yours, bani.

♡ "as a dutiful maid should" : — kamisato ayato (first time blowjob.)

♡ "i want you in the most unromantic way" : — diluc ragnvindr (jealous sex.)

♡ "put your hands on me" : — pantalone (boss/employee office sex.)

♡ "you bring the demon outta me" : — arataki itto (himbo itto/casual sex.)

♡ "i bloom just for you" : — tighnari (sex pollen.)

♡ "my body really, really wanna sin with you" : — dottore (slight dub-con, medical setting sex.)

♡ "bite into me harder, sink your teeth into my flesh" : — kaeya alberich (vampire office sex.)

♡ "i dig my nails in dynamite" : — moira o'deorain (medical-setting lesbian revenge sex.)

♡ "think i wanna feel love" : — thoma (sweet loss of virginity.)

♡ "till i'm finally fixed" : — moira (mommy issues, age gap, lesbian birthday sex.)

When the virus began to spread in all directions from its alleged location of origin, —you were certain you’d be dead before winter. If not from sickness, then certainly from another disease, or at the hands of some twisted maniac just searching for someone to slaughter that nobody would care enough to miss. You thought it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to hunger or thirst or the changing chill of autumn, or maybe something completely different: but something was bound to happen, and you were sure of it.

And it did. . . But it was nothing like what you had in mind.

Lucian may have seemed like something out of a horror story passed down through generations, still clad in his working attire the night he scooped you up in his arms from a shabby alleyway like a stray kitten, but he was surprisingly gentle (and perhaps unusually quiet.) He wasn’t very talkative, but he cared for you in a way you were completely unaccustomed to, —prepared you a warm meal, brewed you chamomile tea, ran you a hot bath, and gave you a place to sleep for the night. He said you were slightly fevered and a bit malnourished, but all things considered, it could have been worlds worse.

“You’re lucky,” he hummed, a gloved hand smoothing over your jaw, “the pestilence hasn’t taken hold of you.”

Even back then, that wasn’t why you felt lucky. . . No, much to the contrary, you felt lucky because this man had taken you in without expecting anything of you in return, and he sought to keep you safe from the rot of the outside world. Thus, little by little, you stopped caring much about going out there. 

His place is a bit quaint for two, but it’s homey, and it smells perpetually of lavender. Over time, he’s shifted the sleeping arrangements, and now you rest in his arms each night; about as close as one can get to being a lover without having the label.

A part of you is sure you could get it if you asked, but to you, it doesn’t matter much. At the end of each day, he comes home to you, and that’s what counts. You take care of the housework while he’s away (not that there’s ever much to do.) For as odd as he is, his living space is free of most things, —no trinkets unrelated to his work (which you are not keen on touching), and he’s meticulous about picking up after himself and keeping all his items in order, so your unofficial duties are few and far between. Otherwise, the rest boils down to cooking meals, washing clothes, and keeping yourself entertained while he’s away. . . Like some kind of glorified trophy wife.

And sure, this will probably get old eventually, but for now, this is what you’re working with. He likes to have you close and to know where you are, —to know that you’re safe and not out getting infected by anyone or anything. If you’re at his home, you’re safe from all the filth of the outside world, and heaven knows it’s so nice to come home and lie next to a body so utterly unmarred by the grime of society.

You’re sure once the virus has stilled, he’ll ease up.

But tonight is not that night. Lucian all but stumbles through the door, and you can hear his rapid breathing through the long, beak-like shape of his mask. He seems startled and frantic, and you rush over, a concerned expression crossing your features.

“Lucian? Are you alright?” You ask, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

In an instant, he snatches your wrist and grabs for the other, holding one in either hand. His grip is fervent, but far from painful, and you become more confused the longer he goes without explaining the state he’s found himself in.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he cuts you off, “you mustn’t get near the door.”

“Okay,” you nod in compliance, “but why?”

“The pestilence has taken hold of this city,” he replies. “The air out there, you wouldn’t believe the thickness of that putrid aroma. It’s suffocating.”

Before you can ask if there’s something you can do to quench his worries, he tugs you away from the entrance and into the bathroom. He removes his gloves and sets them aside, reaching down to begin running a warm bath. Then he looks to you, almost expectantly.

“Strip, please,” he encourages, —saying it like he’s desperate for the act, albeit not necessarily under the context you’d prefer of him.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he hisses, “please, do as I ask of you.”

His bare hands cup your cheeks.

“Please,” he repeats.

It’s hard to deny him when he asks like that and has been so good to you, and it’s not as if he’s asking for a lot. He’s just having a bad night, and if scrubbing yourself down will help ease his mind a bit, you’re willing to put in that sliver of extra effort for his sake.

Lucian sighs in relief as you begin to disrobe.

“Thank you,” he comments. “I really don’t have a clue what I’d do if you fell ill. . . I don’t think my heart could handle such a thing.”

You slip the last of your clothing off and step gingerly into the filling tub. It’s not long enough to stretch out in, so you bunch yourself up neatly to fit the space and look up at him once more.

“I feel fine,” you assure.

“I’m glad,” he replies. “Even so, it’s much better to air on the side of caution. The human body is a dangerously fickle thing, and it can be incredibly fragile. I’ve seen as much firsthand more times than I can count. In its infancy, this virus is little more than a common cold, but progresses into something fatal at a rapid pace.”

You simply nod as he kneels next to the tub, rolling his sleeves up.

“Your breathing is ragged, Lucian,” you state, “you should take that mask off and get some fresh air.”

“After,” he answers quickly.

He reaches for the half-used lavender soap bar and lathers it on his palms, then reaches out to smooth the suds over your arms and neck. His motions are a little rough and all too urgent. This is far from the first time he’s accompanied you for a bath, but it is the first time he’s ever done so and been this aggressive in his approach (if only as a result of his own anxiety.)

For the time being, he seems to avoid your breasts, instead reaching for one of your legs to hike it up out of the water. He repeats this process with the other, cleaning you until he seems satisfied. When he makes no move to revisit your chest, you take the soap from his hand and lather it yourself, placing it in its previous spot before leaning back slightly and allowing your hands to travel where you’d have liked for his to go.

Lucian watches but doesn’t touch. Your fingertips nudge at your nipples, feeling them harden under the minstrations, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth. If nothing else, he should be getting the hint by now.

Surprisingly, you’ve never had sex with him in all the months you’ve spent curled up in his arms, sleeping in his bed. He’s watched you take care of yourself on a number of occasions, has helped with his fingers another few times, —and allowed you to wrap your hand around him once a few weeks prior; but anything beyond that has seemed to be off limits. You’ve chalked it up to his shyness, or perhaps his distaste for human contact as a result of the pestilence; but tonight feels distinctly different.

Even in his previous state of frazzlement, Lucian seems all too content to sit back and watch you fondle your own breasts, soapy fingers clutching and releasing in tandem. You’ve always liked for him to watch you do things like this. Though his mask obscures the view of his face, you just know his eyes are trained on you, soaking up every movement, and you like to think he’s drooling at the way you grope yourself for his enjoyment (and for your own.)

“Lucian?” You prompt, half-lidded eyes glancing over to him.

His shoulders straighten as you say his name.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says, words almost too muffled by the mask to be made out.

“You think so?” You smirk a bit.

“I do.”

Ah, but that’s nothing new, and it’s nothing he hasn’t shared with you before. On the very night he took you in and washed your hair, he smoothed his gloved hands against your scalp and mumbled about how pretty you looked, even with dirt still caked on your skin. Even covered in filth from the alleyways you’d been sleeping in, he thought you were nothing less than stunning, —a real vision to behold, and he’s never skimped on such compliments.

You pause for a moment, reaching out to grasp for his hands. He allows the gesture, though he seems a bit confused, leaning in closer to the rim of the tub as you position him to your liking.

“Do you think I feel feverish?” You inquire, placing one of his hands on your neck and another on one of your breasts.

He makes no move to pull away, firming his grip up almost instantaneously, as if he’s been itching to feel you this way.

“Perhaps a bit warm,” he mumbles, taking a moment to roll your nipple between two nimble fingers, “but body temperature is known to rise during times of. . .” he trails off, clears his throat, then utters: “arousal.”

You trail your nails down his arm, letting your head tip back again. His hands are a bit calloused, but they feel so good against your skin, and you let a few moans slip past your lips. It’s not often he touches you like this without his gloves on, but the flesh-on-flesh contact is electrifying.

“Not to worry you, but I do feel a bit strange,” you huff slightly.

Through the slightly tinted bath water, Lucian can still watch your hand as it travels between your thighs.

“I’m just a throbbing mess,” you hum, giving him a pointed stare; “but you’ll take care of me. . . Right, Doctor?”

It may just be your imagination, but you could swear you heard his breathing shudder at that request. You’ve never been this forward with him, but something apart from the facial expression that’s still hidden away tells you that he likes where this is going. His fingers clamp down on the column of your throat, squeezing just enough to make taking in air a bit more of a struggle, but not anywhere near hard enough to be fatal.

The bit about being a throbbing mess was by no means an exaggeration on your part, so you take matters into your own fingers for the time being, drawing circles on your clit beneath the water.

“Of course,” he finally finds the voice to agree, “—I’d do anything to keep you from feeling unwell.”

That is what you like to hear.

“Anything?”

“Anything.” 

His grip tightens on your throat again, for emphasis, and with that, he seems to come slightly undone.

“Darling, that’s why I’ve demanded you stay here in my home, —our home. It’s safe here, free of contaminants and filth and anything that could cause you harm,” he says, the words spilling out like he’s been holding them back since he first set his sights on you.

“The world outside is ill, not just this rotten city. I’m working tirelessly to combat this pestilence, but as things stand now, the safest place you can be is here. With me. You understand that, my love. . . Don’t you?”

You’re only half listening, but you nod in agreement anyway. Whatever he’s saying, you trust his opinion on the matter.

“Of course,” you gasp, almost slipping a finger inside yourself to the tune of his melodic voice.

“I knew you would,” he continues, loosening the grip on your neck again. “You know I only want what’s best for you, that everything I do is to ensure your safety, —to eliminate the possibility of you ever falling sick.”

“Of course,” you repeat, head growing cloudier by the minute. “You’ve always taken such good care of me, right from the very beginning.”

God, he’s so elated that you’re seeing things his way. The way this makes him feel is almost too much to handle.

“I try so hard, darling, I truly do,” he says, both hands coming up to cup your cheeks.

“Please, Lucian,” you mumble desperately, “I need you tonight.”

He complies, shedding his long coat and draping it over your shoulders once you’ve stepped out of the tub. The chill of the air against your wet skin leaves your nipples hard and sensitive, and as he leads you to the bedroom, you hope he realizes just what it is you’re asking for. His fingers are a plentiful start, and you just know they’ll feel so good stuffed inside you, curling to hit all the right places, —but they’re nothing compared to the cock he’s stingily hidden away for all this time.

Tonight, you want him in all his glory in the glow of the lanterns on the walls. You want to strip him bare and gag on the length between his thighs, feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth, tease every vein that runs up his shaft. It’s not enough to grind against him while you’re half asleep or hump his clothed thigh until you’ve left his pants damp and your pussy sopping, just begging to be fucked by this man who might just love you more than he could ever fear any virus that lurks outside these walls.

“Don’t fret,” he tells you, though it sounds more like a command than a gesture to soothe any worries, “just lie back. I’ll be sure to give you. . . A proper examination.”

You could cum just hearing that.

With half your body pressed against the headboard and his coat nearly slipping off your body completely, he sets to work in his underclothes and mask. It’s by no means an uncommon sight, but there’s something distinct about him this late evening; the way his black attire contrasts so beautifully with the stark paleness of his skin and the mystery it shrouds him in that you’re just dying to sink your teeth into. Everything hidden beneath that cautious wardrobe and that long mask. . . You’ve gotta have it. It’s a necessity.

His fingers, ungloved, begin softly with your calves, tracing senseless lines.

“I’m not so fragile,” you remind him.

For as oblivious as he can be, Lucian takes the hint, and by the time he’s reached your thighs, he’s content to give them the same treatment as your throat.

The way he splits you apart is almost painfully clinical, a thumb on either side of your lips, peering through the eye holes of his mask to admire the way your folds glisten in the orange lantern light. A few prodding strokes leave you biting your lip again, body waning in anticipation for the moment he finally turns his hand over and sinks the longest of his fingers inside you, —slowly, but deliberately. It’s impossible to see his expression, but you hope his mouth hangs open a little at the way your cunt suckles on his finger, encouraging him to prod more and maybe stuff another few inside for you to grind against.

There’s something about the warmth of his fingers that gets you off almost in equal amounts to the way he moves. Another finger inside, and you whine, halfway to an orgasm from this alone.

He’s not particulary rough in his execution, but there’s a clean meticulousness in every movement that leaves every cell in your body craving more, begging for anything he can offer. Months upon months of wanting, of dropping hints, of hoping he’d catch on and finally see things your way, —and at last, you’ve made it. And now that you’re here, you’re content to simply lie still and let him have his way with you.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, nearly choking on the words when the tips of his fingers brush just the right spot.

“Before you’re satisfied?” He sits forward a bit, resting his free hand on your stomach to press you down onto the bed. “Darling, I couldn’t fathom it.”

You will your upper body forward, grabbing for the hand on your stomach to move it up to your throat. He squeezes, scissoring the fingers inside you, watching closely as your body shakes and your eyes roll back a bit in ecstasy.

“I’ve tried,” he says to you suddenly. “I’ve tried so desperately to be gentle with you.”

You smile.

“I appreciate that,” you answer. “But I don’t want you to be gentle at the moment.”

“That’s a dangerous request, my love,” he warns.

God, you hope so.

You reach forward and grab at the beak of his mask, pulling it upward gently until it begins to slip off and reveal the handsome face underneath. Dark hair, dark eyes, but skin almost pale enough to be sickly, you meet his gaze just long enough to ask for permission, then lean in to kiss him on the mouth. It’s the first time, and it’s electric. He’s avoided this for months, —avoided your mouth, your unspoken pleas, all the passes you made for the sake of keeping himself at bay. But here you are now with two of his fingers stuffed inside you, his hand on your throat, and your lips slotted against his own.

“Please,” you murmur, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

And you can feel the restraints of his mind come unwound.

He’s no longer gentle in the way he fucks you silly with his fingers, hammering them over and over and over again into that delicious spot buried deep inside you, squeezing your throat hard enough to cut your breathing off. The way your pussy spasms as you cum is blissful, and he loves the way your arousal soaks his digits, loves the way your back arches, soundless moans spilling forth as he makes you orgasm.

“I fucking tried,” he says again.

It’s almost manic, so desperate and sort of pathetic in the kind of way that turns you on. This is the first time you’ve ever heard him curse, and it dawns on you that even the filthiest of words sound so unendingly elegant when they’re spoken by Lucian.

“I tried to be gentle. I tried to keep you safe here, —to shelter you from whatever forsaken wasteland remains out there,” he insists, his fingers still buried in your twitching cunt. “I just wanted to protect you.”

He lightens the grip on your throat as you lean in to kiss him again, cupping his face in your hands.

“You have,” you assure him.

“You take such good care of me, Lucian,” you mumble into his ear. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”

The fingers stuffed inside you slowly slip out, and reach for his hand, guiding them to your lips, taking his digits into your mouth to taste yourself on them. He watches with hunger and interest as you clean him with your tongue. He leans in to kiss you to get a taste of it himself, grasping your hair near the scalp and taking a fistful hard enough to make you gasp.

“I can’t let you leave,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe out there. When this pestilence has been subdued, I’ll do this all correctly. We can start from the beginning, and I’ll be a gentleman.”

“I look forward to it,” you answer softly.

“You’ll stay until then?” He inquires.

He’s clearly overreacting, but it’s hard to care when you just want him inside you. Lucian has seen death day in and day out, —so it’s no wonder it feels like it permeates everything around him. He just doesn’t want you to suffer such a fate, and you’re confident that you won’t, as long as he’s yours.

“Of course I will,” you answer.

It’s like something primal takes over. Suddenly his lips are on yours in a bruising kiss, and his hands are grasping roughly at your breasts, pushing you down onto the bed as he crawls between your legs. He pauses, hovering just above your dripping cunt, turning his head to sink his teeth into the meat of your thigh. It makes you squeal a bit, and he kisses the teethmarks he left behind as if in apology.

You can’t help but wonder how long he’s been yearning for this. It’s like every part of him is thrumming from the thrill of it all, and this man who has previously refused to even kiss you on the mouth is now stationed exactly where you want him, tongue lolling out to lick a solid stripe up your folds. He laps like a man starved, then spreads you apart with his thumbs to suck your clit mercilessly.

It’s good enough to make your vision go blurry, and you can’t seem to form proper words through the haze. Desperately, your fingers claw at the sheets of this mattress, and he moans against your hot cunt, sending a vibration rippling through your core that makes your back arch on instinct. You mumble something that comes out like gibberish, pussy convulsing against the flat of his tongue.

His arm comes round to press your hips down, forcing you to be still. It’s the kind of toruture you’re sure you’ll learn to live for. There’s only so much you can wriggle under his arm, which has a surprising amount of force despite his rather lanky stature.

From what little friction you manage as you attempt to grind against his tongue, you tip yourself over the edge and as the knot in your stomach unties for the second time tonight, he continues licking, lapping at the juices that spill forth.

He stands and reaches for the top button of his shirt, not bothering to wipe his face, chin and lips glistening with your aftermath. You watch him undress with lustful eyes, propping yourself up on your elbow, then slinking back against the headboard once again, resting your weary body against it. The quiver of your thighs doesn’t stop you from nudging at your swollen clit.

“I wanted to be a gentleman,” he comments, untucking the shirt from his pants and pulling the front open.

It’s not skin you haven’t seen before. In fact, you’ve seen every inch of him at one point or another; just never all at once, and now, you’re waiting with bated breath to see him completely exposed for your eyes only.

“I truly did. I wanted to give you comfort and security, —to love you as you deserve. And I knew from the moment I saw you that only I could give you exactly what you’ve always needed.”

You hum in acknowledgement as he continues to strip himself bare.

“But it’s so clear to me now that I’ve neglected you,” he continues. “This beautifully desperate display is all a result of my negligence. . . I failed to realize just how much you needed me like this. How much you needed the touch of a man. . .”

He sounds apologetic, but your eyes are fixated on his half-hard cock. The last time you saw it, he asked that you keep your mouth away; insisting it wasn’t sanitary to use it for such purposes, terrified that you might contract some sort of illness if you sucked his dick for the sheer enjoyment of doing so. This time, however, you have a feeling you’re well past that.

To test the waters, you let your hand fall away from your cunt, slipping off the side of the bed to kneel before him. He gazes down at you as you open your lips and let your tongue fall out, encouraging him to make what he will of it.

“My love,” he says, placing four fingers under your chin to rest his thumb against your tongue for a moment, “—I’ll make everything up to you. . .”

His free hand pumps his cock once, twice, thrice, —then he places it gently on the flat of your tongue, letting you feel the weight and the warmth of it. He sighs.

“Darling,” he groans, “ah. . .”

It takes very little for him to come close to cumming in your mouth, just a few minutes of sucking him off, listening to him moan, feeling him quiver at your touch. You hum with his member stuffed down your throat, and he cants his hips reflexively, an orgasm bubbling up beneath his skin.

Your non-dominant hand holds his cock steady while the other is stuck between your thighs, rubbing furiously at your clit, making you whimper along his shaft. When he notices, Lucian finds that wholly unacceptable and snatches you up to position you on the edge of the bed, relieving the pressure on your aching knees. You weren’t down there for long, but kneeling was hardly comfortable on the hard floor.

He spreads your thighs apart and smacks the pads of his fingers against your slit.

Whatever he’s doing, you’re sure you’ll enjoy it to the fullest, so you occupy yourself with his cock again from this new angle, bending awkwardly to mouth at the reddened tip. His fingers find their way inside you once more, working their delicate magic, brushing against all the right places. At this point, you’re more desperate for his dick to slip inside you like this, but you take what he offers in stride (and more of him into your mouth in the process.)

He’s vocal, and that’s utterly divine. His gravely moans and the pump of his fingers leave you cumming for a third time before his first orgasm arises, depositing a sizable amount of his seed into your mouth.

“I love you,” he huffs, —and if he were anyone else, you’d be certain it was just the oral sex talking, but no. . . Lucian wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it.

Of course, he’s made similar confessions over the months, and has certainly treated you like it long before he ever expressed it so directly, but still. . . It feels nice to hear it, if nothing else.

“I love you too,” you answer honestly, urging him closer with your arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m yours tonight, completely. . . If you’ll have me. . .”

“Oh, darling, don’t be foolish,” he remarks, kissing you deeply. “You’ve been mine since the moment we met.”

Your back to the cool sheets, he lingers over you now, his shadow looming over you so monstrously. There’s a stark flush of red on his face that has begun to spread down the length of his neck, and one of his hands finds its way to your breasts as the other smoothes across your thigh. The head of his cock kisses your sopping entrance, sending a series of chills from the top of your spine to the bottom.

His breath on your neck makes your chest tighten, and he finds your lips with his own again as he sinks inside you, filling you up.

“Lucian,” you whimper, helpless to his touch as he pauses, buried down to the hilt inside your cunt.

He presses a few gentle kisses to your throat, murmuring something about how nice it feels to be stuffed inside you. He feels your nails dig into his shoulders as you adjust to his intrusion.

“You must understand by now,” he says, mumbling the words right next to your bitten earlobe. “Everything I do is for you.”

“I do,” you gasp slightly. 

As he begins to move, your walls clench around him, and he exhales deeply against the junction of your neck and shoulder. You roll your hips to match his pace, but as he goes faster, that becomes fruitless. Eventually, you resign yourself to the fate of lying there against the pillows, speared on his cock, him making a mess of you as you moan uncontrollably.

This was everything you’d been hoping for and then some, like some erotic dream come to life. Lucian’s lips travel where they please, —stopping to peck at your jaw, then to suck on your throat. Your breathing is haggard, and he smooths a hand down your side, resting it against your hip for a moment.

“Just a little more,” he whispers, as if to be reassuring.

“Just look how stunning you are, angel,” he murmurs, “how pretty you look like this.”

He kisses you once more.

“You take this so well, like your body was made for me.”

You’re delirious enough to believe that might be the case.

His cock pounds a little harder, and he hits the perfect spot, tearing a desperate yelp from your throat. You’re overstimulated and weak, but your high is itching just under your skin, and you couldn’t bear to see it disappear.

“Please,” you whimper to him, completely at his mercy, “—please, I’m so close.”

He loves the desperation that clings to your voice. The hand on your hip travels to your clit, pressing roughly against the abused little button, making you jerk slightly. He rubs a few heavy circles against it, and you come undone, cunt spasming around his cock as he chases his own release inside you.

Lucian is sloppy near the end, which may just be the only time you’ve ever known him to not be perfectly calculated and precise. His breath hits your neck again, over and over as he huffs through the hunt, finally sinking his teeth in when he comes to a finish. His cum sits hot inside your cunt, and he catches his breath for a moment, head resting against your throat.

“I apologize,” he utters. “I hope that wasn’t too much for you.”

You exhale slowly, his cock still buried in your heat.

“Don’t apologize,” you murmur, “I enjoyed myself.”

You feel him smile against your neck.

“I’m glad, darling.”

For the first time, he sleeps next to you without clothing, letting you touch every part of him, tangling your limbs together. Your face buried in the crook of his neck, breath fanning softly against him, as close to sleep as you can manage without tumbling over the precipice, Lucian reaches for his long coat and drapes it over your body, holding you closer.

You know you shouldn’t be here, —but here you are yet again, coming to Moira’s every beck and call. All it took was one text and you’re standing in front of her door in a nice little dress that won’t stay on for much longer anyhow, but you wanted to wear it because you bought it less for yourself and more for her. You want her to see you in it, take a moment to admire the way it flatters your figure, hugs all the right places, let her eyes rake over you like you’re some kind of fine arts exhibit before she takes her sweet time stripping it off and tossing it to the wayside. And then you’re sure she’ll trail those nails of hers along the bare skin of your arms, toying with the straps of your lacy bra before she finally unhooks it from the back and discards of it as well, leaving lipstick stains on your chest when her mouth meets your skin. She’ll whisper that you’re pretty, and you might just believe it for the night, and then she’ll make you believe it when she kisses you hard enough to steal your breath away, and—

Your thoughts still when she opens the door for you, giving you a knowing smirk. There was never a question of if you were coming, just one of how quickly you’d be arriving, and here you are, even though you shouldn’t be. She invites you inside and lingers behind you under the guise of closing the door, but you can feel her piercing stare on your body as she flips the lock. You leave your heels at the door, as always. 

No, it’s not a good idea to be back here again, but you’ve convinced yourself by now that sometimes it’s okay to live a little. Moira is a lot of things, but she’s someone you trust enough to let see you in very vulnerable positions, and you like to think that’s enough. It might be a naive perspective to have on the matter, —but that’s to be expected of you, so young and pliable. You met Moira on the night of your twenty-first birthday, celebrating alone at a bar where she was sipping on straight whiskey while you nursed a poorly prepped martini (and found that alcohol in general just isn’t much to your taste.)

Nearly thirty years your senior, she felt like she was taking a chance on you that night. It’d been a rough day, and she’d gone so long only caring about her work and all the ways she was looking to change the world that her desire to want and be wanted had since fallen to the wayside. But there you were with those lost, innocent eyes, glancing around like you hadn’t a clue what you were doing (because you didn’t.) She was so confident and smooth in the way she moved down the bar to sit next to you, then let her hand rest on your thigh after a few minutes of chit-chat. One thing led to another, she bought you a few drinks to try, and then took you to a nearby hotel for the night where she sank her teeth in deep enough to keep you around for a while.

Nearing twenty-two and just as eager to please her, you accept her kiss with parted lips, letting her tongue rake itself over yours.

“You’re beautiful as ever,” she says, running the back of her slender index finger down the length of your cheek, “—is that a new dress you’ve got on?”

You know it doesn’t mean anything that she noticed. Not really, anyway. It’s in her job description to be observant, and her memory is impeccable, and yet you let it get to you that she noticed. You let yourself think that she really does care beyond what you’ve got between your legs that she really likes to press her mouth against until you’re left a quivering mess.

“Yeah, it is,” you nod, a bashful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I thought I’d treat myself. Do you like it?”

“I do,” she confirms, letting her eyes trail down the length of you once more. “An early birthday present to yourself, I presume?”

“You remembered?”

She remembered. Heaven help you, she makes this so much more complicated than it needs to be. Or, she helps you make it much more complicated than it needs to be, anyway. You know it’s a fool’s game to chase after her like she’s some kind of prize to be won, but. . . She’s so mature, and she makes you feel so special.

Long story short, you’ve got a down-bad case of mommy issues, but when you’re all tied up in Moira’s arms and she’s kissing every inch of you, wanting you down to the marrow, —it’s hard to let yourself be sad.

“Of course I remembered,” she replies so tenderly.

But tender like a bruise.

“Come, I got you something,” she beckons, moving her hand from your cheek and down to your wrist.

Moira pulls you along to her bedroom, the one you’ve been in many times before with a large sliding-glass door that leads to a balcony overlooking the city below. You’re not sure how much her rent is each month for this luxury apartment of hers, but you know it can’t be cheap. Sometimes you stand with her outside in the late night air, one of her button-up shirts hanging down to your kness with nothing but panties underneath after a nice time together. She’ll smoke a cigarette under the moonlight and press it to your lips every now and again, letting you take small hits that you never really breathe in.

“You really didn’t have to get me anything,” you tell her in earnest. “Besides, my birthday isn’t for a few more days. . .”

“Oh, hush,” she tells you, sounding more playful than scolding as she hands you a gift bag.

It’s a solid crimson color, which you can’t help but think is oddly befitting of her. There’s no glitter, frills, or ribbons, no bells and whistles to name, so you move to open it, but glance up at her in hesitation, as if asking for permission. She nods, to which you swallow and push some of the tissue paper aside, digging your hand into the bag until you touch something smooth toward the bottom.

Confused, you pull the item out and feel your face heat up. It’s a leather collar.

“Do you like it?” She inquires, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “I think you should try it on.”

You nod and hand it over to her, pushing your hair out of the way so she can fasten it around your throat. It seems like such an easy process for her, and you can’t help but wonder if she’s ever done such a thing with anyone else. Once it’s secured, she moves in front of you and takes a step back, admiring the accessory.

“What do you think?” You ask, sounding somewhat sheepish.

“What a sight you are to behold, a ghrá,” she hums. “It even matches your dress.”

Black leather with a little black dress, it’s kind of hard to go wrong there.

“Come,” she all but coos, taking a seat on the edge of her king-sized bed right next to the oakwood nightstand.

It has three drawers, the top of which is always filled with various items you’ve had on or inside you over the past year; a few vibrators, various lubricants in different flavors, body oils, —and now, a silver chain. . . Like the kind you might use to keep a dog in place for a bit or curl around your bike to stop it from getting stolen. You stand between her thighs as she lets the length of it fall to the floor. Your guess would be that it’s only five feet or so long, but you’re sure she’ll make do with it just fine.

“Lean down for me,” she requests, and you do, no questions to be asked on the matter.

Moira smirks as she hooks the chain to the collar on your neck.

“Such an obedient thing, aren’t you?” She quips, then gives the chain a little yank for good measure. “Kneel.”

She feels her hunger grow the moment you comply so easily, as if she’s your master and you’ve been trained ever so perfectly to follow her every command without question.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, wrapping the metal links around her knuckles, then folding her fingers back over them.

She places a fingernail beneath your chin and tilts your gaze up until you’re transfixed on her irises.

“You’re so pretty like this, did you know that?” She inquires rhetorically.

The nail against your skin becomes the whole of her palm against your cheek. Her hand is cold, but you can’t seem to care beyond the brief initial shock.

“Don’t think your efforts go unnoticed, darling, I know exactly who you purchased that dress for,” Moira smirks. “And I’m enjoying every moment of seeing you in it, just as you intended.”

And that’s really all it takes. This love might bleed like an open wound, might fester until you stitch it up again, —but it’s here that you don’t mind all the nights you craved validation for every good deed that went unnoticed. Maybe Moira isn’t praising your straight A’s or being proud of just how much like her you look, but what’s the fucking difference if it fills the same void? What does it really matter if it helps?

“Open,” she utters, and as you do, she places two fingers from her opposite hand against the flat of your tongue, drawing little circles in your saliva.

Then she rests an elbow against her knee and leans down a little lopsidedly, replacing her fingers with her lips, kissing you sloppily, capturing your mouth and keeping you there until she’s had her fill of it. When she breaks away, you feel her fingers searching for your dress’s zipper along the back.

“I really hate to see this go so soon, but certain sacrifices are in order,” she sighs a little playfully, tugging the zipper down about halfway before standing upright and using the chain on your neck to pull you with her.

On your feet again, she helps you out of your dress and makes a show of folding it ever so neatly, then placing it on the nightstand in front of her lamp and her alarm clock that’s woken you up too soon far too many times for your liking. Moira lays you down on her bed, and it’s so large that it reminds you of the one you’d search for at night when bad dreams took hold of your fragile little heart and squeezed just hard enough to crush it into pieces at will. Only this time, there’s warmth awaiting your endeavors, and you’re not a lowly little child that has to beg for affection.

She rubs a few teasing lines down your slit through the black lace of your panties, teasing you briefly with her touch. For as long as you’ve known her, Moira has never been very keen on reciprocation, preferring to give rather than take. She likes the control and the motions of it all, likes to know that she has the upper hand, —and she always does when she’s with you.

It’s only been a few moments, but it feels like a lifetime and then some by the time she hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear and begins to tug them down your thighs. You feel the scratch of the materials against your flesh as you lift your hips off the sheets to make it easier, and she’s much less careful with your panties than she was with your dress just a bit ago. They wind up somewhere on the floor at the foot of her bed.

You gasp a bit when the pad of her thumb slips past your lips and nudges along your clit almost instantaneously. The quick reaction makes her snicker a bit.

“Sensitive as ever,” She comments offhandedly.

The unspoken part of that is something along the lines of I’ve always loved that about you.

After a year’s worth of hookups, late nights, and hellishly early mornings spent together, Moira is virtually an expert in all things pertaining to you. Such is only exemplified by the way she teases you for a bit with her tongue before letting it slip past your lips to lap at your inner folds.

You choke on a few curse words just above her, already clawing at the sheets as she flicks her tongue against you, pulling the chain that still remains clutched in her hand a bit tighter. It’s not enough to cause any pain, but it squeezes your neck from the back and makes it ever so slightly harder to take in gasping breaths of air.

She was more than right when she called you sensitive, —both to her touch and everything else about her. You’ve always been so eager to make her happy, and she loves that about you. You’d jump through rings of fire for her, and she knows it.

The mixture of your arousal and her spit makes for a delicious squelshing sound at every move she makes, tongue thrusting in and out of your soaked cunt, abusing your clit for her pleasure while you whine and whimper above her. This kind of pleasure has always felt overwhelming in a good way; the kind that gets your blood pumping, heart racing, and inhabitions lowered enough to fall for someone like her, even when you know it’s bad for you.

Moira feels the stress of her work and the critics of her methods melt away when her tongue is busy torturing you so sweetly, lapping at every glistening inch she can. She’s mind-numbingly thorough, and it leaves your thighs quivering long before your orgasm begins to prickle just under your skin. For as good as she is with words, it comes as no surprise that she’s just as skilled with her tongue in all areas of her life.

It doesn’t take much more of this to have you cumming on her tongue, cunt spasming so helplessly under her touch.

Fuck, you’d do anything to have her like this every night when she gets in from work and needs something —someone— to take her frustrations out on. You’ve always been good for that.

“Tired?” She muses, regarding you a bit sweetly as she sits upright and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her button-up shirt.

“Just a bit,” you answer, breathing slightly easier now that she isn’t pulling as harshly on the chain clipped to your throat.

“Not tired enough to stop now, I’d hope?”

What you really wanna say is that you’d never stop until she told you that you could, gave you explicit confirmation that enough was enough, —but you can’t. You know deep down that it’d scare her off, and you just couldn’t handle that kind of rejection, so you shake your head instead.

“Good,” Moira replies. “It’d be a shame to pause here when I have so much planned for you tonight. That was merely the tip of the iceberg.”

An appetizer, one she was wetting her chops with.

She digs around in that drawer next to her bedside, pulling a vibrator from the inside. You’re not so sure she’s ever used this one on you before, but if there’s one thing Moira always knows how to do right, it’s give you pleasure, so you resign yourself to laying there on her bed as she presses one of the pebble-like buttons on the shaft and feels the item begin to shake in her hand.

“Turn over,” she quips, thinking you’ve had enough cool-down time between sets of stimulation, —and you do, hiking your ass into the air and speading your thighs apart to give her ample access.

You feel her nails scratch thoughtfully over your goosebump-ridden skin, pausing for a moment to knead at your flesh a few times. Then she runs a hand down to the small of your back, wordlessly encouraging you to rest your head against the mattress and let her get to work. A needy moan is drawn from your parted lips the very second she presses the vibrator to your pussy lips, causing shivers to wrack through your body.

The soft hum of the toy speeds up into more of a whirring sound as she increases the tenacity and pushes it inward, slipping past your folds to pulsate against your desperate clit. Moira seems rather satisfied with the sounds you’re making, even as she reaches just under your body to snatch the chain still dangling from around your neck. You feel it jostle as she wraps it around her knuckles once, then twice, pulling taunt while she begins drawing blissful shapes into your snatch that have your eyes rolling back into your head.

Then from the soft melody of the toy’s buzz came a sudden crescendo into a firm, droning noise that made you cry out a bit from the intensity.

“Ah,” Moira says, almost in amusement, “I take it that’s the one?”

“Yes,” you reply quickly, the word coming out so ruined by no fault of your own.

“Very well,” she notes, swirling the tip against your clit again before pulling away and repeating.

It’s like she’s teasing you, though you’re not sure if that’s the intention of it all. Either way, you make no attempt to complain. It’s impossible to even think about doing so when you’ve got stars swashing across your vision. You’re sure you’d have been drooling between your legs by now, dripping all over her sheets, if not for the knob of the vibrator catching and returning it, slicking you up even more.

Your neck is beginning to ache from the position you’re laying in, but you ignore the signs from your body to move and find a more comfortable posture. All you can focus on is the heat between your legs and the toy she’s now pressing so roughly against you that you can practically feel the vibrations in your womb. The pressure builds once again, your stomach twisting into knots, —and then you finally let out the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as an orgasm wracks through your body. It was so much easier to elicit the second time around, almost enough for you to be embarrassed.

Moira pulls the toy away slowly, letting your lips kiss it softly goodbye as she switches it back to a stationary position.

“To your liking, I take it?” She asks, and you can hear the smirk in her voice.

“Yeah,” you huff, “—definitely.”

It just always is when you’re with her, no matter what she does, or even if she only uses what she has readily available. Anything she offers is enough. You’d do anything just touch her, feel her skin against yours, feel her lips ghost against you like they always do. You’re left to toe another dangerous line between ecstasy and infatuation.

She tugs the chain and you find yourself on your knees, kneeling a bit unsteadily on your thighs that haven’t quite stopped quivering just yet. You lower your ass to your heels on the mattress as she wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you a bit closer to trail some peppered kisses down your jaw. It’s hard not to feel special when you have her like this, —when she showers you in all the adoration you missed out on in your younger years. Sure, maybe it’s not the same, and maybe it is just placing a bandaid over a gash deep enough to need stitches, but it’s the best you can do. There’s no amount of therapy that can really change the past, and if Moira is what it takes for you to feel like you’re worth something for a while, then so fucking be it.

By now, your pussy’s sopping wet and swollen, but still in desperate need of her attention. Moira kisses you again, but your lips this time, slipping her tongue into your mouth and swapping your spit for her own.

You swallow down the I love you that rises in the back of your throat like bile. You can’t say that. . . You won’t. You can think it all you want, because she can’t read your mind (as much as it feels like she can sometimes) —but you can’t say it out loud. Not when you know it means throwing away this already pitifully fragile balance.

“Come,” she says simply, moving to sit at the head of her bed, long legs stretched out and clothed in black dress pants with the texture of rough denim.

She situates you as she pleases, one leg on either side of her right thigh, one hand on your hip to keep you steady while the other fiddles with the chain. She coaxes you down until your pussy is flat against her, taking in a sharp breath from the warmth and the friction.

“Let’s get this out of the way, shall we?” She comments, both hands meeting behind your back to unclasp your bra, —the last item of clothing left on your frame.

Once it’s shed, she gives you another look-over, admiring you like she’s never seen you this way before. 

“Your wrists,” she requests, to which you comply so obediently, like a pet she’s trained ever so well. 

Moira wraps the length of the chain around your wrists a few times, tucking the end through the space in the middle. Under any other circumstances, you’d have easily been able to wriggle your way free, but you allow yourself to be bound for the sake of her pleasure; leaning forward to rest against her shoulder.

“Sweet thing,” she murmurs. “One more? They say third time’s the charm, after all.”

“Whatever you want,” you answer, even at the risk of coming on a little too strong.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to mind the intensity of the statement and appears to chalk it up to pillow talk.

With both of her hands free now, she plants one on each side of your hips, nails digging slightly into the plush of your skin. A whine clings to the back of your throat as she guides you, coaxing you into a subtle grind against her clothed thigh. Sharp prickles run along your spine as you move a little faster, chasing a final high that really can’t seem to come fast enough.

Moira seemed more than content to lie back and watch you drive yourself wild in her lap, her hands less guiding your motions now and more just coming along for the ride that she’s letting you set the pace of. You spur between quick, jagged motions and slow, deliberate ones that really send shocks throughout your body, all of which meld deliciously together and leave you love drunk atop her.

You know the wetness from your pussy is staining her pants, likely more than enough to seep through the fabric, but she doesn’t seem to mind at all. With your heart pounding like a drum in your chest, you almost have the wherewithal to wonder if she can hear it. You find it’s harder to breathe now, lungs aching a little from the inconsistent amounts of air you’re taking in a series of random gulps, then sputtering out between desperate moans of pleasure.

“Moira,” you hiss, —and she squeezes your hips in silent response.

The heat in the pit of your stomach has begun to spark like a live wire, just begging to catch ablaze. You bury your face in the crook of her neck, muffling the ragged sobs that you can’t hold back any longer, eventually sinking your teeth into the junction of her slender shoulder when your climax hits you. 

Moira listens to the uneven rhythm of your breathing as it steadily calms into something less strangled, trailing her fingers down your naked spine. When you’ve come down from the high, she unravels the chain, then removes it entirely, and stuffs it (as well as the vibrator) back into the drawer they came from. The collar comes off just as readily, and she takes a moment to check on the condition of your throat in the process. Best of all, you just know it’s going to be one of the better nights when she reaches off to the side of the bed, plucking her half-empty pack of cigarettes from the nightstand to place one of them between her lips.

If you ask about Thoma throughout Inazuma, you’ll likely get similar replies. They’ll comment on his willingness to help others, to be of service to those in need. Many will commonly note that he’s a hard worker, a diligent young man who loathes leaving any task incomplete. You might even hear that he’s a prime candidate for many young women in terms of romantic interest, —that he’s easy on the eyes and gentlemanly to boot. Such praise from not only the general public, but even the likes of Kamisato Ayato and Ayaka themselves, left you truly believing that you were in good hands with him.

Which. . . Is still accurate, you suppose; just not in the way you expected.

Coming from a sizable line of nobility, you were cordially invited to attend a week-long summit in Inazuma to discuss international relations between all the nations. Though it wasn’t quite your area of expertise, you readily accepted the offer and studied dutifully in order to make a positive impression. The Yashiro Commissioner was also kind enough to allow guests of high importance (of which you were apparently one) to board in the Kamisato estate for the duration of your stay.

Thus, their dearest housekeeper became yours for the week; in more ways than one. Just as the rumors had declared, —Thoma was warm, kind, and none too unattractive. He helped you carry your bags to the room you’d be staying in and made it clear that if you needed anything at all, you could come to him for help. You thanked him, but didn’t really expect to take him up on that. After all, you were quite used to taking care of most things yourself, and that background of independence and task-juggling has all but prepared you for the very worst.

Thoma was an unexpected storm though; —one you hadn’t a clue how to weather.

The meeting for the third day was pushed back a few hours due to a holdup of cargo ships blocking the entrance to Inazuma. Many of the needed officials were busy trying to sort through the mess of it all, and others were aboard the ships stuck in the harbor, unable to leave until the others had cleared off. When word of the delay reached you, you were the first one out the door, well on your way back to the Kamisato estate. The two prior gatherings had taken a lot out of you, and while it was clear that your studying had served you more than well, the social aspect was quite draining. Moreover, a few extra hours of rest before diving into the next one was hardly a sour idea.

It seemed that everyone else was using their time differently. You were met with a sea of empty rooms, not a single soul in sight as you made your way down the long hall. Halfway to your temporary space, however, you caught wind of soft, muffled sounds coming from your room through the ever-so-slightly cracked sliding door. Your footsteps became much lighter as you approached, peeking in through the small gap to see what was going on.

Your jaw dropped and you were hardly able to contain the gasp that nearly erupted from the back of your throat. Thoma was in your room, clothed back pressed against the wall, your worn panties from the day before stuffed against his face. You could hear him taking long, deep breaths, savoring the scent of your day-old musk. His half-hard cock rested in his hand, offering slow strokes to himself as he reveled in the aroma of your used, unwashed underwear.

Reflexively, you felt prickles of disgust stab at your innocent heart. Having been raised a noble, you were well beyond sheltered in many ways, and this was the first time you’d ever seen something so phallic in person. But you couldn’t deny the warmth spreading along your core, nor the way your pussy clenched ever so slightly at the sight of it all. Thoma was fairly long and certainly not lacking in girth. His lithe fingers encircled himself, sliding along his member with exactly the kind of precision you would expect from an experienced housekeeper.

In your haze of confusion, you let instinct take over, allowing your hand to travel between your thighs. Through your layered dress (proper attire for the important meeting you were supposed to be attending) you rubbed little circles against yourself, getting little jolts of friction that managed to hit just right in spite of the material in your way. Thoma kept his eyes closed, likely to focus his senses on the panties just a few strokes away from being stuffed in his jowls.

You watched from the hall as he stroked himself to the thin garment, thumb grazing the ever-reddening tip of his cock.

“Fuck, y/n.”

The sound of your name falling from his lips leaves your hand freezing in place, breath hitching in your throat as if you were the “bad guy” in this situation. You certainly weren’t the one doing the most wrong here, but the thought of Thoma (or anyone else, for that matter) catching you in such a shameful position. . . It was utterly humiliating.

With his eyes still closed, hand still pumping along his shaft in slow, deliberate flicks, you came to the conclusion that he hadn’t seen you and was simply. . . Fantasizing?

Still feeling largely conflicted, your hand returned to your side and you were set on just walking away and pretending that this had never happened. You figured it was the best course of action to avoid any confrontation, leave things as they had been, and return home soon enough. That is, until one wrong move left a creaky board just outside the sliding door ringing out, to which Thoma’s eyes abruptly shot open in panic. He could see your wide eyes and the soft lavender color of the dress you’d been donning as he saw you out not even two hours prior through the slim crack in the door. 

“My Lady, I—” he cut himself off, your panties falling ungracefully from his hand to the floor at his feet.

Thoma stuffed his hardened cock into his pants, a harsh blush present on his cheeks as he sought to straighten his back and apologize for defiling your space.

“I-I’m sorry,” you said reflexively, backing away from the door, “I didn’t mean to watch, I just—”

The words die in your throat. You don’t know how to finish that sentence, and you fear anything you could have uttered would have just made the situation that much more contentious. 

He pauses, his chest still heaving a bit. Shame crackles in his gut, but he couldn’t help but to take particular interest in the latter half of your apology. The same hand he’d been jacking himself off with reaches out, pulling the door further off to the side. 

“You. . . Were watching?” Thoma asks, a small glint of hope flashing through his shamrock eyes. 

Your heart hammers now, pounding against your chest like a drum. Though there’s distance between yourself and him, you wonder if he can hear it from where he stands.

“Not long,” you attempt to assure him, not quite catching the subtle implications he was throwing your way. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You understand, then,” his tone lowers as he reaches out to take your wrist into his grip, —the same grip that held your panties to his face mere moments prior. “You understand that. . . That sometimes it’s just too easy to come undone.”

“I. . .” you hesitate, but finish anyway: “I suppose I do.”

“Come a little closer,” he beckons, giving your arm a soft pull toward him.

You’ve no reason to really be distrustful of him, so you take a few tentative steps forward, all but melting into his embrace. Now standing in the guest room, Thoma slides the door shut (fully, this time) before putting all of his attention on you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells you, cupping your heated cheek in his warm hand. “Since I first saw you, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind.”

Thoma pushes your hair back and away from your neck, baring it for his access, leaning in closer to whisper in your ear.

“Can I kiss you?”

Soft tufts of heated air ghost against your skin. A shaky breath passes your lips. You’re nervous, but Thoma. . . He’s been nothing but kind to you, and after what you just saw of him, it’s hard to deny that you’re attracted. All at once, he feels like some semblance of your home whilst you’re so far away, yet he reminds you just as equally of unexplored lands that you’ve never set foot on. He’s tantalizing. 

You nod.

His kiss is enough to steal the air from your lungs, starting off slow and deliberate. The little noises you make stir the lustful beast that creeps just beneath his charming exterior. His lips are soft and maybe even delicate as they gradually become hungrier, finally drawing down your chin and sliding along your open jaw. The gentle hand on your cheek takes its place on your hip now as his mouth explores your neck. Quickly enough, you melt into him, —muscles loosening as you allow him to have his way. 

"Here," he whispers, quickly leading you over to the futon mattress that sits on the floor.

Thoma's nimble fingers travel around your back, pulling at certain ribbons here and there to loosen the waist of your dress. As it comes undone, the sleeves begin to slump off your shoulders, and he cranes his neck down to pepper some more kisses along the newly bared skin.

"If it's too much, just say so," he notes, all the while helping you slip out of your formal attire.

As expected of someone in his line of work, he's meticulous about not damaging the garment. No tearing, no pulling, no unnecessary theatrics, —just undressing you like a gentleman before setting your clothes aside. He even helped to maintain your balance as you stepped out of it.

"Lay back," he prompts, quickly adding, "—make yourself comfortable."

You do, resting your head atop one of the newly fluffed pillows while Thoma strips himself down to his tight-fitting boxers. It's hard not to stare at the prominent outline of his bulge, and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip as if to sober yourself up, forcing your gaze back up to meet his eyes sheepishly. If he noticed the hunger, he didn’t mention it, but you’re sure he can feel the static in the air between him and yourself as it snaps and crackles like a roaring fire. 

He kneels at your feet, each of you clad only in undergarments. His hands rest against your knees, then slide down the tops of your thighs in tandem. When he extends forward, you spread them, allowing him to slit himself in the open space.

"You're stunning," he compliments, "I haven't been able to stop staring at you since I first saw you. Everything about you is so gorgeous, —it makes it so hard to control myself around you."

Thoma lays it on thick enough to drown in. Though your breathing hitches a bit in your throat, his words fill you with enough confidence to raise yourself off the futon and slink your arms around his neck. The kiss that follows is deep, accompanied by his hands fondling your chest through the fabric of your bra. Each of you is quick to decide the material is an annoyance for the moment, and it's gone not long after. He loves the way your sensitive nipples perk up at the first touch of open air, —then further relishes in the little gasp you let out as he takes one into his mouth, tongue flicking it over. He laps at it until he tires, leaving a sheen of his spit in his wake, before moving over to the other and repeating the process once more. It's the first time any man has ever touched you like this, and you think to yourself that you're glad it's someone so considerate and thorough such as Thoma.

He continues to mumble little words of praise as he kisses down your sternum, —gorgeous, once, beautiful, twice, stunning, thrice. His tongue lolls out around your naval, leaving a thin trail of saliva behind until his mouth rests at the top of your panties. Though he hooks two fingers, one on either side, just below the lacy fabric, he doesn't pull just yet. Instead, he rests the flat of his tongue against your panties, letting his spit seep into the material. You can feel the warmth of his mouth through the fabric, and it's driving you wild. He pulls ever so slightly at the garment, but stops just short of pulling it off, instead lapping at your lips through the material in long, deliberate strokes.

"Ah, Thoma," you vocalize, left hand coming up to softly rest over your mouth.

He pauses for a moment to let you know how much he likes it when you say his name like that. You don’t catch the full sentence through the newfound adrenaline rush, but it’s something about how pretty his name sounds when it comes from you.

Thoma takes a hand from your thigh and presses the tip of his middle finger against the wet stripe along your panties, a mixture of his spit and your arousal, rubbing at the slickness. Your mind is swimming. This is all so new, and it feels distinctly different to the times you’ve sat in your bedroom swirling your fingers around on your clit, leaking onto pristine sheets in the late hours of the night.

Another pause, but this time he decides to tug at your underwear, encouraging you to lift your hips so he can do away with them for the time being. You’re almost embarrassed by how quickly you react, but it’s hard to be ashamed of anything when Thoma seems so delighted to just be there between your legs. He tosses the last of your clothing to the side, kissing the top of your foot, then up your calf, along your inner thighs, and finally he lets his tongue fall past his lips to split yours apart.

It’s good enough to make your toes curl on instinct, the way he laps like a thirsty animal quenching himself with the folds of your pussy. You gasp at the feeling, swallowing a full moan. He drinks you in like nectar and it’s enough to make you dizzy. 

You feel one of his fingers prod inside you, just barely, pausing to give you time to tell him to stop if that’s what you really want. —It’s not, so after a few moments, he lays his tongue flat against your clit and lets one of his long, slim fingers sink inside you until the base of his hand presses against you as well.

“Feel good, baby?” He inquires, glancing up at you from between your thighs.

“Yeah,” you answer breathily, moving the hand over your mouth down to your breast, clutching at the flesh and feeling his leftover saliva squelch against your skin. “Feels good.”

He hums in acknowledgement, and you feel the vibration in your core. A whine escapes you when he pushes another finger inside just as tenderly as before, letting you adjust before sinking all the way to the palm. He holds your hip a little roughly when he begins pumping his digits in and out, starting off slower to avoid any discomfort on your part.

“You’re so pretty,” he compliments. “It’s all I’ve thought about since you arrived. . . How stunning you are, how good you must taste. . .”

Under any other circumstances, you’d have been burning up from the sheer weight of his praise alone, but as things stand, you fear it’s nigh impossible to be any hotter than you already are in this moment. Your brain isn’t working fast enough to muster up a reply, so you resign yourself to whining at his touch, hoping that will speak for you.

And does it ever. Thoma can practically feel himself throbbing at the noises you’re making. He loves every little sound, relishes in the bliss of having you clench around his fingers, buried so deep in your snatch that his fingers are drowning in your heat.

He watches carefully as your hands clutch at the fabric of the futon in the guest room, feeling your thighs quivery around his body.

“Close?” He inquires.

He doesn’t really get a response, per say, but your back arches a little, pressing yourself harder into his fingers, and that says just about all he needs to know. His tongue returns to your clit, lapping at it again, pushing you closer and closer to the edge until you’re left cumming on his fingers and against his mouth. He slows down as you sink your teeth into your own wrist, huffing through the orgasm.

There’s an empty sort of feeling by the time he pulls his digits out, sitting more upright to wipe the mixture of his spit and your arousal from his lips with his forearm. His mind is screaming by now, all things he wants to say, but isn’t sure how to put into words. You’re so stunning like this, that sheen of pure bliss emanating from every pour, —that starry-eyed look in your stare. He loves the way you’ve retained a little sense of humility from it all, but not enough to cover yourself up. He loves the way your wrist keeps the bitemarks of your teeth like a trophy when you let it fall away from your mouth.

The thought of asking you to suck him off crosses his mind, but the moment he looks between your thighs and sees the pretty wetness there, he decides against it.

“C’mere, angel,” he mumbles, encouraging you to sit up and gain your bearings in his arms.

You do, and he’s so gentle in the way he holds you, like he thinks you’re made of something fragile enough to break apart at a moment’s notice. He presses a few off-handed kisses to your temple, then grabs your bitten wrist and kisses there too, as if trying to soothe the dull ache you’d inflicted upon yourself.

You’re not sure what to say, so you say nothing, but Thoma doesn’t seem to mind the silence. He fills it with little gestures of affection, —brushing hair from your eyes, presses soft kisses to your forehead and your lips.

“First time?” He inquires, just guessing from your initial shock and the way it all seemed so novel to you. (Plus your noble status, as those from high-class bloodlines were known for their tendency to keep their children quite sheltered.)

You nod in reply, seeming sheepish about it, but he gives you a reassuring smile.

“I’m honored,” he says, and you get the sense that he really means it. 

“We don’t have to do anything else,” he adds. “Please don’t feel pressured.”

It’s then that you give the possibilities some real, clear, rational thought. When you return home in just a few day’s time, it’s unlikely you’ll have an opportunity like this again for quite some time. Moreover, there’s something so endearing about Thoma, especially like this, that has you itching for more. So you swallow, gathering the courage to crane your neck up and kiss him. He seems a little startled by the sudden boldness, but kisses back just as readily, placing a hand on the back of your head.

“I want to,” you tell him, whispering the words against his lips.

And who is he to deny you what you want?

He tugs his boxers off then moves to lie back, thinking it best to let you start the pace. He helps you straddle him, a knee on either side, your cunt hovering just above his length. There’s a jolt of something close to electricity through your veins as the head of his cock brushes against your clit, and you take a sharp breath in. It feels really vulnerable, this position, Thoma’s hands on your hips, holding you steady as his eyes roam over every inch of you that’s on display for him. You know he’s not judging, but it’s new, and you avoid his gaze on purpose as you do your best to line him up efficiently between your thighs.

He bites his lip to stop himself from smiling, not wanting to be mistaken for laughing at you in such an unguarded position. Thoma just thinks you’re cute, the way your hands tremble a little as you work to get him inside. Just the tip, and you gasp a little, so he releases the lip between his teeth and tightens the grasp on your body.

“Easy,” he murmurs, “take your time, baby.”

“Sorry,” you utter like a reflex, though you’re not even sure what you’re even apologizing for in the first place.

You sink down a little further, feeling more of him enter, and it makes you gasp. With your hands on his chest, he can feel the way your arms are starting to shake, so he coaxes you forward and wraps his arms around your back.

“Don’t say sorry,” he mumbles, holding you securly. “Take it slow, there’s no rush.”

It’s several moments before you move again, taking him in until he bottoms out, and you gasp again, this time against the skin of his neck. It doesn’t hurt so much as it’s just new and slightly uncomfortable at first go, a little too full in comparison to everything else you’ve ever had. He lets you adjust, drawing shapes along your bare shoulders, whispering compliments and encouragement. 

“That’s it, baby,” he says softly, “just like that.”

There’s a little seed of pride that sprouts the moment you hear his breathing hitch in his throat. It tells you that you’re doing something right here at the very least, and you let his hands guide your movements, starting off slower before speeding up slightly and feeling his fingers dig into the plush skin of your ass. You swallow down a few moans, letting one of your hands travel to his head, tugging at his hair.

“That’s it,” he drawls, “that’s my girl, just like that, —fuck.”

It’s almost startling to hear that word fall from Thoma’s lips again, but you’re a little too blissed out to be surprised. Instead, you give up on the idea of choking back your moans and let them spill past your lips, —breath ghosting against his neck where you’ve buried your face in the crook. He tests the waters, jolting up to meet your riding, making your grip on his strawberry blond strands tighten in the process.

“Thoma,” you choke out desperately, causing a grin to etch its way onto his pretty face, “—please.”

He’s not sure how he knew what that please really meant, but he just did. Thus he switches the position at your discretion and takes his place between his legs again, lining the tip of his cock up just right, then letting it dip inside. Somehow, it feels better in this position than it did in the previous one, and he watches with ample interest as you take your bottom lip between your teeth nearly roughly enough to draw blood as your eyes roll back a ways.

There’s something alluring about the way he moans above you, like he’s getting drunk on this feeling, on this time he’s spending buried deeply enough inside you to feel your walls pulling him in as if every part of you is as desperate for him as he is for you. It feels good to be wanted, he realizes, and even better to be wanted by you.

He slides in and out, eventually establishing a pace that feels good for the both of you, —nothing rough, but not quite soft, either. It’s somewhere in the middle, with just enough enticement to push your novice body to new heights without overwhelming your sensibilities. Through it all, he’s as gentlemanly as everyone told you he was, watching your movements like a hawk, attentive of your every whimper.

When he goes deeper and gets a little sloppy, you’re far enough along for it to not make much of a difference. He’s nearing the edge of a precipice when the knot in your gut comes undone, and you cum on his cock, clenching down on him. He spares a few more thrusts in before slipping himself out and leaning back to jack himself off to a finish.

Before he can do so by himself, you’ve moved through the haze of your orgasm to wrap your lips around him. You’re not quite sure what came over you, but in the moment, it felt so right that you couldn’t back down by the time he was stuffed down your throat. He really didn’t mean to be so rough with you, but he was so close to the high he’d been desperately searching for in your cunt that your mouth served as a pristine replacement.

“P-Pull off a bit, baby,” he says quickly, —having enough restraint to avoid pumping a load directly down your gullet.

You pull away, but keep the tip in your mouth, feeling him twitch against your tongue. The taste of his cum is a little bitter, but it’s warm, and you stay attached to him while he catches his breath. The hand on your head falls away, and he reaches for the hankerchief he always carries in his pocket to give you something to spit into.

His face falls a little when he goes to hand it to you and watches you swallow instead.

The clinical wing is hardly any of Moira’s responsibility. It wasn’t her idea, she had no intention of utilizing it herself, and the fact that she was being forced to work it alone for no less than ten hours a week was something akin to infuriating. If she didn’t already loathe Angela Ziegler and her fluffed up ideals about peace and prosperity, —she certainly did now. Because this was cutting into her time, and if there was one thing Moira couldn’t stand more than working with incompetent people: it was squandering her waking hours on fruitlessness. It was always the same things over and over and over again. You’d think a building full of well-educated men and women of science would have a better understanding of their own petty ailments by now, but no. . . 

Every slim bout of nausea, every headache onset, every tiny papercut, it seemed, was good enough a reason to come crying to her. And she’d had enough. It’s not to say that you were any more or less annoying than anyone else who’d stopped by that day, but there was something so nerve grinding about your presence, about the way you glanced around the white-walled exam room, that set Moira off.

“What’s wrong with you, exactly?” She questioned, —though it was painfully clear she was only asking out of obligation and was none too pleased to be doing so.

Her stern, uncaring expression almost had you forgetting the lie you’d cooked up while sitting there alone for a good ten minutes.

“I’ve got um. . . A headache and I’m feeling a little dizzy,” you reply.

She notices how uncertain you sound of it, and her eyes narrow at you, regarding you suspiciously.

“Is that a question or a statement?” She asks bluntly, mincing no words in the process.

“A statement,” you answer, tacking on a soft apology that she doesn't care enough about to acknowledge.

“How long has this been going on?” 

“A few hours, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

You’re really starting to wish you could just sink into the exam table and disappear. Even more than that, you’re cursing Doctor Ziegler for putting you up to this, —for deciding that you were just innocent looking enough to play a fools game with this woman before you. You’re certain now that the extra pay is hardly worth putting yourself through this just to see if Moira is really taking her position in the clinic seriously.

“A few hours,” you repeat, dropping the rest; but you know it’s already too late.

She’s annoyed with you. She’s sick of it here in this tiny room, and all she wants to do is put a stop to this ridiculousness and make use of her time her way. . . Which gets the cogs turning in her mind. If she has to be here, Moira’s going to make the most of it, —and what better way than to indulge herself in the sweetest little patient that’s set foot in here all day? It’ll be a bit before her clinic hours are up for now, and she’d much rather spend that time tying up some of her own loose ends than playing into Angela’s surprisingly spiteful hands.

“It’s a bit warm in here, no?” She says suddenly, straightening her back and standing to her full height as she shrugs off her lab coat.

“Uh. . . Yeah? A little, I guess,” you reply uncertainly, trying your best not to stare as she drapes the shed garment over the back of a chair and masterfully unbuttons the top of her white dress shirt.

The fabric is loose, and it sits against her pale skin like silken sheets atop a mattress. For all Moira is known for being: —cruel, sarcastic, brilliant, blunt— you can’t help but wonder why attractive doesn’t tend to make the shortlist. It’s far from the first time something like that has ever crossed your mind, of course, having worked in her vicinity for several months now, but it is the first time you’ve ever felt your insides twist themselves into pretzels at the sight of her.

She’s so tall, and even without the height, her personality alone commands the space she physically takes up. Moira is the kind of woman who doesn’t ask for what she desires, but simply demands it, and there’s something very stirring about that in a way you can’t quite seem to put your finger on.

“You guess, do you?” She raises an eyebrow, throwing you a blank glance.

Her hands come down to grip the edge of the exam table, the crinkly paper shuffling under the new pressure. She’s close enough now that you can feel her breath ghost against you, and somehow, her unchanging expression feels ten times more spine-tingling now that she’s less far away.

“Is there anything you’re certain of, y/n?” She questions, —and heaven help you, the way she says your name has your thighs itching to squeeze together where you sit.

“I-I. . .” You stutter pitifully, lost for words now that she's this close, eyes ghosting around her face, then around the room, just hoping to avoid her gaze.

“You. . .?” She prompts in a surprisingly gentle tone, removing one hand from the exam table to grab your face.

It's not a violent gesture, nor much of an unwelcome one, as her thumb sits on one cheek and four fingers press against the other. She steadies your head with the grasp, forcing the direction straight ahead, and your eyes naturally follow in suit. Moira can feel the way you swallow, watching as your throat moves to push the saliva down, and something akin to dangerous blossoms within her.

“You're a pretty girl,” she tells you. 

Somehow, the tone she uses when she says it makes it feel less like a compliment and more like a statement of fact.

“It's too bad you're such a quiet thing. I'm sure under the right circumstances, your voice is quite sweet.”

Anything you could have thought to say in reply seems to all but die on your tongue or lodge in your throat. A shiver creeps up your spine, tingling under your skin, scattering goosebumps all across your body.

“Do you have any idea how tiring this is?” She asks, standing to her full height again, clarifying quickly: “Working in this clinic? When I, of all people, should be doing something of actual substance. Forgive me if your headache isn't as interesting to me as my own endeavors, —but you must realize how pathetic it is to come crawling to me about something so minute.”

Finally, you work up the nerve to speak back again.

“I'm sure it must be frustrating,” you answer. “I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, Doctor, I just. . .”

I didn't have much of a say in the matter. 

She sighs. 

“Did nobody ever teach you how to finish your sentences?” She asks, sounding rather incredulous. “Either out with it, or let me put your mouth to some proper use.”

You're not really sure what that's supposed to mean, but it's not as if you have much to say at the moment anyway. Anything you could have mustered up has gone out the window, drained like a pin-pricked egg.

A smirk tugs on her lips at your silence.

“Open,” she directs, a folded index finger sneaking under your chin and a thumb dragging your bottom lip down a bit.

In the moment, you hardly register the command, but somehow you manage to blink yourself back to reality fast enough to part your lips without her having to ask again. (Though asking wasn't really what she'd even done in the first place.) 

“Good,” Moira hums, appearing all too pleased with herself, “it seems you’re capable of following directions.”

Having acknowledged that much, she sneaks that thumb up, letting it pass your lips and nudge at your tongue, feeling the warm wetness of your mouth. You feel yourself burning up, and Moira presses in until the pointed middle knuckle of her thumb is barely ghosting below your cupid's bow.

“Close,” she demands, —and you do, suckling on the heat of her hand, eyes scaling up to her face.

She seems much too delighted by this, albeit in a subdued sense of the word. There’s always been an air of cockiness about her, but this really took the cake and ran with it, like she was so proud to have suckered you in even this deep. It’s then that you’re forced to question whether this is some kind of sick joke, or if she’s truly just that bored here in the clinical wing. It’s obviously not her favorite place to be, but doing all of this on the clock to make the time pass by faster is a little bit of a stretch, even for someone like her.

Moira glides her thumb to and fro, watching the way your lips move with her, still clasped around her digit so beautifully. She thinks to herself that you really are just such a pretty girl.

“Aren’t you just a sweet, obedient thing?” She muses, finally letting her lips curve upward completely.

You hum instinctively, and she can feel the vibration as it resonates from the back of your throat.

“Oh?” She cocks her head to the side, raising a single eyebrow, “was that meant to be defiant? Or perhaps just a correction, —that you’re only this malleable for me?”

She loves the way you look so dazed by every word she speaks, like you’re trying to interpret a foreign language. You’re so mystified by her very presence this close up, as if you can’t decide if she’s real or not.

Eventually, Moira decides she’s had enough and utters “open” again, to which you comply quickly, letting her thumb make its way out from between your lips. Ever the inquisitive woman, she rubs her thumb against her index finger, tapping them together, letting your leftover saliva string between them.

“Y/n,” she murmurs, turning that duel-colored stare directly on you so intently, “—don’t play so coy. There comes a time when every woman must stop begging for the things she desires, and I’m tired of your eyes begging for what your mouth refuses to ask of me.”

Your lips part now, brain convinced you have a solid idea of what you’re supposed to be requesting of her. Though your head is still swimming and a part of you just knows you’re better off leaving things here, as they are, you’re only human. . . So you let your shaky hands come up to grasp at the fabric of her partially unbuttoned shirt, and you pull her inward, not once, but twice, until her face is so close to yours that you’re practically sharing the same breath.

There’s a pause when you don’t make the final move to kiss her, half expecting that she’d have taken over by now, but she offers a low chuckle and snakes a hand up her torso, grasping at your own. It’s gentle for a moment —but only for a moment— before she forces your grip away in a single motion, the other hand wrapping around your free wrist, and pinning either of your hands down against the examination table.

“Go on,” she presses, “stop being so polite. Take what it is we both know you want. Do lions ask nicely before they tear their prey apart?”

You wonder which one you’re supposed to be in this scenario, —the lion or the prey. With the way she’s staring at you, you get the feeling it’s the latter. . .

Closer, closer, you lean, until Moira’s mouth is barely touching your own in a sort of off-handed, almost kiss that isn’t quite coming to fruition. Your neck is craned as far as your body will allow, and you feel the little tuft of amused breath that passes her nostrils ghost against your skin.

“You really are just incredibly novel, did you know that?” She asks, pressure increasing on your pinned down wrists as she finally goes in for the kill.

Her lips are surprisingly soft, and slightly sticky from the remnants of her off-orange lipstick. Even the way she kisses you commands a certain level of respect, and you hope to honor that by keeping up, letting your body react naturally to any and all of her ministrations. When her tongue slips into your mouth, you hardly startle at the feeling, letting her lick and taste as she pleases. The way she does so is like she can’t get enough, —and it crosses your mind very briefly that you may be the first person she’s come on to in quite a while.

Her job is demanding, and overwhelmingly isolating, after all. ..

Having stained your lips enough, both with her bruising kisses and the tangerine-ajacent cosmetics on her mouth, she pulls away for the briefest of moments, only to descend upon your neck like it was glazen with sugar. You can’t help the little gasp that escapes you, or the soft moan that follows, —or the way your hand reaches up to bury the fingers in those fiery strands of hair now that hers are no longer pinning yours down.

“Moira,” you hiss lightly, “—ah.”

Under any other circumstances, you’d have never uttered her name so plainly in lieu of her title, but with the way she was wearing you thin and prying you open with such apparent ease, you doubted she’d care much if you stepped over a line previously drawn in the sand. As far as you could tell, you were already lost at sea anyhow. 

It’s not much of anything, but you feel her smirk against your skin, then murmur: “She does speak.”

You’re on fire, inside and out, burning up so badly you fear there’ll be nothing left but ashes by the time she’s finished with you. Silently, you think it might be best for you to put a stop to this before it ends up going too far; before each of you are drowning so deep there’s no way to break the surface. Your lips part, ready to put an end to it all, —knowing you should. . . But you can’t. Not when she looks you over like you really are just her prey for the taking, for the feasting, the devouring.

“Darling,” she murmurs, tracing the back of her finger down your cheek, caressing you softly, “don’t be so shy. Learn to take what you want without pleading.”

Even then, it’s less of a suggestion and more of a subtle demand.

“I—” you start, but swallow just as quickly.

Sucking in a breath, you let your hands do the talking, gracing the flushed skin of her neck, then ghosting just above her sharp collar bones that peak out from her unbuttoned blouse. Before you have the wherewithal to tell yourself to stop, your shaky fingers begin fiddling with the rest of the clasps, going further down until you see the top of her bra (a simple, black garment, in true Moira fashion.) There’s something so stunning about the way colors lie against her, as if melding into her flesh, bending to her will.

She doesn’t stop you from unfastening the buttons, revealing more of her as you continue downward. She’s got no complaints to utter, no reservations present in her body language, and she sheds the top entirely when the last one has come undone. Moira takes a step back, tossing her shirt onto the small countertop, one of the sleeves dangling over into the sink. You take her fleeting absence from your body as an opportunity to admire her, —the sharp, almost jagged edges she carries around like swords. She’s so tall and slender, so striking in the way she moves as if everything is calculated and she doesn’t doubt for a moment that the world is ready to mold to her every wish and whim.

“Something to say?” She cocks a brow, tone smooth and almost melodic, that hint of an Irish accent clinging to every word.

Your mouth still feels dry, but you force yourself to say what’s on your mind, —even at the risk of coming across like some lovesick schoolgirl.

“I just think you’re pretty,” you answer.

Her lips quirk into another smirk at the compliment, and she runs a hand through her hair, letting you admire the motion.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” she replies.

It didn’t feel kind when you said it, really. . . It just felt true.

“Come,” she beckons, coaxing you off the exam table and closer to the wall, pressing your back against it.

It’s cold to the touch, but it does little to quench the fire still roaring in your guts. What’s more, you’re not entirely sure you want it to stop now anyway. From the corner of your eye, you can see one of Moira’s lengthy arms reach out to tap the middle of the doorknob with a long-nailed finger, popping the lock into place. You assume that signifies a sealed deal of sorts. . . That there’s no going back now; and heaven knows you’re not trying to.

Moira’s hands find their way to your waist, pressing firmly for a bit as she kisses you again; albeit somewhat slower and more intimately than before. It feels more like the kind of kiss you’d give a lover to show affection than one you’d throw at a midday fling. There’s little time to dwell on the thought, however, as she snakes herself between your thighs, dancing over the fabric of your dress pants.

Your breathing hitches a little at the feeling, your skin heating up, and Moira grins to herself before letting her fingers trail upward and curl inward, grabbing at your sweater. Untucking it from your pants, the elder woman pulls it up, looks to you for approval, then finishes the job as she yanks it over your head and tosses it back onto the examination table. The crinkly paper shuffles for a moment, and the sound is almost thunderous over the duet of breaths and heartbeats across the room.

She murmurs something about how lovely you are that you don’t quite catch, —but the real compliment comes from the way her eyes trace across your body, soaking up every inch so earnestly.

When you reach behind her slim back, fiddling with the clasp of her bra, she gives a hum of amusement.

“Eager one, aren’t you?” She asks, voice dripping with the only kind of condescension that tastes so sweet.

“I can’t help it,” you breathe quickly, almost in embarrassment, but still lacking the humility it would have otherwise carried.

You manage to tear the clasp open and the straps on her shoulders slump off. Moira readily tugs them down and sheds the last garment on her upper half, letting your eyes rake over the slight curve of her breasts. They’re not large by any means, but they suit her body so nicely, sitting perfectly on her chest with pinkish nipples you can’t help but think about clasping your mouth around.

She seems pleasantly surprised when you make the first move to do just that, even placing a long-nailed hand on the back of your head, guiding you to her body. As you offer a lick to the left one with the flat of your saliva-laden tongue, she lets out a soft breath, stroking your hair softly as if to encourage you to keep going. You do as she silently asks, parting your lips again and taking her in your mouth, suckling on one, then giving the same attention to the other. She seems to like the way you swirl your tongue, so you do it again, and again, and again, until Moira decides that this just isn’t suiting her fancy any longer.

“Good girl,” she mumbles, even when she’s pushing you away and tugging your bra off with ease.

This time, she doesn’t bother tossing the article of clothing onto the exam table behind her, she simply lets it hit the ground to join her own. Thankfully, the sanitation of the labs, and subsequently the clinical wing, has always been solid as can be.

With a clawed hand, she covers your mouth and keeps your head pinned back against the wall, ducking down to repay the favor. She takes her time reaching your breasts, but it’s hard to mind when she’s busy sucking love bites in a trail down your neck and upper chest. She bites your shoulder, feels you moan against her palm, then does it again to draw the sound from your throat once more.

When she finally takes a single nipple between her teeth, the sensation alone has you seeing stars. Her mouth is so wet and warm, so surprisingly inviting, and she’s so skilled with every little flick. Her free hand works what her mouth doesn’t, careful not to scratch or jab you with her nails. She stays attached for much longer than she allowed you to be, and it crosses your mind that Moira may not be much into the whole receiving end of things. Whatever the case, she looks too pretty like this, with her mouth leaving the rest of her faint lipstick around your nipples and on the column of your neck, for you to think too much of it (or be disappointed by it.)

You really couldn’t tell if all this passion and fervor was born of spite against Angela for setting this clinic up in the first place and making Moira work in it, the general frustration of being away from her own endeavors for so long today, the pent up ardor releasing after a dry spell, —or maybe some mixture of all of that and then some. Whatever the case, Moira wasn’t skimping on a single detail, and you were going to be the last person on the face of the planet to complain about that.

As she unbuttoned your pants and began to tug them down, allowing them to cling around your thighs, you were quick to take over and shed your own clothing at her silent demand. You were thankful you’d worn open-toed heels that day, knowing it wouldn’t have been as sexy if you’d had to have taken the time to slip your socks off during this little process. Moira doesn’t make any moves to mimic you, instead resigning herself to watching and holding herself back from touching.

When everything’s shed, you unconsciously cover yourself with your arms a bit, not necessarily to hide away from her gaze, but out of little more than whatever few shreds of humility you have left.

“Don’t be bashful,” she says firmly, grasping each of your wrists and planting your arms at your sides.

The transition back to the table feels like a blur, —a rush of so much at once that your mind goes a little foggy and the sound of that damn crinkly paper being pushed back to the top, along with the stray clothes, hardly registers above the ache in your core and the coolness of the floor beneath your bare feet. She instructs you to sit, and you do, and when she tells you to come closer to the edge and spread your legs, you do that as well.

“You’re so obedient,” she comments with a half-smile, trailing a finger down the barren skin of your inner thigh, sending shivers across your skin. “We could use more employees like you around here.”

A part of you can’t help but hope, in the moment, that those people never come around, that they never land positions in the lab, just so this endeavor can be your burden to carry alone. This side of Moira is still intimidating, but there’s a softness to be found in the way she looks at you, the way she mumbles little compliments against your skin, —the way she treats you like you’re made of something fragile.

She parts your lips with two of her long fingers, taking a moment to admire the way arousal has slicked your folds up so beautifully. It’s been a while since she’s seen firsthand the impact she can have on a woman, and your wetness strokes her ego more than it probably should have.

The moment the flat of her tongue pressed against you, your toes curled inward and your head fell back, a few breathy moans making your chest stutter. Through half-lidded eyes, you could only watch in bliss as Moira glanced up at you, her mouth suctioned around your needy little cunt, feeling every twitch and licking up every bit of juice.

“Oh my God,” you huff, reaching forward with one hand to grasp at Moira’s hair.

She seems to like the way you vocalize, and the way you grab at her like it’s something natural, even when it really isn’t. Her tongue works in circles, then lines, then a million other shapes and directions in a single moment, and you feel your body quiver from the tension.

A part of you feels pathetic, but it really can’t be helped that she’s already pushed you to the edge. Weeks of work had given you little time to yourself, and what time you had managed had been spent sleeping, eating, or trying to catch up on things you enjoyed in your personal life. Taking care of your more intimate needs just hadn’t really entered the equation as of late, but now all of that build-up was really showing its true colors (and so quickly at that.)

“I—” you suck in a breath, “I’m gonna cum—”

And she reaches around from the top, her arm hooked under your left thigh, pressing the pad of her thumb ever so carefully against your swollen clit.

You toss your head back and bite your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. Your free hand grasps for one of your breasts, pinching a nipple between your fingers, letting her drive that stake in so fucking deep that you can feel your insides melting away into ecstasy. Her thumb massaging your clit, her tongue swirling around just below, and the utter depravity of having sex with your boss’s most disgruntled co-worker leaves you cumming on her face, muscles releasing all their tension and melding away into this fantasy world with her.

Oh, but she’s not done, —because of course she’s not. The quiver in your thighs isn’t steady enough, and she hasn’t felt you clench around her fingers, hasn’t felt you tug on her hair hard enough to rip some of the strands from her scalp, hasn’t quite had her fill of you just yet.

Moira brings her hand to her mouth, tearing the middle two nails off with her teeth and spitting them onto the ground beside the examination table. That’s probably a lot hotter than it should be right now, but there’s something about the way she tugs them off so effortlessly, grasping them between her canines, that has your core sopping at the sight of it.

“Just lay back,” she requests.

You do, without question, and you hear her offer up a low chuckle that resonates from the back of her throat.

“You’d just do anything I asked of you, wouldn’t you?” She asks, amusement clinging to every word.

“Yeah, probably,” you reply breathily, —and perhaps a bit too honestly.

But she likes that.

Moira pushes your thighs apart like they’re less so parts of your body and more so obstacles getting in the way of what she wants. She stands to her full height for a moment or two, but her back curves downward and she lowers herself over top of you as she flips her hand palm-side up and sinks those two de-nailed fingers inside your cunt. Your accumulated wetness allows for such an easy entrance, and she pauses for a moment at the hilt of her hand to relish in the way your walls thrub around her digits, almost pulsating, begging for more.

If there’s ever been something Moira has been happy to comply with, —it was this. She lets you adjust, but just barely so, and then pulls back a bit, letting the friction elicit a few soft moans from you.

“Fuck,” you whimper, eyes rolling back a bit, cunt clenching around Moira’s lengthy fingers, the ones she knows how to work so well inside you.

It once again seems like every move she makes is calculated and precise, evoking something so primal inside you, unleashing some kind of desirous beast that just can’t get enough of her.

And there you are on this uncomfortable exam table in this God forsaken clinical wing that neither you nor Moira have ever been very fond of, bare back pressed against the weirdly textured leather, dripping and convulsing around the lecherous fingers of the same woman you’ve heard nothing but complaints about from your boss since you first began working under her. You’re sure that if Doctor Ziegler could see you now, she’d have you fired on the spot, —and something about that makes this so much fucking hotter.

You’re whimpering at every touch, so vulnerable for her eyes only. She prods at every inch of your insides she can touch, moving her fingers in time with every little noise that’s ripped from your throat, leaving you moaning like a slut in heat; and the cycle continues until your body has just had more than enough.

“Moira, I—” a breath cuts you off, nails scraping against that odd-feeling leather beneath you. “Please don’t stop, please don’t stop, holy shit—”

She doesn’t stop. She wouldn’t even dream of it when you’re begging like that, when the pretty pussy she’s hammering out with two fingers is just begging for every ounce of her desire and attention.

The knot inside you unravels, and she basks in the way you spasm around her digits, back arching up off the table. Moira lets you ride it out before slipping out, drawing a few lines up and down your glistening slit before pulling her hand away and reaching for the paper towl dispenser that hangs on the wall. She pats her hand dry and silently collects the clothes strewn about the room.

It takes a moment for you to get your bearings, but you manage to redress without making a fool of yourself.

“A word of advice,” Moira finally speaks, “you’re a good time, and I’m sure an adaquate employee, —but acting isn’t much your forte. Next time Angela sends you here to spy on me, spare me the pleasantries and let’s just skip to the good part.”

You can feel your ears burning, but you force a nod anyway.

Sometimes, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do; for yourself, and at some points, for others. A period of financial hardship recently fell upon your family, and though it’s mostly been resolved by now, the lingering fear that it could happen again has surmounted in you taking a rather. . . Foolish deal. Like most citizens of Mondstadt, you’ve been wary of the Fatui’s presence in the nation. They seem to be up to nefarious things that people like you aren’t privy to, and the prying eyes that sit deep behind their masks always unnerve you as you pass them by. Today, however, you were actually approached by one of them, —one who promised you a small fortune for a devious act.

Initially, you were quick to turn her away. Mora wasn’t worth working with the likes of the Fatui, you thought. . . But sometimes, moral sacrifices have to be made. You thought back to your scrambling family, uncertain of where their next meal would be coming from, thought back to the sleepless nights you spent doing odd jobs around the city that nobody else would touch just to be able to afford a few basic necessities. And then, against your better judgment, you accepted her conditions as long as she promised to keep you anonymous from her allies and request nothing of you ever again going forward.

A part of you wonders, even now that you’re trapped in the thick of it, if she’ll truly hold up her end of the bargain. You can only hope she’ll have enough decency to be true to her word.

With uncertain hands, you rummage about Kaeya’s personal office. All it took was a few minutes of begging and a few mustered up tears for you to be let in, —told that Kaeya was currently returning from a mission and would be back soon enough. You kept up the act; played the guards like a fiddle, and had to admit that there was a certain thrill in doing so that you hadn’t expected to enjoy so much. Sniffling, you thanked them profusely for their kindness, (for their stupidity,) and sat alone in the room until you were sure they’d gone on their ways.

That’s when the search began. Maybe there’s a method to Kaeya’s madness, but you certainly don’t get it. Then again, you’re not exactly sure what you’re supposed to be looking for either. It’s possible that the woman had simply approached you to test your limits, see if you’d be willing to commit an act of betrayal against your nation. . . When you think about it like that, it makes you want to run away from it all, offer apologies in advance for something you haven't even officially done yet.

But it’s too late to turn back now, and if the worst comes to pass again, you’ll need the Mora you’ve been promised. At the end of the day, your obligations are first to your family; not to Mondstadt as a whole. So, you continue forth with your rummaging, flicking through useless papers that would likely be of no interest to your commissioner. There were no specific instructions, but the last thing you’d want is to go through all this trouble only to be told that your efforts were in vain. As such, you’re left rifling through documents and letters, stationary items, and other miscellaneous things. Nothing that you would personally consider to be of note, —but maybe the Fatui will have some use for one of Kaeya’s personal letters to someone unnamed about the sweet taste of wine in the fall.

Frustration takes hold, your heart hammering like a drum in your chest as you try to listen for footsteps in the hall. The last thing you need from this is to be caught snooping around in the Cavalry Captain’s office.

With that in mind, —it seems you've jinxed yourself. In your attempt to be swift, you open a drawer much too quickly, and its contents spill out onto the floor. A glass bottle shatters, and with it, your nerves fry themselves into a dish unsuitable for even the wild animals of the forests. The distinct, metallic scent of blood fills your nose, and you reach up, thinking that the fear has left you with a nosebleed. However, you quickly realize. . . That’s not the case.

Rather, the pool of red liquid at your feet emanates the strong odor. You’re no wine connoisseur by any means, —but you’ve never smelled one that reeks of blood. That can’t possibly be normal. . . Right?

You bend down, dabbing the tips of your middle and index fingers into the substance. It clings much too well, feels thinly viscous when you rub it against your thumb, and it stinks of iron. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

You flinch so hard that every cell in your body seems to retract at the sound of Kaeya’s voice suddenly piping up from the corner. He stands nonchalantly, arms crossed over his chest, and that characteristic smirk clinging to the edges of his lips. In long, confident strides, he approaches you from the opposite side of the office, reaching out for you. His lithe fingers wrap around your wrist, —both soft, yet firm in grip.

When he brings your fingers to his mouth, you're stunned by the display he makes of licking the pads of them clean. The red liquid stains his tongue before he swallows it down, sucking on your digits for just a moment in what you can only assume is a gesture of good measure. You're too shocked to even think about pulling away.

"Ah," Kaeya clicks his newly cleaned tongue, "it seems we've run into a bit of a problem here, no?"

You swallow roughly, uncertain of what to say or do. You've been caught red-handed, very literally so, and you're at a loss as to where to go from here. A part of you wonders if turning on the waterworks will play out in your favor with Kaeya the way it did with the guards. Somehow, you doubt it. . .

"I'm sorry," spills past your lips before you have the chance to think it through. "I'm really sorry, just please—"

"You're sorry you got caught," Kaeya interrupts, but he doesn't sound particularly upset by it.

He speaks as if making little more than a casual observation.

"I'm sure you've got a tale to tell," he continues, "probably something sad, —a little sob story about your finances sinking into nothingness and a member of the Fatui approaching you with an offer you just couldn't refuse."

You swallow again, and his grip on your wrist tightens ever so slightly. Kaeya can tell by the look in your eyes that he's hit the nail on the head.

"Don't look so surprised," he scoffs, "—you're hardly special. I've met you ten, twenty times before. It always ends the same."

He's said so little, but has eluded to so much, and Kaeya loves the way your hand quivers in his hold.

The knight leans closer to whisper to you, warm tufts of breath fanning against the burning shell of your ear: "I will say though. . . You're the prettiest thief I've ever caught in my office."

He takes note of the way you inhale sharply at his compliment, interpreting it as a thank you.

"Now it's just a matter of how to punish you," Kaeya states. "I could always hand you over to someone else and have them deal with you, but where's the fun in that?"

Fun? Celestia knows that's the last thing on your mind right now as Kaeya's fingers tighten around your wrist again, further cementing his silent point of having no intentions of letting you go any time soon.

"That stuff on the floor," you say in a voice barely above a whimper, "—is it blood?"

He laughs. It's straight from the chest, so genuine and raw that it sends shivers up the length of your spine. To you, this is anything but funny. To him, it seems that he's more amused by you than anything else.

"You couldn't figure that out from the scent?" He questions. "Of course it is. But don't look so frightened. It's not from a human; it's the blood of a boar."

It’s as if he thought that anecdote would make having a bottle of the stuff in his office any easier to swallow, no matter where it originated. 

"And you just. . . Drink it?" You question.

"That's what Vampires do," he nods. "We drink blood. It's in our nature, one might say."

Vampires?

You've long heard rumors about them across Teyvat, but had always chalked them up to superstition and the imagination of parents trying to keep their children in line. Every once in a while, you'd catch wind of a forest animal found somewhere off outside the city with its body drained of blood, —but again, you'd chalk that up to little more than gossip and idle chatter.

"It's been quite a while since I've dranken straight from a human, though."

He could practically smell the surge of anxiety that rippled through your body like the evening tide to the jutting rocks just off Starsnatch Cliff. 

"I-I can fix that," you stammer. "If you agree to let me go, I'll let you drink my blood, and I promise you'll never see me anywhere near your office ever again."

Kaeya laughs again, and it's no less sinister than the first.

"You think you're in any position to be driving bargains?" He snickers.

Even so, it seems to you that he's weighing the options.

"Still," he muses, "I'll admit that I admire your ability to adapt so quickly. So just for that, —lean back against the wall and tilt your head to the side. I'll consider letting you go after I've had a good taste."

You oblige, against your better judgment, knowing that if your family were to find out about any of this, you'd never have the nerve to go home again. It would be bad enough if they knew you'd been speaking with a member of the Fatui, —but to have been driven to steal from a pillar of Mondstadt's community? Completely and utterly unheard of. Just like the real, genuine existence of Vampires is completely unheard of, —but here you are, about to have your blood sucked by one. Today’s been weird, —not that you really have the time to dwell on that right now.

"Don't make any sudden movements," Kaeya warns, brushing some loose strands of hair out of the way to have complete access to your neck. "The pain subsides faster if you keep your muscles relaxed."

Funnily enough, you hadn't considered the pain aspect of it up until now, but there was definitely no turning back. You glance at him, gulping nervously at the brief glint you catch of his fangs that have come out to feed.

"Do it," you whisper breathily, voice quivering as Kaeya's pupil seems to blow, his single iris beginning to swim with a bright, scarlet red color, replacing the striking blue that once resided there.

You barely have half the mind to register the quick breath that graces your skin before he’s sunken his fangs into your flesh. The initial puncture is the worst of it, —something akin to agonizing. It leaves you whimpering, barely able to keep yourself together to remain still. Your back is pressed against the wall, barely able to stabilize you as your knees begin to quake under the pressure and the pain.

Kaeya is quick about the ordeal, no hesitation to be found in his bite. It's been a long while since he's fed directly from a human, and you can feel the eagerness of his mouth when he laps at the puncture wounds on your neck. The rake of his tongue across your newfound injuries soothes you down swiftly enough.

Your blood tastes much better than any forest creature. It's sweet and dulcet, —so velvety as it flows into his mouth and plays on his tongue. Pain soon turns to a sick sense of pleasure, one so intense that it has your eyes rolling around in your skull. Arousal swims in your veins, blood pumping faster and your body in ruins. The wet, warm heat of Kaeya's mouth drowns out all reason and rationale, spreading across your skin like wildfire. 

Pleasure and pain meld together, becoming indistinguishable from one another. A blissful sense of devastation lingers in the wake of it all. The Vampire feeds, getting his fill of you as he listens to the soft moans that fall from your lips every so often. He doesn't need to pull away to see the arousal written across your face, to see the hollow expression of dream-like ecstasy you’re wearing, —although the option is certainly available. Kaeya can smell the surge of hormones running rampant inside you, along with the rampant thump of your quickening pulse. 

Arousal is normal during times of feeding. It’s encouraged by the bite of a Vampire, allowing them to feed faster as blood pumps more rapidly through the heart. 

With your back pressed firmly against a wall in the Cavalry Captain's office, you close your eyes and listen to the silent story of rushing fluid as your blood spills into Kaeya's desperate mouth. He could have easily drained you dry of every last drop, but managed to stop himself before the possibility was even on the horizon. When he pulls away, the corners of his mouth stained red, you watch with half-lidded eyes as he licks it up, making sure that none of your glorious crimson fluid would go to waste.

Lazily, Kaeya looks at you and inquires; “You okay?”

With glazed eyes and a pit burning deep within your stomach, your legs quiver as your back slips down the wall until you're sitting on the floor. They’re practically useless for the time being, thrumming with. . . Something. Whatever this feeling is, you’re wildly unfamiliar with it, and you don’t have the strength to question it. 

"Fine," you answer dreamily, thighs squeezing together irritably.

So fine, in fact, that your clit is throbbing against the soft material of your panties.

Kaeya has seen this before. It’s why he prefers to sustain himself on animal blood, and why he avoids feeding from humans, even when the taste is far superior to the staleness that often lingers in blood that comes from a bottle. Lust after a feeding session is both common and normal; almost to be expected. Some are worse off than others, with people like you being particularly sensitive to the rush of hormones a Vampire’s bite releases.

Moreover, Kaeya rarely indulges in sex. Attractive as he may be, with many suitors ready and willing to rip the clothes off his body and give him the ride of a lifetime, the knight has always preferred to take care of his needs himself. Occasionally, he’ll seek the assistance of a young woman from the city, but even those little rendezvous are few and far between (and never do they entail drinking anyone’s blood.)

Ah, but you. . . There was something special, —something different about you in a way Kaeya couldn’t quite put his finger on. He’d known that the moment you bared your neck to him, offering your blood in exchange for his silence mere moments after learning that Vampires aren’t just mythical creatures of legend. The once clever young woman he’d caught in his office, snooping around through his things, is now sitting on the floor with a pair of puncture wounds on her pretty throat, her eyes staring off at nothing in particular. Far off and dreamy, your legs squeeze together, seeking friction from the little twists your hips make.

Call it instinct or gentlemanly obligation, Kaeya felt it was only appropriate to clean up a mess he had more than a fair hand in creating, —so he gets down on a single knee beside you, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from your eyes.

“You’ve got two options,” he says. “You can take care of. . . All this,” looking up and down your languid body, “—by yourself, or you can ask politely for help and apologize for rummaging around my office without permission. Which’ll it be, darling?”

Your insides ripple at the thought of it alone. It’s absolutely incredible what a Vampire’s bite can do to a lowly human being; one oh so susceptible to the want and need of it all in the fallout.

“I’m sorry,” you all but whimper, mustering up your best pair of puppy-dog eyes in hopes that it would hit any sweet spots the Cavalry Captain could have buried within.

Admittedly, he’s more intrigued by the glaze of lust that hangs over your stare.

“What was that?” He mocks, feigning ignorance as he rises to his feet and takes a few strides back. “I didn’t quite catch what you said there.”

You swallow, ignoring the bitter pricks of pain that have begun to jolt about along your neck.

“I’m sorry—”

“Wrong,” he interjects, clicking his tongue disapprovingly once again. “It’s basic manners to know that one should grovel on their knees when begging for forgiveness.”

The breath that follows his subtle command is shaky as it passes your lips. You give a quick nod before pulling your body forward, suddenly feeling much heavier than before without the weight of the wall to support you. Hands smoothing their way across the hardwood floor and knees trailing behind, you approach him like a scolded pet ready to beg for attention from your master after making a mistake.

“I shouldn’t have come into your office without permission,” you admit, attempting to tune out the incessant thrum of your arousal. “And I shouldn’t have touched your things without permission either.”

“Mhm,” he hums, reaching down to grab your chin.

Kaeya forces you to look up at him from your place just before the space between his long, slender legs.

“And?”

“And I’m very sorry that I did.”

You’re less sorry now than you were five minutes ago. Right now, the only thing you can manage to think about is the heat from the tips of his fingers scorching at your skin, —sending shockwaves through your body that you desperately need to feel alight inside you.

He smirks, a small scoff bursting forth as he studies your pretty face.

“You’re sorry?” He inquires sarcastically.

“Yes,” you reply in a small, needy voice, “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“That so?” His hands fall away from your face to tug at his pants, allowing his half-hard cock to spring free. “Then go ahead and show me just how sorry you are.”

You glance between his sizable length and his one visible eye. Kaeya takes himself into a loose grip, before snapping another command as you move back to sit on your knees.

“Open that pretty mouth up and let me see your lying little tongue.”

He slaps the warm head against your exposed tongue once, twice, thrice, —then smoothes himself over the wetness, cock sliding with your saliva. It’s not long before he bores of this, however, instead ordering you to put in some extra effort.

“Put your lips around it,” he instructs, sighing softly in relief when you do as he says.

With your mouth suctioned loosely around him, you offer a few sloppy licks to the tip. His hand comes down to rest with the flat of his palm against the crown of your head, encouraging you to continue on; to take him in deeper and let him feel all the dips and grooves of your throat. As he relaxes into you, you go off script and follow the beat of your own drum, so to speak. Kaeya barely stifles a moan as you lick a solid stripe from the bottom of his shaft to the leaking tip of his cock.

“Look at me,” he says simply; to which you comply, staring up at him with the best doe-eyed stare you can muster up with a cock stuffed in your jowls.

Even as the effects of his bite wear off and your neck begins to ache, the lust remains hot and heavy, pooled deep within your gut. The burning embers are stoked further the moment you take him into your mouth again, wrapping your lips around his member before sinking down slowly. A tempo rises from the ashes, a sigh escapes past Kaeya’s lips, and you begin the melody: shallow and easy. As the pressure builds within you both, your sluggish, almost lazy movements become much more fervent, and Kaeya’s hand returns to the crown of your head once more. His long fingers press against your hair, the other cupping the side of your face, encouraging you onward.

You establish a steady rhythm, —one that wracks your lover to the core. Kaeya feels his insides quiver as you bob up and down on him, your mouth nearly ghosting the base of his long cock accompanied by tiny gags that leave your throat contracting around him. He gets louder, groaning and whispering filthy words, mumbling sweet nothings about how pretty you are when he’s buried in your maw. Still, the knight seems to be holding onto a small sliver of self-control; one that you’re determined to strip him bare of before this little escapade comes to a close.

The rest is nothing but messy enthusiasm. You feel him twitch against your tongue, only to solidly press your nose against his naval, swallowing around him to tip him over the edge. It works like a charm.

As you pull away, Kaeya leaves you with a mouthful of hot cum. It’s thick, mild in flavor, and all too easy to drink down.

You make a show of swallowing it, and then of wiping your bottom lip clean. He could likely cum again just watching you in the aftermath.

“Good,” he says simply.

Kaeya then removes his shirt and is halfway through stepping out of his pants before he stops to pause, glancing down at you as if to ask “what do you think you’re waiting for?” Suffice to say, you get the hint.

As you stand naked before him, Kaeya’s lips meet yours for the first time. He moves the both of you back until your ass is pressed to the wall again, offering you stability as he attacks your lips in bruising kisses and laps at the insides of your mouth with little care. He’s like a starved lion; fervent in every move he makes and all too desperate, but somehow composed enough to control the situation with ease.

“Turn around,” he growls against your lips, wasting little time in smoothing his lithe fingers over the plane of your shoulders.

His arm encircles your throat, pulling you close to him as he reaches out with the other hand, demanding that you spit into it. He uses your saliva to slick himself up, then presses your shoulders toward the wall, barely offering you any time to find your bearings before his fingers prod at your entrance.

“You’re dripping,” he laughs.

If you had enough humility in the moment to be embarrassed, maybe you would have been; —but this isn’t exactly the type of situation for that. Rather, you arch your back a little further, hoping it might offer him better access (and thus encourage him to fuck you faster.)

It works easily enough.

Kaeya pushes his saliva ridden cock inside your sopping cunt, presses further into your insides all the way to the hilt. He bottoms out, leaving you gasping as your pussy clenches around the thick of him. Maybe it’s all part of a Vampire’s impact; but you’re seeing stars even before he makes any attempt to move, viewing galaxies behind your fluttering eyelids as he digs his fingernails into your hip. Your head’s up in the clouds again. . .

“Fuck,” he groans, —and you love the breathless twinge that ghosts along your spine when his head falls closer to his chest.

It’s all too good the way your cunt moves around him, welcoming him deep inside. He thought your blood was good, —great—, but this is like stuffing his cock into the gates of Celestia itself. You’re obnoxiously proud of the way Kaeya loses himself inside you, as if abandoning his status as Cavalry Captain just to get a taste of what it’s like to be truly human.

He pulls out slowly, as if to tease you even in his blissed out state, before slamming back in with reckless abandon. It’s so intense that it makes your insides quake, —unbearably intense and much too pleasurable, perhaps in a masochistic sense of the word.

The tempo rises once again. It begins as something quick and frantic, but evolves into something much more desperate, sharper and harsher. The distinct sounds of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, likely seeping from his office and into the halls; but you’re too lost in the moment to care, especially when Kaeya picks up the pace. When he angles his thrusts just right, hitting all the sweet spots inside you, the both of you are reduced to little more than loud moans and desperate pants.

The air inside his office is no longer tempered. It might as well have been suffocating, but even breathing itself seemed to pale in comparison as a necessity when pitted against the pounding of Kaeya’s cock. 

A sob works its way up your throat, spilling past your lips excitedly. Your core is thrumming, pussy convulsing around him, —loving the way he fills you up as if his very life depends on it. His every move makes your body weaker by the second, pumping you full of adrenaline and ecstasy. It’s all so overwhelming in a way you simply cannot get enough of. You even love the way Kaeya leaves you struggling for breath, gasping for air in between the hammerings he offers right to your g-spot. 

At the edge, Kaeya reaches between your legs to play with your neglected clit, and without warning sinks his fangs into your neck once more. This time, he drinks nothing more than what spills up to the surface, breathing heavily against the skin of your throat. You’re left trembling underneath him, eyes rolling back into your skull as ecstasy explodes from within. He leaves you mewling, cumming on and clenching around him. 

It’s not long before Kaeya follows in suit, pulling out just in the nick of time to spill his seed along your ass. Your knees give way immediately, forcing you to the ground. It was, frankly, a miracle you’d been able to stand the entire time without collapsing before. His bite and the rippling impact of your orgasm have knocked all the wind from your sails, and you haven’t a clue how Kaeya is still standing tall after all of that.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, smoothing his hair back with a single hand, “—I’d say that apology suffices.”

You don’t even need to look his way to know that he’s got an annoying smirk plastered across his face.

Calling Dottore "The Doctor" was a bold move on the part of the Fatui, —so bold that it's ironic. Across Teyvat, doctors take a sacred oath to hold close to their hearts: first do no harm, and as it turns out, Dottore has done more than enough of that for multiple lifetimes over. Anyone who's spent more than thirty seconds in Snezhnaya knows he is not to be toyed with, and with his high rank among the Harbingers, there are very few people he answers to. Celestia knows most Archons aren't even privy to his respect.

You stand just outside the door of his main laboratory, every part of you praying that he's not actually inside. It's hard to tell when he's in or out. . . It's always been that way. He often fails to answer to others, even when they rank higher, —much to the highest ranking Jester's annoyance. Sanctions do little to keep Dottore in line, as well. He does things his own way, toys with them and then tosses them aside when they're no longer of interest.

You knock your knuckles against the door after taking in a sharp breath, holding it back as you wait for a reply. Inside, a disinterested and irritated voice rings out to you in a one-word answer, short and curt.

"Busy."

Your stomach twists, but thanks to Pierro, you've got nowhere else to turn. This is more about humiliating you for failing your mission rather than nursing any of your minor injuries, and you're well aware of that. . . And it's working; probably a little too well.

"The Jester sent me," you say, raising your voice in order for him to hear.

Just beyond the door, Dottore knits his brows together in frustration. He drops the chaos core in his hand ungracefully, and it lands on his cluttered desk with a heavy thud. He's sick of you already, and you haven't even opened the door yet. Lazily, he draws his gaze to the entrance and beckons for you.

"Come in," he says, voice dripping with disinterest, "let's make this quick."

It comes as no surprise to either of you that he hasn't a clue who you are. He seldom learns faces, nonetheless names, and typically only cares to memorize his own subordinates that he directly bosses around. Even then, his memorization of their names serves more as a power play than any genuine show of comradery.

You slip inside, refusing to meet his eyes. His mask rests on the corner of his table, dark color and jagged edges in wicked contrast to the sloppily written notes strewn across various pieces of off-white parchment. 

"Here," he says, —demands— gesturing for you to take a seat on a low-rise sickbed.

It's hard to tell how many bodies it's housed before in spite of its newer conditions, nonetheless what happened to those bodies. You don't ask, and Dottore doesn't tell.

"Let me guess," he huffs, "you've failed a mission, but your injuries aren't severe. You don't feel ill, you're not bleeding, nothing is broken or fractured, but Pierro sent you my way to humiliate you a bit; to make you feel worse about being a disappointment."

Obviously you could have done without that last part, but you purse your lips together into a tight line and nod your head in confirmation. Dottore clicks his tongue in disapproval. He'd give you an earful about how incompetent you are, but his guess is that you'd heard enough of that from Pierro just before you arrived.

"Where does it hurt?" He questions, though it's painfully clear that he couldn't possibly care any less.

"Nowhere, really," you say in a small voice.

"Then humor me a little, —I've got things to do, but the both of us know Pierro will be demanding your report by nightfall," he states bluntly. "Which reminds me; I'll need your name and affiliation."

"My name's y/n," you say, "and I'm just an agent."

"How long?"

That question isn't particularly important, nor does Dottore really care much about the answer. He's just burning some time and collecting information to slap on your report in order to make it look as authentic as possible. As soon as that's done and over with, he can return to his own endeavors.

"Less than a year," you reply.

"Ah," he mumbles, "fresh meat."

If you weren't feeling like helpless prey before, —you certainly are now. He likes the way fear flashes through your eyes, but loves the way you futilely attempt to keep it under wraps.

After scribbling down your information, he moves to stand in front of you. Thanks to the low-level of the bed and your slouched shoulders, you're matched at eye level with his abdomen.

"Tilt your head back," he requests, and because you do happen to value your own life, you do as he says.

His fingertips are cold as they prod at the column of your neck, pressing about and searching for nothing in particular. Dottore must admit though, there's a certain rush of pleasure he derives from knowing that his large hands would likely fit snug around your throat. He can feel everything the moment you swallow nervously.

As he scans you up and down, he thinks to himself that you're quite pretty. He's seen plenty of recruits come and go, —but none of them have ever looked quite like you. There's something captivating about the equal balance of defiance and fear that swims behind your irises. He'd even venture to say that you're quite hard-headed in spite of scuttling off from Pierro with your tail between your legs.

"Keep your head tilted and stick your tongue out," he says. "Let me see down your throat."

His bluntness is jarring, but it's not as if you're in any position to refuse. You follow directions, and he leans down, peering into your open mouth as if it's some kind of fine arts exhibit. Your eyes dart around as he presses an index finger against the flat of your tongue; using it as a suppressor.

There's something so erotic about the way it twitches below his digit, and he resists the urge to ask how he tastes to you. Leering down at you like this, he even wonders what you'd do if he were to lean down and spit into your throat. —He doesn't, of course, but. . . He thinks about it.

"Good," he mumbles, slowly sliding his finger away.

He's not sure how to phrase any of it for your report, but chalks it up to clear oral airways.

"Where’d you return from?” He inquires, crossing Sumeru’s desert region off the list of possibilities when he brushes a few pieces of hair from your face and feels no grains of sand laced within it.

“Mondstadt,” you answer gently.

Dottore suspects you’re suppressing a more carnal nature behind this doll-like demeanor, much as all individuals do. Though most normal people are loath to admit it, —it remains true that we all hide monsters behind our masks of humanity.

He leans down, sniffing at you inquisitively and unapologetically like some overgrown dog who hasn’t been trained properly.

“There’s a certain scent to each nation,” he says, mumbling the words right into your ear. “I’ve always found Mondstadt’s to be a little bitter, but I don’t mind it on you.”

Your lips part for a moment, as if ready to meet his statement with thanks, but you quickly decide against it and clamp yourself shut once more. The taste of his finger still lingers on your tongue. There’s something so intriguing about the way your gaze flickers around his own that it makes his insides burn. It’s been quite a while since he’s felt this way. . . Urges like these aren’t something he deals with often, his mind always being found somewhere else. He’s far from your average man, after all, and his mind has always worked in peculiar ways.

A naive little part of you thinks Dottore is simply doing his job, —if being a little crude about it. It’s not like he really signed up to be doing checkups for low-ranking affiliates of the Fatui as the second ranked Harbinger anyway. But you’re by no means stupid, and you know that men like him can be absolute beasts in more ways than one. Just as he smells Mondstadt on your skin and in your hair, you can smell the ravenous monster that lives in his heart, and you’re not sure you’re going to be leaving this room alive.

The half-cleaned pieces of ruin guards that lie on his desk, adding to the mess, are long forgotten now as his nimble fingers dance over the plane of your shoulders. He squeezes once or twice, then asks if he’s hurt you. You don’t say no, but the small shake of your head gives him enough nerve to continue. He thinks to himself that it’s almost a shame for you to be a member of the Fatui when you look and feel like this, as he knows your body is yet to see more devastation in the years to come. But, if he plays his cards right, he might just be able to keep you on a short enough leash to have you crawling back every now and again.

You stay quiet as his hands trail about, —from your shoulders to your arms before prodding at the area just below your neck. He hums to himself, but says nothing until he hits the plush of your breasts through your bra and tattered uniform.

“Do you feel any tenderness here?” He asks, massaging his digits into your soft chest.

“J-Just a little,” you admit.

“A bit then?” he clarifies, one eyebrow raising higher than the other.

You nod.

“Go ahead and remove your coat for me,” he prompts.

He watches as you follow his instructions, biting his tongue to keep from praising your obedience. You shed the outer coat, and Dottore peers at your newly exposed flesh for a bit, watching as you shiver in the chilled air of his lab. He murmurs an apology for the fact that it’s so cold down here, but briefly explains that it’s best to keep his space unwarm in order to preserve his various experiments and otherwise important materials.

“It’s okay,” you shake your head, “I was born in Snezhnaya, —I can handle the cold.”

There’s something so divine about the way you don’t complain; as if holding yourself back on his account. Dottore loves the dipping curves of your breasts, but admittedly isn’t satisfied with seeing little more than cleavage and your general silhouette. That beast inside him yearns for more, and his hands travel around your back accordingly.

“May I?” He asks, fingers pinched around either side of your bra’s clasp.

You know this isn’t normal, but. . . He knows better, doesn’t he? You did admit that your breasts were feeling a bit tender, and he, as your doctor, is checking them fully to ensure your health and wellbeing. He’s older, wiser, has risen through the ranks and earned his high status in a way that you admire, —in a way you can only dream of accomplishing as things stand right now. Dottore is a professional: perhaps not necessarily in medicine, but he certainly knows enough about the human body to be of service.

“Y-Yeah,” you comply, “go ahead.”

He seemed all too ready for your answer to be affirmative, but you have little time to note that given the quickness that follows your confirmation. A little snap rings out from behind you, and one of your bra straps falls just off your shoulder. You slip the garment off, exposing your chest for Dottore to leer at pervertedly. Drool practically pools below his tongue at the sight of your tits bouncing free, so pretty and decadent. He’s all too robust about it, and it leaves you feeling equal parts ashamed and excited. Having devoted your life to the Fatui for the past year or so, it’s been all too long since you’ve had attention of this breed. The circumstances are far from ideal, you suppose, but. . .

“Your body reacts quite fast to stimulation,” he notes, tweaking at your hardened nipples that stiffened and perked at the first touch of cool air.

You whine ever so softly under your breath when he pulls a little too hard.

“No need to stifle anything,” he says. “It’s just us here.”

He pulls his hands away to adjust the height of the bed, —a little trick you didn’t even know to be possible until he actually did it. The movement startles you a bit at first, but he’s quick to soothe you down and tell you to relax.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, though it doesn’t feel very genuine, “I just needed to put you up a little higher to more comfortably check you over.”

The little smirk that pulls at his lips lets you know that’s by no means the truth of the matter, but you say nothing of it.

His hands find their way to your chest again, thumbs flicking over your sensitive nipples. He loves the way your lips still purse together, attempting to keep yourself together even while he’s actively tearing you apart at the seams. This is the first time a man has ever paid such attention to the simpler things instead of chasing release between your legs. In spite of his morbid nature and grotesque curiosities, —Dottore has a gentlemanly side; one that likely only appears when he’s keen on spearing a young woman like you on his hard cock until she’s shaking from more than the Snezhnaian cold.

“I’ll need you to be vocal during the next part of this examination,” he notes. “It’s important that I know how your body’s reacting.”

You give a slow nod, to which Dottore cranes his neck down. As one hand continues to tweak with your right nipple, his other cups the left; pushing the breast up to meet his warm, wet mouth. He’s so shameless in the way he slobbers on you, swirling his tongue all around, slicking you up to watch your spit-covered nipple glisten in the starkly white lighting of his lab. 

“T-That’s—” you stutter, feeling yourself begin to heat up from the inside.

He pauses, pulling off you with a subtle pop as your flesh slips from in between his lips.

“That’s what?” He inquires, tone deceptively gentle as he pinches your neglected breast.

“Good,” you finish, the word coming out much breathier than intended, “—it feels good.”

Dottore already knew what the answer would be, but hearing you say it aloud offers a completely different thrill. It’s just something about the way you hesitate to give in, but fold beneath him nevertheless. He hums in acknowledgment before moving on to the other side, this time letting his tongue hang out to drool a line of spit across your nipple. It drips and then spreads; forming to the little divots along your body.

He’s barely holding on now, that beast inside him raging; scratching and clawing at the cage inside his chest. If things keep up like this, he knows he won’t be able to subdue himself for much longer. As he laps and sucks at your chest, alternating between both erratically, the cock between his thighs begins to harden, pressing roughly against his pants.

“Let’s see here,” he mumbles against your skin, hands falling away from your upper half to explore the lower.

Those nimble fingers push your legs apart to dance along your inner thighs. He captures your lips in a kiss, relishing in the way you moan into his mouth as he nudges ever so gently against the crotch of your bottoms. The friction alone has you halfway to seeing stars, and any slight sliver of pain from any of your miniscule injuries has completely disappeared by now. In that sense, you suppose his title of Doctor might make some semblance of sense.

“I’m a bit concerned about the area between your thighs,” he says, emphasizing it with a quick, sloppy kiss to your messy lips.

“If you wouldn’t mind, go ahead and undress completely,” Dottore continues, “I’ll be sure to take care of everything.”

Now, you’re certain this is well beyond normal; but the time for such has completely gone out the window. Your instincts have taken over, and you’re no longer thinking straight. Much the same, as much as his relaxed demeanor might fool you, Dottore is no longer thinking with the head on his shoulders. The one between his legs is definitely leading the way with this one.

His fingers trail almost delicately along your inner now-naked inner thighs, inching closer to the sopping heat at the center. Upon reaching the final destination, Dottore slides two long fingers over your glossy folds, dragging them from top to bottom, then back again. All the while, his digits collect a thin layer of your arousal on his skin. Bringing those fingers to his lips, he takes them into his mouth and takes a substantial taste of you.

“You taste so sweet,” he informs you, sliding the same hand between your thighs once more to collect some more wetness for you to swallow down.

Your tongue wraps around his fingers, tasting yourself on him. As you lick him clean, he sets his gaze on the puffy lips of your pretty little pussy; the one begging to be stuffed full of him. When his hand returns, he doesn’t stop at the entrance. Instead, Dottore pushes one finger inside, then another soon after, feeling the way your tight cunt clenches around him. The whimpers you let out drive him absolutely wild, and when paired with the soft squelch of your pussy around his fingers, he’s tempted to pull his cock out and just shove it inside, hammering into you like the world is ending and it’s the last thing he’ll ever have the chance to do.

When your head tilts back, revealing your neck to him, he takes the opportunity to suck at the column, licking a little stripe up and over your exposed throat. He feels the moans you’re attempting to swallow down reverberate against his tongue. He then presses on your shoulders with his free hand, coaxing you to lie back on the admittedly uncomfortable surface he has you resting on.

He curls his fingers now, guiding them in and out and gliding them deep enough to leave your toes curling.

“I’d say that’s a healthy reaction,” he notes, —jokingly.

You can’t say it surprises you that he’s the type. 

As the tips of his fingers brush against that sweet bundle of nerves buried deep inside, your back arches up.

“It’s alright,” he assures you with a wicked smile, pressing the flat of his palm to your stomach in order to keep you pinned down. “Try not to move so much. I promise you’re in good hands.”

That’s true in one sense, but completely inaccurate in another. Even so, you’re in no place to argue with the likes of him for several important reasons, so you breathe out a half-heartedly apology that he wordlessly accepts with ease.

The rasp to your voice has him reeling, a moment’s worth of friction away from pumping loads of sticky cum into his pants. He both hates and loves the ability you have to be so innocent, yet so overwhelmingly and unabashedly impish all in the same tattered breath. Your arousal glints along his fingers as you grip at the pathetically thin sheet draped over this equally as pathetic contraption. The smells invading the enclosed laboratory, the squelch of your unfucked pussy desperate for more, and the sight of your lip bitten between your teeth has Dottore’s neglected member twitching desperately in his pants.

He fingers you with a practiced precision that seems tailor made to your body, despite having just met you face to face. Try as you might to keep your reactions to a minimum, worried that someone might well come knocking on the door and hear you crying out in pleasure on the inside. A large enough group for you to be concerned about the possibility heard you get scolded by Pierro, and subsequently sent off to Dottore’s lab, but he’s making it much too difficult to keep yourself contained.

It feels so good, but this. . . This has to be wrong, likely for more reasons than one.

Of course, you wouldn’t know the first thing about any code of ethics that exists amongst the Eleven Harbingers, if one even exists at all, —but you imagine this kind of discretion could risk the both of your futures with the organization. At the very least, you know you’re very replaceable to the Fatui.

“Don’t muffle yourself,” he scolds softly, “it’s important I know what you’re feeling. Do remember, —I’m here to take care of you.”

Your hand falls away from your mouth, lips parting for a broken moan to pass through. He murmurs something about how well you’re doing, and you can’t help but to shiver under the weight of his praise, goosebumps trailing across every inch of your skin from head to toe. The way his praise seems to subdue you leaves him with a rumbling flow of arousal pulsing along his groin. So much so that he just cannot take it anymore.

Although he knows you’re close to cumming, the ache of his cock has become painful, blood flowing directly there no matter how badly he’s attempted to will it to stay up north.

“Here,” he beckons, pulling his pants down just enough for his length to spring free, “let’s check your mouth again.”

With your would-have-been orgasm ruined by the lack of stimulation, you move to your knees, crawling forward like a feline to take him between your lips.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, swatting your trembling hand away, “—just open your mouth and let your tongue hang out.”

You do as directed, only for Dottore to smack the reddened tip of his cock against it, reveling in the sounds it makes. It’s wet and spongy against him, his head tilting back from so little. He tastes of sweat and pre-cum, maybe even the slightest hint of bitterness, but it’s nothing unpleasant. There’s a natural musk to him that you can’t quite explain, but it’s comforting somehow, though you know all too well that you’re by no means safe in his hands or care. It’s one thing to give to and receive pleasure from Dottore, but it’s a completely different monster to trust him with your wellbeing. 

You might be a little foolish for having gotten yourself caught up in this mess; but you’re by no means dumb.

“Just suck the tip,” he demands, —but it’s oh so sweet that it almost sounds like a request. Almost.

Your lips form to match the size and shape of him, and he watches with lust swimming deep in his gaze as your puffy mouth works magic around him. His fingers rake their way across your scalp, nails digging in as you swirl your tongue around the crown of his cock. There’s something so ironically angelic about the wide, doe-eyed expression you look up at him with; so trusting and yet completely deceitful. He’s not simple enough to think you’re actually looking for something deep and devoted from him, —but it’s nice nonetheless to feel your moans reverberate through his shaft.

He thinks to himself that obedience is definitely a quality he can put on your little report, but he can only hope he won’t be tasked with explaining the reasoning behind that one.

“Okay,” he groans after a bit, “go ahead.”

You hollow your cheeks and take him into your throat with a surprising amount of ease, as if you know him well enough to have memorized the way he fits inside without testing the waters. You’re just too brave for your own good, he muses. It’s a dangerous game to be playing with the likes of him, but he’s intrigued by it nevertheless.

Dottore moans above you, encouraging you to pleasure him more. This is a transactional deal; after all. One good deed shall be met with one of equal importance. You’re thankful he isn’t the silent type. It’s better when your lover’s groans can ring like music in your ears, coaxing you to press onward even when the ache sets into your jaw and the discomfort really starts to feel like just that.

You adapt all too quickly as he twitches against your tongue. Without missing a beat, you continue on, pressing the leaking tip of him to the roof of your mouth. From below, he looks like something that should be immortalized in a statue in some ancient civilization; —maybe painted by some masterful artist who can capture every delicate curve and every jagged dip on his body.

The way he feeds off your every move like a leech, like some kind of lecherous parasite, send shockwaves of arousal straight to your throbbing sex. 

Ruined moans fall from his starved lips, and it’s not long before he tells you to stop, knowing that if he doesn’t, he’s going to be bursting down your throat. Instead, he helps you off the adjustable surface, but quickly pins you face down against the spot where your palms had just been digging in.

“Put your arms together behind your back,” he says sternly, leaning down to whisper in your ear; hard cock pressing to the plush of your ass that’s put on display for himself.

You do as he instructs, letting the side of your face fall to the uncomfortable sickbed as he uses one hand to pin your wrists together, keeping them restrained.

When his fingertips smack against the insides of your thighs, you know to spread your legs further apart, offering him better and easier access to the hole his fingers were stuffed inside of just a short time ago. He loves the way you follow wordless orders like a little servant, catering to his every wish and whim. Even better, you seem to do it without having to be told, —as if you can read his every thought like a guidebook. If he wasn’t worried that you’d lose a great deal of the spunk that makes you so endearing without inherent freedoms, he’d consider keeping you chained down here in this laboratory with him, keeping you there for his every need and desire.

He has a feeling the wait and the chase might be part of the fun, though.

Your pussy welcomes him with excited clenches as he presses in, bottoming out just as quickly. His grip is still rough, pressing hard against the tail end of your spine as he keeps your hands pinned, hoping to hear all the needy, pathetic little noises you’re sure to make as your sopping hole swallows him up. Any semblance of reason or rationale Dottore might have had before is long gone by now, replaced by the burning image of your wet cunt squeezing around his throbbing cock.

The malleable walls of your insides clamp around him, encouraging him to move, to thrust, —and to do it hard and deep just to satisfy the burning desires in your abdomen. He’s buried in your snatch, strong force keeping your hands stationary behind your back as he lowers himself against you, chest brushing against your back. The position is less than comfortable, but he does it for you, just to press a few peppered kisses to your shoulder.

Dottore would swear that his senses are on fire, everything heightened to a new, wondrous degree. He feels like the most successful predator of them all; having caught such delicate prey as his meal. Might as well make it his last, as far as he’s concerned in the moment.

When he breathes out slowly, you feel the exhale ghost against your supple skin. You smell expensive, like some kind of high end perfume that seeps straight from your pores. Dottore fights the urge to bury his teeth in your flesh, knowing it would be such a waste to wound something as precious as you.

The moment he gingerly pulls out only to slam back in has you crying out in surprise, —a cry that goes unheard by the man on top of you. He’s too blissed out to check in on you for the moment, what with the urgent hum of arousal rushing right through his veins. Your folds move with his every thrust, as if they’re doors welcoming him with each inward motion, and Dottore wishes he had something to record the glorious sound of his skin slapping firmly against yours. It’s such a distinct sound, one accompanied by his own absentminded moans and grunts, as well as your consistent whimpers and pleas for more.

When you’d been told to come down here, you hadn’t expected anything of this nature to take place. For all you knew, Dottore was going to slaughter you and leave your body to be covered by snowfall. You’d expected a lot of things, most of them overwhelmingly negative, but him turning you over and plowing into your cunt definitely wasn’t on the shorthand list of possibilities you’d conjured up on your way down.

You can’t say you mind, though. —To be fair, you don’t really have the mind to do so at this point.

Dottore pauses the first time you slur some curse words beneath your breath, his cock stationed so deep inside that it feels like it’s buried in your guts.

“Close?” He questions, to which you give an awkward nod, half your face still pressed into the hard surface of the sickbed.

“One more thing before that,” he notes, pulling out (to your dismay) and yanking you upright. “Let’s check on your mobility.”

He takes your place, sitting down and beckoning you to come and ride him. Though your knees feel weak, as if they might turn to jelly and give in at any moment, you comply for the sake of your own orgasm that’s since been ruined twice now by this godforsaken man. As you slide him inside, your head tilts back, and you whimper over the heat that burns, and burns, and burns so red hot that it might as well be engulfing you from the inside out. You’ve felt fires much like this in the line of work; but never on the inside.

Once more, your cunt is left squelching around Dottore’s thick cock, suckling on his length with every wobbly motion. All the friction has your rather neglected clit pulsing between the lips of your pussy, throbbing with want and desire. Dottore’s hands find themselves all over you; sliding across your shoulders, fingers dancing down your spine, making you shiver in delight. He loved the way you look like this, the way your back arches and the way he can feel you shake and quivery against him in this position. 

“I’m so close,” you whimper, to which Dottore smooths his hand over your ass, encouraging you to cum all over his filthy cock.

And then you still, blood running ice cold in your veins. You barely heard the knock at the door over your own racing heartbeat and breathless panting.

“Sir,” a nervous voice calls out, “a meeting’s been called that requires the presence of all eleven Harbingers.”

“Don’t stop,” he whispers harshly in your ear, “I want you cumming all over me before this conversation ends, —do you understand me?”

Albeit taken aback by the command, you’re still in no position to refuse a demand from your superior. So, you simply do as you're told.

“I’m quite busy at the moment,” he says, voice surprisingly calm in spite of the circumstances. “Can it wait at all?”

You’re too bold now, slinking your fingers through his silver hair, tugging at the roots as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He whispers to keep going as the man outside the laboratory continues on.

“I have no details on the matter, I was just told to inform you that your presence is requested immediately,” he says, —which is a more polite way of saying no, it can’t. 

The adrenaline mixed with the ecstasy of it all leaves you strung out, and Dottore can feel the way you contract around him, convulsing on his cock as you cum with someone standing just outside the door. He doesn’t even mind the way you’ve bitten his neck in hopes of muffling your own moans.

“I’ll be on my way in just a moment,” he insists. “You’re excused.”

“Yes sir.”

Though he’s visibly agitated by the sudden call to a meeting, he still masturbates himself to his peak, pumping his own cock until he cums all over your tits. And then he fixes himself, adjusting his hair, placing his mask upon his face, and most importantly, pulling his pants back up to hide his length that’s been spun dry. He’s so composed even after all of that, and you’re jealous of that in every sense of the word.

Now, you just hope he’ll put in a good word or two about you to Pierro.

Don’t judge a book by its cover. As a well-educated scholar, you were well beyond aware of that advice. You’ve heard it more times than you’ll ever care to repeat it, and before now, you would have even ventured to say that you were quite good at following it. And yet, despite that, you’ve been left stumbling your way through the forest, an unquenched thirst lapping at every inch of you from the inside out, —and all of this over a few samples of some strange flower’s pollen? Really?

It’s embarrassing, to say the very least of it. There are a million and one ways you know you should have done better, should have been more careful, more cautious. . . But now is hardly the time to be giving yourself some sort of incoherent lecture. After all, Tighnari will likely have that covered anyway, and certainly in a much more concise manner. You can practically hear him now, going on and on as he helps you deal with whatever the hell this stuff has done to you. It’s hard not to kick yourself for such a novice level mistake, but it’s just as equally difficult to imagine taking any criticism well, from yourself or from Tighnari, in this admittedly sorry state of yours.

It’s an incredible feat within itself that you were able to find your way back to Tighnari’s woodland workshop. The forest is dense and full of twists and turns, —ones that you find yourself turned around in on even the best of days. Maybe after two months you’re finally getting used to it.

Whatever the case, you slink your way inside to the tempo of the rapidly setting sun. Your knees all but clink together as you fumble about, using the wall to keep yourself steady. Tighnari’s ears twitch at the sudden sounds of struggle, head popping up along with the perked ears atop it. Observant as he always is, he quickly realizes that something is wrong. What that something is, he’s not so sure yet, but he rushes to your side nonetheless.

“Y/n?” He questions, reaching a warm, gentle hand out to you. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Just the brush of his fingertips against the plane of your shoulder is enough to leave you stiffened and hissing under your breath. These reactions aren’t inherently unfamiliar to you, —but under such circumstances? They’re unheard of.

“I feel weird,” you say, inhibitions lowered, leaving you more honest than you normally would have been if everything weren’t buzzing so loud in your veins.

Your heartbeat is hammering away, legs squeezing together involuntarily. The heat between your legs is pulsing and you can feel arousal slicking you up. But why?

“Weird?” Tighnari parrots, “—weird how? As in. . .”

He cuts himself off mid-sentence, then pauses. His nose crinkles a bit, and you hear him suck in a sharp breath. When his eyes widen in an expression of realization, you can’t help but fear that this isn’t going to end very well. 

“Describe your symptoms,” he says finally, but it seems to you that he may well already know what you’re going to answer with.

Through the haze clouding your mind and the heat swimming through your body, you manage to list off a sizable index, excluding your dripping cunt. Weakness in the knees, racing heartbeat, shortness of breath. . .

“I know this smell,” he says, emphasizing his words with another quick breath in, nose scrunching up on the inhale. “The samples you collected today, —where are they?”

“The satchel,” you answer, vaguely directing your chin in the right direction as you shift your position, hoping that it might relieve you of some of the tension eating away at your core. (It doesn’t.)

Tighnari follows your gesture and scoops the brown bag up off the ground. You’d dropped it somewhere along the line as you’d stumbled in through the entrance, but the details are already much too blurry to work out, so you refuse to even try. The last thing you need now is more strain on your feeble little mind. He digs his way into the various pockets, rifling through your decent number of plant-life samples. One of the tiny containers has a selection of poisonous berries in it, but Tighnari is fairly certain you wouldn’t have been foolish enough to eat them without knowledge of them.

He asks anyway, —just to be sure. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

“You didn’t swallow any of these, right?”

Through the subtle arch of your back, you give him an offended glance. He takes that as his answer.

“No, no, no,” he mumbles, quickly but carefully carding through the rest of the samples, excluding non-toxic plant matter and otherwise harmless collections.

And then it hits him. Spread between two hands, he holds three containers of the same off-white, powder-like pollen. The sickeningly sweet smell sticking to your skin makes too much sense now. He knew that he’d smelled it before, but couldn’t place it. Now that two and two have been put together, Tighnari feels a pit grow in his gut.

“You collected this without gloves, didn’t you?” He questions, and you hate that even through your stupor, you can hear the disappointment ebbing along the edge of his words.

The least this feverish karma could do is offer you some sanctuary from your mentor’s subtle wrath.

“I. . .” You begin, but can’t bring yourself to admit it, instead settling for a nod.

It’s getting worse now. You’re shocked that you’re not sitting in a pool of your own arousal by this point, but fear you might be teetering on the cusp of it. The whine that escapes between your lips from the back of your throat is humiliating in spite of Tighnari’s indifference to it all.

“That was a poor decision,” he tells you. “The pollen of the flower you collected these samples from is genetically modified. It was designed to stimulate the sexual drive of mammals in the area due to a sudden population drop that was offsetting the forest’s ecosystem.”

“This,” Tighnari says sharply, holding one of your samples up for emphasis, “is a heightened aphrodisiac, and from the looks of it,” he pauses, taking your shivering form in with a scrutinizing gaze, “—you’re quite sensitive to it.”

That seems like an understatement, even to you and your staggering thoughts. Being sensitive was one thing, but this was on a completely different plane of reality. Every move you make sends a tantalizing mixture of shivers and shockwaves across your body, both inside and out, limiting your options for relief. It didn’t stop at the swelling heat festering and bubbling in your groin, —it spread to every part of you imaginable, from the dry hum in your clenched toes to the ringing in your ears. 

“How do I fix it?” You question breathlessly, hips dipping and rising to the catastrophic drum of your libido.

Tighnari’s ears flatten a bit in embarrassment as his cheeks dust themselves a light pink. It hardly dawns on you that he might be feeling some semblance of shame in this scenario as well.

“Well, you’ll have to. . .” He stops, as if preparing himself to say whatever’s coming next.

You’ve got a bad feeling about it now, even if it doesn’t register above the quiver in your thighs.

“Satisfy the drive.”

He turns away to put the pollen samples out of harm's way, busying his hands so as to not have to meet your eyes.

The broken “huh?” that falls from your lips sounds more like a moan of pleasure than it does a noise of inquiry, but it’s the best you can do given the circumstances. Tighnari is not proud of the way his cock twitches upon hearing it, but supposes that it can’t be helped. It’s undeniable that you’re attractive, both in general and to him. . . Especially to him.

Unable to force it down any longer, your hand travels between your thighs and you cup yourself roughly, begging for the warmth and friction it provides. Just that alone has a tattered moan rising to the back of your throat, head falling back against the wall that steadies the small bed in Tighnari’s workshop. It’s seen many bodies over the years, most of them ill or injured, but never like this. Your mentor thinks to himself that he’s glad it’s you before anyone else. He turns to you once more, eyes raking over your frame in this embarrassing state.

“T-Tighnari,” you sputter a bit, attempting to hold yourself in place long enough to escape the humiliation. “Can you please look away?”

Before he can filter it, (though he’s not sure he would have truly known how in the first place,) Tighnari’s lips part and words tumble from his tongue like heavy rainfall.

“I can help.”

It sounds more like a question than an assertion, but either way, you’re in no position to refuse.

“Please,” you whimper, desperation clinging to every letter.

Maybe some of the pollen has affected him too. Maybe Tighnari just wants to dive deeper into this moment to see just what’ll happen, like some kind of very hands-on experiment. Whatever the case, he nods, ears twitching rapidly as he leans over you, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss that leaves you gasping into his mouth. Somehow, you hadn’t expected that to be his mode of aid, but whatever he thinks is best, you’re more than willing to give it a try. For someone so consistently calm and collected, his tongue slides into your mouth in a matter of seconds, sliding smoothly against your own. There is no fight for dominance, —you’re far too gone to even think about being in control. Whatever Tighnari can offer, you’re ready and willing to accept with open arms.

Or, an open mouth and open legs, rather. . .

Your saliva is overwhelmingly sweet, and the quizzical side of Tighnari wonders if it’s always like that, or if the pollen’s effects have slithered into even the most crude of places. Not that he minds it, especially in the moment.

You mumble something against his lips that he doesn’t catch through the hum in his veins and his pounding heartbeat, but his guess hits the mark as he clumsily falls to his knees at the edge of the bed. Pulling the shoes from your feet with ease, he has a bit more difficult of a time pulling the bottom layers of your clothing from your body. It dawns on him then that he isn’t well-educated or well-experienced in this department. Thankfully, you’re so blissed out having only kissed him sloppily for a minute that he assumes you’ll take just about anything, and he’s free to make mistakes along the way.

He pauses for a moment, much to your displeasure, and you sit forward using the bulk of your strength.Your fingers split his ears apart, raking through his neatly groomed hair, and Tighnari shivers. Admittedly, you’ve wanted to touch his ears for a long time now, ever since you first met him. . . But it seemed inappropriate to ask given his station as your mentor, and even more than that, you could always tell he became quite agitated when others would request such a thing to his face. This isn’t how you thought such a thing would come to pass, but the dominos have fallen, and it is what it is.

Frankly, you’re more concerned with the way he slits you open: —first with his tongue, offering a small prodding with barely more than the tip to get a grasp on your flavor. The arousal slicking you up is sweet, maybe sweeter than your saliva had been, but even so, Tighnari isn’t certain if it’s just your natural secretion or if that pollen really does have something to do with it. The second time is with his fingers, separating the lips to catch a glimpse of the silken folds they cover. 

You’re glistening in the last rays of dying sunlight, legs perched on either side of yourself, and Tighnari wonders if this is all some strange fever dream. Every part of him feels as if it’s been consumed by you; lost to your tempo and your rhythm. He’s drowning in your ocean.

His second taste is brought about through a long, deliberate lick that uses the full flat of his tongue. It brushes past your swollen clit, dips into the needy opening, and lingers just below your mound before he pulls away and does it again. There’s something about the way you squirm and pant from so little that has him less than threads away from going feral. Your entire body is hotter than it’s ever been, temperature spiking more the longer he has his way between your thighs. Tighnari may well be a forest-dwelling man, but he certainly could have fooled you with this display of primal thirst. The way he works his tongue against every sweet spot it can reach is enough to make you see stars.

In the moment, he seems something more akin to a prowler of the desert than anything else.

You draw one of your stabilizing hands up, pressing the fingers firmly over your lips, keeping them sealed. Every inch of you is throbbing with need, even as Tighnari satisfies what urges he can with his mouth. Observant as ever, he notices the way your lone arm shakes under the pressure of it all, and after a moment of admiring the way your muscles quiver just under your skin, he pulls away and seeks a different position.

Even when riled up beyond any shred of comprehension, Tighnari is a gentleman at heart.

“Lay back,” he suggests, and you do: right against the top of the bed that’s houses but a single pillow.

He wastes no time positioning himself back between your legs, pushing your knees to the side and then up just a bit for ample access. This time, Tighnari skips the inquisitive gestures, spitting right onto your slit before suctioning his mouth around you. From above, your moans and the way you writhe around every so often encourages him to keep going as saliva bubbles up around his lips.

You claw at the thin sheets spread across the bed’s equally thin mattress, hips eventually bucking up into his mouth. He loves the way your pussy grinds against the flat of his tongue, moving with him as he pulls you closer and closer to orgasm. Pulling your knees nearer to your core, Tighnari matches your stride. Once more, he latches onto your sensitive clit, relishing in the little yelp you let out as he slides his tongue across it roughly. Above your own noises and the suckling sounds between your thighs, you can hear Tighnari’s sharp breaths. As your fingers find their way between his ears again, clutching and pulling at his hair, he draws little shapes along your clit with his tongue until you’re left cumming against his mouth.

Whether it’s Tighnari’s skill or the ever-present impact of the pollen, your eyes roll back and your fingernails dig into the flat of your palms even through the fabric of the sheets clutched between them. Somehow, though. . . It’s not enough.

“Better?” He asks, —but is secretly hoping for the answer to be a resounding “no.”

He’s embarrassingly elated when you shake your head, biting down on your bottom lip in the process. It’s not that he wants to take advantage of the situation, but what else is a man to do? You’re in desperate need, and he can offer you the assistance you require.

That, and he really wants to fuck you.

“It’ll be okay,” he says, extending his back as he sits on his knees to reach up and cup your cheek. “I’ll take care of it.”

Every cell inside you is on fire as you watch Tighnari undress. The sun has mostly finished setting, leaving the both of you in the care of torchlight from the entrance of the workshop. The warm glow of the fire accentuates his lean muscle and the subtle pigment of his skin. Without thinking, your hand travels to the heat between your legs, rubbing circles against yourself as Tighnari had done with his tongue. Just the sight of you masturbating to him undressing is enough to make pre-cum pool along the slit of his cock.

“I don’t even think you realize how hot you are right now,” he breathes out, as if unable to keep that sentiment holed up inside any longer.

You really didn’t have a clue.

He returns to the bed, tugging you up to position you on his lap. Your dripping cunt hangs just over the reddened tip of his cock, and Tighnari holds your hips steady as he coaxes you down on it. Albeit average in girth, he was surprisingly long, —at least longer than you’d been expecting. It takes you a few moments to slink down completely, but when you do, he reaches up to pull you into another sloppy kiss. He was hoping it would distract you from any sting of pain.

“Good,” he mumbles against your lips, “that’s a good girl.”

Tighnari does away with the rest of your clothing, tossing your blouse and bra. . . Somewhere. You were far too preoccupied to check on the location. His lithe fingers trail their way up your exposed spine. You’re so warm and wet, your walls suckling on the hard cock of his buried deep within your needy snatch. He doesn’t want to rush you, but he’s aching too by now.

“Go on,” he whispers softly, encouraging you to ride him for the both of your sakes.

You do.

Overly sensitive and shaky from the get-go, your moves aren’t clean nor crisp, but Tighnari loves the rogueness of every motion. You’re left squelching around his length each time your desperate cunt swallows him up again, clit throbbing from the friction. Moans fall continuously from your lips, ringing in Tighnari’s ears like a melody the moment you rest your forehead against his bare shoulder as you ride him. Eventually, his hands find their way to your ass, helping you find a natural rhythm that suits your capabilities in the moment.

He can feel you quivering against him, and he thinks it’s cute.

“Good job,” he praises in a breathy voice, mumbling the words right into your ear. “Just keep it up and we’ll get all of this out of your system.”

Tighnari is by no means stingy with compliments. Now that he’d settled in, he was more than glad to whisper sweet nothings in your pink-tipped ear, mumbling about how nice it feels to be inside you and how beautiful you look speared on his cock like this. And every last word of it is painfully true.

You bounce and grind to your heart’s content on his member, digging your nails into his supple skin in the process. The little twinges of pain paired with the heat of your drooling pussy leaking arousal all over him is well past the point of blissing him out.

When he reaches between your bodies to slide the tip of his thumb over your clit, it doesn’t take long before you’ve been pushed over the edge. That first orgasm really loosened your nerves, making you that much more sensitive, which was somehow possible in spite of your skepticism. Tighnari loves the way your back arches when you cum, chest pressing right up against him. He’s yet to chase his own release with your body. That will undoubtedly come with time, —but this is about you, and Tighnari is nothing if not willing to put your pleasure before his own.

It just so happens that his coincides very much with yours, in this instance.

He doesn’t even rush you as your second orgasm wears off, instead waiting until your cunt stops periodically clenching around him before he suggests another position change.

This time, Tighnari wants you on your side; which offers you a welcome rest. His front matches the curve of your back as he wraps a single arm around your neck, pulling you close to him. With his free hand, he reaches out to grab hold of your leg, pulling it up to offer himself better access to your entrance. With both of his hands full, it’s up to you to guide him inside, and when you do it feels like heaven. There’s something special about the angle of this position that lets him poke and prod at all the right places, and when he cranes his neck forward, sticking his tongue out for you to suck, you waste no time in latching on to lap at his mouth.

The frantic desperation in your every move is somehow angelic, despite the lewdness of it all. Tighnari thinks to himself that he could sit here just like this, watching you wiggle and writhe against him, for an eternity or two.

Tighnari cants his hips, slapping himself against the flesh of your ass every time he slams back in. The head of his long cock eventually angles just right, and you squeal just a bit when he brushes against the sweetest spot inside you. A smirk pulls at Tighnari’s lips.

“That’s the spot, hm?” He asks, slowing his pace deliberately in order to offer you a series of slow, delicious hammerings that hit just right.

You slur something out through the fog on your brain that somewhat sounds like “yes” before bringing your hand down to play with yourself. Between your shaky fingertips swirling around your clit and the head of Tighnari’s cock slowly pumping against your g-spot, it’s less than sixty seconds before you’re cumming for the third time, pussy convulsing around your mentor. This time, liquid seeps out uncontrollably from the hole Tighnari is stuffed in. It’s not a lot, but it’s incredibly warm, and it dribbles down your thighs before soaking into the sheets.

He loves the way it feels as it trickles down his shaft when he finally decides to pull out.

“One more time, just for good measure,” Tighnari mumbles, pressing both your shoulders to the mattress. 

He’s yet to cum himself, and this time, he’ll be seeking his own release in tandem with yours. His thumb presses against your tongue for a moment as he waits for your breathing to even out. When it does, he pushes your legs apart once more and stations himself between your thighs. It’s an easy entrance, of course, but your walls still grip him just right. Cum slicks him up further and strings itself between your cunt and his length, as if emphasizing his every move.

He likes the way you bite down on the side of your hand, eyes half-lidded from pleasure. The trust you place in him is both sincere and incredibly stimulating for your fox-eared lover.

This position is simple, yet fulfilling all the same. Tighnari listens to your little noises, watches your eyes dance about in your skull, and has an equally thirst-quenching view of his own reddened cock shifting in and out of your cunt. His mouth waters from just the sight of it alone.

“This is an important lesson,” he says, emphasizing that with a particularly rough thrust that leaves your spine arching off the bed. “These are the things that happen when you collect unknown plant matter without gloves.”

Your body burns both from the shame of having disappointed him, and from the way his length fills you up.

Tighnari doesn’t say it, but he knows that you understand you don’t have to go and send your body into hyperdrive to garner his attention. You’re a smart girl, after all. . . All you have to do is ask.

With just a few more pumps in and out, Tighnari feels his own orgasm bubbling just under his skin. Your body mourns the loss when he pulls out for the final time, resting the tip of himself against your slit. As he rubs the head of his cock against your swollen clit, the both of you climax, your cunt throbbing and convulsing as he spills his seed between the lips of your pussy. It dribbles down so beautifully, like sticky sap from a tall tree.

Surprisingly composed given the circumstances and Tighnari’s rather conservative demeanor, he allows himself a bit of calming down before sliding off the bed and redressing. It’s a quick process, one that makes your head spin.

“Clean yourself up while I’m gone,” he tells you, seemingly back to his typical self. “I’ll dispose of the pollen before you find yourself in an even worse predicament.”

But, at least you were spared the majority of the lecture.

Itto isn’t exactly a master of self control. He’s painfully impulsive, much to the dismay of his gang (especially poor Shinobu who’s always left to clean up his messes,) and he lacks a lot of things. . . Like tact and subtlety. And that’s glaringly on display tonight as he approaches you from across the beach, chest comically puffed out. If he weren’t so attractive, you likely would have had a hard time taking him seriously the moment he switched his weight from one muscular leg to the other, leaning in closer to whisper in your ear.

“How much?” He asks, attempting to sound sauve, but failing to recognize that his voice is all but quivering under the weight of his own nerves.

You stifle a laugh. He doesn’t need to explain, —you know what he’s truly asking for, but you’re going to have to regret informing him that he’s got the wrong person for the job he’s looking to have done tonight. Though you must admit, his inability to be discreet is quite cute.

“One thousand five hundred Mora,” you answer.

As expected, a look of shock crosses his face; eyes widening as if he’d just seen a ghost somewhere off in the distance behind you. You manage to bite back an amused smile.

“O-Only one thousand five hundred?” He parrots, “—for the whole night?”

He’s making it unbelievably difficult to hold yourself together and keep from bursting into laughter.

“For the whole night,” you nod in confirmation. “The price never changes.”

Itto’s relieved to hear that for a moment. It’s one thing to gather funds from his gang members as a way to throw parties or host fun events, but to snatch money away from them to pay for a night of trick turning. . . That’s less acceptable, and even he (in all his social ineptness) knows that. This was an unexpected expense, though. Normally, Itto is okay with taking care of his more personal needs all by himself; no help necessary. His hand does the job fine, if he does say so himself. But tonight, it’s just not cutting it. He’s tried: but masturbation isn’t working well enough, and he’s craving the touch of a sweet young woman. Specifically you.

Truth be told, he’s been eyeing you down like fresh prey up for the taking since he first spotted you chatting it up with a few other women just before sundown. You suspect that’s why he assumed you were selling a bit more than the sweet drinks on your wheel adorned cart, because you often make conversation with the working women of the area. Though your friends were undoubtedly lovely, there was something Itto found to be magnetizing about you in particular. He hasn’t been very good at hiding it either, much to the dismay of Shinobu, who really doesn’t want to have to bail him out of jail tonight if he shoots his shot and you find yourself at odds with it. He definitely knows how to take no for an answer, but Itto sucks at reading social cues, and this is a particularly precarious situation. . .

Thankfully, you’re more amused (and maybe a bit endeared) by him than anything else.

“I should have,” he pauses, stuffing his large hands into the pockets of his baggy pants, “enough. . .”

Itto pulls out a handful of golden coins and a few wrappers, presumably from some sort of candy, and places them in the open palm of your hand. It’s probably a little less than what it should be, but you don’t have the heart to tell him that. Instead, you stuff the coins into your collection jar and make a mental note to remove the wrappers later on.

“Here you go,” you say, handing him a bottle of dango milk.

He takes it, and though the size is quite big, it looks like a child’s toy in his large hand. There’s something sweet about the cute, bow adorned bottle being held against the flat of his palm, but you say nothing of it.

“Uh. . .” he says, gaze flickering between your pretty face and the drink in his hand, “thank you?”

You mimic his earlier movements, leaning around the cart to whisper in his ear.

“I’m not selling what you’re looking for,” you tell him, a snicker itching on the tip of your tongue.

Though your words aren’t really what he was hoping to hear from you, the way your warm breath ghosts against the shell of his ear sends a pulse straight to his cock. He can feel another hard-on coming, shifting his weight uncomfortably again. The friction sends another jolt to his groin, and he immediately regrets having moved at all.

“H-Huh?” He questions, a little squeak catching the end of it.

You raise a hand in front of his face, snatching the attention of his gaze before pointing down to the sign plastered on the front of your cart.

“I sell dango milk.”

Itto looks between the sign, your face, and the drink in his hand multiple times over and in that exact order. A blush creeps onto his cheeks, and you can hear him swallow roughly. He’s not sure what to do or say now.

“Still. . .” you drag the word out a bit, pausing just to see if he squirms a little (and he does.)

“It’s almost closing time anyway. So maybe if you ask nicely, I might be able to help you with your. . . Other needs.”

Come on, who can blame you? Itto might have a bad reputation around these parts, but isn’t that just part of the fun? Part of the thrill? It’s just in human nature to be a little self-destructive every once in a while. Not that this man really seems to be all that bad in the first place. You’re definitely beginning to chalk those rumors up to just that, because (from what you’ve seen thus far) Itto just appears to be a little misunderstood.

Sure, he’s been painfully obvious about wanting to fuck your brains out, —but isn’t that also part of the fun sometimes?

From what you’ve gathered, Itto is mostly harmless. You think mostly because you haven’t quite gotten him into bed yet, and for all you know, he’s a biter or something. . . Not that you’d mind that too much. In fact, you have a sneaking suspicion you might like it.

He’s all but lost in a daze as you ask a familiar face to close up for you and take the cart elsewhere. It’s an easy matter to settle, and you feel secure in the wake of it. Secure enough to go off and get a small room on the first floor of an otherwise unoccupied motel. Its decor is definitely based on Mondstadt, and the room itself seems to follow the same style, which you can only assume is the reason they don’t get as much business as they could. After all, this is Inazuma, and it would likely serve their business much better to decorate accordingly.

You quickly push that to the back of your mind. It’s unimportant now that Itto is standing just behind you, lips pursed into a tight, thin line. Though you don’t know him very well, you suspect that it’s unusual for him to be this quiet for so long, and you shimmy the jacket off your body and toss it onto the edge of the bed before turning to him completely and seeking to calm the storm inside him.

“There’s no need to be so tense,” you assure him, reaching out to smooth your palms over the expanse of his shoulders. 

He tenses a little further under your touch, but relaxes just as quickly when he realizes just how gentle you’re being with him. For now, he likes that. It gets tiring always being seen as some sort of evil villain hellbent on wreaking havoc everywhere you go, and for whatever it’s worth, Itto likes to be treated with kid gloves every now and again.

“I don’t bite,” you continue on, pushing yourself up onto the tips of your toes to whisper properly in his ear. “Unless you tell me to.”

Fuck does he want you to. He’s growing restless, and though anxiety still thrums through every feeble vein in his muscular body, he needs you. It’s impossible to ignore the ache that continues to grow in his groin, and it’s making his mind go foggy.

He’s thankful when you take charge and match your hand to the curve of his neck, pulling him down a bit to comfortably capture his lips in a shaky kiss. It takes a moment for Itto react, but when he does, it nearly sweeps you off your feet. He’s out of sync with your movements, but you pause for a second to match him instead as his large hand travels to the small of your back, offering you a steadying force. His lips taste faintly of sweet dango milk, —the one he’s taken no more than a few sips of since you handed it to him originally, and you haven’t a clue where it is now.

Not that it matters.

You allow your hands to explore his body, skin burning against the pads of your fingertips. His breath hitches just a little when your nails trail along his abdomen, feeling every dip and divot to be found there. Itto groans into your mouth the moment your hand reaches the outline of his cock, attempting to gauge the length and girth. Even clothed you can tell he’s packing. It’s definitely nothing to sneeze at, and you worry for a moment if you’ll be able to take him now that you’ve gotten this far.

He breaks away from the sloppy kisses a little breathless now, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Can you please just. . .” he trails off, stepping back a few inches to rest his weary body against the motel wall.

You oblige. Even if you can’t force him down your throat until he can feel every muscle contract, you doubt he’s going to care too much. At this point, he seems like he’d take just about anything; mouth, hand, or otherwise. It also stands to reason that Itto is a pretty sweet guy just looking to get himself off, and you don’t have any qualms about being the ones to help him with that.

When his pants drop down to pool at his ankles in a rippling mess of fabric, you’re left staring at a big, fat cock with a blazingly red tip. Pre-cum has alreeady gathered in the long, deep slit, seeping out in little beads of transparent off-white. The veins of his member are prominent, protruding especially along the bottom and begging to be suckled at. What feels like mere seconds of silent admiration to you feels like eons to the aching man above you, and you get the hint when he places one of his hands along the crown of your head and you look up at him with semi-doed eyes, only to find that Itto has desperation written all over his face.

After offering a few kitten-licks to the reddened tip and feeling his fingers curl into the strands of your hair ever so gently, you tilt his cock up and give him a few loose-gripped pumps as you run your tongue along those veins. They were practically crying out for attention, and you are more than willing to give them exactly what they deserve. Itto sighs above you, head resting against the wall as his eyelids come together in bliss. You know so little about him, and yet it’s as if you know all the ways to get him off and push him over the edge.

Gathering saliva into your mouth, you spit onto his length and spread it down, lubricating him to the best of your ability. It’s a lot of area to cover, and you’re no magician when it comes to saliva production.

You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks out and ignoring the dull ache that’s already begun setting into your jaw. He tastes salty and bitter, but it’s nothing unpleasant, and whatever your mouth can’t manage to reach, you’re taking care of with your hands. Itto is already a mess, broken moans falling from starved lips. This is all he’d been thinking about since he saw you on the beach, but to think he’d actually have it, —have you here on your knees before him, sucking him off and catering to his every whim. . . Ah.

He can’t imagine what he’s done to deserve you. He even thinks to himself that all those nights he spent locked up were simply stepping stones to this moment; and if this is Celestia’s way of apologizing to him, then consider every horrid run-in with Kujo Sara atoned for.

It doesn’t take much to send him over the edge. Having been hard from the start, the initial process was kickstarted, which made your job that much easier. Itto can’t really find the words to warn you when he’s about to shoot a load straight down your throat, but you pick up on the signs easily enough for that to be the warning in itself. You pull off just before he spurts cum down your jugular, taking your hand away to let him replace it with his own. Itto takes his own cock into his hands, grip tight as hell. Your wet tongue slides out of your mouth, ready for the deposit of seed.

His shaky hands aren’t the best for aiming, and more of it ends up on your cheek than it does in your mouth, but you scrape your fingers through the semen and lick it off easily enough. He might as well be ready to bust again the moment you swallow his seed down.

Now, it appears that you’ve unlocked something dangerously exciting. That inner beast inside Itto that you suspected was there is beginning to bear its fangs, and you’re more than ready to be a willing victim to its every wish and whim. The heat between your legs is tingling with desire, and though you’ve yet to touch yourself, you’re pretty certain all that mouth-work on Itto’s dick left you dripping.

“Lemme say a proper thank you,” he says, slurring his words a little as if just cumming on your tongue alone has already gotten him intoxicated.

Like the gentleman you largely expect he is, Itto helps you to your feet and helps you take your clothes off, although that last part was likely just as much for him as it was for you. His gaze rakes your body over, all but leaves him quivering with anticipation to touch, tease, and taste. He wastes no time in positioning you on the bed, being sure to spread your legs open before backing off to snatch the rest of his clothes from his body. There’s a mess of random fabrics and jewelry on the motel floor; but it is what it is for now, and the cleanup will have to wait until all of this ends.

Or until morning, if you decide it’d be okay to sleep next to Itto for the night.

As expected, the motel bed is pretty cheap and it creaks with even the slightest bit of movement. That might have irritated you under any other circumstances, but it feels so far away as your hands travel over your body, one stopping to fiddle with your perked up nipple, and the other teasing at your clit as you watch Itto undress himself completely.

He practically shoos your hand away when he makes his way over to the bed, itching to drink you in. His black, pointed nails dig into either of your thighs as he situates himself between them, eyeing the way light glimmers off your glistening folds. Your hands are in his hair, curving around the horns that protrude from his scalp as you take fistfuls in between your fingers, pulling just hard enough to make him hum, before his mouth has even attached itself to your clit. You’re a little embarrassed by the gasp that escapes you the moment he lets a drooling line of spit trickle from his mouth to your slit. It’s so hot that your insides clench inadvertently, and he loves the little twitch that’s visible from the outside.

A soft whine passes your lips as the flat of Itto’s tongue slides against you, splitting you open only to be swallowed in turn by your plush, burning lips. He laps all around, tongue darting inside and pulling up to prod at your swollen clit. A part of you wonders if you’ve ever felt this sensitive before, —or maybe it’s just that he’s so focused on giving you pleasure instead of rushing through the motions to get inside you that you’re able to get lost in every deliberate flick of his tongue.

“T-That’s so good,” you stammer, rolling your hips off the bed just a bit in hopes of matching the rhythm of his tongue. 

In return, Itto presses you further into the mattress, splitting your thighs apart even more. His nails carve into your skin, but the pain feels more like pleasure now that you’re drowning in his presence. Whatever he’s doing, it’s working like a fucking charm. He’s got you choking on moans, writhing as best you can now with him pinning your legs down like this.

Itto thinks you taste like paradise, —like pure bliss in human form. You’re everything he’d been craving since dawn and more.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper, managing to get the words out (although they were so rushed and airy that he hardly understood you.)

He responds by removing the hand from your right thigh, rubbing at your clit fast and hard with the pad of his middle finger as his tongue continues to lap at the lower half of your heat. You throw your head back, muscles clenching in unusion just to release the tension all at once. Itto eats you through the high, swilling your pussy out.

Exemplifying those gentlemanly qualities of his, he waits for your breathing to catch up with you before he makes any other sudden moves. He was already hard again halfway through the meal he’d made of you. You’re glistening more now with a mixture of his spit and your own arousal, and he has to keep himself from pushing his tongue back in for another round.

“C’mere,” he says eventually, guiding your lips to his own.

His lips taste more of you now than they do of dango milk. . .

He positions you so smoothly that it hardly registers what exactly he’s doing. On your knees, elbows keeping your tits from pressing to the bedsheets, ass hiked into the air, giving Itto ample access to your core. As he spits into the palm of his own hand, lathering himself up and guiding the tip of his cock to you, he smooths his free hand down the length of your spine. Tension you didn’t realize you were holding releases with his touch.

Itto is surprisingly gentle, pausing to let you adjust to his size more than once. Though his body is crying out for fast, rough movements, he knows that’ll have to wait a while longer if he’s to keep you at the forefront of his mind. This will be that much better if he knows you’re enjoying it just as much as he is, so he waits, and it’s no sweat off his back to do so.

He sighs in relief when he bottoms out inside you, your plush walls suckling on him like the open seas lapping at the shore. His balls are pressed against your swollen clit from this angle, and he smooths that hand back up your spine: slowly, deliberately, sweetly. Even when he moves for the first time, it’s nothing if not considerate and attentive to your every micro-movement.

Though his body is still begging him to fuck you silly and leave you sobbing into the sheets, he doesn’t know that he has the energy to keep that kind of tempo going for long. He goes faster, harder, nails digging into the flesh of your ass instead of your thighs now, —but he’s sure to keep you in mind all the while. Words are hard to form when someone as big as him is buried in your snatch, but noises of pleasure resonate from your drool-covered lips and form a chaotic melody when they intertwine with the creaking bed and Itto’s frequent groans and grunts.

He loves the way your walls seem to pulsate around him, and Itto thinks to himself that if it were a more practical endeavor, he might just stay here just like this with you forever.

It doesn’t take much for your upper body to collapse onto the bed, unable to keep steady any longer. Your fingers curl around the sheets when he ups his pace again, slamming into you quite a bit harder than before, his fingernails forming indents in the skin of your ass.

Leaning down, Itto peppers kisses along the plane of your shoulders, slowing himself for just a moment to grind his hips against you. Tingles of immense pleasure ripple from your well-fucked pussy to the tippy-top of your shivering, naked spine.

“Please,” you manage, finally finding the clarity to form words from the mess of haze and fog over your brain, “fucking please.”

“Turn over,” Itto returns, and although his wording could have easily been mistaken for a demand, his tone comes across as more of a desperate beg than anything else.

“I wanna see your eyes roll back when you cum.”

It’s not that this view was unenjoyable. Much to the contrary, Itto had a damn good time watching the fat of your ass jiggle and ripple with every inward thrust, —and he liked watching your muscles move under your skin. But if he may make just one more request for the night before he slips out through the door half-naked, he just really wants to see your face when you cum all over his cock.

You do as asked, insides aching from the emptiness when you move away from him to reposition yourself. Thankfully, he seems to be on the same page and as soon as the opportunity arises, he’s speared himself into you once more. His thrusts are deeper now, feeling like they’re touching every inch of you from the inside out. From this angle, he watches as you bite down on your own arm to muffle your moans, and you admire the markings on his body through half-lidded eyes heavy with pleasure.

“I-I’m gonna—”

Your words are cut off by a particularly delicious thrust, Itto slamming directly into the sweetest spot he could possibly hit. You’re left panting and reeling from the suddenness, an orgasm tingling so close just under the surface of your skin.

No more than a minute later, you’re sputtering something that sounds like fuck again and again as your eyes roll back (just the way Itto wanted.) You’re practically seeing stars along your vision, chest heaving and mind fogging over again as he pulls himself out and jerks himself off until he releases all over your lower stomach.

It’s warm and sticky, and now the room smells of sweat and sex, but there’s a grin on your lips that you can’t seem to wipe off.

“I. . .” Itto pants a little, “—I’ll leave whenever you want.”

You blink, staring at him like he’s crazy. If he’d phrased it any other way, you might well have been a bit offended, but the decision was yours, assumedly. The ball was in your court. If anything, he seems dejected. . . Like he’d never truly been shown enough kindness to accept that he might well deserve it from everyone.

“You don’t have to go,” you reply softly.

He seems surprised, but doesn’t appear to want to object. Maybe he’d been waiting to hear that all along.

“I can stay?” Itto questions.

There’s a glimmer of hope behind his eyes now. Any worries you had about spending the night with him have gone entirely out the window, and all you want to do now is wrap yourself around him, feel the stick of his skin against yours for the night, and drift off to sleep in his embrace.

“Yeah,” you nod, speaking gently. “You can stay.”

There’s an all too well-known cycle of debt in Snezhnaya. It’s far easier than one might imagine to reach out for help from the Fatui, and in many circumstances, it becomes an offer far too enticing to ignore. But a bitter truth remains under all the posturing, under all the seemingly happy smiles that hide thinly veiled sins beneath the surface. And that bitter truth is that no debt, no matter how small, will ever go unpaid if you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up with the organization that runs this nation both from the shadows and in broad daylight.

Thus, here you are; working under the ninth of the eleven Harbingers, a man with undeniable charm, effortless charisma, and strict rules for those he oversees. Admittedly, it’s unusual for the Regrator to allow a lowly debt-payer to take up work in his vicinity, —but something about you seemed to pique his interest. Maybe it was that three million Mora debt your gambling addict of a father somehow managed to wrack up on a consistent losing bender, or maybe it was just that you seemed so painfully out of place standing before him.

As you’d come to learn very quickly, Pantalone is no stranger to delegating tasks to those that owe outstanding debts. However, it’s highly unusual that he would ever take someone in under his own supervision so carelessly. Although, you’re certain that he likely knows everything there is to know about you by now. . . Born in Snezhnaya to a working class family, one that was virtually torn apart by the loss of your mother. After her passing, your father went “off the deep end” as many would say; —started drinking, began disregarding the very-much-so alive members of his family, and blew everything on pointless bets and games that were all but specifically designed for him to fail.

And so here you are again, the eldest child of the house. . . The daughter that has to clean up the mess he’s made of everything.

It could be worse, you suppose. Pantalone is strict, but offers a fair amount of praise when the moment calls for such a thing. He’s easy on the eyes as well, which certainly doesn’t hurt. As long as you keep yourself in line, he’s relatively gentle and seems to value positive employer/employee relationships. Those make it easier for everything to work like “a well oiled machine” as he once put it.

Still, standing before him, your nerves are shot. You’re no fool, and you know much better than to trust the front he’s put on for you thus far. Above all else, this man is a Harbinger, and he likely has no qualms about forcing people to bend to his will by whatever means necessary. Though, it’s not as if you have much to offer him. You spared what little Mora you had in hopes of making a small dent in your father’s debts, and since then, every morsel you’ve made has gone directly to lining the pockets of the Fatui. The only other thing he could possibly take is the clothes off your back, —and even then, this is the uniform he gave to you at the start of the month, so it’s hardly yours to begin with.

“You seem nervous,” he notes, a barely-there smirk playing on his lips as he closes the door to his office.

The little clink that resounds throughout the room has you taking in a sharp, quick breath in hopes of steadying your mind. It doesn’t work.

He leans in a little closer, —close enough to feel the ghost of his breath against the shell of your ear, whispering: “Do I scare you?”

You’re uncertain of how to reply. If he were anyone else, you’d just be honest and admit that he does. But, then again, if he were anyone else you likely wouldn’t be scared to begin with. Pantalone is not anyone else, though. He’s the kind of man you’d hate to make your enemy.

“No sir,” you say softly in reply, voice close to quivering which easily gives you away.

He knows you’re lying like the priceless rug his glossy, cuihua wood desk sits on, —and maybe if you were anyone else he wouldn’t take kindly to that sort of deception, But you too are not anyone else, and if anything, he finds your feeble attempt at hiding your nerves to be endearing. The small puff of air he releases from his nose with a quiet, low snicker leaves your shoulders visibly stiff.

“No?” Pantalone inquires further, hands traveling up your arms to smoothe over the plane of your tense shoulders.

If you didn’t know better than to let your guard down, he might well have disarmed you then and there. He can be deceptively gentle when the need arises, and that much has been clear from the start. It’s just that now you yourself are at the receiving end of his underhanded tactics.

“Then you’re in desperate need of a massage,” he comments flippantly.

You know he has no intention of giving you one; least of all one with only concern for your well being at the forefront of his mind. He’s playing at something, —though you can’t say what.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” you answer.

“Sir,” he muses, and though you can’t see his face from this angle, you can practically hear the smirk in his voice as he kneads the pads of his fingers against you ever so softly, “that has a lovely ring when you say it.”

He’s close enough now for you to catch the scent of his cologne. It smells expensive and sweet, —made of warm tones and likely concocted for Pantalone’s use alone. Designed to be pacifying. 

“Say it again.”

The request —demand?— leaves your breath hitching in your throat. He can feel the way your shoulders tense harder, shaking slightly under the pressure of it all. When you fail to do as he’s asked of you, he moves to stand in front of you.

“Cat got your tongue?” He asks.

His thumb glides along your bottom lip, the side of his index finger coming to rest just below your chin. You hate to admit it, but when he’s so close it’s all too easy to wonder what his lips would feel like slotted against yours in an ardent kiss. He stirs something within you, and he seems to know that despite you having never said it aloud. You can’t help it when your gaze flickers between his curious eyes and his mouth.

“You’re free to take a taste," he says, so quickly that it's startling, —as if he'd been waiting for your line of sight to drift there forever.

You hesitate, —but you can’t deny that you’re willing to take him up on the offer. You can’t deny that you’re curious. 

Pantalone waits patiently, as if to tell you that denial is an option if you’d like to take it.

Unfortunately, you don’t.

His lips are soft and warm, perfectly unchapped despite the harsh, everlasting Snezhnayan winter. His hand moves to the left, forming sweetly to the side of your face as his lips move in tandem with yours immediately. It’s clear in that moment that he never had a doubt you’d take him up on his offer. He knew your decision before you'd even made it. Or, rather, he'd been arrogant enough to assume it and had just gotten the luck of the draw.

"I admit," he says between hungry, breathless kisses, "I don't typically indulge myself with those who work for me."

That doesn't come as a shock to you. For whatever it's worth, he's not a bad boss. . . And even after this, you doubt you'll feel any differently about that. He’s been fair to you, if a bit strict, and he doesn’t seem to be the type to take advantage of anyone in a manner such as this. Although you don’t know him well enough to be certain of it, your gut tells you you’ve hit the nail on the head. Not to mention the fact that a man like him likely has many things to hide, and allowing the wrong person to get in too close would be something akin to career suicide.

A part of you wants to ask “why me?” —wants to ask what could possibly make you so special in his eyes. After all, you’re by no means a unique case. You’re sure he’s seen innumerous women just like you swing in and out on account of a loved one’s irresponsibility.

His next comment answers your unasked question.

“But you always look at me with such a sweet, innocent stare,” he says, voice low. “It’s been driving me wild.”

It dawns on you then just how human Pantalone truly is. He may well be a Harbinger, —but he’s also a man. A man with wants, yearnings, and needs. A man of desires in the same way that you are a woman of them.

He kisses you with tongue this time, loving the way your shoulders stiffen once again in surprise as you let him have his way. Admittedly, he’s a bit of a control freak. He likes to call the shots anywhere he can, and the way you’ve passively taken to his ebb and flow has him half-hard already from the rush of it all. He’s surprisingly gentle, but you have a feeling it won’t be like that forever. In the same manner he is both a man with needs and a Fatui Harbinger, you can only assume he is also a man of soft touches and strict adherence to dominance.

Without missing a beat, he tugs you along. His lips hungrily crave for yours as he positions himself against his desk, leaning back on it. He steadies himself with the glossed edge, jutting a single knee out and slinking it between your quavering legs, hiking up your skirt quite a bit. The coarse fabric of his dress pants is rough against the thin, silken material of your underwear. A tiny moan escapes your lips as the friction sends a little pulse of electricity to your veins.

"How cute," Pantalone quips, nipping lightly at your bottom lip. "You're already making noise and I haven't even properly touched you.”

This man is far from inexperienced, and that much has been clear from the start. He knows how to draw you in with little more than his eyes alone, commanding you around with the sharpness of his gaze. It’s intoxicating; the way he pulls you in and twists your desires, making himself completely and utterly irresistible to you.

He peppers kisses down the column of your throat, loving the way it feels when you swallow, muscles contracting just behind your skin. A hand of slender fingers threads through your hair, barely ghosting the tips against your scalp before he’s yanking on the strands, exposing more of your neck for him to feast on. Though the primal side of him wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you, bite, bruise, and mark you up so you’ll be unable to forget about this encounter too easily, the business-savvy side of Pantalone knows better.

People in the workplace love to talk, —love to gossip. And if word of this, if only in the form of speculative rumors, were to get around. . . Well, that wouldn’t be very pleasant, to say the least.

When his teeth graze your earlobe, an ecstatic shiver creeps up your spine.

“Let's put that pretty little mouth to some good use, hm?”

Before you can really wrap your reeling mind around your position, he has you on your knees at his feet. He loves the way you look up at him with innocent doe-eyes, gaze like an animal caught in the spotlight. You’re so sweet, maybe even somewhat bitter, and he’s not sure he’s ever wanted anyone more.

Those coarse dress pants bunch around his knees, and the cock that rests between his thighs is semi-hard by the time you take him in your hand, guiding the warm tip to your lips. His taste is surprisingly neutral, but your jaw has a harder time adjusting to his girth than your tongue does to his flavor.

Pantalone is startlingly gentle when it comes to this. He doesn’t snake his long fingers through your hair and push you down, down, down until your nose brushes against the skin of his lower stomach. He simply watches with curious, cat-like eyes as you test your limits on him, slicking him up, attempting to find a rhythm that doesn’t feel so awkward.

No discouraging comments come from above. Instead, Pantalone presses a large, warm hand to the crown of your head and smooths it down your hair as if to say that you’re doing fine, —that you’re making him feel good just by giving it your best.

The first time you gag, he hums. Although you pull away at first, scared of the sudden reflex, you slowly adjust to him, and Pantalone offers you time to do so. He likes the way you're so persistent, yet inexperienced all the same. The idea that he's the first man to ever have you like this is. . . Exciting, even if he’s just making an assumption. It fills him with a sense of pride that he hasn't felt in a long time. It’s different.

But his gentleness doesn’t last.

It began to fade the minute he fisted a handful of your hair, eliciting a surprised moan from you. Pantalone likes the way it vibrates against the cock stuffed in your pretty little mouth, lips puffy from the rough kisses forming around him. Your gaze seems to shake.

He can’t hold himself back anymore. He can’t play it nice when you look up at him like that, just begging for your throat to be fucked raw.

As both his hands wrap around the back of your head, holding you steady and in place, you’re by no means naive enough to misunderstand what’s about to happen. He catches your gaze just before he rolls his hips, member slipping down your throat. He busies himself with every nook and cranny, feeling the way you contract around him, pulling him in, pushing him out, again and again. He uses your mouth like a toy to be played with, one that he’s taking his sweet time in savoring every micro-movement of.

You’re gagging and sputtering, spit pooling in your mouth and spilling out the corners as he has his way with you. It’s so sloppy and hot, sweeping you away until you can’t feel anything at all besides the yearning for him to fuck you on his desk like an animal and his fat cock closing off your airways, sneaking in breaths between the harsh movements of his lean hips.

“Play with yourself,” he grits through his teeth, and you do as he says, slipping a hand between your thighs to nudge at the sopping heat there.

Your panties are completely and utterly ruined, soaked with arousal, and it’s all his fault. You can’t seem to recall a time when you’ve ever been this turned on, —pussy drooling and so sensitive to every little touch as you run your fingertips along yourself in feather-light touches.

Pantalone pauses with his cock buried in your throat, then slowly removes himself completely. He’s rock hard, covered in your saliva, and oozing pre-cum from the tip. He’s fucking throbbing, so close to bursting and yet saving that for later, and apparently, nothing seems to get him off more than watching you dance those nimble little fingertips across your clothed pussy, spit dripping from your chin to all over the floor of his office.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, and your hand stops moving between your legs.

“Look at the mess you made on the floor of my office,” he demands. “Clean it up.”

The moment you move to do so with your hand, he hisses.

“No, not like that,” he nearly growls. “Use your fucking tongue.”

You’re torn between that being sexy and completely disgusting, but in the end, you do as he says with no questions. Inhibitions are lowered when you’re as horny as this, after all, and the way Pantalone strokes himself to the scene is enough to push you to do it.

“Don’t you dare swallow,” he notes, watching as you lap at the mixture of semen and spit on the floor, only to hold it in your cheek.

You lap at the wet splotches on the ground a few times, collecting the spillage on the flat of your tongue before he tugs you roughly to your feet. He tears your blouse open, popping all the buttons off as if it were an easy feat. Your bra comes off simply as he unclasps it with grace, only to discard it and suckle on your nipples. He bites at your breasts, marking himself there instead of on your neck. When his mouth is on one, his hand is on the other, making sure the both of them receive the rightful attention they deserve. He loves the way your flesh shifts under pressure, —loves the way you’re trying to squeeze your legs together for some relief.

“Such a little whore for me,” he mumbles, obviously so proud of himself for having made you like this.

In any other circumstance, his arrogance likely would have been infuriating, but as he looms just above you, mouth suctioned to your tit, hand roughly massaging at every lob of flesh he can get his hands on, it serves only to leave you moaning in pleasure. Your toes curl the moment he pushes your skirt up around your midsection, tearing your panties down and situating you on his desk.

Pantalone steals the heels off your feet, then does away with your underwear too. You’re practically glistening in the sunlight that spills in from his open office window. The only article of clothing left on your body is the skirt that he rendered useless the moment he bunched it up and hiked it up around your middle. He further positions you, —one foot on opposite sides of the desk, spreading you open for his entertainment.

“Just fucking look at that,” he says, slapping the flat of two fingers against your slit, making you jolt a little. “You’re soaked for me.”

Your breathing becomes ragged the moment he smacks those digits against you again, then once more, and then so many more times that you completely lost the ability to count. He admires the way your arousal sticks to the pads of his fingers, watching as it stretches for a few moments then snaps away. This pretty pussy, sopping wet and begging to be pleasured, is all his. And he knows that.

With how turned on you are, he has no trouble sinking two fingers inside, prodding at your insides. You gasp when he’s up to the knuckles, mewling over every little touch and every little move Pantalone makes. It’s hard to keep all the contents you lapped up in your mouth when he’s got you going crazy like this. The pad of his thumb comes down against your clit, drawing rough circles on it as your back arches and your thighs shake. You’re so vulnerable here, exposed for his eyes only as your cunt convulses around his fingers, attempting to suck him in deeper. 

“Spit,” he commands, placing a free hand right below your mouth.

You do, depositing his seed, your saliva, and whatever the fuck else you likely picked up off the floor with your tongue into the palm of his hand. There’s something so erotic about the way it drools out, stringing along your lips. He slicks himself up with the mixture, leaning in close to press a kiss to your mouth. 

A surge of new warmth surrounding the digits he has buried in your snatch lets him know that you’re still dripping with need, hungry little pussy ready for whatever he has to give you. He’s not one for teasing in this regard. He prefers to get straight to the point; or maybe he’s just so achingly hard that he needs to be inside you right this instant and couldn’t be fucked to finger you on this desk for any longer when he knows what you really want is his cock buried inside you.

The moment he presses inside with reckless abandon, you realize that his previous gentleness had simply been a clever deception to ease you into things. He isn’t someone with that much self control. At the end of all things, he is but a beast at heart; the man between your legs pounding into you so deeply that your body is shaking under the weight of his lust. He’s touching places inside you that you hadn’t ever realized could feel this good; —fucking you so nice and so deep that your mind has already started checking out.

Stars were practically hanging behind your eyelids the very moment he slid inside, hammering in and out with every ounce of energy he has to offer. His stamina for this is jarring, but it feels so good that you don’t have the time nor the will to dwell on it. All that matters in the moment is his thick cock pounding you out, his skin slapping against you, —setting fireworks off inside your gut.

It’s all too easy to get swept away when he touches you like this, both inside and out. You let out a shattered cry and he uses it as fuel, gripping at your hips and forcing you closer. You’re the prettiest mess he’s ever seen, —the prettiest mess he’s ever made. He wants to keep you locked away from the world, save you for his own, though he knows that’s an unreasonable request. Not that he’s ever claimed to be a particularly reasonable man anyway.

He’s so smug about this though, so goddamn proud of himself that it’s almost sickening. He loves the choked noises you make, the way you try to swallow moans and find yourself whining instead. He’s dangling your high by a thread, and he knows exactly what buttons to push to get you going.

And push he does, every single one of them, ghosting past every sweet spot buried within. For as much as this is all for him, a means to an end, he’s taking care of you, too. . . It’s romantic, if you squint and tilt your head a little.

You reach up with a trembling hand, and Pantalone only reacts with a sharp breath in as you tangle your fingers in his hair. You hold him tight, pull him closer, —push him more. Your strong grip comes in great contrast to the sloppy execution of his movements as he draws closer to his peak, orgasm shivering just below his skin. Really, he’s surprised he’s managed to edge himself along for all this time. It crackles just beneath the surface, ready to explode.

To think someone of his stature would be fucking you senseless, getting you drunk off his dick in the middle of the day right on top of his desk. The desk he signs important papers at, reviews work samples and contemplates futures at. . . All of that and more, and yet here he is, length sliding smoothly in and out of you, looking so handsome that it’s almost unreal. The glisten of your juices on his member is far too enticing to ignore, so he fixes his gaze there, watching as you swallow him up, taking all of him in like the good girl he’s always known you to be.

The squelch of your pussy has him gritting his teeth, jaw aching in the aftermath. Your walls grip at him, massaging him down, clouding his mind and fogging up his inhibitions. Whatever it takes to have you convulsing on him, crying out as you’re speared on him, cumming all over him as he chases his own release inside you, is what Pantalone will do. He’s vying for it no matter what it takes.

“Fuck,” he hisses, then continues with a demand, “—let me hear you beg.”

If you’d been any further along, his command likely would have fallen on deaf ears.

“Please,” you vocalize reflexively, “please, please, please don’t stop.”

Not that he had any intention of doing so, but the sound of your voice, so broken and desperate, hanging on the edge, really presses him that much further into your divine. He might be the one largely in control, the dominating figure in this instance, but he’s still drowning in your ocean. Pantalone isn’t sure he’s ever felt desire this sincere, this all-encompassing. He’s practically losing parts of himself inside you.

“How’s it feel?” He asks, though he’s positive he already knows the answer by the way your toes are curling around the jutting edge of his desk.

“Good,” you gasp, “so good, sir.”

That’s all it takes.

As your walls tighten around him, overstimulation driving you completely and utterly into the abyss, Pantalone lets you wring him dry for every last drop he’s worth. There’s a stutter to his breath and a relief in the way he sighs, panting and attempting to collect himself. His chest heaves and your eyes are having a hard time focusing again, having rolled so far in your head that you were seeing starlight.

The cum he spilled inside is thick and warm, leaking out the minute he pulls his cock out. It drips down the front of his desk, so erotic and defiling. . .

“Don’t waste it,” he complains, stuffing two digits inside you to stuff the cum back in.

You half expected him to scoop the rest of it up with his fingers and demand that you clean it off with your tongue.

He doesn’t, but your walls react, clenching around him, and suddenly, he’s not so keen on letting you get back to work anymore. . .

Though Diluc seems to be calm, cool, and collected on the outside, he’s seething on the inside. This gathering has attracted men not unlike vultures, —opportunistic scum just waiting for their moment to sweep in and strike. You haven’t seemed to notice, but they’ve been eyeing you down all night like predators on the prowl for fresh prey: and it’s pissing your lover off in a way he’s never experienced before.

He stares at you from across the room, free fist clenching hard enough to hurt as he watches you smile, so painfully oblivious to all those around you that would do just about anything to have you wrapped up in their sheets come morning. It’s times like these when Diluc wishes he were more overt about the nature of your relationship to him. You’ve been together for a little over a year by now, but it’s easy not to know on account of Diluc’s more reserved personality.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he cuts in, startling you a bit when his hand finds its way to the small of your back unannounced.

His tone is facetious, letting everyone know that he is, in fact, not the slightest bit sorry to be cutting in. Moreover, he’s proud to be doing so.

“I’m sure the conversation over here must be riveting, but we’ve got plans to attend to,” he continues on, words dripping with smug satisfaction, —because he knows they can’t have you and that you don’t want them.

Not when you have him around.

“So I’m afraid I’ll have to steal her away now.”

Nobody dares step out of line. It would be career suicide to get on Diluc’s bad side if you’re looking to emerge in the wine industry of Teyvat, the one your hard-working boyfriend dominates an unbelievable proportion of. It’s thanks to that prestige that you were even invited to this event in the first place: a high class social gathering for wine manufacturers and enjoyers alike to come together and share information.

To put it bluntly, Diluc was only there to save face and spread the word of his late father’s business. He couldn’t care less for anyone in attendance, excluding you alone, and although traveling to Fontaine was an exciting prospect in the beginning, he’s starting to wish that the two of you were back home. . . Alone.

After pulling you away from the small group, Diluc says nothing on the way upstairs to your room. You can sense he’s not in the best of moods from his body language, —and from the way his fingers are locked around your wrist tighter than they normally would be. It’s snug, but not painful. A part of you wants to tug on the back of his dress coat, stop him in his tracks along these beautiful stairs and ask him what exactly has him so ticked off. . . But you quickly decide against that, knowing it would be better to wait until you reach the assumed final destination and are offered some peace and quiet away from all the downstairs chatter and gossip.

You pause when the door shuts behind the two of you and Diluc’s hand drops away from your wrist. By no means are you afraid of him, but you know he can be a little touchy when he’s upset, and you’d rather not stoke that fire.

“. . . Diluc?” You finally speak up in an inquisitive tone.

His back is facing you, broad shoulders lined by an expensive black overcoat. He sheds it like it’s worthless, letting the white undershirt spring free. The dress coat falls to the floor, crumpling in on itself now that Diluc isn’t dawning it any longer. The finer details of his well-built body are on fuller display now, —only covered by the much thinner fabric of the undershirt. His muscles stand out beautifully, and you have to pry your eyes away to keep yourself from staring.

“I hope I ruined their nights,” he says, venomously so.

Your eyes widen a bit in surprise.

“Huh?” Is the only thing you can say in return.

“I hope I destroyed their nights when I took you away from them like that,” Diluc repeats the sentiment, no less harsh the second time around.

He turns to you, crimson eyes swimming with an equal balance of frustration and desire, —desire to claim and be claimed in turn. To be yours as you are his.

“I loved seeing their faces drop when I came along and pulled you in,” he continues, striding toward you until one of those muscular arms has risen from the place at his side to the wall just behind you, caging you in halfway. “They looked pathetic. Like petulant little children that just had their toys stolen away.”

“I-I’m not sure I really understand,” you admit, at the risk of sounding oblivious.

He doesn’t miss a beat in elaborating.

“They were trying so hard to reel you in, —thinking they could pull you so easily. Like you were just some silly little kitten with nowhere to turn, so you’d snuggle up to them as if you were desperate enough for their warmth,” Diluc spits.

It’s by no means you he’s annoyed with. On the contrary, he’s glad all the men down there were doing such a piss poor job of flirting that you hadn’t even taken notice of their advances. Or maybe you had, and you just hadn’t cared enough to even let them down gently. . . The thought of it stirs something dangerous inside of him, —something that he wants to toy around with for a while, just to see if you’d like it.

“I can only imagine how jealous they’d be if they could see you now,” Diluc carries on, his other hand coming up to tear the tie off his neck in record time. “Think about it; all their mouths gaping open a little, not good for a damn thing but catching insects while mine’s all yours.”

His black tie hits the ground too.

You swallow as his face gets closer to your own, heart throbbing in the cavern of your chest. This side of him is new, and wholly unfamiliar, but it’s also. . . Exciting.

“What’re you waiting for?” Diluc asks, his lips barely ghosting yours in a soft, almost-there kind of touch.

His palm is still flat against the wall behind you where your back is pressed now, shoulders and head dipping down to meet you somewhere in the middle. Under any other circumstances with any other person, this would likely be a horrifying situation; but with Diluc, it sets your veins ablaze and leaves your mind reeling, wondering about and expectantly waiting for whatever’s gonna happen next.

“If you want a kiss,” he says, “all you’ve gotta do is take it.”

Ah.

That’s all you need to hear to take the initiative, pressing your lips to his. Your mind is a little foggy already, but you’re perfectly coherent; basking in every move he makes for your pleasure and delight. Diluc’s free hand curves to match the flexure of your hip, holding you steady as he takes your mouth for a ride. He takes pride in the way you gasp ever so softly when his tongue finds its way into your mouth, —raking itself over your teeth.

He lives for the way you do your best to keep up, following his movements to the very best of your ability, letting him take the lead for now. Diluc lets that caged beast inside him run rampant tonight, just to remind himself that you love him, and that you love to be loved by him. Your entire body heats up from the inside out as his hand travels along the map of your body, from your side to your chest, pausing to grab a handful of your breast. He gropes at the flesh there through the fabric of your little black dress, the one that matched his suit so nicely. . . Still, you have a sneaking suspicion it won’t be very wearable for a while if Diluc has any say in the matter. 

And he most certainly will.

He tears his lips away from yours in an instant the moment his hand encircles your neck, thumb pushing down on the column when you swallow reflexively. You’re at his mercy, and fuck does it feel good. Your gaze is already glossed over, blissed out from just the kissing alone. Certainly it can’t be your fault he’s so intoxicating, from the way he smells of that fancy cologne Kaeya bought him last year on his birthday with just a hint of sweat, to the way his lips curve up as he looks down on you, —so proud of the mess he’s made of you in such a short period of time.

“You like this, hm?” Diluc hums, moving closer just to whisper in your ear.

His breath hits the shell of it, sending a shiver down your spine.

“They were right about something though, I must admit,” the redhead mumbles, grip tightening on your throat just a little.

If he keeps this up, you’ll be left with marks; but you’re not certain you’d mind. The thought of it turns you on even more, honestly.

“You really are just a silly little kitten.”

His voice is thick with intent, but he snickers nonetheless. Your legs get a little weaker under his touch. He turns the switch for a moment, playing it sweet as his hands travel down your arms, tapping along the sleeves of your dress. He plays with your fingers almost absentmindedly while you gaze up at his handsome face; so close to yours that you’re tempted to go back in for his lips. Just when you’ve decided to do just that, however, he pins both of your hands above your head and smirks at the way you bite down on your lip.

“Just a silly little kitten with nowhere to run from the big, bad wolf,” Diluc says.

“I don’t think running would be very much fun,” you reply, a coy smile gracing that mouth that Diluc can’t seem to keep his eyes off tonight.

He laughs.

“Right you are,” he answers tentatively, murmuring the words below his breath, “so how about we just have some fun instead?”

Worried your voice might give way under the building pressure, you simply nod your head in response. Diluc holds your arms in place for a few seconds more before laying off and taking a step back.

“C’mere,” he prompts, and you do as he says, slinking to your knees between his thighs when he sits down on the edge of the bed.

His fingers smoothe over the crown of your head.

“Put that pretty little mouth to good use for me, yeah?” Diluc requests.

He looks so good like this, —dress pants pulled down to the middle of his thighs, semi-hard length in your hand as he watches you expectantly, unbuttoning that white undershirt with somehow still nimble fingers so he can let it hang off one shoulder messily. He’s an angel with the fervor of a demon straight from the fiery pits of Hell, and he’s all yours.

You slick his cock up with your spit, changing pressure to offer him some friction as you spread your saliva along his length. The crimson of his irises swims with desire, pulling you in and refusing to let you go. For all you care, you can drown in it. Diluc sighs softly when you take him into your mouth, fingers grasping for whatever strands of your hair he can get his hands on. You know how he likes it, gradual, building, —soft and steady before you divulge into the calamity of it all and choke on him until you’re not sure you can take it any longer.

“Fuck,” he groans, jaw clenching as he closes his eyes, focusing only on you and the magic you’re working around him with your tongue, “that’s it, baby.”

He’s long past the point of no return now, —not that Diluc is looking to go back anytime soon. Whatever you want, whatever you need, whatever it is that you desire, you can count on it from him just as soon as you let him bust down the back of your throat. Feel that twitch against the roof of your mouth and hum softly around the cock stuffed inside your maw and he’s down bad for the long haul.

The first time you take him all the way in, he fists a handful of your hair and holds you there. You still your breath and listen to the hitch in his breathing, pride swelling up inside as lust pools in the pit of your stomach.

He could cum right then and there feeling the way your throat contracts around him. Diluc is practically seeing stars when you slink your way back up to the tip, his grip releasing gradually enough for you to do so. You sneak in a quick, deep breath before going all in, pumping him with your mouth as fast and deep as you can manage. By now, the ache in your jaw has long set in, and compared to the distinct sounds of Diluc’s desperate grunts and moans above you, the pain feels like a distant notion you’ve only experienced in another life. It’s a background hum, drowned out by the way Diluc claws at your scalp and bucks up into your willing mouth every ten seconds or so.

You’re gagging on him by the time it’s nearly over, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth. Such a sloppy scene playing out between his thighs, and Diluc is relishing every second of it. You let him use your mouth as he sees fit for the time being, like a toy for his pleasure and enjoyment. He takes full advantage of that privilege. His mouth drops open when he feels himself twitch, body pretty far gone while his mind is still chasing after it all. Diluc holds your head in place, depositing thick, hot strips of cum directly down your pretty little throat. He’s still shaking by the time he releases the pressure from the back of your head, allowing you to pull off and swallow down whatever’s left properly.

Before you have the chance to wipe the spit from your face, he’s moving past his first orgasm of the night to pull you up, offering some sloppy kisses as a thank you for the service you’d provided. He switches positions with you in a heartbeat, keen on pleasing his lover just as you have him.

“I can’t blame them,” Diluc begins, still a little breathless from the high, “those men down there, they weren’t blind. Stupid maybe, but women like you can have that affect on men like them. Men like me.”

He peppers kisses along the insides of your thighs, his index finger teasing your slit through your panties in long, deliberate lines.

“But they just can’t have you, unfortunately for them,” he continues on, nipping at your flesh playfully. “I’m sure they’ll go to bed alone tonight and wonder what it would be like to have you here, just like this, with your pretty little legs spread so they could taste you, make you squirm. . .”

His fingers hook around the sides of your panties, and you lift your hips a little to make the removal process easier. The fabric of your dress is bunched up around your midsection, giving Diluc access to exactly what he wants.

“They’ll probably fuck their hands to the thought of you, cum all over the bedsheets while they think about the way you’d sound when you moan,” he smoothes a finger inside, slipping past with ease on account of how wet he’s gotten you thus far.

You place a shaky hand over your lips, stifling the little yelp that tries to burst past into the electrified air.

“But you’re not theirs,” Diluc clicks his tongue in disapproval. “And all of that. . . That’s my job.”

And he’s fucking good at it. By now, Diluc is an expert in all things you, and he splits you open with his tongue, lapping at your clit right off the bat. The flat of his tongue hits that back arching spot again and again, leaving you to choke on moans above him. Three fingers pressed flat to your lips do a decent enough job of keeping you relatively quiet, but Diluc knows you’re enjoying yourself from the way you’re clenching on the finger he has buried in your snatch, slowly and deliberately fucking it in and out.

“I almost wish they were here to watch,” Diluc comments offhandedly, his mouth pulling away from your pussy for just long enough to say those words and press a second finger inside you.

His digits are slick with your arousal, and he prods at your insides roughly for a moment before easing the motions up again and returning his tongue to you. The full flat of his tongue runs along your slit, barely pushing past the lips. The intermediate teasing has your insides double knotting, twisting in on themselves with desire. When his mouth suctions around your clit, your head falls back and your hand moves quickly to fully grasp at the bottom half of your face, forcing yourself into muffled silence.

Your other hand grasps for the blanket on the bed, undoubtedly expensive and deep, navy blue in color. Your fingers curl up around it, pressing the material into the flat of your palm. His words ring out in your mind, —finally pushing through enough to fully register despite the haze and the brain-melting pressure. Under normal pretenses, it would be embarrassing for you to imagine a man other than Diluc looking at you with lust in their eyes, inner beasts clawing at their cages, begging for a taste. . .

It’s just the thought of it, is all, that turns you on like this. The idea of the ones who got your lover so worked up in the first place watching from somewhere, but fully unable to touch you, knowing that if they made even the slightest move to do so, Diluc would have their heads on a platter. The idea of those very same men that had apparently been eyeing you down like fresh prey all night watching you from the sidelines, —watching Diluc bliss you out with his tongue and his fingers, jealousy burning them up inside.

When the tips of his fingers brush just the right spot buried deep inside you, you lose sight of the world for a moment. The tension in your muscles pulls them taut like the strings of some instrument you've never learned how to play, but apparently Diluc knows how to strum away on it like a lifelong musician.

"I can feel how close you are," he mumbles against you, the vibrations from his voice only adding more of a reason for your toes to curl inward until your feet begin to ache from the pressure.

And then he goes faster. Fast enough to send your entire nervous system into hyperdrive. The hand that was previously clasped around your chin, pressing hard against your mouth in order to nullify the moans begging for release, now falls to the wayside, grasping for the blanket in a fruitless attempt to soothe the cells inside your body that feel as if they’re on fire, burning red hot.

A slew of curse words fall from your lips, and Diluc muses on the way that dirty words slip so naturally from such a pretty little mouth when he’s got you right where he wants you. He likes the way he corrupts you, —presses all the buttons you have, both good and bad.

“I really fucking wish they were all standing right over there, watching you clench around my fingers,” he rambles like they’re the last words he’ll ever have the chance to say. 

The fact that they’re even coherent is a goddamn miracle.

Between his words, he’s lapping at your heat like a man starved, sloppy enough to hear the sounds he’s making over the buzz in your veins.

“I wish they could see what they’ll never, ever fucking have, and feel the rage that builds up inside when they realize just how fucking happy you are to have my tongue all over your needy little cunt.”

His words are all but lost on you as you gasp for breath, chest heaving as an orgasm tingles just underneath your skin, ebbing with the flow of his two fingers inside you and his mouth that’s suctioned on you like he’s drinking divine nectar. Your breathing is erratic, but his motions are all too rhythic, never giving you a break from the pleasure that has your body shaking, wracking from the pleasure.

Diluc wants it, —wants to feel you clench around him, wants to hear the way the moans break in the back of your well-fucked throat that’s likely still teeming with the taste of him. He wants to watch your chest heave as you struggle to catch your breath, running on adrenaline as you discard the rest of your clothing and grasp for him, —the only man that can put you up so high and hold you so close when it all wears off and your body goes limp.

He gets such twisted satisfaction in knowing that you don’t want anyone else. That you’d never dream of letting someone else fuck you senseless, get you cum-drunk until you’re raw between your shaking legs.

Your thighs squeeze against the sides of his head, keeping him in place as your orgasm explodes, insides throbbing with need, want, and desire. Whatever he’s been giving you, it was good, —it left you seeing stars behind your eyelids,— but it just wasn’t enough. You knew you wouldn’t find true satisfaction until he was buried inside you, whispering filthy things in your ear, telling you how pretty you look when you’re speared on him, eyes glazed over and logical mind somewhere far away.

Your fingers thread through his hair, skin tone in perfect contrast to the fiery red of his locks. He loves the way you tug on the handful of strands you manage to get a solid grasp on in the midst of your ecstasy. The pain is nice, just enough to temper the beast that lurks within him. As you find yourself coming down, you gradually release him from in between your legs, but like the true gentleman he’s always been at heart, he presses a few random kisses to your thighs before standing up to shed the rest of his clothes.

You can’t help but stare when he tugs that undershirt off. Everything about him is hot, from the brush of his fingertips to the element he wields on account of his vision.

The moment he’s naked, his hands are on you, feeling you up again like you’re heaven’s own landscape in a person. He kisses you like he’s thirsting for it, so hard that it’s bruising.

“That’s my silly little kitten,” he mumbles into your mouth, hands squeezing at whatever flesh along your chest he can grip as his fingers blindly fumble about your body.

“I want this off,” he adds, tugging at your dress, “and I want it off now.”

He tears it off you like a carnivore ripping flesh from a bone, doing away with your bra in the process. Clothes are scattered about the floor of the hotel room, creating a little trail that leads straight to the bed. If you weren’t so caught up in everything else, you just might have joked about it.

Although he’d already cum once before, shooting that load down your throat, Diluc is hard and the tip of his cock is a bright reddish-purple from all the blood that’s rushed in his groin. The hum of your own orgasm still lingers, but you’re keen on moving along quickly for the satisfaction of you both. With all that foreplay, he has no trouble sliding in and bottoming out just moments after he lines himself up with your sopping entrance. He muses on the way your body so readily accepts him, as if every part of you were just calling out to him, begging him to drill you into the sheets. Diluc obliges, knowing well and full that he’s in no position to be denying you the pleasure you’re rightfully owed.

He’s buried inside you as far as he can go, hard cock gripped by your walls. Allowing you a few moments of adjustment just in case, his mouth parts from your lips and attaches to one of your nipples, rolling it around on his tongue to perk it up before turning his attention to the other and doing the same. Your lip is caught between your teeth now that it’s not pressed against his, and Diluc gently pulls his length out most of the way, leaving only the head and about half an inch of his thick shaft inside.

And then he slams back in, hips snapping forward so quickly that you don’t have the time to prepare yourself. A yelp escapes you, making Diluc smirk in turn. He’s hard pressed to imagine there’s anything else in the world he likes more than hearing you moan while he plows into you, getting lost in the way you clench around him with every thrust.

“So fucking pretty,” he compliments breathlessly, chasing another high inside you.

You could say roughly the same thing to him if you had half the mind to do so, but you’re so burnt out that it’s impossible to focus on anything other than the way he’s fucking himself into you, —hard and fast. Almost animalistic, as if he’s returned to a far more primal state of evolution and is acting on nothing more than instincts alone.

Still, you passively acknowledge that he looks almost too good to be true like this, hair falling messily in his face as it threatens to fully fall from the low ponytail he has at the back, muscles flexing with every move he makes, working under that fine layer of ivory skin that you just want to mark up under any circumstances imaginable.

After all, it’s not just Diluc that gets off on the thought of possessing you. Knowing that he’d never dare to search for this pleasure in anyone else is exhilarating, and it gives you a sense of pride. Out of everyone in the world who’s ever yearned for him, —all those pretty young women in Mondstadt that stared at him with hearts in their eyes,— you’d outpaced them all. He didn’t choose any of them. He chose you.

“This feel good?” Diluc questions from above, pressing your legs apart a bit more to give himself wider access to your core.

“Y-Yeah,” you confirm, teeth gritting together as your blood begins to pump a little faster.

“I love you like this,” he breathes out, voice unsteady.

No matter what he does, you’re mesmerized by him. He puts the stars in your sky and imprints them upon your eyelids when he pounds you out so good that you start seeing them when your eyes roll back in your skull. He feels like your body is trying to milk him for everything he’s worth, and thus far, it’s working like a charm. Warmth pools in the pit of his stomach, a warning sign for what’s to come if he keeps this up.

He takes your hands, hips never once faltering in their faced paced rhythm as he pins your wrists down against your sternum, steadying himself with you in the process. You’re a mess of whines and moans beneath him, completely and utterly at his mercy. He’s relentless when it comes to pleasure, pushing past every bit of hesitance you could ever manage to muster up, instead replacing it with lust, —the kind that burns hot to the touch.

Diluc gets so much smug satisfaction from the idea that those men who’d been flirting with you downstairs at the gathering would be absolutely eaten up with jealousy if they could see you now, slurring his name in your hazy state as he pumps himself in and out of you, cock slick and shining with your arousal. He knows they’d give the world to be him, —to have you the way he has you right now.

When it comes to you, he loses himself. He loves you so deeply, but seeks to ravage you. Diluc wants to love you, care for you, keep you safe. . . But he also wants to tear you to shreds, wants to sharpen his teeth and sink them right into that pretty neck of yours. He wants to leave you sobbing, overwhelmed by the pressure and the pleasure, wants to absolutely devour you.

He’s not much unlike those men in that retrospect. Sometimes, he also eyes you like prey, —prey that’s his for the taking.

His skin slaps against yours, stinging softly in the wake of his movements.

You’re certain he’s touched every inch of your insides, brushed against every organ in your body, and you’re so  far past overstimulated that you’re not even sure that word alone is good enough to describe it. Everything feels good to you, even the dull ache that’s finally registered from the pressure of Diluc pinning your hands to your sternum.

“I-I fucking—” you start, but a harsh moan breaks your sentence apart, and you lose track of those words written on the tip of your tongue.

Diluc steals them when he changes his angle, pressing his body to yours and capturing your lips in a sloppy kiss. His fingers find their way to your clit, doubling your stimulation to send you tumbling off the edge. When you cum around him, he swallows down some desperate moans and lets your body do the rest of the work. He spills inside you, thick, warm, and sticky. His cock is still buried in you a minute or so later, the both of you panting, trying to regain any sliver of composure.

He turns his head to the side, pressing his lips to your temple.

“Good girl,” he mumbles, and you can feel the lazy smile clinging to his lips.

A grin pulls at the corners of your mouth.

"Y/n," Thoma approaches you with an apprehensive expression, "—have you seen Ayato?"

"No," you answer, "why? Has something gone wrong?"

"Nothing like that," your close friend assures you, "the banquet is going smoothly enough, but you know just as well as I do that the majority of these people are here to speak with Ayato. They're not here to mingle and make new friends."

He keeps his voice down as the two of you shuffle off to the side, moving out of earshot of the guests that have gathered. 

You sigh.

"Of course. That's how things always are at these events, I'm guessing."

"For the most part, yes," Thoma confirms. "But I haven't seen him since he addressed everyone and welcomed them to the event."

"He probably snuck away for some peace and quiet," you note. "You know how he is with small talk and public recognition. . . This really isn't his area of expertise."

Although you've only been working under the Kamisato siblings for just over a year, you know very well that Ayato is not a fan of showing himself as the face of the Kamisato Clan. Handsome and capable as he may well be, —Ayato is reserved, preferring to do his diligent work behind the scenes. Unfortunately, duty calls from time to time, and he musters up the nerve, steeling himself for a night of discomfort. He's incredibly strong, and he never asks for help, although you truly wish he would. He shoulders far too much all on his own.

"Could you please go look for him?" Thoma asks. "I'll accompany Ayaka to give greetings for now to stave them off, but that won't work forever."

"Am I really allowed to just walk through this building?" You question, anxiety rippling through your veins.

The last thing you want is to be scolded by anyone tonight. These events always unnerve you, having to walk around with fragile bottles in your shaky hands, refilling glasses of wine for rich, powerful people that could likely have you beheaded and swept under the rug if you weren't working under the Kamisato name. If not for your ties to Ayato and Ayaka, they wouldn't even glance your way, nonetheless value your life.

"You probably won't run into anyone, —they're all gathered for the banquet. If anyone asks, just tell them what you're doing, or fib a little and say you got lost while looking for the bathroom," Thoma answers.

"Where should I even look?" You ask.

"There's a room on the third floor of the building that's often reserved for Ayato when he does overnight business in the area," he explains. "Try there first, and if you can't find him, take a look around outside. If that doesn't work, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

With that Thoma went on his way, falling into place at Ayaka's side. You took a deep breath and made your way to the third floor. The staircase of the building was so elegant, you almost felt it was inappropriate to steady yourself with the handrail. Beautiful decorative vases lined the halls, some housing exotic plants with thick, vibrantly green leaves. Your footsteps tapped softly along the waxen floor that gleaned under the light of crystalline chandeliers. Glancing at each of the doors as you passed, you were almost to the dead end of the hall when you noticed one of the doors was cracked open slightly, and light shone from the inside.

You tap your knuckles gently against the wood, but the door still swings inward as a result. When a brief flash of pale blue hair flickers along your gaze, there's a brief moment of internal relief.

"My lord, I don't mean to disturb you—"

The words catch in your throat, jaw slacking and breath hitching. Your body all but freezes in place as a burn etches itself into the skin of your cheeks. You feel your heartbeat pound, hammering against your chest so roughly that you fear it's only a moment or two away from bursting. 

Ayato's body rests against the wall of the bedroom, his normal, refined posture replaced by slouched shoulders and a dipped head. His cheeks are flushed, mouth hanging open as he gasps softly. You can tell his breathing is unsteady by the way his chest is heaving lightly. One of his strong hands is pressed to the wall, palm flat against it, while the other is stationed above his thighs; —lithe fingers encircling his exposed cock. The reddened tip glistens with a mixture of his own spit and beads of precum.

"I-I am so sorry," you sputter out, averting your gaze as soon as you have half the mind to do so.

He moves quickly, stuffing his length into his pants haphazardly. The skin of his face is painted a dark, blushed pink.

"Forgive me," he says, his deep, smooth voice ringing in your ears to the tune of your frantic pulse. "I. . ."

His voice trails off in a way that you're wholly unfamiliar with. He's always been so eloquent with you ever since the first day you met, —even in his original letter of work proposal to you. Ayato has never been one to falter in verbal expressions.

"I'm sorry to have let you see me that way."

"It was my fault," you reply, brain still feeling cloudy from the sudden rush of adrenaline, "I didn't mean to. . ."

It's your turn to let your words drag off. You can't look him in the eyes now. 

"The blame is mine to shoulder," he assures, "—it was inappropriate. Now is hardly the time to be. . . Indulging myself," he seems to say the words with distaste.

"The preparations for this banquet have been taxing and time consuming," Ayato elaborates. "They've taken up a great majority of my attention, and all other things have been pushed to the wayside. I suppose the lack of sleep has gotten to me, among other things."

"I understand," you say in a small voice. "These events aren't comfortable for me either. I haven't slept well since I found out about it."

"I wish you'd brought that to my attention. I would have made other arrangements for accompaniment if I'd known," he tells you.

"If you can brave it, so can I," you offer him a gentle smile.

He returns it, and for a moment, you almost forget that less than two minutes ago you'd accidentally walked in on him masturbating.

"That's hardly your job," he comments, "but I appreciate it wholeheartedly nonetheless."

He steps forward, hand grasping for the doorknob. Ayato looms over you, cheeks still a bit red. You can see lingering teeth marks on the skin of his lips.

"I should return to the banquet," he says, though he sounds less than convinced of that himself. "I'm sure Thoma already noticed my absence and sent you to search for me."

You stare up at him, unable to tear your gaze away. Ayato has always had a magnetizing quality, —one that's pulled you to him from the beginning. Sophisticated charm with a caring soul, someone who seeks peace and harmony. He's all too easy to fall for, especially now. His hesitancy to leave speaks a million words not even someone as articulate as him could muster up the courage to say.

You swallow roughly when his fingers ghost against the skin of your cheek.

"Thank you for coming tonight," he whispers, face coming closer and stopping just when his nose is about to brush along yours.

"I'd like to kiss you," he requests, "—if I may."

Unable to force words out, you nod, and he leans in. His lips are sweet and warm as they cover your own. He's gentle and anything but greedy. Ayato matches your pace, and he pulls away when you reach aside and close the bedroom door.

"I. . . I can help," you tell him.

He needs no confirmation as to what you're referencing.

"It isn't necessary," he answers. "I'll have feelings for you either way."

"I want to," you say, quickly adding "—if you want me to, anyway."

He kisses you again, soft and light. It feels comforting, despite the circumstances.

"The choice is yours," he parrots. "I'll be content no matter the decision."

Ayato thinks it's cute when your hands fumble with the band of his pants, determined but inexperienced all within the same breath. His back presses to the door and you mouth at the skin of his neck, confidence growing when he hums in pleasure at the feeling. You refrain from bruising the skin, knowing that wouldn't bode well for him downstairs amongst the banquet guests. Many of them are pretty young women looking to elicit his romantic interest, after all.

When you slide down to your knees, he stares down at you with those ocean eyes. They tell you he expects nothing that you aren't willing to give. A large hand smooths along the crown of your head, caressing your hair.

You've never done this before, and you suspect he already knows as much, so you don't feel the need to explain yourself directly. You're not innocent enough to have no idea as to what you're supposed to do, but you start slow. Gripping his cock in your hand, you part your lips and offer a few kitten licks to the tip. He tastes salty, if the slightest bit bitter, —but nothing inherently unpleasant. The grip you hold along his shaft tightens a bit.

He's already hard, clearly too turned on for his own good, maybe even to the point of discomfort, but Ayato relishes in the slowness of your process. He watches with eyes glossed over as you part your lips further and suction your mouth around the heated tip of his length. A small, breathy sigh escapes him.

When your tongue licks a solid stripe along the underside of his cock, from base to shaft to the head, Ayato feels his insides twist. He doesn't have enough shame in the moment to be embarrassed about the fact that he's already so close to bursting.

"Ah," he breathes, "that feels good."

The hand on your head feels encouraging as the fingers play absentmindedly with locks of your hair. His voice is laced with such raw desperation that it feels almost humbling to you.

When you take him in fully for the first time, Ayato moans in pleasure. He's too sensitive to keep it in. You're thankful that he doesn't, —it sounds like music to your ears. Having your mouth stuffed this full isn't a natural thing for you, but it doesn't strike you as unwelcome. . . Just new, and for whatever it's worth, you're glad your first experience of this nature has been with Ayato. He's gentle, still seeking to soothe your nerves even when all of his are on fire.

He twitches against your tongue, startling you a bit. You adapt, pressing his cock to the roof of your mouth in response. When his eyes close, head tilting back in ecstasy, you can't help but feel proud. Sliding his length in and out of your mouth, being sure to avoid grazing him with your teeth, you offer him a virgin's first attempt at a blowjob. And the best part of all is that he eats it up for every moment he can manage to hold himself back.

He doesn't complain that you don't force yourself to gag on him, —doesn't fist your hair and force you down on him for the sake of his own release. Ayato's hand stays put atop your head, offering you a comfortable feeling in this maze of unknowns. He offers you a sense of warmth as you seek to trek this previously unexplored territory with him.

"Love," he says, voice uneven under the pressure building in his gut, "I'm close."

You back off a bit, scared of him releasing down your throat. You don't mind it on your tongue, —but the thought of choking on his cum is humiliating, and if it'll ever happen at all, it certainly won't be now. Your hand does most of the remaining work, stuttering through the imperfect movements. Ayato doesn't utter a single complaint. As he is with all things, he accepts whatever you can offer to him with grace. Just the fact that you're willing to do something so clearly outside your own realm is enough to push him over the edge.

When he reaches his limit, his cum spills onto the flat of your tongue. The taste is faint, and you only pause for a moment or two before swallowing it down. He whimpers softly above you, cracking a small smile when you pull off of him, wiping at your bottom lip with your thumb. He smooths that hand along your hair again in silent thanks before taking it away to adjust his clothes. The quickness at which he regains his composure is almost astonishing.

"I should return to the banquet," he says. "Thoma is probably worried for the both of us by now." 

He's right. You take Ayato's outstretched hand, and he helps you to your feet. You're uncertain as to how he could seem like such a gentleman, even after all of that.

"Thank you," he whispers softly with his hand on the knob.

You smile when his lips ghost the skin of your forehead.