#oversized tunic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

earthlybeam · 2 months ago

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Wait, oh my god. If you don’t mind, could you possibly write the oversized tunic prompt for Haldir, Legolas, and/or Thranduil?

Or possibly, their SO in their tunic?

Thranduil, Legolas, Haldir version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The flickering light of the hearth bathed the guest chamber in a warm, golden glow, the shadows of the flames stretching across the polished stone walls and draping the room in quiet intimacy. It was peaceful—until the door opened, revealing the imposing figure of Thranduil. He moved with effortless elegance, his long robes trailing in his wake as his sharp gaze swept over the chamber. For a fleeting moment, his expression was serene, his features carved from ice and marble, betraying nothing. But then his eyes fell on you.

You stood in the doorway, caught in the firelight, the oversized tunic billowing slightly as you shifted under his gaze. The garment—his tunic—hung loosely on you, its fine fabric pooling in some places and clinging in others, betraying the fact that it had not been tailored for you. The neckline dipped low, and the material had slipped off one shoulder, baring the curve of your collarbone and a hint of your skin. The hem barely reached mid-thigh, your every move revealing just how precariously it sat. Though the look was accidental, it carried with it an unintended allure.

Thranduil stopped mid-step, his ice-blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they trailed over you, taking in every detail of your appearance. His expression was unreadable at first, the practiced neutrality of a king who had seen and weathered all things. But then his lips curved into the faintest of smirks, a spark of amusement glinting in his gaze. “Is this…” he began, his voice low and smooth, laced with an almost imperceptible edge, “intentional?”

You froze, your heart stuttering in your chest under the weight of his scrutiny. “Intentional?” you echoed, heat rising to your cheeks. You felt your embarrassment bubbling over, but you did your best to keep your tone even. “You make it sound like I’ve planned this.” You gestured vaguely to the tunic, the sleeves so long that the cuffs nearly swallowed your hands. “I didn’t exactly have many options. My clothes are being washed, and this was the only thing I could find that didn’t reek of travel.”

Thranduil took a measured step forward, the soft sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing faintly. There was something predatory in his movements, though not unkind—a quiet, deliberate grace that left no room for misunderstanding who stood before you. His gaze softened slightly, though his intensity did not waver. “And you thought it wise to wear this?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as though the question were for himself as much as it was for you. “My tunic?”

You bristled, a mix of defiance and self-consciousness sparking in your chest. Crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to shield yourself, you tilted your chin up. “It’s not like I expected you to walk in unannounced,” you countered, though your voice wavered slightly under his piercing gaze. “Besides, it’s not that revealing.”

At that, one of his thick brows arched elegantly, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying his disbelief. “Not that revealing?” he repeated, a note of dry humor slipping into his tone. His eyes flicked down briefly, lingering on the exposed curve of your shoulder where the fabric had slipped, then lower, taking in the hem that rested just a little too high for propriety. “It barely clings to you,” he said plainly, though there was something warmer—something almost dangerous—beneath the cool cadence of his voice. “It is… distracting.”

“Distracting?” You scoffed lightly, though your pulse quickened under his steady gaze. You had meant it to sound dismissive, but the nervous edge to your tone gave you away. “You sound offended. Or…” You allowed a playful edge to creep into your voice, though you knew you were treading on thin ice. “Or maybe you’re just jealous that I pull it off better than you.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy between you, your words echoing in the chamber. Then, to your surprise, a deep, rich chuckle escaped him, the sound resonating low in his chest. His smirk deepened, his gaze glinting with what could only be described as admiration. “Brazen,” he murmured, almost to himself, though the amusement in his tone was evident. “Only you would dare to jest with me in this way.”

You took a tentative step forward, emboldened by the flicker of humor in his expression. “Would you rather I cower?” you asked, your voice soft but steady now. “Or apologize for borrowing something clearly too fine for someone like me?” The teasing edge in your tone was deliberate, but underneath it lay something more vulnerable—something unspoken, though not unnoticed.

Thranduil tilted his head, his gaze never wavering as you drew closer. When he spoke, his voice was lower, quieter, as if the moment demanded it. “I would rather you be more aware of what you provoke,” he said, his words measured but weighted with meaning. “For once tempted, I may not so easily let it go.” You blinked, the air in the room seeming to thicken as his words hung between you. He took another step forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. His hand rose slowly, hesitating just for a moment before brushing the edge of the tunic where it had slipped from your shoulder. The gesture was so light, so fleeting, it could almost have been unintentional—but the look in his eyes told you otherwise.

“It is not the garment I mind,” he said softly, his fingers lingering just a moment too long against your bare skin, his gaze locking onto yours with a startling intensity. “It is the thought that others might see you like this. That I might have to share what stands before me now.” Your breath caught, the heat of his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “Thranduil,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, “it’s just a tunic.”

His lips quirked into a small, knowing smile, though his gaze never softened. “Perhaps to you. But to me, it is far more than that.” His hand fell away as he leaned in, his face mere inches from yours now. His voice dropped lower, barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of a command. “Be more mindful of how you tempt me. You may not like where it leads.” Your heart raced, your words catching in your throat as his meaning settled over you like the heat of the firelight. “Who says I wouldn’t?” you managed to whisper, though your voice wavered with the tension of the moment.

For a moment, he froze, his gaze sharpening as if searching your expression for the truth behind your words. His hand, which had fallen to his side, tightened into a loose fist as though reining himself in. Then, slowly, he straightened, the icy mask of the elven king sliding back into place with practiced ease. “Be ready for supper,” he said, his voice cool and composed once more, though his words carried an undeniable weight. “And wear something less… distracting.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel, his robes sweeping behind him as he disappeared into the hallway, leaving you standing there, breathless and warm, the echo of his touch still lingering on your shoulder.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

The quiet chambers of Mirkwood were bathed in the warm, flickering glow of the hearth, the light casting golden shadows on the stone walls. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest beyond the balcony. Legolas stepped through the carved wooden door with his usual Elven grace, the gentle creak of the hinges the only sound that broke the stillness. His sharp eyes, gleaming with the light of the fire, immediately sought you out.

You stood in the center of the room, hesitant, your fingers brushing nervously at the hem of the oversized tunic you wore. It was one of his—a garment you’d found folded neatly atop the guest bed, clean and soft but unmistakably his. The loose fabric hung down past your knees, its neckline slipping off one shoulder to expose more skin than you were comfortable with. The tunic billowed lightly with your every shift, and though it covered you, the way it clung in places and revealed too much in others made you feel distinctly… vulnerable.

Legolas froze mid-step, his crystalline blue gaze locking on you as if you’d stolen all the air from the room. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first, his expression flickering between surprise, concern, and something far more unreadable. He tilted his head just so, as though trying to make sense of the sight before him. “Is… is that my tunic?” His voice, usually steady and serene, carried a hint of bewilderment, the faintest quirk of his brow betraying his confusion.

You shrugged, trying to feign indifference but failing miserably under his piercing gaze. “I didn’t really have anything else to wear,” you explained, your voice quieter than usual. “My clothes were still drying from the river, and this was here, so…” You gestured vaguely to yourself, feeling the heat creep up your neck and cheeks. “It’s fine, right?”

Legolas stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. The flickering light of the fire danced in his eyes as they roved over you—not with judgment, but with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He stopped just short of you, his tall frame towering yet somehow gentle in its proximity. “It is not… improper,” he said carefully, though the faint flush blooming at the tips of his ears betrayed him. “Though I must admit…” He paused, as if searching for the right words, his gaze drifting to the exposed curve of your shoulder. “It is… revealing.”

You laughed softly, a nervous edge to the sound as you pulled the loose fabric back up your shoulder. “Revealing? Says the elf who walks around in robes with slits up to—” You stopped yourself with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at him. “I think your standards for modesty are a little… flexible.”

His lips parted in a soft exhale, and you swore you saw the faintest twitch of amusement tug at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his voice low, almost teasing. “But when it is you wearing my tunic…” He trailed off, his words hanging in the air like a string plucked on a harp. “When it’s me, what?” you challenged gently, meeting his gaze, though your heart thudded loudly in your chest. “Do I wear it poorly? Should I have asked for something less ‘revealing,’ your highness?” You added the last part with a playful lilt, trying to ease the tension that had settled between you.

“No,” he said swiftly, too swiftly, his tone softening immediately after. “No, it is not that. It is…” His hands twitched at his sides as if unsure whether to reach for you. “It suits you. Better than I expected.” You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Better than you expected?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “You make it sound like I’ve been parading around in your clothes for weeks.”

“Have you?” he countered, his voice dipping into something teasing, his sharp gaze briefly flicking over you again. The faintest ghost of a smile played on his lips now, though his posture remained composed, regal. “No!” you said, shaking your head. “I just—” You sighed, gesturing helplessly at the tunic. “It was either this or sitting around freezing in a damp shirt. And it’s not like anyone else is here to see me.” You hesitated, catching the way his eyes softened. “Except you, apparently.”

Legolas tilted his head, his expression gentling further, the faint blush on his cheeks lingering. “I would not fault you for choosing comfort,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “Though…” He reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric where it pooled loosely over your wrist. “I must admit, I am unused to seeing you so… unguarded.” “Unguarded?” you echoed, a small laugh escaping you. “I’m wearing your tunic, not armor.”

“It is not the tunic,” he said, his gaze steady and earnest. “It is… you.” His fingers brushed against your wrist again, feather-light but enough to make your breath hitch. “You wear it with a grace I did not know my garments could possess.” You blinked up at him, momentarily speechless, before narrowing your eyes slightly. “You’re just trying to distract me from the fact that you think I look ridiculous.” He smiled then, soft and genuine, the kind of smile that could break down even the strongest walls.

“Ridiculous?” he repeated, shaking his head slightly. “No, Mellon nîn or shall I say meleth nǐn.” The Elvish slipped from his lips like a melody, and though you didn’t know the meaning, it made your heart ache in the best way. “Far from it.” And for a moment, as he stood there in the firelight, his fingers lingering near yours, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever be able to look at that tunic the same way again.

🏹��𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻

The quiet serenity of the guest chambers of Lothlórien is broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. The golden light dances on the smooth, pale walls, casting flickering shadows that shift as if alive. Outside, the faint hum of the Elven woods persists, a sound so subtle and ancient it feels as though it could weave dreams.

Haldir steps in, his presence commanding yet measured, as always. His silver hair gleams in the firelight, and his sharp, discerning gaze immediately sweeps the room before settling on you. He stops short, and for a moment, the mask of stoicism that is his constant companion falters. His eyes widen, just slightly, betraying his initial surprise.

You stand there, clothed only in one of his tunics, which hangs loosely around you, brushing against your knees. The neckline dips further than you expected, the fabric slipping off one shoulder to reveal your skin beneath. The garment is clearly oversized, its looseness making it far more revealing than you intended. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, both self-conscious and oddly amused by the rare moment of silence from the Marchwarden.

“Haldir,” you start, breaking the tension. “I didn’t expect you so soon. I didn’t have time to… change.” Your voice carries an air of calm, though your heartbeat quickens. His gaze snaps to yours, his usual composure quickly returning, though a faint flush lingers high on his cheekbones. “I see,” he says, his tone carefully even, though there’s a tightness to it that suggests he’s restraining himself. He takes a step closer, his eyes darting—unbidden—back to where the tunic slips off your shoulder, exposing a sliver of collarbone.

“I trust,” he begins, clearing his throat as if to steady himself, “that you are aware how… unconventional this attire is.” His voice is low, calm, but there’s a tension beneath it—a mix of protectiveness and something more hesitant. “Such a sight might… cause distraction to others. Particularly in my halls.”

You arch a brow at him, crossing your arms over your chest, which only causes the tunic to shift further, sliding a bit higher on one leg and baring more of your skin. “Your halls?” you counter, a faint smirk playing on your lips. “And here I thought these were the halls of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn.”

Haldir’s lips press into a thin line, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He takes another step closer, his voice softening but losing none of its authority. “You know what I mean. Such…” he gestures vaguely at your attire, clearly uncomfortable even addressing it, “an ensemble is not… fitting.”

You tilt your head, letting the smirk grow. “Oh? And who decides what is fitting, Haldir? You?” There’s a playful lilt to your tone now, and you can see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, as though he’s torn between exasperation and amusement. “It is… unbecoming,” he insists, though his voice has lost some of its sternness. His gaze flickers once more to the slipping neckline, and he quickly averts his eyes, clearly wrestling with himself. “What if one of my brothers or the sentries had seen you like this?”

You take a step toward him, your bare feet silent on the stone floor, and tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “But they didn’t,” you say, your voice soft but teasing. “You’re the only one who’s seen me like this. Shouldn’t that be enough?” Haldir freezes, his breath hitching at your words. For a moment, the guarded walls he keeps so firmly in place seem to crack, and he looks at you—not as the Marchwarden of Lothlórien, but as Haldir, the Elf who feels so deeply yet shows so little. His lips part slightly, as though he’s about to say something, but no words come.

You take another step closer, your movements deliberate now, emboldened by his reaction. “Haldir,” you say, your voice softening, “you don’t have to pretend to be so composed all the time. It’s just me.”

He exhales sharply, as though your words have pierced through the layers of his restraint. “You test my patience,” he murmurs, though his tone lacks any real bite. There’s something almost tender in the way he looks at you now, his gaze lingering on your face, your eyes, before flicking back to the tunic once more. “You… shouldn’t wear things like this,” he says finally, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Not when you don’t understand what it does to me.”

The confession hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, you’re both silent. Then, a slow, mischievous smile spreads across your face. “Oh,” you say, your tone light but pointed. “And what does it do to you, Haldir?”

He steps closer still, his composure unraveling further with each passing second. The faint flush on his cheeks deepens, and he looks at you as though you’re the most dangerous thing he’s ever encountered. “It makes me forget my duty,” he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that is something I cannot afford.”

You reach out, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. “Maybe forgetting your duty, just for a moment, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” Haldir’s breath catches again, and for a moment, you think he might close the remaining distance between you. But then, with a deep inhale, he steps back, his usual composure snapping back into place like a shield. “You should change,” he says, his voice firmer now but still soft. “Before someone else sees you.”

You watch him for a moment, the tension still palpable, before nodding. “As you wish, Marchwarden,” you reply, a hint of teasing in your tone. As you turn to gather your clothes, you catch the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips—a smile that’s gone almost as soon as it appears. But the way his eyes linger on you, even as he tries to compose himself, tells you that you’ve left him thoroughly shaken.

#thranduil #thranduil x you #thranduil x reader #thranduil headcanons #Legolas #Legolas x you #Legolas x reader #legolas headcanons #haldir #haldir of lothlórien #haldir x you #haldir headcanons #haldir of lorien #haldir x reader #lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr elves

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sugarrrvenomm · 3 months ago

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even though the stars are blind // obi-wan x reader

hello h word for obi-wan nation ! yes the title is from the paris hilton song.

word count: 4k

summary: master kenobi lets you use his shower after a mission, among other things

You really think you’re imagining things when Obi-Wan asks you to stay behind after the briefing is over and offers you his personal water sonic to use rather than the communal one used by his men. It’s not the request itself that has you wondering if you’re still sane—you’ve never known him to be anything other than a perfect gentlemen—it’s the look on his face while he says it. Those grey-blue eyes narrow into something darker; moodier, and the corner of his mouth ticks up, so slightly you’d miss it under his beard if you weren’t already glancing down at his lips.

After you obviously agree (even if you’re hallucinating the look in his eyes, you still want the privacy of his sonic), his com-link chimes, and the last thing he does before he saunters off to whatever part of the ship is calling for him, he stops by your side and tells you the code to his personal quarters, accent lilting while he takes your hand in his own and pretends to punch in the numbers on your palm.

You wonder what he keeps in his sonic that makes him smell so good. The thought of being amongst his personal things, even mundane ones like soap, curls in your stomach and makes you sweat behind your knees as you walk through the Negotiator’s seemingly endless halls. It takes longer than you expect to find his quarter’s, but that’s most likely because you were too shy to ask a clone for directions to their general’s private rooms. When you finally reach his door, you’re glad no one else is in the corridor to see you walk in—you can can only the hope it’ll be the same when you walk out, with wet hair and fresh clothes.

Unsurprisingly, Obi-Wan’s quarter’s are nearly spotless. The messiest part is the desk; an obscene amount of data-pads stacked and a few half-empty cups of caf decorating it. Aside from that, the only sign someone lives in here at all is the unmade bed—which just the sight of sends an illicit thrill through you. It’s surely gone cold by now, but you make yourself blush by imagining running your hand along the place where he lies at night, feeling the heated impression of him in the mattress. Obi-Wan is one of, if not the, most stressed Jedi you know. What does he do in this bed to relieve that?

The rush of heat that dives between your legs at the thought has you pressing your thighs together, and you dart to the refresher, not wanting Obi-Wan to return and find you staring at his bed and panting like a hound.

After turning on the water sonic, you strip, and that feels illicit too. He’s got a basket with worn clothing in it, but after deciding it might be an overstep to toss yours in, you leave your dirty robes on the floor; picking up your tunic with a pointed toe and draping it over your panties so they’re not visible.

In the sonic, you find out nothing in here is the reason Obi-Wan smells so delicious. Everything on his single shelf is GAR-issued, and smells of nothing. That doesn’t change the fact that washing your hair with his shampoo, and running your hands all over your body with the same soap he touches his own with doesn’t excite you. Just looking down at your feet and knowing he stands in this very spot, naked and wet, is enough to make you pulse between your legs. You spend a little too long massaging your tits, squeezing the flesh between your fingers and making your nipples tighten—but you don’t dare to actually touch yourself. Partly because you don’t want to use all his hot water, partly because you’re not sure you could keep quiet. So, you force yourself to finish up relatively quickly, turning off the water and calling a towel to yourself with the Force so you don’t drip onto the floors.

You’re sleepwear comprises of shorts and a soft, oversized tunic. Normally, you’d go without underwear underneath, but this time you slide a pair on. Something about being around Obi-Wan makes you want to be proper—good. You don’t dare walk around his ship in your thin, tiny shorts barely concealing your pussy. Though, not even his influence can make you wear a bra.

The wet ends of your hair soaking the shoulders of your shirt make you rub your towel over your head like a youngling, it’s not the normal way you’d treat your hair, but it’ll have to do. Of course, it tangles the strands something terrible, and you groan when you can’t quite pull your brush through a few stubborn spots. Prepared to give up, you gather your things and palm the ‘fresher door open—and there is Obi-Wan; sitting at his desk, legs spread wildly like the almost always are when he sits. He’s stripped down to his under-tunics, and you feel oddly endeared at the sight of his socked feet.

“I’ll have to call you back, Anakin,” he says hand reaching for his com-link, eyes on you.

“When?” The static voice of his former Padawan asks.

“Later,” is all Obi-Wan says before he hangs up.

“Thank you,” you rush to say after the call disconnects.

He keeps looking at you, eyes never dipping below your face, a single finger dragging along his bearded jawline. “Of course,” he offers simply, mouth curving up like it did in the briefing. “I hope it was to your liking.”

Even this small talk makes you blush; his presence overwhelms you. Nodding in response, you look down at the brush still in your hand, then back up with him. “Any chance they make GAR-issued detangler?”

When your attempt at a joke actually lands, and he breaks into a full, chuckling smile, you breathe a sigh of relief and light up inside. You stomp down the urge to climb into his lap and lick his teeth. “I don’t think so,” he says, leaning forward in his chair. “But perhaps I could help—Force knows I’ve tamed the gundark’s nest of Anakin’s hair before. I’m rather handy with a brush.”

“Really?” You try not to squeak it out, but you’re sure it comes out that way regardless. More so, you hope he doesn’t see the way your toes curl in response to his offer. It’s all you can do not to squirm completely.

Obi-Wan nods, tilting his head and smiling at you. “If you’d like.”

You nod, crossing your arms in front of you—which reminds you of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. Obi-Wan stands and walks to his bed, sitting back against the headboard and making you lose your breath. Surely he’s not going to—

“Come here, darling,” he beckons, curling two fingers to signal you closer. When you take a step, he spreads his legs and pats the space between them.

Dropping your bag, you climb onto the bed, mindful of your shorts riding up. One of your calves brushes his when you climb over his leg and that alone makes your breath quicken. When you sit, there’s inches of space between your bodies; of course, you imagine there’s not, though. You imagine you’re pressed as close to him as possible, feeling his strong chest against your shoulder blades. Looking down, your bare feet seem small in-between his.

“Now, let’s see if we can get you sorted,” Obi-Wan mumbles, so close it almost makes you flinch. As you try to keep your breathing steady, you feel a hand cascade down your hair, and can hear him stroking the brush through the ends of it, working his way up a small section until the brush glides smoothly. It goes on like this for a few moments, him softly touching you without pause—until he reaches one of the knots, and you hear him grumble in response to the brush getting stuck. When he pulls it free, you hiss, and he murmurs back a cooing sound. “Delicate thing.”

You want to protest, but his voice lulls you away from the urge, as does the way he’s working the knot in your hair with his fingers, dragging strands out of the mess until you feel the brush against you again, and this time it runs through easily.

“There we are,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and he sounds so pleased, like you had done something right; you can’t help but preen a little, smiling to yourself while he keeps brushing until he hits another knot. This time, he wiggles the brush free far gentler, making sure you feel no pain, and then he’s repeating the process from before, meticulously separating your hair until the brush can pass through. You both fall into silence as he works, and despite the heat between your thighs only burning hotter and hotter, his touch calms you until you’re so relaxed it’s almost as if you’re meditating. If you were paying better attention, you might be able to tell that at some point he’s brushed through all the knots, and has started randomly running the brush through your hair while you purr like a loth-cat.

“Feels good,” you murmur.

“Hm?” Obi-Wan hums.

“Haven’t had someone play with my hair in years—since I was a youngling, I think.”

There’s a sound, and you know without looking that it’s Obi-Wan setting your hairbrush on the small table next to his bed. It seems unnervingly loud, for some reason. You shiver when his hand brushes your hair back on one side, moving it to cascade down your back as he leans forward to murmur, “Is there anything else you’d like me to play with?”

All you can do is whisper, “Obi-Wan,” in the neediest voice you’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, and that seems to be all the confirmation he needs. You feel his hand press against your tummy, broad and warm even through your shirt, giving you goosebumps. He uses it to pull you back against him, erasing the space between your bodies just like you’d imagined earlier, but it’s still not enough. You want—need—to feel his skin, so you start to turn in hopes of getting his shirt off, but you’re stopped by an arm across your torso, with a thumb tracing the underside of your breast.

“Relax. You’ve worked so hard today, done so well. Let me take care of you.” The words are spoken into your neck, and his praise makes you squirm. The arm holding you only tightens, while his other one reaches down and tugs down your shorts, leaving you in your panties that you only wore to be polite for him. His big hand cups your cunt, rubbing lazily with no intent other than to rile you up. It fucking works, and you claw at his wrist and whine.

“Just—off,” you plead.

Obi-Wan doesn’t listen, instead nuzzling his thumb against you until he’s putting pressure on your clit. “Or I could keep rubbing you like this; watch you soak the fabric.”

You blush, but let him do as he pleases until you can’t stand it anymore and pull down the underwear yourself. When you do, you can see the wet spot that’s more like a puddle you’ve left in them, making you shyly draw your legs together. Obi-Wan snickering behind you only makes it worse.

“Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed about how needy you are,” he drawls into your ear, rubbing your thigh. “Let me see your cunt, pretty thing.” You let him part your legs, and have to reach down and dig your nails into his thigh when he slides his fingers along you, groaning a low sound as he does it. Even if you hadn’t seen the state of your underwear, you’d be able to tell you’re soaked by how easily he slides one of his large fingers inside of you.

It’s a single finger, but it fills you up so good you moan and writhe on it, rutting forward to try and get friction elsewhere. “My—my clit,” you mumble, eyes closed, head tipping back onto his shoulder.

“Of course, my darling,” Obi-Wan tells you, before slipping his finger our and dragging it up and adding another to swirl around the swollen bud, making you grit your teeth and arch your back. You feel like you’ve been wet since he looked at you in the briefing room—finally getting touched where you longed for it all this time has to careening to the edge startlingly fast, especially since Obi-Wan picks up on what you like easily, spreading your lips with one hand and keeping your clit vulnerable for him to rub steady circles on, every so often catching it between his fingers and squeezing gently. Every touch makes you gush—at least, it feels that way.

Your legs begin to shake, and that’s when he pulls away. There’s no time to protest before he’s pulling you even closer, to speak hotly against your cheek. “I want your soaked little pussy on my face, darling.”

You groan at the thought, but with the way he’s dragged you closer, you can now feel the hard line of his cock digging into you, and you groan even louder when you imagine taking him into your mouth. Right now, there’s nothing you want more than to see what the great, composed, Master Kenobi looks like when he’s getting his cock sucked. You project the thought, and almost expect a remark about inappropriate use of the Force, but Obi-Wan just nips your jaw and asks, “You want that?”

When you turn your head, he finally, finally kisses you. It’s wet, and messy—but his tongue sliding against yours might be the best thing you’ve ever felt. You can tell he knows what he’s doing, and for some reason, that makes your pussy throb.

“So much,” you answer against his mouth, and he hums a pleased sound before sucking your earlobe into his mouth.

“I’m sure a clever girl like you can come up with a way for us both to get what we want, can’t you?”

You feel his smirk against your skin, along with the way your ears burn. Still, you’re determined to please him, so you turn around to sit between his legs facing him. As soon as you make eye contact, he lunges forward to kiss you, but you retreat back out of his reach and pull at his hips until he takes the hint and inches down the bed until he’s laying down. With one more pull, he lifts his hips and you tug down his trousers—he’s not wearing anything underneath.

Spit pools in your mouth at the sight of Obi-Wan’s cock—it’s perfect, you think to yourself. Big enough to make your eyes roll back but not so big that you couldn’t take him without pain. It’s blushing pink at the tip and dribbling pre-come, messy and wet just like your pussy. You want to touch it so badly, to feel the warmth and weight of it, to feel the head of him streak your palm with pre-come, so you do touch him, taking him in hand softly and moaning quietly at how soft his skin is here.

A hand on your face pulls you out of your one-track mind, and you’re tilted up until you see Obi-Wan propped up on one elbow, staring down at you, cheeks pink, mouth smirking, one strand of hair hanging out of place. “Let me eat your cunt, sweetheart,” he rumbles, rubbing his thumb along your lower lip.

You almost say yes, master—but just barely manage to hold it in. With his guiding hands, you crawl back up his body and try not to burn up in your shyness when he turns you around so you’re sitting on his chest, facing his cock. With a hand sliding up your back, Obi-Wan gently pushes you down until you’re forced to spread your legs and arch your back. You take a moment to gather yourself, puffing out a breath and washing the way the hairs around his cock move with it.

Obi-Wan, however, needs no breather. He cups your backside and squeezes harshly. “You really should wear more traditional robes. I thought I was going to get myself killed today being distracted by you and your ass.” Language wise, it’s not the crudest thing he’s said to you tonight, but hearing Obi-Wan Kenobi admit he’s not above staring at your ass and getting turned on by it in the field makes you feel dirtier than ever. You spread your legs even further, and then nearly collapse on his chest at the feeling of his tongue licking a hot, wet line up your center before kissing your folds messily, teasing you.

In response, you drag your tongue up the length of his cock, humming a happy sound when he twitches and pushes his hips up. When you take the head into your mouth, you drool all over it, making it messy immediately, coating it in spit and placing sweet kisses on the leaking slit. Obi-Wan moans against your cunt where he’s switching between dipping his tongue into you and sucking gently on your clit. You sink down, eyes watering the deeper you go. His cock is still perfect—filling up your mouth and tasting so good and being so pretty; taking it is just difficult enough to be a challenge, but not one that you don’t want to take on. Bobbing your head, you hollow your cheeks and hum around him as you press you hips back. You wonder if his face is getting as messy as yours is, dragging your lips off go him to sloppily jerk him off, using you other hand to drag your hair that’s now plastered to your wet cheeks away.

You stop stroking him, but only to slide your hand down and cup his heavy looking balls, earning you the loudest groan you’ve gotten out of him yet. It’s almost like he’s more sensitive here than his actual cock. On a whim, you spit, foamy and warm, onto his balls before taking them in hand and rolling them in your palm, separating them with a thumb and massaging. An even louder sound is made against your cunt, so loud it vibrates against you and makes you gasp. Then, Obi-Wan closes his lips around your swollen clit and sucks so hard you see stars. It’s so overwhelming your body doesn’t know whether to push into or away from it, and you end up pushing up on Obi-Wan’s stomach, squirming and crying out, mouth hung open.

He doesn’t let you go anywhere, though. With a durasteel grip on your thighs, Obi-Wan holds you down, keeping his mouth on your cunt, lifting his head when you try to shy away from him. He continues like this, sucking and licking and moaning, until you’re sure you’re about to make a mess and soak his beard entirely—and once again, he stops before you’re pushed over the edge.

Your head’s still spinning when he gets himself out from under you and turns you around to face him; both of you kneeling on the bed. Obi-Wan brushes back your hair, cups your face in his hands, and pulls you in for a wet kiss, both of of you moaning at the taste of each other. When you reach for his jaw, you feel how wet his beard has become and mewl against his mouth. He tugs you closer, and his big cock rubs up against your shirt that you cannot believe you still have on, and separating from him for the one second you take to rip it off is torture. Now you feel his cock, hard and leaking, pressed against your tummy, making him let out the neediest sounds that go straight to your cunt, and so quickly it becomes not enough—you take him in hand and guide his cock between your legs, not inside of you, just stroking along your folds, soaking him and grinding your cunt on his length.

“Don’t tease me,” he gasps. He looks so fucking good like this—sweaty and disheveled with that one fucking hair hanging over his forehead—that you can’t deny him. You push him back on the bed and straddle him once more, but just as the head of his cock presses against you, his strong grip on your hips halts you from sinking down. Blinking, you look down at him and make a questioning noise.

Obi-Wan looks at you just like he did in the briefing room. “Tell me you want it,” he says.

“I want it,” you say automatically.

“More.”

“Obi-Wan,” you whine, “Please, give me your cock. I want it so bad. I need you fuck me full of your cock.”

He lets you go, and your hips meet his with an obscene, wet noise. “Baby,” he groans, and you cry out at both the way he feels stuffing you full and at the new pet-name. You only sit on him like this for a few seconds before he sits up, making you feel even fuller, then he barrels you over so he’s on top, hiking your legs up to hook in the crooks of his elbows, staring down at you and panting. “Tight little pussy,” he groans. “Taking me so well—you look so pretty on my cock, darling. Is this what you wanted?”

You nod deliriously, bucking your hips to tempt him into moving, and he does, sliding out and back in far slower than you need him to. Still, at this angle, you can feel the hair above his cock drag rough and slow against your clit, so you arch you back and rake your nails down his. “Yes, yes,” you chant. “So bad.”

Obi-Wan picks up the pace, but just barely. “Is this what you imagined when I said you could use my sonic?”

Again, you nod, and he picks up speed.

“I could tell,” he murmurs, “You looked so shy, but I knew you’d have bent over the holo-table for me right then if I’d asked. Practically begging me to use your wet little pussy with the looks you were giving me.”

You had been so focused on the way Obi-Wan was looking at you in the briefing room you hadn’t given much thought to how you were looking at him. Perhaps you were giving him that kind of look; the kind that said you wanted him to spank you and come on your face. It wouldn’t have been inaccurate. He must take your lack of response as an admission, because he laughs and fucks you harder, finally pushing into you at the pace you need. You shake and moan, and he coos at you, “I know, baby,” before grabbing your hand and sucking the tips of three fingers in your mouth and then leading them down between your legs. “Touch yourself—give your needy fucking clit some attention. I want to feel your cunt throb on my cock.”

Doing as he says, you stroke and circle your clit the best you can as Obi-Wan fucks into you, slapping your hips together and moaning. With your free hand, you claw at his chest, groping one of his heaving pecs, which makes his hips stutter. The knot in your gut grows tighter and tighter, and the pulse between your legs becomes stronger and stronger until you can barely stand to keep moving your fingers, but you keep going, pushing yourself closer and closer to the edge, tightening your thighs around him, arching your back, chanting his name, “Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan.”

“That’s right, darling, come for me. Come all over this fat fucking cock,” he grits out, and just like the knots in your hair, he loosens the one in your stomach—and you come so hard you feel him wince with how fiercely you’re digging your nails into him. You curse and scream and quake as he doesn’t let up his thrusts, feeling as if he’s making your orgasm never-ending, until he buries himself deep one last time, and lets out the sexiest groan you’ve ever heard as he empties his balls inside of you, pumping you full of come.

When Obi-Wan tries to slide out eventually, you don’t let him, and he doesn’t fight you. He only props himself up on one elbow and caresses your hair. “I think I’ll have to brush it again.”

---

ps girlies i didn't proofread this so if that shows im so sorry LMFAO

also i prommy ill write the dad thing next ok u have my word

#obi-wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi wan smut #obi-wan kenobi smut #obi wan x reader #🐇

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caplanbuckybarnes · 4 months ago

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Cozy Tunics (Tomas Vrbada)

Summary: Tomas catches you wearing one of his tunics. He couldn't be more in love with you if he tried.

Warnings: absolute fluff

WC: 480

A/N: first time writing for Smoke & i am so nervous! hope y'all enjoy!

Read on ao3!

The morning sun filtered through the frost-covered windows of the Lin Kuei temple, casting soft golden light across the room. Tomas stirred in bed, his silver hair tousled and messy, one arm draped over where you had been sleeping just minutes before. The faint smell of tea brewing in the next room coaxed him fully awake.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist. That’s when he saw you—standing by the small hearth, wrapped in one of his loose tunics. The fabric hung off your frame, the sleeves too long and the hem brushing your thighs. You were holding a steaming mug in both hands, gazing out the window as the snow continued to fall.

Tomas froze for a moment, his heart skipping a beat. The sight of you like this, so effortlessly beautiful and comfortable in something of his, made his chest tighten in the best way.

“You look cute wearing my clothes,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep.

You jumped slightly, turning to face him with wide eyes. The warmth in his gaze made your cheeks flush as you smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just thought your tunic looked warm, and—”

He was already out of bed, crossing the room toward you with a soft chuckle. “No complaints here.”

Tomas stopped in front of you, his hands gently tugging the oversized sleeves to expose your hands. “You make it look better than I ever could,” he murmured, his voice full of affection.

You laughed softly, setting the mug aside so you could wrap your arms around his neck. “You’re just saying that because you’re half-asleep.”

He tilted his head, pretending to consider your words before shaking his head with a grin. “No, I’m saying it because it’s true.” His arms encircled your waist, pulling you closer.

The warmth of his embrace made you feel safe and cherished, and you couldn’t help but press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re just full of compliments this morning, aren’t you?”

“Only for you,” he replied, his tone sincere.

The two of you swayed gently in each other’s arms, the snow outside a perfect backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment. Tomas rested his forehead against yours, his silver hair falling into his eyes as he smiled softly.

“Maybe I’ll let you keep it,” he teased, his voice low.

“Good,” you replied, smirking. “Because I wasn’t planning on giving it back.”

His laugh was warm, filling the room like sunlight breaking through the clouds. “Fair enough,” he said, holding you tighter. “But only if you promise to wear it again.”

You grinned, pulling him closer. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with the world outside frozen in winter’s embrace, the two of you found a kind of warmth that only came from being completely and utterly in love.

This is a kind reminder to reblog and leave a comment!

#tomas vrbada x reader #tomas vrbada x you #tomas x reader #smoke x reader #mk x reader #mortal kombat x reader

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fr0stf4ll · 1 month ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 16

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6k

Trigger warning; smut hehe

notes; yo everyone, hope that you are doing well. nothing much here this chapter is maybe what you had been waiting for a while now. I'm not realllyyyy comfy writing this kind of content so i hope that you will like it. See you soon, with love <3

previous ✧ next

The cabin was bathed in a soft golden light, the fire crackling quietly in the hearth. The scent of pine and fresh mountain air still clung to the space, but it was the warmth of Azriel’s presence beside you that truly made it feel like home. You sat on the plush rug in front of the fire, a steaming cup of tea in your hands, while Azriel’s arm wrapped securely around you, grounding you in this peaceful moment. His thumb traced slow circles on your thigh, soothing, steady. His warmth seeped into your skin, calming the storm that had been brewing inside you for what felt like forever.

It had been so calm since you’d arrived. Azriel had kissed you gently, welcomed you with a softness that nearly broke you. His lips brushing against yours had been a reminder that you were here, safe. He had offered you a bath, telling you to take your time while he prepared everything.

When you returned, feeling refreshed and dressed in one of the oversized sweaters Azriel had given you, your damp hair falling in loose waves, you found him already waiting by the fire. He was in a simple tunic and soft pants, bare of his usual armor, his shadows curled lazily around him, blending into the flickering light. No siphons, no Truth-Teller strapped to his side—just Azriel. Vulnerable, unguarded, in a way you had rarely seen him.

It was comforting. And just a little overwhelming.

You sat down next to him, the quiet hum of the fire filling the space between you. For a while, you said nothing, content to simply exist together. But then, you shifted slightly, turning just enough to meet his gaze—and found that he was already watching you.

The intensity of his golden eyes stole the breath from your lungs.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Azriel’s brow furrowed, his hand stilling on your thigh. “What are you sorry for?”

You lowered your eyes, ashamed of the memory of your panic, of how utterly unraveled you had been. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” you murmured. “I lost control... I—”

He cut you off gently, his fingers tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at him again. His touch was soft but insistent, and his eyes burned with an intensity that made your chest ache.

“Don’t ever apologize for that,” he said, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “Not to me. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I should be the one apologizing—for not being there sooner.”

You blinked, surprised by the rawness in his tone. Something inside you softened, and you reached up to take his hand, pressing it to your cheek as your eyes fluttered shut. His warmth was grounding, his touch so tender it almost broke you all over again.

Azriel watched you in silence, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, as if memorizing every detail of your face. When you finally opened your eyes, they met his again, and something unspoken passed between you—a shared understanding, a promise.

Without a word, you leaned closer, your hand slipping around his neck, drawing him toward you. His breath mingled with yours for a heartbeat before your lips met, slow and unhurried. The kiss wasn’t rushed or frantic—it was deliberate, filled with a quiet passion that made your heart ache. Azriel kissed you like he was afraid you might break, but you kissed him back like you were putting yourself back together.

His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, his touch careful, reverent. Time seemed to blur around you, the outside world falling away until there was nothing left but the heat of the fire and the steady thrum of the bond between you.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your forehead rested against his, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes searched yours, his expression so full of affection and something deeper that it left you breathless all over again.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Always.”

You started blushing, the words catching in your throat before you could even get them out. It wasn’t like you to feel shy, but this… this was something else entirely. You glanced at Azriel, who was watching you patiently, his golden eyes warm and attentive.

“Well,” you began hesitantly, your fingers fidgeting slightly. “I mean, if you still want this… maybe I could cook something for you. But if you need more time, or if you don’t want to, I’d understand.” You bit your bottom lip, shifting your weight awkwardly. “With what we learned at dinner last time…”

Before you could finish, Azriel leaned in, silencing you with a kiss. It was gentle but sure, his lips soft against yours. You felt the tension drain from your body as his hand came up to cup your cheek.

“I would love that,” he whispered against your lips. “I would really love it, Y/N.”

You pulled back just slightly, your eyes meeting his. The air between you felt charged, both of you blushing, knowing exactly what this meant.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in to give him another kiss—shorter this time, but no less meaningful. His lips curved into a smile beneath yours, and you felt it all the way down to your toes.

Without another word, you stood, taking his hand in yours and tugging him toward the kitchen. His fingers intertwined with yours easily, naturally, as if they were always meant to fit together.

Azriel followed you, his thumb gently brushing over the back of your hand as you led him through the cabin. His touch was steady, grounding, and it made your heart flutter in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Once in the kitchen, you glanced over your shoulder at him. He was still holding your hand, his gaze steady on yours, as though he couldn’t bear to look away.

Azriel sat in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, his eyes never leaving you as you rummaged through the cupboards. His steady gaze was both comforting and distracting, a soft warmth pooling in your chest as you turned back toward him.

“Anything in particular that would make you happy?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “What should I cook?”

He shrugged lightly, a small smile playing at his lips. “Whatever you want. I’ll be happy with anything you make.”

You grinned, pulling out flour, eggs, milk, and sugar. “Does pancakes work for you?”

Azriel nodded, his smile growing wider. “Perfect.”

That smile—Mother above, it made your heart melt. Without thinking, you crossed the space between you and kissed him, soft and fleeting. His eyes closed at the contact, and when you pulled back, his lips were curved into a gentle smile that felt like it was just for you.

You returned to your task, starting to mix the ingredients, the sound of the whisk filling the quiet, cozy cabin. A few minutes passed before you felt Azriel move behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist, his head resting gently against the top of yours, and you stilled for a moment, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something almost reverent.

“For what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly toward him.

“For sharing this with me,” he said softly. “For letting me be your mate.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and you couldn’t help but smile. You reached down, tapping his hip with the wooden spoon in your hand. “Well, let me finish making these pancakes first, so you can officially become my mate.”

Azriel chuckled, the sound rumbling softly against your back. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head before stepping to the side, to watch you again.

His eyes never left you, his gaze soft and filled with something far deeper than affection—something that sent a slow, steady pulse through the bond between you. The room felt warm and intimate, the fire crackling softly in the corner, but it was the weight of his presence that made it feel like you were cocooned in something sacred.

You focused on the pan in front of you, your hands steady even though your heart raced. Azriel was leaning against the counter, his wings relaxed, his golden eyes never straying from you, watching every movement like you were a mystery he was trying to unravel.

The warmth in your chest grew, the scent of vanilla and sugar filled the air, blending with the tension simmering between you—soft, undeniable, like a song reaching its crescendo.

After a moment, his voice dropped, quieter, more serious. "You know... I’ve never had this before."

You stilled, glancing at him over your shoulder. "Had what?"

"This," he said, gesturing around him, though his eyes remained locked on yours. "A home. Something... normal. Simple. Without shadows pressing in on every side."

Your heart clenched at the vulnerability in his voice, and you turned off the heat, wiping your hands on a cloth before walking over to him. His eyes softened as you stopped in front of him, placing your hands lightly on his chest.

"Well," you said quietly, your voice steady despite the thundering of your heart, "you have it now. If you want it."

His hand rose, cradling your cheek, his thumb brushing softly along your skin, grounding you. "I want it," he said firmly, no hesitation in his voice. "I want you. All of you."

The bond between you hummed, and something shifted in the air—a gentle pull, a thread weaving tighter, locking the two of you together in a way that made your breath catch.

You kissed him, slower than before, more deliberate. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, an acceptance, a tether. The bond flared to life, golden threads weaving through your souls, sealing everything you had been dancing around for so long.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, foreheads touching, your breaths mingling in the charged air.

Azriel naturally sat back into his chair, his eyes flicking from the plate of food to you. His brows furrowed slightly, his golden eyes filled with something hesitant.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. “We don’t have to do this now, not if you’re not.”

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you stepped closer. “Az, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure. I want this. I want you.” Your hand gently brushed his shoulder before trailing down to his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching at your words, and then he nodded, his eyes softening. “Okay,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” you whispered. “Now eat.”

Azriel chuckled softly, the tension easing just a fraction, though his gaze never left yours. He picked up the fork, still watching you as he cut into the pancake and took his first bite. His movements were slow, deliberate, and you swore the bond thrummed louder in the quiet room, demanding to be fully recognized.

The first taste was warm, sweet—but nothing compared to the flood of emotion that followed. The bond snapped fully into place, not a gentle click but a surge, a rush that stole the breath from his lungs.

Azriel stilled, his eyes widening slightly as he set the fork down. The warmth that spread through him was overwhelming: love, devotion, protectiveness—all crashing into him with the force of a tidal wave. He could feel you in a way he never had before, every part of your soul brushing against his.

Whatever control Azriel had been holding onto snapped. His golden eyes darkened, his shadows curling tightly around you as if they, too, could no longer hold back. In one swift movement, he pulled you into his arms, his grip firm, almost desperate. Your breasts pressed against his chest, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His lips crashed against yours with a wild hunger, the kiss deep and demanding, stealing the breath from your lungs.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and you met his intensity without hesitation, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. His breath was ragged, his control slipping further with every second. The bond between you surged, raw and electric, like nothing you’d ever felt before.

Azriel barely pulled back long enough to mutter, “I’ve waited for this, for you—for so long.” His voice was thick, filled with an aching need that sent a shiver down your spine.

You were about to respond when he gripped your thighs and set you down on the table, his hands sliding down your body with a possessiveness that left your skin burning in their wake. His lips never left yours for long—only pausing to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, and back to your mouth like he couldn’t stand to be apart from you even for a moment. His teeth grazed your lower lip, drawing a soft gasp from you.

Your fingers worked at his shirt, desperate to feel him, to touch every inch of him. The fabric fell away in seconds, revealing his bare chest, the hard muscles beneath his golden-brown skin flexing as he leaned into you again. His wings flared slightly behind him, their presence commanding as his body pressed against yours.

Your clothes followed just as quickly. His fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath his gaze. His eyes raked over you, his breath hitching as he took in every inch of you.

“You’re perfect,” Azriel whispered, his voice rough, filled with awe. His shadows wrapped around your wrists like silk as his hands caressed your waist, sliding up your sides with a reverence that sent a tremor through you. His lips followed the path of his hands, kissing every inch of exposed skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Azriel,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. Your hands slid down his back, feeling the hard lines of his body, your nails lightly scratching along the base of his wings. His reaction was immediate—his grip tightening, his head dropping to your shoulder with a guttural groan.

“You drive me insane,” he growled, his voice raw, filled with longing. “I can’t— I need you.”

“Then take me,” you whispered, your hands cupping his face, your eyes locking with his. “I’m yours.”

And that was all it took. The tension between you exploded into something wild, something untamable. His mouth was on yours again, hotter, more insistent. His hands roamed your body, claiming you in ways that left you breathless and wanting more.

Azriel’s grip on your thighs tightened, and in one swift movement, he pulled you further down the table, your bare skin meeting the cool wood beneath you. A small, surprised gasp escaped your lips, your body instinctively tensing at the sudden shift. His eyes—darkened and burning with an intensity that made your breath hitch—raked over you as if you were a feast laid before him. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze never leaving yours.

His lips found yours again, hungry and possessive, before trailing down your jaw and neck, each kiss a mark of devotion, a silent promise. His mouth moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, down to your chest. He teased your breasts with his tongue, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as soft gasps escaped you.

When he reached your stomach, his fingers caressed your sides, drawing lazy circles that made your skin tingle. Then he kissed just above your hip bone, glancing up at you with a wicked smirk before lowering himself between your thighs. He spread you gently, one of your legs hooked over his shoulder as his hot breath ghosted over your most sensitive spot. His eyes locked on yours, a question, a promise, a warning—all in that single look.

You stopped breathing as his tongue finally met you, soft and deliberate, exploring every inch of you with precision that only Azriel could possess. His tongue worked you in slow, maddening circles, alternating between teasing and delving deeper until your head tipped back and a soft moan escaped your lips. His shadows wrapped around your wrists and ankles like silken restraints, holding you in place as he devoured you.

Your hands found his hair, gripping tightly, and he hummed in response, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure through you. His tongue continued its torturous rhythm, his gaze never leaving your face as he drank in every expression you made. You could feel the pleasure building inside you, a heat coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

Your back arched off the table as the wave of pleasure threatened to pull you under, but just before you reached the edge, you pulled him up, your fingers tugging at his hair as your breaths came in ragged gasps. “Not like that,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire. “I need you - inside…"

His face was glistening with your arousal, his lips curling into a smug grin as he leaned down to kiss you again, your taste still on his tongue. The kiss was wild and consuming, your teeth clashing slightly as your hunger for each other deepened. You grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him even closer, tasting yourself on his lips.

Azriel’s hands gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. He growled against your mouth, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.

You nodded breathlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you down the hall. Your lips never left his, the kiss growing sloppier, more desperate with each step. His hands kneaded your ass, squeezing just hard enough to leave you breathless again. His wings flared slightly for balance, brushing against the walls as he moved with purpose.

By the time you reached the bedroom, you were both dizzy with need. He pressed you against the doorframe for a brief moment, his breath mingling with yours as he nipped at your bottom lip, a soft growl escaping him. You tugged at his hair, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you.

He kicked the door open, walking you toward the bed without breaking the kiss. The air between you was charged, wild, and filled with a desire that had no end. Azriel’s hand slid up your back, holding you close as your lips moved against his like you’d never get enough. His breath was hot against your mouth, his voice a whisper of a promise.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Y/N,” he murmured, his eyes blazing with a fierce, undeniable love that made your heart race.

The night was quiet, the world beyond the cabin lost to the soft hum of the wind against the mountains. The moonlight spilled through the window, casting silver shadows across the bed, illuminating the way your skin pressed against Azriel’s, the way your fingers traced lazy circles over his chest. You both lay tangled together, the air between you thick with the aftermath of everything that had transpired between these walls.

Your breathing was steady, content, as you pressed a featherlight kiss to his collarbone. The bond thrummed between you, stronger now, settled, as if it had always been there, waiting for you both to accept it. When you lifted your head to look at him, Azriel’s golden eyes were already open, watching you with something between awe and reverence.

"You’re glowing," he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheek as if to confirm what he was seeing.

You blinked before letting out a soft laugh, glancing at your skin, where a faint luminescence pulsed gently beneath the surface. “It happens sometimes,” you admitted, amused by his slightly stunned expression. “It’s just my magic reacting to—” You hesitated, biting your lip. “To happiness, I suppose.”

Azriel’s grip tightened around you, pulling you even closer, his nose brushing against your temple as he exhaled deeply. “That’s beautiful,” he whispered.

You smiled against his skin, feeling the warmth of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand. The moment felt so… weightless, like something you had never thought you’d be allowed to have.

Slowly, you shifted, slipping one arm free from where it was pinned between your bodies. You let your power unfurl, a quiet hum beneath your skin, and with a simple flick of your fingers, a thousand tiny stars appeared, twinkling softly around the room like a constellation woven from moonlight itself.

Azriel’s breath hitched slightly, his grip on your waist loosening as he sat up slightly, taking in the spectacle around him. His shadows twined curiously through the floating lights, their dark tendrils weaving between them, as if testing their existence.

He was speechless.

You grinned, watching his reaction, letting the stars drift lazily around you both. “You look like you’ve never seen magic before.”

Azriel swallowed, his eyes flicking from the soft glow of your power to your face. “Not like this,” he admitted. “Not something so—” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, as if struggling to find the right words. “So effortless. So… alive.”

You tilted your head, watching the way his shadows played with the light. “They’re just little stars, Az.”

“They feel like you,” he said simply, his voice low, reverent.

Something in your chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone, the way he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You lowered your fingers, letting the stars slowly dissolve into specks of light, fading into nothingness. The room dimmed, left only in the moon’s glow once more.

Azriel’s hands slid up your spine, grounding you, keeping you close. “Tell me more about them,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your temple. “Your powers. How they work.”

You sighed, pressing your forehead against his, your souls threading together through the bond. “Where do I even begin?”

You took a slow breath, letting your fingers trace absent patterns against Azriel’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your touch. His warmth grounded you, keeping you anchored even as you spoke of something as vast and intangible as your powers.

“All of my strength,” you began, voice soft in the quiet room, “comes from the astres. The stars, the moon, the celestial bodies that exist far beyond our reach.” You glanced up at Azriel, who was watching you intently, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light. “I don’t create power—I pull from them. In a way, it’s limitless, but I’m only a vessel. I take that energy and transform it, shape it into something useful—healing, light, protection.”

Azriel’s thumb brushed over your hip, his silent way of urging you to continue.

“Sometimes, though,” you admitted, voice dipping into something more uncertain, “it feels like it’s not entirely mine to control. Like something else is guiding me, moving through me, making me act even when I don’t realize what I’m doing.” You exhaled, remembering the moments when your magic had surged beyond your command, when you had barely been conscious of what you were doing but had known, deep in your bones, that it was right. “It’s like… I become an extension of something greater. Something ancient.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened slightly, his brows drawing together in quiet thought. “Does it ever scare you?” he asked.

You considered his question for a moment before shaking your head. “No,” you admitted. “It should, I suppose. But it doesn’t. It never has.”

He studied you, his shadows curling faintly around your wrist, a silent comfort.

Azriel tilted his head slightly. “What was it like?” he asked. “The first time you felt it?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, first, I was already surprised to be alive,” you murmured, giving him a small, wry smile.

Azriel didn’t laugh—his expression darkened slightly at the reminder of what had happened to you, of the way you had died and been brought back.

“I wasn’t born with this power,” you continued, your fingers brushing lightly over his scars, tracing them absentmindedly as you spoke. “I had already been using magic to heal before, so in some ways, it felt… natural. But when it first came to me, it was like discovering a part of myself I never knew existed. Not something foreign or overwhelming—something calm, something that fit perfectly, like it had been waiting for me all along.”

Azriel nodded slowly, absorbing your words, his gaze never leaving your face. “Like it was always meant to be yours,” he murmured.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Silence stretched between you for a moment, comfortable and intimate. His fingers traced slow circles on your back, grounding you, as if he were committing every word you’d just spoken to memory.

Then, quietly, he asked, “And when it takes over? When you feel like something else is guiding you—does it still feel like you?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “In a way, yes. It feels like… an amplified version of myself. Like I’m still me, but stripped of hesitation, stripped of doubt. There’s only certainty, purpose. As if I’m acting on instincts older than I am.”

Azriel hummed in thought, his expression unreadable. “Then maybe,” he said slowly, “it’s not something controlling you. Maybe it’s just you, without fear.”

You blinked, taking in his words. He said it with such certainty, as if it was something he had long since accepted about you—even when you had yet to fully accept it yourself.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and you reached up to brush your fingers along his jaw, tracing the faint stubble there. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

Azriel leaned into your touch, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Only when it comes to you.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could say anything, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his wings curling slightly around you both, shielding you from the rest of the world.

The warmth of Azriel’s body beneath you was intoxicating. As you shifted, the sheets slipped from your shoulders, gliding down your skin like a whisper. His golden eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with emotion, traced every inch of you as if memorizing the way you looked in the early glow of the moonlight.

Without a word, you moved onto his lap, straddling him, your bodies pressing together, bare and unguarded. His hands instinctively found their way to you, gliding over your back, your waist, your thighs—touching, feeling, worshiping.

“I love them,” you murmured, taking one of his hands and pressing it against your cheek.

Azriel arched a brow, a slow smirk playing on his lips. “My hands?”

You nodded, your fingers running along the ridges of his scars, pressing soft kisses against his knuckles. “Yes. I love them.” Then, lifting your gaze back to his, you whispered, “And I love you.”

Azriel stilled, his breath hitching slightly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. But beneath that blush, beneath his momentary shock, something deeper flickered in his gaze—something primal, raw, unshackled.

His body reacted before his words did. You felt him harden beneath you, as if the weight of your confession had ignited something unstoppable in him, despite the fact that he had already been buried inside you not long ago.

“You love me?” His voice was hoarse, laced with something you couldn’t quite place—wonder, disbelief, need.

“Of course, I love you,” you said, your lips brushing against his, your chest pressing against his as you leaned in. “My mate.”

Azriel’s breath left him in a shuddering exhale, his hands gripping your waist as if grounding himself in your words. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly with the force of it.

And then, as if he needed to prove it, as if saying it wasn’t enough, he moved—his knees drawing up behind you to brace your body as he sank into you.

This time was different.

This time wasn’t about desperation, about hunger, about needing to claim or to be claimed. This time was slow, deep, reverent—like a prayer whispered between souls that had been searching for each other across lifetimes.

You could feel him, not just physically but in every part of you. Each slow thrust sent pleasure spiraling through you, not just your own but his too, your bond pulling every sensation, every whimper, every whispered "I love you" through your very bones.

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders as his lips traced every inch of you—your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, as if he needed to feel every part of you, to remind himself that you were real, that this was real.

The pressure built slowly, a slow, searing burn of pleasure curling low in your stomach. His name left your lips in a breathless whisper, and he groaned in response, his grip on you tightening, his body trembling beneath you.

When the release finally came, it wasn’t just an explosion of pleasure—it was a moment suspended in time, where your souls merged completely, where your bond pulsed with light, an unbreakable thread of connection weaving you together in a way that went beyond flesh and desire.

And yet, even as your bodies settled, as your breathing slowed, you knew this wasn’t the end.

Because the way Azriel looked at you—wild, hungry, full of love and something darker—told you that neither of you were anywhere close to stopping.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until the end of this week that you had together. Not when there was still so much of each other to explore, to cherish, to love.

The rest of the week passed in a blur—a feverish, all-consuming haze where time seemed to lose its meaning. It was intense, unrelenting, like your bodies and souls had been waiting centuries to collide, and now that they had, neither of you could stop.

When Azriel wasn’t buried inside of you, when his touch wasn’t marking you, when his lips weren’t trailing along every inch of your skin—it felt wrong. A deep, visceral pull that wouldn’t let either of you stray too far. The bond had settled into place, fully, wholly, and it demanded acknowledgment with every breath, every whisper, every desperate reach for each other in the quiet hours of the night.

Sleep was a luxury neither of you cared for, passing out only when exhaustion forced you to, limbs tangled, breaths mixing, hearts beating in sync. But even then, the moment consciousness crept back in, the hunger returned.

It was never enough.

The mornings were slow and indulgent, Azriel tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin as the golden light spilled into the cabin, casting your bodies in a warm glow. Afternoons were spent wrapped around each other, your laughter echoing through the wooden walls, tangled between soft kisses and teasing touches that inevitably turned into something more.

Nights… nights were madness.

It was a relentless cycle of need and pleasure, of whispered promises and gasped names, of bodies moving together in perfect, desperate harmony. You memorized each other with your hands, your lips, your mouths, until every inch of him was written into your soul, until your name was the only thing that left his lips in the throes of pleasure.

Going home would be difficult.

Returning to reality, to responsibilities, to the looming shadow of war—it all felt so far away here, in this sacred space of warmth and passion. Here, it was just you and Azriel. Just love and longing and the raw, unfiltered truth of what you were to each other.

Azriel lay awake, the room bathed in the dim glow of the dying embers in the fireplace. His arms were wrapped tightly around you, your breath warm against his chest, your body relaxed in the depths of sleep. But he couldn’t find that same peace—not when the weight of everything was pressing down on him.

You looked so serene in his arms, so utterly safe and untouched by the storm that raged inside his mind. But he knew better. He knew that whatever had broken you back in Velaris, whatever had driven you to that panic, had left fractures beneath the surface. And that knowledge alone haunted him.

The thought of your death terrified him in a way nothing else ever had. He had spent centuries walking alongside death, had faced horrors beyond imagination, had endured wounds both seen and unseen—but none of it compared to this. To the quiet, creeping fear that stole into his mind as he held you, knowing that one day, sooner than he could bear, you might not be here anymore.

He was ready to be with you until the very end. Until your last breath left your lips. Until the last beat of your heart.

And yet…

A sharp pang of sorrow pierced through him, unexpected and cruel. His mind drifted to Cassian and Nesta, to Feyre and Rhysand, to Nyx—their futures stretching long before them, full of possibilities, of love, of family. And then he thought of you. Of what little time he had been given.

When he had first seen you with Nyx in your arms, cradling the babe with such ease, such warmth, something deep inside him had stirred. Even then, when the bond had been new, when he had still been wrestling with the truth of it, he had thought of it—of the possibility that one day, it would be your child, his child, resting against your chest. The result of your love, your bond, your future together.

But that future might never come.

His throat tightened, his wings twitching slightly as he fought against the wave of sadness crashing over him. Not because of the idea that you might never bear his child, but because of how little time he had with you at all. The Mother had blessed him with a mate beyond anything he could have ever wished for—an extraordinary, brilliant, and fiercely strong woman. And yet, in the cruelest twist of fate, it felt as if she was mocking him, dangling the gift of you before him only to threaten to rip you away.

And the war…

The war that was coming, the battles ahead—it sent a shiver through him. He knew better than anyone what war did, what it stole, how merciless it was. And you… you would be at the center of it.

He tightened his hold on you, pressing you impossibly closer, as if he could anchor you here, with him, in this moment. You stirred, a faint hum leaving your lips as you shifted slightly, your eyes fluttering open.

You looked at him, bleary with sleep, but instantly concerned. “Az?” you murmured softly, reaching up to brush your fingers along his jaw.

He couldn’t answer—not with words.

Instead, he cupped your face and kissed you, slow and deep, pouring every unspoken thought, every fear, every desperate need into it. You melted against him, responding with the same intensity, as if you knew—knew exactly what was going through his mind, through his heart.

His hands roamed over you, memorizing every inch, every curve, every dip of your body as if committing you to memory. As if making sure you were real, here, alive. He needed to feel you closer, to remind himself that, at least for now, you were his to hold, his to love.

You whispered his name between kisses, your fingers threading into his hair, grounding him as much as he was grounding you.

And so he showed you—showed you with his hands, his lips, his body—that no matter how much time the Mother granted him, he would spend every second of it loving you. That even in the face of the unknown, of the inevitable, you were his, and he was yours.

Neither of you spoke of it.

The truth lingered between you, unspoken, a silent understanding.

For now, this was enough.

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#azriel fic #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar fanart #acotar #rhysand #azriel acotar #cassian #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #elain #feyre

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underdark-dreams · 1 year ago

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Yet another brainworm caused by fic writing! Have some headcanons for borrowing clothes from Rolan, Dammon, and Zevlor during a sleepover (wink wink)

Tiefling Bachelors - Seeing you in their clothes [NSFW]

~ Gender-neutral reader ~

Rolan:

The whole having-a-significant-other thing is very new to Rolan

So the first time you stay over and ask if he has something you can wear, it honestly takes him by complete surprise

But this man has good taste, and no shortage of clothes once he's Master of the Tower and can afford it. He'll generously share (only with you)

Rolan has very keen senses, especially his sense of smell ("I'll never get the smell out of my clothes," etc.)

The first time you borrow one of his thin underrobes to lounge around in, he immediately catches how your familiar, pleasant scent mixes with his own

That added to seeing you wear his things gives him a satisfying little rush of possessiveness

Pretty soon he's buying clothes for himself that he specifically wants to see you wear after sex

He won't tell you this part--but knowing precisely how much or how little you're wearing underneath majorly gets him going

Whether or not he acts on it, the knowledge that he could hike up those robes at any time for immediate access gives him a semi just thinking about it

Dammon:

Hear me out: in general I think Dammon would be into playing dressup in the bedroom

He's just as excited at seeing you wear something skimpy as he is watching you slip into one of his soft, oversized shirts

Will probably want to pull you into a few kisses, most likely will sit you on his lap first

He's an unpretentious guy, and he loves seeing you dressed-down and comfortable around him

If he ever walked into his room to find you sitting on the bed waiting for him wearing only his leather forge apron, Dammon would have to stand and stare for a moment

At first it's just the unfamiliar sight of it. He's not fussy about his appearance, rarely spares himself a glance in a mirror

So he's not used to seeing himself wearing that, let alone you (with nothing underneath)

Would probably chuckle and make a comment about how you pull it off better than him

Will then immediately want to pull it off you, though

Or, since it's backless, maybe he'll flush and ask you to leave it on as he hastily turns you around and presses you down into the mattress for round one

Zevlor:

As usually happens when you're in a new relationship and sleeping over, you don't always manage to bring a change of clothes

You wouldn't even have to ask with Zevlor; he quickly offers first

More than anything just wants to make sure you're comfortable and relaxed when you're in his home. Tells you to grab anything that fits from the wardrobe

Dear man expected you to put on more than just a shirt, though

Watching you saunter around in nothing but one of his old tunics really does it for him. Can't take his eyes off you

It's that mix of domestic and casually sexy that hooks him--he finds it incredibly alluring, especially the way it barely reaches your thighs

So much so that he might aim a rare, playful swat on your rump as you walk past

Zevlor's a gentleman, but even he has his limits when you're alone together

The sight of your ass barely covered is just too tempting not to smack

#spicy #bg3 headcanons #rolan x reader #dammon x reader #zevlor x reader #bg3 rolan #bg3 dammon #bg3 zevlor

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gothiccharmschool · 3 months ago

Note

My goal for 2025 is to dress as witchy as possible to feel confident(witches are powerful and a threat to the patriarchy). You have an amazing sense of style and I'm hoping you can help. The issue im having is that i dont like wearing wearing dresses, skirts, and hats. Im having a difficult time picturing witch like outfits without pointy hats and black flowy skirts. What would you recommend that gives very obvious witch vibes without those particular clothing items?

You don't have to wear any of those things to create a witchy aesthetic! My suggestions are:

Leggings or interesting trousers. I can easily picture any of the gothy flares from Forest Ink Clothing working really well for the aesthetic.

Normally I'd suggest tunics and flowy dusters, but I suspect they may be too close to dresses for your tastes. But an oversized shirt or long blouse that isn't tucked in but worn over the trousers with some sort of interesting belt would give a great silhouette for the aesthetic.

Interesting jewelry. To me, that's the key to a witchy aesthetic. Layers of necklaces would be especially interesting. Keep in mind those layers of necklaces don't have to be from the high-end indie goth jewelers (tho' go for that if your budget allows!), but whatever calls to you at thrift or even mall/big box stores.

One of the good things about layers of jewelry/belts/scarves/any other accessories is that they can be the focal point of an outfit, which makes it easier to mix and match basic clothing items for outfits instead of going broke buying things from goth lifestyle retailers.

Okay, peeps, you know the drill. Do you have other suggestions? Please give them!

#witchy aesthetic

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saphiccarma · 22 days ago

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- Where did you go? Pt. 3

Relationships - Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary - The strain from finding cures for Nicholas gets to you, but you won't give up until you figure it out.

Warnings: family fluff, scissorcing/fingering (r receiving), reader is exhausted

A/N: AIGHT do y'all want an angsty ending, a happy ending, or an agnst with comfort ending

Pt.2

Nicky ran around in the field, stopping at random points to grab flowers and bundle them up in his hand. He wore an oversized tunic and trousers, his hair pulled into a loose ponytail. The expression on his face was one of pure joy. Your heart ached at the sight, and you swallow thickly.

Footsteps make the deck creak behind you, and you glance back to see Agatha approaching with two mugs. She passes one to you, steam rising from the warm liquid inside - probably tea. The brown-haired witch had been on a tea kick lately, as odd as it was, but it meant you got a hot drink nearly every night.

"How's he doing?" she asks softly, glancing at her son as he braids flowers together.

You take a sip of the drink and shrug slightly. There's a hidden message behind her words, 'how soon is he going to die?' and you reach out to him, but the cloud of death is fading. It's a relief that your hard work is paying off, that you're able to heal him. But even as you try your best to fix him, you worsen your own condition. Each passing day, each spell you cast, each potion you make - you get weaker.

Your cheeks are slightly sunken in now, skin paler than before. Dark bags linger under your eyes from various sleepless nights, whether pleasure or work, and there are bruises somewhere on your skin nearly everyday. Even your fire is fading, the flames are harder to summon and often just come in little sparks of your hand. You hide it well, at least from Nicky, but there's no hiding death and one of the most powerful witches.

But it was worth it for Nicky. To see Agatha smile, her skin crinkling at the corners of her blue eyes as she stared at her son. It was worth it to see her play with him or for Rio to be able to scoop him up and spin him a circle before hoisting him onto her shoulders. You would give your life to make sure the three lived happily ever after.

"He's doing good," you murmur, "A lot better than when I first met you."

She gives you a short laugh, sipping her own drink as she sits down next to you. Knees bumping you lean on her shoulder with a soft hum. Her arm snakes around your back to rest on your hip and rub soothing circles with her thumb. A soft kiss is placed atop your hair, accompanied by a slow exhale.

"And you?" She questions. Instead of answering you lift your cup to your lips and take a sip. A wind blows across the field, and you shiver slightly, leaning into Agatha. The witch curls her arm around you but not without a skeptical hesitance.

"I'm okay," you say softly, shifting so that you're pressed right up against her.

Agatha snorts and pinches your side, clearly not believing you, but doesn't press. A bright flash appears behind Nicky, a familiar shade of green, before Rio is scooping her son up. Her son. Agatha's son. But not your son. He would never be your son.

Nicholas shrieks and the sound sets you both on edge, stiffening but then his sound quickly turns to giggles as Rio flips in upside and then slings up over her shoulder. He dangles on her back as she holds him by his ankles, swinging him while she walks over. A few stray strands of hair fall in her face and she blows them away with a crinkle of her nose.

"Your highnesses," she greets, dropping to a knee and bowing as if she wasn't the deity, "Your royal knight has returned and caught a thief in the fields."

"I'm not a thief!" Nicholas protests, squirming as Rio sets him down in front of the two of you. He runs up to you grabbing your arm and throwing himself into your lap the minute he's free, "Tell her Mommy! I'm not a thief!"

Your brain short circuits. Mommy. He called you mommy. Fingers twitching and mouth opening and closing rapidly, you force out a response, "Y- yeah, you're not a thief." Agatha smiles at you softly, a hint of surprise coating her features as she kisses your temple gently.

"You're mommy now huh?" she murmurs, "I thought that was my title."

Her words only serve to make your brain cloud up even more and you blush deeply, wrapping your arms around Nicholas and hiding your face in his hair. Almost subconsciously, you kiss his head tenderly, breathing in the smell of daisy and the faint musk of death.

He called you mommy.

Rio raises an eyebrow at your reaction, a small smirk playing on her lips as she winks at you. Rising to her feet, she flips her hair over her shoulder and places her hands on her hips.

"Well, I caught him stealing flower crowns."

Nicholas squirms in your grip, bouncing out of your lap, "Not stealing! I'm the prince! Was making 'em for my mamas."

He bolts off before any of you get a chance to respond, sprinting through the grass that reached his knee to retrieve his flower crowns. Rio takes the opportunity to come closer and grab your chin to tilt your head up before kissing you. Her lips are soft, smooth - nothing like how you predict death would feel like and she tastes like flowers. For a moment you allow your eyes to slip shut as you slide your hand up her arm and squeeze her bicep lightly.

"Hi," you greet when she pulls back. A frown was not what you expected in return.

"You are overworking yourself." Rio tilts her head slightly, grabbing your chin firmer and forcing you to meet her eyes, "I can feel it."

Agatha hums in agreement beside you, her hand tugging you close from its spot on your hip. You sigh softly and shrug, keeping your eyes firmly on the ground, you know if you look at Rio she'll see the exhaustion in them. As you open your mouth to respond, Nicky comes bounding over, three flower crowns dangling from his fingers. He holds them up excitedly and you sit up with a strained smile.

"Lemme see them," you murmur, pulling him into your lap, "Little prince."

Nicholas giggles, the sound warming your heart, "This one is for you," He placed a flower crown on your head, dandelions with a couple peonies woven in - the pink flowers a sign he was in Rio's garden again, "And this is for mami," More dandelions, spotted with chrysanthemums, white ones to be exact was passed to Rio, "And for mama, a purple one." Dandelions and azaleas, carefully, yet messily, braided into a crown is passed to Agatha.

"Thanks mijo," Rio leans down to kiss his head tenderly, brushing hair away from his face, "I guess you weren't a thief after all."

^________________^

The book pages are featherlight between your fingertips, old and threatening to fall apart at any second. Exhaustion weighs heavy on your eyes, a reminder of how long you've been awake, but you push through it. You're so close, you can feel it. One more spell. One more incantation. One more potion. One more something and Nicky could be cured, he would live a long life with his moms. You still had a hard time believing you were part of that.

After the last potion you gave him, the symptoms of his illness had faded, but with each passing day they came back. You could hear him cough upstairs, the sound reaching you through the thi floor. It makes your fingers tighten around the paper before you force yourself to loosen your grip. You can't afford to break this book, not after the lengths you went through to get it.

The words are a blur, most of them irrelevant spells as you flip through. Death flashes through several of the paragraphs, catching your attention before you continue on when you realize it's not what you want. This book, an ancient tome from hundreds of years ago, was rumored to have to cure to death itself. If you could figure it out then you could save Nicholas, you would be able to help him and keep everyone happy.

Steps creaking behind you, you take a sip of the cool tea by your side, eyes flickering to the untouched plate of food. Frustration curls in your stomach when you are near the end of the book. Dropping your head into your hands you let out a frustrated groan, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

Slender arms wrap around you from behind, a chin resting on your shoulder, "Hey," Rio's voice is smooth, cutting through the haze of your head as she kisses your cheek, "Watcha doing?" Her eyes scan over your face, taking in the signs of fatigue.

"You need to rest," she concludes after a long moment, "Let's go."

Her hands slip to hook under your armpits, hoisting you out of your seat and spinning you around to face her. Noses brushing together, she pecks your lips softly and grabs your waist to pull you closer.

"Rio, I have work to do. I'm so close - I can feel it."

"You were saying the same thing last night under different circumstances," she smirks, and you return a weak smile.

"Just a little bit more," you murmur, "Then I'll come rest, I promise. Where's Agatha and Nicky?"

Your brain is all over the place, scattered between Rio, your other girlfriend and the boy you were trying to fix, and your work. Separate trains tracks run through mind and the conductors are all screaming at you as they narrowly dodge each other. It's pure chaos as you try and reel your thoughts in.

"Nicky is napping and Agatha is out," Which meant she was killing people. Guilt tightened Rio's voice and her brows furrow slightly, but she does a good job of not showing it. You know she feels guilty that Agatha has to lure witches to their death, not because of the killing, but because her beloved was the one who did it.

You give a curt nod and start to turn around, ready to get back to your work but Rio holds you firm. She raises an unamused eyebrow, and you smile sheepishly, "I just need more time."

Rolling her eyes, Rio presses her lips to yours. It starts off soft, tender, then her tongue swipes at your bottom lip. With a soft gasp you grant her access, and she pushes you back onto the desk. A small moan spills from your lips as she lifts you up effortlessly, swiping away your scattered tools. Books clatter to the ground and potion bottles fall, luckily not shattering by some miracle.

Rio's hands part your thighs so she can step between them before she goes back to holding your hips in place as you squirm slightly. Her lips move against yours with practiced ease, an intensity filling her motions as she leans in further.

"I thought I was clear," she mumbles, pulling back just enough to speak, "That you need rest. I guess you need some convincing huh?"

Faintly you think about arguing, about protesting, but maybe just this once you could rest, even for a moment, "Maybe I do."

The corners of her mouth tilt up as she smirks and her hands fall to your thighs again, massaging the skin softly above your dress. Leaning back in, she kisses your forehead, deceivingly gentle. Then she moves to your nose, her lips grazing the tip of it before she skips your lips and moves to your jaw. She nudges your head to the side for better access, tongue flicking out the lick at your skin.

You whine quietly and your girlfriend goes to your neck, right below your jaw where you're most sensitive. The feeling of her lips there makes your eyes roll back and your head tilt as you let out a shuddering breath. Fingers trailing lightly along your thigh, she pushes your dress up to your waist, the fabric bunching. Your panties are quickly becoming soaked through as you start to squirm even more.

"Rio," you breathe out, "Please."

"Oh, so now you want it?" Her voice is low as she chuckles, nipping at the sensitive skin near your collarbone. "I thought you had work to do baby."

A frustrated huff leaves your lips as her fingers tease the waistband of your panties, tugging at it only to let it snap back into place. The sharp sting makes you hiss, and your hands claw at the wooden desk, fighting the urge to force her hand where you want it.

"Rio please, just-" you exhale sharply and your nose scrunches in frustration, not wanting to admit she was right, "Fuck fine- Please touch me, please I need it."

A sly smirk plays on her lips and rewards your pleas with a kiss to your neck and her fingers dip to swipe through your wet folds. A low groan leaves her lips, and she bites your skin to muffle it. Her fingers gathering your slickness on them, simply sliding up and down for a moment, enough to get you worked up.

Then she dips her middle finger into your entrance, easing it in with a taunting slowness. Your walls flutter around the invading digit, clamping down as she curls against the spongey spot inside you. Rubbing her thumb on your clit, she sets a slow pace.

It's both teasing and pleasurable, you can't decide yet, but it does provide a much needed distraction. The scrambled thoughts ebb away and all you can focus on is the feeling of her finger in your cunt and the rough texture of her thumb.

"Breathe," she reminds softly. You hadn't even noticed you were holding your breath until she said the word and you exhale shakily, biting down on your lip hard enough to draw blood. Rio's free hand gently pries your lower lip from your teeth, swiping away the blood.

She adds a second finger into your entrance scissoring them and adding a pleasurable stretch to the rush of feelings that flow through you. Pushing the sleeve of your dress down, Rio nips at your shoulder, smoothing it over with a wet lap of her tongue.

"You close?" Voice low and husky, punctuated with another bite to your skin, "Words baby."

"I- I'm close," you stammer, jaw clenching and your cunt squeezing her fingers.

"Fuck you feel so good squeezing my fingers like that baby," she purrs, kissing your neck with slow light touches. The rough pad of her palm rubs against your folds as she works you to your orgasm, bit by bit. "Go on, I'm waiting."

Her lips capture yours as she pushes you even further back against the desk, teeth tugging on your lip and tongue exploring your mouth. A shuddering moan is swallowed greedily by Rio as you orgasm, thighs trembling and arms shaking as you struggle to stay upright.

Rio breaks the kiss, only to press another soft one to your lips and smile brightly at you. "Let's rest now, alright?"

^____________^

Your steps stumble as you make your way back into the cottage, dirt coating your frame and limbs shaking. Tiny footsteps run across the floor with a shout of "Mommy!" and Nicholas comes barreling into you. The force of his small body makes you grunt as you bend down and hug him.

"Hi little prince," you press a kiss to the top of his head, letting your lips linger in his soft hair, freshly washed, "Where are your other moms?"

He wraps his arms tighter around you and shrugs, "Dunno."

An amused smile plays on your lips, but you give him another kiss before patting his back and letting him go. The satchel around your shoulder weighs heavy as you wander through the house, searching for your girlfriends. Eventually you push the door to the bedroom open, peeking inside.

Your initial reaction to the sight that greets you is adoration. Agatha and Rio are tangled together in the sheets, the former snoring softly and drool leaks out of the corner of Rio's mouth. You never thought the witch killer and death could look so peaceful, cute almost. A small sigh leaves you lips as you kick off your shoes.

The love you feel is replaced by a feeling of jealousy and you hate yourself for it. But you'd been out looking for a cure while they napped, enjoying each other's company while you pried information out of an ancient witch and solved puzzles.

Shoving the jealousy down, you approach the bed, wiping dirt away from your face. Damn witch and hiding in the freaking depths of a cave that no one had used for years. You think dirt will be coming out of your ears for weeks.

After a second thought, you decide to change first, stripping off your clothes and into fresh ones. A low whistle sounds behind you, and you turn around with a soft smile.

"That's a good sight to wake up to," Rio grins, her smile like that of a cat.

Agatha stirs next to you as you slip a shirt on, the fabric smelling of Agatha - a deep musky scent that lingered on everything she touched. She offers you a sleepy tilt of her lips and turns on her side, hugging the pillow to face you.

"Why are you covered in dirt?" She raises an eyebrow, taking in your appearance.

You chuckle sheepishly, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. Fiddling with your fingers you exhale slowly, "Long story, but I-" you lick your lips nervously, "I figured out how to cure Nicky."

Taglist: @misty-melody @bellatrixlestrangebellablack @kiaralee25 @yelldontwhisper

#agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x you #agathario x you #agathario x reader #rio vidal x reader #rio vidal x you

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toshisdecadence · 4 months ago

Text

The Devil Wears Zegna

PAIRING: devil!suguru geto x archangel!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, noncon, dubcon, gore (descriptions of blood, body horror), coercion (suguru slips corrupted ambrosia aka roofie in reader’s drink), religious themes, corruption, rough sex, humiliation, degradation, praise, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), dacryphilia, unprotected sex (do angels and demons even conceive idk i didn’t worldbuild that far), thighfucking

WORD COUNT: 11.4k

SUMMARY: Your former colleague, Suguru Geto, now Devil and overseer of Hell, is extremely unprofessional.

“Archangel Michael has entrusted one of his duties to you.”

Unperturbed by the sudden and abrupt delegation of such duties—it wasn’t unusual for your fellow seraph to push some of his duties from his plate to yours on a last minute’s notice—you turn to afford Megumi, the cherub angel, a curious glance.

“What task has he left me?” you inquire in a calm voice. Thoughts flit through your mind; several considerations of the possible duties Archangel Michael could have delegated to you. A part of you hopes for something simple that can be carried out within the cushy confines of the Heavenly Realm.

“The annual visit to the Demonic Realm,” Megumi, a tall, beautiful cherub with milky skin and calm emerald eyes reminiscent of the shade of the shrubbery in the Garden of Eden, supplies. The large blue-pupiled eyes on his four feathered wings that peek from behind the flawless glossy white fabric of his tunic seem to bore right into your figure in a judgmental assessment of sorts.

Nonetheless, dread fills your immortal being when the words leave Megumi’s lips. The visit to the Demonic Realm, again?

“. . . Very well,” you sigh with resignation, having been in this position twice before in the past century and a half. In the grand scheme of things, you could perhaps interpret this as Archangel Michael possibly slacking off on assessing the status of the Demonic Realm during the annual visit, or perhaps he’d simply grown tired of having to constantly meet the audacious Suguru, the infamous fallen cherub angel turned Devil and Ruler of Hell.

If Megumi senses your hesitation and lack of desire to do such duties, he makes no comment on it. His expression remains skillfully blank. His cordial attitude remains. “Do you require any assistance?”

“No,” you reply. “I’ve prepared for this occasion.”

Though, you shouldn’t have to.

You regard the young cherub with a raised brow. “What occupies Archangel Michael to have made him relinquish such an important duty to me?”

“A matter concerning one of the higher dominion angels was brought to Archangel Michael’s attention,” Megumi informs you with a stoic expression. You note the roots of his thick, long lashes as they extend out into long strands of silky dark individual lashes that brush against the ivory surface of his cheeks whenever he blinks. He stares down at the parchment he holds in his hands while reporting its details to you, none the wiser to the more than curious look you were affording him.

“He was ordered by the Almighty God to personally oversee the jurisdiction and judgment of the dominion angel.” The cherub pauses, then frowns, lines temporarily lining the beautiful surface of his skin as he seems to read through a line in his report that he deems unsavory, before he continues. “. . . A case of sinning through the flesh, it appears.”

“The flesh, huh?” you repeat, almost absentmindedly. A series of possible angels who could have fallen to temptation crosses through your mind, before you finally voice out your curiosity. “And who might this dominion angel be?”

The cherub flips to another page of paper. “Elijah.”

At the mention of the familiar dominion angel’s name, your expression falls into one of stoicity. “Elijah,” you parrot his name, remembering a beautiful dark-haired dominion angel who handled his duties as an overseer of the lower angels fairly well, despite having quite a ravenous appetite and desire for carnal flesh.

You had the displeasure of first meeting the aforementioned higher Dominion angel over four centuries ago at a Divine Ministry meeting that required the presence of the seraphim, with you being the one seraph that happened to be available at the time. You had an unfavorable experience with Elijah, as you personally bore witness to his attempts of wooing you over. Of course, as a seraph and one who is considered to be only behind the Archangel Michael himself, you coldly admonished his attempt to ingratiate himself with you, to which you recalled him to have responded with a coy smile and a pretty flutter of his beautiful wisteria eyes.

“It surprises me that it took him this long to finally give in to the sin of carnal flesh,” you comment, rather unperturbed. You found it more surprising that he had not fallen to sin sooner, and the fact that he had fallen to the sin of carnal flesh of all the sins, you found it most fitting.

There’s a furrow on Megumi’s rich, dark brows as he seems to read through more lines on the report before him. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he mutters to himself in a hushed and scandalized tone. “The atrocity that this dominion angel has committed—!”

Curiosity overtakes you, and mindlessly, with a wave of your fingers, you let your Celestial power gently grab the parchment from Megumi’s hands. The cherub gladly lets you take the parchment from his hands. Megumi himself even seems to recoil away from the paper, a sour expression on his handsome face as he chants prayers under his breath to banish the images that were conjured up by the words written on the parchment.

You read the lines on the paper.

Elijah the dominion angel has fallen to temptation by copulation with four succubi.

“Four succubi?” you repeat in disbelief at first. However, as you remember the unpleasant and slimy countenance of the dominion angel, a chuckle leaves your lips. “How fitting. Now I understand Michael.”

You hand back the parchment to Megumi, who reluctantly takes the revolting piece of paper back. “He must be furious because another second order angel has gotten involved with demons and fallen to temptation under their machinations,” you murmur. “Replacing Elijah and finding someone to temporarily oversee his obligations and responsibilities as a dominion angel would be inconvenient. Michael himself would have to briefly take Elijah’s work under his wing until a proper replacement is found.”

“Archangel Michael was indeed troubled when he happened upon the news,” Megumi agrees as he used his Celestial power to have the parchment disappear, before he produced a small bottle of holy water from thin air. You watch him curiously as he pours a few generous drops of the sacred liquid onto his right palm, before he makes the bottle vanish with a gentle flick of his left hand.

“What of Archangel Satoru?” you hum, remembering your cherub colleague with hair resembling the softness of the clouds of Heaven and eyes reminiscent of the glittering blue seas of the Human Realm at dawn. “Could he have been available to take up overseeing the Demonic Realm?”

Megumi shakes his head as he starts to spread the liquid onto his hands, making sure to douse the areas in which he had held the parchment paper that cited such unholy words with the most concentration of holy water.

“Regrettably, he was not,” the cherub replies. “Archangel Satoru had just left a month ago to take care of things in the North with the virtue angels, but even if Archangel Satoru had been present, I doubt that he would have attended given his history with the Devil.”

You exhale, mulling over Megumi’s reply. Of course, Satoru likely would have found some other excuse or business to occupy him to avoid going to the Demonic Realm. You almost cursed Archangel Michael’s overzealous approach in his work as God’s most trusted chief of all angels. He had so much faith in his fellow Archangels that he always believed Archangel Satoru’s attempts to dodge work, happily taking the duties under his wing.

You exhale, mentally preparing yourself for the addition to your workload.

“Archangel Michael will return to the Heavenly Realm by next week,” Megumi reports to you. “He has instructed me to inform you to finish your duties at the annual visit to the Demonic Realm before he returns.”

“Very well. Let him know that he owes me another drink for this favor.”

The cherub offers a polite nod of his head, bowing.

Then, with a sigh, your six majestic white wings spread out from behind you, unfurling like the petals of a lotus in bloom. With a nod of acknowledgement of the young cherub before you, you finally take flight, ascending into the countless clouds of the Heavenly Realm.

You wholeheartedly loathe the Demonic Realm’s environment, and you were not the only angelic being that shared this sentiment.

As a sharp contrast to the cool and dry environment of the Heavenly Realm, the Demonic Realm’s hot, humid, and arid environment was everything that angelic beings detested. The discomfort of staying in such a warm place had a tendency to sour the moods of the visiting angels who had business in Hell. Unfortunately for you, your stay was to be three days.

As luck would have it, the annual visit to the Demonic Realm has always taken place in Hell after Suguru’s rebellion against God. This was how it has always been, given that demons could not take a single step inside Heaven’s pearly gates unless they wished to be mercilessly smited by the cherubim angels that stood guard of the gates. The Human Realm was also off-limits to both parties, as the consequences that came with humans spotting angelic and demonic beings were too big to risk. That left the Demonic Realm, a place where angelic beings could freely waltz into without being harmed by any demonic being, so long as they did not give into any form of temptation.

Hell’s infamous Obsidian Palace was always the annual meeting’s place of choice—it has been since the establishment of the Demonic Realm after Hell’s ruler, a former cherub angel, questioned the Almighty God.

You are no stranger to the midnight palace, having visited here for more than hundreds of times in the millenniums that you spent as a seraph, but even those hundreds of times that you had visited pales in contrast to the amount of times that Michael had taken that position as the Chief Seraph overseeing the annual meetings for countless millenniums. Despite his strict nature, Michael is a dear when it came to doing the work that no other seraph was interested in. His devotion is insistent and pure, earning him his undisputed position as the highest-ranking seraph among the Seven Archangels.

You go through the motions as the presiding seraph for this year’s annual meeting. Your six-feathered wings flutter gracefully as you land before the entrance of the Obsidian Palace. The white halo that surrounds your frame casts a discernible light that sends demons recoiling away.

The halo was a sign of your power; God’s trust in you. And despite not being Michael, you were the Seraph that came after him in terms of power and seniority. The purity and fierceness of the light that emanated from your celestial body caused much of the demons who were dressed in plain black suits to hiss back in fear.

Your figure that was fully clad in a blinding white silk button up shirt with white flowy pants and golden heels beneath, reminiscent of office wear donned by humans, only further amplified your brightness. Your gaze was steely, cold and detached as you regarded the pale expressions of the demons who were waiting for your arrival.

A frown settles on your face. The humidity of Hell’s climate was starting to grate down on you. Your wings retract behind you in a snap of irritation. You felt your wings’ feathers poofing up even further, and you merely utter, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph under your breath in resignation, before you finally properly regard the demons sent out to escort you inside.

“Lead the way,” you exhale.

Suguru greets you with a devilishly charming grin on his angelic face. “How benevolent it is of you to grace us with your holy presence.”

You enter the room, and the several other demons present in the room stand in attention as you make your way to the head of the long table opposite the Ruler of Hell. You recognize a few Princes of Hell and seirim demons. They bow their heads reverently. You don’t acknowledge them, your gaze steely.

“I wish I could say the same,” you respond dryly, your six wings contracting behind you to fold neatly before you take your seat at the head of the table. As you sit yourself down, you look up to meet the Ruler of Hell’s glimmering dark amethyst eyes opposite the table.

He spreads his arms invitingly, the taut muscles stretching the dark fabric of the blazer that he wears to hug the firm slopes of his arms. His long silky dark hair fell over the fine fabric of his clothing, shining faintly under the light of the meeting hall, framing his unreal beauty. You gaze at him pensively, recalling the prophet Ezekiel’s description of Suguru. A dazzling angel guarding the gates of the Garden of Eden. The anointed cherub. The seal of perfection.

“You seem rather displeased to be here,” he comments in that silky smooth pleasant voice, a handsome grin spread across his lips. His eyes regard you in that fond narrow crinkle that it does whenever he meets someone he finds interesting. Narrowed into slits like a treacherous serpent. “Might it have something to do with the fall of a certain dominion angel?”

You quirk a brow at his words, your expression stony. “You seem highly interested in Heaven’s affairs, Devil,” you reply in a flat tone, unperturbed. You gesture for a demon to bring you some refreshment. “Seems hardly fitting for the Ruler of Hell, does it not? You must stretch yourself quite thin to be able to find concern for a realm other than your own.”

His sandy skin glistens deliciously under the warm chandeliers that hang on the vaulted ceilings. His smile deepens, his purple eyes narrowing. Whether it was out of fondness or malice you didn’t bother to decipher. Suguru was as cryptic as ever, even back when he was a cherub.

“Heaven’s affairs is something that I do not care for,” he informs you plainly, watching as a demon brings over a goblet of water for you. “And please, call me Suguru.” He leans in closer, resting his elbows on the other end of the long meeting table and joining his fingers together with a cordial smile. “Will you not refer to me by my name now as well?” His amethyst eyes open, like the deep pools of a dark abyss unfurling like the petals of a black-purple rose, regarding you. “I thought we were good friends.”

“Acquaintances would be a more appropriate term,” you icily correct him. “And even then, labeling our relationship as that of acquaintances is still entirely too familiar. I believe coworkers would be most accurate.”

You eye him with a stoic expression, taking in the four wings that sprout from behind his broad shoulders, the remnants of the form that he once assumed with his former position as a high cherub angel. The original four pristine white wings symbolic to cherubs have now changed. The top two wings have long since morphed into two black bat-like wings—indicating his transformation into a demon, while the bottom two are his symbolic midnight black wings—the ones that had first appeared when he fell from Heaven and God’s grace as the first fallen angel.

Lucifer. The former Lightbringer. The Morningstar. Your former colleague.

Suguru’s devilish grin remains the same. “I forget how dismissive angels can be,” he croons in a sing-song tone. “And I thought Archangel Michael and Archangel Satoru to be rather harsh. It appears to me that you’re the coldest yourself, Madam Seraph.”

Your expression remains blasé, and your tone lowers in ire. “I did not come here to this inferno of a humid environment to exchange pleasantries or to discuss the manner in which I address a grave sinner by,” you state in a clipped voice. “I came here to discuss what needs to be discussed. Do not deviate from that.”

“I digress,” Suguru hums, purple eyes swirling mirthfully as he stares at you.

The first day of the annual meeting lasts for the course of a few hours. This year’s proceedings went on much longer due to the increased amount of demon activity as well as the troubling amount of angels falling to temptation, subsequently causing a higher amount of fallen angels to roam freely within the demonic realm.

This did not spell well, as confused and often grieving fallen angels resulted in bouts of insanity as they attempted to fathom their current helpless situations, as well as the celestial power that was not stripped from them. The drastic change of an angel’s wings from its pure snow-white state, to a midnight black was not the only change that takes place when an angel falls from grace.

An angel, depending on their rank on the Order of Angels, can get their celestial powers fully stripped away from them if they were a third order angel; have some of their powers stripped away, while having the remaining power left change into demonic powers, if they were a second order angel; or completely retain all their celestial powers, but the celestial and holy power is then changed to demonic powers, like what would happen to a first order angel.

The most common example of the last one was Suguru. He was a former high-ranking cherub, an angel belonging to the first sphere, and when his fall took place, none of his powers were stripped away from him. Rather, his celestial powers morphed into demonic powers, complimenting the darkened and sinful nature that Suguru now adopted as he fell to temptation. A third of the angels followed him in his dissent from God, emerging as his underlings in Hell.

He had always been a queer being. A charming devil that inspired rebellion among the angels. God’s former favorite. The fairest angel. A contradictory individual. Even during his time as a cherub, his beautiful smile was always accompanied with a condescension, a curious lilt of his velvety voice, a glimmer of defiance in his deep eyes even as he bowed before God at His throne. Those same eyes currently transfix on you as you sit opposite him on the meeting table.

His comely face rests on his hand, regarding you with a curious yet almost sultry look. He gazes on, an expression that you couldn’t quite read on his face. His presence is domineering, his figure hulking, almost stretching the fine fabric of his suit. And yet he utters not a single word save for the times when he needed to speak or pitch in. Every now and then you would catch the movement of his wings, withdrawing to fold, or extending out as he would lounge back against his seat.

You will yourself to focus on the words of the demon standing before the presentation detailing the annual reports.

The next two days went on just like that.

He would greet you when you entered, dressed in one of his fine suits, his silky dark hair glinting under the candlelight, fixing you with those dark amethyst eyes. His signature smirk spreads across his glossy lips, staring you down intently.

Sometimes, you would find yourself distracted, looking up to the face of a concerned demon. Silence hung in the room, and everyone stared at you, seeming to wait for a reply or some form of comment. You would manage to say something, passing your silence off as mere moments of rumination. But a glance toward Suguru reveals his pleasant smile, his purple eyes narrowed in mirth.

You tried your best to ignore it. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. The knowledge that he was getting under your skin. Even Archangel Satoru didn’t unnerve you this much.

As the final bits of the final day of the annual meeting took place, you let out a big sigh of relief as you witnessed the lanky demon—an intern, you surmise—putting away the last papers concerning the presentation. As the demon closes the manila folder holding the papers, you rise from your seat, itching to just leave the Obsidian Palace and return to your accommodations in the Hell Citadel. You were scheduled to leave in the evening.

No one dares to stop or question you, a seraph, as you start to make your way towards the exit of the door.

None except Suguru, that is.

The tall Ruler of Hell blocks your path. A pair of muscular arms stands in your way, large hands tucked into the pockets of his custom pants, and an irritated expression laces itself on your face as you crane your neck up to look at the devilish man. He casts a shadow over you with his domineering height, his wings extended out, almost as if you cage you in under midnight.

“Do you perhaps have any further business with me, Devil?” You do not hide your malice.

Suguru, on the other hand, seems unbothered by your cold attitude. A glance towards your side reveals the other demons—the ones who work directly under Lucifer, you inferred—gulping and looking at you fearfully.

You briefly consider smiting the sinner before you with your Celestial powers. In terms of power, Suguru was by no means weak, being the Ruler of Hell, but you were far stronger than him, given your status as a seraph. You could inflict considerable damage to him and leave him incapacitated for days—weeks, if you tried.

But you would not do that.

Harming the Ruler of Hell would mean more paperwork than you already had, and you refuse to work longer hours simply because Suguru got under your skin. The damned Devil was not beneath reporting you to the HR Department of the Heavenly Realm for ‘disrupting the workplace environment.’

“I do have business with you,�� he says, still grinning with that damned smile. His obsidian wings retract behind him. “I wanted to discuss possibly implementing a different way of sorting human souls.” His head cocks to the side, and he pushes back his silky strands of hair, fixing you with that stare. “Perhaps you could relay my ideas to the Heavenly Realm before you depart?”

Truthfully, you did not want to. But you also did not want to write another report to Archangel Michael explaining that you let the Devil get under your skin, causing communications between the Heavenly Realm and the Demonic Realm to sour, and ultimately complicating the long and arduous process of determining whether a human soul should go to Hell or Heaven. It was a situation you had the unfortunate chance of being familiar with due to Suguru reporting you to HR some centuries back. The conflict caused a mess in the sorting of human souls, which were especially abundant at the time due to the number of wars, as the Ruler of Hell refused to sort the human souls until he received an apology from you.

That occurrence has left you with a sour taste lingering in your mouth every time the Ruler of Hell was brought up in conversation, and while you begrudgingly apologized the first time, you refuse to repeat that incident once again.

With a resigned sigh, you look towards Suguru’s deep purple eyes, smiling at you in that devilishly charming way.

The Devil is a liar and a half.

The “business” he apparently had with you entailed visiting a bar in hell and drinking. It has been an hour since you both departed the Obsidian Palace for business, and not once has the damned Ruler of Hell mentioned a word about this so-called ‘new system’ of implementing a faster way to sort out human souls.

Suguru must feel your piercing glare directed at him. You regard him angrily through the crystalline rim of your untouched demon mimosa, decorated with pomegranates. Your six feathery wings bristle behind you, slightly extended out.

His eyes narrow at you in that irritatingly charming way that you refuse to admit has any sway on you. He is nursing a drink of his own, a bloody old fashioned with dragon fruit shavings, and looks at your untouched demon mimosa.

“You’re terribly boring,” he says with a sigh and a disappointed face, his black wings tucked behind him. “I knew Archangels were prudes but we’re at a club, sweetheart. The demon mimosa won’t hurt you.”

“And I knew demons are liars yet I came here,” you snap. You snatch the demon mimosa, bringing it to your lips and taking a swig, grumbling the next words. “I should’ve just written that damned report to Michael.”

He grins, a little too gleefully for your liking. His purple eyes linger on the drink briefly, before they inspect your face. A laugh escapes past his lips, a small laugh that oddly sounded as if it was accompanied by gentle ringing bells.

“You still hold a grudge about that?” He asks, clearly finding this more amusing than you do.

Irritated at his joy, you slam the demon mimosa down to glower down at him, your wings retracting with a flutter of your ivory feathers.

“Do you wish to die by my hands?” you threaten.

“Now, now,” he grins, “I don’t intend to die here so why don’t we—”

“Give me a legitimate reason as to why I shouldn’t just leave you here and return to my lodgings,” you state, failing to see what he finds so amusing about making you angry. “The annual visit is now finished. I’d prefer not to see you any longer than I have to.”

“That’s heartless, sweetheart,” he feigns hurt, his wings drooping behind him. “Do you dislike me that much?”

“I view you the way I view mosquitos in the Human Realm,” you deadpan him. “Annoying and persistent. With that said”—you rise from your seat—“I’ll be leaving. Do not ever waste my time like you just did. Do you understand, Devil?”

“I don’t know,” he drawls in a voice that causes your stomach to dip in a way you are not familiar with. You quickly bury the sensation. His wings extend lightly. His eyes track the expanse of your standing figure, a pair of amethysts gleaming with interest. “I quite like it when you're mad at me. Maybe you’ll have to teach me again, sweetheart.”

So, that’s what it’s about, you think to yourself humorlessly.

“Devil,” you begin, pinching the bridge of your nose, regarding him with a chilling gaze, “if what you needed was to satisfy yourself, I’m sure you have a handful of succubi to help you with that problem.” You regard him properly this time, though his figure blurs momentarily. “Who knows? Your new friend Elijah, the former Dominion angel, might be able to refer you to some of his favorite succubi.”

“Regarding that,” he shrugs, his dark wings rustling behind him, regarding you with a sultry half-lidded gaze, “I was looking to see if you’d be a dear and help me out?”

“What wishful thinking,” you drily respond, shutting down his suggestion immediately. “If I suggest the idea that you’ve been involved in coercing angels to sin to the Celestial Realm after this encounter, I wonder how you would be dealt with. Michael is not keen on dealing with all the extra work that follows the fall of an archangel, and should he catch wind of what has transpired today… However benevolent he is, he will certainly not let it slide.”

But even as you speak, his grin remains. Rather, it deepens.

You feel an odd sensation swirling in your stomach. Your gaze blurs, and you shake your head, trying to rouse yourself. It must be the exhaustion, you reason. All the more reason to leave this place immediately.

“Then, I’ll get going,” you state, rising from the bar stool, giving him one last glare before turning on your heel and walking away.

A sudden throb of pain has you stopping. Your steps stutter, and you blink away the blurriness in your gaze. You feel sluggish. This is odd. You were tired, sure, but surely not enough to feel like this.

When you are about to stumble on another step of yours, a firm and large hand holds your arm to steady you. A warm presence, looming and large, overwhelms you, casting a dark shadow over your frame under the dim and moody lights of the bar. You feel his frame brush against your wings, a hand of his wrapping around your waist.

A warm breath ghosts over your ears.

“Careful there,” Suguru’s smooth voice croons, sending shivers down your body.

Ire grows in you, and you try to yank your arm away from his hand, but to no avail. He was unflinching. Like an unshakable marble statue. An insurmountable presence. A glance behind your shoulder reveals his handsome face, albeit a bit blurry. You blink up at him, and all you can pick out is the hypnotic purple of his eyes, oscillating like flickering lights, and the satisfied curl of his lips.

That is the last thing you remember before everything turns black.

“. . . you’re up.”

Your eyes blink open, gaining consciousness as you rouse, sitting up with. Your head is pounding. You feel almost feverish. Your body feels numb. Your eyes glaze over, your blurry vision focusing on the sight before you. The lights are moody, warm, and there's a void before you, a large frame that blocks out a portion of your vision. When your eyes squint, the darkness becomes a dark silhouette.

A firm and chilly hand cups your chin, forcing you to gaze up.

Amethyst.

Your brows pinch together groggily, and your gaze clears up enough that you can make out the individual before you. Your blood runs cold when you make eye contact with the silhouette.

“Had a good rest?” Suguru croons, almost mockingly, gazing down at you with a handsome sneer.

You realize you are on a wide bed with dark silken sheets. Your body feels sluggish, and even if you will yourself to try to move, your body is weak. You can barely lift a finger without great exertion. To your surprise, you notice no restraints on your body, only that dull pounding in your head, and a feverish sensation throughout your limbs. Your clothing is still intact, though you notice that your shoes were nowhere to be found.

Suguru stands before you, left in his dark slacks and a loosened white silk dress shirt, revealing a generous amount of his taut and tan chest. His dark wings are loosely spread behind him. His dark silky hair frames his face, his features highlighted by the shadows from the faint candlelight of the chandelier in what you presume to be his personal room.

“What did you do to me?” you demand in a low snarl.

His charming eyes narrow, smiling. “Nothing yet,” he replies coolly.

He saunters across the room, and you watch him with malice as he grabs a crystalline glass bottle with a shimmery golden liquid in it, pouring it into a goblet. The trickling of the liquid fills the dead silence of the room. The gold liquid swirls in the goblet, glowing hypnotically. He approaches you afterward, the goblet tangled in his pretty fingers.

You eye the drink warily, scowling up at him to the best of your ability in your weakened state. “‘Nothing yet’?” you snarl, fury welling up within your being. “Do you even realize what you’re—”

There’s a drawl of irritation that rumbles out of his throat. Suguru regards you with that blank, dead stare in his amethyst eyes. He utters his next words with such a cold indifference that it sends chills down your limbs.

“You were much more tolerable when you couldn’t speak.”

You fall silent for a few moments from his words. Confusion, and then anger. Deep hatred. A piercing cold sensation that burns through your being.

“What did you do to me?” you demand. Your voice is louder now, booming throughout the space. As your anger boils, the ground begins to tremble. The chandelier in the room chimes and clinks from the prominent tremor that overtakes the Demonic Realm. The celestial halo around you burns bright, almost blinding as you muster the rest of your remaining strength to maim him. “God won’t let you get away with this, Devil.”

Suguru looks unbothered. He simply approaches you while his wings, looming over your figure, the goblet cradled in his hand. The gold glimmers brilliantly, as if he had plucked sunlight from the Heavens, and you notice faint specks of crimson and obsidian in the shimmery substance, flickering. Fading in and out.

“He won’t let me get away with this?” Suguru scoffs, a twisted sneer on his perfect face. “Oh, angel. I already have.”

He takes a swig of the gold liquid, gripping your chin tightly with his free hand. He leans down, his hand squeezing your cheeks together for your lips to part, and he inches forward, swallowing your lips in a sweltering kiss. You can taste the cool golden liquid on your tongue. A sweet nectar reminiscent of honey, ripe fruits, and floral notes that coats your tongue in pleasure. It tastes like paradise, like sipping from the beams of sunlight that trickle from the Heavens and onto the Human Realm, warm and comforting.

You feel your strength dissipate, your celestial halo waning as you ingest the liquid. Your eyes widen, and you try to pull away, but your weakened body is no match under his unyielding grip. The liquid is smooth and velvety, gliding effortlessly down your throat. A comfortable warmth spreads from your mouth to your chest, filling your limbs.

Mingled in with the sweet golden liquid is the sensation of the Devil’s tongue, mingling with your own, swiping against your lips, feeding you the liquid. He continues until you’ve drunk every last drop he has to give you.

When he pulls away, your head feels light, and you register a string of drool connecting your lips to his own. His thumb swipes over the swollen flesh of your bottom lip, severing the trailing gold strings between your lips, regarding you with a look of satisfaction.

You gaze up at him in confusion and hostility. Suguru withdraws, sauntering over to a nearby table to place the empty goblet down. His head turns to your direction, appraising your state, walking back to you.

You feel a pleasant warmth buzzing throughout your limbs. It feels good. A part of you hates to admit it. You know better than to trust the Devil right before you. If you weren’t weakened, you would have finished him off already. You would kill him with your bare hands. Lop off his limbs one by one. Consequences be damned.

Suguru seems to relish in the heated gaze of yours on him. He sits down on the foot of the bed casually, regarding you with a bemused curl to his lips.

“You look like you want to kill me,” he croons languidly. A hand of his reaches out, cupping your face in his cold hands. You could see the sick delight in his beautiful features. You can see him shiver from arousal, his amethyst eyes narrowing into gleeful crescents. “Ah, this expression of yours is exciting.”

The warmth in your body is now turning into an uncomfortable one. Your body trembles, feeling the heat sinking deeper into your being, wrapping your very skin with a heavy, cloying sensation. The heat swelters, turning into a burning heat that borders on painful, spreading through your limbs, making your body feel even heavier. Sluggish. Weak.

“What did you make me drink?” you demand in a hoarse snarl, scowling up at him.

“Something to loosen your inhibitions,” he replies coolly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You have a degree of resistance to the effects of corrupted ambrosia as a seraph. It’ll only make you feel sluggish.” He smiles wolfishly, leaning in closer to whisper the next words in your ear. “I’m not fond of unconscious women.”

“You—”

Your words are interrupted as a firm hand of his sends you down to lay down on the bed in a display of strength. The bed dips under Suguru’s weight as he hovers above you, relishing in the sight of you, weak and incapacitated below him. His silky dark hair falls over you, his handsome face regarding you as he leans down, caging you under his broad form, his four dark wings spread out behind him. His ivory silk shirt droops, allowing you to get a generous view of his perfect form, tan firm and muscular pectorals, down to the dip of his abdominal muscles. His eyes seem to glow under the shadow of his hair. And he’s so close. All you can see and feel is him. His perfect face. The sly curl of his lips.

And his scent. It’s overpowering. A dark amber. Spiced incense. His face leans in closer, and he’s so warm, you feel as if you might melt from the uncomfortable burning within your body from the corrupted ambrosia. Sandalwood enters your nose. Then the faint waft of burning embers.

“Ah, you look beautiful like this,” he whispers in that low and smooth voice of his, velvety like honey. His cool fingers cup the sides of your face, his soft fingertips rubbing over the flesh of your lip. He leans down, kissing your jawline. His soft lips nip at your skin, trailing, soft like the petals of a black rose, leaving a trail of fire in its path as he descends to your neck.

Your hands muster everything you can to try to push at his broad chest. Weak smacks to his chest. To his arms. To his face. Even a tug at his silky hair. Yet his body remains immovable. His lips continue to pepper kisses along your neck.

“I’m going to kill you,” you grit out.

A firm hand of his wraps around one of your wrists. He smirks down at you, bringing your hand to his face. His amethyst eyes are smoky, peppering kisses on your palm and wrist. The curl on his lips deepens.

“Kill me?” he muses. “How will you manage that in this state, sweetheart?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“What crude words from a pretty mouth,” he chuckles, pinning both your wrists above your head with a single hand. His fingers dance over your button-up shirt, lingering on the buttons. Languidly, he plucks each button off with a faint rustle of fabric.

As your bare skin is revealed to him inch by inch, your face burns in shame and anger. It’s humiliating. You are a feared and powerful seraph. An Archangel in service of God. You pride yourself on your righteousness, your purity, and your steadfast avoidance of sin and temptation. Your unwavering loyalty and adherence to the Word. Yet the Devil was unwrapping you like a present, and there was nothing you could do about it.

His amethyst eyes are reminiscent of the slits of a serpent’s eyes, regarding you. You felt powerless beneath him, your body considerably weakened. You felt like a tiny white rabbit facing the bloody jaw of a hungry wolf.

“How beautiful,” he appraises, regarding your smooth flesh. His hand wraps firmly around a mound of your breast, and he relishes in how the fat spills past his hand, his fingers twisting and squeezing at a soft nipple. You burn in shame and rage from how it hardens under his fingertips. “To think nobody has had the chance to see you like this in eons. Isn’t it such a shame?”

“I’m going to kill you,” you grit out again, but the breathiness in your voice betrays you.

Suguru’s lips curl at that, but he doesn’t address the threat. He leans down, his tongue descending on your nipple. It flicks against the hardened bud, swirling. His mouth is swelteringly warm compared to the cool touch of his skin. His hand cups your other breast, kneading it beneath his palm, his thumb and index finger pinching the nipple. You grit your teeth, pressing your lips shut. You ignore how your traitorous thighs press together from the sensation. You refuse to give the Devil the satisfaction of knowing that you’re feeling something from this.

Your teeth bite down on your lip. You refuse to make a sound. You refuse to give in to the foreign tingling sensation that begins from where the Devil is lapping up at your breast and is spreading through the rest of your body. You don’t know why your body is throbbing. Why that place between your legs is pulsing.

Suguru takes his time.

He languidly moves to the other nipple by pressing kisses onto your skin, leaving a burning trail under his lips. Your weakened body betrays you. You knew you couldn’t push him off even if you mustered all your strength.

Suguru’s fingers work at your pants. He finally lets go of your wrists that he was pinning above your head to pull off your pants.

You use this opportunity to grip at his broad shoulders in an attempt to push him off. He doesn’t even budge. He remains undisturbed, as if your strength wasn’t even enough to make him falter, and he successfully slides your pants off your legs. He tosses it to the floor of his room.

He grips your thighs, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. You can feel the silk sheets drag against your wings. He parts your thighs, his face leaning in as he inspects your panties.

Your feet kick at his shoulders, but he simply pins your thighs, keeping your legs spread for him. His gaze is intense, simply focused on your panties. You want to burn in shame.

“White lace,” he observes in amusement. “Very cute.”

“When this wears off, I’m going to tear you limb by limb, Devil,” you inveigh, your words laced with poison. “I’m going to make you regret ever crossing my path.”

“You say that,” he hums pensively. His thumb leans in, rubbing at a graying spot on the center of your panties. “But you’re all wet, sweetheart.”

You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood. You had been ignoring the stickiness between your thighs. How as his tongue moved and suckled on your nipples and your skin, you felt yourself getting damper and damper. You reasoned that this wasn’t of your volition. Your body was betraying you. You were not enjoying this. You refuse to sin. You were not going to fall to temptation. Not with the fucking Devil. Hell would freeze over before that happened.

“Do you think I’m going to take you by force?” he muses, regarding you from between your parted thighs. “No, angel, that’s not what’s going to happen here.”

You glare at him, indignation filling your being. You didn’t believe a single word that was coming out of his mouth. You were certain that he planned on making you fall into temptation. He was not beneath forcing you into it. Your blood boiled at the thought.

His amethyst eyes glimmered in amusement, and his voice drops into a low and soft croon, almost innocent sounding, if not for the fact that he was the fucking Devil himself.

“I’m going to make you beg for it.”

“Your thighs feel heavenly,” he whispers into your ear from behind.

You were sitting on his lap, your thighs pressed together as he rubbed his fat cock between your thighs. His cock repeatedly rubs against your clothed clit, the flushed red tip rubbing against the dampness of your cunt. You suppress any sounds that threaten to escape your lips.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” he hums, kissing your neck.

“It doesn’t feel good,” you grit out roughly.

It was a lie, of course. It did feel good. Too good. The friction from the way his fat cock rubs against you renders you a bit breathless. You didn’t quite understand it yourself. You are one of the almighty Seven Archangels, the loyal servants of God himself. You are not tempted by mortal pleasures or material possessions. You are above them.

His fat tip repeatedly rubs against the hood of your clothed slit. Your panties were long disposed of at this point, laying in disarray with your other clothes on the floor. A wet pap accompanies each pump of Suguru’s hips. The sensation was toe curling. Enough to have your mind blanking here and there. A traitorous part of you briefly thought that this must be the reason why the sin of the flesh was one of the most prominent temptations to fall to.

“It doesn’t feel good?” Suguru muses, though you had an inkling he didn’t believe you. You had a hard time believing yourself as well. Your nipples were erect. Your breaths were hitched. And you were soaking his cock in slick as he rubs against you.

“It doesn’t,” you grit out, though the quiver in your breath failed you.

It wasn’t a convincing statement. But you were going to convince yourself.

You will not fall into temptation. You will not sin.

“I should work harder then, hm?” he whispers into your left ear. You could hear the smirk on his lips.

His hand slithers down to the dampness of your cunt, his fingertips brushing against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your thighs tensed, quivering from the sensation. His fingers are gentle and languid, pinching the engorged pearl of your clit, rolling it between his fingertips.

“You’ve never touched yourself,” he murmurs in that velvety voice of his. “Never let yourself taste the pleasures of the flesh.”

He lifts you easily, setting you down on your back on the bed, pressing your thighs together for him. He settles between your legs, pressing his girthy and lengthy cock against your glistening pussy lips. When he lets go of his cock, your traitorous eyes drink up the sight. It was huge, heavy enough to be unable to stand on its own. You don’t understand why your thighs tense. One hand of his settles under your knees, pressing you down to keep you still while also keeping your legs together, as his other hand guides his meaty tip to rub against the hood of your clit.

He fucks your thighs, rubbing against your cunt, never slipping in or pushing in. The sound is lewd, sending heat to your body at the wet paps. Suguru is nasty with it, grunting softly as he uses you. He smears your cunt and your thighs with a glossy sheen of your slick. His purple eyes narrow in mirth as he gazes down at your twisting expression, how you clamp down on your bottom lip to not let any sound out.

Then, as if he’d grown tired of it, he pulls away, tucking his hard cock back in his pants, settling down between your thighs, his face inching closer. Gently, his pillowy lips plant kisses on your inner thigh, lapping up at the slick. He stares at you seductively with those amethyst eyes, a curl on his lips as he presses a kiss to your cunt. Then his tongue flicks out, teasing your flesh.

Your hands fist the sheets, the sanctity of self-control slipping through your fingers like sand. His tongue moves languidly, tasting, teasing. Each deliberate flick against your swollen clit sends sparks of sensation through you, threatening to drown out the anger that smoldered within.

“You’re trembling,” Suguru murmurs, his voice a low hum against your flesh, the low drawl sending a pleasant vibration throughout your body. “It’s adorable, really. You’re trying so hard to resist what your body already knows it craves.”

“No,” you grit out, breathless.

His chuckle was dark, like the quiet roll of thunder before a storm. “No? Then why are you soaking me, darling?” His tongue drags slowly over you, savoring the way your thighs quiver with each flick. “Your mouth can lie, but this?” He presses two thick fingers to your cunt, not pushing in, just teasing the slick folds. “This tells me the truth.”

Shame courses through you, bitter and hot, even as your hips betray you by arching ever so slightly. You want to spit words of defiance, but they tangle in your throat, choking on the treacherous whimper that nearly crawled out of you as his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks.

Your wings, usually so steady and unfurled in their glory, flutter weakly at your sides. Every nerve in your body screams. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, warring with the cacophony of pleasure and anger that conflate and well within your body.

“You hate this, don’t you?” Suguru’s low voice is sin itself—soft, coaxing, a siren’s song. His lips hover just above your clit as his fingers slide lower, parting your folds, tracing it. “Hate that it feels good. Hate that I’m the one showing you.”

“I fucking hate you,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

You feel him smirk into your cunt. He presses a languid kiss, licking up a stripe. “No, angel,” you can hear the smug and cruel smirk on his lips. “You hate yourself.”

His fingers press into you then, stretching you at last, a teasing pressure that has your thighs clenching despite yourself. The sensation is foreign—maddening. Your nails dig into the sheets, curling into your palms, sinking into the flesh, leaving reddened crescents in their wake. The sharp bite of your own pain grounds you for a fragile second before it dissolves under the next wave of pleasure.

“Don’t!” you try to command, but your voice wavers, trembling with something you refuse to name.

“Don’t what?” he asks, mock innocence dripping from his lips. His smirk widens as he pushes a second finger inside you, slow and deliberate. “Don’t do this?” He curls it just so, pressing against a spot that makes your thighs jerk against him.

The breath punches out of you in a shuddering exhale, your body betraying the fragile defenses of your mind. Suguru works you slowly, watching each and every expression, listening to every sound that escapes your parted lips, with those piercing amethyst eyes, moving his fingers in and out in an unbearable rhythm.

“There she goes,” he murmurs affectionately, his voice a gentle caress. “See how your body opens up for me?” He slows the strokes of his fingers, letting you feel every drag of his fingers through your walls, letting you hear the slick that soaks his palm, tainting the sheets beneath you. “You can deny it all you want, angel, but you’re made for this.”

You want to scream at him, call him a liar, but the words are stuck in your throat. Instead, your hips roll into his hand, chasing the maddening friction his fingers created. You bite your lip hard, the metallic tang of blood grounding you for a moment before his fingers curled against, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

“Stop!” you hiss out, though it almost resembles that of a weak whimper.

He laughs softly, darkly. “Stop moving? But it’s you who’s moving, darling.” His thumb finds your clit then, pressing down with a maddening precision that leaves you breathless, coupled in with his two fingers that continuously pump into you. “You’re the one begging without even realizing it.”

“I’m not begging!” you spit out, glaring down at him, but your voice cracks.

His smile deepens.

“No?” His fingers plunge deeper, the wet sound of your slick filling the room, shame mixing with the sweltering heat inside of you. “Then why are you dripping all over me? Why are your hips chasing my hand like this?”

His words are like a whip against your pride, but the shame only seemed to feed the inferno building inside your core. You clench around his fingers, your eyes rolling involuntarily, head tipping back slightly from the bright flash of pleasure that overwhelms you, your body betraying you further as your legs fall open wider.

“Ah,” Suguru coos darkly, his thumb circling your clit. “I think I understand now.” He leans down, his dark hair falling around you, the fragrant strands entangling you in his cloying scent. Suguru’s face hovers just above yours, beautiful in a way that feels unnatural, almost blasphemous. His amethyst eyes burn with an unholy light, framed by lashes so thick and dark they seem almost painted on. The sharp cut of his jaw softens only by the teasing curl of his lips, which glisten as he runs his tongue over them, savoring your expression—your anguish. He looks like a serpent poised to sink its fangs into its prey, his smirk a venomous promise of your undoing. He leans down further, overwhelming your senses, his breath hot against your ear.

“You want more, don’t you?”

“No,” you finally whimper, but for the slightest moment, you waver. You feel the craving growing inside of you, an unbearable hunger that his fingers alone couldn’t satisfy. Your body aches for something deeper, something that would finally extinguish the fire consuming you.

He smiles wolfishly. “Your body says otherwise,” he hums. His voice is low, dangerous, confident. His fingers withdraw suddenly, and he pulls away, his cloying scent receding from its attack on your senses, leaving you clenching around nothing, the absence hitting you like a wave.

A small, broken sound escapes your lips before you could stop it, your body motioning to sit up, eyes widening and gazing up at him in disbelief.

Your body runs cold at the smirk that graces his lips.

“There it is,” he says, almost lovingly. “The real you.” He leans in closer, amethyst eyes regarding you with mirth, drinking in your expression. “Desperate.” His other hand pulls you to sit up, holding you firmly, his lips curling. “Hungry.”

He presses his slickened fingers against your lips, forcing them to part, laying itself against your tongue, smearing your slick against them as he whispers, “Go on. Taste yourself. See what your holiness is worth now.”

You can’t turn your head away even if you try, tears burning in your eyes, but your body betrays you again, hips shifting restlessly against the sheets, seeking him out.

Your tongue flicks out, lapping at his fingers. Tears flow down your cheeks, shame and anger and something else you still refuse to name coursing through your body. You can taste yourself. Taste the evidence of your body’s betrayal.

“Good girl,” Suguru coos, amethyst eyes regarding you almost fondly. His fingers withdraw from your mouth, his thumb dragging against the flesh of your lips. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip, his lips as soft as the fleshy petals of a rose, devouring you.

When he pulls away, you feel your breath escape you, gazing up into his amethyst eyes that glimmer in satisfaction. His absence only grows the sweltering heat between your legs.

“Sweet,” he hums, his hand cupping the side of your face. “But not sweet enough. You’re still holding back, angel.”

“…I’ll never give you the satisfaction,” you breathe out, your chest rising and falling.

He chuckles darkly, his hands settling on your waist, easing you to lay down on the bed. His face hovers above yours, so close that his breath ghosts over your lips. “You will,” he says simply, his certainty cutting through you like a blade. A dull hum that anticipates your compliance.

He moves lower, languidly taking himself out of his pants. You hear the rustle of clothing as he knelt before you, his flushed thick cock—hard, erect, weeping—held by his hand. He shifts closer, resting his cock against your cunt, the heavy, throbbing weight of it resting there without pushing in. An itch wells within your body. Your breaths are heavy, eyeing his cock, wondering—heavens, you hate yourself for doing so—how exactly it would feel insi—

You force yourself to stop that thought, your body trembling. It was infuriating, humiliating, and maddening all at once.

Suguru smiles down at you sweetly, shifting to hover over you as he slaps the heavy tip of his fat cock against your cunt. The lewd paps, slickened by your arousal, only serve to heighten the burning sensation spreading throughout your limbs.

“Is this what you need, angel?” His voice is a velvet whisper as he leans down to press a kiss to your trembling lips. It’s soft, tender even, and it makes your stomach twist in revulsion and longing.

That sweltering heat between your legs only grows. Anticipation bubbles in your lower stomach. You’re trembling, helpless.

“Just say the word, sweetheart,” he coos. He tilts his perfect face, those amethyst eyes—aposematic in nature, upon your reflection—regarding you. They glint, his face framed by the inky cascade of his silky dark hair. “Say the word, and I’ll fix that emptiness you feel. The ache that my fingers won’t satisfy.”

You hate yourself. Every throb of your cunt, the sensation of his heavy cock resting, rubbing against the hood of your clit—so close, yet so far—seem to ignite a deeper hunger within you; a hollow, gnawing need to be filled. Your breaths come in shallow, broken gasps, your wings trembling at your sides as you fight the warring forces within you.

“I…” your voice falters, shame choking you as your hips involuntarily buck against the heavy weight of his cock, seeking friction, relief—to be filled.

“Yes, angel?” Suguru purrs, his lips trailing down the curve of your neck. “Tell me what you need. Say it.”

Your teeth clench as hot tears prick at your eyes, hot, and stinging. You gaze up, silently begging for forgiveness from Him. “I need nothing from you,” you growl out, though the words felt hollow and empty as they left your lips.

Your mind screams at you to resist, to fight, to remember what you stand for. You are a mighty Archangel, the trusted servant of God. You are above mortal pleasures or temptations. But your body… Your body is betraying you with every shiver, every arch of your lips, every breathless gasp that escapes your lips, every sinful thought that invades your mind.

You clench your teeth, feeling the hot tears staining your cheeks. The sight of Suguru’s handsome face hovering above you blurs through your tears. The last fragments of your ironclad result crumbling under the unbearable ache inside of you.

“I hate you,” you whisper, though the words lack conviction.

“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning down, licking up your tears, tasting his sweet victory, his lips curving into a triumphant smirk against your skin, “you need me.”

The shame is unbearable, but the hunger is worse. Your wings tremble, your fists clench, and your thighs fall open just a fraction wider, as if your body already made the choice for you.

The gesture doesn’t escape his amethyst eyes, and they narrow almost fondly.

“There’s my good girl,” he coos.

You don’t resist as he grabs his furious cock, aligning it to your slick cunt. You can’t peel your eyes away from the sight, the way his meaty tip presses against your folds. Your body offers little resistance, with Suguru praising you as he presses his fat tip in past the initial tight ring of muscle.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head from the pleasure, clamping down on him from the foreign sensation, gasping out as tears prick your eyes.

“You’re taking me so well, angel,” he whispers, sliding in, finding little resistance. Your thighs quiver as his thick cock fills you, overwhelming your senses. Your mind can’t think of anything else but the sheer relief that envelops you.

His hands shift down, resting under your knees, and he’s folding you, pressing your knees against your shoulder. The motion knocks the breath out of your lungs, earning a weak whimper as you feel his heavy balls slap against the curve of your ass. Your mind blanks as he bottoms out, filling you to the point of discomfort.

His purple eyes glint with a sick satisfaction as he gazes down at you, and you barely have a chance to utter a word before it feels as if he’s punching himself in. You sputter, your lips parting in broken mewls and moans as he sets an inhuman pace. It’s too fast. Too much.

“I should’ve fucked you a long time ago,” he grunts out, his hand resting at the juncture of your neck, pressing down on your windpipe. Your cunt clenches down on him, earning a groan from his lips.

You sob out weakly, shame and pleasure coursing through your limbs, manifesting in hot tears. They do nothing to deter Suguru or his pace. If anything, his hands tighten around your neck, and he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. He swallows you. A voracious serpent claiming its prey, strangling you in its cold and scaly embrace, sinking its teeth into your flesh.

You feel lightheaded. You don’t feel like yourself. Your body is on fire. You can feel each and every drag of Suguru’s fat cock through your walls—can feel each vein, the way his meaty tip bullies your insides. It’s so painfully overwhelming that it throws you into the throes of burning white pleasure.

You cry out as you cum, your cunt fluttering around his cock, soiling it in creamy translucent strings, staining the fabric beneath you. His hand loosens around your neck, giving you temporary relief.

“There you go, angel,” he groans out, his hips stuttering from how tight your walls got from your orgasm.

You quiver beneath him, momentarily blanking out from the intense sensation.

Suguru grunts, smiling in sick glee as he pulls out with a lewd squelch. As if you weighed nothing, he quickly maneuvered you onto your face, hoisting your ass up, bending your body into a pretty arch. He admires the creamy mess smeared all over your cunt, trailing down your thighs in pearly drops.

The sight before him is angelic. The unfurling of your six ivory wings behind your back, a visage that was as beautiful as the creamy slick coating your cunt and the base of his cock.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

He wastes no time, aligning himself to your soppy cunt, entering. He claims you easily, fills every empty crevice—satiates that absence and emptiness that you feel.

Your toes curl from this position. It feels like he just might pierce your lungs. Like he intends to imprint himself upon your very being. Your nails dig into the sheets, trying to grip onto something—some semblance of control that you were slowly losing.

The room hangs heavy with the aftermath, the scent of sweat, sin, and debauchery clinging to the charged air like an unholy fog. Suguru’s broad chest rises and falls in a lazy rhythm as he leans back against the dark silk headboard, his lips curling into a pleasant smile that drips with cruel satisfaction.

You lay beside him, trembling, your body quivering from more than just exhaustion. The act is over, but its weight bears down on you like chains, each link forged from shame, regret, and disbelief. Your skin felt foreign—an unrecognizable vessel tainted by what you had done.

Above your head, your halo, once a radiant crown of the Almighty God’s trust, shimmers faintly. It had been brighter than any star that decorates the skies of the Human Realm, a perfect symbol of God’s favor. Now it wavers, its golden light dimming, the edges darkening as though something rotten gnaws at it from within.

You close your eyes, desperate to summon the connection you had known all your existence. The warmth of His presence. The light that answered every thought and prayer. The voice that reassures you and guides you to the right path. You whisper a trembling, “Father…”

But there was nothing.

Your chest sinks, as though a cold draft had come over your body.

“No,” you breathe, your voice breaking. Your trembling hands reach for the flickering halo, desperate to touch it, to hold onto the last vestige of your purity, your honor, your identity. Your fingertips brush its edges, and you cry out as an unfathomable pain sears through you, the once comforting light burning you like fire.

Your hands tremble further as you inspect your palms, your lips quivering as you gaze down at the reddened and burnt flesh of your fingertips. The silence was deafening, broken only by Suguru’s dark chuckle.

“Oh, little angel,” he murmurs in a sing-song tone, his voice syrupy with mockery. You meet his gaze, feeling your composure crumbling away. His amethyst eyes pin you with those sultry eyes, almost fond, as if he was regarding something he found beautiful. “Do you feel it? The unraveling?”

The room seems to shift. The air tightens like a vice, and all of the sudden, the chilly room feels too hot. Sweltering. Like a presence that constricts you into a tight vice. A sudden crack splits the tense silence, sharp and visceral, accompanied by the loud crackle of thunder. Pain explodes throughout your back, yanking a raw scream from your dry throat. You claw at the sheets, sobbing out, your bloody fingers leaving their trails on the fabric, your nails tearing through the fabric as agony tore through your body.

Your wings—six magnificent, holy appendages—erupts from your back in a grotesque display. You choke out blood, dripping down your chin, your eyes widening. The once-blinding ivory feathers were now black as onyx, their edges fraying, dripping with a viscous, tar-like ichor. Each feather seems to curl inward, shriveling and decaying right before your bloodshot eyes.

“No—please—” you sob out, your voice raw, writhing on the bed. Your arms reach behind you, fingers clutching at the jagged remains of your wings—your position as God’s favored—but the ichor burns where it touches your skin. Blood pours in thick rivulets from the gashes where the wings connected to your warmth, pooling beneath you in a sickening warmth.

Suguru sits up, watching you with a gleam of dark satisfaction. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent.

Your screams turn shrill, raw—animalistic, your body convulsing as your wings shed their corrupted feathers. The exposed bone splinters, cracking apart with wet, nauseating sounds until your once brilliant, magnificent wings lay mangled and useless.

Above your head, your halo dims further. The golden circle crackles like fragile glass, spreading fissures across its surface. Your shaky hands weakly reach for it again, your hands bathed in blood and ichor.

“No,” you whimper, your hot tears mingling with the crimson streaking your face. “I didn’t mean to—”

The halo shatters.

They fall around you in jagged shards, the light snuffed out as they slice into your skin. The room falls deathly silent as the last piece hits the bloodied sheets.

The emptiness that follows is resolute.

“Do you feel it?” Suguru asks softly, leaning in closer, uncaring of the pool of blood staining the sheets. His soft hands brush your crimson cheeks almost tenderly, his amethyst eyes glowing in an aposematic manner. “The silence? He’s gone, little angel. You’ve severed yourself from Him, too.”

Your body shakes with sobs, your voice cracking as you cry out, “No! He’s not—I can still—He’ll forgive me—”

Suguru’s handsome smile, charming as ever, widens. Cruel and taunting. “Forgive you for what?” he muses, his smooth tone dripping with derision. “There’s nothing to forgive, angel,” he whispers. “This is just who you are. Not holy. Not pure. Just flesh. Wanting. Craving. Taking.”

Your lips quiver, your crimson tears flowing freely now. “No,” you whisper out weakly. “That’s not true—I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupts smoothly, his smooth thumb dragging over your bloodied lips. “You’ve been pretending all this time, hiding behind His light. But this”—he gestures to your broken wings, your shattered halo, your trembling, tainted body—“is the truth.”

You shake your head, your denial cracking beneath the weight of his words. You wanted to fight him. To refuse. To claw your way back to the light, but deep inside, a part of you knew he was right.

Suguru’s lips curl, his amethyst eyes narrowing in serpentine slits.

“How does freedom taste, angel?”

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1800i-dont-write-fanfiction · 26 days ago

Text

culmination of 4000 years of edging

Solas exhaled a quiet laugh; soft, exasperated, betrayed by the amusement creeping in at the corners of his mouth. He allowed himself a long, slow breath as though he might dispel the weight pressing down upon him. The warmth of the wine lingering on his tongue conspired against his better judgment. It was not the first time it had failed him where she was concerned.

“Vhenan,” he traced the rim of his glass slowly. “I am not immune to desire,” he admitted, his voice low, steady. “Nor am I ignorant of yours.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63882625

Ellana had summoned him under the pretense of some academic discussion on the linguistic subtleties of a recently recovered elven text, or so she had claimed. He knew this was a transparent fabrication, one which might have deceived a less discerning man. But he, long accustomed to the duplicity of both courts and companions, had known even before she offered him wine to enhance the learning experience.

She had spent the evening engaged in a cunning form of seduction; small, accidental touches, perceptive glances from across the book, soft laughter, and wide eyes. And for his part, under the influence of the entheogen, he had ceased the pretense of indifference. It had been a month since his confession, "I love you;” offered as solemnly as a eulogy. His affections, while tender, remained resolutely chaste.

For all her patience, Ellana was beginning to fray at the edges. Stolen kisses were hardly sufficient to sustain her; each touch only heightened her desperation rather than soothe it. She had sought to tempt him in every conceivable way; her hand on his arm, the delicate reveal of a bare shoulder beneath an oversized tunic, a particularly flattering set of fatigues, yet none of it seemed to rouse him beyond his perpetual, torturous restraint.

He would indulge her in near every other way; firm hands holding her waist, his body covering hers into the furs they shared on the road, the soft growl of her name against the column of her throat when desire overcame him. He would touch her with lips and hands, yet left her bereft of the full consummation of passion that lingered between them. She was not sure if it was patience or cruelty. Perhaps, in his mind, they were one and the same.

Leaning over to examine a passage, her shoulder pressed against his with a casual familiarity that belied its effect. Vhenan, he thought helplessly, why do you test me? Still, he did not pull away.

“This phrase,” she murmured, tracing a finger across the text, “Small something death… delivering mercy? Pain?”

Solas inhaled slowly, willing his tone to remain intact. “Da’neral sul'ema din nuas lanaste,” The words flowed from his lips, unburdened by the clumsy inflections of those who spoke it only in fragments and borrowed phrases. Ellana had spoken the language among her people in careful whispers and quiet prayers to absent gods, but never like this. Never with such effortless fluency, as though the words were simply another part of him. The sound of it sent a shiver down her spine and a warm pulse to her groin.

“It is less common in the modern vernacular,” he shrugged.

“What does it mean?” She asked.

He hesitated between the desire to impart knowledge and the necessity of discretion. His fingers brushed absently over the open pages, but his focus had already strayed. His eyes moved deliberately from the book to her face. “It is an idiom,” he replied at last. “There is no direct translation in the common tongue.”

Evasive. She gave him a pointed look. “And if you were to attempt one?”

Solas feigned consideration as though the answer had not already formed on his tongue. “Roughly translated, it conveys the notion that a certain deliverance may ease one’s suffering.”

Ellana’s gaze did not waver, nor did her silence stretch long enough to suggest uncertainty. She was too perceptive, too aware of the way he spoke when he wished to obscure something. “Deliverance,” she hummed. “In a spiritual sense?”

Solas nearly smiled. Nearly. “That is a possible interpretation,” he allowed, taking a slow sip of his wine.

“One among many, then?”

“Indeed,” he replied smoothly. “The elven language is shaped as much by intents as the meaning of words themselves.”

She nodded, returning her attention to the text. “But it refers to a form of deliverance from death?”

“Not explicitly.”

“But the phrase does contain the word ‘death.’”

“That is true.”

“And ‘mercy.’” She paused, squinting at the text, “And… ‘nuas.’ That does mean pain, yes?”

"In this context," Solas murmured, swirling the wine in his glass, "it is more likely to describe a persistent ache, one that belongs to another."

She watched him closely. “Then it stands to reason that the phrase refers to death as relief from suffering.”

Solas arched a brow. “It is a poetic expression.”

“A release of some kind,” she reasoned.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Ellana sat back slightly. “Ah.”

“It is a common literary device,” he offered, leaning back against the sofa, mirroring her movements. Her lips twitched, as if holding back either a laugh or another question. “Of course,” she murmured, too demurely, “But Solas, if it is an idiom, then surely its meaning would depend on the situation in which it is used?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, and a small smirk curled at the edge of his lips. He knew better than to indulge her. “As is generally the case, yes.”

“And in what situations,” she continued, all wide eyes and feigned naivety, “might one hear of ‘the little death bringing mercy to their aching?’”

A certain tension lay beneath his chuckle, a strained amusement that barely masked the way his cock twitched at the implication. He reached again for the stem of his glass. “It is a phrase employed in particular circumstances,” he replied naturally, “which often require no further explanation.”

“Circumstances that interest you?” She asked casually.

He should leave. He sat his glass down.

“There are many idioms within the ancient tongue whose meanings are nuanced,” he explained, choosing each word with care. “One does not need to engage in every particular circumstance to grasp its linguistic intent.”

She let out an amused huff, watching cast shadows play across the wall before setting her sight on him. "One might almost think you immune to desire,” she teased.

Solas shook his head faintly, attention fixed entirely on her. He should not have looked, nor wondered, perhaps for the thousandth time, what she would feel like beneath him. “Desire does not necessitate indulgence.”

“Indulgence?” She repeated playfully. “For all your wisdom, Solas, I wonder if you are terribly, woefully deprived.”

“Vhenan,” he traced the rim of his glass slowly. “I am not immune to desire,” he admitted, his voice low, steady. “Nor am I ignorant of yours.”

How many sleepless nights spent thinking of her, desiring her in ways entirely unknown to him? And he wished to surrender in full, to again taste the lips that so often teased. It would surely ruin him. Even in knowing this, he burned all the same, for the fragile virtue of their affections might still be unblemished, even by his sins. For now.

Gently, he reached out and brushed his fingers over her wrist. It was not much, not nearly enough, but it was contact. When she turned her hand, fitting her fingers between his, he lifted them to his lips to press the barest whisper of a kiss against her knuckles. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his mouth, and when he exhaled, he swore he felt her tremble. Her lips parted slightly, as if she meant to speak.

She only hummed when he turned her hand over, tracing along the rapid thrum of her pulse, testing. And when she did not pull away, when she only pressed closer, his free hand reached up to cup her jaw. She sighed, her lips parting in expectation as his thumb brushed over her bottom lip. Neither chaste nor hurried now, Solas traced her shape to memory as one might trace the lines of a fading dream. Then her palms were at his chest, dragging over the planes of his body. Breath hitched as she moved, pinning him fast to the feeling while a groan rumbled in his throat.

Her expression reflected the shadow of his fear, eager and unafraid in her certainty. “Ar lath ma,” she assured him. A slow, throbbing awareness pulsed inside him, and he kissed her again, with more urgency this time. His hands slid beneath her tunic, mapping the texture of her skin and the ridges of her bones. It had been so long, and if he had sense left, he would stop before this went any further. But when she tugged him back to her, she kissed him hard and whispered his name like it was something sacred.

Then his grip settled on her thighs, tightening as he held her. Please, he indulged the thought, his pulse hammered at the friction of her rutting against him; feel me, Vhenan. Her breath stumbled against his mouth and he swallowed the sound with another kiss. His hands roamed over the soft swell of her breasts and down the curve of her waist; his mouth soon followed, lips and tongue leaving a warm, wet trail across her collarbone. She pressed her hips against him in response, and it was sinful, the way he snapped like a bowstring drawn too tight. He was certain she could feel it, all of it, threatening to intrude against her.

"Solas," she murmured. Her fingers traced his jaw, tilting his face back up. "Be with me,” She asked with a command. He had waited in vain, of course. It seemed silly now, avoiding the inevitability when it was something meant to be theirs. He could not bond with her the way spirits bonded, yet the physical form provided its own alternatives. Trembling as he reached for her, she was solid beneath his hands, looking at him like she had always known and had only ever been waiting for him. Perhaps there were mysteries of this world even he did not know.

He laid her back against the sofa and settled between her thighs. The weight of his body, so often a hindrance, was a welcome heaviness as it rested over her. His hands braced on either side of her head, fingers curling against the cushions as he leaned down to capture her in a slow kiss. It was gentle, this deliberate exploration between lovers that had known each other’s minds before their bodies. Slowly, she slid one hand between them while the other anchored against his shoulders. He welcomed her, and yielding, pressed against the gentle glide of her hands over his skin.

When he followed her lead, his fingers wandered across her abdomen before slipping beneath her breeches. She was warm and slick, and eager to greet him; shifting, pressing for more contact, parting her legs to welcome him. He traced her slowly, learning her rhythms like he might an instrument to make her sing. A quiet sound sent a shudder through his spine. Her nails bit into his shoulders while her hips rocked into his hand.

"Ane gaelathe." His voice was raw. You are exquisite. She pressed her mouth to his pulse to feel it fluttering and to taste the heat of his skin, kissing him softly, open-mouthed, as he slid one long finger inside her. Sighing, she arched against him while her fingers tangled into the fabric of his clothes, finding him swollen against his waistband. His hips bucked into her palm. Her fingers curled around his length, stroking him beneath his leggings.

His breath was hot and uneven as she worked at him, slow and knowing, to send pulses of electricity through his body. Seemingly deftly attuned to his reactions, she listened for little moans and stutters with each light movement of her hands. Where had she learned to touch like this? Any lover could stroke and tease, but the knowing? His name left her lips in a whisper, and he ached so fiercely he could hardly bear it. Had it been a single year, he might have stood a chance. A decade, even, and he could have held himself together, for her. But it had been thousands of years since he had felt the heat of another body wrapped around his, and the searing relief of sinking into someone else. Worse still, none had been–

Ellana.

"I want to feel you," she whispered, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

Fuck.

A shallow, hot exhale left him, fingers trembling as he pulled his hand away. Shoving his breeches down just enough to free himself from the suffocating fabric, the cool air of liberation did little to temper the flush. He paused, lingering there at the precipice if only to let himself feel the way his body ached for her. She was watching him from behind eyes that were wide and dark and searing. His hands shook where they held her, a thousand years of restraint crumbling in moments.

Swallowing thickly, he parted his lips to speak, to warn her, to promise her, to confess something. She nodded before he could form words.

A long, shuddering groan tore from his throat as he buried himself inside her, the sound ragged, a prayer uttered in a dead language. His entire body was stiff with the effort of keeping himself still, from thrusting into her too deeply, too quickly. It was agony, and she was silk and heat and devastatingly tight around him. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders, pulling him closer as though she feared he might vanish. She pressed him deeper, urging him to give her all that he held back, until she felt the sharp sting of taking him fully.

Solas gasped, drowning in the feeling of her, and the trembling in her limbs and the racing of her heart. Her body clenched around him in a slow pulse, dragging him deeper into the abyss. He would not last. It was too much. His forehead dropped to her shoulder.

“I cannot–” he gasped. His voice was raw, wrecked beyond recognition.

"Then don’t," she whispered, bidding him to continue.

“It will not–” He had tried to reason with her.

“Let me feel you, Vhenan.” He needed no further encouragement.

His body moved before his mind could dissuade, his hips jerking forward. Arching beneath him, meeting him, she held him until he was shaking. His muscles shook violently as he fought for control against the inevitable. His thrusts turned shallow and frantic as his hips stuttered and lost their rhythm, and a low, desperate whimper tore from his throat. His release spilled into her, snapping against hers one last time before he stilled.

He had lasted mere moments. It had been the most exquisite thing he had ever felt.

He collapsed, breathless, his forehead pressing into the crook of her neck. He did not move, could not pull away. Her fingers traced lazy patterns along his back, as much for her benefit as his in a movement that was largely unconscious. For a time, the only sound was their breathing, mingling in the dim light of the room. Although, it barely registered as a sound at all. Nothing, no single sensation seemed to register of its own accord, as all feeling melted into one grand stillness.

When at last their breath did even and some measure of lucidity returned in the afterglow, she regained enough sense to tease him.

"Da’neral sul'ema din nuas lanaste," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin before delivering a sharp nip against his ear. Her accent faltered, the syllables rough and shaped imperfectly by her tongue. He exhaled a quiet, breathless laugh low in his chest- one for himself; for though he might have once considered himself clever, he could not deny the terrible, delicious irony that the Dread Wolf had been taken by a Dalish, of all things.

#solavellan hell #sollavellan #lavellan #solas #solas x lavellan #dragon age

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