(About the ships that are couples I’m so curious 😫 but if you really don’t want to, that’s ok then 😌 hope you’re doing well! 💕)
ok ok but everyone has to be chill alright. but also lowkey idgaf lol
i think woosan are together like fr. like being a delulu kpop shipper and i have since my youth. but there’s little you could do to convince they aren’t a real couple LMAO
the other one is haobin :p it’s the same logic lollll
Oftentimes, a visual reminder is required for all to know that Diluc is yours.
tags: smut, gn!reader, sub diluc, body writing, humiliation, degradation, objectification, face slapping, hand job, orgasm denial
wc: 2.5k
ao3 link
Deep within you exists an ineffable ache craving for it to be known that Diluc is yours.
Of course, the city folk are aware of your relationship. It’s difficult not to be when gossip has circulated readily since the beginning—how at ease the dour Master Diluc appears these days; that he must have resolved whatever inner strife troubled him, and finally, finally, after years of careful avoidance, is ready to elope with another of his status and settle down.
All of Mondstadt has been lying in wait for this moment.
Yet, as the barkeep of the most frequented tavern in the city, Diluc has been privy to every whisper and rumour of his fictitious escapades, each baseless speculation of who the lucky soul calling themselves his partner is.
Thus, when he relayed this hearsay to you with a displeased grimace, you had only laughed hard.
Diluc swiftly amended all misunderstandings with as much politeness as he could muster soon after that.
In retrospect, you realise his concern was that you weren’t as thick-skinned as he is. Growing up with a father notable for his business, and a younger brother wreaking light-hearted havoc from his shadow, Diluc had been subjected to a fair share of criticism in his youth. Which, in all honesty, was to be expected given the speed at which he had risen through the ranks of Ordo Favonius—so, yes. Diluc is well acquainted with the apprehension that comes with being discussed, spoken about as though you’re nothing more than a trinket.
You frankly see no need to concern yourself with onlookers’ opinions. You love Diluc. You’d go to the end of the world for him. So long as he remains aware of this unchanging truth, the city folk can talk until their voices falter, as far as you’re concerned.
Diluc’s worry, however, had been oddly endearing. The crease of his brow each time he’s brought up the topic blesses you with the softer facets of his personality, and the nervous flex of his fingers against your cheek cools your skin when he watches your expression intently, waiting for the moment your indifference gives way to hidden nerves.
As if you’d bother lying to him, anyway. You assure him of your disregard for such matters each time he inquires.
You can't help but wonder, does he regret it now?
“Keep still,” you demand impatiently. To your irritation, Diluc squirms again and tugs the wrist encircled by the tight press of your fingers, but you take it in stride, dragging his arm higher into the air at a better angle. “You’re fucking it up. We’ll be here all day if you don’t keep still.”
Flatly, he says, “It tickles.”
You tut, completing the sable, inky line of your name across his bicep.
In another setting, you’d laugh at the contrast between his words and the serious draw of his face. But, judging by his flushed cock straining against his stomach and smearing precum across pale skin, smudging the ink there, you don’t believe Diluc is in the mood for jokes.
It truly doesn’t matter how much he wrecks the smooth finish of your writing because you can always wash it away and begin anew. However, leading him to believe that each minuscule thrash or twitch of a muscle has repercussions means he sinks bonelessly into the mattress just that little bit more, pliable where he lies beneath you.
“You made this necessary, not me,” you remind him as you smooth a warm palm down his flank, searching for the next area to mark.
And, it’s true. This is Diluc’s doing, and you don’t often intervene in his problems until they concern you directly. You trust he will ask for guidance should he require it.
His distress over your feelings only serves to amuse you, so you happily take this one into your own hands—sliding wet ink across the surface of his skin in a litany of greedy, possessive phrases to prove to him, and anyone who sees, that it’s you who holds Diluc’s heart in the palm of your hand.
You simper as you rub your thumb over the dried ink beneath his ribs that labels him as your pretty whore. That’s all he is, really, when he gets like this. He’s so desperate for even the slightest touch, his usual patience wanes until his hips lift to catch your stomach or arm when you loom over him to write somewhere new, aiming to trap his aching cock, drooling despite not having been touched, between your bodies for a semblance of friction.
And, seriously, if you’d known Diluc was so receptive to being reduced to your stupid, little slut, you could have had your fun some time ago.
“That’s clear enough, isn’t it?” you hum, tracing the neat letters leading to the apex of his thigh with a featherlight touch. He knows instantly that your name precedes ‘cumdump’, and the inherent claim you’ve staked on every part of him surges white-hot heat through his veins. When he doesn’t answer, you continue, “If the bruises and bites I leave behind aren’t enough for others to get the hint, if even that leaves room for interpretation, this is sure to get the message across. Don’t you think so?”
Diluc huffs in response, shaking tufts of curly, red hair away from his sweaty face.
He isn’t sure how long you’ve kept him like this. Time only ever seems to warp around him when he submits to you, floating and trickling until he forgets the hour. All he’s certain of is that his shift begins soon, and the slow, unhurried drag of your marker across his pelvis reveals that you intend to send him into the city with your work beneath his clothes.
“This message is what, exactly?” he grits, chewing on the inside of his cheek when your fingers slide up his stomach to shamelessly grope at his pecs.
You scoff, “Can’t you read?”
Diluc swallows, his throat bobbing with the effort of it. Humiliation tinges his cheeks a pastel pink so they flush like the rest of his body, youthful. You nudge them affectionately with your knuckle and he cranes his neck to creep closer, to feel more of the little touch your generosity supplied.
“I can read it out for you, if you’d like,” you offer, condescending. “Nice and slow so you can understand because I know how air-headed you get when you want to come.”
And, he does. His longing for release is visceral. He feels it in the urge to cry that stings his throat; in the relaxation of his limbs so you can easily have your way—all so, in the end, you’ll reward him with your hot mouth.
“I don’t need your help,” he bitterly protests.
“Oh? Then, by all means, read it out to me.”
Diluc scowls, turning his head to bury his burning cheeks in the softness of his pillows. The exposed half of his face catches the golden light, and you can make out each beauty mark with infallible clarity beneath the sheen of sweat that coats his skin. His under eyes are wet too, the colour of his cheeks mottled with red splotches, and—oh, he’s crying, is what it is.
You crawl further up the bed, closer to him, where you drop your head to catch his gaze. It’s unfocused, blinking slowly at you as though he can’t quite make you out through his hazy sight. If he wishes to stop, he knows what to say, but after a long moment of silence and a reassuring kiss pressed to your jawbone, you grin.
“What’s wrong?” you tease. “Too much?”
He shakes his head, the movement restrained due to the plush pillows he’s resting on. “It’s not enough.”
Diluc has never been one to beg. So, when he meets your sharp gaze with a flash of long eyelashes and beseeching, glassy eyes, how could you ever dream of denying him?
“My sweet boy. We can’t have that, can we?” you coo, shifting your weight from beside him to instead settle on his stomach. so you can better wipe away the moisture on his face with careful hands. Beneath your touch, he’s burning up. “There’s something you’re after. Use your words like a good boy, otherwise, I won’t be giving you anything at all.”
“I want to come, please,” he manages, quiet.
“Really? That doesn’t sound very convincing, honey. You can do better than that.”
In faux disappointment, you sigh and sit back on his warm thighs. Diluc’s voice pitches into a needy cry when you take his leaking cock into your palm and rub the pad of your thumb softly over the slit. Frustratingly, you don’t do anything after that. You simply await his answer despite knowing he has trouble speaking when he reaches this point.
“Hurry, Diluc. Don’t forget that you have to be at the tavern within the hour. You know being late isn’t an option, because how else are your loyal patrons supposed to find out their Master Diluc gets off on being defiled? I’m dying to see how that would go down, really. For them to discover that their favourite barkeep is nothing more than a hole.”
At your words, a fat bead of precum dribbles from his slit and over your knuckles gripping his cock. You laugh at his reaction and squeeze your fingers around the base, hearing the slick, wet noise of the mess he’s already made. He gives a dry sob from beneath you, chest heaving and glistening with sweat as he fists the cold sheets.
“Fine! Fine, all right,” he relents, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air as you stare at him, expectant. “Your dumb bitch wants to come, is that what you need to hear? Or, should I fucking spell it o—”
A sharp slap to his cheek shuts him up easily enough. When you release his cock in favour of seizing his face between your fingers, squeezing the stinging skin with no remorse, his defiance snaps into submission.
“Finish that sentence, please.”
Just this once, Diluc isn’t above begging after all.
“No, no, I’m sorry. All right? Believe me, I want it so badly, it hurts,” he babbles, shifting his hips only to be pinned against the mattress with your weight.
“Slightly better, I suppose. But, then again, I shouldn't expect perfection from some useless cockslut, am I right?”
“Yes! Now, please…”
Your teeth dig into your lip in an attempt to stifle a laugh at his desperation. He writhes against the sheets, mussing both them and his thick hair up, arching his back high off the bed when you take his cock into your grasp once more.
If only Diluc’s mind was a little sharper when he’s drunk on lust, he’d recognise your deception when you begin jerking him off in quick, ruthless strokes.
Instead, what he does realise is that he’s far, far too sensitive after being teased for however long it’s been since you coaxed him into bed and left his clothes piled on the floor. Each drag of your hand feels so good, it almost stings, and the clash of sensations reduces his thoughts to syrup, unintelligible save for wordless pleas for more.
Somewhere far away, he thinks he hears you laugh. Barbatos knows he can feel it when you clamber off his thighs and nudge your body further up the bed, half-tangled with him still, so you can occupy his mouth in a messy kiss. You snicker once he meets you halfway, his tongue lazy as he lets you do the work and ignores the drool seeping from the corner of his open lips.
Diluc’s thighs clamp together, but you hook your foot around his ankle and wrench his legs open. “There you go again, ruining it,” you complain half-heartedly, breaking away from his lips and licking the spit from them.
Your eyes fall upon the smudged words scribed across his inner thighs. What had degraded him before, reducing him to nothing more than a mindless fucktoy, was now smeared, messy ink that stains his skin blue-grey. Yet, even beneath that, you can see remnants of legible print are stubbornly left behind.
“I didn’t—” Diluc gasps. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Judging by his lax expression, he’s close. You lay a kiss on the corner of his mouth, cradling his blushing face in your hand. He can feel you watching, eyes burning into his skin, but the thought is lost when you twist your palm over his sensitive head. Diluc grunts, spluttering as his head falls back to evade your watchful gaze.
His cock throbs in your hand, and he imagines it then—sullying your careful work with pearlescent cum, proving each statement right by coming undone with not a thought that doesn’t revolve around you and how easily you take him apart.
The relief is so close, he can taste it on the back of his tongue, sickly sweet and familiar.
If only you hadn’t smiled.
“No,” he begs, futile. “Don’t, please— you have to let me come!”
When he throbs again, you let go of his cock, and it bobs against his tummy, still impossibly hard as a low whine is drawn from the back of his throat.
Diluc’s mind is reeling, desperately searching for what he had done wrong. “Wh— why?” he breathes, watery voice lilting into a disappointed whisper.
You do nothing. His mounting orgasm slips away from him until he’s left with a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, and his chest blooming with heat, affronted at the notion of being denied what he sought after. Through the ringing in his ears, he hears you laugh again, pleased.
“It’s a shame, really,” you comment, sitting back to admire the mess you’ve made of him. To think, the picture would have been completed had he been allowed to come, but there are plenty of other days to witness such a visage. “I thought you knew better than to talk back to me, Diluc.”
He sniffles and curls his hand further into the sheets. All over, his body runs cold, yet the tears streaking his face are impossibly warm.
“I’m sor—”
In lieu of letting him finish, you press a sweet kiss to his open mouth. He eagerly reciprocates, already beginning to feel lightheaded with desire when you moan at the taste of salty tears on his tongue.
“It's all right, don't apologise. I never expected much from my disobedient slut in the first place. Now, go and get dressed for work, Diluc,” you mumble against his lips. “If you want me to forgive you for misbehaving, you’ll work your shift pretending everything’s normal.”
Diluc’s knuckles are white where they clutch onto the bedsheets. You won’t even be in the tavern with him as expected.
You smile, saccharine. “I’ll be waiting for you when you come home.”
