Archive of Our Own ^beta

Damian's body is hot, his lower half practically bathing you in flames as he presses it right up against your own, pants flush with your skirt.

He's murmuring something against your cheek, lips softly grazing your skin with each word, but it's so low, so quiet, that you can barely make it out, too busy squirming away from the heat of his breath—his aching, heavy, oh-so-very-close breath.

So he speaks again, louder, "Don't run from me, Habibti—"

And you shudder, feeling electricity shoot straight down your spine as he nuzzles closer.

"—I hate when you do that."

"Dami..." You're whining, you know, completely unable to take the way he leans even further into you, the way he audibly breathes you in like you're oxygen and he's been drowning for years.

He only hums in response, moving his hands to trace the curve of your waist, slowly, reverently, with a gaze so worshipping, it sends your head spiralling and your body alight with flames that can rival hell's very own.

"How did I get so lucky?" he whispers, breathless and so, so devoted.

Then his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, and you feel that devotion in its entirety.

A shiver runs down your spine, your nails digging further into the skin of his arms; an action which causes him to release a groan so guttural, it sends vibrations through your very veins, and you shudder once more.

His grip around your waist tightens.

"The things that you do to me, Beloved."

Just those words alone are enough to flood your body with heat, breathy and soundless against your ear, but then he accompanies them with the soft, fleeting presses of his lips against your skin, and your back is arching straight off the bed before you even know it.

"I'd gift you the stars if you so asked of me," he continues in a whisper, hands moving to wind around your waist now, to feel you bare against him as he pulls you closer, your shirt bunched just under your bra. "Just say the word, ya hayati."

Then he travels down, and the press of his lips invades your stomach instead, and all you can feel is blistering warmth blooming from within.

Before it all blows away in a rush of wind.

You gasp, feeling the loss of his heat before the weight of his absence, and quickly rush to sit up, your palms pushing down on the plush sheets below.

"Damian?"

You scoot closer to the edge of the bed, peeking at those slightly dishevelled strands of his from over the sheets as he drags something out from under you.

A box.

Your lips part, brows furrowing, a whine right on the edge of your lips, one motivated by the throb in your core—

—but then he opens the lid, and the words die right there on your tongue.

You blink. Once. Then twice. Then a third time. Before, finally, moving a hand up to cup your mouth.

"Oh dami..."

Your eyes sting as you stare down into the open box below.

The glass inside winks back at you.

"You shouldn't have..."

His reply comes in the form of taking the fragile thing out, and under the light, it only looks even more beautiful.

Clear enough that you can see your own reflection within, and sculpted with enough edges that a rainbow blinks back at you—it's everything you've ever dreamed of and more.

"I had it made to your exact size," he says, slowly, worshipfully, reaching for the heel of your foot which you so readily give him. "And you don't have to worry about it disappearing after midnight. I've made sure of it."

He slips the glass onto your foot, and immediately, you feel that familiar cold again. But this time, it's a lot more welcome.

"It's stunning..." you whisper, too taken to speak any louder.

He presses a kiss to your ankle, then another against your shin, before finally pressing one against the side of your knee, and resting his cheek right there on your inner thigh.

And all of a sudden, the glass slipper is the furthest thing from your mind.

Damian doesn't say a word for a long, winding moment—just kneels there, on one knee, staring up at you with a gaze so intense, so unwavering, that it steals the very breath from your lungs.

Then his lips softly curve up, and he finally graces you with the reply you've been unknowingly waiting for:

"Only the best for my Beloved."