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Her pillow is too flat.
Or maybe it’s too fluffy. Or maybe the blanket is too scratchy. The soft night lights might could be brighter. Or dimmer. The gauzy curtains shimmering over the window could maybe be shifted to let less moonlight in, or perhaps they should be drawn open, so she can view the night sky.
Any way Gwyn looks at it, something is wrong. And whatever that unknowable something may be, it’s keeping her awake. She blows a short, frustrated breath out.
Her (borrowed) night shirt is slightly twisted around her hips, tangled from where she lays on her side, staring out at the sliver of visible night sky. The crackling of the logs in the fireplace are consistent enough to be noticeable, sporadic enough to be annoying.
There’s a chance it’s not even anything in the chamber keeping her up.
Maybe she ate the wrong food at dinner. Doubtful, since The House has never served her anything less than perfection. Perhaps the tea she shared with Nesta and Emerie earlier, during their afternoon book club, was caffeinated and she didn’t know. Or maybe there was caffeine in the scented cream she applied to her skin after she bathed earlier. It did leave her feeling silky, though, so maybe it’s worth the loss of sleep.
Gwyn has an early meeting with Feyre in the morning, as in, before the sun is fully risen early. Apparently that’s the only time the young mother had to breathe these days, the ever magnanimous and giving High Lord deigning to take the morning shift in the nursery. The two of them, Gwyn and Feyre, would be collaborating with various vendors along The Rainbow to offer a sort of day-camp/extended learning program for the displaced children of wartime refugees.
So maybe she can’t sleep because she’s nervous about that. It’s not every day the High Lady of the most illustrious court in Prythian meets with a priestess to discuss arts and crafts, and which snacks will be least offensive when the little mouths get hungry.
Said priestess huffs another loud breath, flopping onto her back and further twisting her (borrowed, definitely not stolen) shirt around her waist. Perhaps what’s keeping her awake is stress. Stress about not getting enough sleep, which is in turn causing her to lose sleep, which is causing her to stress, and so the cycle goes. Staring at the ceiling, she mulls over all the factors in her mind, trying to settle on what’s keeping her awake, so that she might fix it and get some blessed rest before it’s time to rise.
Her chambers are organized as they usually are, no added factors that might be distracting her and causing her brain to race this late in the evening. Still laying flat on her back, Gwyn turns her head over to the side to cast a glance over the room, making sure there’s no missing pieces her brain hasn’t registered yet.
The messy bookshelves against the wall are as full as ever, romance novels lovingly interspersed with court histories and war strategies. The overstuffed chaise lounge is still sprawled in front of the fireplace, mantel decorated with beautiful and meaningful gifts from their family. The door to the washroom is firmly shut, the near by display case of gleaming weaponry not missing any pieces. The table next to her head (her table, on her side of the bed [furthest from the door]) is tastefully messy, a spattering of loose leaf notes and a discarded ribbon strewn across the top, lamp turned down low, but still bright enough to chase away the shadows of the night.
Thinking of shadows, Gwyn registers the only thing missing from the chamber tonight. Now that she’s noticed this lack of presence, the space unoccupied feels gaping, suffocating, vibrant in its loneliness. The combination of her inability to rest and missing a piece of her soul is enough to bring the generally well-adjusted Valkyrie close to tears. It’s just so frustrating, and if he was here he could fix it but he’s having a night-cap with Cassian a few floors down and he shouldn't have to worry about her sleep and-
“Still awake?”
The deep, rumbling words spoken from the door to the hall soothes the yearning bond in her chest.
Twisting her head the other direction, she takes in the sight of her mate leaning against the door jamb. Tall and broad, wings taking up the scant empty space left outside of his wide shoulders. Shadows swirling lazily around his feet, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his loose lounge pants, a twin nightshirt to the one she’s wearing (borrowed, not stolen) stretched tight across his chest.
Gwyn’s eyes rake him up and down lasciviously enough that he releases a soft laugh, stepping into the room and allowing the magic of The House to lock the door behind him.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” she says, almost petulantly, head swiveling to track him as he rounds the end of the bed to come to her side. “I’ve thought through every possibility of what’s keeping me up.”
She goes through her mental list out loud, detailing to him the intricacies of the crackling fireplace, and whether the curtains should be slightly more or slightly less open. They move in tandem as she talks, Azriel’s knees coming to rest on the cushy rug, her torso twisting to face him fully. Their eyes are now level with each other, and as she brings up the notion of reorganizing their shelves to house their books in a more neat and orderly fashion, his hand comes to rest on her jaw, thumb sweeping a slow pattern on her cheekbone.
This contact breaks her out of her rant, and she cuts herself off with a huff, only to spout out, “So… I’m not sure what’s keeping me awake, all I know is that my mind won’t turn off and my body won’t shut down.”
Her wide eyes seek his, not at all startled to see the quiet admiration and love flowing from them, directed straight towards her. His face had inched slowly closer to hers during her ramble, their noses now almost brushing.
“That’s quite the set of problems.” His voice was a soothing rumble, a quiet roll of thunder in the distant sky. “Sounds like you might need some help.”
Gwyn, generally self-reliant and deservedly, deliciously independent, confident and overly-competent, welcomed the soft cushion of her mate-bond, emotionally leaning on the male in front of her to fill the gaps she simply couldn’t.
“Yes,” she sniffed, petulant again, allowing herself the luxury of codependence for the night. “Fix it. Please.”
Azriel ‘mmm’ed in response, eyes roving over her face, calloused thumb still scratching over her soft cheekbone. He’s counting her freckles again, making sure no new ones have popped up since the last time he counted (this morning).
She allows the silence to brew, letting him take the time he needs to reconnect with her after any length of absence, be it five minutes or a millenia. Gwyn uses the time to take in the planes of his face, the silvery scars marking the beautiful visage, making a generally beautiful male nothing less than devastating. Her eyes droop very slightly as she relishes in the feel of his bare hand against her face, the hills and valleys of his scars unmistakable, unforgettable against her skin. Her mate. Hers.
The thought of his hand against her bare skin inevitably leads her mind to a more scandalous place, of bare hands and calloused fingers against more delicate skin. The quick thought sends a jolt through her core, dampening her just enough to push her scent through the blankets covering her lower body.
His eyes come back to hers, narrowing playfully as he leans in and pecks the tip of her nose.
“Fix it? Turn your mind off… shut your body down? I can do that.” The timbre of his voice deepened, washing over her, further intensifying her scent. His own musk of is arousal now intermingling with hers, creating a unique, sultry scent that is them. Theirs alone.
Gwyn leaned her head back to create a small distance between them, deciding to willfully ignore the promise in his tone.
“Oh, yes? Are you going to read me a bedtime story, or something?” Her eyes sparkling at the heaviness in his.
“Or something.” His response is practically a grunt, the end of the word being cut off as he abruptly shoves off his knees. “Roll over, I want you on your back.”
She complies instantly, any embarrassment at being so automatically obedient ignored in favor of savoring the delicious anticipation of a complete ravishing. Her eyes close, body bracing to be pounced upon. Gearing up to muster up the energy to give as good as she gets.
By the time she realizes the pounce isn’t coming and opens her eyes, the room has been transformed. Shadows that had been dutifully twirling around them before are now being used to their best ability. A blanket of them laid over the fire, dampening the sound of the crackles and dimming the light to a mere glow. Another cohort of them spread across the windows, curtains now wide open, starlight being allowed to cast a scant, sprinkling of a glow upon the room. All fae lights had been either dimmed to the lowest setting or turned off completely, cutting off her vision of anything further than a few lengths from her face.
As she finished taking all this in, the bed dipped beside her, Azriel’s side being filled with the male himself. He gently stretched himself out beside her, head resting next to hers on her pillow. Now it would smell like him for weeks. Praise the Mother. He smelled delectable.
“I was prepared to take and be taken most viciously and salaciously, sir.” Her tone, ever irreverent, causes his eyebrow to quirk up.
“Sorry to disappoint, light of my life.” His response is low, teasing tone overshadowed by the soft hand he brings up to sweep over her hair. “I thought I might attempt to relax you, instead of getting you more keyed up. Allow me the honor of doing all the work, as it were.”
Gwyn’s head turns away from him, towards his hand, chasing after more petting, to which he complies immediately.
“I’ll allow it,” she hums. “Do your worst.”
“Oh, my love,” the slow, sultry whisper of his words are warm against her ear, the light peck dropped on the pointed tip punctuated with a teasing nip. “I plan to do my very best.”
The stroking hand over her hair comes to cradle her face, turning her back to him. Pausing for a moment, he searches her face, her eyes, for any sign that she’s not up to this, that this isn’t what she meant by ‘fix it’. All he finds is shining, burning love, and a deepening of her scent in response to the care he’s taking.
He drops his lips to her forehead, leaving soft, trailing kisses across the expanse, before pressing a light kiss to both of her eyes, a signal to keep them shut.
Equally soft kisses are feathered all over her face, the cheek and jaw nearer to him receiving all the attention until he shifts, hovering over her, weight supported on one elbow. The hand that was stroking her hair is now planted in the mattress beside her head. A line of kisses mirror what she received on the other side, trailing from her temple down to the hinge of her jaw, across her nose, and down to the corner of her mouth. Close enough for him to taste her lips, too far for her to taste his.
A final, punctuating kiss lands on the bow of her lips, and her body hums in anticipation. He moves, though, and goes back to leaving, soft slow presses to her cheek and along the upper part of her neck, to behind her ear where she’s most sensitive. Her hand rises to grip the wrist beside her head, face tossing back and forth as she searches for his mouth, whiny little moans leaking from her throat as she protests the lack of direct attention.
Azriel chuckles low in his throat.
“Needy little thing tonight, huh?” He’s not being mean, but he’s also not being particularly nice. “All you have to do is let me lead; do as I say. Turn your brilliant mind off, little light.”
“Az,” Gwyn’s breaths are slightly panting, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Az, more, please.”
Her eyes are still closed, following directions even in her distress.
“What a sweet thing, saying please.” He leaves a loud, sucking kiss behind her ear, then whispers, “No.”
The whine that leaves her mouth is embarrassing, loud and high pitched. He laughs in earnest now, peppering even more sucking kisses around the base of her neck until he reaches her other ear. She’s going to have an interesting necklace in the morning.
“You’re getting exactly what you need, my light, nothing more. Nothing less.” The words he speaks in her ear are low, murmured, non-threatening, but her body still tenses at the thought of surrendering completely to his whims.
He shifts again, and his next words are breathed against her panting mouth.
“Relax, Gwyn.”
She’s helpless to anything but compliance.
“I’ve got you.”
He finally, blissfully takes her mouth then, tongue seeking entrance immediately. She grants it, and any other time it would be a wrestling match, a battle of the wills as to who is controlling this kiss. Tonight, however, she’s allowing him to take and give to his heart’s desire.
The hand she has on his wrist tightens as he plunders her mouth, her free hand coming up to grip the fabric covering his shoulder. She’s moaning and panting into the kiss, trying to catch her breath in the scant breaks he allows her. His own voice joins hers, melodious, unrestrained groans spilling from him as he licks and sucks and pulls and utterly loves at her mouth.
He pulls away, blessedly allowing her a full breath, and her lids open long enough to take in the blissed-out glow of his face. The feral grin on his spit-slicked lips is in direct contrast with the soft love emanating from his eyes, and the feeling she gets surging from his end of the bond is enough to have her eyes rolling back in her head.
Azriel’s head ducks again, tucking back into her neck to nose along the collar of her (borrowed) shirt.
“Can we take this off?” He questions, allowing the hand she had gripping his shoulder to smooth down his arm.
She’s incapable of a full thought, only managing a “mm-hmm” before he’s straightening over her to tug the hem up her torso.
“This is mine?” He asks, like it could possibly be anyone else's. She doesn’t deign to answer.
“Looks better on you,” he hums, working the hem over her shoulders.
Her response (“Looks best on the floor.”) is muffled by the cloth being pulled over her head, but he still hears it enough to warrant the huff of laughter he lets out. Gwyn’s eyes stay closed, but she feels the heat of his gaze on her. He’s kneeling, his legs bracketing one of hers, eyes roaming, grazing over the newly bared skin of her torso. She feels the heat of his survey rolling over her collarbones, down her sternum, and over the protective layers of muscle and fat covering her waist and hips.
The bare skin of her breasts gets inundated with goosebumps as they’re exposed to the air of the room, nipples pebbling under her mate’s intense gaze.
When he falls back into her, it’s not a shock. Her eyes stay closed, but she can feel his intentions through the bond.
The soft, worshipful, loving kisses placed all over her face are replicated times ten on her torso.
Azriel tucks his face back into her neck, picking up where he left off earlier, lavishing a line down across the expanse of her chest. For every few little pecks he bestows, he seems to be randomly selecting places to leave sucking, smacking, open mouthed kisses, surely adding to her collection of bruised marks. The more attention he lavishes on her, the more her body sinks into the mattress beneath her, bones melting to mush and muscles relaxing to liquid. Her scent is strong in the room, her arousal building and building with his attention.
Gwyn’s hands come up to card through his hair, tugging her fingers through the soft, slightly curly strands. As he continues to spend time on her upper chest, collarbones and neck, she attempts to direct him lower by pushing his head down and arching her back.
His lips get close, so tantalizingly close to her peaked nipple before he pulls his head back. Her mate stills for long enough that she opens her eyes, finding his already locked on her face, one perfect eyebrow lifted in an unimpressed arc.
“You’re not in charge here.”
With that gravelly statement, he gently, painfully gently, grasps her wrists in his hands and brings them to lay on the pillow, either side of her head.
“My ultimate goal is relaxation. Turning your mind off. You cannot be thinking of where you want me to go and what you want me to do. I’ll get to it when I get to it, and you’ll have to be patient and trust me. Yes?” His tone is soft, body loose while hovering over her.
It’s now that she finally relinquishes, gives up trying to take, and accepts that she’ll simply be ready to receive whatever he’s giving.
“Yes,” she murmurs, finally acquiescing to his control.
“Good.” He casts a quick glance at her hands. “Leave them there.”
She nods, ready for him to continue on with her neck and chest, but he just stares at her. Stares at her like he’s waiting. Waiting for… ?
Ah, yes.
Gwyn’s eyes slam shut, remembering his first command, body immediately relaxing again. Now that her mind has finally accepted defeat, that she’s at his mercy and upon his timing, she can feel herself sinking deeper and deeper, both into the mattress and into the headspace that is only too happy to be taken care of by her mate. Her predestined partner, built to be perfectly in tune with her and her needs.
Either as a reward for her obedience, or as a consequence of his own need, Azriel’s mouth suddenly closes around her nipple.
A cry of surprised pleasure leaves her mouth, as she was prepped for him to go back to her neck. His hot, wet tongue circles the bud, gently pulling and sucking, stimulating a beautiful pressure she feels growing low in her spine. He switches sides, her other breast now cupped in his large, warm hand. The scars and calluses on it rub tantalizingly on her soft skin, the delicate, pale silkiness of her breasts a direct contrast with his dark, marred hands. His beautiful hands. His perfect hands.
Both hands are now cupping her, kneading and massaging, thumbs soothing over spit-slicked nipples, long fingers fully surrounding her pert chest. His mouth is suctioned to the valley between her breasts, half kissing and half licking, lapping up the light sheen of sweat that manifested there under his hot attentions.
Azriel goes back to his knees, shifting so that both his legs are tucked between hers, which causes hers to spread wide. He gently pulls the blanket away from her legs, groaning when he discovers her total lack of clothing. Did she forget to mention to him that her (his) shirt was the only thing she was wearing?
He settles himself firmly back over her, pelvis to pelvis, mouth closing around her nipple again before sucking a dark mark into the fleshy part under it. His hands are gripping her waist, thumbs rubbing a slow, smooth path on her tummy while his fingertips almost touch behind her back.
Again, he switches to the other side, leaving a mirroring mark on that breast before worshiping the nipple with his tongue, adding in a few light nips with his teeth that leave her gasping out quiet, quick little moans. Her hands are fighting hard to stay by her head, and her hips are bucking rhythmically against him, where his own groin lays flush against hers.
“Be patient,” he growls quietly against her. “I’m having fun.”
And fun he continues to have. Gwyn can’t see the clock from where she lays so she knows not how much time passes, but by the time he finally lets up on her chest her nipples are raw and puffy from his obsessive loving, hair a tangled mat in the back from tossing her head against the pillow. Her hips never stop gyrating against his, and she just knows she’s leaving a wet patch over the outline of his erection.
She heard more than felt his wings rustle as he spread them wide, primal male satisfaction causing him to puff up as he takes in the flush of her cheeks, the heaving of her chest and the scent of her arousal absolutely drenching the room. She could picture him so clearly in her mind, kneeling tall and proud between her spread legs, perusing her body, bare chest and bare pussy, all his for the taking. For the keeping.
Gwyn’s moan is muffled by his mouth as he slowly crawls back up her to claim yet another languid, deep, sensual kiss. His hands stroke lovingly over her own, a non-verbal praise for following directions, keeping them against the pillow. He slowly grinds his hips into hers, providing scant relief to the empty ache in her core.
“I told you,” he says against her open, panting mouth, “That I would be doing my very best.”
“I didn’t-” she cuts herself off to swallow harshly, catching her breath. “I didn’t know it was a threat.”
“Oh, light of my life…” His voice wasn’t a rumble now, it was practically a purr. “It was a promise. A vow.”
Her keening wail must be all the agreement the Forces That Be need, because as soon as the pitiful sound spills from her throat she feels the tell-tale tingling of a bargain mark on her sternum. Right between her breasts.
She doesn’t know what it is, as her eyes are obediently closed, but apparently Azriel likes the sight of this mark, his mark, permanently on her, that he undoubtedly has a matching one on his own chest. Moving faster than he has all night he surges downwards, caressing the new mark with his tongue, bathing ‘his’ mark on her with all the love and care he had in his tightly-wound body, covering the black ink with his saliva, his scent, his claim.
His fingers come back to her nipples, plucking and pulling and kneading and playing, gently yet firmly, his mouth never unlatching from her body. The soft fabric of his pants rubs through her wet folds, the iron bar of his cock adding a pressure that was unavoidable. All this, compounded with the feeling she receives from his end of the bond, the endless depths of love, of devotion, of pleasure and pure male satisfaction was enough to drive her over the edge.
Her orgasm crashes over her, like a wave over a rock in a stormy sea. He grinds his hips up into her, fingers working in tandem on her nipples to draw it out, to help her last as long as she can in this state of white-out world shattering bliss. Her head is tossed back on the pillow, neck straining against the force of how stretched and taut her body is.
Azriel eases her back down, smoothing his hands down her side to gently knead at her hips, mouth leaving very swift, light kisses on the pudge of her stomach. His wings rustle as he shifts himself lower, and she almost pops her head up in confusion, but catches herself last minute.
“Az?” She’s panting, breathless, and feels from his end of the bond that it’s the most stunning sound he’s ever heard.
He smacks a kiss lower on her stomach, where the waistline of her panties would be, were she wearing any. His mouth opens to lick sideways along the strip of skin, pausing to bite and nibble at the crease of her hip, where it meets her thigh.
“Azriel?” Gwyn questions again, waiting for him to come up to her level, to snuggle her for a minute before she takes care of him for the evening. She got hers, now it’s time for him to get his.
“I told you I was having fun, my light. I’m not done.” He’s purring again, words rolling out of his mouth from deep in his chest.
Her spine reluctantly untenses from her voracious orgasm, body melting back down into the cushy mattress. She barely registers her already spread legs being repositioned, brain still foggy from coming fully undone without her pussy being touched.
“And as you were nice enough to leave yourself unwrapped, uncovered for me this evening, how could I not enjoy?” His words were spoken against her hot core.
While she was coming down he had reoriented them. One of her legs was slung over his shoulder, foot resting lightly on his back, his muscular arm wrapped firmly around her thigh, palm spread wide atop it. Her other leg was strewn to the side, his hand holding it down gently, thumb pulling slightly at her outer lip, so that her inner heat is fully exposed to his gaze.
A light kiss was pressed against the very top of her cleft, his lips traveling along one side, sucking hard on the crevasse between her thigh and her pussy. The thin, sensitive skin there offers Gwyn no reprieve from his attentions, body shaking and trembling with anticipation and pleasure, and left over after shocks from her previous climax.
He travels back up and over, paying equal attention to her hip on the other side, but completely ignoring her core, where she needs him most. The empty cavern of her is craving him, his tongue, his fingers, cock, something to fill it, to bring it peace and pleasure.
Her pussy is dripping, drooling as the result of an hour of buildup and one crashing orgasm already, never mind the slick that is forming now in hopes of a second. Azriel tongues around her more, lower, along her legs, cleaning up the mess with his mouth, groaning at the taste of her.
She feels his head lift off her, waits for a few breaths to see what he’s going to do next.
“So pretty.” He speaks softly, the heat of his breath washing over her soaked folds. He presses the lightest kiss yet right on her clit, barely brushing, offering no sense of relief. “I love you so much.”
With her eyes closed she can’t tell if he’s addressing her on the whole, or her weeping cunt specifically.
Her mouth speaks before her brain can stop it.
“You talking to me, or her? Should I leave you two alone for a- OH! ”
Her teasing is cut off by the vicious meeting of his mouth against her molten hot core. His mouth is so hot, so wet against her, tongue seemingly everywhere at once. The flat of it licking a stark stripe up her, the wet suction of his mouth against her poor, swollen, neglected clit. The tip prodding in and out of her soaked entrance. Teeth nipping at her folds, and ducking back down to start it all again.
Her back bows off the bed, hips only being held in place by the hand he has wrapped around her leg. The thumb of his other hand is spreading her wide now, leaving no sensitive area out of reach of Azriel’s wicked mouth.
Gwyn’s hands are fisting in the pillow, twisting and crumpling it until her fingers cramp. Her spine is arching and caving frantically, her breasts bouncing wildly, her wet nipples even harder from the cold air they’re subjected to. Her weeping, drooling entrance is begging for something to fill it, fingers or his cock, but she knows better than to beg when he’s already set the tone.
The leg she has thrown over his shoulder is tense, foot flexing, heel digging into the base of his wings, at the muscles bunching and pulling there.
Her throat is releasing loud, unrestricted moans. Wails, even. Sobs of pleasure, of “please” and “thank you” and mostly “ oh gods , Azriel! ”.
If she was a third party viewer to this scene, she would firmly believe that Azriel is enacting his role as the torture master of the Night Court. There is no chance that she looks proper, that she looks like she’s enjoying herself. Her skin is flushed a dark red, a thin sheen of sweat covering her body. The tendons in her neck are straining from how hard her head is craned backwards, the leg she has thrown out to the side kicking and throwing itself around, toes curling and flexing uncontrollably.
His mouth is fervently attacking her pussy, lapping and suckling and nipping and licking. Her body is fighting against staying flat, every muscle tensing and working to make her seize up, curl in on herself, pull her cunt away from the onslaught of over-pleasure. Her eyes are leaking tears, her voice cracking as she babbles nonsensical phrases and praises and pleas. She barely stops herself from begging for his fingers, remembering vaguely what he said about knowing what she needs and when she needs it.
Also, if she were a third party viewer, she would think that Azriel was the one receiving pleasure here.
His hips are grinding forcefully into the bed, almost violently, rucking up the blanket below him, smearing his leaking fluids all in his pants. The muscles visible in his arms through the tightness of his shirt are straining, flexing and jumping at every jerk of Gwyn’s body.
And his noises.
As much as Gwyn is babbling, yelling and sobbing and coming apart at the seams at the sheer pleasure she’s being tortured with, Azriel is louder.
His throat is releasing moan after moan, growling snarls, vicious groans. When her hips manage to buck her cunt away from his mouth, he whimpers, tightening his arms and chasing after her with his teeth bared, messy, dirty talk coming from his mouth. For every wail she releases, he has an answering whine, as if already anticipating having to stop feasting on her. For every unintelligible word she cries, he has an answer.
Her “please” is met with an “I have you”, whimpered against her hot pussy.
Her “thank you” is answered with a “yes, baby”, said ever so quickly before he dives back in.
Gwyn’s ““ oh gods , Azriel! ” is responded to with “I’m here, I’m here”.
When she eventually manages to string enough coherent thought to sob out an uncontrollable “I love you” his rebuttal is instantaneous, like he has it loaded on a hair trigger, waiting to be shot out at any moment.
“I love you, too-”
Lick.
“-love you, Gwyn-”
Suck.
“-love you so much-”
Bite.
“-light of my life-”
Prodding her entrance.
“-my mate-”
Kissing her clit.
“- mine -”
Suckling on her nub, lavishing it with his tongue.
“Jus’ love you s’ much.”
He’s babbling now, punctuating every phrase with a mind-numbing whip of pleasure, slurring his words, completely drunk on her pussy.
The primal part of Gwyn awakens, needing to see, to know what he looks like right now, with her slick all over his face and her leg wrapped around his body. She picks her head up off the pillow and looks down at him, almost falling back down at the sight that greets her.
His brow is furrowed, his face looks almost angry as he concentrates solely on her pleasure. His powerful hips are driving into the bed, slamming down over and over as his achy cock seeks any form of relief. His massive shoulders are bunched up tight, as if trying to be smaller, more compact, so that he can fit himself more firmly between her legs, against her core. His hands, his perfect hands, are kneading and mashing at the plush skin of her thighs, unable to keep still, holding her tight against his face.
“You can touch,” he growls against her sopping cunt, surely feeling her eyes on him and letting up on the rules he’d set for the evening.
Her hands immediately find his hair, grasping and pulling at the strands, using them as leverage to grind her cunt on his face. Her back is bowed now, spine refusing to relax as her pleasure builds and builds, the explosion of release she knows is coming not backing down.
“Yes, Gwyn,” he speaks against her, moving all his attention to her swollen, molten hot clit. “Yes, baby. Give it to me. Let me have it.”
Her orgasm is racing up her spine, intensified by the two fingers he finally, finally uses to plug her empty hole.
He curls them up just once, hitting that gummy, spongy spot inside of her, simultaneously giving the strongest sucking kiss so far to her clit. She vaguely registers his hips grinding violent circles into the bed, his free hand popping up to catch her swaying breast, pinching harshly at her nipple.
“ Now ,” he properly growls at her.
If her previous orgasm was a white screen, a complete blanking of her mind, this one is a black out.
Everything sans pleasure ceases to exist. She feels the electric sparks of her climax travel from her clit all through her body, ending at the tips of her fingers and toes. She wouldn't be surprised if her hair is standing on end.
Gwyn’s spine locks up, causing her torso to curl in over Azriel’s head while her legs try their hardest to draw up, draw her away from his mouth that’s still plundering her cunt. She doesn’t know if she’s screaming or yelling or perfectly silent, she has no concept of anything that isn’t her mate’s hot tongue latched to her clit, two thick, long fingers pumping in and out of her. Of his own groans and whimpers breaking through that barrier in her mind, and hearing the sound of his pleasure only serves to prolong hers.
Then, it’s quiet.
When she becomes coherent again, she’s laying on the overstuffed chaise lounge, in front of the fire. The shadows had obviously been called off their tasks, as the flames are dancing and crackling merrily and brightly. She feels a gentle stroking on her cheek, and registers that it’s a soft, damp cloth, being used to wipe the dried tears off her skin.
“Hi, my light.”
Azriel speaks softly, more softly than he has yet, this evening.
“Can you tell me how you’re feeling?” He’s kneeling by her head again, tracing the warm cloth over his dried saliva layered on her breasts.
She shifts slightly at the sensation, breasts sore and achy from his attentions earlier, but only in the best ways.
“I’m good. So… good.” Her sentence is punctuated in the middle by a big yawn.
“Good,” is his simple reply, the love shining on his face and down the bond speaking more than enough for him. “Sleepy?”
She doesn’t respond with words, just a giggle and a little “mm-hmm” while he wipes down the rest of her chest and torso.
“I’m gonna clean you up now, the cloth is probably going to be a little rough.”
She shifts enough to let her legs fall open again, reveling in the delicious ache of her body. It seems like every muscle is pleasantly sore.
Gwyn stiffens at the feeling of the warm cloth against her swollen, puffy pussy, whimpering slightly.
“I’m sorry, love.” Azriel has nothing but sympathy on his face.
“It’s ok.” She reaches a hand to smooth the hair off his forehead. “If you give me a few I can help you.”
“Help me?”
“I know I finished before you had the chance to, I can still help you, though.”
“Gwyn,” he chuckles lightly, tossing the rag in the direction of the bathroom door. “I’m good.”
“Good?”
He leaned over her, bracing an arm on either side of her head, nudging their noses together. It’s only now that she registers his lack of clothes, that he’s discarded his shirt and trousers at some point while she was out. The blissed-out state of her only simmers and bubbles at his proximity, his simple closeness.
“So, so good.” He kisses the tip of her nose. “In fact, I’m not sure the pants are salvageable.”
“You… you finished without being touched? Because I came all over your face?”
He groans heavily and drops his head into her neck, breathing deeply where her scent, their scent, is the strongest.
“If you keep saying things like that, we’re going to go again.”
She laughs breathlessly, raking a hand through his hair. Tugging slightly at the base of it, he raises his head enough to look her in the eye again.
“I’d prefer to sleep, please. You threatened me with your best, and I would say you’ve well delivered on it. You’ve exhausted me.” A small smile graced her lips, widening when he smiled back, when his dimple pokes through.
“Ok, give me just a few and I’ll get the sheets changed, then we can sleep.”
He makes to move away from her, removing his hands from either side of her head and rocking back to stand up. Gwyn feels a moment of panic, at the thought of him being even slightly away from her, too far to reach.
“No!,” she grasps at his arm, pulling him back to her. “Stay. Just… we’ll just sleep here. Stay with me, please.” She hates how small her voice sounds, how needy she’s being tonight, but her mate’s only response is to soften his eyes and murmur “of course.”
He tugs slightly at her shoulders, maneuvering his arms under her to pick her up, repositioning her to be sitting.
“Clothes?” He asks, knees cracking as he finally stands off the hard floor.
“Please.” Gwyn crosses her legs as a big yawn escapes her.
“Mine or yours?” Azriel asks as he steps only far enough away from her to get to the nearest wardrobe. She could still reach out for him, if she needs.
“Can I borrow a shirt?”
“ ‘Course.”
“Thank you.”
He grabs a pair of pants for him as well, and her arms lift as he slips a large article of clothing over her head. He takes advantage of her lifted arms to scoop her up again, positioning them in a comfortable arrangement on the couch.
They end up on their sides, with her spine pressed to the back cushions, face to face with him, legs hopelessly tangled together. His wings are stretched behind him, basking in the warmth from the fire. Her face is pressed firmly into his chest, his chin tucked atop her head. Their hearts beat in tandem, their breaths in unison, their souls twining around each other.
Gwyn’s mind is quiet, not thinking of messy shelves or kid’s snacktime or gauzy curtains. Her body is lax and pliant, safe and warmly wrapped up in her favorite creature. Another yawn escapes her as her eyes slide shut, melting fully into the embrace of her mate.
His hand fiddles with the hem of her (borrowed) shirt, where her leg is thrown over top of his waist. She can practically hear the primal crowing on his side of the bond. ‘My mate is visibly marked up, smelling of my scent and wearing my clothes.’ The image warms her chest, and as if reading her mind, Azriel speaks, voice rumbling directly from his chest, in her ear.
“You can always wear what’s mine. Looks better on you, anyways.”
She plants a feather light kiss on his sternum, right above his heart.
Says; “Looks best on the floor.” Before sucking a bruise into his throat.
His hand tightens on her hip, a groan spilling from his lips as he warns, “Do not start something you cannot finish.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gwyn was late for her meeting the next morning. Very late. She arrived walking funny. Wearing a large, unseasonable scarf.
She started something. And she definitely, definitely finished.