ my legs’ or so the Irishman claimed.
“I think my eyes are going to fall right out of my head,” you answer, candid. “This has been as dreadfully dull as watching Gist try to woo a woman.”
A wild scatter of encoded papers— more specifically, documents, annals, and missives of the Assassin’s— surround your temporary workspace: Haytham’s astonishingly comfortable chaise lounge, and a rounded tea table you haphazardly dragged noisily to your side from the opposite end of his office as a makeshift secretaire.
It’s crude and admittedly messy (“It’s an organised mess, Master Kenway,” you’d argued when he first fussed on the clutter on his hardwood floors) but, well, it’s proven sufficient.
“These are practically hieroglyphs,” you continue, sounding defeated. Symbols are soon to begin swimming in the air from your delirium at this point. The dim light of the moon filtering through the sleet-frosted windows and the waning, flickering fireplace didn’t help with the sleepiness either. “Either that or I’ve completely gone mad.”
The Grandmaster cocks his head. “I seem to recall you confidently stating you’d be able to decipher this, considering you’re an Ex-Assassin.”
“And I seem to recall you confidently saying you’d help,” you counter, lazily waving your lorgnette.
He vaguely gestures at his own chaotic desk. “I am. I have.”
“You’ve been staring at that page for the last twenty minutes, Master Kenway,” you say, astutely, which made his jaw tick. “How many times have you reread the same line, I wonder—?”
“It’s certainly more help than Shay can say he’s offered,” he deflects, reclining defiantly back into his seat. Haytham had been staring at the page, but it’d been for the past thirty. “And it was ten minutes,” he lies.
“Even so,” you stretch your arms above your head, languorously feline-like, and pop your knuckles and back with a relieved hum, “eventually, is what I specified. I never promised speed in untangling this absolute mess.”
“No,” Haytham agrees, distractedly. “I suppose you didn’t.”
You look—
Different, he notes.
Insolence is intrinsic to all who live in a world as fierce and deceiving as you and he do, and so the Grandmaster has always allowed a little leeway for your challenging of his authority, especially whenever cerebral. (He figures, too, that your temerity and back-talk must be how you ever lost favour with the Brotherhood in the first place.) But now—
Fatigue has made you less of the spitfire tigress he constantly butts heads with, now tempering you into a more tamed, domestic cat that’s pillowed and lounging against an armrest. You’ve disrobed the unnecessary layers of your usual Templar mufti in favor of moving freely, too:
Sleeves unbuttoned at the wrists, hair loosened from its usual tidy updo. You’d even gone as far as abandoning your shoes and folding your legs underneath yourself to keep warm, cushioned into the chaise as you studied and pieced together your translations.
Open informality. Proverbial unarmoring.
Not different, Haytham realises. You look at home.
Soft. Subdued. Serene. It’s a rarity to see you with your guard down.
(There’s something to be said about you allowing him this at all.)
…It’s rather charming honourable to witness.
Haytham’s arguably in a similar state himself; weary and worn out— half from taxing his mind, and half from putting up with your usual snarky remarks— tricorn long since set aside and cloaked coat hung by the door, spine sinking into the backrest of his seat.
Had anyone else been in the office, they might’ve considered the scene domestic— borderline intimate. Colleagues shedding their armour in the dead of night, focused and working closely; two souls lost in their own shared world as they orbit back-and-forth each other’s tables— each other’s spaces— to dismantle the shroud of information before them together.
“Christ.” You fail to stifle an unbecoming yawn, long and drawn out as you hide your face behind a piece of wrinkled parchment. “Oof.”
In another time he would’ve ignored it, but he’s looking for an excuse not to return to the mind-numbing journal belonging to some Assassin scribe before him, and so:
“How ladylike,” he compliments dryly.
“Oh, forgive me, Grand Master Kenway of the Templar Rite,” you scowl, though your spiteful tone is too bleary for its intended effect, “for being unbecoming and feeling rather run down after staring at ink and paper for the last…”
“Five hours,” Haytham says, flatly, from where the gilded table-clock sits ticking incessantly at the corner of his desk. He doesn’t dare tarry in his mind on how quickly and how easily he had finished your sentence, other than a quiet and abrupt realisation: When did we become this in tandem to one another?
But he shelves the thought away. It isn't the right occasion yet to rationalise or introspect. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want to. (Or, even more accurately, he’s simply afraid to.)
Haytham couldn’t blame you for losing track of time, anyway; not only had you been tasked with the decryption, but you’d also been the one sanctioned and responsible for leading the theft of the material from the Brotherhood’s hands that early morning.
“...Five hours!” you cry, and exaggerate by dramatically slumping further into rest. “I almost fell off a roof, too, thanks to Shay. You ought to give dear-old-me a break.”
“I did give ‘dear-old-you’ a break,” he deadpans. “And you rather vehemently declined my offer because you were insistent on ‘gaining headway of the bastards lest we lose their trail’,” he quotes, pointedly.
A beat.
Then you’re laughing. It’s gentle; the first Haytham’s ever heard of you sound that way.
It shouldn’t have stuck out to him— but it did.
“Did I say that? I sincerely don’t remember,” you say, gaze affixed on the crackling fireplace. “I suppose I was right when I said I’ve completely lost my mind. Or perhaps you’re just a liar, Master Kenway.”
Then, more quietly, as you begin to doze off:
“Mh, no,” you retract. “…you never lie to your own, now that I think about it.”
“I don’t make a habit of it,” he agrees, half-heartedly. “And watch yourself. That sounded dangerously like a compliment. I might just hold you to that.”
…No witty quip.
No ‘you flatter yourself!’ nor ‘you must be hearing things!’— Just silence.
He tilts his head from his seat to catch a proper look at you.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep here,” the Grandmaster declares, suddenly. “I will not hesitate to drag you out of my office myself.”
You inhale. Sharp. Blinking rapidly. Haytham has stood up to round the desk and lean against it, broad arms crossing his chest as he narrows his unimpressed gaze down at you. Had your eyes closed?
“I wasn’t. M’eyes were just resting,” you sniff, turn your nose up, and shift your resting position once more to fight the grogginess out your body, “you big British—”
Haytham cocks his head warningly. Go on.
“—brute.”
He snorts. “Charming. And what does that make you, lying over my lounge like a discarded coat?”
“Why, your very own brilliant genius, Master Kenway,” you say, sagely, to which Haytham had rolled his eyes and resisted from replying with, I don’t want you to be my very own anything. (Because, well. Hadn’t he just said he doesn’t make a habit of lying?)
“Right. Where were we? We’ve gathered they still use a mixture of rotating keys and mask letters,” you revise drowsily, reaching for your most promising endeavour yet: a suspicious letter about some vessel coming in from the Johor Sultanate. “And they usually send these through separate couriers, so I’ve been trying to do the guesswork on which might match,” you explain. “But that also means there’s a good chance the letter hasn’t even been sent— if we’re lucky, and we can intercept it— or worse, already been received, read, and destroyed.”
“Have any of these been checked for Sympathetic Stain yet?” Haytham asks, flipping through some of your transcribed material. The stain only reacts to direct heat; gaps in the leaves of pamphlets and reports could easily reveal hidden messages between the lines.
“Shay was supposed to work on that,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I’ll get to it. I hardly think he’ll understand the cursive anyway.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” Haytham threatens mildly, before sliding a lit candle close to his side to assume Shay’s abandoned duty. “A shame. It was rather nice knowing you.”
“Watch yourself, Master Kenway,” you parrot, amused. “That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”
“I— tolerate you,” amends Haytham, meanly. But there’s that low, doting laugh of yours that he can’t help but find himself lingering over again. It fills up the hush of the room. Echoes in his mind.
“Well, Shay’s self-aware, anyway; so he won’t kill me for saying that,” you dismiss. “I, ah, don’t know the word for it…”
Hm? You hear the Grandmaster hum. And even with your eyes trained to your papers, you can imagine the lift of his brows as clearly as you can hear the invitation in his voice to continue your story.
“When we were younger, Shay always complained that the alphabet would switch places whenever he reads,” you recall. “He could read perfectly fine, ofcourse. Just… took a little more time than usual. But, well, you know how kids are. They gave him a hard time over it.”
“I’m assuming you were one of those kids, given your character.”
“On the contrary,” you scoff, feigning offense. “I defended him. It was mostly—” Liam, you catch yourself. The grief of losing him is still far too near, even after all this time. He’d also been a childhood friend. There’s no such thing as knowing Shay Cormac without knowing Liam O’brien. “—other kids,” you soften.
Haytham glances at you.
Your elbow is propped against the armrest, fidgeting with the edge of a document; there, but not really. Your eyes are half-mast and shadowed by the firelight, distant in some memory he isn’t privy to. “You should retire for the night,” he says, finally. “You’re no use to me half-dead like a damsel in distress, after all.”
“One last paragraph,” you insist, shaking your head stubbornly. And he knows you’re truly tired now, because you hadn’t even bothered to bite back at his attempt to provoke you. “Then I’m done for the night.”
He says your proper name. Your heart stumbles over itself. “Go now,” he asserts, “before I make it an order.”
“No.”
“Mind yourself,” Haytham snaps, to no avail. You know him too well— well enough to read when he was genuinely upset by your penchant for insubordination and overstepping.
“You’ll have to drag me out here yourself like you threatened before,” you volley, flicking through your dog-eared pages busily, “or write me a formal decree, as Templar Grand Master.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” he says, frostily. But he eats his words when you finally set your quill pen down your table, and hand him the suspicious letter from earlier. “What’s this?”
“A terribly insipid report about some Dutch shipment coming in from the East Indies. I reckon there’s something else hidden at the space where the signature borders,” you nod to the candle as he moves to activate the stain. “It might be a key or atleast give meaning to one of our dozen useless decryptions. Read it out.”
(He glares at you over the blatant demand, to which you’d courteously added a humble “Please and thank you, Master Kenway” immediately after.)
-- To the Esteemed Officers of the British-American Trade Commission… Haytham skims the text. It reads out like the humdrum routine of a ship’s manifest, listing numbered figures and commercial cargo: Chinese textiles and silk, Singaporean porcelainware marked for auction, Indian spices meant for export, and other trades and assorted goods from neighboring countries. There’s nothing out of the ordinary at all; remarkably unremarkable.
“Ah. Here we go,” Haytham says, when the true script had finally revealed itself. “To you, my Brother,” he begins to read out:
“ ‘I’ve planted three of our finest to guard it— you shall know them when you see them— and have already arranged with our informant the finer details of this operation. Worry not and ensure only the hand-off shall take place smoothly. The Fortuyn will arrive in time for you, and will be there waiting to depart with you aboard once all is said and done with the deal.’ ”
“Signed by… no one. Ofcourse. How painfully theatrical,” Haytham adds, and skips over the last line of the message deliberately: ‘Nothing is True; Everything is Permitted.’
The Grandmaster turns to rifle through his desk of useless Assassin-ledgers before pulling out the sketch Shay managed to swipe along during the mission. “I assume the ‘it’ mentioned is yet another artifact. A piece of Eden the Assassin’s intend to get their hands on,” he muses aloud. “Troubling. The Fortuyn would’ve already docked by now. I can send for Gist to see what he can gather from the Harbour Master.”
He turns to address you. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose any of your decryptions have mentioned a hand-off date or location? Perhaps a possible name for said informan…”
The Grandmaster trails off.
You’ve— fallen asleep.
Soundly.
Lullabied by the crackle of the small office hearth, the calming tick of the desk clock, and the lilting croon of Haytham Kenway’s smooth-stone voice.
“Ofcourse,” he declares, bluntly. But a small part of him had instinctively mellowed his voice to not rouse you. He decides not to ruminate on why. “I thought I told you not to dare sleeping in my office?” he mutters.
No answer, still. Pure exhaustion has finally caught up to you, rendering you boneless with relaxation in your disarrayed bird-nest of papers and handwritten scrawls. What an insufferable woman you are, he wants to chastise, despite the alarming warmth demanding to bloom somewhere in his ribcage at the damning sight and unspoken implication:
You felt safe around Haytham.
You trust him. Wholeheartedly. Enough to drop your defenses, it seems. How foolish. How—
—at home you look, Haytham concludes the second time that night, listening to your slow and evened out, susurrus breaths. (Soft, subdued, serene.)
You’ve curled into yourself like an oversized cat, seemingly warding the chill of the Winter that’s seeped into the bones of the office by tucking close as humanly possible. Loose papers threaten to slip through your slackened grip, and the lorgnette you’d been using has already tumbled its way silently to the carpet floor.
“I ought to oust you for this utter display of unprofessionalism,” he grumbles uselessly, and strides towards you with half the mind of jolting you awake. (He doesn’t, ofcourse. That would’ve been ridiculous.)
For once, you don’t look like you have a sharp retort for him; your lashes are fluttered down to your cheeks in a dreamless sleep, and your peaceful face is swathed in a chiaroscuro of shadow and the dwindling firelight. You look, as much as he refuses to allow himself it, as stunningly graceful as a baroque painting.
Haytham blinks away and exhales. Ignores the thrum of… something, in his chest.
Distraction from it comes with slowly cleaning up the mess of your making: He puts himself to action and moves in complete silence, light-handed as he delicately removes the papers between your fingers, gathering up the remains of your hard work into stacks, where he sets them all under a paperweight on his desk. Then the candlelights and oil lamps are put out one by one, lorgnette kept away, and the tea table returned soundlessly back to its designated spot.
In the aftermath of his time-consuming tidying, Haytham spares a minute more by your side, lingering.
You’ll sleep yourself stiff, here, he debates to wake you. You’ll wake with a crick in your neck tomorrow that’ll end up with you complaining to me the entire day about. Maybe you’ll make sleeping here a terrible habit; or claim I’ve overworked your dear-old-self into exhaustio—
A lock of your hair is tickling the apple of your cheek.
He could brush it off. He could. You’re already deep in your sleep, and you haven’t stirred an inch.
Haytham’s hand twitches.
“Gone soft, Master Kenway?”
He straightens up so quickly he might’ve gotten whiplash.
“…Nice of you to finally join us, Cormac,” Haytham censures, clearing his throat as his face sets back to something unreadable. He doesn’t deign to ask how long he must’ve been standing there. “Your ‘darling, dearest’ here has succumbed. Make yourself useful and collect her, why don’t you?”
“My dearest, aye?” Shay raises his brows. He hasn’t yet been able to drop that knowing tone in his voice. “I wouldn’t wake her if I were you, though,” he cautions, before Haytham can fill in the pause by berating him, “it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Hell hath no fury like a woman woken up from her slumber, y’know? An’ your dearest is no ordinary woman, either.”
“Your dearest,” the Grandmaster corrects, sternly.
Shay glances at you. More specifically—
At Haytham’s cloak that’s curiously been draped over you.
“Aye, Master Kenway,” he smirks, innocently. “S’what I said, no?”
more portal pussy but this time… you’re getting passed around the entirety of 141. follow up to this
what started as a workaround for simon’s deployments quickly spiralled into stress relief for the entirety of 141.
ghost never explained what the portal pussy was. he simply left the disc on the common room table with a gruff warning: “don’t break it. and fuckin’ clean it after - or i'm takin' 'er back."
and now you’re getting passed around the whole team - and you’ve learned to tell exactly who’s using it by the shape and the rhythm.
simon is unmistakable. thick and heavy. he stretches you open with that familiar burn you’ve memorised. he feels like coming home - every ridge and vein dragging against every sensitive spot inside you until you’re clawing at the sheets and whimpering his name into the pillow. sometimes he still edges you for hours while he lies motionless behind his rifle, thumb lazily circling your clit.
soap fucks like he lives: fast, chaotic. the first time he borrowed you, you were halfway through making dinner. gentle circles over your clit suddenly turned into a thick cock with an upward curve that dragged relentlessly against your g-spot. short, frantic thrusts that made your knees buckle as you gripped the counter. when he came it was sudden, messy - buried deep inside you as your own orgasm washed over you so hard you almost dropped the spatula.
gaz is smoother, more precise; fucking you in slow, rolling waves - pulling nearly all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt and grinding into you. he’s patient, ever the gentleman, always playing with your clit at the same time, waiting to feel you gush around him before he lets himself finish.
price took the longest to give in. but now? he fucks you with a calm authority. long, deep strokes that bottom out every time. sometimes he just holds himself deep inside you, grinding the swollen head of his cock against your cervix until you’re overwhelmed and sobbing.
you don’t mind being shared - after all, if they’re fucking you, they’re still breathing.
You had thought that the hole you'd found in the rubble would be safe. You were so fucking wrong.
A large, rough hand grabbed you by the scruff. You kicked and screamed, to no avail. A man was over you, his pistol inches from your face.
"Let me go! Fuckin' let me go! Please!" You cry, writhing in the man's harsh grip.
"Shut your fuckin' mouth, little bitch." The man growls in a deep Russian accent. He flashes the gun in front of your face again.
The man disarms you, tossing your weapons out of your reach. He pins you face-first into the filthy ground. Next, he starts tugging on your shirt. You go rigid.
"What- stop! What the fuck are you doing?" You gasp, trying to get away from the man once more.
The man just tuts at you, as if you're some unruly dog instead of a human being. You felt the gun press against the back of your skull again.
"Shush," the man murmurs, breath hot against your ear, "Just relax. You can take it. You will take it. If you can't, I'll splatter your brains on the ground."
You just lay there, on the dusty, rubble-covered ground, while some beast of a man tore off your clothes. Every time you make anything louder than a breath, the man scolds you.
Your breath catches when you hear the man open his belt. You don't turn to look. You can't.
The man ruts his cock against your folds, seemingly disappointed that you aren't sopping wet. You squeak when the man spits on your pussy.
"I thought I said quiet, stupid whore." The man grumbles, rubbing his spit on your clit, "Be quiet for me, da?"
You nod, face pressed into the ground.
The man slowly presses his cock against your hole. You bite down hard on your lip in an effort not to start screaming. You can feel the man still holding the pistol against your spine.
"Good job, little slut." The man praises, "Being so quiet, so quiet for me."
You just sob silently. It's all too much. You can feel your walls being stretched far. You can feel the skin on your knees splitting. You can feel your nipples brushing the rough ground.
It feels like the man is pressing against your diaphragm by the time he finally bottoms out. For a moment, he stays there.
His fingers gently rub your clit, while his other hand strokes the gun up and down your spine. You will yourself to loosen up around the man. You don't want to end up tearing.
Slowly, the man grinds back and forth. You bite through the skin on your bottom lip, blood filling your mouth.
Soon, the man starts up a slow, deep pace. Every thrust feels like it's smacking your lungs. You can barely breathe.
The man's pace grows steadily faster until he's practically pounding you into the concrete. Tears mix with the dust on your face.
You sob in relief when you feel the man finally still, cumming deep in your pussy.
"For a little whore like you, you did surprisingly well for me." The man grunts, rubbing fast circles on your clit as he continues to gently grind into you.
The man forces an orgasm out of you while you sob softly. The man just tuts, holstering his gun. He pulls out, making you wince sharply.
The man tucks himself back into his boxers, lightly patting your ass twice.
"Nikolai, I see you found us a new toy!" You hear a deep British voice say.
You manage to push yourself up on your forearms, looking over your shoulder. You are so fucking fucked.
Summary: A vengeful person enchanted your pussy to a fleshlight and shared it with monsters to fuck you endlessly. This story does not shame sex workers.
Word Count: 1238
TW: Rape, noncon, sex work, large dicks, overstimulation, kidnapping, curses, clit play, mild nipple play
Your pussy was pounded over and over as you lay on your bed , ass up in the air, clenching around nothing. You were a cam girl that made her money by appealing to a non-human cliental so to speak. You would spread your pussy wide on camera and use large and inhuman shaped dildos for your customers. Some of them would even send custom ordered dildos modeled after themselves for you to use. Of course you did it gladly. You loved the attention you received and loved acting out whatever fantasies these depraved and perverted monsters had in mind.
This all changed however when you pissed off a former coworker of yours. A week ago you volunteered as a charity event for children with progeria. It was an upscaled event where people with prominent backgrounds would donate money. You were responsible for working the bar and collecting money for donations.
Your coworker however, didn’t seem pleased by your attempts to play the attractive and kind bartender or maybe she was just angry you were so much better at the role. After the event when you had gone home you felt something graze your pussy. At first you thought you had imaged it however it became undeniable when you felt a long-wet tongue lap at your clit.
Fingers spread your pussy open and there was nothing for you to grab when you reached under your underwear trying to stop the violation. The fingers and tongue worked at you until you were crying and limp on the hardwood floor, a puddle of cum between your legs.
What you had wished was a one-time occurrence began to unfortunately become more common. You began struggling to go outside and go about your daily activities, afraid your pussy would be randomly fucked or teased by invisible forces. Even videoing yourself for your subscribers becomes difficult.
Fear and paranoia flooded your mind unable to understand what was happening to you until a letter arrived in the mail. You opened the handwritten letter to discover that it was written by your former coworker. She explained how disgusted she was with you and made many awful and untrue statements about your character. After her long rant she revealed that she had your pussy cursed and that she had been passing around an enchanted onahole to men.
She had them fuck you with it and said she was starting to get bored with the concept until she found your secret content online. The letter goes on to say that she had even found some of your most diehard fans and that she couldn’t wait to show it to them.
Your mouth was open in horror, and you couldn’t believe that someone you barely talked to would go through so much trouble to hurt you. Even worse, you can’t imagine what it would feel like when one if your client decided to use it. It was hardly manageable now with human cock and fingers violating you when they please but monsters? There was no way you would be able to handle that, the closest you had even gotten was teasing them with inhuman dildos. Even then however you never went all the way down on them as your pussy was far too small.
A hot and large pressure was pushed against your labia and a shiver rolled down your spine. Already? Was the letter put in your mailbox by hand? The cock wasted no time in ramming itself inside you and your body convulsed from the intrusion. Screams erupted from your throat, and you felt the rigged cock slip almost entirely out of you before slamming back in at a rough yet slow pace.
You tried to stand up, and your quivering legs gave out beneath you when fingers began to pinch your clit. You felt them play with it as if it was a button on their favorite controller until you were cumming repeatedly. Your clit was licked, sucked, flicked, pinched, and held against a vibrator until you eventually passed out from the intense overstimulation, and the cock finally was removed from your abused hole.
When you awoke however you were not in your home, you were in a bare concrete room with a camera sitting in the corner. An iron shackle was clamped around your ankle and attached to a hook buried in the cement. To the right of the camera, you hadn’t noticed a projector on the wall showing a livestream from…. your channel.
Your eyes widened and you gasped at the realization. The channel countdown was in 5 seconds and once it became live your subscribers would log on to see you in lingerie, shackled in a basement and presumably some of them would have the ability to fuck you remotely.
The channel went live, and comments quickly began flooding in. Some of them were oblivious to what was happening, and others were excited to take turns. You tried to beg them not to do it but your cries were cut off from a large cock slipping inside you. It was thick and as he began to slide into you, you felt a knot begin to form, filling you up even more.
The stream was excited watching your pussy stretch and clench around nothing. You tried to turn your pussy away from the camera out of embarrassment but the moment you did do the pace of the cock began to go at a harsher and more aggressive pace than you though possible. Your cervix was slapped by the head, and you saw threats appear on the stream. Some of them claiming they would go there themselves and fuck you. Others said they would make sure to discipline you thoroughly once they got the chance.
You slowly turned your pussy back to the camera and tried not to look at the comments. The cock inside you had knotted completely and had filled your pussy to the brim. Against your desires it stretched your entrance as it began to pull out of you. You cried out and begged him to wait.
You expected to feel another take its place yet nothing. You wondered what the chances of them being done were until small tendrils began to circle your clit. They rubbed underneath your clitoral hood and wrapped around the base. You felt your pussy leak from the attention and your clit was far too abused from earlier.
You cried out for them to stop and for a moment they did until a message popped on the scream.
“Don’t worry we will take care of you”
Your pussy was once again assaulted, and shivers ran down your spine when you saw a long post in the comments explaining how to make their very own enchanted item. All they needed was a sex toy that resembled body parts you (sex doll, fleshlight, etc) and your full legal name which was graciously provided. The steps explained the necessary runes and how to provide them.
In a matter of a few minutes you felt your nipples and tits being violated by unseen hands. They pinched and kneaded you adding to your oversensitivity. Another cock was added inside your pussy and you felt yourself cum around it. Soon your asshole was violated as well. It felt as if your body was covered by needy and lustful hands as you came over thick monstrous cocks.
Welcome to your new life <3
A Broken Girl @iabrokengirl - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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