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[sour-cherry-wine]

So I don't think anyone checks in on my account but in case you do, I will be leaving this account forever. I'll keep this up because of the fics I've liked and reblogged but I will not be active anymore. Thank you for visiting and I hope it I wasn't to bad of a host.

[sour-cherry-wine]

⋅♡⸝ CUPID’S QUIVER.

love is blind, but it sees all. although satoru should know better, love becomes a lunacy he clings to until he can’t anymore.

🏹 f!reader ⊹ semi-curse, mythology au ⊹ angst/tragedy. semi-fluff. soft smut. strangers to lovers ⇝ lovers to exes ⊹ dc. semi-yandere!satoru; he follows reader around a lot lol ⊹ 18+ heavy making out. soft sexual language. body worship. whiny!satoru for the agenda ⊹ satoru is eros + ares, love/war god. blends aspects of cupid x psyche lore + jjk cts concept. some religious undertones? i kinda stitched different myths together like a quilt ⊹ reader is a museum curator/director ⊹ 15.5k ⊹ footnote. wow can’t believe i finished this after sitting on this idea for like half a year. we ball! ෆ header. ෆ playlist.

꒰ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ! ꒱

ACT I. UNDER THE GAZE OF LUDUS, BY SONG OF ITS LAUGHTER.

love is blind, but it sees all; love is fickle, love is knowing. it lives and dies a thrilling spectacle.

SATORU.

the delirium bred from gentleness. it inspires, emboldens, and molds the fiery depths of passion in its hands. but love is a screeching sticky thing, all madness and frenzy nonetheless, coated in complicated and bittersweet nectar that clings to whatever it dares to touch. love is satoru.

of course, satoru knows of love, embodies everything it both is and has the potential to become if made free and not contained within the divinity of his spirit. he knows that love is saccharine sweet and he knows the grip it leaves behind in flesh is bloodied, a talon embedded impossibly deep. it’s not the type of thing that breathes or expands in languid pulsations; it grasps and digs and pours, flooding you with its delusion. but a mouthpiece for mania. love is the world satoru sees through his six eyes, all contained and divided in his left eye and right — his eros, one called ardor ꒰with its three eyes: mania, pragma, and ludus ꒱, and ares ꒰with its three eyes: alecto, tisiphone, and megaera ꒱. love is the thick, enchanted fabric that serves as a holding for them both. cupid’s quiver, that’s what the other gods taunt — but still, their breaths catch in their throats if he motions to pull off the sheath, to unleash the world he sees on all of the others in quick and inescapable shots, the tips of blue and red eros mingling and devouring until the world is made hollow by an incendiary purple. of course, he stops himself and forbids such an outcome. after all, love is patient; love is kind. but of course, he rivals with the temptation of it, too. after all, love is greedy; love is evil. as long as he loves, there will always exist a degree of love that is something akin to hatred. truth be told, more than anything, satoru hates the gods and wishes he could leave them all to crumble under the weight of his influence, but he doesn’t want to be stuck with managing the chaos he would create with his otherwise innocent glances. and the old gods would surely try to punish him even more. he can’t find the adoration in dancing around destruction. there’s no delight in dysfunction. as such, he can’t bring himself to fold in a despicable and foolish fashion. instead, he both hides and dwells in a comfort zone — a place that’s more a margin between worlds, crafted just for him by kenjaku the phanes himself, a limbo of sorts he can stretch at will. he calls it his infinity, an endless space where he chooses to gaze upon both the mortal world and the divine. it keeps him out of harm’s way, keeps him from being made into a weapon, and keeps him from making grave mistakes like falling prey to the devastation of his own curses again. he’s not immune to a desire and need for love. he tries to satisfy his urges by living vicariously through others and satiates his impulses of distaste through semi-harmless trickery. sometimes, he tugs the left side of his quiver and lets out a soft call to signal his favorite eros, ardor. ꒰ when there’s no will, which of its eyes will peek falls to the whims of the eros. ꒱ “red,” he’ll breathe it quietly, eyes locked on a target. he’ll feel the pressure building in the center of his eye for only a moment before a shining strip of red gleams across the space between him and his target, his eros piercing through time and space to reach its mark. when it hits — depending on the strength of his eros and which of its eyes he wills to gaze — it gives the mark a burst of affection, a rush of hormones, a flutter in their chest that explodes into unyielding devotion, or perhaps, it merely sows the seeds for love to flourish and ferment — ardor does have a bias for yearning. other times, he calls himself distributing “fair misfortune” by finding individuals undeserving of ardor’s loving embrace and instead making them familiar with its cold shadow, his other eros, ares. “blue,” he’ll whisper as if afraid to be heard in the cube of his eternal silence. he’ll carefully lift the fabric over his right eye, the building of the same pressure but thicker, and he’ll watch his spiteful eros seethe and slice through anything to reach its mark. it offers only distaste on the tip of the tongue of your desired, a petulant weapon that embodies all of existence with the smallest degree of love. 

all that remains is anger and confusion, disgust and despair, revulsion and repulsion. neither of his eros ever misses a shot, but these are delights he’s only supposed to indulge in sparingly, and harmlessly. that is, until right now, as he stands in front of yuki the aphrodite, staring at her beautifully crude expression with disdain. he tries to process her odd request. “you want me to do what now?” satoru asks again, face bunching in perplexity. yuki sighs, evidently agitated by satoru’s response and demeanor. she’s always been a peculiar goddess to him, always adored and admired but never understood. no one could ever make sense of her motives, and for being the embodiment of beauty and pleasure, satoru has never seen her act in light of a beautiful spirit or intent. her poise gleams with a chimerical radiance but satoru knows her heart is a shadowless void. in front of him, she lies prettily across pearly marble, draped in robes threaded by the shimmer of stars the astraeus personally plucked from the cosmos for her. yuki’s light-colored hair flows in fluffy waves that sink to the floor, a perfect golden river to watch flow down. “you heard me. find the mortal girl choso dares to claim’s beauty can rival mine and shoot her with one of your little eros, make her fall in love with a pig or something — nothing cute, either, something ugly and brutish, one that smells of grime — and return to me so i can see for myself.” the aphrodite is ruled by her pride, by her demand to be revered and highly regarded, acknowledged for power with only insidiousness to show for it. satoru believes gods that practice no restraint and show no mercy exemplify the very things he detests about his precious blue eros, his ares. at least ares is contained, albeit forcibly. satoru’s eyes are glistening, crystalline prisons each of his eros lives behind. “i see you’ve lost your mind to vanity entirely.” satoru grumbles. “i won’t be doing that.” “what?” yuki sneers, nose squishing in irritation. with a sympathetic hum, satoru shakes his head. “i won’t be doing that and i’m insulted you’d think to even ask me — or rather, demand of me. i’m not one of your little things, yuki.” satoru stands upright, shoulders squared as he sees yuki clearly through the fabric covering his eyes. he’s immune to her wiles with his quiver, he’s found. but still, she makes him unbearably nervous. “satoru, do you forget who you speak to? i am beauty and pleasure embodied! you would really think to reject my request?” he looks around for a moment. “uh…yes. do you forget who you speak to? if you’re beauty and all the subsequent notions, why do you even care how a mortal girl’s prettiness measures?” “well,” she huffs, sitting upright, a perfect pout on her lips that any other man would become a pool of liquid over. “choso believes such a thing. choso.” confused, satoru just stares. “and that’s negating your divinely bestowed perfection how?” yuki’s frustration erupts and a cloudy fluff comes flying at his head. satoru doesn’t flinch and doesn’t move as the object hits the barrier of his infinity, and then the floor, in a soundless heap. “if you, a literal love god, can’t fathom why i don’t want choso’s eyes to stray from me, then you’re no god but a pitiful fool!” she wails. satoru sighs. “i have more important things to do in that realm than help you bully mortal girls at your discretion for taking one of your many lovers’ attention away from you without knowing you exist.” yuki clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. “you do nothing there worth mentioning. you merely fooled kenjaku the phanes into making you a precious domain to dwell in. you’re perfectly protected from everything while nothing is protected from you, if you don’t want them to be. don’t mock me when you’re a coward fashioned as a god.”

satoru didn’t fool kenjaku, per se, but he certainly exploited his favor by exaggerating the peril associated with his capacity, so much so that kenjaku the phanes gave him a prison realm to lock himself in or free himself from at will. he goes into it habitually with a thick will but seldom contains the will to be released. it is for his safety; it is for the safety of others. but it’s more a place he can breathe freely without the fear and disdain others regularly teem with when near him. he can feel all of it, and does. being a god does not make him indestructible to the irrational whims of emotion. in fact, satoru would argue that being a creature of love’s spectrum means he is the irrational whims of emotions. ꒰ he can never teeter too far in either direction, lest kenjaku take the privilege of his will from infinity; then, he’ll only have endless imprisonment. of course, satoru can never let the other gods know of this clause, as he’s certain they’ll betray him before geto the helios’s sun sets across the pillowy skies. ꒱ the other gods are bitter, but satoru’s unusual manifestation of his divine might is deeply concerning. ꒰ when he was born, gods gouged out their eyes to be free of his gaze, to be liberated from the understanding that whether his eros of madness or bliss would strike is unknown, but the degree of its damage is devastation and ruin. brilliance followed by a rapid decay. he only controls them with his quiver. should it be taken, it would set all of chaos free in every blink. ꒱ so, what yuki says isn’t false, but it isn’t true, either. any other time, satoru would have left the vain aphrodite unfulfilled and physically shaking with the pain of his rejection, but today, satoru’s interest is admittedly piqued.

what mortal could possibly surpass beauty and grace itself?

“i’ll go see this girl, and if she’s of threat, i’ll indulge your dreadful desires, but if she’s nothing short of a mortal girl who commits no crime against humanity nor divinity by challenging your appearance — which i’m certain of — then…i’ll simply leave you to suffer the same fate as toji the apollo for wasting my time.” her eyes go wide at the sight of his nonchalant shrug and she gasps. “you! you beast of a man! honestly! you preach and prattle about this and that only to threaten to use your eros to make my lover despise me and repel my presence after making me lovesick for them? i can be no worse than you.” “objectively false, you can. and are. but it’s irrelevant to argue.” he grouses with a deep sigh. “i regretfully ask…what do you know of her?” satoru’s sickened by both the perfection and menace in her grin, but yuki lulls her head back to bask in the warmth of geto the helios’ sun.

the first time he sees you, it feels a little jarring. guided by the hands of geto’s sun, satoru finds you quickly. his awe ricochets around his spirit, bouncy and delighted, but his gaze on you — everything about you is pristine, vivid and vibrant. it stirs something in him, makes his chest erupt with fluttering feelings and feathery tickles. for a being born of the flawed, you’re too close to perfect. you’re the furthest from aphrodite and yet, your own charms are whimsical and songlike, your aura chiming around you in a sweet symphony that falls upon his spirit and strikes him with wonder. inside of a large building where the art of painters and sculptors alike are displayed, an ode to the apollo no doubt, you wander tirelessly with a chipper smile on your face and a skip in your step. your joy never falters and neither do you. your eyes are twinkling like you woke and strung the flickers of dying stars inside them for good measure. giddy, cheeks full with elation like you’re gluttonous for it. you smile and smile, and everyone smiles with you, for you, because of you. admirably charming, hands sweep around you in a flurry while your mouth makes shapes and babbles out words he can’t make out. satoru gauges your context through rigourous observation: the motions of your arms, the twitch of your smile, the little spark of curiosity in your eyes or the determination that combusts there, too. for a blink, satoru understands yuki’s frustrations with your existence. he stands there, a dreadful stirring in his heart, emotions twisting and knotting until they squeeze tight in his gut and make his right eye thrum. all of these people get to speak to you. their ears get to taste the drizzling honey of your voice. they get to receive the unfurling tenderness in their hearts from direct eye contact with you. it makes him feel ill, disgustingly ill. right away, he hates it. he becomes the pinnacle of what it means to detest. he does understand that such feelings are unreasonable, but neither love nor war is a source of reason, only madness. so of course, in self-interest and personal eccentricities ꒰ with a pinch of spite toward yuki the aphrodite to sate the crueller parts of him ꒱, he decides to watch you, to observe you closely and with great focus. for a moment, he becomes your adoring shadow, hiding within infinity’s soundless clutch where you can’t hear or see him and he’s only able to capture faint murmurs of you. he’s grateful he can see you, that no matter where you go, he can simply follow. with his limits, of course. ꒰ he’s no sukuna the zeus and certainly no yuki the aphrodite. ꒱ satoru can still admire you like this, enamored and elusive. well, until he’s standing next to you, glancing over your shoulder to read the same words you do and imagining the embosoming sound of your voice as you read them, when you turn to face him. you jolt and jump, a feathery yelp, then immediately look up at him with a soft smile, blinking to reclaim the loss in your composure. your lips are misshapen by the fright you swallow down as you take notice of him. “oh goodness! you scared me. d-do you need help with anything?” satoru stands there, dazed and stupefied for a few reasons: 

one. you can see him, which means he let his will to keep his infinity standing tall waver. two. your voice is drenched in silky allure, a touch of benevolence over a thick layer of compassion. three. you’re utterly bewitching, a spellbinding loveliness that lingers. four. he can sense your saffron ghost seeping into spaces it shouldn’t; he knows the scent of you will be what haunts him.

a small gasp, your words threaded by worry as you cautiously place a hand on his arm. “sir, do you have a visual impairment? did you lose your aid?” “no, no,” satoru breathes. “i see quite clearly. my eyes…they’re…sensitive.” you blink, riddled with confusion. “sensitive?” taking in his words, you hurriedly take a step back from him, a flimsy infinity of your own to keep him out. he’s no sukuna, so he’ll respect the obvious boundary you’re placing. “then…” your voice trails, quieter now, a lullaby’s endeavor, cautious but calculating as you observe him. “is there something you’re looking for?” and satoru isn’t entirely certain why, but he feels bashful, embarrassed, and ashamed. the tint of roseate spills across his face, filling the point of his nose and cheeks. then, in an instant, he’s gone from your vision, safely tucked behind a thick wall of space and time, watching your eyes go round with astonishment, paralyzed and unable to speak. he watches you blink at the spot he stood for a few minutes before you slowly reach your hand out and run it through the space. satoru, amused but still flustered, can’t fight the breathy chuckle that tumbles out of him. he watches the alarm contort your face, finding your deep state of confusion adorable by every perceivable measure. a beauty that rivals that of the aphrodite? no, one that surpasses it.

ACT II. A GARDEN IN WHICH ONLY MANIA BLOOMS.

love is blind but it sees all; love is protection, love is obsession. it snarls as much as it sings. it bares teeth to smile and to bite down.

love is blind, but it sees all; love is an open palm, love is a tight fist. it clings to only notions that mean it will persist.

SATORU.

satoru feels that keeping his closeness is inevitable. his presence becomes more like a game he plays with you. you wander around and he matches your every step, a lingering thing that follows you pathetically and waits for you to look for him, waits for your inquisitive, questioning eyes to sweep the span of the room in knowing suspicion, remembering him and his interesting marvels. his disappearing acts. aside from that, he can feel the way your heart yearns for an explanation, as desire is a direct line to he and the favor of ardor. his heart thumps each time he’s flooded with the feeling of your meek tug on him. the warmth of you is always everywhere then, filling and shaping around his bones. he likes to appear before you when he catches you ruminating about him, when you wrestle with your notions in your lonesome as if to breed the thought that he was summoned by you rather than obsessively taking every step with you. he only does it when you’re at this place where your labor is kindness and assistance, watching you relentlessly. only when you’re here, only when you come to this altar where toji the apollo himself would weep at the worship mortals have made of his artistic devotions. only when you willfully become part of this public spectacle. it feels fair and respectfully intrusive.

since we’re all here to observe you.

that’s his discipline with himself, how he stops his heart from rotting from the pleasures of luxuriating in the sight of you, how he stops ardor or ares from making a mess of his divinity entirely, both monsters but harmless so long as he maintains his sanity. a smirk as his infinity dissolves. “are you thinking about me again?” satoru never tires of the way you squeak when he casually unveils himself. only fondness ferments in his chest when your eyes widen and your hands fly over your mouth to conceal the sound of sharp surprise. you always stare at him in awe for a moment. “you,” you murmur, your hand pointing right at him. satoru sighs with a smile. “me,” he watches you go through the motions of disbelief — slapping your own face and pinching your cheeks to test the limits of your dreams. “why do you keep doing this?” you inquire in distress, brows furrowed as you clutch your head in your hands. “are you a ghost?” satoru can’t fight the way his lips curl into a smile as he cracks a heart-shimmering laugh. “you think i’m an apparition?” “i don’t know what i think!” you whisper harshly, eyes pointing around the perimeter as you fear being heard talking to yourself. again. “okay? but there’s no way you’re real. i’m losing it.” “real or false, you worry about the wrong things, i fear.” he informs you as he rests in a seat. “i keep telling you exactly who i am.” you give him a hard look, one that he adores as much as the smile you reserve for your patrons, and you snort. “as if i believe you’re the love god, cupid.” “cupid is such a weak-willed name you mortals have plagued me with. even the other gods spite me over it. it’s nowhere near as bolstering as satoru the eros, love and war’s divine archer.” he announces himself in a wistful voice that makes the corner of your mouth subtly twitch. your face painted in feigned surprise, you ask, “you? a divine archer?” “yes, me. a divine archer. is that amusing?” his head leans to the side as he notes your biting smile. “no, no,” you shake your head. “it’s just…you don’t seem like the kind with good aim? you know, perpetual blindfold and all.” satoru huffs a laugh. “looks are as deceiving as love and war.” “hm…” you look him over critically, a finger resting against your chin before you motion at his body. “if you’re cupid and an archer, where’s your bow? and your arrows? wings? why aren’t you more cherub-like?” satoru’s lips curl and curve in disgust of your notion. “cherub-like? i’d rather die. i don’t need your useless, manmade tools. my eyes are my bow; the eyes of my eyes are my arrows. this perpetual blindfold is a quiver that holds them, lest i douse the world in the devoted delusions of love in its totality and leave it bleeding out war, an endless wound that cannot dissolve until nothing is left. you would never want to see my wings. it would mean the aforementioned.” baffled and mortified, that’s how his tactless remarks leave you. you awkwardly squeak and clamp your lips shut tight, looking down as your eyes squint in confusion. “i…forget i asked.” you jostle your head as if to shake away the memory of his admission. “even if you actually are cupid, your true title’s too long. carving it in stone and etching it in gold would’ve been a big hassle for such a morbid freak.” satoru’s eyes narrow, masked by his quiver. “are you mocking me, pretty thing?” “considering i think i’ve lost my mind, i’m mocking myself.” you grumble and grip your head. “how do i make you go away? how do i get you out of my mind?” he hums, a finger tapping on his chin before he shrugs and chirps, “you don’t.” you pause, cocking your head to the side. “what do you mean?”

“i mean…” he stands and stretches to his full height. “i’ve taken an interest in you, and i don’t see myself growing apathetic anytime soon. the scandal of it all is thrilling enough; everyone in the olympus murmurs about the mortal girl that supposedly rivals even aphrodite’s beauty, but only myself and two others have actually seen you. i can’t say i’ve had my fill of being greedy with you.” for a moment you’re quiet, staring at him as you take in his words. then, you clutch your gut as you begin bellowing. you laugh so loudly it startles him. it sends him into the center of a blossoming, though, an abrupt descent. the sound of it makes his heart burst with a fondness so sweet, his head feels airy and light. if you could see his eyes, you would witness the moment he falls into a pool of ensnared devotion and drowns. instead, you hear him huff as his palms curl into tender fists. “now i know you’re lying.” you say through giggles. “is this an elaborate pick-up scheme? me, a rival of aphrodite’s beauty? who says that?” even his irritation is polluted by admiration and passion. “it’s only the truth. you caught the eye of choso the aether. that’s one of the gods the aphrodite enjoys tinkering with so it’s left her feeling embarrassed and looked down on. she wants me to have a look at you…and humble you.” “h-humble me?” you sputter nervously, every spark of humor dying on your breath. it doesn’t take an oracle to determine the conclusion you arrive at. satoru shakes his head, stepping closer out of instinct. of course, you aren’t aware of how grossly comfortable he’s become ingulding in your proximity. he rests a palm on your head, the weight of it making you groan. “your pretty head is full of useless worries. i’ll never harm you in any way.” it’s the first time satoru truly touches you. everything sings; everything shines. all of it shimmers. your brows bunch and your nose wrinkles, an adorable habit he stores away. “then…are you really just here to watch me?” “eh, no,” he shakes his head, grinning. “i’m intended to make you fall in love with something as hideous and unsightly as yuki’s bruised perception wishes you were, but i’ve decided i won’t indulge her antics of vanity this time.” he pats your head and withdraws, afraid to take too much too soon, afraid for his already consuming desire to become so willfully edacious. you give him a pointed look but your eyes never leave him. “but you’ll indulge yourself?” satoru grins and gives a simple response, one he stuffs to its brim with rhapsody and playfulness as it slips from his lips. “without hesitation. i didn’t find you first but i’ll be the one to keep you.” “who knew a love god would be so shameless.” his response is a recital, an avowal memorized in its every angle by his tongue, without falter, something embedded he exhumes just to dedicate to you. large hands cradle your face, his voice a poem unraveling, “love is blind but it sees all; love is pride, love is humility. it stands, stretched to the full height of its glory, and it kneels, sinking into the depths of its reverence.” satoru watches your moony expression form and his lips curve. “you don’t even know me.” you murmur, wispy and uncertain but still coated in captivation. quipped from a clever god, “then tell me what you want me to know. i’ll master you — mind, body, and spirit. whatever you wish.” you stare, concern filling your every breath, tainting every second you spend peering into him. blinking, you watch him before your eyes flicker down. “this…this isn’t real. it can’t be.” “so you circle back to doubt?” satoru snickers, pulling away from you as he observes you with a cocked head. “have i truly not convinced you of my existence? surely you don’t believe if i were an apparition that you, in all your naivety and mortality, would even have the means to perceive me.” your face drops, possibly insulted by truth. “are you calling me weak and stupid?”

“weak? yes. although, you really can’t help it. you mortals are born a frail people. stupid? i wouldn’t assign such an attribute to you, no.” you huff, indignant, and look off to the side. “whatever you’re implying, i resent it.” “you’re merely human. you have shortcomings you can’t help and sight in which you lack. not to ring the horn of hubris, but should you not show gratitude to a god that chooses you to gaze upon him?” you stare at him blankly before asking — no, sneering, “should i have to show gratitude for being followed home and watched?” a foolish grin. “i’ve never followed you home. rest assured, i keep a tight grip on my own vices. i try to behave from time to time.” “is that so?” you grumble, disbelieving. “it is so.” satoru sighs, his tone resolute and carved out of his disgust. “i’m a god of love, not of perversities. i’m no sukuna the zeus. i would rather you think me an apparition, a falsehood, than be thrown into a cast of similarities with him.” there’s traces of a laugh bubbling up, but you cough it away, much to satoru’s amusement. “is…zeus as awful as the myths say?” “it depends on what they say, but he’s likely worse.” satoru grouses in disdain. sukuna the zeus is not one with an ounce of good or mercy in his heart. born a monster of a god with a taste for man, sukuna has shown he only wishes to watch all the realms move to the tune of his malevolent volatility. you take a breath and plop down to rest in your chair at the small personal table. “i can’t believe this is my life. sitting in my office talking to a love god about the sincere realities of mythology and deities.” he hums, perching himself on the corner of the table. “does this not make you blessed?” “being followed around sounds closer to a curse.” he lies, because love is honest but love is deceiving. “i have important duties to tend to, i’ll have you know. i don’t waste all my spare time observing your precious whims.” it’s a blatant, seething lie, a vibrant and colorful one he’ll parade as the truth to preserve his pride. he does waste all his spare time observing your every whim. he’s honest in his commutes, not ever following you home outside the walls of this dimly-lit den. although, the desire to eats away at him. ares howls frequently in the night. there’s force in the pull your passing thoughts have on him, but he can never tell you how you leave indents in his spirit whenever you think of him, whenever you ruminate on your musings of his eyes, your irrepressible thirst to see them and name their pigment, when you’re lost in your wonderings of him, when you yearn for his peculiar presence. all of it makes him putty. all of it squeezes and stretches him. all of it changes his shape. “w-well, if you’re going to keep this up, i obviously can’t stop you. i ask that you maintain respectful boundaries, including not appearing so abruptly before me.” satoru merely smiles down at you —smitten— absolutely adoring you in every way. “i will…abide by whatever words you wish to use as chains to keep me here.” emboldened by your charm and indulging a bit too much in his own ardor’s blissful blood, satoru grabs your hands, cradles them in his own as he peers into your glittering eyes. it’s then that he notices the way you look back at him as if you can see right through every barrier he’s made, every one that was forced on him, every one he hid behind. right to the core of him. it feels like although he controls the war brewing in his irises by tucking his weapons behind a sheath, he doesn’t have to hide. not from you. he conceals his eyes but you look at him as if they gaze bare. satoru brings your soft fingers to his lips, supple flesh tingling against your hands with the soothing vibrations of the cosmos. “i will…” he breathes. “…adore you, if you allow me. protect you with my life. make your heart as immortal as mine in the way i only speak eternal devotion over you.”

enchanted, your lips part and he feels the way yearning passes through first in a soft pant. he feels you pulling on him, tugging on his heartstrings. making his eros tremble. ardor’s will to pledge fealty to the flutter of your lashes as you wake; ares’ promise to ravage all that oppose or threaten you. instead of accepting his declaration, you ask, “w-what’s so special about me? what do you do that’s so uninteresting that you would…adore me, of all things. of all people.” what does he do in the time he’s away? a sleepless god, he waits until you leave for rest to find other things to do. he goes where love calls him, where it pulls him closer and begs for his embrace. “i love, of course. i do my best to keep war from erupting as a result of it by helping others love in doses. i watch, mostly. sometimes i play.” you ask, with an airy tone of confusion, “play?” he nods. “as i’m a war god, i have to release my inevitable frustrations somewhere. gently, of course. i wouldn’t want to leave the world in ruin…again.” satoru chuckles, soft lips leaving feathery kisses all along your fingers. one. two. three blinks. a frantic whisper. “leave…the world in ruin? again?” suddenly, you pull your hands from his grasp and he lets them slip through. he isn’t surprised by your reaction. in retrospect, perhaps he should have eased you into that fact. you seem to be in disbelief over his identity already. “well, yes. there was a time when i was a young god that traipsed the heavens and below causing all the trouble i could with my eros. i’ve matured so don’t concern yourself with my past.” it’s then that the door swings open to your office. as fast as they push through, satoru’s infinite prison is up and so is he. the sudden streams of voices become muffled, dull and blurry. he watches you, a look of deep contempt taking his expression as you keep glancing right where he stands — when you could see him before these new mortals came to interrupt — before they bulldozed through to steal your eyes and attention away from him again. gritted teeth and a clenched fist, this is how he’s left. ares simmers at the slight of it all, the derogative undertones in satoru not having you to himself when he wants and having to accept such a condition without qualms. satoru adores you, thinks the words you speak make you shine brighter than geto’s sun. he thinks the way you smile would make yuki the aphrodite vengeful. but he hates being at the mercy of you and your fragille, mortal dealings. he wants you back right now. ardor soothes him, reminds him of his commandments while he waits and watches you tensely. like a mantra, he hears it over and over until his breathing steadies.

love is blind but it sees all; love is tender smiles and loosened flesh, love is temperance and tolerance. it is the willingness we make labors of.

it doesn’t take much time before satoru becomes visibly perturbed by the constant intrusions and obligations that stand in the way of the words he wants to hear flutter from your lips, velvet petals of sweet sentiment falling softly over him. instead, his efforts are often interrupted, often put on hold or silenced to tend to the incompetence of your underlings. it’s becoming tiresome; he makes no move to hide his grievance. he tells himself to breathe. he can feel something monstrous and thick filling his gut. a sludge of an emotion, weighing on all of him, stickiness slinking up the cavity of his torso, caching all of him. it takes every modicum of his will not to be petulant and do the same with you, pull you into the walls of his infinity, an extension of the lover’s prison, so only he has the privilege of gazing over the object of his affection and obsession. you — the one who inspires the poetry in his blood to boil. ares hums within him, makes his right eye feel heavy, delighted by the envious rush and what it makes satoru envision.

she’ll never have the time i deserve with her, that belongs to me. it would be an easy problem to solve. she’ll hate me of my own accord.

of course, ardor reminds him of love’s addictive embrace, to loosen his grip to maintain his strong footing. acts of war are easy, but acts of love feel better. he prefers it. he prefers you. to all others. he knows what it means to have you and the sacrifice that comes with keeping you. a pretty and sparkling treasure, laden with novelty for him to marvel at and little mechanisms that make him feel content. together. he takes a deep breath, and finds himself unclenching his hands as he sits, stretching his fingers to loosen the tension. satoru closes his eyes; he meditates on ardor’s fervent whispers which usually he subdues to know mental clarity and peace.

love is patient; love is kind. love holds the weight of its temptations.

in contrast, ares seethes.

love is imposing; love is momentum. love holds the weight of its triumphance. it never cowers in the face of restraint.

satoru sighs and drowns out their never-ending bickering.

satoru watches how time trudges on, and stretches itself thin between the two of you. he remains ardent and attached, endlessly and proudly devoted to you. the sticky feeling comes back one late afternoon when satoru dutifully follows you into the elevator, unseen and unheard. as he does each day to bid you a silent goodbye, squeezing out every second of your presence he can. all things follow their natural rhythm — until, the presence of another lingers for no reason. he smiles too endearingly at you, and touches your shoulder too casually. satoru can feel it rolling off this man, obviously an underling, but has no boundaries in how he approaches you. clearly above him in every facet, satoru’s distaste and resentment bubble to life, face scrunching up in disgust. the man reeks of it, his fondness for you. his longing. in his infinity, he dwells in swelling silence, his insides in tightly-wound knots. satoru’s chest rises and falls — his stiffened shoulders, too. ares bursts to life when he sneers, angry eyes zoned in on the wretched man.

the audacity to desire her so openly while being so weak and undeserving.

for a moment, satoru’s fingers twitch. he shouldn’t do it. he told himself that he wouldn’t with you, never with you. and yet, satoru can’t help the way he reaches up and pinches the top half of his quiver, the barrier that holds in the rapture his gaze would cause to dawn on all that exists. he does his best to keep the effects small, hardly noticeable but effective. peeling down the cover of his quiver, calling on ares eye of megaera, his eros of disgust, satoru watches a blue stripe swipe across the air, penetrate through all it must, and catch you on the left side of your neck. you don’t wince, but when it hits you, your eyes blink rapidly, as if just given some injection that you feel shooting into your veins. as you stand before him, satoru watches with satisfaction as your eyes — once alight with delight and trading even the faintest drop of desire — go dark and dull. your facial expression falls, your smile fading and emptiness taking its place. a grin spreads across his face, pleased now. he isn’t sure what you say but he watches the man’s eyes widen slightly before his brows crinkle in confusion and you offer him a professional salutation, your body language straight and alert, then you walk right around the underling, continuing on with a slight roll of your shoulders, shaking off ares’ excess, he’s sure.

what is one more secret?

and yes, satoru will tuck it away with him, another truth he hides under the pink of his tongue with glee.

love is honest, love is true; love has no need to tremble behind the cowardice of manipulation.

and for a moment, satoru does feel guilty. but when you exit the building, he waits for a moment and appears right next to you, his infinity down. he doesn’t usually try to pass the boundaries but as you walk away, his feet continue to follow, as if their departure is beyond his will. “if you’re thinking of following me home, don’t.” you grumble sharply, picking up the speed in your steps. “the nerve,” satoru’s head tilts to the side in wonder. 

are you aware?

“i��ll stay here, if you wish.” satoru says, stopping just at the edge of the property. “i’ll be here when you return tomorrow.” when you hear his voice, you pause and turn to face him. you seem shocked to see him, perhaps regarding his presence as the underling he handcrafted your fresh disgust toward. you blink, the edge on your voice dissipating as you reply. “i…i didn’t think i’d see you again today.” satoru takes a careful step forward. “i didn’t know you wished to. i only planned to watch you leave, but you seemed particularly…upset.” for a moment, you just stand there. satoru takes your contemplation and tilts his head back, basking in the warmth of the helios’ vibrant sun and grins to himself, feeling his insides ablaze with his admittedly orchestrated glory. he can feel you tugging on his heartstrings, of course he can. especially when it’s all for him. “don’t want me too much or i might start getting the wrong idea, pretty thing.” bashful, you shy away, tilting your face with the softest sigh. he doesn’t mean to make you nervous but he’s had enough of playing coy and never fully defining the lines of which your boundaries are drawn or willing to stretch. cautiously, his hands clutch your shoulders, nearly breathless from the warmth in his belly, nearly dizzy from feeling himself grant your desires and resolve your yearning. you want him to touch you; you want daring fingers to ghost along your skin. but his touches now are more innocent in fashion, fond at best. “tell me what you want, pretty.” he murmurs, his hidden eyes gazing over the features of your face, a thick thumb brushing over your plump lip. “i’ve chosen to adore you, so naturally i’ll give you anything of which you desire and derive pleasure.” you don’t notice when his infinity reaches out to hold you, to cradle your frame. you don’t notice that the sounds of the world around you muffle and go numb, sucked into his embrace that stretched on through eternity. soft and feathery, your response flutters, “you can walk home with me, but i…i won’t let you inside.” ardor’s spirit blazes within him — emboldened and vivacious, ready to relish in new proximity. a chuckle rumbles in his chest; a sly grin spreads across his lips. “any time spent in the presence of my beloved is time i deeply cherish.” you’re flustered — hot face and wet lips, side-swiped eyes and a wary glance. but still, you walk alongside him, snug in his infinity, step by step.

ACT III. THE DILIGENCE OF PRAGMA’S EMBRACE.

love is blind, but it sees all; love is expansive, love is all-consuming. it takes even the shape of nothingness, clings to its empty form, and stretches it further.

love is blind, but it sees all; love is faith, love is lingering. it would wait an eternity at an entrance it knows with unearned certainty will open.

SATORU.

time flows on, and satoru weaves himself around adoration with ease, your name a flowering breath on his lips whenever the time permits. you entertain his senseless notions. you wait for him, more voracious and fervid as days move along, as if it’s all you ever have to do. your melodic laughter travels down the beautiful marble-plated halls, the waves of its sound etched into the ridges of intricate designs that decorate the ceiling and line the floors. he tunes his infinity to your perception, stretching it around the whole of you, making it wider to mold around the specificities of your shape, around the breathiness of your voice. an endless indention in himself just for you. all so the symphonic outburst of your elation is only his to hear, his joy to cultivate and claim. all naturally, too. he thinks he adores that most about you. loving you is a natural reaction to mingling with your existence. the fondness and affection that seeps out of you when he lets himself freely feel your call remains untouched by his divine eyes. he keeps them securely imprisoned behind his quiver. he swears he’ll never let them touch you again since his last provocation. he doesn’t need to anymore. he has so much of your attention that he no longer reasons the necessities of envy, jealousy, or spite of all things. but still, indulgent as ever, he’ll always take as much of you as you’re willing to give. gluttony is as fair as war in love, to him. “are you nearly ready to go?” satoru grumbles, watching as you make furious clacking noises at your desk. “all this dreadful noise. what are you doing?” you snort. “i’m typing. i’m a museum director. i both receive and deliver emails.” “your typing is tedious and the sound is awful. does it not annoy you in the slightest?” shrugging, your eyes never leave your screen. “it’s just what i’m used to. you should be used to the sound by now, considering you never go away while i’m working.” “false,” he protests with a pout. “i make myself scarce for your little…conclaves.” your typing pauses and your eyes dart up to stare at him for a moment. “my meetings are fundamental to my position here which, again, is funda—” “fundamental to your livelihood…yes, yes, i know. we all know as you only force this mantra on us every chance that presents itself. you’re worse than ardor. are you not tired?” “of you? sometimes. of my job? yes.” a short response as your typing resumes, tormenting him with enforced patience. he shifts, sitting up in the tufted chair he always drags next to you and sinks down into to sulk about waiting for your attention. “do you prefer me over this place?” is all satoru hears in your sometimes and inquires about. “what do you like most about me?” you laugh. “like about you? nothing at all.”

there’s a quiver in your words; you lie. of course you do, love is pride, after all.

satoru takes your hand, ever brave, ever dauntless. he brings your curved knuckles to his lips. any other time you would shake off his affectionate pestering, but your desire sings as you feel his lips graze over the ridges and dips of your fingers. “well, my most beloved, i like everything about you.” your body shifts and your head snaps in his direction, eyes lingering on him, curious and probing. “is that so?” a terse nod. “it is so. i adore you. i love you. i’ll linger here for as long as you do.” today, he hears something new. it’s something small and playful, uttered under a meek tone and a thick blanket of apprehension, but he hears it ring true above it all — the love. “you did swear to protect me, after all.” satoru smiles, strengthened by all the ways in which you make his heart weak. “of course, i’ll commit to my devotions.” wispily. fluttering. adoringly you sigh, “as you should.” ardor and ares both coat his tone. “for you, i’ll do anything.”

these days satoru walks you home; these days satoru slips inside quietly after you, your hand laced obligingly in his — tugging and pulling, all pining and impatience. closer. you always want him closer. his hands are always greedy and grabby, taking what he wants in the name of pleasure, but they become gluttonous monsters when the door closes. your hips are taut to his as he presses you to the wall, your cheek cold against the dull-toned paint and drywall, his warm tongue licking stripes from your collarbone up to your ear. his pants huff into your ears, steamy and thick; your wet whimpers graze against the wall, all of it enticing him, making him grip you even harder — one hand with fingers digging into your hips, one gripping your jaw to prep your lips for an engrossing kiss. it’s not enough but he can’t wait on enough. satoru tugs you along to your bedroom, his muscles flexing and twitching with need. it’s taking everything not to spread you wide on the hallway floor. once your bed is in sight, you’re pushed onto your back, your hands gripping the fabrics of his finely stitched robes to pull him down with you. the thickness of satoru’s knee is a median between your legs to keep them pried apart while his large body hovers. one arm above your head, the other gripping your hand and knotting your fingers in his.

“do you know what you’ve done to me?” he breathes shakily, lips still pillowing over yours as he leans his forehead against your own. “do you know how hard it was to resist you today?” “no, i don’t. tell me.” playful words woven between passionate kisses. his lips latch to your neck, grunting as he loses his silent battle with his urge to bite and pinch your skin. “near impossible. you mortals are different. everything clings to you so perfectly. and all day. all day. all i could think of was getting my hands on you, caressing your curves, kissing every inch of you.” satoru wants to love you like this — obsessively, indulgent to the point of painful, unbridled with need forged from greed. he laps at your neck, impish whines elicited from you with every motion. “you controlled yourself well. good boy.” amusement and arousal blend together on your tongue; he wants to know the taste of it. “don’t patronize me like an animal.” satoru grits, untangling your hands to hike up the fabric of your skirt and part your thighs. “i’m a god, not your plaything, not your little pet.” wit unrelenting, he can hear the smirk on your lips. “well…you do follow me around like a lost puppy.” “if i went anywhere else, my love would surely have a fit.” he muses, nipping at your neck with playful force, making you yelp underneath him. lips trail down with ease and your fingers slide into thick, pearly tufts. “this is true. maybe i should get you a leash.” “hush,” he growls, biting you in spite. you tug his hair, pulling the god by his nape, granting you a lewd sound, a mewl so slick and pathetic it wets the air. his mouth collides with yours in a sloppy kiss, tongues lapping over the other, a whimpering mess as he tears away at the intricately woven robes that always drown him. it reveals all of him to you: every curve of his build, the long and toned limbs, broad-shouldered and big, every inch of thickness in his muscles, the glaze of lust that glistens in the way all of him flexes with every staggered breath. you get all of him. leaking length and all. the fabric of your skirt bundled up the top of your thighs, your legs parted before him — his hands can’t help but wander in curiosity and delight. ardor compels him to hold you close, to keep your skin flush against his, a warmth he can sigh into. ares compels him to grab and grip and claw the pleasure right out of your body to claim for himself, doomed to the brutality and ferocity of need.

“i don’t mean to be impatient, but i don’t want to wait anymore. i can’t.” he rasps and whines. “i can’t wait. i need to feel you around me.”

that’s as much forewarning as he can give before he yanks down your panties and pushes his way between slick folds, a relieved moan as he buries himself inside and grips your thigh for steadiness, releasing it once he establishes a slow but thorough rhythm. each time his thrusts carry him back into you, your moans fill the air and your hands travel needily down his back. “my love,” he breathes shakily. satoru nuzzles his face into your neck, panting heavily as he moves his hips slowly, enjoying the tepid feeling of your walls and the pleasure of tight embrace. he bites down, needy teeth seeking grounding, and grunts from the feeling of unyielding bliss blossoming in his gut. a soft mewl, tender and hesitant. “s-satoru,” “perfect.” he sighs, his hips melting into yours. “let me hear you.” and you do. only a language of urgency spoken between your bodies, the bed a culture of devotion and cacoethes. your hands, ever-enthused maunderers, travel through ivory tussocks and tug, oh so innocently, on the knot of fabric tied around the middle of his head.

he stiffens. his movements still but he breathes heavily. “don’t.” he moves his palm from grasping and clutching the meat of your thigh, now reaching to wrangle in the explorations of one of your trespassing hands. he locks his fingers around yours, hips rocking while he brings them to his lips, kitten licks accompanied by a chorus of both your whines. “what? you never remove it. i want to see your eyes. you’re my lover.” your voice is enchanted by love and inspired. in love with him. truly and genuinely in love. he can feel it fluxing and flowing throughout him, starting from his sternum, lotus-like and flowering, each time he pushes in, feeling your yearning explode inside him while you pulse around him. the taste of adoration is sweet when he kisses you, too. “i know.” a tender mumble. “but my eyes are unlike yours. i can stay by your side for all of time. i can make it so eternity never separates us, but you can never look into my eyes, okay?” your fingers squeeze his tight, but your voice is soft and shaky, trembling as you take his slow grinding. “is this…a god’s problem?” satoru’s kisses are erratic and consuming—mixtures of plump pecks, a lapping tongue, and gentle tugs on your lips. the only constant is the ferocity of his panting: in your mouth, on your skin, in the dips and crevices of flesh he finds. he nods as he keens and whispers, a twinge in his heart, “this god’s curse.” “okay.” your free hand still clutching his hair, you grip and tug until he lifts his head to face you, all to leave a gentle kiss on his lips. “i love you. as long as i can have you by my side, i don’t have to see anything you don’t want me to see. i’ll be curious, but i won’t peek.” there’s a swelling in his chest that makes him think he may just burst, a rupture of exaltation and honor. full and clinging to new feelings of closeness. satoru chuckles and pecks your lips again and again, more pressure applied with each kiss to ensure his devotions are sealed by another. “are you becoming sweet for me?” “i’d rather die.” the sneer in your voice becomes a sigh sung to the tune of ecstasy. a giddy smile. another nip at your bruising flesh, a rush of love in the quickening pace of his hips.  “you know…i’ll never let that happen.”

he feels it first in the dead of night, sukuna the zeus and his incessantly demanding calls, but he doesn’t leave right away. he can’t. you’re wrapped around him, limbs entangled with his as usual. you’re resting peacefully. your heart is calm. he can’t ruin that. he won’t. your arms are locked around his frame, clutching him with all the strength you can. your breathing is steady and relaxed, head tucked under his chin. you’ve been sleeping more, sleeping better, since he started staying. you’re more refreshed upon waking. your smile, already knee-weakening and dazzling in its composite to satoru, is even more brilliant, more authentic. and truthfully, he isn’t ready to leave your grasp. your hands are the only things that know how to hold him well. they’re calling and calling, reaching and reaching — all the gods. he can feel the irritation of their desire to see him unfurling throughout his body, tainting the time he wants to spend being foolishly in love with you, and he subdues it. he’s not hiding out so much as he’s settling in and making a home. infinity is only fair if it includes you, too; reality is only full if it includes him. satoru spends a lot of time finding a fair balance between both. sometimes he gets to hold you in the comfort of your room, his infinity a blanket over you both, spending the night staring into an ether and relishing in the pinnacle of safety he feels while you sleep. ardor fills him with hymns of new avowals, each like a little burst of accomplished joy, in marvel at its new, unique discoveries.

love is security. love is sanctuary. love is an idle season. love is stillness. love is ease. love is rest. love is staying even longer. love is waiting for tomorrow. love is hold me. love is let me.

when your eyes flutter awake, the sorrow cascades and drenches him. it’s harder for him to leave when you’re so committed to doing the things he adores, such as gracing the dawn of day with your waking breath and sleepy eyes, your languid movements, the way you tangle yourself more intricately with him. “pretty thing,” he dotes fondly. satoru leaves a soft kiss on your forehead first. he drinks up your sigh, gentle and drowsy, then presses his next kiss to the tip of your nose. your morning eyes peer; he kisses both cheeks in tender succession. you hum happily. “g’morning.” “mine,” hushed and sweet as he finally kisses your lips, lingering. “a g’morning indeed.” you pout and narrow your eyes. “are you making fun of me? i’ll kick you out.” “i would never.” he mumbles in amusement. “i have to leave regardless. so take my love while you have the chance. don’t waste time being bratty about it.” he says it casually, the privilege of an immortal god’s tongue at the prospect of time passing. but you freeze and stare with suddenly widened eyes. “lea…ving?” you murmur, head tilted as if confused by the word, as if averse to the feeling of it on your tongue. you sit up abruptly, looking at him in shock. “are you leaving me?” satoru could have cried from the fear in your voice. the slight quiver, the heightened pitch, and all the anguish swimming around your eyes in anticipation. they glisten and all of him crumbles to dust. “not forever,” he assures you and rises to embrace you. “i’ll be back, but i do have to go and it might be for a while.” “what? satoru, what are you talking about? you never said anything about leaving.” your voice is pained and ringing with betrayal. “so you’re just leaving?” he sighs deeply, keeping you up against his chest. “i’ve been bothered for weeks now by other gods and now the zeus is involved. i can’t exactly ignore him despite wanting to.” “you said you would stay by my side.” when satoru hears you sniffle, he tries to make sense of the shame he feels unravelling in his gut. he tries to understand how this might feel for you, insecurely attached to his presence but loving him this much despite it only to be told at random you’re being left for an unforeseeable amount of time. he finds himself pleading because right now it feels like love is humility and love is kneeling. “please,” he murmurs. “i’ll be back. no matter what, i’ll be back. don’t be angry with me. i love you so much. please.” somehow, it only makes the soft crying become longer and louder. “i’m not crying because i’m angry at you! i’m crying because i wasn’t expecting it and i’ll miss you.” it takes him one hour to tell you he’ll miss you, too, without words and emotion betraying him. it takes two for him to be willing to peel himself away from you long enough to say goodbye. he wonders if he’ll recover from the feeling of you yearning for his return before he even fully departs.

ACT IV. BITE MARKS IN THE SHAPE OF MAGAERA’S DISGUST.

love is blind but it sees all; love is clarity, love is contradiction. it blurs the lines of lunacy and devoutness with intent — lucid and deliberate — all to live there.

YOU.

from the dawn of the week, everything is unusual. first, satoru is called away to the olympus out of the blue and can’t fully disclose why. now gone for the third day with no contact, your anxiety is heightened and lengthened, wondering if it was all an elaborate dream bred of illness. then, your work days are full of random hiccups and hang-ups. all the odds are seemingly against you. the only thing championing this experience is your ability to long for him. now, as you arrive home, you’re met with the most peculiar sight. a tall, paler woman, sparkling with beauty in the glimmer of the sun, with long and flowing locks of gold that reach the ground; the tresses gleam, too. she stands as still as a statue and as beautiful as any artwork, her every feature chiselled to perfection. as you walk up to your door, her eyes catch you and a slow smile stretches across supple lips.

captivating but daunting.

you notice her clothing, light and twisted white fabrics, the familiar and cosmic-looking twinkles woven into the seams. you’re instantly reminded of those intricate twists you watch satoru perform dutifully. you wonder, for a moment, if this is someone satoru knows — a goddess, perhaps. “uh…hello,” you chirp sweetly, smiling just as prettily. you watch the woman’s face go blank in an instant. all expression vanishes, her star-like eyes flittering with something you can’t quite name. awkwardly, your gaze darts before looking at her once more. “are you looking for someone?” for a moment, she merely observes you with a blank expression. but then, a soft tenderness tugs at her features, tugs at your heart to bear witness, and she smiles. “you must be the mortal thing that’s kept him hidden all this time.” her voice is a song, sweet and melodic. so soothing you miss the way she sharply eyes you up and down, sneering. “this is all?” she sounds confused in her asking, quiet for a moment, and then holding her curved waist tightly while her laughter becomes a symphony in the air around you. your heart dives into your gut, enamored by her presence and natural grace. “here i was thinking his extended absence was a witness of my disgrace but they were all useless worries. of course! i knew they would be. they must! yuki the aphrodite, the divine vessel of beauty and desire, could never truly be bested by the blemishes of mortality’s weakness to time.” you don’t know it right then, but the day you meet this goddess, yuki the aphrodite, the divine vessel of beauty and desire, your life is doomed to descend into a flurry of utter chaos. “i—sorry, who are you?” you ask, trying to shake away the foginess of your mental state. “are you…is it satoru you’re looking for?” she sighs, mumbling to herself. “i suppose i shouldn’t waste the efforts of my venture.” “what was that?” you ask, struggling to make sense of her words. your thoughts are muddled by her pristine presence. “no,” she finally replies, roseate eyes twinkling and capturing all your wonder. “i’m here for you, mortal girl. i have something of great importance to discuss. take me in and prepare your offerings for me.”

you don’t believe her; you trust him — you don’t want to believe her; you want to trust him. doubt creeps in slowly in the dead quiet of the night, a languid steep when you’re sleeping and you can’t go with him, when you realize you can never go with him. 

'mortals don’t set foot in the divine realm the same way the living don’t set foot in the underworld.'

he’s vague in the details of his disclosure. before, satoru used to be so honest, he became tactless and blunt. now, he’s perceivably more calculated. you notice. it riddles you. why the abrupt movements and obvious secrecy if he isn’t lying to you about it all, about why he showed up in front of you, why he courted you, who he was supposedly answering to? in your frantic mind, you continue to hear yuki the aphrodite’s song of a voice. 

'it’s the weight of his consequences; he’s cursed to unending solitude.' 'gods don’t love mortals; we use them for fodder.'

satoru says he loves all but he’s never been in love, that he’s always been alone until you, that he’d been certain his immortal life would be doomed to that notion perpetually, but claiming you and making you the center of his devotions made a new god of him.

'he lies. he kills. he unleashed war on all the world in a blink for sport shortly after being born. he’s no man. he’s a monster that’s supposed to be imprisoned to loneliness. of course, he would not tell the mortal he manipulates he’ll squash them in his palm to sate the old gods and lift his curse.'

you remember what he said near the beginning of this unorthodox love: well, as i’m a war god, i have to release my inevitable frustrations somewhere. gently, of course. i wouldn’t want to leave the world in ruin…again.

your lips purse together. you want so badly to trust him, to be in his corner without hesitation, but aphrodite pointed out inconsistencies you now question and they can’t all be a result of coincidence.

'his eyes hold the truth, all of it; it is why he wills your ignorance.' 'satoru can’t be trusted, but he’ll know i plan to turn him in to the zeus if i attempt to get closer.'

he made you swear that you would never remove his quiver, never look into his eyes but the why of his boundary confuses and frightens you. if he only plans to use your love for him to sacrifice you to the old gods in exchange for true freedom from his infinity, you can’t stay here in a doomed paradise with him, biding your time in feigned bliss and counting down your days. if satoru is deceiving you, using you to hide from the zeus and plot the initiations of war, then continuing to love him is a willful act of brutality against man. but if the aphrodite is lying to you, deceiving you, then whatever makes satoru fear your gazes meeting will come true. such odds are poor but you’ve made your choice. the sacrifice for solving must be the comfort of ignorance.

'use this, if you wish to see the truth of him in his eyes. force sleep on him. remove his quiver. wait until he wakes. you will know then, the moment you look into his eyes, all that he’s done and will do.'

so when satoru comes home from whatever god-bearing duties of the zeus he claims, you decide to brew him tea. it takes you a long time to let him go when he first arrives home, a long time to relinquish your hold on unblemished intimacy, but he doesn’t mind and even welcomes it. you do your best to disregard the ardent tone in his greetings, in his soft laments of yearning and claims of the weight of your absence being heavy in his chest. you do your best to ignore the way he tugs your hand, how he wraps his arms around your waist, how he clings close to you. it almost makes you hesitant to lead him to your dining table. almost. he sighs upon sitting, stress heavy in his voice. guilt screams within you. you shouldn’t steep his tea with the scentless liquid, but curiosity drags delicate fingers over the open vial and tips it over the rim of a glass, listening to the soft pour of your coming betrayal. with a loving kiss to the head, you offer him the wretched tea, and he drinks it without thought — gripping his cup with trusting fingers — sealing your fate and his. “it’s good.” he hums. comfortable. safe. unsuspecting. “thank you, my love.” unable to stay and watch the next few minutes unfurl, you spare a soft smile and soundless nod before retreating into your shared bedroom, waiting on bated breath until you hear the abrupt thump of a body slumping onto the table, the shattering sound of a glass breaking as it falls to its death, the patter of laced brew pouring what’s left ot itself from the surface of the table onto tiled floor. it’s ironic that your next step is merely to wait but your impatience is what makes you cling to such drastic methods. pupils blown from aphrodite’s influence, heart shaking in fear as it anticipates the coming consequences of your doubt in him, you return to the table. he’s out cold, a sight you’ve never seen. although aphrodite assures you he’ll feel nothing during his sleeping state, you still unknot the tie of his quiver with careful fingers. the texture is soft on the surface but stiff in structure. you clutch the enchanted fabric in trembling fingers. you notice the bundle of snowy lashes that line the seam of his eyes.

like angel wings.

you always imagined they’d be beautiful. now you sit in front of him, diligent and dutiful, muttering useless apologies to the air he can’t hear, cursing yourself for your weak will. but you wait, eyes wide and alert, prepared to peer. you swallow down the thrill of your curiosity’s coming satiation, the joy of knowing you’ll know the sight of your lover in full. you remind yourself that you’re undeserving of deriving pleasure from this. this is truth you choose to take with no remorse for the destruction of his established limits.

it’s only because i love him; it’s only because i don’t want to die.

SATORU.

satoru wakes in a groggy stupor. when his eyes slowly open, confusion befalls him. has he slept? the first thing he notices is how bright the light pouring in through the window is, how it makes his eyes ache. the next thing he sees is you…staring at him with wide eyes, freshly-blown pupils and parted lips. a thickened black fabric is held tightly in clenched fists. it takes him too long to realize it’s his quiver. the fear that stirs in his chest is immediate as he realizes your awe is from the sight of his eyes. he clasps them shut tight, but deep down he knows it’s for nought. dreamily, you sigh his name. “s-satoru,” “NO!” his hands reach out in front of him wildly, until he feels you, until he snatches his quiver from you with frantic, terrified breaths. “what have you done?!” he doesn’t mean to shout out at you, doesn’t mean for his initial reaction to be rage and fear alone. he stands to his feet, panting wildly as his fingers fumble to retie the knot. fear eats him alive where he stands. agony in full force can take the strength from a god’s knees. he stumbles clumsily until his back hits the wall with force. his head hangs while cold thoughts blow into his mind with brute force, a blizzard of sorrow and sorry and spurn and spite. you speak but you tremble. it seems your mistake dawns on you, lays thick on your brittle voice. nearly a whisper, but still holding all your achings for penance, your yearning for atonement. “satoru…i’m…i’m sorry.” he’s sure your regret must be sour the way your face scrunches; vinegary. bitter. hard to taste but impossible to avoid.

treason tastes the same. satoru’s bleeding heart spirals. he laments in anguish, “why? you betray me? me? what have i done to make you want to be rid of me?” you carve a hole out of his chest. you don’t know it but you’ll leave with it, likely die with it clutched in mad hands. so this is what it means to be truly abandoned, to be loved and willingly left. none of it makes sense to him, how you've changed your mind and turned your back on your own vows to him. you said as long as he would stay by your side, you wouldn't peek. a dark thing lurches in his gut; heartache grips him and makes him feel sick. but love still wails and sings and bellows with jubilance at the sight of you. it overwhelms him. it plucks the bones out of his ribs, one by one. "you said you loved me. you swore you wouldn't look." perplexed and disbelieving. "why...would you? do you not —"

do you not want to love me anymore? is that why you want me to leave?

unable to move, unwilling to even speak it, the dark thing rolls over in his body. he bites his lip to stop the way it shakes, but he feels warm liquid start to gather. “rid of you? no, satoru. never.” a desperate cry. “then why?!” “i just…i just wanted to know the truth about you. aphrodite said…” his breath hitches when yuki’s honorific comes softly spilling from your lips. immediately, his lips flatten into a thin line. ares swells, a vengeful beast drawing life from the strength of its loathing. “the aphrodite was here?” his blank tone followed by your careful nod. “and she spoke to you?”

satoru watches as your body goes shy; you hold your own fingers and look at your feet in shame.  when you start to speak, your voice is timid. “yes…she…told me about your past. that you plan to…to sacrifice me to the old gods. she said…if i looked into your eyes…i would see it all…and know the truth.”

an abysmal sigh. robbed of the mundanity he’s grown accustomed to and normalcy he adores, all because of the aphrodite. aphrodite and likely the zeus, too. satoru realizes he's been bested, that this is his punishment for experiencing joy without their consent. after he's so capable of taking everything away, what does he deserve aside nothing? they use his own eros against him. the lover he so desperately desires will grow to look upon him with disgust and seething hatred. just as he did to the apollo, just as he'd done to realms above and below. alone. because he himself is love but he doesn't deserve it. crestfallen, he croaks, “did you find what you were looking for?” “no…” you whisper it regretfully as you fall prey to weakness and sink into your chair, shrouded in defeat. “there was nothing. it was for nothing. i’m such an idiot. i was…i should have trusted you. i’m sorry.”

you don’t know yuki. you couldn’t have. i’m a fool, too. loving so freely. tying my hands in devotion. making you a target to them.

his heavy feet drag across the floor until he stands in front of you, a mountain made of his woes with isolation at its peak. and satoru, poor satoru, drowning in dolor and resentment and love, falls to his knees and wails. “satoru, please. i’m sorry, love. i didn’t…i shouldn’t have been…” tears sputter out of your eyes uselessly. “i was fooled…” the truth comes out, sniveling and whimpering. “we won’t last much longer.” he cries quietly, teeming and oozing morose notions. sunk to his knees, he lays his head on your lap, eyes safely guarded again. satoru surrenders to this new, crippling grief he finds. his limbs wobble from the weakness. even his arms shake with the weight of his sobs. “what do you mean, my love? i’m right here. i’m fine. nothing happened when i saw your eyes.” he notes the wispiness in your voice, the almost dreamlike murmur when you mention the sight of his eyes. your dagger of betrayal shoves in deeper. “they were beautiful. so…blue. like the sky. like the sea. like love as it wades.”

like love as it weeps?

your words, dazed and dulcet, are so far away as you speak them. your rakes through his hair, once soothing, now cease as you fall into silence. a moment passes. your loving sigh fills the air. “like angel wings,” you murmur. satoru’s eyes squeeze shut, fat tears spilling from the sides. within him, both his eros grieve. they sing with remorse, apologetic for what they’ve done, for your misfortunate fate they didn’t mean to seal.

ACT V. ALECTO THE UNENDING, ETERNITY'S TORTURE.

love is blind, but it sees all; love is forgiveness, love is resentment. it lingers in fragility and cradles its weaknesses, drenching them in immunity.

love is blind, but it sees all; love is languid, love is impetuous. it exists as an avalanche — slow and foreboding, and as a volcano — abrupt and erupting.

SATORU. day one.

the morning after betrayal finally comes. he spends the whole night in obsessive cycles of thought about how this will end, how he can stop it once it begins, how he can forgive you for the heartache you’ll leave him to cradle, how to love you as he’s always done, how to find gratitude somewhere in the trauma, how to spend the last of his time with you in bliss. you sleep the night away, calm, curled up to his body, because he’s angry but at least he’s home. time drags him through its thick currents of night and he ruminates on his losses while he wades. when you wake, the first thing satoru does is smush your cheeks between his palms and carefully examine your eyes for any sign of distress, any evidence of deterioration. “what are you doing?” you ask softly, careful not to show him your frustration. “i have to go to work.”

nothing. not a trace. maybe there wasn’t enough time. maybe it trickles. maybe the sight of their eyes won’t touch you, after all.

satoru huffs defiantly, letting go of your face. “i’m coming with you.” “don’t you always?” a soft giggle. your warm smile. ardor surges throughout him, an ichor-warming excavation to remind him he knows you. he loves you. he doesn’t have to fear you. quietly, satoru clings to the delusions of his hope that maybe…maybe. but…he doesn’t dare speak them aloud. the gods are always listening somehow. 

day two.

no changes in your eyes. no slight detuning of your laughter. no crooked, misplaced smiles. nothing. you kiss him with the same tender lips; you hold his hand just as tightly. nothing changes as you both fall back into the comforts of your habitual movements. satoru keeps his sorrow in a crevice within himself and you…now free of aphrodite’s wicked touch, he supposes…have seemingly forgotten any of it ever occurred. or perhaps, the feigning is how you hold your grief, too. the one thing that does change is the extension of his infinity. he keeps it stretched to hold you at all times, especially as you walk around so freely. you talk to him as you always have on your way to your work and home. he notices you always meander around most in the daylight. you love spending time in the sun. he listens to the bright bumble of your words; his head tilts up towards the sky, stone-faced. geto’s sun has always had its eyes on you, hasn’t it?

geto the helios, even you betray me? my oldest friend.

nothing changes in you, but his heart knows more grief than it can take. ardor closes its eyes in rest, unable to endure the daily exertion of mourning. but ares is fueled by its need for retribution.

day three.

when you leave for work that morning, nothing changes. he just can’t be by your side. you sometimes have tiresome, elongated meetings that carry on, weaving in and out of an entire day. as much as satoru loves to linger, the waiting while watching them relish in your attention instead of him maddens him. it’s best if he stays home where your scent douses everything and he knows for certain you’ll return to him with all of your adoration just for him. each day begins the same: you wake up, he cradles your cheeks, he observes your eyes for even the slightest hint of dilation, he kisses your forehead, he murmurs his devotions over you — much closer to wrapping someone in prayer, and finally allows you to fully rise. you leave as you always do but satoru is admittedly uncertain of what to do with himself when matching your steps isn’t the entirety of his day. so he lies in your bed, wrapped inside a chrysalis of saffron and silk, and shrouds himself in the blissful feeling of you yearning for him the moment you leave him. it mollifies ardor for a time. but. approximately one hour passes before you come stumbling back in through the front door, kicking your shoes off at the entrance while you call for him. although confused, he still appears and greets you with an adoring smile. “returning already, pretty thing?” you nod, opening your arms to him. “mhm, i got there and…the idea of going the entire morning and afternoon without you made me want to die...so i came back home.” “how dramatic. you just couldn’t stand it, huh?” he murmurs, wrapping you in his arms, lips against your temple. “pretty thing needs her satoru. i don’t blame you. i wouldn’t want to leave me either.” of course, he jests and expects your snippy response in reply but instead, he feels your yearning for him explode in his chest. he feels the way you push closer, clutch tighter; he hears the edge of a whine in your voice as you speak. simpering, you cling to the fabric of his robes. “yes, all of that. i can’t stand the thought of being without you.” he doesn’t let you go but he stills and whispers, “my love, look at me.” the request comes soft and you do look as you’re told, abstracted eyes and a foolish smile. satoru’s palms cup your cheeks for the second time that day. he stares intently, observing the shape, noting a new wobble in the roundness, something slightly misshapen and enlarging. satoru whimpers at the sight. worry fills him as he stares and stares, praying for his discovery to come out false, just a mirage made of his anxiety. he can’t let you go when he still wants you for longer. for the second time, satoru hears you ask him, “are you leaving me?” and he still says no, but he omits the dreadful thing to protect you from fear.

 you’re leaving me.

day six.

satoru feels sickened by himself for enjoying your clinginess. his heart can’t help it, to chase even falsified bliss. to be filled with the aching of knowing you’re gone but still warm-blooded and yearning in his arms — how unfair. how cruel. he has no choice but to hold you in the arms of questions that feel more like pleas.

why can’t i have you? why can’t i keep you? you’re mine but why can’t you be mine? why can’t you stay? just a little longer.

the lunacy spreads in the dead of night; you wake up stranger than the days passed. he knows it won’t last but he relishes in it despite it. you haven’t left in days. a bed is a home you don’t abandon. you leave behind your responsibilities and he leaves the remnants of his hope. you take a seat on his lap and the only thing you move is your hips. driven to an obsessive need for pleasure. hot with it, a sheen of sweat as you dig your nails in deeper. shaking in the night and longing for him; his body, his length, his murmurs in your ear, his warm tears falling on your back. he closes his eyes, lets the pleasure he feels shamelessly consume him. you’re on your way to a steep decline. he’ll steal these intimate moments for himself. as many as he can. little somethings to remember you by. something to remind him, for a time, your mouth tasted like everything love should be. just in case when the time comes and the sight of your lips curving into disgust starts to make him forget. just in case he can’t remember what it’s like to be loved by you.

ACT VI. A SMALL CACOPHONY OF WRATH, TISIPHONE’S ORCHESTRA.

love is blind, but it sees all; love is acceptance, love is denial. it is all screeches of dissonance and a looming madness contained in a warm embrace.

love is blind, but it sees all; love is gluttonous, love is self-serving. it doesn’t savor, only swallows; it never nibbles, it always devours.

SATORU. day thirteen.

satoru won’t say it aloud, but he’s scared. of so many things. mourning and loving and being alone. his broken heart and the wrath it’ll undoubtedly unleash. ares says everything’s days are numbered if yours are. every hope he has that he may not lose you, in the end, is squandered by the rapid shift in your behavior over the last weeks. he sees it clearly, the pupils in your eyes growing larger by the day.  filling your eyes, filling your mind with delusions, filling your speech with nonsensical strings. it was a soft cling at first, tender fingertips holding lightly to the flesh, but it’s slowly becoming your nails digging into an open wound you made. you won’t let him leave your side anymore. your eyes are wild, blazing with disdain as you grip his arm. “where are you going? are you leaving me?” “my love, please,” satoru murmurs, trying to subdue your suspicions of his attempt to leave. “i’m not leaving you. i’m not.” always frantic. always afraid. satoru knows you can’t help it, knows you don’t mean to, knows he can’t stop your spirals once you’re triggered. hands up in surrender, he sits right back down in your bed and looks at you with wounded eyes you can't see, another wrench in his gut you’ll never know of. you settle into his lap, less loving and more possessive. “i wasn’t leaving. i’d never leave you.” satoru coos, his weakening attempts to make you docile, still true to his tongue. “i love you. you’re my pretty thing. i’ll never go anywhere.” your head shakes, tears pouring and lips sputtering words in a frenzy. “you can’t just get up and try to go somewhere without telling me! i don’t know what’s happening! i don’t know what’s happening and you can’t leave me! you can’t leave my side or i’ll die! if you walk away, you’ll leave me here to die and why would you leave me? you said you love me. don’t you love me, satoru?” “of course i do. i love you so much.” satoru listens to your whirlwind of teary rambles, watches your sanity dissolve. he holds you in love while you sob in confusion and the overstimulation of sensation makes you shiver. he glances over the scars littering different parts of your body, mauling yourself to be free of all the feeling that fills you at all times. all the feelings that say you’ll die if you’re not by his side. you’ll die if he doesn’t love you back. you’ll die if he leaves you. they all burst to life and leave you a wailing mess in his arms. imprisoned by every sliver of love and unable to escape its chaotic swarms. a war in your lungs. a war in your belly. a war on your flesh. all you do is scream. he doesn’t know how much longer until they tell you that you’ll die if you can’t get away from him. you’ll die if you don’t kill him first. 

day twenty-one.

a blood-curdling scream. the incessant rattle of metal chains. “EVIL ASSHOLE! I KNEW YOU’D TRY TO KILL ME! I KNEW YOU NEVER LOVED ME! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU! I HOPE YOU DIE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT I HATE YOU!” since day sixteen, the god has lost all semblance of peace. “SATORU!” shrieking and sobbing his name descending to loving pleas. “please, satoru. i love you. i won’t hurt you. satoru! SATORU! STOP IGNORING ME! SATORU, ANSWER ME. ANSWER ME. TELL ME YOU LOVE ME, SATORU! PLEASE!” ares and the strength of its rage is the only thing keeping satoru’s body standing. as time passes, ardor accepts the coming days will be your last. whenever satoru has the strength to make a decision that leaves him fractured in every way. his heart breaks. all of him weeps until what’s left of love is defeat. you’re no longer yourself. a stranger takes space in your body and all it does is scream. in satoru’s mind, you’ve already died. you’ve already left him. what he’s holding is the sight of a person he wants to see, wants to be able to remember and remind himself of in the luxury of passing glances. he thinks he didn’t love those things enough. you’re a screeching mess he keeps his infinity perpetually stretched around, whose arms he keeps chained to a wall to stop you from hurting yourself, to stop you from hurting him. he hasn’t seen you smile for some time. all you do is wail and cry and make yourself bleed. a monster made of your own temptation. he still loves you, still adores you in every way. even like this. for all of time, he will.

love is blind but it sees all; love is eternal, love is unconditional. it is the only thing that owes nothing to space or time.

but he knows this is only torture for you. satoru has three options:

one. let you kill yourself in a fit of murderous delirium — both in an effort to escape him and an inability to kill him. two. let you die trying uselessly to kill him. three. kill you himself — quickly. devoutly. with honor and in love. pour enough of how much he adores you over your bones to fill an eternity, someone worthy of ceremony.  you’re still someone who laughs and fills a room with delight.

tears stream freely underneath his quiver when he enters the room he’s now holding you prisoner in, a sad fact that makes him hate not only himself but all of them even more. when he enters, you go wild, writhing and pulling at the restraints he keeps you attached to. “LOOK AT ME, YOU ASSHOLE. LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID TO ME! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE! YOU DISGUST ME! I SHOULD HAVE NEVER TRUSTED YOU!” unable to take it anymore, unable to hear you in pain like this, hysteric and senseless, unable to endure the loss of his only home and the betrayal from all sides, he unties the knot of his quiver. he lets it fall to the ground the same way he falls to his knees, and stares at you. because love is standing but love is kneeling, too. he hears you go silent as you stare at him in his full glory, watches your body go calm as you see crystals stream down his cheeks, surely shimmering as they fall. your screaming finally ceases, replaced by awe swimming around your crying eyes. your soft smile; it must be your parting gift to him. “like angel wings,” adoration on your dying breath. “satoru,” all that’s left is your sigh faded into demise, satoru’s amethyst tears, and both ardor and ares filling his vision with a loving lilac. so lovely, so alluring and sweet, so undoubtedly yours, you don’t even feel the crack of your neck in his hands. painless. you fade with pleasure in your sights, with a moment of remembrance. you fade not knowing you’ve dissipated into nothing, not knowing you’re cradled lovingly in his arms, not knowing how he cries for you, not knowing how he hurts, not knowing the depths of his adoration for you. only satoru has to live with the sacrifices of knowing.

but he loves you, so he will live with the sacrifices while the realms live with the consequences of crossing him. any cost of loving you, he’ll gladly pay. over and over, until death manages to capture him and take him to meet the hades himself. when he finally has the strength to leave your side, ardor goes cold within him, paralyzed by grief. one eye blinks in darkness. nothing shown. nothing felt. nothing seen. but ares is alive with the light of a promise. ardor rests and ares makes satoru keep its word. thus, he finds a way to adore devastation. only when it’s dedicated to you.

he burns the quiver to dust, his first declaration of war on all, both above and below.

everything’s days are numbered if yours are.

𝜗𝜚 tags: @yunymphs. @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat. @shunsuis. @avatarofstars. @softgirlgonehaywire. @sweeteaas. @kentopedia. @angelzrulez21-blog. @slowstorms. @dollsuguru. @seeingivy. @uroldall.

© 2024 elusivemoon. all rights reserved.

[sour-cherry-wine]

thulsun 18+, 3.7k

There’s little harm in immortalising him on paper to recall in your most wistful of midsummer evenings - you haven’t seen him before, and there’s a good chance you won’t again. - astarion appears at your parlour one evening in a cloud of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk, and it becomes oh-so difficult to watch him leave. a/n: this is the first bit of a new non-tav reader piece i'm writing, so bear with me! ao3 link here. cw: Non-Tav AFAB Reader, Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation, Angst, Mentions of Prostitution, No use of y/n, Vampire Sex, Pre-Canon, Trauma, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, Strangers to Lovers, Eventual Smut

After an evening under your contemplative - yet wholly unforgiving - glare, you come to the conclusion that he is, indeed, as ridiculously beautiful as you thought from the moment he walked in.

It’s not often you pay much attention to the patrons. A sea of flaxen blonde and brunette marred by a flash of white. Pillowy coiffed curls, a playful snarl; the young thing on his arm clinging to him as if a lifeline. Gregarious yet sly. She hasn’t taken her eyes off him the entire night. 

You guess that they’ve only met for the first time this evening. There was a small stumble when they moved to sit at the booth by the window, overlooking the street. A nervous laugh on her part. The clockwork rhythm of a relationship not yet properly established in any sense. 

This wasn’t something she’d anticipated as she’d planned her day this morning, you’re pretty sure of that. Maybe waking somewhere in the Lower City - she looks fresh. Excited. Whipped something wild off her feet by this stranger but a few hours ago and now they have a room in your inn. She’s indulging in something salacious. A rendezvous.

Coffee with cream. Maybe one sugar, but her complexion suggests no more indulgences. 

In your head the picture starts to form of the market girl, not long trading. A few freckles are beginning to bloom across her nose and forehead where the sun has sat directly overhead but they’re wholly new. Nothing lingering from prior sun seasons. You imagine her little wooden perch to the side of her stall - not flowers, maybe neck scarves? Hankies? - embroidering with a little hoop as she waits for customers to approach her. Custom initials for an extra few gold. Gifts for lovers, for family. A smile so milky in its lax, it’d be at home among calves.

As he lies back on his elbows, head back, she whispers in his ear with heavy lids. 

He nods with a decadent low laugh, and she moves to sit on her haunches at his feet on the bed; legs spread under her.

Oh. 

She wants to watch him.

Maybe not embroidery, then. 

You’ve taken to the crack in your floorboards a few times before. Be it from sheer curiosity or late night lascivision, it’s rare but not unheard of. You’ve seen far, far worse in the chamber below you and tonight feels like a rare treat, a veritable feast of pretty faces and parts. 

A noble daughter, surely. She can’t have seen manual labour with hands so wholly unblemished. You remember them at the bar; how soapy smooth they seemed in contrast to the slightly battered chalice and pocket-worn gold chips. 

He is also something radiant as he rests atop the sheets. White as chalk even in candlelight and sculpted lean, a little on the lithe side but nothing to be too haughty over. As the laces of his shirt come undone, the look he gives is verging on coquettish in its little sexually frustrated furrow. A tilt of his head, eyes of red honey; the mewl of a moan as his nimble fingers toy with the loosened flaxen strings. 

The shirt comes over his head and his pale fingers splay down his chest with an achingly slow tug.

You hug the floor a little tighter. Pressure builds behind the crux of your pubic bone, the nerves warm underneath catching like a lit match, a light pulse, a tense blooming.

Fingertips dancing over collarbones blooming with bites in maroon, plum tones. Vicious little conjunctures where the teeth of unseen others have met flesh and suckled. She hasn’t seen this skin before. She’s just as entranced as you are.

A courtesan? She doesn’t seem the type you don’t think, but he certainly does. 

You don’t typically allow them on the premises, but for him you’ll turn a blind eye. There’s no way you’d know if you weren’t watching him on the verge of ecstasy yourself. 

His companion watches on with her mouth slightly agape, lifting a hand to her still-clothed tit and tweaking at her nipple in a fixated haze. You note the slight shuffle of her heel so it sits - presumably - under her cunt. The way she pushes down ever-so-slightly to gain some friction and he exhales a low groan. 

Moans airily. Shifts his hips in a wanton rut.

It’s like he’s performing. An actor with a captive audience. His hand snakes down to his breeches and works the lacing effortlessly, eyes rolling into his skull as he does so. You imagine the friction of his palm on his crotch. The relief. How he’d feel, hard to the point of spilling under your fingers and whining.

She takes off her blouse to roll her nipples. Perky, red and stiff in contrast to the pale velvet flesh, the desire palpable on her face as she watches him work himself free; your own hand working under your hips as you lie flat on your belly in order to get the best view. Lifting the waistband of your underclothes as if you’re a participant. In some ways you are - one they’re unaware of, but burning nonetheless. Glazed over. Watching as he performs for you, for her. 

As your fingers slip between the folds of your molten slit you take a moment to look over him properly. His cock now freed, pale and glazed in prespill as he jerks the shaft between his thumb and forefinger for a moment.  

Completely hairless. Elven. You’d noticed the ears earlier, of course; but the eyes were a little unusual in colour for even sun elves. 

You remember him in the low light of the booth, scintillating with a light and airy laughter befitting the season even in the wee hour. He had her completely and wholly enraptured with the way he held her in his gaze - even chiding her at one point for elbows resting on the table, as if she was trying to get even closer - pressing brief kisses to her forehead, speaking with animated gestures; recommending the finest wines and the best of the breads as if he were a regular.

He paid for nothing. With the assumption that she paid for his time you can overlook a lack of chivalry. 

As he begins to fuck his hand with a well-practised roll of his wrist, you shift to fuck yours with newly-wettened fingers sliding deep with ease.

His teeth grit in teetering lust. She’s borderline humping the heel of her foot with each jerk of her engorged nipples, and he whispers some form of salacious encouragement. You can’t discern it too clearly but it’s thoroughly naughty. She’s groaning, eyes rolling into her skull.

You don’t know if you’re pleased when she indicates she wants to ride him. 

With any other patron you’d be ready to sit back with a glass of wine and enjoy the ridiculous noises, write about it in your journal and call it a night. 

This time round it’s as if you ache to feel him too. 

He gives a low-flutter of his lashes as she spits on her hand and reaches for his shaft, wincing as if ice on a burn and keening into her touch. You watch her jerk him, peeling the skin back softly and running a painted thumb over his slit to which he makes the most angelic whimpering noise you’ve ever heard.

By the time she’s on her knees over him, sinking onto him inch-by-inch with his hand over her mouth to mask her giddy ecstasy; you’re nearing your peak. She rolls her hips once he’s buried to the hilt and his groan is sin incarnate in timbre. A quick wriggle back up the bed and she’s on his lap, him pistoning up into her with care to curl his hips as he moves. 

A part of you is taken a little aback from your peak by the realisation you’re going to have to make sure the sheets are thoroughly scrubbed tomorrow. He’s aiming to make her gush in the way he angles. 

It’s a chore you can pass off onto Miri. 

Right now you’re chasing the white heat, the fire poker; the wet lust below you absolutely lurid in sound, and in some hilarious twist of fate, you cum almost exactly as she does. You hear him calling her his pretty thing, his good girl ; begging to spill inside her as he pumps and pumps and pumps up into her sopping cunt, a sequence of leaking glub-glub-glubs, a laboured groan as he sinks deep into her. 

The noises keep you reeling for a good few seconds longer than usual. 

A sad part of yourself pictures him calling you that.

The rest of you immediately regains composure. You don’t allow yourself to regain your silent breaths, nor do you listen too closely to the string of filthy expletives tumbling from his lips as he spills into her waiting hole. 

Your footsteps above cause him to whisper at her to hush. She giggles in sheer bliss and you roll your eyes into the thick of your skull, reaching for your pail and opening the side door exclusive to your rooms to run for water.

-

You feel a sense of familiar post-orgasm clarity on returning, unwrapping the bar of soap from waxpaper stowed on a shelf above your desk; rinsing your hands, face, and cunt of all traces of lust in the lukewarm water. A fresh towel to wipe yourself dry. Soap returned to its proper place. 

You change into your bedclothes and tend the candles you’d neglected to light on finishing work for the evening, fishing for your journal amongst the tomes stacked by your bed and reaching for the half-empty bottle of Firewine on your dresser when it catches your eye.

Chalice plucked from your ramshackle bureau. You’re freshly flopped on your bed when you hear it.

A knock. 

Nobody knocks on your door. Ever.

It’s a pain in the arse to get to and there’s usually very little to be gained by doing so, except potentially a glass to the face if you’re in a particularly dour mood.

You tilt your head and listen, heartbeat thudding in your chest. Another knock. 

“I know you’re there! Hello?”

You pause for a moment. A surprised blink. You lift to your feet as if carried and unlock the door and it’s him.

He looks at you with little regard.

“We’re checking out, now.’

You tilt your head once more, puzzled.

‘Are you deaf? Hello?”

You don’t take kindly to incredulous patrons at the best of times, no matter how pretty they are. He snaps his lithe fingers in front of your face and your eyes narrow. 

Despite your own activities there’s a little part of your brain that wants to shun him like an old matron for bringing those hands anywhere near you, knowing where they’ve just been.

“Okay?” You speak slowly. He clicks his tongue.

“I’m here to return my key?” 

“Right. Did you miss the two key-boxes on your way up here, then? Too inconvenient?’

He’s stumped now. White hair glimmers in the moonlight, eyes reflecting yours.

‘Or had you simply gathered too much momentum, perchance? Didn’t want to stop in your stride?”

“I-’ You can hear the cogs in his brain turning as he pauses. 

Gods, he’s beautiful; but you can tell already from your brief exchange he’s one card short of a full deck.

“I simply wanted to thank you for your hospitality in person! Thank you.” He exaggerates the last two words of thanks in a mocking bow. 

You’re of a mind to shout for the Fist.

“In the middle of the night?”

“Well - I’ll be gone by morning.’

His eyes meet yours for the first time, properly. Glowering carnelian. Dark, thick lashes. He smells of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk and yet it works on him in a way it would no other.  

‘I’ll be gone now, actually. So yes. Now. The middle of the night.”

Your glare doesn’t shift as he places the key delicately in your open palm and lingers a moment longer than necessary. 

You hope you convey effectively just how displeased you are at the extra scrubbing you - well, Miri - will have to do in the morning. Just how irritated you are that they’ve kept you awake. 

And with that, he turns on his heel. Skips down the iron-wrought stairs in a blur and disappears back inside. 

Strange creature.

As you settle back in with your chalice, the words in your journal are an attempt to capture him whilst he’s still fresh. There’s little harm in immortalising him on paper to recall in your most wistful midsummer evenings - you haven’t seen him before, and there’s a good chance you won’t again. 

The rest of your evening passes uneventfully. No more knocks, no more banging. 

A cattish manner. That’s how you’d describe it. The speed with which his attitude toward you on the doorstep changed once you had the upper hand didn’t go unnoticed. You picture him lazing under a sunny window on some plush chaise lounge, being fed plump grapes by some wealthy patron; a thick-bristle brush on a silver platter for maintaining his whitish waves. Practically purring. 

Just under six foot. Smarmy yet charming with it. You imagine the way someone could feel special if he turned his affection to them solely, like a stray picking a favourite leg to rub on. 

The Firewine is particularly heady having had time to aerate, thick and rich as you swill it around your teeth in the stillness of the warm night. 

Beyond the rotting pane of your window lies the Chionthar. The vast horizon of little lights on the opposite bank, the occasional ship traversing calm water; a lull to sleep as you reach to close the shutters.

-

You wake with no real urgency.

Rolling your wrists in a lazy stretch, early afternoon - multiple trips down to the water pump and back up in the blazing heat to collect enough to fill your washtub. The street below is full of shouting kids skipping the hot cobble and playing with water no doubt syphoned from the inn’s own supply.

Bertrand isn’t about, which gives you precious time to bask in the glow atop your stairs without him running to replace a barrel and spotting you lazing. Your damp undergarments from last night dunked and scrubbed unceremoniously in used bathwater before being hung to dry till crisp on the railing. Toes splayed, eyes closed; the beating light and the scalding iron rods that support your back as you lie against them. A deep breath. Sun.

One of Bert’s boys is milling outside the front with a cigar no doubt stolen from his father’s bureau, a decent indication he won’t be in at all. A sigh of relief as you exhale, tipping your head in acknowledgement at his small wave before he stubs it and ambles inside.

Not that you’re not fond of the older man. 

He tends to leave you to get along with whatever you need to, charges minimal rent for your rooms and gives generous bonuses on days of cultural significance. You do reckon he’s plying you into marrying one of his many sons though, as they haven’t had much luck elsewhere.

You struggle to remember their names. B’s. Bertrand and Brenna, you think his wife is called. A gaggle of bumbling men filling their house still at their big old ages, mother dearest still making their lunches.

Whatever. 

A ‘treat’, as Miri called it the night of her trial shift. If cigars are being slighted from Bert you can maybe use it as leverage to pinch one for her.

The corrugated iron burns your ass, your bare feet. You wince into the light. It’s bliss. 

You think back to the man from last night. Bergamot and spunk. The most delicious face. The fact he was at your door. If you hadn’t just humped your own hand to completion you think you could’ve been tempted to steal him away from his patron. You probably could have paid more, despite the fact it’d have probably wiped you clean out of gold and you’re not one for hiring prostitutes regardless.

You might have, though.

You wonder if they spent the night together elsewhere. If this morning they’re rising to breakfast and fresh-squeezed apple juice; her with her coffee. If he dropped her back home after their rendezvous with a kiss to the back of her perfect hand and thanked her for her patronage. 

The quirk of your lip. A scrunch of your nose. You could do apple juice, if that’s what he wanted. 

You picture him lazing around the bar as you clean, nesting in one of the booth pews; maybe with a book. Sunlight catching all the angles of his pretty face. Throwing quips your way with a natural irreverence, catching them and tearing them to ribbons with a mouth you’ve been told is devastatingly quick under the right conditions. 

He could be the right conditions at another time. Another life perhaps. You allow yourself an overly pitiful sigh as you mourn the entirely fabricated love that will absolutely be gone by tomorrow, when he’s all but forgotten and more faces enter the fold.

Miri snaps her fingers, waving to you from the bottom of the steps with a holler ridiculously eager for this heat; and you head inside to dress for the afternoon ahead. 

Hopefully she’s not down there piddling about with the silverware again but you potentially may just be past the point of caring if she is. 

She’s nice. Homely, in a way. Sun-ruddied cheeks smattered with freckles, eyes a warm honey colour; doesn’t do your absolute head in talking about her home life. She’s from farm stock so she potentially could have been the most grating person you’ve ever met - land girls with their steady loves and fresh butter and heaving bosoms in linen dresses - but she isn’t. Her humour is nice. She’s dry. Sharp.

You’re definitely a little jealous of the farm girls too, but you won’t admit it. 

Your room feels remarkably cool now as you step through the door and from the heat. 

Shutters open, broken slat wobbling as you see the full expanse of the horizon in the new light and a knowledge in the fact it never fails to bring you joy. All those people living lives you could never comprehend. You wouldn’t want to. Little mystery people doing little mysterious things. 

By the time you head down to the bar Miri has set the floor up. You sidle up with your sweetest smile and ask her to thoroughly scrub the sheets in the room below yours - a sorry grimace conveying all she needs to know - and she slaps your arm playfully. 

She already has. Of course she has. 

Sheets hanging limp on the terrace. Not a stain to be seen and for some reason, you feel cleaner for it. 

The evening passes quickly. She and you move in sync at the bar like a well oiled machine, and by the time you’re able to take a break for some food the worst of it is over. No more rambunctious voices, no spills or impromptu ‘singing’ from anyone having imbibed too heavily. Just a quiet lull of regulars and newcomers alike enjoying the river view and relatively well priced accommodation. 

You sneak down and poke through the stores downstairs, settling on a plate of potato scones when a tap on the shoulder startles them almost straight from the dish.

One of Bert’s lot. 

You both laugh as he chides you weakly for picking at the wares. You shrug with a mouth full. Gesture as if you’re willing to spit it back onto the plate as he shakes his head with laughter.

You confer for a moment on the business between floors and sensing the moment feels jovial enough, you bring up the cigar you mean to take for Miri with an exaggerated bat of your lashes. He nods and tilts his head to the bureau.

Just as you take your leave he stops you, his own mouth full of pilfered food. You wait as he chews for a moment.

“Oh. Tell Miri we’ll take her home with the horses tonight, if she likes.’

Your brow lifts, arms folding over your chest in a mock scrutiny. He rushes to swallow. 

‘Nothing like that! Saw something in the Mouth is all. Better safe and that.”

You nod, though your scrutiny doesn’t relent. He gives you a thumbs up.

There’s surely a tactful way to learn this one’s name. It’s definitely too late to ask.

-

The evening ends and you wave Miri off with Bael - she knows him from her interview for the position here, as it turns out - as you take to wiping the tables and tapping off the kegs. From what you managed to catch of the visitor logs there’s nobody interesting in the room below yours, nor in any of the others. Business as usual.

Your elven paramour didn’t show. Of course he didn’t. 

It doesn’t stop the fact there’s a little snag in your chest where you’d hoped for a little excitement. It didn’t even have to be him, you think. Just someone new. Someone to watch with the interest of a hawk in a mouse. Someone to exchange words with that felt like a bit of a challenge.

You pluck a bottle of sweet barleywine from the stocks and write it off as smashed by some unseen patron having clambered over the bar, corking the red nectar and pouring a large glass before taking both onto the terrace. 

The same horizon view as that from your window. 

New boats, glimmering lights in different windows. Residual heat lingers in the iron of the chair and the air smells sweet. Warmth seeping from old stone.

You think of nothing. Absolutely nothing. Chest still so you can listen to the ripe sound of insects and bumbling voices from streets over. The moon is high; the stars are so very bright, and the sky is clearer than you’ve seen in a long, long while.

[sour-cherry-wine]

Astarion is a taco bell worker who has not had a single day off in 2 years because his manager can't be assed to teach anyone else how to close. He longs to one day see the sun again and be free of these twisted and evil taco nights

in  motion,  in 3D

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 7,156 content warnings: please do not have sex in parking lots !! but anyway, all characters are in university & tacobellstarion works to pay for his law books, i use a lot of pet names from both spawn & ascended astarion, but he's not a vampire in this universe so his morality is mostly in tact,  nearly 7k of pure smut other tags: alternate universe - college/university, porn what plot/porn without plot, pwp, established relationship, semi-public s.ex, b.lowjobs, riding, c.reampie, shameless smut, taco bell, gender neutral tav archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia,  @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness be added to the taglist here

summary:  Fast food jobs may as well be from Avernus itself, yet Astarion clocks in every day for a night-shift at Taco Bell in his silly little purple hat and his silly little purple uniform.

College is already hard enough. Add in a job on the side that requires you to stay up long before even the partiest of party kids have gone to sleep, and life might start to seem even bleaker. Astarion may not have gone out of state for his college adventures, but it was still hard. The expense of the university, the expense of staying on campus, and the expense of wanting to afford textbooks unfortunately resulted in this.

He takes a long, exhausted look around the cluttered Taco Bell and considers sobbing on the floor. Despite all the work put in to make the building seem pristine, the shop always seems as though it’s been through some soft of galactic turbulence by the time the night has ended. The last thing Astarion wants to see is a catty text from the day shift saying things were still dirty. He might snap his phone if he sees Enver Gortash (saved in his phone as DO NOT ANSWER!!!) texting him at a bright and early seven in the morning.

Fast food jobs may as well be from Avernus itself, yet Astarion clocks in every day for a night-shift at Taco Bell in his silly little purple hat and his silly little purple uniform. He hates it  —  He loathes it more than anything else, but it’s the only thing that keeps him from sinking further into nearing-graduation depression. This is the only way he stays sane.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and taps in his password, a cute little anniversary date, and checks his text messages before anyone can rat him out to the team manager in the back. There’s a Snapchat that he can’t check and a few text messages, and he presses on them so desperately he thinks he might be going a little insane. It’s only been a few hours and yet…

LOML: i'm coming to get u!!

Astarion smiles so wide he thinks his face might crack. It makes him giggle, swing his feet, twirl his hair around his finger. He feels very baby girl, as Karlach liked to put it. He types a quick ‘MY HERO’ before sliding his phone back in his pocket. That one text is all he needed to hold on for the last thirty minutes of work.

‘Alright!’ Wyll calls from the back. He looks up from his new shiny Apple watch. ‘Last customer is out, so you know what that means. Closing time. Let’s get this show on the road!’

Closing time is somehow the best part of Astarion’s day and the worst. The best, because he knows who will be waiting for him outside to pick him up as soon as everything is neat and tidied inside. The worst, because someone has to clean the bathrooms and he refuses to do it. There’s a bleakness, a despair to the Taco Bell bathrooms. It truly takes the world’s strongest to venture forth and clean them, and Astarion’s recently had a manicure. He scours the room critically before his sight lands on his second favorite co-worker ever!

‘Jenevelle,’ he purrs, turning to look at his younger co-worker. ‘It’s your turn to clean the bathrooms.’

‘It isn’t,’ she says snootily, pushing an Airpod into her ear to drown him out. ‘I did it yesterday. The men’s room is a crime against humanity.’

Astarion frowns. ‘I’m older. You do it. I refuse.’

'Just because you're like, seventy-something and still working at Taco Bell doesn't mean that's what the rest of us want to do,' Jenevelle says, blowing an obnoxiously large bubble with her gum. She slides off the counter and rolls her eyes. 'You're cringe.'

'Bold,' Astarion says, scandalized at only a young twenty-four years of age, 'considering that's coming from someone who put down the name Shadowheart on her application form and dresses like Olivia Rodrigo. Now, go clean the ladies' bathrooms before I feel inclined to point out you have nasolabial folds at eighteen.'

Shadowheart gasps in mock horror, putting a hand to her mouth. She rushes to get the cleaning supplies and does as she was told, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. Astarion is almost certain he’s going to wake up to a text from Gale laughing about how the story is being shared on a small indie podcast. It’s enough to send shivers down Astarion’s spine, but not enough to offer to swap places with Shadowheart. He goes back to petulantly sorting the hot sauce packets.

He pockets one mocking saying ‘I’m Your Main Squeeze!’ and shoves the containers back from where they came from. It’s easy closing, he tells himself. If closing were any easier, the morning shift wouldn’t complain so much. It’s what he has to tell himself as he wipes down the counter.

It’s hard to hold onto hope during these tough taco hours. Astarion just checked his phone, but if he were to check it again, he’s almost certain not even a minute would have passed. No matter how hard he scrubs the counter, everything smells like refried beans. His hair smells like refried beans. His shirt smells like refried beans. His skin must smell like refried beans. It’s a nightmare.

‘Dude, I cannot wait to get out of here,’ Wyll complains, coming to lean on the counter. He begins pretending to sort packets too. ‘Do you have any plans, Astarion?’

‘Ravengard,’ Astarion says patiently, ‘it is three in the morning. My plan is to sleep.’

‘Serious about that beauty sleep?’

‘Dead serious.’

Wyll hums. ‘The rest of us were going to go out for a drink. We wanted to know if you wanted to come with us. You know, to let off steam.’

Astarion considers it the same way one considers eating leftovers. He thinks about it then thinks about the sage old rule: There is nothing open after three in the morning besides jail cells and iHop. He decides against it. Doesn’t want to risk the price of bail after a night of drinking.

Besides, there’s someone coming to pick him up anyway. The thought of you crosses his mind and he can’t help but feel somewhat giddy about it. Between all the work from school and the stress of trying to make Burrito Supremes, you make going through the hardship of closing every single night worth it.

He’s supposed to be doing something, but Astarion can’t remember what it was that Wyll told him needed extra attention at the beginning of his shift or what closing a store entails anymore. He takes out his phone one more time and looks at his screen so he can memorize his screensaver which is a cute photo of you asleep in his shirt and drooling.

‘Ugh, you’re so happy it’s gross,’ Wyll says, wrinkling his nose.

‘Oh please,’ Astarion snorts. ‘As if you and Lae’zel aren’t sickening.’

If Astarion is being completely honest, almost all couples are. Somehow, the two of you don’t get to avoid that connotation. He remembers when you first started dating. You celebrated one week of dating, then two, then every month, then every other month just because it delighted you to do so. Astarion’s reputation is that he’s a prickly, unkind asshole which isn’t entirely too far from the truth, but the difference is that you are you, and you deserve all the nice things he can give.

But before anyone can complain about Astarion being sappy again, he slides his phone into his pocket and goes about his closing to-do list. He fusses over Karlach’s dishes. After working at a fast food restaurant, he’s pretty sure he’ll never eat at one again  —  but what the public doesn’t know what hurt them. They’re clean enough to anyone terribly concerned about it.

Isobel is hastily cleaning the floors. She and Aylin will never beat the grossest couple allegations, but Astarion thinks she’s the cutest thing in the world with her big eyes and fluffy eyelashes and perfectly smudged eyeliner. Once, he found Isobel and Shadowheart in the bathroom comparing shopping bags at Ulta instead of working the drive through. Astarion never told, but they owed him favors for two weeks in a row. Those were the best two weeks of his life.

Astarion does, however, fuss over the cleanliness of the lobby. The store itself feels permanently smudged in grease and smells about as nice as a locker room, but he refuses to be in the kind of establishment that refuses to clean the soda dispenser nozzles. He watches Wyll clean them then cleans them again himself.

And lastly, very lastly, Astarion gathers all the mops and brooms and rags and towels and puts them back from whence they came. Isobel finishes checking the filters to make sure they’re spotless about the same time Shadowheart comes miserably from the bathrooms with a look of utter despair on her features. He should probably feel bad, but he’s just thankful he didn’t have to do it himself. He wonders if he can somehow convince Wyll to do them tomorrow… but that’s a thought for another day, and Astarion only has one thing on his mind now that the store is closed.

You. 

Thank the gods, it’s you. You’re a blessing in disguise if you’ll ever admit it. You willingly wake up in the middle of the night to come pick up Astarion, and you’ve never complained about it despite it being well beyond your bedtime. It’s embarrassing to admit that it’s something the both of you look forward to. A little private time away from dorm roommates and their friends who all like to crowd into impossibly tiny rooms because they haven’t spent enough time with each other throughout the day somehow.

The thought of you puts a pep in Astarion’s step. He checks his phone one last time to read your latest text message and feels like his heart is about to soar out of his throat. He bounces from foot to foot impatiently while waiting at the door for Wyll to come see everyone out, but as soon as that door opens, he’s darting across the parking lot to your familiar car. He never gets in a hurry for anything, but it’s different tonight.

You watch the other couples scurry to their own vehicles for their own safety. Shadowheart rides with Karlach and they’ll hang out at Rolan and Lia’s until Viconia DeVir spam texts her enough that she comes home. Wyll races to Lae’zel’s slick sports car, and seeing them make it across the parking lot is all you really care about. You turn your devout attention back to Astarion.

One might be wondering what you’ve been up to tonight, but it’s an easy answer. You were studying for your many quizzes and tests which infuriate you to no end, because college is hard and Astarion can’t help you study. Not that he would be that helpful. Luckily, Gale and Halsin are astute professors who actually don’t mind helping students  —  and they both have a you shaped soft spot that makes it impeccably easy for you to convince them to tutor you. They helped you go over your coursework and somehow managed to play footsie with one another under the table at the same time, although Gale kept bumping into you by accident and Halsin kept laughing. Either way, you made it through two hours of intense studying in just enough time to pick up Astarion from work.

You almost wish he had helped you study instead, but… He’s smart, coy, a future lawmaker in the making, but Astarion is gorgeous. His talents are wasted on learning laws and balancing books. To say that you wouldn’t get anything done if Astarion helped you study is an understatement. One might think you innocent enough with a cute picture of you and Astarion as your lock screen, but opening up your phone shows one of your most recent endeavors. A risque photograph of Astarion’s cum on your stomach in black-and–white to make it less scandalous, of course.

He should be a model styled in the latest Gucci and coveted by all, but you’re also increasingly biased. You’re wearing a baggy band sweater and sweatpants when he comes around the corner of the restaurant, and he’s so incredibly cute in his stupid Taco Bell uniform that you can’t help but wiggle in your seat. You unlock the door as he comes bolting to the passenger side, and he climbs in and meets you halfway for a kiss.

‘You smell like tomatoes,’ you laugh.

‘Oh, I suppose I’ll walk home then,’ he snorts.

Astarion always comes home smelling of Crunchwrap Supremes and Baja Blasts. Underneath the smell of grated cheese and refried beans and offensive-to-the-nose lemon, he smells like his personalized cologne too. You sniff him unapologetically and try to not feel giddy as he giggle-snorts his way back into the passenger seat.

You watch as he flings his hat into your backseat and begins ruffling his hair back into the usual coiled, curly hairstyle he’s usually sporting. You watch, with a quiet smile, and fight the yawn that’s been plaguing you since you set out to study anatomy around midnight.

It would be downright cringe to admit you want to study his anatomy since he smells like Taco Bell, but the uniform looks so damn good on him. It’s dorky in a way that makes your heart race. When he stretches, his shirt untucks a little and a peek of his belly shines through. That makes what you’re feeling ten times worse.

Maybe it says more about you than it does Astarion, but he would be attractive even if he was wearing a paper bag. You’ve heard the way the other students gossip about him. They like his long legs or his lean neck, or his loud personality. He’s a self-proclaimed short king with a wicked smile and a dangerous sense of humor. That’s why, no matter what he’s wearing or what he’s been doing, the sight of him makes your heart seize into your throat. You want him. You want him bad enough that you glance around the parking lot to make sure everyone is gone.

‘Was work difficult tonight?’ you ask.

‘The customers,’ Astarion groans, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Why do thirty seven high schoolers come into Taco Bell before close to order everything off the menu? It takes forever! And they’re so weird, shoving paper from their straws into their Baja Blasts and filling it with salt and pepper and hot sauce then daring their friends to drink it. Weird! Weirdos!’

‘What if I said I was hungry?’ you ask slyly.

‘Don’t even play,’ he growls. ‘I’m tired and  —  Oh my gods, you’ll never guess the drama from today.’

Astarion sets off on a long tangent about work related drama. His boss got into an argument with their boss and now everyone else is in trouble because someone who works the morning shift lost a set of keys. It’s nothing you’re particularly interested in, but it’s nice to hear Astarion talk to you. You adjust the radio to be quieter and turn the air up to be warmer. You’re so terrifyingly cozy you’re bound to fall asleep, but that’s okay. You lean back against your seat and close your eyes too.

‘That sounds like a mess.’

‘Aren’t you glad you don’t work?’

‘Beyond glad,’ you say.

Astarion hums. ‘How did studying go? Did you memorize anything interesting today?’

‘No,’ you say. ‘But, well, there was something I wanted your help with…’

You look across the console to watch him. He doesn’t seem as sleepy as you are. He offers you his hand and you take it just to hold it, fighting a shy smile as you do so. You give him a few more minutes to unwind after his shift before reaching for your keys in the ignition.

Astarion reaches for your hand. His fingertips slide across your upper arm to your fingers, wrapping around you to prevent you from starting the car. You swallow thickly. It’s almost like he read your  —

‘You look absolutely wrecked, my dear,’ Astarion says. ‘Switch sides with me. I’ll drive us home while you doze.’

It’s a tempting offer. Being driven home. It’s the sleep deprivation that’s driving you somewhat crazy, you think, because Astarion has never looked more handsome than he does now in the passenger seat, hair tousled and uniform lopsided, and a smile on his face. Your cheeks heat up.

Oh, it’s definitely the sleep deprivation. Part of you wants to simply wait until you’ve made it home to do anything wild. But Astarion keeps looking at you, appraising you with gentle curiosity. He is unbelievably proud of you and how hard you’re working, and that appreciation is doing wonders to the thoughts inside your head. Your palms start to sweat.

You do a quick look around the parking lot one more time. It’s entirely empty now, not a single car in sight. No Lae’zel or Karlach or Wyll or anyone who would interrupt. The lone overhead light keeps blinking on and off. If you were truly concerned about your situation, you would think that it’s something out of a horror movie. Those aren’t the thoughts going on in your head. What you’re really thinking is so gross it should be humiliating. Astarion’s hand is warm on your hand, and his belly is still showing underneath his shirt that’s ridden up, and he’s tilting his chin because he’s noticed you’ve gone unusually still.

‘I don’t want to go home,’ you say in a small voice. ‘And  —  I’m not hungry either, not really.’

‘Oh?’ he hums. ‘What do you want to do instead?’ 

Ah. There it is. Your chance.

You pull your hand from his and place it on his knee, thumb pressing against the side of his thigh. Astarion’s eyes glimmer dangerously. He’s caught onto your mood. He knows exactly what you want without you even saying it.

He reclines your seat and stretches even more in your chair, his legs splayed out in front of him lazily. He’s lithe and taut, hands gripping the headrest for no other reason than he knows it makes him look gorgeous. He raises his chin like a challenge. You slide your hand up his leg and squeeze his muscle. Your mouth has gone dry, but that’ll be changed soon. You nibble the inside of your lip and pray to the gods to give you bravery.

‘You’re insatiable,’ Astarion accuses.

‘It was the textbook,’ you say defensively. ‘I studied for so long, and now my mind has wandered.’

He tsks at you in disappointment. ‘The Taco Bell parking lot of all places.’

‘Shut up.’

He laughs, nice and low and dangerous, and presses his hand flush against his belly. He pulls his shirt up a little higher and you fight desperately to keep your eyes on his face.

‘Shut up?’ he mocks. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

‘I’ll show you,’ you say brazenly, ‘what I can do.’

It’s abysmal, the lust that overtakes you. You lean over the console and watch as he raises his shirt so that you can see the smooth plane of his abdomen. He’s lithe, sleek, refined. Even in his silly little uniform, you can’t help but think about how amazing Astarion looks  —  and he knows that’s what is racing through your mind, because he indulges in the attention that you’re granting him. You lean forward, one hand bracing yourself against the console while the other falls against his thigh for support, and kiss gently across his belly. From one side of his waist to the other, one hip bone to the other, until you fuss enough that Astarion helps slide his work pants down his hips to his thighs.

The ridiculousness of the setting is forgotten. You lavish Astarion’s cock with attention, the tip of your tongue tracing over the svelte shape, until he’s gently lacing his fingers in your hair to help guide you along. But you know his body almost as well as you know your own. You take the tip of Astarion’s cock into your mouth and kiss it. You graze your teeth carefully over the skin and feel his leg tense in anticipation, and slowly, you swallow it inch by inch.

His cock jerks in your mouth, growing and hardening beneath your careful ministrations. After being together for so long, you know what he likes. He likes slow and languid strokes. He likes when you hum and sometimes when you try to suck him as far down as you can, but you also know that he likes the occasional graze of your teeth, and you’ve barely touched him when he moans softly under his breath as if it’s humiliating to him how needy he is for you as well.

It isn’t the most comfortable position to be in. The gear shift is rigging uncomfortably into your ribs, and the sound of your leather seats sliding against your skin is an unwanted addition, but you’re mesmerized by the way Astarion tastes on your tongue.

Even after a long shift, he still smells immaculate. Your laundry soap overpowers almost everything else, and his satiny tip is salty with precum, but you’ve always enjoyed that taste more than anything else. You mouth gently against the length of him, kissing and sucking and tracing patterns against his cock with your tongue. The touch causes his hand to tighten in your hair, not enough that it hurts, but enough that you’re reminded of him.

It’s comforting, the feeling of his hand in your hair as he guides you up and down his length. It reminds you of less busy days when there’s no studying and no work shifts to be had. In the summer, you often spend your days stretched out across Astarion’s bed while he reads or writes, and you have more than enough sex to pass the times.

It’s far less organized here, but you take your time swallowing around his cock, sliding him as far down as you can into the back of your throat until Astarion is making little, wild noises. He’s trying to keep quiet, and you do your best to peek at him from the angle you’re at. He might as well be a work of art with how he looks. His eyebrows are taut, and he’s biting his bottom lip so ferociously you think you ought to be concerned. Astarion’s eyes soften when he notices you’re watching, and that’s more than what you need to sit up and slide your sweatshirt off over your head. It’s peak romanticism to fuck nasty in the empty Taco Bell parking lot.

You lean forward and take Astarion’s cock into your mouth again with intent. It’s not the most comfortable angle to suck him off at, but you’re determined to keep his eyes on you even if it means you’ll have the world's sorest neck in the morning. Because you’re watching, Astarion makes an effort to watch you as well. He fights against the fluttering of his eyelashes, determined to see you until the very end.

His skin is soft and hot against your tongue, and you focus on breathing through your nose and fight against your own budding arousal. You want to feast on him, to give him something to enjoy since it was your idea to do something like this in your car. You pay close attention to the soft tip of his cock as you suckle it, pressing little licks against the underside of his head, moaning softly even though your elbows are beginning to ache from the angle. You would bring him to completion like this if he would let you, but you can tell by the way his eyes seem to burn that he has other plans.

‘You’re insatiable,’ Astarion repeats, laughing low in the back of his throat.

He lifts you by the chin and kisses you, unfazed by the spit and the drool and the slightly salty taste that sits on the tip of your tongue. If Astarion wasn’t into it, he would let you know. But if you’re insatiable, then he’s equally as deranged. He guides you over the console and into his lap, pulling and tugging at your sweatpants and underwear until they’re around your ankles.

You do try to keep some sense of decency. You push your sweatshirt in a bundle against the front window like that’ll do anything to hide the scene, and he leans his seat as far back as he possibly can without straining too much. Now is not the time for romance, you decide. You’re used to begging Astarion to fuck you, to batting your eyelashes and playing up how shy you are about your wants and needs, but there’s no time for that now at three in the morning. You rut against him, holding his hands against your hips.

It goes without saying that the lewdness of the situation does cause your cheeks to flush. You hide your face into Astarion’s neck and try to pray away the shame. But you aren’t ashamed of your lust, you aren’t ashamed of your desire  —  Your only concern is the embarrassment of how close to Astarion you want to be, never mind the faint perfume of the Fiesta Veggie Burrito that clings to his skin. 

You worm your way into his lap fully, feeling how hard his cock is between your legs, and grind against the thickness of it. He guides your movement ever so carefully, murmuring sweet things into your hair that he wouldn’t be caught dead saying to anyone else. You’re amazing, don’t hide yourself from me, let us enjoy this together, and all other lyrics that Astarion is proud of. Finally, you reach between your thighs and take his cock into your hands, guiding it inside of you. You don’t have time to tease him, to take your time lowering yourself against his hips until he’s gripping your hips so hard you might bruise. You sink down onto him as quickly as you can, and gasp once you’re fully seated.

Gods, you’ll never get used to the feeling of him inside. He’s so thick and long that you feel impossibly full, that any movement you make will make you cum right then and there. Your hands always shake when you’ve taken him all the way to the hilt, and you bite your bottom lip to focus on the task at hand. This isn’t just about you and how easy it is to make your core burst with pleasure. This is about Astarion too. You want to thank him for all his hard work, to praise him even though he hates it, and you smile. Astarion smiles too. His eyes always get so soft when he looks at you… He’s never looked happier than he has when he looks at you.

Astarion’s hands rub soothingly up and down your spine. The touch is encouraging, is relaxing, and distracting. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't distract you from the way he looks up at you adoringly, almost as if he’s ever seen anything like it before. You relish in the heavy weight of his gaze, tilting your chin so that he can admire everything, and he does. Astarion watches you like someone would admire art at a gallery. He follows every line of your body that he can see, the curve of your neck, the fragility of your cheekbones, and runs his hands against your skin as though it’s the first time he’s ever felt it. It makes you feel special.

And of course, you are special. You were Astarion’s first after a string of countless conquests.

Astarion rubs his hands up against your sides, clasping his fingers taut around your waist so that he can guide you along the length of his cock. It’s all so simple. Astarion likes touching you in whatever way he can manage, especially after hours apart. You spend most of your time familiarizing yourself with the warmth of his hands as he traces his fingers against your spine, or pets through your hair, or massages any tense muscles that might be frustrating you.

He’s even more handsy during sex. You haven’t even moved yet, and he’s tugging at you, biting his lip as if that’ll keep him from trembling. Astarion has always been sensitive, but the recklessness of the situation seems to have riled him up. He paws at your hips. He’s desperate, intent, for some sort of sensation and you’re equally as needy, an overwhelming fullness causing you to shift your weight one more time so that you can balance on either side of his thighs without too much discomfort in a cramped space. You swallow, and slowly, pull yourself off his cock until you’re painfully empty again.

Astarion pushes his hands up beneath your undershirt. You stole it from his side of the bed before you came, somewhat desperate to be wrapped up in his scent. He presses his cheek against yours, and you kiss him  —  biting the swell of his lower lip and lapping at his tongue when he hums in response. He parts his lips for you and you kiss him messily, turned on by the way he arches at your intuitiveness.

It’s only then that you start really grinding against his lap, pushing his cock back against your core and rising off of it again, bouncing in his lap as he encourages you to do so. Astarion smiles against your teeth and digs his fingers into the curve of your ass. He pulls against his chest and further into his lap, filling you so full of his cock and encouraging you to rut against his hips so that the feel of it is the only thing you can think of.

Astarion is everywhere.

In your thoughts, in your mouth, in your body and mind.

‘Impatient,’ you whisper to him, trying to still your hips but even the thought of him sitting there while you take your pleasure is enough to send tingles down to your toes.

‘As if I’ll ever have enough of you,’ he murmurs in response. He tilts his chin back and offers you his throat. You bite the tender space beneath his jaw and suckle the skin, tasting a bruise blossom beneath your tongue. ‘O  —  Oh, that’s it.’

Astarion practically purrs as you leave your mark against his skin. You focus on that, claiming his neck right above the collar of his work shirt so that everyone will know the truth. Astarion Ancunín is yours.

‘Like that,’ he whispers soothingly.

Astarion shows his neediness like this, moaning faintly as you turn your attention to making another hickey. While you do that, he helps you grind and ride his cock, his fingers tucked neatly in the junction where your ass meets your thighs. He pulls you up and down his length without any strain, and it thrills you so much that your toes curl and you try to squeeze your thighs together. You whine against his throat.

‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t play fair,’ Astarion warns you.

He uses all of the strength you forget he has to bounce you in his lap. The pleasure is so intense it distracts you from your artwork, and you cry against his collarbone and cling to him. His cock causes you to feel empty and full  —  like you’ll never get enough of what he has to offer you.

And, well, any thoughts of playing fair after that have gone out the window along with your shame. The front seat of your car is cramped and tight, but you’re not really thinking about comfort as you chase that heat between your legs for something greater. Astarion does most of the work for you between the way he talks nasty and fucks even nastier, unable to keep his hands to himself for even a few seconds.

If his hands aren’t cradling your ass, then they’re beneath your thighs and if they aren’t there, it’s because he wants to torment you further by fucking into you hard by holding onto your hips as hard as his trembling hands will allow him.

Everything feels way too tight. The walls of your car seem to be caving in, and your clothes are suddenly clinging to you in a way that’s bothersome. You want to be closer to Astarion, to have fully melded your bodies together  —  and you curse the setting because if you had just been patient, you’d be halfway home to a comfortable bed.

‘You’re naughty,’ Astarion whispers, and it does something for you. ‘Did you miss me  —  Oh fuck, that’s good.’

You bite his neck to keep him from talking. If Astarion talks, you’re going to lose whatever decorum you have left. You wrap your arms around his neck and whine softly in his ear, nuzzling against his warm skin.

‘I missed you,’ you whisper against his neck.

‘I know you did,’ he murmurs, stroking your hip. ‘I can  —  Mm, I can tell how badly you missed me. Look at how well you’re riding my cock.’

‘Astarion  —  ’

‘I love the way you say my name,’ Astarion whispers fiercely. ‘I could listen to it all night and day. Say it again for me, pet. I’ll make you say my name.’

Heat causes your cheeks to flush. You’ll never get used to the casual way he says the raunchiest things, and yet, you can’t help but shiver against his chest at the observation. You wouldn’t have said that you were doing well at it. The roof is short, your legs are cramping, but somehow, that makes the feeling even better. There isn’t much room for you to go, and for that you’re grateful. It means Astarion can’t tease you endlessly with the length of his cock. Every move you make has to be short, frantic, calculated, and the tip of Astarion’s cock is pressed so deeply against your core that you can barely stand it.

‘Oh, it’s so much,’ you gasp.

‘Yeah?’ he muses. ‘You were made for me. You were made to take my cock. You’ll take it for me, you’ll cum for me.’

He uses his knowledge of all your favorite tricks against you. You cannot escape his grasp, one arm wound tight around your waist while the other now presses lightly against the nape of your neck. Astarion kisses the side of your mouth passionately and keeps you even closer than the limits of your surroundings. That riles you up even more.

‘I want to  —  I want to, Astarion, oh  —  ’

You drag your hips up carelessly, unburdened by shame or nervousness. You’ve known Astarion since your first day in the city, and you’ve been through enough and had each other enough to no longer feel embarrassed by your needs, not that Astarion had ever let you feel insecure about anything. You whine against his neck, and he kisses you fully then, a pouty mouth against your needy tongue, and then you maneuver yourself in his lap so perfectly that it catches Astarion off-guard and he moans fully against your chin.

You lose yourself in the feeling and the sound. Astarion’s moans sound even better in a tight, enclosed space. His voice is soft, low, dangerous when it needs to be, and he only becomes this unraveled with you.

It’s an intoxicating feeling. You cry softly, nose bumping against his, and fall apart at the sound of his arousal, the feeling of his fingers dancing across the back of your neck, the sharp ecstasy that burns like a wildfire in the center of your stomach. You want to chase your release now. To find it in his lap, against his throat, softly and hoarsely in his ear. But you aren’t ready, not yet, and it takes all of your nerves to pull away.

It’s humid inside the car now. You take a quick look at the sight. You reach for stability, your palm sliding against the fogged window, smearing a glance into the darkness outside. You rest your other hand against the center console and arched your back, height leveraged against Astarion so that he can see you fully. He’s quick to respond to your change in position, no longer kneeling forward, but high above him like you’re sitting on a throne.

Astarion’s hands slide beneath the shirt you have left, palms trailing smoothly up the arc of your belly, warming the skin of your chest. He sighs handsomely and stares at you, leaning back so that he might enjoy the sight of you fully. And now that you’re able to, you’re able to pull fully all the way off the length of him, leaving him without the feel of you clenched tight around his cock. You’re only able to wait a few seconds for your own sake before you’re wiggling all the way back down until you are right back to where the gods want you to be.

‘You look delicious,’ Astarion says proudly, wearing a familiar half-smile.

‘For you,’ you confess. And it’s true.

‘You always look so beautiful to me,’ Astarion says in a tone that reminds you of when a cat has had its fair share of milk. He’s preening, cocksure. ‘Go on,’ he adds. ‘Fuck yourself for me.’

You swallow hard and do as ordered with a different rhythm. No longer do you seek out slow assured strokes. These are quick movements, careless, unpracticed and unmeasured, and Astarion helps you with two thumbs pressed against your stomach. It’s his turn to lean as far back as he can to give you all the room you need, and while it isn’t perfect, it’s probably the second hottest thing the two of you have done together. Fucking in a car in an empty parking lot. Your fingers slip against the window and Astarion catches you by the elbow, sliding his hand up your forearm so that he can wrap his fingers around yours.

‘Like that, beautiful,’ he says encouragingly, helping you. ‘You’re close, aren’t you? Don’t you want to?’

You nod, unable to trust how your words would sound. One way or another, he always gets what he wants, and you know that with enough time and focus on your pleasure, Astarion will have you mewling.

‘Come on, baby,’ Astarion encourages you, and you can’t help but follow his every command. ‘I love the way you ride me  —  I was made to fill you up, you take my cock so well.’

His words only make you even more frenzied, riding him to the best of your abilities just so he’ll say something sweet about you again. He babbles nonsensical things about you, and if you were in a clearer headspace, you’d be able to make out his words but all you understand now is the nerves building up in the very bottom of your stomach as you chase satisfaction, so determined to see his face once it’s all over.

He coos at you, chin tilting all the way back so you’re able to stare at his pale throat. A gorgeous throat, sleek and elegant, wearing proof of your existence in little bruises and bites that are both new and almost healed. You want to bite him again, to let your teeth graze his Adam’s apple while he talks about politics that you barely understand, and with that, you reach for the back of his neck so that you can slam your mouths together in a clumsy kiss. Astarion hisses, and then he’s biting your lower lip until it swells, and you kiss him so sweetly your head spins.

And from there, you don’t last long. Your legs are shaking harder than they’ve ever shook before, and your chest feels so tight and your cheeks feel so hot that you’re almost incapable of thinking. All you see and know is Astarion. Astarion, lounging against your passenger seat, his own cheeks ruddy and his expression twisted in pleasure. You cry out and collapse forward, burrowing into his chest as tightly as you can. He wraps his arms around you, kisses your temple.

‘Astarion, Astarion, please!’

‘Just like that, my love  —  ’ he gasps against your crown, grunting as his release hits him hard. ‘Like that, my pet, you’re perfect, my dear, my dear heart  —  ’

Your core tightens at his sweet words, and then it’s your churn to choke out a hoarse cry as pleasure races through your spine so sharply that it must hurt. You bite down on his shoulder for comfort, moaning as you try to come to your senses.

It’s somehow both hot and cold inside your little car. Everything is sticky with sweat, and the moisture in the air has started to cause Astarion’s hair to frizz up. You’re boneless. It’s only fair that he takes it upon himself to pull you up from his cock, tucking you back into your baggy sweatpants. You hover awkwardly, his cum on your thighs, while he drags his work pants up his slender thighs. You aren’t sure who is groggier, but when you glance at the clock on the dashboard, mild horror thickens in your stomach. You feel faint.

It might have been nearly three in the morning when Astarion was released from his duties, but it’s now four in the morning, give or take a few minutes. You start to make your way over to the driver’s side again, about to inelegantly climb across the center console when Astarion grabs you by the waist and kisses the side of your head gently.

‘You stay put,’ he mumbles. He sounds positively fucked thorough.

‘I made you stay up late,’ you say guiltily, but he shrugs.

‘Honestly, you did all the hard work,’ he says with a snort. ‘Lay back and close your eyes, darling. I’ll drive. Thank the gods it's the weekend.’

He opens the passenger door, and the cool air of the morning smells so refreshing to the smell of sex that permeates everything else. He stretches for a minute before coming back. He kisses your forehead tenderly, nudging your nose with his.

‘Love you,’ you murmur.

‘Love you,’ he says.

It all happens so quickly. You’re faintly aware of the sound of Astarion snapping his seatbelt in, your car humming to life, an Alfira ballad playing so quietly in the background it might as well not even be on. You’re so warm and toasty that you can’t keep yourself from leaning your head against the window. If you fall asleep before the first redlight, Astarion doesn’t say anything. All you can recall once you get home is a strong pair of arms holding you tightly, and the pillow you stole from his side of the bed, and his back against your chest.

As it should be.

[sour-cherry-wine]

Congrats on 1.5k omg!!! <33 wishing u even more luck and everything nice in the future

This is for the celebration request if u have time ofc! Can I get card 1 and save 4 please? Vampire Leon getting f!reader to try on the v expansive collection of jewellery he has hoarded over the centuries but when it comes to the necklaces he gets v hot and bothered at the sight of bare neck lmao. Maybe Leon gets v worked up about seeing reader in nothing BUT his jewellery tee hee c:

hihi thank you so much!! i really appreciate it <3 wishing you all the same!! i really love this idea, so i hope you like what i ended up with!! i missed our vampire boy,,

vampire!leon kennedy x f!reader

18+ MINORS DNI. if you do not have your age on your blog you will be blocked, you must be 18+ to interact with and follow this content.

disclaimers: smut, not much else to say tbh it’s just filth, porn no plot, and some vampire woes <3

1.9k, not proofread (shocker)

join the celebration!!

“There we go, darling.” Icy fingertips grazed the slope of your neck, dragging a dainty chain into place to fasten at your nape. Leon’s touch followed the length of the chain, slipped underneath it to guide the pendant into place at the height of your sternum, making sure it hangs central with keen eyes narrowed. “What do you think of this one?”

Earlier in this day you had made the mistake of prompting Leon about his ornate jewellery box. Really, you were just curious about its puzzle mechanism; when you were younger you had similar puzzle boxes but his was far more complex than any of those that you once owned and you simply couldn’t get it open. You were hoping that he would teach you to trick to it but now you’ve found yourself modelling everything from inside instead.

“It’s gorgeous. They all are.” Leon passed you an ornate hand mirror and ever-so-slightly adjusted the charm for you once more as you gazed at your reflection. Now a pearl negligee necklace was hanging around your neck in the open space of your shirt that was actually one of his, the top few buttons were undone and the soft muslin pulled aside to present your skin to him, a perfect canvas.

The three pearls rested lightly against you, each dangled at different heights. The centre most pearl was suspended in a golden halo and the other two hung not far beneath it, the left lower than the right.

You hummed. “Is it supposed to be like that?” When you looked up at him Leon’s gaze was already transfixed on you, resting his chin in his hand with pretty blues blown and glassy, enchanted by the sight of you sitting so sweetly for him. Heat flittered over your skin and you looked down at your lap unthinkingly, made timid by his adoration.

One of his careful hands came up to cup your jaw, tilting your chin up with a guiding yet firm hold as if to pose you, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “Yes, my dear. They’re designed to sit asymmetrically, unlike a lavalier.” You smile for him, flustered by the way he trails his hand down your neck with the pads of his fingers following your pulse. And he’s delighted to feel it jump for him.

“Where did you get this one?” With each necklace tried you’ve learnt of its story, Leon's story, a convoluted web of many lives lived and a collection large enough to mirror that. You quickly learnt that he has far more than one jewellery box and each has a unique story too, the one that sits on the dresser just holds his daily pieces while the others are stored somewhere kept secret from you. It’s impressive to say the least and now as you’re sitting on the end of his bed with him beside you, knees brushing together and the boxes around you you’re starting to feel… overwhelmed. Though you can’t deduce why.

Leon clicks his tongue against his teeth and leans forward to unclasp the necklace, his stare trained on the column of your throat as he removes it with great caution. “This one originally came from London, though I have never been there myself. A traveler gifted this to me, she said that I seemed down on my luck and she was quite right in her judgment. I attempted to decline her generosity but she claimed that I looked as if I needed its charm more than she did.” The necklace tucks neatly back into the box, it’s interior divided for each one to have its own designated space.

Every piece of jewellery has a similar story, each delicate ring that still sits on your fingers, slightly too big to really fit, and every new pendant he fishes out; every single one is more than meets the eye. “Now this one,” Leon begins, fishing up the last necklace. “I think will suit you best.” This is starting to get tedious, you shuffle where you’re sat and he is quick to notice your restlessness, sharp and aware as ever. The look on his face softens as he purses his lips.

“I’m sorry, darling. I’ve been talking for a while now, haven’t I? It must be tiring, sitting so pretty like my little doll.” He croons almost derisively, that same magnetic timbre dropping to a rumble that shakes you with a shiver. Scorching heat floods through your veins and coils urgently in your stomach, the type of anticipation that dashes your train of thought addles your mind. Leon, politely smug, bites his grin with sharp canines.

“I don’t mind.” You manage after a moment, taking a deep breath after your words as if you had been winded by his. He nods, lips managing to upturn even further. “Then how does one more sound? After that I suppose I can let you free, my darling.” Leon’s suggestion came more like a command, his hands taking purchase on your hips and coaxing you into his lap, a momentary fumble. You squirm to get comfortable and notice his eye twitch, his next breath more strained than the last.

“Alright,” you titter. “One more.” The next piece Leon had retrieved was yet another delicate necklace, to no one’s surprise, a golden chain no thicker than twine with a single large pendant at its middle. Leon presented it to you laid in his open palm before grinning. “That’s my girl. I hope you like this one.” Within the pendant a single, unshaped piece of garnet was suspended by hooks of further gold that latched like teeth around the raw edges. It was stunning.

“Chin up.” Leon instructed, tapping the underside of your chin with his forefinger. You swallow the lump in your throat and obey, resting your hands on his waist and feeling him tense up beneath you like your touch sent a shock coursing through him. That same coldness came again as the metal met your skin, followed by the chill of Leon’s fingertips that forced a bone-deep shudder from you.

The closeness, despite being so familiar, was intensely riling in that moment and you were quick to realise why you had begun to feel overwhelmed. It was his stare. Leon all too literally takes you apart with simple looks as if he’s searching for your weak spot, a way to make you crumble. He doesn’t even mean to but it’s an automatic response like a vampire's prey drive, if you dare to call it that. And with your shirt open and neck bared Leon had his sights on that sweet spot this whole time.

He secures the clasp at your nape like it was a routine by now and helps the necklace lay flat against your skin. This one hangs lower than the last, only a fraction above the valley of your breasts. But your shirt is slightly in the way with half of the pendant tucked beneath its light fabric. “That won’t do.” Leon grumbles, lithe fingers hastily pulling buttons undone to move the muslin aside. “Let me get a good look at you, doll.”

Your heart jumps into your throat and you nod mindlessly, watching his hands sneak under your clothes and lave up your sides, your head tilted and lips pouting. Leon sighs airily. “I said,” he starts, reluctantly taking a hand away from your waist. “Chin. Up.” The way he grabs your face is uncharacteristically rough, a commandeering grip that poses your head up and bares your neck to him. You gasp under your breath.

“Just one more, remember? Don’t get restless now, darling.” Leon takes a deep breath in, nostrils flaring just slightly as he leans down to nose at the side of your neck, dragging the pert tip along the line of your racing pulse. You shiver and your quivering hands fly to his shoulders, squeezing harder than necessary to ground him.

You know how Leon can lose himself so easily when the lingering perfume of your skin clouds over his mind like a fog rolling in. He’s warned you of it before and you’ve known the consequences many times but this little squeeze acts to ask if he’s aware of himself, if he’s still with you and if he’s truly in control of his actions.

He presses a kiss to the column of your throat and hums resonantly, the sound rumbling against you. “It’s alright, doll. I’m here. Do you need me to stop?” Leon freezes up in line with his question, laboured breaths fanning against goosebump littered skin. “No no, s’okay.” You shake your head, posture relaxing as you slump comfortably in his lap, unintentionally rolling your hips into his.

“This was your plan though, wasn’t it?” You ask, trailing a hand around and lacing your fingers into the silvery hair at the back of his head. He chuckles richly, his tantalising touch gliding up your sides once again. “No actually, if you would believe that. It’s just so difficult to control myself around such a pretty thing.” Leon’s kisses pick back up in a line running along the slope of your shoulder, each one sloppier than the last and leaving a sheen of spit on your body.

“Fuck…” Heat coils urgently in the pit of your stomach, a type of lapping flame that’s stoked each time Leon’s lips bless your skin and you can’t help but squirm for him. His hands climb higher, pushing your shirt aside as his thumbs graze the underside of your tits before he takes handfuls of them, groping unapologetically. Your lips part and a sweet mewl escapes the back of your throat, encouraging Leon to rub the pads of his thumbs over your nipples and coax them to pebble.

“That’s it.” Leon mumbles, terse words spoken between open mouthed kisses that trail across your collarbone and down your chest. “Sit still for me.” But you can’t, each ministration has you arching your back into him for more, more, and when his kisses pepper over the mound of your breast you only get more restive.

His nose nudges the fragile pendant of the necklace and makes it swing a fraction, the chain twisting like the ardent flame in your gut. You card your hand through his silky hair and tug gently to earn a raspy grunt, again keeping him grounded as if you fear what could become of you if you don’t. But Leon’s large hand flies up to wrap around your neck, fingertips squeezing the sides carefully to make your pulse spike. The sound rings like a drum in his ears, amplified by your closeness.

“Relax, doll.” He hisses against your skin, sucking softly at your left tit with intention to bruise you. “I know what I’m doing.” His cold kisses tease around your nipple before he finally wraps his lips around the hard bud, spitting and licking to send scolding static coursing through you. Keeping still is an impossibility but with each writhe or wriggle of your hips Leon utters a muted sound of disapproval.

A milquetoast moan tumbles from your lips that turns into a sharper gasp when his fangs graze the tenderness of your nipple. Your first warning.

“Sit. Still.” Leon’s lips are still brushing against you as he speaks, refusing to withdraw from the tepidness of your body. “You’re having a tough time listening today, aren’t you? You know I don’t like repeating myself, doll.” His timbre drops, a growl lining his words and he’s smugly satisfied to feel your pulse jump beneath his fingertips once again, roughened pads skimming the necklace chain as he grips your throat.

Maybe this never was about the jewellery after all. Within the minute it’s being ripped away from your body to clear the path for Leon’s hungry advances, and what a shame too, that one really did suit you…

celebration masterlist || the typewriter

i do not give permission for my work to be copied, translated, or reposted. if you see my works posted somewhere other than here or my ao3 please let me know, thank you.

[sour-cherry-wine]

angel.

pairing: hirofumi x reader genre: n-sfw (smut/pwp) - mdni, mutual pining, comfort synopsis: It's always been too many questions, and never enough answers for you. wc: ~6.1k

major warnings: ex-lovers to lovers, reader + hirofumi are aged somewhere 25+, she/her pronouns mentioned via pet names + female genitalia used, use of cigarettes + weed, can be seen as dubcon during certain moments tho so heed this warning, sorta exhibitionistic, monsterfucking w/ octopus - this entails use of 'arms' + 'appendages' as well as slime/slimy imagery with suckers for nipple play, sucking, and reader-receiving penetration, dacryphilia, a mutual-masturbation situation, reader says stop to take a break.

other warnings: lots of ocean vs. heaven imagery, can be seen as sub!reader, petnames (most of them for reader), teasing, pussy-job, orgasm denial, praise, you are being manhandled (mostly gently), slight begging, holds reader's neck, reader!receiving: tongue sucking + finger sucking, spit, slight possessiveness, penetration: missionary + press, creampie, i've created some branched pipeline: this is soft!monsterfucking.

dedicated to the biggest enabler i know, who literally doesn't even go here, the one and only: baka "takoyaki" angel.

@bakatenshii is into octopussy.

A thousand questions run through your mind every single day, and although they’re not questions like ‘why the sky is blue’ or ‘how long it takes to cook instant noodles’, you almost wish they are.

(The answer: 5-minutes if you’re talking about the noodles in the red foil and black-lettered packaging.)

Complicated questions are a pain in the ass; if your supervisor and clients have time to ask them, then they also have time to search up their answers on the internet too. But you much prefer these over others because at least there are answers–how the fuck do you answer questions you can only ask someone who’s not beside you anymore?

You’ve always been a frequent smoker, hoping the vert vapour will knock you out fast, before your brain can come up with something new to think about. Sometimes it works; most of the time it doesn’t.

So the pondering builds and you think it’s gotten to you because the one person who you’re saving all these words for shows up in the same elevator beside you. You leave with a giant bruise on your thigh, pinching it the entire ride to make sure this isn’t some sick joke.

The next time you meet him, Hirofumi Yoshida smells like smoke and blood; he doesn’t say anything, only smiles and exits the elevator. At first, it hurt. All the things you want to say die on your tongue along with any chance of holding a conversation with him. You almost give up, ready to face the fact that you may be strangers from now on, but he decides to speak up today:

Wanna come up for a smoke with me?

It’s the fastest yes you’ve ever given.

Legs tangling, the both of you now sit face to face, sides leaning against the ledge of the building. The stars are below you, traffic and cars and people bustling even though it’s well past midnight.

Hirofumi watches glossy lips wrap around the joint, chest inflating with the first puff. The lights shimmer on your face like reflective water and he notes you look as breathtaking as ever. He likes that it’s quiet, likes that you don’t talk his ear off like some of his colleagues do. It’s only peace within the green haze that exhales out of you, only secrecy in the clouds, save for his occasionally-incessant fiddling with his lighter. It’s an annoying habit, he knows, but he remembers when it used to illuminate your face, watching the flame roll in between his fingers though never burning him, like magic.

How coincidental this has all become, only because he didn’t like the apartment building across the street. Too grimy–but he supposes he can thank them for the poor maintenance, seated in front of his ex-lover. It’s been a few good years, but sometimes the lonesome silence haunts him.

After a fourth puff, you pass the joint back to him, his fingers brushing against yours. It’s your turn to watch him, watching as his eyelashes fall to a close when he takes his first hit. The fuzziness is starting to settle in your brain, the concrete roof feeling like mushy marshmallows below you. Reality dances with disbelief for a moment, still awed that your ex is now in front of you, like you manifested him.

You remember how many people (people whom you called your friends at some point) used to talk about him behind his back, making all sorts of assumptions on how he keeps his grades up while hardly showing up to his lectures. You remember how angry he got when you wouldn’t swear to him, swear that you wouldn’t tell anybody what he did during his spare time. It seems silly; why doesn’t he just share it so it’ll stop the rumours from spreading? A part of you already knows the answer, so you don’t entertain it further, sealing your promise in a lock of pinkies.

He pays no mind to any of it. It’s not until you’re dragged into the nasty sludge made up of lies that he starts to get mouthy. With a smile, he tells them to politely fuck off; his smart mouth and quick-headedness is what you suppose makes you stick around all those years.

Appearance-wise, he’s a tad taller now, more built too, filling out his clothes like they’re made for him. The line of piercings still decorate his outer ear, onyx metal glowing from the ember of the joint as he inhales a fifth time. The same, signature curtain of bangs quiver with every blink, grown out to kiss the tops of his lashes, and you reach forward, about to chastise him for it, but his hand shoots up and wraps around your wrist, preventing any further movement.

He’s still as beautiful as you remember him.

A grin is lazily pulled onto your face, lop-sided–but endearing–and you retract your hand, “Sorry, I was making sure you’re actually here.”

He lets go, and you instantly miss the warmth of his skin on your own. He returns yours with a smile equally as lax, “I am. What have you been up to all these years?”

Nothing as incredible as what you do, you want to say.

Instead, you force out, “After I graduated, I went straight into corporate.”

“You enjoying it?”

You shrug, picking at the lint on your dress. He’s asking out of politeness, but the both of you know what you’ll say: “It’s stable and pays the bills,” you stop fiddling with the hem of your dress, acutely aware that he’s been staring, “But… It’s like I’m dying a little bit more every day,” Hirofumi decides to keep his mouth shut about his version of death. Your fingers pick at his pants instead, the touch stimulating his nerves in waves. Patting the spot, you stop your fidgeting, smiling up at him, “What about you? You still a Private Devil Hunter?”

It’s his turn to shrug, “Yeah. It’s stable and pays the bills.”

You laugh, his chest swelling considerably. He takes another hit and you pipe up, “I’ve never asked, but how do you hunt them anyway?”

“A friend helps me,” he exhales, “Would you like to meet her?”

Being selfish is loathsome, so you swallow it down and nod.

Half-expecting him to take out his phone to browse through his pictures, within a blink, something dark forms behind him. It takes you a few moments for it to click in your head, for the sight in front of you to register properly.

Suckers protrude out of the shiny arms that wrap around Hirofumi in what you can only assume is their way of saying hello. A slimy, rusty brown appendage circles around the arm that’s held out to you, joint pointing in your direction. That’s… one fucking huge octopus.

Reasoning with yourself, you think he must be as high as you, trying to play an illusion off to you as something real. Or maybe, you’re higher than you think. You blink, “I’m pretty stoned, aren’t I?”

“Pretty angel, actually,” he corrects you with a small curve of his lips, “How about one more hit, just to be sure, hm?” you hate that you can never say no to him, not when he calls you by a name you’ve decided is only reserved for his voice.

Instead of taking it from him, you tug his wrist closer. Lips barely brush against his fingertips, closing around the joint, and it takes every ounce of him to remain still, to not shove you to the ground and have his way with you. Especially when you look up at him with those round eyes, orange twinkling in them from your inhale. Eyes he still sees in his rose-tinted dreams. They’re as soft as he remembers, as warm as he recalls, and just as enticing. He wants to feel them over his own lips or maybe under his palm; maybe it’ll jog his memory of what it was like when he used to take you in the library.

Hirofumi definitely remembers how horny weed makes him.

Exhaling, you’re about to let go of his wrist, but something wet touches your knuckles, halting you to a stop. You look down, the realisation hitting you that the octopus is real, the tip of their arm tentatively tapping on them. Hirofumi chuckles, “She’s asking for your permission to touch you.”

The whole thing is almost unbelievable, but you manage to laugh and nod, finding something humorous in the situation, “Okay. What a polite octopus,” fascination fills your eyes, concentrated on the way it turns your hand so your palm faces up, “Normally it’s humans asking animals if they can touch them,” it draws something on you, but you’re too intoxicated to focus on what it’s tracing.

Hirofumi leans back, lounging against his devilish friend, one hand soothing over the silky expanse of their skin while his other hand is posed next to his face, killing the rest of the joint. He hums, “That’s because she’s not an animal,” the appendage has already moved past your wrist, dragging along the vein that thrums deliciously underneath its slippery skin. They stop at your shoulder, ghosting over the strap of your dress before drawing a line over your collarbone. Your breath hitches in your throat, eyes flitting to him.

Is it wrong that he finds your apprehension cute?

“She’s my Devil, my weapon,” he pats his pockets for a familiar rectangular box, fishing out his cigarettes and lighter out, “But if you’re uncomfortable, you tell me to stop her.”

Words that tumble out of his mouth morph into muddled-mumbles as your brain melts at the touch that slithers across your skin. Goosebumps have erupted all over your body, a shiver running down your spine when the arm makes its way down your clothed-sternum, stopping at the hem of your dress briefly, another one joins it, rustling your dress up. Heat spreads throughout you, your body jolting at the delicate sensation, suckers already latching to your inner thighs.

Relax, she won’t hurt you.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you mewl when the plushness of it grazes the edge of your panties, your whisper of desperation grabbing the attention of Hirofumi. Your thighs are trembling, trying to keep them closed, trying to keep your decency, but it’s all futile. Even through the layers of smoke, he can see your resolve cracking after each stroke.

How pretty you look with the sky above you and the stars below, your body floating in the clouds.

A third arm furls around your clothed tits, kneading the doughy flesh, eliciting a moan. It stops and travels further up, until it prods at your bottom lip, running along it, tugging it so it makes a plopping noise against your upper lip. Parting them in a sigh, your tongue darts out to lap at them, salinity flooding your taste buds in the flavour of the ocean. Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see the cigarette is left forgotten in his fingers, ash snowing over his thigh.

Hirofumi tucks his own lip under his teeth, liquid lust glazing his eyes. If there’s anything he remembers about you, it’s your ability to put on a good show without even trying. You’re the moon to his tide; both of your egos overlapping each other in rolling waves.

Maintaining your eye contact, your tongue runs sensually along the underside of the arm, suckers catching onto it with lewd, sticky noises. His cock twitches at the sight of pink muscle twirling around the appendage, imagining that it’s his cock you’re tasting instead, and breathlessly, he commands you to suck.

A palm comes up, digits gingerly wrapping around the arm to keep it stationary, still vibrating from the effects of the joint you shared. Keeping your half-lidded eyes on him, you open your mouth just enough to slowly take the tip in, glossing your lips in lubricant. Smoke floats downwards, Hirofumi exhaling through his nose, “Good girl.”

Distracted by the suckers that latch onto the insides of your cheeks, you squeak when the arms that are tugging at your thighs start to move again, circling around you to pry the supple flesh apart. Immediately, his eyes sink down to your panties, noting the dark spot that breaks up the pale blue lace.

You’re starting to lose count on how many arms are on your skin, another one sliding along your covered-folds only to pry the fabric away. You wince, cool air hitting damp skin, but you push the embarrassment away, shoving it beneath the layers of lust when you hear the man in front of you groan.

“Shit,” puffy folds and a swollen clit that’s begging to be toyed with greet him in a saccharine sight.

Slipping the salty flesh out of your lips, you moan when your folds are pulled apart to reveal your tight pussy, “Haah, ‘F-Fumi!”

“Shh…Take it,” the octave drop in his voice hits you, pussy clenching around nothing, slick dribbling out of you, “Don’t you feel good?” he tilts his head mockingly, tongue poking out to wet his bottom lip, “Don’t you want more?” the tip of the arm circles around your entrance, teasing you too, barely dipping into you before it decides to flick upwards, nicking your clit. The motion repeats itself a few more times, your actions restricted as more arms wrap around you to keep you still. Your dress is completely ruined, covered in slip, only to be shortly torn off of you along with your panties, the rest of your skin scorched by the frigidity of the air.

Panting fills the space between the two of you, pussy folds bracketing the appendage as it grinds in between them. You can’t tell if it’s your arousal or if it’s his Devil that’s coating your skin in sticky syrup, and you sob, “Fumi, i-it’s too–” you punctuate it with a hiccup and he has to bite back a smile.

Holding up his hand, he feigns a pout, “You want it to stop?” the movements pause with his word, the arm twisting away from your cunt, argent strings stretching thin and shimmering under the moonlight.

You shake your head, “N-No, I-I wanna…” you gulp when you feel weight resting back over your folds again, appendage gingerly sliding up and down your slit, “S-Shit, I wanna c-cum!”

Sweat coats the top of your wrinkled-brows, annoyance seeping to the surface of your skin. Running a hand through his hair, obsidian strands reverting back into a tousled-mess, he reveals eyes as dark as his hair, dilated pupils twinkling with the reflection of you. He expels a faint, No, and your heart plummets, tears threatening to spill over your cheeks too.

So pretty and spread out in front of him, your salvation at his mercy with just a wave of his hand, he forgets he’s just as aroused as you, the front of his pants dampening with every whimper you feed him. Finding comfort in the cool metal of his lighter instead, he weaves it between his fingers, clicking his tongue, “Not yet, not till I say you can.”

Relief floods you when he motions his Devil to continue. A mewl falls from your lips, arching into the touch, hips rutting into the textured-surface. Your abdomen twitches every time you drag your clit over the edge of a sucker, head slacking back, “M-More… Can I h-have more, p-please?”

He’s never been known to, but maybe he does get the munchies after all; Hirofumi doesn’t like sweets, but he likes you.

He’s smoked a fair amount today, brain akin to an itchy wool sweater, but it’s ultimately you that impairs every corner of him, “If you ask like that every time,” he rests his palm on his thigh, giving it a good squeeze, sighing, “I’ll give you whatever you want, angel.”

The Devil’s arms shift around you, one supporting you by your waist, two of them slinking languidly over your chest, eliciting babbles that sound vaguely like thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re losing it, you think, relishing, enjoying the silkiness that wraps around your tits, gliding over nipples that quickly harden. Flicking them once, twice, a third time (for good measure), suckers mouth over your nipples. They constrict over them, applying pulsating pressure that shoots straight down, gasping when your hole gets teased simultaneously; you think you might explode.

But you can’t. You wanna be good for him, wanna show him what he’s been missing this entire time while he’s out using his Devil to kill.

Ah, shit, that notion swirls all your thoughts of being pleasured by a weapon together, one that could snap you in half if Hirofumi wanted. He’s not known for being cruel, but you catch glimpses of it: in the way he smiles when awful people get what they deserve, in the way he’s nonchalantly wiped blood off his face, unperturbed by the morbidity of some of his own situations, and… in the way he left you.

The question still sits at the tip of your tongue; you swallow it down because you’re not sure if that’s the cruel one that’s sitting in front of you.

He’s palming himself, eyes cloudy and a small curl to his lips, savouring the way you crumble in his Devil’s hold. You’ve become his little toy to play with, to unravel, unfold, to devour.

The shuffling noises make you crack your eyes open a smidge, saliva pooling in your cheeks already as a lone appendage hovers over his bulge. Tracing a line at the hem of his sweater, it gently bundles it in between his teeth, baring his toned tummy to you. It’s supposed to be familiar, the starry sky of moles on his upper body, but healing-scars connect them in constellations that are foreign to you. Has anybody else kissed them good night the way you once did? You blink the sour memories away, focusing back on him.

Suckers peel the fabric of his sweatpants off, his cock springing free with a muted-thud to his abdomen. It’s a lovely shade of strawberry, glazed like the ones on top of cakes too, pre slowly oozing out of the tip.

Giving you a rare toothy smile, it’s the last thing you see before the both of you are submerged deeper into your bliss. At the same moment, a smooth arm snakes around his cock while one plunges inside of you, your seraphic sighs in unison with his guttural groans in a vehement harmony.

“Fuck!” you manage to choke out, thighs shaking from being forced apart for so long. The Devil’s arm is thick, girthy, and while there are no veins, the suckers that run along the one side twist up, stroking along all your ridges on your upper wall. It’s not long before it catches that spongy spot, wiggling itself over it in a manner you can only think of as… taunting. It’s yanking at your shackles, trying to lull you beneath the surface of the ocean, face already wet with tears in pure ecstasy.

Hirofumi isn’t doing any better than you.

The friction is loose at first, his Devil tantalising him with a weak grip. He slightly bucks his hips up, gritted-teeth protected by the layer of fleece stuffed in his mouth. Displeased, his Devil stops for a moment, waiting for him to settle back down into his spot. Exhaling a shaky breath, he wraps an arm tightly around the appendage above him, his other hand finding its way to the crown of his head, softly clutching at locks as an anchor. Sensing the calmness of the waves, his Devil beckons him towards the shore once more, arm wrapping around his cock more firmly this time, wetness dripping down towards his sac.

He looks up and curses, jaw almost letting his shirt go at the sight of your pussy splitting in half. Drool drips from your bottom lip, his Devil taking their sweet, sweet time exploring your plush walls. Both of your rhythms are synced, as if he’s been personally fucking you this entire time, but he wants a closer look at you, a closer look at how dark your eyes are, how fucked out you’re becoming.

Wiggling two fingers, his Devil pauses all movements, breaking you out of your daze to shift you so that you’re floating above Hirofumi. Held up securely by your waist and legs, an appendage is looped through your elbows too, your wrists crossed together. Your legs are still spread apart, pussy walls pulsating around the length that’s unmoving inside you.

A true angel is suspended above him.

Reaching up, he tucks your fallen-hair behind your ears, thumbs swiping at the moisture clinging to your cheeks. You’re beautiful, his eyes tell you, always will be.

There isn’t another sliver of time to spare, his hand gone before you can even lean into his touch.

From this position, suckers gently nudge into your clit, suctioning at the swollen bud till your vision kaleidoscopes. You whimper, bucking your hips, senses melting at the friction in your cunt. Your eyes snap open, the once-jelly-soft length now rigid, curled just right at that spongy spot, causing sobs to bubble out of your lungs.

“Right there, angel?” Hirofumi watches your face contort. His lips shape into an o, humid puffs hitting your chest at how pliant you’ve become, fingers ghosting over your abdomen, “Can feel my Devil so deep inside you–” he grunts at the puckering at the tip of his cock, looking down at the sight of a sucker that’s latched on. It slightly slips over his slit, an uncharacteristically high-pitched whine piercing the air.

Restraining your body tightly, his Devil lifts you upwards and you yelp at the sudden motion before plummeting back down. The wind gets knocked out of your lungs, though a moan follows shortly. Bouncing you up and down, the Devil sets a hellish pace, fucking your cunt over the hard appendage.

Suckers catch onto your clit and puffy folds too, like a plethora of mouths servicing your pussy, worshipping all she has to give. Being stimulated from the inside and out, you begin to shake, utterly consumed by pleasure; even their arms seep into your head, like they’re stroking at your brain. So helpless and limp like a ragdoll; you let yourself drown. Hirofumi doesn’t dare to look away, not wanting to miss a single moment of it.

Your legs and arms are numb, but all you can focus on is the tingly peak you’re climbing towards, a sob spilling from your lips, “S-Stop, ‘Fumi, I’m gonna-I’m gonna cum, please…” his eyes almost see the back of his head, your voice so strained and already so shattered.

Hot tears cascade from your eyes, like celestial diamonds showering the tops of his cheeks, an Angel Triumphing over his Night.

“ ‘Fumi…? Please?”

All it takes is a nod and your body shifts again, but this time, you’re gently set down on top of him, sensation coming back to your arms and legs, needles prickling them. He pulls off his sweater and shirt over his head. Peeling the two fabrics from each other, he dabs at your face with his t-shirt, leaning up to kiss your cheeks tenderly.

Your hands find home in his hair, burying your face into the crook of his neck, the presence of his devil crawling away into the shadow behind him. Your skin is a little tacky, but he doesn’t mind. He noses along your neck, breathing in your scent, remembering how he used to wake up peacefully in your arms after a long assignment. He’s always felt safe in them, forgets that he kills for a living, but it made all his insecurities worse. Did you–do you ever feel safe with him in his arms?

“You okay?”

He’s so quiet, you almost don’t hear his concern, “Mhm,” you lift your head, digits sweeping hair out of his eyes so you can look into them better. Still the same shade of black, still as depthless as you recall. No matter how many times you look inside, they never return anything warm, like there’s nobody home to ignite the fireplace.

It’s what you expected, but there’s something different tonight.

Sitting in his lap, naked to the bone, souls bare for the briefest of moments, at the bottom of his pit you see something this time.

Cradling his face, your nose bumps into his, lips hovering over him in warning. Is this okay? The tops of your lips tingle in anticipation, waiting to see if he’ll make a move. You’re about to pull away, but Hirofumi tugs you right back by your throat, hand firmly squeezing, lips encasing your parted-bottom lip.

He’s hungry, but not in a way that makes you think of the days where he’s never satisfied until you’re begging. It’s the type that people mistake for instead of recognizing it as desire.

There’s something you have and he wants it, wants more, wants you. That’s what you see in his abyss.

Canines graze and dimple your bottom lip, nipping at it till you give in to him, like you always do. Tilting your head, you let his tongue in, his thumb dipping into the space beside your windpipe. He’s gentle at first, delicately lapping at your tongue, reveling in the softness. It’s like time has been paused; you somehow still taste faintly of peaches, like the summers spent together at your family’s orchard.

Floral recollections of sugared-touches and tart kisses flood him, only for you to moor him back to reality, hips grinding into him. He tightens his grip on your neck, his other hand on your hip, creating space between you, just enough for him to peer into your eyes. Mewling at the lack of touch is a mistake, the sound travelling through your windpipe in tiny vibrations underneath his palm.

Your throat bobs and he growls, “Stick your tongue out,” you acquiesce him, and the look that sparks in his eyes skit along sinful , “Always so obedient,” drool drips down your chin, dropping onto his wrist, and he smiles, my favourite kind of angel. You’re a fool to think the light peck he places on your tongue is chaste, trailing kisses down the muscle until he reaches the tip of your tongue, wrapping his lips around the sticky mess and sucking on it.

He moans, “You taste so good,” his admission heats you, “Can’t get enough of you; need more,” finding your wrists, he lays you on his sweater, pinning them above your head, “Need to feel this pussy around me.”

Fingers find your clit, gently flicking at it until you’re jolting from the movement, “I’ll–I can’t, I’m going to cum,” you whimper when two digits swipe at your entrance, collecting more slick on the tips of them.

He ignores you, slipping his fingers in between your lips, the silken swiping from your tongue hypnotising him for a split second, “Taste as sweet as you look. Just like candy, and just the way I like it. But you know what else I like?” the shaking of your head you give him is miniscule, but he catches it, “When good girls take what I give them. That’s what you are, right, my good girl?”

That thought kicks you to the edge, the edge you’ve been trying not to dance along this entire time. You’ve done so well to prevent yourself from falling all over again–you did it once and the descent felt endless, bottomless just like the darkness in his eyes, but one glimpse at him magnetises you. You can scold yourself again, for giving in to him so easily, thinking that he’s the one that can be cruel, but perhaps–

You are worse than him.

You’re the siren that calls to his soul, no matter how hard he pushes you away, no matter how hard he denies you. Never fully understanding the need to create distance, you beckon him, carve yourself into the space where his heart should be. Never learning your fucking lesson, but forever dreaming of him.

Two fingers press down on your tongue, pressing you out of your thoughts too, dragging along the wetness and over your bottom lip. You swallow thickly, like there’s honey stuck in your mouth. Licking at your own lip, you mumble out, “Yours,” wrapping your legs around his hips steady him and arching your back keeps your bodies flush, “I’m yours.”

The thumping of his heart is deafening in his ears, beating through the longing that floods his chest cavity. Words that he’s only ever wished upon stars that fall to the rhythm of your heart are heard and granted beneath his fingers.

Leaning down to kiss you, he positions himself, the tip of his cock brushing up against the dampness of your entrance. He pushes through the first ring of muscle, breaking the kiss to bury his nose into your jaw, planting a single peck there before leaning back, one palm still pinning your hands down.

The other hand ghosts over your heart, down your tummy, towards your plush mound, thumb circling your clit. Still resting at your entrance, he says, “It’s okay; let me in.”

Inch-by-inch, your silky walls hug him and cling onto every bit of him. Your jaw drops from the stretch, brows creasing together, feeling the pressure of your high reaching its limit. He gasps, your pussy starting to throb around him, so hot and so fucking wet, gushing when he speeds up the circles on your clit. You’re writhing below him, moans crescendo-ing until they cease into silence, a breathy, I’m cumming, clumsily cutting it.

You cum and you cum hard.

Hirofumi almost has to use his full weight to keep you still, your hips jerking up only to fall back down to try and squirm away from his fingers. Nothing can compare to the thought of knowing he’s the reason you’ve come undone, clenching around his cock because it’s the only thing you can hold onto in your delirious state.

Waiting until your eyes open, he smiles, fixing your legs so your ankles can cross behind him, now holding both your palms in his. He laces his fingers in yours, finally bottoming out completely in you and you gasp, gaze shooting up at him.

“Give me another one.”

The pace he sets is frenzied, hips slapping into the bottom of your thighs, ramming his cock into you.

Barely over your previous high, another one fast-approaches, like storm clouds that roll over the surface of the ocean, electrifying and suffocating. His Devil has always been curious in exploring your body, but they only skimmed the surface of your oceanic euphoria. Only Hirofumi knows that it dips and dives far beyond Mariana’s Trench.

You’re shifting upwards with every slam, and craving precious air as each movement deflates it out of you, though all you can seem to do is take breaths in the shape of his name.

“S’fucking tight,” he grunts, letting go of your hands to grasp at your hips. Using them as leverage, he fucks you onto him, cock kissing you in places you forgot about. You suppose maybe the marks he’ll leave on you is proof that this isn’t all something conjured up from your little high mind.

Brushing against your g-spot, you keen, hands flying to his arms, “Fuck, right there–ahh, d-don’t stop–more, p-please?”

Ah, there it is again, the saccharine sound that can only be described as his sanctuary, away from all the Devils, away from the reality that he unfortunately calls his life. But you make it better, overshadowing even the darkest parts of him, blanketing him with the wings on your back.

A slice of Heaven, just for him. Anything for you.

One hand slides from your hip to underneath your knee, hiking it over his shoulder, while your other leg gets pressed towards your chest, allowing Hirofumi to angle himself deeper into you. Your jaw drops, filled to the brim, his cock searching for that spot again that turns you into a blubbering mess. When he hits it, your hand flies out to grip at his, eyes on the verge of closing, but you want to look at him, show him what he does to you.

The both of you are speechless, save for the panting as he works himself into you. Your hair fans out into a makeshift halo, but Hirofumi has one of his own too, the moon casting a silver one over his head. A pair of angels you two are, submerged in a sea of unspoken words, chained to your pleasure, chained to each other.

You mewl, tears slipping from your eyes once more when his pelvic bone grinds against your clit. He coos, “There she is, my pretty angel,” you’re close, he can feel the ridges inside you start to tense again, nicking at his slit deliciously, “G-Gonna cum f’me again?” you nod and he nips your ankle, leaving a blossoming flower behind, “...I’m close too.”

Sheathing himself all the way in, it only takes a few more grinds into your clit and you whimper, nails digging into his wrist as your high slams into you, waves wiping your mind into a blank slate. He doesn’t bother to hush you, your high-pitched cries pushing him over his own cusp. The fluttering of your walls are so fucking good around his cock, milking him, coaxing him to cum, cursing when he paints your walls in his release.

Letting go of your legs, he lets you wrap them around his waist, lets you tug him closer so you can hide your face in his neck. He stills, rubbing soothing circles into your thigh with his nails, tenderly kissing your pulse. Slowly, you lay your head back down, raking your fingers in his hair. Even though you’ve explored each other, there’s always more to see, unable to take your eyes off him.

You thumb over the beauty mark near his lips and kiss it. He laughs, “Still ticklish.”

Sitting the both of you up, he stretches his sweater over your naked form, turning around to find his sweatpants. Picking up his cigarettes and lighter, he hears you gasp behind him, feeling your fingers tracing over his back, “When did you get this?”

“Hm? Oh,” he looks over his shoulder (though he actually can’t see anything), shrugging, “Client pays me in tattoo work instead.”

While he fishes out two cigarettes, shoving one of them between his lips, you spot a set of tally marks buried within another tattoo. It could pass off as shading, but you know him better than that. Over the click of his lighter, you tap it, “What’s this supposed to be counting?”

“Every time I–” he starts to say, but his words knot into a mess in his throat. If you were any other person, any other hook-up, anybody else on the street, he wouldn’t look twice. But he does because the cheeky smile you have on your face when your hand finds itself in his to pull him closer makes his heart palpitate, makes him think he’s revolving around the sun.

“Hm? Hirofumi–” a cigarette is pushed in between your lips too, effectively quieting you. His hand trails across your jaw to grip the back of your neck. Tugging you close, the both of you watch as the ember of his dart catches yours, and you inhale, blinking a few times at the rush of nicotine.

Forgetting about those tallies on his back, the question you’ve been hanging onto all these years seems much louder within the silence as you smoke. You’re about to ask, but Hirofumi beats you to it with one of his own, “How long does it take for instant ramen to cook?”

Not the question you’re hoping for, but you answer it, “Depends on the brand. Which one do you have?”

Always the fast smoker he is, he kills his cigarette and yours too, wasting no time in pulling you back towards the stairwell. Both your fingers intertwine, “The one that’s red and black.”

Perhaps that’s what you’ve been looking for this entire time to answer the question that’s only meant for Hirofumi. Because to anybody else, that would’ve been an awfully vague description, but because it’s you, you know exactly which brand he’s talking about.

There could be a thousand ways to ask it and another thousand ways to reply to it, but all of it doesn’t matter anymore.

The smile on him is all-knowing; it’s the one answer that’s only, and always, meant for you.

some notes: artwork referenced is by Rococo artist, Fragonard, <Aurora Triumphing over Night>. Tentacles are used to describe arms that only have suckers at the bottom. You guys may or may not care, but I do, so I avoided using that term to describe an octopus LOL

tagging: @cyancherub @izanasqueen | taglist

[sour-cherry-wine]

casual | dabi/touya todoroki

“My mom wants to meet you.”

It’s a sentence uttered as Touya pulls the T-shirt he’d discarded earlier (while he was pushing you toward your bed and sucking your tongue into his mouth) over his head. It comes as a shock, lying in your bed completely bare, still struggling to catch your breath. It shouldn’t make you feel excited in the way that it does, not when Touya has been more than clear about the nature of the relationship between the two of you. Nothing serious. No commitment.

Casual.

notes: hiiiii so this is just something I’ve been working on for a bittttt it’s inspired by causal by Chappell roan it’s nothing special but I just couldn’t get the idea out of my head so yeahhhh sorry for the severe lack of smut in a friends with benefits fic btw ahsjsjsjs thanks for reading hope u enjoy!!<3

warnings: 18+, minors dni, f!reader, explicit content, no quirk au, oral f!recieving, friends to lovers, friends with benefits, the todorokis are healing, dabi is called Touya throughout literally the entire thing

words: 4.1k

“My mom wants to meet you.”

It’s a sentence uttered as Touya pulls the T-shirt he’d discarded earlier (while he was pushing you toward your bed and sucking your tongue into his mouth) over his head. It comes as a shock, lying in your bed completely bare, still struggling to catch your breath. It shouldn’t make you feel excited in the way that it does, not when Touya has been more than clear about the nature of the relationship between the two of you. Nothing serious. No commitment.

Casual. 

“What?” You aren’t sure how you should respond, or what the right answer is. He shrugs, buttoning his jeans.

“You don’t have to. Just promised her I’d ask.” He says, turning around to dig through your dresser. He pulls out one of the shirts he’s left there and a pair of underwear for you, tossing the items your way. You change, covering yourself up before moving to sit in the middle of the bed, legs tucked underneath you. 

“You’ve been talking to her about me?” You question. You know it’s not what he wants to hear. 

Keep reading

[sour-cherry-wine]

lover of mine

* after one year of becoming the princess of a tiny, obscure country, you've had enough stress and craziness to last a lifetime. as soon as things start to seem a little more relaxed and exciting, you're told to marry in no less than 30 days. seems easy enough, until someone comes to cause more trouble than necessary.

* this will be a four part fic sort of based on princess diaries 2!

* royal!gojo x princess!fem!reader

* modern royal au, fluff, suggestive, eventual smut*, and some angst!

*********************************************************

chapter 1 - here comes trouble

chapter 2 - fine line

chapter 3 - taken

chapter 4 - only in dreams

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! this is my first longer series, so i am a little nervous!

* 18 plus only!

[sour-cherry-wine]

Here Comes Trouble

an: chapter one to my lover of mine series! i'll add the tag list in the comments.

A few weeks after the year anniversary of your coronation as the princess of Sendon, things are finally starting to feel real. Unfortunately for you, an afternoon of eavesdropping proves to be much messier than you thought

warnings: angst, food and drink mentions, reader wears dresses and makeup, royal AU and attitudes, misogynic behavior, swearing, tension

wc: 3.1k

Late spring meant for a lot of changes. New fabrics and decorations around the palace, new floral arrangements brought in at the start of each week, as well as many festivals and fundraisers to be planned. Aside from the smaller details, there were a lot of changes to your schedule as well.

Since becoming princess of Sendon, you've gained more responsibilities. Instead of sitting in on meetings, you've been asked to lead them. Appearances were no longer few and far between; your schedule is packed with them, constantly being arranged to fit just a few more. The newfound trust has been exciting, but tiring nonetheless. Thankfully your Grandmother, the Queen, has been extremely kind and involved in this strange transition.

You're grateful of course, as this has never been in your plans.

One year and a few short weeks ago, you stood front and center in the palace cathedral as the country cheered your name and you accepted your new role. Having a very mundane upbringing in the suburbs, graduating from public school and then college, you had never in million years thought you would receive this sort of news. Sure, you had read in books and heard bizarre stories about people across the world suddenly becoming famous, but they always seemed as if they would be just that; stories.

But now, as you sip your tea from the kitchen counter of the palace kitchen, those stories are very much your reality.

"Remember, you have a meeting with the queen right before lunch today," your secretary Utahime reminds you as she quickly walks into the kitchen, dropping off what you assume is a menu to the chef with a smile.

"I remember," you nod, slipping off of the marble to place your dishes near the sink. "Her office?"

Utahime nods, eyes skimming the calendar in her arms. "Maki and Mai have some outfit options in your room."

You hum. One of the best parts of your new role.

"Alright," you sigh. The clock over your very diligent secretary's shoulder reads about 10:00 AM. "I'll be there." She only nods in response once more, quickly shuffling out the door with a small wave.

You thank the kitchen staff with a smile before making your way upstairs. It's Monday morning, meaning your Grandmother is in and out of meetings with different departments, so you feel a little special that she has made time for you in your busy schedule.

The marble staircase in the middle of the palace is empty, save for a couple men who work to dust it. Come to think of it, you've seen more people than usual around this morning.

"Princess,"

"Maki, Mai, how are you two today?"

Maki comes around the corner from your bathroom and into your room. "Annoyed, and you?"

You snort. "Intrigued. What happened?"

Mai grabs three garment bags from their resting spot on your bed and hangs them from rolling wardrobe in the middle of your room. You lean against the mattress as the two girls work to unzip the bags.

"The Queen's assistants sent these up this morning," Mai grunts as she struggles with the zipper of one of the outfits. "and they have got to be the worst ones yet."

Each outfit is the exact same, just different colors. An A-line dress, just below the knee, with a matching coat, as well as a pair of plain white heels. At least you have the option between pale pink, blue, or yellow.

"They're not that bad," you stand up, feeling the fabric between your fingers. Most of the outfits you are provided are simple and clean: Princess Attire as your Grandmother calls it. "Blue is fine for today."

Maki and Mai share a glance, knowing you would pick that one. Mai trots off to your closet with the dress and shoes, while Maki zips up the remaining outfits.

"What are you meeting with the Queen about today?"

You follow Mai into the closet, grabbing a simple linen dress from the small section of clothes that actually belong to you. Slipping off your pajamas, you shrug.

"I actually have no clue. Normally, she fills me in but it's anyone's guess this time," the linen hits just above your knees, perfect for the sudden heat wave the kingdom is experiencing. Maki appears behind you suddenly, placing a pair of socks and shoes next to you. One thing the Queen has not been able to change, much to her dismay, is the way you dress in your free time.

"Thanks," Maki nods before grabbing the laundry. "Have you two heard anything?"

Your very loyal chambermaids share a look, before going back to what they were doing.

"So you have,"

"No!" They say in unison. Mai coughs.

"Well-"

"Mai."

Your eyebrows scrunch together while you do your hair quickly. The two rarely keep secrets from you, which means this must be something big.

"Please!" You exit the closet to find the two girls whispering to each other before jumping back to look at you. "C'mon, just tell me."

They stare at you with empathetic looks on their faces. You let out a defeated sigh before heading out the door.

"Fine, fine. I'll find out soon enough I suppose. I'll see you two in a bit," you wave and walk out the door, wracking your brain as to what today could be about. Your Grandmother is very close to you, sharing almost everything that goes on in the meetings you aren't invited to. She hasn't said a word though, which makes you anxious.

You decide to spend your free morning in the garden, checking on the different flowers the gardeners so kindly planted at your request. Right before you make it to the entrance of the garden, you hear the muffled voices of men from an open window. Shuffling over as quiet as you can, you crouch beneath the window and listen.

"It is possible, and it will have to be possible. She will not be without a spouse. She will be more respected that way." A few hums of agreement follow.

"That rule is old, and with all due respect Sir, that's why we haven't practiced it in what, 50 years? At least?" The voice of your Grandma comes through the window. She seems irritated, to say the least. The other voice wasn't as familiar.

"Your Highness, it's still in the law. And you of all people must know that we can't change it." That voice is much more familiar. Someone in parliament maybe?

"But, I don't think it's necessary. Shouldn't I of all people have the option to change that?"

A silence falls over the room, before someone clears their throat.

"I'm afraid you can't. Section three of the law states-"

"Okay, fine," the Queen walks over to the window. The way it creaks above your head, she must be leaning against the windowsill. You hold your breath, realizing your position for a moment. "Then she must wed."

Who's "she"?

"I say we give her a week."

"A week?" Your Grandmother shrieks, pushing off of the windowsill. Her heels click against the floor. "Absolutely not. Six months at lea-"

"Two months!"

"Ninety days!"

Arguments fill the air until a gavel strikes three times.

"Your Majesty," an elderly man speaks. "The law states that she will have thirty days. If she doesn't find someone in one month," his voice trails off. "She cannot be a princess anymore."

Your stomach sinks and your heart launches up into your throat. Your head spins and you feel sick. There's no way that-

"Then it will be done. I will bring this up to her today. We're meeting in an hour."

Your hands slam against the brick behind you and you start running. You rush through the gardens as fast as your legs will carry you, chest heaving. You could scream. You round the gates and slip through one of the side entrances and into the castle, dress in your fists as you hustle up the stairs.

"What the fuck," you slam your door, entering your chambers with labored breaths. You could scream. The sharp sound of your name fills the room.

"We don't have a lot of time, shower off quickly please," Utahime gives you a pointed look before rushing into your closet. You kick your shoes off at the entrance, throw your dress off and walk into the shower. It takes everything inside of you to not sink to the floor.

"You knew you had-"

"Not now Utahime, I really can't handle any lecturing," you flick the shower off and grab the towel that Mai holds for you outside of the shower walls. She gives you a sad, but understanding look.

"What happened?"

Your secretary can come off as quite severe, but she really is a sister to you. Only a couple years apart from each other meant you had a lot in common.

You huff as you dress quickly, forgoing the matching coat at the moment. As soon as the dress is zipped up, you plop into the vanity chair.

"While I was in the garden, I heard some talking going on from one of the meeting room windows. I stopped to listen and-"

Utahime cuts you off with a sigh. She sits down on the loveseat in the middle of your closet and glances over at you.

"You heard?"

You nod. Nobara comes in quickly, giving you a polite smile before beginning to brush your hair. She gives a glance to Maki and Mai who sit next to Utahime in a couple of chairs.

"God, you knew too? Why does everyone know me getting married before I do?"

Nobara shakes her head, grabbing a few things from the vanity before continuing with your hair. You groan. The entire time you've been a princess, your wishes have been respected. You've never been forced to an event you don't want to go to, you've always had the choice on your schedule for the day. This is new, and unwelcome.

You look at yourself in the mirror and frown. Being a wife was not something that was on your to-do list, and you are not looking forward to finding a husband.

"I'm sorry, I wish I could have told you. I didn't think you would find out this way." Utahime brings you your phone, and you shrug.

"Not your fault. I feel sick," you put your head in your hands. "I bet they have someone lined up for me. Some old royal from who knows where," you close your eyes as Nobara moves on to your makeup, working quickly as you don't have a lot of time. Maki hums in agreement.

The minutes pass in silence, only the sounds of Nobara's quick hands and your chambermaids picking things up fill the room. By the time you're ready to go, you are at a loss. Emotionally and verbally. You look in the mirror one last time. Nobara did a light makeup look and a simple low bun. You thank her before slipping on your heels and heading out the door.

"Good luck," Mai sighs as she leans against one of your bedposts. Maki stands by her side with an apologetic smile.

"Thanks you two. Hopefully, I'll see the two of you at lunch?"

They nod as you and Utahime begin your walk to the Queen's office. You don't say anything at first, and either does she, until her phone chimes.

"The Queen is running late," she mumbles, typing a response while the two of you go down the stairs. "She said she will be there in about thirty minutes and sends her apologies." You roll your eyes.

"I'm going to the garden," Utahime raises her eyebrows. "I'll be on time, I promise. I just need some air." She nods and you walk down the hallway and out the side door. As soon as you walk into the garden, you feel like you can breathe again. Your mind is racing, thoughts of what on earth your Grandma is thinking, mixed with anger at every stupid male in parliament stir in your brain. As you turn to follow the path to the fountain, you run into something.

Or, someone.

"Oh! I'm so sorry,"

"Princess! My apologies, I am so sorry. I should have been looking where I was going."

Before you is a man, much taller than you, with hair white as snow. He's wearing navy slacks, a white button-up, and expensive-looking tan leather shoes. His eyes are wide, and you are sure you've never seen eyes so blue. He's fit, looks about your age, and he's gorgeous. Not only that, but you've never seen him before.

"I'm fine, are you okay? No need to apologize!" You wave him off and smile. He lets out a sigh of relief and gives you a smile of his own. You almost swoon, and you would have if a royal gardener in the corner of your eye wasn't there to remind you of your situation.

"How rude of me. My name's Satoru. I am so honored to meet you, Princess," he bows, grabbing your hand in his before mumbling your name in a sweet voice. He places a kiss to the back of your hand and you nod. You're buzzing, but the months of practice your Grandmother put you through a year ago have you trained to not show it.

Almost.

"S-Satoru! It's nice to meet you. I don't think I've seen you before," your head tilts, and he smirks.

"No, I don't think we've ever met. I'm not from here, actually."

You stand in silence for a second, trying to figure out what to say. He truly was taking your breath away. Your mouth opens to speak, but your sentence dies on your tongue.

"Princess, she's ready for you!"

Your head whips around to where Utahime stands at the entrance of the garden, waving you down. Satoru nods at her, before bowing slightly at you.

"I'm sorry, I have to go. It was lovely to meet you Satoru. I hope you enjoy the garden!" You wince and walk away, looking at him over your shoulder.

"You as well, Princess. I hope we can see each other again."

You follow behind Utahime, and the two of you speed walking into your Grandma's office. She sits at her desk, looking over a few forms with her own secretary and someone else from the palace, you're not sure who.

"There she is!" she beams up at you once she looks away from the forms, nodding at her secretary before they shuffle out the doors. As soon as the heavy wood shuts behind you, you give her a blank stare.

"Nice to see you too," she states sarcastically, throwing the papers on her desk. You continue to stand. "Are you going to have a seat, or continue to throw a fit standing there?"

You huff and sit down. "Do you have something to say to me?"

She looks at you, confused, and shakes her head.

"You don't? Not even something about a wedding?" Utahime says your name under her breath, but you ignore her. She may be afraid of the Queen, rightfully so, but you aren't. Your grandma closes her eyes and sighs.

"Who told you?"

"I heard it myself. This morning, in fact." You're fuming. If you could see yourself, you'd be positive you would have steam coming out of your ears.

"I tried, sweetheart. I really did. I can't fight the law, you heard me! If I could I would, and you know that." She stands up and walks towards you, standing in front of you to lean against her desk. "I don't know what else to say, other than I'm sorry. I only want what's best for you."

You look up at her with tears in your eyes, unsure if they're from anger or sadness. She clicks her tongue and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"Bastards, all of them. I don't understand why I, the Queen, can't change the rules. But you know, you don't have to go through with this."

You look up at her and furrow your brows.

"This kingdom means the world to me. I can't just abandon everyone like that. I may be young, but I'm not a coward." Your Grandma smiles at you. You stand up and walk towards the window, looking out at the area of the kingdom in view. "I don't want to stop being Princess, just because of some stupid rule that a bunch of old men won't change." You turn to her and take a deep breath.

"If finding someone to marry is what it takes, then I'll do it. As long as I get to pick who."

Your Grandma laughs and walks over to you, pulling you into a hug.

"I admire your strength and commitment, it's inspiring," when she pulls away she holds your arms. "But that doesn't mean I don't want what's best for you. If at any point you don't want to do this, tell me. I know I can get something figured out." You nod, tears threatening to spill from your eyes once more. After a few moments of collecting yourself, you follow your Grandma back to her desk.

"So, what did you want to meet about today?"

She laughs. "Besides the obvious, I wanted to fill you in on something going on at the palace."

You nod and reclaim your seat. "Sure, what's going on?"

"We are having our Summer's Eve ball in a month, so preparations for that have already begun. Utahime will be coordinating with Ms. Kugisaki and yourself about a dress this week. I think that would be a perfect opportunity for you and your," she pauses, giving you a sympathetic look. "new husband to make your debut to the kingdom. I won't advertise it as such, but I want you to be aware of that." You nod distastefully, and she continues.

"Besides the excitement, we have a guest staying at the palace this summer, starting today."

Your ears perk up. The only time guests have ever stayed at the palace since you've been here was your own family and friends for the holidays.

"Who is it?" You lean forward, grinning with excitement. Your Grandma shares your attitude, clapping her hands together.

"He's the son of one of the members of parliament, actually. He's spending the summer with us to see how the castle is run, the day-to-day operations, and everything like that," she opens her mouth to continue, but she's interrupted.

"Madam, he's ready if you are." Her bodyguard, Masamichi calls from the doors of her office. She nods at him, motioning for you to stand up.

"Grandma, I don't understand, who-"

"Your majesty, it's so good to see you again."

Your eyes shoot up, and your jaw drops to the floor. From the other side of the doorway, Utahime looks at you, palms to the ceiling and a shocked look on her face.

"Sweetheart, I would like you to meet Sir Gojo Satoru, our guest for the summer."

[sour-cherry-wine]

how would gojo treat his partner/wife?

gojo doesn't really do the whole boyfriend thing very well, not for lack of trying but he's made it very clear. or as clear as "i've never had a girlfriend" can be. which pretty much explains everything.

there are late-night meetups and month-long breaks in between. maybe a gift or two when he's trying to make up for something, it's the only way he knows how to apologize. the latest being cartier bracelets tucked in a red bag, one he holds up to your face eagerly wishing that you'd just forget he's so flawed, in no way ready for commitment, or to talk about it. "i'm sorry, it's just really complicated," he'll sigh. nothing holds gojo down you think. he comes and goes as he pleases. always growing, changing, keeping the end of the world from happening all in plain sight while you move on with a life filled with mundane things he’s probably got no time or reason to care about.

it feels a lot like loving a god sometimes, how he's just that bit out of touch, and...impossible. one who’s desperately trying to be human. with so much fear in his shaking hands and bated breaths, with his lip tucked between teeth, holding back the words he shall never utter, 'don't leave, don't look at me, don't touch me where it hurts.’ gojo treats you—at least initially—like he would anyone else. like he’s learning to love for the first time.

backdraft or whatever they call it. opening a door to a burning house, a fire that bursts and screams at the first rush of oxygen. he wants you to step inside and manage these tempers, seething and roiling resentment, a roof that falls in on itself. 

all this and he's yet to tell you how he really feels about you, however, every once in a while, he does make the effort to call.

“hey it's me,” he says the moment you answer because who else would it be at this hour...does that thing with his voice that's so effortless. warm, and inviting. seductive really. ringing through right as the snow outside begins to frost over wilting leaves.

“sorry, don’t think i know who this is,” you reply, adding a playful lilt to the end of it. there’s a low chuckle in return, then the rustling of sheets, it’s enough to paint you a picture of him in bed. a very large bed from what you remembered, but the last time you’d stopped by his place, there'd been no need for accurate measurements, thread counts, and whether or not he’d gone with sustainable options. in fact, there was no need for talking at all, only muffled moans into the crook of your neck, a whining plea here or there. gojo likes to grit through his teeth, pausing before every first thrust, a savourer is he.

speaking of which, he asks, “how’d you like a reminder?”

you weigh things out, tucking your phone between ear and shoulder. "it's a tempting offer...but i'm starting to feel a little used here," you say. this is just a check-in point for him. just so he knows he still can have his fill of you and...whatever it is you bring to the table, he hasn't actually told you.

'it's the sex' your brain reminds you—all the multiple orgasms in under an hour–type sex, in an onsen, over a balcony, backshots and binding you to fancy rig, will accept a blowjob only if you want to, eager to please, so willing to learn—no, that's not true, the both of you are so much more than that. you talk about very important things like the news and whats good on tv right now. just as long as it doesn't have anything to do with his past or his future or what exactly is the state of this relationship...so it's definitely the sex.

"i thought that's what you wanted, weren't you screaming it at the top of your lungs that night?" for effect, he acts it out for you, "oh use me, do whatever you like," he doesn't try to pitch his voice higher, which makes it all the more embarrassing when hearing your own words said back to you with such impassiveness, such tease. who you were during the throes of passion is not the same person outside of it. to think he'd been a virgin when he met you.

"that selective memory of yours never ceases to amaze me," you can't help the smile that widens on your face.

he smiles too, despite not being able to see it, you know it's there. "well im a very selective man, i don't just ask anyone on a date." you roll your eyes at that. oh how you should feel so lucky. most times he chooses the place because gojo likes what he likes and your recommendations end up getting shot down or made fun of anyways.

you'd say the best part is that he shows up every time. something about how he detests people who flake on him. which is surprising because if anyone were to be tardy and forgetful, it'd be the man who's maybe a bit too blase about anything that doesn't hold his interest for long. that includes when and where his missions are, a flailing hand brushing off any bit of urgency or seriousness. picks and chooses the things he finds worthy of his efforts, his overly exaggerated bouts of emotion—"you wanna go sit by a lake and talk?" people often say he talks too much, besides didn't he just get off the phone with you hours ago.

"we're bonding, there's a difference," you defend, putting your foot down on the matter. if it'd been months earlier, you wouldn't have thought to stand your ground, and maybe a part of you would have been anxious over his reaction but gojo only gives you a pout. shiny, moistened lips giving it away, he's not coming out of this one without a fight and he's annoyed about it. reluctant.

so he'll make an exception, "fine, we'll psychoanalyze each other, how exciting—" the sarcasm is slathered and piled on thick. if he weren't masked you'd kick him in the shin for that eye roll he gives you, childlike almost, given the chance he might even stick his tongue out, "—but i get to choose the place, ah, ah, it's about compromise darling."

——————————————————

later on, when he's three parfaits deep into a sugar rush at a maid cafe, he admits, "you scare me sometimes," of course, he understands the importance of communication, and getting to know one another is part of the deal, this is what girlfriends and boyfriends do, but— "how are you still here?" there's something hidden in his question, sometimes it feels almost like he's testing you to see if you'd be offended, taken aback, huffing out indignantly and stomping away, making him watch you leave.

still, your answer remains the same. "i like you," you sigh out into the night, feeling his arms wrapped around your middle. gojo doesn't need worshipping or sacrifices made to please and appease, but he’s feeling ten feet tall in this body, too long and large, housing power he didn’t ask for. 

“you really mean that?” he whispers in the crook of your neck, you don’t miss the hint of self-deprecation there, or the uncertainty.

so you reach a hand up, just enough to hold his head full of self-doubt, “yes," is all that's needed for him to crumble. walls coming down.

"you're the only woman i've ever been with," he admits. waiting for the moment you face away from him so it's not as revealing, not as vulnerable, and he can say it with just that little bit of courage because he wouldn't see your reaction, he's escaped death many times, he'd be able to say it now, say it here. "and i intend to keep it that way..." you know he's waiting in anticipation for the final blow, the real death that comes for him is when he loses you because of how unlikely it sounds, gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, only bedded one woman.

his fingers come up to graze the slope of your shoulder, before he wraps an arm around your chest, pressing his weight into you from behind, wrapping you up, only it's ten times heavier when his admission presses down on your thumping little heart alongside with it.

——————————————————

in the middle of a restaurant in ginza, gojo breaks his chopsticks in half along a deep line with fine precision, before rubbing them back and forth to remove the thin, stray hairs of aspen. there are people who look up when the sound catches their attention, then avert their eyes away. but not before lingering over his striking looks for that split second, blue eyes and white hair, what a combo.

he barely notices at this point, but he does know you’re watching from where you sit. food untouched, like you’re waiting for something to happen. you don’t need his permission he thinks, or at least, no one had ever waited for it. so he explains before you get the chance to ask, getting it out of the way and maybe then you’ll start digging in and he wouldn’t have to sit in this weird, silent tension, “he always did it this way,” gojo shrugs. 

you don’t ask who 'he' refers to, “i wasn’t going to say anything,” you reply, nodding along, trying to ease some of the nerves there because this isn't to do with the chopsticks, but that gojo gets like this around christmas. actually, he gets like this almost all the time these days. 

“why aren’t you eating? the unagi’s really nice,” he points to the piece of eel that’s cooked to perfection, glazed and sticky. “is it not to your liking?” he looks up quickly, searching your face, looking for any sign of distaste. 

“it’s fine,” you stop him from waving down the waiter, knowing he intends to order something else for you. but he never asks, not about what you would prefer or if you had any aversions to seafood. instead, he plays a guessing game, only tries, and tries again. hoping that he’d get it right immediately. just another thing satoru does. that he's way more accommodating than most would give him credit for. so much so you forget that he's barely touched the unagi himself, choosing instead to nudge it closer to you.

and maybe he’d been to used to this, maybe he’d always gotten it right with the one before you, maybe that’s why it hurts so much. and you're too occupied with wiping tears behind a blindfold that night to make sense of it when he can’t stop dreaming about long silken hair tucked into a bun, of a scent that lingers on a street crossing and by a classroom window.

still, he tucks a finger underneath the band. revealing clumped-up strands of white, silver, grey...a storming ocean swirls. a woman finally found, what a sight to behold. who chooses him and cleaves his heart in two every time she so much as smiles, calls him by his name, and touches his skin with her own. gently at first and then in a pressured, firm grip. "i'm not going anywhere," hand wholly encompassing his, fingers entwined, or maybe it's the other way around. gojo's got a wide expanse of palm, life and heart lines spanning across a region of an untouched, unmarred surface, all the power to bend space, time, and an infinity simmering above it.

“it’s gonna be okay,” you say, feeling a minuscule gap close where you finally feel him, really feel him.

[sour-cherry-wine]

PENITENCE — leon s. kennedy x male reader

w.c: ~5.3k

warning: sub bottom reader, thigh fucking, spit, standing doggy style, dirty talk, leon’s weak pullout game x2, mixed praise/degradation, oral, choking, sexualizing las plagas, breeding mentions, sir kink, finger hooking, drool, infected leon is a lil mean, dumbification, accidental creampie

a/n: got a loooot of requests for a sequel to this!! so here it is! i hope you enjoy! ૮꒰ ´͈ ˙̫ `͈ Ꮚ꒱ა this fic had a mind of its own!! didn get to write leon as feral as i wanted to but… that’s okay!

You’ve never been shot before. Punched, sure, clean in the jaw in the midst of a training session. It caught you so off guard you nearly swallowed your teeth, and the blood gushing from your nose and coating the pearls tasted like rusty gunmetal. But it really didn’t hurt that bad, you felt more congested than anything.

You've never been shot before. Stabbed, sure, right through the hand until thick blood poured straight out your palm like nature’s greatest waterfall. It wasn’t as sharp as you’d think, not some sort of pinch akin to getting a piercing. No, it was panic first, your eyes trailed down to meet the handle of a hunting knife that cut clean through your palm. Then came the realization, Scorching heat beaming through your hand until it began to tremble. But hand wounds heal fast, you barely remember it.

You’ve never been shot before. Grazed, sure, blasted with the shells of a silver shotgun bullet so hard it seared your skin and left an open-mouthed gash. Your bullet ricocheted off an unknown surface, all because you’d taken it upon yourself to practice your aim alone. But it was just a graze, and so long ago the scar had begun to fade.

So the first time it happens, you’re taken for a loop.

Your legs burn, aching as you trudge beside Leon in his hasty motion up a particularly slippery hill. It’s like you’ve been walking in circles, deeper and deeper into the village but somehow passing the same bloodstained tree. For a man who was over a hundred fifty pounds of sheer force and willpower, he sure was light on his toes. Had there not been moisture from previous nights’ rain still lingering in the air you're sure it’d be easier— no mud to slip on, no pockets of rainwater that looked much more shallow than they actually were— but it lingers.

And it’s not just that, there’s an everlasting tremor in your thighs as you walk, you can barely take a few steps without your movements stuttering. You can’t excuse it as a pulled muscle, not when Leon’s been forcing you to sit back and observe. Though it’s partially his fault, you deduce, because you can see the growing pride in his stride as he listens to your trip over your own feet. Almost like it was a mission, fuck the rookie until he cries and let him walk for himself.

Asshole.

You can’t stop talking, not when your brain is working overtime and you have so many questions. Though it’s not entirely clear if he’s listening, Leon’s body subconsciously teeters in your direction, almost like he’s trying to collect your body heat. He’s certainly done that, that and much more. He’s stolen the air from your lungs with a heavy kiss, he’s collected the sounds of your moans and sealed them in a jar.

You spare him a heavy glance, watching the muscles in his back ripple as he marches through the thickening mud. You wish you’d gotten the chance to see him without it, to card your fingers through the strong fabric as he pulls his shirt over his head and balls it up in his veiny fists. To watch his hair fall, golden bundles framing his face and falling back into place like magic, nearly swept over his eye and so unabashedly Leon.

“Would you stop staring at me?” There’s a playful edge to his voice, teetering around the edges as he blows a bullet straight through the frail neck of an infected resident. You’re too focused on the nape of his neck to watch it explode, an amalgamation of blood and arteries and fat splattering onto the ground and surrounding houses. “I mean, if you want a picture all you have to do is ask.”

You can tell he’s somehow watching you through the corner of his gunmetal gray eyes, with your blatant staring, but he doesn’t seem to have much on the tip of his tongue besides a few smartmouthed remarks. Maybe he has eyes behind his full head of hair.

“Ha-ha, very funny.” You purse your lips, tightening your grip around the flashlight paving the way forward.

Truthfully, you’d underestimated just how much cardio and legwork it took to navigate this village— sure, the implication of missing hikers in the area meant there’d be a trail to hike, but in your head it was much more akin to training. Controlled, steep hills that didn’t continue on as far as the eye can see, an obstacle course that had an obtainable goal— it feels like you’re wandering aimlessly.

But Leon’s with you, so surely that can’t be right.

You wonder how much preparation and time he took into this, how many nights of sparring turned into considering your presence under the same blanket of stars, how often he made things with you in mind. Even if it’s just for a mission.

Quite frankly, it was all the time. Thinking of you put an indescribable amount of weight on his chest, it capsized his shoulders, so feathery light, and yet somehow still managed to put strain on his posture. He was always so laid back, cracking jokes and likable by definition. Yet there he stood, second guessing his abilities in protecting you, having you, wooing you. Ashley is his priority. . . but you’re his partner.

And he wants more.

“Leon?” Apprehension builds in your voice, Leon’s steady stride suddenly broken as he looks down at his hands. You bump right into him, colliding face-first into his body. His back is just as sturdy as it looks, barely jolting as you peek around to look at his handsome face.

His veins are turning black, coiling up his wrists from his hands, inky black streaks that branch off up his forearm and disappear under his shirt. Even the thicker veins decorating his bicep— they’ve become an ugly charcoal that looks entirely too unnatural. Painful. As if leeches have burrowed themselves under his skin, the intrusion crawls further into his bloodstream as small, deep grunts escape from his lips.

You still have yet to ask what happened during your separation— after you ran. But, in a way, you’ve got your answer.

“You with me, Lee?” You search his face for something, anything, under the furrowed brows and clenched teeth. His jaw sets, characteristically rigid, which is a generous start. Somewhere beneath the icy blue of his eyes you see recognition, like he’s not exactly looking at you, but he knows you’re there. Lucid enough. Good.

But without Leon leaving a path of bodies for you to walk over, you have to take over and pave the way.

“I’m gonna take your gun, okay?” It’s rhetorical, whether he likes it or not, because he took your gun away before you truly had the chance to use it— and it’s not entirely like he’s in the position to be making demands. You wish you could laugh about it, let a boyish smile wiggle its way across your face, but without Leon there to laugh with you… there’s no point.

And, like most instances, you find yourself jumping into action before you can think, dragging every pound of steel Leon has to offer through the village until you can find somewhere safe. It happens all too fast. One moment, you’re holding onto the pistol while wrapping an arm around Leon’s waist, blowing holes through the infected like you were made for it, watching their bodies topple to the ground in a lifeless display. Then. . .

“Fuck, oh fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Your heart plummets into your stomach, you can’t help but think you’ve swallowed a bomb. Your blood is cold on your slick skin, flowing down your bicep like sort of fucked up waterfall. It’s thick and sticky, a rich shade of red that only seems to get darker and darker as it pours from your arm. You can’t help but call for your partner, tightening your grip on his waist. “Leon…”

Getting grazed is not the same.

There’s a similar burn, but this time it’s from the outside-in and back out again. Like you’ve been stung by a swarm bees, all at the same time, and in the same exact spot.

It happened so fast, threw you for a loop, the metal of an axe bounced your bullet right back at you, and landed right through your arm.

Your eyes widen, jittery as Leon parts his legs, planting his boots into the mud in a futile attempt at staying upright. Selfless as ever, the blond just can’t seem to sit still when he knows someone he cares about is in danger.

His dusty pink lips are curled into a snarl, one of his veiny hands clasped over your own; fisting at the bunched up fabric by his waist. His eyes, previously clenched shut, are no longer a brilliant shade of blue— they’ve turned yellow, bright like a citrusy candy. His face, still as handsome as before, is adorned with streaky, black veins that cluster near his left cheekbone and disappear into his cheeks. Instinctively, you raise your arm to swipe away his hair in a half-assed attempt at consolation, but the movement burns before you can put away your pistol.

Leon’s eyes flicker to your bicep, watching the red ooze from the inflamed bullet-shaped hole. His gaze darkens, something you can’t quite grasp flashing in his eyes as he takes the gun from your hand and pushes you behind him.

“Leon—”

“Move! Now!” His voice is much deeper than before— still buttery smooth, just dropping in octaves as he yells into the night air. You don’t have to be told twice, stumbling in the mud as he pushes you in the general direction of an abandoned house. In a perfect world you’d use your knife to help, but something tells you sticking around would just worsen the situation for everyone.

So you rush into the house, bursting through the creaky door as gunshots ring behind you. Almost as loud as the static in your ears, buzzing as you search for a closed off room.

The house is empty, fairly sized— equipped with a staircase that leads upstairs. Bedrooms, you presume, since there are only bathrooms and living spaces on the first floor. The floorboards whine and groan under your weight, tracking mud as you keep your hand clasped over your bicep. It probably won’t make much of a difference now, but the bleeding has subsided into thick clots, which momentarily lightens your mood.

You don’t have much on you, it’s best to travel light when you have places to be— heavy backpacks can weigh you down. But you do have a few bandages and travel-sized disinfectant wipes. You can only help Leon effectively if you help yourself first— you’re dead weight if you go back out there dipped in blood— so you get to work.

It’s hasty, messy, and unorganized, but you get it done. Your bicep is wrapped snug, with enough pressure to support your arm without cutting off any circulation. It’s the best you can do for now, with the panic and anxiety blooming in your throat. It burns like bile, attacking your senses until all you can think of is Leon. The look on his face, the sounds of his pained grunts, the veins darkening beneath his skin.

As if he’s heard you, your silent prayers for his presence in its entirety, he crashes through the door. It squeals on its hinges, slamming shut behind him as his heavy boots collide with the wooden floorboards. You can’t quite make out anything else, just the sound of his shoes as he walks through the hall, and into the bathroom.

Maybe it’s just a hunch, an inference, but there’s irritation floating between his steps. You can feel it radiating off him despite not exactly being near him. The sound of poorly running water emits from the small room, muffled through the door, along with a steadier stream of swears.

“Leon?” You ask, pushing yourself off the wooden diningroom chair with the support of your unwounded arm. Would it be best to give him some space? But that’s not really an option, not with what you witnessed. Not with that intrusion trying to take over his body. “I’m coming in.”

Nearly tripping over the red rug decorating the hallway between the bathroom and living spaces, you clumsily open the bathroom door. Just Leon— sitting on the wide ledge of the bathroom’s squat toilet, his gun discarded on the opposing mantel. You can’t see his face, not with his hair casting silky shadows along the expanse of it, but you can picture his tight lipped expression just fine.

The thought makes heat burst through your skin. Nowhere near as painful as a gunshot wound. This time it’s comforting and sweet, it makes your legs feel like jelly and your heart like jam.

“Ocupado,” He sounds rather proud of himself for that one, readjusting his spot on the ledge. The blond lifts his gaze, shades of blue overcasting the previous yellow hues that once clouded his vision. “How do you feel..Your arm..?”

You should be asking him that.

“I’m good,” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, the strain of your shoulders dissipating into the air the longer you look at him. “You know me. Are you…okay?”

Perhaps ‘okay’ isn’t the word for it. You want to ask if he feels weird, if the deepening of his veins bothers him. What it felt like when he was rendered unconscious. When you felt it— tied to that damned cross— it wasn’t nearly as bad as Leon. In fact, it didn't hurt you at all. You didn’t even notice until the entirety of your arms were decorated in pure, black branches.

“Yeah,” He blinks, not once removing his gaze from the curl of your lips. Still so shiny and wet, soft as they curl with every vowel and syllable that leaves them. He swallows hard, audible as his adam’s apple bobs in his throat. Your eyes trace the small mole just below it, the way his throat bulges. “I’m okay. For the most part.”

He doesn’t seem entirely there, lifting himself up wordlessly until he’s crashing into you, his large, gloved hand finding a place around your neck as he pulls you into a kiss.

The bathroom isn’t an ideal place to do it, though you suppose you two don’t have a clean track record of kissing in the best places. He swallows the air from your lungs, deep and gentle as his lips melt into yours. He tastes just like he did a few hours, just slightly saltier. He tastes like you, you’re still heavy on his tongue and it seems he’s hooked on your flavor.

His tongue is silky, messy in your mouth as you try your hardest to absorb his heat. His mouth is so warm, so wet, and you can’t help but whimper when he pulls away. You want to chase it, that heat, so you can’t help yourself when you follow after his lips.

Oh.

Leon’s eyes— they’re red, and the impossibly dark streaks under his skin are somehow darker.

“Your—”

“I wanna fuck you so bad,” It leaves his lips before the both of you have time to process it. He’s much more surprised than you, pink roses blooming on the apples of his cheeks despite the clear obstruction of his body. You appreciate the honesty, clearing your throat to mask the laugh bubbling in your chest. Leon’s okay, and he’s not just saying it. “…Sorry.”

Leon’s red-eyed gaze is casted to the side, but even in his efforts to avoid looking at you, he can’t help himself. It’s cute, really, charming enough to have your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

“Then do it.”

Blue embers sparkle in his eyes, and suddenly you’re being pulled out the cramped bathroom. Whatever he’s infected with, it’s heightened his abilities, because his grip on your wrist feels just as strong as the rusty chains in the cathedral. He’s holding onto you like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t, an iron grip that feels more comfortable than painful. And through it all, he’s cautious of your injury.

It doesn’t stop him from slapping you against the wall, your back colliding with the old, peeling wallpaper with a loud thud.

“You’re sure—” You start, the words catching in your throat when Leon’s strong hands tear your shirt apart, straight through the middle. The cold air hits you instantly, sending shivers up your spine as you whine in protest. “I only have one shirt!”

“I have a jacket.” His answer is barely audible, as he’s too busy watching the rise and fall of your chest with hungry, predatory eyes. You’re looking at Leon, who has every feature of the man. . . But he feels different. He feels bigger, in every sense of the word, towering over you as his red eyes study you like a bloodthirsty shark.

Next are your pants, you take the liberty of unbuckling your utility belt, keeping your gaze on Leon as he watches your hands pull them down. A considerate patch of sticky wetness decorates the front of your boxers, darkening and dampening the fabric. Leon’s pink tongue slides over his equally pink lips, whatever restraint he’s using slowly slipping away. You expect him to follow suit, but his hands are on you and he’s guiding you down to your knees.

Your face nuzzles against the fabric of his pants, thick but nowhere near as thick as his cock, which has a prominent, twitching outline.Your mouth waters, saliva pooling between your lips as your eyes flutter shut and he presses your cheek against his dick, firm and rough. His hands are so big, cupping the back of your head as he releases a small, hushed groan.

Leon watches you unzip his pants with parted lips and a baited breath. You look so damn pretty, eyes glazed over within the matter of a few seconds and a stupid look in your eye the second you see his dick again. Like you’ve missed it, when it was only just a few hours ago when he was buried deep inside you. He lets you push his pants down to his ankles, your eyes roaming along the skin of his toned thighs, which black vines slowly creep down.

You press a pretty, openmouthed kiss against the head of his cock, watching precum bead at the tip and smear across your lips. Such a sweet boy, kissing his cock as a greeting.

“Goddamn, you’re so cute,” His grip travels down your face to the top of your neck, where your throat meets your jaw. Your gaze is forced upward, straight into Leon’s vermillion irises as he offers a small squeeze. “Just a little slut. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Mhm, yeah,” You pant against his skin, shimmying forward to grind your front against the leather of his boot. “For you— just for you, Sir.”

Yeah, you could get used to this. The girth of his cock, the vein that disappears beneath the pretty head of his dick, the way his balls weigh heavily against your chin. His pubes are a deeper shade of brown, slightly curly and enough that makes you want to bury your nose in it. He’s so sticky, slick and wet like he’s been thinking about this for a while. The thought of Leon gripping himself through his pants is just so hot, the way he’d buck up into his fist and imagine it’s you instead. The way he’d groan and moan into the air, chasing after some artificial tightness that could only simulate you. Your mouth, your hole.

“Think you can be a good boy for me?” You chase after his cock as he pulls it away, gripping it by the base with a gloved hand. You can only imagine how good the leather of his fingerless gloves feel against it. He coos at your attempts to follow along, meanly slapping the weight of his dick against your cheek until you’re messy with precum. “Hm? Yeah?”

You nod frantically, opening your mouth and covering your bottom row of teeth with your tongue. You can be good, you can be good for Leon.

Tears spring in your eyes the second he’s pushing into your mouth, groaning at the sound of your gags as his cock slides in and out, deeper and deeper without warning. He can’t help it, not when you’re drooling all over his pants and whining for it. Not when you’d look so cute hazy eyed and stained with tears as he fucks your throat. Not when your throat bulges around his cock, letting out wet squelches as you struggle to keep your eyes open and watch his hips snap against you.

“That’s it,” Leon sighs, shaky and content as he holds you in place. His good boy. “Just like that, you take it so—f-hucking—good.”

You lurch back, tears blurry in your eyes as you sputter and gag. His precum is salty and warm, coating your throat as you flutter your eyes and hold onto the swell of Leon’s strong, thick thighs. Heat ripples through your body in waves as a low growl rumbles in his throat, bouncing into your ears.

“Shh, I know, I know. Don’t run from me, let me in,” He coos, sliding his long cock from your mouth to watch a long trail of your spit thin out the further he pulls away. “It’s just too big for you, is that right? Hard to focus on anything when all you can think of is dick.”

You’re breathing heavily, panting loud as you slowly register the mess on your face, your chin. Your lips feel swollen, but your mouth feels empty. You must have a particularly dumb look on your face because it pulls a laugh out of the man in front of you, rich and hearty as he lifts you up with an authoritative hand around your throat.

“C’mere.” He mumbles, pulling you in to pepper messy kisses along your jaw. He’s more impulsive, you gather, with whatever’s coursing through his veins. Rougher too, with the way his hand tightens around your throat when he’s throwing commands at you. You don’t mind it, not at all. In fact, it’s made you all hazy, you feel like you’re traveling through a thick layer of fog as you nod along. You want to be good, to earn his praise.

Leon’s hands travel to your waist, dipping into the plush skin until your thighs are spread just far enough for his cock to fit between them. You’ve never felt so exposed, whining high in your throat no matter how pathetic it sounds, and pressing your body against his firm chest.

His cock feels as big as it looks, long and curved as he slides it between your thighs. You can feel every twitch and pulse, you’re sure he can feel you too— with how he’s grunting and groaning against your neck. He fucks into your thighs like he’s chasing after something, trying to satiate it. His grip is punishing, the pads of his fingertips digging into your skin until it hurts.

“I can’t,” You whine, shaking your head as you watch his cock disappear between your thighs. “S’not— I wanna—”

“You can,” Leon growls, making a low warning of a noise in his throat as he tuts in disapproval. It goes straight to your stomach, tingles shocking your body as you clench around nothing. “And you will.”

Instead of keeping you upright by the throat, Leon’s hands leave you to fend for yourself as he slides them down your supple skin, down every dip and curve and slope, until he’s playing with the leftover stickiness of your hole.

You’re certain there’s nowhere near as comfortable as Leon’s arms. They’re big and strong, plush and warm against your skin, and firm in your hand when he’s flexing. They keep you secure and safe, protected from whatever monstrosities are in this godforsaken place, you’re sure he’d hold you till you both fell asleep, and you’d be enveloped in his warmth.

He smells just as warm too, faintly of vanilla underneath all that sex and remnants of polluted air.

“Christ, you’re so… Warm around my fingers. Give it to me, baby, let me fuck you with my fingers.”

You love his warmth, it spreads across your body and travels down your chest, your stomach, your thighs, until he’s taking you apart with it. His fingers are so warm, so thick and perfect as they fuck into you. Even when you’re sloppy like this, sucking his fingers back in like you’d never wanted to be left empty again in the first place, working your hips back to chase after his knuckles. The warmth of his arms as he flips you around, pushes your weight into his own by the base of your neck, maneuvers you just right, keeps you open and vulnerable for him. All for him.

Yeah, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

“Hey, you with me?” It’s his turn to ask, and you wonder if he felt the same butterflies you did.

“Yeah, I’m,” You’re breathlessly spreading your legs and pulling yourself apart with the warmth of your palms to reveal the puffiness of your hole, fucked out and shiny from earlier’s abuse. Leon wonders how easy it’d be to slip back in, to inch his cock deeper and deeper inside as you flutter around him and keen with oversensitivity. “M’with you, Sir.”

“Atta boy,” The smile he flashes is all teeth, dangerous and sharp as his canines glint in the dim lighting. You have half the heart to be a bit scared, but it doesn’t mean much when he’s working you open when you’re already so sensitive. Your hips jitter, twitching both toward and away from his fingers as he presses against that same bundle of nerves from earlier— it’s too much. This time you really mean it, because the second he hits it, tears spring in your eyes and you’re fisting remnants of the peeling wallpaper like a lifeline. “Greedy little hole. Didn’t you just take me?”

“Ohh, oh, God! Leon,” He hums in acknowledgement, as if he’s actually listening to your mindless babbling, nodding with lidded eyes as he uses your hips to pull you down onto his fingers. He’s using you like some kind of toy, moving you with one hand as you sit there and take it. You’re melting into the wall, drool slipping through the seam of your lips and trailing down your exposed chest. “You— your fingers, feel so good.”

“I know, baby.”

The way you’re convulsing around his fingers is telling, crying and sobbing and squealing into the wallpaper while he angles your back down. His large palm presses into the small of your back, strong and firm as he pushes and pushes until you’re arching just right and exposed.

“Let me fuck you till I cum, be my toy,” You can barely hear him over your own sobs, shifting your weight between legs as you steady yourself. His cock slips in easy, smooth and wet and perfect. You missed this feeling the second it left, the fullness of his dick inside you. The curve of his long cock as it inches inside, the feeling of that one particular vein pulsing deep inside. “Gonna fuck you over and over. Yeah? Got that? Because you’re all mine.”

“Uh-huh, mhm,” You gasp, every inhale making you sputter and choke on your tears. “Yes, Sir.”

If you weren’t crying before you surely are now, with the sharp thrusts Leon’s pistoning into your hole, loud and sloppy and squelching as he backs you up on his cock. It’s like he’s mounted you, shoving your face into the wall as he slams into you. In and out, in and out, in and out…With every slap of his balls against your thighs you whine, small pitiful sounds escaping your lips until your voice goes hoarse and all you can do is weakly claw at the wall.

But you’ve been good, save for a few whiny noises and indiscreet pouting, you’ve been so good. So Leon lets your uninjured hand wander, even guides it down to your front as he fucks you from behind so hard it feels like you’re going stupid. You can’t see him like this, but you’d bet there’s a feral look on his face. Pupils blown wide as his red eyes focus on the view of his cock disappearing inside you, his brain short circuiting as it repeats the same code over and over.

Breed, breed, breed.

“Wanna breed you,” He rasps, strong arms pulling you the second he’s pulling out. No matter what, you’re full of him. You’re full of him even as his cock slides away, a trail of precum connecting the two of you as it froths between your thighs and his balls. “Can I fuck my cum into your sloppy little hole? Hm?”

“Course, f’course,” It’s all out the window, every possible thought you’d ever had about how uncomfortable it could be to be…preoccupied while on a mission. Because you want it, you want to be full. You want him to give it to you, deeper and harder and messier and… More. “..Please..”

“Nice of you to say, but,” He groans high in his throat, voice tight and heavy as his hips grow sloppy and weak. Yet, his cock still feels so heavy in your hole, makes you feel like you’re ready to burst apart at the seams. Leon’s fingers pull at your cheeks, slipping in your mouth and pulling at the skin until your mouth is forced wide, your tongue slipping from your mouth as you drool and cry. “I wasn’t really asking. You’d let me cum wherever I wanted, wouldn’t you? It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re cute when you go dumb on my dick.”

You can’t do this.

You tried, really. You tried your hardest, held it for as long as you could. But you’re already there, almost screaming on his dick as you flutter and clamp down on it, light beaming in your stomach as your body grows sensitive and weak. You’re cumming. And Leon’s hand around your throat doesn’t do anything besides aid it, the way you gush and whine around his cock despite his insistent thrusts. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, and it feels so fucking good.

“Jesus fuck, you take that cock so well. Such a good boy, my pretty slut,” Leon pulls you into him, pressing his chest against your back as he sinks his teeth into the base of your neck. Not enough to draw blood, no, just enough to leave a Leon S. Kennedy sized bite mark along your skin. “Tell me you love this cock, pretty baby. I know you can.”

“I love— ohhh — love your cock, Sir. M’so full.” Your twitching doesn’t cease, instead egging him on as your pretty little hole sucks him in deeper, holding him like a vice. Warm and slick, he can’t help but moan into your neck as his balls tighten and he cums.

“That’s it,” You watch him pant through the corner of your eyes, weighed down by fatigue, sex, and the entirety of today's ordeals. But at least the richness of his veins are beginning to clear up, and his pretty, arctic blue eyes are starting to resurface. You smile around a hearty moan, feeling your insides flood with warmth as his eyes flutter shut and his body shudders. “I could really get used to this.”

It’s hard and fast, much too fast for him to have pulled out to shoot across your back— no, he’s partially shot a thick, creamy rope inside you. His veins pulse at the thought, satiated with the sight of your fucked-out hole drooling with his cum.

“Oh… Fuck.”

He’s hard again.

[sour-cherry-wine]

PENANCE — leon s. kennedy x male reader

w.c: 5.1k

౨ৎ . . . warning: light bondage/restraints, fucking on a cross, argument, bottom reader, mixed praise/degradation, leons corny one-liners, impulsive reader, fingering, spit, finger sucking, oral sex, improper use of guns, “make-up” sex (kinda), standing mating press, dirty talk, sir kink, leon’s weak pull-out game, readers genitalia undisclosed, clothed sex, d/s understones, two (2) spanks, phone sex (kinda?)

The last lingering days of winter sit at the very edge of the night, the top of the inveterate day, like the ever-ticking clock resting upon the wall that inches deeper into the midnight sky with its turning. The taste of regret lingers in the air, bitter and sour and pungent, assaulting the senses of any passerby and residents.

So overpowering, in fact, it’s plagued the plagued, drew them straight to you as you ran through the dingy village. Your combat boots slipped through the mud, clingy and riddled with a thick, musty smell that clasped itself to your clothes. The air was thick with fog, an impenetrable layer of milky grays that made it almost impossible to see through, and the gun glued to your hand felt like a cold, heavy brick.

Your mission was simple enough— accompany your superior while he secured ‘Baby Eagle’, make yourself unknown.

Tread carefully.

Your knife— secured by a leather scabbard wrapped around the swell of your thigh— remained cold and sharp. You thought there’d be no use for it— no close encounters.

Tread carefully.

You’d managed to run through the heart of the village, conjuring up quite the mob, full of pitchforks and flames, full of ashes and debris that danced in the air. It burned your lungs more than the running, lit the charcoal fire in the pit of your stomach as you ran until you couldn’t anymore— and your partner was out of sight.

Tread carefully.

Leon told you to stick beside him. Follow closely behind and he’d cover you, as long as you covered him. But you just couldn’t help yourself— the blood rushing through your veins and your heart pumping in your ears— you panicked. You ran. Stupidly, selfishly, you ran. You’d broken the dam and left Leon to pick up the pieces.

The last thing you’d heard before slamming the mass of your body into a wooden door was the gruff scream of your name, Leon, who you knew was more than capable of making it out just fine. That wasn’t the issue, no— it was your recklessness, your brief disregard for his advisory or guiding hand— it was your impulsiveness to run straight into danger.

He’d specifically told you not to on the way there. Stick by his side and you’d be okay— not that you’re incapable—just inexperienced. No strays— none of the sort. No catching any, no following any, no becoming any.

So now you have to pay for your mistakes.

You’re sprawled on the cross like a two-page spread, skin sheen and wet with what you assume is sweat— and dirt sticks to the slickness of your forehead. The pitter patter of rain against the poorly ventilated windowsill lingers, and the dirty glass trembles with loneliness. You can certainly attest to that, with your arms bound above your head and tied up in rusty chains. There’s no one here but you and your thoughts, your increasingly darkening veins and swimming mind.

You don’t remember who chained you up— perhaps the crafty residents of the village with much more intelligence than you’d like to admit, especially considering their predicament. But you do remember the injection of something cold and foreign. Something that absolutely should not be in your body. It doesn’t hurt, though, it’s not uncomfortable. And the wetness of the air bothers your head much more than the injection, if it’s bothering you at all.

It’s more a minor inconvenience than anything, aesthetically.

Perhaps it’s immunity, or maybe just inattentiveness. You’d have to tell Leon about it later, if you ever get to see him again.

You can’t help but think of him, his opalescent skin that travels for miles, the small quirk to his pink lips when he’s reveling in pride, the bleached-blond bundles of hair that sit perfectly atop his head. Like a crown— like a halo. The piercing blue of his eyes, cold as the arctic as he stares right through you. The deep pool of his pupils that dilate and constrict when sunlight hits them just right. . . The swell of his biceps when he crosses his arms, bulging and spilling over his closed fists. His hands, rough and scarred. Gloved and airbrushed with leather gloves that stop just before his knuckles, hiding the veins and muscles of his hands that stream down his wrists like a steady river.

It’s almost like you can hear him, the assertiveness of his voice that reverberates in your ears. Like he’s next to you again, wrapping his large hand around your wrist and maneuvering it into the right position for combat— the thickness of his voice as he notes aloud, “Keep it like this or you’ll hurt yourself.”

This whole time he’s been your keeper, steering you through the village with one hand secured around the handle of his gun and the other cradling the nape of your neck.

(“I got it.” You’d muttered, shaking off the heat of his large palm. There was something calculating in his eyes, and his long, dark eyelashes batted against the prominent curve of his cheekbone.

Your pistol rested in your hand, barely a scratch across its metal surface. You were still a bit slow at reloading, but you got the job done.

“As long as I’m here, I’m sure you do.)

You want to laugh about it now, pitifully, because the chains around your wrists are nowhere near as warm. Just as domineering, maybe, but not comforting in the slightest. It’s embarrassing to admit how often you’d thought about it— his comfort, late hours in the night filled with his voice, his hands, his touch.

Heat pools in your abdomen, swimming down your navel and spreading between your thighs. Now isn’t the time— not that you could take care of anything if you wanted to— You’ve been stripped of everything— just not in the way you want.

There’s a quiet rustle of the leaves, barely audible with the echoing pews of the church, but you hear it. That walking pattern. . . stepstep… step… stepstep’ only belongs to one person, and you feel relief pushing down your shoulders.

“Jesus...”

“Leon,” Breathy like a prayer, your hands clench into fists as you strain against the rusty chains. His figure grows, stalking forward with swaying shoulders that look broader than ever, and his nude lips are pulled tight into a snarl. His eyebrows— full and straight, pinch together with what you assume is anger, and a familiar crease forms between them. “I can explain.”

His shoulders bounce, as if he’s let out a sour chuckle, and there’s a slight shake to his head as he carries himself up the steps to free you. Quite the hero, you can’t bring yourself to stare into his eyes for too long as he scours your body for injuries. Nothing major— nothing he can’t help with, and his blue eyes settle on your face for much longer than he’d like to admit. There’s a soft haze to his furious eyes, the fire behind them dampening as his mind slowly realizes you’re alright for now.

You’re alive.

“Oh, I'm sure you can,” He quips, circling around the contraption you’re chained to. It almost feels primal, his intense gaze taking you in from every angle as he walks forward to trace his fingertips along your wrists. He’s gentle, though, feathery light as he gives an experimental tug to the metal. “And you will. So you better start talking.”

A small breath of relief escapes your freshly parted lips as it’s pulled away, and Leon doesn’t miss the indents freshly engraved into your skin. His frown deepens, but the cool leather of his fingerless gloves feel much more soothing than the chains.

You don’t mind it as much as he does.

A dagger of shame shoots through your chest, beating and writhing against the confines of your rib cage. Your tongue is tied, excuses dying in your throat as you stare at Leon’s five-fingered grip on your wrist. It’s tightening, his nails digging into your wrist ever so slightly, though you already have no chance at escape. You figure it’s meant to ground you, not hurt you.

“It’d be a lot easier if I were free,” You’re stalling, not all that uncomfortable as Leon turns his head in the direction of your face, his head tilted downward and his breath lightly fanning your neck. Warm. “…Leon? Wanna help a guy out, or…”

A characteristic clench to his jaw has the words dying on your tongue, and for some reason unbeknownst to you, he’s seething.

“Pull something like this again and those things won’t be the only ones after your head.” The warmth of his large chest against yours leaves just as it arrives, and he’s tilting his neck to really get a good look at you. Trying to get his point across, you suppose, with steely, gunmetal blue eyes. You can’t help but waver, irises stinging as you turn your attention to your bound wrists. Part of you wants to roll your eyes.

That just won’t do.

Leon sucks his teeth, gripping your jaw with restrained strength so you’re actually looking at him now, and whatever excuse you’ve created dissipates immediately. The look in his eyes—territorial, maybe?—has you at a loss for words, and all you can do is watch his pink tongue dart over his bottom lip.

Whatever he’s thinking about, you don’t like it, because he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other with his hands on his hips. His face is pensive, but you can still feel the heat of his anger radiating off his skin. Even from a distance. “Shoot the chains or something.”

“Sure, let me accidentally graze you with a shotgun shell while I’m at it.” More bite than he’d intended, Leon loosens the straps to his body armor and lets it hit the ground with a small thud. You blink, eyelashes beating against your cheeks as you blink away surprise.

“Leon—”

“Shh, I don’t give a damn. You could’ve died. Seriously, what were you thinking?” His hair sways, violent and angry and overprotective. “Don’t go running off like that again, you understand?”

“I’m not a kid. I’m a grown man—” Irritation bubbles in your throat— did he just shush you?

“Damn right you’re not. And I’m not your father. Didn’t I tell you not to do anything stupid?”

“I had it under control.” You both know you’re lying through your teeth, but Leon wants to really drive his point home. He nods, noncommittal, snaking his arm around your waist and down the small of your back to unzip the pocket attached to your utility belt. He pulls out your gun, which remains heavy and shiny with disuse.

“Yeah? Under control with no bullets?” He aims the gun at a large mosaic of a stained window, and pulls the trigger with no hesitation. There’s nothing but a click, then resounding silence as he slowly releases the trigger, one hand secured over his knuckles while the other grips the pistol's handle.

“Lee, c’mon, we have stuff to do,” You sound whiny and borderline pathetic. You almost expect him to tell you to ‘use the magic word’, but he’s too busy pressing the pad of his thumb against your lips. His finger tastes vaguely of salt and leather, and you fight the urge to open your mouth and suck on it. “…Please.”

You’re not entirely sure what you’re begging for. The ache in your wrists feels dull and distant, and you can’t help but press the tip of your tongue against the flat underside of his thumb. You watch his pupils blow wide, pink creeping up his neck and pooling around the shells of his ears.

“Okay.” He breathes, broad shoulders melting ever so slightly as he pushes his thumb further into your mouth, taking in every curve and contour of lips as you wrap them around his thumb. It fills your mouth with ease, caressing the flat surface of your tongue with slow, circular strokes. You want more. “Yeah— okay. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand, Sir.” You try to sound more snarky and annoyed than anything, but it’s hard when you’re deepthroating another man’s finger. You sputter around his thumb, can barely form a coherent sentence with it pressing into your mouth like this— but Leon seems to catch on anyway, chuckling humorlessly to himself. Stubborn boy.

There’s a warning pat to your cheek, and suddenly you’re back in that training facility. Dimly lit and nearly empty, save for some equipment and workout machines— save for you and Leon, who kept his hands relaxed as you punched him square in the palm.

It was Leon who was told to take you in, show you the ropes, and he’d done so with a sly remark and a curt nod. It flew over your head at first, whatever he was implying, but you were slowly starting to get it now.

(“Well, looks like you’re stuck with me. Time to break in the fresh meat, then.”)

Only a few months ago, you’d been recruited into special forces, and there was something special about you. Something untapped and not yet tainted— there was still a genuine curve to your lips when you smiled, a sparkle in your eyes as you spoke. Charm was written all over your face, boyish and giddy and eager. You’d reminded Leon a bit of himself back in 1998, full of potential but laced with undeniable naivety.

And, truthfully, he liked you. Likes you, even, because of it. You remind him of who he used to be— why he’s here— to serve and protect. And if he’s being honest, he wants to protect you.

Even if it means putting you back in your place.

Breaking you in.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I understand, Sir.” You’ve lost some bass in your voice, and it comes out shaky and cracked. You don’t have time to dwell on it now, how pathetic you sound, because Leon’s expression is nothing short of prideful. Your breath hitches in your throat, stuck in your larynx as you want the blond take in a sharp breath. He likes the title.

“Atta boy.” His eyelids are blanketed, heavy as he stares down at your lips with the remnants of a lazy smile. His— your — gun is still in his hand, but with him closing the distance between the two of you, it’s pressed against your collarbone.

You can’t help it; the opportunity is right there, and you find yourself leaning forward to press your tongue flat against the slide of the pistol.

“Playing a dangerous game, pretty.” Leon rasps, but taps the barrel of the gun against your tongue anyway. It’s slick with your spit, shiny and wet and he has to resist the urge to suck on it too. To taste you. “Yeeaah, just like that. There you go.”

It’s like you’ve learned nothing.

With a low grunt, Leon pushes the gun deeper into your mouth, using his left hand to hold onto the nape of your neck and keep you still. Asshole.

Ever the brat, you furrow your brows and thrash against your restraints.

“You can take it,” He hushes you, using that voice he has reserved for hostages or targets, all gentle and sweet. It’s hushed, barely a whisper, but it makes your brain foggy anyway. You can take it. “Give me your mouth. You can do that for me, can’t you? Say ‘yes sir’.”

You try, hard as you can, whining around the barrel of the gun with tears springing in your eyes. It’s hot and heavy now, like some sort of makeshift dildo, but you know the real thing would feel better. Warmer, stickier, curved and veiny. Thick on your tongue and pulsing, salty and sweet and long.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ. Holy shit,” He’s fucking your throat, sliding the metal into your mouth as far as it can go. It’d be much better if it were his cock instead, so big and so deep, leaving a bulge as he grinds it into your mouth. You’d take it like a champ too, eager and greedy. “Breathe.”

“Sir,” You gurgle, drool running down your chin and coating your skin until Leon pulls the pistol away and inspects it.

You watch him part his lips, previously pulled into a frown, to suck along the barrel of the gun and lap up your spit. There’s remnants of mint and saliva, fresh and sour when combined with the metal of the pistol. “Shit—Leo.”

“Tastes good. Did you take my gum?” He hums, witty as ever. It’s a passing comment, one you can’t help but laugh at, and the man seems to appreciate it. Even if he doesn’t exactly say that. He doesn’t give you much time to laugh, instead opts to connect his lips with yours. Finally, you moan into his mouth, much sweeter and pliant than before. You can’t stay mad at him.

“That’s all you needed, huh. Just a few sweet words, a couple kisses… If I’d known that I would’ve done that months ago.”

Only because you’re so needy, though. Your hips buck into the air, grinding against the space between your hips as your heart slams against your chest. You want more— need more, and the ache between your thighs is enough to prove it. You whimper, high in your throat and full of frustration.

“You really like hearing yourself talk.” You can’t take yourself seriously, not like this, but you say it anyway with nothing but the intent to get fucked stupid. You don’t doubt his capabilities, not with the way Leon’s staring at you. Predatory and ready, like he expected you to say that, his large hand gripping his cock through his tightening pants. You swallow hard, sensing some kind of mistake, and manage to gulp down your pride in the process. If you were someone else you’d be scared, running away from his anger with your tail between your legs. But you’re not.

“You just can’t wait, that it? Over here humping my leg like a damn dog, and now you have something to say? What, because your little hole gets frustrated when it’s been empty for too long?”

You’re squirming within seconds, struggling to wrap your legs around the dip of his waist. Even after dropping his armor he’s wearing too many clothes, too many layers that separate your skin from his. You can’t exactly take your shirt off, not without ripping it straight down the middle, but your lower half is free rein.

“Spoiled brat,” It’s something the blond registers too, because his big hands are hastily unbuttoning your pants and tugging them down your thighs, trailing behind with the gentle scrape of his fingernails. “Remind me the only way to keep you quiet is stuffing your holes.”

He’ll be able to see you much better like this, kneeling in front of your position on the cross to really see you. The clenching of your hole, empty and needy, the trail of lube gushing from it just as he hopes to, the shiny slickness covering your inner thighs. He wants to bury his face in it, fuck you on his tongue till you’re downright ruined, fucked-out and plaint. Maybe it’s in your nature to drift off, have your brain cut off from an orgasm (or two..or three) until you’re malleable enough to listen.

Your words are stuck in your throat, choked up and wobbly as his fingers relentlessly press into that special bundle of nerves. You feel like a slut, with Leon’s fingers twisting and pounding away, his newfound grip on your thighs so tight you’re gasping, crying out and squealing. He’s still careful, applying just the right amount of strength to keep you still.

“We don’t have much time,” His breath is hot against your entrance, and it can’t help but flutter with his mouth so close. Leon’s face contorts, softening as he licks a fat, wet stripe alongside it. “Wish I could keep you on my tongue. But you won’t mind something bigger, yeah?”

There’s nothing for you to hold onto as his fingers poke and prod at your hole, rubbing smooth, slow circles around the entrance. You want to wrap your arms around him, grip his shirt like iron and stifle your moans with it— but you’re chained. Leon pauses to stick his thumb in his mouth— the same one previously pressed against your own—and brings it down to you, pushing into your hole with ease. The thought of an indirect kiss has you spreading your thighs, lifting a leg just barely above Leon’s shoulder. Maybe you’re easy— maybe a kiss is all you need. Maybe it’s just because it’s Leon.

“Damn. Feel so fucking good on my fingers, baby,” He purrs, his voice melting in your ears. “Keep it up and I’ll see if I can promote you to Special Forces’ personal fuckhole.”

His fingers are wet and thick, you’re not sure how he’d managed to lubricate them so well, maybe he kept some in those extra storage pockets of his, but whatever it is…feels good. Slick and warm, almost feels like he’s fucking a fresh load of cum into you. The thought has you mewling, hands furled into tight fists as you struggle to stay upright.

With an unending stream of pitiful noises, your mouth pools with saliva that starts to dribble from the part of your pouty lips, and you instinctively spread your legs wide. It’s far from gross, the messiness of your drool catching on your chin and trailing down your clothed chest. It’s hot— you’ve gone braindead from his fingers alone, and he’s barely even started. You���re wailing, more wet and hiccupy sobs than moans, and tears stream down your handsome face in response. It’s just too much: too big, too deep, too warm, too wet.

You can’t do anything but take in the digits, slick and warming up by the minute until they curl, deep and thick. Your eyes roll back in your head as Leon keeps an iron hold between your thighs, rubbing and rubbing at your front and—and oh, you’re so close. You’re so close it hurts, the pit of your stomach filling with light and your toes curling deliciously. You have nothing to grab at, nowhere to hold, nothing to keep you stable as you lul your head to and fro. You sound delirious, and you must look just as bad.

“Ohh, m’gonna—”

“Brace yourself,” He mumbles, gloved hands running up the back of your thighs until he’s lifting your lower body off the cross and placing your knees on his shoulders. It’s intimate, personal and close as he lets out a breathy moan in response to the perfect fit of your hips against his own. “I’ll be gentle, sweetheart. For the most part.”

The blond is still clothed, and it’s hard to gauge his reaction of your naked lower-half grinding against his pulsating erection, with his hair partly shielding his pretty face. But you can imagine it, his pink licorice-twist lips divorced and blush high on his cheeks as his precum mixes with yours, sloppy and soaking the front of his inky combat pants.

You whine, wiggling your hips and kicking out your feet like some sort of brat, a completely wordless attempt at telling him to strip. You know there’s tears streaming down your face, just when you think you’ve taken a step forward you discover you’d taken two steps back.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Like molten lava, Leon’s voice grows deeper by the second. He’s pushing your legs further forward, bending you in half until your legs burn and he’s sandwiched indubitably close. You’re glad you stretched before this, because he’s got you bent like a pretzel— like some sort of cheap whore, and there’s no escape. “Your new mission is to take it and look pretty, don’t complain now. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” You feel yourself nodding from a distance, frantic and erratic despite the strong grip he’s got on your chin. You can feel him twitching beneath you, his cock jumping in his pants as he traps you with his weight alone and unbuckles his utility belt. It drops to the floor, loud and heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the obscene sound of his cock slapping against your skin. He’s unzipped his fly— still clothed, almost like he’s emphasizing his power over you. “Yeah, I— yes, Sir.”

“Open,” It’s not a suggestion, as he’s already rutting his hips against the warmth of your skin and snaking one arm around your waist. The other goes to your mouth, wet and ready, pries it further open so your pink tongue is on display. Leon gathers a glob of spit, but rather than your mouth it reaches your cheek, wet and sticky. Leon’s aim is better than anyone you’ve ever known— so it’s deliberate. “Good boy. Use your manners.”

You swallow anyway, desperate pants obstructed as you stick your tongue out further for more. “Thank you, Sir. For— for your spit.”

Leon sinks in with a loud whine as you clench around the fat head of his dick, whining and gasping, fighting your orgasm off with everything you’ve got. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his fat, lubed up cock nestling into your hole— but it feels good, indescribable and finally plugging you full. It’s hard to hear anything he’s saying behind the loud squelching of his cock slipping inside, that and your own sounds, but you try anyway. He’s filling you till you’re ready to burst at the seams, pressing his weight against your body so you can clamp down and take him completely, no questions asked.

“F-huck, I can’t… Please, please, you’re so,” You’re on fire, his cock curving up just right as your pillowy walls flutter around his intrusion. Right there, electricity sparks inside you and your eyes roll back with the pinch of your eyebrows. “So deep.”

“Yeah?” The blond laughs, breathless and high off the feeling of your velvety walls constricting around him— clenching so perfectly, so hot and slick with rhythmic pulses along his veiny shaft. His hand travels to press on your navel, and he can feel himself sliding in and out, in and out. “Feel it right here?”

You do. And his hand pressing against it isn’t much help, you can’t focus on anything other than his cock. Your wrists are achy, almost as much as your hole, straining against the chains that you still have yet to break from. But it makes it better, you’re open and free for Leon’s use. Just a hole—to be filled, used, fucked. And, yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you want that, being used by Leon and his strong arms, manhandled into any position he wants.

“Yeah, in my— in my stomach.” You sound so cute, sniffling on his dick with every bounce and thrust forward, occasionally thrashing against your restraints. Leon coos, right in your ear and echoing in the pews. Much like the sound of your skin slapping against his, deep and fast thrusts like he’s pounding the brat out of you.

"God, should’ve had you like this all the time, drunk on cock,” You’re twitching, pulsing and convulsing around Leon’s cock, the fabric of his combat pants rubbing against your front. “Just like that, there you go, honey. Don’t run, let me watch my pretty hole swallow this cock.”

His— oh. Yeah, you suppose, it’s his hole to fuck, to kiss, to use. Since day one, really, when you’d spent your first night after meeting him knuckles deep. It’s incomparable to his own, longer and thicker, faster and better. So, yes, your hole is his, and his alone. You nod. babbling in his ears and wriggling in his arms. You’re his. The implication behind it has your heart stuttering, hammering in your chest as butterflies beat against your tummy.

Oh— You’re cumming.

“Shit, sweetheart. Knew you were a slut.”

“I don’ wanna— I can’t—” You let out an array of desperate, hysterical cries around Leon’s long, airbrushed pink cock, thighs and chest heaving and trembling, and arching off the wooden cross. It takes you a moment to form a complete sentence. “Don’t wanna.. st—op.”

“Yeah, yeah..” Leon nods against your neck, burying his face into the warm skin. His hair tickles your throat, soft and silky. “I won't. We won’t. I got you.”

His big palm cracks against the swell of your ass, loud and echoing in the church. Your core tightens, knees tightening on his shoulders as you cum. Hard and fast, you can barely register the squeals being ripped from your throat. Not over the slapping, the spanking, the—

The crackle of Leon’s radio, loud and blaring in his earpiece.

“Hold on.” Tears spill over your glassy eyes.

“Wh— No! Sir, you—“

“Hey. Don’t ‘no’ me. I’m right here, just sit pretty for me and take it,” He moans, emphasizing his words with a sharp snap to his hips. Your toes curl, searing white pleasure sparking in your stomach as Leon responds to the radio comms. You’re overstimulated, sparks of sensitivity striking through you with every quick thrust. “There you go, such a good boy. . .”

“Condor one to Roost,” He replies, sparing you a gentle glance while your legs lock behind his neck. The blond doesn’t let up once, honey locks bouncing as you cry on his dick. “What?”

“…Very funny. . .” Whatever Hunnigan said must’ve been spot on, because a low growl rumbles in his chest and his balls are tightening against your skin. Blotches of pink bloom in his neck, probably following down his wide shoulders— if only he weren’t clothed.

“Goddamn, you’re gonna make me cum, yeah, wish I could fuck it into you. Next time,” It’s deliciously obscene, the sounds of Leon’s cock reaming your hole like his life depends on it. His voice is barely above a whisper, so quiet but full in your ears. “Next time, we’ll make your pretty hole all messy with my cum. Yeah?”

Leon’s hips stutter, his deep thrusts growing shallow and messy as lube and precum froths between your warm skin. You can feel it all, the way his cock jumps and as he cums, missing a beat before pulling out to spurt the rest on your tummy. Thick and hot, it’s starting to cool on your shirt before he can move to wipe it away. Before he can end the call.

“He’s fine. We’ll have Baby Eagle home in time for dinner. Right, rookie?”

[sour-cherry-wine]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GUARDIAN ANGEL! GOJO x FEM READER 

Kneeling by your bed, rosary wrapped around your knuckles, lips pressed to the burnished rosewood, you pray. 

God, please send me another guardian angel. 

A blast of static from the TV behind you. 

The one you sent me- 

“Hey, how does the thing work?” Gojo says, accompanied by loud thumps. You cringe in silence. 

He’s strange. 

wc — 3.7k

cw — religion, Gojo has to reckon with the consequences of being the strongest, domesticity, attempted (failed) mugging/attack, Gojo kills a man for you (non graphic), Shoko’s a good friend, bs angel lore, I think of this like a prequel to reader’s villain arc lol,  title from closer by nine inch nails 

You wake up to a man standing over your bed. Understandably, you scramble backwards, hands over knees over legs over feet, all your limbs tangled together, until you bump into your headboard. 

“Hi!” He says cheerily. “Wow, haven’t gotten that reaction in a while, not since- Anyways. I’m Gojo Satoru, your guardian angel. Please make breakfast, it’s 12 pm already and I’m starving. Your sleep habits are terrible.” 

Keep reading

[sour-cherry-wine]

Between a rock and a hard place ft Zhongli + fem!reader + Morax

cw/tags: Buckle up this is 3k of filthy pwp. Also SHE/HER used to refer to reader. Praise kink, a bit of degrading kink, dirty talk, pet names, oral, anal fingering, anal sex, double penetration, technically triple but not same hole, (all of that is reader receiving ehe) Morax has 2 dragon dicks and a dragon tongue, biting kink, some manhandling, multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, rough sex, but also some aftercare.

notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!! enjoy my dirty fantasy lmaoooo, this has been under work for weeks partly inspired by a song and then I was like hey I could post it on my bday because.... I am very feral about these two. And this is just... omg. No I have no explanation as for why there's the two of them but are you really going to ask that instead of enjoying getting railed?? are you??

How did you end up in this situation? You don’t know and frankly you don’t care. Can’t care when your head is spinning, hazy with lust and pleasure.

Hands roam all over your body, pinching, caressing, groping, teasing… fully stimulating all your sensitive spots.

“You’ve gone soft, Zhongli.”

“Hm, I have merely learned to appreciate things and savor them, Morax.”

A little whine from your lips gets their attention back. Zhongli coos at you, placing languid kisses on your shoulder as his hands settle at your hips, rubbing circles there. Then, a golden clawed hand pinches at your nipple, almost painfully so, and your back arches letting out a long low moan.

Morax chuckles. “See? You’ll never get her to make all those slutty noises like that.”

Your face flushes in embarrassment.

The consultant and the god. Not one but two possessive dragons vying for your attention. But where Zhongli is gentle and slow, almost reverent with his touches, Morax is rough and ardent, demanding submission.

Zhongli runs his right hand through your hair while the other massages your thighs, shifting you slightly on his lap to have you spread a bit wider, pelvis pressed against him. At your exposed neck, Morax’s teeth are digging into your skin, purposefully hard enough to bruise… the same as his hands, which are aggressively gripping at your breasts. His chest pushes against your back, and you can feel his rapid heartbeat underneath his powerful, well-toned muscles. Before you can recover, he bites at the shell of your ear, so hard he very near draws blood and you yelp.  

“M-Morax!” You shiver.

Zhongli’s eyes narrow. “Do not hurt her…”

“Stop hogging her.”  Morax scoffs back. “Besides… she likes a bit of pain, don’t you darling?” He tilts his head to you, practically nuzzling against your cheek. His slitted golden eyes glint dangerously. 

Morax begins to fondle at your chest, cupping your breasts, marveling at their softness, their shape and warmth, just enough to fill his hands. He spreads his fingers slightly to fit your hardened buds between them before immediately closing the gap so he pinches them tightly again.

You quickly press your lips together but aren’t fast enough to hide the garbled noise that escapes from the back of your throat. You can’t help being so sensitive, and he knows it. Morax smirks darkly and pulls away just a bit, tugging at your nipples mercilessly. You whimper and squirm at Zhongli’s lap, looking up to him desperately, pleading, as your hands grip at his thighs and the soft silk sheets you’re sitting on.

Zhongli’s heated gaze only makes the throbbing heat between your thighs intensify.

“I wonder if you taste as good as you look…” Morax says, eyes sparkling with a predatorial hunger.

You gasp, biting you lip and squeezing your eyes shut as you try to keep them from seeing your obvious excitement.

It fails.

Zhongli seems interested, if the way his eyebrows raise just a bit is any indication. The consultant rolls you over on their hold and now your back presses against his lap and the bed. You feel so small curled up there between them, exposed, completely at their mercy…

Zhongli gently spreads your legs open, presenting your glistening folds to his counterpart and you brace yourself when you see Morax lick his lips, dragon tail swaying after him in excitement. Heart rattling in your chest.

Oh.

In seconds you’re keening and moaning, breathless whiny sounds that only serve to encourage the sweet torture, hands gripping thick palmfuls of bedsheet. Your body entirely too worked up and sensitive. Zhongli’s hands rub softly at your arms, shoulders and chest, almost comfortingly, your back resting against his broad chest, rising and falling peacefully. It makes up for a jarring contrast against the heat of Morax’s mouth on your pussy. His fangs grazing lightly at your inner tights, tongue teasing at your slit, tracing maddening patterns until you shake and tremble in their hold.

Morax delves deeper, his long dragon tongue entering your wet hole, pressing the flat of it over your clit and groaning. The resulting vibration makes you jolt back against Zhongli, earning a breathless chuckle in response. Zhongli brings one of his hands to you face, cupping your chin and tilting your head back to admire your pleasured expression.

“Oh darling, you look so good like this.” Zhongli says, his voice deep and smooth, thick with love and arousal. “Such a perfect, precious mate.” He leans down, lips ghosting against yours.

“Zhongliii…” You whine. “Z-Zhong- A-ah!” Your voice dissolves into a high-pitched moan as Morax’s claws prickle at your thighs, he growls and pulls you impossibly closer, burying himself between your legs, his nose pushing into your clit as his tongue thrusts into you deeper, sucking and slurping at your pussy like a starved beast.

“Hmm? I think someone is a little jealous… you should try calling his name instead dear. He is the one pleasuring you right now after all.” Zhongli says, looking entirely too amused as he brushes at your hair tenderly.

You mewl in response, chanting Morax’s name while bucking your hips towards his mouth. That sinful long tongue invades your insides, thick and slippery rubbing against your walls and poking deftly at your sensitive spots in a way that leaves your mind blank. Fuzzy.

The obscene wet noises, the unbearable heat, the building pleasure. It all feels too good and you… you…

“Morax, Morax! Please, I- Pleaseplease… Oh. Ohhh!”

Your body goes rigid, locking up against Zhongli’s chest and your vision bursts white as your thighs clench around Morax’s head with a filthy drawn-out cry.

Your whole body tingles with a hazy pleasure enveloping you. You vaguely feel Morax retract his tongue completely and an exchange of words, but it sounds so far away as you try to catch your breath, breasts heaving along with your heavy pants, already drowsy and sweaty. Your body is flipped again and by the time you open your eyes you’re back to curling up against Zhongli’s chest.

You nuzzle at his neck, trying to hide your ruddy face but only managing to look more enticing to the dragon, appeasing his protective instincts.

“There you are my love… so pretty and pliant for us already, such a good mate.” You sob at the praise, feeling his hard length rubbing against your sloppy entrance.

“I… I want” You whine, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in small gasps, pawing at his pectorals and softly rutting your hips against his. “Want both of you… please.”

“Oh you will, far it be from us to deny you, darling.” Zhongli plants a kiss on your temple and you feel Morax leaning forward, lips brushing your neck and fangs peeking out to graze over your skin. The consultant holds you by the hips, lifting you a little and positioning your entrance against the blunt head of his cock. You grasp shakily at his shoulders, whimpering as the large cockhead kisses your slick folds and pushes inside. Your forehead falls against his chest, a fucked-out moan leaving you as he sinks you down inch by inch on a sinful slow glide.

“Mnh- A-Ahhh…”

You hear him huff and groan above you, his cock squeezed gently by your walls as you spasm around him. “There you go darling, you take me so well.” His voice is breathy and low, and he shushes your whiny protests gently, a hand petting your hair as he lets you adjust. You’re sure you must paint a picture of debauchery. Red puffy pussy folds glistening with a mix of Morax’s saliva and your own juices, spread lewdly around Zhongli’s thick cock.

You shudder. His hands rub and knead lightly at your round ass for a moment as you simply sit there, warming his cock, lulled by his presence and the sense of fullness and warmth in your belly. Then he shifts a little and you feel him spreading your butt cheeks slightly…

Just so Morax can tease and stroke over your puckered hole there.

You flinch with a squeak, clenching around Zhongli. “C-Claws! Morax please…!”

Zhongli huffs. “There is a reason why I gave you the vial of oil.”

Morax answers with a chuckle, simply poking at your rim. “Relax… I would never be so cruel to my little mate.” The claw disappears and you hear a slight pop, and the thick flowery scent of silk flowers surrounds you before smooth elegant fingers spread something slick around your little hole.

“Hnnnng…”

“Relax dear.” Zhongli peppers kisses along your face, hands cupping at your bottom. “Allow me to entertain you while he prepares you…”

He lifts you up again, just so, and jerks you back down on his cock. You see stars.

He starts fucking you at a slow rhythm, something decidedly sensual that has your brain turning into mush as you moan and babble incoherently. Morax pokes and pulls slightly at your rim, a finger dipping in just barely.

“So good for us… so tight.” Zhongli rasps.

“Hmm tight indeed.” The God echoes behind you, finally sinking in an oiled finger and you jump.

“Morax. Lord. Ooohh…”

Zhongli’s pace stutters and Morax lets out a short laugh.

“Who’s jealous now?” He goads, fangs flashing on the smirk he tosses Zhongli. “You better savor it while you can, because soon I’ll have her crying on my cocks.”

One finger soon turns to two and the sting has you squirming in discomfort when Morax starts scissoring you open a little too enthusiastically. Zhongli picks up the pace and you mewl, head spinning between the mix of pain and pleasure, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes.

“Such a good mate. A perfect treasure.” Zhongli pants. Suddenly he tips your chin and closes the space between you both, claiming your lips in a heated kiss. Teeth nibbling at your lips, tongue seeking out yours to twist and press together. It was all so intimate. So erotic.

Morax presses a third finger inside you and Zhongli drowns the resulting groan pressed against his mouth. He starts bouncing you faster on his lap, picking up on the goosebumps that rise over your skin, your nails digging at his shoulders, tears falling freely down your cheeks from the overwhelming sensation. Morax catches on and starts fucking his fingers faster into you as well, marveling at how your little hole sucks at his digits.

You part the kiss as increasing little “ah ah ah” sounds are punched out of your throat with every thrust, every touch. You gasp loudly as Morax’s free hand snaps up and grabs your right breast, groping and squeezing it savagely, rolling it in his calloused palm. Then you feel Zhongli’s tongue flicking the nipple of your left breast and let out a choked wet sound.

It's too much, absolutely too much…

Your second orgasm has you shaking and squeezing around both. Zhongli hisses and slams a few more thrusts in before sinking to the hilt and spilling inside you. Warm creamy cum filling you up as your eyes roll back.

Morax groans frustrated, still knuckle deep inside you but wishing that silky warmth were around his weeping cocks instead, both impossibly hard and twitching wildly at your noises.

“Good girl… doing so good for us.” You hum happily at the words, the sweet haze of not only being filled but having pleased your mate settles deep into your bones. But soon enough said peace is interrupted as Zhongli pulls out despite your protests. Cum dribbles out of your abused hole and paints the insides of your soft tights white much to your dismay.

“Noooo…”

The consultant chuckles. “Insatiable. But worry not…” You blink and perk up as golden arms encase your upper body, pulling you onto another lap, hips grinding into you making the draconic erections quite obvious as they leak all over your core, a thick dragon tail curling around your midsection.

“We’re not done yet.” With that, the god grips his own cocks to position them at your entrance, rubbing there lewdly for a second before pushing it. Your eyes widen, trashing a little on his hold, whimpering and moaning brokenly at the stretch. His thick lengths slowly bullying their way inside you, ridges brushing delicious against every nerve, rubbing you raw as your mouth opens on a silent scream.

“F-fuck- wait… too much.” You cry out. “I-I… I can’t-!”

“You can.”

You whimper and melt at the firm voice. Almost a command, resolute and full of power. And your body sags against Morax’s as he finally settles inside you, his pelvis meeting yours at last. You feel so full and utterly used. “You look so pretty like this… like you were made to take us.” He nuzzles at you and you only nod dumbly.

The god drags his hips back to ram right back inside with a filthy squelch, pulling a deep moan out of both as you relish on the pleasure you take from each other. “More…” You whine. Again and again he pulls out and fucks right back into your tight heat. Rolling his hips slowly, his cocks molding your insides into a perfect cocksleeve. Almost like a toy for the deity to use and get off on, but not quite.

After all, there is still too much fondness in the way the ruthless warrior god nibbles and strokes at your skin. Whispering filthy promises on your ear.

You’re forced out of your thoughts when you feel Zhongli settle behind you this time, strong arms holding your shaking frame as he tips your forward “My love…” his thumb teasing your asshole again, and the ring of muscles tightens up and shivers at his touch. “You can take more, can’t you? So good for us, you can take it all…”

Then a throbbing cock gently pushes against your other hole, Zhongli groans at the tight fit and tears spring to your eyes, being forced wide open around his incredible girth.

Distressed noises come out of your throat as you panic a little.

It won’t fit it won’t fit!

Morax’s hand pulls you forward and crashes your lips against his, drowning the noises as he kisses you fiercely, your head spins and goes blank when a long tongue slithers its way down your throat, devouring you.

Somewhere down the line Zhongli settles inside you with a pleased groan, soft buttcheeks pressed against his abs and his heavy balls brushing your taint. Morax breaks the kiss allowing air back in your lungs and you gasp, dizzy and full.

Both of them growl, hands tightening where they hold you, but it is Morax’s rough voice that whispers in your ear, clawed golden hand caressing your cheek tenderly. “Our little mate is going to take us until she’s ruined, isn’t she? Hmm… both of your holes gaping and dripping when we’re done, leaking our cum for the rest of the day…”

You shudder. “Yes, p-please… hng… ruin me, fill me with your claim please please.”

Zhongli moves first, slowly dragging himself out to slam back in, forcing you to brace against Morax’s chest. When he repeats his thrust a broken moan escapes you, and then Morax moves as well and your brain stop working.

Every time one of them leaves your pliant body the other fills you up, oil and cum fucked deeper inside you with every pass of their cocks, easing their glides as they set a rhythm. Merciless. Delicious.

You gasp and whine, struggling to form thoughts and force air into your words but only pitiful pleasured noises come out, barely managing strained little “please”s or calls of their name. Behind you Zhongli lets out a breathy sigh, and in front of you Morax snarls.

“Seems like out poor little mate is at her limit.”

You’re not even sure which one says the words, nor whose mouth latches to your neck. All you know it’s smoldering heat, overwhelming pleasure, passionate touches and love and you want to… you want…

“P-please…!”

“What do you need, beloved?”

That voice, deep and smooth and honeyed as if they weren’t fucking you to an inch of your life.

“C-cum… mmnhgh.”

“If it’s what our darling mate wants…”

Their pace turns frantic, huffs and growls and the wet slap of skin on skin fill your ears until Morax spills inside you with a deep guttural groan, fangs digging on your skin and you keen, sobbing as it tips you over the edge as well, your holes squeezing down on them. The god fills you with so much of his seed, it spills from your fucked out pussy, dribbling on the sheets and you giggle almost delirious with the feel of it hot and thick in your tummy. And just when you think you can’t take anymore Zhongli stills within you, a familiar warmth blooming inside as you lay limp on their arms.

It feels like forever as the three of you stay there, catching your breaths, being lulled by a sense of completion and a fuzzy warm feeling. Your muscles are sore, your entire body aches once you come down from the high, your head lolls and you can barely concentrate on breathing and nothing else, but you still find it in yourself to nuzzle at the chest in front of you, earning a soft purr in response.

Hands brush aside your hair, caressing and massaging at your shoulders and back. Then they both shift and carefully pull out of you, you grimace and groan at the discomfort, the suddenly emptiness and sticky leaky feeling is odd. Morax has half a mind of pushing back his cum inside you but as soon as his fingers touch your sensitive folds you whine and lock your legs, so Zhongli bats his hand away.

“Rest now darling, you did so good, you took us so well…” He kisses your cheek softly. “I’ll prepare a bath for you and then we’ll see about getting some food.”

Morax curls behind you, still purring, the big dragon, spooning you and surrounding you with his tail lovingly. Keeping you company and soothing you as Zhongli leaves.

You feel heavy, tired but sated and with a flutter of lashes and a last sigh, you doze off…     

[sour-cherry-wine]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — NANAMI x FEM READER 

Nanami Kento’s only sixteen when he kills for you. He’s only twenty four when he dies for you. What was supposed to be his final sacrifice play, a life for life, goes awry when he ends up haunting you. 

wc — 13.5k 

cw — major character death, jjk typical violence/fights, mild(?) body horror, grief, betrayal, ghost marriage, Gojo my favorite deus ex machina Satoru, title from song of the same name by good dog 

There’s nothing worse than standing on the sidelines of a major battle. 

Of course, those fighting in the battle might disagree. You’re sure that any number of sorcerers would gladly trade places with you to be in the safety of Jujutsu High. But for you, missing out on watching Nanami fight is agonizing. 

You’re the perfect complement to his cursed technique. Where he finds the chink in the enemy’s armor with his 7:3 ratio, you shore up your own defenses. While other techniques are aggressive, prioritizing attacking first and early, your skills are more suited to a war of attrition. In terms of endurance, no one can outlast you besides Gojo, who’s sheer strength simply eradicates all obstacles in his path. 

Like Shoko, you’re a special case of sorcerer. 

Gojo was rare, prized, and the strongest, but he was anticipated. He was simply stepping into a role that had already been played out over and over again, just by different men. The arrival of Getou, Shoko, and you was what truly rocked the boat. Two special grades in one generation, an innate reverse cursed technique user, and a barrier specialist all in one class - a guaranteed success, if not for the fact that one of you went crazy. 

75% was still passing, if just barely. 

Keep reading

[sour-cherry-wine]

Marks of a warrior ft. Zhongli + gn!reader

cw/tags: hurt/comfort, self-harm mention (reader), scars, pretty suggestive but not full blown smut for once PLEASE these are delicate topics DO NOT READ IF IT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE.

notes: Listen, as usual this is very self-indulgent, but also very personal, not everyone may feel like this of course and I hope not to make anyone feel insulted or uncomfortable, I try not to "romanticize" just... some comfort for the depression hours ok?

The satin sheets pool around your waist as you sigh, soft and nervous.

This was… the first time you got this far, and it made your heart skip a beat.

It was very intimate… and intimidating.

And despite that, there was a certain rush of excitement as Zhongli pulled off your clothes. You helped shake them off, a bit clumsily, and blushed as he stares at you.

And now here you are. Clad in just your underwear, shy and sitting on his lap, faces mere inches apart.

Those golden eyes travel over your skin, committing every curve, every mole, every strand of hair, to memory. Zhongli does not only look, he evaluates, he appraises that which he likes or finds fascinating. Studying it and, if enticed enough, the ex-archon’s gaze would turn covetous. Like a dragon wanting to claim and possess a new treasure.

Like how he stares at your right now.

There’s a certain hunger in his eyes and you almost shiver at the intensity of it, averting your eyes and subconsciously bringing up an arm to cover yourself. “D-Don’t just stare, I’m-”

“Beautiful.” He cuts off in a husky low voice that has you shivering for real now. He leans in to plant a kiss at your shoulder, your hands shoot up to his bare chest, curling there and feeling the smooth muscles.

Zhongli trails kisses up your neck, to you jaw, your cheek, your nose and you squeak when you feel his hands explore your body. Large and warm, trey trace your ribcage and brush at your nipples, you sigh.

“All this… just for me.”

You still cannot comprehend how can he look at you like that, with so much love, so much longing. How are you so lucky to have caught the eye and heart of someone so kind, so perfect. A deity, no less.

“Zhongli…”

His hands dip lower, circling your waist and there he finds something. You tense.

His thumb brushes along the scars on your hip and you flinch not-so-subtly.

This is the first time he's seen them.

The first time anyone has seen them.

Dark ugly slashes that you wish you could forget, you could undo.

"Please don't." You mumble urgently, nervous. "I..." Your lips purse together and you frown, conflicted. "I-I'm uncomfortable."

"Alright." Zhongli replies simply, his hands slide up your sides and he leans in to kiss a spot in your chest instead. A bashful smile returns to your face.

His lips meet yours in a slow but heated kiss, you can’t help but want more, be a little demanding. You arms drape around his shoulders and you pull yourself closer. The skin-on-skin contact is electrifying and you moan low.

Breathing each other’s air, pressed so close, so intimately entwined. You lose yourselves in lips and tongue and teeth, in soft hums and small noises and silent smiles.

It's nice, you think, to be so... wanted.

“You act as if you were ashamed. Warriors would often pride themselves on scars.” He says suddenly. “They are a symbol of victory. Another day to live after having faced danger and endured hardship.”

You huff a little, averting your gaze. “I’m h-hardly a warrior… those scars…” You gulp. Surely, he understood…? “They’re not from battle I… I did them myself.” You feel cold creep up your body. Dread. You feel painfully aware of them now, and the pain they bring… the memories.

He hums against your skin, nuzzling there softly. “Ah but that is where you’re wrong, my dear. Those are proof you have faced one of life’s strongest and most difficult enemies, your own dark thoughts. That which cannot be seen, cannot be easily fought, cannot be understood but for the one facing them alone.”

Your breath hitches a little.

“I, for one, I’m glad you’re here today. With me. Glad that you won that battle.” He punctuates every comment with a fleeting kiss, tickling your collarbone. One of his hands rubs at your shoulder, the other is warm on your thigh.

You blink rapidly and press your forehead into his chest, hiding the tears that wet your eyelashes.

How can he be so…

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

You stay silent in his embrace a little longer, as he rubs circles on your back.

“T-Thank you… Zhongli. One day I’ll tell you about it, but… now…”

He shushes you and leans back to lie down on the bed, bringing you along and still staring at you with that same reverence. Your pelvis brush together and you gasp. The warmth is back and growing to a full flame.

And this god, this perfect being splayed here below you…

“It’s fine if you don’t. Don’t feel forced to… you deserve to feel comfortable in your own body, and your scars do not take from who you are, nor they define you.” He cups your cheek, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t think about it now…”

You lean down with a smile and kiss him again.

[sour-cherry-wine]

Sinful voice. ft Zhongli + fem!reader (modern AU)

cw/tags: Voice kink, daddy kink, dirty talk, female masturbation, uuhh fantasizing? petnames (sweetheart, sweetie, babygirl, darling).

notes: I literally had this sudden brainrot idea today at work (rip) and as soon as I came home I typed all this in a rush and bOI. That man's voice is just...... no words. Drives me insane, wild, crazy, feral.

To say you were nervous was an understatement.

You were starting a new chapter of your life, fresh into college, moving to a whole other city to dedicate to your studies and enter the “adult world”

You’d arrived a few weeks early to move in and start settling on your little space, it was barely a small room in a house you’d share with other new students. You’d even share a kitchen but hey, at least each one had a tiny individual bathroom for yourselves.

Tomorrow was the big day. Your first day. And although you’d heard many people say they would just take it easy or even skip the first few days (because “they were not that important” as schedules and teachers were still being organized) you’d heard just as many stories about how college was difficult and important and you gotta make good first impressions and familiarize and meet new people and blablabla…

It was pretty nerve-wracking.

So here you are, way past midnight, rolling over in bed unable to calm down.

You sigh and start messing around with your phone, bored. Maybe you can just skip tomorrow?

Or maybe…

You bite your lip. There’s a little something you can do to… relax.

Before you can even think, your fingers are already typing the familiar webpage name on the phone, already smiling mischievously.

In your search for a little “spice” for your solo pleasure sessions you often went for audios and ASMR content. The sounds and voices were much hotter than excessively raunchy lame crude run-on-the-mill videos in your honest opinion. All you had to do was get comfy, close your eyes, and immerse on the fantasy. It was bliss.

And so, a few months ago you had found him.

Morax.

Oh, that man had a voice to die for, deep and rich like syrup, making you shiver and whine every time. His content was absolutely top-notch and you’d been instantly drawn like a moth to a flame ever since you’d managed to drag out one of your best orgasms ever after listening and playing along for a few minutes.

And when you dug around and found his subscription page? Oh boy, you were a goner.

You can only imagine what your parents would say if they knew you spend money on something like this but hey, financial independence means you can spend your money (from part time-jobs and whatnot) on whatever you want.

And damn you want this sexy voice murmuring dirty praise on your ear.

You scramble out of bed, grabbing your earphones and getting rid of some of your clothes before settling down again comfortably, pillow propped against the headboard, almost giggling excitedly as you scroll around the page’s contents.

Morax was obviously an experienced dom. His content covered a myriad of different kinks and scenarios, many of which you had even only started to explore because of him. And though his voice was always calm and refined, with this sweetness and dominant tilt to it, his growls and groans could be just as wild. Morax sounded downright sinful when angry, scolding or degrading the listener. And his moans and soft chuckles? Oh, you could just faint with those.

Or come, probably. Yeah.

“Daddy fucks you in his lap” “Overstimulating my pet’s little clit” “Grind your sweet pussy on Master’s leg” “Waking you up with my big cock” “Making you my good girl” “Cum until you cry and beg”

You blush as you look at the titles, skimming around tags and descriptions looking for whatever strikes your mood tonight. Heck, anything would be fine if it was him though, you swore you weren’t even into the whole daddy kink before you heard Morax but now…

Oh.

Well lucky you, he’d just uploaded something new a few hours ago, you were one of the first views… ever the fangirl, huh? You click on it as you subconsciously lick your lips. Gods, your body feels hot and needy already, knowing what’s to come.

“Daddy spoils your little pussy” reads the caption, and you place your phone by your side, lying down, propping your legs and closing your eyes.

Oh, oh my god. Your breath catches as the audio starts off right away with some lewd wet noises. Usually, Morax would sweet talk for a bit first to set the scene and mood, but you sure weren’t complaining!

Your heartbeat speeds up as your hands start rubbing at your legs and over your panties, just trying to get your body up to speed.

“Hmmm… oh, there you are sweetheart.” Gods. Morax’s voice. You already wanted to moan at the deep baritone vibrating in your ears. “I’m sorry to wake you up.”

How ironic that you couldn’t sleep yourself.

His voice drags, sounds a little tired and hoarse, it just adds to it and you picture him kissing and dragging his tongue along your skin “You like that don’t you baby? Feeling my lips… tracing your hipbone like this. I can feel the goosebumps blooming along your skin.”

Oh goosebumps alright, you shiver as you rub at your skin a little impatient, how you wish you really had his lips worshipping you right now.

“You don’t even have to do anything, you can even just go back to sleep, if you’d like.” He chuckles. “But daddy just needed you, he needed his… hmm… sweet babygirl.”

“Hng Morax yes… need you too, daddy.” You whisper softly, already shifting on the sheets.

He continues to kiss and whisper sweet nothings about how he wants to make you feel good, kiss you and pamper you and make you relax, and you melt. His soft breathing and wet sucking and kissing noises turning you on instantly.

“Alright sweetie let’s take these panties off.” There’s a slight rustle of fabric in the audio as you quickly strip off your own underwear along. “That’s a good girl. Hmm… look at your sweet little pussy, already wet and swollen for me.” He groans and you whimper and buck your hips.

“Oh god please…” You’re so keyed up already. Morax simply has that effect on you, and you wish he would hurry so you can start touching where you most need it.

“Hmm… just relax sweetheart. Lie down and let daddy take care of you… of your cute little pussy.” More erotic noises follow as you picture him slowly going down and down until he kisses and licks at your folds. “Oh, that tickles sweetie?” Another sinful chuckle.

His voice, his voice was just so good. You’d wondered many times what kind of man would have such a deep hypnotizing voice. Surely he was older, but maybe not quite a silver fox. Dark hair, maybe? A large frame, broad shoulders, lean muscles but still elegant, a proper gentleman to go with his personality.

You knew he had golden eyes, that was a fact. Well, at least what he’d mentioned in a couple of scenes, it could very well be a lie but you wanted to believe in that mysterious domineering golden glow, staring up at you like molten heat from above you or between your legs.

Morax’s voice keeps feeding your fantasy, commenting how wet you are, how your body twitches, how he drags, slow and languid around your hole and oh, it’s like your body responds exactly the way he wants, guided by him.

“Darling, let me just… hmm… suck on your cute little clit like this.”

“Ah!”

A shock of pleasure runs trough your veins as you start rubbing on the little nub. His voice muffled, moaning as he sucks and licks and sighs deeply, clearly enjoying this.

“So sweet, so good for me. Oh, it makes daddy just ache for you sweetheart.”  

You want Morax’s cock in you yesterday.

His voice turns breathy and strained, the noises and tension intensifying as you rub faster, legs shaking, your breath coming out in gasps to match his, back arching off the bed. It’s all so good, his praise, his dirty words, his gasps, his moans.

“Come on sweetie, I know you want my big cock but first… hng… first daddy wants you to cum hah… do that for me princess? Come for daddy, come on.”

“F-fuck… fuck… hnnng” You mewl. “M-Morax…”

“I got you darling I’m right here, you can cum baby I want to taste you.”

“Ah A-Ah!” Your mouth parts into a silent scream and your whole body tenses and shudders, pleasure buzzing in your veins and under your flushed sweaty skin. Your juices spill against your hand but you imagine them wetting his chin as his voice groans and moans in your ears. You picture those half-lidded sultry golden eyes glowering at you.

“That’s a very good girl…” He chuckles, and your hazy mind can picture him nuzzling at your inner thighs. “Now, now get ready babygirl, give me your legs like this.” A noise of sheets shifting registers in your brain “Around my shoulder and let me just… hng… stroke my big cock ready for you.”

Oh you were floating, your head was spinning, you parted your legs, following his every command, fingers still rubbing at your oversensitive folds to simulate whatever he was doing. You moan at the slick jerking sound and vaguely lament not having something to fill you up as he would.

“Hmm… we’re just getting started, my dear.” He hisses.

The night was long and the audio not even halfway…

———————————————————–

Even though you ended up going to sleep way past any reasonable time you didn’t really feel tired. In fact, you slept wonderfully, warm and sated. And so, you headed up to class with a carefree skip and bright smile, excited to see what this new day and new year would bring you.

The classroom was rather big but looked pretty empty even though the professor was already there, you slid into one of the front seats and quickly checked the time. You weren’t late or anything, he was just… punctual and early, it seems. Which is more than can be said by the majority of the students… if they are even coming to the class.

Some general studies were mandatory classes, though you’d only had to take a couple courses before moving to subjects more in line with your chosen career. But for now, seems like you had to deal with… history.

The professor was, well… handsome, to be quite honest. And you found yourself quietly admiring him from afar. Prim and proper with long silky dark hair in a low ponytail, a perfectly neat and brown suit, and thin elegant glasses that only drew more attention to his striking gold eyes. Not a crease in sight, not a hair out of place.

He was rather meticulous it seems, with the way he organized his material, checking the time before starting the class on the dot.

“Greetings everyone, my name is Zhongli.” He smiles warmly. “I believe a welcome in is order as this is your first day of college, a new stage of your life.”

No way.

Absolutely no fucking way.

His voice…

“Seems like you’re stuck with me for your very first class.” He chuckles.

Low and deep and velvet.

Oh, you know that exact same sound.

Your eyes widen.

Oh shit.

Mr. Zhongli is Morax…

“Let’s hope this year shall be a good and prosperous one, hm?”