i . hello welcome to my blog !!! i primarily post x reader drabbles and headcanons of my favorites, but occasionally i do not mind posting ship content if something catches my eye. i do digital art as well so i may share those too ! i try not to stray away from my main characters unless im able to get a good grasp of their character and lore. posts will usually have f!readers but i will try to get out m!readers when i can.
ii . content mainly consists of nsfw that may border on bdsm, and domestic sfw where i see fit. requests are open but i may pick and choose certain scenarios depending on if i think they're ooc to my interpretations.
please read my rules before requesting !
i am always open to replying and chatting !!
i . discrimination of any kind is not welcome. this includes but is not limited to homophobia, racism, ableism, sexism, etc.
ii . i do not post heavy content or dead dove scenarios. nsfw headcanons may border on being rough but i do not openly write about darker topics such as incest, rape, harassment, etc.
iii . do not feed my work to ai, repost on other sites without credit, or sell my work. you will be blocked if you are a barebones account or if i see that you are a minor following and interacting with me.
iv . please be patient ! i apologize if i do not update or get to a request in time. i have my own health issues to juggle alongside studies. i write where i see inspiration !
current muses . . .
i . wriothesley, genshin impact
rough love, helpless pining, gifts & service, marking, hurt & comfort/no comfort, switch, piercings, primal, humiliation, bondage, praise & degradation, cockwarming, dacryphilia, any position possible
ii . varka, genshin impact
dork in love, gentle touch, praise, pussy worship & head, drunk sex, cant keep his hands off you, bear hugging, dominant, service top, laughing & joking during, missionary & spooning
iii . sett, league of legends
dork in love #2, ear pulling, body praise, corny dirty talk, recording, mindless horndog, post concert/fight sex, pitiful top, begging, rutting, switch, mirrors, cowgirl & doggy style
iv . carlos, re3r
praise, eye contact & staring, thighs & thigh fucking, making you feel good first, switch, following your lead, body praise, service top, slow & savory, mating press & missionary
more tba !
a directory will be made once i get more posts out! i am new to tumblr so i apologize if things are scrappy or not tagged well. im always open to suggestions !
the block button is mutual. if i make content that you do not like, avoid it for your own comfort.
varka can't keep his hands off of the white silk and ribbons.
Despite the price tags, some lingerie is meant to be ruined; but Varka cannot stomach the idea of that. The embroidery garnishes your skin so nicely, the sheen of white silk twinkling on every curve—of course, he would want nothing better for his angel.
And despite all of his life's experience, he falls completely slack at the sight of you. The heat is about to burst in his veins, his leg is nearly bouncing off the charts, and he refuses to look at you in the eye. There's a stiff clearing of his throat, and suddenly he decides it's a good time to be respectful and mature with his wandering eyes. Of course, you have to ask him what's wrong despite the blatant signs.
"Dearest . . . How long have you had that?"
Perhaps it's better to ask, why haven't you worn it sooner?
And despite how his rough hands get caught on the smallest of snags, he just refuses to rip or tear it off of you. He finds any excuse to entangle his fingers with the fabric. It's gentle and wary, almost as if he may break you. And even if it gets in the way of his fondling, he waits until the very last moment to very carefully slip it off of you. Until then, you're met with a vigorous shake of his head to keep it on.
Above all, it's the way the silk feels grinding against his slacks. Completely disregard the time or place—he'll coerce you slowly with rolls of his thumbs on your hips until you're slotted against him. The slickness of the fabric slides so right against his clothed cock. It's so much so that it brings him to tears some nights.
In his deepest of workloads when he knows well that he's busy, Varka finds new ways to indirectly invite you to his lap. It doesn't take long until the pen in his hand stalls above the paperwork. In raspy tones, he babbles incoherent words into your shoulder, pushing you further and further off of the seat as he rolls into your ass. Every few minutes, he has to tug you back atop his own thighs. He'll never move nor get up unless you force him to.
wriothesley teases the black straps and lace.
If you wanted his attention, you certainly have it now. The hot flush is strong on his face, and he stares so eagerly in wait, almost as if he's trying to score a hunt. He's dropped nearly everything just to keep his eyes trained on you, but he's still. Wriothesley wants to savor the moment so badly, but one wrong move and he may just eat you alive. There's guilt and a pout written on his face as he tries to redirect conversation—anything is better than the shameless tent breaking through his seams.
There should be a proper place to handle you, especially if you look like this. But if you linger any longer, he might just have to undo everything atop his beloved paperwork.
So bashfully, like he's never seen you before in his life, he begs you to wait on the couch for a few more moments.
And before you know it, he's smothering his body atop yours, ravaging every sliver of skin with his teeth. He's already groaning and huffing without any friction, and his fingers keep hooking underneath different straps to pull and snap them back against your skin. He's not meticulous or restrained with his movements. They're hungry and desperate, immaturely bashing his lips against yours before suckling on your nipples through the fabric. At first, he is fearful that he may tear things apart—not that he doesn't mind splurging on you for more. But, he would love to see you in this again.
With every angle that he manages to put your legs and body in, it becomes clear that he wants everything off, and he's too desperate to note the intricacies of hooks and clips to do so.
The first tear is by your breast, when the fabric could not offer more room to fit Wriothesley's hands. He pauses as if the entire world has stopped, but does not stall further when you reassure him.
The thigh garters and panties wear out bit by bit as he tugs them aside for not only his fingers, but his mouth. The idea of cramming his tongue beside the laced panties and into your cunt is tantalizing at first, but no sooner than later, they're quickly discarded. The straps quickly devolve into harnesses and chokers he tugs on as you ride him; if he has the patience for it, that is.
It's no surprise that he begins asking for Polaroids of you wearing lingerie—anything he gets his hands on is quickly ripped before he can truly relish in it.
flins embraces long nightgowns and robes.
Initially, they are not the most sinful thing out there. You pay no mind as you nest yourself in for the night, the lace and fabric comfortably lulling you to rest. But to Flins, it leaves little to the imagination—it's everything that is intimate, from seeing you so at ease to the thin drapes enhancing every dip of your frame. This is your respite, and it's an image hardly anyone sees on your day-to-day basis. The long trims and silk is so refined, but so enticing at the same time.
It feels wrong to interrupt you like this, but he cannot help but start with his fingers. Cold and slender, they trace along the etches of your spine, and when he feels you shivering beneath he'll hush consolations into your ear. He's slow, and almost entrancing with the way he draws on your skin, but he knows well that he is no better than his urges. His hands trail beneath the gown to gingerly fold it up and out of the way, and he tenderly places you on your back.
Sleep is heavy on your expressions; he stares at the flutter of your lashes as he nestles his face atop your stomach. The chill of his nose presses against the skin and folds of fabric, and his hands find home in rubbing along the length of your thighs and hips. He presses on every knot that has welled from your day's work, massaging circles and dragging his thumb across them to unravel each one. His hands work so deliberately until they begin to hook and pick at your waistband.
Gentle murmurs pass his lips as Flins tries to coax you into sleep, but the throes of pleasure prevent you from doing so—but perhaps this is sweeter than any of your dreams.
His kisses get sloppier with every mark, teasing trails of saliva and moving back up right before he reaches your cunt. It drives you to the edge every time, but his dips towards your pussy get closer and closer with each minute. You can only plead him to go further, and he peels your undergarments away from the slick of your cunt.
His mouth is just as teasing and unhurried; short-cut licks press atop your clit, and the pads of his fingers glide along your lips. He stuffs the first finger between your walls, and does not move it further until he feels that you've stopped spasming around him. One by one, he indulges further, suckling his lips and tongue along your clit as his fingers curve into every soft spot within. And despite this being an initial way to let you relax and let loose, he finds you squeezing your thighs around him and doing anything but. When you squirm too much, he stops; you beg to ride on his face and fingers, but he won't allow it just yet.
country!varka who lives far too comfortably with his hoard of animals.
The surrounding meadow is his home—he sleeps and goes as he pleases, no matter the nipping bugs he must pry off his skin afterwards. It's the Brown Swiss cow he prides over anything else despite not being too involved in contests or breeds. Her name is Camellia, but you would hardly know with the plethora of nicknames he manages to come up with for her. Varka raised her from birth many, many years ago, and every forthcoming day he thinks up a new name. Big Cam, Honeybun, Moo-moo, Peaches, and Cammie are just the popular ones. He makes sure to fit her in blankets when the nights get far too chilly, and he'll rest against her side on the laziest of days.
The rest of the cattle are heifers that Varka has become well-acquainted with. Few are Camellia's daughters, and others are simply kind enough to accompany his side. This is the group he refers to as The Girls.
It's not that actual farm work keeps him busy. It's the fact that he loves his animals too much to leave their sides. Another prize possession is his young mare Clydesdale, named Whiskey. He may not have a whole lot of nicknames to spare for her, but sure enough, he gives the same princess treatment like to Camellia. Such a large working horse with a masculine name is often mistaken as a stallion by others. Each and every time without fail, Varka corrects them with some ache in his heart. His daughters are very dear to him!
Barn cats frequent the quarters, and as the days pass, their numbers begin to overwhelm the house. You ask and worry that they may jump on the hens, or the dogs will chew them up. But Varka above all knows how to keep them entertained, but also cannot stop feeding them! There's a plump, ginger tabby that begins loafing on the countertops, and he's gained the name O'Malley for his filled tomcat cheeks. There is a molly tortoiseshell now named Paprika, and another white molly named Clove, both who are domestic enough to enter the house as they please. The dogs have learned to respect them, but not without their occasional barking and play bows.
Some goats and lambs fill the space in the quarters; it's not uncommon to find them trotting around the actual house. First, you were shocked to see a goat gnawing away at the recycling bin, but now it has become a biweekly occurrence. It's the barking of the dogs that alert of their presence if you don't see them first. They eat almost anything, and it's become a constant trouble with trying out different ways to lock them securely in the barn.
Then, it's the dogs that never stray away from someone's side. When you first adopted a Golden Retriever, you were quick to joke about naming him Junior when seeing his resemblance in Varka. The name has stuck ever since, and often times Junior is pushed around by other animals on the land. Whether it's being knocked around by a headbutting goat, being coddled and licked at by The Girls, or swatted at by felines, he always has it out for him.
The Great Pyrenees is the working dog of the meadows. She keeps things in order, and with Whiskey and her by Varka's side, he knows how to round things right back into shape. Despite this dog being such a powerhouse, Varka thought it was the funniest thing in the world to name a big dog something as measly as Sprout. A humorous smile can always be seen on his face whenever he calls out for her.
The sun has long set for its own respite; the streaks of light have long left your windowsill, leaving O'Malley restless in the shade. With the warmth no longer beaming against his ginger coat, nor to shed light within the house, you know well that Varka is arriving late once again.
Dinner has already been set on the table—you've already made a good dent with cleaning the aftermath of dishes, and the food is growing cold. The aromas from cooking are beginning to leave the air, and the dogs have long given up with begging for food. You prepare to put a more stern face on; you and Varka both know well that he doesn't have to keep pulling these late arrivals. The animals can always see him once again in the morning.
Just before you think about eating alone tonight, the door barges open, and there's a flurry of wagging tails by your legs.
As you and Varka meet eyes, you're about to open your mouth about his time of arrival. But within a matter of seconds, you're swept right off your feet in a hug taut in his burly arms.
"I was just tryin' to get the goats out of Whiskey's food again! Y'know how stubborn they get," He chuckles right in the shell of your ear. The warmth is contagious, and even though there is some dirt stuck to his shirt, and you were irritated before—you just cannot keep this front up.
He swings and twirls you around for a moment, and your harsher face is broken by a barrage of giggles. "Hey now! There's other things waiting for you still." You pat his shoulder so you may be put down; but not without a messy kiss against your cheek.
Varka rests you right back on your feet, and dog noses begin to nudge around both of your ankles. His gaze turns up to the table you prepared. "Aw, you didn't have to stay up so late," He sighs, aching at the sentiment of keeping you waiting for him. "But I'll admit, I got a little hungry myself after seeing the goats chowing away."
"Well, there you have it." You begin brushing off some of the stuck hay and soil off of his shoulders. "It may be a little cold by now."
He looks back to press another kiss atop your head. "I'm sorry. But it all tastes good to me, y'know!"
"I'm sure it'll taste even better when you don't come home so late. Now, hurry before it gets colder." You give a few reassuring pats to his arms—you'd think maybe he'd learn his lesson by now. It's gotten better with time, but he's always a little rough around the edges.
There are still two hungry mouths waiting by your feet; it's time for everyone to dine and rest for the night.
It's only natural with the reddish hues streamed in his hair. He's got a heart for the water, and races to dive in before you at the beach. Everything is a competition—he's an adept swimmer, and won't fear tackling or splashing you if given the chance. Being the leaner yet more vocal of retrievers, he always knows how to get your attention. Being in the waves for so long makes you a victim of his complaints of water getting in his floppy ears.
Despite his hunting instincts, he is not necessarily rough with you at the very least. In order to get a prize catch, you must be gentle-handed as to not damage the trophy. Then, comes along his desire to please you with services of love; he'll heed your words, although a little fearfully since he may get too excited in the crossfire.
He is mouthy, in a literal and metaphoric way. He won't clamp his teeth with the entirety of his strength on your skin (unless you ask), but love comes with gentle nips alongside each kiss. His sharp teeth softly rakes along your skin—it's along the top of your hand with every polite gesture, or the crook of your neck, or the inside of your thigh. At first, he won't dare draw blood from you, or he may get lost in the thrill of the hunt. He becomes far too eager with prey to catch.
Blood is an incentive to his nipping—although he'd prefer not to score his battle hungry traits on his lover, he cant help but lap up the ichor from your body, or linger his mouth atop bruises. It becomes a slow but sure spiral, until he's biting the nape of your neck to steady his thrusts from behind.
Affairs in the bath or shower is Tartaglia's best suit. Blood washes off easier rather than smearing and ruining sheets, and the company of water spurs him on further. He's not prone to slipping, so he pays no mind to keeping you in place while teasing himself with fucking between your drenched thighs. The tones of your blood trail down in the hot water, and down your stomach; it's a sight to behold for only his hunting eyes.
He hates to tire out your knees while kneeling in the tub, so most often than not, you'll ride him with his hands aiding your pace. In fact, it feels as though he's doing more of the work than you. He'll guide your hips, getting handfuls of your ass whenever he's able, and will thrust into your plush walls if he's feeling particularly impatient that day. His stronger hands pull you close so he may nip and kiss you more, pressing you down to the hilt every now and again. But even as he squeezes into your cunt, you ultimately control the pace. He'll always follow when you say it's too much or too little.
dog!diluc is a german shepherd.
He's a jack of all trades, complicated enough to master any task given to him. But, above all, he herds; first it was the people of Mondstadt so that they may not stray into evil during the night. Then, it was you. Keeping the smallest of tabs on you through mentions of your name in strangers' conversations, or catching his eye in the tavern. He'd indirectly assure that you arrived home safe every time, and if not, he'd surely have something to do about it.
He guards, and is loyal to his cause (or you per se) almost to a fault. Of course, Diluc is the type of man to analyze a person before labelling them as a possible lover, and he is not gullible by any means. But service is service, and he may be a little too biased with who he aids first with his plethora of skills.
With a pair of upturned ears, it's plain to see how they perk at the most vague mention of you. He'll try his best to keep his eyes trained on the work in his hands—papers, drink mixing, wiping the bar counter, or over-organizing his materials. But, sometimes it gets to a point where he cannot keep his neutral expression, and he flits his gaze up at the situation.
It's become a bit of a joke with some passer-bys—mentioning you on purpose around him to test his reaction and intelligence in correlations or connections.
You certainly don't drive him the craziest, but canines need someone to serve, and German shepherds hold that drive deeply in their hearts. He'll sit pliantly at your steed so you can comb the fuzz behind his ears alongside his ruby locks, and he trusts you the most to style his ponytails for the day. He listens respectfully as you ramble about the most miniscule of issues, allowing you to fix his clothes or apply expensive face-care to his skin all the while.
His flexibility is a strong trait in bed, too—he's hefty enough to manhandle you or pin your hands away wherever you ask. He'll constrain you in the most obscene of ways, pinning your legs up by your face or spreading them far apart in the splits. His favorite, though, is complying with his hands tied away as you work your way along his length. You'll ride him in the slowest way, seeing how long he can obey without trying to rip his wrists free, or thrusting his hips into yours. As long as you ask and are pleased, it'll make his entire day.
He prefers to at least try and take his time with you. But exasperation is clear in his expressions, and you can't help but give in from how well he's taking it. It's the vibrant red flush in his face, the hefty wag of his tail, and the concentration in his brow that makes you giggle and give it all to him. You give him some leniency of freedom, and he hugs you deep into the mattress to plunge his cock inside until it kisses your cervix. He may pick up the pace, but his thrusts become so absentminded with earlier's empty teasing. He groans right into your neck, pressing himself as far as he can into your walls so he can cum.
dog!wriothesley is a siberian husky.
Huskies are first notable for their stamina; it's the late night hours that Wriothesley works into, and how he frequents the ring for more enrichment afterwards. Being The Duke is not as busy as a job as it comes off when the Fortress nearly runs by itself. He can clean his desk, organize his tea sets, or alphabetize his files for as long as he wants, but he is a night owl above all. Most days, he will find himself with heart pains from the sheer amount of energy he has, and the caffeine from his drinks does not soothe his case.
Huskies are familiar with the cold, and this is no doubt considering his vision.
Of course, this doesn't mean he's always bouncing off the walls. It's the little things—from the gentle shake of his leg, biting his nails, beating himself up in the ring, or dulling his energy by getting wound treatment without painkillers. He's neurotic, but doesn't strive to make it everyone's problem. It's a burden Wriothesley shoulders by himself.
He's not vocal, but he's pleading and demanding in his own ways. His silver tongue is made for bargaining deals, and even if the odds are not in his favor, he has ways to get what he wants. He's almost annoyingly sly, and knows how to bark up the right tree.
Both traits form a man that just does not know when to let up. He'll never push you into discomfort, but he has a way to pry right past your teasing rejections. He's able to thread joking bickering right into flirting, and if his cheeky grin doesn't give away his motives, it's surely the shameless wag in his tail behind him. Sometimes, even he isn't aware of his instincts' betrayal—what his darker, remote expression won't say will be shown in his furry attributes instead.
He despises waiting, especially when your affections are drawn out merely to see his reaction. For days that he can't sit still for your slower mannerisms, he cuts right to the chase; he nearly rips off your clothes like he's starved, and latches his fangs right on your skin. All the while with his tail lashing wildly.
If it's one thing, he loves the suffocation of overstimulation in bed. He loves taking in your scent, being scratched and tussled around, and hearing you moan out all at the same time. This is his best enrichment—and if he's not being vocal with dirty talk, it's at least the rumbles of whimpering and huffing that stirs in his throat. He's messy and all over the place in the sheets; he licks you from one end to the other, drawing blood, and rapidly changes positions if he can't get enough out of that angle. This is where he's most noisy and needy.
dog!flins is an irish wolfhound.
He's tall, sturdy on his legs, and a bit menacing for his title. Flins towers over most of his peers with ease, and accompanied with the most discerning of eyes, his presence alone feels threatening. He's anything but when he's by your side, though—he's graceful, soft-mannered, and humble. He'll spare you a coy joke and simple wag of his tail if he's feeling at ease that hour. He's not horribly expressive with his attributes, but it's his gentle giant nature that shows through the most.
Guarding his people in such large size has it's calms, and one of them is being up against even larger opponents. His talent in weaving a battlefield makes one wonder how he can be so mild with his hands at the end of the day. He hurls his spear with poise, defending his grounds with such avidity, before guiding you along a path with your hand to safety.
He keeps you in check as his muse with friendly gestures. It's the tender placement of his hand on your shoulder, or on your lower back to escort you, or simply hovering over you if he's given free time to do so. He's a bit of an enigma at your shoulder, and he'll always heed your call if things go awry, no matter the dire times.
His presence can be a little constant at times; so much so, that you feel guilty for burdening him like this. But herding, and protection above all is written in his nature, and if he must act on it, he'd rather spend that time with you. These affections can be rather loud when you both go out in public—it's obvious that he's garnered favor towards a specific person as of late.
His urges to defend and immortal habits often keep him up at night as well, and it's become more and more common that he'll peek an eye at you while you sleep. It's the one of the closest of intimacies—you in your nightwear, possibly curled up around a pillow, with the day's tire written all over your face. It's definitely not your best appearance in your book, but to him, it means everything.
He'll curl up right around you too, and you'll awake to not only his cold touch, but the thump of his tail on the mattress. He traces his fingers on your warmer skin, and the feeling makes you shudder; but he's quick to coo you right back to sleep. The languid rumble in his voice is soothing enough, and if you allow, he'll begin slipping those same frigid hands into your undergarments.
He mumbles something about helping him to warm up; and although the feeling makes you shiver, the pleasure you garner from him swiping his cold fingertips over your nipples is unmatched. Soon enough, they trail lower and lower to trail circles around your clit, and he smiles at the way your thighs squeeze around his hand.
Flins is slow with his pace, he takes his sweet time to not only try and bear some heat to his skin, but to please you as well. And whenever it is too much for you, or you are getting dangerously close to cumming, he'll calm you with his voice right into your ear. He knows to stuff his length into your cunt for cock-warming, feeling every spasm around him as he continues to rub a finger on your clit.
dog!varka is a golden retriever.
He's sweet, work-piled, and always ready for a hearty laugh; there's almost never a time where he isn't wagging his tail. The ails of "happy tail" were frequent in his youth, and occasionally even today. There's a few scars that edge the tip of his tail from these accidents, and others from when it got caught in the heat of battle, or simply bumping into rough items. It's a joke that rounds the Knights of Favonius to always "steer clear of his rear". It's nearly a weapon by itself some days.
He can be clumsy with his own size, too—his boots thump right into the floors, and heavy hands will knock into delicate objects while he's talking away. With time, he's learned to lessen these incidents simply by being a little more mindful, but the oblivious puppy still lurks deep inside.
But, he's the hardest worker above all, and hardly anyone rivals him in his expertise. His joy is sickeningly contagious, and he's charismatic enough to work his way through the darkest of situations. There's a reason why he's such a sturdy shoulder among the knights.
But it's you that sticks around long enough to become his eye candy. He nearly begins to trip over his own feet as he keeps pausing to look back at you, and he stutters so sheepishly when trying to court you with a corny pick-up line. You make him so distracted in his line of work, it drives him crazy. Varka should be familiar enough with the idea of love in his long life, but something about you tugs differently at his heartstrings. His tail is somehow wagging twice-fold, and nearly everyone sees how he gets all spaced out with the mention of you in a situation.
You have his leash wrapped right around your finger, and he's so lovestruck with any demands or flirts you offer him. He turns right into mush in your hands, and he can hardly give a mumble of words as to what he wants or is trying to say. His tail thumps right against your leg, and it feels as though his "happy tail" is about to come right back.
It's quick to wind him right in between your legs. He'll stuff his face to lap up the slick on your clit, tail wagging all the while. Dry humping has become frequent, too—he doesn't need to wait for your clothes to come undone before he starts getting off. He'll press you right into the corner of his desk, cumming again and again in his slacks as he grinds shamelessly into your ass. Sometimes it's right up the thick of your thigh as he sloppily kisses and nips your lips. He's inhumanely strong, and knows how to use his strength when he's too needy that day. He'll listen to you, even if it's with a pout of his face or a gruff whine before following. He's far too eager to get his hands into your garments, and will fondle you through your clothes if spared the moment. He falls laughably hard for you, and becomes jumpy and impulsive with your presence.
it's not easy to catch the duke's eye, but once you do, he never looks away.
Wriothesley has a bit of a staring problem—he doesn't openly mouth his affections, in fact, it's quite the opposite. The first time you caught his gaze trained on you in such a manner almost made you afraid that you were under some investigation. Gifts in sweets and tea may be frequent, but they always felt formal to you.
It's the way your lips cradle the cup's edge with every sip, and how he finds lipstick on the rim every time you place it down to leave. At first, he had the decency to clean it off as with everything else. Now it's routine for him to press his lips against that stain once you've gone and left, tasting the chalky flavors of the makeup alongside whatever tea was left inside. It's your favorite tea—a medley he shamefully keeps on his palate's front long after he has clocked out of work.
His nose is no stranger to tracking similar notes down. He once asked a few questions about your perfume; it was to the likes of the place you bought it from, and the designer of it. He's never been too engrossed in specific parfums, but that same week, he walked out with a travel-sized bottle in hand.
It's the material of your blouses, how you maintain your nails, or that certain birthmark that shows with more revealing outfits. Wriothesley has always been the distant type, assessing things with a sly mouth—but now, he's speechless. It's the little things that rile warmth in his core, and he's observant to a fault. He's trained himself to spot crime clues in his daily work, but now, he's spotting these miniscule things about you. They keep him up at night, and it leaves him more flustered than he'd like to admit. Wriothesley should be ashamed, trying to devote his heart like this after his daunting past. But these images of you taunt his subconscious, and it is not long before he dreams in the most sinful of ways.
In the deep of night, he tries his resolve. It starts with frustration—internally reprimanding himself for his actions, and what he's about to do. But there is need coiling deep inside, and tucked away in the sheets, he lazily reaches to pump a hand along his tender shaft. He isn't sure what he's trying to visualize at first, but all he knows is the thought of you.
Wriothesley's fist starts at a slow pace, and he attempts to bite his lip shut on his moans. With every image of you flickering in his mind, he gets louder and louder, now rolling his hips into his palm more and more. He tries to recall the softness of your fingers when you both shook hands, but it ruins it for him. His hands are scarred and roughened from battle, and the contrast in textures leaves the spark welling in his stomach to fade.
But, he tries everything to keep it going. He'll run one of his softer fingertips on the underside and into the tip, imagining your tongue after a long afternoon. He'll even try to picture that same lipstick shade stained in kiss marks across his pelvis and down his length. He first sprayed your perfume on his pillows as a gentle reminder, but now it's the only thing that helps him cum as he drives his face into the plush to suffocate himself. He'll grind his dick right into a spare pillow from his closet, shutting his eyes tight to try and remember what your ass looked like in that one pair of pants. Wriothesley's methods slowly become more and more deranged, from cumming right onto a teacup you used earlier, to buying replicas of your clothes just to have in his bed.
When you see him next, he won't dare utter a word about it. He spares you his same poker face, maybe with some blush dusted atop his cheeks. You don't know that he's searching for his next scenario for later.
Maybe you have the heart to ask why your perfume smells faint, but is undoubtedly there on his form. You'll chuckle and joke about how you're rubbing off on him lately.
He isn't inherently rough with his mannerisms—a rougher body built for tackling nighttime outlaws leaves its own scars. Diluc is a gentle lover, quickly leaving kisses atop the few bruises or hickeys he may leave astray on your skin. Scratches flare on his back and flushed biceps, and his hair is tousled up, yet his first concern is you. He pushes aside your offers of maintaining his hair and leaves your side to warm up a bath. Not a shower—he fears the standing may be too harsh on your sore extremities. The bathroom is candlelit with your favorite aromas, and he'll offer a light snack or tea to enjoy in your respite.
Although hes now only clad in a robe, he'll stick by your side in the bath, starting slow conversations. The silence between every reply and lazed laugh isn't unpleasant; it's another moment to enjoy the equal vulnerability. Then, you pause to ask why Diluc hasn't joined you quite yet. He'd rather let you have your free, relaxed space in the bath—but if you think it's better spent with him holding you in the waters, he certainly wont deny the offer.
wriothesley helps to pick up the emotional fallout.
Wriothesley is overtly passionate, and can even be too much of a lover behind closed doors. He cannot shake that fear of betrayal from his past, especially when it surrounded intimate moments like this. He cannot stomach the idea of someone that is now bonded to him like this possibly leaving. Tender love leaves Wriothesley with shaky breaths and teary eyes, not only from the pleasure, but the concept of you entirely. His bruising grip pulls you impossibly close, almost as if he's trying to crawl into your skin to love you deeper. It's a testament that becomes less sorrowful and sore with time—but the grosser, ragged wounds that come from this continue to sting.
So, he is clingy, holding you closer and closer long after it is said and done. Blood is scabbing to his skin, and he ponders if it would be better to let you go free on the surface than to rot next to him. But, for now, you'll mend the scratches and bruises between you both. He'll cool the purple blotches on your skin with his vision, laying skin to skin—the steps to clean up are small and slow, but you will tell each other when you are both ready to move on.
zhongli introduces you to his very roots and traditions.
Despite his strength in power and vision, Zhongli is naturally a gentle being. He's well aware of his status in his many forms, and is even a little nervous to share this love with you. The thick layers of clothing hide the many draconic features on his body, and he's mindful that seeing him like this may be entirely new to you. Bit by bit, he will grow comfortable enough to expose his tail, horns, or many other godly features. He'll follow your lead, softly letting you initiate your desires first so he may serve you. His arousal may work differently than mortals, especially when he is in his most natural state—but you have no issue exploring it together.
As the softer underside of his tail works to curl along your leg, you observe Zhongli's new features once everything has calmed down. There are twinkling scales littered on his cheekbones, and although his eyes are capable of thinning into slits, they dilate into suns when resting on your face. You worry that you're prying too much as you ask questions about his varying appearances, but he chuckles; he's glad to answer, and show you everything that you want to know.
varka sweeps you right off your feet, in a literal way.
Although Varka can be a little gruff and crude at times (especially when he's drunkenly in need), he keeps his lover's comfort at his very forefront. Bruises, trembling legs, and a sore stomach are always going to be his mark, and it's divine retribution that you thought you could take such a large knight without whiplash. He tries his best to avoid it, but it seems as though as he gave up into the inevitable. The least he can do is warn his lover before each time. Should you stay past his impression of having a one night stand, he'll dish out the royalty treatment right away. Not many lovers stay long enough for Varka to wake up and see them by his side.
He's so used to respecting his partner's space and avoiding them right after. Now that he can let loose, he bear hugs you right into the mattress after hurrying to clean you up. He won't move, in fact, he's snoring away—he's trying to keep you from leaving the bed. Varka is so very afraid of you getting hurt any further if you were to do something as simple as walking around. He'll get you water, fruit, anything, just as long as you don't leave that bed. He knows the toll his body has on others, and he doesn't want the see the sight of you struggling around the house, even if you insist that you're fine. He treats you like a fragile rose, and if you must go somewhere, he'll carry you there. He'll ask over and over again if he was too hard on you—your reassurance begins to repeat like a broken record.
He's either abstained, or simply been too piled with work for most of his life to be complicated with sex. He's unsure of how or when to place that intimate trust into someone, however, he does know the ins and outs of the body. He's studied it enough through the intricacies of his job, and nothing surprises you more than his mention of inexperience right after he had you writhing and seeing stars. Some moments are awkward and foreign to him, but nonetheless, he traces his fingers along your skin like he knows it by heart. Sex is seen in a more experimental facet to him—he'll test the sensitivities of the body and his own kinks through you, his muse.
flins, zhongli, xiao, neuvillette, kazuha, thoma
His inexperience doesn't come as insecurity—he has too much love to bear, but nobody to store it with just yet. Passion is aflame in his heart, and it's nearly eating him alive, but he won't hand it off to just anyone. Sparse flings or relationships may be in his past, but it's nothing supremely intimate. Sex should be seen as a soul-tie of sorts, and he has no fear laying you down to follow your lead when you are ready. You see the most barebones and vulnerable side of someone, and sex is the closest you will ever be together. He takes it excruciatingly slow, careful to savor every touch and taste that comes his way.
kaeya, varka, kaveh, ifa
He's been around to say the least, more often than not with drinking as a cause. It's to ease the pain with no strings attached, and he usually expects a one night stand with nothing left to say by dawn. Experience is generous on their belt, he knows how to please and satisfy you the most—but it's the morning after that leaves your heart aching for something beyond this. You prove to be quite the challenger to his walls, sticking around to chat and cuddle when he expected you to leave without a trace. It leaves him shocked and almost uneasy, and he isn't sure what to do with you quite yet with this change of plans.
maybe he doesn't even have a pair of ears and tail to suffice—but that doesn't stop him from enjoying scratches all the same.
All it takes is the soft soothe of your hands to knock him right down a few notches. He could be feeling boastful or even snarky in his appeals that day, but you've learned that there's a little "reset button" tucked right behind his ears.
It's not a front he likes to show around their peers; in fact, it's quite embarrassing the way he gets. Protests melt right into rumbling mumbles when you comb your nails through his silky hair, and he turns into putty in your hold. When he's bold enough, he'll lean his nose right into the crook of your neck, expecting you to move your hands in that magical way.
His favorite is knowing his heavy weight—he'll sprawl himself right on top of you so you have no choice but to abide! He tucks his face into your chest, unable to comprehend any of your words with the way you're playing with his hair. You gently brush your fingers along and up the nape of his neck, and it sends warm tingles right down his spine.
It doesn't help that he's such a heavy sleeper; you may just be stuck for all eternity as long as he's practically drooling and snoring on top of you. Maybe, just maybe he will stir if he noticed that you've stopped.
varka's eyes keep trailing away from your own, preoccupied with something else. there's a pretty sight down below that he can't rip away from.
He spreads you out so well, taking his sweet time to prepare you for the inevitable. Or maybe, he's having too much fun making you squirm with the combination of his rough fingers and tongue. He scissors the calloused pads in your tight walls, and you're nearing your second orgasm; but the night is far from over.
Taking in Varka is no easy feat, and he knows it well. He can't help but hoarsely chuckle at the way you're already whining when he's only pressed the heavy tip into your folds. He'll tease and thrust the underside against your cunt, the veins grinding right against your clit—you'll beg and beg to just put it in, but how does he know that you're actually ready?
He'll tower above you, staring so sweetly at the action as he finally presses his cock inside, the girth of it stuffing your insides to the brim. He keeps a firm grasp on your hips with those large hands that claim most, if not all of your stomach. Varka will flash that toothy grin at you with every moan and gasp that rumbles out of your throat. His thumbs roll along your stomach to soothe your cooing, or he'll move one atop your clit if he feels that you're too worked up.
You're taking him so well—but his voice breaks, and he finds himself trailing off into groans and purrs as your walls spasm around him to suffice for the intrusion. And until Varka's hips flush right against yours, he'll keep an eye on the slight mound that grows atop your lower stomach. He fights not to ram his cock into you senseless, with the way you're whining and practically sucking him in to your pillowy walls. Maybe a slurred comment will slip off of his tongue on the image between you two. His length slowly lapping away at your insides with the bulge rising and falling in tandem.
It doesn't take much movement for you to know that you're at your limit. The tip and veins glide right against the most tender spots inside, and the feeling alone may make him cum just as fast too.
But, that doesn't mean he'll be done; he won't let you go that easy.
varka's rough hands are breaking your waistband once again; there's a pit in his stomach that cannot be satiated by any fine wine or mug.
It's any time of day and night, really—the image of Varka slotting his face between the plush of your thighs to find his nth appetizer. Maybe it's the way you squish and suffocate him beneath, or how you tug on his pretty locks that make him all teary eyed. Seeing your chest twitch and shake with every heave from below is his favorite sight, and knowing he is pleasing nobody else but you makes his bones ache so good.
Then, it's the praises that whimper from your throat, singing songs of his name and to keep going at that same pace. You'll tug his hair so gently further into the mess of your cunt, and it begins dribbling down his chin as he tries to mutter coherent responses right back into your clit.
It's the way the ridge of his nose bumps along your clit as he tries to scale his tongue along the length of your entrance. With every scarce breath, he takes in the smell that is so positively you, and he is covered in it.
His kisses are always sloppy and messy, leaving saliva in their shade on your skin, a sensation that makes you squeamish. When he pauses to breathe, your pussy doesn't go unattended by a scarred thumb. He'll smear the sticky mess from his mouth onto your inner thighs, nipping and suckling gently at the skin with keen teeth. Then he will be able to mutter how good you're taking it, maybe a few corny pet-names, or just to hold on a little longer until you burst. All the while, if Varka's hands are free in the moment, he'll assure he's fondling the back of your thighs and ass if not your cunt.
If you spare the right glance, you may just catch him shamelessly grinding against the mattress while indulging.
Varka has manners, it's none less than deserved for a lady—he'd prefer to let you bloom in bed, but he doesn't mind making do with given circumstances. The dinner table (ironically), the countertop, the couch, letting you stand over him—he'll find a way as long as you're comfortable first.
He's certainly no stranger to tugging you right atop his face, either. He's a man that can always bear your full weight. Even when you're overstimulated or nervous from the press, he'll lock his thick arms right over your thighs to keep you from moving.
Early on, you recall complaining in the middle of the night about not being able to sleep. Without a second to waste, you were shocked to see him slipping under the covers to suck the stress right out of your body. It's become a common routine even on the easiest of days—you sleepily allowing Varka underneath so you can sleep a few minutes more in the morning.
It's so much that when he nuzzles a wet kiss near or atop your face, you can see and smell the affairs that now stain his stubble.
wriothesley has a tongue, nipple, and prince albert piercings !
Wriothesley has had all sorts of modifications to his body—living in the same skin for years on end gets boring, and he makes it comfortable by changing it nearly on a monthly basis. The most profound change is scars, but if there's a new spot to slot a tattoo, he won't deny the chance. However, one that particularly catches your eye is the nipple piercings that show so boldly though his haphazard dress shirts. Somedays he'll have the audacity to verbally redirect your gaze up to his actual eyes, but not that he doesn't find it amusing.
He is fond of curious prodding, though; when your cold fingers lace up his burly chest to flick at the mounds, it pries the most guttural groans from his throat. Sometimes, all it takes is the image and touch of your tongue swirling along the embellishments for him to cum. His stamina is not to be underestimated, but that doesn't stop him from cumming far earlier than he'd like!
Hazy nights when Wriothesley is willing to be used beneath you, he'll ready himself on his stomach so he can feel his nipples rubbing against the sheets with each thrust. The cold metal of a prince albert piercing is fastened to his tip's head, making every grind into the mattress more pleasurable.
A picture he keeps fresh in his memory is pressing only the head of his cock along your hole, letting the piercing prod and chill against the entrance with half-thrusts. As much as you whine to feel the piercing bully into your heated insides, he'll only respond with a slight chuckle to the prolonged edging.
With every passionate kiss comes the invite of his pierced tongue laving against your lips, eventually tracing to places you'd never think he'd be childish enough to be. Sometimes, it's the least expected—fluffy cuddling is the perfect time for Wriothesley to lick and trace the pearl right against the side of your neck, then giving a hearty laugh at seeing you flustered. He'll lick up the sheen of your cheek, or flush the cold metal against the perk of your nipple, then work it southbound. He knows the most obscene ways to move his mouth, whether it be prodding the piercing right into the tip of your shaft, or flicking it against your messy hole. All for the love of a reaction—each twisted face and cry he squeezes out of your body makes his heart burst.
