IN THE DARK—

[seduses]

a nsfw sideblog for lucy lee of preveils.

[woundtrail]

lucy smelled like the sun and the room like mothballs. these were the things he focused on while she bobbed her head and flicked her tongue and moaned into his lap.

until she spoke, and her voice broke his concentration.

why look at him, he wondered, when she couldn’t see? was it for his benefit? was it a practiced habit—some tenet of christianity that she couldn’t shake, even while the carpet chafed her knees and her hands folded around something other than prayer?

gently, methodically, he gathered her hair behind her head, caught her crucifix around his fingers. all of this he pinned to lucy's nape. all of this he held while pressing her down, down, until the flush of her cheeks warmed his thighs and the full length of him warmed her mouth. not so gently now, not as methodical.

he didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. but he heard her. even over his own heavy, tantric breathing: it was the most acknowledgment she’d given him, the most contact they’d had—beyond the physical.

here’s how it usually went: lucy on her back, where she could stare at the ceiling and pretend that ranta wasn’t there or else that he was someone, anyone, else; or ranta on his back, staring at lucy but looking through her, going through the ritual motions—hold the e—of what he figured was expected of him; both of them sweating, gasping, pulling sheets and clothes and hair when the situation called for it, not always in earnest but always in the dark. in the end, he always finished outside of her—mostly for practical reasons, but also to spare them both the indignity of some cum-induced, warm-and-fuzzy attachment delusion. then he would thank her, pass her a towel or a shirt, and stand under the shower until the water turned from cool to cold. sometimes, when he came back, lucy was gone. other times, they lay as far away from each another as the bed allowed, balancing precariously on the edge of the mattress until one or both of them fell asleep. but that was before. and this was—this was—he was—he—

pushed her head down, rutting against the slope of her tongue, the back of her throat. [ i hope you ain’t mad at me anymore. ] his pulse echoed in his ears, along with the sound of her wetness. in the dark, it all sounded like blood. [ i’d really like to try again, if you’d let me. ] that’s what this was: her trying, him letting her, him forgiving her by fucking her mouth at a punishing pace.

while she gagged and choked and drooled, her crucifix slapped against his knuckles.

lucy was good. she always had been. eagerness had made her good, but understanding made her better: today, tonight, she had assumed her place—and in so doing helped him find his own. [ ain’t no need to be polite. ]

he moaned as he came inside her mouth, moaned as he held lucy’s head a little too hard against him, denying her air while granting her absolution. i forgive you, he thought. it was so dark. it was so dark and he could see her anyway. and maybe for the first time since meeting her, he considered her beautiful: slick and sweating and gagging, kneeling on the floor, taking care of herself while she also took care of him.

i forgive you. his breath was ragged. he let go of his hold on her, smoothed back her hair. it was a tender gesture. i forgive you, i forgive you.

and still i do not love you.

[seduses]

lucy has repented plenty of times before: down on her knees, bent over a lap, flushed pink and gasping out to a god that hardly knows her name. this is different. ranta is god, is husband, is lover. he is counterpart, is partner— but not equivalent. nothing about this is equal. that's why she lets him lead, fucking up into her face, pushing her far enough down that it feels like hell, for only a second.

then, a breath. air, and moans, and the reckless rub of her cunt against her hand. tears streaming while drool drips down her chin. stars dancing in the corner of her vision, spit pooled along her collarbone, her wretched mouth gasping on the uptake and sucking when he guides her to. repentance, relief, the cycle repeats— ranta bucking up into her and showing her the way.

not god, but her god. not in love, but a lover. usually, lucy lies beneath him and stares at the ceiling. focuses on a spot that she can morph into some sort of shape. the outline of purpose, the structure of an owner, someone who would fuck her hard enough that she'd become something real. a creator, in the sense that they'd made her, in the sense that without them, she's only empty and wasting and waiting for her body to hold reason. in the way that without them, she'd be nothing.

in the way that now, with ranta, she can become everything. not always, not totally, but in these moments — mouth full of him, body bared for him, licking stripes hurriedly against his dick — she's the only thing he sees. the only thing he wants. the only one that can be used, can be trained, can be achingly, terribly consumed by the need to please. take me, fuck me, own me— lucy stuffs two fingers into her cunt as he reaches the back of her throat, and edges onto the brink.

she wants to be good. she wants to be better. she wants to suck him awake in the mornings, wants to let him pry her thighs open in the afternoon. she wants to ride him through the night, until the feeling of fullness is the only feeling she's got. she wants to not-love him until he doesn't-love her, but fucks her like she's the only cunt that he can fathom knowing. she wants to be good. she knows she can be better.

so, ranta grips her hair and forces her down and she follows him to the end of the line. until she's dizzy and whining and barely able to breathe around the length of him, her fingers slick and wet and sloppy against her own skin. she presses into her clit, bucks up into her own hand, and while he comes down her throat — hot and quick and salty — she comes against her hand, lashes fluttering and stuttering and barely able to regain the sense to swallow.

i take care of me, i take care of you, i take care of us— and this, too, can be forgiveness.

lucy shivers and pulls herself off of him. ranta lets go of her hair. she wipes the drool from her mouth as best she can, and leans her pink-flush cheek against his thigh, still teary-eyed and trembling. another swallow of the half-bitter taste in her throat, and she listens to him breathe.

"thank you."

[seduses]

[eavesdrop.] sender fucks receiver where others can hear but not see. — @unpunish, as john winchester.

john's a bad habit. something like smoking, something like gasoline: getting her dizzy-drunk on fumes. star-bound and stripped when he leaves. it makes her stupid, flimsy with the belief that she's something special— wrapped up in his arms like she's a monolith of femininity. built up to sensuality, broken down by innocence. naiveté. she's his damsel-written desire, his bed-scene costar; speckled in light and lace, everything saccharine at her lips. still honeyed with the imprint of his hand, pink across her skin.

he's like a sour shot of whiskey. a second cigarette on unsober nights. he's gruff and tough and jagged at the edges, cutting her open to twist at her insides. john's an addiction, the same way he's a vice, and every good, good girl needs a bad, bad thing to keep her sane— to keep her satiated, when nothing else does.

so when he's barely tipsy and she's halfway drunk, all heat and rush and hands, hands, hands, he tugs her into a bar bathroom stall and hikes her skirt like he's got nothing better to touch. and maybe he doesn't. maybe it's just him and her and the rotten world at the edge of their fingertips, hunting monsters and spirits and dragging themselves down to hell. maybe it's just fuck and come and spit, maybe it's just please and more and harder— maybe it's just them. maybe it's not. either way, she takes it in stride.

her panties are pulled to the side, scrunched in the divot of her thigh as he fucks into her. she's wet enough to leave smears on his jeans, slick enough to hear beneath the sound of bar chatter. lucy mouths at his neck, legs hitched around his waist, whining 'til it reverberates through the empty stalls. "fuck," comes out as a broken syllable, snapped in two with a thrust that hits her right in her core. "john—"

+ [hush.] sender forbids receiver from making a sound.

his hand slides over her mouth. clamps it shut with only a half-effort. her moans muffle, nails digging into his shoulders, and she squirms against him as he kicks it up a notch. a beg smothers beneath his palm, any please or thank you's drowned as the sound of the bathroom door creaks open. lucy screws her eyes shut, quiets down to a whimper, and clenches around him. (if she was decent, she might feel shame. because she's not, she nearly comes.)

[seduses]

[beg.] receiver makes sender beg before giving them what they want. — @perditionable, as dean winchester.

"ask nicely." her voice is all sugar-sweet and syrup at the edges, dripping like condensation in the summer. she's candied lips and decoration, dressed down in nothing but her panties— placing herself on a platter. giving him what he wants. somehow, some way, dean makes her feel wanted — and not in the sickly, nauseating way that takes over her head and drenches her down to her bones — it's more like heat. curled up into her stomach. stretchin' its fingers out to her core. filling her with the type of warmth the sunset leaves, even when it's dark.

it's nice. it's more than nice. it's something special, all wisps of want and dances of need, cooking up in her mouth like she could damn near kiss him to every corner of the earth he's never seen. as if she's something magic. as if she's something more.

so, she says ask and he says please and lucy's the last supper on the dining table, an apple in the garden of eden— but neither of 'em give much care to the pull of sin. they've been dancing with the devil and fucking vices into the mattress, lacing words with their betrayal and abandoning the rules of mankind— hunter to vampire, vampire to hunter; fuck the rules of engagement. it's their choice, now.

+ [bite.] sender sinks their teeth into receiver's neck.

his teeth don't seem so angry, anymore. there's something delicate in it, fragile like he wants to be careful enough not to pull her apart. still, she wants it. craves it. aches to fall apart just to come back together. her mouth makes the shape of an O, hips grinding down into him as he drinks, and any star-shaped spots in her vision are only from pleasure. "baby." soft, mewled. her hand combs through his hair. "gimme a kiss."

[seduses]

the carpet of the motel's been getting more and more familiar. every time the imprints from it start fading, lucy tries to reacquaint herself with the position she knows best: kneeling. it's like prayer. it's like repentance. it's soundless motions to an absent god ... (and ranta's just another mouthpiece that says 'suck' when she needs it.) it's a confessional. it's a invocation. it's sunday service professing its love for the priest; she's the follower. he's the bishop. the motel's their church, and— hallelujuah, amen. bless the father for all of lucy's sins.

[deep.] sender pushes receiver's head down during oral until they gag. — @graveflwers, as ranta zen'in.

the cross around her neck dangles between his thighs. (face to flesh, mouth full of purpose.) lucy's throat strains, gurgling around him with spit-laced flicks of her tongue, and a moan muffles against his skin. if she was a better woman — a godly, saintly woman, — she might've stripped the cross and left her clothes on for this. but because she's: [⁰¹] seen demons and failed god, [⁰²] killed monsters but betrayed the father, [⁰³] became a woman only to worship the man ... she doesn't. instead, she presses her hand between her thighs and waits 'til the slick of her is enough to hear through the room.

and god, if she doesn't feel shame about it— sick and sweet and delirious with the feel of it. pressing her fingers against her clit, jerking hips to tug out moans, all while several inches full in the other direction. her lips pull up against the feel of ranta's hand, and then sinks herself back down when he pushes. (gag, spit, suck; gods and saints and salvation.) she finally pushes herself away with a pop, looking towards the other briefly. "ain't no need to be polite." she says, blinking in the dark of the room. "i like when 's deep."

[absolmemes]

☾ lustful action prompts.

a litany of prompts exploring intimacy and sexuality. mature audiences only; do not interact if you are a minor. add +reverse to reverse the roles. combine prompts by sending multiple at once. only use these prompts to portray consensual scenarios.

[beg.] sender makes receiver beg before giving them what they want.

[fumble.] sender struggles impatiently with receiver's clothes.

[shh.] sender stuffs their fingers in receiver's mouth to keep them quiet.

[tug.] sender grips receiver's hair to pull them closer.

[tie.] sender binds receiver's wrists with rope / belt / tie / etc.

[bite.] sender sinks their teeth into receiver's neck / shoulder / skin.

[scratch.] sender rakes their nails down receiver's back.

[drip.] sender drips spit into receiver's mouth / onto receiver.

[69.] sender and receiver go down on each other at the same time.

[needy.] sender teases receiver about how desperate they look.

[deep.] sender pushes receiver's head down during oral until they gag.

[eager.] sender holds receiver's head still and fucks their mouth.

[anchor.] sender pins receiver's hips while eating them out.

[grind.] sender grinds their hips into receiver while receiver gives them oral.

[press.] sender pushes a hand against receiver's stomach while inside them.

[hold.] sender grabs receiver's hand to hold while they have sex.

[pin.] sender pins receiver's wrists above their head.

[straddle.] sender straddles receiver's body to restrain them.

[clutch.] sender clutches receiver's jaw to hold their head still.

[hollow.] sender presses a thumb into the hollow of receiver's throat.

[cradle.] sender cradles receiver's throat in their hand, applying light pressure.

[stay.] sender cockwarms receiver.

[breed.] sender fucks receiver deep and finishes inside.

[stare.] sender forces receiver to maintain eye contact.

[cling.] sender wraps their legs tight around receiver's waist while they have sex.

[elevate.] sender places a pillow beneath receiver's hips during sex.

[suckle.] sender sucks on receiver's chest and nipples.

[eavesdrop.] sender fucks receiver where others can hear but not see.

[praise.] sender praises receiver for taking it well.

[hush.] sender forbids receiver from making a sound.

[chokehold.] sender locks receiver's throat in the crook of their arm.

[mark.] sender leaves hickeys on receiver where they will be seen later.

[nuzzle.] sender buries their face in receiver's neck mid-fuck.

[rut.] sender gets caught up, fucking receiver harder without warning.