Cat's home

Flins decides to smile for you and titters a little at his own theatrics too so you'd feel at ease. He's also in no hurry to be forcing the answers out of you, if lifting your spirits is the first step and utmost duty. "If you wouldn't mind, please allow me to take you back inside. It's really cold today," he offers his gloved hand, one you now have no hesitations to take. Yours is warmer than his as always, even in this weather, but you don't particularly mind the way it threathens to dig deep into your bones — as long as he's holding you.

Into the cramped up space of his lighthouse and its metal walls, he wraps a blanket around your shoulders, before he settles a flame in the fireplace. The latter didn't exist before you started living with him, and he had someone make such addition just for you, having been reminded of the fragile nature of humans the first night you spent with him.

(Although, he didn't mind you freezing back then - it allowed him to hold you until morning. You clung, you pleaded him to squeeze you closer, and he thought about how soothing your heartbeat is against his. It was rapid, with no calm rhythm to lull anyone else into peace, but that only enticed him to understand your thoughts more.)

The moment he sits down on the carpet next to you, you realize you feel much more comfortable than before, enough to speak about your concerns without being prompted to. Flins always had your back, didn't he? Free of charge, taking no more than amusent from you. Even when his light-enlarged shadow eats yours, you feel safe.

('You are safe here, especially with me', he'd whisper with a handful of eagerness for you to stay.)

Still, his hand finds itself on your back, rubbing it with encouragement for you to flow your concerns freely, saying "I am here for you. Always." He’s watching you sharply, not ready to miss anything.

Your mouth opens way too easily, though you keep your gaze into the pretty flame. It's hot and dancing lively, enthralling and reminding you of other people, unlike the blue one nestled in his lantern you sometimes fear. Its origin and prowess remains unknown to you — you only know he’s a fae, yet not without his nature still being veiled in mystery for you. "Essentially, I've been sad about the idea of leaving you," his hand doesn't falter, staying strong for you, so you keep speaking with tremble burdened by your sadness, "You'll outlive me, you'll have to watch me turn all old and restless and useless, I won't be able to catch up with you... and then, you'll probably find someone else, to make things worse."

The last part comes with a bit of possessiveness you simply cannot help. If you could, you'd stay alive for centuries just to be the guardian of your belonging with him… and the protector of the affection he dresses you in daily.

There really is no judgement on his face when you finally dare to look at it. Not even a glimpse of the typical tease you could have expected after you stated some level of jealousy. You are granted a smile most beautiful and loving instead, that for a blinking second, you foolishly think he'd desire you no regardless of your future. To you, it's no more than a fantasy...

To him, it's no less than an oath to respect. The only trickery lies is in the way he'd shape it, to be set in stone.

When he speaks to reassure you and eradicate any of your doubts or false credences, you have no reason to read a second meaning of his words:

"My love for you will burn forever, no matter what you'll become in the nearest years and decades. There is no one else for me to replace you."

“Kyryll…” his name is said with the desperate need to grasp and hold what your ears heard. As your tears brim your eyes once more this evening, there’s no shame expanding your chest this release; you could swim in them when they pour out with immense joy.

Cupping his cheek and kissing him from the relief and tenderness his promise sparks, you believe him, merely oblivious to what truth there is. You don't realize what commitment you're engraving into the pact to be signed with your lips, though he's not sure if it matters — he at least believes your happiness is entangled into his existence and yours intertwined. Nor can you see his face’s twisted gratitude with your eyes closed; especially when it’s no challenge for you to get lost in the kiss more inebriating than his hefty liquors he drinks, and sweeter than his tightening clamp on your back.

The love will be forever like upon his promise, as his heart will never dim out of the blazing worship. It will be forever because you shall be eternal like he is, as the man madly in love, deep into devotion, and unbound by the human soul and its convictions would have figured out how to make you so.

Could a man so irritable as Diluc want something so seemingly sweet and tender? Although he is a respectable aristocrat who was raised by knights and nobility who taught him the many qualities to become a gentleman such as etiquette, swordmanship, and the arts, the art of ballroom dancing was not among those lessons. Nevertheless, this does not deter him from imagining his calloused hand settled on your waist as the other holds your hand up high while the you two move gracefully to the sound of a thousand lyres’ strings plucked by the delicate breeze of the winds.

It is only with closed eyes and an imaginative mind can all desires become half-truths, so the young master often finds himself indulging in this fantasy when all his work is done for the day. While taking strolls in his vineyard to appreciate the cool, fresh air blown over the mountains to the east as the sun sets in the west, he imagines this comforting scenario with a smile on his lips. And from his closed mouth escapes a hum that matches the one played by the imaginary orchestra in his mind. It is a symphony made from his feelings, each note a beat from his heart that yearns for something more.

But if this scenario were to ever manifest—if Diluc ever found the time to practice his footwork and build up the courage to ask you to dance so intimately, so purposefully—it would be anything but comfortable for you. Like two swans in love who dance to mark the beginning of a life-long partnership, Diluc wants this dance to be your wedding vows and to make you undeniably his. He shall make you dance until your feet are sore and bruised, until the back of your shoes cut into your skin, until blood drips from your heels and onto the fertile ground where his grapevines sprout from. And from those grapes fed by the blood pumped by your heart, he shall make a special wine for you to consume. Not even a drop's worth should remain in the chalice on which his surname is engraved in small handwriting on the thin rim that touches your lips. A red-stained kiss. The wine should coat the inside of your throat, it should become your blood. Diluc desperately wants this, but alas, one’s darker dreams are but wishes the gods do not answer.

What can be answered, however, is that a man so irritable and hopeless as him could never want something so sweet without any strings attached. And this secret is one that he cannot fathom without him crudely attaching to it the broken strings he plucked from the stolen lyre of his god. It can thus never happen. Diluc is bound to forever hum this imaginary tune to alleviate the burning ache in his heavy chest.

“The more I yearn, the more I imagine,” Diluc blows on a dandelion he plucked from his vineyard. The puffy seeds, carried by sacred winds, float away from him as if disgusted by the truth behind his word, his thoughts, his desires. “The more it feels like a memory than a dream.”

Neuvillette

In the most ironic way, seeing water drip from your chin as you chug a glass to quench your thirst lights a fire within the heart of the Dragon Sovereign of Hydro that he cannot douse. Every time he sees you in this state, tired and thirsty as if you have not drank in years, the image gets further engraved into his mind like water continually pouring onto a slab of rock and eroding the stone until there is an irreparable dent. Neuvillette is a reverent and principled man, truly, but even he harbours his own secrets. This one is rather harmless, though, so do not mind the pink that randomly adorns his cheeks when he is deep in thought while sorting through papers in his office. No one dares question it even though they know they would not be met with any malice from his kind soul.

Neuvillette treats you with the same kindliness he does with everyone else, but there are times when he is a bit more authoritative—that should be expected of the Chief Justice of Fontaine. When he wants to have a little fun, he assigns you urgent errands across the city and demands immediate in-person reports in between each one. This requires you to run around without any breaks. You never refuse his orders because when he speaks so sternly, you do not want to know what the repercussions would be. (Honestly, he’d probably just get a little sad, nothing major). And of course, he only assigns you these tasks on a hot summer’s day; it would not be the same if the air already carried some frost to cool you down.

When you come back to his office to read your reports, he has waiting for you a silver tray with a tall jug of ice water and an empty glass he has already drunk from unbeknownst to you. Neuvillette delights in watching the beads of sweat drip down your temples as you read your reports to him in a tired voice, but there is no greater joy than to watch you replenish yourself with the very element he has full sovereignty over. To him, it is like you are drinking the blood of the earth that he had manifested in all those years ago. It is intimate, personal.

And when you are done reading your last report, he politely asks with feigned concern if you would like a drink, though he knows ‘no’ is not an option when water has never looked so tantalising just sitting there on his desk, the ice cubes bobbing up and down and sparkling in the sunlight shining through the grand windows. He pours the water slowly into the cup, the corners of his lips turning upwards ever so slightly as he watches you stand impatiently in his peripheral vision. Then he hands you the glass and makes sure his bare fingers, which are no longer covered by his usual gloves, graze your hands. And when you take your first chug, he watches intently as some water runs down your chin and neck, and he is quite grateful that your eyes are closed.

“You seem parched, may I offer you a glass of water? Only the best drawn from the coldest springs for you. Do tell me if it is to your liking and satisfaction.” Neuvillette leans back in his chair as he begins to watch you drink. “Don’t drink too quickly, now, or you will run the risk of choking.” He laughs.

Ayato (cw: psychological torture)

It is strange that the politician Ayato, who is the head of Yashiro Commission, secretly wants for you to conspire against him and the country just so that he may have the excuse to interrogate you in a less than friendly, and maybe even unethical, manner. To him, watching an enemy surrendering is akin to taming a wild dog to be loyal—and my, does Ayato admire loyalty—but no one thinks that he would want to see you, an unassuming civilian, in that position, begging at his feet for mercy. His Shuumatsuban are therefore quite confused as to why he requests they gather information about you, but they do not oppose him for they have already been tamed to be his loyal, obedient dogs.

To their surprise, they actually find evidence for conspiracy but before any of the other Commissions can get involved, Ayato commands that you would be best dealt with privately. He does not want to give others what he thinks is the privilege of seeing you blind-folded and bound to a chair, unaware of what is to happen next.

Now, in a cold cell meters beneath the Kamisato Estate, he watches what he has secretly longed for to unfold. His dogs question you relentlessly. Tears dampen your blindfold with a few trickling down your cheeks as you stutter and whimper out incoherent words. Your voice changes from whispers to yells in a pattern that almost mimics Ayato’s quickened cardiac rhythm. He watches you in silent awe as he leans against the wall in the corner just imagining what kind of fear is in your eyes. He dares not move nor make a sound to prevent ruining the moment, but the way you squirm against the tightened ropes binding your hands and feet excites him too much; you make it difficult.

Recognising that you are on the brink of cracking, the psychological torture having lasted longer than it should, Ayato laughs. How utterly cruel of him. He walks towards you, his footsteps slow and calculated as they echo in the room. From his lips spill the lie that his subordinates captured the wrong person; they look at each other with confused expressions but do not say anything. His gloves are soft against your wet skin as he gently removes your blindfold before untying you from the chair. Unaware that he had orchestrated and watched the whole thing, you are utterly grateful for his help, believing he will punish his dogs for their bad behaviour. What you do not know is that this man’s most well behaved dogs act even worse; they did not object to his order to plant evidence in your home prior to him commanding his Shuumatsuban to raid it. That is Ayato’s secret to keep, and he knows his subservient dogs would rather die than reveal it for they have been trained to blur right and wrong until there is neither.

“I assure you that a misunderstanding like this will never happen again and that everyone involved will be severely dealt with,” Ayato says quietly and slowly, keeping eye contact with you as he gently dabs the blindfold on the beads of sweat sitting on your forehead. “However, I humbly ask and beg that for the sake of not myself nor my subordinates, but for the civilians and the country that put their trust in our governance, that this stay a secret between us. You will be rewarded handsomely for your compliance.”

Zhongli

You have signed many contracts with the God of Contracts without knowing of his true identity, but there is one he knows you will never agree to. Where it should ask for your signature instead demands your bloody handprint to show that you agree to become his lawfully wedded spouse. Where in this contract is anything lawful, he does not even know, and that is why he cannot reveal it to you despite desperately wishing to do so.

And this contract is no ordinary one written on paper. No, it is carved on a tall slab of obsidian rock resting in a cave deep in the mountains of Huaguang Stone Forest like a sacred monument that once belonged to an ancient tribe historians have yet to uncover. Covering the walls of this cave are paintings that manifested with the mere touch of the Geo Archon’s hand. They depict you and him, the union of mortal and immortal, in an imaginary love story.

This contract would bind your souls completely, making you eternally tied to him even after you pass. You would be remembered—in stories he would pass down through the voice of Zhongli—as a human whose soul was as divine as a deity’s, but at what cost? Eternal spiritual imprisonment? Mortal sanctity for the unwilling? The God of Contracts must act righteously and set an example for his people, so it would not be right to ask you to sign something that would infringe on your rights as a citizen of his nation for no person should ever be bound for life to a spouse they cannot part from even in death. Zhongli knows it is cruel because he is a god, not a demon, and he recognises that this contract is inexcusable and unfair. It is simply not right.

But where in his obsession with you is there anything right?

When he is not being pushed and shoved by the demands of his mortal boss at the funeral home, he is polishing the contract—the stone—and carving into it new conditions based upon any interactions he has with you that day. If you speak highly of another man, he will outlaw him and forbid you from uttering his name. In fact, he will order anyone sharing that man’s name to change it so that he may never hear it spoken on his holy lands. All you need to do is sign his contract. And if your eyes linger longingly at another, he shall command the earth to shake so that your vision may become so disoriented and blurry until all you can do is to fall to the ground on your hands and feet while praying for the tectonic stability only the Geo Archon could provide. All you must do is sign his contract which is the very opposite of what the God of Contracts should ever stand for, but it is what he wants.

However, the gods cannot want so foolishly; they are meant to guide and govern, not torment and torture. Thus, his bloody handprint shall remain alone on the stone, forever waiting for you to sign it.

“There will come a day when archaeologists and historians will stumble upon this contract.” Zhongli traces a finger over the words etched into the obsidian. Those words glow a golden hue before fading with his touch. “Imagine the stories they will invent to explain what could have been a union between their fallen god and a mortal who had bewitched their god. Whether or not you sign this contract, your name,” he says as he lightly touches where your name is engraved next to his, “shall always be tied to mine.”

Your name remains aglow in the dark cave as he leaves.

Capitano  (cw: descriptions of rotting corpse)

Only in his dreams does the Capitano have the courage to take off his mask in front of you, but recently, he has taken the risk of making his dream a reality, though not quite as you would imagine.

During the nights when there are no people roaming about, the Capitano always takes his opportunity to remove his heavy mask. Bits of dark hair stick to his forehead due to sweat that had accumulated during the day. It never gets easier. Only the moon can see what he sees in the mirror or reflecting off the surface of his shiny armour each day, and that is his decomposing face. Gums and rotted teeth are exposed in the holes in his cheeks and his flesh produces the most putrid stench only a ventilated mask built with a purifier could stop from polluting the air. It is tragic, but he has committed enough sins as a Harbinger to warrant this painful punishment.

But for how long must I be punished, he asks himself as he plays with your hair while you sleep. He sits on the edge of your bed dressed as usual except for his mask which now hangs on his belt. He dares not remove his gloves even if he wants to feel your warm skin against his cold fingers because he knows that the strips of flesh hanging from his fingertips would tangle into your hair, and that would ruin the pretty sight he is gazing upon right now. This is an urge he fights every time he visits your quiet home during the nights where nearly nothing, not even him and his nurturing touch, can disturb you; the only thing that can is your subconscious mind. And whenever you stir in your sleep due to a nightmare, he wants nothing more than to shake you awake and hold you tightly—to tell you that he will be there when your mind cannot be there for you, when your mind has betrayed you and is subjecting you to the horrors deeply rooted within. He knows those kinds of horrors all too well. If he could, he would absorb all and any pain in your soul and carry it upon his shoulders just as he does with all the souls that are waiting to be released into the Ley Lines.

On this night, a sudden idea comes to his mind. If he could not bring himself to touch you with his bare hands, then maybe, you could touch him—if he brings your hand to meet his skin, it would be the same as touching him, right? The souls living in his mind and in his body with his own deteriorating soul whisper for and against this idea in his ear. Do it, some say, touch and feel what you cannot! Do it before you regret what may be your only chance! While others plead, be wise, not selfish! Do not lay your disgusting hands on someone you care for! Do not spread your curse! The Capitano does not know what to think for the souls within him have taken over his mind like parasites fighting for control of the host, but he does wonder that if he carried your soul, what would you say to him?

“If you could see me now, what would you think?” A tear falls from his eyes as he holds your hand only inches away from his chest where his heart, even in its decaying state, beats so passionately for you. “If you could feel what you do to me, what would you say?” he asks quietly but you do not make a sound nor do you stir. Sound asleep you lie on a bed that he has soiled with the touch of his Fatui uniform, a uniform that symbolises unrest and war; you are the very opposite of that, a resting person who sleeps peacefully. So, he scoffs at himself. “Maybe it is better not to ponder over such pointless questions. Rest well.”

And the Capitano leaves from your window for the last time.

A/N: Such interesting men…one steals your jewelry, another wants you to stay hydrated, and another wants to forever bind your souls together! Yay :) Also, writing the Capitano one made me sad. :( We all need to give him a hug.

Before long, the door shuts, and you’re left standing near his desk, awkwardly. Glancing at it, you notice the lack of any speck of dust or mess.

You watch as he silently sits, separating his folders and papers into different piles, and as much as the silence annoys you, you know better than to speak first.

Fortunately, he finishes quickly and glances at you with a small frown.

“Come here,” he says, but you can’t make out the tone in his words. Silently, you walk around his desk and up to him, noticing the furrow in his eyebrow.

“You were staring at the football players outside again, [Name].”

You have to force yourself not to roll your eyes. He’s fucking jealous, that’s what’s happening. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought that from that tone, he would be pouting right now.

However long ago, you and Nanami had been in a secret relationship where you two only showed feelings behind closed doors.

Not only is his career and reputation on the line, but so is your education.

Despite being older than you, you’ve come to realise just how much he acts like a child sometimes.

He must’ve seen the annoyance on your face because he quickly tries to correct himself.

“You know I don’t like it when you stare at them during their practice, not when I’m up here teaching. Why stare at a bunch of foolish football players when your dear professor is right in front of you?”

When he still sees the annoyance on your face, his face slowly turns to slight panic.

“[Name], talk to me. Why are you being so quiet?”

“What was that earlier?” You mutter, your jaw slightly tense from replaying the embarrassing scene over and over again in your head. The confusion on his face only spurs the anger in you.

“You embarrassed me back there, in front of all my classmates.” You practically scowl, fists clenching when you realise that now your peers may think of you as some air-headed dreamer who doesn’t care to pay attention during class.

Realisation dawns on his face, but instead of apologising, he only smirks.

“You’re mad about that, [Name]?” He lets out a chuckle, almost as if he couldn’t believe your words. “I did it for your own good; there were rumours going around about us. Would you have wanted that on your reputation?”

There’s a small smirk on his face that makes you want to slap it right off. Does he think it's funny that you just endured public embarrassment?

“I practically helped you. You know, instead of getting mad at me like this, I feel like you should owe me an apology for—”

Suddenly, you grab his tie and tug it sharply towards you and slightly into the air. His breath gets knocked out of his lungs as his hands reach for your waist to steady himself.

The scene is the total opposite of what was happening just seconds earlier. With his tie gripped tightly in your grasp, and anger and annoyance written clearly on your face, he can only stay seated at his desk, face lifted up as he reveals his neck for you.

You swear you hear him let out a small groan and a quiet curse.

“Owe you an apology? Don’t make me fucking laugh, Nanami.” Watching as his Adam’s apple bobs, your grip on his tie only tightens.

“What? You got jealous that I wasn’t paying attention to you, and you decided to embarrass me?” Annoyance laces your tongue, and Nanami only watches you with widened eyes as you continue to practically scold him.

You don’t notice how he’s gone quiet and how you’re now right up in front of him until you hear his breath hitch in his throat, which makes you pause.

Breathing heavily, you can only stare at him and his now flushed face.

“That’s honestly embarrassing for you, Nanami, getting jealous of guys younger than you.” You raise an eyebrow as you spit out more than what you were planning to.

“Now my classmates think I’m fucking stupid because you decided that you wanted to bitch and be a brat. You think that’s amusing?”

You finally register his silence, and your hand wrapped around his tie loosens as you try to slow down your quickened breath. Tensing your jaw, you eye him up and down in annoyance and displeasure before it lands on a particular spot on his pants.

Fucking hell.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re seriously hard right now, Nanami,” you sneer, nose scrunching up as your eyes stay put staring at the tent in his pants.

Nanami widens his eyes before trying to cover his crotch with his hands, but it's too late, you’ve already seen it, and you’re not about to let it go.

You glance back up at his face as he tries to avoid eye contact, the cogwheels turning in your mind as you try to make sense of this situation.

“You got hard from me yelling at you.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. You know he did, of course, he would.

And you swear you see something twitch inside his pants, and you quickly grab his chin to force him to face you.

“Say it, say you got hard from my yelling, Nanami.”

By this point, Nanami is bright red as a shiver runs down his spine. Is it fear? Pleasure? He doesn’t even know himself, but shit, does it feel good when you use that tone on him.

The tone that makes his knees weak, mind fuzzy, mouth dry, but his dick throb in his pants, knowing that he’ll do whatever you say if you order him around like that.

His tongue darts out of his lips to lick them wet, and he almost groans when he sees your eyes follow the movement.

“I-I got hard from your yelling,” he mumbles, but your grip on his chin tightens, and he winces before repeating it clearly.

A moment of silence passes by, and Nanami wonders if he had truly messed up.

“Take your pants off and get on the desk.” Nanami clenches his jaw before immediately following your order, standing up and getting rid of his tailored pants.

Leaving the rest of his clothes on, he quickly sits on the edge of his desk facing you. Immediately, embarrassment hits him because he knows you can see the wet stain on his boxers, exactly where the tip of his dick is. The thought only makes him spread his legs wider for you, and you notice.

What a whore.

Standing between his legs, your hands land on his upper thighs, rubbing circles on the inside, and he has to bite back a low groan. Suddenly, your hand on his crotch has him moan out loud, and his hand quickly slaps to his mouth in horror.

But you only grin in amusement as your hand continues to squeeze and rub the spot, your thumb rubbing circles on the wet spot as you feel his tip underneath.

“F-Fuckk w-wait shit! [Name]!” Nanami cries out in pleasure when you squeeze firmer, and you feel his thighs start to shake, his hips bucking up to your hand. Eyes glazing over and drool already escaping at the side of his mouth, the sight only drives you to want to ruin him even more.

Having been busy recently due to your other classes, you know Nanami hasn’t been getting as much attention and touch from you, and it’s only gotten him pent up. You also know that because of that, he’ll be quick to cum, and the way his whimpers continue to rise in pitch only proves your point. However, you can’t help but tease him.

“Don’t tell me you’re close already, Nanami.” He opens his mouth to reply, but only lets out a moan when you tug his boxers down and expose the sticky mess of his dick to you.

With his dick already slick with pre cum, you wrap your hand around it, and the most sinful, wet sound you’ve ever heard is made when you start to pump slowly. Along with the sound of his whines and whimpers, the wet sounds of your hand on his dick fill the room.

“O-Oh fuckkk mngh i-im gonna- ima-” But before Nanami can moan out whatever words he was going to say next, your hand already leaves his dick and your free hand reaches up to tug his hair backwards. The pricks of pain on his scalp paired with the pain of his hard dick only make him cry out in both pain and pleasure. His eyes roll back to his skull as he babbles out pleas and other words too slurred for you to understand most of it.

Though what you can make out are whiny “no’s” and curses as you watch more beads of pre-cum leak out from the tip of his dick to slide down to drip on his desk. There’s now a small puddle of his pre-cum on the desk underneath his dick, and you can only bite your lip in satisfaction as you watch it grow larger.

Your finger reaches down to swipe some of the mess on your fingers before lifting it to his lips and shoving two fingers in his mouth, watching as he gags lightly at the sudden intrusion. His eyes water slightly as you feel his tongue slide against your fingers and start to lick the pre-cum off your fingers.

You coo as he almost instinctively sucks on your fingers as he gazes at you with glossy eyes and a flushed face. Slowly, you pull your fingers out, and he whines as he watches his saliva connect them with his lips.

You swear you see his dick twitch hard at that.

“Ah, I-I was so close, [Name],” he whines out, and you almost take pity on him. Almost. But you know you don’t have much time left anyway, not when students may be coming back for other classes.

“How about this, I’ll make you cum as long as you don’t make too much noise. Wouldn’t want someone to pass by and hear how much of a slut you are, do you?”

Your hand returns to his dick and wraps around it, though you don’t start moving it yet.

“What if someone were to walk in here? A student, one of your coworkers?” Raising your eyebrow, a grin slowly makes its way onto your face as you see him remember how his door isn’t even locked.

But he doesn’t even care about that anymore. He’s too focused on the need to cum and the fact that the pain in his dick is too much to bear.

He only nods eagerly, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he eyes your hand when it starts moving again.

This time, the speed you choose is absolute torture. Too fast, too firm, that it knocks the breath out of his lungs and makes him groan in pleasure as his hands fly to your shoulders.

“F-fuck fuck nghh f-feels good,” he pants out, hips bucking into your hand eagerly, clearly too fucked out by the pleasure already.

Though clearly still pent up from your lack of attention combined with the earlier edge, he quickly feels the heat rush to his dick as he feels himself getting closer.

Grabbing his tie firmly again, you tug him closer to you as you pump even faster, wanting to hear all his pretty, lewd noises.

“Close, I-I’m close fuck! C-Can I cum, p-please?”

“Go on, make a mess of yourself,” you order, and seconds later, you hear him moan even louder as he throws his head back, eyes rolling back as he cums hard.

Cum shoots out of his dick and onto your hand and drips onto the desk underneath him as you slow down your pace to prolong his pleasure.

Ironically, the very same desk that was so pristine and clean at the beginning of your class beforehand is now stained and covered in his cum.

Soon enough, his breath slows down, and he leans onto you for support, his hands tightening on your shoulder. The sight of your usual stern, stoic, and serious professor, leaning on you after you pumped him dry and turned him into a whining mess, makes you bite back a laugh.

When your hand grazes back against his dick, he whines out pitifully. “Round two, Nanami?”

He only groans at you, his breath shaky. “Oh fuck me,” he mutters under his breath.

“Dont tempt me with a good time, professor.”

ty for reading to the end! ❤ - chaepink

"shhh. cutie, your tail." you told him softly but firmly as you felt his bushy tail whip against you from his own arousal and humiliation. your free hand went to his tail, catching it and running your hand along it to calm it down. eventually, it eased its quick whips and wrapped around your waist instead.

"sorry..." the wolf hybrid mumbled, face flushed as he tugged on the handcuffs again on instinct. he had been doing that every time he wanted to cover his face, trying his hardest only to be restricted by the cuffs you put on him. his wrists were practically red from his attempts. despite that though, when you asked him if you should take them off, he shook his head with more embarrassment from the question than he should have felt. he knew you were just looking out for him, being nice even during his punishment, but he didn’t want to get the easy way out on a spanking. that was just humiliating to his instincts.

the spankings in question were a result of being so snippy with you after his meetings, and evidently, had made him leak against your thigh. his cock was throbbing against your leg, hard and leaking precum down your knee.

"you're doing so good, my cute little wolf." you whispered, even though he was anything but little or cute. wriothesley blushed harder at your petnames though, his instincts wanting to bare his teeth at you to make you correct it. however, his body, brain, and heart, all seemed to react pleasantly to it in a way that made him tingle all over.

your hand raised again, slapping down on his plump ass and making the fat jiggle from the impact. his ass rippled like small waves from the hit and you cooed with a soft "aww," and chuckle.

"w-what?" he asked, his voice barely above a squeak as he tried to figure out why you were laughing. when he was answered with another firm spank, he groaned, eyes rolling back as his head fell forward again. his mouth fell open again, jaw incapable of staying closed at this point as you hit his red, stinging skin again.

the movement made his body sway forward on your lap, bare dick rubbing your clothed thighs.

"you're just so cute, and you have such a perfect fucking ass. i love that it's all mine. i'm gonna fuck it so good later when you're done your punishment. then you'll be all sensitive... and pink... and your hole will twitch around me every time i touch your ass... i should make you ride me~." you mused to yourself, listing off thing after thing that made your adorable wolf squirm and shake in your lap. his soft whines and moans filled the room as he couldn't help but imagine the nasty, filthy, dirty things you were saying.

"shut up and just finish already." he snapped, and immediately as the words left him, he regretted them, knowing you'd use them as an excuse to abuse his sensitive, soft flesh more. it wasn't like he was mad about your words either, in fact, his cock was leaking even more from them. it was those stupid wolf instincts of his that made him act out.

the sound of your hand slapping against his skin filled the room and he whimpered loudly. "i'm sorry! i'm sorry~, i didn’t mean it..." he yipped like a dog, hoping you'd have mercy on him.

"such a mean wolfie i have... do i need to spank you more? i mean, you are so pretty all red like that, but i thought you'd want a reward soon for taking it all so well." you pouted, rubbing his burning butt in circles with your palm.

his eyes fluttered shut at the act and he pulled at his handcuffs again, this time wanting to wrap his arms around your thighs for something to hold onto.

"no... please no more... i w-want a reward... i've been so good." wriothesley mumbled, his words slurred as more drool dripped to the floor. you knew he probably deserved more spankings, but you lost count after 20 and he was so cute begging for a reward like that. he wanted more of your praise; you could tell from how his hips rocked against your thighs to try and get more friction on his hard dick and how his tail tightened around your waist,

"you have been so good, my sweet wolf. so fucking good. who's my good wolf, hm?" you cooed, your voice so sweet on his ears he could practically feel it on his skin.

"m-me..." he whimpered, trying his best to look at you over his shoulder.

your hands carefully lifted him up, settling him to sit on your lap instead with his legs half numb as you nodded. "yes, that's right. you are my good wolf, baby~. you did so well. and you looked so fucking pretty the whole time. you're gonna be a good wolf for me now, right? no more being a brat?"

your gentle cooing like he was something precious combined with the way your hands rubbed his sides up and down from his chest to his hips made wriothesley purr like a house cat rather than a strong wolf. he nodded, whining pitifully as he laid his head down on your shoulder and let his body slump fully against yours for support.

he could forget about his aching cock for now, and his ass was basically a thought of the past even as it now burned from being pressed against your thighs. all of his focus was on your whispered sweet nothings and how they felt like honey to his soul. his ears twitched to your direction, wanting to hear you better and have all your praise and compliments engraved on his heart.

wriothesley never wanted to get off your lap, he never wanted to disobey you again either. he just wanted to keep pleasing you if it meant hearing you call him pretty and tell him how much you wanted to fuck him. when you undid his handcuffs, he didn’t even move his arms at first, too hellbent on wanting to please you by keeping them behind his back. when you told him it was okay, your hands gently rubbing the raw skin, he immediately wrapped his arms around your torso, hugging you tightly and curling his body around you.

he'd stay there so long as you kept giving him soft kisses and sweet praises, and you had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

a/n: uni is kicking my ass right now 🤕

the event this post is a part of (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

“Tell me. Am I correct in thinking that?”

You don’t move, because the truth, when spoken, feels so childish you can’t bear to admit it even when he asks you so tenderly. I don’t want you to see me sad, only since I know it will spoil your image of me. I want you to continue loving me, as selfish as it is.

“Hey.” His voice comes out softer now. Unbearably kind, and it strikes you deep inside your heart, your chest clenching.

You never handle kindness well when you’re like this. You much prefer silence, when this horrible heaviness can eventually come to pass without anyone having spotted it or being there to remind you of it.

It’s this tenderness — this deliberate kind of kindness — that always breaks something open inside you.

And so you’ve grown to hate it.

Of course, Tighnari is quick to notice the blur of your eyes, then the pull of your shoulders inward.

“Come here,” he says, and before you can think to hide, his arms are already around you, folding you into the warmth of him. It’s him feeling so incredibly warm and it’s his heartbeat being so steady against you that your tears are able to come out this fast.

“…Sorry—” you try, but your voice breaks. The pathetic sound only forces more tears to fall, and you instinctively press your palms to your face, a futile attempt to keep them from spilling any further than they already have. A last ditch effort to chalk your slip up as something catching in your eye, but he adjusts, one hand coming to cradle the back of your head, his thumb lightly brushing against your scalp.

“Don’t,” he says, softly. “Don’t hide from me.”

You shake your head, unsure of what you’re protesting, but it’s all you know to do. It’s moments like this when you think you might just hate yourself more than anything else in the world — when your voice betrays you and falls too weak to even manage a sentence.

And so you stay like this, small and trembling against him, letting his fingers trace small circles into your back even if you want to tell him there’s no need. Because you’re not sad. You try to prove this with a steady, albeit shaky, inhale to free the tightness in your chest, blinking slowly to fight the—

“Don’t try to hold them back.”

Your tears blur your vision just as quickly as before upon hearing that cursed, familiar tone, and you want to curl up into a ball because he knows. He’s always known.

And still, he stays beside you, holding you like you might break otherwise. You stiffen when you feel him shifting, so that he can see your face, brush a stray tear from your cheek with the side of his thumb.

You don’t dare to look at him.

He doesn’t press you to, either.

“Just how long have you been feeling like this?”

“N…not long.” (You lie, again, because not even someone as gentle as Tighnari can make you fully honest.)

His ears flick once. “You thought keeping this to yourself would make things better?”

You look down. “It’s not fair… to you. At all. To put a… damper on your mood, just because mine is like,” there’s an uncertain pause from you, “…this.”

“So you think it’s a burden on others — that I wouldn’t enjoy being around you as much because of it?”

It sounds completely and utterly ridiculous when he says it aloud, and you almost want to laugh at yourself for feeling this way in the first place. Ridiculous… yes… but true — exactly spot on, actually — and so you nod once. Barely.

He breathes out through his nose. “If I asked you the same thing — whether I would be a burden to you if I were unhappy — what would you tell me?”

It’s almost comical how quickly you straighten when the topic of loving Tighnari arises. “You could never…!”

He’s still. “Would you want me to hide it from you?”

“N-no. I want to help… if that’s okay.”

“I see. Then why,” he asks quietly this time, and your gaze falls back, because you know exactly what will follow, “do you think you deserve any less patience than you’d give me?”

You can’t answer him this time. (Or perhaps, you could, but you know better than to say these thoughts aloud. If you can’t hide your feelings in the end, the only thing left to hide is the knowledge that you, at your core, are entirely unlovable underneath this layer he has begun to so carefully and lovingly peel apart.

You just can’t let him in on this last secret, no matter what.)

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer from you this time, either. His hand traces up your back, slowly, rubbing delicate circles into you. “You’re allowed to be sad,” he says.

(I’m not sad, you want to insist so, so badly.

You’re not sad. You can be anything but sad.

You refuse to admit this, ever.)

“You’re allowed to have days where your thoughts don’t cooperate, just like everyone else. That does not make you any less worthy of being cared for.”

You sniffle against your will, hand clinging to his sleeve. “I just… want to be someone normal… someone who you can find at least a little enjoyable to be around.”

He hums softly. “You are. Even now. Especially now.”

“But… there’s no way this,” you gesture at the soaked tips of your sleeves, “is fun.”

“Well,” Tighnari says, unhurried, “this is part of who you are. And loving someone means being present for all versions of themselves — not just the ones that smile more easily.”

Your chest tightens again, because it suddenly makes no sense when it’s you. You want to believe he’s being honest to you, but at the very end of the day, who, in their right mind, would willingly choose to spend the night beside someone like you — this trembling, crying mess?

You know Tighnari would, and you can’t bring yourself to understand why.

“If there were two of me, again,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “one smiling, one frowning — would you love one more than the other?”

You shake your head.

“Exactly,” he says. “So then, why would you think you are any different from me?”

You can’t answer. (You want to, and you think you can, but the words seem meaningless next to the way he sees you. And perhaps, that’s the cruelest part about it all — that he loves you fully, when you yourself cannot even begin to fathom how something like that could be possible.)

So you lean into his chest, sobbing quietly, and he holds you all the same.

(Tighnari knows you don’t believe a word he says. He already knows you’ve convinced yourself to not listen, and that, for some reason, he’ll change his mind once he realizes that you too, are capable of being sad.

That you too, are also entirely human. But it doesn’t stop him from holding you and telling you regardless, because even if you don’t see it yourself, he wants to tell this part of you that it is loved, too.

If not by you, then by him.)