hey, iâm Wendell.
i need somewhere to put my fav fanfics on tumblr since tumblr wanna keep playing with me and not add bookmarks on here.
please give me suggestions if you know something good!
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@wendellsroom
hey, iâm Wendell.
i need somewhere to put my fav fanfics on tumblr since tumblr wanna keep playing with me and not add bookmarks on here.
please give me suggestions if you know something good!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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control â sam winchester
summary: who knew sam liked it so much when you were in control?
pairing: sam x angel!reader (gn) | genre: hot smut !! mdni | word count: 7.4k
warnings: older!sam, sub!sam (ft. a lot of whining and other sounds), a lotta edging, unprotected sex (dont do this), grace-play + sam's newly discovered grace kink, marking (giving sammy hickies !!), dean being a pain, dom!reader (?), i think that's it
notes: wow, writing something that's not a request ???? @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @aniresrene made me do it (thank you both !!). i took a bit of inspiration for some of this from a fic by @theedaythatnevercomes and her c'mon baby, get in fic :] as always, mdni with my smut !! and also as always, i'm too asexual for writing smut on the regular, this is not an open invitation to request heavy smut from me :]
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Thereâs something hot under your skin. It doesnât burn, because it canât. It doesnât singe or scorch, because it hasnât learned how. But it simmers, bubbling gently, a rolling ocean that laps along the shore in soft waves, curved and gentle like crescent moons on the sand. The longer you let it sit, the stronger it gets, coasting toward something like a boil that makes your skin hot and your stomach warm. It drips lower, a slow line of heat that lands heavy when it hits the pit of your core, spreading molten heat in a honey-slow crawl ever downward.
Across the table from you is the reason for your distress. Not that he would notice, of course, because youâve spent too many years taking the time to learn to cover it up. Heâs not in tune with the rhythm of your grace yet, canât notice when it flares around him, doesnât seem to realize how it burns stronger on days like these. Sam is many things, and unfortunately, oblivious to the way he makes you feel is one of them. Youâve learned you have to be painfully direct with him, because speaking in wraparound metaphors is never going to get your desires across. He needs facts, statements, full sentences that start and end with Sam, I need you. He needs you to be bold. So tonight, you will.
Currently, Sam is buried in a book with more pages than he has hairs on his head. Theyâre thin, brittle with age and filled with smudged handwriting that you know strains his eyes to read. If you listen close to the silence around him, you can fill it with whatever internal commentary he has on the text; anecdotes to the lines on the page, mental reminders to search for a connection in another book later. You file those notes away too, because two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to an angel. Your memory is plenty good enough to handle the both of you, but Sam takes pride in how much he knows, and youâre not one to underestimate the power of knowledge.
You watch, fixated, as he raises a thumb to his mouth, wetting it with the tip of his tongue so he can better turn the pages, careful not to damage the ancient paper. Itâs a simple gesture, one youâve seen him do hundreds of times before on case files or poetry anthology pages, but for some reason it makes your face hot. You avert your eyes quickly, instead opting to trace the lines on the tabletop, listening to their stories. It doesnât tell you much, because it is just a piece of wood turned into a tabletop and carved with initials, but you can pretend thereâs a wise voice telling you itâs tale.
Your eyes follow the lines as far as they go, tracing them until they wind up at Samâs bare forearm. Those stupid bare arms, covering the ends to the forestâs stories, because heâs chosen to roll up the sleeves of his navy button-up to his elbows. Even from this distance you can count every mole on his skin, the freckles faded by age and made bright again by the summer sun. The faint hairs that curl like fern fronds across his skin, connecting his freckles the same way an astronomer might draw lines to connect the constellations in the sky. Thin, soft, etched into where they belong. Sam turns another page, the muscle under his skin rippling as he moves, your eyes tracking it the whole way from rest to motion to rest again.
Everything about Sam is soft in ways youâd expect it to be sharp. The lines and ridges of his bones and muscles under his skin are rounded and soft, somehow managing to be gentle without sacrificing their power. Where Deanâs hands are large, the bones thickening his fingers enough that you can see where one or two have been broken, Samâs hands are bigger yet but timid, a little shaky at times, always asking for permission to be big. The way he manages to round down the expanses of his shoulders both impresses you and makes you sad that he feels the need to take up less space. Even the way heâs just cleared his throat isnât harsh or cracking like it is for most people. Instead, itâs light, quiet, filling the space like it really is nothing more than just a temporary sound.
âYouâre staring,â he murmurs softly, barely looking up from his page.
âI am not staring,â you reply.
Sam huffs a laugh, grinning in that careful way that makes his dimple pop on his cheek. Itâs hard to see it now that heâs growing a bit of a beard, but you donât think you could forget what it looks like if you tried. Even now the soft divot is visible to you, pockmarking his skin like a little meteor fell into it, rounding it out and giving it meaning until it was something beautiful and kind instead of fiery. His eyes flick up from the page to your face and back again, the same path they make thousands of times a day.
âIf youâre not staring, then what are you doing?â
âThinking.â
âAbout what?â
âYou.â
Samâs eyes pause their trek across the page, coming up to meet your steady gaze for a second longer than normal. The longer he watches you, the more you see his expression shift from something relaxed into something strung, an animal ready to move. The lamplight flickers off him in waning waves of gold, his eyes shifting from a dark brown to something lighter, the colour of the worn wood on the table youâd been studying earlier, something golden he doesnât know exists swimming in them too. Sam looks away first, his cheeks dusted a pale pink, unable to hide the ghost of a smile that lands on his face every time he sees you.
âIâm not kidding,â you say.
âI know.â
He shifts in his chair, the movement disjointed and awkward, settling himself both deeper into the seat and also closer to the edge. Ready to get up and move at a momentâs notice, but making himself comfortable, like he can melt into it and disappear if you asked him to. One hand drifts under the table, the almost imperceptible sound of fingers rearranging denim reaching your ears. His hand drifts back up, fidgeting momentarily with the collar of his shirt before falling back to rest in his lap, book now forgotten. His legs stretch long under the table, ankles crossed and socked feet tapping a rhythm against the floor, eyes drifting anywhere but you.
âAre you done?â you ask, gesturing to his book.
Sam nods, clearing his throat a second time. âI can be. Why?â
You stare, your expression shifting into something deadpan and serious. âI can wait if youâre busy.â
âNo, no, Iâm not busy.â
âYouâre halfway through a chapter. You never stop reading halfway through a chapter.â
Sam shrugs, caught. âFirst time for everything?â
You absorb the information, standing from your chair in an abrupt motion that makes Samâs brows furrow as he watches you. Itâs not unlike you to move in a space like youâre not used to the space existing, but this is too precise for even that. Youâre moving on a mission, and Samâs starting to understand what it is.
âCome with me,â you say, holding out your hand and cupping his chin with it.
âWhere are we going?â
You nod in the direction of the hall. âYou are going to have a first time.â
Sam swallows, something that looks like uncertainty flickering across his features. You frown, leaning down to look him in the eyes, softening your expression into something you know he understands as gentle. Your eyes flick over him, from his worried expression to the shirt collar he still hasnât fixed, down his lightly freckled arms, to the lump in his jeans he was adjusting earlier. Perhaps youâve misread something. Maybe whatever fire simmers under your skin doesnât live under his; maybe youâve overstepped, crossed a line you know you should never cross, hurt the parts of him you promised you would never hurt.
âIâm sorry,â you say. âIf I was too direct.â
Sam waves off your apology with a hand, shaking his head slightly. âDonât apologize.â
âI made you uncomfortable.â
âNot uncomfortable. Very much the opposite of uncomfortable.â
Your face scrunches up, confusion etched into your features. Sam chuckles low, putting one of his hands on the wrist that still holds his chin in your hand. His thumb strokes up and down the back of your hand, drawing you in with the way that every touch of his does, promising everything good and more. When he turns his head slightly, his beard scrapes at your palm, scratching a surface itch and stoking the deeper one.
âBut you lookâŚuncertain.â
âNot uncertain.â
âThen what would you call it?â
Sam thinks, eyes flittering over your features, hesitating on your lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own, fingers tightening momentarily on your wrist.
âAnticipation.â
You hum, the sound vibrating through your chest to Sam just by how close you are to him. His knees tip open a little as you step forward, legs spreading just enough that you can stand between them. Experimentally, your hand tips low, trailing a faint path along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, brushing his adamâs apple that bobs when he swallows. Slowly, your fingertips brush the collar of the shirt heâd been playing with earlier, nails brushing half-moon shapes along what you can see of his collarbone. His breath hitches when you reach the dip at the base of his neck, a shaky inhale and exhale that you know is holding back something fuller.
âOkay,â you say. âAnticipation is good?â
Sam nods, the motion slightly detached. âYeah.â
âDo you like it?â
Samâs eyes gleam with something hidden that he keeps carefully locked away, slowly brimming to the surface under your heated touch.
âYeah. Yeah, I do.â
His voice is unsteady, like it was knocked off balance by a punch to the chest. Something about the reverent breathlessness of it stokes the pot from a simmer to a slow boil, foamy sea roiling under your skin, impatient as it waits. You watch Sam for a moment longer, studying the ridge of his brow under the light, the way it normally shades his eyes but now seems to push the darkness back for you to see his pretty hazel eyes watching you just as intently as you watch him. You brush your hand through his hair slow, raking it back from his forehead. He gives a soft, punched-out noise when your fingers catch on a knot and yank harder than youâd intended, his face immediately flushing pink.
âSorry,â he whispers when you remove your hand.
âDid it hurt?â
âA little.â
âBut you-.â
Sam holds up a hand to stop you. âSomething can hurt and feel good at the same time.â
You frown. âHow on Earth does that work?â
Sam chuckles, tipping into your hand with the weight of it. âI wish I knew.â
âDo you-. Can I do it again?â
Samâs eyes focus on you. âPlease.â
You follow the same path again, fingers running along his scalp like a rake as they pull his hair back, finding a spot near the top of his head that looks suitable. Quietly, you wrap two fingers around the roots, pulling just hard enough to draw out a low groan from the base of his throat, one that comes up from his chest and sounds like heaven. You move on to a new spot, repeating the same motion but slightly harder, earning yourself another groan, this one louder.
âWait- wait. Stop,â Sam pants.
You retract your hand immediately. âToo much?â
âNo, no. God, no. Just-. Weâre in the library.â
You nod, slow. âThere is no door.â
âRight.â
âAnd Dean could walk past.â
âRight again.â
âAnd you would like to be somewhere else.â
âThree in a row.â
You hum, grabbing Samâs large hand and pulling him to his feet. He goes a little wobbly, never expecting the strength you have over him, but he stands upright, slamming the book closed and shoving it down the table for Dean to put somewhere else. His hand falls again to the front of his jeans, making an attempt to adjust himself in case you come across Dean. You and Sam both know itâs probably pointless, but itâs the thought that counts.
Your steps on the bunker floor tread so light they barely make a sound, almost like youâre floating over the ground. Maybe you are, in a way, walking light and subtle and with the kind of gentleness that comes from being held up by wings. Sam walks so close behind you it would crowd if he were anyone else; he has a talent for existing shoulder to shoulder with you in your space and never leaving you feeling overwhelming. One hand hovers at the small of your back, his nose nudging at your neck while he lays soft kisses to the skin as you walk, your pace quickening the closer you get to his room.
Sam mutters something impatient when it takes you more than a second to open the door to his room, and you give him a half-hearted glare from the corner of your eye. He apologizes with an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, exhaling soft through his nose as he does, the heat of his breath curling against the skin of your neck. He nudges the door closed with his heel, the latch rattling lightly against the frame as it comes to rest, something Dean will no doubt complain about later, but neither of you care. The sound of wood hitting frame doesnât matter, the sound of socked feet on floor isnât important; the sound of panted breaths and increasingly heated kisses does.
You spin him around, so his chest is pressed to yours, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him ever closer. His hands fall to your waist, smoothing up and down your ribcage, cupping them and stroking his thumb along the lower ribs in time with your breaths. Your fingertips find their earlier path to the base of his neck, scooping under his hair and bunching it up in your hands as you trail upward, inching toward the roots and tugging when you get there. The first few times only reward you with a huff of breath against your skin, but after some experimentation, you find the right section of his hair that drags a whine from his chest into the kiss.
Despite his size, itâs devastatingly easy to walk him toward the bed, using just a fraction of your strength to push him onto the mattress. His knees buckle when he reaches the edge, gripping your hips and pulling you down into his lap. Your knees land on either side of his hips, leading you to subtly grind yourself down on his growing hardness under the denim of his jeans. Each circle of your hips on his drags a moan from Sam, spitting it out into the air like heâs ashamed of the pleasure, afraid to let you know what he feels.
Eventually, Sam pulls away from you, gazing up at you with blown pupils and the most beautiful eyes youâve seen. His lashes tangle together as he blinks at you, doe eyes perfectly matching the flush on his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips. Your hands make a path down his shoulder blades and around to his chest, palm landing flat over his heart. Samâs hands cup your face like angelic statues cup holy water, holding it like itâs rare, precious, something to be closely guarded. Softly, testing the waters, Samâs hips jerk upward, your lips parting for a sound that never comes.
âSam?â you ask, breathless.
Sam makes a noise in response thatâs airy and light, something you take for agreement but could easily have no meaning attached to it.
âDo you want to try something new?â
He freezes. âLike what?â
Your hips shift minutely, Samâs eyes squeezing shut in response.
âMaking you feel what I feel.â
âYou feel it different?â
You nod, the motion jerky.
âWhat kind of different?â he prods.
âMore feeling. More energy. Just-. More. Youâd like it.â
âOkay,â Sam whispers. âYeah, angel.â
One hand cups his chin, holding it between your thumb and fingers. The other hand drifts up in the familiar sort of salute you use when you heal him, fingers brushing Samâs hairline, tracing the creases on his forehead as he watches you. A soft press of weight, a faint pulse of blue, and a sharp inhale from Sam, and you know itâs worked. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and soft as you drop your fingers away, grace fading out until itâs no brighter than the roomâs shadows. The lamplight fades out too, letting gentle darkness creep in to replace what was once a soft gold, Samâs pupils widening further as he adjusts to the darkness.
âTell me if itâs too much,â you murmur in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it.
âPromise,â he whispers back, shivering, goosebumps cropping up along his arms.
Slowly, you move in tandem. Sam crawls on his elbows back until his head hits the pillows, hair spreading around his head all tangled and knotted, like some kind of halo. Your palms, burning warm, trail up his forearms as you lay him back, hovering yourself over his body. Deft fingers pop the buttons on his shirtsleeves, Samâs huge hands helping undo the ones on his chest. You watch, fascinated, as his chest comes into view, bare under the shirt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight, hair dark like the hair on his head a faint brush trail over his pecs. He crunches as he removes the shirt properly, a hand pressed flat to the muscles of his abs feeling the way they ripple and contract through his movements, flattening out again when he lays back down with a sigh.
âOff?â he asks, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt.
âNot yetâ you reply, delicately pushing his hands away.
âWant to feel you.â
âYou will.â
Sam almost pouts, something so sweet you nearly cave and let him remove your shirt, but you know his limits. With your grace flowing under his skin, electrifying every nerve until they all sing the same chorus, having your chest bare to him to roam his hands over would be too much for him right now when itâs so new. Heâd burn up, skin flushing red and angry, burning out until heâs a shell of himself. Youâre not here to hurt him, after all. Youâre just here to give him a good time, a first experience heâs never had before; itâs not every day Sam gets to mess around with an angel in his bed.
Drifting downward, your mouth returns to his as your hands palm downward, inching closer toward where heâs straining in his jeans. You go slow, giving him time to adjust to this new state of overwhelm, every nerve in his body no doubt firing a thousand times stronger than usual. You reach the happy trail that points down the slim v of his hips, sharp angled hipbones cutting into his skin and disappearing into the denim hem decorating his waist. The moment your fingers brush through the hair, Sam inhales sharp in a poorly concealed whine, back arching and hips jerking upward. You press down to keep him still, cautious with how much feeling you let himself get high on, keeping control over the situation, keeping control over Sam.
And he lets you. And he likes it.
He likes giving you control to do whatever you want with him. He likes letting himself feel everything a hundred times stronger than usual; every valley of your fingerprints, every particle of your breath on his cheek. Everything else he canât wait to feel waiting for him under your clothes.
The button to his jeans pops open, zipper pulled down slow, the sound of the metal parts unlinking impossibly loud in the space. Rustling denim fills the room, the soft press of your palms on his skin as you drag his jeans down past your legs, lifting your hips to give him enough motion to kick them off, still drunk on the taste of his mint chapstick. Settling into place again, your kisses trail blazing hot down the skin of his neck, his head tipped back to give you access to the striking ropes of muscle on the sides. Cautiously, you nip at one of them, your teeth driving a full-bodied moan from Samâs chest.
The tent in Samâs boxers presses insistently against your inner thigh, warm and full. Slow, painfully slow, you grip the waistband and work them down his legs, fingernails trailing along his skin and leaving faint white lines in their wake, the skin around turning gentle pink like rose petals. Once the fabric is clear of his feet, you make your way back up, equally slow, relishing every sound you can pull from Sam. Holding his legs down while you press a soft kiss to the inside of his knee makes his back arch lightly and makes him breathless, but leaving messy kisses along his thighs makes him squirm a little, almost whimpering with the anticipation. Taking advantage of it, you suck two careful marks on his thighs just near his hipbones, blooming dark pink that will surely fade into reddish purple by the time youâre done.
His dick is resting hard on his lower stomach, coarse hair curling at his base that you run your hand through, teasing. Letting him feel how your fingers catch on every hair, skin goosebumped and hot to the touch. He shivers when your hand ghosts over his length, swollen and pink at the tip, waiting patiently for you to do something. When your hands move back down his thighs instead, trailing along the insides so close to where he needs you yet refusing to touch him there, he exhales shakily, moving on your behalf.
Eyes screwed shut, Sam drifts a cautious hand towards his dick, trembling a little as he goes. You watch, confused, thinking heâs reaching for you. A low noise comes from his throat when his fingers wrap around himself, attempting desperately to alleviate some of the pressure thatâs built up in his abdomen while you were busy. You watch him stroke himself, tracking the way his fingers move over himself, likely something heâs done a hundred times before in cheap motels with too much energy and nowhere to put it. For a brief selfish moment, you wonder how many of those times have been to the thought of you; how many motel showers have heard your name, how many magazines heâs read and replaced the models with you in his head. The number likely isnât zero, and that makes you painfully hot and bothered about it.
A half-satisfied sigh spills from Samâs lips, thumb smoothing over his tip and coating himself in his arousal. Itâs pretty to you in a strange way, the same kind of iridescence as a pearl. If you look close enough, you swear you can see a faint rainbow sheen to it. Sam seems wildly unaware of the natural beauty of it, and you suspect he just canât see the same colours you can, canât see the same prettiness to whatâs not meant to be pretty.
âYou gonna do something?â Sam asks, wrecked. âOr just stare?â
Sliding your own pants off, you climb back up his body. Sitting yourself on his stomach, youâre just high enough that he canât grind against you.
âAsk nicely,â you comment, frowning a little.
To you, thereâs nothing strange about that comment. Itâs something you say several times a day, usually directed at his brother who seems to have no concept of manners or the word âpleaseâ. To you, this is just an everyday comment that means nothing more than what it asks for; respect.
To Sam, it means that and everything more. To Sam, itâs a command, a request he simply canât ignore. He turns his eyes on you, filled with something lustful and gorgeous, the kind of sin that draws you in because you know it canât hurt you. His lips form an âoâ shape, but no words come out; not until he clears his throat, the sound cracking in the space.
âPlease, angel. Do something. I canât-. I need-. Please.â
When his voice sounds that airy and high, that close to drifting out of his body and up somewhere far away, you have no choice but to listen to him. You seal his lips in a searing kiss, swiping your tongue along the bottom one, lapping up his taste. His hands come up to hold you, lacing together at the back as he holds your head in them, thumbs near your eyebrows. He kisses you back like youâre oxygen, hands feeling like they completely cover the sides of your head, grabbing at you and holding you close because he needs you there, your skin scraping along his beard and tickling deliciously.
You work your hips backward, shimmying them along his torso and dragging your heat over his stomach, down his happy trail until you reach his dick. Itâs hot and heavy against your ass, still slick from his earlier ministrations in what you now realize were meant to be preparation. Samâs working at the foil on a condom when you look back up, ripping it open with his teeth when his hands shake too much to be useful.
âDonât need it,â you say, knocking it from his hands.
âI-.â
âI am an angel, Sam.â
âEver heard of a Nephilim?â
You laugh, melodic. âIt canât happen.â
âYouâre sure?â
You stare. âI would not be saying this if I wasnât.â
Sam looks like heâs about to protest again, and thereâs only so much convincing you can do with words before Sam starts getting frustrated. Instead, you move the rest of the way back, grabbing Samâs dick and stroking him softly while you align yourself with him. The moment your fingers close around him, he whimpers high in his throat, stomach muscles jumping in time with your movements. It only takes a few seconds, but to Sam, it feels like it takes an hour; an hour of just feeling the heat of your palm on his sensitive heat, moving too slow and too fast. It takes all he has to keep it together. You hear him make a mental reminder to do this again.
âOf course we can,â you reply aloud.
âWhat?â
You nod toward him. âI heard you.â
Sam blushes furiously red. âSorry.â
âSam. I told you that you would like this. Stop feeling ashamed for it.â
Putting an end to the debate, you sink down on his length, slapping a hand over his mouth when he moans loud enough you worry Dean will hear from behind the closed door. Sam whines when he finally bottoms out, hands flying to your waist in an attempt to keep you still and make you move; he canât decide which would feel better at this point. To fit him fully, you rock your hips slightly back and forth, his tip notching on your walls as he fits where he always has, buried completely inside you. He gives another moan when you settle still again, the sound devolving into a muffled groan when you tighten your hand on his mouth. You can hear Deanâs footsteps outside getting closer, praying that heâll walk past without commenting on anything.
âSammy?â Dean yells. âYou in there?â
You and Sam both sigh in defeat. Sam goes to lift you off of him, but you stop his hands where they are. His head tips to the side, the confused puppy look heâs trademarked in your brain, and all you do is kiss him deep in reply.
âWhatâre you doing?â he whispers low.
âYou said something can hurt and feel good at the same time,â you whisper back. âIâm testing that theory.â
Samâs eyes widen in understanding, a soft grin slowly curling across his bearded face. He pecks your cheek before getting interrupted again by Deanâs banging on the doorframe.
âI got questions for you, Sammy,â he yells.
âDude, go read a book or something,â Sam shouts back.
You still your minute rocking. Sam looks, confused. You shrug, grinning.
âI did. I still got questions. Help a guy out, wouldâya?â
Sam groans, this time from his brotherâs sheer audacity instead of your heated touch.
âMake it quick.â
âDo I get to come in or am I stuck yellinâ at this door?â
âDonât come in!â you and Sam both yell at the same time.
Dean mutters something Sam canât hear but your ears pick up, something nasty that makes you chuckle and would make Sam slap his brother across the face if he heard it.
âWhatâs the question?â Sam asks.
âGot this case here, says itâs in, uh, Milwaukee.â
âUh huh.â
âAnd itâs talkinâ âbout some drowninâs.â
âWisconsinâs covered in lakes, Dean.â
âWell yeah. But this oneâs weird.â
You start moving again, gentle circles that make Sam muffle the breath he sucks in.
âWhyâs that?â Sam replies, voice careful and steady.
ââCause the guy drowned on land.â
Sam makes the kind of scrunched-up face he makes when something is definitely supernatural, but still impressive enough for him to be surprised about it.
âOh..kay. Weird.â
âYeah. And thereâs this symbol they found on his wrist that I wanted tâshow you. âCause I canât find it.â
âWhy would I know?â
âEh, thought your angel pal could help us out.â
Sam rolls his eyes right at the time you grind down harsh on him, his eyes stopping their motion to flutter closed as his head jerks back into the soft down of the pillows.
âWhatâs it look like?â Sam asks.
Dean describes the shape as best he can, but you and Sam both know heâs taking several creative liberties in an attempt to draw Sam out of his room and shoulder the work for him. You keep a mental image of what Dean draws, the picture so sharp and clear youâre surprised Sam canât see it floating between your chests. Thereâs a few vertical lines and a couple diagonal ones, something that looks like a spiral and is probably mean to be a triangle. Itâs surrounded by a circle, and Dean says it looks like a brand, flaying the skin around it the same shade of pink as Samâs sweat-flushed cheeks.
Each shape Dean describes currently earns Sam another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down on his length as best you can. Occasionally, he hits a spot that makes your toes curl against his legs and forces you to brace a palm on the middle of his ribcage, using his sternum to keep you upright. Samâs doing a decent job of keeping quiet, his sounds mostly reduced to quiet, shaky exhales of breath, but when he canât, your palm is quick enough to keep his moans quiet so that Dean doesnât hear.
âCould be a binding sigil,â Sam answers.
You still abruptly, thighs falling open and movements reduced to nothing so quickly Sam almost tears up at the loss of friction.
âNot right?â Sam whispers to you.
âNo. The spiral should be a triangle.â
Sam redraws his mental image. âDean?â
âWhat?â
âIs it Celtic?â
Dean shuffles some pages around. You still donât move.
âNo,â you and Dean both say.
Sam groans, frustrated. âOkay. Itâs either Enochian or some bastardization of it.â
That grants Sam another thrust of your hips downward, drawing up a whine.
âGood,â you whisper against the shell of his ear, kissing his pulse point.
âGreat. Whatâs it do?â Dean asks.
Sam shifts the both of you, tangling his fingers in your hair and burying his face into your shoulder to suppress the resulting groan.
âPr- probably binds- ah.â
You stop.
âNo, sorry. Not binding.â
You can see the gears turning in Samâs brain.
âWait, Dean. Do the diagonals start at the left or right?â
âUhâŚleft.â
A small movement from you, a reward for asking the right question. Deanâs silence continues, so you continue too, waiting them both out for whoever makes a mistake first. Samâs fingers squeeze the plush of your waist, nails leaving tiny half-moons that youâre notice later and wear because they came from Samâs hands. You keep kissing him, swallowing his moans as you build him up higher, working him until youâre certain that whatever pressure heâs feeling now is worse than heâs ever had. His face is screwed up, his mouth mumbling incoherent sounds into yours, nose scrunching. You can tell heâs close, heat burning sharp between you.
âHurts,â he whines.
Just as Samâs about to tip over the edge, you stop. You donât give him the pleasure of slowing down; just a full stop, thighs loosening and heels removed from his legs, palms off his chest and mouth away from his. Your palm blocks his desperate whine from reaching Deanâs ears, Samâs eyes peering at you bloodshot and frustrated.
âThe hell?â he whispers, throat wrecked.
âYou havenât figured it out yet,â is your answer.
âDean?â Sam asks, weak. âYou there?â
âYeah, yeah. Just readinâ somethinâ. Says the lines start from the bottom left, not the top left.â
âItâs a sigil for a plague,â he comments.
âGood,â you whisper, starting a slow roll.
âOh great. Which one?â Dean asks, exasperated.
âSeven, I think.â
You stop. Sam whines.
âNot seven, not seven,â he says, punched out and breathy. ââS not seven.â
âWell, thatâs great. Yâonly got, what, nine more to go through?â
âShut up.â
You lean down to Samâs ear, lacing your fingers through his hand and bringing it up to rest beside his head.
âSeven was hail, Sam.â
âI know.â
âAsk him what the man drowned in.â
Sam clears his throat, taking a shaky breath in.
âDean?â
âYeah.â
âWhatâd he drown in? Water?â
You can hear Dean shake his head, then remember Sam canât see it.
âNo, uhâŚdrowned in his own blood. Saw trap style.â
Your hand brushes sweaty hair back from Samâs forehead.
âItâs one. Dean, itâs the first plague. The whole turning water into blood situation.â
Your grip tightens on Samâs hair, pulling until you draw a whimper from his throat. Again, you start slow circles, mouthing at his pulse point, your hand still locked in his. Again, you build him all the way up until heâs just about to let himself go. Again, you stop abruptly, this time drawing gentle tears from the corner of Samâs eye.
âWhat now?â he murmurs to you.
âYou havenât told him how to remove it.â
âI donât know how to remove it.â
âYes, you do, Sam.â
Dean shuffles. âHow am I supposed to get it off these people?â
âFire?â
You move, cautious, slow. A half answer, but not complete.
âHellfire, maybe?â Sam adds.
You stop.
âWhat other fire is there?â Sam murmurs to himself. âNot hellfireâŚnot fireâŚfâŚitâsâŚholyâŚholy fire. Dean! Dean, itâs holy fire.â
âGood boy,â you coo, nipping at the dip between Samâs collarbones and moving again.
âAnything else?â Sam asks his brother.
âNah. Just needed that geek brain oâyours.â
Deanâs footsteps thud heavily off to the library, your ears picking up the sounds of him rummaging for whiskey in the room before dropping heavily into a chair and commenting something about how late it is. Once youâre certain heâs not coming back, you let yourself move again, thumbing along the hem of your shirt that you stole from Samâs closet. Some worn t-shirt thatâs seen several years of motel rooms and duffel bag bottoms, travelling with him everywhere he goes. It smells like him too, something soft like pavement after rain and cedar wood burning. Sam helps you slide it over your head and drop it to the floor, hands eagerly resting on your ribs again, this time bare.
Your movements turn from circles to proper thrusts forward, your stomach brushing his at some moments, his arms anchoring you against him. Your hand is still holding his near his head, his knuckles white from how heâs squeezing your hand. Heâs panting now, full-bodied pants every time you break the kiss, the bundle of arousal in his stomach gripping him tighter and tighter the longer it builds for, radiating to his spine and arching his back off the mattress. You clench around him, earning yourself a heavy moan that echoes in your ears, building the both of you higher and higher. Samâs hard to the point of pain, aching with every rock of your hips, desperately pleading for you to let him come.
âHurts sâbad,â he whimpers.
âMhm?â
âYeah, âs- ow. Hurts, hurts. Please, angel. Please lemme just-.â
âHm,â you hum.
âPlease, I need-.â
You slow, almost stopping but not quite. Tears fills Samâs eyes, and you realize, after a quick delve into his soul, it really does hurt.
âPleasepleaseplease,â he begs, breathless.
You grind down harsh, a cracked whine breaking the air from Samâs lips. The bubble bursts in Samâs core, and then heâs coming hot and heavy into you, moaning an incomprehensible version of your name into the roomâs night air. Tears slip sideways into his hairline as he lets go, the consequences of reaching the height of pleasured pain. His hips shove up into you, pushing himself impossibly deeper as he finally empties himself, the pressure abating slow and steady with each bit. Somewhere along the way you come too, but youâre too focused on Sam and Samâs too focused on his own orgasm to notice. You slow, a gentle wind-down unlike earlier, only fully stopping when Sam whimpers something about being sensitive, tingles arching up your back when you tip onto him.
Heâs panting heavily now, lying spread-eagled on the bed with one arm hanging half off. His chest rises and falls dramatically, your lips kissing up and down it as you wait patiently for him to come down enough that you can slip away for a cloth. Your first attempt at moving doesnât go far, Sam mumbling for a few more minutes despite your insistence that he gets up soon. Eventually, his breathing slows into something normal, heart calming down until itâs back to thudding its regular steady rhythm in his chest. You brush his hair back again, this time ensuring you donât pull at the knots youâve created by fisting your hands through it; just getting the sweat-sticky strands off his forehead so you can lay a soft kiss to it.
Finally, slowly, when heâs soft enough youâre both sure you can move, you lift yourself off of Sam. He sucks in a breath at the cold of the room reaching his skin that was previously covered by you, adjusting to the room temperature while you search for sleep clothes. He has a hand thrown over his eyes when you come back to bed with fresh clothes, and you peel it back gently to watch him. Your fingers return to his forehead, retracting the grace youâd given him, your eyes watching how he sinks deeper into the mattress again now that heâs fully human once more.
âI will clean up here,â you murmur, kissing him softly. âGet yourself sorted out.â
âDo I have to?â he murmurs back.
You smile gently. âYes, love. You do. It wonât take very long.â
Sam hauls himself upright with a grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his long arms over his head, twisting his back to get out the tension from earlier. His hip cracks loud when he stands, and something twists in your heart when you catch the silvers in his hair and beard glint in the grey nighttime light. Heâs getting older, you know this. Heâs older than he was when you met, and something about that makes you feel overjoyed but also a little sad. Heâs getting to an age he never assumed heâd reach, surviving everything that brought him to this point. But that also means heâs running out of time on earth, something youâre distraught at. For someone like him who loves earth so much, it seems cruel to take it away from him.
Turning your thoughts away from his mortality, you straighten out the bedsheets, a snap of your fingers cleaning and drying them, a second snap making them carry the same warmth that they would if theyâd just been removed from the dryer or just brought inside from the sunlight. Your hands fluff the pillows into something that isnât dented by Samâs head, straightening the pillowcases again. Your ears pick up the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, your brain filtering out the sound of him peeing and focusing instead on his soft humming as he washes his hands.
When he shuffles back into the room, youâre in the process of putting on your sleep clothes; an old thin shirt of his that you only wear because anything warmer makes you feel like youâre burning from the inside out and pants made out of some kind of athletic material you hate but keep wearing. Sam struggles into a clean pair of boxers, nearly falling over when his heel gets stuck in the leg. You pull the sheets back so Sam can climb in, throwing them over him as he snuggles into your side, one impossibly heavy arm thrown over your waist. Boneless, without putting in any effort to keep himself light for you, he has the weight of tons of rocks; it never hurts, just a comforting heaviness that proves heâs not going anywhere anytime soon.
âSo?â you murmur, turning to face him.
âSo,â he replies, soft and tired eyes watching you fondly.
âWas it too much?â
Sam shakes his head, shaking strands of hair into his eyes in the process.
âNo. âS perfect. Thank you.â
âWould- would you do it again?â
Sam pushes into the pillows groaning a soft comment about angel stamina. âNot now.â
You laugh light and airy. âI didnât mean now, love.â
âOh. He hauls himself up on one elbow, blinking slow. âYeah. Yeah, I really would.â
You reach for him, dragging him to you. The perk of your angel strength means Sam can go completely boneless in your hold, putting in no effort whatsoever, and you can still drag him around like he weighs nothing. Heâs barely in control of his muscles right now, but he still slings his arms around you when you pull him to your chest, one hand disappearing under your pillow and the other resting somewhere on your shoulder blade. His hand wonât go numb; you wonât let it. Instead, he melts himself completely over you, burying his face into your shoulder and humming as he gets comfortable.
âOkay?â you ask when he stills.
âOkay,â he murmurs, barely a word rather than just a sound.
You kiss the top of his head. âRest well, Sam.â
âYou know I will.â
You smile into his hair. âI know.â
He presses a lazy ghost of a kiss to the side of your neck. âI love you, angel.â
âYou know I love you too.â
âI know.â
Itâs the last conscious thing he says before the sleep crawling up his spine claims him, surrounding him in a warm blanket as he drifts off in your arms. You donât sleep, Sam knows you donât, but for his sake you slow your breathing and heart rate until it matches his; beat for beat, breath for breath. Your eyes drift shut, brain alert and awake but eyes sleeping with the rest of the room. You notice the moment his exhales change from through his nose to through his mouth, then shift into soft snores that get gradually louder as the night progresses. Itâs never annoying, and youâve told him this, but he still tries his best to keep it to a minimum with you. He doesnât shift at all during the night, sleeping as heavy and deep as a fallen log. And if he drools a little on your shirt in his deep sleep? Well, nobody but you will know.
tags : @sweetbabygirlsworld, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @violained, @vfwwm, @cloudsincalifornia, @bejeweledinterludes2, @castielscaplan, @spaghettiwoes, @winchesterheart, @miyasfatass, @legalmente-loca-blog, @deersammys, @alexxavicry, @lessiesimpala, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theedaythatnevercomes, @rafs127, @fox-saturn
saw a juicy ass sam edit on insta and had to find a sexy ass fanfic to match đ
đĽ late night snack.
⢠pairing: qifrey x gn!reader
⢠word count: 1.7k
⢠tags: fluff, qifrey and reader make dumplings, olly is away on work, apprentices being apprentices, kissing in front of the sink
⢠a/n: can you tell i'm hungry đ (but i also wrote this to make up for whatever misbehaviour was đŤ i hope i haven't forgotten how to write fluff!)
The atelier's kitchen feels different, at night. Far removed from the usual chatter of dishes and voices, the fire burns low in the hearth, leaving only the soft glow from the phantasmal fireball lamp on the table. More hushed and still, a quiet ghost of its bustling self in the daytimeâbut it's not a bad thing.
Especially not when he's in it.
"Have the girls gone to bed already?" Qifrey looks up from the kitchen counter when you finally emerge from the stairs. You'd sent the girls to their beds right after dinnerâit'd been a long day out in Kahln, with shopping errands, a sudden sunshower that had sent everyone running for cover, and far too many distractions along the way. But what had really stirred up the evening was the book Tetia had found in a corner bookstore: a romance novel with a battered pink cover, secondhand, and a title so flowery Qifrey had raised an eyebrow at you the moment he saw it. Tetia had firmly refused to sleep unless someone read it to her, and even Agott had lingered at the doorway with the other two girls, despite her insistence about having "no care for silly, sappy lovesick tales".
"It took quite some time." Between light threats, repeated goodnights, and one overly dramatic reading of the first page, bedtime had turned into a battle of attrition you hadn't agreed to participate in. "But they agreed to sleep after I promised you'd read the rest to them tomorrow night."
Qifrey lets out a soft laugh, turning to glance over this shoulder as you round the table to stand by him at the counter. The soft blue of his visible eye catches in the firelight, your figure faintly reflected in the surface of his glasses.
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"You committed my efforts without first seeking my agreement?"
"It was easy when you weren't there to defend yourself," you reply lightly, leaning in to inspect the vegetables beneath his knife. They're a little limp, colours dulled and beginning to brown at the tops. "Besides, Coco is very excited to hear you do all the voices. You wouldn't say no to her."
"Both that child and you severely overestimate my talent and willingness," Qifrey huffs, though you can see him fighting to keep the corners of his mouth from turning upwards. "Still, as a reward for successfully getting those little terrors to sleep⌠would you like some dumplings for supper?"
It's almost embarrassing how quickly the fatigue leaves your body. "Dumplings!"
Qifrey laughs quietly at your immediate enthusiasm. "Yes, yes. I'm making some now." He sweeps the chopped vegetables into a bowl with practiced ease, and only then do you notice the rest of the ingredients spread across the counter beside him: minced flying shrimp and meat, a little dish of carefully measured seasonings, and a neat stack of dumpling wrappers lightly dusted with flour. So that's what he'd been doing the entire time you were upstairs battling the girls into bed. "I was taking stock of the kitchen earlier and realised these vegetables needed to be used soon. But I haven't wrapped them yet, so you may have to waâ"
"âdo them with you," you finish for him, already reaching for the wrappers before Qifrey can protest. "Double the hands make for half the work, don't they?"
Qifrey just sighs. He knows better than the argue by now. The sound is touched with quiet amusement despite the air of resignation he tries to maintainâhelplessly fond, in all of its indulgences.
The two of you stand at the kitchen counter to wrap the dumplings. Quiet nights like these are often your favouriteânot that you don't enjoy the company of the girlsâbut moments like these are made all the more precious in their rarity. Little stretches of time where it is only you and Qifrey, where he can simply be himself and not the witch or the master, the two of you sharing in the stillness of the sleeping atelier together.
Your hips bump together every now and then in the cramped space between the counter and kitchen table, and your fingers brush with murmured apologies neither of you truly mean when you reach for the same wrapper more than once. You watch Qifrey's hands while you work; long fingers pleating the dumplings shut with practiced ease, each one cradled lightly in the cup of his palm before being placed in neat rows upon the tray. There is something strangely tender about the motionâcareful and familiar in the same way he handles all fragile things.
The same way he handles your heart.
By the time you finish wrapping the dumplings, the water on the stove has come to a rolling boil. Qifrey lowers a handful carefully into the pot while you gather the rest, sliding them neatly into the cold box to keep for another day.
When you turn back, Qifrey is already holding a single bowl in his hands, waiting for you. Steam curls upward lazily from the broth.
You glance up at him. "You're not having any?"
"Hm?" Qifrey hums lightly as he sets the dumplings down on the table. "I assumed we could just share. It'd be less to clean up."
The easy casualness of his words makes something warm unfurl quietly in your chest.
The two of you eat the dumplings at the kitchen table, shoulders brushing every so often as you pass the spoon between you. The dumpling skins turn almost translucent in the broth, pieces of shrimp glowing a faint pink under the lamplight like small crystals. Qifrey nudges the bowl slightly closer when he notices you slowing down, waiting patiently for you to take the next one before reaching for his own. Between bites, the bowl slowly empties until there is nothing but broth, and then, even that too, is gone.
"I'll do the dishes," you say as you gather the bowl and spoon, already beginning to rise from your seat. The quicker you get it done, the sooner you can return to his side. Qifrey's brow furrows behind his glasses.
"It was my suggestion to cook, so I shouldâ"
"Qifrey." Your hands slip over his shoulders before he can stand, fingers idly combing through the soft hair at his nape as he peers up at you. "You already stayed up late last night preparing snacks for us and Olly's lunchbox. Let me."
He tries, regardless. "Butâ"
"Qifrey, dear," you interrupt, voice dropping into something unbearably sweet. You can already see the first signs of impending embarrassment creeping across his face. "My love, my moon and stars, the apple of my eye, the keeper of my heart, won't you please let me have the honour ofâ"
"Oh, stop it." Qifrey pulls away from you halfheartedly, one hand coming up to cover part of his face as though it might hide the warmth gathering there. His voice is exasperated, but weakly soâfar too flustered to carry any real force behind it. "Do as you like."
You think you want to kiss him, then. Desperately, a little. But experience has taught you the moment your lips touch his, neither of you will accomplish anything you intendâso instead, you settle for a light peck to his cheek before carrying the bowl over to the basin. Warm water laps softly against your hands as you scrub at the porcelain, the quiet clink of dishes filling the kitchen.
Even so, you can still feel Qifrey's gaze lingering on your back. A few quiet moments later, there's the soft scrape of chair legs against the kitchen floor, and you barely have time to glance over your shoulder before his arms are slipping around your waist from behind, warm and loose. He folds himself against your back with a quiet sigh.
"I missed you," he murmurs into the crook of your neck.
"I was with you the entire day."
"Not like this."
Qifrey's lips find your neck first, trailing warm kisses along your skin unhurriedly in a way that makes your breath catch. Your head tilts back instinctively to give him more room, and you feel the gentle nip of teeth against the sensitive underside of your jaw before he finally turns you just enough to kiss you properly.
It starts off slowâsoft, familiar in a way only Qifrey can be around you; careful without restraint, gentle without hesitation. Your breaths mingle warm and wet in the spaces between each kiss as your mouths part and meet again, his glasses nudging lightly against your cheekbone as he leans closer. To your dismay, your hands remain suspended awkwardly over the sink, dripping wet and a little soapy. You want to touch him properly, to turn fully into his arms, card your fingers through his hair, and tug just enough to earn that quiet little sound he always tries and fails to swallow.
Instead, you make a helpless noise against his mouth and Qifrey laughs softly into the kiss, like he already knows what you're thinking. He's leaning in again whenâ
There's a sudden creak from the staircase. The two of you freeze instantly, Qifrey's fingertips still gently cradling your jaw. A second later, you hear the unmistakable sound of whisperingâpoorly hushed, at thatâfollowed by the muffled shuffling of feet retreating back up several steps in frantic succession.
You and Qifrey slowly turn to look at each other.
ââŚWere they spying on us?â you whisper, more amused than anything.
âI am choosing,â Qifrey says with an immense attempt at dignity, despite the lingering flush across his face, âto believe they merely came downstairs for water.â
Another loud whisper drifts from the stairwell.
âI told you they were kissingââ
"âreally just like in the bookâ"
"âcan we go back to bed nowâ"
âShh!â
The last one is definitely Agott. You bite down hard on your laughter, glancing up at the man behind you. Qifrey closes his eye with the exhaustion of a man enduring profound and arduous trials, one hand coming up to rub briefly at his temple before he leans in to steal one last kiss.
âTomorrow,â he murmurs against your mouth, âI'm teaching my apprentices the concept of privacy.â
another banger from the GOAT
đ
Adrian realises hes in love with you.
And he hates it.
Adrian feels his emotions right on his sleeve. No matter how much heâs been convinced that his feelings are different, that he doesnât have emotions like other people. He does. And the moment that unfamiliar bubble of nervousness and heat that spreads across his chest happens? He doesnât know what to do with himself. Almost reverting back to his teenage self.
Speaking to you becomes difficult. Unable to form words because every time he tries they just seem to get stuck in his throat.
Every touch you give him makes him want to recoil. He wasnât super touchy to begin with and you always respected that. But even when he wants you to, he just canât anymore. Your hands on his armoured shoulder feeling like the material is burning through his skin like molten rock.
He knows you notice and he feels terrible. It eats away at him, how gross he is every time your smile makes his stomach do flips. Like some perv. The thought alone keeps him up at night. Which in turn only makes it worse because you can see his sleep deprivation on his face. Eyes raw with deep bags. Face puffy from freaking himself out to the point of panic.
There are days he wishes he could go back to before all of this. Before you became close. Before you were friends. Then this wouldnât have formed. You could see him as Vigilante only, and he could see you just as your outer shell.
But then he would never have learnt your favourite animal. You wouldnât know his. Or how he prefers his coffee cold and sweet. And how you tend to wear one specific sweater to Checkmate meetings because the air conditioning in the conference room is insane.
Or on missions where you both have had to share a room, and in the mornings, when the sun is just barely up, he gets such a good view of your bedhead. Your half awake body groggily sitting up and asking what time breakfast is.
Heâs disgusting. What kind of person thinks something like that. Daydreaming about how someone looks in the morning? Like itâs sooo normal. Freak behaviour.
So, these feelings will stay right where they are. Inside his tummy where they will bubble and roll or all eternity. No matter how jealous he gets when you mention a celebrity crush, or even an in real life crush.
He will keep you safe on patrol. Watching from afar as you go on date after date. Even if it makes him sick to his stomach.
Because obviously heâs the one in the wrong. This is wrong. It has to be. Because nothing that feels like this means itâs good.
no idea who this man is but he is FWINEEEE
yes please gimmie a bite of that.
THE CRAVING
Arc I: If I found my body in chains
Pages 1 & 2
Next
ÂŚ
Seems I get in my own way.
.
And so it begins! The first two pages are here, giving start to my biggest visual project so far. I hope you enjoy it (more than Katara does at the moment)!
(completed)
itâs very VERY tea đ ZUTARA >> kataang

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ááđ nanami hates when you push on his hips slightly cause of the overstimulation heâs fucking you into . . mdni!
nanamiâs already so deep when it starts getting too much for you.
his cockâs thick and hot, stretching you open with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips, and youâre shaking underneath him, thighs trembling, breath hitching into little broken sobs. heâs been fucking you steady for what feels like forever, patient, controlled, whispering soft praises against your temple even while heâs splitting you apart.
but the second your hands slip down to his hips and pushâjust a tiny, desperate nudge to get a break from how intense it feelsâhe freezes.
his whole body locks up.
then that low, dangerous voice right against your ear.
âhah⌠fuck.â he exhales hard through his nose. âwhere do you think youâre going?â
before you can even stammer out an answer his weight drops.
full. heavy and pinning. chest crushing your tits flat to the mattress, thick arms caging your head, forearms bracketing your face so you canât turn away. his hips snap forward harder than before, burying every last inch so deep your eyes roll and your mouth falls open on a silent scream.
âyou donât get to run from this,â he murmurs, voice rougher now, still soft in that awful, loving way that makes your cunt flutter around him. âyou take it. all of it.â
one big hand slides up, covers your mouth completely. palm warm, fingers splayed wide so your muffled whimpers vibrate right into his skin. he doesnât squeeze, doesnât hurtâjust holds. keeps every needy little sound locked behind his hand while he starts fucking you in long, punishing strokes.
the wet slap of his hips meeting your ass fills the room. loud. obscene. you can feel how soaked you are, how your slickâs dripping down your thighs, coating his balls every time he bottoms out.
his other hand snakes between your bodies.
two fingers find your clit immediately: swollen, oversensitive, throbbing and he doesnât tease you, just rubs firm, tight circles.
your man is mean.
your whole body jerks under him, back arching uselessly because thereâs nowhere to go. heâs too heavy, too deep, too everywhere. the overstimulation hits like a freight train and youâre crying into his palm, tears slipping down your temples, thighs trying to snap shut but his knees keep you spread wide.
âthere she is,â he breathes against your cheek. âthatâs it. let it happen.â
he grinds in deep, pubic bone crushing right against your clit while his fingers keep working merciless little circles. your cunt clamps down so hard he groansâlow, wreckedâand his rhythm stutters for half a second before he fucks you even harder.
âgonna cum again for me?â his voice is velvet dragged over gravel. âeven though itâs too much? even though youâre shaking?â
you can only sob into his hand. nod frantically. thighs quivering, toes curling, whole body wound so tight you think you might break.
he presses his forehead to yours. eyes dark, pupils blown. watching every twitch of your face while he ruins you.
âgood girl,â he whispers. âcum on my cock. soak me. make a fucking mess.â
his fingers speed up. relentless, and you do.
you shatter so hard your vision whites out, back bowing, cunt spasming violently around his length while you scream into his palm. he doesnât stop fucking you through itâkeeps that same brutal pace, drawing it out until youâre limp and twitching and drooling against his hand.
only then does he finally slow.
still buried to the hilt.
still heavy on top of you.
he lifts his palm just enough to let you gasp wet, shaky breaths.
then he kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and almost tender.
âyouâre not going anywhere,â he murmurs. ânot until i say so.â
and he rolls his hips againâjust once. slow and deep.
making sure you feel every inch.
just to remind you whoâs in charge.
YEEEEUP!
drag path.
⢠pairing: qifrey x gn!reader
⢠word count: 10k
⢠tags: master x apprentice relationship, eventual exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, ambiguous age gap, reader's age is undefined, mentions of attempt at child murder, trauma dumping and subsequent trauma bonding, qifrey x olruggio being gay for each other, lowkey codependency, reader is kinda manipulative if you squint, spoilers for manga (please let me know if there are any more tags i should add!!)
"The selfishness behind my reason for taking on pupils made me ill. But they'd never have to know that. So I decided that I would put every fiber of my being towards becoming a good educator. Only now do I realise just how foolish that, too, was." Qifrey takes on an apprentice to keep the silverwood at bay. It works, until it doesn't.
⢠chapters: one | two | three
II. HELLO MY OLD HEART
The night is too quiet, and sleep does not come easily.
Qifrey lies awake for longer than he cares to measure, and despite his repeated attempts rest continues to elude him. It hovers at the edges of his consciousness, just out of reachâleaving him suspended in that uncomfortable interstice between fatigue and wakefulness. Each time he turns, the sheets twist around his legs; when he shifts, the pillow creases uncomfortably against his cheek. And worse is the silenceâit lingers, persistent, pressing in from all sides like the bottom of a cold, dark well.
Qifrey only manages to endure it for a few moments longer before he concedes defeat. He pushes himself upright in the dark, the thin blanket slipping down to his thighs, and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
The staircase creaks softly as Qifrey makes his way upstairs. There is no need for a lampâhe knows the path well enough to walk it blind. Each step carries him further down the corridor, the way unfolding beneath his feet in the dark, until he reaches his destination.
The door's been left open a crack. Qifrey eases it wider, careful not to make a sound. Faint light spills through the gap in the windowâdistant starlight and the thin glow of a half-veiled moonâbarely enough to make out the dark shape beneath the blankets. You're curled on your side with your cheek pressed into the pillow, hands tucked loosely to your chest. Fast asleep.
Good. That's good.
Qifrey doesn't know how long he stands there in the hallway, a restless spectre in the dark. Only that by the time he manages to pull himself away his feet are aching, and his breathing has slowed to the same steady rhythm as your own. He lingers for only a moment longer, still reluctant, before turning and making his way back down the hall.
His feet carry him over to one of the windows without thinking. Outside, the sloping hills reach for the edges of night's canopy, unfurling like a rug of silver-sheened fox fur toward the distant coast. And if he squints, Qifrey can just make out the scattering of mountain apple shrubs in the dark; its fruit he'd picked with you this morning chartreuse-yellow and not quite ripe, still carrying a faint, tart edge on the tongue.
The bandages on your arms had been clean when he'd changed them after dinner. Whatever other wounds you'd earned from your little misadventure are healing as well, smaller scabs darkening and already flaking at the edges. You're still young, your body more forgiving in ways his is less so, and Qifrey is thankful for that. More than he can put into words.
But thankful isn't enough anymore.
He's been selfish. Qifrey had taken you in to save himselfâto keep the silverwood repressed dormant, to give himself sufficient worry so that the parasite in him wouldn't kill him. Somewhere along the way he'd convinced himself that this careful distanceâthay feeding you, teaching you, keeping a roof over your headâwould be enough. And in doing so, he'd unintentionally made you the receptacle for all his fears, his neglect, for every single one of his cruel words.
He's a poor excuse of a master. You deserve better.
Qifrey tries to remember what he needed once, as an apprentice. The recollections emerge in faint remnants. The stone floors of the Great Hall, his master's breezy voice weaving between the columnsâthey blur together like the night fog, each memory dissolving into the next until none stands clearly apart from the rest.
None except Olruggio.
They had snuck out together once, after passing the Pentacle of Proving's third test. Qifrey can still remember the thrill of it: the night wind in his hair, the dark plains of the Naakiwan Downs stretching endlessly into the night. The hut had appeared abandonedâperhaps once a shepherd's shelter, left to the slow mercy of timeâits stairs half-rotted from rain, sagging dangerously under their own weight.
They'd taken to the roof with their sylph shoes instead. There, Qifrey had looked properly at the night sky for the first timeâimpossibly clear, strewn thick with stars, as though some divine hand had cast a scatter of diamonds across the velvet dark. And with nothing else around for miles to hem them in, the heavens had felt so very closeâclose enough for Qifrey to believe he could reach out with his hand and pluck the stars from the sky himself.
In that moment, even his dreams had felt within reach. Qifrey had once believed that if he could recover the past he'd lost, his joy might become something realâsomething worthy of standing proud beside Olruggio's without feeling like a poor facsimile of it, a shoddy imitation. A foolish ambition, perhaps, but it was his.
A child can dream, after all.
Qifrey exhales, a sigh catching between his teeth as he pulls his gaze from the window. There's no point dwelling on what-ifs and has-beens. He slips a hand into the pocket of his robes, fingers pushing into the spelled space folded within. The envelope he withdraws is slightly crumpled, edges creased from the many times he's folded and unfolded it again.
It's an official summons to the Great Hall, a request for his presence to discuss the status of his atelier. The tone employed is courteous, but there's no mistaking it. This is not an invitation he can refuse.
Qifrey's thumb lingers at the corner of the page, letting the edge catch against his skin. The Great Hall. He's never been fond of it despite its grand resplendences and easy conveniences. There's a reason he came all the way out to the quiet edges of the Downs, to build something that belonged solely to him.
But you⌠you must be bored here. The atelier is so far removed from everything else, the quick, lively rhythm of other witches and apprentices. Even with the windowway, it is not the same. Here you only have him for company, the same brick and limestone walls day after day.
You've never complained, of course. You never do. Still, you should have others your age. Other witches. Friends.
Qifrey folds the letter one last time and makes up his mind.
The next morning, Qifrey takes you to the Great Hall with him. The windowway deposits the two of you somewhere at the edge of Deepwater Castle, the world within its rings shifting as stone and sky give way to sea. Qifrey steps out first, taking a moment to steady himself on the slick platform. The air here is differentâheavier and wetter, saturated with salt and a faint tinge of magic, and sunlight filters down in pale, weaving ribbons, catching on fish whose scales flash like scattered coins. Beyond the boundary of sea-mist, the ocean presses in on all sides, held at bay by complex spells written long before Qifrey was even born.
Qifrey turns, one hand already lifting to help you from the windowway. Despite his feelings towards the Great Hall, the sight of Deepwater Castle never quite loses its ability to take his breath away. Some quiet part of him hopes see the same wonder on your face.
But you aren't looking. Not at the fish, the shimmering barrier, or even the mighty castle rising from the ocean floor. Instead your eyes are fixed on him, and your face is pale. Paler than he's ever seen it, even when he'd plucked you from the cliffside with serpentines coiling overhead, ready to tear you apart.
At some point you've grabbed hold of his sleeve. It's almost as if you're afraid he might vanish if you let go. Qifrey frowns, concerned.
"What's wrong?"
You shake your head. Qifrey waits, but nothing follows. You remain where you areâpale and wordless, knuckles stark against the dark fabric of his sleeve. Above, fish glide past with slow currents, a myriad of light and shadows shifting across your cheek, the flagstones. A bell tolls in the distance.
He doesn't want to push you. Not in this unfamiliar place, at least.
"Alright," Qifrey decides at last. "Come on."
The shopping gallery is a long corridor of shops, located somewhere within the lower levels of Deepwater Castle. It's just as Qifrey remembers itâcrowded, lively, storefronts overflowing with eclectic wonders. Some hawk candied kelp and enlarged bunches of willowgrapes, others display glowing components in transparent jars, contraptions that whir and tick and occasionally emit small puffs of smoke. One roadside stall even offers miniature glass orbs no larger than a palm, each containing a captive, miniaturised sea creatureâharmless, Qifrey knows, carefully calibrated spells etched into the glass to keep them comfortable and happy.
He walks slowly, careful to stay close by your side. You haven't let go of his sleeve, though your grip has loosened somewhat since entering the castle. Qifrey isn't sure if the gallery or countless unfamiliar sights is reason, but he's grateful, whichever it is.
"The baths are down this way," he says, gesturing down at a side corridor. "They have spells that mimic the ocean waves, and water sculptures enchanted to move like living creatures. Oh, and past that fountainâthereâis the dining hall I used to eat at as an apprentice."
Qifrey glances at you as you walk. He'd brought you here to see the witches' stronghold with your own eyes, to experience its strange wonders the way he once had long ago. But watching you from the corner of his eye, he is unsure whether you are truly enjoying any of it.
"They served the best yam and horncap soupâfilling and perfectly seasoned. I still dream about it till this day. Do you want to take a look?"
You don't answer immediately. Your eyes drift, a rudderless boat caught out at sea, though you meet his when Qifrey looks at you. Your gaze dips after a moment, however.
"If Master wants," you say.
Qifrey's frown deepens though he keeps it from his face. The last thing he wants is for you to think he's displeased with you. Qifrey likes to believe he knows youânot perfectly, of course, but enough to recognise the differences between your silences and your hesitations. This one, though, he cannot place. He doesn't know if your answer means you're unsure how to say no, or if you are uncertain about saying yes.
He considers pressing. But you've given him nothing, and Qifrey has learnedâif a little slowlyâthat there are moments when that is all you're willing to offer.
"Perhaps later," Qifrey answers, keeping his voice light. "We'll see then."
You only nod.
The corridor eventually opens into a vast indoor courtyard. The high walls of the Argentgard rise steeply before you like the sides of a pale mountain, old sigils carved deep into stone. It's quieter here, removed from the bustle and chatter of the shopping gallery, as though even sound knows better than to linger. And for good reason: flanking the arched doors stand the Knights Moralisâtheir backs straight and rigid, clad in black and crimson ceremonial armourâholding on to banners that manage to look proud even when they're hanging still.
Qifrey stops at the threshold. He knows what awaits him on the other side of these doors. He's never much cared for these proceedings, the careful scrutiny dressed in civility. They unmoor him less than the grove of pale trees lying just behind these walls, anyway.
He slips a careful smile into place before turning back to you, bending slightly at the waist so that the two of you are eye to eye. "There is a courtyard just through that archway," he says, with a nod towards the columns on his left. It's outside one of the libraries he used to frequent as an apprenticeâyou might run into a few younger witches coming and going. "There are some benches for you to sit on, and a little fountain that sings. You can wait for me there. Orâ" He reaches into his robes and draws out a small leather pouch. It clinks softly when he places it into your hand. "You can explore the shopping gallery. Spend this on whatever you wantâfood, books, even one of those glass orbs, if you like. Anything."
You glance down at the pouch, unblinking. After a while, Qifrey reaches for your hand and cups it in his own, gently folding your fingers over the worn leather.
"I won't be long," he says, softer this time. "It'll be an hour, two at most. You'll be fine on your own."
Your other hand tightens its grip on his sleeve. Then, slowly, you let go.
"Okay."
Qifrey hesitates. For a fleeting second he considers taking you with himâmaking you sit through the council's dry questions and pointed looks. He can already foresee it: their relentless probing into your past, the dogged interrogation about your origins as an unknowing. No, no. It is better to leave you here.
"Don't wander too far, alright?" Qifrey says gently as he straightens, glancing over his shoulder at the looming doors. "I'll be back soon."
He manages a few steps towards it before he looks back at you. You simply nod, like you always do.
"Okay."
The Argentgard is cold.
Not in terms of temperature, so to speak. The Great Hall is kept comfortably warm year-roundâthe same spells that generate sea-mist threaded carefully with seals to trap heat and prevent the place from feeling like a tomb. Perhaps the lingering chill comes from someplace else: the measuring and the weighing, the unshakeable sensation of being observed by eyes that see too much and miss very little.
Still, the gardens themselves are pleasant enough. Qifrey sits while the council members regard him across the table from their high-backed chairs, expressions unreadable as they scrutinize his files.
It isn't long before they begin their line of questioning. Have you been adhering to regulation? Of course. How many apprentices do you have? Just the one. Have you noticed any irregularities with the unknowing as of late? None. These interrogations are nothing new to Qifrey; he's learned to keep his voice steady and his answers brief, to offer nothing more than what is required.
When they've finally exhausted their endless list of questions, they move on to other matters. The council informs him of the Watchful EyesâPointed Hat witches tasked with overseeing ateliers too distant from the Great Hall, ensuring compliance and reporting any irregularities deemed worthy of concern. Qifrey doesn't like the idea of being monitored, but knows better than to push. The Council's decisions are never only suggestions, and resistance will only further invite the very scrutiny he'd prefer to avoid.
Yet, the meeting stretches on for longer than he'd expected. Questions are followed by more questions, which are in turn followed by discussions of revised protocols. By the time they start on the topic of procedural adjustments, Qifrey's mind is already beginning to driftâaway from the council's murmurings and the silver trees of the Argentgard, back to the corridor where he'd left you.
Are you doing alright? he wonders. Did you find the courtyard? Did anyone approach you? Have you eaten anything?
The conversation drags. Each topic bleeds into the next, until Qifrey starts to think words themselves are beginning to lose all meaning. And thenâ
"One final matter," one council member says, pushing her glasses further up her nose to squint at the papers in her hand. "For your atelier's Watchful Eyeâdo you have anyone in mind?"
He's too tired to care, and eager to leave. "Choose whoever."
They exchange glances. A scribe sitting to his left jots down a few words, and thenâthankfully, mercifully, finallyâthe meeting is adjourned. Qifrey is already halfway to the exit, perhaps a touch too quickly, when a familiar voice halts him.
"Qifrey. A moment, please."
He knows who it is even before he turns. Qifrey looks back, reluctantly, to see himâperched elegantly in his sealchair, hands clasped loosely in his lap, wearing that familiar half-smile of his. Briefly, Qifrey wonders whether it is truly him or merely another of his smoke clones, though the distinction stopped mattering years agoâsometime around the third occasion Qifrey spent twenty minutes arguing with one, before realising the real thing had never been there at all.
"I have other matters to attend to."
"Nonsense." The ram legs of Beldaruit's sealchair tread lightly through the grass, carrying him over to Qifrey's side. "You have time for tea. I insist."
"I really don't."
"Not even a few minutes to spare for your poor old master?"
At least the old man's fondness for theatrics hasn't changed. "No."
"That's so cruel, you know. I take you under my wing out of the kindness of my heart, raise you with all the care and devotion of a loving master, only to receive this kind of gratitude in my old ageâŚ"
He ends up following Beldaruit deeper into the Argentgard, albeit unwillingly. Here, in one of its more secluded groves, the silverwoods grow oldest and thickestâbranches twisting towards the high, arched ceilings, their pale leaves gleaming softly like moonlight caught over the surface of a still lake. Qifrey sits across Beldaruit at a small table already set with a silver tea service, delicate porcelain cups and a plate of untouched pastries waiting neatly between them.
Qifrey pours, the same way he used to when he was an apprentice, and Beldaruit was still his master. They exchange the usual polite niceties: updates on mutual acquaintances (Qifrey hasn't kept in contact with some in years), comments on the weather (it never changes down here), and mild inquiries regarding the atelier. Qifrey answers in monosyllables, counting down the minutes until he can excuse himself without appearing discourteous.
"So," Beldaruit hums upon finishing his third pour. He sets down his teacup with a soft click. "Tell me about your new apprentice."
Qifrey's hand stills on his own. He should have known better than to think being confined to the ocean floor would keep anything from reaching Beldaruit's ears. "Word travels quickly."
"Can you blame us? There is very little to be excited about, under the sea." Beldaruit waves a hand vaguely through the air. "The fish are lovely, I suppose, but they make for dreadful conversationalists. One grows desperate for interesting news eventually."
Qifrey sighs. Suddenly the tea in his hand appears far less appetising than it did a moment ago.
"What do you want to know?"
"I want to know what they're like, of course. I'm curious as to what sort of student my apprentice is raising."
"Ex-apprentice."
Beldaruit dismisses the correction with an airy flick of his fingers. "Same thing. In my eyes, you're still the same old rascally apprentice." He leans back in his sealchair, ram legs dipping slightly, before he scratches thoughtfully at his chin. "Ah, I suppose that makes them my grand-apprentice, doesn't it?" Beldaruit's smile curls slightly at the edges. "I rather like the sound of that."
Qifrey fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. That, or do something equally childishâlike pour the teapot directly into Beldaruit's lap, the way he might have done if he were still an apprentice.
"They're⌠clever," he begins slowly, if somewhat reluctantly. "They're exceptionally talented at complex spellsâthey can decipher the logic behind circles some fully fledged witches might struggle with. They learn quickly, tooâthey memorised every glyph in the foundational textbook by heart within a matter of weeks." Qifrey remembers the sight of you hunched over the kitchen table, tracing spells over and over until the bowl of water in front of you had run dry. "The only problem is that they work too hard. I have to remind them to eat, sometimes, and if there's a spell they can't master immediately, I know I'll find them awake in the middle of the night, still practicing it over and overâ"
"Bâoâring." Beldaruit interrupts, dragging out the syllable out like a man enduring some unbearable inconvenience as he props his chin onto one hand. "Wow. That is all so terribly boring."
Qifrey stops talking to glare across the table. "Well, you asked."
"Spellwork this, textbook that." Beldaruit waves a disparaging hand, his sleeve rippling. "That's the sort of thing you put in an educational report to the Council. What I want to know is: what are they like to you?"
The question catches Qifrey off guard. And its answer drifts in, like incense smoke carried on the wind, without conscious thought or contemplation. He remembers the pale set of your mouth when you'd looked up at him from beneath his cloak for the first time. How wavering firelight reflects in your eyes when you're practicing spells late into the night. The dark, rust-coloured stain of your blood, drying slowly across his fingers.
The quiet cadence of your voice, and the faint upward lilt whenever you call, "Master".
Beldaruit is watching him differently now. The sharpness in those pale eyes has not fadedâif anything, it has only grown keener, the edge of a blade freshly drawn across its whetstone. He appears to enjoying Qifrey's hesitation immensely. Qifrey isn't sure he prefers to know whyâthe inner workings of his former master's mind are a mystery to him.
"Let me make things simpler for you," Beldaruit says. He leans forward in his sealchair, fingers interlaced when he sets his hands on the table. "Do they surprise you?"
This time, his answer comes out without hesitation.
"Every day."
For a moment, Beldaruit looks almost surprised, himself. Then his expression slips into something softer, almost pleased, and for the briefest instant, Qifrey catches the faint shadow of the man he'd once called masterâthe man who'd sat beside his bed in the dark, distracting him from nightmares of suffocating darkness and unceasing rain with dancing figures shaped from smoke.
He doesn't push further. Beldaruit simply nods, and picks up his teacup once again.
"Good," he says. "That's what I wanted to hear."
The fountain is warbling a sweet, silver-bright melody when Qifrey finds you in the eastern courtyard. That's expected. What he wasn't expecting, however, is to find you amidst a handful of other witches your age.
He ducks behind a pillar before you can spot him. Qifrey should probably collect you, begin the journey home, but you lookâwell, not happy, exactly. You rarely ever look happy. But you look less solitary, at least, and that alone is something worth staying hidden for a few more minutes.
The young witches are talking about their own masters at the Great Hall. Qifrey catches fragmentsâfamiliar names he knows in passing, scattered mentions of the Three Wise. You wouldn't know any of these thingsânames and histories and hierarchies that carry weight and sway within the magical worldâbecause Qifrey had never thought to teach them to you before. Now, he's wondering if he should have. Still, they speak with such easy enthusiasm it hardly seems to matter, their voices overlapping in excited bursts and trills.
"So, who's your master?" A girl with a tumble of chestnut curls asks you, eyes bright with curiosity. Qifrey stiffens suddenly before he can help it.
You answer simply, the same way you always do. "Master Qifrey."
The apprentice witches exchange glances. For a moment they look puzzled, until realisation ripples visibly throughout the small group.
"Oh," another pipes up. "You mean Beldaruit the Wise's apprentice?"
"Is he?"
"Yeah! What's he like?"
Qifrey's heart stumbles oddly in his chest, a brief, uncomfortable slip in rhythm. He should probably step out from behind the pillar, announce his presence before he overhears something not meant for his ears. But his feet refuse to move.
You seem to think about this for a while. Thenâ
"The prettiest."
Qifrey nearly chokes. The witches standing closest to you seem to echo his thoughts. "Huh?"
"Master Qifrey is the prettiest," you continue, matter-of-factly, as though clarifying something that ought to have been obvious to anyone with functioning eyes.
A ripple of laughter breaks through the group. "That's not usually a word people use to describe their masters," the girl who'd asked says between giggles, looking amused.
"Is that so?"
Qifrey's face burns so hot he fears he might combust like an overcast pyreball spell. He's suddenly grateful for the pillar concealing him from sight. Pretty. You could have said knowledgeable. Wise, kind, inspiringâany number of descriptive words more befitting of a teacher, a mentor, a master. Why would youâŚ
He drags a hand down his face in an attempt to gather the scattered remains of his composure. It's painfully futile. When it becomes clear that the effort is hopeless, Qifrey steps out from behind the pillar, fixing what he hopes passes for a smile across his thoroughly frazzled expression.
"It's time to go," he says.
You look up at him. Your expression doesn't change in slightestâno flicker of embarrassment, no trace of awkwardness at the fact he might have overheard what you just said. You simply nod, offer the other witches a polite "goodbye", and cross the courtyard to stand at his side once more.
"Goodbye!" one of them calls, waving enthusiastically. "Hopefully we'll see you around again!"
You raise a hand in response, but nothing more.
"I'm sorry for taking so long," Qifrey says as the two of you walk away, leaving behind the chatter of the courtyard. His face still feels slightly warm. "But I think I needn't have worriedâit looks like you made some friends."
You shrug. "They were nice."
It's not disagreement, though not quite agreement eitherâbut Qifrey supposes that's simply how most first steps go; small, uncertain things, too fragile to name outright. He decides to count it as a victory all the same.
"I'll cook something nice for dinner." Qifrey glances sidelong at you. A carapace mash, perhaps, or the grilled vegetables he's noticed you favour. Judging from your empty hands, Qifrey doubts you've spent a single coin in the pouch he gave you. "You barely ate before we left this morningâyou must be starving."
"Okay." You shift a step closer to his side. "Let's go home."
Your hand brushes his sleeveânot gripping, just touchingâas though the proximity comes as naturally as breathing. Qifrey's breath catches softly in his chest.
After a while, he nods.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Let's go home."
It rains that night.
True storms are rare out on the Downs, but a few times each year the weather falls into moods unpleasant enough to shake even the inland hills. Qifrey lies awake, listening to the wind howl across the moors surrounding the atelier while rain lashes relentlessly against the windows. He'll be getting no sleep tonight, he knowsâhe abandoned the attempt hours ago, resigning himself to counting the cracks in his ceiling and waiting for morning to arrive.
Thenâ
A soft knock sounds at his door.
Qifrey startles slightly amidst his tangle of blankets. For a moment, he eyes the faint shape of his bedroom door in the dark, wondering if his ears are playing tricks on him in the storm. But then the knock comes againâquieter, more hesitant this time.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, hurriedly shrugging a loose robe over his shoulders. When he pulls open the door, Qifrey finds you standing outside in the hallway, absently smoothing over your nightclothes beneath the muted amber glow of the lamps.
There are only two people living in this atelier, yet Qifrey is still oddly surprised to find you standing at his door as you are now. You've never sought him out in the middle of the night before.
"Did something happen?"
You look faintly surprised to see him despite being the one who knocked. After a moment, you shake your head.
"I thought Master would be asleep."
Qifrey's lips twitch upwards slightly. He waits a little longer, expecting you to continue, but you say nothing more. You don't leave either. The two of you simply stand there, the door held ajar between you, rain clamouring noisily against the windows.
"It's, um," Qifrey coughs lightly, after an extended period of silence. "Rather late, isn't it."
 The observation hangs somewhat uselessly between the two of you. Still you nod solemnly, as though he's said something of grave importance.
"Mm."
"Do you need something?"
A shake of the head.
"Can't sleep?"
A pause. Then, slowly, you nod again.
"Oh."
His mind leapfrogs to a hundred possibilities at once. Is it the storm? The thunder, perhaps? Are the heating spells in your room inadequate? The questions crowd together faster than he can decide which to ask, but by the time he's settled on one, the silence has stretched long enough that interrupting it feels strange. The space between the two of you lapses into awkward quiet once again.
"âŚCan I stay here for a while?"
The request catches him off guard. This seems to be becoming a night of firstsâfirst the knock at his door, then this. You rarely ask anything of him at all. Qifrey steps aside quickly, holding the door wider for you.
"Of course. Come in."
You step over the threshold somewhat tentatively. Qifrey lets the door swing shut and ushers you towards the bed, where he carefully sits you at the foot of it. You're dressed only in your nightclothes, feet bare, so he quickly slips his robes from his shoulders to drape it around yours instead. It takes a few adjustments to ensure it sits properlyâit's far too large on youâbefore Qifrey decides he's satisfied and settles next to you, mattress creaking softly beneath his weight.
The two of you sit in silence, accompanied by the steady patter of rain. When the quiet eventually begins to fray awkwardly at the edges, Qifrey clears his throat.
"Is there a reason you couldn't sleep?"
You don't respond immediately. Your fingers knit loosely in your lap, absently picking at a loose thread with your nails. Qifrey is beginning to suspect you don't actually want to answer it at all when you suddenly speak, your voice barely a murmur beneath the storm.
"âŚI had a bad dream."
Oh. "What about?"
"Drowning."
Qifrey goes very still.
"I think being in the Great Hall might have reminded me of it," you say. "Being surrounded by waterâor maybe being so far beneath the surface."
Qifrey suddenly remembers the way you'd clung to his sleeve, when you'd first stepped out of the windowway. A quiet sense of dread coils unpleasantly in his stomach. "You've had a bad experience with the sea before?"
You nod.
"My parents tried to drown me when I was little." Qifrey's head snaps violently to look at you. The horror crashes through him with the force of a physical blow, the words a knife shoved viciously into his gut. "They had too many mouths to feed and I was the smallest, so they took me to the cliffs and threw me in. I guess they hoped it would look like an accident."
You say this with the same calm, thoughtful tone that you might use when explaining a conjecture about spell theory to him. Qifrey opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
Nothing will.
"I don't remember much," you continue, when he doesn't say anything. "Just that it was cold and dark and water would fill my mouth whenever I tried to scream. A fisherman found me eventually, so I survived."
"How old were you?"
"I'm not sure. Five, I think. Maybe six?"
You were just a child. The image his mind conjures is unbearable: small hands grasping helpless over dark water, frightened cries swallowed by the wind and waves. Your hands. Your cries.
Qifrey finds himself thinking, suddenly, of rain. Silver-fingered and relentless, falling in chilly sheets over Havso and youâcrouched beneath that poor excuse of tarp, thin and soaked and frozen to the bone. They way you'd looked at him when he spelled away the rain above your headânot with wonder or gratitude, but the hollow-eyed stare of someone who'd learned never to expect anything from the world.
He can't stand it. Qifrey wantsâneedsâto say something. To find the right words to comfort you, or at least make it hurt less, or better yet, cast a counterclock spell and rewind time itselfâback to that cliffside, years ago, so that Qifrey can pull you from the water long before the sea ever touches you. But there are no right words, no spell capable of undoing what has happened so long past, only thisâyou and him, now in this moment, everything Qifrey wants to say but can't snared in the silence between you.
Because what can he say in response to that? What words does he possess that could possibly be worth speaking?
"I'm afraid of water, too," Qifrey finds himself saying, eventually. "But not because of the sea. Rain."
His confession takes even him by surprise. You blink at the admission, glancing up from beneath your lashes, and Qifrey has to look away; instead, he fixes his gaze on his own feet, dangling over the bed next to yours.
"My old master found me in a box." The words trickle out slowly, like water leaking from a cracked vessel. "Buried in the ground and left for dead. I didn't have any memoriesâof my parents, where I came fromâall I remembered was the rain. Pounding on the lid, seeping through the cracksâŚ" He laughs once under his breath, though it's devoid of any humour. "I thought I was going to drown eventually. It felt like hell, waiting for death in the dark."
He hears you inhale softly.
"Beldaruit dug me up." Qifrey continues, more quietly now. "He took me in, taught me magic⌠but I never really got over my fear of water. It's why I worked so hard to master it." A faint smile touches the corners of his mouth. "Well, that, and to get out of the washing duty Beldaruit would assign me to whenever I mouthed off at him."
That doesn't make you laugh like he'd hoped it would. You kick out your feet idly, gaze lowered to where your hands are gathered in the too-long sleeves of his robe.
"I wonder if it would be better to forget," you say, finally. "All those unpleasant things."
Qifrey looks at you. Despite your words, there's no bitterness in your expressionâan utter lack of anger or resentment Qifrey finds faintly unsettling. The question escapes him before he can turn it over in his head.
"Do you hate them?" he asks, more softly now. "Your parents, I mean. For doing that to you."
You barely hesitate.
"No." Your answer comes out certain. "If they hadn't, I would never have met Master."
In that brief moment Qifrey feels entirely stripped of words once again. The rain continues its persistent pummeling, thunder snarling overhead like some ancient beast, but all of it suddenly feels so very far away. He feels vaguely sick. There is no world in which Qifrey would ever consider what happened to you a fortuneâno world in which a child should have been thrown into the sea simply that fate might orchestrate some so-called fortuitous encounter with him. None.
And yetâselfishly, horriblyâthe thought of never having met you at all leaves him painfully bereft.
"âŚThat's not how that should work," Qifrey manages, at last. His fingers take an extended moment to release their death grip on the edge of the mattress. "Someone should have protected you long before you ever needed to meet me." Cared for you. Treasured you. Loved you.
"I have Master now," you shrug. "That's all that matters to me."
Qifrey wants to argueâto tell you that what your parents had done was unforgivable, that you deserved so much more than the scraps of kindness the world had handed you. But you seem so strangely at peace with it all the words die before they can leave his mouth. And who is he to condemn them, when he's been equally selfish in his own ways?
It's silent after that. The rain continues to pour, until Qifrey exhales through his nose, breaking the stillness.
"We should head to bed."
Your shoulders curl inward ever so slightly. "Oh."
"You can sleep here," he adds on hurriedly, before you can think he's urging you from his room. "In my bed, I mean. So you don't have to be alone."
The words come out stilted, somewhat awkwardly, in a tangled rush. You blink at him, visibly surprisedâbut not unpleasantly so. After a moment's hesitation you nod, and move slowly to crawl beneath the blankets. Qifrey rises to his feet and immediately busies himself with the covers and pillows, smoothing down a wrinkle in the blanket that's barely visible at all.
When there is nothing left for him to fuss over, Qifrey sits back down at the edge of the bed. You watch him from beneath the blankets where he'd tucked you in, quiet eyes following his movement amidst the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp. He can feel your gazeâwarmth prickling along the side of his face like a thousand fine needles. He's about to fetch a book from one of the shelves to occupy his hands when he feels you tug lightly at the back of his shirt.
"I would feel better if Master were closer."
Every sensible instinct in him attempts to immediately object. You're tired, shaken from the nightmares, emotionally vulnerable from old memories dragged back to the surface. As your master, Qifrey is responsible for your wellbeing and safety above all else; it falls on him to maintain some semblance of proper distance, no matter the circumstance. And yetâ
He cannot say no to you. He's never been able to say no to you.
Qifrey slips onto the bed beside you before he can think the better of it. He stretches himself out carefully atop the blankets, making sure to leave a respectable amount of space between your bodies. But after only a moment, you shift, body curling inward, until the crown of your head brushes lightly beneath his chin. He can feel the slow rhythm of your breath, each exhale whispering through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, where your face rests inches from the center of his chest.
Qifrey goes very still. This entire moment suddenly seems encased in thin glassâlike one wrong movement, no matter how slight, might shatter it completely.
"Meeting Master was my greatest fortune," you whisper, so softly he almost misses it. "I'm the luckiest person in the world."
Qifrey's chest constricts. It's as if all the air has been squeezed from his lungs. His fingers flex once at his side, hesitant, suddenly aching. Slowly, he lifts a hand to your head. The angle is strange, the motion clumsy, but he threads his fingers carefully through your hair anyway, stroking as gently as he can.
"Sleep," he murmurs. "I'm here."
He cannot see your face, but he can tell the moment your eyes close when you curl a little more firmly against him, the way your entire body seems to soften. Your breathing gradually slows, and evens out into sleep. Qifrey remains awake. At some point, your hand shifts unconsciously beneath the blankets, drifting until your knuckles brush lightly against the center of his chest, directly over his heart.
Qifrey closes his eyes. You think that you are the luckiest person in the world. You are wrong.
It's him.
Time passes quietly after that.
The days flow past in their slow, gradual ways, likes ivy creeping over stone walls or sand grains slipping soundlessly through an hourglass. Summer deepens across the Downs, the hills surrounding the atelier growing thick with crocuses and millflowers before they fade gold beneath the heat. And somewhere, amidst it all, the shape of life revolving around the two of you changes once again.
Qifrey begins teaching you more advanced spells. Compound sigils, inverted glyphs, circles layered so delicately they resemble lacework more than magic. He half-expects you to struggle at first, but you take to it with astonishing ease. Some evenings end with the two of you still seated at the kitchen table long after dinner has gone cold, debating back and forth over spell theories while the heart burns low, and Qifrey finds himself sometimes deliberately taking opposing stances simply to watch you continue.
You speak more, now. You ask questionsâsmall, ordinary things entirely unrelated to magic. When he is too absorbed in his work to notice you, you tug at his sleeve to get his attention rather than silently staring holes into the side of his face. And you laugh more often, too. It's still sporadic, rarely unrestrained, but the sound no longer catches Qifrey by surprise.
The headaches are worse, some days. The silverwood continues to grow in silence, patient as rot spreading beneath bark. And yet when Qifrey recalls the old mythsâtales of men who cast aside kingdoms, futures, entire worlds, all for the taste of a single fruit beyond compareâhe thinks he understands them. Never has he been so glad to grow accustomed to something so sweet.
And if there is anywhere in this world, anywhere at all, that Qifrey would choose to put down his roots, it would be hereâin this quiet atelier he calls home, beneath the open sky, and the sound of your laugh still ringing inside it.
Qifrey hears the pegasus carriage before he sees it.
He's in the kitchen preparing lunch when the rush of distant wings cuts across the quiet of the Downs. It's not a common sound out here; very little ever flies this far across the peninsula except for the occasional courier and migrating ash-mottled dragons. Qifrey pauses with his knife hovering over some vegetables, half-chopped, before setting it aside, wiping his hands absently on a dishcloth.
The sound grows louder then abruptly fades, followed by muffled whinnying. Qifrey frowns. He crosses the atelier and pulls open the front door, squinting against the late afternoon sun, only to seeâ
"Olruggio!? What are you doing here?"
The man in question looks exhausted. His travelling cloak hangs crookedly from one shoulder, wrinkled from travel and pinned askew. There are several overstuffed bagsâcrammed to the seams with all sorts of magical trinkets and inventions, no doubtâabandoned by his feet next to the carriage platform. He drags a hand through his already disastrous hair, one eye twitching faintly in a manner Qifrey is all too familiar with.
"'What are you doing here', he says," Olruggio grumbles with a shake of his head. The pegasi whinny impatiently behind him, stamping their hooves in the grass. "I fly halfway across the peninsula by pegasus carriage to come here and this is the kind of welcome I getâ"
Qifrey sputters, scrambling for something resembling a coherent response. He still hasn't the faintest idea what Olruggio is doing on his doorstep. "IâI mean, how was I supposed to know you were comingâ"
Olruggio raises a dark brow.
"I suppose you don't know that I've been assigned as Watchful Eye to your atelier either?"
This time, Qifrey can truly do nothing but stare. Surely he's misheard. But the pegasus carriage, the luggage piled beside it, Olruggio himself standing here on his doorstep, arms folded across his chestâall of it says otherwise.
"The Council assigned you as my Watchful Eye?"
"Yes, and you'd know that already if you actually took the time to go through your correspondenceâ"
"You know I don't read most of the Council's letters!"
"And whose fault is that, exactlyâoomf!"
Qifrey throws his arms around Olruggio before he can finish the sentence. Olruggio staggers back a stepâwords cutting off abruptly as Qifrey buries his face in his shoulder, taken by surpriseâbut only for a moment. Then strong arms close around Qifrey in return, tightening instinctively, drawing him into the safety of their embrace.
Beneath the scent of wind and travel dust, Olruggio smells of pine and woodsmoke. It's strangeâQifrey had almost forgotten what it felt like to stand this close to him again; how easily Olruggio's warmth still manages to disarm him, like some long-held vice he'd nearly convinced himself he no longer carried.
He's happy. There are too many emotions within him, sharp and tangled and colliding and overwhelming, but Qifrey chooses to focus on only one in this moment. He's so happy it hurts.
Eventually they part; Qifrey forces himself to pull away first, though his fingertips linger for a moment against Olruggio's arm, reluctant to surrender this closeness so soon after just getting it back. He's just about to open his mouth again when Olruggio's attention suddenly shifts over his shoulder, and his entire posture seems to stiffen at once.
Qifrey frowns faintly. He traces Olruggio's line of sight with his own, only to see youâstanding in the doorway, staring openly at Olruggio. The brushbuddy hanging from your shoulder lets out a small, curious "pweee", before it wriggles free and plops onto the floorboards next to your feet. It circles your ankles once and scampers off into the atelier a second later, apparently deciding this situation no longer concerns it.
"Apprentice." Suddenly, absurdly, for no reason at all, Qifrey feels as though he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. He pretends not to notice the faint heat still clinging to his cheeks, stepping aside slightly so you can see past him as he gestures you closer. "This is Olruggio, the new Watchful Eye for our atelier. He's a dear friend of mineâwe were apprentices at the Great Hall together."
You make no move to shift from the doorway. Behind him, Olruggio coughs awkwardly into his fist.
"Uhm. Hello."
You continue to stare at him in complete silence.
Olruggio's hand lowers slowly. "âŚRight," he says, after a beat. "Tough crowd."
Qifrey lets out a quiet huff. Normally, he's accommodating of your reticence, fond of it, even, but this is beginning to border on plain unfriendliness. "Apprentice," he reminds you gently. "It's rude not to greet people when they introduce themselves. I taught you manners, didn't I?"
Your gaze flickers toward him before it returns, reluctantly, to Olruggio.
"âŚMr. Olruggio," you say, after a long pause.
Olruggio looks painfully out of his depth, mouth twisting uncomfortably as though he's not sure which shape best to put it in. "That's too formal," he mutters, in that brusque tone he always seems to default to whenever he's feeling awkward. His hand rubs over the back of his neck. "Look, you can just call me Olruggio, y'know. I'm not really one for all that honorific stuff."
"Mr. Olruggio," you repeat.
Qifrey presses his lips together, trying his best not to laugh despite the situation. Olruggio points accusingly at him, clearly flustered.
"Don't encourage this!"
He holds up both hands. "I'm not encouraging anything."
You stare between them for another long moment, expression unreadable as ever, before your gaze settles back on Qifrey. "Then, if there's nothing else, I'll go back to my room and finish my readings on recursive spells, Master."
Before either of them can respond, you turn and disappear back into the atelier. They watch you in silence until you're out of sight, footsteps fading up the stairs before Olruggio sighs heavily.
"I think they dislike me."
"Nonsense," Qifrey responds half-heartedly, still staring at the bannister. "They're just⌠well, shy. Besides, you're the most kindhearted person I know. There's no reason for them to dislike you."
Olruggio chokes on air. Qifrey glances over, frowning. "What?"
"Nothing." Olruggio coughs roughly, dragging a hand over his face before he meets Qifrey's eyes again. There's a faint flush dusting his neck, just visible beneath the rumpled collar of his shirt. "I justâya sure you're alright with this? Your apprentice clearly isn't thrilled about me showing up out of nowhere."
"They're wary of strangers." Qifrey looks back at the hallway. He wonders if you're struggling with the idea of suddenly having to share the atelier with someone new. "I'm sure they'll warm up to you eventually."
"You know what? I'm not sure I believe you." Olruggio grunts as he stoops to gather his bags. Qifrey just laughs, putting a hand on Olruggio's shoulder to steer him towards the atelier door.
"Come on," he says. "Let's get you settled in."
After showing Olruggio to the atelier's side wingâthe rooms he'd cleared out weeks ago in anticipation of the Watchful Eye's arrivalâQifrey returns to the kitchen. The vegetables still sit halfway peeled and chopped on the counter, knife exactly where he abandoned it earlier, but he finds himself oddly distracted now. Part of him still can hardly believe it's Olruggio, of all people. Fate has always possessed a strange, if somewhat twisted, sense of humour.
It's too late for lunch and still too early for dinner, but Qifrey busies himself tidying the counter for the sake of occupying his hands. This won't be enough, not when there's three to cook for, now. He's halfway through setting the vegetables aside when he suddenly notices you lingering in the doorway like a ghost.
Qifrey fumbles and nearly drops the carrot in the sink. "Apprentice."
"I finished my readings." There's a brief pause before you step properly into the kitchen, bare feet nearly soundless on the flagstones as they pad across the room. You hover by the table first, fiddling absently with his half-finished teacup, then linger near the pantry shelves before finally drifting over to the far end of the counter. Qifrey keeps you in the corner of his eye as he retrieves two more carapace yams and some onions from under the sink, watching your eyes move cautiously around the room.
"Is he gone?"
Qifrey picks up the knife again. "Olruggio's unpacking his things in the side wing. He'll be staying with us for the foreseeable future, as the atelier's Watchful Eye."
Your eyes flick briefly to the side, shoulders tightening a fraction. The corner of your mouth dips ever so slightlyâsubtle enough that most would never have perceived the shift in your expression. Qifrey does.
"Olruggio's a good samaritan at heart," he says, deliberately keeping his voice light as he resumes cutting the vegetables. "I've known him for years. He's not going to do anything to you."
"I didn't think that."
"Then what's wrong?"
You're silent for a while.
"Nothing," you say, eventually. "I just don't know him."
"You'll get to," Qifrey promises. "He's not so bad, once you get past the grumbling."
"Master sounds fond of him."
Qifrey's hands falter. You are merely making an observation; yet for some reason your words leave him feeling uncomfortably exposedâas though they have reached into a locked box tucked away in some dark corner of his heart and dragged it into the light, intruded upon something even he rarely allows himself to examine. He tries to think of a suitable response but comes up empty; anything honest feels too stripping to confess aloud, yet anything less feels woefully inadequateâa disservice to all that Olruggio means to him.
"He's a very dear friend to me," is what he says, eventually.
The conversation lapses into quiet after that. Qifrey finishes chopping the carrots into rough cubes before moving on to peeling the yams. The knife works steadily beneath his hand, rising and falling to strip away their tough outer layers to reveal the pale tuber flesh within. Beside him, the weight of your gaze followsâevery shift and movement of his hands as he works.
And thenâ
"Can I help?"
That catches Qifrey off guard. He has to pause to make certain he's heard you correctly. "You want to cook with me?"
You hesitate for a moment before nodding. Surprise, warm and pleasant, flickers through him like the afternoon sunlight spilling in from the window. He shifts aside to make room for you at the counter. In all the time you've been a student in his atelier, you've never shown even the slightest interest in cooking. And more often than not, you neglect your own meals entirely unless he places food directly into your handsâa poor habit that seems to have carried over from your early years of living on Havso's streets. It's something Qifrey has yet to successfully change.
He hands you the knife. You hold it awkwardly at first, grip uncertain as you lower the sharp edge to the yam. Qifrey hurries to stop you before you can nick your fingers.
"No, no. Like this." Qifrey steps in behind you, gently adjusting your hand around the handle. "Careful. Keep the fingers of your other hand tucked inward, always resting against the flat of the blade." He guides your knuckles into place over the yam. "Just like that. That way, you'll never cut yourself."
You remain still for a moment. Then your fingers curl slowly beneath his, obediently taking on the shape he guides them into.
"Very good." The praise comes naturally. It's as if he is simply teaching you another spellâyou've always been a diligent student, and it is easy to praise you. For a second Qifrey is reminded of a moment much like this one, though far longer agoâof the first time he'd placed a wand into your grasp and held his hand, guiding you carefully through lines and circles. Your fingers had been almost entirely swallowed by his own, back then. But now, they curl easily against his palm, and when he leans over you like this, your shoulders brush closer to his chest than he remembers.
"Master?"
Qifrey startles. He hadn't realised he'd gone still. He looks down just as you look upâeyes bright and intelligent and touched with the faintest trace of concern, as though trying to decipher where his thoughts have wandered.
"I justâI was just thinking about something," Qifrey fumbles to say, quickly smoothing it over with a smile. He starts to pull away just as you bring the knife down hard against the cutting board, and the sound startles him into grabbing your hands again on instinct. "Not so hard! You'll cut a finger off."
"âŚSorry."
"No, no, don't apologise." The fault is hisâit's your first time using a knife, and just because you're good at drawing spells doesn't mean you will instinctively know how to cut and slice. He guides your hands through the motions again, patiently correcting the angle of the blade, and soon enough you pick it up with the same speed you seem to do everything else. Eventually Qifrey leaves you to slowly cube the yams on your own, while he moves on to peel the remaining vegetables in the sink.
For a short time, only the soft rhythm of chopping fills the kitchen. Then, Qifrey asks, idly. "Should we invite him over for dinner?"
You don't look up from the cutting board. "I think Master should give Mr. Olruggio some time to settle in."
Qifrey blinks once before deciding you're probably right.
"That's true," he concedes. I'll bring him some food later, then."
He does just that a few hours later, after you've helped with the dishes and retreated back to the solitude of your roomâto further practice magic, no doubt. Qifrey ladles a portion of the leftover stew carefully onto a tray, alongside a fork and spoonâbecause he knows Olruggio well enough to suspect he's neglected to pack a single item required for actual daily livingâand covers everything with a cloth to keep it warm. The bridge connecting to the side wing is only a short walk, and it isn't long before Qifrey is standing outside, knocking on Olruggio's door.
Olruggio answers looking mildly disastrous, soot smeared across one cheek. "One of my warming devices exploded while I was unpacking earlier," he mutters in explanation before Qifrey can even ask. Olruggio looks exhaustedâhe must be tired from the long travel, the unpackingâbut his expression softens ever so slightly when he sees the tray in Qifrey's hands. "You cooked."
"Knew you wouldn't have remembered to eat, otherwise." Qifrey steps inside as Olruggio holds the door wider, setting the tray down on a stoolâthe small table near the window has almost vanished entirely beneath piles of oddly-shaped knick-knacks and loose papers. "Cream stew with roasted yams. My apprentice helped."
Olruggio raises an eyebrow. "They did?"
"Yeah."
"You sure it isn't poisoned?"
Qifrey snorts softly when his friend reaches for the spoon, anyway. He watches Olruggio scoop up a generous helping of stew, thick and creamy and dribbling over the side, only blowing over it once before he shoves it impatiently into his mouth. Olruggio practically moans.
"You shouldn't have become a witch," Olruggio mumbles around the spoon between his teeth. "You should have become a cook in some castle somewhere. You would've been loaded."
"Don't be ridiculous."
The two of them end up sitting on the floor while Olruggio decimates the stew with barely any pause between bites. The bowl's nearly empty by the time Qifrey notices the yam pieces gathered at the bottomâhis neat cubes sitting amidst uneven, slightly misshapen chunks. His line of mouth softens, fond, even before he realises it.
When he looks up again, Qifrey finds Olruggio's eyes on him, over the rim of his spoon. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing, justâ" Olruggio huffs softly through his nose, expression gentling in the low light. "You really adore your apprentice, don't you?"
Qifrey's mouth parts. Of course I do, he wants to say. They're my apprentice. Any master would. The words ruminate, strangely defensive on his tongue all of a sudden, but in the end, all that comes out is only a simple, quiet:
"âŚYeah."
Olruggio's face cracks into one of those rare smiles. The sight makes Qifrey's chest ache faintly.
"I'm glad."
Qifrey blinks. "Why?"
"I dunno." Olruggio leans back slightly, one hand braced against the floor while the other rolls the spoon, licked clean, between his fingers. "You just⌠you stopped contacting me for a while, after the Tower of Tomes. I thought it was because you were giving up on searching for your past, soâ" He blows out a breath, dark hair on his brow stirring faintly. "So I tried to give you your space, but you never really reached out after. I was⌠I guess I was just worried about you, this entire time." He shrugs, cut-sapphire eyes softening to a summer-sky hue. "But seeing you like thisâan atelier of your own, an apprentice who's clearly territorial over you, by the wayâyou're doing far better than I'd hoped. I'm happy for you."
Qifrey's throat closes. He glances down at the tray sitting between them, feels flayed open by Olruggio's gaze, his unbearable kindness. Olruggio is so coarse with his words and yet tenderness spills out of him regardlessâhis actions, his spells, in everything he does and considers.
Qifrey had run from it. After Olruggio had excised his own memories, Qifrey could no longer bear to look his friend in the eyeâcould not bear the constant reminder of what Olruggio had chosen to sacrifice in his stead, nor the agonising knowledge of knowing he would never be able to confess. The separation had brought him comfort, for a whileâenough solace for the silverwood buried inside him to begin growing once more, forcing him to take on an apprentice.
But perhaps that brief period of selfish respite had been enough. It has to be. Qifrey cannot run forever, and at the very least, being near Olruggio once again means the silverwood in him will halt its growth once more.
Thank you, I'm sorry, Qifrey doesn't say. Instead, he swallows the words thick in his throat, and smiles.
"I'm happy you're here too, Olruggio."
guys iâve been refreshing tumblr EVERY. OTHER. DAY. waiting for this one. i love this mini series soooooooo much. THE WRITING IS SO GOOD I CAUNT đđŠđŠđŠđŠđŠ
ꎟ firelord!zuko is a lovesick man when it comes to you
ጸ sweetheart boyfriend!zuko is a hardcore yearner â¸â¸ not proofread.
boyfriend!zuko is a very sympathetic man; he hates to see you in any amount of painâtrying to help any way he can, from making you tea to heating a bag of rice with his flames so he can rub it over your aches in an attempt to soothe.
He'll expertly rub the tense muscles on your back or carefully hold the hot bag over cramps, just happy to make things easier for you.
boyfriend!zuko has a glow whenever he sees you, a softness only you get to know. He's still kind to the others and to his friends and puts on a brave face to the nationâstrong & honorableâbut you see when he collapses into you after a grueling day.
Vulnerability has never come easy for him, but it's never as hard when it comes to being vulnerable and 'weak' in front of you; it's comforting, actually.
boyfriend!zuko loves when you're cuddled up in bed & lie on top of him, claiming him as your 'special heated blanket.' He finds it oddly endearing when you tug his arms around him and burrow into his skin.
Having you pressed up against him, so content and comfortable, is always so grounding after a hard day.
boyfriend!zuko lets you play with his hair in private, twirling it in your fingertips, scratching his scalp, or just running your fingers through it whenever he's lying on your chest.
Your fingers tangled in the long strands always make it easier to sleepâhe's typically out within five minutes flat whenever you start youing with it.
boyfriend!zuko doesn't hide how much he cares for you; he's had countless moments in front of his men where they've caught him holding, kissing, or just touching you for reassurance, & his only reaction is to be annoyed they didn't knock first.
He's not afraid to be honest; he's in love. There's no point in being with someone if you're not in love & not at least sometimes affectionate.
boyfriend!zuko loves whenever you start yapping. He's a rather quiet person, so he adores it whenever you start going on and on about something. It could be the most mundane, uninteresting thing, & as long as you look happy talking to him, he's listening.
It's so sweet to see the way he looks at you once you start your ramblingsâthe soft spot is very visible with the smile on his lips.
boyfriend!zuko likes to kiss your shoulder a lot. Waking up in a tangled mess of limbs? Expect a kiss on your cheek. Getting ready together in the bathroom? Expect his arms wrapped around you and kisses on your shoulder. A moment alone? You get it. Expect a kiss on the shoulder.
It feels more intimate than a plain kiss on the cheek, and he likes the variety of reasons he can come up with for kissing your shoulder.
boyfriend!zuko is surprisingly gentle; obviously, he'd never be mean to you, but everything between you has this soft, loving undertone.
From the tone of voice he uses, how he speaks to you, & how calm he is around you, everything is serene. He does his best to never be anything like his father. Its so sweet how he treats you.
mhm, yes.
âśď¸ď¸ Cloud 10 (starring . avatar aang)
synopsis . Your boyfriend reaching the avatar state when heâs close. content . afab!reader, improper use of air bending, established relationship, dirty talk, missionary, pet names, he (nervously) talks you through it, praise, implied/slight breeding kink, etc.
author's note: iâd lick the sweat off his bald head if he let me.
You shouldâve known something was up when the bedroomâs lanterns began to flicker.
But with the way Aang's hips snapped down against yours in such a relentlessly missionary rhythmâplump cock smothered deep within the juicily squelching walls of your pussyâit was hard to focus on anything else outside of the way he stretched you open.
HIs breaths came in searing pants against your neck, one gripping hand braced beside your head whilst his free one occupied itself with one of your thighs, tugging your leg impossibly higher around his waist just so that he could fuck you at that pinpointingly perfect angle.
"Ohhh, that's ittt, sweet girl. T-Taking me so well," Aang murmured as his eyes locked onto yours with shimmers of honest adoration visible all over them. "Keep squeezing me like that, mmgh. F-Feels good. So good." He thrusted even harder then, his breath flying out of him along with it as the wet slap of skin on skin emulated throughout the room.
His muscles tensed and his balls felt sorely heavy with each time they came plapping down against your sweat-slicked skin. The lanterns began to flicker again, brighter this time around as they cast shadows around the bedroom.
Then he leaned all the way down to smush his soft lips into yours, capturing your breath with in a messy kiss. His tongue came out to slide against yours as his firm body rocked into yours, the bed struggling to remain in place with his every move.
When his mouth left yours, he was dazed. This should've been the second signal for you. Especially as he let out a loud groan and went whispering, "Gonna breed this pretty cunt-," Instantly catching himself after and letting those soft grey eyes of his go all the more doe-like on you, "Shit... can I say that? I-Is that okay? Do you like it when I talk to you like tht?"
His hips picked up in pace, jaw going stiff as the balmy head of his cock smudged all sloppily against your cervix. Aang glanced down to see how he was disappearing into you, gasping at the obscene sight below him and then returning his eyes to yours.
"Tell me, baby. Please, talk to me. Tell me how you want me-, how you need me. I just wanna-, ohfuckâ" Mid-sentence, his steady thrusts seem to derail and your cunt soaks around him to leave a sheeny layer of aroused slick all over his dick.
You're sucking him in deeper than he expected you to, and it catches him absolutely off guard. Which you notice rather quickly, batting your fucked-out eyes up at him, "Aang? Are you okay?"
"Yeah-, yes.. You just keepâ" He hunches over against youâbody going taut and lean muscles constricting against one another. "You keep squeezing me like that."
Begining to like seeing him struggle, "Squeezing like what?" you asked in sync with your walls clenching around the deft base of his cock.
Air puffs right out of him as if he'd been choked and his body shudders with something powerful coursing through him. You only catch it for a split second the first time it happensâa brief flash over both his markings and his eyes as his next array of groaning stammers out of him.
Following this is the flash of something wild in his eyes as they broaden, pupils dialating a fraction. Aang's head tips to the side and the plump crown of his cock slavers itself alllll around your insides, the puffy lips of your cunt left to quiver around him.
"You're so pretty-," Your loving boyfriend chuffs out, unknowingly thrusting into you harder via a burst of controlled air slapping against his backside. "H-Have I told you that? Hm?" He's asking as if he wasn't literally air bending himself into fucking you harder.
Your head just barely manages a nod, tears coating your lash line, "Nngh-, yes, Aang."
"Say it back to me then," Aang encourages. In between his breathy words, a brush of air is felt slithering against your cunt. It was almost as if his ability to seamlessly multitask was showcasing the best of his abilities via stimulating you everywhere. "Tell me how pretty my girl is, yeah?"
The sensation brings a stutter to your speech, "A-Aang, I canât," you cry out, nails lightly scraping at his back.
He smiles halfway before his thrusting grows erratic and his jaw slacks some, "Oh. You're gushing-, shit."
You feel the way his tip pulsates inside you, his hips struggling to pull himself back for a moment long enough to give his cock a second to breatheânot that he much cared to do so anyway.
"So wet. Wanna see you cum-, wanna feel it." Aang husks, "Can you do that? Cum for me?"
"Mhmm," You nod weakly at first but within the next few seconds, as something begins to rumble distantly, you start to second guess your agreement. Mouth falling agape, âWait, sâtoo much-,â you try to warn him.
Heâs lost thoughâlost in the feel of your greedy insides begging his dick to spill enough seed into you to repopulate a nation or two at least. Aangâs unconscious manipulation of air only gets worse too, he goes from using his bending to fuck himself deeper to using it to sprawl your puffy pussy lips ân legs apart even wider.
Youâre a stretched out mess in mere seconds, gasping his name and crying out in pleasure as your back begins arch. Then heâs chuckling all of a sudden and you swear for a moment heâs not even the same man you knew him to be.
Aangâs head cocks back some and his eyes roll back, âYou can take it,â he grunts like he knows his words to be true and no argument could convince him otherwise. âYou always do. Mmgh-,â He bites his lip for a second before looking down at you once more. âCanât you feel that? The air helpinâ me fill you up? Itâs-, hah.. Itâs a little something Iâve been practicing.â
You pout at first, âAang, I donât know if-, mmgnh! Y-Your markings!â
The room illuminates with colors of spiritual blue before he notices what youâre talking about.
âWhat about them?â Aang asks cluelessly, his voice having changed due to the height of pleasure and energy surging through him.
Sweat drips down his body but it doesnât even manage to touch you or the bed because heâs bending those droplets just as he was the airâcompletely losing himself in the feel of you and bending all sorts of shit because of it.
âTheyâre glowing,â You gasp.
Then his cock buries itself all the way in, every stiff inch clamped by your sappy insides, and his body comes to a sharp stop.
You knew there were⌠concerns when it came to having sex with your boyfriend who just so happens to be the avatar. But, no one told you heâd enter the avatar state just from cumming too hard!!
Itâs while creamy gushes of cum are flooding into your poor cunt that his body is shuddering and heâs literally entering a new state of pleasure. He could hardly manage a word out or even move, the state had taken him over entirely.
Youâd be lying if you said you werenât a little worried for him because of it, but honestly you were a tad bit distracted by how fucking hot it was.
You shouldnât let this go to your head, really.
But who else can say their pussy sent their boyfriend into the avatar state?
Thatâs something to brag about!
(not proofread) banner from âWelcome to The Muscle Salon!â || tags:
@sukuchohq @chosbaby @missackerman64 @ros3xoxo @yulissacastillo11 @ashsummer @swtiijas @chxseatl @wonderfullymickey @tw0w0
@beebopbiscuit @fave-anime-fics @xxvendettaxx @iiakithegoat @hiromihigurumaswife @millenaosstuff @mel-1s-treading-carefully
additional notes: i might write some more of this tbh, weâll see.
what a flex for the punani to be so good it makes your man reach the avatar state đŠđ
Heyyy do you think you could write Enjin being Zanka's wingman since zanka REALLY likes reader. Enjin will purposely make them sit next to each other in the jeep, etc
"đ đ¨đ¨đ đđ§đŹđ°đđŤ, đ§đđŠđĄđđ°!"
a/n:Â oh yes i can write this đ
it starts the way all disasters do: enjin smiling.Â
not his normal feral, teeth-out, menace-to-society grin. no, this one is calm. calculated. the smile of a man who has decided today is matchmaking day and zanka nijiku will not survive it.Â
âalright,â enjin says, clapping his hands together as if he isnât about to ruin someoneâs entire emotional stability. âjeep seating.âÂ
zanka, who has been very carefully standing on the opposite side of the vehicle from you like proximity alone might kill him, immediately stiffens. you donât notice because youâre too busy tightening your gloves and mentally preparing for another mission where trash beasts try to bite your face off, but enjin notices. enjin always notices.Â
âyou,â enjin points at you, then at zanka. âtogether.âÂ
zanka chokes. actually chokes. full-on coughs like he inhaled his own soul.Â
âwhatâ no,â zanka snaps, flustered so fast itâs honestly impressive. âthat doesnât make sense. weight distributionââÂ
âi. donât. care,â enjin says cheerfully with a big grin. âsit.âÂ
you blink. âi donât mindââÂ
âNO, ITâS NOT ABOUT THAT,â zanka blurts, immediately hating himself.Â
enjin is already getting into the driverâs seat.Â
you end up sitting next to zanka in the jeep, knees brushing every time the vehicle hits a bump, which is often, because the road is terrible and the universe hates him specifically. zanka sits so stiff he looks like a badly posed action figure. hands clenched. jaw tight. eyes locked straight ahead like if he looks at you even once heâll evaporate.Â
meanwhile, enjin drives like heâs on a joyride. he takes turns too sharp on purpose.Â
every swerve knocks you into zankaâs side. every time it happens, he flinches like heâs been struck by lightning.Â
âsorry,â you mumble the third time, bracing a hand on his arm for balance.Â
zankaâs brain blue-screens.Â
âITâS FINE!â he says too loudly, voice cracking just enough to betray him. his ears are red. like, offensively red.Â
enjin checks the rearview mirror.Â
oh the grin on this manâs face⌠heâs enjoying this.Â
and it does not stop at the jeep.Â
oh no.Â
during a break, enjin tosses zanka a water bottle. âshare.âÂ
zanka stares at it. âi helped pack multiple bottles.âÂ
âwe drank âem all,â enjin shrugs, already walking off. âthatâs the last one left.âÂ
you take a sip, then hand it to zanka without thinking. he freezes. looks at the bottle. looks at you. looks like heâs been handed a live grenade.Â
â⌠ya already drank from it,â he mutters.Â
âyeah, and?âÂ
he hesitates. visibly debates his entire existence. then drinks it anyway, ears burning, muttering something about contamination that absolutely does not match the way his grip is shaking.Â
enjin watches from a distance, nodding like a proud parent.Â
then thereâs patrol duty.Â
enjin pairs people up. very seriously. very officially.Â
âyou two,â he says again, pointing at you and zanka. âwatch the east side.âÂ
zanka finally snaps. âARE YA DOING THIS ON PURPOSE?âÂ
enjin gasps. fake offended. âzanka. what kind of leader do you think i am.âÂ
â⌠a bad one.âÂ
âwow,â enjin says, hand to his chest. âthat hurts.âÂ
he sends you off together anyway.Â
the east side is quiet. too quiet. zanka keeps glancing at you, then immediately looking away every time you catch him. itâs almost endearing, in a painfully awkward way. you break the silence first.Â
âso,â you say, casual. âyou okay? youâve been⌠loud today.âÂ
he winces. âiâm always loud.âÂ
ânot like this though.âÂ
he exhales through his nose, frustrated. âenjinâs being annoying.âÂ
âhe always is.âÂ
â⌠but today heâs annoying on purpose.âÂ
you hum. âi think itâs kind of funny.âÂ
zanka stops walking. looks at you. really looks at you this time.Â
â⌠ya do?âÂ
âyeah,â you shrug. âitâs cute.âÂ
his brain completely shuts down.Â
âcââ he clears his throat hard. âthatâs stupid.âÂ
but his mouth is twitching. just a little.Â
the real crime happens later.Â
dinner.Â
there are plenty of open spots around the fire. enjin waits until zanka sets his food down, then plops himself right into zankaâs original seat.Â
âoops,â enjin says, mouth already full. âguess youâll have to sit somewhere else.âÂ
the only open space is next to you.Â
zanka looks at it. looks at you. looks at enjin.Â
you pat the ground beside you. âyou can sit here.âÂ
he does. stiffly. again.Â
enjin starts telling a story. it is long. unnecessarily detailed. full of sound effects. every time zanka shifts away from you, enjin leans in and gets louder, forcing zanka to scoot back until your shoulders are touching.Â
at some point, zanka mutters, âya gotta be doing this on purpose.âÂ
enjin doesnât even deny it. âyep.âÂ
you laugh. actually laugh. zanka hears it and forgets how to breathe for a second.Â
â⌠ya laugh a lot,â he says quietly.Â
âis that bad?âÂ
âno,â he says, immediately. âitâs⌠good.âÂ
thereâs a pause. then very stiffly, he adds, âi like it.âÂ
your heart does a small, traitorous flip.Â
later that night, enjin corners zanka.Â
âso,â enjin says. âwhen are you gonna tell her.âÂ
zankaâs face goes nuclear. âtell her WHAT.âÂ
enjin grins. âoh, so you havenât noticed? booooo.âÂ
âif you say one more wordââÂ
âyou like her,â enjin says simply.Â
zanka deflates. shoulders slumping. â⌠yeah.âÂ
âbadly.âÂ
â⌠yeah.âÂ
enjin claps him on the back. ârelax. iâm helping.âÂ
âYER TORMENTING ME.âÂ
âsame thing.âÂ
the next morning, you find zanka waiting for you by the jeep.Â
alone.Â
enjin is suspiciously absent.Â
â⌠hey,â zanka says, hands shoved in his pockets. âuh. ya wannaâ sit together again? i meanâ only if ya want. not because enjin said anything. he didnât. this isâ my idea.âÂ
you smile. âyeah. i want to.âÂ
the tension drains out of him instantly, shoulders dropping like heâs been carrying a boulder this whole time. relief flashes across his face before he can stop it.Â
then thereâs a soft, rhythmic tap tap tap.Â
from behind the jeep, enjin is crouched low, absolutely feral, silent clapping like his life depends on it. his mouth moves without a sound at first â yes, yes, yes â before he canât help himself.Â
âgood answer, nephew!â he whisper-shouts, vibrating with pride.Â
zanka freezes.Â
â⌠iâm going to kill him,â he mutters.Â
enjin gives one last enthusiastic thumbs up from behind the tire.Â
mission accomplished.
Š đ¤đąđŹđđ đ˘

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⤠Aurora; masterlist
⤠Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.
In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.
pairing:Â alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader
genre:Â angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut
warnings:Â violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.
rating:Â 18+
⤠Chapters: (1) - (2) - (3) - (4) - (5) - (6) - (7) - (8) - (9) - (10) - (11) - (12) - (13) - ongoing
⤠Also on AO3 ⤠Playlist
all rights reserved Š zorostitties / kimvvantae. do not repost my works anywhere. do not claim as your own. translations, even with credit, are strictly forbidden. DO NOT under any circumstances paste my works into any a.i.
so i did end up binging this on ao3 and it was TEWWWWW good đŞ
suspension of disbelief.
⢠pairing: qifrey x afab!reader
⢠word count: 9k
⢠tags: master x apprentice relationship, exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, allusions to vague qifrey x olruggio, afab!reader but reader gets a magic cock, no real mention of gender or reader's body otherwise, bottom!qifrey, top!reader, ooc maybe, spin off from the drag path series, unedited, SMUT (MDNI)
Late at night, Qifrey finds himself missing his old apprentice more than he should. But during the witching hour, the devil themselves appears at his door (or window).
⢠a/n: title is called suspension of disbelief because reader and qifrey have somewhat somewhat positive sex without turning into trees đâđť
The atelier settles into a particular kind of quiet during the deepest hours of the night, long after the hearth has burned low and the murmuring voices upstairs finally fade into slumber. It's taken more time than usual tonight; his apprentices had remained awake long after Qifrey sent them to bed, debating the theory of mixed spells with an enthusiasm they only occasionally remembered to hush. He wonders whether they're unawareâof how easily every word and sound drifts through the atelier's walls and wooden floors, down to where he sits in the kitchen below.
But now, even that has given way to soft snores and the steady silence of sleep. Qifrey sits alone at the table, a cup of chamomile tea cradled loosely between his hands. Lately, he's found himself like this more often than he cares to admitâsuspended in these stretches of drawn-out silence, doing little more than sitting and watching. Letting his thoughts circle endlessly, like kettling birds, before they wander back again and again, to the memories Coco's arrival have stirred loose from his mind.
On the upper floor, just down the hallway and around the corner, sits a locked room above his own. Left untouched, as though still waiting for its owner to return. Perhaps he's not so different himself, Qifrey thinks.
He's about to finish off his tea and extinguish the fire when the kitchen window creaks. Qifrey glances up.
There's a witch sitting on his windowsill. One leg swung carelessly over the ledge, brimmed hat tilted at an angle that casts half of their face into shadow. Moonlight catches on everything elseâthe slope of their shoulders, the fine silver threads woven through their cloak like drifting smoke, the faint gleam of their smile through the gloam.
Or rather, your smile.
"Hello, Master," you greet.
Qifrey doesn't move. Once, he might have hesitatedâtorn between capturing you himself, to spare you what mercy he can in the only way left to him, or calling for Olruggio to carry out what he can not. Now, Qifrey knows he can do neither. He simply sits at the table, tea cold in his hands, and looks at you.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I shouldn't be doing many things," you agree, slipping off the sill with thoughtless ease. Your boots land on the kitchen floor without a sound. "And yet, here I am."
"If anyone sees youâ"
"No one will see me." You step forward, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips as though amused by his concern, closing the distance between you. "I'm very good at not being seen, these days."
Qifrey should probably stand. Put the table between you, if nothing else, to restore some semblance of distance, of sense. Instead, he remains where he is, drinking in the sight of youâlike a man parched beyond reason yet trying desperately not to let it show.
"Why are you here?"
"Business." That tells him nothing at allâit could mean anything from a private matter to some nefarious plot tied to the Brimmed Hats. Your steps are slow and deliberate as you move around the tableâthe same table where you'd once had tea with him every morning, where he'd guided your wand through countless spells and sigils. "I heard you've gotten another apprentice, recently. Four's ambitious, even for you."
You know about Coco. "They're good students."
"They have a good teacher." Your hand trails lightly along the edge of the table as you walk, as though tracing over the memories embedded in the wood grain with your fingertips. "Do they remind you of me?"
"No."
He says it too quickly. Your laugh lingers in the quiet corners of the kitchen, the walls pressing in from all sidesâgiving the truth nowhere to run or hide.
"Liar."
Your voice is light. Teasing.
"I saw one of them in the market, today," you continue, leaning briefly over the table as if to confide some closely guarded secret. "The girl with the dark, curly hair⌠she carries herself very seriously, doesn't she? Like she's trying her best to be absolutely perfect."
"You've been watching my apprentices?"
"I've been watching you." You come to a stop at his side, a smile curling on your lips. You're s +o close nowâclose enough to reach out and touch, to catch a faint whiff of whatever is lingering on your skin: petrichor and night air and something faintly metallic, and beneath thatâthe familiar fragrance of lavender and lemon verbena, the same scent as his own body soap. "I've always been watching you, Master."
The words settle over him like first frostâthe kind that goes unnoticed until it's already there. Qifrey should probably be afraid. Any sensible witch would be, with a Brimmed Hat standing just within reach. But the fear doesn't come. Instead, there is only that familiar, hollow ache inside the cage of his ribsâone Qifrey thought he'd already learned to live withânow stirring back to life, as though no time had passed at all.
"Why are you here?" he asks again. This time, his voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"Can't a student miss their teacher?"
Qifrey squeezes his eye shut. "You're not my student any longer."
Your smile falters for the space of a breath. "I suppose not," you murmur. A beat passes. "Then, maybe I just missed you."
The words hang between you, as fragile as spun glass. Qifrey doesn't dare to open his eyesânot yet. He cannot bear to look at your face and have to decide which truth would wound him more: if you meant it, or if you didn't.
"You need to leave," he says, instead. "Before someone wakes upâone of the apprentices could come downstairs and see you. Now. Before Iâ"
"Before you what?" Your breath ghosts across the sensitive outer shell of his ear, and his good eye flies open. You are right thereâfaces close enough for him to count each lash as you blink, the half-smile you're wearing softened by the low flicker of firelight. "Before you call for Mr. Olruggio? Or before you summon the knights?"
Qifrey's hands clench into fists at his sides. His palm quire still sits in his pocket. He couldâ
"Master." Your voice is soft, certain. "You aren't going to report me."
"You don't know that."
"I do." You reach up to touch his face, and Qifrey flinches from that small contact aloneâcaughtt between pulling back and leaning into your touch. He knows your hands intimatelyâthe shape of them, the faint ridge of every faded scar, the way they once fit so easily against his own. "If you were going to report me, you would have done it the first time I returned. Or the second. Or the third." The corner of your mouth curls upwards, slow and amused. "Or perhaps you were too tired to remember thisâI recall you were quite exhausted by the end of our previous⌠encounters, after all."
Qifrey's cheeks heat fiercely at the reminder. "It was a momentary lapse of judgment."
At some point, your hand has slipped from his cheek to his neck, your thumb stroking idly over his quickening pulse. He remembers when you'd been his apprenticeâhow uncertain you'd been with physical contact, and the way it'd only ever seemed acceptable when it came from him. Now, it feels as though the roles have been reversed, although he's not exactly uncomfortable with your hands on him. Perhaps therein lies the problem.
"That's right." There's something quietâmaybe fondness, perhaps prideâcaught in the curve of your smile. "I'm Master's biggest mistake."
Qifrey exhales. The immediate denial catches somewhere in the back of his throat. He doesn't know what he wants to tell youâthat you were never a mistake, that every moment since you left has been shaped and coloured by your absence.
Even if he did, he doesn't know if he should. He hasn't the words, anyway, and it's hard to think straightâespecially with your thumb continuing its slow, maddening stroke along the side of his throat.
"My apprentices," he says, grasping for something, anything, to hold on to. "They're sleeping upstairs. If they wake up and see youâ"
"They won't." Your finger hooks into the collar of his undershirt, dragging it down inch by inch until your breath whispers over Qifrey's collarbone. "I made sure of it. A little sleeping incense, nothing harmful. They'll sleep till morning."
Qifrey's breath catches, chair legs scraping noisily against the kitchen floor as he stands abruptly. "You cast magic on them?"
"Is that impolite? Forgive my lack of etiquette." Your smile widens, innocence and wickedness all tangled together. "I have no apprentices of my own, unfortunatelyâjust a master who won't admit he misses me."
"I don'tâ"
"Liar."
You take another step closer, and then your chest is pressing up against his. Qifrey can feel a heartbeatâyours or his own, he can no longer tellâpounding so hard he's almost certain you can hear it in the quiet.
"Tell me to leave," you murmur. There's no teasing left in your voice now, only something quieter, more serious. "I'll go and not come back. You'll never see me again."
Qifrey cannot even find it in him to open his mouth. The words lodge like river stones in his throat.
"That's what I thought." A smile tugs at your mouth, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. There's something faintly sad in your gaze instead. Your hand slides downâbrushing past his collarbone, dragging over the hollow of his throatâbefore finally settling over his chest, fingers splayed over the desperate racing of his heart. "You're still the same, Master. Always so dishonest with everyoneâincluding yourself."
"Don't call me that." His hands come up to grip your shoulders, fingers tightening for a fleeting second before⌠nothing. Neither pushing you away nor pulling you in. It's as if that simple touch alone is enough to unmoor him. "Notânot tonight. Not when weâ"
"Not when we�"
Qifrey doesn't remember when this habit of repeating his words back to him beganâonly that you've been doing it since you were an apprentice, always seeking out his confirmation, his approval. He looks at you now. You've slipped off your hat, and for a moment he catches a glimpse of the apprentice he'd once cared forâloved, in a way he had never allowed himself to name, and perhaps, still does.
"NotâŚ" His exhale leaves him like a surrender. "Not when I'm trying very hard to remember why I need to report you."
You laugh sweetly. "Let me help, then."
Qifrey closes his eye. And when your lips meet his, deep and torturous in their slowness, he doesn't pull away. Your hands are on his chest, pushing, and then Qifrey's back meets the edge of the table, the wood digging into the base of his spine as your mouth slants over his.
You kiss him teasingly at first: soft bites to his lower lip, a slow drag of your tongue across the cupid's bow of his mouth. Your hands slide down his chest, finding the fastenings of his robes. The fabric gives way beneath your touch, as easily as its wearer, and when your fingers brush over his nipples through his undershirt he shiversâactually shiversâlike some virginal boy from a rural village being touched for the first time.
"Wait," he breathes against your mouth. "Waitâ"
You don't. Your fingers find the hem of his undershirt and tug, pulling it up over his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. Qifrey raises his arms without thinkingâwithout choosingâand then his shirt is on the floor and his torso is bare to your eyes, your hands on his skinâpalms flat, fingers spreadâfeeling every ridge of muscle and bone as if you are memorising him by touch all over again.
"This is wrong," he mutters, because the silence while you strip him bare is too much. "This isn'tâwe shouldn'tâ"
You lower your mouth to suck at the hollow of his throat, and every thought flees Qifrey's mind at once. "What's wrong?"
Nothing. Everything. Qifrey throws a hand over his face, flustered. "I used to be your master."
"You'll always be my master."
 He groans as loudly as he dares. "That doesn't make things any better."
You laugh just beneath the curve of his jaw, the sound sending warmth tingling down his spine. "Does Master feel as if he's taking advantage of his poor apprentice?" Your fingers trace formless patterns down his chest, over the softness of his stomach, stopping just above the waistband of his trousers. "His innocent, naive student who would touch themselves late at night, with their master's laundry pressed to their face, knowing they had to be silent because he was sleeping in the room just below theirs?"
Qifrey nearly chokes. "Youâ"
"It's alright." You lean in to kiss his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "My master is a very honourable man. LuckilyâŚ" Your fingers toy with the waist of his trousers, teasing at the strings. "âŚhis apprentice isn't."
Before Qifrey can respond, you're already spinning him around. His hands barely catch the edge of the table before your body is pressing against his back, crowding him forward until it bumps into his thighs.
"What are youâ"
You grind your hips just once against him, and whatever Qifrey had been about to say dissolves in his throat. Because he feels itâa hardness pressing insistently against his rear, considerable enough to turn his breathing shallow. Qifrey twists his head around to stare at you. He must look absolutely ridiculousâhalf-undressed and pinned to a table by his former apprentice, hair falling into too-wide eyes, mouth hanging open like a fish washed up on shore.
There's a laugh on your lips as you lean down to kiss him. Your chin catches on his shoulder, and his glasses slip slightly askew as your noses bump together.
"Body alteration magic," you mumble against his mouth, still smiling. Qifrey barely manages to gather his thoughts long enough to form a coherent response.
"Why?"
"Why else?" Your mouth drifts to his ear, gently catching the lobe between your teeth. "To make Master feel good, of course."
"But we don't⌠we don't have to do it likeâ" Like that, he wants to say. Qifrey imagines it for only a secondârobes pushed down to his knees while you bend him over the tableâand suddenly his entire mouth goes dry, thoughts oscillating wildly between shame and desire.
"You're always saying you feel guilty for taking advantage of your apprentice." Your fingers curl against the soft scattering of hair just beneath his navel, nails scratching lightly across the sensitive skin there. His entire body shudders. "So how about you let me take advantage of you for once, Master?"
Qifrey feels almost feverish. "YouâŚ"
"I want to make Master feel good," you murmur into the curve of his neck, lips brushing sweetly over his pulse pointâtoo innocent for what you're offering. "I'll be so, so good for you, Master. I swear it."
His hands find the edge of the table again, gripping hard. This is madness. He has four apprentices sleeping soundly upstairsâstill children, none the wiserâand a Brimmed Hat wanted dead or alive by the Knights Moralis standing in his atelier. And yetâŚ
Qifrey lowers himself onto his elbows as though in a trance. The action arches his back, ever so slightly, and his legs spread to the breadth of his shoulders as if to yield the most private part of himself to your gaze, your touch. He can already feel his lower half twitching in anticipationâa shameful, undeniable ache that makes his entire face prickle with heat as his hips shift. It's as if his entire body is following a command that his mind has yet to accept.
"You're being so good," you breathe, and the words alone are enough to send heat pooling low in the heat of Qifrey's belly. Your hands find the fastenings of his trousers, fingers slipping easily over the strings. "Just let me take care of you, Master."
The knot loosens. His trousers slide down to his thighs, his knees, then drop to pool at his ankles. They're soon followed by his smallclothes. The kitchen air holds on to the lingering heat of the fire but is already cooling quickly, and it raises a faint shiver along his arms, the expanse of his chest, the now exposed curve of his rear.
Your lips find the back of his shoulder. You exhale softly there, almost reverent, before continuing to trail slow kisses across his skin, following the line of his shoulder to his nape. His head tips forward instinctively, chin dropping against his collarbone to give you more accessâwanting, yielding to your touch.
"Master has done this with Mr. Olruggio before, hasn't he? I'm not the first."
Qifrey hadn't been expecting the question. It flusters him more than he cares to admitânaked in front of you, with your hands still resting possessively on the narrow jut of his hips. "Y-yes," he admits, shifting his weight nervously onto his other foot.
"And the last time?" Your hand slides down his back, following the curve of his spine until it comes to rest on one cheek, squeezing idly. Qifrey can't help the sound that escapes himâa breathy, pathetic moan that doesn't seem to come from his own mouth. "How long ago?"
His entire face feels hot. "Why do you want to know?"
You don't answer him immediately. Instead, you take hold of his other cheek and squeeze, pushing upward until the tight furl of his hole is revealed to your gaze. His hips jerk forward against the table edge with a gasp, his own cock half-hard and leaking against his thigh. You continue to knead his flesh in your hands, your intentions clear as mirror glass.
"To know how much I should prepare Master."
It's embarrassing, how arousing the thought alone is. Qifrey squeezes his eye shut in desperation, licking his lips, trying to remember how to form words, sentences.
"Not⌠not for a long time." The admission feels awkward, clumsy on his tongue. "Not since the time before⌠before you left."
Your hand stills on the small of his back. "Before I left?"
"Yes."
"All those months ago?"
"Yes, yes." A quiet whimper escapes him when you fondle his ass roughly, and heat drops low in his stomach, stirring his cock further. Is it really so surprising? There were moments, after you left, when Qifrey had been tempted by the thought of seeking out Olruggio's arms again, the familiar warmth of his bed. But he could never go through with it, in the endâcould never do it without thinking of you. "Why are you asking so many questioâohhhâ"
Your hand has begun moving again, this time gently stroking the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. His legs part further of their own accord, as if desperate for more of you, your touch.
"Then, I'll be very thorough with Master." You sound pleased, for some reasonâthough Qifrey hasn't the faintest idea why.
Your hands leave him for a brief moment, and then there's a quiet sound of a bottle being uncorked. The subtle scent of arnica wafts into the air, vaguely familiar, followed by the soft, tacky noises of something slick being spread over skin. The massage oil from the kitchen cabinet, Qifrey realises. Of course you'd know where to find it; he'd used it on you countless times when you were still his apprentice, massaging your hands when your wrists cramped from overuse. If someone had told him back then how you would be using it on him now, Qifrey thinks he would have died of embarrassment on the spot.
You take your time, letting him every second of anticipation. And then your slickened fingers are there, gently circling his rim, and Qifrey nearly jumps out of his own skin. The wisp of a single breath pushes out sharply between his pursed lips.
"Relax, Master," you murmur. "I'll be gentle."
Your finger presses into him. Only the tip, just barelyâbut it's enough to make him shudder. The stretch is foreign and familiar all at once. It's been a while since he last had anything inside him, and even this small intrusion is enough to make his breath catch, his body slowly remembering how to yield.
The word escapes him even before he realises it. "PleaseâŚ"
"Please what?" You crook your finger gently, the tip just brushing over the spot inside of him that makes his vision swim, and Qifrey's plea dissolves in his mouth. "Tell me what you need."
More, he wants to say, but before he can speak you've already supplied it, a second finger joining the first. Qifrey bites down on his moan, his breathing coming out hard and rapid. You work him open with steady hands, waiting patiently for his body to yield around your fingers before you add a third, curling them deep inside of him until he's almost dizzy. His cock is fully hard now, nerves catching alight each time it brushes the table with every small shift of his hips, precome smearing across the cloth.
"You're taking me so well," you whisper, and the praise makes him want to whimper. "So good for me, Master. So good."
He wants to tell you to stop calling him thatâthat the sound of him calling him Master in the midst of such unspeakable acts makes his head spin. But then you are shifting behind him, and Qifrey barely has to to twist over his shoulder before you're getting down on one knee. The next moment, your mouth is on himâand then he forgets how to speak in its entirety.
Your tongue traces over his rim, lapping at the tight ring of muscle, over your own fingers, still spreading him open. Qifrey bites down on his fist, the desperate sound he's made muffled into his knuckles, but it's still too loud, too much. He wasn't expecting you to do thatâwasn't expecting you at all, tonightâand he hadn't cleaned himself down there, hadn't prepared himself forâ
"D-don'tâ" is all he manages, voice shaking. "It'sâwaitâdirty⌠hahâahâ"
It's like you don't hear him. Or, considering the fact that the two of you are about as close as two people can physically be, you ignore him completely. The tip of your tongue probes at him, wet with saliva, before you bury your face between his cheeks, nose pressed into the cleft of his ass. Your tongue fucking into him wth short, little thrusts alongside your fingers. And just like that, Qifrey's dragged untouched over the edge, his protests dissolving into a trembling, indistinct syllable as he comes.
Your mouth stays on him, working him through the waves of pleasure rolling through his body. But he grows oversensitive quicklyâhis first orgasm in months. When he reaches back with trembling fingers to push your head away, however, you catch his wrist and pin it to the table next to his hip.
Qifrey claws at open air, his other hand scrabbling desperately against wood. Still you don't let up. Your tongue is softer now, lapping at him something almost resembling tenderness, and you moan softly against him as you draw out the last shudders of his release.
You continue to lick and suck at his hole, only pulling back with a wet, obscene sound when you've finally had your fill. Qifrey slumps against the table, his knees weak. You press a delicate kiss to the back of his thighs, each one soft and almost reverent.
"You taste good, Master," you whisper into the crook of his knee. He can hear the smile in your voice. Qifrey doesn't know whether he wants to see it or bury his face in the table and never look at you again. "So sweet, just like I always thought you would be."
He pushes himself up on trembling arms to glare at you over his shoulder, though he doubts it's very effective with the mortified flush high on his cheeks. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?" Your tongue traces a slow circle around his rim, and his hips jerkâa helpless, involuntary action that makes him want to die. "Every part of Master is perfect to me."
"Youâ"
You laugh then, the sound too warm and innocent for whatever filthy things your mouth has just been doing, and then you're kissing him again. His knees, his inner thighs, the narrow dip of his waist, slowly making your way up his bodyâlike you have all the time in the world and not just this stolen night. When you reach his necl, you take his chin in your unsoiled hand, pulling him in. Your lips meet softlyâand then your tongue pushes past his lips, licking almost shyly at his front teeth until his mouth falls open a little more. Your tongue slips inside.
Something else comes with itâthe taste of oil, slightly bitter, and something muskier, unmistakably himself. And then you are squeezing the softness of his cheeks, forcing his mouth wider, before you spit into his mouth.
Some rational thought buried far in the back of his mind tells him he should be disgusted. Instead, he moans into your mouthâa wanton, needy sound that makes his own cheeks heatâand sucks on your tongue like he cannot get enough. He feels your lips curl into a smile against his own.
"You've been so good, Master," you murmur. "Let me reward you."
Qifrey feels your hand on his back again, palm dragging up the full length of his spine, pushing him gently towards the table. He goes almost entirely without resistance until his cheek is lying flat against it, the crumpled tablecloth twisted in his fisted hands. Your body is warm over his, one arm wrapping around his waist, holding him steady.
He hears the slick sounds of you oiling yourself up, before you're pressing the tip of your length to his rim. The sensation steals the breath from Qifrey's lungs. He can only feel the tip, bluntly testing at his entranceâalready stretched from your fingers, already loosenedâbut it's big. Bigger than Olruggio, bigger than anyone or anything he's ever taken. Why would you choose toâ
"Breathe," you whisper. "I'll go slow."
He tries. He tries, and thenâyou are pushing into him. True to your word, you move slowly, sinking each inch into him with an unhurriedness that borders on torture, splitting him open on your cock. Qifrey feels as though you are forcing the air from his lungs, and his mouth opens on a whimper that is too desperate, too loud.
His whole body trembles around your length, muscles fluttering, trying to adjust to the stretch. Have you even bottomed out, yet? He's so full, impossibly so, and yet somehow that unbearable emptiness lingersâQifrey wants more. His hips push back in an attempt to take you to the base, to force you to give him everything at once, but then your hand is gripping at his hip with surprising strength, stilling him.
"Patience, Master," you murmur, though your voice is teasing, and part of him knows that you are enjoying this. "You've only taken me halfway and you're already panting like a bitch in heat. I don't want to hurt you."
Qifrey's head swims. Halfway. The idea that he still has so much more to go seems terrifying when he is already so full, and yet he cannot bring himself to care. Something deeper than wantâsomething that goes beyond mere needâhas its claws in him now, desperate for you in a way that erases all rationality. He tries again, deliberately clenching hard around you.
Your hips jerk forward with a sharp groan, and Qifrey chokes on a moan as your girth splits him open, the stretch burning like fire in the best possible way. But then your grip tightens on his hipâso hard he is certain there will be bruises in the shape of your fingers blooming there come morningâand your other hand comes up to fist in his hair, dragging his head back until the two of you are eye to eye.
"That wasn't very obedient of you, Master."
He tries to meet your stare evenlyâwhich is difficult when he's currently all but impaled on your cock.
"Youâahâare the one who's being disobedientâ"
"How so?"
Qifrey squirms where he's pinned between you and the table. Your cock slips half out of him with all his fidgeting, and Qifrey nearly whines, frustration ratcheting. "Your Master," he says, his attempt at sounding sharp ruined by the breathlessness in his voice, "is telling you to fuck him."
Your grip on his hair loosens ever so slightly. For a moment, neither of you move. The kitchen is silent except for the crackle of the dying fire and the sound of his harsh, uneven breathing.
"You're sure?"
He's never been less sure of anything in his life. "Yes."
You stare at him for a moment longer before your lips, some unreadable emotion passing behind your eyes before your lips curl into a disbelieving smile. Before Qifrey can ask what that means, your fingers curl into the slightly damp hair at his nape, before you're pushing him forward againâmore gently than he expectsâuntil his cheek meets the table once more.
"Don't move," you say. He doesn't think he could, even if he tried.
And then you start fucking him in earnest.
The first hard thrust punches the breath from his lungs, his glasses clattering from the bridge of his nose to the table. The second make him cry outâa wrecked, strangled sound that has him immediately cramming his own hand over his mouth in his attempts to muffle it. The hand on the back of his neck keeps him pinned even as he writhes beneath you, toes curling, bare feet lifting helplessly off the kitchen floor as you drive into him again and again.
The reality isn't as simple or easy as the fantasy; the pain steals his breath, but even that is pleasurable somehow, one sensation bleeding into the other until he cannot tell where the former ends and the latter begins. You fuck him like you've been waiting years for thisâlike every choice in your life was leading you to this momentâto him, bent over this table and falling apart beneath you. And Qifrey can't do anything but take it, his hands splayed flat on the table, cheek pressed against the wood where he can still smell the ghost of morning tea, the faint trace of herbs and ink, the memory of a thousand breakfasts shared across its surface.
"Please," he hears himself moan into his own hand. He doesn't know what he's begging for. "Please, please, pleaseâ"
"Shh." Your grip on his neck tights, thrusts not slowing in the least. "I'll give you everything, Master. Everything."
He comes. Qifrey's whole body arches, contorting violently beneath youâtoo much, too muchâa mangled sound that could be a gasp or a sob or your name or all of them at once tearing itself from his mouth. He can feel you in his stomach, in the back of his throat, everywhereâand then he is tumbling off the edge, shattering into a thousand pieces. The pleasure is white-hot, blinding, and he wraps his own shaking hand around his cock, shuddering as he spills over his fingers, the last waves of his orgasm rolling through him.
He returns to the feeling of your lips all over his faceâhis forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chinâkissing away tears he hadn't even realised were falling. You whisper praise every spot your mouth lands, words falling on him like a sunshower he doesn't mind being caught in. Qifrey curls into you, blindly seeking out your lips with a desperation that has nothing to do with lust. You seem to realise what he's looking for before he has to say it, and you catch his mouth with yours, kissing him so softly it almost undoes him all over again.
His breath begins to even out, slowing to a steady rhythm. There is something about your arms around him, the warmth and weight of you still pressed against his back, that makes Qifrey feel more drowsy and sated than he has been in months.
He's about to let his good eye close, eyelids suddenly heavy, when he feels you shift inside of him. A weak moan slips past his lips, unbidden. You are still hard inside him, he realises with a start. You didn't come.
Qifrey glances back at you over his shoulder in alarm to see you smiling. That familiar, infuriating, dangerous smile.
"You didn't think we were done already, did you, Master?"
By the time the fire has burned down to embers, Qifrey stops being able to think in words. There are only sounds nowâbroken, breathless things that spill from his lips without permission, muffled into his own fist. He is barely standing; his legs gave out at some indiscernible point, and you had barely paused to laugh and wrap your arm around his waist before your cock resumed fucking into him. He's long since passed the point of pleasure, slipping into some indistinct placeâwhere all sensation seems to blur together, and the only thing that seems to remain is you, your breath in his ear, your body moving against his in the dark.
And yet, somehow, you still have not come. Qifrey suspects magic, some kind of body alteration spell keeping you hard and full, driving him to the edge of insanity. It should be too much. But something in him still craves moreâwants to feel you spill deep inside him, your warmth marking him somewhere that no one will ever see or know.
"One more," you murmur against his shoulder. You're unbearably warm, breath hot on his skin, slick with sweat. "I think Master has one more in him."
You said that earlier, too. He doesn't. He can't. Qifrey has already give you everythingâtwice, thrice, he's lost countâand his cock is soft now, bouncing uselessly against his thigh with each thrust. But something is building low in his belly again anyway, a pressure that has nothing to do with hardness and everything to do with the way you fill him up. Your hand splays across his stomach, as if you're trying to feel yourself from the outside.
"I can't," he hears himself beg, in a garbled, wrecked voice he doesn't recognise as his own. "Please, I can'tâ"
"You can." Your arm tightens around his waist, thrusts deepening to something almost cruel in the way each one drags against every inch of him. Stars burst behind his closed eyelids. "You can, Master. For me."
Qifrey sobs. An actual sobâbroken and desperateâeven as his fingers claw at the table and his legs tremble with the effort of staying upright. His hips push back against you of their own accord and you groan in appreciation, rolling your own into him with a precision that makes his vision blur.
And then he hears it.
A creak. He recognises where it's from instinctively, without thinkingâthe floorboards outside one of the bedrooms upstairs. His entire body seizes, eye flying open.
"W-waitâ"
Surprisingly, you doâthrusts slowing to a leisurely grind that Qifrey unfortunately finds just as devastating. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, gently angling his face towards yours.
"Master?"
"My apprentices," he manages, mouth working soundlessly around the words. His throat is raw, his entire body trembling with the effort of keeping his voice hushed. "Upstairs. I heardâ"
"Are you sure?"
"If they come downâ"
"Looks like you'll have to be quiet then."
His head snaps around at your tone, just enough to catch a glimpse of your face over his shoulder. You don't look at all concerned by the fact that one of his apprentices might be awake upstairs. Instead you're smiling: a dangerous, terribly wicked smile.
Qifrey's head spins. "What are youâ"
Before he can finish that sentence, you move againâa slow, shallow roll of your hips that has your length grinding into that spot in himâand Qifrey's words dissolve into a choked gasp that he barely manages to smother into the crook of his arm.
"Stop," he hisses, alarmed. "They'll hearâ"
"Then don't let them hear." you do it again, your cock dragging against his sensitive walls, sending sparks racing up his spine. Qifrey bites down on his own tongue in desperation. "I'm not going to stop."
You're merciless. You sink into him with deep strokes, thrusts that pull nearly all the way out before shoving back in, as if deliberately trying to make him cry out. It's like you want him to get caught. He bites down on his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood.
"Ah, ah." Your fingers find his mouth, gently tugging it from between his teeth in stark contrast to the relentless way you're fucking him. Your thumb presses down on the plump flesh there, soothing the sting. "That's mine to bite."
Qifrey pants. The floorboards creak again, louder this time, followed by the sound of light footsteps. Agott. That's Agott's room. She's been working hard on mastering a light spell this week, staying up late to practice her sigils by candlelight even when he'd told her to get some sleep. If she walks into the kitchen and sees her master bent over the table, being taken from behind by a fugitiveâ
His body clamps down on the cock inside him at the thought, much to Qifrey's horror. He drops his forehead against the wood, praying desperately that you don't notice.
You notice, of course. You always do.
"Oh?" Your thrusts turn slow and shallow in a way that makes him whine. "Does Master actually like the thought of being caught? Of being seen like this?"
"N-noâ"
You roll your hips again, slow and deliberate, and the sound that tears out of him barely sounds human. He shoves his wrist between his teeth, biting down hard to muffle the whimper that threatens to escape. And once again, his body betrays himâclenching embarrassingly tight around the hard, throbbing length buried inside himâas if trying to beg you to stay.
"You're not very truthful, are you, Master?" Your hand slides around his hip, palm flat against his lower stomach, fingers splaying across the sensitive skin just above where you're buried inside him. He shudders. You lean over him until your lips are at his ear. "I prefer it when you're honest with me."
You resume your earlier rhythm. But now each thrust seems more forceful than the last, each snap of your hips seems intent on driving him past silence, every last scrap of restraint he has left. It is all he can do to muffle the sounds escaping him, his teeth sinking so deep into his own forearm he thinks he might break skin. But perhaps all his efforts are pointless anywayâQifrey is suddenly, horrifyingly aware of aware of every obscene sound his body is making: the wet squelch of his body sucking you in greedily each time you sink into him, the slap of skin against skin, his own ragged breaths in tandem with your quiet exhales as you drive your cock into him deeper, pleasure filling him like rain flooding a river.
He is close. Too close. He can feel it building againâpressure low in his belly, tingling at the base of his spineâand he tries to hold back, knowing someone will hear.
But then you shift. Your hips press flush against his ass, grinding into the spot deep inside of him, and his vision blurs.
He comes with a cry that is far too loud, knees buckling like an elm tree in a storm. His hands slip on the table. His body convulsesâonce, twice, three timesâand then he's flinching, sobbing into his own hand as he falls apart. The pleasure's all encompassing, hinging on ecstasy, a fine tremor wracking his whole body.
You don't stop. Your hand slides around his hip and finds his cockâhalf-hard and neglected, head weepingâand your fingers wrap around his length before stroking him hard and fast in time with each thrust of your hips. Qifrey chokes, body jerking. He's still caught in the throes of his current orgasm, desperately sensitive, and then you're dragging him straight into another. He comes again with a bitten wail that sounds more animal than human, cum spurting weakly across the rumpled tablecloth in white, pulsing ribbons, vision going dark at the edges.
"Master," he hears you whisper, as though in awe. The raw, wrecked quality of your voice is enough to make his entire body tremble. "Master."
Your hips shove bruisingly against him, as if you want to bury yourself inside him forever, to stay in the tight heat of his body until nothing else exists outside this momentâand then Qifrey feels you come inside him with a low sigh that feels like relief, your warmth filling him. Somehow, impossibly, he comes again, his spent body clenching weakly around you, milking you for everything you have to give. The hand that had been gripping his hair gentles, fingers carding through the sweat soaked strands as though he is someone precious, someone loved.
He closes his eye.
The two of you stay like that for a while longer, until you sigh against the damp curve of his neck and finally take a step back. Your cock slides out of him, leaving him suddenly, painfully empty, and Qifrey's knees instantly buckle beneath him. He would have crumpled straight to the floor if you hadn't caught himâarms wrapping around his waist, your laughter warm and slightly breathless against his shoulder.
"Careful, Master," you tease. "Can't have you falling for a Brimmed Hat, now."
Qifrey wants to say something biting, or something clever, at leastâremind you just who was the master and who was the apprentice, reclaim some fragments of his shattered dignity. But then you're lifting himâarms hooked under his knees, pulling his legs around his waistâbefore you're carrying him through the dark atelier with the easy familiarity of someone who knows it by heart. Past the cold fireplace, the stairs that lead to the apprentices' bedrooms, to the small chamber he uses for his own.
When had you become so strong?
You step inside with an easy familiarity of someone who still belongs. Like this, Qifrey can pretendâthat it's simply another night with just the two of you in this atelier, and you've had a bad dream again, climbing into your master's bed in search of his comfort.
You set him down on the bed with careful hands, the mattress creaking slightly under his weight. The sheets are cool against his heated skin. Qifrey watches, dazed, as you turn down the lamp on his bedside table to a dim glow, and crawl in after himâyour hat discarded somewhere in the kitchen, still fully clothed while he lies completely bare beneath you. As though he was the only one who'd been taken apartâmoaning shamelessly like a brothel whore as his apprentices slept upstairsâ
He sits up in alarm, his forehead nearly knocking into yours. His apprentices. He'd completely forgottenâthe creaking floorboards, the footsteps. Qifrey should be angry. Furious, even, at how you ignored him and kept going. Maybe he is. Or he wants to be. But he can't tellânot when every nerve in his body is still singing your name, his thighs trembling, your spend still leaking from his ruined hole and onto the sheets beneath him.
"Master?" You're looking at him with something like concern, your brow furrowed. He should probably kick you out of his bed, go upstairs and figure out if his apprentices heard anything. He doesn't.
"You're insane," is all Qifrey manages instead. His voice is hoarse.
You tilt your head form where you're fluffing up a pillow next to him, looking mildly perplexed for a moment. And then you smileâbright, wide and utterly unrepentantâin a way he is starting to realise he's unable to hate.
"Pointed Hats are really so innocent," you giggleâactually giggleâswooping in to press a kiss to his cheek. Your hand slips into the pocket of your robes and retrieves a familiar object: a palm quire, sitting in your outstretched hand. Qifrey recognises the sigil for wind in the center, but not the keystones around it. "A sound manipulation spell, Master. I thought it might liven things up for you."
Qifrey stares at you. The creaking floorboards, the footsteps above him in Agott's room⌠so this was all it had been? He remembers the way he'd tried so desperately to stay silent, the fear of being caught, the shame of realising how much the thought of being seen had only made him more sensitive, more responsiveâhow you'd used it to drag orgasm after orgasm out of him until he couldn't think straight.
"Youâ"
"I wanted to hear you, Master." You smile, burying your face in his thigh, nuzzling there like some overgrown cat. "Don't worryâI wouldn't let anyone hear any of those precious sounds you make. The spell blocks out all noises within a certain range, too. I worked very hard on it."
He looks at you in disbelief. Your smile widens.
"Are you proud of me, Masterâ"
He smacks you.
"Ahâow? Master?"
He hits you againâon your arm, your shoulder, your chest. Open-handed, palm stinging pleasantly, nowhere near hard enough to truly hurt.
"You're so terrible," Qifrey hisses between swats. "YouâI can't believeâyou manipulated meâ"
"Ow. Ow, ouch, owâ" You duck away from his hands, but his bed is only so big, and you seem loath to put any space at all between the two of you. You are pouting, though, and the expression is so unlike the reticent, closed-off apprentice you had once been that Qifrey's heart aches. You never used to pout, whine, or even complain. But now you are looking at him like a child who's been denied dessert, and he hates to admit it, but he likes seeing you like this. No longer holding yourself back, or suppressing every flicker of feeling behind that careful, blank mask, too afraid to want for anything.
"I was only trying to make it feel better for Masterâ"
"By lying to me." He whacks your shoulder, lighter this time. "I didn't teach you any of this sort of behaviour, youâ"
His hand is halfway to your shoulder again when you catch his wrist. your fingers wrap around the delicate bone there, thumb pressing into his pulse, and then you're dragging Qifrey close, pulling him across the space between you until he is nearly in your lap, your faces close enough for him to feel your breath across his lips.
"Was it good for you, Master?" you ask softly. "Did you enjoy it?"
His breath catches.
"Don't call me that," he mutters.
"Masterâ"
"Call me Qifrey." The words come out quiet and uncertain, barely above a murmur, almost like an admission he isn't yet ready to face himself. He has to look away, fixing his gaze on some crease in the sheets at the foot of his bed, unwilling to meet your eyes. His ears are burning. "When we do such things next time. At least."
You are quiet for a long while. Qifrey glares at the sheets for a few more agonising seconds that feels like forever, wondering if you've even heard him at all, before he takes a deep breath and glances back at youâonly to see you staring at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. A myriad of expressions flicker across your face: surprise, disbelief, affection⌠and something that looks dangerously like hope.
"So," you say slowly, as if you're afraid he might take it back if you speak too quickly, "Master is saying that he wants there to be a next time?"
The flickering light from his magic lamp catches the edges of your smile. Your fingers are still wrapped loosely around his wrist, as though you have no intention of letting goânot even for a secondâand you're looking at him just as you once did, back when you were his apprentice, as though he'd hung the moon in the sky and handed you the stars.
Qifrey's heart throbs.
He smacks you againâmore fluster than force, this time. "Are you some sort of beast?" he scolds, forcing the words out in a chastising tone that does little to hide the ache tightening in his chest. "If I had known how insatiable you were, I'd neverâ"
You're laughing. Actually laughing, bright and unguarded, the kind of laugh Qifrey had memorised and tucked away like precious jewels, each one saved for the quiet nights when he'd missed you the most.
"Qifrey," you say, delighted, as though testing the weight of it, the feel of it on your tongue. You speak it aloud like a secret, like his name is something you have been waiting for years to speak aloud. "Qifrey. Qifrey."
"Stop that."
"Qifrey."
"I said stopâ"
You kiss himâquick and warm, the shape of your laugh pressing against his mouth before you pull back, still holding on to his wrist.
"Next time," you say. "It's a date."
He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again.
"You're impossible."
"Not impossible," you correct, pressing his hand to the curve of your smiling cheek as if to let him feel just how happy you are. "Insatiable. For you."
Qifrey swallows. His throat suddenly feels tight.
"When do you have to go?"
You blink up at him, clearly not expecting the question. For just a momentâbarely a breathâa quiet look comes over your face. Then it is gone, hidden beneath a smile.
"By sunrise."
Qifrey remains quiet for a moment. By all rights, he should let whatever transpired in his kitchen be enough. Say that he's tired, that you've had your fun and he's had his, and pretend this never happened until the next time it doesâwhen you climb through his window and he falls into you again in the dark.
He looks down. There's a damp spot growing on the blanket between his legs, where your spend has been slowly dripping out of him. The sheets will have to be laundered, the stain washed out in the morning before any of his apprentices wake up and catch sight of it. And yet, for some reason Qifrey cannot justify or name, he loathes the idea of it.
What is wrong with you, he thinks, faintly. What is wrong with youâŚ
But he moves anyway. Sits back on his heels, shuffling back slowly until he's propped against the pillows and his back is resting against the headboard. You blink up at him, seemingly unsure of what he is doing, until he bites his lips and slowlyâslowlyâspreads his legs.
He sees the way your lips part, eyes darkening in realisation. "Master�"
"I said, call me Qifrey." His voice is hoarse, his face burning. But even as shame crawls up his spine, he reaches down around his knees and slowly pulls himself apart under your stare.
Your breath stops.
He can feel itâthe intensity of his gaze. You're staring at his hole: sore, still twitching, pink and wet and dripping slowly. Your eyes go darkâdarker than silverwood ink spilled over parchmentâand his entire face feels hot. His ears, his chest, down to the very tips of his fingers holding himself open, an unmistakable invitation.
Perhaps you'd cast some sort of body alteration spell on him as well. It's unbelievableâunbelievableâthat Qifrey could still want more after everything you've already done to him. And yetâ
Maybe, the one who is truly insatiable, is him.
"Put it back in me," he says.
"âŚHuh?"
If anything, he is satisfied by the way you've been rendered speechless instead for once. You always seem to have a ready quip, a clever remark at hand. But now, he decides that it would be best to show you without words.
Qifrey licks his lips. Gathers the cum trickling out of him on two fingers and slowly, deliberatelyâeven as you watchâpushes it back inside.
The stretch makes his lips part on a moan. It's just two fingersâbarely anything compared to what you've made him endure tonightâbut his body is sensitive now, every nerve ending raw and alive. He can feel everything: the drying stickiness of your spend, the tight clutch of his own hole, the way his loosened rim flutters around his knuckles even as a quiet, breathy whine escapes him. He doesn't take his eyes off you.
Neither do you.
For a long moment, neither of you move. And then you are on him, pushing him down into the mattress, your weight pinning him flat. Your hands grip his wrists hard enough to bruise, eyes darker than the sky on a moonless, starless nightâand it makes a shiver run up his spine. You look like a predator about to eat him alive.
Your voice is low, barely recognisable as you push his knees back. "You're going to regret saying that, Qifrey."
Qifrey lifts his chin, defiant. Tries to meet your eyes, even with his face flushed amd his body trembling, his hole clenching around nothing, begging for you.
"Do you promise?"
You smile.
And until the sky pales and the stars begin to fade out of sight, you spend the rest of the night doing just that.
GREAT HEAVENS
reread tally: |||
drag path.
⢠pairing: qifrey x gn!reader
⢠word count: 9.6k
⢠tags: master x apprentice relationship, eventual exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, ambiguous age gap, reader's age is undefined, mentions of self-harm (reader), allusions to vague qifrey x olruggio, lowkey codependency, reader has subtle yandere-ish tendencies if you squint, spoilers for manga (please let me know if there are any more tags i should add this is my first time writing content like *gestures*)
"The selfishness behind my reason for taking on pupils made me ill. But they'd never have to know that. So I decided that I would put every fiber of my being towards becoming a good educator. Only now do I realise just how foolish that, too, was." Qifrey takes on an apprentice to keep the silverwood at bay. It works, until it doesn't.
⢠chapters: one | two
drag path (n): a visible, often continuous trail, mark or disturbance left behind on a surface by an object or person being dragged
Qifrey had told himself it was fine.
The memory-erasure spell Olruggio concocted had worked beautifully, despite the circumstances. His friend's eyes had gone blank for only a moment, and in the next, they'd been taken ahold of by a deep sleep. The sort of sleep that was gentle and kind, even as the silverwood's pale branches writhed and recoiled in remonstration. And when Olruggio awoke, the sun was setting over the lake, and there was no evidence of what had transpired; only the familiar tilt of Qifrey's hat, a dark ribbon rippling in the wind, and the frayed ends of his tassel brushing Olruggio's shoulder.
That had been three years ago.
Now, Qifrey stands at the window of an unfamiliar room in a newly built house that will one day be his atelier, somewhere out in the Naakiwan Downs, east-northeast of the Kahln. The land stretches endlessly before himâopen plains rolling into each another until they dissolve into the distant horizon, vast swathes of pale grasses beneath a blue sky that seems to go on forever. It rarely rains out here, on the Zozah Peninsula. An atelier, of his own, under the open sky.
One part of his promise, kept.
But he's not foolish enough to hope that his distance from the Great Hallâfrom Olruggioâwill not give rise to problems of their own. Traveling alone had done nothing but proven that even that minute solace was enough for the silverwood to take root once more. And Qifrey would rather die than let his dearest friend's sacrifices have been made in vain.
He needs to stay on the edge. Unsettled. Uneasy. The moment he stops feeling as though the world is pressing in on him, so will the silverwood.
Beldaruit used to hover. For some reason, Qifrey remembers that with uncomfortable clarity. The sage's pale smoke-grey eyes would track him wherever he moved through the magic workshops of the Great Hallânever overt or intrusive, yet always there. And greater than his control over conjuring magic was his talent for conjuring nonsensical excuses, ones that he would use to check on the condition of Qifrey's health and mind.
You work too hard, Beldaruit would say in that airy, almost absentminded toneâso lighthearted it could almost be mistaken as jest. And Qifrey would roll his eyes, dismiss his concerns, and Beldaruit would worry anyway.
Perhaps that's what he needs. Someone to worry about. Someone whose concerns and matters would keep him tethered to the present, too busy to fall into the quiet where the tree could spread its roots.
An apprentice, then.
He finds you one afternoon as ordinary as any other. It's raining when he reaches the port town of Havsoâa steady patter that turns the cobblestones slick and darkens the wood of every dock and doorway. For all the precision Qifrey has honed over water, getting wet remains an irritation he's never quite outgrown, and the sound of rain prickles at his awareness like a thousand fine needles, impossible to ignore. He hurries through the narrow streets, searching the shopsâfor a new cast iron pot to replace the one that had cracked last week, some twine for binding dried herbs, other small sundriesâwhen he sees you.
The canvas awning you're huddled beneath is doing almost nothing at allânot to protect you from the cold spring rain, or from the sharp, biting winds sweeping in from the coast. Water drips steadily from the hem of your smock, your hair plastered in wet strings to your narrow cheeks. Despite this, you don't move.
Qifrey doesn't mean to stop. But he does.
You look up when his shadow falls over you. He takes the edge of his cloak, the water dispelling spell inked discretely beneath its hem, and sweeps it in a gentle arc above your head. The rain above you curves away. Your eyes widen ever so slightly, your gaze tracing the water trickling off the air as though sliding off an invisible dome, before you look back at him again.
"I don't like getting wet," Qifrey says, in manner of explanation.
You simply stare. For a moment, Qifrey wonders if you speak the common tongue at allâit's not uncommon for sailors from foreign kingdoms to abandon unwanted children in port towns like thisâor if you're simply mute.
"You're soaked," he tries again, more gently this time. "Do you have anywhere to go?"
Silence stretches in the space between each of his heartbeats. The rain patters, fingertips dancing along the boundary he's drawn. Then, you shake your head.
So you do understand him. Qifrey should have guessedâchildren like you are a dime a dozen here, orphans, strays, the overlooked and unclaimed. No one would notice if one or more vanished from the edges of the docks.
Convenient, a colder part of him supplies. You are old enough to comprehend, young enough to be malleable, and compared to an apprentice born into a family of witches, you won't know enough of magicâand by extension, the silverwoodâto ask questions that he doesn't want or know how to explain.
He takes you in.
The first few weeks are easier than he expects. You come to him with no poor habits to unlearnâno stubborn rune-drawing tendencies, no theoretical 'shortcuts' circulated by some of the lazier professors in the Great Hall. Teaching you is like working on a blank sheet of parchment. You simply watch what he does and try to do the same. And when you failâwhich is oftenâyou do not seem to be affected or frustrated. You simply do it again.
The only real issue is that you have never learned to write. Qifrey watches your hand wobble across the parchmentâleaving dark splotches in some places, lines breaking off in others. Your fingers wrap around the ink wand like a stick you've picked off the ground, all knuckles and no finesse.
Qifrey lets out a quiet sigh.
"Your grip is wrong."
You look up at him, uncomprehending. Qifrey sighs again and hesitates, just briefly, before he steps closer and leans down. His hand slides over your fingers, carefully adjusting each one until the wand rests properly between them, the tip hovering just above the parchment.
"Like that."
The moment he releases you, however, your grip tightens again reflexively. The wood of the ink wand creaks faintly in protest. He quickly takes your hand again.
"Gently," he murmurs. "Like holding a robin's egg."
Qifrey guides your hand across the parchment. A straight line. A square. A circle. Your hand relaxes under his, just a little.
"Just like that," he says, and lets go. You look at the ink wand in your hand. "Now, try again."
You practice until the sun goes down.
He teaches you the basics. The three basic components that make up every spell, the five elemental sigils for fire, wind, water, earth and light. The keystones that govern a spell's direction and strength and purpose, how the sizes of the rings can affect its range and potency. Everything he says, you memorise. And everything he teaches you, you practice until you can reproduce it by heart.
After only about a few months of training, Qifrey dares to say that you've reached the standard that most witches your age who've grown up around magic would be at. The rate at which you're learning is⌠unexpected, to say the least. He should be pleased. Any decent teacher would be.
Qifrey tells himself this as he watches you inscribe a heating spell along the belly of a copper kettle. It's a reasonably complex problem for a beginnerâthe spell must conjure heat but not fire, be stable enough to maintain an even boil, hot enough to warm but not so fierce as to warp or melt the metal. It's a careful balance of precision and power that tends to elude most newcomers to spellcasting.
You hand him the kettle when you finish. Qifrey pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lifts it up to his good eye, turning it slightly in the flickering light coming from the fireplace. The dispersion keystones are neatly drawn, arranged around the central fire sigil in two concentric circles. The limiting keystones sit where they should, tooâbalanced on either side, ready to dampen the spell the moment the heat climbs too high.
"Good," Qifrey says at last. The word feels thinner than it should be. He lingers a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for some flaw to justify a correction, but finds none. "We'll be able to use this to brew tea in the mornings, now."
You nod once at his assessment from where you're watching him by the kitchen table, then ask, "What next?"
There is no flicker of pride. No satisfaction in your work, no pause to take in what you've done. Just a simple what next, as if each perfected spell is nothing more than a marker on a long road you don't care much to tread on.
The first thin root of worry pushes through the soil of his chest.
Qifrey tries to keep his distance at first. He really does. A master-apprentice relationship only needs to go so deep for one to learn and the other to worry, and too much closeness would be counterproductive in his attempts to keep the silverwood at bay. He buys you all sorts of magical books and supplies you with wands and ink when you need it. He cooks, too, warm and filling meals that nourish the body and are rich in nutrients, until the hollowness in your cheeks softens, replaced by a healthier, rounded plumpness. He corrects your glyphs when he spots mistakes and guides your hand when your lines falter. It barely assauges the guilt in his chest.
You don't make it easier for him. Through no fault of your own, he knows, and yet somehow, that only makes it worse. You don't seek him out for any needs outside of your magic studies, never ask for anything, and eat exactly what he puts in front of you without comment. You wake up at dawn to start the tea kettle, and from there you start practicing magic without ceasing until he has to firmly tell you to go to bed.
There are no tantrums, no complaints, no childish demands for attention or affection. Surely, even children must have their preferences. Trinkets they like, foods they refuse to eat. But you are quiet and serious and wrong in a way that he cannot name, and Qifrey finds himself watching you much the same way Beldaruit had once watched him.
"You don't have to keep doing that," he tells you one evening. You're hunched over the kitchen with a half-empty cup of water, the parchment in front of you crowded with dozens of identical glyphs. The fire sigil that you'd just traced over in water glistens for a moment, then fades as the parchment slowly dries. You must have drawn the same glyph at least a hundred times now.
You don't look up, dipping your wand in water again. "My circles aren't perfectly round yet."
"You don't have to master everything in a single day. You could take a break."
"Why?"
Qifrey doesn't have an answer for that. Or rather, it's perhaps that he has too many. Because you look tired but refuse to admit it. Because your hands will cramp if you keep going. Because watching you work yourself into the ground makes me feel something too similar to what I used to feel for Olruggio, and that scares me.
"It was only a suggestion."
You consider it for a moment, and then turn back to your parchment. Qifrey sighs, pushing aside his robes to lower himself into the chair across from you.
"Do you have any reason for learning magic?"
You rotate your wrist once in the air before setting the wand's nib to parchment. "You asked me to."
"That's my reason, not yours."
"It's the only one I have."
Qifrey watches your hand move across the paper, and something in his chest tightens. This arrangement is supposed to be simpleâselfish, yes, but simple. You are supposed to ask things of him, to need him in small, manageable ways that keep him worried just enough about your progress and studies without causing him too much concern. You have done exactly just that.
And yet here he is, worrying about you constantly for a completely different reason.
He thinks of Beldaruit's gentle gaze, the soft curl of smoke illusions coaxed into being on nights when sleep proved treacherous, when the memories of darkness and rain pounding unceasingly against metal and claustrophobia set in. He remembers Olruggio's warm smile and even warmer eyes, the ribbon on his hat that Qifrey still touches sometimes in the dark, tracing the multiple preservation sigils he's inked onto the silk.
His reminder to never forget, to never grow complacent.
"Take a break," he says again, and this time, there's something in his voice that makes you stop.
You look at him for a long moment, head tilting slightly to the side. It reminds Qifrey vaguely of a sparrow. Finally, you speak.
"You're worried," you say, as though you're making an observation. Qifrey forces a smile.
"I'm your master. It's what I'm supposed to do."
You glance down at your parchment once more. For a moment he thinks you might refuse, ignore his words and go right back to practicing, but then you set your wand down next to the paper and push your chair back, legs scraping along the slate flagstones.
"I'll continue tomorrow," you announce, without looking at him.
"Good," he says in response, and the two of you sit in silence at the kitchen table, undisturbed except for the crackling of the fireplace, and Qifrey has to remember how to breathe without counting the spaces between each one.
Hearthglen Village is about a few furlongs from the atelier, more often than not in need of small, persistent fixes, and thusly, the ideal place for you to practice using magic after passing the Pentacle of Proving's second test. Qifrey walks beside you through the small handful of thatched cottages scattered through the patchwork quilt of farmfields, returning the villagers' greetings with easy familiarity. It's always good to maintain good relations with the unknowing, especially those living nearby.
Eventually, the two of you arrive in front of the client who'd requested Qifrey's services. The problem is simple: a farmer's irrigation ditch has gone haywire somehow, and now his turnips are drowning in mud. Qifrey could fix it alone in ten minutes, but that isn't the point. He nods towards the field, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
"Go on."
You hesitate only for a moment before you go, hovering tentatively over the knee deep muck with your sylph shoes as you float out to the irrigation ditch. Your expression is reminiscent of a wet cat'sâvaguely displeased, faintly affronted, as though the world has committed a personal offense by being this unpleasant. Qifrey has to hold back a smile.
In the meantime, Qifrey chats with the farmer as you workâsomething about the summer heat this year, the stubbornness of the soilâbut he makes sure to never let you slip from his sights. You're already at the ditch, hat bobbing as you hover over the mud. He can almost picture your hand beneath the shelter of your cloak: fingers wrapped around the wand, drawing those precise lines that you'd practiced over and over again with unswerving confidence.
He's listening to a rundown of this year's cabbage harvest when a faint rumble echoes across the field. The earth shifts, groaning as though rousing from a long slumber, and then the water starts to move. Mud loosens and starts to drain from the fields, revealing the green leaves of the turnips peeking out through the soil once more. It's quickly replaced by a steady stream of clear water.
The farmer's face brightens with relief. He claps his hands together with a delighted laugh, already turning to call out his thanks as you drift back over to the solid ground of the path, the hem of your cloak splattered with drying mud. You don't smile back; instead you wipe the faint sheen of sweat from your brow and look to Qifrey for approval.
He pushes his glasses up and nods once. "Well done."
You accept his verdict the same way you accept everything elseâquietly, without visible pride or disappointment. The farmer tries to press a basket overflowing with all variety of squash into your hands and your eyes find Qifrey's like you aren't sure what to do with gratitude. He takes it for you.
"They're a natural," the farmer nudges Qifrey as he moves to leave. "Where'd you find a talent like that?" Despite the surge of pride that races through him, he hesitates.
"They found me," Qifrey says, instead.
More villagers request your help over the course of the afternoon. A family's goat wandered into a small ravine, a child's kite got stuck in a tree. You lift the frantically bleating animal to safety with a levitating spell, and coax the wind into tugging the kite loose from an elm's tangled branches while the village children gather to watch you work with eyes full of wonder. The girl bounces on her heels as the toy finally drifts down into your waiting hand, and you hand it over without a smile.
The child hugs your legs anyway. You stand there awkwardly, arms glued to your sides, and Qifrey has to look away before he laughs.
Hours later, after the last request has been fulfilled and the sun is low enough to turn the clouds a warm ombre-ochre, you and Qifrey decide to walk home, the path stretching before you like a pale ribbon through the fields. You walk next to him in silence, as you always do, fingers stained with smudges of black ink and clay soil.
"You did well today," he says.
"Thank you."
"But."
You glance at him then. Just a slight flicker of the eyes, darting sideways and upwards. You've learned, by now, that your master is far from straightforward around topics that are necessary but difficult to broach.
"But?"
"But magic doesn't seem to make you happy," he finishes.
You neither deny nor confirm it. Your steps just slow slightly against the gravel scattered on the path, stones crunching beneath the soles of your boots. For a while, there is only the sound of the wind moving through the wheat fields.
Eventually, you speak.
"Does it have to?"
Qifrey thinks about that. About the way you've perfected every spell he's taught you but never once asked to learn any out of your own desire. About how you can spend hours, days, drawing circles and lines over and over again simply because he tells you to. About how quickly you've become good at magicâand how little of it seems to belong to you.
"It doesn't have to," Qifrey says, at last. He's cast all sorts of magic in his life, spells that have burned and hollowed, ones that have scarred and pained him beyond what any physical wound can. Not all of it was joy. Not all of it was kind.
Yet.
"But you should find a reason. To desire magic, I mean."
You glance at him, eyes briefly searching, as though weighing the shape of his words, their meaning. He licks his lips, suddenly dry.
"Magic is meant to grant wishes of the people," he says, more gently now. "To bless them. That includes yourself." His lips press together, smile half-formed before faltering, and the wind moves through the fields, rustling restlessly through the long grass. "IâI hope you can learn magic not because I tell you to, but because you want to."
The last sentence escapes him in a rush, as though forced from his lungs with some sort of wind dispelling spell. The thought settles heavy in his chest again, the silverwood shuddering. For all his careâfor all the effort he's poured into teaching you properly, responsiblyâone truth remains unchanged: Qifrey had taken you in because he needed an apprentice. Not out of kindness. Not out of any noble intent he can comfortably name.
He doesn't know what he would say if you ever asked him why. Any lie would feel too great a disservice to the one person he'd thrust this fate upon, and the truth feels brittle, insufficientâsomething that would fracture the moment he speaks it aloud.
But you never have. Sometimes, he suspects that you already know.
The remainder of the walk back passes in silence. The sky fades from sienna to lavender before deepening to a dark indigo. One by one, the first stars emerge at the very top of the firmament, their light faint and trembling. You say nothing, and Qifrey tells himself to give you timeâyou need space to process things, and pressuring you would only make you retreat further into yourself, like a snail hiding in its own shell.
The atelier comes into view at the end of the lane, its windows dark. Qifrey steps ahead, undoing the sealing glyphs on the door. It swings open with a soft creak, and he pauses, holding it ajar for you to step through.
You don't.
He turns back to see you standing a step behind the threshold, gaze lowered to the path at your feet, as though something he cannot see there has snared your attention and taken it captive. Qifrey frowns, head tilting.
"Apprentice?"
You don't answer immediately, hands in your pockets, the tip of your boot scuffing the ground. Then, quietlyâ
"I want to cure Master."
For a moment, Qifrey forgets how to breathe. He can only stare at you, mouth slightly parted. The words fail to catch despite him having nothing to say. Your voice had been small, carefulâlike you'd been turning the words over in your mouth for miles, smoothing their edges so they wouldn't cut your tongue on the way out. Of all the things he'd imagined you might say, this had never even been within his considerations.
He grips the door handle a little more firmly for support. The brass carvings bite its patterns into his skin of his palm.
"Cure me," he repeats, dumbly.
"Yes." You nod, the movement slow, as if hesitant in your admission. "The headaches that you try to hide from me. And your right eye, too," you add, pointing at the side of his face covered by his hair, as if he might not know the one. "You touch it when you think I'm not watching, but it seems like it hurts."
Qifrey didn't realise you'd noticed. He thought he'd been careful.
"I thought I asked you," he says, more quietly, more unsteadily now, "to want something for yourself."
"I don't like seeing Master in pain."
Qifreyâs grip on the door falters. Something tightens in his chestâperhaps the silverwood, perhaps something else, so sharp it cuts him open like a blade, and yet he doesn't know whether he wants to let go. For so long, he's been waitingâfor you to want something, to reach beyond instruction, to claim even the smallest piece of magic for your own.
And you have.
Qifrey exhales slowly, the sound thin against the quiet of the evening. For once, there is no ready answer waiting behind his teeth. He thinks of Olruggio's face, the path to salvation he'd offered Qifrey paved with the pieces of his own memory. He thinks of the tree growing inside of him, its roots tangled in his ribs, its branches seeking the sun through where his eye once used to be.
Healing magic is a direct alteration of the body, and every form of body alteration is forbiddenâbanned on the Day of the Pact, enforced by the Knights Moralis with iron and fire. And even if it wasn't, the silverwood is not merely an illness. There is no cure for what grows inside of him.
But you don't know any of that.
So Qifrey smiles softly. Releases his death grip on the door, pulling away to rest a hand on top of your head, the same way Beldaruit used to do for him.
"That's very kind of you," he says.
Your expression doesn't change, but the tautness in your shoulders loosens just a fraction, as if you'd been bracing for him to laugh at you, to dismiss your dream as a fool's flight and fancy. Instead, he pushes the door open wider and gestures you inside.
"Come on," Qifrey tells you, swallowing the sudden thickness lodged in his throat. "Wash up. I'll make squash stew for dinner."
You nod and disappear up the steps to the second floor. Your footsteps fade quickly, and soon Qifrey's ears pick up the sound of running water, of the bath being filled.
He remains in the doorway a moment longer, one hand braced against the frame, the other liftingâalmost unconsciouslyâto brush over where his right eye used to be, featherlight. The motion is familiar, thoughtless. Almost habitual.
But he's been exposed, now. A deprecating laugh escapes him, the wisps of it slipping between his teeth. It's only now, Qifrey thinks, that he's beginning to realise just how foolish he'd been.
He's fallen into the pit that he'd dug with his own two hands.
Sleep eludes Qifrey that night.
He lies on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead, the other resting on his chest. Beneath skin and bone, the cage of his ribs, the silverwood pulses its slow, patient rhythm, waiting. The ceiling above him is indistinguishable in the dark, but he's stared at it so many sleepless nights that he can recall to memory the grain of every plank, the small water stain in the corner that faintly resembles a bird in flight.
Just above him, in the room upstairs, you are sleeping soundlyâor he hopes so, at least. Belly full of squash stew, dreaming of pleasant things. That you are warm and resting, and that, for once, you are not pushing yourself past the point of sense simply because he asked it of you.
I want to cure Master.
Qifrey turns onto his side, facing the wall. His pillowcase smells faintly of lavenderâscented sachets you'd made last week, making use of some aromatics a village herbalist had given you for your help. He'd accepted one when you'd offered it, almost without thinking, assuming that it was thoughtful but practical gesture.
Now, the scent lingers like smoke.
Beldaruit used to say that the best apprentices were the ones who could surprise you. Qifrey always assumed he meant talent, insight, some brilliant intuition that no one else could replicate. Someone who could make teachers lean forward in their seats and think, that's the one.
But here, lying in his bed, your words from hours ago still sitting warm in his chest, he wonders if the old man had meant something else entirely.
Qifrey pushes out a breath, the tip of his tongue pressing behind his teeth. You will learn about the forbidden magic, eventually. Every witch doesâand as your master, it will be his responsibility to teach you about it. Some things are too dangerous. Some lines cannot be crossed. All magic that is drawn on the human body or affects the human body is outlawed.
And that includes healing magic.
You will learn that, and then you will not ask too many questions about why his eye cannot be fixed. Eventually, you will move on and find another, better wish.
But for now, Qifrey takes your words and folds them carefully, tucking them away into the furthest corner of his heart where the silverwood cannot reach. He closes his one good eye and waits for the sun to rise once again. And when it does, Qifrey will greet you in the kitchen downstairs with a cup of hot tea and a smile, he will teach you combination sigils and binding spells, and he will never bring it up again.
Because some wishes are too heavy to be said aloud, and some teachers are too selfish to let them go.
Summer slips unnoticed into autumn, and autumn, in turn, yields to winter. Qifrey teaches you to crochet, then to knitâawkward at first, fingers too stiff around the slumbersheep yarn until Qifrey takes your hands and guides you through the movements, much in the same way he does when teaching you spells. He shows you how to tend to the heating spells that keep the house warm without burning it down, how to summon precise gusts of wind to blow snow off the atelier's sloping roofs. And the months pass just as the weather changesâgradual, inevitable, marked only in hindsight by the shift in the air, the thinning of light.
And as you grow older, Qifrey finds the distance he once tried so carefully to maintain eroded by the same unrelenting tide. Bit by bit, day by dayâuntil one morning he wakes up and realises he cannot quite remember what it feels like to not have you there.
It's not something that changes overnight. Instead, it is a thousand small, mundane thingsâthe way his hand moves without thinking to drop two cubes of sugar into your teacup, the copper kettle with your heating spell whistling behind him on the stove. You're at the basin with your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, washing a skillet faintly smelling of bacon while a brushbuddy dozes on your shoulder. Everything is good, and everything is warm.
This is dangerous, Qifrey thinks. And then he thinks it again, because the first time hadn't been enough to make him stop.
The morning he's forced to confront it comes without warning. Quietly, unassumingly, a thief in the night.
Qifrey notices that something is different the moment he steps into the quiet of the kitchen. The kettle is cold, and the matching cups that a travelling potter had made for you sit upturned on the counter, untouched from where you'd set them aside to dry last night. He stands in the doorway for a moment, listening. The atelier breathes around him like an extension of his own bodyâthe soft creak of timber settling, the low whisper of wind along the eavesâbut beneath it, nothing. No quiet patter of footsteps in the floor upstairs. No water running in the washroom.
Perhaps you're sleeping in, he tells himself. The idea is almost pleasant. You never do; you're always awake before him, tea already steeped, moving around the kitchen to prepare breakfastâpresence slipped so easily into his morning routine that he'd stopped noticing it altogether.
Qifrey sets the kettle to heat, before rummaging for the battered tin of tea leaves in the overhead shelf. He prepares a cup for you, placing it at the chair that has become yours in all but name, and sits across it with his own. The brew's a little more astringent than he's used toâsteeped a touch too long, perhapsâbut he drinks it anyway, idly sorting through the neglected stack of mail from the council.
The sun climbs higher in the sky. Light spills through the kitchen window, between the gap in the curtains, inching slowly across the table to catch on the rim of your untouched cup. Qifrey looks through the latest spell you've been working on: an attempt at replicating his Palm Dragon Teacup. He makes small suggestions in the margins, noting down more efficient arrangements and combinations of keystones, ideas for refining its precision. Still, it's good work. Your work is always good.
More time passes. He finally completes drafting a letter to the Great Hallâsomething about independent ateliers and watchful eyesâand sends it off before picking up a book about complex fire spells. Qifrey thumbs through the pages slowly, more out of idleness than focus, pausing every now and then when something catches his eye. A variation making use of the stabilising keystone. A more efficient heat-dispersal glyph. He dog-ears about six different pages with the intention of showing them to you later, when he looks up and realises that your tea has long gone cold.
Qifrey closes his book, sets it aside, and heads for the stairs.
Your bedroom door is closed.
That isn't surprising to Qifrey. You've always been a private person by nature, and you're even moreso protective of your few possessions, your personal space. Qifrey learned early on not to intrude without invitation or cause.
But your diversion from routine is⌠odd. Surely you will forgive his worry.
Qifrey hesitates, knuckles hovering over the wood of your door, before he knocks. "Apprentice?"
No answer.
He knocks again, a little sharper this time. "It's past noon. If you want to sleep in, just let me know, alright? You deserve the rest."
Still no answer.
The thin thread of unease tightens around his chest.
"I'm coming in."
The door swings open easily beneath his hand. The room that he steps into is familiar and empty. Your blankets are carefully folded at the foot of the bed, your traveling cloak absent from its hook by the window. And your sylph shoes, the ones that he'd helped you mend just last week, are missing from their place next to the dresser.
Qifrey stands in the center of the room, the air suddenly going very, very still. The silverwood in his chest trembles.
Calm down, he tells himself firmly. Your bed is madeâyour absence must be deliberate. There must be some sort of explanation. Perhaps you wanted a taste of mischief, to act your age for once. Perhaps you snuck out to one of the nearby villagers, Hearthglen or Azmar, to meet people, make friends. Be normal. You mentioned the daughter of Azmar's baker last week. He recalls a girl your age with flour on her apron who'd been fascinated with your magic. Perhaps you've gone to pay her a visit.
He turns slowly, forcing his gaze to move along with him. Your ink wands are in a little cup on your table, textbooks sitting in rows on the shelf where they belong. Encyclopedias, histories, grimoires he'd deemed safe for for your learning. Nothing out of place. He's about to leave the room, fetch a guidance orb just to make sure that you're alright, whenâ
Something small and furtive shifts between a gap in the books. The brushbuddy's tail twitches into view before it darts back into the narrow space behind, as though caught somewhere it shouldn't be.
Qifrey frowns.
He reaches up and pulls the entire front row of volumes aside, setting them down on the table with a heavy thump. Dust stirs in the air. Behind them sits another, shorter stack of books, tucked neatly out of sight. Aside from him, there isn't another occupant in this atelier for you to hide things from. Which means you meant to conceal this deliberately. From him.
Why?
Qifrey ignores the cold uncertainty in his chest, picking up the first book. Medical journal. Second. Herbal remedies of the Southern Continent. Third, an encyclopedia on human anatomy, although only the section on ophthalmology is bookmarked, annotated so densely that barely any margin is left untouched. The rest of the books are of a similar vein.
Only the last one is differentâa notebook, worn pages filled with a cramped but script that he would recognise anywhere. The rest are filled with sketchesâplants that even he doesn't recognise at first glance, roots and leaves and bulbs rendered with careful attention to detail. Analgesic properties. Toxic in high doses. Antispasmodic. Causes hallucinations.
He flips through more rapidly, pulse quickening, but the later pages only get worse.
Burn, left forearm. Applied tincture from ground monoceros horn and milkwort. Moderate pain reduction, mild nausea. Bruise, right knee. Poultice from steeped elderwood and nightpoppy. Significant pain relief, but results in complete loss of sensation and movement in area. Lasts three hours. Burnâ
Qifrey's vision blurs. His other hand grips the edge of your chair, knuckles white, breath coming out sharp and shallow as he forces himself to breathe. You've been hurting yourself. On purpose. Testing remedies for⌠forâ
He doesn't dare to let that thought complete itself. He turns the pages quickly, skimming past entries until he reaches the last one. The ink is smudged where the parchment presses together, as if you'd jotted it down and closed it in a hurry. It's still faintly wet.
There is a rough sketch of silvery stems and thin, needle-like leaves. Spineneedles, you've labelled them. Your notes crowd the margins: potent pain-relieving properties. Possible long-term restorative effects. Grows only in steep valleys inhabited by winged serpentines, venom necessary for germination. And below itâ
Kestrel's Maw, eight furlongs north of atelier. Serpentines least active at dusk and dawn.
Qifrey feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. Outside the window, the sun hangs high in the cold winter sky, almost at its zenithâlong past dawn, past any reasonable margin of safety. It's far too late. You should have been back hours ago. No, worseâyou should have never gone at all, risking your life for such foolish, pointless endeavours. You should have been in this very room, sleeping soundly beneath the blankets, unharmed and safe and under Qifrey's protective eye. Insteadâ
He'd flown over Kestrel's Maw once, years ago. He still remembers the way the cliffs drop away into nothing, wind screaming through the narrow ravines, strong enough to throw even an experienced witch off balance. And the serpentines there are especially aggressiveâgreat, winged creatures with beaks like drawn swordsânesting in the crevices where the spineneedles grow.
And that's where you've gone.
I'm responsible for this, Qifrey thinks numbly, and the words are a realisation as much as an accusation aimed at himself. I did this. I made you this way. I wanted someone to worry about, and nowâ
The image comes to him, unbidden: your body, broken at the base of the ravine. Impaled by sharp spikes at the bottom, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Cloak ripped and dark with blood, flesh torn from your bones by monstrous beaks. And your faceâthat quiet, serious, earnest faceâpale, chest still, eyes open yet blank and vacant and unseeing andâ
No.
No.
Qifrey runs. He doesn't think. He doesn't allow himself to. The door is too farâhe shoves your shutters open and throws himself out of the second floor window, into the harsh midday sunlight. For a second, wind rushes up to meet him, flailing, fallingâbefore the sylph seal beneath his feet flares. And then he's airborne, rising too fast but not fast enough, the wind tearing at his hair, the fragile control he's forcing himself to hold together.
Please, not them, is all he can think as he hurtles through the sky. Not my apprentice. Not them. I'll do anything. Please, please, pleaseâ
He doesn't know who he's begging, only that he'll beg anything, bargain everythingâif it means that you're still alive when he arrives.
Even from a distance, the ravine makes for an unnerving sight. The karst pinnacles spear upwards as though they seek to pierce the sky, like the vicious teeth of some enormous, long-dead beast. Qifrey had forgotten how sharp they were, every edge honed to something hostile. Even the light falls strangely, splintered by stone so that shadows fall where they shouldn't, fractured into shifting planes that make depth and distance difficult to judge.
He clears the plains beneath him with unmatched speed, wind tearing past himâ
âand then, he sees you.
You're clinging to a narrow outcropping perhaps fifty feet below the cliff's edge, body pressed close to the rock wall as though trying to become one with it yourself. Your sylph shoes are missing from one foot, and there's a long rend in your cloak. You aren't movingâonly holding on, just barelyâfeet perilously close to the edge of a fatal, yawning drop below.
Above you, three winged serpentines circle patiently in the air. Their beaks hang slightly open, tongues flickering you as if tasting the airâyour blood, your fear, the inevitability of what's next. The only mercy here is that they're not attacking. They are waiting, drawing it out. The same way a cat toys with a mouse it already knows cannot escape.
Qifrey doesn't stop or slow. He dives.
The wind screams past his ears, rising to a fever pitch as he plummets. His palm quire slips into his hand by instinct alone, wand flying over the paper in sharp, practiced strokes before he can even spare a thought as to who might be watching.
The spell takes shape in a single breath. Water wrenches itself from the air, the thin moisture caught in wind and stone, surging upwards into a coiling mass until it takes shapeâa great, fluid dragon, its body twisting through the open air with a roar that echoes throughout the entire length of the gorge.
Two serpentines are caught in its jaws almost immediately, their cries cut short amidst the sound of snapping wing and bone. The third shrieks, veering sharply away before wheeling back, beak gaping in furyâbut Qifrey is already moving, one arm wrapping around your waist and tearing you off the cliff face, hauling you bodily into the open air. You make a quiet sound in the back of your throatâthe closest to afraid he's ever heard youâfingers gripping at the front of his shirt.
"Masterâ"
"Don't call me that right now."
The serpentines shriek behind him, rallying. Qifrey presses the sylph seal on his boots together, the weight of you unwieldy and palpable in his arms, and flies home.
You don't speak on the way back. Neither does he.
The atelier rises into view at the edge of the fields, its familiar shape cutting through the blur of wind and motion. He lands harder than he intends, knees buckling for a second before he forces himself forwardâhalf-carrying, half-dragging you through the front door. Your cup remains where he left it, untouched on the kitchen table, and he sets you down onto the chairâthe same one he'd been sitting in just an hour prior, drinking tea and so, so obliviousâmore roughly than he intends.
You don't complain. You never do. The same way you never protest, never ask, never tell him anythingâ
Qifrey turns away. His hands are shaking. He wrenches open the drawers, rifling through them with none of his usual care, yanking out bandages, salves, clean gauzes. Something clenches in his chest like a fist, squeezing, tight, so tight.
"What were you thinking?" he snaps. He almost doesn't recognise his own voiceâlow and taut and cutting. "Going to such a dangerous placeâaloneâwithout telling anyoneâwithout askingâ"
He finds the antiseptic, shoved into the back of a drawer. His fingers slip on the stopper, trembling faintly.
"You could have died. Do you understand that? You could have died. Those creaturesâthey could haveâ" Sent you plummeting down the cliff. Eaten you. Torn you to pieces. He can't bring himself to finish the sentence. The images they conjure are too much to bear.
He whirls around again, still not quite looking at your face, and takes your left arm. The cuts are worse up closeâlong, ragged scratches that split skin, dried blood flaking at the edges. Your palms and fingers are raw and abraded from where you must have clung to the sharp rock.
Qifrey dabs at them with more force than necessary. You flinch just once, before going still again.
"Rash. Reckless. Stupid." The words spill out of him like water from a broken dam. They're sharp enough to wound, meant to hurt, and he knows this even as he says them but cannot bring himself to stop. "I didn't teach you that. I taught you to think, to assess, not throw yourself off cliffs forâfor worthless plantsâ"
"Masterâ"
"I said don't." Hearing that title alone makes him want to scream. "Don't call me that now. You don't have any right to when youâ"
"It's Master's fault."
The words land like a slap. Qifrey turns to look at youâone hand frozen over a roll of bandages, the echo of them stingingâonly to find your mouth drawn taut in a stubborn line. And your eyes, those quiet, watchful eyes that have always followed him so carefully, are hard with something he's never seen in them before. Not guilt. Not shame. Something closer to accusation.
As though he is the one who has wronged you.
"Oh, it's my fault," he repeats, his voice rising sharply on its own, an unpleasant mixture of anger and incredulity. "I didn't tell you to sneak out without telling me. I didn't tell you to seek out winged beasts you have no experience fighting. I didn't tell you toâ"
"Yes, because Master never tells me anythingâ"
"For good reason!" He throws his hands up, the dishclothâstained with your bloodâtwisting taut between his white knuckled fingers. Qifrey wants to shake you. Maybe tear his hair out. Another part of himâa smaller, quieter partâwants to lock you in this atelier and throw away the key forever, just to make sure that you are safe. "There are things I don't tell you because they are dangerous, things that I am tryingâI have been tryingâto protect you fromâ"
"I don't need to be protected like a childâ"
"Then stop acting like one!" Qifrey is shouting now. He knows that he is shouting. He can't stop. "Sneaking around behind my back, hiding books in your room, burning and cutting yourself, putting yourself in mortal danger for a cure that doesn't exist!"
Your obstinate expression only darkens further. "Master can't know for certainâ"
"I do!" His hands come down hard on the tabletop, and you flinch. Your teacup jumps, porcelain clattering as it tips. Cold tea spills across the gingham patterns. "I know becauseâ" Because he's already been to the Tower of Memories, and he knows that what ails him is no illness or curse. "âbecause I've already read every book, tried every remedyâI know that there is no cure! There is no cure, and there will never be, so stop trying to throw your life away for something soâ"
"I won't!"
Something in Qifrey snaps.
"If you're so unwilling to listen to me," he says, his voice suddenly cold and flat, in a way that doesn't belong to him, "then maybe you should no longer be my apprentice."
The moment those words leave his mouth, Qifrey knows at once that he would do anything to take them backâtear them out of the air, swallow them whole even if they cut his throat to ribbonsâbut the damage is already done.
You go very still. The anger doesn't leave you, not entirely, but something beneath it fracturesâhairline cracks spiderwebbing across thin river ice. Your mouth works soundlessly, shaping around words that don't make it out, before pressing into a thin, bloodless line.
When he dares a glance up again, your lashes are wet. You're not cryingâyou never have, not in front of him, at leastâbut your eyes are bright, too bright now, in a way that feels dangerously close. Your lower lip wobbles only once before you sink your teeth into it and force it still.
Qifrey hates water. The sound of rain makes his chest tight, and the feeling of being wet makes his skin crawl. He hates the way it blurs the fading remnants of his vision, the way it soaks through his clothes and leeches the heat from his bones, the way it reminds him of things he's forgotten and things he wishes he could forget.
But thisâthisâis worse.
Qifrey's hands falter, then drop back to his sides. Why had they even been raised in the first place? The kitchen is too quiet now, empty except for the phantom ghosts of your anger and his, the steady drip of tea from the table's edge, forming a puddle on the flagstones beneath. He feels exhausted all of a suddenâwrung dry and scraped hollow.
It's only then that he notices the bag. Your handâthe other one, still dirty and bleedingâis curled around a small pouch of cloth, pressed so tightly against your chest that your knuckles have gone white. Even after everything, you are still clinging to it. Still trying, desperately, to keep it safe.
"Give me the bag," he says.
Your eyes jump to Qifrey's face. You glance down at the bag, as though just only remembering thtat it's there, before your fingers tighten around it again, spine curving over it protectively. Hesitation flickers across your expression for a brief second, before you give a small, stubborn shake of the head.
No.
Qifrey sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, patience fraying, before he reins himself in forcefully. He's done more than enough damage, today. "I won'tâI'm not going to do anything to it," he says, trying to sound reassuring, more gentle. He doesn't know if he succeeds. "Justâplease. Give me the bag."
You stare at him for a moment longer, as though wordlessly weighing whether you can trust his words. Then, slowly, reluctantlyâyou loosen your death grip on the pouch and hold it out.
It's surprisingly light in his hand, once he takes it. Almost as though it holds nothing inside at all. His fingers, still faintly numb and tacky with your blood, fumble with the drawstrings as he pulls them loose. He looks inside.
A handful of silver leaves lie scattered across the bottom of the pouch. Thin and gleaming, each one shaped like a sewing needle. Spineneedles. Carefully gathered, but so few of themâbarely enough to brew a single thumb-sized vial of tincture.
Yet the mere sight of them is enough to strip all the anger from him in an instant. Qifrey stares down into the pouch, the thin scatter of silver leaves there glinting faintly like stars in the night sky, and feels something inside him give way.
He isn't angry with you. He's never been angry with you. The one whom Qifrey is so unbearably angry with, so deeply ashamed ofâis himself. Because the only reason you did any of thisâpushed yourself to such lengths, put yourself in harm's wayâis because he let you believe he could be cured. He'd smiled and selfishly kept the words you'd uttered that day close to his heart, like a precious treasure, and in doing so, he'd unwittingly sent you hurtling straight into danger's embrace.
A slow, quiet breath escapes him. Qifrey slowly lets himself sink to his knees in front of your chair, suddenly weary in a way that he cannot quite name.
You shift at the movement, glancing down at him with something uncertain in your expression, unsure of his moods.
"âŚMaster?"
He sets the pouch on the table and carefully takes your hands in his. You try to tug them back to your chest on instinct but he holds on to your wrists, gentle but insistent. Qifrey turns them over, palms out, your fingers curling slightly, and looks at the small, round marks he's never looked close enough to notice before. Burn scars. Old and new, layered together, a wordless record of every time you had pressed pain into your own body in search of something that might help him.
His throat closes around the words he doesn't have.
"Thank you," is all he can say, in the end. Even then, it feels inadequate. "For trying to cure me. For going to such lengths to ease my pain." Qifrey pauses, his thumb brushing over a half-healed scab on your knuckle. "But it⌠it won't work."
You look at him, then. The defiance has receded from your eyes, leaving behind a thin, wavering uncertainty in its place. "How can Master be so sure it will not work?"
Because I've already tried everything. Because I read about it in the Tower, and I know the truth. Because the problem isn't my eye or the headachesâit is the tree growing inside of me, the parasite that will kill me if I stop worrying, if I stop hurting, if I let myself be happy for even a moment.
But Qifrey cannot say that. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. His fingers drift down unconsciously to brush the ribbon trailing from the top of his hat.
"Because, like I said, I've tried every remedy in existence." He shakes his head with a defeated smile, squeezing your hands. "Nothing works. And it only hurts me moreâmore than my eye or any headacheâto see my beloved apprentice put themself in danger for my sake."
You go still, fingers curling loosely under his own.
"I should be the one protecting you," he continues. "Not the other way around. Thatâthat's the whole point of having an apprentice." Qifrey almost laughs at that, the line of his mouth twisting into the shape of a half-formed, self-deprecating smile. Oh, he was so, so foolish. "I'm supposed to keep you safe. And yet, here you are, throwing yourself into danger for me."
His gaze drops back to your hands, the small scars scattered across your skin.
"I'm content," Qifrey says quietly. "With what I have now. The atelier. You." And as the words leave him, he realises that they are not merely for your sakeâthey are true, plain and simple. "The pain is small in comparison."
You don't speak for a moment. The afternoon light has shifted, turning golden and syrupy, pooling on the floor between you like liquid honey. Qifrey can hear the sound of his own heartbeat in the silence, a slow, steady march in his ears.
"But I don't like to see Master in pain."
Your voice is small, but matter-of-fact. You say it in the same way you might state an obvious truth, such as fire is hot and water is clear and the sun rises in the east. As if it's simply a fact of the universe that you dislike seeing him in painâand therefore, you must do something about it.
Qifrey's heart clenches, a sharp and sudden thing. Before he can think better of it he's already leaning forward to gather you into his arms. It's the first time he's ever hugged you, he realises distantly. He's held you when you were learning to use sylph shoes for the first time, guided your hand and wand through careful strokes, rested a light hand on your head once or twiceâbut never anything like this. Never returned even a fraction of the quiet comfort you've given him simply by being there. Some master he's been.
You go stiff for a moment against his chest, caught off guard by the suddenness of the gesture. A few breaths pass before your shoulders loosen, ever so slightly, and then your forehead dips, coming to rest slowly against the line of his collarbone. And your hands, one half-bandaged and the other still dirty with smeared blood and dirt, come up to grip tentatively at the back of his shirt.
When had you become so precious to him?
He closes his one good eye and presses his face into the top of your head, ignoring the way his glasses push up on the bridge of his nose. Your hair smells faintly of lemon verbena and soap. "Don't do something so dangerous again, alright?" His voice comes out muffled, even to his own ears. "Promise me."
There's a long pause. Then: "I don't want to give up, Master."
Qifrey sighs, something between an amused sigh and weary acceptance. Clearly, it'd been wishful thinking at best to hope otherwise, and the fault for it lies squarely with him. He draws back just enough to look at you. Your fingers tighten in his shirt.
"If you have any ideas," he says at last, the words coming together with reluctant resignation, "tell me first. Before you do anything. We'll experiment togetherâhere, in the atelier, where it's safe." His eye narrows slightly, a faint edge of sternness threading through the softness. "I won't stop you from trying. But I'm not going to lose you to a cliff face or anything else, and there will be no forbidden magic. Do you understand?"
You hold his gaze. For a moment your expression is unreadableâeyes too much like mirrors, reflecting too much of him back at himself, too clearly, too honestly. Then, slowly, you nod.
"Okay."
"Good." The word leaves him more easily than expected, as though some heavy weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. Qifrey pulls you in again, a brief but quieter second embrace, before he lets you go and leans back. Even with the space between you now, the residual warmth of you lingers, settling into the hollow places between his ribs like sunlight.
"I'll make dinner tonight," he announces, getting to his feet. "You should get some rest. But firstâlet me finish treating your arms."
"Okay."
You hold your arms out obediently. He takes them, careful as though he's handling some priceless, irreplaceable magical artifact, tutting softly under his breath at the state of you. The cuts, the burns, the bruisingâhe tends to each with attentive hands, and insists on drawing you a bath of milk and herbs as he works, all while you squirm and offer half-hearted rejections in protest.
Somewhere in his chest, the silverwood stirs.
a/n: i cannot believe that some of my best writing this year might have been for yet another white haired man voiced by joshua waters in en who is also competing in the depression olympics. the only difference is that qifrey is a twink and i only found out about him three days ago before proceeding to bash out ten thousand words for him despite not really blorbo-ing him. am i denial or do i need the asylum đ n e ways i hope you enjoy! please don't crucify me for the age gap or the eventual problematic student teacher relationship </3
ough iâm a sucker for a GOOD PLOT. this man is so dada đââď¸
before yuuta left for africa, you remember him to be scrawny, about the same height as you, all elbows and knees. he would stutter when you caught his gaze for too long and your pinkies would hook when you walked home together, headphones shared, heads tilted close. behind the school building, youâd trade snacks and heâd blush when you brushed crumbs off of his shirt. sometimes youâd sit together on the curb, knees touching, as he let you doodle little shapes on his arm.
and you remember the kisses. quick, clumsy pecks that made you giggle. sometimes his eyes stayed open, as if to memorize your face. his fingers fumbled, shifting from your shoulders to your back again, unsure where to touch, but each kiss felt like a tiny discovery. a small, shared secret, leaving a lingering warmth on both your cheeks long after.
when he returned, you barely recognized him. you were surprised at how much had changed. you had to look up at him now; his shoulders were broader, his frame taller, and he moved with purpose. the nervous, fumbling gestures of before gone.
now, yuutaâs hands find your waist naturally. heâs less shy, more present, and he initiates contact without hesitation: brushes a strand of hair from your face, nudges you gently as you walk, leans closer when he laughs, adjusts your jacket without asking and lets his hand linger briefly on your lower back when guiding you.
and the awkward, clumsy pecks changed. his kisses are bolder, and heâs the one guiding you now. he chases your lips relentlessly, presses you against walls or the edge of tables, hands linger on your waist and lower back. each kiss lingers longer, heavier, more urgent than before, perhaps to make up for lost time. his hands roam along your body, leaving you breathless.
yuuta is more confident now. in himself, in what he wants from you. he knows he never wants the same distance between you two as there was when he was away. he wants you close, always close, and certain of the bond that ties you together. he isnât the same blushing boy anymore when heâs over you, pulling his shirt off âĄ
giggling and kicking my feet. ugh i love yuta. stood by that mf since DAY ONE
Beast - R.S.
Synopsis. Four arms. Four eyes. Two mouths. Ryomen Sukuna has everything he needs and more: power, riches, enough concubines that heâs grown bored of such frivolities. That is, until youâre entering his royal estate as the newest additionâand he just didnât expect such a puny little human to become⌠His favorite.
Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!concubine!reader, Heian era!Sukuna, true form!Sukuna, DP, Sukunaâs second mouth, the Sukuna Estate, other concubines, schemes, sIight pIot, mostly just true form Kuna mmmmpfg, heâs the master, heâs BIG (like really big), four arms, two mouths, heâs FĂRAL, mouth-rĂding, sort of face-sĂtting, p sIapping, oraI (f + brief m), DĂMBlFICATION, making it fit, tight squeezes, stretching, tummy buIges, cervĂx smooches, sIight degradation, brĂŠeding, mentions of heirs, MANHANDLlNG, tension, full nĂŠlsons, overstĂmulation, spĂtting, foIding, stopping you from running, making you CRY, rough s, heâs MEAN, creampĂes, cĂşmpIay, muIti-tasking (iykyk), implied marathon, slight proposals, pet names, swĂŠaring.
Word count. 10.5k
A/N. Blame that split-second frame from the last episode not meâŚ
âOf the eighty-two chambers, you are free to enter most.â Uraumeâs words were smooth, steady, and not a second longer than necessary; just as their steps were down these winding hallways.Â
Youâre hastening your strides to keep up.
âYou may roam in the gardens and libraries. The main kitchen has its doors always open, the Eastern one is for specialty desserts and guests, and the Western one is for poisonsâŚand guests.â They continue, âThe dojo is forbidden to anyone but the master, and you are expected in the Buddha room every evening.â
They suddenly halt.
Boredly, âYou do plan to stay alive, I believe?â
And you could barely breathe, âI-I believe so?â
Youâre realizing that youâve stopped at the end of a massive bridge connecting to a quieter wing of the estateâintricately carved, and accompanied by a slow river drifting underneath. Uraumeâs hand falls to the edge of the lattice doors, âGood. Here we have the concubine quarters-â Looking at you seriously, â-where you shall reside.â
A shiver runs down your spine.
Truth be told, you hadnât expected to get this far.
According to what the stories and legends claimed, a mere mortal like you would have been sniffed outâwould have been sought after, would have your flesh torn to shreds the very second you stepped inside the Sukuna Estate. If not by the monster that inhabited it, then the Estate itself.
Some whispered that it was inhabited by cursed spirits - amongst something far, far worse - that both guarded and imprisoned. Whilst others whispered that the house itself was a cursed spirit in the form of this sprawling aristocratic estateâas vast as a palace. Even more whispered that whomever entered the house gained a taste for blood, and even most claimed that a houseâs auspiciousness reflected that of its masterâs.Â
For who else would inhabit such a place but Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses himself?
If the public whispered about the estate, they simply yelled about the sorcerer that inhabited it. Blood-curdling screams.Â
There was no avoiding the rumors that swirled around the special-grade; those who were unfortunate enough to cross his path painted a picture of a beast more than eight feet tall, with glowing blood-red eyes and horns that tore open the skies. Storms he could silence with a single wave of his hand. His powers were what made legendsânever before had there been seen a sorcerer as strong as he, and it was likely that there never shall be again. Though that was not for a lack of trying, or talent, or assassinations.Â
Despite remaining living, he was depicted in temples and murals of hell. Four arms. Four eyes. Two mouths and countless tattoos. So imbued in his sorcery that it metamorphosed his physical body itself - Ryomen Sukuna was said to be something more than human, but something less than a person.Â
Look at him wrong and you might find yourself without sight. Without life.Â
Thus, not many dared to lay their eyes upon himâbut they didnât have to. He left a pathway of destruction and blood-soaked footprints wherever he went.Â
A kill count higher than several populations.
Wherever he went, it loomed the dark shadow of a hand across the land. Currently that hand was grasped tight around the city of Heian-kyĹ: the home of Ryomen Sukuna, it sat at the very center of the capital. Dubbed aptly by the citizens to be The Estate of the Dead. For no human that wandered inside, will ever wander out.
And yet, thatâs exactly the chance youâd taken today.
Youâd had enough.
Youâd waltzed right up to those grand doors this evening, dwarfing everything and anything around it, and knocked. Dark mahogany panels. Gilded handles. Unlike most noble homes, the Sukuna Estate didnât need to have guards stationed outside itâfor who was mad enough to bother the King of Curses?
You, it seems.
And so the busy road froze around you; the residents paused mid-gossip, the merchants stopped haggling their prices, the carts and wheels creaked to a haltâthe world itself held its breath as the doors to the estate had opened.
And a short, slender person stepped outside.
They were dressed in a dark monkâs robe draped over a white kimono, equally white hair dazzling - almost ethereally odd - underneath the sunlight. They closed the door behind themself, and looked at you intensely. âState your purpose.â
You struggled to remember why you were here in the first place, âI-It is my greatest honor to-â
âHasten.â
âI only wished to-â
âHasten-â
âA position.â
You werenât sure who was more bewildered at the words that blurted out of youâyou or the citizens around you. There were soft gasps that echoed into the air, peering even closer at the strange interaction. However, the attendant merely looked at you uncertainly, and you hurried to explain yourself. âI come seeking employment, my lord of the house.â
âI am but a mere servant.â They replied, raising one hand. âAnd we seek help no longer.â
As they attempted to turn back and go inside, youâre rushing. âPlease-â
Brows furrowed, âI said we seek help no-â
âBut I swear that I shall be the most loyal servant to the masterâŚâ Bowed slightly, a slight rush of relief goes through you as you notice theyâve turned back. Just barely, but itâs something. â-after yourself, of course.â
They huffed in slight amusement.
And your hands shook. Gripped onto the long length of your sleeves, you steadied them before you continued - just as youâd practiced. âI swear upon my soul that no assignment shall be too great, no concern too small. Pleaseâplease, I have scoured every street and alley for weeks now in search of employment, and you have been the only one kind enough to open your doorsâŚAny job is enough for me- any. Just spare me the chance.â Hands twisted together into a plea, âI beg of you.â
They looked slightly taken aback, and you stepped closer to seize your chance.
âMy body is the masterâs, and I shall gladly undertake any task.â You gazed straight into their doe-like, brown eyesââAny task.â
Their lips barely moved as they repeated, âAny?â
âAny.â
There was a ringing silence following your answer, and you knew that everyone in the once-bustling vicinity must have been staring at you. But that didnât matter.
Nothing mattered but the way the white-haired attendant let their brows raise, they appraised you from head to toe.
Head to toe.
Head to toe.
It honestly seemed like forever before they finally sighed, âAt ease.â
And you shot upwards from your painstaking bow with an awed breath.Â
Untold, the doors to the Sukuna Estate opened. They turned around, not meeting your eyes - nor that of anyone around you two - and gestured for you to follow them inside. Stepping inside as though they didnât care whether you proceeded or not, the strange attendant uttered. âI expect you to use your body well to serve the master.â Just barely tilted to the side to take another look at you, âYou have one night to please him.â
The sound of wrought iron echoed through the ancient city like thunder.
And you touched your sleeve once more - your best silk, but more specificallyâŚthe dagger youâd hidden beneath it.Â
You had one night to take down the King of Curses.
In no time, youâd been led around the massive estate by Uraume - theyâd uttered their name to you between the meeting chamber and the second library - and your heart still thumps away at your throat as they now creeeeeeakâ! open the quarters for the concubines. Blood bubbling in your veins. Blade cold against your skin.
There was a buzzing sort of excitement that seemed to extend from the weapon and onto youâonly growing stronger as youâre pacing inside.Â
It wasnât the small, structured sort of barrack that you mightâve expected - you werenât sure the validity, but youâd already heard stories about how concubines were cramped together in certain royal palaces. Bunks on top of bunks. Bodies that remained undernourished and untouched.
However, what Uraume takes you through is a gilded hallwayânothing out-of-place from the rest of the palace. On one side was a line of separate rooms, at the end of the hallway the paneled doors opened to a garden. It had unlit lanterns on the high ceilings and intricate artifacts that seemingly sprouted from the gleaming wooden floors; the spotless corridor branched and divulged into several other rooms and hallways, weighed with nameplates, and you were shocked to realize that each concubine seemed to have their room - no matter how small their rank; there was a lingering of perfume in the air.Â
Fit for royals.
Your eyes bounce off of the walls, and Uraume watches your reaction closely. âI assume it is to your liking?â
âYes-â You wouldnât want to give off the wrong impression - especially not when a mere offense could mean deathââF-forgive me, itâs far more than to my liking, itâsâŚâ Taking another awed look around, â-magnificent. I suppose I didnât expect it to be soâŚâ
âBeautiful?â Uraume seems to read your mind.
And you can only turn to them and nod.Â
They sagely nod, something knowing in their tone. âThe master has an inclination to all that is beautiful and surprising.â Looking at you closely, âParticularly surprising.â
Uraumeâs expression gives nothing away, and you attempt to do the same - the dagger glints coldly against your hand. A single movement and it could cut you. A single movement and it could be in your hands.
You donât know how long they maintain eerie eye contact with you before the sound of footsteps makes you tear your eyes awayâand where youâre perhaps expecting to see the monster, the inhuman, the master of this house himselfâitâs another woman. Human, perhaps.
Donned in expensive silk that robes her figure, she tip-toes towards the two of you with a sheepish smile upon her painted face.Â
She bows, and youâre bowing back.
âForgive my intrusion.â She says as she straightens once more, âIt is seldom we meet a new girl. Perhaps this is forward, but am I right in presuming you are one of the new concubines?â
âO-oh, you are correct.â Youâre surprised by her warm and welcoming demeanour - werenât fights and jealousy typical of close concubine quarters? Wasnât she supposed to scheme and plot against you just as you were doing against her- you suppose your master?
But she takes your hand and beams at you, âThen it is most wonderful to make your acquaintance. Ask me anything you would like.â
Your lips part - unsure what to say - but the white-haired attendant at your side beats you to it by announcing. âDinner shall be served shortly.â They turn, about to make their exit before eyeing you closely. âHuman.â
And you wondered whether they meant to call you humanâŚor they meant that dinner was human.Â
Once those delicate doors slide shut, and Uraumeâs footsteps disappear, youâre just then realizing that you were still holding onto the other womanâs hand. Mustering up some semblance of a smile, youâre asking herââCould you tell me aboutâŚRyomen Sukuna?â
.
.
.
âThereâs a descendant of the esteemed Kamo clan here, as wellââ One of the women chuckle, taking a deep drink of her sake - one of those expensive types that came in an intricate wooden box. She smacks her lips in satisfaction, â-but you just missed her.â
Your heart batters against your chest- you still had the dagger hidden up your sleeve. Setting down your water, you hope that none of the other concubines here can hear the waver in your voice- âI see. Is she perhaps attending theâŚ?â
âHuh?â The woman looks at blearily for a few seconds. âWho? The master?â
You nod silently.
She exchanges a look with one of the other women-
Before bursting into rambunctious laughter.Â
And youâre sitting there confused as they clap one another on the shoulders, as they rattle the food-laden tableâas they wipe mirthful tears from their eyes. Repeating the last sentence to one another and breaking out into peels of laughter once more. Surely, you hadnât said anything too humorousâŚperhaps this was some unspoken rule of etiquette youâd missed?
It hadnât been too long since youâd been somewhat- absorbed into the group of numerous concubines upon concubines that were housed in the Sukuna Estate. Many more than youâd initially predicted - the hallway youâd entered had been just one of many residential wings.Â
Right now, about half of them sat at a long table of which you couldnât clearly see its end - both because of length and the sheer volume of food towering upon it. All sorts of soups and noodles. All sorts of breads and wines. All sorts of meats and charred vegetables. Desserts and colorfully-packaged sweets from around the world that youâd once believed that only the emperor himself would have been able to taste.
It would have been possible to dislike every food youâd ever known, and still find something here that made you wish to stayâŚif just for the food.
You could hear the other half of the women chattering and laughing away in another dining room connected to this one.Â
All in all, your proponent - a woman youâd learned was connected with the Fujiwara family - had told you everything about Sukuna as she introduced you to the other concubines. They took you in readily, to your surprise, and cooed and surrounded and showed you around. Speaking to you about how the estate was designed personally by Sukuna himself. How Uraume was his (human) cook. How he was a ruthless ruler, and the hallways were more often bloodied than notâbut he didnât lay a hand on them.
When theyâd told you this, youâd assumed it was regarding his moreâŚaggressive reputation on the battlefield. You didnât think it meant-
âOur Kamo girl has travelled to Edo.â The woman from earlier - Abe, you remember her name being - continues as the others settle down. She whispers scandalously, âTo visit her lover.â
You breathe in sharply, âThe master permits you to take lovers?â
âIt isnât that he permitsâŚâ Fujiwara smiles warmly at you - not too far down the table. The other concubines nod as she continues, âItâs that he doesnât pryâhe has no time for human frivolities. After all, the master hasnât called for one of the girls inâŚwell, since we can remember. Heâs a picky man. But nowadays, girls enter and leave the estate as they please, as they wish for employment. Most choose to join the house staff in time, for we arenât bound, and the master seems to have no need for concubines these days.â
Surprise overtakes you, your hand grips tightly on your sleeve. But your objectiveâŚ
Abe speaks up now, âWhich is why itâd been quite the surprise to know heâd allowed in yet another.â She leans in with a conspiratorial smile, âPerhaps youâre the type to really get his loins going-â
âAbeâ!â A few other women swat at her.
âI jest- I jestââ She winks at you, âIn part. Would you prefer to lay with the master?â
Something twists at the bottom of your stomach, âI-if it must come to it, I wouldnât mi-â
Youâre cut off as they exclaim in scandal all around you.Â
Fujiwara shakes her head with a smile, then she looks at you. âNo matter what it is, you shall be housed and fed here. You shall never go without despite the masterâsâŚâ
âImpotence?â
ââŚâ
âI jest-â
âWhatâs moreââ She pulls back her sleeves and gestures for a bowl of sake, âGiven the state of affairs, I highly doubt that you would ever have to-â
Just then, thereâs a tap at the sliding doors.
An announcement of Uraumeâs titleâbefore theyâre cracking the entrance open just a fraction. That stark white hair of theirs flashes from the gap in the door, illuminated by both the dim yellow lighting and the curiosity leaking out of the dining room; eyes scanning the vast chamber before finally landing on you.
An utterance of your name.
All eyes snap to you.
âThe master wishes for you to join him tonight.â
One by one, you could feel the jaws of the other women dropâas well as your own. Right alongside something at the pit of your stomach that you couldnât quite describe.Â
As the silence stretches and expands to the other speechless dining chamber- Fujiwara lets out a pointed coughâand itâs all you need to jolt right back to your senses. Scrambling to stand up, you barely have the time to smooth down your kimono before following Uraume out of the room - throwing a cautionary glance over your shoulder.Â
Fujiwara smiles, slightly shocked.Â
Abe winks.Â
The sliding doors rattle closed, and the whirlwind of gossip that follows accompanies you even to the bridge.Â
Head ducked. Hands in sleeves. Uraume remains painfully silent as youâre following them down winding hallways and past chambers vast enough to be estates themselves; and though youâd been given a tour of the place beforehand, you canât help but let your mind get just a little frazzled at the thought of what was to come after.
Of what was to come once they finally stopped.
And they doâafter what feels like nights upon nights, the white-haired attendant stops before two sliding doors - nothing but sliding doors. Though youâd assumed that the King himself might have decked his personal chambers with several of his best guards, youâre realizing with a prickle of anticipation that he didnât need them.
But that only made your job easier.
Invisible hands seem to pull the doors - panes decorated in artwork depicting archery - apart, and youâre entering a room that would have been too lavish for an emperor.Â
A massive rectangular-shaped room of which strange interconnected woodwork make up the flooring; windows towering from floor-to-ceiling, half-hidden by thick curtains of red velvet. They clung themselves onto a ceiling that was gilded, calligraphy rounding the high perimeter, and a chandelier-like composition of lanterns fashioned down from it. Reds and greens and blacks and golds, the most eye-catching painting colors of furniture within.Â
In the far end of the royal chamber was the futon.Â
And you would describe its incredible size and its golden threading, even the red, red blanket that covered it- you wouldâŚbut your eyes were far more interested in who was occupying it.
Thighs spread. Two elbows resting on his knees.
All four eyes locked on you since the moment you step inside-
âUraume.â His lips barely seem to move, though that hoarse baritone is hard to deny. It wasnât as inhuman as you might have expectedâit sounded human and yet, there was surely something malevolent in the way he made your thighs squeeze together with just a single word. âYou are dismissed.â
Youâre feeling Uraume bow deeply next to you, and in the blink of an eye theyâre gone-
In another blink of an eye, Ryomen Sukuna has one large hand stuck out - index quirked at you, he beckons you to him once. Only once.Â
And you gulp as you walk to him.
This was your first time really seeing the King of Curses- fuck. He was wearing nothing but baggy white pants and a strange, carnal inkling about him. Engulfing you in it the second youâre locking eyes with him. The legends were rightâŚsomewhat.
Because Sukuna truly was larger than any mere mortal could ever be: with shoulders sculptured and broad enough that theyâd put your best warriors to shame, with corded muscle around biceps the size of your head, with his pecs creating a bumpy road for his tattoos. He was about nine feet tallâperhaps even taller than the stories said. Far taller. Far stronger. Far more monstrous.Â
Abs consistently patterned his front, disrupted only by the presence of his second mouth - it slashes aaaaall the way across his navel, large nâ licking his cursed lips with a grin.
And those tattoos- oh, those tattoos.
They were the tattoos of a criminal - two looping around each of his four arms like shackles, and then a circle on all four deltoids.
You bite the inside of your cheekâyou knew your mission. But fuck- you wonât deny that a part of you wanted him so bad.Â
Sukunaâs pink hair catches the lantern light as he leans back on two hands, meaty thighs manspreading before you. And in-between you swear you could see the thick, throbbing outlines of two-
âOn your knees.â The King commands. Crimson eyes narrowing, âShould you so wish.â
And your knees are buckling almost instinctually- he raises a rose-pink brow as he watches your hands reach for your sleeveâŚbefore ultimately going against your orders to settle down before the foot of the bed where he was seated.Â
Embarrassment curdles in your chest as youâre crawlinâ yourself closer to him, and the sorcerer himself hums in approval once youâre leaning your cheek against his right thigh. Rubbing.Â
The muscles underneath twitchâand Sukunaâs swollen tips let out a spurt of precum that puddles right in front of your lips. That translucent dampness stretches across the fabric and wets your lips with its salty taste- you whine.
Right before he grasps the back of your sweaty scalp with one massive hand- and shoves your head down onto one clothed cock. Your mouth gaped wide and plopping! right on top of his mushroomy tipâan open kiss against where his sensitive slit was flared outwards.Â
Heâs pulsating against your lips.
And youâre moaning with your eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of his entire tip being nearly fuckinâ big enough to envelop your entire maw-
âDo you understand now?â Sukunaâs tone rumbles from above - low and level in a way that speaks of such power. He doesnât reveal anything more, however. âDo you understand that your puny human body cannot handle me?â
Youâre looking up at him with furrowed brows, âI-I understandâŚâ
âDo you understand that I may ruin you?â
âI understand.â
âDo you understand that you cannot take m-â
âI want you-â And almost as bewildering as the fact that youâve interrupted him, is that Ryomen Sukuna doesnât crush you with his cursed energy on the spot for interrupting him. â-my lord.â
But that seems to be his tipping point. For his large stomach mouth quirks upwards in what almost seems like a smileâ
And Sukuna gruffs out, âThen kiss your King.â
And so youâre gripping onto the soft edge of the mattress and leaning yourself up into his kiss- not the one his face was so ready forâbut one where youâre leaning in and pressing a chaste peck onto his second mouth.
Onto those monstrously large lips hungrily gaping at his stomach.
Onto that fucking hungry - starved - maw so deprived of any touch that heâs immediately slurpinâ the edge of his textured tongue outwards. Attempting to enter his incredible size between your own lips, Sukunaâs only managing to fit about an inch of his cursed tastebudsâswipinâ the insides of your heated cavern and making you gasp, before heâs searing his grip into your scalp and tugging you off-
âNaughty naughty.â He trundles. And yet thereâs a glimmer of something different in his eyes that told you Ryomen Sukuna was almostâŚexcited. Heâs patting one side of him on the futon, âCome up here with me, insolent thing.â
In no time, youâre hauled onto the bed and straddling the infamous King.Â
Thighs struggling to squeeze around his toned core, cunt drooling your slick through your panties. As youâre inadvertently rubbing uuuup and down his ridged abs- it creates a snail trail of glistening sap that trickles all the way down to his pinkish-brown happy trail.Â
Sukuna titters once he leans his head down and takes in the mess - nâ then heâs gripping one side of your waist with a single hand.Â
Squeezing lightly, it doesnât take even a mere fraction of his power to glide the exterior of your pussy down those unruly tufts of hairâdooooooown in a carnal scratch as he positions you directly on top of his second mouth.
His second mouth.
Now gaped wide open and fucking ravenous.
Immediately cracking apart from each other with a parched gasp- something deep and rumbling from his underbelly. It reminds you of a creature thatâs been starved for eonsâsomething that makes shivers run up your spine right from the in-betweens of your drippinâ wet cunt. Right as youâre feeling his oversized tongue press aside your ruined underwear and start to eeeeeease inside-
âFuh-fuuuuckââ Dazed peripherals rolling to the back of your head - without even realizing it, youâre planting your feet onto the futon and bucking- whether more into Sukunaâs cursed mouth or away from itâŚyouâre unsure.
But heâs making the decision for you. Heâs cupping either side of your hips with two clawed hands, letting those pointed tips dig into your clammy flesh, âEasy-â Letting out a rumbling chuckle. âEasy there, woman.â
Gasping, youâre lurching-Â
âEasy.â
And itâs all he needs to steady you.
Itâs all he needs to tighten his hold onto your squirminâ body, until itâs like heâs attached onto you with adhesive. It doesnât take much of him to move you âround and spread open those folds even further like a pretty flowerâthat massive tongue of his wastes no time before swirling around that first ring of muscle. Cutely clenching around him- fuck, he canât wait.
Before slurping his muscle back and shoving it straight between your pussylips.Â
Through the popping pressure in your ear, âBecause howâre you gonna take my cocks otherwise?â
And you really didnât forget who you were dealing with, did you?
You really didnât think that Ryomen Sukuna - the King of Curses - was going to go easy on youâŚdid you?
Because without even waiting for your struggling walls to get used to the size, his enlarged tongue reels all the way backwards with a deafening slurp! Right until the curvaceous tip was ticklinâ at your entrance, before Sukunaâs thrusting all the way back in. Again.
Your toes curl. Your eyes dart instantly to the back of your head.Â
Sukuna himself cracks a smirk- before heâs then doing it again.
And again.
âDonât think yer running from it.â A third hand ends up plastered atop your clammy scalp- dangerously gripping your head and puuuuuushing you down onto him.Â
As far as your tight hole would let him. Your thighs quiver, âB-but-â Bucking.
âNow now, bratââ Pushing you back down. âYa get what youâre given.â
Again and again.
It doesnât matter how many times youâre twisting on top of him because of the ruthless swabbinâ of his tastebuds inside. Honed at the very tip and zig-zagging around in a way that makes you viscerally shake on top of himâheâs slipping his velvety muscle inside and stirring it a few times to get a reeeeally good feel for your walls. For how much youâd stretch. âBecause you shall fit- ohâŚâ He seethes between clenched canines, nose scrunched at the very top. âYou must- fit it. You must not run away.â
Another tough battering ram of his thick tongue - itâs almost adorable how your poor body is being jerked to and fro. He murmurs, âFor who can possibly escape Ryomen Sukuna? Heh.â
His tongue seems to wind nâ stretch even deeper inside you after his own self-praise - you always have heard rumors about the King of Curses being particularly egotisticalâŚthough righteously.Â
And again and againââP-please.â Sukunaâs second tongue fills you up in all sorts of ways youâve never felt before - not with the texture or the size or the complete and utter needâŚThose ridged tastebuds of his were pushinâ into eeeeevery single nook and cranny he could reach - which was all of them. At least, as far back as your dewy walls were allowing him to go, âSuch a size should be-â
âNecessary.â Heâs cutting you off cleanly. âBesidesâŚâ
Sukuna raises a pink brow, leaning backwards on the mattress to watch his massive tongue indulge in and out. In and out. In and out.
Your puffy folds being pushed apart at a rapid pace, your gloss seeping everywhere as he tunnels insideâheâs letting out a low whistle of approval as his second mouth creates such a mess between your legs. Monstrous tongue jerking outwards and slapping the front of your cunt teasingly- it makes a fresh wave of your juices slather down your thighs.
And he smiles - already knowing that heâs going to clean this up later.
The Kingâs chest rumbles with satisfaction, âHeh- you should be aware, little humanâŚthat mânot even halfway inside yet.â
There were two things in that sentence that drove you utterly wild: the fact that he mentioned he was barely inside, and the fact that he saidâŚyet. As though to prove the point heâd just sparked inside your muddled brain, Sukuna arches his hips off the bed and ruts-
Pistoning his tongue a mere inch deeper.
Even though - to you - it feels like heâd just struck his tongue against your very throatââWh-what you claimingâŚâ Your thighs quake as he continues fucking you between them, âHow much longer may you possibly have to go?â
âOhâŚan inch, two, fourâŚ.seven.â Sukuna tilts his head airily, âTch- such tedious tasks are meant for humans. How about you count instead?â
You balk, âPardon, master?â
âCount, little human.â And without a single warning, his fourth hand snakes underneath your flapping kimono- between those sopping pussylips and squeezing at your poor clit. âYour master orders you to count.â
And the only thing you can possibly do is let your eyes shutter at the pleasure, lips trembling as Sukunaâs second tongue finds its mazinâ way across your walls. As youâre struggling to get a single word out, however, at least the ruthless sorcerer slooooows his pace down to something more languid- making sure you feel every bump and vein.
Every quirk.
Every inch.
Until finally youâre throwing your head behind and vocalizingâafter only a few sloppy strikes. âT-twoâŚâ
âHehâŚinteresting.â One of those gnarled hands clasped onto your sides reaches upwards nâ grabs onto your pretty face, smushinâ those cheeks together as he stares deeply into your eyes. Sukuna takes in your dazed peripherals, your spit-glossed lips - the way you looked completely and utterly gone on his tongue, and yetâŚstill managed to answer his question.
Mere mortals never did manage to surprise him anymore. You, howeverâŚ
Before even he knows what heâs doing, Ryomen Sukuna leans inwards and spits between your gaped maw. Rushing to then kiss you with his own lips - eyes widened, mouth hungry. He looks bewildered himself, as his cursed mouth continues rubbinâ your pussy rawââIt seems we have a feisty little human on our hands.â Three out of four hands groping at your sides and making you ride him-
Youâre trembling.
âAnd yet, who told you to cease your counting?â
Thwack!
âThreeââ You cry out. Expectedly, Sukuna was meanâthat fourth nâ final hand of his plasters his knobbly fingertips against your sensitive nub. Spanking you hard enough to see stars.
But Sukuna only grins, âIncorrect.â
Yet another spank. Yet another brush of his cursed tongue inwards- and you swear that youâre starting to hear his second mouth start to snicker to himself. Was that even possible?Â
Were you even thinking? Were you even breathing?
It doesnât take his keen eyes long to realize that heâs left you completely and utterly stupid on his tongueâjust so luscious and lewd. Spreadinâ apart your puffy folds and funneling your insides with him, âFour- fourââ
âCorrect.â Just to tease you, those fingers of his leave another rude spank.
And Sukuna doesnât bother letting you gather your bearings before heâs delving even deeper.Â
âF-fiveâŚâ Youâre trembling out as you feel the massaging texture of his tastebuds enter, theyâre pokinâ into spots you hadnât even realized you had - filling out your tight channel and leaving his shape molded straight into your cunt. âAnd is thatâŚngh- six?â
âThat was seven.â He rumbles out in a smug tone.
Your jaw drops as you register the massive number - seven inches of his cursed tongue fucking your pussy. And yet it still doesnât seem as though heâs planning to stop anytime soonâŚ
Back arched, youâre keeping your hands on top of Sukunaâs broad shoulders. Nails digging into his deltoids. And with all the strength that you could muster, youâre attempting to riiiiiide your hips back down onto hisâgrinding in figure-eight motions.
Sukuna was already manhandling you down onto him - now it might just be your turn to control the cadence. To control how much of him went inside you.
âJ-just fuck me alreadyââ Youâre pleading. Your jaw drops with a parched whimper, hips veering down harder and harder- âNgh- that was eight. Nine. Just fuck me- all of me.â
Sukunaâs eyes widen in slight surprise- before heâs quickly catching himself and tightening the two hands at your waist. âNow nowâŚeasy there. Go too fast for a little human, and yer going to hurt yourself.â
âBut I need it.â Lip jutting out in the cutest damn pout, âI need you inside me, Kuna.â
His breath catches, âRepeat what you just uttered.â
Back bending into the most delicious curve, pushing up against his sweaty pecs. Youâre sobbing out as his stomach mouth gapes even wider nâ seemed to push in even more, more, moooore of his sultry inchesââN-nine and a halfâŚ? I need you inside-â
âNot that-â Smacking your clit once more. â-you insolent brat.â The tip of his tastebuds reach the very back of your pussy, and itâs a sensation you just canât describe. âThatâŚtitle. I command you to hah, repeat it.â
âTitle?â
Thwack!
âRepeat it.â
And itâs taking everything and anything in you - in your utterly cockdrunken mind - to conjure up the faintest inkling about what Sukuna was talking about. To let your head throw back with a final primal cryâfor the first time since heâd started fucking you with his stomach mouth, youâre finally feeling your ass cheeks seat down properly on top of his washboard abs.Â
And then youâre finding yourself in his strong arms, your moans muffled into his actual mouth. âT-ten.â Gasping through the constant drool nâ sounds of pleasure clogging up your throat, âThatâs ten, Kunaââ
And there it was.
Theeeeeere it was - in more ways than one.
Ryomen Sukunaâs getting to hear that sultry nickname fall from your mouth once more - for some inexplicable reason leaving the tips of his ears feeling warm - and heâs getting to see you complete his command.
Ten entire inches of his cursed second tongue- lickinâ away every trace of sap at your inner thighs, before heâs pushing it all the way inwards. Inwards and inwards. The maw slashed across his stomach grins as heâs hitting the very back of your pussy-
And before you know it, the King is tugging you into his arms.
He kisses your mouth sloppily while his second tongue continues fucking you between your legs. Harder by the minute.
Sukuna grunts as he opens his mouth wiiiiide nâ slips his tongue between your jaw- âSuck on my tongue.â Heâs echoing out in a hollow tone.
And you can do nothing but squeeze your glossy lips togetherâeagerly suckling on his tongue. Youâre unsure whether it was from your lavish dinner prior or whether itâs just how hazy your brain is, but youâre finding him to taste almostâŚsweet.
And your eyes roll to the back of your head as you do so-
âHeh-â Sukuna manages to pant out between kisses, open-mouthed and hot. âNow both pairs of pretty lips are sucking on my tongue.â
And your jawâŚdrops- only for him to use the opportunity to kiss you even deeper.
Making you ride his stomach mouth whilst he kisses you stupid - his tongue probing inwards, inwards, inwards in looooong slick thrusts. Scrapinâ every orifice inside but especially bending around to hit your g-spot.Â
Youâre sure your body jolts as you feel the sudden zaps of charged pleasure, setting your body positively alight. âI-Iâm so close, master.â You pout, âI must- hah- cum.â
âMust, hm?â Sukuna mutters - almost to himself. âAnd am I to believe that my human deserves to cum? Am I to believe that she is ready to take both my cocks?â
Nodding fervently, âY-yesâyes, please-â
âAm I to believe that she will have no trouble taking me down to the very womb?â
âYes-â
Crimson eyes narrow, âI will not slow down, needy human. Am I to believe that-â
âYes-â Just so gone on your impending high. So close.Â
And to your surprise, the King merely chuckles as youâre interrupting him - had this been anyone else, then they would have found themselves being made an example of. But youâŚyouâre finding yourself jerked almost aggressively upwards as he bucks his hips, more to run the ridges of his cursed tastebuds along the interior of your walls. Harder. Faster.
You hurtle straight into your high at an incredible pace-
âIf you had let your King finishâŚâ Itâs the last thing youâre hearing before the pleasure overtakes you - Sukunaâs rumbling tone. â-then perhaps you would have known my question was whether Iâm to believe you shall give me an heir in my name.â
His question was going to be whether youâd give him an heir.
His question was going to be whether youâd give him an heir.
But youâre unable to articulate anything more than a few whimpers nâ grunts - because the waves of your orgasm that overtake you are enough to leave you numb. Enough to leave you babbling. Enough to leave you shaking on top of Sukunaâs toned body as he shovels his fat tongue in and out.
In and out. In and out.
The way his overlarge tongue curved was just perfect for hittinâ every spot, and youâre feeling him time out your peaks perfectlyâknowing juuust when the surges of your dopamine were at their highest.Â
Just then, heâd slam! his flattened tastebuds onto the exact spot of your nerves. Fingers nothing but a dizzying blur between your legs as he rolls his thumb over your clit, âGonna take my t-tongue-â Sukuna spits between honed canines, âGonna take my cocks then- gonna take my seed.â
âSh-shiiiiitââ You yowl, âIt feels so good, Kuna-â
âThatâs âmasterâ to you.â He scoffs, nose sliding down the column of your throat. Sukuna takes one more look at the way youâre swallowing him up - at the way you grind deeper to stuff his glistening muscle between your pussylips, and shivers. âOrâŚconsider yourself lucky to be shown mercy this time, human. Say thank you.â
âThank you, Kuna.â
âTch-â
And with that said, itâs not long before youâre completely and utterly fucked through your orgasm by the mouth on his stomachâthrough every tiny shred nâ ounce of pleasure.Â
Once Sukuna feels your quiverinâ pussy finish, heâs pulling out of you with the most lecherous squelch! Letting your thighs drape limply around his waist for a few seconds- thatâs as long as the King can manage before heâs sitting up on the futon and flipping the two of you around.
So that your back was against the mattress. So that your head was hitting the pillows.
Sukuna crawls his massive figure down the length of your body- four arms pinning back your slick-sheened legs as he pushes his head between them. Heâs wasting no time before digging his larger-than-mortal nose between your sodden pussylips and giving your cunt a good liiiiiiiiick of his actual tongue - this time tasting you with his actual mouth.
âShitââ Youâre surging up from your comfortable position, sparks sizzling in your brain. âA-again, Kuna?â
âYour master never had his fill.â
And with that said, heâs lavishinâ your pussy with countless long licks and dribbles. Lips glued to your folds. Breathing through his nose. Sukuna darts his tongue out - thick, though definitely not to the extent of his stomach mouthâs - and zig-zags it across your entrance.
Easing his wet muscle insideâinside and inside. Heâs scourinâ every inch of your walls as though to check every mark heâs made before. Just so tender.Â
The velvety inches of his tastebuds flickering in and out- five inches long, youâre realizing automatically. Far longer than a normal humanâs.
And it just drives you insane.Â
The edges of his fangs nip either side of your entrance - Sukuna had already left you so raw with his cursed tongue prior, so now itâs only taking a few seconds before heâs getting you to spray your orgasmic juices all over his mouth once moreââK-Kuna, Iâm close.â
He hums at the feeling of your trembling fingers weaving into his pink hair, âClose? Stupid brat, youâre already cumming.â
The wetness of your cunt spills down his chin.
And Sukunaâs dragging his tongue iiiiiiiiiiiin and out at a constant, sloppy pace to get you through your high. To elongate it. Curving the pointed tip of his tongue against your g-spot - he holds it there for a few seconds just to feel you shake nâ clench around him.
Before heâs breathing through his nostrils and starting to synchronize your peaks with the slashes of his tongue. âMhmmmmââ He moans out sultry vibrations, they send shockwaves up your spine. âYes- fuck, yes. I believe this pussy is ready for me.â
Raging through you hard and fast - he doesnât have much time before your legs start to twitch cutely with overstimulation. Tears sheening down your face. Your jaw unfastened with the most sinful noises.Â
Sukunaâs prominent nose pushes up against your clit and youâre crying outâ
Looking up at you with hungry, half-lidded eyes. âI believe this pussy is ready to be my queen.â
With the pins and needles of your last two orgasms still coursing through your body, itâs nothing but a blur to you as Sukuna hovers his large body over yours once more. And itâs as if one second youâre blinking up into his handsome face, and in the nextâyouâre finding him laid back against the mattress- and you laid back against him.Â
Your head rests against his collarbone. Your back was arched against his stomach mouth.
Your legs were dangling off somewhere around his lower half- until Sukuna reaches two of his powerful arms down to position you properly. First, heâs grabbing either side of your waist and aligning you with where his clothed erections wereâthen heâs spreading your legs wiiiiiiide open.
Finally, heâs cupping his clawed hands underneath your thighs and pulling them up, up, up, upwardsâuntil they were stretched out almost beyond your ears. And Sukuna was just basking proudly in this rude full nelson that heâd manhandled you into.
Gruff laugh echoing by the side of your ear, âAnd nowâŚâ In the corner of your teary peripherals, youâre seeing his other two arms bend to your lower half. â-to check for myself whether this pussy can really follow ordersâŚâ
Your kimono was already an utter mess- and Sukuna doesnât have to do much to have it bunched around your naked hips. Your cunt all glistening with slick nâ saliva from earlierâhissing at the heated air thatâs hitting you. âShitâŚI need you so badly, master.â
âThen I expect you to take every inch.â He replies ominously. Just then, his eager fingers drop to the hemline of his pants. âI expect you to take every drop-â
And heâs tugging.
Only for your jaw to fallâ
Because Ryomen Sukuna wasnât just huge - youâd already expected as much, given his height and other physical prowess. But he was just staggering.
Just like the rest of him, there was double the number of appendages as there would be on a normal human. Two achingly-hard cocks stacked on top of each other. Inches upon inches. Despite your counting challenge earlier, youâre having trouble registering the sheer lengths that he could possibly be - tenâŚnoâŚ.twelve? Perhaps even longer. Though youâre noticing that the upper one was just the slightest bit longer than the other.
Both just as girthy.Â
Round and reddened. The plump, puckered tips upon their ends throbbed with carnal desire- oozing out generous helpings of milky-white precum that dribble down the front of your cunt. It mixes with the mess already made before, and leaves your thighs sticky with need.Â
Heavy ballsack twitching underneath his second shaft. So many veins that you lose count.
âK-Kunaââ Youâre whimpering as he starts to rub the shafts of his two cocks between your swollen pussylips. Pushinâ them apart and making space for his ruthless girths instead, âWant it inside, Kuna- hck! I really crave you inside meâŚâ
âOh, little humanâŚâ He coos from above. Larger face craning down next to yours, âDid you really believe that I was hesitating? That I was waiting for you?â
âI supposeâŚâ
âHereâs where you are mistaken, my puny thing.â Sukuna trundles, and you donât have to look behind to know that his sharp fangs were making an appearance. âI am no kindred man.â
A shiver runs down your spine.
And before you can open your mouth to ask what exactly he meantâhis rounded tips press against your wettened crevice. Just the sweetest dual pecks, theyâre letting out harsh slurps! as he starts to slip around your needy hole. âI wasnât waiting for your body to get ready, as you so might have believed.â
âTh-thenâ?â You sob.
âI was waitingâŚâ Your body bucks down into his, your hands reach up to grab at his pinkish locks and-Â
And your dagger slips out.
His voice grows excited. âI was waiting-â Both of you reach for it at the same time, Sukuna with his four arms and you with your two. Your heart stutters- your hand closes around the thick, metallic hiltâââŚfor a distraction.â
Several things are happening at once: for one, Sukuna finally forgoes teasinâ at your readied hole to instead scour his cocks inside - fucking in with a long, hard thrust. Deeeeeeeply pressing against your cervixâit feels as though heâs splitting you sensually from the inside out, and youâve never felt anything better.
And then youâre closing your fingers around the blade - tight - and aiming behind you to press the sharpened edge of it against his throat.Â
You knew youâd struck your target. Especially when you feel the dagger tremble as he chuckles- chuckles. The King of Curses has the audacity to chuckle.
When you have a weapon to his throat.
Youâre unsure whether it was overconfidence or something else entirely- but his hips donât falter for a single second as he rams his swabbinâ tips thoroughly inwardsâthumping away at the back of your pussy. Your ears sizzle with the slamming impact of skin-on-skin, âAnd so?â He mutters to you, âFor what reason do you stall? Do it.â
You grit your teeth, blade pressing against his sunkissed skin until a bead of crimson peppers out. âDo you believe that I am too cowardly to do so?â
âForbid the thought.â Sukuna hums, âA King assassinated by his favorite concubine? How romantic. I merely implore you to hasten-â
âI shallââ
âSo do it.â
âDo not regret-â
âDo it.âÂ
In fact, he leans in even closer as though to help you.
Heâs fucking you deep from the rounded orifice of your cunt, to the very depths of your womb. Pulse thundering inside - until it felt like he was taking over every single part of youâuntil your teeth were set on edge, and the thud-thud-thudding of his matching cocktips was all that you could think of.Â
Your hand trembles around the hilt.
Your lips wobble with emotion.
Your eyes lock deeply with Sukunaâs own hellishly crimson ones, and-
And the dagger falls gently onto the cotton futon.
Sukunaâs body ripples with a sensation that couldâve been anything from pleasure, to victory, to utter gleeâbut most of all, his tone just sounded awed.Â
âI knew there was something special about you, woman.â
And then youâre being crushed in Sukunaâs arms as far back as you would go - as high as your legs could reach above your head, as curvaceously as your spine could bend against his core. Heâs manhandling you like nothing but a ragdoll above himâplastered to his muscular back, youâre at the mercy of his vicious thrust after thrust.
The stretch was just incredible.
The stretch was like nothing youâve ever felt before.
Two thick, loooooooong shafts that were mazinâ between your sopping pussylips- the rounded edges of their cockheads manage to swerve your tight walls apart. Jostling against one another. Throbbing in synchronization inside you - ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump! Scraping his thumping veins inside and reaching aaaall across every nook, orifice, and cranny. Just so big.
Sukuna himself grunts out in pleasure as his cocks manage to press through the slight resistance you still maintained - his cursed tongue had stretched you out incredibly, and heâs groaning out in pleasure as his cocks manage to slide against one another and then against you- âAnd now- hah, and now I believe you remember what you promised me?â
âPromised?â Your lashes flutter open, âI-Iâm afraidâŚâ
âYou promised me an heir.â
Your maw droops open. Your heart starts to race.
Your cuntâs drooling out your arousal at the prospect faster than you could register it- and Sukuna feels the sploshinâ leaks around his thickened bases. His grin stretches as he takes in your unspoken reaction, and before you know itâboth sliding cocks are knocking at the door to your very womb-
âAnd Iâm not Ryomen Sukuna if I donât fuck one into you tonight, brat.â
Rough thrusts. Crushing you in his big, beefy arms.Â
Closer and closer. Tighter and tighter.Â
If you thought that youâd been treated like a ragdoll earlier- then youâd been lucky. Because now youâre pressed between his bulging biceps and his pecs, sweat covering both your bodies in a thin sheen as your movements grow more and more ferventââFuck a- hah, fuck my heir into you.â Sukuna was barely speaking by now - short, rasping bursts. âFuck you so big and fuuuuuuuull.â
Running two hands down your frontââMaster, I have doubts that it gets much more full than this.â
And he lets out what almost sounds like a guffaw, âIt can.â
âWh-what do you mean- oh.â
And all this time, youâd been damn thankful that Sukuna had chosen to stretch you out on his oversized tongue firstâhow else would you have fit him so easily? Softeninâ up the snug exterior of your channel. Mapping out your sweetest spots.Â
Because it just made it even easier to slip insideâit just made it sooooo much more convenient for his dual tips to probe open your wet cunt. Inching and easing.
But then youâre starting to feel a third intrusion.
Then youâre starting to feel his needy tongue once more.
Youâre gasping-Â
The slightest, smallest ticklish sensation ofâŚnone other than his cursed mouth dragging down the inner sorts of your thighs. Just teasing. Just the roughened ridges of his tastebuds, long enough that he can snake them down and flatten them over that soft skin beside your cunt.
And in a matter of mere moments, Sukunaâs rugged hands settle deeper against your skin. Tight. Tough. Heâs double-checking to make sure that your restless hips couldnât skin away- before reeling his hips back and penetrating you in longer, harder rutsâeach rude slamminâ of his cocks accompanied by the soothing laps of his cursed tongue.Â
âY-yet againâ?â Youâre blabbering out stupidly. Tears falling in big, bulbous beads down either of your cheeks and ending up smeared, âKuna-â
âMhmmmm.â He hums out - and you could almost hear the smugness in it. The way his piercing canines make an appearance as he says, âItâs for your own good, brat.â One of his hands lifts off of your sweat-covered body - folded like a lawnchair - and Sukuna runs it down your middle.
He stops right above where both his swabbinâ cocks and his tongue had started to form a tiny bulge at your stomachââS-sensitive-â
âExactly.â He sounds so content with himself. So damn content.
Those handsome lips - both pairs of them - quirk further upwards as heâs massaging the front of your stomachâparticularly over that one spot where youâre stuffed till youâre bloated. Pressing down-down-dooooown- âAnd how shall this puny human body handle carrying my heir, hm?â He growls as he accelerates his ruts, âHow?â
Mouth sobbing open in answer.
You're gripping onto either side of his muscular body and swervinâ your hips in response- unsure whether you wanted to rut back down for more or justâŚ
âRunning away?â Sukuna's dangerous trundle sounds from behind you, and the clasp he has on your shuddering body only grows stronger. Before you know it, youâre being manhandled like nothing but his favorite toy and shoved right back onto his twin erections-
He continues, âIf you canât handle two of my cocksââ Theyâre emptying out at the bottom of your pussy with two distinct thuds! The top one first, and then the squeezinâ of the latter. âIf you canât even handle my tongueâŚthe babies of my lineage tend to be large.âÂ
Palm pressing down on your stomach.
âDoes this pretty womb have enough space?â
And thereâs nothing more for you to do but throw your head backwards and buck up into his awaiting arms. Heâs only seeming to crush you even deeper against his toned body, âIt does-â
âWhat was that?â One pink brow raises.
âI s-said it doesâit does.â Youâre blabbering away, thighs attempting to wrangle downwards so that you can steady yourself. But the only thing thatâs succeeding in doing is making Sukuna tighten his restraint on you maddeningly - âI can fit even more of you- hngh, I can fit yourâŚâ
He grins- and this time itâs his second mouth that hisses demandingly at you. âSay it.â
âHeir in hereâŚâ And if this was any other time - if youâd been in any clearer of a state of mind - you wouldnât have said such embarrassing words in your lifetime. And yet, here you wereâbouncinâ down welcomingly into Sukunaâs largely gaped maw. âI want it, Kuna.â
âHeh?â He grins, âThen brace yourself.â
And itâs the only warning youâre getting - honestly, youâre surprised to realize that heâd given you any at all.Â
Because in the next few seconds- his cursed mouth goes from lappinâ away at the sweet, sweet juices coating the edges of your cuntâto slithering between those puffy pussylips of yours and attempting to devour your pussy whole again.
Two arms laced behind your clammy scalp. Two more arms reaching down to toy with your overstimulated pussy.
âO-oh gods-â Hiccuping through your tears as you start to feel the pleasurable burn of your pussylips stretchinâ once more.
Wider and wider.
Deeper and deeper.
In, in, and inâ
Sukuna's second mouth tenderly whips apart your wet wallsâwith the most lecherous squeeeelch! he's then attempting to stroke his tongue inwards between the thrusts of his dual cocks. Sharp, stabbing thrusts. Just to fit inside.
Three- three of his sinful appendages attempting to stuff you all full - you're losing your mind already with his throbbing cocks, but now Sukuna's tongue was a different sort of texture altogether that was just leaving you on the verge of-
âYou can cum.â The King sputters out against your temple, lips moving what seems like a mile a minute. âBut you have to remember to reward me with a strong heir after, hm?â Tap-tapping at the tummy bulge he was fucking into you, âHafta give me one with my powers. Hafta give me one that- hngh, I can train into the strongest. Hafta give me one with- haaaahâŚâ He breathes out laboriously, â-that smile.â
Your eyes shoot open as youâre registering exactly what heâs uttered, âKunaâŚfuck, it feels so good.â
âPleaseâŚâ And it might just be the first time that youâve witnessed the infamous Ryomen Sukuna utter a word of plea since youâve met him. That chiselled cheek of his nuzzles down the side of your temple, â-call me your husband.â
Oh.
Oh.
Youâre barely even given enough time to let the entire ordeal sink of having him inside you sink in- before the wooden panels beneath the futon creeeeeeakâ! And Sukunaâs arching his hips fully off of the dampened mattress, entering his entire greedy lengths into your pussy.
Again and again.
Reeling back until it was only the plump, glossy tips kissinâ at your entrance - before drag-drag-dragging his pulsating length inwards. In-between he just barely manages to squeeze his textured tongue inside.
Repeating once. Twice. Thrice. So many times that youâve lost count, and youâre barely in control of your own ministrations as a third hand stuffs between your pussylips and squeezes your neglected clit.
And then your overstimulationâs hitting you all at once. All at once.
And Sukuna realizes it before you do- when youâre shivering primally on top of him and cumming once more. Around his cocks. Around his mouth. Itâs such a white-hot pleasure that bursts stars behind your eyelids, creating heat at the tips of your toes and then sending it searing through every vessel within you-Â your body shakes in his hold as the dopamine courses right through you.Â
His lips crack into a chuckle, and heâs cooing softly down at you as he ruts his hips even harderâfucking you through every peak. âTheeeeeere, thereâŚâ Something almost sweet- though you know better than to expect sweet from Ryomen Sukuna. âMy poor human couldnât handle it?â
âI-I canâŚâ Youâre arguing back- even though your answer sounds like nothing but a jumbled mess of syllables. The sheer force of the high that wracks through you is enough to make your head spin, thighs shakeâfucked up, up, and up by his never-ending hips.Â
And he can only smile, âIs that soâŚ? Then perhaps my fierce concubine wonât mind if I justâspeed up a little bit.â
Even more?
Your mouth drops as youâre perhaps getting ready to beg for mercy- before even the choked-up syllables at your throat start getting fucked back down by his roverinâ tips.
Rubbing their flared ridges across every spot of your insides, dribblinâ out gooey precum into the smallest nooks and crannies. Youâre feeling the sultry slickness of it puddling up deep inside you, and itâs almost enough to send you raging right into another high-
âK-Kunaâ!â Your voice cracks.
âI know, heh.â He snickers, deep and hoarse. âI can feel this pussy begging even more fâme.â A few more vicious strokes and youâre feeling another faint arc of pleasure that youâre sure must be your nth high of the night.Â
Hard and fast.
Hitting through every one of your bundled nerves- but especially that g-spot heâd bruised by now. Two large circular marks in the exact shape and circumference of his bludgeoning tips - they were slapping at two separate timesâone after the other. Ba-dump! Ba-dump!Â
ExceptâŚthis time, Sukunaâs own thickened cocks twitch inside of you as youâre clenchinâ through your high-
âAnd donât you worry, bratâŚâ He growls from behind, âThis time, your husbandâs not too far behindââ
Your eyes flutter open in pure shock- and one of his hands reaches down to tilt your chin to look at him. âShit-â
âSay it fâme.â Sukuna rasps, âSay it- call me your husband while I cum inside.â
And who were you to deny an order from the King himself?Â
The words are barely escaping your lipsââC-cum inside me, husbandâŚâ
Before the strongest sorcerer in history throws his head back and jerks his hips upwards- letting the pouring wads of his cum plug your pussy up twofold. Whatâs better than one of his cocks seeping deeply at your innards? Two of themâŚThere are so many gooey wads of it trickling all deeeeep inside- splashinâ against the spongy layer of your cervix. Swashing down your tight channel.
Youâre shuddering as you feel the delicious sensation of him sprayinâ inside you - a sheer volume that ends up frothinâ in-between your legs. A circle of white forms around both of Sukunaâs thick bases. âThere we go-â He snarls. âThere- there, we goâŚâ
âShitâit feels so, nghâŚâ You donât even have the words. Your body quakes as his ridged tastebuds start tickling the outer parts of your pussy. Long, luscious licks - itâs enough to make you cum again.
âAnd this baby shall become my heir.â Sukuna whispers - mostly to himself than anything. He runs a hand down the sweat front of your body, left ever-so-slightly more inflated with his constantly-pumping cum. âThis baby shall be taught to become the strongest. This baby shall be- hah, feared amongst the nationâs lands and beyondâŚâ His fanged smile grows, âKnown by my name, I shall teach this baby to protect its mother with their life.â
The fatness of his tongue dips between your swollen pussylips- lapping again and again. Heâs torn between drinkinâ up and pushing back the pearly white beads of cum that kept on leaking from you.
And youâre merely draped limply over his front. Crushed to his powerful body.Â
âAnd this babyâs gonna become the most precious thing in this- hah, estateâŚâ You feel him press a kiss to your temple, â-alongside you, of course, Your Majesty.â
âMajestyâŚ?â
âThe Queen of Curses.â
For who couldâve tamed the infamous Ryomen Sukuna?
In no time, heâs finally fucked himself into your pussy through his high- and itâs a tangled mess of limbs and moans as Sukuna attempts to pull out. Before realizing that his cocks were probed in too deeply, before realizing that that would mean letting his pool of cum spread out of your cunt.
Losing all his hard work.
And so he sniffs haughtily, reaching one pair of his hands up into the air and clicking-
In a split-second, youâre finding your back against the pillows. As if in a dream, youâre blinking up to stare into Sukunaâs handsome faceâtwo hands braced upon either side of your head, both cocks still shovelled deeply inside of you. Throbbing. Did he justâŚdid he just use his powers to change-
âYes.â He answers your unspoken question- of perhaps it had been spoken, youâre too drunk on his cocks to realize whether or not youâd blabbered it out loud. âI call itâŚteleporting.âÂ
âTh-that should be outlawed-â Youâre gasping. The air around you felt tightened with what you assumed must be his cursed energy - youâd heard the stories about them. Who didnât?
And he merely hums, âI am the law, woman.â
Without another word, one of his four hands snake between your legs- his cursed second mouth had finished up lappinâ at the coat of cum around your thighs. And he licks his lips and belches almost gluttonously once Sukuna reaches down to cup your pussy andâ
âO-oh.â Something buzzes between your overstimulated legs.Â
Almost as soon as itâd started, itâs over- and Sukuna pulls his hand awayâand then his rugged cocks. Letting out the most lecherous sluuuuurp! as heâs reeling his hips away, rounded tips funnel out from between your pussylips and leaving such a-
WaitâŚyour eyes widen. There was no mess - whatever technique that Sukuna had collected between your legs stopped his cum from leaking out.
And the King of Curses wastes no time waiting for your surprise to register- not before letting out a deep snicker. He straightens his bulky body nâ edges himself closerâand before you know it, youâre suddenly finding your head straddled by Sukunaâs meaty thighs.
His dual, furiously-hot erections slapping their shafts down onto your readied face.
Both fanged mouths grin, âNowâŚopen, human.â
And you just knew he was about to make you take both.
A/N. DJSFHSJKHS-
Plagiarism not authorized.
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50 Shades of Kento - N.K.
Synopsis. You help your hot uptight boss blow off some much-needed steam, and he makes an absolute mess of you - that annoyingly flirty new employee of his. Deal?
Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! flirty!reader, CEO! Nanami, office AU, pĂĄnty-stealing, jealousy (Nanamiâs side), Higuruma cameo, he goes FĂRAL, ROUGH S, chokĂng, semi-public, manhandIing, p talking, p sIapping, spĂtting, slight angry s, heâs BIG, cervĂx kĂssing, talking you through it, oraI (fem rec.), creampĂes, cĂşmplay, male mast., Ănnuendos, no curses AU, slight bĂłndage, use of âwork wifeâ, proposals, pet names, swĂŠaring.
Word count. 9.7k
A/N. CEO Nanami? I wanna be SAVED.
â-the boss looks really mad-â
â-whereâs he storming off to before the meeting?â
âBet heâs going to fire someone again-â
Now, itâs not like Nanami Kento intentionally built himself such a painfully strict reputation in the office.Â
In fact, heâd spent the first few months as CEO wondering just what he might have done to make it so that none of his employees could even look him in the eye. Hell, they barely even seemed to breathe whenever he passed by.Â
All of them except you - that pretty new hire always buzzing around his department. Even when it might not be tooâŚprofessional.Â
But, right now, professionalism was the last thing on his mind.Â
âDammit. Dammit.â Nanamiâs hissing, sharp edges of his pearly whites sinking into his bottom lip to stifle away a ragged moan. Hard enough to bruise when he shuts the nearest bathroom stall with a resounding clatter! âB-before a meeting, too-â
Barely wasting even a split-second before unbuckling his belt and inching his greedy hand past the too-tight hem-
All because of you and that damn skirt.
âGod fucking dammit-â His voice tumbles out in heady puffs into the air, murked with a growling tint of desperation.
Fingers usually so dexterous and deft whenever heâs typing away, now fumbling with the mere latch on his stubborn zipper. Heâs spitting out a few slews of profanities before panting out an impatient tut and all but ripping his formal slacks down to his knees.Â
Nanamiâs sculpted thighs weaken, smearing out widely as he leans his back against the firmly shut door with a groan. Cold against his feverish body.Â
Shit, heâd barely even touched himself yet already feels like heâs melting.
Because Nanami wasnât just rock-hard - it was as if his swollen cock was built out of fucking diamonds.Â
Hot. Heavy. Sobbing out a glistening streak of precum that slobbers access his washboard abs and wayyy down to his tawny happy trail. He wanted you. He needed you.Â
âFuh-fuck!â He gasps, instantaneously clamping his delirious mouth shut. Loosening that yellow speckled tie just so he can breathe, âNever been sooo fucking h-hard. Shit this isnât- fuck.â
Achy red shaft throbbing out a needy ba-dumpâ! in his meaty palm, ribbons of treacly pre splatter in copious torrents down to his angled wrist. Heâs making such a puddling mess all over the tiled floor, swiping up the fatly padded curve of his thumb to plug up those never-ending droplets.Â
âNâ this is all your hngh- fucking fault.â Nanamiâs canines glint in the dimmed lighting, snarled at that strawberry pink blush on his mushroomed tip. The very same shade of pink to match your flimsy panties today. Fuck. âShould fire you. Should really, r-reallyâŚâ
But the heaving man canât even finish those syllables, can barely even finish his thought before itâs once more overtaken by that image of you from only a few simple minutes ago.Â
Knees bent to pick up some useless document for the meeting, too-short skirt hiking up just enough to flash him a good eyeful of your cute pink panties. You looked like the sweetest fucking dessert in it, and that adorable bow fastened onto your underwear was just the erotic cherry on top.Â
That memory was going to burn behind his lids for the rest of his life. And oh, he could tell.Â
That glint in your gorgeous eyes - how youâd batted your lashes up at him in exactly the way that made him gulp - told him everything he needed to know.Â
You knew. Oh, how you pissed him off.Â
âSh-shit.â The thought makes Nanamiâs poor heart race, plump balls twitching oh-so-eagerly when he dips into the side of his pants pocket to pull out something treasured. His secret good luck charm. âKnow exactly what youâre fucking- hah- doing tâme. W-with your damn panties, nâ those skirts I hate and- and-â
And if anyone else had seen the uptight CEO of Jujutsu Tech right now, then they would have fainted. Undoubtely. Because dipping out of his pocket, heâs pulling out nothing but a frilly black garter.
Yours.
The very same one youâd âaccidentallyâ slipped off in your chair after a meeting with him last month.
âMmmââ Heâs drinking back a few swallows of candied saliva once he brings the gauzy fabric up to his nose and sniffs. Long. Hard. The stuffy stall air notches up a few scorching degrees higher when Nanami curls his free digits around his bulky base and squeezes. âBet that pretty pussy smells even s-sweeter.â
The thought only makes his slacked maw water even more guiltily. Bet you taste sweeter, too.
And like an animal, Nanamiâs hunching his Herculean body over to spit out a steady stream of saliva right onto the bawling divot in the middle of his bloated cockhead. Watching it slosh in rivulets down his pulsing length.
Calloused thumb swiping over the weighty masses that top his filthy length like buttery icing. Biting back a whimper and tugging. He canât stop.
âL-look how fucking hard yâgot meââ Heâs babbling away underneath his breath, clammy foreskin drawling up and down like adhesive with every roughened jerk. âAll your fault hck! All your fucking- ptwah!â He gives himself another one, two, three more wads of excess spittle over his crownhead, taking a solid lick of your pretty garter. He breaks off with a pained mantra. â-fault.â
And shit, Nanami doesnât know when he found himself acting like such aâŚpervert. Â
But he blames you. Blames you and the way that thin lace of yours looks so sinful wrapped around his thick cock. Round nâ round coiling to massage every thickly inflated, lightning bolted vein-
âHate how Iâd never d-do this before-â Heâs spilling out in throaty groans, swirling mahogany eyes widening at the sultry scratch of it up and down up and down his tender underside. With trembly fingerpads his smushing it all over the delicate curvature of his balls, â-beforeâŚyou.â
And, shit, Nanami had a meeting in what- a few minutes? He canât help but thinking about what his clients would think if they knew. What his employees would think. What you would think.
Would youâŚlike it?
A muggy gust of air heaves out of his chest, sweat-slicked brows crinkling at the direction that those thoughts had just taken. Precum clinging onto his skin like adhesive, he fucks his fist like heâs angry.
He is - at you and every teasing touch of yours that makes every ounce of blood sprint down to his heavy cock. You, with your sunny smile and your eyes dazzling as if you werenât just undressing him with your gaze. You, and your pretty outfits and stupidly sexy panties that make him run off right before important events-
âGonna fucking- p-pay for this-â Nanamiâs nose crinkles when heâs tugging his claggy white undershirt underneath his firmly grit teeth. Free hand straying to twirl little hearts over his puffy, bubblegum pink nipples, his tensed abs flex with every jerky buck. â-gonna- ngh-â
Gonna shove you down and make you feel just as needy as he is. Oh, Nanamiâs thumbing underneath the heated line of his slippery slit, musing away just how much your clingy pussy would smooch it even better.Â
âWonder if I could ngh- fuck you stupid-â Nanami finds himself chuckling - chuckling. Low and crazed, plump lips twitching up at the sparks of bliss at the bottom of his abdomen. He was furious at you. â-would ya still be mouthy? Slutty? Ohhh, darling, I fuck you in every ngh- dream I have.â
And isnât that what you wanted? What youâve been driving him crazy for every since you stepped foot here?Â
Joints in his wrist aching with that sloppy tempo, Nanami thinks he almost catches a rim of battered, stinging pink right where his fisted hand was hitting his toned abs.Â
What heâd give to make your pretty pussy feel just as if she was his- what was it you call him?Â
Ah, Nanamiâs blossoming-red tip flinches as if being hit with a zillion volts of electricity as your words echo in his brain, his favorite melodic tune. His âwork wifeâ was what you call yourself.Â
âTch, damn work- wife.â Heâs murmuring, a blotchy blush taking over his handsome features - burning all the way up to the very tips of his ears. Fingers trawling faster and faster. Sloppier. Heâs spraying out sheeny ropes of pre with every bruising pull off his swollen length. âGonna show ya- gonna ngh- for how you make me- gonna make ya mine-â
âKentooo? Are you in here?â
Fuck.
Without warning, Nanamiâs teeth come latching harshly into his fist - he needs to.Â
He has to, because just the mere notes of your voice from the other side of the door is enough for his ballooned balls to give a depraved pinch. Enough for him to cum.
Shit. Nanamiâs head falls back against the wall, letting off strained gruffs around his flesh.Â
A slow trickle of sweat beads down his temple at the sweltering splash of his undershirt being coated with vulgar cobwebs of thickly viscous seed - so much. Hot.Â
And Nanami always did cum more whenever he thought of you - but this was almost too much. Such heaping volumes that it was like he couldnât stop. Soaking your sopping garter, pooling out swashes of cum that formulate a sticky ring down his fingers. Heâs leaking from his twitchy tip over nâ over-
âFuck-â heâs hiccuping out, vision sparking with stars. He was too late - too entranced - to plug up his geysering orifice now for any semblance of order now. He hated how he was so weak for you. âFuck fuck fuck fuck- fuck!âÂ
You really have corrupted him, because Nanami doesnât feel even a single speck of shame when he leans even further against the door. Biting the insides of his cheek into silence, his ringing ears crane to hear just a syllable more of your tone-
God, he feels dirty.
But victorious.Â
âWell, the meeting starts in a few minutes.â Nanami feels himself blush, he doesnât give a single shit about some meeting - not when those words are enough for his aching cock to dredge out a few more ivory ounces that hit the tile with a deafening pap! âHurry up, mâkay? Itâll be real boring without you, Kenââ
Minx.Â
And Nanami doesnât know whatâs louder - the creaking shudder of the now-broken door hinges as you saunter out of the bathroom, or his beating heart.
Pulsing halfway out of his chest - not only at the fuzzy high of his orgasm, but at you. You, and those cute lilâ panties no doubtedly hidden away underneath your tight silken skirt. While you pretended to be all professional in the meeting that he is supposed to lead.
Dammit. Nanamiâs head drops incredulously when his reddened cock gives another ravenous twitch. You were going to be the death of him.
.
.
.
You had no idea why everyone in the office was either scared senseless of your boss, Nanami Kento, or simply too intimidated by him to feel anything else.Â
No one knew much. No one sought much.
But you knew that your self-proclaimed âwork husbandâ was a gentle giant, surely - youâve caught the way he silently comes into the building early with snacks for the break room, and leaves the latest personally finishing up documents he deems imperfect. What you simply didnât understand was why no one else saw how hot he was.
Didnât they see the absolute specimen of a man that towered around daily in tightly-fitted suits and perfectly combed blond hair?Â
Those big, beefy arms, long lashes youâre almost jealous of, and regal features that dusted an innocent pink whenever you teased him too much. Always so worked up with the stress of running a company, that you couldnât help but wonder if that would translate into bed.
Honestly, after years of men that disappointed and bored you - especially down there - could you really be blamed if you made things a littleâŚunprofessional?
And you could tell that Nanami wasnât complaining.Â
Oh, he wasnât complaining at all.Â
No matter how much heâd falsely scowl or tut - youâd already âlostâ one of your black garters, and you swear you saw just the slightest centimeter of it dangling from your bossâs pocket.Â
The all-powerful CEO, but so weak for you.
What you really didnât understand was why he didnât take things to the next level.
Youâd initially thought he would during your training period, whenever youâd stuck by him with your trusty notepad and tightest silky blouses that Nanami loved to pretend he wasnât looking down. Always snapping his glassy eyes away after taking a long look at your bra, toying with his velveteen ties as if trying to choke either the hunger or the life out of him.
But when that came and ended, and youâd finally been awarded a permanent position, you finally got the chance toâŚhave a little more fun.
Your favorite pastime was getting on your knees because of how oh-so-clumsy you are, brushing just past Nanamiâs tersely bouncing knees. Lingering mere seconds longer when he presses his meaty thighs into you hotly.
âOh?â It was like a little routine at this point, for you to faux gasp from your position on the floor as if youâd just noticed the touch. Each and every time. âMy, how forward of you, work husband.â
Only to immediately get a choked-up groan of your name, and extra documents to finish by the time the work day was over. Worth it.
Because you had made the ever-stoic Nanami Kento blush.Â
And the employee groupchat would text you about it for hours on end. Some swooning. Some skeptical. The rest of the office thought you were either very brave, incredibly slutty, or plain stupid. Possibly all three.
But seriously, you bite your lower lip to force down a giddy giggle when Nanami catches your winking eye for the nth time this past hour. Hastily looking back towards the hefty contract each nâ every time with a furiously grit jaw. He was so bad at pretending he didnât want you.
Too bad you were getting impatient.Â
âRight!â Comes the booming voice of a businessman thatâd just secured a lucrative contract, you snap out of your whirlwind of thoughts when your client- President Higuruma from Kyoto Corporations, you think - stands up. Oh, the meeting was already over? âNow that the hard part is done, why donât we all get the celebrations in, Kento old pal.â
Theyâd known each other a long time, you hear. And had apparently been rivals prior to forming this close relationship.
You think that your poor boss has never looked more grouchy than when he shrugs off Higurumaâs sociable hand off of one broad shoulder. Staring longingly at the clock that showed youâd all run way into evening overtime, âIâm not much of a partier myself, Hiromi.â
âDonât be ridiculous, when you have a team as good as this, then you simply must treat them.â The other man sweeps his dark eyes across the room, resting ever-so-slightly on you. âOr else the pretty ladies here will think youâre boring.â
âI-â Oh, you shouldâve gotten tips straight from Higuruma - because Nanamiâs cheeks ruddy. Eyes narrowing at you, then darting to his friend, â-Iâm terminating our contract.â
âAnd Iâm taking you to crack open the good whiskey I know you hide in your second drawer.â To everyoneâs shocked amusement, Higuruma lugs his all-new business partner bodily out of the door. Words carrying from the distance, âYou know you never did tell me whether you got a padlock for that drawer because of meâŚâ
Youâre still careening towards the glassy door to hear more snippets of that conversation when suddenly you hear a loud SMACK!
It hits your ears right before it hits your senses that Shoko had turned over in her seat beside you and planted a harsh swat on your arm. Hissing at the ache, youâre huffing at her knowing smirk, âWhat if Iâm into that?â
She snickers, giving you another resounding strike just for the sake of it. You really, really didnât know why the two of you were friends-
âOh, I bet our boss would know, then.â
Kidding, of course you knew. And you canât stop yourselves from falling into your familiar old gossip, the rest of your coworkers listening in curiously be damned. âI wish. You shouldâve seen the way he reacted when I fussed over his tie before this. Seriously, itâs not my fault it was crooked for once nâ he almost ran away.â
âRan straight back into the bathrooms, you mean.â Sheâs wiggling her brows, stopping only when you tilt your head curiously. âOh- shit, you didnât know? I heard from Utahime who heard from Yaga who heard from Ijichi who went to the bathroom that uptight CEO Nanami here was almost late to the meeting because he was having a fun little him time in there.â
You hear yourself gasp- no-nonsense, sensible Nanami Kento? Touching himself in the bathroom? âThatâs why he lookedâŚso fucked out. No.âÂ
âYes.â She nods seriously. âAnd you know whatâs even better?â
âWhat?â
âIjichi - who was hiding underneath the sink out of fear, by the way, pfft- claims heâd been holding onto a frilly black garter.â Pointing very blatantly at the practically skin-tight skirt youâd decided to wear today. âAnd I know someone who just-so-happened to âloseâ a black garter in the office.â
âWhat-â youâre sputtering out, not because of the accusation - no, Shoko knew all about that - but about the confirmation of your suspicions that Nanami really did have your lacy lilâ number. âBut if he liked that so much then why doesnât he make a move?â
Shoko crosses her arms with the wise air of someone that had just solved the answer to the meaning of life, and was intentionally being coy about it. âDonât you realize that you have the perfect solution for that?â
âWhat?â Wow, you really were on an eloquent streak today.Â
Just then, the heavy meeting room doors slide open - and in walks a sternly reluctant Nanami and Higuruma with too many dozens of prized alcohol. Said Higuruma who winks at you garishly-Â
You glance at Shokoâs smile, the kind she gets when sheâs about to cement a contract that would result in several lawsuits that she already knows your company would win. Oh. You get it.Â
.
.
.
And so does Higuruma, apparently.
Because even though he might not know of your little plan, the man was more than happy to keep you company amongst the thrumming masses celebrating.Â
Somehow, the entire department had been roped in and packed inside the sprawling meeting room. Mingling over dim lights and softly playing music from the corner of your impropmtu office party.Â
Which worked out in your favor, surprisingly, as it gave you the opportunity to eye a stony-faced Nanamiâs reaction - stood right next to you when you leaned against Higuruma with a wheezing laugh.
âHas anyone ever told you that youâre really funny, President Higuruma?â Youâre tittering out and, admittedly, his humor was amazing - but what was more interesting to you was the way that Nanamiâs neat brows furrowed.Â
âMhm, youâll just have to get used to that, sugar.â You swear you hear the glass in Nanamiâs vice-like grip clink! Thickened digits, so easily powerful and tightening until his mountainous knuckles shone white. âAfter all, weâll be working together to take care of some big packages now.â
You feel your lips curl up into a sleazy grin, eyes locked dead-set on Nanamiâs own. âYeah, Iâm quite excited to be handling those big packages, actually.âÂ
Higuruma raises a brow, âSâthat so?â
âOf course.â And if you inched in ever-so-slightly closer to him, if you let your voice dip saccharinely in honey, then Nanami couldnât do anything about it. Nothing but spill out a sharp huff, mouth tightening into a harsh line across his pretty face. âI only hope theyâre bigger than what Jujutsu Tech has currently been working with.â
âOh yeah, much bigger.â Nanami looked positively like an explosion just waiting to go off, and you didnât know whether it was slight fear or anticipation that made your thighs clench sinfully together. âThis contract will be like nothing youâve ever seen.â
âThe bigger the better.â
You risk a glance downwards, just barely catching the way that your dear boss adjusts his sleek formal pants down near his thigh. Oh, lips parting, he was big, huh? Really big.Â
And the quieter Nanami grew, the more talkative Higuruma became. More confident. âPardon my forwardness, angel, but are we still talking business here?â And then comes the finishing blow - before you can blink, a strong arm latches onto your waist. âBecause if we arenât then-â
SLAM!
Itâs all you can do to not shiver when you turn your gaze over to Nanami, whoâd just clanged his half-full glass down on a nearby table. Veins bubbling with voltage from head to toe at the sheer metallic glint of something dangerous in his targeted gaze.Â
Locked purely and utterly on you.
You can see the way his sharp jaw jumps with a furious tick. Fawny strands of blond curtaining over his furrowed brows, that slightly bumpy trail of his vein-
âI believe my employee is out of line, Hiromi.â Nanami bites out those words - sharp, and rugged. Piercing through your figure and sprinting right down to your heating core. The grin he gives you makes you shudder, âI will correct that.â
What?Â
âKen- ah!â Youâre yelping when Nanami doesnât give you the time for it to sink in, for you to even register anything other than the way his massive palm locks around your waist tightly.Â
Doughy pads of his fingertips dig into the curvature of your hips, and you almost get whiplash at the tug of Nanamiâs strong arms stealing you away from Higurumaâs touch. Tucking you into his blistering hot side, you think you feel dizzy with just how heady the combination of skin and cologne was.Â
And then you leave - the both of you. Higuruma only calling after, stricken.Â
Youâre walking - or, at least, it feels like youâre walking. Almost on autopilot, youâre stuck on the firm set of Nanamiâs jaw when he guides you briskly through the throngs of people.Â
âKento-â
âWhat now, darling?â Darling? Heâs never ever called you that before. Never manhandled you with only one of his arms until youâre striding - running - down the familiar route to his richly-kept office.Â
Oh.
Your own fingertips dig into the shimmering fabric of his fitted suit jacket, words coming out a little bit more breathless than youâd have liked. âKen- sir, what are you-â
But, of course, Nanami Kento never let up that easy. Of course, he would never let you get the last word in if he had the chance. And tonight was all about chances.Â
Whatever probing question dies in your throat when Nanami pauses - for a mere split-second - although it feels like hours in slow motion before he bends down and jostles you into a princess carry. Firm curves of his biceps digging underneath your thighs, a tender palm splays out across your back.Â
Yet, the way that heâs staring deeply down at you is anything but.
âOh, you know what the fuck Iâm doing.â He wrenches out, vibrating you with the rumbling baritone that husks from his chest. So close that your own heartbeat matches with his fervent ba-dump! ba-dump! ba-dump! Each word just coated and dripping in something so raw that you barely even notice until after he weightlessly carries you past that familiar arching doorway. âItâs what you wanted, after all. Isnât it?â
Dazed. Until the metallic click! of the door being locked by one of Nanamiâs hands pull you out of your whirling thoughts.
Heâs striding inside fast. Depravedly.Â
âIs that jealousy I hear?â You sing-song, fingers trailing up to rub over his fuzzy undercut. And the moment you touch him, itâs like something in Nanami snaps. Something in him blinksâŚawake.
âStop that.âÂ
Wasting with not a single nanosecond of hesitation before cupping his greedy palms on the squirming curve of your ass. He sneaks in a nice, long squeeze with one hand, the other facing down on the table in a long swipe to clatter down everything but that golden CEO Nanami nameplate onto the floor.
You suck in a sharp inhale when he splays you out like some spellbound slut on the cool surface of his mahogany office table. Unceremoniously.Â
Youâve never seen him likeâŚthis.
He spanks his thick fingers along where your sinfully tight skirt was perking up to show off skin that makes Nanamiâs mouth water. That makes him angle his head greedily for a flash of those very same pink panties that had him forgoing all duties earlier today.Â
âTrying to make me fucking jealous. You forget your place, my love.â His index toys over the ribbony straps of your underwear. âIâve been crazy for you since you stepped foot in this place. Iâve been yours.â
You, on the other hand, were still reeling to make your jumbling thoughts somewhat coherent.Â
Rutting up into the merciless weight of his sculptured front pinning you down - Nanamiâs body was feverish. So hot that it made your skin break out in a humid layer of perspiration, you felt so hot. You felt like you were melting already.
And his muscles, oh- even through a jacket, and that cotton button-up you so loved on him, he was so toned that you could count every delicious ridge of Nanamiâs glissading abs.Â
Rounded centers of your knees attach around his slender waist, youâre gasping at the firm plane of muscled obliques that welcome you. âNâ thatâs what made you jealous? Heh- thatâs so cute- mmpf-â
âDoes it amuse you to break me, my love?â Nanami grapples two of his tough digits to smush your cheeks together, sultry leer piercing its way through his mask of fury. He growls, âTo make me fucking furious?â
âNgh- Kentoââ The whimpers just wonât stop spilling from your lips, his gaze drilling into your eyes and falling straight to your drenching cunt. Your hips arch needily off of the icy cold wood to nudge your pussymound for more more more- âI- fuck-â
SMACK!
âTalk to me like a big girl.â He hisses, knotting his fingers around your tender throat so tight. Tight enough to drain you of the necessary volumes of air strangling in your throat, letting only a few weepy gurgles leave your mouth. Hard. âAh ah, a big girl I said. If you can talking with fucking- President Higuruma, you can talk to me.â
âWant- want-â Your nails claw patterned lines that paint across Nanamiâs muscular forearms. âI want you to kiss me, Kento.â
There. Youâd said it.Â
And Nanamiâs smile was almost blinding.
Heâs closing in the hypnotic inches until his plump lips hovered simple milimeters away from your puckered ones. Much too far for you, in your opinion.Â
Fisting a single hand around Nanamiâs sapphire collar, youâre dredging up your strength to finally pull him in for the kiss youâve been waiting ages for at this point. Finally. Singing off a brief sigh at the heated proximity of his maw-
Only for Nanami to pull away.
âWh-where are you going?â Youâre mewling out, brows furrowing with the type of upset desperation that only Nanami was able to bring out in you. You needed him - and you needed him badly.Â
But the only answer you get is the balmy breeze of his snickers clouding down your body, so scorching that it made flames of want zip down between your legs. And Nanami does kiss you - between the heaving valley of your chest, right underneath your left tit, your tummy- down, down, down.
Ripâ!
There go your limited-edition fishnets - torn right with only a few tugs of Nanamiâs carnal canines. Right with his mouth that burrows between the pliable hole heâd made between your legs.Â
âHm? What was that, darling?â Heâs drawling away, shuffling until he was right between your legs. Until your big, bad boss was kneeling in front of you. âOh! My sweet girl wants a little kiss, doesnât she? How cuuute.â
Rutting up your hips, you just barely manage to get the edge of your slick-flooded thighs to stroke his dimpled cheek. Lips jutting out into a pout, âYes- yes.â
âToo bad she didnât earn it, hm? As if Iâd kiss a mouth that flirted with another man in front of me- no matter how pretty. â Nanami continues, like he didnât even hear your pleas right now. Thank goodness you couldnât see the way the cracking rawness to your voice made his pants so much tighter.Â
Thereâs the stubborn schwf! of your skirt being pushed up in a rough tug. And itâs only once he turns his heart-eyed stare down between your legs that you realize. âSo, guess mâjust gonna hafta kiss you.â
He wasnât talking to you. He was talking to your dripping cunt.Â
No sooner does this realization hit, that Nanamiâs eager kiss does too. A filthy, sodden French snog planted right through your soaked panties.Â
Nodding along as if he was translating every slurp weaving its way from between your bloated folds. âOh? Whatâs that you say? More?âÂ
Heâs trawling the pointed edge of his nose up nâ down the your slippery slit, teeth nipping along the rubbery folds to make your entrance gush out slivery ropes of slick. You count exactly one smooch at your dripping base, two right where your pussymound was the pulpiest, and the final - longest and most lingering - on your throbbing clit.Â
âSee?â He hums, fleshy thumb outlining the slobbering fringe of your pussylips. Just peeking his manicured fingertip past your useless underwear, and inching backwards with a saturated squelch whenever you squirmed for more. Tease. âNow thaâs a good girl, sheâd never flirt with another. Youâre mine, right- all mine? Or- well-â
Your breath hitches when you feel the wet splatter! of a slimy clump of saliva striking your teary cunt dead-on. And Nanamiâs thumb rolls over the sheeny glaze with such utter love, âNow youâre all mine.â
Your fingers sneak their way to tangle into Nanamiâs mussed-up locks, pulling his sappy mouth even closer. So close that his curved chin hits your pussy with a wet plap! And the crisp whoosh of him drinking in your scent deeply has you whining, âKen- more. More.â
Nanami growls and itâs almost feral. Heâs knocking out a deafening mewl from your lips with a sharp, sultry spank exactly on the target of your pulsing clit. âMore? More, huh?â Purposefully rovering the chilling band of one signet ring - holding it firmly down where your hole was leaking. âAfter you got this wet for Hiromi? Nice try.â
âThis isnât for Higu-â
Thwack! The hollowing noise of flesh meeting flesh sings out in your ears, every swat after swat being left on your pussy enough to make your head throw back helplessly.Â
The sight of it only makes Nanamiâs scouring fingers pry apart your gluey folds even wider, kissing every nook and cranny. Over and over. Taunting. âNâ now youâre talking about another hah- man when youâre wâme? I should fire you, darling.â
You already know he never would.Â
But you canât stop yourself from spilling out a string of swears anyway, âTh-this is all for- ngh-â Flinching bodily when he wraps the waterlogged remnants of your panties around one fist, âround and âround until your pussy was allll on shamefully display, and your delicate pink panties dig into your fleshy mounds. â-for you, Kento.â
And when Nanami pulls at the silky fabric with one hand, youâre dragged down across the table right with it. Till you were exactly where he wanted you.
âCorrect.â
Your panties were in tatters now - and he tucks it away into his pocket with a wink. For later. âHate these slutty fucking panties. Wanted them off every fucking time.â
Swiping away the syrupy trickle of saliva overspilling from his mouth, Nanamiâs instantly surging over to connect his lips with your puffy ones. Groaning out a throat mmmmâ the moment that candied flavor sugarcoats his lips.
The most lecherous squelches! speak across all four corners of his decadent office when Nanami handlessly tilts his head to let his scratchy tastebuds maze through your weepy pussy.Â
He doesnât even care that heâs getting the frames of his glasses all messy. Swirling out slow circles around the elastic ring of your entrance, before pumping inches in-
âFuck-â Youâre squealing, throat clogging with a leaden ball the moment heâs contracting his tongue to stretch your entrance out wiiidely agape. In and out until your rubbery hole was tenderizing to his ravenous shape and texture, â-fuck just like ngh- that.â
âOh yeahh? You like this, huh?â Meeting Nanamiâs gaze from between your cracked-open legs results in shockwaves all over your body. Because his molten gaze was gleaming - practically glowing. âGetting so turned on sâlike youâre a ngh- damn waterpark. Think anyone else could get you this f-fuck- soaked?â
And you couldnât even hide it just how aroused you were. Just how close.Â
Wiry ropes of your webbed slick clings onto Nanamiâs mouth with each soppy plap of his mouth clashing onto your cunt. Harder. Fucking you with his tongue just the way his thick cock was aching to do right now-
SMACK!
âMmm sweet girl, makinâ such a mess. Answer me.â He spits into your syrupy pussy, urging out a few fresh waves of slick that laminate his fat digits in pure gloss. A gloss that he sucks up happily.
âYou-â
He doesnât even let you finish. Because you were so adorable being eaten out until you were stupid, none of that usual flirty snark present when he was making out with your cunt like a man parched.Â
Swirling out tiny hearts on your clit with the mushy tips of his fingertips, he yearns to skim the perked edge of his tongue all over your gummy walls. Bumping into every delicate orifice, Nanamiâs free fingers fly down to trace your tight ring of muscle. âOh yeah?â
âO-only youââ Your blubbers are so adorable, mouth loosened into an oh! yet the only thing coming out of it are repeated shrills of Kento! How cute, Nanami can only hope that these walls arenât thick enough that those outside wonât hear. He wants them to. â-only you can make me so- ngh-â
âShy, darling?â He sounded so painfully pussydrunk right now. Rouge blush burning, gazing up at you heavily shuttered eyes, a maw that was drooling more and more with every lapping snog placed on your slobbering pussy. âWhat happened to my flirty girl?â
His flirty girl.Â
Shit- the words themselves affect him just as much as they do you. Nanamiâs muscular thighs manspread even wider with just how fat his painfully hard cockhead was bloated. Close. Itâs so sloppy how he quickens his pace to toy with the button of your clit.
His, all struggling to get out the words from your mouth - battling with your heavy tongue to get out a keening- âYou. Yours. Hngh- Only y-you can make me feel like this. M-make me feel so hck! close, Kento.âÂ
His perfect girl.
âOhhh, say that again. Dunno if I quite believe that.â He groans, budging your thighs over to suffocate his head even deeper, god, he knows that he could pass out right here and still be the most content man on Earth. Holding your ankles behind his hand with a second hand, you canât help but ogle the rippling bulge of his biceps. âLock them.â Your tangling motions were limp - weak. But Nanami finds himself grinning anyway, holding you in place tightly, heâs doubly stuffing in two digits past your slicked entrance. âSay my name.â
âKen- Kento?â
Piling upon wads and wads of stringy cum that sprinkle all over your thighs, just the striking sensation is enough for you to see stars. Enough to gasp when his probing digits pillage your gooey depths, âAgain.â
âKento.â
And of course, Nanami Kento wasnât a merciless man. Mean. Filthy with just how much heâs clacking his jaw to grind into the supple rim of your, your knee bounces up even higher at the taut spring of something hot pooling in your tummy.Â
He could tell. Oh, he could tell.Â
You were always so adorably readable - especially with your wobbling lips, and those crinkling beads of tears spilling over from the corners of your eyes. Mumbling, âKentooo-!â
And all he really had to do was pound a battery swipe along your sweltering walls, deeply. Skidding right across where he knew your magical g-spot would be. Heâs giving your perky clit not one - hell, not even two - but three solid pinches on your sensitive hood. Hard.Â
The babbling words âC-cumming-â are barely starting syllables out of your mouth before it crashes into you headfirst.Â
You feel like youâre being run over with such waves of bliss, pupils sliding allll the way into the back of your scrunched lids.Â
The wooden desk trills out a ringing creak! when you arch your spine into the perfect semi-circle, dragging Nanamiâs mouth all over each and every crevice of your quivering cunt. Riding out your high in long sloppy drags.Â
Using him. And how Nanami loved to be used by you.
âYeah- yeah yeahââ Holding your gaze fatally, you can only watch as the pearly beads spraying from your cunt drip the long trailway down to hit the back of his throat. Your fingertips dig into his scalp, mushing his face even closer, â-cum. Cum all over mâface, my love. Make a fucking mess of me.â
You swear that Nanamiâs voice was shattering into a whimper towards the very end. Prominent Adamâs apple bobbing with every greedy gulp, and he doesnât stop. He canât stop.
Not even when your sparking high fades out into nothingness, not even when that white-hot pleasure formulates into something sensitive. Almost painful. Gasping out a sharp ah! with every drag of Nanamiâs tongue over your too-tender cunt.Â
âS-sensitive-â Youâre mewling, desperately trying to push on his blond head. Stacks of sweat-dampened hair plastering across your palm, âKen- Ken, mâtoo sensitive.â
âTch.â Heâs panting, eyes latching on instead to your glistening pussy - all pretty with trickling layers of sweet, sweet juices and his saliva. What a mess heâs made. He swears he can spot a darkening patch oozing out all over the desk.Â
Nanami rubs his fleshy thumb over the tantalizing curve of your pussymound just a few repeated times, âLet me ask her- hm, wanna let me ah- go? Ready to say goodbye, darling?â
And whatever slurring squelches that emanate from your soppy lips speak to him. Enough so that he finds himself nodding mindlessly, âFine then.â Planting an exaggerated mwah! on your clit, âIâll see you later, mâkay?âÂ
He was so gentle kissing your pussy goodbye - but so, so mean manhandling you off of the desk. In a singular fluid motion, scooping you up with two beefy arms underneath your legs and falling back into the CEOâs cushy chair.
âO-oh.â You find your thighs straddling his sculpted hips, hands falling precariously on top of his bulging deltoids. What a feast Nanami Kento was.Â
He barely even had to try to make your hips grind in a jerky up and down on his too-tight bulge. Splotching out gluey patches of slick wherever your driveling lips were hitting. Nanami counts exactly six slippery streaks before he grabs your throat and pulls-
âThink ya earned it now.â He hisses through a simpering groan. Youâre so pliable like this - so open to being dragged into a filthy, filthy kiss. âMm- might just be my favorite ngh- lipgloss on ya.â
Youâre smacking at the curvaceous valley between Nanamiâs pecs - nothing more than kittenish pecks for him, âThat- thatâs so filthy, Ken.â
Skin dappling with a second skin of goosebumps with every inch exposed to the heady air, heâs unbuttoning your blouse slowly. Lazily. Pop! Pop! Pop! Taking his precious time to watch every minute huff and puff you cloud out.Â
âOh, darling.â Bursting out a bout of laughter that hits you to your very core as soon as your top and bra hit the polished floor. Nanami tilts back in his seat sexily, angling you to take up even more space on the comfortable seat of his lap - his thick, outlined bulge. âWe havenât even gotten started.â
Fuck.
He pants, âHated these slutty skirts- fuck- made me almost call HR because you looked so- beautiful.â With your skirt soon shed, youâre suddenly reeling with the realization that youâre the only one naked right now. âBetter with them off.â
Never one to fall behind, you canât help but tumble your greedy digits downwards. Mouth lathering with a sloshing wave of greed as soon as your fingertips skim the rock-hard tent struggling in Nanamiâs pants.
âFuck- greedy girl.â At this point, itâs as if the exact measurements of Nanamiâs hand were branded into the mounded flesh of your ass. Because each spank has you crying, âDonât you worry now, mâgonna fuck that ngh- feisty mouth shut soon, but for nowâŚâ
Youâre left hanging, waiting on where Nanamiâs drawling words would take you next.Â
But it just-so-happened that you didnât have to wait. Didnât have to register anything but the way that heâs tugging down his too-tight pants and boxers just enough-
âOh my-â You gasp at the sight below you, blinking your weighty lids just a few times to make sure that you werenât imagining things. Because, sure, on those lonely nights youâd imagined Nanami to be big - but this was just ridiculous. â-Ken, youâre so-â
Big package for sure.
âH-heh.â He preens, wrenching down the velvety fabric until it looped halfway down the padded meat of his thighs. âDonât act so cockdrunk, my love- sâonly gonna make me ngh bigger.â
Roaming five dexterous fingers to grasp his bulky base, the rest of Nanamiâs nine- no, ten inches drip down needy gumdrops of pre onto your hand. He was long, girthy - blushed on his swollen mushroom tip a pretty cerise pink that matched your ruined panties.Â
âWanâ you inside me.â Youâre purring out, and Nanamiâs heart races as he catches a few glimpses of that complete and utter tease you usually are. You swipe your thumb over the syrupy top coating of precum on his tip, plugging it into Nanamiâs mouth.
Well, he might be the boss - but not in here.
After all, who was he to go against anything his pretty girl said?Â
âMmm- sâthat so?â Heâs suckling right on your doughy pads, fringes of his neat teeth nipping your flesh. Looking you right in the eyes while leaving a few streaky smears across your drooling slit, up and down. Golden blond lashes so long they flutter against the flushed apples of his cheeks, âGimme a kiss first, my girl.â
So sweet.
Or so you thought.
Because youâd just inched your allured body closer to give him what he wanted. Digging your rounded knees into the sides of his body to just let your pursed lips brush in an innocent, innocent skim across his kiss-bitten ones-Â
Before Nanami wraps his hand around your throat and tilts your head back to let himself spit. Just seconds before nudging apart your sticky folds and pushing in-
âAh!â Your eyes sprint between snapping open in sheer shock, and screwing tightly shut at the pure stretch. The tightness. You could almost hear the elastic creak of your weepy entrance being pulled to its very limits around Nanamiâs globed tip. âO-oh my god-â
âShhhh you can take it, good girl- my good girl.â Heâs thumbing away the purposeful spatteres that decorate the sagging edges of your lips. Rounded centers of his fingertips sinking in tight around your throat, âMmm- sâthis a big enough package for ya?â
Itâs an uphill battle to force your lids to shutter open, only to peer into Nanamiâs glassy eyes to see that yeah, there was still a glint of raw jealousy in them. Still.Â
Your hand dips its way down to swipe open your dewy pussylips, rubbing over the most tender spots on your drooling cunt when your hips stutter down inch by fucking inch.Â
Splitting your tight orifice in half with his vast cylindrical cock, every wild rut that pumps Nanami even deeper makes you dizzy. Your ajar maw spilling with drool while he fucks himself furiously harder and harder and-
Head lolling over into the clammy crook of his shoulder, your tongue licks up a long stripe along his neck. âNgh- s-so fucking bigâ Donât know if I c-can take it.â
âNow now.â With a rude spank! your fingers are swatted away meanly, Nanamiâs own taking over in its place. Not to do the job - just to toy with the buzzing nub of your clit while he pumped you snugly full of his never-ending shaft. âMove that hand, lemme see my girlâs hah- pussy take my big fuckinâ cock.â
Salty tears spring to your eyes and end up dripping onto Nanamiâs awaiting tongue, voice laced with something primal. âPoor baby, getting nervous. Donâtcha remember what you told Hiromi?â You did. âThe bigger the better?â You remember. âSo buckle up nâ take it like a good girl now, my love.â
Your answer is nothing but a half-lucid nod, âY-yes, Ken-âÂ
âHm?â He pinches your clit. A warning.Â
âSir.â
âAtta girl.â
And then Nanamiâs bottomed-up, his hefted base sagging against your sopping wet lips, globular swell of his breeder balls nestling up behind your cunt in a congratulatory smooch. And he was kissing your other lips just the same.
Leaving wet swabs that decorate your pulpy cervix in translucent streams, youâre squealing after each nâ every fat thud! of Nanamiâs rotund cockhead mushing into your gooey depths. Probing veins massaging you incessantly.
He couldnât get enough.
âAtta girl-â Heâs snickering into your mouth, pounding and pounding even more despite the clingy push of your pussy. Despite the way that he canât even go any deeper - his cock was still aching for more. To strike the bullseye of your womb. âO-ohhh atta giiirl. Open wiiiide fâme.â
Like a mantra. You werenât any more coherent, with your words garbling out over every leathery creak! of the pristine office chair. âLoud- g-gonna be loud, Kento.â
âI donât care.â Nanami spits out immediately, leaving a heavy-duty swat on your bulging pussy folds as if to ask why should you care, too? He had such a way of speaking to you with his body, rendering you speechless after only a few seconds in the presence of his vicious tempo. âLet them hear, they couldnât fuck you like this. Let them know hck! wh-who makes this slutty cunt feel so good.â
And it wasnât a question, but youâre answering anyway. Looping your boneless arms around the expanse of Nanamiâs broad shoulders, your limbs stick to the sweat-drenched fabric of his button-up and you huff.Â
âYou- need you to-â Youâre murmuring away, numb tips of your fingers fumbling with his pearly buttons. Two seconds away from ripping this damn shirt off of him, â-need to see you.â
âOh yeah?â Heâs letting his top fly open to reveal what looks like yard upon yards of smooth, sculptured skin. Shiny with a glimmery sheen of humid perspiration and slick - puddling from your weepy cunt at the way that Nanami was so sexy. All jiggling pecs and abs for days, you find your pussy gulping his length up nâ down even faster. Nipping along bites that redden his flesh prettily, âWoah- Really are a slut, my love. Nâ I fucking love it.â
Nanami was always such a possessive man, one hand latched onto the side of your waist and helping you stumble along with every pap! The other wandering down to pat that proud curve where your cozy hole was being overstuffed with his fat cock, before traipsing up to your clit-
âMmmâ gonna have everyone know.â Heâs biting down on his bottom lip, looking up at you through teary lashes. Tapping your clit, âSay my name, my love.â
âKen-â
âLouder.â
âKen!â
The chair bustles with every jerk, and the unsteady motions only have Nanami driving even deeper. âMmm- now say his name-â Heâs settling your mouth open with another clump of saliva, kissing away the smearing excess. â-say his name. Say Higuruma-â
But it was no use. The only thing your mouth seemed to be able to form into was a loud Ken. Just as heâd wanted. Just as what makes him chuckle, âGonna fuck you s-so good that fucking Hiromi sâgonna know from a mile away.â
Ohhh, how he loved that cute lilâ thought.Â
He was certainly jackhammering you like it, motioning your hips into eager gyrations even faster than your fatigued legs could handle. Practically carrying you through every claggy slap of skin-on-skin, Nanamiâs tensed core burns with the friction.Â
But he doesnât care. Doesnât even burn the sting of anything other than the way his sensitively enlarged balls were papping against your skin. Painting sweet, sweet bruises for days.Â
âWould ya like that?â Heâs mindlessly babbling away, and even through his hooded eyes you could tell that Nanami was completely pussydrunk. He wasnât even circling your clit now - he was writing out on top a rapid K-E-N-T-O. Gone. Ruined. Rolling his hips in sloppy bucks, âWanâ me ta fuck you until everyone knows?â
Youâre nodding. Nodding and nodding away, and Nanami thinks this canât get any better. Youâre so gorgeous when youâre fucked dumb like this, who knew his office tease would be soâŚpliant?
Heâs already in heaven with each saturated slip nâ slide massaging your weeping orifices. Angling his hips ever-so-slightly to the side to feel more of you-
Thatâs when he hits it.
That spot.Â
And oh, Nanami thinks he could cum right then and there with the way your slicked walls kiss his length in a lingering smooch. Just as lovers do.Â
âThere-â youâre mumbling out, your lips leaving tiny pecks across the grinning corners of his lips. But you didnât even have to start for him to already be bouncing you with the target of exact, precise strikes to your g-spot. Spotting steamy splotches of parched precum over that bulging spot, âR-right there, Ken- donât miss donât miss.â
âWould never fuckinâ imagine.â He has the audacity to roll his eyes.Â
You believed him - just as much as you believed in the flurries of stars bursting countlessly behind your eyes. Hushing out, âMâclose, Kento- gonna cum- fuck mâgonna cum.â
How could you not be close when heâs back to his favorite hobby that makes you squirm - pinching your throbbing clit right in time with the long, long lines his battering tip glides across your sweet spot. Ending allll the way back at your cervix. âMhm, gonna make you cum on mâfucking cock. Hafta l-let those fucking ngh- losers know whose pretty pussy this is.â
And once the ever-stoic Nanami starts babbling, itâs like he canât stop.Â
âMine-â Sucking on your bruised lower lip like his favorite candy. âMine.â Twice. âMine.â Thrice. Heâs fucking you like heâd die if he slowed down right now, massaging your rubbery entrance deliriously raw. Teeth grit the closer and closer he inched himself, âGonna let Hiromi know. Gonna let Ijichi know- Shoko- fucking Ino who w-was making eyes at my girl. My wife.â
Youâre gasping, âW-wife?â And it seemed like such a highly tense moment to finally accept you as his work wife. That is, before-
âMhmââ And thereâs no regret, none of that usual shyness in Nanamiâs eyes as he fucks you with deep eye contact. Thumb finishing off drawing a final KENTO on your clit, âBetter know that mâgonna buy you th-the biggest fucking diamond youâve ever seen, my love.â
Maybe itâs the way that heâs so serious. Maybe itâs the drilling pace of his thumping cock. Or maybe itâs just Nanami himself; boring up at you through droopy eyes and foggy glasses, a delirious smile plastered all over his face while he rammed you to your orgasm.
Fat tears collecting on your waterline, your vision blurs with just how intense of an orgasm heâs wrenching out of you. You swear itâs the best youâve had in years - maybe even in your entire life.
âF-fuuuuckââ Your fingers drag unorganized lines all over his smooth shoulders, making it out as if heâd just been attacked by wild cats - but itâs just you. You and your sappy folds milking Nanamiâs very soul, hot puffs of condensed breath hitting his craned neck when you lean in. âA-all for you, Kento.â
And the exact moment Nanami feels your lips descend upon his skin to suck - the exact moment he realizes that youâre marking him - his breath strangles in a gasp.Â
âDarling- darling.â Heâs panting out, shivering fingers setting the soft spots of your cunt free to get a good grope of your ass. To muster all his fucked-out strength to whack your pussy against his sharp hipbones with a resounding pap! âOh, darling mâcumming- fuck- better take every drop now.â
But it was impossible to.
Because Nanami was cumming so much - even more than he had in the bathroom just hours earlier. Torrenting out sticky webs of seed that glue your walls feebly together and scratch such a primal urge inside you to have him fill you up.
Heâs fighting to keep his head from throwing back, blinking away the sparks that bolt behind his eyes to drink in the sight down below.Â
In awe at just how much of it was overspilling in ivory ribbons from the stretched-out ends of your sodden slit. Stretching thickly over his bulked base in a buttery ring, itâs so messy that heâs barely thinking before smearing over the wadded mess.
âKen- mmpf-â Your mouth falters as soon as he stuffs in the glazed-over tips of his fingers, swirling around a slow circle inside your unhinged maw. He already knows this is going to be good. âWant more.â
More.
More.
Here you were - stuffed until your poor pussy couldnât even handle just how much cum Nanami was still fucking into you. Spraying out a fountain of creamy globs with every pressurized thrust planted on your pussy - and you still wanted more?
Something flashes behind Nanamiâs eyes.
And before you know it, youâre whimpering at the loss of his girthy inches weighing down in your cunt. Thereâs a saccharine fwop! followed by the slosh of trickling cum when Nanami pulls out, âC-come back.â
With a ringed finger plugging up your geysering hole from losing any precious ounces, Nanami carries you over to that familiar office desk in a single stride. Splaying you out - manhandling you - with ease until you were bent over the cool surface.Â
Your cheek being pushed into the currently saliva-soaked wood, wrangling hands instantly tied behind your back with something silky - fuck, Nanamiâs tie. Your cunt once more stuffed to the very brim with all of his throbbing cock.Â
Heâs leveraging the little restraint to jostle your hips ever-deeper. Youâre squealing at that stretch - one youâre sure youâd never get used to. âK-Kento, sirââ
âShhh, my love.â You hear in throaty groans from above you, and Nanamiâs muscular weight pinning down your body makes you even wetter. As if he was just melting his abs into your curved back, smearing back nâ forth in tiny smudges after he starts pushing- âSay another word nâ mâgonna get ya pregnant- then theyâll really know youâre mine.â
.
.
.
Itâs not like Nanami Kento to ever be late to a meeting.
Given, there was that one time a year ago when heâd almost been late before an important contract discussion with Kyoto Enterprises. But thirty five whole minutes late to a meeting?Â
Well, that was unheard of. Impossible, really.
And Shoko finds herself sighing, tapping her nails impatiently on the glass table. Honestly, there were so many better things she could be doing with her time than waiting for her mystery of a boss. And - just her luck - you werenât here today to distract from the boredom of corporate life, either.Â
The universe is against her, really.Â
âOi, Ijichiââ She calls out to the fidgeting man seated across from her - and she doesnât know whether he jumps because everyone on the team is on edge, or simply because this is Ijichi. âFive more minutes, then we file a missing persons report.â
âI-I am sure Mr. Nanami is ah- fine-â He pushed up his dangerously low glasses, muttering underneath his breath. â...hopefully.â
âI think we should go with the missing persons report.â Higuruma pipes up from one end of the room, the man had become a much-loved addition to this department since the contract. âBecause I hate to say it, but the man has no life. Thereâs no reason for him to just-â
SLAM!
âMy apologies, Iâm late.â Nanami pants out into a silence that could only be caused by the object of your conversation suddenly intruding. A blur of impeccable suits and blond hair.Â
Well, Shoko couldnât see his face properly from the way he was hunched over to catch his breath like that - but she was glad he seemed unharmed.
Or, at least, thatâs what she thought.
Because then Nanami stands up properly.
And honestly, she doesnât know what makes her heart stop more. The fact that Nanami Kento arrived late to a meeting - or that he arrived late to a meeting with lipstick stains all over his lips, his jawline, his neck. And- and were those hickeys bruising his neck?
The coffee cup in her hand falls, and itâs not the only one. Surely, this had to be a prank- wait, does her boss even know what that is?
Still thinking itâs some strange practical joke, sheâs squinting to get a closer look at the strangely familiar color of that lipstick. That- shit, wasnât that your favorite shade?
Nanami snaps his head to Shoko the very moment she says your name - almost as if a form of experimentation. Before looking down at himself and finally - finally - seeing the state he was in. He sighs, fond. âAh, my apologies again. My beautiful wife held me up, and I forgot to check if she left marks.â
Wife.Â
Higurua drawls out the question striking through everyoneâs mind right now. âWhat. The. Fuck.âÂ
And Ijichi squeaks out the second most striking question, âW-wife? D-do you mean your w-work wife, Mr. Nanami?â
âNo.â Heâs tilting his head in confusion, as if there was any possibility of anything else otherwise. Pulling out a glinting golden band hung around a simple chain from underneath his suit. A wedding ring. With your name engraved. âMy wife wife.â
A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3
Plagiarism not authorized.
thank you tonycries đ§đżââĄď¸
Biting Leon's biceps
Out of all the things you couldn't keep yourself from when it came to Leon was his muscles, specifically his biceps. They were just so big and bulky, it was hard not to sink your teeth into them.
At times, it's been out of nowhere. It could be a quiet night in the living room Infront of the TV. Leon could be half asleep when he'd feel your teeth bite into the corded muscle.
The man was used to it, giving a sigh and just letting you do your thing.
"Again, gorgeous?"
"Mhmm."
You'd hum in answer, just enjoying the physique of your lover before detatching yourself from him and pressing a kiss to his scruff.
"Didn't realise I was your new chew toy."
Other times would be when he had you beneath him, on all fours as he rutted into you; fingers circling your twitchy bundle of nerves. It was as if your mind was seeping from your ears from the overwhelming pleasure running through your veins.
So blissed out, when Leon's arm came around in a headlockâ not too hard but firmâ your first instinct was to sink your teeth into the meat of his bicep, moaning into the skin as the head of his cock slammed to nicely against your g-spot.
"mhhâ always bitin' me, so damn good for me."
When you came, you came hard, so hard that afterwards there was a visible mark on Leon's arm. Even if you were a biter, he really loved you.


