#fem!mc

💔 Experience 💔

Satan is very into older women.

Contains: Older Fem!MC, slightly suggestive content, subby Satan (he’s pathetic for his older lover), kinda depressed Satan who needs reassurance, and others I may have missed.

You’re older than him, and Satan clocks it immediately. Not just in age, but in the way you carry yourself: calm, settled, like you’ve already survived things he’s still wrestling with. It makes him unbearably aware of himself in your presence.

He tells himself it’s respect. It’s admiration. It’s intellectual. Then he realizes he’s standing straighter when you enter the room and quieting down when you speak.

You don’t raise your voice with him. You don’t need to. One look, one calm sentence: “Satan, breathe” and he does. Instantly. He hates how fast it works. He never stops letting it.

Around you, his anger doesn’t disappear, but it loses its teeth. He still gets frustrated, still clenches his jaw, still paces but the moment you put a hand on his arm or tell him he’s spiraling, he folds like wet paper.

He becomes embarrassingly compliant. You suggest he sit? He sits. You tell him to rest? He hesitates, then obeys. Later, he’ll pretend it was his idea. It wasn’t.

You correct him once: gently, casually, and he apologizes immediately. Not defensive. Not sarcastic. Just quiet and sincere. He replays the moment later and cringes at how obvious it was.

Satan is painfully aware of how young he feels around you. Not inexperienced just… unfinished. You’ve already learned the lessons he’s still arguing with himself about.

You tease him lightly for how intense he gets, and it completely disarms him. He flushes, looks away, mutters something about you being unfair. He never tells you to stop.

He seeks your approval in small, pathetic ways. Asking what you think about a book he’s read. Waiting for your reaction before reacting himself. Glancing at you during arguments like he wants reassurance he’s not out of line.

When you praise him, it wrecks him. Especially when it’s quiet and specific. “You handled that well.” “I like how thoughtful you are.” He goes silent afterward, mind blank, heart racing.

You notice how hard he is on himself and call it out without judgment. You don’t coddle him. You don’t scold him. You just say, “You don’t need to punish yourself for feeling things.” It stays with him for days.

Satan is deeply, embarrassingly needy for your attention. Not loud about it, just hovering a little closer, lingering when he could leave, sitting near you under the excuse of reading.

When his temper spikes, you don’t flinch. That alone undoes him. You’ve seen worse than his anger, and he knows it. The realization humbles him more than any lecture ever could.

He finds comfort in the fact that you’ve already lived through mistakes. That you don’t expect perfection from him. That you don’t look at his wrath like it’s something to be fixed, just something to be understood.

Satan doesn’t want to overpower you. He doesn’t want to prove anything to you. He wants to be guided. Steadied. Chosen despite his flaws.

And every time you give him that calm, knowing look, like you see exactly what he is and don’t recoil, he thinks, not for the first time, that he would do almost anything to stay right there, under your quiet authority.

There’s something about the way you move through a room that immediately gets under Satan’s skin. You don’t rush. You don’t posture. You just exist with a quiet certainty, and it makes him painfully aware of how tightly wound he is by comparison.

When you sit beside him, close but not touching, he feels it everywhere. His shoulders tense. His breathing goes shallow. He tells himself it’s nothing… until you cross your legs or lean back, and suddenly he’s forgotten what page he was on.

You never demand his attention. You simply assume it. And somehow, he gives it to you without protest. He finds himself turning toward you, angling his body your way, like his focus naturally gravitates back to where you are.

When you touch him, it’s never dramatic. Fingers brushing his wrist as you pass him something. A hand at his chest when his anger spikes, just to steady him. Each time, he goes completely still, like he’s afraid to break the moment by breathing wrong.

You tell him to slow down once, just once, and it undoes him. Not because of the words, but because of the tone. Calm. Certain. Like you know exactly how fast he’s going and exactly how far he can be pushed. He obeys before he realizes he’s done it.

Satan hates how much he wants your approval. He hates how good it feels when you give it anyway. When you murmur that he handled something well, that you’re impressed by his restraint, he has to look away because his thoughts go embarrassingly blank.

There’s a particular look you give him when he’s spiraling: not angry, not disappointed. Observant. Patient. It makes his temper lose momentum, like there’s no point raging when you’re not afraid of it.

When you correct him, gently and without embarrassment, he feels exposed in the most intimate way. Like you’ve reached inside his chest and adjusted something that’s been misaligned for years. He nods. Apologizes. Means it.

He becomes quietly needy for your presence. Sitting closer than necessary. Finding excuses to be in the same room. Lingering after conversations end. He tells himself it’s coincidence. It isn’t.

You notice when he’s holding back and acknowledge it out loud. Not praising him for being good: recognizing how hard he’s trying. The way you say it makes his throat tighten.

There’s an ache in him when you guide him physically without force. A hand at his back, steering him somewhere quieter. Fingers under his chin, lifting his face just enough that he has to meet your eyes. He follows, pulse racing, mind blank.

You tease him just enough to make him flustered. A knowing smile. A quiet comment about how intense he gets. He bristles for half a second before completely folding, heat crawling up his neck as he looks away.

Satan realizes, slowly and unwillingly, that he feels safest when you’re the one setting the pace. That with you, he doesn’t feel the need to prove anything. He can just… respond.

He doesn’t want to overpower you. He doesn’t want to win. What he wants, what he barely admits to himself, is the relief of letting go under someone who already knows exactly how to hold him.

There’s a particular satisfaction Satan gets from yielding to you not in some dramatic way, but in the quiet, deliberate choices he makes to give you control. He listens for your cues. Watches your expression. Adjusts himself around what you seem to want without ever needing to be told twice.

Satan finds himself asking for permission more often than he ever thought he would. Not out loud at first: just with looks, pauses, the way he stills and waits when you step closer. When you finally give him a nod or a quiet “go on,” it hits him harder than any command ever could.

He’s deeply affected by being guided rather than taken. You moving him where you want him. Positioning him with a hand on his shoulder or at his waist. He follows without resistance, breath shallow, like the act of being placed is what finally loosens something inside him.

Compliments undo him when they’re low and intentional. When you tell him you like how attentive he is. How responsive. How easily he softens for you. He doesn’t know where to put himself afterward; ends up quiet, flushed, painfully aware of how much he wants to please you.

Satan thrives on the way you make him feel chosen. Not demanded. Not owned. Chosen. When you single him out with a look or a word, he straightens immediately, like he’s been waiting all night just for that acknowledgment.

He’s surprisingly sensitive to tone. A calm, approving murmur from you makes his knees feel weak in a way he absolutely hates to admit. He’ll do almost anything to hear it again.

When you tell him what you want: clearly, confidently, he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push back. He nods, adjusts, complies. The lack of resistance isn’t weakness; it’s trust, and it shows in how carefully he watches you for approval afterward.

Satan likes being reminded that he doesn’t have to be in charge with you. That he can let his guard down. Let someone else decide. The relief that follows is almost dizzying.

He grows quietly needy for reassurance after giving in. Not praise shouted from the rooftops, just a hand on his cheek, a quiet “good,” a look that tells him he did exactly what you wanted. It settles him instantly.

There’s something deeply intimate to him about being handled gently but decisively. About knowing you see his restraint, his effort, his willingness and still choose to guide him instead of testing him.

Satan doesn’t want to dominate you or overpower you. What he wants is to feel useful in his obedience, valued in his responsiveness, safe in the knowledge that you know exactly how far to take him and when to stop.

Satan’s submission shows up most when desire is involved. He watches you closely, reading your reactions like a text he’s desperate to interpret correctly, adjusting himself to please you before you ever have to say a word.

He likes when you take your time with him. When you don’t rush into anything, when you let the anticipation build until he’s visibly affected: breathing slower, shoulders tense, eyes dark and fixed on you like he’s waiting for instruction.

There’s something deeply intimate to him about being undressed emotionally before anything else. The way you look at him, knowing exactly what you’re doing to him, makes his composure crumble faster than touch ever could.

Satan is painfully responsive to proximity. You standing close enough that he can feel your warmth, smell your perfume, hear the shift in your breath… it makes him go quiet, attentive, like he’s bracing himself to follow your lead.

He reacts strongly to being told what you like about him in a low, deliberate voice. Not praise shouted, but observations. That you enjoy how controlled he is. How quickly he reacts to you. How pretty he looks when he’s trying not to give himself away. It leaves him flushed and struggling to stay still.

Satan finds himself wanting to be looked at. Really looked at. The way your gaze lingers on him: evaluating, approving, makes him acutely aware of his body and how it responds to you.

He enjoys the subtle power of you setting boundaries and expectations. Telling him to wait. To stay where he is. To hold himself together just a little longer. Each word lands heavy, and he obeys with visible effort.

There’s a particular softness that comes over him when you touch him with intention. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just confident contact that says you know exactly how much it affects him and that you like it.

Satan gets flustered when you notice how reactive he is. When you comment on it calmly, like it’s something you expected. It makes him feel exposed in a way that’s deeply arousing and deeply grounding at the same time.

He craves reassurance after giving in to that vulnerability. Not verbal praise alone, but your closeness, your presence, the way you stay with him afterward matters more. It tells him he didn’t give too much of himself away.

There’s something intensely erotic to him about being trusted with your confidence. About knowing you chose him to yield to, not because he demanded it, but because you wanted to.

Satan doesn’t want to be overwhelmed or consumed. What he wants is the slow burn of being guided, the ache of wanting to please, the relief of letting someone older and steadier decide when he’s done trying so hard.

Beel: Okay

Some time later…

𝗆𝖺𝗆𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝖼

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 (𝖬𝖣𝖭𝖨) 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 (𝖿𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀), 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝖿𝖺𝖻 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺 wc: 1068 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 (𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝖻𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾), 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝗆𝗈𝗇 😰 𝗂 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗍,, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒!! ♡

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‘cause he’s so pretty when he goes down on me gold-skinned eager baby, blue shirt out the laundry he tells me he’s gentle when he wants to be so i think he wants to be gentle with me

mammon's eyes glistened as he slowly scanned your face. his thumb traced your lower lip, cupping your chin with a touch so delicate, it was as though you were the most precious gem.

he finally had you alone, quite a rare occasion in the house of lamentation, and he was relishing in it. his greed burned aglow in his chest, the flame being stoked by your warmth radiating through the small distance between your body and his.

you giggled softly at the love struck look on his face and teased his thumb with a swipe of your tongue, his cheeks instantly heating up at the action.

"d-don't tease me, mc." his flustered voice was soft but it seeped through the still air in his room, raising goosebumps on your arms.

you pushed his thumb past your lips, smiling around it and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, holding him in place. he inhaled a sharp breath at your obvious beckoning, pushing his thumb lightly against the press of your tongue.

his tongue peeked out through his lips, dampening them quickly before he removed his thumb from your mouth. you pouted dramatically at the loss of his digit only for mammon to gently push your body down. he hovered above you with his hands pressed against his bed on either side of your head. you took the opportunity to make room for him to slot himself between your legs and he groaned in response, almost instantly laying into your body.

his face found its place in the crook of your neck where he left lingering, open mouth kisses and soft bites.

"so beautiful," he mumbled against your neck.

your hands wrapped around him, pulling his body even closer. he responded most eagerly and pushed his body further into yours, grinding himself against your heat.

"and all for m-me, fuck-" he moaned breathily.

his mouth found yours in a firm kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips. the urgency of his mouth juxtaposed the feather-like caress of his hands traveling from your cheeks, to your neck, and down to your chest. mammon's fingers grazed over your clothed nipple, sending a shiver down your spine. he swallowed your moans as he teased your sensitive nub, responding with his own whimpers when you pressed your own pelvis onto his hardness.

"need to taste ya, treasure." he mumbled against your lips. you moaned in response, your hands tugged lightly on his feathery white hair.

"words, darlin', i need to hear ya." he urged, his fingers trailing down to the elastic of your shorts.

"yes, yes. please, mammon." you bit down on his lip softly.

"good girl," he smirked, pecking your swollen lips once more before he sat up, pulling your shorts and underwear off in one swift movement.

he wasted no time as he positioned his head between your legs, nearly salivating at the sight before him.

"so wet for me already," his breath fanned over your sensitive core and your pussy clenched around nothing, your hands gripping the sheets. he began kissing your inner thighs, slowly inching his way to your wetness.

"ah, m-mammon?" you stutter out, your body shuddering, responding to his lips dragging against your inner thigh.

"yeah, baby?" mammon peeks up at you, eyes glazed over, pupils blown out. he tilts his head, lightly leaning it against your thigh.

"you're so pretty." your voice barely above a whisper, his blush deepened.

"you drive me crazy," a small smile graced his exquisite features. he placed his hands on either side of your thighs pushing your legs further apart, dipping his head down and placing an open mouth kiss to your clit. your body arched off of the bed, hips rising slightly with a rippling pleasure.

your hands shot up, burying themselves in his hair once again. he chuckled lightly before gently sucking on the bundle of nerves. you could no longer control the sounds that escaped your throat as he ran a finger through your folds before pushing two of them into your dripping core. your eyes flutter shut, teeth gritting as he curved his fingers, hitting the sweetest spot.

he began fucking you with his fingers as he focused on lapping up your wetness greedily.

"eyes open. look at me, baby.” he pushed his fingers in roughly, forcing your eyes to snap open. whimpering, you perched yourself up on your elbows and looked down at the beautiful man between your thighs. his hair had become disheveled, strands hanging over his forehead as his frenzied eyes connected with yours.

the sight of mammon between your legs - fingers fucking into you, his mouth expertly working your pussy - was overwhelming, pressure began to build in your lower stomach.

"m-mammonnn," you moaned, unable to think straight, "baby, i'm s-so clo-ose!" you nearly squealed, fingers tightening their grip on his hair, pulling his soaked face closer.

he sped up his movements, the pressure continued to build in your body, your pussy clenching harder around his fingers.

mammon could've cum right then - your voice, your body, your everything. his eyes never left yours, taking in the sight of your fucked out face, tits bouncing as he pressed his fingers into you. you were his human, all his.

you took my breath away so now i can’t suck in my stomach around you anymore

“cum for me, baby.” he moaned against your wetness. the vibrations of his voice pulsed through you and almost as though a switch flipped inside of you, you screamed out, throwing your head back as you reached your orgasm. sparks went off all over your body, stars blurring your vision. your body tightened around mammon's fingers as you rode out your release, heart pounding against your ribcage.

he placed a delicate kiss on your thigh, removing his fingers. you sucked in a light breath through your teeth at the sudden emptiness, watching as mammon sucked his fingers into his mouth.

"all mine." he smirked, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. you moaned at the taste of yourself on him, sitting up and pushing him onto his back. mammon's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape.

"my turn." you smiled devilishly, straddling his hips.

short comic of why Lucifer might fall in love with such a clumsy MC

🩷👑🐝⚡️Erina and her bee pet Buzzette waking up. Damon watching over his beloved rosebud, of course

Just thinking about Gil dropping into a chair in his room and working his belts loose and opening his pants and Roderic coming over to kneel in front of him. They don't need to speak to go through this routine. This bit of relaxation for the both of them.

Sometimes it leads to sex, sometimes it's just oral until Gil climaxes and gets the relief he was searching for. Roderic is always more than happy to oblige. He'd do anything for his master.

Just thinking about Roderic slow fucking Gil. Placing forbidden affections and confessions of adoration onto Gil's back. Roderic likes kissing, but Gilbert doesn't want him to mistake their physical activities as anything more than a need they're helping each other with. There is no love in this. Or so he says.

Just thinking about Gilbert on his knees, hidden between a wall and Roderic's cloak while he sucks Roderic's cock. Roderic biting his knuckles to keep quiet, because while they're in a wing that is off-limits to others, he doesn't want to attract attention. Gil's hands firmly holding Roderic's hips is almost as hot to him as Gil deep throating his dick. To be held by a man he cares so much about, it's almost as if Gilbert cares for him too.

Gilbert fucking MC and Roderic realizing he's about to interrupt them in the act, so he turns to leave, but Gil knows he's there. Gilbert calls out to him, tells him to join. After all, this is my headcanon of the happy throuple, though Roderic doesn't understand he's a loved part of the relationship rather than an occasional third at this point.

Roderic strokes himself as he crawls onto the bed. MC takes over, squeezing him and pumping in rhythm with Gil fucking her. They readjust after MC orgasms again, as always, putting Gil in the middle to be fucked out of his mind. MC rides him while Roderic thrusts into him and the genius is lust drunk, over stimulated and his inhibitions lowered.