it’s what you claim anyway, and caleb goes along with it even though he knows your friendship is anything but normal. and he’ll never say that out loud to you, or anyone else.
but he’s seen you in every form, let you cry yourself to sleep in his arms, showered you and brushed your teeth when you were too sick to do it yourself, takes your makeup off for you whenever you’re too tired to do it yourself, and he’s seen every crook and cranny on your body— and vice versa.
he’s also eaten you out once in the back of his car, but that was after a night out of drinking so you justify it by calling it a ‘silly drunken mistake’. and caleb will just nod along your words while running his hands through your hair, kissing your cheek before muttering against your skin, “sure, pip.”
intimacy and physical touch is just so normal between you two, that you sometimes struggle with the platonic and romantic difference. you try not to think about it too much.
but god forbid you ever show interest in a man other than him, with caleb immediately letting him know he’ll never square up to him, and that caleb will always be in your life whether he liked it or not. he’s always the first one to point out when any man isn’t doing enough for you — he’s way too picky and harsh for any of them to be deemed good enough.
and when the friendship with you and caleb inevitably becomes a problem for your love life once again, he’s always there to pick up the pieces with light peppered kisses on your cheeks where tear stains run, his voice soothing and his hands warm against your hips, “he never deserved you anyway, and you’re always gonna have me.”
Just wanted to stop by and let me tell youuu, your writing for Diluc is so spot on 😩 haven't read a Diluc fic that was this good since this year started omgg, I hope you continue writing more fics!! 🩷🩷
thank you so much ehe ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜ !
that’s really heartwarming to hear, especially from another writer and diluc lover. he’s sooo fascinating as a character with many dualities (soft heart, rough exterior; stern tone, pure intentions; light of dawn but operates in the shadows), and i just like putting him in different scenarios to see what he could do.
also, a restrained, private man losing his self-control is very sexy
i have a problem when it comes to him specifically, sooo two more fics are already in the works. i might do a part 2 for the first one i posted for kinktober, but we’ll see if i have the time!
don't call me that! — diluc x adventurer!reader ☆
⤷ you're a tease. and diluc hates it.
⤷ synopsis: stop calling him 'master,' or 'sir,' or anything along those lines. his heart can't take it.
⤷ cw: 18+ smut (minors dni), solo pervy!diluc. diluc gets off to you calling him ‘sir’. mentions of degradation, spanking. slight exhibitionism. no one gets caught.
⤷ wc: 2.1k
⤷ an: first fic o em gee. i love pent up men. sue me. if diluc hates when jean calls him sir, and if he hates being called the ‘dark knight hero,' i’d imagine it’d be quite easy to get on his nerves teehee
“Please stop calling me that.”
For what felt like the hundredth time today, Diluc groans as you pester him with another nickname. What originally started as ‘Master Diluc’ — a proper title befitting a man of his standing — has now morphed into something absurd. Last week, after hearing the Acting Grand Master use ‘sir’ in passing, you’ve been relentlessly inserting that moniker in conversation. This week, you’ve upped the ante from ‘sir’ to ‘Lord Diluc.’ And, now? Now, Diluc believes you’re just winging it.
“Master D? Really?” he continues, shooting you another pointed glare. You looked so proud of yourself, sitting on that barstool with mischief in your eyes that rivals even Venti’s. He blinks slowly. Small talk doesn’t come to him easily, but arguing with you certainly does.
“I told you, ‘Diluc’ will do just fine. No ‘Master D.’ No ‘Big D.’”
Diluc puts up a finger towards you, ceasing the churning thoughts in the gutter that is your mind.
“And certainly, no more innuendos involving the letter ‘D’ and variations thereof,” he says with finality.
The other patrons of the tavern don’t seem to catch onto your little spat. Though the crowd was sparse tonight, it seems the city was getting used to you driving Diluc up the wall.
“Understood, sir,” you smile, throwing up a salute for good measure.
A vein in Diluc’s forehead throbs. Is this what you wanted? A reaction out of him? You always looked up at him so eagerly, analyzing his expression for the smallest of changes. His eyes search yours, and before he can be caught staring incredulously, he turns back to the array of bottles at his side.
“You're awfully hellbent on calling me anything other than my name,” Diluc tuts, debating if he could pay you to leave him alone. But, the tavern was on the quieter side tonight, and maybe, just maybe, he enjoyed going back-and-forth with you. Sometimes.
“But, doesn’t everyone call you ‘Master’ or something like that?” you counter, lazily swirling around your glass of wine.
“It’s tradition,” Diluc sighs. His fingers graze over the set of bottles, turning one at the stem to read the label. Anything to not look at the way you’re staring at him. “It’s supposed to be a way of showing respect, something which you considerably lack.”
It’s your turn to get defensive. You sit up straighter in your seat. “I am showing you respect, Master Diluc. Or, well, I’m trying to. You’re the one who refuses to let me use your title, or any of my fun alternatives.”
“And, besides,” you continue, effectively cutting Diluc off before he can rebut, “I can’t not call you by a title. Wouldn't the nobles stone me to death in the city square for disrespecting you? Sir is better because it’s universal. Lord sounds too old, and honestly? Master is way too sexy. Like, don’t people use that in the bedroom when—--”
Diluc snatches the glass from your hand before you can finish.
“No more,” he says coldly. Diluc turns, pouring the contents of your half-finished glass into the sink. You open your mouth, about to plead your case, but he’s faster.
“This isn’t the Dark Ages,” he huffs, grabbing another glass. The clinking rings loudly, a warning for you to hold your tongue. “Nary a noble is going to ‘stone you to death’ as you so graciously put it. You’re affiliated with the Adventurer’s Guild. We’re… colleagues. Us being on a first-name basis is fine.”
Diluc trails off, face reddening at your later words. He didn’t live under a rock, yes, he knew the wilder, less inhibited types liked their power imbalances and pet names like ‘Master.’ While he hadn’t given it much thought, he wasn’t about to entertain any ideas of the bedroom, no less any dirty talk that could occur within those walls. Absolutely not – especially not when you’re here distracting him from running his own tavern with those eager eyes, those pursed lips, and that poisonous voice laced with faux innocence. He grits his teeth, pouring sparkling cider into the fresh cup.
“Drink.”
The cup clatters onto the counter, almost sloshing out of the rim. You can make out a small tinge of pink on his cheeks. You’re tempted to tease, to keep prodding, but his hardened stare gives you pause. He’d clam up again… or kick you out.
“Forgive me, sir,” you beam, taking a sip of your new brew.
Diluc’s eye twitches, and by the grace of the Archons, Charles returns from his break.
“I’ll be in the office,” Diluc calls out to his bartender, effectively walking away from you and your maddeningly smug grin.
The office door shuts with a thud.
While the second floor of Angel’s Share houses a balcony, a door on the other end leads to the owner’s place of respite – a sanctuary of solitude free from drunken commotion. Diluc lets out another breath, his hand inching to the knob behind him, and locks himself inside with a click. The office looked dull compared to the one at the Winery. A wooden chair faced a wooden desk, and a few old ledgers were scattered along dusty shelves. With a flick of his wrist, the lamps lining the walls come to life.
Diluc doesn’t move to the desk. He stays rooted with his back planted against the door, catching his breath for an encounter that shouldn’t have left him winded.
“Master.”
Your voice rings in his ear, and Diluc’s legs move without thinking. He’s sitting down now, facing a few documents that require his attention. He had brought them tonight, supposedly to work quietly as Charles ran the place downstairs. What better way to destress than to tackle important matters?
“Sir.”
Another shudder ripples through him as he’s reading a few parchments. Trying to read, at least. His eyes scan the papers: bills, orders for shipments, and a few event proposals for this very establishment. He fiddles with the corners, gloved fingers running along the edges of parchment. Maybe he could tackle the payments first? Angel’s Share was already at a surplus this month, a bit early for the season.
But, the shipments required a bit of mathematics and a fun game of strategy to determine which employee could deliver which barrels. His foot taps against the floor, the clacking of his dress shoes filling the silence of the dingy office. He could hire a mercenary to escort the deliveries given the recent uptick in Abyss Order activity. Enlisting an Adventurer would be cheaper than hiring a Knight, and Diluc would sooner be damned than trusting that lot again. Right, then, which Adventurer could he hire? No, no, don’t even think about adventurers, Diluc, you’ll think about —
“Daddy.”
Diluc’s hands smack against his face. He doesn't know where that one came from, not even sure how his brain could imagine words you’ve never even said in your voice. He lets out a low frustrated grumble, and pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to will away the tightness in his pants.
No matter which way he thought about it (or tried not to think about it), this was wrong. This is wrong. He shouldn’t feel anything other than indifference when you call him Master or Sir. Titles are proof of tradition, proof of the Ragnvindr Clan’s long lineage of boosting the city’s economy. Is he even allowed to think of you in that way? How could he, when he should be focused on his responsibility of continuing that legacy?
His mind shouldn’t conjure up images of you in precarious positions – on your knees or bent over his own – whimpering anything besides his name. He absolutely shouldn’t be imagining you, face down against this very desk, mewling and begging for release. Or perhaps you preferred being used? Yeah, maybe that’s what you liked, given your penchant for teasing. Maybe you’d even beg for him, needing his own release to defile your body, to be degraded in that sense.
His hand snakes down to his lap, palming the bulge in his pants. Diluc’s other hand is planted against his forehead, fighting his better desires away with the strength of a speck of dust. He peels off his gloves, tossing the pair on the desk.
It has been a while, he tells himself, unbuckling his belt.
Work can wait, he sighs resignedly, tugging at his zipper.
Yes, if this is taken care of, I can focus better, he reasons, pulling his cock free from his briefs.
Diluc leans back, legs parting as his hand slowly runs down his thick length. He’s lucky the tavern’s second floor is completely empty tonight, and even luckier that the distant hum of the first floor barely reaches his office. Images of you crop up in his mind: you sat downstairs, still nursing your drink and wiping lone drops from your parted lips. Flashes of your smile appear, wanting to wipe that teasing look in your eyes with a hard smack to your ass. Would you thank him? Thank your master for a fair punishment? Or would you cry out a pathetic apology?
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Diluc shudders at the thought, his more base desires peeking through the cracks of his usually restrained psyche. This was unbecoming. Sitting here in his office, jerking his stiff cock to the thought of you, is hardly appropriate behavior for a nobleman, no less a friend. But, Gods above, he hasn’t been this hard in a long time. Diluc dribbles spit onto his palm, languidly spreading it on his length. Self-loathing blends with his need, and he thrusts up. Short puffs of air escape him, his bucking hips meeting his quickening hand.
Living with nosy maids who cater to his every move and a butler who handles all his secondary affairs, Diluc had mastered the art of being quiet. Constrained by tight schedules and duties, he never allowed himself to let go. But, just this once, he’ll indulge. Just when you’ve overwhelmed his senses and threatened his better judgement. Diluc's lips part and his head falls back, fucking his own hand.
A knock raps at the door.
Diluc freezes. Cheeks flushed, he cups his hard-on and stares daggers into the lock. When the doorknob jiggles and stops turning, he lets out a soft breath of relief. Hands deftly working to put himself away, your saccharine voice stops him in his tracks.
“Master Diluc?” you call out softly. “I just wanted to say goodbye. I’m heading out for the night.”
Fuck, there’s that name again. You always had the worst timing. Heart pounding in his chest, Diluc's breath catches in his throat. He can’t. He shouldn’t. But, you sound so sweet, so wanting, so ready. How would you react if the door was unlocked? Would you blush too? Drop to your knees? Or would you scold him? Before he can stop himself, his thumb brushes against his tip, circling the sensitive head with repressed fervor.
“...No thanks for the drink, then?” he chokes out, barely stabilizing the shakiness in his voice.
He hears you laugh.
“Thanks for the cider, sir. I’ll pay you in full next time.”
Next time.
“Get home safe,” Diluc manages to sputter out. He can’t help it. He can’t hold back anymore, his hand now running down his aching cock.
Your footsteps echo away from his office door and disappear down the stairs.
As you leave, Diluc has to bite back the groan from escaping the back of his throat. With the depravity of a caged animal, he’s humping his hand, dick twitching at the sound of your voice ringing in his ears. Rubbing spit and pre-cum along his length, he succumbs to his own pleasure.
“So fucking good for me, yeah?” he mouths, imagining your nauseatingly sweet mouth between his legs. He could see it now: his cock in your mouth, jaw working to please him even as he’s handling stacks of paperwork. Or, perhaps you’d sink yourself onto his lap, rolling your hips against his cock for your master. You'd sound much louder that way, wouldn't you? His hips stutter, losing rhythm with his hand.
“I’ll be good for you, Master Diluc.”
“Do you need some help, sir?”
“Harder, sir, harder──"
With one final tug, Diluc’s cock spasms. “Fuck..." he groans, eyes slowly opening as they roll up towards the back of his head.
His girthy cock twitches, shooting out ropes of cum onto his palm. Waves of pleasure wash over him as he lazily bucks his hips, prolonging his much-needed high. He grunts, hands shakily hovering over the tip, taking care to not sully the paperwork on his desk. He at least has that much self-restraint. Chest still heaving, Diluc slumps against the chair, matted strands of hair sticking to his forehead.
Using a handkerchief kept in his coat pocket, Diluc swiftly cleans the scene, leaving no evidence of his degeneracy. He clears his throat, shuffling back into his pants with a clinking of his belt.
Reserved, stoic, elusive. Those were the usual adjectives to describe Diluc Ragnvindr, but the shame that runs through his veins make him believe otherwise.
Repressed. Perverted. Depraved.
In the silence of the dim office, Diluc wonders how he’ll look you in the eyes now. But, deep down? The worse parts of him wonder when he’ll get to hear your voice again.
