#sub arcana

what a year, what a season and ‘tis the beginning of delight for both the spooky and the horny!

to those of you who may not have heard of me before, welcommen, welcome, to the 𝘿𝙍𝙀𝘼𝙈 𝘾𝘼𝙁𝙀! i’m the owner and your barista, nobu. it’s a simple little corner of the internet where i mix and match whatever you ask of me, to suit your taste while also suiting my style as well! from the fluff pastries to the angst paninis to the most commonly bought smut coffees. and this month, we are hosting an all month long celebration for the horror month, and indulging in the newest brews of smut coffees! all menu selection has been chosen wildly through the classical ‘spin the wheel’ tradition.

i have hosted this celebratory event two years ago, however due to my short-staffed schedule, the brews had taken longer than it should. hopefully, such mistakes will be in less repetition this year. now, sit down, breeze through the menu for this month, and most of all, 𝙙𝙤 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.

𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕄𝔼ℕ𝕌

bondage - wuwa w/ geshu lin

mirror sex - magi w/ yunan

sensory depravation - LOTR w/ boromir

dacryphilia/crying - nanbaka w/ mitsuru

honeymoon - FF7R w/ vincent valentine

impact play - genshin impact w/ il dottore (nu build)

pegging - magi w/ yamraiha

creampie - creepypasta w/ laughing jill

sex pollen - magi w/ kouen ren

tentacles - FF7R w/ reno

fucking machine - LADS w/ xavier

sadism/masochism - creepypasta w/ the puppeteer

vanilla - LOTR w/ glorfindel

sounding - the arcana w/ muriel

threesome - trigun w/ livio & legato

degradation - obey me w/ beelzebub

lactation - KNY w/ kokushibo

sthenolagnia - SAwuwa w/ jiyan

sex toys - FF7R w/ aerith

humiliation - silmarillion w/ mairon

in heat - MCU w/ jotunn loki

voyeurism - genshin impact w/ layla

shower sex - hsr w/ gallagher

overstimulation - creepypasta w/ jason the toymaker

edging - silmarillion w/ ëonwe

lingerie - trigun w/ meryl

praise kink - wild card w/ john price

monsterfucking - wild card w/ yautja

deepthroating - hsr w/ phainon

mutual masturbation - obey me w/ rafayel

costumes - LADS w/ zayne

Moving in with Muriel was easy enough, you had been together on the hunt for a year, after all. The two of you had long surpassed any discomforts that new couples would face while adjusting in each other's spaces. You found it easy to fall into his orbit, melding together in peaceful harmony.

But one thing you didn’t expect, however, was Muriel’s lack of…everything in his home. Yes, you anticipated it somewhat, but there was nothing to occupy his time or his mind other than work, nothing for him to relax other than a single, woodcarving chisel. There needed to be more, you needed him to have the necessities of life. 

So you started bringing home books. Simple, short novels from the shop that would give him a little more wonder to his day. But not many Vesuvians knew how to read, and the thought that you gifted something that he couldn’t use made you panic–but as he picked up the small volume and flicked through, feeling the texture of the pages and taking in the summaries, you felt your anxiety quell. You think that Asra must have taught him when they were young, and the thought of the two pointing to words in a too-large tome has you smiling. 

“Thank you,” Muriel breathed, a fascination in his eyes at your gifts, small and lovingly worn in his hands. When was the last time he had gotten a chance to read? A long time. Too long.

He had finished the book in a day.

It was hard to pull him away from it. Many times you caught him flipping the book back open, making his way through chapter by chapter. Nothing could pull him away; he’d use one hand to hold it open while brushing Inanna or stirring stew in the hearth, and it was a miracle that he didn’t try to take the book with him while tending to the chickens. 

Muriel finished it during dinner, his attention focused on the page as he spooned hearty stew into his mouth across from you. It was a short book, only about one hundred pages, but it filled him with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. 

“Was it good?” You asked, smiling around your spoon, finally catching his attention. He flushed, sheepish as he nodded. “Yeah, I liked it.”

 “I’m so glad! Why don't you tell me about it?” 

Unfortunately, you had only so many books, and Muriel had begun to get picky with his findings. He liked reading fairytales and poetry, he liked mystical adventures with beautiful creatures, and you only had so much. 

So you took him to the market in search for more, sifting through dusted novels and doggy-eared journals for something he’d enjoy. And enjoy he did, walking back home with you with the smallest smile on his face, a new little treasure in his bag. 

Nothing was like seeing the awe on his face when the first official library in Vesuvia opened, and while he didn’t attend the grand opening (far too many loud people, he had said), he went frequently thereafter, making unintentional friends with the librarians and allowing himself to bask in the light of the large windows. 

You kept an eye out for new literature while you were out likewise, searching through the selections to find something new.

And it was meant as a joke, really. You meant it to be a funny gag gift when you brought home a novel with a hand-drawn cover of a delicate, foresty woman holding onto a well chiseled man. 

Muriel’s face had erupted in red, steam practically shooting from his ears. He grumbled, giving the cover a side eye. You hadn’t thought much of it after that, admittedly, aside from the laughs it gave you. 

You stir awake, turning over on your side. Muriel’s sitting up in the bed, the bedside candle lit and flickering, illuminating his large form delicately. He’s holding a book in his hands, and you hear his breath softly hitch as he flips the page, his hand coming up to his face and his teeth catching on his thumb. You’ve never seen him react like that before when reading.

“Honey?” You call out.

You hear him choke on his breath and he quickly snaps the book shut, pinching the flame out with his fingers.

“Go back to bed.” He says tightly.

“What were you reading-“

Muriel quickly lays back down with his back towards you. “Nothing!” He practically yelps. “Go to sleep!”

You snuggle back up against him and he begins to relax again. How odd. 

Muriel was quiet the morning after that, and while he likes to think he’s sneaky, you know he’s hidden that joke gift book under his pillow. When he steps outside to chop more wood, you take a peek at the book under his pillow. You crack it open to his bookmark, letting your eyes fall on a paragraph. 

“-The impish magician finds the nymph under him, her long legs spread open. She smells like lavender and honey, and he wants to eat her whole. 

“My hero,” she croons, watery, doe like eyes staring up into his. “Treat me gently, I beg of you.”

The magician's hand is in between her legs, fingers pressing into her p-“

Ah. You hadn’t expected this little book to be that graphic. No wonder Muriel had been so shy about it! You look over your shoulder at the window, carefully peering to see him still halving wood. With a grin full of teeth and a mind full of mischievous ideas, you flick through a few more pages.

…

The next following days you put your plan into action.

Admittedly, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on him. Fortunately for you, Muriel also seemed to be in a touchy-feely mood, reciprocating the touches and kisses. In the back of your mind, you wonder if that novel had anything to do with his more spontaneous libido as of late. 

Your hands press against his sides, lightly brushing against his ribs and drawing out a breathy little sound that makes you grin against his lips. His mouth is wet and soft against yours, parted as your tongue swipes against his bottom lip. It makes him shiver, his fingers clutching into the knit of your sweater. The hearth is still burning, the low flickering of the fire warming your skin almost as much as the kissing is. 

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” you breathe out, your teeth catching gently on his lip. Muriel makes a whimpery little sound, and you think about how much more you want to hear it. He hums in curiosity, eyes still lidded when you pull away to fetch a bag from under the bed.

You open up your bag, taking out the linen-wrapped package. “What's that?” He asks, interest peaked as you hand it to him. “Open up and see.”

Muriel looks down at the package in his hands and carefully, like he thought it might bite him, he peels away the covering. The sight inside makes his breath hitch, his skin blooming hotter. 

White and sage lace, silks, all wrapped into each other to form a gorgeous set of lingerie. He feels his hands tremble a bit, and somewhere in the back of his mind says that this feels familiar. 

And then it hits him; this fits the exact description of what the character in the novel wears during one of the scenes in which– oh, oh, Muriel’s face has gotten so very red–

“Like it? I flipped through that book you like so much and thought about doing something special for you.” You rest your hand on his thigh, snapping him away from his flustered focus. He looks at you, biting on his lips. “So what do you say? Wanna put it on, honeycomb?” 

Another piece from the book, an endearing nickname for the forest nymph that has him feeling less than innocent. 

You’re watching him as he pulls off his sweater, inch upon glorious inch of skin exposing, light brown with scars and stretches. He’s gained weight since you’ve both made your peaceful life together, indulging in things he never thought he’d be able to savor. No longer is his skin clinging to muscles. He's soft, squishy over that strong body, and it takes everything in your power not to sink your fingers into his stomach. 

The pants follow next, then his simple underwear, until he’s completely nude in front of you. Vulnerable in all the best ways. He’s biting his lip, gently touching the lingerie in the wrapping. 

“Do you want help?” You offer, meeting his shy gaze. “Mm,” Muriel can only whine, slowly, stiffly nodding his head. “Please,” he tacks on for extra measure, possibly a little less shy than you thought; he knows how hot it gets you when he uses his manners. 

You feel a little shiver in your spine, one of excitement as you grab the panties and twirl them around your finger. “Come on, big boy,” you whistle playfully and your big boy snorts with a roll of his eyes, standing to his feet before the bed where you sit. “Or should I say, little lady?” 

Now that gets you a nice little sound, a stuttery gasp from his kiss-swollen lips. “You like that?” You grin, holding out the leg holes of the panties for him to step into. Muriel grabs onto your shoulders as he does, nodding sheepishly in agreement. “That’s a good girl,” you snap the band around his hips, the sage silks and lace framing his hips and ass snuggly. His hips jerk, already dampening the fabric with his arousal. “So, so pretty. And you’re all for me.” You lean forward, eyes flicking up to his as you press a kiss to his stomach, over the thick happy trail leading into the scrunched elastic of the underwear. 

“Ssstop…” Muriel whimpers, turning his face in embarrassment. 

“You want me to stop? Are you sure?” You fiddle with the bralette you’ve yet to put on him. “Or are you just being shy again?” 

He huffs, face still profoundly red. “Shut up.” He grumbles, though empty of malice. You’ve got your answer, so you hold out the last bit of lingerie for him. Muriel loops the straps over his shoulders, turning around for you to fasten the clasps. You don’t miss how he shivers when your knuckles brush against his spine, or the way his breath catches in his throat when those fingers trail down the length of his back. 

“Turn around, let me see you, honeycomb.” 

Muriel follows your order without a second thought, shuffling to face you. And he looks gorgeous. Green truly is his color, there’s no doubt about that. The bralette hugs his chest, the scalloped-edged cups framing his breasts. Your eyes rake down lower, down his beautiful scarred chest and stomach, thick patches of hair littering the path, all the way down to the hem of his panties. You almost drool at the way his clit bulges against the cloth, swollen and needy. 

“Look at you…” you grab his hips and squeeze, fingers looping under the band of his panties to give them a playful snap. “Back on the bed, hun, come here,”

He crawls into bed after you, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he does. Every shift of his thighs has the heat between his legs growing stronger, a measly friction that makes him feel even more desperate. Muriel’s the one to initiate another kiss, his hands carefully placed on the tops of your thighs. You thread your fingers in his hair, smiling against his lips. You have to use your grip to pull him back to speak, a thin line of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. 

“So eager…Lay down, that’s it,” the blankets are soft below his half-naked skin, although failing to warm him quite like your touch. You spread his legs apart, excitement surging through you at the sight of his dampening underwear. 

Teasingly, you run your fingers up the inside of his thigh, up to where he needs you the most. “What was the thing your book talked about? The magician putting his fingers in the nymph’s flower?” 

Muriel chokes on a gasp, hands shooting up to cover his face. “Ugh-”

“Come on, honeycomb, don’t you want that too? You’re already dressed up just like her.” Your thumb rubs over his bulging clit, drawing a whimper from his lips. He nods from behind his hands.

“Ah, Ah, I gotta hear you say it.”

Muriel peeks from behind his fingers. “Don’t make me say it…”

You don’t grant him any reprieve, only giving those just-barely-there rubs of your fingers over his clit. He keens, hips flexing up frustratedly. “Please,” he gasps out, “puh-put your f-fingers in my, inmyflower.” 

“Oh, good girl.” You grin, relishing the shiver that runs through him. He breathes out shakily when you pull his panties aside, fingers spreading him open. You whistle low, sliding your fingers through his folds, slick discharge and arousal gathering on your skin. “Now that’s the prettiest rose I’ve ever seen.” 

Muriel huffs, flustered. You take the time to position your thumb over his clit, rubbing slow circles as you ease a finger into him. His eyes twitch, jaw falling slack at the long-awaited stimulation. “Now that’s a pretty face.” You coo, leaning over to press a kiss against his jaw, teeth teasingly nipping at the skin. “And you’re taking me so well too…” Another finger slid in, two pumping in and out, curled up against the squishy walls of him.

“H-hughh,” his large hand carefully reaches down to where your hand meets his pussy, fingers brushing your wrist. It’s almost like he’s in awe of it, the way you make him feel, the sight of it. His clit sticks out and he can see the way it throbs and twitches when you press your fingers into a good spot. 

You take his hand in yours, the one not currently finger fucking him open, and squeeze it tight. “You’re so romantic, honeycomb.”

His whole body feels hot, like a never-ending fever. You always make him feel all…mushy and soft. You make him feel like he’s special and good, and he whimpers when you lean back up and take a good look at him, embarrassment running deep. But, he doesn’t think it’s a bad kind of embarrassment when it’s you. 

Muriel clenches down on your fingers when you drag them back out, teasing a third against his hole. “How wide do you want me to stretch you tonight, little lady?” You coo down at him, a devilish little thing. 

He swallows, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth. He’s never been good at saying outright what he wants. “Wide,” he breathes out, thighs trembling while you languidly stroke over his folds. 

“Mm, three fingers?” You slowly slide the three in, savoring his shaking moan, before pulling them back out. Muriel whines at the loss, hips bucking up. 

“Or maybe four? Or did you want my whole hand? I know you can take it, I’ve seen you do it before, honey.” 

The man below you groans, turning his head to hide in the pillows. “You’re teasing me…” you hear him whine, his chest heaving with his worked-up breaths. 

“Oh, I know, I’m just so mean to you, aren’t I?” He spares you a knowing glance and you have the absolute pleasure of watching his jaw fall slack and his eyes roll when your fingers plunge back into him. He’s full with three, toes curling when you spread them. “Ah- ah- ah-,”

You pick up the pace, thumbing his clit with every thrust of your fingers—and oh how he squirms, his thighs tensing and shaking, his stomach crunching and body twisting when you relentlessly fuck his sweet spot. Muriel makes such lovely sounds, gurgled little cries as he tugs at his own hair, still squeezing your hand that he won’t let go.

“That’s it, you’re so close, aren’t you?” He nods curtly, biting back a gasp. 

“Puh-please, please, I-I’m so close, I’m so close–” His hips buck up once, erratic, teeth grinding. The way he speaks is almost a hiss, hushed and strained. The mossy green of his eyes bounce across your face, lips open in a gape, almost frantic. “I-it’s, it's gonna–”

“I know, just let it out, honeycomb,” you lift his hand to your lips, kissing his sweaty knuckles, and that seems to be what sends him over that beautiful crescendo.

 Muriel gasps, strangled, a moan creeping from his scratched throat like gentle hands around his jugular. His body tenses, hips thrusting up–and he squirts, a forceful arc of it spraying from his spasmed core. It paints your stomach, wetting your skin and spitting with each languid thrust of your fingers. “Thaaat’s it, good girl.”

It seems like almost an eternity that he shudders and shakes, his trembling body slowly falling back until he’s boneless against furs and knits. Muriel distantly smells himself when you free your fingers from his cunt, and perhaps he's too worn to be shameful, only crooning softly at the gape. Sweat and cum soaks the hem of his panties, cooling in the settling air. A log from the hearth falls with dimming embers and it becomes clear just how wrapped up in him you’ve been. 

“Thank you.” Muriel breathes out, chest still heaving, glistened with sweat under the lace. Wordlessly, you lean down to kiss him, falling between his legs. He reciprocates eagerly, lips parting for your tongue, a shiver riding up his spine. You can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the wetness of your stomach pressing against his. Whether he notices or simply doesn't care is up to you, a languid kiss all that matters. 

He’s the one to break the silence after a lifetime of kisses and shared breaths, his arms coming to wrap around your back, his foot nudging your ankle. 

“There’s another scene, after this one.” 

You grin, bottom lip caught between your teeth. He blushes brilliantly, but the proposal is still there, up to you to grab. 

Jullian

Lucio

Ranmaru

Mitsunari

Yoshimoto

Luka

Yves

Silvio

Rio

Isaac

Jean

Charles

Comté (as great as it would be)

Ruggie

Riddle

Ace

Cater

Azul

Kalim

Vil

Malleus

Sebek

Maaayyyybe a switch

Mitsuhide

Kennyo

Ieyasu

Lancelot

Fenrir

Seth

Clavis

Arthur

Theodorus

I can see it, but I don't like it 😒

Asra

Muriel (I could put him in the switch category as well 🤤)

Hideyoshi

Yukimura

Edgar

Ray

Chevalier

Nokto

Sariel

Mozart

Vincent

Faust

William

Leona

Jamil

Rook

Idia

Lilia

Silver

big men! who can’t help but feel something swirling in their stomach every time they see little children going around, clinging to their parents, excitedly chattering on and showing their proud work

big men! who can’t help but imagine what it would be like to have your own children. you two have been together for long enough now, he guesses it should be time to bring up the topic of children and raising a family together

big men! who absolutely adore children despite their large physique and threatening appearance. and children love them in return and so are you with children as well. he sees it as an absolute win-win. you both love children and they love you two back. it would only be normal to want a cute family together, right?

big men! who nervously bring up the topic of children one day after a nice homemade dinner. he speaks in stutters and stammers — uncharacteristic as he fiddles with his hands, looking down at his lap. what if you weren’t ready? what if you turn down the idea? what if you don’t even want children to begin with?

big men! who let out a sigh of relief when you reach out, your smaller hands covering their own as you sooth his worries. who smiles in sheer utter joy when you say you want children as well

big men! who later into the night get absolutely wrecked. legs shaking, voice hoarse from all the moaning and screaming. mind delirious, barely hanging on a thread as his glossy eyes look at nowhere in the room. who can’t help but let out a shriek when you enter him again. big and thick cock hitting his sensitive spots, making him squeal and thrash around on the bed until you pin him down with your weight

big men! who cry and blabber about being too goddamn full. who talk about your cock fucking his insides, rearranging his organs. who deliriously smiles and lets a drunken giggle slip when he feels the small bump in his stomach from the sheer size of your strap and cum mixed together

big men! who drool on the sheets when he can feel you slap his ass. the sting feeling so damn delicious, he couldn’t help but ask for more. to slap his ass and squeeze and fondle his tits until they’re all sore, red and lactating

big men! who lets out a weak pathetic excuse of a whine when you cum deep inside him for the nth time that night, legs spasming from the feeling of your hot seeds painting his walls

big men! who get fucked until their mind breaks, blabbering and slurring about how you were fucking his womb now. how he can feel your tip bruising his cervix and that you’re gonna knock him up

big men! who eagerly push you down, straddling your lap when you mischievously ask him to ride your cock since you’re so damn tired

big men! who rides your strap happily, his own cock repeatedly hitting his stomach as he sinks down on your strap again. the sheer amount of cum dribbling down your shaft, his thighs and making a mess

big men! who place a hand over the small bulge on their stomach. lust hazed smile on their face as they slur out words of getting pregnant. who blabber on and on so cutely about finally starting a family with you. who giggles when he feels you cum inside him again, saying he wants to make sure that his womb gets filled to the brim, wanting to carry your children even though he doesn’t even have a womb

big men! who whine when you try to tap out, too exhausted to continue. but he wants to! he wants to make sure you fuck your cock deep inside him, pushing past his cervix walls and cum inside him over and over till he gets pregnant!

big men! who fucking squirts. weak and limp cock spurting out pathetic excuse of droplets of cum before shooting blanks, pushing his red ass flush against your hips to make sure you don’t pull out. who lets out the loudest fucking scream when your hand gently yanks his hair, pushing his face into the pillow to muffle his noise as you continue to ram your cock inside him

big men! whose moans and whimpers turn so high-pitched, so weak, so girly as his whole body spasms and shakes under you like a weak fawn. who keep daydreaming of a cute domestic life with you and your kids together in his cotton filled brain

big men! who are just fucked dumb. not a single thought or an imagination in their mind as they simply lay there. take, take, take and take until you two finally tap out. you, too exhausted. him, exhausted, with a sore throat, with old and new tear stains on his cheeks, drool slipping down his lips with a shaking body. who passes out after you cum inside him for the nth time

big men! who dream of starting a family with you. the two of you with a cute child or a few more since he was such a big family man. the kids running around, the two of you watching them with a smile as the two of you make dinner together

big men! who wakes up all sore and exhausted the next morning. they’re absolutely drained and even trying to speak hurt

big men! who can finally move around after a while. who place a hand over his stomach before realizing the bulge is gone since you have already did an aftercare together after he passed out. who feel a growing sense of great sadness as their eyes brim with tears and their lips quiver

big men! who shake you awake with a sense of urgency, asking you to hurry and wake up. when you finally do, you’re greeted with the sight if your lover with tears in his eyes

big men! who complain, hiss and even cry as he stammers about not being pregnant. who take your hand in his own, squeezing your hand slightly with a pout on their face, “you should have knocked me up! i wanted a baby with you! did you.. not want a baby?”

big men! who cry crocodile tears when they realize that they can’t get pregnant after you explain it to them. mind still too fucked dumb, brain filled with nothing but statics and cotton. who literally sobs in desperation when he realizes he can’t get knocked up by you

big men! who sniffle as you turn their face to look at you. who finally starts to calm down when you assure him with a smug smile that you will continue to fuck your cum inside him over and over until he finally gets pregnant. isn’t his partner just lovely?

Cloves grind efficiently under the pestle, the circular motions of Asra’s wrists crushing the bulbs into a fragrant mess of powder and chunks. He likes to think that life is peaceful, and domestic even now since you’ve been brought back. But he knows that’s not entirely true.

Asra would never regret bringing you back. He would never regret those long nights burning the candle at both ends, ripping his own hair out for a spell or ritual that would possibly work. He couldn’t ever regret it, not when he has you back. But that didn’t mean you were the same.

He supposes that necromancy would do that to a soul, to be ripped from one plane to another; but it didn’t mean he loved you any less, and it didn’t mean you were any less his. Part of him suspects that maybe your current behavior was always there, hidden in plain sight, masked by his rose-tinted glasses and puppy love crush. 

To say you were clingy was an understatement. It was almost like you wanted to live in his skin. And he isn’t so sure he would mind. 

When Asra’s thoughts lull, he realizes what should be crushed clove is now a nearly fine powder. It would make it awfully hard for a cup of tea, so instead, he dumps the powder into a jar. You loved your pumpkin bread, and he could give it to Selasi to make you an extra special loaf. It was the last of his clove, so he supposes he’ll need to make another trip soon. He’s heard that some vendors in Nopal have gotten their hands on some good spices from Prakra, at a deal too, but Asra doesn’t pay with the typical funds anyway. He thinks he’ll bring an extra shiny trinket for them instead. 

His only issue, that is, would be you. Ever since the resurrection, Asra became…limited with where he could go. It’s not that he didn’t want to spend every moment with you, but being by your side when he knew he couldn’t have you (even if you wanted him so badly)…he couldn’t stand it. So he had to slip out when you were sleeping, unfurl your grip from him and replace himself with a pillow. It didn’t always work, and you’d catch him at the door while he wound his scarf around his shoulders. You’d beckon him back, a sour look on your face, and Asra had wanted nothing more than to curl back into your embrace. But sometimes, he just couldn’t. He’d make sure to make it up to you, he says to himself every time. 

Warm arms wrap around his middle, a chin resting on his shoulder. “Asra,” you breathe, squeezing his sides lightly, living in his smell of smokey incense and herbal tea intensely. “You weren’t there when I woke up.” 

He can hear the pout in your voice, and he turns in your arms. Your eyes are lidded with sleep, little lines from the pillow's wrinkles pressed into your cheek. “I was just down here,” he reassures, reaching his hands up to cup your face tenderly. “Don’t you want breakfast?”

You shift your eyes from him to the counter after a moment, looking at the fresh stack of pancakes. Your stomach growls almost immediately at the prospect of sustenance, and Asra laughs cheerfully. “C'mon, let's get some food in you.”

You let go of him reluctantly. “It would have been nice to see you in your apron.” You say almost nonchalantly and Asra feels his face get a little hot at the idea, as simple as it was. It felt good to be wanted, even if what you wanted was to see him in a dingy patchwork apron. “Then you should get up earlier.” He says back instead, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

You praise Asra’s cooking endlessly, quickly devouring the fluffy pancakes, only mildly burnt. A quick glance at his stack reveals that he’s taken the more burnt of the dozen, albeit dousing them in honey and syrup. 

“We should stop by the marketplace,” Asra says around a mouthful of half-chewed pancake. “I’m running low on some spices, and I know you don’t like it when I leave too far away.” Or leave at all.

You nod, dragging your finger through the syrup and honey pooled around your empty plate. You suck it off your finger and the magician stares a little longer than he should. “You don’t need to keep going to Nopal and wherever else if we have what we need here.” You say after popping your finger from your lips, snapping Asra back to focus. He clears his throat. “R-right,”

You smile, a pleasant curl of your lips that makes him feel warm. “Maybe we can get some pumpkin bread while we’re there.” You lean forward, and Asra starts to pucker his lips. His brows furrow when you take a bite off the fork he didn't even realize he was still holding. “Was getting soggy.” You grin impishly, swallowing the honey-saturated pancake. 

…

The sun is bright and warm in the marketplace, discussion chittering and buzzing across the crowd. Asra feels your hand fall into his, your warm skin clasping against his, palm to palm. In the past, you took to holding his hand for guidance through such a large crowd, but Asra knows you’ve grown strong, and you don’t need to hold onto him anymore. But you still do. He used to joke that you must be trying to leech off his energy with how tiring the marketplace can be, but he’s long since figured out it’s your way of guarding him. 

You pass a multitude of shops on your way to the spice stands, things like pendulums and flashy shells catch Asra’s attention before you tug him back in the right direction. “You get distracted too much.” You tease and he pouts. “We’ll just have to visit them on the way back.” He playfully scrunches his nose, squeezing your hand for good measure. You squeeze back, a little firmer than him, fingers intertwined. 

You zone out a bit as Asra trades and barters for spices, craning your neck up to watch the fluffy clouds go by. One reminds you of Faust and her long, noodle-like body. 

“I’ve got a special deal for someone as breathtaking as you.”

Your head snaps back into the stand, your jaw setting and teeth gritting upon inspection of the interaction. It’s a new vendor, a young man with sunburnt skin and wavy hair. A man all too close to what’s yours. 

Asra pointedly ignores the remark, changing the subject to how much he wanted to purchase—but you don’t. You stalk back behind him, firmly hugging your arms around Asra’s waist. 

“Oh! Done cloud watching?” He asks, rummaging around in his bag for something to barter with. The vendor’s smile sours. 

“Yes.” You respond, eyes narrowed into a glare where they land on the young man behind the wooden counter. “You were talking about a deal?” 

The vendor laughs nervously. “Y-yes- I was just talking about a deal for new customers! Ten percent off!”

“That’s not what you said.” You squeeze Asra a little tighter, pressing your nose against the crook of his neck. The magician shivers, his cheeks turning red at the display of affection. 

“A-and may I ask, you are-“

“His boyfriend.” You stop the vendor in his tracks, kissing Asra’s neck for good measure and punctuation. Asra yelps a little, nervously laughing and the vendor’s face blooms the reddest red you’ve ever seen. 

“O-ok I’ll get these another time, thank you!” Your partner stammers, quickly tugging you away while you give the poor man another long, territorial glare. 

You’re pushed into a secluded area, shaded by rugs and silks for sale. “What are you doing?” Asra nearly hisses, embarrassment and something else painting his face. 

“I’m protecting you.”

“That- that was not- I mean, y-you,” he fumbles over his words, his face getting redder by the second, coloring that gorgeous golden skin you love so much. Asra feels a giant knot of emotion and conflict well up in his chest; on one hand, it was completely outrageous for you to respond like that and fluster him so, but on the other hand…oh, how Asra loved to be wanted. He liked how you grabbed him up and put your claim on him- how you’ve gotten so possessive and territorial- oh, it gets him hot-

He kisses you suddenly, grabbing your shirt and tugging you forward roughly. You can taste the desperation and honeyed pancakes on his tongue, feel his energy meld with yours the closer he presses himself against your body. You hold him tightly, digging your fingers into his hips and waist in a way that makes him whimper. 

Asra pulls away with a stuttering breath before it can go too far, his pupils blown where they sit in amethyst eyes. “I need you.” He whispers, sliding his hands under your shirt. 

“Not here,” you take his hands in yours instead, despite how much you want to feel him all over you as quickly as possible. “No one else can see you like this, only me.” It sounds more like a growl when you say it, and Asra can’t believe how much it turns him on. He shouldn’t be encouraging that behavior, and he shouldn’t be allowing you to hide him away and keep him as your own, but he does. He does because it feeds that frenzied, obsessive version of himself from the height of the plague when he cheated death herself. It soothes that heart-wrenching ache for you he felt, something he never wants to feel again.

So you take him home, taking any shortcut you could remember–and you only contemplated stopping in an alleyway to have your way with him once. Neither of you knows how you made it back to the shop without cracking, and you don’t think you really care to speculate, not when you have your Asra waiting for you like this. He has the mind to turn the sign to ‘closed’ before you pounce, kissing him fervently. The magician all but melts, throwing his arms around your neck and moaning against your lips. The sound only fuels that fire in your gut, the grinding gears in your mind that screech and hiss Asra, Asra, Asra.

Your teeth catch on his bottom lip and he whimpers, curling his fingers against your scalp. “Take me to bed,” he breathes against your lips, but he finds himself ill-prepared for when you hook your arms under his thighs and hoist him over your shoulder. “Ah- haha!” He squeals, gripping onto you for dear life as you ascend the stairs to the small, cozy bedroom. 

You drop him onto the cushy mattress, smiling as he bounces and laughs an exhilarated laugh. Asra’s giggles melt into a moan when you kiss him again, this time only spending a few moments at his lips before moving lower down his jaw. You can feel his pulse flutter under your lips, that golden collar of his hiding the most vulnerable of spots. But you like it, you like seeing your Asra in such a pretty collar–it means he’s yours. 

“Mine,” you find yourself whispering in between kisses and licks. “You’re mine, no one else can have you.” 

“Yours,” he mimics, a rumbly little sound reverberating from his chest when you tease your teeth against a nearly faded hickey. “Only yours- oh gods, only ever yours.” 

Your hands grab at his clothes, hastily ripping him free of his shirt. Asra doesn’t take the time to mourn the buttons, his mind growing plagued by lust and desperation. His skin feels like it's burning by the time you touch him, and finds himself making a choked sound when your fingers brush his nipples. “Yes, yes, just like that,” he gasps when you lean down and lick over his nipple, taking the hardened peak into your mouth. Asra’s head falls back against the fluffy pillows, mouth gaping and hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. 

You look up your lashes at him, reaching lower, your palm going to cup his swollen crotch. His breath stutters, legs widening almost mindlessly. “Yes, touch me there,”

You pop off of his nipple, scraping your teeth against it gently as you do. “You drive me crazy,” you circle your fingers over his bulge, rubbing against his confined cock. Asra bites his lip. “You live in my head constantly, all I think about is you,” you forgo your touching to tug at his pants, and Asra eagerly unbuttons and kicks them off. He spreads his legs again, exposing his bare cunt and cock, both swollen and wet for you. 

“I couldn’t stand hearing that man speak to you like that.” You growl, taking his small dick between your fingers and stroking it almost a little too quickly. He makes a sound that you drink in, filing away for a lonely moment. “No one is allowed to speak- to look at you like that, I’ll keep you tied up here if I have to.” Your eyes are locked with his, filled with a look of something devious and dark. Asra shivers, and he knows he needs to correct that behavior, but he's starting to believe he might just be as insane as you. “I’d never leave,” he pants, keening when you rub your finger over the weeping head of his cock. “I’d- h-huhn, I’d never leave, not ever, not w-when you’re touching me like that, oh right there just like that-!” 

You stop before Asra can reach his gratification, watching his cocklet twitch pitifully at the sudden lack of attention. “Not yet, I want you to come from my cock.” 

He feels a little dizzy at that, painfully aware of how empty and aching his cunt feels. Looking at him now, you’ve become alert to your own needs, swollen and throbbing in your pants. “Take them off,” Asra pleads, making a show of guiding his hand down and pushing his fingers into himself. Your breath hitches, eyes locked on how he spreads himself for you. “I need you, make me yours.”

You groan, almost salivating at his words and actions, forcefully pulling your pants off your body. Asra moans at the sight of your cock hanging heavily between your legs, fingers plunging in a little faster, and he begins to think he could get off on just the image of you. He spreads his fingers and shows off his hastily prepped hole, gaping the pink, gummy flesh as you knock his legs apart. “Mine, mine, mine,” you chant, replacing Asra’s hand with your own and spreading his lips open as you guide yourself into him. There’s a mutual sound of satisfaction–your dick filling him completely, and his walls hugging you snuggly. “Yours, yours, yours!” He gasps when you bottom out completely, your pelvis flush against his. 

You set a steady pace, easing in and out, in and out, until you can hear the slapping of your balls against his ass and the stuttery panting of his breaths. “I have to- hah, mark you as mine, make it clear no one else can have you,” you begin to ramble, hands hooked under his thighs, your hips thrusting forward quicker, quicker, quicker. 

Asra hiccups under the force of your hips, bouncing up on the bed with each thrust. He shakily wraps his legs around your hips, crooning in delight when you grab and hold his legs tighter around you. “Mine, mine, inside and out,” you moan, leaning down lower, bracing your arms by his head. Asra wraps his arms around you almost instantly, holding you chest to chest as you continue to fuck into him. “My Asra, mine, mine.” 

You angle yourself on the next thrust in, hitting upwards, the head of your cock spearing against that sweet spot of his. The squeal that tears from his throat is almost instant, his nails digging into your back. You delight yourself in the feeling; your Asra is claiming you back, he’s putting his mark on you too, and it only makes your obsession grow. 

“There, there, there!” He cries, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, pure pleasure coursing through every artery and vein. He’s never felt as good as he does now, he wishes you'd burrow yourself in and never leave if this is how you’ll make him feel. 

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, mouth latching on to faded hickeys and bites. Asra can't help but hold the back of your head in place, his eyes rolling back when you sink your teeth in. “Yes, yesyesyes! I’m so close, so close, pleasepleaseplease–” 

He can feel your tongue drag over the fresh bite, hips jackhammering into him so hard he knows he’ll be limping in the morning; but he doesn’t care, he can’t care when he's so close. You wiggle your hand between your bodies, pressing your palm against his leaking cock and doing your best to rub in time with your humping, and Asra is finished.

He swears his vision goes white, his legs tightening like a coiled snake around your waist, and his nails digging into your back and hair, tugging and scratching, overwhelmed in the senses. Hot, liquid cum squirts from his cocklet, splattering against both of your stomachs and the color slowly returns to his sight, his scream coming out in a strangled mess. 

“Come, come in me,” Asra begs weakly, overstimulation slowly creeping across his body, but it can’t stop now, not when you’re so close too. He guides your head back up from his neck, bumping his forehead against yours. “Please,” he hiccups. “Make me yours.”

Really, it’s all you need to finish; your wonderful, intoxicating Asra begging you to finish inside him, how can you tell him no? You hump into him, growing uncoordinated with the last few stuttery thrusts until you spill in him. Sound rushes into your ears, your body tensing as you pump your lover full of your cum. 

Asra makes a pleased sound, slumping back against the bed, utterly boneless. You ease yourself in and out a few more times, ensuring you’ve drained yourself completely into him, truly claiming him from the inside out. 

“Oh, oh wow,” he laughs when you dislodge yourself and watch the cum drip from his spent pussy. “That was so good, you're so good,” he babbles, pulling you back down to kiss you eagerly.

You melt against him, moaning into his mouth when he licks at your lips. Asra’s face is flushed with exertion when you part with a wet sound, eyes filled with pure love and adoration, and it's all because of you. 

Your world is dark and red and plague coats the streets as thickly as molasses. It seems the city has crumbled a little more with each person that falls. With a life so bitter, you clung to the ounce of hope you had and applied for apprenticeship under a doctor at the palace. Asra left, desperate for distance from the city but you couldn’t join him—you wouldn’t, this was your home and you’re determined to piece it back together no matter what it takes.

The pungent smell of rubbing alcohol and the distant tang of coppery blood assault your nose even through your mask. The skittering of beetles from the pit buzz in your ears like terrible white noise, fueling your unease—but you persist, this is your job now. You chose this.

“I trust you to go on your own this time. It’ll be no different, it’s just like we’ve done together.” Doctor Devorak speaks monotonously and his eyes are bruised with sleep deprivation. Constantly, he hunches over books and furiously scribbles notes in an attempt to find a cure. Would it be in vain? You’re unsure, but if this takes a little stress off his shoulders, you’ll do it. “Be careful.” He says after a moment's hesitation.

In your bag, you carry all the equipment you need for your patient. Count Lucio.

You’ve gotten as used to his cocky persona as much as one possibly could. Even riddled with the plague, he still acts as though he’s the same man as before. He knows he isn’t—though denial is the greatest placebo. You’ve gotten used to your mask by now and your lenses barely fog up anymore. It scares Lucio, though he doesn’t show it willingly. You rap three times on his chamber doors before entering.

His room smells of disinfectant and night air that seeps through his cracked window. “Good evening, Count.” You greet coolly, approaching his bedside and placing your bag on top of an oak wood dresser. Lucio scans his eyes over you, red and puffy. “Which one are you?” His voice is rough and scratchy, you assume he’s been having coughing fits. You answer him with your name and he seems to perk up. “Your voice is too muffled with that thing.” Lucio gestures vaguely at your beaked mask. “Where’s Doctor Jules?” He watches as you unpack your bag and pull out various tools. 

“Working.”

“He’s no fun. You know what they say, three's a party.” 

Lucio is a terrible flirt and he doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care about boundaries between doctor and patient. If it were up to him, he’d have both his favorite doctors in his room with him after hours. But that isn’t what this is, he’s reminded. He’s a dying man and it’s a procedural matter.

You don’t answer his cocky remark and gather your stethoscope. You plug it in your ears and press the metal disk to his chest. “Hey! A little warning might be nice!” Lucio groans, nearly jolting at the cold metal. “Quiet, I need to hear.”

Luckily, he shuts up and you listen to the rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat. You move it over his lungs and his breath rattles. “I need to put it under your shirt.” You lean back up and Lucio grins. “Oh? If you wanted me shirtless you just had to ask.” He grins and you roll your eyes. “You don’t need to take off your shirt, I’ll put it under.”

You lift the hem of his linen shirt and press the metal to his naked chest. It draws a gasp from him that you ignore. You move it across his chest where you need to listen and reach around to press it against his back. His lungs sound like a baby’s rattle, scratchy and clogged. His skin is warm to the touch though you can barely feel it through your thick gloves.

You move the metal disk higher and lower as you need it and Lucio’s heart rate accelerates as you move back to his chest. 

“Remember to stay calm, we needn’t any heart palpitations.” Your voice is smooth and methodical. Setting the stethoscope aside for a moment, you fetch a band from your bag. “Would it be wrong for me to say you make my heart skip a beat?” Lucio croaks, completely ignorant of your lingo.

“Yes, that’s what a heart palpitation is, milord.” 

“Right, I knew that.”

You grab Lucio’s right arm with gentle hands, turning it to expose the crook of the reddened flesh and tying the band tight around his bicep. He winces at the pinch of skin and watches you like a hawk as you place the stethoscope under the band and plug it back into your ears. You watch the clock across from his bed, counting each beat of his heart with practiced ease. Lucio barely holds in the painful cough once the full minute is over, turning his head and covering his mouth with the palm of his hand. 

You take a moment to write down his vitals and rub his back while he swallows thickly and clears his throat. “Why are you doing that.” Lucio’s voice comes off more nasally than usual, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder where your hand lays. “I’m offering you comfort. Do you want me to stop?” You feel you may have crossed a line despite the count's provocative nature. 

“No! No. By all means, keep touching me.” Lucio attempts to keep the familiar swagger in his tone yet you don’t miss how desperate he’d sounded for that split second. 

You don’t reply to him, just moving your gloved palm to his forehead and the heat seeps through the leather. You sigh softly. “Fever still high. May I try something, milord?” You question and Lucio scoffs—well, the best he can without sending himself into a hacking fit. You take that as a ‘whatever’ and loosen the fingers of your glove, pulling it off. Lucio watches with interest as you place your bare hand to his clammy forehead and summon a simple cooling spell. He groans softly and leans into your hand. 

“How’d you do that?” 

“I’m well acquainted with magic.”

“Magic, huh? Must’ve lucked out with you, eh?” 

Again, you pass over his comment and press your fingers over his temples and behind his ears, alleviating him of possible migraines. Your patient sighs a deep breath, the tension in his body slowly relaxing. “Keep that up and I’ll have to order you a raise.” Lucio hums and you remove your hand, slipping your glove back on. “I’m not getting paid, milord. I volunteered to help.” You clarify and the count gawks at you. 

“You willingly chose to do this? Man..” he clicks his tongue and makes a sound of disbelief. 

You continue the routine you’ve practiced with him before, taking notes on his behavior and advancements with his sickness.

“Have the assistants been helping you with your physical therapy?” You question, setting the quill down in its holder as you address Lucio. “Hmph, they haven’t even tried.” He huffs, staring ahead at the painting across from his bed—a commissioned portrait of a man defeating death, how ironic. 

“That’s no good..” you mumble. “I’m assuming no one has taken you walking?”

“No. None of them want to touch me—I mean, I’m the COUNT, who wouldn’t want to fawn over me??” 

You let him ramble as you take note of the lack of aid from his assistants. “I’ll help you with simple stretches today. I’ll give word about the slacking.” You announce, taking a moment to pop the joints in your arms and back. If you weren’t mistaken, the count would be like dead weight at this point, and stiff joints wouldn’t help you in this endeavor. “Are you ready, milord?” You prepare yourself to haul him upright at the edge of the bed, only waiting on his consent.

“If you hurt me, I’ll kill you.” 

“This won’t hurt, I’m only going to relieve your body aches.” 

Lucio gives you a skeptical look before nodding his head, pushing his arms out to allow you to grip under his arms, fingers pressing into his ribs as you help to position him. “First we’ll start with your arm; we can tackle your prosthetic later, though I’m sure you might need to take a break from wearing it to keep your skin from chafing…” you ramble on, more so to yourself than Lucio. He winces at the notion of removing his prosthetic, lips curling into a snarl. “No, the arm stays on.” 

You only nod. “Yes, milord, I’ll make sure to inform the others of your decision.” 

Lucio sits as straight as he can, back still aching as you take his right arm and start with overhead stretches. Sweat stains litter his shirt, and you make a mental note to have someone help him change after your checkup. Your thumbs glide down the inside of his arm, down over the red veins and to his wrist, pushing his hand down, holding, up, holding. Lucio watches like a predator watches its prey, yet sitting there with his hand in yours, back hunched, he seems more of a sad child; one who wears a pout on his face and kicks his feet where they dangle from his chair. 

A strand of dull blonde hair falls into his face, and you push it back without really thinking about it, briefly raking your fingers through in a swift moment to instill its place among his hairline. Lucio closes his eyes, a rattling sigh and a sniffle of his nose. Something tells you to stay just a moment longer, and so you do, only under the guise of massaging his temples to relieve his headaches. 

“We’ll do bed stretches for your legs, we needn’t overdo it.” Your voice, muffled by the leather beak of your mask, breaks him from his stupor. Lucio nods and clears his throat, which only leads to another coughing fit that you rub his back through. “Lay back when you’re ready.”

He raises his brow, then chuckles raggedly. “I knew you’d come around,” Lucio heckles, half falling back onto his elbows. You tut and guide him back yourself. “You have to lay back so I can stretch your legs.” 

He rolls his eyes, rubbing the cool metal of his hand over his forehead. “Let me have a little fun, won’t you?”

You don’t answer, unwilling to fuel his fantasies. Your gloved fingers wrap around his ankle, one hand holding by the heel of his foot and the other in the crook under his knee. Slow and steady, you push his leg forward, knee bending near his chest. You don’t push it, just holding for a few seconds before pulling back and repeating. 

Lucio doesn’t know if it’s just the fever talking, or the warm solid body maneuvering his, but he can feel the already present flush on his face getting hotter, his heart beating faster within his rib cage. He takes a deep breath, then out. This isn’t too bad, just stretching. Just his doctor's apprentice stretching his legs for him, with that hideous mask that for some reason has butterflies fluttering in his stomach. 

“Good job, keep breathing just like that.”

Shit. He really wishes you wouldn’t talk like that right now. 

Now you’ve set his foot on your shoulder, using it as leverage to push it back, focusing on the hinge of his hips, and by god does that send his blood right between his legs. You don’t notice the stirring in his trousers, nor do you stop and look—then again why would you look. 

You release his leg and move to the other, repeating the same cycle from before with intense concentration in those hollow eyes of your mask. 

Lucio’s breathing is getting heavier, you notice, so you stop. “Milord, are you o… oh.” The air in the room freezes, everything still and your heartbeat rises in your ears. “I apologize, I’ll leave you to tend to yourself,” you flounder, immediately turning to pack up your bag. Nothing prepared you for this, none of your training ever taught you how to approach this kind of situation. 

“Wait!” Lucio struggles to push himself up, but he gets there, braving his arms behind him. “You’re not just gonna leave are you?” 

That scene is still replaying in your head, the Count flat on his back with his legs fallen spread on the bed, eyes trailing down in between his legs—somewhere you never should have looked. “I, I mean, this is unprofessional,” your hands clenched at your chest, soft leather creaking at your joints. “That would be taking advantage of you.” 

Lucio scoffs. “Taking advantage of me? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my role, I could have you executed if you so much as pissed me off.” He swallows, pressing his hand down on the bed in between his legs, his wrist and forearm blocking the soft tenting in his pants. “So believe me when I’m asking you to do this,” there’s a new softness on his face, like he was just moments away from getting onto his knees—well if he could get on his knees. 

You straighten your back, hands falling to your sides. “Ok, then. Ask me properly.” You demand, heart beating wildly in your chest nonetheless. For a moment Lucio looks almost surprised. Then, a catlike grin spreads across his pale face. 

“Please Doctor, would you touch me?” He damn near purrs the word, the persistent flush on his face darkening for other reasons. “You wouldn’t leave your patient crying, now would you?”

You gather your bearings, heart hammering in your chest. A tad too stiffly, you begin searching through your bag. “Hey, I did what you wanted. What’re you doing now?” Lucio bobs his head around in an attempt to peer into your bag. You snap it shut after finding what you needed. “I won’t do it dry. Lay back, this won’t hurt a bit.” You unscrew the jar of vaseline, setting it down with a little clack onto his nightstand. Lucio’s already laid flat on his back by the time you turn around, struggling to shimmy out of his pants. 

You grant him some reprieve, replacing his hands with yours and tugging down the waistband. “Finally,” he groans, cool air wafting over his hot skin. His half-hard dick lays on his belly.

“Now, stay still.” 

With a gloved hand coated in lubricant, you grab his cock, slowly pumping him into full hardness. Lucio grips at the bedsheets, expensive linens wrinkling under his hands. The leather of your gloves glides across his heated flesh softer than he imagined it’d feel- the worn-in material like pure heaven. 

“Doctor,” he gasps again, pants still snug around his thighs while he gives a pathetic buck of his hips. You press your free hand against his lower stomach, thumb rubbing right under the head of his cock. “Stay still, we needn’t cause any distress. Your palm acts as a stabilizer against his stomach, keeping him from the rowdy attempts at what his previous, healthy, body would have reacted with. 

“I hope this relieves some stress, milord,” you twist your wrist and Lucio shudders. “Your health and well-being are my greatest priority.” Your thumb strokes along his jutted hipbone, mask-clad head tilting the tiniest bit to the side as you watch him writhe and pant. 

“That’s-“ a heaving cough wracks through his body, making his stomach clench and cock twitch in your hand. “Th-that’s not sexy talk at all.” He groans, eyebrows furrowing and sweat dripping down his temples. “Oh?” You rub your thumb over his slit and a shuddering moan falls from his lips. “You seem to be gaining gratification right now, is this not sufficient? Would you like me to be a little more…intimate?” You press down lightly on his lower stomach, feeling his dick jump again in your hand as you start pumping faster.

“I-it would be, hg- fuck, helpful,” Lucio chokes, hastily trying to kick his pants off his thighs, the need for more mobility clawing up his spine until he's wiggling like a worm trying to get free. 

You sigh, letting go of his dick and letting it fall against his stomach in favor of grabbing the hem of his waistband and sliding them down his legs. They fall to the floor with a soft thump. Lucio lifts his legs up to his chest, trying to make purchase on the edge of the bed rather than dangle off. “Don’t squirm, you’ll only hurt yourself.” You take his dick in your hand again and give another pump, something that makes his legs tremble. “Don’t tell me what to- ohhh,” his eyes roll back, lashes fluttering when you start stroking again, fast and methodical. He shouldn’t be much longer now, not with how he's starting to leak on your gloves. 

His toes curl in his socks, his cool metal hand fumbling to brush up his shirt and thumb over a peachy nipple. You roll your eyes under your mask. You might as well.

You reach up and let your fingers rub over his second nipple, and the rumbly groan of delight that leaves his ragged throat is clue enough that you’ve made the right move. “You’re- you’re fucking creepy-” Lucio keens, weakly rutting his hips up. 

“This mask is for my protec-”

“I know,” he heaves a great big breath with you carefully stroke his dripping slit. “The mask- it-it’s creepy but it's hot and, and-fuck!” 

One well-timed grind of your finger under the head and tug on his nipples has him cumming abruptly, his thin hips giving aborted thrusts as weak loads of cum splatter against his stomach and taper off to drip down your gloved knuckles. Slowly, you taper off your stroking until he's gone soft in your hand. “I hope you feel satisfied. Now,” you give a disguised grimace under your mask at your gloved hand. “I should be taking my leave-!”

Lucio locks his legs around your hips, nudging you up against his as your knees knock against the edge of the bed. He leans upon his golden arm. “S’ not enough,” his heels dig into your tailbone. “Fuck me, fuck me like you mean it.” Your shock limits you enough for him to grab your soiled hand and bring it to his face. “You love your Count, don’t you?” He holds your wrist as he drags his tongue over your palm, licking up his own mess. “I’ll reward you, you can use me like a toy-”

The moment he tries to kiss your palm you yank your hand away with a sucked in breath, your heart hammering in your ears. You should leave, you should put a stop to this and forget that this ever happened.

…But you don’t. You don’t step away. You harden your gaze behind your mask and brace your hands on either side of his ribcage, looming over him. 

“You really think you’re still in charge, don’t you?” Your voice comes steady, and you can almost see the shiver that runs through Lucio’s body. “Do you think this would be a reward for me? As if I didn’t do this because I pitied you?”

“Pity-!“ he guffaws, though quickly shut up the lower you lean into his space. You’re like a predator above him, the soulless beaked mask covering any sense of humanity. And honestly, wasn’t this what he wanted? 

“Hold your tongue, milord, unless you’re using it to confess the truth.” The beak of your mask pokes against his blushed nose, and he scrunches up in reflex. His lips press into a thin line, barely hiding the tremble. “You begged me to touch you like a common whore- you will respect me. And if you truly want me to fuck you, you will beg again.” 

There’s silence for a moment throughout the room. It’s still aside from the labored breaths, the baby rattle of his chest. Then, slowly, you can see his tongue poke into his cheek and confusion gathers in your mind until-

Lucio snorts and spits onto the beak of your mask. “Fuck you.” 

Slowly, his viscous saliva slides down the bridge of your mask's nose, tinted with red specks and blood. You lean up, lips tugging into a scowl. With a quick movement, you swipe the spit off your mask and grab the Count by the face. Lucio winces, red eyes narrowing on you. “You insufferable little brat. You should be lucky I even touched you, not with your wife ignoring you up in this wing. Does she know you flirt with me? Does she know that you’re begging for scraps of attention like a dog? Does she care?” 

Meeting your steely gaze, tinted by the red lenses of your mask, something in Lucio changes. You’re his only hope in any affection, you’re his only chance to be loved again–no matter how cruel it starts. Something in Lucio breaks. 

“Give it to me.” He croaks, his nose hot and eyes wet. “I-I’ll take whatever- just love me, please.” …is what he doesn’t say. Instead, he swallows that pride of his and mutters a bitter ‘please’.

“Louder. I can’t hear you.” You demand, fingers pressing into his cheeks and squishing his face. His lips pucker embarrassingly. “Please.” Lucio repeats, louder and rough. Seemingly satisfied, you let go of his face and pat his cheek like rewarding a dog. “Now was that so hard? Someone should have taught you manners.” You knock his legs off your hips and return to your bag, rummaging for the vaseline you put back too soon. “I ought to put that mouth of yours to work, keep you quiet, but I don’t trust you not to bite.”

Lucio scowls, yet his heart quickens again as you unscrew the jar and scoop out a glob of viscous goop. “Wanna try your luck?” He slurs instead, tapping his teeth together as punctuation.

With your cleaner hand, you knock his legs back together and grab under the knees, pushing them up to his chest. He makes a gurgled sound of surprise, semi hard dick still hanging between the gap of his thighs. “I’d rather pull the stick out of your ass.” You grin a sarcastic grin, not that he can see it anyway. Lucio rolls his eyes, although short lived as they shoot open with the first prod of your fingers. 

“Shit!” He yelps. “Couldn’t have made it warmer?” His toes curl in his socks, clenching up at the feeling of cold lubricant against his skin.

“You’re awfully spoiled, do you know that?” You rub circles over his rim, slowly warming up until he’s stopped clenching up so tightly. He grumbles, though goes quiet when you push the first finger in. You look up quizzically and find his eyes have clenched tightly shut. 

“What is it now?” You ponder, finger sliding in and out, in and out, repetitively until he’s relaxed more and more. “Milord.” You call, crooking your finger up and-

“FUCK!”

The shout takes you off guard, and you almost pull your finger out until you see the tip of his dick wet and sticky with pre. “Oh?” You hum, bringing your finger in position again to rub at the gland inside. Lucio nearly chokes, dick twitching again in front of you. “Oh what a shame, it must have been so long since someone has touched you here, hasn’t it? If you’re giving me a reaction like that.”

“Shu-uuuoh-“ pre is steadily dripping from his slit, much more liquid than before as it pools on his balls and taint. “Ughn- j-just fu-huuuh-“ his eyes roll, heat pooling in every part of his body with each forceful press against his prostate, milking yet another glob of pre from his cock. “Fuck me alreadyyy,” 

You tut, pulling your finger out and slathering more vaseline on. “Just a finger in and you’re already whoring yourself out- oh, my mistake, you already did that already.” You slide two fingers in, watching as Lucio’s rim widens and sucks in your digits. He can’t find himself to come up with a witty reply, too caught up in his own pleasure to comprehend half of what you’re saying.

More and more he loosens, weakly fluttering around your fingers with each pump. Three fingers in, and his pre- or at this point just cum- has dripped down onto your knuckles and coated his back end. “Filthy old man, you’re leaking all over my hand.” 

Lucio guffaws. “Old?!” He babbles out his disdain for the adjective quite nasally.

You push three fingers up firmly against his abused prostate, grab his balls in your other fist, and squeeze.

“FU-HUUH-“ 

It’s almost as if the cum has been squeezed out of him, forceful sprays of the liquid splattering across your beaked mask. You flinch at the splatter, yet give his balls one more firm squish and twist before letting the flesh go, watching his dick fall limp between his thighs. 

“Do you still want me to fuck you, Milord? Are you still craving my touch?” You slide your fingers out of his ass with a wet squelch, wiping your gloved hand in his thigh. 

Lucio stares at the ceiling for a moment, vision spinning and chest heaving. He’s sore already in the groin, yet he wants more. You’ve given him a taste and now he’s starving; you’ve shown him your cruelty tonight, and he can only imagine how else you’ll beat him down. “Yes-“ he swallows, leaning up on his elbows to get a good look at you. 

He nearly falls back again at the sight. That horrific mask that he hates so much, splattered with his own semen. It fills him with an odd feeling, one of both arousal and discomfort. That mask plagued him- literally, and now seeing it tainted, seeing it in a new light, it makes his chest tighten and privates throb. He…likes this mask, when it’s on you. And that thought both scares and excites him at the same time. 

“You’ve gotten me messy,” you rise, meeting him face to mask and caging him in. “And you’re going to clean it. Go on, lick it clean like the mutt you are.” 

Lucio grimaces, staring at his own reflection in the big red glass eyes of your mask. And then, somewhat to your own surprise, he sticks his tongue out and timidly laps at the end of your beak. You lean down a little further, the tip of the leather beak pressing against his lips. 

The sickly blonde turns his head to the side of your mask, licking a stripe against the cool leather, cleaning his own semen from the material. He groans, sloppily licking the rest of the sticky mess off your mask with enthusiasm unfit for his previous behavior. You can only suppose it’s his not so secret desire to be humiliated.

His eyes have glazed over a bit, his licking leading back to the beak of your mask, his lips parting further like he wants to try and take it in his mouth. You chuckle and give his cheek a rough pat. “You’re that eager to have your mouth filled, huh?” 

Lucio straightens up in a sense, embarrassment crossing his face. “I- Shut up!” 

A type of wolfish grin stretches your lips and you stand straight, re-spreading his legs and unbuckling your belt. The count licks his lips. “Fucking finally,” 

“Don’t get so cocky, milord, with how desperate you’re acting it might be too much.” You unbutton the front of your trousers and pull your cock through the hole, heavy and aching in your gloved hand. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t handle.” He seethes, yet angels his hips for you as you press the head of your cock against his stretched rim. You push into him without any further warning, easing into his lube-soaked hole with a low groan. 

Lucio’s jaw falls slack, a strangled and aborted sound coming from the back of his throat. 

“Is this what you wanted? Is this what you needed, milord?” You punctuate with a quick snap of your hips, forcing the rest of your dick into him. He gurgles, hands coming up to his mouth as a heavy coughing fit tears through his chest.

“Yes,” he croaks when the coughing subsides, the convulsion making him clench tightly around you. “Fuck, I needed it, so bad,” 

You brace your hand against his skinny stomach, slowly pulling out and pushing back in at your own pace. Lucio groans in protest, complaining about the speed and making half-thought jabs. “All, all that talk,” he laughs breathlessly, though his eyelids flutter and he chokes on a whine when you bottom back out. “Can’t e-even fu-“

You roll your eyes, pull out, and snap your hips back in.

“Fuck!” His own cry punctuates your thrust, his head knocking back against the bed. 

You build a quicker pace, fucking into him roughly and without care. Right now, he’s your plaything. 

The rhythmic slapping grows louder and louder, blended with pitiful moans and cries, vulgar and desperate. Lucio’s face screws into one of brutal pleasure, his teeth grit and eyes screwed shut; all framed with the brightest cherry blush, only partly from his sickly hue. 

You tear your gaze from his face, trailing down his frail chest and stomach and-

“…you’re not hard.” 

You slow and grab his limp cock in your hand, roughly pumping it. “You’re all limp, Milord.” 

His eyes shoot open, something like fear and humiliation flashing in his red eyes. “D-don’t,”

“Don’t what?” You dig your thumb into his slit. His dick gives a twitch but ultimately remains soft and useless. “It’s not my fault your dick is broken.” 

Lucio snarls, though it holds no true malice. You slide your hands under his knees and push them up by his chest, picking up the pace again. His head rolls, hand reaching out to paw at your chest, fingers hooking on your light colored uniform. His flaccid dick slaps against his belly with each push of your hips, and the forceful press jolts him up against the bed almost violently.

“You truly are useless,” you spit, hips slapping against his, heart hammering in your chest. Lucio gasps and heaves, his sickly pale skin flushed red and sweaty. His sunken eyes are tear-filled, dampening his lashes and sliding over his cheekbones. “All you’re good for is warming my cock.” 

To your surprise, Lucio hiccups and nods, weakly holding onto the bunched fabric of your shirt. In that moment, you realize just how weak Lucio is; how frail his body is, and how easy it would be to break him. 

“You stopped,” he croaks, weakly punching your chest. “Duh-don’t be such a pussy,”

Ah. Maybe he doesn’t need too much tenderness after all. 

You forgo your hold under his knees to grab his thin hips instead, squeezing tight enough to leave a violet bruise in your wake. “I thought maybe I should have granted you a little softness—but it seems that was wrong of me.” Your hips snap forward almost brutally, and the leverage that your grip on his hips gives you is similar to fucking him as if he was but a toy. You watch his eyes roll, jaw falling slack as a moan not unlike a strangled bird tears from his raw throat. “What, hah, would everyone think,” you begin, curling your fingers into the skin of his hips and belly, thumbs hooking into his hip bones. Lucio hisses at the ache. 

“Knowing if you were fucked by a common person, a nobody, according to you.” He clenches at the thought, forming a vice around your throbbing cock. Hot pleasure seethes through your veins, and it seems if anything, The Count truly is just good for a fuck. 

With each taunt, each rough thrust, your fingers press deeper into his skin, until you can feel a faint and lingering heartbeat under your fingertips. Your hands slide over his stomach, and a high-pitched cry tears from his throat, the look of pure shock laid across his face. Confusion gathers in you until you look down and see that limp, useless cock of his leaking hot piss over his taut stomach. It only hits you then that you had dug your fingers right into his bladder, practically squeezing it out of him–but he doesn't need to know that. 

You guffaw instead, watching the last spurts of his yellow steam taper off and drip down the side of his stomach, pooling under him. 

“Oh my gods- I had never taken you for a bedwetter, milord.” Lucio flinches at the humiliation…and yet his legs curl around your hips, limp dick still slapping against his now wet belly. 

“Should I inform the other doctors and tell them that their count is incontinent? That their count is no better than a bedwetting child?” 

“M’not a- uhng, hn!”

You strike his prostate and a small glob of fluid leaks from his piss wet dick. “Oh?” You cock your head to the side in thought. “Was that supposed to be you trying to cum?” Lucio’s face is a steady red, his teeth grit and brows furrowed. Your balls slap against his ass, the coiling knot in your stomach gathering tighter. Lucio babbles something about how you shouldn't talk about him like that, that he could make you pay–all the while moaning like a cheap whore. 

And at some point, the tightness in your gut grows too tight, too intense. You knock his legs off your hips, pulling out to Lucio’s disgruntlement–and finishing on his stomach. Your cum splatters against the sticky urine already coating his stomach, almost mixing together in a disgusting concoction of a night of bad decisions. 

“Asshole,” Lucio gasps, head falling back against the bed. “Shoulda’ came inside,” he bemoans. You roll your eyes, dragging your gloved fingers through the puddle of cum and piss on his stomach. “Oh, shut up.” You shove your messy fingers in his mouth unceremoniously. Lucio looks at you almost pitifully, but slurps up the fluids off your fingers almost too eagerly. You pull your fingers out of his mouth, and to your surprise, he keeps his mouth open in wait. With a shrug of your shoulders, you keep feeding him until the mess on his stomach is almost completely gone and his eyes are starting to droop with exhaustion. 

You pull away, stepping into your own space to tuck yourself back in your pants before grabbing a spare cloth from your bag and wiping the rest of the sticky mess from his stomach. Lucio leans up on his elbows, watching you almost cautiously, like he hadn't expected this. “I…I hope this satisfied you like you had wanted.” You find yourself murmuring, wiping the lube and sweat from his thighs and ass before putting his underwear and pants back on him. “It did.” He grins lopsidedly, breathing out a comforting sigh as you help him sit up.

“We should do it again next time, how bout’ that?”

You pull the damp sheets off his bed, taking care to slide them out easily from under him. “I don’t quite know about that.”

Lucio pouts, crossing his arms. “I’ll see you again at least, right?” He grumpily lifts his arms as you pull his shirt back over his head. 

“Of course, this is my job.” You pack your bag again and pause, reaching out to push Lucio’s hair back. He leans into it near desperately, choking down a whimper when you pull your hand away. “I’ll send someone to get you fresh linens and garments.” 

“Do you…” he trails off as you approach the large door. “Do you like me?”

The question takes you off guard, and the look on his face is heartwrenching. You open your mouth and then stop. This is the man who sentenced those down on their luck to the bloody arena. This is the man who partied while his people died of the plague. Do you like him?

“...Goodnight, milord.”