It's a common stereotype that mech pilots exhibit scrawny, lithe, even fragile bodies. This falsity does have a basis in reality, though; 77% of the Stellar Population suffers from one nutritional deficiency or another, and 95% of pilot recruits come from this bracket. Neural Conditioning and Psyche Reformatting aren't conducive to building healthy appetites, either, notwithstanding the previously-abyssal quality of Imperial rations. Many pilots had to be force-fed full-nutrition pastes and slurries just to keep them from self-starvation, although this practice has diminished since the approval of THC-based appetite stimulants in the previous solar year.
Piloting a 9-storey war machine is incredibly calorie-consumptive, to put it mildly. Combat stims and Hund-pattern psyches can only go so far before the body starts to shut down from protein deficiency or autolysis starts and severs the neural bridge between the pilot's body and its machine (the latter nearly always resulting in a KIA report). Pilots (ones considered non-disposable, at least) are actually kept as some of the most well-fed fighters of the UIMC. The ones who return to hangar from a sortie, and who meet acceptable combat metrics, are given not mere slurry but canteen cooking. Often it's merely tinned rations dressed-up into something a little more palatable, sometimes it's whatever the infantry 'requisitioned' from the locals, on vanishingly rare occasions it might even be specially-selected meats or baked bread with real butter. Feasting in this manner also has pack-bonding benefits for pilot squads while still keeping them isolated from (and loathed by) the rank-and-file of the company.
You can always tell the most lethal veteran pilots by their ample tits, their filled-out thighs, and their amicable relationship with the garrison's cooks. An army might march on its stomach but a pilot hunts and kills for its next full meal.
【☆】 Bullet list format with some scenarios included. Written with a gender neutral reader in mind but has a AFAB anatomy section at the end, word count: 2.7k
honestly, i could go on forever, there's so much i love about him i could never fit it in one post.
This is not proof read!
Starting off with the fact that it would probably take him SO long to realize he’s caught feelings and even longer to accept them. It’s a ridiculous predicament he’s found himself in. The Wanderer is a yearner at heart, but he also carries a huge amount of baggage.
Realistically?
It’d take him years.
And even after he’s sort of accepted it, it won’t be smooth sailing. It’s still complicated for him, yes, he likes you, now what?
You make him feel all sorts of things and it’s so frustrating.
He always finds himself making excuses to linger around you, and even then he acts like willingly spending time with you is some sort of atrocious torture. Always complaining and huffing. You don’t take it to heart as it’s very evident this is just a self-imposed hostage situation, he could leave anytime he wants; he simply chooses not to.
So you decide to spare him and not call him out on it (for now).
Despite yearning and wanting, he has no intention of making the first move. It gets to the point that it’s painfully obvious to anyone around him that he’s got a soft spot for you. But he won’t budge, even if the traveler or Buer tease him relentlessly.
It’s sort of his last resort, if you don’t reciprocate his feelings then he can rationalize it as another instance of the human nature disappointing him. Just another reminder to not trust again.
Alas, it all flies out the window the moment you (metaphorically or literally) corner him. It’s kind of funny how little resistance he puts up, despite his aversion to touch he never pushes you away (another example of his favoritism).
Pretend to fix his hair out of his face, play with the ornaments of his clothes, accidentally sit too close to him, it all leads up to the moment where everything escalates.
Grab him by the waist and drag him close to you, tease him with what you know he craves just to let go. It’s an utterly unnecessary dance around the obvious but his reactions are just too cute, the way his face turns an absurd red color while he fights his hands from reaching and holding onto you.
Frustrating.
(note: overdoing it will make him think you’re just toying with him, he already feels like some sort of pathetic damsel in distress in this predicament, so please spare him).
He tries to psych himself up to reciprocate your touches (or do the unspeakable, initiate them), he always chickens out at the last second, but this time, his hands move faster than his brain can think and he finds himself pulling you back in.
It’s instant regret that fills him as he cringes at his own behavior but you quickly shut it down by kissing him.
It’s messy and unpracticed on his end, and it even took him a second to process it and reciprocate.
The label of your relationship is never stated outloud, you’ve been chasing each other for so long that it goes unspoken.
He starts inviting himself in your spaces now, the kiss left him with a whole new level of yearning. He never outright tells you what he wants, instead, he leaves a trail of undecipherable hints.
The sound of scribbling of pens and shuffling of papers fills the air as you work away at some unimportant receipts. He sits behind, you boring holes in your back by the amount of glaring he’s been doing. He’s here, he’s available, and you’re completely ignoring him in favor of wasting his time on some frivolous documents.
When he scoffs for the nth time you finally grace him of your attention.
“What?”
He’s almost caught off guard when you acknowledge him, quickly regaining his composure to shoot a glare at you.
Okay, so it’s another challenge of his.
One that he hopes you’ll pick up, because why be upfront with his desires when he can just throw at you a puzzle and watch you struggle to solve it? (one that he himself wants you to solve, and fast, don’t make him wait).
You calculate your options, ignore him until he gets so frustrated he confronts you (or leaves), or up him at his own game.
So you make a show of getting up from your spot and plopping down next to him, so close you’re squishing yourself in his side. He looks at you with a puzzled look as you embrace him with one arm, pulling him close and ensuring he doesn’t try to make a run for it.
“What’s wrong, my dear Wanderer?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He responds bitterly, refusing eye contact, the slight red on his face betrays him. Cute.
“Awh”, you move your arm down to his waist, “I’m sorry I neglected you, how can I make up for it?” Your tone almost hints at something more suggestive, he wants to shoot back with a snarky remark but he’s so out of his depth that he just stares at you.
He wants, he craves, but…
You let out a breathy laugh, “If you want something from me, you should just tell me.” You finish the sentence with a kiss on his cheek and start retreating to get up, but he stops you.
“Stay.” He looks conflicted, like he’s fighting himself to speak up.
“Okay,” you sit back down and face him. “What else?”
“...Kiss me again.”
And you oblige.
The progress is slow, but it’s there. His selfishness will always win.
It can be insanely difficult to navigate sometimes, you’re the first human he willingly subjected himself to romantically and just the thought of sharing you with other people is gut wrenching. The way people look at you when you’re out and about, the friendly touches and hugs, it all just drives him a little bit insane.
He hates feeling like this. It’s those times he disappears for hours, just mellowing in his own feelings.
It takes a LOT of reassurance, he wouldn’t outright tell you but it’s sort of obvious. Lots of (involuntary) tears. He wants to trust you, but his emotional walls are incredibly thick.
With time, he improves a lot. He has taken his whole redemption seriously, he wants to be better and be better for you.
You showed him he can rely on you, and trust you. It’s a very scary trust fall for him, but you’re there to catch him.
He goes from reminding you of a tiny feral cat, constantly hissing and hiding to the cutest little kitten. Get domesticated, idiot.
Additional stuff:
He doesn’t do PDA, but won’t stop you from holding his arm or hand.
His love language is definitely acts of service, he loves doing things for you. He cooks, he cleans, he’s a house wife in denial.
For him, words of affirmation and physical touch. He loves it when you hold him, tell him how much you love him and whisper corny sweet nothings to him.
Skin to skin contact is very soothing to him. It doesn’t have to be sexual. he just wants to feel you.
He’s a little spoon, again, loves being held.
His favorite spots to kiss you are on the corner of your lips and forehead.
NSFW starts here:
He is, what one could call, a virgin. lol.
In his pursuit of divinity, he had no time or intention of getting distracted in engaging that way with humans. He knows what that activity entails, he just never had an interest in it. Until now, when he met you.
It’s that sort of unique situation that only a four hundred year old puppet could find itself in, four centuries of self imposed abstinence thrown out the window the moment you pop up. It starts innocuous enough that he can rationalize it as simple curiosity, but before he can realize it, it all spirals out of control.
He’s spent long sleepless nights trying to ignore the very obvious tent in his shorts. He never had the inclination to masturbate before, he tried to ignore it the first times, waiting it out staring at the ceiling until he had enough peace of mind to rest a bit.
And then you appear in his dreams. He is beyond frustrated now, how dare you infest his mind even when he’s unconscious? And so he finds himself reaching down to free his aching erection out of his shorts. He doesn’t want to, but maybe if he gives his body what it wants he can finally move on. He grabs himself with very inexperienced hands and tries to get it over with as fast as possible.
Images of you pop in his mind, he wants to be ashamed of where his thoughts are going but he finds it incredibly hard to when every picture of you makes him twitch and leak in his fist. He wishes it were your hands instead of his stroking him to completion, but perhaps it would be too much for him, and just the mere thought of that makes him spill on himself, making a mess of his hands and shorts.
Utterly shameful.
With you in the picture, he just doesn’t have the will to deny himself any longer.
He wants your hands on him, bite him, or scratch him he doesn’t care as long as they’re on him. He doesn't want you to know how desperate he is, but it’s kind of impossible to hide how hard he gets every time you hold him and kiss him.
You make the first move, dragging him onto your lap and sneaking your hands on his thighs. He wants to complain about your man-handling, but your hands are teasingly close to his bulge. A tiny voice in his head is screaming at him to leave, save whatever little dignity he had left and not engage in “filth”. But he’s also thinking with his other head, and he blames you for it, so why don’t you do your due diligence and take care of it?
He’s already squirmy and you haven’t even started. He’s used to pain, to harsh hits and blows, but you cradle him so delicately and he doesn’t know how to act.
He’s imagined this scene several times, your hands on him, stroking him to completion, but he’s woefully unprepared for the actual thing. Your hands are impossibly soft, spreading his pre-cum on his whole length to facilitate the movement.
He wants it to last forever but he finishes embarrassingly fast, making a mess of your hands and clothing.
You figure this is the end of your first sexual encounter with him, but he never softens in your hand. Yeah, puppet stamina be like that.
Additional stuff:
He’s a whimperer.
He wasn’t even aware he had the ability to ejaculate. He still thinks of it as an utterly useless feature. But he’s also somewhat glad he can, he likes seeing you covered in his spend.
Also, since it’s artificial he’s shooting blanks. There’s no need for protection.
He doesn’t have refractory periods. He does get sensitive after a climax but he’s immediately ready to go again.
He’s a switch, more leaning on the submissive side. He does have a dominant streak in him, it’s mostly when he’s feeling more possessive, he starts acting on it once he’s more confident.
Kissing gets heated quickly with him. He’s very eager to stick his tongue in your mouth.
He’s very good with his hands and mouth, you had to guide him through it the first times. He’s inexperienced but very dedicated and a fast learner.
Being inside you is his favorite thing. Alongside cumming inside you.
Exploring the sexual side of a relationship can be tricky, and his constitution does make it harder. It’s a long process of trial and error. He also, in the span of 400 years, never bothered to figure out his turn-ons/offs, just to add an additional layer of difficulty to the whole ordeal.
You do know of his past position of power, so it’s no wonder he likes being serviced. Ride him, suck him off, it’s all good to him. He loves how sweet you are to him, taking him so gently.
Despite his doll joints being no longer visible, he still presents seams on his torso. The whole area is very sensitive, kind of an unconventional erogenous zone, but you work with it. He also has very sensitive nipples. He’s a bit sheepish about that.
Speaking of unconventional, he has a thing for choking. He doesn’t need to breathe, so it’s not the lack of air that gets him so ecstatic, it’s more of the act per se.
Marking, he loves hickeys, and his bodysuit covers his neck area so others seeing them is not an issue. Loves being bitten. Not the soft munches, he wants to feel your teeth breaking the skin. He’s been hurt before, to unimaginable extents, to the point where he almost started craving that pain. To have you bite and scratch him in such a carnal and vulnerable context immediately drives him over the edge.
Despite his masochistic tendencies, he’s not willing to do the same to you. He’s sturdy, you couldn’t injure him no matter how hard you tried. But you’re human. He knows from first hand experience how fragile your kind is.
Risk play is off the table, and so is any sort of public/exhibitionism. Alone and secluded in the woods? Sure. But nothing of the sort where people can see. This won’t save him from having embarrassing hard ons in public, sometimes just your presence is enough to get him bricked up. He just won’t act on it.
He has a mean streak, he loves teasing you, edging you, and pushing you to your limits. However, he cannot take even a bit of teasing. he immediately breaks and starts begging you to let him cum.
He’s a crier in bed, it’s cathartic for him.
Has an oral fixation. It works out great for you, he loves using his mouth on you.
His favorite part of you is your thighs. If you let him, he’d spend hours shoving his cock between them. Don’t get him wrong, nothing compares to being inside you, but something about being able to feel you twitch as he fucks himself through the softness of your thighs just does it for him.
Lastly, hear me out pleaseplease
Peg him.
He’ll be a bit put off by it initially.
He’s just never heard of it before. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?
You decide to put away the strap-on for the time being, starting with the basics as to not overwhelm him. Just fingers. You find out he has a completely functional prostate, and it’s your new way of tormenting him.
Don’t let him touch himself, instead, work him ever so slowly to his orgasm by spreading him on your fingers. He wants to be annoyed, to tell you that it’s useless and it’s just faster to let him do the fucking, but he’s hard, and leaking, twitching every time your fingers intentionally brush against that spot, and before long he’s shooting ropes all over his chest.
He’s still a bit fussy about it when you show him the toy you bought just for him. Because there’s no way that thing is going inside him, except it is, and he’s ashamed of liking every second of it.
AFAB anatomy section:
He’s a bit embarrassed of it at first, but he really likes your chest. He likes lying on them, he’ll fall asleep like that if you let him. His hands are always on them, kneading them around or just to feel you.
When you proposed to let him fuck your tits, he had no idea it was a thing. He likes the idea, in theory, when it comes to practice you get to find out just how much he really likes it.
He’s leaking so much it makes him practically slide around in them.
It’s not long before he finds himself covering your chest in cum.
It quickly becomes one of his favorite spots to cum on.
Gustaelle where Gustave doesn't quite reciprocate and it is Maelle who comes to realize her love for him, but it's more like a slow realization than a sudden leap from the shadows after being stalked.
And with this love comes the ache of knowing he'll never reciprocate; not in the way she'll ever admit. Because surely she loved him like a brother, and surely she loved him like everyone in Lumiére did. Yet a visceral melancholy sat like lead in the depths of her stomach whenever Sophie was in the picture.
Maelle would never forget the evening Gustave sat her down at the kitchen table—he spoke, his voice ready to break, and he was more sullen than she'd ever seen him.
"Sophie and I... we've broken up," he'd say.
That was the happiest day of Maelle's life.
It would be by this time Maelle realizes the vastness of her wanting. The insatiable leftover hunger Gustave leaves her with. The ambiguity of this desire; how little courage she possesses to name it, he loves her, but not enough to really give her what she wants. It will never be enough.
And so Maelle settles for second-best; she'll keep the words she wants to say to him stuck like a lump in her throat. She'll steal glances at him as he reads the morning paper with his coffee. And she'll leave him flowers; reds ones and pink ones and white ones too.
And maybe hopefully, it will be enough to see the smile on his face, and the flowers adorning their apartment in small glass vases.
(mild cw for ??? themes. a little violent daydreaming. idristan belongs to @roses-and-grimoires and helivant is @thedarknesssings
all of this was written and posted on mobile. help)
The hunt is underway. Somewhat.
You, Huntsman, you crouch atop the goliath remains of a Shroud treant, hunkered down into the gnarled grey branches of its crown like an opo-opo in the midst of its myriad games. The treant’s petrified husk sits at rest on the crest of a slope overlooking Larkscall, the perfect vantage point if you have a quarry to find and the patience to burn. Today you have both, each objective tied neatly together by a simple, unquestionable, unfailing motivator: Helivant is waiting.
Somewhere on the winding paths of the forest’s eastern reaches strolls your day’s prey, some pale thing with a sneer engraved on his high-boned Ishgardian face, like a quail puffed beyond its station. You know without knowing how that he will pass by here on his way to wherever his business demands; the only question left is the when. This is where you come in, Huntsman, rifle against your shoulder unmoving as the treant in which you have perched since the early morning. It is up to you to sound the signal that sends the quail fluttering.
Luckily for you, you are good at waiting, and the dead don’t sleep. Despite this, you still drift. You wouldn’t call it sleep by any stretch of the imagination, yet it is still an absence, a removal of you from the moment. Sometimes when you close your eyes, you imagine you can still see with both. That the empty socket of your right still holds something that isn’t the cold curse that has followed you out of slumber and into the Black Shroud’s twisting confines. The forest’s fragrant leaf rot isn’t enough to break the illusion of the thought when it comes, and oh, when you blink against the afternoon light filtering down through the canopy, it comes.
You dream in vivid, violent pieces, glass shards of memory small but razor-edged. In this dream you can see for malms, with an unbroken clarity bordering the impossible and if you just squint you swear you could pick out the veins on the leathery wings of a wyvern wheeling in flight through the cloudless sky of a frigid Coerthan morning. You see everything.
In these little dreams, you imagine yourself smiling with a cocksure tilt to your mouth when you assure yourself aloud, I could take it. You see yourself hefting the familiar weight of the rifle in your warm hands like a threat- not to yourself, but to the gods and the dragonkin gliding unaware over the painted mountains. In these dreams, you are not alone. In these dreams, there is always someone beside you, a dark figure in your periphery you can never quite catch enough of a glimpse of to identify. You can only determine that their presence is a warmth in itself, a weight in this dreamworld to balance your own and every time you try to turn and see, to look, you open your eyes.
Wake up, Huntsman. Wake up, even though you do not sleep in the dark of the night nor in the quiet of a warm day. You’re never certain if what you feel each time you awaken is relief or regret. Memories or dreams, you’ve grown to dread the coming of these contextless slices of a life that is not your own, these shades of an existence you cannot recall. Waking is a blessing. Waking is a relief.
Nothing has changed on the shrouded paths when next you open your eyes. It has only been moments since you blinked. It has only been seconds. Your imperfect vision renders the forest around you in a smear of greens and shadowed trunks like pillars marching out of sight and out of your limited range. Cataracts cloud your remaining eye, painting the world in a haze as though you were looking at it out of smudged and frosted glass, but the figure that has appeared to stand below your perch, the sharp lines of Helivant himself, you can see in perfect clarity.
Here is where your piecemeal dreams cannot compare:
Helivant cuts a vivid, violent figure in the ruined cast of your vision, the lines of his limbs so sharp you could cut yourself on them. Point of fact, you have. Sometimes, like now, you reach out for a lock of his raven’s wing hair but stop short. Your hands are stained, Huntsman, blood and gunpowder caked into the cracks and creases of your fingers under the forest dirt and you cannot touch anything so clean, so neat without staining it irrevocably, so you don’t. So you, empty cold you, must settle with merely watching the sway of his gleaming black hair where the breeze touches it, soft as a lover’s sigh. You watch it until movement on the paths below snags your peripheral like a jagged hook and pulls you back ‘round.
An elezen with pale hair walks the Shroud, and for a moment, for a breathless instant you see overlaid on the world a steel corridor, blockaded by men in shining white. In this waking dream a man with white hair is pointing a pistol at you and you, you, you, the you in the Shroud and the you facing down this execution line, you are deafened by an unending tinny tone squealing on and on and on in the tight confines of your skull. Wonder, distantly, if this is what panic felt like. Your rifle is heavy in your hands; you don’t remember picking it up, but its weight is reassuring, and your finger hovering over the trigger brings you an easy peace precious few things inspire in these grey days.
Breathe, Huntsman. Between one blink and the next, the corridor vanishes, but still you raise the rifle’s stock to your shoulder and level it on the white-haired elezen below. Breathe. Imagine the satisfaction, the vicious fucking relief that surely awaits at the end of your barrel if you could just pull the trigger and render the man below into pulp. Imagine that you still remember what victory feels like. Breathe.
This is not your prey, Huntsman. Pull up, force the barrel out of its deadly focus and up into the trees. Stealth is not the priority here, remember; this is Helivant’s sport. This is a chase.
You fire into the sky. The explosion of the rifle’s report sets the Shroud to buzzing as its denizens scramble to flee or prepare for a fight. The shriek of the countless birds churning above drowns out the roar of your shot, a thousand throats and the beat of a thousand thousand wings making the canopy roil in deafening waves. The underbrush some fulms to your side erupts in the same instant and the space where Helivant had stood only seconds ago now churns, the land crushed under the weight of something serpentine and vast that coils around your dead treant and the surrounding trees before it vanishes into the forest gloom with a terrifying speed.
Breathe, Huntsman. Savour the uneven judder of your cold heart, this palpitation that damns you as much as it blesses you. This is not your quarry, not your white-haired gunman who turns off the light of your broken memory in easy violence, but it is still your duty. Shoulder your rifle again, slide free off your perch and hit the ground running; the quail has taken flight, has fluttered off the path and into the forest maze in his fright.
【★】 gn reader but described as afab, slight? sadomasochism themes, scara and reader match each other's freak somehow, not proofread I'll correct mistakes later (maybe)
【☆】 part 2 of this I will never settle on just one interpretation of scara i'm gonna keep flip flopping abt him…..
word count 3.7k
You made it out of the office.
It’s been a few weeks since the last encounter with the Balladeer, since he so kindly let you go with an invitation for next time. The walk back to your private headquarters wasn’t as humiliating as one would think, but the way your step had a little happy hop to it made a few heads turn.
Even the guards at the door's entrance shared a glance, it truly is unusual to make it out alive.
After your visit to his office, everything seemed easier, the amount of physical work you had to do greatly diminished, but all this newfound free time is somehow, always spent in the workplace. The moment you finished your tasks for the day you’d get called in his private headquarters. And most of the time you’d be doing nothing for the whole duration of your stay.
There was a couch next to his desk that you’d sit on and watch him work. Sometimes he’d even grace you with the opportunity to sit near him (he was surprised when you immediately decided to sit on the floor between his legs, but he doesn’t mind as long as you don’t hinder his work). Sometimes, people would walk in, completely clueless of your presence, which spooked you at first, but then quickly made way for other fantasies. You could suck him off in front of your fellow soldiers and they’d have no idea, and you wouldn’t mind even if they managed to catch you. But you’ve still got to figure out some things first.
As much as you’d love to throw yourself at him, the line between what he deems acceptable and not is still thin and almost invisible to you, it’s like walking around eggshells, constantly pushing your luck whenever you make a move or try something new. You’ve been scouting his boundaries and limits, and so far you’ve learned that:
He doesn’t mind physical touch when he initiates it (or when he feels like you’re revering him enough). Sitting at his feet and squishing his legs on the sides of your face also allowed you to feel his structure and constitution. His legs were as soft as you remember, but the skin around his kneecaps had a little dent, almost like the bones under it were disconnected, segmented. They also felt robust, like he could cave your face in with a single kick. And yet they were so dainty and looked so fragile, and thinking about it makes you go a bit crazy.
And lastly, he never takes off the bands around his wrists, even when he removes the armor there’s another layer of cloth covering them.
This isn’t much information, but he’s not keen on entertaining your questions when working (and you think he wouldn’t like the idea of having his whole being analyzed so clinically).
So you stick to keeping yourself entertained, whether it be catching up on lost hours of sleep on the couch or thirsting over his legs like an old perverted man.
You quickly start to realize that your stay in his office is a double edged sword, you got to overhear a lot of sensitive information you shouldn’t have access to. He doesn’t seem too bothered by it, he knows you know the consequences of any of this getting leaked. It’s almost like he’s pushing you even deeper in the dealings of the fatui, you had no plans to leave, but now, knowing what you know, it was completely impossible. The less logical part of your brain is almost tempted to try and escape, just to get him to punish you. But it probably wouldn’t stop at that, he’d have to ensure that what you heard in this room, stays in this room, and he’d probably have to put you out of commission, permanently. You imagine him choking you, he’d look so pretty above you, but it also would be too much work (not that you’d put up any resistance), he’d probably just shock you to death. It’s significantly less personal but you’d still take it.
You’re completely caged, and it’s all his doing.
You huff against the skin of his leg. It sure is a bore, to be so close to what you want but unable to get it. Your hands slide under both his knees to squeeze his legs at the sides of your face.
Above, you can hear the sound of papers being moved around. So he’s still not done, you think to yourself as you wiggle out of the tight space under his desk and move to the couch.
Why does he insist on keeping you around if he’s just going to ignore you?
You lay on your side and kick your shoes off (he scolded you last time you kept them on) and turn around to look at him.
He doesn’t even look at you, the loss of your presence is irrelevant and goes unnoticed.
He can feel your eyes boring holes through him, he knows you’re bored by how restless you’re acting. He has half a mind to reprimand you, you should be honored he’s allowing you to spend time in his presence, and yet you have the gall to act bored.
Can’t you see all the favors he’s doing you? Reliving you of your work, taking away most of your responsibilities so you can spend more time with him, you ought to be on your knees thanking him. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that he is also stripping you of your agency, he knows of humans’ fixation with being independent, they can be hard workers, he’ll give them that. This intrinsic feeling isn’t as different from his own need to be useful. The need to be needed. But it’s different, to him, he’s long abandoned his flimsy childish desire to become a human, he knows he is destined for things far greater than any human could ever stride for.
But alas, humans are simple minded creatures, truly inferior to him in any category, they could never hope to grasp the grandiosity of his divine being.
So he shall give you a pass, and a treat to keep you entertained and docile.
So he puts away the stack of papers on his desk, the action catching your attention, eyeing him as he makes his way to you, as he sits next to you.
“My lord,” you address him as you push yourself up and make more room for him.
“Come here,” he motions with his hand, “Don’t waste my time,” he adds when he sees you hesitating.
You shuffle closer to him, it’s stupid to be this careful now when you’ve spent the last few days squishing yourself in his personal space. Maybe it’s the fact that this is new, he never prioritizes you over his work, only indulging you after he’s done.
So you feel like a fish out of water.
But if one could read minds- you could have sensed the shift in his energy, or perhaps at least brace yourself for the moment his hand roughly grabs at your hair, bringing you closer to him and exposing your pristine neck.
He lets out an amused huff, and it’s all the warning you get before he pulls you even closer, forcing you to awkwardly hoist yourself up over his lower body. His mouth is warm on your skin, but it’s not those soft lips that you so much adore that make contact, instead, it’s a wet, nasty bite like he’s trying to rip you apart, make you bleed, and some more.
But he doesn’t linger on just one spot, letting his mouth wander, leaving a trail of what will surely darken and bloom into ugly sore marks. Every time his teeth sink in a yelp threatens to leave your lips- and he thinks it’s funny, the way your eyes squeeze and lips purse trying to silence yourself.
But no matter how strong willed you are, he will find a way to break you, too.
And he gives you a moment of reprise, as he admires his work. Nothing that your uniform wouldn’t cover, but it’s his ego talking when he riles himself up with the thought that only he can mark you, not the other way around.
You’re convinced he would’ve just straight up eaten you up had he spent just a few more minutes gnawing at your neck. A rational part of your brain is urging your muscles to move, do something, to get out of this situation, but it’s so quickly drowned by another flow of thoughts. You wouldn't mind if he chose to consume you, in any way he prefers.
He latches once again on your skin, the front of your neck this time, biting and sucking until the skin swells around the hard grip of his teeth. And this time, you don’t have it in you to stop yourself from whining, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes. And he finally seems satisfied by your reaction, pulling you closer to his face, admiring your distressed expression.
The way your eyebrows furrow together, tears blocking your view as you try to squint them away, desperately trying to get a look at him. You’ve never been this close to him, face to face. He exhales and his breath fans over your face, and it just feels empty. Like an ordinary gust of wind, prive of any trace of the usual warmth any other human would possess.
But you’re not given any moment to dwell on the thought, his other hand grips your face and brings it closer to his, for a moment you expect the sting of another bite, but you’re met with a sensation that leaves your head swooning. The warmth of your tears is replaced by a soothing kiss, and another, and another, and soon the wet sensation is replaced by another equally wet feeling, the pressure of his tongue licking up the trails the tears left.
He doesn’t miss the very apparent blush creeping up your face, chuckling to himself before picking you up with an inhumane amount of strength and repositioning himself. Now he’s above you, again so so close, with wide eyes observing every inch of your face, drinking in your ruined expression.
The glutton that he is, looking is never enough and he can’t keep his hands to himself, off of pretty things.
So he lunges forward, and your mind blanks the moment his lips cage yours. It’s everything but kind and soft, his teeth immediately nib at your lower lip, tongue forcing itself inside, licking at your mouth.
It takes you a second to register the new feeling, your body melts into it and you don’t have the will (nor want) to fight it. He’s so rough, not giving you a chance to get used to the rhythm, he seems so intent on letting you participate in whatever he is planning to do.
Something quickly dawns on you, sucking any sound you emit straight from the source, it’s filthy and messy and he doesn’t relent even when your hands desperately push him away, trying to put some distance between the two of you, trying to get even a gasp of air.
He laughs softly against you, sensing your struggle, but still not showing any sign of mercy, if anything it just spurs him on, grabbing the sides of your face to push you against him. He shifts his body, actively laying on you, caging you with his full weight.
He’s half hard in his shorts, you can feel his length throbbing with each slight movement of his hips, grinding himself on you. But still, his grip on you doesn’t relent, he can feel you slowing your movements, resisting less and less while still struggling for even a gasp of air.
You think he’d be content with smothering you with his lips (and what a way to go that would be), but then he suddenly pulls away, a wet string of saliva connecting your mouths. You’re panting under him, desperately trying to catch your breath as he busies himself with lapping away whatever glob of tears dares form in your eyes.
He stands unnaturally still above you, watching you gasp over and over until it slowly dies down and fades into a slightly more labored breathing. With a normal amount of oxygen flowing to your brain you also start to regain awareness of your position.
You can feel him twitching and grinding against you, despite all the layers of clothing.
His gaze on you remains unwavering as his hands move to unclip all those annoying buttons, unclasping every single one until he can take off your coat, and you let him, body almost limp as he slides it off you.
“Don’t tell me you’re already gone, I was just starting to have fun,” he murmurs against your neck, gently nibbling on it this time.
All you can muster is a small mh-hm, it’s enough confirmation to asses that you are still conscious (and alive).
He makes you the favor of getting off your chest, moving your limbs out of the way so he can settle between your legs, ridding you of your remaining clothing. Despite being in his office, the air is still relatively chill, the moment you’re fully exposed a shiver runs down your spine as you adjust to the new temperature.
He, on the other hand, is busying himself with manhandling you, pushing you further up the side of the couch, and letting your head rest on the side arm.
“You’re awfully wet,” he says once he’s satisfied with this new position, “a bit of kissing is enough to get you this turned on?” you can hear the grin in his voice as he speaks. You could say the same about him, his erection is VERY hard to ignore and he’s so hard it almost looks painful. You want to reach out and touch him, stroke him to completion as he comes undone over you, but he’s faster and you can just watch as he lowers his shorts just enough to free his dick.
“Surely you won’t mind if we skip preparations. You seem ready enough.” you immediately feel him nudging your folds, slowly rubbing himself, his tip bumping on your clit as he shifts higher.
“I don't mind-” he uses his finger to apply more pressure, “I want you inside me. Please.”
“How bold, How can I say no to that?” His hands move to your hips as he holds you in position, his tip sinks into you and he wastes no time pushing in the rest, too.
You make a sound as you throw your head back, the sudden feeling of being so full overtakes you. You can feel him throbbing inside you and it’s driving you insane- alongside his little huffs above you- you could come just about now.
You feel him pull back slightly before pushing back in, slowly at first, and then picking up speed once he’s found a satisfying rhythm. The stretch is still a bit uncomfortable, but you’re so wet you’re leaking against his pelvis and the front of his shorts.
“So tight,” he bends lower so his mouth is directly next to your ear, “it’s like you’re sucking me in.” All you can do is moan into his shoulder, sliding your arms under his so you can hold him closer to you. He takes it as an invitation, pushing himself impossibly close to you, picking up his ministrations on your neck again.
He’s not as heavy as you expected him to be, you can still comfortably breathe with his weight on you, and with how close he is to you, you can feel his pelvis rut against your clit with each shift of his hips.
His teeth sink into you again, he stills there and he sucks on the spot until it darkens. There isn’t a single spot he hasn’t sucked or bitten, the whole zone feels so raw.
“I knew it,” he mumbles into your neck, “You bruise so beautifully,” he says while looking at you.
It shouldn’t turn you on this much. That’s not a normal thing to say to anybody, however. He feels you clench on him as your hips roll into him, tiny mewls spilling from your lips as you chase your high.
“F-fuck, fuck- please-” It’s muffled but he can still hear you and it only spurs him on.
“Please what? Please fuck me faster? Harder?” He says in a mocking tone. You want to answer him but you don’t even know what you’re begging for. With every thrust, your brain melts a little, and you find yourself pathetically moaning under him.
Your grip tightens on his back as you grow rigid under him- it’s a surge of warmth that passes through your body so suddenly, leaving you gasping under him. It’s even wetter now, his dick is practically sliding out of you as he fucks you through your climax.
“How cute,” he muses. “That fast?” He stills his movements and lifts himself up once he feels you limp.
Your brain is buzzing as you recover, lust still clouding your mind. His cold hands a juxtaposition to your warm body, he pushes your legs up and higher, the angle making the back of your knees burn uncomfortably
“I hope you don’t think we are done yet, I intend to have my pleasure too.”
He resumes his thrusts, harder this time. His tip reaching the deepest part of you, so rough it’s like he’s trying to push even deeper. He’s just using you for his pleasure now, fucking you like you’re just an object for his pleasure, a toy to fuck and fill up until he’s satisfied.
He applies more pressure to your knees, squashing them against your upper body. His cock catches against a spot, softer in texture than the rest, and you gasp.
“Good?” He asks, already knowing the answer, but he takes enjoyment in the way you mindlessly nod in response.
“A-again, please.” He twitches, and obliges your request, angling himself to hit that spot with every thrust, and his ears are immediately graced with the sound of your sweet whimpering.
Your hands flail around, before settling on gripping the cushions under you. You miss his back, his presence against you, the bits of hair tickling your hands whenever he lifted his head. But you’re not gonna complain, not when he’s pummeling into your cunt like he intends to break you. Matter of fact, you can hardly form any thought that isn’t just mindless blabbering.
He curses, as he moves one hand to shove his shorts lower, exposing more of himself, every time he pushes into you now there’s an audible plap of skin against skin contact. It’s impossible to ignore, and you’re sure whoever’s passing by his office must hear what’s going on inside (if your moaning didn’t give you away already).
But he doesn’t care, the way you clench against him every time he slides over that spot, the surge of liquid leaking on him as he fucks himself deeper inside you, it’s too good to stop.
Your pleasure comes after his, but archons does he want more of you. He repositions you roughly, hoisting one of your legs up as his other hand busies itself with rubbing your clit.
It’s messy and he’s applying a bit too much pressure, but the effect is immediate and you couldn’t care less. Your stomach tightens as a burning feeling intensifies, he talks you through it and it only intensifies the feeling.
“Oh? Are you close again?” he taunts you, but it’s affecting him too and it shows in the way his movements get more desperate.
“Then do it, come for me, come for me again,” and it’s embarrassing how you can do nothing but obey him, clenching around him as you spasm and flutter around him. Your free leg squeezes his side,, your back arches and he huffs. But he doesn’t give you time to rest this time, he ruts in you, leaning on you, even as the pleasure turns into overstimulation.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” He sounds raspier, almost winded. He’s close and the thought is almost enough to make you come again.
With one pointed thrust, he pushes himself impossibly deep and stays there. And then, it washes over him, as he fills you up in waves and waves of his seed.
He lets go of your leg and leans back, his cock slipping out of you.
You feel so empty without him, and the feeling of his come slipping out of you doesn’t help. He watches your fingers as they make their way to collect whatever spilled out of you to push it back in, slightly shivering everytime you brush up against a sensitive spot.
Are you trying to rile him up again? He laughs at the thought.
“So insatiable,” his voice catches your attention, “let me help you,” he says.
There truly is no end to his greed, all he knows is to take. And it’s what he’s planning to do now, too.
You want to question him but the thought quickly dies on your tongue when you feel him penetrating you again. Your insides accommodate him with no resistance this time, but you can’t help but notice that he’s still hard.
“...no refractory period?” you think out loud. He hums in amusement.
“So you do have a brain, here I was thinking all you could do is think about my dick.”
You bite the side of your cheek, “Well, you’re not wrong. But…”
He twitches at your admission.
“I couldn’t help but notice some things.”
“Like?”
“You just seem so different.”, his gaze hardens for a moment and you hurry the next part of the sentence out, “Not in a bad way! It’s just… you’re stronger, faster, and prettier than anyone I've ever met”.
He doesn’t respond, inviting you to elaborate.
You don’t mention the rumors going around, not that they’re reliable, coming from another Harbinger’s subordinates, but every lie has a base of truth to it.
“There are other details, but the whole picture got me thinking…” Your voice dies down as you momentarily sink back into your thoughts.
“So what, you want an answer from me?” You don’t respond, focusing on how his tone has shifted into something more malicious, and how his hips started slowly moving again.
“Too cock-drunk to think?” He muses to himself. “That’s fine. Maybe you’ll figure it out one day.”
His cock rolls into your walls, pushing little gasps out of you.
【★】 gn reader but described as afab, kinda mean scara, reader is a masochist lol
【☆】 ignoring the fact that i disappeared for like 8 months, hi, new thingy (reup)
word count: 4.3k
There’s no coming back from those offices. Everyone knows that, it’s like an open secret between the ranks of the fatui.
One gets called in for a “little chat” and then just disappears, there are no deserters allowed in an organization like this. Too many secrets.
The lower ranking soldiers always gossip about whoever the next one is gonna be, it keeps everyone on edge, just one measly mistake in front of a general, or worse, a harbinger and it’s over. It doesn’t help that other privates will often turn on eachother, reporting their comrade’s mistakes to get on their supervisor’s good side, in a sense, the fatui has eyes everywhere.
Your days of walking on eggshells are long over, thank the Tstaritsa, but it doesn’t mean you’re completely safe either. Being a general yourself, you’ve been faced with many hard decisions, sometimes covering up the mistakes of a soldier, sending back touched up reports hoping no supervisor will notice any discrepancy.
“Your empathy will come back to bite you in the ass”.
It’s a sentence the Balladeer threw your way once, it wasn't advice out of the goodness of his (non-existent) heart. Matter of fact, he didn’t even spare you a glance before walking past you, on his way to scold another soldier. How stupid, he must've thought, sharing your already scarce meal with a tiny bird that sought refuge under the shadow of your feet.
But you just can’t help it. In your early days you could only pray someone spared you the same kindness you give out now.
But that was a long time ago. You went on many other expeditions in the Balladeer’s team, somehow always managing not to fess up and prove yourself worthy of your role. It was a noteworthy achievement, after all his bad temper was notorious to anyone who spent even a few minutes in his presence.
The Balladeer does not go out of his way to compliment anyone, flattery is not his style. Just the absence of any reprimand is more than enough to tell you you’re doing good.
However, that does not stop you from wasting time fantasizing about such scenarios.
“You’re doing good.” What a dream it would be to hear that. “You’re being good.”
But the image you have of him in your mind is a far-fetched, rose-tinted version of the one in front of you now. You’re not as stupid as to warp his essence into anything even remotely kind. You know of his temperament, sometimes you’d even go as far as to think he’s not even human.
During an expedition, he slapped a soldier once. It was late in the evening and some soldiers decided to let out some steam with a few drinks. It just so happened that one of them got a little too… feisty.
But the Balladeer did not let go of his face. He just kind of stared at the red mark his hand left, squishing the fat of his cheeks in some weird torturous ritual, moving the skin around to admire the shape of the coagulated blood under his skin. He was so close he could feel the shaky breaths of the poor guy fanning on his face.
He relented only once he was satisfied. He enjoys the fear in people’s faces. No, fear is just an expression, it’s the pure terror that spreads in someone’s whole body that excites him.
He can tell the exact moment when someone switches from being scared to dreading losing their life.
It’s something you’ve seen several times yourself, never hesitate, to end someone’s life. Hesitation makes you waver, staring at someone’s eyes makes you acknowledge that they’re scared, they’re human.
He never wavers. Hm. He’s either incredibly cruel… or just above your kind? You take a mental note of that.
The first thought excites you, that tiny familiar buzzing feeling running down your spine.
It’s so unfair.
No, that’s not right, you quickly shake that thought off. Who would ever dream of being at the receiving end of the Balladeer’s ire?
It’s not the first time you find yourself spiraling that same line of thought. But he’s just so pretty.
You suppose that in order to make it out alive of his squadron one needs to grow tough skin, tolerating his humiliation tactics and aggressions. You just never thought you’d develop a liking to that.
How the mighty have fallen. You used to be so respectable.
You can’t even begin to picture his disgusted expression if he found out that deep down, a part of you hoped he would lay his hand on you.
Or if he knew how many sleepless nights you spent rubbing your thighs together, trying to get rid of a heat that just wouldn’t go away.
Or, additionally, if he knew that the first thing you did in your new private (perks of being promoted) room was to disregard your clothes and immediately push your fingers in your aching needy cunt. Thinking of him.
How absolutely shameful. You wonder if your stay in the fatui awakened something in you. Or maybe you were always like this.
But you’re always so composed. And your fatui mask covers any blushing on your face;
No one would be able to detect your attraction to him based on your behavior.
After all, it was very common to hear creaking sounds at night. That’s just what happens when you force young adults in a shared room together. People just turn the other way. Ignore the sound and go to sleep.
You feel yourself getting warmer at the sight of him walking towards your squadron.
It’s another of those annoying training sessions, you don’t have to participate, just surveil the cadets. It doesn’t fall within your assignments, it’s your Lord Balladeer’s job, but he so kindly sacked you his responsibilities. After all, he’s above watching insignificant men stumble in knee high snow.
But you’re just so distracted.
He’s sitting on a chair with a tiny table in front of him, quickly skimming through huge piles of paper. The huge fur of his coat shields his face from your view (a shame, he looks so cute when concentrating), but he’s not covering anything else. His tiny shorts slightly hike up his legs as he shifts to put one leg over the other, revealing even more skin.
Just how is he not getting cold?
You huff, your breath crystalizing in front of you, forming a tiny mist as if proving your point.
It’s freezing. And he’s out there with his usual attire. Not that you’re complaining, you always had a thing for his legs. Always looking at the way they crease and shift on his thighs every time he crouches to look at something. You always watch him with such an intense gaze.
It’s not weird. It is your job to ensure his safety after all.
Not that he needs it. You’ve seen him in combat, not many enemies survive after the first shock of electro.
It’s scary. It’s exciting.
He also uses it to correct small mistakes. He’s shocked you once after you almost tripped while serving him tea.
It was tiny and barely audible but your finger spasmed in an uncomfortable position, and then it was over.
He let out a humorous hum at your shocked expression, then quickly dismissed you.
You spent the rest of the day thinking about that small encounter.
Thinking about all the other ways he could use his shocks on you. Maybe they could simulate the effects of a vibrator (just a slightly painful one). You’re not allowed to bring anything with you when you join the fatui. And using your hands or humping your pillow always leaves you yearning for more.
So lost in thought. You didn’t even notice the way he was staring at you, an unreadable expression on his face. Not anger, not disappointment, something more akin to… disbelief.
He knew you would cover up your underling’s mistakes sometimes, he couldn’t be bothered to call you out on that. But to let so many incompetent cadets trip on the same wall, face-planting on the snow and mud without even taking note of that? Right in front of him?
Were you hoping he was too busy with his papers to not notice that, or are not even paying attention?
Your tendency to sometimes space out is something he was very aware of. But you never actively slacked off on your tasks. This is new, not unexpected but new. You were bound to disappoint him, after all, it is in your nature as a human. He needs to stop this before it becomes a habit and gets in the way of his work.
He quickly calls some other general to take your place. You barely register when he calls your name. His voice makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up in shivers.
“Come.” He firmly says before walking off the training grounds.
You hesitate for a second, your eyes focusing back on the view in front of you. Your lord wants a word with you? Just how deep in thought were you to not even notice him staring holes in your back? It can’t be any good.
You follow after him, catching up with him and watching the back of his coat sway with each step.
The inside of the palace is just as cold as the outside. The only relief a fatuus gets is the mercy of being shielded from the icy winds. It’s only when you set foot inside his office that you finally let yourself breathe.
The whole walk to his private office is full of agonizing spiraling thoughts. Surely this isn’t one of those “little chats”, right? The soldiers guarding the door don’t even spare the two of you a glance, their masks covering your expression, but you’re sure they pity you in some way.
The Balladeer is not known for his kindness, but even through his hate filled vision of humanity, he knows the intrinsic need of every being for validation. Not that he’s going to give them any, he has no interest in building any amicable relations in this organization, lest it serves him to reach his goals the future. But it would also be very troublesome to replace even more of his subordinates. Were he in an altered mood he would’ve just electrocuted on the spot.
Recognizing when one of his useless soldiers actually has a shred of potential is not something he’s very keen on doing, but the alternative is to put up with more incompetent fools, and that’s not on his agenda.
He sits on his chair, moving papers around on his desk. You watch him as he smacks his lips and lets out a silent huff as he finally rearranges the papers to his liking.
You’re shacking, he attributes it to the cold. Humans have always been so much weaker and more vulnerable than him. His skin is cold, glacially cold, but it’s not a feeling he registers.
Even his coat is just for show.
Your cheeks are red, but it’s (at least partially) not from the cold. Now that his coat is off you get a full view of his face. His dashing red liner perfectly contours his eyes, giving them a sharp intense look. He begins talking to you, his voice is calm and smooth, at least he’s not mad at you.
It’s about your zoning off.
It’s not something you do on purpose, but it’s just so hard to focus when you're so damn horny.
Frankly, you’re more surprised he didn’t just slap you on the spot, not that you would’ve minded. Maybe your Lord is showing you his mercy? The thought of him showing you any form of kindness makes heat slowly creep up your face. The cold slowly leaves your body as warmth replaces it, the overwhelming feeling leaving you to fiddle with the hem of your clothing.
“My deepest apologies, it will never happen again, my Lord”.
This is to be expected, addressing him with the right honorifics and apologizing is the correct (and preferred) outcome. He blinks slowly, at least he saved himself a migraine.
What he doesn’t expect is to not see you when he opens his eyes. He didn’t dismiss you. He gets up from his chair but stops when he finally spots you, on your knees with your forehead touching the ground.
“I want to make it up to you, my Lord”, you say, still not moving from your position.
This. This he likes. Usually, he’s the one forcing his subordinates to kneel in front of him, and not in a kind way either. Pressing their face on whatever unfortunate surface they were standing on, purposefully applying more pressure than needed, hoping his boots would leave a heavy mark on their face. Sometimes they would do it out of their own volition, but it doesn’t stem from an urgent need to show him their worship, it was out of fear.
“Hm.” He makes his way to the couch on the side of his desk and sits crosslegged. “Come here,”
But he interrupts you before you can push yourself on your feet- “No, stay like that.
It takes you a second to process that he wants you to crawl your way to him. You awkwardly move your body, trying not to trip on your own coat before settling in front of him.
He puts his hand on your cheeks, lightly squishing them before raising his fingers and taking your mask off, leaving your expression bare before him. It’s no different than any other fatuus mask, but he slowly examines it regardless.
“Go on, show me your devotion, (Name),” he says, shifting so his knees are on each side
Just the fact that he knows your name makes you shudder. You’re not sure of what exactly he wants from you, but you’re already in a bizarre enough situation, so you decide to follow your instincts.
You slowly wrap your hand around his boot, raising it until you can comfortably lower your face, letting your lips come in contact with it. His eyes widen for a moment, as you continue rubbing your face on the side of his boot. Their surface is clean, that bit of snow remaining gets smothered on your skin, melting away.
“Hah”, moving to other boot, you repeat the same motion “At least you know where you belong.”
His voice has a layer of malice to it, like he’s elated by this outcome. Your hand comes in contact with his skin, it’s so cold, like touching freshly piled snow. Opting to rub his legs in a meek attempt at warming them up, you press your lips to his knee, savoring the moment.
Any other person would feel humiliated in this situation, worshipping at your Lord’s feet, but this, it’s like a dream come true to you. Being so close to the object of your attraction makes your head go spinning. It feels unreal just being able to lay your hands on them. You shouldn't press your luck. but it’s so tempting to just reach over and grope him all over.
He would probably kill you.
Maybe.
Perhaps if you’re slow and methodical about it you can manage to get a tiny bit closer to his thighs. Masking your need as devotion.
You place your lips just above his knee, your hands moving under it, rubbing at the soft skin. He’s also curious about how far you’re willing to push yourself. He’s no fool, he knows you’re scared of crossing a line you’re not even aware of. He could be kind and point you in the right direction, but watching you struggle to restrain yourself while mindlessly mouthing at his skin is a show too good to pass on.
Eventually, he widens his legs, just enough to allow you to sit deeper in between them. This new position allows you to reach further. It stuns you for a moment, hesitantly putting your hands on his thighs, looking at his face for any sign of vexation. When you don’t find any, you deem it safe to push further, lowering your face to latch your mouth on the exposed skin. Leaving a slightly wet trail everywhere you go.
He’s let you get this far, and if the way he moves his legs giving you even more access is any indicator of his enjoyment, it encourages you to try your luck.
Your hand slips under his shorts, slowly pushing them up. You lock eyes, and for a second you fear you’ve overstayed your welcome, luckily that’s not the case.
“No markings.” His hand now rests on your head, slowly moving your hair out of your face.
Would it even be possible to leave marks? His skin shows no imperfections and it’s so smooth it makes you want to lose yourself in it. But it also feels… tougher? While rubbing it with your hands, it felt robust, like if you sunk your teeth in it it wouldn’t break even the upper layer. Maybe just leave a mark. A sign you were there.
But now is not the time to get lost in your imagination. Not when the real deal is in front of you, inviting you to have your fill.
You pinch lightly at the flesh of his inner thighs, you’re so close to his crotch, if it wasn’t for that piece of armor around his waist, the side of your face would be squished in it.
“Enough teasing,” He says, and almost as if he was reading your mind, he rids himself of the armor and other superfluous frills attached to it. “Get to work.”
Now that nothing is blocking your view, you can see the bulge that formed under all those clothing.
The sight makes you drool, as you immediately reach a hand to slightly squeeze it. Your eagerness amuses him, but he’s grown impatient. His grip on your hair is much tighter now, dragging your face until it’s directly flush with his clothed erection.
“You better not waste my time” His tone is harsh and firm, and it just makes the heat between your legs worse. When his grip relents, you push yourself away just enough to pull down his shorts. He shifts his hips up, aiding you in sliding them off.
Now that his erection is free, it bounces slightly as your breath fans over it. The tip is a cute shade of pink, beads of precum leaking from it. But he doesn’t give you the time to admire it any longer, grabbing himself from the hilt to slap it on your face a few times. The sound of skin slapping against skin is the only audible thing in the room. It makes your head spin. To think you’d have the privilege of being the one he unleashes his sexual frustrations on.
He pulls your head up, tapping his dick on your lips. You open your mouth, letting him rest his tip on it, and your lips wrap around him, tasting him.
Were it any other situation, you’d take your time in savoring this moment, slowly sliding your tongue around his girth, letting his desire grow. But this is different, like if your performance doesn’t satisfy him he might just kill you on the spot.
And the thought shouldn’t turn you on, for a second the thought of biting him just to piss him off crosses your mind. What a way to go that would be.
Alas, not wanting to keep him waiting, you make an effort to take as much of him as you can, until your nose is flush with his pelvis.
He lets out a satisfied sigh and that slight expression of annoyance leaves his face, your mouth is warm and wet, and the movement of you swallowing around sends shivers down his spine.
“That’s it,” his grip on your hair tightens, holding you in place. “That’s good.”
The mere hint of him praising you makes you shudder, you’re so soaked your underwear is sticking to your cunt. You want to thank him, but speaking with him in your mouth proves to be difficult, it comes out as an unintelligible hum, whether he understood you or not he seems to appreciate the vibration of your throat.
He pulls your head back, urging you to start moving, seemingly done with just enjoying your throat. You drag yourself back until his tip is once again resting on your tongue, and then push it all back in, as far as you can go. You manage to work up a steady rhythm, one that leaves small moans escape from his mouth. They’re breathy, but every time you manage to wring one out of him is like a win to you. Each little noise of his spurs you on further. One of your hands reaches up to grab the rest of him, moving up and down in synch with your mouth, while the other reaches down and inside your uniform pants, rubbing at your clit.
“F-fuck… You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Your eyes trail up to look at his, his flushed face looking back at you.
“Me using your mouth turns you on.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and to put more emphasis on it he shifts his legs until one of them is resting between your own.
“You’re doing a good job… I guess I should reward you.”
He shoves his boot up, as if kicking your hand away. He wants you to…. oh.
Complacently, you shift lower until your full weight is resting on him, the absence of your fingers replaced by him. It takes you a moment to adjust to this new position, but once you get back on your rhythm you resume your ministrations on him, while slowly grinding on his leg.
His other hand reaches your head, threading your hair before settling a firm grip next to the other, you’re given a moment of reprise before he shoves his hips forward, roughly, holding you in place.
His thrusts are fast and merciless, each one reaching deeper inside your throat. You close your eyes, trying not to gag when he reaches a bit too deep, not that you have the ability to complain, all you can do is try your best to accommodate him as he uses you to get off. Your hips start moving a bit faster too, the thought of you being a mere means to an end in his eyes is turning you on more than you’d like. And he notices.
His cock throbs in your mouth and he lets out a breathy laugh, “So pathetic. Humping my leg like a dog in heat.”
You open your eyes for a moment to look at him. He’s grinning at you, looking at you as if you were something truly beneath him, pushing his hips in rougher as if to accentuate that. The sounds of saliva and cum smacking around your lips are so obscenely loud, you’d have half a mind to almost be embarrassed by it, but there’s a knot tightening in your stomach, and it grows tighter and tighter with every thrust of your hips. It doesn’t help that with every thrust his leg moves slightly up against you, coaxing you into an orgasm.
Your hands clamp on his thighs, hard, the shuddering of your hips slowing down as you unwind on him. You let out withered moans, barely audible but still sending pleasurable vibrations up his length.
You’re straight up drooling around him at this point, saliva sliding down your chin and on his balls. He’s sounding a bit breathier above you, and you can feel him twitching with more vigor inside your throat. Your body limp on his makes it easier to thrust deeper.
He pushes in as far as your throat allows him and stills there. You’re prepared to feel him coming down your throat, but he pushes your head back suddenly, so far back his dick slides off your mouth with a wet pop.
He’s stroking himself above you for a moment until there’s a brief pause, interrupted by a breathless curse as he finishes on the top of your lips, riddling your face with his come.
He sags back down on the couch, basking in the aftermath of his orgasm with you still in between his legs. His chest heaves up and down, catching his breath, but his moment of peace is short lived as he speaks up.
“I guess you did prove yourself,” he says as he slowly tucks himself back in his pants. You squint up at him. You don’t move from your position, still sitting even as he removes his leg from underneath you, breathing slowly and deeply now that his dick occupying your airways.
When you come to your senses you start searching around with your gaze for a tissue or even some rag to clean yourself up, you’re truly in an unpresentable state. Your hair is messily pulled out of its ties, strands flying everywhere and some glued to your face. Your face… Awkwardly, you wipe your lips, trying to at least dry up the saliva but there’s nothing you can do to hide the very evident cum sticking on… everything else. You can’t just walk out in this state- you do have a reputation to uphold. And rumors travel fast- by the end of the day every cadet would know of the shameful state you left the Balladeer’s office in, and it wouldn’t take long for them to put two and two together-
“Oh. This belongs to you.” He says holding your mask, seemingly noticing your inner monologue. “You’ll be needing it out there.” He adds as he puts it back on your face, squishing that bit of cum on your cheeks.
“You can go now. I’ll call you again when I need your… assistance.”
【★】 cws: sub!scara, gn reader but described as afab, whiny scara
【☆】 I got a few requests for a part 2 of *this* , so i spent the past few weeks trying to come up with something, enjoy (not proof read)
word count: 3.2k
The sun shines on your eyes, the warm light slowly waking you up. Slowly blinking the fogginess away, you take conscience of the empty space next to you.
Did he leave you behind?
Your eyes shift as they spot movement, his back is facing you and he seems busy with tying the bow on his obi. He stops as he hears you sitting up behind him.
“I got you breakfast,” he points at a sunsettia on his right. He doesn’t give you time to thank him, immediately speaking up again. “Buer was asking how the expedition was going, we should probably hurry up,”
You stop half-bite in the sunsettia as the words sink in- but again he's faster, almost as if he sensed your confusion.
“She watches over me when I'm outside of the Palace,” there’s a tinge of annoyance as he keeps speaking, “I still am her prisoner after all.”
“... Does she watch over you, like, all the time?”
You stumble with your words as you gather your composure, the prospect of Nahida witnessing yesterday’s event is enough to make you panic for a second.
His shoulders tense momentarily, "No, she knows when to look away." A slight pink dusts his cheeks as he thinks about your hands on him again.
Quickly munching your way through breakfast and packing the tent back up, your travels resume once again.
The trek is still mostly silent, just less awkward this time. The wanderer slowed down his pace to match it with yours, walking next to you instead of being miles ahead.
The mission itself was relatively easy- just retrieving an object- a dendro core or whatever Buer said it was called. The only issue was its location, deep into the Avidya forest, hence why she decided to send the Wanderer after it.
He reluctantly accepted, (not that he had a choice to begin with, being her "prisoner" and all), even less willing when Buer mentioned Aether accompanying him. He was already dreading the prospect of walking around with that annoying flying thing, and then you showed up. And he thought things couldn't get worse.
He finds himself thinking about your words over and over "You're stuck with me now." He hopes it wasn't just an "in the heat of the moment" thing. The way you held him and kissed him had strings tugging at his non-existent heart, beating so loud it was ringing in his ears.
He was considering slowing down the mission's progress just to have an excuse to be close to you again. But that thought quickly gets swatted away, with the core now retrieved it was time to head back.
***
Nahida's words echoed in the Palace of Surasthana, sounding solemn and serious as she explained the importance of the core.
But the Wanderer was not listening. His eyes unfocused and staring at the ground. So deep in thought he didn’t even notice the fleeting glances Buer was giving him. She quickly wraps up her discourse, dismissing you both with a smile.
It was kind of anti-climactic, the day went surprisingly smooth, no twists or epic adventure. You think about Aether and Paimon, who somehow always manage to find themselves in the eye of the storm of any situation, for a second you envy them, but yet again the thought of dealing with problem after problem deters you from that thought. You’ve had enough action, after all, you got to see Kunikuzushi’s carefully crafted façade crumble in front of you like a tower of cards. He was even more docile after the deed and didn’t even bother to come up with any insult to throw at you during the trek back. You wanted to see more of that, you decided.
You hear his footsteps as he walks away from the center of the grandiose room. His beautifully crafted sleeves sway with each step. Quickly catching up with him, he glances at you. There’s a sly smile on your face, it seeps in your tone as you speak.
“Where are you going?”
He sounds a bit exasperated as he responds, “To my room.” It’s a short sentence, as if he was trying to get away with the bare minimum of conversation.
“Oh, right. You’re still staying here.” The whole palace was stunning, intricate designs adorning both the inside and the outside walls. Was his room as fancy?
“Can I see it? your room, I mean.” He grumbles while still walking. “Why? There is nothing to see. It’s a momentary allocation anyway.”
"But I’m curious.” You catch up when he puts a little bit of distance between you again. Why can’t he just deny you? He can’t bring himself to say no to you this time, sighing silently as he finds himself in front of the door of his room.
“... I guess. Since we’re already here.” He reluctantly pushes the door letting the both of you step inside. The tinted glass of the window gives a peaceful atmosphere, the sun rays emanating a nice heat wherever they land. He stands in the middle of the room awkwardly, following your gaze as you look around.
Sure, it’s a fancy room, but it’s just so bare.
There’s one bed, the blankets and pillows are perfectly smoothed out, one wardrobe in the corner of the room, and nothing else. It doesn’t even look lived-in, perhaps Nahida cleaned it up while he was out but you highly doubt that. Clean and organized to the bare fits him, you conclude.
“You’ve seen it now. You can leave.” He mutters under his breath as he puts down his hat. You decide to play with him for a bit.
“Aw, already kicking me out?” You feign being hurt as you walk up to him.
He looks up to you as your hands reach out to him, playfully twirling the tufts of hair on his neck. “I’ve had enough of you these past few days.” Liar. He can’t bring himself to admit that he craves your touch, denial is more comfortable. Your eyes lock for a second, deeply staring into each other.
His mouth opens for a few seconds, but whatever words he was conjuring up die down in his throat as he sighs and closes his eyes.
Docile.
“If you want something you have to speak up.” You slowly close the gap between your bodies. The zones where your body comes in contact with his are warm.
Insufferable. He thinks. Of course, you’d make him work for it, but he decides to play along.
“Same goes for you, you’re all over me.” It’s his turn to smirk now, he caught you off guard, that sly smile disappearing momentarily.
“Oh? But I thought I was being pretty clear.” Your hands glide from his neck to his waist, squeezing it slightly before pulling him forward.
“I want you, Kunikuzushi.” You whisper near his ear. Your hot breath on his neck makes him shudder. Dammit. Once again, he tries to speak up but stops. Since when did he get so hesitant? But he can’t think of any other scenario where he found himself utterly speechless. It’s only around you. He stills as your fingers press deeper into his waist, growing impatient at his lack of a response. You stare at him in the eyes, but looks away almost instantly-
“Do whatever you want,” he grumbles, a cute shade of pink covering his cheeks.
You get close to his face, so close he can feel you exhaling, his eyes flutter closed and he slightly leans in. Cute.
You don’t make him wait, one hand grabbing his cheek as you close the gap. His breath hitches as if he wasn’t entirely expecting you to kiss him. Your hand grabs his arm as you direct it around your neck, he immediately sinks it into your hair.
It’s a bit funny how quickly he crumbles when you touch him, although he’d rectify and say it’s pathetic. How could he give into such silly desires so easily anyway? It felt good, having someone like him, stoic and silent, turn to putty with a simple kiss. If anyone caught you in a compromising situation like this the gossip at the Akademya would spread like wildfire, but it doesn’t turn you off, in a way it spurs on that possessive streak in you. It would let everyone he’s off the market. Whether he’s unaware or simply doesn’t care about it, many people turn their heads towards him when they see his fair face and striking red eyeliner. And it’s not just because of his unusual clothing, he’s just so pretty.
You pull away slightly, gasping for air silently, you’re met with resistance for a second, the Wanderer’s hand remains at the back of your head, as if he didn’t that moment to end.
He doesn’t need to fill his lungs with air, but you do. Your human need for air never bothered him until this moment. How he wishes he could just kiss you forever, but he doesn’t plan on asphyxiating you with his lips.
As if reading his mind, your lips return on his once again, just more aggressively. Deeper. You actively push him back, he stumbles until his back is met with the wall.
Now, you’ve got him trapped. Not that he would ever want to escape from your touch.
Your hands slide down his obi to his shorts. It was one of the first things you noticed about him when you saw him- those hip windows. It would be so easy to sneak your hand into one of the two holes and grab him. You wonder for a moment if he himself came up with such a slutty outfit. Your thumbs massage the skin of his hips, separated only by the thin fabric of the body suit. You can’t reach the front in this position, so you opt to shuffle your hand under the fabric of his shorts and get a good grab of his butt.
He freezes momentarily, breaking off the kiss.
“What?” You ask, your eyes boring into his. He deadpans.
Your gaze lowers, admiring his puffy lips, then lower.
His member formed a nice bulge on the front of his shorts. You lowered your hand to the hem of his shorts and dragged him closer to you. Now he was effectively sitting on your thigh, the sudden contact making him shudder.
"would you stop teasing me?" he says in an irritated tone.
You don't answer his question, opting to silence him with another kiss. He gasps in the kiss when he feels your hand outlining his bulge. It's so painfully slow, and you don't seem to have any intention to speed up.
So he takes matters into his own hands and pushes his hips towards you, grinding both on your thigh and hand.
"Don't do that." You're quick to chastise him, taking your hand away.
Too many clothes, you think, the fact that he’s still fully clothed is a complete failure on your end.
Your hand moves to his obi again, pulling on the bow until it comes loose and slides on the floor. The familiar movement brings you back to the last time you did this.
Oh, how you wanted to see him all ruined once again.
You hook your finger on the waistband of his shorts, pulling those down too.
His member springs up, now free from its confinements, your eyes linger momentarily on the marks on his thigh you left last time- they’re a bit faded but still visible, but before your hand reaches out to it he stops you.
You raise an eyebrow at him, and he blushes slightly.
“Let me do something for you.” He searches in your expression for a hint of disagreement,
and when he doesn’t see any he proceeds to tug upwards at your shirt until it’s off.
“We are not outside this time.” It seems a plain statement, but you know he means that there is no rushing or fear of getting caught this time. There’s also the commodity of being in his room.
He slowly backs you until you hit the bed, taking the hint, you hike up until you’re laying with your back on the pillows. He shimmers out of his shorts before joining you, awkwardly nestling himself in between your legs.
It’s then that he decides you’re still wearing too many clothes. He hooks his finger under your bottom-wear, pulling it all down in one fell swoop. His eyes fall down immediately. The sight makes him throb, something that you don’t miss. You’d tease him for it but he leans forward again, kissing you softly. It’s short, just a quick peck.
He hesitantly puts his hand on your waist. It’s then that you realize he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. It’s more endearing than anything, the fact that he wants to please you despite his blatant inexperience.
“Your hands?” you speak. Putting your hands on his. He seems to think for a moment, not giving you any answer, he just slides his body lower onto the bed until his face is just over your cunt.
So he wants to repay you, hm?
He hovers momentarily over it before giving an experimental lick on your sensitive nub, then another, and another.
He puts a bit more pressure this time, even going lower, his tongue swiping over your entrance, collecting your slick. You taste good. Unlike him, he remembers how he could taste himself when you kissed him last time, internally cringing at the memory.
Your hands reach out to his head, entangling themselves in his hair, holding him in place. He takes this as a sign to keep going.
His tongue gets more confident, exploring deeper, pressing harder. His lips close around your clit as he gives it a sharp suck and you moan.
He wants to hear more of that.
He needs to.
His tongue swipes over your slick again, then goes back up and swirls around your clit. This entices more moans from you, only spurring him on, to do better.
His hips twitch against the mattress, slowly humping the sheets.
Hands…Hands. He remembers your question from before, and slides his hand down until it’s prodding at your entrance. He pushes one finger in, feeling how easily it sinks he plunges in another one.
You’re warm, even warmer than he remembers. He spreads his fingers, exploring your insides. He pumps them in and out a few times before taking them out, a slick line connecting them to your core.
It’s then he decides that he can’t take it anymore, a bit disappointed at his lack of self-control he quickly licks them clean before climbing back on you.
His face is so messy. You can see your juices coating his lips and chin. Your hand reaches out to his face, swiping over it in an attempt to make him look less debauched. It’s a lost cause, and he doesn’t seem to care, too preoccupied with aligning himself with your hole.
Quickly glancing at you as if asking for permission, he lets out a breath he doesn’t know he was holding when you nod.
You reach between your bodies as he looks attentively, your hand grabs his dick and pushes the tip against your entrance. He shudders before pushing his hips forward, sinking into you.
You feel so good around him- the involuntary twitches of your cunt, it feels like you’re sucking him in. He resists the urge of just rutting into you like a horny animal but he knows he won’t get that far regardless. Just pushing in a little bit more makes his knees give out. He catches himself on his elbows, stopping himself before headbutting you.
He hears you giggle, not having the force to even face you.
“That good?” but he doesn’t answer- so you follow up.
“It’s fine, just take your time.” your hand slides under his chin, raising it until he’s facing you.
The blush is even more evident now, pink dusting all over his cheeks and his frustrated expression. Your hand moves up, swiping his bangs out of his face before both your hands come up to cup his face and bring it closer for a kiss.
He melts into the kiss, your tongue swipes over his lips and he obliges, granting you access. His hips surge forward once, twice, trying to find a rhythm he’s content with. He’s met with little to no resistance. His dick hits deep inside you, slowly he picks up a decent pace.
There’s an obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wetness making its own noise. He tries holding back any embarrassing noises, but it’s futile, he finds himself moaning into your mouth. He’s almost whimpering. Voice higher than he’d like it to be. Your hand clutches his hair harder, surely ripping out some strands. He likes that.
None of his pathetic attempts at fucking himself into you could top you riding him. He wishes you’d just grab him and flip him over. Mark his skin again, bite him, leave darker marks. Ride him until he’s shooting blanks, and even then don’t stop. And then you’d take care of him, hold him.
He whimpers a bit louder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, completely covering you as he picks up the speed. His thrusts are shallower now, but hit faster and harder.
“So g-good… Fuck, you feel so good.” He says, voice muffled by your neck. He can feel his voice going higher. near whining territory. His lips settle on your neck, leaving dark spots but also muffling more of his embarrassing whimpers.
He twitches inside you, practically throbbing. “I can’t- I can’t take it anymore.” He manages to utter in-between moans. More curses spew out of his mouth and he bites down.
“It’s okay, sweet boy” You push your hand in between your bodies, reaching to rub your clit. “You did good.”
As your own orgasm gets closer, your insides clamp on him like a vice. With a final muffled whimper, he comes- the sensation of his seed filling you bringing your own climax. He keeps thrusting, riding out both your orgasms before collapsing rather roughly on you. He doesn’t even make an effort to move, somehow finding himself breathless, and he doesn’t even need air. You don’t seem to mind, softly brushing out his messy locks while he recuperates.
It’s only when he's completely soft that he rolls over, the sight of his cum leaking out of you making him blush. You don’t let him dwell on it for too long, caressing his side slowly.
He fucked you and somehow he looks more ruined out of the two.
***
After you proposed cleaning up, he realized just how much of a mess the blankets were. It was already late by that point- and there were no spares in the palace anyway. No use keeping furniture that you don’t need, Buer doesn’t need sleep (he would argue he doesn’t either.)
Neither of you wanted to sleep on the wet spot on the mattress, so you come up with the solution of squishing him against your body, wrapping him in your body heat.
He looks so small now, his arms slowly wrap around your waist while his head rests near your neck. Your hand glides down his back, lulling him into relaxation. It’s comfortable like this. Your breath fans over his head and your heart beats in a steady rhythm, he can hear it in this position.
“You’re staying, right?” he breaks the silence. It’s more of a demand than a question.
You just hum, the vibrations tickling the top of his head. He squeezes you slightly harder.
