bruises litter golden thighs, marks left by the hound’s teeth and fingertips. one of lucifer’s trembling hands is wound tight in ramsey’s hair as they arch up off the piano, breath coming in ragged gasps. ❛ ramsey — fuck, please, please … ❜
there is nothing kind about how any of this has gone down, so far; each bite to flesh has been exact. purposeful. just angry enough to help some of the burning in his chest that he’s been struggling with for weeks, now. wild. feelings build, all of them negative, until they end up here — until he’s able to stop thinking and start feeling, instead. talk is cheap. they have no interest in it. there’s nothing that ramsey can say to lucifer that will make everything clear but this — oh, this is warfare, this is cruelty. this is punishment. justified, by every means. horrible, to anyone who doesn’t know or understand them. gone are his days of being a comfort and in place of them, there is this. simmering. mouth too hot. intentions terrible. actions leaving behind bruises that are going to last for more than a few days. lucifer will be wearing reminders of this little instance in hidden places; they will be felt. constant. a fucking prompting of the hound’s resolve — a reminder of what they’ve become. labels aren’t needed, not with how human language will simply find new ways to fail them. humans don’t have words for anything they’ve done for each other or for the things that ramsey is doing, now. comfort comes in knowing that they cannot be defined, in knowing that lucifer won’t be able to look his little blonde therapist in the eyes are articulate how being under him made him feel. pointless. ramsey wants to be a frustration that builds until the devil can’t stand it — wants to push, wants to become a thorn in morningstar’s side. let his name hurt. let it be impossible for him to not wince at the sight of him. let it drive him crazy. let it ruin some of what he’s become. lucifer ends up on the piano because the damn thing is so dear to him and because ramsey intends to play him like a song. art. there’s art in the way he yanks away fabric, in the way he refuses to kiss him on the mouth for the entire time he’s in the penthouse. this is not loving. this is not gentle. when ramsey settles between thighs, it is with teeth that bite until they almost puncture skin — it is with fingers that press until bruises form in their wake. the piano is important because lucifer sits at it often to lose himself to his own thoughts — because he won’t be able to do it anymore without his mind wandering to this, to everything that they’ve done. every note. every song. it will put lucifer back here — body arched and tone desperate as the hound’s tongue works between folds, as he puts him through a very specific kind of torture. loathing. it’s drawn out. unfair. just like the sound of lucifer’s voice as he gets more and more lost in it, as he seems to realize that ramsey isn’t just doing this to reward him like so many humans likely have. ramsey has no intention of ending up in the devil’s bed — has no intention of even staying to see the way lucifer looks in the afterglow once it’s all said and done. lucifer morningstar doesn’t deserve that. not after everything he’s done. and yet. because of the collar around his neck? he also deserves everything that ramsey is willing to give. and give, he does.
on the best days, ramsey’s mind is frayed — but something about having lucifer under his tongue makes him feel especially unhinged. the collar is the only thing keeping him sane he knows it. both of them do. it’s kept him from burning through this vessel, kept him from destroying everything he can get his hands on and yet it doesn’t save lucifer from his wrath tonight — doesn’t save himself from the way his chest fucking aches every time he hears his name fall from that mouth. it’s not fucking fair, being reminded that lucifer was once an angel. it’s not fucking fair, wanting to be the source of these noises often. it’s not fucking fair, knowing that they could have done this before — that lucifer could have put the goddamn thing around his neck eons ago. so much pain. so much loneliness and he takes it out on him, now — harsh in how he keeps legs spread, mean in how he laps warmth against a throbbing clit until the thighs he’s holding start to shake. brows knit in concentration, body radiating like nothing else before as the devil’s fingers end up in his hair — as lucifer speaks his name and begs. it isn’t enough. he’s teased until this point, kept his attention from being just right for too long and he knows it — knows by tone and desperation that it won’t take much more. ramsey adjusts, jaw widening to let out a moan as his tongue pushes inside the wetness all his other work has created — the sensation making his own gut coil. this is how he fucks lucifer morningstar over, with the devil laid out naked on his stupid piano and ramsey’s tongue shoved deep. angry. he eats him out like he’s never going to fucking see him again, like lucifer won’t be so much as another thought on his mind. he knows better. but the sentiment is there. emotions swell. lucifer struggles at the edge and ramsey shoves him over it without an ounce of consideration, without a second thought. the sounds he makes are haunting — they make a home in ramsey in places that are unwelcome and when he pulls back up, he’s still angry. still raw. still fucking hurt. nothing is made better by doing this — nothing is fixed. the pieces are simply picked up and shaken, jostled and thrown back to the floor where ramsey continues to feel abandoned. they don’t look at each other. ramsey doesn’t say a word to lucifer upstairs. he chooses, instead, to go and scream out his feelings into the mic in the basement.