#hungering for hsr

[owlespresso]

the golden ivy which clings

omega!luocha/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is more interested in you than you'd like. tags: blackmail, coerced intimacy done as a part of @lorelune's a/b/o collab.

Your legs ache. Your muscles twitch with the extended exertion. The last five hours spent on your feet are catching up to you. It’s a trapping of the occupation. Being a courier on the Luofu means you regularly bounce up and down its many layers and areas, rushing from district to district, from the boughs to the canopy. After three years, you’ve long memorized the thin corridors and hardly beaten paths, mapped every vein and pipe and ligament in your seemingly endless pursuit of planning the optimal delivery routes.

Faces blend together in your line of work. You doubt your clients remember much anything about you. You’re a muddy sparrow flitting from branch to branch, a bee gliding from flower to flower, as nameless as any other customer service worker. You earn more than most of your peers, but that’s mostly because you’ve extended your services to stations and ships beyond the Luofu orbit.

…And also because of your status as a perfectly even beta, liberated from the debilitating symptoms of heats or ruts. You have no need for bimonthly off days, and needn’t fear the voracious gazes or grasping claws of wayward alphas. No one is likely to notice a lone, scentless courier, even in areas where the Cloud Knights frequently patrol.

Today’s business sees you on the far ends of Aurum Alley, where night has slipped over the artificial skies like silk over skin, streets steeped in deep shadow. You stick to the walls, underneath awnings and through narrow side paths. Silvery moonlight dapples through a canopy of sunset orange leaves, touching the aged stone path, the askew benches next to the food stalls.

On the furthest side, mist billows from the waters and onto the red wood docks. Quiet, still. Hardly a customer to be seen. It’s been the very same every other time you’ve visited. The only people you’ve seen have been members of the IPC. They’re surely thrilled at the minimal returns the businesses here are receiving. Filthy hawkers, intent on contaminating every locale unfortunate enough to make contact with them. You hope they never see another coin in their entire lives.

Not that it’s any of your business. You’re just a courier. It’s in your best interests to keep your head down and keep your eyes from wandering, lest you attract their attention… or the attention of any other governing body who would disprove of the wares you ferry from place to place.

Near the docks, where the wind churns the briny waves, stands the blond man. A repeat customer, a man you’ve come to know as ‘Luocha’.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” is the first thing you say to him, adjusting the straps of your heavy bag. Your shoulders have started to ache from the strain of the day's long treks. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures you. He has a delicate kind of beauty, the kind you see in fairytale picture books or depictions of soft omegas in gravure magazines. His cheeks are thin, set of his nose regal. His lips are soft rose, petals curled into a winsome smile. His lashes, thick and blonde, fan against his cheeks every time he blinks. It’s all at odds with his imposing height and strange, cold aura. “Shall we head inside?”

“It’s whatever you want,” you reply drolly.

“Inside, then. You look... tired. Have you been on your feet all day long?” Luocha’s hair sways when he turns and bobs which each sway of his hips. Dim lantern light catches on the ornamental pin which holds his strands in place. Just as striking as the rest of him. You really don’t know how he’s come this far without finding a mate. He surely turns the head of any alpha who catches a whiff of him. Even with your muted sense of smell, you still detect undercurrents of that delicate sweetness. Frosted finger cakes and clean face powder. It’s buried under something bitter and medicinal—only able to be caught in the tender hours of the night. After his work is long done.

“That’s just the job. It doesn’t bother me,” you assure him. The apartment building is darkly lit and nondescript. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, in all his whites and golds, pristine and put together and perfectly pressed.

“Still,” he glances back at you. “You won’t be able to do your job at all if you don’t get enough rest. And I would hate to be deprived of my favorite courier’s company.”

You don’t know what kind of face you’re making, but he takes one look at you and laughs quietly.

“My apologies. Given my occupation, it’s practically second nature for me to be concerned about these sorts of things.” He says with a small shrug. You don’t reply, lips nettling into a frown. If you were kinder, perhaps more naive, perhaps you would have mistaken the sentiment to be genuine. 

He doesn’t live in the hollow apartment he leads you to. It’s too ramshackle, mostly undecorated space with a couch, a table and a mismatched arm chair when you walk in. He’s dressed too nicely to tolerate moth-eaten curtains and layers of dust.

“Pardon the state of this place—I don’t actually live here. If it were up to me, we would hold our meetings in a nicer place.” he sighs. You don’t know why he feels the need for small talk. He hasn’t always been like this. During the first few months of serving him, the only words exchanged between you both were basic greetings and fleeting formalities.

“It’s fine. ‘S not like you live here,” you wave him off and deposit your bag onto the leather. It’s an earthy green, the color nearly the same as the worn upholstery. It squelches at the impact, and you tug it open by the zipper. The vacuum of created space is chilled around your arm, goosebumps rolling over your skin. A square package wrapped in plastic, off-worlder medicine banned aboard the Luofu, favored by certain members of Sanctus Medicus.

“Are you a member of Sanctus Medicus?” you’re not sure why you ask.

“Oh? I can’t recall you ever asking me such a personal question,” Luocha observes, a mote of mischief in his voice. “Why? Would you dislike it if I was?”

“No. It’s not my place to police anyone's beliefs—but the members I’ve met seem…” you trail off. It isn’t like you to give your opinion so freely, but you can’t imagine someone so discerning falling in line with those quacks.

“Sanctimonious? Self-righteous? Gullible?” Luocha lists for you, leaning against the back of that dowdy couch. He doesn’t move to accept the package, even when you pointedly zip the bag back up. His smile is unreadable.

“All of those things,” you agree, making the three steps it takes to reach him. “Though, I can’t really blame them.”

“And how could you? The long-lived of the Luofu will be roaming the galaxy and enjoying its many fruits hundreds of years after they’re dead and gone. It’s only natural to pursue that which they feel has been hoarded from them.” Luocha plucks the package from your waiting hands, eyeing it with mildly fond intrigue.

“I suppose,” you hum. You’ve already spoken too much. This isn’t a discourse you should be involved in. Sanctus Medicus, despite their incompetence, is still a faction of individuals with enough outreach to meddle in your business, should this conversation get back to them. 

Long fingers wrap around your wrist. Your eyes blow wide as you stumble into his chest—sturdy, so different from what you’d expect from someone so beautiful, built well beneath his layers. There is no presage, no forewarning.

Underneath the chamomile slides forth the tender, ambrosial scent which betrays his status as an omega. Your pulse hums in your ears, body frozen stiff—but you remain unblemished by the adrenaline.

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

“So steady, even now,” he observes with infuriating tenderness, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “I suppose I should have expected that from an emanator of Harmony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, unable but to be proud of how steady your voice remains. Every meeting you have ever had with him replays in your head, rolls by all at once like jittering strips of old-timey film as you pull them from the rusty bank of your memory. What could have given you away in the brief moments you’ve shared together? What in the way that you’ve handed him his contraband belied your true nature? Nothing, you’re sure. He’s discovered this piece of you on his own, and that worries you the most.

“Come now,” Luocha coaxes, the euphony of his voice slipping into something softer and sweeter. “You can be honest with me. We’ve already shared so much with each other, haven’t we?”

“The only thing I’ve ever shared with you are the poisons you order,” you inform him, hands braced against his chest. He tuts at you, and his scent grows all the sweeter. Even you can recognize the excited pheromones he pumps into the air. Your senses are replete with him, tongue made sticky by the devious croon of his voice.

“And you give so much of yourself with that alone,” he insists. “Your willingness to pass illicit drugs into the hands of your customers tells me far more about you than any small talk ever has. A shame, really. You have such interesting thoughts, whenever you deign to share them.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask flatly. Your eyes narrow with undisguised suspicion.

“A great many things, but to start...” His fingers tap a gentle drumbeat atop your shoulder. You shrug him off. A contemplative sound hums deep within his chest, quiet but loud in the dusty still of the room. “Share more of your thoughts with me, Courier.” he beseeches. “You’re always so quiet, when we’re together. I think we’ve known each other long enough to hold better conversations.” His hands slide off of you, smooth and quick as oil slick. It’s a concentrated effort to not bolt out of his reach like a startled fawn. 

His gaze bores into your back as you take several measured, extremely normal and calm steps over to your abandoned bag, zipping it back up with renewed zeal.

“I think that was extremely inappropriate.” you share generously.

“I apologize. I only meant to tease, but it seems I’ve pushed too far,” he confesses, genuinely contrite. There is something else about his inflection. Something which sparks alive the long distant urge to soothe. “I don’t often forget myself like this. You must bring it out of me.” 

You frown. The feeling dies. It’s not your responsibility to comfort this weirdo. He’s done nothing to earn your sympathy. Pesky biology, however, would dictate otherwise.

“You’ll be delivering to me again tomorrow, won’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. Your internal discourse snaps to a halt, instinct shafted to the side to make way for the sacred tradition known as “doing business”.

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

“Yes—and a Core Esse, if you’ve the means to procure one—”

You give him a look, but you nod regardless. “Understood. I’ll meet you at the docks, tomorrow—” It’s not professional to walk away while making arrangements with a client, but you very badly want to be out of this stuffy apartment and away from the new, bizarre scrutiny he looks at you with.

You typically avoid knowing anything about your customers beyond the bare basics. However, you can no longer afford Luocha that same distance. Just how much does he know? And where exactly has he pulled your precious secrets from? 

The investigation begins tonight. You’re hesitant to call on her, but you may very well need to reach out to a particular contact.

—

Hours worth of feverish research inevitably lead to you just calling the Stellaron Hunter who owes you a favor. You have not the slightest clue where Luocha procured such private information, or how much of it he has. Penacony’s travel logs will be the first place to look. If your bothersome merchant has been there before, it’ll be no mystery where he figured you out. Does The Family still talk about you? And do they look back on your brief term of leadership with nostalgic fondness or embittered hatred?

You care not. Those mistakes are long behind you. The Luofu is a kinder place, somehow easier to navigate despite its Abundance soaked innards, where only the engineers dare wander. Without the protections they are outfitted with, you suppose you’re more vulnerable to mara exposure and all it entails, but you never dwell longer than half-an-hour at a time.

Roots and vines cling to the aged metal paneling and jutting pipes, green and gold particles sour the dim air. The pipes rattle and groan, portions of something neon yellow shooting through the complex web of them at irregular intervals. Flowers sprout from the ropey greenery, some bulbs shut and others agape. Pale petals of pink and white and periwinkle peeled wide open against slick silver and rusted brown. The closed bulbs look oddly wooden, but you’re not stupid enough to touch one.

Luocha could surely excuse you for being mara-struck. The Cloud Knights, on the other hand…

Well. It’s not worth thinking about. The overworld welcomes you back with a gust of fresh wind, washing away the acrid tang of the tunnels. The shallowest of them have several discreet exit and entry points. Crevices in the walls swallow you whole and deposit you in nondescript locations across the Luofu, random alleys and average apartment buildings where it’s easy to sink into the crowds.

Today, it’s a high end district, populated by the high-end homes of diplomats and ranking officials from the Luofu’s sister ships. They come to roost in these behemoth manors a few times a year at most, meaning the streets are emptier than you’re accustomed to. There’s not a soul to be seen or heard, not one resident there to share the wide open road with you. The houses leer at you with wide windows and lacquered doors, sat fat and happy behind their tall gates and gaping lawns.

Luocha calling you here, after all of those clandestine exchanges in that dowdy shell of an apartment, is a statement in itself. Is he threatening you with this obscene display of opulence? You can’t begin to fathom why he’d bother with bothering a simple courier. What does he possibly hope to gain?

The address he sent is among the smallest houses you’ve seen so far. One of the least extravagant, which is to say, still pretty fucking extravagant. The latticework fence is wreathed with delicate cotton roses and the yard is a veritable Eden in comparison to the other lots. The path forward is lined by patches of vibrant wildflowers.

The air is cleaner here, and for the first time since entering the district, you can hear birdsong echoing from the tops of the trees.

How much of this did he plant himself? And how have his neighbors handled living next to a miniature forest? You reach out, palm sliding over the closest oak’s trunk, the bark coarse under your cold palms. Beyond the path, to your left, you hear the babbling of flowing water. The yard isn’t large enough to have a creek, you reason, and the time of your appointment looms close—but you figure you have enough legroom to at very least sneak a glance. Your curiosity for once gets the better of you, sending you through the thicket of green, beyond a copse of trees lined up like appointed sentinels, and over an emerging path of flat stones.

The forest opens into a small clearing. A massive, rock-lined pond nests at the center, surrounded by cattails and watergrasses and other waterfaring plants. The babbling, as you expected, comes from a filtration system stealthily hidden amongst the many reeds.

Sunlight shivers across the gentle waters, stirred up by the afternoon breeze.

A chair has been left unfolded beneath the low-hanging branches of a stout, red maple—a splash of crimson among earthy greens and cool browns.

Cautiously, you pick your way down the slope to the pool, squinting at the fish which flicker and dart between rocks and lotus stems. Mostly koi. Pretty, glimmering things which likely cost an arm and a leg. You’ve been to many aquatic markets, even ferried a few live specimens yourself. You settle by the edge, elbows resting on your bent knees. Cautiously, you extend outstretched fingers towards the water, dragging along the silken smooth surface.

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says. One moment you’re above water and the next under, your startled flailing sending you straight over the lip. 

Luocha is at very least apologetic about your unfortunate (humiliating) spill. He shows you to the washroom and closes the door with a contrite little smile. You run up the water bill for your trouble, the shiver chased from your drenched frame as you step under the hot spray. The shower has room enough for three people, easily. There are two heads and a bunch of silver knobs and dials you don’t feel like fucking with. Rich people and their needlessly complicated household appliances.

You don’t know exactly how long you spend in there, but the mirrors have fogged over by the time you get out. Only once you’ve properly scrubbed the pond water from your skin and tended to your hair do you turn the shower off. The mist sticks to your skin even after a decent toweling. You go through two until you give up and throw on the plush robe he so generously provided. It’s as fine quality as the porcelain tub you spy nestled against the western wall.

The brass glows near gold beneath the warm light. The entire bathroom is all golds and black. Utterly resplendent, but it doesn’t really seem his style.

Is this even his home? You can’t help but wonder as you stroll out the bathroom and into the rest of the house. Most of the interior chambers are linked by wide circular arches. The furniture is cream cushions paired with lacquered dark wood. A sweet smell hangs in the air, but you can’t tell if the potted white lilies on the table beside the sofa are the source.

Luocha stands by the window. Beams of sun hit his face and cast his hair in vibrant gold. He’s ethereal in those shades of sun. He looks delicate, somehow, curves of his body lean under the flowing press of his silken robe.

He looks at you. The dreamy green of his gaze clears your brain of the remaining fog, leaving you cold and alone with the fact that you are alone, together, in an empty house. In a mostly empty neighborhood.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” he smiles. “They’ll be clean in around an hour. Once again, I apologize for startling you—”

“Don’t. I shouldn’t have been skulking around in your front yard in the first place.” The sooner your humiliating slip is forgotten, the better. “Let’s just get down to it. You wanted something delivered, right?”

“All business with you, even now,” Luocha sighs, forlorn disappointment wrinkling his brow. “You don’t have to be so uneasy around me, you know. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll brew us some tea.”

You do not sit. “You called me here for a reason. I deserve to know what it is.”

“Is your company not reason enough?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. He’s closer now, close enough for you to see how glassy his eyes are. The cloying, sweet smell grows stronger with each step taken, reckless pheromones enough to send a shudder down your spine. Is he… “What if I said I simply wanted to see you?” he breathes, gently cupping your chin. “Should I admit that you’ve haunted my near every thought for the past month, or would that be going too far? Would it frighten you?”

A ruddy flush paints his pale cheeks, cracks in his composure beginning to show. He’s always been the perfect picture of composure, to an irritating degree. The certain grace he moves with used to almost annoy you. So steady, in a world contaminated by constant disruption and imbalance. The very pinnacle of perceived harmony. Perhaps you envied the way in which he carried himself or the freedom he enjoyed as an interstellar merchant, but now—

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

“I would say that you should wait until your heat is over before making any confessions,” you observe, resisting the urge to swallow and make the problem worse. Omega or not, he still looms large over you. 

“I’m in pre-heat, where I’ll most likely stay for the next few days,” one of his hands graces your right shoulder, thumb rolling delicate circles there. “I won’t ask you to… service me through the heat itself, but your company would help soothe the symptoms.” The touch wanders down your upper arm, a smooth, repetitive caress. It feels more like an unconscious gesture or a nervous tic than anything else. A self-soothing sort of motion.

“I’m a courier, not an on-call heat partner,” you inform him. How desperate must he be, to seek out the assistance of a courier of all people? “And I’m a beta. I can’t help you in the same way an alpha could. You know that.”

“And how do you know what will and won’t satisfy me?” he replies cooly, haughtily, as if he did not just sing your praises and plead for succor by your hand. “Betas are known to be particularly adept heat and rut partners due to their versatile nature—”

“I too have read the ‘Galaxy Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dynamics and All their Intricacies’. You don’t need to quote it verbatim to me.” you reply flatly, sounding as unconvinced as possible. Luocha is—dangerous. He is handsome, and he seems very sweet, and always seems well of manners, but you know he hides his daggers deep in his sleeves. The moment you realized you are considering his offer, you feel apart from yourself. Because it is ludicrous an idea.

Luocha’s eyes close. His bright lashes fan against flushed cheeks. “No sexual intimacy has to be involved. While skin-to-skin contact is the most effective method to ease the pain, simply being in the same room as you will suffice.”

The heat of him slips onto your skin, the layers between you thinner than you realized. An absentminded hand roams to the sash tied ‘round your waist, idly toying with the knot. His palm, after a moment of fidgeting, settles on the round of your hip. He gives you a gentle squeeze, but it reminds you more of a cat flexing its claws than a gesture of simple appreciation. He inundates you with scent and touch, pins you like a butterfly to a board, wings splayed open for his searching eyes. 

Not that you’ve really tried to fly away at all. A flush of newfound heat encompasses you, unbidden as his scent washes over your palate. You draw him into your mouth and swallow, thighs pressing tight together. It’s ridiculous, really. Inane. Who is he to make you feel so unbalanced?

You find him so utterly vexing. No other man could do this to you, you think. You wouldn’t dare step foot into anyone else’s private home. You wouldn’t consider breaking the strict code of propriety you keep with your customers. But for Luocha, denizen of the Abundance and keeper of your most precious secret, you fear you may do anything.

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

Luocha remains undiscouraged by your disquiet. Baffling creature, bold beyond reason and reckoning behind his steady, at times coquettish mien. “You can still help me, if you would like. I’m not in the practice of taking unwilling partners.”

You let a poignant pause settle between you, as if you are legitimately considering his request. He leans in, ever so slightly, as if leering at you from three centimeters away is any better than leering at you from five.

Then, finally, after remaining silent for at least thirty long seconds. “Do you prefer blackmailed ones?”

He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle with it, entire face lighting up with genuine fondness. So utterly vexing, this man.

“Do you really want an answer to that question?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he presses a kiss to your temple.

—

It isn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. Perhaps it’s because Luocha seems to lack shame in almost everything he does. True to his word, he doesn’t touch you without permission. The rest of the day is spent sitting together in the lounge. He reads a book while you sit on the couch, half-paying attention to the news program you’ve put on. Dinner is takeout. The conversation is… bearable. It helps distract you from how close he is, pressed tight to the side of his body.

You stay in the living room until the sun sets, vivid orange light descending to dusky twilight. Eventually, Luocha stands to head to the washroom. A chill replaces the space he once occupied. You don’t allow yourself to mourn the loss. Instead, you haul yourself onto your feet. Black spots swim at the corners of your vision as your body lags a few seconds behind your brain. 

It’s just more time wasted, as far as you're concerned, so you push yourself. You stagger until your eyesight clears, intending to make a break for the guest room that certainly must exist. Somewhere. A house this extravagant must have a guest room.

You manage to peek into two rooms, one a particularly extravagant closet and the other a sunroom. 

You sullenly retreat back into the main hallway and head for the next door. Luocha slides out of the bathroom and fixes you with a questioning stare. “Where are you going?” 

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

“Ah,” he stands there and looks at you for a long moment, like you are a stranger in his home. Which is partially true, you suppose. You are little more than strangers. “There is, but I was hoping…” he looks off to the side with a pointed sigh. “you would spend the night in my bed.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a new head. He stares back, completely unrepentant.

“Because skin-to-skin contact helps?” you supply wryly.

“Right,” he smiles, as though glad you understand. “During pre-heat, an omega craves the constant companionship of a trusted person, preferably a mate, but that label doesn’t apply to our arrangement. Remaining isolated during this time could cause anxiety, depression, feelings of worthlessness, headaches, migraines—”

“You’ve gotten all the pity you’re gonna get out of me.” you inform him crisply. You relent anyway. The wooden floor is chilly as you pad towards him.

Your stoicism “Wonderful. Thank you for accommodating,” At very least, he seems to know that he’s putting this upon you. Luocha’s bed, you think, is far from the worst place you could spend your night. He’s far from unappealing. He smells good. He’s been weird to you, before, but he’s also unwaveringly polite and currently weaker than usual, hazier. 

Not like you have much of a choice.

He could easily leak your location to your former allies. The Family’s connections span the universe wide. They could easily track you down and cause you all sorts of trouble, maybe even get you kicked off the Luofu. It’s best to cooperate with him, for the time being. And it’s not like he’s terrible company. He holds the door open for you even now, when you’re here for his sake. 

His bedroom is as luxurious as the rest of the house. The floor is dark wood and the walls are black with golden accents. Tapestries hang over tall windows, blocking out the moonlight. A porcelain vase sits atop a combination dresser-vanity, its knobs and gnarled claws a warm bronze. The rest of the furniture is similarly colored, and of similar quality. 

What draws your attention the most is the bed. It’s a wide mattress held aloft atop a platform. Gauzy black curtains hang from the top of the thin gold frame, parted to give you a good look at the mountain of pillows and blankets stacked atop of it. This, you recognize.

“Ah, that’s…” you begin, not quite sure how to phrase it. Aren’t some omegas super touchy about their nests? You haven’t the slightest clue as to which compliments to pay and to which part.

“A nest. I typically don’t indulge in the baser instincts that come with heat, but the urge was stronger than usual,” Luocha informs you, padding over to the mattress. He flops backwards on it, swimming through silks and satins like a minnow up a stream. Soon enough, you’ve lost him in the pile. “There isn’t much else for me to do besides twiddle my fingers, and I can only watch television for so long. So I thought: why not? It’ll be as good a way to keep busy as any other.” 

There’s a small pause. Luocha hesitates by the vanity, drumming his slender fingers atop the hard wood. There’s something uncharacteristically fretful about the gesture. “What do you think?”

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

“What glowing praise,” he says, almost beaming. You’re kind of annoyed at how… no, you won’t call him cute. Not even within your own internal dialogue. “I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you join me?”

He rests up against the headboard, lines of his body lean and lithe. He looks like something out of an old painting, long locks and pale limbs flowing over the dark sheets like 

The green of his eyes is startling in the dim of the room. He looks you over, haughty like a monarch on a gilded throne, until his eyelids dip and his head tilts.

“Come here,” he beseeches again. “Please.”

And you do. You cross the threshold of the room, slipping past the open curtains and into the bower of his bed. The mattress dips plush under your hands and knees. Once you’re halfway across, you sit back on your knees—but this is not close enough for him. He needles and pleads with you until you’re close enough to grab. One of his hands wraps around your upper arm, the other at your hip as he tugs you to him, fitting your back snuggly against his front.

You still, but the tension remains wound tight in your shoulders. You’re more amazed at your own stupidity more than anything else. Wasn’t it you who insisted on keeping your clients at arm’s length? All of that haughty professionalism was tossed out the window the moment you succumbed to his pleading—if it could even be called that. He asked nicely. 

Your eyes flutter shut. You lean backwards into his chest. His wide hands slide over your body, thumbs rolling circles onto your hips. A soft and sticky feeling settles underneath your skin as his thighs (bigger than you imagined) cradle your own, silken fabric of his robe pooled over the sheets. A low sound rumbles in his chest, suspiciously close to a contented purr. 

“I’m so glad you decided to spend time with me, courier.” he coos. His hand glides up your arm to cup your own, long fingers interlacing with yours. A contemplative hum rumbles within his chest as he turns it over. His thumb traces the lines and creases of your palm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.” 

“I suppose I don’t.”

“And that’s why it means all the more to me that you stayed,” Luocha murmurs. He reaches over to the nightstand, and the lamp flickers off. The room is plunged into matte darkness, hardly a glimmer of moonbeam slipping in. “I think that you’re more considerate than you pass yourself off to be. Does that frighten you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk this much,” your brow wrinkles. “Aren’t you supposed to be too horny to think?”

“I’ll remind you that I’m currently in pre-heat—a process my body uses to prepare for the actual heat.” he says with a light sigh. “Believe me. If I were in heat,” his breath brushed against the shell of your ear, a warm and heady caress. “You would know.” He delicately presses the shell between his teeth, nosing the space behind it with another pleased sigh. 

You shudder, and close your eyes. “And what’s the difference between heat and preheat?”

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to tell… The pheromones for one,” Luocha squeezes your hand. “Are different. They’re similar to the ones we give off when under threat, a signal that we’ll need help soon… Not all omegas go through it—only an estimated forty percent.” 

“I see.”

Luocha smiles, the curve of it pressed against your throat. You don’t like not being able to see him. A predator looming in the dreary dark of his den. “The desire is still present. Less a raging storm, more the gentle lapping of the waves.”

“Poetic. But I still don’t get why you picked me. They have services for this kinda thing. People who know more about it than I do.” If you doubted his sanity before, you certainly do now. What kind of sane omega enlisted the help of a postwoman above paid professionals? 

“I would rather you than an unfamiliar alpha some service decided would be an adequate match. Even if vetted, a stranger is still just that. A stranger.” Luocha idly toys with your fingers, thumb rubbing circles onto your palm. It’s a touch too familiar, too tender for what you are. But Luocha permits himself to it, and the rest of your body, with a natural ease. You can’t help but feel lulled by it. 

“I see. And you feel safe sharing a bed with your dealer?” Tempting as the siren song of slumber may be, you retain enough wit to pry. The whole thing is too absurd to not badger him a bit more. The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in reply.

“I trust someone who has never been late, never sold my personal information or purchase history and has been nothing but courteous to me.” Luocha lists off your credentials with ease. They feel like they’re straight out of an EULA, or some sort of contract. Out of place in a situation as delicate as this. You could easily tell him as much, but he’s starting to sound sleepy. You would rather he get his rest. And be quiet.

“Of course,” he squeezes the space above your hip, making your pulse spike. “Having the endorsement of an Aeon helps. Especially if said Aeon rules over the Harmony. What a lovely and orderly path to tread, courier. She chose you so well.”

“You should have told me that this thing was gonna make you delusional,” you grumble, writhing in his hold to simply signify your displeasure. A part of you wants to come clean and ask where the hell he learned your secret. It’s obvious that he won’t change his mind, or be swayed by your protestations. But you’re still too stubborn to admit he’s right.

You’re almost annoyed by how comfortable this is. He laughs, breath brushing the crown of your head, but he says nothing else, perhaps sensing that he’s reached your tolerance threshold for silliness. His breathing evens out a few minutes later, chest rising and falling beneath you.

You adjust yourself, settling into his side. Over the next few minutes, he contorts around you, the weight of his arm settling around your waist. Time slips away from you, after that.

The rampant pounding of your heart at last begins to slow. You’re almost calm, wedged between the blankets and body. Your sleep shirt is still wrenched upwards, his bare arm pressed against your stomach. The contact is a boundary crossed, a spark to a hunger you didn’t know you had been harboring. You don’t like it. Some part of your hindbrain rejoices at seeing this man’s needs met, and that delight worries you more than literally anything else Luocha has done or said today.

You stare across the room at the covered window. Slowly and steadily, you untangle your legs, curling them to your stomach. Outside, a frog croaks. The pond babbles in the distance. The air above the blankets is cool on your face and legs as you gently kick the covers back. The chill caresses your skin, sneaks between your robes to give you bumbling gooseflesh. The walls of the nest vent out the worst of the cold. Maybe you’ll ask him about cracking a window open tomorrow. Just a little bit.

—

You wake up a few hours later, and blink into the dark. Luocha stirs next to you. He’s awake. You don’t know how you know, but you can tell. His finger curl ever so slightly against the soft core of you. A shiver ripples across you, robe parted just enough for his fingertips to touch your bare skin.

“...Did you plant the garden outside?” you don’t know why you ask, but you do. 

Luocha hums into the crook of your neck.  He strokes your stomach, petting you.

“I did,” he answers after a moment, a contented sigh ruffling your hair. “Now get some rest.”

—

You leave the next morning, without breakfast. Luocha is a surprisingly deep sleeper, though perhaps you owe that to his current affliction. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re also not going to be lured into skipping work by your own foolish sympathy. He can take care of himself for a miserly ten hours.

The day goes as any other does, at first. You take the shortest route you can find through the Luofu’s abundance-ridden innards, starting at the lower decks first. Packages and envelopes pass hands with little delay.

One of your clients, a buxom woman who owns a silk shop, covers her giggling mouth with an oversized sleeve. You eye her with suspicion. She notices, and giggles harder.

“I don’t mean to offend you, dear courier—it’s just—I hadn’t taken you the type to so openly… wear that kind of perfume.” she says, as if elaborating. You don’t understand what she’s talking about, and you don’t particularly care. You leave her to her frivolities and spirit away, merging back into the crowd with casual ease.

The next few clients each make some degree of face at you. One goes wide-eyed, before schooling his features into his typical, customer-service smile. The next looks at you like you have just thrice cursed his family line, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed into a beady glare. You resist the quite mean-spirited urge to remind of the legality of his purchases, shoring up your mental fortitude by recalling the sumptuous tips he usually gives.

Your seventh customer meets you beneath the crimson awning of a local cafe. You’re glad to be out of the beating sun. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” she says with a smile, nursing a cup of iced tea and ah—you realize, something about you has really changed.

“Thank you, but may I ask what you are congratulating me for?”

“Oh!” she looks startled, and then sheepish. “On the relationship? I didn’t mean to presume….but your scent, today…” she trails off, looking awkwardly to the side.

Fortunately, you don’t need her to elaborate. The context clues snap together with sudden, startling clarity, the peevish behavior you’ve endured all day granted perfect context. Of course, evidence of your business with the merchant would be more apparent to those with keener noses. Your cheeks blood with abashed warmth. You resist the urge to shrivel like an old apple peel, overwhelmed all at once with humiliation, with indignation at yourself and the man who cast this misfortune upon you. 

Heavens, how outrageous you must have seemed, walking into the esteemed establishments and parlors of your clients bathed in that ridiculous fellow’s scent! It’s but another consequence of yesterday’s poor decisions. You fume silently as you leave, making a beeline for your apartment. It’ll delay the rest of your deliveries, but that can’t be helped.

Your phone jitters in your pocket as soon as you step through the threshold of your dwelling. 

You drop your bag onto the grey throw rug. It lands with a mighty thud, loud enough to make you silently hope the downstairs neighbors had not been enjoying an early afternoon nap. Your jacket gets tossed onto the sofa, keys thudding onto the upholstery. Then, you roundabout to the door. A row of locks catch stray rays of sun. You swiftly latch each one and give the door a rough, cursory shove. 

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

Your brow furrows. You’d never taken him to be this needy. Every other message above this exchange is polite, but ultimately curt. Most of his recent prying has been done in person.

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

I’ll buy you out. How much do you earn in a day?

Honestly, the nerve of this man! You type a series of poignant expletives out before tactfully deleting them.

It’s more than the money. my clients are powerful. i cant lose those connections

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

The tension drops off your shoulders. You expected him, in truth, to let loose a most potent threat to ensure your immediate return. A part of you, small and illogical, fears he’ll do his worst regardless. The thought of The Family learning your whereabouts nauseates you, bile churning at the very base of your throat, but surely a man possessed of his many sins is too wise to open his mouth about yours. 

Without even realizing it, you have completely trapped each other. 

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

It’s better not to think about it. You have hours more left to move, and your line of work demands utmost focus, lest you drop an organ into the wrong customer’s hands.

Fifteen minutes, you afford yourself. The water chases the sweat from your skin, soap and sponge raking your skin raw. The evidence of him washes down the drain with the suds, leaving you remarkably less agitated. Because, really, who gave him permission to linger on your skin and on your clothes and in your thoughts—who gave him leave to evoke your fear and sympathy and intrigue and misplaced affections? Not you, that much is for certain!

You determine yourself free of the vexing beast’s cloying scent and return to the Xianzhou’s busy streets.

—

Arrogance is one of humanity’s most populated wheelhouses. Next door, its foundations built by fools and geniuses both, stands proud senselessness. If you had to name a tenant they share, then with abrupt acuity, you would surely name the Stellaron Hunters, who, as far as you can ascertain, base their stratagems off the ravings of a lunatic. As you wander to the edge between land and space, you cannot help but wonder what his credentials are, and if anyone has ever laid eyes upon them. 

You don’t care enough to ask, though, when you reach the jagged edge. The end of the cargo hold, where the Xianzhou’s artificial sky breaks. Fragments of pale blue and white float amongst the void, growing smaller and sparser until none remain. The ground ends in a series of jagged, shiny edges, as though the metal had been cut clean through. You duck underneath a smattering of ships and starskiffs and cranes and cargo containers. Cold, silvery chrome gives way to the cold, open empty. That is where the man in black waits.

“Blade” is his name. He is a vision against the star-scattered expanse of the empty. Stood beneath a bright, red star, unbothered hy the thin oxygen levels and freezing temperatures. Tall and looming and perhaps irredeemably beautiful. It could be the lack of air talking. You like him more than you like Silver Wolf. She wastes your time with always unnecessary and often personal questions.

“Here for Silver Wolf, I assume?” you ask, already rifling through your bag for the cables and strange, circuit-board devices which she has ordered from you.

“Yes,” he nods, and you appreciate how he says nothing else. 

“Alright. Here you are, then. Make sure she knows that she owes me another favor. These things were hard to find. She’s getting the discount of a lifetime.” you hand him three small boxes and he leaves with a nod. A polite and concise interaction. As distant as mostly-strangers should be.

—

“Home” is after that. The skies have gone a bright gold, nighttime looming in the near distance. 

Luocha’s home is not your home. You refuse to identify it as such, for doing so opens dangerous doors and implications which are most inappropriate for what you have. You make a brief pit stop to your apartment to gather a night bag, changes of clothes haphazardly crammed into the black canvas alongside a toothbrush and other necessary toiletries. 

You nudge the door open with your hip. Pale orange light falls across the threshold and into the dimly lit living room. Luocha sits on the couch, or rather, he lounges. The silken collar of his robe drapes over his right shoulder, exposing a frankly indecent amount of his chest. You pay his naked skin no heed, plonking your bags onto the floor. It’s a welcome weight off your shoulders. You wish you could lay on the floor. A good sleep on that fine, polished wood would fix you.

“Welcome home,” he greets you, daintily depositing the book he’d been reading onto the side table. “I never realized just how long your hours are. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m used to it,” you reply, but you flop onto the opposite end of the sofa regardless. A heavy sigh punches out of you, weary eyes shutting. 

“With how much you charge me, I would think you could afford to shorten your shifts,” he says, with sympathy you know is feigned. You crack an eye open to cast him a cursory look—but the room shifts around you in a blur as long fingers curl around your wrist and pull, tugging you onto his side of the couch.

You land with a disgruntled squawk. Your hands curl into silken fabric. and you realize belatedly that you’ve all but been dragged atop of him, left laid out between his legs. You twist, top half of your body turning to the side to level him with a nasty glare. 

He’s flushed, is the first thing you noticed. More so than yesterday. His cheeks are dusted in pale pink, a delicate blush that runs all the way to his shoulders. He’s warmer, too. You can feel the heat of him pressed along your body. 

“You didn’t have to do that. You could have just asked,” How does someone who looks so willowy have such a strong grip? It’s beyond you, truly. 

“Forgive me,” Predictably, he looks completely, and utterly, unrepentant. “You were just so unsuspecting, I couldn’t help but want to surprise you…” You make a point of looking as surly as possible, and the fiend laughs. Quietly, and behind his oversized, crimson sleeve. Unbidden comes to you the shape of his lips around that euphonic sound, what they might look like when parted by soft breaths and dulcet moans— “Ah, please don’t make that face. It only makes me want to tease you more.”

“Enough of your insanity. ” you bite out, pointedly pressing your elbow into his side. You wriggle in his arms. His grip curls tighter around your waist and he sighs, pressing his face into the crook of your neck to take a long inhale. “Let me up!”

“Just a few more moments?” he asks, words mouthed into your skin. You feel hot all the way down to your shoulders. You muster all your resilience with a swallow, but it isn’t enough. A hush falls over the living room. 

Against your better judgment, you find yourself lulled by the gentle sound of his breathing, by his warmth at your back. Nearly ever part of you aches. Your legs throb, the tight muscles of your thighs worn and throbbing from a long day’s labor. The scorching pains dig deep into your shoulders and your back—you’re due a nice, long shower, you think. 

The dappled sun against the adjacent wall writhes and shifts with the artificial breeze. You can hear the winds shifting through the canopy outside. A songbird sings a trilling little tune. It’s easier to focus on these things while you indulge him and wait to be let up, even if he is being unusually quiet. You’re wise enough to not necessarily be glad for the silence. 

His hand cups your hip, shifting you even closer. It’s only a centimeter or two, but it lets you feel the pointed hard thing jutting into your back in greater clarity. Unbidden, your cunt throbs between your thighs. The arousal and exhaustion makes your mind sticky, concrete thoughts difficult to come by among the haze. 

“Luocha,” you murmur, and he moans softly, breath brushing against your tender skin. Goosebumps flare across your shoulders and arms despite the heat—the sound the shock you needed to get moving. “This is—” you cut yourself off with a swallow as his lips press to the column of your neck. Your already flagging resistance whimpers out into nothing. Each heavy inhale draws him further in, the scent so sweet and cloying in spite of your muffled senses.

“You must have had such a hard day. Doesn’t it hurt? Always going home to that empty apartment?” he purrs, voice indulging, dripping with a delirious sort of fondness. And isn’t that always the trouble with these sorts of situations? Does he want you, or are you the closest warm body available for him to rut into? How strong is his grip on reality? You writhe in his lap and he gasps. His grip tightens in response, holding you fast with surprising strength. “You must be so lonely…”

“I’m not, really,” you nearly snarl, finally losing patience with your clinger’s affections. Your voice, alongside the elbow you jab into his side, jars him from his twisted reverie. He chokes, and muffles a groan into the collar of your jacket, at last lifting his lips away from your skin. The breath whooshes out of him at the force of the blow, but his grip barely loosens. “Behave. Or I’ll leave.” 

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

Over your brief stay in his lavish home, you have perhaps twice (or thrice) wondered if keeping to your principles was worth it. Why not sink into his touch? Why not drink deep of the physical affection he saturates you in? The fact that you’re contemplating the subject at all is deeply ruffling. Little less than two weeks ago, you would have scoffed at the idea.

Alas, the creature at your back is more siren than man. It wounds your pride. You aren’t just any beta. You’re a prime beta, a beta noticed and beloved by Xipe herself. The gift of Harmony should allow you to smother the scents around you completely. It should grant you immunity to the bothersome urges which so often get in the way of business. He weakens your shored-up defenses, somehow. 

“Of course… My apologies.” he sounds contrite, and despite yourself, you soften. Just a tad.  “It’s just—well, a little difficult to hold back when you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

Luocha evades the question, without even pretending to humor it.

“Your last customer was an alpha, wasn’t he?” He lifts his head from the hollow of your throat, looking down at your intertwined fingers over your shoulder. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand before he flips it over. His fingertips brush over yours, before curling into a fist around your pointer and middle, giving a gentle tug. He idly toys with your hand while he speaks. Voice a light, low murmur. “A tall man. Black hair, pretty red eyes… They look like candle wicks, don’t they?” He says it fondly, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

Of course he knows Blade. Why wouldn’t he? 

You’ve never bought anything from Luocha, but you can tell from what he orders that he’s a merchant who idles in the same, seedy markets as yourself. A man who had asked you to trade him an organ brushing shoulders with a Stellaron Hunter somewhere in the darkest corners of the Luofu sounds completely and utterly plausible. A group of little coincidences which occurred just to be a thorn in your side. How did they meet? You can’t help but wonder. How well do they know each other? What kind of relationship do they have?

You don’t ask any questions. It’s not your place. Getting involved anymore than you already are is just asking for more trouble. 

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

“Well. I am almost in heat. Perhaps I just became… a bit defensive when you came back, smelling just like him. Omegas in heat can be just as territorial of their dens as alphas in rut, though that's often overlooked in the social narrative. We’re supposed to be weak, dainty little things, you know?” If he feels self-conscious about this, he doesn’t show it. He has a tighter leash on himself, now. He sounds more contemplative than resentful. 

“You, weak and dainty? I have to laugh,” you don’t. 

“I appreciate how open-minded you are,” he says sweetly. 

A brief silence falls over the room. You take in the soft sound of the breeze outside. The steady shifting of the trees’ canopies. The steady breathing of that small ecosystem he has birthed and nurtured. 

He’s hesitating. A question hangs in the air, tangles on the tip of his tongue. You can’t see his face, but you have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. That, and it’s typical of him to demand more than you’re willing to give. No more ground will you cede to him. If he begs again for you to remain during the duration of his heat, he’ll find himself succinctly refused. 

Still, you’d rather not have to go through the uncomfortable hassle of rejecting him. But he clearly thinks better of it, because he stays quiet—only breaking the contemplative quiet to ask you what you would like for dinner, his thumb rolling circles onto your palm.

#hungering for hsr #luocha/reader #luocha #imagine hsr

[tumsnstuff]

hes such a cutie<3

just wanted to make something soft

#tummy #tummy kink #hunger #hsr hunger #stomach kink #hunger kink #stomach growling #hon//kai #h//sr #bla//de #kaf//ka

[lycheeejuice]

My friend has been telling me all about Penacony lately and I've had this thought about Sunday and that Soulglad soda stuck in my head for days. Obviously, there's something suspicious going on with that stuff...I want to see Sunday drink a ton of it just to see him squirm. Like just imagine this man's swollen belly heavy with how much soda he's downed, flustered by the deep gurgles and the tautness of his vest containing his stuffed middle. He'd want to complain due to his distaste towards things not going his way but...it's difficult when he can't even bring himself to stand and his responses come out as embarrassing hiccups or burps. Once he's recovered he'll be plotting to stuff you doubly full next time as payback.

#I'm so not normal about Sunday guys...hes all I'm going to talk about for days on end #His leaked personality is definitely something! #hsr #hsr hunger #tummy kink #stomach kink #stuffing kink #stuffing #stomach growling #sunday hsr

[moarar]

Sampo and cahara outfit swap yay

#art #digital art #fear and hunger #honkai star rail #hsr #cahara #sampo #sampo koski #funger #ignore how I messed up the colors on sampos jacket ok

[dangopango00]

Mfs will have an unpopular fave and be like “More for me!” And then the more for me in question is two fanfics and a jar of toenails (im mfs)

#THE UNPOPULAR FAVES IN QUESTION KNOW WHO THEY ARE #elio #legato bluesummers #abyss razor #illumi but deserved um #appare #appare ranman #the wolf from hunter x hunger but when he was human um. #chongyun #dikke #cyril cinderella contract PLEASE #hear me out. #shion sealed with a kiss um. 😀 no comment im so sorry #sebek zigvolt #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail elio #hsr elio #legato trigun #trigun #mashle magic and muscles #mashle #hxh #hunter x hunter #genshin impact #gi #reverse 1999 #r99 #twisted wonderland #twst

[this-is-miss-anonymous]

For @feesheroo , I'M SO SORRY I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED YOUR ASK WHILE ANSWERING IT??? ANYWAYS HERE'S MY ANSWER 😭

FEESH HI 🫶🫶🫶 I am SO sorry this took so long to reply to. Since I'm still fairly new to hsr, I didn't (and still don't) know much about Jing Yuan, so I speedran some story and did some research on him 😭. ANYWAYS, these are my...

⌁₊˚⊹ Jing Yuan Stomach Headcanons ⊹˚₊⌁

⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁

• Considering how Jing Yuan is several centuries old, he's pretty much grown accustomed to any bodily functions that are less than ideal, hunger being one of them. That being said, he doesn't really get hunger cues anymore, and if he does, he just ignores it, which can sometimes lead to awkward situations.

• Just like his personality, his stomach is rather calm, with most of it's grumbles being quiet or nearly silent altogether. However, if it's been more than a couple hours over what he's used to, it can get pretty noisy, much to Jing Yuan's dismay.

• His transition from an active life on the front lines to a rather sedentary one (which makes people think he's lazy) has lead to him becoming soft, which is especially apparent around his midsection. His once toned abdomen had now gained a bit of chub, but he's perfectly okay with that. >:)

• Being the Dozing General means to be prepared for any situation, which means he has to be prepared to eat anything if the situation calls for it. Because of this, he sometimes ends up eating things that wouldn't normally be eaten by the average person, or foods that are past their expiration dates so nothing goes to waste. This always leads to a stomachache of course, which leads to rubs and affection.

• When he isn't on duty, he lets his guard down, and allows himself to be pampered by his partner if they're offering. He doesn't particularly hide his desire for affection, he would just prefer that only those close to him know of these things.

• This poor man gets stomachaches pretty often, which could be caused by a mountain of different reasons. He could've eaten too much, too little, ate something bad, got a little sick, you name it. Because contradictory to his tough, calm and collected exterior, his stomach is actually really sensitive, even if it doesn't often make itself known.

#hunger #hunger kink #miss anonymous #hunger content #safe space #headcanons #thoughts #hsr hunger #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan headcanons #asks #thank you!! 🫶 #h//nkai st//r r//il

[stormofdefiance]

Thinkin about this. Thinkin about how Black Swan is so divorced from her own physicality, her own capacity to feel. Thinkin about how when she first looked at Acheron she must have thought those would be interesting memories, but nothing more. Thinkin about her face at the end of Rondo. Flushed and heaving and undeniably quivering from sensation, burnt through with an intensity of feeling that must have left her so ALIVE in that moment. HHHHHHHHHHHHH

#black swan #Acheron #HSR #black swan grows more and more fascinating to me as a character by the way #*day #subsiding by adopting feelings and memories from others #how glorious how tiring how boring so many of her days must be #she says she isn’t motivated by hunger but I think there is a lust and an ache to consume #that compulsion to feed on memories that is so divorced from any typically human experience #acheron rousing her from her steady predictable little daydreaming #the start of an obsession #love the idea she set Boothill on Acheron because she wants her to surprise her all over again #GOD

[charli-chomps]

ultimate power move: going to a quiet place with your stomach growling on purpose

#hunger kink #stomach growling #you could call me something of an exhibitionist #or. a dom #disregard that last part #because /hsrs

[lizzie-harper]

I might start spam dumping posts tbh

#the black phone #genshin headcanons #genshin x reader #genshin modern au #hsr drabbles #drabble #spam posting #genshin impact #honkai star rail #total drama #creepypasta #five nights at freddy's #the hunger games #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo fandom #creepypasta fandom #tdi #tdwt #tdac #tdroti

[particularlymischievousvoid]

If yall want you can send me things to draw. Finally drawing again is so nice,,

#im still drawing fear and hunger stuff rn but ya know #i have more i want to draw.. im just indecisive #genshin #nitw #ib #ddlc #hsr #madoka magica #i used to draw so often... #ignore me lol

[gonguji]

lil thought but me thinks hsr kabu should draw inspiration from funger franchise... idk, the little girl && logic are actually resonating with me a lot. kabukimono being made to become a new aeon by absorbing traces of old aeons is quite an idea!

#* . ⊹ 𝑇𝐻𝑂𝑈𝐺𝐻𝑇𝑆 𝑂𝐹 𝐿𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝑁𝐼𝑁𝐺 › ooc . #him possibly possessing the endless soul as an attempt to create an aeon. send him into old aeon's remains for a chance to ascend him into #godhood... fear and hunger is one of my fave series. and it parallels so damn well with hsr

[owlespresso]

the red fruit which ripens

alpha!blade/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is getting too close. tags: blackmail, mind games, nonconsensual touching, blade and luocha are just weirdos idk pt 2 of my part in @lorelune's a/b/o collab. the first part can be read here.

You have never known peace. You doubt any emanator ever has. The Mother of Harmony, of peace, bestowed upon you a fraction of her immortal grace. She cored herself, tore out a seed—jewel like and glistening, and beckoned you to feast. The taste went down so smooth and sweet.

That was the first and last time you held your blessing in awe. Xipe sentenced you, that day, to never know the peace she covets. You could catch glimpses of it, inhale the scent of it deep, but it would fade like morning mist, chased away by the winds of chaos and whatever awful business you were to tend to next.

When you strayed from The Family, tore yourself free of their clutches and hid where their millions of bulging eyes could not find you; you believed it possible to know peace. Perhaps not immediately. There was so much to take care of during your first days on the Luofu, paperwork and apartment hunting. It was all jarringly normal. You were mystified by the mundanity, delighted by it even. The world suddenly closed in for the better. There were no enemy factions to worry about corralling, no petty politics, no attempts to usurp you or take your life.

The world became the Luofu. It became your apartment. It became your favorite food stalls and your neighbors and the little birds fluttering about in the trees.

But it was not peace. Soon, you came to realize that even the average Luofu citizen did not know the concept as intimate as you hoped. They live in fear of Mara, of the Abundance, which they are so intimately intertwined with. Every pain is a life threatening risk, a potential trigger to a deadly malady. Outside of the Abundance, so many run themselves ragged, weighted by long work hours and petty squabbles with loved ones. The kindly folk by the docks find themselves cornered by the IPC.

No mortal knows peace, you have come to realize. Perfect tranquility is a ripe and red lie, birthed gold and glistening from the Goddess’s many lips, spread carelessly and listlessly across the universe. Unattainable by the emanator’s closest to her.

You believed once, and it hurt you. Not again. You will heed no honeyed words. You can only believe in what is cold, concrete, and solid.

—

“I feel like—” you begin, pushing through the rusted metal paneling of the dilapidated fence. “—you could have gotten here by yourself.” You usually don’t talk this much, but Blade’s habitual silence combined with your burgeoning irritation leaves you uncharacteristically eager to complain aloud.

The abandoned warehouse looms an eerie, empty monument of crumbling sheet metal and shattered glass. Long columns of broken machinery are gutted in pieces across the concrete yard. You make note to return later, just to make sure you’re not leaving valuable goods out to waste.

“I have never been here before. Kafka thought it wise to come with a guide.” 

“And what do you think?” you pause, shoulder buried in the outside paneling of the building itself.

“What I think… does not matter.” Blade says cooly. “A blade is meant to be wielded. It does not choose who it cuts down or where it goes.”

“Hm,” you don’t have much to say to that. You shouldn’t have opened your yap in the first place. The less you know about the bizarre relations of the Stellaron Hunters, the better. You squeeze into the building through the gap. Blade hardly two paces behind. The metal groans and squeaks as he forces his way in. It feels like the loudest sound you’ve ever fucking heard, an offensive and high pitched screech that probably rings through the yard and neighboring alleyways.

“At least try to be a little quieter,” you grumble, squinting into the dark. The main room is made a maze by haphazardly laid out storage containers, many cracked open and already emptied. Wires hang from the ceiling, which has become an amalgamation of mechanical matter and rotting parts. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Black grunts his assent.

“Well. You’re here, safe and sound.” you waste no time, doubling back towards the Blade-shaped hole in the wall. Did he just walk straight through!? What are they feeding this guy? “So I—”

The sound of thundering footsteps and approaching shouts freezes you mid-step. Momentary panic jars you still. The Cloud Knights? Here? Now?

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you turn tail, ready to haul ass in the opposite direction, only to collide face-first with Blade’s firm chest. He jostles you to the side with his shoulder, ignoring your grunt of complaint. His hand rests on the hilt of his blade. Your stomach jumps into your throat.

“Where are you going!?” you hiss.

“To take care of the vermin,” Blade replies drolly, looking down his nose at you. His lips twitch into the beginnings of a puzzled frown.

“Absolutely not!” you say, and his frown pulls deeper. “Where there’s ten, there’s bound to be twenty waiting to back them up.”

It is unlike you to be so bold, but you seize him by the wrist, pulling him further into the jagged steel labyrinth. He allows himself to be led, surprisingly docile as you round corners and scuttle down corridors. Pale moonlight covers the room in a silvery sheen, providing just enough light for you to make out a door embedded into the outermost wall. Footsteps echo around you, calling voices made cacophonous by the echo. Blade’s grip on your hand tightens, likely annoyed and sorely tempted to begin the slaughter, but you yank open the door and jam yourself inside what seems to be a cramped server room.

A few circuit towers stand side-by-side, dark and dusty with disuse. Blade shuts the door behind you, opening his mouth to speak, but you’re already wedging yourself into the lone aisle between the wall and the towers, pulling him behind you.

A few moments later sees you crammed in the narrow space. The back wall and server towers rise on either side of you, caging you up against your troublesome accomplice. One of Blade’s thighs presses tight to your own. Warm and firm. The proximity betrays what you’ve expected since your first meeting. Blade is an alpha. Only now, brought so obscenely close, are you fully able to realize that. It’s a footnote in comparison to your agitation, which swims and simmers just beneath the surface of your skin.

“How long were they following us for?” you grumble aloud. “Tell Kafka she owes an extra 20% when you see her, and that I’m not doing this ever again.”

Blade sighs out of his nose. You can’t see his face well enough to make out his expression.

“You’re wearing a mask. Your identity is safe.” he says.

“The threat of being arrested still remains,” you grumble, listening to the clamorous noise outside. Trained troops rush back and forth, kicking up dust and old grease. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, beyond a few paltry words, but no one has yet knocked on the door. Surely a good sign.

Blade squeezes your hand, and subsequently reminds you that you are holding it.

“That won’t happen. Destiny’s Slave would not risk your safety over something so simple. No harm will come to you, tonight.”

Well, isn’t that comforting. You wrest your hand away with a scowl, and clamp down on the pressing urge to let him know what you really think about his boss. He stares down at the place where your hands were once joined.

The next half-hour passes in relative silence. His eyes are all that is visible in the empty dark of the room, candlewick embers extinguished when he shuts them and leans back against the wall.

Eventually, the outside noise quiets. No more thudding boots or searching shouts, the warehouse silent as it had been when you arrived. Shimmying out from the pitch dark crevice is much more awkward without the frantic adrenaline, but you manage it, emerging in a new layer of dust.

“Alright. I’m heading out. Be careful.”

“They won’t return anytime soon,” Blade remains inside, arms crossed and impassive. Your frown deepens. You clamber through a hole in the wall. No Knights have remained behind. You feared a few would have stayed just in case, but none leap out from behind the rubble. Which means that the horrible feeling prickling up the back of your neck is just Blade’s cold, empty gaze trained on your retreating form.

Strange beast, you think to yourself, scuttling into the nearest alleyway.

—

One of your favorite things about Luocha’s home is that he is hardly ever in it. The first time you met him after helping him with his pre-heat, he pressed a silver house key into your palms, before turning and leaving. Not even allowing you to splutter a single, indignant protest. Back then, you mentally swore that you wouldn’t use it.

Now, you use it almost everyday. His neighborhood, smack dab in the middle of the Luofu, intersects with several of your regular routes. It’s just too easy so slide in between deliveries for a quick rest. It helps that he’s hardly ever home, leaving you to pilfer snacks from his fridge and take brief naps on the couch. You haven’t been bold enough to stay overnight. You’ve become far, far too intimate with the man.

No more, you decide, and stay firm to that decision even when he beseeches your company not a week later. It’s rude, but you can’t risk getting anymore attached than you already are. He’s become a bothersome burr stuck to your side, a looming presence in your thoughts even when he’s far across the stars, doing Xipe knows what.

There’s a knock at the door. You startle, because this has never happened before. You remain stock still on the couch. If you remain still, surely whoever is out there will get the message and bugger off. Another knock. You should have known that any solicitor determined to walk through the forest of a front yard would be too stubborn to give up after only seven knocks.

At the eleventh, you get up and stomp to the door. It’s mostly to preserve your own sanity. 

You throw open the door, prepared to give the nosy bastard on the other side an earful. 

It’s Blade. Blade is stood there. He blots out the afternoon sun, leaving you in the shadow he casts. It’s like seeing your clothes in the fridge. You blink several times.

“Ah. It’s you.”

“It is,” He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. 

“What… why are you here?” 

“Kafka’s orders. She wanted you to have these,” he hands you the bouquet. You receive it. Fresh petunias and sprigs of rosemary curl next to daisies and tulips. It’s a nonsensical thing. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Nothing particularly artful about the presentation besides the pretty colors. 

“I see… Is this your home?” He looks like he already knows the answer.

You decide not to humor him. You tuck the bouquet underneath your arm and lean up against the doorframe. “What’s it to you?” 

He blinks, looks confused, and then responds after a moment of silent thought. “I… there is someone else who lives here. I remember it clearly, now.”

“You two know each other, huh? What a coincidence. But… how did you know where I was?”

“I asked the woman next door. She directed me here. I’ve been searching for you since the early morning.” 

“All morning?” you tut, somewhat sympathetic. “That’s a lot of walking.”

“It is nothing compared to other pains I have endured.” Blade says, solemnly. “And I have traveled far greater distances on foot. You shouldn’t worry.”

“...Well,” you stare down at the bouquet for a moment. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you anything for the effort. You know that big, red maple by the pond? Go sit there. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Two minutes later sees you outside, cradling two crystalline glasses filled with lemonade. You didn’t get him the fancy stuff—the strawberry-kiwi-whatever fruit stuff that you hand mixed. But it’s something.

He’s hunched beneath the red canopy. There’s a dark, inky type of handsomeness he possesses. Dark hair tumbles down his back, shaggy bangs frame that wolfish face. He looks dour almost all the time. Like the frown lines and cold apathy have permanently creased it. He’s hunched beneath the shade. Like it sits on his shoulders as a physical weight. He looks up at you as you settle next to him, accepts his glass without fuss or thanks. Which is just fine, with you. You probably shouldn’t be doing this, anyways. He’s an intergalactic criminal. The less time you spend together, the better.

But at the same time… you can’t help but be curious. Curious about the mara which buzzes underneath his skin, yet somehow never breaches it. Curious about what manner of creature he must be to withstand the final stages of Yaoshi’s curse. Curious if there’s any real, lingering emotion beyond the stoicism he treats… well, everything with. 

The two of you sit in silence and sip. You don’t feel any need for artificial conversation. It’s easy to sit down and simply exist next to him. No impulsive need for niceties. 

“This house isn’t yours,” he says.

“No. The owner is a client of mine. He lets me stop by here, in between deliveries. It’s convenient.”

A few beats of silence. “How well do you know the man that lives here?”

“As well as I know any other client,” he looks at you expectantly, as though waiting for you to finish that statement. “Which isn’t very well. He’s not here most of the time.”

“You should remain cautious while in his presence,” he says, and you nearly raise a brow at the unsolicited advice. He levels you with his dull, candlewick gaze, as impassive as ever. A leaf flutters from the lowest branches onto his head. “That man draws his power from the source of the mara. He wields it under the guise of a blessing, and yet…” Blade frowns, almost a grimace, and doesn’t say anything else. 

“I know.”

“Yet you take shelter under his roof and exist willingly in his space.” Blade stares at you. There’s a faint bristling in the air. A shuddering of the atmosphere that emerges from him. Thorny tendrils of bitter gold crackle beneath his pale skin. You don’t know exactly what aggrieves him so, but you get the feeling that you should say something to appease him, quickly.

“Well. I don’t know any other rich diplomats willing to offer me a free, mostly empty house to take a break in for… around twenty minutes a day,” you shrug. “It’s convenient.”

That seems to settle him.

“Do you… not like him? The merchant?” Does he even know Luocha’s name? What kind of relationship do these two weirdos have?

“In the strange purgatory of my existence, he acts as both poison and cure.” Blade informs you, as if it tells you really anything. As if sensing your befuddlement, he deflates a little, nose scrunching. He looks like a dour cat, stuck out in the rain. “He wants something from me. I can’t tell what it is. His unseemly fascination means it can be nothing good.” His attempt at elaboration gives you somewhat of a clearer picture, but it’s still some insanity that you’ll have to unpack later.

“I see. I’ll make sure to remember that,” you’re not sure if it’s possible to forget a conversation with Blade. Especially one that lasts more than a few moments. What prompted this? Genuine concern for your well-being? You have a hard time believing that. There are many things that are better off left unsaid, in your experience, so you don’t ask. 

The rest of the visit passes in relative quiet. Blade finishes his lemonade.

You reach over. His gaze snaps to you immediately, a beaten dog evaluating a potential threat.

“You have something in your hair,” you inform him helpfully, plucking the leaf from his sable locks. You curl the stem around your fingers. 

He doesn’t say anything after that. The two of you stand. He murmurs a brief farewell, and is off through the yard, slipping through the ferns to become one with the cast shadows. You’re not sure how long you remain after he leaves. The pond water ripples with each gentle breeze. Glimmering koi bob to the surface, in search of mid-afternoon snacks. When they find none, they dive beneath, water droplets flickering off their lashing tail fins.

Well, you think after another moment, at least you learned something.

Now, it is high time that you tend to the bouquet so generously sent your way. You dump the glasses in the sink, halfheartedly vowing to deal with them later, before taking a closer look at the arrangement of flowers. As you expected, it’s more than a paltry, sentimental gift. Tucked into the plastic wrapping is a small card.

Bladie said you got in quite the mess, the other day. You have my deepest gratitude for handling it so cleanly. He’s not that good at talking things out. He seems to like you, though! I wonder what makes you so special?

P.S. Next Tuesday, please escort Bladie to the address written on the back of this note. Please? Do it for me. :)

—

You hate working with criminals. Criminals other than yourself.

Though, you don’t fancy yourself much a criminal.  Deliveries are an entirely different beast, simple points of contact which last at most for five minutes. Escorting a known, intergalactic criminal through multiple layers of the Luofu is completely different—something you would never do if anyone besides Kafka asked. You’ll dance to her tune, run her errands if it keeps you off her shitlist. But is there even a point if keeping off of hers just puts you onto someone else’s?

You’ll have some fierce thinking to do after you shake off the six Cloud Knights currently on your tail. You dive between market stalls. You leap over a counter, sending an array of fruits and vegetables tumbling onto the pavement. You ignore the enraged shout of the peddler behind you, pulse thundering in your ears as you weave between the passerby, narrowly avoiding a stack of crates.

The air stings at the corners of your eyes. The marketplace blends together to the point of featurelessness. You don’t know who you pass or what else you know over, too focused on what’s ahead to care about the wreckage left behind. At the very least, it may hamper the Knights as they shout and stomp and rush after you—and Blade, whose fault all this is.

You slide around a corner and into a red-bricked alleyway, lanterns strung between the two rooftops, gold and glittering against that fake, blue sky.

“Dead end.” Blade grunts. You hear the telltale click of his sword being unsheathed.

“No! Just follow me!” you snap, seizing his wrist and pulling him forward, all the way to the end. As you trudge forward, you tap a sequence into the walls on either side. The worn clay surfaces are coarse under your fingertips. None move after you touch them, but you feel a subtle shift in the energy as it rushes down to the focal point. The pattern ends at the back of the alley. You tap a chipped, ragged brick embedded into the dead-end wall. The slabs unfold, layer-by-layer, to form an opening.

You pull him through.

It folds shut behind you, the quiet sound of grinding stone following you through the passage. The hollering and thudding of the pursuit have been silenced. Their chaos of the market sealed away behind the otherwise impenetrable seal. You doubt the low-ranking footmen who chased you will know the way.

Yellow-green vines crawl up the pulsing walls. Luminous particles bob and float in the air like fireflies. The place is silent, leaving you with only the sound of your own panting and Blade—Blade’s rasping, spluttering wheezes.

You stop, right where you are, because you have never heard him make such a sound before. Even after a chase, or a fight. 

The passage opens to a wider tunnel up ahead. You drop Blade’s hand, and turn to look at him. The adrenaline is fading, now leaving room for fresh, common sense. 

Blades hunches up against the wall. The air enters and leaves his lungs in winded, rushed wheezes. His eyes are wide and unseeing. Those candlewick irises dart from the floor, to the place where your hands had been joined, and finally, then, to you. 

A scent, like firewood charred too long, blistering into crumbled charcoal, blooms in and clouds the thin space. It’s like nothing you’ve ever smelled before, the vicious pheromones of an alpha at the very end of their tether. Something more, too, something earthen and ancient and charged. A flavor which has graced your palate only once or twice before.

Encroaching mara. You don’t know what he’s like, when his symptoms flare. You’re not eager to find out. The capricious nature of his mara has not once posed a threat to you. But his composure is slipping, his hands curling like claws and flexing. Like he’s getting a feel for his own body. Like the joints are sore and need stretching.

“Blade,” you stumble forward, pressing your palm to the cold, pale pane of his cheek. “Blade, look at me.”

His shaky irises hover awkwardly over your shoulder, before at last meeting your gaze. 

“It approaches,” he rasps, looking as haunted as you have ever seen him.

“Blade, do not let the mara take you.” you take in a deep, steadying breath. The violent pulsing in your ears returns in full force, the unhinged mass of his disease gnawing at your physical form.

Bracing yourself, you reach within. You touch the very bottom of your long neglected wellspring. Harmonic Essence leaps to the surface, warm and loving and so eager to be put to use. It feels like an old coat slipped around your shoulders, a familiarity you wouldn’t dare indulge in under ordinary circumstances. It is a power long wasted on you, but useful this very once. It pulses from underneath your fingertips, washes underneath his pallid skin.

The acrid taste of his mara brashes against the tip of your tongue for a single, fleeting moment. It then skitters backwards. Retreats into the dark, churning void of what you assume to be his subconsciousness. It’s a temporary balancing of the scales, but his wild pulse settles.

You sigh, shoulder slumping in relief. The tension winds out of your body, hand dropping back to your side.

He still looms above you, jet black hair curtaining you in. When did he get so close? Or had it been you in your haste to soothe him? He runs hot as a hearth, the warmth which radiates from him thick enough to feel. This close, you can see his every breath, soft mounds of his chest straining the fastenings which hold his shirt together. Slender stripes of pale skin peek through his chest wrappings. You swallow and look away, up at the strong column of his neck.

“Are you with me?” you murmur. You don’t dare move, lest your retreat trigger the chase instinct which some alphas are known to possess. You don’t like making assumptions. You feel like Blade would be among that number anyways.

“Yes,” Blade’s voice is sandpaper rough. He moves before you do, shouldering past you into the wider tunnel. “You make use of these often, I take it.”

As though nothing had ever happened. Something bitter churns in your gut, but you don’t bring it up. There’s no reason to. He probably wants to distance himself from this episode as quickly as possible. You don’t blame him. The mara must be a humiliating affliction to live and cope with. 

“It’s the fastest way to get around,” you break into a brisk walk, overtaking him. You’re the one who knows your way around, here.

“The mara would rend asunder the minds of anyone not wearing the correct protective gear,” Blade observes. There’s nothing pointed in his voice, but the weight of his gaze makes your skin crawl. Its keen focus is that of an apex predator’s, a beast somehow sated enough to keep his teeth from your throat. How long will that last? Fifteen minutes? An hour? The air here swelters with abundance. His mara must sup on it like a starved prisoner, far stronger and fuller than it could ever be on the surface. 

He could easily match your pace, but he chooses to walk behind you.

“I could say the same for you.”

“I am an abomination of Yaoshi. The abundance has already taken hold of me.” Blade says, grimacing. You toy with the fraying edge of your sleeve between your forefinger and thumb. “All the saturation here does is spur on the symptoms.”

You make a face. He must sense your unease.

“I should be able to resist the pull until we surface. Provided we do not linger overlong.” Blade replies. It does remarkably little to reassure you. 

A predator stalks at your back, one whose sanity may pop like an overfilled balloon at really any moment. Against your better sense, you feel anxiety lash at the bottom of your stomach, guts churning with that primal fear.

“Reassuring.” you bite out thoughtlessly. 

“It would be in your best interest to focus on finding a way out, rather than back-talking me.” Blade says, and you swallow. 

“Back-talking? I think my frustration is quite justified. You’re the reason we’re in this mess, after all.” you pointedly remind him. The words roll bitter off your tongue. Prickling discomfort coalesces with the saturation of abundance in the air, becoming a consistent buzz against the back of your skull.

Blade makes a ragged little noise, wedged between a wheeze and a laugh.

“Another do I make pay the price. I was not always like this. deathless beast borne of blind ambition and hubris…” he trails off. “I was once a man. Death walked with me as it walked with every other. It was never meant to—to become—”

A distorted warble slowly creeps into his voice. Shit, you just shouldn’t have said anything. The hovering energy coalesces, thin whispers congealing into thick, mist-like mass around him. It’s drawn to him. 

“What’s your favorite food?” you turn on your heel and ask, crossing your arms. He looks down at you, brows furrowing as he roots around for an answer. “You haven’t thought about it, have you?” Do the mara-struck even have to eat? Blade is a particularly unique case among them, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he even remembers to eat. He is a blade, according to his own words. And a blade doesn’t need to eat. How desolate an existence he must have lived. Must still be living if his own preferences evade him.

“Well. Try to find an answer while I get us out of here.” you command. He’s quiet for the remainder of the trek. You emerge topside and immediately feel several pounds lighter. The air is fresh and sweet, the skies blue and open. You’re two blocks from your apartment in a dark, neglected alleyway. 

“You can find your way back from here,” you sigh, chancing a glance at your companion as you stretch your arms above your head. “Right?”

He’s still quiet. You don’t sense the acrid tang of the illness. He looks thoughtful. You wish he would just give you an answer already. You’re not eager to be chanced upon again by a patrol, or by any other witnesses for that matter. 

“Your question. I don’t have an answer.” Blade says. He sounds almost regretful. 

Over your few interactions, you’ve come to realize that not much bothers him. Very little manages to budge that glacial mien. His demeanor, as you have come to understand, either sits as stoney neutrality or maniacal, giddy rage. The shades between are so very visited.

“It’s no big deal. You can just tell me next time, if you want.” If he even remembers. The idea of turning your back to him still riddles you with unease, but you do it anyway. Your steps are slow and measured. He stares you down until you disappear around the corner, meld into the crowds like just another thread in a blanket.

—

The sky above hangs a pale grey. It’s the threat of a light drizzle rather than a raging storm. You slip through the abundant foliage of Luocha’s front yard, unable but to notice that the shrubs and vibrant blooms have somehow grown in size since your last visit. The greens are hearty, fresh dewdrops glimmering off grass and unfurled leaves.

It’s not difficult to spot him. He’s lounged beneath the sole scarlet maple of the yard. He’s a spot of red himself, swathed in a richly-colored, likely richly-made, robe of it. The fabric pools on the lawn chair he lounges atop of. His eyes are shut, blonde lashes fanning against his perfect cheeks. Those eyes open as you skirt along the jagged stone edge of the pond, manilla envelope clutched in your left hand. He smiles, but does not lift his head. Sumptuous locks of golden blonde fan out behind his head like a halo. The very picture of serenity. 

“Well, well. To what do I owe this visit?” he tilts his head, smiling like a contented cat. You huff, and avoid looking below his neck, where the plush robe parts to reveal the pale soft of his chest. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but any sliver of intimacy you may have granted him has long passed. The moment you look down, he’ll notice and impose upon you another outlandish favor.

“Don’t get excited.” You hand him the package, and begin to pull back, but he’s faster. He darts for you like a viper. Long fingers curl around your wrist to hold you in place. The look in his eyes is beseeching. He gently deposits the envelope on the side table next to his seat. He doesn’t look away from you for even a moment. 

“Always so busy… doesn’t it exhaust you?” he murmurs, a sympathetic coo. He’s putting just enough strain on your arm to make standing uncomfortable, in hopes that you’ll sit down beside him. 

“No. I’m used to it. I like being busy,” you bear the ache in your arm with unyielding ease. It is so small and insignificant in comparison to every other you have endured.

“Do you… like being busy, or is it that you’ve never known anything else?” Luocha tilts his head to the side, smiling. Your skin prickles. You resist the urge to swallow. 

“You know what they say about assumptions.”

“Which is why I’m glad I’m not making one. You go to awfully desperate lengths to not be known, Courier.”

The corners of your lips twitch downwards, and his eyes gleam. “Don’t be coy with me. Did you talk to them?” You ask. The question has lingered on your mind for weeks, leaving you restless and more unkind than usual. The persistent threat of him is always at the back of your mind, represented in the throbbing between your temples, in the harshness of your voice as you snap at someone who might not deserve it. There’s no sense in beating around the bush, anymore. Not if you want to preserve your sanity.

“How very vague, for someone who just accused me of being coy. Be at ease, I haven’t had any contact with The Family. Merely some… particularly useful informants who have heard a thing or two. Hunches based on speculation that you’ve proven by being cagey.” Luocha assures you.

“...So, what do you want from me?”

“Merely conversation. I do find our interactions so compelling, however short they may be.”

“Being blackmailed doesn’t put me in the mood for conversation. There’s not much for us to talk about.”

“I beg to differ. I know so very little about you, despite all we’ve shared. I’m curious—what set you on the path of Harmony?” 

“...” You look away, internally evaluating the pros and cons of going along with his little game. “Peace. She promised us peace. Because that’s what Harmony was supposed to be.” His eyes soften. The indignation sizzling inside of you sparks into a raw flame (he has no right to look at you like that), but you smother it. 

“Did it live up to your expectations?” he asks. His thumb rubs circles against the hollow of your wrist. His gaze sweeps from your face, down your arm, to where he’s still got you. He’s waiting for you to be vulnerable, you just know it. A shark that smells blood in the water, circling and searching for tender flesh to lay its rows of teeth into. How does he imagine it will taste? Soft and meaty, melting underneath teeth and tongue? Layers of skin peeled back and pried open, made thin by older slices?

“It didn’t work out.” you reply. sagacious enough to play along only minimally. When you elaborate no further, he releases you with a smile.

“How interesting,” he hums. He reclines further, eyes fluttering shut. You could pounce on him so easily, like this. You could fix your teeth into his jugular and make it so he never threatens you again. The blood would be so warm in your mouth. His skin would be so sweet.

Don’t be gross. You grimace.

He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

The fluttering of wings erupts in the canopy above you, a flock of songbirds taking an afternoon flight. He cracks open his eyes, then. He tracks some sort of movement (you aren’t looking up), idle, like you aren’t even there. He tilts his head to the side, the slender column of his neck completely exposed. The robe slips off of his shoulders, curvature of his collarbones and soft expanse of his chest open for your viewing pleasure. You’re annoyed.

 “I’ve held you long enough,” he sighs. “Thank you for sharing. Though, I do hope we can manage a longer conversation next time.”

“We’ll see,” you just barely keep a sigh out of your voice as you turn to leave, speed-walking up the grassy slope.

—

“That old man’s damn cat has been coming into the yard and bothering all the birds,” you grumble, squinting into the aforementioned patch of forest. 

Blade makes a noncommittal noise, indicating that he’s heard you.

“It pisses me off.”

“You care about the birds in someone else’s yard.” Blade observes. You frown deeper.

“It’s annoying. Cats are an invasive species, here. They slaughter all of the native wildlife—and sometimes they don’t even eat what they kill,” you sigh, tampering down your rising agitation. If you’ve learned one thing in your short and storied life, it’s that being impassioned isn’t good for you. 

“So, how would you suggest the problem be solved? If the owner insists on letting it out…”

“I don’t really live here, so it’s not like I have any right to get involved,” you shrug, “It’s just… if you’re gonna be that irresponsible with an animal, you don’t deserve to have it. You know?”

Blade makes another noise. Closer to a hum, this time. You don’t know if he knows or not. But you do know that he’s listening. You stare into the yard, and in your periphery you can see him staring at you.

—

You see Blade more in the coming days. Despite your best attempts, a routine slips into being, like weeds through cracks in the cement. Silver Wolf doesn’t show up to accept her own packages nearly as much, anymore. It’s almost always Blade. You see him so often that you question if he even has a job anymore.

He glowers. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He says, low voice almost lost amongst the bustle of the crowd. The markets are especially full today. Nestled in the crook of your elbow is a plastic shopping basket, loaded with some bread, some spices, and some vegetables. The stall you’re at rests beneath a red tarp, casts warm shadows onto his pale, bone-weary skin. “There are currently no tasks which command my presence at the moment.”

“Well. It’s good to have time off, but you don’t need to follow me around.”

“...” he doesn’t reply, but he does follow you all the way up to the counter. You can’t tell if he doesn’t understand the nuance, or if he’s just being bizarre and stubborn. Regardless, tailing you like a lost puppy seems to alleviate his boredom. To each their own.

“If you’re just going to walk behind me, can you—” you shift the basket from the crook of your arm, preparing to offer it. He snatches it from you before you can even finish speaking. 

“...Thanks.” 

He takes his newfound job as the basket carrier very seriously. His dour face doesn't budge an inch as you peruse the rest of the wares, plucking a few items from open crates and wooden shelves to add to the bundle. 

“So, see anything that piques your interest?” you’re not sure what prompts you to speak up. You should get through this as silently and as quickly as possible. The less time you spend in public with this man, the better. The presence of the Cloud Knights isn’t nearly as felt on this level, making it as safe a haven for criminals as can be. You suspect, sometimes, that it’s purposeful. In your many travels, you have come to realize that the criminal class is a valuable part of any economy, no matter how much those at the top may protest it. Those who disavow it the most fervently are usually the most involved, under the table.

Blade doesn’t respond, at first. His crimson gaze glances over the nearby shelves. He grabs a bottle of cloves and presents it to you, completely straight-faced.

You get the overwhelming sense he’s appeasing you more than anything.

“...Yeah,” you pluck it from his hand and halfheartedly eye the label. It’s hard to muster the energy to argue with him, especially when he looks so resolute. The fact that he’s continuing to tail you through the market is cause enough to ignore him. You drop the bottle into your basket and move on.

Thankfully, the rest of the trip passes in peaceful silence. You can feel Blade’s gaze, unreadable, lingering on your form as you pull your wallet out of one of your many pockets. The shopkeep, a sprightly young man with a head of bouncy, brown hair beams at the sight of you. You don’t remember his name, but you’re familiar with him. He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts his mouth tight before he can get a word out.

He glances over your shoulder. You swivel just barely to look at your stubborn shadow. Blade looms closer than you remember him being, leaving you with an up close and personal view of his chest. You tsk and look up at his face. 

“Can you get a bottle of white cardamom for me? It should be with the rest of the spices.”

Blade looks at you, and looks at the shopkeep. He is silent. The lines of his face are harsher than usual, burdened with deeper shadow. For a few, agonizing moments, you fear he may object, but he turns almost robotically and walks off. You’re not sure what’s upset him this time. You don’t particularly care. If you troubled yourself with the qualms of every pouting client, you’d be just as miserable as you were with The Family.

“Thanks. I could hardly get a word out while he was giving me those evil eyes,” the shopkeep says, shuddering.

“I guess his manners still need work,” Not that men in his line of work really needed any. 

“Alphas that smell that strong and don’t even try to put a lid on it are the worst,” he gripes, bagging your produce with nimble hands, before pausing and looking back up at you. He wrings his hands, contrite and sheepish. “—er, no offense.” 

“He smells strong?” you tilt your head to the side.

“Well, yeah. He’s all over you,” the man blinks. Some of his bangs fall over his big, brown eyes. He swipes them behind his ear thoughtlessly. “You guys just get together? He’s probably trying to flaunt it. Stake his ‘claim’, y’know?” he says with a sympathetic roll of the eyes.

You don’t particularly care what he says about Blade. A man able to lift a three-thousand pound sword doesn’t need defending.  It’s his misconceptions about your relationship that irks you, for some reason. You don’t care about the opinions of others (you try not to care about the opinions of others) but you can’t resist the sudden urge to correct him.

“We’re not together.”

“Oh,” he blinks at you. “Does he know that?”

“Ugh. Enough. It’s none of your business.” your lips twist, a sliver of teeth exposed in your displeasure.

The shopkeep nods and beams at you, all previous curiosity wiped clean off his face. “Heard loud and clear!”

He finishes ringing you up and sees you off with a “have a nice day~!”. Blade follows you to your next stop, a stall that sells fresh fruits. 

The frustration builds within you slowly. It’s a candlewick of a thing, at first. Blade is following you around. Irritating, but you can cope with it. He would leave if he was asked. Maybe Kafka told him to stick around for a while. She’s gotten into a bad habit of pawning him off on you, like he’s a child that needs watching rather than one of the universe’s most efficient killing machines. That’s fine. You’re not keen to get on her bad side.

Blade is scenting you. He’s sticking to you tight as a cobweb and giving dirty looks to people you talk to. That, you cannot abide by. It takes you at least five minutes to simmer, from the crate of apples to the lefternmost all of the stall to the bundle of leeks close to its middle. You’re not really looking at anything. Lost in thought.

“I am not an omega for you to covet. I don’t need your protection,” you tell him, letting your gaze idly roam over the prices. They’re written on fancy little labels with red accents, each one neatly stickered just below the lip of each crate. 

“I never said you did,” Blade replies after a moment of deliberating. You look over a crate of cantaloupe. Selecting a ripe one is a practiced art.

“You didn’t have to,” you pause, melon held in your hands as you give him a scathing look. “Control your pheromones. You’re not an animal.”

“No. Worse, I am a blade.” he sighs, suddenly sounding unusually surly. Your lips twitch in the barest beginnings of a frown. 

“Not an excuse,” you helpfully remind him. A shadow is cast over his face, then, dark and brooding. The space between his brows wrinkles, an uncertainty you haven’t quite seen from him before. There’s so little need to deliberate in a life like his own, so what troubles him now? It nettles something in you, makes you feel in a way that you don’t care to name and don’t want to look into. You deliberate asking, but he makes the choice for you.

“I will leave you, now.” When you turn to look at him, he’s already walked away from your side, strides longer than usual. He dissolves into the crowd like a sunset shadow, naught left in his wake but the scent you know still clings to your clothes. 

—

“My, my. You rarely ever visit at this hour,” Luocha says, giving you one of those mirthful smiles where his eyes scrunch, unabashedly delighted (and undeniably smug) to see you. He lounges on the ottoman, slender fingers parting the pages of a furniture catalogue. “To what do I owe the honor?”’ He’s already deduced that you want something from him. You take no excessive pride in your poker face but it still pains you to be so easily read. Luocha stands apart from the crowd with his soft hands and feigned delicacy, but he smells blood in the water just as easily as any other follower of the Hunt.

“I just wanted to talk,” you see no reason to dance around it.

“You came all this way for a conversation?” He rests his chin on the palm of his hand in a haughty way that pisses you off.

“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time?” you grouse, and he laughs.

“I’m flattered, regardless. Come, sit and tell me all that is on your mind.” he beckons to a seat at his side, which you stiffly sink into, unable to relax beneath his hunter’s gaze.

“You’re an omega—”

“Yes, quite,” his smile is now coquettish. You feel your face wrinkle in annoyance, line of your brows dipping low. 

“I wasn’t done. You know more about secondary genders than I do—and I don’t have anyone else to talk about it with, so…”

“I appreciate you confiding in me like this,” Luocha says, sweet as honey, timbre smooth as silk. There’s an ease about him here, in his own domain, that soothes and disarms you despite your best efforts. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to ask, so unused to relying on anyone else. I’m no professional, but I will answer your questions as best as I am able.”

He steeples his fingers with a smile, way too delighted for you to feel good about his generosity. He just likes knowing something you don’t, doesn’t he?

“Well. I’ve been spending time with an alpha, lately. It’s a work thing, but he keeps hovering around. Even after I tell him he can leave.”

“Ah.” Luocha says. The corners of his smile grow taut with something you don’t quite recognize. 

And it’s a question you suddenly have to wonder for yourself. Is Blade bothering you? You can count on one hand the amount of times you have been genuinely upset with him. He’s quiet, most of the time. He answers your questions and attempts to appease you whenever possible. He carries your bags whenever you happen to be at the markets, together. Even if you really wish he wouldn’t, you can tell he’s trying to be kind. 

“He hardly speaks. And when I does, I don’t really mind. But he hovers and keeps grabbing my shopping bags whenever we’re at the markets. I don’t get it. Is it some sort of courting gesture?”

“He certainly sounds like a character,” Luocha muses, sounding far off for a moment. “You have the right idea. He’s carrying your things to both lessen your burden and to prove himself capable, even if he himself does not realize it.”

You grimace, face twisting up, The truth has an acerbic tang to it. Luocha laughs unabashedly at your dismay, the sound melodic and trilling. The longer you spend in his presence, the more convinced you become that the Aeons crafted him specifically to vex you. You give him a scathing look.

“Come, now,” Luocha wheedles. “My humblest apologies, Courier—it’s simply so rare for you to be so expressive. I was caught off guard. Shall I get you something to drink? Come, please, sit back down. Surely you have more to ask of me?”

Reluctantly, you drop into the armchair closest to the door, leaning back as far as you have the space for, You fold your fingers together, elbows perched on an arm rest each.

“I don’t envy you. It must be difficult to bear the attentions of such a peculiar alpha,” Luocha says.

“You know him, then.” You can’t keep the accusation from your voice, something frenetic and ugly kicking up your pulse, making your stomach go sour. How deeply do they know each other? Enough for Luocha to consider spilling your secrets? Enough for them to conspire against your purposes unknown?

No, don't be ridiculous. You're not important enough a figure to be the center of any such elaborate scheme. Weak, as far as emanators go. Painfully average, even as far as betas go. Unremarkable in status and career. All that threatens you is what you have long left behind.

“I do know him. Quite well, in fact.” Luocha muses, undisputed fondness in his voice. How close are they? The question lingers bitter on the tip of your tongue. It vibrates underneath your skin, wild and desperate and gods, you want to know so badly.  “Though he may deny it, he can be shy. You’re alike, in that way.”

“I am not shy,” you bristle. It’s your curiosity alone that keeps you in his company. 

“An argument best saved for another day. Let’s not get off track—Blade is an alpha, but he bears few of the typical mannerisms associated with his secondary gender, which makes this newfound attachment to you all the more significant.”

Progressively, throughout your conversation, you’ve been able to feel the wrinkles on your face multiplying and darkening.

“It makes sense, if you ask me. You’re quite the extraordinary individual,” Luocha says, drumming his fingers idly against the armrest.

“So how do I get him to stop?” you brush past his superfluous flattery with practiced indifference. He wants to fluster you, to see you squirm. It’s one of the ugly truths behind the chivalrous front he wears in polite company.

“Are you sure you want him to stop?” he inquires.

“What are you getting at?”

“If you truly wanted to no longer be the object of these behaviors, you would have no problem telling him yourself.”

You laugh, and it’s a cold and bitter thing. “Not all men take rejection well.”

“As I well know,” Luocha reminds you. He’s so haughty, so utterly confident that sometimes you forget he’s an omega, a demographic as subject to unwanted advances as any you are a part of. He stands up, empty glass cradled in hand. The sheer material of his robe billows around him like fine mist, treating you to the outline of his smooth, toned legs. Blade is more built, the thought comes to you unbidden. You squish it like the raspberries you juiced only a week ago on Luocha's kitchen counter. You wonder if the stains ever came out.

“Objectively speaking, you have more of a reason to hold your tongue around me than you do him. Yet, you hardly hesitate to make your displeasure known in my company,” he points out. “It’s not because of my secondary sex. You hardly ever remember that I’m an omega, unless my heat is soon.”

“And your point is?”

He seizes your chin, then tilts your head up until you’re forced to look into those grass green eyes. Cradled between his forefinger and thumb, you are left with nowhere else to go. You wonder briefly if it thrills him to do this because he is an omega. If he finds some kind of perverse pleasure in subverting the roles society espouses about his kind.

“You could have told him off on your own. Instead, you went out of your way to consult someone you deeply dislike, looking for another, less direct way of handling it. All of that implies some degree of care, whether you want to admit it or not.”

He’s right, and you hate nothing more than when he’s right.

“Thank you for your time,” you dip back into your customer service with a placid and empty drone, because you know how much he hates it. You say it to his chest, refusing to give him the eye contact. Unwilling to expend the effort. For plausible deniability, because you don’t know what you’ll find on his face. The air has grown balmy and cloying and fragrant. You stand up, and he steps backwards. “But I must be going, now.”

“How unfortunate,” Luocha coos as you awkwardly find your way around him, having been sandwiched between his body and the coffee table. “I was going to put the kettle on…”

—

The shroud of night has settled over the Luofu. A crescent moon winks down at you from the artificial sky, peering between the treetops. You’re laid on your back, on the concrete patio near the shed. 

Footsteps head in your direction. You already know who it is. There’s no one else that has that blistering, writhing aura. Blade comes to stand over you. His brows wrinkle in displeasure. You don’t know why. It’s not his patio that you’ve gotten your blood all over.

“You’re injured,” he says, frowning. He crouches over you. A pale thumb smears the drying crimson on your upper lip. Your entire face scrunches up, gnarled like a gargoyle, recoiling from the unexpected touch.

“Nosebleed,” you mutter. The space behind your eyes throbs in protest, accompanied by a fierce pressure at the bridge of your nose. All typical symptoms. The gifts bestowed upon you as Emanator unfortunately do not shield you from your allergies. To think, an Emanator could still be laid low by something as mundane as allergies. 

“Who gave it to you?” Blade looms a little closer, gaze steely.

“No one. Sometimes my allergies act up. That’s all.” you assure him, squinting irritably. You hope your judgmental flower will shame him out of your personal space, but he lingers.

“You should remain indoors, then.” he draws. He lifts his bloodied hand and looks at it, too contemplative for your liking. 

“I take medication for it. Just forgot today,” it feels wrong to justify yourself. He isn't owed an answer, but this is a rare moment. Blade showing such outright concern over something so novel is interesting (a more sentimental person might call it touching). Has his immortality rendered him incapable of distinguishing a few pesky allergies from a deadly ammonia? You can’t imagine someone so riddled with regeneration to register the difference between a gaping gash and a papercut. 

“Then remember to take them.” he advises coolly. 

“I will.”

You lay there, then, in silence unperturbed for a few moments. The hard ground is cool against your back. It’ll fix your aching spine, you’re sure. 

“Are you not going to get up?” Blade asks.

“No. It feels nice to be on the floor, sometimes.” you assure him quickly, lest he assume your nosebleed has robbed you of all mobility. He stares at you, blank-faced, but you somehow can tell he is skeptical. You pat the space next to you, a silent offering.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it. This rare creature, crackling with the energy of his divine “gift”. You don’t indulge in typical sentiments, and you spurn love and limerence for your own sanity, due to the madness you have seen both inspire. To adore is to give of yourself, to exhaust what limited energy you have left. Yet, there is no arguing the fact of his beauty. His hair pools like fresh slick pitch. Faint moonlight catches on the sable strands. His jaw cuts a sharp and handsome shape, eyelashes long and thick. He stares up at the sky, unreadable. 

“Kafka has no need of me in the coming days.” “It is… strange. The Stellaron Hunters are few in number, so our hands are always full. To be bereft of any responsibility… is rare.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

“No. It will leave me restless. And the silence will only give the mara room to spread. It’s better—more manageable when there is a task at hand.” Blade admits, a shiver in his voice.

“I do. I believe you are familiar with the place,” he says. That catches your attention. And makes you just a little nervous. 

“Do you even have anywhere to stay?” The Stellaron Hunters surely have a vessel of their own where he can lodge. You’re ultimately not too concerned. You shut your eyes and listen to the midnight breeze, feel the black of the night against your skin.

You turn to look at him, almost afraid to ask. “Familiar?”

“The merchant has opened his home to me. I will remain there for the duration of my… off time.”

Again, you are sorely tempted to question the exact nature and origin of their relationship, but it’s truly none of your business. You’ve long espoused a policy of isolation, but there’s no denying how thoroughly entangled you have become in them. Elbows deep. You’re not quite sure how it happened. They’re infiltrated your monotonous life, moved in so slowly that you didn’t even notice until this very moment. 

“Well. He’s not there most of the time, so it’ll be like having your own place,” You can’t imagine Blade as a homeowner, for some reason. It just invokes the image of him mowing a lawn in khaki shorts with that same, placid face he always wears. He’s too ethereal and strange to trim the hedges or fix a leaky faucet. Sometimes, you think he’d look more in-place if he levitated instead of just walking everywhere.

“I had lemonade the other day,” he says, and this fascinates you, because it is so very rare for him to initiate conversation about something so little.

“...And? Did you like it?” Perhaps it’s petty, but you already have a feeling that he didn’t. You hate to presume, but you think you have similar palettes. 

“...It was too sweet, and burdened by a lingering, chemical taste,” he confirms your vague conjecture and you very nearly laugh. Or make some sort of short, wry noise like a horse’s snort.

“Yeah. Ones that aren’t made from scratch tend to be like that.”

“And that is why you make your own.” 

“Exactly,” you lift your gaze from him and return it to the sky. “When you make something from scratch, you can make however you like. Ones you buy pre-bottled have too much sugar.” He hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing else.

The twinkling stars are no more authentic than the clouds which hover during the day. But you wonder how many far off stars he has visited across the span of his long un-life. How many civilizations he has seen toppled, how many lives have ended at his hands. What a terrifying beast Yaoshi has created. Yet, here he lay beneath a sky he has likely long tired of, humoring your purposeless requests for reasons unknown.

—

You’re tucked on the steps off the side door, head leaned back and eyes shut, drinking in the warmth of the artificial midday sun. Blade leans up against the wall next to you, arms crossed. You don’t blame him for staying in the shade, not when he’s always dressed so darkly.

You shouldn’t show your stomach to a known apex predator. Your instincts are tampered down, but you still curl your spine and lift your knees to your chest when you usually it on the stoop. You haven’t done it, today. Anxiety thrums in the space right behind your eyes. The scared animal inside of you writhes in his presence. You look at him, gaze by happenstance falling on the profile of his chest.

Breasts, you think stupidly, and laugh aloud. The noise is so sudden that you almost don’t realize it came from you. Blade looks down at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you're still too caught up in your own disbelief. Spending so much time with him has softened your skill, started to fry your remaining brain cells. He’s always been handsome. But you’ve started to too keenly note the bow curve of his lips, the narrowness of his waist.

And you hate, hate, hate proving Luocha right.

“What is it that you find so amusing?” Blade speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a scared dog or a lost child.

“Nothing,” you shut your eyes and tilt your head back, letting it thump against the top step. Blade inhales sharply. “Just remembered a stupid joke I heard a few days ago.” When you open your eyes, Blade has turned away, inspecting a row of gladiolus planted next to the nearby shed. The line of his shoulders has gone tense.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” you muse.

“Did you plant them?”

“No. I delivered the seeds. Only a week ago, I think. They wouldn’t have been able to sprout this fast.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Blade skates a finger over a bright orange petal. “That merchant utilizes his gift so shamelessly. Even while at the heart of his natural born enemy.”

“And it’ll all be for nothing if that damn cat comes and eats them,” you grunt. You’ev stumbled upon torn up patches of grass and bitten through flower patches, stems snapped and petals crushed. You briefly, in one of your pettiest and cruelest moments, nearly suggested Luocha plant lilies next. The callousness of your own thought had startled you into silence, so gladiolus it was.

“Ah. About the cat,” Blade begins. You blink, wide-eyed. A cold pit forms in your stomach, because—

“You didn’t,” you gape.

“I did not kill it,” Blade says sourly, clearly affronted by the assumption. “I brought it to Kafka. They seem to get along.”

The tension melts out of you at once. Your petty grudge isn’t worth the blood of an innocent animal. You let yourself fall back against the stoop. The edges of the stairs dig into your spine. 

“That makes sense,” you say, a touch wry.

Blade grimaces. “They send me images of the little beast every day I am not there. If Silver Wolf is to be believed, it ‘eats better’ than she does.”

Does Silver Wolf eat well to begin with? “That was kind of you,” you say instead. 

“Was it? Or was it cruel to the man who will wonder where his pet has gone?” Blade inquires. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by the possibility. 

You scoff. “I doubt he’ll even notice.”

—

You are natant in the dull haze of half-sleep. The soft scent of camelias and fabric softener and linens. A cloying warmth cocoons you, keeps you mired in a state of partial sleep. Burrowed beneath the comfort exists a nagging feeling of wrongness, like a pebble in your boot. You cling to the sensation, let it pull you from the inky, peaceful depths. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to breach the surface. It feels like ages by the time you pry your weary eyes open.

There’s a body crushed into you. An unyielding, solid mass of muscle. The scent of something charred wreathes around you. Your cheek is pressed up against a heartbeat, steady and strong. It would be comforting if you knew where you were, or who you were with.

Alarm, molten hot, jots down your spine. Shaken from your stupor, you begin to writhe. Your palms slap against the chest of the man beneath you. You brace yourself against him in an effort to pry yourself free.

An arm around your midriff tightens, and the panic grows. You lash out, snarl, a hand reaching behind you to grab onto the assailant’s wrist.

The room blurs, then. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you’re reoriented and pinned with minimal effort. Your eyes blow wide, gaze caught by those candlewick eyes. Blade’s hair is mussed from both sleep and the struggle. His lips are pulled into a snarl. Your gut squirms at the flash of those deadly canines—sharper than you’d imagined (he’s never bared his teeth at you).

“Stop,” he commands, low and throaty. You shudder, foolish hindbrain moved to obey the order. This, you realize, is what an alpha’s command must sound like.

As you lay beneath him, chest to heaving chest, the pieces of the previous night return to you in fragments and shades.

Blade came to your door at dusk’s end. The shuttles had shut down for the night. You let him in, quickly, before anyone could witness a known fucking criminal at your door. You fed him dinner, anyways. Spoke late into the night—about what you cannot truly recall. Somewhere around three in the morning, you must have nodded off. 

“Have you calmed down?” Blade asks.

“Yes,” you grumble, feeling thoroughly chastised despite his flat and empty tone. You attempt to dislodge yourself a second time, but Blade stops you fast. “Blade—” The beginning of a feeling you cannot quite name crawls up your spine, up the back of your skull. It’s a creeping, white hot sensation. A sudden deprivation of air. His eyes have closed. You feel your pulse spike. “Blade.” You try again. “Let me up.”

He draws a shaky breath.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

“What is there for me to understand?” you ask, voice a tepid little thing. He laughs. The sound is manic and bitter. When he opens his eyes, they’re hot enough to burn a hole in you.

“I… remember you,” he begins slowly. There’s a creeping breathiness there, you feel it under your palms, writhing inside of his ribcage. “When you are not there. I remember how warm your hands are, the smell of your sweat—the taste of when we are… together. And I crave it every moment we are apart. It’s—maddening.”

“What.” you’re taken back, all the sudden, to the sixth time Sunday called you to his office. A servant of the Harmony, you were, still protected by your naivete, still convinced by the smiling faces and open arms which surrounded you. A child. A seed, among the older and wiser trees in Xipe’s forests. 

You remember the exact shape of his lips when he said it—you remember how it felt. You feel the same way now, pinned like a little butterfly. Lost in the reeds.

“I remember you,” Blade continues, slower and calmer, now. Burning wood to dead charcoal. “When we are apart, you are all I remember, and the emptiness that exists in your shape is too much to bear. I need—” he licks his lips, his empty pupils blown so very wide.

“The mara becomes quiet, when we are together,” he whispers, like he’s sharing a secret. His eyes close. His forehead is a wide rash of heat, pressed against yours. He takes a single, shuddering inhale, breathing your air. 

And you—you’re still frozen there, caught up in the vice of his body and the couch. You stare emptily beyond him. His face settles into the crook of your neck. 

The lamplight flickers on and off. 

#oz write #hungering for hsr #blade/reader #hsr/reader

[twentyninth]

☆ ❝ 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞? ❞ ⋆ hsr x reader

synopsis. whenever he wants to taste you so bad ...

warnings. cervix eating, afab!gn!reader, face sitting, dom!character, they/them pronouns are used on reader, squirting (done by reader), overstimulation, fingering

author's note. just finished a documentary on a serial killer then wrote an essay with my own free will

pairings. dan heng, blade, luocha, jing yuan, sampo, welt, caelus x afab!gn!reader / fem!reader (take this however you like because i still use they/them on reader but they're afab :p)

dan heng is just messy asf, like probably his first time too, never really has had gotten the chance to ever eat anyone out. kind of was too busy to do that. but when you offered, he couldn't help but think of how you'd be straddled atop his chest, and his tongue just went deeper and deeper into your sensitive hole, and honestly would slurp your aftermath all up after with no shame. the loud sounds of him licking up all your cum didn't help the embarassment. but he pushed his thoughts away and finally got you straddled onto his face, and pleasure was all that was on his mind. the taste of your sweet honey just made him wanna indulge so much deeper inside you. your velvety walls clenching around his snake-like tongue was a good enough sign he'd get to taste such sweet bliss again.

type of guy to overstimulate the hell outta you just for all that essence. he has never tasted anything better. probably would finger you while you sit on the motel bed you rented for a few measly 10 thousand credits. becomes so greedy when his mouth is finally latched onto your hole just begging for you to come. after a while of eating you out, he'll just know where your g-spot is, would go so far to even say his tongue memorized it, and the taste. and he just can't get enough of it. and after everyday as your trailblazing mission is ongoing, whether you'd be away from him at the moment or just right beside him, he already misses you and your pussy so much :(

caelus is def a big sweetheart about it. even though you think he wouldn't be the one to ask, he would. "hey i've been a little stressed lately, can you.. sit on my face and let me treat you right?", and can't help but be a little messy with it, when you finally are on top of him. your hole is right there, wet and ready for him. he's still so blushy, shy and nervous about it. but as soon as he gets a taste of such bliss, he can't help but get more, and more, and more. as soon as he felt your cum on his tongue he couldn't help but want more! he doesn't mean to overstimulate you :(( he just wants more of that tasty sweetness!

does it after trailblazing missions specifically, his thoughts do lowkey get to him while on the job, probably jerked off to the idea of eating you out, or you giving him a blowjob, but that's another story, for another day, not tomorrow, not the day after, some day. anyways, he definitely likes the idea of doing it publicly, the adrenaline of someone catching you in the bathroom with your boyfriend's mouth filled with lust and hunger, he'd keep going if that ever happened, literally just wants everything we can harvest out of you. at first he does like to tease with a bit of fingering and kitty licks while you're blindfolded. your thighs slowly choking him is such a relieving feeling to him, he can't wait to feel that exotic bliss on his tongue.

cw: public-ish sex

sampo will not hesitate to tease the living hell out of you, does it everyday, and any day. and is not shameful at all, will ask you to sit on his face with confidence. after all the teasing is over though he will be messy with it. lowkey wants you to fuck his face with your pussy slowly because it feels that good. his nose literally covered in your wetness because of how deep his tongue is in, or how your forcing his face to get closer, as you're ab to cum!! also the kind of guy to finger you while he eats you out.

loves doing it in an alleyway in belobog especially. just indulging the hell outta your pussy while others just watch as he marks what's clearly his. his gloved finger so deep inside you, so deep inside your pussy and he just had to have such long and slender fingers, as he kept licking your blushing clit, and he couldn't help but moan into your pussy too <33 the vibrations just sent all the more pleasure into you. after that, he'll forcibly grab your thighs and put them atop his shoulders as he also sat you down on 2 small boxes stack on each other and eats you out even more. not afraid at all to overstim your poor hole. but how can he resist such ethereal tasting bliss of yours? it tasted so good he just couldn't get enough!

welt is very straightforward. only word that comes to mind, no shame, maybe a bit, but will ask you himself with pleasure to ask you to sit ontop of his face, or at least just let him eat you out. he's been so stressed after that trailblazing mission.. he's just gotta eat somethingg.... and you can't deny him forever so one thing led to another, he's ravaging in the taste of your hole, god.. why was it just so fucking addicting? the sticky taste of the sweet little honey you produced made him wanna cum, he is indeed stroking his cock as he eats you out, he's just that kind of guy!!

more into doing it in private, prefers that only he hears how good his tongue makes you feel. so long, and it just felt so good, his nose getting covered in the sticky essence, he didn't care anymore, he just wanted more and more. but would probably ask you if he can overstimulate you more LOL. if himeko like ever just comes in without knocking, he'll literally growl, and she'll be out in a jiffy, just.. can't get the image of a hungry welt eating his s/o's pussy like a homeless man who hasn't ate in days... is just certainly shocked, calm, collected, and cool; welt yang, was so easily undone and broken by his s/o('s taste yum yum yum)..

jing yuan has no mercy at all, and will ask you so nonchalantly, "hey, can you sit on my face i'm kinda stressed ;(" is the first text you see when opening your phone. is this really the dozing general of luofu.. asks you so many times actually, like when he's bored and lazing around he'll just ask you to sit on his desk while he eats you out. but dear fucking god— whenever you just came all over his tongue, why the hell did that taste so damn good?? so good he would literally eat you out everyday if he could just to have that 'snack'. and he wouldn't want anyone else's, yours was special, that's what he said. and honestly i see him to be the type that his eyes glow when he gets closer to his climax, and he is another one of the cock stroking while eating you out gang!!

whatever anyway, he'll pound the hell out of your pussy after anyway, don't worry! it's just 'till you can't move a damn muscle in your legs, kind of guy to just want to hold you down by your hips, or the plush of your thighs, he just wants you to hold still while he drinks the devil's wine. if he isn't stroking his cock while he eats you out, his hard cock will just be out in the open while he fingers and eats you out too <3. eats you out like a snack literally sometimes, because he acts like he didn't just eat you out half the time. like after getting you cleaned up and everything, he literally would just start asking "you want anything for dinner?", "huh? it's 1pm in the afternoon jing yuan—"

blade is really rough when eating you out. messy and rough. type of guy to softly bite on your clit/really rub his tongue against that spot tbh HLP.. overall is confident, "hey babe can i eat you out rq im aboutta go out" "huh??". has your legs on his shoulders and roughly brings your hole to his mouth, all that juice on his tongue is really what makes him distracted from anything else, like even if anyone were to walk in on you both, he wouldn't care, your sultry moans and you cumming all over his face is all that mattered. will finger you and eat you out because he likes it when you squirt your cum out, is in love with the idea. and right after probably would put you into a mating press and insert his dick so smoothly inside there <3

the type to say i'll wash you up after eating you out but ends up having sex in the shower and literally pounds the shit out of your hole.. again.. in the bed this time.. he gives the first impression of high sex drive, breeding kink blade, what can i say? anyways, will just be so glad to slurp all your cum up after, in love with the scent, smell, taste, anything about you, and he'd gladly say it out loud. just keep cumming all over his face when he eats you out and little bladies will be running everywhere :0

luocha, even if he is a doctor of some sort, he is either so vanilla with it, just a few kitty licks and fingering you, or rough as fuck and messy, no in between because it's either he's gonna make you cum all over his face or cream on his face, doesn't want anything in between. will be glad to finger you if he feels like he wants your cum to just squirt everywhere, mmm just sit on his face and let him do the rest. doesn't care if his hair gets messy, doesn't care if he's supposed to be somewhere right now, he just wants more of this.. essence. whatever it is, he wants more. and won't be pleased if he hasn't milked you of all of it.

doesn't care if anyone decides to walk in on you both either, but that doesn't mean he prefers public sex. just prefers these moments to just him and you. probably also has a breeding kink. while he fingers you, right before he indulges himself in you, and gets too lost and drunk on the taste, he's already daydreaming of mini versions of him and you. loves the idea sm<33 and is glad you are pleased by the idea too!! so he hopes you don't mind his rock hard cock will pound you after a few 7 rounds of eating you out! just for you <3

can't take the word pussy seriously had to replace it with hole for that and because i want this to be for everyone/every reader!!

#⤷ ﹒ ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა beep beep: a finished show! ♡ #hsr x y/n #hsr x you #hsr smut #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x reader smut #blade smut #hsr blade x reader #blade x reader #dan heng smut #hsr dan heng x reader #dan heng x reader #jing yuan smut #jing yuan x reader #hsr jing yuan x reader #sampo smut #caelus smut #welt smut

[lycheeejuice]

This game must know I have a belly kink it's literally feeding me content at this point...The Anti-Truth Serum that Ruan Mei feeds you is giving me many thoughts. What if Caelus was full but when he tries to say so it comes out as "please give me more" until he's stuffed? The part where he asked for more cake on accident...omg? Ruan Mei commenting on his appetite too- All he can do is accept food from others unable to refuse until his poor stomach is poking out from beneath his shirt.

#hsr hunger #hsr #hon//kai #stuffing #cae//lus #stuffing kink #the fact they even had sounds for when he swallowed the cake...it has me sfghsjkd

[inou-ie]

DEAL WITH THE DEVIL | HSR DEMON!AU PART1

pairing(s): demon!(kafka, jingliu) x sub!female reader

warnings: nsfw, ( kafka - dubcon, fingering, clit stimulation, somnophilia, mirror sex, bondage), (transfem!jingliu - facial, blowjob, rough sex, creampie), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, squirting

read part 2 here

men and minors dni

"Curiosity kills the cat" the saying that fits you well. Trying to summon a demon out of boredom to see what happens, you never thought it would actually work. It worked almost too well, actually. Not only one nor two came... and they just keep coming to you.

Now you're stuck with demons who refuse to leave you alone, tirelessly offering you different kinds of contracts until you eventually gave in. They all share the same goal: to have your soul... which seems to be impossible without them fighting over it.

So, to compromise, they agreed to share your body instead. Now, they take turns to avoid conflict, acknowledging the schedule you made for them and obeying your request to "get along."

KAFKA

"Little master, little master..."

As your eyes slowly fluttered open, a sense of disorientation washed over you. The room was dimly lit, casting eerie shadows across the walls, and your gaze immediately fell upon the large mirror in front of you. Reflecting back was an unsettling image that sent a shiver down your spine.

You sat naked on Kafka's lap, your skin flush against hers, the heat of her body seeping into yours. Your arms were bound tightly behind you, the restraints biting into your skin as they held you in place.

Your legs were splayed apart, each limb secured with the same pink strings that contrasted starkly against your skin, forcing them open in a display of vulnerability. The strings seemed to accentuate every curve and contour of your body, highlighting your exposed form in the most intimate of ways.

Kafka's presence behind you was palpable, her arms wrapped possessively around your waist, holding you firmly against her as she gazed at your reflection with hunger. Her eyes were dark with desire, a wicked grin playing at the corners of her lips as she relished in the sight before her.

Two of Kafka's fingers were buried deep within your pussy, their movements expertly massaging and stroking your sensitive walls with precision. Each motion sent ripples of pleasure coursing through your body, igniting a fiery heat that pooled between your legs, a damp warmth that only intensified with each stroke.

You struggled to piece together how you ended up in this position, your memory hazy and fragmented. All you could recall was the sensation of drifting off to sleep, only to awaken to this surreal scene.

As you tried to make sense of it all, the evidence of Kafka's ministrations was undeniable. A slick, slippery feeling enveloped you, betraying the fact that she had been pleasuring you for some time now. Your body responded instinctively to her touch, arching into her hand as she expertly explored your tight walls.

Kafka hummed softly behind you, a satisfied smile playing on her lips as she continued to finger her way deeper into your depths. Her movements were deliberate and skillful, each stroke sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. She gazed intently at herself in the mirror, reveling in the sight of her actions affecting you so enticingly.

Her eyes gleamed with mischief and desire as she watched your reactions, her own arousal evident in the way her breath hitched with each gasp and moan that escaped your lips.

"Little master, you're so adorable when you sleep... I couldn't help myself." Kafka purred into your ear, her voice dripping with desire as she trailed kisses all over your ear and neck. Her lips left a trail of fiery heat in their wake, igniting a fervent need within you as her fingers continued their relentless exploration, moving deeper and faster with each passing moment.

You whimpered in response, a soft moan escaping your lips as the sensations overwhelmed your senses. Your head fell back against Kafka's chest, seeking solace in her embrace as pleasure coursed through your body like a wildfire.

Suddenly, another pink string wrapped around your neck, its pressure constricting your airway and making it harder for you to breathe. Panic surged through you as you gasped for air, tears welling up in your eyes from the overwhelming mix of pleasure and discomfort.

"Kafka... wai– hmngh..." you managed to choke out, your words cut off by the tightening grip of the string around your neck. The sensation was suffocating, adding an edge of danger to the already intense pleasure that consumed you.

Despite your struggle for breath, Kafka showed no signs of relenting. On the contrary, she curled and twisted her fingers deep within you, hitting all the right spots with pinpoint accuracy. Each movement sent shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through your body, eliciting cries of pleasure and desperation from your lips.

"Shh, it's okay, I'll give you more." Kafka grinned wickedly, her eyes glowing with anticipation as she added another finger, her movements becoming even more relentless and precise. With each thrust, her fingers rubbed against your favorite spot with such delicious precision that it sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, making you shake your head in disbelief at just how good it felt.

But Kafka wasn't done yet. With her other hand, she reached for your pulsating clit, her touch gentle yet firm as she gave it the attention it craved. She teased it gently, her fingers dancing over the sensitive flesh before pinching it between her fingers, sending a jolt of sensation coursing through your body.

As she continued to move her fingers deep inside you, her pace quickening with each passing moment, Kafka's words rang in your ears like a tantalizing promise. "That's it, little master. Let go of yourself, let me feed on your desires."

And as if on command, you felt your control slipping away, your body responding eagerly to Kafka's expert touch. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you let out the dirtiest, most primal moan, the sound echoing through the room as your back arched and your hips moved of their own accord.

A rush of pleasure overwhelmed you, building and building until it exploded in a burst of ecstasy. You squirted all over the mattress and onto Kafka's hand, your release washing over you in waves as you surrendered completely to the overwhelming pleasure that consumed you.

But Kafka wasn't ready to release you from her grip just yet. With a firm hand, she held your head still, forcing you to gaze at your own reflection in the mirror while she continued to pump her fingers into your dripping walls with relentless determination.

"Look at how erotic your body is, little master." she chuckled, her long tongue tracing the shell of your ear. The sensation made you even more sensitive, your body quivering with anticipation as Kafka's words washed over you like a forbidden caress.

"I just came..." you whimpered, your voice barely a whisper as you tried to slide off Kafka's lap in a feeble attempt to escape the overwhelming sensations. But she held you firmly in place, another set of pink strings wrapping around your legs and spreading them apart even wider.

As if that wasn't enough, her hand tightened around your neck, adding to the pressure of the strings already wrapped around your throat. You gasped for air, the sensation both exhilarating and terrifying as Kafka exerted her dominance over you.

And then, just like that, Kafka pulled her fingers out, leaving you empty and achingly needy. You groaned in response, your dripping folds quivering with unsatisfied desire as you looked at your reflection in the mirror, your pussy trembling with need.

"Now, little master... I want you to cum only from your clit. You can do that, right?" Kafka cooed, her voice dripping with desire as she kissed your cheek and temple, inhaling your scent.

As you reluctantly nodded, a mixture of emotions flooded your senses. Tears of pleasure trickled down your cheeks and Kafka quickly wiped them away, her touch both comforting and terrifying.

"I want you to watch yourself closely," Kafka whispered, her voice laced with authority. "If I catch you closing your eyes, then I'll have to punish you." With a firm yet tender grip, Kafka pulled you up, preventing you from slipping down her lap in your weakened state. Her gaze locked with yours, a silent command to obey her every instruction.

"Don't melt yet, little master." Kafka's laughter echoed in the room, her amusement adding to your vulnerability. As her hand delicately spread your pussy open, revealing your hardening clit, you couldn't help but arch into her touch, surrendering completely to the pleasure and dominance she wielded over you.

With a gentle yet firm touch, Kafka's other hand reached down to tap your quivering clit with a single finger. "Watch, little master." she reminded you, her voice a soft command. Your teary eyes remained glued to the reflection, every movement of her fingers magnified in your vision.

You observed intently as she tapped your clit repeatedly, each touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your breath caught in your throat as she teased your entrance, dipping her finger slightly, so close yet just out of reach.

Struggling to steady your breathing, your chest heaved with anticipation. Just as you began to get used to the rhythmic tapping, Kafka's thumb pressed firmly against your clit, causing your eyes to widen in surprise. Your head instinctively threw back in ecstasy, a moan escaping your lips as you gritted your teeth against the overwhelming sensation.

Kafka maintained the pressure with her thumb, as if determined to crush the little bundle of nerves beneath her touch. Your senses were ablaze, every nerve ending alive with pleasure as she skillfully manipulated you to the brink of ecstasy. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, she released her hold, only to rub your clit between her fingers with a deft precision that left you gasping for breath.

You struggled to keep your focus, your resolve weakening with each passing moment. "Rub, rub, rub..." Kafka's voice murmured in your ear, perfectly in sync with her movements.

Your body writhed uncontrollably, caught in the throes of pleasure like a helpless kitten crying out for attention. Soft moans escaped your lips, each one a testament to the overwhelming sensations coursing through every fiber of your being. Your toes curled involuntarily, your entire being consumed by the exquisite torture Kafka subjected you to.

"Little master, I told you to watch yourself." Kafka's voice rang out, firm and unwavering when she noticed you closing your eyes, trying to block out some of the pleasure. The strings around your neck tightened, eliciting a groan of both pleasure and frustration from deep within your throat. With effort, you forced your eyes open, meeting your reflection with half-lidded eyes, your gaze glazed over with lust and desire.

"I can't... this is..." you attempted to protest, but coherent thoughts eluded you, lost amidst the overwhelming ecstasy that Kafka's skilled fingers invoked. She worked with precision and expertise, her fingers deftly rubbing your clit before catching it between her fingers to deliver gentle pinches and pulls that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your entire body.

It was too much... too much... toomuch... too– "Kafka... nngh!" you cried out, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over you, your pussy clenching around nothing as you released a torrent of arousal, splattering the mirror and mattress with your cum.

"More, little master... give me more!" Kafka urged and without pause, she continued her relentless assault, plunging two fingers deep within you with her free hand while simultaneously continuing to rub and tease your clit, driving you to new heights of ecstasy with each passing moment.

As your body surrendered to the overwhelming waves of pleasure, you melted into Kafka's lap, a puddle of ecstasy and desire. Each climax seemed to fuel the next, sending you spiraling into a frenzy of pleasure induced delirium. Drool escaped your parted lips, mingling with the tears of bliss that streaked your flushed cheeks.

"Can't order me to stop, little master?" Kafka's taunting words only added to the intoxicating mix, her grin a wicked challenge to your authority, knowing full well the extent of your vulnerability in this moment of ecstasy.

Kafka tilted your head gently, her touch bringing a sense of comfort amidst the overwhelming pleasure that consumed you. Her gentle smile calmed your senses as she leaned in, capturing your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. You moaned into her mouth as her long tongue explored every corner of your warm mouth.

Even as she kissed you, Kafka's fingers continued their relentless assault on your quivering pussy, her thumb rubbing your swollen clit with just the right amount of pressure to send waves of ecstasy. With her other hand, she teased and taunted your nipple, rolling it between her fingers with gentle force.

The intensity of the pleasure was almost unbearable, every touch sending you spiraling further into ecstasy as you squirmed weakly beneath her touch. But Kafka held you firmly in place with her strings, ensuring that you remained completely at her mercy.

"My master... how about belonging solely to me?" Kafka whispered against your lips as she pulled away, her voice laced with desire and possessiveness. "How about I get rid of those silly demons trying to get your attention from me?" Her wicked grin sent shivers down your spine as she licked and bit your lip sensually.

You shook your head slowly, tears welling up in your eyes as you gazed at Kafka with a mixture of longing and fear. You didn't want them to fight, after all. "No..." you managed to mumble, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing.

Kafka's gaze softened at your response, a hint of understanding in her eyes as she leaned in to kiss you once more, her hunger evident in the way she hungrily sucked on your tongue before pulling away. "Is that a command or a request?" she teased, her breath hot against your skin as she resumed her relentless assault on your senses.

"I get it... as long as you surrender to every one of my desires every time it's my turn, then everything will be alright." Kafka reassured, her words a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves as she continued to stimulate every inch of your exhausted body.

For hours on end, Kafka held you captive, her skilled hands and tongue expertly navigating every inch of your trembling form. From your clit to your pussy, and even to your perky nipples, no part of you escaped her relentless pursuit of pleasure. Your mind that was already teetering on the edge of sanity, eventually succumbed to the overwhelming sensations, shutting down completely under the weight of the ecstasy that engulfed you.

With a satisfied smirk, Kafka finally released her hold on your unconscious body, allowing you to collapse onto the bed beneath you. The marks left by her strings served as a stark reminder of the power she wielded over you.

"My weak little master." Kafka's voice was a soft murmur, laced with amusement and possessiveness. "I will spend every second of my scheduled day with you. I will not waste any time." With a predatory glint in her eyes, she positioned herself between your legs, her long tongue poised and ready to taste the remnants of your climax.

"Time for my meal..."

JINGLIU

"Slowly, human... no need to take it all." Jingliu's voice was cold, a command laced with amusement as you knelt between her legs, her fingers threading through your hair with a gentle yet firm touch, you felt a surge of anticipation coursing through your veins.

The weight of her thick length against your lips sent a thrill of excitement tingling down your spine, and you eagerly began to lick and suckle at the engorged head, savoring every drop of precum that oozed from the slit.

A low, guttural moan escaped your lips as you lavished attention upon her, your tongue dancing along every ridge and vein, your mouth eager to make her feel good. Jingliu observed you with a smirk, her gaze filled with a mixture of desire and amusement as she reclined, basking in the pleasure of your ministrations.

"So eager..." she murmured, her fingers tracing patterns on your scalp in a gentle caress, silently encouraging you to continue. Her gentle gestures never failed to ignite a fervent desire within you, urging you to please her in every way possible.

Driven by a desire to please this devil, you opened your mouth wide, your tongue swirling around the tip of her length as you attempted to take her whole. But the sheer girth of her hard cock proved too much to handle, and you found yourself choking on her thickness.

Jingliu's reaction was swift and decisive. With a grunt of disapproval, she pushed you away, her gaze piercing through you. "Foolish human..." she sighed, her voice tinged with disappointment. "Do you really wish to take all of me in?" Her hand gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her penetrating gaze.

"I want to..." you responded eagerly, your voice barely above a whisper, your desire evident in every word as you licked your lips, savoring the taste of her cock that lingered on your tongue.

Jingliu couldn't help but chuckle at your fervent enthusiasm, a smirk dancing across her lips as she stood up from her seat, her gaze fixed on you with a hunger that mirrored your own. Without hesitation, she reached out and grabbed your face, her touch both possessive and commanding.

"Then I will help you..." her smirk widened as if she had been anticipating this moment. With deliberate movements, Jingliu positioned herself in front of you, her throbbing cock in hand as she pressed it against your parted lips, urging you to open up. Without hesitation, you complied, your mouth welcoming her with eager anticipation.

"Your wishes are my command, no matter how absurd it is." With a firm grip on your chin, Jingliu guided her length into your mouth, each inch met with resistance as she carefully eased her way in. You could feel the weight of her arousal filling your mouth, stretching your it to your limits.

She continued to push herself deeper into your mouth, eliciting a slight gag reflex from you. But despite the discomfort, the overwhelming sensation of being filled by her was enough to send shivers of pleasure coursing through your entire body.

With a tight grip on Jingliu's hips, you held on for dear life as she guided her length deeper into your mouth, her hand still firmly planted on your chin. Her other hand caressed your head, offering a comforting touch amidst the overwhelming sensations.

"Good, just a little more..." Jingliu whispered, her voice a husky murmur that sent shivers down your spine. Soft groans escaped her lips as she felt your tongue tracing every inch of her inside your mouth, your ministrations driving her to the brink of ecstasy.

Gasping for air, you looked up at Jingliu with needy eyes, silently begging for more. She looked at you with an amused grin and without warning, Jingliu tightened her grip on the back of your head, pushing the remainder of her length into your warm mouth until your eyes nearly rolled back in your head from the sheer intensity of the sensation. You felt impossibly full, stretched to your limits as her girth tested the boundaries of your endurance.

Your throat rebelled against the intrusion, instinctively attempting to push her length away, but Jingliu held you firmly in place. "Do not spit it out." she ordered, her voice firm and unwavering as she observed the tears welling up in your eyes from the strain of taking her girth.

You obediently swallowed every drop of Jingliu's arousal, your throat working to accommodate the intrusion as you moaned around her, the sound muffled by the thickness of her cock. Jingliu remained still for a moment, allowing you to adjust to the sensation, her gaze fixed on your face with a mixture of amusement and admiration.

"A human so delicate yet so greedy..." she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she caressed your cheek, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin as she admired the sight of your mouth stuffed full of her cock. Despite the overwhelming fullness, you couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at her words, eager to please her in any way you could.

With a soft sigh, Jingliu pulled back slightly, granting you a moment to catch your breath before slowly pushing back in. She repeated the process, each movement calculated to avoid overwhelming you as she gradually increased the intensity of her thrusts. Her hand tangled in your hair, guiding you as you gagged around her, the sensation both exhilarating and humbling.

"Good, good... just keep taking it." she cooed, her voice dripping with satisfaction as she leaned back in pleasure. With each thrust, you clung to her girth, your mouth eagerly sucking her in, desperate to please her.

Jingliu's groans of pleasure only served to fuel your own desire, the sight of her closing her eyes in blissful abandon a testament to the pleasure you were providing her. Despite the strain on your throat and the tears stinging your eyes, you found yourself reveling in the pleasure.

As Jingliu continued to use your mouth for her pleasure, you couldn't ignore the relentless throbbing between your legs, the wetness dripping down your inner thighs a testament to your own arousal. Every thrust of her cock into your mouth only intensified your desire for her, fueling the burning need to feel her deep inside you, filling your tight walls and spilling her cum within you.

Sensing your desperate yearning, Jingliu's eyebrows narrowed in a predatory gaze, her grip on your head tightening as she manipulated you like a toy, bobbing your head back and forth with rough movements.

Her thick head repeatedly hit the back of your throat, eliciting cries and choked gasps from you, but you made no attempt to pull away, eagerly accepting everything she had to give.

"Those eyes... if you keep looking at me like that..." Jingliu trailed off, her voice thick with desire as she buried herself to the hilt, shooting thick ropes of cum into your throat with a loud grunt. As she pulled out, she sprayed the remaining cum onto your pretty face, her hand stroking herself as she breathed heavily.

As Jingliu tried to catch her breath, her cock twitched in the aftermath of her release, droplets of her essence falling to the floor in a silent cascade. Unable to resist the allure of her throbbing length, you leaned in without hesitation, your hand wrapping around her shaft as you took the tip into your mouth.

You sucked and licked at the slit, savoring every drop of her precious release, unwilling to let a single drop go to waste. Jingliu's eyebrows narrowed in a mixture of surprise and satisfaction as she watched you, a sigh escaping her lips at the sensation of your mouth on her cock.

"You... truly are a bottomless pit of pleasure," Jingliu murmured, her voice tinged with amusement and desire. "I have been too soft on you, it seems. Perhaps breaking you thoroughly will keep you satisfied... for once." Her smirk was both playful and predatory, she added with a sigh, a hint of regret coloring her words as she realized the extent of your insatiable desire.

"Should I go all out, human? Should I break you?" Jingliu's voice echoed in the air, a challenge hanging between you like a heavy cloak of anticipation. The desire to see Jingliu go rough on you and dominating you had always lingered in the back of your mind. She had always treated you with care and caution, treating you like a fragile glass that might shatter at the slightest touch.

"Command me to destroy you..." Jingliu urged, her smirk widening as she grabbed your face, her eyes ablaze with insanity. The devilish nature within her seemed to take hold, driving her to crave nothing more than to break you, to mold you into a being that would accept only her will.

Taking a deep breath, you met Jingliu's gaze with determined eyes, the intensity of your desire matching the fervor in hers. "Don't hold back, Jingliu... do what you want to me." you mumbled, your voice a whispered command as you caressed her cheek.

She leaned into your touch as a wicked grin spread across her lips. Jingliu accepted your command, acknowledging you as her master with a hunger that burned deep within her. In one swift motion, she grabbed you, pulling you up to stand before her, her strength evident as she pushed you against the wall with a force that left you breathless.

"Master... master..." Jingliu murmured, her voice a low growl of desire as she licked a trail along your neck, her tongue tracing the contours of your skin with relentless hunger. Her arm wrapped possessively around your waist, pulling you close to her as her other hand gripped her throbbing cock, aligning it with your slick entrance.

"I will train your body to accept me... no matter how rough." she whispered, her voice laced with a promise of pleasure and pain as she pressed the head of her cock into your tight, quivering entrance.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you felt yourself stretch to accommodate her girth, clinging onto her for dear life as she filled you with every inch of her thick cock. Jingliu groaned in ecstasy as she felt your tightness surrounding her, her grip on your hips tightening to keep you steady as she slowly sank deeper into your welcoming heat.

With one final, powerful thrust, Jingliu bottomed out inside you with a grunt, her body pressed tightly against yours as she pinned you against the wall. Every inch of her cock filled you completely, stretching your tight walls to their limit as you struggled to catch your breath amidst the overwhelming sensation of being completely dominated.

Your body trembled with anticipation as Jingliu wasted no time, she pulled back before thrusting back in, setting a relentless pace that left you gasping for air. Each movement sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, your tight walls clenching and unclenching around her cock in a desperate attempt to accommodate her relentless onslaught.

Starting with short, sharp thrusts, Jingliu gradually increased the intensity of her movements, each withdrawal leaving you craving more before she plunged back in with a force that left you reeling. With each thrust, she hit something deep within you, sending waves of pain and ecstasy crashing over you in a dizzying whirlwind of sensation.

Jingliu pounded you against the wall with bruising force, her grip on you unyielding as if afraid you might escape her grasp. The sound of your moans mingled with her grunts, filling the room with the symphony of your shared desire as the echo of flesh meeting flesh reverberated off the walls.

As you cried out in pleasure and writhed against the wall, your knees growing weak from the intensity of Jingliu's relentless assault, she noticed your struggles and seized one of your legs, lifting it up with a strength that left you feeling utterly exposed. With your leg held high in the air, Jingliu continued to plow your dripping hole with long, deep, and fast strokes, driving you to the brink of ecstasy with each relentless thrust.

"Cry all you want, master... we're just starting." Jingliu chuckled, her voice dripping with lust as she gazed at you with eyes full of desire and you found yourself struggling on the edge of consciousness. With one foot tiptoed and the other held high by Jingliu's strong grasp, you clung to her shoulders desperately, the sheer intensity of the sensations threatening to overwhelm your senses. "Cumming..." you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own moans.

In response, Jingliu increased her speed, driving herself deeper and harder into you with each forceful thrust. Waves of pleasure crashed over you as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of release, your body trembling in Jingliu's arms as juices leaked from your hole uncontrollably.

But despite your orgasm, Jingliu showed no signs of slowing down, her movements relentless as she continued to pound you into oblivion. With each thrust, she pushed you closer and closer to the edge, until finally, you felt the dam of pleasure within you break, your body convulsing in ecstasy as you squirted uncontrollably all over the floor beneath.

You shook your head weakly, attempting to push yourself away from Jingliu's relentless thrusts, but she held you closer, her grip unyielding as she locked eyes with you in a fierce glare. "Don't you dare..." she growled, her voice laced with a warning that sent a shiver down your spine.

Jingliu reached for your other leg, lifting you effortlessly off the floor and causing you to instinctively wrap your legs around her waist for support. Without a moment's hesitation, she resumed her hammering of your stretched pussy, the relentless pounding sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your battered body.

A small puddle of cum formed beneath the both of you, evidence of the intense pleasure you were experiencing. Your eyes grew hazy with exhaustion as she continued to ravage you without mercy, her cock filling you to the brim with each powerful thrust as if you were nothing more than a mere plaything for her pleasure.

Hours passed in a blur of sensation, each orgasm blurring into the next until you felt like you were on the verge of collapse. Your limbs grew weak, your mind numb from the relentless onslaught of pleasure, the only sensation you could feel being Jingliu's cock relentlessly pounding into your womb, filling you with her warm cum over and over again.

"Stay awake, master. You have to." Jingliu reminded you, her voice a cold whisper against your lips before she captured your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. As her thrusts gradually slowed down, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, grateful for the brief respite from the intense pleasure that had consumed you for hours on end.

But even as she granted you a short reprieve, you knew that Jingliu had no intention of letting you rest for long. She was planning to stretch every one of your holes until the last minute of her scheduled day with you, determined to claim every inch of your body as her own.

#inou works #hsr kafka #hsr jingliu #jingliu smut #kafka smut #kafka x female reader #jingliu x female reader #kafka x reader #jingliu x reader #demon au

[mtchacffinz]

hsr blade cravings

note!!! (AFAB! reader) just a heads up this is like, really filthy. just pure smut. mentions of objectification, degrading, reader is fucked dumb.. it's rough sex, basically (⁠・⁠–⁠・⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ

thinking about how blade would bend you over in every surface, fucking your cunny like an animal.. you're not very proud of it, but god fucking damn the way he thrusts and fucks you until your knees can't keep up is so addicting it's concerning. Blades words are so filthy. This actively contrasts the way he's gently caressing your cheek right now. "Tsk tsk, look front." The mirror is calling. You can see how disheveled your hair is, and how lewd your tears and drool are falling off your lips. His hot breath is on your ear, and you can feel his palms on your waist. Fuck, the way he traces intentions on your skin makes your cunt throb with impatience.

His hunger is insatiable. For someone who had lost all desire to live, he thinks hard of a way he to angle your legs making every thrust unreal. Blade reaches the most unknown parts of you, making you grip and scratch the sheets yourself. You could barely make out any words, and he's already fucking you raw deep within that cute hole of yours. His thrusts are relentless, and his grip on you was iron. All you could do was whine pathetically which each slow drag he teases out of your lips.

Pathetic pathetic pathetic! You can't even keep yourself sane under him, nor can handle his undivided attention, how can you reach equal stature now?

Blade hears you beg and beg, this only makes me wipe away your tears. Didn't you want this? To be bent over, fucked raw.. humiliated, used? You were the one who offered him a fuck toy, you gotta prove your worth by not breaking so early. But you have to admit.. you came so much, too. Everytime he pulls out, splotches of his and your cum spill out almost immediately, leaving a trail that slowly drip lewdly. His tip would tease your sensitive nub, grinding over it ever so slowly. Get a grip, (Y/n)!

Your fucked out face is a feast in itself.

Your pussy invites him so sweetly. No need to go slow, who are you anyway? You're just his fuck toy. Nothing but his fuck toy. Blade would grab your waist and pump you into his cock until he came. He'd return you back to where you came from with cum oozing out of your hole. Maybe he's even going to be nice enough and brand you with his teeth. Everytime you hear him say such words, your walls would clench him so good he can't help but fuck you harder. His fingers would always find their way to your mouth, letting out those muffled moans out of your lips. Fuck, you're really hot.

Have mercy on him, will you? His back is so red from all the scratches you give him. No doubt he likes it, even if you draw blood. You'd chase his lips so avidly while his fingers are railing your insides. You don't have to worry what to do, because he already knows what you want. You're a whore who knows nothing but the shape of his cock inside you, and a slut who'd get on her knees just to get the release on her tongue.

He's so cruel.. oh so cruel. Sometimes he fucks you so good he'd leave you lagging and trembling in the sheets. He'd stare at you just to see how much of a mess he made you— whilst you don't even know whats going through his head. Does Blade like it? Does he find amusement in it? You can't think.. you can't even speak straight.

Blade suddenly leans into you, propping your legs into his frame. His lips were in your ears. You can hear him whisper something.

"Stay with me a little longer, will you?"

..Was that an answer?

in my mouth NOW. (FINALLY EDITED WOOOOOOOOO)

#hsr x reader #hsr smut #blade x reader #hsr blade #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail blade #honkai star RAILED BY BLADE #can you guys tell im ovulating