ami𑣲𐔌՞. .՞𐦯✦ | gentleisa

YOU HATE WAKING UP ALONE. You blink the sleep from your eyes, staring up into ceilings that soar several stories overhead, disappearing into the shadows. Light streams through stained glass windows, casting the room in a prism of colors. You turn your head to look at them, eyes tracing each piece of colored glass that depict angels among the clouds, their wings stretched across vast expanses of midnight blue, their faces soft, turned toward the sun.

You don't feel like that kind of angel. You never have. You don't really remember what it's like to be that kind of angel. You'd never been given the chance, barely out of adolescence when the Fall began.

Hundreds of candles fill the room, burning in crystal sconces mounted along the walls, their reflections multiplying in the stained glass windows. Thick rugs woven from fabrics of impossible colors cover the floors - a personal gift from Joshua because despite this room being in Hell, the floors are always too cold for your feet.

Sitting up, you feel the emptiness eat away at you immediately. Being along in such a big room feels overwhelming. Even the bed is too big, sitting on top of a raise platform of black marble, surrounded by ivory curtains that drift with a breeze you can never quite pinpoint.

The heavy scent of incense clings to you and the soft, woody smell of Joshua. You lean over and breathe in the sheets deeply, his scent lingering there but not as strongly as you'd like, which means you've been sleeping alone for a while. The thought makes your stomach flip nervously, and you glance toward the heavy double doors.

You're not really supposed to leave his chambers. He'd banished anyone from this wing of the palace for you anyway, but he prefers you to stay in the room. The room has everything you need anyways - books, painting supplies, food, bathing chambers, pencils and parchment for drawing. And if there's anything you want, anything you need, Joshua will get it for you.

Usually, anyway. If he's in the right mood, which he often is.

If you want him to remain in a good mood today, you ought to stay in the bedroom. Still, you already feel an empty hollow without him here, a nervousness that you can't quite get rid of whenever he's gone.

Instead of falling into temptation and wandering the halls, you wander the room. You already know every corner of these rooms, but you explore anyways, keeping to the carpets to warm your feet as you trail your fingers over shelves filled with paintings and fresh flowers, golden bird cages with no birds, jewelry boxes overflowing with necklaces and earrings.

A grand piano sits in the middle of a small alcove, your favorite place to curl up on the bench when Joshua plays. Right now it sits empty, the fallboard closed. You pass the piano, fingers dragging along it's edge as you pass to an enclosed garden full of orchids and climbing wisteria, the grass soft and damp under your feet.

Every part of the room is meticulous. Perfect. A sanctuary built for you. While you could appreciate the dedication, what you really wanted was Joshua to be here with you. For him to never leave - or for him to take you elsewhere, so long as you were with him.

The thought of being here alone without him makes you want to cry. You feel the way your throat tightens, your fingers wrapping in your nightgown as you stare at one of the stained glass windows, the depiction of the Morning Star falling from Heaven. It's your favorite, because it was the first time you'd followed him, but Joshua hates to be reminded of it.

Still, for you, he keeps it here, an ode to how willing he is to provide. To protect.

Your bare feet whisper across the rugs, past the candles and past the bed draped in silks and ivory where he's taken you apart so many times you've lost count. The marble is cool beneath your knees when you sink down in front of the stained glass, tilting your head back to take it in.

Your Morning Star, his wings spread wide and beautiful and terrible, plummeting through a sky that bleeds from gold to red to black. Other stars fall behind him, small and barely there, and though you know you are one of them, you've never been sure which one.

You'd hardly understood what you were doing when you fell with him, only that you couldn't bare to be anywhere he wasn't, that the light of Heaven felt cold and empty without the heat of his presence, the fire that lit you up from within.

The ache returns like it always does, starting in your chest before it spreads outward like cracks in fracturing glass. You miss him. You miss him so much that sometimes it feels like dying, and right now you're sure you're going to die, your hands curling against your thighs, nails biting into the soft skin until you draw blood.

You try to breathe through it like he's asked, but the hollow, gnawing thing that lives inside of your ribs is becoming too much and it swells and swells and swells until it spills out your raw insides, a sound that's half-sob, half-gasp.

The tears come hot and fast, burning like acid. You don't know why your tears burn - they hadn't done it before the fall, but they do now, stinging and burning and hissing as they spill down your neck. You curl inward, arms wrapped around your middle as though you can stop the ache from spilling out, like maybe if you squeeze hard enough, you can miss him less.

It doesn't work. It never does. You need him and he's not here and you don't know where he is or when he's coming back, and the not-knowing is worse than anything else in the world. It could be minutes, it could be hours, it could be days, but it never matters how long because any increment of time feels just as terrible as the next, an inexorable stretch of misery.

You're trembling now, your entire body shaking with the force of your crying and no matter what, you can't stop, can't breath, can't think past the overwhelming need for him to be here, to feel him against you, for him to whisper that he loves you, that he loves your sin and that he'll never stop loving you-

The door opens but you don't hear it at first over your crying. You don't register it until you hear him coo, the sound tugging at you like a marrionette. Your head jerks in his direction and you see him through your mess of tears, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed.

Joshua.

He's dressed head to toe in white, pristine and so bright that it should wash him out, but instead it makes him look like something carved from the darkness. His suit jacket clings to his shoulders and chest, the lean lines of his body visible because there's no shirt beneath. You focus on the hollow of his throat, the softness there that you've bitten time and time again, mapping his flesh in sin colored the same red as Eve's first bite of the apple.

Even through your tears, even with your vision swimming, he's so beautiful it hurts to look at him. It always hurts to look at him. His face, sharp jaw and full lips that curl in cruelty and tenderness in equal measure, balanced between the light and the shadow, a perfect angel and perfect demon. Dark hair falls across his forehead, slightly disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. And his eyes. Those eyes that see everything, that stripped you bare the first time they found you and have never stopped looking since.

You cry harder now, relieved that he's here. You move toward him, half falling over, half crawling, unable to find the strength to get up to your feet and go to him properly. He stops a few feet away, and for a moment there's only silence except for your ragged breathing.

The candlelight catches in his hair and halos him in gold, and when you look up at him with tears swimming in your eyes, you can't look away. It feels like staring into the sun, and even though every second you stare up at him makes you more aware of how small and broken you are on the floor, you don't care, unwilling to look away.

"Why are you crying, angel?" He asks, voice low and gentle in a way that makes your heart twist.

The endearment nearly destroys you. You try to answer but all that comes out is another sob, and you press your hands harder against your face, ashamed and relieved and so overwhelmingly grateful that he's here you can barely stand it.

Joshua's footsteps click on the marble as he approaches you, slow and deliberate until he's close enough that you can smell him, cedar and smoke and something darker that makes your mouth water through the tears.

His hand finds your chin, fingers cool and firm as they tilt your face even higher toward him. You blink hard to clear your vision, desperate to see him without the tears and when you finally do, you want to stop breathing.

Joshua looks down at you with something so soft in his eyes that makes you want to crawl out of your skin, makes you want to press yourself into him until there's no space left between you, until you cannot tell where you end and he begins.

"There she is," he murmurs, smiling. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, tugging it down. "There's my sweet girl, hmm?"

You try to say his name but it comes out broken and he makes a soft sound, pouting at you while his thumb presses forward, slipping past your lips and into your mouth. The taste of him floods your senses, salt and skin and something faintly metallic. You close your eyes, your entire body shuddering as you instinctively close your lips around him, sucking gently.

"That's it," he coos. His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye where the tears are still wet on your skin. "That's my good angel. Always so eager for me, aren't you?"

You whimper around his thumb, nodding as much as you can with his hand holding your face. Your hands come up to grip his legs, fingers digging into the white fabric of his trousers, anchoring yourself to him.

"Why haven't you learned yet?" he asks softly, pressing his thumb deeper, making you gag just slightly before he eases back. "Hmm? Why haven't you learned that I always come back to you?"

You can't answer. Can't do anything but suck on his thumb and stare up at him with tear-blurred eyes, feeling yourself slip into that space, warm and hazy where nothing exists except him, his voice, his touch, and the weight of his presence filling every empty corner inside of you.

"I always come back," he repeats, his voice dropping lower, more hypnotic. "You're mine, angel. Where else would I go?"

The words land soft and addictive. Your eyes flutter, half-closing, and you feel yourself swaying slightly, held upright only by his hand on your face and your iron grip on his legs. He presses his thumb firmer on your tongue - firm enough that it hurts and you melt into it, lashes fluttering.

The stained glass behind you casts colored light across his white clothes, turning him crimson and gold, bathed in the colors of a saint, like something holy standing over you as you kneel in benediction.

Joshua is the only god you've ever needed.

Your hands slide up his thighs, trembling and desperate as you pull at his pants with clumsy fingers, tugging at the fabric. He watches you with dark, amused eyes, not helping as you struggle. When you finally get them open and free his heavy cock, your mouth falls open automatically, a prayer without words.

"Look at you," Joshua breathes, and there's something like wonder in his voice beneath the hunger. "My devoted little angel. So desperate to worship, so fucking desperate for communion."

He pulls his thumb from your mouth with a wet sound that makes you whimper, and then his hand is in your hair, gripping tight, guiding you forward. You go willingly, your tongue reaching for him before he's even close enough.

When he finally slides his cock into your mouth, you moan, the taste of him overwhelming. Salt and musk and something uniquely him that drives you mad as you swallow him eagerly. Your lips stretch around his cock, jaw aching already and it's perfect. It's everything.

"Fuck," Joshua hisses above you, his grip tightening in your hair. "That's it. Take it. Take all of me."

You do, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard, turning messy and graceless, drool already spilling from the corners of your mouth and dripping down your chin. You don't care. You don't care about anything but the weight of him on your tongue, the way he pulses against your throat, the sounds he's making - low groans and sharp intakes of breath that makes your entire body flush with heat.

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salt-slick of him, before taking him deep again. Deeper. Until he hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears wetting your eyes. You don't stop - you never stop, determined to take every inch of him, to prove that you can and that you're good for him, that this is what you were made for.

"Fuck," he snarls. His hips rock forward slightly, testing, and you moan around him in encouragement. "So fucking perfect. My perfect, filthy angel."

The stained glass window behind you catches the candlelight, throwing patterns of light across his white clothes, across the hand he has fisted in your hair, sacred and profane, holy and obscene. You're on your knees before him like a supplicate, receiving your sacrament.

This is your worship. This is what you chased from Heaven.

You pray to him with your mouth, tongue, lips and throat, sucking and licking and swallowing around him until you're a mess of spit, tears and cum, your hands gripping his thighs, nails digging in. You hope your nails leave marks, hope he carries the evidence of your devotion on his skin like the scars on Christ's hands.

"That's my girl," Joshua pants, his voice rough now, strained. "That's my good fucking girl. Look how beautiful you fucking are."

You look up at him through wet lashes, and the sight nearly undoes you. His head is tipped back slightly, throat exposed, that sharp jaw clenched with pleasure. The white of his shirt is stark against his skin, unbuttoned enough that you can see his chest rising and falling rapidly. He looks like an angel himself. Like something divine experiencing the ecstasy of the flesh for the first time, and it's because of you.

You're the one on your knees, worshipping him with your mouth, your body, your complete and utter surrender. He looks down then, catching your gaze and he grins, sharp and wicked and so beautiful the tears start anew.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs, and his hips start to move in earnest now, fucking into your mouth with shallow thrusts that make you gag and moan in equal measure. "Can't get enough, can you? Could stay here forever with my cock down your throat."

You nod frantically, desperately, because yes, yes, you could. You would. You'd live on your knees for him if he asked, spend eternity with the taste of him on your tongue and the weight of him in your mouth and nothing else would matter. Nothing else would exist.

The rhythm builds. His thrusts get deeper, harder, and you relax your throat as much as you can, taking it, taking everything he gives you. Spit runs down your chin in thick strands, dripping onto your chest, onto the marble floor, and the wet, obscene sounds of it fill the chamber, echoing off the high ceilings, mixing with his groans and your muffled whimpers.

"Fuck, angel," Joshua grits out, and you can feel him getting close, can feel the way he's tensing, the way his cock is throbbing against your tongue. "Gonna come down that pretty throat. You want that?"

You moan around him, nodding as much as you can with him buried in your mouth, and your hands slide up to grip his hips, pulling him deeper, begging without words.

"Take it then," he growls, and his hand tightens almost painfully in your hair, holding you still as he thrusts deep one last time. "Take all of it. Every fucking drop."

He comes with a low, guttural sound that makes your whole body shudder. You feel him pulse on your tongue, feel the hot rush of him flooding your mouth, and you swallow immediately, greedily, not wanting to waste a single drop. It's bitter and salt and perfect, and you keep swallowing, keep sucking gently as he rides out the aftershocks, milking him for everything he has.

When he finally pulls out, you gasp for air, your lips swollen and slick, your chin wet with spit and cum. You must look wrecked, but when you look up at him with hazy, worshipful eyes, he's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his thumb coming down to swipe through the mess on your chin before pressing it back into your mouth. You suck it clean without thinking, tasting yourself and him mixed together. "My perfect, ruined angel."

Joshua pulls you up suddenly, hands gripping your arms to haul you to your feet with a strength that hurts. You don't care. You'd let him hurt you over and over, let him do anything. Your legs are shaky, weak from kneeling, and you stumble into him, your hands finding his chest to steady yourself.

His mouth crashes into yours, hungry and desperate and claiming and you moan into him, opening up for him immediately. He groans as his tongue sweeps into your mouth, hand sliding into your hair to grip tight enough to hurt.

The kiss is messy and wet as Joshua licks into your mouth like he's trying to devour you, like he wants to tear through the softness of you with his bare teeth until there's nothing left. Your teeth clash and his tongue slides against yours, demanding. You give him everything, every whimper, every gasp, every desperate sound that claws its way up your throat.

His hands are everywhere, sliding down your back, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him until you can feel every hard line of his body through the thin fabric of your dress. You're still trembling, still floating in that hazy space between worship and need, and he's grounding you, anchoring you with his touch, his taste, the sheer overwhelming presence of him.

"Mine," he growls against your mouth, and it sounds like a prayer. Like a vow. "My angel."

You nod frantically, desperately, your hands fisting in his suit jacket. "Yours. Always yours."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the hunger in his eyes makes your knees weak all over again. His lips are red and swollen, wet with your kiss, and there's something almost feral in the way he's looking at you, like he wants to tear you apart and put you back together and tear you apart again.

"Bed," he says, voice rough. "Now."

He doesn't wait for an answer. His hands slide down to grip your thighs, and then he's lifting you, hauling you up against him. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your arms looping around his neck, and he carries you across the chamber.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in, tasting the salt of his skin with your tongue, and he makes a low sound that vibrates through his chest until he presses you to the altar of your bed.

He stands over you for a moment, just looking, and you feel stripped bare under his gaze even though you're still wearing your nightgown. he candlelight catches in his dark eyes, makes them glow like embers, and the white of his clothes is stark against the shadows of the bed curtains, turning him into the avenging angel he is, something come to deliver judgement.

You're ready for his judgement, ready to be found wanting, ready to be punished and praised and consumed.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and then he's on you.

Joshua's hands find the hem of your nightgown and he tears it, the fabric ripping. Cool air hits your skin and then his mouth is on you, hot and wet, trailing down your throat, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts.

"Joshua," you whine, breathy.

"Shh," he soothes, even as his teeth scrape against your skin hard enough to break skin. "Let me worship you, angel. Let me show you what devotion looks like."

His mouth closes around your nipple and you arch off the bed with a cry. He sucks hard, tongue flicking and circling, and his hand comes up to palm your other breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple between his fingers until you're writhing beneath him and whining so loud that the ceiling echoes your hymn back to you.

The stained glass light falls across your stomach in blue and purple and red, turning you into one of his paintings, something sacred made to be defiled, an offering on an altar, waiting for his holy fire.

Joshua's mouth moves lower, kissing and biting and licking a burning path down your stomach to your hip bones, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. No part of you is left un-worshiped as his hands grip your legs, spreading them wide. You let him, boneless and pliant, so desperate you could cry anew.

"Look at you," he breathes, and you can feel his breath ghosting over your pussy, making you shiver. "So wet for me already. So ready."

You are - Heavens you are. You can feel how slick you are, how swollen, your cunt aching and empty and needing to be filled. You try to close your legs, suddenly self-conscious, but his hands tighten, holding you open.

"Don't you fucking dare," he snaps. "Don't hide from me. I want to see all of you. Every perfect, sinful inch."

Then his mouth is on you and you nearly scream. His tongue is hot and wet, relentless as he licks through your folds and circles your clit, dipping inside you to taste you. He drinks you like communion wine and he's ready to give himself to you, to claim you as his savior. The sounds are obscene, his mouth eager and greedy and selfish as his tongue fucks into you.

"Please," you whisper, voice breaking on the word. "Joshua, oh fuck-"

He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs shake, and then he's pushing two fingers inside you, curling them just right, finding that spot that makes you see stars. His mouth stays on your clit, sucking and licking, and you're falling apart, coming undone, your hands fisting in the silk sheets as pleasure builds and builds and builds.

The stained glass light shifts across your body as you writhe. Blue across your breasts. Gold on your face. Red between your legs where his mouth is working you over, where his fingers are pumping in and out, slick and obscene. You look down and the sight nearly kills you, his dark head between your thighs, his eyes closed like he's in prayer, like he's the one worshipping now.

"Come for me," he commands, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are wet, glistening with you, and his fingers don't stop, don't slow. "Come on my tongue, angel. Let me taste your sin."

You come with a broken cry, your back arching off the bed, your whole body shaking with the force of it. Pleasure crashes through you in waves, drowning you, and Joshua works you through it, his tongue lapping at you, his fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing it out until you're sobbing with oversensitivity.

When you finally come down, gasping and trembling, he pulls back and looks at you with dark, satisfied eyes. His mouth is wet with you, his chin glistening, and he licks his lips slowly, deliberately, like he's savoring the taste.

"You taste like heaven," he hums. Then he shakes his head. "No, you taste better. Have a taste."

He kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. You can feel his cock, hard and hot against your thigh, and you reach down between your bodies to grip him, stroking slowly.

He hisses, his hips jerking forward into your touch. "Fuck, angel."

"Please," you whisper against his mouth. "Please, Joshua. I need you. Need you inside me."

"Yeah?" His hand comes down to cover yours, guiding your movements, making you squeeze tighter. "Need my cock filling that pretty cunt?"

"Yes. Yes."

He pulls your hand away and kicks off the rest of his clothes, revealing the gold lines of his body, each part of him a masterpiece of God's creation. He is the most beautiful thing God ever made, perfect in every way, his favorite, rebellious son, the Morning Star.

Joshua positions himself at your entrance, the had of his cock sliding through your wetness, teasing. You whimper and try to shift your hips to force him in but he holds you still with a hand on your hip, grinning.

"Beg," he says, and there's something dark in his voice. "Beg me to fuck you."

"Please," you gasp immediately, no hesitation, no shame. "Please fuck me. Please, Joshua, I need it, need you, please please please-"

He slams into you in a single brutal thrust and you choke. The stretch is overwhelming, perfect and painful and so fucking good you stop breathing. He's thick and long, splitting you open while your nails dig into his shoulders, drawing blood as you claw down his back. He groans low and deep, dropping his forehead to yours, panting, breaths mingling.

"Fuck," he grits out. "So tight, fucking heavenly."

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls out almost completely and slams back in, setting a brutal pace that has you crying out with every thrust. You wrap your legs tighter around him, taking him deeper, and the angle makes him hit something inside you that sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. You're babbling now, incoherent, just his name and please and yes and more, and he gives it to you, fucks into you harder, faster, his cock dragging against your walls with every thrust.

Each window of stained glass watches you. The Fall. The Temptation. The Corruption. You see them in the shadowed corners of your vision, and you wonder if a stained glass will be made of you, the devil and the angel locked together in sin and worship, something that transcends both.

"Look at you," Joshua pants, his voice strained. "Taking my cock so well. Who else would love you like this, hm? Who else could understand the sin inside of you, the need to let go? Only me - only I love you this way."

"Only you," you gasp. "Only you."

"That's right."

He shifts, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, and the new angle makes you sob. He fucks you like he's trying to prove it, like he's trying to brand himself into your skin, your bones, your shoulder. Every thrust is claiming and possessive and you give yourself over to him completely, let him take and take and take until there's nothing left.

Your second orgasm builds fast, coiling tight in your belly, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, slicker, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. He feels it too and groans, dropping his head to your neck where he bites down hard enough to break your skin, blood filling his mouth.

"Come on my cock," he commands, his hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit. "Come for me, angel. Show me how good I make you feel."

His fingers circle your clit in tight, perfect circles, and combined with the relentless thrust of his cock, it's too much. You come with a wail, your whole body seizing, clamping down around him so hard he curses. Pleasure whites out your vision, makes you shake and sob and cling to him like he's the only solid thing in the universe.

He fucks you through it, doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just keeps pounding into you until you're oversensitive and writhing and begging for mercy you don't really want.

"One more," he growls. "Give me one more. I know you can."

He pulls out suddenly and you whimper at the loss, but then he's flipping you over, pulling your hips up so you're on your hands and knees so he can slam back into you. Your arms give out, your face pressing into the silk sheets. He grips your hips hard enough to hurt, and you can hear him panting behind you, can hear the wet slap of his hips against your ass.

"So fucking beautiful," he groans. "Love watching my cock disappear into your cunt. Love seeing you take it. Love how desperate you are for it."

You are desperate - mindless with it, even. You push back to meet his thrusts, fucking yourself on his cock to chase enother orgasm even if you're not sure you'll survive it. You wonder if this is what it feels like to be offered up to a dark god, willing and eager and grateful for the honor.

Joshua's hand slides up your spine, into your hair, and he pulls, forcing your back to arch, your head to lift. The position makes him hit even deeper and you sob, tears streaming down your face from the overwhelming pleasure-pain of it.

"That's it," he croons, licking your tears. "Cry for me."

His other hand comes around to your clit again and you nearly scream. You're so sensitive, so overstimulated, but he doesn't care, just rubs tight circles until you're shaking, until you're coming again, a third orgasm ripping through you so hard you think you might actually die from it.

You clench around him, milking his cock, and he groans long and low, his rhythm faltering. He curses, his grip on your hips tightening to the point of pain, and then he's slamming into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the hot rush of his cum filling you, and it makes you whimper, makes you clench around him again.

He collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you can feel his heart pounding against your back, can feel his breath hot and ragged against your neck. You're both shaking, both wrecked, and for a long moment neither of you moves.

Then, slowly, carefully, he pulls out. You whimper at the loss, at the feeling of his cum starting to leak out of you, but then he's gathering you up, turning you over, pulling you into his arms.

You curl into him instinctively, your face pressed to his chest, and he wraps himself around you like he's trying to shield you from the world. His hand strokes through your hair, gentle now, soothing, and you can hear his heartbeat starting to slow beneath your ear.

"I love you," Joshua murmurs into your hair, and his voice is rough, raw.

You close your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks, and press closer to him. "I love you too. So much it hurts."

"I know," he says softly. "I know, angel. I know."