Azra'il - POV
The first thing I registered upon waking was not the light.
It was the scent.
Strawberry.
Strawberry, warm skin, dried sweat, and sex.
A combination that, a few weeks ago, I thought would take ages to happen. And that now, for some reason I refused to examine with any depth, had become the one thing in this universe capable of making me feel at home.
I could no longer sleep without it.
The ancient creature, the entity that has crossed more existences than there are stars in the sky, had become a hostage to the strawberry scent of a redhead.
(Pathetic, I know. And I don't give a damn.)
I opened my eyes and saw my room.
Last night, we decided to sleep in my room. The night before had been hers. Tonight, it would probably be hers again, because Erza's mattress was absurdly softer than mine, but my room has the best soundproofing in Fairy Hills.
And considering the volume of the sounds that Erza and I made last night, it was a matter of social survival.
[Good morning, Azra'il. It is 8:47. You have slept for five hours and forty-two minutes, which is consistent with your new and self-destructive schedule of prioritising reproductive activities over sleep.]
(Good morning to you too, Eos. Always a pleasure.)
[Privacy mode activated at 22:12, deactivated at 2:34. I must note an improvement in efficiency compared to previous nights. You are becoming more… objective.]
(Or perhaps we're just getting better at it.)
[Was that a compliment to yourself?]
(It was a statement of fact, Eos. I am good at everything I do.)
[Your humility, as always, moves me deeply.]
Erza was lying on her front.
Sort of on her front, sort of on her side, with her face buried in my pillow and her red hair spread out in all directions as if a bomb had gone off in a scarlet ink factory. The thin, white, and completely insufficient sheet was wrapped around her waist in a way that left her entire back exposed.
And what a back.
My eyes travelled down slowly. Not in a hurry. With the calm of one who appreciates their own handiwork.
A dark purple mark on the curve of her neck, right where the jaw meets the ear. That was my favourite. Not because it was the prettiest, but because it was the spot that made Erza swallow air and dig her nails into any available surface, usually my back. Further down, another on her collarbone, more open, with the faint mark of my teeth at the edge. On the side of her ribs, a third, partially hidden by her arm. And more, smaller ones, scattered across her back like a map of everything we had done, descending until they disappeared beneath the sheet.
Where, I knew very well, there were more.
[Visible mark count: seven. Total estimate including covered area: twelve to thirteen. An increase of 30% from the previous night. You are on a worrying upward trajectory.]
(I prefer to call it "consistent growth".)
[You prefer to call it many things. It doesn't make any of them less absurd.]
I was no exception, by the way.
I lifted my free hand, the one that wasn't pinned beneath my lovely, heavy redhead, and examined the damage. Three red lines on my forearm, running from elbow to wrist. Scratches. Nails. Erza's.
And those were just the ones I could see.
On my back, I could feel the others. Long lines that descended from my shoulder blades, which stung whenever the sheet brushed against them. The direct result of a specific moment last night when I used my tongue in a way that made Erza forget how to form words and decide, instead, to try and claw my skin off with her hands.
I would repeat it without hesitation.
And on the side of my neck, almost on my shoulder, a mark. Dark. Unmistakable. Erza had pulled me down, without warning, in the middle of a particularly intense moment, and bitten me with a will that made me lose my rhythm for two whole seconds.
Two seconds. Me, losing my rhythm. From a bite.
(This woman is going to be the death of me.)
[Going to be? Azra'il, with all due respect, she already is.]
I turned slowly on the pillow, careful not to wake her, and just watched.
The freckles on her nose. They only showed up close. No one knew they existed. No one but me.
The eyelashes. Long, dark, resting against her cheek as if they'd been drawn there.
The mouth. Parted, relaxed. A barely perceptible thread of drool at the corner of her lip.
(Titania drooling in her sleep... I adore this woman with my entire being.)
Sleeping, she wasn't Titania. She wasn't the S-Class warrior. She wasn't the terror of the dark guilds.
Sleeping, she was just Erza. My Erza. The one who drooled on the pillow and stole the sheet and clung to me as if I were the last piece of strawberry cake in the universe.
And I, every single morning, for days now, days of mornings just like this, waking up with her scent on my skin, with numb arms and tangled legs and new marks over old ones, I felt that tightness in my chest. That daft, warm thing that, repeatedly, reduced me to nothing.
[Sentimentality at critical levels. This has become your default state upon waking.]
(I know.)
[You don't even try to deny it anymore.]
(No.)
[...Very well. I shall allow it. But only for another thirty seconds.]
Erza stirred.
A low murmur, and her body, on autopilot, moved towards me. Her hand found my waist, her warm fingers closing over my bare skin, pulling me in with a possessiveness that was purely instinctive.
Her thigh slid between mine under the sheet. Her hip slotted against mine. Her forehead pressed into my chest, and she let out a sound, low, throaty with sleep, and so satisfied that it sent a warmth descending through my stomach in a way that was definitely not appropriate for eight forty-seven in the morning.
And my tail, the blighter, curled around her thigh of its own accord.
(Traitor.)
(But fair.)
"Good morning, redhead," I whispered, my lips on the top of her head.
"…Hn-no…" Her voice was pure sleep and refusal. "…Early."
"It's almost nine o'clock."
"…Lies."
"Erza, the sun is coming through the window."
"…The sun is wrong."
I laughed against her hair. "The sun is wrong. Titania's official position?"
"Hm-hm." Her fingers on my waist tightened, pulling me closer. Her nose burrowed into the curve of my neck, right on top of the mark she herself had left, and she breathed in deeply. "Stay. Quiet. Sleep."
"I'm already awake."
"Your problem. Be quiet and pretend."
"Bossy."
"Yours."
And that one word, murmured with a sleepy, throaty voice and her eyes still closed, hit me with the force of a punch.
Yours.
Yes. Absolutely. Without the slightest shadow of a doubt.
I stayed quiet. With Erza glued to me, with her thigh between mine, with her fingers marking my waist, with the smell of strawberry and sweat and us mingled in every breath.
The scratches on my back stung faintly.
The mark on my neck throbbed.
And I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
[The thirty seconds are up. I must inform you that you two are the most nauseating thing I have ever had to process.]
(I know, Eos.)
[And that you will probably do it again tonight.]
(Probably.)
[…I'm going to pre-program privacy mode for 10 p.m. As a precaution.]
(Good idea.)
[I know. I always have good ideas. One of us has to.]
A few minutes passed. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Long enough for me to start seriously considering the possibility of simply never getting out of that bed for the rest of my existence, when Erza, the traitor, opened her mouth.
"We have a mission today."
(No.)
"With the team."
(No, no, no.)
"At the guild. Before lunch."
(I refuse.)
"Azra'il, we arranged this three days ago."
"I have no memory of arranging anything. It might have been another Azra'il. I'm quite certain there's another one of me out there somewhere."
"There isn't."
"Then it was a clone. An illusion. A collective hallucination brought on by Natsu."
"Azra'il."
"What if we just… don't go?"
Erza, with the patience of a saint, a naked, marked-up saint with completely ruined hair, but a saint nonetheless, sighed. "We promised."
"Promises are abstract, socially constructed concepts."
"Get up." Erza was already turning away from me.
"No."
In response, my arms closed around her, pulling her back against me with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. Her bare back pressed against my chest, and I buried my face in the curve of her neck, right where the darkest mark was, breathing in deeply.
Strawberry. Skin. Mine.
"Five more minutes," I murmured against her skin.
"You said 'five more minutes' twenty minutes ago."
"Then five more. After the previous five. It's simple mathematics."
Erza huffed, but she didn't move. Her body, for all her mouth's protests, was perfectly relaxed against mine. Fitted. As if it had been moulded for it.
My hand, unthinkingly, slid over her body beneath the sheet. It travelled up the side of her waist, down over her hip, and then, absent-mindedly, settled over her womb. My palm open, fingers spread against the warm, soft skin of her abdomen.
And I stopped.
Not consciously. Not by a decision. But something in me… paused. Something instinctive, ancient, that had no name and needed none.
My hand on her womb.
The heat of her skin beneath my fingers.
And for a fraction of a second, brief, silent, almost imperceptible, my thumb made a slow caress over that spot.
(…Hm.)
I shook the thought away before it could take shape. It wasn't the time.
My eyes, seeking any distraction, found the bathroom door on the other side of the room. And an idea, a brilliant, perfect, strategically impeccable idea, formed.
"Erza."
"Hm?"
"If…" I leaned in, my lips brushing her ear. "If we really have to get up…"
"We do."
"Then…" And I let the pause stretch for a second longer than necessary. "We could shower together. To save time."
Silence.
A long, heavy, loaded silence.
And then I felt it. The heat radiating from her face. Without needing to see, I knew that Erza had just reached a shade of red that rivalled her hair.
"T-To save time," she repeated, her voice strangled.
"Purely for practical and logistical reasons."
"…Practical."
"Of course. We're practical people."
Another silence. I could almost hear the gears turning in her brain. The internal battle between the responsible Erza who had a mission to complete and the Erza who, just like me, still had last night etched into every nerve ending in her body.
"…Fine." Her voice came out low. Hoarse. And the red, I was certain, had just crept down her neck. "Fine. We can… save time."
And the effect of those words on my body was immediate.
Not subtle. Not gradual. Immediate.
A dense heat descended through my stomach, concentrated, and I felt, with a clarity that was almost embarrassing, my body react. Harden. With an urgency that had nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with pure instinct.
And Erza felt it too. Because I was still glued to her back, and it was physically impossible for her not to feel it. The stiffness pressing against the small of her back, firm, insistent, and utterly without shame.
She tensed. Her entire body. Her breath hitched.
"…Azra'il."
"Hm?"
"That is—"
"A physiological, involuntary reaction to the concept of saving water resources."
"That is not—"
"It is. I'm very passionate about sustainability."
"Your tail is wagging."
Damn it. The blighter was. Wagging with an energy that could only be described as indecent.
"…So it's better we hurry up and get up," I said, with a voice that came out far huskier than I intended. "Before this time-saving measure turns into a very, very major time expenditure."
Erza let out a sigh. Long. Defeated. The sigh of a woman who knew, with absolute certainty, that there was no winning this situation.
Then, with an impressive dignity for someone completely naked and covered in love bites, she sat up on the bed. The sheet slipped from her waist, and I caught a brief, glorious glimpse of the full extent of my handiwork from the night before, before she stood up.
Without a word, she opened the wardrobe near the bed, took out two towels, and walked to the bathroom. At the door, she stopped. She looked at me over her shoulder.
Red. From her face to her chest.
But with a glint in her eyes that was anything but shy.
"Are you coming, or not?"
And she disappeared through the door.
(…This woman. This bloody, magnificent woman.)
[Before you go running after her like the starving animal that you are, may I have a word?]
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, the sheet cast aside. The cool morning air against my bare skin. And a situation between my legs that made it difficult to think with any clarity.
(Quickly, Eos.)
[You are copulating like two enthusiastic rabbits in heat almost every night, with no form of contraception, with consistent internal ejaculation, and gods only knows when her fertile period was. You are aware that, biologically, you are doing exactly what nature designed to result in… You know very well.]
The heat that had been pulsing between my legs suddenly seemed a little… less urgent. Something in the clinical tone and precise analysis of Eos made me pause.
(Yes, Eos. I am aware of the biological process of reproduction. Thank you for the lecture.)
[And you are also aware that, every single time you, with a rare and fleeting flash of common sense and responsibility, ask Erza Scarlet if she would like you to, perhaps, finish outside, she, deliberately, pulls you even closer, traps you with those steel-strong legs of hers, and looks at you with an expression that practically screams "don't you dare"?]
(Yes, Eos. I know that too.)
Because every time, every single bloody time, I asked, Erza wouldn't respond with words. She would look at me with those darkened eyes of desire and tighten herself against me as if the mere idea of distance was unacceptable.
And I, with all my vast, ancient wisdom, with all my supposed and superior rationality, with all my legendary self-control… I, simply and every time, gave in. And followed instinct.
The instinct that wasn't rational. That wasn't human. That was the lupine part, the animal part, that felt her heat all around me and wanted, needed, to mark, to claim, to fill, to breed.
[I'm just saying, Azra'il, that when you are up at three in the morning changing the nappies of a mini version of yourself with an inherited Titania temper, I don't want to hear any complaints. I warned you. Multiple times. It is logged.]
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't have an answer. But because the honest answer, at that moment, was that I, simply... didn't want to think about it. The image of little, red-haired, wolf-eared versions of myself, running around the new and very expensive guild hall, using Erza's swords as toys and setting fire to the curtains, was… too much to process.
(Just imagine, Eos. Little scarlet gremlins of chaos, running about, terrorising the entire guild. Making what few precious hairs still remain on old Makarov's head fall out from pure stress. It would be the apocalypse. An adorable apocalypse, but an apocalypse nonetheless.)
[Your thought patterns indicate a mixture of terror and a perverse amusement. Fascinating.]
And, as if to pull me from my daydreams of the cute apocalypse, Erza's voice, soft and a little impatient, called from the bathroom.
"Azra'il? The water's hot now."
I looked at the bathroom door. Then I looked down at my own predicament. Then I looked at the door again.
[…Just go, you walking, talking biological disaster. And enjoy it. Because, in a few months, perhaps a hot shower will be the only precious moment of peace you'll have.]
I got up from the bed and went.
The bathroom was already full of steam when I entered.
Erza was standing with her back to me, under the shower, and the hot water ran down her body in lines that I followed with my eyes, shamelessly. Over her shoulders, her back, the curve of her waist, the—
(Focus, Azra'il. You are here to take a shower. A hygienic and functional shower between two responsible, consenting adults.)
Who was I trying to fool?
The steam made everything softer. The edges of the bathroom, the light filtering through the small window, the outline of her body under the water. Her red hair, darkened by the water, stuck to her back, to the marks I had left the night before.
She hadn't turned around yet.
But I saw her shoulders tense slightly when she heard my footsteps on the wet floor. She knew I was there. Every inch of her knew.
I stepped into the shower behind her.
The first contact was the water. Hot, almost too hot, just the way Erza liked it. It hit my shoulders, my back, and ran down over the scratches she had left there. It stung. In a good way.
The second contact was my skin on hers.
I moved closer slowly. No rush. Letting my body find hers centimetre by centimetre. My chest against her back. My hip against hers. My lips, almost touching the curve of her ear.
Erza held her breath.
"Hi," I murmured, and my voice came out lower than I'd intended.
"…Hi." Her voice, hoarse, almost swallowed by the sound of the water.
"I came… to save time."
"I noticed." And there was, even with the nervousness, a smile in her voice. "You brought your… savings… with you."
She had felt it. Of course, she had. It was impossible not to, with my body pressed against hers, and my member, hard and insistent, pressing against the small of her back.
"That is…" I began.
"Sustainability. I know." She turned her head slightly, and I saw the corner of her smile. Small. Provocative. "You're very dedicated to the environment."
(This woman has learnt to tease me and I have created a monster.)
"Turn around," I said, my voice low. "I'm going to wash you."
Erza obeyed. Without arguing. Without protesting. And that, in itself, sent a heat through me that had nothing to do with the water.
I took the soap from the shelf. Hers, the one she always left in my bathroom now, another one of the small, silent invasions that had become part of our routine without anyone officially declaring it so. And I started with her shoulders.
Slowly.
My soaped hands slid over her wet skin with a care that contrasted violently with what these same hands had done just a few hours before. Over her shoulders, gently squeezing the tense muscles. Erza let out a low sigh, her head lolling forward a little.
"Is it sore here?" I asked, my fingers finding a knot at the base of her neck.
"A little."
"Your fault. You tense your shoulders when you—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
"—when you fight. I was going to say when you fight, Erza. What were you thinking?"
"…Nothing."
"Hm-hm."
My tail, wet and heavy, swung once behind me.
My hands moved down. Over her shoulder blades, tracing the marks with an almost reverent care, as if I were mapping each one. Along the side of her ribs, where the skin was more sensitive, and I felt, under my fingers, the slight contraction of her muscles. Down the middle of her back, my open palm spreading foam in long, slow movements.
Erza was silent. But it wasn't the tense silence from the beginning. It was different. Heavier. Warmer. The silence of someone who is holding back.
"Erza."
"Hm."
"Relax."
"I am relaxed."
"You're as stiff as a board."
"Because your hands are—" She stopped. Swallowed. "They're going down."
And they were. My hands had reached her waist, my thumbs making slow circles on the base of her spine, just above the curve where her back became something else entirely. A zone I knew well. One I had kissed, bitten, held onto for dear life the night before until she'd screamed my name.
"I am washing you," I said, with an innocence that wouldn't fool anyone. "It's a process that requires total coverage."
"Total coverage."
"It's a matter of hygiene."
"Your hands are on my arse, Azra'il."
"The arse also requires hygiene."
Erza turned her head. Just a little. Enough for me to see her over her shoulder, her eyes half-closed, her cheeks flushed, and water streaming down her face. And that look, half-censure, half something much, much darker, hit me like a lightning bolt.
"You're impossible," she said, her voice low.
"And yet you invited me into the shower."
"…I'm regretting it."
"No, you're not."
"…No. I'm not."
My hands moved up again. Over her stomach, along the side of her waist, up her arms. I was behind her, my body moulded against hers under the hot water, and every point of contact between my skin and hers was a small bonfire.
I reached for the shampoo. The strawberry one. The scent filled the steam in the bathroom, and I, internally, surrendered a little more.
"Head down," I murmured.
She lowered her head. And I began to wash her hair.
Slowly.
My fingers working their way into the red strands, massaging her scalp with firm, circular movements. The lather built between my fingers, running down the strands, and Erza, under my hands, melted.
Not in a sexual way. In a way that was, somehow, more intimate.
She let out a sound. Low, long, almost a moan, but not of pleasure. Of relief. Of comfort. Of surrender.
And my throat closed up.
Because this. This was more dangerous than any night. More intimate than any touch between sheets. I could handle the desire. The urgency, the heat, the animal instinct. I knew that. That was easy.
But this, Erza, with her eyes closed, melting under my hands as I washed her hair in a hot shower on an ordinary morning, this was destroying me in a way I had no defence against.
"Good?" I asked, my voice huskier than I wanted.
"Hm-hm…" She was no longer capable of forming words, apparently. Just sounds. Soft, contented sounds, that made my tail sway slowly in the wet air.
I let the water rinse away the foam, my fingers guiding the strands, careful not to let it get in her eyes. And when the last trace of shampoo was gone, I leaned in and placed a kiss on her exposed nape.
Light. Lingering.
Erza shuddered.
"Azra'il…" Her voice was a thread. A warning. An invitation. Both at the same time.
"Hm?"
"If you keep on like this…" She swallowed hard. "We're never going to get to the guild."
I smiled against her skin. My lips moved up the side of her neck, finding the spot just below her ear, my favourite spot, and I nuzzled there with a lightness that I knew, exactly, what it did to her. "I thought we were saving time," I murmured against her wet skin.
"Azra'il."
"Hm?"
"The mission."
(The mission.)
(Damn it. The bloody mission.)
I took a deep breath. The hot water falling over us both. Her body pressed against mine. Every inch of skin in contact. And between my legs, a situation that was very, very far from being resolved with hot water and good intentions.
But Erza was right. There was a mission. A team. A Natsu who was probably already destroying something in the guild hall, waiting for us.
(Priorities, Azra'il. Priorities… I hate priorities.)
With an effort that deserved formal recognition, a medal or something, I took a step back. A small one. Just enough to put an inch of distance between my body and hers.
One inch.
It was the most I could manage.
"Alright," I said, and my voice came out more ragged than I would have liked. "Mission. Team. Responsibilities. Let's… let's finish this shower. For real."
Erza turned around. Finally.
And her face, flushed, wet, with her dark eyes and her parted lips and the water running down her entire body, almost, almost made me send the mission, the team, Natsu, and all the guilds in Fiore to hell.
Almost.
"You're making that face," she said.
"What face?"
"The face of someone who is calculating whether it's worth being late."
"…I am not calculating anything."
"Your tail is hitting the shower wall."
I glanced back. The blighter was, in fact, thumping rhythmically against the tile like a metronome of sexual impatience.
"…It has a mind of its own."
"It has the same mind as you. It's just more honest."
I looked at her. She looked at me. The water fell between us. The steam rose.
And Erza, with a calm that I deeply envied, took the shower head from my hand.
"My turn," she said. "Turn around."
"What?"
"To wash." And there was, in that smile, something that made me obey immediately. "Turn around, Azra'il."
I turned.
And when her hands, warm, firm, soaped-up, touched my back, tracing over the scratches that she herself had made, I closed my eyes and thought, with the clarity of one who accepts their own defeat:
(We are going to be late… Spectacularly late.)
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💬 Author's Note
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I have to admit, I genuinely blushed while writing this chapter 😳😂
And it wasn't even because of the more suggestive parts. It was the intimacy between them. Sleeping wrapped around each other, Erza basically living in Azra'il's room, shampoo in the bathroom, showering together, Azra'il washing her hair… at some point I realised I wasn't writing two girlfriends anymore. I was writing two wives who simply forgot to sign the paperwork. 😭🍓
And I really want to know what you all think about this side of Azra'il, especially those of you who have read my other fanfics.
Because Azra'il is still the same grumpy, sarcastic, emotionally complicated creature who could threaten someone before breakfast. That part hasn't changed. 😂
The problem is that there is one very simple rule:
Single Azra'il: stray cat that hisses when anyone gets too close.
Azra'il genuinely in love: golden retriever.
That's it. No defence.
She can have lived over a thousand lives, fought gods, destroyed empires, and developed absurd levels of self-control… but the moment the woman she loves says, "Stay five more minutes," it's over. Tail wagging, arms around her waist, washing her hair, and quietly deciding that the scent of strawberry means home.
Erza didn't domesticate Azra'il.
She just discovered the secret button that activates golden retriever mode. 😂❤️🍓