currently phainonpilled

It seems to understand desire, though. It understands that you want to feel close to it. It understands that you need something inside you, something to fill your emptiness. It understands your urgency, your desperation. Where Aki would have once chided you to be more patient so he could take his time with you properly in bed, the Gun Fiend has pushed you onto the floor, supine, ripping the seams of your pantyhose as it seeks access to your sex.

You shouldn't be so wet. You shouldn’t want this so badly. You shouldn't be parting your thighs so willingly for the monster that killed Aki, but you miss him and your body misses him and your cunt’s soaked through your panties by the time Aki’s hands have torn them off. And maybe the Gun Fiend doesn't touch you like how Aki did—it feels more animal than human when it mounts you, more possessive than loving when its arms cage you—but it’s all you have and you'll take it even if it hurts.

You stare down the barrel of a gun as you spread your legs for a monster.

It doesn't give you much warning. You feel the fat head of its cock press against your entrance, silky and hot against your cunt, and then it's pushing inside you, stretching you out. Your mouth falls open, a cry tearing from your throat. You can't help it. Aki is—was—always so gentle with you, you aren't prepared for being handled so roughly. Unused to the feeling of being filled up past your limits, your cunt struggling to swallow the full length of him. Unused to being stuffed so full cock that you can feel it not just in your cervix, but in your throat. The Gun Fiend pauses there, feeling you tremble around its length, maybe watching salt track down your face. Can it tell the difference between tears of pain and tears of pleasure? In the eyes of a devil, are grief and ecstasy indistinguishable?

Your breathing evens out. Your body relaxes as it's broken in. You shouldn't be so wet, you shouldn't want this so badly—but your pussy is starting to squeeze around Aki’s cock, your cunt slick and dripping for the monster violating it. But the Fiend is staying itself, for whatever reason—doing nothing but watching you, a gun aimed at your racing pulse.

“Why aren't you moving?” you whisper.

It takes you a moment to understand what it's saying. The Gun Fiend rarely talks, so Aki's voice is rusted with disuse, each syllable halting, heartrending:

“I don't want to hurt you.”

You hear a pained noise—a strangled cry. Aki's hand is cupping your face. He's wiping your eyes. Let’s slow down, he’s saying. His kisses are so patient, so comforting, so intentional. Let me make you feel better.

The Gun Fiend is thumbing away your tears. You wonder if it's going to kiss you. You wonder how its mouth will feel savage or if it will feel familiar. You wonder how it will break you.

You take a deep breath, and you wrap your legs around its waist.

You'd proceeded to intently question his bathing habits after that, each query more absurd than the last. By the end of it, Qifrey had been laughing near uncontrollably into his hand, shaking his head as he looked at you. "Why are you so curious about this topic?" he'd asked, eye flashing with faint amusement. "Do you want me to show you?"

You'd been entirely certain, at the time, that he'd meant it as a joke. But you'd reached across the table to take his hand and said yes anyway, watched the way his breath caught at your answer. One thing had led to another, and then the two of you had stumbled through the atelier half-fumbling and half-kissing, clothes discarded piece by piece until you'd ended up tangled with him beneath warm steam and running water.

Now, joining Qifrey in the shower is one of your favourite pastimes. Getting him there, however, is a whole different story.

"Qifrey." You stand over his bed, one hand cocked loosely on your hip as honeyed sunlight streams in through the far window. "Qifrey, c'mon."

He only curls tighter on his side beneath the covers, retreating into them like a garden snail withdrawing into its shell. Nothing emerges from the blankets aside for a string of unintelligible sounds—soft, muffled protests lost to the stuffing of his pillow. You bite back a smile. He's always like this in the mornings before he's properly awake—petulant, unwilling to leave the warmth of the bed, and even more reluctant to step anywhere near the shower. In moments like these, you catch glimpses of the child you'd once grown up with; a strange contrast to the composed, inscrutable master he presents himself as to everyone else. Now, he's nothing more than a sleepy, sulking creature—burrowing beneath the blankets in hopes you'll give up and let him stay there forever.

You like it, though. You like being able to see him like this: soft-edged with sleep and grumbling in a way so few people ever do.

"Qifrey," you say again, more coaxing this time as you sit on the edge of the bed, mattress creaking faintly beneath your weight. Your fingers comb gently over the hair covering his bad eye. "You're going to be late taking the girls to the Great Hall if you don't get up now."

There's a pause. Then, slowly, he pushes himself upright, blankets pooling in the cradle of his lap. His pale hair sticks out in every direction, hopelessly tousled around the sharp lines of his face, while his rumpled nightclothes hang just loose enough for the collar to slip off one bare shoulder. Still sleep-soft and warm from bed. He looks like he's been dragged straight out of a dream.

One blue eye—the same shade as the cloudless sky outside—cracks open to peer at you through the tangled mess of his hair. Qifrey always looks softer without his glasses. Younger, somehow. He also looks deeply aggrieved at being awake, though, so you lean forward to press a kiss to his temple, his cheek, and then the softening corner of his mouth.

"…hrgm," he says. But he looks less put-out about it, now.

"I'll shower with you." You already had, earlier that morning, when you'd dragged yourself from both the bed and the warmth of his arms to start breakfast and deal with the laundry, but you don't particularly mind doing it again. Rising to your feet, you begin undoing the fastenings of your robe as you move towards the washroom, letting your outer layers slip from your shoulders and to the floor behind you as you go. "Don't keep me waiting too long, hmm?"

You turn the corner just in time to hear the quiet fwump of Qifrey reluctantly dragging himself upright from the bed. It's followed a moment later by the sound of socked feet against wooden floorboards, uneven and sluggish with sleep.

"Manipulative," you hear him mumble, from somewhere behind you.

You smile to yourself as you fetch the bar of soap from the counter—calendula and rosemary and mint—before turning towards the vapour bubble hanging from the ceiling. The device had been modified years ago by Olruggio, miniature heating spells etched carefully into the upper and lower trays with a searneedle wand so the water stays comfortably warm no matter the weather. Qifrey had tried baths before, but being so completely surrounded by water had reminded him too much of the box he'd been found in. Showers were easier and allowed him to step away the moment it became too much.

You check the little dials along its side. You'd already used it earlier that morning, so the water heats almost immediately at your touch. Warm.

Steam is already curling lazily through the room by the time you begin peeling off the rest of your clothes. A few moments later, Qifrey appears in the doorway, wearing the mournful expression of a man being walked to his own execution. It eases slightly, though, when he sees you shrugging off your shift, soft linen slipping from your fingers to land by your feet in a crumpled heap.

It's a little strange, but you've never been shy about Qifrey seeing you like this. Never felt the need for it. You bend over to tug off the scant remainder of your clothes, kicking them off to join your discarded shift, before stepping under the warm spray. Water cascades over your shoulders and back in soft streams of steam and heat. You glance back at Qifrey in silent invitation, wiggling your fingers coyly at him.

Qifrey squints at you for a long moment before he sighs. Then, with the long-suffering air of someone resigning himself to fate, he begins to take off his own clothes.

There's not much for him to remove—only the oversized tunic he'd slept in that is nothing like, thankfully, the elaborately collared shirts he usually wears. You love seeing them on him, loathe fumbling with the accursed straps as he laughs, the sound vibrating beneath your fingertips. This one comes off easily when he tugs it over his head, and it's followed quickly by his trousers, discarded in an untidy heap next to yours.

When he's as naked as you are, he finally steps under the spray with you. You notice the way Qifrey stiffens the instant the water hits his back: shoulders drawing taut, breath hitching faintly, lips pressing tight for the briefest second. It's subtle, barely perceptible, but you notice. You always have. It's the same thing every time,

When he's as naked as you are, he steps into the shower with you. You notice the way he stiffens the instant the water hits his back, shoulders drawing up, breath hitching, lips pressing tight for the briefest second. It's subtle, barely perceptible, but you notice. You always do. It's the same thing every time, never to fully go away.

You reach up to fiddle with the vapour bubble, carefully lowering the water pressure until the spray softens to a gentle patter, then coaxing a little more warmth into the steam. "Too much?"

Qifrey shakes his head. "No, no." A slow exhale passes between his lips as he presses himself more firmly against you, leaning into your warmth like a flower turning to the sun. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, swallowing. "Just… just the usual."

"Mm. Let me help, then."

You tug him closer by the waist until there's no space left between your bodies, warm steam curling around the two of you as you tilt your head to kiss him gently. Qifrey sinks into it almost immediately, damp lashes fluttering against your cheeks until they fall still. You move your mouth slow and unhurried against his—fingers gently cradling his jaw, thumb rubbing slow circles over the quickening pulse of his inner wrist—giving him something else to focus on besides the water running softly over the two of you. Qifrey's fingers curl tighter against your waist, damp hair brushing your forehead every time he leans deeper into the kiss with a quiet sigh.

Slowly, you let your hands wander wherever the water does—over the bare expanse of his back, the notches of his spine, the sharp jut of his hipbone, coaxing his mind to focus on you instead, the closeness of your bodies, your touch. Qifrey lets out a shuddering breath against the wet curve of your shoulder. He melts into you, soft and pliant under the hot water, the same way sugar cubes dissolve into warm tea.

You reach for the bar of soap, lathering it up carefully between your palms until thick suds gather, and Qifrey cracks open one eye to watch. The whole bathroom smells pleasantly of flowers and herbs.

You start with his hair. Qifrey lowers his head for you instinctively, eye slipping shut again as you work the lather into the pale strands, fingers combing gently through wet tangles. The water will rinse it clean soon enough, so you move on to his shoulders instead, pressing a soft kiss to each to coax them into loosening before you continue. Down his arms, across his chest. Qifrey trembles faintly when your fingertips brush across his nipples—soft pink-brown against shower-flushed skin—and you have to bite back the urge to lean in and put your mouth on them. Instead, your hands continue tracing the lines of his body, nails scratching lightly over the soft plane of his stomach before gliding lower, following the shape of his hips and the long line of his legs.

Here, you have to crouch down to reach the rest of him. The water runs in rivulets over his thighs, his lean calves, his narrow ankles. You're about to start when you feel a hand at your shoulder, long fingers closing over your upper arm to tug you back up.

"Hey," he murmurs. Qifrey's voice is soft, slightly hoarse when he peers down at you. "You don't have to. I can do that myself."

You look up at him, blinking away scattered droplets of falling water. Qifrey's face is flushed—perhaps from the heat or your hands, perhaps both. His eye is bright in the dim light of the bathroom, darting back and forth from your face uncertainly like he still hasn't decided whether he wants you to stop or keep touching him forever. His lower lip catches briefly between his teeth.

You have the sudden urge to reach up and tug it free with your thumb, to suck it into your own mouth and kiss him until that hesitant expression dissolves into something else completely. But you are already on your knees, supplicant before him, and so you simply smile and kiss the side of his knee. Qifrey shivers.

"I want to," you say, simply. "Besides, I'm down here already."

You kiss his other knee, too, just because you can. A quiet breath escapes Qifrey as you start to lather up his legs properly, careful to remain gentle as you work the soap over his calves, his shins. You can feel him watching you as you do.

By the time you reach his thighs, you notice. His cock, soft when you'd first stepped into the shower together, has thickened up somewhat. Not fully hard, but stirring with interest despite the heat and water and everything else. You wrap your soapy fingers around him and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

"What's this, hm?"

Qifrey exhales slowly—a shaky, half-laugh caught somewhere in the back of his throat. "How else am I supposed to react with your hands all over me like that?"

You laugh quietly at the faint strain in his voice. His hips twitch ever so slightly towards you when your thumb sweeps lazily over the tip, spreading the drop of slickness you find there. The flush on his cheeks has deepened, crawling down his neck. Smiling, you settle properly on your knees, warm water cascading over your shoulders, and guide his cock into your mouth.

Qifrey lets out a quiet sound, caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan. His hand finds the side of your head, fingers curling through the damp strands—winding loosely, but not pulling or pushing. It's not as comfortable as some erotic catalogues make it out to be—sucking cock in the shower. Water seems to run endlessly into your eyes and your knees are beginning to ache. But you care less about your pleasure and more about the way you can feel him tremble under your palms, the way his quiet pants become audible as they echo off the slick walls. You trace your tongue over the tip and he shudders. There's no taste of him yet—not with the water washing away every trace of him in the shower—only the faint remnants of soap still clinging on his skin. You want more than that. You want him.

You take him deeper, slow and deliberate, letting your tongue press flat along the underside. His breath stutters above you. You take your time, unhurriedly, feeling him grow heavier in your mouth, the way his thighs tense beneath your free hand. The water continues to fall around you both, but Qifrey doesn't seem to notice it at all. He lets out a quiet moan, one hand tightening ever so slightly in your hair while the other braces flat against the wall behind him.

"Hah…"

You pull out until only the tip remains, dragging the flat of your tongue over the head before suckling lightly there. Qifrey chokes softly. The faint salt of his precome coats your tongue and you hum happily, glance up through your lashes. His lips are parted, chest rising and falling too fast, eye squeezed tight. You frown. He's not looking at you.

You curl one hand around his knee for balance and swallow him down further, gagging lightly when the head nudges the back of your throat. Qifrey makes a strangled sound—half a moan and half your name.

"W-Wait—"

His knees buckle with a gasp that sounds suspiciously like a curse. He nearly falls—would have, if the wall hadn't been there to catch him. You let him slip out of your mouth with a soft pop, laughing quietly as he sags against the damp tiles, chest heaving, panting.

"You—"

"Watch the language, love." The endearment slips out before you can stop it, a prisoner making a run for it. You nibble at his hip, hope it's enough to keep him from noticing. "What if the girls were to hear, hmm?"

Qifrey huffs a breathless laugh, his head tipping back against the wet tiles. "That's the least of my concerns when—" His voice breaks into a whine when you take him in your hand again, stroking lightly, idly. "—mgh—when this is happening right in front me…"

You grin up at him, slow and a little wicked, before you slip him into your mouth again. This time, you keep one hand wrapped around his thigh—keeping him close close—while the other strokes where your mouth can't quite fit. You work him deeper and deeper, patient but with a focused intent, until the head nudges against the sensitive back of your throat again. The familiar urge to gag rises but you force yourself to breathe through your nose, relax your jaw to take him deeper still, until he slips past the last resistance and into the tight confines of your throat.

Qifrey's whole body shivers, toes curling against the wet tiles. His head tips forward then back, like he can't bear to look at you but also can't bring himself to look away. Look, you want to say. Look at me.

Your mouth is currently full, however, so you have no choice but to settle for other means. You dig your nails lightly into the back of his thigh—not enough to hurt, just to get his attention—and when his head dips down, you look up at him through your lashes. His eye finds yours, hazy and glassy and dark as ink, just as you hum around him. The vibration pulls a sound from his chest—something desperate, almost broken—and his hips jerk forward before he can stop himself.

Qifrey arches off the wall with a shuddering cry—one hand scrabbling against the slick tiles while the other tightens fractionally in your hair. His pleasure spills hot across your tongue, and you have to resist the urge to close your eyes to savour the taste. You want to watch him, and watch him you do—the way his mouth falls open, the way his eye squeezes then flutters half-open, how his chest heaves like he's forgotten how to breathe. He's flushed all the way down his pretty neck, white hair plastered to his forehead, dark with water. His lips part around something that might be your name.

Beautiful. He's so damn beautiful.

You swallow slowly, one last time, only pulling back when Qifrey's grip in your hair loosens and his thighs stop shaking. Your calves ache ever so slightly when you get back to your feet, but when you pull him into a kiss and he moans at the taste of himself on your tongue, all of it seems to fade away. Much in the same way you hope it does, for him.

"oh dear," qifrey comments lightly when you squirm in his lap after the seventeenth stroke. the sensation is near unbearable now, overwhelming in its intensity—and your body moves despite how much you want to be good, desperately seeking out a relief it can't quite find. "regretting your behaviour now, are you?"

his long fingers wrap around your ankle, tugging you back into place before you can scramble from his lap. he pins you against his thigh, holding you down firmly when you flail, and delivers a harder strike to the same spot. it hurts. you cry out, flinching first away and then into the strike—some traitorous part of you leaning into it rather than attempting to escape it.

"unfortunately, you put yourself in danger again." qifrey's voice is calm, almost conversational as he speaks. "it seems like you'll never learn otherwise if i go easy on you."

your thighs quiver, toes curling against the couch cushions, their fabric damp and humid with your panting breath. you can barely hear a word your master is saying, with the way your head is spinning. he toes the line between firm and gentle so perfectly you find yourself unable to tell whether his words are dripping with faux sympathy, or if he genuinely feels guilty for having to discipline you.

before you can piece together an answer, his hand comes down again. the pain flares like a lit candle flame—sharp and bright—and then his fingers are stroking over the area once again, soothing the throbbing heat in slow, almost lazy circles.

"eighteen… nine—hah—please, please—"

"hm?" your master's fingers grasp your chin. you're faintly aware of the tears on your cheeks, the salt in your mouth as he gently tilts your head up. "breathe, apprentice."

you look up to meet the blue of his gaze with bleary eyes, spit pooling on your tongue. you feel dazed, thoughts scattered like dandelion seeds to the wind, left with nothing but the lingering awareness of his hands on your skin. all you know is that you're throbbing, a strange, syrupy heat spreading throughout your entire body and making you dizzy. but you part your lips and drag breath into your lungs, because your master told you to.

"'s too much," you mumble into his cupped palm, his long fingers stroking gently over the curve of your jaw, cool against your overheated skin. "master, please…"

"you say that, but what's this between your legs?" he hums lightly. his fingertips trail along the length of your back—skimming featherlight, tracing the divots of your spine one by one before dipping lower. you try to push yourself up on your hands, knees curling inward in an attempt to hide, but it's futile. two long fingers push aside the thin barrier of your underwear, pressing between your legs to where you're hot and throbbing. you try to close around his hand but he parts your thighs easily, holding them open. it's almost humiliating, how little resistance you're able to offer.

"you're so wet here, apprentice." you open your mouth to deny it, but the words crack apart on a moan when his fingers drag leisurely over where you're dripping onto the couch. he doesn't push in, not yet—just gathers the slick there, spreading it around your folds in slow, deliberate strokes that make your thighs tremble. "this was supposed to be punishment, but it seems like you're enjoying it instead."

you whimper when his thumb drags over the hard bundle of nerves, hips jerking, aching. "master—"

"six more." qifrey smiles softly. your head swims. "just six more. you can do that, can't you?"

your master thinks you can. somewhere beneath the haze of tears and heat and pain, you want to prove him right, that you can be good for him. the words are already leaving your mouth before you can think it through.

"yes…"

he lets your head fall back to the couch before settling his palm on the curve of your ass again. the touch alone stings faintly, your rear still raw from the last round of discipline, tender and warm to the touch—but somehow, at the same time, it feels good. right. the weight of his hand resting on you, blunt nails scratching idly over your hip. "be good and count for me, alright? or we'll have to start from the top again."

you shiver at the patient tone in his voice. "yes master…"

he starts spanking you harder now. the strikes land with a crisp, sharp sound that echoes in the quiet room, each one driving the breath from your lungs in a shaky exhale. you try to be good—you really do, counting each one through gritted teeth, forcing the numbers past your lips even as your voice wavers.

but eventually the whimpers start to slip past your lips, then the cries. by the time you reach the twenty-fifth spank, you're sobbing quietly into the upholstery, fingers clawing into the cushion by your head in a white-knuckled deathgrip. your whole body shakes with each hit, caught between the sting of his palm and that same aching, treacherous heat pooling low in your belly.

"t-twenty-five…" you gasp out at last.

qifrey's hand stills. for a moment, there's nothing but the sound of your wet, ragged breathing and quiet rustle of his robes as he shifts beneath you. then his palm settles against your sore skin, squeezing gently—not striking this time, just grounding you back to the present. slowly pulling your mind back from whatever pain-pleasured haze you'd sunk into the depths of. "you did such a good job. my wonderful apprentice."

the praise washes over you like a cool balm. his other hand reaches up to brush back the sweat-damp hair clinging to your brow, tucking the strands carefully behind your ear.

"have you learned your lesson, now?"

"yes, master." the words come out as a whimper, pathetic, and you don't even care. "i promise, i promise—"

"mm." qifrey makes a soft sound in response, almost pleased. your head spins. this is all you ever wanted. "that's good."

his fingers slide down your spine again, hooking into the waistband of your underwear. he peels the soaked, ruined fabric down, past the tender rise of your ass, baring your dripping core completely to the cool air of the atelier. you shiver, clenching involuntarily around nothing.

then they dip between your legs again.

you're wet—still slick and wanting despite everything—and his fingers breach you with embarrassing ease. they press in without resistance, sinking into your aching heat in one easy slide until your legs are shaking, his knuckles grinding against your fluttering entrance. you moan, nails scraping helplessly against his robed thigh as your body aches back into your master's hand without permission. when you glance over your shoulders, tears beading along your lashes, he smiles.