Hi, how are you? You could write something involving Crowley and his wonderful black wings. Something about how the reader touches his wings makes him horny
Unnfff this is such a kink for me, so rn, Iām very very good
(Obviously, some lemon-y content beneath the cut.
You offer to groom his wings after seeing him struggle with the more finer points of grooming
Closer to his back is hard to reach, so they are often left neglected
So, you offer to do the parts he canāt reach
Heās a bit funny about it at first
Anyone touching your wings was a massive deal
It showed complete and utter trust in that person
But, he allowed it.
He actually didnāt inticipate the reaction that he had
You gently brushed your fingers against the main bone of his wing and he lets out a loud, uncontrolled moan
You jolt back, scared that you hurt him
āCrowley, are you o-ā
āDonāt stop.ā
His voice is raspy as he pushes his wings closer towards you
When you return your fingers to their previous path, he groans before trying to control his noises.
His outer feathers are soft and silky, and you canāt help but run your fingers through them.
You pull out a few loose feathers that he had missed and let them fall to the floor, gently massaging the skin beneath to remove any pain that may have occured
Finally, you got to the feathers closest to his back
They are soft, small, fluffy and downy.
There isnāt a lot to be done there, but you organise them as best you can, removing any that are loose or broken
You trail your nails across his back as you move to the other wing and start the same process again, getting distracted from time to time from just how lovelyĀ his wings feel in your hands.
What you donāt realise because you are too distracted by your grooming process, is Crowleyās heavy breathing and absolutely desperate whines.
He just is falling a part at your finger tips and heās not sure if he hates it or is completely in love with it
He thinks heās got it all under control, that nothing is gonna happen and that heās gonna be fine
But then
But then you get that one featherĀ that has been bothering him for the better part of a decadeĀ and when he lets out a small groan of relief, you gently start massaging that one, very sensitive spot
He couldnāt help himself
His wings expand as he lets out a small, animalistic noise from the back of his throat, his head pulled back as he arches his back
To put it simply
He came in his pants
He is absolutely mortified that he just came untouched in his pants like a human teenager
He will never admit this for as long as he will live
However
He definately will ask you to groom his wings again.
And again.
And again.
Even when they donāt need grooming
Needless to say, he is hooked to you and your magic fingers.
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I savor bitterness - it is born of experience. It is the privilege of one who has truly lived.
Theshe-elf was the spitting image of anything and everything bitter, yet shecould not say she had had the privilege to truly live. Her kind had always beenon the run, dissuaded time and time again to pick up arms and fight theiroppressors, thereby forced to live in conditions of uncertainty. Emra had attempted to resist in her youth, or at the very least, had beenstubborn enough to speak against each effort to pick up what little belongings they had and carry alongas soon as the tides grew tense. Those were strained times; sheād been born at the end of a war, a warthat was not their own, and for which they had paid all the same. They had always been the bystander, and more often thevictim than they were not. Clans of shemālen insisted on distinguishing themselves,but she could not tell them apart. Their crimes were one and the same.Ā
Ithad taken many years for her to ease into the obedience she did notquestion, for the good of the clan. Her fighting days would come, she promisedherself in earnest, and it would not serve to challenge the Keeper by conductingherself as the child of old. She bore her vallaslin now, an adult to her clan,a recognised hunter and protector of her kinfolk; but also an abandoned child,discarded by a mother best erased from their history altogether. She wasresentful of the mother name she bore, as was their custom, and swore a daywould come where she would be known otherwise. Her wishes had been fulfilled,though it was not in the manner she would have hoped for.
ā Ā What of those who have onlyknown bitterness?Ā Ā ā Ā She returns sharply. It was not to sayEmra had never known tender hand or tender heart, but always she had borne something resentful inward. Ā ā Ā Would you say a child whohasnāt yet reached their fifth year has truly lived? Ā ā Ā Ā
Itwas nigh impossible to tell whether she jested, a chuckle lumped inside herthroat, or whether she posed this query gravely, triggered by the very subjectof conversation ā bitterness. She could easily see herself as such child,having seen the end of the ravages of the war, the heightened fear of kindred, and the tales hey recounted in justification.Her innate desire to fight back, to reclaim the history that had been snatchedfrom their fingertips. There was even a time when she resented her lack ofmagical force, bearing knowledge of her fatherās possession of the unique traitthat likened them to their members of old. Her weak mother had tainted herblood, no doubt about it. Her resentment gave way in time to a detachmenttowards her peopleās preoccupation with their ancestors. It was clear to herthat they were too focused on what they lacked, on protecting themselves fromfurther harm, condemning themselves to a life on the run, more than anything else. The outside world was perhaps one thing she had enjoyed in the midst of their plight; she did not mindthe nature she courted. Animals were far better companions than the shemālenthey would find should they come to share their world.Ā
