Rebellion Through Creation

when you pull him down onto the bed with you, he follows like gravity’s stronger tonight. he settles between your thighs with that perfect, unreadable expression… except his ears are dusted red and he refuses to look lower than your collarbones.

so you help him out of his layers, one by one, until he’s bare under the amber lamplight.

and then you see him.

your brain stalls.

two. two cocks.

the main one thick and heavy against his stomach, flushed darker than his lips, ridges spiraling subtly along the underside. and tucked just behind it, a slimmer, twitchier one, like it’s trying to hide in the warmth of his thigh.

he covers part of his face with his hand, voice low. “i understand this may be… unexpected.”

unexpected is to say the least. but not entirely unwelcome.

you reach for the larger one first, wrapping your hand around the heat of him, and the archon breaks. his breath stutters, pupils narrowing to slits as a deep, guttural sound rumbles from his chest—something ancient, instinctive. his hips jerk like the touch short-circuits him.

and then, softly, like confessing a sin:

“…this is my first time.”

your heart does a whole gymnastics routine.

he’s trying to stay composed for your sake, but he’s shaking—shoulders tense, thighs tight, like pleasure is hitting him too fast for him to keep his perfect stoic mask in place. the second cock pulses against your wrist, needy, as if begging for attention he doesn’t know how to ask for.

when you guide him over you, lining him up, he swallows hard.

“please,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours, breath warm and ragged. “teach me how to be good for you.”

and when he finally pushes in—slow, trembling, desperate—the groan he lets out is almost reverent. like he’s worshipping the feeling. like he’s been waiting six millennias for this exact moment with you.

albedo ★

you don’t even get the chance to be nervous—albedo looks at you like you’re a breakthrough waiting to happen. soft smile, calm eyes, hands already hovering as if he’s about to take notes on your skin.

“i’d like to observe your reactions closely,” he murmurs, brushing your hair aside. “tell me if anything feels… noteworthy.”

he touches you with the precision of someone handling a delicate reaction—slow strokes, light taps, changes in pressure—watching every twitch, every breath, every shiver like he’s mapping out your nervous system.

and he talks. oh he talks the whole time.

“your pulse jumped there. interesting.” “that sound—you made it when i touched here, correct?” “i’d like to test a different angle. allow me.”

you swear he’s going to implode from how hard he’s concentrating.

when you get his clothes off, his face goes the faintest shade of pink—but he doesn’t hide. he just studies you studying him.

“is something the matter? …ah. i suppose this is the moment you expected me to be embarrassed.” a tiny smile. “don’t worry. i’m simply inexperienced, not uninformed.”

but the second your hand wraps around him? oh he gasps.

like he didn’t expect the theory to translate into something that feels this good. his brows knit, hips jerking just a fraction as he tries—and fails—to keep composed.

he mutters under his breath, half to you, half to whatever notebook he wishes he had.

“warm… higher sensitivity than anticipated…” “your grip—please don’t stop—fascinating—” “i didn’t realize… it would feel like this.”

when he settles over you, lining himself up, he steadies his breathing like he’s preparing for a delicate experiment.

“tell me if the depth is too much,” he says, sliding in inch by trembling inch. “i want accurate feedback.”

the moment he bottoms out, he exhales a shaky, almost awed breath—one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your waist as if trying to feel everything at once.

and then the scientist in him comes out.

he tries different angles, slow at first—tilting your hips, adjusting his pace, listening for every sound you make.

“you reacted strongly to that one,” he says, voice unsteady. “may i… try it again?”

and when you moan “yes,” something in him snaps just a little. he kisses you hard, breath hot against your ear.

“good. i want to learn everything that feels good to you.”

his thrusts grow sharper, more confident—still measured, but hungry underneath.

“tell me what you feel,” he breathes, hips rolling into you with perfect precision. “i want all of your data… every single bit.”

kinich ★

you can tell something’s off the second his fingers twitch.

kinich sits there like a carved statue — shoulders tense, jaw locked, eyes fixed straight ahead like looking directly at you might make him combust. his usual calm, grounded presence feels… shakier. like you’ve tilted his whole world by climbing into his lap.

“you… want to be on top?” he asks, voice steady but a shade too low, too careful.

you nod, and that’s when the flush creeps up his throat — faint but unmistakable, gold-tinted warmth flooding his cheeks. he swallows hard, like the movement physically pains him.

“right. that’s… fine.”

(it is so not fine. he is dying.)

when you drag your hands down his chest, he exhales sharply — almost a gasp he tries to muffle. his eyes flick to yours, then away immediately. he’s not avoiding you because he doesn’t want to look…he’s avoiding because if he does look, it’s over for him.

“sorry,” he murmurs, fingers flexing uselessly against your thighs. “i’m not… really sure what i should be doing with my hands.”

you guide them to your hips, and his breath stutters.

he doesn’t move them. doesn’t squeeze. just holds you like you’re something rare and breakable — and he’s terrified of being too much.

when you sink down onto him, slow, inch by inch, you feel the moment his composure shatters.

his head drops forward, forehead brushing your collarbone, a low, barely audible sound slipping from his throat — half-groan, half-prayer to whatever dragon ancestor is watching.

“wait—wait—just—” he mutters, voice breathless, hands gripping your hips with more force than he realizes. “i need— give me a moment.”

he’s trembling. actually trembling under you.

you pause, grinding just a little, and he makes the quietest, most broken noise — the kind a man like him would rather die than let anyone hear.

his eyes flutter shut. lips parted. breath uneven.

“i didn’t… i didn’t know it would feel like this,” he whispers, almost embarrassed by the admission.

when you start moving — slow at first — he falls apart even faster.

his hands slip from disciplined grip to desperate clutch, fingers digging into your skin as his hips jerk up involuntarily, a soft, strangled gasp escaping him every time you take him deeper.

he’s quiet, but his body tells on him — thighs tensing, chest rising fast, head tilting back as though he’s overwhelmed by the intimacy, the heat, you.

“please… slower,” he breathes, voice thin. then, a second later, “no—don’t stop—i just—i can’t… think—”

he’s trying so hard to stay composed, to stay kinich, but every roll of your hips knocks another piece of his restraint loose.

and when he gets close? you feel it — the way his grip tightens, the way his breath catches, the flicker of panic and want in his eyes.

“i’m—” he chokes on the word, embarrassed. “i’m going to—”

you ride him through it, and kinich crumples under you silently, shaking, arms wrapping around your waist like he needs you to anchor him through the rush and the heat and the raw vulnerability of it.

when it’s over, he hides his face in your shoulder for a long moment, breath warm against your skin.

“…that was,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “more than i anticipated.”

and when he finally looks up at you?his cheeks are still pink. his gaze is still shy. and he’s still absolutely wrecked by the fact that you were the one to undo him.

clorinde ★

she starts on top of you like she’s staging a duel—one knee between your legs, one hand braced beside your head, eyes cool, calculating, like she’s already planning how to “defeat” you.

“try not to fall apart too quickly,” she murmurs, sliding her thigh between yours like she’s issuing a challenge.

it’d be intimidating… except her breath hitches the moment your bare cunt brushes hers. a single accidental grind and she freezes—then inhales sharply through her teeth.

that’s crack number one.

you tilt your hips up, brushing your slick against her thigh. her whole composure jolts.

“i— that’s— i wasn’t ready,” she whispers, voice already thinner than before.

you smirk. “thought you said not to fall apart?”

her jaw flexes. she tries to recover her dominance by shifting higher, slotting her thigh between your legs properly this time, angling herself so her own cunt lines up perfectly with yours.

“just… follow my lead,” she manages.

but the first real grind—slow, deliberate, everything pressing and sliding together—rips a sound out of her she absolutely did not mean to make.

her hips twitch. her fingers curl in the sheets. she bites her lip so hard her whole body trembles from the effort of staying quiet.

crack number two.

you grab her waist and pull her down, sealing your bodies tight, both your cunts aligned just right.

her gasp is feral.

“wait—wait, i—” she tries to say more, but your next grind steals whatever sentence she thought she had.

her hips start moving without her permission, stuttering and messy, chasing friction like she’s been waiting her whole life for this without realizing it. the roleplay is gone—she’s breathing too fast, too shallow, every exhale a broken whimper muffled against your neck as she presses harder, rubbing her clit against yours with no restraint.

your lips slide, your slick mixing, heat building so fast it’s dizzying.

she tries to speak—some poor attempt at commanding you—but it comes out as a gasp and then:

“please— don’t— stop—”

and just like that, the champion duelist of fontaine is grinding into you in desperate, helpless circles, her whole body shivering with every drag of your clit against hers.

you guide her hips, firm and slow, and she loses it, trembling, moaning straight into your throat, burying her face to hide how undone she is.

when you tighten your leg just slightly between hers, her thighs clamp around you—

“—oh archons—”

she falls apart first, hips jerking, voice cracked wide open as she ruts through her high against you, legs shaking, breath hot and frantic.

you follow right after, thighs locking around her, pulling her down into you as you both grind through it, trembling through the last messy waves together.

she slumps onto you, panting, cheeks hot, still twitching every time your skin brushes hers.

“…that… was not how that was supposed to go,” she mumbles against your collarbone.

you kiss her hair. “i thought it went perfectly.”