(Credits to the artists on Pinterest!! 🫶🫶they’re so talented)
Hello and welcome to my tumblr acc! I’m a student (yes still 😭) but I love writing so I will try to update every week! Currently I do play Genshin Impact (sadly the only hoyo game I play) so you will find me writing about it a lot.
FEEL FREE TO YAP TO ME!! PLEASE DO—WHETHER ITS ABOUT YOUR FAV CHARACTERS TO THEORIES TO TOPICS, I’LL ALWAYS ANSWER!
Please let me know if any of my posts/works seem similar to other authors' works. I will delete mine immediately.
If you do have requests you can message me on tumblr, and I will try my best to answer them as quickly as possible.
synopsis: you haven’t seen flins in almost a week. when he’s unexpectedly taken a week off his duties, you want answers why—the answers come in…a rather interesting form. or: flins is not human, and his non human form happens to come with a rather interesting condition
word count. ❤︎ 10k words—i am speechless. truly no words
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; established relationship ; fae go into ruts bc i said so ; flins has fae like features like pointy ears and wings ; he is in rut and not the right state of mind so ig slight dubcon ; dry humping + flins cumming in his pants ; flins has sensitive wings ; vaginal fingering ; mating press ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; slight breeding kink and talks of having babies ; slight size kink ; implied multiple rounds after ; not proof read pls it’s almost 7 am i wrote this in less than 24 hours cut me some slack i beg
commentary. ❤︎ uh yeah. anyway *jazz hands* flins fae rut. ALSO THANK YOU ARABELLA AKA USER PHAINANON FOR UR DELISHUS BRAIN FOR THE RUT CHARACTERISTICS
Kyryll is off duty for a week—this is what his superiors tell you when you visit the office of the division he is under, anyway.
That is suspiciously odd—he is never off duty. Ever. Kyryll never gets sick, he never gets particularly badly injured, he never takes a personal day, and he never, ever, under any circumstances, takes longer than a day to contact you, regardless of how busy the wild hunt may have him. Something is wrong, and you’re worried, and you will figure it out. He needs you, probably—he has that annoying habit of trying to handle everything all on his own, even if it isn’t always the brightest idea.
So you open the door to his humble little home at the bottom of the lighthouse and let yourself in. Kyryll does not ever mind. Kyryll is soft and open and gentle with you, and he does not mind if you enter his home—
“What are you doing here?” a breathless, almost pained voice all but hisses. Kyryll. His voice is never this distressed—it takes you a moment to get over the shock enough to properly turn and meet his eyes.
He looks…distinctly inhuman. Not just inhuman, but also not himself. Apart from the pointed ears and the glow in his eyes and those bright, iridescent wings (you’ll focus on that later, you decide), Kyryll is also not wearing a shirt with his hair hanging in a loose bun to keep it out of his face. He looks hot and sweaty and flushed—so unlike that typical collected, well-dressed, and polished man that you know who always runs a little cold.
“I was looking for you?” You blink at him as you answer like it’s obvious, “You missed work.”
“Yes. That was an intentional decision,” he says, closing his eyes and gritting his jaw. He turns away from you, as if the sight of you physically makes him sick. You’re a little offended. “You should not have come here.”
“What? I have not seen or heard from you in almost a week! How do you think it makes me feel when I have to hear from your superiors, of all people, that you’ve taken a personal leave from—”
He exhales, the sound thin and weary. “Yes,” he says at last, each word carefully measured, “I took leave—for a reason.”
You blink at him, frowning. “And that reason would be?”
He closes his eyes, his jaw flexing as though he’s counting to ten in his head. “A personal one,” he replies evenly, though there’s a faint tremor in the calm of his voice. “When I am ready to return, I will do so. Until then, I would be grateful if you allowed me some solitude.”
“Solitude?” you echo, incredulous. “Kyryll, that’s not how this works. You don’t just vanish without a word and call it solitude. You didn’t reach out, you missed work for nearly a week—I was worried.”
“I am aware,” he says quietly, gaze lowering. “And for that, I apologize. It was never my intent to worry you.”
“Then what was your intent?” you demand, stepping closer as you cross your arms. “Because you can’t just disappear and expect me to act like that’s normal.”
A muscle in his cheek twitches. He’s clearly fighting something internal, trying desperately not to let it show. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, careful. Pleading, even. “I know what this looks like to you. I know it seems as though I am shutting you out. But please—believe that it is not from malice or indifference. I simply cannot…be as I should, not right now.”
You hesitate, your irritation giving way to confusion. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he groans, “that there are parts of me I would rather you never see. And those parts are…difficult to keep hidden at present.”
You stare at him. You blink once, then twice, then you stare some more. “I have no idea what you’re implying, but your solution is to just lock yourself away and say nothing? That is ridiculous.”
He sighs, the sound faintly exasperated. “It is not ideal. But it is safer—for you, and for me.”
“Are you in danger? What is going on? Is something after you? Is it the wild hunt? Maybe we can—”
“You need to leave,” he cuts you off. “Please.”
That part makes you pause. He adds that last part with a broken, croaky little voice—like he’s begging, and it’s so bordering on pure desperation, you almost feel scared. What could possibly have happened in less than a week’s time to make him plead not to see you? To skip work? To…to look so different and not human?
Because he isn’t like you. Kyryll is not human, you realize. Concern for the man you are courting has caused you to overlook that very obvious fact for a moment, but reality has dragged you back to its awful truth and slapped the cold, hard facts into your shaky little sweaty palms and said: Look, the man you think you love is not who you think he is.
You stare at him, the question caught somewhere between your throat and your lungs. What is he, exactly? His face looks the same—still that sharp-boned, beautiful thing you adore so much—but now, under the dim light of his living room, there’s something wrong. Perhaps not wrong, exactly. Just...unfamiliar. His skin seems to shimmer faintly, and his eyes almost illuminate the dark around him, and his ears—his ears are just a touch too pointed when he turns his head.
“Kyryll,” you breathe, “what’s happening to you?”
He exhales, a sound that almost feels laced with dread. “Nothing is happening to me—I am exactly as I am intended to be. Some traits that humans would consider abnormal are…well, they are not so rare amongst non-humans.”
You furrow your brows. “You mean to tell me you’re the latter?”
What a silly question, your mind hisses, what else would those features imply?
He hesitates, eyes closing as though it hurts to confess. “You have heard before, perhaps, that Snezhnaya was once a realm of the fae,” he says softly. “A race that is no longer of any importance, but one that does exist. I am proof enough of that, simply by standing before you.”
“And when were you going to tell me that?” you ask, your voice trembling just slightly. You wonder what that sinking feeling in your chest is—fear, perhaps? Are you scared of him? Scared of what he is, or what he isn’t? Scared that he is something else entirely, something beyond you?
No, you think faintly. Human or not, Kyryll would never hurt you. He would never let harm come your way—certainly not from himself. The ache that blooms inside you is not fear at all, but something heavier, deeper, more hurtful: the knowledge that Kyryll does not trust you. That he cannot bring himself to believe you would see him for what he truly is and still love him—that your eyes would see the what of him before the who.
“My light, it was never my intention to deceive you,” he says, pleading now. “I simply wished for more time—to cherish you as you are before the truth might…alter things between us.”
“Alter things how, exactly?” you frown. “Alter things because I’d leave? You think I can’t be trusted—is that it?”
“No.” He smiles sadly—a fragile little smile that still does something painful to your heart, easing and tightening it all at once. “No, it was never that I doubted your trust,” he murmurs. “Only whether I deserved it, once my nature was known. For that, I must apologize. I should not have hidden it from you. You are far too precious a person to entangle yourself with someone like me.”
“Oh, be quiet, you fool,” you huff, stepping closer to him. You press your palm to his cheek, and he leans into the touch with a soft, startled breath. “Self-pity will not earn you any leniency. Do not lie to me again. Understand?”
“Fae cannot lie,” he smiles faintly, eyes fluttering shut as your thumb brushes his skin. “Should we attempt it, we sicken. Very gravely, in fact.”
“Ah,” you nod with mock solemnity, “so you’re simply skilled in manipulation. How comforting.”
He laughs, just barely—a sound that fades too quickly as he pulls back, though not far enough to escape your curiosity. Your hand drifts upward, fingers brushing the sharp point of his ear. He flinches.
“Now…is perhaps not the best moment to be touching—”
“You also have wings?” you interrupt in awe, gently maneuvering him to turn around. He stiffens as your finger traces delicately up his spine from the small of his back. “Can you fly?”
“No,” he says shakily, “they would not support my weight. They are not a particularly useful trait of the fae—merely an aesthetic one, if anything.”
“Very aesthetical indeed,” you giggle.
“That is not a real word,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. His breath hitches when your finger drifts to the place where the fragile wing meets his warm skin. His skin is never warm. Kyryll runs rather cold—you complain about it often when you curl against his side. (It never stops you from cuddling him, of course, but the complaints never cease, either.)
“Hm, still clinging to your extensive knowledge of words, are you?” You roll your eyes.
You gently rub along that small network of veins where translucent skin fades into flesh, where the shimmer of his wings dissolves against the pale slope of his back. The base of each wing seems impossibly fragile—paper-thin, like spun glass, yet alive and keenly receptive to your touch. They rise from just below his shoulder blades, delicate membranes threaded with faint iridescence, catching the light in colors that shift like oil on water. You stare in awe at that narrow strip of skin between wing and back. It’s softer, almost silken, and the sensation is strange—cool, like morning dew, yet trembling with a pulse beneath your fingertips, as though burning from beneath.
The wings flutter instinctively the more your touch wanders, a tremor rippling through the transparent folds and making him flinch—a sharp breath pulled through his teeth.
“Does that hurt?” you ask, pausing in concern.
He shakes his head, though his voice is strained when he answers. “No. They are just…sensitive.”
“I see,” you breathe in fascination.
They are sensitive—you can feel it under your fingertips. His skin there runs cold, but the pulse beneath it beats hot and fast, trembling through the thin lattice of veins. The wings twitch involuntarily, like they’re trying to fold in on themselves to escape your touch, or maybe reach for it—you cannot quite tell. When you trace your thumb along the joint where the wing anchors to his spine again, his breath catches once more, rougher this time. The friction of your touch draws a low sound from him, half-strained, half-pleasured. The wings shiver—and then so does he.
“Kyryll?” you ask softly.
He only lets out a sharp inhale in response.
“Are you…” You falter. How do you even phrase it? How do you ask your boyfriend—who has only just shared with you his origins as something not human—the burning question at the back of your mind? There is clearly something in his system, something woven into his bloodline, his very DNA, the framework of who he is, that makes him so…pent up. (That is the only phrase you can think of.) “Is…is there something happening with you? Biologically, at least?”
He goes still at your words. The question hangs between you with thick enough tension in the air that you feel like it physically separates you, and for a moment, he seems unable to breathe. When he finally does, it’s shallow—careful.
“I—” His voice breaks, then steadies, smooth and practiced as though he’s forcing it into place. “That is…a delicate subject.”
You take a small step back. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I just—”
“I know.” His hand reaches and grabs yours, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles before promptly letting go. His eyes flick to yours—bright, sharp, and mesmerizing in the low light. You wonder how you never caught on before that he could not be human. “I did not intend for you to see me in such a state. It is a rather shameful condition—one might say it is…seasonal, or perhaps instinctive. A remnant of older blood. It makes my body…less easily governed.”
He swallows hard, turning his face away. The fine tremor in his wings betrays the effort it takes to keep control.
You reach out before thinking, fingers hovering over his arm. “Hey,” you say quietly, “you don’t have to be ashamed. I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His laugh is soft, almost bitter. “You should be. There are things in me, desires in me, that are not…proper. Not human. When such old instincts rise, I am ruled by them more than I care to admit.”
He finally meets your gaze again, and something raw flickers there—fear, want, and the painful effort of restraint. The air between you tightens. Something shifts. Something that pulls you towards him just as fiercely as he wants to push you away. You ache to close that gap he wants so badly to put between you—a naive and optimistic thought process, perhaps. Kyryll knows himself and his state of mind better than you do.
He has lived through it. For hundreds of years, evidently, and you have only known him for so long. He is perhaps, wisely so, protecting you from a part of himself that requires protection against. But you don’t find his warnings—nor his pleas for that matter—to stay away from him until this passes worth listening to. You won’t. You can’t bring yourself to.
He looks unwell—he looks pained and in suffering and alone in this small, little home of his where nothing is there to ease his troubles, no one is there to ease his burdens or his aches. You take one look at that soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, the dampness of his clammy skin, the somehow even darker circles beneath his honeyed eyes, and you cannot fight the instinct in your heart that longs to take care of him however he needs it. The instinct that just as easily governs over your body against your will as Kyryll’s governs over his.
Love, perhaps, is what your heart would call it. Foolishness, on the other hand, is what your mind would say.
“It hardly happens,” he whispers, keeping his face turned insistently away from you, “once every decade or so, there are urges…and they are not very pure in nature. I am ashamed to admit I am unable to keep from harboring improper thoughts about you, my dear. It would be in your best interest to leave before I am incapable of controlling myself any longer.”
“Forgive me for being so candid,” you say with a small grin, amusement threading through your voice, “but we’ve been intimate before, you silly thing. What exactly are you trying to protect me from—sex? Kyryll, we’ve done that plenty of—”
“No.” His voice cuts through yours, low and sharp, carrying a kind of desperation that stills you. “This is hardly comparable.” He turns toward you finally, and even though his expression is composed, his eyes are not. They are hungry and wild, and his pupils almost dilate at the sight of you. His wings twitch behind him, restless. “This is not a desire one can reason with,” he continues quietly. “It is old. It does not recognize affection or care—only need. And I would sooner burn myself hollow than make an object of you.”
For a moment, you weigh his words. You can see how much effort it costs him to hold himself still, to speak in measured tones instead of instinct. So much care and respect are woven into that tense, agonized distance he keeps between you both as he wills himself to stand still. And you decide that you want none of it.
You do not care about his self-imposed moral limits and boundaries. He needs you—and by the Gods, you are going to give him what he needs.
“Kyryll,” you say firmly, the earlier humor gone from your voice. “You could have told me sooner.”
He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. “And ruin the illusion that I am civilized?”
You shake your head, stepping closer despite his warning. “You never needed illusions with me. I am the first person you should be able to turn to when you need something—when you need someone to take care of you.”
“You cannot take care of me in this form,” he clicks his teeth, patience slowly wearing thin. (He is certainly not in his right mind after all, you deduce—your Kyryll is never impatient with you. Not his usual self, at least.)
“I can,” you say stubbornly, “and I will because there is no way I am leaving you like this to suffer—so if you must use me for your own pleasure, then I think that is exactly what I will have you do because I want it of my own will. See? It is fine now, so come here and—”
“You are playing dangerous games,” his voice is deeper, lower, almost a throaty sound that vibrates in a way you’ve never heard from his usual rich, smooth, almost velvety voice. “Humans are not meant to withstand this level of…depravity that becomes my nature—”
“You are infuriatingly stubborn,” you roll your eyes.
You step closer, moving to wrap your arms around his neck. He catches your wrists before you can press yourself closer against him. His grip is gentle, but his hand trembles as he holds yours. His pupils are blown wide, the faint iridescence of his eyes flickering like they are something alive, something of a soul of their own. “Do not tempt me,” he breathes. “You do not understand what you are inviting.”
“I think I do,” you say softly. “You’re suffering, and I won’t stand by and watch it.”
He shakes his head, his voice dropping to a low, strained murmur. “It is not the kind of suffering you can easily mend. The endurance of a fae and that of a human are…not measured in the same way.”
“I’ve never been afraid of a little imbalance,” you counter, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I like a good challenge.” For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you holds still—tense, waiting.
And then he caves.
His hand rises to your jaw, tentative at first, as though he’s still convincing himself he shouldn’t. But the moment his skin meets yours, all restraint shatters. You’re pulled in for a kiss just as fervently as you lean in for one. Neither of you can say for certain who leans in first—who reaches for the other first. You don’t think you’d ever truly know.
His breath his hot against your mouth, and it comes out in nothing but heavy, short puffs of air that he all but gasps for. For all his stamina as a fae that he claims to have, he seems almost out of breath from just a little kissing. Your hands wander along his back, gently rubbing against the delicate portion between skin and wings as he lets out a surprised groan of pleasure at the feeling. You giggle into his mouth as he flinches in shock from the touch.
“You weren’t lying,” you murmur into his lips, “they really are sensitive, aren't they?”
“Amused, are we?” he huffs into your mouth.
“Maybe a little,” you admit cheekily. He only grunts in response—Kyryll in a rut is a Kyryll with very few words that he can articulate, you realize.
You feel the bulge of his cock against your thigh as he flips you around to press you against the wall, caging you with his tall, strong body as his hands desperately cup your jaw and angle your face up, kissing you with more hunger than before. It’s hot, his erection—you can feel that sheer warmth of it through the fabric and layers of clothes, and it’s thick and twitching through his pants in a way you’ve never felt him before, as though he’s already responding to absolutely nothing from how starved he really is for anything.
You move your thigh up, pressing it between his legs to slot perfectly against his crotch. He all but whimpers at the feeling—shuddering against you before his lips break away from yours and his face buries into your neck.
“D-don’t stop,” he pleads, “more. I need…more.”
“I know,” you soothe, gently tugging the hair tie that keeps his long strands in that low bun until it frees his hair and lets it fall down his back. Your fingers stroke through them, delicately raking your nails along his scalp as you murmur, “I know, baby. You need more. Got it.”
He shivers at the pet name, and you smile fondly. You would have preferred to relieve him of such a clear ache with more gratifying methods, but Kyryll does not allow himself to detach from you long enough for you to even reach for the waistband of his pants and use your hand. Your thigh is as good as he allows you to pleasure him with the way he’s pressed so close to your personal space. You feel him grind against it with his own pace, meeting your movements halfway as he chases the friction against his hardened cock.
When your fingers move back to his back, tracing the sensitive little networks of veins along the base of his wings, he groans into your neck, biting into your skin hard enough that it stings just a little.
“Does it feel good when I touch here?” You press gently into the base of his wing for emphasis.
He lets out a soft, breathless, almost whiny sound as he nods shakily. “Y-yes,” he swallows thickly, “very…very good.”
“How cute,” you giggle. “You are so cute.”
“M’close,” he gasps, “so…so, so close.”
“Already?” you blink in shock–you’ve really only hardly begun, “but we—”
You don’t even get to finish your thoughts before the sound of his voice, gravelly and thick with pleasure, cuts you off.
“F-fuck, I…I’m s-sorry,” he slurs his words incoherently, “‘m…c-cumming—”
You feel the familiar rush of warmth as he spills into his pants. (Kyryll has only cum in his pants once before—one night after he had a glass of wine too many, and you’d dragged your aching core against his own throbbing sensation between his legs as you shifted on his lap between kisses. It was cute then—seeing the adorable pinkness on his cheeks as he’d stuttered an apology. You enjoyed the slightly damp feeling of his release against your leg.)
But this time…it’s a little different. He absolutely soils his own clothes as much as yours. You can tell that much just seconds into his orgasm—the sheer amount of his seed that seeps through the fabric of his pants and dampens yours has you shocked. It’s…a lot. More than normal. More than you thought possible. Clearly not a very human amount, considering he is…well, very much not human. But you try your best to keep the steady rhythm of your thigh grinding against his crotch since he has stopped moving himself in favor of stilling—his body is taut and stiff as he shudders through every wave of his high, gasping into your neck and letting out choked moans against your skin.
“S-sorry,” he rasps, “I did not…I had not meant to tarnish your c-clothes with—ngh—”
He cuts his own sentence off with a low grunt as another thick, warm rope of cum spills from the head of his swollen cock. You shake your head in response to his apology—he does not need to apologize, you tell him softly—before gently rubbing his back as he rides out the last final waves of his orgasm. (It’s a long wave of pleasure—you’ve witnessed Kyryll fall apart quite a few times before. You like to consider your intimate life a display of healthy passion. It’s never lasted like this before, though—you don’t think you would forget it if you’d witnessed that sort of…well, spectacle seems not the kindest word for it. But it’s certainly a sight, that much is undoubtedly true. You decide not to comment on it for the sake of his feelings, however—you do not wish to embarrass him any further.)
“It’s okay,” you smile into his temple as you kiss it, “I don’t mind. Clothes can be washed, you know, silly.”
He pants into your neck, catching his breath for a brief moment before he reluctantly peels himself away from you. His face is even more flushed—his skin is practically glowing, and his wings seem even brighter as they droop into his back almost self-consciously. He doesn’t dare meet your eyes, as if his moment of self-indulgence is too shameful a scene for him to make peace with. You can practically hear his thoughts without him saying them—humping against your leg like that is the least dignified thing a man could do to the woman he cares for. Utterly unrefined and uncouth, and lacking in respect.
You sigh, reaching to cup his cheek. “Hey,” you whisper gently, “don’t worry too much. Do you feel better now?”
He looks at you miserably. It’s only then does your gaze wander a little lower…and you realize that he is still hard. Very, very, very hard—in fact, you don’t think it ever stopped despite the way he clearly came undone just a moment ago.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“…As you can see,” he says shakily, “this is not a problem that will resolve itself any time soon. Not even with your best efforts, I’m afraid.”
“So you need a few more rounds,” you shrug. He looks utterly horrified by your phrasing, which only makes you grin a little before you reach out to poke the tip of his nose affectionately. “I think I can handle that, baby—”
“No.” His voice sharpens, though there’s still that tremor of restraint beneath it. “You have already done far more than I deserve, my light. I will tend to the rest on my own. You should go—for your own sake, if not for mine. Though it pains me to watch you leave, it is the wisest course until I have recovered from this…condition of mine.”
“I’m not leaving,” you frown, your tone firm and unyielding.
He exhales, long and weary. “You are impossibly stubborn. Funny that you would have accused me of being just that, not too long ago.”
“I’m not!” you protest. “Look at you—you look like you’re in pain.”
“If you would kindly refrain from voicing such mortifying observations aloud,” he says with a tired sigh, “it would preserve what fragile shred of dignity I still possess, my dearest.”
You roll your eyes fondly.
You and Kyryll are an oddly functioning couple. You only just started calling him by his first name a few weeks ago. Before that, he was simply Flins. Mister Flins, before that, when he was just a ratnik who had saved you from a creature of the wild hunt.
Do be careful when you wander at night, Miss, he had said politely.
And then he had been off on his way. You run into him time and time and time and time again after that. It’s an odd way the world works, you like to think—how you can meet someone so often after one encounter when just days before, you’d never been aware of their existence. How they can bleed into everything you know so suddenly, like they’d been there this entire time, even when you’d known nothing of them for so long. Your usual places, your usual routes and paths, your usual stops. All of them have been the same for long enough that you wonder if perhaps they have merged with your cells and become part of who you are.
The one thing that was never there before was him. And then, as if the Gods had willed it, he was. Always, in every corner, it was Mister Flins.
How funny of a way the world works that things are thrust into your small bubble against your will, invading the tiny space of what you know and becoming one with all the things you hold dear.
Mister Flins at the market buying spices at the same time as you. Mister Flins walking down the same path as you are as he makes his way to his superior’s office. Mister Flins in the area to fix some broken part of his lamp. Mister Flins and a drink he asks to grab with you when you both happen to be free. Flins after that—he asks you kindly to drop the Mister. Flins and a nice dinner that he offers the bill for instantly. Flins at your place of work to escort you home in the evening—it’s dark out, you know, Miss. Flins in your kitchen as you make lunch while he’s in the area. Flins and that coat of his that he likes to drape over your couch when he’s here to stay for a while. Flins when you wake up in the morning, and he’s still there, tangled in the sheets with you. Flins who asks you to call him Kyryll, if you would accept—it’s only fair that two people who are courting use their proper names.
How long of a way you have come—from calling him Mister and hoping if you might ever run into him again, to whispering Kyryll like it’s a prayer and letting yourself into his home as you please. How far of a way you still have to go—he is still too embarrassed to be open with the physical desire that consumes him so wholly despite being intimate with you so many times before.
You wonder if a decade from now, Kyryll will warn you in advance that he will experience this same thing once more. If this time, instead of hiding from you, he might ask you to help him, take care of him. If he’ll trust you and put aside his composure and be fragile in your hands, so that you can carefully curl your hand and cup him in there, keeping him tucked into your hold, protected from the world.
You sigh, shaking your head in fondness before you gently murmur, “If you would just shove aside your pride for a moment and understand that I do not find shame in your nature, then perhaps we might both have an enjoyable time. I don’t dislike being intimate with you, you know—it isn’t as though it’s a chore for me.”
He swallows, mulling over your words before his shoulders ease. A loose, breathless chuckle slips past his lips. “You are remarkably eager to bed me, my love.”
“Don’t be so smug,” you scoff, stepping toward him as your arms curl around his neck.
He hums, burying his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of you. You can still feel the throbbing length tucked away in his tight pants—but you let him set his own pace for how he wants to do this. This is about him, you remind yourself, him and his…whatever this fever is called that has consumed him and turned him into a sexual-haze induced version of himself with mythical features you did not think people of this world could possess.
You hesitate, voice gentle. “So…is this basically…like a rut or something?”
Kyryll stills, then exhales slowly against your skin. His laugh is quiet, resigned—the sound of a man who has given up on maintaining dignity. “If you insist on using such a barbaric term, then yes,” he murmurs, voice low and rueful. “It is something akin to that.”
“Ah,” you nod, trying not to grin. “Good to know.”
He lifts his head, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “I can feel you laughing at me.”
“I would never,” you lie, smiling sweetly. Silence lingers for a beat before your curiosity wins out. “But wait—how come I never see your features like this? The ears, the wings…” your gaze drifts downward and back up again, “I’ve seen you naked plenty before, and those wings definitely weren’t there then.”
A soft sigh escapes him as he closes his eyes, the faintest trace of embarrassment lacing his tone. “I can usually hide them,” he admits quietly. “Most of my kind evolved to conceal the traits that set us apart. The wings, the ears—I have learned to keep them hidden away to pass unnoticed among humans.” His wings twitch faintly behind him, betraying his irritation. “But in this state…” his voice roughens slightly, “I cannot maintain that restraint. They emerge on their own.”
You hum thoughtfully. “So your wings come out when you’re horny.”
He groans, shoulders slumping. “You do have an unmatched talent for vulgar phrasing, my light.”
“I like to think it’s one of my more endearing qualities,” you grin, brushing a fingertip along the curve of his ear until he shivers. “Don’t you?”
He gives you a look—half exasperation, half resigned fondness. “Endearing is one word for it,” he murmurs dryly. “There are others I might choose.”
“Charming? Irresistible? The light of your lonely, dark little life?” you suggest, all innocent eyes.
“Insufferable,” he says immediately.
You press a hand to your chest in mock offense. “You wound me. Truly, so mean.”
“You’ll recover.” His lips twitch, betraying amusement. “You always do.”
You grin wider, leaning closer so your noses almost brush. “Only because I am so fond of you. The things I endure in order to love you are what some might consider horrors, you know.”
“I’ve watched you survive far worse than my teasing,” he replies, arching a brow. You hum thoughtfully.
“True,” you whisper as you bite back a grin, “so surely, I can handle you when you are not entirely yourself.”
He exhales, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—soft, endeared. “Incorrigible,” he murmurs, though the word loses its bite when you rise on your toes and press your lips to his.
The kiss starts tentative, almost cautious. You test the waters, and he trembles faintly against you, as though afraid he might hurt you just by touching. But when you tilt your head and draw him closer by the back of his neck, that restraint begins to crack. His hands find your waist, firm yet so achingly soft the way that Kyryll always is, and he kisses you again—deeper this time. Harder. Like he means it. The kind of kiss that steals the breath right out of your lungs as he inhales it for himself.
You feel his heartbeat where your palms rest against his bare chest, and the faint shiver of his wings brushing against your hands as they travel from his sternum to his back. When you part for air, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, the tips of his pointy, adorable little ears flushed a faint shade of rose.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice hoarse with longing.
“Positive,” you breathe, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. He presses a kiss to the pad of your finger before nodding.
“You’ll try to stop me if it’s too much? Perhaps we should keep something heavy nearby so you may hit me if I do not listen to reason—I will certainly survive the blow and—”
“I am not hitting your head, Kyryll,” you gape, “and I’m not backing out, either. Now fuck me—I want you.”
“Must you say it just like that?” he asks tiredly.
You giggle, nodding as you murmur, “How else will I prove my enthusiasm to feel you?”
That seems to undo him completely. He looks at you for a moment—good and long and hard before he kisses you again. This time, it’s with the kind of fervor that feels almost desperate now, stumbling a little as you both move in a tangle of limbs through the quiet rooms of his home. His hand stays at the small of your back, guiding you blindly toward the bedroom, though his mouth never leaves yours for long.
The journey there is clumsy and impatient—you nearly trip over a low stool in your rush, and he catches you with a low laugh that melts against your lips. His wings flutter, brushing against furniture, fragile things trembling with the same tension that threads through his entire body. He moans into your mouth every few moments, unable to keep his usual composure and bite back the sounds. You like this version of Kyryll—the version that makes his pleasure a loudly known fact rather than a politely kept secret.
By the time your knees hit the edge of his bed, he’s panting harshly, worked back up to impatience for release as his body burns with tension.
“This is your last chance to leave while you easily can, you know,” he says lowly—his voice thick, hoarse, and edged with something that no longer sounds entirely human. Each word rasps as though dragged through gravel, deeper and rougher than before, echoing faintly in his chest before reaching you. The sound sends a shiver down your spine—not from fear, but from the strange, thrilling feeling of want piercing through your spine.
You meet his gaze steadily. “I’m not backing out,” you say, your voice so firm and sure.
He closes his eyes, jaw tightening as though your words physically pull at the fraying thread of his control. “You do not understand what you invite, my light.”
“I don’t want to understand,” you whisper, reaching for him, “I just want you.”
His breath stutters at the touch. For a moment, he seems frozen, torn between his care for you and his instinct of desire. Then—as if his biology finally wins over—whatever fragile barrier he’s built around himself shatters. The sound that escapes him is low, almost feral, but still unmistakably him.
“I told you,” he says gruffly, “I will not be guided by my affections. Yet you insist so firmly to see a version of me that only fucks you with instinct alone—is that what you truly want? A man as depraved and senseless as this? What little regard for your fragile, human body,” he chuckles.
His mouth claims yours before you can reply—hard and bruising and all teeth, filled with a relentless urgency. You gasp, arching into his touch as his large, impatient hands tug you closer by your clothes. (So this is what he meant, you think—Kyryll is utterly lacking in his typical gentleness. No—in fact, his gentleness is completely gone.)
Your clothes are torn off in a swift motion. He does not bother disrobing you, does not bother taking his time to admire you, or tease you, or simply just bask in the moment of being so intimately close to you. Instead, he grabs the fabric with a rough hand, pulls with more force than you’ve ever seen from him, and tears the fabric without remorse. You gasp at the sight of it being completely irreparable.
“Kyryll!” you hiss, “soiling clothes is one thing, but destroying them is an entirely separate—”
“Enough,” he cuts in, voice low and edged. “They were in my way. I will not waste time with trivial barriers.”
You shiver at the sound of such a rough tone in his voice. Long gone is the delicate, well-mannered, and well-spoken man you know—long gone is his patience and sweetness and lingering precision in everything he does.
His hands squeeze at your hips in appreciation as he marvels at the sight of your curves and bare skin. “Mmh, and to think I was going to deny myself such a splendid gift—where such patience had graced me, even I myself cannot tell. No matter—I will make the most of such a wonderful blessing.”
You’re dripping—his words alone, his sheer desire to use you alone, have made the ache between your legs worsen, and the pool of slick collecting there does the same. It coats your inner thighs, and when he roughly spreads your legs apart, humming at the sigh of your bare cunt, you whimper.
“What a sight,” he groans, “I cannot wait until I am buried in the warmth of such a beautiful, perfect cunt.”
He is much less hesitant to use filthier words, too, you realize. And less focused on you and your pleasure as his fingers sink past the velvety walls of your pussy, curling deep into that spongy, sensitive spot that makes you mewl. Nothing about this is gentle. Nothing about it is thoughtful and giving and filled with adoration like Kyryll always is when he beds you. Nothing about it puts your pleasure above all else and does it for the sole purpose of making you feel good and feel his devotion.
No. Instead, Kyryll fucks his fingers into you because he needs you prepped and ready to take his cock. He also wants to feel the warmth of your walls flutter around his fingers because his mind is in a filthy haze. You can tell because the way he groans as his fingers pump into you, scissoring and stretching you open, has nothing to do with the way you gasp and twitch from pleasure, but everything to do with the wet, squelching sound he hears and that shiny, messy essence that he sees coating his fingers.
“So warm,” he moans, “how long before I can sink the entirety of my cock into such a perfectly awaiting pussy, I wonder.”
“K-Kyryll, please—”
“Say that again,” he demands, “say my name like that again. Say it.”
“Kyryll,” you sob brokenly. His fingertips are so cruel, slamming and curling into that sensitive spot so rough and fast, so impatient to get you gushing around him so that you are ready to take his cock with ease. “M’go-gonna…gonna cum—fuck!”
“There it is, my dove,” he smiles, pleased. “I knew you would do well—after all, you always give me just what I want, don’t you? It’s what you know best, isn’t it? Such a good, obedient human.”
Your orgasm doesn’t last long—it’s not like the usual sort of high Kyryll coaxes out of you. It’s not soft and prolonged and doesn’t make you slip into a hazy, blissful state that makes you feel like you’re floating. Instead, it all but makes you black out, a wave of pleasure that absolutely wrecks you and shocks your body right to its core. It’s impatient and fast, and when you come down from the split second of pure white-hot pleasure, he is already there, studying your fluttering walls and humming in approval.
“I think you are sufficiently ready, don’t you think, my dear?” he all but growls.
You watch deliriously as he unzips his pants, quickly shrugging them and his boxers off in a swift movement and freeing his cock—and oh. You have seen his cock. You have taken his cock down your throat and deep in your walls, and you’ve felt the weight of it in your hand. You are not a stranger to the sight of Kyryll’s cock, but you are a stranger to his version of it—the version of it that has thicker veins that are practically glowing along the side of his length. The version of it that has messy, runny, iridescent pre cum leaking from the tip and coating his pink, flushed cockhead. The version of it that looks even bigger and thicker, and longer than you remember it.
You gasp at the sheer sight of it, instinctively pressing your thighs together in…in what? You do not even know. In fear? In excitement? In need of relief at the sheer excitement it sends through your aching core, or in need of a break before you’ve even begun from the sheer size of it that will surely break you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, “oh my god, it…it’s not going to fit,” you shake your head. “K-Kyryll, you’ll…you’ll break me.”
“Will I?” he chuckles, slightly mocking as he leans down and presses a flurry of kisses along your jaw, sucking and biting at your skin before he makes his way to your neck and inhales the scent of you once more. It occurs to you then that perhaps the scent of you has only been driving him more mad this whole time—that with the way he’s taken every opportunity to sniff at your skin, he must be absolutely overwhelmed by the scent of you. “I specifically remember you saying you would not mind doing this with me and that it was not a chore. Why the sudden change of heart?”
“L-look at the…the size of…of it!” you stutter, “that is not what it usually is!”
“We will easily make it fit, my dove,” he hums, “not to worry. There is no doubt that this pretty cunt will open up nice and slowly for me—after all, she is a good, good girl, isn’t she?”
He traces a thumb over your clit as he says that—and when you whine, jolting from the touch, he chuckles in a sick, almost twisted form of amusement. Without warning, he grabs a leg, hooking it over his shoulder as his hand squeezes the meat of your thigh and groans.
“You were made for my taking,” he says, staring at your body as though he’s in a heavy trance. His eyes are wide and dilated, unfocused and almost wild as he rakes them over every section of bare skin he can. “I am going to take great pleasure in feeling the tight warmth of you wrapped around me—what a wonderful fate life has granted me, indeed.”
With that, he leans down to hover over you, and the knee tossed over his shoulder bends and practically meets your chest as he closes the gap and kisses you roughly. The thick, blunt head of his cock meets the entrance of your cunt, pushing past the folds slowly, carefully for a moment that you almost think that this is your Kyryll—the Kyryll that you know and love.
But then, with a rough snap of his hips, he’s pressed a good amount of his length into you, stretching you with a burning girth that makes you cry out in a sharp mewl. “T-too much, baby,” you sob, “w-wait—”
“You can take it, my dear,” he insists, kissing away the tears with chapped, warm lips that feel nothing like the usual soft and cool ones you’re used to. You hardly recognize the man who is taking you, and yet…and yet, you cannot help but fall in love even deeper with him in this state. Every fiber of your existence should scream to run, but instead, they long to be intertwined with him. Threaded into the very fibers of his own existence, living tangled and one with him.
He’s right. You can take him—and you do. He snaps his hips one more time and buries the rest of himself into you, completely down to the hilt and completely filling you up until you feel almost certain that you can feel him in your throat and lungs.
“S-so big,” you gasp, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him as your walls flutter around the intrusion of his thick, swollen cock. He groans, wings fluttering behind him impatiently as he waits for you to give the signal that you’re ready for him to move—he still has enough sense in his system for that much kindness. “S-so full, baby—m’so full.”
“Yes,” he says hoarsely, “what a sweet, precious girl, you are—taking me so well. Such a darling light I have that takes me so well and doesn’t complain. I simply adore you, my dove.”
You mewl at the praise, clawing at his back with your nails as you pull him closer—and impatiently, with a jolt of your hips, you plead, “M-move! Move, please…need to feel you so bad.”
Your hands rub along his back—and without the same careful, gentle precision as before, you rub at the base of his wings, too. Friction at the delicate, sensitive, almost painful nerve-endings at his wings that respond to your touch by twitching harshly. He lets out a gasp, jolting with a low, drawn-out moan that is obscenely loud. Obscene. Kyryll is never much of an obscene sight even in the throes of pleasure, but you suppose such a frenzied, desperate state of mind would make him prioritize his composure last.
“F-fuck—I told you, those are sensitive,” he hisses, “you…you cannot simply just touch and feel them as you please unless you want to—”
You lean up and bite at his earlobe, effectively cutting him off as his breath gets caught in his throat. You hear the hitch before you whisper into the shell of his pointed ear, “Kyryll, just fuck me already. What in the Gods' names are you waiting for?”
That makes something in him snap. Something carnal and hungry and desperate and…so far gone in his desires, it almost feels animalistic. His hips snap, harsh and fast, and nudge his cock deeper and deeper past your folds, pressing effortlessly against that sensitive, delicate spot in the back of your walls. Your Kyryll usually knows where that spot is; he usually aims his thrusts to kiss that spot with the blunt head of his cock purposely.
This Kyryll doesn’t try. He doesn’t even think to find your pleasure points, drilling his aching length and chasing the warm friction of the tight walls that surround him without a thought. It just so happens that naturally so, with the sheer size and girth of him, with the perfect curve of cock, he manages to find that spot anyway.
“Fuck,” he groans, “ngh—you are so…so soft. So exquisite and warm and so fucking tight.”
Your legs wrap around his hips, bracing yourself for every forceful, heavy snap of his hips. It’s fast and rough and impatient. It’s everything your Kyryll is not. It’s hungry and mad and vulgar. There’s a filthy squelching sound that mixes in with both of your pleasured sounds—a wet, filthy one that comes from skin slapping on skin and the way his cock slips in and out of your dripping cunt.
“I’ll fill you up,” he says lowly, “there is a perfect little womb right here,” his large hand presses against your belly, applying light pressure against it as he thrusts into you, making you wail. “And I intend to make good use of it. I will fill this womb up with my seed over and over again—until it takes. However many times I must, I will. Until you are swollen with a child that will have both the bloodline of a fae and a delicate little human.”
“P-please—”
“Is that what you want?” He coos, “to have a child you can bear with half of me and you? Perhaps my eyes? Your smile? Is that what my darling little human wants?”
“Y-yes,” you sob, “yes, yes—please!”
“Then far be it from me to deny such a precious request,” he hums.
You moan into his mouth as he kisses you roughly. A messy dance of tongue and teeth and hot breath that you exchange between heavy panting. One hand tangles in his hair and tugs, and the other alternates between scratching into his back and rubbing over those delicate nerves at the base of his wings. You feel him jolt every time you trace them—feel him let out a tiny whimper into your mouth when your thumb catches over a particularly delicate membrane that makes his whole body shudder.
“Oh,” he groans roughly, “I’m…I’m c-close—so…so tight. It’s never…it’s never felt like this before.”
For a fleeting moment, you wonder what he means by that—he’s fucked you plenty of times before. Plenty of times, he’s felt the slick tightness of your cunt and the warm walls that wrap around him invitingly. Then…then it occurs to you that perhaps…perhaps this is the first time Kyryll has ever fucked somebody at all during a rut. Perhaps he has never had the company of another while he locks himself away in his home.
Perhaps, all these years, he’s had nothing but the frustrating company of his own hand against his cock, a limited and lonely form of relief for that awful, throbbing ache between his legs. You imagine it—the sight of him sprawled on his bed, bare and sweaty and painfully erect. The sight of his fist stroking his cock and squeezing at the base while he bites the palm of his hand and chokes on sounds he tries to suppress. The sight of him spilling into his hand and feeling the tremors of his pleasure all alone with no one to whisper sweet nothings to him as he comes down from the high.
What a lonely, awful way it must have been to ease his aches. What a lonely, awful fate he was so willingly to resign himself to again before you had wormed your way into his home and demanded an explanation from him. A part of you knows he had done it mainly out of fear—fear of hurting you and losing control. Fear of slipping too far in his desires and taking it further than he would ever dream of, and causing you harm.
But another part of you wonders if Kyryll is just too used to being alone. If his mind and body are accustomed to being alone during something like this, that even when his body craves the heat and closeness of someone else, even when his mind has envisioned you in less than proper ways, like he’s said himself, he is too ingrained in the habit of being alone. Being far, far away from others and handling things alone. Being far, far away from you when he thinks himself to be a burden who does not deserve your closeness or your care or your intimacy.
And you don’t like it. You don’t want his mind to think that way on default and put space between you when all you want is to be nestled into his skin and make home in his ribcage. You’re safest there—he would protect you with his bones and shatter them first before anything would harm you. You know that.
And you want to take care of him. See the less than human parts and make them feel welcome in this big, large world where there is room for both of you to exist with your differences.
“Have you ever fucked someone like this, Kyryll?” You whisper, “When your body is flushed and warm like this? Has anyone touched these cute little wings of yours as you fucked your load into them? Held you as you come undone? That’s what you deserve, don’t you think?”
Filthy. That’s how you make him feel. That’s how he makes you feel, too. Even when you are being sweet, you are both downright, purely filthy.
“No,” he rasps, “fuck—no, I haven’t. I’ve never…n-never had someone before you for…for this.”
“So I’m your first proper rut, is that it?” You manage to giggle even through his ruthless, heavy thrusts. Even as he bullies his cock into your folds as deep as it’ll go, you find a way to tease and mock him.
(And he likes it. There is, undeniably, a part of him that excites when you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t feel him twitch inside of your cunt like that.)
“Yes,” he groans loudly, dizzy with pleasure as you squeeze around him, “yes…my first…first proper one.”
His hips stutter for a moment as he says the words—like he’s mulling them over and pondering on the implications of them before suddenly, your other leg is thrown over his shoulder and you cannot help but squeal in shock from the force of his body maneuvering yours. He folds you in half, and your knees are almost pressed to your chest.
He rolls his hips in quick, impatient thrusts—sloppy in rhythm and no longer as deliberate as they once were in pace. He’s close. This Kyryll is so, so different from your Kyryll, but he’s still the same. You recognize the patterns as they come. That slack jaw and those eyes that flutter shut and roll to the back of his head. The deep, heavy breaths and the low, raspy grunts. The familiar way his pace becomes messy and less rhythmic as he tries to grind into you and chase the friction. And finally, the small, little twitch his cock does before he spills into you. It’s warm—so fucking warm and thick, and it fills you up from just a few ropes.
“M’c-cumming,” he says hoarsely, so fragile and broken as pleasure bleeds through his veins and shoots along his nerves. “So…so good, love—you always feel so good.”
Just like the first time he came in his pants right against your legs, he spills more seed than you ever imagined possible. It paints your walls white, and he does a careful job of fucking the load into you as it spills, never stilling for a second. You can feel it leaking from your folds—there’s a mess of his cum and your slick leaking past your folds and coating your inner thighs, dripping along your skin.
He watches, mesmerized.
And when a particularly sharp thrust lands, you follow him as you fall off the edge and go hurtling into your own pleasure. It’s dizzying. He’s never stretched you like this—you’ve never felt veins this thick rub against your walls and drag along with such sickening friction. When you cum, you cum hard—harder than you ever have on his cock. You squeeze around him, milking him of the last of his thick ropes of cum and making sure he gives you everything he can.
“Kyryll,” you gasp—you chant it a few more times as you ride out the final waves of your high, unable to form anything else but the thought of his name. “Oh,” you breathe, “fuck.”
He slumps over you as he finishes, catching his breath in the crook of your neck. His wings tremble faintly before folding closed, and for a long moment, the only sound is his heavy breathing and the faint hum of his heartbeat against your chest.
When he finally speaks, his voice is still rough, still deep and throaty. “I did warn you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “I told you I lose myself in this state. You insisted on testing me.”
You hum, utterly unbothered, fingers lazily combing through his damp hair. “Lose yourself? That was you losing control? I must say, I expected something a little more…dramatic.”
He lifts his head, giving you a look equal parts disbelief and exhaustion. “You have the audacity to critique my performance?”
“I’m just saying,” you tease, grinning, “for all that talk about feral instincts and uncontrollable urges, you were still very polite about it. You even romantically asked to start a family with me.”
A huff of laughter escapes him despite himself. “You mock me even now?”
“Only because it’s easy,” you grin, kissing his cheek. “All that talk, and you’re already out of breath.”
A low, breathless hum escapes him. “No need to worry,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual—and you feel the familiar twitch of his cock. Still hard and still swollen inside you. “We still have a long way to go before my desires are satisfied. I hope you’re prepared.”
You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, eyes widening a fraction. “Oh…how long?”
Kyryll smirks—that infuriating, elegant smirk that makes you weak-kneed. “Well,” he begins, voice dipping, “I did say that fae have a lot of stamina.”
“Well…” you murmur, looking at him with defiant eyes. “I still think I can handle that.”
He groans, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, “We shall see,” he rasps, “because I am not finished with you yet.”
Sometimes, Alyosha just felt like he was dating a human version of Tugarin—
You and his loyal husky were so similar in many ways, maybe because you both were from the same race, but who cares—it never stopped the hunter from falling in love with you and your ridiculously fluffy tail and ears...
He also didn't care when he was caught in a cuddle pile by you and his doggo in the night, it was fitting for the borderline freezing weather in Snezhnaya and he was cuddling with both his favorite persons.
What he cared about, however, was the awkward moments where you would act upon his orders that were directed toward Tugarin.
It a cute mess up you always did.
"C'mon, fetch!" Alyosha shouted toward Tugarin, who was staring the branch in the hunter's hands intently.
Getting ready to run, the dog halts in his steps when the branch is instead, picked up by someone else, someone who certainly wasn't the four legged furry, confused dog at who the order was directed to.
You proudly ran back toward your boyfriend, who, visibly was confused and surprised before he chuckled. "Good...girl?" He took the stick back, his other hand moving to pat your head. "But...You got a certain someone envious, baby."
Your eyes widenned, realizing that it wasn't your turn to shine. "Hah..ha, oops?" You nervously said before getting chased by said dog.
That day, Alyosha made a mental note to start his orders by his husky's name. (Hc because in his character presentation he said "Tugarin, fetch!" and not just "fetch!")
And some other day, he'd be the victim of your saliva over him. Not even in a weird way, you just tended to be...a little excessive in your way of showing affection, that sometime your little pecks and kisses would turn into licking and biting his chubby cheeks. Something he was always used to because of Tugarin.
"Mwah~♡"
"Chuu~♡"
"Yum~♡"
You sat on his side, legs almost on either side of his lap. His face in your hands as you showered your adorable boyfriend in kisses.
"Did I ever tell you just how cute you are?" You mutter before pecking his nose.
"Hm, you did." He smiled.
"Then," kissing him before biting his cheek. "How warm you are?"
"You never fail to remind me," he nods, his eyes widenning when he felt the tip of your tongue graze his cheek. "Do I?" You asked the hunter, chuckling when he answered with another nod.
You licked his right cheek, then his left, then his jaw before hugging him tightly. "Then I must be doing my girlfriend duty correctly!" You giggled, watching as your lover's smile grew, visibly not minding the assault your tongue exerced on his face. Is this what cuteness aggression is?
You heard his running before he even came in. "Woof!" Tugarin barked before jumping in the middle of you both.
His paws hugging you while he licked your face before switching to Alyosha.
The hunter only sighed, though not really bothered by his dog's or girlfriend's antics.
He loved both of you dearly, even if you added onto the pile of furs present on his carpets...
Part 1: THE VAMPIRE AND THE... MASOCHIST? (but this piece can be read solo!)
Synopsis: Lohen knows you're a vampire. He's determined to have you feed on him this time. No running away anymore, vampy~! <3 (Vampire! Knight! Reader)
Includes: Lohen
⚠️CONSENTUAL blood eating, semi-graphic depiction of injury, weird vampire logic, Lohen being a freak + reader tweaking a lil bit, light cursing, OOC.⚠️(also reader has a house with a couch 💕💕💕)
Lohen is a prick.
You knew this well, he was your vice-captain after all. There were plenty times Lohen had proven to deserve the title upon your many mission together. But this was getting irritating.
Very irritating.
You were a vampire, and as a knight, you had vowed to never consume human blood as long as your honor as a knight remained. So obviously, you hunted, usually just a pick-me-up on long missions. Normally, you'd be alone, plenty of time to grab a boar or a rodent and satiate the strong craving for fresh blood for a while. Yet ever since finding out you were a vampire, Lohen had been such a thorn in your side. He got unbearably clingy- not a mission went by where you could even sneak any good food for two weeks.
And even more infuriating, Lohen kept getting reckless during your missions. Jumping directly into the line of fire. Getting hurt more often. Deliberately being a pain in the ass. Bleeding everywhere.
Bleeding everywhere near you.
It was getting harder and harder to resist, who could blame you? He was blocking off your food supply, and taunting you with fresh blood.
His flesh blood.
And here you were, stuck on yet another commission with your haywire vice-captain.
---------------------------------------
Lohen was ecstatic. Thrilled even. He could tell you were getting hungrier and hungrier every shift. Even the menial, superficial cuts had you gnawing at your lips, eyes trained on his bandages. This was his chance to finally get you to feed on him, how could he turn down such a perfect opportunity?
The commission itself was dreadfully dull, just a few rowdy hilichurls blocking a main road. easy. Even a trainee fresh off training could beat something like this without getting so much as a hair of their head. But, this commission actually had combat- in other words, a golden opportunity to get you to finally feed on him.
All he had to do now was get you cornered.
It was simple enough. Your focused face was cute. Darling vampire, so diligent.... Lohen admittedly got a little distracted, and only realized that he was well.. focused on you, when an arrow flew past his throat, marring his skin. A streak of blood quickly beading up. Lohen felt a surge of annoyance fill his head, scowling. He shot down the hilichurl quickly, the annoyance fueling the quick extermination of the camp. Lohen only realized after the whole camp was wiped clean that he had forgotten to get himself targeted...
As Lohen was pouting to himself about the missed opportunity, he glanced over to you. Your pupils were huge. Cat-found-catnip huge. Lohen couldn't stop the grin that blessed his face as he realized.
He gingerly dabbed his neck with his sleeve. "You know, if you're hungry, I don't mind if you-" "Shut up!" You quickly sputter, shutting him down before he could even finish his proposition. "You can't just do that here... you're risking my honor as a knight!" Your eyebrows furrowed, your eyes drifting away from him. "We can.. crash at my place. It'll be secluded enough." Lohen brightened. "Oh? Not shutting me down?" Lohen grinned as your face grew hot.
Score.
---------------------------------------
Lohen leaned back on your couch, hooking his arms behind the back cushions. He still had that stupid shit-eating grin on his face as he watched you shuffle. He didn't even need to say anything to mock you at this point, it was humiliating enough with him just sitting there....
You sit next to him, biting your tongue to resist just lunging at him on the spot immediately. Sink your fangs into that sweet flowing crimson while he was still hanging his head high. You shake off the lingering thought. "First things first," you start, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest, "if you feel dizzy, light headed, or weak, tell me to stop immediately. I don't want to kill you." Lohen rolls his eyes, waving his hand dismissively, half a pout on his lips. "Relax, I know my limits. You can't kill me that easy."
Punching Lohen in his stupid face sounded really good right now.
You trace your fingers across his throat, feeling his heartbeat across every vein under his skin. You could feel his blood rushing from underneath his skin. Surging as you dragged against his skin. He leans his head back, splaying his throat out for you. His wound stressed. A scar was already starting to form, lines of dried blood dragging down Lohen's collar. It was still fresh, unbearably metallic, and oh so tempting.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
He was nervous. ...excited maybe. Perhaps it was the lingering adrenaline. Either way, his heart was beating frantically. His eyes curious, damn near teasing.
You prod at the wound, feeling out if anything major had been hit (safety first and all), and maybe he was just being delusional due to blood loss. (Un)fortunately, Lohen's wound was barely worth note. Nothing serious was hit, and the bleeding had basically stopped at this point with barely any initial intervention. Perfectly safe, it would be indistinguishable from the rest of his fair skin in a few weeks time.
Meaning, it was also perfectly fine to feed off. You swallow some clinging nervousness, this was the first time you'll have had human blood in.. years. And even then, Lohen's blood smelled exquisite, compared to both human and animal alike.
You gently wipe the drooling blood, bringing it to your mouth. Your heart hammered on your ribs. It was like seeing color for the first time.
---------------------------------------
Watching you fuss over him was half annoying, and half endearing. On one hand, he was getting impatient with how long this was taking. On the other, he had waited for what felt like an eternity to finally get you here, was was a little more waiting? You sure looked cute with that worried expression. Answer he certainly want complaining about dominating your attention right now.
He felt his own pulse quicken as you leaned over him, looking all cute and focused.
You poked and prodded at his throat, just to try and inch you farther, he leaned back, the sting of the wound dull. He tried not to smirk after your eyes widened, trained on how his blood pained his neck.
Feeling your fangs sink into his flesh crooned a soft hiss from his lips, it hurt more than Lohen was expecting, but the pain was quuickly subsided. He was delighted- beyond ecstatic even! It was well worth the weeks, months of pinning for this exact moment.
It was curious feeling truly. He could feel how your fangs dug into his flesh, and how you slowly dragged them out, the blood rushing into your mouth and the cute hum you made as it hit your tongue. Lohen expected it to hurt the whole way through, but the more blood you took, the more numb his neck got. That was a little disappointing, still novel enough not to be terribly ruined.
And it really only got better as he saw how cute you were acting.
---------------------------------------
He tasted so good.
So good. So so so good.
Any meal, any drug, nothing was better than the taste that graced your mouth as you drew the blood from Lohen's throat. The desire to dig your teeth deeper, truly consume him was so tempting.
You wanted more. You wanted to just keep eating. Keep the essence of his beating heart at your lips. The heavens themself could come down, bless you with the best food in all of Teyvat, and it would taste bitter and utterly dull compared to the pure ambrosia that was Lohen's blood.
Your instincts tugged at you cruelly.
More. More. That's all your body begged of you. You really did want to suck him try like a true, noble, vampire.
But you knew better than to indulge. Aside from the fact that you'd get a far better return if he stayed alive, even drinking this much from him as a first time was risky. Lohen was probably high off the pain, he'd be dead by the time he even though about warning you at this rate. So much to your reluctance, and your poor heart and stomach begging you not to let go, you pull off, licking the beading blood from the wound. You lap at the remnants of your liquid temptation.
After wiping what remained of the crimson off your lips, you finally turn your attention back to Lohen's face. He was flushed, and had a weirdly blissed grin upon his face. He gingerly felt the forming scars at his neck. Attempting to save what little face you still had, you mumbled "Are you don torturing me now?"
His grin grew, turning more mischievous. Lohen hummed, "You wish."
---------------------------------------
Masterlist
AN: "Omg... 👀👀👀 I hope there's not a 👀👀👀 vampire 👀👀👀 nearby 👀👀👀 that might 👀👀👀👀 want my blood 👀👀👀" - Lohen. also sorry this took forever to write I was busy being a bum and didn't want to write for like three months. Anyway its also best girl's birthday today!!! I LOVE AMBER OHMIGOSH
There's an insect in your shared room what do they do?
✧Featuring: Lohen x Reader, Flins x Reader, Wanderer x Reader
✦ Word count: About 700 each
✧ Tags: Fluff, Comedy, Established relationship, and reader shares a living space with the character, beta reading is a nonexistent concept in this blog, this is mostly nonsensical fun. The insects are featured in this exact order: Cockroach, Spider, Centipede. And yes, Reader is fucking scared of them
✦ Note: I dusted this ancient artifact half-finished from last year for you. Due to my creativity draught, nothing serious will be produced anytime soon lol
✦ Lohen
"Do something about it!"
Lohen eyes you with morbid curiosity, taking in every nuance of your fearful expression and not even actually paying attention to the very creature that you're pointing at. The cause of your current distress is a six-legged horror clad in a burnt-amber hood with two of its filthy antennae wiggling around like it's taunting you— it probably is.
"Don't tell me you're actually scared of a cockroach? It's barely the size of your toe." At last, Lohen walks over to the wall that the little pest has conquered and inspects it, head tilting in hope of a revelation about why this thing could cause you so much fright. You, on the other hand, are pressing yourself impossibly closer to the wall opposite of it, almost melting into the surface while engaging in an intense stare-down with the demon.
"Well, you're barely the size of a twig and everyone's scared of you."
To that, Lohen shoots you a sharp glare before the corner of his mouth shifts just about 5 degrees— that is not a good sign. "For a good reason don't you think?"
You shake your head profusely, silently cursing your good-for-nothing mouth. Why do you always have to run your mouth at the worst possible moment? Now you have two horrifying creatures to worry about in this tiny room with only one door to escape.
Lohen tentatively takes another step closer to the cockroach that is idly clinging to the wall, hand slowly creeping out—Oh no
"It's alright. Fear is nothing you should be ashamed of. What you should be ashamed of is taking no action to quench it." Now his hand is hovering just above that filthy little thing— You think you know what he's onto.
"Hmmm… Have you ever heard of exposure therapy?"
Just as Lohen finishes his sentence, the seemingly mindless, unintelligent bug starts to wiggle its wings and fly away from Lohen's grasp.
Wait. Fly? It's flying…? Towards you???
You let out a high-pitched shriek upon the realization and jump away from your spot at once, charging at your boyfriend who's the furthest away from the cockroach's trajectory.
"Lohennnn!!"
When you come charging at him, Lohen instinctively shields you with his arm as you shuffle to hide behind his back. You don't even get to see where the cockroach has landed as a sharp, frosty sound soon envelops your hearing. When you open your eyes, the cockroach has been frozen in a small icicle.
Lohen's Cryo vision shifts slightly before settling down and he too, in a most nonchalant fashion ever, wipes his shoulder and let out a mocking whistle.
"Woah, did you see that? It straight up skipped me and went for you instead. Didn't know cockroaches have such nice taste in victims, heh."
Your breathing has leveled off a bit but your hands are still tightly stuck to Lohen's shoulders. But the immense trepidation slowly simmers down and leaves you with a hot, boiling sense of anger. Enraged, you push his shoulders away and storm out of the bedroom.
"Lohen you asshole! Keep your damn exposure therapy to yourself!"
You move to the living room and settle for the most comfortable spot to lie in. That fucker can sleep with the damn cockroach for all you care.
Eventually, you come to the realization that the heat of frustration will not keep you through the cold airs of the night nor turn the stiff, rigid couch into your plush, soft bed— But you've made your decision and you're gonna stick to it.
Which is why you're dazedly surprised when you wake up at 1 AM to the tender and warm sensation of your quilt while Lohen has settled for the rough, cold floor— Good, at least he still knows you're mad at him and doesn't attempt to clamber into bed with you.
But you're not so mad that you would withhold the spare pillows and blanket from him.
As you toss them down to the floor, taking care to aim right at his face, Lohen speaks up "Does this mean my bunny has forgiven me?"
"No. And stay where you are until morning!"
✦ Flins
"My dearest light, may I inquire you as to why you are wandering outside so late into the night?"
"Kyryll, you're back!"
You jump up from the cobblestone perrons which you have been sitting on to shuffle into Flins' body, his arms immediately wrap around your waist as you embrace him with a hug.
"Your enthusiasm warms me greatly, dear. But I must address a pressing concern, one that involves your well-being. As of this time, you should be soundly asleep, for the human body needs sufficient rest to function. I sincerely hope you have not troubled yourself with the wait of me."
There is truth to his statements. Around this time of the day, you would be snugly in bed, reveling in the softest and warmest bed that Flins' abode could offer you, here in the Final Night Cemetery. And due to his nocturnal inclination, Flins' work stretches until the moon no longer claims its throne in the night sky and once he returns to press a chaste kiss on your temple, you would know the sun has begun to bear its light over the horizon.
"I… Actually yes, there's something that's troubling me and I've been waiting for you to return. But you must promise not to laugh, alright?"
"I would never dream of doing so, my dearest. "
So now, you and Flins are standing in the middle of your bedroom, or his bedroom to be exact but that was prior to your relationship. His eyes drill into the creature that you're pointing at with your index finger. It sits in the middle of the room, its eight legs that roamed your leg while you were sleeping earlier are now suddenly frozen— you mentally cringe at the memory, the sensation clings to your brain like a stubborn ghost.
"H-Hey! You promised not to laugh!" You quickly reprimand Flins when you hear the tiniest of chuckles leaves his mouth. He quickly composes himself and swiftly apologizes to you.
"Pardon me, I did not mean to poke fun at your distress. But I believe that this tiny intruder here seems more frightened of you than you are of it. Perhaps this predicament needs no complications and can be solved in peace."
You glance back at the spider. The once haughty, arrogant insect has backed down a bit, retreating further into the room's corner— Weird, it clearly derived enjoyment from scaring you earlier…
"If you say so, then..."
With that, you reach out to the book nearest to your hand and begin to shoo the spider towards the window.
To demonstrate your goodwill in maintaining peace, you crouch down to make yourself smaller and wave the book back and forth. With Flins as the reinforcement, you suddenly feel braver than ever.
Unbeknownst to you, the spider is backing down from a threat far larger than anything it has ever encountered. Behind your back, your lover's form has shifted slightly. The lantern he carries by his side flares violently, cackles of blue and purple burst through the metal frame with fervor. Shadow slowly envelops his silhouette, revealing cuts across the abyss where the blue flame resides.
"Verrry good, a few more steps to the windows okay?" You push on with your ministration as the spider is now at the edge of the window's frame. A little more and no blood will have to be shed.
The poor insect is almost frozen in fear, the kind of primal fear that has withstood decades of evolution and is hardwired into its subconsciousness. Its instincts are screaming to run yet its body cannot, it keeps on locking gaze with the hole of darkness ahead.
With just one glance towards the eyes of that flame, the spider immediately abandons its frozen state and flees.
You quickly shut the windows, making sure no other insects can get in anymore. When you hear the sound of the shuttles, you briefly breathe out a sigh of relief and turn to your lover.
"Phew, you were right. Maybe that spider is actually more scared of me than I am of it." Flins gives you a warm smile. The traces of that flame have all disappeared, leaving behind the form of the man you so adore. He walks over to you and cradles your face with one hand, the other resting idly on your shoulder.
"As it should. You are a ferocious opponent, my dear. In the face of such a perilous threat, flight is the only correct response."
"Oh stop it with your flattering Kyryll. You act like it has just seen an apex predator or something!" You take hold of his hand on your face and intertwine your fingers with his. Once the trepidation has worn off, exhaustion has come to take its place— evidently shown through the yawn you let out.
"The spider must have disturbed your slumber greatly. How about you return to bed for a nap while I prepare breakfast for you? I will make your favorite."
You rub your eyes and mumble through your bleary state. "If that's alright with you."
"Of course. If you will, let me take care of you for our lost time."
Flins gently leads you to bed and carefully tucks the cover over your shoulder. The sun has begun to yearn for its place over the horizon but under your lover's tentative care, the night is yet to be gone.
✦ Wanderer
"Whoever's there, don't you dare attack my partner!"
Wanderer slams the door to your shared abode violently, the sheer force causes it to creak angrily against the wall as it faces the impact with a loud, thunderous thud. Indifferent to the state of your house's fixtures, Wanderer rushes to where you're sitting on the floor, a hand on your shoulder and another shielding you away from whatever he thinks has broken into your shared living place.
"K—Kuni! There's a centipede! Ahh—it's crawling!" You jump up from your spot and duck behind him, even tugging on the flowing decorative fabric on his hat for better measures. Wanderer tips his hat back into balance with a mixture of different emotions on his face. From confusion to realization then embarrassment and to cover all of the above, frustration—topped with some murderous intent— but not at the centipede.
"Seriously? Next time you scream that loud, it better be because the Raiden Shogun manifests out of thin air and demands your head." He slurs through the name like it's a personal insult but still shields you from the front without budging.
"Well?? I'd be praying for the Raiden Shogun to manifest right here, right now and slime that thing out in an instant!" You emphasize your point with a hard tug at the strips of fabric connected to his hat, making it tilt backwards and almost fall from his head. Wanderer lets out an annoyed grunt and mumbles something under his breath.
"No need to pray for something so atrocious when I can do it for you."
"What?"
"I said—" Whatever he is about to repeat is immediately cut off by another piercing scream of yours as you realize that the centipede has crawled a little closer to you while you were distracted.
"Ugh! Get—get off me!"
"Kuni! Kuni! Do something! It's crawling towards me!"
As you attempt to clamber onto his body, Wanderer lifts himself off the ground and struggles to keep you at bay. On another hand, you are still trying to get yourself higher, slinging an arm over his neck and pushing your body onto his shoulder.
"Stay still, or I'm dropping you on that thing!" And that gets you to stop thrashing out real quick.
You take a look down as you're hovering mid-air, the centipede is still there, wiggling its legs as it crawls on the floor. With one strike of his Anemo power, Wanderer spares it from the horrendous sound wave created by your distressed vocal chords.
"You're lucky I'm a puppet. Any other living beings that experience your supersonic shriek would not have made it." Gradually, he returns you to solid land and you choose to thank him instead of addressing that slander.
"Phewww, at least it's dead now… But how did it even get in here?" You look over its dead corpse and dread about cleaning this thing. Meanwhile, Wanderer is adjusting his hat, preparing to go back to whatever it is he was doing prior to this— or in better terms he's not cleaning this mess up.
"Your room stinks, that's how. Clean your room and shower properly."
"What?! You know well I shower every day! Also, this is our shared bedroom."
Even with his back turned to you, you can still picture the annoyed head shake and eye roll of his.
"Back in my days, they used to capture centipedes as long as your legs and stuff them in a jar to make wine."
You love Wanderer but sometimes you have the craving for a little Scaramouche.
Wanderer x reader x Scaramouche // wc: 2.6k // suggestive
c/w: fem!reader, implied threats of r@pe, implied mur/der, implied cheating, dubc0n, implied knife play, implied wax play, reader is a masochist, Scaramouche is a sadist
a/n: This is part 1 of 2. Please mind the content warnings.
You met him as Wanderer.
Back then, you had just begun your journey as a scholar, eager to study literature at the Akademiya.
Your first friend was Tighnari, an upperclassman who helped research local fauna for one of your writing projects. He claimed the trick to making friends was to play Genius Invokation TCG. He was your trustworthy senior so you believed him and, when he inevitably invited you to join TCG night at a local tavern, you agreed easily.
As it turned out, Tighnari and his friend Cyno took TCG much more seriously than you had expected. After a pathetically quick defeat, you had resigned yourself to the bar. That is where you saw him.
At the very end of the bar was a dark-haired man, sitting alone and holding in a comically large hat. The scowl on his face combined with his crossed arms made it clear he would rather be anywhere else but here right now and that sparked your curiosity.
By the time you approached him you had already drafted several potential backstories to explain why he was here, ranging from someone’s obsessive stalker ex to secret vampire king of the underworld.
“Hi,” you greeted cheerfully.
“Not interested,” he responded.
Okay, ouch…
But what type of scholar would you be if you had been deterred by one little rejection?
So you plopped down right beside the man and proceeded to start a conversation. Despite his initial coldness, he gradually opened up. He even introduced himself—
“I’ve gone by many names and titles during my journey. Call me whatever you like.”
“Hmm… What about Hat Guy?"
“...Wanderer.”
—and explained that he had been forced here for the sake of socialization by Nahida herself
“You must be a pretty big deal if you’re in close relations to Lesser Lord Kusanali.”
"She has her reasons for keeping me around."
“Heh… You really don’t reveal much, do you, Wanderer?”
“No, but it seems the persistence of fools has no limit.”
The two of you became an unlikely pair after that, largely due to your own efforts at first. You greeted him every single day, going out of your way to search for him if he was not in his usual spot in the library. Eventually, you began sharing lunch together in Puspa Café. You would rave about your latest story ideas while Wanderer pretended not to be listening—only for the truth to be revealed when he couldn't resist correcting you when you get a historical reference wrong.
Over time you earned Wanderer’s trust, and with that, his backstory. He explained everything to you in great detail, from his original purpose as a vessel to his abandonment, betrayals, and subsequent role in a villainous organization. At the end, he claimed he would not blame you if you no longer wanted to be associated with him—to which you vehemently denied and assured him that you see him as Wanderer, not his past.
To be trusted with Wanderer’s story was an honor, undeniable proof that you were one of the people he trusted most in all of Teyvat. He trusted you to keep his secrets and to love him despite their existence.
So, if he were to find out about the perverted fantasies you’ve been having, you are certain he will absolutely hate you.
Try as you might to ignore them, the fantasies come incessantly, vivid images of what it would have been like to meet Scaramouche.
He looks identical to your Wanderer: slender limbs of porcelain draped in traditional Inazuman silks, a head of silky dark hair, and a striking pair of eyes that glow.
But, unlike Wanderer, Scaramouche is cruel.
Scaramouche is more puppet than man, more archon than mortal, and he is devoid of any emotional attachments. In your imagination, you are always kneeling before him, prostrating as you beg for a mercy he does not give.
Scaramouche does not show restraint the way your lover does.
Wanderer would never dare to cause you harm, always handling you with gentle hands during your intimate moments.
But, Scaramouche… You think he would rather like to see you bleed.
You have imagined him torturing you in a thousand different ways. Sometimes it is with the sharp edge of a blade, laughing at the fear in your eyes as he presses it against your throat. Sometimes it is with the hot wax of a candle, silently watching you squirm as the heat sears your bare breasts. Sometimes it is with the cold wood of his bare hands, striking your ass until your skin blooms into red and purple bruises.
Regardless of the method of torture, your fantasies all end the same way: Fat tears streaming down your cheeks as you beg for more.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
The words startle you from your thoughts and you look up to find Wanderer sitting in front of you from you arms and legs crossed and he regards you with an expectant expression.
Glancing down at the scattered research papers and a half-finished story draft on the table, you recall what you were supposed to be doing.
“Uh... Studying,” you offer weakly.
Wanderer raises a brow in a way that tells you you’ve failed some type of unwritten test.
“Not what I asked but this is exactly what I mean. You’ve been so distracted lately…”
He pauses, cornflower blue eyes flitting across your face in search of something.
“You aren’t sick, are you? What are your symptoms? If you are unwell, we need to tell Lesser Lord Kusanali, she can fix you and—”
Your boyfriend’s genuine concern makes your stomach twist with guilt for fantasizing about Scaramouche.
What would Wanderer, the man who has decided to dedicate the remainder of his immortal life to atoning for his past sins against humanity and celestia alike, think if he knew you were getting off to the worst time in his life?
You resolve to never, ever let Wanderer find out about these sick thoughts of yours.
You will not be his fourth betrayal.
“Diarrhea,” you blurt.
Both of you freeze.
Wanderer’s concerned expression drops into something unreadable and your cheeks are beginning to heat up but you are already too committed to the lie to back out now.
“I think I ate something weird at Cyno’s place last week, I’m sure I’ll be fine after a few more trips to the toilet—in fact I think I’ll do that right now—see you at home later, dear!”
You snatch up your papers to stuff in your messenger bag and zip out of the cafe as if a Sumpter Beast were hot on your heels.
What a perfect save, you think.
It was, in fact, not a perfect save.
While your stomach issues excuse bought you a few days of peace, Wanderer seemed to be watching you even more closely than before.
Any time you catch yourself in the midst of zoning out you find him there, already staring right at you. At first you tried to play it off, feigning the usual exhaustion of a dedicated scholar or claiming you’ve been brainstorming ideas for your latest story.
But Wanderer’s stern gaze makes it clear he does not buy it at all and it is only a matter of time before he corners you and demands an answer.
You have tried your best not to have those impure thoughts, you truly did try. But it seems to haunt you, bits of inspiration appearing throughout your daily life.
One time, you had picked up your favorite novel, The Heartless Fae. You had hoped to replace your traitorous thoughts with the frivolous fantasies of fae princes and brave warriors.
Instead, the explicit scenes of passion have you imagining a certain harbinger and yourself in the characters' places. You wondered if the harbinger would throw you down and have his way with you like Jules does with Zakar in chapter twenty-two, binding your arms like a criminal before teasing your bare skin with the sharp edge of a dagger—
You had to borrow one of Alhaitham’s painfully boring essays to calm yourself down after that.
Another time, while researching historical texts for a writing assignment you stumbled across a textbook on ancient Inazuma. You cracked it open without hesitation, always eager to learn more about distant lands and the foreign cultures. But within a few pages the notable lack of information about the Raiden Shogun and electro gnosis became clear, almost as if it were intentionally scrubbed from the records.
You were reminded of the night Wanderer confessed his origins to you, his quiet retelling of his Creator and the search for his purpose. That was when told you about his past title, The Balladeer.
Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers.
You had only heard tales of the Harbingers.
Just their name seems to strike fear in the hearts of many and Wanderer seemed to confirm why when describing Scaramouche as a particularly ruthless leader.
Scaramouche was not governed by the moral principles of humans. He did not hold any reservations about destroying anything or anyone who stood in the way of his quest for Godhood. In fact, the trauma of his past betrayals inspired him to revel in the destruction. He would raze entire villages with fire, maim innocent civilians with electro, and murder his own subordinates without mercy if they so much as breathed too loudly in his presence—it painted a gruesome picture.
“I was not known to be particularly nice,” he had joked. “But I guess that hasn’t changed much.”
And perhaps that was the crux of the problem and the root of your fascination.
Scaramouche is not a myth constructed from one of your fantasy novels nor an unobtainable relic of ancient history. Even under a different name, following a different purpose, the experiences and memories of Scaramouche still exist.
Scaramouche is still alive.
Sometimes, you swear you can see him in the way Wanderer speaks.
If someone dares to test Wanderer’s patience, they never make the mistake twice. For all of Wanderer’s frequent glares and sarcastic quips, he rarely ever shows true anger. But if someone really pushes him, ignoring his boundaries and repeatedly demanding more than Wanderer is willing to give, something in him shifts. His cornflower blue gaze darkens in those moments, cutting to the person in a way that immediately has them faltering as Wanderer gives one final warning.
The presence of Scaramouche becomes most apparent when Wanderer fights.
You have only seen Wanderer in a serious fight once and it was for your own protection.
The two of you had been on the way back home from something of an impromptu adventure through the jungle. You had pestered him to come help you collect samples of Kalpalata lotuses to study for your latest story idea. You had read they only grow on cliffsides and climbing was not quite your strong suit. Your boyfriend, however, had a perfectly good anemo vision that would make reaching the peaks of cliffs a breeze.
You had told him as much (ignoring how he rolled his eyes at your genius pun) and he must have been in a good mood because he had only protested minimally before relenting.
The lotuses were beautiful. It was your first time seeing them in person and not merely illustrated in textbooks—you had excitedly said as much to Wanderer, who held you in his arms as he used his vision to keep the two of you suspended in the air. He had likely seen them a thousand times before in his long life wandering across Teyvat, but he still nodded along with your words and gave you a small smile that made your heart skip a beat.
You ended up leaving the cliffs without any lotuses. Perhaps Tighnari’s lectures about preserving nature were finally rubbing off on you because you decided your sketchbook and kamera were adequate documentation. The sun was just beginning to set when you and Wanderer could spot the familiar shape of the Divine Tree in the distance, indicating you would be home within an hour or two.
“Tonight I’m craving something fried,” you announce as the two of you walk side-by-side.
“Well you are having curry with rice, I already bought the ingredients yesterday.”
“But what if I don’t want curry with rice.”
“Then you can starve. You need to stop eating all that fried shit anyway—”
Wanderer suddenly freezes next to you, head snapping towards a tree just a few paces ahead.
You nervously follow his gaze but you don’t see anything unusual. You strain your ears, expecting to hear the heavy footsteps of a wild boar or perhaps the warning growl of a Rishboland tiger—but you can only hear the soft rustle of leaves and the pounding of your own heartbeat.
Just as you open your mouth, the hulking figure of a large man steps from behind the tree to reveal himself. Two equally intimidating figures follow closely behind, forming a triangular formation. The red and gold insignia on their clothing catches your eye and your breath catches
Eremites.
The moment they take a step forward, Wanderer slides in front of you.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” the large one in front says.
He is tall, completely drawfing both you and Wanderer with a voice that is deep and raspy. Despite his reassuring words the lopsided smirk on his face and the way his eyes seem fixed on you in particular does not quell the anxiety in your gut.
“Somehow I doubt that,” Wanderer drawls. “If you value your lives at all you will all turn around and leave us alone.”
The eremites seem to find the threat humorous and they exchange looks before chuckling amongst themselves. The once peaceful breeze seems to pick up around you, gusts of wind ruffling your clothing and forcing you to look away from the bandits to blink away the sting. From the corner of your eye you notice the vision pinned to Wanderer’s chest is glowing brightly.
“You’re a brave kid, I’ll give you that,” the leader taunts. “I’m feeling generous today so I’ll make you a deal: We will let you go home in one piece if you give us everything in your bags—”
His eyes slide past Wanderer and on to you.
Your stomach drops.
“—and a few rounds with your little girlfriend.”
The trio burst into another round of laughter but your attention is drawn by Wanderer who speaks to you without looking.
“Take five steps back,” he orders calmly. “Turn around and close your eyes.”
You follow obediently, moving before your brain even processes his words. You take five shaky steps back then slowly turn around.
The last thing you see before you turn is the curve of Wanderer’s shoulders as he summons Tulaytullah’s Remembrance.
You squeeze your eyes shut and listen to the deafening howl of wind.
Then comes the screams, the cries, the pleading as bones pop and snap.
You keep your eyes shut and pretend not to notice the gleeful laughter beneath it all.
(Lohen x fem!reader, noblewoman!reader, adventurer!lohen, yandere!lohen, reader was in an arranged marriage (keyword was), murder and minor descriptions of it, reader lowk a freak too you're not safe)
Lohen finds that he quite likes your bold personality.
Every since the commission to help escort you in a journey to your betrothed, he's always been on the receiving end of your disdain. Your harsh words fall on harsher rouge-lined lips, and he preserved every little syllable into memory. He'd watch, at the docks of your ship, as you stood there, arms crossed at the railings with an increasingly frustrated expression on your pretty little face.
Then of course, came your more, melancholic side. Though that wouldn't be the best way to describe you.
A night where your drinking limits teetered a bit too far and he had to accompany you to the docks. While you wiped the bile from the corner of your mouth you'd stare up at the star littered sky, frustration evident from your pursed lips, a look of anger etched from your brow bone to your eyebags.
"Unfair unfair unfair... Why do I have to be the one to get married off out of everyone?!" You screamed with all your might into the foggy air, and even Lohen startled with your loud shrieking.
But you were a woman of pride, most would've succumbed to excessive salty tears building up in their waterline. You however, composed yourself not by tears, but by pure, unadulterated hatred. Your nails dug into the wood of the ship, leaving your mark in the form of indents, before your tugged your shawl over yourself and left him in the dust, hurrying to your quarters in the ship.
That was the beginning of his so called "interest."
Time and time again, when he tailed after you after you yelled at him for the nth time, he takes more and more time to explore you, in a sense. What makes you tick, what (rare) things you like, things you tolerate. He finds that you much prefer him when he keeps his mouth shut, and that's whenever the primary reasons why he constantly ran his mouth in your presence.
Everytime an ornament from your gaudy dresses fell onto the docks he'd always pick it up and stuff it inside his vest. These decoration could cost a fortune, and yet he has no intention of selling them to grubby hands when he himself could imagine so many things with just a silver lining. How you'd look, plain and all without the excessive outfits and jewelry and makeup you wore like a shield.
How much he'd enjoy it if you treated him harsher in your natural state.
Though, when arriving at the land and accompanying you to your fiance, the dead eyed look that bordered on a calm resentment in your eyes gave him a glimpse of all of your turmoil now coming to form your mask.
And he...
Didn't like it in the slightest.
He preferred you haughty, mean, everything in general as long as you could look at him with disgust and disdain. Now, drained of your color and vitality, he finds the lump in his throat growing more prominent by the second. You, who once looked at him with so much emotion, even if negative, were drained of all that makes you, well you.
He knew what he had to do now.
The altar was in all sorts of beautiful, even if a farce. The structure was made more for looks than for functionality, and the pristine white surrounding of walls and tiles and ceiling have it even more of an oppressive feel.
A bit of red would do it good.
There you stood on the altar, veil practically thrown off of you to catch a glimpse of the sight. The sight of him holding the head of your fake beloved, blood and cerebral fluid dripping down onto the carpets. He himself was stained with the filth's blood. The head showed all signs of panic, from the widened eyes beginning to relax from the tautness to the afraid look on his face loosening to rigor mortis.
There you were on the altar, wearing white, and looking oh so beautiful. And oh so shocked, yet at the same time unbothered at the sight of him covered in the filthy gore and guts. Instead, your eyes ventured to the corpse, blinking as if you couldn't believe the sight in front of you, eyes-
The light in your eyes had returned, your blank look replaced with a smile of absolute mirth.
"You did this?" Instead of an afraid tremble he was met with a gleeful tone, lips etched to a perpetual grin, and cheeks flushed to a sickeningly sweet matter.
He's never seen you so happy in his presence, and he finds that he likes that look on your face alongside the disgust that accompanied it.
Mission accomplished, he supposed as he threw the decapitated head away to run to your side.
ik i haven’t been writing…but thanks for being patient :) i’ve been busy lately sorry!!
sooo this is a short one i wrote in class-
☆: hickeys, can be pt 2. of “but i don’t want to study” but this isn’t exactly the continuation, lohen being lohen, suggestive themes, reader is embarrassed, fluff, short piece, and may be ooc or cringe :D
again this is just a bubble of words, so its short (wrote this when i was half-awake listening to my teacher’s lecture LOL)
also-also y/n here is jean’s secretary!! <33
indulge
You were waltzing around the Knights of Favonius’ headquarters, scribbling the nonsense on your clipboard. You tapped your pencil tip against the clipboard a few times, the dots slowly connecting as you flipped the page cautiously.
You headed straight through a lengthy corridor, eyes remaining still and not caring to drift your gaze away to something. You gasped out a smal “aha!” furiously writing on the document, hands gripping the edges of your clipboard harshly as the crotch-scratch sound of your pencil mildly echoes through the hallway. You always handled the document meticulously, so Jean often appreciated your hard work. You helped lessen her headaches and workaholic traits, letting Jean actually rest at times when she was supposed to be sleeping.
But, the more absorbed you became in the document, the less you started realizing reality. Many off your subordinates had carefully, almost silently scurried away from you, for a very obvious and visible reason.
As you finally finished the page of reports—a happy huff leaving your lips—you started noticing how everyone was almost…avoiding you. Small crowds scooted over just so you could enter a room, or individuals seemed to turn their backs to you and face the other way, in a nervous manner, even. It seemed odd to you, at a certain point, and your mind drifte to the time. You glanced around anxiously, and tried to find someone to help you in this minor crisis of yours.
”Hey!”
“Um, excuse me?”
”Could you please tell me the-“
“Do you know what time it is?”
No response from anyone, not even a trainee.
Everyone stayed silent, as if they were ghosting you. Your brain struggled to pair the puzzle pieces together, and a rather intimate possibility hit you like a punch to the guts.
Every time someone were to look at you, the first thing you took note of (mentally) was that a red flush would creep up to their faces, their gaze lingering on your barely exposed neck a second longer than needed.
You immediately covered your face with your clipboard, the clip at the top banging against your forehead as you squeezed your eyes shut, cursing yourself for not covering your neck and collarbones more.
When it was lunchtime, you barged into your friend’s room (Hertha).
“HERTHA!” You yelled, sliding into her room with zero hesitation. You practically seized her collar and yanked her toward you, shaking her back and forth while Hertha’s face twisted into confusion and fright.
“What is the matter? Have I done something wrong?” She replied, her body becoming a blur as you continued to rattle her.
”Why is everyone ignoring me?! It’s like Lohen’s behind me and threatening everyone that’s tried to get close to me or talk!” You demanded, eyes widening in frustration as you began to pace the small space (and an image of your boyfriend sneakily walking behind you and holding a menacing knife and pointing it at everyone was conjured up in your head).
Hertha chuckled, lifting a hand while she suddenly took much interest in the very corner of the room. You eyed her carefully, raising an eyebrow and crossing your arms.
“So…I just need your answer for clarification!” You said, pleading it wasn’t the reason you thought it was.
Barbatos really hated you, huh?
Hertha took a big gulp of guilt before sitting back down, hands folding into her lap as she stared at you directly in the eye.
”Y/N, have you not made this conclusion yet-? An intelligent mind of yours should’ve been able to figure this out all ready…” Hertha said aloud before clearing her throat.
You were losing your patience, stomping a foot down.
“Hertha, hurry up.”
”Oh right, I forgot sorry! But, you’re dating the Vice Captain of the 5th company…yes?”
You nodded once, crossing your legs freely and pulling your collar up higher as sweat rolled down your neck.
”Seems like he’s been invested in…doing things to you,” She whispered, hand cupping around her mouth as you leaned down.
Your pride’s last string snapped, and the very not invisible crimson blush immediately took over your cheeks and neck, and you looked away hurriedly as your fingers started to fidget.
”W-well, not that way!” You whispered, brows furrowing as Hertha laughed.
Hertha nodded, finger swiping a tear away from her eye as you felt embarrassed, that everyone saw the hickeys your boyfriend had left last night. Lohen just couldn’t keep his hands off of you for one night, after all, so it was expected of him that he’d made sure his marks were left somewhere where everybody could see.
”Ha, you should get him under control,” Hertha continued, eyes crinkling at the sheer thought of you, the composed and very gentle lady getting dominated by the fearless and formidable Vice Captain.
You shoved her away and ran off, only to crash into the one person you wished wouldn’t bump into.
”Well, hello little bunny~ are you lost?”
That was a voice you knew far too well, especially when his voice dropped to that low register.
You fumbled, yet you kept your head high, cheeks blushing furiously as you crossed your arms. Lohen teasingly leaned down just a bit, eye level, mesmerizing scarlet eyes sparkling with amusement as you looked away, huffing.
“Oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” He suggested, finger tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him. The amount of people around you was far too much, far too public. It was embarrassing, humiliating as your red hot face was burning even more.
Those magical eyes of his winked, and his lips met yours as he closed the painful gap separating you two.
You gasped, eyes widening before shutting fully as lohen held the back of your neck, the soft sensation slipping into your mind before carrying that pleasant, almost foggy daze.
”L-lohen,” You whispered after he left your lips, his hair swaying slightly as he took your hand and led you out the crowded space.
”So now you talk after I show you affection? Hmm. Then, after I’m done with you tonight, I’ll make sure you’ll be babbling about how good I did you, how about that?”
You slapped his shoulder.
blehhhhhhh IM DEAD BRO-
but sorry for updating so slowly nowadays i just keep getting more insecure with my works anddddd ya…
haven’t written suggestive/nsfw/smut in a while, probably won’t ever unless i don’t feel insecure about writing these themes!! <33 ^^
:D
but will try my best to try and make my writing better! (i cringed so hard at the end CUT ME SOME SLACK jk i can’t write nsfw for my life LMAO) but peace
hi moja!! i just found out you like TBHK and i also like it !
(man i CANNOT socialize normally...ofc i socialize through my hyperfixations)
buttt who's your favorite character? (if i'm not wrong i'm pretty sure tbhk stands for toilet bound hanako kun...right? RIGHT?)
anyways sorry for wasting your time and invading your inbox! :D
HIII !! you're not wasting my time at all don't worry about that! Especially when it's about an interest of mine!
YESS I LOVE TBHK!! I'm in love with the story and the artstyle (the manga deserves a place in a museum i swear) It's been a while since i read it because of the hiatus so i probably forgot some things thoo
My favourite character is Aoi Akane (the guy, i'm specifying to not confuse with Akane Aoi lol) and if i need to explain why...SPOILERS WARNING for the Season 2 of the anime if you haven't seen it... (what are you waiting for??)
I really like how his character changes from his usual self to his clock keeper role... He's so cool... also i love of he yearns for Akane Aoi (again, the girl this time) and their relationship is so well written uughh like very other character! (btw i'm a huge hananene fan)
I really like Sakura too she's so pretty and elegant and mysterious...i can't wait to know about her! AND OF COURSE i like Shijima, she's an artist and a beautiful character how can i not love her?? The picture perfect arc is my favorite arc ever too!
and special mention to the mokkes i love those lil things <3
So many mysteries and secrets to be discovered in this manga it's amazing <3 Sorry maybe i yapped too much HAHA but I'd really like to know who's your fav character too and maybe your fav arc ?
If there's other people who likes TBHK id love to know too~~
if you receive this, you make somebody happy! go on anon and send this to ten of your followers who make you happy or somebody you think needs cheering up. If you get one back, even better! ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )
