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kikiiswashere · 5 months ago

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Terms of an Agreement - Chapter 3

Summary: Silco and Vander are happy. For the most part. In order to keep their dream of Zaun moving forward, they each have jobs that makes the other uncomfortable. And discomfort for Silco comes out in anger. Luckily, Vander is there to remind him that he has nothing to worry about.

Pairing: Established Silco/Vander, pre-betrayal

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Summary: Silco reminds Vander to whom he belongs.

Word Count: 3.3k

Previous Chapter

CW: Somnaphilia, Dom/Sub vibes (bad etiquette), Possessive behavior, Mild blood play, Hand jobs, Anal finger, Anal sex

Notes: A request from my bestie @sand-sea-and-fable! I posted this story in the new year, but never finished it. I wanted to re-work it (and finish it) for pride month. So, here is the first chapter of what will be a three-chapter novella. Happy Pride!

The rest of the evening was quiet. Vander and Silco, dressed in only their undershorts, cuddled on the couch under a worn blanket. Silco recounted his mission and Vander listened, one hand gently running up and down his partner’s upper arm. He winced only a little when Silco told him about his daring escape from Enforcers.

They talked into the wee hours of the morning about ideas of how best to optimize the treasure that Silco had brought home. The suggestions ranged from pragmatic and realistic to outlandish and goofily delusional. Nothing was actually decided, both too tired and gooey from their shower activities.

Eventually, Silco’s head lolled heavily onto Vander’s thick shoulder, eyelids fluttering as sleep threatened to overtake him. The Hound chuckled, adjusted his arms around his partner, and stood up.

“I’m not a child,” Silco mumbled against Vander’s neck.

“Ya wanna walk t’bed?”

There was a pause. Silco tightened his hold around Vander, and whispered, “No.”

“Thought so.”

Once in their bedroom, Vander gently deposited Silco onto the mattress. The springs within squeaked lightly at his body weight, and then loudly groaned when Vander rounded the bed and took up his spot. He drew up the covers around them as Silco wiggled his backside against him, a silent instruction. His heart swelled, and he was quick to comply: nestling his front against Silco’s back and wrapping strong arms around him.

Silco sighed as if in relief and went limp in Vander’s hold.

“I’m glad yer back, Sil,” he murmured into the crown of sable hair.

Silco hummed, a sleepy smile curling his lips.

“I love you, Vander.”

“Love you, too, pet.”

Silco dreamed of Vander.

It had only ever been Vander for him. No one else had ever come close.

He dreamed of Vander’s big hands holding him; of the plushness of his lips; of the satisfying scratch of his stubble against Silco’s skin; the warmth and breadth of his muscled body . . .

Silco’s eyes cracked open. The room was still dark and the air was thick with quiet. The muffled ruckus of the tavern above had gone silent, suggesting that Benzo had closed up for the night and gone home.

Slowly, he extricated himself from Vander’s arms. The Hound grunted sleepily and promptly rolled over to his other side, the movement seemingly threatening to collapse the whole bed. Snickering, Silco slipped out from the covers. He gently palmed at his half-hard dick as he shuffled to the bathroom.

He did not turn on the lights. He knew the space well enough, and his eyes were quick to adjust to the dark; something he attributed to his years of laboring in mine shafts. Bracing a hand against the wall above the toilet, Silco hinged slightly at his hips and relaxed his bladder.

As he relieved himself, his eyes slid over to the tub. A satisfied smile curling his lips as his mind replayed the scenes from earlier in the night.

Vander’s lips on his. Vander’s mouth around his dick. His fingers up his ass. Vander’s thick monster of a cock taking him from behind . . .

Silco bit back a groan as the last drops of urine struggled to release as he grew rigid. His head sagged and breaths came in sharp pulls as arousal pooled hot and low behind his navel. He ran a loose hand up and down his length, sussing out the situation. His body lurched in response, head snapping up as his back bowed; sweet, sweet licks of pleasure shooting up his spine. A gasp burst from him, surprised and overwhelmed by how keyed up he was.

He could handle himself right here, right now. Or . . .

Or.

A smile, sharp with sin, hooked Silco’s mouth. Or he could return the favor. Remind Vander to whom he belonged. Just as Vander had showed him how much he adored Silco earlier.

He stood, tucking his erection against his belly with the waistband of his undershorts, and pulled the toilet chain. Silently, he padded back to their bedroom.

Vander’s back was still to him when he returned, his massive flank rising and falling in a slow, steady beat. Silco sneaked back up onto the bed, careful to keep the mattress from dipping or moaning too much. He slid up to Vander and peered over his shoulder. His partner’s face was slack with peaceful sleep. He was beautiful. Silco eyed the soft lines beginning to splinter at the corners of his eyes and those that bracketed his mouth. Signs of Vander’s kind and jovial disposition etching their way slowly into his face.

It suited him, Silco thought. He knew he was developing his own deep crease between his eyebrows. More a mark of his ire than friendliness.

Silco’s fingers gently raked through Vander’s hair. The Hound twitched slightly, a grumble at the back of his throat. Silco smirked, and he leaned forward, barely pressing his lips over Vander’s temple and hairline. The rest of his body slid snuggly against his partner’s backside. He bit back a groan when his groin pressed against Vander’s ample ass. His lips ghosted along the shell of Vander’s ear, mouth parting so that his teeth grazed it. Silco gently rocked his hips at the same time, and another sleepy sound came from the other man. This one more of a heady whine. It sent a zip of pleasure and power up his spine.

One of Silco’s hands threaded underneath Vander’s large bicep and began petting sweetly at his chest and stomach. Fingers spanned the width of one, large pectoral; his thumb purposefully dragging across his nipple before skating down the ripples of his muscular abdomen. His fingers traced the scraggly line of hair that started under Vander’s navel and disappeared under his shorts. While his hands and fingers explored, teased, he nestled the blade of his nose behind Vander’s ear and breathed him in.

Beer yeast, sweat, and smoke.

The scent of home.

His home.

His.

Silco’s hips pressed against Vander’s backside again, his bound erection wedging between the split of his cheeks. A low sigh escaped his mouth, ruffling Vander’s hair like a soft breeze. A sleepy grumble crackled in the Hound’s throat, his massive body shifting.

Silco grinned and dared to slip his fingers underneath the waistband of the flimsy shorts. He pet along his hip crease, feeling Vander’s muscles twitch and flex excitedly. Another sleep-heavy groan rumbled from Vander, and Silco’s heart and navel lifted when his hips pressed forward. Hands becoming greedy with desire, slipped lower and cradled Vander’s heavy, sensitive testicles.

Finally, the Hound jolted and choked on a needy moan. Silco massaged the pliable sac, testes sliding and lifting in his hand.

“Sil,” Vander sighed, equal parts sleepy and intrigued.

Silco lowered his mouth to Vander’s neck and bit.

Beneath him, the Hound spasmed, back bowing and hips pressing into his hold. Silco’s hand traveled up and held onto the root of Vander’s half-hard member. His teeth dug deeper as he swept up his partner’s length.

Vander started again, gasping. The surprised sound slid into a relieved sigh as Silco pumped him again and again.

“Didn’ get enough before?”

Silco licked the deep bite mark on his neck. He pumped again, pressing his thumb pad firmly against Vander’s slit. The large man made a surprisingly delicate and trembling sound, and Silco ground his hips against his backside again.

“I was just thinking,” Silco hummed, voice like silk, “I enjoyed your reminder so much that I’d give you one as well.”

His hand slid back down to Vander’s root and pumped back up in a vicious tight, twisting motion. A small, cracked cry bleated from him. Silco did it again, Vander gasping and moving his hips with the motion.

Vander’s breathing became shallow and labored, his mind equal parts confused, aroused, and focused on the hand pleasuring him. He barely noticed the sensation of his shorts being guided down to his knees. At the end of the next stroke, Silco’s hand tightened around his glans and gave a few short, vigorous pumps. Vander cried out, cursing.

“You are the one usually in charge during your . . . dalliances, aren’t you?”

An affirmative-tinged howl came from the Hound.

“How exhausting,” Silco cooed. He bit Vander’s thick trapezius muscle, the skin breaking slightly. Vander spasmed. A ‘please’ hidden between his labored breathing. Silco’s free hand caressed up one of Vander’s muscular glutes. “To be in charge of a business, a revolution, and then in the bedroom. Poor puppy.”

An intoxicated groan escaped Vander’s mouth at the pet name, at the tight fist pumping him.

Then there was a finger grazing between his glutes. It pressed lightly against the tight ring of his anus.

“Oh, Gods – “

“Shhh shhh,” Silco hushed into his ear. “It’s okay. I’m in charge now, yes?”

The tip of Silco’s finger traced the rim of Vander before gently pressing in. The Hound drew in a great breath and nodded his head.

“You’re mine, yes?”

Another knuckle. Another nod. Silco’s hand began to slow its rhythm around Vander’s cock, earning a small whine.

“I am the only one who gets you like this. I hold the Hound of the Underground’s leash.”

Vander whimpered and nodded.

“Speak, puppy.”

Unceremoniously, Silco drove the rest of his finger in, and Vander yelped.

“Yes!”

“You like when I take you like this? When I remind you to whom you belong?”

His finger undulated, drew in and out. Vander couldn’t seem to decide if he should press back into the digit or into the hand still working him.

“Yes!” He gulped a breath and hastily added, “’M yours, Sil.”

Silco’s cock pulsed at his words. He could feel that the waistband of his shorts was becoming damp with how much he was leaking.

His.

He added a second finger and Vander cried out. He was hopelessly flummoxed and insanely turned on. One moment he’d been sleeping; now Silco was fingering him and whispering filthy things into the dark of their bedroom.

And Silco was right. Vander did relish these moments when his partner would take charge, would dominate him.

Everywhere else, people deferred to Vander. His size, fighting prowess, and leadership skills caused everyone to readily drop their responsibilities. Assumed that he could and would handle any situation, bedroom or no. And they weren’t wrong. Vander was capable and adaptable.

Only Silco had ever dared challenge him. A true peer in the sheets and in the streets. His stature did little to dissuade Silco from manhandling him, as if the smaller man was furiously desperate to wield and show his own power. And, to Vander, it was the hottest thing ever. He melted under Silco’s attentions and demands, relieved to be the one who was being taken care of.

Suddenly, both of Silco’s hands were gone. Before Vander could question or protest, a sharp command came.

“Take your shorts off. Roll over.”

Vander hopped-to and quickly stripped his undershorts the rest of the way down. His hands were shaking in excitement, heart pounding in his chest like a drum. Behind him, he heard the rattle of Silco’s nightstand drawer opening and closing. His teeth chattered in anticipation. He rolled onto his back, rigid dick slapping against his belly with the movement.

Silco loomed back in through the dark, coming to kneel between Vander’s spread legs. He’d removed his undershorts as well – long, curved cock bobbing proudly forward. Vander’s mouth watered at the sight. In his right hand, Silco held a small, glass bottle of oil.

“Eyes on me.”

Vander’s gaze dutifully snapped up to Silco. His eyes were impossibly bright in the dark. Hungry and dangerous. Vander’s skin prickled; precum dripped onto his belly.

“Tilt your hips up, puppy.”

Vander obeyed, presenting himself. His silver eyes wide and pleading.

Silco held his gaze as he doused his left hand in oil, and then tugged at himself a few times. The bottle was tossed in to the dark, and those beautiful, elegant, slick fingers descended upon Vander’s puckering hole. The same two fingers reentered him, and he moaned in relief. His head fell back, only to snap back up when Silco pinched his ass with his other hand.

“Eyes on me.”

Vander swallowed and nodded, muttering an apology.

While some people felt more powerful binding their partners, covering their faces, or taking them from behind, it wasn’t so for Silco. He experienced that swell of power when Vander went submissive merely under his words. When he could watch the erotic agony he was providing twist and contort that beautiful face.

A third finger joined, and Vander whimpered. His fingers began a treacherous pattern against Vander’s prostate: slide, press, circle, slide, repeat. Vander’s hips bucked and his cock twitched. Heat flushed his face, its muscles pulling and pinching as if short-circuiting under pleasure.

Silco withdrew his fingers, and Vander felt horrifically empty.

“P-please – “

“Hush now, Love. Legs up.”

Silco had already been lifting Vander’s sweat-sheened limbs, but at his command, Vander hurriedly hauled them up onto his partner’s sinewy shoulders.

When the head of Silco’s cock pushed against him, the Hound bit back an excited cry. Like an asp, Silco’s right hand shot out and gripped his jaw.

“Eyes on me and no holding back. I want to see and hear everything. Do we understand each other?”

Vander nodded between the pinch of Silco’s fingers, and the hand fell away. Again, his attention went to splitting the man beneath him. Vander openly moaned as more and more of Silco’s length was pulled into his body.

Silco kept his breath even and face schooled, but inside he was on fire. Flames of pleasure licked their way up his spine, his balls lifted in utter delight. He didn’t know what was better: the feeling of Vander’s body around him or the sight of the Hound a begging, wet mess beneath him.

Only him.

Hands wrapping around Vander’s thighs, Silco drew back, until only the tip of him was inside, and slammed back home. Vander cried out; his massive body jostling with the force. Silco repeated the motion again. And again.

It was a sight. The mountainous barkeep being dominated by a man less than half his size. Vander’s toes clenched and flexed, his hands twisted in the bed sheets, his abdomen flexed, his chest heaved. The pressure on his prostate was incredible. Overwhelming. Rattling him loose from the inside out. Silco’s cock a beautifully punishing instrument. Above him, his partner grunted into each thrust, teeth bared; little flicks of spittle landing on Vander’s chest.

He was teetering on the edge of release, not quite able to tumble. Tears pricked his eyes. Both in the effort of keeping them on Silco, and in over-stimulated frustration.

“S-Si-Sil. I – I need – “

In a flash, Silco’s hand was clamped around Vander’s impossibly rigid cock. The Hound cried out, a sound that began relieved, and then fell into shock when his fist tightened. Not enough to hurt, but enough that the pressure of Vander’s impending orgasm sky-rocketed. He wailed.

“I got you,” Silco grit through feral thrusts and the lewd sounds of skin slapping. “No one else knows what you need, do they? I’m going. To. Make. You. Feel. So. Good.”

Each word was punctuated by a sharp thrust that left Vander panting. Squirming. Frantic.

Silco was right. No one else could make him feel like this: like a lover meant to be wrung completely dry.

His teeth began to chatter, a chant of ‘yes’ behind them. His thick thighs quaked around Silco’s head.

“Si – I’m gonna – “

Silco’s fist went down to his thumb and forefinger, creating a tight loop around the base of Vander’s erection.

“Cum, puppy.”

Vander couldn’t stop the way his head snapped back as he came. A howl tore from his mouth as intense, full-body pleasure wracked him and wrung him. All the while, Silco kept his demanding pace, milking his partner’s p-spot and the pleasure it offered completely dry.

The moment Silco felt Vander’s body begin to slacken, the hold he had on his shaft loosened and he pumped him once, twice –

Vander’s body erupted in a second, powerful orgasm. His cock pulsed mightily, a streak of ejaculate firing up like a missile. More thick jets landed on his belly and chest. The wail that had been on his tongue earlier morphed in a crackling shriek so profound that the edges of it lifted into silence.

Silco’s own pace slowed as he watched enrapt and enthralled by how completely the man beneath him fell apart. As Vander’s second orgasm ebbed and he began to melt, Silco pulled out of him and vigorously worked himself into his own climax. He buckled at his waist, ropes of cum bursting from him and landing on Vander. Their releases mixed together, swirling into small, gleaming pools. Vander didn’t seem to notice, or care. His lungs swung violently and his legs fell from Silco’s shoulders in boneless puddles.

Silco’s own orgasm, while good, did not ruin him so entirely. Which was the point. He smirked wickedly down at the spent man, utterly proud and vindicated.

He swooped down, licked up some of their combined semen, and then slid up Vander’s massive body. He pressed his lips against Vander’s slack mouth. The Hound slowly, sloppily kissed him back, gratefully accepting the tart cocktail from Silco’s tongue.

“You’re alright?” Silco asked, pulling back. A hand pet down Vander’s chiseled jaw.

He attempted words, and they failed him. He nodded dumbly, serenely. Silco smirked again, kissed him, and carefully rolled over to his nightstand. He turned back, a rag in hand and cleaned Vander off with a gentleness that belied his previous dominant behavior. As he did so, Vander’s eyes followed his movements. They watched the serious and beloved expression on Silco’s face as he wiped down his stomach, dick, and legs; as he took the time to check and clean his rectum. The thought, intimacy, and protectiveness of it squeezed Vander’s heart.

Silco tossed the used rag in the direction of their hamper, and he nestled back into his spot on the bed. He lifted an arm and Vander, at once, rested his head on his shoulder. Silco’s strong, slender arm wrapped around his broad, built muscles protectively.

Vander nuzzled against Silco’s chest; Silco rested his cheek against Vander’s crown.

Comfortable, deep silence filled the room.

“Sil?”

“Hmm?”

“’M yours.”

Silco’s arms wound tighter.

“You are mine.”

Notes: Aaaaaaand scene 🤌Thank you so much for reading this little, smut-filled diddy! Please reblog and let me know what you think by leaving a comment! Comments are us authors' life blood ❤️

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belaephemeral · 2 years ago

Text

Alcohol-Free

Pairing: Diluc x Reader, Venti x Reader (gender-neutral)

Word count: 2927

Summary: The Darknight Hero tends to your wounds after a sudden encounter in the forests of Mondstadt. However, this task seems to be a challenge, especially when one meddlesome bard keeps intervening and proving to be a constant nuisance, both sober and drunk.

In which, Diluc grapples with his infatuation with you whilst competing with Venti for your heart.

part one (current), part two (coming soon)

It was just a scratch.

That’s what you keep telling him. But that stoic redhead, that formidable and powerful protector with an aloof aura, that refined nobleman with a furtive allure, which inevitably reels in admirers no matter where he goes, seems to have quite the stubborn streak. Annoyingly so.

When you catch him in moments like these, you ponder if you’re talking to the very owner of the the Dawn Winery, if you’re gazing at the same intimidating Dark Knight Hero doused in twilight, wielding a claymore that reflects the galaxies along his blade, or if this is this is the Fabled highly-esteemed knight of Ordo Favionus that heralded great praise amongst the citizens of Mondstadt. However, the one who stands before you is everything but that. In this moment, his accomplishments, experience in battle, and his scars don’t matter.

They don’t matter - not when you stumble into the Angel Share, skin bruised, gasping for air, desperate for it to enter your lungs, and a rich stream of crimson running down your forehead. Diluc almost loses his composure. Almost. With fast strides, he envelops your hunched form into his careful embrace, guiding you slowly to the oak counter.

Teetering between two planes of consciousness, you giddily chuckle into Diluc, grateful, oh so grateful he had a late shift at the Angel’s Share despite his colleagues’ futile attempts to get him to return to his estate. Diluc’s one to take pride in his appearance and his tavern. He certainly doesn’t like the trail of blood left on the mahogany floors and he would normally be displeased with the vermillion specks that litter his pristine jet black coat. Despite all of that, the only thing on his mind is to make sure your injuries are not life-threatening. Propping you on the counter, he has to firmly grip your shoulders to keep you from swaying. Removing his coat, he allows your head to fall against his shoulder.

The scent of rosemary, cinnamon and grapes that exudes from his figure puts your mind at ease. The full throbbing in your head slowly vanishes as his very presence brings you peace. Diluc can feel your tensed muscles relaxing in his hold, taking advantage of your averted gaze to allow the corners of his mouth to crease upwards. Swiftly, he cards his fingers through your hair, attempting to find the source of the blood that steadily flows along the side of your face. Ah, he realises. It’s a mild head injury. Ghosting his fingers down your arm, exposed as the shirt you adorn is tattered with gnarly gashes and stained with scarlet, his touch is like a flickering fire against your skin. You lean into his being, throwing yourself into his whims like coal in a furnace. You wish he could melt you as he exposes this new side of him, like a moth drawn to a flame.

“I have to treat your wounds. What on earth happened? Was anyone with you when you were attacked?”. His voice booms in the silent tavern. Your headache seems to dissipate with each vowel and consonant that tumbles out of the redhead’s mouth. His mind racing with worry and thoughts about your safety makes you just as giddy as the adrenaline rush you felt earlier fighting the horde of hilichurls at the camp near Stormbearer Mountains.

You smile at his concern. “It’s just a scratch.” It really feels like it is. The pain seems to be nothing in comparison to how Diluc’s clutch sets your figure ablaze, how his breath along the length of your spine sears your nape, or how his intoxicating perfume infiltrates your senses. You feel at peace. The serene, sweet and serendipitous moment you’ve been longing to share with the man, ferocious on the battlefield but warm and pleasant like a fire licking the tops of a stone hearth. In his bar, you snidely think to yourself, it’s only natural that you’re drunk on him.

Eventually, the door swings open with a resonant bang that echoes throughout the tavern. It sharply cuts through the intimate, dreamlike and almost illusory sphere you feel like you’ve hallucinated if not for Diluc’s fiery gaze grounding you, pulling you out of the clouds and reminding you he’s here in the present moment. He’s here with you. The redhead’s garnet orbs snap towards the individual emerging from the night. Flickering oil lamps illuminate his form briefly before he trundles into the Angel’s Share.

Diluc can’t help but scoff. ‘It’s that bard again’, he confirms distastefully. His drunken misadventures flash before him and he’s thoroughly displeased with the tracks of mud he oh so graciously leaves as he swiftly treads towards you. “My Dandelion, I’ve finally found you! Those Mitachurls were no match for me, with an arrow or two, they were done through!”

Venti’s nonchalance is appalling, Diluc is once again reminded. With quick movements, he snatches the bandages and saline he stores for his midnight escapades and arranges them on the counter. “What are you doing here?”, he hisses, paying no mind to how he doesn’t mask the irritation evident in his vexed cadence.

“Isn’t it obvious? We were out having an adventure! And where adventurers like my sweet Dandelion go, storytellers must follow!”

“Then could you explain what exactly I’m looking at.” It’s not a question - not when it’s said with such authority that makes your knees weak. Venti quirks his lips in a sheepish grin, fully aware he’s in for a rigorous scolding by the very Master of the Dawn Winery. He didn’t see the full extent of your wounds but he’s assured by Diluc’s capability in patching you up. He titters, lightly like his laughter is air itself, “it would be easier to tell you through song! Hehehe, it seems that I have a captive audience. Though it seems that it will cost you, Master Diluc, a pretty Mora… what do you say I exchange my tale with a glass of your finest Dandelion Wine?”

Diluc’s used to the Windborne Bard’s petty schemes. He doesn’t really know how you handle him, seeing as to how he’s constantly attached to you. Levelling a glare towards Venti, he conveys his frustration and reluctant acquiescence. A victorious smirk flashes across the bard’s face. He’s taken the bait, he thinks, it’s good that his beloved trump card is present.

Your very being places Diluc under a spell, and he can’t help but feel that he and the Darknight Hero are so alike in that aspect. Venti crafts the story of your endeavours through his melodic voice. The harmony builds swathes of fields and expansive lakes, the melody transforms into terrain and pulls clouds into the sky, and the lyricism paints two figures fighting alongside each other in unison, almost as one. The resounding notes he plucks from his lyre and the staccato narrate the unfortunate scenario you both found yourselves in. The lyrics unravel and amongst the gentle waves of the thrumming lyre, a scene surfaces.

Venti’s melody masterfully transforms the day’s events into a wave of images that crash softly into the sandy shores of the minds of any listener. From the tide, a sepia woven picnic basket filled with an assortment of untouched food surfaces, a ruby gingham blanket unfurls, and two individuals emerge.

The afternoon sky is dyed in hues of orange and yellow whilst delicate pinks are smeared across a canvas of clouds. As viridescent foliage slices through the rays of sunlight, Venti is beautifully bathed in the glow of the sunset. He’s absolutely ethereal. The beams of light cast fleeting shadows over his content face, making his turquoise pupils sparkle and his grin seem even more breathtaking than usual. You can’t help the way your heart swells as you gaze upon him. You can’t help how his smile is downright infectious. You can’t help how he makes you feel like you’re drifting, like you’re flying and gliding through the same clouds you both admire from the foot of the immense oak tree at Windrise.

It’s not strange to have these reactions towards your best friend, right? It’s not abnormal to think that the head resting against your thigh has always meant to be there. It’s not unusual to be perfectly at peace with someone your heart and soul is connected to. That’s because he’s your most beloved companion. That’s because he’s your most trusted confidante.

And that’s all there is, right?

Reaching down, you brush the navy locks that have been disturbed by a gust of wind. Slowly, you push them behind his ear, caressing the side of his face as you pull away. Briskly, his fingers nimbly and tenderly clasp around your wrist, bringing your hand back to his cheek. That cheeky bard, you think, as he nuzzles into your open palm and your heart leaps as his lips graze against your skin for just a second.

Diluc listens intently to every note that floats in the tavern as gently cleans your wound with a warm and damp cotton towel. The first verse of Venti’s song is filled with hums of tranquil conversation, the second overflowing with innocent laughter and light giggling, and the third mellows as fatigue overcomes the two figures and they succumb to the spell of drowsiness that washes over them.

When the bridge rolls around, it’s turbulent. His sonorous voice recounts of a crystalline sphere suddenly materialising, drastically shattering the quietude of the scene, and drowning it into murky depths. Diluc can vividly visualise it, the sharp shattering of falling ice, the crackle and roar of fire being throttled through the air, and the piercing whistle of an arrow. He closes his eyes and briskly swipes a swab of alcohol against your head. Busying his mind and hands with tending to your wounds, he tunes out the bard’s voice. He knows how the rest goes. Being in countless battles, he knows the ruthless nature of the creatures that emerge from the abyss. He’s aware of the danger they pose. He understands the pain they are capable of inflicting.

But, even if he’s well aware of all of that, it doesn’t stop his desire for retribution to flare up in the back of his mind. It doesn’t help how his hands want to reach out to his sturdy claymore, that’s already witnessed the wrath of his burning hatred, his insatiable lust for a just punishment and his scorching thirst for vengeance.

‘Later, I’ll deal with them’, he reassures himself, quelling the hot molten fury within him that threatens to boil over. ‘After all’, he wonders whilst looking into your eyes that twinkle in the dull glow of the tavern, ‘I have someone more important to take care of right now’. His heart clenches at the whimper that tumbles past your lips involuntarily.

Brows furrowing, his left hand falls to cup your cheek. He’s not used to this. He’s not used to comforting others nor is he used to being in such close proximity with your irresistible and your utterly beguiling presence. Around you, the air of professionalism he yields and his cool exterior slowly erode as you peer innocently, curious as to his next move, with a gaze he selfishly desires is only reserved for him. His glove is cold against your skin but the heat that emanates from his hands beneath the leather and the tenderness of his grasp is plenty a distraction from the debilitating throbbing coming from your wound. Absent-mindedly, his thumb strokes the tops of your cheeks as he tilts your head higher. You feel content in his hold. You can’t help but think about how his hands would feel like in yours. You can’t help but think about how perfectly his fingers would mould between yours, intertwining and flawlessly slotting into yours like you were made for this, like you were destined for each other, like you were two halves tethered by some invisible yet potent force. Patiently, you watch as he unravels the white gauze. With dexterous and nimble movements, it is wrapped around your injury, round and round, and once Diluc deems his handiwork satisfactory, he deftly fastens it.

He takes a step back even if he’s reluctant to place any distance between you. Although, he steels himself and gives you space to breathe (ironic, since you would gratefully indulge in his existence like it’s the very air that you inhale). He’s terrified he’ll grow ravenous for your company, that he’ll grow addicted to your touch or he’ll never be quenched by anything but by drinking in your very aura.

Clambering onto the countertop, Venti seats himself beside your form. Cupping your cheeks, he whispers amiably, careful not to aggravate your thudding headache: “Ahh, you’ve done an excellent job tending to my Dandelion, Master Diluc. Shall I reward you with a performance or - ah! I see you’ve forgotten one of the most important tasks, how careless of you!”. His turquoise eyes glint mischievously and a knowing smile carves itself onto the bard’s face before it’s coyly hidden by his sleeve.

Suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose at Venti’s antics, Diluc hisses: “What could I have possibly forgotten that someone like you would know?”. As he exasperatedly responds, he catches a whiff of the alcohol that dances on Venti’s tongue.

He exhales audibly. He should have locked up the other bottles of Dandelion Wine in the cellar. Inspecting the empty containers strewn about an isolated table in the tavern, he inquires “What exactly did I miss? And pray tell what can you actually discern when you are this drunk?”.

A light flush dusts the apples of Venti’s cheeks as he states, as though it’s blatantly obvious: “Silly of you to forget, Master Diluc! Of course, you need to kiss it better!”.

Flinching from the bard’s sly words, the redhead can’t help how it flusters him, the tips of his ears are set alight as the flames spread down his neck. Diluc’s rational train of thought abruptly stops as Venti’s jovial exclamation ignites a bomb under its tracks, incapacitating him momentarily. The rosy blush the bard sports must be infectious, he thinks, coolly quelling the blood rushing to his cheeks and slowing down the beating of his erratic heart.

“Hehe, do you need a demonstration, great Dark Night Hero?”. That cheeky brat.

Sending Diluc a playful grin but glancing behind his shoulder with a devilish glint flashing in his optics for a millisecond, Venti presses his lips to your temple. Something deep within his core flares up upon witnessing the intimate moment shared between the bluenette and you. Something buried in his being abhors seeing the way the contact puts you at ease. He loathes how Venti latches onto instantly the second he tears his eyes away from you. He despises how his hands creep up to your shoulders to soothe the kinks and knots embedded in your back. He detests how Venti is so familiar with your physical responses to his experienced touch.

His crimson eyes narrow at the way the bard and you lock gazes in the dimly-lit tavern - like you’re the only two who co-exist in this space. Venti ensnares you into the same reverie that Diluc had previously trapped you in.

His fists slowly clench at the way his index finger pushes a strand of hair back behind your ear. The Windborne bard’s very actions serve as a reminder that he could never achieve the same familiarity and intimacy that the bluenette shares with you, he could never stand by your side as a confidante, whose soul is fated to be tied to yours, and he could never bare his heart to you and force upon you his affections, his thoughts of you and the scars he hides under his clothes and underneath his very flesh and bone.

He doesn’t want to impose a love that you may never reciprocate. He doesn’t want to take you away from something you might have been waiting for in this life, your past life or any future lives you may live.

Despite the brief feeling of despondency that overcomes his being with these intrusive ideas, the redhead feels emboldened. From his sources, that is, Kaeya being rather too interested in the romantic endeavours of his colleague, the Cavalry Captain had informed him that you were yet to be formally courted, which is what can be implied from his originally rather crude comment that you were “on the market”.

Suddenly, something flickers within him and his crimson eyes are set aflame with newfound determination. He knows that you could feel the fire of his infatuation from the small distance you shared prior to the bard’s arrival, and that you were receptive to his tender touch and how the embers that emitted from his warmth mutually affected you both. Assuredly, he quells the inferno that is on the verge of overflowing and spilling onto his last vestiges of rationality, a process that has undeniably proved hard to control no thanks to the bluenette who contently, and rather smugly, burrows into you like the cat who got the cream.

Finally, it seems, Venti reluctantly pulls away from your gentle embrace and flashes that impish smirk once again. It only appeared momentarily but it was long enough for Diluc to catch the mischievous glint in those vexatious aqua orbs. It was enough for the nobleman to perceive that silent declaration - a beginning of an unspoken competition between the two males to compete and vie for your affections.

Of course, the Darknight Hero has never been one to turn down a challenge. Especially not one where the prize is securing the claim to your heart.

‘If that is how it will be, I accept your challenge. I hope you’re prepared Barbatos, for this means war’.

(to be continued)

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