Nanami Kento's loyal wifey

“God, you’re so greedy,” he growls between your mouths, his hands making quick work of the thin material of your garments, reeling in some of his self control to stop himself from tearing them right off you. His large hands work with a frantic, almost needy lack of coordination, leaving your clothes in a heap on the floor. His eyes don't know where to look, flickering from your breasts down to cunt, watching as he squeeze your thighs together.

Varka looks ruined from the mere sight of you, lashes fluttering, his pupils blown out wide, almost completely swallowing the blue of his irises. Without a warning he hooks his hands under your thighs, hoisting you up like you weigh nothing as he takes three long strides towards the wooden tactical table nudged in the corner of his tent. Maps and inkwells scatter and tumble onto the floor as he clears it, pressing you down against it with a heavy huff. His breathing is ragged and you can tell his self control is slipping from his grasp. He shoves your legs wide, his knee forcing it's way between your thighs to keep you spread open for him, groaning when he catches sight of your glistening cunt clenching around nothing.

“Look at you, so needy,” he murmurs, his words rough against his throat. Varka makes quick work of his belt buckle and shoves his pants down just far enough so he can reach into his boxers and take out his cock. He leans over you, letting you sling your arms around his broad and muscled shoulders as he nudges his cock—swollen, thick, and glistening with a needy bead of precum at the head — against your entrance, his entire frame trembling with the effort to not simply lose control right then and there.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he lets out a hoarse groan. You've got nowhere to go, forced to remain pliant in his hold as he glides his cock through your folds, letting your wetness coat him. He's huge, hard and aching, the head of his cock throbbing each time he watches your clit.

"Fuck," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. "You and this goddamn cunt."

His breath is a hot, humid exhale against your ear, smelling of woodsmoke and the sweetness of the wine you shared earlier. Every muscle in his massive frame is coiled like a spring, his abs and biceps rippling with a sharp, involuntary force that he can't seem to throttle.

"Just the tip," you gasp when you feel him nudging at your entrance, your fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. "Varka, please—just the tip."

He lets out something that doesn't even sound remotely close to an apology, but rather a sharp, guttural moan that rumbles from deep in his chest, sounding more like pain than pleasure. He’s pussy-drunk and he hasn't even tucked you yet, but the feeling of your warm cunt clenching around the tip of his cock already has him looking ruined and desperate. The sight of your pussy —wet, swollen, and glistening under the lantern light with a mixture of your arousal and his —is a drug that has stripped him of his patience and pride.

"I can't," he whimpers against your skin as his hips rut forward. "God, you're so fucking beautiful, I—I can't stop."

He tries to listen. He tries to control himself. He really does. For a heartbeat, he just breathes you in—the scent of your skin, the salt of your sweat, and the heavy, greedy scent of need pouring off of both of your bodies. But then you clench around just the tip of him, a soft, fluttering invitation, and Varka finally loses the war.

His hips jolt forward with a sudden sharp jerk. He doesn't just push inside, he buries himself, the entirety of his massive, rigid length driving home in one long, devastating stroke that positively knocks the air that his mouth once stolen right from your lungs. The table groans and slides an inch across the dirt floor under the sheer force of his thrust.

"Varka, ngh!"

"Fuck—fuck, I'm sorry," he nearly sobs, his face twisting in pleasure as he feels your walls clench and stretch to accommodate him. You're warmer than he remembers, tight and snug around him, your cunt drooling, making a mess of the table beneath you. He’s deep, deeper than he should be, his balls grinding against you as he fills you past the point of saturation. "You're so tight, baby—you're taking me so fucking well, I—"

He starts to move, his rhythm messy and frantic. He’s devouring you, mind, body and soul — his mouth finding yours again in a searing kiss, ensuring that every one of your moans land right on his tongue as you sob out your need. He can feel you leaking down the length of him, soaking the table, making a mess and it fills him with a jostle of pride knowing he was the only man who could get you this wet and needy. Every pulse of your pussy is another nail in his coffin, another reason for him to lose his mind.

"Look at me," he growls when your head falls back with a particularly loud moan, his voice a wrecked octave that barely scrapes past his throat as his hips continue to pat pat pat, driving his cock into you. "Do you want the whole camp to hear us? Want to wake up my soldiers and have them realize you're getting fucked nice and dirty?"

You vigorously shake your head, your nails dragging down the massive expansive of his back, trying to grasp at anything to keep you grounded as Varka fucks you. It's nasty and mean and sweaty but you wouldn't want it any other way. Two thick digits circle your lips before he pushes them inside, pressing down on your tongue.

"Attagirl."

————

The first time Ayato approaches you after your argument, it’s during your morning shower. He joins you from behind, arms wrapping around your waist as he presses a wet kiss to your shoulder blade.

“Good morning, my dear wife,” he murmurs.

You hardly pay him any mind, handing him your body wash to get your back. If he’s going to use your hot water, he might as well make himself useful.

“And good morning to you, husband,” you say, tone distant.

He notices immediately. There’s a pout curled on his lips as it stays pressed against your skin, his face burying into the juncture between your shoulder and neck.

“Ah, I see you’re still upset, are you? You’re lacking…your usual affections, my dear.”

You could scoff. Instead, you offer him nothing—it’s the best way to punish Ayato for raising his voice at you, you think. Offer him nothing.

Affection makes him keen. Anger has its way of sometimes amusing him. Indifference…well, indifference is something the head of the Kamisato clan is not used to. He’s used to attention, good or bad. It comes with being an heir.

You know just how to push all his right buttons.

“Get my back, will you Ayato? I have to be out for breakfast with Ayaka soon.”

“Surely you could spare a few minutes,” he insists. And then the hard part comes.

Ayato is good at apologizing with his fingers—they’re diligent, expert, eager. They give and give, saying all the things through their touch that he can’t bring himself to say verbally. One touch, and you’re finished.

You have to stop him before he gets the chance.

His hands grab your hips, pulling your body back against him, half-hard cock pressing to the small of your back as he lets out a soft sound at the friction of you against him. His fingers wander down, down, down—

“There’s no time for such frivolous activities right now, Ayato. Have a little self control,” you scold, stopping his hands before they can go any further.

With that, you shut off the hot water, leaving him soaked, painfully hard, and thoroughly confused. He’s not prepared for you to still be mad enough to shut down his advances so sternly.

With that, he watches as you climb out of your large tub, drying yourself and slipping on the dress he loves—the same dress you know he loves to watch you take off more than put on.

“But—”

“I shall see you in the evening when you’re relieved of your duties for the day,” you say firmly.

The bathroom door shuts. Ayato takes a cold, cold shower.

————

The second time you deny him is in your bedroom. He joins you after a long day of meetings, slumping onto the mattress beside you, eyeing you with hunger you could recognize anywhere.

“I’ve had a very long day,” he sighs woefully. You pull the blankets over your body, turning to him as you raise a brow. He bats his lashes innocently. “Hardly a moment to relax at all.”

“Is that so?” You hum.

Ayato wants attention. Your attention. More specifically, he wants the attention you give him after a long, tiring day—the kind that burns pleasure through his nerves and makes him forget.

You turn your head so his kiss lands on your cheek instead of your lips, pulling a low, disappointed groan from him as he realizes you’re still holding a light grudge.

“How long do you intend to punish me like this?” He asks hoarsely, burying his head into his pillow with a flop.

You lift your head, propping yourself on an elbow as you hum, “Well, that depends. Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes. Thoroughly so,” he instantly perks up, nodding eagerly. You smile, nodding happily—it seems to excite him further.

“That’s good. I’m delighted to hear that.”

Ayato is impatient when he wants something. You learn quickly that being an heir to a clan, no matter how quickly it’s forced him to grow up, has instilled but a few bad habits in him. One of them is being a bit spoiled sometimes—he’s never had to wait long for something he’s wanted.

He rolls over top of you, hovering above you as he kisses between your brows. “Then shall I show you how I’ve learned my lesson?” He asks huskily, grinding down his crotch over yours.

Your breath catches as his bulge glides across your clothed cunt. His lips quirk into a slight smirk, eyes brightening with a wickedly victorious glint.

That is, until you push him off and roll over once more.

“You can show me by means other than the ones that fulfill your own desires, you wretched man.”

Ayato’s weight slumps over you from behind, his head burying into your neck as he all but whines out a crestfallen, “My dear. My darling wife. Please do not punish your poor husband any longer. I’ve apologized—”

“I’m sure you can find another way to apologize, my sweet husband,” you giggle, turning and pressing a comforting kiss to his forehead.

He relaxes just a bit at the show of affection. But still, the press of your lips to his forehead does nothing to soothe the unbearable ache between his legs, erection hot and throbbing through his boxers as he digs his face into your chest.

“What more do you want from me?” He asks miserably.

“A restful night of sleep, if you so kindly will, my love,” you grin cheekily. “You’re disrupting my beauty sleep.”

“You’re disrupting my sanity,” he grumbles.

You grin to yourself in amusement when you hear his footsteps trudging to the bathroom, chuckling as you imagine him begrudgingly ridding the painful throb of his cock with his fist. You know he’ll never be satisfied unless it’s your cunt wrapped around his girth, happily pulling the sheets over your body and snuggling into the mattress.

“That should teach him,” you murmur quietly before you slowly fall asleep.

————

A third time to deny Ayato would be a wonderful final blow to really teach him a lesson, but it stays as nothing more than a feeble attempt.

This time, he manages to win this back and forth battle you seem to have engaged in.

“Ayato, have you seen my—oh.”

Your bed is covered in sakura blossoms, delicate candles from Liyue illuminating the dark, dim room. He takes your hand, tugging you into his firm chest as he nips at your neck and breathes in your scent.

“Tell me what you desire,” he breathes, “and it shall be yours. Nothing is impossible if you want it—just free me from this torture. That’s all I ask. Please.”

“Careful,” you grin cheekily, wrapping your arms around his neck as you murmur, “what if I ask for my own island in Inazuma? Is that something the Yashiro commissioner is capable of?”

“How quickly do you need it by?” He asks seriously.

You laugh. Soft and fond as you cup his cheek and trace his mole with your thumb, shaking your head as you whisper, “You are quite needy, Ayato. Have you realized?”

“And you are quite cruel,” he grunts back, spinning you to fall against the mattress as he hovers over you and adds, “I shall apologize all evening, my love. Just don’t hold this grudge any longer is all I ask. I will apologize between your thighs for as long as you please, how does that sound?”

“How giving,” you say in amusement. And then, more firmly, “if you should yell at me again like that, you’ll dream of having me for months before I forgive you.”

He shivers. And he believes you—Ayato will never risk your wrath again, not when these past few days have been torture—pure agony. A few months will surely kill him if you truly keep your word.

“Very well,” he nods, “I’ve learned my lesson, my precious wife. I’ve missed you dearly.”

“I’ve missed you too, my darling husband,” you roll your eyes, cupping his cheeks and pulling him into a soft, warm kiss.

It quickly shifts into hot and messy, a wet exchange of tongue and teeth, clashing as one battles the other for a proper chance to taste and feel what’s been missed for days.

Ayato moans into your mouth, rutting his hips into you as his cock springs to life in little to no effort. The sakura blossoms under your skin tickle you against the sheets. You’d have appreciated the sweet gesture a bit more, let him know his devotion did not go unnoticed—but Ayato is far too worried about the feel of your mouth against his to let you even a moment to get a word in.

Needy, you think—he’s so desperately, shamelessly needy.

You love it. Marvel in it. Capitalize on it, sometimes. And he lets you—like a good, doting husband should, he lets you exploit his one weakness more than anything: you.

“I have ached for you,” he says lowly, groaning as you slot a thigh between his legs and rub over his clothes cock, the friction sending him into a moment of pure bliss as he shudders over you and closes his eyes tightly. “Morning, noon, and night, I’ve ached for you. I cannot wait a moment longer.”

His words are as rushed as his movements, half slurred breaths against your ear as he quickly works his pants undone and pulls them down just enough to free his thick cock, dribbling with pre cum at the tip.

You reach between your bodies, stroking him softly as you turn your head and kiss his temple.

“You won’t have to wait anymore,” you hum, “I think I’ve punished you long enough.”

Ayato all but sobs at the feel of you—he’s been craving it since the first time you pulled away from him, that awful, terrible morning in the shower. He’s dreamt of you, woken up sticky and unsatisfied, throbbing between his legs. His thoughts shift to you in the middle of work, leaving him to adjust himself in his uncomfortably tight pants. He’s gone to bed surrounded by the lingering scent of you everywhere, suffocated by the sick desire to have you to himself in the way only he can.

Your thumb teases his tip as it rolls a circles against his, squeezing your fist along the head of his cock as you stroke upwards before moving down, the friction and drag of your palm along the sensitive skin sending his nerves into flames.

“F-fuck,” he gasps, “s-stop it. Stop—I won’t last if you keep doing that.”

His hand grabs your wrist, forcing it away from where he needs you most. As if one last punishment to himself. One last reminder that he won’t argue with you like that again. If you should say that Inazuma is the nation of geo, if you should say that Sakura blossoms bloom in fall instead of spring, if you should say that thunder never strikes in Serei Island—Ayato will know this as truth.

You could tell him North is South and vice versa, and he would believe you with his heart, body, and soul.

Your word is all he knows. You are the god he prays to, your words the scripture he follows.

“Then fuck me already, my darling husband. What are you waiting for?”

He doesn’t even make it that far—too hazy in his mind filled with lust and desire for your body. He pulls your skirt up and your panties down, exposing the slick gathered between your thighs before his cock nudges between, sliding in and out between your legs.

He rubs every ridge and vein against your clit, the hot, velvety skin of his cock dragging against the heated skin of your inner thigh.

“Please, please,” he rambles, “jus’…I j-just need to feel you.”

Perhaps you need to feel him just as badly yourself, too, because the minimal drag of him against your clit is enough to send your mind into a blank, pleasured state too. You can’t even whine over the absence of being full of him, not when the fee of him, even if I completely, is just too good to complain about.

Your thighs squeeze around him tighter, making him moan brokenly as he snaps his hips faster, fucking your thigh like this might be the last time to feel you ever again.

You almost wonder if he was scared of that at one point. You’d giggle if you weren’t so drunk on pleasure.

“More,” you plead, “more Ayato—m-more. I’ve waited for you just as long.”

“You’ve punished the both of us,” he chuckles breathlessly, biting his lip as you flex your thighs to drag against his veins during a particularly sharp thrust. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider this idea. We both are quite affected by it, my dear.”

“You more than me,” you laugh, brushing away his sweaty hair, watching his eyes flutter shut with pleasure as you admire him.

Your darling husband, and you—his sweet wife.

A union the stars themselves aligned for.

“I love you,” you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He cums. Sudden and without warning, he spills the hot, pent up seed between your thighs with a shaky gasp, brokenly calling your name as his cock twitches with every sharp thrust. Rope after rope of thick, sticky release coats your skin. Paints it with his devotion. Proves his love, marks his promises to be better.

You’re not long to follow, the rubbing of his length against your swollen clit as he fucks himself through his orgasm sending you into your own.

You missed Ayato. You know he missed you more—he’s always needed you more than you needed him. He wants to need you more than you need him, wants to love you so deeply, not even your own reciprocation could rival his feelings.

“I love you,” he breathes back, voice husky and low as he whispers, “let me prove it. All night, if I must.”

—————BONUS—————

“Good morning,” a soft, low voice murmurs into your neck, weight pressing over your body as the blankets shift.

You welcome it, humming as you wrap your arms around the bare back of your husband, letting him rest his body over yours. Your hands run along the planes of his muscles, feeling the scratches that litter his skin.

A testament of your love.

“Good morning,” you peck his forehead. “Today is a special day, did you know?”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, lifting his head slightly to look at you in confusion, “and why might that be, my dear?”

“Because,” you grin, poking his cheek with your finger as you give him a smug look, “my husband will be getting me an island all to myself today. Isn’t he a sweetheart?”

“You were serious about the request,” he murmurs—it’s more to himself than you, as if processing the words out loud.

“There are many small ones on Narukami Island,” you gently shove his shoulder, pouting lightly as you huff. “Surely you can pull some strings and get one in my name. And who knows…” your finger traces along his shoulder blade, finding its way to map along the many, many scratches along his back. “Perhaps having an island to ourselves could give us ample opportunities for…more personal getaways.”

He perks up. You bite back a grin, staring at him knowingly. Ayato is too simple to read, you think.

“A most excellent idea, my love,” he murmurs, “I’ll see what I can do as soon as we have breakfast.”

He doesn’t let himself be seen with a woman for years. Scandalous habits are hardly favorable for forming ties, and the Kamisato clan could certainly use at least a few allies. A young Ayato was not opposed to a marriage of convenience, either, if that’s what it would have taken to secure his clan’s former glory. More importantly, doesn’t trust too many people. Sleeping around makes him open, vulnerable, less susceptible to seeing through deception and any attempts at sabotaging him from within.

So he stays alone for many, many years. He does just fine that way—but underneath it all, he’s less than proper. He’s starved. Starved of touch, of intimacy, of a raw, carnal desire that a man can only stave off for so long. It develops into something far too insatiable to be normal. At first, he’s a bit ashamed of it. A man of his prestige, of his reputation shouldn’t be so…shameless in his own mind.

Later, he accepts it. It’s only natural, he tells himself.

Then he marries you—and, of course, it is that marriage of convenience he’d resigned himself to years ago. It happens later than he thought, but it happens all the same. He specifically chose you, too.

You’re not like other women. You’re quiet, pliant and obedient under your father’s watchful gaze. Your father tells you to sit beside him, and you do. So sweet and dependent on that guiding figure to tell you what to do. You’ve been trained so well, so wonderfully to do what you’re expected to do.

Ayato raises Ayaka to be free. People have much to say about it, of course. His sister is a precious jewel among the clan, and he can’t fathom caging her like a bird, can’t imagine keeping her sweet chirps locked away from the sky to hear. But you, you’re far too beautiful to risk. The sky is dangerous, and the world is too.

He appreciates your obedience. Revels in it.

It’s a slow progression, really. You’re wedding is a quiet affair, and apart from it being a known fact across Inazuma that your clans are to join, there is not a lot of flashiness regarding the actual ceremony.

Ayato is, of course, ever the doting husband regardless of marriage by love or by duty. He gifts you well—two beautiful pieces of jewelry from his family’s collection. His mother’s ring and his grandmother’s necklace. Expensive attire for the wedding itself that doesn’t seem to phase you. (Your father spoiled you well, he notes. He’ll have to keep up to those standards).

The first night, as a dutiful wife should, you offer yourself up to him. Kneel in front of his legs as he’s sat on the bed, slowly pushing your kimono down your shoulders, revealing more and more skin. There’s a mole on your chest—it reminds him of his own by his lip. Celestia, he thinks, must have written you as his from birth. Even the marks on your skin suggest it.

He could burst in his pants at the thought alone.

But he’s kind. Respectful as he’s always appeared. He gently reaches over and traces your cheek with a delicate finger, chuckling as he murmurs, “there is time for that once we’ve become better acquainted, don’t you think, dear wife?”

“I am happy to complete the marriage whenever you please, my lord,” you reply. So sweet. So polite. So good.

“Ayato,” he corrects, “call my Ayato.”

“As you wish,” you nod.

That night, when you sleep peacefully on your side of the bed, he fucks his fist in the bathroom, flashes of his mothers ring on your finger and his grandmother’s necklace around your neck pushing him to his climax. He suppresses the sounds he wishes he didn’t have to hide, one hand clasping over his mouth as the other squeezes around his aching, pulsing cock. His cum paints the floor, the last drops dribbling onto the tile as he shudders, thinking about the beautiful mole on your chest.

It’s wasted release, he thinks regretfully when he’s done, panting and catching his breath as he stares down at his mess. It would have looked so beautiful on your face, across those breasts he didn’t get to see tonight, perhaps even down your throat.

The latter makes his cock twitch again. He groans, feeling himself harden in his hand once more. His sweet, unsuspecting wife. So kind as to give up the left side of the bed for him because that is what he’s used to, even if it’s her habitual side as well. His precious, angelic wife, who gets along so well with his darling sister after only a few brief meetings.

He should feel bad, doing such filthy things at the thought of such innocence. But he can’t help it. The drag of his palm across his cock is not the same as before, not when thoughts of you heighten the pleasure so much.

He chokes, gripping the edge of the sink as he stands, hot, heavy breaths that are labored escaping his lips as he feels his second orgasm approach.

And then the knock is on the door. A quiet, “my lor—Ayato? Is everything alright?”

You’re outside the door. Every fiber of him aches to slam the door open and take you against this sink right now. Watch your breasts spill over the neckline of that nightgown he gifted you, decorated by the necklace hanging over them around your neck. He’d watch your face twist through the mirror, watching his thick, hard cock fuck in and out of your slick hole.

Would your pussy greedily suck him in? Would be witness the puffiness of your clit? Would the slick of your cunt drip along your thighs? Surely, you’d be just as fascinated by the sight of his glistening length bullying in and out of your walls.

So filthy. So messy. So dirty. Yet, in his mind, so perfectly beautiful.

But he doesn’t let himself have that, not yet. He can’t taint you so quickly, not when you think so highly of him.

“I’m fine,” he pants, eyes fluttering shut as he bites his lips and suppresses a grunt.

“Are you sure? You sound hoarse.”

He does end up groaning at that—at your concern and your precious little voice. The sound of you makes his cock do that familiar twitch before he’s tense and still, the shocks of an even more devastating orgasm coursing through ever nerve of his body. He lets out a desperate grunt, hissing as his palm drags along his sensitive length, so sticky and coated with hot cum.

“I’m…I’m fine,” he pants, voice strained, “I believe I’ve just unfortunately become ill with food poisoning. Perhaps I got too carried away at the wedding.”

You hum in concern through the door, murmuring a soft, “shall I fetch someone? Thoma perhaps, if you don’t want me to see you like this?”

He smiles. So thoughtful, so sincere. You’re too bright for this dark, cruel world. For a filthy, disgusting man like him. He doesn’t even know you, hasn’t even taken the opportunity to learn of your interests or your goals, yet here he is. Dreaming of spreading your folds open and getting an eye full of them.

He chuckles, breathy and tired as he stares down at the cum coating his hands. Oh, if that door wasn’t separating the two of you, he’d smear the remnants of his pleasure across your beautiful lips. The same ones where such gentle words spill from.

“No, it’s alright,” he replies. “Give me but a moment, I’ll be out. My wife will be sufficient enough. No need to disturb Thoma.”

“Oh,” you breathe. He can imagine the slightly shy look on your face perfectly. Picture it clearly. It almost makes him want to stroke himself a third time—but he retires for the night, quickly cleaning himself and the floor off before opening the door and facing you.

You’re concerned the moment he steps out, a warm hand rushing to press against his cheek and then forehead, feeling his temperature as you gasp, “oh you’re heating up! And your skin is flushed. Come lay down.”

He enjoys the way you dote on him that night. Pressing cool rags to his forehead, brushing hair from his face, spoon feeding him the soup you asked a maid to make.

He enjoys it. He enjoys you. He turns that night when you finally lay beside him, tucked under the sheets, reaching over to grab your hand and give it a lingering kiss right where his mother’s ring lays.

“Thank you, my beloved wife,” he says softly, “I am, what seems, the luckiest man in all of Inazuma. Such a doting spouse to have graced me.”

“Oh, you mustn’t make me sound like such a saint,” you say bashfully, “I’ve only done the bare minimum.”

“Then I shall be the most spoiled man, too,” he hums, “if this is considered the minimum.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand that night, sleeping with your fingers entwined.

When he wakes up, there’s a familiar ache between his legs, the morning air cold against your warm bodies. He rises, strokes your cheek gently and smiles before he heads to the bathroom.

The sound of the running water from his shower drowns out the pleased sounds he makes as he fists his cock once more.

It’s a slow, slow build up over the first few months of your marriage. Ayato dotes on you with thoughtful presents and honeyed words. You reciprocate with tender care as you look after him.

You bring him tea when he’s at his desk too long. You brush his hair and tie it back when he complains of headaches. You ice his sore calluses after long days of sword training with Ayaka.

He craves your touch. Uses every excuse to find it, remembers every detail of it to help him release the pent up tension in his body in secrecy.

He fucks his fist to you more times than he can count. Sometimes, he steals something of yours. The robes you wore the night before. The panties in the laundry pile. Once, even just the handkerchief you used to wipe your sweat on the walk you both took together.

Anything that reminds him of you, that might smell like you. He clutches it one hand, stroking himself with the other. Always when you’re not around, always without you to know of his lewdness to even your most mundane actions.

He finally breaks the night you bear yourself to him.

It’s a long night of paperwork. Ayato is tired. Extra stressed from the tricommission duties he’s stuck. The shogun herself will be making an appearance to this event, and Ayato has worked himself to the bone preparing.

You don’t see him as often as either of you would like. By now, it’s evident you’re as fond of him as he is of you. He took careful consideration to make sure you see him in such a positive light. Your sweet, respectful husband. Your dependable, generous husband. He’s so gentle with you, so patient and kind and takes such great care of you.

You’re endeared by him. So much so, that this particular night alone makes you restless.

He can tell as soon as he walks in.

“There you are,” you breathe, “I was just debating checking on you.”

“You’re still awake,” he says in surprise. He slowly undresses himself—by now, you’re used to a shirtless Ayato in bed. You often lay on his bare chest, trace careful shapes into the surface of his skin if your lucky.

On some nights, you connect his moles. He fights the strain in his boxers when that happens.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say shyly, “not without you. I’m afraid…I’m afraid I’ve grown too used to your warmth.”

“Is that right?” He chuckles, eyes crinkling fondly. “How inconsiderate of me. A dutiful husband should never abandon his precious wife alone in bed, especially not cold without the presence of his warmth to shield her from such harsh coldness.”

“Oh don’t be silly,” you giggle, waving him off. So enamored by him—he can see it in your eyes. Such light and brightness reserved only for him.

You think so highly of him. If only you knew his true nature.

He climbs into bed, moving to pull you close against his side when you stop him—he pauses when he notices the hesitance in your eyes as you swallow thickly.

“What’s wrong?” He frowns, “if I’ve upset you, there is no need to feel guilty about sharing your concerns. I shall make sure to never—”

“It’s not that,” you breathe, “it’s…I just…”

“What is it?” He asks kindly.

You can’t seem to get the words right, mulling over them for a moment before sighing and deciding to forego the words altogether.

Your lips are on his before he can comprehend. Your hands tug him close, pulling him to hover over you as his eyes widen. He melts into the kiss, of course, but not without the shock.

“Please, Ayato,” you breathe, “I’ve waited enough. Make me yours.”

Oh. Oh, how you should have thought over your words—because you could you insinuate you’re not already his? You belonged to him, him alone in his mind as soon as the first day he saw you. Since that day you sat so close to your father, shy and meek and nervous to be in his presence.

You are his—and now is his perfect opportunity to teach you that.

“If…” you speak, breaking him from his thoughts, “if you’d like to, at least. I am more than willing to wait longer if—”

“Oh my dear, precious wife,” he chuckles, “have you not the slightest idea how much I crave you? How ardently I desire every part of you?”

The night it all snaps. His desires, his needs, his purely, filthy carnal instinct.

He takes you over and over. Tastes you, first before he feels you with his fingers. Inspects you carefully, spreading your folds and looking into the slick walls of your tight hole. He ogles your breasts for the first time, too—takes his time to kiss from the jewel from the necklace he gave you around your neck to that mole he saw that first day, all the way to your pebbles nipples. He kisses and sucks at them for far longer than you can handle—finally breaking away when you whine at him to please, please put it in, Ayato.

His cock is painful by then. Rock hard between his legs, strained against his boxers from his still clothed crotch. He doesn’t even take them off properly, simply tugs them down enough to reveal himself to you, slapping against his abs with a drooling tip of pre cum.

Hard. Red. Swollen. But still so beautiful in that way Ayato always is.

His cock nudges past your folds, but not before he drags his tip along your slit to collect the slick dripping from your soaked cunt. Not to tease you, but simply to be coated in you. Simply to have your mess on him. Simply to feel every part of you mix with every part of him.

“Do you love me, my dear wife?” He asks you in between thrusts, nudging the fat tip of his cock against your sweet spot perfectly.

“Yes,” you wail, “yes, yes. I love you. Love you, Yato.”

It’s the first time you’ve called him by a nickname. He smiles wide, pearly white teeth that glint sharp and predatory.

“Will you always love me? Do you promise to never stop?”

“Y-yes,” you moan, whimpering when his thumb catches over your clit. A jewel crowning your body, he thinks, as he stares at it. So beautiful, so rare.

“Then shall I confess something?” He murmurs into your skin, pecking along your breasts until he kisses that mole he’s sure was made to match his own.

He could cum at the sight of it alone—he holds off just for you, though. For what is a doting husband if he does not wait until his beloved wife as felt the thralls of pleasure before himself?

“C-confess?” You furrow your brows, gasping between harsh rolls of his hips, trying to keep your eyes open to stare at him while he chuckles in amusement at your effort.

“This cock,” he breathes, whispering the words against your ear, “it has come for you far too many times before now. Did you know that?”

“W-hat—oh, Ayato,” you cut yourself off with a mewl of his name from a sharp thrust, any question you want to ask him dying on your tongue.

“That first night of our wedding,” he drawls, kissing beneath your ear, I was not ill from the food. I was ill from you. You have possessed my mind since the first time I’ve laid eyes on you.”

“Please,” you whimper. You seem to clench around him at his words, earning a groan from him as you babble, “please, please—m’close.”

“Ah,” he chuckles, “so you like it, do you? Does it excite you to know that I’m unable to concentrate on anything? That I’ve spent so much time away from my duties coming undone to the thought of you? Answer me, sweet wife.”

“Yes,” you sob, nodding fervently, “yes—it does.”

“How fascinating,” he marvels, staring at you with pure awe. His eye twinkles with mischief as he murmurs, “It seems you’re just as filthy as I am. Good. Then I shall never waste another drop of seed on my hand or that tiresome bathroom floor of ours again—this beautiful cunt is more than willing to take me, isn’t it.”

You nod—and just as you do, you fall apart on his cock, spasming around him with tight walls that send him into his own orgasm.

He cums harder than he ever has before. And then he’ll cum again, he thinks. And again. And when he’ll pull his spent cock out, and he’ll notice the beautiful way his release leaks from your cunt, he’ll paint the rest of your body with his release too.

Ayato is a man of reputation, of class—that’s outside your chambers, though. Behind the closed doors, he’s a lustful, shameless man.

And you, his precious, giving wife, allow him to fulfill his ever insatiable desire.

“Why don’t you—”

He lets out a shuddering breath, shaky and almost impatient enough that you simply shut your mouth before stressing him out further. He seems to appreciate it, too, because he doesn’t make anymore extra comments—just makes one last turn, pressing you against a hidden corner behind a wall of pipes and caging you with your back against a cold, hard surface.

“Couldn’t wait,” he breathes. “You were taking too long so I met you halfway”

“What do you mean? Wait for wha—” The buttons of his coat come undone quickly enough that you cut yourself off in shock, watching as he flings off the thick, furry material and lets it drop to the floor. “Wriothesley! The floor is dirty and you drape that thing over me all the time, are you insane—oh.”

Oh.

Your eyes land on the clear reason why he’s been so tensely impatient: a heavy, thick bulge in his pants that’s been covered up until now by the mid-length coat that draped over his torso. He lets out a shaky breath, stepping closer as he presses his face deep into your neck and breathes in your scent.

It seems to only make things worse because he lets out a strangled groan and says hoarsely, “I’ll fucking wash it. Now’s not the time.”

“Wriothesley, we’re in the middle of the—”

It seems today is very keen on forcing all of your sentences to cut off halfway because once again, you can’t finish what you want to say. Not before he grunts and presses his heavy, throbbing erection against your clothed cunt and murmurs, “no, we’re in a hidden corner.”

“We’re right by pipes! Have you never heard the way they carry sound?”

“These don’t lead anywhere important.”

“This is absurd,” you say sternly. He rolls his hips stubbornly, grinding the thick girth of his cock against your heat, separated by fabric but brought together by friction.

“Need you, sweetheart,” he moans lowly, “need you so bad I’m tired of waiting. Please.”

You’re nothing if not a doting girlfriend. A very pliant one, at that—so soft and willing to give into Wriothesley and his whims even when they might land you in compromising positions. (How could you say no when he’s pressed up against you like that, though? How could your mind and body respond with anything except yes when he all but molds his body onto yours and drags himself desperately against your own core? Self control was never an easy task in the first place.)

“A little decorum once in a while would be nice, you know,” you huff—still, your arms go right around his neck like they always do, letting his chest firmly press against yours.

He chuckles, low vibrations that you can feel tickle your ribcage as his nose digs into the skin along the crook of your neck. “I told you,” he murmurs, lips tugging into a crooked, wolfish grin, “we’re hidden. And I’m the duke. I know what goes on in this here fortress—no one will find us.”

Smug is one way to describe him—needy is probably better. Far better. Because the way his hips roll to drag his thick, heavy cock along your cunt is far too impatient to be considered anything else but pure need.

You shudder, head leaning back against the wall as a soft, breathy moan spills from your lips at the way his bulge drags along your clit, the pressure from his cock and the friction of your clothes building a steady ache along your core. You can feel the heat of his confined length, the way it twitches in his pants, the way it leaks with pre cum and dampens his fabric enough to match the wet fabric that clothes your cunt.

“Wr-wrio…” you breathe, voice tapering off into a soft, high pitched whine as he roughly glides against your clit particularly harshly. Your hands search for the familiar fur draped on his shoulders to grip onto—only it’s not there.

It’s on the floor along with the rest of his jacket.

He chuckles roughly, voice low and gruff and a tiny bit labored from the air that doesn’t seem to be in his lungs. His hands reach for your wrists, grabbing them gently before guiding them up to his hair, letting them tangle into the strands as he mumbles lowly, “go ahead and pull, sweetheart. I can take it, yeah?”

Large, scarred hands find your waist, fingers digging into plush skin as he pulls your hips forward, rubbing you along his length while he lets out a raw, throaty groan.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “f-fuck, I just couldn’t wait. Couldn’t…couldn’t wait—you understand, right sweetheart? D-don’t be mad.”

He’s babbling. Voice wavering and sweat clinging to his forehead as he hides into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, where he can breathe in the scent of your perfume and feel his cock swell impossibly harder at the sweetness of your perfume. It’s driving him mad. Borderline throwing him into insanity’s clutches from just the sensation of grinding against you.

It’s nothing like being buried to the hilt inside of you. The wet, warm, tight walls that welcome him in every time, the gummy, soft feel of you wrapping around him and constructing with every thrust. He’d like to spill into you, fuck load after load after load until his mess leaks down your thighs and coats your skin with one more layer of proof that your his.

But he’s not particularly patient enough for that. Not willing to wait until he knows you’re stretched out and dripping enough with slick to take the thick girth of him splitting you open—so instead, he takes this. The feeling of you taking over his senses. The feeling of your heat seeping into his body. The smell of your perfume and sweat invading his nose. The rough, unforgiving sting of your fingers tugging at his hair.

He’s pathetically wrapped around your finger tightly enough that even when he craves for more, anything you give is still enough. Maybe he’s not feeling you, but the feeling of you near him is enough to still satisfy that raging, unforgiving ache that settles between his thighs and goes nowhere. Nowhere.

He’s tried—for long enough before your arrival, he’s tried to ignore the way he grows in his pants. Tightening and straining against crisp fabric that’s not meant to stretch and accommodate his cruel problem. It makes his hands tremble as he signs documents. Makes his mind and thoughts race to memories of you—memories on your face, your voice, your ecstasy.

And he can’t wait.

So he finds you half way along the path to his office, dragging you to a hidden corner where the pipes cover your bodies and the walls muffle your sounds.

Wriothesley is the duke. The fortress is his playground. Whatever he says goes—and if he restricts access to the back east wing before he leaves his office…well, he’s confident no one will come. Not because he doesn’t want anyone to catch him seeking relief in the arms of the only person he can call home, but because anyone seeing, hearing, witnessing the way you break from him alone is sinful.

This meant for him. For his eyes. For his ears. For his cock. You’re meant for him.

“I’m close, baby,” he rasps, “fuck, what’re you doing to me? I’m gonna cum right here in my fucking pants. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” you gasp, tugging his hair to pull him away from your neck and press your foreheads together.

He chuckles, breathy pants fanning along your mouth as his lips hover yours while he murmurs, “yeah? That’s what you want?”

“Yes, Wriothesley,” you whimper, “want you to cum and make me cum, too.”

“I think I can do that, sweetheart. Think I can make that happen right now, if that’s what you need.”

And he doesn’t lie. Because his hips give one, two, three rough thrusts against you, rubbing the hard bulge in his pants along your dripping cunt and swollen clit before he stills for a moment and shudders.

Instinctively, your lips both find each other, swallowing shallow gasps and low moans as you both break at the same time. His cock jerks in between his legs, twitching with rope after rope of thick, sticky cum that soils his boxers and leaks through his trousers.

You don’t fare much better. It feels like you’re soaked—your walls gushing around nothing and dripping your slick essence until it leaves a wet patch on your own panties, dampening through them and leaving you to feel the wetness it leaves.

“More, Wrio,” you cry between kisses, rolling your hips in time with his as you ride out the last waves of your pleasure. A string of saliva connects your lips to his as you pull away to speak.

But he chases after you, closing the gap once more before moaning one last deep sound into your mouth as he slumps against you, pecking your lips once and mumbling, “can’t. We’re in the middle of the fortress, remember?”

It’s smug. So cocky for someone who just took you without even properly taking you right here in a dark, cold corner with pipes surrounding you.

You glare at him, watching as he throws you that easy, confident grin before grumbling, “then lead the way to your office, your grace.”

“With my utmost pleasure, my lady,” he laughs, slowly peeling himself off of you, “who knew you could be so impatient?”

You quirk an unamused eyebrow before glancing down at the wet, messy dark spot along his crotch. He follows your gaze, flushing while you point to the coat on the floor and huff, “put that on before someone sees the absolutely sorry state your pants are in, you smug bastard.”

You fix your clothes, smoothing out your appearance before walking out of the dark corner and heading for his office—and he follows soon after as he buttons his coat, trailing after you like an excited, energetically impatient puppy.

“Rough day?” You ask sympathetically, titling his head up to inspect the blossoming bruise along his skin.

“You have no idea.”

“New prisoners give you trouble?” You smile knowingly, rubbing a hand over his back, pressing the heel of your palm gently into the tight, punishing knots in his muscles as he grunts into your neck.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures. “I put them in place.”

“Not before they set your jaw in place,” you snort, earning a huffed grumble under his breath from him.

“You should see the other guys.” His lips press a small kiss to your skin, sucking gently against your pulse point as he hums approvingly as he inhales your scent. “Rowdy bunch, but I’ll fix ‘em up.”

“Such a hard working duke,” you giggle, “they should compensate you more.”

“Hh?” He chuckles, lifting his head up as he grins at you, “you think so? Think I need deeper pockets for my efforts?”

You hum, leaning in and pressing a slow, but not heatless kiss against his chapped lips, running your hand along his collar until you find the first button, undoing it slightly to reveal more of his sturdy chest. He smiles against your lips, a bit excited, and a little more smug.

“I got you something,” you whisper, voice breathy. He can hear the smile between your words, quirking a brow as he waits for you to continue speaking. “I think you’ll really appreciate it.”

“Who needs better compensation when you’re always rewarding me,” he grins, toothy and charming as he nips at your lips before adding, “plan on showing me this little surprise?”

“Why don’t you unwrap it first,” you murmur, grabbing his hand and guiding it to the hem of your shirt.

His breath hitches—something more carnal, more desperate settles itself into his skin, flushing it a hot shade of crimson along his cheeks and chest, radiating heat along his fingertips that sear into your skin as he works them under your shirt, grazing along your body until they finds your breasts.

He feels the lace, and instantly, he can tell it’s not one he recognizes. It’s new. Something he hasn’t seen yet—it makes him let out a sound of impatience, deep and guttural from his chest as he says huskily, “well, if I must do the work, then so be it.”

He rips your shirt clean off with one tug. It’s his shirt, actually, but you claim it as your own—and you take it very personally, too, when it’s split in two from his impatience.

“Wriothesley!” You scold, gasping as the cool air meets your skin while he discards the torn shreds of fabric.

“There’s more where that came from,” he assures, clicking his teeth as he bites into your neck and says lowly, “let me unwrap my present in peace. I had a long day.”

You roll your eyes, huffing but complying quietly as he admires the dark gray sitting pretty and perfect against your skin, cupping the curves of your breasts beautifully. Wriothesley takes his time, so unlike the impatience he has just moments ago, as he rakes his eyes over your skin slowly. The icy shade of his irises land on the clasp at the front, darkening into a more intense, lust filled shade as they settle on it with interest.

“Like it?” You hum, “Chiori designed it just for me.”

“Did she now?” He raises an eyebrow, trailing a finger along the edge of the padding, tracing the skin of your breast as it spills over the bra, grinning as goosebumps rise where his touch lingers. “I really owe her a proper thank you, don’t I? This’ll make my job a lot easier.”

“It was my idea,” you say petulantly, “what about my thanks?”

“Oh, sweetheart. That’s coming real, real soon.”

You gasp when his hand suddenly undoes the clasp, spilling your tits to the open, cool air of your room as he groans at the sight of your bare chest. He leans down, pressing a kiss to a nipple while you shiver under him.

“All this for me?” he murmurs, hot breath fanning over your skin and contrasting the coolness lingering in the air. “Got a new little set made just for me?”

You nod through a bitten lip, shuddering as he chuckles against you. “Thought you deserved it,” you shiver.

“You shouldn’t have. I might get spoiled, you know.”

“You don’t want to be?” You tease, cutting off yourself slightly with a soft hitch of breath when his rough hand cups the other tit, palm rubbing against a pert nipple and making your eyes flutter closed.

“Oh, I definitely don’t mind,” he flashes you a smooth, toothy grin, one with all too much sharp teeth and all too little shame. “I just think it’ll be a bit of trouble for you to keep up if you get me too spoiled, is all.”

“I don’t think it’s so bad,” you say cheekily, “it’s not exactly a one sided transaction.”

“Oh, I’ll make it worth your while, alright,” he nods—and finally, he wraps his lips around a hardened nipple, grazing his teeth along the nub as his tongue swirls around it, pulling a sweet, helpless little cry from you that shoots straight between his legs where his cock is already half hard.

His rough thumb works the other, rubbing along and pinching teasingly as he whine into his mouth that traps yours into a needy kiss. “Wr-wrio—”

“Yeah baby?” He chuckles, “got something you need’ta say? I’m listening, sweetheart.”

He most certainly is not listening, you want to scowl, because he cuts your words off by pulling a sharp gasp from you as he pinches harder at your clit, making your back arch into the touch as he chuckles. His teeth nip at your jaw, kissing along the skin as your hand cups the back of his head and tangles weak fingers to grasp at his hair.

“You are so….”

“So what?”

“So smug,” you huff, voice strained between pants, “I’m never doing anything nice for you again.”

“Aw, don’t say that, sweetheart,” he pouts theatrically, “you might hurt my feelings. And I didn’t even get to say thank you yet.”

As it seems, Wriothesley’s way of saying thank you is yet again yanking fabric straight off of you, ripping your pants right off your lower half in an unrestrained moment of impatience.

You think you’ll really have to have a chat about his brutish habits one of these days.

“You can’t say thank you by ripping my whole wardrobe,” you gasp, glaring at him with sharp eyes.

“Why would it tear so easily if it wasn’t meant to?” He wriggles his brows, lips curled in a smug, amused little grin that has you melting against the sheets with heat pooling impossibly hotter between your legs at the sight.

Regardless of your irritation at yet another ruined pair of sweats. The conversation can wait until later, though, you think.

“I can’t with you,” you huff.

“Luckily, you don’t have to do much with me, anyway,” he murmurs, lowering his hands to trail over the lacy fabric of your matching gray panties. He marvels at the sight of you, eyes hazy and unfocused as they stay stuck at the dampened spot between your legs. “I-I…I’ll do most of the work,” he stutters.

“Don’t rip these, okay?” You grin, “they cost me a good sum. Surprises aren’t cheap, you know.”

He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily as he mumbles, “you’re trying to kill me, huh?”

You giggle, blinking up at him innocently as you reply, “I’m trying to do something nice for you. You don’t think it’s nice?”

“I think it’s wonderful,” he spreads your legs, hovering between them as he eyes the wet, darkened patch of lace against your dripping cunt even closer, “I just can’t promise I’ll survive long enough to properly appreciate it.”

With that, he presses a kiss against your clit, right through the fabric as you whimper at the minimal contact, twitching into his touch as he laughs.

“Maybe you won’t either,” he flashes a toothy grin, making you huff, unamused.

“Don’t tease,” you scold, “you should be nice to me.”

“You’re right,” he nods, wrenching your thighs apart as he pulls your panties off enough to expose your needy pussy, but not enough to let them past your plush thighs. He like them there, decorating your skin like that for him to see even as he brushes his nose against your clit and kisses at your entrance.

The slick pooling between your legs coats his lips, earning a hum of approval from him as he murmurs, “so sweet. I love this sweet little pussy—don’t you?”

“Wr-wrio—oh, f-fuck,” you arch into him, a surprised gasp leaving your lips, swollen from biting. His tongue is flat against your clit, flicking back and forth against it as his fingers tease your folds, collecting your essence before slowly pressing into your walls.

“Taste so sweet,” he groans, “we don’t have anything like this at the cafeteria.”

“Oh my god,” you whine, slapping his shoulder as he chuckles against your cunt, the vibrations and the hot flash of his breath making you shake against him. “You are so filthy.”

“Yeah? And you’re not having a good time by it?” He challenges, fingers smearing your slick that coats the digits along your inner thigh, grinning as he adds, “you seem like you’re thoroughly enjoying it.”

“Wriothesley,” you plead desperately, “stop teasing. I need you—please.”

“Fuck,” he swears. There’s a harsh twitch of his cock through his pants at the utterly broken sound of your voice—it makes him sink his fingers in instantly before his lips wrap around your clit. “You got me, baby,” he murmurs between sucking on the bundle of nerves, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses against the swollen nub.

“Oh—y-yeah, like that,” you praise, hands finding his hair as your fingers wrap around his strands and tug him impossibly closer. You think he might drown in you—he thinks he might not find a better way to go. “Feels…feels so good, baby.”

He groans into your folds, lapping away at them as his fingers are replaced by his tongue, tasting the sweet, dripping essence of you. His hips grind against the mattress slightly, chasing the slightest bit of friction to relieve the unforgiving throb of his cock.

“M’gonna cum,” you whisper, shaky and broken.

“Then cum,” he demands, “for me.”

You do—like his words command your pleasure. As soon as he tells you to, your cunt flutters with short spasms, pleasure forcing your body into a stiff, tense form as your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back. His tongue works you through your high, traveling between flattening against your clit and fucking into your hole until you’re whining from sensitivity, pulling him away by the hair.

He pulls away. Lips smeared with your slick. Eyes unfocused and dark. Cheeks flushed and red. Hair messed up and plastered to his sweaty forehead.

He looks more fucked out than you, almost. Like he’s just been utterly blissed out to the point of being wrecked just by tasting you.

You giggle, tugging him up to hover over you as you let him pull you into a slow, sensual kiss. You can taste yourself on him. You don’t mind—not when it tastes like his love for you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, “did you know that?”

“I had a hunch,” you breathe, “you seem to be rather enraptured by me.”

“I’m obsessed with you,” he gives you lazy grin.

You don’t answer—not with words, anyway. Instead, you offer him your reply in the form of a hand sneaking between your bodies, carving space between the press of him against you. Your hand rubs him through his pants, earning a low groan from him as he stiffens over you.

“Your clothes are in the way,” you pout.

He huffs a breathy chuckle through his stifled groans, eyes closed as he mumbles, “that’s a problem, huh?”

“A big one.”

“I can fix that, I think,” he hums.

Watching Wriothesley strip himself of his clothes is intimate. Undressing his scars is like holding a magnifying glass to his past, like studying every dark and hurtful era of his life under a microscope.

It’s nice to know he trusts you like that. It’s even nicer to know he wants to trust you like that. Aches to trust you like that. Needs you to let him trust you like that.

Your fingers run along the scar on his chest, and he shivers at the gentle (something he’s never been used to) feel of you.

“I love you,” you murmur.

“Getting sentimental on me?”

“Yeah,” you grin, “don’t like it?”

“Love it,” he laughs. And then he leans down, nose brushing against yours as he kisses you softer than he has yet to kiss you for the night. So delicate, you’d think you’d break. Maybe he’d break. You’re not sure who he’s trying to keep together at this point. “I love you.”

“Then take me,” you whisper, “I want you.”

His breath hitches at that. Something about the way you look at him makes him decide that taking you isn’t enough. He need to give himself up—needs you to accept him.

“Yeah? And I always want you, sweetheart,” he grins smoothly. Tucked away underneath that smooth, boyish, rough and rugged charm, Wriothesley is gentle. Delicate. Vulnerable.

You can see it in the way his hands shake as they grab your hips to help line himself up with your entrance.

“M’ready, Wrio,” you murmur, pulling him into a soft, open mouthed kiss as he presses his cock against your dripping entrance.

He’s hard—painfully, achingly, and unbearably impatient to feel him around him. The curve of his length has always fit you perfectly, nudged against the right spots and dragged along the perfect ridges of your walls without trying. He sinks into you slowly, inch by inch. Like he’s scared the moment will end too quickly if he goes any faster.

“You feel that?” He groans, once he’s fully pressed into you, buried to the hilt. “Feel what you do to me? You’ll be the death of me one day.”

“They’d get tired of you,” you breathe, strained voice from the way he’s practically splitting you open. “In the afterlife. Send you right back to me.”

He laughs, head burying into your neck before he roughly pulls out just to slam back into you. Once. Twice. Again. Another time. Once more. Until a steady, unwavering rhythm is built and his body is practically one with hours.

“Fuck,” he groans, letting out whiny little pants against your ear that make you question if you’ll near the edge again simply from the sound of him alone. “Fuck, sweetheart—you…you’re so perfect. Take me so nice, make me feel so good.”

“How good?” You ask shakily, voice a strangled, choked version of itself as his thrusts make your words quiver with every snap of his hips.

“Good enough to buy out that damn boutique,” he grunts, “get you every color. Every fabric. Every style. And then I’ll fuck you in all of them to see which one looks best, yeah? You like the sound of that? Think you can handle it? I bet you’d enjoy it, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod, eyes tearing at the corners as his fat tip presses against the spongy, sensitive spot against your walls, balls clapping against your ass as his pre cum mixes with your slick and leaves a mess between your bodies.

You don’t mind it though. You like the mess. You like the proof of him taking you, making you his, having you until your mind can’t think straight.

“Gonna need more than that,” he says lowly, biting your shoulder and making you whimper. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes—yes,” you sob, “I want it. Want it, want it so bad. Want you to take me right there in that fitting room.”

“Oh?” He breathes out a small chuckle, “that’s quite the fantasy. I’ll see what I can do, baby.”

His thumb reaches to find your clit, rubbing harsh circles in sync with his low, strained voice as he calls you baby. You break at that—hurdle into your second orgasm while his fucks into you with a sloppier pace.

“Oh—g-god, Wriothesley! C-cumming,” you gasp.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, “yeah, yeah. Let me feel you, princess. Fuck.”

His hips are frenzied now—like the height of your pleasure being achieved lets him free, lets him stop holding back as he chases his own orgasm desperately.

It doesn’t take long. One tug of his hair from you to pull him out of your neck and into a heated kiss makes him fall off the edge himself, cock twitching and pouring thick, hot ropes of cum into your abused cunt. The aching pleasure between both of your legs should be too much.

It’s never quite enough.

There’s no enough of Wriothesley. He’s not sure there’ll ever be enough you, either.

“Fuck, fuck—you’re so good to me, baby. So sweet. Can’t believe you’re my sweet little thing. Come home to that pretty face and this perfect pussy. What’d I do to deserve it?”

He’s babbling, words falling from his tongue in cracked syllables as he paints your walls white. Finally—finally, after what feels like an eternity of over sensitivity, he stills. Milked dry with the remnants of his sticky release coating your walls, the insides of your thighs, the base of his cock. He doesn’t even bother pulling out—just collapses over your body as he buries his nose between your breasts.

“You think she could make a set that matches my cuffs?” He asks, grinning into your skin.

You huff between labored breaths, slapping his shoulder as you mumble, “I’m not asking that. I have a sense of dignity.”

“You want me to ask?”

“Absolutely not.”

He pouts, looking up at you as he grumbles, “you’re no fun.”

He likes traversing the Night Kingdom, likes to speak to those who have borne his name before him. Dying isn’t so bad when you get a chance to see the things he does in the realm of the Wayob.

But you don’t like to see the aftermath. Blood. Bruises. Cuts. Gashes. Sometimes mangled limbs. Every time he falls in battle, the aftermath serves as a jarring reminder that revival is miracle you can’t take for granted.

Kinich doesn’t understand it, but he tries to. He holds you when he comes back, listening to you sniffle into his chest. He’s always silent as his hand rubs along your back, always unsure of what to say.

I lost you, you’ll always whisper first.

I was always going to come back, he’ll always respond.

The Pyro Archon, you think, loves fiercely enough to rival the God of Cryo herself. The Tsaritsa, God of Love, loves clearly. It’s delicate as it leaves chills, and yet, it is reserved, rare to find after she’s hardened herself. The God of War’s love takes form in the exact opposite. It’s blazing. Warm. Unrelenting. Irrevocably bright. It’s a flame that never dies out, that never needs a ceremony or ritual to keep burning like the contending fire.

She loves all of her children—you know that because you see it on her face, too.

The brief, fleeting flash of horror every time she sees a body. The bitter pride that comes with such a noble sacrifice. She loves her people, and that’s why, when your tears hit the ground as you cry for a fallen Kinich, she gives your hand a squeeze right before she brings enters the night kingdom to bring him back.

The people of Natlan are proud of their history. So much, that they find honor in dying for the cause.

You think you’re the only exception.

You and death are not good friends. You don’t like the way it mocks you with the limp hands of the boy you love and his beat-less heart. You don’t like the way it cozies up against him, dragging him away from you with its hand clasped firmly in his.

It never takes him away for too long before it gives him right back, but you don’t like sharing.

Not Kinich. Not with death.

Your broken out of your thoughts when his fingers gently press into your cheeks, squeezing them together as his hand tilts your head up from his chest to look into his eyes.

“I’m okay,” he insists bluntly, but never without that gentleness.

You’d laugh any other time. Always so straight to the point, you’d tease if it were some other day.

Instead, this time, you sniffle once more before you croak, “you don’t know what it’s like to witness.” Slowly, your hand creeps up his body, traveling over his abdomen before coming to a stop right over his heart. “This time…this time it was here.”

This pilgrimage, Kinich comes back to you with a stab through his heart. Other times, he’s returned pierced through his lungs from behind. Or perhaps with a bloodied head, split open by a blunt force.

It never gets easier. This time, however, you think it’s gotten even harder.

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s contemplating what to say before he decides to toss the idea of words out entirely. Suddenly, his hands find your waist, flipping you to sit on his lower belly, legs straddling his hips.

Kinich isn’t always good with words. He can count on one hand the number of people he’s had in his life to love. His life has not been kind enough to him to allow keeping all fingers up at the same time.

One for his mother. Down.

One for his father. Down.

And one for you. Up.

He’s sure one day, he might be able to lift a finger for Mualani and Kachina, too. He cares a great deal about them, of course. But love is a difficult thing for him to grasp—perhaps because it’s always been something he never got in full.

Not until you.

More than most people, Kinich understands loss. You know that. He understands it too well, in fact. Sometimes, he wonders if he’d lost his father’s love long before the body was limp and lifeless to show for it. Sometimes, he wonders if his mother ever loved him enough to count as a loss at all. Maybe if she had, then she wouldn’t have walked away. Maybe she never loved him quite as much as she loved herself.

But you’re different for him. You love him more than you love anything else. More than yourself, too. He’s never been loved more than anything else. His father loved gambling, maybe even the burn of alcohol on his tongue, too. His mother loved freedom, and more than that, she loved the idea of living in the absence of fear. Neither loved him more than any of those things.

So, you’re different. You know that, too. You’re a loss he can’t comprehend. Not that he’s ever had to, of course, but his brain cannot handle the idea of being without you.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t fully understand your pain. Maybe that’s why he wonders why knowing he’ll always come back from falling isn’t enough to soothe you.

He’s never loved someone who he knew would come back even in the face of death. It’s a luxury, he thinks sometimes—you get to love him with the luxury of a safety net. But you’re too precious to feel the weight of a real loss. He hopes he can shield you from it for as long as he can, one pilgrimage at a time.

His hands settle for your hips, squeezing once, twice, a third time before he sits up and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

You kiss back easily. Drinking the breath straight from his mouth is best proof that he’s alive. You take it in greedily.

“I’m okay,” he repeats one more time. This time, it’s a much softer tone. Like a gentle reminder. Like a plead to understand.

His hand grabs yours, pressing it right over his heart so you can feel the erratic beating under your palm. Just from kissing you, it’s rapid enough that he almost feels he should be embarrassed. But you close your eyes and let out a shaky breath, making him watch you carefully as he takes in the relief in your face.

“You’re okay,” you nod slowly.

“I am,” he agrees.

You don’t know when it happens or who starts it first. One moment, your hand is traveling under his shirt to feel his bare skin, to have better contact with him so you can feel more proof he’s alive.

Warm skin. Flexing muscle. Damp sweat. When your hand finds his heart again, his hand cups the back of your head and pulls you into a heated kiss.

Clothes come off after that. It’s a blur. It’s not until you untie the bandana to uncover his forehead do you really take it all in.

Bare under you, Kinich is alive. The proof his body is breathing and pumping blood through his veins is right there before you—standing tall between his legs in the form of a flushed, red cock. Blood rushed there to prove his desire for you.

“Last time, it was here,” you whisper, thumb tracing a pale, faint scar over his ribcage, right where his lung is. “Did it hurt?”

“It did,” he nods, studying you as you don’t meet his eyes. “I don’t remember much of that, though.”

“Do you like it?” You whisper. “Is that why you do it?”

He’s silent. And then, quietly: “Sometimes.”

“Why?” You breathe, cupping his cheeks as you search his eyes for an answer.

Finally, in a rare moment, he chuckles. “Because it’s good to remember I’m alive,” he murmurs, “right before you die is when you realize you’re alive the most. Why you’re alive, too.”

“I don’t understand,” you furrow your brows in frustration. He smiles fondly, kissing your jaw as he lets out a low hum.

“I think of you,” he whispers, sucking sweetly into your skin, “and then I remember how you’re alive, too. Every time I die, you get to stay alive a little more.”

The abyss never goes away. Now, more than ever, he’s aware of that. It’s a war he has to see the winning side of, no matter the price.

There’s a loss this time that he’s unwilling to pay. Can’t bear to witness. Can’t allow to happen.

You decide you give up trying to understand—much like you do every year. Instead, you throw yourself into feeling him, pulling him into a heated, deeper kiss as your tongue glides against his. You give into the battle fast, letting him take the lead and taste you.

You’re not one for battles, not like Kinich is. You’d rather relish in peace than remember the cruelties of war.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips. “I can’t lose you.”

“You’ve never lost me,” he argues.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” you admit quietly.

“Then let me show you I’ve always been right here.”

As if on cue, his cock twitches between your bodies, hot and throbbing as it presses against your lower belly. You reach between your bodies, wrapping around the thick girth before your thumb grazes the tip.

He shudders, stifling a groan as you slowly smear the dribbling pre cum along his length, taking gentle care to make sure you don’t hurt him.

You’ve seen Kinich hurt enough times.

“Does that feel good?” You grin slightly, watching his eyes flutter shut as you stroke him up and down, fisting around him in a tight squeeze.

“Feels great,” he breathes, “like I’m very alive.”

“Good,” you nod.

“Fuck,” he chokes when you squeeze around the tip, pace quickening as you glide your palm up and down along him faster.

Faster.

The faster he cums, the faster you’re proven he’s living once more.

But he stops you—right before he can spill into your hand, a shaky wrist comes to force yours to stop moving. You look at him questioningly, and he closes his eyes and takes labored breaths to calm himself from the slow, fading orgasm that would’ve shaken through his body.

“What are you—oh,” you gasp, when your body is flipped to lay on your back, Kinich hovering above you as he stares down at you.

You think love is the look in his eyes when he sees you like this, every time. That longing in his pupils, desperate and almost pained even though you’re right there.

Loving something is always a double edged sword. It hurts just as much as it heals—the scabs forming around your heart from his temporary departure is proof of that.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing along your neck.

I love you isn’t something Kinich says often. You feel his love in other ways. The fresh fruit he brings you on his way back from a commission. The small kiss between your brows he always greets you with, and the delicate kiss to your mouth when he leaves. The hand on the small of your back as he guides you along places, never letting you feel his absence. The pillow he shares with you every night when you invade his space and take up his side of the bed.

You know he loves you. Being reminded is a good feeling, though. Your body shivers as you feel a familiar ache building up between your legs at his sudden confession.

“More than anything?” You ask.

“Yes,” he responds, amused.

“You better not be lying,” you warn playfully.

He chuckles—you’re slowly coming back to your usual self. Causal teasing and playful flirting. You’re all the things he’s not. Open. Vulnerable. So inexplicably bright. You smile and something in him heals. Something in him itches to do better—be better.

“When have I ever lied to you?” He challenges.

You pretend to think for a moment before caving and stretching your lips into a wide grin. The first real smile of the night. You pull him close, kissing him again. Just to kiss him. There’s no heat or desire this time around.

He kisses back sweetly. Just to kiss you.

“What did you see this time?” You whisper when you pull away. “In the Night Kingdom.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, tracing shapes into your hip with his thumb, “I think I was too busy thinking of you.”

Kinich is only flirty when he avoids something. He’s only ever indirect when he doesn’t want you to know something. It takes form in less honest, more playful banter that he learns from you.

You sigh, rolling your eyes half-heartedly as you whisper, “don’t lie to me.”

“I did think of you,” he insists. “It’s not a lie. I always think of you.”

He decided to prove it by dropping down to busy himself between your legs, gently spreading them enough to press his nose against your clit as he breathes you in.

Sweet. You’re always sweet. You taste and smell it. You drip of honeyed, saccharine desire. When his tongue presses between your folds, he thinks he’s dipping it in gold.

“K-kinich, wait—”

“You say that every time,” he raises a smug brow. His fingers press into you, spreading you open as he inspects your fluttering walls. “But you never mean it, do you?”

Filthy, you think. He’s got an air of pure obscenity to him that you’re sure comes only when he’s tired of feeling alone. When he needs to know you’re here for good and not just for the moment.

“You play dirty,” you scowl, twitching when his tongue swirls over your clit, the smooth rumble of his chuckle vibrating against the sensitive bud. His fingers curl into you, pressing against a very delicate, very responsive spot in the back of your walls.

“Is that so?” He drawls, “you don’t exactly seem to mind it,” he murmurs.

And then his lips wrap around your clit, sucking as his tongue rolls in circles against it as you writhe. You can feel the tips of his digits bully into that same spot over and over, making your back arch as you whine.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “baby, please.”

You don’t know what you’re pleading for. He’s giving you what you want exactly how you want it—maybe that’s why you always say it, though. So you can never stop having him. Asking and asking and hoping he’ll give you everything without pausing.

He does, too. Kinich never gives half of himself into anything. For the right price, you get all of him. You pay the price in gentle kisses along his cheek and soft fingertips in his hair. In a warm lap under his cheek when he’s tired and a soft voice to remind him he’s not alone. In a worried look every time he’s scuffed and a soft smile every time your eyes meet his.

You pay the price of your love, and he compensates you with the reward of his. It’s a fair trade.

The only difference is that unlike his other deals, Kinich would still pay his love to you even if you stopped paying yours. He couldn’t stop if he tried. It’s an exception he doesn’t exactly choose to make, but doesn’t necessarily want to change, either.

Lucky for him, you don’t show any signs of pulling away.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, whispering the words into your cunt like he’s speaking directly to your desire, “and mine.”

“G-gods,” you moan, hand flying to grasp at his hair and tug as his fingers quicken their pace, fucking into your heat mercilessly as his tongue rolls over your clit.

It’s hot. It always is in the Pyro Nation. But hotter is the growing desire in the pit of your belly, and the heat between your legs that only one person can ignite. The flames lick at your sanity before something erupts in your system and all you feel is a gush of pure, white hot pleasure.

“That’s it,” he praises, working you through your orgasm as you let out a soft cry of his name.

Kinich is alive. You know that because only he could make you feel this way, and he is. He’s making you feel like there’s love between your legs as he coaxes the height of pleasure from you, buried into the apex of your thighs like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. You’re reminded that instead of blood dripping from his fingertips, it’s the essence of your arousal.

You’re reminded that when you need him, he’s never not there. Never leaving you behind from this world into another.

“I love you,” you blurt out in a post-orgasm haze.

He looks up at you with a toothy grin. It’s so rare to see him smile so freely. It’s like a child’s, sometimes. Something youthful and joyful and almost innocent enough that it makes your heart ache a little more than it does feel full.

Only a little, though.

“You say that a lot when I make you cum,” he laughs smoothly, a boyish and sweet little sound. You huff with a roll of your eyes.

“You do too,” you counter. “Maybe we only love each other when we feel good.”

“I always feel good with you,” he grins.

“I can make you feel a whole lot better,” you wink, wriggling your brows in a playful, tempting offer.

He takes it. With another soft laugh, he climbs up your body to hover his face over yours, admiring the sweat clinging to your forehead like it’s proof of his good work.

“Go on then,” he whispers. “Make me feel better. I just died today, you know.”

“I know,” you grumble only slightly, “I remember that very clearly. It was very rude of you.”

“My sincerest apologies,” he offers.

When Kinich was young, love was transactional. His father loved him with a box of sweets when a gamble of wages doubled. His mother was happy enough to afford him her gaze when there were flowers in the vase. He knew from early on not to expect any of it unless the proper price was offered.

And then he learned necessities were transactional, too. To exist is to pay a price. He watched as strangers took away his home, the remainder of his family’s belongings packed away as his mother wiped her tears. Food is not free when she is not there to tend to crops. Clothes don’t come easy when your father spends his days drinking away instead of working.

Without mora, you survive more than you live.

He hated it. Hated not having enough. Not being enough. He wasn’t enough to make his father want to be good and he wasn’t enough to make his mother want to stay. Didn’t have enough to offer for something as simple as unconditional love.

Love with you feels a lot different than what he’s grown up learning. You love him even when he’s closed off and a little cold. When his blunt words are a little too blunt and his words press hard into you with force. When he’s tired, and can’t offer you proper company, you love him, too. When he’s gone for days at a time for a commission further away, you still love him as you wait.

It’s always enough for you even when what he gives really isn’t enough at all.

He stopped trying to understand a long time ago. He’s still human—not everything can make sense with the logic of equal transaction. Sometimes, he just wants. Sometimes, he can’t give enough for what he wants. You always give it, though.

He’s stopped trying to make sense of it all for the sake of finally knowing joy. Peace. Possibly even comfort.

“Why do you love me?” He asks softly, rubbing the tip of his hard cock against your thigh. You rub along his bare back with a gentle hand, feeling the goosebumps raise along his skin under your palm.

“Because it’s easy to,” you answer.

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t life hard enough?” You shrug, “it’s nice having something simple. Loving you is easy, and that’s enough.”

“I don’t understand,” he mirrors your words from earlier. “But as long as you don’t stop, I think it’s okay.”

You want to tell him you’ll never stop loving. Every flame in Natlan will have to burn out before you stop loving Kinich. You’re confident that it’s impossible that will ever happen. But instead of words, you gently reach between your bodies to grab at his cock—it’s been hard and neglected for long enough that he lets out a soft, needy sound at the sudden touch.

You bring him to brush against your entrance, murmuring a soft, “I want you,” before he groans in response.

“Fuck,” he says shakily, “me too.”

And then, finally, he presses his tip into you, pushing past your folds and nudging into the deepest part of you.

He’s alive. You know that because you can feel him in the most rawest, purest way. Bare skin to skin. Warmth on warmth. Sweat against sweat. Body tangled into body. He’s alive and here and you can feel all of him at once.

He’s everywhere. He’s in your lungs as you kiss him and steal his breath. He’s in your heart as you feel it skip a beat for him. He’s in your soul as it burns at the very idea of him. And he’s in your cunt as he presses himself into you with a roll of his hips.

You love him when he’s alive.

You love him when he’s dead.

You love him when he’s resurrected.

You love him when he’s yours like this.

“Kinich,” you gasp, letting out a breathless moan as his tip slams into that spongy spot in your walls, “there—y-yes, like that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, grinning a little smugly enough that you feel embarrassed to already be this fallen apart. “I know exactly where.”

“Smooth talker for someone who ruined my whole day,” you huff.

“I told you I’m okay,” he grunts lowly. He kisses your throat, right over your pulse as he whispers, “I’m right here.” You whine as he rolls his hips particularly harshly to slam his cock into your most delicate spot.

“Knowing something is coming back doesn’t mean you like losing it,” you argue. “I don’t want you anywhere but here.” He gasps when your legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer as you squeeze tighter around him.

You hate seeing Kinich fall because you’re reminded it’ll happen one day for real. There’ll come a time where he won’t be resurrected. You don’t like being reminded of this simple truth.

He doesn’t understand it because he’s always too busy denying your fall. He’s too busy making sure he fights every battle to win this war so you can live beside him. So you don’t have to succumb to the cruel likes of the abyss.

Neither of you can seem to grasp the other’s mortality very well. So you try to forget in the feeling of being lost in each other’s bodies. Where proof of life blooms in every inch of skin. Every labored breath and drop of sweat, every flex of muscle and rapid thrum of a heart.

You’re alive, and so is Kinich.

He’s not alone, and neither are you.

No one has had to bear a loss, and that’s all that matters. For now, at least.

“You feel so good,” he says hoarsely, letting out a soft, low whine when your walls flutter around him at the praise. “C-can’t…can’t live without you.”

“Don’t say that,” you sob, reaching your limit, “enough talk about living. I’m tired of it.”

“Okay,” he breathes, “then just cum again for me. I want to feel you do it around me this time.”

Your second orgasm makes you forget Kinich is alive. You’re too busy feeling the rush of life yourself. Your body burns with pleasure through every nerve, the familiar snap of pressure between your legs that has your entire form spasming under Kinich.

“’M c-cumming,” you sob, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, muffling your sounds into his mouth as he swallows them whole.

“For me,” he hums.

“F-for you. Always for you.”

And then he cums too. Hard. For the last time, you’re hit with the evidence that he’s here with you and not somewhere else. Somewhere unreachable. Somewhere in a world apart from you.

He’s spilling warm, sticky cum into your walls with shaky arms holding him up above you, desperate rolls of his hips as he lets out choked sounds.

Skin slaps against skin and a combination of your arousals leaves a mess smeared between your legs, spilling down your inner thighs.

“Fuck—ngh. I’m…I’m…” he trails off.

He’s never been good with words like you. So instead, he buries his head into your neck and presses his nose into your skin, letting you cradle the back to his head so he knows you’re there.

“I know,” you pant, letting him fuck himself into you and ride out the high of his orgasm.

I know you need me. I need you too.

When he slumps over your body, you can feel his heart beat against yours. Rapid. Erratic. Harsh. Pounding. All of it is proof you’re both painfully mortal as you are alive.

“I love you,” you both whisper at the same time, utterly spent.

“You’re alive,” you breathe out a sigh of relief as your eyes close tiredly.

He hums, lifting his head to press a soft peck to your lips before he slumps into your neck against. “And so are you,” he murmurs in exhaustion.

You both fall asleep together with another year behind you.

the lion ignores the latest gap moe update

taglist:

@moristhesecond @hunnieknight @haithxm-main

@mikoochaan

@greyrain23 @reideneris @bro-im-just-playing @teabutmakeitazure @meimeimeirin

@psychopomp-enthusiast @jade1605 @mochinon-yah @eussstasss @lillieofth3valley

@ichikanu @harmonysanreads @yellowelectroslime @miraclecherryblossomsblog @rossithepixie

@schoenpepper @cadesthings @creationsabyss @hirotasama @jth12

@alhaithams-malewife @oliaxter @angeveins @sakisud @xhongshan

@materlux @lost-in-the-night-skiess @shinha @m1kuz0ne @vashyuu

he thinks you look pretty when you’re hips are desperately trying to hump against his waiting mouth.

“you appear so eager, is there something i may do for you?” the general beneath you chuckles and your thighs twitch into either sides of his cheeks as he gives your ass another hard squeeze. he follows the pinch with a soft kiss against your clit before he suckles slowly at the bud a few moments later and you whine.

“let me cum.. you know e-exactly what you’re doing.” his sharp, amber eyes flicker towards you when you blink down at him, pouting. the sweet expression makes him hum, low and gravely before he pulls away from your slick cunt with a pop to give you a soft smile and a lazy blink.

“is that so? but that expression you’re wearing.. is undoubtedly awe-inspiring.” jing yuan drawls and you feel your hips almost vibrate over him when he dips between your legs once more, exploring your pussy with his tongue before it’s swirling around your clit with the purpose of tasting even more of you. his next words vibrate against your cunt as he breathes into you. “i simply would like to admire it a little longer.”

“please, i need more.” it’s almost uncontrollable; the way your hips twitch against his face - clit bumping his nose as the friction makes you arch.

you’re squirming, thighs threatening to close around his cheeks but jing yuan easily keeps you still so he can have you the way he wants you. you had offered yourself to help him unwind after a long day afterall, it’s just been a particularly long week and he needs you even more than he usually does. “yes, yes- i can understand your impatience, my dear, but you agreed to relax by my terms, did you not?” he teases because he knows he’s right, and you do too.

“and how delightful it is for me to be able to unwind like this after such a long day.” his movements continue their lazy pace as you make a needy sound above him, feeling him drag and flick his tongue over your sensitive bud before he sucks it between his teeth—watching you with heavy eyes for your reaction as his cock twitches, leaking in his pants. he has no intention of taking care of that right now, he has other matters to focus on currently - like how wet you are as your slick coats his cheeks and chin with every bump of your pussy against his lips as he kitten licks you teasingly. “i’m truly indebted to you..”

jing yuan’s voice trembles beneath you, muffled by your folds but you feel every syllable when it rolls along your nerves. “and you know i never fail to reward that which is given, my dear.”

⭒ SUNDAY

sunday loved going down on you, he viewed it as an art of sorts - to have your pleasure beneath his fingertips and his lips, he loved the feeling of your walls and your slick. to have you relying on him entirely for your pleasure, what’s not to love? he almost had you completely at his mercy.. although he could be particularly wicked when he wanted to be.

it makes you jolt - the way your lovers fingers come down on your clit, slapping the bud quickly and you almost feel embarrassed under the head of the oak family’s gaze as he stares at you from between your thighs. he’s watching the way your saccharine cunt swallows up two of his fingers - soaking the skin until it’s glistening everytime he pulls back. you’re turned on by a simple act of pain, an act of personal virtue that he can’t help but want to reward.

“you truly are a vision.” sunday’s amber eyes cut up into you when your body twitches - you feel too hot for your skin, like he’s worshipping you from where he’s resting on his knees at the end of the bed, leaving your hips to hang from the mattress so he can have you. his usual hairstyle is mused from where your hands were tangled in his hair moments ago; there was a certain intimacy to seeing the usual perfect man look a little fucked out and needier than usual - despite the way he insists he’s the one pulling the strings.

you gasp with the next deep press of his fingertips into you, pressing tight against the doughy spots inside of your pussy and his eyes glint darkly as he exhales. “yes, it’s quite magnificent. i don’t think i will ever tire of seeing you like this, it seems i’ve come to know your preferences quite well.”

despite how he may seem unphased - sundays cheeks are flushed and his chest is rising and falling quickly, in time with the way his fingers are sinking into you as your hands grab fists of the luxurious comforter on his bed beneath you. his next press pushes more slick out of you, and he can’t help but lean in to lap it up, humming at the taste of you along his taste buds that the movement grants him.

“such a delectable taste.. although you seem to have become quite the mess. hm- is this truly all it takes?” his eyes close momentarily as he buries himself between your slick folds, his wings trembling slightly as the soft feathers tickle along your inner thighs and it only pushes you even closer to your orgasm as you back arches. you’re so sensitive as his fingers keep their smooth pace and when you throb around his slender digits he can’t help but moan into you. “but fret not, you will be rewarded, my dear- i assure you.”

sunday continues to suck and swirl at your clit with his tongue, determined to pull more reactions out of you - to keep you under his control with his movements, fuelled by pleasure and lust. your thighs quiver from where they’re resting over his shoulders when he suckles hard on the sensitive bud, makes his wings shudder when you reach to grab another fistful of his hair.

he’s pretty sure the pressed, perfect fabric of his slacks is almost completely soaked through with precum at this point - but you were truly a temptation he could not resist.

sunday gasps when you pull at his roots hard, but it makes his cock twitch despite his better judgement. so he lets his tongue loll out to flatten against your folds in return as the pads of his fingers graze the swollen spot inside of you. you rock your hips back and forth against his mouth while panting his name, like it’s a mantra, a prayer —spurred on by his quiet, breathy moans. “p-please, please!”

he feels himself smile against your folds as he gives into you, he was merciful afterall - especially when you’re so nobly begging for him despite the way he’s the one on his knees, worshipping you. “yes, that’s it. say my name, let me hear you plea for me, my love. maybe then i will grant you what you truly desire.”

⭒ BOOTHILL

boothill was an eager eater although he did enjoy teasing you in his own way - making good use of his sharp teeth by grazing them along your puffy clit or putting his stamina as a cyborg to good use. it was almost impossible to tear him away from your folds once he began taking his fill of you, he’ll leave you trembling and spent - only then will he feel satisfied (maybe).

your thighs are pinned to the bed beneath the cool press of the ranger’s metal forearms as he shoves his face between your legs - lapping messily at your clit as he chuckles lowly at the sweet reactions he’s pulling from you. he was always so smug at how good he could make you feel, he got off on it - on the arch of your back and the way your lips would part to pant, to beg and moan.

but no matter how much you struggle or move, boothill manages to easily keep you pinned beneath him and your hips tremble when you feel his sharp teeth deliberately graze along your clit a second later. it makes you jolt, thighs squeezing beneath the press of his forearms and you hear him chuckles lowly against his next mouthful of your pussy as he looks up at you with a raised brow. “you sure are sweet, huh?”

you cry out for him and oh is it like music to his ears as your eyes prick with pleasured tears. but still, he keeps you beneath his body, overheating skin cooling beneath the press of the metal and it only makes you feel even better as he groans against you; ragged and hungry as the sweet vibration of his voice makes you shake. “you sure seem to be enjoying this, darlin’. you’re real pretty from down here.”

boothill’s praise feels like it drips through you, rolling down your spine as he presses his tongue between your folds and he moans shamelessly when he feels your walls squeeze around him, like you’re pulling him right in. another breath and he pulls away with a loud pop before he’s smirking up at you, flashing you a handsome grin before he’s diving back in to suddenly nibble at your clit softly.

the pleasure catches you off guard but you can’t help how loudly it makes you respond, thighs quaking beneath his forearms as you desperately try to hump your pussy against him for more. it feels like it sparks something hot inside of your nerves as he whistles teasingly up at you. “oh, you liked that, didn’t ya?” he hums, sultry and low - you have to bite on your lower lip at the effect the tone has on you.

boothill’s nose knocks against your clit a moment later, like he’s soothing it from the sharp edges of his teeth, followed by him lewdly smacking and slurping at the bud like he’s kissing it better. he was truly intoxicating, the way he could work the human body despite the now metal of his own - he still remembers every nerve, every spot - the plush feel of your skin beneath him and the warmth of your cunt against his mouth.

he felt like he was on cloud nine and it only makes him feel even better when he feels you begin to tense - you’re close and he can tell. he can taste the way your slick is growing in volume against every lap of his tongue, flattening it against you before he’s choosing to throw you over the edge with another graze of his teeth along your clit. it’s almost immediate the way he feels your thighs begin to wrestle against him as you desperately try to close your legs at the pleasure - he’d never let you run from it though.

“hah- gotcha. dirty girl.”

⭒ BLADE

blade was ruthless whenever he went down on you, leaving you spent and panting. the way he handled you was driven with such hunger, all sharp edges and rough lines that are to be expected from the stellaron hunter. not that you minded, especially not when you’re trembling from the pleasure; beneath the push and pull of his large palms as he pulls you even deeper into his warm mouth, rocking you along his tongue.

but one thing about your lover - was he never left you unsatisfied, which is why now, you’re resting against the damp sheets of your bed as he presses himself between your thighs. his want for you is obvious in the way he’s drinking you up, groaning with every swipe of his tongue against your puffy clit - he’s basking in the way your thighs squeeze his cheeks with every press. you’re squirming, thighs threatening to close around his cheeks but he’s so much stronger than you, keeping you spread open lewdly for his tongue to drag and flick over your sensitive bud, sucking it between his teeth as he pins you to the mattress beneath you.

“hold still.” blade grunts as he pulls away from your slick cunt to glare up at you, you’re so close and the last thing you want to do is have him pull away because you won’t obey what he’s asking. so you try, with what little self control you can to stay still, but the pleasure he brings to you is so good - you can barely help yourself.

it doesn’t take long, he’s messy and fearless when it comes to eating pussy - his cheeks and the lower half of his chin are slick with your juices, but when he closes his lips around your clit to suck harshly he doesn’t care about anything else except the way it makes you stiffen beneath him as you suddenly cum.

you’re reduced to weak, breathless pants of his name - hands pulling fists of his hair as you cream along his tongue and blade feeds into you, groaning at the taste of your pleasure that he’s earned. he’s exploring your pussy with his tongue before it’s swirling around your clit with the purpose of prolonging your blissful state, watching you with heavy eyes as he feels himself twitch at the expression on your face.

but he doesn’t stop there, even when you’re almost melting beneath him - trying to push yourself up the mattress and away from your lovers eager mouth as pushes his tongue past your folds to dip into your clenching hole. “i.. i came already.” you gasp and your thighs shake beneath you when his mouth trails along your puffy, sensitive pussy.

but blade makes light work of wrapping his arms around your thighs to pull you back down the mattress towards him, sending you a sharp look like you’ve just threatened to take a carnivore’s meal from him. you feel his teeth trail their way up the inside of your thigh against before his next groan fans over your messy cunt.

“and? i’ve yet to take my fill.”

⭒ AVENTURINE

aventurine took such amusement in teasing you whenever he’d go down on you - despite the reality that it affected him so immensely he’s surprised he hasn’t cum in his pants a few too many times to count. but still, he can’t deny the sweet pay off that came from pulling orgasms out of you, that sweet look you would always give him, the way your hands would tug at his hair or your thighs would twitch beneath his movements. you were oh so addictive, it’s a habit that he doesn’t ever want to kick.

“what? is that all you can take?” you feel your thighs tremble as the pretty colours of your boyfriends eyes narrow up at you from between your legs. the soft colour of his hair falls over his gaze slightly, but his stare still has you keening when you feel the pad of his thumb roll your swollen, puffy clit languidly. “my, my.. a pity, i do enjoy seeing that expression of yours.”

aventurine breathes deliberately across the slick petals of your cunt, petting his fingers through you as he uses the pad of his finger to draw sticky shapes between your folds. it’s deliberately slow, accompanied by ever so slight kitten licks between his movements. the featherlight touches only make you arch into him for more despite the way you’re already babbling and spent.

“if you ask me, i think you’re holding back- youve not given me you’re all yet, have you?” he purrs his words against you as he leans in, letting the low drawl of his voice vibrate through you as your thighs shake and he chuckles at the wet, lidded look you give him.

aventurine hums, basking in the way he’s locked your gaze with his - taking his opportunity to make this a little more of a game for you both as his mind begins to turn, accompanied by the way his cock throbs all the same. “how about this.. if you can give me another one, then i’ll give you a break, how about it, hm?” he smirks, followed by another sweet, convincing kiss pressed against your puffy clit. “a pretty fair deal, don’t you think?”

you don’t answer him straight away, you can’t when he’s still rubbing at you so intoxicatingly - bathing you in attention and small flicks of his tongue between breathes. a break sounds good, but you don’t want him to pull away either, even though the pleasure is so good it almost burns.

aventurine’s voice calls to you, pulling you back out from your dazed state to back in the present - to his question as he sends you another narrowed look. “oh, come on- don’t keep me waiting. times ticking, will you take the gamble? the choice is yours.” you’re pretty sure this is how the sailors felt when a sirren was calling them out to sea.

your lips part and he deliberately rewards you with a slow kiss against your folds, twisting into you as he lavs and rolls his tongue over your clit slowly while your head presses back against the cushions. but still, you manage to answer, albeit your reply is strangled and tight. “o-okay.”

you feel the way aventurine smiles against your folds with your reply, it’s exactly what he knew you were going to say afterall - you could hardly refuse such perfect terms and then he gets to see even more of you like this. “hah- now that was easy, wasn’t it? and just as i expected.” another kiss against your folds and he’s deliberately being a little hungrier this time, breathing heavy as his fingers move to spread your lewdly, opening more space for him to dive into as he chuckles lowly.

his eyes are still on you when you give him a slow, lidded blink and he smirks before smearing more spit along your spread cunt.

“but remember i don’t do deals where i’m on my losing end, so make sure you don’t let me down, hm?”