𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── As The Last Woman On Earth, A Government Bounty Marks You As Humanity’s Only

── 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 : VI.

content: 2k words ! fem reader, pit fighter!vi, fwb dynamic. this is obviously sapphic. vi tops and she has a strap, rough sεx, cunnilingus, spit, slapping (not on the face), usage of petnames like 'princess' and 'baby', a lil angsty and tense, mentions of sεx work, p<3rn with plot!!

— . ｡˚ ♡ turns out, vi needed a rebound too.

vi is rougher and quieter than usual tonight.

shedding her clothes and pulling on the strap you've left on the bedside table for her, she climbs wordlessly onto your creaky mattress to get to you. you've been laying in bed for hours, all dolled up for her, and she doesn't really even look at you— it makes your heart sink a little.

you wrap your arms around her anyway, allowing her to touch you, and with a soft sigh, she gives the swell of your chest a kiss, 'hello'.

the pallid light coming through your window outlines her body in pale blue, and her smell invades your senses as she leans into your body, pressing her weight on you. 

gripping the soft underside of your thighs harshly, digging her nails into your tender skin, she pushes your knees to your chest. "you missed me, princess?"

"mmm, i did." you're looking at her with the most innocent gaze you can muster, eyes wet and lips pouty, and she leans in to give them a kiss just like you want her to. her mouth tastes sour enough of sweat and cheap alcohol to make you wince— but when she pulls back, you feel a twinge of disappointment that it doesn't last long enough.

fresh out of a fight, she's still full of adrenaline — and wastes no time on foreplay. hooking your legs over those broad shoulders of hers, she spits onto your cunt and gets right to it. 

her eyes roll halfway back into her head as she slips the strap into your cunt, like she can feel the way your pussy grips it. throwing her head back, she moans hoarsely, in sync with the sweet whine that comes out of your mouth as she rolls her hips into yours, sliding the strap all the way in. "that's a good girl, fuck."

yes. you are a good girl. her good girl.

vi has been coming to you every night or so, for a few months now — and at first it was just a good deal of sex for you both. but lately, you've found yourself less interested in the sex she offers you, and more interested in the woman herself.

your room is dark, like it always is when she comes over, and the harsh pleasure she gives you always turns your mind cloudy — but nothing can sway the watchful gaze you fix onto vi whenever you're in her arms. through half-closed eyes, you count the nicks and bruises that line the base of her throat and her shoulders and arms. the scratches and cuts, redder because she's flushed, drunk and exerting herself.

twelve new marks since last time. you wonder if she won tonight's fight or if she lost. the way she fucks you doesn't make a difference, so you can't tell — what you do know is that she comes to you seeking an escape from frustrations that stem from something unrelated to the fights entirely. 

and whatever it is, it frustrates her a lot.

she seems especially bothered tonight. you try to hold onto her, nails scratching at her muscled back as you struggle to maintain your grip. her pace is dizzying, and her grip on your body doesn't get lighter. she fucks you nearly like she wants you dead. "vi, vi—"

"you're doin' good, baby." she hisses, eyes shut. "g'nna make you cum in a bit, kay? just let me see you take my strap first. pretty thing."

and you take it — like a good girl. how could you not? when she acts like she's ravenous about you? when, with how she puts those dead eyes and calloused hands and busted lips on you, she makes you feel something no one else ever has?

she looks so good, too — so hot, with the dark hair, the ashy streaks running down her face, the lipstick smudged down her bottom lip that's just slightly fuller than her top lip — and the muscles, god.

her tits aren't nearly big enough to hang in your face while she's on top, but they bounce a little with each snap of her hips, and the sight mesmerizes you. she laughs softly when your pussy squelches for her — and it makes your heart flutter. fuck. you might just be in love with this ghost of a woman. "vi, please."

"you like that?" she hums, landing a kiss on the side of your knee that leaves a bit of lipstick stained on your skin. "y'like it when i fuck you to bits?"

"mhm," you choke out, keeping your eyes on her so you don't miss it when she looks at you. "wanna cum, make me cum, please."

the strap slides out of you as smoothly as it slid in — and heat rises to your cheeks when vi stares at how your cunt clenches around nothing. "can't say no to you when you ask so nicely." she reaches up to brush a stray strand of hair out of your face, giving you that half-smile that makes your heart twist just as much as your gut.

"look at you." she lowers her face to your chest, lips tracing kisses downward. one hand comes up to squeeze at your tits, soft and sharp at the same time, index finger and thumb teasing your nipple and making you keen. "pretty, pretty thing."

she nudges your legs apart, getting comfortable between them. her other hand toys with your cunt, middle and ring finger slowly coaxing their way into your hole like she's learning to be gentle now. your body tenses with anticipation, feeling the way her lips get closer and closer to where you want them to go. "ngh. just—please."

the first flick of her tongue on your clit makes you gasp, body rocking in reaction— and vi slaps your thigh. "shhh," is all she says, but it makes you behave. she spreads your pussy open with her fingers like it's a flower, and takes you whole.

the wet sounds of a mouth on a cunt fill your shoddy little room, and you moan and shudder in vi's arms, caged in her hold as she draws the orgasm out of you.

and she does it so quickly, having learned what touches of her tongue your clit likes best, how you like having her fingers, when to add the extra tug to your nipples. she makes you go insane so easily.

like she took the time to figure out how to do it. like she cared enough to do that. like she might just l—

the white-hot rush of pleasure hits you, and all your thoughts dissipate. you grab vi's hair, digging your fingers into the dyed locks, keeping her face where you want it. "mmm, fuck, just like that—vi, just like that, please—"

she slaps your thigh again, but you relent only slightly. she licks up your slick, adjusting her position so she can fuck you better with her fingers, and you tremble under her as she curls her digits into your sweetest spots, wave after wave of bliss washing over you with each touch. the bed creaks like the weak boards under your mattress might snap, but you don't even hear it. "god."

once you're not shaking so much anymore, the high peaking and falling past, she comes up and kisses you — and you know your face and body are full of inky lipstick marks by now. it's almost romantic.

then, it's over.

vi pulls away, letting go of you and sitting up.

"ugh." you slump into the bed, hiding the pang of hurt that fills you. "you . . . don't want me to do you? or . . get you a drink?"

"not tonight. think i'm wasted enough." vi wipes her mouth off, stretching her neck to one side till there's a pop — and gets off the bed. you notice how her lips are entirely clean of the onyx that they were. "hey, you sure you don't want me to pay you?"

and there it is. the moment of intimacy dissolves like a grain of sugar into the vastness of the sea. it's home time.

"no, it's fine." you wave her off, turning away. you watch discreetly through your mirror as she looks around at the little box you live in.

"are you sure? . . i can cough something up." she asks again, and though you're slightly offended, you know what she means. your place is a single room that's barely a six by ten, small rickety bed and a desk with the mirror, a rack for the few clothes you own, and nothing else really. you share a bathroom and kitchen with two other girls across the street. and you have vi each night.

you need nothing else. "yeah, i'm good. and i don't do that anymore, anyway." you tell her.

"alright." vi pulls her clothes back on, and you're just a little sad to see her body covered away again. you did love getting your eyefuls of those slight curves and sleek muscles, and the tatts. "why'd you stop, though? working, i mean."

you think of how you used to feel, seeing clients and letting them fawn over you for the night. handing you a wad of cash and walking out at the end of it. back then, it was what you needed— but the moment you didn't need it anymore, you’d signed out.

you'd only agreed to hook up with vi because it seemed harmless enough. made your nights a little less lonelier, gave you some company. you hadn’t expected money or to catch feelings.

the answer to her question rises up your throat, but you find it a bit ironic — and you know vi is a good person. if she finds out that you're yearning for more than what's between you two at the moment, she may just see herself out of your life, so as to not hurt you. and you didn't want that. you wanted vi, even if it was only like this.

the real answer to her question rests at the base of your throat like an ache, throbbing a little along with the parts of your body vi had gripped a little too harshly. i didn't like to feel used.

but you shrug your shoulders and say, "well, i just didn't need it anymore."

vi doesn't answer, only turns to leave. "will you come tomorrow?" you ask, trying not to sound like you want her to come.

"probably." vi answers, out of the door already. "stay safe, princess." then she's gone, and you're alone again.

the dreary darkness of your room surrounds you once more, and you feel hot and sticky. ignoring the discomfort, you slump into your bed again, realizing how painfully little you know about vi. yes, she's jinx's older sister. yes, she's nothing like her. yes, she's beautiful — handsome; ghost-pale, dark red roots showing through the dyed black hair, sad eyes lit up with need.

you loved those nights when she would let you reciprocate and make her feel good. when she would ask for a drink or two. when she would ask to stay the night, and you'd let her sleep on your chest. she wrapped her arms around your body then, holding you both like she's protecting you and like she wants you to keep her safe. and you'd hold her, stroke her hair, and stay awake praying the morning comes late.

and then there are nights like tonight — where she's quieter and more distant. where she leaves too soon. like she's holding herself back. it infuriates you, almost. you want to ask her what she wants. you want to tell her what you want.

shifting your stare from the ceiling to your door that hangs ajar, you let out a heavy sigh. next time, maybe you'll ask her. maybe you'll tell her. maybe. if the surge of body-and-mind desperation to make the moment last long enough doesn't overthrow everything else, you will. but you know it'll be easier said than done.

vi melts you like shaved ice in the sun. she softens you, turns you sweet. you feel alive with those dead eyes, calloused hands and busted lips on you. being wanted by her gives you a sense of meaning. and you'll do anything if it means holding her a little longer. 

if that meant this, simply getting to be her good girl for a night and nothing more — then so be it.

a/n: part two, anyone? lmk if you want it, might turn this into a series :P💓

pervert! manjiro is your best friend, you‘ve been friends for over 5 years now.

pervert! manjiro who thinks you‘re adorable, he loves the way you‘re so innocent, it makes him gets so turned on :( the way you‘ve never touched yourself because you‘re scared & don‘t how :((

pervert! manjiro who steals your panties every time he comes over, & you would be so clueless about it, everytime he sees you distracted he would sneakily slip away & go to your bedroom, he would search for your already used panties in your laundry & he would pick them up & shove them in his pocket.

pervert! manjiro who's a pervert & doesn‘t even try to slightly hide it, he‘d grope & play with your boobs all the time & you being so dumb & innocent you think that it's okay for him to do that! manjiro also reassures you about it & says that it's okay! :)

pervert! manjiro who would cuddle you & have his face between your breasts, basically drooling on them.

you felt his hard dick brush against you, causing you to let out a gasp, mikey‘s breathe hitched once he felt his dick brush against your clothed cunt, "y/n...c-can you help me...?" mikey asked in the softest tone you‘ve ever heard him talk in.

mikey tucked down his pants along with his boxers, his hard cock sprung out which made you let out a gasp, "look y/n... it hurts" & you would believe him, it does look like it's in a lot of pain after all. his red tip, & his veins that run alongside his dick. you suddenly brushed your hands on the tip making mikey let out a whimper.

pervert! manjiro who would have you jerk him off, your small hands wrapped around his length, your strokes were slow, scared that you might hurt him :((

at the end mikey would be cumming all over your hands, sticky & hot substances covering your hands. while Mikey was trying to calm down after his orgasm, your curiosity got the best of you & you decided to taste his semen, you quickly licked your finger that had a little of mikey‘s semen on them.

pervert! manjiro who caught you doing that & his cock got hard again, without mentioning that he saw you tasting his cum he just pulled you into an unexpected kiss, "y/n...it‘s not enough, your pussy needs to help too" he whispered in between the kiss.

mikey‘s fingers brushed against your cunt, "can i put it in?" & You nodded, you don't mind giving your first time to manjiro! he is the sweetest after all, he‘ll also probably take good care of you! :))

Hello luv💕

I really enjoy your stories, they just really brighten up my day! (even the angsty ones) may I request a oneshot version of zhongli being the only one who recognized God! Reader? Like,,, he found her all bruised up running away from Mondstadt/Inazuma and long story short, they end up together cuz wHo wOulDnT lOvE hIm 😩😩 imagine zhongli showing her his horns and tail and reader is so enamored with them and all. Sorry I think I'm having a zhongli brainrot rn😔

THIS IDEA IS SO GOOD ANON <3 I love it!!! Zhongli brainrot is big and I am affected by it too- sure, he can be nice to write as being cruel at times, but soft, gentle and loving Zhongli is alo *chefs kiss* I hope you like it!!! cw: mention of injuries, cult like behaviour length: 3,1 k

The dragon, the knight, the lover

The winds and storms around Inazuma had apparently been getting worse. The harsh, angry winds whirring remnants of lightning with them carried over even the seas, creating an electric feel within Liyue. Zhongli was no longer officially the archon of Geo, but his concern for Liyue would never cease nonetheless.

He had heard whispers of a criminal - a godless villain who dared to wear the face of the creator of Teyvat. From what he knew, said imposter was found in Inazuma, and expectedly, it caused quite a stir within the closed off nation.

An official hunt for the imposter had been set in place by the archon of Electro - Zhongli figured he might have done the same were he in her situation. He was baffled by how someone would even have the abilities or boldness to mimic the face of his beloved God.

The streets of Liyue were beautiful at night, lanterns casting a warm glow upon the streets, flickering off of the waves crashing against the shore of the harbor. Zhongli quite enjoyed an occasional walk along the shore at nighttime, when all other life was long asleep and it was only him, his slumbering city, and his thoughts.

The song of the sea was usually soothing, a gentle hum as it made contact with land and as waves played with each other, rocking the boats in the dock upon doing so.

This night, however, was different. The waves were more restless and dark clouds hid the golden moon and stars from view. The winds were picking up speed, an angry vengeance simmering within them as they thrashed around, hurling waves against the rocks of the shoreline. Zhongli’s brows furrowed at the sight. His long strands of hair were tousled by the winds but he paid it no mind, instead slowly approaching the rebellious shore.

As he slowly approached, the seas seemed to calm a little. Clouds above parted, allowing a single cold ray of light from the moon to illuminate the waters.

The sight Zhongli saw shook him to the core.

Upon a worn piece of shattered wood, a figure lay, clothes drenched and torn and their hair a soaking, tangled mess.

Reacting quickly, he tossed off his coat, rushing into the cold waters to attempt to save the mysterious figure, his heart rate picking up. There was no chance he could allow someone to drown in his very own harbor.

He ignored the cool water seeping through his fine clothes and waded closer, eventually breaking out into a swim, thankful for the moonlight that shone upon the figure almost like a spotlight, guiding his way through the dark waters.

Once close enough, he pulled the limp figure of the person close, a determined frown settling onto his face as he dragged it back to the shore, slightly out of breath as he finally rested the body on top of the rocky beach and sat beside them, taking a moment to regain his strength.

Finally, he turned his attention back to the figure - to you. Despite the darkness of the night, there was a strange familiarity in your features, a familiar pull towards you as he moved closer.

But now was not the time to ponder over it. You were shivering like a leaf in the wind, still unconscious and clearly injured, though Zhongli couldn’t tell to what extent in the darkness of the night.

So, he acted quickly, sweeping up your weakened form and hurrying towards his current abode in the city, thankful for the empty streets with no one to question him about the curious position he’d so suddenly found himself in.

With no time to waste, he stepped into his living quarters, gently laying your body down upon the plush divan in the dark room, before wiping his brow and turning to light up the lanterns quietly. He ignored the droplets of water hitting his hardwood floor and moved to shrug off his drenched outer layers. When a warm, dim light finally illuminated the room, his heart almost stopped. A diluted liquid gold covered his strong hands, shimmering weakly under the lights of the room.

His heart dropping, he whipped around to face your unconscious figure, only to fall to his knees.

There, on his sofa, laid the broken, bleeding figure of his very Creator. The one he worshipped above all else, trembling still from the cold seeped into their bones from the rough waters of the unforgiving seas.

His breath hitched, feeling crushed under a sea of emotions - crushed as the many he had slayed during his thousands of years, hurling pillars at them as the almighty god Morax.

Now, he was just Zhongli - weak before the wounded body of his god. With shaky hands, he approached his beloved Creator, his vision blurring as he eyed every bruise and scrape visible on their once perfect face. He took in the sight of their disheveled clothes, dripping with the salty waters of the sea - stained with dirt and golden nectar from his God’s veins.

He thought himself a sinner, as he carefully peeled away the layers, trying to keep his gaze from wandering too much, focusing only on the wounds.

The wounds.

Oh.

The wounds.

Deep gashes and surface level scrapes, blotches of blues and purples. It’s a painting of pain and suffering.

Zhongli felt an anger long forgotten and suppressed begin to rise in the pit of his stomach, a burning sensation tearing up his insides ravenously as he thought of anyone daring to harm the Creator.

His beloved creator.

But now was not the time for revenge.

That would come later.

For now, he needed to act quickly - to heal his God. His hands shook, the sharp talons threatening to tear out from them - he took deep breaths to calm himself, desperate to keep himself from any activity that might accidentally mar your skin some more.

It took a long time, but with his millennias of knowledge, he was able to clean and bandage you up to the best of his abilities. He would find the best doctors in Liyue to aid you once you awoke - for now, he just wanted to revel in your divine presence, to stay by your side in guard. To fight off anything that may wish to seek out to harm you.

He pressed his forehead against the edge of the sofa, taking in deep breaths - breathing the same air as his wonderful, kind, beautiful god. He cared not for the dampness of his clothes, all that mattered was that you were safe and as comfortable as you could be - so he darted into his bedroom, lighting the fire in the fireplace and setting his warmest covers onto the bed, before returning to you and gently - as though carrying glass - he moved you there.

Now, he could allow himself to kneel on the floor beside you and wait. He was a patient man - but seeing and sensing you did not make it easy. His lips moved in silent prayer all night, his body still as the stone he commanded so masterfully. He would protect you til his very last breath.

You awoke to something you hadn’t felt in a time far too long for your liking.

Warmth.

The air around you was so warm, carrying hints of a spicy, yet floral scent - notes of wood and honey lingering within it. You sunk further into the divinely soft bed beneath you, keeping your eyes closed. You refused to let go of this wonderful, cozy dream just yet - only to be faced with bitter disappointment upon waking up hiding in some cave yet again.

“Your grace?” a smooth voice, silky like honey, yet deep and mature - catches you off guard. Your eyes snap open, feeling the panic rising in your chest.

“Good morning,” the voice speaks again, gentle and soft, even sounding concerned.

Were you still dreaming?

You slowly wake up, finding yourself in a traditional Liyue-styled room, soft light of the morning sun peeking in through the paneled windows and illuminating it. Shelves filled to the brim with ancient books line the walls - a small sandwood desk and chair in one corner with organized piles of papers upon it.

Finally, you turn to face the other person in the room.

It was Zhongli - the geo archon himself - albeit wearing only an ivory dress shirt and dark dress pants. Upon a closer look, you notice the disheveled look of his hair and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Zhongli…?” you ask carefully, your voice quivering ever so slightly. If he was anything like the other two archons you’d faced - you should be running by now.

He smiles, sinking to his knees before the bed you were sat upon, an adoring devotion in his rich honey-colored eyes that seemed to have time to focus on you, and you alone.

“How did you sleep, your grace?” he asked, his brows furrowing slightly in concern over your wellbeing.

“Better than I have in a long time,” you admitted, not failing to notice the flicker of anger in the man’s eyes.

“Do you have me mixed up with someone else, perhaps?” you ask sheepishly, recalling what he’d referred to you as earlier.

“How could I ever fail to recognize the Creator - my one true master?” he asked, standing up once again.

“The creator?” you mumbled to yourself more than anything, “the one I got chased out of Inazuma for supposedly impersonating?”

Zhongli froze in his spot, his eyes focused on yours for a moment, before sliding to the bandages covering your body.

“Impersonating?” he asked, his voice unreadable, but judging by the golden glow beginning to emit from his eyes, he was not pleased.

“I promise, I’m not trying to impersonate anyone!” you whimpered, covering your face with your arms instinctively.

Noticing your sudden fear, his breath hitched and he walked briskly towards the bed again, his brows furrowed, but the glow gone from his eyes.

“I know that, your grace. Why would you need to impersonate yourself?”

You stared at him in shock.

“What do you- I’m no creator - I mean look at me! I’m just…me,” your voice fell at the end, a bitter sadness seeping into your thoughts,

“Your grace!” It was his turn to be shocked now, as he rushed to kneel before you.

“Of course you’re the creator! You look just like them - and your body weeps rivers of gold when you’re hurt. You have the aura that I have only ever distantly felt while being your vessel - there is no doubt about it!”

You frowned, slowly processing his words. Your hands slowly slipped to the bandages on your wounds, lifting them up expecting to see the dark brown remains of dried blood, only to be met with pure, glittering gold coating your injuries.

“I…how?” you whispered to yourself, feeling so confused and lost all of a sudden.

“Your grace,” Zhongli spoke quietly, calmly, as he hesitantly stroked the back of your hand.

“I fear you may have lost memories of who you truly are in your current form…but that’s not a problem for now.”

His fingers slowly slid off of your hand, and you could not help but miss the feeling of them upon your skin.

“Who did this to you?” Zhongli suddenly asked, sounding stricter as he referred to the many injuries covering your body.

“W-well the people of Inazuma…the Shogun…most people there were after my head,” you admitted, trying to sound casual, but Zhongli was quick to notice the faint bitterness and anger behind your words. Bitterness at being not recognized. Anger at being treated so unjustly.

“I will strike them down. All of Inazuma.” he stated, a fierce fury burning in his eyes. You looked shocked.

“Wait! No!” you scrambled out of bed, not caring about being barely clothed. Zhongli was already summoning his polearm, when you gripped his arm tight. He froze on the spot, not daring to face you.

“Zhongli…” you whispered, sensing his sudden anxiety.

“I would rather not have you see me in this form,” he spoke quietly, turning his back on you and allowing the polearm to clatter to the floor. You couldn’t help but feel a tug of pain pulling at your heartstrings when you heard him.

“No - Zhongli, you’re…my hero!” you tried to come up with words that did not sound too silly and would strike a cord within the man.

“I would be quite a cruel creator if I didn’t appreciate my creations in all their forms,” you chuckled, playing into the idea of being this strange Creator - just this once.

He turned around hesitantly, before slowly sliding off his shirt, keeping his eyes downcast. You watched in awe, seeing the golden lines running through his darker arms, ending in long, sharp talons. You admired them in silence, your eyes trailing up to his disheveled hair, from which two sharp, curved horns peeked out, shimmering like his talons, coated in an amber hue.

Not thinking about it, much too fascinated by this form you’d never seen of your beloved character, you reached out to stroke his horns. His eyes dashed frantically to meet yours, a faint blush upon his usually composed face.

“They’re beautiful,” you whispered softly, your expression melting from curiosity into admiration.

He was silent for a moment.

“You think so, your grace?” he asked hesitantly, gluing his gaze back to the floor once more.

You nodded, smiling gently.

“Why would you want to hide this from me?”

He inhaled sharply.

“I…this is my form as Morax, destroyer of gods,” he admitted, straightening his back in an attempt to look more composed.

“I didn’t think you’d approve of the form that has destroyed so much.”

You bit your lip.

“Well, no matter its history, I quite like it,” you reassured him, carefully taking his hand in yours, brushing your soft fingers across his talons.

“I…I have a tail too.”

You perk up, managing to let out an airy laugh despite your injuries.

“I would love to see it - if you’re comfortable with it, of course!”

He smiled, bowing his head. “For you, your grace, I’d do anything.” With a snap of his fingers, a long, scaled tail appeared behind him, swaying majestically.

You smile in awe.

“This form looks very graceful,” you mutter, fascinated by his dragon-like features. You supposed it made sense - he was a dragon, after all.

His breath hitched at your words. His Creator could see beauty in the ugliest parts of him - the parts of him that had blood on their hands and destruction beneath its feet.

“Thank you, your grace,” he replied quietly, a content warmth spreading in his chest. If there was a way he could admire you more than he did before, he supposed it had happened now.

For that day, the destruction of Inazuma was called off.

Time passed, your wounds were healed mostly, leaving golden scars in their place and more scars under the surface, ones that would take much longer to heal. Zhongli had made sure you would be accepted as the Creator in Liyue, and soon enough you were wearing the most beautiful clothing tailored for you, in a palace built in your name, and able to have access to anything you might have desired.

Through all this, Zhongli stood by your side as your loyal acolyte, bravely showing off his less human form now - partly as a reminder for anyone with ill intentions, and partly since…you had liked even those parts of himself. Oftentimes, when the two of you were alone, you would stroke his horns or tail and occasionally make a comment about the beauty of them. In a way, Zhongli began to see the beauty of them too - they pleased you - and seeing you smile was the most beautiful sight the archon could ever imagine.

Of course, word spread fast, and apologies arrived in hordes - gifts from all that had wronged you, invitations to visit Inazuma or Mondstadt. It angered Zhongli - that they thought they could so easily try to win the honor of your forgiveness with a few foolish letters and gifts.

“Your grace, do you hold no malice towards those that harmed you, at all?” he had questioned one day.

You’d turned to look at him, the window you were standing by casting a heavenly glow behind your figure.

“Of course I do,” you replied, a sad smile on your face as your gaze trailed to the sky above, watching the golden hues of the setting sun paint beautiful streaks upon it.

“Then I would gladly punish them for you,” he fell to one knee, ready to be your dragon, your knight - anything you needed of him.

“There’s no need,” you replied gently, walking closer to him, your golden robes encrusted with cor lapis and amber flowing behind you. You kneeled before him, a gentle smile on your face as you stroked the side of his face.

“Living with the knowledge of their deeds will be punishment enough, Zhongli.”

God, he lived to hear your voice, lived to hear it utter his name so gently.

“Zhongli, I don’t care for their apologies or invitations - I care for you,” you confessed quietly, leaving a stunned silence hanging above them for a moment as Zhongli’s mind went blank.

“I…I’m honored to hear you think so highly of me,” he attempted to reply in a composed manner.

“Would you mind if I kissed you?” you asked, eyes filled with determination as they met his.

Once again, you left him stunned.

“I don’t want you to say yes out of obligation before your Creator - I would only wish to hear you say yes if you truly, earnestly wanted this,” you added, your cheeks covered with a pink glow that made you look oh so radiant in the golden light.

“Yes,” he whispered, feeling tears well up in his eyes. “Yes, would always be my answer. I live and breathe for you, your Grace. I adore you more than anything else in the world. That you would think me worthy of such an honor-”

You smiled and cut off his rambling by pressing your lips against his in a chaste, gentle peck.

“I adore you too, Zhongli. And I owe you my eternal gratitude for saving my life.” Your gentle hand intertwined with his clawed hand that had seen much blood upon it, embracing every part of him, accepting him just as he is.

“I love you, Zhongli,” you whispered, resting your face in the crook of his neck as he slowly, carefully, wrapped his arms around your figure.

“I love you too, your grace,” he whispered, barely breathing as he felt your wonderful, loving aura envelop him.

He would be your dragon, your knight - even your consort should you so desire. He worshipped you with all his being, and you adored him in return.

There was no greater joy in the world than that for the archon.

GOJO SATORU / F!READER KEEP STILL (19+)

SYNOPSIS

Internationally revered artist Y/N has been invited to paint the Crown Prince, Gojo Satoru.

CONTAINS

explicit content [minors/ageless blogs do not interact], royal au, prince!satoru, artist!reader, (forced?) voyeurism, masturbation, multiple orgasms, face riding, oral (f+m), overstimulation, exhibitionism (?), cum play, choking, squirting, facial, degradation, ooc satoru is a brat…

word count: 12.4k+ note: satoru has ZERO shame. srry i kinda went overboard w this . okay enjoy / also i just changed the layout lol

“…you have been invited to paint the Crown Prince, Gojo Satoru—” 

“Crown Prince?”

The trickles of liquid being poured into glasses ends with a foolish clatter, hands clambering to collect them as they tip over. Dusk arrives, a peaceful ambience accompanied with light crackles of your fireplace. With the belief that it would be a simple, quaint evening, you hadn’t prepared yourself for the news that would arrive at your doorstep. The sound of his name makes your ears scorch, overwhelming news that could put you in cardiac arrest if you weren’t so stubborn about appearing composed. The invitation sent in the form of a white card, sealed with a golden stamp, weighs heavy on your heart—a bizarre combination of stress and elation running through you, until your ears have finally made sense of your friend’s words.

You’ve painted many important individuals—internationally revered and demanded by numerous pretentious, rich assholes, so it should come across as a normal invitation to you, but it was anything but that. It felt more like a leap than a step forward, an endgame to your years of hard work, knowing that a royal had been eyeing your work, wanting you to perceive him. Ironically, you had just come back from exploring the world, attending the showiest parties and exhibitions, displaying yourself for demand and being invited by opulent guests that had implored you to paint them from across the sea.

Why wouldn’t they? Even your most unassuming subjects were enamoured with your work, posing to perfection, and keeping as still as they could because they know you can portray them the best.

From your work alone, you have a long list of subjects waiting to be painted by you, quietly observing in awe as you hone your craft. Painting the Crown Prince was long overdue. Though you had a problem—your passion wavered. The demand wore you out, how much time and passion you were willing to put into your work has kept you bed-ridden and drained of inspiration, mostly relying on commissions personally made by your clients. It’s noticeable by the lack of pieces you were putting out—the name you’ve made yourself hanging by a thin thread. Still, despite your insecurities, you couldn’t pass up on this opportunity because of a cluster of reasons—sitting on top laid one.

The Crown Prince is a sight to behold. His white hair resembling wispy clouds falls delicately on his forehead, smooth skin that anyone could mistake for porcelain if they’re not too careful, and blue eyes that held the seas and skies entirely.

You’ve only been able to observe him from afar; the mere sight of the prince being too much a phenomenon to let you get any closer. His presence alone is a rare occurrence. No one really knows why, but it only makes him the embodiment of mystery, trivial rumours are not good enough to gather what kind of person he might be, and it only makes you even more curious. Whenever he is seen, it’s only ever accompanied by some sort of ball or parade dedicated to him and his family. 

Merely visiting a friend, your first sighting had been on a balcony overlooking the marketplace, and the royal family’s return from their short retreat required an audience. The sizable fields were empty, but the streets were congregated with residents, white confetti falling dreamily on their carriages and horses.

You weren’t actually interested in the royals, forced to engage in the proprieties by your friend, staring into blank space and slumped against the balcony with your chin resting on your hand, sighing when the cheers became deafeningly louder.

Then you saw him peak through the obscurity of his carriage, nudging velvet curtains to the side to look at the crowd. No one could miss the collective gasps that fell from the mouths of the residents—a stunned silence took the section that was greeted by his face, staring in awe of the prince. He looked slightly taken aback by the reception, gazing upon the unmoving crowd with an unreadable expression, never gesturing with a smile or a wave.

You were guilty of it too—the grip of your fingers loosening from the balcony, your lips parting in discreet shock as you marvel at the sight of the prince, wondering how someone could even look like that. Almost engrossed, you fixated on remembering every feature, absorbing the memory so you could somehow translate it onto paper. 

It's unfortunately short-lived when he closes the curtain.

Now you’re going to see him again—no—paint him. Perhaps, in some dramatic, life-changing way, Gojo Satoru could revive your passion. In fact, you’re sure of it—the one sighting of him became a plethora of false memories you made up in your head, imagining the way he’d look in all of your pieces and that desire to make him the purpose of all your paintings was probably the reason beneath that void in your heart, it’d only make sense for him to fill it.

“The prince—I can’t believe it.” Your friend says in awe, nimbly taking one of the glasses you prepared for the both of you. She goes on to ramble about what you’ll wear, how you’ll greet him, and the most pressing question of them all: how on earth were you going to paint him? It only makes you anxious.

What if he hates it?

“I guess I’ll have to figure that out.” You sigh, the insistent thoughts sending a chill down on your spine. Self-doubt can't get the best of you just yet, reminding yourself that it’s your hard work that’s put you here, so to paint the Crown Prince, you couldn’t have imagined anything better.

The drawing room is clean—awfully clean, resembling every other royal room you came across as you toured around the palace, admiring the grandeur and spotlessness that brushed every corner of each room. There is some sort of expectancy to see messiness accompany the drawing room, knowing that the royals could not go a day without having their portraits painted and possibly spent most of their time sitting on that chair if they weren’t hosting some sort of inessential ball to showcase their endless opulence.

Your eyes first land on the wooden stool that sits in front of an easel holding a large blank canvas, beneath and beside it is art equipment meant for your usage—oil paint, palettes, and numerous paintbrushes, all ready for you.

As you saunter further into the drawing room, your eyes are greeted with a couch—one of splendour, encased in gold and embroidered floral patterns sewed onto the seats, cushions and backrest, a velvet sheet loosely falls on top of it. Oddly enough, you expected a simple chair.

Behind it is the Great painting, the regular backdrop used for most of the royals’ paintings, though there is nothing truly regular about it, having been made by one of your favourite artists. To see it in person has you gaping like a fool. Entranced by the large piece that spans across the entire wall, a sensation building up in a chest that awfully resembles the feeling of someone twisting your heart in their hand, promising yourself that you’d make something like this one day and it’ll be your backdrop that every snobbish individual of prestige will want.

So, when the faint chatter and shuffling footsteps progressively becomes louder, your ears unconsciously tune out the sound, engrossed so deeply in the painting that you’re unaware of the people that have entered the room. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” A gruff voice suddenly rips you from your reverie, causing you to stupidly stumble on your own feet, only just noticing the presence next to you. It’s not him—not the prince, but a man almost as intimidating as him (almost…just almost) and you waver under his stoic gaze.

“Yes, it’s really beautiful,” you mindlessly say, cursing under your breath as your wavering confidence makes itself obvious. Respectably gesturing at him, an urge to conceal your expression from him begins to hurt your cheeks, an eager smile itching to spread across your face. He awkwardly clears his throat when you perform such a profound gesture. The shadow of his figure keeps you grounded on your curling toes, pondering on the prince’s whereabouts. If he’s here, then the prince must close, right? 

When you look back up, your eyes suddenly peer at the white hair that peaks from the man’s shoulder, gradually making himself known when he finally stands beside him. 

Oh. 

Tall and broad, the prince towers over you, surpassing the man next to him in height, and looks down at you with the same unreadable look that started this voyage of curiosity. You hope he misses the way your breath hitches in your throat, the figure next to him becoming hazy when you stare at the prince, all of the admiration you have towards him washes over you tenfold, the closeness accentuating his features in ways you couldn’t have imagined. His eyes are so…blue.

How on earth are you supposed to capture his beauty in a painting? You can’t even remotely describe what you’re looking at, overawed and overwhelmed, you almost forget to greet him. So, when you do, it’s in a state of a momentary panic, feeling as though you just committed treason for doing it a second later and your frantic actions earns a raised eyebrow, clearly amused by your uneasiness.

“Nanami, this is my painter for today?” He asks, tilting his head to the man now known as Nanami, who doesn’t seem fazed by the likes of Gojo Satoru. His voice is perfect too, you think. You wonder what he must be like behind closed doors, how Nanami must either endure or indulge in the prince’s company, what kind of conversations they might have, if he’s even likeable to begin with.

Nanami nods, the dullness in his facial expression making it hard to read the room, especially when a mischievous glint washes over the prince’s eyes as he turns his head, rendering you speechless once he unexpectedly closes the space between you. The exasperation from his shoulder only shows that the prince’s forwardness is something to expect, though you had never imagined that he’d be this… bold.

Satoru (…felt like you were committing treason for even saying his name in your head) leans forward, bending down to face you at eye-level, hovering so closely that it makes you even more nervous, so you briefly turn to Nanami in hopes that he could explain this unusual interaction. He doesn’t offer you comforting reassurance, so you look back at Satoru, taking a deep breath as you stare in his eyes.

It’s as if he holds the entire earth in them, an unusual pattern of various blue shades that swirled in his eyes, an instrument of hypnosis. He finally decides to break the silence, indulging well enough in your nervousness. His formalities are short and it’s obvious he doesn’t like wasting time. “I’m the Crown Prince, Gojo Satoru. Nice to meet you.”

“I know who you are, I mean—” you stutter thoughtlessly, “…I’m Y/N L/N.”

“I would be surprised if you didn’t, Y/N.” He responds, a faux frown appearing on his face. It feels undeserving to have your name come out of his mouth, but it hails your ears like a symphony. But, despite his regal nature and otherworldly appearance, something about him cries bad news, a ball of uneasiness rising in the pit of your stomach telling you that he’s up to no good.

What an odd feeling—you’re not sure where it’s coming from. 

You almost forget to tell him how grateful you are, though it’s not quite like you to shower someone with such compliments, given your absence of care for the royal family. “I want to thank you for this opportunity. It’s an honour just being in your presence.”

“Of course, I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s about time I met the revered painter.” He says, weighing you down with his gaze. You wonder how he’s heard about you, strangely caring about how he perceives you. 

Your heartbeat won’t slow down. “Well, I’m glad you think that of me. I’m certain that I can provide the best piece for you.”

His smirk grows, sensing your wavering confidence and relishing in your need to make the best impression. He’s practically anchoring you to the floor with his eyes. “I’m sure you will.”

Nanami sighs, breaking the odd tension that settles between the two of you, “…would you like me to oversee the first session?”

“No need.” Satoru quickly interjects, smiling passively as he continues to stare down at you. You could shrivel up into a ball right now with how intense his gaze is, an invisible force weighing you down as the fireplace crackles behind you. “The world’s renowned painter doesn’t need anyone breathing down her neck, right?”

Nanami sighs again, rolling his eyes. The two men await your response, and now you border between needing his presence because of Satoru’s peculiar nature and agreeing with Satoru because…he’s the Crown Prince. You mindfully choose the latter, fearing that you’d only make him unhappy by going against something that sounded more like his request, than your own. 

“Please leave, Nanami.” Satoru abruptly stresses, clearly bothered by your inability to quickly answer him. He hastily turns to Nanami, placing a lingering glance on him.

“The session will end at sundown. I’ll make preparations for your departure, so don’t worry about that.” Nanami concludes, slowly walking towards the door.

Luckily, it’s a summer afternoon, so while the skies were still bright, offering the room a mix of white and golden hues, you’d be able to pinpoint every single one of his features. Though, it means that you’re incredibly aware of Satoru’s expressions, who seems awfully eager to get Nanami out of the room and won’t stop staring at you.

When he leaves, the large doors softly shut with a thud and now the air suddenly feels tighter, the crackling of the fireplace gets louder and you’re sure Satoru can hear the force of your beating heart. “So, shall we begin?”

Your nerves keep you cemented to the floor, but his sudden suggestion snaps you out of your trance.

“Yes. Please, sit on the couch.” You faint-heartedly respond, gesturing for him to follow you to the couch. You’re suddenly immersed in finding the best position to put him in, wondering if the velvet sheet is a deliberate prop meant for you, but the initiative is taken by Satoru, who rests his back carelessly on the couch. Confused by his sudden action, he disrupts your train of thought.

“I’d like a painting where I’m lying down against this couch, something a little extravagant,” he says mockingly, savouring your surprised expression.

You’ve painted many things, a lot of them consisting of people with many poses and props, but you assumed that this regal painting would only entail of a simple portrait of him sitting up, and staring. You’re not sure if this idea was even approved by anyone. This is your first meeting with the prince and yet you can’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth. Adorned by his face, you almost didn’t notice what he was wearing—a simple white blouse and black pants, something that would normally be used as an underdress for regal wearing. Suppose this is more of a personal painting.  

“Is that a problem, Y/N?” He asks, gouging out your expression.

“No, we can do that.” You respond, grimacing at the thought of this session already being controlled by him. There’s a reason why you never really cared for the royals—this is one of them. “Okay, you can rest your arm and back on the armrest, lift your legs up and look towards me.” When he follows your words, as you slowly walk backwards to envision the appropriateness of his pose, he gets it exactly right.

“Like this?”

“Yes, perfect,” you nod, adjusting the velvet sheet to loosely cover the opposite end of the couch. The vision was settling in, a perfect picturesque that truly showcased his allure and so you hurriedly make your way to the canvas, plopping down and begin observing his proportions. Your eyes scan his body, noticing his slender legs, broad chest and wide shoulders—even his proportions felt designed. 

Satoru surprisingly doesn’t speak when you’re firming his proportions and perception onto paper, letting you immerse yourself into work as his gaze never wavers. The canvas isn’t transparent but even in the split seconds when you’re hiding behind it, you can still feel his blue eyes pierce through the paper, turning your nimble fingers to trembling ones and even the open window can’t prevent your body from overheating. It’s not supposed to be intimate—you’ve never been compelled to feel anything for someone you’re painting, too engrossed in creation and much too concentrated on who they are on paper, than in real life. 

He’s jerking his leg against the couch, and it’s distracting. “Could you keep still, please?” You ask politely, hoping that he doesn’t take offence to it.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

You’re not sure why you even asked—the slight movement shouldn’t be a cause for concern, but there’s something about this entire situation that’s pestering you. This is a strictly professional job that your precarious future depends on and yet it's far from that, it’s personal. He’s making it personal. Perhaps, it’s just overthinking—the prince is idolised by everyone, having a charm that only a few can attain, and he’s probably used it to his advantage many times.

This is all in your head, a momentary lapse of judgement that is clouded by your enduring admiration for him. Or at least, that’s what you try to tell yourself. Despite your inner conflict, you remain professional. Your concentrated expression never fluctuates, and you focus on getting his proportions right, hastily looking away whenever you accidentally meet his gaze. It’s unnerving, as if he’s refusing to blink, gradually breaking you down with his stare, until you turn to stone. When you finally finish the outline of your piece, your main focus is finding the right scenic feeling for him, slowly gazing upon the backdrop that accentuates his otherworldly features.

“So focused…” Satoru unexpectedly states, ending your trance and pressing you to pay attention to him. 

“I’m just really passionate,” you respond, practically lying through your teeth—it’s a partial lie, somewhat regaining some of the passion you lost in these few lingering moments. 

“Hm. Do you normally shake your legs that fast when you lie?” He observes, gazing down at the way you subconsciously shake your knee in a frantic manner, jittering against the wooden stool. You don’t realise how much noise you’re making, abruptly stopping your legs when he points it out. It unnerves you but Satoru is still a stranger—how could he even come to that conclusion?

“I’m not lying.” You mutter.

“I don’t know, do you always look at your subjects like that?” He asks, a playful smile etching across his face as you shuffle uncomfortably against his gaze. You decide to play dumb, feigning confusion and hoping he’d take your silence as an answer. He doesn’t, sighing heavily as his head slumps against the armrest.

What exactly are you supposed to say? How are you looking at him? The silence becomes unbearable, every millisecond becomes a long list of possible ways that you could be seeing him—how he sees you.

Your curiosity breaks your resolve, asking the poised man coyly. “How do I look at you?”

When you ask, he turns his head towards you, a smile insinuating that he’s won something—the next few words that come out of his mouth are much more definitive in that case. “Like you want to undress me.”

A moment of surprise stills on you, the forwardness of his accusation making you uncomfortable. “That’s quite the assumption.”

“Is it?” He persists, raising an eyebrow at your statement. “Don’t be shy, I don’t mind.”

You don’t know how to respond, he’s flirting with you—intentionally making you flustered, and there’s an urge to just pack your things and leave. You couldn’t find yourself tied with someone worlds apart from you. Though, only twenty minutes have passed, and you still have much longer to go. You can’t deal with him crossing numerous lines like this, especially when he’ll always have the upper hand. 

“I’d like to continue this painting.” You respond, attempting to change the topic. 

Amused, he huffs, suddenly sitting up. “Do you? I’ll undress if you’d like.”

You breathe heavily. Perhaps, in a completely different setting, you wouldn’t be so willing to deny him but you’re in his home, a place you don’t belong—it doesn’t make sense to let yourself go so easily. “That’s not really appropriate.”

“What’s inappropriate is your gaze.” He retorts. How can a stranger read you so easily?

“I’m painting you, that's kind of the point.” You retort.

Satoru is a charming man, but he’s also someone that gets easily impatient. He admires your composure, understanding that you’re harder to deal with than all of his other toys.

“I’ve been painted enough to know the difference between concentration and desire. Do you want to fuck me?” He bluntly asks, looking bothered by your ignorance. Maybe he was making it up. Maybe, just maybe, it was true. 

You’re speechless. The audacity of this man. “We should continue the session, please lie back down.”

“You’re not denying it.” He says playfully, standing up.

“I don’t. There, I denied it. Please lie back down.”

“Your knees are shaking again.”

You lie again. “I do this all the time.”

“Admit it.” He says, slowly walking towards you. A blockage sits in your throat, gazing upon the towering man devouring you with his eyes. When he finally closes the space, he bends down, just as he did earlier, except his lips are almost brushing against yours—close, but not close enough to kiss you. Your eyes momentarily flick to the pink of his lips, almost feeding into your subdued desire and yearning for what his lips might feel like against yours.

“I don’t.” You whisper, trying to resolve your harboured breathing. It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself now.

“Will you tell the truth if I admit that I like it?”

Fuck. 

An ache builds up between your legs. He’s just teasing you—why are you feeling like this? “I—…I can’t.” He almost breaks when he hears you stutter.

“So, it’s I don’t first, now it’s I can’t…which is it, Y/N? Sounds like you’re fighting with yourself.” He asks, the tilt of his head implying that he’s sympathetic and it’s annoying, making a mockery of your nervousness. “Say what’s on your mind.” 

You recover your composure, straightening your back and your nonchalant expression refuses to falter. Though, your voice almost gives you away. “Lie down.”

“Only if you’ll follow me.”

Now, you’re visibly annoyed, glowering at him. “Then this session cannot continue.”

“Why? Am I too out of reach?” He says, relishing in teasing you. A moment passes, Satoru realising that you’re not backing down. 

“Let me guess. You like to play with unassuming visitors like little toys right? Do you fuck anyone that walks through this palace?” You say vehemently, trying to dimmer your heavy heart from controlling your feelings. His eyes widen, the glint in his eye is almost…playful, elated that you’d say such a thing to a man like him—it terrifies you. He’s insane. 

“I don’t know, do they all have such wandering eyes?” He teases, hooking his hands to the underside of the stool, closely hovering over you with comfort. It startles you, and your mind doesn’t process the backless nature of the stool when you try to create some distance. You almost fall back but the prince is hasty enough to catch you. He roughly brings you closer to him. 

“I wouldn’t know.” You faintly whisper, falling into his eyes again. “Please—let’s not do this right now.”

“Then, I’ll lie back down.”

“Thank you.” For a few moments, he stares into your eyes, observing carefully. He doesn’t really plan on listening to you. 

“Only if you promise to watch me.” He says, a wave of inspiration washing over him. 

He really is up to no good. 

“What?”

He sends another ingenuine smile before walking back to the couch. Briefly, hiding into the large canvas to pick up your paintbrush again, you tune into the loud shuffling, a relaxed groan escaping his lips when he slumps against the couch again. As you revert to your old task, you look back up to see his shirt is gone. Your eyes subconsciously scan his body, in awe, but utterly shocked at the turn of events. Your shock worsens when he unzips his pants, causing you to hide behind the canvas again. 

You don’t peek from the canvas, refusing to believe the possible sight in front of you but there’s some more shuffling, and then faint lewd noises that reverberate in the drawing room. Was he? As if you couldn’t be any more surprised, you overhear the impossible, a noise you never thought you’d live to see, even if you wanted to—he’s moaning. The ache returns, and it washes over you tenfold, like a wave compared to a tsunami and no matter how hard you try to tune out his lewd moans, it only gets louder, until he’s ringing in your ears. The Crown Prince is touching himself and he wants you to watch.

You muster up the courage, continually convincing yourself that this is just a dream—you’re not actually hearing the prince moan, he’s not actually touching himself right—no, no, none of this is real, it’s just a figment of your imagination. That curiosity, the persistent one solely dedicated to Gojo Satoru returns, and now the ache speaks for you, telling you to look, to confirm your lingering thoughts. It’s an impulsive thought and while a part of you is convinced that nothing about this is right, the other part…well, she wants to look. Just one look. So, when you eventually peak to the side, a sight beholds you.

He is. The obscene sight of Satoru relishing in his own pleasure, eyes fluttering closed while he fists his cock in his hand, arching against the pillows. Your drifting eyes can’t help but follow his movement, the lewd sounds that come with it and how pretty he looks. He doesn’t notice you looking, completely and utterly immersed in bringing himself to his own climax, and when you finally come down from your state of disbelief, realising what you’re watching, you get an even more indecent response.

“My Prince…”

A faint, beautiful groan falls from his moist lips and his eyes flutter open, gazing lustfully at yours, “…say that again.”

The paintbrushes clutter when you loosen your grip on it, a heavy gasp cemented in your chest when he squeezes the tip of his cock harder, and his back arches further into the cushions until his head falls back against the gold arm of the couch. Your fingers have lost purpose under the weight of your thoughts, turning to the cuffs of your dress, and fiddling anxiously as you hide your frame behind the canvas. The ache between your legs feels like your heartbeat has fallen into your pelvis, and the restricted gasps you fail to let out has completely disrupted your breathing.

You can’t bring yourself look again—the worst-case scenarios running through your head to convince you that if you entertained his impulsive actions, you’d be punished severely. Fuck—he’s so annoying. The prince you saw that day was nothing like the one that’s in front of you now. Perhaps he’s a clone? A twin? Or maybe it was just your false perception that made you believe the prince could be somewhat normal. Instead, he’s standing in the way of your future. The prince, the reason behind your possible future, is now standing in front of it.

He’s infuriating.

Completely flustered and almost riled up by his action, you occasionally glance at the door, terrified that someone will walk in. He probably wouldn’t care—he’s shameless enough to do this in front of a complete stranger. An odd thought pops up, telling you that this is somewhat something you should be grateful for. He’s passing his madness onto you. So, you contemplate simply leaving but before your toes can even touch the floor, he stops you.

 “I never said you could leave, Miss L/N.” Satoru demands.

Your actions falter and freeze under his command, wondering if either choice—running away or keep painting—is the right one. Your eyes flutter ridiculously, slowly picking up the paintbrush, noticing how your hands still tremble. “Could you cover up, please?” 

He’s insane. Literally insane. 

The faint sounds of lewdness trickle through your ears—he’s still touching himself amid this conversation. “You don’t want that, do you?” 

You let the silence take the lead again, unable to come up with a comeback for his bold words. He’s right, but you didn't want him to know that—he’d win. He’s completely moved from his original position too. “Don’t…”

“Don’t… what?” Satoru teases, openly letting out moans whenever he could, shuffling messily against the sheets. You adjust the collar of your dress, inconveniently feeling feverish against the heat of the room. There is a cold breeze that seeps through the window, slightly open to let the fumes of the oil paint escape but it doesn’t help. It definitely isn’t the room that’s making you feel this hot, or prickly… or nervous. He interrupts the silence again, and this time with a favour that makes your blood run cold, “…could you look at me, Y/N, please?” 

Does he crave attention? Why did he need your eyes? Hesitantly, you place the paintbrush down against the canvas brush holder, shuffling your seat to the left so you could slightly peek past the canvas without revealing yourself too much. His swirling eyes caught yours far too quickly, and it caught the way you briefly watched his large hand smoothly motion up and down his cock. Hastily, you move behind the canvas again, hands covering your face in embarrassment and there’s a faint laugh that escapes his mouth. A pretty laugh, it’d be prettier if you weren’t so puzzled right now.

“Fuck—look at me,” he demands more sternly, his voice becoming hoarser as he continues to pleasure himself. You’d break too fast if you take another look. The same bizarre thought that this sight alone is another blessing placed upon you appears again. He looked so pretty, stroking himself and you were cowering behind your canvas. You shake your head—despite his titles and otherworldly appearance, he isn’t someone you’d ever see again. “Y/N.” 

But does your name need to sound that beautiful coming out of his mouth? 

The ache between your legs throbs even more, and you subconsciously clench your thighs as if your body is no longer in your control. Hesitatingly, once again, you shuffle to the side to behold the sight of him almost nearing his orgasm. His cheeks flushed red, eyes fluttered closed and his back arching against the cushions. His cock, pretty and sensitive, leaking and hard against his hand is a sight that you want to memorise desperately.

His chest, long and firm, moves so fluidly and you want nothing more than to run your hand across it. You breathe heavily, almost as heavily as he is, and when he looks down to stroke faster—he catches your stare. Despite his flushed state, he still manages to smile smugly when he notices you haven’t looked away. 

Your head immediately falls, at your fiddling hands, unsure what to do when he’s caught you doing such a blatant thing. This is humiliating. 

“I’m close—… fuck—”

You look up as if he urged you to, but this time you feel the eagerness run through your veins when he proclaims his imminent orgasm. The way his back arches, a beautiful groan falling from his lips and cum spurting out against his stomach, lewdly slathering it against his cock. Your hand subconsciously presses against your chest, a poor attempt at trying to control your heartbeat and Satoru lazily smiles when he notices that. 

“Can you clean me up?” Satoru suddenly asks, resting one of his arms behind his head as he waits for you to follow his words. The luxuries of being a Crown Prince. Slightly irritated that he would command such a thing after making you watch—you get up to find tissues laying around. As you walk towards one of the many tables that greets you with a golden tissue box (…everything was golden in here), avoiding the filthy sight of his pose, Satoru interrupts your actions. “Uh, uh.”

The tissues are barely in your grasp when he tuts in disapproval—your choice is to look at him. When you do, his eyes are wide and blue and they’re staring at you with faux innocence.

He’s truly something else. 

Satoru points to the mess on his stomach, “…not with tissues. Come here,” he commands, with one of his hands motioning you towards him, gesturing how close he wants you. Your mind can’t fathom what he means, not until he says it so brazenly. When you’re close—he tugs you down on top of him, legs on either side of his thighs and there’s a certain proximity that worsens the ache between your legs and the irregular beat of your heart. You’re sitting on top of the prince. “You have a mouth don’t you?” 

For some reason, you can’t use it. He’s surpassing all your expectations and laying down completely new ones. You can’t believe what he’s trying to hint at. Though, his gaze penetrates you and when you try to look away, you notice the cum sitting on his stomach and it’s calling to your tongue. The request makes you feel lesser than him and yet, you want to. “Are you serious? You want me to use my mouth?” 

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Satoru responds, staring at you in disbelief. You almost scoff, but hold back, not knowing what he could do if you were to disobey him with such confidence. You don’t know how many lines you’ve crossed just to create some sort of boundary, but you fear that he’ll only tolerate so much.

Still hesitant, you rest your hand against the backrest of the couch before your tongue peaks out to lightly lick against his stomach. Satoru doesn’t say a word, so when you look at him to wonder why, you realise how intensely he’s staring at you. The palm of his hand finds the back of your head, brushing your hair as you lick with prolonged kisses. With a flat tongue, you lick a long stripe against his stomach, eliciting a throaty moan from Satoru.

For some reason, there’s a passion behind your actions—the way you kiss after you lick, or the way your eyes meet his when you stick out your tongue. Just to hear more from him. Satoru aches again and he wants nothing more than to put his cock in your mouth.

“You can touch me if you want,” Satoru breathes out, leaning forward to firm the press on your head. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes widen at his request. Does he know you want to? Do you know that you want to? You were just resenting him moments ago—so what makes him think that you wanted to touch him? That resentment fades when you look at how flushed out he looks, as if roses have been painted all over him and there’s an urge to keep them there. “I’ll stay still after—paint me all you want…just touch me.”

The way he begs—it’s a sound you’d never expect to hear from someone who demands so often. But your hand suddenly wraps around his wet cock, causing his head to softly crash against the cushions. You motion up and down, slowly releasing a long string of spit that lands on his tip, before spreading such fluids all over his length. He curses under his breath, hips faintly rising to chase your touch and your fingers press against his nipple. You marvel at the way he responds to your touch, and you feel like you’ve barely done anything. You’re not necessarily experienced, but he makes you feel like you are. 

When your mouth finally wraps around his cock, the strain of his moan worsens and the press of his hand sends you further down—so far down that your eyes begin to water. A brief, terrifying thought of being caught like this strikes a fear in your heart, but Satoru looks so heavenly when he chases the vulgar sounds of his cock hitting the back of your throat. Your hands boldly brushes against his chest, pinching and tugging at his nipples.

Satoru probably foresighted your desperation, he knew that you’d break like this. Humming against the way he tries to gag you, your fingers fondle him, massaging his nipples in a circular motion and it sends him further down your throat when his back dramatically arches against the couch.

“That’s enough,” Satoru suddenly says, pulling you back by your hair and the lecherous sight of you catching your breath makes him effortlessly aroused again. Your eyes can’t seem to focus on a single thing, watching your tremulous fingers, glancing at him every now and then and eventually, you close them to avoid his gaze from your peripheral vision. You nimbly wipe the corner of your mouth before he demands again. “Stand up.” 

You stand up from the couch, doe-eyed and confused to what his intentions are. The fact that he’s almost naked still makes you nervous, and now you’re hazy from such an intimate situation. You’ve truly gone insane. “I should finish the painting.”

“Hm,” he barely mutters as he spryly fiddles with the cuffs of your dress. You feel as if someone fixed your feet to the ground because Satoru’s wandering hands are doing so much more than just fiddling. 

“Wait—I,”

“Y/N,” Satoru sighs, looking up at you with a clear stern look. He looks genuinely bothered by your hesitance, as if you owed him the virtue of standing still for him. “I’d really like you to serve your prince.”

“I need to finish this painting,” you attempt to say confidently, but your words dry out when his hands don’t stop moving. “You promised you’d keep still if I…”

“If you…?” 

“Just stay still,” you huff, removing yourself from his proximity and walking towards the canvas again. When you turn around, he’s tilting his head, clearly vexed and still very much aroused but you remain true to your words—picking up your paintbrush and waiting for him to return to his position. “Please—let’s finish this.”

He’s completely ruined you. Why does he have to be so shameless? Satoru rolls his eyes, amid taking his pants off and laying against the cushions, earning a sigh from you. He looks like a painting in motion now. He takes his pose in clear annoyance but doesn’t speak another word. Though his pose is not at all similar to what you were creating and he’s now completely naked—he’s completely and defiantly ignoring you.

Your patience thins, wondering how the prince ended up being such an immature subject and you unexpectedly stand up—following his gaze and standing in front of him. Anger builds up against his defiance, and you’re still heavily flustered and aroused, not sure if you can leave this place feeling satisfied that you didn’t let him touch you.

Your hand grabs his chin and forces him to look at the side that he was originally looking at. “Just keep still, okay?” 

His hand suddenly grabs yours, dragging you down so that you sit on the space that he’s left for you but his eyes are blazing with fury and fear runs through your own. “I could get your hand cut off for that.” 

Noting his influence—you nod slowly, hoping he’d loosen the grip on your wrist. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” 

“I don’t know,” Satoru sighs, “…why should I let you off now?” 

The tension thickens, even a saw couldn’t wedge its way through it and Satoru still doesn’t release the grip on your hand, instead he marvels at it, playing with your fingers until he does the unthinkable. His mouth slowly envelops your middle finger, eyes daring to keep staring at yours as he motions back and forth, adding another finger and another … and your heart is back at your throat, fingers resting in the heat of his mouth. Completely frozen, you succumb to the feeling of his tongue swirling around your fingers. “I…”

He lets go of your hand, causing it to fall to his chest just slightly and an abrupt move disrupts your inner afflictions. His hand grabs the back of your head, pulling you much closer and he doesn’t let you think before he’s licking your lips, urging you to open your mouth. You do—eyes wide open, refusing to melt into his kiss, but his tongue is carefully pressing against yours and it’s making every part of your body throb.

He presses even harder, to a point where saliva coats your lips, and there’s a brief moment before you’re reciprocating, almost pushing him back with the way you press against him. It only excites him further, leaning back to pull you further down and now you’re hovering over him, kissing him like you’ve been craving it for eternity.

He briefly parts from you, tugging at your hair softly and it only makes your desperation known when you struggle to pull apart from him, breaths mingling as you try to catch his lips between yours again. “To think you were just going to continue painting,” he says, grinning smugly against your lips—your eyes closed in embarrassment, “…I didn’t even have to do much to make you do it. It’s a bit pathetic, don’t you think?” 

What the hell can you say to that? Why on earth did you succumb to his orders so easily? You’re barely showing you had a mind of your own but fuck—you can’t deny how badly you want him. 

“I think you’re crazy.” You mutter honestly, and he senses the tribulation behind your words, his grin widening.

“I’m crazy?” Satoru responds, suddenly getting up and pulling you up with him—this time, he sits you on top of him. He hunches your dress up to give himself room for his hands to glide across your bare thighs, until he reaches the outline of your panties—just at your hips. It’s futile to convince him that the painting needs to be done, because his fingers were so delicate when they brush against your underwear and rough when they’re hooked underneath, to yank them to the side. A gasp escapes your lips. His fingers trail along your slit, revealing your wetness with the utmost satisfaction. “Says the one who’s already fucking filthy.” 

The vulgar words only send shocks of arousal down to your pussy, clenching around nothing when two fingers begin circling on your clit, soaking in your wetness but it’s so much that it coats his fingers to his knuckles. Your voice shakily responds to his touch. “This is a really bad idea.” 

Satoru flippantly laughs, burying his head into the crook of your neck, softly puncturing his teeth before he sucks against your skin. “Then who’s going to clean you all up?” He says, lifting his fingers to suck the arousal off of them, a plop sounding noise erupting when he finishes indulging at the taste of you. You don’t stop looking, shocked and overwhelmed, and frankly unsure on what to do. 

When he nudges your dress down, your eyes flutter closed, slightly flustered that he’s seeing you bare. When he doesn’t make another move, an eerie silence taking the room and its ambience, you slowly look down, wondering if this majestic being isn’t satisfied by your vulnerability. It scares you. But his fingers resemble the same way you touched him, softly tugging at your nipples, ogling as they harden under his fingertips. He plays with them in circles, intently cupping them with his large hands and letting you sink into them, making you press your chest into the warmth he’s offering you. 

“Cute.” He murmurs, flickering his gaze from your breasts to your eyes, then he leans down, his mouth gently closing around your nipple. It’s an immediate reaction, the way you arch your back against his mouth, relishing in the way he flicks his tongue against your nipple. As his tongue moves devotedly against your nipples, two fingers return to your pussy, rubbing languidly against your clit. “...and needy.” 

“This isn’t right.” You absentmindedly mutter to yourself, refusing to believe that the prince was between your legs, touching you like this. 

“Oh, but it is.” He mocks. It’s right for him. It’s right for someone as desperate as you. “Did you like watching me that much?” He asks, continuing to brush two fingers against your sodden slit, parting your lips before bringing them up again, observing his damp fingers. This is beyond humiliating but your hips can’t help but raise to find more of his touch. 

You did—a bit too much for your own liking. 

“It’s only fair that I get a taste too, right?” He amusingly whispers, falling back into the backrest as his large hands tightly grip your hips, nudging you to sit up properly. Satoru relishes in your dishevelled state, barely comprehending his words without being on the brink of a single orgasm—he has you wrapped around his finger. You couldn’t deny him the opportunity, enamoured by his pink lips, wondering how it’d look completely worshipping you in the filthiest way. “Take it off.” 

You hastily nod, listening to him when he tugs at you to remove your underwear, which you hurriedly do, letting it slip down before you sit on him again. Nervously waiting for his next move, you brace yourself as he slides down, disappearing between your legs as the entirety of your dress hunches around your waist. 

Worried that someone might walk in, you hold back from removing your dress. But the urge is there, solely for the sake of seeing Satoru resting between your thighs, running his hands across your quivering thighs. You wonder if he can breathe. Your eyes deliberately glance up at the grand painting, barely immersed, a poor attempt at distracting yourself from the man heavily breathing beneath you—tightly gripping the couch, noticing odd details, wondering how the hell you ended up here.

Then he grabs your hips and presses you down against his face, and licks.

Your back instantly arches, a sharp gasp escaping you when his tongue softly swirls around your clit, sucking noisily before his mouth desperately moves against your slit. The lewd sound of his huffing reverberates from the confinements of your dress, accompanied with filthy sucking and the stickiness that makes a mess of your thighs. His hands are kneading your ass, forcing you to sit further down to a point of near suffocation. But he keeps sucking and licking and kissing all the right places, and it doesn’t help that you’re doing a poor job at keeping your moans in, dispersing with the ambience of the evening. 

You can’t deny it—he’s good. Really good. Fucking amazing. The cleanliness of this room doesn’t amount to the filth that’s occurring between your legs, and he resorts to shamelessly moaning again, consuming you like you’re meant to be devoured. It sends shudders down your spine and the epitome of mystery is no longer mysterious, but a cruel, charming being with a drive to get what he wants. His hands are tightly keeping you in place, seamlessly telling that you were no longer the sole owner of your body. You have to see, to see how you’re making a mess of his perfect face, but your body shrinks into the couch, face buried in your arms as you try to level your heartbeat with his motions. 

“How are you so good at this, fuck—” His tongue prods at your entrance, eagerly raising himself to twirl his tongue inside of you, prompting you to ride his face. Absentmindedly, you do—chasing the sensation of his wandering tongue, feeling it rise at the bottom of your stomach, rushing over that heat that complements your prickly goosebumps. While your head lolls back, you wither against the odd vibrations accompanying his fluid motions, losing grip of the couch. 

“Off—take—mph—it off,” Satoru mutters, never once slowing down, switching from sucking your clit with the utmost desperation to letting you ride his tongue. You so badly want to ignore him, terrified that you won’t have time to compose yourself if someone were to walk in but it’s getting so hot—so suffocating, and he must look so delectable right now, a sight you needed to see. Desperately, you take your dress off, throwing it across the backrest and letting your bare body succumb to his touches because he’s immediately sliding his hands upwards, kneading your breasts, and pinching your nipples as he hastily slurps at you. Your hands finds his, holding it as he works at your chest.  

His tongue flattens against your slit, moaning lustfully as you glide across it, making such a mess of his face. Slick messily coats his lips and chin, sliding down the corners of his mouth when you lose control, using him to chase your high. Satoru senses it—the way your thighs are trembling next to him, grabbing you to halt your frantic movement, sucking your clit unrelentingly. “Oh shit—shit—!” 

When you finally look down, you peer at the unabashed prince between your legs, whose lidded eyes return your gaze and you’re convinced you’re done. He looks divine. So divine that the feeling of his tongue washes over you tenfold, until your hand instantaneously grips his fluffy hair, wincing when the sensation reaches its peak—a long, shuddered whine escaping when you finally come, which he desperately chases with his tongue, slurping and sucking with no intention of stopping. You try to relax, slumping against the backrest when you twitch around his face, but he’s still relentlessly going at it.

“That’s—that’s enough,” you manage to breathe out, withering uncontrollably over his overstimulating motions, thighs tightly closing around his head. Satoru merely hums, grabbing your thighs to keep you pressed against him. “Please—fuck!”

Your pleas run on deafened ears, twitching wildly against the rapid tongue flicks to your clit, the feeling of a second orgasm rising, bordering on discomfort because he doesn’t want to stop. This time, Satoru momentarily removes his mouth, slipping a finger inside until he’s nudging towards your spot, uttering breathlessly. “I don’t know…seems like you want more.” 

Satoru laughs when he notices you sniffling against tears that seemed to have conjured up, shuffling from under you to remove himself from your thighs. He hovers over you from the back, slapping your ass before burying his hand in your hair, forcing you to press against his front. His lips brush your ear, while his hand nimbly massages your breast, the other sliding down to find your clit again. He languidly rubs when you try to catch your breath, holding onto him as he presses prolonged, wet kisses on your neck. 

“I’ll give you more,” he whispers, creeping the hand on your clit behind you. One of his fingers prods at your entrance, a light wet noise eliciting from the way he teased you, so deeply enamoured by your state that he doesn’t bother taking in your desperation.

When he finally slips a finger inside, he looks at you, observing the way you wither and freeze up at the slenderness, immediately sinking knuckle deep.

He mimics the sharp gasp that falls from your lips, loving the way you succumb to his movements. “I’ll give it to you again, and again, and again, until you’re too fucked out to even blink. So, don’t tell me to stop.”

And you wouldn’t dare to. How could you? You've never been touched like this in your life, unfortunately known for having a tedious love life for two reasons: one, you were always working, and two, every single romantic partner of yours had really poor lovemaking skills. Your first orgasm with him feels more like a revelation than a simple sensation, opening your eyes to new scopes of pleasure and pain—if Satoru wasn’t so unattainable, you’d do anything to keep him around.

No matter how badly he tries to hide his lustful desperation, he can’t help but settle comfortably behind you, immediately accompanying his finger with another, stretching you out and nudging towards a spot that makes your legs close around him again. Your lidded eyes can’t open, it can’t witness the obscene sight of him shoving his fingers inside of you, relentlessly smacking as his other hand continues to massage your nipples. 

His fingers stretch you out, curving to hit that sensitive spot until you’re crawling to slump against the backrest. But he’s already dragging you back by your hair, keeping you fixed against his chest, adoring the way your damp skin presses against his. He warns you. “You’ve been really rude—don’t think you can start running now.”

The hand on your hair trails down to your sensitive clit, simultaneously moving with his fingers to draw your orgasm. It almost hurts, still recovering from his unyielding tongue. 

The sun is setting, and you’re not sure how much time has passed since you walked in. What if Nanami walks in? Is it time to leave? So many questions running through your mind, anxiety and arousal concurrently rushing through you. You tiredly voice your concern. “S—someone could walk in.” 

“So?” He retorts, accelerating his pace when he rubs your clit. “What are they going to do? Every single person in the palace belongs to me. That includes you.”

You want to agree, perhaps convincing him that you believe it would make him a consistent figure in your life but news of this would do irreversible damage to your name—clients would see nothing but someone who uses people in power to get what she wants. They’ll probably assume you accepted the invitation just to fuck him. If you’re caught—you would be ruined.

You absentmindedly whisper. “But my reputation…” 

“You should be honoured,” he utters, “Don’t assume such things about me… I don’t just fuck anyone.” 

He’s driving you insane. 

The filthy sounds of his fingers inside of you resound the room, heavy breathing from the both of you lingering in the air and there’s no time to even think before he’s speeding up. He wants another. Satoru messily licks and sucks your neck, cheek until he’s momentarily forcing your chin to the side, overlapping his tongue over yours and muffling your loud moans. Unsure on where to put your hands, you settle with holding his cheek, keeping his lips pressed against yours—treasuring a moment you’re not sure you want to get out of.

“The moment you walked in, you belonged to me.” He whispers against your lips.

A sensible part of you wants to believe that he’s speaking too soon about you belonging to him, but as every moment passes, you start to believe he’s right. No one is safe from the wonders of his character. 

“Oh fuck—wait—!” 

“Don’t be shy, you can come again.” He mutters, slipping his fingers out of you to wrap his hand around your throat, rubbing your clit with the utmost swiftness. Your hand desperately reaches out for him, tightly holding his wrist as he rubs relentlessly. Deliberately tightening his grip, he lowly curses at the lewd sounds of your wetness squelching under his fingertips. He doesn’t want to stop—melting in the way you wither against him, shaking fervently when you come, clamping your thighs together to try to stop him from continuing. His sodden fingers trail across your abdomen, your chest until he clasps your chin in his hand, slipping them through your parted lips. 

Messily, his tongue joins you, meshing your coated lips together while his fingers continue to layer yours with your cum. He shares the thrill of sucking his fingers with you, having no intention of keeping anything remotely clean between the two of you, relishing in all of your flavours. He loves making a mess of you, and it’s the last detail that destroys everything you thought you knew of him. That same man you saw in that carriage is not the same man touching you like this. The messiness of this scene only worsens the unyielding throbbing in your body, craving more and more of him until you pass out. You can’t let him know—terrified that he’ll cruelly test your limits. 

He notices your apprehension, laughing again when he loosens his grip on your neck, letting you fall drowsily against the couch. “What?”

“Too…–tired…” You mutter incoherently.

“Too tired?” Satoru repeats, a hint of shock underlying his words. He doesn’t bother bringing you up again, following you onto the couch and sitting comfortably on his knees behind you. Lewd sounds return but you don’t sense it coming from your body, so you tiredly turn around to see him stroking himself, gazing on your pussy with such determination. Despite your fatigue, you can’t help but stare in awe as he preps himself. He smiles lazily at you when he notices your stare, then he slowly rubs his tip against your slit, lathering all of your wetness. “Too tired to take me?” 

Your mind doesn’t register what he’s saying, shuddering at the sensation of his tip slightly stretching you out, a curious urge to just push back into him. But you’re a mess, embarrassingly cowering into the embroidered cushions, dried tears settling on your cheeks and there’s no care for the smell of oil paint drying up.

Satoru tuts at your lack of response, pushing further in with no intention of letting you adjust, and your shuddering gasps repeat one after the other, until he’s pushing you back into him entirely. The cushions slightly tear when you grip tightly, scratching against the material as he finally sinks as far as he can without hurting you just yet—paying great attention to the way you react. “Satoru…”

“Satoru?” He repeats, chuckling at the informality. You’re too wrecked to even understand why he’s amused but you mindfully tell yourself to never repeat his name out loud, scared that he’ll draw a line, despite jumping over every single line you’ve drawn for yourself. He doesn’t move any faster, sinuously fucking into you with a slow, agonising pace and leans forward to rest his chin on your shoulder, placing an enduring kiss that stings. “You can say my name all you want, only if you promise to scream it for me.”

When he abruptly slams into you, those shuddered gasps turn into croaked moans, hands clambering to the cushions to balance yourself as he relentlessly fucks into you. He feeds off of your responses, but he’s losing himself in the warmth of your walls, chasing the filthy, lewd noises that reverberate when he pounds his cock into you. Satoru is lost—in a world of his own, murmuring how he fits into you perfectly, how your pussy creams around him and calls you all sorts of names, playing with every part of your body as you attempt to stifle your own moans with the cushion. “Satoru—fuck—!”

“Louder,” he groans, bracing himself against the couch for a better angle, shuffling you so that he can place his foot on the floor. His pace fastens mercilessly, the resonances of his hips smacking into yours gets louder, consistently ending with an obscene squelch and he’s fucking you so good that you’re senselessly crying into the cushions.

Unimpressed by your attempt at muffling your moans, his hand slides up your back until it’s slipping around your neck, forcing your head up and he thrusts in—hard. 

“Satoru!” You embarrassingly moan—nearly screaming the palace down and he couldn’t be any more satisfied. 

“That’s right. Let them know who’s fucking you like this.” He responds, leaning forward to lick your neck–an inhumane sense of stamina he has, never slowing down to even let you recoup, tightening his hand around your neck to earn choked gasps from you while his tongue licks a strip against your cheek, tasting the saltiness of your tears. Completely and utterly destroyed, you turn to face him, surprised with a wet kiss being placed on your lips, tongue playing your parted lips as he continues to draw out your orgasm.

The fullness of his cock pounds into all of your clenching, the tip slowly—just slowly sinking in further, until he’s brushing into corners that edge towards a soreness you strangely like. He keeps teasing you, making fun of your reactions, enjoying the way you wince and give into him. Mockingly, he asks. “Am I really fucking you that good?” 

He knows he is.

“Ye— yes, so good,” you stupidly murmur, lapsing into the way his hand on your hips slips in front of your clit. You want more—so much more. “Fuck—it’s so good.”

 Then the door opens. 

“Oh—”

A loud gasp escapes you, briefly looking up to see an unfamiliar man holding beverages standing by the door, completely horrified by the sight. Satoru’s momentarily distracted, slackening his grip on your neck, allowing you to cower into the cushions again, and you try to move away from him. He only pauses, unmoving—his cock twitching inside of your clenching walls, causing him to groan when you lose control around him and pulls your hips back. The random individual stills, unsure of what to do and the silence irritates Satoru.

“Can I help you?”

“I have some beverages for you,” the servant nervously utters. Satoru instills a fear in him—it seemed like his character is nothing like you imagined. You also never imagined you’d be caught with his cock inside of you. 

“You can place it on the table.” Satoru nonchalantly responds, running his large hand across your sweaty back. Amused by your embarrassed state, he begins playing with your clit, eliciting muffled moans from you again, with no care that the servant is still in the room. The servant attempts to hurriedly walk out of the room, but an incoherent noise escapes you, utterly horrified that he’ll tell everyone about what he’s seen. Satoru oddly senses your apprehension again. “What’s wrong?”

“What if he tells everyone?” You softly whisper, refusing to show your face. 

“He won't say anything…will you?” He says, slowly motioning his hips until he’s so far deep. 

“No—no, of— of course not.”

“Good. If I hear even a whisper within this palace, I’ll know who to blame.” He says, sternly. He’s insane. Everything you hate—using his power to get whatever he wants.

Gojo Satoru always gets what he wants. 

“Unless you plan on watching like a pervert, get out of my sight.” 

The door quickly thuds, and you’re too humiliated to even understand what just happened. You wonder how Satoru must’ve looked, if he looked stern and almost murderous, but you’re too busy recoiling into the sheets, overstimulated and embarrassed that he has you like this. 

“Now…where were we?” He says, stretching out your cheeks to watch you clench against his cock. “Oh right—” 

His hand returns to your neck but this time he’s pressing your head into the cushions and his thumb carelessly slips into your mouth, making you drool against it, resuming his unremittingly fast pace. Your incoherent moans are muffled by his thumb pressing on your tongue, almost blubbering against your excessive drooling and he falls back into his mean words, slamming his hips into you so hard that it hurts.

You can feel it—it’s coming, his cock is fucking into you so good and you want nothing more than to come all over him, but he won’t let you breathe. You’re so embarrassed, succumbing to the way he fills you up even when you were just caught. 

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How quickly people lose themselves.” He rambles on, frequently groaning when you tighten around him. “I really thought you had some self-control, but you’ve ended up right here, drooling over my cock like a whore—”

“Satoru—” you manage to muffle.

“I knew from the moment I saw you,” he utters, insistently rubbing your clit to draw your orgasm. “Do you want to be my whore? I’ll keep you. Use me all you want for your little projects, and I’ll use you too.”

You must be going insane, but the idea doesn’t sound remotely bad to you at all—if it means having him fuck you like this, you’ll take it, you’ll take it all. Then he slips out of you, yanking you back by your hair to make you fall against the backrest and you gape upon his fucked-out state, watching as he strokes his cock, but it’s nothing compared to the mess he’s made of you. Your legs are still spread out for him, aching as he momentarily rips your orgasm away from you. 

“Please…”

Satoru smirks, leaning his arm next to your head as he continues to stroke himself. He brushes his tip along your clit again, in awe of all the excessive cum that you’ve produced for him. “Please fuck you? I’m not usually this nice, but I suppose you’ve finally realised your place.”

When his tip falls upon your entrance again, his arms rest under your knees, placing your legs in the air, and slams into you with a loud, lewd squelch. His damp forehead, white strands sticking to it, lightly thuds against yours, hot breaths mingling as he thrusts so profoundly that it completely ruins you. This angle, that strains your legs, lets him sink as deep as he can and he moves so fluidly that he repeatedly hits against your spot just right.

You can’t help but observe his concentrated look, focusing on fucking you so good that your thighs shake fervently against his arms. He notices, flashing you another lazy smile, and the sight hurts your heart, almost overriding the feeling of him pounding into you rigorously.  

“Has anyone told you how good you fucking feel? It’s like you’re sucking me in,” he says, panting as moments go by, utterly losing his mind. You’re too delirious to even respond, but he takes your silence as an answer. “Maybe you’re just meant for me, hm? All for me.” 

“Oh…—!” 

The sensation creeps up on you like an unwanted guest, an odd cry within you that doesn’t want any of this to end, because every now and then, he’ll slow down to keep you from coming.

“Won’t you wait for your prince?” He teases breathlessly, slipping out to play with your cum, making a mess before thrusting into your pulsating walls again. He decides teasing you is enough, feeling his own orgasm creep up on him too and as much he wants to come inside of you—he can’t risk such a careless action. His hands anchor your legs to the backrest, propelling into you as fast as he can.

The obscenity could be heard from the servants walking around outside—slapping, squelching, blatant moans and the couch, no matter how finely anchored it is to the floor, creaks against his fluid motions. 

“Hold your legs up.” He softly orders, and you listen, replacing his hands and uncomfortably holding your legs up, much to Satoru’s content. He slows down, intensely observing the cum that leaks out of your entrance, gradually slipping back inside, eliciting an intense shudder from you when his hand glides across your neck, tightening his grip. 

“Satoru!” You embarrassingly choke through his hand squeezing your neck, eyes squeezing shut as your orgasm cruelly washes over you and he’s using his free hand to messily rub your clit, little spurts of cum splashing over his stomach when you come.

“So messy…” He tuts, but you both know, he loves it. The way you frantically tremble against him, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and your constant clenching doesn’t save you from the way he bullies your sensitive spot, forcing you to spill over him excessively. You fear his urge to keep going as he fucks you through your orgasm, clambering to grab at his hand that tightly grasps your neck, voicelessly urging him to stop. 

Your voice fails you, unintelligible moans leaving you until he finally slows down, slipping out and caressing himself again. Looking at you with the greatest intention of devouring you. He looks ethereal staring down at you as you convulse against the most overwhelming orgasm you’ve ever had. 

Then he coarsely speaks. “Open your mouth.” 

You thoughtlessly listen, parting your lips as he buries his hand in your hair, bringing your mouth to his tip as he continues to lewdly lather all of your cum on his cock. You’re embarrassingly eager, but you lay out your tongue when he taps his tip against your bottom lip, staring as he readily chases his own orgasm.

Cursing under his breath, he stares in awe of your unkempt state, so eager to take all of his cum and he does so, all over your tongue, and your face, and chest—until he’s spilled all of him over you, noisily groaning. You mindlessly curse at the messiness, but you’re too gone to even complain, still twitching from your orgasm.

“Huh, the sun’s gone.” He nonchalantly mutters. You don’t even notice the dark skies, the quiet chirping and the odd shuffling that occurs outside of this room. Satoru suddenly kneels down, letting your head rest on his shoulder while your fatigued state tries to recover, running his large hands across your back. 

“Have to… finish…– painting.” You mumble against his shoulder. 

“You’ve done enough.” He responds, grabbing your chin to make you look at him. You never fail to fall into his eyes, wondering what it would be like to actually drown in them—you wouldn’t mind at all. He collects the tissue box that you previously tried to give to him, placing it on your lap. “Clean yourself up.” 

“What… you won’t lick this off me?” You manage to muster sarcastically, earning an amused chuckle from Satoru. “I guess chivalry really is dead.” 

A knock disrupts the comfortable silence. It must be Nanami, drawing a long sigh from you, tiredly wiping all of the mess that’s on you. “Same thing tomorrow then?” 

You look at him in disbelief, momentarily forgetting that this is just the first of several sessions. “Will you promise to stay still this time?” 

He doesn’t answer, an impish grin etching across his face. 

extra

It had been months since those sessions. You remembered less of the actual painting because the mere sensation of his cock had clouded all of your memories. So, when your several guests are asking you about your piece, besotted by the details and the interpretative messages, you can’t help but observe the man in it.

Was it odd to miss him? Or was it his touch that had completely shackled him to your memory? You don’t know, but looking at this piece over and over again, constantly reminded of his character and his touch was taking its toll on you, unable to explain the process or the meaning to your engrossed guests. 

The sensible chatter among the guests in the royal exhibition suddenly ends, turning into hushed whispers as they collectively turn towards the large entrance. 

You follow their gaze, after being so stupidly absorbed in your own piece. The royal family walk through the cleared-out path elegantly, gesturing towards the guests that are so entranced by them, but your eyes are already trying to look for Satoru, whose white hair effortlessly peaks through the numerous guards momentarily surrounding them.

He’s so grand, tall and alluring that the sight of the royal family immediately blurs when he steps into your line of your vision, he doesn’t notice you just yet, clearly bored by the entire ordeal. His drifting gaze looks among the crowd, a clear hint of disdain directed towards them until his eyes land on the painting.

Your painting. 

Following the details, a small smile creeps on his lips, and slowly his gaze falls upon you, a delicious smirk etched across his face. 

Your breath senselessly hitches at his gaze, cowering and fretfully making sure that no one could notice the way he was looking at you. You immediately turn away, not allowing yourself to repeat the same thoughts that landed you under him on several occasions in the first place—focusing your attention on the interested guests when the family disperses.

Satoru doesn’t waste a second before he’s creeping up behind you, mindfully listening to the way you explain the piece to the observers, but his appearance alone is enough to distract everyone, causing them to direct their attention towards him. Slowly, you turn to face him, greeting him calmly and hoping he doesn’t sense your uneasiness. 

He does. 

“It’s quite the piece, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. I think it’s beautiful.” A random observer quickly responds, clearly keen on getting his attention. You have to remind yourself that you’re not the only one he has wrapped around his finger. 

“All thanks to Y/N.” He says, staring playfully at you. 

“Thank you.” You reply timidly, shrinking at the fact that you’ve reverted back to forming boundaries. Though, it has been months and you’re mindfully hoping he’ll cross that line again. 

“I’d like to discuss something with you,” he asks, cutting the discussion short way too early, almost suspiciously even—feigning interest over the topic of art, but really, he just wants to get you alone, so he looks up in contempt at the group of guests still weirdly staring at him.  “—in private.” 

The guests silently disperse, leaving the both of you alone. His stare, no matter how familiar, still manages to make you uneasy so you turn to the painting, Satoru shortly following your action. He’s amused at your attempt to look as discreet as possible, but his hand is already trying to tug at your fingers, craving some form of contact after such long, tedious months. You’re both still quite immersed in the piece, pretending that there’s nothing strange going on.

“Have you explored the rest of the museum? It’s beautiful.” He says, feigning ignorance to his suggestive tone. 

“Is it?” You reply casually, pretending that your heart isn’t about to jump out of your chest. 

“Yeah, I could show you around.” He says cheekily, looking down at you but you refuse to part your gaze from the painting, afraid you’ll raise suspicion among the guests. 

Biting your lip, you momentarily give it a thought. You eventually muster up the confidence to look at him again. “Only if you let me use you again—for my little projects of course.” 

His grin widens. “I can’t say no to that, can I?” 

a/n: ending things r like the hardest part lol . thank u for reading <3

date me, please. oh, we're already dating?

[ kaedehara kazuha x s/o ]

summary: drunk and utterly wasted is kaedehara kazuha. but he's also drunk in love. it's a good thing you are too.

notes: was typing the phoenix fic but i have to get this out of the way so I DON'T KEEP GETTING DISTRACTED GOD DAMN IT KAZUHA | m.list

words: 928 | warnings: alcohol ofc

you're about to punch venti into a pulp.

by the time your group had left the tavern, it was already dark and most of the city folk were already tucked inside their home, with the exception of a few knights and drunkards outside who greeted you a good night… and a concerned look at the boy hanging over your shoulders.

"i want… a ukulele!" he gushed, giggling uncontrollably, "did you see,"—he cuts himself with a giggle—"that one bard with a small… a veeeery small! oh it was a tiny little thing! with strings!"

"yes, i saw love. i was there with you."

the walk to the inn was quiet, only his occasional rambles of traveling, the things the wind tells him, and the random giggles that he does.

archons, he's adorable.

it didn't take long before you reached the inn, lugging kazuha over your shoulder across the stairs and to your room. the man simply fell into the bed like a sack of potatoes, plopping on the soft sheets with his whole weight. yet his face sports a dreamy smile—his eyes are still closed and he resumes his faint whispers of his dreams.

"you better be glad i love you enough to deal with this."

with slacking limbs and weary drowsy eyes from exhaustion—not to mention it's been a long day of traveling for the two of you, with the addition of xinyan—you quickly went around the room to clean up, taking a damp towel and a glass of water with you to the bedside table, taking a seat besides a giggling mess of a kazuha.

"love, are you asleep?"

he muttered something in response, eyes still shut and a loopy smile.

despite the extra weight on your way to the inn, you can't deny that the sight of kazuha being vulnerable and loose—albeit with the influence of alcohol—does not make you feel a little at ease. he doesn't make it look obvious, but kazuha had always been on the guard for something. perhaps it had been a natural thing for him to be cautious and careful even from his younger days, but it certainly makes you happy to see him having his moments to let his guard down, even for a while.

you just hope it won't always be from the influence of alcohol, he can barely handle a few drinks.

you press the damp towel on his forehead, wiping down around his face. your other hand thread through his hair, combing and taking it out from its usual ponytail.

at your concentration and inner state of mind, you failed to notice how his half-lidded and woozy eyes opened to stare at you. sluggish, but desperate to touch you in some way, he wraps his hand weakly around your wrist.

"love?" you glance down at him quizzically.

"am i your 'love'?"

"huh?"

he squinted his eyes right back at you, lips tilted to a pout.

"you called someone 'love'. am i not your 'love'? do you call someone else your 'love'?"

you couldn't stop yourself from huffing, amused. however, this only made him frown, an uncharacteristic whine coming from him and his hand that was holding your wrist flails in a mini tantrum.

"whyyy? why, why, why? why not meeee? are we not lovers?"

"kazu—"

"noooo," he whines, taking your hand to place sloppy kisses on your knuckles, "you can't call me by that name! date me right now! call me love! i love yooou, it's not fair!"

you just hoped that no one would complain about the loud laughing fit you made at this time of the night, but can they really blame you? here he is, drunk and being the most adorable idiot there is. who are you to not find this endearing?

"love—" you grin at the satisfied happy hum he made at the pet name, "—we're already dating."

his smile fell to a shock look, gasping audibly and his eyes lighting up, putting the moon and the lamp beside you to shame.

he looks very much awake—and breathtakingly handsome—despite being wasted.

"w-we are?"

ah, he looks as ecstatic as he did when you first reciprocate his feelings.

"yes, we are, love."

as if to accentuate your words, you litter kisses all over his face, grinning at the chimes of delighted giggles and slight upward tilt of his head. his face is practically asking for more kisses. flustered and pink in the cheeks, yet his drunken state seems to diminish his sense of bashfulness.

"i love you," he sang.

"i love you too, love."

he looks so content right now. his rosy cheeks lifted into a precious smile that only tempts you to kiss them—which you did, as you should—and the happy little giggles that he makes. you place another kiss on his nose.

"get some rest, love. we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

he doesn't resist this time—probably because he got his dose of affection from you—easing into a curled position on the bed, your hand is still in his. the smile on his face softens, eyes shutting and his voice more sluggish.

"can you say it again?"

"which one, hm?

"say… say you love me again."

almost immediately, you leaned close to his ear, kissing just above his ear.

"i love you, kazuha."

"aga… again?" he drowsily asked once more, slipping into a peaceful sleep.

"i love you, kaedehara kazuha."

and i'd repeat it however many times you want me to.

"i love you too~"

maybe you won't beat venti into a pulp. for now, at least.

just a smol cat communicating with another smol cat ♡

wanna be yours — vi (league of legends) !

⟢ synopsis. in the gritty underbelly of zaun, you find yourself entangled in the life of a new pit fighter: vi, a hardened fighter who wears her pain like armour. as a medic working in the fighting pit, you are tasked with patching up her wounds after matches, and you realize that while you can heal vi’s injuries, you can’t mend the broken pieces of her heart that belong to someone else.

⟢ contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, kinda enemies to lovers (but worse), nsfw, fingering, 17+ kinda explicit.

⟢ word count. 15.2k+

⟢ authors note. i spent the last few weeks working on this fic and i am really happy with how it turned out!! eek!! happy reading!! <3 :)

You’ve grown used to the sight of blood.

It streaks across the tiled floor in dark smears, trails on the edge of your workbench, and stains the tattered cloths shoved into the waste bin. The scent of copper lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of disinfectant.

You’ve made it work, though. You have to.

Your bench is lined with the tools: sutures, gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic you’ve been meaning to replace. You keep it organized, and meticulous because chaos out there demands control in here. The pit fighters appreciate it, and you, in their own way. There’s always a pep in their step when they leave your little corner, heading to the bar with fresh bandages and a story to tell.

Some linger longer than they need to, chatting while you clean up. The regulars know your rhythm—when to crack a joke to ease the tension or when to stay quiet and let you focus. The brawlers come to trust you, and trust is hard to come by lately.

Maybe it was because you weren’t trying to punch the lights out of their eyes.

The room itself is far from perfect. Cramped, poorly lit, and barely adequate, it feels more like a storage closet someone forgot to clear out than a proper medical station. You’ve done what you can to make it your own. A few paintings hang crookedly on the walls—cheap prints, but bright enough to cut through the gloom. Candles flicker in the corners of your desk, casting a soft glow that doesn’t do much for the lighting but makes the space feel warmer, more welcoming.

The pit fighters notice. They never say much about it, but you catch the way they relax when they sit down, their shoulders loosening just slightly as the room wraps them in its quiet. It’s your small rebellion against the harshness of Zaun, a reminder that even here, there’s room for gentleness.

Sometimes they repay that gentleness in their own way—a drink after a fight, a nod of thanks, or a protective presence when the streets get dangerous, walking you home. You’ve been here long enough to know that loyalty is rare in Zaun, but somehow, you’ve earned it.

The fighting arena roars with life, the crowd’s cheers rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. Tonight’s fights have been loud—louder than usual. People running around with their coloured tickets based on who they were betting on. You glance at the clock.

There’s been a buzz all week about a newcomer, someone fresh and untested.

Vi, they call her.

Scrappy and wild, with a chip on her shoulder and fists to match. The kind of fighter who comes in all swagger and leaves in pieces.

You haven’t met her yet, but the bookies’ chatter alone has you bracing yourself. First fights are always the worst—too much pride, not enough sense.

The door rattles, hard enough to make the jars on your shelf tremble and you can hear muffled shouting from the other side.

It slams open, rattling on its hinges, but you don’t look up right away. Your focus is on threading a needle carefully through the gash along the side of Ryker’s jaw—a nasty wound from an earlier fight. Ryker’s been coming here for years, but never with complaints. He’s one of the good ones, fighting not just for himself but for his daughter, scraping by on the cash these matches earn him. He sits hunched over, still radiating the heat of adrenaline.

“Don’t fucking shove me,” a voice grumbles from the doorway. “Fuck off, Loris!”

Your attention shifts to the two figures stumbling into the room. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a face like he’s eaten rocks for breakfast—could easily pass for one of the fighters. But it’s the girl he’s dragging by the arm that catches your eye.

She’s all jagged lines and sharp edges, her messy, dark pink hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Blood drips lazily from her nose, smudging against the back of her hand when she wipes at it, and her scowl is carved so deep it feels like her only expression.

“I don’t need a medic,” the girl—Vi, you hear the man mutter—snaps, yanking her arm free. “I need a drink.”

“Protocol,” He replies flatly, giving her a shove that nearly sends her sprawling.

Vi catches herself with a stumble, shooting him a glare before surveying the room with obvious disdain. Her gaze lands on you, and her lip curls faintly. “This it? Cozy,” she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

You ignore her, focusing on the final stitch on Ryker’s jaw. “You can take a seat,” you say evenly, nodding toward the empty couch by the far wall.

“No thanks,” Vi shoots back, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She leans against the wall instead, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Too proud to sit down, blue belly?” Ryker mutters, casting a sharp glance from his seat. His voice is low, edged with a warning. “Or has the guilt of hunting your own finally caught up with you?”

“Ryker,” you say softly, your tone a quiet scold. The last thing you need is a fight breaking out here.

But his words make you look at Vi more closely. Her features are familiar, in a vague, nagging way. It clicks as you take in the hard set of her shoulders, the stubborn way she holds herself, and the bruises already blooming across her cheekbone. A new batch of enforcers had swept through Zaun a few weeks back, leaving havoc and clouds of Grey in their wake. They’d brought their brutality, painted their violence into the walls of the city, and then disappeared like ghosts, leaving Zaun more broken than before.

That’s how it usually went with them.

However, you had never heard of someone from the undercity becoming an Enforcer before.

Vi scoffs, slurring her words just slightly. “I don’t know—d’you wanna find out?”

You pause, needle halfway through a stitch, tension coiling tight in the air. “Don’t,” you warn softly, already sensing where this is headed.

Ryker shifts forward on the bench, his battered knuckles flexing. “You wanna go another round?”

Vi pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You wanna lose again?” she challenges, her voice low and sharp.

“That’s enough,” you snap, moving quickly to step between them. Loris mirrors your movement, his larger frame serving as an immovable barrier.

“Sit. Down,” Loris growls at Vi, his glare enough to make her hesitate. With a huff, she leans back against the wall again, though her fists remain clenched in her jacket pockets.

You shake your head and turn back to Ryker, finishing the last stitch with practiced ease. “You’re done,” you tell him, rummaging through your cabinet and handing him a small bottle of pain meds. “Keep it clean, change the bandage twice a day, and stay out of trouble—for your sake and your daughter’s.”

Ryker stands slowly, still throwing a glare Vi’s way. But his expression softens when he looks at you. “Thanks,” when he says your name, his voice is warmer than before. “You’re too good for this place.”

You offer him a faint smile. “Take care, Ryker.”

He leaves, brushing past Vi with a grunt, and the room feels quieter—tense but quieter. You turn your attention to the newcomer, who’s leaning against the wall, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, tracking your every movement.

“Alright,” you say, already washing your hands and gathering fresh supplies. “Your turn.”

Vi doesn’t move from the wall. “I’m fine,” she insists, “patch up the ones who actually need it.”

Your gaze flicks over her—the bloody nose that’s started to run again, the gash seeping through her sleeve, and the raw swelling on her knuckles. “Sit,” you say, your voice firm.

She doesn’t budge.

You meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, a quiet standoff neither of you seems willing to break. Your fingers tap once against the counter, but your glare doesn’t waver. You won’t repeat yourself.

Loris, the man who dragged her in, steps forward with a roll of his eyes, giving her a nudge with his elbow. “Sit down, Vi.”

She winces at the pressure on her back, her bravado faltering for just a split second. With a low grumble, she finally drops onto the bench, slouching with exaggerated indifference, her arms crossing tight over her chest.

You grab a clipboard and step closer. She watches you like you’re some kind of nuisance.

“Name?” you ask, clicking your pen.

“Vi,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on the far wall.

“Vi what?”

“Just Vi.”

You suppress a sigh. “What’s your full name?”

“I said, just Vi.”

There’s an edge to her tone, enough to make you glance up. Her jaw is set, her expression daring you to press the issue. You don’t. Instead, you scrawl it down and move on. “Fine. Age?”

“Old enough to fight.”

Your pen stills mid-note, the corners of your mouth tightening as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Of course, you are,” you say dryly, setting the clipboard aside with a little more force than necessary. “Alright, let’s start with the obvious,” you say, gesturing at her face. “Your nose is bleeding. Tilt your head back.”

Vi’s brow arches like you’ve just said something funny. “I said, I’m fine.”

“And I said, tilt your head back,” you reply, your voice steady but no less firm.

Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes, but she tilts her head back with a dramatic huff. “Happy?”

You ignore her tone, stepping closer to inspect the injury. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingers between you, and for a moment, you notice the heat of her skin where your gloved fingers gently tilt her chin.

“Doesn’t feel broken,” you mutter, reaching for a clean cloth to dab away the blood. She flinches as the fabric touches her skin, her muscles twitching under your fingers. “Relax,” you say softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

Your hand falters, just briefly. There’s a weight to her words, a sharpness you weren’t expecting, but you push past it. “Well, I mean it,” you reply quietly.

Her silence stretches as you work, less hostile but no less charged. The closer you look, the more details you notice: the faint scars lining her skin, the inked letters etched into her cheekbone, the edge of a tattoo just barely visible beneath her collar, and the faint shine of her silver nose ring.

“Jacket off,” you say, gesturing to the gash on her arm.

Her gaze snaps to yours, wary and sharp. “Why?”

You give her a flat look. “Because I can’t stitch it through fabric.”

For a second, she doesn’t move, her body tensing as if bracing for something. Then, with a muttered curse, she shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the bench beside her.

Her arms are a mess—old fighting hand wraps soaked with blood and dirt wrapped tightly around her forearms. You offer to replace them, but she cuts you off. “I’ll do it myself.”

You let it go, focusing instead on cleaning the fresh wound. Her muscles tense every time you touch her, but she doesn’t flinch again. “You can relax, you know,” you say, trying to sound light. “I’m just trying to help.”

Vi lets out a bitter snort. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You pause, but you don’t press. She’s lashing out on you. That’s the most you can make of it.

The silence stretches again as you stitch the wound, her eyes watching you closely, unreadable. When you finally glance up, your movements stilling, she shrugs.

“What?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

“Nothing,” she says, leaning back.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer before shaking your head and returning to your work, wrapping the freshly stitched wound with clean bandages. She stays quiet, watching until the silence becomes heavy again.

Then, without warning, she speaks, her voice quieter but cutting. “You know, you’re wasting your time on these people. Half of them wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

The words hit like a punch, sharper than anything she’s said before. You freeze mid-motion, your fingers hovering over the bandage as you process her bluntness. Slowly, deliberately, you resume wrapping her arm, tucking the end of the bandage into place with more care than you think she deserves at that moment.

“Good thing I don’t do this for their gratitude,” you reply evenly, though the edge in your voice betrays a flicker of irritation. You’re trying not to let it get to you.

She’s new. Clearly, she’s fighting off some kind of pent-up frustration. She must have anger issues or something. You wonder how many hits Ryker got on her before she knocked him out.

Her chuckle is low and humourless, more of a scoff than anything else. “Right.”

You hope he got a solid six or seven punches in.

You step back, peeling off your gloves with a deliberate snap. There’s a moment where you consider saying something more, but you swallow the impulse. Professionalism, you remind yourself.

“You’re all set,” you say curtly, gathering up the soiled supplies. “I’d suggest taking tomorrow off. You know, to let the wound heal before you go back out there.”

Vi grabs her jacket, standing in a single fluid motion. She doesn’t look at you when she replies, her tone casual but dismissive. “I’ll live.”

You wish Ryker had broken her nose.

You shake your head, already turning back to tidy your workstation, unwilling to watch her saunter out.

Loris, standing by the door, offers you a small, almost apologetic smile. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warmer than hers ever was.

You manage a smile back, but it’s shallow, worn. The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone in the cramped room. The exasperation settles in like a weight, not heavy but persistent.

For a moment, you stand there in silence, staring at the supplies on your counter. You shake your head again, this time at yourself.

What the fuck is her problem?

You know you shouldn’t be surprised when Vi stumbles into the medic room again the very next day. The fights at Antis’s brawling ring are infamous for their relentless schedule, especially on weekends when the bets come pouring in before sundown. It’s barely dusk now, but the underground buzz is already unmistakable—the muffled cheers and jeers vibrating through the walls.

Vi comes alone this time—or at least she leaves Loris waiting outside the door. You catch a brief glimpse of him through the crack in the door, leaning against the wall with a drink at his lips, shaking his head like this is just another day for him.

The door slams shut as Vi shoulders her way in, her boots heavy against the floor. She’s holding one hand against her face, blood dripping sluggishly through her fingers and trailing down her arm.

You have to bite back a smile at the sight.

She’s ditched her jacket, and the sleeveless collared top she’s wearing looks like it’s seen more fights than she has—worn thin, patched up in places, and stained with a lifetime of blood and sweat. Her hand wraps are shredded and still filthy, hanging loosely around her forearms. The gash on her arm has reopened, the stitches torn apart as if they were never there to begin with.

You take all of this in within seconds, and something tightens in your chest—a mix of frustration and satisfaction. “You can’t fight back-to-back nights,” you say, your voice sharper than intended as you grab your gloves and a fresh set of supplies.

Vi grunts, brushing past you to sit on the bench. “I can do what I want,” she snaps, her words muffled by her hand still pressed to her face. Her defiance is unshaken, but the tremble in her shoulders gives her away. She’s hurting.

Now you start to feel bad. But just a little bit.

You’ve seen this before—new fighters crashing into the medic room with the same mix of bruised pride and bloodied skin. They fight like there’s no tomorrow, each punch is thrown carrying something more than just adrenaline. Some fight for money, some for escape, and others just because they don’t know how to stop. There’s always a reason. You can’t help but wonder what—or who—Vi is fighting for.

With a quiet exhale, you turn to the counter and grab your supplies. The clatter of tools fills the silence as you steel yourself for the inevitable pushback. “Let me guess,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. “Antis needed someone to keep the bets high, and you couldn’t say no.”

Vi drops her hand from her face, and for the first time, you see the full extent of the damage. A deep bruise blooms across the bridge of her nose, nearly swollen shut in one eye, while blood smears across her mouth and drips down her jaw.

She glares at you through the mess, her voice sharp. “It’s none of your business.”

“No,” you admit, stepping closer and gesturing for her to tilt her head back. “But I’m the one who has to patch you up. So humour me.”

She scoffs but tilts her head back, letting you inspect the damage. Up close, the bruise looks worse—angry and dark, already spreading across her pale skin. Her nose isn’t broken (unfortunately), but it’s close, and the blood smeared across her upper lip makes her look like it’s been bitten off. You grab a clean cloth and start wiping the blood away. Your movements are brisk but careful, and she winces slightly as you press the cloth to her skin. Still, she doesn’t pull away, just sits there stiff and unyielding.

“You’re going to tear open the stitches every time you fight like this,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic. “You’ve gotta take it easy. I know how these guys fight out there—”

“I don’t need your pity,” she cuts in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not pity,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Just words of advice.”

“I don’t need that either,” she snaps, her jaw tightening as you dab antiseptic on the wound. “Just patch me up so I can go. I’m only here because Antis won’t clear me for my pay otherwise.”

“Yeah, it’s protocol,” you say, capping the bottle and setting it down beside you.

“It’s stupid.”

“It was my idea.”

Her head jerks slightly, her eyes flicking toward you for a beat. There’s something almost vulnerable in her expression before she quickly looks away. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, almost bitter. “...Still stupid.”

You smile faintly as you reach for fresh bandages. “Yeah, well, stupid or not, it’s keeping people alive. Even stubborn ones like you.”

Stubborn is definitely a nicer word than what you really want to say.

She doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between you as you unwrap the old bandage around her arm. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, like she’s itching to leave, but she stays seated, her posture rigid. You can’t tell if it’s pride or exhaustion keeping her there—or maybe both.

For the rest of the session, Vi is quieter than usual. Her sharp retorts are replaced by a heavy silence that seems to weigh down the air in the room. Outside, the muffled roars of the crowd echo through the thin walls.

As you work to clean and re-stitch her arm, you glance at her every so often, noting the way her jaw tightens and her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh. It’s like she’s bracing for a blow that might never come, her body constantly coiled, ready to spring.

You take a step back, pulling off your gloves with a snap. “You’re good to go,” you say, your voice softer now. “But you need rest.”

She snorts, grabbing her jacket off the bench without looking at you. “Can’t rest. I’m on a winning streak.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve only been here two days. I wouldn’t count that as a streak.”

“Don’t really care what you think.”

“You should. You’re sleep-deprived, by the way. Your eyes barely focus. Get more sleep. And you need to drink more water.”

Vi huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh, “Sure, doc. Whatever you say.”

You want to argue, but she’s already out the door, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and the lingering weight of words left unsaid. Loris nods at you through the open door as she stalks past him, his gaze flicking back to you briefly.

The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone with the distant hum of the crowd and the bloodstained bench. For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scraps of torn bandages scattered on the floor, the mess she left behind.

It’s not long after that you learn her name is Violet.

The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.

Violets. You’ve never actually seen them, but a friend of yours, a painter, once gifted you a piece featuring soft, delicate purple blooms. It hangs over your bedside table, a rare touch of beauty in an otherwise bleak city. You like to imagine those flowers are violets, though you’re not entirely sure. Flowers aren’t exactly a common sight in Zaun.

The irony of her name strikes you every time you think about it. Violet. There’s nothing soft or delicate about her—not the way she fights, nor the way she speaks to you.

She didn’t tell you her name herself, of course. That would require her to speak more than three sentences in your direction, which feels like an impossible feat. No, funnily enough, it was Loris who let it slip, though you suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a ‘slip’ rather than straight-up telling you her name.

It happened a night at a bar near your work. You’d gone with some friends, seeking a much-needed reprieve. The bartender, a friend of yours, had slipped you a couple of free drinks, and in a haze of warmth and exhaustion, you noticed Loris at the bar. He looked out of place, all gruffness and silence amid the lively chatter, so you invited him to join your table.

Several drinks in, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned closer to him, your voice barely cutting through the music and chatter as you asked him about his pink-haired friend.

Loris wasn’t much of a talker, you realized. He’d spur out a few words or two, maybe a grunt or nod.

Loris made a face, his usual stoic front slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement. He leaned in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap beer, and gave a rare grin. “Sleeping,” he said simply, before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Her name’s Violet, by the way.”

Violet. You didn’t expect that, and it must’ve shown on your face because Loris chuckled softly.

It doesn’t take long for her name to start climbing the ranks at Antis’s. Fighters and spectators alike talk about her with equal parts fear and admiration. “Antis’s money-maker,” they call her, and it’s not hard to see why. When word spread about the unbeatable pink-haired girl, business began booming. Crowds flooded in, the promise of blood and spectacle drawing them like moths to a flame.

At first, she was just another new fighter, opening matches against scrappy, overconfident rookies. But that changed quickly. Within weeks, she was headlining brawls, her name alone enough to pack the stands. She didn’t just win—she dominated, often taking on two, three, even four opponents in a single night. And you? You kept count. You had to.

She tore through supplies faster than you could restock them. Bandages, antiseptics, meds—all of it consumed at an alarming rate. You’ve patched her up more times than you can count. But what stands out most isn’t just the state of her after a fight—it’s what she leaves behind.

Her opponents don’t come to you for minor injuries. No, they stumble in half-broken, their faces smashed and unrecognizable. Each night growing worse for wear. She fights with a ruthlessness you’ve rarely seen, a fury that feels almost personal. You can’t help but wonder what drives her. Is she trying to make a point?

She’s changing, turning into something the crowd craves. Her old, worn clothes have been replaced—black jeans, already ripped at the knees, and a sleeveless black tank that clings to her frame. She’s losing pieces of herself, or maybe just hiding them.

You still can't believe that there's a girl named Violet out there beating the shit out of people for money.

One day, you accidentally walk into her in Antis’s office. You’re here to drop off some invoices for medical supplies, your mind preoccupied with balancing the clinic’s dwindling stock against the rising demand. But when you open the door, you find Vi and Antis inside, deep in conversation.

Antis looks up first, his sharp eyes narrowing at your intrusion. “You’re early,” he grunts, though there’s no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he seems amused. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about her look. What do you think?”

Vi shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her expression unreadable. You glance between them, caught off guard. “Her… look?”

Antis gestures to Vi with a sweep of his hand, his grin wolfish. “Yeah. Gotta sell the whole package, y’know? The crowd loves her, but they’ll eat up a good aesthetic, too. We’re thinking something that screams ‘unbeatable.’ Right, Vi?”

Vi’s jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, you think she might snap at Antis. But she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze flicks to you, like she’s waiting for something—your reaction, maybe, though you can’t figure out why it matters.

You clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “She doesn’t need to change anything. She’s already pretty... unforgettable.”

Antis’s booming laugh fills the room, but you barely hear it. Your focus is locked on her. Something flickers in her eyes—a fleeting softness, vulnerability, gratitude, maybe?—before she schools her expression and looks away. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just a trick of the dim light.

A few days later, she shows up in the medic room again. But this time, it's different—she’s not limping in, not dripping with sweat or covered in bruises. She’s just there, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual air that catches you off guard. Her knuckles brush the doorframe absentmindedly as if she’s unsure whether to knock or let herself in.

“Do you need something?” you ask, glancing up from where you’re restocking the shelves. “Are you hurt?”

She shrugs, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “No, just… it’s quiet in here.”

Your brows knit together. Quiet?

She didn’t seem like the kind of person to seek out quiet, especially not in a place like this. “You came all the way here because it’s quiet?”

“Yeah,” she says simply, her tone flat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She grabs the chair from your desk, spins it around, and sits backward on it, resting her arms over the backrest. “Problem?”

“No... it’s just…” You trail off, unsure how to articulate the strangeness of it. Instead, you turn back to organizing supplies, aware of her eyes on you. “Never mind.”

These visits became more frequent whenever she didn’t fight. And she even stays back for a bit after you patch her up. Sometimes she speaks, but more often than not, she doesn’t—simply sitting in that chair, letting the distant noise of the arena, the cheers and shouts, fade into the background. She’ll stare at the walls or absentmindedly tap her fingers against the chair’s edge, lost in thought, but there’s a serenity about her, an unfamiliar stillness that you start to recognize.

She never tells you what brings her in—if something is weighing on her mind or if it’s just a need to escape the chaos. And you don’t ask. Instead, you begin to anticipate her visits, a strange comfort taking root in the space between you.

The conversations are sparse, but you begin to notice the small things: the way her body relaxes when she settles into the old couch, the weight lifting from her shoulders as she stretches out, the way she’ll let herself drift off into a light sleep. It’s almost like you’re giving her a moment of rest she didn’t know she needed.

Vi strides in, her steps heavier than usual, and tosses a small, overstuffed bag of coins onto your desk. You recognize it immediately—one of the payout sacks Antis gives to the fighters, filled with their share of the betting pool. This one looks heavier than most, jingling with an unmistakable weight as it lands right on top of your paperwork. You pause, your pen hovering midair, and stare at it.

Her grin spreads as she catches the look on your face—wide-eyed and mildly incredulous. “Don’t worry, it’s not for you,” she teases, her tone light and mocking.

You roll your eyes, setting the pen down with an exaggerated sigh. “This from your fight last night?”

Vi nods, her grin twisting into something sharper, a little more wicked. “Some of my best work,” she replies, her voice carrying the faintest edge of pride.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as your gaze sharpens on her face. “I don’t know,” you counter dryly. “He broke your nose, and the whole side of your face is swollen. Doesn’t sound like your best to me.”

Standing up, you step closer, brows knitting together in concern as you get a better look at the mess of bruises she’s sporting. Without thinking, your hands lift, reaching toward her face to assess the damage.

Vi flinches. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hesitate. Your hands hover in the air, faltering. “Sorry,” you murmur, your voice soft.

She coughs awkwardly, shifting her weight. “No, uh—no. It’s fine,” she says, a little too fast.

This time, when you move again, she doesn’t flinch. She lets you gently brush your fingers over the swollen, splotchy skin along her cheekbone and jaw, and you feel the heat radiating off the inflamed area. Your touch is careful, clinical, but you can’t help wincing at the sight. “You’re kidding yourself if you call this your best work, Vi” you mutter. “Did you even ice this like I told you?”

Her eyes roll so hard you’re almost worried she’ll sprain something. She grabs your wrist—not roughly, but enough to lower your hand—and shrugs. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

You give her a deadpan look. “I did.”

Her smirk returns, a little more genuine now, though she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sits on the edge of your desk and starts digging absently through the bag of coins, her fingers brushing over the shiny hexes and cogs. She doesn’t pull anything out, just lets her hand linger there.

“I brought you food,” she says suddenly, her voice casual.

You blink, momentarily thrown. “Food?”

She lifts a greasy paper bag into your line of sight, and you realize you hadn’t even noticed it when she walked in. “Yeah, you know. The stuff you eat when you’re hungry.”

“Okay, asshole,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth quirks up despite yourself.

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Got it for Loris and I, but he’s, uh… busy. Doing... someone else.” Her tone is flat, like she couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something there—an edge of amusement, maybe. “So, more for us.”

You watch her for a second. You like to think that you can see right through her sometimes, that you can read her, but as usual, she’s an enigma. There’s something in the way she said us that makes your chest feel a little lighter, but you don’t let it show. “Thanks,” you say simply.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” she shoots back. There is kindness she tries to hide, though it’s written all over her expression.

She settles onto the old medical bench, pulling out boxes of food from the bag. You wince internally at the sight, thinking about the number of people who’ve bled, puked, and worse on that very bench. Just hours ago, Vi had been sitting there herself, nose snapped out of place, grinning through bloody teeth and swollen lips and teary eyes. Now, she’s perched there like it’s nothing, tearing into her meal with that same reckless ease she carries into every fight.

“Is this where I’m supposed to remind you how unsanitary this is?”

She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.

You don’t bother arguing. Instead, you take the box she pushes toward you and settle in. The two of you eat in silence.

The days begin to blur into one another as Vi’s visits grow more casual. At first, you barely tolerated her—a pit fighter like so many others, bruised and bloody and reckless, shuffling into your medic room with the same bravado they all wore like armour. But somewhere along the way, you start to realize you actually don’t hate her company.

And as Vi continues her rise with pit fighting, you realize you also like to take care of her afterwards, even if it is your job or not. Each fight ends quicker than the last, her victories coming faster and fiercer. With every knockout, her confidence blooms—bold, intoxicating.

You’ve always been able to tell why people fight. Some thrive on the violence, seeking it out like a drug, their eyes lit with a manic fire that never seems to dim. Others do it out of desperation: to keep a roof overhead, food on the table, some semblance of stability in their lives.

At first, you were certain Vi belonged in the first category. The way she took punches, how she barely flinched when you patched her up—she didn’t just endure the pain. She absorbed it. Relished it. She wore her scars like trophies, and it almost seemed like she was chasing something more with every bruise and break.

But then you started noticing other things. How her clothes, once old and frayed, began to look newer. The leather jacket she bought just last week, the new earrings glinting against her skin, the sturdy boots she’s traded her worn ones for. Loris mentioned she moved out of his apartment recently and got her own place, though most of her money seemed to go toward booze.

You realize that fighting for Vi isn’t just about survival or enjoyment. It’s an outlet—a way to lose herself in the chaos and the violence, to drown out whatever it is she doesn’t want to face.

One night, you do something you’ve never done before: you buy a ticket to one of her fights. You’ve seen enough carnage in the medic’s room to last a lifetime, but something about Vi pulls you in, like gravity. The crowd is as raucous as ever—cheers, boos, the metallic clang of Antis’s bell marking the start and end of each match. You don’t join in the noise. You just watch, feeling out of place among the spectators who are here for the bloodlust.

And then Vi steps into the ring.

It’s the first time you’ve seen her fight, and it’s nothing like you imagined. You’d seen the aftermath—the blood, the bruises, the broken bones—but witnessing her in action is something else entirely. She’s skilled, fast, brutally efficient, her punches calculated yet devastating.

The man she’s up against is nearly twice her size, but it doesn’t matter. She ducks under his swing with ease, her fist connecting with his jaw in a single, bone-crunching motion that sends him sprawling. The fight is over in less than a minute, and the crowd roars its approval.

Your eyes linger on her, unable to look away. Her back is to you, sweat gleaming on her exposed skin, highlighting the intricate tattoo that snakes across her shoulders. When she turns, she seems to know exactly where you are, her gaze locking onto yours even in the chaos of the crowd.

Your breath catches. The rise and fall of her chest, the bead of sweat tracing down her neck, the raw, undeniable power in her every movement—it’s overwhelming.

Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.

You leave before her second fight starts, slipping through the crowd and into the tunnels. The line waiting for you in the medic room feels endless, yet the blur of bruised faces and bloody wounds can’t distract you. Vi’s image lingers—sweat on her skin, her breath heavy after the fight, and the way her eyes found yours in the crowd.

You never bring it up, and Vi doesn’t either.

But something changes.

That night, as you treat her wounds again, it feels different. She’s quieter than usual, her usual cocky smile missing. You notice how her eyes linger on your hands as you work, following the glide of your fingers over her skin.

Your gloves feel thinner tonight, or maybe it’s just your imagination. You’re hyperaware of every small movement—how her skin feels warm under your touch, the sharp contrast of the calluses on her knuckles against your palm when you steady her hand to examine it.

She doesn’t flinch when you press a damp cloth to the gash on her temple. Normally, she’d tease you, mutter something about your bedside manner, or complain about the sting even though the both of you know she can take it. Instead, she just watches you, her gaze unwavering.

It’s almost unbearable.

Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That is what she smells like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you finally say, your voice softer than you intended.

Vi’s lips quirk, but it’s a faint ghost of her usual grin. “Just tired, I guess.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

You focus on cleaning the cut, trying to steady your hand. But her closeness throws you off. She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, her knees brushing against your thighs whenever she shifts. The room feels smaller.

“Almost done,” you murmur, though it feels like you’re saying it more to yourself than her.

Vi tilts her head slightly, giving you better access, and the movement draws your attention to the curve of her jaw. There’s a bead of sweat lingering there, catching the dim light, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“Take your time,” she says.

Your fingers pause for just a second before you continue cleaning the wound. Her words hang in the air, charged and heavy, and you wonder if she knows how they’ve started to affect you. You reach for the bandages, your hands brushing against her skin again. Her breath hitches—just barely—but it’s enough for you to notice.

“There,” you say, pulling back slightly. “Done.”

But your hands linger for a moment too long, your fingers still ghosting over her cheek. You’re not sure if it’s you or her that doesn’t pull away first.

Vi’s eyes are on you again, darker now, and the air between you crackles with something unspoken. You don’t know if it’s the proximity, the adrenaline still lingering from her fight, or the way her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something—but you can’t take it anymore.

“I should clean up,” you say abruptly, turning away to gather the used bandages and cloths.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, and you think she might say something to stop you. But then you hear the rustle of her leather jacket as she stands, the creak of the cot as her weight leaves it.

“Thanks,” she says.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to see her slip through the door. She doesn’t look back.

Her visits dwindle after that night. Fewer and fewer until she stops coming altogether. She starts fighting nights back to back, ignoring protocol and refusing to see you after each one.

You try to shake it off.

To ignore it until you can't.

And then you visit her one day.

It’s not in the medic room or the fighting ring. It’s at her door, and it’s jarring, her address scribbled on a small piece of paper that Loris gave you.

You can’t tell if Antis is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through it every day. She is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. It’s gotten to the point where people are betting on how long Vi could remain undefeated.

You hate how you immediately perk up when her door opens.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice low and guarded.

Her hair is black, dripping wet and staining her pale shoulders with inky streaks. The change startles you, but what’s more disarming is the sight of her like this—stripped-down, raw. Bandages are wrapped haphazardly around her chest, serving as an impromptu shirt. Her arms, usually hidden beneath gauze and gloves, are bare, revealing the countless scars that crisscross her skin. You can kind of see where her tattoos start and end. You think they’re beautiful.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Why are you here? For some reason, you hadn’t thought much about it before knocking. Now, standing here in her doorway, it feels like a mistake.

You’re not really friends.

“Uh,” you stammer, fumbling for an answer. Your gaze keeps straying to her hair, the stark black making it look longer, heavier. The pigment stains her hairline, dripping in uneven streaks along her temple. You notice how the damp strands cling to her neck, how the water pools in the hollow of her collarbone. It feels intrusive to look, but you can’t help it.

She’s staring at you, her shock quickly shifting to irritation. “You gonna stand there all day, or what?”

“I—your hair,” you blurt out. “It’s… different.”

She scoffs, brushing past you as if you’re not worth the effort of a proper reply. The door swings open wider, an unspoken invitation—or maybe just a lack of concern if you follow. You hesitate, then step inside.

Her apartment is small and dim, almost claustrophobic. The air is stale and thick with a faint tang of alcohol. The small bed in the corner is unmade, the sheets rumpled and half-pushed onto the floor. A punching bag hangs in the center of the room, its surface worn and cracked from overuse. There’s a stack of clothes shoved into the corner, and a few empty bottles litter the floor near the bed.

But it’s the quiet that hits you the hardest. It’s so different from the loud, chaotic energy she carries at the ring or the silence in the medic room. Here, everything feels muted, almost sad.

“You dye it yourself?” you ask, trying to fill the awkward silence as she settles onto the edge of the bed.

She glances at you, the bottle in her hand tipping slightly. “Yeah.”

“Antis didn’t make you do it?”

Vi snorts a small, humourless sound. “No. He suggested green.”

You try to picture her with green hair and fail. “Why black?”

“Needed a change,” she says simply, taking a swig from the bottle. The way she winces as she swallows tells you it’s not her first drink tonight. “Why are you here?”

The bluntness of the question knocks you off balance. For a moment, you forget. Then the weight of the box in your hands reminds you. “Oh, uh, I brought you some new hand wrappings. I saw them at the store and thought you could use them since yours are... shit. Yours are shit.”

Her eyes snap up to yours, something unreadable flickering in them before she looks away. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” you reply, though your voice feels stiff and awkward. You shift your weight, unsure whether to stay or leave. Her gaze returns to you, steady but unreadable, and you feel the strange urge to say something—something meaningful.

“You... you okay, Vi?” you ask softly, not even sure why the words come out. You immediately want to take it back.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

You look at her, really look at her. Not in the way you do at work, but right now, as a friend(?), guest(?) in her space. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips the bottle of cheap beer as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She looks… tired. Beaten down, in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice quieter now, careful. “I guess you just… you haven’t come by in a while. It looks like you need a good patch up again, no? Don’t worry, I won’t charge.”

The words sound too casual, too light like you’re trying to make a joke—and you are, but you can see the way her face stiffens after you say it. The faint bruises on her face, the bandages on her arms and hands, they’re a clear sign of how badly she’s been pushing herself—she’s been taking supplies from you without checking in, and you’ve noticed. You know she hasn’t gotten her pay yet. You haven’t had the chance to clear her for it since she stopped coming by after fights. It’s a faint sore spot between you both, an unspoken thing she won’t acknowledge, but you know she’s not getting the care she needs.

For a moment, her face hardens, and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line, if she’s going to snap at you. Instead, she just stares at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out what your angle is.

You feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on you, making your skin itch.

Then, she exhales slowly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction.

“I’m fine,” she says finally, though the words lack conviction. She shifts, setting the bottle down on the floor. “You done?”

You’re about to say something else—maybe ask again, maybe push for more—but then you realize it’s not your place. You step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. “Yeah.”

You place the box of hand wraps on the counter, but your hands feel clumsy as you do. You want to say something more, something comforting, but the words stick in your throat. “Good luck tonight, Vi.”

She doesn’t respond right away. You turn to leave, your feet dragging slightly, unsure if you should even be leaving at all. It feels like there’s something more to say.

Just as you reach the door, her voice stops you. It’s softer than you expect, quieter, almost hesitant.

“Thanks.”

As you walk down the hallway, the ache in your chest lingers, a nebulous knot of worry, pity, and something else you can’t quite pin down. It tightens with each step, and you wonder, not for the first time, what weight Vi carries with her—and why it feels like it’s starting to settle on you too.

You shake it off, reminding yourself that you're not working this weekend. A rare luxury. Vi doesn’t need to know, and honestly, you doubt she’d even care. If anything, she’d probably be glad to be rid of you for a few more days.

That’s what you tell yourself.

The next time you’re sitting in your cramped little medical room, fussing over how some of the things on your desk are now out of place, the door creaks open just a sliver. You pause, mid-motion, and glance at the shadow shifting on the other side. When whoever it is spots you, the door swings wide with an almost violent energy, smacking against the wall behind it.

“Hey,” Vi stumbles inside, the loud thud of her boots and the echoing cheers from the fighting pit outside spilling into the room with her.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor as you take her in. “Vi?”

It takes you a second to recognize her. The black hair throws you off again, though the pink is already creeping back into the ends, the dye washing out like it’s given up trying to keep up with her. Paint smears her face—thick streaks running from her eyes down to her chin like some warped battle mask. She’s gripping a large bottle in one hand, cradling it as if it’s precious, her knuckles stained red.

Her smirk is crooked, her words slurred. “Won’t believe it,” she drawls, letting herself fall unceremoniously onto the old, battered couch in the corner. The springs squeak loudly in protest, and she almost knocks over one of your carefully hung paintings. “Hey.”

You frown, stepping closer. “Are you drunk?”

Her smirk widens, playful and defiant. “No.”

“No?”

“I just won,” she says, like that explains everything. “Again. Beat that big guy—metal jaw. You know the one. Knocked it clean off.”

She’s grinning like she just told a funny joke, but you don’t laugh. Fighters don’t go into the pit drunk, at least not that you’ve ever seen. They also don’t win, which is why Antis is strict about that; drunk fighters are bad fighters, and bad don’t bring in any money—he’ll kick anyone out who even smells like shimmer, let alone someone stumbling around with a bottle of booze.

You move closer cautiously, studying her.

She sits up straighter as you approach, her hair falling messily across her face. You catch a glint of her blue eyes through the strands—sharp, even with the haze of alcohol dulling the rest of her. Her gaze flickers down to her bloodied knuckles, and so does yours—red seeps through the white of her hand wraps, staining them in uneven patches.

She murmurs something, but it’s too soft to catch.

“What?”

“You weren’t here.”

Her words surprise you.

“Yeah,” you say, unsure how else to respond.

“Four days.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

You hesitate, caught between wanting to downplay your absence and knowing she’ll see through it. “I’ve been busy. I have a life outside this place, you know that, right?”

“Right,” she mutters, though there’s something bitter in the way she says it.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the bottle loosely. She stares ahead, her face unreadable, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet despite the muffled roar of the crowd outside. You’re counting the seconds until someone from the pit shows up looking worse for wear, but she just sits there, unmoving.

Finally, she speaks. “Loris and I are going out for drinks at the bar next door.”

“More of them?”

She scoffs, but there’s a faint smile playing on her lips. “Fuck off. I was gonna invite you.”

“You want me there?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, leaning back against the couch. “Since you and Loris are so close.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a plastic bag and filling it with ice. “Oh, yeah. Best friends. I thought you knew.”

She grins at that, her expression lazy but amused as you press the makeshift ice pack to her cheek. She winces, hissing under her breath, but doesn’t pull away. The familiarity of the moment settles between you, a rhythm you hadn’t realized you missed. You didn’t know how much you liked being around her, with all her flaws and quirks, until it was gone.

When she stands to leave, there’s a lightness to her movements. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.

“But you’re coming, right?” she asks, her voice softer, less guarded.

You nod, tugging absently at the rings on your fingers. “Yeah. I’ll stop by after I finish up here.”

Her smile catches you off guard. It’s not the smirk or grin you’re used to—it’s warmer, something you’ve never seen before. “Good.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. The ache in your chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels different now, lighter somehow, settling into the pit of your stomach like a flutter of butterflies.

You can’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.

Your night stretches on, each task blending into the next. Stitches to pull, bruises to ice, concussions to monitor. This is your rhythm—calm, focused, efficient. You don’t dwell on the blood staining your gloves or the bruised faces looking back at you. Usually, there’s a detachment, a quiet understanding between you and the fighters. You help them, and they leave.

But tonight feels different. The weight of the work presses a little heavier, the hours crawling by as the thought of Vi’s smile keeps replaying in your head. You remind yourself to focus, to get through the line of battered fighters who rely on you, but every second drags, making your usual rhythm feel offbeat.

It’s not just Vi’s smile—it’s the invitation, her softer tone, the way she paused at the door like your answer mattered more than usual. You don’t let yourself overthink it, but you do catch yourself checking the time more often than you’d like.

When the last fighter leaves, mumbling a tired thank-you, you exhale in relief. The medic room is quiet now, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. You pack your supplies, stuffing gloves, gauze, and a few stray pins into your cabinets. The bathroom across the hall catches your eye as you pass, and for once, you pause.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the bulb above buzzing faintly as it flickers. The mirror is cracked in one corner, the surface smudged and grimy, but it still reflects more of you than you’re ready to see. Your sleeves are stained, and your hands are scrubbed raw but not clean enough. The uneven greenish light only makes you look worse, casting harsh shadows on your face.

You roll your sleeves up and run water into the sink, trying to scrub the splotches from your clothes. The water’s cold and your hands ache from the effort, but it feels worth it—like a small chance to put your best self forward. You straighten your shirt, brush off your jacket, and fix your hair as best as you can.

It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough for a bar full of fighters, let alone for her. You think about going home to change, but it’s already late, and the idea of missing her is ridiculously unbearable.

Clutching your jacket tightly, you step into the downpour outside. The rain pelts against your skin, soaking through your boots as you jog the few steps to the bar. The hum of voices reaches you before the neon glow of the sign above the door does.

Inside, the place is alive.

Most of the crowd from the arena spills into the corners of the bar, still riding the high of the night’s fights. Tables are crammed with victorious fighters and their friends and sponsors, their voices rising above the heavy bassline of a song playing in the background. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and the faint tang of spilled liquor.

The dim lighting casts a warm, golden hue over the room, softening the rough edges of the crowd. People laugh, shout, and toast to victories. Some are already slumped over the bar, lost in exhaustion or celebration.

Your eyes scan the room, searching for her. Instead, you spot Loris first—his brick-like frame standing out even among the chaos. He’s leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, but his face lights up when he sees you.

He waves you over, and you weave through the crowd, dodging dancing bodies and familiar faces who call out greetings as you pass. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and anticipation, as you approach.

“You made it,” Loris says, his grin wide and genuine.

You huff, brushing a damp strand of hair out of your face, but you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Hi.”

Loris gives you a nod, his usual gruffness softened just a bit for you. He calls the bartender over, jerking his chin toward you to signal it’s your turn to order.

You glance at the menu briefly, though you already know what you want. After placing your order, the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm. Loris doesn’t seem like the type to fill silence for the sake of it, and you don’t mind. There’s a strange comfort in his presence.

You find yourself scanning the crowd without thinking, your eyes searching for pink hair at first, a flash of brightness that would stand out even in a place like this. Then you remember her hair is black now. Your eyes adjust, searching instead for the sleek leather of her jacket or the familiar glint of its spikes catching the dim, shifting light.

The bartender sets your drink down in front of you with a solid thud, breaking your focus. Your heart skips a beat, and you reach for the glass more out of reflex than thirst. The cool edge of it presses against your palm, grounding you.

“Happy you’re here.”

Loris’s voice cuts through the noise, low but steady. You look up at him, caught off guard. His eyes remain fixed on his drink, but there’s a weight to his words that makes your chest tighten.

“Maybe it’ll keep Vi from doing something stupid,” he adds after a beat, his tone rough but not unkind.

Your eyebrows knit together as you bring your glass to your lips. The liquor burns on the way down, but it’s nothing compared to the unease settling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Loris hesitates, his fingers drumming against the counter as he considers his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. “She gets into fights sometimes.”

Your stomach sinks further. “Here?”

“Only happened twice,” he says quickly like it’s supposed to make you feel better.

“Oh.” You set your drink down, your fingers lingering on the glass. “Why?”

Loris exhales through his nose, his shoulders shifting as if the question itself is a burden. “Dunno. She won’t talk about it.”

You blink, caught off guard. “She doesn’t seem…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Like a drunk?” he finishes for you. “She’s good at hiding it, most of the time. But she’s been drinking more. Gets worse when she’s stressed.”

You bite your lip, your fingers tightening around your glass. “Stressed about what? Fighting?”

He shakes his head, never answering. “She’s stubborn as shit, you know that. But something’s been eating at her, and I don’t think she knows how to deal with it.”

The words hang between you as the clamour of the bar continues around you. You glance down at your drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and take another sip. It doesn’t burn as much this time, but it doesn’t settle the knot in your stomach, either.

“I can keep an eye on her,” you say quietly, more to yourself than Loris. “She’s not supposed to be in the pit intoxicated anyway.”

He nods, a faint hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply, but he’s already turning back to his drink. You swallow, your cheeks warming for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

You look away.

And then you spot her.

Vi pushes her way through the crowd, a storm parting the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Her scowl deepens as she brushes off someone’s outstretched hand, her movements sharp, purposeful. The smudged paint on her cheeks—likely streaked from the rain—gives her the appearance of someone worn down by more than just the weather. Faint lines trace across her face like tears.

Your eyes trail to her arms, bare and flexing slightly as she adjusts the leather jacket slung over her shoulder. The spikes catch the dim, flashing lights of the bar, their edges softened by the haze of the room. In her other hand, she grips a glass of something amber and strong.

Your heart jumps, and you realize you’ve been staring when her gaze lifts to you. For a moment, she pauses in her tracks and just looks at you, her eyes scanning your face as if confirming you’re really here. Then, she grins—a slow, crooked thing that tugs at her lips and sends your pulse hammering in your chest.

The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.

She changes course, heading straight for you.

She doesn’t look drunk—not like before—but the memory of her swaying slightly in your medic room comes rushing back. You don’t miss the way her drink is already nearly empty, or how smoothly she downs the last of it before setting the glass on the bar with a clink.

When she reaches you, the faint scent of rain and leather clings to her, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol.

“Hey,” Vi says, your name rolling off her tongue in that low, slightly rough voice of hers, and she leans against the counter next to you.

“Hey,” you grin, trying to keep your voice light even as your pulse races and Loris laughs at you. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“Not surprised,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to yours and then away, her smirk faltering for just a second. “Just… glad.”

The simplicity of her words sends your thoughts scattering, but before you can respond, she tilts her head toward your glass. “What’re you drinking?”

You lift it slightly, letting the dim light catch the remaining liquid. Vi eyes it for a moment, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Finish it.”

You blink, “What?”

She nudges your elbow lightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come on. You’re here to have fun, right? Finish your drink, and I’ll show you what that looks like.”

Her tone is playful, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it. You hesitate, then take a longer sip, her expectant gaze making it impossible not to comply. The drink burns a little less this time, and when you place the empty glass down, she’s already holding out her hand.

“Come with me,” she says, and it’s not really a question.

Her fingers are warm when they curl around yours, her grip firm and steady as she leads you toward the heart of the bar. The crowd thickens as you move closer to the dance floor, the music pounding louder with every step. The bass thrums through the floor, climbing up your legs and settling in your chest, and the swirl of bodies around you becomes a blur of movement and heat.

Vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even as she turns back to glance at you, a faint smile pulling at her lips. For the first time in a while, there’s a lightness in her expression, a spark of something you’ve missed seeing.

Her usual confidence is there, but it’s softened, almost shy. You follow her lead, feeling awkward at first, but her laugh—low and husky—eases some of your nerves.

The two of you move together amidst the shifting pulse of the dance floor, the heat of the crowd wrapping around you like a living thing. You’re acutely aware of every brush of her fingers against yours, the subtle way her body angles toward you as if she’s drawn to your orbit.

You’re staring at her, looking at the few freckles on her cheeks you can still see under the smudged paint, at the pink ends of her dark hair, at the way her leather jacket has found itself back on her shoulders, muscular arms hiding inside the sleeves.

You think you’re a little obsessed with her.

The question forms on your lips before you can stop it. “Why did you stop coming by?”

Your voice is soft, barely carrying over the music, but it’s enough. Her gaze sharpens as she hears you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.

“I like taking care of you, Vi.”

For a moment, she freezes. Then, almost imperceptibly, she steps closer. Her hand slides to your waist, the calluses on her fingers warm against the thin fabric of your clothes. She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her thumb brushing against your jaw, coaxing you to look at her.

Her eyes search yours, hesitating just long enough for you to realize what’s about to happen. Her breath, warm and faintly tinged with alcohol, fans across your lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.

And then she kisses you.

It’s quick at first, almost testing the waters—a soft brush of her lips against yours that leaves your breath caught somewhere between your heart and throat.

You pull away from her, face burning, when you notice her eyes are still closed, only to flutter open questioningly. Bright, piercing blue meets yours, and for a moment, you see panic flare in her expression.

“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her rain-damp hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” The word comes out instinctively, you cannot get rid of that stupid smile on your face. “No, don’t apologize.”

Your fingers find their way to the lapels of her jacket. Her face scrunches up, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, but you’re not looking at her eyes anymore. You’re focused on her lips, on the faint scar cutting across the corner of her mouth.

You tug her closer.

You kiss her back.

She exhales sharply against your lips, the sound half a gasp, half a groan, as her hands come up to cradle your face and the nape of your neck. It’s as if something inside her has snapped, all her restraint slipping away as she pours herself into you.

The world around you dissolves—the music, the crowd, the cacophony of Zaun’s nightlife fading into a muted hum. It’s just her, her warmth and her touch, her breath mingling with yours as she holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

Her lips move against yours with a fervour that borders on desperation, her hands mapping out the curve of your waist, the small of your back, your hips, and your ass with her eyes closed. She’s eager to have you close, to feel you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up her abs, your fingers tangling in her hair, tugging slightly as her groan vibrates against your mouth.

The sound she emits makes your head spin. Vi’s warmth is all-consuming. A tangle of heat and want that leaves you both breathless by the time she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against yours.

“I need to—” she starts, her voice hoarse and trembling. She glances around, as if suddenly aware of where you are. “Let’s go somewhere. Outside.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, her hand finding yours again as she guides you through the crowd. You barely register the shift in the air until you’re stepping into the rain-soaked streets of Zaun.

The alley she leads you into is dimly lit, the flicker of a neon sign casting faint, wavering light against the wet pavement. The rain is light but steady, cool droplets clinging to your skin as she turns to you, her chest rising and falling like she’s been running.

Her gaze is intense, unwavering, as she steps closer, crowding you against the brick wall. “You’re making me crazy,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. Her hand cups your jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone.

“I could say the same,” you admit.

And then she’s kissing you again, this time with a fervour that leaves no room for hesitation.

It’s embarrassing how fast you tangle together after this, melding together into a pathetic heap out on the sidewalk for god and everyone in this podunk city to see. This time, you note with a ticklish glee settling in your stomach, your lips moving in tandem. They slit against each other with ease.

The rain seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, but Vi’s touch is fire. Her hands are everywhere, rough and sure as they explore your body, pulling you closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away.

You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling her to you, matching her passion with your own softness. She groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue brushing against hers in a slow, deliberate caress.

Her grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into damp fabric as she presses you harder against the wall. The rain patters around you, mingling with the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional distant noise of the bar fading into irrelevance. She parts your thighs with one of her own and places a steadying hand right next to your face. She takes you in, wholly and completely and you let her. 

The rain beats down relentlessly, plastering your clothes to your skin, but you barely notice it. Not when Vi is kissing you like this—like she’s trying to consume you like she’s been starving for this. Her body is warm, her lips are hot, insistent, and messy against yours, her teeth occasionally graze your lower lip in a way that sends shocks through your entire body.

Breathy moans expel from your mouth in tandem with curses as her leg creates delicious friction against the lace of your underwear. 

“Vi,” you manage, though it comes out as more of a broken whine, breathless and desperate.

Her name on your lips pulls a moan from her, low and guttural, and the sound is enough to make your knees weaken. You think you might collapse if she weren’t holding you so tightly.

Your head spins. You feel like you’re dissolving, every nerve alight as you lose yourself in her touch. Your lungs burn, screaming for air, but you can’t pull away. You don’t want to. Instead, you cling to her, fingers tugging in her hair.

It’s overwhelming—her heat, her strength, her desperation. She’s chaos and want, all Violet and nothing else, and you’re caught in her pull, like a leaf tossed about in a gale. It terrifies you, the way she consumes your thoughts, your senses. It feels like being set aflame, every kiss, every touch fanning the fire until you’re sure you’ll burn to ashes.

Her hands slide lower, shoving into the back pockets of your pants, and she grips you firmly, guiding your hips to rock against her. The movement is deliberate, slow at first, but the friction makes you whimper, a sound that seems to drive her further. Vi pulls you closer, dragging your body against hers in a way that makes you shudder.

Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by her low moans. You don’t think you’ve ever felt like this—untethered, your body moving on instinct as you grind down against her leg. Her hold on you tightens, fingers digging into you, her strength reminds you of all the noses she’s broken, all the wounds you had to tend to because of her. The thought makes you dizzy, makes you crave her more.

Vi’s hips roll up into you, meeting your movements with a messy rhythm that leaves you trembling. The heat pooling in your stomach builds steadily, like a fire that refuses to be sated, even under the torrent of rain.

You let your hands wander, sliding up the hard planes of her stomach, your fingers tracing the ridges of muscle through her soaked bandages. You’re struck by how solid she feels, how strong, and it makes your chest tighten with something you can’t quite name. When your palm presses lower, cupping her over her pants, she keens—a quiet, needy sound that has you aching to hear it again.

Oh, you want her to do that again, you’re going to make her do that again.

Her grip on your hips becomes almost bruising, her breath coming faster as she sighs into your mouth. “Fuck,” she mutters, the word a rough exhale that sends a shiver down your spine. And then, barely audible, she mumbles, “Cait.”

You falter, the word barely registering over the storm and your own pounding heartbeat. It’s unfamiliar and foreign, and it sticks in your mind like a splinter.

Her lips are on yours again, insistent and wild, her teeth catching your bottom lip as her hands slide up under your shirt. Her fingertips are warm despite the rain, leaving trails of fire along your skin as she pushes the wet fabric higher. You shudder under her touch, goosebumps rising in her wake, your body arching instinctively toward her.

Your mind is a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts. You’re hyper-aware of everything—of the rain soaking through your clothes, the way her breath mingles with yours, the quiet groans she can’t seem to hold back.

She moves with purpose, her lips finding the sensitive skin along your jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each touch sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making it harder to think, to breathe.

Your fingers are clumsily slipping into her underwear and then you’re there, fingers brushing right against her clit—she’s so wet that your fingers brush right through her folds, gliding like silk.

“Vi,” you whisper again.

Her answering hum vibrates against your skin, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like the sea during a storm.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the sensitive spot just below her jaw. It’s a place you know well, one you’ve touched countless times in the dim light of your medic’s room, dabbing at bruises and wiping away blood. Each time, she’d jerk away ever so slightly. Now, you press your lips there with the same precision, but the sense is wholly different.

She shifts beneath your touch, her breath hitching as your mouth moves deliberately along her neck. The breathy moans she leaves by your ear fuel you, spurring you on as you focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the way her body responds to you.

“Good,” she mutters, her voice rough and uneven. “Fuck, feels so good.”

Her hand moves beneath your shirt, her palm rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, digging under your bra. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation sends a jolt through you, sharp and electric. Her other hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.

It aches, but you’re smiling, even as the rain continues to pour, soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your face. You sneak a glance at her, and the sight nearly undoes you. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her dark lashes clumped together with rain and dark, smudged makeup against pale, bruised skin. Her lips are parted, searching for something—your lips, your skin, something to kiss.

You don’t make her wait. She bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you gasp, your hand instinctively moving to her hair. You tug, and the sound she makes—a guttural, desperate moan—sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

She mutters your name, her voice soft yet filled with a hunger that shakes you to your core. There’s a plea disguised in her tone, a silent plea to give her everything, to let her take all you have to offer.

And you will. You’ll give her everything. Your time, your care, your thoughts and prayers, every piece of yourself. Your leg, an arm, the air you breathe, and the food you make. You’d give her your heart, too, if only she’d take it.

Her body trembles against yours, her chest heaving as her breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts. You can’t tell if it’s from the cold rain seeping into your bones or from the way your fingers move against her. You trace light circles over her clit, teasing, testing, and the way she reacts—hips jerking, her hands clutching at you desperately—you think she wants your warmth, and you hope that is what she chases after.

When you slip a finger inside, she gasps, her voice breaking into soft, fractured sounds that make your chest ache. It takes a few tries, careful adjustments to find the spot that makes her fall apart, but when you do, it’s like a floodgate opens. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, her body tensing beneath your touch as she winds tighter, tighter—

“Cait…” The same name from before slips from her lips like a whisper at first, so faint you almost miss it.

Then she says it again, her voice catching on the syllable, and your world tilts.

“Cait… Cait…” she chants, the name tumbling from her lips in fervent prayer, each utterance cutting through the haze that had clouded your mind.

It tastes bitter. Bitter like the alcohol still lingering on her breath. Bitter like the realization sinking into your chest.

You freeze, suddenly sober.

Your hands falter, and Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first, still panting, still trembling, her forehead pressed against yours. The furrow in her brow deepens when you pull back, untangling yourself from her arms.

“What—? Why’d you stop?” Her voice is hoarse and confused, the desperation still thick in her tone.

“Who’s Cait?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“What?”

Vi blinks, her face a mask of confusion before her expression shifts. Guilt flashes in her eyes—raw and unguarded. It’s a look you’ve seen before, maybe once or twice.

“You keep calling me ‘Cait.’” You can’t meet her gaze as you say it. Your chest tightens, your throat burns, and suddenly, the space between the two of you feels suffocating.

You reach for her hand still under your shirt, running your thumb over her split knuckles. It’s a gesture that feels too tender now, and you pull her hand away from you, stepping aside to put distance between your bodies.

“I don’t know…” Your voice cracks as you say it, your mind grasping for anything to make sense of this moment.

“Shit. Shit.” Vi curses under her breath, running a hand through her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—Cait’s just… someone I used to know, alright?”

The rain pours harder, the chill sinking into your bones as you cross your arms tightly against your chest. You glance down the alley, to where the streetlights cast faint glows on the wet pavement. Anywhere but her face.

“Um… I think I need to go,” you mumble.

“You just got here.” Her voice is low and unsure, and it makes you stutter for a moment. She takes a step toward you, one hand lifting as though to touch you, but she freezes mid-motion, her fingers curling into a fist.

“I know.” You force the words out. “But it’s been a long day.” You take a step back, and then another.

“Please.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Don’t leave.”

You pause, your breath hitching at the desperation in her tone. It tugs at something in your chest, something that still wants to turn around, to reach for her and say everything is fine. But it’s not fine. Not anymore.

“Vi…” Her name feels raw on your tongue. “You’re drunk. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“No.” She cuts you off, the panic in her voice sharp enough to pierce through the rain. “No, don’t say that. I’m not drunk—”

“You are.”

Her words are rushed, and frantic, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. You shake your head, stepping back again, the cold of the brick wall scraping against your palm as you steady yourself.

“You’re clearly not in the right state of mind right now,” you say, your tone firmer this time. It feels like a lie, like a mask you’re slipping on to hide the crack forming in your resolve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Just… rest easy. You fight early tomorrow.”

She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her hands clenching at her sides. “Fuck. Fuck!” The frustration explodes out of her as her fist slams into the brick wall beside her, the dull thud reverberating in the air.

The sound makes you flinch, your shoulders stiffening as you start walking away. Her voice chases after you, raw and broken, but you can’t bring yourself to turn back.

Your lips burn where her mouth had been, a phantom heat that refuses to fade despite the freezing rain. You wipe your hands against the damp fabric of your pants, but the scent of her lingers—smoke, leather, and something wholly hers. It clings to you like a ghost.

The sunlight catches you off guard the next morning. It filters in through the grimy window of the medic room, cutting golden beams through the usual haze of smog. The light feels almost intrusive, prying into the shadows you’ve grown accustomed to.

You glance at the old clock on the wall, your eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Last night replays in your mind like a broken record—Vi’s voice, raw and regretful, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, and that name, Cait, slipping like a shard of glass between your ribs.

Outside, the faint hum of Zaun waking up filters through the walls. Fighters pass by the door, their voices carrying muffled excitement or hushed murmurs about Vi’s loss.

“She’s never been this off her game,” someone says as they pass. “Wonder what’s eating her.”

You tighten your grip on the bandage roll in your hand, trying to ignore the way your stomach clenches.

The sunlight persists, illuminating every imperfection in the room—the cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the faint stains on the counter. It’s the first time you’ve seen this much light down here, and yet it only seems to highlight everything you want to forget.

You try to focus on your work, lining up supplies that don’t need organizing, folding bandages that don’t need folding. You think about how Vi’s presence, chaotic as it was, had somehow made this job bearable. Her grins, her dry wit, the way she sat in that chair like it was her throne—it had all made this dim room feel a little less oppressive.

But today, the chair stays empty.

Word of her loss had swept through the Pit hours ago. Even the ones who bet against her—out of spite or fear—seemed shocked. You’d caught snippets of conversations, whispers about how Vi had gone down hard, how her opponent’s hit had landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.

Ryker confirmed the details when he came in, his voice low as he described the sound her body made hitting the floor. The image had stuck with you, sharp and unrelenting, as you waited.

You expected her to show up the way she always did—bleeding but defiant, swaggering in with that cocky grin, already downplaying her injuries. But as the hours stretched into evening, the worry settled deeper.

Maybe she’d gone straight to the bar again, skipping protocol out of spite. You wanted to believe it, even if it wasn’t fair. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should be you.

You paced the cramped room, the sound of your boots scraping against the floor the only thing keeping you grounded. You told yourself you didn’t care—it wasn’t your job to chase after fighters who wouldn’t take care of themselves. But deep down, it stung.

The thought of her turning back to old habits—of her brushing you aside like you never mattered—settled in your chest like a bruise you couldn’t rub out.

And then the door creaks open.

Vi steps inside, her silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling through the window behind her. She hesitates in the doorway, a shadow of her usual self. Her confident swagger is gone, replaced by a tired, battered figure. The black paint streaked across her shoulders has smeared into her skin, blending with dried blood and sweat. Her leather jacket hangs heavily from her hands, and her makeshift top is damp, torn in places, and caked with dirt.

Her face tells the rest of the story. A swollen eye, a nose bent at an angle that makes you wince just looking at it, and a constellation of bruises across her cheekbone and jaw. Blood has dried in crusty patches along her hairline and temples, merging with the remnants of the black paint she hadn’t bothered to wash off.

She lingers there, gripping the edges of the doorframe like she’s bracing herself for rejection. You’re about to speak when her gaze finds yours, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Hey,” she says, her voice scratchy and low.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, willing your tone to stay steady. “Took you long enough,” you say lightly, turning toward the counter to grab the salve and bandages.

When you glance back, the ghost of a smirk flickers on her lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. She steps further inside, lowering herself into the chair with a muted groan. There’s no quip this time, no offhand joke. She just sits there, shoulders sagging, staring at her bloodied hands like they belong to someone else.

You pull on your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the silence. “What happened?”

Her shrug is stiff, “Guess I wasn’t fast enough.”

There’s an edge to her voice, sharp and bitter. It’s self-directed, steeped in frustration, and it takes you by surprise. You soak a cloth in antiseptic and step closer, gently dabbing at a jagged cut above her eyebrow. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you ask, your tone soft but firm.

Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists on her lap. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

You pause mid-motion, your hand hovering just above her skin. Her words feel like a slap, and you’re not sure if the sting comes from the accusation. “I still like to take care of you,” you say quietly.

Vi scoffs, the sound is humourless and tired. “That’s your job.”

“Yeah, but,” you counter, meeting her gaze head-on. “I like doing it.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken between you. Her shoulders tense as she processes your words, her eyes darting away like she can’t bear to look at you.

You try to focus on cleaning her wounds, “You should’ve come earlier. You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”

“Why not? Seems to be what I’m good at.”

Her words strike a chord, a pang of hurt and anger swirling in your chest. You step back, giving her space as you set the cloth down. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her hair, painting her in a halo of gold. She looks almost ethereal, and it breaks your heart, because you know she doesn’t see it.

“Vi…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say.

She looks up then, her eye searching your face. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I don’t get it. I’m a jerk, right? Always have been to fucking everyone, even Loris and my sister and I... I mean, I’ve been a dick to you since day one. Why don’t you just… let me fuck myself up?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit, a hint of teasing laced in your voice. “But then I’d be a pretty shitty medic, wouldn’t I?”

Her lips twitch upward again, but it doesn’t quite stick. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice so quiet you almost miss it. “For everything.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I didn’t mean to…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The sincerity in her voice twists the knife deeper, but it doesn’t change the truth. “It’s okay,” you manage.

“No, it’s not.” She finally looks at you, her blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Shame? “I… You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. “You’re being dramatic. I’m fine, really.”

Vi shook her head, leaning back against the chair. “You’re not. You’re just too good to say it.”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. You can see the pain in her expression, the regret and the sorrow, but there’s something else, too—a longing that mirrors your own.

But it’s not enough.

You step back, and the distance between you feels like miles. “You should rest. I gotta fix your nose.”

Vi nods, leaning back in the chair. The sunlight catches on her bruises, highlighting every mark, every scar. She looks like a warrior, battle-worn and beautiful, and you know you’ll never forget this image of her.

As you work in silence, you can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if things were different—if whoever Cait was didn’t haunt her, if she could see you the way you see her.

But deep down, you know the answer.

She’ll never be yours.

But you’ll always be hers.

When you finish, Vi hesitates for a moment longer than you expect, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she doesn’t know where to go next or what to do. She stands, and the way her shoulders rise, like she’s summoning what’s left of her strength, makes your heart ache.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

As the words leave you, they feel hollow. You want to reach for more, to say something else, to make her understand. You want to scream, to tell her that you could be enough for her if she’d just let you. You could make her believe that she’s worth more than the pain she’s carrying. But instead, all you do is smile. It’s soft, strained, and bittersweet.

She doesn’t meet your eye as she turns toward the door. You watch her move, each step deliberate, like she’s carrying an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, it’s as if she’s pulling the room with her, dragging everything back into the shadows.

And then, she’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent. You sit back in your chair, the quiet pressing in around you like a heavy fog. The warmth from the light seems to linger, but it doesn’t reach you anymore.

You sit back in your chair, staring at the empty space. The room feels colder and quieter, and you realize that, no matter how much you wish otherwise, she’ll always carry pieces of someone else with her.

Studying Tips when you are easily distracted

Pomodoro Technique, I can't stress it enough how helpful it is. There are many apps, and some allow to change the amount of time for breaks and work. Maybe you can't do 25, then do 15. Others need more time to get "in the zone" and can do 40 minutes.

During breaks, walk away from your desk/workspace. Don't go to far, look through a window, take a glass of water, go to the bathroom, or if you can go outside for a few seconds to take deep breaths of fresh air. The important thing is to mentally detach yourself from that task to reset your mind.

Change subjects. Don't spend four hours on the same topic, it gets way too boring. Divide your time between a subject you like and one that is harsher for you and viceversa.

One hour a day does 100% more for your productivity than five hours of cramming the night before.

Your brain won't function properly if sleep deprived. It doesn't matter how much you studied all night, more often than not you will fail from exhaustion. And no, caffeine doesn't do the trick, it will just give you more anxiety. It's like a rollercoaster of crap. Trust me, been there done that, it sucks.

Make a list of all the things you need to do in order of importance and urgency. Instead of a boring check mark, draw flowers or whatever you like and once completed you can color them.

Your head won't remember everything you have to do, take a small notebook with you everywhere and write down (right in that moment or you will forget), tasks, chores, homework, assignments, essays, etc.

You don't have to make your notes as perfect as the one from pinterest or studyblr (in my opinion that takes way too much time to do and is not that productive), but adding color, sticky notes or small drawings can make it much more pleasant to look at.

Eliminate from your desk/workspace all distractions, or as much as you can. Some of the pomodoro apps I mentioned before, they ring when time is up, it's automatic. So, you can put away your cellphone to not be tempted to scroll through social media.

If you have spent quite a few hours studying, take a long break (not in your bed). You should move to stimulate blood circulation. You could listen your favorite music and dance while eating a snack. Or maybe water your plants, do your prayers if you're religious, anything that isn't related to study. Your mind will thank you.

Know when to stop, it's unhealthy if you overdo it. Melatonin, sleep hormone, usually starts production around 9 o'clock (my psychiatrist told me this) and between 10 and 12 is the moment when your body rest the best.

Also, Melatonin can be affected by blue light emitted from screens. If you can try to avoid them for at least two hours before going to sleep. So that you can regain a normal sleep schedule. This will also improve your mood and eventually your concentration.

There are apps (at least for Android, don't know for Apple) that can block the usage of other apps. It's very helpful and until now it has given me great results.

Make sure to take time to practice your hobbies, hangout with friends, spend time with your family or walk your pet. Your entire life can't be about studying and grades. If you don't enjoy the process of going to highschool/college, you will end up hating it. Even if it's just for 15 minutes. Allow yourself to not be productive. You are not a machine. It's okay to relax from time to time. Your mental health is more important. Even at the cost of success.

ellie & abby twitter links pt. 2 ♡

18+, minors DNI.

🇵🇸 LINKS | before engaging !!! | m. list | join my tag list!

els <3

♡ ellie feeling on your ass <3

♡ ellie pleasuring her girl

♡ ellie fingering you

♡ grinding w/els

♡ ellie fingering you in her car (hint: skip to 0:44)

♡ choking w/ellie (you!receiving)

♡ sub!ellie riding you

♡ ellie using a dildo on you

♡ ellie rubbing herself on you <3

♡ els caring for you

abs <3

♡ abs’ strap-on

♡ abby getting off to you

♡ eating sub!abby from the back

♡ dom!abby doing dom!abby things <3

♡ rough strap-on sex w/sub!abby

♡ abby’s strap-on (again!)

♡ doctor!abby, coming home to fuck you post work

♡ abby fingering you w/her heavy hands

♡ abby rewarding you w/her dick

♡ possessive!abby fucking you to remind you you’re hers

lmao so im completely shameless and a sucker for physical intimacy so ive been thinkin abt darling just having childe or kaeya sit on the floor while theyre in a chair and them just. slinging their legs over his shoulders as they do other work ?? they meant it as a friendly gesture to make him happy but also he might b drooling when they gently press their thighs against his head -💉

Slight NS_FT

No, because this ask has completely rotted my brain… Kaeya and Childe are such prevs they’d turn the most innocent of actions into fantasy material… little gross men </3

Warnings: Yandere, GN! reader, God! reader, talks of religion, obsessive behavior/mindset, mentions of murder/death (by thighs/legs), perv! Childe, perv! Kaeya, masochistic tendencies? (especially on Childe’s part), implied sub!character x dom!reader dynamics,

The rest of the ask is under the read more!

— Kaeya

You’d only called for Kaeya’s assistance since Lisa wasn’t around to help you like she normally would; you were in the library just looking for some books to pass time – being under constant surveillance by some of the most protective people in Teyvat often led to your activities being restricted for your “safety”.

He’d been more than happy to drop what he was doing (which honestly was him preparing to go bother Diluc for the afternoon) to come to your aid. He’d teased you a bit, joking about how much you needed him - probably to try and distract from the obvious blush in his face the longer he spent time with you - but eventually helped you find some books about Teyvat’s mythology and history, both subjects that has greatly interested you since long before arriving.

He insists you read yourself, saying something amongst the lines of “I’m too tired, but if you want - I’m more than happy to listen to you reading it for me” though you’re inclined to believe he simply wanted the chance to silently stare at you, a guess that came from the fact that current that was exactly what he was doing.

You found it weird that he didn’t seem to sit down, opting to stand tall and proud beside you, you’d insisted he take the seat beside you but he refused - that is, until you gesture to one of the pillows on the ground, one that found itself laying just between your legs and the plush chair your rested upon.

“Why don’t you sit there if you’ve got such a problem with chairs?” It was partially a joke, you didn’t think he’d rather sit on the ground than an actual chair, and a last ditch attempt to have him sit down somewhere (because heaven knows how much it stressed you out to see him just standing there on the side, didn’t his feet hurt? Wasn’t his back tired? He’d been there unmoving for at least half an hour), you didn’t think he’d silently take the seat beneath your own and sweetly smile up at you.

“Probably the best seat in the house,” he muses, looking around between your legs as his eye twinkled with admiration while he stared at your shocked expression, “come on, you invited me over - don’t tell me you didn’t mean it?”

“Haha, very funny, Sir Kaeya.” You roll your eyes, hiding your face into the book - hoping the cover would be enough to hide the embarrassed look in your face - it’s not your fault he makes you flustered.

He simply laughs, finding your newfound embarrassment amusing, and lets his head hit the edge of the cushioned seat almost touching your skin, as if afraid of defiling you with his touch - “I’m not bothering you, am I?” He asks, his eyes closed, realizing he might be taking too much space for your legs to properly rest.

“Hmm, not really,” you think, your legs were a bit cramped up from earlier, you look down upon the man sitting beneath you, “but it’s fixable.”

You test the waters and let your legs rest upon his shoulders before simply letting them drape over his upper body - he doesn’t react much, simply stiffening at the contact before slowly relaxing - “You don’t mind, do you?” You tease, ready to move your legs in case he asks you to.

“N-not at all.” He coughs into his hand and it’s your turn to be amused at his sudden shyness; did you hear it right? Had Kaeya, the Kaeya Alberich, just stuttered? You go to remove your legs, shocked at the realization, but his hands shoot up to grasp at your thighs; “Don’t! I… I mean, you don’t have to, I’m fine… unless you want to, then it’s… fine too.”

You smile slightly, but opt not to tease him too much - not when you feel him hesitantly lay his cheeks against your skin, caressing your legs with such tenderness you struggle to believe this is the same man who’d slaughtered hundreds of his people, your eyes visibly saddened at the idea.

What a troubled soul, you muse while letting your body limp against him, you remember all you’d heard about his past and lore and your heart aches and so you make a promise to yourself to try and spend more time with him.

If only you knew, that while you worried and pondered over his past - the Cavalry Captain was all but drooling over the way your legs squeezed his cheeks. You would be surprised at how hard it was to contain the moan itching to rise from his throat when he felt your legs first find his body, if he could - he’d turn around and kiss your feet, let his hands wander your sacred skin while he proclaimed how grateful he was for you and your love, but he didn’t want to ruin such a peaceful moment. All you had to do was squeeze your legs and decide to restrict his airflow with your thighs and he’d be a goner, dead - no longer alive, but he didn’t mind at all - he’d rather die at your hands (legs) than die any other way, he wants to laugh at the thought.

His heart was beating a thousand miles an hour, he could hardly contain the excitement crawling all over his body the longer his skin touched yours. It felt electrifying, a buzz stronger than even Dawn’s Winery’s finest alcohol couldn’t compare to. If anyone looked at him, they’d think he was edging himself just by the lewd look that took over his handsome features.

For now, he’d keep these thoughts to himself - simply hoping you’d been so kind as to help him later with his little problem, courtesy of your unknown effects on the Khaenri’ahn.

….

— Childe

Your time in Liyue was coming to an end, you’d soon be embarking on the Crux to visit the Raiden Shogun and her region, Inazuma, which meant the last few days had been hectic as Zhongli and other residents of Liyue attempted to make the most of your time there before you left.

You’d managed to sneak off and find yourself some time, your head was pounding and your legs ache after hours of nonstop walking, you had originally meant for it to be just yourself - a well deserved break after the last torturous days - but it doesn’t take long for the Snezhnayan diplomat, Ajax, to find you - much to your… in reality, you were too sleepy and tired to try and feel annoyed or irritated.

“Ended up running away, huh?” He laughs, making his way towards you - your figure was almost completely hidden by an oversized blanket in the cushioned chair you laid upon, “You should be more careful, you almost had Lady Ningguang send out a search party for you.”

“Mmhm?” You groan, you vaguely acknowledge his words - your body was exhausted and your mind felt like soft putty; you just wanted to sleep and not wake up for the following week or two.

“They really ran you out…” He muses, a pitiful look takes over his face as he assesses your fatigued state, “Care to make some room?”

He originally meant for you to scoot over so he could cuddle you, it was basically a death wish - if Xiao or Scaramouche found him snuggled up to your sleeping he would probably end up dead and floating in the shore of Liyue Harbor by dawn, but it seems like your position is too comfortable or you’re just too sleepy to properly consider better options and instead, you part your legs and nudge him over to sit on the floor between them.

“‘ere.” You lazily motion, before flopping your head against the plush chair once more.

He can’t even tease you, his face is red at the implications - did you have no idea how… how perverted you were making him feel? He knew you probably had no secondary or lewd intentions but you couldn’t just do that and expect him to be okay! Still - he isn’t complaining, he’d dreamed of being in between your legs (in all ways imaginable) for embarrassingly long (to the point he’s sure if Zhongli knew he’d be banned from Liyue), and he only stumbles slightly on his feet as he makes his way to lean between your legs.

“Better than any pillow Mora could buy,” he groans, letting his cheeks meet your thighs, he looks up at your face - you looked so cute, sleepy and yawning, “so nice and kind, letting me rest like this… you’ll make them jealous, you know?”

His fingers trail your skin, taking note of how delicate it felt against his worn out gloves.

You don’t acknowledge his words, your journey into unconsciousness must have been swift, only tightening your grip on his cheeks in your slumber.

“… !” He feels more blood rush to his cheeks, his eyes involuntarily roll back at the feeling of your skin on his as your legs apply a pleasurable amount of pressure against his face - fuck, he wished Zhongli would walk in, so he could rub it in his face.

His hands go to rest on your legs, almost as if begging you to stay there or squeeze him tighter - kill him, he truly wouldn’t mind going like this, but it seems he was too careless and you’re startled awake by his sudden and rough touch.

“A-Ajax? …! Are you okay I didn’t -!”

“Of course not,” he breathes, trying to hide how much he enjoyed the location and situation he found himself in, “you should rest, I’ll keep watch so they don’t bother you.”

“But don’t you want a pillow or to move somewhere more comfortable?” You ask, afraid you’d hurt him and slightly embarrassed at the predicament.

“No, it’s okay,” he laughs, never once parting his cheeks from your thighs “if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” you reassure, thinking for a second before smiling down at him, “t-thank you for keeping an eye out.”

“Now, don’t worry and rest,” he smiles, patting your legs and you take it as a sign to head back to sleep - you’d need to make the most of any shut eye you could get in the next couple of hours, “to help you like this… is my pleasure.”

And it really is.