explicit. 18+ only. - 7,545 words - Enver Gortash x f!Dark Urge
content: power dynamics, memory loss, possessive behavior, expressions of ownership, tension, obsession, smut with plot
you may not be able to recall the past — but he's intent to give you a new one under his hands.
The headaches had only grown worse since the night Ketheric Thorm met his end at the hand that twitched at your side with growing persistence by the day. They had been a background throb before, the sort of ache you could swallow down with grit and distraction, but now they came sharper, meaner – jagged pulses that seemed to anticipate your steps before you even took them. Tonight, the pain marched in lockstep with your boots.
Every step toward Baldur’s Gate landed like a drumbeat inside your skull, pounding so hard it felt as though your head was too small to contain your thoughts. The pressure swelled behind your eyes until even blinking felt like pressing against bruised fruit. The ache rode each breath, low and insistent, a second heartbeat that didn’t belong to you but had rooted itself there all the same.
Home, you told yourself, though the word sat strangely in your mouth, as though you were tasting a language you’d once been fluent in but could no longer remember the grammar of. It had been home once – you knew that with the same quiet certainty you knew your own name – but the recognition was brittle, hollow, like a lock clicking without a key. Even the circus, the raucous heart of the place, where faces turned toward you with practiced smiles and voices called your name as if it had weight, offered no comfort.
Those greetings slid off you like water from waxed cloth, the warmth in them failing to find a purchase in your bones. They were distractions in bright colors, applause and laughter wrapped in familiarity that no longer fit. Another detour. Another smudge of faces you couldn’t hold onto between you and the thing tugging sharp and constant beneath your ribs.
The nostalgia that softened your companions’ eyes and straightened their shoulders didn’t touch you at the gate. It didn’t stir when you passed the first market, the scent of warm bread mixing with the tang of brine from stalls near the river, nor when the hush of evening bells rolled like a wave over the rooftops. It caught you only when the stones of Wyrm Rock took your weight, the hollow, ceremonial echo of your boots ringing up through your bones. The bridge’s span funneled the city’s sound upward in fragments: the muffled roll of war-drums, a chorus swelling toward celebration, the bright brassy flash of trumpets cut short by the wind. A coronation.
You already knew it was a lie. You’d known before you crossed the first shadow of the bridge. The ruler-to-be-crowned wore a mask you’d seen from too close – not the gilded one the crowd believed in, but the living one beneath, made of something harder than skin.
He had invited you. Your name in his mouth had sounded less like recognition and more like a vow renewed – the kind of vow sworn in blood and kept with fire. And with it came the first pull you had felt since the Nautiloid that wasn’t born of pure bloodlust. A pull toward. Toward the heat of him that you couldn’t explain, the slow crest of a campaign moving beneath the skin of the city, the unspoken expectation that you would be at his side when the next move was made.
You said yes.
The corridor to his private chambers was less a hallway and more a vein cut through the belly of well-fed stone, pulsing faintly with the warmth trapped within. The air was close and heavy with the scent of leather cured to a deep, animal musk, the sharper tang of oil rubbed into buckles and straps, and an older sweetness – woodsmoke that had long since left its fire but still clung to the seams of the walls. Somewhere ahead, a narrow window you couldn’t see admitted the rise and fall of the city’s voice in scattered fragments: the drawn-out tail of a trumpet, the smear of drunken laughter, the far-off roar that could have been a cheer or a warning.
“You can’t possibly understand what seeing you again in the Illithid Colony ignited in me.”
His voice came before his shape did – slipping free of the dark with the unhurried certainty of steel leaving a sheath. The tone was measured, precise, each word allowed its full weight before the next fell, so close to your ear that the fine hairs along your scalp prickled and stood at attention.
The scrape of flint, the cough of a struck torch – and then fire. The sudden bloom of light licked up the walls, throwing long, hungry fingers into every corner. The room emerged in stages: the severe, polished corners of a desk, the deep shine of a table set with a decanter and cups, the gleam of weapons hanging in ordered ranks like an attentive audience. The flame steadied, and he was there – not made by it, but gilded in it, a figure of shadow and gold.
A face you knew without knowing why. Lines cut in a way your memory insisted on filling in, even if your mind refused to give them context. The shadows carved his mouth into something both cruel and breathtaking, each shift in the firelight sharpening one edge and softening another.
The headaches pulled meanly at your eyes. The darkest place in you – the part that still knew the taste of battle and the logic of ending a threat – wanted to let the fire consume him. But your ribs, traitorous in their ache, wanted the heat to spare his throat.
He didn’t hurry. He never hurried at first. He let silence stretch until it had weight, until it pressed down on your shoulders. You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, tracking the measured lift and fall of your breath, the minute quiver of your fingers near your blade. The twitch was so small you thought you might have hidden it. You hadn’t. He loved that you hadn’t.
“It pained me not to go to you then,” he said, stepping through the slow sweep of torchlight so that the sharp line of his jaw lit for a moment before it slid back into darkness. “But there are greater plans at work. And you…”
He inhaled deeply, as though drawing in your scent was a private act of devotion. “…were worth waiting for.”
Your hand flexed on the hilt and didn’t draw. A courtesy. One almost no one survived long enough to value.
“I could say I was patient,” he went on, circling now, his boots whispering over the floor in a way that made the walls feel closer. “But that would be a lie. I made myself patient. For this.”
Nostalgia didn’t creep in – it struck, hot and fast, sliding under your skin. Not for the city, not for any street you could name, but for something more intimate: the feel of a mouth against the back of your ear, the solid line of a wall at the wrong angle to the door, the press of a palm at your throat, and the way your own breath sounded when you were pinned open and told good. Your mind swore you didn’t remember. Your body, traitor that it was, remembered everything.
“You thought I was dead,” you said at last, and when he smiled, it was both the first cut and the balm applied to it in the same breath.
The firelight caught the curve of his mouth just enough to make it look dangerous. You didn’t want to remember that mouth, but a flash still tore through you – too fast to stop, too clear to dismiss. Your teeth in his lower lip. The precise give of the flesh beneath the pressure. The sharp, bright burst of copper flooding your tongue until you hummed against it without thinking.
The image came like an afterimage from staring into light too long – you could blink all you wanted, but it stayed, ghosting across your vision. Your jaw tightened against the echo. Your hand twitched again.
“As if something as trivial as death could keep us apart,” he murmured, his voice tilting down into a register that brushed over your skin like smoke. He didn’t bridge the last inches between you. He didn’t need to. Heat moved ahead of him, pushed forward by the torch’s breath and his own. It found your mouth before he did, the weight of it like a hand cupping your face without ever touching. “Pairs like us can scarcely be separated for long.”
“According to you.”
You hadn’t meant to let your voice drop like that, hadn’t meant for it to come out low and rough, but the sound of it made his lashes lower and his pupils flare wider, swallowing the gold around them.
“I don’t remember…‘us.’”
The words cut, and he wore the mark like a jewel pinned to his breast. You watched his mouth sharpen, the edges of it pulling taut, watched hunger spill into his gaze like night rushing to fill a window. Denial excited him. Resistance was oxygen to a man who had always liked to win.
“Oh, you do,” he said, the softness of it undercut by the iron certainty in his eyes. His hand lifted, not to touch but to hover – a single knuckle ghosting your temple, just shy of contact, the heat of his skin a hum under the torchlight. “Not here.”
The knuckle drifted down, unhurried, like a feather falling through still air. It stopped at the small of your back and pressed there, claiming without pressure, right where your spine wanted to arc into the touch.
“But here. In the way you’re standing still when you should be running. In the way your mouth parted when I spoke.”
He stepped in, just enough for the fabric of your clothes to whisper together. “Your body remembers me…and it’s dying to teach you.”
Outside, a cheer swelled – distant, muffled – and broke against the stone walls like surf. You didn’t step back. The room got smaller.
He moved behind you with the inevitability of a man stepping into a mark on the floor that had been waiting for him. It was choreographed, precise, and the air seemed to bend around him to make space. His fingers slid into your hair, slow, with a care that wasn’t tenderness so much as possession disguised as it. Each strand he gathered seemed to be claimed by some silent contract you hadn’t signed but could feel binding anyway.
He drew your hair aside, knuckles grazing the line of your nape in a slow, deliberate drag. The torch breathed. The heat kissed your skin a second before his mouth did – not a full kiss, not even a bite, just the warm threat of one, enough to make your pulse climb into your throat.
“Normally,” he said into the tender shell of your ear, teeth almost grazing the curve, “it would very much depend on the day.”
The bite that followed wasn’t true pressure – just the graze of enamel, the suggestion of what it could become later if you needed him to make good on it. His hand on your hip tightened, squeezing until your breath hitched. Then he hauled you back, aligning your body with his like a chess piece being placed in its only correct square, the press of him against you as blunt and inescapable as the wall you’d been standing against moments before.
“Sometimes you’d find your way in by yourself and we’d play a little game,” he went on, his voice shifting from your ear to somewhere nearer your jaw. He sounded like he was talking about weather or wine, not about the way his fingers were threading down your ribs toward the curve of your breast. “Sometimes we’d mark a victory. Sometimes we’d mourn a loss until mourning turned to something more useful.”
His palm cupped you lightly through your clothing, thumb tracing a lazy arc that made your nipple tighten under the barrier. “Sometimes I chained you because it was the only way to make you still for me.”
The word chain hit you like the clang of cold iron against hot skin. Your mind flinched, retreating from it. Your body warmed, answering without your permission. You hated the reaction. You wanted more of it. You wanted to know – in a way you shouldn’t – what would cross his face if you asked.
“And sometimes,” he said, his mouth now open against your pulse, his tongue tasting you there, “we didn’t need a reason.”
The ache gathering low in you tightened its band around your thighs until they pressed together on reflex. The torch popped sharply, throwing sparks into the air; one landed just shy of your boot and died in a blink, a tiny star collapsing between you.
“Right now,” he added, his voice curling into smoke, “we’re not taking a vote.”
He turned you – not with a push, but with a pivot that made it feel like the floor had shifted under your boots. You found yourself facing him, his hand still firm at your hip, the torque of his control leaving an almost physical bruise under your skin. His eyes were darker now, the edges of gold drowned in heat and certainty.
“You want me,” he said. Not a question.
The air between you was thick enough to feel, and it answered for you long before you could move your lips.
“I think I need you.”
The words dragged themselves through your throat like something pulled from a wound you shouldn’t be touching. The first time speaking them hurt. You knew it would feel like an absolution later.
He looked like a man hearing the words to a prayer he’d been reciting in silence for years. And then he took your mouth.
Not cautiously. Not in barter. He entered – his tongue sliding past your lips without hesitation, the taste of him a mix of smoke, salt, and the faintest shadow of something sweet. Control radiated from every movement of his mouth, from the way he angled your head to the slow, insistent pressure that made you open further for him. You trembled before you even realized it, and he caught the shiver with his body, drawing you closer so there was no space for it to go but into him.
The leather at his chest brushed your bare arms, the fine-stitched edges snagging faintly at your skin. His hands moved with a ritual he remembered and you didn’t: following hems, finding seams, loosing fastenings. Your top was gone in a single, practiced motion, the air against your bare breasts cool enough to make your nipples tighten almost painfully. His breath stuttered, quiet but telling, as though he’d uncovered a relic meant only for him.
His mouth left yours only to claim new territory – a slow descent down the line of your throat. He didn’t rush, didn’t bite immediately. Instead, his lips moved with a deliberate drag, heat sinking into your skin as though branding you one degree at a time. The faint scrape of stubble followed, sending static down your spine.
He pressed a kiss just above the pulse in your neck, open-mouthed enough for his tongue to taste the shallow throb there, and you swore you felt him smile faintly against you – not joy, but satisfaction, the kind a man gets from confirming something he already knew.
The heat of him bled through the thin space between each contact, and every time he pulled his mouth away to speak or breathe, the cool air rushed in to replace it, sharpening the sensation when he returned.
Over your collarbone, he moved slower still, his hand at your side keeping you steady. He let his mouth map the shape of the bone, kissed along it like following a border, then dropped lower. The torchlight caught in his hair, gleaming in the darker strands as he tilted his head to take in the sight of your bare chest.
He didn’t touch your breasts right away. He looked first. The weight of that look was physical – you felt it on your skin. His gaze lingered on the rise and fall of your breathing, on the way your nipples had tightened from the chill, on the faint, uneven rhythm of your chest where your heartbeat pressed faster under the surface.
When he finally brought his mouth to you, it was with the same deliberation as everything else – his lips brushing the outer curve of one breast before closing around the nipple. His tongue circled slowly, heat and wet combining to make your back arch into him without conscious thought.
The sound he made in response was low and pleased, a vibration you could feel through your breastbone. He drew on you, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your legs tighten. His hand slid from your side to cup the other breast, thumb grazing over the nipple there until it matched the first in aching sensitivity.
The city murmured through the walls – distant enough to sound like another world. The voices rose and fell, faint, as though filtered through water. It only made the heat of the room and the press of him seem more absolute.
He didn’t rush the inventory. His mouth alternated between you, attention shifting like a worshiper offering equal devotion to each altar. Every flick of his tongue, every measured draw of his lips, was part of a litany he knew by heart. You could feel him reciting it – the order of touches, the rhythm of breaths – as if testing to see whether your body would respond exactly as it had before.
It did.
When your back arched harder under the pull of his mouth, he eased off, letting the cool air rush in over the wet he’d left. The sensitivity sharpened into a sweet ache that made you exhale unevenly.
“Still,” he murmured, though you hadn’t moved much – the command was instinctive for him, a way of keeping the scene in his tempo.
His hands slid lower, palms smoothing over the lines of your waist and hips. The pads of his fingers pressed into muscle with enough firmness to make you sway toward him without realizing you’d done it.
Your skirt began to give under his touch. He didn’t yank it. He let the fabric surrender in stages – the first slackening of the waistband, the soft brush down your thighs, the slow, whispering drop toward your boots. The sound it made against your skin was barely audible, but it seemed loud in the quiet of the room.
The torchlight caught the pooling fabric, shadowing the new expanse of bare skin it left behind. He stepped back just far enough to look at you fully.
His eyes swept over your belly, lingering on the faint shadows of old marks – bite-patterns he’d put there before, in another life, layered with fresh heat from his mouth tonight. The flush on your hips bloomed under the firelight like a living thing.
The room itself seemed to breathe with you now. The scent of heated leather had deepened with the nearness of your bodies, laced with the metallic hint of oiled buckles, the faint animal musk of wool worn close to skin, and under it all the salt-sweet tang of sweat beginning to dry.
The air slid over your bare skin like another set of hands, moving with the same unhurried, claiming precision as his real ones.
“Turn around,” he said, and though the words came velvet-smooth, there was iron under them – the kind that bent rather than broke but still held shape.
You went to the wall without being pushed, your palms finding the cool stone instinctively. The first touch was a shock, so clean and sharp it almost cleared the pressure in your skull. Almost. The relief was fleeting – it bled away the moment his heat pressed full-length against your back.
The contrast was dizzying: the unyielding chill of the stone under your hands, the warm, deliberate weight of him behind you. His chest aligned with your spine, his thighs bracketing yours, every point of contact reinforcing the fact that you were exactly where he wanted you.
His belt came loose with a metallic clink, the sound carrying a ritualistic gravity – the kind of noise your body recognized even if your mind wanted to pretend it was new. The slide of leather through metal was slow, deliberate, every inch drawn out until the final soft thud of it falling open.
He didn’t rush. He never did before he stopped holding back.
The blunt head of his cock found you with unerring ease, sliding through the slick heat of your folds in a lazy, unhurried stroke. He wasn’t trying to enter – not yet. He coated himself in you first, dragging from your clit to your entrance and back again, smearing the wet he’d already worked out of you until you were flushed and twitching under him.
When he lingered at your entrance, it wasn’t to test – it was to threaten. The weight of him there made your thighs tense. You felt your breath catch, felt the hollow ache of anticipation gnaw deeper the longer he stayed still.
His breath broke over your ear, warm and heavy. “You feel that?”
The growl in his voice wasn’t anger. It was pleasure wound so tight it couldn’t risk being louder.
“That’s what you keep walking toward,” he murmured, “even when you swear you aren’t.”
“Stop talking.” The p fractured in your mouth, your voice catching hard enough to make your own words sound like a stumble.
His smile pressed against your skin. “Say please.”
You hated that you said it so quickly. “Please.”
He pushed in.
Not in a single thrust – no, he took you slow, unrelenting, the thick stretch forcing you open inch by inch until your muscles trembled from the effort of taking him. Your cunt clenched reflexively around the intrusion, but still he pressed, steady, until your breath went thin and your forehead met the stone in front of you.
The stretch skirted the edge of pain before it broke open into something far worse – the raw, hot relief of being filled exactly to your limit.
His hand slid up to your throat, not to choke, but to hold you there – to anchor you in place with a pressure that made the blood in your ears roar louder. He tilted your head back, close enough that you could feel the ghost of his lips move against yours when he spoke.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low enough to scrape along your nerves. “Breathe me in.”
When he bottomed out, he stayed there, the heavy pulse of his cock settling deep inside you. You felt the twitch of it – needy, possessive – and your walls answered, fluttering without your permission. His other hand came down to your lower belly, his palm spreading wide as if to stake a claim on the place where you joined.
Outside, the city roared again. Inside, the smaller, wetter echo of your body around him answered.
When he drew back, the drag was its own language. The ridge of his crown caught on the tight ring of muscle at your entrance, scraped at every nerve on its way out, only to drive back in on a perfect, punishing line.
The sound that left you wasn’t a word.
“Say it,” he ordered, his rhythm slow and exact, each snap of his hips calculated to land you further into helplessness. “Whose are you?”
“Not –”
The lie caught in your throat, useless. He turned your face just enough that you could see the corner of his mouth, and you swallowed pride like a stone. “Yours.”
“Again.”
“Yours.”
It came out wrecked, high in your throat.
He rewarded you with a deep roll of his hips that punched the air from your lungs, finding that unbearable, perfect angle that made your knees loosen. His grip at your throat tightened just enough to keep you from falling forward. The hand at your belly tugged you back to meet the next thrust.
He didn’t speed up. Not yet. He refined the pace instead – the cadence tightening from simply controlled to something curated, each stroke designed to grind your clit subtly against the inside of your thigh, to drag your nipples against the rough chill of the wall when your chest tilted forward, to keep you hovering in the kiln without letting you out of it.
Your cunt made slick, hungry sounds every time he seated himself fully inside you. The wet, obscene music of it was caught and amplified in the air between you, and you felt his mouth shift nearer to your ear as if to hear it better.
“That,” he said, voice softened to something filthier, “is the sound you make when you remember me.”
The ache in your body braided with the pounding in your skull until you couldn’t tell which was making your eyes sting.
His hand left your throat to cup your jaw, turning you so he could kiss you without withdrawing an inch from inside you. The kiss was filthy – slow tongue, no space for air – and when he pulled back just enough to speak, you could taste your own breath caught between you.
“Good,” he said, his mouth brushing yours. “Open.”
His hand slid down between your thighs with a certainty that told you he already knew exactly where you were aching. The first direct stroke over your clit made your hips lurch away from the wall before you could stop them. The second had your voice catching mid-breath, the sound breaking on its way out.
He didn’t change his pace inside you. The slow, relentless thrusts stayed unbroken as his fingers began to circle, each motion precise – not teasing, but deliberate, pressing and stroking just hard enough to make your calves tremble.
The torch hissed as a draught found it, the shadows in the room shifting over your bare skin like another set of hands. The warmth from him wrapped around you even as the wall at your front kept you pinned to the cool stone.
“Don’t run from it,” he said, his tone intimate in a way that was filthier than anything else he’d done. “Take it. Give it to me.”
Your cunt clenched around him in a reflex you couldn’t stop, and the sound he made in your hair was pure satisfaction – low, rough, and dangerous.
His hand left your clit for a moment, sliding lower until his fingers pressed at your entrance beside his cock. The pads of two fingers pushed in alongside him, the stretch so intense your vision sparked white at the edges. It was too much, too full, but it was the kind of too much that felt designed for you, and your body betrayed you by opening to it almost immediately.
He fucked you around both – the thick, steady slide of his cock taking most of the space, the grind of his knuckles catching and rubbing at the lips of your sex with every stroke. Each push made your clit jolt against the base of his hand. The friction sent heat through you like a current, pooling so fast you were already panting.
“You think this is me sating myself?” he asked, his voice a low, measured purr that made your skin feel thinner. “No. This is me breaking the lock you put on us. I want your body to remember before your mind catches up.”
The hand on your hip tightened, holding you still so he could control the motion entirely – withdrawing both cock and fingers at the same slow, punishing pace, then pushing back in until you swore you could feel him deeper than your own heartbeat.
“Tell me,” he said, his breathing starting to roughen, the perfect edges of his control beginning to fray. “Tell me whose you are while I carve it back into you.”
“Yours,” you managed, though it was barely a word – more a sound made of heat and salt and surrender.
“Again.”
“Yours.”
The repetition came out wrecked, high and desperate, your throat raw from the strain of holding back everything else you wanted to say.
He pulled his fingers free, the sudden absence making your walls clutch hard around his cock. His hand returned to your clit, finding it slick and swollen, and began to work in tight, quick circles that made your thighs quake. This time his pace inside you shifted – no longer slow, no longer curated. His hips began to snap forward with a rhythm meant to break you open completely, every thrust meeting your body with wet, obscene precision.
“That’s it,” he hissed, his other hand coming back to your throat, thumb pressing just enough over your pulse to feel it gallop. “Now – come.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a name written in the imperative.
Your orgasm tore through you before you could even brace for it – a hard, sharp wave that had your cunt clamping down so tightly around him that he swore against your ear. He drove deeper, grinding against the high, swollen place inside you to feel every pulse of it.
The sound you made went raw against the wall, ugly and beautiful all at once. His mouth stayed at your ear to take it in, the tip of his tongue brushing the shell like he was tasting your reaction.
“Good,” he growled, holding you pinned against him with his arm across your chest as the aftershocks threatened to throw you forward. “Good girl. Again.”
You were still trembling when the second wave started to gather – faster this time, your nerves rubbed raw from the constant attention to your clit. His hips turned brutal, the sound of your bodies meeting ringing off the stone. The rack of weapons behind you rattled softly with the force of it.
He folded you more sharply over the wall, a hand flattened on your lower belly to push you back onto him with each thrust. The angle made him drive up into a spot that was all ache and pressure until your knees threatened to give out entirely.
“Breathe,” he rasped, his tone shredded with wanting now. “Let it happen. Let me have it.”
You came again – this one not an explosion but a long, wrenching dissolve, your thighs shaking and your sex fluttering in desperate little grabs that dragged a sound from his throat you were more than happy to hear again for the first time.
His control snapped. He shoved in deep, stayed buried, and ground himself against you, the root of him snug against your slick, swollen lips. You felt the first hot pulse of him spill inside you, then another, and another, each one pulling a whimper from your throat. His forearm stayed locked under your ribs, holding you in place until every drop was where he wanted it.
The room seemed to remember how to breathe only after he did. The torch hissed faintly as its flame steadied, shadows clinging stubbornly in the corners. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, the city’s chorus reached a crest – too far away now to touch you, thin and unreal compared to the heavy, wet reality holding you in place.
He didn’t pull out. Not yet. He never wasted this part – the moment when you were still around him, still fluttering faintly, your body not yet certain the act was over. His cock was thick and hot inside you, every twitch of him answered by an involuntary squeeze from you. The warmth of his release settled deep, heavy enough to make your body keenly aware of the fullness.
His palm stayed at your throat, not squeezing, just holding, as he bent to your ear. The words came out low, rough, iron-dirty: “You’ll remember me. If your mind won’t, your body will teach it. I’ll show you every time until there’s nothing left in you that doesn’t know whose you are.”
Only when your knees began to blur under you – legs starting to quiver with the effort of holding both of you upright – did he withdraw. Even then, it wasn’t quick. He dragged himself from you in one long, slow pull, the ridge of his crown catching on every swollen, tender place until you hissed at the sensation. The sound it made – slick, obscene – seemed to echo in the enclosed space, and the heat rushed to your face at the thought that he was listening for it.
His hand was between your thighs almost before you could close them. He pressed his fingers to your folds, gathering the hot mess he’d left, coating your clit in a lazy smear that made your hips twitch even through the exhaustion. He slid the mess back down, pushed two fingers shallowly into you – just far enough to keep his spend from running down your legs. The motion was casual, but the claim in it was absolute.
“Hold it,” he murmured, his tone lined with that amused affection he used when you obeyed without thinking. “That’s mine.”
He withdrew and brought his hand up, still wet with both of you. Without looking away from your face, he sucked his fingers clean. His lips closed slowly, the pull audible, and the sound at the back of his throat was deep, satisfied – like a man tasting a meal he’d been craving for too long.
You should have been embarrassed. You weren’t. The heat in your belly – small but stubborn – told you exactly why.
He wasn’t finished. You knew it from the look in his eyes – the narrow, assessing tilt, the smirk that curled like smoke. He caught your jaw in his palm and turned you toward him for another kiss, one made of heat and slick and ownership, the taste of yourself still faint on his tongue.
“Turn,” he said again, though the command had softened now.
You let him ease you from the wall, his hands reading you like Braille – steadying you where he’d shaken you, guiding you forward without forcing you. Your legs wavered under you, and you felt his satisfaction in the way his grip lingered.
“Still unsteady,” he murmured, that ruined softness curling his words. “I’d have been offended if you weren’t.”
He positioned you in the torchlight like an artist moving his subject, turning your face and tilting your chin so the flame’s glow poured down your throat, mapping the bites, the bruises, the slick sheen of sweat beginning to cool on your skin. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek with the backs of his fingers.
Then his thumb pressed to your lower lip until you opened for him, and he slid it into your mouth. You closed around him without thinking, tongue curling around the pad of it. His eyes dropped to watch your lips work, and the smile that followed was the kind a man wore when looking at a promise already kept.
“Do you feel it yet?” he asked, voice softened to something more dangerous than shouting could ever be. “That ache that isn’t your body?”
You nodded; your voice would have splintered like glass if you’d tried to speak.
“That’s memory straining at the bars,” he said, the pride in it as palpable as the heat still rolling off him. Good. Fight. I’ll make losing feel like the only sensible thing you’ve done in months.
He stooped to retrieve your discarded clothes in one hand but didn’t hand them back. The other hand came to the back of your neck, his thumb making slow, grounding circles into your nape.
“You don’t put these on until I’m finished looking at you.”
And he did look. Not idly. Not like a man admiring a painting. His gaze moved like touch – cataloguing, committing to memory, plotting where to leave the next mark. Your nipples tightened again under the weight of it, and the low, almost pleased hum in his throat told you he’d noticed and filed the information away where he kept all useful details: locked, ready.
Only then did he pass the garments to you, letting his fingers slide along yours like fastening a collar.
“Don’t think of this as the first time,” he said, his voice rich and low enough to settle under your skin. “Think of it as the first time again.”
Even clothed, you didn’t feel covered. His attention was its own heat, following you into every seam and fold.
When you took a step back, he caught your wrist – not tight, but with the exact pressure of a leash meant to instruct.
“You don’t leave without this.”
He turned your palm up and laid something small into it – a scrap of dark fabric, frayed and soft from handling. Its scent rose immediately, not of leather or smoke, but warmer: skin, salt, a spice you almost knew. The ache behind your eyes sharpened, threatening tears you refused to let fall.
“What is it?” Your thumb rasped along the edge, the sound almost indecent.
“A piece of you.”
The words were indulgence and truth in equal measure. “From a night you don’t remember yet. Keep it close.” His mouth curved. “When it’s time, you’ll know exactly what it means.”
He leaned in, lips brushing your temple in a touch that felt more like a brand than a kiss. “Don’t mistake this for a reunion,” he murmured into your hair. “It’s the beginning of the rest of your life. I’ll be in every moment of it.”
He could have let you go then. He didn’t.
Instead, his hand shifted from your nape to the small of your back, guiding you backward until the edge of the desk caught behind your thighs. The movement was unhurried but inevitable – the kind of control that didn’t need to push because you already knew where he wanted you.
The torchlight had burned lower, its glow licking along the walls in soft amber waves that bled into shadow. It no longer blazed; it breathed, and the room breathed with it. Outside, the voice of the city had dropped to a low hum, the coronation having slid from spectacle to speeches, the applause and cheers absorbed by the stone.
He reached for the decanter without looking, his off hand working the cork free with a slow, wet pop that sounded louder in the hush. The faint scent of cool water hit your senses just before he poured it into a cup. He held it out to you, and his voice left no space for refusal.
“Drink.”
Your throat was raw, and the command was as much necessity as it was ownership. You obeyed. The water touched your lips, cool and clean, and you swallowed greedily until a thin stream escaped the corner of your mouth. His thumb was there instantly, catching it, sweeping it back toward your lips with a motion so obscenely gentle it made your knees want to give again.
The cup clicked softly against the desk as he set it down. Without breaking eye contact, he reached into a drawer. You hadn’t even seen him open it. When his hand came back, it held a square of clean linen – plain, white, folded with care.
Then he was kneeling in front of you.
The sight was a gut punch – all the height, the heat, the command of him folded down on the floor between your boots. His knees braced apart, framing your stance, the lines of his body still radiating power even in the posture of service. The contrast made your breath stall.
He lifted your skirt without haste, letting the fabric slide over his knuckles, baring you to the cooler air. The hem caught briefly on your knee before he freed it and eased the folds higher.
The first touch of the linen was soft but certain. He wiped you with the same precision he’d used in every other act tonight – deliberate, slow, making sure no movement was wasted. The cloth caught on the oversensitized peak of your clit, and the jolt that went through you made him smirk against the inside of your knee. He didn’t look up; his mouth pressed a slow kiss there, heat searing through the thin skin.
“Hold still,” he said, indulgence dripping from every syllable, as though your twitching was for his amusement.
He worked downward, cleaning every trace of his release with unhurried strokes that somehow felt more possessive than the act of leaving it in you. When he was satisfied, he folded the linen neatly in half, concealing the mess as if it were evidence he meant to keep, and slipped it away into the drawer without a word.
Rising, he took up more space than the room seemed to have a moment before. You hated how small you felt with him standing again – hated it, and leaned into it all the same.
His hands came to your collar, adjusting it with an intimacy that felt more obscene than anything prior. He smoothed your hair next, his palm warm as it threaded back to your nape. He held you there, thumb tracing slow arcs into your skin, a gesture as much about reapplying a seal as it was about comfort.
Then he bent, his mouth finding the same place he’d bitten before. His teeth sank in again – gentler, but enough to raise heat, enough to promise the bruise you’d see in the mirror later. He sucked, the pull just this side of pain, and your breath caught. His tongue followed, soothing over the sting.
“There,” he said, a final press of his lips sealing the mark. “Something the mirror will understand.”
You swallowed, your voice unsteady. “This changes nothing,” you lied, because you needed to hear yourself say it.
The quiet laugh he gave rolled down your spine like a drop of hot wax. “It changes everything,” he said, certain in a way that left no air in the space between you. “And if you think you can walk back to whatever you were before tonight and not hear me every time you breathe, you haven’t been listening.”
His hand found yours – the one still curled around the scrap of fabric – and folded your fingers tighter around it. He lifted your knuckles to his mouth, kissed them once, then turned your palm up and dragged the flat of his tongue in a slow line over the center. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time.
The heat arrowed straight down your spine, pulling the low ache in your belly back into awareness.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his tone like a schedule already written. “You will stand where I want you. At my side. You’ll wear something that lets me see the mark I’ve put on your throat. And you’ll look at me when they say my name.”
“And if I don’t?”
His smile cut sharp as a blade. “You will.”
The torch guttered once and caught again. The air in the room still smelled of smoke, sex, and the faint ghost of spiced cologne clinging to his collar. Somewhere outside, another cheer rose – farther this time, blurred by distance, as though the city were applauding lines from a play you had already rewritten together.
His grip on your neck loosened at last, but stepping back wasn’t distance – it was just a different kind of hold. You adjusted without thinking, your shoulders shifting, your stance subtly preserving space for him inside you.
The look that passed over his face was pride, warm and sharp. He was a man with a city about to bend, and none of that pleased him as much as seeing you try – and fail – to stand completely steady.
He offered his arm. It wasn’t parody; it was an order dressed in manners.
“Come,” he said softly. “Let me walk you to the door.”
You hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Then your hand found its place where he wanted it. The leather under your palm was warm from his body; the muscle beneath flexed as he drew you in close.
He turned you toward the corridor. The torch by the door sighed as it opened, letting cooler night air reach in, stroking the damp at your hairline and carrying a clearer current of the city’s hum.
At the threshold, he paused. His mouth grazed your ear one last time.
“Don’t get lost on your way back,” he said, amused, possessive, with just a touch of cruelty. “I’d only have to come find you.”
You looked down at the scrap of fabric in your hand. Harmless, in appearance. It felt like a key you hadn’t meant to take.
When he finally let you go, it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like permission. The corridor ahead wasn’t an escape – it was a thread you’d been placed on. You walked it because he’d set you there, because the city outside called for you like a stage, because the ache he’d left inside you was an echo you could follow with your eyes closed.
Behind you, the torch breathed. The room rearranged its shadows to close around the space you’d left. His heat lingered in the air, as if the walls had learned his shape.
could you write Adam having a new partner that Lucifer tries to steal and it makes Adam go feral? idc if it breaks canon rules either, I'd love to see his need to breed be activated...if you know what I mean
oh, you bet I can. is my signature becoming Lucifer trying to steal someone's woman?
explicit. 18+ only. - 7.6k+ - Adam x f!angel!reader
content: jealousy, possessive behavior, power play/dominance, does Adam know how to shut up? (no), consent-driven but aggressive, smut
a smile from the Devil earns you a night with the man who refuses to lose what's his again.
Neutral ground doesn’t feel neutral. It feels curated – like someone wrote an architectural love letter to the idea of peace and then ran it through a committee until it gleamed. Light braids itself into exacting geometry across the vaulted ceiling, gold filigree catching and bending it until it glows honey-soft. Somewhere above, choirs hum a melody so perfectly tuned it starts to numb your edges, pleasant in the way a sweet wine is pleasant before you realize you’re drunk.
The marble underfoot holds a chill that seeps through your heels, making your calves tense. Adam’s hand on the small of your back is the opposite – heat and pressure, warm enough that you feel the imprint even when he moves.
“Relax,” he murmurs, dipping just close enough for his mouth to graze your temple as if he’s kissing a trophy he actually loves. You can feel the smirk when his lips curve. “We pop in, show off, bail. And by ‘show off,’ I mean you. I’m just the guy who won the prize.”
“Subtle,” you say, eyes forward, though the urge to look at his maskless face is overwhelming. He’s so rarely without it these days, and it’s almost painful to look away.
“I left subtlety in a ditch with a note,” he says, grinning openly. He’s too large for the etiquette of this room, too bright for the polite hush that tries to smother the sound. He is shameless about both. Attention doesn’t just follow him – it flocks to him – and he still finds a way to give you more of it. Every few steps, his thumb drags a lazy, proprietary circle at your spine. Mine, mine, mine.
Angels look. They always do. Mortal-borns who ascended are rare enough to earn glances; mortal-borns on Adam’s arm are a headline with legs.
He collects smiles like they’re trophies, bats away barbs without effort, and says outrageous things with such disarming sincerity that people forget to be offended until long after he’s gone. When another angel thanks you for your compassion on Earth, Adam doesn’t even let you answer before cutting in: “She still has it. I’m benefiting personally.”
“You’re impossible,” you murmur once the angel retreats, scandalized but a little charmed despite themselves.
Adam tilts his head like he’s thinking hard, then tips it in mock confirmation. “Mm. Can confirm.”
The air changes. Not colder – sharper. Like someone pulled a single thread through the weave of the room. You feel the shift in your teeth.
Adam feels it first. His spine straightens another fraction, his shoulders angling forward just slightly; the grin stays but it’s empty in the middle, a mask with the light scooped out. You follow his line of sight, scanning past robed backs and glittering glass, until you find the source.
He’s not tall. That hits you in the same breath as the cut of his suit – tailored within an inch of its life – and the molten glint of gold at his throat. Shorter than Adam by a noticeable margin, Lucifer moves like the marble underfoot was poured to his stride. He’s direct without being hurried, every placement of his foot a deliberate choice, and he needs no entourage, no ostentatious flare of wings to announce him. A half-full glass of red wine swings lazily between his fingers; it’s speaking for him, as is the slight, knowing smile of someone accustomed to watching crowds part on instinct.
Adam’s palm burns hotter at your waist.
“That the one?” you ask lightly, though you feel the skin at your nape tighten.
“That’s the one,” he says, voice dipped in oil. “Look how he beelines. He’s already decided we’re his hobby for the evening.”
Lucifer’s gaze finds you, and it doesn’t skim. It locks – and stays – until the air between you is taut. He closes the distance with precision, the kind that reads both as hello and as claim. There’s no offered hand. What he offers is attention – pure, unbroken – and it lands on your skin like a dare you didn’t agree to.
“You’re stealing focus,” he says to you, as if you’d asked for a critique. His eyes don’t even flick to Adam when he adds, “I suppose that’s why he brought you.”
Adam laughs low under his breath. “If this is you flirting, you need a refund.”
His gaze finally touches Adam, the way one might notice a faint smudge on glass. “You look well.”
“Healthy ego, clear skin, girl of my dreams,” Adam lists, rocking back on his heels. “Can’t relate?”
Lucifer’s mouth curves, faint as a hook under water. “If your dreams are so easily distracted, perhaps not.”
“And if your reach is still shorter than your résumé, perhaps stay in your lane,” Adam counters, his smile sharpening at the edges. “You’re a guest here.”
“On the contrary,” Lucifer says, turning back to you with a galling ease that scrapes at Adam’s temper, “I’m an invitation.”
The word clicks into place like a coin sliding into a slot. He doesn’t step closer; instead, the space itself feels as if it leans toward him. “I won’t pretend I didn’t notice you the moment you arrived,” he says, tone slipping down a half-step toward confessional. “The mortal-blooded glow looks exquisite when it survives the ascent. I have a weakness for excellence.”
“Try therapy,” Adam says, voice bright enough to chip glass. “It’s cheaper than a lawsuit.”
“You’re very loud,” Lucifer says without looking at him.
“And you’re very…here,” Adam fires back. “That’s today’s problem.”
Lucifer tilts his glass, letting the light run red across the surface. “Tell me your name,” he says to you, like Adam isn’t standing right there.
“Tell me why,” you counter sharply. You feel the pride radiate from Adam, and can practically hear him say ‘That’s my girl’ in that voice you love. He opts – shockingly – to stay silent, to let you claim this moment. But his arm snakes around your waist tighter, holding you closer.
“So I can say it properly when I ask you for a dance.”
Adam laughs, sharp and delighted in a way that means danger is only one sentence away. “A dance? In what world would she take your hand while I’m standing here?”
“The world where she’s curious,” Lucifer says, the smile softening like velvet. “And brave.”
“Brave is walking out with me,” Adam says, stepping just far enough into Lucifer’s space that the light shifts between them. “Curious gets her in trouble, and you’re the kind of trouble that pretends it’s a favor.”
The music dips as if the room itself senses the teeth bared between them. Lucifer’s gaze flicks down – fast, clinical – to where Adam’s hand rests on your waist. When his eyes return to yours, his lashes lower a fraction. “I’ve taken things from you before,” he says, the words neither boast nor apology – just fact. “It would be poetic to do it again. A tradition, almost.”
Adam tenses like a bowstring drawn to its anchor. His smile stays, but the edges are glass. “And it’d be poetic if I made you swallow that glass,” he says, tone almost gentle. “But the cleanup would ruin her shoes.”
Lucifer lets the silence stretch – one beat, two, three – and then inclines his head to you in a bow measured to the millimeter. “If you ever wish to hear what I’m like when I’m not being polite,” he says, eyes bright with some private joke, “you know where to find me.”
Adam’s jaw flexes once. “She doesn’t need to find you. She has a perfectly good map – me.”
“Maps age,” Lucifer retorts.
“Mine updates hourly,” Adam replies, and then to you, crisp: “We’re done here.”
He doesn’t grab you; he clears a path with his body. You step into it – your choice – and he makes sure every pair of eyes sees.
As you move away, Lucifer says your name. Your real name. The one you didn’t give him. The sound of it in his voice has weight; the syllables tilt like they’ve already been threaded into a story he intends to tell.
Adam stops walking. Doesn’t turn. His voice, when it comes, is very soft. “Don’t do that again.”
“Then keep her,” Lucifer replies, and the way he says “keep” pulls the skin between your shoulders tight.
Adam gets you out before his temper makes headlines across Heaven.
The corridor beyond is no holier than the ballroom – it’s just quieter, the hush stretched tight like a held breath. Adam moves fast, his stride eating the space. The humor is gone, the showmanship is gone; what’s left is compressed voltage. You match his pace because anything slower would feel like letting the moment fester.
“Little man thinks he can just –” He cuts himself off, the breath hitching into a laugh with no humor in it. “Nah. Nope. Not today.”
“You’re shaking,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says, not pretending otherwise. “From not starting an incident.”
You reach for him. He stills when he feels your hand slip into his. You squeeze his fingers, and you can hear the breath he’s holding exit his lungs. “Thank you.”
He glances sidelong at you, mouth hitching into something that’s not quite a smile. “Say that in five minutes,” he says, and the feral edge that lives in his bones rises like a tide.
He returns you to where you belong. To Heaven, where you’re meant to be, with him. To the room you’ve grown to share.
The door shuts behind you; the lock slides home. The rest of him follows.
He paces like a caged weapon. Every step is a loaded round chambered and held, his body carrying the kind of force that’s just waiting for an excuse. The sound of his boots crossing the floor is sharp and deliberate, and it makes the muscles in your legs tighten without your permission. His shoulders are rolled high, neck tense, hands flexing like they’re already memorizing the shape of your body before they touch you again.
The air between you is thick – too warm, too electric – like a storm’s about to break and you’re standing in the center of it. There’s a faint tang in it, metallic and sweet, like the taste you get in your mouth when lightning’s about to strike.
One heartbeat. Two. Three.
Then he turns, and whatever was holding him together snaps. It’s a feeling as much as a sound – like a taut wire breaking under strain.
He comes at you like the drop before impact.
Your spine hits the door hard enough for the wood to shudder. His mouth slams into yours, no easing in, no soft testing – just a collision, heat and teeth and the rough drag of his tongue claiming space. His breath is hot and fast, mixing with yours, tasting like sugar left too close to a flame. There’s a sound deep in his chest – half growl, half laugh – and it rattles into your sternum where you’re pressed against him.
His hands find you with the single-mindedness of someone taking back stolen property. One grips your waist, anchoring you. Another palms your ass, fingers splaying possessively. The third – no, you realize it’s the first again, moving fast – is at the back of your neck, holding you in place like he’s keeping you from slipping away.
When his palm cups your breast through your clothes, your body arches before you can think. He groans into your mouth, hips rolling just enough for you to feel the hard line of him, thick and solid against your thigh.
“Mine,” he rasps into the hollow of your throat. The word isn’t a statement – it’s a mark, hot and rough on your skin. “Say it.”
“Yours,” you breathe, the word tumbling out with your pulse. “Adam, I’m yours.”
“Fuckin’ right.” His grin is sharp enough to cut, brushing your jaw as he speaks. “Say it again so the walls hear.”
“Yours.”
He licks the word off your tongue, tasting it like he’s filing it away. “Again.”
“Yours, Adam.”
Your fingers find his hair and yank, just to feel the reaction. He moans into it, biting your lower lip until it stings, then soothing it with a wet stroke of his tongue.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise hits low and hot, settling deep between your legs.
He doesn’t so much lead you to the bed as drag you there, his mouth breaking from yours only long enough to strip himself with ruthless efficiency. The seam of your gown tears under his hand, the fabric giving way with a sharp sound that spikes your pulse. He doesn’t apologize – only mutters, “I’ll buy you ten,” as he drags the rest down your body.
When he kicks free of his pants, his cock stands flushed and heavy, the head already slick. He wraps his hand around it once, squeezing, thumb dragging through the wet at the tip, and his gaze flicks up your body with something feral curling in it.
“You look so fuckin’ pretty when you’re mine.”
You reach for him without thinking. He catches your wrists mid-motion, pins them above your head against the headboard, his mouth curving. “We’re doing this my way tonight.”
“Yes,” you breathe.
“Louder.”
“Yes.”
Something in him eases at the sound – not in the rigid, steel-drawn line of his body, but somewhere deeper, under the skin and bone, like a knot unspooling just enough to make room for hunger. The look in his eyes changes – not softer, almost never that, but sharper in a different way, honed inward.
He doesn’t choose a position so much as claim it, like he’s been planning this exact move since the second he touched you. His hands are on your hips before you can blink, dragging you down the bed with an easy strength that makes your stomach flip. Sheets rasp under your spine; the air cools against your skin where fabric rides up. His shoulders slot between your knees, pushing them wider, wider, until the stretch pulls at the muscles in your hips. You feel the heat of his breath against you before he’s even touched you.
Then his mouth is on you – hot, open, unhesitating. He buries himself there like he’s been denied for too long, like the only thing he knows how to do is get closer. His tongue is greedy from the start, slick strokes dragging from your entrance to your clit and back again with a rhythm that has nothing to do with patience. He’s not teasing; he’s consuming, messy and unapologetic. Each pass is a smear of heat, a wet claim, and the sound of it – obscene, unbroken – is loud in the air between your gasps.
Your fingers find his hair without thought, curling in the thick, soft strands until they tighten in your grip. You pull – not gentle – and he moans into you, the sound vibrating through your clit in a way that makes your thighs twitch and your back arch before you can stop yourself. The taste of your own breath turns metallic with the force of it.
“Fuck – Adam –”
He lifts his head just far enough that his breath rolls over your slick skin, warm and humid. His mouth and chin shine in the low light, glossed with you; the sight makes your pulse jump. His eyes find yours, holding you there. “Yeah?” His voice is low, curling like smoke in your belly. “You like when I eat what’s mine?”
You start to answer, but the thought never makes it past your lips. He’s already gone back down, sealing his mouth over your clit like he means to draw the soul out of your body. His tongue pins the bundle of nerves just right; he sucks hard enough to pull a sharp, unguarded cry from your throat.
Your hips jerk in reflex. His forearm is there instantly, braced across your pelvis like a steel bar, holding you flush to the mattress. You can feel the muscle flex under your skin, solid and immovable, his weight behind it making you achingly aware you’re not going anywhere until he decides.
“Gonna take every fuckin’ tremble outta you with my mouth before I wreck you with my cock,” he growls, the words rumbling straight into you.
“Please –” Your voice is almost a whimper, shaky from holding still, from trying not to squirm against the restraint.
“Please what?” His tone is smug, infuriatingly calm compared to the frantic heat in your veins, the curl of his smile pressing against you as he talks.
“Please fuck me.”
The words are shaky, caught between a moan and a plea. His eyes flick up at you through the mess he’s made, bright with satisfaction but darker at the edges – like you’ve given him exactly what he wanted to hear, but he’s not finished playing.
“Mmm.” The hum vibrates against your clit, decadent and unhurried. “Not yet.”
Before you can even shape a protest, his mouth is back on you – hungrier, sharper. His thumbs spread you wide for him, the pads warm and just a little rough, keeping you open as if you’re the only thing worth seeing. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit in a long, slow sweep that makes your toes curl.
He’s relentless, and he’s good – the kind of good that feels personal, practiced on you. Every movement is calculated: a broad, wet pass to draw a gasp from your throat, a precise flick of the tip that makes your breath hitch, a change in pressure exactly when your muscles tense. He reads you like a song he’s memorized, hitting every beat with practiced precision.
You fist his hair tighter, pulling until your forearms ache. He moans into you at the pressure, and the vibration rolls straight through your clit, sharp enough to make you gasp. His lips close around you in a deep seal, sucking hard until heat blooms so fast in your belly it’s almost unbearable.
When you try to lift your hips into it, his forearm presses across your pelvis, firm and unyielding, holding you pinned like he wants every bit of the pleasure to come from him, not from your own movement. The restraint forces you to take him exactly how he wants to give it, and the control is dizzying.
“Adam –”
“Uh-uh,” he murmurs against you, pausing just long enough to make you feel the absence of his mouth before he’s sliding his tongue down to fuck into you, shallow but purposeful. The tip presses and curls, stroking sensitive places you didn’t realize could clench like that. When he pulls back up, he licks into you one last time and then returns to your clit, sucking with the same precision he uses to hit a high note onstage.
The slick sound is obscene – your body’s response mixing with his low, satisfied noises. He breaks away only long enough to say, “You taste so fuckin’ good,” voice rough with want, before sealing his mouth over you again.
Your thighs start to tremble, heat winding so tight it’s almost painful. Every flick, every suck, every slow grind of his tongue stacks on the last, pushing you higher and higher until your vision is edged in white.
“Adam – please – oh, please –”
“You’re gonna cum for me first,” he says, the words warm against you, confident as a promise.
Before you can even process it, his tongue is inside you again – deeper this time, thrusting in and out with slick precision. The rhythm is obscene, his jaw working as he fucks you with the heat of his mouth, curling just enough to drag over that tender spot that makes your hips twitch. Every time he pulls back, it’s only to lick you open wider, the wet sound echoing between your gasps.
Then his hand joins the game – one broad, sure thumb pressing against your clit, rubbing in slow, devastating circles that match the push of his tongue. The double sensation makes your spine arch, your hands flying to his hair again like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the bed.
He feels every twitch, every tremble, and adjusts like he’s fine-tuning an instrument. Quick, teasing flicks of his tongue, then the flat of it pressed hard and unrelenting against you while his thumb rubs tighter, faster, coaxing your body to the edge. When he shakes his head – just enough to make your clit catch on the wet heat of his mouth – you cry out, raw and helpless.
The pressure builds too fast, too sharp, your belly clenching so hard it’s almost pain. “Adam – oh –” is all you manage before it crashes over you. Your orgasm slams into you in a wave that rips the air from your lungs, your thighs locking around his head.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets messier, greedier – tongue thrusting back inside you as his fingers work your clit, dragging every last pulse and spasm from your body. His thumbs hold you open through it, keeping you spread and helpless, riding you until the aftershocks have you gasping, twitching, and half-pleading for him to stop even though you don’t mean it.
Only when you’re limp and quivering does he finally pull back, mouth and chin glistening, eyes bright with something fierce and satisfied. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s just finished a meal worth bragging about.
“Now,” he says, voice low and sure, “I’ll fuck you, baby. But ask again.”
You’re still catching your breath, body trembling from his mouth, when you meet his gaze. “Please,” you murmur, hips twitching toward him.
His head tilts, the smirk cutting deeper. “Not like that. Ask pretty.” His fingers skim the inside of your thigh, brushing so close you feel the ghost of contact on your soaked folds.
Your lips part, heat licking up your spine. “Please, Adam…fuck me.”
“There it is.” His teeth graze the tender inside of your thigh, just hard enough to make your muscles jump. “Ask pretty; get destroyed.”
He surges up your body in a single, fluid motion, caging you beneath him. His mouth crashes into yours – messy, claiming – so you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss is all heat and hunger, his body pressing you into the mattress like he’s determined to leave an imprint.
His cock slides along your slit, wet and heavy, catching on your clit before dragging back down to your entrance. You whine into his mouth, the sound high and desperate, your heels digging into the solid muscle of his back to pull him closer.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, “Hold on to me.”
He sinks into you in one long push, stretching you until the air catches in your throat. Your nails bite into his shoulders; you feel the drag of his skin, hot and slick with sweat. He stays buried, forehead pressed to yours, breath matching yours, hips trembling from the effort of not moving.
“Look at me,” he says, voice like gravel.
You do. He smiles – small, dangerous – and starts to move.
He starts slowly only to feel the way you give – hips rolling like he’s testing the depth of a wound, dragging the thick length of himself to the edge and pushing back in until your breath breaks around it. Heat spreads under your skin, molten and heavy, and the bed gives a faint protesting whine each time he drives home. The smell of sweat and clean skin and sex thickens in the room, sweet and salty and electric, and your mouth fills with the taste of him from the last kiss.
It’s not sweet.
He fucks like he means to live inside you, like each thrust is a name he carves into bone. Long, smooth strokes snap short and mean, hips snapping hard enough that the headboard cracks the wall in a relentless rhythm – wood on plaster, wet flesh on flesh. Your voice is a string of high, helpless sounds you can’t seem to swallow; he drinks them with greedy little inhales, chasing each one with the next drive of his hips like your noises are fuel burning blue in his chest.
His hands climb your arms and catch your wrists; his fingers are hot bands as he pins them to the headboard again. “Keep ’em there,” he growls, breath ragged, eyes blown and bright.
You do, wrists straining against his grip, the skin there buzzing with heat where his fingers were. Your thighs tremble; your heels slide on the sheet and then set, digging into the meat of his lower back. He widens his knees, the change subtle and catastrophic; his cock hits higher, inside and up, a bright, sparking pressure that makes your eyes blur for a second.
“Adam –”
“There she is.” He’s panting, hair a damp riot against his forehead, mouth slick from kissing you and the mess he made between your legs. He grinds once as if to press the outline of himself deeper and then drops his hand between you, two fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles with ruthless precision, the pad of his finger slipping over the swollen, wet nerves in a rhythm your body wants to meet. “Gonna breed you so everyone knows who the fuck you belong to.”
The word detonates low in your belly. Breed. The echo of it runs up your spine and sets your scalp tingling.
He feels you clamp down. Of course he does. His laugh is low and viciously pleased, the sound breaking across his teeth. “Oh, you like that.” A deeper snap of his hips – a bruising thrust that shoves a noise out of you. “You want me to fill you up ‘til you’re so full it leaks when you walk? You want Heaven knowing exactly who fucked you stupid?”
“Yes – God – yes –”
“Not God,” he snarls, and the word tears out of him with a stuttering groan as your cunt tightens. “Me. Adam. Say my name while you cum again.”
You do; his name rips from your throat in a rush as the orgasm seizes you hard. Heat flares bright and then hotter, a tight clench that runs from the soles of your feet to your scalp, every muscle bowstring-taut as you spasm around him. He keeps your wrists pinned; he doesn’t let you curl into it – he holds you open and rides the quake, his fingers on your clit merciless and perfectly timed, dragging sparks through the aftershocks until you’re trembling and making broken, almost sobbing noises into his mouth.
He doesn’t let you drift.
“On your stomach,” he orders, voice shredded silk, frayed by restraint and victory.
You roll bonelessly, cheek to the sheets, tasting cotton and salt under the steam of your breath. He hooks his hands under your hips and drags your knees in, weightless as a toy in his palms. A pillow slams under your belly; you’re tipped, bared, the air cool on damp skin – and then the heat of him is there again, blunt head nudging slick and obscene at your entrance before he drives in with a sound that’s mostly profanity.
Prone-bone turns savage in seconds. The angle is a devastator. He reaches so deep you feel each thrust reverberate against the brace of your ribs on the mattress. One hand fists in your hair, palm hot against your scalp, fingers gripping just behind the crown to press your face to the sheets; the other spreads, big and flat, on the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, proprietary passes over your spine as if to soothe the burn he’s creating. The bedframe complains under the momentum, and the sound where you’re joined is slick and obscene and impossibly loud in the quiet between breaths.
“Listen to that,” he pants, bending low enough that his chest skims your shoulder blades, breath scalding your ear. “You hear how your pussy talks to me? You’re fuckin’ singing, baby.”
You try to answer – his name, please, anything – but the angle eats your language, turns your vowels to messy moans. He laughs, rough and delighted, and adjusts his knee a fraction, and that’s it, your vision whites out for a heartbeat.
“He looked at you,” he snarls, each word punctuated by a thrust, by that filthy wet slap. “That little bitch looked at you like he had a chance.”
“Adam –” It’s a plea and a warning and a yes.
“He’s not even fucking tall,” Adam says, deranged and gleeful, as if the insult genuinely sweetens the memory on his tongue. “You know that? He’s not. I could put my drink on his fuckin’ head. And he still thought he could stand next to me and talk about tradition.” His laugh is a cracked thing that shakes through his chest against your back. He bears down, hips snapping, and the mattress shunts under your knees. “Here’s a tradition: I fuck you stupid ‘til you forget anyone else exists.”
It’s too much in exactly the way you want. Your third orgasm hits like the floor dropping out, like the ocean grabbing your ankles and yanking. Your muscles seize, cunt fluttering around him in hard, involuntary pulls; you hear yourself cry out, raw and open, and he answers with a sound that’s almost a snarl. His hands lock down on your hips, fingers digging in at the hinge where leg meets pelvis, holding you impaled while your body milks him. He drives once, twice, buries to the hilt and stays there, and then breaks with you – groans punched out of him like it hurts to let go – spilling heat in slow, thudding pulses that you feel deep, deep inside. He presses down hard at the small of your back, body curved over yours, breath sawing, mouth sliding across the sweat-damp skin of your shoulder.
Time stretches – just the sound of both your breathing and the soft, wet throb of your heartbeat in your ears.
He drags out slowly, like it costs him something. The exit leaves you gasping around emptiness; the mess slides, hot and heavy, down the back of your thighs. He watches, feral satisfaction cutting his mouth. “Fuck yes,” he breathes. “I win.”
You’re still floating when he flips you onto your back. The world seesaws – ceiling, his face, the heave of your chest – and then his shoulders are slotting your knees wide like opening a favorite book. Two thick fingers push into you to the second knuckle and curl, scooping and pressing everything he just poured into you back up where it came from. Your hips jump; your head tips back on a gasp.
“Adam –”
“Shh.” A thumb along your cheek; a kiss, brief, at your jaw that lands tender and makes your eyes sting for no reason you can name. Then the grin – bright, wicked – reclaims his mouth. “I’m not done. I told you I was gonna breed you. That was one. You want two?”
You nod, frantic.
“Words.”
“Yes.”
His laugh is sunlight and sin. “Fuckin’ awesome. Pound it.” He bumps a knuckle lightly to your breast like it’s a celebratory fist tap, then drags the head of his cock through the mess he’s made, lines himself up again with those same slick fingers, and pushes. “Watch,” he says, and you do – eyes dropping to the obscene slide of him disappearing into you, slick skin parting around thick flesh, the hungry way your body takes him.
This time, he chooses a pace like a slow grind on a knife. Not gentle – but savoring, deliberate, a deep roll that makes his pelvis kiss your clit each time. He hooks your knees over his shoulders, folding you tight until you’re stretched open and pinned under his weight, until you can feel the thud of his pulse where your bodies are joined.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice roughened by more than exertion. Under the filth there’s something like awe. “You take me like you were built for it. Like Heaven stamped my name inside you.” He thrusts, deeper, and your answer is a wrecked little sound you can’t help. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s my good girl.” His tone slides lower, dangerous. “Gonna pump you full again. Gonna make it take. You’ll be leaking me for days.”
“Please –” You aren’t sure what you’re asking for. More. Everything. To be pinned like this forever.
“Yeah, you will.” He kisses you long and dirty, tongue slow, savoring, as if he has all the time in existence to map your mouth. When he breaks the seal, a thin string of spit snaps, and he’s already snapping his hips faster. The headboard cracks the wall again. Your breath comes chopped into little shards, each one catching on a moan. “Please more? Please harder? Please ruin me? Baby, I will fucking ruin you.”
He does. Pace climbing, angle tight as a held breath, the grind of his pubic bone against your clit a brutal, perfect counterpoint. Heat curls low again – impossible, too soon, exactly right.
“Tell me whose you are.”
“Yours,” you cry, raw. “Adam, I’m yours.”
“Fuckin’ right.” His hand slides to your throat, careful and claiming, fingers splayed warm and sure, thumb tucked under the angle of your jaw. He’s not choking you; he’s holding you still, insisting you meet his eyes. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is right there – sweat at his temples catching the light, hair feral, mouth split in a grin that’s half boyish triumph and half hungry predator. His eyes are impossible: bright with victory, almost soft with a kind of wild protectiveness. His hips shudder as he grinds deep, nearly still, pressure building to the edge of pain and then tipping back into dizzy pleasure.
“Who do you see?”
“You.”
“Say it.”
“Adam.”
He groans like the syllables are a drug. You feel him thicken, the rhythm go ragged; he drives deep, buries, holds, the weight of him pinning you open, the length of him stretching you around a flood of sensation.
“Take it,” he grits out through his teeth. “Take every fucking drop.”
You do. The spill hits hot, pulsing, a flood that triggers another high, thin keen in your throat that you can’t mute. He stays buried while it pulses, while it overflows, while your body tries to keep all of it, to keep him. The hand on your throat loosens, slides to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a line so gentle it aches. He kisses you through it, slow, greedy, claiming.
This time he doesn’t even pretend he might pull out for a long while. He stays inside you and breathes, the feral edge sloughing off his voice molecule by molecule, leaving the possessive core untouched and shining.
When he finally drags out, it’s careful. He watches your face, the soft crumble of it at the sudden emptiness. His fingers slide in after, two then three knuckles deep, curling to shepherd the spill inward. You whimper, the sound embarrassingly needy; he smiles like you’ve just handed him a medal.
“Hold it,” he murmurs. “Keep it for me.”
He reaches to the nightstand without looking, like he’s already mapped the drawer in his head, and comes up with the small, tidy plug with the heart-shaped base. It looks sweet and ridiculous in his big hand. He waggles his brows, shameless. “Gonna keep every drop right where I put it.”
“Do it,” you breathe, thighs trembling.
He takes his time here like it matters – which, to him, it does. Cool lube; the careful press of his slick finger circling your rim, easing, testing. He keeps his eyes on your face, thumbs pausing to stroke when your breath catches. He slides a finger in, then two, scissoring slow until the tight pull eases, a different kind of stretch melting into a heavy, obscene fullness. He coaxes with soft, filthy encouragements – good, that’s it, relax for me, keep it, that’s my girl—and then swaps fingers for the plug, the flared tip stretching you again before the body slides past your muscles and seats with a low, helpless moan from your throat.
“Look at that,” he says, satisfaction thick and sweet. “Sealed. Certified. Come-proof.” He smacks your thigh lightly, affectionate. “Try not to slosh.”
You laugh, breathless and a little delirious; the sound tips into a gasp when you shift and feel how full you are now – one fullness layered on another, a constant pressure that thrums through your pulse. He flops to his side and hooks an arm under your shoulders and another over your waist, dragging you back into the cage of his chest, his breath skating the damp fuzz at your temple. His cock, impossibly, lies hot and heavy against the curve of your ass; it’s not fully hard but it’s far from soft – restless, like the rest of him.
“Round three’s on lunch break,” he murmurs in your ear, grinning audibly. “But tell HR to get ready.”
You roll your eyes and melt back into him, let the warmth and the steady weight of his arm tamp down the buzzing in your nerves. The plug turns your heartbeat into a pulse between your legs; every exhale is a reminder.
Time stretches, the aftermath glowing dully through your muscles. His thumb sweeps little loops over your hipbone, over the slick sheen drying on your skin. Quiet pours in – just breath, and the soft fabric rasp of the sheet when one of you shifts, and the faint tick of the cooling bedframe.
Then, quieter, edged like a blade kept sharp on purpose: “He looked at you like a thief.” His nose runs along your shoulder, breath hot and damp. “Like he was already writing your name on a line that belongs to me.”
“I’m here,” you say, voice hoarse but certain. “I’m with you.”
“Yeah, you are.” The chuckle that follows is mean and fond in equal measure. “If he tries anything, I’ll take him to court.”
“You’ll…sue Lucifer?”
“Hell yeah. I’ll read the charges off his short ass like a teleprompter. ‘Count one: being a smug bitch. Count two: eyes on my girl.’” He snorts, smug even half-asleep. “I’m sure his relationship with the concept of boundaries will be fine.”
“Adam.”
“What? That was a great line.” He kisses your shoulder again – slower now, mouth lingering, tongue tasting salt. “You good?”
You are. You say so. He tightens his arm once, like a belt cinched in the last notch, then rolls onto his back and hauls you on top of him like a stolen trophy he refuses to return. Your cheek fits against his sternum; his skin is hot and slick with a sugar-salt taste at the hollow of his throat. Your leg hooks over his hip; when your body shifts, the plug presses inside you with a thick, lovely insistence. He purrs – actually purrs – at the sound you make.
“God, you’re perfect,” he blurts, and it’s so naked you blink. He clears his throat, grabs for bravado like a jacket tossed over bare skin. “I mean, duh, I picked you. Of course you’re perfect.”
“You picked me?”
“Fuck yeah, I did. And I’m not letting anyone – especially a short king with a victim complex – lay a finger on you.” He tips your chin up with a knuckle, eyes soft and bright and absolutely unhinged. “Say it one more time.”
You don’t need to ask what he means.
“Yours.”
He grins, wicked and boyish and triumphant all at once. “Fuck yes. I win.”
You drift under the steady thump of his heart, the smell of him wrapped around you like another blanket. Somewhere in that soft dark, you feel movement – your body gathered up, cradled against the hard line of his chest, the sway of his steps as he carries you. You’re too far under to open your eyes, but you breathe him in as he murmurs something low against your hair. It sounds like ‘I love you.’
You mumble it back.
By the time you stir again, you’re weightless in a different way. The air is thicker, dimmer, hazed with steam; the honey-sweet scent of bath foam clings to it, warm and decadent. Water laps gently at your chest, tiny bubbles catching and holding on the curve of your collarbones. The heat seeps into your skin, loosening muscles you didn’t realize were tense.
The memory comes in fragments – his arms under you, the press of his lips to your temple, the quiet rush of water filling the tub while he kept you close. You’d been too blissed-out to fully wake, letting him lower you into the heat and slide in behind you.
Now Adam’s long legs bracket your hips, his chest to your back, arms looped around you in a lock that feels equal parts anchor and dare. The plug is still in; that steady fullness has warmed with your body, a slow, deliberate pulse keeping time with your breath.
You shift; the pressure spikes; your breath hitches.
He feels it like it’s his. “Round three?” he offers, hopeful and already smug, voice low enough to ripple the fine hairs at your nape.
The noise you make isn’t a no.
He laughs quietly, delighted, his mouth brushing your ear. “That’s my girl.” One hand strokes slowly over your stomach under the water, the other sliding lower with an easy, obscene patience. His fingers curl between your thighs, not rushing, skimming over the swell of you before finding the base of the plug. He gives it the gentlest twist, almost teasing, before easing it from you in one slow, claiming pull.
The heat rushes in immediately, a faint ache blooming at the loss. He sets the toy aside with a quiet clink against the edge of the tub, both hands returning to your hips as if to replace it with himself.
“Empty now,” he murmurs, the words thick with approval. “Perfect for me.”
His palms spread over slick skin, finding purchase in the warm water. With an unhurried strength, he lifts you just enough to angle you above him. The blunt head of his cock slides between your folds, the heat of him shockingly distinct even submerged. He doesn’t push in – just lets you feel the weight and promise of him gliding over your clit, the tip nudging your entrance with every slow pass.
“Gentle,” he murmurs in your ear, pressing a kiss to the damp curve of your neck. “See? I can be gentle.”
And he is. He rocks you down onto him in gradual, coaxing motions, letting you sink into the stretch inch by inch. One hand strokes lazy patterns on your thigh while the other cups your breast under the water, thumb brushing idly over your nipple. The warm, slick slide of him is unhurried, almost indulgent, like he’s savoring every slow press deeper.
The water shifts around you with each movement, tiny ripples licking at your collarbones. His breath is steady against your ear, his praise spilling in a low, easy cadence – how soft you are for him, how well you take him, how good you feel like this. He tells you he could keep you here all night, his, warm, open, and perfectly fitted around him.
Every few breaths, he drops another kiss along your jaw or cheek, murmuring things you don’t always catch but feel in the way his arms tighten around you, the way his hips roll slow and certain beneath you. It’s less a rhythm and more a sway – like he’s not just fucking you, but keeping you close, keeping you his.
But that closeness, that slow possession, only feeds something hotter. You feel it in the way his hips start to push a little harder, in the way his fingers tighten on your skin. The purr in his voice deepens to something rougher, more dangerous.
The growl threads back into his voice; his fingers tighten, bruising again, and he rocks up, using the leverage of the tub to drive deep from below. Water slaps hollow against tile; foam sloshes; a warm wave laps the edge and spills, pattering to the floor. Your palms slap the porcelain and skid; he catches your wrists and plants them on his thighs, holds you there, uses your body like the perfect fit it is.
“Say it,” he groans into the corner of your jaw, teeth scraping lightly. His breath smells like mint and heat and you. “Say who you belong to while I fill you again.”
You do.
He does – groaning into the curve of your neck as the heat floods you, thick and claiming, swirling instantly into the bathwater. It seeps deep, unbuffered now, every pulse of him spreading warm and heavy inside you until your whole body feels owned. The water rocks around you with the aftershocks, bubbles clinging to your skin as if even they don’t want to let go. It’s filthy and perfect, and it loosens something low and primal in you, a knot you didn’t know you’d been holding until he filled it.
Later – clean and wrecked and sated, his shirt soft on your shoulders, your thighs tacky where water dried sweet – you end up under him again, not from sex this time but from gravity and want. He sprawls like a dragon over a hoard, all possessive mass and drowsy satisfaction, and kisses you wherever his mouth lands – your throat, your mouth, the tip of your nose – each press fierce and stupid and joyous.
“Yeah,” he murmurs into your skin, smug as sunrise, voice a lazy purr. “Third time’s the charm, my ass.”
You smile into the dark, full of him in every possible sense and armed with the absolute certainty that if Lucifer ever dares, Adam will burn down Heaven’s neutral ballroom and laugh while the ashes drift.
Tomorrow, angels will gossip. Hell will smirk. Someone will say tradition like a dare.
Tonight, Adam doesn’t care. Tonight he has you – marked full, curled under the weight and heat of him – and he sleeps with a smile like a victory banner unfurled across his face.
i read your durgetash fic just now and im fucking losing it 10/10 GOTY 5 stars i am climbing walls
ahhhh this was so amazing to wake up to! thank you so much! I let that rot away in drafts for way too long...I honestly only had three paragraphs to finish up last night and then edit.
my only request is that you finish the Durgetash fic you hinted at starting forever ago before you took your break. please, I need it
you're so right to hold me to this, anon. I'm sorry it's taken me so long. suffice to say, they're tough and I really wanted to nail their dynamic (and, obviously, I took a break for a while).
explicit. 18+ only. - 7,545 words - Enver Gortash x f!Dark Urge
content: power dynamics, memory loss, possessive behavior, expressions of ownership, tension, obsession, smut with plot
you may not be able to recall the past — but he's intent to give you a new one under his hands.
The headaches had only grown worse since the night Ketheric Thorm met his end at the hand that twitched at your side with growing persistence by the day. They had been a background throb before, the sort of ache you could swallow down with grit and distraction, but now they came sharper, meaner – jagged pulses that seemed to anticipate your steps before you even took them. Tonight, the pain marched in lockstep with your boots.
Every step toward Baldur’s Gate landed like a drumbeat inside your skull, pounding so hard it felt as though your head was too small to contain your thoughts. The pressure swelled behind your eyes until even blinking felt like pressing against bruised fruit. The ache rode each breath, low and insistent, a second heartbeat that didn’t belong to you but had rooted itself there all the same.
Home, you told yourself, though the word sat strangely in your mouth, as though you were tasting a language you’d once been fluent in but could no longer remember the grammar of. It had been home once – you knew that with the same quiet certainty you knew your own name – but the recognition was brittle, hollow, like a lock clicking without a key. Even the circus, the raucous heart of the place, where faces turned toward you with practiced smiles and voices called your name as if it had weight, offered no comfort.
Those greetings slid off you like water from waxed cloth, the warmth in them failing to find a purchase in your bones. They were distractions in bright colors, applause and laughter wrapped in familiarity that no longer fit. Another detour. Another smudge of faces you couldn’t hold onto between you and the thing tugging sharp and constant beneath your ribs.
The nostalgia that softened your companions’ eyes and straightened their shoulders didn’t touch you at the gate. It didn’t stir when you passed the first market, the scent of warm bread mixing with the tang of brine from stalls near the river, nor when the hush of evening bells rolled like a wave over the rooftops. It caught you only when the stones of Wyrm Rock took your weight, the hollow, ceremonial echo of your boots ringing up through your bones. The bridge’s span funneled the city’s sound upward in fragments: the muffled roll of war-drums, a chorus swelling toward celebration, the bright brassy flash of trumpets cut short by the wind. A coronation.
You already knew it was a lie. You’d known before you crossed the first shadow of the bridge. The ruler-to-be-crowned wore a mask you’d seen from too close – not the gilded one the crowd believed in, but the living one beneath, made of something harder than skin.
He had invited you. Your name in his mouth had sounded less like recognition and more like a vow renewed – the kind of vow sworn in blood and kept with fire. And with it came the first pull you had felt since the Nautiloid that wasn’t born of pure bloodlust. A pull toward. Toward the heat of him that you couldn’t explain, the slow crest of a campaign moving beneath the skin of the city, the unspoken expectation that you would be at his side when the next move was made.
You said yes.
The corridor to his private chambers was less a hallway and more a vein cut through the belly of well-fed stone, pulsing faintly with the warmth trapped within. The air was close and heavy with the scent of leather cured to a deep, animal musk, the sharper tang of oil rubbed into buckles and straps, and an older sweetness – woodsmoke that had long since left its fire but still clung to the seams of the walls. Somewhere ahead, a narrow window you couldn’t see admitted the rise and fall of the city’s voice in scattered fragments: the drawn-out tail of a trumpet, the smear of drunken laughter, the far-off roar that could have been a cheer or a warning.
“You can’t possibly understand what seeing you again in the Illithid Colony ignited in me.”
His voice came before his shape did – slipping free of the dark with the unhurried certainty of steel leaving a sheath. The tone was measured, precise, each word allowed its full weight before the next fell, so close to your ear that the fine hairs along your scalp prickled and stood at attention.
The scrape of flint, the cough of a struck torch – and then fire. The sudden bloom of light licked up the walls, throwing long, hungry fingers into every corner. The room emerged in stages: the severe, polished corners of a desk, the deep shine of a table set with a decanter and cups, the gleam of weapons hanging in ordered ranks like an attentive audience. The flame steadied, and he was there – not made by it, but gilded in it, a figure of shadow and gold.
A face you knew without knowing why. Lines cut in a way your memory insisted on filling in, even if your mind refused to give them context. The shadows carved his mouth into something both cruel and breathtaking, each shift in the firelight sharpening one edge and softening another.
The headaches pulled meanly at your eyes. The darkest place in you – the part that still knew the taste of battle and the logic of ending a threat – wanted to let the fire consume him. But your ribs, traitorous in their ache, wanted the heat to spare his throat.
He didn’t hurry. He never hurried at first. He let silence stretch until it had weight, until it pressed down on your shoulders. You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, tracking the measured lift and fall of your breath, the minute quiver of your fingers near your blade. The twitch was so small you thought you might have hidden it. You hadn’t. He loved that you hadn’t.
“It pained me not to go to you then,” he said, stepping through the slow sweep of torchlight so that the sharp line of his jaw lit for a moment before it slid back into darkness. “But there are greater plans at work. And you…”
He inhaled deeply, as though drawing in your scent was a private act of devotion. “…were worth waiting for.”
Your hand flexed on the hilt and didn’t draw. A courtesy. One almost no one survived long enough to value.
“I could say I was patient,” he went on, circling now, his boots whispering over the floor in a way that made the walls feel closer. “But that would be a lie. I made myself patient. For this.”
Nostalgia didn’t creep in – it struck, hot and fast, sliding under your skin. Not for the city, not for any street you could name, but for something more intimate: the feel of a mouth against the back of your ear, the solid line of a wall at the wrong angle to the door, the press of a palm at your throat, and the way your own breath sounded when you were pinned open and told good. Your mind swore you didn’t remember. Your body, traitor that it was, remembered everything.
“You thought I was dead,” you said at last, and when he smiled, it was both the first cut and the balm applied to it in the same breath.
The firelight caught the curve of his mouth just enough to make it look dangerous. You didn’t want to remember that mouth, but a flash still tore through you – too fast to stop, too clear to dismiss. Your teeth in his lower lip. The precise give of the flesh beneath the pressure. The sharp, bright burst of copper flooding your tongue until you hummed against it without thinking.
The image came like an afterimage from staring into light too long – you could blink all you wanted, but it stayed, ghosting across your vision. Your jaw tightened against the echo. Your hand twitched again.
“As if something as trivial as death could keep us apart,” he murmured, his voice tilting down into a register that brushed over your skin like smoke. He didn’t bridge the last inches between you. He didn’t need to. Heat moved ahead of him, pushed forward by the torch’s breath and his own. It found your mouth before he did, the weight of it like a hand cupping your face without ever touching. “Pairs like us can scarcely be separated for long.”
“According to you.”
You hadn’t meant to let your voice drop like that, hadn’t meant for it to come out low and rough, but the sound of it made his lashes lower and his pupils flare wider, swallowing the gold around them.
“I don’t remember…‘us.’”
The words cut, and he wore the mark like a jewel pinned to his breast. You watched his mouth sharpen, the edges of it pulling taut, watched hunger spill into his gaze like night rushing to fill a window. Denial excited him. Resistance was oxygen to a man who had always liked to win.
“Oh, you do,” he said, the softness of it undercut by the iron certainty in his eyes. His hand lifted, not to touch but to hover – a single knuckle ghosting your temple, just shy of contact, the heat of his skin a hum under the torchlight. “Not here.”
The knuckle drifted down, unhurried, like a feather falling through still air. It stopped at the small of your back and pressed there, claiming without pressure, right where your spine wanted to arc into the touch.
“But here. In the way you’re standing still when you should be running. In the way your mouth parted when I spoke.”
He stepped in, just enough for the fabric of your clothes to whisper together. “Your body remembers me…and it’s dying to teach you.”
Outside, a cheer swelled – distant, muffled – and broke against the stone walls like surf. You didn’t step back. The room got smaller.
He moved behind you with the inevitability of a man stepping into a mark on the floor that had been waiting for him. It was choreographed, precise, and the air seemed to bend around him to make space. His fingers slid into your hair, slow, with a care that wasn’t tenderness so much as possession disguised as it. Each strand he gathered seemed to be claimed by some silent contract you hadn’t signed but could feel binding anyway.
He drew your hair aside, knuckles grazing the line of your nape in a slow, deliberate drag. The torch breathed. The heat kissed your skin a second before his mouth did – not a full kiss, not even a bite, just the warm threat of one, enough to make your pulse climb into your throat.
“Normally,” he said into the tender shell of your ear, teeth almost grazing the curve, “it would very much depend on the day.”
The bite that followed wasn’t true pressure – just the graze of enamel, the suggestion of what it could become later if you needed him to make good on it. His hand on your hip tightened, squeezing until your breath hitched. Then he hauled you back, aligning your body with his like a chess piece being placed in its only correct square, the press of him against you as blunt and inescapable as the wall you’d been standing against moments before.
“Sometimes you’d find your way in by yourself and we’d play a little game,” he went on, his voice shifting from your ear to somewhere nearer your jaw. He sounded like he was talking about weather or wine, not about the way his fingers were threading down your ribs toward the curve of your breast. “Sometimes we’d mark a victory. Sometimes we’d mourn a loss until mourning turned to something more useful.”
His palm cupped you lightly through your clothing, thumb tracing a lazy arc that made your nipple tighten under the barrier. “Sometimes I chained you because it was the only way to make you still for me.”
The word chain hit you like the clang of cold iron against hot skin. Your mind flinched, retreating from it. Your body warmed, answering without your permission. You hated the reaction. You wanted more of it. You wanted to know – in a way you shouldn’t – what would cross his face if you asked.
“And sometimes,” he said, his mouth now open against your pulse, his tongue tasting you there, “we didn’t need a reason.”
The ache gathering low in you tightened its band around your thighs until they pressed together on reflex. The torch popped sharply, throwing sparks into the air; one landed just shy of your boot and died in a blink, a tiny star collapsing between you.
“Right now,” he added, his voice curling into smoke, “we’re not taking a vote.”
He turned you – not with a push, but with a pivot that made it feel like the floor had shifted under your boots. You found yourself facing him, his hand still firm at your hip, the torque of his control leaving an almost physical bruise under your skin. His eyes were darker now, the edges of gold drowned in heat and certainty.
“You want me,” he said. Not a question.
The air between you was thick enough to feel, and it answered for you long before you could move your lips.
“I think I need you.”
The words dragged themselves through your throat like something pulled from a wound you shouldn’t be touching. The first time speaking them hurt. You knew it would feel like an absolution later.
He looked like a man hearing the words to a prayer he’d been reciting in silence for years. And then he took your mouth.
Not cautiously. Not in barter. He entered – his tongue sliding past your lips without hesitation, the taste of him a mix of smoke, salt, and the faintest shadow of something sweet. Control radiated from every movement of his mouth, from the way he angled your head to the slow, insistent pressure that made you open further for him. You trembled before you even realized it, and he caught the shiver with his body, drawing you closer so there was no space for it to go but into him.
The leather at his chest brushed your bare arms, the fine-stitched edges snagging faintly at your skin. His hands moved with a ritual he remembered and you didn’t: following hems, finding seams, loosing fastenings. Your top was gone in a single, practiced motion, the air against your bare breasts cool enough to make your nipples tighten almost painfully. His breath stuttered, quiet but telling, as though he’d uncovered a relic meant only for him.
His mouth left yours only to claim new territory – a slow descent down the line of your throat. He didn’t rush, didn’t bite immediately. Instead, his lips moved with a deliberate drag, heat sinking into your skin as though branding you one degree at a time. The faint scrape of stubble followed, sending static down your spine.
He pressed a kiss just above the pulse in your neck, open-mouthed enough for his tongue to taste the shallow throb there, and you swore you felt him smile faintly against you – not joy, but satisfaction, the kind a man gets from confirming something he already knew.
The heat of him bled through the thin space between each contact, and every time he pulled his mouth away to speak or breathe, the cool air rushed in to replace it, sharpening the sensation when he returned.
Over your collarbone, he moved slower still, his hand at your side keeping you steady. He let his mouth map the shape of the bone, kissed along it like following a border, then dropped lower. The torchlight caught in his hair, gleaming in the darker strands as he tilted his head to take in the sight of your bare chest.
He didn’t touch your breasts right away. He looked first. The weight of that look was physical – you felt it on your skin. His gaze lingered on the rise and fall of your breathing, on the way your nipples had tightened from the chill, on the faint, uneven rhythm of your chest where your heartbeat pressed faster under the surface.
When he finally brought his mouth to you, it was with the same deliberation as everything else – his lips brushing the outer curve of one breast before closing around the nipple. His tongue circled slowly, heat and wet combining to make your back arch into him without conscious thought.
The sound he made in response was low and pleased, a vibration you could feel through your breastbone. He drew on you, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your legs tighten. His hand slid from your side to cup the other breast, thumb grazing over the nipple there until it matched the first in aching sensitivity.
The city murmured through the walls – distant enough to sound like another world. The voices rose and fell, faint, as though filtered through water. It only made the heat of the room and the press of him seem more absolute.
He didn’t rush the inventory. His mouth alternated between you, attention shifting like a worshiper offering equal devotion to each altar. Every flick of his tongue, every measured draw of his lips, was part of a litany he knew by heart. You could feel him reciting it – the order of touches, the rhythm of breaths – as if testing to see whether your body would respond exactly as it had before.
It did.
When your back arched harder under the pull of his mouth, he eased off, letting the cool air rush in over the wet he’d left. The sensitivity sharpened into a sweet ache that made you exhale unevenly.
“Still,” he murmured, though you hadn’t moved much – the command was instinctive for him, a way of keeping the scene in his tempo.
His hands slid lower, palms smoothing over the lines of your waist and hips. The pads of his fingers pressed into muscle with enough firmness to make you sway toward him without realizing you’d done it.
Your skirt began to give under his touch. He didn’t yank it. He let the fabric surrender in stages – the first slackening of the waistband, the soft brush down your thighs, the slow, whispering drop toward your boots. The sound it made against your skin was barely audible, but it seemed loud in the quiet of the room.
The torchlight caught the pooling fabric, shadowing the new expanse of bare skin it left behind. He stepped back just far enough to look at you fully.
His eyes swept over your belly, lingering on the faint shadows of old marks – bite-patterns he’d put there before, in another life, layered with fresh heat from his mouth tonight. The flush on your hips bloomed under the firelight like a living thing.
The room itself seemed to breathe with you now. The scent of heated leather had deepened with the nearness of your bodies, laced with the metallic hint of oiled buckles, the faint animal musk of wool worn close to skin, and under it all the salt-sweet tang of sweat beginning to dry.
The air slid over your bare skin like another set of hands, moving with the same unhurried, claiming precision as his real ones.
“Turn around,” he said, and though the words came velvet-smooth, there was iron under them – the kind that bent rather than broke but still held shape.
You went to the wall without being pushed, your palms finding the cool stone instinctively. The first touch was a shock, so clean and sharp it almost cleared the pressure in your skull. Almost. The relief was fleeting – it bled away the moment his heat pressed full-length against your back.
The contrast was dizzying: the unyielding chill of the stone under your hands, the warm, deliberate weight of him behind you. His chest aligned with your spine, his thighs bracketing yours, every point of contact reinforcing the fact that you were exactly where he wanted you.
His belt came loose with a metallic clink, the sound carrying a ritualistic gravity – the kind of noise your body recognized even if your mind wanted to pretend it was new. The slide of leather through metal was slow, deliberate, every inch drawn out until the final soft thud of it falling open.
He didn’t rush. He never did before he stopped holding back.
The blunt head of his cock found you with unerring ease, sliding through the slick heat of your folds in a lazy, unhurried stroke. He wasn’t trying to enter – not yet. He coated himself in you first, dragging from your clit to your entrance and back again, smearing the wet he’d already worked out of you until you were flushed and twitching under him.
When he lingered at your entrance, it wasn’t to test – it was to threaten. The weight of him there made your thighs tense. You felt your breath catch, felt the hollow ache of anticipation gnaw deeper the longer he stayed still.
His breath broke over your ear, warm and heavy. “You feel that?”
The growl in his voice wasn’t anger. It was pleasure wound so tight it couldn’t risk being louder.
“That’s what you keep walking toward,” he murmured, “even when you swear you aren’t.”
“Stop talking.” The p fractured in your mouth, your voice catching hard enough to make your own words sound like a stumble.
His smile pressed against your skin. “Say please.”
You hated that you said it so quickly. “Please.”
He pushed in.
Not in a single thrust – no, he took you slow, unrelenting, the thick stretch forcing you open inch by inch until your muscles trembled from the effort of taking him. Your cunt clenched reflexively around the intrusion, but still he pressed, steady, until your breath went thin and your forehead met the stone in front of you.
The stretch skirted the edge of pain before it broke open into something far worse – the raw, hot relief of being filled exactly to your limit.
His hand slid up to your throat, not to choke, but to hold you there – to anchor you in place with a pressure that made the blood in your ears roar louder. He tilted your head back, close enough that you could feel the ghost of his lips move against yours when he spoke.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low enough to scrape along your nerves. “Breathe me in.”
When he bottomed out, he stayed there, the heavy pulse of his cock settling deep inside you. You felt the twitch of it – needy, possessive – and your walls answered, fluttering without your permission. His other hand came down to your lower belly, his palm spreading wide as if to stake a claim on the place where you joined.
Outside, the city roared again. Inside, the smaller, wetter echo of your body around him answered.
When he drew back, the drag was its own language. The ridge of his crown caught on the tight ring of muscle at your entrance, scraped at every nerve on its way out, only to drive back in on a perfect, punishing line.
The sound that left you wasn’t a word.
“Say it,” he ordered, his rhythm slow and exact, each snap of his hips calculated to land you further into helplessness. “Whose are you?”
“Not –”
The lie caught in your throat, useless. He turned your face just enough that you could see the corner of his mouth, and you swallowed pride like a stone. “Yours.”
“Again.”
“Yours.”
It came out wrecked, high in your throat.
He rewarded you with a deep roll of his hips that punched the air from your lungs, finding that unbearable, perfect angle that made your knees loosen. His grip at your throat tightened just enough to keep you from falling forward. The hand at your belly tugged you back to meet the next thrust.
He didn’t speed up. Not yet. He refined the pace instead – the cadence tightening from simply controlled to something curated, each stroke designed to grind your clit subtly against the inside of your thigh, to drag your nipples against the rough chill of the wall when your chest tilted forward, to keep you hovering in the kiln without letting you out of it.
Your cunt made slick, hungry sounds every time he seated himself fully inside you. The wet, obscene music of it was caught and amplified in the air between you, and you felt his mouth shift nearer to your ear as if to hear it better.
“That,” he said, voice softened to something filthier, “is the sound you make when you remember me.”
The ache in your body braided with the pounding in your skull until you couldn’t tell which was making your eyes sting.
His hand left your throat to cup your jaw, turning you so he could kiss you without withdrawing an inch from inside you. The kiss was filthy – slow tongue, no space for air – and when he pulled back just enough to speak, you could taste your own breath caught between you.
“Good,” he said, his mouth brushing yours. “Open.”
His hand slid down between your thighs with a certainty that told you he already knew exactly where you were aching. The first direct stroke over your clit made your hips lurch away from the wall before you could stop them. The second had your voice catching mid-breath, the sound breaking on its way out.
He didn’t change his pace inside you. The slow, relentless thrusts stayed unbroken as his fingers began to circle, each motion precise – not teasing, but deliberate, pressing and stroking just hard enough to make your calves tremble.
The torch hissed as a draught found it, the shadows in the room shifting over your bare skin like another set of hands. The warmth from him wrapped around you even as the wall at your front kept you pinned to the cool stone.
“Don’t run from it,” he said, his tone intimate in a way that was filthier than anything else he’d done. “Take it. Give it to me.”
Your cunt clenched around him in a reflex you couldn’t stop, and the sound he made in your hair was pure satisfaction – low, rough, and dangerous.
His hand left your clit for a moment, sliding lower until his fingers pressed at your entrance beside his cock. The pads of two fingers pushed in alongside him, the stretch so intense your vision sparked white at the edges. It was too much, too full, but it was the kind of too much that felt designed for you, and your body betrayed you by opening to it almost immediately.
He fucked you around both – the thick, steady slide of his cock taking most of the space, the grind of his knuckles catching and rubbing at the lips of your sex with every stroke. Each push made your clit jolt against the base of his hand. The friction sent heat through you like a current, pooling so fast you were already panting.
“You think this is me sating myself?” he asked, his voice a low, measured purr that made your skin feel thinner. “No. This is me breaking the lock you put on us. I want your body to remember before your mind catches up.”
The hand on your hip tightened, holding you still so he could control the motion entirely – withdrawing both cock and fingers at the same slow, punishing pace, then pushing back in until you swore you could feel him deeper than your own heartbeat.
“Tell me,” he said, his breathing starting to roughen, the perfect edges of his control beginning to fray. “Tell me whose you are while I carve it back into you.”
“Yours,” you managed, though it was barely a word – more a sound made of heat and salt and surrender.
“Again.”
“Yours.”
The repetition came out wrecked, high and desperate, your throat raw from the strain of holding back everything else you wanted to say.
He pulled his fingers free, the sudden absence making your walls clutch hard around his cock. His hand returned to your clit, finding it slick and swollen, and began to work in tight, quick circles that made your thighs quake. This time his pace inside you shifted – no longer slow, no longer curated. His hips began to snap forward with a rhythm meant to break you open completely, every thrust meeting your body with wet, obscene precision.
“That’s it,” he hissed, his other hand coming back to your throat, thumb pressing just enough over your pulse to feel it gallop. “Now – come.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a name written in the imperative.
Your orgasm tore through you before you could even brace for it – a hard, sharp wave that had your cunt clamping down so tightly around him that he swore against your ear. He drove deeper, grinding against the high, swollen place inside you to feel every pulse of it.
The sound you made went raw against the wall, ugly and beautiful all at once. His mouth stayed at your ear to take it in, the tip of his tongue brushing the shell like he was tasting your reaction.
“Good,” he growled, holding you pinned against him with his arm across your chest as the aftershocks threatened to throw you forward. “Good girl. Again.”
You were still trembling when the second wave started to gather – faster this time, your nerves rubbed raw from the constant attention to your clit. His hips turned brutal, the sound of your bodies meeting ringing off the stone. The rack of weapons behind you rattled softly with the force of it.
He folded you more sharply over the wall, a hand flattened on your lower belly to push you back onto him with each thrust. The angle made him drive up into a spot that was all ache and pressure until your knees threatened to give out entirely.
“Breathe,” he rasped, his tone shredded with wanting now. “Let it happen. Let me have it.”
You came again – this one not an explosion but a long, wrenching dissolve, your thighs shaking and your sex fluttering in desperate little grabs that dragged a sound from his throat you were more than happy to hear again for the first time.
His control snapped. He shoved in deep, stayed buried, and ground himself against you, the root of him snug against your slick, swollen lips. You felt the first hot pulse of him spill inside you, then another, and another, each one pulling a whimper from your throat. His forearm stayed locked under your ribs, holding you in place until every drop was where he wanted it.
The room seemed to remember how to breathe only after he did. The torch hissed faintly as its flame steadied, shadows clinging stubbornly in the corners. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, the city’s chorus reached a crest – too far away now to touch you, thin and unreal compared to the heavy, wet reality holding you in place.
He didn’t pull out. Not yet. He never wasted this part – the moment when you were still around him, still fluttering faintly, your body not yet certain the act was over. His cock was thick and hot inside you, every twitch of him answered by an involuntary squeeze from you. The warmth of his release settled deep, heavy enough to make your body keenly aware of the fullness.
His palm stayed at your throat, not squeezing, just holding, as he bent to your ear. The words came out low, rough, iron-dirty: “You’ll remember me. If your mind won’t, your body will teach it. I’ll show you every time until there’s nothing left in you that doesn’t know whose you are.”
Only when your knees began to blur under you – legs starting to quiver with the effort of holding both of you upright – did he withdraw. Even then, it wasn’t quick. He dragged himself from you in one long, slow pull, the ridge of his crown catching on every swollen, tender place until you hissed at the sensation. The sound it made – slick, obscene – seemed to echo in the enclosed space, and the heat rushed to your face at the thought that he was listening for it.
His hand was between your thighs almost before you could close them. He pressed his fingers to your folds, gathering the hot mess he’d left, coating your clit in a lazy smear that made your hips twitch even through the exhaustion. He slid the mess back down, pushed two fingers shallowly into you – just far enough to keep his spend from running down your legs. The motion was casual, but the claim in it was absolute.
“Hold it,” he murmured, his tone lined with that amused affection he used when you obeyed without thinking. “That’s mine.”
He withdrew and brought his hand up, still wet with both of you. Without looking away from your face, he sucked his fingers clean. His lips closed slowly, the pull audible, and the sound at the back of his throat was deep, satisfied – like a man tasting a meal he’d been craving for too long.
You should have been embarrassed. You weren’t. The heat in your belly – small but stubborn – told you exactly why.
He wasn’t finished. You knew it from the look in his eyes – the narrow, assessing tilt, the smirk that curled like smoke. He caught your jaw in his palm and turned you toward him for another kiss, one made of heat and slick and ownership, the taste of yourself still faint on his tongue.
“Turn,” he said again, though the command had softened now.
You let him ease you from the wall, his hands reading you like Braille – steadying you where he’d shaken you, guiding you forward without forcing you. Your legs wavered under you, and you felt his satisfaction in the way his grip lingered.
“Still unsteady,” he murmured, that ruined softness curling his words. “I’d have been offended if you weren’t.”
He positioned you in the torchlight like an artist moving his subject, turning your face and tilting your chin so the flame’s glow poured down your throat, mapping the bites, the bruises, the slick sheen of sweat beginning to cool on your skin. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek with the backs of his fingers.
Then his thumb pressed to your lower lip until you opened for him, and he slid it into your mouth. You closed around him without thinking, tongue curling around the pad of it. His eyes dropped to watch your lips work, and the smile that followed was the kind a man wore when looking at a promise already kept.
“Do you feel it yet?” he asked, voice softened to something more dangerous than shouting could ever be. “That ache that isn’t your body?”
You nodded; your voice would have splintered like glass if you’d tried to speak.
“That’s memory straining at the bars,” he said, the pride in it as palpable as the heat still rolling off him. Good. Fight. I’ll make losing feel like the only sensible thing you’ve done in months.
He stooped to retrieve your discarded clothes in one hand but didn’t hand them back. The other hand came to the back of your neck, his thumb making slow, grounding circles into your nape.
“You don’t put these on until I’m finished looking at you.”
And he did look. Not idly. Not like a man admiring a painting. His gaze moved like touch – cataloguing, committing to memory, plotting where to leave the next mark. Your nipples tightened again under the weight of it, and the low, almost pleased hum in his throat told you he’d noticed and filed the information away where he kept all useful details: locked, ready.
Only then did he pass the garments to you, letting his fingers slide along yours like fastening a collar.
“Don’t think of this as the first time,” he said, his voice rich and low enough to settle under your skin. “Think of it as the first time again.”
Even clothed, you didn’t feel covered. His attention was its own heat, following you into every seam and fold.
When you took a step back, he caught your wrist – not tight, but with the exact pressure of a leash meant to instruct.
“You don’t leave without this.”
He turned your palm up and laid something small into it – a scrap of dark fabric, frayed and soft from handling. Its scent rose immediately, not of leather or smoke, but warmer: skin, salt, a spice you almost knew. The ache behind your eyes sharpened, threatening tears you refused to let fall.
“What is it?” Your thumb rasped along the edge, the sound almost indecent.
“A piece of you.”
The words were indulgence and truth in equal measure. “From a night you don’t remember yet. Keep it close.” His mouth curved. “When it’s time, you’ll know exactly what it means.”
He leaned in, lips brushing your temple in a touch that felt more like a brand than a kiss. “Don’t mistake this for a reunion,” he murmured into your hair. “It’s the beginning of the rest of your life. I’ll be in every moment of it.”
He could have let you go then. He didn’t.
Instead, his hand shifted from your nape to the small of your back, guiding you backward until the edge of the desk caught behind your thighs. The movement was unhurried but inevitable – the kind of control that didn’t need to push because you already knew where he wanted you.
The torchlight had burned lower, its glow licking along the walls in soft amber waves that bled into shadow. It no longer blazed; it breathed, and the room breathed with it. Outside, the voice of the city had dropped to a low hum, the coronation having slid from spectacle to speeches, the applause and cheers absorbed by the stone.
He reached for the decanter without looking, his off hand working the cork free with a slow, wet pop that sounded louder in the hush. The faint scent of cool water hit your senses just before he poured it into a cup. He held it out to you, and his voice left no space for refusal.
“Drink.”
Your throat was raw, and the command was as much necessity as it was ownership. You obeyed. The water touched your lips, cool and clean, and you swallowed greedily until a thin stream escaped the corner of your mouth. His thumb was there instantly, catching it, sweeping it back toward your lips with a motion so obscenely gentle it made your knees want to give again.
The cup clicked softly against the desk as he set it down. Without breaking eye contact, he reached into a drawer. You hadn’t even seen him open it. When his hand came back, it held a square of clean linen – plain, white, folded with care.
Then he was kneeling in front of you.
The sight was a gut punch – all the height, the heat, the command of him folded down on the floor between your boots. His knees braced apart, framing your stance, the lines of his body still radiating power even in the posture of service. The contrast made your breath stall.
He lifted your skirt without haste, letting the fabric slide over his knuckles, baring you to the cooler air. The hem caught briefly on your knee before he freed it and eased the folds higher.
The first touch of the linen was soft but certain. He wiped you with the same precision he’d used in every other act tonight – deliberate, slow, making sure no movement was wasted. The cloth caught on the oversensitized peak of your clit, and the jolt that went through you made him smirk against the inside of your knee. He didn’t look up; his mouth pressed a slow kiss there, heat searing through the thin skin.
“Hold still,” he said, indulgence dripping from every syllable, as though your twitching was for his amusement.
He worked downward, cleaning every trace of his release with unhurried strokes that somehow felt more possessive than the act of leaving it in you. When he was satisfied, he folded the linen neatly in half, concealing the mess as if it were evidence he meant to keep, and slipped it away into the drawer without a word.
Rising, he took up more space than the room seemed to have a moment before. You hated how small you felt with him standing again – hated it, and leaned into it all the same.
His hands came to your collar, adjusting it with an intimacy that felt more obscene than anything prior. He smoothed your hair next, his palm warm as it threaded back to your nape. He held you there, thumb tracing slow arcs into your skin, a gesture as much about reapplying a seal as it was about comfort.
Then he bent, his mouth finding the same place he’d bitten before. His teeth sank in again – gentler, but enough to raise heat, enough to promise the bruise you’d see in the mirror later. He sucked, the pull just this side of pain, and your breath caught. His tongue followed, soothing over the sting.
“There,” he said, a final press of his lips sealing the mark. “Something the mirror will understand.”
You swallowed, your voice unsteady. “This changes nothing,” you lied, because you needed to hear yourself say it.
The quiet laugh he gave rolled down your spine like a drop of hot wax. “It changes everything,” he said, certain in a way that left no air in the space between you. “And if you think you can walk back to whatever you were before tonight and not hear me every time you breathe, you haven’t been listening.”
His hand found yours – the one still curled around the scrap of fabric – and folded your fingers tighter around it. He lifted your knuckles to his mouth, kissed them once, then turned your palm up and dragged the flat of his tongue in a slow line over the center. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time.
The heat arrowed straight down your spine, pulling the low ache in your belly back into awareness.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his tone like a schedule already written. “You will stand where I want you. At my side. You’ll wear something that lets me see the mark I’ve put on your throat. And you’ll look at me when they say my name.”
“And if I don’t?”
His smile cut sharp as a blade. “You will.”
The torch guttered once and caught again. The air in the room still smelled of smoke, sex, and the faint ghost of spiced cologne clinging to his collar. Somewhere outside, another cheer rose – farther this time, blurred by distance, as though the city were applauding lines from a play you had already rewritten together.
His grip on your neck loosened at last, but stepping back wasn’t distance – it was just a different kind of hold. You adjusted without thinking, your shoulders shifting, your stance subtly preserving space for him inside you.
The look that passed over his face was pride, warm and sharp. He was a man with a city about to bend, and none of that pleased him as much as seeing you try – and fail – to stand completely steady.
He offered his arm. It wasn’t parody; it was an order dressed in manners.
“Come,” he said softly. “Let me walk you to the door.”
You hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Then your hand found its place where he wanted it. The leather under your palm was warm from his body; the muscle beneath flexed as he drew you in close.
He turned you toward the corridor. The torch by the door sighed as it opened, letting cooler night air reach in, stroking the damp at your hairline and carrying a clearer current of the city’s hum.
At the threshold, he paused. His mouth grazed your ear one last time.
“Don’t get lost on your way back,” he said, amused, possessive, with just a touch of cruelty. “I’d only have to come find you.”
You looked down at the scrap of fabric in your hand. Harmless, in appearance. It felt like a key you hadn’t meant to take.
When he finally let you go, it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like permission. The corridor ahead wasn’t an escape – it was a thread you’d been placed on. You walked it because he’d set you there, because the city outside called for you like a stage, because the ache he’d left inside you was an echo you could follow with your eyes closed.
Behind you, the torch breathed. The room rearranged its shadows to close around the space you’d left. His heat lingered in the air, as if the walls had learned his shape.
The hotel had never felt so quiet. Not the gentle hush of peace, but the kind of silence that feels alive – tense, waiting, a stillness that crawls under your skin and makes you wonder what unseen thing is holding its breath. Even the air seemed thicker, clinging to you as you moved, every creak of the old wooden floorboards under your bare feet echoing louder than it should.
You drifted through the hallways like a ghost, unsettled by the absence of sound. No clinking of Husk’s bottles. No faint hum of Vaggie’s voice down the hall. Not even Charlie’s bright laughter spilling from downstairs. The hotel — normally buzzing with energy and chaos – felt as though it had retreated into itself, cloaked in a strange, heavy anticipation.
Then you heard it.
A single, low note from the piano.
The sound cut through the silence like a thread of smoke. It wasn’t Alastor’s usual showy, syncopated style – the playful, almost mocking notes he played as if performing for an unseen audience. No, this was something entirely different. The sound was slower, deliberate, steeped in a quiet kind of sorrow. The melody unfolded like a secret, each note trembling, as though the keys themselves might shatter if he pressed too hard.
You froze, listening. The sound filled the empty corridors with a fragile, aching beauty. Your chest tightened, and before you knew it, your feet were carrying you toward the music.
The creak of the staircase seemed deafening as you moved barefoot down the steps. You didn’t dare breathe too loudly, as though any sudden noise might break the spell of the music. The notes drew you closer, pulling at you like a thread wound tight around your ribs.
When you reached the lounge, you saw him.
Alastor sat at the piano, his back ramrod straight, his antlers faintly catching the golden chandelier light, their shadowed shapes cast like jagged crowns across the wall. His fingers moved with slow precision over the keys – long, pale, and trembling slightly, as though every note cost him something. His silhouette was unnervingly still, save for the measured rise and fall of his hands.
And he didn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he did and simply chose not to look – a man lost in a world only he could hear.
You had never heard him play like this.
The song felt like a confession made without words, something carved straight from the marrow of his being and placed, trembling, into the room. It was not polished or theatrical, not the sharp, bright swing tunes that belonged to his radio persona. This melody was raw and winding, rising slowly, like a breath drawn too deep, then falling again in soft, aching notes that lingered like echoes in an empty church.
Each key he pressed carried a strange vulnerability, as though he were afraid the sound itself might shatter under his touch. There was no rhythm meant for dancing here – only something that pulled at the edges of you, unraveling threads you didn’t realize were tangled. It felt like being seen too clearly, like standing in the center of a storm that was both violent and heartbreakingly still.
The song was him, and it was you. Your name unspoken, but written in every minor chord, in every trembling pause between notes. It whispered of longing, of wanting without knowing how to ask, of something sharp and wild straining against its own cage.
When the final note faded, silence fell again – thicker, heavier than before. Alastor’s hands lingered on the keys, his fingers curling slightly, before falling into his lap. His head tilted just slightly – not the jaunty, exaggerated tilt of the showman, but a small, quiet motion, like he was listening to the emptiness left behind.
“...You wrote that,” you spoke into the silence, your voice barely above a whisper, afraid of shattering the fragile stillness.
His head turned slowly, and when his crimson eyes met yours, there was no sharp static in them – only a brightness that burned without spectacle, without performance. “Indeed I did, my dear,” he said, and for once, his voice lacked its usual lilt. There was no flourish, no sharp-toothed grin. Just him.
“For me?” you asked, hesitant, the words catching on your breath.
Alastor’s fingers tapped once against the polished edge of the piano, a sharp staccato sound that filled the silence. His mouth curved faintly, but it wasn’t the grin you knew – it was something smaller, almost uncertain.
“You make me think of strange things,” he murmured. “Things I thought were long gone from me.”
His gaze lowered to the keys, his voice dipping quieter. “I don’t…often write. But there are feelings I cannot express with words. Not the way you make me –” he stopped abruptly, as though the thought itself was too raw to finish. Something like shame flickered over his face, fleeting and unguarded. “Not the way you make me feel.”
You stepped closer, drawn in by the weight of his honesty, by the sudden, startling vulnerability in his tone. The air between you felt charged, heavy with unspoken things, with the pull of a thousand unsaid words.
“Alastor…”
He drew in a breath – unnecessary for a demon, but it carried the tremor of something human. His crimson eyes met yours again, and this time you saw no mask there, no shadow of his usual pride. Only a man standing on the edge of a feeling he could neither name nor escape.
“My dear, I find I owe you something rather distasteful…an apology,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue with an edge of discomfort, as if the admission itself were foreign to him. “I fear I have been a touch…possessive. Controlling, even,” his grin flickered, strained at the edges. “Why, how simply beastly of me! A most unbecoming trait, wouldn’t you say?”
He laughed lightly, but it was hollow, the sound of static caught in a radio’s hum. His gaze slid from the keys to you, crimson eyes catching the light in a way that made your heart tighten. “I thought that if I kept you close – tied you neatly in a little bow – I might keep you safe. Or perhaps,” his tone softened, the grin faltering, “I simply wanted to keep you…”
The word caught in his throat, his jaw tightening as though the next syllable might unravel him. When it came, it was quieter than you’d ever heard him, raw in its simplicity: “Mine.”
For a moment, silence stretched between you. He gave a short, brittle chuckle, tilting his head with forced levity. “Ah, but listen to me – positively dripping with sentiment! How frightfully undignified.”
You could see through the performance, through the veneer of showman’s charm, to the sincerity he was trying so hard to bury beneath a grin that was just a little too sharp.
You felt your chest tighten. It wasn’t often that Alastor used words like mine with such naked rawness.
“But that isn’t love, is it?” he continued, his voice softer now, brittle, each syllable sounding like it could cut his own tongue. “Love isn’t a chain. And if I’ve hurt you with my grasp – if I’ve made you fear me – then I am truly…sorry.”
You didn’t know what to say. He had hardly spoken to you like this – stripped bare of the grin, the static, the layers of theatrical irony. He was simply Alastor. And that was almost too much to look at.
“Sit with me,” he said, his voice low and uncharacteristically hesitant. He patted the bench beside him, the gesture simple but weighted.
You hesitated, still caught in the rawness of his words, but you moved closer, your knee brushing the side of his leg as you sat. The scent of old wood and faint ozone from the piano mingled with the faint, wild energy that always radiated off him.
His hand hovered in the air for a moment, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you – like he wasn’t sure he deserved to. Finally, he placed it gently over yours, and for the first time, his touch felt careful instead of commanding.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a murmur, his gaze fixed on your hand under his like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you. I don’t know how to be gentle without…breaking.”
Your throat tightened, emotion flooding through you in a wave so sudden it hurt. “Then let me show you.”
He looked at you – really looked – and for a heartbeat there was no mask, no flicker of humor, no trace of the predator. Just a man, almost afraid. Slowly, as though you might vanish if he moved too fast, he lifted his hand to cup your jaw. His thumb brushed your cheek, tracing the soft curve of it as if committing the shape and texture to memory.
When his lips touched yours, there was no hunger. No claim. No sharp edges. It was soft. Gentle. A question he didn’t know how to ask out loud.
The kiss built slowly, like warmth creeping through frozen veins, until your fingers curled into the lapel of his coat and pulled him closer. You felt him shudder – a low, broken sound that wasn’t his usual hum or static chuckle, but something real. Something raw. Something that sounded like relief.
Alastor rose from the piano as though waking from a trance, his movements slow and deliberate. His hand extended toward you, palm up, as if asking you to trust him with something fragile. When you placed your hand in his, his fingers wrapped around yours with an almost trembling care, not like a predator securing its prize, but like someone who feared the slightest misstep would break the moment entirely.
He didn’t drag you from the room this time, nor did he whisk you away with his usual theatrical flourish. Instead, he simply walked with you, side by side, his tall frame leaning ever so slightly toward you, as though drawn to your presence by some invisible force. Every few steps, his gaze dipped down to meet yours – sharp red eyes softened to a near-glow, searching your expression, silently asking: Do you want this as much as I do? Will you change your mind?
By the time you reached his room, your heart was a thundering ache in your chest. The door closed behind you with a muted click, and Alastor didn’t move at first. He stood in the dim light of the room’s single lamp, his hands at his sides, his expression unreadable but unbearably intense. His antlers cast branching shadows along the walls, like dark fingers stretching toward you.
“May I?” he asked. Just that – two words, low and careful, but they hit you with the weight of a confession, as if he was asking permission not just for your body, but for something far deeper.
You nodded, breathless.
Alastor stepped closer, his every motion measured, deliberate. His hands hovered above your waist, the air between you buzzing with tension before his fingers finally settled there. They were warm, steady, but with a faint tremor that betrayed the restraint threading through him. He didn’t grab or pull; he held, his thumbs brushing slow arcs over your sides as if reminding himself that you were real.
He began to undress you with painstaking patience, not tearing or rushing but peeling away each layer like it was a precious artifact. The brush of fabric sliding over your skin sent tiny sparks through your nerves, and you felt his gaze on you, drinking in every inch revealed as though each new piece of you he uncovered was another verse in a song he’d written just for this moment.
His bare hands touched you with a reverence that made you shiver. His fingers traced up your arms, over your shoulders, skimming the curve of your collarbone and the lines of your waist. There was nothing casual in his touch – every movement was an act of intention, a silent prayer.
“You’re…exquisite,” he murmured, leaning down, his breath hot against your skin. His lips pressed to your collarbone, lingering there as though he was memorizing the taste of you. “I don’t deserve you, but I can’t stop wanting you.”
Your hands trembled as you reached for his clothes, but for once, he didn’t tease or toy with you. There was no dramatic pause, no smirk. He simply let you undress him, piece by piece, the crimson vest sliding off his shoulders, the black suspenders snapping softly as you let them fall. Each button of his shirt was undone with a quiet surrender, his chest revealed inch by inch, pale and almost luminous in the dim light. You traced your fingertips down the planes of his chest and felt the faint shiver that rippled through him.
His sharp breath caught, and his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t.
When he eased you down onto the bed, he didn’t crawl over you like a predator. He didn’t trap you under his weight or pin you with his usual intensity. Instead, he lay beside you at first, the mattress dipping gently under his long frame. His hand brushed your cheek, his knuckles grazing your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip as if he wanted to learn it by touch alone.
He kissed you again, and this time it was deep, slow – a kiss that felt like it had been waiting inside him for decades. His tongue brushed gently against yours, teasing, coaxing rather than claiming. His other hand smoothed over your thigh, slow strokes meant not to control but to invite, to coax you open for him.
“Tell me if I’m too much,” he whispered, his breath hot and trembling against your mouth. “I…don’t want to hurt you tonight.”
You smiled against his lips, the intimacy of his voice warming something deep inside you. “You won’t,” you whispered back, and he kissed you like those words were his undoing.
Alastor’s hands roamed with a patience you had never known from him before. They weren’t frantic or commanding; they were exploratory, reverent. His fingertips traced your ribs, following the rise and fall of your breath. They mapped the gentle curves of your waist, the soft expanse of your stomach, the swell of your hips. His touch was slow and deliberate, as though each inch of your skin deserved to be discovered, savored, and remembered.
When his hand finally slipped between your thighs, it wasn’t with a sharp motion but with a lingering hesitation, his crimson eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. He stroked you with feather-light care, his long fingers moving with a measured rhythm that made your breath hitch.
You gasped softly, your hips arching instinctively into his touch. Alastor’s mouth curved, but not into the sharp grin you expected. This smile was smaller, softer – heartbreakingly real.
“That sound,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, “Is sweeter than any music I could play.”
His fingers worked with meticulous attention, as though he were learning you like a favorite song – every note, every pause, every breath you took etched into his memory. His touch alternated between slow, deliberate circles and careful pressure, his thumb brushing your clit with maddening patience. Each movement coaxed small, desperate noises from you, sounds that only seemed to make his grin soften, his crimson eyes brightening with something dangerously close to wonder.
“Ah,” he murmured, his voice low, silk stretched over static. “Do you feel that, my dear? How easily you sing for me?” his gaze stayed fixed on your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure, every tremble of your lips. “So perfect…so beautifully undone.”
He didn’t rush. His free hand smoothed over your hip, curving up to your waist, holding you in place as though afraid you might drift away from him if he didn’t anchor you. His fingers inside you curled just slightly, stroking in slow, deliberate motions designed to coax the tension building inside you into something that felt dangerously close to shattering.
Your body trembled under his touch, your breath coming in ragged bursts. “Alastor –”
“Yes,” he said softly, his grin flickering into something almost reverent. “Say my name again. I want to hear you.”
The pleasure became almost unbearable – too much and not enough all at once. He withdrew his fingers with slow precision, his touch leaving you aching for more. You whimpered at the loss, and his grin returned, just a little sharper, though his eyes stayed soft.
“Shh…” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you – a slow, languid press of lips that left you dizzy. “I’m not done with you yet. Not nearly.”
His hand slid down your thigh, coaxing your legs open wider as he shifted his weight. He moved above you with a fluid grace, careful but deliberate, his body pressing against yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. He paused, forehead pressing to yours, his breath uneven.
“Look at me,” he whispered. His voice lacked its usual theatrical lilt – it was low, raw, stripped of pretense. You met his gaze, and what you saw there made your breath catch. Not hunger. Not possession. Something deeper.
He positioned himself slowly, deliberately, his hand guiding himself as he brushed against your entrance. He lingered there for a heartbeat, his gaze locked on yours, waiting for the smallest nod of permission.
When Alastor slid into you, it was slow – excruciatingly, reverently slow – like he feared even the smallest rush might fracture the fragile tenderness that had bloomed between you. The first stretch of him made you gasp, your body arching instinctively into the feeling of being filled by him, of every inch sinking into you with deliberate, measured care.
A low, shaky groan left his throat – a sound so raw and uncharacteristic it made your stomach twist. It wasn’t the polished, radio-smooth chuckle you knew, but something deeper, more human. His forehead pressed against yours, the faintest tremor running through his breath as his lips grazed yours in soft, unfinished kisses – half sighs, half prayers.
He stilled once he was fully inside you, holding there, as though he needed to commit this moment to memory – your body wrapped around him, your breath mingling with his, your heartbeat thrumming against his chest. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with an almost reverent touch, his crimson eyes half-lidded as he whispered, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it:
“There… perfect. You feel so perfect.”
His lips ghosted over your mouth, your throat, as though he needed to taste every sound you made. He lingered like that for several long seconds, breathing you in – not moving, just feeling. And then, with a careful, deliberate roll of his hips, he began to move.
Each thrust was deep and steady, not the sharp, commanding pace you’d expected from him, but something deliberate, intimate. He wasn’t trying to own you. He was savoring you. His rhythm was slow enough to make you ache for more, every deep push drawing soft gasps from your lips that he drank in like they were precious.
His hands framed your face, long fingers brushing over your jaw as though holding you there, grounding you against the intensity. His lips trailed over your skin in a pattern that felt like worship – kisses pressed to your mouth, your jawline, the hollow of your throat, each one lingering as though he didn’t want to leave even an inch untouched.
Between those kisses, his voice murmured against your skin. Not the sharp, mocking tone you’d come to expect, but words almost too soft to be his:
“You’re exquisite…beyond anything I deserve. I could lose myself here. Every inch of you, every breath…”
His voice broke faintly, a tremor rippling through him. “Every single part of you is mine to remember.”
The sincerity in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, making your pulse race. You believed him. Every word felt carved into you.
The build was agonizingly gradual, each thrust sinking deeper, slower, as though he wanted you to feel every second of him inside you. Pleasure curled heavy and molten in your belly, spreading outward in sharp, tingling waves. His thumb found your clit again, circling in perfect rhythm with his thrusts – slow at first, then just enough pressure to make your breath stutter into gasps.
You whimpered, your hips tilting instinctively into his movements, and he adjusted his angle, sliding deeper, hitting the spot that made your entire body jolt. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest at your reaction, his grin softening into something almost dangerous in its intimacy.
“Ah…look at you,” he murmured, watching your body arch, his gaze dark and glowing with hunger and awe. “So responsive. So beautiful when you tremble for me…”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, clawing at the fabric of his coat as though to ground yourself against the relentless pleasure. He captured your mouth in a fierce, consuming kiss, swallowing your moans like they were secrets he refused to share. His tongue teased against yours, slow but unrelenting, the kiss syncing with the deliberate thrust of his hips.
“Say it again,” he whispered against your lips, his voice dropping to a quiet, trembling plea. “Please…say my name again. I want to hear it.”
“Alastor,” you gasped, voice cracking under the intensity, your fingers tangling in his hair as your entire body shivered.
The sound of his name left him struck still for a heartbeat, his rhythm faltering as though the word itself undid him. A low groan rolled through his chest, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.
The pleasure became unbearable – a tidal wave cresting too high to hold back. His movements deepened, his thumb never leaving your clit as he coaxed you closer to the edge. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think – every nerve in your body was alive, burning with the tension coiling low in your stomach.
And when it broke, it shattered through you all at once. Your back arched, your nails dragging down his shoulders as your climax tore a cry from your lips – his name, gasped and broken, spilling out of you like a plea.
Alastor’s rhythm faltered, his body trembling as your release pulled him over with you. A low, guttural sound escaped him, not a laugh, but a raw, fractured moan as he buried his face against your neck. His hips stuttered, his body shivering as he spilled inside you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
There was no performance in him then. No grin, no sharp wit. Only the sound of his breathless groan, the tremor in his body as he came undone inside you.
For a long time afterward, he didn’t speak. He simply lay there with you, his body curved around yours like a shield, his hand slowly combing through your hair. Each stroke of his fingers was languid, as though he was memorizing the texture, winding a piece of you around his own heart with every pass. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, the faint warmth of him brushing your back in quiet waves.
The room was still thick with the scent of him. The sheets clung to your skin, still warm with the ghost of his touch. His arm draped lightly over your waist, his thumb grazing lazy circles over your hipbone, as though he needed the reassurance of touching you, but feared pressing too hard and shattering the fragile intimacy between you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it, stripped of static and showmanship.
“...Thank you,” he murmured. He leaned closer, his lips brushing your temple with feather-light warmth, lingering there like a silent vow. “For letting me…be this. With you. I didn’t think I was capable.”
You tilted your head slightly, feeling his breath fan against your skin. “Capable of what?”
He hesitated – a rare, vulnerable pause – before answering. “Of softness,” he said simply. “Of anything that doesn’t consume or command.”
His voice was softer still, tinged with something you didn’t often hear from him: uncertainty. You turned in his arms, your gaze finding his. For once, he wasn’t wearing that perpetual, razor-edged grin. He was simply looking at you – truly looking, like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
“You’re staring,” you teased softly, the words slipping out on a breathless smile.
He blinked, a faint curve touching his lips, though it wasn’t his usual sharp grin. It was smaller, quieter – like it was meant just for you. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. His voice was lower, rougher than usual, as though speaking from somewhere deeper than he intended. “I’d commit this moment to memory if I could. You…the way you look right now…I’ve never…”
He stopped himself, the words tangling in his throat, clumsy on his tongue.
You reached up, your fingers brushing along his jaw, feeling the subtle tension there. “Never what?” you coaxed gently.
His eyes flickered – not with static, but with something raw. “I’ve never wanted to…keep a moment so badly. To hold it, to hold you, without needing to twist it into something else. Without fear.”
His breath hitched slightly, and before you could speak, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering as though that single touch could finish the sentence he couldn’t say.
It was almost disarming, how gentle he could be when he wasn’t trying to dominate or control. His hands, which so often commanded with sharp, deliberate precision, now moved over you like they were learning the shape of something sacred – brushing your hair from your face, stroking the curve of your shoulder, tracing the faint line of your spine as though mapping you was the only language he trusted himself to speak.
“Alastor…” you whispered, and the way his eyes softened made your chest ache.
“Yes, darling?” His voice was velvet now, low and warm, as if you’d peeled back every jagged edge until only this version of him remained – raw and quiet and achingly real.
“I like this side of you,” you said, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “The side that doesn’t hide.”
For a moment, he didn’t respond, but the way his fingers tightened slightly over your waist, as if anchoring himself to you, told you enough. He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, not claiming but offering.
“You bring out things in me I thought were long dead,” he admitted softly. “If I can give you this – even once – then I’ll know I’ve truly made the most of damnation.”
But the warmth of that moment was fleeting. The soft silence, the unspoken words between you, was shattered by a knock at the door – abrupt and hollow in the stillness.
Alastor’s head tilted slightly, his grin flickering back into place like a mask being set over porcelain cracks. “How terribly ill-timed,” he said, but his voice was still gentle when his hand brushed your cheek, lingering there before he slowly pulled away.
You found Charlie waiting in the hallway, her back pressed against the wall as if she’d been pacing for hours and had finally forced herself to stop. Her hands were wringing together so tightly that her knuckles had gone white, and when she looked up at you, her amber eyes were wide with something raw – fear, worry, and a strange flicker of anger.
“Hey,” she said, her voice low, almost breaking. “We need to talk. Please. Just…just for a minute.”
Behind you, Alastor’s presence stiffened like a taut wire. The air around him cooled, sharp enough that you felt the hair rise along your arms. His smile, that ever-present grin, returned with the precision of a blade being unsheathed – too wide, too polished.
“Princess,” he said smoothly, his tone laced with an edge so faint it could be mistaken for charm if you didn’t know better.
Charlie flinched, just barely, but she didn’t look away from him. “It’s important,” she insisted, her voice steadying. “I won’t keep her long.”
You felt the tension radiating off Alastor – not in his words, but in the coiled stillness of his frame, in the way his fingers twitched once against your back. You brushed your hand over his, a silent promise, before stepping out into the hall.
He let go, but his gaze followed you, crimson and unreadable, until you turned the corner. You could feel it even after you were out of sight – like heat from an ember, smoldering just enough to warn you of the fire underneath.
Charlie didn’t speak until she had pulled you down to the far end of the corridor, where the hotel’s golden glow thinned into shadow. Only then did she stop, turning to you with a breath that came out shaky.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she began, her voice trembling with the effort of holding itself together. “I wanted to give you space, because I thought…maybe this was all just tension. Maybe it would settle on its own. But…” She bit her lip, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I can’t ignore it anymore.”
Your brows drew together. “What happened?”
“Alastor,” she said, and the way she said his name – soft but sharp, like she was trying not to let it turn into a plea – made your heart sink. “He’s… different. I don’t mean the way he acts with you. I mean what he’s doing when you’re not around.”
Charlie’s eyes flicked down the hallway, like she was making sure he wasn’t within earshot, before stepping closer to you. “He left earlier. No one knew where he went, not even Husk. When he came back…” her voice faltered for a beat. “He was different.”
You frowned, uncertain. “Different how?”
Charlie’s tone dropped, hushed like the walls themselves might eavesdrop. “There was blood on his sleeve, his gloves. Not unusual for him, I know, but…it wasn’t just that,” she swallowed, her gaze shifting nervously to the floor before meeting your eyes again. “Husk said he saw him out back before he came in. He was laughing. Not his usual laugh – you know the one. Husk said it sounded…darker. Like he’d enjoyed whatever he’d done…more than he usually does, like he needed it. And when Husk asked him about it, Alastor just smiled and told him to mind his own business.”
Charlie’s hands wrung together, her amber eyes wide with worry. “I know what he’s capable of. He’s an Overlord – blood is nothing new. But lately…” she hesitated, her voice thinning. “I think this is about you. He’s not just dangerous when he’s like that: he’s unpredictable. And if his jealousy is getting worse…” her lips pressed into a line, as though she didn’t want to finish the thought. “I’m scared of what he’ll do to keep you close.”
Your stomach turned cold.
Charlie shook her head, her voice rising slightly, threaded with desperation. “I know him, or at least I know what he is, and he doesn’t do things like that without a reason. Do you understand? That kind of rage, that kind of…violence, doesn’t just happen. It comes from somewhere. And I think it’s coming from you – from what he’s feeling for you, from the way he’s losing control.”
You opened your mouth, but no words came.
Charlie’s hands caught yours suddenly, gripping tight, her amber eyes shining with emotion. “Please. I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, because you haven’t. But you’re in the middle of something dangerous. My dad…” she faltered, swallowing. “My dad isn’t helping, either. I see the way he looks at you. I’ve heard the way he talks about you when he thinks no one’s listening. He’s becoming…obsessive. And Alastor – he’s unraveling. They’re both being pulled toward you like it’s gravity, and I don’t know how to stop them.”
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.
Charlie squeezed your hands harder. “I don’t want to lose you to this. I don’t want to lose them to this, either. If you don’t decide where you stand, they’re going to tear each other apart. And maybe they’ll tear you apart with them.”
Her words struck something deep, a nerve you hadn’t dared touch. You could still feel the warmth of Alastor’s touch on your skin, the way his eyes had softened, the way he’d let himself be vulnerable with you – and yet Charlie’s voice planted a seed of unease.
“Charlie…” you whispered, unsure what to say, unsure if you even could say anything to ease the fear in her voice.
“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “Really think about what you want – not what they want. You deserve to be free of their pull, even if…” she trailed off, her expression heavy with emotion. “…even if it hurts them.”
When you slipped back into his room, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Alastor stood near the window, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that was too deliberate to be casual. The faint light from outside cast his silhouette in jagged shadow, his antlers cutting across the wall like dark crown-spires.
“Finished your tête-à-tête with the princess?” he asked, his voice warm on the surface, but with a brittle undertone – the static crackle of something frayed.
You closed the door behind you. “She just wanted to talk,” you said carefully. “She’s worried –”
“Worried!” his laugh was sharp, clipped, though not loud. “Goodness, isn’t she always? Tell me, my dear, what does she think I’ll do? Lock you in a tower? Chain you up like some dragon’s treasure?” his grin widened, but it was almost too wide, too precise. “Hm. I admit, the imagery does have a certain appeal…”
“Alastor,” you said softly. The edge in his grin faltered a fraction.
“She told me about earlier,” you continued, stepping closer. “About…blood.”
For a moment, silence. His smile froze, like a photograph, and then tilted into something darker – not malicious, but fragile.
“Ah,” he said lightly, though his tone carried an undercurrent of static. “She tattled. How quaint.” he moved a step away from the window, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “Would it horrify you, my dear, to know that I enjoyed it?”
You hesitated, your breath catching. “I thought you were…less inclined lately. I didn’t know this was making you hurt people again.”
“Oh, I didn’t hurt,” he said, his grin sharpening. “I reminded. There’s a difference, you see. Some creatures down here think themselves brave, bold enough to glance where they shouldn’t, to whisper things about you…about what’s mine,” his voice dropped to something low and almost feral. “I find that so…tedious.”
You closed the space between you, gently touching his arm. “You don’t need to prove anything like that. Not to me.”
The static hum around him seemed to pause. His grin wavered, his gaze flickering down to where your hand rested on his sleeve. “…You disapprove.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to hurt people just to keep me,” you said quietly.
He tilted his head, studying you with something between amusement and pain. “Ah, my dear,” he murmured, “What am I to do with you? You make me feel…peculiar,” his tone softened, almost wistful. “I’ve spent decades being adored, feared, worshipped even – all of it meaningless, save for the thrill. But you…”
His grin softened into something that felt startlingly real. “You look at me, and I almost want to be more than the monster they think I am.”
Your breath caught. “Alastor…”
He reached up, fingertips brushing along your jawline. “And that terrifies me, my dear. It truly does. Because I do not know if I can hold you without…breaking something. You, or myself.”
“You won’t,” you said, your voice steady, though your heart raced. “You don’t need to hold me so tightly, Alastor. I’m here with you. Right now. Isn’t that enough?”
His smile softened – faint, hesitant. “Yes,” he said at last, almost like an exhale. “Yes…for now, that is enough.”
You guided him to the bed, and he let you, his usual elegance tempered with a strange stillness. He sat beside you, his long fingers curling loosely around your hand as if testing the shape of something fragile.
Alastor’s long fingers laced loosely with yours, the touch careful, almost hesitant – as though he were afraid of gripping too tightly and shattering something precious. He tilted his head, studying your face with an expression that felt strangely unguarded.
“You do something dreadful to me,” he said softly, and though his words carried his usual peculiar cadence, there was no sharp edge to them. “You make me want to linger.”
You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “Is that such a bad thing?”
“Perhaps not for you,” he replied, his grin curling just slightly. “But for me? I’m not accustomed to sitting still like this. I’m a…creature of motion, of sound and chaos. Yet here I am, sitting in silence, simply…looking at you.”
His gaze roamed your face, every line and curve, like he was trying to memorize you. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch unusually delicate.
“I don’t understand you,” he admitted after a pause. “And I don’t understand myself when I’m with you. But I find I don’t mind the confusion.”
You shifted closer, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. His body stilled at the contact, but instead of tensing, he let out a low, quiet hum – not the eerie static of his usual laugh, but a soft, almost absentminded vibration, as though contentment itself was humming through him.
“You’re quieter than usual,” you teased gently, your voice muffled against his coat.
“Yes, well,” he said with a small, amused tilt of his head. “The radio is not always meant to play, my dear. Sometimes it is enough to simply…listen.”
He shifted, his fingers brushing down your arm, tracing a slow line from your shoulder to your wrist. “And I find that I very much enjoy listening to you breathe. It’s a lovely sound.”
You turned your face to look up at him, and the way his crimson eyes softened made your chest ache. There was no performance, no mask – just Alastor, looking at you like you’d carved out a space inside his untouchable world.
When he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sharp or playful. It was slow, a quiet press of lips that deepened only when you leaned into him, your hand curling against his chest. His thumb brushed your jaw, his long fingers trailing down your neck in a gentle caress.
“You undo me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Piece by piece, without even trying.”
You kissed him again, your nose brushing his as you whispered, “Then don’t fight it.”
He chuckled quietly, but it was low and warm, lacking its usual bite. “Dangerous words, darling,” he said, his tone hushed. “But perhaps I’ll allow myself this… indulgence.”
The room was quiet when you stirred, the air still warm with Alastor’s presence. But then, the atmosphere changed. A warmth bloomed in the corner, not fiery but golden, like sunlight slipping through cracks in a storm.
Lucifer stood near the window, framed by moonlight. His white suit glowed faintly, the gold detailing catching the soft gleam, and for once, there was no teasing smirk on his lips. He looked at you with a stillness that made your breath catch.
“May I?” he asked quietly, as if stepping into your space – your heart – required permission.
You nodded before you could find your voice.
He extended a hand toward you. “Come with me. I want to show you something… somewhere only I can take you.”
The moment your hand slipped into his, the hotel vanished. There was no pull, no violent rush – just a seamless shift, as though the world folded in on itself and reformed around the warmth of his magic.
The room around you shifted before you even had time to breathe. One moment, you were lying in Alastor’s bed, the weight of his presence still clinging to your skin like smoke. The next, a warm hand slid into yours – firm yet impossibly soft – and the world dissolved.
When your eyes blinked open, you were standing beneath vaulted arches of pale marble, the ceiling above open to a midnight sky that glowed with stars that didn’t exist in Hell’s skies. You knew this place. You’d been here once before – Lucifer’s private garden.
The air here was thick with warmth, carrying the rich scent of night-blooming flowers. Enormous roses, the color of spilled wine, climbed across pale stone trellises, their petals glistening faintly as if dipped in frost and flame. Twisting vines threaded with luminous golden leaves crawled up marble columns, winding around sculptures of angels with broken halos.
The sound of water rippling nearby drew your gaze to a fountain carved from obsidian and pale crystal. A figure of a fallen seraph stood in its center, wings outstretched, water cascading from the tips like tears. The garden was decadent but unsettling – both a shrine to beauty and a reminder of its cost.
Lucifer stood just behind you, his hand still warm in yours. He looked out at his garden as if it were both his pride and his curse. The white of his suit gleamed faintly in the moonlight, the gold embroidery at his cuffs catching the glow of lanterns set among the hedges.
“This place… it’s one of the only things I’ve created that feels real,” he murmured, his voice low, almost confessional. “A fragment of what I miss. Of what I was.”
You turned toward him, but before you could speak, he took a step closer – and then, without hesitation, sank to his knees on the marble pathway.
The sight of him there, kneeling amid the roses and the broken angels, stole the breath from your lungs. His head bowed low, pale hair falling forward as he lowered himself as though in worship. The King of Hell, the Morningstar himself, on his knees.
“I’ve spent eternity demanding reverence,” he said softly, his voice carrying through the warm garden air like music. “But for you…” He lifted his head slightly, his golden eyes locking on yours, glowing like molten metal. “For you, I would kneel. I would give every crown I’ve ever worn, every palace I’ve ever built, if you’d look at me like you look at him.”
Your throat tightened, your heart hammering in your chest. This wasn’t Lucifer the ruler. This wasn’t the king draped in pride. This was something infinitely more dangerous – Lucifer, stripped bare of all his armor, offering himself to you.
He reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours with a care that was almost trembling. His lips brushed over your knuckles, lingering there as though your skin held something sacred.
“Will you let me hold you?” he asked, and the words weren’t a command or a game — they were quiet, aching, a plea.
You hesitated, not because you didn’t want him, but because of the weight in his voice, the kind of weight that spoke of eternity. He was still on his knees, still bowing as though he’d stay there forever if you said no.
“Yes,” you whispered. The word left you like a sigh, fragile but final.
Lucifer rose with that effortless grace that made him seem more dream than flesh, his hands never leaving yours. When he stood, he was so close you could see the faint shimmer of golden light threaded through his pale hair.
His hand rose to your face, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone as though afraid you’d vanish. “Every time I see you,” he murmured, “I feel something I’ve never felt – not even when I stood in Heaven’s light.”
You felt his arm wrap around your waist, drawing you against him slowly, carefully, as though each movement was a deliberate act of worship. His head lowered to your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, and for a long moment, he simply held you there.
Lucifer didn’t let go of your hand as he guided you along the marble path. The garden stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of wild beauty and sculpted perfection, roses and lilies spilling over fountains, the petals so dark they looked almost black under the moonlight. Lanterns glowed faintly in the hedges, casting soft halos of gold that danced on the polished stone.
He led you toward a secluded alcove framed by an arch of twisted vines, their leaves shimmering faintly as though sprinkled with starlight. A stone bench sat beneath a flowering tree with pale, glass-like petals that swayed without wind. Here, the world felt removed from Hell entirely – timeless, suspended, as if even the stars were holding their breath.
Lucifer stopped and turned to face you, his hand still holding yours. His golden eyes glimmered in the lantern light, softer now, like fire tamed. “This garden was meant for no one but me,” he said quietly. “But now… it feels empty when you are not here.”
His hand rose, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with deliberate care. His fingers lingered near your temple, tracing the curve of your jaw before trailing down the side of your neck. The touch wasn’t claiming – it was as if he were memorizing you, piece by piece.
When his lips brushed your throat, it wasn’t a kiss of conquest. It was softer, lingering, like he was committing your pulse to memory. His hands traced down your back, fingers spreading wide across your spine before curving at your waist. The warmth of his palms was steady, grounding, like he was trying to remind you of where you were – with him, here and now.
You tilted your head slightly, silently granting him permission, and he paused – always waiting – before lowering his mouth to yours.
Then he kissed you.
It was nothing like Alastor’s. There was no trembling sweetness, no fear of losing control. This was slower, deeper – the kiss of someone who wanted to worship every breath you took. His lips moved over yours like a prayer, each touch unhurried, as though time itself had stopped to let him savor you.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured between kisses, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “I’ve ruled kingdoms, burned stars into nothing, but this…” His fingers tightened just slightly at your waist, pulling you imperceptibly closer. “You undo me with a single look.”
Your breath hitched, your hands finding his lapels as though anchoring yourself. “Lucifer…” you whispered, unsure whether it was a plea, a warning, or something else entirely.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. His eyes were molten, glowing faintly in the dim light. “You have no idea how rare this is for me,” he said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of centuries. “I’ve held power beyond measure, commanded angels, demons, entire worlds… but I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”
His hand slipped down, fingers skimming along your arm before capturing your hand again. He brought it to his lips, kissing the inside of your wrist, slow and reverent. “I could stay here forever, just like this,” he murmured, “if you would let me.”
You couldn’t speak – not with the way his words wrapped around you, not with how the garden itself seemed to echo his quiet devotion. Every rose, every flicker of golden light seemed to pulse in time with your heartbeat.
Lucifer led you through a series of winding halls in his palace, each corridor lined with high-arched windows that spilled in the glow of moonlight and the faint flicker of gilded lanterns. His hand stayed clasped around yours, his grip steady and warm, his thumb idly brushing the ridge of your knuckles as though he couldn’t stand not to be touching you.
“You’ve never seen my room, have you?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at you with a look that was almost mischievous, but softer than his usual charm.
“No,” you admitted, curiosity prickling at you. “Should I be worried?”
He chuckled low, the sound curling in his throat like smoke. “Not unless you’re afraid of being scandalized by the most terrifying thing I own.”
“And that is?”
He didn’t answer – not with words. Instead, he pushed open an elegant, double-panel door. His bedroom was nothing like you expected.
The room was bathed in warm lamplight, the walls painted in shades of ivory and pale gold. Tall windows lined one side, their curtains drawn back to reveal the silver sprawl of the palace gardens. The bed was enormous – carved dark wood and crisp white linens that looked impossibly soft – but your gaze was drawn immediately to a polished wooden shelf near the window.
There, neatly arranged in a row, was a collection of rubber ducks.
You blinked. “Are those…?”
“Yes,” Lucifer said lightly, walking you closer. “I find them…soothing. A reminder that even the devil is allowed his quirks.”
You couldn’t help but smile as you leaned in to study them. There was a duck with a tiny golden crown, another with small bat wings, one painted to look like an angel with a tilted halo – and then, at the end of the row, one that made your breath catch.
It looked like you.
Tiny details were painted onto it: your hair color, a little stylized version of your favorite outfit, and even a tiny, delicate smile on its face.
“You made this?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost breathless.
Lucifer’s lips curved into something small and fond. “Of course. Did you really think I could resist immortalizing you? Even in duck form, you’re exquisite.”
The comment should have made you laugh, but the sincerity in his tone stopped you cold.
Lucifer didn’t push you toward the bed; instead, he guided you toward the plush white couch by the arched window, his hand never once leaving yours. His touch was warm, steady – a contrast to the cool marble underfoot – and every brush of his thumb over your skin felt deliberate, like he was drawing quiet patterns of devotion into you.
The room was bathed in pale moonlight streaming through the tall panes of glass, each beam scattering silver across the folds of his suit. The gold embroidery on his lapel caught the light like threads of fire, and for a moment, he looked almost unearthly – not the King of Hell, but something older, softer.
He eased you down onto the couch, his movements smooth and graceful, but careful too – like you might startle if he moved too fast. When he sat beside you, he didn’t immediately touch you. Instead, he kept your hands folded in his, as if they were the most valuable things he’d ever held. His thumbs brushed slow, thoughtful circles into your palms, a silent rhythm that seemed to calm the space around you.
“May I?” he asked again, his voice a whisper that grazed your lips like the faintest ghost of a kiss.
Your heart thudded. You nodded.
His hand slipped to your thigh, and your breath caught in your throat at the softness of the motion. There was no urgency in him, no demand – only care, like he was exploring something he didn’t dare rush. His fingers grazed along the curve of your leg, feather-light but grounding, and the warmth of his touch seeped through the thin fabric of your clothes, making your skin prickle with heat.
Then his lips found your jaw.
The first brush was barely there, a whisper of warmth that sent a shiver running down your spine. He lingered before trailing lower, each kiss deliberate, patient – a slow journey down the side of your neck. You tilted your head, instinctively baring more of your throat to him, and he paused, as though asking for silent permission.
You gave it with a subtle nod, and his mouth returned, savoring you.
When his lips met yours, it wasn’t the kiss of a king or a devil. It was unhurried, reverent – a kiss that felt like a vow. His mouth moved with slow precision, his tongue brushing yours in soft, coaxing strokes that made you shiver. It wasn’t possession. It was worship, each kiss layered with meaning, as if he were telling you everything he couldn’t say with words.
His other hand slid to your lower back, the palm firm but not demanding, guiding you closer until your chest brushed against his. The heat of him radiated through the crisp white fabric of his suit, and you felt the restrained strength humming beneath it – a reminder of the power he wielded, tempered only by the care with which he touched you.
When he finally pulled back, his breath mingling with yours, his lips didn’t leave you entirely. They traced downward, a path of deliberate worship over the hollow of your throat, across your collarbone, and along the slope of your shoulder. Each kiss felt like a quiet promise, a silent oath branded onto your skin.
Lucifer’s forehead came to rest against yours again, his golden eyes half-lidded but burning with something that felt almost… vulnerable. His breath fanned over your lips, warm and slow, as though he was steadying himself.
“When I look at you,” he murmured, his voice deep and earnest, “I see someone who cannot be owned – not by me, not by anyone. And yet…” His hand rose, pressing gently over your heart. The warmth of his palm seeped through your clothes, grounding you. “Yet I want every heartbeat. Every thought. Every secret you’ll never tell another soul.”
He paused, his jaw tightening as if the next words cost him something. “You make me ache in ways I thought I’d forgotten. I don’t remember what it felt like to need until I met you.”
Your breath trembled. Without thinking, your hand rose to his face, your fingertips brushing along the line of his jaw, tracing the faint roughness there. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, his breath catching as though your hand on his skin had unraveled something deep within him.
“I could bring the world to its knees,” he continued, voice softer now, almost breaking. “I could drown every star in Heaven if I wished – and yet none of it would matter if I couldn’t have this. Just this. You, here, in my arms.”
For a long moment, he didn’t kiss you. He simply held you, his forehead against yours, his thumb brushing slow circles against your cheekbone as though to memorize every curve of your face. His free hand stayed pressed over your heart, feeling each rapid beat like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.
The silence between you was thick but tender — filled with things neither of you could say aloud.
Lucifer’s thumb continued its slow circles on your cheek, his gaze steady but softened with something you weren’t used to seeing in him – something unguarded, stripped of the usual wry confidence. His hand at your waist flexed gently, guiding you closer.
“Come here,” he whispered, his tone coaxing, velvet-soft.
You hesitated only for a heartbeat before shifting closer. The fabric of his suit was smooth and warm under your fingertips as you braced yourself against his chest. He guided you onto his lap, his hands steadying you with a care that felt almost ceremonial, as though every motion had meaning.
Once you were there, straddling him, you felt the solid strength of his body beneath you — controlled, still, but radiating heat like a quiet flame. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you just close enough that your chests brushed, but not so close that you felt trapped. It was invitation, not possession.
One of his hands rose slowly, his fingertips brushing the length of your spine before trailing upward to your neck. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. His fingers lingered there, tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, before moving to your temple.
“You don’t know what you look like right now,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent, the faintest smile touching his lips. “Like something divine – something even I don’t deserve to touch.”
Your breath hitched, and you felt his thumb graze over your lower lip, the simple motion sending a tremor through you. He tilted his head slightly, golden eyes catching the silver wash of moonlight, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you again.
But instead, he just looked at you.
His gaze roamed your face slowly, like he was memorizing every curve, every line, every breath you took. His hand shifted to cradle the back of your head, his palm warm against your hair as he pressed his forehead lightly to yours.
“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice a near-whisper. “The way I hold you? The way I…” He trailed off, the words breaking into silence for a heartbeat before he continued. “Every time I touch you, I wonder if this is how I would have touched the stars when I still belonged to them. Carefully. Reverently. Like I might burn if I held them too tightly.”
His words sank into you, heavy and quiet, and all you could do was breathe, your fingers curling against the lapel of his jacket. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered, his thumb stroking slow lines across your hip, grounding you.
Lucifer’s arms tightened slightly around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His breath ghosted over your ear as he spoke, his voice low, rich, and warm like molten gold.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he murmured. “I see a crown I could never forge, a fire brighter than anything I’ve commanded. I see the Queen Hell would kneel for – not because I ask it, but because they would have no choice. You are…incandescent.”
Your pulse jumped, your breath catching in your throat. He angled his head slightly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he continued, softer now, as though confessing something sacred.
“If I could build a kingdom of only you,” he whispered, “I would burn everything else to ash.”
The words melted into your skin like heat, settling in your chest and leaving you trembling. You turned your head, and his eyes met yours – molten gold, glowing with something that felt both devastating and infinite.
He didn’t wait for permission this time. His hand slid up the curve of your back, fingers curling into your hair as he drew you into a kiss that was both unhurried and all-consuming.
It wasn’t rough or desperate. It was slow, deliberate, like he was pouring every unspoken word into the press of his mouth against yours. His lips moved with a careful heat, his tongue brushing against yours in languid, coaxing strokes that left you lightheaded. His free hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face just so, deepening the kiss without urgency – savoring it, savoring you.
Your fingers tightened in his jacket, clinging to him as if the world outside this moment had ceased to exist. The warmth of him bled into you, every inch of his body radiating controlled power beneath the soft white fabric of his suit.
When he finally drew back, it wasn’t because he wanted to. His lips lingered close, brushing yours as he exhaled slowly, like he was trying to calm something wild inside him. His thumb stroked your cheek, trailing just under your lower lip, and his eyes flickered over your face with reverence that made your breath stutter.
“You undo me,” he murmured, his voice so low it barely reached above a whisper. “Not with fire, not with force…but with this. This quiet. This closeness.” He pressed another soft kiss to your lips – almost chaste compared to the first – before leaning his forehead to yours.
Lucifer didn’t release you for a long time. He simply held you, your body pressed against the steady warmth of his chest, his arms forming a cradle that felt both protective and inescapable. His hands moved in slow, thoughtful patterns along your back – tracing up your spine, brushing over your shoulder blades, curling softly at your waist. It wasn’t mindless. It was as if he was trying to anchor you, to memorize the weight and warmth of you in his arms.
His head rested lightly against yours, his breath warm against your temple. Every rise and fall of his chest was calm, unnervingly steady for someone who radiated so much power. It made you acutely aware of how deliberate he was with every movement – as if nothing he did around you was accidental.
For a moment, it felt like the world beyond the walls of his palace garden didn’t exist. There was only his breath, your heartbeat, and the way his presence wrapped around you like a blanket of velvet and fire.
When he finally drew back, it wasn’t to leave. It was so he could look at you.
His hands framed your face, his golden eyes scanning your features with a focus that felt almost too much to bear. His gaze was searching, almost pained, as if he could see every unspoken thought, every hidden fissure where your heart was already divided between him and Alastor.
“Do you think of me,” he asked quietly, his voice softer than silk, “When you’re with him?”
The question hit you like a pulse – sudden, sharp, impossible to ignore.
You parted your lips, but no answer came. Lying felt impossible under his gaze, and the truth was too heavy to speak aloud. You could only look at him, your breath trembling, your silence betraying you more than words ever could.
Lucifer didn’t press you. Instead, something in his expression shifted – his smile flickering, fading into something small and almost unbearably sad. It wasn’t the sly grin he so often wore like a crown. This smile felt personal, fragile, like it was meant for no one but you.
“Don’t answer,” he whispered, his voice threaded with a warmth that made your chest ache. “I already know.”
One hand brushed down your cheek, his fingers curling lightly against your jaw. His thumb traced over your lower lip in a slow, reverent motion, as though memorizing the shape of you, imprinting the feel of your skin into his mind.
“You’re caught between us,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. “I see it – the way you burn for him, the way you hesitate for me. But when I hold you like this…” His thumb stroked the hollow of your cheek, his voice dipping into something low and raw. “Tell me you don’t feel it. Tell me you don’t feel how I would give all I am, all I’ve ever been, just to keep this moment.”
You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as his words sank into you like fire sinking into paper. You wanted to speak, but nothing came – not when his hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it carefully behind your ear as if you were the most delicate thing in his universe.
Lucifer’s hand stayed cradled at your jaw, his thumb brushing once more over your lip as if he couldn’t resist memorizing every line of you. His gaze locked on yours, molten and unflinching.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” he murmured, his voice almost breaking on the words. “For someone who looks at me and doesn’t see a throne or a crown – but simply…me.”
His other hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle, grounding, pulling you infinitesimally closer. “Before I fell, I thought I understood love. I thought I knew what devotion felt like. But it was nothing – nothing – compared to this. You undo me in ways even Heaven never could.”
Your breath hitched, and you felt your fingers curl into the fine fabric of his jacket, the weight of his words sinking deep. He leaned in slightly, his forehead resting against yours, and for a moment he simply breathed you in, as though the mere scent of you could quiet something restless in his chest.
When he kissed you again, it wasn’t rushed or fierce. It was deliberate, every movement measured, like a prayer left on your lips. His mouth moved over yours with aching slowness, his tongue brushing softly, tasting you as though he might never have this chance again.
His fingers slid through your hair, the other hand resting at your lower back, pulling you closer, closer, until you felt his heartbeat — slow, steady — as if time itself bowed to this moment. The warmth of him consumed you, but not like fire. Like sunlight after a long night.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His lips lingered against yours, his breath fanning your skin as he whispered, “If there is a part of me worth saving, it is the part that touches you.”
His lips brushed yours as he spoke, and before the breath of the last syllable had left his mouth, he was kissing you again – not with the aching slowness of before, but with something deeper. Needier. His restraint was still there, woven into every controlled motion, but it was cracking at the edges, splintering under the weight of want.
His hands roamed – reverently, hungrily – like he was learning you by touch alone. Fingertips traced your ribs, the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine. Each movement was slow, but not hesitant. It was deliberate. Worshipful. He was savoring you the way a starving man might savor the first taste of something forbidden.
“You're real,” he murmured into your skin as his lips trailed down the column of your throat, voice thick and low. “You’re not a dream, not a ghost. I have you. Here. Now.”
You gasped as his teeth scraped your neck, not cruelly, but with a possessiveness he didn’t bother to hide. His hand slid lower, over the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him – and there it was. The heat. The hardness. The proof of just how much control he was clinging to.
Lucifer ground against you once, slow and firm, as if to show you the truth of his desire. “I’ve waited so long,” he breathed, voice fraying at the edges. “I’ve touched shadows of you in dreams – but this…this is mine. You are mine.”
He didn’t drag you down to the ground. He didn’t need to. One moment you were standing, and the next you were cradled in satin and shadow, the velvet grass of his private garden rising to meet your back like the world itself had rearranged to accommodate his want.
His body followed, covering yours in a cascade of white silk and infernal heat. The weight of him was perfect – not crushing, but inescapable. You felt caged beneath him, claimed, his golden gaze drinking in every inch of your skin as if this sight was something holy. A revelation.
“Let me have you,” he said, low and rough as his fingers found the fastenings of your clothes. “Let me feel you. Let me prove that I am not lost. Not when you’re beneath me.”
Fabric parted like water beneath his hands, slow and smooth. He undressed you with a kind of solemnity that should have felt ceremonial – but his hands trembled slightly, betraying the frenzy beneath the surface. When you reached to undress him in turn, his eyes fluttered shut, lips parting around a sharp inhale. It was the first time he’d looked undone – not by power, but by something far more dangerous.
By you.
When your hands slipped beneath his jacket, he leaned into your touch like it was absolution. His breath hitched as you pushed the white fabric from his shoulders, revealing pale skin beneath – marked not by scars, but by light. As if the echo of his fall still flickered beneath the surface, a galaxy of gold veins glowing faintly against his ribs.
You couldn’t help yourself. You traced one with your fingertips, and Lucifer shuddered – visibly, wholly – like the sensation cleaved through something ancient in him.
“You make me feel,” he said, voice cracking as he lowered himself against you. “You make me…forget.”
And then he was kissing you again, and there was no more restraint.
His mouth moved over yours with fire and hunger, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue slipped past – devouring you, worshiping you. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them slowly, deliberately, and when he settled between them, the heat of him made your spine arch.
There was no teasing. No slow glide of fingers or soft coaxing touches. He had waited too long. He pressed himself against your core through the last remaining barrier of your clothing, and you felt him – thick, hard, desperate.
“Tell me you want this,” he rasped, and though the words trembled with restraint, his body betrayed him – grinding slow and heavy between your thighs. “Tell me you want me. Not a vision. Not a dream. Me.”
Your answer was a moan that became a whimper as your hips rolled up into him, matching his rhythm.
He growled – actually growled, low and guttural – and with a flick of his fingers, the rest of your clothes dissolved into ash and smoke. You gasped as the air kissed your bare skin, and then he was there, sliding against your folds with feverish reverence.
“I will ruin you for anyone else,” he whispered, voice cracked open like thunder behind clouds. “Even him.”
And then he entered you – slow, thick, deliberate.
Your back arched, breath shattered into broken syllables as he sank into you inch by inch, his golden eyes never leaving yours. He didn’t look smug. He didn’t even look victorious. He looked undone. Like this – this moment, this joining – had shattered something fragile and ancient in him.
“You feel like…” He groaned, hips trembling as he bottomed out, burying himself fully inside you. “Heaven. But better. Warmer. Real.”
Lucifer moved slowly at first, drawing back and thrusting into you with reverent force – like every roll of his hips was a prayer, every moan a hymn. But as your legs wrapped around his waist and your nails dragged lines down his back, his control faltered.
He began to move harder, deeper, his breaths turning ragged as he drove into you with the fury of a man who had waited eons for this. Your cries only fed him, his name breaking from your lips like a song, like worship.
“That’s it,” he groaned, voice fraying with need as his thrusts grew sharper, more possessive. “Say it again. Say my name.”
You did – breathless and breaking. His name spilled from your lips like a litany, like a spell you couldn’t stop casting. You gasped it against the curve of his throat, moaned it into the skin of his shoulder, whispered it between the fire of his kisses as your body arched beneath him.
“Lucifer –”
The sound of it seemed to undo him. He answered with a deep, shuddering thrust that made you cry out, the breath catching in your throat as your body clenched around him. He didn’t slow. He couldn’t. His rhythm turned fevered, relentless, driving into you like he meant to leave his name carved into your bones. Every stroke was a claim, a vow, a testament to the centuries he had waited for this – for you.
The stretch of him filled you perfectly, utterly, over and over, his cock dragging along every sensitive edge until you swore he was sculpting you from the inside out. You felt him everywhere – inside you, around you, above you, the heat of his body blotting out everything but this moment, this sacred, brutal ache of being wanted.
He was panting now, golden eyes barely open as he watched you unravel beneath him, every shift of your hips drawing a desperate sound from deep in his chest. The air between you was thick with heat and the scent of sex, and still, he kissed you – open-mouthed, hungry, his teeth catching your lower lip as if he couldn’t bear to part from any piece of you.
Your climax didn’t build. It rose – like a supernova igniting at the core of your being. One moment, you were writhing beneath him, your nails clawing desperate crescents into his back. The next, it consumed you.
Pleasure tore through you in a white-hot wave, your body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses as your vision blurred, your voice cracking on a cry you couldn’t hold back.
“That’s it, starlight…that’s it.” His voice was velvet and thunder, ragged and reverent all at once. “Come for me. Let me feel you fall.”
And you did. You fell. You shattered.
Lucifer groaned your name like it was divine, his hands gripping your hips as his own body began to tremble. He fucked you through your orgasm, driving deeper, harder, hips snapping forward with a desperate, brutal grace. His control fractured around the edges, and then he was spilling into you – a low, feral sound torn from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt and broke.
His release hit like a storm, cock throbbing inside you as heat flooded your core, thick and searing. He clung to you through it, body shaking, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he moaned into your skin – low, ragged, devastated.
You felt it in every cell: not just his body, but him. His soul. The part of him he never gave, never exposed. He poured it into you like it had nowhere else to go.
And even then, even as the last tremors of his release faded, he didn’t let go.
He stayed pressed against you, chest heaving with each breath as though he’d been holding it for a thousand years. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you as if your body were the only anchor keeping him from drifting off the edge of the world.
His forehead came to rest against yours, damp curls brushing your brow. For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breathing – twined, shaking, uneven – and the soft stroke of his hand down your spine, over and over, as if calming a beast. Or himself.
His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your temple – not with lust, but with longing – and he whispered, broken and bare:
“I thought the Fall ruined me – but you? You unmade me. And I thank you for it with every breath I steal from your mouth.”
He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, his fingertips grazing your temple, lingering like he couldn’t quite let go. “I will wait,” he said softly. “As long as it takes. Even if you never choose me…I will still wait. Because I am already yours, whether you realize it or not.”
The words struck deep, leaving your pulse pounding, your body still trembling from the tenderness of his kiss. You didn’t know what to say – you didn’t even know what you could say – and he didn’t ask you to.
The moment hung between you until Lucifer finally stood, pulling you to your feet with him, dressing you reverently, although his beautiful features admitted without words it was the last thing he wanted to do. His hand stayed clasped around yours as the garden, the couch, the warmth of his room faded, replaced by the familiar quiet of the hotel hallway.
He didn’t let go until you stood at your door. His golden eyes lingered on your face, softer than you’d ever seen them, and then he leaned in, brushing one last kiss over your forehead.
“Until next time,” he murmured. And with a ripple of warmth, he was gone.
The familiar warmth of the Hazbin Hotel reformed around you as Lucifer’s magic faded, leaving you standing just outside Alastor’s bedroom door. Your pulse still thrummed with confusion and longing, every nerve in your body aware of the ghost of Lucifer’s touch.
You pushed the door open as quietly as possible.
Alastor was still there, miraculously asleep. His tall frame lay stretched across the bed, one hand curled loosely near his head, the faint glow of his crimson eyes absent for once. Even in rest, he seemed unearthly – still, sharp, but strangely at peace.
You stepped inside softly, careful not to wake him, and slipped under the covers. The mattress dipped as you lay beside him, and instinctively, as though he sensed you, Alastor’s arm moved, draping lightly over your waist. His touch was warm, protective, unconsciously pulling you closer even in sleep.
You stayed frozen for a long time, your body still warm where Lucifer’s hands had been. Your pulse felt unsteady, caught between the tenderness you’d shared with Alastor earlier and the reverence of Lucifer’s embrace.
Images tangled in your mind: Alastor’s hands, careful and almost trembling when they’d held you, his grin softening into something real when he’d whispered his apology. And then Lucifer — bowing before you, kissing your hands like you were something divine, holding you like someone who worshipped rather than possessed.
Charlie’s voice drifted back in the silence: “Make sure what you want is really yours, not something they’re pulling out of you.”
But how could you tell? How could you separate yourself when every part of you felt split between the two of them, when both men made you feel so undeniably seen, so undeniably wanted – but in completely different ways?
You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, the tension of the night still humming through your veins. Alastor’s quiet breathing beside you should have soothed you, but your mind wouldn’t still. Sleep was slow to come – when it finally did, it came fractured, broken into flashes.
Alastor’s crimson eyes, softened with something dangerously close to love. Lucifer’s molten gaze, kneeling at your feet like a fallen king offering his crown.
Somewhere deep inside, you knew a choice was coming – one that would tear you open no matter what you decided. And you also knew that, after tonight, you would never be the same.
hi!! I loved Exclusive Rights the way you write Lex is so good and the dynamic with reader was just amazingg. If you're taking requests I'd like to humbly suggest a Lex x assistant with degredation and power imbalance. No pressure, I love the fics and will be binging your masterlist for the foreseeable future!! 🫶
hellooooo sweet anon! thank you so very much for the kind words! I'm glad you enjoyed that first one, and that you sent me some mail about it!
funny enough...I did start another (very lengthy) oneshot earlier today that is exactly what you're looking for! you should be on the lookout for a fic titled TERMS OF SERVICE from me within (what I think will be) the next couple of days! 🫶
explicit. 18+ only. - 3.7k+ - Lex Luthor x f!journalist!reader
content: enemies to lovers (ish), power dynamics, psychological manipulation, tension, obsession, manipulative behavior, possessive behavior, smut, dubcon (ish), probably set pre-Superman for logic reasons
every question you ask, he twists into something sharper – until you’re no longer sure if you’re interviewing him or falling into his hands.
The elevator ride to the top of LexCorp Tower felt like ascending into the lion’s den. Every floor you passed was all polished steel and cold glass – clinical, sterile, as if the entire building existed to prove that Lex Luthor had nothing to hide. Yet, standing there with your notebook tucked under your arm and your press badge clipped to your blouse, you knew better.
When the doors slid open, a pristine white corridor led to a set of tall, black double doors. The LexCorp logo gleamed in silver against the dark wood. Two security guards stood flanking the entrance, but they didn’t stop you. They didn’t need to. There was something about the silence here, the way your own footsteps echoed, that made it feel like you were walking into a trap willingly.
You told yourself this was just another interview – just another powerful man with too much money and too little morality. You’d handled men like that before. You’d practically eaten them for breakfast by way of incinerating headlines.
But none of them were Lex Luthor.
His office was bigger than your apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Metropolis, sunlight reflecting off every surface. The décor was sleek, modern, but impersonal – like the set of a billionaire’s penthouse in a movie. Not a single family photo, no personal mementos, not even a misplaced pen. Just a massive desk of dark wood, a leather chair, and Lex Luthor himself.
“Ah, the reporter,” he said, his voice smooth as polished marble. He rose from behind the desk, every movement precise, calculated. The cut of his suit was flawless – a deep charcoal that set off the ice of his eyes. He didn’t extend a hand. Instead, his gaze raked over you, slow and assessing, as though he could tell what you’d eaten for breakfast and what you’d dreamt of last night just by looking.
“Mr. Luthor,” you forced yourself to keep your voice steady, your smile polite. “Thank you for agreeing to this interview.”
“I don’t recall agreeing,” he said with a faint smirk, gesturing for you to sit. “But I’m curious. People rarely ask me questions to my face. They prefer shouting them from the cheap seats.”
You sat, pulling out your recorder and notepad. “I’m here to talk about your latest defense project and its potential impact on –”
“On Superman?” he interrupted, his tone mild, but his eyes glinted with something sharp. “Let me guess. You want to know why Lex Luthor, ‘the villain of Metropolis,’ I believe you’ve called me in your articles, dares to build something that could level the playing field?”
You hesitated. “Is that what you call it? Leveling the playing field? Some would say it’s paranoia.”
“Paranoia,” Lex repeated with a faint laugh, as if tasting the word. He leaned back in his chair, his hands folding elegantly in front of him. “Paranoia is what you have when the threat is imagined. I don’t imagine Superman. I watch him – every day – parading above this city like a god pretending to be a man. And I wonder…” he tilted his head, his gaze locking on yours. “Do people like you ever stop to ask who’s holding the leash? Or do you just trust that a creature with that much power is inherently…good?”
The way he said “good” made your skin prickle.
“I think most people trust him because he’s proven he can be trusted,” you shot back, trying to steer the conversation back to your notes. “Superman doesn’t –”
“– doesn’t kill? Doesn’t take what he wants? Yes, I’ve heard the fairy tales. But tell me, do you believe in fairy tales?” Lex leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk. “Or are you the kind of woman who likes to see the truth for herself?”
His eyes pinned you in place. There was something predatory in them – something that said he wasn’t just talking about Superman anymore.
You cleared your throat. “I’m here for answers, not philosophy.”
“Answers,” he said, tilting his head. “The truth is never what people want. They want someone to pat them on the head and say everything will be fine. But the world isn’t fine. It’s dangerous. And I’m the only one willing to admit it. You want me to tell you I hate him? That I’m jealous? No. What I hate is blind faith. Your Superman is a question no one’s brave enough to ask, because they don’t like the answer: What happens when the savior decides he doesn’t want to save you anymore?”
The bluntness of the statement sent a shiver down your spine, though you refused to show it. “Is that how you justify all of this?” you asked, nodding toward the cityscape behind him. “The weapons, the tech, the surveillance –”
Lex rose suddenly, moving around the desk. You felt the subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. He wasn’t just the man you were interviewing anymore – he was the man who owned this building, this city, and now, in a way, this conversation.
“Careful,” he said softly, walking behind you like a wolf circling its prey. “Your voice shakes when you get too passionate. It’s…distracting.”
You tightened your grip on your notepad. “I’m not here to be –”
“– distracted?” he cut in, leaning down so his breath brushed your ear. “Then maybe you should stop looking at me like that.”
You spun in your chair, glare sharp, eyes narrowing up at his smug face. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come now,” Lex said, straightening. “Don’t pretend you’re not curious. You came here expecting to find a monster, but what you found was a man who doesn’t lie to himself. And that bothers you.”
“I’m here for the truth,” you said, standing up to meet him at eye level. “Not whatever game you think you’re playing.”
“Truth?” Lex repeated, his tone dropping to something dark and intimate. “The truth is, I can see your pulse from here. The truth is, every time you look at me, I can tell you’re wondering what it would be like if someone like me wanted you.”
You froze, your breath catching. His smile deepened, slow and knowing.
“That’s the difference between me and Superman,” Lex said, taking a deliberate step closer. “He wants to save everyone. I don’t. I pick and choose. I look at someone and decide whether they’re worth my time, my attention…or more.”
“Is this how you treat every reporter who walks into your office?” you snapped, though your voice lacked the conviction you wanted.
“No,” Lex said. He reached out, plucking the recorder and notepad from your hands, setting the notepad on his desk with unhurried precision. “Just the ones who look at me like they can’t decide whether to slap me or kiss me.”
You stood there, pulse hammering, as Lex set your recorder down like a teacher confiscating a student’s toy. He stepped closer, and the sheer presence of him was overwhelming – calculated, deliberate, the kind of proximity that made it impossible to think clearly.
“This interview,” he murmured, his voice lower now, more intimate, “was never about Superman. Not really. You don’t care about my sound bites. What you want…” He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming as they studied your face, “…is to see what kind of man I am when the cameras are off. Isn’t that right?”
You tried to take a step back, but your hip bumped the edge of his desk. He smiled faintly, as though he’d planned it that way. His hand brushed the surface near your waist, his fingers drumming against the polished wood with slow, deliberate taps. It was as if he was counting down to something inevitable.
“Do you always get this close to people you’re trying to intimidate?” you asked, your voice steady but thin.
Lex’s smile sharpened. “Intimidate? I’m trying to educate. The difference between me and your alien hero is simple,” he leaned in, close enough for his breath to ghost over your lips. “He waits to be asked. I don’t.”
Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers traced a line from the edge of the desk up to your wrist, brushing your skin lightly but purposefully. He glanced down at where his hand hovered over your pulse, smirking. “Racing,” he said softly, almost like a scientist observing a specimen. “Interesting.”
You swallowed hard, trying to steel yourself. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.”
“Charming?” Lex chuckled darkly, leaning closer until the backs of your thighs pressed against the desk. “Sweetheart, I’m not here to charm you. I’m here to show you the difference between wanting something – and taking it.”
He stopped just inches from your face, waiting. His gaze locked on yours, not predatory exactly, but daring – like a man who knew that if you didn’t push him away now, you’d be complicit in whatever happened next.
“Tell me to stop,” Lex whispered. His voice was low, rough silk. “Go on. Say the word.”
You hated that you didn’t. Your lips parted, but no words came out. That single hesitation was all he needed.
Lex kissed you, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring your surprise. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You gasped, your hands gripping the edge of the desk for balance, and he smiled against your mouth as though you’d just confirmed something he already knew.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes gleamed with victory. “See? You think you hate me. But your body…” he let his hand drift down your spine, lingering dangerously low. “…doesn’t lie.”
Your breath came faster, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting anything. “You’re insufferable,” you said, but it sounded weaker than you intended. Less honest than you needed it to.
Lex grinned, a flash of white teeth. “Insufferable, irresistible. It’s all the same when you’re thinking about me later, isn’t it?”
“You’re delusional if you think –” you began, but his fingers found the first button of your blouse, toying with it like a cat with prey.
“Delusional?” he murmured. “Then why are you still here? Why aren’t you running out the door, calling me a monster?” He undid the button with slow precision, watching your face as he did. “Because you don’t want to.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but the sound died in your throat as he undid another button, and then another, exposing the delicate line of your collarbone. His eyes darkened as he traced the skin with his thumb.
“You want to know what kind of man I am?” he whispered. “Let me show you.”
Lex pressed you gently but firmly against the desk, his hand skimming your waist as his lips brushed your jaw. His scent was sharp and clean, like expensive cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous. He moved with absolute control, every touch deliberate, every breath a statement.
“You came in here to challenge me,” he said against your ear, his tone deep and magnetic. “To tear me down, write your righteous little article. But I think…” His hand slid lower, resting on your hip. “…you’d rather admit you came here for more than a story.”
Your knees almost buckled when his lips found the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I hate you,” you whispered, but even you could hear the way your voice cracked on the word.
Lex smiled against your skin. “No, sweetheart. You hate that you want this.”
Your blouse slipped off your shoulders, the fabric whispering to the floor, and Lex’s eyes devoured the sight of you like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. He wasn’t hurried – he didn’t need to be. Everything about him radiated confidence, an unspoken truth that he could make you bend with nothing but his voice and his hands.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t look away. “And yet, you’re not stopping me. Why is that?” His smile turned sharp. “Curious? Or just waiting to see how far I’ll go?”
Before you could answer, he leaned down, kissing you again, this time with a hunger that left no room for hesitation. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the desk. The cool wood beneath your thighs sent a shiver through you, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body pressing between your legs.
He paused, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath uneven but controlled. “Tell me,” he said softly, “Do you think your precious Superman would do this to you? Would he touch you like you’re something he can’t put down?”
“Lex…” You weren’t sure if it was a warning or a plea.
“That’s what I thought.”
His hands slid up your thighs, his palms firm but unhurried, fingers brushing the sensitive skin with calculated precision. He stopped at the hem of your skirt, smirking as his fingers curled around the fabric. “Still dressed,” he said, voice low and amused. “That won’t do.”
Lex pushed your skirt higher, exposing your underwear, and his expression darkened with something primal. “Perfect,” he said, the word laced with reverence and danger. He traced a finger along the edge of your thigh, deliberately close but not touching where you needed him most. “You’re already warm,” he noted, like he was analyzing data, and the smug satisfaction in his voice made your face burn.
“You’re insufferable,” you said again, but it came out breathless, your hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles whitened.
“Yet you’re still here.” Lex’s voice dropped, his tone now edged with command. “Look at me.”
You met his gaze, and the intensity there sent another shiver down your spine. He held your eyes as he slid his hand beneath your panties, his fingers finding you with precise, devastating ease. You gasped, biting your lip, but he didn’t let you break eye contact, his other hand tucked beneath your chin.
“That’s it,” he said softly, his expression a mix of triumph and dark amusement. “I want to see every reaction. Every single one.”
Lex moved slowly, deliberately, drawing circles that made your breath hitch. He never gave too much at once, pulling back just when you thought you’d reach the edge. “You’re so easy to read,” he whispered, leaning in so close his lips brushed your ear. “Every sound you make tells me exactly what you want. And I haven’t even started.”
When you let out an involuntary whimper, his grin widened. “Say it,” he commanded, his voice low but sharp. “Say what you want.”
You shook your head stubbornly, but Lex only chuckled, his free hand gripping your jaw gently but firmly. “I can wait all day. Can you?”
The tension in your body built to an unbearable pitch. Finally, the word slipped out, unbidden. “Please.”
“Please what?” His tone was mocking, but his fingers slowed, making you writhe. “Be specific. I like specifics.”
“Lex…” you swallowed, cheeks burning. “Please…don’t stop.”
“That’s all I needed to hear,” he murmured, his fingers sliding deep inside you, his pace finally picking up. The sound of your breathless moans filled the pristine office, and Lex’s smirk deepened as if every sound was another victory.
But he wasn’t content to simply touch you. He withdrew his hand, unbuttoning his shirt with slow, deliberate movements, his gaze never leaving yours. “I want you to remember this,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Every time you write my name. Every time you see him. I want you to think about this moment.”
His belt hit the floor with a metallic snap, and your pulse raced as he stepped between your thighs again. He kissed you hard, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pushed your panties aside. The blunt pressure of him against your entrance made you gasp.
“Ready?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question. His tone was a mixture of command and promise. “Because once I start, I’m not stopping.”
Before you could answer, Lex pushed forward, sinking into you with deliberate, unhurried force. The sensation tore a gasp from your throat, your nails digging into the polished desk as your body struggled to process both the shock and the pleasure. He paused only once, just long enough to let you feel the weight of his control.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice silk over steel. His hands gripped your hips with bruising precision, holding you firmly in place. “There’s nothing out there. No cameras. No Superman to swoop in and save you. Just me. Just this.”
He moved then, slow at first, every thrust a calculated stroke designed to break you down piece by piece. His eyes locked on yours, and you realized he was watching every reaction – the way your lips parted, the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched unconsciously toward him.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. You did, though it was difficult under the sheer intensity of his gaze. “I want to see exactly when you stop pretending you don’t want this.”
Lex’s pace quickened, the desk creaking faintly beneath the force of his movements. One hand slid up your torso, his thumb brushing over your lips, then down to your throat. He didn’t squeeze – he didn’t need to – but the possessive pressure made your pulse race even faster.
“You feel that?” he asked, his tone more taunt than question. “That’s what control feels like. Not those ridiculous ideals your hero feeds you – this.” His hips snapped forward harder, making you moan despite yourself. “Say it,” he growled softly. “Say you feel me.”
“I –” The word broke on a gasp. “I feel you.”
Lex smirked, clearly pleased. “Good girl.”
Every time you tried to catch your breath, Lex tilted the scales again – thrusting deeper, faster, but never out of control. His hand slipped beneath your back, arching you toward him as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear.
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dark silk. “Does he make you feel like this? Or does he just smile down at you like you’re another citizen on his rescue list?”
You moaned in response, which only made him chuckle – a low, rich sound. “Thought so,” he said, his teeth grazing your neck. “He can have the city. I’ll have you.”
He slid one hand between your thighs, fingers working in tandem with the relentless rhythm of his hips. The combination was devastating, pulling broken sounds from your throat as the pleasure built and coiled tight in your stomach.
“That’s it,” Lex said, his voice sharp with authority. “Don’t hold back. I want to see you come apart for me. Here. On my desk. So the next time you sit across from me with your righteous questions, you remember who really had you.”
The way he said it – like a claim, a victory – pushed you over the edge. The orgasm hit hard, tearing through you with shuddering intensity as you cried out, your body tightening around him. Lex’s grin widened, his pace faltering for just a moment before he drove into you one last time, a groan escaping his throat as he spilled inside you, his breath ragged against your neck.
For a moment, the office was filled only with the sound of breathing – yours erratic, his calm but heavier than before. He pulled back slowly, the cool air a shock against your flushed skin, and buttoned his shirt with maddening precision, as though nothing had happened.
“You look…flustered,” Lex said with a smirk, adjusting his tie. “A good journalist should never lose their composure.”
You glared at him, though your body still trembled. “You’re…unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably honest,” he corrected smoothly, leaning down to brush a final kiss against your jaw – soft, almost tender, which somehow made it worse. “Consider this your exclusive interview, sweetheart. But don’t think we’re done.”
You slid off the desk, shakily fixing your clothes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Luthor. This changes nothing.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lex said with a dark grin. “But I promise you – next time, you’ll want more from me. And I won’t even need to ask.”
You barely remembered riding the elevator down from LexCorp Tower. Your legs were still unsteady, your blouse half-buttoned in a way that felt both careless and purposeful. Even the building’s icy, corporate air couldn’t cool the heat lingering on your skin where his hands had been.
When the lobby doors slid open, the evening air hit you like a shock – brisk, sharp, real. You walked quickly, your pulse still erratic, as if you could outrun what had just happened. Your mind reeled, replaying every word he’d said, every deliberate touch, every moment you’d let him take control.
I hate him, you told yourself. But your body betrayed the truth – you still felt him everywhere.
It wasn’t until you reached your car that you realized something was off. Your bag was lighter than it should have been. You rifled through it – your notebook was there, but the recorder…
“Damn it,” you muttered. You could see it now in your memory, sitting on his desk, right where he’d put it down after taking it from your hand.
Had he forgotten to return it? Or had he kept it on purpose?
The thought made something coil tight in your stomach – half anger, half…something else. Something that burned low and unwanted.
Later that night, as you tried – and failed – to write your article, a knock at your door startled you. No one was there when you opened it, but found a small black box on your doorstep. No name, no note. Inside was your recorder. When you pressed play, you expected to hear the beginning of your interview.
Lex’s voice came through, low and deliberate, like a whisper meant just for you.
“You wanted the truth? Here it is. You’ll think about me tonight. You’ll try not to, but every time you close your eyes, you’ll feel me. Every sound you make – every breath – it will be for me. And when you finally give in, when you can’t take it anymore… you’ll know exactly where to find me.”
There was a soft click, the recording ending, but the silence it left behind was somehow worse than his words.
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