...monsters, am I right?

“My blood would fill your insides, and you will repent,” she pronounced very slowly, her hand still playing with your clit. You opened your mouth, wanting to beg, but you were just answered by spit. Directly onto your tongue. The whole thing was so hot you moaned out loud, swallowing compulsively while she smirked down at you. The ethereal glow around her fae body shining brighter than the sun, making your eyes water while she continued her slow torture on your pussy.

She approached her own wrist to her mouth, and with a carefully planned bite, blood was running down her arm. She pushed it up, until it was right on top of your head, and you opened your mouth wide, trying to catch it. It was making a mess all over your face and chest, but you didn’t care about it. She tasted like ambrosia. You needed more. You needed all.

And the second the words “repent for your sins” left her mouth, you were shaking on your restrains, your whole body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. Your mouth was open wide, and her blood was still dripping down your chin. The whole thing was so filthy, you couldn’t hold your eyes open anymore.

“baby. go,” you hum, dragging your slippered feet across your floor.

you tuck your body between his open legs, putting down your bottle and snacks to lightly tickle under his chin. you receive the harshest glare you’ve ever experienced from him, though it’s still miles below the ones he gives at work. 

calloused hands find the bare backs of your soft thighs and lightly, he squeezes.

“you fuckin’ hate me,” he huffs, but his pout comes through. all his features softening under your attention, minus the twist in his brows. “gettin’ rid of me like this.”

you don’t miss the hickies on his neck, two maroon bruises because all you’ve done together these past few days is kiss, cuddle, eat and have sex. since bakugou became your boyfriend, he often forgets about his own apartment. his home is much larger, much more luxurious with built in speakers in the ceilings and a double headed shower. but he always lingers in yours, though he never outstays his welcome. even now.

“i don’t want you to leave but you need to pack for your mission tomorrow,” you smile, taller than him as he sits.

he feels delirious when he stuffs his face in your cotton soft stomach. you smell freshly showered, clean, cosy and like home. bakugou feels like his heart has been stabbed with a fork. he already misses you and you’re right in front of him.

it’s like he’s fighting the devil on his shoulder, to just stay over again tonight and get up early tomorrow. he can grab his shit from home and go straight there. he knows that plan will throw his whole day off tomorrow. also you hate waking up early.

he blinks at you slowly, like a cat that loves what he sees.

for you, it’s easy to get hot from his touch alone and that stare makes you nudge in closer to him. you want to sit on his lap, kiss down his neck again, despite being all over him an hour ago.

“you want me to piss off so you can watch love island,” he breathes, looking up at you with the sweetest ruby puppy dog eyes. there’s a scratchy tone to his voice, sleepiness clearly taking over though he fights it to spend a second longer with you.

you know for a fact you’re the only person in this universe that has seen katsuki like this. that thought alone makes you want to call up his job and say he can’t come in tomorrow. say he’s sick so you can cuddle his big head in your lap. who would you even call? the hero commission? his sidekicks? he is his own boss.

“i do have a load of episodes to catch up on since you’ve been here,” you say sweetly and he eyes your snacks, then your water bottle placed on the shelf beside him.

he’s a grumpy baby in a twenty seven year old, muscled man’s body. he scrunches his nose at the mention of that show. he hates all reality tv, so he says, even though he ends up asking you for details throughout every episode.

“just say you hate me,” he grunts, tilting his head up for a kiss.

you don’t give in just yet.

“i love you but you’ve gotta go. you’ll be even grumpier without sleep in the morning,” you smile.

he rolls his eyes. ever the dramatic one. “yeah, yeah. i get it. love you too.”

you stand there for a few moments. his grip on your thighs getting tighter, his chin in your stomach. he rubs his cheek against your palm, his stubble prickling against you with every move.

“you need to put your shoes on—,”

“you look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, even biting down on his bottom lip.

you narrow your eyes at him. you know exactly what he’s doing and it usually has a hundred percent success ratio.

he pulls off you, keeping his hands on your thighs to look down your body. stupidly, it causes you to look down at yourself too.

your soft pastel pink  boy shorts because you get hot at night. your comfy low cut navy strappy top, that has seen better days but you have no need to replace yet. your nipples poke through the fabric and you don’t miss bakugou’s gaze wafting over them with his tongue poking his cheek.

he looks as if he’s about to moan or take a bite out of you. you can’t tell yet. you don’t mind either.

“katsuki, stop it. you were supposed to leave an hour ago,” you look to your clock beside your front door. “an hour and a half ago.”

bakugou grits his teeth then relaxes by kissing the strip of your stomach between your vest and shorts. he releases the quietest whine.

“i wanna stay here with you.”

even though he’s being dramatic, you’ll see him in less than a week, every word releases tingles down your spine.

you press a kiss to his lips, to which he eagerly pushes back. his hands sneak up to your waist holding you with purpose. it’s only a peck but everything he’s feeling is translated through.

“you’re killin’ me,” he says onto your lips.

“it’s not me, baby. you have the world to save tomorrow. you can make love to your girlfriend when you get back,” you say tenderly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“i’m givin’ you a good fuckin’ when i see you again.”

“you always do,” you shrug playfully and bakugou chuckles, shaking his head in resignation.

“fuck. fuck my life,” he grunts to himself, pulling his slides off your shoe rack and shoving them onto his feet.

“it feels like you’re obsessed with me, kats,” you giggle to yourself, stepping back so he has space to stand up and sling his duffle over his shoulder.

he raises one eyebrow, a huffy laugh releasing from his throat.

“hm? you think?” he takes his hand through his hair, a light pink blush on his cheeks from your attention. “‘course i fuckin’ am. i’m comin’ right back to get you when i’m done.”

you lift up on your tiptoes, hands on his pectorals, “if you say so.”

“i do say so. i am sayin’ that,” he mumbles, hands finding your ass to lift you with ease.

you wrap your legs around his waist so he doesn’t have to bend to kiss you.

“next thursday, okay?” he kisses the corner of your lips, feeling your cheeks rise. “and still text me. i’ll have my phone on me in the evenings.”

you smooth down his eyebrows with your thumbs.

“yes, dynamight sir,” you drawl, but you lean in to peck him, a noisy kiss that has him chasing after you. he moans softly.

“another.” he whispers.

with your arms wrapped around his neck, you give his bottom lip a nibble, one that causes an exasperated groan. then you slot your lips over his, pushing your tongue into his mouth to tangle against his. it’s long, wet and pulses throughout your body.

you push your chest against his as if you’re trying to merge into one, bakugou’s fingertips sinking into your ass cheeks.

it’s you that pulls away, landing two kisses on his lips for good measure.

“baby, no.” he complains.

since you’re the only one with self control here, you tap his shoulder.

“put me down now. you’ve got to go.” you say controlled and bakugou throws his head back in annoyance, “need you wide awake on the field so you don’t get hurt. i don’t wanna see a scratch on your pretty face when you come back.”

that gets him putting you down, your feet finding the floor. since getting with you, he’s much more mindful of his recklessness and getting hurt. bakugou doesn’t want to scare or upset you. you’ve become his beacon of light, his conscience and answer.

“my pretty face?” he grips the handle to his bag, a smirk rising. he’s still taking in his last few seconds.

you nod, “yes. come home safe to me.”

“i always do. don’t have to doubt me, princess.”

the pet name gets you rolling your eyes to hide how it makes your stomach do flips. he undoes both your door locks and slowly opens it with his shoulder like it weighs a tonne.

as if it’s becoming real all of a sudden, you throw yourself into his chest, wrapping your arms around him in a cuddle under his hoodie. you feel complete once you stuff your cheek between his pectorals and you squeeze him tight as thick arms cradle you in. katsuki’s always warm and toasty, a tall standing mattress for you to fall asleep on.

despite you urging him to leave, it doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t ache.

“i’ll miss you,” you say, eyes squeezed shut.

you’re just as dramatic as him, you just hide it better. you’ll see him next week.

“i’ll miss you. gonna think about you when i’m on the camp site shittin’ in the woods.”

your laugh makes bakugou’s chest swell.

“you’re so annoying.”

he shrugs.

with all the power he’s ever possessed in one single time, bakugou lets you untangle from him.

“i’m gonna go now.” he looks down your empty corridor, “i could stay over tonight and leave in the mornin’—.”

“you’re not waking me up at three.”

he turns to you with a frown.

“fine. another kiss, to wish me well,” he demands.

that you can do.

a smush of your lips, you gripping his tee as his hand cups your chin.

“another. for good luck.”

you huff playfully but still you give him another kiss. one that has you opening your mouth and letting him slot his tongue in between. it goes on longer than you mean, with you dragging him closer and his hands land back on your hips.

it’s when he groans without realising, a hardening bump in his waistband pressing against your stomach.

“go now!” you say, pushing him off you and bakugou drags a palm down his face.

“fuck,” he breathes, shaking the horny off his body. not the time. “i’ll see you next week. lock the door behind me. all of them.”

“i always do!”

he flickers down your body, one step into the corridor. 

bakugou bites down on his bottom lip, “i love you. can’t wait to see you again.”

you awe, gripping the door and peeking out, “i love you too. i’ll keep you updated. even send you some selfies.”

bakugou nods rapidly, “please. i won’t be able to reply quickly but i will.”

“okay, i’ll see you later.”

he’s about to step away, he swears he is though he looks back at you peeping at him.

“one last kiss then i’m outta your sight,” he promises.

you eagerly pull out from behind the door, “last one! then you have to go!”

“yeah, yeah, yeah—,” he’s rough in the way you love, placing a palm flat on your back to pull you into him. you practically fall into his arms but quickly you’re up on your tiptoes.

it’s a kiss with the energy that it could be the last one you ever have. a hero going off on a mission and leaving his beautiful girl back home. though this isn’t one of his high risk ones, heck he’s going on his own because he’s so capable. yet still the day he returns feels like forever away.

you practically eat each other's faces, unable to stay appropriate down to your last moments together. you twist to the left as he goes right, holding the back of his head so he stays close. he’s not shy to push his cock into you, letting you know all the ways he will miss you.

it’s loud and messy. it’s trying to remember every inch of him so you can recall it in your nights alone. it’s bakugou groping every part of you he can get his hands on so he can mark you as his.

your blonde sucks on your tongue and you don’t mean to palm him but he ruts into you at the contact. you moan as pleasure sparks beneath your skin, the length of him growing cupped in your palm. you’re wondering if there’s time for another session even though he was meant to leave two hours ago.

the kiss only ends because you’re both breathless, using your last breaths to connect with the other. there’s giggles from you and three extra pecks before you force yourself to step away, using your front door as a shield from your riled up boyfriend.

you watch as he adjusts himself, rolls back his shoulders in a stretch and tries to screw his head on straight.

“goodbye now. for real, kats.”

he nods sharply, stretching his jaw side to side. “bye baby. i’m hard now.”

“that’s your own fault for begging for more kisses,” you grin.

he pouts, “how couldn’t i when you look like—,”

“bye katsuki. my tv is calling me!”

“fuck,” he groans, holding onto his bag strap and throwing his head back, “bye princess.”

“i know, but we’ll be home tomorrow,” you sympathise. you get it. you really do. “you can have me all to yourself then.”

you shift your lower body to get comfortable, you swear it’s only because your leg is going dead laying on your side for so long. you twist into bakugou, your crotch bumping right over his. just at the feeling of him, hard and thick against your soft thigh, you eat your words. you don’t want tomorrow, you want him now.

bakugou had been on a two week long mission across the world, solving crime and fighting villains. he’s barely been able to call you during the weeks. a few texts littered in and definitely no photos due to the top secret nature of the mission. only to then arrive in your home country to meet you at the airport to fly to japan to meet his parents. it was the only time he could fit them in on his busy schedule and in an attempt to spend as much time with you as possible, you came along also.

which leads you about to hump your boyfriend like a teenager in his family living room. you were surrounded by family photos and cute baby photos. even a drawing he made of all-might when he was seven next to a photo of him with all-might at seventeen. you even see the baby photos his mother has already text to you, she knows to send every one she finds for your collection. 

but face to face with the grown katsuki, large hand spread over your lower back to press your hips into his. you can practically taste his breath, minty toothpaste that freshens your nose also. even in the dark you can see the lovesick way he stares at you, a sad pitiful gaze on your lips then your eyes. it even makes you laugh because despite how hot you are, trapped in his sleepy cuddle, you refuse to wear your usual pyjamas in his living room. your usual little boy shorts and a tank top for bed time. big tshirt and underwear. you’re in a long sleeve plaid set, just in case anyone wakes up for a glass of water in the night. 

bakugou can work around all the fabric. placing his hand on your bare back. pinging your elastic waistband against your hip. he doesn’t give a fuck, still counting this as his home despite the lack of bedroom. he’s shirtless, just a pair of shorts on.

“i haven’t seen you in weeks, doesn’t even feel like i had you today and the only alone time we get is on my fuckin’ sofa,” he huffs, stuffing his big head in the crook of your neck. bakugou inhales harshly, nose brushing against your silk bonnet, chest pressed right into yours.

you’re already whining, gripping on a semblance of control. “tomorrow, kats. tomorrow.”

you feel his stubble against your cheek, prickly but makes him look so fine. a few years older, a little rougher. bakugou pulls out your neck at your tone. he can predict you from a mile away.

“y’need me, baby? i haven’t been takin’ care of you, have i?”

always the first to read the room, always the first to read you. sugar sweet words from him have you falling apart like a dandelion, using your hooked leg around his waist to hump your hips against his cock.

it has been weeks. you’re used to being dicked down at least four times a week by him with multiple rounds but now, nothing. you could drool at the memory of being filled to the brim, your knees by your ears as he thrusts as an alternate way to show his love. honestly, you’d love to be pounded by him right now, pressed into a mattress with your beautiful man above you.

“b-but we can’t. your parents are across the hall. i’m not waking them. a-nd all your baby photos are out, this is your living room,” you reply, chewing on your bottom lip. you can feel your clit pulse, a hot tightness that gets you moving without meaning to, “we don’t have space either a-and you’re loud.”

bakugou narrows his eyes, pursing his lips, “you’re louder than me.”

“kats,” you warn, “remember in april, for your birthday?”

“that’s ‘cause you fuckin’ touched my—,”

you peck his lips to shut him up but it only draws out the palpable need between you both. your hand flies to his cheek as he pulls you back in. he rests on his forearm slightly to get the best angle on your lips, sliding his tongue into your mouth.

your kisses are louder than the words you just spoke. 

everything happens all at once with a rush you didn’t know you both felt. on the same equilibrium, you clutch a tuft of bakugou’s blonde locks to keep his open mouth, his tongue licking after yours. but every time he tries, you smile or grin or touch his tongue for a second before pulling back.

“stop playin’ with me, baby,” he whines against your lips, “gimme a taste.”

it’s always done something to you, your boyfriend just yesterday was shouting at his sidekicks and team in a foreign country, strategising a plan and being the voice everybody listens to. to now, him listening to you, begging you to give him more.

you don’t need to speak, you just slot your mouth over his in a wet kiss that is all tongue. you lick yours over his, circle it with the tip before letting him suck completely.

your moans bubble up, your thigh tenses around his waist and bakugou’s hand under your shirt is hot. 

“you’re gonna have to fuck me, kats. i can’t sleep like this,” you whisper, laying kisses across his jaw as he catches his heaving breaths. 

you lick over his earlobe, complete with a nibble to make him fall apart. “fuck. i know, i know. turn around f’me.”

you pout, “why? i wanna see your face.”

he grins, he’s exactly the same, “just for now. it’ll be easier for me. i’ll still be here.”

you huff dramatically, awkwardly shifting around so your back is to his chest. you lock eyes with three year old katsuki in the cutest red dungarees you’ve ever seen. though the actual katsuki behind you already has his massive hand under your shirt and on your stomach, fingers passing your elasticated waistband.

your hand flies to his, “not in front of your baby photos. look how cute you were.”

bakugou scoffs behind you, instead opting to unbutton your pyjama shirt, “the fuck? were? i still am.”

you look back, letting him reveal your breasts. you shove down the blanket to your knees. “you hate me calling you cute?”

bakugou kisses your neck then presses his cock into your ass without meaning to, “i’m still the cutest man you know.”

“you’re so stupid,” you giggle softly, eyes fluttering shut as his hands finally sneak past your waistband, over your tuft of hair and onto your soft clit. “oh shit.”

bakugou knows you better than he knows himself. he knew you wouldn’t be wearing underwear, he knew you’d already be wet and he knew you’d give in.

with two flat pads of his fingers, katsuki rubs firm clockwise circles into you, letting you shove and kick your pyjama bottoms to the ground. he lets you adjust to him, opening your legs wider and resting your leg on his hip behind you. 

you moan open mouthed, head falling back onto his bicep as he lifts himself upon his elbow.

“quiet, baby. feels good, though?” he asks, completely captivated by you.

it looks like you’re from a sexy christmas calendar despite it being mid july. your red and green plaid pyjama shirt is completely unbuttoned, naked body stretched around his and rolling your hips into his hand. 

“so good. so good, gorgeous,” you mumble, running your hand over his thick arm between your legs. you kiss his bicep by your cheek, “missed this with you. being—,” you inhale sharply, then soften into a whine, “being this close to you.”

“i know, baby. i get it. didn’t see your pretty face for two weeks. was going insane, staring at photos of you. fisted my cock over them one night,” he grunts into your ear and he feels your breathing hitch, your head roll back to look at him already looking down at you.

“kats, oh god,” you mewl as the sounds between your legs get louder, squelching and wet. “w-which picture, baby?”

katsuki stops the circles on your clit, instead choosing to sink his two fingers inside of you. you reach your hand behind you, fingers crawling into his hair and gripping. it only riles him up, a deep growl into your neck.

“those mirror selfies you sent before i left. on your bed, ass up in those tiny ass yellow panties you’ve got. and that one i took of you in my bed half naked in my old tee, so fuckin’ sexy baby.”

he curls his fingers inside, rubbing at your wet ribbed walls over and over again, pressing against your softest spots.

“oh fuck. oh fuck, kats,” you chant, your hips jolting without thought, your lower half burning up with the influx of pleasure, “right there. please.”

“you’re so beautiful, baby,” your boyfriend coos. he feels your stomach tense on his arm and he knows exactly what that means, “come for me, all over my hand. c’mon, darlin’.”

sliding your hand between your thighs, you only rub your clit a few times as bakugou keeps up pistoning inside you. despite your brewing orgasm, you’re only excited about being completely and utterly full by him afterwards.

you let your orgasm wash over you with ease. clenching your eyes shut as you’re mindful to keep quiet. honey and delight ripples over your body, a warming heat spreading under your skin starting right at your core.

“kats… kats… fuck,” you mumble and when you’re about to do one of your typical high pitched screams, bakugou smushes his face over yours to swallow them. he’s feels your vocal chords vibrate in the kiss and only when he’s sure you’re going to be quiet, he pulls off you.

you stop touching at your clit and bakugou slowly pulls his fingers out of you to stuff in his mouth.

you’re panting heavy, eyes closed and laying back on him with all your weight. still, you manage to laugh “you’re so… you really missed me?”

with your heaving chest, you look back at katsuki, shirtless in the dark with his tongue between his two fingers. “a fuckin’ stupid amount.”

you eye his tattoo of your name on his collarbone, then your eyes on his inner bicep amongst his tattoo sleeve. katsuki hasn’t seen his parents in months, you only a few weeks ago yet he still flew you across the world to spend time with him. it all hits you differently now, his love spreading through you at a rate you can’t measure.

“i love you. thanks for bringing me here.”

bakugou smirks, pecking your forehead, “one orgasm and you’re getting sappy on me?”

you scrunch your eyebrows together, “katsuki. say it back now.”

“‘course i goddamn love you.” he hums, watching as you twist around to face him again.

you’re back to being nose to nose with your lover, bare chest against bare chest. “your koibito.”

this is your second visit to japan with katsuki meeting his parents. you’ve heard him speak japanese over the phone and chatting with his friends. he’s taught you a few words and sentences, often helpful when he’s watching his japanese dramas with the english subtitles on for you.

but one word his father taught you was koibito. it was the first thing he said when you stepped out of the taxi with the same smile as your boyfriend and his arms out to embrace you.

“you brought your koibito!” katsuki’s father says to him, in a mix of both languages so you understand also. his arms wrap around you in greeting.

you don’t miss bakugou’s blush but you do miss when he says something very fast to his father in japanese.

“what’s koibito?” you ask, as his father brings your suitcase inside and you watch katsuki take his out the car boot.

he’s still flushed, cute red cheeks as he glances up at you. “lover. like my partner. my person.”

“oh!” you say, “why didn’t he just say girlfriend?”

you know the word for girlfriend.

bakugou sighs under his breath, placing his suitcase on the floor, “i think ‘cause it’s my second time bringing you ‘round. koibito is more serious, a committed relationship.”

you grin, hugging his arm, “i’m your koibito!”

bakugou says the same thing he said then but more solemnly. with a soft nod, “you are and i’m yours.”

you can’t help but pout at him, lifting your face to press your lips into his. it’s starts off slow, controlled but all too soon, bakugou is shoving his shorts below his ass and you’re wrapping your fingers around his cock.

“gonna love you properly when we—,”

“shh, it’s okay. just want you now,” you speak into his mouth, obsessed with how quickly he begins panting. you flick your wrist over him a few times. he’s already as big as he can get, stiff and curved, slapped against his lower stomach.

“put me in, baby,” katsuki drawls, his lips over your cheek.

again, you cock your leg over his hip. you just need to lift up a little, press his cockhead between your legs and let him do the rest but—

“we need to use a condom. can’t make a mess on the sofa, kats,” you whine.

half lidded eyes look back at you. you can tell he’s strategising, adding up ratios to likelihoods and where the hell his wallet is and if he even stocked it with condoms.

you feel him pulse, hot and heavy in your hand.

“no clue where they are, baby. we can put the blanket under us and i’ll wash it in the mornin’. yeah?” he brushes his nose over yours.

honestly, bakugou could have said anything and you would have said sure.

after a rushed shuffle of stuffing the blanket underneath your hips, you fist bakugou’s tip and press him against your opening.

“move kats,” you whisper and in one push, bakugou slides into you utterly and completely.

in unison, a moan ripples out of you both, one of pure relief. even though you’re across the world from yours, slotted like a final puzzle piece with your lover feels like home. 

you slide a hand under bakugou’s cheek between the pillow and wrap your other arm around his back in a cuddle. bakugou’s the same, with a hand spread over your lower back and his other arm under your side to keep you close.

“you are so perfect,” bakugou whispers to you, pressing a kiss to your lips. you’re warm and slippery, an easy glide from your orgasm before. he almost doesn’t want to move, wanting you to cockwarm him until the morning.

“so are you,” you smile, breathing a little shaky because despite not moving, he still manages to press against your sensitive spots. you bite down on your bottom lip to suppress a groan. “f-fuck.”

“i used to sit here as a kid, wonderin’ when i’d get a girl. what she’d look like, if i’d even like her,” he chuckles to himself. he taps your ass softly.

“w-why wouldn’t you like your girlfriend?” you reply, blinking slowly.

“i was a dick. girls would ask me out at school and i never liked ‘em back. thought my first relationship would be completely one sided.” he breathes a half hearted laugh. “how wrong was i?”

you giggle softly, brushing his locks off his forehead. “so wrong. i’d love to tell teen katsuki how many times you begged to take me out.” 

he kisses your cheek, “he’d say you’re a fuckin’ liar.”

“flying me here to meet your parents twice. you love me so much. it actually might be one sided.” you cheese and bakugou playfully rolls his eyes.

“won’t even be fuckin’ surprised with how much i think about you.”

bakugou punctuates his comment with a thrust, an easy bounce of his hips as you lay tangled side by side.

he sees your eyes roll back in real time, a swear falling past your lips.

“oh shit. oh shit, i missed this,” you warble as bakugou keeps up his thrusts, every one keeping him deep and full inside of you. 

“shh, baby,” he says over your lips, “fuck, i love you.”

“i love you too.”

every slap of bakugou’s hips causes your chest to bounce, has you inching up the sofa but he keeps you in place. he feels incredible, everywhere. his lips on your neck, nibbling your shoulder. you don’t mean to scratch down his back but when the sweet gets sweeter you need a release somewhere. 

it’s only when bakugou speeds up his thrusts, thighs slapping against thighs, heavy breaths transferred from mouth to mouth that the sofa starts to creak. loudly.

“we’re… we’re too loud,” you moan in pleasure, practically hugging bakugou’s big head to your shoulder.

“old ass fuckin’—,” bakugou bites on your shoulder to stop his moan waking up the whole house, he can’t stop now. if it’s not the squelching of you and him, the sofa is groaning too.

there’s nothing you can do about it but stop though you both refuse to. he’s hitting all your best spots at this pace. it’s as if fireworks are being lit all over your skin, your next orgasm rumbling.

“p-please don’t stop,” you cry into him, “i’m so close.”

“not stoppin’ for shit, baby,” 

having not seen each other in two weeks, means you’re both closer quicker than usual. bakugou notes your cute little gasp, you’re about to come.

“all for me,” he coos, “lemme have it all.”

amongst the slaps, the creaks and bakugou’s accidental loud grunts, you come all over his cock.

again, he envelops you in a kiss, swallowing everything you release. you tremble and shake in his arms, tensing tight around him which only sets him off.

he tries to keep up his pace for your orgasm but his own makes him jolty and stuttered. instead he goes for slow and deep, keeping you still with his arm locked around you.

“my beautiful baby,” he’s completely fucked out as he spills inside of you, the added friction of his come making him slide even deeper. 

your hand flies to his hip, “t-too much.”

bakugou gets you, mumbling an apology in your temple and opting to pull out. but once he does, dribbles of his come does too. 

“oh fuck.”

with the original plan completely forgotten, bakugou grabs your pyjama bottoms and wipes you up.

“katsuki!” you whisper-whine.

“didn’t wanna make a mess. don’t want my mum on my case,” he speaks to between your legs, lightly dabbing you down. 

“i hope we weren’t loud” you say, blinking up at him. then embarrassment washes over you, “acting like horny teenagers. we should have waited katsuki. we were so loud.”

bakugou kisses you quiet, “they’re both old as fuck, nothin’ is wakin’ them up. you’re good, baby. we’re good.”

“still don’t even know if your mother likes me—,”

“fuck off with that shit. you both text all the time.”

it’s true, that’s how you grow your folder of bakugou fun facts and baby stories.

“okay,” you mumble and you feel cosy when he kisses you on the tip of the nose. “i really liked this.”

bakugou grins cutely, stuffing your dirty pyjama bottoms on the floor. he’ll remember to wash them tomorrow. “yeah? next time i’ll eat you and—,”

“shh, i said i enjoyed this now with you,” you emphasise and bakugou understands.

“me too. missed you.”

breakfast with the bakugou’s is a mixture of japanese and english. you forced katsuki into a t-shirt because your scratches down his back look like hes been attacked by a cat in his sleep. he’s also in a new pair of shorts since he gave the ones he wore last night to you. your pyjama bottoms stained with him are currently what you’re staring at, swirling around the washing machine.

you refuse to talk, completely convinced your boyfriend’s parents heard you fucking their son in their living room the night before. you stuff your scrambled egg in your mouth and katsuki can feel the anxiety dripping from you.

he sighs to himself, “did you guys hear anythin’ last night?”

you gasp, kicking katsuki’s foot under the table. what the fuck?

“what do you mean? was it the matsumo’s sprinklers again? they’re always fucking going off at night.” his mother replies in japanese and you blink at her, “our stupid neighbours sprinklers are broken. sorry if they woke you up, honey.”

you sit up straight, shocked at how you weren’t caught, “oh uh, no! it was only for five minutes and it stopped.”

you look over at katsuki who grins sadistically.

“i heard dad snoring. still haven’t got that checked out, huh?”

“snoring?” his dad frowns, with accented english.

“snoring, dad.” katsuki translates.

“i’ve been tellin’ him!” his mother chips in, “he still refuses to go!”

“there is nothing wrong with a little snoring,” his father defends, “sorry if you heard it though, yn.”

you shake your head, “not a thing! i must have been asleep.”

for the rest of breakfast, you watch as the bakugous laugh, eat and bicker amongst themselves. every booming laugh from katsuki has him looking at you, checking if you’re okay, feeling safe and included. 

as katsuki’s mum shows his dad something on her phone, katsuki squeezes your thigh.

“told ya they didn’t hear shit.”

but katsuki’s mum has ears of an eagle, her head robotically turning to look at you both.

“hear what?”

you almost choke on your spit.

katsuki rolls his eyes, “nothin’ mum. mind your business.”

“don’t smart me. i will still slap your head.”

Your clothes flew through the air, her words explaining how you were going through something called a heat, but your brain was too scattered to focus on her words. You stared at her paws groping your body, focusing on the way her long tongue was exploring your neck and moaning your name. You could barely think straight on a normal day, but right now, with a strong gnoll in front of you shredding her clothes? You were done for.

Your vocabulary reduced to “please” and “hurry”, and her claws methodically talking all the clothes off your body before they found your hole. She cursed so loud it rang in your ears, and you rolled your hips, asking for more and more. You were still in the middle of your living room, but who cared when you were so fucking horny you felt like burning.

The gnoll in front of you helped you to your back, the cold tiles feeling incredible against your overheated skin. Her voice got reduced to a husky growl against your neck, and you were desperate for more, curling your legs around her middle and letting out a gasp when you felt her pseudo-penis rubbing your hypersensitive hole.

Luckily for you, she seemed as desperate as you, so it didn’t take long for her to be right where you wanted her most. Her pseudo-penis at your entrance, her long tongue against your neck, and her hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew those were going to bruise. Your brain melted into pleasure at the mere thought of being marked by her.

You’d never needed anything with such intensity before. And you were ready, even if you weren’t sure for what. She could do whatever she wanted to you, and you’d be thankful. “This is going to be rough,” she whispered against your skin and you nodded frantically. Wanting it. Needing it.

After that, everything felt like a blur of bodies, pseudo-penis, and you were feeling better than you ever had. Your bodies dance to a tune never heard before while she fucked into you like her life depended on it. Yours surely did.

Between her “I didn’t know humans could be so delightful” and “your hole belongs to me, now”, you couldn’t catch a breath. Her filthy words and even filthier movements in and out of your hole were like kryptonite to your fried nerves. You wanted it all. You needed it all. Your whole universe was focused on the point where she was fucking into you.

And when your orgasm approached, it was like a collision of galaxies creating an expansive wave that threw your own thoughts out of your brain. You screamed, or maybe you didn’t. You moaned, or maybe you remained silent. Your body was not your own when the only thing you could feel was blinding pleasure while your body shook under hers. She continued fucking you through it, and by the time you came back into your senses, she was roaring over you, her head thrown back and her claws pinching your sides when she came undone on top of you.

She fell to the side not to crush you under her weight. A vague memory of what they said about gnolls filtered through your incoherent thoughts. They ate their sex partners. They finished with them and then they ate them. She was breathing hard next to you, but his fangs looked incredibly big in the low light of your living room. A spark of fear ignited inside of you, and she looked to the side, her eyes fixated on your face. She arched an eyebrow, a clear question left in the air between you.

After a beat of silence you couldn’t hold yourself back. “Is that- They say-” You voice was breathless, trying to explain to her why your heartbeat was going crazy. “Are you going to eat me now?” You finally let out, too fucked out to be really scared, but the spark of fear still shimmering inside of you.

“I’m definitely hungry for some flesh,” she growled next to your ear, and you let out an undignified squeal when her rough paws found your hips and she lowered her face until she was close to your neck. She nibbled at the tendon there, sending mixed signals of fear and desire through your body. “I’m going to devour you,” she lets out in a low tone that is nothing but sexy.

Ordinarily, your work does not put you in the direct line of the Harbingers. You’re more of the downstairs kind; the neat little maid who peeps into bedrooms only when they’re empty, to dust mantelpieces and clear the ashes of fireplaces and make the beds so that the inhabitants of Zapolyarny Palace find their abode in perfect condition no matter when they return to it. In the rare cases that somebody does enter a room whilst you’re working, you’re to stand in front of the nearest wall and avert your eyes until they’ve passed, or until you can find a suitable moment to back out of the space and leave them to their business. Whatever that is.

One doesn’t get very far in this line of work if they’re too interested in what goes on behind closed doors here.

Speaking of closed doors: you have drawn to a stop before Lady Sandrone’s chamber door, the tea tray in hand. A brief frisson of fear goes through you: you are not used to being looked at. You are not used to having the eyes of your betters upon you. You try to resist the urge to pat your hair and pull at your clothes to make sure that you’re presentable: you’re certain they won’t give you more than a moment’s notice.

You’re simply furniture to them, you remind yourself, as you balance the tray carefully on one hand in order to give a sharp tap upon the door. A low, amused voice comes from within that most certainly does not belong to Lady Sandrone.

“Come in.”

Of course they do not get the door for you; that would make things far too easy. They probably have not even thought that you might struggle to do so: servants are furniture, after all. You carefully use your elbow to press down the door handle and your shoulder to push it open, thankful that they have at least thought to kept the door unlocked. You slowly enter the room, the teapot and the teacups on their heavy silver tray held before you like it is a sacrifice to them.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and when they do your breath catches in your throat at the sight of the four beautiful Fatui Harbinger women before you.

“Oh!” Lady Columbina – you recognise her, the ethereal woman with the mask over her eyes. “Our tea!”

They’re dressed as casually as you’ve ever seen; whenever the newspapers or magazines print images of Harbingers, they’re always draped in furs and silks, proud faces staring from the pages. But here, in Lady Sandrone’s rooms, they are dressed down as if ready to sleep. The Fair Lady reclines on a sofa in a ruffled nightgown. Lord Arlecchino wears slippers and a shirt open low in the chest. Lady Sandrone and Lady Columbina wear comfortable nightgowns – frilled and embroidered, naturally, and far more expensive than anything you’ve owned in your life, but undoubtedly nightwear all the same.

You try to bob into a curtsey and almost spill the tea, your cheeks going hot at the feeling of being looked at by all of them. Their attention focuses in upon you: far more than they would a piece of furniture.

“Oh,” purrs the Fair Lady, stretching out on the sofa like a cat before she pushes herself up. “Good. They sent a pretty one, like I asked.”

She moves towards you with purpose, with a leonine kind of grace that makes your heart beat too fast in your chest. The neckline of her nightgown hangs off her shoulder, and you’re struck suddenly by how much taller she is than you. How much this feels like a cat playing with a mouse.

“M-may I put the tray down and leave you in peace, My Lady?” You ask, your voice coming out in a nervous warble – and from the armchair in the room, a lower voice gives a satiny chuckle.

“You’re scaring them, Rosalyne,” says the Knave, and you see that despite her words she has a mild smile on her face. Lady Sandrone scowls.

“Put it down then,” she says. “Come into the room and let us look at you.”

“My . . . My Lord Harbingers--”

An impatient click of Sandrone’s tongue.

“We don’t have all day, you know,” she says, waspish. You’ve heard of Lady Sandrone having an awkward demeanour and a temper that’s quick to fire – you suppose they’re right. Still. You do not want to be getting on the wrong side of any Harbinger. You think helplessly of the tasks you haven’t yet gotten to (the windowsills are supposed to be dusted down, the grand table laid for supper) – but you’ve been witness to too many conversations about how the Harbingers treat those who displease them then to want to find yourself amongst those ranks.

Awkwardly, you bob another curtsey as you walk into the room proper. Signora gives a satisfied hum, and you just about manage to stop yourself from jumping in alarm when the door slams shut behind you and you hear the unmistakeable click of a key turning in the lock.

You place the tea tray upon the low table in the room. You’re grateful to see that not a drop of it has spilt. At least you can be certain of one thing amongst all of this strangeness.

You fist your hands in your apron, horribly aware of how it feels to have so many people’s eyes (although you’re not sure if you can truly consider the Damselette to be ‘looking’ at you) upon your form when you’re so used to being an invisible member of the masses. Signora walks back into the centre of the room, taking her place on the sofa once more although not lying prone upon it again. Instead, she leans forward slightly, interest colouring the one visible eye.

“Come here,” says the Knave, curling her fingers toward you and motioning to the spot in front of her chair. The Damselette has drifted towards the three other Harbingers and you now, taking a seat on the floor on her knees. There’s a faint smile on her face, too. Your cheeks still hot, you follow the instructions as a servant is supposed to, and find yourself stood before the woman. “Turn around and face the others,” she says, her voice still quiet and calm, strangely comforting in this unusual situation. You swallow audibly, but do as she says.

“My . . . Ladies?” You hazard, aloud, but your words are stopped in the air as quickly as they come when Arlecchino places her hands consideringly upon your hips, her fingers curling into the soft flesh there.

“Very nice,” says Signora, appreciatively. Sandrone makes a soft harrumph.

“They’ll do, I suppose,” she says, as Columbina stands from her position and practically floats over to Marionette. That faint smile on her face does not budge an inch, as she lays a hand on Sandrone’s shoulder and gives her own nod of assent, humming out a snatch of melody. A faint flush rises in Sandrone’s cheeks.

“D-do for what?” You ask, your voice coming out quiet and warbling in the room, which suddenly seems to have gotten ten times hotter than before. Arlecchino laughs softly, her hands curving down over your hips, lower and lower beneath the apron and the skirt of your uniform, until they alight on bare thigh. You let out a surprised cry, realise what you’re doing, and try to stop the cry in its tracks by biting into your lower lip.

“Oh,” Signora practically coos, and now she’s standing too, walking towards you with a sultry sway in her hips. You hadn’t realised just how tall she was before, but your eyeline is roughly around her generous chest before she leans down towards you and uses one finger to tilt your chin up to look her in the eye. “Absolutely adorable. I think I’ll allow myself the pleasure of being first.”

“First--?”

Your words are stopped by Signora’s hand wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you in for a kiss that feels like it burns down to your bones.

There’s a cry of complaint from across the room that you think comes from Sandrone, but you can’t concentrate with the Fair Lady’s mouth pressed against yours, soft and cool and full. Her tongue laps across the seam of your lips, and in surprise you open them and she takes the opening and slips it into your mouth. Arlecchino’s hands on your thighs move to grip, holding you in place – but her fingertips come far too close to the place between your legs, and panic alights like a dull flashing light in your brain.

Your gasp is swallowed up by the kiss you’ve found yourself in, though, and so you’re helpless to do anything other than let yourself be anchored in place and let Signora plunder your mouth hungrily.

After another long moment, another sweep of her tongue, she pulls back from you with a satisfied sigh and a wet pop. She regards you with a smile from beneath her half-closed eyelid.

“Oh, but you’re a sweetheart, aren’t you? Arlecchino, you ought to kiss them too, seeing as you helped so much . . .”

“These are my chambers--” Sandrone’s outraged voice seems to rise in pitch, but Signora turns and holds a finger up to the incensed other Harbinger. Columbina keeps her hand where it is, even as Sandrone seems to burn with the indignation of it.

“Watch. If anyone can work them over, it will be our Knave. You know what an effect Lord Arlecchino has on the . . . timid ones.”

You don’t know quite what you expect, but you don’t expect the tug backwards on your thighs until you find yourself pulled onto Arlecchino’s lap, all ungainly frills and aprons and lace and stockings. Your face is so hot you fear you could fry an egg on it, but you’re too scrambled by everything going on to say anything, as much as you want to babble out your apologies and run for the door.

Arlecchino, though, seems to know exactly what to do – she pulls you closer against her, rearranges your uniform, and then you find yourself sitting on her lap with your back to her front, your legs bracketing one of her solid thighs.

“Poor thing,” Arlecchino murmurs into your ear, her voice soft and low and soothing. “You’re not used to being looked at, are you? Don’t worry. You’re very easy on the eye.”

You want to protest against that, but Arlecchino has reached between you both and you give a squeak of surprise as your apron falls to the floor, untied by one clever hand.

“You don’t need all of this in front of us,” Arlecchino continues. “It’s easier if we take it off, isn’t it? Ah. The dress too, I think--” The soft clink clink clink of the hooks and eyes of your dress being removed, and this garment is pulled over your head and you cry out aloud as you’re left in just your underwear in front of all four of the Harbingers. “There we are. Oh, you are pretty.”

The Damselette, never one for traditional manners, removes her hand from Sandrone’s shoulder to walk over to you – even with her eyes covered, you can sense her interest, and she hums in the back of her throat as she runs a hand over your collarbone, dipping to the line of your chest through your thin brassiere. When your nipples harden at the brush of her palm, she lets out a soft, musical laugh.

“Columbina,” says Signora, surprisingly gentle, and she pulls back, but still hovers closer than she has been before. You have the unnatural sense of being watched, far closer and more intensely by Columbina than she was when she was by the Marionette. Sandrone, for her part, does not seem to want to be left behind, and she stands too so that the three of them bracket you in, a loose half-circle around where Arlecchino has you straddling her thigh. The Knave gives a little chuckle.

“See?” Arlecchino murmurs. “They can’t resist. Shall we give them a show?”

“I don’t . . . understand . . .” Your voice is a helpless thing, when you can feel the pleasant curls of heat low in your belly that remind you of how lovely you find every lady Harbinger, how enjoyable it is to be viewed as something pretty. Arlecchino’s hand brushes lower, lower, over the soft curve of your stomach and onto the plain cotton of your underwear.

“Shh,” she murmurs in response. “I won’t hurt you. None of us will. At least . . . not in any way you won’t enjoy.”

A rush of heat; those dark-tipped fingers, so much like claws, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. You let out a heated gasp as they stroke over your pubic mound and then lower, lower, slipping between the plump lips of your sex to the slick heat between.

“Speak for yourself,” Signora says, her voice husky. “I think that something that’s been hiding their loveliness from us for so long deserves a touch of punishment. Perhaps a spanking?”

You practically quiver under the idle threat combined with Arlecchino’s fingers, as they continue to slide between your thighs and map out the length of your slit. You’re aware of just how hot you are; the warmth and the wetness all at once making you feel dizzy. And the thought of being spanked--

“I said that they wouldn’t enjoy,” Arlecchino says mildly. “Judging by how they feel here . . .” Arlecchino punctuates her sentence with the briefest brush of fingers over the swollen button of your clit, “that’s not something they’re entirely against.”

“Take off their underwear,” Sandrone orders, imperious. “I can’t see.”

“My Lord Arlecchino--”

The Knave presses a kiss to the side of your head and you go all-over useless, your limbs melting under the brief moment of affection. It is so difficult to find anyone who is truly thankful to you in your line of work – anybody who really appreciates what you do. Would it be so bad, to let yourself be used by these women who already seem so much more appreciative of your presence than you’ve encountered in months?”

“I think we can oblige, don’t you?” She asks, her voice very warm and low like liquid honey, and you find yourself nodding in agreement as if hypnotised – letting her urge you onto your feet for a moment, off her thigh, in order to pull the sodden garment down your thighs and off your legs and onto the floor. “This too, I think--” And then you are divested, too, of your brassiere, your nipples standing to stiff attention in the room before them all. Tight coils of embarrassment mixed with arousal seem to keep them hard, noticeable to every woman in the room. Signora practically coos to see you standing there like this.

You dither for a moment, but are quickly pulled back onto Arlecchino’s lap – albeit in an entirely different position to the one you were in before.

Your thighs spread wide, your feet hooked behind her ankles, your back pressing against Arlecchino with one arm wrapped around your waist. In this position, there is no shying away – your thighs are forced wide, the lips of your sex open and displaying your clit and your entrance and just how wet you’ve allowed yourself to get from Arlecchino’s touch. Your chest heaving in soft little pants.

“There,” Arlecchino says, with more than a touch of the smugness about her – and then she reaches between your legs, delving between your thighs, and uses two finger to spread your lower lips even further apart. “My. Messy little thing.”

Columbina tilts her head to the side and then says, in her soft, strange, musical voice;

“I can help.”

You don’t realise exactly what she’s going to do until she’s before you, and her fingers are brushing along your thighs with the most feather light of touches, and then she is sinking onto her knees. You almost buck against Arlecchino in alarm as you feel surprisingly cool breath against your heated sex, but the woman has you in too strong a grip to do anything but squirm a little.

“Don’t,” Columbina says, voice lilting. “Don’t worry. You just seem like you need to relax. I think you could do with some help.”

You don’t think this is one of the usual ways that a superior – for that is what every woman in this room is to you – helps a servant relax, but you find yourself unable to say much to that effect as Columbina leans in and you feel the cool, wet muscle of a tongue flick teasingly out to taste you.

You suck in a ragged breath, your mind warring with your body about everything that is currently happening to you. You cannot deny that Columbina’s tongue against your most private and intimate parts feels good; you should know, from her singing, that she is entirely aware of just how to use her tongue. And yet it does come as a surprise – just how much she takes to working that same tongue over you, the delicate flick of the tip against your clit, the sensation of her dragging the flat of it down the length of you.

The way she doesn’t seem to mind that your arousal is wetting her cheeks; the fact she keeps making soft little hums of pleasure as she does it. Despite the blindfold covering her eyes, it’s as if she knows every one of your weakest spots – every sensitive little nerve that has your body feeling like tiny jolts of electricity are ricocheting all over your skin.

Arlecchino’s breath hitches in her throat, too, as she watches Columbina’s head between your thighs. You cannot imagine what you look like to the assembled throng; all in disarray over one of superior’s lap with another of them between your legs, Arlecchino’s fingers still lewdly spreading you open so you can’t even try to get away from the exploring tongue.

She doesn’t go at it with aplomb; she takes her time lapping at you, as if you’re some new flavour she wants to take the time to enjoy. But your body does not agree with the idea of taking time, and you feel the way that hot curls of want seem to keep curling inside of you. Helplessly, you reach for the arms of the armchair you’re spread over, digging your fingers into the plush upholstery.

“Columbina,” comes a petulant voice, and you look up to see that Sandrone is staring at you both with her lip twisted to one side, as if she’s considering whether or not she wants to get involved in this – but despite that, her hands are fisted in her dress and there’s a layer atop her words, a kind of breathlessness you didn’t realise an artificial body could create, that suggests she’s being rather flustered by the show. “If you go at it like that, you’ll never achieve any results!”

Columbina’s mouth pulls off your sex with a luridly wet pop, and you go hot again to see the way her delicate tongue flicks out to clean the wet droplets of your arousal still painting her lips.

“Oh?” Columbina asks, with only the slightest tilt of her head and a smile still on her face. “Isn’t the process just as enjoyable?”

Sandrone huffs out a noise of outrage and frustation.

“Of course you would think that,” she seethes, and she, too, moves towards you. She nudges Columbina aside with her foot and – much to your surprise – sinks down to join her on her knees. She takes a moment to look at you (and oh, you’re so terribly aware of the way Arlecchino is spreading your sex apart, so that she can see exactly how wet you are, exactly how it feels as though your clit is pulsing under the scrutiny).

“Sandrone,” Arlecchino says, and though her voice is mild there’s something that’s almost a warning – Sandrone looks at you again, and rolls her eyes.

“Alright,” she says, with a sigh. “I won’t hurt either. I just want to show our Moon Maiden how she should have gone about it if she wanted to get results—”

You let out a faltering noise as Sandrone, business-like and ruthless, runs her finger down your slit. Making a pleased little noise at how wet she finds you, she rotates her wrist slightly, so that she can press a finger against your entrance and gently circle her thumb around the pulsing button of your clit. And then, with no more fanfare, she slides that finger inside of you.

You jerk, unused to the intrustion – but Sandrone clicks her tongue and Arlecchino makes a soft soothing noise against your ear and keeps you anchored against her.

“Don’t mind our Lady Sandrone,” she says, whisper-quiet like a secret. “She gets rather invested in her projects – if anything, you should feel honoured she’s finding you worthy of her attention.”

“That’s right,” Sandrone says, looking up, as she crooks her finger inside of you, testing the way you feel around her. Her thumb doesn’t stop the maddening circle of your clit. “You should thank me, I think!” She pulls the finger out and pumps it once or twice, in and out of you, before she puts another finger against your entrance and looks up at you expectantly.

Your mind feels like a mess of wires, all tangled up. You can’t deny that the feel of something inside of you is intoxicating; that Sandrone knows what she’s doing with the inexorable rotation of her thumb, that Columbina’s exploratory tongue has stoked a fire in you that you can’t ignore. But it still takes you a minute to puzzle around it, to let your own heavy tongue reply to the request for gratitude.

“Th-thank you, My Lady . . .?” You hazard, and Signora laughs. Everybody in the room must be able to hear how flustered you are and how out of it all of this attention is making you feel. You, too, can hear the breathiness in your words, the thickness in your throat – and as Sandrone slides her second finger inside of you, you release a whining, stuttering moan.

There’s the slightest stretch, of course – but there’s also a feeling of fullness that you’re entirely unfamiliar with, a kind of slight sting that makes you want to roll your eyes back in your head. Sandrone gives a little pleased ‘hmph’, before she once again sets to working those fingers in annd out of you, pumping slowly, mimicking the movements that you’d one day thought a man might do to you--

You would never have once imagined this particular situation. Even in the midst of it all, you can barely believe it’s happening – all four of these beautiful women, all so focused on you, on the noises you’re making and the reactions you’re giving them . . . Sandrone crooks her fingers inside of you again in a come-hither motion, and somehow it seems as though she brushes against some kind of switch in the hot, tight channel of your sex and you moan, louder and more wanton than any noise you’ve ever heard yourself make.

“I’m trying to concentrate,” Sandrone admonishes you, but there’s a smug pride in her voice as she continues to mercilessly work that new spot inside of you, forcing more shockwaves of pleasure forward. It’s . . . overwhelming, in the most primal of ways. To have Sandrone do this for you, her fingers curling and pumping, her thumb working over your clit now with more pressure. You can feel the muscles in your thighs jumping, your toes curling helplessly, your shoulders shaking.

“Don’t worry,” says Signora, and you can hear her smile even as your lashes flutter. “You can be as loud as you want, sweet thing. The rest of us don’t mind hearing you at all.”

A click of Sandrone’s tongue, but she doesn’t sound all that angry – she’s far too busy being pleased with herself, as helpless little whines and whimpers keep escaping from your mouth. The slick sound of her fingers pumping into you embarrasses you and thrills you all at the same time, and that feeling does nothing to quell the excitement you feel building up in you.

“That’s right,” Arlecchino coos. “Let go.”

“So soon?” Sandrone asks, but then she lets out a laugh and she seems to increase her speed to a point that almost seems inhuman, more machine than anything else – and that feeling you’ve felt building in you, that ball of heat and wanting, that need to do something without the knowledge of what it is . . . that all escapes you, all at once, and you come under Sandrone’s clever fingers.

Oh.

You do more than come.

Something about where she’s been stroking you and the pressure and the speed all comes together, and you feel something else inside of you break – and you feel a gush, fluid spilling forth from you, onto Sandrone’s fingers and onto Arlecchino’s lap and onto your own inner thighs.

You barely notice all of that, though. Far more pressing is the way that your orgasm seems to explode into being, the fireworks, the way it feels your body is being disassembled and then being put back together. Your thighs shake – and your mouth is moaning, whimpering, helplessly making noises into the heated air.

She carries on through your orgasm, though she does at least have the decency to slow down, to help you over the peaks of your release with stroking, gentler fingers. She waits for your breath to almost even out, before she slowly, slowly pulls her fingers out of you.

She looks down at those fingers and shakes her head, making a click of displeasure with her tongue.

“You’ve made a mess,” she tells you, as smug as before – but then Signora laughs from her place.

“Then have the sweet little thing clean you up,” she says, and a hot flush climbs up the back of your neck – but Sandrone smiles sweetly and stands up and then places her fingers in front of your lips, wet and glistening with your ow slick.

“With your tongue,” Sandrone says. “Be good, now.”

You’re hesitant as you do it – but you do it even so, almost enjoying the thrill of how corrupt it makes you feel, to move your head forward and envelope Sandrone’s fingers within the warm, wet cave of your mouth. She’s clearly not expecting you to be so eager about it, either – when she feels your tongue hesitantly probing against the finger joints, she lets out a shaky breath as she waits for you to finish.

She pulls her hand back and tries to gather up her poise again, and with a little sniff she says;

“Well. I suppose . . . that was very nice.”

Columbina laughs, and then the Damselette is at Sandrone’s shoulder again, placing her delicate hand upon the other Harbinger’s own and pulling her back. As they retreat a little further into the room, you swear you see Columbina press a fleeting kiss to the corner of Sandrone’s mouth--

“Oh my,” says Signora, smiling at you. “It seems I didn’t get to go first after all. What a terrible pity.” Her uncovered eye gleams. “Still – I suppose that it means I get to do something a little different. After all – you’ve gotten to come, haven’t you? Been happy to be the receiver? I daresay it’s about time for you to try giving.”

“My lady?” You warble, unsure of what she means – but Arlecchino makes a noise of agreement, and she lets her arm around your waist ease off and gently assists you to stand on shaky legs, like a fawn taking its first steps.

Signora laughs.

“Oh, how cute.” She turns and walks purposely towards the sofa, where she comfortably settles herself – and then she takes the hem of her nightgown in her elegant fingers and pulls it up around her waist, bunching up the fabric behind her so that her legs and her thighs and the tempting golden pale hair at the vee of those thighs is revealed. She heaves a soft sigh and pleasure and then, stretching like a cat, parts her thighs so that you can see her own sex between them, pink and glistening in the firelight. “Look what you’ve done to me. The least you could do is come and do something about it.”

“H-how, My Lady?” You whisper, though your mouth has gone dry at the sight of her, so beautiful and statuesque and entirely at ease. Signora laughs aloud once more.

“Why, Columbina’s already done it for you and you don’t have an inkling at all of what I might want you to do with your pretty mouth?”

You take back what you thought about your mouth going dry before – because now it is a Sumeru desert.

“I . . . you would allow me to do that?” You whisper, and Arlecchino stands too. She places a gentle hand in the middle of your lower back and pushes you forward.

“Oh, sweetness,” Signora purrs. “I’d be getting even more out of it. Think of it as . . . repayment for me having the forethought to summon such a pretty maid to the tea party. Come get on your knees for me, hmm?”

You don’t know if you would have been able to do it – to gather up enough courage to walk over there and dare to put your mouth upon a Harbinger – if it hadn’t been for Arlecchino, walking with you. She gently pushes down on your shoulder once you’re there, and as you sink to your knees she takes a seat beside Signora, pulling the other woman’s thigh onto her lap.

Signora makes a soft noise of pleasure not unlike a cat’s, and then wraps her hand around the back of Arlecchino’s head to pull her into a kiss that makes your heart hammer in your chest, it’s so full of sensuality and hunger. Arlecchino kisses her back, hungry for the other woman’s mouth, her teeth tugging at the plump fullness of Signora’s bottom lip. When they separate, both of them have half-lidded, wanting eyes as they look down at you.

“Isn’t that cute on you,” Signora purrs, and she places a hand loosely on the top of your head, fingertips tangling in your hair. “Don’t be shy now. I’m sure you’ll be an expert in no time.”

It still requires determination to breach that final gap. You can smell Signora on the air; sweet and slightly musky, something that makes you fair dizzy with wanting. Her fingers pet through your hair again, as she coos sweetly at you and you finally manage to bring forth the courage to put your mouth on her.

She’s so beautiful. Stately and graceful and above you – and yet here you are, about to do this for her, after she’s said so many sweet things about you . . .

Your tongue hesitantly reaches out, lapping against her heated core. She tastes sweet, a slight tang at the back of your mouth, but far from unpleasant – and as your tongue moves against her, she lets out a pleased sigh, shifting just so in order for you to be able to access her sex better. She rests her head on the back of the sofa with a pleased ‘mmm’ noise, and you notice that Arlecchino is drawing patterns with her fingers on Signora’s bare thigh.

Emboldened by the reaction, this time you flick the tip of your tongue against the slightly hidden pearl of Signora’s clit, and the woman gives a little thrust of her hips forward to encourage you to repeat the motion again. You do exactly what you think she’s guiding you to do and lick and suck at her clit, and you’re encouraged with sighs of pleasure and breathy little moans that make that ache low between your own thighs return.

“You could try sucking on it,” says Arlecchino, and you briefly glance up from below your lashes to see that she’s resting her head against Signora’s neck and chest, gazing down at you with those strange eyes and hunger in the set of her mouth like a wolf looking at a tender morsel.

You follow her advice, gently sucking the swollen bud (peeking out from beneath the hood now) into your mouth and sucking gently on it, and Signora’s hands tighten in your hair almost painfully. She groans, chest-deep, and then she adds her own voice to the advice though hers sounds more like an order:

“Don’t stop doing that.”

With such clear instructions, how could you possibly ignore her? You continue to suck on it, feeling it almost twitch in your mouth, the way that she keeps her legs apart even though she clearly wants to press them either side of your head and pull you in. Harbingers don’t get where they are by not having self-control, you suppose.

“Next time we’ll teach you how to use your fingers too,” you hear, a whisper behind you, and you realise that Columbina and Sandrone have come to join in. You think, from the sound of their voice, they’ve settled back onto the large pillows on the floor – but the far more pressing matter is in your mouth.

“I won’t be long,” Signora sighs, tilting her hips up even more. Her voice shakes and shudders. “Mm . . . you have no idea what watching you being worked over did to me--”

You double your attack on her, the thought of being the person who makes the Fair Lady come sending frissons of excitement all through you again. You let go of her clit for a moment to give more eager laps of her cunt, up and down, over and over, her sweet slick coating your tongue. You pay particular attention, though, to her clit – to keep going back, over and over.

And only partly because the insistent hand in your hair keeps dragging you back to it. You flick your tongue over it, an ache in the root of the organ because of how hard you’re trying – and then you feel it. Where your chin is practically buried in the softness of her sex, her entrance pulses once, then twice against you--

And Signora whines aloud, she finally gives in the urge to wrap her thighs around your face, a slippered foot digging into your back, and pulls you in to keep licking and sucking at her as she rides out the heated waves of her orgasm, soaking your cheeks, pulsing against you with hungry moans and the flex of those strong, lithe thighs.

By the time her shaking and groaning is done, and her thighs have released their hold on you to settle lazily back on the sofa, feet on the floor. She gazes at you, sleepy and sated, every inch a beautiful house cat.

Your gaze flickers nervously to the last woman in the room. You’re suddenly aware that, once again, there’s a pounding between your own legs that feels like a second heartbeat.

“Lord Arlecchino?” You whisper, shyly, your mouth still wet from Signora’s recent release. “Do . . . is there anything I can do for you?”

Signora lets out an amused laugh. Arlecchino looks at you, consideringly – it is not exactly a kind look, but you feel warmed by it even so.

“Our Knave prefers to play with toys,” Signora says. “And we hadn’t had enough time to procure them for this little soiree. Still . . . I daresay she’d very much like to play with you again. Don’t you think?” She addresses the last question to Arlecchino, who now gives a little smile to the other woman.

“Very much,” Arlecchino says. “I don’t think you’ve been nearly filled up enough tonight. Ah. One makes do, though.” She leans forward and brushes her dark-tipped thumb over your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth to wipe an errant droplet of slick from it. “I’m sure we’ll call on you again. Still. Until then . . . I think you ought to put your uniform back on. Someone from the palace is probably missing you.”