summary: When Clark, the God of Spring, gets punished to the Underworld for 6 months as part of a scheme set by the Upper Olympians, he is expecting the months to go by like torture. So, of course, you go against his, and every other mortal's, assumptions.
chapter content: smut, oral (male receiving), soft dom!reader, subby!clark, kinda, i don't know how this happened, finger sucking, handjobs, praise kink, teasing
wc: 5.1k
content: inaccurate depictions of greek stories, afab reader, clark is still male, genderbent!hades x persephone, cursing, past trauma discussions, eventual angst, comfort, discussion of death, tags still being added
ongoing series
part one | part two | part three
It was in the fourth month of Clark’s stay in the Underworld that the game began. A cat-and-mouse dance that neither of you had ever named aloud, but one you both leaned into with every passing day. And somehow, impossibly, you were the mouse; slipping away at the faintest brush of his hand, averting your gaze just when his eyes caught yours, vanishing down another corridor when his presence grew too close.
It drove him mad, the constant search. The ache for just another glance, another touch, another chance to chase the thread you left dangling. Addictive, dangerous, and utterly irresistible.
But Clark was a stubborn god, and now that you had extended the offering, he knew exactly what he wanted, and he wouldn’t stop until you stopped running.
It began in the small moments, the kinds of things that would have seemed meaningless to anyone who didn’t know better. Passing each other in the long corridors of the castle now had you both brushing shoulders, the subtle graze of fingertips as if by accident.
A glance held too long, your eyes catching his across the stretch of stone hall before either of you looked away, a flicker of heat smoldering in its wake.
At dinner, when you joined the staff at the long tables, there were the secret smiles exchanged over platters and cups. Clark, lounging with the ease of someone entirely comfortable in his own skin, would glance up just in time to catch you rolling your eyes at one of his teasing comments to a guard or cook. You never corrected him, though, and the faintest curl of your lips betrayed that you weren’t immune to his mischief.
The garden, however, had become a sanctuary for you both. Where once it had been a lonely, shadowed courtyard, it was now alive with something else entirely: warmth. The castle staff had taken notice.
They would sometimes pass by to find you and Clark stretched out on the benches, trading quiet words, or kneeling side by side in the dirt, laughter soft between you as he teased you about your planting technique. It was no secret anymore that their ruler, who for centuries had borne the mantle of the Underworld with cold, unyielding control, was different now. Softer.
And far from resenting it, the castle breathed easier. The halls buzzed with a quiet energy, the kitchens ringing with more laughter than they had in years. Guards spoke of their duties with renewed vigor. Even the ever-watchful advisors had been forced to admit that something in the Underworld felt lighter.
They all knew why. The ruler and the golden god of life carried it with them when they were together; a kind of radiance that made others stand a little taller, breathe a little easier.
And though no one dared speak of it aloud, the staff had begun to look forward to those afternoons in the garden when their ruler and her unexpected guest would simply sit together, heads inclined close, smiling at secrets the rest of the world would never know.
But Clark wanted more. The glances, the brushes of hands, the soft smiles in the garden. They were enough to keep him company at night, but not sufficient to quench the growing ache that had taken root inside him. So one afternoon, he decided to test how far the game would stretch before you snapped.
The two of you had spent the better part of an hour in the garden, replanting a section near the fountain. When the work was finished, Clark rose from the bench and stretched lazily, his long frame arching toward the strange sky. The Underworld’s pseudo-sun glowed high above, a bright orange disc that threw light without warmth, and in its glow, his shirt shifted just enough to bare long planes of golden skin across his abdomen.
You caught yourself staring and quickly looked away, but not before Clark saw the flicker of hunger in your eyes. His mouth curved in a slow, dangerous grin.
“Careful, Hades,” he drawled, dragging the word out with deliberate ease, his voice low and taunting. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might start to think you want me to misbehave.” He tilted his head, that cocky smirk spreading. “I’d have no problem doing so if that’s true.”
Your sharp look cut toward him instantly, the kind that would have silenced lesser gods in their tracks. But Clark didn’t flinch. Instead, he watched, triumphant, as the corners of your mouth twitched; the slightest slip, a crack in your composure that he’d been chasing for weeks. His pulse quickened, heat coiling in his chest. Victory.
“Bold words,” you murmured, your voice even but threaded with a faint edge of amusement, “from someone who couldn’t keep up with the orphans in a simple game of tag.”
Clark huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair, unbothered by the jab. “That was strategy; let them win, build their confidence. You think I can’t handle you?” His eyes raked over you deliberately, openly, the grin on his lips nothing short of wicked.
The tension between you thickened, crackling in the air, but you weren’t about to hand him the win so easily. As you walked past, your fingers lingered against the hard lines of his chest, the contact purposeful and charged. You met his gaze directly, unwavering, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the space between you. Then, with a small pat on his chest, you winked.
“No, not yet. Better luck next time, though,” you murmured, before striding back into the manor with the ease of someone who knew exactly what kind of fire she had just poured gasoline on.
Clark stood rooted in place, his grin faltering into something closer to disbelief. He let out a short, breathless laugh, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. Gods, you were going to ruin him. And he couldn’t wait.
It had been nearly two weeks of this, brushes of hands, stolen glances, whispered asides that left your pulse quickening, before Clark found his opening again.
You’d been reorganizing files in the library, the hours slipping past until the light outside dimmed into the deep gray of the Underworld’s evening. Clark, of course, had insisted on keeping you company. “It’s only the polite thing to do,” he’d said with that disarming grin, settling himself into a chair as though he belonged there.
Now, standing before the tall shelves, you stretched for a scroll on the very top, fingers just shy of reaching it. You exhaled, already preparing to simply draw it down with your power, when warmth pressed at your back.
“Allow me.”
Clark’s voice was low, almost amused, as his body slid in close. His chest brushes your shoulders as he reaches easily over you; the heat radiating from him was dizzying. He plucked the scroll free with effortless grace and lowered it into your hands.
Slowly, you turned to face him, the air between you thick and heavy with unsaid things. His eyes found yours instantly, and neither of you looked away. The library was empty, silent, the two of you the only souls in its cavernous expanse. And in that stillness, your thoughts turned dangerous. Whispered thoughts of “what if…” echoed in the space between you.
Clark’s voice dropped, husky and intimate, each word a caress. “I was right there, you coulda have asked for my help.”
He arches his right hand up to brush away your hair and tuck it behind your ear. He then lets his hand trail down your neck and loops it around your shoulder before repeating the pattern, soothing and electrifying you. “Put me to use, Hades, you’re more than welcome to use me. I welcome it. What are you afraid of, Hades?”
Your jaw tightened, though his nearness made it impossible to muster the same calm you’d use with others. You were losing this battle and were finding it hard to remember why you shouldn’t. Still, you weren’t about to break. This bewitching version of Clark was not something you were ready to lose yet; how far will he take this? “I’m not afraid of you, Clark.”
He leaned just enough closer, his breath skimming your cheek, his tone dipping further into a whisper. “Then why do you run every time I touch you?” His lips curved into a slow smile, his eyes glittering with challenge. “You think I don’t notice?”
The retort on your tongue faltered as the tension between you flared, thick as smoke. The scent of parchment and dust faded under the warmth of him, the sheer temptation of leaning forward and closing that tiny distance. For a suspended moment, you did, swaying near his hypnotizing heat, his body radiated, and the heat of desire in his eyes.
But before you could act, before you could snap the way he clearly wanted you to, Clark stepped back. His grin widened into something all-knowing, triumphant. The sudden loss of his heat left you cold, aching, and furious.
“Goodnight, Hades,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he turned away. Leaving you standing in the empty library with the scroll limp in your hands and the fire of him still burning through your veins.
A few nights later, found you in your latest predicament. The night had begun innocently enough. Dinner in town was filled with Clark coaxing you into trying the food stalls, insisting that if he were to live in the Underworld, he needed to taste everything. You should have known better. From the first glass of dark wine to the last plate of spiced lamb, he had been relentless.
Every time you looked up, he was watching you, tongue sliding over his bottom lip with a deliberateness that was anything but casual. Every time he passed you a dish, his fingers brushed yours just a little too long. His hand found your knee beneath the table, the edge of your arm as you leaned close to hear him, the small of your back as you walked through the streets. Each touch seared, each glance wound tight with promise, and he knew what he was doing.
By the time you left, you were simmering. Clark, of course, suggested a walk back to the castle. “It’s such a beautiful night, Hades,” he drawled, smug in the way he tucked his hands behind his back, as if he wasn’t already driving you mad. “Why waste it on a carriage ride?”
Still, he pushed you with smart comments, all varying degrees of salacious. You answered his first sly remark with a clipped retort, the second with a roll of your eyes, the third with heated words that made his grin widen dangerously. But when his hand brushed your hip on some pretense of guiding you around a corner, and you caught the unmistakable gleam of victory in his eyes, something inside you snapped.
In one motion, you grabbed him by the collar, dragged him into the shadow of an alleyway, and slammed him against the cold stone wall. His laugh was startled, half-swallowed, before your mouth crashed into his.
The kiss was neither polite nor careful. It was hunger, pure and unchecked. You pressed into him fully, the length of your body molding against his. Your hands fisting in his shirt as if to keep him from slipping away. Clark groaned into the kiss, his hands flying to your waist, clutching you like he’d been waiting for this exact moment since the day he arrived.
You deepened the kiss, devouring, your lips parting his with a desperate command that left no question of who was leading. When you pulled back, it was only to trail your mouth lower — along his jaw, down the curve of his neck — dragging heated kisses against his skin until his head tilted back against the wall, a shuddering sound breaking free from him.
Your words spilled against the line of his throat, hot and breathless. “If I were a more wholesome goddess, I would deny this. But I’m selfish, and I cannot refuse you anymore.”
His hands tightened at your hips, pulling you even closer, his chest heaving under your palms. Whatever he might have said was lost as you claimed his mouth again, and this time it was desperation that drove you both. Kisses fierce and consuming, complete with hands roaming, and hearts pounding.
There were no vows spoken, no declarations whispered, but the truth burned through every touch, every gasp, every frantic kiss. In the raw, unrestrained way you clung to each other, it was clear: this was more than desire. This was love, too dangerous and too undeniable to put into words yet.
You break away from him again enough to admire his swollen lips and blown eyes. “You look a mess already.” You whisper to him as you trace his bottom lip with your thumb.
“Let me get you home.” With a twirl of your hand, you're both in chambers that Clark hasn’t seen, with something solid at the back of his legs, causing him to fall when you apply a bit of pressure to his chest as he lies on one of the most significant and incredibly comfortable mattresses he’s ever experienced. He glances around quickly and notes a large fireplace already lit, with beautiful black marble flooring mirroring the flames that’s warming the frankly enormous rooms he’s seen – is that the closet door?
Before he can continue his exploration, you climb onto the bed, straddling his thighs but keeping just enough distance to make him feel the absence of you. Then you leaned down and kissed him — slow, with feeling, lips soft but firm against his. Clark melted instantly, sighing into it, but before he could deepen the kiss, you pulled back with deliberate control.
“Now,” you murmured, brushing a thumb across his jaw, “I need you to do something for me. Don’t move too much.”
His brows furrowed slightly, his voice low and curious. “Why?”
Your smile was almost wicked as your fingers trailed teasingly down his chest. “Because, Clark. I told you I’d show you devotion. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” You let your eyes lock with his, the weight of your words leaving no room for doubt. “Now open your mouth and suck my fingers.”
The flush that spread across his cheeks was immediate, the kind of embarrassed arousal that made him look boyish despite his size. For a moment, he hesitated, his lips parting in disbelief at how shameless you were. But the command in your voice, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing in existence, made him obey. Slowly, he did as you asked, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Good boy,” you praised, your grin widening as you press your fingers deeper into his mouth, causing him to spring tears and gag, but not choke, causing you to have a wicked grin.
“Oh, Clark, now that’s a special talent.” You withdraw your fingers and lower yourself down between his legs, bringing your hand to his cock. You split your fingers and use them to gently rub his tip just between your fingers, his spit acting as lubricant. Clark’s body tensed at the gentle touch, as his thighs flexed in restraint. At his display, you kiss his thigh before spitting on your hand and wrapping it around him, instantly causing Clark’s entire body to arch subtly into your touch. He groaned softly as he caught himself, pressing back into the sheets as you had instructed.
The restraint alone had him trembling. You worked him slowly, deliberately, your thumb circling in teasing strokes. Your grip shifted between gentle and firm, dragging soft gasps and low groans from his throat.
“That’s it,” you whispered, leaning close, your words a mix of praise and filth. “You’re doing so well, staying still for me. Letting me take care of you.” Your lips brushed his ear. “Do you know how beautiful you look like this, Clark? Eyes all heavy, chest rising like you’re holding back everything. Gods, I could watch you try to behave all night.”
He whimpered at that, his fists clutching the sheets tight, his muscles flexing under the strain of not moving. Each stroke had his hips twitching upward despite himself, but he swallowed the urge, obeying you with everything in him.
Just as his breath grew ragged, his voice breaking into desperate gasps, you leaned lower without warning and took him into your mouth. The sound Clark made was raw, startled, his head knocking back against the pillows as his eyes flew wide. He barely managed to hold himself still, letting out a low groan as your lips closed around him, dragging him over the edge.
Your hand still worked him through it, focusing on the base, coaxing every shudder and spasm of release. You gave him a few slow, deep sucks, savoring the taste of his surprise before popping off with a low, wet sound. You pressed kisses along his inner thighs, leaving soft marks, whispering praises between each one. “So good for me… so perfect, Clark, I told you I’d worship you.”
He shivered, sweat beading at his temple, but when you urged his hand toward your hair, he obeyed without hesitation. Threading his fingers into it carefully, reverently. When your mouth slid back down around him, his composure cracked.
A sharp whimper broke from him, followed by words that tumbled unguarded from his lips — whispered praises, vows, worship. “Gods, you feel so good… you’re unreal… thank you, Hades, please—” His voice broke again, his hips twitching despite his restraint, his fingers tightening in your hair as if anchoring himself to the moment.
Every sound, every plea, was devotion. The kind he gave freely, without shame, as if you were already his goddess in more ways than one.
Clark’s voice was already unraveling into worship when you pulled back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your grin dangerous and affectionate all at once. He lay trembling beneath you, eyes glassy, chest heaving, his grip still tangled in your hair as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.
“You see?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his hip. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”
Clark shuddered, his body pliant, but his voice came out low, ragged. “Please… don’t stop.”
Your smile widened. You moved up the bed, kissing up his stomach, his chest, his throat, until you hovered just above him. “I wasn’t planning to.”
You kissed him then, slow and consuming, letting him taste the devotion you’d promised him. His hands hovered at your sides, trembling with restraint, as if afraid to touch you without permission. You guided them firmly, pressing them against your hips. “There, hold me. I want to feel your hands.”
The way his grip tightened told you how badly he needed the permission.
You shifted, straddling him fully now, grinding down against him until he gasped into your mouth. His body was already hardening again beneath you, the golden god unable to hide how much he wanted more.
“You’re beautiful like this,” you murmured, your lips brushing his jaw as you reached between you, guiding him against your heat. “So responsive. So desperate to please.”
Clark groaned, his head falling back into the pillows, and you felt the shiver run through him as you slowly sank down onto him. His breath caught, a sharp, reverent sound, and his fingers dug into your hips as though to ground himself.
“Good boy,” you praised, your own voice faltering slightly as you adjusted to him, your control battling with the sheer pleasure of having him inside you. “So perfect… filling me so well.”
Clark whimpered, his entire body trembling with the effort to stay still, to let you lead, exactly as you’d told him. His restraint only made you want to push him further. You rolled your hips slowly, deliberately, watching his face twist with bliss, his lips parting as small, broken sounds spilled out.
“Do you like that, Clark?” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly across his chest. “Do you like letting me use you like this?”
“Yes,” he groaned, his voice desperate, almost pleading. “Hades, yes… please, don’t stop…”
You leaned down, kissing him deeply, swallowing his cries as you set the rhythm, slow at first, then faster as the two of you moved together. Each thrust drew another whimper, another broken praise from his lips. Words that told you he was lost to you, body and soul.
“You’re mine tonight,” you whispered against his mouth, your halo blazing faintly as your power slipped, wrapping the room in its glow. “Every part of you, do you understand?”
Clark nodded frantically, eyes blown wide, his breath stuttering. “Yours… all yours.” His voice cracked on the words, raw and true.
You kissed him again, biting his lip, pulling him closer as your bodies moved in sync, your dominance tempered with the kind of tenderness that made him fall apart beneath you. The more you praised him, the more he surrendered – until finally, with a cry muffled against your shoulder, he shattered, his release wracking through him in waves.
You followed, your body clenching around him, the two of you trembling together as the moment stretched, as though time itself had bent to keep you there.
When it ended, you collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, breathless, your halos shimmering faintly as they tangled together. Golden and blue, life and death, entwined.
For a long time, there were no words, only the sound of his heartbeat under your ear and the way his arms held you tight, as though letting go might undo everything.
Finally, Clark’s voice broke the silence, soft, reverent. “I’ve never been worshiped like that in my life.”
You smiled faintly against his skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Get used to it.”
With a flick of your hand, the sheets straightened themselves, the lingering sweat and mess wiped clean by a gentle pulse of your magic. Clark blinked at the sudden comfort, looking almost boyish in his awe, before you tugged at him until he sat upright with you. “Come on,” you said quietly, sliding from the bed only to reach for his hand. “I’m not finished taking care of you.”
He followed you without question as you guided him to a washbasin by the fire. You dipped a cloth into the warm water and wrung it out, your hands sure and steady as you pressed it to his skin, wiping away the sheen of sweat from his chest and arms. He watched you silently the entire time, blue eyes soft in a way that made your chest ache.
“You don’t have to—” he started.
“Clark,” you cut in gently, running the cloth over his stomach, “I want to take care of you.” And then, softer, as you leaned in to kiss his temple: “Let me.”
He melted at that, eyes slipping shut as you finished, drying him off with a soft towel before guiding him back to bed. You climbed in beside him this time, pulling the blankets up around both of you. He settled almost immediately against you, his head resting at your shoulder, your fingers stroking through his damp hair.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You kissed his hairline, the tip of his nose, the slope of his cheek, casual touches that came as naturally as breathing. When his breathing began to slow, his body heavy against yours, you pressed one last kiss to his forehead.
“Sleep, Clark,” you whispered, your hand still combing through his hair. “You’re safe.”
He made a soft sound in response, something between a sigh and a promise, before finally giving in to exhaustion, his body warm and pliant in your arms. You stayed awake a little longer, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your lips brushing the crown of his head.
It had been centuries since you’d let anyone this close. But tonight, with him tucked against you, you found yourself smiling into the dark.
—--
Clark woke alone.
For a moment, panic flickered through him, but it eased when he caught the faint trace of your perfume on the sheets beside him, the subtle indent where your body had been. You hadn’t left him, not really. Duty had simply called.
By the time he made his way to the dining hall, the castle was already buzzing. He’d half-expected to eat quickly and quietly, blending into the background as usual. Instead, when you swept into the room, robes catching the faint light, your crown gleaming faintly in its blue halo, every pair of eyes turned toward you.
You didn’t hesitate. You crossed the hall directly to where Clark sat, his hair still mussed from sleep, a plate of food barely touched before him. His eyes widened as you stopped beside him, and before he could rise, you caught his hand.
“Good morning, Clark,” you said smoothly, though the warmth in your tone made several of the servants drop their gazes and smile into their cups. With deliberate care, you raised his hand to your lips and pressed a kiss against his knuckles, your eyes never leaving his.
Clark froze, not expecting this kind of open affection after weeks of silent flirting. “G–Good morning,” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly, though his smile betrayed him. He’s not against this type of affection either. He can play this game as well, but he’ll let you lead for now.
Satisfied, you released him only to sit gracefully in the empty chair at his side. A servant poured you a quick cup of coffee, which you lifted easily, sipping once before setting it down again. “I forgot I had an early council meeting,” you explained softly, tilting your head toward him so your voice was for him more than anyone else. “But I didn’t want to let the whole morning pass without seeing you.”
Clark ducked his head, though his grin was so wide it made his cheeks ache. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” you interrupted, the words carrying the same quiet authority you’d used the night before, that had unraveled him in your chambers now left him flustered in front of half the staff.
Around you, the dining hall hummed with a new kind of energy. No one spoke of it, but you felt the shift. Guards smiled behind their cups, cooks exchanged knowing glances, and attendants moved with lighter steps. Their ruler, who had once been an untouchable figure of power, was kissing hands and smiling before them. It softened the whole castle in turn.
You stood a moment later, coffee half-finished, your duties already pulling you away. But before you left, you leaned down and pressed another quick kiss to Clark’s temple, your hand brushing briefly across his shoulder. “Make sure you eat, hm? I’ll see you later in the garden..”
By the time you swept from the hall, Clark was left sitting very still with his hand curled tight into a fist against the table as though to hold on to the memory. He had a faint flush to his cheeks that had not faded, nor had the faint, stunned smile lingering on his face.
The staff bustled around him, pretending not to stare, though their joy was impossible to miss. One of the guards passed by, muttering just loud enough for Clark to hear, “Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Clark laughed softly to himself, ducking his head again. Gods help him, he hadn’t expected you to be so openly enamored. And he loved it.
The days that followed were easier. For the first time since his arrival, Clark found himself walking beside you through the streets of the Underworld with his hand securely caught in yours.
It wasn’t subtle, either; you made no effort to hide it. Your fingers twined with his, your grip steady, and though Clark’s ears burned red under the eyes of townsfolk and guards alike, he never once thought to pull away. If anything, he held tighter. The ruler of the Underworld, in all her glory, was walking through her realm with him at her side — openly, deliberately.
The people noticed. Not with whispers of disapproval, but with smiles, nods, even small waves as you passed. It warmed Clark in ways he couldn’t explain, the knowledge that you weren’t shielding him, weren’t embarrassed to be seen.
At the orphanage, however, you showed restraint. The moment the children came running, squealing his name, your hand slipped from his with a quick squeeze. Clark understood immediately; this was their time with you, to experience something new to their day, hopefully in a positive way. To show him affection in front of them would only invite questions they weren’t ready to ask, answers you weren’t prepared to give.
But he still caught it, the way your gaze lingered on him when you thought no one noticed, the faint brush of your hand across his back when you passed too close. The warmth in your smile as you watched him chase the children through the courtyard.
The day was filled with laughter, games, shared glances, and the comfort of simply being together. By the time you finally coaxed the children into saying their goodbyes, the sunless sky was already shading into its deeper grays.
Walking back to the castle, your hand found his again, as though it had been waiting there all day. Neither spoke much; you didn’t need to. The silence was comfortable, filled with the soft scrape of boots against stone, the faint glow of lanterns lining the path, the warmth of your palm against his.
It wasn’t until the castle gates came into view that a rider intercepted you, dismounting swiftly with a bow and offering a sealed letter in both hands. You took it without breaking stride, but the moment your eyes flicked across the wax seal, your posture shifted, just barely. Your shoulders tightened, your jaw set.
Clark noticed. Of course he did. “Bad news?” he asked softly, tilting his head toward you.
You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, tucking the letter into your robes before he could see more. “Nothing that can’t wait,” you said lightly, giving his hand another squeeze. “Tonight, I’d rather think about better things.”
And though you managed to keep your voice steady, Clark couldn’t shake the flicker of unease in your eyes as the two of you passed through the gates, hand in hand, the shadow of that letter lingering like a whisper neither of you wanted to hear.
The fifth month of Clark’s stay was beginning, and with it, the first tremors of trouble. Olympus was stirring, and soon their notes would arrive, demanding meetings with the golden god they’d so carelessly cast aside.
a/n: sorry this took so long! i waited cause i got wrapped up in “when we weren’t looking” and then forgot i had written some of it, and got scared to come back to it, but here it is! i have chapter 5 roughly outlined and know where i wanna go, so hopefully will put that out soon! thank you for your love and patience!
A/n: I have a giant oral fixation, so i imagine this all the damn time.
Day 5: Finger sucking, Bucky Barnes x reader
Warning: choking, finger sucking, gagging, lots of spit and drool.
Summary: Bucky's prepating your mouth for his cock.
Bucky’s fingers had just been inside you, slick and glistening when he pulled them out. You whined at the loss, hips chasing, but he only smirked and lifted his hand to your lips
“Open,” he ordered softly. Your cheeks burned as you obeyed, parting your lips. The taste of yourself spread over your tongue when he pushed his fingers in, slow and deliberate until you where gagging around the stretch. His eyes darkened, watching your cheeks hollow as you sucked, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.
“Fuck, look at you baby,” he muttered, thumb brushing your cheek. ‘Sucking me like it’s my cock. You love it, don’t you sweetheart?”
You moaned around his fingers, eyes glassy, throat working as he pressed deeper, letting you choke just a little before pulling back. A string of spit clung to his fingers when he dragged them out, glistening in the low light.
“Good girl,” he murmured, dragging his slick fingers down to your chin, smearing it across your lips. His smirk deepened as he dragged his soaked fingers back down, tracing your spit slick lips with the pad of his thumb. “Messy girl,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “Didn’t think I’d get you this needy just from my hand.”
He pressed his thumb past your lips, watching the way your cheeks hollowed as you sucked it in. His breath caught in his throat, the muscle in his jaw ticking as your tongue curled around his thumb, wet and desperate. “Jesus sweetheart…” His metal hand gripped your jaw, holding you still as he fucked his fingers in and out of your mouth, slow at first, then rougher, until tears pricked into your eyes. “You love this huh? Choking on my fingers like it’s my cock, don’t you baby girl?”
You moaned around his fingers, spit dribbling down your chin, and his gaze went molten. He leaned down to lick some of the spit of your chin, groaning as he pulled his fingers from your mouth. Strings of saliva connecting your lips and his fingers. His cock stained against his boxers, he couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh.
“Now you’re ready for the real thing,” he rasped, pushing his boxers down with one hand. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, already leaking at the tip. He wrapped the same spit-slick hand around himself, stroking slow, showing you how he lubed himself up with your spit.
“Open wide for me again baby,” he ordered, nudging the tip against your swollen lips. “I want to feel that pretty little mouth choke on something bigger.”
Title: Burn For Me
Fandom: Resident Evil (Games)
Pairing: Chris Redfield x Female Reader
Genre: Smut (finger sucking, wax play, rough intensity, sensory control)
Summary: Chris doesn’t hold back—his fingers in your mouth, hot wax dripping over your body, growls rattling through your chest. Rough and relentless, he drags every sound, every climax out of you until you’re marked as his.
SMUT WARNIG! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!
The motel room was suffocatingly hot, the thin curtains drawn tight, the only light coming from the amber glow of the candle Chris had set on the nightstand. Its flame bent and flickered, waiting to be turned into something more than just ambiance. He stood over you like a wall of muscle and intent, shirt discarded, veins roped in his forearms as he pinned you down to the creaking mattress with nothing but his weight and his stare.
“Open,” he growled, voice a gravelled order you couldn’t disobey.
Your lips parted and his thick fingers pushed past them, two knuckles deep on the first thrust, his calloused skin scraping your tongue. His eyes never left yours as he shoved deeper, thumb pressing under your jaw until your mouth stretched around the intrusion.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Chris muttered, watching your cheeks hollow as you sucked. “Get ‘em nice and wet.” His free hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise when you gagged softly around his fingers, the sound making him groan low in his chest. He pumped them in and out of your mouth like he would his cock, using you, stretching you, saliva slicking your chin.
When he finally pulled them free with a wet pop, a strand of spit clung from your lips to his hand. He smeared it across your cheek, then down to your throat, marking you with it.
“You’ll take everything I give you tonight,” he said, lighting catching in his eyes, “and you’ll thank me for it.”
The candle was in his hand before you could breathe, wax pooling at the top. He held it above your chest, tilting slowly until a single drop fell—scalding heat splattering over your skin.
“Ahhhhnn—fuck!” you cried out, back arching, the sting sharp then giving way to a throbbing pleasure that pulsed through your nipples, your stomach, down between your thighs.
Chris chuckled darkly, leaning close enough that his breath grazed your ear. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Hurts good.”
Another drop fell, then another, then a stream—hot rivulets trailing down your stomach, dripping into the valley of your breasts, solidifying against sweat-slick flesh. You writhed beneath him, crying out with each hiss of wax, every nerve lit with fire.
His fingers were back in your mouth instantly, stuffing your cries into gagged moans. He worked them against your tongue as molten lines dripped over your ribs, down your navel, dangerously close to your clit. You whimpered around his hand, hips bucking helplessly, tears pricking your lashes as the burn made your cunt clench empty.
Chris pulled his hand away just long enough to shove his spit-slick fingers down between your legs, pressing them against your soaked folds.
“Goddamn—already dripping for me,” he groaned, circling your clit before thrusting two fingers inside, the same ones you’d been sucking raw moments earlier. The stretch was brutal, his pace relentless, fucking you open while the last drops of wax hardened against your stomach.
Your screams were muffled by his mouth now, Chris devouring every sound in a punishing kiss, his tongue dominating yours while his fingers pistoned in and out of your cunt, rough and wet and merciless.
“You taste like sin,” he growled against your lips, curling his fingers just right until your thighs shook violently. His other hand smeared the cooling wax across your skin, grinding it against your nerves to make you whimper louder.
The coil snapped suddenly, violently, your orgasm tearing you apart with a scream swallowed into his kiss, your body shuddering under him, slick soaking his hand. Chris didn’t stop, didn’t slow, fucking you through the climax, growling into your mouth as though dragging every last drop of pleasure out of you was his mission.
When you finally collapsed, trembling, spent, he licked his fingers clean with a wolfish grin before shoving them back into your mouth.
“Don’t think we’re done,” Chris rasped, eyes burning as he reached for the candle again. “We’re just getting started.”
Eh...another discussion, another pairing. I can't remember right now who put this idea in my head, but...
here we are! This one is a little dirtier than the previous ones! Gotta keep you on your toes!
Prompt: Fingersucking - trans character
Pairing: Finrod x trans!Curufin (xCelegorm)
Words: 575
Warnings: Fingersucking, insinuated blowjob, reference to previous sexual relations, seduction, desire, trans!character
Findaráto was lounging on a comfortable chair, awaiting the pleasure of his beloved and redoubtable kinsmen.
He didn’t resent them for taking their time—he was used to such discreet displays of power and independence and didn’t let them faze him.
When, at last, the heavy door swung open, he adjusted his flowing, enticing garments and gave the latecomers a radiant smile.
Behind the façade of the indulgent ruler of his little realm of sparkling stones and soft fabrics, his shrewd gaze took in every minute detail, from Turcafinwë’s protective stance to the almost petulantly haughty expression on Curufinwë’s face.
Findaráto had wondered whether Fëanáro’s Wunderkind, the unexpected, unlikely son amongst so many much-anticipated ones, would come—one never knew with Curufinwë, as his moods were almost as dark and unpredictable as his father’s.
“Welcome,” Findaráto cooed, expertly dissimulating his surprise and growing unease. Turcafinwë was a savage—dangerous and sleek as a silver panther—but he was easily managed when his voracious desires and bottomless hunger were met fearlessly.
Curufinwë, on the other hand, was a different beast altogether.
“Sit and eat,” he invited them, his gestures just a little too expansive to be genuine. Neither one of his guests moved.
“I thought you might want to honour my brother tonight,” Turcafinwë rumbled with a provocative half-smile.
Thus far, Findaráto had never been allowed to so much as lay a single finger on the mysterious and near-mystical body of the younger Fëanorian, and so he sat up instinctively, otherworldly light flaring like torches in his eyes.
He was wary—Turcafinwë was notoriously possessive and had a dangerous tendency to lethal jealousy.
As soon as Findaráto leaned forward eagerly, his suspicions and misgivings were instantly confirmed as a flashing blade was drawn.
“Not so quickly,” the tall hunter drawled. “You overreach, cousin.”
Findaráto lowered his gaze to avoid causing further offence or risking the half-promised delights being withdrawn entirely.
A hand—slender, pale, and yet alluringly strong—was lifted into his narrowed, dull field of vision, and he unhesitatingly pounced on it.
Covering every inch of the enchantingly soft skin, adorned by countless scars of battle and craft, with fervent kisses, he lost himself in the fantasy of Curufinwë’s bare flesh.
Findaráto had known and enjoyed many different bodies, so he was more titillated than disquieted by the inherent, tantalising contradiction within his cousin.
As through a veil of thought-numbing mist, a peal of throaty laughter reached his ears, and then a finger was pushed between his dutiful lips resolutely.
Acting on instinct alone, Findaráto sucked. The digit had a slightly salty taste, and—by the symphony of muted moans swelling like the roar of the ocean—it was evident that everyone in the room knew which forbidden, physically impossible act they were mimicking so awkwardly.
Findaráto felt his ambition stir—in a brazen infringement on the limited rights granted to him, he closed his hand around Curufinwë’s wrist and tugged.
He was no stranger to this illicit deed of devious devotion, and he yearned to flaunt his extraordinary skill.
Thus, he swirled his tongue and hollowed his cheeks enthusiastically, tracing every curve and teasing every sensitive nerve ending with self-forgotten zeal until Curufinwë all but fell into his lap, shivering and boneless.
“How generous a kinsman you are tonight, Curufinwë,” Findaráto breathed as he closed his arms around that trembling body, bleeding heat and hunger into his flesh mercilessly.
“Go ahead then,” Turcafinwë sighed.
-> Masterlist
@tolkienpinupcalendar Here's another one from me <3
“Pthu,” I spat out into the sink after brushing my teeth, being sent to bed by my captor after he choked me. It wasn’t even eight at night so that sucked.
I sighed, entering my bedroom and getting into my bed. I grabbed the remote sitting on the bed, switching on the television. I then turned it to some rerun of some old show, nestling in my spot on the bed to get into a good position.
After five minutes, I heard the dresser in front of my door being moved, and then the door slowly pushed open, revealing Michael. I gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“Hi? Can I help you?” He said nothing, before walking over to me swiftly and grabbing the remote.
“Hey!” He turned off the television, before looking back at me and pointing at the bed.
“Are…Are you seriously making me to early bed without TV?” I asked incredulously. I know I shouldn’t be pushing his buttons considering he nearly killed me earlier via asphyxiation but this guy was starting to annoy me a lot.
He only nodded in response before beginning to walk to the door, remote still in his hand.
“Can I at least read?” At that, he paused, before turning his head to me slightly and nodding. With that, he walked out, closing my door and again locking me in my room. I huffed, grabbing my book on my bedside table and opening it.
I guess I was tired after such an eventful day, with cleaning up a dead body and seeing the rod of my captor, because after fifteen minutes I had turned off my light and closed my book. I proceeded to pass out as soon as my eyes closed, and my head was on my pillow.
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I woke up with a jolt, panting lightly. I had a dream where Michael was stabbing and stabbing and stabbing Mr. Steinberg and then forcing me to clean his body, choking me every time I cried over the old man’s corpse. I sighed, pressing my hand to my heart and shuddering, reminding myself that it was just a dream, a very bad one at that.
I glanced at the clock. Two, almost three in the morning. Sighing, I flopped back onto my bed. I guess I was more tired than I thought. Reaching up to rub the back of my neck, I whimpered, feeling sensitive from his cruel and tight grip.
Turning on my bedside lamp, I grimaced at my reflection in the mirror, gingerly pressing my fingers to the throat.
Jumping slightly at the light scratching sound at my door, I exhaled with relief as I heard Miss Petunia cry to be let in.
Shortly after, I heard her quiet down, before the dresser was dragged out from in front of my door. The door proceeded to slowly open, allowing my beautiful calico kitty slip in. I cooed as she hopped on my bed, kissing her head as she purred at my loving pets.
I glanced up, seeing Michael at the foot of my bed.
“Hi…” He stared at me before to beginning to walk around the bed to where I sat. I tensed, bracing myself for when I saw him reach out for my throat again. I was shocked when I felt his calloused fingers grab my jaw, tilting my head up.
I felt his other hand press gently into the marks on my throat with the same tenderness he used when he touched my butt the other night and thought I was asleep. He tilted his head, and I could feel his intense gaze turn to me.
“Y-yeah, it hurts. A lot. But, I’ll be okay. It’ll be fine.” I said. Why did he care, though? I mean, he is the one who choked me and threw me on the ground with no hesitation.
My breath caught in my throat as I felt him place his over the marks he made. He didn’t hold my throat as tight, but with a curiosity, as if he was taking account of how big his hand was wrapped around my throat.
His other hand that wasn’t around my throat moved to hold the side of my head. His thumb brushed against my bottom lip, pressing lightly into the seam of my lips. What the hell was going on?
His thumb then pressed more forcefully against my lips. I pressed my lips tighter together. Then, he squeezed my throat threateningly.
Fighting back tears, I let him press his thumb into my mouth. I tried not to whimper as I felt his heavy finger press down onto my tongue, rubbing back and forth along the muscle. His breath grew heavier as he examined my tongue by touch, his fingers coming to hold my chin as he began to push his thumb deeper.
Maybe if I tried to appease him, this would be over sooner? I began to lightly suck on his thumb. This seemed to be the right choice because his grip on my throat loosened slightly, allowing air to come into my lungs easier. His thumb continued to brush along the wet muscle, playing with it, allowing drool to slip out of my mouth. I choked, feeling him go deeper and activating my gag reflex. Tears threatened to spill over my eyes as he continued.
“Mraah,” Miss Petunia lazily mewed, making Michael freeze. He let go of me, releasing his hold of my face.
I gasped, coughing lightly as I rubbed my throat, wiping the drool that spilt over my chin. Blood rushed to my cheeks. I felt ashamed of what I had just done.
I looked up, noticing the still open door. I saw luggage on the floor and I frowned. They looked packed, but one was empty and open, aside from my sewing kit and a few of my clothes, poorly folded.
“Wh-why is my luggage out there Mich-” I then gasped as I felt him grab my hair. Miss Petunia growled at him, and that was the last thing I heard before I felt him bash my head against the wall, causing me to black out.
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okie dokie, mikey boi starting to get creepy, and not in his normal ways. Heads up folks: there will be delays in chapters bc uni is starting back up and I'm venturing on to the fun and wonderful world of level three psych classes. I will still update tho! It'll just be more delayed. Alrighty, bye bye my fellow slasher sluts~
If he tells you no, use your princess voice, look him in his eyes and suck his fingers. That's actually how Thomas Jefferson made the Louisiana purchase with Napoleon.
