Warm Enough (Wriothesley/gn!Reader)
header by @drawlypsy :^)
i said to myself "that fortress is all metal, ain't no way that bitch is warm!" and then i said "wait...warm......warmer............warming-"
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AO3 LINK
Written pre-4.1
Wriothesley/gn!Reader (no pronouns, no body description)
1441 Words - NSFW
Cockwarming, desk sex, a little bit of dirty talk, pre-established relationship
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Wriothesley has a person for everything. A tool for every problem, a solution to most situations that would leave others frustrated or at a loss.
There’s a man he knows that has an exceptional skill in metallurgy. It’s where he gets his cuffs from. A woman with connections in Liyue to obtain high quality ore. A man with hands skilled enough to turn that ore into the components needed for his gloves. And so on and so forth.
Wriothesley is the Duke of Meropide; there’s no shortage of problems that need solving in one way or another. It just comes with the territory - he knew it when he somehow ended up with the title and position. Resourcefulness has served him well, he thinks.
Meropide is surprisingly cold, despite the foundry inside. His office itself sits far enough away that often the coat over his shoulders is worn as it should be, the tea on his desk keeping his fingers warm when he wraps them around the cup. So, when you smiled at him disarmingly and asked if he’d like something to warm him up, he agreed offhandedly without a second thought.
And he should have thought.
Because thoughtlessness gets him here - sitting at his desk, fingers struggling to write as he shivers in a different way. Eyes unfocused and unseeing at the words swimming on the pages, the hair at the back of his neck sticking uncomfortably to his skin with an uncharacteristic amount of sweat.
“I-I think I’m warm enough-”
“Are you? You’re trembling, poor thing.” You hum, tilting your head a little more so he can see more easily over your shoulder. “Let’s stay a little longer. Just like this.”
Like this? Wriothesley wants to laugh, but not out of good humor. Of course, he’s warm, but perhaps too much. Your hips shift, and with it comes a shock of pleasure that makes his brows pitch together and his teeth clamp down on his tongue. Only when a faint tang of copper touches his taste buds does he let it go and say, “Have I upset you?”
“What makes you say that?” Your answer comes with another roll of your hips, a quiet sigh leaving you as you enjoy both the sensation and the throbbing desperation of his cock inside you. Your next words are spoken a little lower, a little more heady, “Isn’t this better than being cold? If you want, I can do this all day.”
“Please, don’t.”
And his stomach twists in quiet embarrassment at how pathetic that sounded. At how your body shakes with your quiet, pleased laughter. At how you purposely clench around him until his breath leaves his lungs in a quiet groan. How if you tried to get off him and leave, he’d pull you right back onto his dick where you belong.
Wriothesley has a person for everything - including you to satisfy his more personal needs.
“I know you’re having fun,” he starts, knuckles white with his annoyed grip on his pen, “but just know what’s coming to you later.”
“Later?” Your voice is teasing as you lean forward a little, your elbow on the desk as if you needed to get comfortable for the long haul. “Why do I have to wait?”
With a quiet sound, Wriothesley sets his pen down very carefully. All things considered, he’s been very patient with this. Too patient, with how keenly he’s aware of your pulse from the inside, how it skipped when his hand just wrapped around your hip. As coy as you try to be, Wriothesley knows your tells.
You want the conclusion to this as badly as he does. And with that knowledge, now he’s ready to drag this out, to meet you blow for blow if you don’t relent.
“We’re not warm enough, right?” His fingers dig into your hip, hold you still when you try to shift once more. One simple movement shifts control, places it firmly in his palm and he’s not going to let it go so easily. “And besides, our bedroom gets rather cold, too. Doesn’t it?”
The line of your throat shifts as you swallow harder than necessary, and you look over your shoulder at him with an obvious pout, “Maybe some friction will do the trick for now?”
“Why didn’t you start with that?” Wriothesley asks, cocking his head to the side, mouth set in a line of disapproval. You don’t answer, but you don’t need to. It’s all a game, and playing along keeps you happy, but now he’s impatient. If you won’t let him win, then at least a draw will do.
With a sharp huff of air, your chest hits the desk as you’re pinned to it, hips digging into the edge as he leans his weight into you, pushing deeper into the warmth you so graciously tried to share. It’s easy to keep you there with a hand between your shoulder blades, easier still as he pulls back and thrusts forward once more.
The sound you make echoes off the walls of his office, and he leans in to shush you, “Sh-sh-sh, don’t need anyone getting curious. You know how easily sound travels down the stairs.”
Rather than simply keep quiet, your palms slap over your mouth as if you can’t be bothered to completely hide how his cock feels inside you, fucking you open with slow, deep strokes. Faster might be better, it would make that friction you suggested, but the sweat beading at your temple makes him think that this is doing just fine.
And either way, he likes doing it this way. Slow, methodical, keeping pace and hitting exactly where you need it to make your eyes roll behind fluttering lashes. The tips of your fingers dig into your cheeks, pressing into the skin and catching his eye. Subconsciously, his own fingers mimic that pressure into the skin of your back, keeping you still and prone for him.
“You think if I made you scream, we could finish and get dressed before someone came to check on us?” He asks, a little grin cutting into his cheek as your eyes snap open to look at him. Quickly you shake your head, but he pushes for it anyway, picking up the pace and angling just right that you instinctively arch against it.
When you don’t relent right away, he goes for it again - and again, and again, your body tensing and one of your feet kicking against the desk in either protest or reflex. It doesn’t matter which, he thinks, you’d be more upset if he stopped now, anyway.
“C’mon,” he urges, leaning closer, his chest aligned with your back as he gets down to your level, “just a little one? For me?”
Your head shakes. Wriothesley makes a sound of disappointment with his tongue behind his teeth. “If you don’t do it now, I’ll make it twice as worse later. Then you’ll have to look everyone in the eye knowing they’re aware I fucked you stupid.”
Maybe you’re too close to the edge, or maybe you realized that there’s no winning this one, but your hand slips and you cry out your release, palm slapping against the desk to push back against him in greedy ecstasy.
Having been teetering on the edge for over an hour now, Wriothesley digs into your skin with his grip and finds his own pleasure in you. As you shudder beneath him, his breath rushes against your ear with each of his thrusts until you receive a much quieter sound of his satisfaction in return and the pulsing fullness that comes from him fucking it deeper with a few purposeful jerks of his hips.
Footsteps ring out on the metal stairs, and Wriothesley snaps back to reality with a huff and a chaste kiss beneath your ear. Something soft after all of that. With shaking hands, you fix your clothing and try to make yourself presentable. The sweat on your forehead is wiped off with the sleeve of Wriothesley’s coat, and he frowns but says nothing.
There’s no time for admonishing when one of the guards knocks on the door and asks if the two of you are alright. Clearing your throat, you answer that everything is just fine, that the two of you are arguing. The guard laughs and leaves; it’s not the first time you’ve disagreed with him on something.
Only when the footsteps fade away do you turn around and slap at his shoulder half-heartedly. And he laughs in return, a soft little thing as he holds his shoulder in mock-pain and taunts, “Another thing you’ll answer for later.”
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Give of Yourself (fox!Tartaglia/f!Reader)
check out the full version of the header art by @lemonemlyn!
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AO3 LINK
fox!Tartaglia/f!Reader
6,989 Words - NSFW
(mating bites, knotting, breeding, mild dirty talk, reader is referred to a handful of times as "pretty")
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The first time you meet him is in the depths of the woods, the snow up to your knees as you hunch over your traps and deftly retrieve what’s going to be your dinner for the next few days.
At first you don’t even hear him. He doesn’t make a sound until he’s within arm’s reach, his boot crunching against the snow in a movement that you now know was intentional. After some time, you’d realize he’d never let you hear him there if he didn’t explicitly want you to know. The sound makes you drop the limp hare in the snow, the ones slung over your shoulder falling as well with the speed that you draw your weapon.
But it’s unnecessary. At the time, you’d assumed him unarmed, so your guard lowered slightly. He simply had a smile on his face and both hands raised in surrender, and a polite question on his lips. “Could I share your dinner this evening?”
Simple, polite, and almost forgotten when you catch sight of the soft auburn-colored appendage swishing behind him, the long triangles perched atop his head.
Tartaglia, he told you his name was, at least for the moment. When you inquire a little further, he just says that different situations require different names, but all of them are inherently correct. So, Tartaglia is his name, and he isn’t offended in the slightest when you ask if he’s a fox envoy from Inazuma.
“I’m Snezhnayan, like you. How could that be what I am?” Tartaglia carries your hares over his shoulder, following along in your footsteps in the snow but somehow looming over from behind you. It’s a bit unsettling, but he’s been nothing but cordial during this short interaction, so you chalk it up to your own uneasiness of people.
“I am no fox envoy,” Tartaglia says with finality. “But I am a Fox.”
“What’s the difference?” You ask as your cabin comes into view. A small, one-roomed thing with sturdy stone walls and a thatched roof just installed this last summer.
Tartaglia laughs a little, following your lead in stomping the packed-in snow from the bottoms of your boots. You rest them by the door when you enter your home, swapping for shoes that are softer, more comfortable. There are none for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, the cold doesn’t bother him at all.
“Fox envoys are fox envoys, and a Fox is a Fox. You’re thinking too hard about it.” Tartaglia says this as if he were explaining that the sky is blue, and snow is cold, and there’s one extra hare strung on your line than what you remember lifting from your traps. You eye it curiously, but say nothing of the strange gift.
Taking them from him to begin preparing, you ask, “Well, are foxes some divine being? Are you immortal?”
“Foxes are Foxes, and I live as long as a Fox usually does.” Tartaglia watches patiently as you work, not offering to help, but you wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. He’s a guest, and you’d rather he just answer your questions. It’s been far too long since you’ve spoken with another person since the snows kept you in place for the season.
One rabbit is finished as you mull over his answers. Then, with more questions, you speak. “You’re not very good at answering questions, you know.”
“You’re just not asking the right questions.” While you work, he wanders your home, looking over your shelves and belongings, but never touching. Occasionally, his fingers will flex in his gloves like he’d love to pick up a trinket or book, but he’s remarkably respectful. “Try again.”
You hum, setting aside more bits and pieces of your prey, some to eat and some to preserve. “How long do foxes live?”
“As long as they like.”
“And how long do you like, since you’re a fox?”
A smile spreads on his face over his shoulder, and you try not to return it too widely at the prospect of playing this little game with him. Each question he answers dutifully, and you try your best to wheedle him into a corner where you can get the results you want. With careful maneuvering, by the time you’ve started roasting the rabbit and the fat is dripping and hissing in the fire, you’ve learned a handful of things about your guest.
Tartaglia is a Fox. Not a fox, but a Fox. There’s a distinction in how he says it, one that you eventually pick up on. Where he comes from are the forests around Morepesok, the ones you also call home, and he’s only now shown his face because he was bored. When you ask if Foxes can even get bored, he laughs as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
Tartaglia tells you he likes you, and asks if it would be out of line to return and pass the time in your presence. You say yes, of course, because you’ve never met a Fox before and he seems like a rather charming kind.
The next time you see him, he’s across the river as you squat near the edge and check your cages. They’re all empty, meaning you’ll be eating salt-cured hare again tonight. As you look up, he’s already made it to your side without a sound. It’s not nearly as unsettling as you expected.
“Rabbit again, it seems,” you gripe, getting to your feet and dusting the snow from your pants. Tartaglia doesn’t seem terribly put off, instead giving you a shrug. His tail sweeps lazily from side to side, the tip leaving a single large crescent in the snow behind him. Clutched in his hand are the back legs of another hare, fresh enough that you won’t need to subsist off salted and dried meat for dinner.
On the way back to your cabin, you pose more questions for him. “Do you have human ears, too?”
“Why would I?” And you glance up as he follows along next to you. There are no human ears beneath the ginger locks of his hair. Just the two soft appendages at the top that swivel as if he were listening to everything around the two of you. “I’m not human, what use would I have for human ears?”
“Are Fox ears better? Why would humans need human ears, then?”
“Because humans are humans.” Tartaglia says simply, stepping over a log across the path and holding out a hand for you to brace on to follow after him. He does it naturally, as if it were second-nature to assist you with something so trivial. He doesn’t let your hand go until you’re safely on the other side.
“And Foxes are Foxes?” You ask, and his mouth curls in a little smile, like he’s proud of you for such a thing.
“Now you’re getting it!”
The third time he appears before you is a week after the second. It would be a lie to say you don’t recognize him immediately. The shade of his fur is the same as always, though it covers the slim and lithe body of a fox - a Fox, he would correct you - and you would recognize the shade of his eyes everywhere.
Snow reflects so much light, yet none of it seems to catch in his gaze.
Tartaglia follows after you, unperturbed by the fish hanging off your line as you carry it back home. Without asking, you know he plans to stay for dinner, and it’s a surprisingly quiet evening as he curls up on the warmed stones of your fireplace and pointedly remains underfoot as you try to cook. Even a nudge with your toes doesn’t move him, and you have to step over and around Tartaglia to ensure the fish is ready to eat.
“Can you change back?” You ask, sitting on the floor next to him. There’s a plate nearby with his food, but he hasn’t touched it yet. Instead he sprawls on his back with his stomach being warmed by the fire. It takes all your willpower not to reach out and pet him.
He might find it undignified, but he doesn’t seem particularly worried about being dignified. Only that you understand that he’s a Fox, not a fox.
Tartaglia tilts his head to look at you, and somehow you know he’s saying yes. So, you continue with, “Will you? I like how you look normally.”
He doesn’t respond. In fact, his eyes simply close and he looks impossibly smug as he waits for you to take your own utensils to be cleaned before he wolfs down his food. With an annoyed sound when you return, you take his empty plate to clean that, too. In the beginning, you wondered if he did these things on purpose. Now you know for certain that he does.
Tartaglia appears to you as himself only a few days later.
“Is this more to your liking?” Tartaglia gives you cheek with a little smile, ducking his head beneath the top of the door frame as he enters your home without knocking. You can’t bring yourself to mind much at all - he is always welcome.
Glancing up from the clothes you’re mending, you look him up and down pointedly before nodding once. “Yes, I prefer this much more.”
“I thought you’d prefer the other. I’ve been told I make a very handsome Fox.”
“By whom?” You ask, scrunching your nose at him. “Other foxes? They’re biased.”
“And so are you,” Tartaglia points out, moving to sit down on the same stones he’d sprawled across only a few nights before. “This form is more human, so you would prefer it. Both are correct.”
“Like your names,” you agree, and he gives you that little smile that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. Even so, you undeniably enjoy seeing it.
On his next visit, Tartaglia brings you a gift.
It’s a little thing, just barely fitting into the palm of your hand. It’s a small dome made of metal, the golden latticework interspersed with little squares of blue and red. Upon opening it, you find that it’s a music box, one that plays a tune you’ve never heard before, yet makes you nostalgic. Almost instinctively, you want to hum it, and Tartaglia hums with you as if guiding you along the notes.
The music box becomes your most prized possession. There’s little use for pretty trinkets this far out in the wilderness, yet every night before you sleep, you wind it up and drift off to the sound. When he sees it displayed on your mantle, Tartaglia seems to beam with an unknown, positive emotion.
It is not the only gift he brings, but it is your favorite.
Once, after dinner and before you turned in for the evening, Tartaglia gets to his feet and holds a hand out for you, ears forward and alert, tail moving with lazy interest. “Play it again and dance with me?”
Your movements are clumsy, but like he guided you with the music, he nudges you along with the dance. Tartaglia’s dexterity keeps you from stepping on his toes, but you learn soon enough how to match his steps to the music. He does not let you falter.
At your waist his hand curls, the other lacing with your fingers, and you can’t help but notice how impossibly warm he is. Like a furnace pressed to your front, you feel as if you’re burning alive as he hums to the music with half-lidded eyes and looks down at you with that same unfamiliar expression.
From this close, he smells like snow and the sun and pine needles. As if he’d dashed through the underbrush and picked up the scent of the forests around you. It’s almost enough to make you melt into him, his very presence becoming familiar and adored. You wonder if perhaps it’s in his nature to make himself endearing, to worm his way into your life and make space so easily.
It’s not as if you’ve made it difficult.
Winter turns to Spring, and Spring creeps close enough to Summer that the snow begins to melt and you feel more comfortable making trips into the village. On your first, Tartaglia muses upon the idea of going with you, but then backs out after a moment of consideration.
“Foxes aren’t welcome. Not in Morepesok,” Tartaglia explains, and you can’t help but be a little put-off after having hoped he would spend the day with you in the village.
But you understand. It’s an insulated town, and the unknown and unusual are frightening to them. Perhaps that’s why he never showed up to you until now? It’s hard to get an answer out of him pertaining to his reasoning, not with how expertly he’s able to weave your questions into something confusing and nonsensical.
Without his company, you see no reason to linger long. Once, you might have spent hours in the village socializing, getting used to the feeling of people. But this last Winter has been filled neatly with Tartaglia’s presence, and you haven’t felt lonely - not once.
With that in mind, you gather up all your gratitude and return to your home with a pull-cart of supplies and a single frivolity on top. Tartaglia is waiting for you, and he hasn’t bothered to hide the way he’s paced circles around your cabin, prints of boots and paws that intertwine with one another.
When you present him with your gift, he holds the stuffed toy in his hands, turning it this way and that. “More trinkets for your shelves?” Tartaglia asks, and you can’t help but laugh at him the same way he laughs at you. Only when it leaves your chest do you realize it’s laced with fondness.
“No, it’s for you. A gift. I’m sorry it isn’t fancy, my kind of life doesn’t leave much room for that.”
Tartaglia is silent for a long, long time.
After he’s taken his gift and disappeared on you for nearly a week, he returns once more when you’re settled into the snow next to a hole cut through the ice, bundled up in your furs with a fishing pole poised and waiting for a bite. Initially, you expect him to take a space across from you, but then you’re startled when he reaches down to pluck the pole from your hands and jam the handle into the snow.
Before you can protest, worried that you’ll miss a bite, his hands now reach for your cloak to untuck it from around you. You’re left bereft and cold, an argument poised on your lips about how you don’t have natural immunity like he seems to have.
Ultimately, you’re silenced by the way he sidles up behind you, bracketing your body with his legs, the heat rolling off him seeping immediately through your layers. Your forgotten cloak sits in the snow as furs of russet and auburn settle around the two of you comfortably. All thoughts of fishing for your dinner are lost as a dreamy sort of haze settles over you.
“Isn’t this better?” Tartaglia sounds a bit smug as he speaks over your shoulder, his cheek brushing against your temple. “The fur of a Fox is much warmer than anything else.”
“These are yours?” You ask, your hand tentatively running along the softness, strands plush against your fingers.
Something rumbles behind you, right up against your spine, beneath Tartaglia’s sternum. “Yes, and now they’re yours. You’ll keep them safe for me, won’t you?”
Of course, you will. You’ve never held on to something this sumptuous in your life. Absently you continue stroking them, the rumbling at your back lulling you into a trance the likes of which you’ve never felt before. It’s so enthralling that you don’t notice the tip of your fishing pole nudging, or the way he reaches out to pick the rod up and pull in your catch.
Once the fish is writhing on the surface do you snap back to reality and set to work killing it and stringing it up to take home with you. Tartaglia resets your line, then those long arms wind around your middle to pull you back into the warmth of his furs. The cycle repeats, you’ve never felt this secure in your life. Having to pull away to return once the sun starts to sink feels like the greatest torture.
Tartaglia leaves the furs with you, reminding you of your promise to keep them safe and to wear them when you’re in the trees. You do not see him in the form of a fox again.
At night, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to sleeping with them, keeping the thickness wrapped around you snug enough that your blankets are unnecessary now. Inadvertently, Tartaglia keeps you warm as you’re encompassed in the scent and heat of him. You’re not quite sure how he’d react if he knew that you were so taken with this, with him.
Secretly, you hope he’d give you that sweet smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes, and gather you up into his arms so you’d never be cold again. Having his fur is as close as you think you’ll get.
One morning, you sleep in late. Your food stores are plentiful with the comparatively warmer months, there’s enough wood chopped, you have only small chores to do that won’t take much time at all. So, you roll over on your side and snuggle into Tartaglia’s furs with a pleased little smile and a dreamy sigh. Somehow, they still smell like him, even after a handful of weeks.
The bed dips, first at your back, then at your front, and as you turn your head to look upward, you see Tartaglia hovering over you, looking curiously at your sleepy expression. Only his quiet breaths and yours fill the silence, the fire having long burnt out through the evening and morning. The dull blue of his eyes travels from your face to the warmth you’re wrapped in, something shifting, turning a little darker.
Against your cheeks, you can feel his breath shake as he exhales, then inhales, then says, “You accept, then?”
You’re not sure what he’s referring to, but you’re sleepy enough that you simply smile and nod. In truth, there aren’t many things that you wouldn’t do if he asked it of you. So accepting something blindly isn’t so frightening when it comes to Tartaglia.
“Wonderful,” Tartaglia murmurs, leaning closer, lips brushing against your cheek and nearly searing your skin. “You look so perfect like this, pretty Mate.”
Mate. The word makes your eyes crack open again, staring over his shoulder at the ceiling as his lips press more firmly against your cheek with purpose. Pine and snow fill your lungs as you inhale, then let it all go. You’ve realized with Tartaglia that perhaps questioning everything is the incorrect route.
If you watch with patience, you’ll learn what you want to know.
Shifting his weight to prop on one hand, his knee pressed into the bed near your lower back, Tartaglia’s other hand lifts to curl around the edge of the furs, pulling it down to get a better look at your face. “You don’t even know what you did. Do you?”
It’s not something he needs an answer to. You’re well aware that he knows you’re confused, yet still trusting all the same. Being cradled in the most precious part of his being feels as if it empties you of thought and refills you with affection that overflows. Tartaglia smiles, your heart flutters.
“Every step was perfect,” he muses, letting go of the furs to cup your cheek, thumb smoothing beneath your eye in a soft arch. Over his shoulder, the gentle sway of his tail catches your eye, back and forth like a metronome that soothes you. “You let me in your den. You accepted the prey I brought you.”
Lips brush against your cheek once more, his hand on the opposite keeping you steady as he speaks his words into you. “You expressed approval of my appearance. The music box was a courting gift; you accepted that. We danced and played together. You returned with a gift of your own.”
Letting go of your cheek, his fingers reach down to tug at the furs a little more, showing more of your face, your neck, your shoulders. Steadily he tugs it free until he can slip beneath it with you, sharing the warmth of his body until you feel smothered and safe.
“I gave you my form - my fur. It’s the way of Mates, you know. The exchange of what makes us who we are.” The curl of his body slots behind your own, pulling you back against his chest until every inch of you is tight against him, no space left for anything more than complete understanding.
A thought tickles at his previous words, and your voice feels weak and jumbled as you murmur, “I have nothing to give you in return.”
“I know. It doesn’t make our bond worth any less,” Tartaglia answers, face nuzzling into your neck, the feel of something sharp over where your pulse pounds the strongest. “You’ll give me yourself. I’ll mark you, and you’ll be mine, and that’ll be enough.”
Again, the drag of sharpness that could only be his teeth. Sharp pointed canines that you’ve seen enough to no longer be completely intrigued by. The slide of his hands around your waist as he squeezes you tight, one palm pressed to your stomach. “And I will be yours. I’ll care for you, protect you. Keep you safe and happy and full of my kits.”
Your thoughts feel muddled, but they’re still your own. No matter how comfortable you feel, how pliant you are beneath his hands, the words still bring you pause. Of course being his Mate would entail that, it should have been obvious when he first mentioned it. And yet, it doesn’t scare you as much as it might have before.
You fully expect him to do something. Anything. For him to bite you, or paw at you, or do anything except what he does now. Tartaglia’s body cradles yours and his hand strokes over your stomach and he inhales deeply at your neck as if he can’t bother breathing if it isn’t laced with your scent.
The movements almost lull you back to sleep. Your eyes have trouble staying open, and the strange weightlessness of unconsciousness makes your sink further into him. As a last resort, because you cannot simply let things lie, you ask, “Won’t you do it?”
“No,” he answers simply, not elaborating until you’re starting to prickle with impatience. For once, he has mercy on you. “You haven’t given me yourself, yet.”
“How?” Your question is only met with the slow spread of a smile against your shoulder. You think you might know.
Tartaglia’s grip falters a little, allowing him to move his hands to your hips to nudge you onto your stomach. With careful hands, he coaxes you to lift them, higher and higher until you’re propped on your knees, chest to the furs you’ve gathered subconsciously to cushion yourself for what you must intrinsically know is coming.
Those hands on your body squeeze, fingers pressing into your skin as if to test the give, and he hums appreciatively. “Good for grabbing, like I suspected.”
Tartaglia has seen you in many states. Bundled up in all your layers, only your eyes peeking over the edge of your scarf. In warm, casual clothing as you cook dinner. In your bedclothes when you’ve just woken and he politely demands breakfast. But there have been very few instances where he’s touched you.
A hand in yours as he helps you over fallen trees or across ice that the wind has blown mirror-smooth. The brushing of fingers as he passes you whatever prey he’s offering on a given day, the memories heavier now that you know what his intent has always been. His chest pressed to your back as he wrapped you in his furs - himself - for the first time.
But this is different. This squeezing and pawing at your hips, your thighs, your backside… There is no innocence about this. Tartaglia appraises you with purpose now, as if he were taking stock of a deeply sought after prize, something hard won and treasured. If he hadn’t so openly said it, you’d know just by the way he appreciates your form that you are very much his.
And he is yours, and you want to see him while he explores you. Wiggling a bit, you tell him so, and his hand slides up your spine to push between your shoulder blades, a firm denial. Mercifully, he clarifies enough that you relax into it. “Not this time. Humans have their preferences for mating, and I’ll go along with those happily. I see the merit in it. But if I’m going to take you as mine, we’ll do it my way.”
Like an animal, you want to murmur, but you know it wouldn’t be quite right. Tartaglia is not just some animal, but you’ve always been aware of something beneath the surface that speaks of a more primal way of doing things. Natural would be the word he likely used, but no matter how you add it up, the sum remains the same.
You don’t struggle against the press of his hand, and he squeezes your hip once more in approval. Sliding back down your spine, he nudges your lower back into a deeper arch before those long fingers hook into your pants and underwear. “Nothing would make me happier than to give you everything you want. As often as you want, in as many different positions. After you give yourself to me like this.”
“Yes,” you hiss, almost impatient with the methodical way he’s picking you apart, thrumming at your nerves while barely doing anything at all. It’s the implications that your mind is supplying in the spaces between, and you know he’s doing it on purpose.
The frigid air meets your backside, your thighs, the wetness of your cunt as he tugs your clothes down enough to bunch around your knees. It’s all he needs right now, and you’re just glad he isn’t wasting time by trying to reveal more of you. Those same hands touch your skin now, squeezing in all the same places, his palms burning hot against you. A pathetic little sound falls from your lips, and he freezes.
You can feel him smiling.
As his fingers spread you open, you don’t have the wherewithal to even be embarrassed at the vulnerability of it all. Tartaglia looks at you shamelessly, a little rumble leaving his chest as he thumbs over your clit with little warning. Your hips jolt, only for a moment, and then you’re pushing yourself back against his circling finger for more.
It feels as if you’re demanding it from him, but also that you’re offering yourself as some sort of… toy for him to play with. The mere suggestion of it has you reeling; that you would willingly put yourself in his hands for his amusement. But that’s what all this is for, isn’t it? You can’t help asking that of yourself, knowing that it’s the truth.
Tartaglia wants you to give yourself to him in the only way you really can. An even trade for the offering that still wraps around you now. The exchange for having him at your side always, giving you all those things he promised. Protection, happiness, safety… The feeling of his cock nudging against you, hot and weighty, the chill of something smearing across your skin.
“Look at you, all ready for me,” Tartaglia breathes, nails scraping against your skin as he pushes closer, nestling against your cunt until his tip brushes your clit, his pulse thrumming against you just as surely as yours races against him. “Knew you’d be perfect. I knew it. I watched you, you know.”
And that makes you stiffen. You’d suspected, of course, but-
“Ever since you came here–” two years ago– “I watched, I waited. The forests are wild, uncontrollable, imperfect. But you’re… different.”
Tartaglia rocks against you, a minute sliding of his cock against your oversensitive cunt. He lets you feel every inch of him before ever giving you a taste. “Humans are delicate. Fragile, really. Wrapped up in your layers, I thought you looked cute. But every day that passed, I grew more sure that you’d look even more divine with my furs wrapped around you…”
And he leans down, pressing his lips to your neck, just over your pulse once more. You can feel the heaviness of his breath as he murmurs, “And how you’d look with my mark right here.”
Goosebumps prickle along your skin at the open threat of his teeth pressing into your skin. Not hard, never breaking, but little indents left as he pulls away, surely. Perhaps it’s your own mind tricking you, addled with both desire and the man above you, but you have a distinct need to have those marks on you permanently.
So, you bite down on your lip and whine a little plea, unsure of what you’re really asking for, only knowing that you want it desperately. More than you’ve ever wanted anything. The entirety of your life feels like it’s been boiled down to this single moment, the pinprick in time where it’s just you and the Fox above you, behind you, surrounding you completely.
Tartaglia withdraws, just enough to give you the full drag of him against your folds before the head pushes against your entrance. Never before have you taken someone with such little resistance, but never before has anyone worked you into such a state with so little effort. Tartaglia has barely touched you beyond squeezes and gropes for his own gratification, yet you can feel a rivulet of your own arousal roll down the inside of your thigh.
And you can hear the squelch of his entry, your cunt being pushed open to make way for him to seat fully inside you. Your mouth falls open in a silent sound as Tartaglia eases you open in one smooth move, the sharp angle of his hip bones pressing into your backside. The pressure only increases when he leans over you again, one hand braced on the bed, the other smoothing over your stomach, fingers pressing in just beneath your belly button.
“Right here. Can you feel me?” Tartaglia’s voice is almost a purr as he coaxes you into responding with a nudge of his hips forward. Your mouth shuts with a click of your teeth, face twisting in pleasure as you’re swept up in the sensation of having him inside, of nearly being rearranged to make room for him to take you.
Each move is torturously slow, and you’re reminded of his words, of the implication. You moved into this cottage two years before he approached you, and it’s been half a year since then. Two and a half years of persistence points to a lifetime of patience. Because of his nature, you assumed he’d take you quick and harsh.
And yet he pulls out and pushes in at an agonizing pace, your mind latching on to the sensation of being filled and emptied. Tartaglia fucks you like he has all the time in the world to do so, like he wants to spend that time memorizing every trembling inch of your pussy before marking it as his own. Like… he wants to torture you for not letting him do this sooner.
You would have let him. Gods, the first time he smiled at you - for real, not the wide and false thing he defaults to - you would have graciously done anything he asked. Including this frustrating slow paced fuck. Or is it mating? You’re not sure, and you don’t really have the faculties to ask such a question in the precise way required to get a real answer.
Fisting the sheets, you push back against him as he pulls out, trying to get at least one sharp thrust in to satiate yourself. Tartaglia doesn’t stop you, doesn't prevent you from doing it, but only once. Only when you rock forward and off does he stop you with a hand on your backside, palm pushing into the flesh and fingers squeezing in quiet warning.
Next time, you recall him saying. This one is for him, for his enjoyment. You don’t move, sucking in a shaking breath to fill your lungs, and his grip lessens to pat your ass in encouragement. “Smart; you remembered. Just relax. Just feel. Can you do that for me, just a little longer?”
You make a sound of agreement, but he doesn’t accept it as readily as you thought. Another tap to your backside, a little bit harder this time. Perhaps his patience isn’t as infinite as you thought. “Say it out loud. Say that you’re happy staying right here, feeling my cock.”
Tartaglia doesn’t sink back into you. Your entrance is stretched wide around his tip, your cunt clenching around nothing and begging for him to give you anything at all. Weary with your own desperation, you cave for him. “I-I’m happy just feeling your cock–”
“Your Mate’s cock,” he amends his original request, nudging forward, giving you a little as compensation so far.
You want more, even if he buries inside and never moves again. “I’m happy staying here and feeling my M-Mate’s cock.”
Something that felt so frustrating before now feels euphoric as he slides all the way in once more, nudging against places inside that you’re not sure have ever been touched like this. All it took was a moment of realignment to take you from annoyance to appreciation for the slow, slow roll of his hips.
This is fine. This is enough. If you close your eyes and focus only on that slow dragging, on bearing down and tightening around him further, then you find yourself inching closer and closer to the release you need. A little groan of surprise leaves him as you do this, then a little chuckle as he quickly realizes what you’re trying to do.
You expect him to tease you, to demand that you hold off and you’re not allowed to finish while he does this. It would be cruel, but you’d do it, only because he’d made so many pretty promises about what comes next. And yet, he slides a hand around you, breath hot against your ear. His fingers find your clit again as his cock goes still inside. “Since you’ve been so good…”
Tartaglia doesn’t move himself an inch as he plays with your clit, stroking it between two fingers, drawing circles with the pad of his middle digit, pressing hard to give you a little jolt of pain before soothing it away with soft touches. You’re not certain what it is he’s getting out of this until you tense particularly hard and his cock twitches inside you.
The closer you get to orgasm, the more you tense and flex around him. Tartaglia doesn’t need to fuck you to get his own pleasure, you realize, and that only spirals you higher toward the very apex of it all.
Through the haze you feel his mouth on your neck, sucking against the little marks he’d left not so long ago. The pressure will leave bruises, and you almost think that’s the extent of it. A mark that will be left to show he’d been here with you, that you were his until it faded and he’d surely put another in its place.
Tilting your head, you give him all the access he’d like. You’d be proud to leave whatever mark he gives, even though you’re isolated enough out here that you’ll likely not see another person until it starts to fade. But you’ll see it, you’ll feel it. Just as surely as you feel him throbbing in your cunt, as surely as his teeth dragging along your skin before sinking in.
As surely as the pain of his bite mixes with the exquisite agony of your drawn out release, the two striking at the same time and mingling so thoroughly that there’s no hope of pulling one from the other. They’re the same thing now, both overwhelming and leaving you just as delirious as you’d been when he arrived.
Something else burns at you, too. Between your mind reeling and your muscles tensing as if you’d experienced electro directly from the source, you realize he’s moving now. Quick, shallow, sharp little thrusts, something pushing at you that you don’t recognize. If you weren’t so thoroughly ruined, you’d panic, but instead you sprawl beneath him and let his hands hold your hips to keep you from going completely boneless.
The bluntness pushes you open, slowly but surely with each thrust until the stretch making you nearly squeal as he forces it inside. Only when you accept it does he finally dig his nails in and mouth against your neck, moaning against your skin with each shot of his release. Involuntarily, his hips jerk forward as the waves roll over him, his body pushing yours into the bed as he loses his strength to keep you aloft for his use.
Your neck stings, your pulse runs hardest in your cunt that’s stuffed full of his cock. Mindlessly, your fingers reach for the red fur sprawled around the two of you, pulling it closer. Its owner is at your back, but you have a single-minded need to be completely wrapped up by him. Everything feels muddled, as if you’d had a bit too much firewater to drink and were in the throes of your cups.
Tartaglia’s tongue rolls against the stinging marks, and you wonder if he’s tasting your blood or if he’d even gone that deep. It felt that way, as if he’d pierced you clean through. Perhaps his mark will last far longer than you expected.
A sharp hiss leaves you as you shimmy a bit to get more comfortable, and his length doesn’t dislodge from you. In fact, you feel as if he’s locked inside, something keeping you from pulling free. Another shift, a whimper as you realize that’s exactly what’s happened, and he finds quiet glee in your confusion.
“Did you think I was lying? I told you that I would breed you, Mate.” His hand sprawls over your stomach, possessive as if something were already growing there. “Hush now, my knot will go down soon and you can ask all your questions.”
“Can’t I ask them now?” You ask, annoyed at how thick your voice feels from exhaustion. Against your neck he nuzzles, lips brushing over the tender spot where he’d bitten you. Verbally, he doesn’t answer, but you suspect that he’d just reiterate his desire for you to wait.
And so, you relax beneath him, letting his weight settle over you comfortably. The furs tickle against your nose as you inhale their scent, as potent as the moment he’d first wrapped them around you. A thought meanders through your mind about what you might smell like to him, and whether he pines for it in the same way that you do.
Tartaglia doesn’t seem the pining type. At least, that’s what you thought before all of… this. Apparently, he’d been doing so for quite some time, far before you even had laid eyes on him.
With a little roll, he pulls you to lay on your side, his body spooned against your back once more, just as before, the thickness of his tail curled over your hip. The movement slips him free of you, and you don’t quite have words to articulate the disappointment that settles in your chest from the loss. You feel unlike yourself, but somehow more in-tune with who you are, as well.
Sensing your confusion, Tartaglia answers questions that you hadn’t had time to formulate. You’re his Mate, he tells you. He’s put his mark on your neck permanently, claiming you for himself in the eyes of all others. When your fingers raise to your neck to feel, he brushes your hand away. “Don’t touch it, you’ll irritate it more.”
“I just want to feel it-”
“There’s nothing to feel. It’s the shape of my teeth, and it’ll scar over,” he chides you, squeezing your hand. “Just trust me when I say that it suits you.”
You suppose you’ll be the judge of that later. In the meantime, you sigh a bit petulantly and relax in his hold, trying not to drift off to sleep. To combat yourself, you needle him further. “Why didn’t you say anything before? About your… feelings.”
“I have been.” Tartaglia almost sounds affronted, like you’ve put this entire thing up to be judged for validity. “We went through every step of the mating process. It’s not my fault you didn’t ask about any of it.”
“How was I supposed to know!”
“By asking,” Tartaglia answers simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You want to spin around and smack him, your hand pushing against the bed to give you leverage to do just that, but he cuts you off at the pass by wrapping those furs around you so tightly that you’re certain you’ll turn into a Fox yourself.
And then he laughs at you, light and weightless, rasping a bit at the edges in a way his polite ones never do. If not from his smile, then just by the angle of his ears, Tartaglia is happy. As happy as you’ve ever seen him. You’ll be annoyed with him later, you think, when you’ve had your fill of his elated expression and grow tired of seeing him so jovial.
That moment doesn’t come.
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