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Woland x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, Dirty Talk, Degradation (Light), Praise Kink, Pet Names, Dom/Sub Undertones, Size Kink, Marking, Aftercare?¿

Every man in the club watched her dance. Only one of them frightened her and only one intrigued her. He sat alone at the edge of the club. He was a foreigner in a suit that looked like it cost more than the club took in a month. He didn't lean forward like the others. He didn't sweat or grin or reach for his glass. He simply watched her, unhurried, the way a man watches a fire he is letting burn. He looked at her a moment longer, then looked away, as if he'd seen enough already.

She found him afterwards, "I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new?" she said.

"No." He had a faint German accent. His voice was cool and calm. “What is your name?”, she asks. His reply was just as calm and measured, “Woland.” He turned his eyes on her fully then, and she felt it in her chest like a hand laid flat against her sternum. Something was wrong with those eyes. One was endless and empty, like looking at the eyes of a corpse. The other was a deep green, golden speckle glinting in it with a look of madness.

There was nothing in those eyes and her body answered anyway. It was an immediate heat that started under her ribs and went down. The noise of the club faded to nothing and she became very aware of herself. The sweat cooling along her spine, the feathers still trembling at her hip from the last number, her pulse going rapidly in her throat where anyone could see it. He saw it. His gaze dropped there for half a second and when it came back up she felt it like fingers dragging slow along her jaw. The air around him was warm and she was standing there with her thighs pressed together, being undressed by a man who hadn't even bothered to blink. Then, he moved his hand toward the empty chair across from him, barely a gesture, and she sat down without hesitation.

She knew they talked, because her mouth was moving and he was answering, that cool measured voice pouring over her like warm water. But the words went through her like water through a sieve. She remembered the intensity of his stare and the heat of him across the small table. She remembered the moment his fingers grazed the back of her hand reaching for his glass and her whole body lit up like a sparked fire. Nothing else. Not what he'd asked her. Not what she'd told him. She never once stopped to wonder why.

Woland came back. Of course he came back. He called himself a professor, a specialist in things people preferred to forget. He talked to her the way no man in that club had ever bothered to, as though her mind were the most beautiful thing she'd taken off that night. He asked what she wanted, as though he genuinely intended to go and get it for her. She chuckles, “I could go for some Italian right now.” He paused for a moment before a slow smile spread across his face, “Italian.”

He took her out of the club and with a snap of his fingers, they were in a restaurant that would’ve been closed, candles already lit, and wine already poured. She told herself to be afraid but couldn't manage it. "Woland…how did you do this? Why did you do this?"

"I do this because the world is dull and I am very old and you," he set down his glass, "are the first thing in a long time I've wanted to do something for." She leaned back and let him look at her. "How old is very old?"

"Old enough that I've watched this city be three different cities. Old enough that people stopped surprising me a long time ago."

"And I surprise you?" He watched her mouth for half a second before coming back up to her eyes. "You're used to men who want you gone by morning. I'd like you at breakfast. I'd like you arguing with me at breakfast. So, yes.”

"You don't know that I'm any good at arguing."

"You've contradicted me nine times since we sat down and you haven't lost once." His voice dropped. "Do you know what that does to a man who hasn't been told he's wrong in a hundred years?" She didn't answer, because her mouth had gone dry, and because he was still looking at her like he had all night. “A hundred years? You don't look a hundred."

"No," he agreed, and refilled her glass, and said nothing else about it. "What do you like to do?" he asked suddenly. "That's what you want to know?" He smiles slightly, "It's what I want to know." She takes a sip of the wine and crosses her legs, "I'll go to the opera on a night off if someone else is buying the seat."

"Which opera?"

"Faust." She said it before she thought about it, then made a face. "Which is embarrassing. Everyone loves Faust."

"Why do you love it?"

"Because Marguerite gets the last word." She shrugged. "Everyone comes for the deal. The man selling his soul, the smoke, the fun of it. But the whole thing turns on a woman deciding what she'll agree to. That's the part people talk over."

"I've sat through that opera more times than I'd like to admit," he said finally, "and I've never once heard anyone say that." She chuckles softly, "Then you've been going with dull people."

"I've been going alone."

"That's worse."

"It's considerably worse," he agreed, and something in his face had eased. "Gounod, or Boito?"

"Boito. Gounod's nicer but Boito's right." She leaned in without meaning to. "The devil should be funny. Everybody plays him like a storm cloud. He'd be charming, wouldn't he? He'd have to be. Nobody signs anything for a man who's frightening in the first act." Woland laughed. It was a real one, surprising him, "No," he said. "Nobody does."

"What's funny?"

"Nothing. You're simply the first person in a very long time who's been right about something in front of me." She laughs at him, leaning her head on her hand and a genuine smile spreads across his face at the sound of her laughter, "I'd like to keep talking to you."

"You are talking to me."

"I mean after tonight." He said it plainly. She should have said something clever. What she said was: "Thursday." And it wasn't only Thursday. He turned up on Friday, and then twice the following week. She started leaving her hair down for the walk out. She started thinking of things during the day she wanted to tell him, small stupid things, a woman arguing with a fishmonger, a line in a book she'd hated, and saved them up.They argued about Boito and then about Tolstoy and then, one long night, about whether anyone deserves what happens to them, which he had strong opinions on and would not explain. By the end of the second week she knew what nights he came and dressed accordingly for them.

One particular night he came to her dressing room. She felt him before she saw him. The lights flickered when he passed by them and the temperature warmed. She stopped overanalyzing the wrongness of him, the way shadows moved with him. "You're not supposed to be back here."

"No." He didn't come any further in. "I'll go, if you want." She didn't say anything, just continued to watch him through the mirror and remove her makeup. He crossed the threshold and shut the door. “Come here,” she beckons softly. He crossed the room and stopped close enough that she had to look up, as she turned to face him fully. He took her face in both cold hands, and looked at her long enough that she felt herself come apart under his gaze. Stripped down to the woman underneath who had wanted, her whole life, to be looked at exactly like this.

Then he kissed her.

Fire moved through her like something came out of the earth, out of some furnace she hadn't known was under the city. She fisted her hands in his black lapels and pulled him against her and he made a low sound against her mouth. It was rough, more animal than man. One of his hands came off her face and buried itself in her hair. He kissed her like he'd been starving and hadn't known it until she'd handed him something to eat. He was not careful. Not at all careful. All two weeks of restraint went at once and she felt it go, felt him crowd her back against the vanity, his other hand splayed across her waist to hold her exactly where she was. "Ask me what I am," he said. She looks into his eyes and whispers, “What are you?" So he told her. That he was the Devil, and he was tired, and he had walked into a smoke-filled club to be bored somewhere new. But he had looked up, and saw her there, dancing for men who weren't fit to watch her. Then he was on her again, and the lights along the mirror went out one after another. She didn't care, pulling him closer anyway. "Yes," he said, low and rough, "God help me.” His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back and lifted until she was up on the vanity. Jars and brushes went over the edge and smashed on the floor, neither of them looking. He stepped between her knees as her hands shoved his jacket off his shoulders. Then his mouth was on her jaw, her throat, the hollow under her ear, kissing every inch of skin. "You should be afraid of me," he said against her throat, teeth grazing over her pulse. "Say it and I'll stop." She whispers, "Don't you dare." His hands slide up to hold her face, tilting her head towards him. "Look at me," he said. His eyes had gone from empty to a light far down in them, and he was looking at her like a man who wanted something. "I'm going to be terrible about this," he said.

"About what?"

"You. Having you. I'm going to be awful." He said it like a confession and a warning and a promise all at once, his forehead pressed against hers, lips brushing over one another. "I don't share, I don't forget, and I have never once in my existence had to let anything go."

"Then don't." He got an arm around her waist and hauled her against him. He pushed her until her back hit the mirror, the long clean sound of it cracking behind her. His hands were in her hair, on her thighs, dragging her closer and closer like there was somewhere closer left to be, and he was muttering low against her throat over and over, the same few words, rough and half-swallowed. She dragged her nails down his back and he broke, the words spilling out of him now, ragged. "Serva me."

"Serva me," he said again, and it wasn't a whisper anymore, it was torn out of him. He looked at her the way starving men look at food. He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world. "Say my name," he said. "Woland,” she said breathlessly. His eyes closed. "Again." She said it again, “Woland–” He growled into her mouth, hauling her legs around him and taking her off the vanity entirely to turn and put her against the wall so hard the thud echoed across the room. He bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood and licked it clean. He grabbed her wrists with one hand and pinned them over her head, pressing them hard into the wall. Every light in the room went out at once and the air went hot. The last thing she saw before the dark took it, was his face.

His free hand tangled into the back of her costume. He undid the first hook and the rest he tore. She heard the seam split down her back and let out a sharp gasp as she felt the air hit her spine. Her fingers tore into his shirt and pulled, buttons flying across the floor like dropped coins. "Yes," he said into her mouth, desperate and ragged. "God—" He was burning and he was going to burn her with him. "I'm going to ruin you.”

He leaves open mouthed kisses down her neck and past her collarbone, kissing all the way down. The sudden, wet heat of his mouth against the sensitive curve of her breast drew a sharp, broken cry from her throat, her head falling back as her fingers tangled desperately into his hair. The silk of her costume hung in tatters about her waist. His tongue traced a slow, devastating circle, worshipping the soft skin with a reverence that bordered on sacrilege, before his teeth grazed the peak just enough to send a jolt of electric pleasure-pain straight down her spine. A breathless moan of his name leaves her lips, “Woland.” His free hand slid down lower, fingers hooking into the lace edge of her undergarments with no patience left. Her hand on his back comes forward to grip onto his chest, her nails dragging down the skin. The sharp rake of her nails against his chest was exquisite, white-hot lines scoring his skin that bordered on pain but landed squarely in the realm of pleasure. He hissed through his teeth, his eyes flashing with a predatory darkness as he looked down at her. His mouth left her breast, trailing scorching, open-mouthed kisses lower across her stomach until he was on his knees.

He spread her thighs with his palms, breathing against her core deliberately. She arched her back with a desperate tilt of her pelvis. He let out a guttural groan as his mouth descended, tongue sweeping across her slick heat with a devastating, agonizing slowness. He tasted her properly for the first time, the heady sweetness of her arousal flooding his senses. Every time he moved she made a sound and every time she made a sound his grip on her thighs got harder.

He fed on those sounds like they were sustenance. Her gasps that became moans, moans that became ragged cries when his tongue pressed deeper, when his lips suctioned around her clit with a merciless precision. His fingers left deep crescent marks in her skin, bruises forming under the pressure as he devoured her.

Her thighs try to close around him as her pleasure intensifies, her hips now bucking desperately against his tongue. He denied her, his hands forcing her trembling thighs wider and keeping her splayed open for his mercy. He chased the bucking of her hips, his mouth sealing over her clit and sucking hard just as her spine began to arch off the wall. He hummed low against her, the vibration traveling through her nerves like an electric shock, tongue flicking rapidly until she was shaking, breathless, and entirely undone. “Woland!” She whimpers and grips his hair tighter, eagerly grinding against his face. He doubled his efforts, “yeah?”, tongue stroking her clit with rapid, ruthless circles, sucking hard enough to make her vision white out. The words were a cruel, breathless mock, “yeah, take it.” Her back arched fully off the wall, nails digging into his scalp until her knuckles went white.

"Woland—" Her moan was broken, desperate. "Yes," he growled against her clit, feeling her pulse throb against his tongue. “I've got you, princess," He murmured into her folds. Her breathing becomes ragged and frantic, her cries getting louder. "You're getting close," he whispered against her, tongue sweeping slowly across her clit, savoring the sweet taste of her unraveling. "Almost there. Just a little more, princess. Just a little more."

The whine that escaped her was pitiful and desperate. Her body stiffened, back arching wildly as she released. “Woland!”

He didn't stop. He swallowed her entire climax, tongue working through the peak, drinking her cries like wine. He could feel her clench around his tongue, her walls contracting violently. "Nnh—" The way her voice broke, breathless and trembling, calling his name, it was just as intoxicating as her taste. He let her ride it out against his mouth, his tongue stilling only when her thighs began to shake uncontrollably and her legs threatened to give beneath her weight. He rose slowly from the floor, “There she is," he murmured, catching her face in both hands. He stared down at her flushed cheek, swollen lips, and glassy eyes, a satisfied smirk forming on his face.

He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, trembling like a newborn doe as he pressed her into the wall again. The friction of his trousers against her slick, oversensitive core tore a shattered sob from her throat, her head falling back against the wall. He rolled his hips deliberately, slow and devastatingly hard, grinding the rigid fabric of his trousers against her raw, wet flesh, letting her feel exactly how desperately he wanted her. “Woland, please~” she whimpers. "Please what, princess?" He ground against her again, harder this time, making her gasp and cling to him. His voice was a low, dangerous purr in her ear. "Do you want me inside you? Is that what you're begging for?" He pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling as he continued the torturous grind, his erection straining against the fabric of his pants. "Tell me what you need."

"Need me to fuck you?" he clarified cruelly, rolling his hips again so she could feel exactly what she was asking for. It was hard and huge and straining against his pants. "Need my cock inside this pretty little cunt?" He bit her neck sharply. "Say it." He was demanding filthy words from her pretty mouth, making her ask for it like a whore. And God, he loved how easily she submitted. She practically cries as she begs him, “please, Woland! Need you in me.” The desperate, broken plea was exactly what he demanded. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure predatory satisfaction, and shifted his weight to unbuckle his belt one-handed. "That's my girl," he murmured darkly against her mouth, freeing himself.

He rubbed the swollen head of his cock through her folds, coating himself in her arousal and spreading it around her entrance, teasing her mercilessly. He was thick and veined, the tip glistening with her wetness as he dragged it up and down, deliberately avoiding pushing inside. His other hand came up to grip her throat gently but firmly, holding her gaze captive as he teased her with the promise of his cock. "Feel that?" He asked mockingly. "This is what you begged for." She nods rapidly, a pathetic little whimper leaving her lips, “Woland…” her nails dug into his abdomen, clawing at him desperately. That pathetic little whimper was music to his dark soul, and the sting of her nails clawing at his abdomen only spurred his cruelty. He pressed the thick head firmly against her entrance, stretching her sensitive opening without yet pushing inside, letting her feel the terrifying width of what she was begging for. “You want it huh? Take it,” he growls, shoving into her with a single thrust. She cried out, her head snapping back against the wall as he split her open. He didn't stop until he was hilted, grinding against her cervix. “Take it all," he commanded through gritted teeth, his hips pinned tight to hers, forcing her to feel every thick inch. "You begged for this cock." Her body was trembling and everything felt like it was on fire. She clawed at him desperately as he withdrew almost entirely before slamming back into her. He fucked her into the plaster, hips snapping upward with enough force to bruise her tailbone. “Woland! Woland!”

"Keep screaming my name," he snarled, driving into her so hard the wall thudded constantly under the impact. Her back arched off the wall, a strangled scream ripping from her throat as he hit some place inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. "Can't even speak, princess?" he murmured against her ear, lips grazing the lobe. "Begging for me and you can't even form words?" He suddenly bucked her pelvis up, angling himself even deeper. “Give it to me~ I’m yours,” she says breathlessly. At her words, his pace became feral, his hands tangling in her hair and yanking her head back as he fucked her like he intended to leave permanent marks on her soul. “Woland! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” She screamed as he pounded deeply into her until her legs were trembling violently around his waist. "Let go, princess," he ordered, snapping his hips. "Fall apart for me." He wasn't asking. He was commanding her orgasm. "Give it to me." That’s all it takes before she’s falling apart under him, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. "Good girl," he breathed against her lips, not slowing down, pounding her through it, forcing waves upon waves of pleasure until she was sobbing his name. With a final, brutal snap of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, his own climax hitting him. He came with a deep, animalistic growl, his cock pulsing hotly inside her as he filled her with his release.

He utilized the slick mess of their combined release to keep fucking her, his movements turning slower and deeper. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed obscenely in the quiet room, his cock pushing his cum deeper with every thrust. She was oversensitive, trembling uncontrollably around him, moaning brokenly as he prolonged the intensity, refusing to give her a moment of reprieve. He ground his hips, watching her eyes glaze over, ensuring she felt exactly who owned her. His hips slowed gradually, relishing in the feeling of her cunt.

His hand came up and he brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, slow, back and forth, like he was checking she was real. He kept doing it and her eyes fluttered shut. He slowly eased out of her, a small gasp leaving her lips at the sensation. Then he carried her to the chaise in the corner and lay down with her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her. The air changed. She felt it go from the warm dressing room to something cool and large. When she opened her eyes she was in a bed the size of a small country, in a dark room with a fire going low in a grate across the floor, and he was still holding her exactly the way he had been. She blinked slowly, her eyes heavy “Woland…”

“I’m here.” Her eyes closed again, her hand coming up to settle on his chest, and a moment later she was gone. He didn’t move for a long time, watching her breathe. She turned in her sleep, pressed her face into his chest and he felt a little smile form on his face. Woland stayed awake the whole night and didn’t look away from her not once, holding her close.

#august diehl #august diehl x reader #the master and margarita #woland

I will whisper this into the ether only once.

If the world was right, in the GO3 finale satan would have been played by August Diehl and

as a reward for everything they've done Az and Crowely would have gotten a remote bookshop somewhere in limbo far away from heaven or hell where they would have been happy forever just like the Master and Margarita.

Muriel would have been their deciple (their Ivanushka if u will) and

God would be free to recreate the world as a grant of their wish (like the one Margareta got after the ball)

#BECAUSE THEIR SIN WAS COVARDICE TOO

#the master and margarita #woland #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #ineffable divorce #Idek who who this is pandering to