Metatron-Jeanne

Shirou stepped into the room and halted.

She stood with her back to him, framed by the golden wash of lamplight. Her silhouette was striking—twin ponytails of spun sunlight cascading down her back, and two immaculate white wings spread just enough to catch the light like polished ivory. The white-and-purple fabric of her outfit clung to her body like it had been poured onto her, soft silk riding the curve of her waist, her hips, her thighs. Holy. Dignified. Dangerous.

Metatron-Jeanne, a servant with parts of Jeanne d'arc, Beatrice and of course Metatron.

“Master.” She turned to face him, slowly, deliberately, her golden eyes locking onto his with a smoldering intensity that burned hotter than fire. Her voice was low, sultry without trying, a quiet resonance that rippled through the air like heat.

She took a single step toward him, barefoot. The movement stirred her wings slightly, feathers shifting with a faint hiss like silk against skin.

Golden eyes smoldering with desire held in a gilded cage of divine control.

“You are sinful creature, Emiya Shirou,” she murmured, stepping closer again. “Every time you look at me like that… I unravel. Slowly.”

“You even dare tempt me.” Her hand reached up, ghosting along his chest, not touching, but close enough that the heat of her skin burned through the fabric. “My body aches with near you. And your lips…” She leaned in just close enough for her breath to stir the hair at his jaw.

Her scent enveloped him—clean, bright, electric. Not perfumed, but natural, like lightning caught in flesh.

“I’m only human,” he said, voice rough.

“Yes,” she whispered. “And that’s what makes you so excruciatingly irresistible.”

One of her wings brushed against his arm—feathers whisper-soft, but the contact sent a jolt through him, like static crackling across bare nerves. His hand twitched at his side.

Shirou's eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of a bluff, but she remained unflappable, a divine statue with a heart of liquid gold.

Her eyes searched his, the gold flickering with an intensity that seemed almost... hungry. "Shirou," she breathed, closing the space between them.

He felt the warmth of her, the divine pressure of her presence, and it was intoxicating. He couldn't help but lean in, his own eyes closing as if by instinct. When their lips met, it was like a spark igniting a bonfire. A jolt of pure energy shot through him, a conflagration of sensation that left him gasping for breath. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer.

Her mouth was a revelation—softer than velvet, and just as smooth. She tasted like something untouched by human hands, something holy and forbidden, and he craved more. He felt the gentle brush of her tongue against his, tentative, testing, and his own responded eagerly. The kiss grew more passionate, more demanding.

Shirou's hand found her waist, sliding around to her back, where he could feel the warmth of her wings. He pulled her closer, his fingertips skimming the feathers. They felt unreal, impossibly soft, and she shivered at his touch, a quiet moan escaping her.

With a sudden urgency, he picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist without missing a beat, never breaking the kiss. He carried her to the bed, setting her down with surprising gentleness for someone so filled with desire.

With a grace that belied his urgency, Shirou climbed onto the bed. He gently laid her down, on her back.

The fabric of her outfit slowly disintegrated as she dematerialised it away, leaving her naked and gleaming in the soft light.

His eyes roved over her, drinking in the sight, before he flipped her over onto her hands and knees. Her wings, framing her body like a divine offering. He took a moment to appreciate the view—the curve of her spine, the roundness of her hips, the way her wings cast shadows over her pale skin.

He unzip his pants, then with a firm grip, he grabbed her ponytails, the golden strands wrapping around his fingers like fiery silk. He pulled her back gently, but with a clear sense of command, her eyes widening slightly, a thrill of anticipation flickering across her face.

Shirou's grip tightened in her ponytails as he positioned himself behind her, his arousal pressing firmly against her backside. With a low growl of need, he slammed into her, burying himself to the hilt. Metatron-Jeanne arched her back, crying out in a mix of pleasure and surprise at the sudden intrusion. Her wings fluttered involuntarily, casting a mesmerizing pattern of light and shadow across the wall.

Her inner walls clenched around him, tight as a vice, and she threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut, panting heavily. "Oh, god," she whispered, her voice strained with desire. He began to move, setting a punishing rhythm that matched the beating of his heart, his hips slapping against her with the **** of a divine hammer on an anvil.

With every thrust, she moaned louder, her body moving with him in a dance as old as time. Her wings, those magnificent wings, fluttered behind her, each beat of them echoing with the intensity of their passion.

He held her in place with a firm grip on her ponytails, using them to guide her movements, to control the rhythm of their union. The sensation was indescribable—the power and the purity of her, the way she yielded to him, the way she took him in.

Shirou felt the heat building inside him, a pressure that grew with every stroke. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, a divine fire that threatened to consume them both. He watched her in the mirror, her eyes glazed with passion, her body moving in time with his, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer.

With a guttural groan, he pulled on her ponytails, his hands tightening in her hair as he reached his peak. Metatron-Jeanne's eyes rolled back, and she shuddered, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave of divine ecstasy. The room seemed to tremble around them as their shared climax painted the air with a silent symphony of passion.

Shirou's breaths were ragged, his body slick with sweat, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He remained inside her for a moment longer, savoring the feeling of their bodies joined as one, before slowly withdrawing. He turned her over to face him, her legs trembling slightly as they parted.

Metatron-Jeanne looked up at him, her eyes half-lidded, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Master," she whispered, the word a benediction. He couldn't help but return the smile.