Anime Simp

“Yes, just not very hungry,” you said in your pretty little voice, placing your hand over his and pecking his cheek.

He didn’t buy it. “I can track down some takeaway and we can eat in my dorm, if you’d like,” he offered, wondering if the commotion in the Great Hall was a bit too much for you.

You shook your head, another stunning development. You never turned down takeaway. “I’m fine, baby. Thank you, though.”

“Well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll make one of these sod’s fetch it for you,” he teased, hoping to get a smile out of you. He didn’t.

Draco sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple before turning back to the conversation he was in the middle of with Theo and Pansy. He continued to watch you in his periphery as you started to play with his fingers, twirling his signet ring around and around. As much as he enjoyed the mindless contact, the delicate brush of your skin, he knew this was a nervous habit of yours.

He had half-a-thought to excuse you both, but he knew that would only draw more attention to your melancholy state, which would likely make you feel even worse. He could pick your brain later. Right now, he needed to make sure you were fed.

Casually, he picked up his fork, twirling a bit of his own pasta around the tines. Without breaking away from his conversation, he held the fork up to you, hoping you’d take a bite without really thinking about it. It was a small ritual the two of you developed during lengthy family dinners, something you often did automatically if he offered food to you. He felt you shift forward, your mouth wrap around the small bite, and you ate it.

He squeezed your thigh, a flare of affection making his heart pound. Good girl, he thought, but refrained from saying aloud.

The rest of dinner continued like that, Draco keeping your friends talking and distracted while he fed you small bites of his own dinner, your fingers twined with his in your lap. When he held up a bite and you gave small shake of your head, he knew it was because you were actually full, and he set his fork down, satisfied. For now.

That night in the common room, you were curled up in your chair by the fire, a book open in your lap while everyone pretended to study around you. He watched your eyes, your hands curled around the cover, and you were motionless. No pages turned, no lines devoured.

His worry deepened. Blaise seemed to notice as well, and gave him a curious look, dark brow raised. And of course, Theo caught the exchange, but turned back to his work, pretending he didn’t.

A prickle of suspicion climbed Draco’s neck. Typically, Theo was the first one to make a fuss over someone being in a sour mood due to his inability to tolerate negative emotions, but this time, he stayed silent.

Very odd, indeed.

But he could worry about Theo later. Draco lifted himself from the couch and walked over to you, dropping onto the floor in front of your chair. He tilted his head back, resting it against your shins. You reached down, dragging your fingers through his hair while you continued “reading” your book. He let his eyes flutter closed at the sensation, and tried to think of a way to draw you out of your head.

Lips pressed against his forehead, your perfume wafting over him, and he hummed in appreciation, reaching up to cradle your face. You leaned your cheek into his palm, and he titled his head back a little further to connect your lips in a soft kiss.

Your lips moved against his, brief and tender, and some of his tension unwound. It didn’t seem that you were upset with him, which was a relief. But, he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what exactly was troubling you.

“I’m going to go to bed,” you murmured in his ear, and he blinked in surprise, checking his watch.

It wasn’t even nine o’clock.

“So early, love? Are you feeling alright?” He turned to face you, rising to his knees. The group noticed, but he was too concerned to care. He placed the back of his hand on your forehead, your cheek, your neck, but you waved him away.

“I’m fine, D. Just tired,” you said, averting your eyes from his and rising from your chair.

“Baby—”

You leaned down and kissed him again, cutting off his protest. “I love you, I’ll see you in the morning,” you said, pecking his cheek one more time before walking towards the girls dormitory and ascending the stairs.

Draco slumped back to the ground, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“What did you do to her?” Pansy accused after a moment of tense silence.

“Nothing,” he snapped, though it was mostly toothless.

“She was acting strangely at dinner too,” Blaise noted. “She didn’t even have dessert.”

“Yeah, and she loves those chocolate things—what are they called?” Theo chimed in.

“Cauldron cakes,” Draco answered, glaring at them, irked that they were paying that close of attention to you. That was his job.

“Are you going to follow her?” Blaise asked, glancing at the stairs.

“No, he should give her some space,” Pansy said, giving him a pointed look.

“I’m perfectly capable of managing my girlfriend’s needs. Thank you,” he bit, and they fell quiet. He would leave you be, for now, but if you were still in a funk tomorrow evening, he’d be forced to intervene.

You were decidedly still unlike yourself come the following morning, and when he saw you during your shared Potion’s class. He continued to monitor the situation, trying to be patient like you often asked him to be, but that went out the window when you returned from your Herbology class with Theo in tears.

As soon as Draco saw your red and puffy eyes, he was on his feet. You ran straight into his chest, burying your wet face in his robes and digging your chilled hands into his back, trembling as your tears returned in earnest.

“Darling, what’s happened? What’s going on?” He cooed, wrapping his arms around your shaking torso, petting your hair in an attempt to soothe you. You didn’t respond, just held him tighter as you cried.

Theo tried to slip around the two of you, but Draco pinned him with a glare.

“What happened?” Draco hissed at him.

“Her Flutterby bush is dying,” Theo whispered, and you started to cry harder.

Shit. You’d slaved half the semester over this Flutterby bush in Herbology, it was your pride and joy, and you often stayed after hours with Professor Sprout to tend to it and the rest of the greenhouse. You had the greenest thumb Draco had ever encountered, and that plant was your baby. There was no way it would just suddenly die.

Draco raised a brow, and Theo made a ‘tell you later’ face. He nodded his head to dismiss his friend and turned his attention back to you, his poor, sensitive girl.

“Baby, it’s going to be alright. I’m sure you’ll figure out what’s going on—”

You shook you head. “It doesn’t make sense,” you sniffled, your voice muffled by his shirt. “It was perfectly fine. There’s no bugs or blights, I don’t understand.” You lifted your face, cheeks streaked with tears and lashes spikey, your eyes rimmed with red. The state of you made his heart ache.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispered, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs and pressing a kiss to your nose. “If anyone can save it, you can. You’re brilliant, love.” He used his sleeve to wipe your eyes and your nose before bundling you into his side. “Come on, relax for a bit with Pansy. That’ll help you think a little more clearly, yeah?”

You nodded, letting him deposit you on the couch beside your friend, who immediately abandoned what she was doing to fuss over you.

He kissed the top of your head, satisfied that you were well looked after for the time being. “I love you, I’ll be right back, okay?” He murmured, and you nodded again.

Theo was waiting for him in the hall. “Okay, so don’t get mad,” he said, holding his hands up.

Draco’s anger instantly flared. “Don’t give me a reason to get mad then.”

“She told me not to tell you because she knew you’d get all—” Theo gestured vaguely at Draco. “All…this.”

“Out with it, Nott,” he growled, fully prepared to punch his best friends nose through the back of his skull. What could you possibly want to keep from him?

“We think someone poisoned her plant,” Theo said, grimacing.

Draco froze, rage flaring so suddenly it darkened his vision. “What?” he snarled.

“We can’t say for sure yet,” Theo said hurriedly, trying to get ahead of the oncoming storm. “But there’s this one guy—”

“Who?”

“Reinhardt? Renfield? Something like that, I don’t know, he’s a Gryffindor. But he—Draco, where are you going?”

Draco was already halfway down the hall, formulating a plan in his mind about how to find this guy, and how to make him wish he’d never been born.

Theo grabbed his shoulder. “Listen, I have a better idea than storming the Gryffindor common room,” he said, and Draco paused.

“Go on.”

Draco loitered outside the Greenhouse, hidden by some trees, a stupid plastic ear in his hand. Theo had the other tucked into his robes, and Draco could hear Sprout beginning her lecture through their connection.

Draco sighed. This was ridiculous, he should just waltz in there and figure out exactly who this—

“Hey, y/n,” he heard someone mutter, an unfamiliar male voice, and he immediately held up the ear to listen. “Flutterby’s not lookin’ so good. Maybe I could help clear away some of the dead stuff?”

Draco's ears started ringing so loudly, he almost missed your response.

“I'm killing it just fine on my own, Renley, I don't need any assistance from you.”

He heard Theo snicker in the background, and Draco smiled. Atta girl.

“My mandrakes are thriving, thank you,” Renley replied, his voice tight with indignation. “It's a real shame about yours, though. Probably would have gotten you top marks.”

You didn't respond, and Draco gripped a tree branch to stop himself from charging through the glass to get this audacious fucker.

“Fuck off, Renford,” Theo warned, the feed clouded by his robes rustling.

“It's Renley,” the prick corrected, his voice a little louder, and Draco could practically hear Theo roll his eyes. “So, what do you say, sweetheart?” Sweetheart? Oh, this fucker was a dead man walking. “I'm willing to stay after and help you out. I'm good with poisons—”

“Poison’s?” You asked, a snarky lilt to your voice, and Draco loosed a relieved exhale despite the implication. For the first time in days, you sounded like yourself. “Who said anything about poison?”

“Oh, I—uh—”

“Reindeer, how did you know her plant was poisoned?” Theo prodded, his smirk audible.

“I don't! It's obv—it’s probably not p-poison!” Renley stammered.

“What's this about poison?” Sprout interrupted at the same moment Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle emerged from the treeline.

“Check fucking mate,” Draco mouthed, grinning.

“Professor Sprout, I do believe Renley here just confessed to poisoning y/n’s beloved Flutterby bush,” Theo said.

“Is this true, dearie?” Sprout asked you.

“Yes ma’am, it explains the strange phenomena we noted, as well as the sudden nature of the ailment. Renley’s been taunting me for days, and finally his mouth got ahead of his brain,” you said, poised as a Queen, and Draco was so proud of you it hurt.

Sprout gasped. “Mr. Renley! To Dumbledore's office this instant!”

“Crabbe, Goyle, grab him,” Draco ordered, stuffing the ear into his robes.

The two of them lumbered over the door, staying out of sight until the culprit stepped out into the sunlight, and Goyle grabbed Renley by the shoulders and started to drag him back around the Greenhouse.

“Hey! What the fuck—” his words pinched to a strangled whine when he saw Draco and Blaise waiting a few feet away, arms folded over their chests, completely hidden from the rest of campus.

Goyle shoved him to the ground at Draco's feet, and the coward was already sniveling.

Draco crouched down, nose to nose with the fucker that made his girl miserable, and smiled. “Was it worth it, Renley?” Draco asked, his voice low.

“Look, Malfoy. I didn't mean to—”

Draco didn't give him a chance to finish his paltry excuse and cocked his fist back, slamming his knuckles square in the side of his jaw. The bone crunched under his fist, sending Renley flying sideways in a spray of spit and blood, and Draco rose, clenching and unclenching his aching hand.

Normally, he'd step back and let the others get their hands dirty, but you were his girl. And if anyone was going to defend your honor, it would be him.

“No, no please!” Renley begged when Goyle hauled him back up. Draco punched him again, dead on the nose, then the temple, then the sternum. Goyle let Renley fall, groveling and weeping as blood ran down his face, his eyes already half-swollen shut.

Draco grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head up so he could whisper in his ear. “You're lucky it wasn't poison,” he snarled, and dropped Renley’s head into the dirt. “Leave him on the front steps of the castle,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle, who immediately pulled the boy up and started dragging him back towards the castle.

Blaise chuckled. “That was fucking brutal, mate.”

Draco looked down at his bruised and bloody knuckles, the pain bright and deliciously satisfying, his signet ring splattered with red. “Like I said, he's lucky I didn't decide to poison him.”

The chatter of students filled the air, and he looked up to see the Greenhouse emptying. Theo headed straight for them, glancing at Draco's knuckles and the blood in the grass before breaking out in a wild grin.

“Sorry I missed it,” Theo laughed.

“Where is she?” Draco asked.

“Staying behind to administer the antidote. Sprout is leaving her to ensure Renley is dealt with accordingly.”

“Well, she certainly won't be disappointed,” Blaise snickered.

“So she’s alone?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. He was hoping to clean himself up before seeing you, but wasn't sure he could resist the temptation. Not with his blood still running hot and your smart little voice echoing in his mind.

“Yep.” Theo smirked. “See ya’ back in the common room.” He and Blaise turned and started heading back to the castle, leaving Draco alone.

He rounded the greenhouse, knocking with his sore knuckles so he didn't startle you.

“Draco? What are you—saints, your hands!” You cried, rushing over to open the door for him. You grabbed for his hands, face pinched with worry.

“I'm fine, love,” he cooed, letting you fuss. The air in the greenhouse was thick and warm, coaxing him in like a embrace. It smelled fresh and lush, sweet soil and green leaves, like you.

Merlin, he couldn't think straight with you looking at him like that.

“Who did—” you paused, eyes narrowing. “Renley?”

He smirked. “Maybe.”

“Draco!” You huffed, dropping his hands. “I had it under control!”

“I know you did! You were amazing! I just...accelerated the consequences.”

You glared at him, but he could see you softening by the second.

“Baby, I'm fine. And he'll be fine in like, four to five business days.”

“Draco!” You shouted, but you were smiling. He fucking loved what you called his name in that exasperated but undeniably affectionate voice. “You don't have to get involved all the time. I'm perfectly capable of fighting my own battles, and Professor Sprout was working with me to solve it and—”

Draco reached out, pinching your cheeks with one hand, pursing your pouting lips and dragging you closer to him. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat. No one fucks with you so long as I'm breathing, is that clear?”

You nodded, eyes round and sweet like honey.

He released your face, sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck and craning your head upwards. “Can I kiss you now? Or would you like to keep telling me off?”

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a playful, smiley kiss. “Anything for my hero.”

“Anything?” Draco purred, walking you back into the long work table. You gasped, arching against his chest, and he caught the sound with another kiss, slipping his tongue past your lips to taste you.

Your tongue tangled with his, so eager as you pulled his tie to bring him closer. He guided your tongue into his mouth, sucking lightly before releasing you to bite your lip, toying with your mouth like he owned it.

And he could feel how much you loved it, your hips pressing against his as your hands wandered his chest, unable to pick a resting place.

He smiles, moving his hands to grip your hips. In a quick movement, he spun you around. Your hands slapped onto the table to catch yourself, your perfect ass pressing back against his rapidly hardening cock.

“Draco,” you whined, trying to look over your shoulder at him.

He tsked, sliding up your skirt, admiring the way his ruined knuckles looked against the soft flesh. “Do you want me to be gentle with you, darling?” He already knew what your answer would be, especially after a few stressful days, but he felt inclined to double check.

You shook your head side to side, pressing your ass back into his hands. “No.”

He smiled, squeezing the ample flesh, then delivered a swift slap that made you gasp. “That's my girl. You want me to scare away all those bad thoughts? Turn your brain off for a bit?” He slid his right hand between your legs, gliding two fingers over the damp spot on your panties.

You nodded, nails scratching along the wood when he applied a little pressure, moving his hand in a slow circle.

“Words, love,” he said, pausing his movement.

“Yes, baby. Please,” you whined, and his cock gave a painful lurch against his thigh.

“Colloportus,” he murmured, flicking his wand to lock the Greenhouse door. “Don't move,” he ordered, then walked over to the sink, washing the blood from his hands and muttering a quiet episkey to fix most of the damage on his skin. Some cuts remained, and his hands were still sore and slightly bruised, but it wasn't nearly as bad.

Satisfied, he turned his attention back to you, where you remained perfectly still, nibbling at your lower lip. In quick movement, he pulled down your panties, letting the fall around your ankles, and kicked your feet further apart, forcing you to lay your chest against the table.

“There we go,” he purred, bringing his hand back between your legs.

You were already soaked, hot and slick as his middle finger swiped through your sex. He started massaging your clit, quick, light circles that had you moaning breathlessly.

“Better, darling? Nothing to worry about besides being my good girl.” He moved away from your clit and eased his middle finger inside of you, his signet ring kissing your entrance before he curled his finger up. Your walls fluttered around him, sucking back against his finger when he pulled it out, only to graciously stretch for him when he added a second.

“Fuck, D,” you moaned, rocking your hips against his hand. “You said you wouldn't be gentle “

He smirked, enraptured with the way your pretty little cunt yielded for his battered hand. “Just so pretty,” he hummed, leaning down to whisper in your ear, pressing you harder against the table. “Can't help but worship you a little.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he slammed his fingers inside of you, drilling into your channel with sloppy, punishing strokes. You cried out, feet sliding around on the floor, but he had you pinned and at his mercy.

“This better, brat?” He growled, nipping at your ear when you keened for him, unable to formulate a response. “Oh, how that fucker wishes he could see you now,” he drawled, straightening while his fingers fucked into you. “What'd he call you? Sweetheart?” He chuckled. “Sweet doesn't begin to cover it.”

“How did you—”

He slipped his fingers out to work your clit, the bud swelling under his touch as your orgasm built, and your words twisted into a moan. He tried to stay focused, keep you on the edge until he was sheathed inside of you, but couldn't bring himself to stop just yet.

“Are you sweet, baby?” He asked, swatting your ass cheek, enjoying the way your flesh rippled.

“Only for you,” you gasped, starting to tremble as that knot wound tighter and tighter.

“That's right,” he praised, undoing his trousers and taking his cock in his hand. He was insanely hard, the head a deep pink, pearly precum beading from the slit. He pumped himself twice to relieve some of the ache, then notched himself at your entrance, not pausing his assault on your clit for a moment. “All fucking mine,” he growled at the same moment he thrust inside of you, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out, muscles contracting hard around him, and he groaned low in his throat. You were so fucking tight, gooey and supple when you weren't squeezing the life out of him. He drew back a few inches before snapping his hips forward, gripping your ass cheek in his free hand to keep you spread for him as he pounded into you.

He felt your orgasm hit the second before you did, your cunt clamping down on him a heartbeat before you screamed, your whole body locking up before going completely limp. He didn't let up, no matter how much you shook, how much you begged. Your tears left damp spots on the wood, your knees trying to buckle inwards, but he planted his feet on the inside of yours, forcing you to stay upright.

“Good fucking girl,” he rasped, snaking a hand up your spine to grip your hair and pull your head back. “Doing so well for me, sweet thing.” He was panting, the heat of the greenhouse coupled with the exterior making sweat collect around his hairline and drip down his spine. His knuckles burned from the salt, hands ached from being used long past when they should have been bandaged, but he didn't give a single fuck.

“Draco, shit—fuck me so good.” You reached back for him, nails dragging along his forearm, and he felt himself teeter on the edge of release, his balls drawing up tight as liquid heat spread through his pelvis.

“Give me one more, baby. I know you can. Then I'll water my favorite plant.”

Your pussy clenched at his words, a wanton moan falling from your lips, and he smiled. You were such a little freak, his little freak, and he loved you all the more it.

“You like being my pretty little houseplant? All mine to take care of?” Fuck, he was close, rambling in an attempt to distract himself and spend just a little longer in the delicious heat of your body.

“Yes, yes—fuck!” You were coming again, your whole body convusling as it ripped through you, and he was done for. He came with a yell, hips stuttering against your ass as he pumped rope after rope of release into your spasming cunt.

“Bloody hell, baby,” he moaned, bracing his hands on the table as he came down, his hips involuntarily rocking into your greedy warmth. You, poor thing, were left drooling and trembling, completely boneless, held up entirely by the table and his hips. He leaned forward, pressing kisses into your hair. “Did so good, love. So fucking perfect,” he murmured, throat tight with affection.

“Squishin’ me,” you giggled, squirming beneath him, and he straightened, nearly toppling over himself at the weak feeling in his knees.

“Sorry, darling,” he chuckled, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on trembling arms. He moved his feet, letting you close your legs, and he hissed through his teeth at the new tightness around his softening cock, stealing a final thrust before slipping out of you.

“Mm, how did you know he called me sweetheart?” You asked, peeking over your shoulder at him while he grabbed his wand to clean you both up.

“I have my methods,” he replied, righting your clothes and helping you stand up, relishing in the lingering tremble in your limbs.

“Were you spying on me, Draco Malfoy?” You teased, tugging him down by the tie so you were face to face.

He smirked. “Perhaps.”

“What a horrible invasion of privacy,” you snickered, giving him a playful peck.

“You want to punish me for it?” He nipped at your lower lip and you grinned, pushing lightly on his chest.

“Enough you, I have to administer the antidote before my plant gets any sicker.”

“Good thing I already cured mine,” he teased, and you swatted him before slipping out of his arms.

“You're insufferable.”

“And you're adorable.”

You grabbed some items from the shelves and a watering can, then paused, turning to look at him, a deadly serious look on your face. “Can we get takeaway after this?”

He snorted, his heart doing a giddy little flip. “Of course we can.”

The following week, you'd found a paper bag and a latte waiting on your desk in the department of records. There was no note, no name anywhere, but nestled between flaxen parchment paper was a chocolate croissant dusted generously with powdered sugar. The only clue as to who left it for you was an angular ‘D’ scrawled onto the side of the coffee cup by the barista who made it.

You'd hardly believed it was real until you felt the sugar dissolve on your tongue. It was a kindness you hadn't experienced since you started at the Ministry over a year ago. It could be a dreadfully bureaucratic, unfeeling place. That sugar high had stuck with you the entire day, lightening your steps.

Another one appeared later in the week, again, anonymous, besides that tell-tale ‘D’.

There were lots of D’s at the Ministry, you told yourself. You had at least three coworkers named Daniel just in the Department of Records. But you knew none of them would have the taste to select such fine pastry, or the deduction skills to know how you liked your coffee based on a few fleeting observations in the break room.

On Friday of that week, you'd arrived early, hoping to knock out some filing before record requests started piling up for the day. The Department had been blissfully empty, and you'd gotten to work with a tune sung just under your breath.

“Ah, you're here early,” a brusk, masculine voice rolled through the quiet like an afternoon storm.

You were a bit embarrassed to admit it, but you knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

Nearly dropping the files in your hands, you whirled around. Your suspicions, and perhaps wildest imagination, were confirmed. Draco Malfoy, the most brutal, efficient Auror the Ministry had seen in decades, stood beside your desk, holding a pastry bag in one hand, a latte in the other. And he looked almost…sheepish, standing there in his heavy black uniform, platinum hair smoothed to perfection.

“Uh—I—yes, the, um, lots of filing,” you stammered, tongue-tied. In that moment, you swore no one had ever looked that good before in the history of forever. And you would know—it was your job to know everything.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and impossibly, he became even more devastating. “You'll need your energy, then,” he said, setting the treats onto your desk.

You had the inane impulse to ask him why. Why was he suddenly paying you any attention? What did he want from you?

But before you could untangle your words, he was turning on his heel and striding away, cloak billowing in his wake.

—

The breakfast deliveries continued, but more often Draco began delivering them in person, or, if he arrived before you, he'd leave a small note beside the bag, written on one of the little notepads you keep on your desk.

Thank you for finding that record yesterday.

They were out of cinnamon, thought you might like mocha instead.

Don't work too hard today.

Going away for a week. Keep an eye out for Potter.

You weren't sure what he meant by that. Harry Potter, obviously, his childhood enemy turned coworker after they both became Aurors, but why would you need to keep an eye out for him?

Then, the following morning, you found Harry looking a bit lost in the department, hovering by your desk. He had a pastry bag in one hand and a latte in the other.

“Can I help you, Mr. Potter?” You asked, approaching cautiously.

His eyes lit up. “There you are! I thought this was your desk, but wasn't sure—” he held out the bag and coffee cup to you. “Delivery from one Draco Malfoy.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to speak. You'd always been a bit shy, preferring books and records to socializing, but tried your best to be friendly and gracious at work. Now, you couldn't even manage a ‘thank you’ as you took the treats from him.

Harry didn't seem to mind. “Malfoy will be back next week, but he insisted I bring you this while he was gone.”

“Do you—um—” you struggled to find the words, suddenly feeling exposed, soft underbelly on display. “Do you know why he's—”

“Because you're kind and genuine,” Harry said with a sympathetic smile. “Draco’s not so mysterious as he looks,” he joked, smile turning conspiratorial. Then, smile faltering, added, “Don't tell him I said that.”

You found yourself giggling at the insanity of this new reality you'd found yourself in. “I won't,” you reassured him.

—

The following Thursday, you stayed late to catch up on the filing that had piled up throughout the week. All of your coworkers seemed to have decided you were the best at it, so you should handle it all moving forward, on top of fulfilling all the requests that came your way. Which was nearly double what the rest of them received.

It was fine, you didn't really mind. You liked being helpful, being needed. But two hours in, and your back was beginning to ache, your energy depleted from continuous magic usage.

“They said you were still here, but I was half-hoping they were wrong,” a low voice broke through the quiet.

You stumbled out from between the stacks, hardly believing your ears. But sure enough, there was Draco Malfoy perched on the edge of your desk, flipping through one of the records stacked high on its surface. He looked different, under eyes bruise-dark, his blond hair finger-tousled and uniform ruffled. There was a slash across his cheek, the skin an angry pink, going lilac at the edges.

Your stomach did a backflip over your lungs, forcing your heart into your throat. “Here I am,” you said meekly. “When did you get back?”

“This evening,” he said absently, a line forming between his brows as he read. He clapped the file shut and slid off the desk. “Krepski pulled this,” he said, dropping it onto your neighbor's desk.

You nodded, not sure what to say.

“Do you usually put everyone else's records away?” Draco asked, his voice softer than the look in his eyes.

“Well, uh, I wouldn't say usually, but—”

“How many of these are yours?” He turned back to your desk, rifling through the stack.

You grimaced. None of them were yours. You always put them away as soon as they were returned to you to avoid, well, this.

Apparently, the look on your face was answer enough. Something sharp glinted in his eyes, but he blinked it away, rolled out the stiffness that had accumulated in his shoulders.

“Let me help you,” he said, meeting your gaze.

“You just got back, I couldn't—”

“Please?”

You stared at him. Somewhere, a part of you knew this wasn't a word Draco Malfoy used often, if ever. You found that you couldn't deny him such a simple request.

And, if you were being entirely honest, the thought of actually spending some time with him cracked your heart like a glow stick.

“Alright.”

The two of you worked together, hardly speaking at first, to start sorting the files. But it wasn't an uncomfortable quiet like you'd come to expect from your other coworkers. This quiet was soft in the way that freshly fallen snow can be, a gentle muffling of the outside world. You found a steady rhythm, communicating without words. He seemed to know what file you were reaching for before you reached for it, just like you knew where he was about to step before he moved.

You'd never seen the Auror look so calm, his muscles loose, his stride languid. Even his voice, when he did use it, had softened to the coo of a dove, sending a tremor down your spine with every passing word.

But mainly, you were just happy to have given him a quiet space to land. From the snippets of information he gave you as the evening wore on, his trip hadn't been an easy one. Chasing dark wizards along the Scottish coastline didn't exactly sound like a holiday.

He'd asked about you more than anything: where you grew up, your Hogwarts house, your favorite music. You answered timidly, unsure about what to do with his interest. Usually, when people asked you those sorts of questions, it was so they could answer the questions themselves, but Draco wasn't like that. You'd even made him laugh a few times, the sound as pleasant a surprise as an afternoon sun shower.

He seemed genuinely intent on getting to know you, and spoke very little of himself. Though you couldn't exactly blame him for that, knowing what you did know about him.

When the last record had been filed, he leaned against the bookcase beside you, having to crane his neck to peer down at your face.

Saints, he was tall.

“So, have you eaten yet tonight?” He asked, adjusting the wrists of his uniform, fiddling with the ring on his middle finger. A signet etched with a coiled serpent.

Your stomach answered for you, growling audibly at the mere mention of food.

He tsked, shaking his head at you. Lips curling in opposite directions, displeased and relieved in equal measure. “I was going to stop at that pizza place on the corner on my way back to my flat. Would you like to join me?”

“S-sure, pizza sounds great,” you said, wondering if you'd somehow fallen asleep while sorting files and this was some insane, marvelous dream.

His smile widened. “C’mon, then. My treat.”

—

After that evening, you and Draco had built an unlikely partnership. You weren't sure you were friends, mainly because you didn't see one another outside of work beyond getting pizza, but he was always there to lend a helping hand. The breakfast deliveries became more frequent, and he started bringing you a cup of tea every afternoon. And, in exchange, you'd let him loiter at your desk whenever he needed a little escape, or to have his overactive mind numbed by the repetitive scribble stamp swoosh of your work.

Even with this new familiarity, your heart still did a little flip whenever he smiled at you, or appeared around the bend of a hallway you weren't expecting him to. But you never imagined he'd feel that way about you. He was Draco Malfoy. He could literally have anyone in the world he wanted.

Whatever the two of you were, you were just happy to have a companion. He made you feel less alone in this marble-crusted corporate hellscape.

And, you realized just a few weeks into this new dynamic, that having a notoriously vicious Auror in your life came with its own set of perks.

The second Junior Auror Lewis walked into the Department of Records, you knew there was going to be a problem. He was red-faced and sputtering, waving the records you had dispensed to him the previous morning like a war flag.

Anxiety prickled along your neck, palms going clammy against your wooden stamper. You set it down, folding your hands into your lap as the flustered man approached.

You gave him your most winning smile. “Can I help you, Auror Lewis?”

He slammed the files onto your desk with a reverberating whack, and you startled to your feet, chair screeching backwards. “What the fuck is this?” He snarled, jabbing a finger into the paper. “These aren't the records I requested.”

Heat built under your skin, heart hammering against your ribs. You could feel every eye in the Department on you, judging you. “I—uh—” you made a show of shuffling through the papers, despite knowing that these records were exactly what he had asked for. Evidently, he just wasn't skilled enough to actually use them.

Part of you wanted to say that, to humiliate him like he was humiliating you right now, but the words stuck in your throat. Choked you.

“Uh—what?” He mocked. “You work in the Department of Records and you can't fucking read?”

“Sir—I, if you could just—”

“This is a very important case, and I will not have some paper jockey fuck it up for me!”

Oh no, oh no. Your nose began to itch, moisture pooling along your lower lashes. Don't cry, don't cry.

“And here we go with the waterworks. How about you just do your fucking job instead of sniveling like a—”

“Like a what?” A low growl came from behind you.

Shit, you'd almost forgotten the Draco had been meandering through the stacks, taking a break between meetings.

Lewis paled. “Oh, uh—I—”

Draco moved to stand in front of you, his body warm and solid, traces of his evergreen cologne still lingering on his collar.

It made your head swim.

“Sir, she potentially compromised the mission with false inf—”

“Say another word about her, or her work, and I will be forced to use every weapon in my arsenal as punishment.” His wand whipped outward, verdant green magic spilling from the dark wood. His lips were pulled back in a snarl.

You sucked in a breath, and the Junior Auror staggered back a step.

“Draco, don't—” You weren't sure what came over you, but you placed a hand on his bicep, turning to look into his face. His eyes were blazing, molten glass, as he stared down the length of his wand. He was rigid beneath your touch, coiled like a snake able to strike. “Draco, please,” you tried again.

His eyes finally flicked to yours, and the harsh line of his mouth softened a fraction as he took in your fearful expression. The entire Department held its breath.

“What would you have me do?” He murmured finally, though his wand never wavered.

Your fingers inched down his arm, feeling the supple fabric of his uniform, the ropes of muscle concealed underneath, the slight tremor as you reached his forearm, then his wrist, until you finally brushed the leather glove covering his hand, pressing down gently until his shoulder loosened, and he lowered his wand. Never once did his eyes stray from your face.

“An apology is enough,” you whispered. “Please, Draco.”

He absorbed your words, jaw feathering with tension, until he gave you one stiff nod before turning his attention back to the quivering Junior Auror.

“You will apologize to her, and if I ever hear about you treating her, or any other coworker, this way again, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your simpering life in the bowels of Azkaban. Do I make myself clear?”

“I'm s-sorry,” Lewis sniffled. “I didn't—I’m sorry. Please—”

“I accept your apology,” you replied. “And in the future, if you're having trouble deciphering the information in the records, all you have to do is ask, and I’d be glad to assist you,” you added, flashing a smile.

Our coworkers chittered at that, and Lewis flushed a deep crimson, bowed his head, and fled. You never spoke like that, but having Draco at your side made you feel a little braver.

Draco glanced down at you, the warmth in his eyes almost tangible as it caressed your cheek. A giddy thrill ran through you.

“Clever girl,” he purred. “If anyone speaks to you like that again, come find me. Okay?”

You nodded, feeling like your lungs had turned into hot air balloons. “Okay.” You didn't even think about disagreeing.

“Good,” he smiled then, and it wasn't until he pulled away that you realized your hand was still resting on his. “I'm going to have a word with his supervisor, maybe the Minister, and you are going to take a half-day.”

He said the last part loudly enough that your boss, who was hovering in the wings, could overhear him.

“But I have so much—”

“Krepski will handle the rest of your work, won’t he?” Draco glanced over his shoulder at your desk neighbor, whose eyes widened to an almost comical degree.

“Yes, sir! Happy to!” Krepski blurted, jumping up to take the stack of files off your desk and over to his.

Draco turned back to you, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, brows raised expectantly.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, voice lowering to barely a whisper. “I don't deserve—”

His expression sharpened. “What you don't deserve is to be overworked and underappreciated by the mindless goons that work here,” he said, voice low but not harsh. Restrained. Then, softer, “Someone has to look after you.”

No one’s ever looked after you before. Not like this. You'd always been independent, high-functioning. Never asked for anything, never needed anyone. If something needed to be taken care of, you were the one who took care of it. No questions asked.

If you were honest, you kind of liked this change of pace, even if it was a bit difficult to accept. And it didn't hurt that the person wanting to look after you was someone you genuinely liked, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous.

“Thank you, Draco,” you said, meeting his eyes.

“My pleasure. Now, go get some rest,” he ordered. “And all of that work better be finished by the time she clocks in tomorrow.” He directed this at Krepski, spinning his wand as if to punctuate his point.

“Of course!” Krepski squeaked.

Draco nodded in approval, flashed you a wink over his shoulder, and took his leave.

—

Word spread quickly about the altercation in the Department of Records, and suddenly everyone was wishing you a good morning or nodding in respectful greeting when you passed them in the hall. Your coworkers fielded work before it could even think about crossing your desk, and the line at the coffee station in the break room magically vanished whenever you stepped inside.

It was weird, and imposter syndrome still dogged at your heels, but you had to admit, it was a nice change. You finally felt like you could breathe again. And, despite yourself, your attraction to him had progressed into full-blown chest palpitations whenever he entered the room.

Sometimes, when he left an extra-sweet note or looked at you for a half-second too long, you thought maybe he could feel the same way about you.

But two weeks later, a gloomy, winter Friday, you hadn't seen Draco at all. No breakfast delivery, no afternoon tea, no five-minute break. Not even a glimpse in the hallway.

Your anxiety had mounted throughout the day, the knots tightening with each hour that passed until you could hardly breathe.

Was he mad at you? Avoiding you? Had you done something to upset him?

The thoughts were an endless loop, a train gone way off the tracks, and finally, when the bell struck 6 pm, and everyone was heading home, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

You were a bit ashamed to admit that you hadn't ever sought him out in his own office. He almost always came to you, except for when you strategically positioned yourself in the break room because you knew he'd be passing by. But even that was passive, an indirect maneuver born out of your own cowardice.

Now, standing outside his office door with a chocolate croissant, a black coffee, and your fist raised to knock, those insecurities came screaming back to you.

What if he doesn't want to see you? What if you're interrupting something? What if he's sick of you and now you look desperate because you can't take a hint?

What if, a quieter voice whispered, he needs you right now?

He'd done so much for you over the last few weeks; the least you could do was show him that you'd be there for him, too.

Knock knock. “Draco?” You called. “It's me.”

You couldn't hear anything through the door, weren't even entirely certain he was actually in here, when the knob unlocked with a soft click, and the door eased open.

Draco’s office was spacious, with large bookshelves and expensive-looking furniture. You could smell the leather polish and mahogany beneath the verdant top notes of the high-end cologne he wore. Emerald curtains were drawn over what had to be enormous windows, leaving the room dark except for the fireplace and fire-lit scones along the walls.

Draco was sitting at his desk, the surface strewn with papers and empty mugs of tea. He'd discarded the bulk of his uniform, leaving him in just a black long-sleeve shirt and pants. His hair was unruly, sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through it, and exhaustion hung from his shoulders like a shadow.

“What time is it?” He asked, though you weren't sure if he was directly asking you, and he spun in his chair to peer at the clock over his head.

“After 6,” you supplied, and he turned back to you, looking a little dazed.

“Fuck, really? I didn't realize—” his eye caught the coffee and paper bag in your hands, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And what do you have there?”

You shrugged, heat climbing up your neck as you fought to suppress a smile. “Thought you might need a little something sweet.”

His mouth pulled into a borderline indecent smirk. “That so?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.

Your stomach swooped. “B-but I don't want to bother you if you're busy…” You back-peddled, fidgeting in place under the burn of his gaze.

“I am busy,” he agreed, watching you intently.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry—”

“Darling,” he cut you off. The new pet name was said gently, but it still felt like a tug at your collar. You straightened subconsciously. “If you wanted to see me, then all you had to do was ask.”

Your cheeks burned, lungs snagging against your ribs and hitching awkwardly. “I didn't—I don't—”

“Don't what?” He rose from his chair, moving around the desk to approach you. “Don't want to see me?” He asked, a faux frown on his face. Teasing you. Testing you.

“No, I—y-yes, of course I do, but—”

“But what?”

“But I know you're busy and…” you trailed off, throat closing as he loomed over you.

“And…?” He was so close you could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the Earl Grey and lavender brew he was drinking, the ink he was using.

“I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me,” you admitted, looking down to avoid his gaze.

“Love—” his thumb and index finger caught your chin, tilting your head back up. “I always want to see you.”

Your heart thudded wildly against your sternum, mouth going dry at his confession.

“But you seem to have trouble asking for what you want.”

Indignation rose in you, an unfamiliar, acidic feeling. “No, I don't,” you argued. How could he always see straight through you?

He chuckled and took the coffee and pastry bag from you, taking a swig as he turned away and retreated to his desk chair.

“I came up here to check on you,” you continued. Even to your own ear, you sounded defensive.

“And I'm fine,” he said, reclining in his chair, casual as anything, but you could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the grip he had on the coffee cup. “Thank you very much for the coffee.”

Was he dismissing you? Your head spun at his sudden change in demeanor. The distance between you seemed enormous, cold creeping in where his warmth was moments before.

“Was there something else you wanted?” He asked, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the desk.

More, you thought, but didn’t say. You wanted more of that closeness, more of him, but the thought of asking for it stitched your mouth shut. You debated turning on your heel and opting out of whatever mind games he was playing with you, but the echo of his closeness kept you in place.

You met his eyes, and something in your expression must have given away your consternation.

Draco sighed. “You're stubborn, you know that?” He asked, but there was no real bite to it. “How about I tell you what I want?”

Your throat closed, palms growing sweaty. You forced yourself to look at him, to take in the smolder of his eyes.

“I’ve had a really long fucking day, and I'm feeling a bit reckless. I locked myself in here because I didn't want to push you.” He took a breath, mandibles flexing as he arranged his next words. “But what I want, darling, more than anything right now is to see what you’re hiding under that sweet little smile. I want to know what you really want—what keeps you awake at night, what makes your heart race—.”

“But why?” You whispered. You didn’t even want to acknowledge those parts of yourself. Why would he?

“Because that's what trust is.” His words stole whatever scant breath you had left.

“I do trust you,” you said, and meant it. You trusted him more than anyone else in your life. So why were you still hiding from him? Still holding back?

“You need to trust yourself,” he corrected gently. “To trust what your mind and body are telling you that you want and need.”

Clarity hit you square between the eyes.

This entire time, he'd been showing you all the ways you weren't showing up for yourself. All of the wants and needs you were failing to articulate. To claim. Starting with the damn croissant, and all the way to this moment, where you wanted him so desperately, it burned like lava through your bloodstream.

Hadn't he shown you that he was more than happy to deliver whatever you wanted? Whether it was pastries, tea, or an apology from someone who wronged you.

All you had to do was ask.

“Kiss me,” you blurted, spitting out the words before you could talk yourself out of it.

No sooner had the words left your mouth than he was on his feet, crossing the room towards you in three long strides. A hand slid into your hair, the other melting into the curve of your spine, and he kissed you so hard the floor fell out from beneath you.

He left no room for argument, no space for doubt. He was merciless in his claiming of you, lips making way for tongue and teeth, devouring you like a fervor you'd never experienced. But it wasn't reckless or messy. No, every press, every nip, every lick was deliberate. An intricate dance that he led with precision. Like he’d been planning this kiss in his head for a lifetime. You could do nothing but be swept up in the movements and luxuriate in the force that was Draco Malfoy.

He shifted forward, backing you against the bookshelf on the far wall. You gasped when your back hit the wood, and he grinned, tilting his head to drag his lips down your neck. Grinding the frenetic pace to a languid crawl.

His shoulders rose as he breathed you in, the hot muscle of his tongue laving across your hammering pulse. Your knees threatened to buckle as arousal surged through you, electric and exhilarating. If he kept this up, you feared you would melt between the floorboards.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, kissing his way back up to your face.

“S-sorry,” you breathed, struggling to remember a word that wasn't his name.

He shushed you with a peck on the lips. “I'm just making sure you're alright,” he said, his voice like velvet. His lips grazed your temple, heart-achingly tender. A dizzying contrast from the rip current he'd created just moments ago. “That you still want this.”

You nodded, fingers tightening into the folds of his shirt to draw him closer.

“Ah, ah—” he pulled back to look you in the eye. “Use your words.”

Your eyes gave you away, flicking down to where his fingers rested on your hip.

He smirked, lifting his hand. Flexing his fingers in the dim candlelight. “You want my fingers, darling?” He asked, caressing your cheek with the backs of them.

“Yes, please,” you whispered, blinking up at him, cheeks burning.

“Say it.” His hand fell to his side.

“I—” you took a steadying breath. “I want your f-fingers.”

His smirk turned lethally sharp, flashing an ivory canine. “You want my fingers where?”

“Draco,” you whined, dropping your face into his shoulder, and he tutted. You could feel his smile as he pressed a kiss to your hair. So affectionate, even when he was being firm with you.

Then, you felt the belt of your trousers pop open. Those dexterous fingers sliding along the elastic waistband of your panties. You clung to his shoulders, breath coming in short pants, and sent a silent thank you to your past self for wearing a cute pair that day.

“Here, baby?” He asked, fingers dipping lower, finding the pool of slick he'd coaxed from you.

You nodded, tilting the bowl of your pelvis into his palm. “Please.”

Fuck, you sounded so pathetic, but he made a low sound of approval in the back of his throat.

“Good girl,” he praised right as his middle finger stroked against your clit.

You gasped, that simple touch like a bolt of lightning up your spine. You could feel how wet you were, leaking into his palm as he traced slow circles over your bud, gauging what pressure you preferred, what speed. He took his time, spreading you open, teasing out every little sound, every twitch, he could get from your pyretic body.

You were like putty in his hands, completely boneless against him, pleasure saturating your mind, burning through your veins like fire whiskey.

“Draco,” you mewled, hips rolling against his hand, hungry for more.

“And suddenly she's demanding,” he teased, nipping at your shoulder. But he indulged you, finally easing one finger inside your heat, quickly followed by a second. You were more than ready for it, your pussy practically begging to be filled. Fluttering, clenching, coaxing him deeper. “So fucking tight, love. You're absolutely perfect, aren't you?”

You couldn't think, couldn't speak. His fingers had found your brain's off button in record speed, curling against your front wall with that unwavering, merciless intention he did everything with.

And he was going to make you cum embarrassingly quick because of it.

“Wait—I—” you grabbed at his wrist, head spinning as the plummet stretched out before you, and he froze in place.

“Too much?” He asked, leaning back to look at you, his free hand smoothing the hair from your face. He looked almost as wrecked as you felt, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy, hair a disheveled mess from your grabbing hands. So beautiful you could hardly believe he was flesh and blood, and not some horny fever dream. But he was real, muscle and bone and lips and teeth, and you wanted to eat him whole.

Fuck it.

Your hips started to rock against his fingers, that momentary panic twisting into urgency. “S’too good,” you slurred, pleasure-drunk.

He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yeah?” He curled his fingers again, hitting that traitorous, magnificent spot inside of you, and you keened. “I can feel how close you are, soaking me to the wrist.” He pressed you harder into the wall, the wood digging into your back, but you didn't care so long as he kept driving his fingers into you just like that. The sound of your sopping pussy made your cheeks burn, lewd and loud, but it only seemed to draw your orgasm closer. “Show me, love. Show me how pretty you are when you let go—”

“Fuck, D—I’m gonna—want to—”

“Go on, love. Take whatever you want. It's all yours—good fucking girl, just like that—”

Your release crashed over you, white hot, and you buried your scream into his shoulder as he worked you through it, muttering praise in your ear while you bucked and twitched. Stars danced behind your eyes, under your skin as you came down, and you felt yourself smiling.

His motions slowed to languid strokes before he withdrew entirely. Brought his fingers to his mouth, stealing a taste before easing them between your own lips. You parted willingly, the taste of your release heady and sweet on your tongue as you sucked those magical digits clean.

“See what happens when you ask for what you want?” He murmured against the shell of your ear. “You did so well, love.”

You nodded, not having the energy to do much else. But his praise rang against your bones like church bells, and delight reverberated through you.

He withdrew his fingers and righted your clothes, then settled you into his desk chair, the most comfortable one in the room. The croissant you brought for him somehow ended up in your hand, and he was urging you to take a bite. Made you wash it down with a freshly cracked water bottle from his mini fridge.

“You look so beautiful right now,” he said, watching you chew from his perch at the edge of his desk.

The temptation to hide itched under your skin, but you resisted, smiling shyly at him instead. “Thank you, Draco. For all of this, everything.”

“It's an honor and my absolute pleasure,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss your forehead and steal a bite of the croissant. “How about we go get you some real food?”

“Is that pizza place still open?” You asked, and he looked ready to keel over with surprise and delight. You'd actually asked for something!

“If you want pizza, baby, a closed sign isn't going to stop me from getting you pizza. Hell, I'll apparate us to Italy right now—”

“You're ridiculous,” you giggled, rolling your eyes at him.

“And you're mine,” he said, sliding off the desk and offering you a hand. “So, get used to it.”

You slipped your fingers into his, letting him pull you onto still shaky legs. “I don't remember agreeing to that,” you teased, pecking his cheek so he knew you didn't mean it.

“Already spoiled, hm?” His grip on your hand tightened, his body shifting to press you against the desk. “One night with me and you've turned into a brat.” The word was hot at your neck, and a shiver rolled through you, fresh arousal dripping into your ruined underwear. Stirring something wild in you that you hadn't felt before.

“Maybe,” you flirted, leaning forward to nibble at the hard angle of his jaw, hand skimming down the front of his chest until your fingers hooked on his belt. Taking what you wanted, taking what was yours.

And from the rigid pulse against your hip, he was more than eager to give it all to you.

“Good—” his grip moved to your wrist, pinning it to the desk with a force that set your blood on fire, “—because I'm just getting started.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, unbidden, as you continued to stare at your beloved toy lodged in the branches. Would your father be disappointed in you for losing it? The tears fell faster and faster until you were sobbing upon the ground. It was such a little thing to be so upset over, you knew that, but it meant so much to you.

“What ails you, princess?” Came a voice from high above you, but from whom you could not see. “You cry so miserably, even a stone would be moved to show pity.” A shadowy form descended until the black bird landed directly in front of you, its unnervingly intelligent eyes seemingly looking into your very soul.

You were taken aback. It was talking. The bird was speaking to you. And not just mimicking someone else’s voice, but truly speaking. All thoughts of your ball were wiped from your mind as you stared in awe at the feathered anomaly. It waited patiently for your response, calm as the breeze that flowed through the trunks. 

“My ball,” you eventually stuttered out. You pointed where it was still lodged, the crow following the line of your arm to spy the golden bauble. “It’s stuck, and I can’t get it down.”

“No need to cry for that. I will help you, but what will you give me in return if I bring your plaything back down?” He asked, his shrewd eyes fixed on your own.

“Anything you desire,” you responded. “My clothes, my pearls and jewels, and even the crown on my head if that is what you wish.”

The crow tilted its head. “Anything? You should be more careful when making promises, especially to the unnatural. What if I asked for your heart? Or perhaps an eye. Would you give it to me?” Derision dripped from his every word.

You faltered. What nerve this feathered beast had. “I’ll give you what you wish so long as it is within reason, and I maintain the right to deny that which I am either unwilling or unable to fulfill. Does that satisfy you?”

The bird turned your words over in its mind, thinking carefully about your wording before answering that yes, that would do just fine. So up, up, up the bird flew, nudging your precious gift from where it had lodged itself so that it came falling back to earth with a solid thud. You reached out, your hand wrapping firmly around it. The bird landed in front of you once more, his request already decided.

“Thank you, Mr. Crow. What is it that you would like in return for helping me?”

“A kiss,” he answered confidently, not a shadow of a doubt that that was what he wanted.

You had expected gold or other such shiny things, something a crow might find enjoyment in, but reality was so far from your expectations that you were again stunned into silence.

“A kiss, your highness, that is all I ask for,” he pleaded, almost desperate. Why a crow was so insistent on a kiss was beyond you, but you would not grant it. It spoke like a person, so how could you be sure it was a crow at all and not some evil of the forest that only took the form of a crow? What if a kiss would bind you to it for all eternity?

“I cannot do that, Mr. Crow,” you declined.

“Cannot or will not? Your terms were that you could refuse my requests if you were unwilling or unable, so which is it?”

“Will not. My father is considering a betrothal with another kingdom. Whether you are a crow or something else, my kisses are reserved for the one whom I will marry.”

The crow looked disappointed, which you didn't even know was possible for a bird. “I would like to be your companion then. To eat and drink the same food, to sleep in the same quarters, to be at your side, always.”

You acquiesced, but the second the crow looked away from you, you fled back to the castle, trying to put as much distance between you and that unnatural bird as you could. He took to the air, following your retreating figure, squawking at you to wait, to come back, that he meant you no harm, you promised. But you did not listen, did not care to hear one more word the mysterious bird had to say. It shouldn't have had any words to say in the first place.

You didn't stop running until the castle doors were shut firmly behind you. You thought the crow wouldn't have dared leave its home in the forest, but it was waiting for you, adamant that you would hold up your end of the deal. 

That night at dinner, you heard an insistent tapping at the window. Your father, the king, heard it as well, shooting a curious glance your way as if to ask if you heard it too. The dining room was not on the ground floor; no one should have been able to reach those high windows. You rose slowly, walking to the covered window to pull back the curtain. There, perched on the windowsill, was the crow from the forest. It stared at you directly through the thick pane of glass, its beady eyes narrowed. Yet, it never stopped the incessant tapping on the window with its beak. You yanked the curtains closed, returning to your seat and ignoring the infernal tapping upon the window.

“What is it?” your father asked, looking between you and the window.

“A crow,” you answered simply, drinking from your goblet to hopefully avoid saying more.

“Why is there a crow on the windowsill? It’s awfully late for a crow to be this active.”

You sighed heavily, telling your father of all that had transpired earlier in the day. How you had lost your ball, how the crow had retrieved it, how you had promised it a reward, and then how you hadn't fulfilled his wish. He looked angry, but not at the crow; no, he was angry with you. “That which you promised must be fulfilled. You are a princess. You cannot make such empty promises. Go, allow him in, and keep your word. He will eat and drink as you do, sleep as you do, and be at your side always.”

Though you greatly disliked it, you did as he said, approaching the window and once again parting the curtains to reveal the disgruntled bird. You scowled at it. Why couldn't it just stay in the woods? Or, better yet, have helped you just to be kind, and not ask for such ridiculous compensation.

You unlatched the window, allowing the bird to fly into the dining room where it perched on the chair across from yours, staring at you expectantly. You walked back to your seat after securing the window, not taking your eyes off the bird.

You didn't speak to the bird, ignoring it as best you could, whereas your father made polite conversation with it, as if there was nothing odd about conversing with a crow over dinner. Your father had called over a servant, requesting that both a meal and a drink be brought out for the bird. “What shall we call you?” your father asked politely.

“Your daughter called me Mr. Crow. That will do fine.”

“Don't you have a name of your own?”

He did, but it stuck in his throat when he tried to utter it. “No. I’m just a crow.” For now.

Your father nodded, not quite satisfied, feeling bad that a sentient creature such as the crow had not so much as a name to call its own. “Mr. Crow it is then.”

When dinner ended, he followed you to your bedroom, and almost followed you into the bathroom as well until you shut the door in his face. You dismissed the maids, insisting that you wanted to be alone. Obviously, the crow was here to stay, so you wanted all the alone time you could get. You scrubbed until your skin was angry and raw, wishing you could scrub the crow itself from both your memory and life. No ball, however sentimental, was worth such a headache.

You exited the bathroom, finding the crow stubbornly waiting for you just outside. You groaned, ignoring it, and it followed you all the way back to your room, making itself comfy on one of your pillows. Your distaste for the creature only deepened. “You're not sleeping in my bed,” you stated.

“Our agreement-”

“You requested the same quarters, not the same bed. It was you who said to word things carefully, no?”

He laughed, beyond amused. You were right, he did say both of those things. “Very well. Where would you have me sleep then, your highness?”

“Don't know, don't care. Get out of my bed.” You glared as you watched him settle himself on your writing desk. You crawled into bed, blowing the candle out to sleep, and hopefully, when you woke up, this would all have been a dream.

“Princess?” called the bird. “You've not given me a place to sleep.”

“Sleep on the floor for all I care,” you grumbled, pulling the covers up higher to cover your ears.

“How do you expect to care for your people one day if you cannot even care for a bird?” The bird goaded, amusement morphing into offense at your continual poor treatment of him.

“You're just a bird!” you spat at him.

“I’m your guest,” he corrected indignantly, pride running hot through his veins.

You shot up in bed, snatching the other pillow that he had been on and tossing it to the floor. “There! Is that what you wanted?” He hopped onto the plush cushion, making himself comfy.

“It is,” he said finally, content with his downy accommodations, even if not so pleased that he was still on the floor and not your bed. Just to add to your obvious irritation, he added, "Goodnight, princess.” He took immense satisfaction in your muffled groan from beneath the blankets you had buried yourself under.

The next morning, you woke from the light streaming in through the open window. You stretched, body still lethargic with sleep. You forced yourself into a sitting position, spotting the now-empty pillow on the floor, the only trace that the bird had been there at all. You dressed for the day, making your way to the dining room to join your father for breakfast. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he greeted you warmly. “Sleep well?”

You hummed in affirmation, pouring yourself a cup of coffee from the carafe.

“And where is Mr. Crow?” he asked, not missing the absence of the newest resident of the castle.

You shrugged. “Don’t know. He was gone when I woke up. The window was open last night for fresh air.”

“You didn't throw him out of the window, did you?” he asked, eyeing you suspiciously.

“No! Of course not!” You wanted him gone, but you didn't want to actively terrorize the bird.

Your father still looked slightly suspicious of you, but let it go without further argument. He finished his food, excusing himself from the table to go to his office. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, telling you to take your time with breakfast and that your lessons had been postponed in favor of getting to know your new friend, absent though he was.

You sipped your coffee, taking in the early morning light. It was calm, relaxing, until that same wretched tapping as last interrupted the serenity. You sighed, placing your mug back on the table and rising from your seat. As you drew near, you could see that it had something in its beak, but you weren't quite sure what until you opened the window.

They were flowers. The bird had woken up early to pick flowers. He angled his head up, as if offering them to you. “For me?” you asked quizzically.

It nodded its feathered head, hopping closer. You took the modest bouquet, curious why he would do such a thing. You had done nothing to deserve such a gesture. “Thank you. They’re very pretty,” you said with a small smile, touched by the effort this must have taken for the small animal.

“Pretty enough to deserve a kiss?” He asked.

You shook your head. “I already told you I won't kiss you.”

Sylus was beginning to think he should have negotiated that kiss before helping you at all. “I’ll earn that kiss eventually, princess.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your back to him and returning to finish your now lukewarm coffee, the crow in pursuit. He nibbled at the spread, but didn't seem keen to eat much. He was a bird, and the phrase ‘eat like a bird’ had to come from somewhere, you guessed. In truth, he was planning and plotting how to get you to kiss him. He only had so much time before this was permanent, and his human consciousness was overridden and forgotten.

Days came and went in the same fashion. The bird continued sleeping on what you had designated as his pillow on the floor, ate every meal with you, and joined you for walks around the garden. He was your ever-present shadow, just as he had requested. Your annoyance with him decreased with each passing day, beginning to grow fond of his company, especially once you got used to his dry humor. On this particular day, he was perched on your chair in the garden’s gazebo, reading over your shoulder. When you had asked if he was even capable of reading, he had merely scoffed at you.

The two of you were reading in silence, and with him still securely perched on your chair, you knew it wasn't him hopping around beneath the table, so what was that brushing against your shoes?

You glanced beneath the table, jerking away with a scream that startled Sylus into the air. He landed on the ground, eyes zeroing in on the offender who had scared his princess so badly. It was just a small garden snake, something he could easily handle. He looked at you to see that you weren't just surprised by the snake, you were genuinely scared. That settled that, then. The snake had to go.

It was quick, but unable to evade Sylus forever, now squirming in his beak. He flew off with it, returning without it shortly, landing on the table. “Are you alright, your highness?” 

“Yes, quite. Thank you, Mr. Crow,” you said gratefully, smiling at your feathered friend.

“I think my heroics ought to be rewarded. How about a kiss?”

You giggled. He was very persistent about receiving a kiss but would not tell you why, no matter how much you asked. You kissed the pads of two of your fingers, then brought them down on the bird’s beak. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he said, not impressed with your display.

He was even less impressed when Prince Xavier, the crown prince of one of the neighboring kingdoms, Philos, was invited by your father in the hopes of the two of you becoming amiable to a betrothal to unite your two nations. He was seething. It was supposed to be him! He was the one who was in talks with your father, not this boy who hadn't even ascended the throne yet. He would not sit idly by while his would-be bride was wooed by another, condemning him to life as a crow permanently.

Though Xavier was every bit the gentleman he was expected to be, Sylus also knew that Philos was suffering economically. Onychinus, on the other hand, was thriving. How unfortunate that the king had gone missing recently, leaving your father to explore other options for his daughter. It wouldn't last. Sylus would make sure of it.

Already, the young royal was on Sylus’ nerves, sitting in his spot across from you. He made his displeasure known, staring the prince down from his position on your chair, abstaining from the meal altogether in favor of glaring at the nuisance in his seat.

“Is he your pet?” Xavier asked, gesturing to the bird.

You glanced over at Sylus, shaking your head with a smile. “Mr. Crow? No, he's a friend more than a pet.” Sylus puffed his chest out proudly. “He’s usually more talkative than this, though,” you added, somewhat concerned with his new silence.

Xavier seemed confused for a moment before something clicked in his head. “Right, I’ve heard that corvids are wonderful at copying human speech. I hope to hear from Mr. Crow before I have to return to Philos.”

You pinched your lips together, deciding not to tell him that the bird could truly talk and didn't just copy phrases he heard. It almost felt special that he wouldn't talk to Xavier when usually he talked your ear off, his sarcastic remarks never failing to pull a giggle from you.

But his odd behavior didn't stop with his uncharacteristic silence. Cookies and tea were brought out, and before Xavier could take one from his plate, Sylus took it upon himself to snatch one. 

“Hey!” you reprimanded, gently pushing him away from the plates, cookie still held in his beak. “What is wrong with you today?” It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but you didn't miss the pointed glare he directed at Xavier.

“He’s quite alright. I don't expect birds to have table manners. Would you like another?” he asked, nudging his plate towards Sylus, which was promptly ignored.

The intention was to anger the other royal, cause a tantrum, but all he had succeeded in doing was endearing you even more when Xavier had actually been kind to him.

Nothing was working. Not dropping a grasshopper on him in the gardens, not pulling the buttons of his coat, not even pecking at his hand when he tried to hold yours. He remained ever so patient. You, however, were losing yours. Xavier might believe that Mr. Crow was just a normal bird, but you knew better.

That night, when the castle was turning in for the night, you were confronting an audacious bird. “What was all that about today? I need him to like me!”

“Why? You're a princess; you have plenty of other options. You don't need anything from Prince Xander,” he dismissed. Based on his tone, if he were human, you would be convinced he would be inspecting his nails, bored, and acting as if the conversation was nothing of import.

“Xavier,” you corrected. “And I do need something from him. A marriage proposal would unite our kingdoms and-”

“And what?” Sylus interrupted. “Drag you into ruin with him? Philos is a failing kingdom, and he would only take Linkon down with it. He intends to use you to gain access to Linkon’s resources.”

The bird's cruel words cut you deeply. “You're just a bird. How could you possibly know any of that?”

He scoffed derisively. “Because he believes me to be just a bird, and, despite what you say, you know that’s not true. He doesn't watch his words around me the way he does with you.”

You were biting your bottom lip, brows furrowed in that oh-so-cute way he loved. He hated that it was born of insecurity, though. “Did he talk to you?” you asked timidly, trusting that he wouldn't lie to you, but still knowing that his answer would likely hurt.

“He did. When you excused yourself from the gardens. Said that ‘my owner’ is a foolish girl looking for love in the wrong places. That she was just a means to an end, and when he married you, the first thing he would do is get rid of me. Which I don't appreciate, by the way.” He saw your downcast face, hating that there was nothing he could do to make it better. “I’m sorry, your highness.”

You shook your head. “It’s not your fault. Thank you for telling me. I believe you, but can you prove it? Something tangible that I can show my father?”

“Consider it done.”

“Come back here, you odious beast!” the young prince’s voice followed him as he took flight from his room, returning to yours, the damning letter clutched in his beak. You were waiting for him by the windowsill, accepting the letter he proudly presented to you. Your eyes scanned its contents, your face expressing your anger more and more. 

You were tempted to rip the letter into pieces, but you needed the evidence to show your father, preferably in one piece. 

“Will that suffice?” Sylus inquired. “He walked in before I could finish reading it.”

“It’s exactly what I asked for. You couldn't have done any better.”

“I believe my hard work is worthy of a kiss, wouldn't you agree?” You were, in fact, inclined to agree with him this time. Were it not for him, you may have actually ended up betrothed to a man who thought you “foolish and airheaded” and described your dear friend Mr. Crow as “a ghastly thing that ought to be fed to the dogs.”

You nodded at the bird who was waiting for you to refuse him as you always did, but the refusal did not come. You nodded slowly, ever so grateful to the bird that you were willing to accept the one request he so often made. You pushed your hair behind your ear, leaning in to kiss the feathers atop the bird’s head, the bird himself eagerly waiting to be rid of this cursed form.

A knock at the door. It was a maid informing you that your father was requesting you in his office immediately. You smiled at the bird apologetically, his disappointment palpable. His time was dwindling. Already, he could feel the crow’s instincts overriding his conscious thoughts.

“Explain to me why Prince Xavier just stormed out of the castle! What happened?” Your father was livid, more so than he’d ever been with you. “You’re not a child anymore! You have your future to think about. He’s the crown prince of-”

“Of a kingdom on the brink of financial ruin. Here.” You thrust the stolen letter forth, watching your father’s anger at you redirect to the arrogant prince.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you, my dear child. After reading this, good riddance to him. But how did you get this letter?”

“Mr. Crow retrieved it. I left the two of them alone, and Prince Xavier talked to him, told him everything. Mr. Crow wouldn't speak in his presence, so the prince thought he was a normal bird. I asked for proof, and he brought me the letter the prince was penning back home.”

Your father nodded, not thrilled with the methods, but opting to turn a blind eye since it kept his precious daughter out of the hands of a man who only sought to use you. He lamented the disappearance of King Sylus. Regal, successful, and in need of a queen. In terms of a political match, he was perfect. For a love match, your father still thought that you would have made a lovely pair, your personalities balancing each other. Their letters of correspondence detailed likes, dislikes, the state of the kingdoms, policies, everything that was of any importance to a marriage as high-profile as yours would be. But then they’d stopped, and eventually the news reached him that the king was nowhere to be found, having gone off on a hunt and never returning.

There hadn’t been time to build such a relationship with Philos, a fact that greatly disheartened the king. You were of the age where royalty needed to wed, but you were still his daughter, and as any father would, he only wanted the best for you. Instead, he had nearly paired you with a worm.

“When you return to your room, can you inform Mr. Crow that I would like to see him? I want to thank him personally.” You nodded, closing the door softly behind you when you left.

When you returned, Mr. Crow was sifting through your jewelry box, sorting by both types of jewelry and gemstone color. “Well, aren't you nosy?” You teased.

“It’s a terrible mess in here. Have you ever organized it?” he said, his smooth voice echoing from where his entire head was still within the ornate box.

“I have, thank you.”

“Could have fooled me.”

You walked over to your vanity, prying the bird away from your priceless ornaments, a bracelet still dangling from his beak, which you relieved him of with your hand.

“My father wants to see you in his office,” you told him as you began to return your jewelry to its rightful place.

“I wasn't done with that,” Sylus told you, miffed that you were undoing all his hard work.

“You are now. Go, before my father comes looking for you.”

He heaved a great sigh, but set out through the open window. The summer breeze was lovely, but you really did need to start closing them if Xavier was a lesson to anyone.

 -𓅨-

It was gone. You dumped out the entire box, sifted through every piece of jewelry you owned, and still couldn't find it. You had lost your mother’s necklace. You were panicking, hyperventilating. Since her death, you had kept that necklace safely tucked away, so how could it have disappeared? Fat tears rolled down your face, a deep ache settling in your chest.

“What’s wrong, princess? Are you hurt?” Mr. Crow’s deep velvety voice called from the windowsill.

“My necklace, my mother’s necklace, I can't find it, and I’ve looked everywhere. Did you see it when you were digging through it?”

“What does it look like?”

You described the necklace in as great detail as you could with your frazzled mind, and, unfortunately, Sylus knew exactly the one you were talking about. It was currently sitting in the tree he had initially taken up residence in, the one you had found him in that fateful day, squirreled away with a trove of other shiny pilfered items.

You would hate him. You would most definitely hate him after this, but he could not, in good conscience, allow you to believe that you were at fault for the loss of something so important to you. He took off from the windowsill, heading straight for the tree, tossing out all of his little treasures in his hunt for the one he should have never taken.

The second he found it, he was high-tailing it back to your room, hoping against hope that you would forgive him. And for a moment, when he landed, he thought you might. You were overjoyed when he placed it in your outstretched hand, until it dawned on you. He knew exactly where to go, and it wasn't anywhere in the palace.

You looked at the bird that you had trusted so much, betrayed. “Did you steal this from me?” you asked, your voice now a hoarse whisper, disbelief coloring your words.

He hung his head in shame. “I did,” he confessed solemnly. 

“Why?” You were still crying, and it was his fault. “Why would you take this?”

“Because I can’t help it. I-” he choked on the words. He wanted to tell you that this wasn't him, that he didn't want to hurt you, and that he was losing his real self to the crow instincts, but the terms of the curse wouldn't allow it. “I’m just a crow,” he settled on morosely. He was coming to terms with the fact that soon he wouldn't exist at all, his human soul condemned to rot away, leaving only a crow in its place. It had already begun.

“Get out,” you commanded coldly.

“Princess-” he started, landing on the bed beside you.

In your anger and hurt, you lashed out at him, pushing him away from you. The movement was so sudden and unexpected that he wasn't able to prevent himself from falling to the floor.

You gasped, pushing yourself into a sitting position to lean over the edge of the bed. “Are you ok? I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to—” The tears came stronger now. You had hurt the only real friend you had.

He flapped back up to the bed, staring directly into your eyes. “If you're sorry for hurting me, then kiss it better.”

“What?” you sniffled.

“Kiss it better, and I’ll forgive you.”

Wallowing in your own guilt, you didn't think twice about fulfilling his request, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. When you opened your eyes, Mr. Crow was gone. In his place, face to face with you, was the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes on. A man who was very, very naked.

You jerked away, a scream bubbling in your throat that the man was quick to muffle with his hand over your mouth, pinning you down beneath him so you couldn't run off. “Relax, Princess,” he said. You’d know that silky voice anywhere. You pushed his hand away, needing to confirm what you already knew was true.

“Mr. Crow?” you asked in disbelief.

“Sylus,” he corrected.

“Sy-” you started, and then your eyes widened in realization. “The missing king.” 

“In the flesh, your highness,” he grinned. “Been a bird for so long I thought I’d never be human again.”

“You- how-” you stuttered, unable to properly express yourself.

He chuckled at you, the sound so much more attractive now that it was coming from a man and not a bird. “It was a curse. I took something I shouldn't have.”

“Sounds familiar,” you said pointedly.

“Don't interrupt me. As I was saying, I took a gemstone without realizing it belonged to a witch. As you can imagine, she didn't take kindly to it. And as you've come to know over these few weeks, greed is my vice. Told her finder’s keepers, so she said if I act like a crow, then I might as well be one. And then I was one. She gave me three months before it became permanent, only broken by the kiss of a princess.”

“That’s why you wanted a kiss so bad,” you said, staring at the man in awe. “But why didn't you just say that?”

“Another condition of the curse is that I couldn't talk about it. Couldn't reveal any identifying information, but now I’m free, thanks to you, princess.”

“You are. You're also…” your eyes trailed down his toned figure, quickly going back to his face when you saw more of him than you meant to, your face flushing hot.

“Naked? Doesn't seem like you're complaining, though. I don't mind if you look.” He said, thoroughly amused at your obvious embarrassment.

You turned your head away from him, avoiding eye contact. He exhaled through his nose, leaning in to nose at your exposed throat. “C’mon, don't be shy, princess. Won’t you let me thank you?”

Your tongue wouldn't cooperate to answer him.

He hummed questioningly, nipping at your earlobe. “Some time later, then.” He rolled off you into a sitting position, but you stayed put where you were, your eyes fixed on his every movement. “It's dangerous to look at a man like that, princess, especially lying down,” he stated.

You sat upright immediately, looking at him apprehensively. “I’ll get you some clothes,” you told him.

He nodded, watching you exit the room to summon a maid. You returned shortly, still avoiding eye contact with him. He frowned at this. He knew this was a lot to take in, but it’s not like he was a total stranger. You wouldn't even sit on the bed with him, choosing to stand near the door and wait for the maid to return with the clothes you had requested. 

The maid returned with a gentle knock, and you opened it just enough for her to squeeze the clothes in, which you took gratefully, tossing them over to Sylus as quickly as you could, not caring if he caught them or not. You were turned to face the wall, determined to not see any more of him than you already had. He was still a king deserving of respect. That, and you had never seen a bare man before. This was highly improper.

“You’ve already seen everything. Might as well enjoy the show,” he teased.

You squeaked out a no, making him laugh. Even listening to the shuffling of clothes was enough to bring a blush to your cheeks. “You can turn around now,” he informed you when he finished. You did, almost laughing at how ridiculous the outfit looked on him. You weren't sure where the maid had gotten the clothes, but they were entirely too small for the large man, the pants' legs barely brushing the top of his ankles.

You covered your mouth to hide the growing smile, but it wasn't nearly enough to mask your mirth. He didn't hold it against you. He knew he looked silly, and it was nice to see your smile back on your face in place of the fear and uncertainty his return to human form had caused.

“Princess, can you arrange a meeting with your father for me?”

“Of course. You could just follow me to his office. I’m sure he’d put aside whatever work he’s doing. You’ve been missing for so long.”

Sylus looked down at his ill-fitting outfit with a grimace. He’d be seen by everyone like this. He almost wished he were still a bird, but it couldn't be helped. “Lead the way,” he said.

The walk to your father’s office was awkward, at best. You had spent weeks talking to the imposing man who now walked beside you, but you didn't know how to talk to him anymore. It wasn't for lack of trying on his part; you were just trying to reconcile that the bird who’d been sleeping in your room was actually a full-grown man, a king, and wondering if it was immoral that you found him wildly attractive even though he had been a bird up until twenty minutes ago.

When you arrived at the large wooden door, you knocked, waiting for permission to enter. You gestured for Sylus to wait outside for a moment, slipping into your father’s office to try to explain at least a little bit and not blindside him with the king’s sudden appearance.

You regaled him with everything that had transpired, his jaw dropping open more and more as you spoke. When you finished, he just stared at you, unsure where to even start. “Is this a joke?” he asked.

You shook your head, opening the door and waving Sylus inside. Your father looked between you and the other king, his brain still trying to catch up to your story. He addressed Sylus first. “Your Majesty, I have been told the most fantastical story I’ve ever heard. You were Mr. Crow?”

“I was, Your Majesty. Cursed by a witch. I can tell the full story if your lovely daughter here hasn't done so already.”

“She glossed over that, but it’s not important right now. So you were a bird, and my daughter kissed you, and that reversed the curse?”

You both nodded. Your father was at a loss for words. He’d never had to deal with anything remotely near the situation he now found himself in. But the more he thought about it, the more something bothered him. “You,” he growled, pointing an accusatory finger at Sylus. “You've been sleeping in my daughter’s room all this time.”

His demeanor completely flipped when he turned to you. “Darling, would you give us a moment alone?” he asked with faux cheer.

You shot Sylus a look, silently wishing him luck, before getting out of that room as quickly as you could. The second the door shut behind you, your father unleashed hell on the silver-haired king, not giving a damn about his status. You rocked on your feet outside, waiting for the lecture to end. You doubted anyone had ever spoken to Sylus like that.

Moving forward from that day, Sylus was immediately given his own room while preparations were made for him to return to Onychinus. He was also given explicit instructions to stay out of your room. You wouldn't admit it to him, but you missed Mr. Cr- Sylus.

It came to a head, and you couldn't take it anymore. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you were striding down the halls to the guest wing. You found him in the drawing room, seated on one of the overstuffed chairs, a book in hand and head propped on one hand. 

He saw you enter in his peripheral vision and set the book down on a side table to give you his full attention. “Princess, to what do I owe the honor of a visit?”

“I just…” You trailed off. It was embarrassing how much you missed his company, and you knew he would be smug if those words ever reached his ears.

“If you don't know what it is that you want, then I can't do anything to help you.” Was your pride worth it if he was smug anyway?

“Just thought that we haven't talked in a while.”

“In other words, you missed me,” he said, those crimson eyes seemingly peering into your very soul. Your new shyness around him was as endearing as it was irritating. He had gone from a potential suitor, to a crow, to your friend (still as a crow), to nearly a total stranger again. Did you still view him as a bird? Because he could change that.

“Come here, princess,” he commanded. There was no bite or authority to his words; you could refuse if you wanted, but you didn't. You walked forward, head held high, a facade of confidence you did not possess, not around this man who sent heat shooting to your core with a mere glance. 

You stopped a few feet away, but you were still too far for Sylus’ liking. “Closer,” he urged. Again, you stopped short of where he wanted you. He sighed, leaning forward in the chair to pull you forwards by your hips, your body slotting between his knees, his face level with your abdomen and looking up at you. “When I say I want you close, this is what I mean.” His husky voice washed over you, as tempting as the siren is to the sailor.

You braced your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath your palms. No amount of pushing would separate him from you, though. “This is improper,” you objected, but your voice was thin and brittle, your resolve weak, and he knew it.

“Is it?”

You couldn't tear your eyes away from him even as he rose from his seated position to his full height, not allowing you to put so much as a millimeter between your bodies. He bent low enough to brush his nose against yours. “You still owe me a kiss for chasing off that prince,” he whispered, breath fanning your face.

Your cheeks flamed, but you would be lying to yourself if you pretended you wanted him to stop. You brought your hand up to his face, cupping his jawline and guiding his face forward until his soft lips were on yours. He hummed lowly, reciprocating with movements of his own. He licked the seam of your lips, asking permission, wanting, needing, more.

You parted your lips, and he snaked his tongue into your mouth, caressing your own. You hummed into his mouth, and he tightened his hold on you as if you weren't already pressed flush against his chest. Without parting from your pretty lips, he lifted you into his arms, your legs on either side of his waist. He didn't care if any of the servants were in the halls; he had already reached an agreement with your father. The betrothal hadn't been announced, but it had been decided. You were his, whether you knew it or not. He’d almost lost you to that pompous prince, and he wasn't keen to let you nearly slip through his fingers again.

Upon entering his room, he kicked the door shut behind him, quickly making his way to the bed to lay you down gently. Your lips were kiss-swollen, your eyes wide and waiting.

Normally, Sylus prided himself on his immense patience, but your sweet form beneath him was pushing him to his limits. He surged forward, peppering every inch of exposed skin with kisses, hiking up your gown to bunch around your hips. The warmth of his hands was so much more intense with the fabric out of the way. His lips were glued to your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin until he found the spot that made you mewl. With renewed effort, he focused on that spot, leaving a dark bruise that would surely let everyone know you were his. 

He toyed with the waistband of your panties, hooking his fingers under it and then letting it snap back against your skin. He dragged his hand even lower, feeling the way you’d soaked a wet patch through the thin fabric. He finally gave your spit-covered neck a break, admiring the bruises already blooming. Pride is part of the reason he got cursed in the first place, and he still hadn't learned his lesson, that same vice swelling in his chest as he watched the way you panted for breath, already more worked up than anyone had probably ever made you, knowing he was the one to bring you to this point. 

Fuck, you were just so goddamn pretty, even more so when you were under him like this. He prodded at your leaking hole through your cute little panties, cooing at you with faux sympathy. “You’re so wet, sweetie. Why don’t you let me clean you up, hm?”

With slow, deliberate movements, he slid your panties off in time with the maneuvering of his body, lower and lower until he was face to face with your bare pussy. 

“Sylus, what are you- ahh!” you moaned loudly, question interrupted when he licked a broad stripe up your dripping cunt, groaning at the taste. So good, you tasted so fucking good. He dived back in, lapping and slurping as much of you as he could, his hums of approval shooting vibrations through your overly sensitive cunt. You clenched your thighs around his head, the sensation of his tongue thrusting into you pulling moans and gasps from your lips.

All Sylus could think about was how to coax more of your sweet sounds out, alternating between pushing his tongue inside and suckling on the sensitive bud at the apex. You wound your hand through his hair, pulling for some sort of stability. The sting of having his hair pulled only spurred him on. With renewed vigor, he pushed a finger into your gummy walls, then a second, curling them as he moved them in and out. It was so much that you were practically screaming his name. You’d never even been kissed before today, much less experienced such ecstasy. Your back was arching against the sheets, your hips canting upward, seeking more of his tongue, his fingers, everything he was willing to give you.

Sylus’ eyes peering up at you with all the conviction of a devotee praying at an altar was the final push you needed for your pleasure to reach a crescendo. Your legs clamped around Sylus’ head as your body writhed under his continued onslaught, his deft tongue lapping up everything your body would give him until you were pulling his hair for even a modicum of relief from the overstimulation.

He reluctantly pulled away, his breath coming in huffs and his face smeared with the evidence of your arousal. His attention was utterly captivated by the sight of your blissed-out expression, your eyes watery with unshed tears, and he almost came untouched at the mere fact that he was the one responsible for your current state, and he took immense pride in that.

He reached towards you to cup your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Would you like to continue, princess, or shall we stop here?” he asked. 

You could only stare dumbly, still trying to pull your head back down to earth from the high he had brought you to. You wanted it. You wanted him, and you don't think you'd ever have enough of him after this. As his words processed, you nodded, the only response your cottony mind could manage.

“Words, your highness. I want to hear you say it. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you whatever it is you desire. You need only ask for it.” 

Warmth flooded your face, and the sincerity of his voice only endeared you further to the king. You hesitated, somewhat shy at verbalizing such a coarse desire. Swallowing thickly, you answered him properly this time. “You. I want you.”

Sylus groaned at your admission, his cock throbbing in its confines. “You already have me,” he whispered reverently, almost in disbelief that his affections were returned. A betrothal would make you his legally, but he wanted everything: your mind, body, and heart surrendered to him the same way he had already surrendered his to you.

He wasted no time unfastening his pants and freeing his aching length, the tip raw and leaking. You eyed it warily as he leaned over you and braced his cock at your entrance. With a final glance at you to be certain that you were sure, he began to push in with as much tenderness as he could muster, his self-control fraying with every quiver of your cunt and every whine that escaped your lips.

Your breath hitched at the intrusion, the blunt head of his cock pushing further and further into you until his hips were pressed flush against yours. The new sensation of being so thoroughly filled was enough to have your head spinning before he’d even started moving. 

“Is this alright?” Sylus asked, his voice strained with the effort of keeping still. 

A breathy “uh-huh” was the best you could muster. Sylus would have chuckled at how you were already fucked out, but truthfully, he wasn't far behind you. His hands drifted from their place on your hips to your thighs to pull your legs snugly around his waist. With his body weight keeping you securely pinned beneath him, he pulled out until only the head of his cock remained and thrusted back in languidly, savoring the way your body accepted his, your tight walls clenching around him tightly. 

It took every ounce of his self-control to not let go of all his inhibitions and lavish you with all the carnal attention you could handle, until the only thing you could do was moan his name. Having you like this was a privilege he had begun to think would never be his, but here you were, staring up at him as he worked your body, his thick cock splitting you open and his tongue laving over the soft skin of your throat, the proximity allowing him to hear every gasp and whimper and moan in perfect clarity.

In his impatience, Sylus had neglected to properly undress, a fact he thoroughly lamented now that your fingernails were raking down his clothed back. How he would love for his body to bear the undeniable proof of how good he made you feel. Next time, he supposed. For now, though, he was content to watch you fall apart more and more with every deep thrust into your weeping pussy.

You were so close, he could feel it in the way you clenched around him. His own peak was rapidly approaching; you just felt too good around him, but he was determined to make you cum before he reached his own end. With a deft thumb, he began to rub sensual circles over your sensitive nub, the added sensation making you squeal and tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him in even deeper.

You came undone once again with a shrill cry of his name as the ecstasy coursed through your veins. Sylus’ hips continued to snap into yours as he chased his own high, his pace beginning to falter as the need to release built inside him. Grunts rumbled in his chest and spilled from his lips with every thrust into your pulsing heat. He was so close, and the thought of filling you up, marking you as his, spurred him on, but this tryst was already more of a risk than either of you should have taken. He was already tempting fate enough as is.

He reluctantly pulled out of you, using his hand to stroke himself to completion, his cum painting your folds a creamy white as he groaned out your name. Not “your highness,” not “princess,” but your name. A title so much more intimate than that of your status. Something only those closest to you had the privilege of using. He panted above you, his pale skin flushed and pupils blown out, solely focused on you. If he got this worked up when you were practically still fully clothed, he wondered if he’d last at all the first time he sees you completely bare. For now, though, he pressed chaste kisses across your jawline, compliments spilling freely between each one. “Beautiful” kiss “stunning” kiss “perfect” kiss “mine.” He finally pressed his lips to yours softly after his claim, both of you completely melting into the single kiss that somehow felt almost more intimate than even your prior activities.

You were completely worn out, and exhaustion was quickly taking over. Sylus, always astutely in tune with your body’s needs, smiled fondly at your sleepy form. He rose from the bed, telling you he’d be right back before entering the ensuite bathroom and returning with a wet cloth. He made sure you were clean and comfortable in one of his extra shirts, the material dwarfing you in a way that sent protective pangs through Sylus’ heart. 

He crawled into bed next to you, pulling you flush against his now-bare chest. He pressed a chaste kiss into your hairline, whispering a quiet goodnight.

While the two of you were wrapped up in each other and sleeping soundly, a red-faced, flustered maid hurried away as quietly as she could to tell the others the juiciest piece of gossip since a butler had been found to be having relations with not just a maid but also a stableboy.

There had already been talk about the two of you. It had started the second you’d requested a set of men’s clothes and refused to open the door any more than necessary, concealing the rest of your room from prying eyes (you were no fool, and the servants weren’t quite as discreet as they believed themselves to be). Shortly after that peculiar request, King Sylus, who had been missing for the better part of two months, reappeared in the palace from seemingly nowhere and with little explanation. And it did not escape the notice of those who worked closely with you that Mr. Crow was suddenly gone, but surely the two events were unrelated; it would be preposterous to link the two, even if the bird and the king shared certain similarities.

As your interactions with the silver-haired man increased, so too did the servants’ speculation of the exact nature of your relationship. After all, their princess was as pretty as a peach, and the foreign king was certainly easy on the eyes. They all knew it was bound to happen; it was just a matter of when. There was even a betting pool on when the inevitable finally happened, and this pleasantly smug little maid who was fortunate enough to be wandering down the halls at just the right time would be the one to announce the winner. 

She chuckled to herself. Margaret would be furious that she lost by only three days. She rushed into the servants' hall, where many of her fellows were gathered around eating, conversing, and generally merry-making. Her giddy demeanor and swift entry drew the attention of those closest to the door. “We have a winner!” she cheered. This, naturally, drew everyone’s attention to her, all of them asking their questions at once. How did she know? Was she sure it was them? Who bet it would only take two weeks?

She explained quickly. The head housekeeper had sent her to do her final check on the visiting king to ensure he was comfortable and did not require anything before the servants retired for the night. Instead, she was met with a chorus of moans and grunts and the sound of skin on skin that only got louder the more she neared the door of his room. And certainly it was you in there with him. There was no one else in the palace that “princess” or “your highness” could refer to. 

Squeals and giggles alike filled the room from the younger servants, while those who had lost the betting pool groaned while reluctantly handing over their hard-earned funds to the victor. From that point on, you began to notice that many of the palace staff would sport flushed cheeks and the occasional suppressed grin when they saw you. And not only that, but every time you were with Sylus, it was as if whispers followed you, but when you’d turn to the source, all you would see was an empty doorway with the edge of a skirt swishing just out of view.

Sylus had only chuckled, pulling you into his lap and whispering conspiratorially in your ear. “I think they know, kitten.” You had whined into his shoulder to hide your face, embarrassment washing over you. This, of course, had only made him laugh harder, mirth coloring his tone when he spoke again. “If you can’t handle even this little bit of gossip, how are you going to handle it when we’re married and talk of heirs begins, hm? Then they’ll really know.”

You had smacked him on the chest, huffing about how improper this line of conversation was. “Certainly no more improper than what we’ve already done,” he teased.

That, too, provided even more fodder for the servants’ late-night talks, but nothing had them going near as much as your wedding night.

“Did you see how pretty her dress was?” gushed one.

“Yes! And the way he looked at her!” replied another. 

“I want a man to look at me like that,” grumbled one of the cooks.

“Yeah, yeah, who cares, doesn’t anyone appreciate the flower arrangements? Grew those myself, you know,” boasted a gardener, who was now being glared at by the cook. 

One of the guards nudged the comrade sitting next to him. “Think those two are having fun right now?” he asked, grinning ear to ear, his implications obvious. He had no idea how right he was. 

 -𓅨-

“Sy- oh!” you cried out, his cock pistoning in and out of your sopping pussy at a furious pace. The second the two of you were behind closed doors, and finally away from the celebration, he had wasted no time in stripping you of your ornate gown, his lips crashing onto yours with a hunger for you that he would never fully satisfy. From the moment he had seen you, his gorgeous bride, walking down the aisle, his composure had formed the first hairline cracks, which only deepened and spread with every small interaction: exchanging the rings that would bind you to each other forever, the kiss that sealed the union, his hand on your lower back as he guided you through the throngs of people congratulating you on your marriage, all of it was lighting a fire in him he couldn’t put out. Not in public. The cherry atop it all was Prince Xavier’s irritated face in the crowd.

Sylus took great satisfaction that it was he who had you face down in the pillows, bringing you to the gates of heaven over and over, and that that audacious little prince would never touch you thanks to the efforts of yours truly. 

The sight of your bare back and your hands fisting the sheets was for his eyes only. The way your ass jiggled with every thrust and the way you writhed beneath him, completely pinned with his legs on either side of yours and his weight pressing into you, for only him to experience. And the way you moaned and cried out his name was for his ears only.

Your name spilled freely from his lips, your proper title forgotten and permanently replaced with “my wife” in Sylus’ frenzied mind. He leaned his body over yours, close enough for his heaving breaths to brush against your face. He trailed a hand across your delicate skin until his palm was pressed flush against your abdomen. “Do you -ngh!- feel me, my love? Feel how deep your husband’s cock is?” 

You nodded feverishly. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, Sylus, it’s- ah!- so much!”

“Oh my poor wife,” he cooed, faux condescension dripping from his words. “Can’t take it? Is it too much for you? Should I stop?” Before you could even register his words, he had fully stilled above you.

“No! Don’t stop, please!” you begged, the sudden loss of pleasure somehow more overwhelming than the reception of it.

Sylus groaned, and his cock twitched inside of your tight heat. “What’s wrong, sweetie? I thought it was too much?”

“Not enough. Need more. Please, Sylus, husband, I need you.”

Sylus growled, heat rushing straight to where you were joined. He could bear it no longer. He had waited far too long as it is. His hips rutted into you with a ferocity that spoke of his insatiable greed. His panting breath and grunts mingled with your own moans and cries of pleasure.

Just a bit more, and he’d again feel the nirvana of your cunt pulsing around him. With the same hand that had been pressing into you, he snaked his fingers lower, deft digits rubbing tight circles on your clit. You howled at the added stimulation, hurtling towards the edge that Sylus was so eager to bring you to. “Cum for me, my wife,” he rasped. “Let go.”

With a shrill cry of his name, you were finally pushed to the pinnacle, Sylus following shortly after, his own orgasm triggered by yours. This time, he gave no thought to pulling out of you. His hot cum filled you as his orgasm washed over him. His grunts were low and rough in your ears, so delightfully sinful, and his free arm locked around your waist, holding your body to his tightly as he continued to release into you. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat and shoulders, whatever skin he could comfortably reach, as you both came down from your highs.

————————

You stand in the center of the room, directly in front of the massive, plush bed that you share with your husband, Lucifer Morningstar. He is currently perched on the edge of it, his heels dangling just inches above the floor. He looks elegant as always, wearing that white tailored suit. His posture, however, is slightly slumped, shoulders relaxed; and it gives you all the access you need.

You walk over to him, your footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. You press a quick kiss to his lips before sitting behind him. Once you’re settled, you reach out with deliberate slowness, your fingers hovering over the huge red wings that spill out from his back. They’re truly magnificent and pristine, layered with soft downy feathers that look impossibly smooth to the touch. You let your fingertips graze the tips of the primary feathers, just barely making contact.

Lucifer lets out a quiet, breathy sigh, his head tilting back just a fraction. He leans into your touch, seeking more.

You smile.

You know exactly what you’re doing.

You trail your hand down the length of one wing, your touch feather-light, barely tickling him. You use your fingernails to carefully scratch at the base of the wing, right where it connects to his spine. "Luci," you whisper, your voice low and teasing. "You're so tense."

Lucifer doesn't answer. He just leans back further into your hand, his eyes half-lidded, betraying how much he’s enjoying this.

You decide to amp it up a bit. You take your fingers and slowly work your way up the feathers, separating them with your thumbs to expose the soft down underneath. You lightly rub the skin there, watching as goosebumps raise all over his body. You apply the slightest amount of pressure, just enough to tease him, to make him crave more. Then, you shift your focus to the joints of his wings, the areas where the feathers meet the bones. You use your fingertips to gently massage the joints, working out the knots you know he carries.

Lucifer’s breathing gets heavier, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. He lets out a small moan, his head dropping forward as he tries to keep his composure. He’s completely under your control right now, a submissive mess of feathers and nerves. "Please," he breathes, his voice trembling, "don't stop."

You grin, feeling powerful. You decide to pull back slightly, letting him think the teasing is over. You imagine the look at his face: his lips parted, his eyes slightly glazed over as he waits for the next touch, desperate for any kind of stimulation.

You suddenly switch. You move your hands from the gentle teasing to a rough, aggressive handling. You grab the feathers at the base of his wings with both hands and yank slightly. You make sure to not be too harsh, but you’re still acting way more aggressive than before. You dig your fingers in, making a ‘come hither’ motion with the digits.

Lucifer gasps, his body jerking forward. He lets out a sharp cry of pleasure and pain. He arches his back, pressing his chest out, giving you more access to his wings.

You don't let up, though. You continue to roughly pull and rub the feathers, exposing more and more of the delicate skin underneath. You use your nails to scratch and dig into the wings, creating friction that sends jolts of electricity through his nervous system.

Lucifer’s entire body is trembling now, his wings flapping involuntarily, struggling to keep up with your rough handling. The poor thing is completely overwhelmed by the sensation.

You lean in close to his ear, your voice husky and demanding. "You like this, Lucifer? You like being treated like a slut by your wife?"

Lucifer can only moan in response, unable to speak, his head thrown back in ecstasy. He’s completely at your mercy, a puddle of pure sensation.

You continue to ravage his wings, making them messy. You scratch and pinch the sensitive skin, making him squirm and buck his hips. You can see his hardness pressing against his suit pants when you look over his shoulder, evidence of just how much this is affecting him. You reach down past his waistband and into his underwear, freeing him from his constraints. You stroke him a few times, making him gasp. You run your hand up and down repeatedly, twisting your wrist just the way he likes it. You can feel him throbbing in your hand.

Lucifer’s hands grip the bedsheets so tightly you’re sure they’ll rip. He kicks his legs out, his toes curling and uncurling as his body tries to process the sensations coursing through him. “H-holy shit! Honey… h-honey, please… let me cum,” he whimpers, his eyes switching from squeezing shut and flying open.

You lean over his back, still playing with his wings harshly. "Yeah? Do you wanna cum, baby? Hm? Is that what you want?" You chuckle softly, watching him nod vigorously.

Lucifer grabs your wrist tightly, not to stop you but to ground himself as he gets closer to the edge. He whispers pleas for permission, his eyes squeezed shut tightly. “Please… pleasepleaseplease…” he whines, making small sobbing noises as he approaches the edge.

You nip at his neck and scratch his feathers with care. You run your thumb over the tip of his cock, humming as he shudders. You press a kiss to his jaw.

“Cum.”

Lucifer’s orgasm hits him like a truck as soon as he hears your words. His eyes shoot open wide and he cries out, his body shaking as waves of pleasure wash over him. He slowly comes down from his high, his breathing heavy and his eyes fluttering shut. He collapses against you, completely exhausted, wings messy and disheveled. "Best wife ever," he whispers, tilting his head back a bit further and nuzzling your neck.

You smile, satisfied. You reach out and stroke his wings one last time. You make sure to be extremely gentle this time, cooing quietly to soothe him. "You were wonderful, Lucifer," you say, watching him drift off to sleep.

He’s so pretty.

So perfect.

So utterly and completely yours, wings and all.

(as if he hadn’t been drooling all over the damn couch.)

“insufferable,” you’d mutter, an exasperated scowl on your face.

varka would only laugh at that — loud, bright, utterly unashamed, 'cause of course he is, he's varka for archons' sake.

“but still yours, no?”

which was, (un)fortunately, true.

even if he gave you migraines on the daily. even if he was utterly unbearable sometimes.

varka was yours, as much as you're his.

decades of marriage had taught you many things about the man you loved. some grand, some small, some hidden in the quiet habits he didn’t even realize he had.

but you'd see them all, no mattter how miniscule they may seem.

you knew the way exhaustion settled into his shoulders after long days, knew the look of him when he walked through the door.

dim ocean blues, a crooked, tired smile, muscles aching beneath his coat.

these days he would simply press a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom to wash the grime off his skin then spare a few minutes for mantaining his swords, talking about the day with you as he wipes and polishes them to perfection.

and inevitably, after a meal, he'd end up passing out just about anywhere but your shared bed.

you knew your husband very well.

which is why the moment he steps through the door tonight, you kmow something is different.

his eyes meet yours.

and the fire burning in them — sharp, bright, dangerously familiar — sends a shiver down your spine.

“i’m home,” varka whispers, boots heavy against the wooden floorboards as he crosses the room.

tonight he isn’t wearing his usual coat, nor the small pieces of armor that usually cling to him like a second skin. they’re nowhere to be seen. instead, he’s dressed only in a black shirt — the top buttons carelessly left undone.

half of his chest is exposed through the open buttons — scarred skin, a faint trail of blonde hair, and the familiar wolf-tooth necklace swaying faintly with each step he takes.

yet somehow, tonight, everything about him feels. . . different.

"sorry if i've kept you waiting," he places a light peck on the side of your lips, eyes gazing straight at you as he does.

predatory.

that was the gaze of someone who wanted to devour something — or in this case, someone.

warm, large palms rest just above the side of your hips, and you can feel the way he presses slightly, inching your body closer to his.

"no 'welcome home, honey' for me?" a deep chuckle spilled from him, soft with fondness, "finally got tired of your husband, hm?"

his eyes gleam with a certain hunger, tracing over the shape of your lips to the half-exposed cleavage of your dress.

varka does not lighten his grip, eventually pushing you further and further until your back hits the wall. leaning over until he's got you trapped between his frame and the wood now, faces mere inches apart.

you could hear the sound of his heartbeat, loud yet steady.

gulping the sudden nervousness, you were about to welcome him home as you usually did.

before you could speak, he captures you in a deep kiss, discarding whatever restraint he has. varka places a hand behind your head, softly caressing, before forcing your face closer into his waiting mouth.

he can barely keep it together, chest heaving with every rhythmic dance of his lips on yours.

"welcome—mmph—" kiss. "ahhn, home. . ." kiss.

you whine at his desperation, "varka—"

he groans into your mouth at the mere mention of his name, lips turning even more desperate. the sound rattles your bones, making you squirm against him.

and with how large the knight is, you're practically engulfed in his arms, body pressing onto the flimsy fabric of your dress until you eventually mold into one, until you eventualy feel it —

your face goes red immediately, and you hopelessly try to hold onto his biceps as he grinds the very obvious bulge against you.

you can hear every wet smack of his lips on yours, the lecherous sound bouncing off the sides of your throat into your ear. he's practically devouring you by this point, panting into the wet cavern of your mouth.

there’s a hunger in the way he looks at you, not for anything fleeting, but for the entirety of you — your voice, your laughter, the way you carry yourself

he needs you so bad that it's breaking him apart.

a small yelp escapes you when varka suddenly lifts you into his arms.

the motion pulls your lips from his, the kiss breaking too soon. he doesn’t go far, though — only tilts his head forward until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your skin.

your hands fumble to rest at his shoulders, steadying yourself in his arms.

"yeah, much better," he laughs, bright as ever, "my back was killin' me, leaned over too much."

varka's moved the both of you to the living room now, hs probably knocked into a few things on the way but the two of you are much too distracted to care.

"it's not my fault you're built like a hilichurl tower." you quip, looking to the sides so you can avoid his peering eyes.

he flashes you a fond, crooked grin, resting his face on your chest. "hilichurl tower? surely, there are better structures to describe someone like me."

"like what, grandmaster?"

"a guizhong ballista?"

". . . i have no idea what that is."

varka lingers dangerously near your throat, warm breath brushing your skin.

"hah, don't worry, love— you'll find out soon."

you're sitting on his lap now, directly over the twitching bulge of his cock. your thighs flinch at every shift of his hips, feeling it brush over your warmth.

he's nipping at your exposed neck, leaving faint marks that you'll scold him for in the morning. though, varka could care less about the scolding he'll get when he has you exactly how he wants you:

flushed, trembling, and soaking wet.

the strap of your dress starts to fall off your shoulder, revealing the rest of your cleavage for him to stare at. he's mesmerized at how beautiful you look, finding it hard to believe he has you all for himself.

"have i ever told you how beautiful you are?" he rasps, unzipping your dress from behind. maybe it's because of the way he's speaking to you in that tone, looking at you with that gaze, but you suddenly feel like putty in his hands.

"many times, i believe you say it everyday."

he chuckles, "really?" pulling the dress down further until it's bunched at your hips. "s'pose i can't really help it when you make me hard every damn time i walk into this house."

you feel him lick and suck bruises into your skin, each mark blooming red and pink across the canvas of your flesh — a vivid display of his relentless desire for you.

"aren't you embarrassed being this shameless at your big age?"

even well past thirty, there’s still that same restless hunger in the way he looks at you, the same eagerness in the way his hands find yours. time may have carved new lines into his face and scattered scars across his body, but it has never managed to dull the way he wants you.

varka makes a show of caressing your thighs, pushing your skirt along with it, "shameless? i'm just being honest, don't you like an honest man?"

he sneaks a glimpse at the cotton underwear hidden beneath, swallowing the urge to push them aside and take you already.

"maybe if this honest man stopped seducing me everytime he came home, i'll like him better." you huff, carding your fingers through his disheveled hair.

he looks back up at you.

"oh?" varka smiles toothily, amusement rolling off him in waves, "so the lady screamin' for more last night was just a figment of my imagination then? the very same lady who rode me so well she—"

memories of last night started flowing into your head, causing you to fluster.

your hands immediately fly to his mouth, shutting him up for good, "okay! i get it, that's enough!"

you hear his muffled laughter through the gaps of your palms, his eyes crinkling with shameless amusement.

meanwhile you’re left flushed and needy beneath him.

it’s terribly unfair.

for all the years you’ve had this man wrapped around your finger, not once have you felt undesired.

if anything, there were moments you felt too desired.

his appetite for you was relentless — rivaled only by his well-known love for alcohol.

passion has never dimmed in your marriage,. you were in an eternal state of the so-called 'honeymoon phase' where the two of you fucked like rabbits and slobbered over each other anytime you can.

that never changed, even as varka traded the reckless, stubborn youth he once was for the measured, commanding man worthy of the grandmaster’s position.

you actually found it quite funny that the young boy who used to cause a ruckus everyday for valentine would mellow down into this boisterous but dependable leader.

he's changed so much over the years, turning into the pillar of strength in mondstadt — a legend among men.

and even so, he still acted the same with you, as if he was that same bumbling fool who professed his love to anyone who would listen.

varka might have changed — in ways that might seem inconsequential to anyone else — but deep down, he was still the same man you married all those years ago.

even down to that insatiable hunger he always carried for you.

your husband has you laid out on the sofa, legs wrapped around his waist — though they never quite meet around him, his broad frame simply too large, pressing you close in all the ways you’ve grown to know and crave.

"is it too much, hun?" varka asks, combing a hand through his hair to keep it away from his eyes, all so he could stare at the way your face scrunched up for him, kiss-swollen lips trembling from the stretch.

"need me to slow down a li'l?"

you vigorously shake your head, clutching at the large palm softly caressing your cheek, "no, no, keep going, please—"

varka laughs at your desperate cries, pushing a bit further into your warmth. it's always been necessary to prep you for hours before you could take him without much pain, and varka doesn't mind the extra work – he quite enjoys it actually.

but you don't have that patience, too needy and wanting to feel him inside you as soon as possible. he finds it very cute by the way, seeing you beg for it always gets blood rushing to his nether regions in no time.

"taking me so well," he whispers, kissing your forehead, "just a bit more, mhm? be a good girl f'me."

you whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he starts to slowly thrust back and forth, and it immediately makes you even wetter, soaking him in your juices.

varka lets out a lengthy groan, throwing his head back when he feels you clench around him.

“fuck,” his brows pull together, beads of sweat trailing down the hairs of his chest. “relax a bit. . . gonna break me at this rate.”

varka chuckles lowly, an obscene grin curling across his lips.

"s-sorry. . . " you say, clinging to his arms like it's the only thing anchoring you to reality.

his wolf-tooth pendant sway with every delicious roll of his hips, nailing you to the cushion, the metal glinting under the dim-lighting of your home.

your eyes linger on the many scars along his chest and arms, each one waz a testament to the battles he’s survived — a symbol of courage, of years spent facing danger without hesitation for the sake of his lobed ones.

and yet it’s the very same body he uses to carry you to bed, careful hands far gentler than anyone could imagine.

the same arms that once raised a blade now wrap around you with an ease that feels almost tender, as if the weight of war and bloodshed melts away the moment you’re in them.

it always amazes you — how a man built for battle can hold you like something precious.

varka's lips found its way to the dip of your neck, licking anywhere he could while his hips gain a steady rhythm for the both of you.

and soon enough, you start to see blurry white stars along the edges of your vision.

decades may have passed between the two of you, yet varka’s desire has never learned how to calm itself. age has softened many things in life, but not this — not the way his hands still find you with the same urgency, thee same hunger as it did all those years ago.

time may wear down mountains, but it has never managed to wear down the fire he carries for you.

"still, ah, with me?" varka asks, face still buried in the crook of your neck. his voice a soft and warm thing, contrasting the way his hips viciously slam against your soaking heat.

you could barely even garble an answer, moaning and whimpering his name at every hard thrust.

varka gently pushes your knees toward your chest, holding you close as he leans over you, his presence overwhelming in the small space between you.

you could feel every vein and throb of his thick cock, the way he stretches you out sooo good that it leaves you limbless.

he's got an arm under both of knees, locking them together, and pushing them to the side of his waist.

"take a deep breath for me," varka warns you, chuckling at the way your pussy seems to respond instead, pulsing around him with need.

he fucks you roughly, frantically pushing in and pulling out. bright red marks start to form on your ass, his pelvis repeatedly hitting against it.

every loud slap of skin makes you go dizzy, mind turning into mush as you let yourself get lost into the throes of pleasure.

your neighbors could probably hear you by now, moaning so loud that the sound bounces off the walls. varka could care less, more than happy to let you disturb the ones nextdoors — what are they gonna do? complain to the knights of favonius?

plus, hearing you sing his name like this, talking about how good everything feels and how he's 'too big' just pushes him off the edge.

he leans over to lick your lips, fingers brushing onto the side of your face.

"too much, hngh. . . "

varka laughs quietly against your ear, the sound deep and gravelly, “oh, but you love it rough. don’t you, pretty?”

your nearly roll to the back of your head, a line of drool slipping past your parted lips, "yes, i do! love it s'much—"

"really?" varka teases, voice low with desire. he wipes the drool with his thumb before bringing it back to your lips, "tell me how good it is then, c'mon, cry for me."

cry for me.

this is the only time varka would let tears run down your face willingly. he loves seeing how good he makes you feel, especially through the soft cries of his name.

"i love you! i love you!" you wail, feeling him speed up, the sounds of skin against skin getting louder. "ah! varka—"

he’s practically buzzing with adoration, every muscle taut and alive with each “i love you” that slips from your lips. even now, his heart leaps every time you praise him — a feeling that has never waned, no matter how many years have passed.

he bites his lip, letting his hips do the talking.

the sofa shakes with every brutal thrust, wood creaking under his weìght and strength.

he laughs, a low rumbling thing that makes your cunt throb, "fucking gorgeous, could never get tired of this pussy—hah, shit."

"could never, ever, get tired of you."

a mixture of sweat, drool, and cum is splattered across his meaty thighs and sticking to the trail of hair along his navel.

varka loves it when you make a mess — whether it’s around the house or on his cock. to him, it simply means his wife feels comfortable enough to let herself go around him.

and he loves it the most when you arch so beautifully in his arms, cunt clamping hard on him as you cum — you could call it an addiction with the way he groans at the way your eyes cross, whimpering his name.

"i love you too," varka whispers into your ear, leaving small butterfly kisses along the shell of it, "gonna—ugh—cum." he stutters, a low exhale leaving his lips.

your nails scratch down along his shoulders, leaving bright red marks but the pain doesn't register for him, too busy chasing his release.

not that something as small as a scratch could ever faze him.

his eyes never leave yours, following every tremble, every small gasp, as if he could memorize you whole. varka’s expression stays gentle, even as his hands leave indents on your skin — a silent tether, a promise you’re not going anywhere.

even through overestimated tears, you manage to see the silhouette of his face, desperate in a way he shouldn't be. after all, he had you nearly everyday, so why is it that he always fucks you as if it's your last?

varka presses down on you — hard. putting most of his weight onto you while you keen, cumming for a second time.

his hips goes completely still, filling you to the brim with all of his length.

all while he crashes his lips into yours — hungry, desperate, and all consuming, moaning into the kiss while your tears fall from overwhelming pleasure.

"sorry, honey. . . i don't think i'll be able to hold back tonight."

"ugh, maybe i should just go ahead and get married too. . . " one of the junior knight sighs dreamily, looking at the grandmaster's bright grin as he steps into the favonius headquarters.

his partner looks at him with a confused expression, "hah? what brought this on?"

the junior knight, palez, points over to varka, "the grandmaster gets to come home to a sweet, loving wife and a warm meal. . . that's why he's always smiley like that, look at how much he's glowing!"

"are you mentally ill?"

a suave voice cuts in, "oh dear, gossiping about the grandmaster's love life in such an open space, getting a little too chummy are we?"

kaeya and rosaria look at the two knights, and an air of chill sweeps through making them shiver. when put together, these two are no joke (outside of a tavern).

"s-sorry! captain kaeya, sister rosaria! it won't happen again." the two frantically salute, palms already getting sweaty.

kaeya laughs lightly, saluting half-heartedly as he walks away. rosaria follows right behind, her expression as icy as ever.

step.

step.

step.

". . . ."

"you think she's alright?" kaeya whispers, cringing at the thought of you being bedridden again.

rosaria can only scoff, massaging her temples as if talking about it was already giving her a migraine, "likely not. she hasn't gone to good hunter all morning which means she's. . ."

"especially since he's looking so refreshed then she's probably. . . " kaeya trails off, silently praying for your recovery.

speak of the devil.

kaeya straightens up, smiling like normal. rosaria rolls her eyes, wincing at the loud voice.

"oh, hey— it's you two! thank barbatos! mind doin' me a small favor?" varka greets them with an enthusiastic wave, a bright, boyish grin on his face.

and he shall appear.

"jean's gonna tie me to the desk at this rate," varka grumbles, "so i was hoping you two could drop this off for me—"

he shoves them something warm wrapped in cloth, rosaria takes it and perks up at the familiar smell of food — it's your favorite dish from good hunter.

kaeya shares a look with her, looking back up at varka with a sly grin, "of course, leave it to us."

.

.

.

it's just another day at mondstadt.

oddly enough, you woke up that morning with your stomach feeling warmer than usual.

it's probably nothing.

#it's-your-captain-ari-speaking ☆ i was listening to sade while scrolling on twitter dot come when i suddenly came across such a golden tweet that inspired me to immediately open my tumblr drafts to goonwrite.

I KNOWW ITS ASS...im sorry i just wrote this in between other longfics.....just...take rhis for now...ill edit it when i have time

btw just a funny thing i added but he laughs/chuckles a lot in this fic, this is bcs i went through his voicelines and istg — this guy always has to let out a "AHAHAHAHAHA!" or "hahahaha. . . " or even a small "heh." like omg shuuut up....he just be hootin' and hollerin' all over mondstadt bro 😭😭 he is soo happy to be alive.

i asked the gc for a title, and 8 out of 11 people voted for "AITA for fucking my wife too often??" while the rest either voted/recommended "a case of erectile overfunction" or "HOPPIN' DIH DIH DIH" which cracks me up a bit.

anyways brought to you by this #truthnuke of a tweet lol:

𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫:

He loves every single thing about you, down to the most obscure and minuscule of details. However, when it comes to the sweet scent of your perfume? As soon as it wafts into his nostrils, Alastor is suddenly materializing behind you in a flurry of dark, smoky wisps, arms raveling around your waist, chest pressing against your back.

“Forgive me for startling you, mon coeur,” Alastor dips his head into the crook of your neck, drawing a gasp from you. “But you smell absolutely divine.”

He is bold, unashamed as he glides his nose across your skin. You don’t know whether to giggle or melt into his arms, at least not until the comforting sound of his radio filter softly crackling penetrates your ears. It isn’t often you hear it, so you slump back into his embrace and allow him to do as he pleases, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Tell me, are there any… pressing matters you must attend to?” Alastor asks you, clawed-hands slowly inching down south, making your breath hitch.

It’s rare when he indulges in carnal pleasures with you, but with the sweet scent of your perfume clinging onto your skin, it inspires a familiar heat in his core. So, the moment you shake your head, he seizes the opportunity to whirl you around, face practically glued to the crook of your neck as his claws hastily work to remove your clothes.

𝐕𝐨𝐱:

What doesn’t Vox love about you? His feelings for you are so strong, so passionate, that it borders on obsession. Still, there’s a fine line between what he feels and what he can’t resist, the sweet scent of your perfume serving as a testament of that. Hell, the moment you stride into his office, you’re not allowed to leave his clutches.

“God, you’re so lucky I don’t have a nose,” Vox murmurs, his screen plastered against your chest. “I mean, fuck, I’d be all over you if I did.”

He’s already all over you, clawed-hands gripping your waist, keeping you hostage on his lap. In fact, you’ve been in that position for quite a while already; and every now and then, he pulls away from whatever he’s working on to stash away the scent of you in his memory. The entire affair is annoying but oddly sweet.

“If you have anything to do, consider it cancelled,” Vox chuckles as he pulls away. “You’re not leaving this room until I’m done working, doll.”

You slump into his embrace with a resigned sigh, hoping that your perfume eventually wears off, knowing damn well that he’s only keeping you from leaving for one reason and one reason alone — he is insecure. Yes, he can’t resist the sweet scent on your skin, but a small part of him is worried that you’ll attract unwanted attention. The bastard.

𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫:

He worships you. Literally. There isn’t a single thing about you that Lucifer doesn’t fawn over, including the sweet scent of your perfume on your skin. As soon as you pass him and a subtle minute trace penetrates his senses, he’s following right after you, wondering where in Hell you’re off to smelling so utterly divine — without him, no less.

“Oh! Hey, hi, hello there,” Lucifer rambles as he catches your hand, peering up at you with a nervous look. “Where ya off to, sweetheart?”

He unashamedly clings onto you, slowly bringing your wrist up to his face, where your perfume clings onto you rather strongly. The corners of your lips twitch upwards, knowing all too well what he’s doing. He isn’t exactly trying to be subtle, either, his face pressing up against your wrist, his chest slightly rising with a soft inhale.

“I — oh — this is… wow,” Lucifer struggled to string a coherent sentence, growing bolder. “Did I get you this perfume? Oh my, you smell so, so good.”

A giggle seeps past your lips, especially as he proceeds to circle you like a hawk, obsessed. His face appreciatively travels up your arm, to your neck, to your jaw, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his movements. When his wings unfurl behind him, though, you know you aren’t leaving his sight. You smell too good to be out in public.

𝐀𝐛𝐞𝐥:

He loves every thing about you, there’s no doubt about that in your mind, even though he tends to be discreet about it. Abel is rather shy, timid, and the last thing he wants to do is make you uncomfortable, too. However, when it comes to the sweet scent of your perfume? Oh, he can’t help but approach you, wings slightly fluttering.

“Wait, honey, is that you that smells?” Abel stutters out quickly, flushing in embarrassment, realizing how bad that sounded. “In a g-good way, I mean!”

Your first reaction is to giggle, especially as he curls into himself and nervously wrings his hands in front of his chest. For someone who’s so tall and imposing, he’s such a sweetheart, through and through. You approach him and toss your arms around his shoulders, balancing yourself on your tiptoes, pressing your cheek against his.

“Oh, wow, that’s…” Abel starts, but the words die out on his tongue as he dips his head, nose grazing the side of your neck. “That’s, like… amazing?”

————————

The crimson curtains of your bedroom are drawn, casting the room in a warm, intimate glow. Outside, the sounds of Hell's eternal celebration for Valentine's Day is a distant, muffled roar.

But in here, it's just you and Lucifer.

He's standing by the bed, adjusting the silk sheets. His suit jacket is already draped over a chair, leaving him in his striped shirt and white pants. He smiles, and his golden eyes, burning with a love, find you. A sharp-toothed grin spreads across his face. "Well now," he chuckles softly, "look what I have all to myself." He climbs into bed with you, kissing your forehead. "Happy Valentine's Day, my love." His hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "I've got plans for you," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. "Plans that involve… far less clothing." His mouth claims yours in a kiss. It starts out gentle, but it gets more and more intense after a few minutes. One of his hands moves from your cheek to tangle in your hair, gripping it just tight enough to make your scalp tingle. His other hand slides down your back, over the curve of your hip, pulling you flush against him.

You can feel the hard, thick line of his arousal pressing against you through his trousers, and a soft gasp escapes your lips.

Lucifer breaks the kiss, panting slightly, his pupils blown wide with desire. "Much better," he purrs, his eyes roaming over your body. "Now, let's get you out of these, shall we?" With a flick of his wrist, a wave of red magic washes over you. The clothes you're wearing simply disintegrate into a flurry of golden sparkles, leaving you completely bare before him. His gaze darkens as it sweeps over you, taking in every curve, every inch of your skin. "Perfect," he breathes, his voice thick with lust. "Absolutely fucking perfect." He steps back, his own clothes vanishing in a similar flash of magic. His cock is thick and hard, jutting out from a thatch of blonde hair, the tip already beading with precum.

He's magnificent.

"On the bed," Lucifer commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. You comply eagerly, settling back against the pillows. He's on you in a heartbeat, his body covering yours, his weight a delicious pressure. His mouth finds yours again, and his hands begin to explore, tracing the lines of your body, his touch both reverent and possessive. He cups your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, teasing them into hard peaks.

"Lucifer," you moan, arching into his touch.

"Patience, my dear," Lucifer chuckles, his mouth moving to your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin. "I'm going to worship every inch of you tonight." He shifts, his mouth trailing down your body, leaving a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses. He takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. His hand moves down your stomach and to your cunt. "Already so wet for me," he murmurs against your skin. He parts your folds with his fingers, finding your clit and circling it slowly. "So responsive… I love that..." He continues his torturous exploration, his mouth moving lower, his tongue dipping into your navel. He settles between your thighs, his hot breath ghosting over your slick folds. "Look at me," he whispers. You force your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. "I want to watch you fall apart..." Then his mouth is on you, his tongue delving into your wetness to taste you. He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and the pleasure is so intense it's almost painful. He focuses on your clit, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue working it mercilessly. He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, hitting that spot that makes you see stars.

"Lucifer, please," you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets.

"Please what?" Lucifer asks, his voice muffled by your flesh.

"Please, I need... I need..."

Lucifer sees your struggle to speak and smirks. He doubles his efforts, his fingers pumping into you, his tongue flicking against your clit faster and harder.

The pleasure builds, a tidal wave of sensation that threatens to drown you. Your thighs start to shake, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He doesn't let up, his movements relentless, driving you higher and higher until you finally shatter, a scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you.

Lucifer laps up your juices, his tongue gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. He rises over you, his face glistening with your essence, a triumphant smirk on his lips. "That's one," he purrs, positioning himself at your entrance. "But we're just getting started…” He pushes into you in one smooth, deep stroke, and you cry out at the sudden, overwhelming fullness. He's big, stretching you and filling you completely. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours. "You feel so fucking good," he groans, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "So tight… so perfect..." Then he begins to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, a steady rhythm that quickly has you climbing towards another climax. He's watching you, his golden eyes burning into yours, his expression a mixture of raw lust and love. He shifts his angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you with every thrust.

The pleasure is blinding.

"Fuck, Lucifer," you moan, your nails digging into his back.

"That's it, baby," Lucifer moans, his pace quickening. "Take my cock… take all of it… god, yes…" He grabs your legs, hooking them over his shoulders, allowing him to sink even deeper into you.

You're sobbing with pleasure now, lost in the sensation.

Lucifer reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing it in tight circles. "Cum for me again," he commands, his voice rough. "Cum all over my cock."

His words, combined with the relentless stimulation, are your undoing. Your second orgasm is even more intense than the first, a violent, convulsive wave of pleasure that rips through you, leaving you trembling and breathless.

Lucifer fucks you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own control finally snapping. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his hot seed. He rests his face against your neck, muffling his whines in your skin. He collapses on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in harsh pants.

For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together, the only sound in the room your combined breathing. Then Lucifer rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, your back pressed against his chest. He nuzzles your neck, his lips soft against your skin. "Happy Valentine's Day," he murmurs, his voice smooth and filled with content. "I love you."

"I love you too," you whisper, a feeling of profound happiness washing over you. Lucifer holds you close, his arms wrapped around you, and you know that this is exactly where you belong.

In the arms of the Devil.

On Valentine's Day.

In Hell.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

————————

The first thing you’re aware of is the warmth. It’s not the scorching heat of Hell. It’s Lucifer. He’s a furnace even in his sleep, and he’s wrapped around you like a clingy, overpowered octopus. One of his legs is tangled with yours, a fluffy tufted ankle hooked around your own. His arm is a heavy band across your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest. His face is buried in your chest, his breathing a slow, steady puff against your skin that tickles the fine hairs there. You shift slightly, just an inch, and his arm tightens instantly, a low, possessive rumble vibrating through his chest and into your back. A sleepy voice murmurs into your skin.

“No… stay...”

A smirk touches your lips. You love this version of him—the sleepy King of Hell who’s more concerned with keeping you in bed than anything else. You can feel the evidence of his morning appreciation pressing against your thigh. “Lucifer,” you whisper, your voice still thick with sleep. “It’s morning.”

“Mm-hmm,” Lucifer hums, nuzzling deeper. His lips, soft and surprisingly plush, begin to trail a path of lazy, open-mouthed kisses from the middle of your chest up to one of your collarbones. He nips it gently. “I know it is...” His hand, which had been resting on your stomach, begins to move. It’s not a rushed movement; it’s slow and deliberate. His long, elegant fingers splay across your ribs, his thumb stroking the soft skin just below the curve of your breast. You tilt his chin up with two of your fingers, smirking at the sight. His eyes are still half-lidded and heavy with sleep, but the lazy golden glow is sharpening with interest. He’s a mess. His usually immaculate blonde hair is a riot of tufts and tangles, sticking up at odd angles. A faint, happy-go-lucky smile is already playing on his lips, the sharp points of his teeth just barely visible.

He really is adorable.

“Hi,” you breathe, reaching up to smooth a stray piece of hair from his forehead.

“Hi yourself,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch. He captures your hand, bringing your palm to his lips to press a soft, lingering kiss to its center. “You look like you stuck your finger in a light socket.”

“Hey!” you laugh.

Lucifer’s grin widens. “It’s true.” He closes the small distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is slow and deep, a lazy, Sunday-morning kind of kiss that tastes like sleep and a bit of alcohol that’s still lingering on your lips from last night. His tongue sweeps against yours, a slow exploration that sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. He’s not in a hurry. He has all the time in the world, an eternity of mornings just like this one.

And he intends to savor every second.

Lucifer’s hand resumes its journey, sliding up from your ribs to cup your breast. He’s not rough, just firm, his thumb lazily circling your nipple until it pebbles into a tight, sensitive bead under his touch. You arch into his hand, a soft sigh escaping your lips. He chuckles, a low, smug sound that vibrates through your entire body. “Responsive this morning,” he observes, his voice a smug purr against your lips. He breaks the kiss, trailing his mouth down your jaw, your throat. He pays special attention to that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, sucking and licking softly. He shifts, rolling you onto your back and settling himself between your thighs. The weight of him is glorious, a solid, grounding pressure that makes you feel safe and desired all at once. He props himself up on his elbows, looking at you with an expression of pure adoration. It’s the look that says you are the center of his universe, the queen to his king, his anchor in this chaotic, eternal existence. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his crimson eyes tracing the lines of your face and your collarbones, as well as the curve of your hips where the sheets are pooled around them. He lowers his head, capturing a nipple in his mouth. He suckles gently, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak in a way that makes you gasp and buck your hips against him. He takes his time, lavishing the same attention on its twin until you’re a writhing mess beneath him, your fingers clutching at his shoulders.

“Lucifer, please,” you pant.

“Please what, my love?” Lucifer asks, his voice a low taunt as he releases your breast with a wet pop. He begins to kiss his way down your stomach, his lips a trail of fire against your skin. “Use your words.”

“You know what,” you manage to say, your voice breathy and thin.

Lucifer chuckles again, the sound a low rumble against your belly button. “Humor me. I want to hear you say it.” He settles himself between your legs, his shoulders pushing your thighs wider apart. He looks up at you from under his lashes, his eyes glinting with mischief and hunger. The sight alone is almost enough to push you over the edge. “Tell me,” he commands softly, his breath ghosting over the most sensitive part of you.

You gasp, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Lucifer, please, put your mouth on me.”

Lucifer’s smile is pure sin. “Yes, ma’am…”

And then he does. He doesn’t tease or hesitate. He flattens his tongue and licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and your entire body bows off the bed. It’s a jolt of pure pleasure, white-hot and electric. He groans against you, the sound muffled by your flesh. It’s like he’s found his personal paradise between your thighs. He eats you out with the same lazy, thorough attention he’s given to everything else this morning. His tongue is a masterful instrument, swirling and flicking, alternating between broad, flat strokes and precise, pointed jabs. He sucks your clit into his mouth, his teeth grazing it just enough to make you cry out, his name a broken prayer on your lips. One of his hands grips your hip to hold you steady, the other sliding up your inner thigh until his fingers are teasing your entrance. He slides two fingers inside you with zero resistance, and the stimulation is overwhelming. He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, and rubs it in time with the rhythmic sucking of his mouth.

“Fuck, Lucifer, right there,” you sob, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Lucifer has no intention of stopping. He can feel you tightening around his fingers, the tell-tale flutter of your impending orgasm. He doubles his efforts, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping deeper and harder, hitting that perfect spot over and over again until you’re screaming his name, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. It’s a long, intense orgasm that leaves you boneless and panting, your limbs feeling like they’re made of jelly. He doesn’t pull away immediately. He stays right there, lapping gently at your oversensitive flesh, drawing out every last tremor until you’re whimpering and pushing weakly at his head. He finally relents, pressing one last, soft kiss to your clit before crawling back up your body. He looks incredibly smug, his chin glistening with your arousal.

He’s beautiful.

And he’s all yours.

Lucifer kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. It’s an intimate flavor that makes your inner muscles clench with renewed desire. “Good?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Absolutely,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for another kiss. You can feel him, hard and heavy and pressing against your still-throbbing center. You reach down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock. He’s thick and hot, the skin velvety soft over the rigid length of him. He hisses, his hips thrusting instinctively into your hand. “Eager, are we?” you tease, stroking him slowly from base to tip.

“For you?” he groans, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Always. Fuck, your hands…”

You guide him to your entrance, positioning the head of his cock against your slick opening.

Lucifer doesn’t need a second invitation. With a low, guttural groan that sounds like it’s been dragged up from the very bottom of his soul, he pushes forward. The stretch is exquisite, a slow, burning pressure as he sinks into you inch by glorious inch. He’s so thick, so solid, filling you completely until there’s no space left between you. He pauses when he’s fully sheathed, his forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word a shaky exhale against your lips. “You feel… oh, you feel so perfect… like you were made just for me...”

“Maybe I was,” you whisper, tilting your hips to take him even deeper. The movement makes you both gasp.

Lucifer starts to move, and it’s exactly what you needed. There’s no frantic or urgent pounding. This is the rhythm of a lazy morning, a slow, deep, and deliberate rocking of his hips. Each thrust is a long, powerful stroke that sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your entire body. He’s grinding against you, his pelvis rubbing against your clit with every pass, stoking the embers of your last orgasm back into a roaring fire.

You wrap your legs around his waist, hooking your ankles together at the small of his back and pulling him impossibly closer. It’s like you want to absorb him, to feel him in every cell of your being. Your hands roam over his back, tracing the sharp lines of his shoulder blades and the dip of his spine.

Lucifer shudders above you. “Love you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion and pleasure. It’s not a grand declaration, but a quiet, simple truth, repeated with every thrust.

“Love you… love you… love you...”

Lucifer shifts his weight, propping himself up on one arm to free his other hand. He snakes it between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. The direct, circling pressure is almost too much, a sharp sensation that cuts through the deep, rolling waves of his thrusts. Your eyes flutter shut, your head falling back against the pillows as you lose yourself to the sensation. “Look at me,” he whispers. You force your eyes open, meeting his loving and intense gaze. “I want to see you when you fall apart for me again.”

The sweetness in his eyes is your undoing. Combined with the relentless, deep thrusts and the masterful work of his thumb, it sends you hurtling toward the edge with breathtaking speed. The coil in your belly tightens, tighter and tighter, until it snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you like a violent storm. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your body convulses around him. Your vision whites out, every nerve ending firing at once as wave after wave of pure bliss washes over you. You’re dimly aware of Lucifer groaning your name, his hips stuttering as your spasming muscles milk his own release from him.

Lucifer follows you over the edge with a ragged cry, his body going rigid as he buries himself deep inside you. You can feel the pulse of his cock as he cums, a hot, deep flood that fills you completely. He collapses onto you, his weight a welcome blanket, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he trembles through the aftershocks.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is your combined breathing, which is slowly returning to normal. He’s still inside you, a comforting and intimate. You run your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, your other hand tracing lazy patterns on his back. He presses a soft, kiss to your shoulder, then another, his lips gentle and reverent.

“Wow,” Lucifer finally mumbles, his voice muffled by your skin. “That’s… wow, that’s a hell of a way to start the day.”

You laugh, a breathy, exhausted sound. “Agreed.”

“But you love it,” Lucifer says, lifting his head to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes soft and sated. He looks happy. Truly, deeply happy, and it’s a sight that still takes your breath away, even after all these years.

“I do,” you admit, leaning up to kiss him softly. “I really do.”

Lucifer kisses you back, a slow, sweet, thorough kiss that tastes of love and sweat. He carefully pulls out, rolling to the side but immediately pulling you with him so you’re draped over his chest. He tugs the rumpled sheets up over both of you, creating a warm, cozy nest. “So,” he says, his fingers combing through your hair. “Breakfast in bed? Or round three? I’m feeling… ambitious.”

You snuggle closer, resting your head over his heart, listening to the steady, reassuring beat. “Breakfast first,” you say, a contented sigh escaping your lips. “We can make those pancakes you like.”

Lucifer chuckles, a kind and caring sound that vibrates through your entire body. “You know me so well. And we’re making them duck shaped and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He laughs, tightening his arm around you, holding you close as the rest of the hotel starts to wake up.

It’s perfect.

It’s home.