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sugarrrvenomm · 1 month 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.”

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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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toshisdecadence · 2 months ago

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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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thesassypadawan · 10 months ago

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Prove It (Knight Anakin x PadawanFemReader)

Summary: Unbearable, painful, soul crushing. That’s it felt like after closing off your bond with Anakin. It wasn’t a decision you made lightly, only doing so after you caught him running around with a certain little senator. However you are willing to reopen it, but only if he can prove that he does indeed want you more.

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni), because of all the lovely smut. Cheating Anakin, makeup sex…and Ani’s big dick. Padawan Reader is of age.

Notes: Happy Hayden's (And Mine) Birthday Event! In honor of the man, the myth, the legend; I will be posting nothing but Anakin, Vader, and Hay stories all April long!

A little something for a lovely anonymous! I really enjoyed writing this, it was truly a pleasure! I know it's like only a hint of angst in here, but I tried my best (still learning how to write for it). Hope you like it! ❤️

The sound of knocking filled you shared quarters, startling you out of your restless slumber. It wasn’t completely uncommon for you to struggle with sleeping; some nights were better than others. Tonight, or rather the past couple of nights, though had been the worst yet.

Unbearable, painful, soul crushing. Were just a few ways to describe how it felt. How it felt to be completely closed off from someone through the force. Someone who you cared for deeply, someone you thought was…

Not caring that you were only in a certain someone’s oversized tunic, you quickly made your way to the door. Knowing fully well who you would find on the other side.

A mix of emotions ran through you as you were greeted by the sight of a very disheveled looking Anakin. His face was red, eyes puffy. Tear tracks shining in the faint corridor lights. It seemed like you weren’t the only one who couldn’t get any rest…good.

Leaning against the frame, you crossed your arms across your chest. Gaze hardened, voice cold. “What do you want, Skywalker?”

“I… I, um…” The great hero without fear stuttered, cowering a bit before you. His hands twitching and trembling at his sides.

Noticing this, you had taken a step back. You didn’t need a bond to know what he wanted to do; to scoop you up in his arms and hold you close. And as much as you desired to give in, you refuse to do so. “I’ll ask again… What do you want, Skywalker?”

Despite your actions, he still reached out for you. Long fingers tentatively grazing and touching your side, before you slapped them away. “Fine,” he sighed in defeat, shoulders slumping. “I came here to talk to you…to try to make things right. Please…can I come in?”

You should have turned him away right then and there. But he looked so lost, so pathetic…you just couldn’t. “All right,” you huffed, stepping aside. “Get in here, don’t need you attracting unwanted attention.”

Ani perked up a bit and gave a small nod. “Thanks,” he muttered, quickly dipping inside.

The scene was all too familiar. Him sneaking into your shared quarter late at night. You both trying to contain your enthusiasms while you snuck off to your room. Hoping your master would remain in his deep slumber or, in instances like this, grateful to have him away on some kind of solo mission.

However, one thing was different…

“I’m surprised you’re here,” you said spitefully, closing the door behind you. “Shouldn’t you be at your precious, little senator’s apartment?”

You watched him flinch, your words clearly having the effect you hoped they would have. “No,” he replied, placing his big hands on your arms. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

“Oh, really? Is that so?” You laughed, a hint of mockery in your tone. “If that’s the case, then why did you go somewhere else? Why did you feel the need to go run off to another woman’s bed, when you had a perfectly good one here?”

His hold on you tightened and he let out a shaky breath. “Okay, I deserved that. You have to hear me out though…please. Please?”

There were so many things you wished to say, to yell. Instead you just stood there; staring up at him, your expression unreadable.

When you didn’t reply, Anakin leaned down a bit. Brushing his lips across yours, whispering softly. “Hatari, I made a huge mistake. I don’t want her, only you. I love-”

“Prove it,” you boldly interrupted, a fiery glint in your eyes. “Show me right now and…I’ll consider reopening the bond.”

Silence fell between you two, the air grew heavy with tension and underlying lust. He was so close; you could feel his hot breath fanning over your face. Lips inches away from one another. “With pleasure,” he chuckled.

Giving you a chaste kiss, he pulled away. You were about to whine in protest, so touched starved, when he slipped out of his robes. Cock springing forth, wonderfully hard and deliciously leaking. That smug smirk on his face.

In an instant, Ani had hooked his strong arms under your thighs. Squeezing them, hiking them up onto his hips. Wrapping them tightly around his waist, pressing you firmly against the door.

Crashing your lips together, you kissed each other hungerly. Your hand reaching and fumbling to position his fat tip at your dripping entrance. “No panties? Were you expecting me, angel?”

“Shut up,” you growled in his ear. “And just kriff me already.”

“Maker you’re sexy when you’re angry,” he groaned. Pushing his impressive length into you, both of you moaning and hissing in unison.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails frantically scratching. As he pounded your needy cunt over and over. Grip nearly painful, fingers digging into and bruising your subtle flesh.

The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the air while he slammed into you. Desperate mewls escaped you from him hitting that perfect, toe-curling spot. The coil in your stomach only winding tighter with each passing moment. “Faster… Kriff… Harder… Going to… Kriff…”

Spurred on by your encouraging words, Anakin’s thrusts grew sloppier. Invisible fingers drawing circles on your clit, trying to coax your orgasm out of you. “M-Me too,” he grunted, face buried in the crook of your neck. “Let go; let it all out f-for me.”

That’s all it took, and you were sent spiraling. Waves of pleasure washing over you. Whole body convulsing around him. Making him crash, spilling his hot cum deep inside you. All that pent up energy finally getting released.

You two stayed like that for a minute or two. Catching your breath, foreheads pressed together. Sighing in relief and happiness as your bond reopened.

“Missed you,” you giggled.

“Missed you too,” he laughed softly. “Forgive me?”

A wide, slightly twisted grin spread across your face. “Of course, Ani. But just know, if I ever see you with that little senator again… I’ll have to make you ‘prove it’ in a more aggressive way.”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @cacti5539, @wifeofasith, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen

231 notes · View notes

moonyasnow · 25 days ago

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It is now 00:00 of January 18th for me, which meaaaaaans...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MALLEUS MY BELOVED

Here's his and Irina's sleepwear next to each other~ ☺️

You have no idea how much I love how opposite they are- or at least APPEAR to be

Here's Malleus in this gorgeous ensemble; a tunic (I FORGOT THE NAME), pants and a gorgeously detailed shawl that looks to be made of silk

And then Irina in an incredibly old, oversized shirt worn thin and unevenly colored from use and COVERED in lint pills. And she got it second-hand (Also if you can guess which book the quote is from you get a cookie It's her favorite)

But INSIDE, they're both incredibly clingy, borderline yanderes who grew up feeling incredibly lonely and without a lot of affection and are now desperate for it They're perfect for each other <3<3

Also

When Irina is tired, she usually loses most of her self-control, and all of her internal filter. So seeing him laying next to her, holding her... She just can't help but get stuck staring at him, holding his face in her hands. Sometimes she even kisses him in his sleep.

Just wondering what she did to deserve him— how come SHE'S the one who gets to be in his arms, to wake up with him, and run her fingers through his hair.

And her kiss often causes Malleus to wake up (obvious Sleeping Beauty reference is obvious)

AND I COULDN'T RESIST THE URGE SO HERE- HAVE A CHIBI VERSION TOO

AGH THE CUTIES (and yes their height difference really is that big. There's a 41cm difference between 193cm and 152cm)

@another-random-paradise @thehollowwriter @faefum @cactus13-rolloflammesimp @beneathsakurashade

@nyx-of-night @theolivetree123 @babyghoul138 @skibidibabygirl @screamintoad

@gingacat @buttholesparkles @scint1llat3 @jadelover69 @angelwishess

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#twst #twisted wonderland #mallina 🐉x🐰#malleyuu #malleus x oc #malleus draconia x oc #🐰irina #malleus draconia #👁️👁️hngggg…dragon boy

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earthlybeam · 3 days ago

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Can you please write headcannons for rings of power elves where they see the reader in nothing but an oversized tunic or an outfit considered to be revealing.

(I am so sorry this is my first time ever requesting I'm not sure what I'm doing or if a request like this is allowed). Thank you for your time :)

Gil-Galad, Celebrimbor version below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The night had settled in, the vast silence of Lindon broken only by the crackling of the hearth. The glow from the fire cast flickering shadows on the stone walls of the guest chambers, where you were momentarily alone, waiting for your host—Gil-galad. You had tried to ease the tension of the evening, slipping into something comfortable. The oversized tunic, soft and loose, was more of an afterthought. As it fell loosely over your form, you couldn’t help but feel a bit vulnerable. It draped too freely, slipping from your shoulder just enough to expose more of your skin than you intended. Still, it was late, and you were in the privacy of your chambers. You’d never admit how it made you feel, but standing there now, you realized it might not be the most fitting attire for someone of his station.

You heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching, and a quiet but unmistakable feeling washed over you: Gil-galad was near. You hesitated for a moment, before deciding to step into his view. As you emerged from the shadows, your heart pounded with uncertainty. Gil-galad, as regal and composed as always, stood at the doorway. He had not expected this moment. His eyes locked onto you immediately, the very air around him tightening. His gaze shifted, traveling over you with a deliberation that spoke volumes, yet not a word escaped his lips.

For a split second, you saw the High King falter. His features, usually so controlled, betrayed the briefest flicker of surprise, followed by the subtle tightening of his jaw, and a quiet breath he didn’t quite mean to release. He stood still, his tall figure almost towering against the warm glow of the hearth. He was a king, yes, but in this moment, you could see the man behind the ruler, wrestling with something deeper. His eyes remained fixed on you, an odd mixture of admiration, concern, and something more indefinable—a silent conflict he would never fully voice.

Gil-galad’s voice was calm when he finally spoke, though there was a quiet tension threading his words. “You are… most unexpected.” His gaze remained steady, not wandering, but neither was it warm. It was distant, perhaps too controlled. His eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, seemed to soften just slightly, and yet, he maintained his distance. “You must forgive me, but such attire is…” He paused, choosing his words with great care. “Not what I would have anticipated for an audience with a king.” His voice, deep and soft, carried the weight of someone who had lived through countless battles, and yet, there was a subtle tremor in his tone. A king could face armies, but how could he face this?

You stood before him, feeling an uncomfortable vulnerability creeping up your spine, but there was no turning back now. You tilted your head, perhaps in defiance, perhaps in curiosity. “I am not here to be a display of propriety, my lord,” you answered, your voice steady, though your heart raced. “The tunic is what I felt most at ease in, considering the hour. I meant no offense.” There was an odd mixture of playfulness and challenge in your tone, but it did not go unnoticed by Gil-galad. His jaw tightened for a moment, but his eyes never left you. He was clearly taking a moment to reassess his reaction, and though he had the authority to correct you, he seemed reluctant to do so—perhaps even uncertain.

“I did not mean to suggest offense,” he replied slowly, his voice quieter now, almost introspective. “But… you must understand, the ways of the Noldor are not so forgiving.” His words carried a heavy sense of responsibility, of tradition. “As High King, I must maintain a certain standard—one that has been carefully preserved across many ages.” But even in his words, you could sense the weight of his restraint. Beneath it, there was something else—a flicker, something more human, perhaps even appreciative. Gil-galad was not blind to your beauty, but it was clear that he struggled with how to reconcile the moment with his sense of duty.

He took a cautious step toward you, the distance between you shrinking slightly, yet he still kept a respectful distance. His gaze softened then, as if fighting to keep his emotions in check. “Though I cannot say I fully understand the choice of your attire,” he continued, his voice low, almost regretful, “I trust that you are in my house, and my care. Your comfort is of the utmost importance.” There was something deeply sincere in his words, the earnestness cutting through the tension. But then, his eyes narrowed slightly, a rare flicker of vulnerability breaking through the composed shell he kept so well-guarded.

“Still,” he said, almost in a whisper, “I would not want you to feel that you must dress in a manner that is—” He stopped, clearly wrestling with his own thoughts. “—inappropriate for the company you keep.” There was an undeniable softness now, a quiet understanding that seemed to flicker in his eyes. And then, as though unable to hold back, he added with a certain warmth, “You need not worry about offending me, not in that way.” The fire crackled in the background, but for a moment, everything felt still between you both. His words had softened, and the cold distance between you had been bridged, even if only a fraction.

A small silence stretched between you before you spoke again. “I didn’t wish to offend, my lord,” you replied, this time with a quiet smile that softened the edges of the tension. “But I also will not change simply to meet expectations. I’ve come to appreciate the freedom here in Lindon, where the weight of formality does not press so heavily.” Gil-galad’s lips twitched, as though considering your words. The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly, but there was still a deep wariness in his eyes.

“You have my respect,” he finally said, his voice steady again, but tinged with a quiet affection. “I only wish to ensure your well-being here.” He gave you a brief, almost imperceptible nod, his manner returning to the dignified King that he was. But you could see it—there, just behind his usual calm—was a shift. Perhaps in his perception of you. And for a fleeting moment, you could almost feel him reconsidering the nature of his authority, realizing that it wasn’t just his kingdom or his people that mattered. It was something… more. In that silence, the space between you two felt less like a ruler and a subject and more like two people, navigating a moment too delicate for words.

Another version

The chambers of Lindon were quiet, illuminated only by the warm flicker of the hearth casting soft golden light against the stone walls. Outside, the sound of the distant sea hummed faintly, a soothing melody to the stillness of the night. Gil-galad approached the door to check on you, his steps measured, though his mind was burdened with the weight of countless responsibilities. He knocked gently and entered without waiting for a reply—an unspoken trust lingering between you both. His regal bearing filled the room as he stepped inside, his silver and blue robes trailing behind him.

His gaze fell on you immediately, standing by the hearth. You shifted slightly, the loose tunic—his tunic—hanging off your frame in an oversized, almost haphazard fashion. The fabric, fine and delicate, slipped slightly from your shoulder, revealing more than propriety might deem appropriate. It was clear you hadn’t planned to be seen like this, but there was no retreat now.

Gil-galad paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his otherwise composed face. His sharp eyes softened almost imperceptibly as he took in the sight before him. He said nothing at first, his lips pressed together, but the faintest upward twitch of his mouth betrayed him. “Is this… intentional?” he finally asked, his voice calm but tinged with amusement. His tone carried that regal authority he couldn’t quite put down, even in moments of informality.

Your cheeks warmed under his steady gaze, though you managed to keep your composure. “It wasn’t,” you admitted, smoothing the fabric awkwardly. “Your people insisted I change into something more comfortable while my clothes dried. They thought this was appropriate, apparently.”

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow, stepping closer, his tall figure seeming to fill the room. “And of all the garments available in Lindon, they chose mine?” He folded his arms across his chest, his tone measured, though there was a glimmer of teasing curiosity in his eyes. “It was handed to me,” you countered, meeting his gaze with defiance. “Do you think I would have picked this on purpose?”

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable now as his eyes flickered to where the tunic hung loosely on your frame. The delicate slip of fabric from your shoulder caught his attention for just a moment too long, and he quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat. “What a king’s tunic handed to my guest?” he mused aloud, his voice calm but edged with curiosity. “I don’t think it’s coincidence.” His eyes met yours again, now glinting with subtle amusement, though his tone remained regal.

“Either my attendants have a very peculiar sense of humor… or they’re trying to make a statement.” “A statement?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware oversized clothes could be so political.”

“In this case,” he said smoothly, stepping closer, his towering presence filling the space between you, “it speaks volumes. A guest wearing the High King’s own tunic—one that just so happens to leave… much to the imagination—could be seen as more than just a matter of convenience.” His gaze dipped briefly, almost involuntarily, to where the fabric hung loosely at your collarbone, before he lifted his eyes once more, this time determined to hold your gaze. You scoffed lightly, refusing to let him fluster you. “So what you’re saying is… your attendants are meddling?” “Perhaps,” he admitted, his lips curving ever so slightly into a knowing smile. “But if so, they’ve chosen an interesting method. One that, I’ll admit, has achieved its desired effect.”

“Oh?” you asked, crossing your arms, though the action only caused the tunic to shift further on your frame. “And what effect would that be?” His smile didn’t falter, though his gaze softened as he studied you. “To catch my attention,” he said simply, the honesty “But It… suits you,” he said, though his voice had dropped just slightly, betraying an edge of something softer. “Though it may not be the most modest choice for an evening in my company.”

You couldn’t resist a small, sly smile. “Oh? Does the High King of the Noldor find himself distracted so easily?” His lips parted in surprise, and for once, the ever-composed Gil-galad looked caught off guard. “Hardly,” he replied after a beat, though his tone lacked conviction. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t ensure your comfort… and dignity.”

“Comfort, yes,” you quipped, brushing at the loose fabric. “Dignity? I’d argue that wearing the High King’s tunic is quite dignified, don’t you think?” A soft chuckle escaped him, the sound rare but warm. “You make a fair point. Though I might suggest a sash, at least,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the loose drape of the tunic. His eyes, despite his best efforts, returned briefly to your shoulder before he turned away slightly, as if to grant you some privacy.

“You’re flustered,” you observed, a teasing edge to your voice. “I didn’t think the great Gil-galad could be thrown off by something so trivial.” He glanced back at you, his expression composed once more, though there was a faint, mischievous glimmer in his eyes now. “Flustered? No,” he said smoothly, stepping closer again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I am merely… amused.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “Amused. Of course.” Gil-galad tilted his head, studying you for a long moment, his gaze gentler now, more reflective. “Perhaps I am also…” He paused, searching for the right word. “…Intrigued.”

“By?” you prompted, your heart beating faster under his intense, albeit softened, gaze. “You,” he said simply, his voice carrying the weight of honesty that felt inescapable. “You have a way of turning the mundane into something extraordinary, even unintentionally.” For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, and the air between you seemed heavier, charged with unspoken words. Finally, you broke the silence, crossing your arms playfully. “So… should I return this tunic, then? Or are you intrigued enough to let me keep it?”

Gil-galad’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile, the kind that softened his usual stoicism. “Keep it,” he said, his voice warm. “Though I would ask that you not wear it into the council chambers. I fear my advisors might not handle it as gracefully as I.” You laughed, a sound that filled the quiet room, and his smile deepened as he watched you. For all the weight he carried as High King, in that moment, he seemed lighter, as if your presence offered him a fleeting reprieve from the burdens of his crown.

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

The guest chambers of Eregion are quiet, the only sound being the crackling of the fire in the hearth. The room is dimly lit, with the flickering light casting long shadows across the stone walls. The warmth from the fire contrasts with the cold, distant feel of the stonework, making the atmosphere feel almost like a refuge. Celebrimbor had heard of your arrival, and being the ever-diligent lord, he had come to check on you. He is a man who’s meticulous in his work, but even more so when it comes to the well-being of those under his care. His footsteps are measured, soft, as he enters your chambers, expecting to find you resting or perhaps engaged in quiet thought. But as the door creaks open, his gaze lands on you in the most unexpected of ways.

You stand near the fire, one of the oversized tunics slipping slightly off your shoulder, the loose fabric falling softly around your body. It’s a simple outfit, but in the dim light, it seems almost… delicate. The tunic reveals more than he’s accustomed to seeing, and the effect is immediate. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You, standing there with your own uncertainty as you feel the fabric shift against your skin, and him, frozen in the doorway. Celebrimbor’s gaze sharpens as he takes in the sight of you, the soft blush of surprise creeping across his usually composed features. His heart races, and he does his best to contain it, but his breath catches in his throat. This is a sight he’s not used to—no matter how well he knows you, this feels… different.

“Forgive me,” Celebrimbor says softly, his voice breaking slightly, as he quickly averts his gaze, his hand instinctively reaching for the doorframe to steady himself. His mind is racing as he tries to regain his composure, but the softness in his tone betrays the quiet vulnerability he feels. “I did not intend to… intrude upon you in such a state.” You stand there, taking in the awkwardness of the moment. It’s not as though you’re ashamed of how you’re dressed, but you sense the unease in his voice, the way his eyes seem to dance around you without settling in one place. “I didn’t expect you so soon,” you reply, your voice quiet, the slight uncertainty in it perhaps matching his own. You adjust the tunic slightly, but it only seems to shift more, revealing just a little more skin. “I wasn’t expecting company, and—”

“No, no, of course,” Celebrimbor interrupts gently, though his words sound strained, as if he’s trying to make it clear that he’s the one out of place, not you. His expression falters for a moment, caught between concern and something else entirely. “It’s just… I had not meant to see you thus.” You can’t help but chuckle softly at his discomfort, the situation feeling almost surreal. “I didn’t think it would bother you. I’m not… embarrassed, you know.” You meet his eyes then, a slight challenge in your gaze, testing how far he might allow himself to relax. Celebrimbor stammers, blinking rapidly as though his mind is racing to find the words. “I… I am not bothered, of course not. But you must understand… it is—” He stops himself, as though considering his words carefully. His tone softens, and the words finally spill out in a quiet admission, “It is… hard for me to remain unmoved by your presence. You… have a way of unsettling me, my lord.”

You pause at this. His words linger in the air, heavy with something more than just formality. There’s an undertone of sincerity, of something deeper that he struggles to express, and you realize this situation is more than just discomfort—it’s an internal battle for him. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to step into the room more fully. His eyes meet yours now, steady but still holding a hint of vulnerability. “I have spent my life crafting, forging… creating things, and yet,” he pauses, his voice lowering slightly, “I am no more prepared for this than a novice smith before the forge.”

You notice the way he’s struggling, the way his posture shifts between wanting to look at you and wanting to look away. There’s no malice in his eyes, no anger—only a careful caution, as if afraid to break something fragile, both the moment and you. “I didn’t mean to cause you distress,” you say gently, stepping a little closer. You meet his gaze more directly now, no longer feeling quite so uncertain yourself. “It’s just… clothes. A tunic. There’s nothing for you to worry about.” But Celebrimbor’s eyes soften, even as he tries to appear calm. “I know. But I cannot help how it makes me feel.” He takes another careful step toward you, closer now, his eyes never quite leaving yours. He’s attempting to regain some of his usual control, but you can see the strain in his gaze. “Forgive me for my weakness… It is just that, you, standing there…” He shakes his head lightly. “I must admit, you are more beautiful than I ever expected.”

The silence between you two deepens as his words linger. He lowers his voice once more, almost as if confessing something. “I fear that… I could never simply view you as a guest, not anymore.” There is something almost painful in the way he says it, as if he’s come to the realization that it’s no longer so simple, not with you. You study him for a moment, taking in his discomfort and the vulnerability hidden beneath his usually confident exterior. You smile gently, stepping closer until you’re standing right in front of him, so close now that he can feel the warmth of your presence, the heat of the fire reflecting in your eyes.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Celebrimbor,” you say, your voice warm and steady. “I won’t bite. Not unless you ask nicely.” You chuckle lightly, trying to ease the tension. He glances at you, a small, rueful smile pulling at the corner of his lips, though the seriousness of his words hasn’t quite left his voice. “I would not dare to ask, my lord.” There’s a pause, and in that moment, the weight of the quiet shifts. Perhaps it’s the proximity, or perhaps the sincerity of the words shared between you, but Celebrimbor seems to breathe a little easier. “I… I don’t want to make this awkward,” you say, offering him a small smile, hoping to ease him further. “Let’s just say, I’m not shy, and neither should you be.”

He nods slowly, though there’s still a flicker of hesitation in his gaze. “I do not wish to make you feel uncomfortable either,” he says softly, stepping back, though not too far. “But you must understand, you make me want to be a better man, one who does not stumble in the presence of such grace.” You pause, taking in the warmth of his words, the sincerity of the feelings that he’s only now learning to express. And as the room falls into another moment of quiet, you realize that for all his nobility, for all his skill as a smith and a lord, Celebrimbor, too, is learning the way of vulnerability. And it’s in this exchange—a moment of uncertainty between you both—that you understand that his heart is as much a creation as any masterpiece forged in the fires of Eregion.

Another version

The quiet chamber of Eregion is bathed in a soft orange glow, the flickering hearthlight dancing across the carved stone walls. The air smells faintly of cedarwood and the faint metallic tang that seems to cling to Celebrimbor’s presence, no doubt from his endless hours spent in the forge. You stand just outside the threshold of the guest chamber, dressed in a tunic that you borrowed—or rather, quietly pilfered—from Celebrimbor’s collection.

It’s too large for you, the loose fabric falling to your mid-thigh and sliding off one shoulder despite your attempts to adjust it. The sleeves hang comically long, draping over your hands. You shift slightly, pulling at the hem to keep it in place, your cheeks warm under the weight of your own daring. You’re not sure why you didn’t grab your own clothes, but it’s too late for that now.

Just as you muster the courage to step inside, the door creaks open on its own. Celebrimbor is standing there, his hand still on the latch. His silver-grey hair, tied neatly, catches the firelight, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He’s dressed in his usual attire, though his tunic is slightly rumpled, as though he’s been distracted by something.

His eyes find you instantly, and the sharp inhalation he makes is barely audible but unmistakable. For a moment, he freezes, his gaze lingering on the tunic—on his tunic—before his eyes travel to your exposed shoulder, your flushed face, and back to the fabric that clings in places it shouldn’t. “Ah… I see…” he begins, though his voice falters slightly, a rare occurrence for the ever-composed elf lord. He clears his throat and tries again, his tone soft yet colored with something you can’t quite place. “You’re… wearing my tunic.”

“I am,” you reply, attempting nonchalance, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrays you. “I was cold, and this was… convenient.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, your bare feet brushing against the cool stone floor. Celebrimbor’s brow furrows, not in displeasure, but in something closer to concern—or perhaps disbelief. “Convenient,” he repeats slowly, his voice tinged with a quiet amusement that only adds to your flustered state. He steps into the room fully, closing the door behind him. “It is… large on you.” His eyes flicker to your shoulder again, where the fabric has slipped, exposing more skin than you’d intended.

“I noticed,” you quip back, tugging at the neckline in a futile attempt to fix it. “You Noldor seem to favor oversized designs.” He tilts his head, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “I assure you, it is not the tunic’s design that is at fault. It was… not made for you.” His words are gentle, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—an unspoken thought he doesn’t quite voice.

You fold your arms, the sleeves bunching awkwardly as you meet his gaze. “If it bothers you, I’ll take it off,” you say, your tone half-teasing, half-challenging. You’re not sure what reaction you’re expecting, but you don’t anticipate the sudden widening of his eyes or the way he quickly averts his gaze, his composure slipping further.

“No!” he blurts out, then immediately winces at his own outburst. His voice lowers, softer now, almost reverent. “No, it does not… bother me. It’s simply…” He hesitates, searching for the right words, his hand absently brushing the back of his neck. “It is a sight I did not anticipate.”

“Is that a bad thing?” you ask, stepping closer, emboldened by his visible discomfort. “No,” he answers immediately, his voice firm despite the faint blush creeping onto his pale cheeks. “It is not a bad thing.” His gaze returns to you, softer now, and his lips part as though he wants to say more. Instead, he clears his throat again and straightens, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Though I would suggest you sit by the fire. You’ll catch a chill otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t I be warmer if you stayed?” you counter, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. It’s worth it just to see the way his usually composed demeanor falters entirely. He stares at you for a moment, clearly grappling with how to respond. Finally, he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You are… impossible,” he murmurs, though there’s warmth in his voice, and perhaps a hint of admiration.

“And you’re endearing,” you reply, turning toward the fire but glancing back at him over your shoulder. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me, Celebrimbor.” His sharp intake of breath is audible this time, and you catch the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he follows you to the hearth, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

#Gil galad #gil galad x you #Gil galad x reader #gil galad supremacy #gil galad of lindon #king ereinion #gil galad high king #Celebrimbor #Celebrimbor x you #Celebrimbor x reader #lord celebrimbor x reader #celebrimbor of eregion #lord Celebrimbor #lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr elves #gil galad rings of power #celebrimbor rings of power

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peonysgreenhouse · 3 months ago

Text

and still, i will live here.

summary: after the siege of weisshaupt, emmrich helps rook bathe. (rook x emmrich volkarin)

tags: 3.1k words, she/her pronouns for rook, rook is an elf/rogue/mourn watcher, bathing/washing, fluff, hurt/comfort, pre-relationship, rook is bad at feelings, emmrich is not.

Rook stands at the bottom of the staircase and mentally counts the number of steps that lead up to the second floor. She wonders if it would be easier to just curl up underneath the meeting table; skin soaked with blight and ichor and all.

Such exhaustion felt too big for her body. Sure, she had scrubbed the headstones in the Memorial Gardens from sunrise to sundown as punishment many times, but that weariness was manageable. This was not.

If she would’ve just died at Weisshaupt, at least she wouldn’t have to stand, and persist. An eternal rest sounds nice for both her body and her conscience.

It’s Manfred’s chattering that catches her hazy attention. He ambles over to her, bones rattling with each step. It’s a pleasant sound, familiar, and it’s almost enough to bring a smile to her weary face.

Manfred makes a noise akin to a screeching, and starts to slowly walk up the stairs. With each step, Manfred turns to her, as if beckoning her to follow. Or perhaps, he assumed that her idling by the bottom of the staircase meant she didn’t know how to use the stairs. He stops at the fifth step and hisses again, turning to face her, and takes another step down.

Rook does smile at that. She lets out a sigh, and relents, slowly following Manfred up the stairs. Rook clutches at her side as she walks up the stairs; exhaustion weighs heavy on her shoulders, draped like an oversized coat.

Manfred hisses happily when she reaches the top of the stairs, and she huffs out a laugh, turning to her room as she bids the spirit goodnight.

“Rook?” Emmrich. Rook turns to face her companion, trying to will a smile to her face. She didn’t want him to worry.

“Emmrich.” She says, quiet and fond. “Need something? I’m about to head to bed.”

Emmrich raises an eyebrow, his fingers steepled in front of him. Even after Weisshaupt he still looked put together; prim and dandy as he always did. She’s almost envious, she can only imagine how unkempt she looked in comparison.

“Covered in all that…” He makes a vague gesture, cutting off his words as if to not offend. “You should at least bathe first. Clean off all those cuts and bruises. I would hate for them to get infected.”

Rook lets out another breathy, tired laugh. “I’m afraid I’d fall asleep in the tub and drown.”

Emmrich’s expression softens. It makes something in Rook’s chest tighten uncomfortably.

“I would be happy to aid you. But only if you’re comfortable with it.” He suggests, kindly.

“Are you sure?” Rook asks, but the thought of a warm bath does seem nice. Especially if she got to collapse in bed afterwards. “You fought today too, surely you’re tired as well–”

“Yes, but I wasn’t in the thick of it like you were.” He answers, lacing his fingers together. “You made sure of that. Allow me to repay you in what small way I can.”

Rook doesn’t have the energy to protest like she might normally. She acquiesces with a nod. “Alright. That would be nice.”

“Excellent.” He says, clapping his hands together, his jewelry clinking as he does. “I’ll draw a bath.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Rook manages to traipse her way to her room and grabs herself a clean pair of comfy clothes; a thoroughly-worn tunic she had nicked from a friend in the Mourn Watchers, and a loose pair of breeches. She gives the mirror sitting on top of her chester drawer a wide berth.

She walks back to Emmrich’s room, tracing a finger along the stone walls as she goes. The door was already propped open, the smell of chamomile and lavender enticing her to step closer. She peeks inside, and sees Emmrich unfolding a screen divider, as if to give the bathing area a little privacy.

“Emmrich?” You call, and he stands up to full height, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Ah, Rook!” He answers, folding his hands together in front of him. “Come in, feel free to set your clean clothes anywhere you’d like. And do tell me if the water is too hot or too cold.”

Ever the gentleman, Emmrich turns around as she walks towards the tub. Rook thinks it's silly, no doubt all their companions have seen her in worse states than being in the nude; crawling out of blight pustules or wading through the entrails of failed Venatori rituals seemed like normalcy now. Sometimes it took multiple washes to rid her armor of the rot.

Still, Rook is thankful for the privacy. Emmrich was a kindness she knew she didn’t deserve.

Rook sets her clean clothes on the floor near the tub, changing out of her armor as quickly as she can. Even raising her arms to pull the leather over her head felt grueling, but Emmrich remains with his back turned the whole time. Rook leaves her dirtied armor in a pile on the floor. She was thankful the blood and blight had dried already – it would take longer to clean, but at least she wasn’t staining his brick flooring. She could almost hear the lecture he’d give her if she did.

Slowly, Rook sinks into the bathtub. The water is nice and hot, and the scent of the bath oils make her eyelids feel heavy. She pulls her knees up to her chest.

“Emmrich?” She says, clearing her throat after her words come out hoarse. “You can turn around now.”

“Wonderful.” Emmrich answers. He claps his hands together, and it’s only then she realizes that he’s lost all the finery he usually wears. No rings or bracelets, no glove, his vest discarded and his yellow collared shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Communal bathing was normal in Nevarra, but this is different, intimate.

“No need to worry, Rook.” He assures, as if sensing her discomfort. “Tell me if you wish for me to stop, and I’ll leave. No questions asked. But for now, allow me to take care of you.”

Rook sucks in a breath on instinct, her weary brain searching for something to say to ease the slowly surmounting urge to flee.

“...Right.” She says with a breathy laugh, sinking further into the tub. Rook’s eyes follow Emmrich as he grabs a few bottles out of a drawer, as well as a wash rag. He pulls up a stool to the side of the tub and sits down, setting the bottles on the floor beside him.

“I noticed you were short of breath when you addressed us tonight.” Emmrich says, dipping the wash rag into the bath water and wringing it out. “Did you hurt your ribs perhaps?”

A man as learned in Anatomy as he was would notice that, Rook thinks bitterly. Her hand subconsciously comes up to her side underneath the water. “Yeah, I…” She starts. “The Archdemon got me pretty good with the back of its tail. It’s not an open wound, but… It’s got some pretty nasty bruising.”

Emmrich nods. “If you’d like, I can take a look at it for you after we get you washed up.”

“I’ll be okay. I’m sure you’re tired from… everything that’s happened today. Wouldn’t want you exhausting yourself on my account.”

“Nonsense.” He says firmly. “If it is just bruises like you say, it will take little effort to expedite the healing process.”

Again, such kindness. It makes her throat feel thick with uncomfortable emotion. Rook didn’t know how to handle his sincerity; it felt antithetical to everything she was.

“I’ll just take a healing potion before bed.” She answers, tilting her head towards the far wall so he can’t see her flustered expression. “I’ll be alright.”

“If that’s what you think is best. But know my offer will always stand.” Emmrich says, not wanting to press on an already open wound. “Now, if you would…” Emmrich scoots his chair a little closer. “My dear, we must have a talk about how you handle yourself in battle. Not even Taash ends up as messy as you.”

That makes Rook laugh earnestly, her bruises aching as she does. She feels much more comfortable with this conversation. “Not everyone can stay behind and shoot… magic beams like you.” Rook says, a playful tone to her voice. “A rogue’s gotta get her hands dirty.”

Emmrich pauses as if he was going to correct her, but ultimately just sighs. “Yes, it would be fine if it were just your hands.” Emmrich brings the cloth forward to her shoulder. “You have blood inside your ears.”

“I mean...” Rook shrugs, sucking in a breath as he begins to gently scrub the dried blood from the side of her neck. She feels the sting as he cleans out one of the fresh cuts right above her clavicle, just shallow enough that it didn’t tear into anything important. “I have big ears. Hard to keep ‘em from getting involved in the action.”

“Still, you should be more careful, Rook.” Emmrich says, reaching up to wipe off a smear of blood off her cheek. The warmth of the cloth feels nice against her skin. “I have the utmost confidence in your skills, but you do have a tendency towards recklessness.”

“You sound like Myrna.” She mumbles, tilting her head down so he can clean a cut right above her eyebrow. Rook didn’t even realize she had gotten that one, her body felt like one giant ball of hurt. It was hard to pinpoint the little injuries.

Emmrich seemed to spot them all, though.

“I can tell Myrna cares a great deal for your well-being.” He says, rinsing the cloth out in the bath water. He wrings it out once again; the water takes on a reddish hue. “As do I. As does everyone here, for that matter.”

Rook opens her mouth to respond, but then Emmrich brings the cloth up to one of her ears. It’s just a quick swipe, but it makes her shiver. Instinctively, Rook jerks her head back, her cheeks warm as she pulls away from his hand.

“Did I hurt you?” Emmrich asks, eyes wide as he pulls his hand away, laying the cloth over the edge of the tub. “I apologize, I didn’t notice any cuts there. Do you want me to take a look?”

“No, no…” Rook says with a huff, bringing a hand up to rub at the spot he had touched, trying to play off her overreaction. She can feel the flush in her skin. “I’m just sensitive there. I’ll get it.” Rook brushes her hair back, picking up the cloth and scrubbing at both of her ears, unable to make eye contact with Emmrich as she does so.

When she thinks she’s gotten herself all clean, she looks back at Emmrich. She notices that his cheeks have taken on a rosy hue. Rook clears her throat.

“Did I get everything?” She asks, turning her head from side to side. Emmrich seems to regain his bearings quickly. He nods.

“Yes, it looks like it.” He says. “And I apologize, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I wasn’t aware that elven ears were so… sensitive, as you said.”

Rook snorts. “I guess that wouldn’t be in the textbooks, huh?” She says, teasing. “That information would be saved for more… raunchy works of literature.”

“Even so, it is fascinating. I shall keep it in mind.” Emmrich says, a playful spark in his green eyes. “Now, allow me to wash your hair, my dear. Scoot forward, if you will.”

Rook does as he asks, the ends of her hair touching the top of the water and sticking to her skin in inky strands. He scoops the water gently and lets it wet her fluffy hair. She wrinkles her nose as she sees the water turn red as it runs down her shoulders.

“...Okay, maybe I did get a little carried away today.” She says with a sigh, her shoulders slumping forward. In the stillness of Emmrich’s room, his gentle combing of his slender fingers through her wet hair, it’s hard for her to hold back the tide of emotion she felt about Weisshaupt.

It felt odd to even be alive. Breathing air that was borrowed from another. She had reassured Davrin earlier that it was not a sin to be alive, and she had meant it when she said it to him. But she was their leader, and she made sure to tidy her room before she had left.

“Would you like to talk about it?” He asks, sensing her hesitance. His words are as gentle as his hands as he massages shampoo into her hair. It smells earthy, like moss and patchouli; it reminds her of the smell of the Memorial Gardens after the morning dew.

It’s comforting, familiar. Rook takes a breath, lungs aching in protest, but the feeling of his fingers scratching at her scalp dull that ache. She doesn’t remember ever being touched so gently.

“About… today?” She asks. Rook absentmindedly traces her fingers over the surface of the water, watching as it ripples through the tub. Where would she even start? “I don’t even know what to say. It was awful.”

Emmrich nods, letting the shampoo rest in her hair for a moment. “It was. So much loss of life, it’s almost hard to believe such a thing could happen on such a scale…” Emmrich puts a hand on her shoulder, brushing his thumb over her bruised collarbone. Unlike her own, his hands are soft. “But you did all that you could. Without you, Rook, without Davrin… I fear the cost may have been much higher. You mitigated the loss of life. You made Ghilan’nain mortal, that is a feat none but you can brag about.”

Rook turns her head, looking up into his eyes for anger or disappointment. Those emotions she could work with – sincerity she could not. It makes her tired eyes sting with emotion.

Rook nods, slowly, his words slowly seeping into her skin. She wonders if the heroes of the past ever felt so lost. Did the Hero of Ferelden wonder if she could’ve done more, fist clenched tightly in her lover’s tunic as both herself and the Archdemon breathed their last? Did the Champion of Kirkwall ever feel hopeless against the city that took and took and took ever more still from her? Did the Herald of Andraste ever regret not striking the head of the wolf that nipped at her heels?

Even the thought of lumping herself in with them makes her feel like she’s overestimated her importance. She feels any of her companions could easily replace her.

“We all did that, together.” Rook says, softly. She’s thankful when Emmrich starts to rinse out her hair; the bath water was starting to get cold.

“And yet you’re the only one with blight in your hair.” Emmrich replies, a small smile on his lips. He scoops another handful of water over her head, running his fingers through the tangles, gently brushing out any knots. “All of us came back alive. You told us earlier that you considered that a win, it’s time you believed that, too.”

“I… do believe it. If anything would’ve happened to you all–”

“You’re alive as well, Rook.” Emmrich says, pausing his ministrations to look her in the eye. Rook feels she can’t look away, not now. “And what a wonderful thing that is.”

“I…” Rook starts, but once again she’s left without any witty retort. “You truly believe so?”

Emmrich softens, his voice breathy. “Yes, of course I do, my dear.” He combs his fingers through her hair once more, just to touch her. “I am so grateful to have met you, even if it had to be under circumstances such as these.”

Rook laughs, genuine, rubbing at one of her eyes. Damn, she must be tired if she was letting herself get teary-eyed in front of him. “I’m sure we would’ve met anyways. Eventually.” She says, her smile sheepish as she leans back against the back of the tub. “Or maybe we have met before. The Mourn Watch isn’t that big of an organization.”

“I would’ve never forgotten anyone as wonderful as you.” Emmrich answers. “Now, before you catch a cold, let’s get you out of the bath. Do you need help standing?”

Rook shakes her head. Even as tired as she was, the thought of him helping her out of the bath was a mortifying one. “No, it’s alright. I’m not so helpless that I need to be carried back to my room.”

Emmrich laughs, his eyes crinkling as he does so. “I know that you are not helpless.” He says, firmly, playfully. “But you can lean on us from time to time. A burden shared is a burden halved, as they say. I know if I were injured you would do the same.”

“I wouldn’t let you get injured in the first place.” Rook mumbles in reply. Emmrich walks behind the dividing curtain that separates the wash tub from the rest of his room, allowing Rook privacy. Slowly, she stands, her vision blurring momentarily as her body adjusts to standing. The cool air of the room makes her shiver as she reaches for a towel to dry herself off with. “But I wouldn’t mind carrying you.”

Emmrich lets out an incredulous huff. “I’m almost a head taller than you. I don’t think that would end well for either of us.”

“I’m up for the challenge.” She teases back, throwing the wet towel over the side of the bath. Rook starts to dress herself, thankful that she brought her baggier clothes. She can’t imagine trying to wrestle her belts around her waist in this state. When she’s done, she reaches down and collects her dirtied armor; it feels heavier in her arms than it had any right being. “Alright, I’m all done. Think I’m gonna go to sleep for three days straight now.”

Rook runs a hand through her wet hair, pushing it out of her eyes. Emmrich turns to face her, a slight smile on his lips. “Ah, well then, I’ll not keep you any longer. Get some rest, my dear. And do let me know if you need me to look at those bruises.”

“Yeah…” She leans against the door frame, feeling like there’s something more she needs to say. Whatever it is, it’s lost in the recesses of her tired mind. “Thanks, Emmrich.”

“It’s no problem at all.” His gaze is gentle, and she turns her head away. Too much emotion for one night. “Sweet dreams, Rook.”

Rook lingers for a moment more, then she turns, leaving the warmth of his room for the stillness of her own. She collapses, boneless and exhausted, onto the chaise lounge in the middle of her room.

Tomorrow would come, and she would be alive to live it. Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing.

#emmrich volkarin #emmrich volkarin x rook #emmrook #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age #datv #fluff #hurt/comfort #fic #expect more of this <3

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