#xiaosmut

The shrine was silent but for the scrape of her palms.

Lumine’s fingers dragged across the cold stone, her knees already raw and stinging from the unforgiving floor. Her breaths came in small, controlled puffs—not out of calm, but necessity. The air was sharp with incense and the scent of old wood, every sound amplified in the stillness. She crawled slowly, reverently, her gaze never straying from the figure ahead.

Xiao stood motionless, framed by the spill of moonlight through the slatted roof. His back was rigid, arms relaxed at his sides in that deceptively casual way that made her pulse spike. He didn’t turn. He didn’t speak. But he knew. She could feel it—his attention tethered to her by an invisible thread.

Only when her palms brushed the tips of his boots did he shift.

Xiao lowered into a crouch with ghostly grace.

One gloved hand descended to the top of her head. It wasn’t gentle. It was weighted, intentional, as though judging her stillness. His fingers threaded into her hair and tugged until she looked up. Golden eyes bored into hers, unreadable yet burning. He didn’t blink.

Lumine shivered.

Then, from beneath his cloak, the glint of steel emerged—a pistol, matte black and ominously silent. Lumine’s breath caught, arousal spiking with a flash of sharp fear that only made her sink lower to the floor, as if pulled by gravity itself. He didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to. He simply brushed the muzzle along the side of her thigh. The chill of the barrel made her jerk, a small gasp slipping from her lips.

His mouth found her ear.

"Don’t make a sound."

It was not a threat. It was a vow.

Her lips clamped shut. Her legs clenched tighter. Her body pulsed with a heat she barely understood—not just arousal, but the bone-deep thrill of danger. Of surrender.

Xiao released her hair and let his hand slide down the arch of her neck, tracing her pulse as if to memorize it. He unfastened her robe one knot at a time, the fabric parting beneath his knuckles like petals falling in slow motion. He didn’t rush. He never did. Every movement was a declaration of control.

The cold air hit her bare skin. Her nipples stiffened. She clenched her teeth.

The pistol shifted, sliding slowly from her thigh to her lower abdomen, guided by Xiao’s steady hand as he repositioned it with a ritualistic kind of care.

He rested it on her thigh, the weight of it balanced, unshaking, while his other hand ghosted up to cup her breast. His thumb rolled over her nipple with excruciating patience.

She whimpered.

His grip tightened.

"Don’t."

She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

He guided her backward, inch by inch, until her shoulders touched the temple floor. Her legs opened willingly beneath him. The pistol came with them, dragging between her thighs, laid like a sacred object across her pelvis.

He descended.

His mouth brushed her inner thigh—a whisper of heat, a promise of violence. He licked once, slowly, then again with purpose, tongue sliding up her slick folds until she trembled. Her hands fisted the edge of the mat beneath her. Her teeth pressed into her knuckle.

Still, he went on.

Lapping, tasting, devouring.

Until she shook with the effort not to scream. Her entire body lit up, nerves burning from the restraint. He pressed the flat of his tongue against her clit and held it there, humming low in his throat.

She shattered. Silently. Violently.

He didn’t let her fall apart gently. He rode her orgasm with his mouth, drank from her, teased the aftershocks until her legs kicked uselessly at the floor. Her hand slapped over her mouth as she sobbed breathlessly.

"So loud in silence," he murmured, tongue wet against her folds.

And then, he fucked her with his tongue.

Her entire body seized.

He held her hips down, tongue plunging deep, curling, withdrawing only to flick her clit again. She came once more, faster this time, her thighs clenching around his head, her eyes squeezed shut against the tears. The pistol clinked faintly as it shifted on her stomach, untouched yet unbearably present.

When she lay limp, gasping, soaked with release, Xiao finally rose. He took his time, the holster swallowing the weapon in a slow, deliberate movement. He didn’t speak.

Then, with the same steady calm, he aligned himself between her legs.

The stretch was immediate. His cock pushed in inch by agonizing inch, deliberate and unyielding. He filled her slowly, forcing her to feel every contour, every twitch of restraint in his muscles. Her hands gripped his arms, her legs curling around his waist.

He wrapped one hand around her throat—not squeezing, just holding.

"Keep still, little light," he whispered, voice breaking at the edges. "And I won’t pull the trigger."

She couldn’t answer.

But she didn’t want him to stop.

She wanted the silence to break.

She wanted him to break it—wanted to hear his voice crack, to feel him lose control, to know she could drag the silence out of him with nothing but her body.

And somewhere, deep beneath the control in his gaze, the fire flickered.