Hi there! Welcome to my little profile, you can call me Wanderer or Soul if you'd like.
Here's a few things about me:
I am over the age of 18
I like a lot of different things, from Hollow Knight to Fire Emblem Heroes to Genshin Impact, and so much more (feel free to ask about anything, I won't mind at all)
I'm a fan of horror and darker topics*
I'm a little shy and tend to stick (and also tend to get a little busy) to myself but if you'd like to talk I'll respond as soon as I can
I'm somewhat new to Tumblr so I'm still getting the hangs of things, sorry if there's any inconvenience
I hope we can get along and be friends! It's nice to meet you all! :D
(Click here for more information on the darker topics: Here!)
Summary: Jealousy headcanons! Reader is implied to be in Nod Krai with them right now, but isn't nessesarily the Traveler/MC.
Characters: Wanderer, Illuga, Flins
Wanderer
"They're a little busy right now. Sorry." Wanderer pulls you towards him - one hand on your wrist, the other circled around your waist. You stand there awkwardly, unsure of how to detach yourself from him when you're so obviously entangled. "Maybe you can look for them another time."
What is he, a cat? But you guess it could be worse; if he was still the Balladeer, you imagine the situation would involve a lot less words and decorum.
"They were just thanking me for helping with a commission..."
"Are you saying you aren't busy right now?" With a raise of his brow, Wanderer tugs you even closer for good measure, tilting up your chin.
"Don't think that after travelling all the way here, I'd be content with just watching you frolick around with strangers." His voice grows soft; though you aren't sure if the slight edge was truly from jealousy, or the thought that you may be separated soon because of his mission tasks. "At least for now... I need you to look at me."
Illuga
"Wait, Young Master, it really wasn't-"
Thud. A small amount of force hits the space next to your head, belonging to Illuga's palm. Behind it was a mix of annoyance and pent up frustration.
"...I've told you to stop calling me that." Illuga sighs, regaining his composure slightly, but not restracting from your position: his right arm caging you against the wall, and now his left snaking to the empty spot on the other side.
"We've known each other for years." His voice grows strained as he says your name, as if it is the cause of his headache. "Why do you still insist on such formalities?"
"I'm sorry, Cap-" You catch yourself. "-Illuga. It's... just a force of habit." Your gaze turns downward. "That, and I thought it wouldn't be right to act too casually with you, when the squad needs your leadership more than ever."
Finally, Illuga meets your eyes. But the intensity in his gaze makes all the words die on your tongue.
"That may be so," Illuga mutters, eyes flitting between your lashes, nose, then your lips. "But I need you just as much."
Oh.
He places his forehead against yours, eyes shut in a plea.
"If the squad is going to address you by your name, at least allow me the same freedom and call me as you always do." Illuga leans back, cobalt-red gaze soft. "It's... different when I hear your voice."
You're my light.
Flins
"...Sir Flins?"
"Yes?"
"I believe that the illusion has been defeated." You say with mild amusement as Flins continues to purify the spot where his Wild Hunt impersonation had stood, for the umpteenth time. "While I appreciate the caution, lingering here any longer will not do us any good."
"You don't seem appropriately alarmed." Flins appears in front of you in a crackle of electricity, hand cupping your cheek. There is concern behind it; but also an unspoken emotion as he looks down at you. "You spoke with it at length, and almost took his hand."
"I wouldn't have actually followed him." You try to calm Flins down, but his expression tightens as your fingers touch his wrist. "I was just buying time for you to arrive."
"You know that for you, there is little I wouldn't do." He picks up your hand, placing a kiss onto the inside of your palm. "But next time, do not engage with the phantoms. Even if they have taken my shape."
The illusion of Flins had not hurt you, but it was clear that it was impersonating a deeper sense of desire that he'd long buried within himself. One that shifted and curled its fog against your ankles and shins. Tickled the back of your neck as you were wandering through the darkness, smiling at you as if it too, could feel a warmth in its chest as you called it his name.
Just the thought of it sends crackles of his own power floating on top of your skin - searching for and burning away any trace of the phantom's memory.
When you and Blade first get together, he's still hesitant with physical affection. He's scared to be seen as vulnerable after having locked his heart away for so long. It took a lot of time and patience before he allowed himself to open up to you.
Even after years of being together, pda just wasn't his cup of tea. But when you're alone, he's a completely different man altogether.
Walking into your shared bedroom after a long day of being harassed by Kafka and Silverwolf, he automatically softens at the sight of you lying in bed, mindlessly reading on your phone to pass the time. He silently kicks off his boots before opening your arms and laying on your chest.
You huff a soft laugh and turn off your phone to give him your full attention. "You okay?" you ask quietly, threading your fingers through his soft hair.
His reply is a grumble as he nuzzles into you. He's still slightly propped up on his arms, worried about crushing you. "You can lay on me, I promise it's okay." you softly reassure him. He hesitantly puts all of his weight on you as you continue to play with his hair.
"Relax, you're home now."
He melts at your soft words. Even after years, he still can't believe he found someone so soft, so caring. He loves you so much that it terrifies him.
He whispers something that sounds awfully close to "I love you" as his breathing evens out for the night.
"have you finally grown tired of the party?" you tease, once diluc has successfully led you towards the balcony by a gentle hold on your wrist, and all but pins you against the railing.
"i can only be surrounded by sycophants for so long," he huffs, but then his eyes refocus on you, and he gives you an obvious once, then twice-over, as though he hadn't arrived here with you from the start.
perhaps you don't notice his obvious need given that you reply to continue the banter.
"do you not think i flatter you as well?"
diverting the conversation, he dips into the space where your neck meets your shoulder, and kisses, then nibbles softly.
"i think you look breathtaking," he says.
you warm at his touch, his arms caressing your upper arms as he stares into your eyes in the moonlight, then focuses on the rouge on your lips.
there's another kiss that takes your breath away, and appropriately winded, you remind him that you are in public.
"may i take you home then?"
you blink at the blunt assertion.
"the party has barely begun. they'll miss you."
"but I miss you," he emphasizes, another kiss at the curve of your jaw, a hand snaking around your waist and pressing you closer to him.
you meet halfway, stealing away into a less traveled portion of the neighboring vineyard - admittedly less impressive than diluc's but adequate for your purposes - and sip of each other, before returning to smile and sympathize with the region's other sellers, hoping that perhaps they don't notice the hickeys and scratches you both share.
Flins was used to ghosts, spirits lingering across the overworld. It didn’t phase him, it was routine to ward off bad spirits or perhaps befriend the nicer ones that roamed the island his lighthouse resided on. In a way it fed the curiosity he had towards humans, sometimes even left him more curious when it came to their lifecycles and the lives they carried into the afterlife with themselves.
What he wasn’t used to was receiving requests to investigate ghost activities.
“P-please, sir! You have to h-help me— I-I don’t know what’s wrong with m-my house!” A woman cried, big tears rolling down her cheeks as she stumbled over her words and shakily clung to his sleeve.
Flins smiled gently at the woman, shaking his head lightly. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Possibly critters seeking shelter within your home, yes?” He tries to put her at ease. Humans and their fear of what they do not know always captured his interest. His lantern sways in his hold with a small gust of wind that blows by. “There are things you could do if you wish to remo-”
She tugs his sleeve to her chest, shaking her head rather violently. “N-no! You don’t understand I-I h-hear things! In my home! P-please, surely you know someone who c-could help me?” She’s desperate, eyes wide and her voice holds a new urgency to it that it didn’t have before. He pauses for a moment, considering her words and the idea of it being paranormal crosses his mind.
He looks down at the woman, that same soft smile gracing his features before nodding and he can feel the relief rolling off her in waves. “I do happen to know of somebody who could be of assistance. Tell me, where is your home?”
It’s raining, lightning flashing in the distance and the sound of it all is like harmony to Flins’ ears as he tugs the key the woman gave to him out from his pocket and swiftly opens the door to the abode. It’s dark inside, his footsteps across the floorboards reverberating back to him as droplets bang against the window panes and the wind howls outside.
It felt cozy to say the least and despite being able to make out shapes of the furniture and layout of the room he extended his lantern before himself, casting the area in a soft blue glow as he ventured deeper into the cozy living space. A blanket is draped over the couch and he muses for a moment the thought of why it’s there. So humans can seek warmth quicker in colder weather? He isn’t too sure. Perhaps it’s just for design purposes, to look nice and not to actually be used in any way.
There’s a thud followed by footsteps against floorboards upstairs and his pointy ears twitch, perking up as his yellow eyes cast upward to the ceiling above. “Hm,” He glances around the room one more time, there’s no sign of life to be seen besides his own self so he occupies himself with heading towards the stairs that lead up to the next floor.
The handle of his lantern squeaks as it sways in the air, footsteps echoing as he makes his way up. The steps groan and creak under his weight and his coat bumps against the wall, the chain dangling off his hip brushing against the wooden railing.
It’s quiet on the next floor, except for the storm roaring outside, the windows rattling yet muffled from doors being closed to each room. It’s a hallway, photos framed on the walls of people unfamiliar to Flins as he walks to the first door on his right, opening it gently to find nothing but a barren room before him. He turns and enters the room to his left, just as he twists the knob he hears something stumble followed by a grunt and a thud at impact with something. It’s not this room, but the next in line.
He chuckles to himself, lifting his lantern into the space in front of himself and making a beeline to the room. “I must say, you are a very sneaky little thing, you are.” He muses, smirk on his lips as he opens the creaky door and takes slow, calculated steps into the room. There’s a shuffle to his right and when he turns to cast the blue glow emanating from his lantern in the direction the sound occurred from, his body freezes.
There on the floor lay what could only be recognized as a ghost, skin transparent just enough to see the floorboards beneath but it was the appearance that made it difficult to swallow for the man suddenly. Shaky arms hugged close to a bare chest, big doe eyes staring up at him all shiny and glossy with what can only be assumed as fear from being caught, and a bare cunt between trembling thighs.
His eyes widen just the slightest, lips parted to intake a short breath as he steels himself before lowering himself to the ground, a faint smile on his face as he stares into your eyes. “Aw, what a curious thing, hm? Tell me, what’s your name?” He tries to ignore the trails of noticeable veins along your breasts, swallowing thickly as his fingers squeeze tighter against the handle of his lantern.
You mumble in response, the sound incoherent at best and nothing resembling a word slips past your lips as you look up at him. How strange, ghosts usually find a way to communicate. If not through words then through sounds, visions, actions. Yet all you did was cower like a bunny in front of a wolf.
“I’m not here to harm you. I pose no threat.” He tries to reassure, coax some form of response from you but you don’t reach in a positive way. You glance at him and then the space behind him before looking back at him. You swallow dryly, blinking your watery eyes up at him and something stirs in his chest but he doesn’t get to question what it is before you make a move to get past him.
It surprises him at first, your hands pressing against his chest to push him back before crawling across the floor, breathing heavy as you stumble to your feet.
“Ma’am—” His words are cut off as you scurry towards the door and he’s quick to get back on his feet, taking long strides towards you and grabbing you by the arm before you can reach the doorway. You gasp and try to shaky his hand free but he’s unmoving as he sighs at you and shakes his head. “I only wish to help, you know? Please, don’t fight back it’ll only make this harder than it—” You turn towards him and he quickly averts his gaze to the doorframe behind you, words caught in his throat for a moment as your other hand presses against his broad chest. His gaze flickers down to your innocent looking face and he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Oh? What is it, hm? Is something playing on your mind?”
Your hand trails down from his chest, the metal accessory dangling there glinting under the light of his lantern, ghosting your fingers down the expanse of his chest and he physically tenses up at the contact. Your eyes look up into his before looking back down at where your hand lays against the leather straps around his waist, keeping his coat snug against himself. Your head tilts as if curious, fingers dipping lower until they catch on the hem of his purple undershirt to which he grips the handle of the small lamp in his hand tighter than before, huffing an intake of air through his nose before shutting out the thought that plopped itself at the front of his mind.
He glances to the side, the sounds outside have died down since he entered the woman’s home and when he feels icy cold fingers tug at the leather straps around his thigh he lets go of her other arm and grabs reaches down to grab the one toying dangerously close to something he was trying to avoid that made his pants feel tighter than usual.
“Would you like to come back with me?” He chuckles breathlessly, a smile on his face as he swallows down the feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. You nod and it’s now that he realizes the lack of fear evident in you as your pupils dilate. He squeezes your wrist a little tighter than before. “I take that as a yes, hm? Such a cute little apparition.”
“What’s the matter? Do your words fail you?” His words are taunting, the edge of a chuckle in his tone as you keen, eyes rolled back to your skull and hands pawing at his hips that roll into yours and with each pump he slides a little more into you. “Not even halfway and you’re dumbed out, such a darling little thing, yeah?”
Your eyes are glassy, tears slipping down your cheeks and he lifts a hand off your hip towards your breasts, grabbing roughly at your left tit and groaning at how defined the veins are along the plump flesh that fits perfect in his palm. It’s cold to the touch and while he’s never made love to a ghost, it is increasingly becoming his new favorite thing to do.
You whimper and mewl to every touch, pinch, slap and tug to your body he makes as he pleases. There’s a creamy ring around the middle of his cock, sticky and smeared against your inner thighs as he pushes deeper, tip nudging against your gummy cervix, bullying it deeper as a bulge pumps against your yummy with each thrust.
“Aw, what’s this,” He releases your breast, smoothing his gloved hand down to the bulge in your stomach with a smirk as he leans down until his violet bangs brush against your forehead. “am I right here?” He presses down on the bump as he pushes deeper into your pussy, relishing in how your legs tremble and try to kick out on either sides of him. Your mouth hangs open, drool slipping down the corner of your mouth as your hands paw and push against him as if you’re unsure if you want him closer or want him off you.
Your hips roll against his own, eyes fluttering shut as a knot pulls taut in your belly right under his big palm. It’s as if he knows, ears twitching as he groans before pressing his lips against yours and his hand slides further down your smooth icy body towards your neglected pearl. His thumb rolls the small bundle of nerves, tracing the letters of his name against it as he pushes his tongue past your lips. His eyes are half-lidded almost smugly so as he holds eye contact with you and the embarrassment of the intimacy, the closeness with those yellow eyes staring deeply into yours makes your eyes flutter shut, brows furrowed as you moan into his awaiting mouth.
He pulls back, panting as he smirks down at you. “Are you close now? C’mon then, give it to me, little one.” His hips push in and finally he’s buried to the hilt, your walls clamping down and fluttering around him as his abdomen tenses up and he grips your hip with his other hand hard enough to leave a bruise in his wake.
It hits you like a train. It’s strong, intense and a sinful sound rips itself from your vocal cords as your hands push against his hips that slam into you hard before thick spurts of warmth oozes into your pussy that pulsates around his thick length. Your eyes are unfocused, body heaving deep breaths as a thin layer of sweat glistens along the expanse of your body under the blue light his lantern casts over the two of you.
You wriggle under his as he takes deep breaths above you, seemingly relaxed as he sighs out a moan before a gloved hand grabs at your throat, thumbing over where your pulse would be. “Where are you going, hm? We aren’t done yet, I have to see if a apparition like you can take my seed.” He’s teasing, tugging you back until he rests in the deepest parts of you again. Despite having came, his cock twitches against your sticky walls with a sensitivity that only drives him to roll his hips into you once more to test the waters. The sound you make in response makes him smile.
“Did you underestimate the stamina of a fae, hm?” He leans back down, gloved thumb bumping against your sensitive clit as he rubs the letters of his name slowly against the puffy pearl once more. “Don’t worry, little one, I’ll show you just how long I can last for.”
Yandere!Bodyguard isn’t actually a yandere; he’s just a man running on four hours of sleep, three energy drinks, and pure cortisol because of you. He doesn't want to lock you in a cage, he just wants you to stop treating the stage like a playground. He’s permanently gripping his earpiece, eyes wide and bloodshot, watching you skip down the stairs without looking at your feet.
Yandere!Bodyguard has developed superhuman reflexes entirely because of your antics. You’re the type of idol who likes to lean way over the barricade to high-five fans, or sit on the very edge of the stage with your legs dangling into the pit. Every time you do it, his heart stops. He’ll physically slide behind you, grabbing you by the back of your belt or your jacket just to anchor you. "Please, just sit back," he’ll mutter, his voice shaking with pure stress. "You're going to give me a heart attack."
Yandere!Bodyguard hates the "aesthetic" outfits your stylists give you. High platforms? Loose ribbons? He views them as literal death traps. When you tripped over your own gown at an awards show and almost face-planted down a flight of marble stairs, he caught you by the waist before the cameras could even flash. He didn't let go until you were safely in the green room, where he stood over you, rubbing his temples. "No more platforms. I'm telling management tomorrow."
Yandere!Bodyguard is the only reason you haven't been banned from your own concerts for safety violations. When you suddenly decide to climb up on a speaker box to get closer to the upper balcony, he’s already moving. He will stand directly underneath you with his arms half-extended, looking like a stressed-out parent waiting for a toddler to jump off a couch. He doesn't care if it looks unprofessional on the livestream; he’s not letting you break your neck on his watch.
Yandere!Bodyguard handles your "careless" attitude with a mix of exhaustion and deep affection. When you laugh off a near-fall by saying, "Oops, clumsy me!", he doesn't find it cute. He’ll grab you by the shoulders, force you to look at him, and say, "It’s not funny. If you fall, I fail. If you get hurt, I'm the one who has to carry you out." He treats your safety like a sacred vow, and your lack of survival instincts is slowly killing him.
Yandere!Bodyguard gets incredibly hostile toward your management team when they overwork you. He knows that when you’re tired, you get even more clumsy. If he sees you stumbling during a rehearsal, he’ll physically step onto the stage, block the choreography coach, and call a mandatory break. He doesn't care if he gets fired, your safety is more important than the schedule.
Yandere!Bodyguard has a very specific "romantic" realization when he realizes why he’s so stressed. It’s not just about the paycheck anymore. When you finally fall asleep in the back of the van after a long show, he’ll carefully adjust your blanket and watch you breathe, his heart finally slowing down. He realizes he’s not just protecting an idol, he’s protecting the only person he actually cares about, even if that person keeps trying to accidentally jump off a stage.
Yandere!Bodyguard is the star of a viral 10-minute TikTok compilation titled "Mr. Bodyguard vs. [Reader]’s Zero Survival Instincts" that currently has 5 million views. The entire edit is just zoomed-in clips of his face in the background while you’re doing something reckless, and his expression is always pure, unfiltered panic.
Yandere!Bodyguard became a meme after an awards show where you were walking up steep marble stairs in five-inch heels, waving to fans without looking down. The fan-cam focused on him at the bottom of the steps; his knees were literally bent, his hands were out like he was ready to dive-tackle the stage, and his jaw was clenching every time your heel wobbled.
Yandere!Bodyguard nearly crashed your backstage livestream when you leaned all the way over a balcony railing to show fans the view. In the reflection of the glass doors, you can see his shadow immediately appear. He didn't want to interrupt the stream, so he just stood in the frame, gripping the door molding so hard his knuckles went white, ready to yank you back by your waist.
Yandere!Bodyguard looked like a meerkat sensing a predator in a famous concert clip where you suddenly decided to hop onto a giant subwoofer. The second your foot touched the speaker, his head snapped around so fast you could practically hear his neck crack, followed by him bolting over to stand directly underneath you with his arms half-raised.
Yandere!Bodyguard was caught on camera pacing back and forth in the wings like a nervous father in a hospital waiting room during an outdoor concert in the pouring rain. The stage was slick like ice, and every single time you did a dance move that involved jumping or spinning, he would visibly flinch and cover his mouth.
Yandere!Bodyguard completely threw out the professional boundary rulebook in the fandom's favorite looped clip, where you actually did slip backward over a stage wire. He lunged out of nowhere, caught you mid-air, and wrapped his arms around you so tight your face buried into his chest, letting out a massive, shaky exhale into your hair that the high-definition cameras caught perfectly.
Yandere!Bodyguard is the sole reason the comment sections on every fan site are filled with people yelling, "Give this man a raise or a sedative." The fans have turned his high-stress reactions into a massive shipping meme, pointing out that the way he looks at you like you're a fragile glass vase about to shatter is lowkey the most romantic thing they've ever seen.
I love this idea so much!! It's like the perfect blend of creepy and cute!! I do wonder if there'd ever be a day that the bodyguard would snap though, I think that'd be fun to imagine!! :D
⤀ synopsis: neuvillette has always been the gentlest of lovers—and so tonight you ask him not to hold back
⤀ cw: fem!reader, unprotected + rough sex, size kink, praise, overstimulation, breeding + creampie, marking, monsterfucking (dragon cock), cervix fucking, multiple orgasms, dumbification, mentions of mates, lil bit of dom!neuvi (??) but he is still sweet — mdni || ꒰ 8.4k wc ꒱
⤀ notes: leviathan fic for leviathan neuv (and I don't mean his constellation) repost from my old blog
“Well? What do you think?” You come home, twirling before him in a gown, different than the one you had left in. The short hem at the front lifts mischievously, teasing just a peek of what lies underneath, while the longer, flouncing layers of skirts behind you, wrap flirtatiously around your legs. Neuvillette feels his throat run dry.
“Navia and Clorinde thought it was high time I changed my look, and you know I can’t ever say no to Chioriya Boutique.”
While he’s spent the better part of the night reviewing court documents in the parlor, you have been out with Navia and Clorinde, who he thinks have perhaps plotted to kill him. ‘Girls’ night,’ you had called it.
Draped in a vivid palette of the finest fabrics, decorated interchangeably with delicate metalwork and dainty ribbons, the blush on his pale skin is ever-present as he rakes his eyes up and down your body. The dark, patterned stockings, squeezing your thighs just enough, so that supple flesh spills obscenely over the top, the tight, whale-boned embrace of your corset, accentuating the curves of your waist, and pushing upwards the swell of your breasts…
A coy smile graces your features when you catch how his throat bobs in his silence. Giggling, you lean down, tracing the tip of your finger up the contours of his neck, skimming the gentle curve beneath his chin until you’ve tilted his gaze to yours. “Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, got nothing to say?”
How can he even think, much less find the right words to say, when the familiar scent of your perfume fills his head with indecent, lascivious thoughts? Everything about you is intoxicating, almost insidiously attractive, so would it suffice to say that he’d much rather see your pretty, new dress abandoned somewhere on the floor?
That first pulse of arousal translates into the first twitch of his cock, and oh how he wishes to kiss away your teasing little grin, but his lust-driven eyes are drawn to the miniscule movements of your bodice sleeve, predatory as he watches how it begins to shift, ever so slowly, off your shoulders.
“If you don’t like it, then perhaps…” You loosely roll your shoulder, letting the sleeve slide right off. “…you’d like to help me undress?”
That, he will gladly do. His hands fly to your waist, dragging you down into a straddle over his hips.
“Temptress,” he murmurs into the skin of your neck, distracting you with a featherlight kiss as his nimble fingers waste no time in undoing the delicate clasps of your bodice, leaving the heavy outer garment to tumble off your shoulders, abandoned in a pile at your waist.
Cool air licks at the now exposed skin, though it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his lips as he slots his mouth against yours, gently coaxing you open with a subtle swipe of his tongue. Your eyes flutter shut in honeyed complacence, allowing Neuvillette to kiss you slow and sweet; impassioned, ardent, each kiss an oath of love and longing and lust.
Desire blooms like romaritime flowers upon water, and you just know the tension underneath his placid exterior, is ready to burst. It’s prevalent in the way his muscles grow taut, tense beneath your every touch, fighting to hold himself back as your legs squeeze around his hips. Demonstrated, again, by how he pulls apart your corset, impatient and haphazard as he unlaces each cross, before tossing it to the ground, forgotten. And of course, only you can attest to the searing sensations of his escalating kisses—gentle wisps, once faint and docile, now wanton and heated with depravity.
You can already feel it in your chest, in your bones, in the wetness that’s begun to form between your legs; maybe it’s the anticipation, but despite the layers of clothing you’ve already shed, you find it even harder now to breathe, especially as he holds you so close, body pressed against yours, while he traces the bare curve of your neck with his lips.
For one with such a carefully crafted visage of elegance and poise, Neuvillette becomes sloppier as his restraint fades and lust seeps through the cracks. Something about you drives him wild, draws out the more carnal side of him that he so desperately seeks to hide away from you, who he could never even dream of hurting.
But perhaps he’s spent too much time amongst humans. Or perhaps he understands their nature more than he had initially believed, for he makes the most human mistake of all in letting his control slip—enough that his fangs graze upon your sensitive skin, sending a shiver that reaches all the way down to your core, eliciting a moan so mellifluous, he cannot help but utter a sigh of strained content as the undeniably sweet sound reaches his ears.
“If we don’t stop now, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold back,” he mutters, tongue laving over the spot in apology. It doesn’t help that you voluntarily crane your neck, offering him even more access in your heated bliss. His fingers dig into your waist in a silent plea to still your rolling hips.
“So don’t,” you breathe. “Don’t hold back tonight.” Desperate to have him closer, you arch into him, the loose material of his shirt firmly clasped in your hands, deepening the kiss with a quick tug, a silent request for him to let go, but he immediately halts his movements, pulling away in hesitance.
Oh Neuvillette. Your sweet Neuvillette, who in spite of his stern exterior, is the gentlest of lovers—always so tender with you and steadfast in placing your pleasure before his. You know of his draconic origins, know that he holds back in fear of hurting you, but for all the times he’s pleased you to the fullest extent, you only wish to do the same for him.
Your hand reaches to cup his face and he leans into your familiar touch, steely eyes soft. “It’s okay, I trust you.”
It’s already difficult denying you anything on a normal basis, so how can he, now that you sit, straddled over him, determination colored in your bright eyes, and with nothing but flimsy cloth left between the two of you. His eyes linger at your chest, the scooping neckline of your lace slip doing nothing to hide the smooth crests of your collarbones, begging to be marked.
Neuvillette sucks in a breath, and attempts to swallow his doubts, before exhaling. He can no longer ignore the tightness in his groin, and to you, it’s clear that the obvious erection poking from beneath his trousers, speaks much louder than the uncertainty storming in his eyes. Perhaps he just needs one more push…
Your fingers come to curve around the sharp lines of his jaw, unwavering as you tilt his head up into your gaze. “Don’t worry about me, I can take it.”
His heart threatens to leap out of his chest in a flash of excitement, gratitude, desire; it’s far from the first time you’ve lain together, but to choose to bear such vulnerability before him, to surrender yourself to a full-fledged dragon… He glides his hands over the round slopes of your shoulders, easily sliding off the straps of your slip as he goes. The silk garment collapses down your torso, piling atop your forgotten dress.
“If that is truly what you wish…” He presses an openmouthed kiss to the bare skin between your breasts, and the warmth of his breath runs a chill even colder than the night air. His whispers hide a growl, and despite the blush apparent at the tips of his pointed ears, his hold on your waist tightens. One hand slides down to grasp at your rear, and you can feel him smile against your lips, the rattle of a faint chuckle rippling in his throat before your breath hitches as he picks you up in his arms, and carries you off to the bedroom.
He sets you by your shared bed, tearing off his now wrinkled shirt, while you wriggle out of whatever’s left of your dress, until both sets of clothing are discarded somewhere on the floor, and you’re finally left in only your panties and your stockings.
Immediately, his hands find your waist, roaming up and down over your curves as he smothers you in hungry kisses, herding you along until the backs of your knees hit the edge of your shared bed. This Neuvillette nips at your bottom lip, not asking for, but demanding entrance into your mouth, and you have no choice but to let him in, what with the way he makes you whine as he sneaks his hands down to knead the globe of your ass, before lowering you onto the bed.
The tingling sensations bloom in your stomach, buzzing with excitement while you ready yourself to surrender completely—pliant to his will, whatever it may be. Arousal swallows you like the sea and he has yet to even really touch you. Impatient, your hand wanders, though not far down enough before you’re caught in his grasp.
“Patience…” he mutters, pinning your wrist beside your head, broad shoulders caging you in between him and the sheets. His other hand follows the natural lines of your body, tracing along the edges until he stops to fondle one of your breasts.
It’s impossible to relax your speeding heart at this side of Neuvillette: less reserved in his touches, more candid in his wants. The untreated heat in your body makes sure to touch on every part of you, running like water through your veins, until you’re sure your dripping cunt is pulsing with a heart of its own. Unable to stand the ache any longer, you wriggle beneath him—rolling your hips and squirming until your knee unwittingly brushes against his crotch, eliciting a choked grunt from him, only slightly muffled by the fact that his teeth have dug their way into your exposed flesh.
He immediately pulls away at the sound of your surprised yelp, eyes darting to and fro across your features in frantic search for even the smallest semblance of discomfort, completely missing the way your entire body had seemed to arch into his touch. His eyes finally settle at the light indentations now displayed upon your once unblemished skin.
“Forgive me,” he begins, “I should have been more careful.” Neuvillette is ever the gentleman, but his voice is clearly strained in a poor attempt at fighting back his instincts—instincts that demand a dragon to mark what is his.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” A soft smile graces your lips as your hand reaches to cradle his face, curling around his jaw in hushed reassurance. It’s so easy to read the thoughts that plague him so. “It felt good, I promise.”
True to your word, his heightened senses easily pick up on the scent of pure arousal that drifts from between your legs, swirling in the air, and lulling him into a state he’s kept buried for so long, he’s unsure of whether he’d be able to hold himself back even if he wanted to. He admires your bravery for daring to poke at the slumbering beast; bravery he knows stems from a place of passion, but how can he release such inhibitions upon a mere human? So physically… fragile.
“I meant what I said: I can take it. And I know you won’t hurt me so…” Your fingers clasp around his shoulders, pulling your lover down just far enough to whisper, low and sultry, in his pointed ear.
“Don’t you dare look down on me, o’ hydro dragon sovereign..”
You lurch forward, manicured nails drawing light lines down his bare back, and he meets you halfway in a long, drawn out kiss. A quiet growl rumbles from deep within his throat, clearly aroused by the way you had drawled out his full title. He nips at your bottom lip, dragging out a single, short gasp before leaving to trail wet kisses down the column of your throat, never stopping until his lips hover over the very spot where he had previously made his mark.
He doesn’t even have to touch you, just his presence, tangled with your own anticipatory excitement, invites a shudder so deep, you can feel it in your bones. The sharp edge of his fangs scrape along that still-sensitive patch of skin, lightly, as if testing the waters, though this time, he makes sure to take note of the quiver in your pretty little mewls.
Slowly, he bites down again and a moan slips past your lips, forced out from the very depths of your chest as your fingers fly to tangle in his moonridden tresses. His hot breath seeps past the barrier of your skin, leaving every nerve privy to his effect, and combined with the building pressure, you’re left open for the stream of soft whimpers that leave the perfect ‘o’ of your parted lips. As he sinks his teeth deeper, you squeeze your eyes shut in the midst of all the pleasure.
“Do it again,” you gasp, “felt good… ”
And oh, he has absolutely every intention to, what with the way you’re putty underneath him. However, he must do something about how distracting your hands are when you tug at his hair: hard enough for him to groan with an ache so wanton, it sends tremors echoing down until his trousers feel far, far too tight.
Neuvillette is neither here nor there when he alternates between kissing and sucking and biting at your tender flesh—anywhere is fair game when you’ve relinquished yourself to him like this. With how attentive his lips are along your body, you hardly even care for the absence of his hand when he reaches around to untie the ribbon in his hair… at least not until it’s too late and you're left bemused by the uncharacteristic display of boldness; after all, it’s all you can do when your wrists are suddenly so tightly bound overhead.
You whine as he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, suckling and swirling his tongue, while he ravishes the other between his fingers. Heat surges through you and the aching desperation congregating in your belly begins to boil; you’ve never felt so sensitive, never been more pervasive to his touch.
Inside. You need him inside of you. But with your hands currently incapacitated, you’ve no other choice except to buck into him, beckoning him with your hips in the hopes of redirecting his attention to where you throb.
“Inside. Please. I need you. Need you inside.”
He hums in acknowledgement of your wishes, tugging at the hardened bud with his teeth, successfully wringing another shaky cry from your throat, before he finally pulls at the delicate lace of your panties, and guides them down the length of your legs. You easily kick them off, but in his observation, his piercing gaze catches every thrum of your muscles as they tense underneath the hand that finally trails between your thighs. He drags his lithe fingers between your folds, coating them in your slick, while his thumb rubs your clit in slow, but firm, circles.
“My apologies for the wait.” Neuvillette kisses you right above your heart, where his acute hearing easily picks up how it palpitates as he dips his fingers into your velvet walls. “Allow me to make amends, my love.”
With the way your cunt gushes so copiously, it’s easy for him to slide all the way down to the last knuckle. He flicks his wrist, pumping fast and hard, scissoring you open before slipping in a third digit, drawing out mewl after pathetic mewl, as you fail to pull yourself together. The bedsheets twist beneath your incessant movements: simultaneously squirming not only from the initial stretch, but also to feel him deeper.
The discomfort is all too familiar, but with just the curl of his fingers, it washes away into unadulterated pleasure, just as it always does. But with your arms tethered, leaving you open and powerless, everything—every touch, every twist, every curl—feels tenfold.
Plus, no one would even believe you if you were to say that the chief justice had such a playful side in the bedroom; his fingers have explored your insides far too many times for him to just miss the little spot that he definitely knows by muscle memory. Whining, you buck your hips, senselessly grinding into his hand, hoping he’d get the message, hoping he’d quell your heat right at the source.
But something dangerous and wild and primordial shines in the blue-violet glow of his eyes. For all the times you’ve made love together, he’s never seen you like this: so desperate, so needy for him. He pinches a nipple, hard, before locking your jolting hips down; a show of strength to remind you of your place.
“Please, more.” Your voice rises in congruence with how you struggle against your ribbon-bound wrists. His fingers tease the spot again, this time with more force, and he watches as you keen and clench around him—helpless and at his mercy.
With a curl, his fingers crook inside your silken walls, pistoning in and out, fast and hard. Arousal continues to build, turning the low squelches into distinct suctions. Every nerve in your body is ignited, seared by the heat as he laps at the overflowing wetness that seeps out of your entrance. A satisfied purr sounds in his throat, and the vibrations dare your hips to buck in spite of the iron grip that holds you down.
It thrills him to see you steadily fall apart like this, coming so undone before him, dissolving under the weight of your pleasure. It’s just as you had wanted. More. So you can take it, can’t you? You can take more?
Neuvillette slots your throbbing clit into his mouth, hot tongue relentlessly striking the swollen nub with viscous lashes, while his fingers continue to bully your insides with no intention of slowing down. Sucking harder, fucking faster—you keen at the added stimulation, back arching clean off the bed in blinding pleasure, unable to do anything more than let out jagged sobs as you cum.
Your entire body grows taut as he sees you through the end of this high, before finally drawing out with one last sleight of his hand, so that his fingertips might graze along the velvet top of your walls, bidding farewell with another shudder-inducing wave of euphoria. He exits his soiled digits, clearly pleased as he inspects the amount of slick that coats his elegant hand.
“You’re absolutely divine.” He hums whilst licking up the side of his wrist, so as not to waste a single drop of your liquid pleasure. It’s intoxicating how exquisite you are, more decadent than even the most pristine of waters. “Perhaps you’d like a taste?”
His offer is rhetorical at best, as he answers for you, already slipping his slender fingers into your open mouth, tangling them with your tongue, until the first bits of drool begin to dribble from your lips.
He unties your wrists, releasing them from the ribbon’s hold; time and experience have proven that you’ll need something to grasp onto. In a haste, Neuvillette discards what remains of his clothes, and his cock springs forward in all its glory: long and thick, pale tip leaking and thrumming with desire.
“You’re absolutely sure… ?” he mumbles, voice trailing off, almost embarrassed. He can no longer control the way his hips twitch in excitement, begging to bury his cock into your warmth, but for his gentle heart’s sake, he needs to hear you say it again.
You laugh out a soft ‘yes’ but just for good measure, you rake your nails down his chest, applying just enough pressure to tickle his nerves. “Use me,” you goad. “Come on. Be wicked, my dragon.”
Neuvillette exhales, chuckling softly at humanity's arrogance. Wicked dragon. If that was what you wanted... “I wonder if you’d still say the same after I’ve finished with you.”
He pins you back down in one fell move, and aligns himself to your entrance, stopping after inserting only the tip. A delicate whimper leaves your lips as you wince at that familiarly sweet stretch, but you and your little cunt are both so eager to please—the continued arousal you churn out, weeping nonstop, and already clenching around just his cockhead. You wriggle into him, trying to fuck yourself deeper on his fat cock as you adjust to his size.
Reaching up, you pull him into a seemingly reassuring kiss, hands smoothing over the framing pieces of his hair, before curving around his jaw. His lips follow yours, but as you pull away and the short pieces of his hair fall back into place, you notice how his slitted reptilian pupils are dilated almost round.
“You wish for me not to hold back,” his voice comes in a low growl as he inches further into your cunt, “so please show me how resilient you are.”
It’s all the warning you receive before he slides the rest of his length to the hilt, burying himself in your creamy insides. A shattered sob tears through the room, and your arms fly around his neck in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself, but it only pulls him closer as he leans more of his weight into you, pressing down and reinforcing the heavy plow of his merciless hips.
Taking him all at once like this burns like wildfire. Pain from the sudden, rough stretch spreads hot and fast, the small embers bursting into a blaze of arousal as pleasure breezes through just as quickly—like air infinitely adding to an already devouring flame.
“You’re taking me so well,” he praises, turning his head to reward a small kiss to your cheek. Your hole gushes, rushing to quell the heat, and the added lubrication helps you settle into his pace. Still, the dual sensations wash over you like the tide. It pulls you under, drowns you and consumes you with absolute ecstasy.
And just when you think you’ve grown accustomed, Neuvillette lifts your hips, aiming for the spot he knows will drag out the most wonderfully broken cries from your throat. Your nails dig into his back, and he groans at the vice grip as you clamp down around his cock. With each powerful thrust, he buries himself balls deep with a force that has your tits bouncing along to his rhythm, letting the wanton sound of your sobs ring throughout the room, loud enough to almost drown out the lewd noise of skin slapping upon skin.
The coil in your belly is wound so tight that you’re sure it won’t be long until it collapses into itself. That it won’t be long until you yourself are about to implode, like a star ready to burst.
“I’m going… going to…” Between the ragged breaths and the overwhelming sensations of ecstasy, you can’t even find it in yourself to think straight.
Neuvillette hums, his liquid smooth voice doing nothing to hide his amusement. “You’d do well not to break so soon.”
He thumbs your clit, drawing tight circles, ignoring the way you convulse beneath him. As your back arches, he drags the flat of his teeth from the edges of your collarbones, down through the valley between your breasts.
Your entire body quivers, legs jolting by reflex to the intensity of your orgasm, vision blurring white as your lover continues to pound relentlessly through your high. There’s a layer of fuzziness over your mind that leaves you feeling as if you’re floating atop calm waters, but the fingers still thrumming on your abused nub are quick to drag you back into the salaciously dangerous depths of your own pleasure.
A string of pitched whines follow in the aftermath, but the pretty noises you make has him throbbing even from within your tight hole. You ask him not to hold back, yet here you are before him, so small and pitiful, already writhing from the intensity—and he hasn’t even cum yet.
Tears threaten to fall from your eyes, your body struggling for a break from the stimulation, but Neuvillette finds it quite adorable, in the way that a predator might toy with its prey. He slows his thrusts, but reaches deeper with every roll of his hips, each languid stroke hitting the exact spot that fills your sight with stars.
The lascivious sounds of your soaked cunt perfectly swallowing his cock, followed by the slap of his heavy balls on your ass—he’s mesmerized by the way he disappears and reappears, and disappears again inside of you. His heart skips, and he bucks, breaking his rhythm. You undo him like no other, and it spurs him on that he too, seems to have the same effect on you. The way your pussy holds on to him so tightly, the helpless cries of his name amidst your hiccuped whimpering…
He lets out a small chuckle, breath hot and ragged in your ear as he sucks at the inch of skin below. “Surely you can give me another,” he murmurs, the low grumble of his voice reverberating all the way down, until you can feel the vibrations in the hollows of your collarbone.
Your eyes flutter, desperately blinking away the wetness that has begun to gather at your lash line. Sweet Neuvillette, your Neuvillette who reveres you more than he ought to and touches you like you’re made of glass. Even through the numbing haze, you know that for him, you’d give anything.
A long, stuttered moan breaks out from between your lips. As if biding his time, he drags the entirety of his cock along your walls, the large vein that wraps around the length gliding along just right, that your back arches and your knees bend. It’s not that he means to move so tortuously slow, but you squeeze him to such an extent that in spite of his aching need to cum, he cannot help but try and savor the delicious way your walls are gripping for dear life.
Neuvillette pulls out with the sticky squish of your slick. His throbbing cock, long and flushed, glistens with the sheen of your juices. In the emptiness, you think that perhaps he’s taken pity on you and your now overly sensitive cunt, but that just isn’t fair. Not to him, nor you and your once again looming orgasm.
“You haven’t even cum yet,” you gasp, trying to argue through baited breath. The whole point of this was so that he could feel just as good as he always made sure you did. So why would he—
“I know.”
You can feel him as he lifts you, flipping you over like you’re nothing more than a doll, and manhandles you onto all fours. Limbs weak, mind frazzled, you’re barely able to hold yourself up, so when he realigns himself at your entrance and slams back through your folds with just as much power as before, you quite literally fall apart.
“Too much?” The low chuckle in your ear is dangerously taunting, wickedly amused and with no sign of its usual sweetness. You’re able to muster a pitiful whine, but the way your entire body trembles tells him everything he needs to know, as he reangles you mid-thrust.
“I believe you said you could take it.” With a particularly powerful snap of his hips, your arms buckle, and you collapse onto the mattress. The intensity continues to send you jolting forward, but his reaffirmed grip on your waist holds your hips in place.
Nothing deters him as he ruts into you, hitting deep new angles that have your fingers grasping at the sheets while your cunt grasps onto his cock. With every slap of his skin against yours, his tip threatens to kiss your cervix, the aftershocks rippling through you until they’re released as broken sobs, muffled into the bed.
How unfortunate that such noises, so very sweet to his ears, would be hidden from the world. Tangling his fingers along your scalp, Neuvillette tugs at your hair, lifting your head back so as to hear the pretty melody you sing when your cries ring around the room. Good. Just as the whole of Fontaine should recognize a dragon’s mark on your skin, they too should hear it’s he who pleasures your body so.
Little bits of drool trickle out of your open mouth, your eyes rolling back as he keeps up the brutal pace. Everything feels too overwhelming, yet so tantalizingly good, that your back curves and you’re creaming around him again.
Electricity shoots through your veins, your lungs desperately racing to catch up with the rapid beat of your heart. The stars painted across your vision drop down to your stomach, exploding with an intensity that rattles you to your core. It’s a flood with no remorse—taking and leaving nothing in return, easily washing away any and all thoughts, until you’re left mewling the name of the only one who could ever give you such a sweet taste of heaven.
But Neuvillette continues to thrust into you, and as he, too, nears his peak, his tireless strokes finally melt into something a little more forgiving. Just a little. The long drag of his cock slides so smoothly against your slick walls, gentle enough to fool your delirious mind into loosening your grip around him.
What trickery from the wicked dragon who slams his hips forward with enough force so that your body jostles with every push and pull as he hits all the right spots again and again. Trapped under the weight of his body, all you can do is feel: the heat of the room smothering all your senses, the fervorous thrusts pushing you to your very limit—all you can do is feel and take it as he kisses the spongy head of your cervix, leaving you without a semblance of sanity, blabbering indiscernible nothings that beg to milk him dry.
“Want more,” you keen, voice as broken as the crystalline tears that roll down your cheeks and melt into the pillows. “Inside. Wan’ it inside.”
Neuvillette laughs, low and airy, strained as his grip tightens, fingertips digging into your hips hard enough that it’d be sure to leave bruises come the morrow. “Is that what you want?”
“Please, please I–” You stop to let out something between a pant and a moan. “Want you to, h-hah, cum inside, wan’ your cum inside me.” Your walls clamp down even harder, as if attempting to trap his cock deep inside you forever, as if you weren’t already tight enough around him.
White fills his vision, and white fills your womb as Neuvillette cums to the knowledge that you love this. He takes in the sight of you, his precious treasure, now reduced to the likes of a common whore: legs quivering, ass in the air, cunt filled to the brim and leaking from where the two of you merge. All for him. By his doing.
Such splendor automatically evokes the instinct to claim you in a way far beyond that of human understanding… but you’ve already let him indulge more than enough tonight; he couldn’t possibly ask for more.
You whimper when you feel him stir again inside you, careful as he brushes past your too-sensitive folds, but even such simple movements hazard to relight the flicker of arousal once again. Every ridge and vein, drawn out so agonizingly slow, sends an inadvertent shiver down your spine until he finally pulls out with a squelch.
There’s no hope in tearing those sharp, reptilian eyes away from your puffy cunt, abused and messy and leaking with your combined fluids. Neuvillette sucks in a breath, trying to suppress his urges as much as he’s trying to swallow down the desire quickly boiling over in his belly again. Cumming inside you—no, breeding you—was a privilege. For dragons such as he, it’s a ritual reserved only for mates, and given the difference in your physiology, he had never allowed himself to do so—at least not until now, that is.
In his defense, you had begged for it, and how could he ever deny the very one whom he has entrusted his heart to—especially when you were so beautifully fucked out and unraveled on his cock like that. And perhaps he’s lived among humans long enough to forgive this indulgence as a paradigm of fleeting desire, though nothing of what he feels for you could ever be considered fleeting.
He parts your folds with two slender fingers, giving himself a better view as his cum now seeps out with suent access. You whine again when you feel him drag his digits down the sides of your pussy lips, catching the overflow before it can fall onto the sheets, and stuffing it right back into your little hole. No point in stopping now, if he’s already committed his sin.
From your half-lidded gaze, you manage to steal a glance at your lover, and judging from the erection that still stands stiff as a rod, he has yet to be satiated. In the attempt to break through the shadow of delirium, you lift your head, shifting your weight back onto your elbows, and forcing your battered body to turn just the slightest bit over.
“You’re still hard,” you note through staggered breath, “We can go again if you want.”
Neuvillette looks down as if he hasn’t already been feeling the near painful arousal throbbing in his groin. Of course he’s still hard—how could he not be; you’re so complacent before him, offering yourself to him like that. But perhaps he is too soft-hearted, for he only lets out a reassuring hum as he leans forward to place a gentle kiss on your forehead.
“You were beyond perfect tonight,” he murmurs. “It… might not be pleasurable for you if I continue anymore. I can finish myself.”
Lovestruck, you shake your head. “I can take it r’member?” Your large eyes, red-rimmed and dreamy, plead for him to use you—use you to his own content, use you so that he’d feel just as good as he always makes you feel. You nibble at your bottom lip, bashful. “You can even use your other form if you'd like...”
Your words catch him off guard, and he immediately stills in a half-hearted attempt to collect himself as another wave of pure, unadulterated desire pulses through his entire being. Neuvillette swallows hard before letting out a slow, shaky breath. His cock twitches and his muscles tense beneath the creamy skin that now seems to gleam with a soft shine, revealing scattered patches of effervescent cerulean scales. You affect him more than you could possibly know, revitalizing such carnal urges that ignore his will and allow his body to react so enthusiastically.
“You’re sure…?” His normally polished tone is husked in a defiant strain. Despite the way his pupils are blown wide and wild with lust, conflict still swims in the shallows of his expression, made clear by the way his voice rasps as he desperately claws to retain even a semblance of his composure.
The tips of your fingers trace the blue streaks that protrude from the crown of his silver head, now hardened into twin ribbons of ivory; his horns, delicate but strong, glow a luminescent azure—so warm and inviting in its radiance… You grasp them tight, pulling him down with you, as you fall back into the bed, his lips pressed against yours. Of course you’re sure. He’d never hurt you, your Neuvillette would never ever hurt you.
“Devious…” he whispers between kisses, your tongue and teeth clashing in a waltz of their own, as his body drapes over yours.
It’s not the first time you’ve seen him in this form, crossed somewhere between a human and a dragon, as beautiful as he is powerful. But it’s certainly the first time you’ve ever attempted to take him like this. He’s bigger in this form—you can already feel it as he grinds up between your legs. Longer. Thicker. Ribbed and embossed with the same pearlescent blue scales. Beautifully intimidating, just like the dragon sovereign himself.
And as you continue to marvel, he lets his cock rest across your lower stomach, sizing you up. His fervor shines through in the way he’s already leaking a mess of sticky precum atop the smooth skin of your belly. A satisfied hum vibrates in his throat, clearly enthused.
“This is how deep I’ll be,” he muses, almost apologetic of the incoming stretch you’d have to endure. “I’m beginning to wonder if I can even fit inside you.”
Would it be wicked of him to admit, even to himself, that he enjoys the way you wriggle and cry just taking him in his human form? And yet… he’s forced to steady his breathing in a poor attempt at grounding himself—a task near impossible as you roll your hips up, ardently shaking your head no, outright ignoring the last out he offers.
“I will… make it fit.” They’re the last words you manage to wrangle out before being overtaken by the need to be full and filled. There’s no reason you should be so terribly, terribly hollow, when he’s right there. Neuvillette chokes back a laugh; your unyielding determination sends blood rushing to his erection, desperate to feel your velvet walls crowd around him again.
Finally relenting, he teases your entrance—running his cock up and down your slit, spreading your wetness, before slapping your clit with the tip—reminding you just how sensitive you still are. Gasping, you jerk away from the stimulation that once again taunts your nerves. Your hole, however, clenches around nothing, eager to please.
But perhaps you’ve greatly underestimated just how big he is, because he barely makes it past the threshold of your folds, before the pleasure pain of the stretch begins to take over. That, and the overstimulation from your previous orgasms, already have you instinctively trying to snap your legs shut, but the firm hold on your thighs forbid you from doing so.
“Ha-ah N-neuvi—” A twisted sense of pride swells in his chest at the way you can hardly speak as your breath hitches and your lungs desperately search for air. “’s too big,” you sob.
He gives you a momentary reprieve to adjust, while his hand snakes down to run sloppy circles over your clit.
“More?” he whispers.
It takes you a minute to respond, but he waits until finally your voice shakes with the violence of each hiccupped sob. “More.. please…”
A baritone hum sounds in his throat as he pulls forward, pressing wet kisses to your jaw in a quiet reassurance, effectively sliding a couple inches deeper, as he does so. “You can take it, my love. You’re so pretty like this.”
Your arms wrap around his neck, your hold eliciting a long, low groan from the dragon. Wherever you squirm, he follows, pressing more of his weight onto you, burying more of his cock into you. Each ridged inch that slides past your folds, seems to push the thoughts right out of your head, letting them dissipate into thin air until you’re left mindlessly moaning sweet praises to his name.
Desperate to accommodate the unfamiliar enormity of his dragon cock, your walls ripple and tense around him, back arching into him, wanting to feel ever closer to the love of your life, determined to push your cunt to its limit for him. For your Neuvillette.
Neuvillette. Neuvillette. Neuvillete. He’s all you can think about; him and his monster cock that seems to split you so deliciously open. It’s wave after wave of heat that sets your insides ablaze, soothed by the waters of arousal that have you begging for more, and restarting the cycle until he finally bottoms out, and you feel as if you’ve been electrified. You squeeze your eyes shut, but with the way his bulbous tip prods at your cervix, your mind goes blank, and the tears fall regardless.
“There…” you pant, eyes glassy from the euphoria of feeling so incredibly full. “’s all in.”
“Yes,” he praises, softly. “Look at you, so nice and tight for me.”
He wipes the salt from your cheeks, distracting you with a delicate kiss. His fangs are more prominent in this form; you can feel them as he grins against your lips, whilst whispering breathy nothings that tell of how good you are for him, how perfect, how he should be so lucky to have you like this, to have you as his.
When your body eases enough, he pulls away, though the subtle shift of his cock still drags a pitched whine out from your lips. If he’s to be honest, he cannot tear his gaze from where the two of you are joined. It’s mesmerizing, hypnotic, to see how he splits you open, to feel how you mold into the shape of him, to imagine just how much your little cunt had to stretch so that he might rest comfortably inside.
Though, comfortable might be an overstatement due to the way your muscles tense and release so tightly around him, clamoring for more of his attention. Eyes darkening with lust, Neuvillette smooths a hand over your abdomen, cerulean scales cold upon your skin.
“Can you feel me right…” He draws a clawed finger delicately across the skin of your belly, where his cock rests parallel underneath. “Here…”
He leaves more than just a faint line of red where his talon rakes. Yes, you want to say. You can feel the faint prickle of his claw on your skin, you can feel how the sharpness sends a shiver ringing through your body, and of course you can feel how he’s sheathed his dragon cock right into the very depths of your cunt, deeper than anyone’s ever been, deeper than he’s ever been… But the only sounds that spill through your lips are another stream of broken sobs, fever touched by how close you are to cumming just from being filled.
“Go on, darling. Cum for me.” He can feel you pulsing around him, clenching and unclenching in search of sweet release, yet he makes no additional moves to help you, leaving you to your own devices.
At this point, you can no longer tell if you’re making things better or worse, as every little movement knocks you into reaction—like dominoes toppling over until every piece of you has been unraveled. You writhe atop the soiled sheets for any sort of friction, but it’s too much when his tip knocks against the entrance to your womb. So you shift away, letting the ridges on his shaft graze against your syruped walls, inciting another wave of need. The scales continue to tip between ‘too much’ and ‘more’, until you finally work yourself into a delirious orgasm, on nothing but his cock inside you and your own incessant squirming.
As you continue to ride out your high, Neuvillete finally begins to move, tearing himself away from your fluttering vice grip with a tremulous moan, because fuck you’re still so tight around him, still so warm and wet even after cumming for what? The fourth time tonight? Pressure lands heavy over your frame as he begins to rock into you, folding you in half as he does.
He fucks you slow and even, stretching you out even more with every new stroke. Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as this new position affords him the privilege to reach impossibly deeper. Despite his shallow thrusts, each drag of his cock still blooms an ache from all the hidden spots that he has no choice but to touch, though it’s quick to pass, as pleasure continues to coil in your belly.
It’s so much all at once. You can’t take it, it’s too much. But the soul-shattering euphoria of being so utterly full, is unparalleled. You want more, you need more.
“My pearl,” he whispers, though his voice is gruff, “my heart… I want to hear you.”
And so you oblige him, wailing something broken and pitched and strangled, at the sudden snap of his hips, at the way he bumps into your cervix and seems to rattle your organs about.
“F-fuck,” you cry, without thinking. Not that you can anyway, when the push-pull tide of his thrusts raises you to new heights of delirium. “H-ah god, fuck Neu–”
Another sharp, jutting thrust cuts you off as the dragon above you snarls, clearly agitated by your crass choice of words. “There are no gods to help you here.” Not in Fontaine where he rules, and certainly not here in his home.
There’s a feral wildness that shines in his bright vishap eyes, and his possessive streak flares—dragons have no natural inclination to share after all. It’s clear in the way his pace changes: faster, harsher, more ragged—a ferocity befitting of an elemental dragon ruler. But titles aside, he’s still your Neuvillette, and every move he makes is still laced with a tenderness, so as not to break you more than he already has.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he commands, dragging his tongue up the length of your throat.
“Yours. ‘m yours, Neuvillette.”
In and out, in and out. His long strokes guide the ridges of his cock back and forth through your tender muscles, leaving you to mumble mindless nonsense as you convulse and keen beneath him. Whatever pain you had felt earlier has long chipped away into undeniable pleasure as you near the precipice of yet another orgasm. Eyes glazed over in all consuming ecstasy, all you know to do is to chase your lust, and so your hips grind back, rolling together like waves in a storm.
Amidst the flagrant wet sounds of your rabid fucking, you cum again, lashes fluttering as your eyes roll, muscles tight as they tremble from such rapture—so lovely, so beautiful. Your siren call of pretty cries spill from your lips, intermingled with weak babbles of his name. You’re so breathtaking like this in your post-climax haze: fucked out and cloudy-eyed, panting into the cool air as his slowed thrusts still rack up an aftershock of shudders.
Neuvillette bows his head, once again trailing wet kisses across your collarbones, before pausing to hover his lips right over the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his warm breath a familiar spot of comfort in this maddening pleasure. Perhaps it’s some sort of sixth sense unique to only the most attuned of lovers, ones whose souls seem to harmonize in perfect resonance, but there’s hesitance in the way he suckles at the spot, fangs ghosting over your tender skin.
“S’okay… you can do it.” Your soft, dreamy sighs of approval are accompanied by the languid tilt of your neck, jeopardizing more of your delicate skin to the dangers of his teeth. “You can mark me… w’nna be your mate…”
Choking back a moan, Neuvillette pistons thrice more into your cunt—pulling out until just his tip remains, and then plunging back into your gooey insides, sending you into another round of dizzying convulsions. His own orgasm follows, seeing stars as he places an amorous bite to the crook of your neck using only the flat of his teeth.
With how deep he’s buried, ribbons of his cum shoot right into your womb, spilling out into every cavity, and painting your interior white. Warmth blossoms from the inside out. Your heart is full, mumbling happy nothings of ‘mates’ in between sniffles, while a creamy ring forms around the base of his cock, thick liquid oozing from where he ends and you begin. His own chest rises and falls in jagged patterns, but his only want is to seek your lips, to drink in your mewls, and exchange sweet kisses, so that your soul and his, may meld together as they dance in the shape of your breaths intertwined.
He strokes your hair, planting easy kisses all around as he unplugs himself, letting loose the flood of cum that seeps out of your hole, but you whine at the loss, wanting nothing more than to be ever close to your newly consummated mate. Neuvillette only nuzzles into your neck, deep purrs of content reverberating from his chest as he lazily rubs his scent all over you. Meanwhile, a quick swish of his sapphire tail up the sticky underside of your thigh, teases another pulse from your cunt, and by reflex, you push out another dollop of white.
A small tap tap to his shoulder distracts him from his scenting, and he looks up with a tilt to his head and a small furrow to his brow, his normally sharp eyes full of earnest concern, relaxing only once he finishes reading through the bleary, dulcet tones of adoration that glow in your half-lidded eyes. You poorly suppress your little giggles—although he often disagrees, your lover really can be quite adorable.
Fontaine’s Iudex Neuvillette is elegant, poised, and meticulously polished… but here in the quiet night hours, in the privacy of your hearth, your Neuvillette is unruly-haired and damp-skinned from satiating the beastly desires of his still tender heart. You reach out a tired arm, first brushing back the pieces of hair that cling to his skin, then wrapping your palm around to cup his face.
“Was I a good mate?” Your hand slips down from his cheek to play with the tips of his silvery hair. “W’nna be the best for you.”
“You already are the best for me.” His hand, no longer clawed nor scaled, brings yours back up for a kiss to your knuckles. “The only one for me.”
He rolls off of you, sweeping you into his embrace, as he carries you off to the bathroom. Your head rests heavily against his chest, but your happy hums and quiet murmurs of ‘good,’ tell him that you have not drifted off into slumber just yet.
“You truly are a wonder,” he breathes, dipping his head to place a soft kiss to your forehead. “And it would be my honor to have you as my mate… but not tonight.”
His instincts had urged him to do it, to permanently claim you as his, and mark you as a dragon would, but his heart vehemently disagrees. The most sacred bond known to his kind is an ultimatum in your relationship, and it is one he refuses to be the sole architect of, so perhaps the two of you can revisit this conversation again once you’re more clear-headed; his answer would remain the same anyways.
notes2: thank you for reading, reblogs + feedback are very much appreciated ♡
thinking about stalker yan!kyryll today... he'd make such a good stalker, with his abilities. you'd never see it coming either, given his polite mannerisms. yet there's always a part of you that feels like something's off with this guy.
but no, surely you can't let rumors and your own prejudice affect your judgment of someone. he’s always so eloquent and gentlemanly; even offering to escort you back home whenever you bump into him out in the wild! and even when you reject him, he does not get offended, unlike other men around these parts. he merely smiles, nods, and bids you safe travels! it’s probably just the way he’s so aloof that makes it feel a little jarring sometimes. right?
but why does it feel like something's watching you even after you part ways?
Yandere Flins is the patient type. He’s lived a long time and has realized rushing things will not get the best result so it takes a good while before you see any outwardly yandere signs. This slow ease into the darker side of his personality makes him all the more dangerous like a spider spinning a web around you waiting for the moment you notice you're trapped.
Yan! Flins would stalk you for a while before any real attempts at courting. He needs to know what you like and dislike before chancing anything. Flins is also great at manipulating the truth so if you get suspicious it will be hard to get any evidence. The people of Nod-Krai respect him greatly for his work as a Ratnik so nobody would take your side there. They reason surely he would be too busy fighting the wild hunt to keep an eye on you and he’s a good guy he’d never do something so heinous as stalking. The assuring words of the townspeople don’t quell the fear when you’re certain you’ve seen those piercing yellow eyes standing in the darkness of your room in the dead of night or a blue flame following you through the fog.
Flins is polite, you'll give him that but in a strangely distant way. He has manners but not a full grasp of human etiquette giving him an eerie vibe. When Flins has a good idea of your tastes he begins slowly integrating himself into your life until it becomes hard to remember a time where he wasn’t there.
There is a lot of bumping into him ‘coincidentally’. Are you shopping? Well Flins just happened to need something for the lighthouse. What good fortune you ran into each other! Walking the coast? Flins patrols for the wild hunt during the day too. If you happen to be anywhere near the lighthouse Flins would invite you over for a chat and food. You can always stay at the lighthouse if you’re tired.
Flins would prefer you stay with him willingly. He deludes himself into thinking that if you fall in love then you wouldn’t be against never leaving his side, literally. He wants eyes or hands on you 24/7. Flins has lost too many people to let you slip away. Before it gets to that point though, Flins gifts you many items he knows you like and in return he steals things of yours for himself. Small things go missing at first but then larger more noticeable items disappear. When you eventually end up inside his lighthouse you’ll find your items stashed alongside his gem collection like precious trinkets.
You naively tell Flins that someone has been breaking into your house and he offers to stay in your house to make you more comfortable. The items stop disappearing but you keep waking up with your blankets pulled off.
Going to the Curatorium won’t help your case. Nefer knows better than to piss off a fae especially when she learns how deep Flins’ obsession runs. She knows he leads people who get too close to you towards the wild hunt and lets the phenomenon do the rest. Though Flins prefers not to take direct action if he deems someone a real threat to your relationship he kills them outright. People go missing in Nod-Krai all the time, it's really nothing to blink at.
Awaiting your agreement to become his, Flins remodeled the bedroom in the lighthouse to fit your taste more. There isn’t much that can be done with such a confined space given the structure but he puts a lot of effort into it. The only thing out of place is a chain connected to the wall that is just long enough to roam the room and reach the toilet. If won’t need to be used if you behave but Flins wants every avenue covered.
It’s in your best interest to accept Flins and all his quirks as he’s not afraid to do something drastic to keep you around. Flins would attempt to find fae magic or a ritual to bind the two of you together forever. Cooperate and Flins is the model spouse. Sure you don’t get any privacy but he allows you to leave the light house and if you’re a skilled fighter you can help him with Ratnik work.
Failure to comply and Flins will use tactics to make you dependent on him. Try to escape and it’s broken bones for you. A clean break which will heal well if taken care of. Bite at him and you get muzzled. Try to hurt yourself and you get bound. The worst part is Flins sounds so genuinely heartbroken when he has to hurt you. After the pain he holds you close and whispers sweet nothings for hours with soft kisses mingled in. It’s okay, he has all the time in the world to wait for you to love him and if his plans succeed, so will you.
Cbmakqlqpxokqoqpdkwjpcodkwnsmc I love this fic so much!! It just grabbed my attention and I had to read it!! I'm so glad I did too!! Thank you!! (*^▽^)/★*☆♪
*Diluc is known as a respectful and diligent student. No one would expect different from the son of the prestigious and affluent Ragnvindr family.
*Diluc has ample experience dealing with people who approach him for financial or status gain
*Yet you were different. He met you through Kaeya and yearned for you ever since
*Unlike his brother, Diluc has zero experience with courting. He isn't even sure how to approach you without Kaeya to bounce off
*His brain also short-circuits when he tried to speak with you (he was hoping to ask you on a date but jumbled his words so badly, he ended up fleeing in embrassment)
*Secret Admirer Type
*Has difficulty maintaining eye contact without becoming a mess
*So he settled with sending you yearning looks from a distance and anonymous gifts
*Also a big fan of sending you anonymous letters expressing his affections
*You complemented his bartending skills once. Now he tags along to Kaeya's parties, hoping to run into you and impress you again
*If you approach Diluc and further develop the relationship beyond surface level, he slowly becomes more unhinged and possessive
*Everyone and everything begins to feel like a threat. He'll begin to plot solutions to these problems
*He could easily make people disappear if needed
*Diluc is an honest person, so he'll share these thoughts with you. Depending on how you respond will influence how he acts.
I remember finding this back when I didn't have a tumblr account and when I made one I was so upset I couldn't find it but I'VE FINALLY FOUND IT AGAIN HUZZAH!!!! <3
for ur event, yan zhongli + coddlinggg he’s just so paternal i love him
#3. Coddling for my 1k special.
cw: gn!reader, injuries, forced dependency, Zhongli worsens reader’s injury on purpose, patronizing and overprotective behavior, established relationship. Word count: 2,7k.
Note: Thank you! (๑>◡<๑) I hope you’ll enjoy the story.
There are many things that humans lack in order to achieve perfection, one obstacle being how fragile their bodies are, prone to destruction and erosion. However, you assume a sprained wrist is the least your own body can handle.
Zhongli tries to prove you wrong about your conviction every step of your recovery.
It's not everyday he demonstrates his full potential of taking care of you, though you are a victim of him relieving you in pointless or simple things outside of those special events; that goes on top of him generally scheduling your life to be the most optimal for your health.
After you have sustained injury a few days ago, it’s not the pain that you dreaded and anticipated with trepidation, but the inescapable treatment lockdown awaiting you. Your wrist, merely darkened and moderately swollen, has been professionally handled and wrapped by Doctor Baizhu; your history should have ended with that moment and a small ointment to manage pain.
A small slip-up, falling on your hand — nothing too terrible. To Zhongli, it’s all the proof he needs to deem your fragility in this world.
With your ‘caregiver’ to protect your safety and Celestia knows anything else, things would never go uncomplicated. You’re pretty sure you would have managed a bath on your own, one dominant hand still in use. He disagreed with you, pointing the quality of such bath if you cannot wash yourself properly — you thought, okay, maybe this one is truly difficult to manage on your own, one-handed, especially if you could accidentally hit your wrist in the narrow bathtub, right?
Nowadays, it’s hard to remind yourself which is true and not, the definition of reality having been messed with by the person constantly testing your beliefs. Your lover already has convinced you about resigning from working, using many arguments to evince the benefits.
So you allowed him to — gently, of course, never rough — scrub your body, wash and condition your hair, put on some moisturizing oils, and replace your bandage. All clean and wrapped up in the softest silk to not irritate skin, he placed you in similarly soft and beige-cozy bed. Room in the traditional Liyue interior is the only stability, unchanging in its state, not questioning your sanity so rudely as he does.
There’s not much more a person would have needed to achieve happiness in their evening routine than this; yet, Zhongli remains relentless. The bath was no more than a warmup — how else will a puny-regardless-of their-size-if-facing-an-archon-human recover?
While the most nutritious yet not deprived of flavors slow-cooked bamboo shot soup is steaming in the kitchen, he begins his daily ritual with you — now even more extensive with bonuses.
“Is the ache that debilitating?” he asks calmly, smoothing down the wrinkles of the sheets tucked across your body. Rather than concern, there’s a certain sharpness in his amber eyes, on the hunt for any moment of weakness he could use to convince you about what a mass to be crumbled into dust you are. All you did was exhale a small wince of pain when adjusting your hands on your blanket.
“… No,” you answer curtly, not willing to give him the chance to play with your sanity today as well. Wearing light clothes for sleep, using soft touch on you, and speaking to you on lower volume already makes him appear disarmed.
His eyes suggest the truth could be the opposite, and you can’t tell if they’re exaggerated or to be taken seriously.
“If you say so,” you hate that line the most, as it’s another twist on your volatile mind-purge of awareness. “Let me tend to your hair.”
That much, you could have done yourself as well — needing just one hand to brush your hair. If it weren’t for the circumstances, you would have enjoyed the soothing glides — Zhongli’s hand is never rough, even if you try to make him angry. The brush lush with the boar bristle, and if your hair needs extra smoothing, a jade comb will join.
“The condition of your hair is seemingly improving, thanks to my treatment,” he says with awe, perched on the side of the bed. It’s as if he’s proud of some plant he grew successfully; they tend to be rather fragile as well. “I remember how unruly it used to be.” He chuckles.
You could have enjoyed the progress in the quality of your hair if fact hasn’t come at the price of your freedom — be it you forced to be dependent on him, most tragic truths to be plucked from this relationship is the blurred boundaries of autonomy and the sense of regression in your most basic abilities.
Everything needs to be done for you, because you either will hurt yourself, or you don’t do it meticulously enough. It’s maddening. It’s dehumanizing. It’s humiliating. You know to the archon or any sort of deity, any human will appear as a frangible eggshell, yet you doubt he would have treated other the same length. He either finds you that weak or others unworthy of this treatment.
The walls are collapsing on you. The familiar panic, teetering on the edge of falling into a panic attack you have been stifling for months to avoid his unnecessary worry, is trying to rise up to the surface, and you need to get away.
“Zhongli, I need to pee,” you signal, suffocated by another day of torment.
There's an insane impression when something so innocent in its connotation as care can feel be so violating.
“You have just left the bathroom,” he brings up. At this point, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he also noted your toilet breaks — in case there’s an issue with your bladder.
“Yeah, but all I did was take a bath?” you argue your case, squeezing legs for performance, then a sound of pain and he—
“Alright.” he sighs, as if you’re tormenting him with your discomfort. “Allow me to walk you.” He rises up.
“N-no!” you protest anxiously. Is there any more privacy that can be stripped away from you? “Seriously, I can do it. I promise I won’t strain my injury, I swear!”
Another sigh, reluctant, weighing any possibility for consequences. “Be quick with it.”
You nod, getting up — carefully to keep your promise. As you move to the different room, he adds, “Or don’t. You should take it slowly to avoid hurting yourself.”
“Of course,” you force through your teeth. Navigating the corridor with at least a second of peace away from him, you find and lock yourself in the separate bathroom with the bath, instead of going to the one with toilet like you told him.
The door itself doesn’t have any lock — in case you pass out and he needs to help you or whatever other tale you’d hear from him — so you look for anything to barricade yourself and gain at least one golden moment of respite from Zhongli. The same wooden bathtub from before is moved, disallowing the door being open fron the other side.
It’s undeniable he could easily storm inside, but you two have a certain set of rules: one of them is that he tries to behave like a human, choosing to submit himself to the conversational level. Should you misbehave, he will be there to coax you to talk and give up on that something. Treating you like a threat of Archon War is a danger to the sense of your security, if one has ever existed.
Before your time spent here could arise suspicions, you move quickly to get different things done on your own to prove both the suggestible you and immovable him that you’re not always in need for his help.
Brushing your teeth — it’s easy to maneuver your toothbrush and toothpaste. Finishing combing your hair — a child’s play. All one-handed, you begin to believe that you actually are healthy and sane, and Zhongli simply underestimates your human capacity. Do light exercise with your fingers to avoid the injured hand from going stiff, filled with new hope—
A knock.
“Are you alright? You were supposed to be in the other room, and you have been inside here instead for exceedingly long,” he addresses the situation through the door, sounding worried.
“Yes! I’m just…” you try to find a plausible excuse. “Having a stomachache and wanted to refresh myself.”
“Oh,” he acknowledges, now even more concerned, “Then I’m coming inside. You shouldn’t be left alone when you're feeling nauseous.” Before you could protest, he’s already pressing at the handle — with a human strength — quickly finding out that he can’t enter. “Darling? Did you put up a barrier of some kind?” his tone, while not stern yet, is still letting the seriousness slip in.
You spiral into tension, realizing he might turn genuinely angry if you don’t come outside. But you can’t. Not before you finish the routine on your own — it’s of utmost importance as if you're going to die without this test. “Yes, but… I needed some space. I’m not doing anything wrong here,” you admit the truth, defiance giving you confidence, hoping he’ll understand and be lenient when you’re honest.
Wrong. “You shouldn’t be there on your own. I'm sure the floor’s still wet and you could slip,” he scolds. “Please open the door.”
“Then I’ll wipe it off!” you say with frustration, bold.
“And slip while you're at that?” his tone comes out almost condescending and you want to both strangle him and cry.
You finally have enough, deciding to express your dissatisfaction. “No, I won’t slip, I’m not a goddamn child! I can do all those things you do for me, myself!” you yell.
A longer silence follows. You start to think that maybe he finally will listen, realizing you also need space, therefore becoming circumspect to not provoke you further. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak only because he lets his action be words. He opens the door, pushing the heavy wood with ease, for once with no consideration if you’ll get hurt consequently; you instinctively back out anyway, now all scared and pressing yourself against the wall.
He stands in the doorway, peering at you and your scared form with coldness you’re sure actual scoundrels have faced centuries ago. Before moving to you, he assesses the state of the bathroom, deducing you have done a few things on your own by the way different items are scattered across the sink.
Zhongli walks forward and grabs you by your wrist; shockingly, it’s the unhealthy one that meets his wrath.
Pain shoots and spreads across your arm. Under the pressure of his hand, you're forced into the illusion he’s going for breaking your delicate bone For a man who was protecting it so fiercely for days, the sudden plot twist, unpredictable, is perhaps most terrifying. “Stop, stop, it hurts!” you scream, high on agony.
He’s undaunted by your distress. “Hurts? I’m merely showing you what would have happened if you kept straining your hand, after you were talking to me about independence.”
You quickly realize— or rather, you are reminded, that this tender man is nothing more than a role he sustains for his new life. Zhongli is a temporary name, and he forever will be remembered as Morax or Rex Lapis. You can gauge he’s teaching you a lesson — no matter how hypocritical it is to do so by worsening your injury thus regressing all the healing progress.
What else can you do other than give in to that threat? He’ll act on his coddling tendencies anyway, not above repeating the counterproductive process of aggravating your sprain until you learned completely. Besides, wrist is just one tool, while the main goal is to prove you need his care in general. Argument that he has no guarantee you would have hurt your wrist more than he does would be quickly dismissed.
Or maybe, just maybe, his bother with you is no more than about gaining control over his pet you feel you are sometimes.
“I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!” you plead, sobbing from pain and sheer terror.
Tears normally would have worked; he’s stronger than them. “Will you? Or are you claiming that to make me stop?” he questions, squeezing harder as if to squeeze the truth out of you.
The pain is unbearable and you quickly grow weak from it, bordering on the edge of passing out. “I will… let you take care of me yourself…”
“Very well,” with that, his tone softens in the blink of an eye, and he grabs you properly by your arms instead, shushing gently at your sobs. “Let’s have you back in bed. I apologize for causing pain to your wrist. Sometimes, I get a sense that you’re too stubborn to listen if I resort to lighter measures, and am beginning to believe you need to be held a short leash.” Besides, it will give him more time to take care of you. “But I’m sure you were just tense after your injury happened and you can be nice, correct?”
You nod, even if his words devastate you — both sounding like a cheap justification and a manifestation of your future meant to become worse, not to mention the patronizing.
He walks you back to the bed room and eases you into the bed, adjusting pillows and putting one under your wrist to rest it. “Stay here. I think the soup should be done by now, so it’s the time that I feed you.” You can only nod again, exhausted and still scared of his ire.
Soon he returns with a bowl of steaming goodness. You’re not much hungry, but you accept the food, worried about disturbing that incongruous to your suffering calmness.
(It’s all the time that you wish you have never found out about his identity.)
“Be careful. Don’t scorch your tongue,” he instructs as if you didn't know that already. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe the reason why you have never properly burned your tongue on hot liquid is because you were lucky, not vigilant. You don't know anymore.
You take a few sips, while he marvels in weak you appear right now. If a small dispute shakes you so badly…
…then what would the outside world do to you?
You eat like a robot, chewing on the ingredients with muscle memory. You try to convince yourself about how much more you could do by yourself, while he thinks about what you can’t do on your own, you a clay to shatter.
After the meal, he massages the ointment onto your wrist, which thankfully dulls the pain. However, your limb still trembles under his touch, worryingly anticipating another session of twisting. Undisturbed, he tells you yet another tale from his millenniums of life meantime he’s kneading your full stomach.
When he’s satisfied with his job and other ten steps, he leans down to kiss your herbal-scented forehead. “You poor thing must be exhausted,” he murmurs. “Alright, it is time for you to sleep. Sleep is very important for humans to regenerate, so I've read. I’m sure your wrist will feel better in the morning,” he smiles warmly.
You're sure it will be better and you hope so desperately — eager to see this cycle of ‘care’ come to an end.
He reads you to bed, as always. Something light to distract the disarray of thoughts and help you sink into the dreams more easily.
When you fall asleep, he doesn't move to lie down next to you yet. He takes in the sight of what he considers to be his, precious and protected. Nurtured by him, to be harvested by him. Glaze lilies bloom only at night, perhaps so the daylight doesn’t reveal their beauty to the greedy visitors passing by; so by day, he’ll guard you, and by night, he’ll gaze at your holiness.
Even an archon could experience loneliness — at least in the version most natural next to this human sentiment. Having someone to tend to is fulfilling and makes him feel needed if Liyue doesn't require him anymore for the most part.
He is yet to dig what makes the process most delicious with you in the motion, but one thing is sure — this archon will the bedrock for your human fragility, until he himself crumbled.
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.”
ApqllqlwlwmwmqklqlallLLalsmsmwnwbsma I love this fic so much it's not even funny. I love every aspect of it, the dialog, the build up, the characterization, the way it's written, it's all just so amazing!!! I feel like I need to pay for this it's so good!!!
I JUST WANT TO BE WITH YOU. (yandere alhaitham x gn reader)
; written during 2023. general warning for yandere content <3 reader has specific characteristics mentioned in one paragraph but it's just used as a writing device.
; It begins when he fills the Acting Grand Sage position.
PRIOR TO Azar's ultimate downfall, back in the days wherein Sumerians heavily relied on the Akasha, Azar had a secretary - given his position as Grand Sage. Alhaitham only knew this because it was common knowledge throughout the Akademiya. Who wouldn't notice the bumbling and stuttering fool? The fool that trails behind Azar every time he makes a public appearance.
In the rare moments the two saw each other in official gatherings - him as the Scribe and them as the Secretary of the Grand Sage, he thought of them as an utter and complete fool. What other word could have suited them better, when it was right in front of his eyes that proved it to be true?
Clumsy, easily crumbles under pressure, can't refute Azar's orders no matter how heinous it was - a pushover.
And Alhaitham has no tolerance for those who can't bother to grow a backbone.
So, like everyone else he's met so far, he tunes out their voice every time they were in his general vicinity - doesn't bother to greet them, and the only acknowledgment they got from him was a simple nod.
Nothing more beyond that.
The Grand Sage gets busier, and being Azar's secretary, so do they. And by extension, Alhaitham does, too, with him needing to read through and proof whatever act Azar had proposed.
His days consisted of getting up in a timely fashion, eating a nutritious breakfast, leaving the house, arriving at work on time, leaving work without any overtime, sleep, and repeat. A mundane life with a high-paying job, just how he likes it. He rarely sees the Secretary anymore, if any, at all.
Perhaps they got a different job, or maybe they were fired after their jittery nature got on Azar's nerves.
Whatever the reason for their absence may be, life goes on, and that Secretary completely fades from Alhaitham's mind.
Wake up, eat, sleep, go to work, take a break, go home, eat, sleep, and repeat.
Wake up, eat, sleep, go to work, take a break, go home, eat, sleep, and repeat.
Wake up, eat, sleep, go to work, take a break, go home, eat, sleep, and repeat.
Wake up, eat, sleep, go to work, take a brea-
"Hey," the not-so-hushed voice of a scholar rings out through the spacious House of Daena, and Alhaitham curses them for ruining his focus on reading a book. In hindsight, he was partly at fault for not activating his noise-canceling headphones as soon as he stepped foot into the library.
And yet, something stops him from doing so, as he side-eyes the pair of scholars sitting a few feet away from him - his curiosity gnaws at him to pay attention like something was telling him it will be worthwhile.
And he does.
He pretends to read his book as his ears pay keen attention to what the two scholars will be gossiping about.
"What?" The other scholar replies after finishing a passage in his ongoing thesis. Papers are littered throughout their table, some covered in words while some seemed to remain unfinished.
"You know (Y/N), right?" When the name doesn't seem to click into the second scholar's mind, the other clarifies. "Azar's Secretary, remember?"
Like a lightbulb buzzing to life, the second scholar snaps his fingers in recognition. "Oh! them, what about them?"
Alhaitham is curious, too. Perhaps this gossip will finally bring a potential answer to the reason why you've seemingly disappeared off the face of Teyvat - with no warnings whatsoever.
The scholar leans in to whisper, yet is ignorant to the fact that his voice is so loud Alhaitham can still hear him - talk about being inconspicuous. "I heard that they've gotten arrested by the Matra a few months back, heard from a friend of a friend that it was because they went against doing a paperwork Azar needed."
The second scholar's eyes comically bulge out in shock, "No way!" he lets out louder than expected, as the first scholar immediately covers his mouth with his hand. "Shhhh! Shut up, dude!"
Hurriedly removing the hand covering his mouth, the second scholar whisper-shouts, "No, but seriously! I mean I get that Azar is really strict and stuff, but is he actually that bad?"
The other scholar replies with something but Alhaitham has already gotten the information he wanted, and thus, he tunes them out.
Shutting his book, Alhaitham looks at the elevator centered at the library, if what that scholar said was true and you're currently in prison, then you must be on the floor below. Unfortunately, he's not a part of the Matra so he doesn't have access. So close, yet so far.
To go against Azar, knowing very well that he's brewing something behind that monocle of his,
Perhaps Alhaitham has misjudged you. Maybe there is more to you than what meets the eye.
Maybe it would benefit him in the long term if he were to extend his grace and hatched a plan to get you out of that cell? He hopes so because the lengths he's about to go through better make it worth it.
He's simply doing this so that his job position won't be at risk, and to ensure Azar doesn't get his way.
Your full name is (Y/N) (L/N), you're in your mid-20s, you like the color (favorite color), you prefer dogs over cats, and you like visiting Puspa cafe after work and ordering their coconut charcoal cake. Your favorite place in all of Sumeru is Pardis Dhyai, you love books to a certain extent, you're friends with Nilou from the grand bazaar and Dehya the eremite mercenary, you get along well with Paimon due to her jovial nature, you love sumeru roses, you're an avid follower of Lesser Lord Kusanali from the very beginning, and you grew up in Gandharva Ville.
You moved out of your parent's house after getting accepted into the Akademiya and chose to live with a roommate until you graduated, you immediately got a job in the Akademiya and climbed up the ranks until you got the position of the Grand Sage's secretary, you hate the heat and summers in Sumeru renders you unfunctional, you wish to one day visit another nation outside of Sumeru, you live in a small house within Sumeru City, and you're planning on getting a dog soon.
Alhaitham knows all of this - it's carved into his brain and can recite it word-by-word anytime, anywhere. He knows more, in fact, but he knows you'll find that concerning. But really, it's not Alhaitham's fault that you turned out to be such a blabbermouth after getting past your shy exterior.
(It doesn't help that he likes to monitor your activities after work, too.)
After releasing Lesser Lord Kusanali from confinement and overthrowing Azar from his position, the Akademiya saw fit for Alhaitham to become the new Grand Sage. He tried to refuse at first but after a little pleading and with the promise of a salary increase from Lesser Lord Kusanali, he agreed to take on the position of Acting Grand Sage.
And with being the Acting Grand Sage, comes you as his Secretary. It was almost commendable how quickly you accepted the drastic changes in Sumeru's ruling right after you were released from jail. Laughable, even.
Life pieces back into place, almost as if nothing happened. You're still the secretary, Lesser Lord Kusanali is still the dendro archon, Cyno is still the General Mahamatra, and yet, Alhaitham is temporarily not the Scribe.
So different, yet still stagnant in a way Alhaitham can't put together.
Sighing, Alhaitham stops reading the thesis of a researcher and rubs his eyes in frustration. This uncharacteristic action causes you to pause writing, and look over him in concern.
Alhaitham tries to put down the rush of serotonin that enters his brain the moment you start walking toward him. It must be his hormones talking, surely.
"Are you alright, Grand Sage?" You ask softly. In the back of his mind, he wants to correct you that he's only Acting Grand Sage - yet that thought is overpowered by the joy he gets from you addressing him by his position - a position obviously higher than yours.
(A position of authority over you.)
Alhaitham weakly nods, still rubbing his eyes in slow circles - trying to dispel the unfathomable yearning he's feeling for you right now. It's unprofessional, uncharacteristic, and disrespectful to think of you as anything other than a coworker.
It's simply wrong to think of you when he should be efficiently reviewing the stacks of paper that are steadily growing on his desk. It's wrong to think of you in general.
But for the life of him, he can't stop. It's like a parasitic leech latched onto him the moment he saw you again after so many months - only for a blossoming feeling to fester deep within his heart the more he spent time with you.
It's a feeling he both wants to nurture and destroy. A feeling that leaves him feeling like he's in the clouds, only to plummet down into the harsh ground below as soon as you're out of sight.
A feeling that gives as well as it takes.
Alhaitham has never been so conflicted before in all his years of living. The most logical and rational decision, in his perception, would be to pursue you and if you weren't interested then he'd move on with his life. Yet, there's a factor stopping him - the fear of rejection. It's simple on paper, but he dreads the possibility of it happening in real life.
The idea of him investing time and effort in flourishing a companionship in hopes of reciprocation - only to come up with nothing, in the end, is not only tiring but a pity. It both irks and frustrates him,
Is there any way for him to ensure that you will reciprocate his courting? Or is he stuck with a guessing game?
"Grand Sage?" You ask again, noticing that he's been mulling for a few minutes. Alhaitham merely glances at you for a brief second before he's back to mulling - or would sulking be a more appropriate word? "Grand Sage, are you sure that you're okay?"
Alhaitham grunts out a reply, and you struggle to hold in a chuckle at the way he's acting right now. "If you're so troubled, then perhaps visiting Puspa cafe after work can ease some of your tension. I always go there after work," you pause, gauging his reaction for any sign of refusal.
(Alhaitham has the urge to say, "I know." but refrains from doing so.)
"If you don't mind, we can go there together. You know, I really recommend their black coffee." You absentmindedly reach out to play with a strand of his hair, and Alhaitham leans in ever so slightly. "Especially if you pair it up with their coconut charcoal cake, oh! I promise you won't regret it, Grand Sage! Don't let looks deceive you! Just because it looks horrendously charred doesn't mean-"
And there you go blabbering again.
Alhaitham wonders if you were this chatty with Azar as well, and this time, he can't push down the bubbling jealousy that rises in him. He'd truly hate it if that were the case.
But Alhaitham reminds himself that Azar is out there in the rainforest working his ass off, no longer in the Akademiya - ever. Besides, Azar could never hold a candle to him.
It's clear in Alhaitham's mind that logically speaking, he's the best choice for you.
No one else can compare.
Alhaitham has noticed that you've been absentminded these days.
Blankly looking at papers without intaking any actual information, signing and passing on the incorrect documents, messing up the times in his schedule, and more. You've been silent, too. The sound of your chatter in his office is a missed presence and he worries at first that you got self-conscious of your (endearing) habit.
It turns out that after a little work of following you for a few consecutive weeks, that was far from the case.
If anything, the reason for your airheaded behavior was all because of a boy you've been meeting in front of the Sanctuary of Surasthana. It grinds on his nerves how cautious you are when coming up to your designated meeting place - as if the boy was your secret lover (the thought alone causes him to mald), a little sweet secret of sorts.
You're jittery yet your smile is undeniably wider in the presence of the boy - the boy who wears a hat and whose Anemo vision rests just right on his chest. The boy with a scowl and biting words, yet you take it in stride, even making jabs back.
It can't be spelled any clearer to Alhaitham, you and the boy are close - closer than he'd like.
And he doesn't want to entertain the possibility of that guy being your boyfriend - or worse, secret husband. Surely, that's impossible. Your official records state that you're single and have never married anyone in all your years.
It's simply unfathomable.
The only way to solve this problem is to confront you in person. Preferably in his office tomorrow.
With the door unknowingly locked.
With no way to escape.
Regardless of the outcome, you've pushed his buttons too far, and like reigning you in with a leash, Alhaitham deems it suitable to confine you until you've learned that;
Alhaitham is the only man for you. Now and forever. Whether you know this or not, he'll do the job to drill it into your brain.
૮꒰ 𓈒. ݂ .𓈒ྀི ꒱ა ┊ Hi cuties, this is a short one that, honestly, I wasn't planning to post anything since I haven't been in the mood lately due to personal stuff, but I found this, a soft short one-shot, that I really enjoyed writing bc of Flins' perspective, I decided to give it a shot, as you may know already, english is not my first language so pls be patient with me. If you like it, reblogs and likes are as always appreciated, until next time! ૮․ ․ ྀིა♡.
# Strawberry's note: As I've already stated in my previous posts, when Flins speak in Fae language, the text will be violet bold.
Visiting Flins at the cemetery was always a strange affair. You constantly found yourself weaving excuses for friends and parents, justifying your frequent trips to such a dark and melancholic place. They, of course, had no inkling of the particular friend you kept there.
He was a man whose eyes held the brilliance of direct sunlight, yet whose blueish hair was as dark as a starless night. With skin so pale and features so fine, he looked less like a human being and more like a figure meticulously crafted from the finest porcelain.
As you moved through the labyrinth of tombs in search of him, you remained unaware of the spirits he claimed as friends—the fallen light-keepers who whispered of your arrival. You felt only a sudden brush of cold air against your neck, a silent prompt that made you turn and descend toward the hidden depths of the grounds. Down where the water pooled around your shoes and the damp chill seeped into your very bones, you followed the breezes that guided you to him, never realizing they were the intentional waves of his spectral companions enjoying the spectacle of your return.
That day, however, Flins had not expected you to stumble upon him in the sanctuary of his loneliness, stripped of his perfect mask. You hadn't expected to see his wings: vast spans of pale ice-blue, like the first snow of winter, bleeding into a violet so deep and intense it mirrored a furious, stormy sky. Though you had caught him off guard, he drank in your amazement like an elixir, allowing you to draw closer before he could fully retreat behind his glamour.
Meeting him had been a coincidence—he had found you lost and, fulfilling a vestige of his old duty, guided you to safety. But instead of the world outside, he had guided you to him, to the secluded place he called home. Revealing his true identity only reaffirmed what he had suspected as the seasons and moons drifted by: that his curiosity and the desire to study your nature had slowly melted into a deep, forbidden affection.
How could he turn away and send you back to the light? In your presence, the fire in his lamp burned with an intensity it hadn't known in years. He could no longer pretend that your touch—a warmth he wasn't meant to crave—didn't make him ache to lean into you and close his eyes. He could no longer lie to himself, pretending your undeniably human scent didn't drive him to the brink or that his possessiveness didn't flare every time another man dared to step near you.
Falling for a human was a dangerous endeavor; the legends of the tundra he once called home were a grim reminder. There were stories of his kin losing their minds—kidnapping and stealing humans for a love that could never endure more than a few fleeting centuries.
But when your hand rose, driven by curiosity, and he felt that dangerous warmth against his cheek, he gave in. He leaned into your palm, letting his forehead rest against yours, drinking in the way your cheeks flushed under his gaze. He pulled you closer—too close for your safety and far too close for his sanity.
"You have wings..." you whispered, your eyes fixed on the light radiating from his back. In response to your voice, his wings stirred softly—an involuntary, bodily reaction to your presence.
Then, you asked the question.
"Can I... touch them?" The request was filled with a wonder so undeniably human that he could never say no. Not to you.
Ignoring the warnings in his mind—as if exposing himself this way wasn't already an intimate surrender—he let you slip through his arms so that your curiosity could invade the very privacy of his existence.
The sensation was like a hum against your skin—an electric wave traveling from your fingertips straight to your marrow. You traced the delicate shape, feeling his entire frame go taut as you reached the dim, sensitive base of the wings. They flickered and shivered under your touch. This was the secret your family would never know: that the person you cared for at the Final Night cemetery was not human beneath the mask, and that you had grown close enough for him to discard his polite, aristocratic facade.
When his wings finally lowered, like a wounded animal recoiling, Flins pulled you against him once more. You pretended not to notice the pale pink bloom on his cheeks, like a kiss from spring, or the way his ears—now undeniably pointed—peeked through his thick hair as he hovered near you.
"Possessing you will make me break every rule imposed upon my kin," he murmured against your lips. He spoke in a tongue you couldn't possibly understand. An ancient language you hadn't known existed until you met him. "And even knowing the cost, I would gladly suffer the consequences if it means I can have you."
Flins watched as your body surrendered before your mind could even process the thought. He saw your pupils blow wide and caught the spike in your sweet, human scent as you reacted to his proximity, like pollen attracting a bee. He could read you with terrifying ease, sensing the hidden desires of your soul and how much you begged to be touched. Worse still was his own mirroring desire to fulfill them.
He hooked a hand around your waist, pulling you impossibly close. You felt the heat of your own pulse meeting the dampened, silver warmth of his skin. His long, slim fingers slid behind your neck, holding you with a possessiveness he shouldn't harbor for such an ephemeral being.
But when his lips tasted yours again, he felt your total devotion. Your lips moved softly against his; a small whine caught in your throat when his teeth grazed your bottom lip in a teasing move. He let his tongue explore the heat of your mouth while your hand tangled in his hair, your fingers tracing the sharp, faeric curve of his ear.
He wondered, with a dark and sudden hunger, what it would be like to truly taste your voice—to hear that soft whine grow into something louder, more shattered, as his lips explored more than just your mouth. He imagined his ungloved hands finally melting under the heat of your skin, anchoring himself to your fleeting existence until the outside world vanished entirely. In the privacy of his mind, he let himself forget the gentleman and envisioned claiming you so completely that his possessiveness would finally justify why his kind was forbidden from falling for humans.
It was a dangerous thought, one that left his sanity and his human facade fraying at the edges, until the only thing the flame in his lamp truly wanted was:
Beautiful. This is just so beautiful and breathtaking and amazing I cjkalalcllamzllclzlzpcjx
I love the way the author wrote Flins!! I just adore it and their writing style in general, the words just sucked me in and didn't let me go until I got done reading it!! Not that I would've stopped sooner since the writing is amazing!!
So the both of you think I'm resting? You could say that, but it's rather noisy. I'm sure you've noticed that someone is singing in the café, and I'm planning to pretend I haven't heard it.
Perhaps our friends thought preparing a surprise here would be more discreet, but they didn't consider the possibility that unexpected guests might be standing outside the door.
