'Tis the season of giving, and you wish to introduce the Devil of Tau to the spirit of Christmas.
or
You gift Roathe some chocolates.
note -
Mostly fluff, with some mature innuendos, but it never really goes too far. Inspired by some KIM conversations I spoiled for myself intentionally by looking up Roathe conversations online lmao.
The blue Emet Selch has bewitched me, body and soul and all that jazz.
Happy Holidays to those who celebrate :)
read on ao3 here!
You’re not sure why you’re doing this.
The blue-skinned man hates everything that screams La Cathédrale - Marie, Lyon, and their praises of Sol and Lua. It almost rivals to how much he hates Albrecht.
You have been very patient in forming a bond of sorts that is mutually beneficial to you both(dare you say, almost as symbiotic as those mycelium growth you recently encountered underground?). Moreover, Roathe belongs to an entirely different world (timeline, mayhaps?). So you are unsure if he even knows what the spirit of Christmas is - and you’re not exactly keen on discussing his lack of festive cheer with Marie or Lyon - given their ‘rightful’ resentment.
But then again, your knowledge of the Orokin is quite limited, and never in your conversations with the Lotus or Loid did you bring up festivals or personal celebrations, thinking it might be a sore spot for them.
Nor are you sure if you can silently slip in talks of Christmas traditions with Marie. She’s a kind girl, but given her past, you understand that she may not be exactly open to exploring familial wounds with you yet. And Lyon has just started talking with you - he is such a complicated man, with hidden pains and you are unsure if talking about the holiday season will not cause him more anguish. He’s troubled enough already.
So you find yourself at an impasse.
To be fair, you’re not very accustomed to this world and its customs either.
If it weren’t for the kid or for the Hex, you wouldn’t even know Christmas existed. Jesus wasn’t exactly popular in Duviri…
Or so many pop culture references. Thanks to Aoi for that.
So you stand at the gateway to the Cathedral - unsure of how to approach this situation.
You’re not even sure if it’s worth the effort. How do you explain to an Orokin man with amnesia what even Christmas is? “Hey, I know Albrecht dropped you in the middle of nowhere and abandoned you here, but humans have this festival called Christmas where they gift each other things, so ‘Merry Christmas!’”
Yeah, fat chance.
You hold onto the fragile box of chocolates (arranged thanks to a favour Quincy owed you) and you contemplate leaving the Sanctum Anatomica. This isn’t like you, you reckon - but the idea of doing something nice for someone like Roathe makes you oddly nervous. The only source of confidence you have is the conversation you had with him over K.I.M. wherein he pretended to get his hands on chocolates by pretending that he was procuring the goods to land in Lyon’s good graces.
Huh, who knew the Devil of Tau had a sweet tooth?
You give your head a good shake and take resolve as you finally enter the La Cathédrale.
(Any more squeezing and you’re afraid the box might’ve crumbled under your fingertips anyway. You wouldn’t want to waste the gift, after all.)
𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔
You find him where he always resides, in the east wing of the Cathédrale. He sprawls across the limited expanse of his chair, almost lazily. Treats it like a throne of sorts, really. Old habits die hard, you guess. And can you really blame the man who was titled ‘Vice Regent Grand Carnus’?
You have a lot of faith in a flimsy piece of loinscloth, really. That’s what you think as you approach him cautiously, almost as if you’re approaching a Kavat.
You can hear Marie humming at the back, and the occasional sound of Lyon’s whip as you slowly walk up to him.
He looks up from his book, “Hm, yes. What brings you here, Drifter? Here to kill me again?”
If you didn’t know him any better, you’d think he’s almost hurt by the prospect of it.
“Bah, look at your face. You look at me as if I’ve stabbed you!” he smirks at you with baneful glee. You roll your eyes at him as you finally address him.
“Roathe.”
“Drifter.”
“I came here because I was free and bored. Thought that maybe I can have another go at jogging up your memories…”
“Oh how delightful! The human thinks of me as her personal plaything!” he grins, and his canines gleam almost menacingly under the candlelights. You take it as a sign to not egg him on any further.
“As tempting as your offer is, dearest. I believe I am just not in the mood for it today. You must trouble me some other time…”, he drawls as he rests his head against his arm, a look of contentment washing over him as he examines you.
You feel oddly naked and vulnerable under his gaze.
“Although…if you feel up to it, you may tire me out with….different methods and pursuits, Drifter?” he questions you almost innocuously, tilting his head to the side as he does so.
You clear your throat as you ignore the blaringly obvious hint he’s dropped at your feet.
“Anyway, I thought I’d do a nice thing for you. Humans, mainly natives on Earth, have this tradition called Christmas…”,you see how puzzled Roathe looks, and his expression clearly convey the feeling of ‘And pray tell, why should I give any fucks about human customs?’.
So you get to the point fast.
“On Christmas day, which is today - they celebrate the birth of one of their deities, Jesus. He was a pretty chill guy, from what I heard. But in recent times, humans have taken this festival as a way to convey their gratitude for those close to them.”
Ah, fuuuuuuuck. You really cannot do this.
“I know you’ve been struggling with Lyon, so here,” you toss the box of chocolates his way and he barely catches it, sputtering as he questions you.
“W-what is the meaning of this..?”
“You mentioned once that Lyon liked chocolates, so I got you some so you can give him. As a Christmas present.”
“Or not”, you shrug as you turn your back on him to leave.
You hear the sounds of paper crinkling and you could only smile.
𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔𓌔
Bonus -
Taped at the very bottom of the box, a yellow sticky note reads -
Mmm… My a perchance order some Roathe (Warframe) indulging/spoiling their favorite Drifter’s breeding kink? You know, as a treat
Hmmm...I wonder who sent this in? By the gods, we may never know. But I will indulge you, extra mysterious anon ;) Because I love you, and you asked for my faaaavorite thing with one of my faaavorite hot boys <3
(Roathe x FemReader: Breeding Kink)
Warnings: Breeding kink, mentions of breeding, breeding with no baby. Risky location--just for fun)
Roathe knew you better than anyone else in La Cathedral.
That went without saying. As the Drifter, you often put the needs of others above yourself. Patient, kind, witty, and often times deeply troubled with traumas you dare not let seep out onto the ones you took into your care. Apathy was quite the hilarious terminology for what Roathe had learned to be pure, unmitigated masking. But alas, it was not his place to question you, nor try to push for any sort of discussion that was not initiated by your lips. He himself was like a timid kaithe that needed to be guided to water through careful, strategic consideration, and as such he did his best to give you that same consideration. Your past was wrought with terror and pain. And whatever brought you comfort was the first and foremost focus of the Devil's mind, intentions, and interactions within the walls of the Inner Sanctum.
He adored you with all the intensity of a lit flame, constantly fed with kerosene. When you desired a soft place to lay your head, he would give it without question. When you desired a place to spill your woes heavy and saturated with all the trauma of Duviri, Roathe took them without question--you had done the same for him, after all. Looking at a pathetic, broken shrill of a man and seeing something worth loving, even after hearing of all the terrible things he had done in the name of the Orokin Empire, and his own self preservation. Your adoration was his reason for change, and in that he strived to know you in and out, back and front. Your desires, your enjoyment, your pleasure. Even the things you dare not utter aloud, things that when whispered in your ears brought the beautiful flush of scarlet across your cheeks.
That was always his favorite. To indulge whatever heady little wants that made you squirm, to play upon raunchy little fantasies that reduced his strong, confident Drifter into a mewling puddle within his hands. After your first confessions of love, it didn't take him long to learn of the proclivities bubbling somewhere near the surface, not when your desire was such an earnest, open thing. A heart worn on your sleeve, and tell tale signs of enjoyment leading the eager Devil to a wellspring of new things to explore, and a place to lay his devotion with proud hands. Not the same as when he had with the Lady of Pain--something pure, tangible, warming to the very marrow of his bones.
It was on one such occasion that he found himself within La Cathedral, seated in the quiet, dull orange glow with you perched on his lap. It was more often than not your doing that brought your duo to such thresholds, locked in a sizzling embrace within the confines of that often inhabited area. Marie and Lyon were, gratefully, absent during that time. Which left you open to tease and play, to stoke the Devil's flames until he was a roaring infernal, hands gripping your hips hard and lips at your neck. Kissing, teeth grazing, low growls rumbling from his chest as part of his attentions remained on the portal at his back. Not that he would be ashamed of getting caught--honestly, that was all part of the fun.
You shuddered beautifully at his touch, that all too carefully worn mask bleeding away into something far more carnal underneath. Thighs tight around his waist, fingers carding through the dark brown locks of his hair, shivering breaths fanning against the protoframe mutations at the Devil's neck. You did not wear your full Drifter clothing that day, dressed far more casually for relaxing in the Sanctum, spending time with Tagfer and the others. Until your attentions brought you back to your lover within the Cathedral, as they always did. A moth drawn to a burning flame, aching for his attentions as equally as Roathe ached for yours.
The Orokin was feeling particularly mischievous that day. He had a dastardly, misbehaving streak that ran deep, one that you utterly adored. He longed to tease you, to make you squirm and whimper under his hands. And more than that, the Devil knew exactly what it would take to get you there.
Roathe's teeth had found the juncture of your neck and shoulder, biting down softly as he leaned you forward against the edge of the desk. Your skin tasting sweet, smelling of something both floral and decadent like candy. His clawed hand glided down your front in a dance of warmth and pressure, tracing the fabric of your tunic with purposeful slowness. You shuddered, utterly unfocused on anything but him in that moment, your glowing eyes glazing over with arousal and plush lips parting in a dreamy little sigh. So wanting, his Drifter. So honest in your reactions. It made him all the hungrier, greedier in his need, cock aching in his slit below and pulsing with a desire to free itself. But not quite yet--the Devil was still having his fun.
His tongue was hot upon your skin, the Orokin's more humanoid hand tugging your tunic edge impatiently down for more access as his other kept exploring below. Stopping only when it found the familiar mound of your pelvis awaiting his arrival, fingers splayed over soft flesh with a satisfied hum low in Roathe's throat. There he pressed down, just above the treasure awaiting below, not quite touching yet. Appling pressure to your pelvic mound, allowing the slow, cloying heat of Uriel's protoframe parts to warm you from the outside in. A deep, pulsing heat, not enough to burn, but strong enough that your insides would quiver and feel his presence like a ghost from within.
You always melted when he did that. Roathe still recalled that first time he had tried, almost without thinking. Oh, the way you had morphed into a whining, pleading supplicant in his hands, trembling and desperate for the devil's cock. Even thinking about it gave him the most delicious shiver down his spine, heart racing in his chest and a growl manifesting at the back of the Devil's throat in rapt anticipation. Your reaction then was just as wanting, just as lovely. Hips pressing back with an instinctive, rutting motion, fingers stuttering in their massaging of his scalp so you could cling closer, breathing hard and shaking like a delicate leaf in the wind. He could feel your muscles quivering there, beneath the unyielding press of his palm, the spreading warmth like trickling, melted honey to your insides.
"F-fuck...!" Your soft, breathless little whimper was like music to his ears. All silken and delicate, like thin glass on the verge of shatter.
Roathe chuckled, the sound low and rumbling like the purr of a mighty feline. His dark blue lips trailed up your neck, resting on the racing pulse underneath your jaw, "My, already so greedy, my lovely little thing. I've barely touched you, and how you tremble in my arms!"
He doubted there was little room in your head to think at that moment. Something about him indulging those secret little desires always had a way of shutting your brain off, like flipping a switch. But you flushed pink at his words, mouth opening in what appeared to be an attempt to speak, only for another heady moan to slip out instead. Roathe did so enjoy watching your lashes lower to your cheeks, the way pleasure and want contorted your face into something so carnal, so erotic that it made his head spin.
He grew bold in the blooming heat of his own arousal. The devil wanted you a mess in his hands, location entirely be damned. His own impatience left little room to move to his bedchambers, and something about the other two catching you in such a disheveled state flared both his possessiveness and his glee. Roathe wanted the others to know that only he was capable of making you unravel in such a way, that you belonged to him and no other.
His clawed fingers dipped lower, careful not to scratch the tender flesh of your awaiting pussy. Brushing his knuckles over your panties, tearing a hole in the tight fabric concealing your lower half. You shuddered at the cool air touching your wet heat, thighs tightening around him and your hips pressing down into the devil's awaiting palm. So warm, warm enough that even Roathe could feel it, that and your slick coating him like melted, viscous honey. He smeared it across his palm, pressing it to the awaiting bud of your clit with just enough pressure to wring a soft gasp from your lips.
"Careful now," He hummed, chuckling next to one of your ears and delicately nipping at the shell. "We wouldn't want those two zealots accidentally hearing you moaning like that, now would we? My shameless, needy little thing."
The way you softly inhaled, teeth biting into your lower lip while grinding into his hand was only proving Roathe's point. He chuckled, happily obliging your need for pressure, letting you rut into his touch for a few moments if only to see the gentle bloom of pleasure in your expression. Eyes fluttering shut, face pressed to his shoulder and both hands falling to his chest so they could find purchase against the edges of his armor.
"F-feels good--" You whispered, tone shaking with want and that peak you so desperately sought against his flesh. "Gods, Roathe--"
Not quite yet. He wanted you far more unraveled than this.
The Devil leaned forward again, your back pressed to the edge of his desk and his body flush with your own. Preventing you from grinding further, but keeping his heat seeping into your slit like a growing inferno, wringing the most delicious, desperate whines from your chest. Panting, shuddering, twitching at that stimuli coming to an end, but the pressure like a torturous blessing all the same.
Roathe chuckled deep in his throat, his free hand tracing up your spine over the tunic fabric. Feeling you shiver as he spoke, low and honeyed, "Perhaps I should let them see you being bred upon my desk? See you taking my seed deep within your beautiful insides, begging for it to take, to carry my spawn?"
You flushed deeply crimson at his idle suggestions, just as the Devil knew you would. Your lips opened and closed a few times, trying to find the common tongue for some sort of ample response, but failing miserable with how any remaining thoughts became mush. Roathe knew how it affected you so, how it made your head spin and arousal melt any last reservations into liquid. He could feel your slick dripping through his fingers, pattering onto the floor beneath his desk in crystalline little droplets. There was no doubt in his mind that any remaining reservations at the idea of getting caught would be lost somewhere within the white noise, and that little bead of shame that conjured at your own inner desires would be snuffed out beneath a torrent of need.
"R-Roathe--" You managed in a half-gasped, desperate little hitch of your breath. Hips trembling, fingers tight on the edge of his neckplate. "Please--"
"Please what, my pet?" The devil rumbled, feeling quite gleeful indeed at the way you unraveled in his arms, so beautifully unlike the face you usually wore when walking about the Cathedral.
He continued, free hand gripping your hair just enough to get his words across, not enough to cause pain, "'Please fuck me', is that what you wanted to say? Or is 'please breed me' closer? Need I remind you that you started this, Drifter--shall I finish it as I see fit, spilling inside until I am certain that I've bred you? Do try to be concise."
Now he was just being mean, trying to force you to gain enough coherence to respond. Not that you could really manage, practically panting with desperation against the devil's shoulder, a gentle throbbing meeting his palm where your folds flushed with even deeper arousal. All you could do was meet his questions with a soft, desperate whine, pressing even closer still, as if that were even possible. The only thing separating your skin from his being that damnable tunic, thin enough that he could feel the hard buds of your nipples grazing his chest plate.
Luckily for you, his own impatience didn't exactly warrant a response. Not when you were still trying to rut against him, plush lips at his neck, tongue tracing a hot line from the devil's collarbone to his own racing pulse. His cock was almost painfully aching in its sheath now, and Roathe couldn't wait another bloody minute to take his fill of you, all focus now snatched away from the portal in favor of pleasure. He didn't care in the slightest now whether the two zealots entered and saw you both there at his desk--the devil had you right as he wanted, so mind-numbingly aroused that each moan sounded like a prayer, and his touch the altar to which you showed reverence.
When Roathe rose to his feet, tail wrapping around your waist to hold you fast, something akin to a relieved sob left your parted lips. There was no resistance in how you allowed the devil to sweep any remaining books from his desk, pressing you down against the wooden surface with a hunger that surpassed reason. His lips found yours in the next instant, swallowing whatever wanton little sounds that spilled forth from his touch. Molding, taking, claiming you in a way only Roathe could. When his tongue finally slipped into the waiting, wet heat of your lips, the devil finally allowed his cock to slip free of its sheath, drenched with a slick of his own and positively throbbing with need.
It was a beautiful contrast to your skin, even Roathe could admit that. Thicker at the tip, with ridges down either side, the head somewhat flatter with a curve to its shaft. Flushed somewhat flesh pink at the tip, but transitioning to blue down to where it grew thinner at the base. Making for quite the spread upon entry, and an easier glide once his cock head slipped inside.
Your thighs parted even further the moment you felt Roathe slip his cock against your wet heat, spreading wider with a heady little moan of want. The devil was more than eager to oblige, hands hiking up your tunic so he could gaze upon the curve of your hips, the soft mound of your stomach as you arched into him with pronounced eagerness. Welcoming, begging for him to come inside. All soft flesh and perfect, unhidden desire, spilling out for the Devil alone there in the quiet of La Cathedral.
"So eager," Roathe hissed, one hand splayed to press you flat against the surface of his desk, the other using more humanoid fingers to test your entrance. Yielding, drenched, practically sucking him in. "Breathe for me, my love. Slow and deep--you know how to take me."
You were quite the obedient lover indeed. Especially when Roathe was indulging you in such a secret desire. A soft, dreamy sigh escaped you, a purposeful breath following slow and deep as the trembling in your hips did its best to subside. Eagerness subdued at Roathe's beckoning, that inner ring of muscle growing just a bit more lax around his fingers. He hummed in soft satisfaction, dark lashes lowering over his light blue pupils like burning coals in the dark room.
That's what he was waiting for, your body becoming putty in his hands, calm and lax. The way you stared up at him, eyes half lidded and face a mask of unabashed desire was utterly maddening, the most exquisite torture Roathe had ever experienced. He craved it like nothing else, the way it ignited adoration and want within his core, a blazing heat that sought to consume him in a single flash of white hot flame. It made it all the harder to grit his teeth and go slow, ever careful in making sure you experience no pain or discomfort in the process. One too many terrible experiences with Nitokh had left their mark, and he never wanted you to go through the discomforts the devil had once been accustomed to.
There was little to worry about on that end. When the head of his cock found your entrance, both were already drenched with slick. His, and your own. A single press of Roathe's hips had the thicker, more bulbous end of his member spreading you with little resistance, a shuddering whine breaking past your defenses and fingers digging into his shoulders. Once it popped past that first ring of muscle, there was nothing left to stop the devil from sliding in to the base of his cock, the head flush with your cervix and your inner walls shifting, moving, sucking against him with the most delicious pressure he could imagine. Roathe groaned, bowing over you with both hands pressing hard to the desk on either side, keeping him braced as his tail thrashed about behind him like a crazed beast.
"S-so warm..." You breathed, soft and so incredibly wanting. Your hands pulled him closer until he was flush against your hips, bearing down harder on that soft mound of your pelvis. "Gods, I can feel you so deep--"
The way it spilled out from your lips, trembling with reverence had Roathe's mouth watering. He knew precisely what you wanted, and was more than eager to oblige with echoed need of his own. You were yielding and hot around his shaft, all pressure and perfectly squeezing muscles that sought to take him deeper. And he was a live wire, aching to watch you unravel under his hands, begging and whimpering to feel his ejaculations paint your insides.
The Devil growled, a low rumble in his throat when your inner walls purposefully squeezed, a wet suction that had his eyes rolling back in his head. He immediately rutted his hips hard against yours, pulling a gasp out of your throat with one firm press of his cockhead to your wanting cervix. It was like a dam broke then, Roathe bearing over you roughly upon the desk, hips pulling back just enough to slip his cock a few inches outwards, then thrusting in with a hard, quick pace that scattered any remaining thoughts lingering in his head.
Your arms found his neck, holding the devil closer as he pressed into you over and over, again and again. The dark blue of his shaft coated in slick, swallowed into your welcoming heat in shallow, deep thrusts as the weight of his pelvis applied delicious pressure to your clit. You became a mess beneath him, all gasping, heady cries, thighs tight around Roathe's waist and his name like a prayer on your tongue. Begging, pleading, praising. A jumbled mess of pleasure like a babbling torrent from those beautiful lips, words that he swallowed whole with greedy, hard kisses mere moments later. He could feel your fingers in his hair, your insides throbbing with rising release, each moan a flavor on his tongue, honeyed and sweet. The devil could have lost himself in you, like falling endlessly into the sea.
"Gods gods gods--" You whimpered against his lips, panting with each deep, desperate grind of Roathe's cock inside your sheath. "Please come inside, please, please--"
Roathe shuddered at your words, his breaths coming just as quick. Claws digging into the hardwood, his voice a gritty rasp of pleasure and strain, "Beg me for it, lover...! I want to hear you plead for me to pound my offspring into your wanting sheath...!"
Roathe could feel the throbbing, aching rise of your orgasm clenching all around him, quickly rising in tandem to his thrusts. Your body arched into his in that next instant, lips parted in a cry of pleasure that sang like music to the devil's ears, a spark lighting him further ablaze. He hissed out a sharp breath, teeth slipping down to your neck so he could suck hard upon your sweat-slick skin, leaving mark after beautiful mark as if claiming you for all the world to see. You trembled hard, hips locking under his and desperately seeking more purchase, as if it were even possible. A sloppy mess of half-sobbed moans, praises, and whines streaming from your lips as your pleasure hit that sought after peak. Your inner walls were throbbing deliciously around him, fully clenched and utterly drenched by the time your rapture began to wane, dull, and slope downwards from the rush of stimuli.
But Roathe was not done, and neither were you.
Your pleasure only heightened his own, a deep groan leaving the Devil as he rutted into you as deep as your slit would allow, head bowed and dark blue lips bared from his teeth. He could feel your fingers foxtrotting along his cheekbones, his jaw, his shoulders. Touching, tracing, stroking as your panting breaths continued in tandem with his. A rising crescendo of heat and desperation, aching through his lower half like crackling fire and electricity. So tangible it was a taste on his tongue, lingering from when he had devoured you earlier.
And then your pleading began, breathless and desperate, uttered through trembling lips and a featherlight whimper, "Please fill me up, gods please--Want to feel you inside, breeding me, Roathe--"
He needed little other encouragement than that.
The Devil came with a low, guttural moan, breaths hitching and his tail thrashing about in the air behind him. Hard, pulsing pleasure that throbbed through his cock in deep, decadent waves of bliss. His hips were hard against yours, desperate to push himself to your innermost parts, where his seed would gush hot and thick against your cervix. Hotter than the average human's, as you had so lovingly described in the past. Not enough to burn, certainly not enough to hurt. But enough to make your body shudder with delight, eyes flickering shut and the most wanton, shameless moan to slip from your parted lips. You arched into him, taking each and every pulsing, throbbing burst of his ejaculation inside, heels digging into the Devil's back to take him even deeper. As if that were even a possibility, with how his hips were locked against yours.
Roathe could have spent hours there, locked in your embrace. Feeling your muscles shift and suck at his cock, your fingers at home in his dark brown hair, tracing the golden adornments of his headpiece. Hearts beating in tandem, each breath felt from within, where his seed finally finished pouring into you, viscous and warm. Even then, the Devil did not stop shallowly rutting, grinding, and rubbing into you until he was certain a second orgasm was bleeding in from the first, your breaths a high whine and your hips trembling underneath his. You came once more to the feeling of his cock shifting the liquid inside of you, pressing deeper as his pelvis made quick, hard pressure upon your aching clit.
Roathe hummed in low satisfaction, lips pulling back from his teeth in a jackal-like smile as you shuddered and moaned with the slowing, coiling waves of your rapture. Flushed pink and sweating, panting softly beneath him as your heels remained right where they were, keeping the Devil locked against you with no intention of letting go. So greedy, his little pet. So eager to keep the heat of his orgasm inside for as long as possible, revelling in the feeling of it.
He did not begrudge your intentions, perfectly content right where he was in the dulling throb of your sheath. There was such pleasure in seeing what a mess you became, hair fussed on the surface of his desk and tunic hiked high enough that the generous mounds of your breasts were visible to his admiring gaze. So pretty, so perfect. Roathe could still scarcely believe that you were his, and he yours, not when he was such a despicable devil and you were practically an angel tucked underneath him. It was both surreal and awe inspiring, a blessing that the Devil hardly felt deserving of.
But he was even greedier than you, and unable to hide his shameless, smug satisfaction at your pleasure. His tail flicked back and forth in unhidden joy as the Devil leaned down to kiss you, smothering the groan that emerged from feeling his body weight applying more pressure to your sheath.
"You just might kill me someday," You whispered, voice thick and quiet with that haze of satisfaction. Fingers playing in his hair, gently rubbing little patterns Roathe could not discern. "I don't think I can walk anymore."
The devil snickered, delicately nipping at the side of your jaw with a low hiss of, "You started it, pet. I swear I might one day accidentally burn this Cathedral to the ground because of your actions, mark my words."
You really couldn't deny that, not when you had been purposefully teasing the Devil for damn near an hour before that dam had finally broken. There was nothing you loved more than riling him up until he took you like some ravenous beast, desperate and hungry for a taste of what you had dangled before him like a carrot on a string. Even his mention of it made you giggle, caught red handed in your nonsense without so much as a word of defense.
Roathe clicked his tongue, tail snaking around one of your legs as to tug you a little closer, his cock still deep in your slit. You groaned, trying to shake off the brain fog that followed, but failing miserably with the devil still testing his canines against your jugular.
"I daresay I should make you keep my seed inside for an hour or two," Roathe mused, one clawed finger dragging down the side of your neck and leaving a tiny, red line in its wake. "Just so it really takes, and I get to watch you stumble about trying to hold a conversation with Marie or Lyon."
You shuddered at that, a strangled, desperate little sound emerging from your throat as you whimpered, "That might just kill me, actually."
And yet that gleam in your eyes was nothing short of shameless. You reveled in the idea even as your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, sheath clenching around his cock and your heart beginning to race in that beautiful chest. So greedy, his pet.
Roathe let out a bark of a laugh, managing to pull himself upright with you still in his arms. His cock remained right where it was, keeping the mess from spilling out as you clung to him with your legs and arms around his body. Not that it was needed--the Devil could carry you easily, his hands perfectly cupping your backside as he left the desk in scattered disarray, the books and papers still strewn about the floor. He didn't spare so much as a passing glance at the chaos, kissing a loving trail along your exposed shoulder, enjoying the warmth shared in the places your bodies remained flush and connected. It painted quite the scene for Marie and Lyon to return to, but he scarcely cared--they could use their imagination all they wanted, think whatever terrible things they liked. It wouldn't be far off, and Roathe was unashamed.
"I think I rather fancy a cuddle after all that," He murmured, light blue irises aglow in the dark as his face nuzzled against yours. "Shall we retire to bed early, my lovely little thing?"
By the gods, he could have happily spent the rest of the night inside you, simply locked together on the bed.
"How decadent," You smiled, immediately catching onto his plans with clear enthusiasm. Your glowing irises sparkled with delight, and you leaned back just enough to kiss him again, giggling at how his tail fumbled to open his bedchamber door. "I like the way you think, darling."
Roathe chuckled, finally managing to get his door open with some effort, feeling quite domestic indeed as he took those first steps inside with you in his arms.
But he certainly did not miss the sound of the portal opening in La Cathedral just before his bedchamber shut, the echoing footsteps of Lyon entering just moments after they had departed the scene. Roathe paid him no mind as he locked the door to his room with a hollow click, and carried you giggling to the bed, realizing just how close the two of you had been to getting caught by the Priest of all people. He was even more positive he heard the zealot in question remarking upon the state of his station, but then again that wasn't really on Roathe's list of priorities anymore.
He had you in his bed, warm and wanting. And at that moment, nothing mattered more than that.
~~~
Like what you see? Consider buying me coffee:
HERE HA CHA CHA
Love you guys! <3 My asks are still open, and I will write any of the hex or devil's triad!
