Neuvillette dishes out a healthy dose of praise in bed.
  

~~~~~

 

It isn’t as though Neuvillette hasn’t praised Wriothesley before. 

He does it in the same way as others. A well-placed, “This tea is delicious,” or, “Your last budget report was well formed,” tends to go a long way. Wriothesley always responds well with a crooked grin pulling across his face. It is attractive. That grin. It’s the sort of expression that relaxes him, softens those rough-cut edges that he’s adopted over his long years. 

“This tea,” said Neuvillette earlier that day, sipping his cup politely. “I am not one for it but it seems to be delightful when brewed by your capable hands. Good job, Wriothesley.”

Wriothesley isn’t a child, Neuvillette reminds himself. Younger, yes, but not young, and so at first something like praise seems as though it may be childish. But then he noticed that Wriothesley leaned into it, red from the tips of his ears to those damnable collarbones on display underneath his open collar. 

He’d been slacked-jawed, mouth falling open in surprise. Then he’d rubbed at his neck and laughed it off nervously, but he liked it—the praise. It did not go unnoticed by Neuvillette’s keen eyes. So he’d sipped that tea, watching Wriothesley for the rest of their short meeting. 

An idea, he’d thought. I have an idea.

Which led to where they are now, Wriothesley underneath him in his bed with Neuvillette sitting astride. 

This is a common occurrence as of late. Neuvillette has lost count of the times they’ve fallen into the sheets together now that feelings have been laid bare. The kissing started it; Neuvillette is a greedy, greedy creature. The sight of Wriothesley prone underneath him, sweaty, pink-faced, begging for more is almost too much to bear. 

How can he not crave this? How can he not reward him? And so the idea that’s wormed his brain since their tea break earlier that day: Neuvillette leans forward slightly, hair falling over his shoulder in a silvery curtain. “Wriothesley,” he says, rolling his hips, grinding against Wriothesley's thick cock. “You feel good.”

Because he does. The drag of Wriothesley's length through his insides is something that Neuvillette now dreams of. He thinks about it in the quiet hours. In the showers. He wakes up to the thought of it, his cock hard and dripping in the sheets, bereft that Wriothesley rarely stays over in his den. 

Wriothesley should know. Wriothesley does know, he’s teased Neuvillette enough when he’s in the proper mood. Perhaps it is teasing back—no, no. Neuvillette wants to see that same look that creased his face, that expression of embarrassed adoration that warmed Neuvillette’s bones. 

“Beloved, you fill me so well. It feels good.”

“I—” Wriothesley chokes off whatever he says. That look on his face; the mild embarrassment, the affection, the way that his skin creases around his eyes and mouth—Neuvillette swallows it up. 

It’s easy to move like this, overtop him. Wriothesley holds Neuvillette by the hips, guiding him, and together they rise and fall like the ocean waters outside. 

“You,” says Wriothesley then. “It’s you. You should see yourself—”

“I am talking about you,” cuts in Neuvillette, stilling his hips until Wriothesley's cock is lodged deep, twitching in his ass. “This isn’t about me.”

“Neuvillette—”

“No mocking words? No absurd pet names?”

“Sweetheart.”

Oh, he sounds gone. Neuvillette is close enough that when he laughs, his breath fans over Wriothesley's face. He tips his chin up and gives him a sweet, lingering kiss. “Never another, as you know. You please me in a way that no one else has, or will.”

Wriothesley's fingers tighten against him in a bruising grip against Neuvillette’s hips, spurring him on. 

“What a sight,” purrs Neuvillette. His chest rumbles, hot with pleasure. A gentle roll of his hips leaves Wriothesley groaning in the sheets as he clings to him. “Big. Thick. You fill me in all the right places.”

“I’m—Neuvillette.”

“But not just that, beloved. You trust me, trust me to have you this way, to lay underneath me and let me ride you. You are not afraid of my… uniqueness.” Neuvillette leans back then, moaning as Wriothesley's cock slides through him with the change of angle. Drags a hand down his front, his belly. Fingers across the length of his blue-tinged cock. 

Wriothesley looks, gaze washing over him before locking onto his vent, and the slick cock that protrudes from it. 

He’d worried at first. Neuvillette is not human but Wriothesley does not care. He strokes his cock the same, swallows his cock the same, and avoids his vent at Neuvillette’s request with tender sweetness. He opens his ass up on thick, calloused fingers, and then fucks him into the bed until he can’t think, and Neuvillette loves that. 

“Yeah.” Wriothesley's voice is punched, hoarse. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he looks at Neuvillette as if there’s nothing else. They are the only two in the room, and Neuvillette does not just think, he knows that this is the sort of love he thought it’d be that first time they’d kissed, fifteen years too late. 

“You unmake me.” Neuvillette is not an unfeeling man, nor is he unsentimental, but rarely is he so free with his words in this way. Wriothesley is caught by the admission, his expression rapturous. “You unmake me, Wriothesley, and then you put me back together. These hands—” Neuvillette drags his fingers across the back of Wriothesley's palm, down the length of his knuckles. “—are the hands of not just a worker, but a master of his craft. You tinker, Wriothesley, yes, but with these hands, you pull me apart and remold me.”

“Neuvillette.” This utterance of his name is unlike any other. It’s heated, and rushed, and it falls from Wriothesley's lips and stings the both of them, charged in a way that Neuvillette wasn’t aware was possible. Wriothesley's grip loosens. He thumbs over his hip bones with a soothing touch, letting Neuvilllette know that he hears him. 

They don’t push at each other, they pull. They pull and pull and pull, and Neuvillette goes so willingly. 

“More,” he says, dragging himself along the length of Wriothesley's cock. “More of that, of your cock, of your everything. I want it all.”

“Yes, yes.”

The desperation is delicious. Neuvillette watches him through a narrowly slit gaze, a hand pressed against Wriothesley's chest. He holds him there against the bed, the pressure against his sternum just enough to weigh him down. Neuvillette is so much stronger. One second, one slip of his weight, and he’d crush him. Yet, Wriothesley doesn’t tense, he doesn’t flinch; he watches him as if Neuvillette hung the moon and stars, and he’s never known a love like this. 

Perhaps he hasn’t. Wriothesley is not a man who has known kindness in his past. Neuvillette craves giving that to him, and he craves taking it too. Wriothesley is nothing but patient; not new to feelings but their relationship is still shiny, still chromed over, that hasn’t been weathered by time and experience. 

Neuvillette wants to be together for so long that their love rusts, not from age, but from the years dragging along where they get to share tea in the morning, and stolen kisses during office hours. 

“Perfect,” he says. “So utterly perfect for me.”

“Can I touch your cock?” Oh, he’s asked him. Of course, he can, but Wriothesley is, if any, polite. “Neuvillette, baby, I want—”

Neuvillette pulls one of Wriothesley's hands to his length, curling his fingers around it. Just like that, he moves, sweeping those calloused, rough fingers up and down Neuvillette’s cock, thumbing over the spade-shaped tip, at the thick precome, murmuring how he loves that it glows softly. 

“You know what I like,” he praises. “Exactly what to do, how to touch me. Always so good—”

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to…”

“Do what, Wriothesley?” Wriothesley crumples at those words, underneath Neuvillette’s gaze. Neuvillette chuckles softly, sweeping a hand down the expanse of his chest, chasing his nipples, scars, the sharp angles of his abs. “Beloved, you can say it.”

He doesn’t, he can’t. Wriothesley bites at his lip and moans, clinging to Neuvillette’s hips and cock. 

“You love the praise, don’t you?” Cruel, wicked words, but Neuvillette is in the mood to tease, and so he does. 

“Fuck,” hisses Wriothesley. His hips jerk, driving his cock deeper. “Fuck, that’s, you’re—” Another keening moan as he arches, backing bowing so prettily in the silk sheets. 

“Let me lavish you,” Neuvillette tells him. “You feel good. You fill me perfectly, long and thick. I find myself thinking of your cock, ever distracted from my work.”

“Neuvillette—”

“And when I’m alone—” Neuvillette’s voice drops to a husky murmur, heated, lax, full of awe and adoration. “—I take myself into my hand, and I think of you. I am always thinking of you.”

That does it, he thinks. Wriothesley lets loose a sound he’s never heard before; it’s deep and yearning, a strangled gasp of his name. He thrusts up against him. Pulls at Neuvillett’s cock. His cock slides through Neuvillette’s insides, to his core, and he comes abruptly. 

There is little fanfare. Wriothesley sighs, sweat beading along his brow. “Sweetheart,” he says, still stroking Neuvillette’s cock, throwing tinder into the fire that fills his gut. “Come for me, please. I need to see. I want to see it, to feel you.”

“Yes,” hisses Neuvillette, fucking into the tight grip of his palm. Back onto his half-hard, softening cock. He clings to Wriothesley, rising and falling against him, delighting in those sounds, that look on his face, those sweet, sweet words whispered into the air between them.

And then Neuvillette is coming too, spilling wet against Wriothesley's palm. “Sovereigns,” says Wriothesley, remembering that there is to be no mention of Archons in Neuivillette’s bed. “Come here, come here.”

Wriothesley pulls him close, his free hand curled around the back of Neuvillette’s neck, fingers curled into his sweaty hair. He doesn’t kiss him, he just presses their foreheads together. He breathes deep, in and out, grounding himself, themselves, relishing this moment that they’ve shared. And then he bites at him, turning his face into Neuvillette’s neck, sinking his teeth into soft, pale flesh.

Like that. Just like that. Yes, yes— 

His baser instincts are something to behold. Neuvillette purrs as Wriothesley mouths at his neck, soaking in their shared high. Wriothesley has broken down and loosened so much that he now has to pick up the pieces. “Beloved,” he says, cupping Wriothesley's cheeks, his chin. He noses at him, scenting him, mouthing at his lips sweetly. “I do not want you to leave.”

No, no, he belongs here in his den. Wriothesley. His—

Neuvillette does not think of that word but he feels it, his chest yearning. 

Wriothesley nods against him. “Yeah, I—okay. Yes. Okay.” He pets Neuvillette’s hair as he winds down. And then, a little while later, he curses softly. “That was—shit.”

“Mhmn, a glowing endorsement.”

“No, I—” Wriothesley has the decency to look embarrassed at least. He shifts, his cock falling free from Neuvillette’s ass. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” promises Neuvillette. He still lays over him, bracing his weight against Wriothesley's broad chest. Warm, he’s so warm, and this moment feels soft, rose-tinted at the edges. 

“That, though…” Wriothesley is still pink-faced. He licks at his lips, thinking about it. “I rarely see you so bold.”

Neuvillette gives him a slitted gaze. “Is that a complaint?”

“No.” The word comes as a heated rush. “I liked it. Obviously. I—Shit, I’m not usually so… I like you doing that. The…”

“I wasn’t aware you had a praise kink until recently.”

Wriothesley groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t say it like that.”

His embarrassment is endearing. Wriothesley is usually so put together, effortlessly so. He knows what he wants and though he is patient, and though he is prone to waiting decades to get what he wants, for him to be so bashful about something so simple is a keen reminder that he is, in fact, human. Neuvillette dips close and kisses the tip of his nose.

“That’s the sort of thing I do.”

“Yes. Is it not the sort of thing a partner does? Adopting the tendencies of others? With your newfound love of praise—”

“Oh, so you’re telling on yourself now?”

Neuvillette peels back with a wry grin. “I have never made such a thing a secret. To have you on the opposite end of it though…”

Wriothesley's expression softens. “The vulnerability of it… Yeah, it's—” Neuvillette makes no comment about how suddenly tongue-tied he is. “Let’s just lay here, please. I want to just… rest. With you. And I’ll stay. Over, I mean.”

Neuvillette reaches up to pet his fingers through Wriothesley's coarse hair, claws scratching against his scalp. A soft moan as Wriothesley relaxes against the sheets. And then, another tease as he says, “Good boy.”

Wriothesley's red-faced, sputtering is worth it.

 

Guoba spends an exciting night at the museum. Written for Around the World, a Genshin Travel Zine inspired by real-life places!

You can also check out the full tags and read it here on AO3!

--


Mexico City is hot and Guoba watches as Xiangling sticks a finger into her collar, tugging gently at the silk. 

“Well, at least the flight is over, isn’t that right Guoba?” She glances at him, reaching out to rub a hand across his head. Guoba doesn’t mind plane rides but he knows that she isn’t fond of them. Even as much as they travel, she still gets nervous the moment the engines rumble to life. 

He chirps in response, waving at her, and Xiangling gives him a bright smile as her fingers scratch across the crown of his head. Pets are always welcome, especially from her. Guoba delights in them.

“Excited?” she asks. Guoba nods again. “Yeah, I figured you would be. Mexico City! Of all the places we’ve been to, this is a first for us. I can already imagine it—all the tasty and amazing things that are just waiting to be cooked by my hands.” She pauses, sighing contently. “Día de Muertos. What fun this’ll be.”

Guoba doesn’t doubt it. Xiangling is the best at what she does, those fingers dexterous as they prepare meals with care. Not one person will go unfed under her watchful eye and they’ll leave her presence satisfied, and with bellies full. His mouth is already salivating at the thought of it. 

Xiangling pulls out her phone and scrolls through her emails. “Right then. Looks like someone’s going to meet us here at the airport, and then we’ll be off to the festival. They’ve provided a nice hotel room—oooh, that’s exciting! I wonder if the room service is as good as these reviews say…” She gives him a mischievous grin. “Well, there's only one way to find out, right? Say Guoba, wanna order one of everything on the menu?”

Guoba dances around at the idea of it, never having been one to turn down food, be it good or not. 

#

“Alright, Guoba, here’s the deal.” Xiangling kneels to his level and flashes a bright grin. “I’m about to start setting up here for the cook-off tomorrow, and I have to make sure that it’s perfect. I’m up against Smiley Yanxiao and you know he’s no slouch!”

Guoba does know that, remembering the tasty eats the man dished up during the Moonchase Festival back home. As if on cue, his stomach gurgles at the thought of it.

Xiangling laughs. “Oh, would you listen to that! Are you hungry, Guoba?”

The truth is that he’s always hungry, his stomach constantly roiling and boiling, feeling hollowed out. Guoba dances around and gives an affirmative, which leaves Xiangling reaching out to pinch at his cheek with a smile. 

“As soon as our spot is prepped I’ll cook you something good. In the meantime, why not explore a little?” Then she leans in and gives him a conspiratorial wink. “Just don’t get into any trouble, okay?”

Guoba huffs slightly. He isn’t like her. Xiangling dips her toes in trouble wherever she goes, whether she means to or not. In his experience, though, she means to. She grins at his scoff and reaches out to ruffle the fur that coats his head. Just like that, friendship tingles in his belly as Guoba leans into her touch happily. She scritches and scratches his scalp, and Guoba sighs in contentment.

“Right then,” she says with a chuckle. “Off you go. And remember—” Xiangling taps at her nose. “Behave.”

Guoba trills at them, beaming brightly. As if he wouldn’t. Who does she think he is?

#

The problem is that Guoba doesn’t mean to get into trouble. Xiangling encourages him to explore the grounds, and so he does, toddling into the Museo Nacional de Antropología without a second thought. 

They likely didn’t mean to leave the side door unlocked. Too few staff, too many vendors, and too many people setting up their ofrendas in preparation for their midnight picnics. The entire museum grounds are a chaotic nightmare, and Guoba slips in easily unnoticed. 

Guoba is smart, but he is also a little oblivious. Head caught in the clouds, thinking of only the moment—and at that moment he thinks of the rows of antiquities that he waddles between, taking in things he’s never seen or ever imagined, priceless gems of a culture he’s never experienced. 

Mr. Zhongli would like this, he thinks, pausing to look at a set of conquistador armor hanging in a plastic box, gleaming in its display. He’s a man of history just as Guoba is, and would surely enjoy wandering around these halls. 

However much he enjoys the exhibits, though, Guoba is not supposed to be perusing the wares after hours and deep into the night. The evening guards are not expecting visitors, so as he ambles around, they hone in on the noise of his footsteps.

“Wait, did you hear that?” one asked in a hushed whisper of Spanish. 

Guoba pauses as well, his ears flickering; he might not understand the words, but he understands the tone. He looks around frantically, looking for any signs of an intruder. 

“Yes.” A pause. “I didn’t see anything. Did you?”

The first guard sighs. “I mean, I always hear things, but isn’t that how it is? We’re surrounded by the dead, what do you expect? Is it a night shift if we don’t see shadows?”

Guoba leans a little too far around the edge of a display case and loses his balance, tumbling across the floor and knocking into another exhibit. He panics as the whole thing shakes. 

The guards freeze and Guoba sees a flashlight beam down the hall from around the corner. 

“Aya, La Llarona?”

“Don’t be stupid. That’s a myth.”

“Are you saying that my Abuela lies?”

“Alright, you win. Everyone knows that Abuelas don’t lie.”

There is a pause and then both of the guards burst into laughter. 

Meanwhile, Guoba steadies the display before tip-toeing away without further problems. Careful, he thinks as he roams on. It’s clear that he’ll have to play a careful game of keeping quiet in the halls.

#

It is fun. 

Guoba delights in the sights of the museum despite the way that the displays are dimmed. There is a musty smell, and everything is a little dusty, but it’s a comforting thing for a creature as old as him. There is so little that he seems to share time with, but the collections within these walls are well-aged with time all the same. 

Suits of armor; old textiles and farming equipment; indigenous regalia, and carved stone epitaphs—he feels a kinship, thinks Guoba as he presses a fat paw against a glass case housing artifacts that were used in a game of handball. Guoba feels at home amongst all these age-old artifacts polished by time. 

Eventually, he comes across an ancient hearth. It is the perfect ratio of stone slab to space for a fire and would have fit so many pots, brush nestled neatly into the inside for a hot, crackling fire.

Guoba’s mouth falls open, his eyes wide. He feels the Pyro that burns in his heart, fueled by his love for providing for others whether he remembers doing so or not. His memory might not be so good, but he’ll always be the God of the Stove. 

He teeter-totters on both feet as he makes a dumb decision. Underneath the ropes he goes. Just for a moment, he thinks. Just to get a better look. 

Guoba means no harm, of course. 

He also doesn’t mean to knock anything over. 

The exhibit signage tumbles to the floor in a loud clatter, and Guoba jumps.

“Aiyah, did you hear that?”

The fur on the back of Guoba’s neck stands on end, ears twitching. The guards, he thinks. Not good. He doesn’t know how he’ll get away in time. Guoba has never been a swift thing, rather slow on his feet and not-so-good with his balance. He pauses, standing in the middle of the exhibit awkwardly.

Oh, bother, he thinks, rubbing his grubby little paws together. What a nightmare, what a mess. This is the reason that Xiangling never lets him wander off alone. 

“Eh? Do you think—”

“Should we go look?”

“I’d rather not.”

There is a pause in which the guardsmen are uncomfortably quiet. Guoba still stands there, frozen to the spot, a paw pressed to his face. And then—

“Pssst.”

Guoba turns to the left, only to find the grinning face of Xiangling. Oh, thank Morax. Guoba sighs in relief as he begins to waddle towards her. 

“So this is where you disappeared to, huh? You know that you aren’t supposed to be here?” Guoba tilts his head to the side, face crinkled with confusion. Xiangling tuts at that, lifting the exhibition rope to help him back under. “Come on, let’s get out of here before you get in trouble.”

Easier said than done. The moment that the words tumble from her mouth, a guard turns the corner, the beam of his flashlight shining through the dark room. 

Xiangling winces, covering her face. “Gosh, that’s bright. You see all the dust in the air—”

“Hey! What are you doing here?”

Guoba jumps at the man’s voice, looking around to find whoever he’s yelling at. 

And then, belatedly, Guoba realizes that the guard has his flashlight trained on him and Xiangling, his face pulled into a terse frown. The man’s gaze then washes over Guoba before morphing into something more akin to horror. “Ahhh!” he yells.

His partner appears around the corner, only to drop his own flashlight at the sight of Guoba. It clatters to the ground, rolling across the tile. “Chupacabra!”  the man screams, high-pitched. “It’s—it’s—”

“Dios Mio, we need to get out of here.”

“We can’t, he’s—”

Guoba’s mouth flops open. He’s slow on the intake sometimes, but Guoba now realizes that he’s the intruder they’ve been worried about the entire time. Oh. 

“Easy there,” says Xiangling, holding her hands out to try and placate the guards. “He’s not a… chupacabra?” Her mouth curls around the foreign word, sputtering it slightly. “He’s just Guoba!”

The first guard gets a good look at her, his arms dropping back to his sides. “Eh? Miss,” he says, swapping to accented English. “You’re—”

“Definitely not supposed to be here, I know! My apologies.” Xiangling grins widely as she brushes the dust from her thighs. “Guoba here—he’s my friend—I told him to go explore, but I couldn’t find him once I was done setting up my booth for the festival. Seems that he wandered in here through an open door.”

The second guardsman regards the both of them warily. “Friend,” he murmurs quietly, his voice wavering. “You call him a friend? Are you sure he’s not a spirit? Considering the festival—”

Xiangling’s laugh cuts him off. She moves to wrap an arm around Guoba, tugging him close for a hug. “Guoba’s been with me for almost as long as I can remember—though, the idea of spirit in the night…exciting.” Her grin widens then. “I’d say that perhaps that’d be the full cultural experience, no?”

“Miss—”

“Xiangling, please.” The guard seems to recognize her name, and it’s no surprise. Xiangling is an invited guest, front-page news as far as the festival goes. “He didn’t damage anything did he?”

Guoba snorts at that before the guardsman can answer. As if.

The guard shakes his head. “No, it seems as though everything is fine, aside from the stand over there.”

Xiangling sighs in relief. “So no harm, no foul, right?”

“I—”

“It’s fine.”

The first guard turns to the second. “But, Pedro—”

Pedro cuts him off in Spanish. “Whatever he claims, he’s a strange creature, no? Wouldn’t it be better to play it safe?”

“Still think he’s a chupacabra, then?”

“He’s something, isn’t he?” Pedro then looks at Xiangling. “Not to mention the rumors of the young miss. She’s known to cook just about anything.”

The first guard shivers at the thought, and Xiangling and Guoba are left wondering what they’re talking about. “Right then,” he agrees in English. “No harm, no foul. Just make sure the two of you get out of here, okay? You can visit properly during the day.”

“Right-o!” Xiangling gives him a mock salute before tugging at Guoba gently. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Guoba toddles after her, doing his best to keep up. He feels guilty, just a little. He should have realized that no museum would be open that late, but curiosity got the better of him. At least it didn’t kill him, much like the cat of yore.

Once outside, Xiangling whips around and drops to a knee. “Did you have fun?” she asks him, sweeping a thumb over his forehead. “Dusty,” she finishes with a laugh. 

Guoba can’t talk in the same way, but he gives her a goofy grin, rocking back and forth on his feet. As positive a response as he can muster for her. He sings a soft little note, and Xiangling chuckles as she ruffles the rubbery fur on top of his head. 

“They called you a chupacabra,” she says then, pressing a finger to her mouth in thought. “I wonder just what it is?” Then, her eyes glint with fevered intent. “Think that it’s something tasty? Can I fry up strips of the flank like bacon? Oh, that’d be a thought, wouldn’t it?”

Guoba snickers as she goes on and on without taking a breath. 

Finally, when her thoughts have been sorted out, and she’s tired from thinking about spices and wine pairings, Xiangling sighs softly. Her hand finds his head again, scratching against his scruff. “What a day, yeah? We’re in a new place, and they thought you were a ghost!” She pauses, soaking up the atmosphere of Mexico City. “Apt, though, considering the festival. I’ve learned a lot about Día de Muertos just today alone! I can’t wait to sink my teeth into more—especially the food.”

Guoba dances around on his feet, circling about to show his excitement. He loves that they’re in a new place, but more than anything, he loves that Xiangling seems entirely beside herself, ready to sink her teeth into this bright new culture spread before them. 

“Alright then,” she says, nudging him with her elbow. “Want to go check out the food stalls? It’s late, but it’s a party that goes on all night!”

Guoba can’t agree fast enough, his stomach gurgling at the thought. Nothing to work up a good appetite like accidentally breaking into a museum. 

When Xiangling wraps her fingers around his palm and tugs, he goes, chirping happily.