Archive of Our Own ^beta

The tray in my hands rattled faintly as I climbed the spiral steps of the tower, the porcelain clinking with every measured step. The smell of maple and cinnamon lingered in the air, curling around the hall like a ribbon of warmth. I always made breakfast for her on our anniversary — a tradition of sorts, though I confess it has become one I find rather difficult to limit to a single morning each month. There’s something divine about watching her wake to the scent of food I’ve prepared with my own hands — her lashes fluttering, lips curling into that sleepy smile that melts me faster than any flame Hell could conjure.

When I reached the top, the sight that greeted me tugged at a part of me I hadn’t known existed before she arrived. My tower — my once proud, empty spire of solitude and static — was no longer mine alone. It looked nothing like the cold red fortress it had been. The radio hum that used to echo faintly through the walls had softened, replaced by something… domestic. Lively. Hers.

I set the tray carefully on the nightstand before turning toward the bed. She lay there tangled in soft sheets, the morning light bleeding across her skin in a wash of gold. My heart thumped like a skipping record.

Every corner of the room bore her mark now. The vanity near the window — I’d conjured it myself after she nearly broke her back leaning over that damned bathroom sink. She told me I’d gone overboard, but I couldn’t stand the sight of her discomfort. Now her bottles and brushes glittered across the surface, organized chaos in a way only she could manage.

My once-crimson rug had been replaced with a plush pink one, thick enough that she could sprawl across it while I worked at my desk. Often she would lie there reading, humming to herself while I pretended to focus on the reports in front of me. I was always listening to her instead — to the way she sighed when she found a line she loved, to the soft rustle of pages as she turned them.

Our bookshelf had become a strange marriage of worlds — my leather-bound tomes from the 1920s sitting shoulder to shoulder with her well-worn romance novels, their pastel spines a scandalous intrusion among the dusty classics. Even my liquor cabinet had changed; my sharp whiskey now shared space with her sweet wines, their bottles lined up like mismatched lovers.

Everywhere I looked, she was there.
Her presence, her scent, her laughter soaked into the very walls.
The tower wasn’t a tower anymore. It was a home.

And for a monster who had built his life around solitude, that realization was… overwhelming in the most exquisite way.

I leaned down slowly and brushed a kiss against her cheek. Then another. And another. Her skin was warm beneath my lips, soft from sleep, and I couldn’t help myself — I kissed the bridge of her nose, her forehead, her jaw, anywhere I could reach without waking her too abruptly.

When she stirred, a small sound escaping her, I felt my grin stretch wide, unrestrained and foolish. I pressed another flurry of kisses across her face just as her eyes fluttered open.

She giggled, the sound bubbling up like sunlight itself, and there it was again — that look she always gave me in the mornings, drowsy and adoring, as though I were something worth waking up for.

For eight months now, this has been our rhythm. Even when she had her own room, even before she’d agreed to move in, whenever I woke her, she was greeted by this same sight: me, leaning over her with a grin that wasn’t the sharp-toothed mask I wear for the rest of Hell. It was real. The kind of smile that felt too large for my face, too bright, too full.

And on the rare mornings when I hadn’t yet dressed — those precious, private hours where my waistcoat hung over a chair and my coat lay draped somewhere forgotten — I knew she could see it. That little flick of my tail, wagging uncontrollably behind me. I used to hate that thing — such a foolish appendage, childish and unbecoming. But the way she’d smile when she caught sight of it, the quiet little giggle she’d hide behind her hand… it made me feel oddly proud.

“Good morning, my darling,” I murmured, my voice still low from disuse. “And happy eight months.”

She blinked mid-stretch, her arms curling above her head before she smiled at me, soft and sleepy. I wasted no time setting the tray across her lap, arranging the cutlery neatly — not that she’d get to use it.

Before I could even straighten my tie, she reached out, catching me by the bowtie and tugging me down into a kiss.

It was quick, barely more than a peck, but it made me laugh — that silly, uncontrollable giggle that only she ever pulled from me. I set the tray properly and climbed into bed beside her, feeling her warmth seep through my shirt as I sat close enough to feed her myself.

I held the fork out expectantly. She gave me that look — the one that said she might protest — but we both knew she wouldn’t win. She never did.

She sighed in defeat and opened her mouth obediently, letting me slip a piece of pancake between her lips. I hummed in satisfaction, watching her chew with bleary eyes.

“So!” I began cheerfully, brushing a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. “What shall we do on this fine day? Eight months, my dear, is no small milestone!”

She swallowed, still half-asleep, and giggled. “You said that last month too.”

I sputtered immediately, clutching the fork to my chest in mock offense. “Well—! It was! Seven months is important! But so is eight! Each one deserves its own celebration!”

Her laughter only made my heart swell further, the sound echoing like a melody I never wanted to end.

“We could go to that little boutique you love so dearly,” I went on, excitedly. “Peruse the new dresses, perhaps? I’m sure they’ve restocked by now.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly about to question whether I wanted to spend the afternoon dress shopping, but before she could speak, I lifted another forkful toward her mouth and said brightly, “Yes, I would enjoy it!”

She gave me a knowing look but accepted the bite anyway, chewing with that tiny smile that said she saw straight through me.

I continued to ramble — about possible lunch spots, a walk through the park, maybe even a quiet evening listening to one of my favorite records — but as I held up the next bite, she caught my wrist gently.

“I already have something planned,” she said.

For a moment, I just blinked, her words processing slowly through the fog of my excitement. And then—

Oh. Oh, what a lovely sentence.

A grin split across my face, my heart leaping like static in my chest. “You do?” I breathed, voice almost boyish in its glee. “Well, then! Color me intrigued, my dear!”

She blinked at me, and there was something in her eyes I couldn’t quite name — not fear, not uncertainty, but something soft and trembling that made my chest ache. Her hands shifted in her lap before she slowly lifted the tray away, placing it gently on the nightstand beside her.

My ears twitched. That nervous little motion of hers — the way she tucked her hair behind her ear and looked up at me — it set my mind spinning. Had I done something wrong? Did she not enjoy breakfast? Was she going to scold me for that playful tap on her lovely rear last night when I’d passed her in the hallway? I swallowed hard, my tail flicking once behind me.

She turned fully toward me then, folding her legs beneath the sheets. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, everything else stopped.

Her hands reached for mine — her small, warm fingers wrapping around my claws, holding them tightly as if she were afraid I might disappear. That smile she gave me… oh, it was unlike any smile I’d ever seen from her before. Sweet, but steady. Almost secretive, like she was about to tell me something sacred.

“Al,” she began softly. Her voice trembled, but it didn’t falter. “I’m ready.”

My ears perked. My entire body seemed to go still, the air thinning around me.

She swallowed, leaning closer, her gaze never leaving mine. “You’ve been so kind to me,” she whispered, her thumb brushing across the sharp edge of my knuckle as if she were soothing me instead. “So patient. You’ve never pushed me. Never made me feel bad for saying no.”

A warmth spread through my chest so sudden it nearly took my breath. The corners of my mouth twitched upward, but I didn’t dare interrupt her.

Then she leaned forward — just slightly — and pressed the gentlest kiss to my lips. It was brief, but it was enough to make my tail flick wildly, betraying me entirely.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed a lovely shade of pink, her voice small but filled with resolve. “I love you more than anything, Alastor. And I want you to have me. All of me.”

My breath caught.

She hesitated then, as though she had practiced these words in front of a mirror a hundred times, but this next part weighed too heavy on her tongue. “I want you to have my virginity, Alastor,” she whispered at last. “I’m ready now.”

For a long, unbearable moment, I could only stare. My heart thudded in my ears, an uneven, static rhythm. My mind raced with every emotion imaginable — disbelief, devotion, hunger, reverence.

Her… what? My darling, my delicate, precious love—

She wanted me to be her first.

My hands trembled before I even realized I was moving. I caught her face between my palms, my thumbs brushing over her cheeks as if she might vanish if I blinked too long. I kissed her — once, twice, again, unable to stop myself.

“Darling, I— you cannot possibly understand—” I breathed against her lips, voice shaking with joy. “I am… honored beyond measure. You—oh, my sweet girl—how long I’ve dreamed of this day!”

I kissed her again, frantic little pecks between each word. “I’ll be gentle, I’ll be so very gentle, I promise—! You deserve everything, you wonderful creature, and I’ll make sure it’s perfect, you hear me? Perfect.”

She giggled softly, half out of nervousness, half because I was smothering her with kisses, and I couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly with her.

Then I paused, pulling back slightly. My hands still cradled her face, my heart racing against my ribs. “But first—” I said, my tone slipping into something serious, deliberate. “I must prepare everything.”

She blinked, confused, tilting her head. “Prepare? I mean, you just… have to, you know, put it in, right?”

I froze, my expression twisting into sheer horror. “Put it in?” I repeated, aghast. “My love, that would be the least pleasant way to go about such a sacred event!”

Her brows lifted, a faint laugh escaping her. “Sacred?”

“Of course!” I huffed, ears flattening briefly as my tail flicked with agitation. “This is your first time. It must be done with care, precision, attention! There are—candles to light! Music to choose! Sheets to warm! And I—oh, good heavens, I’ll need to—” I looked around wildly, already scanning the room as if the perfect plan might materialize before me.

She laughed again — that soft, melodic giggle that always pulled me back from the edge of my mania — and reached for my hand to still me.

“Al,” she murmured, tugging me closer until our foreheads touched. “You’re already perfect.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of vanilla that clung to her hair. My heart throbbed painfully in my chest.

If this was what love felt like… I’d gladly drown in it.

-----------

I wanted to do something special for her — for us. Eight months deserved it, didn’t it? Even after her beautiful confession that morning, my mind refused to rest. I needed to make this day shine.

So we went to that little boutique she adores, the one tucked between a record store and a bakery that always smells faintly of sugar and smoke. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun in my life. She’d step out from behind the curtain in a new dress, shy and uncertain, and I’d start clapping like an absolute fool, my grin wide and unrestrained. If anyone else had been watching, they might have thought I was mocking her, but no—no, I was enchanted.

Every new dress, every color, every bit of lace or fabric that touched her body made my heart pound like a live broadcast static. She’d twirl shyly, cheeks pink, asking what I thought. And I’d tell her, with perfect sincerity, that I thought she looked like divinity made flesh.

She tried to argue with me when I insisted on purchasing several of them. “Al, I don’t need that many!” she’d said, laughing as I piled them into the clerk’s arms. But I was immovable. “You deserve them,” I told her, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “And besides, what’s the point of riches if not to adorn beauty when it crosses your path?”

The shopkeeper, I noticed, couldn’t meet my eyes. His hands trembled as he took my money, but I was far too busy admiring the way she beamed when I handed her the wrapped parcels to notice his fear.

Afterward, I took her to dinner — a little restaurant she’d grown fond of. Quaint, candlelit, full of mortals and demons pretending they weren’t nervous. The moment we walked in, I felt the atmosphere shift. Conversations halted mid-word; cutlery froze halfway to lips. Ah, that delicious silence of fear. Normally I’d relish it, but tonight? Tonight, I didn’t care.

All I could see was her.

The waiters stumbled through their greetings, one nearly dropping the menus when I thanked him with a too-sharp smile. She noticed, of course — she always does — but her hand brushed against mine under the table, and that was enough to make the whole world fade away. We ate, we laughed, and I might’ve forgotten entirely that I was supposed to be terrifying.

By the time we returned to the hotel, my chest ached from smiling. I didn’t want the night to end — not yet.

When we stepped into the lobby, I turned to her, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly. “Ah—my dear, could you—could you perhaps stay here for just a bit?” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling heat creep up to my ears. “I, ah, I need to… set everything up.”

She blinked, confused for a second, before that soft, knowing smile spread across her lips. She leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “Okay,” she said simply.

And I swear, my heart stopped.

I was gone before she could even sit down — practically bolting for the staircase with a grin that refused to fade. My tail swished behind me like a metronome of excitement as I took the steps two at a time.

Everything had to be perfect.

Candles. Music. The sheets turned down just so. Maybe even the bottle of sweet wine she liked best.

I’ve lived lifetimes, ruled over chaos and horror alike, but nothing — nothing — has ever made me move as fast as the thought of making this night perfect for her.

I could hardly keep still. My hands were trembling, my grin felt far too wide for my own face, and my tail wouldn’t stop wagging no matter how many times I tried to still it. The moment I saw her in the lobby, I didn’t even let her speak before I scooped her right up into my arms — and oh, that sweet little laugh she gave nearly melted me right there.

A few months ago, she would’ve tensed up, stammered, maybe even protested that she was “too heavy.” But I’d spent weeks, months even, undoing that nonsense. Every time she said it, I’d pull her closer, tell her I liked the way she felt in my arms — soft, real, warm. Not some dainty little feather I could lose in a breeze. She’s mine. And I wanted her to know that I never minded carrying her. In fact, I loved it.

Angel’s snicker floated behind me as I started up the stairs, but I didn’t even glance his way. I was too caught up in the sound of her breathing against my neck, her nose brushing just beneath my ear, the tickle of her hair against my jaw.

“You seem nervous,” she teased, voice light and musical.

I swallowed hard, tail flicking behind me. “I am,” I admitted with a chuckle that came out a bit too tight, too rushed. “I just— well— I want everything to be perfect, my dear. Tonight deserves that, you deserve that.”

She blushed, looking so sweetly bashful that my chest ached. “Thank you, Al,” she murmured, pressing a small kiss to my cheek.

That sound— that little mwah of her lips— felt like a bullet straight through my chest.

By the time I reached the top of the tower, my pulse was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. I pushed the door open with my shoulder, stepping inside, and felt her stiffen slightly in surprise.

The soft candlelight filled every inch of the room, warm gold glows bouncing off the walls. I’d dimmed the lamps just enough that the whole space looked like it was holding its breath. The bed was freshly made — sheets warmed by a little enchantment, pillows fluffed — and a few petals scattered across the blanket because, well, why not? Romance is all in the details, isn’t it?

I set her down gently on the bed, and she looked around with that bright, teasing grin of hers. “You really put some effort into this,” she said with a playful lilt.

I blinked, smiling nervously, my ears twitching. “Of course I did,” I murmured, smoothing my coat as if that would somehow ground me. “I will always put effort into you. No matter what.”

Her blush deepened, and she giggled, leaning forward to give me a small, soft kiss. Just a peck. But enough to make every nerve in my body light up like a switchboard.

I couldn’t help but smile into it — the kind of smile I only ever have with her.

Inside, though… I was a storm.

I swallowed hard, feeling that same anxious knot twist deep in my chest. My claws flexed at my sides as I began to pace in front of the bed — ears flicking, tail twitching, words stumbling over themselves as I tried to speak through the rush of thoughts in my head.

“I… ah… I must warn you, my dear,” I began, running a hand through my hair, feeling the static crackle against my palm. “It could hurt— no, it will hurt, at least at first.” My voice came out too quick, too jittery. “I’m… well…” I hesitated, wringing my gloved hands, ears flattening slightly. “Larger than most.”

The admission made heat crawl up my neck. I shook my head, forcing the thought away before my brain could spiral down that particular path. “But that’s— that’s not the point! The point is, I’ll take care of you. I’ll prepare you properly, thoroughly. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable— pleasured— before I even think of…” My voice faltered as I paced, trying to hide my nervousness behind forced composure.

I nearly jumped when I heard the faint sound of fabric rustling behind me. My ears flicked up instantly, and I turned sharply— and there she was.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, shorts discarded on the floor, left in nothing but her bra and panties. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, and she looked so soft, so real that my entire body went rigid.

My jaw opened— then closed— then opened again as my brain short-circuited.

She stretched out, settling back into the pillows with a content little sigh. “You changed the sheets,” she said softly, rubbing her hand along them with a small smile. “They’re comfy.”

I sputtered. I truly did. “I— ah— well yes— I— wanted— that is— you deserve— good linens—!”

She giggled, turning her head toward me, her eyes sparkling with amusement. The sound of that laugh nearly knocked me off my feet. She reached out a hand, curling her fingers slightly in a silent invitation.

“Come here, Al.”

My breath hitched. I took a step forward, then another, my legs feeling like they’d forgotten how to work. I swear, I’ve seen her undressed before — many times. We’d shared baths, shared lazy mornings under blankets, shared moments where she’d changed right in front of me without a hint of modesty. And yet somehow, right now, it felt different.

I felt like a boy again — awkward, shy, unsure where to put my hands.

She tilted her head as I hesitated near the bed. “You’re blushing,” she teased.

I gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Liar,” she whispered, tugging lightly at my hand until I climbed onto the mattress beside her. My knees sank into the plush sheets, and my heart beat so loud I was certain she could hear it.

She looked up at me with that same soft, knowing expression that always unraveled me completely. “I’ve been preparing,” she said quietly.

That made me blink. “Preparing?”

She nodded, still smiling. “For a couple weeks now.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she kept her eyes on mine. “I’ve known for a while that I wanted this. That I wanted you. I’ve known you were the one I could trust.”

My throat tightened as she continued.

“You’ve never pressured me,” she said, brushing her fingers over the back of my hand. “You’ve never tried to push me or make me feel guilty for waiting. You’ve been perfect, Al. Patient. Kind. You always made me feel safe.”

My ears drooped, my chest aching in that unbearable way it always did when she spoke like this — too sincere, too loving, too much.

“I’ve done my research,” she went on, her voice steady but soft. “I know what to expect. I know it might hurt a little, but… I’m ready.” She gave my hand a small squeeze. “I trust you, Alastor. And I want this with you.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My tail stilled, my mouth opened, but no sound came out.

She trusted me. Completely.

I let out a trembling laugh, unable to contain the overwhelmed warmth rising in my chest. I smiled — small, shaky, but so full it almost hurt. “You have no idea,” I murmured, “how much that means to me.”

Her eyes softened. “I think I do,” she said, pulling me a little closer.

I leaned down and kissed her—slowly at first, just a soft brush of lips that quickly melted into something deeper, something that made my chest tighten with that dizzying warmth I could never quite get used to. Her arms slipped around my neck, drawing me closer until I could feel every breath she took against my skin. I let her guide me down with gentle pressure until her back sank fully into the mattress, the candlelight catching in her hair like molten gold.

Her lips tasted faintly of honey from breakfast, and the sweetness made my head spin. I pulled back only long enough to draw in a shaky breath before my claws trailed down the slope of her stomach, following the lines of her soft skin. My fingers brushed over the stretch marks I’d admired so many times before, the ones she tried to hide. I paused there, tracing them gently.

She bit her lip, glancing down as if she wanted to apologize for them again. I clicked my tongue softly and smiled against her skin. “You know,” I murmured, letting my voice drop to that warm, low tone that always made her shiver, “I’ve told you before, my dear—these look like lightning strikes. Beautiful reminders of every storm you’ve survived.”

Her breath hitched, and the blush that spread across her cheeks made me want to kiss her all over again. So I did.

I kissed the curve of her stomach, the space beneath her ribs, the hollow of her throat. Her giggles turned to quiet sighs as I trailed up to her chest, my hands following close behind. I cupped her breasts gently through the thin fabric of her bra, feeling the way her breath caught against my lips. My claws dragged just enough to make her squirm, and she arched up slightly, her fingers curling into my hair.

Gods, she was intoxicating.

I needed to feel her.

Without breaking the kiss, I reached up and tugged off my gloves—one, then the other—tossing them blindly aside. My hands felt oddly bare without the familiar barrier of leather, but when I touched her again and felt the heat of her skin directly against mine, I couldn’t imagine ever wearing them again.

Her pulse fluttered beneath my lips as I pressed slow kisses along her neck and jaw. She tasted divine. I couldn’t help but nip at her just enough to draw a soft, startled giggle. “Ah, forgive me,” I chuckled against her skin, “you make me positively feral, darling.”

Her laughter vibrated against my lips. “You always say that.”

I grinned, moving lower, to the tops of her breasts where the candlelight met the faint shimmer of her skin. “And it remains true every time.” I kissed there, once, twice, before letting my tongue flick over the tender spot between them. Her back arched as a soft moan escaped her throat, and I smiled against her.

I couldn’t help myself; I needed to leave a mark, something small and hidden, just for me. So I sucked lightly at her cleavage, drawing out a quiet gasp as a faint bruise began to bloom beneath my mouth. The sound she made was heavenly.

Reaching around her back, I hesitated just for a moment—my claws brushing the clasp of her bra. “May I?” I asked softly, my voice trembling just a little despite the attempt to keep it light.

She nodded immediately, her hand coming up to stroke the base of my ear. The touch sent a shudder all the way down my spine. My tail twitched wildly behind me, and I swallowed a quiet groan as I unclipped the bra with careful precision.

When it fell away, I froze.

She was breathtaking.

My eyes drank her in, every curve, every freckle, every inch of her I’d only been able to imagine before. My throat went dry, and the words slipped out before I could stop them. “Goodness gracious…” I breathed, my voice breaking into a nervous laugh. “You are… utterly exquisite.”

Her blush deepened, and she shifted beneath me, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “You really think so?”

“Think so?” I chuckled softly, leaning closer. “My dear, I know so.”

I lowered my head again, trailing my tongue over the swell of her breast, tasting her soft skin. Her breath hitched, and her fingers threaded deeper into my hair, urging me on. I obliged eagerly, my lips closing around one perfect nipple, sucking gently while my hand cupped the other, thumb brushing in slow circles until her quiet gasps turned into breathy little moans.

Her body trembled beneath me, and I couldn’t stop the words that came tumbling out between kisses. “So good for me… so perfect, sweetheart… you’ve no idea what you do to me…”

Her fingers tightened in my hair, a sound halfway between a laugh and a whimper escaping her lips. I smiled against her skin, utterly lovesick, utterly hers. Every movement, every noise she made only pushed me deeper into the dizzying, adoring madness that she’d brought into my once-empty world.

I hummed against the soft swell of her breast, a low sound that thrummed through me like an old radio finding its frequency. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, and I obliged with a kiss that tasted faintly of syrup and the memory of breakfast. For a breath — only a breath — I let myself be utterly lost in the heat of her, the rise and fall of her chest beneath my mouth, the little noises she made that were wholly, uniquely hers.

Then she shifted beneath me. I felt it first as a change in weight, then saw it: her thighs, pressed together, quivering just so. A grin split me, ridiculous and feral and terribly fond all at once. My bare claws traced a path down her stomach, following the map of her skin I loved so well, until my fingers brushed the softness at the top of her thighs. They were plump and full under my touch, yielding deliciously, spilling pleasantly through my hand whenever I groped them. The sensation — that soft flesh between my palms — made something in me thrum with greedy gratitude.

I spread her legs with gentle insistence, taking a moment to drink in the sight. Candlelight pooled across her, painting the planes of her body in a warm glow. There was no bra now, only the pale pink of her panties clinging to the curve of her hips, and through the thin fabric a dark, honest patch of wetness shone like a secret. Her breathing had quickened; her nipples, dotted with faint marks where I’d left my stamps of affection, stood proud. Her face was flushed to the edges of lovely, eyes open and luminous with a trust that made my chest ache.

I couldn’t resist. I brushed my thumb along the damp patch, slow enough to savor the small gasp that tore from her. The sound was a tiny, perfect thing — half plea, half surrender — and my tail gave a traitorous little wag.

“You always get so wet for me,” I murmured, voice thick and fond. It was a selfish admission, true and gleeful; the knowledge puffed my ego like a flourish. “It flatters me more than it ought to.”

She whimpered, thighs trembling, and I watched how her body moved whenever I pressed my thumb in the right place through the fabric. The little jerk of muscle, the hitch in her breath — each reaction was a map, and I wanted to memorize every contour. I rolled my thumb deliberately, feeling the slick cling of fabric against me, my other hand splayed possessively across her hip.

“Al—” she breathed, a whine threaded with impatience. “Stop teasing.”

I snorted, a warm, delighted sound. “And deprive myself the sight of you unraveling at my leisure? Preposterous.” I leaned forward, kissing the inside of her thigh, tasting the faint salt of her skin, letting the intimacy of the act make me clumsy with adoration. “You’re unbearably adorable when I do this.”

Her fingers tightened in my hair, nails grazing the base of my skull. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” I countered, even as the truth of her words — her want, her readiness — reverberated through me. I pressed my thumb harder for a moment, eliciting a sharp, involuntary gasp that rolled straight through me. The sound was a match to dry tinder.

She spread her legs a little further at my encouragement, the movement hesitant and utterly trust-filled. I hooked two fingers under the edge of her panties and, with infinite slowness that felt like worship, slid them aside. The air kissed the slickness of her center, and I inhaled sharply; she smelled like sweet skin and desire and a trace of the perfume she favored — vanilla and something floral that clung to the memory of her.

My thumb returned, now gliding directly across the dampness at her slit, tracing lazy, worshipful circles over the place that had been aching for attention. Every time my thumb stroked just so, her hips jerked upward reflexively, searching for more friction. She let out broken breaths, half-moan, half-laughter, and I found my composure dissolving into praise.

“You’re perfect,” I murmured between kisses to her inner thigh, each word soaked in love. “So perfectly made for me. Look at you, quivering for me like that—my, my, how proud I am.”

Her cheeks flamed. “Stop talking and— just do it,” she begged, voice ragged.

“Noted,” I replied, but I didn’t stop speaking entirely. I needed to tell her — to reassure myself and serenade her at once. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me if you want slower. Tell me anything, always. I would rather walk through the fires of— of a hundred ruined broadcast towers than cause you a sliver of pain.”

She nodded, breath hitching, trust gleaming in her pupils. “I will. I trust you.”

That admission — that simple, shattering admission — unmoored me entirely. I pressed my mouth to the place I had been teasing, tongue coming out to taste the wetness that had pooled there. The first contact was electric; her back arched, a sharp sound of surprise and pleasure tearing from her throat. I licked, slow and patient at first, tracing the delicate outer folds, savoring the softness. She tasted of heat and honey and that undercurrent of want that belonged only to me.

Her hands roamed, finding my shoulders, then dragging down my back, urging me closer. I deepened my attention, tongue probing deliberately, seeking the spot that made her voice hitch the most. When I found it, she grabbed my hair like an anchor and howled my name — half plead, half exultation. My tail thudded against the bedspread, moving of its own accord, wagging in time with the rushed rhythm of my heart.

“You feel divine,” I breathed, between licks and murmured encouragements. “So slick, so warm— for me. For my mouth.” My voice was a croon; each syllable was edged in reverence. “You make me so very, very proud.”

She gasped, a hot bead of wetness slick beneath my tongue as she bucked up, searching. I curled two fingers and joined the motion with my tongue, a careful, practiced pressure that stroked the inner arc with a slow, building urgency. Her legs trembled and clamped around my head, not in restraint but as if she were trying to carve me into her with the pressure of her thighs. That closeness — the suffocating, sweet embrace of her flesh — made me dizzy with possession and worship.

“Al—oh—” she cried out, voice fraying at the edges. “God, Al— right there— don’t stop.”

Praise made me reckless. I nibbled at her entrance, then dove back to the place that earned the highest moans. I kept my strokes measured, but with growing fervor — not because I wanted to hurry her to some end, but because watching her unravel under my ministrations was a drug I craved. Her hands clawed my shoulders, nails leaving tiny crescents in my skin. Her chest hitched and her hips lifted with each press of my fingers; I answered with a counterpressure, matching the rhythm of her arousal with deliberate insistence.

“You’re mine,” I murmured into the heat between her legs, voice thick. “Every sound you give me — every little broken noise — belongs to me. Keep giving them to me.”

She sobbed, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “I— I can’t—” she gasped. “I’m close—”

“Good,” I praised, as if she needed confirmation. “Come for me, my darling. Let me hear you fall apart. Let me collect every tremor.” My thumb found the tiny, hypersensitive nub and rolled mercilessly, the friction sharp and focused.

She hit the edge so suddenly it jolted me, a tremor that ran through her core and tightened her whole body like a bowstring. Her mouth opened on a wordless cry; the orgasm collapsed into her in successive waves, and she clung to me, breathless and incandescent. I lapped greedily at the residue, wanting to taste everything she had left behind, to mark her in the most intimate way I knew.

When her breathing finally eased, she lay splayed and soft, looking up at me with eyes that glittered with aftershocks. I crawled back up to hover over her, palms flat on either side of her head, and let the heat of the moment settle between us like a sacred smolder.

“You alright?” I asked, absurdly careful, even as my voice rasped with want.

She smiled through the haze, cheeks still flushed. “Yeah,” she breathed. “That was— amazing. I— you’re incredible.”

Her words made something clench inside me — a sweet, aching bloom of possessive joy. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering.

“You are incredible,” I countered softly. “And this is only the beginning, my dear.”

I froze when she mentioned the lube. My head snapped toward the nightstand where the small bottle sat like a damning piece of evidence. My ears went flat, and my face felt like it was on fire. “O–oh, that? Well, I—I simply thought it would be… practical!” I stammered, running a hand through my hair as my tail twitched nervously behind me. “It’s—ah—meant to help! I wouldn’t want to… hurt you.” My voice cracked at the end, and she giggled softly, that sweet, warm sound that always melted through my composure.

She sat up a little, her eyes soft but teasing, her lips curling into that smile that always undid me. “Alastor,” she murmured, taking my hand and pressing a kiss to my knuckles, “you don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s sweet that you thought of it.”

Sweet. No one had ever called me that before. My throat tightened, and I had to look away, ears twitching as I let out a quiet, “Well… I should hope so. I’d rather not rely on sheer luck tonight.”

Her laugh was gentle, affectionate. Then, her tone dropped, sultry and full of promise. “Then get on with it already, darling.”

My heart practically stopped. I swallowed hard and nodded, fumbling slightly with the buckle of my belt. My hands were shaking. Me—shaking. I’d faced down demons, slaughtered rivals, and laughed in the face of death, but here I was, undone by the way her eyes followed my every move. The sound of the belt sliding free echoed in the quiet room, and I exhaled slowly, my body thrumming with anticipation.

When I freed myself, her breath hitched. Her hand came up, wrapping around my length with a soft gasp. The touch alone nearly made my knees buckle. Her fingers were so small against me, her grip tentative at first, then firmer as she began to move, stroking me slowly from base to tip. My breath stuttered, a low groan escaping before I could stop it.

“Goodness…” I muttered, my voice breaking into a strained laugh, “you’re going to be the end of me before we even begin.”

She smirked, leaning up just enough for her breath to brush my ear. “I’m just grateful you’re being so gentle with me,” she whispered, her tone dripping with warmth—and wickedness. Her words sent a shiver down my spine, and I couldn’t stop the small, helpless sound that left my throat.

I was panting now, fighting to keep control, to not let instinct take over. Her hand slid away, and she reclined back onto the bed, looking up at me with that perfect mix of trust and desire. “Come here,” she said softly, her thighs parting just slightly in invitation.

I reached for the bottle, my hands still trembling as I uncapped it. “This is going to feel a bit cold, my dear,” I murmured, my voice low and rough, betraying just how close I was to losing composure.

Her soft giggle came again. “It’s okay, Alastor. I trust you.”

That did it. My chest ached with emotion, the kind that was rare for me—something pure, something terrifying. I squeezed a bit of the slick liquid onto my fingers, rubbing them together before bringing them to her, gently brushing against her soaked entrance. She gasped immediately, hips twitching at the touch.

“Easy now…” I whispered, kissing her thigh as my fingers circled her slowly, spreading the lube and her wetness together. Her body was already responding, muscles fluttering around my fingers as I eased one in, then two, moving carefully. She moaned softly, her hand finding my hair, gripping gently as if to ground herself.

I looked up at her, completely lost in the sight. Her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the way her chest rose and fell with every shaky breath—it was intoxicating. “You’re doing so well, my dear,” I whispered, kissing her inner thigh again. “So perfect… so ready for me.”

Her eyes met mine, glassy with affection and heat. “Then stop worrying,” she said breathlessly. “I’m yours, Alastor.”

And in that moment, every ounce of fear I had melted away, replaced by the overwhelming, dizzying need to show her just how deeply I loved her.

The room hummed softly — candles flickering like a nervous audience — and for a moment the absurdity of my nerves struck me: Alastor—the Radio Demon—kneeling, palmed, poised to do the most human of things with the woman who had stolen my quiet tower and my heart.

She giggled once, impatient, and the sound made me both ache and furious with my own hesitation. I pressed a lazy kiss to her cheek, then lowered my forehead against hers. “Forgive me,” I whispered. “For my cowardice. For my foolishness. For loving you so much that even my hands tremble.”

Her fingers tightened in my hair. “Do it, Al. Please. I’m ready.” Her voice, though small, was resolute. She sounded like prayer and permission all at once.

I swallowed. Coating myself fully with the slick warmth of the lube, I held my breath and let the head of me hover at her wet slit, rubbing a shallow, reverent circle across her clit with the crown. The little gasp she gave — more plea than pain — was a knife in my ribs. “You always do this to me,” I murmured, voice hardly more than static. “You undo me.”

I set my tip against her entrance, felt the quiver that ran through her like a live wire. For a slice of a second I considered pulling away, hiding behind some ancestral cruelty I no longer possessed. But she gripped my shoulder with white-knuckled resolve, jaw clenched around a soft whimper. “Keep going,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Please. Don’t stop.”

Consent, repeated. I lived for that word now. I slid forward, just the head, and the first inch burned with honesty. It was not the soft sweet heaven I had fantasized about in the lonely hours. It was tight and raw and every nerve in her cried out. Her breath hitched, a sound that tore more at me than any scream in a battlefield ever had.

“This will hurt,” I said, because I could not be anything but honest. “Tell me if—” My words broke as she jerked, and I wanted nothing more than to bolt; to take it away from her and nurse the harm myself.

She shook her head, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes but a stubborn set to her mouth. “I read it’ll hurt first,” she panted. “It’ll be… awkward. But I can get used to it. I want you inside me, Al. Please.”

That was all the permission and the plea a monster could bear. I closed my eyes briefly, tasting the iron tang of fear on the back of my tongue, then kissed her — soft, urgent — to anchor both of us. “Then I go slowly,” I promised, hands trembling as I braced on either side of her hips.

I pushed forward another inch. Her hands clawed the sheets, and I felt the tiny shudder ripple through her body. Every fraction of movement was measured now; I pressed, waited, let her breathe me in, let her breathe out. “Relax your jaw,” I whispered. “Relax everything you can. Tension tightens the entry. It will hurt more if you hold yourself closed.”

She obeyed like a soldier and like a lover, slow exhalations, tiny noises that were part pain and part something else I hadn’t yet earned. I kept talking to her — ridiculous, frantic little reassurances, oldblood comforts dressed in new tenderness. “You’re doing beautifully. You’re so brave. You are… breathtaking.”

When I finally sank deeper, an inch at a time, until I was seated to the hilt within her, the sensation was a blinding mix of agony and exquisite possession. She was impossibly tight, every warmth and velvet pressing back against me. My own breath stuttered, not because it felt bad — heaven, it felt divine in a way no casual conquest ever had — but because watching her pain me like that cleaved open my heart.

She jerked and cried out, nails drawn across the sheets, and something raw and furious rose in me. I wanted to curse the world for inflicting hurt on her, for letting someone who deserved softness feel jagged edges. I wanted to pull out and curl around her until the hurt bled into nothing. Instead, I lowered my face to hers, drawing a slow, steadying breath.

“It’s me,” I said, voice thick. “It’s my hand, my rhythm. Tell me what you need. If you want slower, we stop. If you want more, squeeze my arm. I will follow you.”

She met my eyes, wet and fierce. “Keep going,” she rasped. “Slow. Please. Don’t stop.”

I could have wept, right then and there. Her trust sat on me like a crown—beautiful and terrifying. I laid one clawed hand at the arch of her hip to anchor myself, the other descending, delicate, to press at her clit. Rubbing was both practical and merciless—practical because stimulation would coax her body into accepting me more, merciless because the tiny, precise pressure sent a shudder up through her that almost undid me.

“Al—” she breathed, a plea folded into a plea. Her face had contorted, pain shaded into a raw, aching need. I adjusted my angle on a whisper, angling up a fraction so I brushed a spot that made her whole body arc. The sound she made at the contact was a ragged thing that pushed all my private demons into the corner and left only the man who loved her.

I moved with infinitesimal patience — an inch forward, a beat, an inch again — fingers grinding slow circles on her swollen clit, thumb occasionally pressing in tandem. Each careful thrust was a lesson in gentleness; I watched her every reaction like a sacred script, altering pace, depth, angle on the fly, my own pleasure a distant, guilty echo beneath a tide of concern.

She began to tremble — first with tension, then with a different kind of tremor, something that laced through her like heat. Her hands left the sheets to clutch my shoulders, to pull me closer, nails biting into the fabric of my shirt as if to prove we were both real. “Al,” she whispered, voice breaking, “I— it’s… changing. It’s not just pain.”

The admission was a shard of light. Encouraged, I increased the gentle pressure at her clit, added a whisper of motion with my hips — shallow, considerate — and felt the shift. The tightness loosened in small increments; her arches eased; the cries dulled and softened into gasps that told me she was moving beyond hurt and into the fragile doorway of pleasure.

“I’m here,” I murmured again and again, because what else was there to say? My tail thudded against the mattress in a frantic, guilty cadence, ears flat with rapt attention. I kissed her, tasting salt and sweetness, and pressed my forehead to hers. “You are so brave. You are everything.”

Her hands found my face, thumbs sweeping the lines there as if to memorize them. “I love you,” she said, the three words like prayer and prophesy. “Please—keep going.”

So I kept going. Slow, deliberate, worshipful. Every push in and every patient withdrawal was a vow: I will not rush you, I will not overpower you, I will learn your music until I can play you without thinking. My claws rubbed her clit in lazy, insistent circles, and with each cycle the tremors in her body turned from frightened to wanting. Her hips began to answer me—ever so slightly at first, then with more intent—and when her voice climbed into a keening that sounded dangerously like surrender, it broke me open in the best way possible.

I was inside her for the first time—clumsy, solemn, utterly in love—and as the candlelight painted our joined bodies in the warm gold of this new covenant, I realized I would spend the rest of my damned existence trying to deserve this moment.

She sounded different now — not the shy, breathy mew I’d coaxed out of her earlier, but a wild, sharp song that scraped right through me and set every nerve alight. When she asked for me to go faster, the plea was a jagged, beautiful thing, and I obliged without thinking. My hands found her hips, planted there as if they’d always known their place, and I began to move with more intent.

The first few quicker thrusts were gentle, testing the new pace, then I let myself answer the friction and the heat and the way her body clenched around me. Her moans grew louder, ragged and unreserved, and god — she sounded like a sin I’d been saving up for centuries to commit. I couldn’t help the low groan that ripped from my chest; it was animal and worshipful all at once.

“Putain…,” I cursed under my breath, the French swear escaping like steam. “Vous êtes incroyable—” My voice broke into bits, half-sung, half-choked, every syllable meant only for her. “So fucking pretty,” I managed in English, because some things needed to be said plainly. I felt hot and ridiculous and unbearably proud as I watched her face twist with pleasure. She tightened deliciously around me on a deep thrust and the world narrowed to the slap of our skin and the wet, slick rhythm we were making.

Her hands clawed at the sheets, nails digging crescents into linen, and she cried out that she was going to cum. Pride swelled in my chest like something feral and holy. She — my girl, my… mine — was about to come on my cock, under my body, to my motions. Every careful choice, every soft reassurance I’d given her, all of it led to this small, catastrophic triumph. I’d been holding back this whole time — a gentleman’s principle, yes, and also selfish: I refused to take before she was satisfied. That notion had felt right the first time it formed in my mind, and now it felt like the only honest thing I’d ever done.

“Do you want me to go faster, my love?” I rasped against her neck. My tail thudded against the mattress in time with my hips, betraying how very much I wanted to lose myself. She shook her head, words choked into moans, but then between breaths she managed, “No—don’t stop. Pound me, Al—harder—please.”

Her command hit me like a dare I’d been waiting for. A laugh, half terror, half triumph, escaped me — a sound she’d never heard before — and I honored her with a surge. I began to pound into her, not cruelly, but with a force that matched the need pressing behind my ribs. Each thrust drove deep, filling me with that tight, exquisite ache I’d been aching for since the moment she’d told me she was ready.

“Merde,” I gasped, the profanity slipping out as the motion stole the last of my restraint. The burn and the pull of her were everything — better, somehow, because I loved her. With every slam of my hips the bed creaked and the little candle flames quivered, but all I registered was the heat and the way she clung to me, nails raking my shoulders, voice breaking into urgent fragments of my name.

“You—you’re mine,” I panted between urges, praise tumbling out raw and breathy. “Putain, you are mine.” My words were possessive and tender both, the two merging into something that made her arch up into me, pressing her mouth to my throat. Her gasps were wet and high, spiking through me until I felt dizzy.

She told me she was close, voice ragged, and my chest swelled with a fierce, ridiculous pride that made me want to shout. “Come for me,” I begged softly, even as the coil in my belly tightened; I counted myself a curmudgeonly old man who did not suffer weakness gladly, yet here I was, begging for the sound of her surrender.

The way her body answered — stuttering, collapsing, clenching — was like music. Her back arched, and she tore off a sound that was part prayer, part raw animal cry, and she came on me in a torrent: wave after wave that bucked her hips around my own, squeezing me shut in the most delicious, maddening way. I pressed my forehead to hers, feeling the tremor that ran through her like an earthquake, each aftershock making my own mouth fall open.

She came harder than she ever had, loud and long, and I drank it in. Her legs trembled and wrapped tighter; her nails left crescents on my skin; her breath came in ragged little sobs. Pride swelled until it hurt. I nuzzled the corner of her mouth and told her over and over how perfect she was, how brilliantly she’d done, my voice a frantic hymn to the moment.

For a heartbeat I thought I might still be able to hold back — be the ridiculous, self-denying gentleman — but when her body shook under mine and her hand clamped down on my shoulder like an anchor, everything that had been held in reserve broke. The heat coiled low and then snapped, the band of sensation unraveling with a groan that was part surrender, part exultation.

“Putain de—” I cursed, the French tumbling out as I lost control, and then I let myself go. My hips drove faster, harder, filling and sliding and surrendering in time with the last of her shudders. The release that followed was not quick; it was a slow, hot unraveling, a burst of need that flooded me from base to crown. My cock pulsed inside her as I spilled, hot and strong, painting the place that had just accepted me, every thrust jammed with the crazed gratitude of a man who had waited to take only this way.

I trailed a string of soft, obscene sounds as my seed emptied, my breath ragged and filthy with joy. When it was done, I collapsed against her — chest to chest, forehead to forehead — the aftershocks of our joined rhythm echoing through us both. Her hands found my face, fingers gentle and trembling, and I kissed each one as if consecrating them.

“Are you—” I whispered, voice small and rough, the fierce protector and the shattered lover bleeding together. She nodded, eyes glossy and smiling despite the haze of cum and sweat and candlelight.

“That was—” she breathed, words coming out in staccato, “—the best thing I’ve ever felt.”

I laughed, a broken, delighted sound, nuzzling her hair. “And you have no idea what you did to me,” I murmured, French curses still catching my lips now and then, softer, more affectionate than anything I said to rivals. “Mon cœur… my heart is ruined for anyone else.”

We lay tangled, hot and sticky and impossibly full, the world reduced to shallow breaths and the slow rise and fall of two chests. Pride and tenderness swelled in me, an ache worse and better than any wound I had ever known. I had taken her gently, fiercely, and in return she’d given me more than the moment itself — she’d given me trust, surrender, love.

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French translations

Putain- technically translates to "damn" but most use it as a way to say "fuck" or "whore" (BRO ISNT CALLING HER A WHORE DW. HES SAYING FUCK)

Vous êtes incroyable- You are incredible

Merde- Shit

Putain de- literally translates to "Fucking-" (not like..."im fucking her" kinda like "this is fucking great" DOES THAT MAKE SENSE GUY'S😞😞)