From September 8th through September 14th, write fic, draw art, or create any other kind of fanworks for a list of prompts themed around Charlie/Lucifer from Hazbin Hotel!
Day 7 - Sept. 14, 2024
More Than Anything / Finale
Rules:
✶ This is an exclusively 18+ event.
✶ NSFW and “problematic” content is allowed, but must be flagged and labeled/tagged properly.
✶ Negativity is to be ignored. Don’t feed the trolls!
✶ All fanworks are welcome! Fic, art, meta, audio — no matter what form it takes, it belongs here!
✶ Use the tag #CharciferWeek2024 to have your work shared!
FAQ:
Q: Can I mix prompts?
A: Yes! Feel free to mix each day's prompts, or to blend multiple days themselves together! I don't want people to feel too constrained. This is meant to be laid-back and fun.
Q: Is "Dead Dove content" allowed?
A: This is a father/daughter incest ship. In other words, yes! But please tag it appropriately.
Q: Are other ships allowed?
A: No. Other ships are fine in the background, but the main focus of the work should be Charlie/Lucifer.
Have questions that aren't answered here? Feel free to send in an ask about it!
Charlie has spent all 200 (and change) years of her life in Hell, and she expects herself to be accustomed to various displays of debauchery and sin — and she is, for the most part. Then Lucifer's claws dig into her butt where he's got both hands wrapped around her, pulling her hips down against his face better so he can work his tongue up against her clit and suck in rhythmic little pulses that make her eyes flutter closed and everything inside her twist, slippery knots through the inside of her hips and all up into her belly. She's pretty sure the ambient temperature has been raised several degrees, her skin dripping with sweat, each of the little twitches of her hips forcing her to remember that Lucifer's face is slicked with wetness and also, oh yeah, it's Lucifer's face.
"Fuck, oh, fuck," Charlie gasps, throwing her head back, her thighs shaking like she's a teenage virgin. "Lucifer—"
His name is foreign on her tongue, but the idea of calling him dad makes her feel squirmy and hot-cold-hot like a fever's settled between her thighs. This is fucked up, even by her fucked up standards because of the fucked up place she's lived in her whole life, because riding your dad's tongue isn't exactly out of the question but it would probably get you a side-eye if nothing else. Charlie knows this, and part of her might even still care about it, except when Lucifer pulls her down against him again, his mouth hot and tongue nothing short of motivated.
Lucifer's wanting, open-mouthed moan sends sticky, shuddering vibrations through Charlie's folds, and it's enough to crack any reservations that might have been clinging on. She gives in to the urge to reach a hand down and fist it into his hair, using it to brace herself as she pushes her hips down, leaning back and—
And opening her eyes was a mistake, because Lucifer's fucking looking at her, past the flushed, sweaty skin, his eyes golden coals that sear into her as her hips jerk and the fork of his tongue finds her clit to press on both sides of the swollen bud. From the noises he makes, you'd be forgiven for thinking he's the one getting eaten out, each one of his desperate, obscene groans ratcheting the pleasure higher and higher as Charlie tries not to think too hard about how he set down a plate of food in front of her this morning and kissed her on the top of the head when she said thanks, Dad like the normal family they pretend to be.
She can't stop thinking about it. Her wetness is smeared over his face, her thighs are bracketing his head, her pussy aches for something bigger than his tongue. It's Lucifer's face she's grinding against as if it's one of Angel's little performances, Lucifer's tongue that's flicking at her clit, Lucifer's skin that's slippery against her soaked folds.
"Dad, Dad please—"
That's it, that's all it takes — her orgasm is sour-sweet like pink lemonade and she doubles over, her head falling against the headboard as she keeps one hand tight in his hair. She's clenching around nothing, ripples of ecstasy blazing through her with the smallest movements. There's no chance of holding her noises back, and every involuntary jerk of her hips against him is another panting, strangled moan into the space between them, closer than they've ever been, like they can wipe away his years of absence with sweat and skin and contact.
It's like nothing that Charlie's ever experienced, and it leaves her shivering and boneless, the air suddenly feeling cold. Aftershocks are still making her tighten in slow, dragging pulses when Lucifer helps her sit back a bit, just enough for her to catch the dripping shine across his mouth and go a little dizzy at the sight.
"We can stop," Lucifer says, and the rasp of his voice fucking does things to Charlie, especially when he swallows and licks his lips like he's savoring her taste. "We can stop now. If you want."
She can still feel the echo of his tongue on her, the fork of it curling around her clit, his claws in her skin. The dark gray of his forearms against her pale thighs is wrong, but she doesn’t want him to let her go for anything.
Charlie’s never half-assed anything in her life. She’s not planning to start now. She grabs one of his hands and presses his palm against the dark blonde curls made darker by wetness between her thighs, interlacing their fingers and squeezing briefly. The look on Lucifer’s face is nothing short of awestruck, and she feels the way the bed shifts when his hips jerk.
#project hail mary
#lana del rey
#photography
