"原神 ✶ SYNOPSIS," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ the nod krai men find out their girlfriend is a virgin, obviously not for long. ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა artist credits: here reblog / like 2 support ⃘໋ׅ♡ 𝑤.𝑐: 3.7k ⁀ ˳ ⟡ masterlist <3
ꗃ .. FEATURING ꒰ flins, varka, dottore, lohen ꒱
♡⏝ ⸝⸝ 𝓦ARNINGS ˖ ❝ nsfw fem!reader smut squirting p i v sex spitting gentle sex you do the hair pulling fae's have biiiig dicks cunnilingus they go raw oral sex (f receive) fingering nip play tummy bulges overstimulation teasing drooling gentle giant varka getting pinned down varka is gigantic medicinal play / consensual drugging dottore treats sex like some experiment pussy slapping lohen is mean orgasm denial ❞
── #⃝ MINA'S NOTES ( 💬 ) plz send thirsts fill up my inbox like how flins fills my puthy up, also header inspired by cumironi mwah divider credits
ɞ⠀.⠀FLINS ﹗ ໒꒱۪
Flins was a gentleman, of course he was. He needed to be one anyways, he didn't need you squirming and sobbing and pushing him away if he went too rough with his size. You were a human after all.
"E-eeh.. s-slowly.." you whimpered, naked and nervously sweating underneath him, hands braced on his chest while he was gently spreading your legs open.
"I'll be as gentle as I can be, darling," he whispered softly, leaning over and pecking your cheek, before moving his lips over to your forehead, and finally your lips. His lips were soft, but cold against your warm ones. Your eyes had fluttered to a close, while he was moving his thumbs to rub at your sticky folds and soften you up.
"Niiiice, right?" He hummed, while you were beginning to squirm from the new sensation, his fingers curling up before pushing inside and stretching you out for his cock.
You whimpered and nodded shakily, much to his delight.
His smile got wider, like a Cheshire Cat, before he kissed you again and thrusted his fingers further, going just slightly more rougher to hear you moan and whine against his lips. Your nails beginning to dig and scratch at his shoulders, legs twitching and falling apart.
He pulled back suddenly, leaving you gasping and dazed, taking his fingers out and holding his hand out teasingly. Your essence dripping from his long, elegant fingers.
"Look here, you're already doing so well. So ready for me," he purred before leaning over again and nuzzling into the crook of your neck, kissing to distract you.
"Shhh, just breathe," he whispered.
You gasped and let out a strangled whimper when feeling the thick head of his cock rub against your pussy and begin to push inside. Your hands quickly reach out against his slender arms and scratched your way to his back, breath quickening and hitching.
"N-nghh.. f-flinssss.." you whined for him, while he slowly eased inside, before sighing against your neck and relaxing. "Shhh, I've got you, just relax, I swear it'll all feel better," he peppered your face with slow, soft kisses.
"C-can I pull..?" You mumbled softly, half lidded eyes looking up into his darkened ones. One of your hands were moving up, gently tangling into the long, luscious hair of his.
He didn't hesitate, nodding and smiling down at you sweetly.
Darkened, lustful eyes of his were glued to your tummy, watching the bulge from his thick cock grown and shrink as he thrusted in and out. He loved the feeling of being inside you, and got harder at the look of you squirming beneath him, and twitched inside you at your sweet little whimpers and moans.
As your hand pulled at his hair, his teeth bit into his bottom lip, the bed beginning to creak, the sound of skin slapping on skin filling the room.
His hips pulled back, before slowly easing inside again, and continuing those slow, sensual movements. Thrusting back and forth, just gently enough so that it wouldn't hurt. his eyes flickered up from your neck, watching your expression begin to relax and get comfortable with his slow, steady thrusts.
He pulled back, before sharply thrusting in one last time, making you squeak and whine, pouting up at him confused.
Your pout was met with a chaste kiss, "I'm sorry.. I couldn't resist. I'll go slow from now on, okay?" He pulled his hips back slowly, his thumb finding the little bud of your clit and rubbing it slowly.
"Just cum for me, alright, darling?"
ɞ⠀.⠀VARKA ﹗ ໒꒱۪
Varka was messy, and had no shame about it.
Slobbering and eating you out all messily, face buried in between your thighs, slurping loudly. Very much enjoying his meal. Groaning and moaning, while you were squirming, whining and covering your mouth shyly. You had expected him to be this big macho man and be all rough, to just make you take it.
Yet there he was, happiest when tasting and giving you pleasure, happiest when watching you cum on his face. His tongue eagerly licking up when you squirted out.
"So good, so good," he muttered and licked your pussy a few more times before pulling away with a sigh and wiping his dripping mouth. Your essence still dribbling down his chin and soaked into the bedsheets below, his tired eyes gazing into yours lovingly. "You ready?"
Your shaky nod didn't convince him, as you were still hiccuping and breathing heavily from your last orgasm. "I need a yes or a no, use your words," he said quietly, hand taking a grasp of your chin, gently making you face up at him properly.
"..yes.. yes please. I need you," you nodded and gasped, whining and already reaching out your hands for him.
He smiled happily before quickly covering your body with his much larger, muscular, scarred one. Completely overpowering you but making sure you had enough room to squirm and move, his lips meeting yours lovingly.
Those large hands of his pushed your thighs apart, before hooking your legs over his hips. Keeping you spread wide open beneath him, naked, sweaty, ready for him.
"You'll be okay, alright?" He nodded, noticing your nerves and shaky breathing, kissing your forehead. "It'll be just a small pop of pain, and then a world of pleasure.. just tap my shoulder and I'll slow down, or use the word and I'll pull out, okay?" He nodded, before furrowing his brows when you only nodded.
"Use your words."
"..I'll tap on your shoulder when it hurts and say the safe word when I can't take it anymore," you nodded to him, before sighing and smiling again when he kissed your forehead. "Good girl."
His head buried into the crook of your neck, kissing and finding your sensitive spots. Sucking hickeys and kissing down your jawline, while his hands were moving to spread your folds apart and stroke his thick cock. The base of his blond pubic hair tickles your inner thighs, before you felt it.
The large, demanding pressure began to build inside you when you felt the tip of it slide in. You had expected it to be big, but this big? You were already beginning to plan out your funeral, thighs twitching and squirming.
"Shh, shh, I'll be slow, just relax, I promise," he kissed down your jaw and trailed down the valley on your breasts, suckling a nipple into his mouth. Trying to get you to focus on the pleasure.
His cock was demanding your attention. Your brain couldn't focus on anything else, as much as you squeezed your eyes shut, whined, and squirmed underneath him. Your nails began to rake on his muscular back, adding to the scars with red lines of passion. It was so big, so thick, stretching you to the core
You were already so slick and drooling around him, drooling from both lips, before mumbling, "I-it's big.."
"I'm—… I'm not even halfway in," he muttered, pursing his lips and pausing for just a second before beginning to try and push in as far as he could, in a quick, painless manner. Not even halfway? You were already feeling his cock splitting you in two, what did he mean "not even halfway"?
It felt like something you had never known, finally clicked inside your head when he pushed in the last inch and grinned up at you, popping free of your nipple. "See! Nothing to it," he hummed happily, while you were drooling and cumming around him from just the size. Your tummy having such a lewd bulge from his cock.
"D-does it get any smaller…?" You drooled, whimpering and squeezing so tightly. You were definitely going to be spending majority of the time squirting and squirming on his dick.
“Smaller?” He scoffed and smiled, before kissing your forehead and then the tip of your nose. “Obviously not, silly. It can get bigger though,” he tilted his head to the side, all goofy.
Oh my archons, he was going to split you in two.
ɞ⠀.⠀DOTTORE ﹗ ໒꒱۪
"Oh come on, miss patient, you're not seriously backing out already?" Dottore pouted and mocked you, holding an empty syringe in his hands. The one he had promised would help you enjoy your first time with him infinitely more and not feel an ounce of paint whatsoever.
"Z-zandik—" you whimpered, eyes beginning to haze over, sitting naked on his experimental table. The light flicking above you both in the empty, cold room.
"Uh-uh, not Zandik, it's Doctor now, okay?" He smirked and pinched your cheek.
The air wasn't biting at your skin anymore, the fluids beginning to seep through your veins in what felt like a fiery fever. The blue haired menace's eyes were narrowing, watching your expression change, your eyes glaze over and pussy begin to glisten and seep uncontrollably.
"..doctor 'tore.." you mumbled, looking up at him, and pulling him closer by his shoulders. Eyeing his shirtless body up and down.
He smirked and cupped your cheek again, testing to see how much the medicine had stripped away your shyness and pain. "Tell me, how much do you want me? Where do you want me?" He purred, already moving his hands to the buckle of his pants, stripping eagerly.
You hesitated and thought, before laying back on the table and spewing your legs. "…need you a lotttt.." you mumbled, watching him crawl over you quickly and plant feverish kisses to your neck.
"Need you here.." you mumbled, moving one of your hands down shakily, and using your fingers to spreading your folds apart. Glistening and soaking wet, dripping onto the table below, ready and waiting for his experiment.
He hummed, smirking down at you and glanced down at your pussy, before kissing your forehead. "See? I told you the medicine would work so well with this untouched body of yours… didn't expect this much… fluid production, although," he hummed and was already mentally noting to edit the formula so that it wouldn't harm your body's natural production.
"You're alright to continue, miss patient?" He whispered down at you, before smirking at your confident nod.
"You're so filthy," he scoffed, smirking and spreading your legs wide apart, before slipping his fingers into your depths to test the waters. "They slide in so easily, tsk, you're so wet already," he huffed before brushing your hair out of your face. "Do you want me to move onto the next step in the method of this experiment?"
"P-pleaseeee.. d-doctor 'tore," you moaned, closing your eyes in pleasure as he fingered you, before gasping and pouting when he slid his fingers out again.
"If you're begging that much, you deserve something bigger, something harder," he darkly suggested, before smirking down at your dead face. The next thing you felt in your daze was the thick tip of his cock rubbing over your clit, collecting the slick, before it began to push inside your tight passage.
The feeling was numbing, more than painful. A small whimper escaping your lips, just clenching your fists, waiting for the initial stretch to wash over.
Only to open your eyes, half lidded, when you heard him snort. "Miss patient.. are you sleeping in the middle of my experiment?" He pouted and flicked your forehead.
It took you a second to realise he was teasing you, before you began to whine and argue back with him. "I wasn't sleeping! It just felt so numbing and c-cold—" you were arguing with him, before gasping and moaning, eyes rolling back for a split second.
That bastard had thrusted while you were talking, riling you up just to see you lose it in the middle of a sentence.
"You were saying?"
"Y-you're evil—" you were whining before quickly fading your arguments into needy moans and whimpers, arching your back and holding onto the shaky table as he began to rut into you. Fucking you at that steady pace, hips slapping against your ass. Balls heavy and waiting to spill inside you, to carry out another experiment inside you.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
It filled the room, while you began to drool. His breath finally hitching and adjusting, growing heavy from trying to not bust on the spot while you were squeezing him so tightly.
"Fuck.. you're so right. I should've made that fuckin' erection chewing gum too," he scoffed, eyes narrowing on your breasts.
ɞ⠀.⠀LOHEN ﹗ ໒꒱۪
"Pfft, look at you," lohen smirked, "not even name calling now?" He teased.
You were sitting on his lap. Naked, pouting and slowly rubbing your pussy back on his erect cock. His eyes half lidded, biting his bottom lip, watching you with lustful eyes. His hands resting on your hips, thumbs rubbing back and forth.
"You said you'd help me and be sweetttt!" You whined and grumbled down at him, before smacking his shoulder.
He groaned and pretended to be hurt, before pouting up at you playfully. "I am being sweeeet," he mimicked your whine, before smirking and pinching your hip. "I wanna see you ride me, it'll be fun, and I promise to help you get on," he nodded with a mock-serious expression.
You huffed, unconvinced before lifting your hips and scooting back just an inch, letting out a soft whimper when he grabbed the base of his cock, stroking it and guiding it to the entrance of your tight hole. "That's ittt, just slowly sit down," he mumbled, shifting on the bed slightly and guiding your hips down.
"H-haah.. s-slowlyyy.." you whined, easing your hips down, feeling his hard, thick dick begin to slide inside. The feeling of it twitching made you squirm and look more flustered, while his expression began to change from agonising pleasure to mischievous smirking.
His hands were slowly helping your hips down, as you relied on him to guide you, before he pulled them away quickly, making you squeak and plop down quickly. Gasping and whimpering, impaled on every thick, girthy inch of his cock.
A moan escaped your lips, tears pricking the corner of your eyes from the sudden, intense pleasure and pain mix. The room was filled whining and as you were smacking his shoulders repeatedly, "y-you're horrible! A terrible boyfriend! You pushed me down!"
"I did?" He pouted and played innocent, hands moving to wipe the small dotted tears at the corners of your eyes. "I think I'm a lovely boyfriend," he frowned, before genuinely asking, "you're okay though, right? Tell me if you want to stop, I'll stop, no teasing," he nodded to you.
You sniffled, before nodding and leaning over to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. "I w-wanna keep going.." a small mumble by his neck.
He smiled, turning his head to peck your hair, before thrusting up into you gently. "You're the one who's supposed to be riding me, doll," he huffed and played with your hair, tilting his head to the side to lick the shell of your ear.
The lick made you shiver, before trying to slowly wriggle your hips up and bring them down. "I-I'm tryingggg! Be patient," you huffed.
His teasing smirk began to fade as the bed was quietly creaking, only your soft little moans being the sounds of pleasure in the quiet bedroom. "E-ehh.. nnh.. mmh…" you whimpered softly, learning how to slowly pleasure yourself on his dick. His eyes half lidded, viewing you with a cold, cynical look, before smiling again and thrusting up quickly into your soft, wet pussy.
"L-lohennnn.. this is too much work," you huffed, giving up and laying limp on top of him.
He hummed, before kissing the top of your head and wrapping his arms around you tightly, quickly rolling you both over so that you were flustered, naked, and underneath him. "E-eh..?" You muttered confused, while his hands were already spreading your legs.
"Just take it, okay? You know the word to say if you want me to stop," he smiled at you. Nervousness breeding inside your gut, already gripping the sheets to prepare yourself.
unexpected audience — ft. kyryll chudomirovich flins
synopsis: flins is good at fucking you—you know that, and he knows that, too. it doesn’t hurt if maybe the ghosts are also made aware
before you read. ❤︎ 2k word count ; female reader ; established relationship ; smut — mdni ; exhibitionism ; mating press ; unprotected sex ; creampie ; praise ; i have no dignity left from writing this so i could not bear to proof read lol </3
commentary. ❤︎ i have no comments i would just like to say everyone should block @luffysprincess and @neiptune while you have the chance there is pure evil in their dna’s
Your favorite thing about Flins is how good he is at talking. Ironically, your least favorite thing is also how good he is at talking.
You don’t like how convincing he can be. (But then again, it’s rather enjoyable when he’s…well, convincing. You don’t ever have a bad time.)
“How lucky I am,” he murmurs, his nose brushing against the column of your throat. He inhales. It’s a sweet scent—the smell of your sweat and your lingering perfume. He likes when he gets to breathe it in right here as his hands dig into your thighs and press your knees closer to your chest. “Aren’t you just a marvelous sight? Breathtaking as always, my light.”
“H-how would you know,” you stutter, “it’s dark—would it kill you to have some more light in here?”
He chuckles.
“Is it? But I can see you just fine,” he murmurs. He rolls his hips once more—the thick, warm girth of his cock dragging along your walls once more and building the pressure in your core with just a little more friction. You whine, and he grins with a little too much satisfaction. “Your face is glowing, did you know? And there’s that divine little way you scrunch your nose—I can see it all clearly. Oh, and we mustn’t forget the way your lips part when you say my name. Wouldn’t you be so kind as to say it once more? For me?”
You’d call him evil if you had the clarity. Instead, you cry, “F-flins,” with a sharp gasp as the tip of his cock slams against a particularly sweet spot at the back of your walls.
He knows that spot a little too well. It’s a little too familiar, and he never fails to remind you that he knows exactly where you need him to fall apart.
“Ah, there it is,” he says happily, “a precious sound, indeed. I envy anyone who gets to hear your voice utter their name—would it be selfish if I asked you to only say mine?” His tone enough makes you feel praised—something you crave a little too much when it comes to him. You like when he’s happy with you. He gives you plenty of honeyed, sugared words when he is. Words that make you so quick to become pliant and weak under his touch.
Spread your legs a little wider for me, darling—you know how beautiful you are when you do. Somehow, you always do when he asks. Ah-ah, don’t hide your face—let me see how you look when you come undone, won’t you? I craved seeing you all day. You can’t bring yourself to hide your face when he asks so politely. Give me one more, my light—you can, can’t you? You always do. And just like that, you’re caving and bending for his whims once more.
It’s easy for Flins to fuck you. He’s good at it when he does, and you can’t ever say no when he wants to. (Because you always want it, too, your heart tells you. No, he’s just very, very good at being convincing, your mind argues). But it’s easy. You make it easy for him to bed you, and he makes it easy for it to be worth it.
His fingers brush along your lower belly. The skin is smooth as silk and he traces it like he worships the feeling of you under his touch. Slow. Careful. Deliberate. Every second his fingertips trace along your body, you feel a dizzying heat of his touch mapping your body out.
And then it finds its way between your legs, right above where he has you split open on his thick length. His thumb latches onto your clit, rubbing precise circles that make your back arch upward—his other hand his quick to plant itself at the small of your back, cradling your body as you mewl.
“You seem to rather enjoy that, don’t you, my darling?” He coos, “Shall I keep it up? Touching you here?”
Another quick circle onto the sensitive bundle of nerves. It’s perfectly timed with a sharp roll of his hips, his tip bullying past your folds. It’s messy—there’s a pool of your slick at the base of his cock, and it’s smeared along your inner thighs. He made a good point of bringing it to your attention, too—my, what a pleasant mess I am greeted with, my dear. Surely I haven’t earned such an eager response from your body with so little? We’ve hardly begun.
Smug. He’s so, irritatingly smug with words dipped in gold. They’re soft and precious and rich the more pure they are, and they lure you in with greed. And you fall for it every time.
Every damn time.
“Close,” you pant, voice a breathless whisper, “s-so close, Flins—th-think…think m’bout to cum—”
He groans at that. He’s good at charming you, but he’s not immune to that effortless charm of your own. You don’t even know it, he thinks—you don’t even know that you have him wrapped around those pretty little fingers without even trying.
His cock does a twitch. He’s close too—you know because there’s a small change in his pace. A touch sloppier. A little less rhythmic with the way he drills into you. A little more desperate as he chases the friction of dragging every ridge and every vein along your slick heat.
You hum a little, grinning to yourself as you pull him down and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips into a wet, messy kiss. Your walls clench around him, and he groans into your mouth, making a soft, low sound that you drink up greedily.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper.
“Must I elaborate such obvious things?” He asks roughly.
“Won’t you indulge me with your usual sweetness?” You plead.
He’s weak—for you, he is. So he groans once more, heavy and labored breaths fanning across your lips as he feels the tight, warm squeeze of your walls around his cock. It’s good—so good, in fact, that he’s almost at a loss for words. (A miracle in and of itself, he thinks. Flins is hardly at a loss for words—he’s quite good at articulating what he wants to say, in fact).
“Well, if I must—yes. You do feel good,” he pants, voice breaking just a fraction as your walls flutter around the throbbing cock that bullies into you. “You…you are a wonder—so soft and sweet and exquisite. I fear one day I may wake up and find you gone. A figment of my imagination. You’d never let that happen, would you my dear?”
“N-no,” you whine, breath getting heavier as the familiar build up creeps up on you. “Never…n-never leaving.”
“An undeniable relief,” he chuckles breathlessly. “I was almost worried—”
He cuts off his own words the second he senses it. Flins can sense things a little quicker than you.
There’s a creak in the door. There’s a weird howl in the wind. There are the faintest, quietest echoes of what sounds like footsteps.
You think you’re imagining it. He knows a little better than that.
It’s not like you can pay it much mind—you’re in a bit of a predicament yourself to pay too much attention to your surroundings. One particularly harsh thrust of his hips, and you forget what you were thinking in the first place.
He tends to do that to you.
“What utterly unremarkable timing,” he almost grumbles. “I always thought my neighbors to be a little more…considerate.”
Flins lives alone on this small little island that he calls home. He keeps to himself. There are no signs of life apart from him and you and the frostlamp flowers that grow along the cemetery. There are no neighbors…unless he means the ghosts.
And then you notice it—the pair of eyes in the corner. The other right beside the first. The pair in the distance to your left and the one that’s a little closer to your right. They watch you carefully, watch the way your knees are folded to press you in half and the way his cock disappears and reappears every time he practically pulls out just to slide back into you all the way. You’re sure they take note of the way his hand—free of gloves for now, has a persistent thumb attached to your clit with those harsh circles that make you dizzy.
It feels shameful, having the dead watch you this way. It feels almost like they are mocking the way you are so alive—watching the way your heart is erratic and your body is worked up to such a heightened state.
“W-wait,” you gasp, “there’s p-people—”
“Yes, it would appear we have an audience,” he clicks his teeth, “how impolite. I don’t appreciate sharing—selfish as it may seem.”
“We should stop—they’ll s-see—”
“Then show them, my darling,” he leans down and presses a soft, delicate scatter of kisses along your jaw. “Perhaps they only wish to watch, don’t they?” His voice is almost a purr now, wicked and low. Still dangerously sweet. His hips snap into you harder, forcing you to take every inch. “Show them how beautiful you are when you come apart.”
Your protest dies in your throat when his thumb grinds cruelly once more over your clit, dragging tight circles that make your thighs shake. You can feel every stare searing through you, their hollow eyes fixed on where you’re split wide open around him. Shame burns in your chest—but it only makes the heat in your belly throb sharper, dirtier.
“Flins—ah, f-fuck—” you choke on your own words when he pulls almost all the way out—but you don’t mourn the loss of him filling you when he slams back to the hilt, the sound wet and obscene in his quiet home in the graveyard. His hand presses at your lower belly, holding you in place, making you feel how he fills you up inside. “They’re—they’re going to see me—”
“Let them,” he sings against your ear, biting at your lobe. “Let them envy what it means to have a pulse. Let them watch you bleed with pleasure.” His thumb flicks faster—it’s almost merciless, and you’re keening now, arching shamelessly so every phantom eye can see how your body reacts and begs for more.
You’re dizzy, your thighs are quivering, and your chest is heaving as you writhe under his touch. He pistons into you like he means to fuck you straight through the earth, the rich soil that houses his troublesome neighbors that don’t know to mind their business. He’s good at dragging the sounds out of your throat no matter how you try to swallow them—no matter how much dignity you try to preserve. His pace is too brutal, too expert at making you lose composure to keep it together in front of your….unexpected audience.
Finally, with a sharp cry, you’re breaking apart around him. You can feel your walls spasming around him with your release, wet and gushing over his cock. He hisses when you clamp down around him, thrusting deeper and rutting until he shudders inside you, spilling hot and thick ropes of cum while his teeth sink into your neck.
“P-perhaps one of these days you’ll kill me, too,” his voice cracks, “and I’ll join our intruders in the land of the dead with how you make my heart stop.”
“Flins,” you sob—it’s all you can manage to utter. All you can bring your incoherent mind to piece together as your nails press angrily into his shoulders and make bright red indents bloom into his skin. “F-feels…feels so good.”
“I’m sure they are aware,” he chuckles, “it’s written all over your face, my dear.”
He sounds a little satisfied with that. With the fact that there is a population of people—dead, of course, but a population all the same—that knows how good he is at fucking you. At making you fall apart around his cock and scream his name and weaken in his arms.
When you come down from your sigh, both trembling in the aftermath, he doesn’t let you hide. You try to pull hims down and bury your face into his neck, but he resists—instead, he drags your chin up so you’re looking directly at him, face fully on display. He’s still deep inside of you—and you’re still full of him, still stretched and dripping with his release.
“I believe they had a proper view, wouldn’t you say?” His voice hoarse but laced with triumph. “Even the dead cannot argue that I know your body better than anyone.”
╰┈➤ overview ; "Hey guys," you say cheerfully, leaning into the frame so only your face shows, though the camera dips just enough to capture his twitching dick and torso. "Today I'm trying out different condom flavors to see if they actually taste good! With the help of my boyfriend, of course!"
( ! ) Sub male character (your fav <3) x dom gn! reader , edging , bdsm , condoms , handjob , blowjob , crying and whimpering , teasing , praising , dacryphilia, video
MASTERLIST
( ✎ ) ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. Had to post this juicy story before it disappears from my brain 💔💔💔 also pls help me find the source of the header, i forgot to save it ;(
You smirk at the camera, the red light blinking steadily as you adjust the angle one last time.
Your boyfriend sits bound to the sturdy wooden chair in the center of the room, his arms pulled back and secured with thick leather straps around his wrists and the chair's arms. His broad chest heaves with anticipation, those defined abs flexing under the soft lighting. His thick cock already twitches against his thigh, half-hard from the thrill of being exposed to your fans. You've got him stripped naked, legs spread and ankles tied to the chair legs, leaving him completely exposed and at your mercy.
"Hey guys," you say cheerfully, leaning into the frame so only your face shows, though the camera dips just enough to capture his twitching dick and torso. "Today I'm trying out different condom flavors to see if they actually taste good! With the help of my boyfriend, of course!" You grin wickedly, glancing over at him. He shifts in the restraints, his cock jumping visibly as your words sink in.
You kneel between his spread thighs, the cool floor pressing against your knees as you reach for the first condom on the tray beside you—a strawberry one. His eyes lock on yours, dark with need, but you just wink and tear the wrapper open.
"Let's start with strawberry," you announce to the camera, holding it up briefly before rolling it down his hardening shaft. The latex stretches tight over his girth, the faint fruity scent hitting the air as you grip the base and give it a slow pump. He groans low, hips bucking slightly against the bonds.
Leaning in, you wrap your lips around the tip, sucking gently at first. Your tongue swirls over the flavored surface, tasting the artificial sweetness mixed with his salty skin beneath. You take him deeper, bobbing your head steadily, hollowing your cheeks to create that tight suction he loves. His cock throbs in your mouth, growing fully rigid as you work him with wet, slurping sounds that the mic picks up perfectly. You hum around him, the vibration making his abs clench and his thighs tense.
"Mmm, good boy," you murmur against his length, pulling back just enough to praise him before diving down again, taking him to the back of your throat. He whimpers softly, the first sign of his building orgasm. You speed up, hand twisting at the base in rhythm with your mouth, feeling him swell and pulse. His breaths come ragged, breaths turning to pants as he nears the edge.
Just as his hips start to thrust weakly against the restraints, you pull off with a pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening condom. "Strawberry's sweet, but a bit too fake," you say casually to the camera, licking your lips. "Not bad, though. What do you think, babe?" He whines, cock bobbing untouched, a bead of pre-cum smearing inside the latex. You ignore his pleading eyes and grab the next one—banana.
"Next up, banana," you declare, carefully sliding the strawberry one off and tossing it aside. His shaft glistens with your spit, twitching harder now from the denial. You roll the new condom on, the yellow tint contrasting his veined length, and waste no time sucking him back in.
This time, you go slower, teasing the underside with flicks of your tongue while your hand strokes lazily. He moans louder, head falling back against the chair as you build him up again, lips sealed tight around him.
You praise him between slurps, "Such a strong man, taking this so well for me." His muscles strain against the straps, abs contracting with each denied orgasm.
When he's thrusting up into your mouth, breaths hitching, you pull away once more. "Banana's smoother, almost creamy," you comment, wiping your mouth. "Tastes better than I expected." He lets out a frustrated groan, cock jerking in the air, but you just pat his thigh and move to the grape flavor.
The pattern repeats, each condom a new torment. Grape's tartness coats your tongue as you deepthroat him, gagging slightly for the camera's benefit while he whimpers your name. "You're doing amazing, love," you coo, fingers digging into his hips to hold him still. He gets closer each time, body trembling, but you deny him relentlessly, pulling off right at the brink, offering your tasting notes like it's a casual review.
By the fourth one—mango—his whimpers turn to full cries. Tears well in his eyes as you suck him hard, your hand pumping the base furiously.
"Please," he begs hoarsely, voice breaking. "Need to cum... fuck—please." You hum around him, ignoring the plea, feeling him throb desperately. When you finally release him, his cock slaps against his abs, the condom slick and shiny. "Mango's sweet, a little tangy," you say to the lens, as if he isn't sobbing softly now.
You switch to cherry, rolling it on while he shakes, pre-cum leaking steadily. Your blowjob is merciless this round, throat relaxing to take every inch, nose brushing his groin. He cries out, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, body arching as much as the bonds allow.
"Let me cum, baby, please— I-I can't..." His voice cracks into sobs, his frame quivering with both overstimulation and denial.
"Look at you, so perfect and ruined for me," you praise softly, even as you pull off again. "Cherry's my favorite so far! bold and juicy." He's full-on sobbing now, chest heaving with ragged breaths, cock twitching violently without touch.
Begging spills from his lips in broken pleas, "Please, please, I'll do anything! just let me cum... hurts so good..."
Finally, you relent, peeling off the cherry condom and discarding it. His bare cock stands rigid, veins bulging, tip flushed dark. "Alright, you've earned it," you say with a grin, both to him and the camera. Wrapping your hand around his slick length, you stroke firmly from base to tip, thumb circling the head on each upstroke. He bucks into your grip, sobs turning to relieved moans as you pump faster, twisting your wrist to hit every sensitive spot.
"Cum for me, good boy," you urge, leaning in to whisper praises against his thigh. "Show everyone how much you need this." His abs tighten, whole body seizing as he cries out one last time. Hot spurts of cum shoot from his cock, coating your hand and splattering his abs in thick ropes. You milk him through it, slowing your strokes until he's spent, whimpering softly in the aftershocks.
"That's all for today, I hope this video helps!" You sit back on your heels, smiling at the camera as his chest rises and falls. "See you guys on part two! Thanks for watching! <3"
His eyes widened "W-wait! there's a next pa—"
The red light blinks off, ending the video.
175 comments:
@user33550336 — this is soooo hot, when will part 2 come out???
↳ @mynameis[name]— soon...
@49to51commented — men whimpering>>>>
@Ieattrashcans — MORE PLSPLSPLSPLSPLSPL
@user4900051 — Can we see his face?
↳ @mynameis[name] — no sorry <3
See more...
MASTERLIST
( ✎ ) guys i actually don't know what condoms tastes like LMAOAOA
you live at the foot of a mountain with your husband, where there is nothing more for you to want in the peace you’ve cultivated together. until he comes home after a blizzard that should have killed him, bearing a smile that does not belong to the man you once married.
★ featuring; rerir x f!reader | flins x f!reader
★ word count; 7.2k words
★ tags; alternate universe, eldritch horror, kyryll gets offscreened and rerir hijacks his life ykwim, grief/mourning, SMUT (MDNI)
★ notes; this is lowkey a tshd au but i have only seen a grand total of two episodes from that show, so i kinda just winged it LMAO please do heed the tags and the warnings utc ! i wanted to try writing smth out of my comfort zone fr and here we have it :/
p.s. thank you to my lovely roc @rocwylde for quite literally sponsoring this fic LMAO in their wisest words "i like varka more than rerir, but i like eldritch monster fucking more than varka"
READ ON AO3
★ WARNINGS; animal death, blood and gore, cheating but not really? it's complicated! monster fucking, lots of morally ambiguous decisions driven by grief, reader is just really depressed okay sorry!
★ SMUT TAGS; dream sex, rough sex, breast play, tentacle/tendril sex..?? (those phantom hands from his Actual appearance from the archon quest make their debut here too), dubious consent, squirting, creampie
The thing pretending to be your husband is herding the goats today.
You watch from the foyer of your homestead as the morning chill brushes your skin. The creature moves as it always has. With his tall, familiar frame weaving between the animals, hair dark and tousled just so, yellow eyes scanning the pasture with that same patient attentiveness. He talks to them in the soft, clipped tones Kyryll used to use, calling names, clicking his tongue, shooing them gently—but there is a precision in the movement that feels… too clean, like the rhythm has been learned rather than lived.
The goats respond, though not as they once did. They fall into line with a tense, unnatural obedience, skittish bodies pressed close together, eyes rolling white whenever his shadow cuts across the snow. They follow not from trust but from the brittle edge of fear, as if some instinct in them recognizes what you’ve only begun to accept:
This is not the man you married.
Had you loved him any less, you never would have known. It is the depth of that love that allows you to see the gap between Kyryll and this thing that walks in his skin. Yet, you have chosen to live with it, and that choice knots inside your chest, a strange tether made not of grief but of reluctant endurance.
You step out into the snow, letting the cold bite at your cheeks as you call out to him once. He glances up to meet your eyes, and in that fleeting moment, you allow yourself to believe in the elaborate lie.
The goats bleat low and uneasy as they crowd his hands, shrinking from his nearness even as they yield to it. He hums softly before guiding them back toward the barn, and you fall into step behind them with your heart caught somewhere between mourning and the uncanny, stubborn comfort of his presence.
You go about your life as though nothing has changed since the day he wound up on your doorstep. You collect eggs, skim the milk, tidy the house, all while keeping a careful eye on him. Even when you lie beside him at night and your body insists on recognizing him as Kyryll, your heart screams otherwise. But you have come to terms with it—that this fractured imitation, this hollowed echo of the man you love, is all you can hold onto now.
Because if someone like this can still be with you, can still offer the shape of warmth and illusion of companionship, then…
Was Kyryll ever really gone?
You’ve always loved that boy with the burnished yellow eyes.
Kyryll has always been quiet, the one who kept to the edges of games and gatherings, content with watching while the other children laughed and shouted. He was odd, but not unkind, as though the world moved at a slightly different rhythm for him. People used to whisper, what does she even see in him? But for you, loving Kyryll was as easy as breathing.
Now, years later, with a ring on your finger and a home carved into the mountainside, that love threads through every corner of your life.
Your mornings begin in the hush of the barn, the air sharp with the scent of hay and the warmth of the animals. You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you milk the goats, listening to the steady patter of froth into the pail. By the time the sun peeks over the ridge, you are already gathering eggs from the chickens and brushing straw from your skirts. The goats bleat impatiently until Kyryll appears—his tall frame outlined in the doorway of the barn, his hair falling untidily into his eyes.
The animals used to shy away from him. They always do at first. But Kyryll never once let a morning go without unlatching the gate and letting them nose out into the meadow, even when he was running late for work. And animals, like people, remember kindness. Now they greet him without a fuss, nudging his hands with soft noses until he clicks his tongue and shoos them on.
Everyday, you fall into rhythm together. He shoulders the woodpile, you whip up breakfast from the day’s harvest. The hearth crackles as he sets the kettle on, and steam soon fogs the windowpanes. Kyryll doesn’t talk much in the mornings—he rarely talks at all—but his quiet is never empty. When he passes you your cup of tea, your fingers brush, and that alone is worth ten pages from favorite novel.
Your husband laces his boots after breakfast, checks his pouch of gemstones bound for town, and shrugs into his worn winter coat. He never rushes, even when snow threatens in the pass. But before Kyryll steps out of the door, he bends down just enough that you can meet him halfway. His lips are cool from the morning air, his small goodbye kiss brief but certain. He has never once forgotten it, not in all the years since you first moved into this home together.
It is a small life, some might say. A lonely life, tucked high in the mountains where snow lingers long into spring. But it is yours, and when you look at him—your childhood sweetheart, your odd, aloof Kyryll—you cannot imagine wanting any other.
So when whiteout season arrives, you can't help but worry.
These mountains are no strangers to snow, but this time of year the storms grow violent, their howling gusts capable of burying even the most seasoned traveler. Not even the hunters or shepherds from neighboring ridges could survive a night stranded in the unforgiving blizzards of Snezhnaya. You shiver at the thought as you glance toward the snow-blanketed pass.
“Kyryll…” you begin, hesitating as he lifts a pail of milk into the sunlit air. He glances back at you, those calm yellow eyes meeting yours as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ve weathered it every year.”
But you’ve never forgotten the elders’ tales. Whispers passed down over decades in your family of what walks after the white storms. They spoke of shapes in the snow, eyes glowing like lanterns in the blizzard, and travelers who vanished without trace. The stories crawl under your skin, prickling along your spine, and you tighten on your skirts at the mere memory.
“Promise me you won’t go out too much until it calms?” you ask, biting back the tension in your voice. “I… I just—”
Kyryll sets the pail down and steps closer as he places his gloved hands over yours. His touch is warm and grounding, and it stills the racing thoughts in your head. He leans down close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.
“I promise,” he murmurs, captivated not just by the concern in your eyes but by the way you care for him, always so completely.
You nod, relief washing over you, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tilts his head with a playful glimmer in his otherwise aloof expression. “Though if I can trade and sell better gemstones this season, maybe we can hibernate in peace, all snug in the house, while the snow rages outside.”
“You always think about work first,” you sigh.
“I always think about surviving it together,” Kyryll laughs softly. “Besides, the goats won’t let me rest anyway.”
You shake your head with a smile, but the unease in your chest doesn’t completely fade. Whiteout season always carries that edge of dread, no matter how many times you’ve endured it. Still, with Kyryll by your side, you can almost believe everything will be as it always has.
Almost.
Your husband has kept his word all season, making every trip to town count so he doesn’t have to venture out into the brewing blizzards more than necessary. But one afternoon, the wind whips with a sudden, vicious force. Snow lashes the mountainside, and even from the safety of the yard, you can hear the low howl that promises a storm like no other.
All the warnings have already been issued, but you and Kyryll are caught in the final flurry of activity, corralling the animals back into the barn before the sky darkens. Everything is in controlled chaos until a sudden, panicked bleat slices through the hubbub—a lamb, young and spooked, darts past you, slipping out the half-shut door. It bolts up the narrow mountain path, a small white shape against withering snow.
“Wait—!” you cry, instinct pushing you forward. Your boots crunch against the icy ground as you try to follow, but Kyryll catches your wrist with a strong, firm grip.
“No,” he tells you, calmly but sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”
Your heart thunders. “But that poor lamb won’t survive out there alone…”
Kyryll doesn’t argue; he only lets out a soft breath and lifts his gaze to yours before he smiles. That painfully adoring smile, the one that has always made your chest ache, softening even the wildest of fears. He bends and presses his lips to the ring on your finger, brushing it with his mouth like a promise.
“Then I’ll bring it back,” your husband murmurs. “Wait for me, okay?”
Before you can protest, he steps out of the barn. Snow flurries around him immediately, catching in his hair, frosting his shoulders. He doesn’t look back as he slides the barn door shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving you in the warm glow of the oil lamps and the bitter howl of the storm beyond.
You were taught to count time in threes.
Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps, the elders would say. “Nature always balances itself in threes,” they whispered, as if the rhythm of the world could be measured by patience alone.
Three minutes pass before it hits you fully: Kyryll is out there.
The thought is simple, almost too mundane to register at first, but a sharp pang of panic blooms in your chest. He promised he would be back. He always keeps his word, and yet, the wind howls so loud that you can’t hear the faintest echo of him, can’t see any trace of the lamb racing back with him.
Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps.
You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you pace the floor of the barn, watching the snow blot out the mountainside through the window. The animals press close as if sensing the tension in your bones, nudging you, bleating softly—but it does nothing to quiet the dread tightening your chest.
Three hours pass before the edges of reason begin to fray. The sky has gone from pale gray to a solid white wall. You should be calling for help in the town. Every instinct honed from a lifetime in these mountains screams at you: a storm this strong would have killed him by now. The path is invisible. The snow is merciless.
Yet… you cannot act. You cling to the promise he pressed into your hands, to the brush of his lips against your wedding band.
Wait for me.
Three days pass before Kyryll returns.
The blizzard had seemed endless, each hour stretching into another frozen eternity. The nights without him in the bed you share were unbearable; you had spent them clutching your pillow, weeping into the cold, silent darkness, and imagining the worst with every gust of wind rattling the shutters.
Finally, he is there.
Your sobs spill into the open as soon as you see him, and you barely notice the snow still clinging to his indigo hair and the streaks across his yellow eyes. Without thinking, you launch yourself at your husband, arms wrapping around his tall frame as if you could never let go again. His hands find yours, pressing you against him with the faintest, grounding pressure.
“Kyryll,” you choke, your voice breaking, “you came back.”
He doesn’t say anything as he lets you cling to him, and when you finally step back a little, brushing the wet snow from his coat, you insist he come inside.
“Take off your jacket. I’ll prepare a hot bath for you in a bit,” you say, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, eager to undo the cold that has surely numbed his bones.
Your husband hums in acquiescence, letting you fuss over him. You hang his coat by the hearth and light the fire higher, the warmth spilling into the room as you run your hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest—making sure he hasn’t suffered too badly. When your palms finally cup his pale cheeks, something inside you buckles. Your heart seems to melt straight through your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing your mouth to his as tears blur your vision.
He does not kiss you back.
Later, steam curls around Kyryll as he sinks into the tub, the heat drawing color into his otherwise pallid skin. You linger close to fuss with towels and lay out clothes thick enough to guard against the cold. Relief hums faintly through you at having him here, whole and within reach. But your thoughts remain tangled, a restless knot that no warmth seems able to unravel.
“What happened to the lamb?” you ask carefully, trying not to betray the panic still clinging to your chest. Because what else could you ask your husband when he just came home from a storm that should have killed him?
You brace yourself for sorrow, for the weight of bad news, and the sight of his shoulders sagging with defeat. But Kyryll simply looks at you, his yellow eyes calm, unnervingly so, and asks:
“What lamb?”
“…The lamb! The one that ran up the mountain!” you exclaim. “That’s why you went out—why you—”
But he only smiles faintly, tilting his head as if your exasperation is a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. You stop yourself from pressing further. Kyryll is here. Alive. He has survived three days in a storm that could have buried a person in minutes, with nothing but that same fur-trimmed jacket he always wears to town.
Whatever else happened—whatever he endured—you do not ask. Even when you see bloodstains on his jacket sleeves despite his unmarred skin, you do not ask. Even as he lies in your bed for the first time in days, and it feels like a stranger’s weight against you, you do not ask. And when you glimpse something behind his eyes that should not be there…
You do not ask.
You wake to the quiet hum of the house, the familiar rhythm of morning stretching before you, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that everything will be as it always has.
The old villagers never quite understood Kyryll. They whispered about his odd ways and the sharp intelligence behind eyes that seemed to flicker with some unnatural light. They called him “the devil’s spawn,” a curse that somehow found its way to your small life. But they had never seen him as you had—never saw his kindness, or the way his heart opened to the world if only they’d given him time.
That’s exactly what you spare to him now: time to recalibrate to the rhythm of your home, after the reckless mistake of letting him charge into the storm.
Breakfast is done. The table is cleared. Steam from the kettle still curls lazily into the air. You watch your husband lace his boots, the ritual so familiar you could do it in your sleep. Your heart tightens in anticipation of the small, certain habit that has marked every morning for years: the brief kiss, cool against your lips as he whispers goodbye.
But today, there is nothing.
Kyryll pauses at the doorway as he stares down the path to town. His yellow eyes are serene but the warmth you’ve always found there is absent, or perhaps buried beneath something you cannot name. He doesn’t turn back, only adjusts the strap of his pack and steps outside, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow finality.
Your fingers linger on the spot where his lips should have been.
For a moment, you believe that he is simply shaken, still readjusting to the world after the storm. Yes. That must be it. He’ll come back like he always does, and the habit will resume as though nothing ever happened. But even as you tell yourself this, a low, unnameable unease twists in your stomach, settling there like frost.
Something is off. Something has changed, and you are not yet ready to admit how deep the change might run.
You feign ignorance until the lambs go missing.
At first, you don’t notice. They vanish for hours, sometimes a day, and each time they reappear safe and warm, bleating softly as if nothing had happened. You breathe a sigh of relief, attributing it to wandering and some miracle of the mountains.
But then, you begin to catch the subtle differences. A curl of wool slightly off, the shade of a fleece a little darker, the shape of a hoof unfamiliar. It perplexes you until your mind tightens on the truth you’ve tried not to name: these are not the same lambs.
They are replacements.
The disappearances always coincide with nights when Kyryll rises after you have already fallen asleep. You never hear the creak of floorboards, never see the flicker of candlelight as he moves through the house, but you sense it like a pause in the familiar heartbeat of your life. When he returns, the air around him smells faintly of soap—an attempt at cleansing so precise it almost fools you. But there is always the undercurrent something sharp and metallic just beneath the clean scent.
You try to ignore it, bury it beneath the comfort of his arms as you curl against him. Even the smallest doubts are suffocated by the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady press of his body, and the illusion that nothing is wrong.
But one night, the tension becomes unbearable. You lie in bed, counting the seconds as he slips from the warmth of your sheets, and after five minutes, the gnawing at your chest becomes too loud to ignore. Heart hammering, you slip from the bed and pull on your shawl, keeping quiet as the house sleeps.
The hallway is a shadowed corridor. Every step toward the barn feels like crossing a threshold into another world. The snow outside glints coldly beneath the lanterns you’ve hung along the path, but one faint glow draws your eyes—the soft, swinging light of a single oil lamp just beyond the barn.
You creep closer, heart in your throat, and stop at the edge of the snow-dusted doorway.
The barn is swallowed in shadow, yet your eyes pick out the figure of your husband, kneeling on the straw-strewn floor. Darkness spares you from the full horror of what he is doing: the crimson stains seeping into the hay, the silent terror in the other animals, and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn between the maws of a monster.
He feasts quietly, leaving no trace that would immediately betray him to you. He does not do it every night—he cannot afford to arouse suspicion—but when he does, it is methodical, and chillingly precise. Only one animal at a time, and always with the meticulous care of one who cleans after the carnage he leaves behind.
You step back, the cold air catching in your lungs, and the weight of what you are witnessing presses down like stone. The shadowed figure shifts at the sound of your foot catching on a dried leaf, the subtle crunch shattering the fragile hush of the barn.
In an instant, the creature snaps his head toward you. The motion is too violent, his neck bending at an angle that no human should manage. A low, guttural hiss rolls from his throat, reverberating through the straw, and the Kyryll you knew evaporates like smoke in the wind when you see his eyes.Not the calm yellow you’ve associated with safety, with love. But glowing magenta irises, vivid and burning with something ancient, something hungry.
Your knees go weak. Your hands tremble. The barn, once a sanctuary of routine and care, has transformed into a chamber of nightmares. The animals press against the far walls, silent and trembling, as if sensing the change before your own mind can even process it.
It is him—your husband in shape, in shadow, in form—but it is not Kyryll. Not the man you promised your life to. This is something else. Something that wore his face to cross the threshold of your home.
That night, you were fully convinced you were going to die.
Every instinct screams at you to flee, to bolt into the snow and leave the barn behind. You are certain he will lunge, certain the same jaws and hands that tore the lambs apart will turn on you next. Yet, beneath that fear, a bitter comfort coils in your chest: if you die, you will finally be reunited with him. Your Kyryll—the boy with yellow eyes and a heart that loved too deeply, not this monstrous imitation who has defiled everything you thought you knew about him.
Your heart thunders in your chest. The creature rises, the movement fluid and unnervingly deliberate. But he does not lunge. He does not attack.
Instead, he walks toward you.
Your knees buckle beneath the weight of disbelief. You realize you have been crying, the tears streaking your face in the cold barn light, the trace of your fear laid bare. Then the bloodied hands reach for your cheeks.
For a moment, you cannot breathe.
He wipes your tears away with the same gentleness, the same patience Kyryll always carried in his hands—but now, his touch smears the dark, iron-stained blood of the lamb across your skin. It mats into your hair, seeps along the line of your jaw in a sickeningly warm testament to what you have witnessed. The reality of it nearly overwhelms you, but you do not pull away.
The creature inclines his head slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, yet intimate as though he is speaking to the part of you that still clings to your Kyryll. He bends and lifts you into his arms with ease, your body trembling against his, every nerve alight with terror, revulsion, and a twisted familiarity you cannot escape.
He carries you back through the cold night, your shawl catching the blood on his forearms as he moves. The barn fades behind you, the animals’ terrified eyes still imprinted on your mind, yet all that matters is the steady, unyielding presence, and the impossible reality: the man who returned to you after the whiteout is no longer Kyryll.
And yet… he is holding you, as if he’s always known how.
That is how you came to an unspoken understanding with him.
From what you have gathered, the creature desires only sustenance. He shows no interest in harming you, no hint that you might become his next prey. In fact, he seems almost… attentive to Kyryll’s habits, as if trying to inhabit the life you once shared.
The first thing you mention is the kisses goodbye. When you speak of them casually he does not flinch at the fact that you are now fully aware of who he isn’t. My husband always does it before he heads to town for the day. Since that moment, he makes a point of leaning down each morning to press his lips against yours—a brief, careful peck just as Kyryll always did.
It is not the same. It will never be. Yet somehow, it is enough.
There isn’t much you can do about the way the animals behave around him. They know what he does each night. They remember the terror, the cruelty, and the gore that lingers in the air long after the blood has been cleaned. You wish you could spare them that fear. Gods know how much these poor creatures mean to you.
But ever since you allowed this monster to masquerade as a fixture of your life, you have learned the uneasy rhythm of turning a blind eye. You have learned to tune out the shrieks that echo in the corners of the barn, to ignore the way the sheep and goats shrink and totter away when he passes.
Because if a few lambs are the cost of feeling the illusion of your husband still by your side, then it is a price you are willing to pay. If it means the brush of his lips against yours in the morning, the familiar warmth of his arms as you nestle close at night—even if the hands that hold you carry the memory of slaughter—then you endure it.
But it is a different story when the creature starts to want something else.
At first, it comes only in dreams. You wake each morning with the echo of Kyryll’s hands on your skin, the warmth of his mouth pressing against yours, and the weight of him over you as he claims you as he once did. It is familiar and foreign all at once, which you suspect is all the work of the monster sleeping next to you.
You have not felt desire like this in months. It has lain dormant beneath the grief you still carry on your shoulders, the quiet routines of the mountains, the soft companionship of your animals. But in these dreams, it surges, reckless and insistent. Your body still remembers what your mind struggles to reconcile. This is not Kyryll. This is the creature that stole him from you, and even then… the part of you that has always loved him, cannot resist.
In the dreams, you start to let him in. You let your hands wander over the strong curve of his shoulders, down his back, feel the press of his hips as he aligns with yours. He moves with the tenderness you once knew, and the juxtaposition makes your chest ache—the body of the thing that has fed on lambs now giving you pleasure. You moan his name in the darkness of slumber, and it is both comforting and unbearable.
The creature does not say anything of it in your waking hours.
Life goes on as if nothing at all has changed. He moves through your small routines with the same uncanny mimicry: carrying wood to the hearth, brushing snow from his boots at the door, kissing you softly before leaving for town.
And yet, when night falls, you brace yourself as the dreams return again and again like a tide that will not recede. They seize you with the same hunger, the same unbearable tenderness—your body spread beneath him, the bed groaning with the weight of his need.
It gets worse. You start to crave it even in daylight, even if you know how wrong it is. When you stand in the kitchen, kneading bread with your sleeves rolled up, a flicker of heat stirs in you at the memory of his hands on your waist. When you stoop in the barn, the sheep shifting nervously as he passes by, your skin prickles at the thought of him pressing into you from behind.
Desire burrows deep into your gut, tangling itself with your grief until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.
One night, the dream takes a turn.
You are on your back, legs parted, the familiar shadow of Kyryll’s body over yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, his hips driving into you with a rhythm you know by heart, and you give yourself over with a pathetic sob. But in the flicker of lamplight that isn’t there, his form wavers.
For a heartbeat, he is not your indigo-haired, golden-eyed husband. He is something else—pale hair spilling across your chest, magenta eyes glowing like embers, half his face swallowed in blackened bandages. His body is cracked, pulsing with sinister light that leaks like an infection from beneath his skin.
The sight is gone as quickly as it came, but it sears itself into you. He doesn’t stop driving himself into you with a brutal tenderness that has you gasping his name through tears. The horror of it should have torn you from the dream, and yet you cling to him, to his heat, to the slick drag of his cock filling you again and again.
You wake trembling, your body soaked in sweat, the sheets damp beneath you. The creature sleeps quietly at your side, his breathing even, almost human. You turn toward him in the dark, studying the face that wears Kyryll’s features so faithfully, and your heart twists with something you can no longer name.
You know this is wrong. You know this is dangerous. And yet… you let him stay.
Because sometimes, grief does not just ache. Sometimes, it devours.
Winter eventually gives way to spring.
The animals relax in the warmer air, their skittishness easing as though the frost itself had carried the weight of dread. When you finish harvesting eggs from the chickens, you glimpse him in the pasture that morning, carrying a lamb in his arms with an unsettling gentleness. A suitable replacement for last night’s sacrifice.
You say nothing. You are past the point of caring. You would give him every lamb you owned, every goat and sheep, if it meant Kyryll—whatever remains of him—would stay by your side.
At lunch you dine in silence. It is nothing strange. Kyryll was never a chatty man, and the thing that wears his face well enough does not bother pretending otherwise. You chew, swallow, wash the taste down with water. Across the table, his eyes flick toward yours once or twice, but no words pass between you. It is as though silence itself has become the language you share.
Afterward, as you tidy up the plates, he hips brush behind you while reaching for something in the cupboards overhead. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. You don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he even understands the meaning of this sort of closeness. He has never once initiated any sort of affection in waking hours. Not once. Almost like he is still unsure of his place in the rhythm of your grief.
And that is when you turn.
Your hands lift almost without thought, fingers threading against the nape of his neck, pulling him down into you. His lips meet yours clumsily at first, stiff and uncertain, as if sifting through Kyryll’s memories on how a man ought to respond. But when he finds it—when the recollection locks into place—he answers with startling force.
The kiss deepens, rough and desperate, his mouth parting against yours to claim and consume. A soft whimper escapes you, swallowed instantly between his teeth. His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and then you’re hoisted effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Plates rattle, a fork clatters to the floor, but you don’t care—your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and closer still.
He kisses like hunger itself, tongue hot and insistent, as though he has finally been permitted to take what he’s been denied. You gasp into him, and he swallows every sound greedily. His body presses flush to yours as the hard length of him grinds against you through your skirts, making a shiver race deliciously down your spine.
It’s wrong. Even if every frantic kiss, every nip of teeth, and every desperate clutch of fingers digging into your skin feels exactly like Kyryll, you know it is not him. But the wrongness only makes your desire burn hotter, makes you want him more.
For the first time, it is not a dream.
And gods help you, it feels too good to stop.
By the time he hauls you off the counter, your dress is already half-undone, bodice tugged down so your breasts spill free into the air between you. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding over your skin as if he means to memorize every inch, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you’re gasping into his mouth. The poor dress hangs uselessly around your waist, wrinkled and bunched, but neither of you care.
You stumble through the hallway tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours for long. He devours every sound, every needy whimper, while you clutch at him desperately, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself to something real.
The bedroom door slams shut behind you. He pushes you back onto the mattress with a force that rattles the frame, climbing over you in the same motion. His weight settles heavy, solid, frighteningly real as his lips trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, sucking bruises into skin that will ache tomorrow.
You arch beneath him, a ragged cry escaping when he mouths at your breasts, tongue flicking over hardened peaks. His hand fists in your skirts, yanking them higher, baring your thighs to the cold air, and the hunger in him sharpens into something that feels less like mimicry and more like possession.
The heat between you only builds as the last buttons and ties surrender, clothes falling in careless heaps across the floor. His shirt slips from his shoulders, baring the breadth of him above you, and you’re too lost in the fever of it to notice the first flicker. But when your gaze catches, just for a heartbeat, on the wrong shape of his hand—the grotesque, bandaged thing from your dreams—you shudder.
Not in fear. In want.
The sight lances through you like fire, and instead of pulling away, you arch up into him, clinging tighter as though you could drag both Kyryll and the monster into yourself at once. Your breath stutters when the illusion fractures again, the man you knew shifting into the beast that stalked your sleep. And gods help you, your body only grows wetter for it.
His mouth is merciless against your throat, dragging teeth over tender skin, sucking bruises deep and dark where Kyryll never dared. He marks you as his own, every bite a brand that leaves you whimpering for more. And when you tilt your head back, baring yourself willingly, the shadows in the corners stir.
They creep closer in a whisper of movement, until phantom hands—long-fingered, writhing things—slither across the sheets. One brushes your ankle. Another strokes your calf. By the time the third slides up the inside of your thigh, you’re gasping, hips canting instinctively toward the unseen touch.
The hands multiply. They crawl over you in teasing strokes, cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbing your nipples while his mouth claims the other. They squeeze and knead, worship and torment in equal measure, until you’re arching helplessly beneath the combined assault. Another pair parts your thighs wider, their slick, phantom touch skating too close to where you burn for him.
A sob escapes you when one finally dips between your folds, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of you with maddening delicacy. The creature above you growls low in his chest yet he doesn’t stop it. His weight presses heavier, his hand locking your hip down as he grinds against you with ruthless force, as if staking claim over what the shadows dare to touch.
And all the while, his face wavers—Kyryll’s beloved features flickering into that bandaged monstrosity, eyes like embers staring down at you from behind the mask of flesh. It should terrify you, but instead your thighs fall open wider, your nails dig deeper, your body begs harder.
The tendrils do not relent. They writhe over your skin in concert, stroking and teasing until your cunt trembles with need, slick dripping freely onto the sheets. Every phantom caress loosens you further, leaving you open and aching and all too ready.
Then, like a cruel mercy, the monster’s blurred edges start to settle. Bandages and shadows peel away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, it is Kyryll above you again. His face, his weight, his warmth pressing you down into the mattress. The illusion is so seamless you almost weep, because it feels as though the storm had never stolen him at all.
His hand fists around his cock, pumping the thick length through gritted teeth. The same cock that filled you countless times before, the same one your body remembers down to the last inch. Veins throb beneath his rough grip, the head slick with need. Your thighs fall open wider, invitation and surrender in one, even as your mind reels at the fact that you are about to let the monster who took your husband become him. You are about to let him fuck you. Claim you.
And you want it. You want it so badly you could break.
When he pushes in, the stretch steals your breath. His length slides into your dripping heat with agonizing slowness, every inch dragging through your folds until he’s buried to the hilt. The tendrils tighten their grip, circling your clit in relentless circles, stroking in time with the heavy throb of him inside you.
The sound he makes when he bottoms out is near animalistic—a guttural growl, raw and trembling, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as his hips grind down, grinding that thick length against every swollen, desperate inch of you.
Gods help you—you wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing at his back, and pull him closer still. Because it feels like Kyryll. It feels like home.
Even if you know it’s not.
His hips snap forward harder now, fucking you into the mattress with a force that rattles the bedframe. Each thrust drags his cock deep, striking places inside you that make your back bow and your throat spill broken cries into the dark. The tendrils keep perfect pace, every stroke of his length amplified by the phantom touches teasing your clit, twisting your nipples, prying your thighs open wider still until you are nothing but raw nerves strung tight for him.
You sob beneath him, body shuddering as pleasure coils hot and unbearable in your belly. It’s too much—his cock stretching you, the tendrils flooding every inch with sensation, your mind splintering between grief and want. Tears spill hot down your temples, streaking your flushed skin.
And he notices.
The monster groans low in his throat, his pace never faltering as he leans down to lap the tears from your face. His tongue is rougher than Kyryll’s ever was, his lips sealing over the salt of your grief as if he drinks it. When he pulls back, his eyes glow with an otherworldly magenta, the last proof of what he really is.
You see it. You know.
But gods, his cock feels too good. Each thrust slams you higher, deeper into delirium, his thickness battering your poor, soaking cunt until you’re choking on your own sobs. The tendrils slither higher, slick tips prying your lips apart and pressing down on your tongue, forcing you to pant helplessly around them like a bitch in heat. Every gasp is stolen, every whimper muffled by the invasive strokes inside your mouth.
It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s everything you should recoil from.
Still, your body betrays you.
A scream tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, violent and unrelenting. Your cunt spasms wildly around his cock, milking him as gushes of slick spray out, soaking the sheets beneath. He growls, hips driving harder, chasing your squirt as though he means to wring every last drop from you.
You’re shaking, sobbing, choking on tendrils and tears, but you can’t stop—don’t want to stop. Because in this moment, no matter how monstrous his eyes burn or how filthy the shadows writhe, his cock still feels like it belongs inside you.
His thrusts grow savage, every snap of his hips driving you down into the soaked sheets with bruising force. You can feel him swelling within your gummy walls, cock thickening as his rhythm grows erratic and desperate. The tendrils match his frenzy—slapping against your clit in relentless circles, tugging your nipples cruelly, writhing deeper into your mouth until you gag around them, your tears streaking hot and heavy down your face.
You’re lost, shattered. Pleasure has stripped you raw, left you nothing but a body to be used, filled, and claimed. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, spasming around him as aftershocks ripple through you, each thrust forcing out another gush of slick.
Then he lowers his head to your neck, and the sound he makes is not Kyryll’s.
“Mine.”
The word rumbles against your throat, deep and guttural, alien in timbre. The magenta glow in his eyes burns hotter, brighter, searing through the mask of familiarity as his hips slam forward one last time.
He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as his release tears out of him. Hot spurts flood your pussy, thick and endless, spilling into your womb until it leaks down your thighs. He stays locked inside you through it, grinding deep as if to brand you from within, tendrils tightening their hold so you cannot flinch away, cannot deny what’s happening.
Your body convulses, another helpless squirt gushing around his cock as he stuffs you full, your sobs breaking against the slick pressure filling your mouth. You’re choking on tears, choking on pleasure, choking on him—and you can’t stop clinging to him even as the last shards of Kyryll’s illusion fall away.
It is not your husband’s face above you now. Not his eyes, not his voice.
Only the monster.
Weeks later, the snow has melted into the earth, leaving behind dark soil rich with promise.
Crocuses bloom along the edges of the field, their soft petals swaying in the wind, and the first shoots of green push stubbornly through last season’s frost. You stand at the fence line, apron dusted with flour, watching as your new neighbors hammer beams into place, their laughter carrying bright and clear across the valley.
When they visit a week later, baskets in hand and children darting shyly behind their skirts, you and Kyryll greet them at the door. Bread is broken, wine poured. You lead them through the rows of sprouting seedlings, Kyryll smiling faintly as he explains the soil, the seasons, the way the mountains cradle the crops just so. The family listens eagerly, their faces open and kind, and for a while it almost feels as though this life has always been yours.
As the evening wanes and the neighbors depart, the house falls back into its familiar quiet. Kyryll clears the table while you rinse the plates. Your husband’s shadow lingers at your back, and your wedding bands glint in the waning light.
You glance at him—at the face you love, the face you chose to keep—and for a fleeting heartbeat, something else flickers beneath it. Something you no longer flinch from.
You were taught to count time in threes. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. Three steps. After all, nature always balances itself in threes.
Now, it is you and Kyryll.
And the thing that wears his face.
⟢ end notes: i have been gnawing at this prompt like a chew toy since i met rerir last week, and i finally got to channel the innate need to fuck that guy into this disastrous piece... i have no defense. you can take me away now, officer. but on another note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed! thank you kindly to didi and meirinnie for going over my initial drafts with me and reassuring that i'm not spouting out nonsense HAH horror-adjacent fics are really so far out of my usual genre, and i'm clutching my pearls as i post this... hopefully i won't get cancelled LMAO
have you ever tried this one? pt. 2
✩ genshin boys' fav positions x fem!reader
↳ ft. wriothesley, ifa, childe, flins
WRIOTHESLEY fucks you doggy-style because he loves watching his cock slip in and out of you. he's got a perfect view of your plush ass and trembling thighs as he thrusts his hips into yours at a brutal pace. he's rough with you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as he grabs at your throat from behind you, lightly choking you with a scarred hand. with him bent over you like this, you can hear his deep, guttural groans as he buries his cock inside your abused pussy over and over, losing himself in the feeling of you clenching around him... <3
IFA and prone bone because he can touch everything he wants to. a hand squeezing your tits while he pounds into you, or grabbing a fistful your hair if you allow him. you're perfectly tight around him, with his languid drags of his cock pushing your face into your pillow, drool pooling on the soft fabric. it's comfortable, laid-back just like he is, and after he finishes, it's the perfect position for him to caress your body and hold you sweetly... <3
CHILDE is an efficient person who likes getting to the point, which is why he can't control himself with your sweet pussy hovering over his eager mouth, and his throbbing length shoved down your spasming throat. he could swear he's ascending right now, fingers digging into your sides, pulling you down onto his face, tongue flicking over your clit before he presses it into your warm hole. he's addicted to the way you taste, and even if you weren't diligently working on sucking his cock, he could probably cum in his pants just from eating you out... <3
FLINS likes when you take control on top, guiding your own pace as you bounce on his cock. use him as a toy, he loves it. he'll happily lie there and give you as much as you need, cooing sweet remarks at you while he watches your hips rock atop his. he's got good stamina, and he lets you keep going even after he cums inside you once, he just wants to make himself of use to you. it's endearing for you as well, watching his pretty face seize up with unimaginable pleasure as you ride him until you can't take it anymore... <3
the concept of flins speaking fae to you. it’s an intimate act of love he saves just for you, a way to show how he adores you, how much he trusts you to share that part of him. he mostly just speaks in short phrases throughout the day – gentle good morning greetings when the moon has yet to yield to the rising sun, lingering farewells when he leaves to scout for the wild hunt, and the sweet nothings he speaks in your ear when he desires to see that pretty blush spread across your face.
and some times it’s not so intentional. some times his native tongue slips through his lips like reverent prayers when he feels the sweet wrap of you around his cock. you’re so warm it makes him feel feverish, desperate thrusts of his hips as he seeks your pleasure and his own; and despite all of his eloquence and etiquette, flins cannot help the occasional breathless curse word in fae when he watches you fall apart so beautifully underneath him.
flins: he doesn't really mind either way, so even if you'd been holding out on him, hoping he'd cave in and beg you to let him take the condom off, you're the one who has to break first. you're at your wit's end, crying from overstimulation and chasing your fifth orgasm in a row until you feel him pull out of you, leaving your abused pussy so, so empty, and for what? just because he says the condom is stuffed full and he has to put on another one or it'll risk breaking?! you really don't care about your dignity anymore, so you grab the condom box before he can and throw it away from the bed, that'll teach him! you make grabby hands for his hips, and encircle them with your legs as soon as he comes back towards you, grabbing his cock and driving it back inside your pussy. you sigh when it's finally in again, and loop your arms around his neck. you beg him to start again, to cum inside and fill you until you're leaking, and with a patronizing chuckle he fulfills your wishes; he leans down even lower towards you, capturing your lips in a filthy, open mouthed kiss as he pistons his hips flush to yours, his cock twitching inside your wall and squelching loudly with your juices. he finally spills inside, and you're amazed at the sheer volume of cum he releases in you, prompting you to even thank him for stuffing you so good <3
varka: he has you on your hands and knees as he pumps his cock in and out of your pussy with a vigor you'd never seen from him yet. it's probably because you've finally agreed when he asked you if he could cum inside (instead of pulling out at the last moment and rubbing his orgasm against your pussy lips), but you really weren't expecting him to be this excited! he's simply ectastic tho, giving it is all and babbling random stuff in your ear as he keeps pounding into you. your eyes roll back into your head as you feel the tip of his fat cock bullying against your cervix, slipping past it just an instant before he fills your womb with his cum. his cock doesn't even soften at all, and he just keeps fucking each and every load inside you until you feel so bloated you might pass out. he barely stops to lay a hand on your tummy, feeling how heavier it is with all his seed planted in you <3
rerir: he never even asks to cum inside you, he just does it whenever he wants. if you didn't want him to you'd say something, and even if you did, he knows he can talk you into letting him do anything he wants. in fact, he has you so down bad for him that it's you who has to beg him for a creampie. "please daddy, I've been so good", you mumble, holding your own legs up for him to have unimpeded access to your drippy pussy, tightly gripping around his huge cock. "yeah? you've been a good slut for me? you think you deserve my cum?", he asks, laughing, and you moan in equal parts pleasure and desperation. he's so mean to you all the time, making you say all this lewd shit just for a drop of his cum :( "yes daddy, I want your cum so bad, please pump it all inside my pussy!", it makes him laugh again, knowing he has you eating out of the palm of his hand like this, debasing yourself on his every little whim. he's merciful, though it's probably only because he'd have to deny himself too in the process... well, at least it means you get to cream on his cock again, and that when he's finally near the brink of orgasm himself, he calls you his cute little cocksleeve and buries his cock deep in your pussy, giving you till every last drop of his cum <3
Sending your Genshin boyfriend a spicy photo of you while out for dinner (Genshin Male Character x fem!reader)
Warnings: not proofread, suggestive, swearing, minors should not interact, is it considered SMAU cause they don't really have phones in Teyvat? Error in Itto's one, can't be bothered to change it. Xiao is fuckin cute, idk how that happened
