Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kinktober 2025

Day 1: Wriothesley - Masturbation
Day 2: Dan Heng - Coming Untouched
Day 3: Wriothesley & Neuvillette - Threesome
Day 4: Flins - Voyeurism

unofficial official Kinktober list Here

Other smutty endeavours to pass the time as you heathens wait for updates:

A Moth to Flame (Mydei x Reader x Phainon)

Aphrodisia (Kakashi x Reader)

a/n: if the drabbles end up being longer than 2k, or i end up really enjoying what i wrote, i may post them as their own individual fic and then link it in a chapter here. the kinks listed are the specific prompts, but each chapter will have more CWs.

if you see me posting early NO YOU DONT

Chapter Text

Day 1: Wriothesley (Prompt: Masturbation + Getting Caught)

CW: anal fingering, nipple piercings, ejaculation, pubic hair, getting caught, sex toys, wrio’s got a big dick. AFAB reader with she/her pronouns, who is an inmate so power dynamic??? 4.1 and Wrio storyline spoilers just to be safe. Not beta either so let's just roll with it!

It’s not often that the Duke of Meropide forgoes his responsibilities in favour of personal pursuits. Sure, his schedule is a little freer than, say, the Chief Justice himself—but Wriothesley digresses. He’s a busy man who’s let two aromatic cups of tea go to waste in the past hour, pouring over documents littered with stickers with an increasingly stiff neck. He generally paces himself better than this. Knows when to take a breather, sniff the roses, that sort of thing.

However, with the arrival of the latest inmate—whom he can only assume is an outworlder like the Traveller given how strange they are—his plans and his routine have all but combusted. She’s silent as the grave but causes the grey in his hair to spread like the plague, simply by virtue of existing.

It’s unnervingly frustrating, especially when she stares at him with those pretty eyes like she can read the very depths of his soul.

He sighs and places the most recently approved documents off to the side of his desk, taking a sip of his stone-cold tea. It’s a pleasant Sumeru Rose blend, though it does little to soothe his fatigue.

Soon enough, his most interesting inmate will grace his halls, toddling off with his manila envelope in hand. He figures by having her close, upping her responsibilities in the fortress—sending her to and fro with documents and letters—that he’ll come to understand what it is about her that throws him so dangerously off kilter. Though the answers have yet to fall into his lap.

Wriothesley runs a hand through his shaggy hair, tufts poking up in unruly shapes. His hand continues down the side of his face, to his neck, then to his tie, where he loosens it. His office can feel stifling at times, being heated from the machinations’ warm air in the Production Zone that tend to rise up and flow throughout the fortress. Leaving his secret entrance open sometimes helps with ventilation, but today even his skin is burning.

It's an unusual, licking, heat. One that lingers in his chest and travels down his legs. Not quite unlike…

…

Oh. Maybe that’s his problem.

“Get it together, Wriothesley.” He scolds himself, shaking his thoughts from a dangerous path. It’d be too easy to give in to that particular type of temptation. It had been some time since he had been able to jack off in peace.

If something wasn’t going wrong with the fortress itself, there were always issues concerning Sigewinne, and if it wasn’t related to Sigewinne, there was no shortage of prisoner escapades to contend with.

Needless to say, it had been…a while, since Wriothesley had any semblance of privacy. There is no place for him to withdraw to. His office door doesn’t even have a lock on it, for Archon’s sake. Sigewinne had managed to convince him it was necessary for ease of “emergency access”, back in his early days, but now he only curses his stupidity.

The collar of his shirt is becoming damp with sweat, and he’s shucking everything off before he can even blink. Wriothesley doesn’t do well with heat, and he’s settling back on his chair, torso bare, with little embarrassment. If someone walked in, they walked in.

It sends a mischievous shiver up his spine.

Turning his attention once more to the documents piled on his table, he selects a new manila envelope, dates it, and slips the sheets of paper in one by one. He seals it shut with the sticker he had peeled off his coat hours earlier. He hums to himself softly, fingers wafting over the rim of his teacup before passing it by altogether in search of a fresh ink pot.

He goes through a lot of ink these days, with the way Furina’s skewed legislations continue to fill his dormitories. Illegal to release any flying objects within the first three days of each month, seriously? The number of prisoners who aren’t actually criminals is laughable, now.

Wriothesley scoffs and shifts in his chair. His mind nearly drifts to thoughts of ships and seas, but his thumb catches the edge of yet another document, spilling warm blood onto the pages. It’s dry in a matter of seconds, but now the document is stained, and therefore ultimately unusable in Furina’s courts.

Wriothesley sighs, between his cold tea, the heat that threatens to consume him, his ruined paperwork, and the way his mind refuses to focus, he takes it as a sign. Multiple signs, really. Time to take a break, unlockable door be damned.

He looks down at his lap, then at his desk, and impulsively swoops its contents far to the side with a generous wave of his arm. Now that he has some clear space, he stands up.

Carefully, he works at the belt around his waist. If he had a partner, he might have taken his time undressing. For a brief moment, he thinks of his peculiar inmate’s eyes, and the way her grin curls up her cheeks. It’s brief, truly, but the thought is enough to have his cock stirring in his pants.

They drop to his thighs.

And then, realizing he can’t maneuver freely while his boots are still on, he curses, wriggling them off and flinging them behind his chair. His pants and underwear come off in quick succession, and he stands in his office bare as the day he was born.

“I should have enough time,” he muses to himself, rummaging around his drawers and leaving the ones he yanks open hanging ajar. He deftly grasps the vial of oil he has yet to have the pleasure of using, and then pops the cork.

It smells faintly of Sweet Flowers and Marcotte, somewhat tacky as it glides over his skin until the warmth of his flesh encourages its melding. He rolls it between his fingers gently, letting it slick over his palm and down his wrist, turning him into a slippery mess. Though he’s always liked things a little messy.

The heat clings to his limbs. Travels along his pulse points and down to his steadily growing erection. He has yet to touch himself, but simply the feel of the oil and the flashing thoughts of her are enough to make his heart race and his dick hard. It really has been too long, if this is all it takes for him to nearly blow his load.

Sighing, Wriothesley takes himself in hand and brushes his thumb over the head of his cock. His other hand travels lightly across his chest, tweaking and pinching his pierced nipples. His hips twitch in reply, and he grunts in tune to the pace he sets fucking into his hand.

The hand on his chest migrates down his side, over his ribs, to the dip of his hip and back to his ass. He squeezes the firm flesh there, unabashed at the pleasure that spikes the closer his wandering fingers get to his clenching hole. All the while he strokes himself, sometimes slowing his tempo as if to tease, sometimes mercilessly working himself over, and for a short moment, he stops.

Footsteps recede from behind his closed door. The presence didn’t linger, barely paused—and Wriothesley releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. There was a constant flow of activity passing by his door, with prisoners socializing on their way to and from their shifts, but there had been increased movement the past few days with preparations for a fortress-wide celebration of Samhain, whatever that was. He hadn’t asked many questions when Sigewinne stumbled into his office last week with his favourite prisoner, babbling about outworld traditions, and demanding that all the inmates be able to participate.

It had been a headache, initially, trying to smooth out a plan that allowed Sigewinne to have her fun without inviting the opportunity for riots and fights. Ultimately, it ended with Wriothesley spending too much of his personal budget on tacky decorations and ingredients for sweets and confectioneries. The schedule for the inmates followed their original production shifts, only in their free time they were invited to participate in the festivities (which Wriothesley had left to Sigewinne), if they so wished. The free meal was under the supervision of both Wolsey and the outworld inmate, as Sigewinne cited something about “authenticity”.

Wriothesley breathes out through his nose, ears ringing in the silence. The person is gone, his hand is still on his cock, and his erection is throbbing. He knows he has to be quick with his one-man tryst, although he can’t deny the spark of arousal that floods him wondering if she’d arrive earlier than anticipated, quite literally catching him with his trousers down.

Would her eyes go wide, he wondered, would she become shy and avert her gaze, or would it turn hungry? Would she prowl towards him as if he were prey, or would she flee? He likes to think she’d stare at him inquisitively, invitingly, and they’d spend an afternoon wrapped in each other’s embrace.

Maybe he’d pin her to his desk and fuck her, and she’d buck underneath him, wrapping her thighs around his waist as he inched ever deeper. Or maybe she’d have his way with him, playing with his ass until he swallowed her fingers, begging for more.

Wriothesley tilts his head back, hips lazily thrusting forward, hand squeezing around the base of his shaft when he threatens to spill just fantasizing. His tip dribbles with precum, mixing with the oil running through and over his fingers, palm audible as it schlicks along his cock at a hurried pace.

He stops again. It’s not enough.

Wriothesley groans as a playful finger rubs over the rim of his ass. He fumbles with the keys he’d discarded by the empty ink pot and hastens to unlock the lowest drawer of his deck. His, uh, private collection of sorts is stored there. Always ready to be used, but most often forgotten.

His toes curl in anticipation; a pitch-black plug rolls to the front of the drawer. Whistling softly, Wriothesley decides that the plug’s made the difficult choice of picking which toy to use easy. His cock bobs in response, smearing his pelvis and stomach in precum. Using a plug would definitely lengthen his personal time, increasing the chance of being caught, but the thought of prepping himself while fondling his dick is too good for him to pass up.

So, he climbs up on his desk and sits propped up on his elbows, legs spread apart. He uses one hand to clumsily uncork the oil once more and lathers it over his digits, ignoring his pulsing erection.

His other hand snakes around to his cock, teasing it with feather-light touches, gracing the head with a small tap before he moves back down to grip it at the base. He might not get through prepping himself at this rate.

He smooths his hand over his thigh and around down to his cheeks. Spreading himself open, he uses the hand covered in oil to finger his rim, slowly inserting one into his velvety heat. He bites back a breathy groan. If someone were to hear him, if someone were to open the door, they’d still have to make their way upstairs. He’d have a split second to cover himself. He’ll be fine, really. At least, this is what he tells himself as he sinks a finger down to the knuckle, gasping softly. His cock is rock hard and aches, but he doesn’t move to touch himself. He’s tight, hole greedily sucking him in, and he has to pause to catch his breath.

Wriothesley bites his lip and moans with clenched teeth. The delicious stretch of another finger joining the first causes his ass to rise off the desk. His hips stutter and his cock leaks. He doesn’t have the patience to put a third in.

“It’s not like the plug’s big, anyways.” He mutters to himself. Though he takes a minute to fish through his private drawer for a condom, lust-addled brain unsure if he had ever had the chance to clean the toy after purchasing it.

Wriothesley was not going to stop to wash it. He’d edged himself long enough.

He fucks himself with his two fingers, picking up the pace and angling himself just so. But it’s still not enough and he shifts, popping his fingers out. He instead reaches behind himself, twisting his torso slightly, right shoulder dipping lower so he can fit his hand underneath him. He likes how his fingers breach his hole this way, dangerously close to that spongy spot that makes him lose his mind.

Wrist cushioned beneath his cheeks, Wriothesley thrusts back in without hesitation. A muffled yelp escapes as he mistakenly targets his prostate first try, ushering him closer to orgasm.

He leans back slightly, other hand still spreading himself open. His eyes slowly drift shut as he continues to finger himself, pace increasing with his fervent need to cum. He’s so hard he can’t stand it, cock proudly standing upright.

With his fingers stuffed inside of him, Wriothesley hurriedly picks up the condom with his other hand, shoving it between his teeth to tear it open. Before he can get it out of the package, he takes a moment to squeeze the supple flesh of his thigh, condom resting on his lips and fingers buried deep, completely unaware of the sound of the door opening and footsteps tracing a path upwards to his office.

Wriothesley moans quietly, pleasure mounting, as he blinks his eyes open.

There, his curious inmate stands, mouth ajar and a scandalous expression on her face. He can’t help himself. To see her there, to witness the way she drags those pretty eyes across his chest and to his cock while he touches himself—he cums, shooting up and over his chest.

It takes him by surprise. It takes her by surprise, but all he can do is grin like a wolf with the wrapper still between his teeth. He holds her gaze, as if beckoning, daring, her to come to him.

She tilts her head to the side, expression shifting. And it’s something that Wriothesley thinks he likes, heavy with promise.

Chapter Text

Day 2: Dan Heng (Prompt: Coming Untouched + Rut)

CW: multiple orgasms, submissive dan heng, mildly dubious consent (as he has rut brain), two dragon penises, draconic anatomy, coming untouched (as in no direct contact with his genitalia), feelings of shame. reader insert, gender neutral.

This rut is utterly dreadful. In all his lifetimes, Dan Heng cannot remember ever being so consumed by his baser instincts.

Yet here he is, muffling his gasps like a groaning, wounded, animal—nerves on fire as the archives drone on with artificial light and mechanical whirring.

His once comforting environment is too stimulating, in the most painful way. His shirt feels too tight, he’s too hot, and suddenly he’s stripping his top half bare, breathing so heavily he feels as if he’s been in battle.

Dan Heng’s boots and socks fly off next. He doesn’t need to look up to know they’ve landed somewhere near his bedroll. But he doesn’t care.

Every one of his muscles aches with the sweetest of agonies—every beat of his heart is matched by the pulse in his straining cocks. Sweat drips from the tip of his nose down to his naked chest, heaving with laboured breaths, and he fumbles around like a newborn fawn in the archives because aeons.

Aeons help him.

It has never been this bad.

He curses, tongue slithering out and hanging in the air, twitching at the stench of his own pheromones. It’s times like these that he’s most certainly glad the members of the Astral Express don’t share his Vidyadhara anatomy—debauched as he is currently and mortified at the thought of someone finding him in such a vulnerable state.

Still, he can’t stay locked up in the archives forever, especially when the rest of the crew needs access to them. But there aren’t many places he can sneak away to, to wait out the horror of this particular rut.

Dan Heng catches himself as he stumbles, pants tight, tight, tight, and blood ringing in his ears. He slides down the wall nearest the door with a defeated sigh, thighs tensing as his sweaty back collides with the cool metal.

He hisses.

Then groans lowly, in irritation, as his tail materializes and knocks over a pile of data discs.

His scales and horns are extra sensitive, especially during his season. The simplest brush sets his groin on fire, and he is not staining his collection of literature like some rabid beast, thank you very much.

With a quiet rumble, the train lurches slightly to the left. Dan Heng bites back a curse as the movement jostles him forward.

The express travels onwards, leaving Amphoreus far behind in search of novel adventures. It’s quiet, almost peaceful, if not for the inconsolable ache between Dan Heng’s legs.

Was it his new form that came with an entirely fresh set of challenges, or something else entirely?

Dan Heng’s tail thumps against the door, narrowly avoiding the lock.

If he was careful enough, he could make it down the hall—to your room.

You were having a sleepover with March, and your lodgings were far enough away from the hub of the train that if—and Dan Heng does mean if—he was to make any sort of unsavoury noise, it wouldn’t be heard.

Does he truly want to spend his rut in the company of your empty bed chamber?

No.

Does he truly want to potentially sully a beloved crew member’s private quarters while he struggles with his…needs?

Also no.

Does he have a choice?

No. Because Himeko’s heels are clicking with an even pace down the hallway, headed directly for the archives.

It isn’t unusual for Dan Heng to hide away for days at a time, with how much he relishes his solitude. But he has avoided everyone on the express for a week straight, going so far as to snap at Pom Pom, of all unfortunate souls, to leave him be just that very morning—and Dan Heng knows that Himeko’s grace has run out.

With a disgruntled snarl, Dan Heng bolts from the archives. He’s certain Himeko rounds the corner just as he’s disappearing from view, greeted by the vanishing wisp of an agitated tail and reddened skin.

He tumbles into your door, limbs like lead and mouth full of cotton as he struggles to remain upright, blinking sweat away from his eyes. His ears twitch at the sound of Caelus’ footsteps overhead, but the chatter from March’s room has long since faded.

For a quiet moment, he breathes out in relief.

And then your scent hits him.

Oh.

Nanook strike him down.

Dan Heng’s mind comes to a screeching halt. He hunches over, mouth open as he greedily huffs and laps at the air, drinking you in.

No wonder his ruts had never been quite so bad.

You.

This was all your fault.

A fresh face on the express, joining them on the tail end of the trauma that Amphoreus had bludgeoned him with—he had never had to contend with his ruts alongside you.

This was a first.

His jaw aches, fangs elongating beneath his gums. He pants and groans, collapsing to his knees, claws shredding the fibres of the new carpet he knows you love—Dan Heng curls in on himself, shaking and sweating. His skin is tacky, fingers sticking together as he curls them into fists.

He can’t bring himself to stand and instead bends forward so that his forehead rests against the floor, wallowing in his own misery, to the point that he does not hear the swoosh of the door as you waltz into your room.

Your scent concentrates to one powerful, almighty force in front of him, and it’s nearly comical the way his mind physically, painfully, reboots. It’s only when you call out his name in concern, a gentle hand threading through his hair, tilting his head to the side so that his cheek rests against your rug, that he whimpers.

You jerk back. His hips jerk forward.

And for five humiliating seconds, Dan Heng cums.

He rubs his cheek pathetically against the ground, biting his lips raw and bloodied as he fights with his voice, eyes fluttering shut as you stare at him gobsmacked.

Lan swallow me whole, he thinks, once he regains clarity. He can’t bring himself to look at you, and heat crowds his cheeks in disgrace.

“Are you alright?” You ask him quietly. Your voice sends a hot, throbbing, stroke of heat directly to his cocks. He hisses in distress. “Are you sick?” Your tone shifts immediately, concern and fear evident in the way your words tremble and fall like tiny petals.

Dan Heng curls around himself tighter.

“I needed-” his lips part weakly, tongue falling out like a traitor as the animalistic part of his brain renders his speech useless. “-Needed. Need.”

“Need what?” You kneel by his prone form, hand gentle on his sweat slick back. He flinches against your palm, claws burying themselves deeper into the carpet.

“Don’t, please-” Dan Heng begs, pleads, prays that you’ll remove your hand. To save you from his debauchery, to prevent you from seeing just how unbound he’s become, he wills himself to move away.

But your hands are gentle balms. Sweet as they glide over his skin, his scales, how they urge him up into your embrace while he chokes on a gasp—

Until he folds into your arms with a sob, pants now soiled beyond belief as a new crest of pleasure overwhelms him, and you’re still none the wiser.

Dan Heng’s tail thrashes on the floor behind him, horns aglow as you steady him against your heaving chest, heart racing as fast as his own.

“What’s happening?”

Oh, how Dan Heng could kiss you senseless here. He listens to the breathlessness of your voice and presses himself impossibly closer, ears burning with shame even as he seeks out your touch.

“I’m sorry,” his teeth catch the edge of his lip. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry-”

“Dan Heng,” your voice is sharp, but your scent is cloying.

“Season,” he barrels over your exhalation, “My. Season. Rut. My mind-” He continues to babble, tail swishing back and forth, fingers clenching around the frayed edges of your carpet. “Qīn ài de.You smell you so good—”

You can't make out what he says as he gasps out into your ear, eyes scrunching shut as he fights to control himself. Dan Heng’s strength leaves him, and he leans heavily against you. You barely manage to catch the two of you against the side of your bed, landing awkwardly with him half in your lap.

As he strives to catch his breath, you stare at him with wide, wide eyes. Your face is the loveliest shade of red he’s ever seen, pretty mouth agape as he trembles and twitches in your hold.

Valiantly, Dan Heng attempts to peel himself away from you.

“Wait,” you say as you clutch at his form like some sort of lifeline. “Wait. Is this why you’ve been avoiding everyone?”

Dan Heng can only nod dumbly, feverish and strung taut.

“You’ve been suffering this whole time?” For some reason, you sound angry. Dan Heng shifts against you listlessly in response, gaze cloudy and cheeks ruddy. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Dan Heng, miraculously, finds the energy to laugh. His cocks have already twitched back to life, and the monstrous tent in his trousers leave little to the imagination.

“Would you want someone to see you like…this?” He pants, forked tongue gliding against your cheek in his dazed murmur.

Both of you shiver at the sensation.

He’s mumbling apologies into your skin again, it tickles, and you yank on his horn as knee-jerk reaction.

“Stop apologizing.”

Dan Heng crumbles against you. “Fu-.” He whines, even as he grinds himself against your floor, synapses frying at the sensation. You barely register his crass words, already desensitized. “No horns. S’too much.” He slurs.

You finally, fully, clue in. “Aeons.” You are unable to ignore the stirrings in your own gut, drinking in the sight of this mighty dragon so…humbled.

Your own desire almost has you scrambling backwards. Almost.

But then you see Dan Heng, looking absolutely, miserably, wrecked—and you can’t bring yourself to abandon him.

“I…could help?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Dan Heng opens his mouth: “Please. Please please please-”

You look down at his crotch. The fabric is stretched so thin it looks painfully tight, and it’s so wet it drips.

“How many times…?”

Dan Heng growls lowly, voice tapering off into a small gasp. His tail winds around your waist, squeezing, feeling, as he reaches down to hold your hand.

“It has never been this bad.” He tells you in a moment of clarity. “But you,” his head is swimming, his breath is short and sharp, grip meek as his heart is pounds so loudly he can't hear himself think, “ever since you.”

Dan Heng fails to finish his sentence, but you think you understand.

So, you reach for his belt. “Are you sure about this?” You ask. You quiver at the need in your own voice. Dan Heng seems to pick up on it as he shakily grasps your arm.

“Do not make me beg,” he implores. He’s done enough of that. His ears burn with embarrassment, now. “Touch me. I—” Dan Heng desperately holds his voice back, stills his hips to the point of insanity, refusing to pin you down and hump against you like the dragon within him is telling him to do.

But then you have him on the brink, and all sane thought goes out the window, because you’re massaging him through his pants.

Suddenly, he’s unravelling.

You brush your nose against Dan Heng’s pulse point as he shatters, fingers carding through his damp hair as he whines. He hates his lack of control; he hates the depraved way in which he’s acting.

His entire body goes rigid as you drag your lips across his jaw, overwhelmed at the tender sensation when he truly feels like an utter degenerate. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, shaking with his final release. He has yet to feel your flesh upon his, but.

All in due time.

Your hand curls around his bicep, set aflame at the burn of his skin.

Dan Heng’s breathing is ragged. His tail uncoils slightly from around your waist, although it still rests against you like it refuses to part from you completely.

You blink. Dan Heng blinks. Gently, you brush away the limp strands of hair from his temples. His pupils look like slits, and his lips sit awkwardly as he pants for breath through his elongated incisors, but his gaze softens so immensely when looking at you it leaves you reeling from the force of it.

A delicate, fleeting thing—Dan Heng’s lips fluttering against your temple in thanks as he slumps against you—renders you speechless.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice lined with fatigue. “The worst of it is out of the way, for now.”

You rest your chin on the crown of his head.

Then, you blink, registering what he’s just said. “What do you mean, ‘for now’?!”

Dan Heng huffs a laugh against your skin, hand gliding up your arm to play with your hair. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, processing, until Dan Heng’s muscles begin to scream at him.

“March will come looking for you,” he warns.

You sigh. “Will you be alright?”

Dan Heng presses his body against yours, breathing you in and tasting you on his tongue. “Ruts typically last a number of days,” he explains, body tingling as he adjusts to your scent.

“But will you be okay?” You reiterate, gesturing vaguely to the state of him.

“I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” He assures you. Then wrinkles his nose. “After I bathe.”

“But-”

“Go back to March.” Ah. There he is. Composed and stoic Dan Heng. As if he hadn’t been whimpering in your arms two minutes ago.

You pout.

Dan Heng sighs, but his fingers are tender as they cup your chin. “If you’re willing…” He drifts off, tail thumping against the floor and curling in defeat.

“Tomorrow?” You chirp.

Dan Heng’s jaw unhinges. “Why do you sound so…?” Excited? Enthused? Starved?

He shakes his head. You stare at him.

“Tomorrow.” He promises. He’s so quiet you strain your ears to hear him.

In the end, you give him a dazzling smile. He casts his gaze aside and limps his way to your door.

“I’ll sneak back to my room once March is zonked out. Come see me tonight if you need some, uh, relief.”

Dan Heng chokes on his spit. You watch from behind as his muscles flex and ripple across unblemished skin, while his shoulders go up, up, up. It makes you snort a laugh.

He disappears through your door before you have the chance to tease him. His body still aches, but for the meantime, his mind is clear.

In the returning quiet of your room, with the starlight filtering in through the sheer curtains, illuminating you in a pale glow—you rub your thighs together and bring your thumb up to your lip.

Hmm.

Maybe you’d seek him out instead.