(tw besides smut for mental health n inevitable death/declining health)
You don't know when you started wanting to live your life, but it was definitely apparent you did have a craving for growing old when the doctor, some random one in the E.R., someone you thought too young to diagnose you, called you a walking corpse. Not a ticking time bomb, a walking corpse, there was never hope for you in the first place.
Japan was where you decided to stay, knowing your family, what lack you had, couldn't compare to your hosts, to the way they pinched your cheeks puffy and called you their daughter, their only child.
You would've realized it belatedly, had you went back after you graduated, that you'd like to live with them for eternity, to never forget their names to never, never leave this Earth, this life knowing you lost the only people who cared for you.
You'll leave no matter what, but at least you know now, you were loved somewhere for some time and won't have the heartbreak of watching them go first.
Your fingers cramp against the cup of coffee you hold, steaming something vicious as you handle two more, offering them to the counter, spackled with black against white, marbled would be a better word, but it's breathtaking with the comparison to hard work, something only spackling reminds you of when you redid the bathroom. Your life is so full, so very full at such a young age, even if you've never left the city, even if you've never gone back home to your pets, even if you'll never reach beyond your apartments bedroom partitioned for a living room, because it's all you can afford. Even with your timed death, you have a life fulfilled.
Your lips part, icky with too much gloss under your mask, your voice creaking a moan of people's name, something you've yet to tame from the way desires claw your throat bloody. How it feels to battle something so poisonous yet dreadfully hopeful. Your mothers- no, your hosts said it's longer, that it'll take longer to kill you since you have such a desire to live. You've lacked the will since the diagnosis hit you.
You've never wanted to die, but living lavishly, having fun so overtly to the point your whole body laughs strain your jaw, is left somewhere borrowed, left when you might've turned twenty-one, when you might've grown past twenty and the knowledge you can't learn past these last few months.
Selfishly, you like dying so early, even if it means you'll never experience life until your next time around, at least you're bereft of grief so strong it clings to your palms. Your host family understands, they understand you, for once people understand such little of you it makes you happy.
It goes away, of course, when a rude customer crushes your teeth with their spit, biting out something burnt by cigarettes. He's not tall, not as tall as you'd call someone tall, but he is scrawny, a lot older than you, maybe more than a decade, he could even be in his forties the way his eyes sink into his skull, the purple bruises under his eyes, heavy with a need for sleep you understand. Coughing keeps you up late into the night, from this disease you don't know, never will even if it knows you. He coughs because he smokes and you hate him for it, for that freedom he's afforded. He won't think of dying when he smokes his final one, when, maybe they call him in because his lungs have finally given up.
If he drinks, which his slurring reeks of, his liver might choose first pick. He might have yours, if you two were a match, but you doubt it, you'll die much sooner than his resilient lungs will allow. If you could replace your body with his life though, you would, smoking, drinking, sleeping on the streets because work is too much here, because it's an honor to die from the stress of bills. Its not though, it's never been an honor because you're already tired of his yelling, the way his lips stretch and he talks down to you because you're a bit shorter, because you're young, because you're, at the end of the day, inferior to someone like him, someone so loud with their pride of a hateful life long lived. You could be egotistical if you knew your disease, if you knew what it meant to hate life so much you keep living it, curmudgeonly, lively.
You should've been lively, right? You should've been so very lively, yet you only have months to live, months that aren't sweet like honey, instead sticky with a selective, mature pallet of molasses. You'll never like molasses, somehow both tart and burnt tying your tongue into a knot before you can spit it out. How much life can this dick live before he dies unlike you? You hate him, his words heavy, laden thick with superiority that you'll never get because you're young- you're too fucking young for this shit, and just as your teeth crook under your lip, something happens.
You aren't happy, neither is relief the right word, maybe frozen in the moment before you would speak, what you'd say to not tame a situation like this, but what freedom buys you in this timed death of yours. You'd screech something vile with your voice not so strong, a quick go fuck yourself would end your commitment. After, you'd realize the entirety fo the shop heard you, and the manager would swiftly fire you, refuting any apology because a customer like him would never accept it. You'd hand in your apron before that, right before he says it, so you could have some dignity over severance pay.
You'd jaunt to your apartment, make it a sprint to the bus so you could visit your moms- your host parents and let them hug you to death as they invite you in, maybe coddle you with the story of how they were neighbors, college students turned neighbors back in their hometown, then moving out to the city when their families got too old to spare a moment of frivolity outside. They like the city, and so do you, an influence of them most likely. You'd not die then, of course, but you'd appreciate it if some mercy would've been gifted to your doorstep, so you could die with them, the people that love you most- that you would die for in this world. You'd probably die alone in your apartment, right before they could meet you on Monday, the only day they have off for their dinners. Their dinners you shouldn't share, and yet, and yet you'll be gone so soon it's worth it, worth less than a year to let you crash and be babied by them at your home. It's your home you want to die in, and it's in this coffee shop the man is killed, slaughtered by a creation no man could've conjured.
It's pink and slimy yet dry, oozing nothing but venom that soaks the man in acid, slurps him up with a crunch you've never known, and when you die, you have in your eulogy that your stuff goes to charity, but what do you have left to give if its all destroyed because it's so very big, this devil, and it's so very… very strange that here, in this moment you aren't dead and it's all gone- it's all gone before you can toss your apron off.
It's silent like the dew in the morning, if you were on the countryside like your hosts grew up near, you'd hear, in the summer, how- oh how very beautiful it is to be on the Earth, to feel the chill of dew drops on grass. Only, you're in the city so it's very unsettling when, dripping from the ceiling, your cheek cries red from the dick that called you those awful, derogatory names. You're not even a barista, and yet he's the one that died.
Hypocrisy, maybe oxymoron would be the word for you. You're trembling outside, your apron gone with the job you had there, if he manager is still alive, if not, you think she'll forgive you for never checking back in, for never… For never going near where that man died. She'll make a market out of it, you know, but that carnage, what dripped down you cheek, what thick chunks of flesh you can still feel right below your lash line, refusing to touch your hair just the fat of your cheekbone.
You don't know how far you got, you don't even know what you left at your place of work, but you do know that dream of you dying at home is forgotten, so is your phone and your outfit change or the money you'd saved up in your wallet. You would've gotten something from the vending machine, or stolen one of the expired croissants. Your boss would scold you if she found out, yet you'd eat it anyway, pretend it was better to live alone, to have alone time in your apartment when you wanted, craved, coveted, had that desire capitulating your pulse to die with the family you've found holding you, whispering to you, goodnight. You want so desperately for it to be night, but the sun bears His teeth on you and you hope the sunscreen you put on hours ago or minutes ago or not at all today, protects you from the cancer that could've festered… You think it's naive to have those fears when that won't kill you, but this disease of want will.
Taking a breath that winds up your lungs chalky, you lean over and spit up a few drops of your saliva, thinking of how it should be acidic, moving your clothed wrist to wipe at your lips. When you stand, a bit shaky, there's someone in the alley with you. Not in the alley, but he's standing directly in the sun, letting it dawn on him as you stand against the opposite wall, the corner where you can see the way his lips wrap around the tip of that sunset bud, the tip itself, steaming with grey as it ignites into a coal's blossoms. He senses you, quicker than you expected when his eyes, a dull navy collect the shock from your own, slipping rom his cigarette to his eyes, rewinding to the white of the tobacco before you straighten up completely, trying to calm the storm of your ribs above your itchy lungs. You heave for a moment more until you see it, not hear the shift of his feet, the way his heels kick back on the bricks before they plant and you smell the distinct notion of smoke waft near you, how it's much more cloying than you'd ever realize. Tobacco, you repeat as you raise your gaze, sheepishly, to the cigarette than the man, and his blue eyes. "You seem like you're going through withdraw."
That's what this is, withdraw from a want to live, from seeing someone die when you're supposed to be the only one deluged by tragedy. You aren't the one to stop the tragedy of this world, and you won't, by a long shot, be the one person in this world to suffer from it. Your eyes drip like tears of the sky down to the golden rim he flutes, barely an offer, more a gesture of understanding. You wheeze, "They'll kill you." A nominal laugh, so your itchy lungs don't spread to your other organs, implausible, of course, but noted in your doctors definitive glance. "That's what they say right?" You smile at the words, but for you it is true, for you, you should follow what your moms- hosts want. It's the least you can do as they raised you from a grave of sorts, and yet, he's so very pretty and who are you to be ascetic when you're only twenty, and you're very near to the grave countries away.
He had some, on his breath, in his pocket- when you killed him they spilled, and you note the way you cough and wheeze now as a nonsmoker, reaching for his lit one, inexperienced. "I had this customer today," you whisper, inexperienced more with socializing than handle this rolled tobacco you've seen, "I thought I'd try some of his to maybe, send him off… but he was a dick, a cock-womble… nonetheless, I feel a little sad, he's already lived much longer than I'll ever to know what got him so bitter. We could've… I could've outlived him, seen him again to see if an older age does wonders for the livelihoods of others." Your lips tickle, not swallowing where his were, only pushing the pocket into your lips as you inhale- and you don't choke, you don't choke from the nominal inhale you've taken, instead your lungs scream as you swallow the smoke, exhaling as much smoke from your nose, you can. All of you has to know this moment, the moment you mourn someone you didn't know because you were too young to die. You're too young to die in this moment only.
"You're from one of the shops, aren't you?" You note his weapon then, hanging on his shoulder; it clicks. "You're the one who took it out." You revert to his eyes, as if your nature relies heavily on contact with just that part of him. You hand him his cigarette back, fingers nudging the callouses on his pads. You wonder if they're drenched in smoke all day long, if he can no nothing else in his breaks from reality, reality so harsh as a… what's the job? Devil Hunter, you recall. "I'm… thankful to you, thank you." "You're thankful for what I do, and I have to do it, so there is no need for thanking. You'd do it too, no?" Your lungs are used to being inflamed, his haven't been for long, you hope, because he's really pretty, he's really tall, he's really mature and you're- you're hoping he'll live at the very least so you can have a sliver of pity for yourself. You'll never outlive a Devil Hunter, how very tragic. "I wouldn't, if I had the will to live." Someone calls his name, you think, hear it light enough that you don't think it's meant to be hardened into your cerebrum, so you forget it, you forget it as you turn the way you came, walking out with your lungs crunching. You shouldn't've smoked.
Your fingers twitch on the plastic of a salmon, packaged tightly in a desirable way. You won't get it because it says something savory on it, it says it's good for you in the niacin and omega-3 quantities. It could help you, but you already are ruined, months- less months away from dying since you've heard and since you saw that man die. You're still twenty, letting it drag under your skin and lap up any of your blood vessels for the taking. The salmon isn't added to your basket, along with chips and pop and, worst of all, so much sugar for flour you don't have. You do want pickled plums though, something you'll bring this Monday to your host family, how they'll teach you to cook ad nauseam, even though you never did try and they never did teach you, you only ever watched as they loved each other, and you'll never ever get that.
Your shoulders roll back and tension finds you when you nudge the bone, stepping back when you bump into something that hurts you, bruises your easily bruised skin harsher. "Denji," a familiar voice calls, and you hear a quick nip of an apology, one from a teenager, a child before you turn to spot the tail end of a blonde and long-haired girl skip past you. Your eyes find blues again, something you weren't exactly expecting to find so soon. You let yours flitter between them, littering them with your reflection until you blink yourself into reality. "Sorry, you're familiar, it was rude of me to stare." He must shake his head; you hear a rustling of fabric before you find yourself returning to the sound of his voice. "Aki," he voices as you blink at him, "The one you're thankful to, if I remember correctly." Something of a smile finds the corners of your lips, not raising but twitching into something you want to be: a happy person, a person who smiles. You are diluted in imperfections, so you wet your teeth with your tongue, voice light as you respond, "Yes, I am- Still, thankful. You've…" Reluctantly, the words pass through your teeth, "Kept me alive for a little while longer."
"Only a little," he queries, the words more teasing than his tone implies, a whisper intrinsically investigative. You forget what normal people think of, how they know you're not someone with a short life span, just someone like them, someone adjacent to them, a side character in their story of a long, humane life. Your peace will be in death, from this short life, the life- long life you could've lived and won't have to mourn for much longer. "I'm… not blessed with health, as you must be, shopping with your…" You find the word, looking to the direction they'd dispersed, "Kids." "Subordinates."
You swiftly shift your gaze to him, finding his own, just as shocked as yours. "They're not your kids," you rush out, his own claim entangled with your incredulous question that you thought he was their father. "I'm nowhere near thirty!" He pushes and you pause, not from his tone but the fact that he's around your age, possibly your age, even if he looks older than you, or maybe you look too young, caught in the past when you first came here, when you first found safety in the arms of adults when you were a child, when you were a teen for the first time in your life.
Unfortunately, that was only four years ago, four years lost to this deathless disease. He's accomplished so much more than you have, you find from the sounds of them returning, to the sword he carried to the- to the fact that he's employed and you're so very close to moving back home because you want familiarity, you want your parents- "I didn't catch your name," he states, something you realize only after you've found his eyes under the florescent lights, almost blowing out his pupils to comical sizes. You wish for a different name, one easy to pronounce, one not so alike your family's. Only, you're cursed with this desire of more and burdened with the reality of less. When he does find it on your tongue, he makes no visual acknowledgement, and you move to grip the basket already sinking onto your bones.
"Have you been here long?" "Less than five years." You look up to him, and find he's rapt by something on you, by something you do, or maybe have said, how you are as you stand here, near the fish without picking at it because, honestly, it would be a sin not to crave death now, only to regret it when it happens to you. Your hosts here, those people you want to stay for, even if they want your death over with now, you wish, desperately, to be here with them, for one more pickled plum to share, for one more hearty laugh to hear and never wheeze out. When could you ever laugh like that; how long had this disease been lodged in your lungs? "Do you not know how to cook like it?"
You blink in confusion. "What," a whisper of what you could be finds you, no offense in the offering of a word, only a query, a wish to know what he means, a desire to find something in his meaningless drivel. "I can cook, if you ever need actual food, you should know someone who can." You feel something thick lodge there, where you've only known pain, right beside your heart do you choke on it and spit, "I have moms."
You wish to retract the words. They aren't yours, but they're there, they know it, they know you, they know everything, they know that you're their daughter, they know that you'll die and they know how brutal it will be, suffocating on blood until something overtakes you, until you're at peace finally. You wish peace could be here, if only you could live, if only this disease hadn't found you, this disease, this disease, this- "I go to them every Monday, but I'm here the night before because of careless preparations. They cook for me that one day, and I eat junk the rest. I need to keep some part of my old life alive, if not, then… I'll die with love, not despair." "You wouldn't like to die with love only?" You shrug. "I wouldn't know how, Aki."
Your phone isn't as light as you've known it, your phone is yours, filled with something you are beside the contacts that you've long since needed to delete to the piles of group chats your mothers have forced you into, pictures upon pictures sent with praises with- with your life. And then another number, a number you didn't know could be there. You didn't know dying so young had a cost when your worst nightmare was life.
You are finally living, something slow and syrupy sweet, barely there but pungent as you're riveted, staring down at the contact, the kanji, the person who rests there, just a call away. You know nothing about him, in turn he knows nothing of you, except that your death is inevitable, is impeding so very soon. You know how he looks, that's all that matters; he has bare eyes that seem far deeper into his soul than you've ever known someone's to reach, or the way he doesn't quite smile, or the baritone voice he speaks into, the look of someone so devoted to despair, the resignation of it in the way he stands, the way his basket was filled with foods that could make you live longer if you were different, if you weren't so poor growing up.
Your brows furrow, not quite remembering the moment you could describe your childhood this way, the way you've known it before coming to your hosts. When was it that you could recall the home you were born in? If the hospital was really that far away or if you were just too little to be cared for. You set your phone down, moving the covers away from your skin, clinging to the chill of your skin as it slowly loses the life you've barely lived. Your skin tingles with something ugly, bereft of happiness for the bare moments of your tiny apartment. You like living here, if you can be honest, you like being here in this hole because it reminds you of home, because it reminds you that you're safe in your home, as safe as you can be for once.
Your phones rings the second you're away from it, standing and then falling to answer it. Not because you know who it is, though you are anxious, apprehensive, elated to answer a call whether it's from your hosts or that new contact in your phone. It's the former, you find when your head hits the pillow and you're exhausted, you're very exhausted because your bones aren't your own, because your body has never been yours to keep, to love. You wonder what another life would've looked like, if you'd still get to meet them, or worse, you'd go to Japan and never know what it's like to be loved. You'd stay where you were and never would've been loved. Would you still die this way, or if you just craved one day alone, one modicum of yourself to return to your back, would you live another hour longer, just one, just one hour longer to see the sun, the moon, and the rain. You want to die in rain, whether frozen or not, rain would be all you need.
"Yes, I have eaten, I promise." You don't call her mom, but you also don't call her by her name, you all her something in between, something you wish you could venture away from. Mom would be nice, to have two moms would be nicer. Heaven's there, and you're here, shutting your eyes as you hum, something your heart wishes to stop doing, because you're so very tired in this moment, so, so very tired- "I love you to," you admit, and the tone sounds; she's hung up so you don't have to exert yourself, and when your eyes don't open again, the phone lost somewhere on your bed, you think your dreams of a different life will suffice, you think if you can die here, as peacefully as your bones will offer, you'd be okay.
Your eyes part, bulging out of their sockets when the ringing won't stop, loud, jarring to the buzz of the AC that needs fixing, the hum of your mini fridge. It's not Monday, you think that day has long since passed, yet you still reach for it in case it is one of your hosts- the other one that looks at you with mourning; she's not good at loosing people, always so very gloomy when your other host is so very… motherly. You stretch your fingers against the call button, answering with a croak of your voice, loosing any comprehension as you whisper, still bestirring, "I have enough money!" A cough ensues, not a fit, but a choke of your esophagus. It's then, when you don't hear the familiar background noise of your mothers' show, that you realize it's the other number, the only other number you know. "Aki…?"
It's not a date; you'll die sooner than admit it's a date, yet you do feel something sweet squeezing your heart to dust, something charred as you think about it, about what a person wants someone like you. You've been happy for a long time probably, you've been yourself for a lot less, but so recent it feels like an eternity even if the cement moldered over the bricks. He sits there, not quite happy, but not quite sad either. Content would be the word because you're both here, staring at some city's water, noting how sweet the air is here, how sweet it must be to be mistaken as a couple. "Thank you," you scratch out a whisper, "For inviting me here..."
"I know you get groceries every Sunday." You let your gaze slip over towards him, peering whilst barely letting your head move. You're obvious no matter what, dipping down before his gaze may catch yours. Your hands stretch on the bench's material, letting your fingers find pain from it. Everything breathes pain into you around this time, when you're content. "You must not have many friends then." You quickly catch your tongue, adding, "I'm easy to forget, I mean. I can't… I can't seem to have a life worth living. Tiny things though," You look up to the crashing waves you can't see. "I think I could've lived for tinier things. I would like to." you breath, letting your cheeks bubble over from something you can't name, won't in fear your heart has already caught on a splinter. "Something like grocery shopping?" You find his eyes on yours after you turn to him, head almost cracking from how fast you find him.
You're not used to this, having friends that are like you, or maybe he's just stating the obvious, you don't know because it's been years since you graduated, and only a few months before another winter crows, only this time you're- you're long past due your death. His eyes aren't kind, but you think they are, softer and not white, but the blue snow would be if it had his countenance. He shoes no emotion, and in that, the way he nominally moves his lips to his furrowing brows; he's easy to read.
It aches to know someone is comforting you when you shouldn't need it anymore. Just like you have to stop needing your parents, a stable hometown, or a moment away from civilization, you never do stop. Craving, controlling, crying, it's disgusting to be twisted inside of your mind, forced, in the back of your mind to know something is very, very rotten with you, that won't ever be removed. You're stuck here, where Devils roam with death that finds your throat tight, sandpaper lining the walls of your esophagus. "Aki," you start, "Why did you come here with me?" Your brows crease, lift into something petulant as if you'd cry from the notion that this man doesn't just care for you, but knows something more than you want to, he's familiar.
"I-" "Please be truthful, we don't know each other- I should be more cautious when trusting anyone, let alone their job because people have never been a monolith and-" "I'm dying too." There it is. It's the scent of him, or the way he smokes cigarettes when he shouldn't, or the smile that can never taint his teeth, or the way he looks at you, even after you admitted to being sentenced to death without a penchant for smoking. He was familiar just because, and it's a craving you have grown to know far too intimate when he looks at you this way, looks at your when there was never waves crashing, when there was never an ocean near this city, when the salmon was something you should've got for your mothers because they're going to have to be without you soon.
You'll give them all your money, let them inherit the tiny fortune you've saved, so tiny it's most likely not a fortune to anyone who isn't houseless. Regardless, you're here, staring into his eyes when he continues, something in your ears ringing, groaning louder and louder as your heart picks at your temperature. "I don't have years to live. I'm like you, my health was never mine to keep no matter how much I crave for more, conceit more, hope, unwittingly, for more."
He takes a breath of air like the drag of a cigarette. You don't wonder anymore why he took you shopping; you wanted him to the moment you took his cigarette and when his eyes pierce through yours one last time, you think you understand what your mothers meant when they said you have such a desire to live. You understand what that means when he looks at you, and you an conceit just as clearly as he might've his own future, what yours could look like if you died with someone for the exact same reason; a Devil. "So I want-" "Companionship is long lost from me."
His brows furrow, you don't let him speak with his voice that craters your bones. "I don't have friends, not because I'm easy to forget but because I can't remember enough to be forgettable. You gravitate towards me because we're alike, because we have that same disease no one can name, however, Aki, you want me because of what I can't give you, and I'm begging you, don't be my friend when we're back here, on this bench for however long… If we can come back to this bench, then, I'll be okay with whatever you need from me; I want it too. To die with my desires."
Aki Hayakawa is a Devil Hunter, he has been for an unspecified amount of time; his family were killed by a Devil that he's forever willing to die in capture of. You're not sure why the lamp has hit him this way, softened his cheek bones, highlighted the weighty blink of his lashes, even his thick hair, swayed by not only the light but the lack of ponytail capitulating every bit of it away from his shoulders, framing his face. He looks his age, not that you know what it is or he knows much of your life, but it's perfect, his features are perfect, his body, the rocking of his voice against your bedroom makeshift as a living room for now. It's not big, you've known for a while, but you don't know what he's known, how he's lived. Even as he speaks, you know how this will end, death for you and him, whether apart or together, you'll both pass soon rather than later. The Fates must like you both too much to keep you here, at least, you hope.
He made a contract with a new devil as well, something about the future, something vague because, just when he uttered it, he could tell you were enticed. He might not know, however, you wish to see your mothers only. Mothers., you've grown used to that, and you think they have, if you ever did carry the courage to utter it. Admit to what normal people have, a safe family. Your bed takes up the living room; you never dared get a lick of a table when you eat on the floor with a towel, how you've always done especially before coming to Japan. You'd hall up in your room, you think you've already told him this, before you set down your towel, and you'd eat not until your heart's content, but until your jaw gave out which was always first before satisfaction.
You want to ask him more, if he had a childhood past time like you, if he spent time studying his teenage years away so he could escape to somewhere colder, if he knew what books sliced his fingers every turn of a page in the dew of night, no matter how quiet you were, or if he liked your apartment, selfishly, if it reminded him of home, because it does of yours. From the dim ceiling light, tucked inside, to the bed on the floor, a mat underneath, to the fridge you can't seem to fill without feeling guilty and gnawing at your cheek to fuel yourself. Your freezer is packed though, sweets and meals you're saving until it's time to eat; maybe your moms will take them for you. You could never cook cook, but you did have one or two meals that you kept coming back to, improving every moment without knowing.
Your fingers twist in the napkin, some random takeout picked up by him before he came. It was you who texted, for once you texted him or anyone before they came to you, crawled and looked up at you with eyes so pathetic, with eyes begging to be seen by you of all people. You were never special enough for the front stage, but you were a great option for an understudy. You sigh after, letting your tongue tap on your bones. "Thanks for-" "Bringing food?" He's teasing then, or as lose as he can be, brow prickled at the arch, eyes flickering between yours whilst his lips don't curve, don't dip either, they more so muse nominally, his cheeks filling. You wonder what he tastes like, spicy or sweet. "For coming, responding, being here, agreeing to come to a very sketchy dead person's-" "You aren't dead yet." "-apartment," you finish, knees close to your body, some anxiety forcing your bones to creak, wind against you and bow like ocean waves under extreme winds.
"You should stop thanking me so much," he relays, crisscross and setting down a box of chicken you've both picked through. You don't know if you can, and you would tell him that, but you decide on a teetering seesaw, "Are you bashful, Aki?" The tease pricks this attention, his gaze finding yours immediately just to watch you, find something like your bones underneath your crumpled lips.
You'll be a beautiful death, you think, but he'd be pitiful when dead. You wish to know, if even for a moment, your mothers would be okay without you. How long it'd take to grieve you- months, weeks, hours, or years. You're not sure you want either answer. You wish to have this here with them too, to introduce them to the man that helps you with your groceries and picks up takeout on the way to your place. You wish to remember a lot more, maybe thanking him a few more times will bug your brain to remember. Just one moment, just one moment for so, so much longer. You'd be okay dying here, if it meant you could die like this, in remembrance of this droll moment.
"I don't see the point in thanking me, unless you wish for me to thank you." You shrug, light but heavy to your bones that rarely have a desire to move anymore, like cement to water your bones dry as your throat crowds. How much longer? You'd know not from his Devil, but the doctor. You have yet to be in insurmountable pain though, it's woven itself into your banal life as many times as breathing after brushing your teeth. The taste goes away; you get used to the pain after a short while. "You have no need, Aki." You like his name, like a memory far too dear to be anything but achingly nostalgic.
"I find it's better to thank the world before leaving, though." You toss your napkin away from you; Aki and you spaced between a pillow's distance, one you move to lean on because you'd usually watch TV from this space. Your TV broke a week ago, though. "Don't you have thanks to give for something?" His eyes linger on yours, and you don't know how the light has affected you. You'd like to admit to being loved by the light, whether celestial or manmade, you're familiar under these lights of your own, and Aki isn't; Aki is always beautiful. "So, you give thanks all day long," he deflects, leaning back on your bed, pushed along your wall so you're given just a bit more room like a couch, only it would never fit. "Never said that." You lean on your wrist, bent so your circulation cuts out; a bad habit you have yet to kick, probably won't, if you're being realistic.
Your other hand toys with the cover of your pillow, plain and black, something you hand sewn because you were bored and had just gotten your first pay check. It's lasted far too many years. "I think about moments that have happened though, what I can remember, and…" You huff this time, shoulders not as malleable as they were moments ago for a shrug. "And people I like, I think, I want them to know I like them." "You like them," he parrots, you nod, eyes taking in his under the light, a glisten of golden to his abysmal eyes. "Yes, Aki, people I like."
He stays with you for that second, so you can admire the golden in his eyes, and belatedly, realize that there might be golden in your own as well. "I don't have anyone I like." "You brood, but you're genuinely a sweetheart." You flex your wrist, shifting onto the fingers fidgeting with the pillowcase as you wind what lack of circulation you've accrued. "And you speak much older than I." You rest your cheek on your palm, finally, elbow back to sagging onto the cotton of your sheets. "I know, I think… I think my mom liked it that way." You shake your head, finding your fingers picking at your pillowcase.
"I'm not sure, still, even in the lesser months of my time here, I will never, never know what I was like before here, this moment." Your voice is still scratchy, but you think it's pretty, peaceful especially when it corrals him, his own hand greeting yours on the pillow, the opposite to your dominant. "I ache for it," You continue, not knowing if his eyes are on you, or sharing yours on the pillow, fingers twitching just as his scrape against yours, his callouses far too much for a nowhere-near-thirty-year-old. "Memories, happy or sad, but even that longing leaves, and I'm back to being thankful."
You look up to him, squeezing his digits with your own, barely scraping at his own palm, at hugging him with your flesh, just flitting your fingers with his, squeezing at the knuckles because you can't take it, this talking, this talking in your living room co opted as a bedroom even though it could be nothing more. It could, you just don't want it to be. You don't have a life to live, anyway. "For people I like, in this moment." His eyes are on yours, and you don't quite know what The Fates have in store for you, whether it be just lust for companionship neither of you could hold for quite sometime, or something deeper, like souls intertwining and forever missing their chances because of some curse, some curse long ago. You wonder if it'll ever fade or you're both cursed in mythology.
Mythology has no place here, when your fingers inch forward, scooping under and up his knuckle, looping your fingers together. It's too intimate for strangers; you're both holding back with what your teeth chatter against, yet you can't seem to care. You don't want to, so you let your eyes do the talking, staring deep into the reflection of your apartment in his eyes, his own fingers inching to claw against your soft skin, letting the roughness of his palm, much bigger than yours, press into you.
You're not naked, nowhere near, clad in shorts and a cami, whilst his shirt's unbuttoned the first few notches, his pants without a buckle. You're not nude in front of him, but his fingers against yours feel all the more like he's stripped past more than the layers of your clothes, his fingers piercing what should not be pierced. You want this, almost drool when you inch your knees to the floor, closer to him as one dips on the corner of the pillow, fluff sagging like a dead body against the side of your bed. Your other hand presses into the mattress, lifting as soon as you can handle the shift of your weight, gaining inches from him, capitulating as much of time as you're allowed.
He moves with you, letting his face turn to yours as your fingers, unfettered by his, ghost his cheek, let your fingers mold against the softness of his features, warmed by the light, warmed by the beverages from your fridge. He's so very… soft in your eyes, in your apartment, when you brush into his hair, let your eyes rake over his structure like you can bite into him, like you can take as much as you want.
His breath steals your attention, you eyes darting to his lips, how they're parted and rouged from shared desire, lightly glossed when his tongue that you don't know the taste of tastes his lips. It could be nicotine that finds you first, or the spice of the noodles he picked out for you, the sweet tang of the tea you prepared ahead of time, except, of course, it's none of those.
His lips taste of them all, commingling sweet on his lips that move against yours, pressing firmly into you with his own hand reaching forward, grasping at your cheek to guide you against him. His tongue is a later treasure you find, his lips plump with your teeth grazing them because they are much sweeter than the tea you set into cups far too new to grow with you. You find your bones more sensitive when they graze past his lips to the flesh of his mouth, how they soak in his spit momentarily until his tongue comes out like the waking moon.
Your eyes flutter, lashes tickling his skin, his fingers squeezing yours. The taste of his tongue is tinged with mint from somewhere forgotten, toothpaste forgotten for mouthwash and biting against the taste of your spicy food. Your teeth could never explore him the way his tongue does you, swirling against your muscle, toying with it just as he pushes into you, letting his lashes tickle your own skin. His fingers dip down to your jaw, callouses a map of him, slipping down to the column of your neck. He stays there, letting his tongue fight with yours, not so much in a battle but a test of your presence. You're not a missing puzzle piece, but you could be a replacement.
You moan against him when his thumb slip up behind your ear, feeling as much as you'll let him take. He parts slowly from you, and you desire to have air for eternity locked inside of your lungs that seem to fail you ever breath. His lips do glisten under your lights as yours most likely mirror, a swallow of saliva slipping down your tongue, the taste of him inside of you. His eyes, heavy with admiration of desire, dip down to your skin, hot when his lips trail from the corner of your spit-slicked lips, to the edge of your jaw. Slow like waiting for leaves to fall, your fingers twitch in his hold, your own hand slipping down to his shoulder, past the thick of his hair, waiting for what's to come next. You find him kissing down over to your ear next, nose bumping your lobe before you feel pressure bloom where his thumb lingered.
Your nails dig into his skin, whatever you find under your nails, capturing like you're a murderer to this murdered man. He sucks something sweet onto your skin, his tongue poking out to lick the burning kiss. You forget when you were last touched, when you last had a moment of desire quite like this. It redounds, the shaky whimper that releases from your lips, sticks to the saliva that you lap up, his mouth widening to bite down on the juncture of your shoulder and neck. He doesn't draw blood even if you go back to the wish to die, here or there, or before the notion of the doctor whittled down your eardrums. He never harms you, a dull edge to his teeth that barely mar your skin, indents imperceptible when his tongue laves over it, lips trailing the grip of his jaw.
You thumb edges up his collar, gripping the material to grab his attention. He pulls away as you demand, both of you taking a breath when you see him again since marking up one side of your throat. You call his name because it's so pretty. Your fingers part from his, braiding his, crawling up each length of his digits, much, much longer than yours, to ghost along his clothed forearms, fingers catching under the fabric momentarily. He shivers, you find on his skin as you part, greedy fingers raking over his form to capitulate his buttons.
Your gaze attacks the pallid expanse of his firm muscles, just enough prodding your imagination, licking at the blink of your eyes. You undo them with a shake to your knuckles, fingers slipping onto the fabric until you can feel him against your palms. His sinewy expanse of waist flex under your soft touch, ghosting over every bite that your nails scrape against. He's soft himself, against you he is so very soft, touching the wiry strands below his navel that tenses alike his stomach to the touch. You can't feel it, but know when you shift back onto your behind, legs like a mermaid clinging to yourself, the blood under him careens to a bulge, unfairly bound by the expanse of his slacks.
He's just come form work, not even meant for today but scheduled under the stress of someone above him, though he'd never speak unfairly of. You curl into him, unintentionally turning wittingly when you feel his arm behind you, slipping down the expanse of your back and cradling that of your covered hip, clothes not tight enough to keep from slipping to allow a graze of his touch. You think he's made you cum as your toes curl, knees twitching to slot against his thigh, even your digits tingling as your scrape against his belt buckle.
You swallow something a lot louder than the breaths you share, nails digging into the pleather as your eyes swim in his blues, vastly different form the ocean. Your lips part, slick with a pop, whilst your fingers tangle in the buckle, murmuring, unintentionally, "I wish to taste you, Aki?" He doesn't respond verbally at first, the callouses of his fingers, instead mapping the skin of your hips, slipping down to the front of your stomach, letting his hand rest there before he gets close. He hides behind your ear, forcing your eyes to confront the bulge that's somehow grown. He confesses as if you're some deity's confidant, "Do as you wish to me."
Your fingers cut against the metal, loosening him from his belt. Your nerves, far too tight around your body, like a noose wound by your licentious desires, clasp your digits, like holding hands you don't need. You unbutton his pants as clumsily as you wish not to, noting his watchful eye from the blink of his lashes against your neck, then the embarrassingly sharp intake of breath you bark when his lips graze the juncture of your neck.
Swallow the embarrassment, you reach under his pants, the zipper retreating just as you'd hoped under the slip of your hand. You take him beneath his briefs, fingers stretching around his length to free him into your sights. He's pretty, the tip a baby pink, already blushing into a rouged color akin to his lips. He's long too, much longer than you'd thought, your fingers just barely wrapping around him the entirety.
Your lips part for a breath to free itself, only you don't know if you do breathe when Aki's eyes flit to yours. His lips are much darker than before, the trace of his teeth lingering at the plush of his bottoms. Your fingers twitch against his girth, Aki's hand immediately steeling your wrist as his tip twitches. Something wet trickles down him, landing onto the side of your pointer. You don't need to look to know it's his pre, but Aki doesn't want you to know, his fingers itching up to wrap around yours, swiping the taste of him away form your skin.
Your lips part again, voicing with his hand clasped against your back. "I've never given… good head." His eyes dart to your lips, the action supplanted with his own lips. Your eyes flutter, shuddering in the warmth of his tongue against yours. He doesn't fight your tongue, more so he lingers in wait for your tongue against his own. He tastes sweeter, his spit mixing with your own as he swirls his muscle against your own. It's messy, inexperience tangled in your strands as his hand braids your own against his dick.
With furrowed brows you moan as he sucks on your tongue, surprise commingling with pleasure, your thighs wishing to close against the length of his thigh. You wish to part, but he keeps you there, moving your own hand up and down his length, encouraging you to tighten your grip when you ride up the length of his vein. You don't know how to focus, eyes lost in the isolation of licentiousness, wrapping harshly against your windpipe. You wonder what his oxygen tastes like, if smoke is what stains his teeth more than mint. If he couldn't get smoke off his shirt, could he ever get you out him?
He lets you part when your kisses get sloppier, when he feel the oxygen your lungs lack, parting with his own breath kissing your tongue. He whispers, thick with scratches of his resolve, "Just try to kiss it like that." You nod, lips closing for a breath that doesn't quite register ad nauseam. Your eyes flutter, heavy when they find his length again. His grip is all that keeps your hand moving, your lungs expanding before you shift against his thigh, other hand bracing on his shoulder so you're straddling further down his leg.
You know it won't be the most comfortable position to bend into, but his clothed leg feels heavenly against the wetness dripping from your mound. Your hand rapaciously slides down his chest again, tangling in the fabric dangling form his muscles now. You grind against him once, a test in his reaction before you find it in your grasp of him. He twitches, the hand that still lingers on your hip squeezing unwittingly. He isn't warning you of what's to come, you know, but you think he's warning himself of his inexperience intertwining with yours, to the point that maybe neither of you will make it out of here alive, you'll, for once, not be alone when you die, not just with yourself and moms to think of, at the very least.
Your lips part, sticky webs of saliva clinging to your skin before you move your hand to push his away. You force your hands to intertwine again, grasping tightly to the ridges of his fingers you hope will explore you soon, part you so much he slips in perfectly, with no resistance that curdles in your gut. Your thighs twitch against his limb before you bend down, partially resting on him and your ankle to distribute the weight of your desire. You flutter your lashes, trying to recall the weight of his own desire on your tongue, how he handled himself against you, how he swirled his tongue and wet his lips. You tamp a moan tangling in your saliva.
Your hand meets you at the burning tip of his desire, blushed painfully pretty and begging to be unfettered from the pre that paints him. Your lips find him first, his reaction delayed whilst watching you. You kiss as much as you can, the taste of him on your tongue spurring on the jerk of your hips, tongue freeing itself to taste him wholly. Your eyes part to the noise, bed creaking when he shifts against the back of it, head crooked back for his Adam's apple to bob. Your smile of pride calls him back, saliva dripping onto his length the moment your lips slip onto his pulsing tip.
His fingers twitch in your hold, simultaneously as your hips do, the taste of him an aphrodisiac you never knew applicable. Your eyes shut tightly, focusing on the heavy weight of him slipping down your pooling tongue. You can barely flick it around his tip, focusing on taking as much of him as you can inside. Maybe that will get him to cum, or maybe, when you push too far, you'll feel tears boil under your lids, lips quivering as your slimy tongue slips around as much of him as you can. You think you can understand why the last random guy said he'd rather eat you out than have your mouth on him again.
You pull back, squeezing Aki's hand in condolences before your lids part, pooling of tears that fry your lashes. Your other hand tries to move up his hard length, forgetting what's too hard and what's too gentle as you swallow as much of him still lingering in your maw as you can. The words are garbled on your tongue, marbles of spit falling between you when you whine , blurry-eyed, "You're too big for me- Aki." With a gulp choked in your throat, you find a curse of breath rushed from his lips, hands leaving you for the fabric clinging onto your waist, pulling you with your grasp still too tight on his dick.
There's something hot that binds you too together, hand wrapping around his neck whilst he lets his head dive into the crook of you shoulder and neck. It's not glue that keeps you two together, but maybe the desperation in his hold on you, how he forces you flush against him, crushing your lungs carelessly against his own, as if, maybe crushing you into his front ill force your times to end together, not apart. You don't know him, you remind yourself, but his cum covers you both, from your hest, to his, he's on you.
The rise and fall of his chest slows long after yours has slowed from failing to warm him in your mouth. His grip lightens as well, still firm against you but not as bone-crushing. His head is the one thing that doesn't raise, but the warmth of his cheeks on the bare of your shoulder is noted, your lips incapable of hiding a twitch. "I guess you're just as bad at holding it." He huffs, hands moving your hips back, and you note the glaze to his blue eyes, as if he cried from how you made him cum. Because you're so good at being so bad at it. "That was a mistake." You hum, fingers carding through his strands, noting the disarray of him and thinking of yourself for a moment, how you look not only in the reflection in his eyes, but the thought that pass, and you hope come again of you.
"Bet I could beat you." He raises a brow, approbation of this whispered challenge that doesn't fall between the both of you. His hands glide down your body, callouses scratching at the soft skin underneath your cami. He lifts it up, eyes rapt onto your own until your chest presses against his own, hands twitching as you raise them. Your cami is on the floor the moment your hands find his shoulders again, his own latching onto your ribs, his eyes leaving yours as you sit back onto his thighs.
It's not inspection, it's admiration for a body touched by yourself only. For so many years isolation has clung onto your lungs, stretched like poison ivy onto your skin. Maybe it's why you're so soft, why he's so harsh in his gentle grip, thumb prodding at the underside of your breast. He doesn't cup your chest, your fingers catching on his strands of hair while leaning back onto his thighs, he chases you like sticky strands of sweet honey. He craves to taste you, starting back at your collarbone, licking with his teeth and warm muscle against every drop of your skin. You're still pure somehow, in this room surrounded by barren junk, needing a cleaning, you're still pure when his lips oh-so soft descend as clouds down the depression of your chest, inching, savoring the softness of your skin you realize he might not understand he shares.
He favors the right of you, his nose nudging the soft mound before his lips quickly swipe down the weight of you, fingers tightening on your ribs. He almost moans, you feel from his intake of breath, lips parting so his tongue can prod at your pebbling nipple. Your fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, others pressing his face closer to your chest. He relents, shutting his thick lashes as he latches onto your sensitive part. Your toes curl, a moan so sharp whittling its way out of your lungs like a sharp curb. His smirk is as yours was, tantalizing on your skin. He sucks as much as he pleases, tongue laving over your firm skin until his fingers ache to massage your other breast. He doesn't pinch, letting his callous massage you where you're needed, rubbing circles your clit aches to find deeper inside of you.
You're sopping, teetering between cohesion and disarray, every nerve wrapping tightly around your bones, digging into your being whilst his deft touch manipulates you as a puppet. You think you'd understand him, how he didn't last if he were touching your more slippery parts, already grinding against his zipper, tossing your neck back before he pulls away completely.
Disarray isn't quiet strong enough for a word, now coiling into agitation, irascible agitation that singes your prints into his scalp. "Aki," you all but pant, swallowing something slippery when raising your head. He's impish, haughty in it when you try to relay your gaze of heated resolve. His fingers slip beneath the band of your shorts and you forget how cold it is outside. "Up," he says, and you find his grip a map to the treasure of his lips, tugging down the flesh of your lower body before teetering on your shaky toes, moving onto his face whilst your bottoms lay somewhere far away from your top. Aki has long since left his shirt for you to feel the firm muscles of his arms capitulate you.
He touches the length of your outer thighs first, moving up and down to the curve of your backside, pert above his head that rests on your bed. Your knees dimple the sheets you've needed to wash for the longest time, and might actually after this, yet he's the one keeping you steady as you teeter above him, fingers doused in anticipation when you let them crumble and flex in the sheets
You spare a glance at Aki, hair tussled beneath you, eyes drowned in desire that reflect in the flickering lights of your room, the flush to his pallid cheeks, worse, the almost obscene amount of saliva that seems to poor in his mouth as he opens it. He spares you one glance until his eyes flutter shut from pleasure. You've never known to be tasted like this, how he savors you more than he does your skin, his grip distant when he clamps his fingers down onto any part of you remotely soft enough to handle his grasp. You react similarly, limbs twitching when you feel the length of his tongue heat your core, graze the pulse of your clit, ravenously sensitive.
Your fingers slip against the sheets, his tongue licking harder against your sensitivity, focusing solely on the way your hips cant, jerk without your complete lucidity. If you could open your eyes, look into his own countenance and not feel ecstasy course through your veins, you would part your eyes, but the bet that's long since been numbing your fingers threads through you and makes your hips cant harder against him.
It must be the lights or the stale air or the food you just glut, something that makes you so sensitive to the point you feel like crying, like your pussy is when his tongue parts for his lips, suckling against your clit and tasting his tongue onto your essence. You moan something light, something feverish as heat pinches your cheeks and ears, migrating from the heat of your core until all you know is circulation.
He makes out with you, his grip becoming softer as he forces you to slow your canting, focus on how harshly you grind against him, which flick of your clit your round back into, only then does he deign to fulfill your fantasy into reality. Like a prescription you couldn't get, you feel his fingers massage the soft of your skin, moving you as he pleases. His touch is intoxicating, something high in your throat that you whine to as he thumbs your pussy, slipping down the essence of you.
It sticks to him like the honey-taste of your skin, the calloused pads of his fingers entrapped in your heat when coating his finger in you. He slips his thumb away, your hips so dangerously close from returning to an erratic pace, until you still, finding that he used your essence as lube for his other fingers, his pointer and middle to be precise.
You drool, moan wet in your throat when you picture his pallid digits now, lengthy with enough of a curve to reach all the way inside you, perfect like a toy you've bought. You almost come undone when you feel the two pads of his fingers slide down the wetness of your folds, not so much playing with them as he's exploring, never idle in his way with you. Your hips slide against his mapping of you, stalling when his digits circle your sopping entrance, only entering when your back curves, fingers clamped onto the sheets below, taught enough to rip.
Each lithe digits plays with your essence, until he's sticky enough strings cling to him as spider's webbing. He plays with you in this way, eyes fluttering to catch the expanse of your chest raise, even the blabber of your lips, or the way your hips still in wait for him. You find him against the moment you feel the curl of his lips, your own twitching in resolve. Until you find your thighs twitching, lids fluttering shut again because his fingers dig into you. He plays with you, as if he already knows every bit of your body, he plays with your sticky heat, how your walls cling onto him like he's all you've ever known, all you've ever wanted.
Your moans are pitched, much more than the weight of his groans into your ear. You don't cum like him, you have to wait for it, playing with how you roll your hips, how his wrist flicks with you, as if he predicts the sway of your hips before you brain catches up. Your palm digs into the sheets, your other migrating hastily to his fingers, unoccupied except to taste your flesh. You loop yours around his like you've done time and again. You focus on the grind of his callouses how they feel against yours lacking texture, then you focus on the fingers supplanting any fantasies you've had from the moment he took your hand.
You find your eyes blurry when they part for the dim sun of your room, his fingers drown in your essence, sticky sounds emitting from places you can't see when he kisses your pulse and scissors your entrance. You find yourself lost in the abyss of him underneath you, how he pulls you back for more, curling his digits against the flesh of your wall,s pulsing around him, molded to the length of his digits when he twists and finds a deeper spot, grazing your sweet spot until nectar pools from you down his wrist. Something sweet twists onto your teeth, deluges you like a warm blanket burning your skin, as, somehow, the kiss of his lips is too much, too obscene when he slurps your essence, moving down to land kisses onto every wet part of you, or worse when his nose is the perfect size to grind against and his spit mixes with that of your entrance, calloused pads massaging perfectly against your walls- walls so sensitive they dry you wet, so much wetter than you were a moment ago, squeezing his hand so much you swear you break it when you cum.
it's not violent, but it's not as soft as you'd cum before, alone with whatever silicone you'd found around, and it's much warmer, not as lonely when his fingers keep fucking up into you, your hips shaking as his fingers tighten firmer than yours had around his. Like a snake he forces you to stay against him, his tongue tracing patterns against every bit of you, letters mixing with numbers and numbers mixing with your wetness that seems too wet- too much for even you to handle when another fingers moves to join into your entrance. You blabber his name maybe, cajole a prayer for him to not- for him to think before he fucks up into you with another of his digits that's far too big to take. Then you think of his length, and how your fingers barely touched and how you mouth couldn't stretch around him before you gave up and he came- and his cum was so hot and would be even hotter inside.
That snake poisons you with a tightness in your stomach, burning your sight white as your lips wobble, cry out his name until all you know is how hot you can get, how soft your bones become when he's under you and all you know is how tight you get around three of his fingers stretching you too far. He relents only after know what your cum tastes like, slurping it out you until you find you've soaked his hand and face, his lips glistening and somehow more obscene than that of your pussy.
You feel him on you again, blinking your eyes back into focus. Your tongue isn't as laden as your knees feel, you whine, "Aki," He stops, humming his kisses up the expanse of your your ribs before finding your ear, every divot of your body, bruised with sweat and saliva. You part your lips with something thick, tongue darting out to confess, "I lasted longer, I think." Your throat is squeamish, quiet yet thick with rapacity when he smile and his grin is oh-so addictive. You feel more intoxicated, however, when he moves his hands against your waist, picking at your hips and forcing you to be flush with him. Your knees forcefully slip up to allow him space on your bed, moving your pussy to catch on his dick, slide against your slick, chilled with your saliva and this fucking stale air that's stifling, imbued with your desires winding tighter and tighter,
You wonder if this is what death is like, if this anticipation is exactly how you've always felt, but Heaven tastes sweeter around this time, his sweat and spit mixing with yours on these sheets. His body glides against your own, hips perfectly against his whilst his dick slides, heavy, against your pussy, his hand forcing it to twitch perfectly against your clit. You whine something sensitive, fingers wrapping around his thick wrist resting against your skin. You part your lips, sticky, and voice, "Put it in, Aki." He pulls his hips back, letting his fingers intertwine beneath yours, on your tummy before he responds with the wanton sounds of your bodies together.
He speaks in a groan, lodged like an echo in the cavern of his ribs, heart thumping as he leans down to press his chest to your back. You appreciate the weight, just as much as you appreciate his length lining up against your sticky entrance, drooling against him. You long for him, understand yearning when his tip, wet itself with his salty pre, glides perfectly into you. There's only a bit of resistance, a bit of you unexplored when he fucks all the way into you, when he stretches you far beyond what your lips could handle, prodding deeper than his fingers- prodding so much deeper your hips fall against the sheets from the weight of him, his hand already clamped onto your hip to keep you slightly elevated.
There's a whine that's more so a sob when that heat burning into you returns, cradling your stomach that he claws at with blunt nails. Your thighs shake as you've known them to, lingering in a squeeze when you feel his hot tip twitch against the deep ache of your walls. You're more than sensitive, burning with something that aches your heart more than your bones, feeling him against you like this for what may be the first among last times.
His hips barely move against yours, first swirling inside the depth of you that clings to him, hot as warm hands laced against one another in the snow, but you feel he's more than doing this to engrave himself into you, he's doing it because he can't leave, because hes stuck inside you like savory sap. You wish for him to stick, but his hips slip against your own, and he leans back, forcing you to stay, legs twitching when you find it's lonely without him inside. You understand pining, aching for something that you feel has your heart. He has yours when he's flush again, your breathes mixing when together, even apart as you hold onto your breath since you don't have him far away, since he's barely an inch away, crawling back into you and kissing against every inch you offer.
You cry something exhausted, feeling him stretch you barely enough, his fingers still clawing at every bite of your flesh, even forcing you to note him inside so deep, clawing at your lower tummy like he can feel himself pounding into you slowly. He makes the stretch worth it, the way his fingers claw at the softness of your skin, grinding his hips slowly like the rapacious need for oxygen you two share by lips. You feel hip slip against you, his body lowering until his hips are forever stuck against yours, your own slipping back into him as the weight of him finds you much deeper than before, almost dragging you into the bed where you wish to go.
As if sharing the same breath makes you eternal to one another ,to the world, you feel him force your body to collide with him own, slipping down and to the side until both of your bodies are half on the bed and half against one another. He's spooning you as much as he'll allow himself to, enough advantage over you to feel the way your walls pulse around him, to feel how much your essence has sufficed as lube like warm water to ice picks. You drown him in something slick as he forces you to swallow him, his dick barely out of you before you feel him snuggle back inside, making sure the full length of him is enraptured by your heat.
Then, you feel his hand beneath you, wrapped in yours still as your tummy is flush against his hand. He presses down onto it, not for you to feel, but him to admire as you cave into yourself, incapable of escaping him when he follows, presses as many kisses as he can to your shoulder, your pupils long forgotten in the back of your head. You feel so full you ache empty, his hips giving you, nominally, a moment of reprieve as he quickens his pace to your pleasure, sticky with your essence and the twitch of his tip burrowing inside of you.
His touch is quickly moving against you, rapacious as his thrusts are, stalling deep inside of you only to part for less than a second asunder. You feel his touch where you need it next, instead of the persistence on where he most likely prods against your tummy, you feel his other hand snake under you to reach you beating bud, painfully sensitive when he touches it. You find yourself biting your sheets, nominally silencing a cry that bounds your thigh above, trying to discourage his ravenous resolve, stretching into you with a few sloppy attempts at concealment, like his lips biting into your shoulder, his lashes fluttering against your back with something wet slipping down his cheeks.
You do understand the concept of fate when his digits slip against your clit, the last place he's yet to touch now purified by the calloused grip of his fingers, slipping down your wetness and the wanton thrusts that your body rocks into his with, your moans mixing with the sounds he forces into you, body caving the moment he touches you like he knows you. You've, for so long, only known your sheets with your fingers that it feels like Heaven has finally descended onto you, your chest marked and thighs slicked, a buzz long since forgotten finding your eyes with a knot of your nerves. You're twisted inside out when the weight of him becomes hot, and the breath of his mixes with yours on the sheets.
You feel him where his hand is against you, the way he jerks his hips up into yours and the way you grind back into him, something intense tangling with your one-of-a-kind-prints. You feel Heaven kiss you the way he does, teeth edging into the soft skin of your shoulder until you think you cum from the blood surrounding his teeth. You think you're so soft you've surpassed a delicacy and have remained to be maimed for all eternity, even in his grasp when he digs into you and you choke out, "I'm gonna- it feels-" Your eyes search for his but they're behind you and your toes curl tightly and knees beg to touch s his slot between you to burrow something hotter inside something binding him tight. Something wet blinds you just as something hot keeps him to you, burning hot against one another until either one of you decides to finally see the world behind closed eyes.
You're at his place when you string you bra back on, his shirt just a finger's grasp away. It's been some time since the start of fall, long enough that you burn with a frost at your cheeks. You let your fingers graze your shirt, rolling your shoulders back to ignore the heat of his bite from last night. You miss it when his teeth were on you. You throat is scratchy when you admit, "I'll leave by tonight, my contract with my devil will run out soon…" You don't say what he knows. "I shouldn't burden you with it, Aki." You sniffle something somber when you ignore him, sliding your shirt back on but refusing to stand.
You feel the rustle of sheets against your thighs, the ones you share spared as he says, fingers grazing the skin of your wrist, resting idly next to his, "We should die together. I want to, I mean, die with someone." Someone, not quiet you and not quiet someone else, just someone. You think you'd be lonely even with your moms, so you relent, a smile crowing on your lips. "I'd like that…" You look behind you and spot his bed head. "Aki." You think about dying, and it isn't as lonely as living in this apartment, in the end, you'll die with someone you love, unburdened. So much so, you don't care how true to a corpse you'd become.
You don't know when you'll leave. You should've left much earlier when you were still freshly an adult, but your mother was the one to leave first, finding out it's much easier to have a child and abandon them to her debt than to raise them in whatever she can scrape up for herself. You don't blame her, if you had a child- no, if you were your own child, you'd do the same. Feed yourself to the wolves if it'd distract them. That's probably cannibalism on your part, playing as the wolf and infant without anyone to care for you.
Your eyes slip over to the bathhouse, filled with the steam of clean water for your next customer. There's supposed to be someone in there, but it's so very late in the night, and you're so very far from the active lives of others. You're still in civilization, something you cling to as your eyes dip to the bottle under the desk you lament at. It's not fancy, nothing so extravagant can you pull from these coins, however, it's still enough for a buzz. A buzz you greedily look forward to as your fingers wrap- "Hello?" The voice is shocking like a splinter from hay, pinching your nerves with an irate voice of a woman much shorter than you anticipated.
With bug eyes of a deer, you spot her in front of you, some distance given as you take only a moment more before her lip curls and you choke, "Uh- hello." You swallow something thick yet thin, slipping down your throat with your lips. "Um, may I help you with washing your flesh? We are currently bare in customers, and the steam is just down the hall."
Her eyes, red so dark they're black, slip down as much of you she can spot, her face never relaxing from her naturally irate visage, as if that is her resting face. "Yes," she supplies, eyes finding yours again, a jump to your veins catching on your joints. You straighten as much as you can, your uniform long since discarded for a thin robe of linen. You've already cleaned the area for tonight, you suppose it doesn't hurt to clean it ad nauseam when she leaves.
You stand from your stoop, making sure your knee doesn't catch on the bottle of something old, most likely moldy, that would've swayed your nerves with a nursery rhyme of mother's milk. With as much grace as numb legs allow, you make your way to the hallway, bowing lightly as you lead her, wordlessly, to the baths.
You find yourself catching on the corner, opening the sliding door before waiting for her to follow after you. You shut it without many trembles as you feel, your hair knotted up behind you from the amount of heat this sauna wafts and the lack of funds you have to wash your hair. You roll your shoulders back, reaching for a cloth and basin as well as a bar of soap to wash her with.
When you turn to her, she's rid herself of her clothes. Her bloodless skin is a vampire's shade, black hair longer than the height you hold on her, not to mention the soft curves of her body, blessed amply the places your eyes can't seem to ignore. Before she minds your stare, her neck creaking just the slightest, you look to your basin of things, slipping off your sandals as you move to her. "Would you mind if I-" You catch your tongue, looking up to her unwittingly. You don't know her name.
A breath wilts from you, mouth prickled by words before you decide, "My- Lady, I do not seem to have your name. I apologize for my rudeness, would you gift me with your title?" She takes a breath, her shoulders rising in your peripheral, but you refuse to look in fear that you'll lose her patience. Her money, you mean. "Muzan," she offers and you nod, cheeks sheepish when offering as much of a smile you can allow. Ingratiatingly, you parrot, "Lady Muzan, let me help you in the baths."
The basin of water lets the suds of soap lather against your palms. You twist against the bar before stringing the substance between your digits. Her hair is lightly doused, something you did moments prior, letting the warm water wash down her toned back, the length of her hair now partially clinging to what skin is bared. Your fingers almost tremble before grazing the roots of her scalp, waiting for her approbation from the nod of her head to the massage of her scalp.
You don't understand completely why you feel so on edge, uneasy might be a better word when you feel your heart tickle against your lungs. You take a breath, inhaling the lavender scent of the shampoo, wrapping your fingers under and over her strands until the entirety of her scalp almost squeaks from how much you've massaged. Just as you move to rinse, your fingers dip down, thumbs grazing the top of her neck, smoothing down the valley of her spine to dig into her shoulders. There's a sound- no, a noise, it can't quite be called a sound, just the shadow of one, just a mimic of humanness locked inside byzantine bones.
You pause nominally at the notion of her call, something enrapturing your attention without a word, only the notion of her body, her skin, damp, so tense under the suds of slippery soap. Unease, you circle back, swallows you like the shadow of a stranger, fingers moving with a ghost of your bones to grasp the basin of water. "I shall rinse now," you all but whisper, moving with robotic fingers to, as carefully as your nerves will allow, rinse the soft soap from her air. You try to massage her scalp again, ignoring the way you can't completely focus, attention drifting down the the way her hair pools around her shoulders, the suds slowly trickling white down her hair and blending into the lifeless skin of her . She smells of sleep now, a drowsy notion locked onto your nose when you move to brush against it, setting the basin down, rapt at the base of her neck when you move with a brush to her hair.
She's making you listless, like an infection needing bed rest, you find yourself twisting in her hold, cradling a few strands as you comb upwards starting from the bottom. It's not the herb infused soap, it's her, cloying, conniving her as she straightens her shoulders, barely having started on de-tangling her strands before blood red black blinds you, sharp eyes hammering a nail to your own. "Are you the only one employed here?"
You nod after a bated breath, unsure of your voice when your eyes unwittingly cast down the softness of her face, catching on her full lips. "My mother," you start, shifting some of her hair to her shoulder, moving onto another section. "Left sometime ago, but it was always just us; I should have another with me, yet I don't crave to split the burden, I've done this for so long it's come first nature to me."
You work faster, oddly, when your tongue flies. You're not quite sure as to why when the intimidating woman sits in front of you, fingers tentative when they bound through her hair one last time, catching her eyes as you move to gather the length. You make quick work with an updo, making sure no strand is left as you sort your supplies into the respectable habitat. Your face is beading with sweat, steamed dewy when you gather one last pour of water from the spout, lathering your hands against another bar of soap, this one not drowned in dreamy essence. You move to her back just as she asks, "So, you've been alone for sometime?"
You twitch against her skin, almost shaking like your heart on your tongue. Your nerves must be so high-strung that you can't tell up from down anymore, not like it matter when you've always known the dark of the night, working hours that can't seem to end after one day. Your breath is timid when you take it into your lungs, the honeyed soap something you want to blame for making your stick to the curves of her, dipping down the divot of her spine to the flesh of her seated hips until your rise again, moving to the soft drop of her shoulders. "Yes, Lady Muzan, I have been alone for sometime."
Your heart does something, you're not sure what, but with the scratchy whisper of desire catching on your uvula and the dip of your eyes over the flesh of her, that noise does become a sound, a groan actually. Not a whimper, not so much a moan either, a bit gravelly and destined for purgatory. You still when you realize it was you that pulled such a reaction from her. Your digits, pads soaked prune in honey twist against her shoulders. It's a massage you sometimes offer when nights like this arise, caught with your costumers as they lament their frustrations.
She has yet to talk of her needs, however, yet to graze the abyss her life must be, a mystery to some random woman like you sh must see all the time. For some reason, though, you can only hope that she's not just here for your work, because you really, really have been alone for quite sometime, men nor women able to offer you something like this uneasy night can. Your fingers test her again, tease the area with much less force you might've offered when your mind was elsewhere.
The noise is nonexistent, controlled and contorted to something of imagination, yet her body gives way to desire you've known since her body touched your eyes. Your breath catches, something you hope she doesn't hear when your knees wish to close, too close to her to offer yourself such relief. You query, fingers bordering on dislocating from the amount of nerves that collide inside you, "Would you like some help, Lady Muzan? I can offer my services."
"Offer?" Se raises a brow, returning to her over-the-shoulder gander. You blink, swallowing something thick as you regress, "My deepest apologies for offending you with my tongue. I would like to beseech someone as gracious as you to receive my services." Your fingers don't stall as they move to feel along her flesh, not quite gripping, just gliding along that her shoulders and down the first parts of her biceps. "I am as adept as my people pay, and you are handsomely paying me by being in my presence. I would like to appraise you for simply being here with me, allowing me to bathe you as you allow."
Her eyes dip down, maybe inspecting you for some infection of the mind until her eyes return, her body seemingly leaning back into your touch. "And how would… You enact your services." she suggests, the line thin long before you move to cross it, hands soaked in soap as you slip down, under her arms to the curve of her waist. You trail up the softness of her stomach to the weight of her breasts, grazing the mounds with your nails, trimmed from needing to work. The weight of her fingers your prints after a moment of looking into her eyes, the movements you've offered quiet, teetering on a desperate sort of need, until you can graze the pert of her nipples.
You find the pebbling bud slipping between your fingers, the pads of you hands whittled down to nothing, wet yet somehow still sticking to the weight of her chest, pinching the softness of her skin between your digits. You feel graced by some God near or far, maybe give a gift of the forbidden fruit that your teeth tingle near. Her chest rises in a breath, moving her chest further into your greedy grasp as her own eyes dip down to your lips. Reciprocation tastes sweet when she bites into your own lips.
Her teeth truly do find your first, almost bleeding your petals when you press into her, trying to comprehend time when you're frozen under her hold, caught before her even when she's the one you hold between you. You massage her breasts as much as you can, breathing slowly slipping between her teeth when she opens her mouth, bones caressing your bottom lip, nibbling for a taste of the tea you had beforehand, something rich in earthy notes, until her tongue slips in and you taste something you can't quite name. There's not a name for it that you can think of at least, not a noun locked in your mind when she drips thick strands of her spit into your mouth, puckering her lips to suck your tongue into her mouth.
The noises that fall from her are obscene, like she's the one who's been in control this whole time; truthful, nonetheless, your fingers slow their ministrations, now grabbing like a vessel without a brain when her fingers come to grasp at your knees surrounding her, leaning back to much your chest grazes the suds of her back. You think of how bad it is for soap to linger so long, moving your hands down with work on the mind. You trail to her waist ad nauseam, this time dipping down to her own legs. You slip down to her thighs, moving closer to her lips and offering to pucker your own lips against her own, though her tongue is never offered when she lets the obscene noise of your spit-slicked lips slide against one another.
Your fingers massage as much of the flesh as you can, down to her knees until she pulls away, leaning forward as she commands, "Rinse me, I wish to bathe now." You blink slowly, catching yourself lacking in professionalism as you move to the basin of water, not quite cold, though still tepid over the moment soap was freshly coating her skin. You let the water slip down her back, trailing over her shoulders to wash away the front of her, as much as you can before she's pulling you by the wrist, quick with her actions as you are nervous.
She doesn't speak when pulling you on much more steady legs to the bath, not even as she stands on the raise of the tiling of the ground, dipping her toe into the steaming water and pulling you along with her. She doesn't get in completely, raising a brow back at you before she demands, "Get in." You don't make room for argument, you just make room in the vastness of water, body almost jello under the steam, heating your sticky inside gooey like ice cream melting on a beach. You blink up at her, watching as she sits down slowly atop the raised tile. Her legs part next, knees barely together when they further part. The water tickles your breasts, the water waving against your skin until you're on your knees, between her parted legs awaiting the perfection tat falls between her legs.
She's just as bloodless here, pale and yet you think she's so very sticky, a sheen between her legs with the sweet scent of honey tickling your tongue. You almost droll, her fingers pinching your scalp pulling you from your thoughts. "Stick out your tongue." She's awaiting you, something that doesn't fail you when you do as she says, tilting to show her how servile you can be, eyes fluttering when looking into hers as if in offering to some ancient deity. She adjusts her grip on your hair, angling you to her liking before she hikes her leg up, dripping with water that glides onto your shoulder. It helps her pull you to her, you lips blotting around your tongue until she angles her hips, tilts them to your mouth, her hand resting behind her for comfort.
Lady Muzan raises a brow, eyes dipping to your tongue whilst her hand bows your head, moving you to lick a stripe against her warmth. She tastes like honey, not soap, honey, warm honey that sticks to your taste buds, clinging to every bit of your mouth, like you want the strings of your saliva to be replaced by her, and maybe, just maybe you want her to remember you, to know what it feels like to have you against her, to spit on her and watch as a part of you slips down into her, dipping into her entrance- "Well," she murmurs, noncommittally, "Do your job."
You blink back into focus, nodding your head with quite a nasal, abashed hum. From the taste you got, your fingers pinch your palms, desire cloying tightly on your tongue as you raise your hand. Her eyes trap you there, heel digging into your back when she growls, "Don't waste anything of me, use your mouth." You do as she enunciates, lips parting ad nauseam for a whisper of yourself to graze her, her own fingers still wound tightly in your hair, not restricting, just in omnipresence like the weight of your loneliness overriding the fog.
Your tongue tickles between her folds, sticky with licentious sounds as you taste the warmth of her. She burns onto your tongue, the tip of your muscle finding her clit quickly, leaning without her help to the nub. You taste the pulse of her, the velvet that kisses back at your own lips ensnaring you to her bundle of nerves. She grips your hair in reaction, maybe the sensation new, maybe the sensation unwarranted.
You just know addiction when you lap at her, suckling on her clit with little restriction. Like you love you job, your mouth pools wetness, trying to offer as much to the wetness of her essence, kissing against her nub, virtually suckling on her sensitive skin before you lean forward, letting the warm spit of your mouth trickle down her, suddenly chilling to the heat of her body. You blink slow like cat, an addict surrounded by the fog of destitution, only you don't feel despair in your time of addiction, cloying desire slip down the flat of your tongue, tasting down her pussy until the tip of your tongue resurfaces.
Your muscle twitches with desire like your digits with nerves bound together under the water. Your thigh squeeze, almost slipping against the material when you cast your gaze above. Your tongue moves on its own, spurred on by her beauty under the dim lights of your workplace. Soaked with your saliva, your tongue plunges into the warmth of her entrance, snug home when you curl inside her unfamiliar gummy walls. Your eyes are half lidded form desire, blinking up at her with your mouth full. You tongue curls against, tongue-fucking her walls whilst they squeeze you as you slip in and out with ease, reaching as far into her as you can, given the lithe muscle of your tongue alongside the ache of her walls. Her leg twitches, knee almost knocking into the side of your head when your tongue slips back into your mouth, not for a break, just fro a furthering taste of her.
She seems like haven, or what you assume Heaven consists of no the sunset of the sky. Her cheeks are flushed like roses freshly bloomed, eyes glossy from the steam, not to mention the trickling of water from her skin that you would slurp up if you could, lick against every inch of you. Her fingers pull you, still bound tight to your strands, like the knot tying a carrot to a stick you come to her, tongue plunging back into the gummy depths of her that sem to stick to every notion of your mind. You moan unwittingly, your nose grazing her nub of nerves when you blink, forced closer to her, deeper into her softness.
She gasps, your eyes blinking blearily to catch the reaction fallen from her lips, bruised red from her teeth like crushed petals that bleed. You swallow as much of her as you can, spit pooling from your lips like this is a dream you're falling short in, fading in and out of consciousness of. You're as present as you can b when the pain of your scalp spikes, her nails digging into your skin so she an grind just right against your nose. She slicks your ace with her essence, the smell of her painting your face sticky with her desire. Her chest wracks with breathes, heaving breathes heavy against the fog of the air, as you feel her cum before she says.
Her walls squeeze you, something breathy falling from her lips that's not quite admonishment nor appraisal. Her hips almost lift form her place above the tiles, her leg forcing you closer whilst her other lifts, water splashing you nominally so she can present herself closer to your tiring tongue You try to stretch your muscle as far as you can, spit clinging to her insides as you watch her head tilt back, hair somehow kept in the knot you've tied whilst her own knot, bound tight and fraying at the edges deep inside her, unravels like fireworks popping from the seams of paper, her mound grinding against you whilst you plunge as deep as you can inside her.
Her cum tastes of sweet earnings, plucking pollen from a bundle of bloomed roses. You pilfer as much as you can, quickly drinking until you wait patiently from each finite drip, noting the quiver of her walls before her pulls you off. Her chest heaves with the weight of satisfaction dripping from her rouged, dewy cheeks, sweat clinging to her skin along with water. She lifts her limb off of you, letting her other leg dip back down into the warmth of the water awaiting her return. Her grip loosens nominally, still caught around the strands of your hair like the bruises from a noose.
Your eyes blink with the likeness of foggy glass, face still smeared in her essence, swallowing the after taste that blossoms from the touch of her fingers nominally massaging your scalp, more so loosening the grip of her knuckles. With a contemplative breath spared for her cooling body, she reaches from behind her, wrapping both of her hands around your biceps to yank you above the water. The warmth pools from your skin, shifting to air that's still gnawing with desire boiling over flame.
She grasps your flesh like dough needing to rise, blithely with experience as she bends you over her knee, forcing some of your legs into the water. Her fingers slip of the column of your back, stretching over the softness of your body, every inch of flesh that she can pinch and pull, treating you, veritably, like a sex toy of hers. Your gaze stretches behind you, not finding her immediately whilst she's rapt with your body bent over her knee. Her other leg comes to withhold your space, forcing your legs to stay put whilst you watch. Just as she moves her hand to your lower back, her other rushes from your shoulder to your head, forcing you to look ahead without a breath of her gaze to your own.
You brows furrowed, hands clamping onto her own thigh and her hip,trying to find comfort whilst she explores you body. Maybe she is new to this, experiencing such life with a body alike her own. Just as you settle, still tightly strung with the cords of your nerves pooling from your pussy, she lands a searing stick to your bum, fingers grasping at the fat when you jerk, trying to push her hand off, yet coming up short.
She hums something condescending, a snicker lodged between her teeth while her fingers explore the heated flesh. She must be having fun with you, you extrapolate just as she slips down the flesh, her thumb spreading the flesh of your body to find the sweetness between your legs. Your breath catches, something she ignores for the time being to massage the parts near your pussy, from the junction of your thighs and bottom to the skin of your pussy.
She's not so rapt as you think intrigued, exploring bits of you from this angle, toying with you in your own job. You feel hot just thinking about it, blinded by desire wound tighten your womb for so long. Your legs twist beneath her one, fingers shaking against her skin. You plea, " Lady Muzan… Please- please touch me." She hums something deep, echoing in her chest as she lets her thumb's nail graze your wetness, a shiver ripping through you. "I am touching you, human." You brows furrow at the name, she furthers, nonetheless, "Do you not know how to beg someone above you for more?"
You swallow something sweet of her, tears almost pooling at your lash line form the heat that drip from your body, burrows into your bones. "Lady- Lady Muzan, I beg of you, please touch me! I feel as though I'll die without your fingers inside, without you making me cum. Please, Lady Muzan, I shall-" You gasp, her thumb parting your folds nominally. "I shall worship you for all eternity! I beg of you to consider my pleasure for now!" She snickers, something sharp and lingering that rocks around your mind with the heat of your body.
She speaks without words, her thumb swapping out for the knuckles of her pointer and middle. She lets the heat of your pussy drip onto her fingers, her knuckles slipping down to graze your clit, letting it twitch under her ghost of pressure, gliding firmly against it when she slips up to her origin. You rock in her hold unwittingly, toes scrapping the bottom fo the tub when you feel her knuckles stretch, the tops of her fingers dip into the syrupy heat of your pussy.
She returns to your bundle, the pinch of your throat something she notes as she pinches your clit in her hold, cooing, "Such a cute sound from such a wet whore." Your throat closes around a whine, lips parting for spit to fall as she slips down your pussy, only this time she finds your entrance to her entertainment. Her fingers are warmed from the atmosphere, not as cold as ice when they touch your wetness, though nowhere near as burning as the desire you feel when a knuckle of hers teases your sopping hole. The whimper you left unattended escapes your lips, spits past your bones. Her knuckle is replaced with her digits, two bony items that seem to tease you more than they promise.
Her two digits bloat at your entrance, thick with the water of your cavern that seems to replenish her fingers, the first knuckle of her fingers slipping into your wetness. Your thighs squeeze tight, her hand in your hair gripping your face above water, your fingers pressing into every bite of skin you can take from her. She slowly slips her fingers out of you, watching your entrance clench around nothing then returning her first knuckles to the water of you. You must taste sweet to her digits, finding the inching inside until they're barely half way inside. She doesn't pull out completely again, a bit impatient with the way your wetness clings, sticky, to her digits.
She rests there, letting her fingers stretch inside of you before she arches her knuckles out of you, plunging back inside as little as she wants. You eyes squeeze shut, a whimper almost choking you out of tears, knees knuckling into each other when she finally moves a bit deeper, though the breath of approbation that lofts from your lips sticks to her. She doesn't pull them from you as she once sadistically had, though she inches out so her knuckles aren't twisted in your stickiness, only then does she twist her grip in you, moving her fingers to thrust perfectly into you, the pads of her fingers grazing your spongy spot.
Your moan is louder, echoing and fanning the steam of this once-clean area. You're grateful, you think, for no customers this late in the hour. Lady Muzan's grip of your hair pulls your neck taught, nails dipping into the perfection of her skin with a strain to your voice. She pulls her fingers from you, the tips left inside before you feel the curve of her fingers against the warmth of your walls. You squeeze around her, pulsing with a twist to your hips.
You don't so much struggle against her grasp as you do writhe, a fish out of water whilst she scissors her fingers inside of you, fucking as deep as you can into her, the tips of her kissing kissing your G-spot, your walls embracing her digits laced in your essence. Your stomach twists with the notions of her fingers inside of you, almost pulling you against her, her leg wrapping around yours to keep you held in place, her fingers having yet to move from your strands.
The water slaps against your skin, her fingers quickening from the ragged breathes you release, slowly pouring from your lips whilst you feel the weight of her against you, stretching you out as she kisses against your spot, angling her digits against your hips to make sure every part of you is marked, marred by the length of her digits, the pleasure finding you only gifted to you by hers, because in your delirium, she is a God, someone you beg to and plea, for the gift of your pleasure. Just when weight becomes unbearable, her soft skin against you, wet with the swats from water, she teases your entrance with another fingers, her ring splitting you too much for comfort, your pussy aching the moment she enters another of herself inside of you.
You eyes find the back of your head, hands pushing against her whilst the water becomes your home, wrapping around your body and pruning every bit of skin that has yet to prune. The heat the pours from your body like rain from the sky, burns your skin, your moans far too loud to be contained by the grip of her hands in your hair. Her fingers don't stop however, only speeding up with the lube of your cum, her third fingers feeling every bound of your walls, forcing you to stretch as she scissors the mas much as you can.
You feel something deep not burn inside of you but bloom, the heat of the water now too much, mixing with your sweat and spit and most likely cum from the ache that seems to not stop when she touches you, her fingers almost mapping out the entirety of your warmth until you feel yourself com undone. Like the stick of your tongue to an icicle left outside, you find yourself shaking, something thick welts of teas pouring from your eyes as your second moan is ripped from you, skin stung by the wet tears of your pussy, squirting over her from the angle she hits.
Shaking and moaning, you pat against her hip, strength lost in the time you've spent over her thigh. She gets the message, slowing her ministrations until her fingers, pruned with your essence, grasp against your equally wet skin. She pulls you like she had before in the water, forcing you to kiss her, your lips incapable of keeping up with her, forcing her to move down your skin, kissing every bit of your shaking frame under her taste. You wonder what loneliness felt like, your thighs shaking as she parts from your neck. Your eyes, lingering on the station of your work, roam over ever bit of this place and you, oddly, feel more lonely than you had in the beginning. Unfortunately, you've already missed your chance to leave, you realize, when she scrapes your nape with her nails and you lose yourself in her eyes, so red you think you're bleeding out into them.
a/n; I was v sleep deprived when I wrote this... In other words, I finished (I think) black butler, and homos, this might be cliche, but grell n sebastain HELLO SAILOR
Your shoes dig into your heels with every stretch of our leg. Arlecchino, your wife, invited you to her dinner party, or a lack there of. It's died down substantially since you partitioned the sea of her investors or colleagues or whatever she insists these people are to her. You only came for the food, she knew even before offering you the choice of jaunting with her. She knows because you were eating dinner with her when she offered the slice of her meeting and cake.
As insidious as your wife handles her ethos with you, you'll burgeon inside your lungs, because you're here and there're ample samples Arlecchino has left you with in her office. From sweet tarts to biting crackers with cheese, you're satiated from snacks, and best of all, alone. peaking of your lone time, your eyes cast over the door as you sip from the glass of water she poured from you, her pitcher left on a cart with other amenities. Your wife has been gone for around twenty minutes, and since you're a slow and deliberate eater, your wife should be back so you an force feed her the food she's gifted you, only for her to tug your ear, lips ghosting right beside it as she laps up the words of her wisdom, something that'd have you crashing into her lips, forcing her to taste how tart the cherries are or how sticky the honey is that clings to the bones of your mouth.
Of course, you're hungry for something else now, and since she hasn't delivered dinner to you as she has every night, your eyes slip behind your lids, moving to wipe your fingers on the napkin, piling some of your foods to toss into her trashcan before you collect the other offerings she's made to you, when her fingers massaged your bare shoulders, slipping the red shawl she gifted you onto the back of her chair. The red of the tarts must've affected you, tainted your tongue in debauchery when you licked up to the roof of your mouth, gulped down water that dug the red deeper to your muscle. Rolling your shoulders back, you push up, making sure her desk is cleared before you make your way to the door.
It's telepathy, the few years your wife and you have spent together redounding as the door knob twists and you catch sight of her suit jacket, the sleeve marked by a red cuff link. "Arle," you call, frivolous in your heels before the door opens wider and your grin slips to that of a deer's shock. Like a familiar name catches on your face, your eyes blink up at the white haired man, some blue of his strands catching your eyes alongside his violet irises catching yours, your sore feet stumbling to a halt. Arlecchino smiles in response to your call of her name, so informal in front of her coworker. "Honey," she purrs, locking the door behind her and holding your eyes all the while. "This is Sir matrimonial , my friend."
Your lips fumble for only a moment, your eyes slipping from your wife composed countenance before you smile Neuvillette. "Sir Neuvillete," You start, offering your hand as the other rests behind your back, "A pleasure to meet you." His long nails graze the softness of your palms, caught up all day in the house or bathing in the bathtub for many hours until your wife returns home for a home cooked meal. "Likewise…" His voice is calm, you think you understand velvety as an adjective comparative to your wife's crowing voice, something so cloying yet ascetic. His eyes dip down to your lips, furthering, "I can tell you've enjoyed the appetizers."
Your fingers part with his, rather rudely, you know, but they pick at your sentiment, maybe the smudge of lipstick that might be there. Feigning a sheep, your eyes drop to the linoleum flooring. "I was a bit peckish, sir." Your eyes trickle to Arlecchino's form, near you as you surreptitiously slip over to her. You really need to touch her, to voice your hunger of another. Damn those tarts.
"You can call me by my name." You bow your head in agreement, wiping your fingers on your own before they twist to grasp Arlecchino's arm as you always do, pulling her into you without her even budging. Your sadistic wife, as always, doesn't let your grasp settle before it's slipping behind you, fingers nimble as they dig into the notches of your spine. "You're slouching," she advises, "Correct yourself." Looking into the red of her eyes, you nod nominally, her fingers slowly slipping down the length of your back, curving to that of your behind as you loose yourself in your eyes, letting them droop to the floor until your arms wrap around her mid section. She doesn't seem all that amused, given your back has to curve a little to slip against her. Her hand corrects you ad nauseam. Of course you revert to keep the action in play.
"Sp, you work with my wife," you offer, your head resting against the juncture of your wife's shoulder. He hums with a nod. "Does that mean you're in competition with one another?" Her touch grips at you, pinching with the whole of her hand your hip. You don't slouch as much when he responds, "We've come to an agreement of sorts." You straighten a bit more at that, Arlecchino's digits twisting in the tight satin skin of you dress, nominally clinging to your bare thighs. "An agreement? For what not stealing her clients to kill, or…?" "Do you not want to know the incentive that keeps us an amiable pair?" Your brow arches, almost distancing from your wife as your curiosity broadens.
You're still… peckish, of course, but your wife is oh-so private, just as you are with the whines from your lips or the way you heat up too easily to be considered normal. More like a dog salivating for fodder. "You only needed one incentive?" A misplaced scoff slips, breathy, past your lips, enraptured by that of your wife's coworker. "You can finagle my wife if you need more." His eyes slip over to the aforementioned woman you're married to, but before he can comment, she grips your hips against her front, making your stumble as she purrs, "You should think before you speak lest you mistake familiarity for respect." You swallow something airy down your throat, patting one of her hands with your own as you straighten up, something you know will earn you silent praise as you voice, "I would still like to know the… one incentive, Neuvillette, if you please will."
His eyes stay with yours for a moment, and as they flicker between yours, you reminisce on the offer your wife gave you, how she said you'd be full all night with how much they had to offer. Oh, now that you think about it, she is that insidious in her speech. His eyes must've gone to your wife, somewhat of permission over you as he steps closer. You're still closer to our wife, but since you pushed back there was a modicum of space gifted to you, something you find dispersing like oxygen deprived as your back hits her chest. Her fingers fidget with your hips again, and just as your fantasy foretold, she finds your ear, ever so close to nibbling it like you, your tarts. "Close your eyes, sweetie," she hums, and as you look up to the tall man before you, you think your posture was the least of your worries.
Your lashes flutter, lids molasses when they slip closed, your fingers slipping into your wife's against the flesh of your dress. You think the darkness only greets you for a moment until you feel his breath against yours, light and tentative, not like he's as in the dark as you, but more so drowning in disbelief. His fingers are what shocked you next for some reason, nails like a vampire's as they graze your cheeks, slotting your ears between them. He must feel how warm you are, soon to know how fast your heart is beating through your tongue. The air tightens to a noose, angling your face to his liking until you know only a moment of claustrophobia, then you feel his lips, so soft and plump, grasp at yours, slicked with lip stick and marred with sweets that must heighten your senses when you don't know how to lean back or forward or even stay in one place when, for the first time, someone besides your wife kisses you with devotion.
He treats you like a tart, his lips exploring yours surreptitiously, not knowing if the filling will spill out onto his taste buds. He wants it to, you can tell when his lips capsize your own, grasping at the flesh of you until you part like the crust of that sweet. You lean up into him, still holding onto your wife's fingers, how bony they are and long, focusing on his lips like your wife doesn't yours. Where he explores you, your wife already owns, she owns every part of you, every moment away she knows of you, she must've known, long before you called her name how you'd crave, hot and burning with desires of being under the table of being fucked like you're nothing but hers to own and offer. If she were to offer you to the Gods, you think you'd thank her, this man acting as one, using his thumb to drag down your bottom lip, his tongue tied between his teeth until his fangs part for it, tapping against the tip of your own, dormant.
He expands his reach, lifting up your tongue, swirling around the muscle in your own, slicked with tart honey and letting his teeth graze it As a God would, he pulls you into him, refusing to let you go when passing his warmth onto you, letting you taste how wine is made until his teeth stain a ruddy color, that only blood could cultivate. He tries his hand at biting off your oxygen, his tongue slowly unraveling to the depths of yours, tickling your throat when he goes for your spit, gulping down as much as he can until he only finds your fingers piercing his own suit jacket.
Your wife grasps your hair at that, pulling you back fr a spit up of oxygen to find your eyes diluted in the purity of lecherousness. "Is that it," you cough up, removing your head from her grasp so you can blink through your lashes at the man. The tarts, you blame ad nauseam, must have something in them to hypnotize you into behaving so depraved. He seems entertained as you are, full with something you've only known in the bedroom. "You can handle more," your wife croons, grasping your cheeks with one of her hands, tilting your head back to look at the spit on your lips, how hot your cheeks must feel under her touch. Your hand reaches for her wrist, restrained by the man with the long nails- Neuvillette, your remind yourself, Neuvillette with the very long tongue. His teeth graze your pulse point, needy in only the way a vampire could be.
You can't linger in the comparison for long, your wife already pulling at your panties, her touch frighteningly cold compared to the heat that swarms under your skin like bees o their hive. It's where it belongs, close to your core where you can cry and anyone would gratefully like up the tears. Your dress clings to the mess you've accrued between them, finding yourself floundering like a fish in or out of water, escaping the predatorily cold air of Arlecchino's office. Your skin sings nothing of praise when her fingers grasp at your thigh, pulling you against her in an arch. "Arle," you blubber, her fingers massaging into your cheeks one last time before they let go, rattling your head a little as your eyes rest in a blink, once, twice.
Everything is so hazy in this cold room, how you're nestled between two warm- warmer bodies that tussle with your senses, how you wife lets this man treat you like the tarts you've abused. You think this is what they call divine retribution, something so divine only a man can give you on his knees- Where you find Neuvillette, his jacket strewn somewhere around as his muscles find the tight white of his formal shirt a strain to his well being, may be the reason for the heat to his cheeks, pinking his face pretty, keeping his desires constrained as he moves up under you.
Your legs start to shudder, unsteady on the heels you choose. Arlecchino and he note this, his fingers quick to tug your caving knees apart, his veins sprouting on the hand that clamps over your bone behind flesh, forcing you to let it rest on one of his broad shoulders. Arlecchino, in tandem, grasps tighter at your waist, pulling you higher up onto her chest. It's better for Neuvillette, you know, not hunching to reach your coveted core, caught under the fabric of satin. Arlecchino must also prefer keeping you in check this way, forcing you to correct yourself with only her help, refusing to let you slouch under her hold. You struggle, of course ,with the notion of being held this way, unable to completely tame the want for different, to ride Neuvillette yourself or to hold onto Arlecchino's hands and not just push on her forearms wrapped tightly around your waist. Your fingers bunch into her jacket's sleeves, on your toes from the one sliver of self-reliance you're afforded.
Neuvillette has taken his time, letting his fingers bunch up your dress's fabric before he even gets a gander of your gates of heaven. He's methodical, that might be the word, even in his desire for you, for the prize that he's accrued, he digests your thighs, feels along the flesh of them, massages the ankle that holds you up and grinds his thumbs into any knot he finds along the knee that rests on his wide shoulders. It's derogatory like a vampire who plays mouse, as if he's pretending to not know you, as if he's pretending you don't have desires of your own. You ache with the shallow thread of pride you've held onto, your hips unwittingly grinding down when the air finds you in a more precise stream of desire.
His eyes find you then, in the desire that pinches your veins and laps up your blood. You feel worse than you did a second ago, the burn of a blue spotlight glaring daggers into your eyes, you let them flutter, digging back into your wife like she will save you. She reciprocates nonetheless, pulling you taught- more so than you already are- against her firm body, angling you just right so his gaze has no choice but to wander to where you're dripping from. You wonder what taste you're most like, what tart has found it's way to your pearl from the amount you've eaten to sweeten the deal of this night. He takes one moment more at the gates of your legs, not to tease, not to prolong the night of prepping you for whatever lies between his thighs, only to savor as your wife does.
He's like her in this moment, form the white hair to the gentle grip going rigid with rapacity never concealed for long. It's you, you know it is, what you eat to what you wear to how you act, you know, yourself, you taste like a tart, the sweet nectar that can captivate like an aphrodisiac. Nonetheless, it doesn't make the overstimulation of gazes any less easy to handle; you can feel your wife watching him, watching our mound concealed b the fabric of your dress, something she must be maddened by, like that hatter character, you wait as he nudges his face as close as he can, then she steal his grip of your dress. You teeter in their hold, shared only by lust when your pussy comes into view, something as sinful as desire that inoculates the room, just your part hopefully, the nook they've sandwiched you in, right before the door.
For a moment, one singular moment you let your gaze pick apart the blinds of her abounding office, they're closed, you're locked in even, you're here between two people with a dead party cricketing outside. Yet what you don't recall being is quiet yourself when a lap of your clit makes you shudder, unable to bow forward when Arlecchino forces you taller, virtually lifting you off of your remaining heel. Your eyes find him, drenching with chary trepidation when he parts nominally, taking barely a breath to admire what he's done. His fingers move, from the hand he now has free, his thumb slips against your bud, pushing down on the sensitive bundle before pulling back, pushing up against it and ignoring the want of your canting hips.
Neuvillette lets his thumb slip to the side, swirling around the nectar of your heat, wide circles somehow flicking your clit just right to have your stomach clench, knees wishing to cave between their hold. Neuvillette pays no heed to your desires, only to his, exploring on the forefront of his mind when he dips down to your heaven's height, moving his lips to part from a pucker, splitting his wet mouth with strings of spit before his tongue comes slippery, teasing your folds. A whine forgotten to the quiet pull of the room finds its way right into Arlecchino's arms, your face nudging towards them as if to beckon her help.
As always, the one chance she was helping, was helping him to reach this part of you, his tongue never daring to penetrate deeper than the slick, parting your essence to steal from you, never grazing so much as the flesh laid bare. She does, however, offer you moral support, close enough to your ear that you can hear her deep sigh, the way she digs her arms into your ribcage, forcing you as close to her as possible. Oxygen seems a farce when she breathes on the shell of your cartilage, murmuring, "Give him some more pretty sounds, I know I always give you what you want when manners are involved." When the last few syllables slip from her tongue, you feel his own slip up your folds, never parting them only toying, until he supplants his thumb, something pristine and cold with something slick and warm.
You moan, an echo that captivates him to look into your soul. He's so pretty, your pussy bared for your wife and you to note form above, his cheeks dusted like powdered sugar bloodied, blotched even up to his ear as his tongue, pinker, longer, stretches to curve against your clit, something that makes your lips prattle as you've never known a stranger to give you, "Pretty- pretty please, Neuvillette, make me cum with your tongue." You'd scold yourself, under a saner mind, your wife was a stranger once, and she's made you cum in her field of work more times than when you were just her estranged neighbor.
His lips curve give what to a somewhat altruistic visage, masked overtly by the cloud of pride he feels from your begging. Arlecchino has always been firm on you when it comes to manners, how you can't be meek when complimenting someone, more less when offering gratitude. His tongue flattens against your clit, quick to grind down just right, the angle making you slip back and forth on his textured tongue, the taste of you ingrained onto his tongue, twisting with his saliva as his tongue, the tip of it, slithers down the canal of your heat. You feel nothing but your nerves spike, but the want to stop Arlecchino from being so strong, from stopping her from holding you so, from being so close and bunching your skirt up higher- you call her name, no you call a moan of her when her shoulder is your head's resting point.
She looks down at you, notes your countenance and however tired you may feel, however unnerved because this is new and yet, you ate the tarts, you agreed to something tonight. Arlecchino smiles, hums something that rumbles against your back, soothing as something far less soothing enters you- plugs you up far too quickly for your own good. Your wish to surge upward, yet your hips grind down as you do, humping back and forth into your wife and her friend, her coworker you were bet on. Your last standing leg really does give out to some degree, almost flopping there as you feel the way he fucks into you with the length of his tongue, how it doesn't feel nearly as slimy as your essence naturally is, as sticky and addicting the insides of you are, instead, you feel the thickness of him ebb and flow, from springing himself deep inside of you to curling, massaging along your gummy walls os slick with need. Your stomach twists, thigh twitching against his head, something he maneuvers lithely.
He dips down to cup you bum, letting his nose nudge your heat as he slurps of what you drip into his mouth, awaiting something far more sinful as you whine, bordering on tears from his ministrations. Your wife returns you to the air, however, your eyes noting the darkness of your lids in tandem with the pristine walls of her office before you feel worse- something hot coiling around your bundle of nerves. It's familiar, not just the heat but your wife's fingers rubbing your clit gently, soft and serene as you crash into his face, your hips unable to stop canting, twitching because you're between two people who have more control over you than the vibrator you surreptitiously use. Your wife purrs against you, her words thick with something you need as she taps your velvet skin, "You're so sweet down there, no wonder Neuvillette can't come up for air."
You groan, his breath falling ragged against you, split with the way your wife increases the pressure on your clit, swirling it around like a toy she finds amusing, her fingers just a bit faster- just a bit faster, just a bit faster- "You have to cum really hard for him- for us if you want more." Your hips twitch, something so intimate twisting into the height of a cliff, tripping over your lungs as you start to shake. You whine, the words caught in the webs of your saliva, the deluging of your spit until you look down, struggling to keep your head up as you see Neuvillette's piercing gaze again, dulled out and almost serene, content underneath you, tasting you, holding you, letting your wife offer you to him like he is some God and you are-
You feel it then, your throat crunching words as you heave, blubbering, "I'm gonna- I'm- I feel-" Goading you, your wife hums something sweet like a bird's lulling coo as your walls squeeze his tongue too tight- you think too much before you know the sound of crashing waves and the light that burns you ragged, eyes rolling back for listless sighs parroting from your ribcage. He doesn't let you up as he drinks from you, letting the hot nectar trickle between his lips, you wife the only one to heed your twitching, kissing you cheek with a murmur of patience, her ministrations slowly coming to a halt when Neuvillette hums a moan laced with approbation.
He licks his lips, something you wish the image stains you while your eyes stop overheating from his gaze. "You're divine," he mutters, kissing the side of your thigh before he shifts it off his shoulder, moving your feet to the floor. He holds onto you ankles while Arlecchino lets her hands trail to the sides of you, letting the curve of your body make her find your hips, she crows something sinister, "Walk to the couch, pretty." You want to be carried, but your desire is crowded, not by wanting to please, but to prove you aren't easily humbled by some menial ministrations. Your spit slips down your tongue and you do as you're told, legs shifting against the floor before you catch yourself on Neuvillette's shoulder, still bent down in wait of you. There's a guffaw so deep behind you, your gaze sharp as she beckons you from behind. "Rude," you exclaim, only to find your hand shifted from her friend's shoulder, to his own soft palm, much bigger than yours, pallid and bony. "Shall I help you?" They're both entertained, and with a backbone so scarce, you jut your chin away, taking his hand and not waiting for him to be ready, grip a bit shaky as you move to the couch.
He sits down first, Arlecchino right before you when you turn around, his hands on your hips without a moment of countenance. She comes to replace him, holding your face so your attention is solely on her. She pinches your cheeks, squishes them and pulls and them, admiring how you look from just a moment of pleasure. She's probably holding back on some more obscene teases because, just as she prefers you home and docile, you know since Neuvillette has yet to venture to her comfort, she won't recollect the morning dew or nightly frost; he doesn't get what she's earned, cherishes. Her grip moves to your hair, pulling it taught, making it stick with your attitude. You're usually good, spoiled rotten at home that you won't note when she rips off your moldered limbs, but here, you're not supposed to be so overtly displeased with her actions when they're the ones gifting you such serenity.
"Arle-" "Take off your heels." Your hand grasps her wrist, moving to hold her hip with the other when you kick them off, letting the velvet scrape against your ankles, the flesh tickled by the bottom of tonight's wear. When you're shorter, she's satisfied, moving her hands to grasp at your forearms, forcing the juncture of your elbows underneath her thumbs. She forces you to wobble back, not tripping on the heels you swore you kicked off right behind you. You only realize Neuvillette is the one you're finding when she's not the only one to force your knees to bend. His hands so big, delve into the flesh of you, slipping under your dress to push against the fat of your behind, making sure he can maneuver you onto his length. "Arle-" You're breathless and she's the one to crow, ad nauseam, "Shouldn't you be calling his name, given it's his girth you'll slip onto."
You want it, you do, but the way she speaks, the way your eyes, wide and deer-locked, can't spot that of which you'll find behind you, that you couldn't see, forgot to listen for, and you regret it deeply, not asking her, not only this night, but that of which before when you made the bargain. His thing finds you right as your fears patter onto your tongue, taste buds sweating when the bloated, mushroom tip, already wet, grinds against your wetness. You weren't prepped enough, you reason with yourself, trying to find something ,anything to explain why you need another night, why you should be fucked when you're overstimulated, not this hyper-aware- You take a gander behind your shoulder, the curtain of your hair parting for a moment to see him. "Neuvillette…" Your murmur is noted, his eyes not meeting yours for more than a second as he guides your straining hips above his. "Breathe deeper, love, and it'll feel much, much better."
Your thighs shake unwittingly, maybe you shouldn't've cum before when this is your reaction to a phantom of a length, something so big having to come into your inexperience. Your nails dig into her forearms, looking up at your wife with as much trepidation as you can surmise. Except she's the one pushing you back onto her friend's member so your eyes widen, a silent hitch in your breath caught in your throat when the bulbous girth pierces the wetness of your sweetness. Behind you, you hear Neuvillette curse something French under his breath, forgotten only to the sound when his fingers dig into your flesh, pulling you back unwittingly when your squeeze down on his height. You breathe, choking your throat when you feel your wife rub something soft onto your forearms, eyes heavy-lidded when you hear her ask, "Ready for all of it?" Your tummy clenches, shoulders hunching, trying to lean away from the stretch you know you'll have to take when she leans down to your height, a kiss to your forehead, a net choking a fish out of water when she offers another to your nose and to the whine that loosens in your throat right as she pecks your lips sticky.
You might've moaned her name before you feel his grip forcing you back, all the way down onto him even as your feet tip onto your toes, tip so much you slip without his help, pushing back into his dick. It's in your memory then, what it's like to feel something prodding at you deeply, to feel something twitch and refuse to not nudge deeper- deeper into something he shouldn't prod into because fuck he's not wearing a condom and you feel the sticky wetness clinging to your spongy spot too deep inside, only where your wife's toys, her tongue, her fingers -far too many- have been inside, have split open and carved her initials into.
You lean forward, hips still stapled onto his lap whilst your wife looses one of her hands on you, the shaking limb moving to Neuvillette's thigh, his grip permanently stuck onto your skin as if lust were your glue. You think you understand why they're friends. Your knees dig into one another, thighs clamped shut when another moment is taken from you, hair found, again, by your wife's claws, pulling you from the floor you can barely recognize, barely feel holding you up when Neuvillette has to be prodding your tummy, the flesh of you stretched too much- too much, too much, too much- There's a replica, you think, that she has attached to your hips, or maybe not, maybe it's not his bulbous tip- a mushroom is what you're reminded of, nowhere near as dirty, and instead blued to a sparkly night sky. Your digits claw into what you're allowed to hold, pushing back and regretting it, then trying to bow down when her grip tugs you forward. "Open, baby." You wish to say no, but when your tongue presses onto your pallette, she steals your lips, prodding them with the tip too big to not partition your jaw.
She knows you, you remind yourself, she knows you and what you feel when you breath, when you wish to call out her name from stimulation, when your mind reaches for a reason as to why this is too much as to why the way he's resting inside of you is far- is too- is- Your tongue presses against the head of the dildo; she lets you take half that's already stretching to your throat, the drip of your saliva quickly following the girth of the mold. You can't even speak when she nominally pulls back, letting your lips suction the length, inexperienced before she slips back in, humming her approbation before her gaze trails over your form. She massages your head a little, letting her grip loosen as she finds her friend's eyes.
"Do you know what the upcoming meeting is about?" You struggle over the dildo, Neuvillette seeming to fade out of his constitution to your pussy when he looks up, addressing your wife in favor of business. "I thought it was about the new hire." She shakes her head. "That's next month, I think it might be about the drop in sales, they might let some of the older clients go." He hums, adjusting to the point your knees hurt, craving to scream around the dildo Arlecchino must want to block your throat for eternity. "Shh," she coos, slipping her hand up to your own, grabbing at your knuckles to the point your digits fan out shaking your hands with hers, stapling you forward. "We had no time out there to discuss; you're being so needy." You wish to whine but are blocked by her eyes reverting to your spine. "Correct her, will you?" You garble out a plea lost in the translation of her stiff member of his, his thumbs piercing, with his sharp nails, your waist, refusing to let you run when your bones maneuver under his instructions.
Your pelvis tilts perfectly for him, his girth suddenly piercing your spongy spot; your fingers failing to leave your wife as you flail, hr grip over powering yours as your nails, freshly manicured, dig abysmally into Neuvillette's clothed thigh, scraping up the expanse as he stretches you, your bones and walls alike. He pays no true heed to the pain your nails inflict, instead, his thumbs massage the skin of your back, gliding up your smooth skin when he moves himself, molding his body against yours, bent forward with his hips slipping forward seamlessly, your pussy clenching and your knees bouncing when you feel the thick of his lips kiss against you, slicked with his own spit and your clit. You garble against your wife's dick again, her voice gravely as she hums, hand moving to cup the side of your face, ignoring the spread of your lips,far too inexperienced in this notion of sex.
Your mind, dazed, goes back to when her grip on your cheek would mean something more serene, maybe you'd cum again when she was under the sheets, maybe she'd like you on your side instead so she could slip a vibe inside of you when she wet to work, maybe she'd feed you some water before you went for another round. Now, her hand on your cheek slides against your taught jaw, incapable of moving before she slips a finger inside, stretching your mouth wider with her comment, "You remember how to suck, right? Keep going."
You feel like crying, tears hot on your lash line when you shut them, brows crinkling to focus on not gagging, slipping up and down with as little movement as you can. Her eyes stay on you for what feels like forever, never parting until she finds your unattended arm taken up. The fingers once failing at an attempt to rip Neuvillette's pant leg apart, now scrape against the tailored piece, lifting to the air for his hand to pull you back. You gag on the piece for a moment before Neuvillette's hips grind your attention elsewhere. You forget the piece is in your mouth, spitting up on his mold when you're jerked forward, then pulled back. He seems content, only for a moment with the pace before he jerks his head and the mold is pulled from your lips. Your wife's finger still rests in your mouth, only a cough leaving you before she crouches down, adding two more fingers to flatten your tongue.
She stretches it to the back of your throat, using her thumb on your jaw to lose your lips around her, an eyebrow raising enough for your lips to pucker around her digits and tongue to slip against them, wetness pooling under your tongue just in time for Neuvillette to dig his hand onto your side. He forces you just as your wife, your lips, to follow his will when your legs, very shaky, take as much of your weight as you can when bouncing on him. It's barely a thrust, but he leaves you just enough to crave normalcy with your wife, when she wasn't so big and didn't force herself up to your belly button. He can't control his girth, unfortunately , let alone his length when he pulls you back, your relaxation only lasting a moment when he re-enters too deep into you. The pleasure is numbing, your eyes rolling back to your skull. He repeats the notion, your legs taking as much as you can until you fall back unto him, your mind as hazy as the smoke from cigarettes.
You try speaking against your wife's fingers, his stretch stealing your throat when he winds you limb against your back, pressing you forward into her fingers, the tip of her middle reaching your uvula, your entrance clenching sinfully onto his girth. "I think I'm gonna cum." Your wife, at the words' entertainment, looks back to him, her thumb gliding over your knuckle. "That fast?" He must give her a look like you've been assuming, a sigh of content leaving her lips when she looks back at you, cooing, "You're almost done baby, a few more minutes, yeah?" Her hand leads yours to her shoulder, and you wish to pull her to her when you wind her jacket's shoulder in your grip, she pays no heed when her fingers slip down to your waist, the others slicked with your spit, pulling away from your aching jaw like the heating of a car in winter.
Your lips swallow a greedy gasp, leaning as much as you can into her, ignoring the breathy snicker she slips onto your ear. Those fingers still so very wet, graze your dress until they meet your pussy, your clit almost jumping from the slight chill of your spit to air, her fingers forever deft at swirling your lit just right as she's always done for you. Tight circles pull at your bundle of nerves as Neuvillette parts his grip from your waist, quickly dropping to your hip, pushing with rivaling intensity to lift your hips higher. A cry wafts from your lungs when your wife helps him push you back, speeding up the thrusts of his will.
You knees wobble still, thighs straining to keep up when they both never let you go, your wife tugging you closer whilst simultaneously forcing you back down his length, knowing full well you can't be trained to take such a monstrous girth this late into the night when your head is so fuzzy and the warmth that spreads through you ebbs because he's too big to just be swallowed by your slick. Your wife's fingers speed at the notion of your need, your mind running at the end of a marathon when you find his tip is leaking, spilling with your essence onto what's left of his pants at the couch in your wife's office, your wife's couch marred by you and him, his prize.
Your lips part, panting her name before drool slips onto her shoulders. She moves to kiss your head when she murmurs, "He's so close, baby, so very close, squeeze a bit tighter, okay? Lean on me too." You have no choice, pulled onto her when his hips pick up, chasing your slick as the obscene sounds leave the nook spared between your bodies. Your toes twist against the ground, scraping at your wife's back when the warmth slowly rises, walls squelching when biting down on him, just in time for his member to seemingly grow, grope deeper inside, hands clamping onto as much skin as he can take, your wrist prickled by nails when you come undone, feeling the white of him pour into as much of you as you can. Your teeth wrap around your wife's shoulder hugging her as much as you can when you feel the odd sensation of being imbued by someone so big, your wife's fingers pulling a wet orgasm from you, sparks burning your thighs as closed as they can be with them so close.
Arlecchino is the first to slow down, moving her hands to your arms and pulling you towards her, as Neuvillette twitches inside of you, softening nominally before his cum finds residence on your skin, your wife holding you as she stands, moving to the couch with your legs coming to bend on her thigh, still tightly wound around her. When your breathing calms substantively and you can move without too much of a wobble of the cum inside of you, you feel another's hands on your back. You blink, resting a hand on your wife's chest before moving to address the other in the room. He's tucked himself back inside, however there is still a spot on his pants, dripping down onto your wife's couch. Your ears will burn off after tonight, you swear.
"You okay?" A haughty breath catches on your tongue, leaning into his touch as much as you can before you roll your shoulders back. You shouldn't look that disheveled, maybe glossy eyes or a marked body, but not until your voice cracks do you realize how you must seem to them, "I…. I only agreed to this because- ahem- because Arle would get her s-sales rightfully so… So of course I'm fine!" "Of course," he parrots with your name barely whispered. Your brows furrow, but your wife draws you back with a pet to your head. "No need to get snippy." She pulls on your shoulders to straighten your back. "Or I'll make you cum until you can't remember your name- out there, of course." Your eyes dart to the blinds that keep you pristine in here. You smile at your wife. "I just crave more tarts, is all." She wipes the drool you didn't know was seeping out of your lips. "Tarts," she murmurs, "So, so spoiled, my slutty wife."
a/n; i know nothing abt giving head but i know abt being given head RAHHHH also, I have no idea of genshin.
Your fingers are cold from the cup of ice cream, walking over with your fingers shrouding the petite pink mug. Chrollo’s contemplating like usual, but ever the great girlfriend, or whatever you are to each other that can be comprehended in the language you both share, you are giving him ice cream to help with the building of thoughts weighing on him, ever since he left that building with his friends. Well, not friends, members; Chrollo would never allow you to call him more than members in a cult, more than members in an amalgamation of bandits, the spider can be kind, the spider can be congenial, but Chrollo will never accept the weakness in that defeat. In that love.
Your brows furrow when you don’t find him on the couch, moving your gaze to the apartment’s balcony. It’s someone’s balcony, has always been someone’s, but now it’s yours; you share it for the glory of healing, inhaling a breath as you move to the screen door, letting it suction open before sucking close. He makes a hum of your presence, letting his gaze find you as you near him, toddling up to him with a smile of what you found in the freezer. “You moved,” you mumble as he parts his arm to you, letting him position you with a hand on your hip, to face him, back secure on the balcony’s glass whilst you look at scooping some sweet on the spoon. “It was too stuffy inside.” He lets his eyes dig down to your spoon as he takes it between his lips, licking it clean as he finds your eyes again.
“Good?” He hums in return, licking his lips. You focus on them as you take your own spoonful, savoring the share in your action as you nod in approbation. “Not even a day old,” you sigh wistfully, and he leans in, barricading you with his hands on the glass paling. You look up to him again with another spoonful. He takes it, you twist it in the cream another time before raising it to your lips. “Thinking of swimming?” He motions to your two piece, something that’s cotton, not meant for swimming but looks enough like swim wear to lounge in, with no surf guard, it’d be perfect to dunk in even if the grey clung to your skin, darkening the outline of flesh. You hum around the cleaned spoon. “It was stuffy inside,” you parrot, “My clothes can’t handle all of me 25/8, Chrollo.” With another load of food on the spoon, you lick at it in mischief, toying with the spoon until you garner his reaction.
He lets his hand, the same one as before, find your back again, your hand leaving the spoon for his shoulder, found bare and pertinent for your fingers to dig into the muscle. He leans down close to you ear, his strands tikling your cheek as you smile from the action, an incredulous scoff choking out of you after he promises, “I could swim in you for hours.” Your tongue laps at your teeth, the spoon back in the mug that’s dying in this heat as he takes it from you. It rests on the table near, his hand never once leaving your barely cladded skin as he peeks at your gaze once again. Given the chance, you let your chilled hand rest against his neck, inoculating into his hair as you smile from his gulp of air. “Swim in me for hours…” You ponder, not completely incredulous knowing him, but with his free time, his lack of Nen giving him this much free time, you fear hours would be such a degradation to his rue devotion. Massaging at the taught muscle of his shoulder, you lean into his ear with a whisper of a kiss, ”I think I’m appropriately dressed then.”
You pull away slowly, barely letting your lashes flutter as you meet his gaze, noses grazing one another like prints to sediment. His hand pulls you into him from your back, fingers dipping onto the band of your panties as you smile, and he kisses you, truly lets his lips taste the heaven that you’ve grown accustomed. He’s sweet, his tongue chilled in the vanilla of the cream as you let it slip against your own, your hands refusing to let go of his upper body as you let him push you closer, let yourself feel wanted by him in all the ways you’ve known him to want you. Your lips against his, his tongue sliding against your own in dedication, dipping you against the paling keeping you away from the ground, the views below as you moan, glide your hands against him and dig your face into him. He’s cheeky when he slips away, nibbling on your lobe before kissing down the side of your neck, wet and yet not chill like the ice cream, warmed from your touch as he moves to his knees of the patio.
He barely trails his lips down your frame so much as he inhales the scent of you in the sun of this world, the gaze flickering in the orange glow of the star. He rests his head against your hip, fingers now twirling the spread on your hips down slowly past the flesh of you, letting it find the floor for you to kick out of the way, humming in humor as your hand comes to his head. You find his gaze, eyes dark in desired devotion, necessary devotion to your form as his hand picks up your thigh, moving it to his shoulder. He other stays on your knee, massaging the bone covered in the flesh of you.
Your fingers keep the hair out of his eyes, loose and languid in this moment the sun shares with you, the air not polluted like it is in Meteor City. You aren’t there; you left and with that, everyone before you, everything you could’ve saved because you chose the devotion of him, not of others. Swallowing your tongue with a nibble of your front teeth, you let his finger part the flesh of you, near your cheek below and the flesh not wet besides, digging his thumb against you in grazes of the dry flesh. Your brows furrow, leg flexing when he finally kisses down you, the hair of you before finally greeting the soft velvet that resides below, neglected and curated to his tongue, how it picks up the cover of you, moving to flick the bud in such a slow stripe that you’re forced to groan in ascetic pleasure. He smiles; you ignore it for the shutting of your eyes, gripping of his air until he lets his lips lave against you, make out with the velvet as he lets his thumb circle your thigh.
He bathes in you, nose nudging against your hair as you move your hips against his face, his tongue diving past to lick at the nub of you, coat you in his saliva before slurping at the essence he can magnetize from you, stealing every bit he gets and profiting on it, using it to his own selfish desires of not cumming, of making you cum until the only word that finds you is his name. It coats you nonetheless, the wetness that he gives you from his cavern of a mouth, endless in his devotion to you with huffs, inhales of your scent and the shove of himself against you, the way he refuses to relent until you can feel the grip of him, his lips to you, gliding down, down, down to your entrance for his tongue to peek out, slurp at honey-like substance form inside of you. You think he curses at your sweetness, your sweetness rivaling the ice cream when he moves back to your clit, huffing again and moaning at your beating bud.
Your back arches, the heat boiling with in you as your head drips dangerously, hotly down the paling, your one free hand holding onto the secure paling as you breath the deepest bits of this Earth, moaning around nothing but the taste of him below, how you can carve your tongue with his, how you can taste him on your tongue, your profit to him as he grips your hips to him, angling you to grind against him, the texture his tongue provides to your aching core. Your nails scrape against his scalp, tugging him closer as you ride him, your chest ignited with dynamite that sparks with your eyes, the stars behind them that capitulate your emotions, to have him home and sick with will of contemplation, the sins of catering towards you on this balcony, so overtly for the rich which neither of you are, never wholly at least. Your moans are breathy and cries of his name screeches when your thighs shake in his hold, the ostensible slurp of his plump lips against your lower ones pained in commitment even as you tug at his strands.
He rests his chin against your stomach, blinking up at you as his fingers glide against the softness of you, moving to the ache of your core and slipping inside- scissoring his fingers unlike what you’ve known him to do, tight twists and slips against your spongey spot deep inside, prodding with his pointer and middle until the ridges of his knuckle curve perfectly against your walls. Your whine is pitched, broken and splayed at the edges as he kisses your stomach, up it as he places your leg down delicately, letting the wetness coat his fingers until he’s close enough to your chest, hand reminiscent on your lower back as he kisses against the cloth. He bites kisses into you, his teeth lingering on the flesh that pools as you cling to his hair, fingers scratching at the glass as you squeak, “Chrollo.” It’s met with a smile, as always, a hum of humor you’ve both grown to enjoy in the philosophy of your lives entangled, like your hands in his hair. He kisses your cheek after asking, “What’s wrong, love?” Close to your ear he breathes, “I thought you’d let me drown in your deluge.”
Your brows furrow, targeting the slopping sounds he pulls from you as you moan out, strangled by the pleasure, “Just-” It’s bitten between your teeth, “Fuck me with your dick- Or-” You coil against him, feeling tingles build within you as he continues even with your hand gripping the veins of his wrist. “Or what,” he hums, and you glare up at him, spitting, “I’ll bite you.” It’s deep and rich when he chuckles, someone rich could never, and his fingers pull out of you to spin you around, your hands gripping the glass yet again. You only let a gasp singe your lungs before looking back to find him, yet again, on his knees. He peels you apart, letting his lips kiss at your entrance before his tongue plunges into you like the tease he’s always been. Your toes curl against the flooring, leaning into the glass as you whine in stimulation, your chest breaking as his takes every bit of your essence.
His tongue explores you like an aged bottle of wine, perfect on the counter and never gathering dust at its continued garnering of attention. He’s fine in the precise use of his tongue, letting it poke out and peel through your folds, dampened by your own self and his work of ascetic care. He keeps you parted, letting his lips kiss against your entrance again, tongue diving into the juices dripping from you as his hand grips the flesh of your behind, digging his nails into you like the nail to a coffin. You are trapped in this pleasure, the way he rips building fulfillment from you, rips the heat from you time and again before his grip trails against you like always, moving you back into his face to rind against him, use him as you please- and you do please, especially when his fingers tease at your crying clit again, your own lips parting for tears to drop as you call him name until it’s all your brain can fathom.
Your whines are met with the intense precision of his eating, the dedication in his tongue diving into the gum of your walls, not struggling to take all of you as his fingers knot against your bud, letting it tell him what you need, circle after circle of his pads against your velvet until your hips jolt against him, your lips peeling apart in a cry of his name yet again as he smiles, and takes as he pleases, ascetic barely a definition either of you can share, but you’d take it in the moment of his eating, his meal better than the ice cream, you can hear him swear.
Finally, he stands with his hands still on your hips, steadying you as he tries to make you find your foot, shoulders numb against the bar of the glass paling. With the furrow of betrayal to your brows, he kisses your shoulder, using one hand to undo his pants as he keeps the other firm on your hip. When his pants are down enough, the knowing rip of a condom dropping to the floor, you dare to grumble, “Dick.“ You don’t care if he hears what he is, how mean he can be in the seeking of your pleasure to him, his pleasure in yours, but you do gasp before his words, feeling his tip covered with your slimy essence not neglected on his fingers. “So you’ve mentioned wanting.” Any rebuttal that coats your tongue cold-sweet like the ice cream is lost, your hands twisting on the glass as he lets his tip tease you.
He doesn’t completely press in, needing a moment to find the perfect angle, btu when he does, Heaven clings to your eyes, stars an oblivion in your chest’s heaving, the air stripped from your lips and lungs as he slowly lets go of himself inside of you. It’s long, the veins finding you even through the rubber as he slowly angles your hips to his liking, forcing your back to stay arched, your eyes to stay shut and squeezing out every bit of him inside of you as he get closer and closer- not just his hips to yours, but the way his hand holds onto yours on the bar, gripping your digits as they flail form his determination to be whole inside of you. You lean into the kisses to your shoulder, the panting he lets himself breathe, vulnerability, as you succumb to the length of him, rapaciously breathing as you realize how deep inside he is in you.
Then his hand moves to your tummy, pressing where he rests unwittingly- no, wittingly with a cheeky smile never suppressed against the bone of your shoulder, your hip twitching enough to feel the fat tip of his length prod your plush spot deep inside, begging him with kisses to fuck you fast, fuck you ruthless, deep and precise like he is when he eats at you. Your brows furrow with a whine succumbing to your tongue, pulling at the fingers looped with yours. “Chrollo,” you gasp, his nose nuzzling into the side of your neck before he hums deeply your scent, your essence against him. He doesn’t draw it out for long, kissing your with his teeth, a peck of the skin between them before you curse out the sky for watching you below him, standing barely as his will fucks you.
His dick is big, has split you time and again with no use to the stretch, to ingraining him inside of your warmth as he slowly stripes you of him, your body aching from any movement, aching from none. The hot and cold behavior plagues you, strikes you while he massages your waist, letting his fingers dip into the flesh of you, nails scrapping over the surface before he’s half-way out, pushing back in slowly. It’s another stretch, your body unwilling to accommodate, so he has to resort, time and again, his pleasure to you, how he can make it pleasurable when there is no shrink to him.
He peels his hand from you, letting it rail lower than his other one, scooping up the saliva of your pussy as he brushes his cupped palm against your clit. It begs him for attention, for how crude he is to multiply when his fingers twist against your nub. Your legs wish to sink to the floor, but he doesn’t allow you, arms tightening on your waist as he slowly slips from you, yours walls still tugging against him, but this time pulsing, squeezing his length and begging for his attention as he immediately sinks back into you, the clap of his hips to yours resounding in the empty surface of this apartment. You cry out, hand moving to his forearm, gripping onto it, but if the crescents your nails leave strike him, he gives no indication, licking your neck with praises all the more.
You’re close like before, your toes twitching, hands tightening as the ring of you around him squeezes, hot like boiling water, the steam rolling over you when he gasps at your pleasure, letting his hips smack harshly against yours, peel back slowly until he can repeat, his circles as tight as your walls, given to you by the grace of the air that blows through each of you, your own hips slipping back into his, matching him as he breathes your own name, bruises your own flesh with his desire for you as he cum, not filling you but reminding you of how much he’s grown inside of you, taken from barely touching you as you squirm from your cum, picked up by his arms against you, holding you against the balcony’s paling of someone’s apartment.
You lean against him, his head nuzzling into your neck as you look up at the clear sky, dipping into honey as you take a breath of it. Without thinking, without think of the melted ice cream or how being without Nen has affected Chrollo, you comment, “You are still much of a man, Chrollo.” You feel his brows furrow; your hands card through his hair as you sigh against his hm to your skin, to your question of mind. “Even without your Nen, I’d bask in the glory of your touch, of your tasting words if only to get a glimpse of what we are. Do not, Chrollo, doubt your emotion when it comes to how great of a man you are. You are…” Your fingers smooth against his cheek. “Everything.”
You feel it then, what you are that language cannot contain. Maybe you can’t either, one day ice cream not enough, the sweetness of you not enough for this life. But you don’t let anything, but the softness of his breath wash over you; his hips parting from you, “It’s not that simple, but thank you.”
a/n; anytime im insecure abt literally anything, I reread my writing, skim through it, blink at even a modicum of the sentiments, and suddenly im healed, intrinsically and extrinsically. This is probably what having no depression is like, and im, honestly. Here for it
Also i was thinking of doing memes in the beginning (I actually like elderly I swear) but you'll get it if I go through w it, just 1 meme for each fandom or random drabble I have... now that I typed it out, seems like too much work. I'm gonna write the arle/reader/neuvi thin now (how tf do i spell that man's name!??!?!?!?)
when fate fails to receive + Neferpitou/reader (finale)
Death is what you know sings to you in the morning, sings to you as the Nen user shakes her head. That was what you knew even as you continue to write, Pitou no longer sharing the room with you. Something about research, something about you writing for the king. You shake while you think, knowing he is the smartest among the land, and yet, you doubt he, like you, could decipher your written fragments. You continue with your writing regardless, letting your tongue lick the words on paper before you write, about fruits, about thumbs in palms, about a tongue carving a name in the fruit of a core, or about how nice it is to bathe in each other long after the act of procreation, about the act being not of procreation but humility and passion, coinciding in hospitality as you house one another within, no matter how you appear, you appear to each other as one together.
You blink up to the door as it opens. This is not your room; you’re in a study room, one table given as you sit on a pillow, legs folded to the side of you as you parse Neferpitou’s form, holding a book in their hand before they shut the door. There’s only a candle with the two of you, highlighting the staunch difference in you two, in what you each represent. You bow your head, put your pencil down as you address them, “Sir Neferpitou, to what do I owe the visit of your presence?” They blink, letting their steps echo as they come to sit beside you. “I have a book to share with you.” You look to what they hold, black and boarded in cardboard as they offer you the title less book. “I see,” you mutter, taking it from them and picking out the first page. It’s an old one, native to the ancients as your gaze flicks between the lettering you’ve known, and the fragments of pictures sculpted from their respective pages.
“Would you like to try this position, I presume?” You lower the book, offering to them your finger on the lewd laid side-angle. They nod their head, but before you can move to reach them right beside you, to lay down and let them touch you, they start, “It also says something of a soul connection.” You blink, laying your eyes on the page again, but flickering back to their eyes when they continue as themselves, not of the pages that you place back to the stout table before you, “I did bad things before you came here.”
Your lips muse onto the words, “It must be your second life then.” “What do you mean?” They incline slightly, letting you find them against the corner of your tiny table. You take a breath to respond, “We all do bad things, and we’re condemned to repeat until we learn our ways and never return. You must not be on your last life.” Their brows furrow. “Are you then?” You wait at the question, for some confession in our mind to leave you, fumble out form your digits, but it takes your lips; you were always the Gods’ child, always the one who wanted to leave, but not before having a life. You can have a life now.
“I think this is my last- I hope at least, I haven’t whined of my circumstances and death has been a notion not foreign to me. It must be my last one, though I don’t know if I’ll be condemned to repeat after all I’ve let myself go through. Or maybe that regains pity from those above. Maybe, if I’m lucky, with all I’ve endured I’ll never repeat any of this here. But…” “But what?”
You smile, and it takes your eyes. “But I might want to, if it meant being with you again. Even if I didn’t know you, I’d still like to repeat all that I’ve gone through if just to grasp a glimpse of you, Neferpitou. Or else I’d have to wait somewhere for you, and living with you is much more enjoyable than watching fate be your partner.” You think they’ll refute you, lambaste your mind with their dissent, but they do not, and the most intimacy you’ve ever felt comes from their hand in yours, not tickling, but fully taking your prints in theirs. You look down to the contrast of your skin against an ant’s, another specie as you smile, letting your fingers brush away your heated cheeks as you offer, “I have another position we can try before this.” Their lips quirk. “Anything you wish to try, we will. You’re an expert of a human, of course.”
You lean close to them, their lips whispers against your own as you find yourself mused against their front. Their legs are still partially folded, but not for long as your maw collides with theirs. It’s kind when you kiss, it’s devotion that find your tastebuds as you drink in what must be red on their tongue, something that taints your own heady saliva, parting their lips with licks of your tongue, slithering into every crevice of their lips before they allow your tongues to tangle. There’s no true dominance in the kiss, no true labels though you know not even this room can keep you two from your true purposes, still, the kiss has no labels of the outside world. You might consider passion from the Heavens for it, but no Goddess shall come to witness the way your fingers crave them, how your digits find their shoulders, digging into the flimsy material of their shirt whilst your other moves to their legs, pocking and playing with the fabric drowned in an oh-so-serious position.
You pay it no head as you mouth dives into theirs, close-knit like people’s condemnation of the life on this Earth, and yet so much warmer than any fire you’ve ever known, so much curated between your teeth and theirs as they never clash, as they let you behave as hedonistically rapacious you’ve ever known yourself to be. Your eyes flutter when they make room for you to find them. Your hand not on their shoulder, as playful and tantalizing as can be, flutters down their stomach covered in their shirt of buttons to their pants, making sure to ghost your fingertips along their bulge, never knowing one to grow so fast for you, before plucking at the waistband.
You think love is thick as it strains between you two, or you could go back to passion, but it’s not nearly enough to encompass the cannibalism you find, soaking your teeth in something ravenous, something wet and acutely human. You take it with you as you’re the one to move along their jaw, for the first time you descend down them, kissing every bit of their skin so smooth, so unlike yours in taste, in texture as if they were a doll, made of the finest, harshest porcelain. You taste the craftsmanship of them as they help you maneuver their pants down, letting your hand slip up their leg, starting right below their knee before letting the bone rest on the dimple of your palm, your fingers massaging the area around it before finally grasping up their thigh in bouts. Your ees refuse to focus even as you breathe against their skin razor-burning kisses.
Your eyes never fully open, always a few flutters shy of full comprehension when being so close to them, being so drunk in closeness to them. You’re high as you breath into their collarbone, barely able to grasp at the pallid, strong skin from the way desperation shakes your hand, the digits on their shoulder gripping in a way you would a grip, loose and moist and drenched in the monotony of familiarity. It finds your teeth when you pick at the bare parts of their skin, your teeth finding out what it tastes like to be so savage, to have such a carnal desire to consume them in sexual, philosophical ways until all you know is them, and hopefully all they see in themselves is you. You like this want as it cradles your hand and cards through the creases in your knuckles. It aids you exploration of them as your fingers find the juncture of their hip and thigh, letting your middle finger swipe against the flesh before your other fingers find the weight of their member.
Your eyes still do not fully open, but as lidded as they can be, you raise back to Neferpitou’s height, slouched and slumbered in devotion to someone you’ll never know as you breathe out, “I heard you might be the problem,” a playful lilt bares your teeth from the hickeys nominally pink on their skin. Your brows crease, lifting in the middle whilst your eyes are wet in some emotion you’ll never admit to without the sun, only their fire from the candles. Your teeth must shine to bright, catching their gaze at the same moment you grip their member. It’s not delicate, no one wants delicate. You are firm and knowing, it’s like the shine from a knife, knowing how sharp it is, a blade never one to be deceitful. You let your digits, the prints marring them glide up their shaft with experience, letting your wrist twist with the motion as you raise to their hot tip. It’s dampened your grip, letting their own self aid in efficacy as you twist down and twist up. It’s a slow and meaningful option as you continue, “You might need to cum a few times in me after all of your… one-shot ‘n drops.”
Their own lip quirks, baring the true discrepancy shared by the dim light of the room. Their canines are sharp; yours are far too human to be intimidating. You lick your lips, moving to mold your mouths together once more, a distraction as you pump faster, letting their body crumble under your monotonous touch. It’s never yours fully though, not as they move their hands once resting behind them as they waited for you, a preyed beast to their beastly preying. Now one hand cradles your head, letting them dive into the heat of your mouth without any remembrance for your need to breathe. Your hold on their member crumbles whilst your other hand barely holds onto their shoulder, more floating whilst they maneuver you to rest your head on their thigh, right beside them instead of right in front as you’d one been in control of. Their smile is brighter, just as the blade you’d described before, or maybe the silver of bullet casing left to be discovered.
You feel the saliva of your kiss -messy and rapacious and still covering your teeth in an ache- lick at your lips, rest against you and flutter against your face in remembrance of the act, the dance between walls alike these that have been replica time and again. You move your hand, one idle on their thigh whilst the other goes back to their length, this time with another proposition. You know they switched to this position due to how close they can get to you, how much control they can be because duty never falls short of the home of the King. You move your lips to find the length, eyes shutting to focus on your maw to their member. It’s a delicate battle here, though very messy and unrestrained, you can compel yourself in ways that promote your devotion to the act, but now it seems it’s more to the person themself. Your lips tickle apart as you find their member, barely grazing the lines of them, the veins and length that bobs as your tongue, hot and limber, prods at their weight.
Your eyes squeeze in focus when you feel the notion of them on your waist, dipping down the flimsy outfit you wear. You know they’ll find you sooner rather than later, take you in their digits as they’ve done time and again to your melting mind. You don’t pay the future any head though, as you let your tongue trail up, then after your tastebuds track what’s between their legs, you let the smooth heat behind your tongue drag against them in tantalizing care. You do let your eyes peak open momentarily, only to shut as the notion of them finding you, their eyes of sun and mouth of blades enough to hinder your pedantic satisfaction. You let your experience corrode your senses just enough for their hand to find the hem of your panties, letting them trace over your hip and the flesh of it before their claws drag against your mons to find the warmth, so sticky and inviting, between your legs. You adjust slightly to give them more access just as you move to up their thigh, still facing their clothed upper body as you weigh yourself on their muscles.
You feel the sharpness of them; how deft they are when their claws don’t find your clit. They find the velvet of you with experience of only you, only books and you sandwiched between whilst you know nothing but anatomy in the flesh. You know nothing of books only of humans as they lick their lips and spread you apart as butter, the money gifting paper cuts as you wake. Your brows furrow in dead-set devotion, dying determination to prove something to this room, to the sole other person in this room that you can taste in your throat before your mouth even opens past licking up and down their shaft. Your tongue is hot on their length, sculpted and firm under your tastebuds as you finally make your way to their tip. It’s just as wet- if not wetter, and this time you can taste them, taste all of them not just the texture of them wafting from their creation. You can taste a bit of salt, but overall it’s hearty, as if the Earth itself gave them this refreshens that pours onto your tongue. You would just call it different, not so much pleasant or unpleasant, just enough of a difference to take your tongue, to fuel it like apples to mules.
Your lips open as much as they can, the drag of your tongue against the weight of their tip, the wetness only does so much to prepare you, eyes still barely parted as you focus on the task at hand. Devotion finds you yet again, passion in the form of your jaw tiring. Your lips are wet enough, your tongue licking up enough of them to get a bit of pants rising from their chest, but still you feel their lack of reaction as a hit to your pride. You move your lips against your teeth, covering them to take the weight of them in your mouth, trying to suck as much as you can whilst your tongue is hot in its trail, feeling against every bit of them, every bite you’ve tasted find in the much of your mouth. You hand, still on their member, covers what you can’t, and since it is so much you have ample room to twist against them as they twist into your skin.
Even if they are doing it for your pleasure in a sense, and even more to show you up in your own field of battle, you find their ministrations, the way they gather your slick sticking to your clit in their digits only does so much for them. Not even as they part your lips, your legs adjusting once more to allow them to maneuver your folds, you do not give way to anything but their pleasure. The whimper you admit aids in their tip twitching, though the whine that curdles the back of your throat is too pitchy, is too sweet to their ears to mean anything but another hit to your prideful experience. Their fingers find your entrance like time and again, and maybe this time the grace of the Gods has found you, or the fate of your future kisses you on the lips, seals your deal of death once so close to now so far, dare you say foreign even when living so close to a king. In his own home.
Your pussy sucks their digits up, the fit molding your insides to their liking. It’s only a knuckle of their first finger in before they pull out and plunge another digit inside .It’s tight, but the adjustment is inevitable, the pleasure searing your toes into curling, your lashes into wetting because they’re starting to move without any consideration for your thundering heart, how you find it a bit too difficult to make your way against their shaft. You steel your focus as much as you can, you hand jerking up and down because twisting is too much of a strain for your senses, but your mouth is still taking as much of them as you can before backing out and licking up the tip of them. You slurp around them as the whines catch your eyes, refusing to give them the reaction they need as their fingers plunge wetly into you, just a bit of resistance that will never go away, no matter what. They’re digits move against you, their hand finding the back of your head as you look back up at them, as wet as you’ve grown between your thighs, as devoted.
They’re just as mischievous, but somehow, you think they’re enjoying themself just a bit more than before, and you get the notion it’s not because your lips suck in their tip, but because your confession, because your personality lies on the floor for their viewing, and their hands are not dirty, their mind not tainted as they touch you. You are not tainted with them. You let your hand squeeze their base, moving in more succinct bursts as you lap at their tip, eyes pleading when looking up into their own. They don't take this with as much submission as you wish they would’ve, instead you’re forced to feel the burden of hot fulfillment curdle in your gut, expand up your thighs and lick at your clit when their palm slips accidentally against your clit, hot and velvety as its wetness slaps against their hand, perfect to grind against, and you do until you feel their smile wane into a simper, their smirk into something impish, that gleam into a false identity you’ve clung to- they’re truly as playful as they come. Their hand doesn’t so much as rip form you as it slows, their other hand dedicated to the back of their head, to the confession you gave right before they switched positions, pushing you down their length.
It’s the slow tug of duct tape form your lips as you lick at the glue peeling form your skin, their hand slowly slipping against your clit, a ghost as they peel against the fabric of your clothes, the whine that follows your lips this time echoing in a sob, a vibration that finds them in just the right moment, their tip nestled in the cavern of your mouth, right before it can find your throat as you taste the spreading of their white into you. It’s still different in taste as it engulfs you, but in another moment when your ego wasn’t so bruised you’d say it’d taste good, and maybe because of how you wanted this, because of how gentle they are, how pleasure-seeking they are of your own, you’d say you experienced more pleasure giving them head and being edged than being split on them, filled and full of love never expressed until this moment.
Your legs all shaken and toyed with squeeze from the sore spot left to rise like dough, that ecstasy yet to be met as you swallow the gulp of semen and lick your lips of the flavor that tangles with your disheveled hair. They don’t pull you to them, their hand slowly leaves you as you raise of your own will, still resting on their legs partially, still with a mouth that’s been sore since your lips parted for their hot and fat tip. Your hand is on the meat of their inner thigh, resting on the skin as your other tangles in their shirt, and as you raise to their own height, face to face, your breath is of them, your body cursed to hold a sore spot for them where their hand once was and will always tangle. You admire them for a moment more, for a moment before you both act, sporadic and as a leech when their lips swallow your own, bite into them like cake whole, their hands grasping the sides of your face, slotting your ear between their thick digits.
You can barely breath, breath coming out like smoke in the winter air as you let your tongue slide against their own. This time they do swallow you, never letting you take a moment apart as you slowly slide from atop of them to beneath. It’s familiar, but not so much as your clothes never leave, as theirs barely part enough for their hefty member to find the top of your tummy, still too much to take even as they size you up. Though this time with greed of cum, yours soon to be mixed with theirs, their determination doesn’t seem to part from them as your legs do the same for them, just an odd habit you’ve grown accustomed to. You let them between you and as their lips make yours bruised, blistering almost in a sear that harrows you, their hand moves to their member, the other hand on you to bare your chest to them as much as they wish. You wear no bra, so they bite at your soft skin, bite and suck and lick at the flesh that was once covered by silk, is still partially by sleep.
The backs of your legs are restful on the tops of their thighs, their other hand already dragging their soaking member to your folds, the barest of your skin grasping onto the length and stretch that will come soon after. Your brows furrow, a whine boiled and simmering in your throat as your hands find their shoulders, scrunching the fabric of formality, tainting it with your hedonism. They pay you no mind until their hot and wet tip finds your entrance, your toes curling when their eyes find yours, such a bright golden you think you’ve been burnt by the sun of worship. Before they can speak though, before they can tease or promise you anything, your fingers trail up to their hair, and you plead, “Fuck me, Neferpitou.”
They part form you after a moment of eyes and touches frozen. They part only to push you to your side, your flesh not enough to hide you from the cold and harshities of the floor. It’s clean, but you think the moment your feet touched it, touched anything in this building, it was meant to be called yours; to be known as tainted with desire no one will ever know but you and your clients. And yet Neferpitou isn’t one, you feel it as their claws drag against your hip, they nestle behind you and they let their hand hold up your thigh. It’s slick where your thighs are, your clit pulsing and burnt from the sun’s touch withheld to you. You succumb to the floor, leaning forward slightly which will always end with them a top, omnipresent. The pressure builds when they slip between your lips, canting their hips against your behind and the wet well that your petals provide, hot and sticky to the point nothing is a comparison. You think you moan or you think your hips g back into theirs, grinding and begging them for something that cannot seem to find your lips of words, you think you do something that gives them your consent further past the law of your lips because their hand slips your thigh onto the ground ahead, spreading and propping your behind up enough to melt into their hips as they angle their dick to your slickness.
The record repeats as you succumb to the pleasure and know you twitch with their name on your tongue, fingers curling and scratching the pristine floorboards, but they do not comment with words just like you cannot, tied beyond just tongue as your body finally finds them, your slickness dripping against them, wet and heinous as they do not tease themselves inside of you, instead they move deep, split you slowly like they wish to savor the feeling of you, of this time on the floor with devotion diving into their hair, yours, combing between you two in a wet flurry. You wonder how Heaven would look if this is what’s condemned, you wonder if this is what they say by Heaven, if this closeness that sticks to you and splits you with the heat of a Spring is what Heaven is all about.
Your skin crawls, burns like staying out in the heat, your legs toying with the imagination of closing around this pleasure, even if you seek and sing this praise of an act destined in your blood stream, you are still compelled to break it off, to wonder how much pleasure is too much, how you would be deserving here. You pay it no head when they slam their hips into yours, not by their pelvis but by the strength of their hand on your hip, squeezing the flesh and poking, prodding their nails into you as their dick has. You clench around the length of them, the depths they reach when they curve against you, as if two souls enflamed burn out together you’re forced to breath them in, to have a hand on your stomach to eel as they’ve always done, poking at the moment of them in your stomach.
You succumb to the pleasure, your eyes fluttering shut as they kiss along the bareness of your shoulder, teeth clawing at their lips to graze your softness as they linger at your ear, breathing you in, the shampoo and scent of home that has been founded in your bones. You whine, something desperate, something pleading before they finally let another simper lick at the creases of their lips, moving to lean their touch down your skin, picking at the upper flesh of your thigh while their hips slowly part, nominally do. It’s more grinding than parting from you, like they can’t bare it. Your hips are pressed into theirs, stomach squeezing the most as they somehow reach deeper than they would parting and slamming form you. There are no books with you here, none on the floor, only on the table with pens and lights that lose you when you find yourself staring at the door, eyes bleary as if you’d just woken.
You don’t know what to think, but your body kisses the shivers of the floor as they move against you, and you try to part form the loose grip they have on you, but it was never loose, always calculated with the gleam to their eyes and the simper to their lips. You groan a moan, gurgle it in your throat as you feel their fingers slip past your spread hip to the divot created by heated honey, they glide their fingers down the flesh of you to the wetness accumulated. You’re not going to last, and that notion finds your throat, strangling you when your hand digs at theirs between you, your thighs incapable of shutting because they’re more- there’s more of Pitou that stretches you as they thrust with added vigor, wishing to push against you until you’re full.
But you already are, something that makes your knees buckle, your body ache as their arm comes to secure your leaving body with their arm, digging their fingers with yours on the floor, and your gaze can’t seem to get the shadow, the flickering of the door’s outline from your sights. It’s tainting you, teasing you with the fact that you’re full of them, a fullness that rocks and splits your insides until you cannot breathe, only feeling the thumping of their dick inside, the outline that plagues you and punctures a bit of you you didn’t know could break like burning sugar for a topping.
You feel that burning again, your hand leaving theirs that is incessant in the wetness of your velvet cover, you clit pulsing and teasingly pressed to perfection as they mold against their behind. You melt into the floor, fingers back to scratching at the forgotten decorum of the floor as your eyes roll back, painfully as your insides warm to the greatest depths, the sticky sounds of thrusts met with nothing but the hollow thump inside of you. It takes your hand and breaks it, that pleasure mindboggling and enough for your body to succumb this torture a bit more, as they lean into you and press you into the floor from grinding and thrusting and using your body until you feel the coil build in their own body and fill you until your pop, until there’s an obscene moment of silence that will never not linger, their hands still on you.
They kiss your shoulder, and you feel their breath as they give you praise, call you a good little human, so you don’t tell them you’re pregnant; you know it, they must also as they pull from you. You feel empty though, you feel so empty when you find no sun in the room with a door, only a candle of the enflamed doom of man. At least, in this life, you get a child and a life with someone. You get someone in your last life.
…
Your child is strong, but also curious, and as cat like as Neferpitou is whilst they’re away on their duties. You know there’s revival in satisfaction, but you doubt they’d ever allow your child to twist as she does now, spinning along the pong that’s stout enough for her, not deep enough to let her drown, but she will tread water as you’ve taught her, her hair twisted up underneath the cotton hiding her hair from the sun. She has a sensitive scalp as your father did, yet he still let you kiss his head as you left, hugged him. You don’t think of them as much as you did, you think of them more, in her creasing cheeks of joy, in the way you waddled in your second trimester, and in the way you cried during her first steps.
She’s a toddler now though, so tears are nothing compared to the suave voice you carry, how you approach her with her favorites- lavender planted by request of your friend, now using your book with The King. Your child is strong, and she takes all of it from Neferpitou; that lilt to her eyes as you hand her the soft smells of sleep from purple petals. “Your Father will be home soon; come take a bath before they find out what has piqued your interest as of late.” There are steps just as you say it, a notion of a life you’re living in this world so plagued. You’re lucky; it's not just your life; it's your only life that you're living. Your fingers cut on a rose's thorn, and you smile at Neferpitou.
when fate fails to receive + Neferpitou/reader (chapter 2)
(finale)
You wake up in tussled sheets; they’re of cotton like before, but this time the sun has found you, deep in the cavern of the King’s layer, you’re found and cared for, ignited like the flame that’ll never go out by the God of Sun, attacking your slumber under Sleep with the will to wake, to slowly unfold form the side you were on to the ceiling. It’s bright. When you move, your brain starts, and the ache of your body is greater beyond measure. You don’t know the last time there was this ache- not that you’ve never had an ache akin to this, but this ache is unfounded, this ache, this horrid, horrid ache is of pleasure, not pain, not the bruises of man, and there’s no ache in your jaw from a woman’s kisses. Those kisses would be yearning; those kisses still aren’t this. Your hand rests against your tummy; you say hello to the thing that may be in you, not yet a baby, not yet anything but something that usurps your resources of flesh. You’re giving it all you can; you hope it does to, letting your eyes flutter to the window at the foot of your bed.
It’s heaven to be awake now, to sleep in sheets of the King’s service and be kempt and clean, be happy to be full and ache of this care, of care no matter how distant, hollow it truly is. You’re needed, isn’t that beautiful? The door isn’t the thing that waves to you, but it signals to you who will give you greeting, the servant from the night before, her uniform soft, her uniform a mother’s waking nightmare. It’s what you dream of, it’s what you want to bathe in the sun in, so soft, so loose. Maybe it’d be a pregnant woman’s dream, not that of a messy babe. She bows her head, moving to offer the tray to you on the bed. You make to sit up, letting your legs fold and face wince from the tension as she sets the tray before you. “Good morning,” she offers, you return it with a smile and bow of your own head. She’s above you, or maybe you’re both equals but you won’t acknowledge that. She’s above you; she has to be because if she isn’t- if she isn’t then why are you above her when with a child?
“This is breakfast; something light for the morning rays.” It’s soup in a tiny bowl, some rice off to the side, but next to that in a bowl maybe a centimeter or two bigger, is fruit. Pineapple and watermelon, tart and hydrating, enough of a terse crunch to give your moments of thoughts truly something to chew. Your lips lift. “Why thank you very much, My Lady.” Her eyes widen, a title you’re so used to giving to customers that it’s oil to the hinges; you don’t think she hates it, just a bit bashful she hums. You’ll be sure not to do it in front of others, but women are very cute. “I’ll be heading out now. Sir Neferpitou will come to check on you in time.” You bow your head in return, letting her leave you, watching her leave you in her leisurely pastel uniform and not shutting the door. You face a window; you let a window face you.
Once the third bowl comes to your view, after dipping the same spoon into both warmed bowls, you let your fork prick at the cup you let scrape against the wood, four legs molded together to let it stand on your covers. You’re practically drooling at the sight, refreshment finding your lips as you let the fruit chill your tooth, biting down onto the sweetness of the pineapple before shoveling the rest in your mouth. You aren’t greedy; you have to be selfless to sell this fantasy, but maybe, after it, you are allowing yourselves a few moments of reprieve in this timeless notion of fruit. Food, for everyone, yet not grasped in every place. The King will change that, won’t he? The steps find you again as you swallow the refreshing bite of watermelon after golden pineapple. This time they’re not as loud, this time, there’s only the difference as they enter your room, open paneling to closed quarters as they breach the sphere of you. “Sir Neferpitou,” you address, their gaze falling all over you and the food you still eat from. “You’ve been awake for some time,” the question you answer with a bashful nod. “Food keeps me awake, sir.”
They incline into your words, “Good food, you mean.” You hum with a nod of approbation at their correction. They move into your room, sitting on the expanse of the bed you do not occupy, neither your tray, so they’re close. They’re lose next to you on the edge of your mattress, holding nothing but books again, more and more, though, if you look close enough you swear, they’re blank- “Uh so,” Your words are wettened with oxygen, breathing off of your tongue, ”What did you tell the king?” They take a moment, their eyes trailing to the few scraps of food left in your bowl of fruit as they respond, “That your sex -the organ- is very addictive, it’s prudent to say all sexes might be addictive.” You slowly nod, their gaze returning to yours. “I… see. Did you write him a report?” They hum, their eyes staying on yours like predator to a prey’s steps. “I did… though some of the doctors’ research were concerning.” “What do you mean?”
As if it were a secret, they lean in- no, as if they only wanted to tell you, ask clarification of your internal organs without having to dive their nails into your blood, keep their hands clean. Their claws. “It says after a loss of virginity, the vagina can be loose.” There’s something that tickles you, twitches inside of you as you let a huff of humor escape you. Your fingers cover your lips, hiding the taste of watermelon and pineapple stringing your teeth sweet. “Ah, it must’ve been a white man then.” “What do you mean?” Is it easier, to be like them, like their specie. To not know of man, not know of walking on two legs and the privileges they conceit from their heavy head. You don’t ask, but you beg of them silently, to let you be of them, to be unlike a human, to be unlike what the world wants you to be but what they want. Sex work isn’t easy, but timely encounters with them- you could do it; you can have a child.
You return their secrecy, supplanted with curiosity of a crook of their head, your fingers poking at the bowl in nervous fidget ad nauseam. “They purport false claims to make their claim on the people. Like a dog urinating on a fire hydrant. People, I think you’ll agree even if I’m not speaking for your favor, are quite dumb when they grasp onto a rope that’s strong enough for just their survival. We do not stick together; you all seem to. I am… jealous, if I may say, Sir.” Their brows furrow, but instead of digesting your words, they choose to ask, “You have… not called me by my name again- Pitou, I mean.”
Your eyes are wide, dipping in blinks as you survey their creation of a face. Your lips curl, nodding your head as you move to pick at the fork you once used, supplying, “Your name was never hard to say, Sir Neferpitou. I like it long, actually.” The hint of gaiety isn’t lost on them, almost a second later their wry crack of a laugh leaves them, and you hear their words whilst looking at the reflection in the tongue-licked fork of yours, the palm akin to your hand. “Humans might be dumb, but in that ignorance, might there be some curiosity?” You hum, that feeling coiling in your again, that feeling of despair you will never quiet escape. The sun waves at you again, but a cloud finds it a moment later when you verbalize, “For a short period of time; we become predictable- Is it boring to you, predictability of servitude?”
It’s then that you realize it was never a cloud, it was just Neferpitou. “You shall be tested for pregnancy soon.” Your eyes are wide and incredulous when you ask, “So soon?” They nod their head, looking back to the books they hold. “There’s a technique of Nen we can use to test the fertilization of your womb.” “I- I see…” You let your mouth drown in your saliva again, and they ask, looking at you from their strands of white waves, “Is there anything more degrading, they start, than being used for your body and not your mind?” It’s maybe a dig at you, maybe not, maybe something to reciprocate your inquisitive nature, but it will always be embarrassing, nonetheless, to be with a tongue of yours, seed-filled and planting grotesque thoughts of hope in others. You wish death wasn’t the hopeful wish you wanted. “I would never know, Sir, I am simply too in tune with nature to care for another not as open as me.”
They let the books thud on a space of the tray, bereft of the bowl that you’ve stacked. our eyes go to them; they are bare as you are in the sleeve of a gown you wear. “The king would like your input as I have said. Right down certain points, but more so you are to wait for the test of fertility.” You nod your head affirmatively, taking a breath again to ask them, their eyes of burning gold, “If I could request one more answer from you, Sir.” Their brows furrow, head cocking again as they nod their assent. Your tongue twists in your thoughts before you spit, “What would happen, if I were to be pregnant…” “To you or the baby?” Your eyes widen, and even if you don’t think you are pregnant, feel nothing but the ache of the ache between your thighs and a full stomach of fill, you touch your stomach underneath the sheet of fabric you wear. Your lips move with a ghost’s, “Well, both of us I… I think.” Your bottom lip latches under your top as they relay with a careless sigh, “You will be pregnant, and taken care of until birth, then we will know of the fulfillment the act provides.” Your brows furrow, the answer not complete- what happens after. “But-” Your words are caught however, when you lean forward and feel the nip of their finger to your teeth.
Not just their finger, but the chill of pineapple filling your tongue, scratching against it with string and core. You blubber for a moment, choking on the cube as they shove it further back. Yet your hands do not move, only your face until they bring their other hand to the back, cradling you- not softly, not gently, firmly. Your face scrunches, and they relent, leaving their fingers to the outside of your mouth. “Eat,” they say, “You need to for the Nen.” The chewing is hard, but you swallow, and once you’re done, a strip of watermelon finds you, slurping up their fingers with the food, heat finding you from the act you think you’ve only ever done with another woman. Blinking your eyes form their palm to their eyes, they show no amusement, only servility, a duty not ignorable as they feed you again and again until you do not have a pit to fill under the garment; you are satiated. Why does it feel so hollow though, even with the sun on you? Why are you still so death-filled? Is this it, a sentence- is this the death you’ve always been known for, so young yet so plagued with titles?
You think, in this life, between the two two-legged species, you’d rather be neither.
You blink up at the sun, laying on the grass as you requested, longed for since birth as you tilled the fields and found the perfect Hyacinths nearing your house. You don’t miss the people, the village so much as you do the flowers, the house and what could’ve been cultivated. You miss that, potential. You miss having it not just knowing of it and watching others leave it behind. On your side, you let your fingers stroke the strands of the Goddess, green and somehow so soft as you lay, not pregnant against the field. You think it’ll happen again, what you’re preparing yourself for will happen again.
You think of the ache between your legs still, how you aren’t even parted from it and still grasping at your thighs when walking, still shrugging against walls to hold you, letting Neferpitou grasp your bicep as the pet you play for them, the king and the others. What would it mean, to be more than this? How much more of an ache would it be to be taken seriously and have to prove time and again how serious you are? You groan, sitting up from the ground, massaging your shoulders as you watch the sun paint the clouds a lavender, the wind as a paint brush to blend the clouds into mist. There’s still an ache of death out here, but you pay it no heed. “Excuse me,” someone claims, your gaze falling to the path that she watches in the garden. You don’t think she tends to it, as the person who gave you the gifts of sweet fruit, you don’t think she knows of your desire to the land. When you gaze befalls hers, she bows, elucidating. “You are to bath in the springs with Sir Neferpitou overlooking.”
You crave nature in its purest form; there is no nature without humans, so you have garnered, capitulated photos in old books, and there has never been purity, even in these springs.
The robe you wear is fine, mesh to share the wind with your body as you move to strip of the ties to your waist. Neferpitou stops you, grabbing your hips and lining their claws up with your stomach, eyes wandering underneath the robe you wear before they untie the strips, loose as it falls into their grasp, tugged from in front of you. They toss it to the side, on a stool as they allow you to return your attention to the springs, turning to enter what’s of the ground, found by you. It’s warm, steamy as you dip your toes into the clear spring, the floor slippery as you find the ache of heat that attacks you. It’s cleansing in a sense to be in the nature of the water, letting it come above your chest, licking at your shoulders as you sit on the rock that helps you rest in the steam.
It’s purity that finds you when Neferpitou joins you, silent as ever when they sit beside you, resting their toned muscles against the paling of rocks. Their strength garners your attention, the muscles of pallid skin, the waves of their hair not even tickling the water. It’s healthy, the way they act, how they appear in this water, and it calls to you, in some desire you never knew to have with customers. That’s what this is, right, a transaction? “Is there something on your mind?” You blink up to their suns, lips parting with a faint smile of abashedness tickling your tongue. “It’s just that… you are quite close when overlooking…” They give no reaction to your comment, instead taking a moment to let their eyes of suns overlook you, burn you more than the water has when supplanting your skin with medicine.
You swallow, gaze returning to their shoulders. “May I…” Their eyes find your sheepish one, “Massage your shoulders? You seem tense with duties, Sir.” They give in after a moment, letting their back flex as they move to show it to you, turn around and give the expanse to you. Your touch, already drowned in water of heat, moves to their shoulders tentatively, fingers flexing, twitching before you great their muscles with a tender touch, letting your thumbs delve into the strain behind them. You ask after a moment, the water sloshing and grinding against them in waves as your lips part, “What is the necessity of this water, if I may ask, Sir Neferpitou?” They let you touch them, let your fingers dip into their strength as they respond without looking back, “It can circulate your blood, but also help with the pain of last night, and in some studies, I’ve found it’s easier to fuck in these.”
Your touch stalls, and that’s when it happens, the reminder of who you are, how you are to these people. “What?” Your hands slip back into the water, finding the floating of your being, the weightlessness only to the water, comforting, and then you remember you are nothing to Pitou too, as they turn to address you. “I’ll show you.” You’re grabbed by the wrist, pulled onto their lap when they maneuver you with the sway of the water, the swish like you’re in a glass being tipped, knees found by the smoothed rocks below. You look down at them, your hands steadying to the touch of their shoulders, hot with the forgotten massage of your damp fingers to their tension. You blink down at them, shocked at how close you are, at how you are above them.
You take a moment, your chest hit by the waves, pushed against theirs as you swallow deeply the sense of the steam and their touch. It’s a ghost that traces the frame of your spine, grazing the sides of your back before they push onto your water-licked skin. It’s wet as you both slide against one another, their length between the two of you as you let yourself be raised with their eyes, looking down to the suns that gander up at you. Yours flitter between theirs, fingers grazing their white waves slightly dipped in the spring of steam. It’s hot; you think sweat is mixing with the water that helps heal you, takes you as they take you with their gaze, letting you swallow down the feelings bubbling in your throat as one of their hands trails higher up the skin of you, seemingly feeling out how human you feel in comparison to you. You wonder if they think you’re soft, or far too wet- soaked in this water with them.
No matter what you think, their fingers dip onto your shoulder, pulling it straight as their gaze licks down your body, staring at your lips and dripping to your throat, then your collarbones with their nails so sharp dipping onto the bone from behind, their grip never leaving you, how their arms envelope you never wanes from your mind. You swallow again, desperate for the minerals to replenish your thirst of water to your lips as they let their other hand slip up your waist, their thumb sloshing in the crystal water, licked with steam as your chest is sweated with some. Their thumb tickles the fat, letting it feel against you before they cup your breast, pushing it against you as you let your fingers float against their pallid skin, shaking at the sensation of being touched again. They’re still experimenting with how they touch you, how human you are in comparison to an ant like them. You will never know the reports from their words, but you do know it from their touch, what they parse as the water sloshes against you, the grip on your shoulder pulling you up against them, their lips diving down until they lap up some of the minerals on your breast.
You think the spring would be called warm, very steamy, but their lips, their cavern of a mouth is searing against you, dripping onto the flesh they’ve never tasted as they let their canines graze the fat, suck up the weight of it as their tongue laves your pebbling nipple. It’s all sensitive; it all takes your lips and makes them wobble as you breathe a deep breath, fingers brave enough to inch up their shoulders, looping round to the back of them, one dropping into the water against their carved back as the other claws up their neck, svelte in your assessment of their spine. Your toes curl, dipping up from the water as you grind into the surface of them, empty underneath you but not in front, tension slowly finding its way through you from the springs steam. They pull away nominally to kiss at your nipple, make out with it before biting it just as nominally as when they parted form the licked flesh of you. Their hand leaves form beneath your breast, slowly wrapping back around you, secured on the lowest part of your back where your bum rounds, so their other hand can depart from your shoulder.
You take another breath, this one pushing you deeper against them as they let their lips linger to the wetness of you, any inch of skin found by the taste of their full lips. Again, you think this is a part of their discovery of people, letting their tongue dart out to feel the heat of your skin, from the spring, from them, from you. Their claws drag against your rump, climbing down the inchoate bit of your thigh against your rump, letting them slowly retract as they move to the mound of you, sopping in the water, licked by the waves and minerals. You wonder if they want to taste you, deciding this is the easiest way to feast for you are for the king, this process is for the king only. Your thighs twitch when you feel their blunt nails trail to your folds, dipping against them with the heat of the steam aiding the searing pit that ebbs form you, tightening around them, reeling them into you.
You take another breath, this time letting your head tilt back, face lapped at by the sun. You’re hot; there’s no escaping the reality of what you feel, how suffocation can be overwhelmingly pleasant as you burn from the inside, letting Pitou draw it out from you with their fingers grazing your pulsing bud. It’s a swift sweep, barely can be called a graze and more like a heckle from some crowd deep within you. It’s found again as they lick against it, barely pay it any mind before prodding against your hole, dipping a finger against your sobbing entrance before they finger your folds again, tease them and tug against the velvet until they side with your clit again. This time, however, they decide it’s worth enough of their time, your hips jolting for a moment when they flick against it, pressure strong before petting against it like a treat, cajoling your hips to calm with your rising pulse, only your pulse climbs as your hips are satiated with their touch.
It’s fulfillment that finds you in these waters, grasping at the seams of your appearance, up your shoulders and between your ribs, wrapping around your thighs to keep you against Pitou. You don’t have the water’s ming comprehended, but there’s no way you’re moving as they swirl against your bud, letting it heat against their touch; precise circles turning into muses of their fingers, pinches of your pulsing bud, how much wet drips form you into the water until you don’t know which is which. Your eyes shut, fingers fiddling with their shoulders as you sigh out in pleasure. They allow you to rock your hips against them, your body curing in on itself to grind against the movement, their fingers the perfect texture, the perfect motion against you as you grip into their damp skin, let the water licks and lap at your nails, your digits grinding into their skin. You moan a garbled mess when their touch leaves you, but it’s only the drag of their fingers against your folds, the way two digits line up against your entrance that you think otherwise to moan again.
Your fingers claw into their shoulder, body clinging to them when you feel the stretch of their fingers inside of you, thick and big, not big like what’s sandwiched between you two, but big enough with the two fingers twisting inside of you, immediately digging into the curve of you, as you claw against them, eyes squeezed shut in distraction. Their fingers twitch inside of you, twiddling in the warmth that seeps form you, fills you with minerals when you find their knuckles curling against your gummy walls to the especially gummy spot inside of you. Their fingers massage against it, pulling back for their knuckles to ebb against your walls before they attack it again. It seems- feels like they don’t move from you, never part enough for water to take your entrance as they dig deeper into you, maybe trying to stretch out the spot deep inside of you to part for not only their fingers but the member that twitches between your two bodies.
Instead of ignoring their dick between you, you let yourself rock to their ministrations, gliding against the length of them in front as you push back into the digits so thick behind you, prodding into your entrance in a way that makes the searing heat stick to you, cling to their fingers and pull them deeper just as your walls do, like a trap, like this is your Nen deep inside and decanting onto them, pouring from you with such thick creed. Your moans are chocked, lodged in the back of your throat, but there’s still pleasure founded in your lungs that ebbs from your lips against their ears, to the ground of the spring in front of you as your stomach knots, body slowly stopping its rolling and preferring such an erratic grind that the water sloshes with you. They seem to allow this as much as their grip will, tightening while their fingers twist inside of you, faster than you’ve ever known them to be as the thick digits curl and prod your spot, rubbing against it and taking the sticky slick of your walls with the pleasure of you. Your eyes shut tight, burning white behind the cover of your lids when your hips twitch, the ridges of their dick somehow finding your slit from the dip of you against them, the height overpowering your form as you succumb to the pleasure with dips of your lips, a scream trickling form your lips that the steam capitulates.
Their fingers still move inside of you, as much as they can as your walls calm down to a pulse, gripping them belatedly as they pop into the water, their forearm buckling you onto their front still whilst you slouch as much as you can with them below you. They lick their fingers, you can hear it- feel it in the heat to your cheeks while you recuperate from their ministrations, knowing there is no stopping when their dick is too hard to bear, hot between you two and ready for more than one round like before. Their fingers find your damp skin again as they move to grip your hip, rising you up with a whimper to your thighs as they grasp the base of their shaft, their hold tight as the water surrounds the two of you, swallows you whole from the shifts in temperature, pressure, movement.
Maybe inside of tipping a glass you’re inside of, you’re the one below the glass, the desk, the dirt that’s drowned in the containment of water, crystal and steaming, licking and lapping at your skin as your clit brushing over their boiling hot tip, letting it glide into your folds, swipe where their fingers played with, tormented so they can now. It’s been less than a day since you came to the kingdom, since you entered the King’s sphere and let his closest guard take you from behind. You know there is still an ache, but fucking in this spring has proven an appanage to you, tasting the supple Earth in the form of tears as the water soothes your sores, the bruises they dig themselves into again, on your raw skin. It’s soothing even when their tip prod- no, proves you are too tiny in comparison, their tip too big that you think it’s a teasing ailment, like stretching and getting a cramp, never digging deep enough into your skin to find the ache, soothe the twitches and convulsions as they prod into you fully.
They grip your hips tightly, your eyes shutting and nails curling into your soaked palms as they rest on their sculpted shoulders. Your lips feel swollen from moans, from every sound and every lick of your teeth against them; they feel ravaged and culled by the divinity of your humanity. Your hips shake in their hold, nominally at first, but they seem to recoil at the notion of sinking down, your spine trying to carve away from their body, oddly wet against your own, but you don’t know if you’d call them soft, maybe, more likely, you’d call them tense as if they feel this pleasure too, as if they hold themselves back. You don’t know if holding themselves back would be something to describe the act they partake in next, their teeth claiming over the flesh they’ve yet to pick at on this eve, letting their teeth dig into the supple flesh that parts from you. It pulls you to them, seeking reprieve yet digging the grave below you- literally parting you below as if you were the lid before the coffin.
Your hand doesn’t hesitate to hold the back of their head, encouraging them to be lenient on your mortal flesh, fustling with their, letting your fingers weave within them as you have done with so many bags before leaving. Yet now you’re here, looking down to the lidded gaze of the two suns of their eyes, watching as they blink up at you, lips cutting their teeth into a simper. Their tongue comes next, salivating against the pebbled nub, and before you know it, their grip to your hips has massaged you down halfway against them, and they lift you up an inch before sinking you back down two. It’s a stretch that fills you, breaks you apart on their shaft, something warm from your chest, something hot from inside of you comingling with another searing heat as the water surrounds you with the Earth’s passion, as if love herself were carving between the two of you, mixing you into the waters as you moan a broken whine, letting your hips grind down on their movements.
They’re still in full control, but you know their mission is to garner pleasure from you, to create a child from this pleasure that ebbs within you. It fills you with something, that desire splitting you in two until you can feel so much slick from you coat them as your hips slip in their palms, their hands groping the round flesh of your behind, the flesh of your lower body and base of your back until they find all of them inside of you, prodding at that special spot because they can, and will, reach inside of it, plunge their insides into yours to create Heaven for you. Your clit rubs against their skin as you rock, moaning with your eyes rolling to the back of your head, the ideas filling you with their stretch below, how your toes curl in anticipation, and your body moves with the water as if you were in a submerged play, reenacting what pleasure feels like on this Gods-forsaken ground.
They part from your breast, their fingers, sharp with claws, dig into your skin so much you think red will mix with the crystal of the water. You ignore the mirror below, what takes place in the crystal as you let your hips be guided against theirs, up and forward, back and down. It’s a slow tedious process with how your grip them from below, but they let you glide against their skin, slick with desire as you moan at the look of them, so focused on you, so intent on your pleasure of them. You’re the one, for the first time between you two, to lean down on their lips, taste the way their lips muse into your own, slick with their spit and now yours, the water below you, and then when they part for their teeth to show, the water infused with you, your chest, your taste between your thighs. You can feel the pleasure that’s coming from this, how there’s pleasure winding around your core, taking your thighs into account as they move their hips up into yours. You moan and they take your tongue, suck it into their mouth with their lids fluttering, their fangs fluttering against your tongue.
Your fingers prod at their scalp when you feel it happen, the shoulder of their skin decorated in crescents of the moon from your soaked nails as you come undone form the way they grind into you, barely letting you feed on the break of their selves form you because they continue to chases after your special spot, chase after the bit of you they need to fill as you sob a cry from the stimulation, destined for your thighs to squeeze around theirs and your hips to be guided with their grip. They do not cease until you’re slightly limp against them, maybe gasping for air would be the best descriptor that twists your tongue. Then, you’re left with a hole deeper inside of you, one that’s burgeoning as they take you from them, their grip still on you as they maneuver you to their liking, making you bend over the wall of the spring. It’s awkward, but they’re adamantine on the position, one from behind that leaves you dipping, bowing to their mercy, your behind to them as they steady you with their grip to your hips. Your thighs try not to touch, the overstimulation curdling in your gut as they poke back into you, stretch you again with that slow pace because you still haven’t loosened up.
You blink, blearily with heat coiling in your sockets, not like the pleasure within you, but from the onset of pleasure, the filling of their stretch in you as they finally slant their hips with yours. Both hands hold your hips again, this time their nails determined to keep you against them as they prod at your flesh. Their eyes shut after a moment, letting their grip tighten evermore until they can pull themselves from you. You gurgle a gasp, hands tightening on the position of the wall against you. Your legs already want to give out, but their arms are strong like the night before; they never let you drop even with there’s rock softened by water, smoothed underneath you. They focus their attention on the insides of you, moving their hips back with the gummy insides of you before slamming in again. They push you forward, your legs knocking into each other, unable to keep the pleasure off of your slick clit as they repeat their action, plunging in after not even a moment parted from you.
You can feel the heat of them inside, how it burgeons into a fire as their thickness splits you time and again. You take heaves of the steam below, their hair tingling against your back as you cry out their name. It only surges them on as your tongue always has, their hips crashing with the waves, waves slapping against any morsel of flesh you allow them to lap up, allow the Earth to lap up of you and your intimacy shared. You can already feel the heat return not even after a moment, this buzzing like a bee's stinger finding you, prickling your insides as your eyes focus on the sun in the sky, the sky to the sun and how they mmix with each other for the clouds to shade. Your fists twist into each other again, body twitching from a second high- third high, you mean, another third high that finds your eyes first, sparks them deeper and deeper as you heat reaches them, plagues them with their twitching tip. There’s pain mixing with pleasure again, intertwined sentiments that are sentient inside of you, filling your tummy to the point you feel you’ve eaten a meal. You take another breath of the steam, and choke. The world does hate you enough not to let you die but burn with this nature of sex.
There’s a man following you. He was behind you some time ago, trailing you to the beat of your feet upon the hotel’s carpet. You lost him when the elevator shut, but you knew his eyes as you knew your home; you’ve been caught.
Since it’s the umpteenth time, it’s not that big of deal, the big deal comes with how much you’ve packed and how many nights you’ve wasted renting. Chrollo can watch you as much as he’d like, but the elevator moves faster and you’re on the top floor comparative to his hideouts and spiders. You’re completely free, no matter if he already knows you’ve stolen from one of his victims, the people he’ll most likely kill before you’re able to leave.
He doesn’t like liabilities; it’s odd because he is, but you don’t care for confabulations on his worth with yours, you don’t care that you have no one, not even him; you can’t care because he’s already in your hotel room.
It’s open, windows curtained as of now but spanning the entirety of the bed’s surroundings. It’s still not made from this morning, when you tossed and turned and toyed with your pamphlet of what person would be best to pilfer from. You’ve decided a rich man, relatively around Chrollo’s age, but it’s lost on you that notion that he may feel, that you hope he does as he rests on your bed. His legs are spread; on the corner of your bed, he rests with one hand on the softness of your mattress. You like it harder; you don’t know his preference. His fingers toy with his bandana, too loose in his hold, a gust of wind could take it, or you could.
You peregrinate the expanse of your hotel’s living room, lifting one leg at a time, bending it back at the knee to discard your high heels. They find places amongst the rest of your clothes, including the other outfits you decided against, then the slip of your panties, bending only a smidge to tease him as they part like feet on fresh snow. You’ll find them again, make them disappear before you do without him; the sun doesn’t leave with snow. “Never took you as a stalker, Chrollo.” He looks up, his eyes of grey brown raising to your countenance, looking down at him and waiting for his reply. He almost seems kind here, right in front of you as you look down, on your bed you will never share, in this room you don’t; Chrollo is kind, and at the very least considerate. He’d hate you, you hope, for adopting those terms for him. “You didn’t tell me this was where you were heading.” You face away; the bed’s elevated enough for him to reach, his arms slight aid, your zippered dress.
“I never tell you many things, Chrollo.” His fingers linger, for only a moment as they cradle the thin item, slipping it down until it reaches your lower back. You’re cold open like this, your bare back to him with the air of the hotel you booked yourself. You want to know what he thinks, how quickly you’ve climbed, if he too augurs your ultimate downfall because you’re alone. The dress finds the floor and you kick it to the side, facing to him. He looks into your eyes; you aren’t an object you’re someone to him; you’re someone to someone. “My name’s too long on your tongue.” You smile, your fingers like his to the bandana, only for his face, prints grazing the smooth touch of his pallid skin, slowly gliding to his hair, one parting for his ear, the other grasping the back of his skull. He’s too kind like this, too human-like from the one you’ve known in your life. You wonder how long it’s been changed.
“Too soft, you mean-” An attempt at a kiss is silenced by the lips of his on yours. He doesn’t taste like anything, but there’s a hint of sweetness to his lips; you like cherries and you think he had one or two at the dessert table. You took some form the cakes, and maybe he did too. Maybe he’d take them from your lips in another time. You breathe into him, letting your lips engulf his as he mirrors your actions. He’s warm against you, not horribly so, but warm enough to not be a corpse, to not be a stand-in, but someone you know in this room; you’ve known for a long time before this. The bandana’s somewhere on the bed; he goes for your hips, bae save for the grip of his palms on you.
It’s hot then, his touch is burning up your skin because it’s colder where your skin’s forgotten him. It’s hot as you let your lips smooth against his, as his tongue tickles yours between your lips, licking at them, never parting them or crossing the line; you can taste him enough with the tip of his tongue, and you hope he can taste you too, the desire that drips from the parting of your lips. You crave him in this heat of a hotel neither of you could afford; except you’re both insidious, you’re both so very insidious. In this hotel room, you think he likes the pearls on your neck, his hands sliding against your back, trying to make their way up, up, up, and then they don’t. They stay on you, push you into him as your lips glide into his, almost coalesce, for once being above him.
He’s pressing into you, trying to peck at you from below as you hips find a light grind against his formal pants, you don’t want to acknowledge it, but you’re already hot between your legs, vibrating from just his lips against yours, the taste of the tip of his tongue. He takes a breath of you one last time looking up at you with his own lidded lids. Your chest is heaving more than you assumed, his breath barely a feather against the tip of your clavicle.
Your fingers beside his ear find their way to his maw, tentatively tickling the expanse of his pallid skin. He’s not sickly perse, just pale with eyes too dark in their brown. Your thumb grazes the gloss of his lips from yours, your tongue tasting the bit of him on your own lips, taking one final breath before you ask, “What’s my punishment for getting caught this time?” He doesn’t speak, only stands up to you again, your chin slowly dropping from his maw to his chin, only for him to pass your lips for the lobe of your ear. “Lay down,” he says, “close to the edge.” You huff, barely peremptory to him as you twist in his hold, sitting beside him before he stands.
He’s still attired in his suit; you’re starch naked. Not feeling the chill of the hotel, only the lack of his hands around you, feeling against you as the cuffs of his shirt surrounds you, hugs you like the sheets you lay on. Slowly, you find your elbows on the cushion, and when he moves to take off his jacket, you move to lay completely flat on the bed. Your view is of the ceiling, smooth without even a swirl of tools. No residue so you can forget you’re human, can die by the bite of a bullet just as these people who made this room for you. For anyone, really. There will be others. He takes your thighs, inches close to one and you lift both of them up to meet his broad shoulders, gone is the fabric of his sturdy jacket, found is the cotton of his sleeves, though they feel a bit looser, maybe not as strong as cotton something more breathable and thin enough. He must’ve known, he had to’ve known you’d be here, spotting his biggest victim for their pearls.
His hands smooth along the expanse of your thighs, one wrapping around the top as the other lifts the bottom of your other. His thumb digs into the weight, pushing it up so much your toes curl from the air and his eyes hitting your sopping core. His other almost pinches the top of your thigh to soothe it, grabbing the flesh and plucking it between his thumb and pointer, barely soothing it until he settles as close as he can to your Heaven. He lets his hand dip down it; back and forth does he move before settling on your inner thigh, resting right before your pussy.
You tamp a moan, barely licking it back to your throat as your hands move against the bed, fingers toying with a cloth before you realize it’s his bandana. You take a breath of an idea, his own air slipping against the stickiness of your core. Accidentally, you think he’d say, the mischievous smile you can feel without looking is enough words for the two of you. Your lungs expand, shutting your eyes and toying with the cloth as you wait for him. It’s better this way, not knowing what he’ll do because at the end of the day he’s yours; and you’re somewhat his. You’re somewhat his as he touches you like you’re Heaven on Earh, that delicate and that undeserving of tainting. But you are tainted; he tastes you as a man starved.
At first it’s innocent, the way his lips kiss against your beating clit, only once, lingering on the taste of your heat, awaiting him before he pauses, a gasp you swear you hear until he leans in again, not even a moment later. His tongue darts out this time, and whilst he might be slow, savoring the taste of his favorite meal, you can tell it’s feigned, you can tell he’s teetering off of the cliff, your knees twitching from separation. His tongue refuses to stop, slowly licking up more of you, slowly exploring more of Heaven under man’s touch. with your eyes still shut, you imagine the tuffs of his hair, mused from the way your thighs twitch in his hold, begging to shut but also greedily letting him separate them.
His tongue slips it way into your folds, and his lips suction around your clit for a moment, tongue flicking against the hot bud before he kisses against it, headily slurping up every scrap of your essence inside of his mouth. You’re ashamed to say it, would never to his face, but he’s good at the way he eats you, touches you like you know something you both can’t admit. His hands burn against you, sear prints into you like boots in snow. He’s the sun melting you, grinding his face further into you, his tongue not as soft but just as delicate, dedicated to your melting core from the warmth of his mouth. You don’t want to say it, but it feels like a home you’ve never had, it feels like the warmth of a blanket, the shivers you let out in the morning wanting to be shared with him.
His tongue finally finds your entrance, his lips thick against your core, as if he’s taking every bit of water from an icicle; he meets your entrance with his lips first, a kiss once before another teases you as you’ve always known him to tease. It’s never enough, not speaking of, not admitting what you both feel beyond the air of this hotel. It’s never enough and when your fingers tickle his on your thigh, moving it up towards your clit, you think he understands without what you’ll both never say. His tongue dives into you, spears you like slamming a head onto a table. It hits you all at once, the feeling of something so strong and slimy twisting inside of you.
His tongue is as greedy as your hole is, pulsing for a moment as he jabs it inside, one, twice, never enough to reach the entirety of you, but it makes up in girth and the heat of him inside of you. It’s burning you; it’s fire first found as he gets closer, and then even closer to touch your clit. His fingers craze it, nails trimmed and perfectly greeting the fragile bud of yours. He barely touches it before your first moan; it wrecks you the way his tongue does. Hotter and hotter you burn with a jagged breath in your chest. It’s never enough, not until you feel the swirls of his three fingers, letting your hips raise nominally to meet his passion in precision. You can feel the heat rise within you, burn you much more than his touch.
Only it’s because of his touch that you can feel the heat within you want to come out. Your eyes finally open, the wrap of his bandana around your wrist, held in the same palm before you lift yourself up. That same garbed hand captures his black strands, grasping at him with his eyes barely open to spot you, but they do as much as they can when drowning in the heaven of you, when you start moaning like an alarm and force him closer to you, force the tongue of him deeper and deeper until the pulse of your walls comes crashing down and all you know is the wind of your slacked hand agaisnt him and the bed. You fall back against the sheets as his fingers slow, from tight circles that ebbed on too much and too little, from his tongue jutting into you, licking against you like honey at the bottom of the barrel. He slows and your back doesn’t know the bed sheets as you do now, falling against them from satisfaction, not a mission as earlier today.
“Are you okay,” he asks, and you look up, the grasp of your gratitude slipping from your grasp, the pearls marring your neck, too cold, too distant, and worse, still on you. ”Would be better…” You inhale, your hands moving to his wrist as he rises, stands before you with his cheeks awash with pink, like he was out in the cold, warmed by a fire in front, and his hair mused yet still effortlessly put together, as well as his eyes, steeped in the softest of emotions. You don’t look away, you exhale, “If you’d just put it in.” The noose is wrapped, the bandana against his wrist to share with your own; left to right.
You pull him towards you and he follows, his lips raised at the corners, not impishly as yours have been known to teeter, but pleased, satisfied, shown candy in a wrapper and trying to guess which hand. “You’re eager,” he says, his hand moving against his pants. Your brows furrow into each other, staying on his eyes as he lets himself settle between your legs. “And you aren’t?” It’s not genuine, and yet it seems like it, sounds like you’re sincere in this moment. His wrist bound to yours is raised, his fingers tickling yours like you’re something special. Like you’re someone to someone even outside of this hotel room. Why did you pick this hotel room?
“I’d never proclaim apathy towards you.” His lips touch you and your legs wrap around his hips, your other unoccupied hand reaching for his member. You slip into his boxers, moving to grasp the length, its thickness wider than you’ve ever known. You don’t part from his eyes, choosing to jerk him as you stare straight ahead. If you look hard enough, pause for a moment, you know you can see yourself in them, worse, you can see a future with him and you, with him and you and the troupe and how happiness can find you. But you’ll both die in the end, you know it, so you take a breath and say his name, “Chrollo.” It’s soft enough that the hum of the hotel’s AC could counter your tone, your unknown tone by the tongue, but it doesn’t for Chrollo. Oh, your competent Chrollo His unoccupied hand finds yours touching the length of him. He replaces you, holds you hand to take it away from him as he moves himself against you.
It’s slick when he slips down, the heat of his tip, stick with his own pre to stick to you as he slips down your nerves already tastes, splitting your folds and finding where he once was moments before. He’s so good, it’s all you can think about, how much he wants to please you, what’s more, how much he likes to please you. Your lungs wrack with a breath, your fingers slipping into his as your other moves to his shoulder. He looks away for a moment, catching on your entrance before his hand moves as close as he can to his tip, to where you two share a nominal kiss, like in the beginning. He takes a moment and your heel presses into him again; he gets your agog reverie and slowly lets his tip slip past the hold of his hand to the hold of your Heaven.
The stretch is all you know, spreading you apart as if you were stuck together, inside your shell and he’s digging you out of the covers, only you’re deeper into them. You must have some strained countenance, contrasting with the wrap of your legs, for he dips down, his hand moving to your hip, angling it to the height of his hips, slowly grinding down into you. He slips deeper as his lips find you again, just as deeper. He lets them slide into yours, lets himself devour you as you devour him, distracting you from the strain of your entrance and only the pleasure that sparks like a cod ot plug.
You feel electricity singe your veins, your fingers digging into his shoulder, dragging up to his neck, then back to his hair to tug at him. His hips are slowly fucking into you, forcing your thighs to strain as hy wrap tighter and tighter around him. His hips have yet to meet, nevertheless he pulls back slightly, enough for your walls to beg him to return without a whine form your lips. You’re breathless kissing him, and he’s dedicated to your breath as he thrusts further, the tip of him hot and sticky inside your gummy walls, drowned in your arousal.
Your lips bruise each other, your gasp lost in his maw as his hips pull back, more tension found form the break not given, his lips kissing agaisnt your bottom lip before his fingers massage agaisnt your hip, his others squeezing your fingers as they spread, legs shaking with their hold on him. You feel his tip inside of you, slowly removing himself from so deep, leaving your walls to ache, bereft of the weight of him. He slips back inside just as you whine a breath, and it catches in your esophagus, lost in the sound of his member deep into your walls, finally hitting your special spot, his hips flat against yours.
You feel thoroughly spread thin, forgotten all want of him inside, replaced with a want for him to move, to fuck as deep as he can into you, bruise the spot inside meant for the stickiness of his tip, how hot and heavy it is when you’re angled like this. Your lids flutter like the sun in the sky, his already on yours, lidded from how tight you’re squeezing him, the miss of him so deep inside. Your tongue darts out of your lips to lick against his, parted nominally from the warmth you give him in return.
He reciprocates the action, his tongue immediately twisting with yours, kissing with the slimy muscles in your mouths, slowly moving to attack him in his own mouth, sliding inside the sweetness of the cherries he ate, that you share in consuming, trying to reach every bit of him that you haven’t known in the longest while. Maybe retallying, he lets his hips slip from against you, raise as much as they can with your desire so tactile. His hand slowly leaves your hip the moment his return. It’s fast yet slow, tantalizingly adept in your body commingling with his.
Your toes curl, legs twitching in their hold against him. Your chest heaves with the pearls, a breath taken for his own tongue to finds your own cavern of spit, digesting every bit of you, exploring as much of you as he can when his hips dig deeper, grinding agaisnt your special spot. His hand presses your leg lower, letting himself find your clit yet again, any work needed in your mind left to him. He takes it again, barely lets any space find you even if it’s straining for him, to let his thumb swirl against your hot bud. It’s so much pressure, him against you, taking your air, and mapping out your body, never changing for him. You think, with the pressure building up to your lungs, the way your tongue barely takes from him, instead swallowing as much of his spit as you can, you’ve only ever grown with him, you’ve only ever tasted this side of him and grown with that aptitude, knowing that outside, how sneakier you are is not what you need.
You can be as sneaky as you can here, as you have been. His hips collide once agaisnt with you, pulling as far away as they can before the heat of his tip twitches agaisnt the gum of your spot, deep inside. It knocks against your head, that pressure that builds and boils, roils under your blood so much that it heats delightfully for him to touch you, his fingers poking into your tummy and fingers and hips lips grasping at your own. You can be sneaky, but you must know how to be sneaky and coy, how to let him know you’re there without knowing you planned it. Of course you know where he is, and of course he never will you. You can feel death warn you, breath into you as he parts, spit licked on his lips as they are yours. “I’m gonna cum.” You nod, airy as you swallow any plea that may have made it’s way to yours lips, still you think you admit defeat, “Please Chrollo, please make me cum.”
He does, the pearls moving against your clavicle, raising and lowering as your chest does, breath caught and released in the cage of your lungs, how the heat that’s boiling in your stomach deluges your senses, his touch on your clit precise as his hips grind into you. It’s his tip twitching that sets you over, your thighs shaking as he makes your insides putty, hot magma that scalds your skin pretty, your head hitting against the blankets as you moan his name, loud with desperation put to the side. He satisfies you, and something stick lands your stomach when you slowly come down form your high. You’re on your hotel bed with your ex-best friend, and you’re sticky with each other. You wish he kept kissing you.
He takes the pearls from your neck delicately, his fingers as lithe as they’ve always been. His bandana is still in your grasp, a trade-off perse. “If I didn’t know any better,” you start, rubbing against your neck where he touched, lifting up your head to look him straight on. You’re still where you were, only sitting up, irrevocably closer. “I’d say you were taking care of me- like a vocation.” He looks at you unlike that, unlike what you need him to; he looks at you like you want as he dissents. “Not a vocation.”
Your brows twitch in a furrow, tease into one as you parrot, “Not?” “A penchant,” he breathes, not like he had to think, not like he needed to find the word, but like it’s the truth, like the soft placidity to his tone is all that you need to know. You’re as close as you’ll ever be moving forward, and you don't care to question why. You stand, moving to find you suitcase. “I’m staying at a hotel back at home; you should find me there.” You find it, right next to a robe for the bathroom. You fold the bandana as you want, placing it inside a pocket before taking the rob you were already going to steal before leaving tonight. “I should,” he questions, parrots as you slip on the robe, looking back one last time. “You should.” You’ll never say it, but maybe, just maybe he will before you both die eternally encompassed in this regretful guilt.
You don’t know exactly when it became apparent, but she’s wrapped in the soft fluff of a white, sauna towel, clinging to her skin after you both stripped and spun to the other attired in softness. You wonder how she feels, as it wraps around her chest, bunches at the side with her hair knotted back up in a messy bun. Her hair is ignited in the sauna, from the strips of dim light behind the boards, golden and glistening and almost licking up the milky tone of her supple skin.
She takes a breath, and you scamper to hide your gaze from the rise of her bosom. The brown burn of her eyes never does lose you, however, quickly working her way to bend to your slouched posture and gaze, focusing on the sanded cedar. She smirks or more so lets a simper lean crooked without a pinch of her teeth. “Is it hot for you?” Your eyes, shy but not quite diffident, hover on hers before flitting to the walls of your enclosure. “Yeah,” you mutter, she pays no heed, nudging you as her gaze drifts over towards the pile of rocks that could use another spooning of water. “Too hot, sweetie?” You shake your head, just a little nudge before your eyes seem to lose her gaze yet again, as if you ever kept it.
You do, in the back of your mind it’s there, and where your hand rests on your heart, you think she’d be able to spike a heart attack of you. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I raise the temp?” You look up to her, letting your eyes flit between hers before swallowing, this only time keeping them on hers for what feels like hours before you respond, “By all means, Paku.” She rises, grasping her towel by the bunch and moving down to the bout of rocks, she picks up the ladle and your eyes drift, nominally, nominally, nominally to her hips, watching as she leans down and the steam raises from the rocks kept inside. Your body feels like its burning as if your blood is boiling underneath your flesh as your eyes trail back down her legs, the curve of her calves or the way sweat travels down to the floor.
You note your own sweat, the bath you took before wafting into the air, a hint of honey mixing with roses. You choke on your throat as she says, “You are hot.” You look up from your slouched position, your skin not sticky but wet, wet, wet. “What?” She smiles, in the know of something you are not as she holds her towel together from the curves of her form. “The temperature. If it was too much, I’m sorry, I don’t always get away from my job, so…” You blink, rapidly as you nod, looking back to the floor and focusing on the towel wrapping around your legs. You wipe it against you, finding that she’s already moved back to her spot, only there’s a brush of her against you, a brush so tiny you think sparks fly and fireworks fly into the air. You burn yourself on the edge of your towel, gulping down a breath. “But you look hot, is what I’m saying.”
You don't’ return to her, yet she does you, as if she never was apart from you, as if you never knew when she started loving on you, she touches her palm to the heat of your shoulder, burning, searing under the steam of the sauna. You think the steam can cloud how you feel, if your pupils have shifted into hearts or you’ve started drooling form the corners of your lips. No matter what you hope, the reality of her burgundy to her browns steals you from your thoughts, if just for a moment you forget how you’ve bitten you bottom lip so hard it must’ve stained a deep red. “You’re a bit tense,” she all but purrs, letting her fingers, the few still sharped to an oval, carve into the bones and muscles of your shoulder. “Turn,” she moves you, her other hand taking her position before the former swipes along your neck, moving to your shoulder reluctantly.
She pushes her thumbs into your blades, forcing an airy garble off of your tongue, muscles tensing as she dips deeper, lulling, “Make as much noise as you want, we’re alone.” It’s near night, and you’re still open to the amenities, something she promised when you said you had a two-week vacation near her hotel. “There,” she breathes, much closer to your lobe than you thought, “You just needed my touch, hm? Already wet enough for my fingers to glide against your tension.” You don’t move, nervous to break away and be forced to mess eye contact with her, tempt your tense legs with running, or worse, so lustful you’ll start grinding on the towel between your legs.
Her hands don’t leave you either, so there’s no choice but waiting there as they slowly ghost down to your peering, sliding down to your elbows before her fingers slip onto your forearm, forcing the backs of your hands onto her prints. You note her dominant hand is clipped of any nail, shaved down to the barest foundation as she grips your skin so tight you think you’re losing sensation. It’s then that you feel the press of her against you, something a bit too much to not be barren of a towel. You tense again, more out of realization than rejection. You swallow when her lips ghost against you jaw. You’re bordering on shaky as you watch her, with her hands still looped in yours, pull you closer to her, forces you against her as her hands press against your chest and stomach like a seatbelt meant to kill without an accident. “You know what’s best for a sauna,” she asks and your eyes stay to your lap as she thumbs the knot at your chest. “If you really want the benefits of sitting in here…” She pokes at it, and since you’ve treated it like a towel after a shower, it’s not a beaver’s dam as she slips a digit underneath. Her words are next, “You should be active.” And your towel almost falls as your body jolts, the air toasting the now open skin of your middle.
It’s still draped over you, bunched at your lap, slightly caught by the wrap of her arm against yours. You gulp down something licentious, her body pressing further into yours, her chest so soft and against the bare of your back. You think you shiver from overheating, her words not distant enough in your fever, “It’s not so much a hot tub as it is a hot workout class, understand?” You swallow, swallow, swallow, almost moaning as she grips you closer to her, your best friend shortens the distant never known in this sauna. “Yes,” you breathe out, burning more from the desperation embedded inside of you that she can’t seem to scrape the edges of. You’re building up something sappy as she lets her lips kiss against your jaw, letting her full lips drag against the taste of your skin as she nudges your face with her nose.
You move at her will, the angle filled with tension that rose form your shoulder, form the bottom of your heart as she pulls you down into her form, letting her lids flutter as she meets the gloss of your lips. You wonder if it’s your blood she tastes first before she licks her tongue to part your lips horizontally. It slips in between your lips, no need to maul the push of hem before her tongue slithers inside, somehow hotter than you’ve ever felt in a sauna. It presses into yours, forcing you to submit without so much as a quarrel whilst she tangles with it, sucks it up from the seams of your insides, trying to eat you as you move against her, lashes fluttering against the wetness of her cheek, her arms pressing yours into your ribs, your heart ricocheting against the cavern of your ribs. You don’t think you can breathe, yet you are receiving the oxygen of her lips, letting her dip deeper into you, pulling back only to suckle at your lips, toy with her own petals of desire.
You think she’s fucking them numb, kissing them numb with the drag of her teeth, the way she teases the bite she wants to break form your blood. Maybe she wants to taste it if she has only gotten a sip form the nectar held underneath your skin. You move up into her, trying to deepen the kiss further, but she’s content with toying with your lips, with your teeth or the saliva that pants form your lips, but she’s only done when she parts, watching your eyes struggle to not fizzle like a pop, shake and buzz before she adjusts you in her grasp. The towel slips completely from you, left where your feet now hang as she adjusts you across her legs.
Her own towel barely clings to the damp of her skin, especially not as she moves you tight against her hold, forcing and arm of your to hang at her side as the other rests against her shoulder, you own head dug into her the juncture of her other as she pulls your leg up, forcing it to part for the trim of her nails. You’re wetter than you presumed, ever thought, a searing flame warming you from the inside out, your wetness engulfed in sensitivity long before she decides to descend, tickle her fingers against your folds. ON of your knees is folded up, the other able to nominally relax while she twists you to her liking. Her hand unoccupied is looped on your knee, grasping any flesh it can, her other fingers slipping down the sensitivity building inside of you, the velvet of your pussy chilling from the drag of her tepid fingers. She’s not as hot as you are, and maybe she wasn’t lying when she said she’s not been here in so long, that her job steals her form ever experiencing something so seemingly frivolous.
Regardless of what you think of her, her fingers are deft in exploring you, deft in her pointer slipping right down your clit, pressing on it until she can slip down between your folds, quickly gathering the spit of your pussy, letting your folds taste the steam of the air, the burning, dripping water of the rocks that heat and heat and heat and boil the blood under you. You grasp at the milk of her skin, letting your prints embed into her skin, drag few pink marks into her muscles, your chest sliding against her own, pressing firmly into her as you moan, her fingers finally tipping into your entrance, something sopping with desire as if your words never spoken pleaded with her from the desire that her fingers tease of reciprocation.
She speaks no words to you, only breathing into your skin, her lips ghosting over any inch she can, the few strands of your hair free, the few kisses to your heated skin. She mauls you softly as a lion would licking the carcass of prey, only you’re cradled, it may be momentary or it could be blindsided wave of the steam, but you’re breathing her in, the softness of her, how she feels so strong as she moves you to her will, still, she loves you in some capacity to share this fantasy with you. Her finger barely dips into your entrance, moving back to collect three other of her fingers as she swirls over your clit, everything gathered from your split folds or the tease to your pleading cavern used to swirl the buzz of your clit. She moves against it, swirls and slowly glides down to your entrance yet again, rocking back and forth, up and down against your folds just for further teasing.
She pulls her fingers back, letting them float over your crying cavern before she plunges her middle and ring into you, her third finger rests in wait, the heel of her palm, ever so slightly calloused, flicks against your clit, pulsing with needs she answers in the curve of her digits. The seem to slip together, your walls squeezing her tightly as she curves into your wetness, her fingers barely all the way in before they slip out. They’re stuck with your slick, her fingers scissoring against each other before she dips back into you fucking up with her bony fingers reaching deeper, bending you further against her. Your legs twitch, toes curling for a sloppy moan to leave your lips. She coos, you think, a response to your babble as she twists her fingers inside of you, reaching deeper and deeper and swirling the tip of your special spot. Her fingers are calloused, ridged enough to be better than any toy you’ve used, imagining this moment years before you found the feeling seeding deep in your pulse.
You think you lose consciousness as she grips your flesh tighter, pulls you closer to her, her palm bumping your clit, as much as you need before her fingers pull out and she forces her pointer finger, sopping with your juices already, into the tightness of your cavern. Your ring of muscles barely takes her, the way she presses three into you whilst attempting to massage every inch of you she can, even giving you the gift of her cooling kisses, the heat of her teeth along your shoulder. Her palm grinds against you, the three fingers of hers still nudging as deep as they can against your tension. You can feel the way her chest raises, your eyes closed to imagine how she might be admiring you with the burn of her browns.
You think you loosen enough, or maybe she’s just eager, no matter what you presume she wiggles her fingers deeper inside of you, grazing your special spot with her middle so your pupils can twitch in dilation. You think there’s something hotter in the room, maybe she really did pour too much water against the stones, or she has been breathing deeply your scent, no matter, your stomach curdles a forbidden want, something heating you from your toes to the blades of your shoulders, the cartilage of your ears. You think your head might be cooking in this heat as your lashes flutter, legs twitching in her hold, though never breaking.
She doesn’t pull you into he, but she does wheedle the tension sifting form your ribs, cajoles it with the curls of her fingers, in a come hither motion does she pull from you white, paints your mind into something muddied as she almost digs her fingers past your point of pleasure, boarding on painful, bringing you closer and closer to another edge that takes you, the current of wind and water that sweeps you into a fantasy of cold in this sauna. She slowly twists her fingers from inside of you, forcing her palm to rock back on your clit before you’re free, thighs shaking to hold open as you hear a slurp form her fingers and lips. Maybe she’s not as cannibalistic as you’d hoped her love would be.
Your skin, slick with the steam of the sauna and grinding against her, twitching and cumming so hard you've almost lost the feeling in your toes, slips against her own as she adjusts against you, returns her fingers to cups your slick mound once more, gathering as much as she can. She speaks after what feels like forever, kissing up your shoulder to meet the ticklish spot of your juncture, "Baby," she purrs, a ghost of cold air against your inflamed skin. You swallow something sweet as you move to look up into her eyes. She says, "Open wide." And you do, parting your lips slightly before your tongue scrapes on the edges of your teeth. Her fingers, all three once twisting and tugging the friction from your slick, slowly tickle between your lips, slipping against your tongue so you can taste your own nectar, or even the hint of her favorite candy. You gulp, not closing your teeth on her. It's awkward, but you ignore it as your hand slips down from her shoulder to graze a bite of her mound, moving to take her wrist as she watches, not once interfering as you slip it deeper, the tips of her pads grazing your uvula for your toes to curl.
Your eyes must be glossy because she disregards your grip, pulling her digits back to her, coated in your saliva, and letting her prints, pruned, scrape against the buds of your tongue, curling her digits to tickle the tip of your tongue. You don't even blink before she sucks on them herself, your grip looser on her wrist almost ghosting it when her eyes peer into your soul, finding impurities of what feels like centuries, imaging her and touching yourself until your pads were soggier than hers. She pops them out of her lips, patting your butt as she commands, "Stand up, baby."
You do, your body jolting to the soft velvet of her voice, and she helps you do so, almost solely with her eyes she watches each of your joints bend and your limbs collide to get to the floor of the sauna. Your feet meet the sanded interior as she stands, her towel coming undone, dropping to where you both were as she after you. Right against you she grazes, her fingers massaging into your skin ad nauseam, pressing the flesh of your bottom, your hips to bend, digging her thumbs into your muscles as she spreads your legs. Your fingers meet where her towel was, and then you realize she's going to bend herself. You speak before considering what to say, "Wait-" "What's wrong, honey?" She's against you, her mound grinding against the round of your bottom. Your fingers tease her towel left behind, eyes recollecting the sway of her breasts, how full they were and how they felt pressed against your own flesh, nude and barely nudged by her towel. You move to stand but she's against your, so you whisper, "Should… You should have a towel under your knees, right?"
She lets an airy breath of humor find the curve of your back, kissing with a nibble of her teeth. She leans into you further, as if she can press your hips onto the cedar that would dip into the flesh of you. She doesn't let your knees fall, one hand still perched on your hip as her other grasps what your fingers have raised. "Thank you," she whispers, taking it from you.
You the thud of it on the floor, the way you're chilled from being left without her touch, burning where she left you. She returns though, this time lower, her thumbs parting the mound of your bum, your body rocking forward towards the cedar as she massages and spreads you to inspect. You don't know how you look, from her view now or when she cradled you, strangled you with her love that you don't quite know is corporeal. Your mind is lost when the nail of her thumb prods at your hole, trying to part down the sea of your slick pussy. It doesn't hurt, the tip rounded just enough to virtually tickle you.
Her finger rises to your hole, her other thumb meeting to part your softness, and then you can feel the strands of her hair, damp from the heat of the sauna and soon your pussy as her tongue, not cold but not as hot as the air, dive into your sopping cavern. It's messy, you swear it's messier than the pitched moans strangling your cords. She lets the length of her muscle almost massage your walls, explore the tension like a masseuse, her tongue pouring saliva into the heat of your cavern. She slurps at it, her lips suctioning around your entrance only for her tongue to barely leave you. She doesn't linger inside of you, she fucks into you, maybe to open more of you for dessert, to force you to fall to the cedar or to prove how she owns you. If you never do open up to her, pour your heart's blood on the bark beneath you, it is no matter, she will have you, taste you, burn herself on your desire that she can mimic.
If it's not reciprocated, she's inoculated you with nothing but faith, even if broken, you'll never know anything but the way her tongue plunges in ad nauseam, refusing to leave the slickness of your walls, never not fucking deeper and deeper, the pinch of her tip tapping the spongy part of your hollow, not quite kissing it, just hitting it time and again in taste of your nectar, finding the sensitive pulse of your walls quickening from the added massage of her fingers, the dough of your body moved by the prints of her fingers, the graze of her nails as she moves deeper into you, her hands slipping to wrap around the front of your thighs, locking them around anything of you she can have, even daring to scrape at the flesh of your tummy.
Your gaze is gone first, failing to comprehend the dimness of light, the golden glaze as tears seem to blur, burn your sight before they shut and you think you cry, deeply. From your ribs you shake and your grip slips, thumb catching on the edge of the geometric bench as the other presses into the wall. You grind back into her, moving your hips up and down, muscles tensing as they had before until you can feel the shake of your senses again, your pulse frighteningly hot as it sparks against your prints, and you find that her slurping is louder and more rapacious. Your breathing rocks against your throat, reaching up to your throat as your nails scrape the cedar, pleading, "Too- Too much, Paku- pretty please." You gulp down your breath as she pulls apart, kissing your pretty pussy, slicked with everything of her and her ministrations of man's mercy.
She pulls away, raising with her grip still tight on you, her hold almost bruising your skin raw as she maneuvers you towards her, helping you as you twitch in her hold, finding her cheeks pinker than before, almost crazed in the heat of the room. Of what she's done to you in proclamation. "You feel better?" You nod, soaking into her front, nude with her until she grips you again, trying to dig your bones into her. A hand of hers pulls you closer, slotting against your cheek and using the breath of you to her liking.
Your eyes find the hue of hers again, blinking blearily as her lips part, soaked in everything of you. She says, too teasing, too low to be anything but a cat's purr around a mouse, “You know if you didn’t offer me that towel, I might’ve just eaten you alive.” You wonder if you’re on your period before she kisses you, deeply and unbridled with that hint of mercy.
when fate fails to receive + Neferpitou/reader (chapter 1)
You were always going to have a bad ending. It’s not that you knew when you were first born, you weren’t told either, not by The Fates from below or a bullet in the sky from Zues. You simply knew your ending before it came. You craved it, is what you’re trying to say, so when you’re presented in front of the king, not as his consort but as his testing subject, you knew it was your ending. It’s ironic, perfectly simulated from before you even heard of the overtaking of your land by this specie to say the least. You were going to die erotic the same way you came forth.
You blink your eyes, not to him, but to refocus on the marble flooring you’re bowed on, facing the floor with your palms to the surface, nails poking one another as the chill becomes warm. You’re used to this position. “I’m-” Your words are trapped, capitulated in your throat as you struggle to find a way to respond- begin to parse the notion of his desire. “I’m sorry, I- I d- can’t fathom why-” “I picked you?” Your face is hot, not so much from embarrassment of not being able to understand or being asked but because you’re an emotional being and you’re bowed before the king, hearing him speak of this conception. “Yes, My King,” you whispered, hushed in your reverie as you wait for him to respond.
He’s not amused, probably didn’t want to go through with this in the beginning, overt from his reaction as he relaxes deeper into his seat before you. “You are from the same place as the Gonggi player, are you not?” Before you can even breath you nod, fingers barely hiding the twist in your gut at the insinuation of his future with her. The poor girl to him, the poor girl to you. “Then it’s simple, I need to make sure it’s plausible and you were the closest one still alive to her, so you’ll be practiced on first.” You don’t know how to react, frozen in the reaction of a fool as you dare to shrink in on yourself. He doesn’t seem to inhabit your response, not waiting a moment before he presses, “Are you proper to continue?” You steel yourself; you nail prodding under one on your other, you swallow whatever was building within you, maybe the despair knowing this was your end, that final wilted petal crumbling from the pollen. The pollen within you as you shut your eyes and lick your approbation from the floor, “Yes, My King, I’ll be or do anything for you.”
You’re stripped to your undergarments, the simple bra of lace barely keeping to your skin of chill, the cotton panties just as loose as the top. You’re in another room, instructed by one of the servants gifting themselves to his castle to strip to the barest of necessity. You wait unlike you have before for this death, your heart tied to a poll left beating out for the air to hit, stricken only with the frost of the winds as you stare to the floor again. There’s nothing off about the room perse, it’s gold and white, soft but firm with color; the sheets you sit on, a top the bed big enough for two, are with sheets that are soft, kind to you whilst you wait for your demise.
It’s all distant but there- it’s all here, where you sit as you still with the dimly lit room, the lack of hospitality met with the harsh carpet below, scrapping your toes and the only other instrument in the room being a bedside table, big enough for a candle and a lamp, and you only wished you had the guts to look inside the drawer. You wonder if you could escape in it- foolish, boarding childish of a sentiment, but it has sentience, maybe of the books you read, there’d be some holy way to escape this destiny. But you’ve always known your own demise would be your body, it’s why you gave yourself away since you were born, tilled the fields until someone deemed you too pretty, until someone touched you for being too pretty. There’s profit, and even here it’s profound. You gave consent; you’ll find something here, get something even if it’s born from your legs.
You tense, unable to stop your eyes from finding the door as it peels open, not even creaking but just heavy as it wafts the outside air of freshness, combined with the stench of rotting life. Life not alive but still there- your life is still here, isn’t it? Has it always been here? “Ah, you’re undressed, good.” They’re tall, not horridly lofty, but taller than the king and most likely you as they let the door close, a few books in hand they’re quick to let find the edge of the bed so close to you. They walk the rest of the distance, keeping in front of you and your shut legs. You think- no, you know they can feel the tremor of your being, how- how utterly terrified you are for no apparent reason besides the unknown. Isn’t that foolish, to think they will harm you as you have harmed animals to eat?
You almost plead with them of what you’ve done, who you’ve been even before the ants came to term, yet even that’s faulty. You couldn’t afford meat, but if left to anywhere but tilling the garden you’d surely eat the blood out of deer, suck it dry as you sobbed form fill for the first time in weeks. That, you know, was the first time the man found you, let others find out of your beauty. That was the first instance, this is the last; your death in the birth of a child. They hum, and you make the grave mistake of attacking their deep eyes with your sporadic ones, fervent in fear as you scoop all around them with eye contact, to the yellow and away to the floor, to the dimness of the walls, the softness of the sheets and how your hands twiddle with them. “Ah, you seem to be scared.” THe emotion, you know, isn’t new to them, but you don’t know how to respond, up until your eyes dart to the door they entered through. How cold is it outside? If you never wanted to pet the deer and tell it your sins, would, by any chance of the Gods, you still be a pearl in the cavern of an oyster?
Their grip on your face is tight, rigid as they dip into the flesh of your cheeks, making you stare into their eyes with that of prey’s terror, unwittingly sewn from your body to their amusement. They make more notes of you, parse more of your being as they pull from your being the information you still unwittingly give. They offer, “No need to be, you’ll feel good.” They smile, but even if it reaches their eyes, stretches the corner of their lips, it’s creepy, dipping in their hues of something unknown, their pupils as if dipped in a high of superiority. They are, of course, superior to you, but you don’t know who else might be, when you ever could’ve been and if you would’ve taken it. Blood, you think, is too gruesome on your hands. You stumble like tripping on rocks with your teeth, “I fear, that’s not why I fear- I mean-” “Hm,” disinterest coats their features, almost in a grimace as they continue, “There’s no need to talk,” they sigh, “But if it makes you feel better go ahead.”
You don’t, or maybe you prepare yourself too as they move to the edge again, picking up one of the first books they find, pulling at the edges for the markers they’ve kept, folded pages on top of other folds, dragging their sharp claw along the imprints of ink. “What…” They don’t acknowledge you, but you continue, “What are the books for, if I may ask…“ They concede their name, like water from a fountain, unwilling without man’s touch, “Neferpitou, you may refer to me as Pitou, if easier though.” The page flips, and so does their attention, slowly dragging their eyes to your figure, your chest whilst their finger swirls around the page. “And they’re the anatomy of you- Your sex, I think.” They don’t let you linger on the notion, letting their hand meet your shoulder as they push you to the head of the bed. You let a jumble of a reaction, a whimper or a gasp, a gargle of the words you don’t know what you would’ve responded with, if you should’ve responded at all, you let the reaction tumble out of you as your head lands to the pillow.
You blink, attention slowly shifting to them with the sound of your head against the pillow as they comment, “I hear sex can make you weaker- the act, not the divot of your thighs, it seems you already are though.” Your face must show enough shock for them to comment, “I think you know I’m saying you have a lot of it.” Your gaze falls back down to the floor, not meeting them as you concede, ”I… I thought you knew of my job before taking me.” They hum as if swirling the thought like wine under their tongue. “I know you have experience in the field; it’s why we were inclined to you. You’re as blubbering as the other human too.” You know who they mean, you don’t comment.
They move to sit on the bed, rounding to the base of it as their knees dip into the softness, one hand still on the book and most likely studying the figure, setting it beside you on the bare space as they move their hands to part your thighs around them. You quickly ask, if, at the very least, to facilitate your beating heart. “Aren’t all humans when compared to you? To the species of you.” They stall for a moment, looking up at you as you lay beneath them, supposedly relaxed in the bed though bare- naked in trust as you wait for them to prod at you without knowing where they’re start, even with the widest, clearest of eyes, you fear their knowing to your not. “That’s true, I presume, but some are haughty, some are indifferent.” Their touch moves again, ghosting above your chest as your fingers twiddle on the sheets below ad nauseam. “Some,” their voice is deep in devotion, though you don’t- will never presume to you as they find their fingers cupping your chest, prodding at the flesh before their hand encompasses the softness, letting their thumb graze your nipple whilst your gasp grasps their air. “You don’t have enough courage for that.”
It happens again, your voice carries in the room to their ears; you can’t stop your nerves from finding your tongue, “Is that a good thing?” Your voice is breathy, not entirely soft but maybe edging on the side of gentle caution in the rough side of the Rocky Mountains, that’s to say your voice is always rough with fear, always on the edge of a rock as you don’t know what the future holds, how it holds you. Their touch is as gentle as your voice, letting their hand tentatively scrape against the flesh before their fingers toy with the fabric of your bra, slipping underneath as if an expert, and their nails come to graze your flesh even more, your toes twisting in the sheets below. “I don’t know what good would be, but in this situation I suppose you could call it submission. It’s a necessity in the bedroom. You had a lot of customers, right?”
Their other hand moves from the book’s ink to your stomach, trailing around the dip in your side to the spine of your back. Their touch so sharp, nails so teasing you arch up into them, unable to touch due to their height over you as they find the band keeping your bra onto your skin. It’s relief that finds you when they part, sit back for their pedantic gaze to lap you up. Their hand removes the garment, your arms moving for the removal to be seamless, hands back by your sides, finding the sheets so they can have your body at their will. They don’t let their gaze fall to your eyes again, not yet as they take in the pebbling bud to your neglected breast. They’re attentive in their assessment, gliding their thumb against it before leaning down with only a gander at the page one last time.
Your fingers thread through your lips, nails bitten by your teeth as their warm mouth encompasses you. It’s a notion not long forgotten, the way they adapt like a fight in the wild, their other fingers toying with the bud not wettened with their lips. They suck against it, your back arching up into them whilst your own fingers soak in the desire ebbing out of the shake of your fingers. Tension eats away as their ministrations continue, their breath fans on your body, their hands massaging at any flesh they can get, the hand not used, toying with your sides, nails twisting against the skin as they trace your hip bone time and again, not letting the flimsy fabric stop them as they adjust your hips to theirs, still not touching from their rounded back. You don’t seem to care too much, lapping up what they do, parting with a kiss to your bud, spit connecting their lips before they move to your other breast, licking at the tension they plucked from it, letting their hand surround the pooling fat.
Your body continues to wind against theirs, strain as your knee knocks into the side of their body, only grazing but enough for their ees to peek open at the notion of your pain. They hum against your nipple, slowly letting their mouth widen as their tongue slides against your bud once or twice more. Their hand comes to take your wrist, moving it out of the way above your head, their body above yours completely swallowing it as they rest above you. “Lips can be very pleasurable for both parties; don’t take yours away.” Before you can respond with more than a pathetic nod, they swoop down, as quick as they were, as silent and collected as when pushing you to the mattress, and they kiss you.
It’s more like a bite of their lips against your, a swallowing of the softness as they take your lips into theirs. You try your best to guide them as they tug theirs against yours, soft in your incline against them, the way you move your head with theirs, reaching up to nudge their cheek with your nose, letting your tongue slither into their cavern of stalactites. Their tongue is prodding, not adept in anything but greed as they prod and capitulate everything of your mouth like breathing and the pleasure of your own saliva not theirs tainted of metal and words of sanctimony. You choke when thy prod too far back, using your lax hand to press at their own hip, successfully cautioning them of your weakness to this action as they pull back, now with a mix of saliva catching them to you. It drips and you grasp at the gasp of air you can take. “You’re very sweet,” they comment, moving their hand away from your wrist to the book. “Did you eat something before?”
You blink blearily, letting your eyes rest in darkness as the book thuds away from them, most likely taking another by your feet as you relay, “Pineapple- fruit in general, the juice of drinks or the corporeal essence, provide supple nectar to the body. I have the fortune of knowing the best breeding grounds for them.” They hum in response, setting another book down as they spread your legs, pressing the backs up to you as you grapple with the action, eyes wide as you target them with your gaze. “You have a lot of knowledge.” They don’t let themselves stray from your pussy, letting one hand keep a leg apart, guiding the other to your care of hand as they let their own trail to your pussy.
It’s there, again, that anticipation of the unknown turning to the known, yet even as they let their fingers find your clit, barely letting pressure lay upon the bud, you strain with anticipation, fingers clawing into the skin of your thigh. They pay you no mind, no heed as they continue to glance form the book to your hearth. “Have you written a book?” Your brows furrow in confusion, and even if you know they are not conciliating you this way, you’re still inclined into softening at the distraction, maybe even letting their languid rubs to your clit, as they press a bit further for a gasp, a reaction solely hearth-related, give you pleasure. It’s not like you have a choice, but here in this room, with the dim lights and the books, you think, parse that you do. Delusions, delusions. “A book of what?” You heave when they slip their finger, tentatively missing their nails to the softness of you, how slick you become when they slip between your folds, their eyes widening at the heat that drips from your entrance.
They respond finally, looking up to you briefly as they toy with your wetness, sticky and lubing their fingers for their next act. Their next act. “Your knowledge of this act. You should make one for the king, since I understand you’re too skilled in pleasure compared to the doctors.” Your thighs twitch, their eyes briefly sweeping over them as their hues dip back to your folds. You feel the tension of trepidation unable to conceal, not even hiding the way your hands itch to their ministrations, trying to stop them with a hand reaching just as enough of your essence is covering their nail, their finger as you squeal in warning, “Wait your cl-” Your eyes roll back, you hips rolling into them immediately after their finger moves into you, stretching you to their knuckles and the fat of their finger.
They snicker, their hand moving to grip yours, most likely to inhibit the action of stopping them again, tough you doubt you’d do anything but annoy them, or maybe they’ve afraid of hurting you as they focus on your pleasure. “My claws can retract.” You let out a breath of a relieved response as their hand comes to rest on your stomach, fingers still looped with yours as their eyes go back to the book. Their brows deepen in a furrow, moving their thumb to your clit as your toes curl, a whine wafting through the air from the way they rub against your bud. “This is the sensitive part, right?” You nod your head, moaning again when their finger starts to move inside of you, the ridges of their knuckles grinding against your gummy walls. Their brows stayed furrowed however, their finger twisting inside of you until you have to ask, “Is there something wrong?” You’re breathy, unable to focus much without a heaving chest from the pleasure they give you. They don’t respond immediately until they hum in return. “There’s something more, right? The spot- G spot?”
You huff in realization, instructing carefully, squeezing their hand to gain their eyes to your own. “Curl your knuckle- really deep. It’s different for every- Ah!” Your head cries against the pillow, arching with your back as your eyes squeeze shut. Neferpitou returns their gaze to your entrance, stalling not for a moment as they continue to rub on your clit. They let their finger nudge against the spot, tracing the texture with their pointer before they withdraw the finger almost entirely, prodding back inside and getting used to curling their knuckle upon entering you. It’s starting to echo, the patten they enact on you, swirling generously against your velvet before moving their finger deeper- and deeper until it’s enough for them to stick to your special spot deep within.
Then, they prod at your entrance the moment their finger comes close enough to leaving, moving another shortened nail to your entrance, slipping with much resistance with the wetness of you. Their finger ends up under their original, their fingers moving into you slowly as they curl up into you. They seem pleased, maybe a bit stunned again as they move their fingers deeper, trying to meet your spot again, your toes curling and chest heaving a parched moan from you. Once their fingers poke at that deep spot of you, the pull themselves back again, momentarily plunging back in before pulling out and repeating the process, their thumb still drawing a picture against your clit.
“You’re alarmingly wet- and tight. Are you sure-” You don’t know if you can handle them talking anymore, asking you of all people a question when you’re drowning in pleasure that they can’t seem to comprehend is deluging you. You bite off their sentence with an understanding of the concept just like they did yours of their nails, “I am a sex worker, would you just-” Your breath catches again, forced out of your throat when the sopping of you gains sentience. “You’re big,” you relay though a bit reluctant. They catch you again, gain your eyes with, not as much haughtiness as men usually have when with you, not woman though, they’re usually the ones who want you to be gentle with them, maybe a bit gentler than Pitou, but still not as mean as the men. Is it okay to call them gentle?
“That’s something to take into account.” Your breath out a furrow of your brows, spurring them on to trail off, “If my hands…” You take it as they lick, your face falling with the realization, hand momentarily fidgeting against your thigh. “You mean…” You, unwittingly, let your gaze trail down their clothes, not letting yourself trail between them, but down to the wetness of your hearth. It’s starting to heat up like water boiling, the steam raising over as you as they refuse to stave off the notion of your pleasure with their conversation. The water comes to ahead slowly, rising past your skin of body to the heat of your face, heaving without a catch to your tongue of bait, “Fucking ants.” Then, almost immediately after you still to retract, “Oh, sorry.” They seem more amused, as if fuel to the fire- your slick, really as they hum out, “It’s cute really- your reactions are all cute.” Then they lean down, softly, to your clit and you feel the heat of water rather than steam start to find place as their pace increases unlike a human’s- well, they aren’t, so it fits like you do against them. You aren’t supposed to.
The moan singes your lungs together, weighing down and lighting you up as your thighs twitch, fingers weak against the coil of pleasure you feel slithering through your veins. “I’m gonna-” “Cum?” Again, they cut you off, but this time there’s proof of how right you are, not just the air in the vicinity as they move to lick at your clit, wrist flexing and pressing deeply against your spot, as if they’ll be able to push past and give you that painful pleasure as you cum- hard with your hands gripping anything, their hand and the sheets that the king owns. You, oddly, think to thank him before you drop your back to the bed again, thighs shaking when they raise their fingers to their lips. They lick, eyes widening a fraction before their thumb comes back to your clit when it pulses in recuperation.
When you groan in response, they query the obvious, “That’s oversensitive now?” When you nod, you expect them to return to the book, but instead, as if possessed by something unclear to you -what would wheedle this being not like yours into something so sensual- they dive into you, your clit whilst your hands unwittingly dive into their white waves in return. It’s sharp, the hiss you let out, but it’s also nothing that strays them, grabbing onto your thighs and keeping your part for them as they slurp against your clit. They lick at it, letting their lips suction around the bud as they swathe it from you, and before their name even tickles your vocals they move down, dipping into the hearth of you for your entrance still leaking out bits of you. It’s the same sensitivity, curdling your organ as they let their tongue dive deep, scope out every notion of you from the inside.
You wonder if this is how the king wanted you to be, if this is a part of the study of you and in return what the king wants from humans alike, or just that one as the thought leaves you or the pillow, your sob of their name finding them, spurring them on in a sense like lighting a flame, putting it out with gasoline. They move up you again, to the bit of you that’s been toyed with by their lips before, again latching onto the bundle of nerves, but this time focusing their attention on parting you to the air to, shoving your legs further up. It’s not long until you feel something more grind into you, until you feel a searing white hit your eyes, shutting your lids. You scream without meaning to, “Nefer- Pitou!” Their name is what trails in the room after you cum, their tongue not stopping until they find your essence further inside, burrowed on their tastebuds as part from you, licking their lips as you lay crumbled underneath them.
You don’t open their eyes as they prepare themselves to enter you, the third book found as the second is dropped, uncaring for the spirit within. They ask after a moment of riding themselves, “It’s different for everyone?” You grumble a hum, their response immediate, “Your sentence; you didn’t finish it.” Your mind’s fuzzy like the decanting of water and the bubbles that raise as you think, digging into the heat of your head, the lightness of the clouds. “The spot’s higher for some and lower for others. Mine’s a bit tilted, I think, I’m… I’m not sure.” They comment in response, “Ah, you’re getting weaker as you cum, right? That’s what this is?” When you nod, letting their bare highs find the backs of yours. “Meaning, your stamina can be built through repetition, right?” You nod again, slowly letting your eyes adjust to the ceiling above as you give, “Sure, with another.” Their brows furrow, tone of incredulousness pulling you to them. “Another, why?”
You take a breath, too lost in the pleasure they gave you at the orders of another to care for much sustenance of your mind to your lips, “You’re… with too much stamina, Neferpitou.” They huff, moving one hand to your unclothed hip- when did that happen- more importantly, is it shredded? Their other finds their length, something you do not stare at, find comfort in knowing. An oddity considering the betrayal you once felt from your ignorance. You’re content with it now: that blissfulness. “Well, that’s all the more why I need to train you like this-” The notion of repetition isn’t lost on you, the notion you’re a thing will never leave you, even long before this, so you hear ignore that until they continue, “The King will be pleased to find out what you speak of.” You take a breath, not to respond but to at least prepare yourself for the entrance of them until you feel the tip already prod at you. Your shock finds the ceiling then them as they focus on where you meet.
Their name tickles your vocals again, but it’s lost just as your exclamation before fingering you was as they push into your tight organ, your open opening in a silent cry, warbled as you grip the sheets, chest rocking with the pained pleasure they give you. There’s too much entering you, too much girth, too many veins and the tip of them is enough for you to shake with apprehension as you feel it squirm into you, their hips pressing until it can pop in, and once it’s done, there’s no stopping in sight. Their length fills even your bones, you dare exclaim, fingers toying with theirs on your hip. They allow you that much comfort, though you don’t know if you should find it in their touch when you mean to shove them off. As if knowing your reluctance to continue even if the king were screaming at you, they lick at their already damp fingers, letting the prints swirl against your velvet, pulsing with blood as your thighs shake, a moan shaking from the softness of your lips as you take a breath. One that fails you as they reach deep into you- you cum again, letting the blinding heat attack every bit of you, from your toes to the strands of your hair as you turn against the pillow, burned with the sensation of them splitting you in two, yet filling you whole at the same time.
There’s a moment of silence, a moment as their fingers trail from your slit for reprieve, and then you feel their grip return to your skin, move against your flesh as if in massage, mock a gentle action for their own gain, which is so ingratiatingly human. You hear a page turn, their fingers toying with the weight of them inside you’ve yet to look at, still blearily focusing on the ceiling with fading lids and a mind that’s not yours anymore, that’s the air’s. Then you hear a beath from them that akin to triumphant realization. As if proving you more right without words, they tug you around, slow but calculated until you’re flipped immediately onto your front, their hands tugging your hips up as they push back in the bit of them that left you. You cry into the covers, hand moving back and barely tickling their hip bone as they surround your legs with their own.
Before moving, they respond verbally as if you’re an afterthought to be included in this act, informed of it. At least you’re informed. “They say this position is best-” Then they tug themselves from you, barely, nominally, an action that could be called an accident even though you both know it’s in test of their strength to your weakness. “Best-” you heave, “For what?” They answer after a moment, an adjust to the grip on your hips with their nails toying at the seams of your bones. “Breeding.” It’s not ice water per se, it’s not- it’s nothing you didn’t already know. Procreation, however, is what you knew without the act of this, without the teas and the papayas and the active prayers to the Gods. You gasp it out to them, parrot it as they supplant their voice with their hips, “Breed- ah.”
Your eyes roll back, time and again your eyes seem to like the action when with Neferpitou. Your hand is still pushing against them but loses itself in the plunge of themself back into you. It’s tight, it’s messy and it’s oh-so hot as you feel them tug themselves in and out of you, barely able to move unless they move a little force against you. Your ankles cross in response to their actions, their strength having too much of an effect on you, how they’ve cared for you and are carrying you in these sheets, pressing into your hips with the tentative sound of theirs. You can feel them reach depths you’ve never known others to find as they edge only their hips into you, pressing and barely acknowledging the way you try to stop them with the tap against their hip.
They care more about this action, about getting something from you and in turn you them as you’re slowly losing your composure to the sheets. Your chest rubs against the soft cotton, your back aching in an arch whilst their hands hold your hips up. It’s slow, but your decent into insanity is nothing if not ostensible. You feel your mind slip from you, the kiss of their dick against your depth met with such sticky resolve that you can’t stop it as your hand comes to find theirs on your hip. Your head finds the pillow, uncaring as your lips take as much air as you can from the softness. They’re intrigued by the at of closeness to you- the hand, that is, your fingers of work finding theirs of different work, but both built, hinging like an irascible door hinge, on devotion, the desire of it to one.
They laugh, “You’re a cute human for me.” And it’s met with a kiss to your pulse, them bending into you and uncaring for the depth they reach -too fucking deep- into you when all you craved was a hand to hold. It’s embarrassing, the fourth time a liquid has been cajoled out form you simply by their presence alone, but it happens again- you cum from their lips this time, even if they do not touch your clit, even if it’s their length that spears you, you swear their love of your gentleness is what makes your toes curl, thighs clench and entrance squeeze them for all they know. You think you obtain knowledge when you lose yourself in the pillow- still held by their hands on your hips, bruising when they realize it’s happening again. Instead of caring to stop for you, like they never have, they guide you through it with their own orgasm, pulling your hips against theirs, letting your pussy tug with theirs, so sticky and so hedonistic that when they cum, you know for a fact it surpasses the extent of you when you scream out form the fulling of their split into you.
They don’t move; you don’t think they can as they let their hand move to your stomach, the spurts inside of your diving deep from the angle. It’s uncomfortable, but the pressure finds you with their nails toying on the flesh of your stomach. You don’t have to wonder why when they breath, “Oh, I didn’t realize there was an indent.” Your consciousness finds their touch on you while you move keeled over, slowly finding the poke of them on your tummy, staring right at you in torment. Oh indeed.
They slowly peel from you once they feel like it, maybe once the cum has found the deepest bits of you, pulling back to rest you on the comforter gently. You sigh from it, the ability to relax as you slowly let your eyes peel open, back to the door you first found them at. “May I ask another question, Neferpitou?” They grant you a hum of approbation, your fingers, again like before any of this, even during this, find the sheets to twiddle as you query, “Why did you have me cum so much?” They move to pick up the books, fully clothed by the time they crouch to get the remainder of the souls on the floor. You watch them, wait to hear them, idle. “He has an interest in pleasing procreation. It’s said you can tell when a child will be grand by the act of sex in humans- this type of sex can be the eponym of a child; the good life they’ll have, and most likely give them better prospects to know pleasure and love come from the home.” Your brows lift in enlightenment. You parrot, “Love?” They look to you, affirming, “Between him and her, of course.”
Between him and her- They have love, and for that love, whether she knows or not, you are here on the bed of no one’s having been gently loved for her. Gently, you have been touched the way you wanted to, harbored in these halls of the king. “Then…” You take a breath, moving onto your side and uncaring for the wetness that always finds you between your thighs. “Is that it?” They look down to you like before, pausing for a moment on your features to garner an answer, “We’ll have to have more sessions; I’ve yet to gather all the information… pleasing to me.” “To you?” The query is unanswered, they don’t comment, and you’re with their cum in you, with potential. For the first time in your life, it feels, you have potential. How sad is this death to you?
You feel warmth before you wake your eyes. It’s fuzzy, the blankets silky against your smooth skin, but you conscious no matter how fuzzy clings onto the warmth of the sun shining from the wide windows surrounding your penthouse view. It’s a random job Chrollo’s doing, so you expect to wake without him, but you’re getting fairly exhausted by his intention of work. Sure, you might be naked in your bed, awaiting him to return, but he didn’t. The perfect man you’re dating hasn’t returned for twelve hours, long after he promised, so your naked reverie does little to quell the dissatisfaction brewing under your skin.
You open your eyes with a rub of your knuckles, moving to sit onto your knees as you let the sun gulp down every inch of your bare figure. The sheets leave nothing to the imagination, pooling over your feet as you stretch, groaning at the chill of your muscle. You stare the wide windows down, moving to stand with a leg slipping sideways off of the edge you laid. It’s breathtaking, freeing to be so high and peer over those you commingle with. You’ll be back soon, make some changes soon, but you’re up now. Is it bad you crave to be down? “Good morning.” Your eyes widen, immediately directed to Chrollo fresh out of the shower. His hair’s not damp, perfectly styled for the day, but he’s only wearing a towel around his muscled skin.
It’s a good morning now, but you won’t let him know that. You deadpan. “When did you get home?” He shrugs. “Last night.” “How late last night,” you ask, turning with a cross to your arms. He doesn’t let his eyes dip, raising a brow and cocking his head as he replies, “Not long after you tumbled into Sleepville.” You cock on in return. “Sleepville?” He lets a laugh slip against his teeth, airy as he finishes, “You always knock out like a light; I wasn’t going to disturb your needed rest or do things without your permission.” You roll your eyes, moving to the sheets exasperated. “Well, the things you didn’t do to me, have made me irritable.”
He hums, watching you and trying to hold your eyes with his, intrigued, amused. “Irascibly horny, you mean?” You don’t respond, moving to dip back into the sheets, knees delving into the softness before the sheet wraps around your back. You try to move onto your back, letting your legs slide back before you, but Chrollo never lets your eyes shut before his touch finds you. “Baby,” he calls, his palm against the dip of your back. Your eyes shut without acknowledging him. He pokes again with a lilt of his voice, “My sleeping beauty.” This time, he dips to kiss your shoulder, your hand moving to shove him off, but he catches it, making sure his full lips mark your pulse, his teeth teasing the lines as he finally grabs your pouty attention. “You gonna let me make it up to you,” he inquires, your glare only defining like sharpened ice, crystal clear that you are not going to respond.
He hums, calculating your behavior, before biting your wrist, delicate yet still with a sting to your bone as you pull to sit on your side, like a mermaid holding your marred wrist. “Chrollo!” He comes closer, encircling you with his hands dipping beside you. “Rude-” His nose bumps against yours, guiding your lips to his slowly, giving you enough time to pull away for further revenge, but you never do. Instead, you glide into his lips, brows still furrowed but softening as his lips slowly guide yours into eating him. As if this were his punishment, albeit he enjoys it too much, you do as he wants, gulping down every bite of his lips with your own. It’s nice, to glide against him and feel him be suffocated with you, how he takes it and even presses back into yours before letting his lips linger in the tug of your bottom teeth.
It’s soft and kind, passion mixing between your teeth as if Aphrodite were tickling your hair, pushing you into him with your hands clinging onto the strong muscles of his arms, clinging up with the graze of your nails before you can claw into the ghostly skin of his shoulders, the muscle like dough as you mark him as yours, yours tongue swiping against the tug to his bottom lip. He’s the one though, that dives back into your lips, tongue first to anchor you back into the sheets, your head resting prettily on the pillow as your breath is stolen by each want of his, your brows furrowing in consideration of your squeezed lungs as a hand of yours moves to his hair, tickling the edges that cling to his neck. The shivers that wrack through him pull him from your lips, but not before he pecks you lingering in the wet bruises before he rests his head against yours. “You always taste so sweet in the morning-”
You grumble a whine, “Chrollo-” He pulls away, letting his hands slowly move from beside your head as he immediately kisses down to your neck, even more lingering as he pulls at your hips. “Nuh-uh, I’ve yet to get a full taste of you yet.” His breath is shallow, eyes wide and pleading as he looks from your chest, teeth grazing your when he proposes, “Let me take care of what I irritated, hm?” As if addicted to tasting any naturally wet bit of you, the moment you give your nod, his infectious, coy smile glides into your skin, kissing down to peck each of your nipples, swirling his tongue and teeth in tease, lapping up the pebbling buds alternatively. Each moment you’re left without reprieve until his hands grind down on your hip’s flesh, digging into every bit of soft skin he can grasp as his kisses move down your stomach without a real pattern. You just know the moment he reaches your mons pubis, he’s drunk again, like the cool glass warms his hand into sweating, even the aroma, the clang of the glass is peremptory.
Your insides must call to him as a siren, nothing in the way he moves or the way you gasp from his sudden addiction, deters him in his desire, his addiction into you. He grasps onto your hips, moving your thighs over his shoulders as he presses into you, letting his tongue slide up your folds, parting them like wrapped food. As if he wants your mercy, your forgiveness in his sick selfishness of your pleasure, he focuses on your clit, laving with quick flicks of his tongue, refusing to relent as your back arches, hips digging into the mattress below you, your body stappled to him in his arm’s stability.
Sensitivity decants from his tongue up to our lips when he doesn’t stop, when he shakes his head against his, moves to kiss and swathe his tongue around your bud beating against his tongue. It’s like a punching bag, like the Preist has refused to accept the worship at someone’s altar. You feel Holy, oddly, as he digs into you, like retribution has found you for wanting a desire and having to wait even a moment to spot his pretty greyed eyes beneath you, below you tugging at your clit, moving with precision enough to get your first orgasm to tangle in your toes, shaking your ankles in pure satisfaction as you succumb to the sheets, grasping the silk before your heat explodes, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs, pulling and stretching them absentmindedly as he loses himself yet against to your pussy.
It’s the hottest craze of alcohol when he relents with a slurp, only succumbing lower to the testament of your entrance, wettened and dripping in his favorite satisfaction. You can barely get a breath out before it pitches into a moan from his tongue slithering into you, grasping at the edges of your cum, your taste deluging onto his textured tongue as he curls against you, jutting his tongue in and out until he slowly takes nothing form you. This is where his selfishness comes in as your body ignites to the sun’s light, your voice reaching the ceiling when his desire far outweighs yours. You could ask him to stop, plead, but until you make it clear that there is nothing left in your desire for him, that you truly are done, he’s not stopping.
It’s foolish to think he was ever trying to gain your mercy or affection, plead his case to a jury when the jury was all waiting for the green to float from his wallet. It’s foolish to think he can hear your pleas of overstimulation as your hips start to pull away from him, his arm weighs like a detrimental decision ono your stomach, crossing you as a seatbelt before his other fingers torture you with his attention to detail. He afflicts your clit, already soft and malleable, to his maneuvers, swirls down to your wetness seeping from his sloppy slurping of your essence, before greedily using the supply between your messy thighs to aid your clit’s presence.
Searing- it’s searing when he softly applies pressure to the perfect extent, pulling our yet more echoes of pleasure from you. It’s not matter when you try to close your thighs around him or when you try to squirm away from him, Chrollo refuses to let his addiction go, as if you’re afflicting him with your desire for reprieve. He’s making you come to fast, and if he does this, he’ll not even stop to care for the deluge to the sheets. He’s determined to make you responsible for his pleasure of you, and it burgeons deep inside of you, his glare of petulance, his immoveable grip on any soft bit of you, the way his tongue refuses to stop the assault to your walls- It all burgeons until you feel the seeds start to sow into your eyes.
His tongue swirls your entrance once he feels you’re close, plunging back inside though this time faster, no leisure in his desire to make you cum as you start to cry from it, cry from how deeply devoted he is to your before you can feel the different patterns he draws on your clit, each letter distinct as he moves his hand up- up- up to your chest, letting his thumb flick a bud continuously- again for his pleasure as you unwittingly grind your hips down onto his tongue. It’s wet- messy- sloppy- some other adjective that you can feel take your body with some heat as if the sun’s attention to you was more than the morning but every bit of night too. Your finger’s flight to his hair is instinctual until you’re gripping the orgasm out of him too, wetting the sheets further until you can feel him slowly subside, follow the grip of his hair like a tug of his heart string as your other hand finds his shoulder just as before.
You don’t let him kiss again, not with the heat slowly leaving you to singe him. The agitated huff of your lips only breathes life into that simper of his. Instead of that kiss from before, you’re the one to bite into him first, shove him roughly into you and force your lips to swathe every bit of yourself from his teeth. He relinquishes wittingly, moaning as you scrape against the skin of his shoulder, dig into the soft hair on his head. You part with a string and breath of determination. With a swirl of your tongue to your top lip, you agree, “You are right, I taste good.” He sighs shakily, brows creasing in affirmation as his eyes flitter between yours, “Divine,” he continues, “like heaven if it could ever grasp your divinity.” You stumble over words, haughty with his heat, “Your tongue might just be as good out of me as within.” He dives down to kiss your cheek, your fingers already finding space around his neck. “I enjoy the latter more.”
The whisper only makes your eyes roll, letting that hide your ever-growing affection for him before you make a firm decision, slowly letting your hands drop to the tautness of his chest, calling, pushing, “I want it from the back, this time. Your face’s deluged with too much entertainment.“ His smirk only grows wider, much to your abashedness, before he grabs you up against him. “Anything for you.” He maneuvers you around, guiding your hips with his, dick right between you two, gently, as your knees kneel between his. He starts with kissing against your shoulders, ghosting whilst savoring the soft flesh slowly relaxing underneath his touch. Even though he’s not between your thighs anymore, he finds a way to your hearth, letting his touch linger on your hip before the other slips down against your waist, tickling the flesh like a ghost and their living lover as he finds your mound again, not even daring to hide his need for it when he comes into contact with the sensitive bud of you.
You’re sue you moan, but you don’t even think your legs twitching or grip tightening on the sheets causes him even a bit of pleasure to his tip as he moans against your shoulder, breathy with desire of Aphrodite as he shuts his eyes. His touch doesn’t linger, frozen, on your skin for long, the grip to your hip massaging to your tummy, moving past that to your waist as if a seatbelt to his antics. His thumb grazes under your breast, letting the digit tickle it as he starts swiping against your velvet bud, encased in so much wet you bet even his tongue would slip on it. He builds you with his touch, a pant against your skin as he continues kissing, mauling the slip of your skin as he digs his face into the crevice of your neck and shoulder. You let your hands find his hair again, a shared favorite between the two of you as you slowly grind against his palm, delicate yet sharp against your clit, wetness pooling out between your thighs like the echo of stalactites to a cave’s floor.
You moan with him as your fingers wind in his hair, tighter when you massage the surface you tugged. You moan his name; he responds with a hum of amusement enough to light the conduit of a canon .It stretches deep within you, the way he ingrains his desire for you in your bones, as if there were no other thing he’d do, if it could pay, if there were a metal for who could devour you fastest without even a hint of wanting to stop, needing to, he’d win in every way set. It’s teasing and pulling at you, the way he lets his fingers gently take you, slip down against your folds but not between them, easing you with his rhythm before nuzzling his face with his own. There’s that hint again, that digs at you, and you dig at him in return, daring to moan in jest, right against his jaw you gnaw on, “Ah, Boss.” You feel it before you hear it, the way his jaw strains and his digits jolt for a mere moment, and then there’s that groan lodged in the back of his throat, not in warning perse but admission of his like to the title. You feel the smile stretch your lips, but you never do get to laugh completely, the words founded in the lost bit of you, how you could’ve hazed, you like, when I call you boss, hm, how you could’ve been like him.
His fingers take every bit of you, his hand grasping at the breast that hasn’t been completely devoured by his desire as you writhe against him, hips jutting into his palm as he kisses your cheek again, letting your eyes fall to the drip between your thighs as he licks at your ear with his words, “I thought you were particularly whiny for me.” He doesn’t pause his ministrations, no part of him breaks from your pleasure as your hands cramp, crumble from him. You’re not able to grip his hair, instead choosing to let them fall to his hand against you, the other poking at his bent thigh as your thighs threaten you with the overstimulation of your hearth. “Maybe you want to be under me like this, hm, let me take you all over the world and eat- be served between your thighs like the sun to the grass.” You can feel it calling in your blood, the way he speaks to you, the way he groans and moans, the way his hands are just perfect or dare you say the way you know he’ll cry if you let him part from you, refuse to let him make you cum, crumble with him a top or below, just somewhere near your hearth.
“Chrollo-” You don’t know what happens first, what bites off your tongue first, his throaty laugh of words or your whiny pitch of shaking. “I bet it feels really nice- so nice you’re going to cum so hard for me, right? Cum so hard for your strong overworked boyfriend?” It’s harsh, the reality of what pours out between your straining thighs, incapable of stopping his ministrations even as you yell for him to calm down. He continues to breath against you though, instructing you with his own pants of desire against your ear. It comes crashing down and he follows you, molds you against him even as you squirm and screech from the refusal to let his fingers stop, up until you dig your nails into his wrist, his fingers so sloppy and pruned holding onto yours, letting you calm for a moment before it comes again from your own fingers- rubbing with his instruction against your clit, teasing down the squirting before you rip your grip from him, leaning completely onto his front. “Chrollo,” you think you cry.
He doesn’t hum in tease anymore, he kisses you and holds onto your middle as he prompts, “Too much, baby?” You take a moment, drained of taunting for a heave of your chest as you shake your head against him. He moves his one arm, grabbing something before shifting you back with him, urging you forward as you eyes peel open to the bed in front of you, bare of the pillow where you head once lay. “Your hips can rest on his,” he elucidates as he gently lets you rests below him, his lips once again coming to your back, though this time they trail to your spine, stopping when his hands need to adjust your hips on the pillow. You warn, almost afraid he’ll go back between your thighs, but it’s weak, it’s waned, “Chrollo.” He snickers, you still don’t have the energy to rebuke, btu it does fuel your fists in cramping against the sheets. “Honey, I’m staved off for now. We need to leave in a few so this is the perfect breakfast.” He sits up behind you, your legs still between his as he lines his length up with you.
Somehow a condom was retrieved, but you can still feel the heat of it, the wetness of his fingers having clawed onto you and now stroking onto him as he lets his tip slip up against your wetness, catching on your hole that twitches in trepidation of him. He makes no comment, one hand still squeezing onto your hip, this time in reassurance as he slowly lets his rubbered mushroom prod into you. It’s hot and wet and slimy and his dick is hard as he presses into you. It’s still tight, it’s always tight but it’s as if you’re letting boiling water waft steam at you; overwhelming as much as it is copacetic. That feeling, you fear, may never be too much when it comes to him, when it comes to how big his girth is when it breaks into you. You hear his groan but don’t notice as he stares down to where you meet, your hands grip into the sheets loudly, you think they might rip from underneath the mattress, the hand once on his girth now migrating to one of your wrists, letting his thumb prod onto the back of your hand, his other four feeling the beat of your rising heart.
It strikes you everywhere, engulfs you everywhere- the pleasure he gives you as he slowly grinds into you, his length so much, too much that your feet twitch, ankles crossing with a whine of overwhelming despair in your desire to him. Still, he makes no comment, most likely his addiction just as overwhelming as your overstimulation. Regardless, once you’re both connected, his hips on yours, his other hand slips to your lower back, barely letting the heat of you engulf him fully before he’s tugging out halfway, prodding back in to reach that special spot, kissing it as he has your lips, swathing you in pleasure that makes your feet jolt up nominally. Your chin rests on the bed, eyes finding your skull as his hand traps yours, clamping down after alleviating the pressure to your lower back.
You can barely whine, his lips to your head, poking by your ear as he instructs, “I know it’s deep, but you need to breath deep for me- that’s the only way I’m fucking you.” You choke on his words, throat swallowing back every bite of complaint as you moan loudly, breathily when you feel him slowly start rocking into your special spot, massaging the gummy texture before he decides you’re getting adjusted. He praises, so pleased with you it makes his lips strain in gratitude, “There’s my good girl.” A moan capitulates your lungs as you struggle to take the pace of him, his hips slamming down to your raised ones. It’s wet and messy, the sounds you hear echoing in the bedroom too big for the two of you, the sun still angering your senses as your hand flexes underneath him, your other wrist straining in its stead as he focuses on your pleasure with him, his pleasure inside of you.
You don’t even have a moment before it builds deep within you, before it starts to tickle your toes, singe your veins with so much power of desire that you struggle to breath, struggle to comprehend how long it’s been before he dives back down to kiss over your shoulder, his moans so loud it sounds as if an alarm rings inside of you. And it does, in a sense, that heat building in your hearth, lit by a Goddess herself as you recall his fingers, his attention to you, the slip of your velvet and bud, the way he refuses to stop, and the way he kisses you- takes you as he likes because it is as you prefer alongside him. Your legs squirm against the fabric again, and this time he gives you a reaction, a heave and then the split of his lips over your shoulder, but this time there’s a dulled pressure, a dig into your soft skin as you feel your thighs clench, your entrance squelching too much as the lava pours from you, this time your shaking forgotten for the loudest moan into the sheets you’ve ever made, Chrollo pulsing into you before you feel the weight the condom catches, the cries that tear from you as he slowly lets the two of you down from your highs.
When he’s rid himself of his condom, he’s pulling you up with soft words, leaning back so you can rest in his lap while recharging, soaking into him while he massages your skin again. “Do you want to know something?” You mumble, eyes still shut against his neck, “Hm, what is it?” He leans against your ear, whispering, “I did my fortune, and you came up.” Your eyes blink open, suddenly replenished without a sip of water as you let a rhetorical slip from your stunned lips, “I’m sorry?” His eyes flit between yours, taking them in with his own. “It said a star is very lonely without the world.” Your brows furrow, and his simper is back, but this time gentler, this time it’s him. “So you’re my world?” “You shine so much onto me you’ve singed me as your own, sweetheart, there’s no rescinding me now.” You slip back into him silently, your touch finding his fingers with yours, his lips your forehead. Meant to be. “Like I’d ever want to.”
You feel her before her arms take your waist. They wrap around you and tug you back into her, you’re so used to it by now your lungs know to expand before you hit her chest. She likes you like this, as close as possible, firmly against her with her fingers against your skin. You’re not wearing anything special; it’s actually midday and you’re still in your pajamas. Her work shirt and your panties, technically a present from her for her own birthday last year. She got a few, so this is one of the many you wear daily.
Today isn’t her birthday but her family is coming over for a feast. There’s some game going on, some festival you haven’t quite extrapolated. You’ve only lived with Arlecchino after marriage for two years, if that, and every day is different, every day begs another piece of your cells for a task they speak. You’re going to cook a few things for her kids when they return, then they’ll help you with foods that don’t take half the day to prepare or cook. You’re making a dressing right now, knowing it can’t be too spicy, nor too mild or you’d never entertain it. Arlecchino would cook with you, but she’s busy cleaning as you flip through the recipe books she’s given you. Most aren’t passed down, but there are a few communal ones that have found their way to your prints, and the one you’re using now is for the thing roasts in the oven. You don’t know what animal it is, and you won’t ask.
It’ll be tasty, and naivety is enough for your teeth to rot happily. You feel her lips graze your neck and you dip down, only your neck moving from the parallel hold of your ribs and hip bone. You pay no attention to her momentary freeze of grasping, letting your pinky, clean, underline the instructions on the old paper. Your butt accidentally grinds into her, her fingers digging into you deeper after a moment, warranted as always. She doesn’t try again, instead her chin tickling the flesh of your shoulder as she queries, “How much longer until you’re free?” You take a breath, stirring the medium-sized bowl, handcrafted by one of her kids. You return, “What left do you have to clean?”
There’s a pause, not a humorous one, just so a smile of your lips can grow knowingly and her grip can tighten. There’s a furrow to your brows from the feeling until she answers, “I’ve been done for hours-” “Minutes-” “Lover, we can take a break. The kids are coming in two hours.” “And I have to baste the roast; patience.” “That’ll be in sixty minutes,” She’s good at listening, you not, looking to her over your shoulder. “And cook for 90 more, just take a break with me.” You can feel her fingers against your body, moving along her shirt on you before teasing the bare skin of your legs. Your tongue pokes your cheek, and you take a spoon beside you, clean before tipping it into the bowl, then moving it to her lips, pressing back against her as you ask, “Taste for me? It either needs more salt or lime.”
Her lips take it, and you quickly let it part the moment her tongue darts out. You take the spoon yourself and lap at the mixture. “Lime, I presume,” you answer, crooking your head back to her. There are tingles on your tongue, enough salt to taste it but not be overwhelmed, a balancing act, yet the lime is needed much more. You like things that give you a kick; maybe a little too much considering who you’ve married. She bends down with a nod, her body pushing you into the counter, almost bending you over as she uses her size to her advantage. You reach for the bottle of lime juice, flipping the cap open and giving a few more drips. Her breath is insistent on your shoulder, one of her hands greeting yours on the counter. Her nails slowly slip against your own, slipping through the parts before she inches up to your nails.
You were bored last night and one of her kids wanted your nails to be sparkly, as if they weren’t in their twenties. Regardless, your nails now shine in a sparkly pink. He tongue is what you feel next, simultaneously with her other hand slipping two fingers into the band of your cotton panties. You try to back up from the nonexistent space between the counter and you and her. It all ends the way she wishes, your other hand cramping on the spoon you use to stir the sauce. “Arle,” you breathe, bereft of enough firmness not to be taken as licentious. She hums, an annoyance to your shoulder, a bug you wish to flick as you crook your head back yet again. “I’m not letting you fuck me where I make everyone’s lunch.” You don’t know how you could look anyone in the face after their father fucks you, not to mention you still have the roast to complete, and you’d be too shaky to even lift it out yet again for another basting.
She takes your gaze head on, her hand leaving your pelvis, and whilst you crave for her to curdle heat in your again, you have a meal to feast on. Instead of speaking, her hand finds yours on the spoon, taking it from your grasp as you leave her gaze, intent on deriding her furthermore. She shoves the bowl further up, out of the way as she forces you closer to the counter. Your words, whatever they’d’ve been, are caught in the trap of your throat, your stomach pushed into the counter and your toes scrapping the floor. “Arle,” you bite, her fingers twisting in yours and holding you down as she nuzzles the side of your face. “Yes, my love?” Your face is slowly rotting with warmth, your chest taking gulps of breathes as you let your lips part, blubbering before you decide, “I need to cook.” It’s pitiful, your wife can tell as you fumble with a tone so petulant, so subdued in resignation.
Her other hand picks at the back of her shirt you wear, letting her pads slide against the cotton of your underwear before she slips beneath them, tugging them down ever so slowly. She doesn’t verbally pay you a response, but she does let her lips kiss your temple, her teeth pinching at your lobe the next moment. Your free hand, something you remember you have, moves to nurse the wound as she raises, making your thighs part so your panties can drop. You make a noise, nothing too indignant, but not as airy as you want it to be, the cool air hitting the softness between your thighs.
She lets a breath of jest leave her, leaning down to offer you yet another kiss for your suffering. Your wife has always liked to play with your body as one might with clay or dough, not so much in intrigue, but in want, a need to discover what she has, another purpose for a fire, another mark to your skin. Her nails drag up your thigh, perching on your bum as she lets her head rest on your shoulder, moving to massage the flesh of your behind, her fingers moving to dig into the sides of your hip before she leaves you. Your lips part to respond, instead of words a breath of bewilderment fingers your air. Her fingers sting against your bum, moving to massage the rapt against your flesh. “Arle,” you gasp, looking back, she raises a brow. “Yes?” Your brows furrow, any words lost as you try to lean away from her.
It happens again, this time your leg twitching from the added pressure. It’s not as fierce, fervent as a flyswatter but it feels like a back hand, comes closer and closer to being hit in the face as she does it again, and again. You don’t have any rest, your fingers twisting in Arlecchino’s until she notes your hand coming down to block a few more of her hits. “No fun, love?” She leans down again, this time to kiss against your cheek. You take a gulp of your saliva, feeling a bite of tingles against your one cheek, moving your foot back to poke at her own. “It’s rude-” It happens again, this time right against where your hand blocks, right on your palm as you take it back, looking to the nonexistent mark on your skin. “Arlecchino, I am your wife,” You bite, yet when you look back to her, she has the most self-satisfied, smarmy smirk on her face. You want to spank her now. “Yes, you are, love.” She leans down, pecking the parting of your lips from shock.
Her hand clamped in yours, intertwined like yarn catching on itself, rubs your nails in reassurance, still not daring to unknot, all while her other hand catches on your spanked palm. Her nails tickle your spine covered in her shirt, letting it peregrinate all the way up to your raised palm, taking it to her lips for a kiss. “All better,” she asks, espying you from between your parted fingers, her own clamping down on your hand. Your lips move to concede what she wishes if you could find out why she so chooses to act this way, but instead of words, silence greets you in surprise, shock, just unsuspecting instances as her tongue tangles with your digits and she lets the length of her pink muscle tickle up to the nails on you, painted sparkly as she climbs them before they part into her awaiting mouth. Her teeth graze you just as you thought, almost clamping down before she sucks on them, moving her grip to your wrist to let the suction of her lips pop against them. You don’t respond as she asks, “Or do you need something more?”
She waits for a subtle, nerved nod from you as she smiles, something more kind, something simpler and satisfied, teasing as she lets her fingers slip from you, gliding down your form as she lets her lips kiss against your clothed spine, her lips lingering on every notion of her to you, her ingrained in your skin as tattoos that never fade, bone marrow rotting in a decaying corpse, she finds love in every action she supplies, slowly lowering to one of her knees. Her fingers curve into the flesh of your thighs, moving them to part as you struggle to stay up, as if her lips, her presence, her words so soft in their firmness, so teasing, are more than any aphrodisiac you’ve tasted. You let your elbows dig into the counter, her fingers massaging up the expanse of your thighs, your toes slipping out of the fabric left of your panties below. You’re not as shy as you’ve always been, actually you’re greedier, esurient for the taste of her against you, how she tempts you with the divine of the depths.
You feel the breath of her against you, your toes nominally curling as they can standing, then you note how eager the subtle tilt of her tongue is, moving to lick a strip from your clit to your entrance, gathering the slick of your softness, letting it reach to the back of her throat as she takes a gulp of it. There’s a momentary pause before her fingers move to spread your mounds of flesh, letting herself tase the nectar of your pussy, her tongue diving back to where it was, twisting in the entrance of you. Her tongue is slip enough, long enough to not make the stretch horrible, splitting you on her tongue as it ebbs inside of you. It’s warmth inside of something hotter, she cools and burns you, gives you enough and not enough while she massages your flesh above. She angles herself against you, her tongue slowly slipping from you until just the tip can tickle your entrance, swirl against the slippery heat of you, then let the essence aid her in slurping between your folds, moving to lick against your pearl of sensitivity.
The flat of her tongue lays against you, tasting the depths of you when you twitch, her hands pushing you up to your toes as she laps at your clit, slowly sucking on the sensitivity, like a leaf’s drip of water. It’s pure Heaven that greets you in the kitchen she bathes you in, her fingers digging into your flesh whilst she aids in the coil of your heart. Your fingers bind into your palms, toes tickling the surface of the floor as she pushes you to her liking, molding you to her tongue, the muscle unraveling the bindings of your soul. You can feel the heat of her inch into you, split you on her muscle as it slides against you, tastes your clit then moves to tease your entrance. She returns to the beat of your clit, grinding the tip of her tongue against your clit before slurping against the softness, letting her tongue swirl around the pearl of you. Your lips part sloppily, saliva known to your lips of petals as you grind against her, her hands then moving to steady your hips with her nails digging into you. You moan, “Arle,” in warning, and yet, right as you think she’s moving to your entrance, her tongue parts for good and she stands with a spank to your bottom.
Almost teary eyed but definitely delirious, you warble, “Why’d you stop?” She takes a breath after wiping her hand against her maw. Her hands come down as she thinks of a response, moving to lift your shirt above your hips, still forcing your hips to attempt to meet the counter that she knows is a harsh too sharp for you. She massages the base of your back, letting her hands fold into the flesh of you as she breathes, “You taste too sweet; I could get a cavity.” Your brows furrow and you subside to bemoaning her teasing, your hands in your arms as one of her hands parts from you. “Arle, I should be cooking,” you remind, and she quips, “I should be cleaning, and yet I’m not. We have a few more minutes too.” Your brows furrow, lifting your head up to barely espy her from behind. “Until?” “Until the roast needs another basting.”
You take a breath, unsure of how long she was between your thighs; you don’t feel numb between them, more so heightened, like any touch is a flame to sparklers. “Arle,” you start before you feel the tap of something against your back. Your try to look back, look down at what was in her pants you knew you felt before- but she pushes you back onto the counter, your ribs tired on the edge of the counter, one hand moves to the sharp edge of it, voicing, “Baby, let me see.” She shakes her head, letting her hand leave your back so she can take hold of the member. “Your head’s too tiny to keep the image in your mind. You’re already trembling to the touch, just let me take care of everything.” You ignore the comment to your mind, how hazy it might be but competent you are as you move against the counter, trying to get against from her. She doesn’t let you, obviously, instead using the movement of your shift forward to line herself up to your entrance.
It’s big, you know it’s big because it’s one of the only straps you have. It’s not that you don’t use them, it’s just that you have many penchants in the bedroom, and Arlecchino really likes you shaking to the touch. You don’t whine; it gets trapped in your throat, the tip already prodding into you, far too wide to be comfortable inside of you. All she did was taste you, know the nectar between your thighs and not the ache that is starting to penetrate you. You think you murmur her name again because she leans down, kissing your ear before each lingering peck moves you to her, your lips parted and eyes glossy for her taking. She licks your lips first, letting your eyes flutter as you’re the first to kiss her, the first to peck against her lips, letting them tangle in the sloppy heat of your desires.
You can feel her against you as you do so, her teeth slightly nipping at the bottom of your lip and your tongue ebbing out for her to suck. You can feel the stretch inch deeper inside, the slim from your essence and her tongue aiding in the stretch. You it’ all the way to your toes, from the base of your spine and making your back curl against her front. Her hands refuse to leave your hips, gripping onto them for dear life, like she can imprint herself into your bones. Her tongue slips against your own, twisting inside as she pushes you both into the counter, pulling you back by your hips and into her member. It’s not cold, it’s not hot either, but just as her tongue it forces your insides to adjust to the erroneous object that feels too good. It won’t stop splitting you, curving alongside your walls to find your special spot. Arlecchino doesn’t pay any attention to the curl of your toes, the whines that tickle her own tongue, or the way you think sweat is starting to drip from your hairline rather than the slick form your pussy. Your thighs twitch, and that might incite the only reaction as she slips her hands lower to grasp at the juncture of them, now letting herself grind into you, forcing the member as deep as you shouldn’t be able to take.
The heat spread just as it comes in contact with your special spot, parting form the kiss for a breath, the oxygen returning to your lungs with the taste of her saliva on your tongue of lime. There’s a whine lodged in the back of your throat, your thighs twitching yet again in a beseeching to close, but the only thing she does is grind her hips deeper into you, sliding her grip up yet again to massage your hips, let her fingers ingrain in the flesh of your body. It’s steaming in the shirt, her member against your spot, electric, when she tries to pull back and you feel it, that cord wrapped around every nerve of your body snapping, letting the circulation zap against every point in your body as you bite onto your forearm, trying to tamp the volume that wishes to escape you.
It’s nothing Arlecchino seems to mind, picking your hips up and forcing your hands to reach for anything graspable as she tries to fuck into the tension of your pussy. Your voice is pitchy, so much breathier than you’ve ever known it to be as she stands to her true height, forcing you to meet her hips and the angle of the counter. She somehow stretches you more, with her muscles flexing in her shirt, her pants only unbuckled, she forces the slight pain to your butt to meet her again, her dick not even fully inside of you as it grinds into your special spot. You’re already sensitive enough for her not to care, moving you along her shaft, the counter and shirt rubbing against your pert nipples, your eyes shutting as you feel the grooves of her dick inside of you, forcing the tension of you to suck and ebb. She digs into you, maybe hoping to pull out something more, something as precious as an orgasm from you.
Her hands force you to stay against the counter, her hips pulling back to meet the hotter air of the kitchen. Your mind flickers to the food for a moment, an eye popping to check the time before your fingers crumble against the counter, curling into your palm, her hips greeting yours yet again. The sting isn’t all prominent; she went easy on your flesh, and yet you can feel the grind of her into you, her hips meeting yours and the drag of her against you, how it feels like the scrape of cement, an arenaceous scrape of your bones as she drives into you. It’s hot yet again, the temperature of the oven burning you in memory, her nails digging into your flesh to find your blood. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your hand migrating to her own on your hip. You link your fingers with her ad nauseum, toes curling mid-air. She begs for it then, that coil in your stomach oh-so sharpened whilst her tongue twists in her mouth for your cum.
Your stomach burns with the request, your walls so sloppy against the thick member on her, your entrance squeezing the silicone as you feel the burn of her reach deeper into you, so sticky, so homely, so much of her inside off you that it burns into your retina. You turn to her, lips slobbered in your own spit form your forearm, blinking blearily to watch as your wife fucks into you. You swallow, feeling the mushroom tip abuse your special spot, refusing to not tap stickily against the spongey texture. “Arle,” you whine, nails curving into her own palm. “I’m going to cum,” you choke, her fingers looping with yours as she burrows deeper into you, forces you into the counter for the stretch to become too much, like she wants to surpass your spot for something more, for something too carnal you can’t even place. Your brows furrow, eyes shutting as you moan, loudly from the pleasure, something slick but wet splashing onto the floor, the floor that should’ve been clean by now.
Your body shakes from the heat leaving you, from that pleasure that courses through your bones, your veins vibrating form the pressure of her into your tight muscles, penetrating as deep as she can, as if she can fissure you to her liking, something deep burrowing into her at the same time you blink your eyes open, slightly kicking her from what’s still inside of you. Hoarsely, you croak, “Take it out, it’s too much!” She obliges, moving her hips against the grip of your entrance whilst she slowly sets you down, her grip still tight on your flesh as she forces you to knock back into her body. “You okay?” Your legs are shaking, and the roast needs to be basted again, you answer, “I need a nap.” “As you wish,” she voices with a kiss to your temple.
a/n; ppl can like yaoi, but I'll always judge them, to me it's yuri and yaoi, but yuri is always first. If I could get on my knees for- anygay, Im going to write neuvilette/reader/arle next, probs... except, I still know nothign of Genshin *meme me*
It was simple, you knew Chrollo would win the bet, but you still wanted to play the game. Why? Simple, Hisoka owed you a favor. You’ve been buttering him up for the past few months as you’ve lounged with your boyfriend around, and in return for some information, Hisoka let you win a card game against Chrollo with his bungee gum. You’ve long tuned out his explanation of how he was going to help you win, but you sat with Chrollo playing cards in the middle of everyone’s work, and unsuspectingly bet him with a breath to his ear the dirtiest want you had. If you lost, you’d be the one in chains, to say the least, but Chrollo lost; Hisoka let you win your desire for the simple cost of Chrollo’s deepest secret.
You just made up one, but it didn’t matter if Hisoka found out the white lie you told when he found Chrollo later after your desire; you slammed the card in front of his face, the matching set with the others. You won.
And now he’s tied to a chair.
It’s with his guidance of course, a heat to your cheeks as you let him hum to the knots on his wrists, forever with his precision mimicked in your hands as you straighten from behind the chair. You note his flexed back, his skin a toned pallid nude except for the cloth of his boxers. Your fingers dip onto the wood of the chair, sturdy and thick enough for your nail to graze his back, ghost it whilst your prints drag along the rim of wood. You eye him, his expression not terse in the slightest, not irascible but forgiving, willing to see this through, amused for the most of this moment. You take a nominal breathe, letting your eyes bite every bit of his bare skin and the slowly growing mound between his legs.
You stand between his spread legs, making him look up at you from the languorousness to his features, his body willing almost too much to find himself at the end of a lost bet. You cup his cheeks, massaging the soft bones of his cheeks. You rub them as you desire, taking in his features for one more glorious second before you start guiding your hand back through his strands, finding the band wrapped around his forehead. It drips from him, clouding his luscious lashes for only a moment as he shakes out his hair. You help him, always soft in your movements, gliding the hand left on his cheek to his hair, fingers pressing into his scalp and combing through the thick silkiness of his loose strands. It’s something you’ve grown used to practicing, this softness in his features found only for you, this dedication to your pleasure you don’t entirely hate, but even in this act you can still feel the heat coiling around your lungs. You’d usually do this after sex, after he wrecked what hearth you have between your thighs. Wetness to heat, to a home you can see in his eyes, the desire for at least.
You have too devoted of a boyfriend. Is that… wrong to lament?
Your brows furrow as his lip twitches, maybe the notion of your untangling of his hair spared between both of your minds. Another lamentation to note; you spend too much time with him. “What?” He weighs his expression as you pull away slowly. “Are you sure you can handle this?” Your brows dip in irritation, at the mock nonexistent in his tone but the confidence drowning his vocals. “Are you seriously doubting me when you’re tied to a fucking chair, baby?” “I’m just saying.” You roll your eyes, fingering the headband to your liking. “Fuck you,” the proclamation left on the air without a second thought is met with his own sharp tongue, like two swords in a battle. He’s hot when he fights, even if it’s just witty banter with you. “I’m waiting for that, actually.” Your eyes find his, mischief slowly aligns with your hum as you lean forward, the band held between your hands. “Then be a good boy for me.”
He quirks a brow, but there’s this coruscant glare to his dark eyes. You fear submission is ingrained in your wrists as you spot him from below you. “Close your eyes,” you mutter, greedily lapping at the tattoo on his forehead, the way his eyes shut without so much as a hesitant strain. You’re greed itself as you tug the fabric onto him, leaning down to get the knot right. He never shuts up when you need him to, muttering into your neck, “You smell nice.” You huff, as if the compliment still doesn’t remind you of his love, of the heat that coats your cheeks. “Pervert.” His voice’s gravely in his dissent, “You’re the one tying me up.” You lean against his ear, fingers ghosting over his strands as you complete the knot with a thought whispered, “You’re guiding me, Chrollo, like always.” You lean back, standing yet again as you find what’s between your boyfriend’s legs, having grown significantly irritated in its cloth hiding spot. You can tell he can feel your smirk of amusement as he shifts his head away from your gaze. Ever the one to mutter, you breathe as you lower yourself to the floor, “I guess I do smell nice.” He makes no acknowledgement of you, so you make him acknowledge every ridge of you he’s grown accustomed to when he’s on top, when his tongue’s sharper, hands bigger.
Your hands find his thighs, kneading the tense muscles like snow in the summer you wish to bite into, cannibalize as you lean your head against his forgotten straining. You nuzzle further into him with your lips, letting them graze over him, barely caught in a peck as they press along his softness, tongue darting out to lick a strand along his inner flesh, finding his lack of a reaction like a cold shower. Chrollo lost the bet, but of course he’s still with pride. If it were you, implausible, but if it were you that lost, you surely would be an abashed babe in the knots not like his stolid stature frozen in his desire of composure.
You move your lips kiss up his clothed him, moving to his abs as you bite a bit of fat well-placed on his stomach. It’s not deep, but there are faint marks slobbered in red from where you bit onto him. He does tense at that, and you pull back satisfied, moving to kiss along his other thigh after brushing off your lips. You start at the inside of his knee this time, kissing along the collum of bone before your teeth poke out again, grazing the flesh like he does your neck, time and again with the faint intentions of teasing, like feeling before tasting divination on his tongue.
One of your hands is on his abs, still soothing the cut into his abs and making sure you accidentally drop onto his crotch, brushing over the growing sensitivity as you move along his other leg. The hand closest to you massages where you leave, at first starting below his knee just for some attention then advancing further with your hot breaths along his thigh, mauling him with your teasing tongue, hot and wet inside of your mouth before letting it cool against his heated skin. It lingers, the way your thumb dives into the meat now wettened with your actions, you linger in the win you’ve procured as fair as you could’ve. It’s tasty on your tongue, and it’s tantalizing as you find his bulge bigger than you ever could’ve known, strained and wettened on the fabric. You smile as you raise from the band of his boxers, letting your fingers walk up the cloth of it, both now honed on the thick band around his hips.
He must know you’re staring, admiring the pre that coats him so overtly, and you think you get what he means when he says it addicting to see you before you see him, to know what affect he has on you that you soak through your panties time and again. You huff a chuckle, his neck rolling back as you breathe directly onto him. You luck only grow with him as you slowly tease the band of his boxers, nails poking the flesh as you slowly tug it down, his member tugged along with it until it hits against his belly. It’s heavy, the tip flushed mean, and the length strangled with veins as his arms are.
It’s a heavenly sight, divination found in the way it twitches, your gasp subsequential as you toss his last item of clothing aside. You’re left in your undergarments and shirt still, well his shirt you usually sleep in, but you’re both too excited to sleep in the sheets, but play in this chair he usually works in. Your hands find both of his thighs again, right on the meat of the insides, closest to the heat that bobs between, begging with such emotion for you to tie yourself against him. You drool, again reminiscent of Chrollo as he is between your thighs, only you’re merciful, you’re not as selfish as him, you’re just more sadistic.
You lean your lips onto the rob, staring where his sweet pre begins and letting yourself messily glide down to his balls. He’s straining himself, your eyes fluttering to the strength of his chest and arms as he doesn’t fight, perse against the restraints, but tests them. You get the distinct notion he was, and even now, playing along with you for you, not himself, but so you could, potentially make him act on his desire for you. You wonder if he can get out of the rope and then hope against it. You’ve yet to start and his squirming is cute. Your curled lips gain his huff through his nose. Your lips press delicately into his balls, then your tongue darts out right onto them, moving up the line of him with the flat of your muscle. He’s tasty, smelling of freshness as your lips find his tip. You suction against the heat, irritated at your tantalizing taste of him, how you savor him, and he can’t you.
Your tongue darts to the slit, licking up the white that leaks from him as you adjust. Your hand moves to his base, ghosting around the bob of him as you make out with the suave head. Your eyes still stay on him as much as they can, flickering to the restrain pouring off of his features and down your tongue as your tease his base, gripping it snuggly in your prints, finding it greedy for your touch of warmth, his tip twitching right when you pull away for a breath. Staring down at your reaction, your thumb comes up to the wetness of his tip, swiping against the mess you made and the mess he’s aiding as you swirl your palm against him. It’s a swift action you’ve almost forgotten how to do with his insistence on your pleasure, how even now he seems he might crumble from his lack of experience here with you. Only you.
You lean back up to his abs, kissing against them and lowering yourself back over to his bite, making sure your thumb is rocking back and forth along his tip like an itch of hair. He gives you something them, not just the creak of his neck, but the jerk of his leg, antsy breath strangled form his throat as you lave up the mark, indents more prominent and surely not to fade with the rope burns he’ll surely have. You move back over to his dick with a huff of cheeky fruition onto his sensitivity. Just as his lips open, most likely going to pour out something other than his seamless breaths of frustration, your mouth finds his dick, trying your best to get the most of him down your throat, hot and wet and soaking up every taste of his cleanliness as you press against his thigh with your other hand, digging your nails into him whilst your other hand slowly slips down his member, coating in the drip from your lips.
Your eyes are squeezed shut when he says it, but you can already picture him desperate from being unable to see you, touch you, taste you. “Oh honey,” he moans, brows as furrowed as yours as you nominally back up, letting him rest slightly uncomfortable in your throat as you swallow with a light choke to your throat. Your fingers find their way into a fist on his thigh, thumb tucked into your palm as you focus on breathing against him, his length still lodged well into your mouth and more than prodding at the back of your saliva. Your hand moves for help, your focus waning as you try to maneuver your hand to squeeze around him, gripping around him with a flexibility in your wrist you’ve almost lost. If his addiction to between your thighs meant you lost your efficacy for his dick, you have to applaud him for the success.
Regardless, you start slurping him up, moving your head in tandem with your hand. When you go up so does it, and when you go down it backs away first. Your mouth is also straining to meet the grip you naturally have below. It makes your hums border of moans of pained pleasure, giving him all he needs when he’s always given you what you need. Of course, this is payback for all those moments of your pleasure he took like jade blooming form roses. You think he’s blooming from them as you take a gulp of air, raising from holding your breath under the steamed water of a hot tub. You swallow wetly, all the mess down your throat so you can take into consideration how good you’re being. It’s not the best, you know he won’t admit, but you’re rusty, reddening orange around your nails that his guiding words would aid, but he’s determined to let you guide yourself. You are the one who won after all.
You blink your eyes back into focus form the pressure having left your throat, you move your hand efficiently, letting the lube of your saliva aid in its rejuvenation. Your other hand is leaving its cramped state too, supplanting his thigh for his balls, massaging them with deft attention as you let your eyes fix onto his reaction. You’re getting better, you can tell by his arms still strained behind his back. He’s barely squirming yet, focusing on his breathing as he likes you to do when you cum, when you both come together so you can inhale and breed into each other.
You let your head rest against his thigh, knocking into him so you can relax nominally as you focus your efficacy to your prints, your palms, your wrists and arms stringing muscles out you forgot you had, work this well. That seem to garner his attention, a reaction so soft even if he’s unable to use his hands to show you the attention of his love. He lets his thigh tense, foot digging into the flooring so he can give you some reprieve. But never once does he offer to take over, he knows you want this, he’s just making sure he can handle it too, with you at your own pace. You bite him, ravaging from a kiss to teeth back to a kiss of affection, it gives you his genuine hum of humor at your usual antics and you return to your position before, only this time you don’t strain your throat nearly as much.
You focus on teasing him, letting your tongue lave over his heated tip, dipping past the mushroom to the veins below, your hands stringing any set of pleasure from him, focusing closest to his tip and covering any amount you can’t, your other hand dipping in warmth as it continues the massage of his weight. He’s struggling now, not squirming or straining himself, but struggling to keep up with your ministrations as you eyes stick to where his are closed. You can taste his breath; how hot it is and how desperate he is to keep his moans and groans inside, incapable with how close he is, how his tip twitches and how your tongue laves at the added taste of him, savory on your buds.
Finally, he lets out this shaky breath that can only be described as defeat, a curse never leaving him but the jolt of his leg, the strain of his muscles as he chases you with his hips, that’s what makes your actions speed up, your lips continuing to focus on his mushroom tip, sucking as delicately precise as you can before you can taste him, your hands squeezing against ever bit of him as he finally comes undone. It’s hot and sticky as it paints your saliva, your throat catching up in bursts as you swallow the taste of him down, can finally ingrain it into you like you’ve wanted to since he went between your thighs and made you incapable of reciprocity through lips.
Your hand leaves his length, the other still holding his heaviness and massaging the overstimulated tension from him as your hand glides against his tensed abs, head slowly starting to bob, up and down, licking his tip and sucking up his length before your hand finally reaches past his ribs, tangles in the tension and grabs at his chest, his pert nipples tweezed subsequently by your lingering touch, your greedy touch of him like he has of you. You don't know whether to shut your eyes or not, but you can tell you’re taking affect like the pills he steals, unraveling at the seams when he moans as if he were in porn, draining from his throat as his eyes must roll back with his throat, his second orgasm so quick, so pathetic that you think it’s inevitable when his weight strains, his hips buck as his release drowns your hot throat another time, though you can’t quite keep up.
You pull back, his dick spurting thick strands as if he hasn’t cum in forever. You only fucked three days ago, mission get ahead of pleasure because in them there is some pleasure given, some teases. But not like this, not as your hand moves form waist back to his length, letting it coat in the few strands that don’t drown the flooring in himself. He’s panting in groans as you let your hand gather up his excess, licking up your palm in a way you know he wishes to witness. You ignore him, finally parting and letting his exhaustion of breath grip him release him tightly. He’s still hard, at least with one more load in him for you to take inside. If not them two more, three more. You’ll gauge how tired you are of riding him and how deeply you want the consequences of tying him up, later.
You lap up any remnants of him with a sturdy stand, your tongue wrapping around the cage of your teeth as you finally get to undress. You start with your shirt, tugging it up and over your head with all adroitness of a baby seal. Moving onto your chest, you let the clasp sting the air, he strings of fabric swaying between your grasp as you finally let it hit the messy floor of your antics. A smile coats your lips as he finally gathers himself. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he gently advises, and you have to, incapable of keeping it between your ribs, you let the guffaw taint his audacity.
He persists, “I’m serious, you might be wet enough, but you need prep.” You bend over after commenting to remove your panties, “I don’t.” It’s affirmatively petulant, but he doesn’t care, commenting as you toss your panties to the exit. “You do-” “Chrollo Lucilfer, let me fuck you.” You near him them, leaning over with your hands on his shoulders, fingers coating the back of the chair. He scoffs a smirk up, irascibly amused, letting his tongue poke his cheek. You’re close enough and he knows it, so when he leans up to touch your lips with his words, you let him, “Finger yourself on top of me, and then you can ride me.” You feel it, abashed irritation at his insistence of knowing you better. You’d throw a fit under different circumstances, your fits meaning banter with him in the middle of teeth clashing and throats bitten.
You look down at his dick, bobbing as if to say high with his not even drained stamina. You let the thought pass, but you wish Hisoka never accepted your offer. Instead of giving him a verbal response, you move to cup his cheek, your other hand sticking your pointer and middle together, letting him know of your approbation as you tickle them past his lips. There’s no resistance as you find his hot tongue tainting your fingers. It’s hot- heating yourself as you don’t think you’ve ever had him suck on your fingers. Maybe when he was drunk and deliriously desperate from your pussy, he had you taste yourself on his tongue whilst fingering you, then had you clean yourself off of his fingers with his own tongue mixing into yours. It was sloppy, obscene, but you’re above him now, so you angle his jaw to your liking, and you find the back of his throat amusing, as if showing him what you went through with two loads.
Yet he doesn’t gag, just sucks up your fingers with the lingering taste of himself on them, but you know it’s because this is the only way he can touch you with some sort of control, the only way he can taste you that you’ll allow today. You pull them out, strands of saliva as thick as rivers coating your two digits as your hand moves to his shoulder, eyes dedicated to the mess of your fingers. “Lucky,” you mutter, hinting at his lack of a gag. He lets a smile part from him in a huff as if your fingers were the drug to him, you are a drug just from fingers alone, with no pleasure to him but you.
You should’ve told Hisoka this, that would’ve been something, right? Not like the lie of his allergy. You’re honestly allergic to his devotion, but Hisoka’s never wanted you, he’s wanted to destroy him, and now you are without a care for the clown. Your knee finds the chair’s seat, poking a bit onto Chrollo’s thigh as to avoid the mess you made on him, the heat of sensitivity. You let your wet fingers drag down the collum of his throat, to his shoulders and teasing his bicep before the chill of his salvia finds your pussy, your moan soft but enough to tease him into tensing again, to crave the breath of you against him.
Your fingers tap onto your folds, so slick and chilled by his lips and the air as you slide them into your, curving into the wetness of your vulva. It’s a contrast, one that makes you shake at how searing your hearth is, how blessed it is to feel this divine, this wet in comparison to your fingers. It adds to your desire to cum, how deeply ingrained it is in your being to crave Chrollo’s fingers, how thick boned they are, how they screw into you until he knows when you can’t cum anymore. It’s satisfaction on top of yearning as you feel the spit he always adds to you find a home in your fold. You graze your clit with the length of your fingers, moving down to swirl against your entrance. You're teasing to tease him with your reactions, to poke at him with your breaths fanning across his face, the call of his name and them, as if a cherry to the cream a top of you, the squelch, wet and rapacious as your fingers scissor inside of you.
He’s right, it’s a tight fit, and even if you have a thought of him eating you out so much is for his entrance subsequently, you know it’s false. He’s addicted to you, you can find it in the way he leans up to try and find you above him, to try and kiss him as you ebb and flow to his ministrations. And then worse, worse, worse, more when he whines, “Please, let me kiss you- any bit of you, I’ll take, whatever way you want me to be I will. Please, baby, I’ll do whatever you want for our eternities together.”
You struggle and don’t even dare to hide the most likely debasing sentiment behind your giggle. You let him, your fingers curving in the barely loosening heat of you. It’s sticky as you fuck into yourself, and what’s messier than the sounds dripping from you is the call of his desperation, how he’s greedy, planting his lips onto your bare skin and digging into every bit- bite of flesh he can get, inhaling greedily your scent and letting his tongue taste you. You move against him, your unoccupied hand finding his head as you pull him against you.
Your fingers slowly find their grind into you, the wetness of yourself heating up like you’re above flames, engulfed in the desire of Chrollo so desperate and yet deeply at your mercy. His tongue wipes at your nipple, digging into the flesh of you as he moves up to kiss at it, ever the gentle boyfriend as he worships at the beginning of your altar, the highest point as he is uncaring for the twitch of his dick, how it begs for your heat as it drips down your fingers. A hot mess that finds you as you’re unable to grind down into your G-spot. You give up when he whines against you of your taste, how you’re so good, so fucking addicting. You lose it and shove your pussy-drenched fingers in his mouth.
The word willing doesn’t even begin to describe how deep he is when in love with you, when finding your taste on your fingers, maybe a bit of him inside of you, a bit still lingering on your prints as they’re engulfed by his tongue, split between and drank from as if you were a drink, as if you were the straw leading him to the rim of the cup for a better grasp of the juice. When you pull away completely, letting your grip leave him, so you can stand and adjust to the mess building between your legs, drowning your skin in it, you can feel the disappointment in his groan before it even bubbles out of his chest like thunder of Zues.
He heaves, taking a refreshing breath that must stain his lungs painfully lacking your essence. He swallows desperately the vestiges of you and that is the last you allow yourself to see before turning around, grasping his wet and hefty length in your hand before lining it up with your slick, dragging it into your wetness that sears as you grind against him. He tries to aid you again, letting his hips move with yours as much as they can.
You try to make yourself as teased as possible, as built into you like cement and bricks this desire for Chrollo inside of you until you can’t take it anymore. I teats at you, chatters you teeth, grasps your wrists together with blood decanting from your eyes- you need him so deep inside of your pulsing core. It waits for him, no matter the struggle, the strain of your body as you let his tip submerge in your essence, just barely waiting at your entrance with the fat tip of him slowly twitching up against your dripping heat. You let your moan free, wrack from you as his own does when you finally let him pop himself inside.
It’s like he’s a coral and you’re of the ocean, taking all he can from you, every bit of your energy and resolve and giving you every bit of revived pleasure, renewed rapacity. You feel it fill you with his length, sinking back into his lap as you slowly let go of his dick. It’s still a tight fit even with the light prep you did, trying to persuade his member to stop digging into you by rocking up and down, but it seems that your own essence refuses to let the veins of him go, refusing to let even a second of him go to waste outside of you. It’s tiring, but all the more pleasing to win this battle with him.
You finally reaching the hilt of his length, feeling the stickiness of your spot to him, how it attaches like flowers to cactuses, and it feels as such too, wanting an orgasm so sweet with the heedful reality of your tension together. You don’t know if he needs you to steady, but you need to for your own sake of not coming, of not being stuck together for all eternity like this, though you’d love it all the more. Your hands find any bit of his legs, his knees as you toss a look behind at him. Under the blindfold you catch the blush, knowing the sweat dripping down his forehead from your touch and you can already admire how his chest heaves with muscles meant for you to only touch.
You moan, revived by his mere presence to yours as you claw into the meat of his legs, pushing up and arching your back as you barely make it halfway up him. Your core crumbles, landing back into him with a slap that has you both crying out in pleasure. You pick yourself up though, determination singing your nails into him, an uncommented upon pain as you push yourself again and again with the weight of him lodged in your throat still. You almost kick yourself for asking this, for maybe not moving him to the bed or daring to think he could help you with gentleness in this situation. He’s stuck and you are to him, and the tears come quickly, not from regret but form how hard it actually is when getting Chrollo beneath you. He lets you do as you please, but you both know he’s the one in control no matter the pace.
With cold salt on your lips, you sniffle back the ache in your back, the ache burgeoning in your thighs and before Chrollo can even comment you grind against him, move your hand to your clit as you dig your feet into the ground, using every bit of muscle you haven’t in the longest time to feel the pleasure coursing through you. Chrollo likes to give you pleasure, so maybe he’ll approve of your haste, how you rub your clit with that still-damp hand and grind back onto him. Maybe he can feel the pleasure you give yourself as you squeeze against him, swirl your hips and heave a moan, abysmal in the depths of your desire, your pleasure being fulfilled as your hand shakes form how tightly you’re finding the coil in your clit.
Chrollo has to understand as his own self pulses, twitches inside of you whilst you squeeze him for all his life, hot as if in a sauna, steamed together as you make everything a combined by the hips, your breathy light and heaving whilst his groans grow in detriment. You look back at just the right time, his Adam’s Apple bobbing the moment you feel your toes curl, lips molding into pained pleasure when, finally, you cum for the first time of the night, and hard. So much so you barely notice when Chrollo cums with you from how wet and soppy you are, how deep the pleasure runs and aches through your thighs, sobbing back the pleasure with a lean against his chest.
You’re not even the least bit surprised when his arms encircle your waist, a little giggle leaving you before you hand tugs at his blindfold, the other holding onto his hands on you. “Baby.” You hum in return, hot against him with pleasure. “Wake up.” Your eyes follow into the fog of your dream to the reality of lying against your side in Chrollo’s bed. He’s there not completely clothed but enough for the chill of spring in this hotel. “Wha…” Your lips fail you when he swipes the drool from your lip, ignoring how it twitches to his lips as he offers the cool liquid to your lips.
“You need fluids, c’mon.” You start drinking with his help, then gain your arms from the bed as he massages you thigh absentmindedly, still lingering near the cup as you gulp loudly as if reverted to a that baby seal. “Good girl,” he offers after you pull the cup away from your lips. You’re still drenched in the dream, blearily looking around with wet lips you don't care to clean, instead, industriously focused on the retained exhaustion between your thighs. “Did… What about the bet?”
He hums a chuckle, letting his fingers wipe off the leftover water on your lips. "Hisoka told me.” Your face falls, actually shocked. “I… lost?” “The bet? Babe, no one’s allergic to water.” At your irritated face, he moves to take the glass, lips to your face. “I am when given by you.” He kisses your cheek, as if taking away your tired irritation with the drained glass. All for you. “I didn’t go too hard, did I?” The glass sits on the bedside table, a thud barely acknowledged as he leans into you, fingers still finding a way to massage the tension he gave you of pleasure. Your face scrunches playfully. “No, you’re just a dick.” He shrugs, too nonchalant. “I do have a pretty big one.” Your eyes widen. “Chrollo!” He laughs in turn.
a/n; there were inspirations for this... ill find them soon
You’re kind of bored, or maybe not completely bored, but your wife hasn’t called you since dinner plans tonight. You’re wearing as you should be, but you’ve been awaiting your wife’s mirth for what feels like ages, as if all the leaves have changed colors and returned, you’re forced to watch the sky and clouds with no pollution, a splice of gratitude capitulating your tongue as you make sure not to lick off the coconut balm on your lips.
You’ve sided with no makeup for the night, only a light balm and flowy dress reminiscent of fairies and elves as you let the fabric sway against your arms and lick at the tops of your thighs. You’re wearing no shorts, but it’s fine; Arlecchino’s never been a prude. Also, she’s stronger than you so it’s not like onlookers could match her gaze. Speaking of your strong wife, she pops up right outside of the shop you’ve been waiting at. She seems to be jogging, an apologetic visage to her rouged cheeks. Besides the grin to her teeth she seems no different than when she’s bathing in the sun in the mornings. “I’m express great disconsolation,” she breathes, then leans down to peck your lips as you lean in to meet her maw. Then, she hums in content as she licks her lips, tongue lingering on her upper lip as her eyes trail to your own lips. “You taste refreshing.”
You’re not bored anymore, can barely remember the change of season you’d conceited as you brush out the crinkles on her shoulders, her usual fitted vest and formal shirt covered by the black of her blazer. “And you seem out of breath, is everything okay?” She takes a breath, letting her eyes find yours again before she lets her hand find the base of your waist, trailing it to twirl you around and into her. “Yes, just business as usual, I think I’m getting off of my contract this week, into a…” She takes a breath and then you realize, your hand on her own back and other twisting in the fingers on you, that you’re walking to the alleyway. “Better one,” she finishes, moving to look over her shoulder as you ask, deep in the crevice of the alley, “I’m joyous, but… Was that all the news you wished to share tonight?”
Her simper returns as you’ve always known it to, her eyes gleaming in the lines of red crossing her. Your back it pressed up against the material of the building, a cute spot of spontaneity that always houses your favorite things without you knowing. “I love taking you to dinner, actually.” Your eyes roll as she moves her hand along your waist, letting her feel up the flow of your dress before she glides up the path between your chest to rest her thumb up on your bottom lip. Reflex kicking in, your hand finds the fabric of her jacket’s shoulder, the other resting on her forearm closest to you. “No need to be bratty,” she snips, her lip licking at her own teeth as she fidgets with her gaze, unable to part from your lips nor eyes. “I do want to share a meal with conversation, but what we’re talking about isn’t so much predetermined.” Your eyes go to her lips, letting your digits fidget with the thick fabric of her shoulder. “Then why are we in the alley ‘n not the restaurant, Arle?” She huffs a breath of amusement, leaning closer to kiss your cheek, just a peck, but her words linger to your ear as smoke from a factory. “Close your eyes and spread your legs.”
Your eyes lose focus for a moment, but they do flutter when she taps your bottom lip, already moving to find your face again. Your fingers ball in spite against her, your toe twisting out nominally. You can hear the click of her tongue as your diffidence and mischief, but she makes no move to truly correct you, no words spared as she moves her hand from your lip to capitulate the hand resting on her forearm. It’s not a tricky slop, she just slips back into it, squeezing your digits as they lose their mold, not so much afraid of the unexpected but cautious of her predictable licentiousness. She holds it against the outside of the restaurant, letting her fingers hit the brick, cautious of the back of your hand, so delicate, she’d say, probably thinks is too soft for this world.
She doesn’t return to your face, but she does let her other arm move, poking into her pants’ pocket before returning to you, letting her hand trail, only the last two fingers of her hand, up your thigh until the bare skin of you is grazed by the mesh of your dress, so many layers and so many colors. You think your lips part or some breath finds the outside because you’re shocked when she presses a silicone bulb up against your covered slit. She lets it grind against your clit, teasing your bud with pressure before pulling away so it only ghosts the delicate bud.
Your legs twitch, your hand almost slipping down her arm before she corrects you, humming a wave of haughtiness out of her teeth, “It’d be inside of you now if you’d spread your legs-” You do as she says, a bit of shame coating your legs as they slip apart, though slip makes it seem as though it’s easy, but you’re on concrete, and your heels chaff against the cement, an obnoxiously more condescending sound than that of Arlecchino’s appraisal- “There you go, good job.” She kisses you again, and this time it sticks, like a kiss from cuteness aggression she lingers, and it seems as though her lips are of separate mind from her hand. It moves down your cotton panties, prodding at your hole before slipping back up your pussy. You’re trained in a sense, like The Pavlovian Technique, your toes as already curling, your slit already as greedy as your maw as your lips fumble open, pleading, “Can I- open my eyes now, please?” She smiles against your cheek, moving to part from your face as she most likely looks to between your legs.
She admits, “One sec.” And you barely contain your whine of disappointment as your fingers twine hers tightly. She pays no mind, if she even realizes your disconsolation whilst she picks your panties to the side, the silicone used to your cotton but not the searing heat of your folds, slowly accumulating so much wetness that the chill of the vibe quickly melts into the heat of your folds. She does as she promised, makes it quick as she doesn’t go back to your clit but slips down the slide of your wetness to your hole. It’s not a big thing, but her fingers are long that they make it six-inches long. They make sure the little, oval-shaped egg slips into you deeply, soundly as your teeth grind into your bottom lip, toes back to scraping against the ground, your fingers digging into every bit of her as she does the same to you, the prod of the egg now grazing- ghosting along the shell of your special spot, so deep inside and always reached by your wife. Your eyes are teary-licked by the sweat of your pleasure as she hums her approbation, “Okay, I’m done.”
It’s a vibrator, you know, not when you walk or by the fact that she’s waiting to ignite it inside of you in the restaurant, how she lets you lean on her with a little stumble of wait in your step- no, there is no confirmation that i’s a vibrator until it starts, not the anticipation nor the kiss to your head as she orders, nothing but when the food comes and she pokes her hand back into her and quickly turns the thing on.
There’s a platter of fruit begging you to pay attention to it; desert is always your dinner no matter what Arlecchino says today. She dragged you into the alley and didn’t let you look at her and forced it so deep without too much prep even if you do act like her whore- “Do you want it higher?” It’s not do you can you take more like you’re used to, instead it’s a request and your lips part with a silent acknowledgement of the pulse. It’s like sizzling soda as it falls from the container, or when it settles, that’s what it always feels like, what she makes sure it always feels like. Your eyes go to the screen, the levels of the lever and the one her thumb toys. There’s only five today, this one special and unfamiliar as it plays with your walls, settles inside and moves when you move. You swallow even though there’s water in front of you. Your shoulders adjust, her arm on the back of your chair; she sits right beside you and you can’t bring yourself to meet her calculative gaze. “Yes,” you sigh, your thighs twitching as she immediately does as you want.
This one is less sizzling like soda and searing like a steal to water, it reaches deep inside of you, does that same action of moving when you do, though it twitches, like it’s trying to reach deeper, breach your womb even when you’re sat next to your wife, still and awaiting to eat the platter of fruit you’ve ordered. You need to move, you know you have to, want to, but when your fingers do move your thighs shake. You try to focus on the meal ahead of you but your attention sways to the wait of your wife, how her countenance does not falter from the phone whilst you take in the action of her phone, how there’s only three options left. You want to reach for it, not your food; it is your feed in this restaurant, from your wife- There’s a strawberry between your lips, and they open like your pussy wets for your wife. The tiny fork lets the fruit slip easily past your lips, into the cavern wet and awaiting as you bite into the strawberry without being hit wiht metal.
The buzz is still there, but your attention is split. As your thighs squeeze together, your mouth shews on the strawberry, creating a sticky-wet jam that perforates your tastebuds. You blink, and blink again trying to refocus, but you fail, looking down at your skirt and toying with it before Arlecchino comments, not talking of the weather but still with a lax visage, “Can you cum like this?” It’s like she, herself, is with a toy inside, like she is clicking each notch as she’s clicking yours, moving it up and up to her teasing preference. Your fingers twitch against your dress, gripping it and almost grinding yourself up into your closed fist. It’s petulant, but you don't care, you are needy- “Be good don’t touch yourself-” She doesn’t reach for your hand, but she does squeeze your shoulder, letting her fingers linger in a massage, just the touch you need. It’s like the vibrations are the effect of an aphrodisiac, your breath catching on the fire of your cheeks whilst she hums from the same fork you’ve tasted, “Mm, that’s good fruit. We should get one for the kids too.”
You swallow, nodding your head as you breath, “They’d-” Breathless. “Like it, yeah.” She smiles, kissing your head and moving to feed you again. “Good girl,” she praises, offering another strawberry before your lips even part fully. You think she likes you best as you are now, incapable of anything but what she gives you. If she asks you to bark, no matter how enflamed you’d be in reluctance, she’d get it exactly as she wants. She likes as you like- and you really like right now.
Your teeth bite into the sweet, juice dripping down your throat as she moves to prod at her phone again, without thinking, as you usually are around her -all reflexes- you reach for her hand with both of yours. She raises a brow to you, your eyes on hers as they glare down at your hunched form. You swallow, parting your lips with a strawberry bumping into your cheek. “Arle,” you purr, not as breathless with desperation as before, but bitten with solicitousness of others surrounding you.
The place is cozy, still with dim lighting, but the cafe is soft and homey as if a fire could be lit and you’d lounge in the faux fur of a rug to cover your curves as they are next to her. You might feel it too, as you are below her, the fire of her next to you, fully clothed yet somehow bare under the gaze of her marked eyes. “It’s already a lot.” You let your muscle lick at your top lip, letting a shaky hand steady as you reach to hold her shoulder, massaging the material that’s no longer there, just the stitch of her vest and soft silk of her shirt. “I can cum like this.” The words are vulgar, a whisper on the wetness of your tongue as your legs shift, moving to cross and almost grind into the flesh of your thighs, the pressure they supply that you cannot seem to grasp as you sit with your wife and eat the sweetest of food.
Yet your teeth do not shake until you see her smile, captivated by the pearls of white that flicker like the sun into windows of crystal. You toes curl in your shoes, eyes not leaving to the phone she’s definitely messing with. The vibration don’t so much crawl to the goal of making you cum, she most likely just itches the notch a centimeter higher, not even grazing the capacity of the third degree, but you’re already feeling the way it rocks inside of you, and you swear if you listen close enough the light buzz that fucked against you is now beating into you as if her fingers were them. It’s so high, so deep that you cannot seem to feel anything but the way your skin should vibrate with the toy. You think you whine, or murmur a whine, something that makes your lips wobble and collapse as you lean your head onto her shoulder. You’ve returned to the darkness behind your lids, that same strength behind Arlecchino’s composure, how she stands, how patience she is with that teasing tongue of hers.
Your eyes do roll back as the pleasure molts along your body, rising like the rising of the sun. It paints you as it does the blue sky bright, your grip on her tightening, trying to get as close as you can to the woman that gives you this much pleasure, feeling the muscles in her bicep, her forearm as you claw at the clothes of her. It’s not enough, something you won’t voice because she already knows, your tongue twisting in her favor does nothing more but polish the pride of her ego. With the heat burning you, your wife hums in her own form of pleasure whilst watching you come undone, and you do quickly, the pulse not calming until you feel the slick wet your panties, soak you in your own pleasure, the aftermath of misery as you peak open an eye to catch her phone screen.
It returns to the second volume, and you’re barely recovered when you choose to look up at her, her lips in a wide grin before slamming down to capture every bite of your dazed pleasure. You don’t know how you look; you don’t think it’s too bad, but you know your face will not return to what was once collected, your eyes too glassy and your lips too bruised of your own tongue. Your desire is potent, pungent from how many times your wife has used you as she’s liked. As you’ve always wanted; she’s read your desire and plucked your feather for her own writing to spin. With a gasp apart, your lips slotted against one another, licked and pulled and mauled like she’s always done when your satisfaction is met on the chair of some random restaurant. Your eyes, bleary, blink to the way her lips move, chewing on the leftover strawberry you forgot you had between your cheek and teeth. It’s something that still tangles with your tongue, the pins of seeds, the slush of jam; Arlecchino chews what you’ve gnawed as if reusing a robe you’ve worn to sleep.
She licks her lips, a show of pride, of expectance for your taste, which is always so sweet, grinning her teeth with words, “Heaven has met me here.” She leans back into you, her hand tickling your dress’s strap as you move a bit back, meeting her nose with your own. Then you feel it again, the pulse of the buzz that has your thighs tightening once again, leaning down to meet her shoulder’s juncture, breathing another breath as she chuckles with your display of tiredness. You want it though, by all desire you want more than just the third marker, so you breath it to her, no matter how you seem to others, you implore, “Please Arle, please give me more- I want-” There’s another fruit this time, a slice of peach maybe, something cut into a sliver smile that touches you with a cut of skin, a cut of the flesh so juicy, so wet and a bit stringy. You swallow down the taste as she says, “Me,” as if to finish your declaration of desperation, her words numb you enough to the pleasure, finding, seeking more in her eyes, the approval of her work.
You chew the skin of the fruit, soft, maybe like velvet as you look up to her, a smile of appreciation on her lips, tainting the power she holds over you as she kisses your forehead, her other hand increasing it a notch. You’re on the fourth one, and your legs try to slither around one another, like twisting ribbon for the perfect string, you tow your toes together, the toe of your shoe now prodding at the string of your matching heel. It’s intense, to have pleasure pilling a top the one you just had. You want to say there’s a sound to it too, not just the heightened buzz, but what comes from the heightened buzz being the squelch of cum that drips form you. Somehow, the vibrator doesn’t slip from you -you blame your wife- it actually slips right up against your G-spot and the sensitivity it just released from you.
You’re burning again, unlike before it doesn’t build it doesn’t coddle you in the emotion of pleasure, how it will trail down the slickness of your vibrating walls. This time you can feel it wave against you like a fan, the cuts it creates as the ice chills you. Your wife offers you another peach again, you think at least, as she tries to prod into your lips, and yet you cannot open them as your eyes roll back and your wife smirks- smirks so much it’s the sun and touches her phone again- A breath of sobriety releases you from your pleasure as you look to her phone. It’s off- no, it’s not off, the vibrator is off. Your thighs twitch, desperation hot in your as the squeeze of your thighs do not aid in the pulse that tricks you, teases your core as you squeeze around nothing, one hand trying to press onto your clit, but of course, Arlecchino catches you, twisting you away from your sore, sore, sore spot. She clicks her tongue, at least you think because you’re caught in trapping a whine in the back of your throat. “I’m sorry,” she says, which feels like the first today, no poetic language of the past purported, just the modern tongue of lost meaning.
“I forgot to charge it before coming. I was just so excited to see you cum in public-” “Would you like the check?” You blink, sobriety high in your eyes as you stare directly at your lap, almost rigid- no, you are rigid with embarrassment; the cold water of not cumming in public. “Yes please, and could you pack this up with another serving to go?” The waitress must nod or agree because the next thing you know, Arlecchino’s blazer is against your shoulders as she pulls you to stand. She holds you steady before reaching in her blazer’s pocket for her wallet. She takes a breath, grabbing her card before slipping it in her back pocket. Your legs aren’t in pain necessarily, they’re just unpredictable, and it’s painful to be incapable, but your wife is standing, grabbing your waist like you think she did when you arrived. Maybe people will think something other than the wet patch that wants to trail down your short skirt.
She walks you to the front, paying and grabbing the bag of food before opening the door for you. You barely know what’s going on before she’s pulling you and your stumbling legs to the alley you once entered. She’s the one who wastes no time, who has a brain to think for herself- well, for you. She sets the bag down beside where you stand, almost immediately getting down on one knee and picking up your skirt. She doesn’t intend to be gentle or soft, you think it’s just her default when it comes to you, her fingers rushed, agog, but not rough with you. Sue, you’re tugged as she pulls your panties down and pockets them into her blazer that you’re still wearing, yet your wife is still solicitous when it comes to you, tentative when it comes to lifting your leg up and onto her shoulder. She leans into the wetness of you, not biding you a word before she greets your pussy with her attention. Her fingers slip down your wetness, petting down your clit, which jumps at the attention before she glides it down, twists it to meet your entrance how you crave.
You wouldn’t call it a stretch of her fingers, but an opening. The toy was lodged so far up inside of you that her fingers split you, open you to recapitulate the treasure she put inside of you, as if she wanted it to be kept. If she wanted it warm, she got it stick, her fingers grazing the edge of the toy, your chest heaving as you first your skirt, trying to keep it up whilst watching her and her devotion. You think she’s praying to you this way, an offering of sorts when she doesn’t remove it completely, just tickles the edge of the orb, the thing to grip it out of you, and instead of tugging it against your walls, she just toys with it inside of you. She tugs and releases against your walls and there’s a knot already forming, your sensitivity. It’s like a bubble within you, begging to be popped as it fills you with a teasing type of satisfaction.
You’re teetering on overstimulation and dissatisfaction. You don’t know how to feel as she bends down, moving to kiss your clit, the velvet of your wet heat. Your toes flex against, your foot already heeling her into your pussy- deeper as she plays with the walls of you. It’s never enough as her lips of softness kiss against your slick, sticky and kissing her in return before she lets her tongue slip out between the cavern of her lips. You’re sticky, warm and desperate, as if the ache you’ve only known has spread, satiating yourself on rationed food and now your savior, caught between your thighs, feeds you with the swell of her tongue.
You’re full again, that teetering full ness as she laves against your clit, letting it drag against her tastebuds whilst she massages your thighs held up. She keeps plucking at your entrance, letting her fingers tease it against your walls, pulling it further from your special spot before letting your walls swallow it deeper again, letting the bulb of silicone meet your special spot. They kiss time and again while your wife eats at your clit, feeds the notion of your neglected and satisfaction finds you again, builds inside of you as she lets your thighs twitch, want to come undone as she doesn’t pay your heel any heed. She’s the one actively diving deeper into you, the deft outlines of her strength marked in her hands, how her jaw moves and tongue licks against you, then the fire burns from the red of her eyes, her lips wrapping around your clit and a smirk still taints her. She licks at it, toys with it and right as you’re about to cum, the toy is pulled from you and your head hits against the wall, a breathy few pitches sounding from you, your lungs stretching to accommodate the different sensations whilst she eats and feeds you- feeds and feeds and feeds until all you know is the unsteady nature of pleasure and food. You’re stuffed and she holds you up.
a/n; istill don't know anything ab genshin, n thus warning should b printed on my blog yet here we r w my somnolent bum
There’s something different, in the air you feel it brush against you in warning, like a comb through your strands one matted as a kid form your community’s negligence for having you be a child to their adulthood. The wind is different because there is not a window open, but it aids you in understanding what you’ll wake to before the day has started, before you’ve rubbed at the sharp crusts neat your tear ducts.
Sitting up, you wrap yourself in a matching bespangled rose rob to your night gown, both silk, and both drowning you in a chill because it feels good, but how long have you felt this good even when knowing the world beyond these walls your husband seems content to keep you in. You don’t know if you want to bicker with him more about it or, dare you say, ignore the desperation of his contentment in keeping you here. You think, in another life, your life would’ve been easier from the start. You ignore it to get ready, quickly, quietly in the side of the cabin you’ve capitulated for your husband and your honeymoon. It’s funny how it all started, or ironic would taste better on your iron-lacking tongue. You don’t know how or when it started, and you don’t know how or when you agreed to marry a rich man who’s job you do not let taint your teeth. They’re stained with a chamomile tea, fresh and tainted by the browned viscous gold of honey. You picked some yesterday, the test sitting in the middle of the dining room table.
You need to make something for breakfast; your husband soon to find you after meeting with his family. Something important, something you do not want to bleed from your ears, aid in the blood under your skin, something that doesn’t involve crepes waiting to be layered with Nutella between. You’ll eat the entire stack between your teeth and smile as he holds your hand because you can’t believe how cold it is in this cabin, and yet how hot it is outside. Is this what tension feels like, the chill that never breaks, your tears that never find your skin but stay inside the cacophony of pain never molten on your skin. The robe tickles past your shoulders, arms bent so your fingers can cradle the tepid tea in the pink cup you took from your old apartment. Where will you go now? You’ve forgotten sparkling water last shopping spree, so you can’t make crepes, and if you can’t make a crepe cake for your second week of the honeymoon, then what will you do to show Illumi how content you are in this cold cabin. Why is the cabin cold when it’s only you- has the tension always relied on your own flesh and bones and the want of life they’re weighed against?
Illumi is home, you can tell not by his seps, but the shut of the door; it’s old, you’re not. You’ll never be old to him. Is it a curse or blessing? Who do you pray to, to confirm? You look over to your husband. His shirt is white, formal, his pants black and also formal. He’s without a belt, his socks fuzzy because you complained of not matching with him. The silk roses that kiss your skin find your shoulders again, and you set you tea down to accost him with your touch. Needy, it echoes, needy bones scraping against his as you feel the distance given for the cold robotic touch to your rapacious abandon. “That was quick,” you breathe, pulling apart, with your fingers still against his polyester, his still on your silk, you look into his eyes as he responds, lifeless yet with something- there’s always something different with the wind when you’re together, “I left early, there’s a job Father and Grandfather will complete.”
You hum, looking over to the kitchen from the space of the living room, only a step up and you’ll reach the fridge, cupboard, island, pots and pans, recipes you’ve jotted down on scrapes of paper- something you still cannot drop no matter the riches that haunt you now. You should’ve opened the sliding door, you should’ve taken in the sun, let the sun take in you, maybe bless you with some knowledge you’ve forgotten as you’ve aged. “We don’t have flour; I can’t make crepes.” He nods as you got back to his eyes. “I can get some.” Not him, he would, but his butlers- your- both of the butlers you have that serve you both in tandem, them. They will get you flour. Your mind hurts, so you lean into him more, let your hands curve up the edges of his ribs covered by fabric. ”No,” you dismiss, letting your eyes take in his lips as you breathe against them, “Thank you.”
They collide like a cliff falling, a mudslide to the ground you can feel your center of gravity tilting, forcing you to bend to the flexuous road you both share. You can taste something on his tongue, either the blood of him or the nectar of food, something different that forces your teeth to cling to his lips, engulfing your own as your hands slip up against his front. You let your fingers slip against him, dive into him like he’s an ocean, or better yet grass as you stretch against the blanket of greenery. You take as much as you can from him, slowly reaching his shoulders for your fingers to dig into, now pushing underneath his clothing, forcing his skin to touch yours like electricity. Your teeth ache, parting from his full lips, his hands coming to cling onto your own body, one on the mid of your back, forcing it to cave to his height whilst the other tickles your hair, shoving your face into his like you both should combine into one form.
Ignoring the notion, your tongue finds his, his lips swallowing your own as air, moving his head to mimic your own, your fingernails pricking the muscles of his shoulders and dragging down against his uniform, uncaring for the tightness of it. “Il-” you choke on his tongue, your own fighting it for the words to escape you. For one moment you truly think it detaches into the cavern of your saliva, yet he parts and swallows for your words to finish, “Illumi, strip.” Your lungs fill with oxygen, your hands parting form him with blood probably caking under the thickness of your points. You disregard that for the lifeless eyes of his, how devoid of emotion they are, and in that vapidness you’re overwhelmed with bathos. Your fingers move to entrap the fabric of your wear in desire, the desire that curdles in your mind, clouds your desire for something more, something not licentious, something so menial, so simple. It’s degrading, to be this human with this man in front of you.
His shirt goes first for the sinewy muscles on his lithe form. You’re bare save for your panties as your hands move to his pants, grasping at the buttons as you back him up to the couch, your legs not as weighed down desire as they are cutting themselves off with it, like circulation lost in the frost of night, you scramble to rid him of the fabric, letting your nails scrape at the lifeless body of his, honed for his family’s opulence. It’s that feeling again, vapid like him yet searing your eyes as you tug them down, his body yet to fall back as your touch moves to the cloth blocking him from you. You trail his body, your eyes tracking the rise of his chest, barely there except when you feel him-
When you feel him against the softness of your palms, smelling of flora form your handwash, the handwash he got you from the house of his victim. You don’t swallow, but your jaw adjusts under the strain of your teeth clenching, and if your eyes aren’t vapid, you don’t know what reflects in his from them, you don’t know yourself as you touch starts where you once were. He’s not as cold as he used to be, the house adjusts to the chill of your body, and it rubs on his own skin, the chill of the outside, of the leaves dancing to the whispers of the wind, or maybe it’s just your skin being so used to this, this chill that must have rotted out your own body as well. How much of you is a cadaver as he is, standing before you in this captivity chamber?
Your fingers slip down his chest, from the crescents of your nails, ripely red to the rise of his pecks and his pert nipples. Your fingers slip against them, nominally pinching them from the gaps before you find the bones of his ribs, how they handle his lungs underneath. Your eyes rock from his own down to his lips, slowly finding your way to where you are, to the way your nails scrape against the band of his boxers. You do swallow this time, not so much in preparation as you adjust to the idea in your head. Your own opulence has yet to come to fruition in this room, slowly lowering to your knees with your hands enthralled with his clothes, ripping them form the burn of his cold skin that you didn’t think was that cold. He slips them from his standing, watching, waiting probably for what he doesn’t let you do often. You don’t know who taught him what, but he prefers to give, in this room, in these moments.
Your fingers aren’t sticky, but they stick together from, maybe nerves, maybe ideas that float around, are barely imagined before they find your throat and attack you with cowardice. One of your hands rises in the air, the other stuck to his thigh, the sinewy muscle under flexing as you massage your prints into it, slowly grinding to the touch of him, the feel that you don’t always get. He lets you look at him, so long as he looks at you, notes every fraction of your being, but nerves are there, under his touch, pricked form the sensation of his pupils corroding his irises. You feel him now though; you can touch and grind against him as your hand finally entrap his length in your grip. He’s not horribly thick, just enough for your hands to widen around his veins, yet his length is a nightmare, almost weighed down from the height. You disregard that image of it deep in your throat, just for a moment, you let your lips part with saliva, thick strings of wetness coating your tongue as it pools in the heat.
Your mouth hollows for him, your tongue cupping the underside of his fat tip before your lips suck around it, just light enough to feel the heat of his head, the way it tastes as pink as it is, the bit of salt that taints you from his pre. You beg with your tongue, flicking it against his slit before bobbing your head with the suction of your lips. It happens then, just as you predicted, barely able to part from the taste of him when he grasps the back of your head, pulls on your hair and bends down to meet you at your wobbly posture. He doesn’t care to let you stand, wrapping his hand back against your spine, grinding himself into you and forcing you to back up against the armrest, only a few moments of his teeth biting against your own until he pulls on your bottom lip and you’re planted on the edge of the pleather couch. It’s a chill, a bite that lingers against your scantly clothed bottom, your thighs trying to scamper on his shoulder when he lowers himself.
Just as you had with him, he touches you, only with his mouth rather than hands. His lips aren’t terribly cold, maybe tepid as his tongue heats the pulse of your skin, dragging down your skin to savor the taste as if you were a divine entity; he paces himself, slowly dragging to the skin of your clavicle, then the divot between your breasts, letting his tongue lick up to your sternum. It’s wet, slowly chilling you like the AC so chilling after burning in the sun. Your toes curl, fingers digging into the stretch of an arm rest beneath you. His eyes flutter, still vapid in their descent into emotion, his lips moving further down as his arms barricade around you, scooping up around you, grasping at the tops of your thighs slowly enveloping his head.
Once he gets close enough to your mound, he blinks up to you, a flutter of his thick lashes of a spider’s web, the intricate layers heavy as you note the parting of his lips. You wonder if this is what he saw when you were between his legs, down below him. Your thighs twitch at the thought, something hot already curdling deep inside of you whilst his fingers push your panties to the side. You swallow, your hand jolting from the rest to his crown, slipping into his strands as his wet mouth slaps against your clit. He laves against it, his mouth parting just enough for his tongue to lap at it, hot and wet and texture just right for his tastebuds to grind into your clit. He coats you in his saliva, forcing his tongue to grind, push into the sensitive pearl hidden in the heat of you. He takes form the taste of you as if this is all you asked for, as if this was all you ever wanted when you looked into his lifeless eyes.
Your fingers pull at his strands, pushing his head down; he concedes, his tongue grinding down between your folds further, obscenely licentious sounds dripping from his throat and your warmth. You almost lose it there, the way he beds to your will, but he’s yet to force himself into you, with the length of himself. You watch him with eyes starting to drip with their own obscene thoughts. His tongue prods at your entrance, as teasing as he can be when gathering up the wetness pouring from your hole, something sickeningly sloppy slithering deeper into your cavern. It’s not horribly slow, but just slow enough for your toes to curl, your eyes finding how far back they can go as your head falls back, jaw parting in a clip of a sound for your moans to warble out. He doesn’t show it, but you think he’s invigorated by the essence of your emotions, something he wont’ show, that’s been stripped of him. He leans into you, his mouth sucking against your entrance, his tongue better than a vibrating bullet as it prods into you, an endless stretch of the pink just shy of your needs, so deep inside. You’ve grown used to him, the length of him that’s seemingly endless, no matter what position, he can never seem to stop, to never give you more, more, more.
Just the thought has your wetness dripping, his lips slurping at you. The two few fingers that keep your panties to the side adjust, his longest finger lengthening to inch against your clit. It’s a nip of electricity that finds you, your eyes zapping open at the notion of the unknown action, his finger refusing to stop as it virtually tickles your clit. It’s warmed to his touch, heating like boiling water as you feel the hard lines of his lingering finger, the callouses, the marks, the years of being an assassin, of training to be someone’s prize to suddenly be yours, between your thighs as your subtly grind into him. You don’t it’s ever subtle, but your think jerk of your hips rocks the couch enough for him to notice. He doesn’t hinder you, instead he uses that as momentum to thrust into you, his tongue licking up the essence of your walls, the wetness that pours down onto his tastebuds, another finger quick to join as he quickens just enough to hit your nerves. It’s just as nerve-wracking as his tongue stretching your hole, the shake of your thighs and the massage of his finger against one, the way your slowly start to wet the cotton of your panties and the warmed pleather beneath you- It’s all enough for your fingers to tug at him as he doesn’t relent on your clit, let alone the pulse of your dripping entrance.
He does more than you wish, thinks to what you would as he jumps up to your lips, letting you taste the sweet nectar between your thighs, his hand making quick work to remove you of your final item. One hand rest on the leather whilst the other slowly loops around his neck, slipping down to the broadness of his shoulders, a moan slipping down his throat from the touch of his dick against your slick mound. Your hips jerk to the length of him, a moan so breathy falling to his slick lips as he says, “Ready?” You swallow a moan of yes, both hands finding his shoulder as he lifts you up, your legs encompassing his waist before he carries you, weightless in his grasp, in his walk to the wall beside the cushions.
You gasp a breath, arching against the chill of the wall when he lets one hand leave the bottom of your thigh for his length. You swallow when he pushes you into the wall, forcing you to be held against him and the air before his tip finds you. You almost whine, barely tamping it as the fat tip slips down your pulsing clit, into your folds to puncture the entrance of your cavern. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, almost crisscross for the way you hang from him. He pays you no mind, as if he can’t feel it, only the gloss of your eyes, his arm returning for the stretch of him. It’s not so much a pop or stretch of him as it is forcing you to widen, to let the gulp of water down your throat for the first in a while; it’s almost as refreshing as that, if not just ab it more foreign since the time he’s been gone, the number of dollars he’s taken. His arm loops under your other leg, clinging onto him, this way the stretch you get is from your limbs overriding the prodding of his length slowly slipping deeper into you. He angles you against him, your pelvis rising to the lowering of his hips. It’s a perfect match, but he makes sure it takes time, his length not fully in if he’ll ever let it be for your sake.
Your eyes drip to where you both meet, and you not the pallid length of him, the veins that tickle his member and then the pink of his tip that delves into you, almost bleeding into the length of him from your entrance, the tightness of it acting like a smear of lipstick from lips and tongues, or better yet, the drag of nails against someone’s skin, like that of his back. You whine form the image and the way he fucks into you, thrusts controlled and with your pussy in mind. It’s more so the way you squeeze him that pulls him in, better, the way you can test him. It’s wet enough for him to slip inside, yet your gummy walls still beg for him to stay, to inch deeper and deeper, until he’s grazing you again, that spot deep inside. Your lips part as he pulls back again; still not fully inside when he inches out again. Your heels can’t dig into him, but his arms can push your legs further to the wall, your eyes grinding into the back of your skull when he pushes in, just shy of your special spot ad nauseam.
You moan, “Illumi,” gasping at the way he stills only when he’s almost out again, the fat head of his tip hot against you. It’s heavy too, unsure if it wants to fuck you down into the ground or raise you higher into the air form the weight of his length. Nonetheless it’s torture, when he pauses and then you’re forced to blearily blink in his direction, your fingers shaking against the taught skin of his back, his muscles and bones than shift as he holds you like his personal flesh light. Your toes curl, lips parting with wet strings as you choke, “Fuck me- breed me! Breed me, Illumi please!” Your teeth are caught on his, his tongue slipping inside of your mouth when his hips pistol inside of you, as deep as he can- too deep as you twitch against him, almost writhe form how deep your sensitivity stretches.
You are abysmally endless with pleasure from him, the hot tip of him kissing the end of you, yet begging to reach deep, to find the place he shouldn’t be, as if this is the way to train himself, to push his limits and heal his bones. Your eyes roll back again, thighs begging to shut as his arms flex whilst holding you, the sticky wetness that you make stick to him strings between the two of you, even from your lips does he part with you, licking up the residue on him as he briefly glances to where he’s opened you up. He takes a breath, barely heard but the puff of his ribs is shown to the sun as he pushes in again, his head dipping down to your throat, ebbing closer and closer to your clavicle as he fucks up into you, the sounds rumbling deeper inside of you, a stick twirling on another as the flames grow, the smoke within you singing your veins, your words a cry as you voice your pleasure, his own dick twitching in tandem, as if this was his objective in the beginning, the sync of your bodies met with the slick coalescing of your ecstasies together, the deep weight of his tip inside of you, pouring, inoculating you with something that laps at your mind. Your chest rises against his, your fingers slowly leaving the crests of blood on his back for his cheeks, eyes blinking open as you try to ignore the stretch of him deep inside of you, how it feels as you parchedly voice, “Can your butlers make crepes?”
a/n; this might be tlling of my life, but I need sm1 to fuck me 🙀 up before I fuck myself up...
You love trees. It’s something you think they know about you; plants don’t talk, you don’t have a bit of Nen for that, but that’s not why you think they know that. They keep your secrets when talking, they warn you of their branches on the ground, and what more, they whisper to you the secrets of people. Or ants. You like to think of yourself as an augur of sorts, the trees as an augur, and maybe you an orator for them. But today, you were not so lucky to be loved by the trees, or maybe with the bark against your head; they are your luck, the last luck of their love they can give you when you fell and scrapped your back, your poor disheveled body when you saw this chimera for the first and not only time. You don’t know when it started, but you ran, and now, your heart is left to the tree; you forgot their augury.
You stare up at them, this being that is not of you, but is of some part of humanity. They’re to serve the king, the one pillaging the land for feed; leaving the cannibalized meat alone for a girl, a singular girl you do not know the name of; and yet somehow, he is more merciful than the rich. The trees say you mean, or maybe, you’ve always been talking to yourself, your gut, your second and main mind all this time. You don’t think you’ll ever now. They look down at you unlike feed for themselves or the king, but something of interest for one or the other; you can’t tell who. Their eyes of wide deceit track over you, down your scrunty wear of a sheer nightgown to the mud digging into your sides. It just rained, it’ll rain again before the night’s over and whatever mercy besides death will find you with them. Whatever destiny.
They trail their eyes to your face, you don’t know if they’ve caught it before, but this is the first time you grasp their gaze with a smile on their face; intrigue, interest is not the word to describe them, amusement, play, a cat like they are to a mouse like you never thought you were. You’d ask the trees, btu they do nothing but give your blood the burn of dirt bark. “You weren’t here before,” they finally speak, their voice of light merriment; you do not feel any gaiety in your throat crawl out of you, but a whimper of the unwise, of someone’s last words forgotten to the tree’s bloodied leaves. There are no bodies, but your heart is still beating. “Please-” there’s a whisper of pain that catches your voice, “Please don’t kill me.” Don’t hurt me is left unspoken, how much is your life of value to yourself? Why now, would death not be merciful over this cold mud, over this fear striking you blue? They don’t show much affliction to this sentiment, now crouching before you quickly, their gaze still on yours but diverted every few seconds by your breath, the breath of your chest. You shouldn’t’ve come out to tend to the trees, they always wait until morning. But there is flood with rain, there are tear streaks with tears.
“Where were you hiding?” They ask it, and you answer with a shiver, their attention drawing away the moment your feet scamper, you try to squirm into yourself, maybe like a black hole swallowing and disappearing, a mouth closing before bugs can get in. But are ants bugs? Are they a bug when a human heart beats there? “I have a home in the village near.” Their brows furrow, but not at your statement, the destitution they’ve- all of them have most likely turned it into, but at your leg. They reach for it, and you cannot squirm, you’re stable with fear, caught like a fish and handled by hands too calloused to let go without a cut.
“Your leg is so soft- softer with blood.” You don’t think you have a cut; it’s dried on your skin, but you don't remember getting a cut. Maybe walking shoeless with trust in nature, in the trees was a bad idea, or maybe this was the augury, not their usual flutter of leaves. Or maybe, trust so vulnerable, having to be so vulnerable with trust is why you’re bleeding. Can anyone stay trustful for long? “Please,” you mutter, offhandedly, something less of a whimper, less of a whisper and more so a subdued shriek, a whine so petulant in their mind most likely. You’re livestock, aren’t you? Honestly, when have inhabitants not been? When have mammals on two legs not been?
They find your gaze again, not sparing any bit of your skin a gander of their eyes. They’re caught before they catch your eyes, lingering between the divot of your legs, the space between you have forgotten to shield with your leg being up in their grasp and the other dug into the dirt of your predicament. You move then, only slightly, but their gaze finds yours quickly, and no matter if you share their gaze, you know when to stop before things get worse. “You’re…” They trail their touch, the hand resting aimlessly on their thigh, to your own, poking at the flesh, strained in a helpless shielding. “Dirty,” they finish, and you find a smirk on their lips before the first drip of a rain petal. You look to it, but you find the tree’s pitying you, the tear it sheds for you in mock because there is no getting out of the further burn to the back of you, how they tug you towards them, no matter your being, you are just their puppet, you are, in fact, nothing to their strength.
The thin fabric you wear is nothing to beat their gaze, as if they can see down to your bones, the curve of your waist, of your hips, every morsel of you barely covered by the flimsy aegis. Their grip on you is of a grip on a toy, your knee pricked by their nail of faint white, of something crimson. They pick at the skirt of your nightwear, letting it flick to show your belly, share the cold with the rest of your barely warmed body. They get the best glimpse, you think possible for now, of your core, the hearth of your heart ever-so-warm even in the coldest of climates. It’s clothed slightly, but it’s slipped, it’s no covered you entirely and it’s shown how dirty you truly are, how wet you are with not rain, but desire. Instead of commenting on it, they hum a huff of their intrigue, continuing a show of their strength as they part the fabric from you, safely cutting the garment and letting it find home back in the planet it is from. Caught in shock, you look to them, and their gaze doesn’t deter from the interest between your thighs. A knuckle is what finds your first, causes your back to arch nominally. You don’t want their touch; you need it.
It grazes your mons pubis, ghosting down the skin of hair before they find the velvet of your core, touching the bundle of nerves that pleads for their attention as they pause on the artifact. It takes everything in you not to coil up this embarrassment, from this force of their will onto you. You are not dead, are you not so lucky? The trees pity you, call upon you, cry from the sky for you. You look to the tree roots you never once tripped over before in your time here. What a sign they were, what a sign it is that they have taken interest to the heat of your being, to a fire inescapable, ineffable. They massage it lightly, find a pressure light before it’s just enough, has your hips canting into the nudges of their knuckle as they take a gander at your face again. Your eyes have shut now, fluttered to a pitiful escape as they toy with you. You do not wish to watch the mirror above you, see the surgeon’s blue hands in your red; so, you submerge in the darkness.
With your leg parting wider at their advance, you feel their breath, their hair against your thigh before the heat of wetness that laves at your clit. You shriek then out of surprise, no desperation to stop or to wait or to halt this investigation of who you are to them. You shriek and they are pleased by this discovery, letting the buds of their tongue, the texture of obscene dirt lick at your clit like it is milk, like they have the upmost interest in this feed, this endless swell of wetness. It comes slowly, the desire that starts to burn your insides, molds them together as they’ve always meant to be, the desire to be wanted, to be taken and saved from the endless weight of their presence over you, you now just feel. You let your hands comb through the wet grass of dirt, press into the ground as you hesitantly cant your hips willingly into their fire of a mouth.
You take it immediately, the bait you never knew you laid on your wire, your finger to a lion cub’s tantalizingly small but thick tooth. You taste a sudden shock of trepidation as they envelope you, your hips, the tops of your thighs, taken by their strong forearms as you’re hoisted to their liking, your back arched off the ground, against their front as your awaiting pussy is before them. It’s uncomfortable, maybe more awkward than that, but the pressure to your upper back is ignored for the soft ground that still cradles you; nature’s kindness in misery is still kindness because it’s without the pity of a human’s min, the pity of being human. You stare into their eyes, finding a drowning fountain of saliva pooling in their mouth, decanting from their sharp teeth unto your searing softness. It settles into your folds, awaits to drip and settle down into your entrance as your hips shiver from the notion. Your thighs never close, your strength is never gained, you’re sitting as they watch your pussy, hands around your thighs, lips splitting to blow too-cold air onto your hottest spot, your only spot of heat in this chilled environment. As if hearing the rumble of the clouds above, of hunger, of anger you’ll never know the God’s will out of human’s grasp, they descent onto your warmth.
It’s not chilled to their tongue in the slightest, and it burns greatly, adding coal to the fire, gasoline as their spit when they trail their mouth around, slurping at every viable notion of your substance. It’s sloppy, but it’s explorative in the pursuit of understanding. They must parse enough quickly to get your moans rivaling the thunder. It starts with their tongue sliding into the spit once dropped, chilling a top of you before their tongue can find the heat of it, slide if down into the depths of you, pushing past the tightest ring they’ve felt, digging out every bit of your emotion from the deepest bits of you. All you can feel, even with your eyes awake is the feeling of them savoring you, no hint, not kindness of the atrocity of devouring. There’s not blood, only essence, deep and ingrained as perfume, as an inescapable drug to their being as they tug you closer to their face, slurping up the taste of you like the most regal meal ever known to them, indelible in its wake your organ throbs in the wait of their tongue, the carving of them into you, never forgotten in every bit of your pulsing hearth. They move past your entrance, or back up against it and you’re forced to watch the dedication their savoring of you as a meal.
They do not play with you but taste you, beak apart the components because they have the time. You wonder the questions they’d ask of you if you were ever on a plate, maybe what you ate, if your lack of Nen had to do with the desire you curdled in them, or if simply your beauty was carved from this nature here, if you were grown of the ground rather than of insect, of horrid man. You’d never give an answer; you will never have one. You’re locked under their desire of need as they suck against your folds, find each a delicacy worth teasing, testing their fangs against, the unwanted factor of blood a fear curdling your submission, your whine of their presence, of those never-ending please, those never-ending findings they enjoy. They peer their eyes at you, slants of their devoid nature before they lick up to your clit, spreading your folds like a sea and grazing- grazing your clit with the tiniest of presence, a flick of their restraint almost more suffocating, fear-inducing than the nominal graze of their fangs. It’s lost on you the moment they wrap their lips around your clit, finding the taste like a vampire to pray, like live bait caught by the teeth of a predator, maybe a cat beheading a mouse, the chase included in the satisfaction of a kill, or in your case, the satisfaction of subduing, earing you at the seams of your beginning trusts of the wild. Are they the wild or you? Who to this world, would be a pet?
Your back arches into them unwittingly, your toes curling and their grip tightening on your thighs of chilled flesh that never quite loosens its taste as they burrow themselves deeper into their feed, finding pleasure in closed eyes and bubbling cheeks when dining between your thighs. Instead of squirming, long having conceded to their strength, you move to dig into their desire, how deep it runs to the seams of their being, their making, and the seams never do part as you find yourself grasping unwittingly at their forearm, trekked in mud as it never claws at them with caught, but grasps at the muscle with utter satisfaction, stimulation growing and breaking, blooming into you as a new season starts and you find yourself still on the covers of the dirt, but a softness not to yourself, btu maybe given to them from you as they kiss the thigh once held, lets you slowly loosen your grip in caution until they let you back down, resting against the tops of their thighs.
This is not all, this is never all since there was barely a chase, more of a hiding, they must chase their own release of feed, their own release of satisfaction in breaking you, because there will never be a chase to your submission, just acquiescence They do not unsheathe themselves, they choose to pick at your dress once again, plucking the fabric with their pointer and thumb before letting it trail until the flesh of your breasts are shown. Your nipples are pert with attention, burrowed under the chill that wracks from their body; you will never accept their heat. You feel it though, the heat of a desire, of lust for something another has to offer before letting their hands come into contact with the softness. They squeeze them, hold onto them to see if they give something, btu they don't and do all the same. It’s not physical, visual, but it’s sentimental, it’s sentience bared with teeth as they squeeze them with warmth unfounded in their kind. There’s no softness still, but there is experience sprouting from their bones, and understanding found as they toy with your chest, play with the parts of you once neglected, until neglect becomes boundless and mirrored in their pants; they pay heed to desire, to what they can give you.
You do not see the length, you see the clouds part for thunder, for a strike of lightning as they’re freed, and the length of them hits you, sandwiches between the two of you when they lean down to get close, to know your body against their own. It won’t hurt, you know that much, btu there’s still adjusting to be done; you’ve come undone once and they are pulsing with the need to do once to your twice. You think the clouds, ever the betrayal of ignorance, are your friend, not the trees that have scrapped you in love, and you feel them give way to your incompetence; give more chill when you needed heat. There is nothing to cool but something to warm, and you feel, after a moment of watching the clouds accumulate grey of tears, you feel the stickiness of a tip, the rouged heat of it as the length prods your entrance, wet and beating on its own, desire sucking up from the seams of your walls as the being you do not dare to call human finds your hips again, right after letting the tip pop into you. It’s big, and heavy, something you’ve never known a member to be as it finds its way into your angled hips, right with theirs, your back meeting the dirt with their first struggle to stretch your insides, only succeeding in strangling the ring of your muscles.
Your hands find the dirt against, but this time they flail against the violence done unto you, there is no grasp at desire, there is only acquiescence, the pitiful penury that finds you here as the length of them, the beast of the beast burrows inside of you and finally makes it deep enough inside of your hearth, your sacred notion of budding life hidden by petals of another’s, to kiss the spongiest part of you, tapping like a knock against it, like knocking you against something because of the size of them. The strength they hold against you does strangles you and the size of nature offers no help, but you do, instead of crying, find tears of the clouds to your advantage. They will not hear the most of you, if they didn’t lean down against you; they wouldn’t’ve heard the most of you as they touched you deeply, sprouted themselves inside of you like your life here, an invasive species of tree they are.
Their length feels painfully fulfilling, stretching you, filling you with something so obscene it has to be human, this interaction has to be something of your kind, never of the planet as they lick against your jaw, whisper the obscenest thing only man’s tongue can mold, “You feel so tight, like a python’s grip, my little human.” You think the rain is your tears, but you’re shielded from the capture of your emotions as they cup your skin against the arch of your back, making sure to plant their fingertip onto you, flexing their nails away from the softness of your skin as you, oh-so-suddenly grip onto them. It’s not an action you’ll ever admit to, when the tears stop falling and you realize what it meant to admonish the trees of their love in your violence, but you grip them tightly as they try to move from the expanse of themselves in the expanse of you.
It’s a tug at first, then a thrust back inside when they barely moved an inch, but they find you time and again, deeper and deep inside of the hearth, your sopping and heavenly hearth. It’s with a will of its own, maybe imbued with your destined desire or your heated humanity, you’re not sure, but you give to it with your toes curling, your thighs wrapped around their body as they thrust into you, gaining momentum from what you cannot leave behind; your affiliation with emotion, with the land as it stands.
It’s hurtful to know how deeply you crave this, to know of their hair against your own, to know of their touch with your own, but it hurts more to feel them pull out and not fill you to the fullest, savoring a moment of reprieve from your tightness to the moment of fulfillment filling them too close to release too soon, You think it helps that you feel the ache inside of you again, how they grind against you, slam you down into the first, and yet still keep you in their grasp, hold you closer to them than what you were, can ever be now. Or maybe, the pillaging of you, makes you closer to the land, what the land has been through without a voice only actions ignored? But have you given any actions of refusal, or have you always conceded as the land has to the feet of man? Of you?
Your head tilts back, hitting the ground as it soaks in wetness yet again, your brain budding with desire so harsh that it blinds you of how much you crave the cold even when already blistering; it’s not hot when you’re cold, you’re not under them when you’re cold, you’re just under nature, and nature is the nectar between your thighs, addictive and enough when played with, but never broken. Your hands shake as they rake against their body, moving at their own will before they lose their cool, lips suddenly colliding with yours in haste of your searing and sopping entrance.
It’s not kind, it’s not soft, but they do as they always have and take from you, everything for their understanding of humans of why you so deeply intrigue them more in this nature, in your own home than in their own, than under their place of penury. You wonder for freedom, and you hope for safety. You taste neither as they let their tongue dive into yours, your tongue never met with a battle but a loss as you barely kiss back, barely find yourself beyond their strangling of your body, stringing you with their own desire as you come undone, as you lose yourself, to no tears of the sky, but to their warmth of cum and heat of desire. You’re so hot with them, that it’s hard to reconcile the dirt when you feel it without the rain to cleanse you of everything so human.
They do not kiss you when they finish cumming; their head is back between your shoulder and your neck and you are back to the sky, still pouring, still shaming you with pity. And yet that pity has quenched your thirst you never knew you had; has given you water a cactus never could with its spike aweary Your lips part, not chapped, but they feel as though when they crease, broken and brittle, “Thank you,” you mutter after a moment, sliding into the mess of their hair whilst your eyes are still on nature. Is the sky nature or is it too high by the humans to grasp for it to be considered otherworldly? You hope it’s always out of the grasp of you. Some hope, some doom-speech. They pay you not much heed, letting their arms encircle your waist tightly in that never ending remembrance of your being to them. “I had not much to do, and the outside is always fun to explore with you.”
The warmth fades from you, letting you sweat out the remainder of the desire to be touched again, to find it maybe in your depths of desire that that gave way to for you. This was all for you. You feel it before they say it, before they degrade you most with their cheeks bubbling over with a play of a smile. “My little human.” There’s some truth to the story, but also a stretch of a truth; the trees are not the only ones to give you pity, so are the clouds, and you are helpless to the ants that parrot your skin.
a/n; the Gods blessed me with some form, some semblance of normalcy when it comes to writing. Hear me out now!!! I can write a write smut like the dickens (I need to work on my english)
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