Lá Bealtaine

([l̪ˠaː ˈbʲal̪ˠt̪ˠənʲə])

'the bright or yellow day of Beltane' - a time of fire and fertility

It started with a touch. A simple interaction; but it sticks to the back of his mind and the heat of your hand lingers, a remembrance that he can't shake.

He'd returned to the dingy bowls of the hideout, his boots echoing over the well-worn floor as he made his way to his customary seat; unaware of the blood that oozed from the strip above his nose. Legs and arms are heavy as he slots himself into the chair, his eyes drooping closed as he leans his dark head against the cushions.

Two weeks.

Choso's younger brothers were killed two weeks ago. Leaving him alone; adrift in his loss, his failure as an elder brother. The remembrance of them stung in the morning was an ache by afternoon, but in the night's darkness it burned.

He will have his chance, he reminds himself, furrowing his brow; reaching for the faint traces of the other six who need him to press on, and the hollow twinge of the three who need vengeance. The 31st is only fourteen days away; he can wait. He can–

The pressure of the sudden touch makes him jerk; coal dark eyes snapping open, searching for the source. You're standing above him, hand outstretched, the pad of your thumb delicately catching the long forgotten drip of blood against his cheek.

"You shouldn't touch that," he says, voice gruff in the vacant emptiness of the space; but he doesn't shift, meeting your frank gaze unblinkingly.

"Oh?" you question, swiping the sullied digit across your pants, tacking the deep crimson into the material of your jeans.

"It's poison," Choso clarifies. The spot you'd stroked your thumb down is tingling. Exhaustion, he muses, itching his nails into the thick fabric of his loose pants. He's imagining it; there's no other explanation.

"You're not going with the others?"

What? How can he? They're dead. Ah, no. He's not thinking clearly. You don't mean his brothers; you mean Geto.

"No," he quips, lifting the back of his hand to his cheek, wanting to quell that spreading warmth that you've left him with.

"Then you don't need this, right?" You gesture to the mess of game pieces and the forgotten board that is scattered across the low table in front of him. He shakes his head and you begin the steady process of tidying up, collecting the mismatched jumble into your arms, folding the rest into the tattered box before you step away.

Choso closes his eyes again, steadying his breaths, finding the pulse of the blood that thrums within him. Nothing is out of place. So why does his cheek feel like it's on fire? There's no reason for it. Is he this starved for a connection that he's latching onto the first interaction he receives?

His onyx eyes follow you as you walk across the matted flooring. You own this space; have struck some kind of deal with Geto and the others, permitting them to come and go, quietly cleaning up their messes, and ducking out of sight when they gather within the confines of the darkness; talking through the plans, the ins and outs of the sealing and the massacre that they hope to spread throughout the underground station of the pre-ordained prefecture.

In the grand scheme of things you're nothing. Why waste energy focusing on you? It won't matter in fourteen days.

The clink of the cup on the table rattles him out of his thoughts and Choso peers into the depths of your clear gaze once more. "What is it?" he queries, running a broad hand down his face, hoping the pull will make him forget the persistent warmth that's radiating from the spot you'd touched.

"You look tired. Drink that and get some rest."

"Giving orders now?"

"Sure," you grin, cocking your head at Choso's curled lips and wrinkled nose. "That's a good one. Like any of you would ever listen to me."

What's this called? Self deprecating humor? Well, whatever it is, Choso doesn't enjoy the brittle tone your voice has drifted into. It doesn't suit you and that low annoyance that's been brewing under his skin is coming closer and closer to the surface. His fingers are on the cup before he can properly sort through his mismatched emotions, but he doesn't miss the lift of your lips when he gulps the scalding tea down his throat.

Why does he care? You don't matter. You're no one to him.

"Easy," you tut, shaking your head at his sharp gaze. "You'll burn yourself."

So? He'd rather feel something burn than linger into the uneasy pull of an ache.

Choso looks for you when he enters, pressing past the others. You're tucked toward the back, brows creased and head down. It's a smart move, but that doesn't mean he likes it.

"We have a few minutes," Geto announces to the gathering, dark eyes bright as they fall on his impassive face. "And Mahito is always late."

There's an implication behind it, but Choso opts to ignore that uneasy instinct, already turning. He's just going to ask you for tea; that's all. When you spot him, you smile and that spot on his cheek flares, remembering the sweep of your thumb.

"Lucky you caught me," you tell him, hands busy with the rattling cups. "I was about to go."

He narrows his eyes, watching the curve of your neck, the stretch of your fingers, and the uneasy twitch of your shoulders. This sort of existence doesn't suit you. You're the antithesis of this; normal, kind, unabashedly human. So why do you…

"Why do you let them––us, stay?"

You lift your head, blinking at his obsidian surveyance. "What am I supposed to do? Say no? Not like I put an advertisement on the door: seeking dangerous men and nefarious spirits, inquire within. I'm not wanting to die, you know? Besides, it's not all bad."

"Name one thing that's not bad about this," Choso demands, his tone clipped.

Why? Why does he care? You're not someone he can save. There's no room for you. You aren't family.

"Only one thing? Well, that's easy," you continue, the steady lull of your voice jerking him out of his musings. "You."

Choso shakes his head, openly scowling at your answer. "Me?" he sputters, sucking his teeth and pressing his clenched fists into the long table that you stand behind.

"Yeah," you confirm, pouring the steaming water over the leaves, wafting the fragrant essence of the tea between his clenched jaw and your ducked head.

"I don't… that is...I..." Choso begins, but fumbles into silence when he catches sight of your eyes, half hidden behind the sweep of your lashes. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. "You're strange," he finishes, huffing a belabored sigh between his pursed lips, but when you laugh he can't help his faint smile.

It will feel disloyal later, that burst of momentary happiness, but right now he doesn't mind the distraction; cupping the yunomi between his palms, catching your fingers before they can pull away, enjoying the warmth you transude into his chilled hands.

Nothing holds. Choso knows this better than most. All things, given time, change. It is an inevitability. Something he's known intrinsically, and clung to, all those years; when the only constant was the beating of his brother's hearts beside him. But change rarely announces itself, content in its own emergence; the omnipotence of its bite.

Something has shifted.

"You didn't go again?" You ask one night, sitting beside him, a cooling mug between your fingertips.

"Didn't see the need," he tells you, one of his outstretched legs brushing against yours.

"You're different… you know that?" A smile hidden within your words.

"So are you." He likes that, he thinks. He likes it more than he should.

"Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

You bite your lip and he watches the press of your teeth, hoping you'll split the skin.

"Come closer and I'll tell you." You bargain, coyly shaking your head.

"I'm close enough and I don't like games," he grumbles, hoping you won't leave it at that, because it is true that he doesn't like games, and this feels like a game of give and take.

"Please?"

There's something intoxicating about that gentle sound and he turns, wordlessly following your crooked finger. He towers over your seated form, but you don't let that imbalance hang, hands tugging against the white of his shirt, urging him to kneel between your spread legs. When he settles, you curl your fingers against his jaw, smoothing that blistering heat over his icy skin until he's pressing forward, resting his heavy forehead against yours.

You're so warm, he inwardly gasps, his breaths coming in pants. So warm he fears he might grow addicted to this heady intimacy. "What do you want?" Choso asks, the deep timbre of his voice breaking.

"You." It's such a simple answer; how like you.

"I am here," he replies, half drunk on the feel of your skin.

"Yes, but what if I told you I want more?"

That question casts him into the darkness. He's unused to this; doesn't know what to do, what to say; he's been sealed for so long, too long, and he feels wobbly, lightheaded, but he tries to reach, his fingers grasping at the base of your neck, pulling you toward... toward…

The clatter of the front door startles you both, and he's on his feet, eyes wild as they look down on your parted lips, and the furrowed confusion of your brow. Your hands are still upturned, waiting for his.

The others step into the space and when he blinks again you're already gone, your chair vacant, your warmth evaporating into the unfeeling cruelty of the chilled air. Shit, Choso curses, grinding his teeth.

Something has shifted; it will be impossible to tear himself away from you now.

It's only been a day, but he can't stop staring at you. He doesn't hide his blatant gaze, obsidian eyes tracking each step, hungrily snapping to yours each time you come near. You do nothing to lessen this itching want that's raging within him, leaning close, pressing your hand against his shoulder as you gather the discarded cups that are scattered between them, asking him if there's anything else he needs, your breath hot against his ear.

He's unsure if he likes this.

But each time you shift away he wants to drag you back.

When they leave, used to his excuses, and his protestations that as long as the mission doesn't involve Yuji Itadori or Nobara Kugasaki he's uninterested, he stands; head turning, searching for you.

Ah. There you are.

He's against you in an instant, stiff hands cupping you against him, greedy to touch, to hold you. You squirm, a laugh bubbling from your lips, swatting his wide palms from the tempting swell of your hips. "What's gotten into you?" As if you don't know.

"Tch," he scolds, "you've been toying with me all evening. You said you wanted more yesterday, so show me."

You breathe out a chuckle, bemused by his enthusiasm and take his hand in yours, leading him down a hallway. He's never been back here, but he follows, trying to steady the thudding of his heart. Controlling his life's blood is second nature to him, so why does this feel like it's a losing battle today?

The room you open is dark, but he can make out the shape of a futon, stark against the mats, and his eyelids flutter, too overwhelmed by the realness of this befuddling situation to look. To distract himself, he pulls you against the slope of his chest, splaying his fingers against the sweep of your collarbone. You twist in his loose hold, folding your arms around his powerful neck.

"Do you still want this?"

Choso unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, gulping down a wavering breath. "I already told you," he begins, his voice gravel, "show me more. Show me what else you want to do with me."

"Can I kiss you?" you inquire, dipping your head enticingly, catching his wandering attention, urging him nearer. He doesn't answer, electing to tap his lips against yours, clumsily pressing until the tip of his nose digs into your cheek. It's easy to feel your heartbeat like this, and he wraps his arms around your lower back, eliminating the meager distance that was trapped between your heaving chests.

You let him steady himself, careful to keep your movements slow, but the squish of his face and the jerk of his hands tugs a bated humph of discomfort from you and he breaks away, elegant brows crumpled as he searches for the source of your distress.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you amend, smiling at his obvious pout. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Hmm?" Choso questions, stroking a palm up your spine, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth when you draw in a gasp.

You cup your hands beside his ears, fingers sinking into the dark tangles of his hair as you lure him back to your parted lips. "Open your mouth."

He does as he's told and you mold him against you, lapping your tongue over his, earning a shuddering moan and a sharp caress as he coils his hand around your throat. It's easier this way and Choso steadily follows your lead, mimicking your sucks and teasing bites. Teeth clash when he reaches for more but he eases the sting with a flick of his tongue, and you nibble his lower lip in retaliation, pleased he's so malleable.

Your fingers fall to the sash that rests above his stomach and he grunts when you pull at it, easing it away with a stable unwinding. His breaths are heavy against your kiss shined lips, but he keeps perfecting his new found techniques, sweeping chapped skin until it's worn smooth by the wetness of your tongue. His own hands are preoccupied with your neck and the gentle underside of your jaw, fingertips pressing until you can sense the pound of your heart within his grasp.

"What are you trying to do?" you ask between his frantic presses. "It's like you wanna match my pulse, or something."

"Worry about yourself," he grouses, ill-pleased with your answering laugh. "It's going to take forever if you go that slow."

You shove your palms against his chest and he stumbles backwards, his booted feet loud against the heavy mats, dark eyes flashing up at yours as his face falls into a deep-seated glower. "The hell! What was... why did you…"

His angry retorts melt into nothingness when you fling your shirt over your head, sending the thin fabric fluttering to the ground. The sudden exposure leaves him gaping, unsure of himself once more, but you ease the shock, grasping his limp hand in yours as you guide it over the dip of your stomach, and up the flow of your side.

"Let's play fair, huh?" you tease, tapping a kiss to his cheek, careful to land it in the same spot your thumb had touched a week ago. Choso nods, obsidian eyes wide as his fingers trace over your goose-prickled skin. "Alright, well, it's your turn."

His gaze snaps back to yours, whisking over your face; as if he's searching for some kind of answer in the lift of your nose, or the plushness of your lips. Whatever it is, he seems to have found it because he ducks his head to yours, resting his brow against the crown of your temple, hands lifting to his own clothing, making quick work of the intricate knots and folds of the fabric.

The gleam of his skin in the moonlight takes your breath away, and you reach for him as he eases the black off of the white, sliding your warmth over the coldness of his bared pectorals. He's smooth; skin as soft as freshly cleaved talc, or a scattering of downy feathers, and you keep stroking until he's shaking under your touch, his exhales unsteady against your face.

"I think I have more blemishes on my fingers and arms then you do," you tell him, tracing an outspread hand against his muscled abdomen.

"I'm... this is a new manifestation," he answers, hoping the strangeness of him, of his half human, half cursed being, won't drive you away.

"Hmm," you nod, pulling him down for another kiss. "It feels nice."

He's slow to undress. Not because he doesn't want to see more of you, he's simply distracted, too focused on touching what bits of you are revealed; the arc of your hips, the tipped buds of your breasts, and the line of your legs. But you're like water; slipping through the gaps of his fingers, leaving him wanting, unsatisfied with his fragile hold.

When the last slip of clothing is off, he waits, his cheeks flushed and mouth dry. "Now what?"

"Do you want me to touch you first?" you ask, that tantalizing smile lifting your lips.

"No," he asserts, shaking his dark head. "I want to learn you before that...so show me."

"You're very unusual." Tilting your head as you take his hand, leading him to your futon. "You know that?" you continue, tumbling him over you as you splay across the unblemished sheets.

"Says the woman who is letting me between her legs," Choso smarts, finding your lips in the gathering darkness. "Stop stalling; show me."

With a pleased sigh, you reach for his hand again, looping your fingers around his as you guide him to the juncture of your thighs. You work one away from the others, gliding it along the ridges of your folds, showing him how you like to be touched. After his initial gawping and mystified rumblings of, 'so wet,' and half croaked, 'fucks,' he shifts closer, easing onto his haunches as he curiously follows your lessons.

"There," he hisses, onyx gaze catching your twitching stomach and jerking hips. "Teach me how to do that."

You work him to that apex, using your other hand to lift the slippery hood of your clit, showing him how to press and tap against the spongy nub. He's a quick learner, his eyes falling from yours to watch the flutter and quaver of your cunt.

"Move your hand," he tells you, resting his lips against the hollow of your neck, his tongue lapping over your pulse. When you untwine your fingers from his he waits, lips too busy sucking a bruise into your skin; reaching for that unsteady thump of your heart.

Bump-bump-ba-bump.

Yes. This will do. He's caught the rhythm; can almost sense the flow of your blood, and see the surge of your clit under his touch.

The next frig of his digit has you gasping out his name, legs unfurling, knees shaking beside his ribs, your head flopping back onto the futon with a dull thump as you arch into his hold. Choso reapplies the pressure, adding the pad of his thumb, leaving it opposite his seeking forefinger, squeezing until you're clawing your blunt nails down the sheets.

"You look good like this," he smirks, looming over your heaving figure, licking his wet tongue along the valley of your breasts. "What else can you show me?"

Your fingers' grip into his hair and you yank him from you, one brow delicately arched as you take in his irascible scowl. "You could put your mouth to better use…"

There's no need to elaborate, and he's wedged between your thighs before you can fully blink, ravenous lips slurping kisses and bites into the tender skin; he's asking another question, but you can't hear when he's touching you like that, his fingers doggedly pressing at your clit, jerking more moans from your throat.

"Wh-what?" you ask, breath stolen before it's past your quivering mouth.

"I said," Choso pants, lifting his inky head and fixing you with a dazed stare. "I can feel your heartbeat."

"Does that matter?" you laugh, popping onto your elbows to regard him inquisitively.

"It helps," he answers cryptically and you jab your toes against his arm.

"Helps with what?"

"You'll see. Do you care if I experiment?" He lifts his fingers from you, sucking the dripping pads into his mouth as he waits for your answer.

"Knock yourself out," you gape, biting your lip between your teeth.

His dark eyes glaze before he averts them, an appreciative smile gentling his sharp features. "Good," he replies, easing one bent leg over his broad shoulder, sparing you a last glance before sealing his lips to your throbbing folds.

It starts slowly; a deep shudder that seems to radiate from your core before pooling against your extremities, making your fingers twitch and your muscles spasm incrementally. But Choso is mindful of the power that he's found, and he eases you onto his tongue, helping you to relax with steady sucks, avoiding that all important button that is distending above his nose. He can almost hear the rush of your blood, can sense where to press with each swell of your slick folds, and he follows unquestionably; pleased he can lose himself in this, in you.

He taps his thumb against your entrance, eyes opening, searching over the curve of your breasts to see you, to watch what kind of expression you'll make when he finally breaches this boundary. The sheer heat of you takes him aback, and he groans, his low voice vibrating over your twitching cunt, and you reward his elation with another moan, his name falling from your lips.

What is this?

He's drowning and all he's done is taste you. Will he die if this goes further? Or will it burn? Lapping away the remnants of his regret until there's nothing left of him but splintered bone.

"Choso," you breathe, fingers latching into his wayward hair. "More, please… it's not enough."

He rotates his thumb before easing it out, making room for the wide push of his index finger, tongue lifting to swirl around the pulsing nub of your clit, and teeth grazing until you're squirming.

"There!" you cry out, bucking into his open mouth. "Oh, god… I... I can't––"

Something inside you shudders. He can feel it in the comforting thump of your heart and it makes him clutch you to him, his own hips rutting against the edge of the futon as he finds himself awash in the sheer intoxication of you.

Fuck. Is it supposed to feel like this? Like he's half himself and half you? Or is he simply drunk on the rush of your blood?

Your cunt sucks his finger deeper, gummy walls pulsing in time with your heart as he gulps down your essence, tongue greedily catching it before it has time to drip onto his upturned wrist. It's good. It tastes so fucking good.

He's so winded by the sensations that he barely notices you pulling from him, his dark head lolling over the crinkled sheets, an inaudible moan slipping between his clenched teeth. Choso doesn't resist when you ease him upward, warm fingers tracing up his heaving body as you press him onto his back. Only when you press a kiss to his fevered temple does he find himself, eyes bleary in the darkness.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, straddling his hips, your hand reaching for his straining cock, palming some of the leaking pre-cum over your fingers as you stroke him. "I can't wait… I want you… can I? Choso?"

This part will burn, he thinks, helping you to hold yourself steady, eyes slipping closed when he feels the slick heat of you gliding teasingly over his tip. When you sink down, his back arches, and he hopes that the whispering shadows, the lingering remnants of his guilt, will be tossed onto this fire you're stoking. Your hips still when they reach his base, legs twitching around him, your nails catching against his smooth skin, working nicks into the clean slate.

You're clutching onto him like he's the only thing tethering you down, and he opens his shuttered eyes to watch, hoping he can glimpse you past the smoldering of his want. You're beautiful, he thinks, hand lifting from your hips to fiddle with the necklace that sits around your neck, admiring the glint of metal in the gloom.

He wishes he could see more, that he could wait a little longer, but he wants to put an end to this ache; he wants to burn.

The lift of your knees leaves both of you gasping, and Choso stifles a moan, legs tensing restlessly under the steady push and pull you're establishing over him. It's so warm inside you, and he can feel the thrum of your blood again, so he tries to match his to yours, controlling his pulse, right down to the multiplicity of his cells, eager to feel that potent tug of release once more.

"Does it feel good?" you ask, leaning back so he can admire his engorged cock as it plunges in and out of your sodden pussy.

"Do you have to ask?" he grunts, lifting a hand to your breast, tweaking the tender bud of your peaked nipple between the knuckles of his fingers.

When you call out his name again, he snatches you to him, dragging you to his parted lips as he digs his heels into the futon, rutting into you until you're squelching lewdly around his pistoning cock. The world feels like it's narrowing; the shadows lessening as he engulfs himself in you, his teeth working bruises into your neck, your shoulder, the tops of your breasts, anywhere he can reach; but it's not enough.

With a huffed groan he's gathering you into his arms, robust thighs helping him to flip you onto your back, hands splitting your legs as he drives himself back into your welcoming heat. It's deeper in this position. He can feel more of your twitches and pulsations as he steadies his arms beside your ears, bracing himself over your prostrate form.

"You want me to touch you again, don't you?" he asks, voice broken. "Do you want me to touch your clit? Will that make you cum for me? Will it?"

"I-I can do it," you smile, easing your fingers between your grinding bodies, knees spreading so he can watch. "Tell me when," you murmur, head dropping as you arch, slipping him further.

"Now," he groans, grabbing your jaw, forcing your lips to his as he slams his cock into you, setting himself alight; easing the incessant tug of his guilt until it's a blunted thrum resting close to his heart.

When you shatter around him, he follows, wholly caught in the ebb and flow of his release; lost in the depths of this unsteady solution.

He stays with you through the night, eyes following the line of your body as you sleep. His hands are cold, he thinks, easing them beside you, but not for much longer.

The 31st is only four days away.

"Did he question you? Ask you for anything?" Geto's words are lanced with care, his voice honey sweet as he steeples his fingers, peering at you with an avariciousness that makes you shake.

"He didn't. I doubt it will happen again. I didn't...I don't want to...to… hurt––"

"What? Hurt him? He's a half-breed monster. His feelings don't come into this. Nor should yours; you have a family to think of, a mother who's an invalid, a brother who can't be depended upon, a father who's a drunkard; too far gone to notice, or care, his eldest is missing; hasn't attended her college classes in weeks... and your sister. Well, she's still a child... much too young to suffer from your mistakes, don't you think?"

"You're the monster," you grit, hands folded into your lap, nails pressing until blood wells under your fingertips.

"Perhaps," he smiles. "We'll be out of your way soon enough. Let me know if you show any signs of impregnation, would you? Any spawn you whelp will be useful; very useful indeed."

notes: long time no see, huh? i was gonna name this something else, and i know the dates i'm describing don't match with the sabbat, but Beltane felt like a smoother fit.

this fic has been posted on AO3 & my tumblr: palbabor-writes