Ch 3.2 Fate/Charm of the Devil Fae (Patreon)

Fate/Charm of the Devil Fae

This fic is inspired by Sticky Situation by Professor Quill, In Bloom by Flight of Fancy,  and to a certain extent Benefits of Saving a Veela by WD_ONeill. Please check them out.

Story Starts

-=&<o>&=-

Ch 3.2 - Ze X and Ze Y

Disclaimer: Everyone here is at least 18 years of age. 

Apolline Delacour's hand closed around Shirou's—delicate fingers against his calloused palm—and she led him towards a tent pitched apart from the main beach.

The arrangement had been settled with surprising ease.

Apolline first. Kalina after. Fleur had stood through the entire negotiation with her arms crossed, radiating embarrassment.

Shirou, for his part, couldn't look any of them in the eye as he downed the potion Runeass has given him.

Rin had made it worse. Of course she had.

"I'd like to purchase a Wand Wizard Pensieve," she called out as Apolline began leading him away. "For documentation purposes."

He looked back and shot her a look that said not helping.

Both Delacour daughters turned matching glares on her—silver-blue eyes flashing with indignation. Gabrielle's cheeks had gone pink. Fleur's had gone white with mortification.

Rin merely leaned close to Fleur and whispered something Shirou couldn't catch. He hadn't reinforced his hearing, and now he wished he had, because Fleur's pale complexion flushed a deep rose and her glare shifted into equal parts outrage and reluctant curiosity.

The tent looked ordinary from outside—sturdy canvas, tall enough to enter without stooping, the sort of thing one might find at any upscale beach resort. Then Apolline held the flap aside, and Shirou stepped into a Parisian spa transplanted wholesale onto Mediterranean sand.

Marble fountains burbled in alcoves framed by cascading jasmine and trailing ferns. Gauze curtains in cream and gold partitioned the warm, diffused light. The air carried lavender and, underneath it, something sweeter—perhaps the Veela herself. Enchanted panels overhead held a perpetual sunset.

At the centre of the expanded space sat an enormous circular mattress draped in white silk, easily broad enough for six or seven bodies. Shirou didn't need Structural Analysis to read the history in that furniture. The silk was fresh—pristine, actually—but given that this was a private beach belonging to the Veela coven, certain assumptions seemed reasonable. This was not a bed built for pairs.

"Sit for now and try to relax," Apolline said, her accent rounding the words. She stepped away towards a sideboard near one of the fountains.

Shirou lowered himself onto the mattress, crossed his legs, and set his hands flat on his knees. Seiza would have felt more honest—more penitent, perhaps. He resisted the urge to watch her walk away.

He failed almost immediately.

The sheer wrap she wore hid nothing it pretended to conceal. Long legs, platinum hair swaying at the small of her back, hips moving without hurry because nothing about this woman hurried. She knew he was watching. She added nothing to the walk for his benefit—no glance back, no extra sway. Being watched was simply a fact of her existence, unremarkable as gravity.

She returned with two champagne flutes, a silver bucket drifting behind her on a levitation charm, wand held loosely in her other hand. She settled beside him—close, her shoulder brushing his arm—and nodded him back towards the cushioned rise that formed a sort of headboard.

"Champagne?" She offered him a flute, her smile warm and easy. "Veela vineyards. You will not find zis anywhere else in ze world."

She lifted the bottle straight from the ice and poured. No water dripped from the glass to the mattress—not even condensation from the bucket marked the pristine silk. Subtle magic, casually applied.

Shirou accepted the glass and took a sip.

"It iz good, non?"

"It's excellent," he said, and meant it.

The taste was bright and crisp, with something floral underneath that lingered on his tongue—honeysuckle, perhaps, or some flower that only grew in Veela territory.

"Zen we agree on somezing already." She touched her glass to his with a soft chime. "A good start, non?"

Silence settled between them. Shirou stared at the bubbles rising through pale gold. Beside him, Apolline drank and watched him do it, content to wait.

"You are very tense," she observed over the rim of her glass. "Zis iz supposed to be pleasant, not an ordeal."

She smiled—slow, knowing, silver-blue eyes meeting gold—and glanced down at herself.

Shirou followed her gaze without thinking.

The sheer wrap had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the upper curve of a breast that needed no support despite its generous size. Her waist tapered before flaring into hips that promised both comfort and sin. Cream-pale skin, unmarked by sun or age, stretched over a dancer's muscle rather than a fighter's. She looked perhaps twenty-five—younger than Taiga, certainly younger than any mother of adult daughters had a right to appear.

He caught himself staring and looked up—only to find Apolline's face mere inches from his own, the champagne flute raised near her lips, openly smug.

"Am I not to your liking?"

Shirou sputtered, nearly choking on his own champagne.

"No, no, no! You're very beautiful."

"Iz it because I'm old?"

"No, no!" He recognised the trap a moment too late. His mouth pulled into a pout anyway. "You're teasing me."

Apolline giggled. There was no allure-chime in the sound—just genuine amusement, and it made her human in a way the beauty hadn't.

He willed his shoulders to unknot. "I know you've already explained your arrangement. And it would be hypocritical of me to object. I'm just... hesitant. Perhaps because I don't know you."

"Ah. Japanese sensibilities, per'aps?" She reached over, and instead of the intimate touch he braced for, her fingers simply loosened his grip on the flute, one finger at a time. "Don't be zo tense. And what iz zis about being 'ypocritical?"

He looked down. His knuckles had gone white around the glass. He eased his hold, and she left her hand where it was—resting lightly over his, neither claiming nor retreating.

"Oh—" Heat crept up his neck. "I have an arrangement with my guardians and friends because of—"

He looked away, suddenly fascinated by a trailing fern in the nearest alcove.

"—because of my condition."

A delicate hand settled on his thigh, and the muscle jumped under her palm.

"Oh, iz zis related to zat aura I'm feeling?"

Shirou nodded. Lady Vivian had collected the pendant for tweaking—something about adjusting the bleed ratio during the calibration window. Runeas had insisted his aura remain unencumbered for the experiment to yield valid data.

He was still holding back. But with her thumb tracing small circles against his thigh, restraint grew harder by the second.

"So you as well are a being of lust." Her voice carried no judgement; she said it between sips of champagne, as easily as remarking on the weather. "Zen surely you understand, non? My 'usband understands what I am. What we are. Veela do not love less because we love more. Jean 'as never once doubted 'e 'as my 'eart."

She set her glass down on the floating tray and held out her palm—waiting, not reaching. An invitation rather than a demand.

"Give me your 'and."

"...What?"

"Your 'and."

He surrendered it. She turned his hand over in both of hers and traced the calluses with her thumb—slow, deliberate pressure, nothing coy in the touch. Attentive, and utterly certain of her right to explore.

"Someone who works wiz zeir 'ands," she said, pressing the ridge below his fingers. "Zis iz quite rare for wizards." Her thumb found the rough patches where hammer met skin, where metal left its marks. "Zough it might be different for magi, per'aps?"

"Mm." The sound escaped without his permission.

"Do you love your guardians and your friends?"

The question caught him off guard. He looked back to find Apolline watching him, all the play gone from her face.

"What?"

"Do you love zem?"

Heat flooded his face. "Y-yes! With all my heart!"

"And I'm assuming zey are ze additional visitors, aside from ze ones my daughters invited, non?"

Shirou nodded, already sensing where this was going.

"Zen if zey are fine wiz your arrangement—" her thumb continued its slow circles, "—why do you doubt my arrangement wiz my 'usband?"

Silence.

Apolline's other hand rose to cup his chin, turning his face towards her. Her body pressed closer against his side, and her scent—lavender, and that sweeter note beneath—crowded out everything else.

"Shirou. I 'ave been married more zan twenty years. My marriage 'as survived two daughters, a tournament zat nearly killed my eldest, and two decades of coven gossip zat would make your ears burn."

Her thumb kept moving over his palm, slow as ever.

"Regret. Let me tell you what I regret, since you are zo concerned wiz my accounting." Her voice stayed even. Her eyes did not—old pain surfaced there, long since accepted. "I regret zat my Fleur learnt to say it will fall to me before she learnt to dance. I regret every year Jean smiled at anozer man's son and pretended I did not see 'im do it. I do not regret pleasure. I 'ave never once regretted pleasure. It iz ze only zing in zis life zat costs nozing when it iz given freely."

She released his chin but held his gaze.

"Ozer zan ze sex, you are giving me 'ope. Shirou—may I call you zat?"

He nodded, throat tight.

"You are providing me—non, not just me—you are providing us Veela 'ope."

Her silver-blue eyes searched his gold ones.

"Do you know 'ow many Veela 'ave been relegated to being just mistresses? Just sex objects? Because zey could not provide male 'eirs?" Bitterness crept into the accent. "Centuries of our kind, treated as ornaments to be enjoyed and discarded. And now—" she gestured vaguely towards the beach, towards Runeas and whatever future the crimson-haired devil represented, "—now zere iz possibility."

Then she moved.

She rose and swung her legs over him, knees bracketing his thighs. The position put her above him, platinum hair spilling forward.

Shirou looked up at her—champagne flute in one hand, wand in the other. It should have looked absurd. It didn't.

Apolline tipped the champagne back, downing the rest in one swallow. Her throat worked. A single drop escaped the corner of her mouth and ran down her chin, her throat, into the hollow between her breasts.

With a wave of her wand, both flutes drifted away to a side table. Another wave, and the wrap dissolved into golden motes of light, leaving her completely bare before him.

Full, heavy breasts that rode high all the same, tipped with dusky rose and already peaked with arousal. Hips that begged for grip marks. The junction of her thighs glistened with her own anticipation—Veela did not pretend disinterest when interest was the entire point.

Then her allure intensified.

It washed over him like stepping into a hot spring—pleasant at first, then almost scalding, heat sinking through skin and muscle to settle in his core. Every nerve ending oriented itself towards the woman straddling his lap.

His aura responded in turn.

The curse stirred, recognising kindred energy. Dark heat rose beneath his sternum, and his aura unfurled like smoke, reaching towards her fire.

Apolline's breath caught. Her head tilted back, baring her throat, and she dragged one hand from her neck downward—between her breasts, over her stomach, stopping just above where their bodies nearly touched. A full-body shiver ran through her.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, zat iz... magnifique."

She leaned forward, cupping his face in both hands. Her lips hovered a breath from his own. Silver-blue eyes, heavy-lidded with arousal, searched his face for any remaining hesitation.

"So." Her voice had dropped an octave, rough with want. "Shall we begin?"

-=&o&=-

Their lips met.

Shirou surrendered.

Apolline tasted of champagne and warmth and something floral that clung to her mouth—jasmine, perhaps, or honeysuckle crushed between teeth. Their allures pressed against each other, hers bright as summer flame, his dark as banked coals, neither yielding ground, and still the kiss stayed gentle. They broke apart, adjusted the angle, found each other again. Tongues met without hurry.

She closed the last distance between them. Her sex settled against him, slick and fevered; she had never felt her own allure turned back on her before, and the shock of it ran through her as a flush that climbed from throat to belly. Cool air moved over her bare back. She tightened her hold on him, stealing his heat.

She moaned into his mouth. When they parted, both panting, he saw her pupils blown wide, the silver-blue reduced to a thin ring around darkness.

She settled fully onto his lap. His cock stood rigid against her stomach, a thread of precum marking her skin. She wrapped her fingers around the shaft and set her thumb against the head, pressure light enough to make him twitch.

Her mouth found his ear.

"Iz zis for me?"

Her tongue followed the words. She moaned as she traced the shell of his ear, wet heat sliding along the curve, and he shivered beneath her. Her pussy dripped against the base of him, painting him slick. Her hand travelled the length of his cock in slow passes—nothing that would finish him, only enough to keep him straining into her grip.

Then she let go.

He had not noticed his eyes close. He opened them to her face, close enough that he could count her lashes, studying him as if she meant to commit every line to memory. Naked as he had been since her wrap dissolved, he felt stripped in a different way entirely.

Her palms found his shoulders. She pushed him down and back until he lay along the mattress, his body parallel to the headrest. She followed him down and stretched out on top of him, finding her place the way a cat claims a sunbeam, one finger drawing lazy circles around his areola.

"Let me. I want to savour our first time togezzer."

She shifted closer and squeezed her thighs together, trapping his cock between them. Heat. Silk-slick skin. The pulse of him caught in that narrow channel.

"After zat, I will let you ravage me any way you want. All I ask iz patience."

She started at his jaw.

Kisses, unhurried, tracing the tendon of his neck, the hollow of his throat, the line of his collarbone. Her hair spilled over his chest and dragged across his skin—cool, then warm where her breath followed. She took her time at his sternum, mouth open, breath damp against him. When she reached his nipple she closed her lips around it and sucked, then caught it between her teeth just hard enough to make his hips jerk. Her tongue soothed the sting. She gave the other the same treatment, lingering, watching his face over the plane of his chest.

"Sensitive 'ere." A smile curved her lips. "Good."

Her hands framed his ribs as she worked lower. Kisses down the centre of him, each one a pause, a deliberate mark. She nuzzled the taut skin below his navel. His cock lay against his stomach, flushed dark, the head glistening, and she ignored it a moment longer—mouthing the crease of his hip, the inside of his thigh, until his hands fisted in the sheets hard enough to make the silk protest.

She looked up once, silver-blue eyes bright with mischief, and smiled.

Then she turned her attention where he needed it.

She took him in her hand again and laid kisses down the length of him, base to tip, unhurried, as if she had nowhere else to be and nothing else to want. The other direction: the flat of her tongue from root to head, a long wet stripe that made his breath catch. She did it again. And again. Each time she reached the head she closed her mouth over it, sucked once, twirled her tongue against the slit, and released him with a soft, wet sound.

"Mmm." She licked her lips.

She settled between his thighs and took him properly.

Her lips stretched around the head. She sank, slow, and the heat of her throat closed on him in stages—first the wet silk of her mouth, then the tighter ring further down. She hummed. The vibration ran through his cock and into his spine. She drew back until only the head remained, tongue working the sensitive underside, then took him deeper than before. Her hand covered what her mouth could not. Saliva slicked him. She set a rhythm that never rushed: down, hold, up, a twist of her tongue at the top, down again.

Shirou watched. Platinum hair spread across his hips. Her cheeks hollowed with each draw. Her eyes flicked up to meet his and stayed there whilst she swallowed around him.

'Hot. She's so—'

Her throat tightened. She took him to the root and stayed, swallowing repeatedly, the muscles of her neck working against him, and the heat of it was almost too much—wet, clenched, endless. She pulled off with a gasp, a string of spit connecting her lower lip to his cock, then dove again, faster now, still thorough, still worshipping every inch as if she had been waiting years for exactly this.

"Apolline—"

She did not stop. She took him deep and held, and when he came it tore out of him in thick pulses that made his vision white at the edges. She kept her mouth sealed around the head and drank him down, throat working steadily, a small sound of satisfaction humming in her chest. She stayed until he had nothing left to give.

Then she drew back, opened her mouth, and showed him. White pooled on her tongue. She closed her lips, swallowed deliberately, and licked a last smear from the corner of her mouth.

"Delicious."

She climbed him. He was still hard—the curse did not allow otherwise—and she reached between them, set him against her entrance, and sank.

Slow.

The head parted her. She was soaked, and still the stretch pulled a long, shuddering sound from her throat. She eased down an inch, breathed, took another. Her hands braced on his chest. Her breasts hung above him, heavy, nipples drawn tight, and he watched the place where his cock disappeared into her—the gleam of her arousal on him, the way her stomach jumped when she took more.

"Putain—you fill me already and I am not even—"

She dropped the rest of the way. Her arse met his hips with a soft slap. She stayed there, impaled, inner muscles fluttering around him as she adjusted to his girth. Her head fell forward. Platinum hair curtained both their faces.

"Mon Dieu." Her voice came out strangled. "I feel like you are reaching my stomach."

She began to move.

Not a bounce. A grind. She rolled her hips in a tight circle, keeping him buried to the hilt, dragging her inner walls around his shaft. He felt every ridge of her, the clutch at the head when she tilted forward, the deeper swallow when she rocked back. Her clit rubbed against his pelvis. She gasped, then did it again, finding the angle, and her mouth fell open on a moan.

"Zere. Right zere."

She lifted.

Inch by inch she rose until only the head of him remained inside her, the air cool on the slick length she left behind, and then she took him whole again—equally slow, her thighs trembling with the control it cost her. Up. Down. Grind. Up. Down. He saw everything: the flex of her belly, the bounce of her breasts when she seated herself, the wet shine coating him, the flush spreading from her chest to her throat. Her allure poured off her in waves. His answered. The air between them felt thick enough to drown in.

She leaned down and kissed him whilst she worked, mouths open, sharing breath. Her nipples dragged across his chest. When she sat back up she took his hands and placed them on her hips, covering them with her own, teaching him the pace she wanted—no thrusting, not yet, only the slow rise and the slower fall.

"Feel 'ow I take you. All of you." Her voice had gone husky. "Do not rush me."

He did not. He lay there and watched Apolline Delacour fuck herself on him as if they had all afternoon, because they did. Sweat gathered in the hollow of her throat. A drop ran between her breasts, trailing down her stomach. She caught his wrist and brought his thumb to her clit, and he rubbed in small circles as she ground down, and her rhythm broke for a second—a hitch, a sweeter sound.

"Oui—keep zat—"

She rode him that way until her thighs shook. The circles of her hips grew messier, less controlled. She lifted and dropped with more of her weight, still slow, still deep, and her sopping pussy clenched in waves that climbed towards something inevitable. She came with her head thrown back, a broken French curse spilling from her lips, inner muscles milking him in hard pulls that made his teeth clench. He held her hips and let her ride it out, never thrusting, and when she sagged forward he was still hard inside her, still filling her, and she laughed against his mouth, breathless.

"You did not even—hah—you are still—" Another breathless laugh. "I must be losing my touch."

They held each other through the aftershocks. Her heartbeat hammered against his chest. He stayed buried. He did not soften. He thrust gently into her from below as they held each other, small movements that made her gasp and twitch.

Apolline rolled off him. The loss of her heat made him hiss. She caught his wrist and pulled him up after her, then lay back on the circular mattress and folded herself open: hands hooked behind her knees, ankles drawn back until they bracketed her ears, her dripping sex presented to him—flushed and swollen, her own slick running down to pool beneath her.

"Now." Her voice had dropped to something raw. "You 'ave been patient. Fuck me."

Something in him went taut and then let go.

He covered her.

One stroke seated him to the hilt. She cried out, high and sharp, and he did not wait. He drove into her, the new angle letting him punch against the deepest part of her with every thrust. Her folded body took it. The wet sound of their coupling filled the tent—skin meeting skin, slick flesh, the mattress giving under his knees. Her breasts jolted with each impact. Her mouth stayed open.

"Ah—ah—plus fort—"

He gave her harder. Her ankles stayed by her head, her cunt a tight, soaked sleeve he used without mercy, and she took it with sounds that climbed from moans to high, desperate squeals. Fluids splashed at the join of them, painting his hips, her arse, the silk beneath. He hooked his arms under her knees and folded her tighter and fucked her through the first orgasm of this new pace; she clenched and wailed and he did not stop, dragging her past it into oversensitivity until she was shaking her head and still saying yes.

"Ne t'arrête pas—don't you dare stop—"

He pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, and yanked her hips up. She went to her elbows, arse high, and he slammed back in from behind. Deeper. The shape of her changed around him. He gripped her waist and used her, each thrust slapping loud, her arse rippling with the impact. She looked back over her shoulder, hair a tangled wreck, expression utterly wrecked—hungry, laughing through a moan.

"Baise-moi. Like an animal. I am not glass."

He reached forward, gathered a fistful of platinum hair, and pulled. Her back arched beautifully. He fucked her on that line, cock pistoning into her, and she came again with a shriek, squirting around him in a hot splash that hit his thighs and soaked the sheets beneath them. He kept going. The mess made everything louder, wetter. She clawed at the mattress.

"Putain, putain, Shirou—"

He hauled her upright onto her knees, her back pressed to his chest, and thrust up into her whilst one hand palmed her breast and the other rubbed her clit. She reached back to clutch his hair. This angle made her legs give out; he held her up and kept driving, mouth on her neck, and she turned her face and found his mouth, kissing sloppy and desperate whilst he used her.

"Remplis-moi—fill me, I want it, I want you to ruin zis cunt—"

He laid her on her side, lifted her top leg high, and took her that way, watching himself sink in, watching her belly bulge faintly with each deep stroke. She reached down and spread herself for him so he could see. He rewarded that with harder strokes until she was sobbing through another climax, her French breaking apart into wordless noise.

He sat back on his heels, hauled her into his lap facing away, and bounced her on his cock until her head lolled against his shoulder. Then forward again: her chest pressed to the mattress, his weight on her back, prone, grinding deep whilst she made small punched-out sounds into the silk. Then he turned her onto her back once more.

Hours. They had lost the count. The light through the silk curtains had shifted from gold to amber to something deeper. The champagne sat forgotten, going flat. His body should have given out. It did not.

He knelt, lifted her, and folded her into the press she had offered at the start—knees to shoulders, ankles by her ears, her arse in his lap, almost bent in half. He held her there and fucked her to pieces.

Every stroke went to the end of her. Her mouth hung open. Drool glistened on her cheek. Her cunt was a soaked, swollen wreck that clung to him on every withdrawal and swallowed him greedily on every drive. Fluids ran in a steady drip from where they joined, pooling under her. She came and did not stop coming, one climax rolling into the next until she was shaking through them, voice gone raw and cracked.

"Oui—oui—oui—encore—I cannot—I can—don't stop—"

He buried himself and spent, flooding her, pulse after pulse, and still moved through it, mixing his release with hers, pushing it back in, fucking her full. She clenched and squealed and took it. He did not go soft. He kept the press and used her through the overstimulation until her hands scrabbled at his shoulders and she pulled him down, and the last of the violence went out of him painting her insides white.

They kissed.

Gentler now. The same sweetness as the first. Her allure had guttered to a warm glow like dying embers. His aura lay quiet for the moment, sated as it ever got. He eased her legs down carefully. She hissed at the ache, then laughed, breathless, wrecked, glowing.

Apolline groped sideways without looking, found her wand on the rumpled sheets, and flicked it. A small crystal vial drifted from a side table into her palm. She unstoppered it with her teeth, drank half, and pressed the rest to his mouth. Warmth spread through his limbs—some manner of restorative, pleasant and immediate.

She slumped beside him on the circular mattress, one leg still thrown over his, and studied the silk canopy above them as if it had personally offended her.

"I zink I 'ave forgotten 'ow to walk."

She rolled onto her side, cheek propped on her hand, and looked at him with a lazy, considering light that had nothing of the allure in it—and was somehow more dangerous for its absence.

"Perhaps I should arrange somezzing between my Fleur and you."

He stared at her.

"I zink Fleur iz not ze type who would want multiple men," Apolline continued, as if discussing dinner arrangements. "But even if ze blood iz diluted, ze hunger persists. I know zat she 'as been trying to temper ze 'unger by 'erself." A knowing look. "It does not work well."

She traced idle patterns on his chest.

"Plus, I zink 'aving you as a son-in-law would not be too bad."

Her expression shifted, sudden and theatrical—a pout that belonged on a woman half her age and somehow worked anyway.

"Zough if zat 'appens, we might not 'ave anozzer round togezzer. Zis iz quite ze conundrum."

"You're serious?" Shirou pushed himself up on one elbow. "And it wouldn't be fair—you already know about my arrangement."

"Mmm." Apolline leaned in, teeth grazing his earlobe in a playful nip.

She reached down, wrapped her fingers around him, and gave one slow tug. He thickened in her hand at once, responding to her touch despite everything they had already done. She made a small, pleased sound in her throat.

"I zink wiz zis—" another stroke, "—she will not complain if zere are ozzer women."

She leaned in and kissed him, brief and warm, tasting of champagne and satisfaction.

Then she winked, released him, and sat up, gathering her tangled platinum hair over one shoulder as if she were about to walk into a coven meeting rather than off a mattress soaked with their combined fluids.

"Until next time, Shirou." She rose on legs that wobbled only slightly, testament to her earlier claim about forgetting how to walk. "I will send in my mozzer."

-=&o&=-

End

Follow me on my other socials 

and stack additional voting 

points on the story of your 

choosing.

𝕏Twitter𝕏

🔞𝕏Twitter𝕏🔞

t Tumblr t

🤖Discord🤖

🦋BlueSky🦋