Warnings: Smut w/ no plot?, cunnilingus, slight dub-con at the beginning maybe, gn-reader, probably poorly used music references
@sabotsen
There's a rustle, silken gloves gliding up the length of your thigh and pushing up the skirt of your uniform. His chest, deceptively human-looking, is pressed to your back, the cold, winding metal that makes up his torso digging into you through the careful buttons and crisp cloth of his light, linen shirt.
You don't remember him taking off the jacket.
Something light and soft tickles your inner thigh and you squirm, pulling at the fabric of your skirt to try and see what this new thing was and why it was so close to you.
"Please," His voice comes softly, a tier more intimate than the usual steadiness he always appeared to exude. "—My Song, be still." His other hand releases the fluff of your skirt to climb your stomach until his fingers curl perfectly around the curve of your side and he pulls you in; curving himself over you as if to hide, his nose brushing against the side of your face. "It is but a gift."
"What kind of gift?" Even your whisper seems too sharp against the air, loud and condemning with the rustles of fabric.
He lingers, lips parting, a soft puff of air brushing the shell of your ear, his hand traveling up a little more to gently squeeze at the plush of your skin before he breathes into your ear. "A small one."
His hand emerges from the ruffles of your skirt, an emerald ribbon with a white mid-section stitched with musical notes and flying doves.
You reach for it, letting the ribbon glide between your fingers as your tired mind tried to retrieve the title of this item.
"Let me put it on you." His voice tickles over your skin, seeping into your veins and running down your spine.
You start slightly as the thin fabric wraps around your thigh, his lithe fingers tying it in seconds. He exhales, running his fingers over his handiwork with a small chuckle. "I think it suits you perfectly."
"I can't see it!" You lean forward, almost managing to sit up before he pulls you back, cocooning you in his arms.
"You will, be patient." His lips trace the shell of your ear, a few strands of his soft hair occasionally tickling you. "I can't start the chorus just yet."
You turn your head and his light green eyes meet yours, his porcelin colored skin, speckled with freckles, now has brushstrokes of red over his cheeks. His thumb traces your jaw and his eyes follow for a moment before they return to yours, the light, grassy green of his eyes that remind you of spring are coated thick with desire to entwine, to weave himself into you so tightly that you will always be one.
Your foreheads bump against each other, his thumb retracing its steps to find your bottom lip, his glove brushing over it before he leans in, his gaze searching yours as your hands find purchase on his shoulders, your lips touching and breaths intermingling, his lips part…
—and he pulls away, slowly, reluctantly.
Your fingers curl into the fabric and you pull him towards you, only to be met with a finger to your lips as he shushes you.
"Patience, My Song, patience."
His fingers drag down the side of your throat, his breath heady as they cross over the dip of your collarbone to the flat expanse beyond and his fingers veer off to your side, avoiding your chest entirely as it arrives at your stomach and travels down to your thigh— the one where a ribbon does not press into the pliable flesh of your thigh.
He moves until he rests on his knees in front of you, his fingers gently pushing down on your stomach until you lay down, the sheets rustling as he grabs beneath the knee and lifts it so it may rest on his shoulders as he grabs another, identical ribbon.
He leans down, eyes catching yours before he sets the ribbon on your thigh and slowly ties it, his head twisting so that his lips rest just above it until, with one last tug, it's done.
There's a quiet clicking of his inner mechanisms as he drags his palm over your thigh, admiring his work. Perfect and elegant a it should be, as you are.
He traces a line down, down, down your thigh to the delicate fabric of your under garments, two fingers gliding between clothed folds and continuing up, up, up to slip beneath the folds of your skirt to press his palm on your stomach.
He shudders a raspy breath. "Perfect."
He leans over you until his shadow hides you in the moonlight, one hand resting next to your head, followed by the other. You raise a hand, your dainty fingers brushing his bottom lip which softens into a smile.
He grabs you by the wrist and presses your palm to his cheek, leaning into it as his lashes close. Your other hand curves behind his neck and you pull him down—
Until your lips meet in a slow, steady kiss deep enough to convey your love for each other and modest enough to leave room for more.
Cloth brushes your cheek, fingers entangling in your hair as one hand moves down, dipping past your stomach to hook that little bundle of nerves in his fingertips, rolling and pressing it as his tongue dares to entwine with yours, offering you a moments respite before closing in again, swallowing each moan and whimper from your throat, only stopping when you pat his chest for air just for him to dive to your neck instead, coating it with fluttering kisses.
He pauses, coming up to place one last kiss on your lips before he travels downwards, pausing to place a lingering kiss on the center of your chest where your heart thrums, before his fingers moving to hook the band of your underwear and pull it down with him. You pull your knees back, letting him slip it off you entirely.
He catches one of your ankles, his lips kissing a line from the joint to your inner thigh, his lashes brushing your skin as his teeth catch it, biting it so gently and thumbing the spot after.
He eyes your folds for a moment before he drags his gaze up to meet yours, his hands encircling your thighs, ribbons tied just above them. Garter belts, now you remember. "Are you ready for your cantata, My Song?"
You nod and he doesn't waste a second before latching his lips around that sensitive bud, and swirling it with his tongue as his fingers pry you open, pressing different spots until he finds the one that pulls his name from your lips.
He works tirelessly, focusing every bit of his energy on finding the perfect way to angle his lips, the perfect speed to thrust his fingers, everything to make you sing for him as loudly as you can.
He winds you up, up, up, pulling on your strings until you shake and tremble, until your voice cracks with a high-pitched whine, until your hands tug at his hair, until you're wound tight enough to cry before you plummet down, down, down into oblivion.
He played you until your strings snapped and tears stained your face, until your voice was wrung hoarse and it hurt to swallow.
He met your lips with a kiss, his lips misted with your dew.
