Fragrance

“… I’m fucking sorry?” Artoria (Caster, she who chants, resident fairy of paradise) stares at you with open confusion, slowly lowering her alligator clips.

A harsh reaction, perhaps, but it is not the first time you’ve run into cultural differences with the fairy, so you don’t take it personally. “You guys don’t have scent glands, right? Your scent is so muted it gets drowned by everyone else’s. I have no idea what you actually smell like. So: can I smell you?”

She gives you a weird look, clearly baffled by your request, but she gets up to sit on the bed next to you, extending a hand in your direction. She’s a homie like that.

You take that offered hand and, gently, press your nose against her wrist. Had she been human, there would be a slight bump there, hosting her glands. As it stands, the skin is flat against her flesh, precisely shaping her muscles and her bones.

“So?”

“I can’t tell.” It’s so odd! You’re directly against her, and you still can’t smell her. Maybe you’d be able to pick her scent up if you already knew it, but as of right now, you’ve got nothing. “Let me try your neck, I might have a better shot here.”

She snorts, then tilt head to the side, baring her neck to you, which is, hm. Which is. Anyways. You move up to nose the side of her jaw. You make a point to keep your hands firmly on your own laps, even if it makes it harder to keep your balance, because if you touch her right now you might actually bite her, and that just wouldn’t do. This girl deserves to be courted properly, not to get a shotgun bite without so much as foreplay.

No dice there either though, which, while jarring, might be for the best. It is noticeably easier to ignore your affections when it feels like you’re smelling a piece of furniture. Your nose goes down her neck, to the top of her shoulders, and-

There’s something. There’s something there’s something there’s something it’s faint but there’s something.

You inhale deeply, trying to locate the source of that scent. Like a bloodhound, you set off to follow that vague trail, breathing rapidly. Your nose brushes briefly against her front, then her bicep, then-

“What are you- h- hey!”

You grab her arm and force it up, shoving your entire face in her armpit. She lets out a delicious squeak, which sends shivers down your spine, but most importantly you can smell you can smell you can smell. It’s a light thing, only noticeable because you were looking for it, but it’s hers you’re sure of it you’re sure of it.

Romance novels love to describe people as smelling like roses, or tulips, or whatever flower is in vogue today. That is stupid. A human does not smell like a flower in the same way the color red does not look like the color orange. They may be similar, but to claim them to be the same thing would be foolish.

As such: you can’t describe what Artoria smells like. Artoria smells like Artoria. But if you had to pick smells that come close, you would say that she definitely smells earthy. She smells like metal, like the sparks coming out of a forge, like the entrails of the earth. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever smelled on a person before and it feels… it feels…

“Ritsuka!”

Artoria’s sharp cry makes lift your head up. Her face is flushed, her eyes are slit, she is flustered beyond belief. You open your mouth to speak up, and that’s when you realize the following:

You are drooling. A lot. It’s dripping down your chin like the maw of a rabid beast. Any attempt to speak is impeded by the fact that your mouth is absolutely flooded with the stuff, your tongue dripping with desire the way your words cannot be.

You swallow hard, hurriedly bringing a hand up to wipe your mouth. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shame blossoms between your ribs. What are you, an animal?! So much for proving alpha stereotypes wrong. Behave, for fuck’s sake.

Artoria’s gaze goes down. Her teeth visibly sharpen into fangs as her glamour slips even further. You don’t need to follow her eyes. You’re tenting hard, and you know it.

You’re about to apologize. To back off, get out of the room, and jump in the coldest bath you can find. But when you breathe in to speak, something tickles your nose.

It’s faint. Barely noticeable. You wouldn’t have spotted it if Artoria’s scent didn’t still linger in your nostrils.

Slowly, you look down.

“U-uhm, Ritsuka…”

She’s aroused. Horny. Into it. She’s wet. You can smell it you can smell it you can smell it. And if you can smell it from here, next to her face- what must it be like down there? What must it be like near her navel, her knees? What must it be like to press your face between her thighs, to smear her slick over your skin?

“I, uh, you…”

You wanna know. You wanna know you wanna know you wanna know you want to smell her you want to taste her you want to mark her you want to bite lick smell you want her to sit on your face you want to fold her in half you want her smell all over you you want her you want her youwanther

“C-can you-”

“I want to eat you out. Please let me eat you out.” Some drool dribbles off your chin as you speak. All this time you’ve joked about being her pet, but right now you really do feel like an animal- and by god, you’d let this girl leash you without a word. You’d let her do anything to you. “I- I mean. If that’s okay?”

She stares at you. You watch her Adam’s apple bob.

Slowly, she spreads her legs, and you scramble on your knees.

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