#concept postin

pantalone, though . . . pantalone's palatial home may as well be made of ice. his servants are seen and not heard, and some of them bear scars of their master's displeasure at not being obeyed without question. they have nothing to say about pantalone at all; you catch a glimpse of one and realise that they have no tongue to say it with. too many agreements are made by their master that should not be made public.

pantalone's candles burn white; they emphasise the starkness of his halls. pure white furs from animals that have been hunted to non-existence are draped perfectly over uncomfortable sofas. art hangs on the wall for its value and not its beauty. diamonds glitter improbably, set in chandeliers and goblets, as cold as pantalone himself.

pantalone is not elusive. pantalone is mysterious. he goes to parties and smiles and ingratiates himself and never gives too much away of his own self; he, instead, takes the pearls of information that others drop when their tongues are wine-loosened and hoards them away to use later on to his advantage. he does not even speak to you about himself; watches from behind his glasses and smiles and bids you look pretty for him and takes you and kisses you, but does not remain in your bedchamber.

he has a secret, like diluc. his perfect unstained gloves are coated in hidden blood. he is a monster, and he knows it.

but you have no desire to find out more. you cannot find out more. you think of his servants and their stolen tongues and the house that yawns like a chasm around you and the screams you hear at night and pantalone's knife with the diamond blade blessed by the tsaritsa that he is so proud of, that is priceless in terms of mora, that he always wears beneath his cloak. you think of him smiling, humming, as he cleans the thick dark liquid from it. you think of the flash of teeth and the way his voice dips low and dangerous and musical and the things you do not see, when he leaves you at night--

you do not know that someone (something) is lurking. you do not feel the greedy eyes that caress the heaving curve of your bosom over your stays, the place that the sleeves of your simple dress have begun to slip down your shoulders. you do not know about the shudder of hunger that goes through your voyeur when you delicately pick a plum or a peach from your little basket and bite into it, a droplet of juice running down the softness of your wrist, the intense pang of wanting that hits the same voyeur as they watch the sweet shepherdess giggle and lick it off--

you do not know the excitement building in their watcher, as you tell yourself that just a moment or two with their eyes closed could not possibly hurt. you've been walking all day, and you are not so far from the path after all, and the sheep are all grazing happily getting fat on this new green grass. your lashes falling to rest over the swell of your round cheeks, yourmouth opening to let out a soft little sleepy sigh - all witnessed by a creature that is rapidly becoming less and less human, as the fat white moon climbs like a pearl into the sky.

you are only startled awake when a clawed hand slowly drags down your soft full cheeks - when it hooks into the top of your stays, nestling between your chest. your breath catches as you stare into inhuman yellow-glowing eyes, as you see teeth the size of your forearm before you, hunger written clear in every inch of the wolf who has found you.

you gasp out, whimpering, something about your sheep - there is no blood around you, no wool poking from the corner of the wolf's mouth, but your flock is nowhere to be seen nevertheless. you wonder how long this wolf has been following you, coveting your sweet-natured flock, as well-fed and loving and fresh as you are . . . but the wolf just gives a slow growl of a laugh, and you gasp as it uses its not inconsiderable strength to grasp you by the waist, to push you so that your top half is splayed over the stump of a tree you've been resting on and your legs and rear are on the ground. it groans hungrily, nosing against your neck, burying its muzzle in the generous swell of your chest--

"little shepherdess," it says, in that same growl, hungry and sharp and wanting like a fairytale villain - and claws come to gather your simple skirts, your apron, pushing it up your legs to reveal your laddered stockings and the plump shape of your thighs and higher and higher and higher--

you notice, now, the thing between the beast's legs; thick and wanting, knotted at the base, of a size that would never never never (you're certain) fit in you--

which is more than can be said for the people who did not gave your family’s money and safe place.

see . . . when the radiation goes down, when you think the outside world is safe again, you were always supposed to emerge. and all of those other high class families like yours; they’ll come out too, and the riff-raff is exterminated, and you can get around to repopulating and rebuilding. the right kind of society.

the best laid plans of mice and men and all that.

because of course everybody else hasn’t perished. they’ve been out there trying to make a living! starving and fighting and poisoning one another. living in this brand new lawless land. and . . . don’t think they didn’t notice all of those rich parasites crawling into their holes to wait out the hard parts, leaving them for dead. don’t think they’re not waiting for you to come back out now your little sensors are pinging ‘safe! come out!’

your family and staff are casualties. but you! you, all fresh and untouched (and fertile, of course, when the end of the world has had such a terrible effect on so many people with the capacity to bear children) . . . you’re useful. you’re at once a piece of art (your hands so soft, your hair well-taken care of, why - you look like you’ve never worked a day in your life! and the easy access to rations ensures your thighs and chest and hips are pleasingly curved, a picture of wanton excess to people who’ve had to fight for scraps for years now) and an absolutely useless symbol of what they’ve lost. you can’t even garden, for god’s sake.

and just how cute he finds it when, at another utterly tedious ball, when he’s found a quiet alcove in which he can get on his knees and delve beneath your gown with his mouth hungry and the scruff of his stubble abrading the soft skin of your thighs, you suddenly seem to lose ability to say anything - or indeed make any noise other than soft exhales of his name and sweet little meals like music to his ears.

oh. how he wishes he could bottle their shine and keep it with him, down in the fortress - a bright sunflower in a glass vase, to remind him of the light in the world when everything is dank and dark.

your boss, when your bakery is raided and he and his employees are accused of running a tax fraud and a racket and other such things you don’t understand, insists he has been framed. but wriothesley has friends in high places, and even though fontaine is the nation of justice, corruption can be found and bought and convinced.

when you arrive at the fortress, trembling and nervous, wriothesley is quick to swoop in. he doesn’t play favourites, he says, as he installs you in a cell practically in his office and finds you a simple administrative duty that you can do by his side - but something so sweet and trusting as you would surely come to harm if you were thrown into the fortress with no help. your real crime, after all, was mere empty-headedness - with wriothesley by your side, he can keep you on the straight and narrow.

sunflowers naturally grow towards those warming rays; turning their faces to the sunshine. in the fortress, you almost wilt before him; captive, at his mercy, your sweet smile forced the instead of radiant.

but you are still the loveliest thing down there. you still make wriothesley feel like a slice of the outside world has been given to him a jar. he does not notice the fade; you shine brighter than anyone else down here even faded to almost nothing.

the term of your sentence ends. but wriothesley will not let you go so easily. it is not so difficult, after all, for the administrator himself to add a few extra zeros to a single piece of paperwork for an unimportant petty criminal - and who would not believe him over you?

your roommate is not the only one graduating - you’ve heard rumours that tighnari, the amurta student with a focus on botany with the big fox ears and soft fluffy tail, needs to find himself a new roommate too. he’s terribly popular; very smart and very dedicated, as well as being nice to look at and kind-hearted and willing to lend a hand whenever someone has genuine need. you’re sure he must be inundated with offers. you’ve only spoken to him a few times - the two of you are in different darshans - but . . . well. you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t like him, and didn’t find him handsome, and wouldn’t like to get to know him better--

you’re very surprised when he approaches you - but he words it very simply. you’re quiet, and he needs someone quiet to room with. you’re hard-working, and he appreciates that about you. you have never treated him like he’s some mascot to be photographed and paraded about. you’re both the same age - early twenties, perhaps - and he’s heard rumours that you’re very good at what you do, so you might even graduate together . . . will you be his roommate?

(and perhaps, a little part of him doesn’t understand why he’s chosen you, but does understand that you smell good and you look pretty and you make his thoughts turn to mush when he thinks of you too hard, make his cheeks heat and his tail begin to swish). 

it goes very well. the two of you are suited for this roommate agreement; both of you do your shares of the cleaning, your shares of cooking (he’s a better cook than you, but you’re less likely to lock yourself in your room for hours on end when you get too into a project). you talk to one another and crack jokes and smile and share research - it’s going extremely well!

until one night you let yourself back in after a gruelling day - a practical exam, and you’re feeling fit to drop and aware you’re sweating, your hair plastered to your head, your clothes all messed up. you want to shower and then go straight to bed - but as you walk through the common area, you hear a high pitched whining. a whimpering noise - tighnari, and it sounds like he’s in pain. all other thoughts go out the window as you rush for his room, open the door, calling his name in concern--

he’s in the centre of his bed clad in a too-large tank top and a pair of boxer shorts. his blankets and pillows and everything else soft in the room has been piled all around him, almost as if he’s nesting - and he’s cuddling his tail, whimpering, whining, his eyes blown wide and his mouth open to reveal sharp fangs and panting. when he’d heard you approach, though, his head had snapped up - and you meet eyes that are almost glowing in the dim dusklight of the window, as tighnari grits out (cheeks red, choking on his words);

“you should close the door. you shouldn’t . . . be here . . .”

his ears are flicking from side to side, and it’s hard for him to get out his words - they sound thick on his tongue. he breathes in deeply, and you’re horribly aware that you can’t smell pleasant, but tighnari just lets out a whine that sounds almost needy. you desperately try not to look at his bare shoulders, the toned thighs - but if you did, perhaps you’d notice how hard his cock is pressing against the front of the (flower patterned, cute--) boxers.

you protest. you say you’re worried about him, is he running a fever, you can get someone - you make the mistake of closing the door behind you. you make the mistake of approaching him, so that your scent wraps around him and envelopes every one of his senses (smells good, smells like you, wants to rub himself all over you until you smell like him . . . you smell fertile. you’re a good candidate for his mate, so sweet so soft so nice so compatible--).

tighnari mumbles apologies even as he pounces on you, and even as you’re being dragged back to the nest he’s made on his bed. in between pawing at you he’s mumbling things; you smell so good, he needs you so badly, he never thought that it would be this bad . . .

something from one of your voluntary classes in the amurta comes back to you. something about the habits of wild animals, their breeding cycles - and about how male desert foxes go into rut states where they simply need to be inside of something and breed something. you hesitantly reach up, running a hand over tighnari’s silky soft ears in a way that makes him growl-moan-purr in his throat. you spread your legs in an open invitation.

later on, when his senses have returned to him, tighnari thanks you for helping him through his first rut as he noses at your shoulder and sighs, cheek rubbing against your bare skin so his scent marks you. fennec foxes, he tells you, mate for life.

when diluc had found you in the gardens, dutifully picking flowers for the vases that stood on most surfaces in dawn winery, you had seen that there was something unusual in his eye - a brightness to the crimson depths, a flush to his cheeks, breathing heavy. but you know that he often goes out in the mornings to practise with his claymore (you and some of the other maids had occasionally peeked from behind luxurious curtains, sighing over the ripple of his muscles and the ease with which he swung the greatsword about), and had put it down to that--

as it turned out, as diluc had huffed out and puffed out and groaned against your ear in between pinning you between his muscled thighs and working your plain cotton standard-issue underwear down past your thighs, it had not been simply the exertion of a day’s practise. you make out just enough in between the grunts to get the gist of it; some unusual herb or flower had reacted badly with the electro from an abyss mage’s attacks when he had gone out on one of his to-be-kept-quiet missions last night and had produced some kind of aphrodisiac pollen, and if he didn’t find some relief soon he was simply going to die.

master diluc is not the kind of man who is prone to exaggeration; and the longer you had looked into those blown wide eyes and that lovely, pleading face . . . the longer you had listened to his whimpers and noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the more sure you had been that you had to help your master out in any way that you could. after all, what is a maid if not there to satisfy their master’s whims? you had looked up at him and asked him, breathlessly, if there was anything you could do--

he’d groaned, buried his mouth against your neck, pulling at your maid uniform to nuzzle into the curve of your breast and bite and suckle at the bare skin, making lovebites bloom that you would surely have to explain to adelinde come tomorrow morning. in between huffs, he had begun to thrust his hips against you so you could feel the heat and stiffness radiating from his crotch, his trousers tight against a generous endowment. 

“i need,” he’d mumbled, kissing, biting, his gloved fingers unsurely tugging first at your skirts and then at your stockings and then digging into your thighs to part them. “oh, archons, i’m so sorry . . . you smell so good . . . ah. i’ve wanted you for months--”

it seems that, under the influence of this sex pollen, his tongue had been loosened. he babbles about how he has always watched you when he’s seen the maids, how he’s wondered if you are truly as soft as you look, how he’s wanted to palm at your breasts like this and kiss you like that since the moment he saw you. in between, he grunts out apologies, desperately rutting his clothed cock against you in search of some kind of friction that may provide him with an ounce of comfort from the desire that licks all up his spine and muddles his mind. 

“please, master diluc,” you gasp out, your hands winding about his neck and tangling in his mussed crimson hair if only to give yourself some kind of purchase. your own body thrums with the knowledge; master diluc wants you. has wanted you. fantasises about you, perhaps in the same way you fantasise about the master of the house in the dead of night in the maid’s bedrooms with your hand slipping guiltily between your thighs. “i want to help. do with me what you need to.”

“i can’t,” he whines into your neck, almost on the verge of tears. “i won’t . . . defile you like that. not like this--”

so you take it into your own hands to unbutton his trousers; to work at the placket, to take his cock (stiff and aching, slick with own precome, the tip flushed ruddy red) into your warm palms. if anybody sees you in the gardens like this your reputation will be ruined, but you cannot bring yourself to care - not when he whines as you handle him, not when he groans chest deep and kisses your mouth fiercely as if he never wants to let you go. 

he’s a gentleman, even so. your underwear is long forgotten, your slick soaking into the earth beneath you - but diluc will not take your virtue and ruin you even with the drugs and toxins of whatever flower this is muddying his mind. instead, the master of the house - his coat thrown to the wayside, his shirt tore open, his trousers down about his muscular, scarred thighs - ruts between your legs, working his slick cock through the mess of your damp thighs, fucking into them as if they can work in your cunt’s stead. 

he’s whimpering and moaning, sweating, his hair falling unbound about his shoulders in the messiness of all of this. strong hands dig into your bare thighs above where the ribbons tied about your stockings keep the garments up. as he fucks your thighs, he presses his mouth against yours to muffle your whines and whimpers and his own growls. it is all animal nature; two creatures learning one another in the most base of ways. the friction the slide of his cock provides to your own aching cunt is not enough, but you say nothing as his tongue slides against yours and his teeth catch on your lip and master diluc uses you as you have always wanted to be used by him. 

you sense that it’s working in the twitch of his hands where they’re fastened about you; the shuddering of his abdomen, the slack whine of his mouth against yours and the way he begins to breathe even heavier. his cock between your thighs seem to pulse - and before you know it, he’s pulled back from the kiss, groaning out;

“archons-fuck-sorry-coming-you’resolovely--”

as his seed pulses out in thick ropes, coating the ground and the backs of your legs, splashing against your poor untouched cunt. you know that master diluc was being a gentleman, you know he didn’t put his cock inside of you for noble reasons . . . but that knowledge does nothing to assuage the frustrated knot inside of you that you want to be filled and you haven’t been. 

“i’m sorry,” diluc gasps out. “i’m sorry, i couldn’t help myself . . . i--i understand if you wish to turn in your resignation, i’ll provide you with ample mora for a new life--” he tails away as you do not speak, simply lay there beneath him, your uniform in disarray and the mixture of your own slick and diluc’s come pooling on the lush garden beneath you.

you must be pouting. diluc’s eyes are not quite clear, but he looks down at you and a dry, throaty chuckle forces itself from his lips as he sees the disappointment in your face.

he’s grown rather adept at telling when somebody is buttering him up - you’re sweet if a little awkward, bright-eyed and cheerful and charming. and tighnari’s friend, too; you’re entirely trustable, he eventually decides. you are pure of heart and purer still of intention.

(pure of gaze, behind those pretty eyes - a pleasantly shaped body that cyno wonders how would feel beneath his hands, a sweet voice he wonders how would sound in the throes of pleasure).

he sees you change, though, the longer you stay at the akademiya. sees that same ruthless, single-minded pursuit of knowledge threaten to take over all of your thoughts - to cloud the sweet smiles and the gentle voice and everything that makes you you. you pull back from him, too, having heard too many stories of the general mahamatra and his single-minded and ruthless pursuit of the unjust . . . and oh, that hurts. he is used to it - the stoic face and the clothes and the power of his position tend to inspire that kind of feeling - but . . . from you?

no. he can’t have this. 

it doesn’t take much, with his knowledge of how the akademiya operates. someone so used to seeking out little inconsistencies and conspiracies and corruption within those hallowed halls makes plenty of connections. and suddenly, your research is under question.

you’ve been infected by that same rot all of the academics get, in the end. you hear you are to be investigated, that you’re suspected of using canned knowledge or paying for illegitimate information or cribbing research from another failed researcher, and you panic - set off fleet-footed somewhere the claws of the akademiya won’t reach you. 

but cyno does not let go of his prey. after all - once something is in his sights, he will not stop until he has hunted it down. how much worse that is when it is something he really wants. how much worse it is for you.

your pleas that you have done nothing wrong, cyno, please, don’t you remember how we got along, fall on deaf ears. you know you have not done what you’ve been accused of (and cyno knows too, of course), but he has a duty, he tells you, as hands fasten about your arms and he marches you beside him. he has a duty to make sure that things remain clean, and unsullied, and pure. 

you’re at his door.

normally, he tells you, this applies to the research of the akademiya. in your case, though . . . it refers to you as a whole. don’t worry. he’ll make sure you’re back to your old self in no time. this will be far, far better. he’ll take good care of you.