Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kinktober 2025

Day 1: Wriothesley - Masturbation ✓
Day 2: Dan Heng - Coming Untouched ✓
Day 3: Wriothesley & Neuvillette - Threesome ✓
Day 4: Flins - Voyeurism ✓
Day 5: Yae Miko - Finger Sucking ✓ (sketch)
Day 6: Mydei - Outdoor Sex ✓
Day 7: Gepard - Blindfolds ✓ (sketch)
Day 8: Black Swan - Webcam ✓ (sketch)
Day 9: Rerir - Tentacles (sketch)
Day 10: Dr. Ratio - Punishment
Day 11: Boothill - Handcuffs
Day 12: Kaveh - Sissification (sketch)
Day 13: Sampo - Dildos
Day 14: Phainon - Possessive Sex
Day 15: Tighnari - Sex Pollen
Day 16: Anaxa - Remote Control
Day 17: Argenti - Service Kink
Day 18: Zhongli - Size Queen
Day 19: Jingyuan - Creampie
Day 20: Varka - Mirror Sex
Day 21: Lyney - Rimming
Day 22: Kinich - Quiet Sex
Day 23: Aventurine - Praise Kink
Day 24: Moze - Anal Sex
Day 25: Ayato - Impact Play
Day 26: Diluc - Lingerie
Day 27: Gallagher - Wall Sex
Day 28: Ifa - Multiple Orgasms
Day 29: Sunday - Body Worship
Day 30: Blade - Breeding
Day 31: Alhaitham - Writer's Choice ✓

unofficial official Kinktober list Here

Other smutty endeavours to pass the time as you heathens wait for updates:

A Moth to Flame (Mydei x Reader x Phainon)

Aphrodisia (Kakashi x Reader)

Chapter Text

Day 1: Wriothesley (Prompt: Masturbation + Getting Caught)

CW: anal fingering, nipple piercings, ejaculation, pubic hair, getting caught, sex toys, wrio’s got a big dick. AFAB reader with she/her pronouns, who is an inmate so power dynamic??? 4.1 and Wrio storyline spoilers just to be safe. Not beta either so let's just roll with it!

It’s not often that the Duke of Meropide forgoes his responsibilities in favour of personal pursuits. Sure, his schedule is a little freer than, say, the Chief Justice himself—but Wriothesley digresses. He’s a busy man who’s let two aromatic cups of tea go to waste in the past hour, pouring over documents littered with stickers with an increasingly stiff neck. He generally paces himself better than this. Knows when to take a breather, sniff the roses, that sort of thing.

However, with the arrival of the latest inmate—whom he can only assume is an outworlder like the Traveller given how strange they are—his plans and his routine have all but combusted. She’s silent as the grave but causes the grey in his hair to spread like the plague, simply by virtue of existing.

It’s unnervingly frustrating, especially when she stares at him with those pretty eyes like she can read the very depths of his soul.

He sighs and places the most recently approved documents off to the side of his desk, taking a sip of his stone-cold tea. It’s a pleasant Sumeru Rose blend, though it does little to soothe his fatigue.

Soon enough, his most interesting inmate will grace his halls, toddling off with his manila envelope in hand. He figures by having her close, upping her responsibilities in the fortress—sending her to and fro with documents and letters—that he’ll come to understand what it is about her that throws him so dangerously off kilter. Though the answers have yet to fall into his lap.

Wriothesley runs a hand through his shaggy hair, tufts poking up in unruly shapes. His hand continues down the side of his face, to his neck, then to his tie, where he loosens it. His office can feel stifling at times, being heated from the machinations’ warm air in the Production Zone that tend to rise up and flow throughout the fortress. Leaving his secret entrance open sometimes helps with ventilation, but today even his skin is burning.

It's an unusual, licking, heat. One that lingers in his chest and travels down his legs. Not quite unlike…

…

Oh. Maybe that’s his problem.

“Get it together, Wriothesley.” He scolds himself, shaking his thoughts from a dangerous path. It’d be too easy to give in to that particular type of temptation. It had been some time since he had been able to jack off in peace.

If something wasn’t going wrong with the fortress itself, there were always issues concerning Sigewinne, and if it wasn’t related to Sigewinne, there was no shortage of prisoner escapades to contend with.

Needless to say, it had been…a while, since Wriothesley had any semblance of privacy. There is no place for him to withdraw to. His office door doesn’t even have a lock on it, for Archon’s sake. Sigewinne had managed to convince him it was necessary for ease of “emergency access”, back in his early days, but now he only curses his stupidity.

The collar of his shirt is becoming damp with sweat, and he’s shucking everything off before he can even blink. Wriothesley doesn’t do well with heat, and he’s settling back on his chair, torso bare, with little embarrassment. If someone walked in, they walked in.

It sends a mischievous shiver up his spine.

Turning his attention once more to the documents piled on his table, he selects a new manila envelope, dates it, and slips the sheets of paper in one by one. He seals it shut with the sticker he had peeled off his coat hours earlier. He hums to himself softly, fingers wafting over the rim of his teacup before passing it by altogether in search of a fresh ink pot.

He goes through a lot of ink these days, with the way Furina’s skewed legislations continue to fill his dormitories. Illegal to release any flying objects within the first three days of each month, seriously? The number of prisoners who aren’t actually criminals is laughable, now.

Wriothesley scoffs and shifts in his chair. His mind nearly drifts to thoughts of ships and seas, but his thumb catches the edge of yet another document, spilling warm blood onto the pages. It’s dry in a matter of seconds, but now the document is stained, and therefore ultimately unusable in Furina’s courts.

Wriothesley sighs, between his cold tea, the heat that threatens to consume him, his ruined paperwork, and the way his mind refuses to focus, he takes it as a sign. Multiple signs, really. Time to take a break, unlockable door be damned.

He looks down at his lap, then at his desk, and impulsively swoops its contents far to the side with a generous wave of his arm. Now that he has some clear space, he stands up.

Carefully, he works at the belt around his waist. If he had a partner, he might have taken his time undressing. For a brief moment, he thinks of his peculiar inmate’s eyes, and the way her grin curls up her cheeks. It’s brief, truly, but the thought is enough to have his cock stirring in his pants.

They drop to his thighs.

And then, realizing he can’t maneuver freely while his boots are still on, he curses, wriggling them off and flinging them behind his chair. His pants and underwear come off in quick succession, and he stands in his office bare as the day he was born.

“I should have enough time,” he muses to himself, rummaging around his drawers and leaving the ones he yanks open hanging ajar. He deftly grasps the vial of oil he has yet to have the pleasure of using, and then pops the cork.

It smells faintly of Sweet Flowers and Marcotte, somewhat tacky as it glides over his skin until the warmth of his flesh encourages its melding. He rolls it between his fingers gently, letting it slick over his palm and down his wrist, turning him into a slippery mess. Though he’s always liked things a little messy.

The heat clings to his limbs. Travels along his pulse points and down to his steadily growing erection. He has yet to touch himself, but simply the feel of the oil and the flashing thoughts of her are enough to make his heart race and his dick hard. It really has been too long, if this is all it takes for him to nearly blow his load.

Sighing, Wriothesley takes himself in hand and brushes his thumb over the head of his cock. His other hand travels lightly across his chest, tweaking and pinching his pierced nipples. His hips twitch in reply, and he grunts in tune to the pace he sets fucking into his hand.

The hand on his chest migrates down his side, over his ribs, to the dip of his hip and back to his ass. He squeezes the firm flesh there, unabashed at the pleasure that spikes the closer his wandering fingers get to his clenching hole. All the while he strokes himself, sometimes slowing his tempo as if to tease, sometimes mercilessly working himself over, and for a short moment, he stops.

Footsteps recede from behind his closed door. The presence didn’t linger, barely paused—and Wriothesley releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. There was a constant flow of activity passing by his door, with prisoners socializing on their way to and from their shifts, but there had been increased movement the past few days with preparations for a fortress-wide celebration of Samhain, whatever that was. He hadn’t asked many questions when Sigewinne stumbled into his office last week with his favourite prisoner, babbling about outworld traditions, and demanding that all the inmates be able to participate.

It had been a headache, initially, trying to smooth out a plan that allowed Sigewinne to have her fun without inviting the opportunity for riots and fights. Ultimately, it ended with Wriothesley spending too much of his personal budget on tacky decorations and ingredients for sweets and confectioneries. The schedule for the inmates followed their original production shifts, only in their free time they were invited to participate in the festivities (which Wriothesley had left to Sigewinne), if they so wished. The free meal was under the supervision of both Wolsey and the outworld inmate, as Sigewinne cited something about “authenticity”.

Wriothesley breathes out through his nose, ears ringing in the silence. The person is gone, his hand is still on his cock, and his erection is throbbing. He knows he has to be quick with his one-man tryst, although he can’t deny the spark of arousal that floods him wondering if she’d arrive earlier than anticipated, quite literally catching him with his trousers down.

Would her eyes go wide, he wondered, would she become shy and avert her gaze, or would it turn hungry? Would she prowl towards him as if he were prey, or would she flee? He likes to think she’d stare at him inquisitively, invitingly, and they’d spend an afternoon wrapped in each other’s embrace.

Maybe he’d pin her to his desk and fuck her, and she’d buck underneath him, wrapping her thighs around his waist as he inched ever deeper. Or maybe she’d have his way with him, playing with his ass until he swallowed her fingers, begging for more.

Wriothesley tilts his head back, hips lazily thrusting forward, hand squeezing around the base of his shaft when he threatens to spill just fantasizing. His tip dribbles with precum, mixing with the oil running through and over his fingers, palm audible as it schlicks along his cock at a hurried pace.

He stops again. It’s not enough.

Wriothesley groans as a playful finger rubs over the rim of his ass. He fumbles with the keys he’d discarded by the empty ink pot and hastens to unlock the lowest drawer of his deck. His, uh, private collection of sorts is stored there. Always ready to be used, but most often forgotten.

His toes curl in anticipation; a pitch-black plug rolls to the front of the drawer. Whistling softly, Wriothesley decides that the plug’s made the difficult choice of picking which toy to use easy. His cock bobs in response, smearing his pelvis and stomach in precum. Using a plug would definitely lengthen his personal time, increasing the chance of being caught, but the thought of prepping himself while fondling his dick is too good for him to pass up.

So, he climbs up on his desk and sits propped up on his elbows, legs spread apart. He uses one hand to clumsily uncork the oil once more and lathers it over his digits, ignoring his pulsing erection.

His other hand snakes around to his cock, teasing it with feather-light touches, gracing the head with a small tap before he moves back down to grip it at the base. He might not get through prepping himself at this rate.

He smooths his hand over his thigh and around down to his cheeks. Spreading himself open, he uses the hand covered in oil to finger his rim, slowly inserting one into his velvety heat. He bites back a breathy groan. If someone were to hear him, if someone were to open the door, they’d still have to make their way upstairs. He’d have a split second to cover himself. He’ll be fine, really. At least, this is what he tells himself as he sinks a finger down to the knuckle, gasping softly. His cock is rock hard and aches, but he doesn’t move to touch himself. He’s tight, hole greedily sucking him in, and he has to pause to catch his breath.

Wriothesley bites his lip and moans with clenched teeth. The delicious stretch of another finger joining the first causes his ass to rise off the desk. His hips stutter and his cock leaks. He doesn’t have the patience to put a third in.

“It’s not like the plug’s big, anyways.” He mutters to himself. Though he takes a minute to fish through his private drawer for a condom, lust-addled brain unsure if he had ever had the chance to clean the toy after purchasing it.

Wriothesley was not going to stop to wash it. He’d edged himself long enough.

He fucks himself with his two fingers, picking up the pace and angling himself just so. But it’s still not enough and he shifts, popping his fingers out. He instead reaches behind himself, twisting his torso slightly, right shoulder dipping lower so he can fit his hand underneath him. He likes how his fingers breach his hole this way, dangerously close to that spongy spot that makes him lose his mind.

Wrist cushioned beneath his cheeks, Wriothesley thrusts back in without hesitation. A muffled yelp escapes as he mistakenly targets his prostate first try, ushering him closer to orgasm.

He leans back slightly, other hand still spreading himself open. His eyes slowly drift shut as he continues to finger himself, pace increasing with his fervent need to cum. He’s so hard he can’t stand it, cock proudly standing upright.

With his fingers stuffed inside of him, Wriothesley hurriedly picks up the condom with his other hand, shoving it between his teeth to tear it open. Before he can get it out of the package, he takes a moment to squeeze the supple flesh of his thigh, condom resting on his lips and fingers buried deep, completely unaware of the sound of the door opening and footsteps tracing a path upwards to his office.

Wriothesley moans quietly, pleasure mounting, as he blinks his eyes open.

There, his curious inmate stands, mouth ajar and a scandalous expression on her face. He can’t help himself. To see her there, to witness the way she drags those pretty eyes across his chest and to his cock while he touches himself—he cums, shooting up and over his chest.

It takes him by surprise. It takes her by surprise, but all he can do is grin like a wolf with the wrapper still between his teeth. He holds her gaze, as if beckoning, daring, her to come to him.

She tilts her head to the side, expression shifting. And it’s something that Wriothesley thinks he likes, heavy with promise.

Chapter Text

Day 2: Dan Heng (Prompt: Coming Untouched + Rut)

CW: multiple orgasms, submissive dan heng, mildly dubious consent (as he has rut brain), two dragon penises, draconic anatomy, coming untouched (as in no direct contact with his genitalia), feelings of shame. reader insert, gender neutral.

This rut is utterly dreadful. In all his lifetimes, Dan Heng cannot remember ever being so consumed by his baser instincts.

Yet here he is, muffling his gasps like a groaning, wounded, animal—nerves on fire as the archives drone on with artificial light and mechanical whirring.

His once comforting environment is too stimulating, in the most painful way. His shirt feels too tight, he’s too hot, and suddenly he’s stripping his top half bare, breathing so heavily he feels as if he’s been in battle.

Dan Heng’s boots and socks fly off next. He doesn’t need to look up to know they’ve landed somewhere near his bedroll. But he doesn’t care.

Every one of his muscles aches with the sweetest of agonies—every beat of his heart is matched by the pulse in his straining cocks. Sweat drips from the tip of his nose down to his naked chest, heaving with laboured breaths, and he fumbles around like a newborn fawn in the archives because aeons.

Aeons help him.

It has never been this bad.

He curses, tongue slithering out and hanging in the air, twitching at the stench of his own pheromones. It’s times like these that he’s most certainly glad the members of the Astral Express don’t share his Vidyadhara anatomy—debauched as he is currently and mortified at the thought of someone finding him in such a vulnerable state.

Still, he can’t stay locked up in the archives forever, especially when the rest of the crew needs access to them. But there aren’t many places he can sneak away to, to wait out the horror of this particular rut.

Dan Heng catches himself as he stumbles, pants tight, tight, tight, and blood ringing in his ears. He slides down the wall nearest the door with a defeated sigh, thighs tensing as his sweaty back collides with the cool metal.

He hisses.

Then groans lowly, in irritation, as his tail materializes and knocks over a pile of data discs.

His scales and horns are extra sensitive, especially during his season. The simplest brush sets his groin on fire, and he is not staining his collection of literature like some rabid beast, thank you very much.

With a quiet rumble, the train lurches slightly to the left. Dan Heng bites back a curse as the movement jostles him forward.

The express travels onwards, leaving Amphoreus far behind in search of novel adventures. It’s quiet, almost peaceful, if not for the inconsolable ache between Dan Heng’s legs.

Was it his new form that came with an entirely fresh set of challenges, or something else entirely?

Dan Heng’s tail thumps against the door, narrowly avoiding the lock.

If he was careful enough, he could make it down the hall—to your room.

You were having a sleepover with March, and your lodgings were far enough away from the hub of the train that if—and Dan Heng does mean if—he was to make any sort of unsavoury noise, it wouldn’t be heard.

Does he truly want to spend his rut in the company of your empty bed chamber?

No.

Does he truly want to potentially sully a beloved crew member’s private quarters while he struggles with his…needs?

Also no.

Does he have a choice?

No. Because Himeko’s heels are clicking with an even pace down the hallway, headed directly for the archives.

It isn’t unusual for Dan Heng to hide away for days at a time, with how much he relishes his solitude. But he has avoided everyone on the express for a week straight, going so far as to snap at Pom Pom, of all unfortunate souls, to leave him be just that very morning—and Dan Heng knows that Himeko’s grace has run out.

With a disgruntled snarl, Dan Heng bolts from the archives. He’s certain Himeko rounds the corner just as he’s disappearing from view, greeted by the vanishing wisp of an agitated tail and reddened skin.

He tumbles into your door, limbs like lead and mouth full of cotton as he struggles to remain upright, blinking sweat away from his eyes. His ears twitch at the sound of Caelus’ footsteps overhead, but the chatter from March’s room has long since faded.

For a quiet moment, he breathes out in relief.

And then your scent hits him.

Oh.

Nanook strike him down.

Dan Heng’s mind comes to a screeching halt. He hunches over, mouth open as he greedily huffs and laps at the air, drinking you in.

No wonder his ruts had never been quite so bad.

You.

This was all your fault.

A fresh face on the express, joining them on the tail end of the trauma that Amphoreus had bludgeoned him with—he had never had to contend with his ruts alongside you.

This was a first.

His jaw aches, fangs elongating beneath his gums. He pants and groans, collapsing to his knees, claws shredding the fibres of the new carpet he knows you love—Dan Heng curls in on himself, shaking and sweating. His skin is tacky, fingers sticking together as he curls them into fists.

He can’t bring himself to stand and instead bends forward so that his forehead rests against the floor, wallowing in his own misery, to the point that he does not hear the swoosh of the door as you waltz into your room.

Your scent concentrates to one powerful, almighty force in front of him, and it’s nearly comical the way his mind physically, painfully, reboots. It’s only when you call out his name in concern, a gentle hand threading through his hair, tilting his head to the side so that his cheek rests against your rug, that he whimpers.

You jerk back. His hips jerk forward.

And for five humiliating seconds, Dan Heng cums.

He rubs his cheek pathetically against the ground, biting his lips raw and bloodied as he fights with his voice, eyes fluttering shut as you stare at him gobsmacked.

Lan swallow me whole, he thinks, once he regains clarity. He can’t bring himself to look at you, and heat crowds his cheeks in disgrace.

“Are you alright?” You ask him quietly. Your voice sends a hot, throbbing, stroke of heat directly to his cocks. He hisses in distress. “Are you sick?” Your tone shifts immediately, concern and fear evident in the way your words tremble and fall like tiny petals.

Dan Heng curls around himself tighter.

“I needed-” his lips part weakly, tongue falling out like a traitor as the animalistic part of his brain renders his speech useless. “-Needed. Need.”

“Need what?” You kneel by his prone form, hand gentle on his sweat slick back. He flinches against your palm, claws burying themselves deeper into the carpet.

“Don’t, please-” Dan Heng begs, pleads, prays that you’ll remove your hand. To save you from his debauchery, to prevent you from seeing just how unbound he’s become, he wills himself to move away.

But your hands are gentle balms. Sweet as they glide over his skin, his scales, how they urge him up into your embrace while he chokes on a gasp—

Until he folds into your arms with a sob, pants now soiled beyond belief as a new crest of pleasure overwhelms him, and you’re still none the wiser.

Dan Heng’s tail thrashes on the floor behind him, horns aglow as you steady him against your heaving chest, heart racing as fast as his own.

“What’s happening?”

Oh, how Dan Heng could kiss you senseless here. He listens to the breathlessness of your voice and presses himself impossibly closer, ears burning with shame even as he seeks out your touch.

“I’m sorry,” his teeth catch the edge of his lip. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry-”

“Dan Heng,” your voice is sharp, but your scent is cloying.

“Season,” he barrels over your exhalation, “My. Season. Rut. My mind-” He continues to babble, tail swishing back and forth, fingers clenching around the frayed edges of your carpet. “Qīn ài de.You smell so good—”

You can't make out what he says as he gasps out into your ear, eyes scrunching shut as he fights to control himself. Dan Heng’s strength leaves him, and he leans heavily against you. You barely manage to catch the two of you against the side of your bed, landing awkwardly with him half in your lap.

As he strives to catch his breath, you stare at him with wide, wide eyes. Your face is the loveliest shade of red he’s ever seen, pretty mouth agape as he trembles and twitches in your hold.

Valiantly, Dan Heng attempts to peel himself away from you.

“Wait,” you say as you clutch at his form like some sort of lifeline. “Wait. Is this why you’ve been avoiding everyone?”

Dan Heng can only nod dumbly, feverish and strung taut.

“You’ve been suffering this whole time?” For some reason, you sound angry. Dan Heng shifts against you listlessly in response, gaze cloudy and cheeks ruddy. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Dan Heng, miraculously, finds the energy to laugh. His cocks have already twitched back to life, and the monstrous tent in his trousers leave little to the imagination.

“Would you want someone to see you like…this?” He pants, forked tongue gliding against your cheek in his dazed murmur.

Both of you shiver at the sensation.

He’s mumbling apologies into your skin again, it tickles, and you yank on his horn as knee-jerk reaction.

“Stop apologizing.”

Dan Heng crumbles against you. “Fu-.” He whines, even as he grinds himself against your floor, synapses frying at the sensation. You barely register his crass words, already desensitized. “No horns. S’too much.” He slurs.

You finally, fully, clue in. “Aeons.” You are unable to ignore the stirrings in your own gut, drinking in the sight of this mighty dragon so…humbled.

Your own desire almost has you scrambling backwards. Almost.

But then you see Dan Heng, looking absolutely, miserably, wrecked—and you can’t bring yourself to abandon him.

“I…could help?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Dan Heng opens his mouth: “Please. Please please please-”

You look down at his crotch. The fabric is stretched so thin it looks painfully tight, and it’s so wet it drips.

“How many times…?”

Dan Heng growls lowly, voice tapering off into a small gasp. His tail winds around your waist, squeezing, feeling, as he reaches down to hold your hand.

“It has never been this bad.” He tells you in a moment of clarity. “But you,” his head is swimming, his breath is short and sharp, grip meek as his heart pounds so loudly he can't hear himself think, “ever since you.”

Dan Heng fails to finish his sentence, but you think you understand.

So, you reach for his belt. “Are you sure about this?” You ask. You quiver at the need in your own voice. Dan Heng seems to pick up on it as he shakily grasps your arm.

“Do not make me beg,” he implores. He’s done enough of that. His ears burn with embarrassment, now. “Touch me. I—” Dan Heng desperately holds his voice back, stills his hips to the point of insanity, refusing to pin you down and hump against you like the dragon within him is telling him to do.

But then you have him on the brink, and all sane thought goes out the window, because you’re massaging him through his pants.

Suddenly, he’s unravelling.

You brush your nose against Dan Heng’s pulse point as he shatters, fingers carding through his damp hair as he whines. He hates his lack of control; he hates the depraved way in which he’s acting.

His entire body goes rigid as you drag your lips across his jaw, overwhelmed at the tender sensation when he truly feels like an utter degenerate. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, shaking with his final release. He has yet to feel your flesh upon his, but.

All in due time.

Your hand curls around his bicep, set aflame at the burn of his skin.

Dan Heng’s breathing is ragged. His tail uncoils slightly from around your waist, although it still rests against you like it refuses to part from you completely.

You blink. Dan Heng blinks. Gently, you brush away the limp strands of hair from his temples. His pupils look like slits, and his lips sit awkwardly as he pants for breath through his elongated incisors, but his gaze softens so immensely when looking at you it leaves you reeling from the force of it.

A delicate, fleeting thing—Dan Heng’s lips fluttering against your temple in thanks as he slumps against you—renders you speechless.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice lined with fatigue. “The worst of it is out of the way, for now.”

You rest your chin on the crown of his head.

Then, you blink, registering what he’s just said. “What do you mean, ‘for now’?!”

Dan Heng huffs a laugh against your skin, hand gliding up your arm to play with your hair. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, processing, until Dan Heng’s muscles begin to scream at him.

“March will come looking for you,” he warns.

You sigh. “Will you be alright?”

Dan Heng presses his body against yours, breathing you in and tasting you on his tongue. “Ruts typically last a number of days,” he explains, body tingling as he adjusts to your scent.

“But will you be okay?” You reiterate, gesturing vaguely to the state of him.

“I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” He assures you. Then wrinkles his nose. “After I bathe.”

“But-”

“Go back to March.” Ah. There he is. Composed and stoic Dan Heng. As if he hadn’t been whimpering in your arms two minutes ago.

You pout.

Dan Heng sighs, but his fingers are tender as they cup your chin. “If you’re willing…” He drifts off, tail thumping against the floor and curling in defeat.

“Tomorrow?” You chirp.

Dan Heng’s jaw unhinges. “Why do you sound so…?” Excited? Enthused? Starved?

He shakes his head. You stare at him.

“Tomorrow.” He promises. He’s so quiet you strain your ears to hear him.

In the end, you give him a dazzling smile. He casts his gaze aside and limps his way to your door.

“I’ll sneak back to my room once March is zonked out. Come see me tonight if you need some, uh, relief.”

Dan Heng chokes on his spit. You watch from behind as his muscles flex and ripple across unblemished skin, while his shoulders go up, up, up. It makes you snort a laugh.

He disappears through your door before you have the chance to tease him. His body still aches, but for the meantime, his mind is clear.

In the returning quiet of your room, with the starlight filtering in through the sheer curtains, illuminating you in a pale glow—you rub your thighs together and bring your thumb up to your lip.

Hmm.

Maybe you’d seek him out instead.

Chapter Text

Day 3: Wriothesley & Neuvillette (Prompt: Threesome + DP)

CW: draconic anatomy, two dragon penises, dom/sub, submissive wriothesley and reader, multiple orgasms, dp in v, anal sex, fingering in pretty much all holes, multiple (weird) sex positions, hydro as lube, laughter & conversation during sex, wet & messy sex, fem. ejaculate, creampie, praise kink, slight spanking, mentions of pubic hair, rough sex, aftercare, neuvillette calls you little dove, mention of spit, overstim, biting

You step forward, almost shyly under the weight of their gazes.

Your face heats, recognizing the hooded desire in Wriothesley’s stare, and the unfiltered want in Neuvillette’s.

Your eyes are drawn to Wriothesley’s waist, where Neuvillette’s long fingers squeeze at his flesh.

You bite back a noise of wonderment. Was this really happening?

Was it happening and had they started without you?! Blasphemy!

You pout.

But, not for long, as the duke hums for your attention.

Wriothesley’s back is perfectly curved, ass up and flush with Neuvillette’s hips. One cock is buried inside of him, the other—coloured with a lovely ombre of blue—brushes up against the curve of Wriothesley’s cheeks, shamelessly leaking precum into the dimples of his lower back.

Neuvillette rocks forward ever-so-slightly, and Wriothesley’s breath hitches. He sucks on his teeth as he playfully splays his fingers over the sheets, beckoning you closer.

“Best not to keep a dragon waiting.” Wriothesley muses, only to huff on a choked gasp as Neuvillette grinds against his backside in retaliation.

You stand frozen.

Not in fear, no.

In arousal.

Neuvillette walks two taloned fingers up the expanse of Wriothesley’s broad back, the tips dancing along the ridges of his spine. Eventually, he reaches the back of Wriothesley’s head, where he buries his fist in dark hair and yanks.

A scorching moan falls from Wriothesley’s lips, dick bobbing and dripping lewdly.

You watch as Wriothesley swallows roughly, every muscle of his sculpted biceps straining as he supports himself on his hands, beads of sweat gathering along his beautiful collarbones.

“Well?” Wriothesley can’t help but egg you on, fingers twisted in the sheets below him as he notices your lingering stare. “The Iudex has invited you to bed.”

Neuvillette tugs on his hair once more, just as a reminder of his presence, and chuffs lowly in his throat. He turns his attention back to you.

“There is no need to be apprehensive,” the Chief Justice assures you, halting his thrusts. “Just as you and Wriothesley have conversed, so have he and I. I am aware of your intimate boundaries, and we will stop immediately if you wish for it.”

You hesitantly nod.

“She’s not going to tap out,” Wriothesley states rather confidently—likely paying respects to the arse that’s going to be sore by morning regardless. “Are you, now?”

There is no question in his words, and he shifts beneath Neuvillette, evidently displeased with the lack of movement.

Neuvillette promptly shoves his head into a pillow. “Behave.” He warns.

Wriothesley’s muffled protests are not lost on you, but you stand transfixed by the sight of Neuvillette’s brilliant rhinomphores twinkling in the moonlight. They bathe him in an ethereal, water-like glow.

Your palms begin to ache with the need to touch him, but Wriothesley is wriggling his ass against Neuvillette’s hips in rebellion.

Get the show on the road, he seems to say.

The Iudex snaps brutally into Wriothesley.

“Fu—ck, alright, alright.” The duke immediately surrenders, shoving at the demi-human’s knee with hearty, open-palmed smacks.

Neuvillette’s tail swishes across the silken sheets. Wriothesley turns his head and rubs his cheek against the pillow bellow him, locking gazes with you. His face is flushed beautifully, crimson highlighting the violet in his eyes, and his thick lashes flutter as you begin to approach the bed.

The carpet is so plush it silences your footfalls, and Neuvillette reaches out a hand to you.

It’s elegant, the way he offers his palm. Despite his claws, his touch is tender and sweet—his countenance towards you a stark contrast to how he keeps Wriothesley pinned beneath him.

You grip the bottom of your shirt nervously, pulling it down at the hem in a way that has Neuvillette tsking and pulling you forwards. You stumble the next few steps and brace yourself on the edge of the bed with your knee.

“Easy there, Neuv.”

“Quiet.” The Iudex murmurs.

The order sounds like honey, cloying and heady, and Wriothesley is entirely unperturbed by it.

It makes you chuckle.

Wriothesley’s eyes brighten at the sound, hand reaching awkwardly behind him to search for yours. Neuvillette’s ear twitch in response, and his scales illuminate the area around them with a brief flash of cerulean as he gently settles you onto the bed beside them.

Neuvillette then captures you with a smouldering look.

“I’m a little nervous,” you admit, avoiding his gaze and instead eyeing the length of Neuvillette’s exposed cock. Wriothesley clenches around the one buried inside him, and it has you biting your lip.

“I assure you; all will be well.” Neuvillette’s gentile tone sweeps over you like a hushed lullaby, and you find yourself nodding along to his words as if under a spell.

His large hand wraps around your thigh, squeezing at the flesh.

Neuvillette stares at you contemplatively for a moment, before grabbing you with his other hand and bodily moving you to kneel in front of him, still inside of Wriothesley.

And Wriothesley, to his credit, stays remarkably still—watching you from beneath his lashes with bated breath, teeth sinking into a plump bottom lip as a stifled groan threatens to escape.

If you have to guess, Wriothesley has a thing for watching. His eyes rove your figure with maddening desire, lingering over your bust and hips, then flick upwards to where Neuvillette’s hand rests at the base of your throat.

You gulp audibly.

The Iudex trails a finger down your throat and plucks apart the buttons of your blouse with practised ease, face expressionless even as he concentrates on his task.

Inch by inch, your skin is revealed.

He traces the curve of your brassiere with a single talon. It catches on the edge of the lace, and he tugs on it, dipping a secondary finger into your cup, just barely grazing your nipple.

Wriothesley can only see your back—can only witness the way you squirm invitingly into Neuvillette’s hold, away from his own hands as they twitch listlessly against the mattress.

With your blouse unbuttoned, Neuvillette smooths a hand up your chest and over your collar bone, sliding underneath the fabric of your shirt and gliding it down your shoulder in reverence.

It pools around your waist, finally revealing the lacy set to Wriothesley’s hungry eyes. Your pants are uncomfortably warm as the temperature in your body rises.

There’s a ghost of a smile on Neuvillette’s usually impassive face. He draws out of Wriothesley, ignoring the man’s protests, and heaves you up into his arms.

You yelp in surprise, flailing momentarily as you scramble to find purchase on his shoulders. Your fingers dig into warm skin, and it’s then that you get your first personal look at the Iudex.

You’ve always known the Chief Justice to be a striking figure. The entire nation knows this.

But up close, he is frighteningly, painfully, beautiful. You feel your breath stutter as your eyes open wide.

He’s unbelievable.

This is the only thought you have.

Sculpted from the coldest and purest of marble, Neuvillette is otherworldly. From the colour of his eyes to the glossy feel of his hair, and to the scales that dot his skin—he’s breathtaking.

“Hello?” Wriothesley quips, lounging on his side. He’s leaning on his elbow, one leg propped up as he watches you and Neuvillette study each other.

“Turn over,” is all Neuvillette says, holding your gaze and pushing outward on Wriothesley’s knee. “On your back.”

The duke all but squawks at how he’s brushed aside.

But the Iudex still has you bundled to his chest, noticing the way you drink in Wriothesley’s form this time.

“There’s got to be something in the water.” You mutter underneath your breath. You tear your gaze away from the scars on Wriothesley’s chest, away from the hair on his arms and the veins in his hands and the beads of sweat that roll down his temples—

You shake your head. Focus.

As Wriothesley positions himself, sending you a cheeky wink while he does so, Neuvillette deposits you in the man’s waiting lap. You still face Neuvillette—and you blush as he observes you in nearly a predatory way.

You wiggle slightly and Wriothesley’s hands immediately fly up to find purchase on your waist. You straddle his hips, watching as his cock leaks when your hand accidentally bumps it.

You tentatively reach forward, dipping the tip of your finger into his slit.

Wriothesley hisses immediately, hands flexing against your flesh with fervent need. His grip tightens to the point you wonder if you’ll bruise.

The thought makes you quirk your lips.

“In the waters?” Neuvillette questions, wrenching your attention back to the task at hand as his breath tickles your cheek.

Wriothesley bites back a moan when you lean backwards, prompted gently by Neuvillette’s caress. Your hands mindlessly look for something to grab as you settle against Wriothesley’s chest.

“Yes.” You explain breathily, sliding a trembling hand up Neuvillette’s torso. His tail twitches in delight, coiling around your ankle as you continue to speak. “The waters have to be…I don’t know, blessed or something?”

Neuvillette tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.

You sigh, gesturing vaguely at the two of them. “Ya know, because Fontainian men are stupidly hot.”

Wriothesley barks out a laugh.

— But then Neuvillette is nudging his thighs apart, and the laugh turns into a moan as Neuvillette sinks unapologetically into his heat.

“Shit.” Wriothesley hisses out, fingers burning hot against your uncovered skin. Neuvillette’s movement jostles you against the duke’s frame, and you squeak.

Neuvillette hums in appreciation. Ears twitching as you curse when he looms over you, brushing the tip of his nose against yours.

You sink further into Wriothesley, who shifts restlessly under the weight of two people.

“Off.” Wriothesley demands, playing with your belt loops. “Driving me insane.” He tugs at your pants, one hand sneakily smoothing its way down your soft belly and towards the fly.

Neuvillette catches his hand, and you let out a low whine.

“Patience, Wriothesley.”

The duke scoffs. “Come on, Chief Justice. Don’t you want to taste her?”

Neuvillette growls lowly in his chest, tail flicking out to curl around Wriothesley’s arm.

You place your hand on Neuvillette’s chest. You push your breasts out ever so slightly, brushing up against his heated skin. The lace tugs at his pert nipple, and his resolve shatters.

The tail uncoils and Wriothesley’s free to move once more.

With one quick flick, your pants are rolling down your hips and flung to the side. Wriothesley’s playful fingers slip underneath the waist band of your underwear, trailing over soft curls, and grazing along your aching slit.

He makes a noise of wonderment, and your mouth opens wide in astonished, electrified, arousal.

But you’re unable to make a single sound as Neuvillette descends upon you, taking hold of your chin and bringing you to his lips.

You gasp out, jerking onto Wriothesley’s fingers by accident, as Neuvillette’s sinfully long tongue wraps itself around yours, stealing the very breath from your lungs.

Your moan is debauched. Wriothesley gasps as Neuvillette thrusts into him in response.

The Iudex continues to kiss you senseless, sucking on your tongue, exploring the cavern of your warm, wet, little mouth. He presses you open, running himself along your tongue and cheeks, licking and teasing you as you struggle to remain upright.

It’s elegantly messy; precise in its sin.

Wriothesley’s moans pepper the air as Neuvillette fucks him lazily, content with making you come undone with his mouth.

You rub yourself against Wriothesley’s fingers, which are still buried in your panties.

He pinches your clit gently, making you jolt in his grasp. You’re so wet it’s making all sane thought disappear, and he nearly combusts when you angle yourself in time with Neuvillette’s thrusts, urging Wriothesley’s fingers deeper into you.

“Ah!”

The sensation is mind numbing. Wriothesley immediately picks up the pace, fucking into you with his fingers, rubbing just so—right over the spongy bit you can never quite reach on your own.

Neuvillette captures your lips once more, without faltering in his stride, and grasps Wriothesley’s ass with bruising force. He tugs the man towards him, further down the bed, and drills into him earnestly.

“Fuck, fuck—sh—”

Wriothesley’s fingers slip out of you as he scrambles to gain footing, sliding down the gossamer sheets as his eyes roll back into his skull.

You also lose your placement. Neuvillette brings one hand up to your panties, tearing through them with a single, manicured, claw, and flips you over in one fluid movement.

Now chest to chest with Wriothesley, your faces are inches apart. Lust filled gazes mirror one another, and you tenderly drag your fingers across his jawline.

Neuvillette snaps into Wriothesley unforgivingly, unclasping your brassiere and tossing it aside as if such actions are effortless and menial.

You’re suddenly reminded of how powerful this dragon is, using you and Wriothesley like playthings.

The duke can barely string a sentence together. His eyes continue to flutter closed, then snap open to drink in your visage. The feeling of your soft, heavy, tits against his pecs has him groaning something fierce, nipples brushing against each other’s as Neuvillette continues to move.

You let out a cry as the Iudex’s firm grip latches onto your hips, yanking your ass up into the air.

“Hold onto our little dove.” He says to Wriothesley, taking the duke’s hand and guiding it to sit right between your shoulder blades.

Wriothesley pulls you flush to him, your back arched and aching as cold air hits your cunt. You shiver in anticipation, then yelp as Neuvillette lifts your bottom half up even higher.

With your shoulders pinned against Wriothesley’s chest, arms and hands tucked beneath you, you’re entirely at Neuvillette’s mercy as he begins to feast on your pussy. Your legs dangle helplessly over his shoulders as he thrusts his tongue deep inside of you, eating you out like a man starved.

You writhe against the awkward position, heat pooling in your gut as you gasp into Wriothesley’s chest. Your knees bend to relieve some of the pressure on your hips, bringing your toes level with Neuvillette’s ears.

They graze them accidentally.

All at once, Neuvillette doubles his efforts. His rhinomphores explode with light before settling into an even glow. He growls against your pussy, running his tongue between your folds and swallowing your arousal. Drool spills from the corner of your lips as you’re overcome by the sensations of Neuvillette’s draconic tongue, sending you spiralling towards your release.

“Holy shit.” Wriothesley exclaims, as he looks up at you with something akin to worship. His voice is still raw and breathy from the way Neuvillette glides into his tight heat, but the duke’s focus is on you.

Neuvillette’s tongue dips obscenely deep, kissing your womb as he slurps on your essence, lips never ceasing even as his tongue draws in and out, flicking over your little pearl, before diving right back in.

The Iudex, so utterly besotted by your taste, momentarily slows his rutting.

And the unhurried pace is so much worse.

Because not only can Wriothesley pay close attention to the beautiful, fucked out, expressions you’re making—it also makes every ridge and every vein on Neuvillette’s cock feel just that much more visceral. Just that much more tangible.

Like Wriothesley can’t tell where he ends and Neuvillette begins.

He lets out a hoarse cry as Neuvillette’s cock bullies his prostate in a torturous fashion, pressure so fleeting Wriothesley has half a mind to yank on Neuvillette’s hair in retaliation.

Instead, because Wriothesley knows he’d be punished for that small act, he brings a hand to your chin. Your eyes are screwed shut, mouth hanging open as pretty little sounds fall from your lips.

He tilts your head up, mindful of the already taxing position you’re in, and devours you.

His lips muffle your broken wail.

Wriothesley brushes his mouth over yours in quick reprieve, only to spring upon you once more. He pries your lips open with his tongue, flicking it teasingly over your palate, nipping at your lips and pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your jaw when you break away for air.

Again and again Wriothesley consumes you, sampling you, making you see stars as you squirm and kick out helplessly against the onslaught your pussy is also receiving. Your moans pitch impossibly higher, louder, as you ride Neuvillette’s face, squealing as sinful squelches deafen those in the room.

Wriothesley has the audacity to laugh against your mouth, but your whines only spur Neuvillette on further.

Your hands curl and you begin to tremble. With a shrill cry, you squirt over Neuvillette’s waiting tongue—your fluids dripping down his chin and to his chest, where they run in rivulets. He laps at your sweet little cunny until your moans become teary, and you’re shoving a hand behind you to push him away, delirious.

The Iudex doesn’t release you.

With a devilish grin, and a plan half-formed out of pity, Wriothesley’s hand darts down to his own neglected dick. Neuvillette’s other cock glides against it with every shallow thrust.

A single, exploratory tap on the head. Neuvillette’s erection bobs.

You whine exhaustedly.

Wriothesley wraps his large, calloused hand around his own weeping dick and Neuvillette’s straining cock.

He tugs; twice, quickly, three times, shuddering at the way Neuvillette’s shaft feels against his own—warm and heavy. His breath hitches as he feels his orgasm building.

Until Neuvillette is growling, and you’re thrown onto the bed while the Iudex pins Wriothesley’s hands over his head.

Bingo.

Neuvillette’s face glisten with your arousal, and the sight does wonders for Wriothesley’s libido.

“You have to earn your release, Wriothesley.” Neuvillette’s tongue flickers out over the duke’s cheek.

Wriothesley’s grin falters only slightly, and Neuvillette’s chest is rumbling with something akin to laughter.

“I’m pretty sure I have,” he answers. His nonchalant response is betrayed by the way his voice trembles.

Neuvillette’s tail taps Wriothesley’s ankles in disagreement. He looks to the side in consideration.

“Little dove,” Neuvillette murmurs, tone even and gentle, but broking no argument. “Come to me.”

He sits back on his knees, studying you like you’re his most prized possession.

Not a hair is out of place, even as your cum drips from his face.

You stare at him dazedly, before registering the size of both of his dicks—that are now poised before you.

That was inside of Wriothesley? You gape, settling on your own knees in front of him.

Tenderly, Neuvillette holds your cheeks in his large hands. A finger swipes over your bottom lip, and he dips his head down to render you speechless with another scorching kiss.

You don’t care that you can taste yourself on his tongue.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, maneuvering you to straddle Wriothesley once more.

As you settle over the duke’s waist, you face Neuvillette. He cups your chin, unfurling his fingers to stretch over the expanse of your throat. His eyes dart over your shoulder to Wriothesley.

You can’t see it, but you’re positive he’s grinning.

You feel his hands on your ass. “My turn,” he says, yanking your cunt up to his face.

You jerk away. “Hold on, I just—ah!”

Two fingers slip into you with little resistance. You clench around him, and you hear him curse under his breath.

“Next time,” Neuvillette purrs, “I will have the privilege of preparing you.” His eyes flash something dangerous as your expression skews in pleasure.

“I’ve been telling you to trim your nails,” Wriothesley gripes. “But no, you gotta make me do all the work.”

Neuvillette’s tail thumps against the sheets. “You would have me deny myself the pleasure of seeing you spread around your own fingers?”

You laugh as Wriothesley stutters out something unintelligible. You can feel how flustered he is as his whole body warms in response to Neuvillette’s explanation.

“Now,” Neuvillette coos, rising to his knees, “shall we?”

You peer up at his cocks, including the one that was in Wriothesley. Neuvillette guides you forward, still holding your chin. “But—”

“It’s safe.” Wriothesley assures you, as if unaffected by the slick that drips down his hands as he fingers you. “Monsieur has a neat trick.”

Neuvillette chuffs, tail swishing in agitation. “A barrier,” the Iudex elaborates, “of hydro. It acts as a cleansing lubricant.”

“So, a magical dragon condom, is it?” You lilt.

Wriothesley smacks your ass, snorting. You yelp at the sting.

“Enough,” Neuvillette coaxes the head of the first cock into your mouth, leaving you scrambling to catch hold of the dragon’s powerful thighs. He doesn’t thrust, not yet, just stills as he becomes accustomed to the heat of your mouth—and your jaw to his thickness.

You start to drool around the intrusion, gagging only once before you begin to move on your own.

Neuvillette’s second dick is heavy against your cheek. You can’t fit all of the first one into your mouth, so you use your hand to massage the base of his shaft.

His cocks kick and dribble, causing you to moan out. The weight of him, the scent of musk and the taste of salt, has your legs trembling. You try to close your thighs together, wanting to rub yourself, but Wriothesley is having none of it.

He holds your legs open wider, redoubling his efforts in prepping you. His mouth joins his fingers—and while his tongue is nowhere near as long as Neuvillette’s, it’s ridiculously naughty.

Wriothesley has you moaning like a whore within moments, quirking his fingers and spitting directly onto your clit, licking a long stripe over his own buried fingers, up your weeping slit, and to your nub.

He rolls it around in his mouth, adding a third finger to your cunny at the same time, and you keen around Neuvillette’s dick.

The vibrations make the venerated Chief Justice sigh out in pleasure.

But it’s not enough.

Neuvillette captures your other hand in his and leads it to his remaining cock. Soon enough, your mouth is stuffed full, jaw aching even as you bob, hands stroking and twisting in a way that has the great and powerful Iudex groaning.

He gathers your hair behind your head, using the leverage to direct you. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t force, but it has you gasping nonetheless.

You gaze up at Neuvillette with wide, teary eyes—mouth stretched thin over the expanse of his shaft. It has his forked tongue flicking out eagerly, tasting the arousal in the air.

You blink, batting your lashes as his thrusts go from shallow to deep, slow to fast, and you squirm in Wriothesley’s hold.

The duke adds a fourth finger, and your brows launch upwards in surprise. But your thinking becomes muddled, synapses firing off in animalistic pleasure, as Neuvillette bucks against you. Spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, slobbering over his length.

When Wriothesley adds his thumb, that’s when you push against Neuvillette’s legs, searching for oxygen.

The Iudex draws backwards, hand still holding your hair away from your face, as your tits heave while you suck in a breath. A lewd string of saliva connects your lips to the head of Neuvillette’s cock, and your hands continue to fondle both.

“Good girl,” he encourages you, stroking your cheek.

You’re a flushed, sweaty mess, lips tingling and core on fire.

Wriothesley trembles beneath you as you swing yourself around to face him. His drenched hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down for an urgent kiss, gasping against your skin as his hips buck upwards.

His cock slides against your wet pussy so effortlessly, like it was made for him. He thrusts up, parting your folds with even strokes as you hump against him.

Neuvillette makes himself known by bringing a firm hand down on your ass.

Your mind goes blank and you whine into Wriothesley’s mouth. He responds in kind, moaning as you continue to rock against him, the head of his dick catching on your opening every time you angle your hips.

Wriothesley jolts with a shameless moan.

“Fuck, please.” The duke begs. It takes you a moment to realize that Neuvillette has his hand around Wriothesley’s cock, and he’s tugging on it mercilessly.

You surge down anyways, despite the intrusion, and rub yourself against Neuvillette’s hand. “Monsieur,” you urge breathlessly. “I need one of you in me.”

Rhinomphores flicker with light, and Wriothesley is cursing your name.

Wriothesley wraps his arms tight around your back, trapping your arms and pressing you seamlessly to his chest. You hardly have a moment to reorient yourself before Wriothesley is burying himself to the hilt inside of you.

You cry out, throwing your head back as he pistons into you, not once allowing you to grow accustomed to his size or pace. Your strangled whimpers only serve to turn him on, breathless as you are in his ear.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He circles his arms around you even tighter, hiding his face in your hair. His ragged moans send you hurtling to the edge as his balls slap against your pussy.

Every squelch and snap of his hips sends you babbling with ecstasy, delving into you deep and kissing at your womb. It’s the sort of pleasure-pain that sets your nerves on fire, and you can’t keep your hips from bouncing on top of his cock.

You both set a fast pace; Wriothesley’s eyes roll back into his skull, and you mouth desperately at the apex of his throat. You drag your teeth across his collar bones and bite down on his shoulder, silencing your shameless whimpers in his skin.

Wriothesley runs one hand down your spine, grinding into your heat like a madman. He swats at your ass once, before sinking his fingers into the pillowy flesh there, grabbing and pulling, and showing off your holes to Neuvillette.

As you pant and writhe in Wriothesley’s arms, Neuvillette situates himself between the duke’s spread legs. You perch so sweetly on the man’s dick, singing like the little dove you are, that Neuvillette can’t help himself.

He presses against your already stuffed cunt with the head of a leaking cock. You whip your head up, startled, still unsure as to how his size will fit inside you—let alone alongside Wriothesley.

Neuvillette brushes a hand over your lower back. “Do not worry,” he hushes your whimpers and moans. You leak all over Wriothesley’s shaft. The duke’s hips meet yours with wet slaps, never once ceasing in their movement.

Neuvillette rolls his hips forward, breaching your hole gently, pressing against your walls as he shares the space with Wriothesley.

“Sh—iit.” The duke whines, toes curling as Neuvillette splits you open around the two of them. It’s enough to have him seeing stars. You convulse on the spot, arching your back as you begin to squirt. Neuvillette’s other dick rests in the cleft of your ass, rocking against you as it throbs to the sound of your cries.

You quiver and tremble, each contraction of your pussy wrenching an ah, ah, ah, from your lips.

Neuvillette presses his chest against your back in quick succession. You can feel it vibrate against you as he rumbles and growls. He pushes you down into Wriothesley, who clenches his teeth at the delicious pressure.

The duke, with searching hands and needy fingers, explores your body. He rocks into you, in, out, in, out, in time with Neuvillette. The Iudex buries his face in the nape of your neck, mouthing at the skin there, teasing the flesh with teeth just a tad too sharp.

It leaves you shivering.

They fill you so completely.

As you let yourself drift in the aftershocks of your release, you quickly tumble into overstimulation. It has you clenching around the two men with a vengeance, who react with their own exclamations.

Wriothesley’s own muffled moans mingle with yours. Neuvillette’s tail flicks out to the right, sending a lamp crashing to the ground, but no one cares as he drives into you with a near animalistic pace.

He’s digging his claws in Wriothesley’s ass, yanking him forward as he pounds into you. The duke merely clutches at the sheets above his head, relishing in the way his cock drags against the ridges of Neuvillette’s.

Your mouth drops open as another orgasm creeps up on you. You’re a slave to their pretty cocks, clenching and arching your back. The scent of sex and sweat is intoxicating, and you feel drunk off your high.

“F—can’t.” Wriothesley croaks with a sharp intake of breath. His nails rake down your sides as he staves of his own release. “Monsieur.”

Holy shit. Your eyes go wide. Permission. He’s asking for permission.

You writhe and whimper, peering down at his dishevelled expression. His pupils are blown so wide they’ve swallowed his iris.

Your cunt pulsates. Wriothesley’s skin erupts in goosebumps.

Neuvillette leans forward, pushing you back down. He braces his hands on either side of Wriothesley’s head.

“You’ve done well,” the Iudex praises, face flushed. The hard tip of his cock presses your cervix, running over the vein on Wriothesley’s as he ruts against you.

You collapse against Wriothesley, sandwiched between the two of them. Neuvillette’s chest is plastered to your clammy back, and Wriothesley’s mumbles curses from beneath you.

As Neuvillette continues to pound into you, fusing himself to your forms and drilling himself into your tight little hole, Wriothesley shouts out hoarsely. He spasms inside you, painting your insides white.

Neuvillette’s tail curls around your legs, pining you both in place as he rolls his hips against yours. Wriothesley is squirming from the same intense overstimulation you’re swimming in, but as Neuvillette finally, finally, bites down on your neck, you tumble over the edge one final time.

Tears stream down your face at the deliciously painful sensation. Wriothesley is reaching for Neuvillette’s hands, trying to get him to let up, but the Chief Justice has other plans.

As Neuvillette sinks down deep, filling you whole, his body trembles. He thrusts into you twice more before the base of his cock starts to swell. The stretch is magnificent, and it has you howling against Wriothesley’s chest.

As the Iudex reaches his peak, your cunt is flooded by cum. It spurts and dribbles out and around their cocks, soaking the sheets below you. Neuvillette hisses as you clench once more, determined to milk him dry.

The cock resting against your ass kicks twice before exploding over your back.

Wriothesley can’t form words.

Neither can you, as you flop bonelessly to the side when Neuvillette gingerly pulls out.

No one speaks for a long moment, too busy trying to catch their breaths.

Then, in typical, elegant, fashion, Neuvillette leans over the two of you, pressing a chaste kiss to each of your temples.

He slips off the bed and pads towards the washroom, looking none the worse for wear, in search of fresh towels.

In the quiet moment that follows, Wriothesley, who is somewhat more put together than you, rolls onto his side. He cups your cheek with a palm, brushing his thumb over the dried tear tracks in hushed awe.

You blink at him, shivering. Your breathing is still irregular and he’s pulling you to his side immediately. “You did good,” he murmurs, pressing his nose to your hair. “Real good. Thank you.”

You curl up into his embrace, entrance sore and leaking. “I think I’ll need to call in to work.” You mutter darkly, startling a laugh out of him. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“You are most welcome to rest here,” Neuvillette surprises the two of you with his even timbre. “For as long as you need.” He lays a towel on the edge of the bed, gently lifting you to sit on it.

When you wince, he smooths a hand over your hair and coos at you. “I’ve filled the tub. I will change the sheets while you both bathe.”

Wriothesley stumbles off the bed, legs like a newborn fawn. He straightens with a snort as Neuvillette steadies him by the elbow, and then they both extend a hand to you.

You stare up at them, smiling at Wriothesley’s gorgeously unkempt state, and Neuvillette’s ever present, reliable, composure—then take their hands.

this is part of a two-shot. 1st chp is build up, 2nd is the smut. link here!

Chapter Text

Day 4: Flins (Prompt: Voyeurism + Oral)

CW: voyeuristic ghosts & spirits, exhibitionism, cunnilingus, non-penetrative sex, clothed sex, intersex reader (man born with a vagina, not written specifically as transgender--although if this works as rep. for you, yay!!!), cuntboy as a tag for all you heathens lol, gender neutral pronouns (however fem. language used to describe genitalia--clit, pussy, etc., and some masc. descriptions for voice + body hair), pubic hair, hair pulling, edging, momentary use of spit, pornography, erotic literature, sexual discovery + awakening, improper use of electro (electricity play??), spoilers for Flins' character stories, voice lines & anecdotes, drabble/bullet point form, varka as wingman, mention of the word whore.

The first time Flins saw you, his mind wandered.

Not in his typical fashion, mind you, where he dissociated when uncomfortable, or forced to socialize.

His mind wandered in a way that gave him pause.

Because his thoughts ventured to the things he’d like to do to you. With you. Not all thoughts wholly lewd, but often lending themselves to an intimacy Flins has never really known.

Varka notices his lingering stares, the way Flins brushes up against you with a tad too much familiarity.

It surprises Varka at first, not knowing Flins was capable of that type of connection—that type of want.

So, when Flins remains impassive, failing to act on his desires, Varka brings it up.

“Why aren’t you going after them?” He asks.

Flins just blinks. “After whom?”

“That special friend of yours.”

Flins raises his lantern, peering out into the gloom to study Varka’s expression. “Have they committed a crime of some sort?”

Varka blinks this time. “What? No.”

“Then why am I to ‘go after them’ if they have done nothing to warrant such action?”

Archons, was this dude for real? Did Flins not realize how much of a horndog he was for you?

Varka drags a hand over his face. “Ha.” He retorts dryly. “Surely, you’re joking.”

“Is there humour in this line of questioning?” Flins tilts his head like a lost puppy, inquiring genuinely.

Varka sighs. “No. No. Just. Ugh.” He waves the Lightkeeper goodbye and starts the trek back to Nasha town. “Just, find me at the flagship tomorrow. I’ll have some materials for you.”

The next day, Flins makes the trip to flagship. Varka sits at a booth tucked far into the back, away from prying eyes. He nurses a Roulette Special. On the table in front of him sits a stack of books, by appearance Mondstadt bound, and films from Fontaine.

There are…a lot of them.

Flins slides into the booth across from Varka. The Grand Master pushes a Snezhnayan Spitfire towards him.

Flins indulges in it with delight, perking up in such a minuscule fashion that most would swear there was no shift in his expression—but Varka knows better.

“Read the books first,” Varka tells him, downing the last of his cups. His lips pucker slightly at brine--rotten luck on that one--and then rakes a hand through his hair. “Watch the films afterwards.”

Flins smiles genially. “And this would be for…?”

“Educational purposes.” The man dodges the question. Flins has been dealing with humans for many years. He knows when someone is lying.

“Varka.”

“Hup, puh, puh-” the man interjects with a strange vocalization. “Just trust me. Go through this stuff, and think of that friend of yours while you’re at it. See how it makes you feel.”

Flins levels him with a cool look, pleasant smile still on his face. His lantern creaks against his side, flickering with a supernatural flame. “What does this have to do with my companion?”

Varka, at last, cracks a grin. Companion, huh?  “Oh. I dare say this will be rather enlightening for you.”

It takes a few days, but Flins gets through all the material. At first, he’s aghast that Varka would hand him such lecherous paraphernalia. But as the days wear on, and Flins becomes just the slightest bit more curious about why Varka said to think of you—he notices a flush on his cheeks.

He’s sorted through all the…literary recommendations. And while a few certainly intrigued him, he didn’t feel any sort of compulsion, even when thinking of you.

Of course, Flins realizes that out of all humans, he regards you highest. He shares with you all the stories of old, more than once lulling you to sleep by the light of his fire, and lets you partake in his trips to Nasha town unperturbed. Flins has spent hours with you, just pouring over the tomes in the Lightkeepers’ library, huddled together as the days grow dark.

The ghosts keep the two of you constant company, meandering as they like through the halls, passing through stone and vanishing without a trace—their gazes a familiar weight.

They seem to like you, at the very least, and have never given you undue trouble.

Try as you might, you can never truly make the spirits as tangible as Flins can, be he admires your determination and consideration for the departed regardless.

It is at night, then, that Flins is truly in his element. And while he does not have much need for sleep, he knows you do, and his heart strums a funny tune when you deem him safe enough to rest by. He feels honoured by your trust, feels happiest when you are within reach—heart set alight by the gleam in your eyes and the smell of your hair.

Flins exhales. The smell of your hair? …Why would he care for such a thing?

He shakes his head, setting aside the film he had meant to watch tonight. He places it on the table, one situated deep within the library archives in the cemetery, and beside it lies an ornate box.

You had picked it up for him on one of your many journeys across the nations. The fact you had thought of him upon seeing it, with its black steel casing and inner padding of amethyst velvet, made his chest squeeze ever so tight.

A strange reaction on his part, he had initially noted. Flins had thought it cursed when he first took it from your hands, but as the days wore on, and no fae trickery was to be found, he only grew more puzzled by the way he had felt.

Wordlessly, Flins discards his jacket and hangs it up. The lantern is dim despite the hour, and he feels no pull of the hunt. Satisfied that he would have a moment to himself, he pops the film into the projector and leans against the table. There aren’t many cushioned seats, something you’ve complained about more than once, but Flins has little need for comfort in the library.

You have also complained about his stance on this. “Libraries are supposed to be comfortable!” He remembers you admonishing. The ghosts had scattered as you scolded him, peeking through shelves and dark corners to watch the drama unfold.

“I find little need for comfort when I am the only one to grace these halls,” he had reminded you. Then corrects himself with a contemplative look. “Hm. Rather, I was.”

He hummed in thought, staring at you. He hadn’t realized how intense his gaze was until you were shuffling on your feet awkwardly, popping one of the tomes back in place, and scampering off to town with a promise of returning in a day or two.

The spirits float about him, up and down, up and down, swaying as if teasing. Maybe they agree with you. Maybe it was time for something soft.

When you show up next, it’s with a pillow. Flins has a love for dark things, so he was quite pleased that you took his taste into consideration. The pillow was relatively small, suitable as a throw, and was a rich, indigo, velour. You place it on the stone bench, the one pressed up against the chilly exterior wall, just behind the granite table, and plop down onto it.

The ghosts seem to gather around it, swooshing by out of curiosity, giving it a spectral poke to mess with you. You always wave them off with a scoff, but Flins catches the grin on your face, batting them away like mischievous sprites.

When you’re not around, Flins does find himself gravitating towards it. He prefers to hold it on his lap, breathing in the scent of you.

Again, his mind stalls. The scent of you? What a preposterous—

A loud moan from the projector startles him from his thoughts. Gazing at the screen impassively, he’s surprised by the unfamiliar stirring in his gut. The person on the screen looks a bit like you. With the way their hair frames their face, the colour of it, even the way they hold themselves—it takes Flins a minute to gather himself. The person leans against a shelf, pants down around their ankles as their partner-

-Flins braces himself against the table, fingers flexing around stone. Their partner, not dissimilar to himself, kneels on the ground behind them, pressing their face to their most intimate areas.

A ghost drifts by. He shuts off the film.

He clears his throat, heat rising to his face. He understands it is in human nature to lay with each other carnally, but he has never been tempted to partake in such ventures.

But now he’s picturing you, with your lips parted so prettily, legs braced against the table he’s leaning against as he settles beneath you—

Flins breathes out sharply, shaking his head. No. No, this wouldn’t do. Flins exits the library.

When the door shuts, the projector flickers back on.

A number of days later, and people are noticing that Flins seems…out of sorts. Naturally, Varka picks up on it first. He has yet to drop that irritating smirk from his face, and it’s fraying at Flins’ seemingly unending patience.

They’re at the flagship. Varka’s long since stopped talking, watching as Flins sits with a small frown on his face. His Spitfire remains untouched and that is enough to have Varka worried.

“Don’t think about it too hard,” the Grand Master nudges. “Look, Lightkeeper, I didn’t mean to throw you for that hard of a loop. I’ve noticed that you like being around them, more than anyone else really—”

Flins glances up. "I greatly prefer your company as well, Varka. To that of other people.”

Varka holds up his hands in surrender. “Whoa, whoa, okay, sure.” He acquiesces. “We get along great, but I don’t think you’d want to do the things in those films with me. You know?”

Flins thinks for a moment, then purses his lips. His hand shoots out and grabs Varka by the collar. Flins heaves him halfway across the table before he’s slotting his lips over the Grand Master’s, leaving the Varka positively stunned when Flins pulls away.

Varka’s still blinking as the Lightkeeper heads to the exit with an unhurried pace, hand to his chin as if lost in thought.

“Nothing,” Flins murmurs to himself, breezing by the spirits that float along his isle. He heads for the archives, descending deep beneath the lighthouse. He remembers the stirring in his gut as he imagined himself with you, pressing mind-numbing kisses to your lips as they did in those adult films.

When he had hypothesized it as a fluke, and that perhaps he had spent so long amongst humans that he had succumbed to some of their more immoral traits, he had tried to recreate that feeling with Varka.

But nothing. Not Varka’s lips, or his scent, nor the feel of his skin beneath Flins’ fingertips was enough to set him on fire like it did with you.

Flins hums. Perhaps Varka had been right. Perhaps things are different with you, and Varka had been attempting to help him sort out his yearning by sharing the most ridiculous array of erotica Flins had ever seen.

He pauses for a moment. Where had Varka even gotten his hands on such things? The taste range was…eclectic, if it was truly the Grand Master’s personal collection.

Flins shakes his head. It matters not. What does matter is that he needs to see you. To test whether this connection he felt was indeed something deeper, or passing lust seemingly only triggered by your presence.

A few more days pass, and Flins is glancing up at the ruckus you’re making by the entrance of the lighthouse. He had been polishing his allotment of gems, well into the evening, basking in the company of the stray you seem to like so much.

Flins straightens as you walk towards him, watching as you dip once to scratch behind the dog’s—who you’ve named butterball—ear as he bounds over to you. You coo at the pup gently, and Flins smooths out his expression when he notices himself start to smile.

It has been a fortnight since he saw you last.

You throw your adventurer’s bag onto the bench, collapsing onto it with a wry grin. You kick at Flins’ boots in greeting, as he’s resumed varnishing his trinkets.

He glances at you, wiping away the oil from his gloves with a cloth. He turns and regards you with a raised brow. You hold out a coin. Your palms and arms are littered with scars from your adventures. The sight always warms his belly.

“Here. From some ruins in Inazuma.” The veins in your forearms flex with the movement.

Flins practically preens. His eyes shine with intrigue as he gently takes the offering, flipping it over between his fingers and holding it up against his lantern for better viewing.

“Beautiful. I’ve not seen anything quite like it.” He exclaims in that even, dulcet tone of his. He glances down at you, noticing the way your chest hair peeks out above the low-cut collar of your shirt. You give him a lopsided smirk, lips stretching around your teeth.

Immediately, Flins’ face colours. He stuffs the coin into his pocket with a polite cough, shaking the images of Varka’s porn from his thoughts. Lips just like yours, wrapped around his—

He clears his throat again, waving you off gently as you grip his elbow in concern.

“I didn’t know you could even get sick.” You muse.

“I am well enough, thank you.” Flins sends you a small smile, the strange heat still unfurling in his gut. To distract himself, he grabs your bags and invites you inside.

A short time later, and you’re sitting on your pillow in the corner, lounging with a leg draped over your knee. Flins stopped pretending to read his own scroll some hours past, preferring instead to study you.

Every time you wrinkle your nose or raise your brows—any time your lips twitch at something interesting; the way you peer up at him beneath your lashes to ask him for clarification…if Flins were any less disciplined, he would have cracked a long, long, time ago.

You stand up and stretch, shutting your tome and placing it on the table. Your shirt rides up ever so slightly, revealing a happy trail that leaves very little to the imagination.

Flins bangs his knee against the table, biting back a curse.

You jump at the noise, then snort. “What’s with you?”

You brace yourself against the table, ass up on the ledge, putting enough pressure on your skin that your thighs splay ever so slightly.

Flins wrenches his gaze away.

“Hm. Varka did say you’ve been acting odd.” You tilt your head at him.

Ancients damn that man.

Flins’ gaze roams over your figure. “Are you that concerned for my well being?” He asks quietly, settling next to you. He’s close enough that he could entwine your fingers if he so wished, but he’s content simply being within your proximity.


For now.


You bump your shoulder against his. “I always am.” You answer his query plainly.

It catches him off guard. Humans were always forming bonds; always creating pacts like simplistic tundra animals, worrying for their chosen few.

Flins feels quite pleased to be included in your inner circle, if this is the case.

He knows the two of you are companions, ‘dearest friends’, he had once heard you say—but did dear friends truly wish to bury themselves deep within—

He breathes out sharply through his nose.

“Flins?” The way you murmur his name has both his head and heart in disarray.

A beat of silence.

“There is no need to worry,” he responds evenly, kindly.

Still with your arm pressed against his, palm flat on the table behind you, you lean into his space. “You really do seem unusually out of sorts.” You frown. “Is something wrong? Is it the Wild Hunt?”

“No. No.” He quickly assures you, “Nothing of that ilk. I am merely…” he drifts off, searching for a way out of the conversation. Individuals of his kind cannot lie. And while he has learned to spin pretty yarn with his words, leading especially prying humans astray—he’d really rather be honest with you.

And that’s why, when you press him, Flins crumbles like a krumkakke.

“Merely?” You wait patiently.

Flins turns to you fully, gloved hand spread carefully next to yours. As he faces you, he notices the way your pupils dilate.

An interesting observation that has him a little more confident that you will be receptive to what he has to say.

“Varka has brought something to my attention.” Flins begins, watching you drink in his words. The slight crease of concern is still there, between your brows, but you let him continue. “He has provided me with certain, hm, materials. For research.”

Moon Goddess help him, Varka would be pissing himself with laughter right now.

Yet you nod along.

“I had come up with a theory.” Flins fingers inch closer to yours. “I tested it with the Grand Master in hopes to disprove what he was suggesting, but I fear he was right.’

“And what was it he was suggesting?” Your forehead wrinkles in thought. Flins’ pulse quickens, but he merely shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Rather than explaining, could I, perhaps…?” He trails off, finally plucking up the courage to reach out and cup your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut, momentarily, at the soft touch. Then, you suck in a breath.

“This may be improper, however—” Flins fits his palm under your chin and tilts your head up.

Only for you to close the gap and slot your hot, yearning mouth over his. He stutters out a near-silent groan, sacrilege in the quiet of his library, and immediately bends you over the table.

His tongue dances with yours, lips all consuming as he tastes you for the first time. Fire races along his spine, hair standing up at the base of his neck when you make a small noise in the back of your throat. He presses you against the cold stone, aching with need as you thread your fingers in his hair, scratching at his scalp.

As you pull away for breath, a strand of saliva connects your lips. You go scarlet, but the flash in Flins’ eyes makes the blood run hot in your veins.

He rests one hand on your waist, a gentlemanly distance away from anywhere too scandalous, even as he looms over you.

“Oh.” He says in a small voice. “Very different indeed.”

A ghost floats over head.

You peer up at him with wide eyes, chest heaving. His lips still tingled from where they collided messily with yours.

This could not be further from what he experienced with Varka.

No fire in his chest, no live wire in his skin—no sensation of being touched by the ancients themselves, making roost in his chest as his heart danced in time to their mighty drums.

Things are different, with you.

Varka had been right.

With a doe-like gaze, you’re reaching out for him again. You cup the back of his neck, bringing him down hungrily. You pry his mouth open with your tongue, swallowing his grunt of surprise, urging him to touch you as you fall against the table. Your back hits the cold stone with a thump, but Flins’ hands are already cradling your head.

He licks into your mouth with desperate urgency, flicking his tongue over your palate, relishing in the way you exhale a stifled whimper.

Timidly, you spread your legs. The heat of your core ruts up against Flins’ abdomen. One hand flies down to pin your hips to the table, and he pulls away from your lips with a gentle murmur of your name.

Your hair is a mess, lips swollen and spit slick as he gazes down at you. His pants feel painfully tight, and his mind is consumed by images of the erotic Fontainian films he’d been having late night trysts with.

“There are,” he takes a breath, steadying himself over you, “a few more things I’d like to test. If you are amicable?” He murmurs in your ear, nosing at your jaw with an incredible gentleness so at odds with the grip he has on your waist.

You chuckle breathlessly, incredulously, “Just a few more things?”

He hums delightedly, hair slipping from his shoulders to bracket you. Flins himself is a shroud; golden eyes glimmering like the moon, skin like clouds.

He absently grinds himself into your heat, making you both gasp out.

He backs away hurriedly, whispering apologies into your hair. Before he can pull from you completely, you wrap your legs around his waist, dragging him in with enough force that he lets out a startled oomph, slamming his hands down onto the table to keep himself from crashing into you.

Eyes in walls peer at you both from all directions.

Gently, he extricates himself from your grip, pushing down on your thighs until you fully release him.

Slowly, he sinks to his knees, guiding you with a firm grip to flip over onto your stomach.

Your cheek rests against the cool of the tabletop, your hips level with his face.

“I’ve learned many new things,” Flins whispers into the quiet of the room, ever aware of the spirits’ presence. His hands find your waist, then drift lower, and lower, over the curve of your ass to wrap around your thighs. His fingers are just inches away from your heat.

“Oh?” You answer him in kind, voice hushed, marvelling at the reverent touch.

Dark forms flicker out of the corner of his eye.

“I should like to try-.” He catches himself, changes direction with his words. “If you would allow me to, I would-.”

A spectre fades into the wall behind you, but you pay it no mind as you reach for his hands, yanking his gloves off.

“Archons,” you groan, “Just touch me already.”

Flins chuckles, ducking beneath your gaze as his shoulders begin to shake with mirth.

“Are you seriously laughing at me right now?” You squawk, eyes bright and amused.

“Apologies, o phile,” he runs his bare fingers under your shirt, tracing lines on your abdomen as he plays with your buckle. “I am simply overwhelmed.”

You push up on your elbows, glancing down at him as he rests on his knees, gaze focused on the dip of your waist. You can’t see much of him over the edge of the table, but you reach down to smooth a hand over his hair regardless.

“Too much, too fast?”

Flins nudges your legs apart, making quick work of your belt and zipper. “On the contrary,” he murmurs, “I think I’ve been waiting to taste you for far too long.”

His svelte tone sends a shiver up your spine, and a pulse of need straight to your core.

Your fingers tighten in his locks, and he stiffens momentarily.

Before he’s yanking your pants down to your ankles with little ceremony.

You let out a noise of surprise; the hand not buried in Flins’ hair going white-knuckled around the table’s edge. You feel his warm breath run over your skin, goosebumps raising in its wake.

His large hands smooth themselves up the back of your thighs, inching underneath the hem of your underwear. Flins pulls teasingly at the band, letting it snap back to place.

He hums in delight. Even better than the films, he decides, witnessing the way your skin blooms pink from the impact.

You shift again, straining on your tiptoes as you rest against the tabletop. You jerk in surprise when you notice a spectral form resting against the bench nearest to you, observing.

“Flins.” You try your hardest not to whimper at his devoted touch. He runs his hands up your legs, to your hips, and down to rest over your clothed core. He takes his thumbs and presses in, spreading your lips ever so gently, right over your panties.

The pressure is fleeting, but it has you leaking.

Another burst of movement comes from your left, and you watch a spectre fade through the wall. Eyes blink on mortar, and you’re tugging on Flins’ hair again.

He groans up at you, breathily.

“Should we—ah—should we really be doing this here?” You twitch as his thumb brushes your clit. It sends a bolt of liquid fire to your gut, and your fingers clench around granite. “Fu—” you gasp, “where they can watch?”

Flins shifts slightly, moving so he can poke his head out from underneath the table. Two golden orbs peer up at you, nonplused.

“The spirits pay us no serious mind,” he assures you gently. “Most are trapped in their own cyclical memories, unable to interact with our world. They are echoes,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your heated skin. He places tender kisses to your inner thighs, glancing up at you from between your legs. “There is no true cause for worry.”

You bite your lip, pupils blown wide as he ducks back beneath the table, disappearing from your sight.

“However, if you are uncomfortable, I will stop.” You hear him offer.

But your nails are already scratching absently at his scalp. Gently, you direct his hands back to your entrance.

You feel Flins’ rumble of satisfaction against your thigh. He squeezes the flesh there, smattering hot, open-mouthed kisses to the spot behind your knee, trailing his lips up, up, up—until his nose is buried between your folds.

“Shit.” Even through the thin barrier of cloth, his tongue feels like heaven.

Like a man starved, Flins’ hands fly up to grip at your ass with bruising force, jerking you down onto his mouth.

Your taste is like nothing he has ever experienced. Rich, heady, and downright intoxicating.

He lets out a muffled moan, the vibrations racing along your clit and clawing up your spine with delicious ferocity. It leaves you gasping against the table, knees buckling as he mouths at you over your underwear.

Flins’ fingers dart beneath the band around your waist, tugging it down as he continues to suckle on you through your panties.

He can’t bring himself to part from you right away, and it’s only when you whine that he pulls back, panting, peeling the damp and sticky underwear from your lips and down your legs.

A wet spot graces the silky fabric, right in the centre. Strands of arousal dangle from your cunt, dripping ever-so-slowly from your labia to the stone floor.

Flins’ mouth salivates.

With your encouraging hand in his hair, Flins’ delves right in.

His big, gentle hands rub against the fine hairs of your upper thighs, smoothing up and over your mound, through your thick curls, to spread your lips once more.

Your cunt flutters when his breath hits your entrance. It beads with pearlescent arousal, slick trickling down his wrists.

Quickly, his hands shift. His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass once more as he fully kneels beneath you, pulling you into place.

All at once, he urges your hips downward, grinding you against his face as he laps at your slit, teeth grazing your precious little nub.

You moan, low and dark, rutting up against his lips, spreading your wetness across his chin and the tip of his nose.

Your hips undulate mindlessly. And Flins, so gratified by your flavour, wraps his arms around your legs and buries his mouth between your folds.

He parts you with his tongue, licking a long, powerful stripe all the way up your aching cunt, pulling your clit into his mouth with a decadent slurp.

He suckles on you, saliva mixing with the mess of your arousal, drenching the bottom half of his face as you shake and quiver.

“Fuck, fuck,” you grip his hair hard, “right there-ah!”

He traces mindless shapes on your clit, kissing and nibbling along your inner thighs when he feels you drip—teasing you, edging you, as he draws out your pleasure.

His tongue dips into your clenching hole, and you yank on his hair. A beautiful, muffled, moan falls from his lips—and you tremble as his voice wafts over your pussy.

Your moans pepper the air as he noses at your labia, tongue jutting out with kitten-licks as he explores you, surrendering himself to your warm, wet, cavern. He presses you open, running himself along your slit, diving into you with a white-knuckled grip on the flesh of your ass.

Flins heaves in a breath, drowning in your inebriating scent, gasping as if he’s run for eons.

All sane thought disappears as he pushes your right knee up, over his shoulder, placing a hand on the small of your back from between your legs to push you flat against the table.

It opens you up to him like a flower.

With one more adjustment, Flins has your whole leg braced on the edge of the table.

He hums in wonderment, hand trailing up and down the expanse of your calf, your thigh, to the apex in which his treasure awaits.

The spirits peer out at you, watching as their keeper feasts on your pussy with wild abandon, hidden amongst their shelves and darkened corners.

Your heart squeezes in your chest. So many eyes on you, and yet…

You feel your cunt pulse. An involuntary curse falls from your still-swollen lips. The sensation of Flins’ mouth on you is mind numbing.

He could fuck you stupid with his tongue, at this rate.

Sweat beads along your skin, runs in rivulets down your legs even as Flins contents himself with eating you out.

Just when you think you can’t take anymore, as your pussy throbs and gushes, Flins thrusts his tongue deep inside you.

Your mind goes blank. Your mouth drops open. Your upper body flops inelegantly to the granite top, and you moan like a debauched whore.

“There?” He murmurs, as breathless as you, before repeating his actions.

“Where,” you jerk in his hold, whining, with the leg that’s propped up now shaking, “where did you learn how to do this?”

Your nails dig into his scalp, holding on for dear life as he pulls you flush against his face. Obscene, slick, noises echo out from below you, and dark shapes flit about in a tangible display of excitement.

The closer to your peak you get, the more the spectres seem to dance.

Flins pulls back only once, to spit directly on your vulva. Your face burns like fire, and it has you flushing all the way down to your chest. The ever so gentlemanly Flins, resorting to this?

Surely, you’ve died and gone to heaven.

He simply exhales, breath drifting over your puffy nub, setting your nerves alight.

There’s a flash of light and suddenly you’re crying out, loud and unashamed, as Flins pinches your clit gently, hands buzzing and crackling with electro.

A moment passes; Flins pauses.

He pulls away momentarily. “Ah. Apologies. That was not intentional.”

Embarrassment colours his voice, but you’re utterly speechless.

Did he miss the way you just spilled all over his face? And you haven’t even cum yet.

“S’good.” You slur. “More.” You’re begging him, cupping the back of his head and dragging him back to your dripping cunt. “Sh—iit. Yeah, there.”

You gasp out as he immediately latches onto you, fingers deftly working their way around your clit.

One hand still thrums with energy; the purple light of electro illuminating the floor beneath you as he trails a palm up your thighs, sending miniscule jolts of electricity through you.

Every time he dips his tongue into you, electro rockets across your skin.

Your eyes roll up in the back of your skull.

“O phile,” Flins exclaims, so softly, so enamoured, that it has you choking on your breath. You don’t quite understand, but.

“Archons,” you’re gasping out, humping his face. Flins drinks in every greedy noise, every pulse of need and dribble of arousal.

Fuck, you so wish you could see his expression.

With a single, tiny, flick to your clit with his tongue, Flins has you cumming.

Your whole body tenses. Your mouth falls open with a silent scream, muscles trembling as your hips continue to buck senselessly.

Flins holds you patiently, rubbing tender circles into your hips, hands no longer alight with electro, as you scramble to regain your footing. You clench around nothing, spurting out shimmering arousal, soaking him through with your orgasm.

“Mn!” With a final, pitiful, whimper, you nearly collapse to the floor—flopping from the table into his waiting embrace as he lowers you gently to the ground.

When you glance up at him, he looks wrecked. His pupils drown out the gold in his eyes, and his face and chest are so damp his collar has become sheer. His hair stands out in all directions from your ceaseless tugging, but he’s looking at you with such adoration…it completely fries your synapses for the second time that night.

After a moment, Flins is quietly nudging your chin up to his. He brushes his mouth over yours carefully, then floats down your jaw, placing tender, fleeting kisses to your heated skin.

You slot your lips over his in equal fashion, rolling your tongue over his as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

The spirits continue to mill about, crowding themselves into the space over the table, as Flins bundles you to him beneath it.

You both take a moment to breathe, but then you’re noticing the strain in his pants.

As gently as you can, you’re pushing him down to the floor. He lays on his back, hands hovering awkwardly in the air as he regards you with an adorably confused expression.

“My turn.” You say, slipping naughty fingers beneath the hem of his shirt.

His breath hitches.

But then the door to the library bursts open, and the spirits scatter.

“…Okay.” Comes Varka’s voice. “That was creepy.”

Flins groans, but all you can do is laugh.

Chapter Text

Day 5: Yae Miko (Prompt: Finger Sucking)

CW: masturbation, finger sucking, nsfw sketch art

Chapter Text

Day 6: Mydei (Prompt: Outdoor Sex)

CW: porn with feelings, angst with comfort, but then oops ouch whatever there's more angst, just a bit!, misunderstandings, soft mydei, gentle sex, vaginal fingering, established relationship, talks of marriage, king mydeimos!au bcs we deserve to have one fudging cycle where he ain't dead, i killed off his parents though, outdoor sex, fem!reader insert who is a priestess, body hair, potential spoilers for those who haven't played through amphoreus

The night air is cool against your skin, and the fresh smell of sprouting orchids tickles your nose. Vrachokipos lines the walls of the inner courtyard, dappling your surroundings with smatterings of pink and orange.

In the moonlight, they take on a purple hue, and sway in the breeze that flows in from the west.

As you walk between hedges of oleander and roses, Mydeimos appears before you. He seems rattled, if the nature of his scowl is there for you to assume anything.

But when he sees you, his shoulders droop in relaxation, and the corners of his mouth quirk up.

“I did not think I’d see you, tonight.” He sighs, reaching out with his gauntleted hands.

Your fingers trail over gold, the metal warmed from his body, as you fit your palms over his. He brings the back of your hands to his lips, placing a fleeting kiss on each, gaze pouring into you like magma.

“Mm, poor thing.” You tease, voice soft as you reach to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Did Krateros have need of you today?”

“Krateros and half of the damned palace staff.” He gripes, tsking as he gently peels away from your grip, tugging his gauntlets off so he can feel your soft skin upon his.

“Still, you managed to sneak away. What a naughty prince you are.” You laugh, curling your fingers together.

The cicadas sing from their lofty hiding spots, and you inhale the scent of the flowers around you. Mydei glances at you as you do so, tilting his head as if sealing the sight away for another day.

Mydei’s fingers flex over yours, squeezing once before he begins to lead you away from the main path.

“It has been too long since I’ve seen you.” The prince offers, sounding terribly offended for you.

You laugh quietly into the night—and the hushed tone of your voice chases all Mydei’s anxieties away. “You are busy. It’s to be expected.”

Mydei frowns at your casual remark. “You sound as if you are used to my neglect.” He murmurs.

You blink up at him, twisting around with your hand still held tenderly in his. “Neglect?”

“You deserve better than this,” Mydei admits. He stares at you with eyes like fire, golden and swirling with guilt.

“Better than what? Being with a man who is so selfless he feels the need to bend to my every whim?” You snort, staring at him rather incredulously.

“You deserve someone who is present, akrivi mou. One who does not have to choose duty over your happiness.”

The skirts of your chiton flare like your anger as you whirl to face him completely. The fragranced oils you dabble behind your ears, the very ones Mydei recently gifted you, waft into the air as you stand on your tiptoes.

You jab your finger in his sternum.

“What’s this, for you to suggest I am unhappy?” You bite at him. “What happened today that has stripped you of your confidence?”

Mydei curls a gentle hand over your prodding finger, lowering it to your side. He has a far off look in his eyes—one that makes you feel like the world is shifting, leaving you behind.

“Mydeimos.” You command, eyes bright beneath the moon. Your hair is adorned with lavender, braided in your usual fashion, and your skin is flushed and smooth to the touch.

The prince allows his hand to trace the gentle slope of your shoulder. Your chiton, coloured cream and azure-blue for your status as priestess, billows out in the wind. He doesn’t respond to you.

“Mydei.” You repeat, forgoing any title. He adores you for this trait, uncaring as you are of someone’s class or state, frequently inclined to forgo any and all honourifics.

You had been scolded many times, hiding laughter behind mischievous hands. It always has Mydei’s heart stomping like a dromas in his chest.

And while the fall of his name from your lips was most often saccharine, this time it is embittered by hurt.

The prince exhales roughly through his nose.

Then, he takes your hand once more, leading you further into the maze of the courtyard.

You debate on fighting his hold, but a simple glance at his profile, fatigued by the day, keeps you keep silent.

Instead, you draw close to him, relishing in the heat that flickers in waves from his body. You feel as though you are travelling up—a hill perhaps, although you’re left wondering how such a difference in landscape could be kept secret in the sanctum courtyard of the palace.

Mydei walks with you for a few moments more, before the stone walls fade to make way for a private garden, and you both venture through a short tunnel.

When you emerge, you’re overlooking picturesque cliffs and the lapping sea. All this beauty, completely hidden from prying eyes.

“Wow,” you exclaim, wandering ahead of him. You drink in the new sight with sparkling eyes. “I never would have imagined there’d be something like this, here!”

“My father had it designed for my mother.” Mydei informs you, voice unusually demure.

You hum in thought. It has been many, many, years since the passing of his parents—but the ache is ever present in his voice.

“I would frequent it, as a child.” Mydei stands with a hand on his hip. “Mother was never entirely fond of the garden—preferring the weight of her sword in her hands, rather than the smell of wildflowers.”

You huff a laugh. That certainly made sense, given Mydei’s nature. “So, this became a reprieve for you?”

“It still is.” He answers plainly.

You brush your hands along the rocky outcrop, kneeling by the edge of the cliffs, surrounded by ocean spray and the aroma of sweet herbs and flora.

“Look,” you urge Mydei suddenly, smiling up at him with the blazing power of the sun. “Diktamo.”

Mydei kneels beside you, taking note of the fuzzy grey leaves that speckle slender, arching stems. He raises a quizzical brow.

“Love, Mydei.”

“Hah?”

“We use diktamo as a healing herb, but,” you giggle at him, “it is also an aphrodisiac.”

The prince splutters.

“Of all the uncouth—” You pat his bare shoulder, silencing him.

It always strikes you funny how flustered Mydei can become, especially when you have already spent so many nights together, tucked into one another’s embrace.

“Young lovers seek it and gift it to each other, as it represents deep desire.” You recite. Then, your cheeks turn rosy. “Perhaps I should dry some for you.”

“That is unnecessary.” His blunt response leaves you reeling. Your back goes ramrod straight.

Generally, comments such as these do not bother you. Mydei is often ignorant to tone—but then you think back to his demeanour earlier that night. His insistence that you were not happy.

Your heart clenches.

Did he not know you would move the stars if he so wished it?

“…Do you no longer want me?” Your voice comes out near silent. The wind attempts to snatch your words, but Mydei hears them still.

You’re both kneeling on the ground, robes covered in dirt, hands brushing over the diktamo, staring at each other.

His brow furrows in concern, wondering why you would ask him such an inane question.

“I will want you for as long as my heart beats,” he cups your face in his large hands, stroking his thumbs along your cheeks, “and thereafter still, even as I descend into Hades with no soul left in my chest, I will yearn for you.”

“Then what is wrong?” You urge, gripping the hands on your face with such intensity your knuckles turn white. “Speaking about what I deserve as if I do not know. Why are you trying to push me away?”

Tenderly, Mydei moves his hands along your jaw, fingers slotting into place behind your ears. He leans his forehead to yours. “You are being ridiculous.” He chides you gently.

Your hands drop down to grip his forearms. Dappled with golden hair, they glint in the moonlight. “Something has shifted.” You argue stubbornly. Change is evident in the air, and it frightens you.

“It is nothing for you to worry about, right now.” He says with finality, rolling his forehead against yours. He pulls back but leaves his hands where they are.

And then covers his laugh with a cough, upon seeing the indignant fire in your eyes.

“I will forever worry for you. Over you.” You murmur. “Not just because you are my prince, but because you are my heart.”

“Sentimental.” Mydei breathes.

“Were you not just waxing poetic yourself?” You snark at him.

His quiet laughter echoes off the cliffs. It sets your heart alight.

“The coronation,” Mydei explains, after a moment. Those simple words bring you a startling clarity, and a sombre mood.

“So, there is a shift indeed.” You mutter. “King Mydeimos.” You test the weighty title on your tongue, clutching at his calloused hands like lifelines. His fingers flex in your grip, and he moves uneasily. “This means they’ve found you a match, then.”

The stipulation Eurypon and Gorgo had left. For Mydei to inherit the throne, he had to be wed. A royal matrimony.

Which meant you had never been a viable option—not as a priestess, and certainly not as a common born.

And you knew, for many, many, years, Mydei had considered abdicating.

Just for you.

Though you also knew how precious Castrum Kremnos was to him. To force Mydei to give up his birthright as heir, well, you could never make your peace with it.

You urged him otherwise. To take his place on the throne, if that was what he so desired.

You peer up at him from beneath your lashes, wishing away your sadness. It would only serve to burden his heart further.

“I selected a queen, yes.”

Mydei did, personally?

His words feel like a slap in the face. “…You did? You…chose?”

“I made the final decision.” Mydei’s pulse thrums beneath your touch. You’re unable to meet his eyes as you process his statement.

Your voice quivers. “I see.” You furiously will away your tears. “And who-?”

“You will learn quickly.” He informs you.

You pull away from him and blink. “…huh?” You respond ineloquently.

“You continuously pry and yet do not retain information.” He scolds. “I had meant to tell you in a different fashion.”

“HUH?” You scramble from him, kicking up grass and soil, knocking the wind out of yourself when your back collides with the rocky barrier behind you.

The diktamo brushes against your fingertips teasingly.

Mydei follows you, leaning down into your space, bracing a hand on the rock behind you. “Mm. Keep up, o phila.”

“But, the stipulation?” You squawk, shivering as he tucks his head into the crook of your neck.

“Have you ever known me to be blindly obedient?” His lips touch the curve of your ear. One hand trails lazily down to your ankle, caressing your bare foot, and then yanks.

You topple towards him with a yelp, watching helplessly when your chiton rucks up along your legs as you’re dragged away from the edge of the cliff.

Mydei looms over you, smirk unfurling as he takes in your dishevelled state. A palm ducks beneath your chiton, pushing it up to your waist fully. His fingers snake their way around your thighs, dipping tragically close to your core, before sneaking away.

His fingers burn like fire over your hips as he lowers you to the ground. You’re cushioned by poppies and clover, and bracketed by his strong arms.

The red of his tattoos wink at you in the twilight.

“Kremnoans embody pride.” He murmurs, nosing his way along your jaw. “They respect strength above all else. If I were to submit and allow others to make such a vital decision,” he continues quietly, tone firm, “I would not be able to live with myself, nor would the people look to me in reliance.”

“But-”

“Hush,” his says mildly, word seeping into your skin like a spring honey. “My mother would also haunt me from her grave.” Mydei smiles against your skin. “They married for love, my parents. And despite their last words, they would approve of my decision. As does the state.”

“Was it a test?” You consider.

“Mm.” His hand splays across your soft belly, pulling at the ties that keep your chiton closed. “To kneel or to lead. Adhere to the past or pave my own way forward.” He situates himself between your thighs, guiding your legs apart with his knees until you’re spread before him like a feast.

Your hands pluck at the robe he has tied about his waist. Slowly, your fingers trail up his abdomen, running tenderly over hair and across his chest, to the nape of his neck, where they bury themselves in golden locks.

“Kremnos needs a strong king.” His breath fans across your cheek. “And I need you.”

You make a small noise, touched by his words.

Then, you tug on his hair. “Then what the hell were you making me worry for?” You gripe. “Acting all morose!”

He huffs against your skin. “I was merely lamenting how little time we’ll have for each other.” Mydei places a kiss to your temple. “When I already loathe how often we are apart.”

“Dramatic.” You accuse.

“I meant what I said.” The king says. “That you deserve better.”

“I am incredibly fortunate.” You retort, unfastening the clasp of your chiton at the shoulder. The fabric glides down your skin slowly, unfurling like a petal under Mydei’s heated gaze.

Goosebumps raise along your arms as your soft breasts are revealed. The cotton rubs against your nipples, catching on them as they begin to dimple in the cool of the night air.

Mydei’s thumb dips under the collar, smoothing it away from your skin, brushing your chest with a tenderness you’ve come to love. The ache between your thighs leaves you squirming restlessly, pawing at his robes to sample the flesh beneath.

“In another life, things will be simpler.” He promises, sweeping his palms across your ribs. “You and I, together. Away from responsibilities and Strife.”

“Mhm.” You answer, hands running across the expanse of his back as you arch up into him. “Although for now, I’d very much like for you to kiss me, husband.”

Mydei presses his lips to your throat, mouth warm and wanting, shoulders trembling. His chuckles rumble along your jaw as he nudges at your skin.

“I fear that will be the only title you will grant me.” He teases, caressing your torso with a rough palm. His large hands envelop your breasts, flicking at the small nubs nestled upon them. “Will I ever hear my name fall from your lips again?”

Mydei leans down, chest pressed to yours. A gentle touch finds your waist, and then he’s undressing you completely, leaving you lying upon your gown, exposing you to the night.

You flush and reflexively bring your thighs together, but Mydei shoves a knee between your legs, bumping up against you in a way that leaves you dizzy and gasping.

He slots his lips over yours, tongue pressing at the seam of your mouth until you’re granting him entrance with a sweet moan. You swallow his contented sigh, relishing in the way he presses into you, muscles relaxing as he tastes you.

Mydei doesn’t part from you, merely slides his own hand between your entangled bodies, kissing you with a slow, burning, desire. A desire that’s mirrored in the rising heat of your body, and the slick that drips from between your legs.

“Mydei,” you call out softly, hips rocking. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat.

“Again.” He commands. “Say it again.” His thumb swirls over your clit, touch purposely fleeting and painfully arousing. Your cunt throbs with maddening need.

You roll your head to the side, baring your neck. One hand tugs at his hair, the other pinches a nipple between your thumb and forefinger. “You,” you lilt cheekily, “are entirely too dressed to be making demands.”

Mydei grunts, amused, but acquiesces and pulls back slightly. He makes just enough space to unravel the cord around his waist. Without it, his robes drape over him, sliding from his skin as he settles against you once more.

Bare skin meets bare skin. Mydei whispers small praises as his fingers dance across your sensitive thighs. You sigh up at him, noticing his red ears and flushed chest. His golden stare molten in the moonlight.

It leaves you breathless.

You reach up to cup his face between your palms. His lashes flutter at the tender caress. He tilts his head slightly to the side, pressing a chaste kiss to your palm as he slips two fingers into you.

“Ahn-!” You exclaim, arching at the intrusion. You’re so wet there is little resistance, but his fingers always fill you so wonderfully. Your eyes go dewy and Mydei is placing his lips to your mouth, deliberate and mild, as he drinks in your sounds.

Your foreheads touch, sharing a breath as he hooks his fingers inside of you. You moan, hips rolling down to rub yourself against his cupped palm. A third finger glides in, and your soft cries hover in the air around you. Your arousal seeps between Mydei’s fingers as he twists, cream running in rivulets down his wrist.

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, carefully pulling his fingers from you. His hand meanders up your chest, over the rosy buds of your nipples, and to your throat.

He holds it there, lightly, drags a thumb across your jaw and to your lips. He presses it against your mouth and it enters with a lewd pop.

“A vision,” Mydei breathes, enamoured. Spread across your chiton, back arched and skin damp with sweat, Mydei knows he has never been witness to a more beautiful sight.

You writhe against him. Your chest heaves, aching with the need to feel him upon you. In you. You suckle at his thumb, still sitting pretty in your mouth, and that’s all it takes for Mydei to roll his hips against yours.

His arousal is prominent, sitting flush with your clit. Every movement, every shift and every breath, you feel him slide against you. It has your toes curling against the grass. Mydei groans, thumb falling from your mouth as he braces himself on his forearms.

He drapes himself across you, momentarily using one hand to grip your waist and mould you to his hips. Mydei tucks a hand underneath you, placing his palm on your lower back and urging your bottom half up.

One of his knees slides along the grass. You’re forced to follow the movement of his body as he widens his stance and hooks your legs over his spread thighs. You keen, and he’s silencing you with his lips.

Mydei licks into your mouth, savouring every mewl and every groan as the two of you hump against each other. Your bodies meld in perfect sync, undulating and rising in your own personal rhythm.

You part from him carefully, sucking in a breath as he slips himself between your folds. Your lips are connected by a string of saliva, the sight so lewd it has your ears burning.

Mydei’s chest is heaving, pupils blown so wide they swallow the gold in his gaze. Quietly, he slots his mouth over yours once more, dragging his tongue along yours and flicking it over your palate.

Your arms circle his shoulders, fingers playing with the fragranced ends of his hair.

Mydei pushes in ever so leisurely. Slowly, in delicious reprieve, mirroring your breath of relief when he bottoms out.

His cock drags against your walls, throbbing as you convulse around him.

“My queen,” he murmurs, thrusting deep. His pace is unhurried, relishing in the way you’re joined. He lays a large hand on your lower belly, pressing gently as he buries himself inside of you again and again.

“Mydei.” You sob at a particularly inviting roll of his hips. With the call of his name falling from your lips, he folds you in half.

Your eyes roll back into your skull. The head of his cock kisses your womb, and you moan out your praise, telling him how good he feels, how full you feel.

You drag your tongue up his neck and nibble on the shell of his ear. Mydei murmurs something under his breath, hooking his arms under your knees and bending you forward.

The angle has you seeing stars, and he’s pushing down on your thighs, snapping forward with an exhalation of your name.

You clench around his cock as he dives into you, gliding so wetly, so shamelessly, that he’s certain the sounds of your intimacy will echo from the cliffs below.

As he makes love to you, grip tightening on your hips to the point of bruising, you surge up to press your mouth to his. Tender, fleeting kisses follow—ones that grace his chin and his cheeks, his forehead and his nose.

Mydei moulds himself to you. He’s close enough to count every individual eyelash, witness every trembling bead of sweat drip between the cushions of your breasts, and stare in reverence as your eyes are once more rolling back.

Your breath comes in little stutters and gasps.

He’s panting into your ear, tucking his face in your neck as his hips begin to buck and rut, grinding against your clit. You squeeze along his length, and he’s snaking his hand down between your legs to roll your pearlescent nub between his fingers.

You throw your head back, mouth open in a silent cry. You quiver and writhe, constricting so tightly Mydei’s vision goes white. His breath hitches as your hips seek him, placing a hand over his where it rests on your lower belly.

You press down, and Mydei takes the hint. As soon as he adds pressure, you’re whimpering.

His fingers are long enough that, even as he presses, he strokes your clit. He swirls around it once, tapping in quick succession, gliding through your folds even as he thrusts into you with his cock.

“Yes,” your soft voice, your cries, they blanket him. “Mydei. Mydei.”

His jaw drops open as your cunt flutters around him. You leak and run with slick, and he whispers words of encouragement when your lashes flutter against your cheeks.

“That’s it,” tone hushed with awe, “come for me.”

His touch burns like the everdawn. It scorches you to your bones. It leaves you breathless, in love and content.

Mydei grinds down into you, cock kicking against your cervix as he moans. It leaves you creaming on his cock as he carries you through your orgasm.

He collapses over you, hips stuttering in their rhythm when you continue to clench. Mydei’s breath fans over your cheeks, tickling your ear as he pants into it.

When you blink up at him, vision blurry with unshed tears and a tender smile on your face, Mydei crumbles.

His bucks into you twice more, delving deep into your cunt, groaning softly as he spills into you.

The two of you lay there for a moment, hearts beating in sync, staring up at the stars. When he feels your wandering hand in his hair, he turns to meet your waiting lips, kissing you with soul-searing passion.

When you part, he slowly removes himself from you, mindful of your overstimulated state.

He sinks to the ground beside you, rolls you over with a deft grip, and folds you to his chest. 

You laugh and take one of his large hands, sprinkling it with an array of chaste pecks. His nose nudges your hair, though you can feel the smile on his lips. You settle against him, sinking into the warmth of his body.

“I will love you in all lifetimes,” you declare. To the moon, to the quiet night, and to him. You glance over your shoulder, admiring the slope of Mydei's nose and how peaceful he looks when he closes his eyes.

“In all lifetimes.” Mydei echoes.

You hum and shut your eyes.

When you wake, it’s to brilliant overhead lights.

March snores somewhere to your left.

There is no gold to greet you.

With a defeated sigh, you bury your face in your hands.

So it begins.

entering cycle 2, 246, 70

Chapter Text

Day 7: Gepard (Prompt: Blindfolds)

CW: blindfolds, tied up, cock out, nsfw sketch art

Chapter Text

Day 8: Black Swan (Prompt: Webcam)

CW: masturbation, webcam, sex work, streaming, nsfw sketch art