i love all of your avian writings so much omg i am a very happy bird man thank you rommy!
Hehe ty!!! Now, imagine with me forced avian!ghost finally feeling safe enough to be intimate with avian!reader....
Ghost is splayed out in his nest, one that you built for him after realizing he had no instincts to create something comfortable for his wings, chest to the matress. His comfy sleep pants are still on, but his back is fully uncovered.
You had been hesitant when ghost asked you to preen him. Even after so long of knowing him, of nearly dying next to him on the battlefield, you never once thought you'd ever touch his wings.
But despite how foreign they feel, ghost can still feel them. He knows, from accidental brushes and desperate nights, that they can be sensitive. He wants you to touch them. To rewrite the bad with new, honey-sweet sensation.
"Mmh, let me know if you need to stop," you warn, hands hovering over the wings. You start at the edges, hardly sensitive on an avian but it still makes ghost inhale sharply. You can't help yourself, going faster than you should to hear ghost gasp.
"Ah! Fuck– bloody hell, seriously?" He whines, hands gripping the bedding beneath him desperately. The valley where wing meets back is a clear-cut line of scar tissue, like a fence of keloid diving ghost from this foreign body. There's no soft gradient, here, no dawny feathers or fluff to speak of.
Still, you gently dig a nail into the tender flesh just to the side of the scar, and grin when you're rewarded with a full-body shudder and a deep moan. "Feels good, huh? Nice and sensitive?"
Ghost just replies with a garbled groan. You're straddling his lower back for ease of access, but that doesn't stop ghosts hips from grinding into the bed anyway.
He cums embarrassingly fast, wings snapping open and thumping against the wall, the other knocking over his alarm clock. He doesn't have the instincts to drop as low and fuzzy as you'd like, but a bit of overstimulation gets him damn close. Muscles limp while he keens and scrunches his face, overwhelmed but so fucking good.
He drifts for maybe twenty minutes while you idly preen the feathers on the edge of his wings like you were supposed to do before he finally speaks up "...can you do that again?."
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a/n: and what if i said surprise smut. what then :) my soft launch of the fact i can and do write smut... <3
word count: easy peasy barely over 1k-squeezy
synopsis: Given particular knowledge, you try something new. wing!fic
Your knees sink into the black satin sheets of Azriel’s bed and you sigh contently.
Across the room at the window, the curtain is haphazardly drawn, letting in a curious ray of moonlight. A dim glow lights the room.
You’re thankful for it now—the moonlight allowing you to drink in the sight beneath you with a ravenous gaze. Thighs straddling across his hips, you take in Azriel under you with, what can only be described as, ardent hunger.
But, well, it’s not often enough you get to be on top, after all.
Azriel’s wings splay out on the bed, gloriously on display. His scarred hands rest easily on your waist. His hazel eyes, narrowed in a suspicious way, are focused entirely on you. He, as always, looks devastatingly handsome.
“I’m not sure if I like the look of that look.” He comments slyly, shifting his head to flick a stray curl back from his eyes.
His hands on your waist give a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure you that he’s only teasing. His shadows lurk, traversing the rumpled bedsheets with a lazy designation, unbothered.
“Oh, hush,” you respond. “As if I haven’t been on the receiving end of this before.”
At the mere mention of your reversed positions, Azriel grins, even as a hot glow takes to his cheeks. The dusty rose colour sets a warm spark off in your chest and the heat wastes no time heading south, between your thighs.
Your relationship with Azriel is of the newer side, despite how long you've actually known each other. Long time friends, eventually, finally turned lovers.
But these new steps forward together, getting to know each other in an entirely new way—it's still enough to make Azriel fluster. Centuries old he is but a bashful shyness still remains, if only you can coax it out.
Bringing you back to the moment, Azriel squeezes your waist again, one hand shifting across your skin, his thumb dipping closer to your waistband.
“I don’t know what you mean,” He says, even as his satisfied smile gives him away. He watches closely as you pluck up his large hand and move it back to your waist, the message clear. He's not in charge tonight.
“Y’know,” you say, voice softer suddenly.
You haven’t let go on his hand. As you speak, you let your fingers travel down his veined and chiseled forearm slowly. “I learnt something today. From Feyre.”
Azriel watches you intently, the very feel of your skin across his enough to make him shudder in muted pleasure. No one touches him like you do.
Goosebumps break out along his arm as your hand reaches his bulging bicep and you drag your nails across it lightly.
“Is that so?”
Despite all his body betrays him, Azriel is a master at keeping his face and voice cool and calm. You smile at the sight of it, goaded on by his unwavering voice, and let your hand linger, resting on his collarbone.
“What did she tell you?” Azriel asks, his dark brows raising.
Purposefully, you shift your hips an inch, grinding against his own. Azriel barely manages to hide the grunt it pulls from him, his fingers flexing against your waist as if he’s resisting something more.
“She told me,” You say, dragging out the words, sultry and low.
Your hand begins to move, tracing the line of his defined chest and feeling it heave slightly beneath your touch. Tantalisingly slow, you let it trail down, skimming across his toned stomach where you pause.
“That if I ask you nicely, there’s a certain spot—”
Your teasing, trailing touch moves sideways, dipping down his ribcage and nearing his wings. They rustle against the sheets, a minuscule motion, that you hope is in what’s anticipation.
If what Feyre said is true...
Moving slow, so there’s time for him to interrupt you, you reach down and hover your hand over the delicate membrane of his wings.
Intentions clear, your eyes dart to Azriel’s to check.
Pupils blow wide, the ring of hazel you love so much barely visible, Azriel looks debauched before you've even begun. His hands are stilled on your waist and his cheeks are that same glowing scarlet. After a beat it becomes clear he’s waiting, not stopping you.
Grinning, you take your cue.
Brushing your fingers gently across a section of his wings, the reaction is instantaneous.
Azriel shudders, his whole body shivering as a strangled breath passes through his clenched jaw, his eyes fluttering closed. The hands on your waist constrict, tightening his grip, and beneath you his hips shift up, into you.
The shape of him, pulsating and hot, suddenly feels much firmer than before.
“She’s—right.” The words come out in two stilted breaths, Azriel’s chest rising and falling a little faster now as he fights to compose himself. His eyes open, heavier lidded than they were a moment ago. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
"Is she?" Your voice is lilted in mock uncertainty, given away by your mischievous grin. "I think I better check again."
This time, instead of a small brush, you try something bolder. Two fingers on either side of a prominent vein, you draw a delicate stripe up his wing.
Azriel whines— a soft, pitiful noise that leaks out through his clenched teeth. It melts into a soft groan as his whole body shifts, his hips shoving up, seemingly out of his control. His hands pull you down at the time, dragging you forward against his hardness.
Something fiercely hot simmers in your gut, both at the friction and his glorious reaction. He's been fucking holding out on you.
"I don't know, I'm still not sure..." You continue, far too delighted to abuse your newfound knowledge.
Stroking another soft line up his wing, this time you're rewarded with a needy whimper. His chest arches up, his head thrown back lightly—nearly writhing in pleasure from just a few touches.
"Oh, Az," You murmur, half consoling and half wicked. His screwed up eyes take a moment to find yours and you relish the panting of his chest. The rosiness of his cheeks has spread, crawling down his neck and beginning along his toned chest.
"This your plan?" He says, but it's nowhere near that unwavering voice from earlier, raspy and on the way to ruined. "To—" He takes a sharp inhale as your nail scrapes the membrane again. "—to tease me all night?"
You're impressed he's got the words out, given the sight of him. His hair looks messier now. Paired with his heaving chest and eyes bright with lust, he looks downright sinful.
"Doesn't sound too bad a plan to me." You say, letting your hips draw forward, then back, the smallest rocking motion against him.
Azriel hisses, his large, scarred hands threatening to bruise your hips with how tight they grip them. He makes no attempt to stop you though.
"What do you think?"
You purposefully retract your hand, hovering it over his wing, and watch his face. Wings are very personal to Fae and Azriel letting you touch his own, in such an intimate way, was not lost on you.
You don't want to overstep, even if you do desperately want to see what happens if you stroke once, twice, three times in a row. Gods do you want to watch him fall apart beneath you, whimpering and whining through it all.
"I think you're a temptress," Azriel says, breathless. His eyes, heavy with desire, give away his answer. A grin spreads across your face, devious and enamoured all at once.
"A temptress you'll let have her way with you?"
"Depen—ah," His voice shudders into another whimper as you touch your fingertip back to his velvety wing, drawing a small circle.
Eyes crushing closed, it takes another moment for him to catch his breath before he speaks again, breath ragged. "Mother above..."
His wing, the one you've been taunting, rustles against the bed. It lifts up an inch before flapping down in an almost impatient motion. Like a cat, wagging its tail. Azriel wets his lips again, their skin cherried and plush.
"Alright," He says, faux begrudgingly. His eagerness is given away by another impatient rustle of his wing and the throbbing length of him, pressing firmly up against you.
His gives your waist another squeeze and then lets go, letting his arms fall lax to his side. Trusting you completely.
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Why has no one given Simon wings yet? He’s like, the epitome of bird trapped in a cage. And there’s options, too! For what wings he has and for what happens to them. [I got real exploratory under the cut, see images here]
Angel/Dove wings? Eden’s religious undertones (overtones, really) and the struggle with faith. Purity vs perceived crime. ‘An angle is a warrior of God.’
Bird of Prey wings? Preconceived notions and the assumptions made of prisoners. Butcher implications. Doing what nature requires of you to survive. Emphasis on “I just want to live.”
Owl/Corvid wings? A lack of information is a lack of safety. Simon’s intelligence. “Knowledge and skill fade every year, why wouldn’t they rescue you?”
Bug wings? Seeing certain people as beneath others. Another commentary on prisoner treatment. Ava and David basically see him as a bug anyways.
Wings from a Mythical/Mars related creature? Homesickness for a place to which you can never return. Being othered in your own community (if people on Eden don’t also have similar wing types) or being dragged out of the only community you ever knew. The betrayal hurts even more.
He loses them during Filament? His attachment to Eden. His brothers ‘betrayed him’ and the lack of weight where his wings should be will always be there to remind him of that.
He loses them to the COI’s prisons? The Consolidation’s cruelty. Yet again, commentary on the treatment of prisoners. It makes his desperation to live just that much more tragic; what is left for him? Being stuck on the ground, looking up at dead stars in a dying universe.
He manages to keep them long enough to get inside the Iron Lung, only for the blood to latch onto them? Sacrifices in the face of something bigger than him. Weighing the cost of his life, chunks of himself, full limbs and balance, against the rest of humanity. Losing an arm sucks, yeah, but it’s probably nothing compared to losing a wing or two. It doesn’t matter what type of wings he has for this option, the religious imagery triples when you crucify a man with wings. [The blood in his feathers from all those tumbles he took would also be fun to explore; how would wings break down in the blood ocean?]
He actually keeps them to the end? Blood soaked tenacity. The indomitable human spirit. It doesn’t matter if he lives or dies, he kept his identity intact the entire time despite the massive force outside trying desperately to subsume him. Again, it doesn’t matter what type of wings he has, he’s going to look like a bloody angel standing over salvation.
I’m not really partial to any wing type for canon Simon, but I like the idea that he would have wings in the Iron Lung. What got me thinking about this was my in progress Appalachian AU “Canary in the Depths (Clipped my Fucking Wings).” I can’t have a title like that and not think about Simon with wings. It’ll be a fun mutation idea, he might even get to keep them.
