#naughtysam

Michael had no idea how he got here.

Well, no, of course he did; he was there when it happened. But to say that the day began with him nearly falling over the edge into despair to having Gabriel grinding up against him, pressing hot kisses to his neck and chest, toying with his body… well no one could have possible seen that coming. Except God, but he wasn’t really thinking of Him at this time.

Theres no way to track how This started. It could go back way before the Fall, to when Michael was first discovering that he liked Gabriel more than others. But that was normal, right? People had their favorites so why was this any different? Just because he leaned in closer whenever Gabriel spoke, or found him smiling like the sun whenever Gabe leaned up against him while they were on break, didn’t mean it was anything special. Besides, Gabriel had Anthea. Gabriel didn’t know he had Anthea at first, but Michael wasnt that blind. So he didn’t say anything to dissuade Gabriel from going after her. He didn’t encourage it either, though. Even after the Fall, he didn’t say anything, he himself just lost Lucifer so any chastising or encouragement would have been hypocritical, but eventually he’d thought that Gabriel would let go of her.

He never did though. And Michael never got rid of his feeling for Gabriel either. It grew, in fact. Slowly, like a vine coming around to choke the statues in the gardens, wholly unnoticed until there is nothing to do about it. Every laugh, ever tired roll of the eyes, every unexpected yawn would bring about a new leaf that would suffocate Michael if he wasn’t already doing everything he could to push his feelings down. He didn’t have time for whatever he felt for Gabriel. There were things to do on the surface, troops to train in Heaven and he, being the one on the pedestal, had to be perfect. And feelings were messy.

The point is, as much as he wanted to run his fingers through Gabriel’s curly red hair and kiss him on warm summer nights, he couldn’t do it. Would never do it.

And then the prophecy child came along. The end officially started, Michael got stabbed by his sister, contracted to a human, poisoned by his brother, sold off as a bartering chip to War, lost his physician, pulled some strings and brought a spirit back to earth, pulled some more strings to keep Gabriel from getting to irreversible trouble (but still had him sent to the tank for two weeks), finally saw God after years of radio silence, met his literal doppelganger, got formerly-mentioned-brother’s wings sent to him as sick gift and, quite frankly, was at the end of his rope. Everything was just happening too fast and no one seemed to care. The air was tight whenever he was with the other Archangels. It felt like he didn’t really know any of them anymore. Not even Gabriel, though his heart begged for that not to be the case.

Oh, right. Anthea had also died. So there’s that too. See? Messy.

All of that was basically to say, that when Gabriel made the snide comment that he, Michael, couldn’t possible know what it was like to truly love someone other than himself (which wasn’t even true, Michael did, in fact, hate himself immensely) Michael wasn’t planning to confirm or deny it.  However, after the initial shock – Did Gabriel really think him that heartless? – and feeling everyone’s eyes on him – all the other archangels were in the room, plus some other guards – he did answer. It came out like a holy confession, a whisper accompanied by searing hot tears.

I love you. He said.

Michael couldn’t breathe in the silence that followed, which made Gabriel’s laugh, a cruel sounding thing, even harder to take. Michael choked on air and when Gabriel turned to leave, but when he made to follow, maybe to explain himself more? To apologize? Anything but be alone with his thoughts or worse, alone in a room full of people, Gabriel slapped him.

Gabriel said something to him, but he didn’t catch it. All he felt was stinging on his cheek and embarrassment crushing his chest. Michael didn’t know how long he stood there, cradling his face and trying to think, but not comprehending anything around him, but eventually his brain caught up and he realized he did not want to be in that room right then. So, he ran.

--

Raphael had taught him some breathing techniques to help with panic attacks, but he couldn’t remember them. He guessed he actually had to breathe for them, which he wasn’t doing. All he was doing was sitting in a ball on the floor of his room trying to crush his feeling out. How typical of him, really, to fuck everything up. Now what? He had just cut ties with the only other person he felt a true connection with and now he was well and truly going to die lonely when The End came. That was always the plan; a murder suicide with Lucifer, but he’d thought there would be some pride when he went? Someone who he was fighting for? He didn’t know. He did know it was all his fault. Everything was his fault, no matter who he assigned blame to.

When he finally stopped crying, Michael sat very still. The apathy that came after such a strong release was always welcome. He breathed. And then he got up, washed his face and then went to his personal office to get some work done. He was nothing if not a good angel. Perfect in the eyes of the public.

Numb to everything that wasn’t directly in front of him, Michael actually got a lot done. The shuffling of paper and scratching of his pen was a pleasant relief compared to the chaos of his own thoughts that he was used to. He didn’t even hear the door to his office open, didn’t feel the presence of someone else in the room until they came to where he was organizing paperwork into the proper bins and gently grabbed both of his arms.

Oh, Michael could recognize Gabriel’s hands anywhere. They were hands he trusted completely with everything from a nice manicure to executing an offender of the faith. The only problem was he didn’t know what Gabriel was going to do with those hands. So, he stood completely still at Gabriel’s mercy for the second time that day.

“Turn around.” Gabriel said, taking the rest of the files from Michael and tossing them out of reach. Michael couldn’t discern anything from his voice, really only comprehending that he was very close to his ears, so, he did what he was told.

“Look at me.” he said next, as Michael found the trinkets on his desk a better study. When he didn’t listen, Gabe let go of the shelving he was pining him to and put one hand on the side of his face. It didn’t take a lot of pressure to tilt his head so their eyes met. It frightened Michael to see how stormy Gabriel’s eyes were. Dark, alluring, and troubled were not something he’d normally say about Gabriel, but now only those words applied. There was something else too, his jaw was clenched, as if he were holding his tongue, or arguing with himself.

Michael never got the chance to ask about it, because Gabriel leaned in, parted his lips, closed his eyes and kissed him.  The fog of apathy flushed out of him immediately and he felt everything; the warmth of Gabe’s hands on his cheek, the way his other hand lifted from the table and came to rest on his waist, the smooth silk of his own clothes against his body, heat coming from everywhere and, oh lord, his lips. The clouds couldn’t compare to the softness of Gabe’s lips on his, he could spend an eternity in this moment and it would never be enough.

The kiss (they’re first kiss), of course, did not last an eternity. It was only when Gabe moved away from him that Michael realized he didn’t close his eyes, or move towards him or do… anything. Kisses always looked magnetic, so why didn’t it fix everything between them? Michael felt a knot forming in his stomach and it only grew heavier as Gabe opened his eyes to gauge his reaction.

They were still standing so close that their breaths were shared. So, Michael only had to whisper when he said;

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you want to?” Gabe quipped back, tilting his head to the side. He was being completely serious.

“Wh-What?” He really wished his eyes were the bright emerald green they were usually.

Gabe’s grip on Michael’s waist tightened and the storm behind his eyes grew. “Do you want to understand?”

Of course he did. His cheek still burned from where Gabe hit him and the shaking anxiety from his panic attack never left completely, if he understood then maybe they really could make this work. Whatever this could be. Or he could fuck it up.

“No.” He said, and closed the gap between them.

Almost immediately he was shoved back into the shelving with Gabe’s hands clawing at his skin and teeth biting his lips. Heat rushed through his entire body as Gabe pressed up against him, ground up against him leaving his full intent out into the open.

God, since when could he move like that? Michael thought as he opened his mouth and let Gabriel’s tongue meet his own. Gabe’s piercing clicked on his teeth, setting off another wave of heat down his spine. He’d always wondered what it would be like to feel Gabe’s piercing in his mouth. One of his own hands slipped behind Gabe’s chiton and laid flat against his chest while the other raked through his hair. He almost wished Gabriel hadn’t cut his hair short, he would have love to pull on the curls, but the deep moan that came out of him made up for it.

Gabriel’s tongue was on his lips, and then his lips were on his jaw, kissing a line up and then down his neck, Michael could barely catch his breath, the way he gasped at every press of his mouth on sensitive skin. Even when Gabe slowed down to focus on a spot at the base of his neck, Michael didn’t complain, especially as Gabe’s leg pressed in between his own. Michael didn’t realize how hot his body felt, certainly didn’t realize how hard he was, how hard both of them were, but it was all he could think about as Gabe’s hands slid lower and started groping his ass, gathering the fabric of his skirt between his fingers.

Humans always made this stuff look strange, Michael didn’t get all the moaning and begging and crying out. The ‘losing control’ part never made sense to him either, but there was nothing controlled about the sounds he made now; broken whispers begging to be understood as wanting more. He wanted more of this, whatever this ended up being and he wanted Gabriel there to guide him through it all.

Naturally, that’s when Gabriel pulled away. Michael didn’t think he could fall for him anymore, but the vines he always compared his love to bloomed in such a vivid way. The messed up hair, the dilated pupils, the reddened lips, the way he dragged his eyes down every inch of him; it could have destroyed him and made him whole all at once.

“Tonight.” Gabe said. “I’ll meet you in your room.” It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a statement either.

“Yes.” He nodded, but when he felt Gabriel leaning away from him, asked “But why?”

He straightened himself up, making eye contact as he grazed his crotch and nodded towards his desk. “You still have work to do.”

--

The afternoon passed as quickly as he’d expected it to, which is not very quick at all. After getting himself fixed up, Michael found he could not possibly focus on anything other than events prior. It didn’t matter what he put in front of himself, all he could think about was how this whole thing wasn’t good. It’s exactly want he wanted in his deepest and most sinful dreams; a physical relationship with his millennia-long love—but he’d only let himself pin for a romantic one, chaste save for a few kisses. They both were angels after all. This… This wasn’t even love, he thought. Especially not in the way silence grew serious between them when they parted. Lovers didn’t do that… they talked at the very least.

No. This was lust. And he found that he was ok with it… he wanted to be ok with it.

Eventually he got up and left his office. The empty hallways of his home echoing his footsteps, he tried not to think about it. He paced around his room a bit, wishing Gabriel had been more exact about ‘tonight.’ Did he mean at sunset? Or closer to midnight? Were they just… going to get straight to it? Or… what? Was Michael expecting to be taken out on a date? Please. Gabe was probably just going to get off and then leave. He would be lucky if it was a mutual thing.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking. How would it happen? Was he expected to do anything? How did Gabriel know how to move his body like that? Eventually, just about when he thought he’d lose it, Michael caved and looked up what to expect.

The internet was, as usual, very helpful, but by the end of his searching his mind was even more frayed than before. He decided to take a shower. A long one just to calm himself down and … maybe to… test some of the things he read.

By the time Gabriel arrived, Michael had taken a long shower, dried and dressed himself and even put on what he hoped was subtle perfume and straightened up his room. Everything was, hopefully, perfect. He was halfway through setting up two glasses of wine --because he did keep wine in his room now-- when the knock came.

“Come in,” He said casually, almost forgetting the situation they were in.

He heard the door open and close, but there came no greeting, so when Michael turned around to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, he was surprised to find Gabriel outright staring at him. He looked the same as he did before, except now he carried a bag with him. Michael, however, did dress up. Or down. It depends on how you look at it. He still wore his chiton, but in a more traditional way that showed off more of his chest and thighs. He also wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

He swallowed and turned back to the wine, wishing his body didn’t blush so much under Gabriel’s intense stare. But he faced it again, this time with a bottle of wine in his hands.

“I thought that we could have a drink?” His voice faltered and he stood rather awkwardly and small.

That seemed to break Gabe out of his trance. He dropped off his bag on the bed and approached him with an even gaze. Stopping right in front of him, he took the bottle from his hands and set it down.

“No… No more wine.” He said in that deep tone that put butterflies in his stomach. Upon seeing his reaction, Gabe added, “I’d rather have you right now.”

And to that Michael could only say one thing.

“Please.”

--

And now here they were, Gabriel leaving bite marks and hickeys on his neck while he pushed up against him so that every nerve was on fire, begging for more. Michael twisted and strained on the ropes tying his wrists to the bedposts, trying to catch his breath. But whenever he did manage a moment clarity, Gabriel would do something else to make him jump and moan beneath him. He was playing with his nipples now and dragging his fingernails down his sides. He still hadn’t taken off his clothes yet, but by now they might as well be ruined, soaked through with each other’s sweat and precum. Michael moaned again as Gabe slapped his thighs, by now he wasn’t afraid of being loud, he wanted Gabe to know exactly what he felt.

“Please.” He begged again, not expecting an answer but praying for one anyway. His legs shook underneath Gabe’s firm hands as he kept them pressed to the bed, no matter how many times he coaxed Gabe forward, to rub their cocks together, for any friction at all, he still denied him.

“Please, what?” he said into his ear, “Aren’t I giving you everything you want?” The honey in his voice made Michael shiver.

“Yes, God yes! But please… fuck- please touch me. I need you.” He captured his lips again for a messy kiss.

Gabe pulled away. “Greedy, much?” He kissed a line down his body, then above his navel, “You really are a whore.”

Michael gasped as the sash at his hips was untied and thrown aside. His whole body throbbed with need at the silent promise. “Only for you.”

Gabe lifted the remaining fabric and breathed in the wet spot where his precum soaked through. “Is that so? All of this is for me?” He gently pulled the fabric away from his body, finally leaving Michael bare and spread wide for him. His dick fully erect, leaking and red, begging for release by any means.

Michael shifted under his gaze, looking down on him like he owned him. He only hoped he looked as beautifully desperate as Gabriel did. “Of course.”

Gabe nodded and took off the rest of his own clothes. His hands traveled up and down his glistening tan body, fulfilling a desire that Michael wished he could do instead. How many times had Michael wanted to run his fingers up and down the curves of Gabriel’s toned body? He couldn’t remember at that moment. If he didn’t like his wrists being tied up so much, he might have asked to be untied.

When he got to his dick though, he only traced light lines with his fingertips, moaning and biting his lips in pure ecstasy. It was a sight to behold, the lines of precum hanging on his fingers, the trail of ginger hair cropping his dick. ‘Heavenly’ could hardly cover it.

Michael let out a groan and Gabe stopped, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“My eyes are up here.”

“Fuck me already.”

That earned him another slap on the inside of his thighs, he bucked and noted the way his cock bounced in the air. Did everything have to be so erotic? Gabriel reached back to the bag he brought, the one that also had the rope, and pulled out a small bottle of lube and a condom. Now that they were on track, Gabe wasted no time in slicking his fingers up, propping up Michael’s legs and sliding said fingers up and down his ass, even grabbing his balls for good measure. Michael thought about biting into his own arm to stop from crying out too loud, but instead just lifted his legs higher. The house was empty anyway.

Gabe let out a satisfying hum and pressed a finger inside him. It felt as strange as it did when he practiced in the shower, but god was it so much better.

“Take deep breaths. I’m just stretching you out now.” He said, smiling to himself and kissing Michael’s calf. “It would be a shame if you finished now.”

“It wouldn’t be my fault. I didn’t know how much you liked teasing.” Or slapping or bondage or powerplay or literally anything. Then again, he himself didn’t realize how much he’d like those things too, much less being on the receiving end. He took a deep breath. And another. Then, the question that was haunting him slipped from his mouth. “How do you know how to do this?” he blurted out.

“Hm?” Gabriel looked away from him, suddenly abashed, as if he wasn’t massaging his asshole for his pleasure and use. “I uh. I watched some videos.”

And to that Michael laughed, more genuine than he had in a while.

“What?” Gabe took the opportunity to insert another finger, stopping his laughter with pain and pleasure. How cruel!

“Nothing! I just…” He turned his head to hide his face in is arms. “I watched some videos too.”

“Really?” The quality in his voice changed. It had been changing from when they made out in his office to now… it felt like they were talking normally with each other, like friends… or, well, like lovers. It helped that he was smiling now, not quite a joyful or mischievous smile, but a quaint one. As if they both were taking each other in with a new light.

“Yeah… I practiced some too.” He could share that, right?

“Oh… did you…?”

“No. I was… saving that for you.”

“Oh.” Was all he said, hiding his quiet delight behind adding in another finger inside of him.

They stayed like that for a while, Gabe stretching him out gently while Michael sighed and kept his breathing relaxed. Gabe never pushed his fingers in deep, even though Michael thrusted his thighs up, trying to convince Gabe to finger fuck him a little. After a few minutes, Michael was craving for something thicker and longer. Even so, he was not ready for how cold, empty and gapping he’d feel when Gabe’s fingers left him.

“Ready?” Gabe asked as he slid the condom on and poured more lube onto his hand. He bit his swollen lips and he slicked up his shaft; he wasn’t the only one that was denied.

“More than.” He angled himself up more and welcomed Gabe’s steady hand bracing on his red thighs. There was a moment of blissful silence as Gabe lined himself up, only broken by the feeling on his head pressing up against his hole and pushing in. They both moaned.

Gabe was gentle going in, pushing forward and pulling back bit by bit. His whole body jerked as he guessed his prostate was hit, he read that it felt like sparks shooting across the body and by God was that right. He rocked his hips up even harder now. Michael had never felt so full, never felt the need to be, but when Gabe bottomed out and rutted against his hips, he felt as if he’d need this the rest of his life. Is this what it felt like to be truly connected? To be full and content with your lover? It felt cheesy to even think, but he imagined soulmates felt like this.

Michael moaned even louder as Gabe pulled halfway out and slid down faster. Again and again he felt sparks as his lover’s wet hips slammed into his own. The noises they made were obscene and only made worse when Gabe leaned over him to get a better angle. Now he could feel Gabe’s hot breath on his face and see just how gone he was, which made the heat pooling in his own stomach twist and flood his senses. This was started to be too much.

“Touch me!” He begged, straining on his wrists again. “Oh, please I want to come. Please let me come.” He had to have this, he’d waited so long; Michael needed this.

“Oh fuck.” Gabe moaned and leaned down to bite at his neck once more. “Beg for me. I’m so close.”

“Please, Gabriel, I wanna… I wanna feel you come inside me, I want your hands pumping my dick until I scream. I want you. I need you Please. Please. Please!”

Michael’s breathy cries grew more erratic along with Gabriel’s pace. The wet slapping of skin filled the room until Gabe cried out and shook with his orgasm. Michael pushed up against him, writhing around his partner’s twitching cock, until Gabe collapsed onto him and gasping for breath, oversensitive and spent.

“Fuck.” He gasped as he lifted himself up and crashed his mouth on Michael’s. His lips screamed desperation. His hands trembled as he grabbed Michael’s cock and pumped at a horrifically fast pace. Michael gasped against his mouth and bucked, arching his back as much as he could. When his orgasm hit, he froze, coming quickly in Gabe’s hand before opening his eyes again and melting into the bed. Only then did Gabe slide out of him and collapse. He couldn’t breathe for a moment, and then the only thing he could do was breathe. His mind and body spent.

They laid together for a few minutes, Gabe resting on top of him, both of them basking in the afterglow. Michael felt sticky and sore and empty but didn’t feel like moving, and honestly, if they laid like that for the rest of the night, he would be completely fine with that.

As if reading his thoughts, Gabriel kissed his jaw and lifted himself up. How he went from blitzed out to composed Michael couldn’t guess, but he noted the way Gabe still trembled. “We should… clean up.” He emphasized this by taking his hand—still covered in Michael’s cum – and dragged his tongue up his index finger. He made a face and shrugged, “It doesn’t taste that good.”

Michael huffed. “I’m sorry I’m not made of sugar.”

“Hm. But those noises you made were so sweet.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Untie me, please.” He didn’t thing he could play anymore games.

“Just a second.” He peeled off the condom and made to get off the bed.

“Where are you going?” A bolt of dread shot up his spine; he wasn’t leaving, was he? Not tied up to the bed and out in the open?

“Bathroom, Michael. Getting a towel and washing my hands. Also, you’re sticky.”

“And whose fault is that?” he tried shove his anxiety back into its box.

He didn’t get a reply, just a hum and a good view of Gabe’s back side as he walked to the room adjacent and cleaned himself up. He wasn’t even out of sight, keeping the bathroom door wide open, but Michael still felt tendrils of doubt writhe in his chest.

He put on a smile as he walked back holding two warm towelette—because yes, Michael had towelettes on hand. They’re nice to have— He was still surprised when Gabriel cleaned him instead of just untying his wrists and letting him handle his own ‘sticky’ body. Somehow this seemed more intimate than what they just finished doing, especially how gentle Gabe lifted his legs to get a better angle. The warm towel felt wonderful on his abused butt and dick, more so than he thought it would. After getting his lower half he used the other towelette to press on his neck, which had much the same effect. Michael didn’t think that a warm towelette would make the deep bite marks and bruises heal right away, but it was like a gentle kiss. He didn’t think Gabe would be so kind to him.

“Whats wrong, Michael?” Gabe’s calm voice cut through the silence. He didn’t meet his eyes as he asked.

What should he say to that? Everything was wrong, they just—they just had sex! They didn’t even talk about it before hand they just… did it! And this morning he was pretty sure Gabe hated him and Michael… he didn’t know what he wanted to do with anything. No one could find out, he was sure of that… but did that mean he had to forget this whole night happened? All in all his life was falling apart! He didn’t want to push his last lifeline away.

“I’m fine.” He smiled. He tried not to panic as the mood shifted over Gabriel. He could see the clouds over his eyes again. Shit shit shit of course he’d ruin it. “I-“ He started, frantically thinking about what would make this right. “I just want you to stay.” Pathetic.

That seemed to work, though it hurt to say, but he didn’t get an answer right away. Instead, Gabe moved up to his arms and finally undid the rope. Michael hissed as he moved his freed wrists again.

“Oh, I brought something for that.” Gabe said, reaching for his bag once again. He produced a bottle of lotion and applied some to his hands before taking one of Michael’s and massaging it. It felt good, though much like the towel still at his neck, he didn’t think it would do much. They fell into a lull again. Michael felt as if he could fall sleep, if not for the unanswered question weighing on his mind.

“What do you want to do with the cover?”

“Hm?”

“The duvet is… wet.”

“Oh… just throw it to the ground, I’ll clean it tomorrow.” Or he’ll just burn it, whatever.

“Ok.” Gabe let go of his hands and began to pull back the blanket beneath them. Ideally, they should have taken it off beforehand, but they weren’t really thinking logically then, just about how to make each other shake with pleasure. Michael sat up and helped kick the thick blanket to the ground. His ass hurt and his whole body was sore, scratched up and bruised, but at least he was clean-ish. He had honestly never felt so… exhausted before. Satisfied but still so wanting. Maybe he was a selfish whore. He pulled back more blankets from the front of the bed and crawled underneath him, not caring to put on clothes or turn off the dim lights still illuminating his room.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the heaviness he felt all around him versus the sounds of Gabriel sliding off the bed and walking away. It didn’t really work, he still felt hot tears behind his eyes and tried biting the inside of his lip to keep from making noise. If Gabriel wanted to leave, then who was he to stop him? He knew this wasn’t good. He should be happy that he got to have sex with him at all. A check off the bucket list and all that.

But he didn’t leave. Michaels eyes snaped open as he felt a thumb wipe away his tears. Gabe was hovering above him, looking somewhere between tired and concerned; he’d just turn off the lights. Michael wanted to laugh because of how ridiculous he was being. Or cry.

But he didn’t. He shifted over and let Gabriel slide under the covers with him. It was awkward, they were both naked and wasn’t sure how get comfortable like this, but they soon settled down where Michael was laying on Gabe’s chest and they were tracing shapes on each other’s arms.

He was about to drift off when Gabe muttered, half to himself, “I could love you.”

That didn’t feel as bad as it could to Michael. “That’s all I need.” His words slurred together before he dropped into darkness. He’ll deal with everything else tomorrow.

--

Gabriel didn’t know why he did this anymore than Michael probably did. All Gabe wanted was a release, something he thought he could only have with Anthea. A stress reliever, maybe. A good fuck before the world went to shit. He tried to ignore the darker thoughts he had that day, where he pushed Michael over the edge and left him to shatter on the ground. Or the ones where he’d hurt Michael outright to finally get across all of the hurt he’d experienced at his now-lover’s hands. But there was something—a spark? – when they kissed, and a shift when they actually talked to each other. No masks, no pretenses. Just feelings; whatever they happened to be.

And Gabe remembered how Michael used to be. Fun, genuine, loving. He remembered the quiet nights where they watched the sky and how Michael would, very obviously, check him out. The way he always seemed to prefer either him or Lucifer. This whole thing was ridiculous; of course Michael loved him, it was so obvious. So why did Gabe react like that this morning? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it anymore than he already had.

Gabe wasn’t lying when he said he could love him, but he wouldn’t lie and say that he loved him now. His heart was recently broken and, the tattoo of Anthea’s name was barely over a month old. Before today, he believed it too soon for anything new. Obviously, another part of him disagreed, but he would save those thoughts for another time. Gabriel kissed Michael’s head and fell asleep with him in his arms. He’ll have to see what the next day brought.

____

a doodle:

She’s been around him long enough that it’s easy to tune him out.

Except he’s not complaining, and she is decidedly not prepared and far more defenseless against the form of distraction he’s chosen instead.

“Lucifer,” she says, meaning it to come out scolding, but it comes out more as a sigh. She reaches out, putting a hand on his chest, though whether it’s to push him away or pull him closer, she’s not sure. Her head lists to the side, opening herself up for more of the kisses he’s placing on her throat, her concentration wavering dangerously. 

His fingers dig into her hips, pulling her harder back against his chest, trailing his lips up to that spot just under her ear that makes her knees go a little weak. She gasps, melting against him like butter. 

A scream, shrill and horrible, pierces the air, and just like that, Natalie pulls away from him and glances over her shoulder to shoot him a half hearted glare.

“That’s dirty,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and wiggling in his lap until he loosens his grip on her. He inhales sharply, but Natalie doesn’t notice, returning her attention to the movie.

“If I have to sit here, I have to find some way to entertain myself.”

“Why can’t you appreciate the little things in life?” she asks with a huff. “These movies are fun. You’re just a spoilsport.” 

“These movies all have the same shitty plot, the same shitty acting, and the same shitty graphics.”

“And you have the same shoddy attitude.”

“...Did you just say ‘shoddy’?”

“So what if I did?”

Lucifer sighs, leaning back into the cushions. Natalie, convinced he had been thoroughly scolded, leans back against his chest again, returning her attention to the screen.

She almost doesn’t notice the hands slipping under the hem of her shirt several minutes later, so intent she is to finish out this movie, until she feels the press of his warm skin against hers, his thumbs drawing circles into her hips, pulling her more firmly into his chest. She half turns, ready to tell him to cut it out again, but he takes the opportunity to return his lips to the spot just below her ear.

The words die on her tongue when she feels the flick of his tongue, and she can’t help how her body shudders in response to him or the moan that slips out unbidden. His teeth tug on her earlobe and she clenches her hands in her lap.

“Hey,” she protests, sounding a little breathless. She shifts in his lap again, pushing her shoulder into his chest, and his fingers tighten on her hips with a hiss. Frowning, she turns only her head, trying to tell him to stop — or to keep going. She’s not really sure, when she feels the source of his insistence at her back. 

She makes a little sound that gets caught in her throat, the heat that pools low in her belly familiar now. Lucifer trails kisses along her jaw, his grip remaining firm on her, and Natalie twists around as much as she’s able to catch his lips. Lucifer leans back, and she follows, chasing him with heavy lidded eyes.

He laughs when she groans, reaching out to grab at his chest, her fingers scrabbling over warm, bare skin, trying to find the purchase she needs to pull him closer.

“I thought you wanted to watch the movie,” he says, and Natalie opens her eyes to glare at him.

“Don’t be a jerk.”

“That’s an awfully rude thing to say to someone who was just trying to respect your wishes.”

“Respect my—?!” Natalie turns around so quickly even he looks a little surprised when she settles her thighs around his hips instead of sitting between his as they had previously been. She leans forward until they’re nose to nose, pushing a finger into his chest. “You,” she begins emphatically, and both of his eyebrows shoot up, “are not as funny as you think you are.”

His lips twitch, as if he’s fighting a grin though his face remains remarkably impassive. 

Natalie pouts, and his eyes are drawn to her full mouth. His hands return to her hips, though this time he doesn’t try to hide his intent as he pulls her flush against him, slipping his fingers beneath her shirt and claiming her lips in one motion. 

She doesn’t protest this time, sliding her arms around his neck, barely aware of the suspenseful music that accompanies one of her favorite parts of the movie. Lucifer’s hands skim up her sides, and she shivers, goosebumps trailing in the wake of the featherlight press of his fingertips.

He wastes little time, pushing her shirt up over her ribs, her breasts, until he has to break away from her to pull it over her head. She watches him drop the bundle onto the floor, then casts a worried look at the couch.

“You want to – here?” 

“Why not?” he asks, kissing her throat. “Your dad is at a conference. Your brother’s fall break isn’t until the end of the month.” He works his way down, his lips at her collarbone. Natalie’s breath quickens and he smiles wickedly against her skin, flicking his tongue into the dip. 

He doesn’t have a word to describe the sound she makes, but Christ, does he want to hear it again, and not only to drown out the incessant sound of the first bad movie of many she’s going to want to watch this month. Maybe he should distract her more often and save himself the pain of sitting through them.

Natalie’s fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, and she wriggles closer, until her hips are resting against his. They both gasp, and Natalie drops her head to rest against the back of his. 

“Please,” she moans, though neither of them are sure what it is, exactly, that she’s asking for. 

Lucifer is quick to oblige anyways, reaching around for the clasp of her bra. He fumbles with it with one hand for a minute, then tries with both. Natalie laughs, her breath warm as it ruffles his hair. 

“I would’ve thought you’d be better at it this time,” she teases, and though she can’t see his face, she can imagine his glare.

“I’ve only done this once,” he grumbles, and she cards her fingers through his soft locks as she waits, smiling at the memory. 

“You did a good job,” she tries to reassure him, though she can’t hide the laughter in her voice. He finally gets the three clasps out of their hooks, and looks up at her with a surly expression as her bra sags around her chest.

“You did it.”

“Oh,” she says, biting her lip to hide her grin. “Did I?” She pulls the fabric away from her, dropping it on top of her shirt, and Lucifer’s eyes run over her, slowly. She feels the weight of his gaze as if it were his hand, and her heart picks up its tempo, her humor evaporating like mist against the heat of the look he’s giving her. 

He returns to where he’d left off at her collarbone, his hands cupping her breasts and working the buds into peaks with his thumbs. Natalie moans, pulling her hands from his hair to rest on his shoulders, bracing herself so she can rock against him. She feels his groan in her chest, and it makes her toes curl in her socks. 

His teeth scrape against the tops of her breasts and she arches her back. They’ve only done stuff like this twice, so she thinks it’s just a little ridiculous that her body should respond to him so readily, like her reactions to him have been carved into her muscle memory already. 

When his tongue teases a nipple, she whines, her nails carving crescents into his shoulders as she presses her hips more firmly into his, feeling him against her center. Her thighs tense around his suddenly, and he stills in response. 

“What is it?” he asks, and Natalie whimpers, though this time the sound is desperate. 

“I don’t have — I haven’t gotten any condoms yet,” she says, cursing her own forgetfulness, and feeling her face heat up. Lucifer’s expression smooths out at the confession, though she swears there’s a hint of pink to his cheeks, too, when she looks at him.

“What I have planned doesn’t require condoms,” he admits, and Natalie tilts her head at him. He raises an eyebrow at her expectantly, and the memory of their last unfinished business returns to her in a flash of heat.

“Oh,” she says, though it comes out more as a squeak, and she doesn’t have to see herself to know she’s turned as bright as her hair. She shifts over him, uncomfortably warm now, anticipation making her stomach tighten. “I see.” 

His lips quirk, before he forces them back down, though the sight of a genuine grin from him has her heart skipping a beat. She doesn’t comment on it, however, just scratching at his shoulders.

“You may continue, then.”

He snorts, and she bites the inside of her cheek, but then he lowers his head back to her chest, taking one peaked nipple between his lips. 

Her hands return to his hair, her eyes fluttering as his tongue flicks lightly against the bud, in a silent promise of what’s to come. His teeth scrape over her, and she rocks herself more vehemently against him, desperate for more friction as his ministrations wind her body up as tightly as a coil.

He groans, grabbing her hips and forcing her to be still. She whines, and he pulls away from her to rest his forehead against her chest. 

“Stop,” he says roughly, and she feels his fingers tremble against her skin. Breathing hard, she forces herself to nod.

Get condoms, she tells herself firmly, aching. Tomorrow. 

Lucifer takes another moment to compose himself, and Natalie runs her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the base of his neck. She places little butterfly kisses on the top of his head, on his temples, on the tip of his ear. 

When he gets himself back under control, he raises his head to look at her, and his eyes are molten, scalding her with their heat. 

“You’ll be the death of me, girl, I swear,” he mutters, and Natalie wants to laugh, but before she can he’s tipping her backwards until she’s laid out on the couch, and he’s covering her body with his own and stealing her lips. 

She returns his kiss a little too eagerly, pushing herself up on one elbow so quickly she knocks their foreheads together. She hisses quietly, leaning back to touch her fingertips to the tender spot, and Lucifer gives her an exasperated look. 

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, and Lucifer shakes his head, though she sees the subtle softening in his expression that she’s not entirely sure he’s even aware of. Her stomach flutters for a completely different reason, and she smiles impishly at him, tilting her chin up in an invitation for more.

He kisses her again and she sighs, relaxing back into the cushions and pulling him closer, her hands dancing over his bare skin. He settles between her legs and it’s not the most comfortable position, since he’s so big and the couch so narrow, but she hitches the leg on the outside up on his hip and he catches her thigh, holding her in place.

When he breaks from her mouth to work his way down her chest again, Natalie squirms, pressing herself tighter into the back of the couch to give him more room to move. She digs her heel into the cushion and pushes herself up a little more, until she’s resting against the arm and he has the rest of the space to maneuver. 

He looks up at all her shifting, meeting her eyes as he kisses the top of her stomach. She quivers, tightening again in anticipation, her breaths coming a little quicker as he works his way lower.

She had traded her jeans for something comfier as soon as she had gotten home, so when Lucifer reaches the waistband, there’s no button to undo, no zipper to unzip, but the slow way with which he curls his fingers beneath them and begins to roll them down nearly has her groaning.

“They’re bananas,” she blurts suddenly, before he can make much progress, and he stops, confused.

“What?”

“My pa— my underwear,” she says, feeling a little foolish. “You didn’t like the kittens so I thought I’d warn you.” 

He raises an eyebrow, looking amused. Natalie chews at her bottom lip, and Lucifer shakes his head again.

“I know not to expect much from you in that department,” he says, and though the words should be biting, his delivery has her biting back a grin and kicking out at his shoulder.

“Jerk.”

“Bananas,” he scoffs, and pulls her shorts down to reveal them. She wiggles in her spot, pulling her legs in to shake free of the material. 

“Don’t be jealous,” she teases, unable to help herself, knowing this joke might cost her as her last one had. “I bought these before I realized there was only one banana-shaped thing I want down there.”

He stops again, his fingers stilling on her thighs, his mouth falling open. His brows furrow in some hilarious cross between disgust and fury. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you don’t want this to happen,” he says, propping himself up on an elbow between her thighs and narrowing his eyes at her. Natalie raises her hands immediately, though she can’t help but giggle helplessly at his reaction.

“No! I want it,” she says, face growing red as she tries to suppress her laughter. “I do. I just— Your face— You make it so easy.” Another round of giggles bursts out of her, though they cut off abruptly with a gasp when he drags his thumb over her center. 

With only the thin fabric of her panties separating them, his touch scorches her. He watches her carefully, his eyes still narrowed, and Natalie reaches down to grasp his wrist.

He does it again and Natalie moans softly, her voice wavering, all traces of humor swept away by the light press of his fingers. He removes his hand and curls his fingers into the waistband, pulling them down, too, leaving her entirely bare before him save for the socks that neither of them care to remove. 

Natalie resists the urge to cover up, like she had the first time and last time he’d seen her like this, meeting his heated gaze. He shifts back, spreading her legs around him, and slips his hand under one calf. He kisses her ankle first, then works his way up the inside of her leg until she’s trembling. 

“Lucifer,” she groans, “please.” 

He eases it over his shoulder as he lowers himself back onto his stomach before her. If she looks closely, she might have seen the pink tinging his cheeks, but she’s much too distracted to notice. 

She feels his breath against her first, and shivers, throwing an arm over her face to hide how red her own cheeks are. She waits, tense with anticipation, but Lucifer doesn’t make another move.

“Look at me,” he finally says, curling a hand around the thigh on her shoulder and pushing her other leg open wider, until it’s dangling over the side of the couch. Natalie takes a shuddering breath and removes her arm, looking down at him. “You’re the one always talking about communication. You need to tell me what you like.”

Natalie hears the words he doesn’t say. That he’s never done this before, that she needs to help him like he helped her when she’d done this for him. It strikes her again, just how intimate this is, knowing that everything they’ve done has been a first for both of them. 

The words catch in her throat, so she nods instead. Lucifer dips his head, and the first touch of his tongue sends her reeling.

“Oh,” she gasps, her hands scrabbling for something to hold on to. One grabs at the cushions, the other dropping to curl into his hair. “Oh.”

He drags the tip of his tongue up along her slit, and Natalie is more acutely aware of the two sides than she has ever been before. She shudders, already forgetting their agreement, her head falling back with a moan. Her hand clenches in his hair, and she arches at the next sweep, briefly forgetting how to breathe. 

His fingers dig into her thigh, forcing her to raise her head again. 

“Yes,” she says, not knowing what else to tell him, “please.”

Perhaps having learned from her own mistakes in her exploration of him, he doesn’t just lick her in wide, rough strokes. He shifts from longer, lighter touches to shorter, heavier ones. He slips his tongue between her folds experimentally, and Natalie moans softly in response, the fingers clutching the cushions dropping to join the ones in his hair in encouragement. 

When he dips the tip into her entrance, her hips flex involuntarily into it, and she whines, a low, keening noise as her thighs close around his ears. He pushes them back open, repeating the motion in shallow thrusts that have Natalie rocking into him again, her back arching.

“Lucifer,” she sighs, and her fingers close around his horns now, a firmer grip that makes it easier for her to push closer. The warmth that had been building earlier condenses into something hot and molten and pulsing, but it’s a gradual thing, not nearly enough to bring her to the edge she remembers. 

She tugs at his horns, pulling him up slightly, and the sudden absence of his tongue leaves her empty and aching. 

“More.”

He obliges, repeating the same motions he had done first, except this time he ends the stroke with a flick against the bud at the apex of her thighs. Natalie reels, her mouth falling open. 

“There,” she pleads, pulling him closer, “oh, please, th—” she cuts off with another moan when he teases it. The pleasure that had been a slow, crawling thing feels the exact opposite now. It hits her fast and hard, and she yanks on his horns insistently, her back arching off the couch entirely.

He closes his lips over the little nub, sucking on it eagerly, and Natalie feels her voice break when she calls out his name, only distantly aware of her increasing volume. 

She feels a pressure at her entrance, and then one of his fingers is inside of her, thrusting slowly and then picking up to match the urgency with which his mouth is working against her. Her head swims, her vision blurring, and she her mind goes blissfully blank until all she knows is his name and that she’s burning and it’s for him.

Another finger presses into her, joining the first, and she tosses her head back, her toes curling in ecstasy. 

“Yes,” she chokes out, because this is what she wants and she doesn’t want him to stop, not ever. She doesn’t know how else to convey to him that this is all she needs. He had asked her to tell him what she liked and this is it, this is everything, he is everything, and she feels like she’s going to fall off the edge she’s barreling towards and never stop.

But she doesn’t fall. She explodes instead, that heat at her center radiating outward in waves until she feels it in the tips of her fingers and toes, lightheaded from the force. His name rings in her ears, and it’s only after that she realizes she had done that, too, perhaps loud enough to alert the neighbors.

She feels shattered, suspended in a million fragmented pieces, and then Lucifer is pulling her back to her body, his forehead pressed against her shoulder. She didn’t remember him moving to get there, but her arms come up around him anyways, and she holds him until she stops trembling and her breath starts coming easier again. 

Right as she opens her mouth to speak, there’s a scream, and she nearly jumps out of her skin, scrambling up into a sitting position underneath him and forcing him back too. 

But it’s only the movie, the sound fading into the credits, and Natalie remembers what they had been doing before he’d so thoroughly distracted her. 

“We missed the best part!” she complains, shoving at his shoulder, still a little breathless. Lucifer looks both amused and slightly offended. 

“I’d say you just had a much better time than the dead girl,” he drawls, sitting back, and Natalie feels herself flush. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she puffs out her cheeks, standing to gather her clothes and tug them back on. He watches her, and she sticks her tongue out at him before casting the TV a forlorn glance.

“I don’t disagree,” she says, her cheeks growing hotter. “That was… really good.” She glances at him and can’t hide a smile at the way he draws himself up, rather unconsciously, she guesses, with pride. Her heart skips a beat. 

She’ll never say it to his face, but he’s adorable.

“But!” His face drops, and her smile widens wickedly. “The night’s still young. There’s still time to start it again and watch it all the way through this time.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack,” she says solemnly. “I’m not breaking my tradition.”

The face Lucifer makes she couldn’t recreate if she tried, and she laughs, dodging the pillow he throws at her as she makes her way to the bathroom.

“I’m gonna clean up first, but can you get it set up for me?” she asks sweetly, ducking out of the room and laughing again at the string of curses that follows her. 

Disgruntled as he may be, the movie is still ready to go when she returns, and she settles back between his legs contentedly, pulling his arms around her. 

She turns her head to look up at him as the opening credits roll, and leans up to press a kiss to his jaw. 

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, and he looks away, muttering under his breath. She returns her attention to the movie, but there’s no mistaking the press of his lips to the top of her head several minutes later, nor the softly mumbled, “happy birthday, kid.” 

Zadkiel’s breath is warm against her ear, their hair tickling her collarbone, and it takes all she has not to reach out against the bonds keeping her pinned to their bed to touch—

“You have to answer, dove, or this isn’t going to work.” 

Anthea feels the curve of Zadkiel’s lips on her skin, and her breath hitches. She’s not used to becoming so flustered so easily, considering the things she used to do to pay the bills. 

But she’s never done anything quite like this. The whisper of her gauzy lingerie, the rough scratch of the ropes, the silky coolness of the blindfold are all sensations she’s familiar with, but not ever together and not with the addition of—

“Anthea,” Zadkiel singsongs above her, skimming the cold, blunt edge of the knife over her hip. The press of the metal is gone as quickly as it came, as Zadkiel anticipates how Anthea jumps and gasps, “yes.” 

Zadkiel laughs and it’s a low, husky sound that sends a rush of warmth through Anthea and she has to remind herself that she has to stay still. 

“Eager, are we?” they tease, and the mattress shifts with their weight as they move to straddle her waist. Anthea has never known someone to be so soft and so sharp simultaneously, like Zadkiel is in this form, but she finds she likes the curvesinewmuscle of their body more than any other she’s ever known. 

Zadkiel catches her beneath the chin with a finger, tilting her head back, and Anthea can’t see but she can hear the rustle of their hair falling as they lean over her, feel it brushing over her as gently as the knife had a moment ago.

“Don’t move, dove. I’d hate to mar that pretty face of yours.” 

Anthea’s breath shudders as the edge of the blade touches her temple, just above where the blindfold’s edge rests, and then trails down the side of her face, featherlight and careful as a lover’s caress but infinitely more dangerous.

It traces the outline of her face, and every second that passes feels like an eternity. Her heart slams against her ribcage, and she feels lightheaded. She doesn’t know if it’s fear or exhilaration or some combination of both, but for all that she doesn’t need to breathe it feels like her lungs have seized in her chest. 

The blade finally lifts from her skin and all the tension that’s built up inside of her fades away. She draws in a shaky breath and Zadkiel laughs again, quieter and throatier this time, as if this is affecting them, too. 

“Do you want to stop?” The words are barely more than a murmur, spoken so close she can feel the whisper of their lips against her own. She wants to strain against the ropes, to close that little bit of distance between them, but she doesn’t.

“No,” she breathes, and though she matches their volume there’s a conviction in that one word that she isn’t sure the origin of. She’s thankful for it all the same; she had agreed to this and she wants to see it through. 

Zadkiel leans away from her, giving her another quiet reminder to be still. Then she feels the knife again, barely there against the center of her forehead. It leaves an icy imprint on her skin, where it makes a straight line down, between her eyebrows, to the tip of her nose. 

It pauses there, the sharp point lingering, before it sweeps down again and settles against the dip in her top lip. Her breath shudders again, and, as if that had been an invitation, the blade follows the curve of her mouth with an agonizing softness. 

Her lips part and the knife stills, and there’s a beat of absolute stillness before it’s abruptly removed from her skin and replaced by something softer, fuller—

Anthea moans, a small little sound that gets caught in her throat, and Zadkiel steals the opportunity to slip their tongue into her mouth. She twitches in her bonds, the urge to reach out and touch them nearly consuming her again, but the kiss is already over and both of them are struggling to catch their breath.

“My, my, little succubus,” Zadkiel says after a minute, with not nearly as much composure as they’d possessed before, “you really are quite tempting.” 

Anthea huffs a laugh, unable to help herself, her head still hazy from the knife and the kiss. 

“I should hope so, given what I do for a living.” And though she’s still blinded, she thinks she can almost see Zadkiel’s smile, as sharp as the blade in their hand. She shivers. 

“Are you ready for more?” 

“Yes.”

Something broad and blunt — the handle of the knife — touches the tip of her chin and eases her head back until her neck is arched. She holds the position even after the pressure is removed.

One beat passes, then two. Zadkiel shifts on top of her, leaning, and then there’s the quiet clink of ice being swirled in a glass. Her brow furrows beneath the blindfold, and she almost lifts her head, but then Zadkiel’s full weight is settled over her hips again and they click their tongue.

“Ah, ah, dove. You said you trusted me, didn’t you? Head back.” 

She complies without thinking, her heart picking up again. The first touch is a shock, one that she reels back from with a gasp. 

The knife is removed just as abruptly, and she knows her skin isn’t so much as pricked, but it burns where the blade had made contact.

“What—” she tries, but then there are fingers at the nape of her neck, in her hair, holding her head in position. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Zadkiel croons, nudging their nose against her cheek affectionately, their grip on her hair firm but not so much that it hurt. The actions are so at odds with each other but so very Zadkiel that Anthea is surprised she’s managed to hold herself together this long. “Do you want to stop?”

She clenches her fingers tightly around the ropes in hopes of hiding the tremor that runs through her.

“No,” she says, and it’s stronger this time. The burning sensation on her throat has faded into a chill, and she understands the presence of the ice water now. “I know the word. It was just a surprise.” 

She feels Zadkiel smile, that sharp, lovely smile.

“Do I need to hold you like this?” The fingers in her hair rub meaningfully at her nape, and as much as she loves the touch, loves the closeness of them, she knows that they mean the question only in the literal sense. 

They wouldn’t hold her if she could control herself. This was as much a test of her command over her own reactions as it was a test of Zadkiel’s skill and reflexes. 

“No.”

The hand slips out of her hair and the absence of the touch and of Zadkiel’s warmth leaves her wanting, but she tips her head back again and steels herself.

She hears the knife dip back into the ice water, and then it’s gliding down the side of her throat again. She clenches her jaw against the bite of the chilled metal, her nails carving crescent moons into her palms, but manages to remain perfectly still. 

She can’t tell if Zadkiel has grabbed a different knife or if it’s just the temperature of the blade that makes it seem so much sharper than before. Her neck is wet and she feels beads of something slides down her skin and pool in her hair below her.

But she can’t tell if Zadkiel has really drawn blood or if it’s just the water on the knife, and she’s hardly going to try to speak while there’s a knife against her throat. The iciness of it burns her, chills her, and numbs her all at once. Her heart pounds unevenly as they graze the other side and she hears her teeth grind over one another with the effort it takes to repress a full bodied shiver.

The blade skims back towards the center, then pauses in the hollow at the base. She barely breathes as Zadkiel takes the point all the way up the middle, to just under her chin. More of the liquid rolls off of her, but Anthea doesn’t have the time to linger on it before they place the blade horizontally across the center of her throat and make a quick, sharp slicing motion.

For one long, agonizing second, she’s paralyzed. 

Then the blade is gone, and Zadkiel’s tongue is catching the droplets on her skin — somewhere in the back of her mind she registers water, not blood — and Anthea gasps for air and the shudder that goes through her is so violent she shakes the both of them. 

She wants to be mad. She wants to be furious, but Zadkiel is laughing into her neck and their tongue is doing wicked, wondrous things to her and once that bone-deep, paralyzing fear ebbs away she realizes that she liked it. 

The fear and the thrill heightens every sensation. Zadkiel’s body is too warm pressed completely against her from hips to chest, their tongue is burning against her burnedchillednumbed skin and she never, ever wants them to stop.

When she finds her voice she moans, squirming against the ropes, arching up into them as much as she’s able. 

“I hardly think – that – was – necessary,” she manages to get out, even as she’s tilting her head for them, an invitation and a plea all at once. 

“Oh, but it was,” Zadkiel says, in that infuriating, self-assured tone of voice, “because look how you’re reacting to me. I’ve barely touched you, little succubus, and you’re already writhing.”

They nip at her throat with sharp teeth, then pull back again as Anthea huffs and settles back into the sheets, embarrassed that they were right. Zadkiel’s hand finds her face, their thumb sweeping over the flush on her cheek.

“What a lovely color on you,” they murmur, half teasing and half admiring. Their hand lingers for only a moment, and then it’s gone and the knife is back. “Now we’re getting to the fun stuff.”

“Oh?” She can’t help herself. “Because pretending to slit my throat wasn’t fun enough for you?” 

“Don’t be mad, dove. I promised I wouldn’t hurt you.” The blade traces a collarbone and Anthea shivers. Their voice hasn’t changed but she thinks there’s something different about the way they skim her skin, something reverent.

Instead of continuing down her chest, Zadkiel follows the line of her arm. The knife eases the strap of her lingerie over her shoulder, and then with barely any pressure at all the thin fabric snaps in two. The point knocks the cut straps away and continues down, tracing the dip of her elbow and circling her wrist where the rope bites into her skin and dipping between her fingers. 

Anthea flexes her hand, the caress of the knife tickling against the sensitive skin, and Zadkiel taps the blunt side against her palm. She opens her hand back up, and they trace the lines already carved into the flesh.

Goosebumps erupt along her arm and Zadkiel pauses. 

“Well,” they say, then run the knife back up the same path until it crosses to the other one, where they mimic their steps until she gets goosebumps there, too. “Ticklish, are we?” 

There’s a breathless quality to their voice that matches how Anthea feels. She swallows hard as the point drags against the center of her chest, until it snags in the thin material that really doesn’t do much to cover her breasts. 

She can hear Zadkiel breathing now, slightly uneven like her heart slamming against her ribs in anticipation. They don’t make a cut in the fabric yet, opting instead to drag the blade in a wide, lazy circle around one of her breasts. Her back curves in again as they trace the knife in a tightening spiral, until the cool metal grazes her nipple through the gauze and lace. 

She moans, grappling for something to hold on to. Zadkiel flips the knife so that the blunt side is pressing against her instead, teasing the dark bud into a peak with the edge. Even though the chill from the ice water has faded, the blade suddenly feels too cold against her skin, flushed through with warmth from their teasing. 

Zadkiel is oddly silent as they give the same treatment to her other breast, until the material of her lingerie, light and airy as it is, suddenly feels too hot and oppressive under their careful ministrations. 

As if they know exactly what she’s thinking, Zadkiel brings the knife to top of the bra, slipping it beneath the embroidered hem. She gasps at the coolness of the blade, where the flat of it rests against her sternum for only a moment before they’re using it to cut a clean line down the center of the fabric. They flick the ruined sides apart with the tip.

It’s strange and intimate, laying pinned, blindfolded, and exposed beneath them. She thinks she can imagine how they’re looking at her, but this time it’s different because Zadkiel has never gotten so worked up over so little foreplay and she wants to see her effect on them. 

She settles for the absolute stillness that follows, for the slight hitch in their breathing, and for the fact that when they touch her next, it’s with their fingers, containing the barest hint of a tremble. But it’s enough for her to notice the flutter of them over her skin, and enough that the knife is useless until they can regain that miniscule slip of control.

One of Zadkiel’s fingers follow the same tightening path over her breast, and Anthea lets herself relax into the familiarity of warm skin instead of cool steel. She arches into their hand to feel more, but they avoid the dusky peak this time, reversing their path in widening circles. 

Anthea huffs, lips parting to complain, but the words are lost on a moan when Zadkiel’s tongue lashes her other nipple, the teasing hand stilling to cup her breast and sweep their thumb over the neglected bud. Silky tendrils of hair tickle her ribs, slip over her stomach, and she strains against the ropes, arching into the heat of their mouth with a breathless laugh. 

It cuts off abruptly as Zadkiel pulls her nipple between their too sharp teeth, dragging the bud through them carefully before releasing her. Anthea shivers, her hands clenching and unclenching in their bonds, aching to thread her fingers through Zadkiel’s hair and push them down her body to exactly where she wants them, but Zadkiel is already leaning back, the absence of the heat of their body and the caress of their hair leaving her wanting. 

She feels Zadkiel’s weight shift again, and gasps when the cool point of the knife drags over the wet tip, goosebumps erupting along her skin again. 

“Mm,” Zadkiel hums approvingly, the first sound they’ve made in what feels like ages, skimming the edge over the raised flesh. “I love these.” Their voice drops to a husky whisper, and Anthea has to remind herself to stay still again, even as more heat sweeps through her and pools between her legs. 

She can’t remember the last time she was so aroused over so little. 

This time when she hears the ice swirling in the glass, she knows what to expect, though that doesn’t dull the shock that pulls her body taut when the icy blade begins to trace the rib, just below her breast. Her breath comes shallowly in the wake of this slow torture, Zadkiel’s hand moving at an agonizing pace until they reach the center of her chest, and then dropping to the next one and beginning the process all over again.

It’s harder to bear this time, and she can’t help the quiver of her stomach as her body tries to recoil against the knife. She keeps her back from curving, from physically trying to squirm away, only through sheer force of will.

She clenches her teeth, her nails cutting crescents into her palms. Two more, and Anthea exhales shakily in relief, but Zadkiel gives her only a moment to recover before repeating the ministrations on her other side. 

There’s a curse caught in her throat, a filthy word that she bites her tongue against, gritting her teeth until she hears the way they grind against each other, and then it’s over. All the tension floods out of her body at once in a violent shudder, and she thinks Zadkiel is laughing, though in the moment it sounds far away. 

As she recovers, Zadkiel drags the tip lazily between her breasts, all the way down her stomach to her navel. They circle it slowly, thoughtfully, and Anthea can feel their eyes on her, watching her every movement. 

“I probably won’t use the ice anymore,” they finally say, though they sound distracted, most likely by the path the knife traces around her belly button, careful not to catch against her piercing. Her stomach quivers again. She isn’t sure if she imagines the way their breath hitches.

“Probably?” she ventures, to distract from how her own body is betraying her by reacting so readily to them.

“I make no promises.” They’re smiling again, she can hear it in their voice, then the knife is gone and so is Zadkiel’s weight over her hips. She stills at the abruptness of it, straining to find them without the use of her eyes. And then—

They settle between her spread legs, hands sinking the mattress beside her as they dip their head to follow the path of the knife, peppering her chilled skin with hot, open kisses. 

She lets her head fall back, arching up to meet the heated path their mouth is carving down her torso. They hum against her stomach and trace the knife’s path around her belly button with their tongue, and Anthea sighs her own approval, wishing again for the use of her hands. 

Zadkiel slips a hand beneath her, pressing against the small of her back to arch her up for them when they dip their tongue into her navel, flicking against her piercing tauntingly. Their fingers catch on her dermals, and they sigh wistfully into her skin. 

“One day I’ll have you like this on your stomach,” they murmur against her, fingering the two small piercings set into her back, and the promise alone is enough to send another spark of heat through her. 

“A far off dream, considering we’ve been here for an eternity,” Anthea can’t help but tease, grateful that her voice remains steady. Zadkiel laughs, pressing one more kiss over her navel and then pulling back once more.

“Patience is a virtue, dove.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any of those left.”

“Oh, I don’t, but I wasn’t referring to myself.” Anthea opens her mouth to reply, but the caress of the knife along the waistband of her flimsy lace panties sends every other thought out the window. Zadkiel settles between her knees, their free hand curling around her thigh. They draw the tip over the line of her hipbone, and then sweep down to follow the V of her underwear. 

Anthea inhales sharply, tensing, and the hand on her thigh moves up to press over her stomach. 

“Relax,” they murmur, retracing their path to repeat the process on the other side. Anthea tries, but it’s much easier said than done when she is acutely aware of the cool, deadly edge of the blade against the warmest, most sensitive part of her body. She exhales slowly, forcing the tension out with the breath, and Zadkiel makes a low sound of approval in the back of their throat. 

They follow the line of her panties back up and then down her thigh. The blade slips around to the back of her knee, where it glides over the artery. Anthea’s toes curl, both at the sensation and the reoccuring knowledge that one slip could lead to her bleeding all over the bed. 

As if they know exactly what she’s thinking, they pause, lingering at the fragile skin there, pressing the blade a little harder against the spot her blood pulses until she can hear only the rush of it in her ears. She doesn’t know what it is about this game they’re playing that steals all reasonable thought, that whispers all the horrible ways they could hurt her when she knows that they are both too skilled with the blade and that they had never given her reason to believe they wanted to, but she supposes the temporary suspension of belief is part of the thrill. 

Zadkiel finally continues the trail down her calf, circling her ankle, and then skims the knife up the inside of her leg. The point of the blade ghosts over her center — she doesn’t feel the tip itself but she feels how it snags on the lace as it passes over it — until it settles on against her other thigh. They go through the motions again, stilling at the back of her knee, pressing the blade dangerously against the thin flesh, before continuing down and then back up. 

Anthea feels her anticipation pooling low in her belly, building with the thought that they were almost done with this play and that finally they would relieve some of the ache that it has left her with. Her entire body feels hot and cold, overstimulated and neglected at once. She digs her heels into the bed, arching, but the hand on her stomach pushes her back down. 

Zadkiel sounds amused when they say, “we’re not done just yet.” Anthea bites back a groan, swallowing the plea that rises on her tongue. She wants another taste of them. She wants them to taste her. She wants them to unbind her. She wants to roll them beneath her and show them what it is to ache. She wants, she wants, she wants, more intensely than she has ever wanted before, and she isn’t quite sure whether she should be upset or impressed that they’ve managed to unravel the restraint it’s taken her years to build with one measly knife and their silken words and hungry lips.

The tip of the knife slips under the elastic holding her panties together at her hip, though Zadkiel makes no move to shred it. Instead, they lean forward, kissing the spot, and then continue down, staying true to the pattern they’ve set of following the knife’s path with their lips afterwards. Their tongue dips into the bend of their knee and Anthea presses her heels more firmly into the mattress, struggling not to jerk. She feels Zadkiel smile against her skin and tips her head back, cursing them in every one of their names she knows. 

The ascent up her other leg makes her quiver when they slow down, slipping their hand beneath her calf and taking the time to lavish kisses on her skin. She tries to keep her breathing even this time, but the effort is wasted the higher they get, and her shallow breaths are too loud to her own ears. 

Zadkiel skims their nose along the crease of her thigh, and Anthea shivers, fingers and toes curling again. She sighs, their name on the tip of her tongue nearly a prayer, until they lean back again. Anthea bites her tongue before the three syllables can escape, her chest heaving. 

They don’t laugh this time, and she takes that as a sign that they’re just as affected by this as she is. It helps her regain her grip on her composure, and she breathes in deeply, then lets go of her frustration. 

“Stay very, very still.”

The weight in their voice gives her pause, and her spine pricks with that familiar, illogical fear, but she obeys, hardly breathing. 

Zadkiel nudges her legs even wider, placing a hand over her stomach again. 

“Don’t move,” they whisper, and then she feels the flat of the blade over the thin lace that covers her center.

“Oh,” she says, and she can’t hide how her voice trembles now. Whether it’s a product of her fear, or her arousal, or both, she can’t say for certain. 

Zadkiel grabs the elastic waistband, pulling the lace taut over her, and carefully traces the outline of her folds through the material with the tip. She keens quietly, aching with the effort to remain still, to not even let the quiver to her limbs manifest should they cause Zadkiel to slip.

This is a torture more acute than anything else they’ve put her through so far, and Anthea can barely remind herself to breathe let alone remember the word they’d agreed upon beforehand that would put a stop to everything at once. She isn’t even sure she wants to use it, only that they’re currently balancing on a precipice and that the word had been a safety net that’s no longer there to catch her if she falls. 

They draw the blade lightly over each lip and then up further. They pause, putting pressure on her stomach, and lightly press the tip to her clit. Even with the warning and their hand weighing her down, Anthea jolts, and Zadkiel deftly pulls the knife away before it can do any harm.

The absence of the blade drains all the tension from her again, her breath leaving her all at once, and she can’t quite hide the quiver in her limbs anymore. 

Zadkiel surges forward, catching her lips in a heated, urgent kiss. Anthea barely registers the snap of the elastic holding her underwear together, not with their tongue in her mouth again, the heady taste of them making her head spin. 

“Fuck,” they murmur against her lips, and Anthea gasps at the feel of their fingers slipping beneath the ruined remains of the lace, tracing her folds with significantly less caution now, feeling how warm and slick she is for them after all their play. “Fuck.”

Anthea cants her hips up, rocking into their hand, and Zadkiel presses a thumb over her clit, leaving her lips to trail kisses over her jaw and down her throat so they can hear how she moans for them. 

They circle her entrance with one finger, and Anthea’s hips sway with it, urging them inside of her. Zadkiel complies, sinking it in to the knuckle, groaning at the way she flutters around it. She hums her approval between uneven breaths, straining against the ropes, the new friction delicious but not nearly enough. 

And then it’s gone, Zadkiel’s hand and mouth leaving her entirely, and Anthea is only vaguely aware that the whine ringing in her ears is her own. 

Her fingers flex, wanting to reach out and search for them, but she hardly has time to contemplate where they went before she feels their tongue, featherlight against her slit, the slow lick ending in a flick to her clit. She arches, moaning loudly, spreading her own legs as far as she’s able to accommodate their body between them. Their hair tickles her thighs and her hands clench around air, wanting desperately to bury themselves in the long, soft locks. 

Zadkiel leans in, tasting her again, so lightly Anthea almost believes she’s imagining the touch until the flick to her clit, more insistent this time. She raises her hips, searching for their mouth, and Zadkiel humors her. This time their tongue is solid and firm, dipping into her entrance, wiggling between her folds, running circles around her clit. 

Anthea’s mind goes blissfully blank. The only thing she’s aware of is Zadkiel’s head between her thighs, and the press of one, two fingers into her, picking up a steady, curling rhythm that has her writhing.

She tries meeting all their thrusts, bound as she is, but the hand on her stomach stills her so they can close lips and teeth and tongue around her clit. Stars burst behind her eyelids, or maybe against the impenetrable fabric of the blindfold — she doesn’t know if her eyes are open and she can’t bring herself to care. All the knows is the phantom caress of the knife that lingers on her burning skin and Zadkiel’s mouth and fingers and oh, that mouth, with a smile as sharp as the blade, and those fingers that had wielded it so skillfully against her skin, and Anthea is lost. 

She is utterly lost in them, and the last few hours seem like a blur now, all condensed into this moment when she feels herself shattering and reforming and shattering again. 

When Zadkiel finally lifts their head from between her trembling thighs — the glide of their hair over her skin makes her shudder — and pulls their fingers from her, Anthea whines again, though she’s not sure why, given how boneless and satisfied she feels. 

Zadkiel laughs, and she thinks she hears them mutter something about a temptress, placing sporadic kisses on her thighs, stomach, chest, as they climb her body once more. They kiss her lips, and she tastes herself on them before they move on, reaching above her to cut through the ropes. 

Anthea’s arms tingle with their release, falling to the bed over her head, and Zadkiel grabs one, pulling it back down and rubbing the feeling back into it with one hand while the other reaches behind her head, deftly undoing the blindfold’s knot. 

She hums as the tingling, numb sensation in her arm fades, and rolls her shoulder where it’s sore. Zadkiel pulls the blindfold off and reaches for her other arm, grinning as she blinks away the light.

They slip back down her body to afford the same treatment to her legs, and Anthea moans quietly in approval. She hasn’t felt an ache like this, hasn’t felt this kind of bone deep contentment in a long time. Judging by the small, pleased smirk tugging at Zadkiel’s lips, she’s making herself much too obvious, though at the moment she doesn’t have the will nor the energy to care.

Zadkiel kisses the crease in her knee again, meeting her eyes over the bend of her leg, and Anthea can’t help but smile back. She would let Zadkiel be content in this little victory for now, but she would get them back for this.