Wine and Poison Chapter 25 - Night of Wine 

Until this very moment today, Langsion had never even considered doing something like this. 

 

Yet the sight of her innocently reacting in a way that didn’t match her age caused a strange tickling sensation somewhere between his legs.

 

Even though she was, in fact, an old and unattractive woman.

 

“You’re drunk, aren’t you…?”

 

Scylla let out a hollow laugh.

 

“Do I look that way to you?”

 

“You look like you think I’m some young virgin your age, so of course you must be drunk.”

 

“In my eyes, Master looks very good.”

 

“…”

 

“I still haven’t guessed your exact age, though.”

 

“So you’re teasing me because you think I’m drunk?”

 

“No. How could a disciple dare play silly jokes on her master?”

 

“Then you’re saying you mean it seriously?”

 

When she gave a small scoff as if it were absurd, Langsion stared straight into her eyes.

 

“Why couldn’t it be true?”

 

The old woman’s intoxicated eyes wavered with confusion. She stared hard at Langsion, as though trying to determine whether he was sincere or not. 

 

Black eyes and yellow eyes clashed stubbornly, as if each were trying to dig straight into the other’s soul.

 

“There’s no way a perfectly fine young thing like you would ever want an old body like mine.”

 

Scylla muttered with a dry, crumbling expression.

 

With just that one sentence, Langsion could roughly imagine the countless hardships she must have endured. 

 

An ugly, aged stray cat. 

 

The image flashed through his mind of an animal running away, dodging stones and malicious curses thrown at it.

 

Just because a beast carries murder in its eyes and is wary of everyone doesn’t mean it doesn’t know loneliness. 

 

It has simply given up—because it knows no one will ever embrace something like itself.

 

“Master, I…”

 

Langsion spoke slowly.

 

Scylla’s self-mocking gaze and resigned eyes turned toward him. Hers was not a face anyone could compliment, even out of politeness. 

 

To feel sexual desire toward a woman with sagging skin covered in fine wrinkles—anyone who did would have to be a madman with something broken in their brain.

 

‘Hera once called me insane for this.’

 

Langsion gave a small inner laugh and gently drew closer to Scylla. 

 

Their lips naturally met. He could feel their breath mingling.

 

Surprisingly, he found Scylla’s warm body temperature and breath felt far more pleasant than he’d expected.

 

It wasn’t bad at all. 

 

Astonishingly—not even a little.

 

“What are you thinking…?”

 

The moment their lips parted slightly, Scylla asked in a trembling voice. Her breathing had stopped. Her eyes stood wide, fragile like porcelain about to shatter.

 

‘Ah.’

 

The alcohol must have worn off.

 

She was simply too shocked.

 

A chattering voice lingers around his ears. The vulgar woman’s sarcasm further fans the madness within him.

 

What fills his vision is no longer the frail brown pupils, but eyes as vivid and blazing as the sun. 

 

His somewhat fierce expression subtly softens.

 

“Langsion?”

 

As if puzzled, she looks up at him. He gathers both of her hands and presses his lips to the back of them. 

 

Scylla’s cheeks flush a soft red. 

 

It isn’t just from the alcohol. The urge to pull her into his arms and hold her surges like a wave.

 

Scylla is different from Ariadne. 

 

Unlike the woman who turned the wounds she received into justification for hurting others, Scylla buries her pain deep inside. 

 

She endures it alone. 

 

And in doing so, the walls around her grow even stronger. 

 

If one manages to break through them, they can taste the warm, sweet sincerity that lies within her.

 

Ariadne was the foolish woman who, having been abandoned by the man she loved, believed she had the right to wound others in turn. 

 

Hera had already made her deeply in love with him and turned her into his wife. 

 

Impressive, for someone who claimed to see the future. She had long realized that Ariadne would only make him more miserable.

 

Because of this, Hera ensured Ariadne would be abandoned. She didn’t want to create yet another person—like Ino and the others—who died because of her. 

 

And so he felt responsible toward her. It was immediately obvious that she had an enormous sense of vanity. 

 

Someone like that wouldn’t be difficult to handle. 

 

If she could become his refuge in return, then he would gladly play the part of a decent husband for her.

 

…But he had been just as foolish.

 

—“Take her in. Then I will forgive you as well.”

 

He had thought those words were Hera extending an olive branch of reconciliation. He was exhausted. 

 

Exhausted from being hated by his father’s wife.

 

He should have trusted the person worth trusting.

 

At some point, he had become the cuckolded husband. Ariadne avoided his gaze and freely shared her love with beautiful mortal men, gods, nymphs—anyone and everyone. 

 

As the mortal wife of one of the twelve Olympians, she used his name to commit all sorts of mischief.

 

He had to give Hera credit for her discerning eye in choosing her.

 

There was no sanctuary granted to him.

 

‘But surely a moment’s pleasure is allowed, isn’t it?’

 

He would give her joy and find fleeting peace in her embrace.

 

“I like you, Master.”

 

He gazed at Scylla, who had frozen under the sweet, honeyed words, with a dreamy, hazy feeling. She had probably never once heard anyone say “I like you” to her in her entire life.

 

The corners of Scylla’s eyes and cheeks—usually so cynical and guarded about most things—stiffened awkwardly. 

 

Having never truly received affection, she had no idea how to respond. 

 

Langsion knew exactly what kind of words a woman who had never been loved would long to hear.

 

“Master, you’re wonderful… and beautiful.”

 

He didn’t think the words coming out of his own mouth were deceiving her. 

 

Even if a touch of falsehood was mixed in, this caused her no harm at all. 

 

Wouldn’t the memory of being loved—even if briefly—remain in her heart as something sweet rather than painful?

 

“Don’t lie.”

 

Scylla whispered it like a groan, as if she had seen straight through to his true intentions. 

 

Yet when Langsion heard the faint tremor at the end of her words, he wasn’t startled; instead, he simply laughed it off.

 

“It’s true.”

 

Then he pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. 

 

Unlike the supple skin of the young, hers yielded with less elasticity, but he pressed down with hot lips anyway. 

 

His hand moved like a thyrsus, weaving through grapevines, slipping beneath the thin fabric of her clothes. 

 

To Scylla, all of this must have been an entirely unknown territory she had never experienced. 

 

When his fingers brushed the skin of her stomach, she flinched violently and tried to pull back. 

 

Langsion wrapped one arm around her back and closed the exact distance she retreated.

 

Like coaxing a wary stray cat not to bolt, he only extended his fingers and gently stroked her belly. 

 

Feeling the fine trembling of her body, he whispered into her ear.

 

“Relax, Master. I’m not going to do anything bad.”

 

“…”

 

“Please trust me.”

 

Trust.

 

What kind of ripple did that single word create inside her heart? 

 

She said nothing, but the trembling of her body gradually subsided. 

 

The stark contrast between the woman who had once aimed an arrow straight at him the moment they met and the one standing before him now filled Langsion’s heart with an unexpected, genuine pleasure.

 

Whispering sweet words into her frozen ear, he cupped and enveloped her breasts with his hands. 

 

She wasn’t wearing anything underneath; her breasts, usually hidden beneath her fur vest, now filled his palms. 

 

The full, generous mounds felt as soft and warm as if they had been molded from Gaia’s own clay. 

 

A low groan escaped from Langsion’s throat. 

 

Without realizing it, he became utterly absorbed in Scylla’s breasts. When he squeezed the large globes tightly, Scylla let out a pained whimper.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

“It hurts. I don’t even know what you’re doing.”

 

“Liar.”

 

A faint reddish flush bloomed across Langsion’s pale cheeks.

 

“Don’t you really know what I want to do to you?”

 

He lightly sucked on the curve of her ear with his lips. 

 

Scylla’s body shivered violently. He grazed the shell of her ear with his teeth, then pinched the protruding tip of her breast between his fingers. 

 

As he kneaded and rubbed it gently, Scylla placed her hands on his shoulders and arched her back into a deep curve. 

 

A small moan leaked out. 

 

The husky, nasal sound scraping down her spine made the hairs on the back of Langsion’s neck stand on end.

 

“Hn… it feels weird…”

 

“Where does it feel weird?”

 

“Ah…”

 

“Where exactly is it weird?”

 

Langsion asked persistently.

 

“Master.”

 

“…”

 

“Please answer me.”

 

“…”

 

“Where is it weird?”

 

“…Everywhere you’re touching.”

 

Scylla bowed her head and bit her lip. The reluctant answer sent a surge of excitement through Langsion.

 

 Goosebumps prickled along the nape of his neck.

 

Just touching her—nothing more—and yet it could feel this satisfying.

 

Her skin, rough and hard like tree bark, was more addictive than any rare delicacy. 

 

Unable to contain his arousal, he licked his lips with a soft smack. Then he lowered his head and slowly dragged his tongue up over her nipple. 

 

Scylla jolted in shock and shoved at him frantically. 

 

Unmoved, Langsion simply stared intently at her breast. 

 

Shockingly, it was pink—almost symbolically untouched, as if proclaiming she had never been with anyone. His pulse hammered wildly.