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He’s not particularly partial to any seasons—winters don’t come too harsh for his disposition, and he himself is somewhat heat-resistant during the summers, though he would take colder showers throughout, mostly for others’ sake. Even he isn’t immune to the joys that spring brings, though the more rainy days towards the end of it often hampers his pursuits when he needs to use his vision. Autumn is a comfortable lull of period, usually, except for the harvest season of the vineyard during the beginning when he would often wish to divide himself in three, at the very least, to attend to every business that would pile relentlessly. But, if he has to pick one—perhaps late autumn is amongst his favorite.
If only because itʼs when Jean often sleeps in.
Unlike him, she has a clear preference: spring. She’s long discarded her reluctance of admitting that yes, she is a romantic at heart, despite how no-nonsense and efficient she has always held herself to be, and Diluc knows that if posed the question, Jean would answer spring without hesitation. The whys, he knows like the back of his hand, too: she’d cite the blooms, the dandelions, the weather, the smell of flowers in the wind, the St. Valentine’s Day, the list goes on. One of those reasons he holds close to his heart: Dawn’s arrival in their world, on the 29th of February—four years ago.
That being said, midsummer, too, they hold dear—last year’s impossibly busy early August: the harvest, the production, the heat, and then Leon on the 10th, their second brought no less surprises than Dawn, and no less love.
But those were busy days. He’d die before admitting—though he’s resigned to the fact that Kaeya and Jean herself both must know without him doing so—but even after years of family and over half of their lives together, Diluc has his moments. Moments when he wants Jean all to himself, to have her being all-encompassing his. She has so long given herself to others, now that he is within all rights to have her, he figures he can be selfish from time-to-time. Alas—it doesn’t get easier. It’s not like he can compete with their children.
(Sue him; he has always had that childishness in him. It never went away, even through the trials of time.
But the fact remains that at times Diluc just wants his wife all to himself.)
Then—late autumn. It’s cold, far, far colder than the sweltering heat of summer (and the excruciating arm’s length between them on the bed that often comes with it) and the sun has started to feel its sluggishness, reluctant to spend its time out as long as it did throughout the previous months. If the sun acts that way, it makes sense that his sunshine does, too.
Jean always wakes right before the sun. The nature of their occupations canʼt have either be heavy sleepers, but the warmth and security of each otherʼs arms are the lulling lullaby of home. Add the experience of parenting two babies to that and they’re both practically alert on attention at any hours, barring the especially tiring nights. It doesn’t surprise him that when he slips back into their bedroom, she’s blinking up her sleepy eyes at him, halfway to sitting up herself.
“Is everything okay? Is Leon awake?” Jean hoarsely asks, trying to cover a yawn. Their comforter tumbles down from her shoulders and exposes her frame, clad in one of his loose sleepshirts, the hem barely hanging on her left shoulder, the center of the neckline untied, giving him a lovely peek of her full chest. The moon and streetlights outside only barely break through the curtains, and it frames her with a soft, almost holy glow. She has always been a holy sight.
“No, heʼs fast asleep,” he says as he approaches the bed, having checked and made sure after he woke up earlier, “so is Dawn.”
Jean blinks and fixes her shirt—he despairs a little at the loss of sight of her skin—and reaches out a hand, beckoning him. “What time is it?”
“Dawn,” he answers, to which she snorts. “Almost four-thirty,” Diluc amends with a small smile as he takes her hand in his. It’s too early to start their day, really, but also it’s a little late to go back to sleep and risk oversleeping their morning. On another time, Jean would opt to start her day early, getting a little bit of work done or squeezing in some moments of recreation to read or something else. Today, however, is a cold early morning in late-October, and Diluc watches her shiver and pull back the covers up around her torso
“Come back to bed,” she asks of him, tugging on his hand, and Diluc has to hide a triumphant grin, “why is it so cold this year? It’s not even really winter yet.”
Because he should really start to warm up the place before they sleep at this time of year, but he hasn’t been doing his duties very well. For their bedroom specifically. His kids are definitely warm and comfortable in their respective toddler beds, and not suffering the same fate that his wife is currently going through—only having him as her heat source in such changing weather.
“Is it because they’re your kids?” She asked him somewhat incredulously with Leon in her hold, just last week, when Dawn shook her head enthusiastically with a No! I slept warmly, Mommy! as she asked their eldest if she woke due to the cold. Diluc had snorted and simply wrapped his arms around his wife and son, not wanting to tell her that he’d warmed Dawn’s bed and comforter before their daughter went to sleep. Leon’s too. “Diluc, if somehow they got Pyro visions one day—“
“Then you know who you can be angry about it to, the guy’s at Angel’s Share most nights of the week anyways,” he’d whispered in her ears. No need to tell their children that the God they sing praises to in Grandpa and Auntie Barbara’s church every Sunday spends most of his time getting drunk in Daddy’s tavern.
“Mommy, maybe you should sleep with Noctua? He’s really warm! I can lend him to you!” Their daughter said, very kindly offering her plush owl to his wife. She should not, sweetheart, she has Daddy to warm her, which is my very point, but thank you very much, he mentally replied. Jean would probably kill him if he voiced it verbally, so he settled with taking their daughter in his arms and kissing her cheek affectionately and praising her generosity. “That’s very kind of you, sweetheart.”
Listen—he never said he’s someone who always plays fair and square. Diluc’s fought an entire city for Jean’s attention before, but he can’t exactly do the same with their kids. Some battles can only be won by fighting underhanded, and Diluc is a seasoned warrior.
This is no new strategy, actually. He’s employed it for years, even when his competition was two toddlers less, but last year this tactic was absolutely off-limits, with a newborn with them, he couldn’t afford to let his family be any less than comfortable. Now, however, he can play a little dirty again and make his wife just the tiniest bit dependent on him for warmth. He’ll start properly warming up their bedroom and entire house next week.
(Don’t judge him. Have two absolutely darling and brilliant kids on top of an entire city and a whole army troop vying for your wife’s attention and see how hard his life is for yourself.)
She latches to his side immediately as he slides under the covers, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck. “You’re so warm,” she sighs contentedly, breath tickling his skin, “what would I do without you?”
Little beats the fruits of a well-laid plan. Diluc plants a kiss on top of her head, inhaling the remnants of her valberry-scented shampoo. “Your personal warmer, at your service, Master Jean.”
Jean huffs a laugh, and Diluc suppresses a shudder from it. It baffles him how easily she can make his body react even after years of sharing a nonexistent space. He relishes the feel of her body pressed close to his as he lets her burrow herself into his chest, tangling her legs with his and hugging him like she would a body pillow. Let it be unknown to the world that the Knights of Favonius’ Grand Master and the owner of the Dawn Winery are both avid cuddlers.
Idly, Diluc lets his warm hand travel down her side, and he’s satisfied at Jean’s soft sigh of appreciation, so he runs his palm up and down her side, feeling the strong yet supple flesh on her thigh and brings her leg over to wrap around his waist. She complies easily enough, ever so innocent, his lovely wife.
Or not. Jean hums when she feels him slip his hand underneath his sleepshirt, feeling the soft plush of her waist. She has yet to lose the softness that her pregnancy with Leon brought, and truthfully—he doesn’t mind, not one bit, when she feels this soft and lovely in his gentle handling. His exploring hand is still scarce with intent, somewhat, aside from comfort and warmth alone; but it’s no less calculated.
But it works. When Jean finally reacts, her hand flies to grab his wandering one by the wrist and she pulls back, giving him a look that’s both unimpressed and challenging. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re doing it on purpose,” she chastises with a glare that always feels like spark to his fire, but she tangles her legs with his tighter, bringing their centers closer.
“What is it that I’m doing on purpose?” He raises an eyebrow, innocently smiling.
Jean rolls her eyes. “Like I donʼt know what youʼre trying to do.”
“You wound me,” he says, “all Iʼm trying to do is keep my wife warm and comfortable in this chilly weather.”
“Really,” Jean flatly replies, letting go of his hand, which immediately finds its place again on her hip. Diluc smiles at her, feigning innocence as he kisses her forehead and tucks her face back to his neck. He freezes, then, as he feels her press her lips a little longer than a peck on his pulse point, continuing in a sultry whisper, “if you say so, Ragnvindr.”
Diluc groans, irritated. “Donʼt call me that.”
“What? Ragnvindr? Honey, itʼs your name,” she retorts, and Diluc can feel her unabashedly grinning on his skin. Itʼs an age-old debate. It is his name. The problem is it isnʼt hers.
He respects her far too much to make her take his last name, and they went through the whole talk before they officially got married—he understands perfectly why sheʼd rather, and she should, keep her family name. Both being of Mondstadtʼs noble clans, neither one could easily discard their last name without much consideration.
The thing is, out the window his fantasies about calling her Mrs. Ragnvindr went. And Jean knows it well. Has endlessly probed on the sore bruise over the course of their marriage. (In all of Mondstadt perhaps only he knows how much of a brat Jean Gunnhildr can decide to be.)
“Darling,” he warns, palm inching further upwards to span her ribs. Jean kisses another spot on his neck, lingering until he sucks in a breath at the kiss.
“You started calling me Master Jean, first,” she accuses melodically, still nosing on his pulse point. “Itʼs rather cold, Master Diluc. What would you do to keep your wife warm and comfortable in this weather?”
Diluc closes his eyes, savors the feeling of Jean’s lips peppering soft kisses along his neck. He lets her lazily swipe her tongue on the skin once, before he loses his patience (he’s never had many) and lifts himself up and over, pushing her onto her back and hovering above her. “I can name a few,” he tells her, lowering down to kiss his wife on her lips fully, prying over the soft flesh with his tongue. His hand slowly cups her breast, gently massaging, and Jean lets out a soft sound right back into his mouth.
Jeanʼs always been soft. Even with her firm muscles underneath her supple flesh, with the occasional uneven ridges of scar tissues, for Diluc she has always been inexplicably soft to the touch. Itʼs only right that he returns that softness back as he touches her with his calloused hands, and rarely does he ever wish to rough her—not never, no, they have their moments, but whenever there is time to revere her under his palm, in his grasp, on his lips, Diluc will take the chance.
The sounds she makes are small, sweet on his own tongue as his hands grow bolder, more intent to pleasure her. A whimper stumbles out of her lips, no longer chapped after he’s kissed them thoroughly, as he squeezes her breast and caresses her nipple. Diluc releases her lips from his and pushes himself up to look at her—the way Jean’s eyes open slowly at the loss, sleepy and unfocused but also wanting, tugs at his insides. “Hi,” he greets fondly, leaning in to the way Jean brushes his bangs and cups his cheek. “You’re gorgeous.”
Jean bites her lower lip, hazy with the gentle pleasure. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Diluc.”
“Really?” He chuckles, diving back in to kiss her jaw, and Jean lets out a sigh when he starts to suck on the skin, inhaling the lingering scent of her soap from her night showers. “I think it’s gotten me to places I want to be.”
Jean merely hums in response, and a small glance tells him she’s closed her eyes again, though she starts to move her legs to accommodate him between, causing him to shiver as she runs her feet on the side of his leg, ending with hooking her leg around his hips. Her hands wander, too, playing with the loose ties of his sleepshirt and the other slipping inside from below, palm flat on his stomach, his waist, his ribs. “Iʼm still cold, you know,” Jean sweetly reminds.
Diluc kisses her on the juncture of her neck below her ear, darting out his tongue for good measure and Jeanʼs breath catches. “I should get to work then.”
He lifts himself and takes his own shirt, letting her keep hers because he doesnʼt want her to be cold—but helps Jean out of her shorts and panties. Everything is easy, practiced movements, no tangled limbs, no accidental kicks even with the residual drowsiness: theyʼve been so attuned to each otherʼs presence in the small crevices of each their own bodies, has made a home there. Jean props herself up on her elbows to give him a fond smile as he takes her legs over his arms, kissing one of her knees, warming her bare legs and thighs with firm caresses, relishing the feel of her in his palms.
“Okay?”
“Mm,” Jean nods, and he begins his work.
He puts her legs over his shoulders, and kisses the insides of her thighs. Patient and methodical, purposeful in each progress—a peck is meant to get a sigh, a kiss and a suck for her to run her fingers on his hair. A bite, so sheʼd gasp and moan. Everything that he does has a clear objective he always gets in return—yet it isnʼt boring, no. Itʼs a dance, a familiar one, and for every reaction he gets out of an action Diluc, too, relishes in the wash of pleasure and satisfaction from making Jean feel good.
Heʼd tell her when he spreads her folds apart with his fingers, softly kissing the flesh thatʼs growing damp as he listens to her breathing. Sheʼd let out a shuddering sigh when he presses the flat of his tongue to her cunt, and a sweet, demure moan as he laps her up. Eating Jean is as pleasurable to him as it would be to her, every moan and pull of his hair driving shivers down his spine, the way her thighs contract around his neck, almost dangerous, sending tension down his body. And Diluc drinks those, as he drinks her up.
“Diluc,” she mewls, as he inserts his tongue, feeling her walls gently spasming, “Diluc.”
“Iʼll use my fingers too, alright, love?”
“Yes. Oh, please, yes.”
She doesnʼt have to say it twice, really, but the eagerness is appreciated all the same. Diluc canʼt help but smile as he laps her, sucks her, easing one and then two fingers into her, easily finding the familiar ridges he knows make her knees weak. Diluc watches her face from between her legs, satisfied to see the way Jean throws her head back as she gasps and moans, but he wants something else. “Oh, fuc—oh, archons—”
“Love,” he says, causing her to whimper as he releases his mouth from her, but continues to caress the insides of her walls, “love, keep looking at me.”
Jean mutely nods, and Diluc smiles before diving down to taste her again. Diluc almost groans to her flesh—seeing Jeanʼs perfectly pleasured face, labored breathing and sweet whines, her one hand thatʼs not pulling on his hair massaging her own breasts and yet in the midst of her pleasure she follows her husbandʼs command to look at him—the hazy look in her half-lidded eyes, her beautiful parted lips— Archons. It all sends blood down his body, painfully reminding him of his unattended cock. “Fuck,” he moans into her, eyes still locked with each other, “you look so perfect.”
The smile she gives him is almost shy and it spurs him on. Diluc relentlessly sucks her and pumps his fingers inside her, watching Jean valiantly tries not to close her eyes as she thrusts her hips to his face, chasing her finish. Itʼs times like this when blasphemous thoughts would get inside his head—heʼd gladly drop any god to forever worship her, be at her service, watch her lips tremble as she moans at the height of her pleasure, her eyes barely open yet trying to keep her promise. Thereʼs little to do but to give her his all, really.
“Ah—Diluc, I—” sheʼs so close, he knows, can feel and taste it, can hear it as she chokes her words. “Diluc—!”
As she is on his tongue, itʼs always his name on hers.
Diluc eases her orgasm away, gently moving his fingers as he retreats them and as he straightens himself, savoring the taste of her juices on his mouth. He moves above her, sharing it, and Jean sweetly responds to the kiss with gentle eagerness, circling her arms around his neck. She caresses his face, brushing away his hair. “Warmer now?”
“Yes, thank you,” she chuckles, stealing a chaste kiss. “Good morning, handsome.”
Oh, well. He might want to play dirty and let their bedroom be cold for a little while more. Diluc laughs, giving her a deeper kiss. “Good morning. Itʼs cold out here. Want to stay warm?”
Jean makes a face. “Your flirting skillʼs on the decline,” she tells him fondly. “How can this be? You used to be the most wanted eligible bachelor in Mondstadt.”
“Bachelor,” he points out, “Iʼm now a married father of two, husband to a gorgeous, lovely wife whom I know finds it endearing when I flirt with her badly. Letʼs not dwell on the past.”
Jean giggles a little, pressing a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Endearing? Says who?”
“Don’t tease me, Jean,” he sighs, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he pretends to sulk, feeling her gently caress the back of his head as she embraces him, “is it a crime for a man to miss his wife?”
“Hmm, no,” she agrees, nuzzling his temple, “you know what is a crime, though?”
“What?”
Jean takes her time to answer, still caressing his back, his hair. She plants feather-soft kisses on his temple before breathing softly on his ear, making Diluc shudder. The whisper she breathes is sultry, demure, and it’s reminding him he’s still very much hard after eating her out. “That you’re not inside me right now,” Jean purrs, “I think that’s a crime.”
He lifts his head up, spirited. Jean huffs a small laugh at that—but who cares if he perks up like a dog when it comes to her, really. “You think so?”
“Mm-hm.”
“That wouldn’t do,” Diluc says, feeling his face stretch with a smile as he dives back in to kiss her. Jean accepts him eagerly, almost hungry, and even after all these times it makes him dizzy sometimes, to have the knowledge that she wants him, constantly, just the way he wants her. “I shouldn’t set a bad example.”
“You shouldn’t, yes,” she sighs between kisses, spreading her legs wider so he can settle between them better. Diluc reaches over to caress her thigh, knuckles running on the inside and to her hips, slowly making his way up her body in a familiar trail, slipping his hand under her sleepshirt, knowing each curve and dip and uneven scars like the back of his hand, even through changes two babies brought. Jean lets out a small moan contentedly as he slowly, with gentle purpose, massages her breasts, one after the other, rolling her sensitive nipples between his fingers.
Jean pushes him a little, and he’s definitely pleased to know she’s getting impatient. “Diluc,” she simply says—and who is he but someone to answer to her beck and call?
He kisses her one more time, and itʼs endearing to have her reluctant to untangle their tongues as he pushes back to trail kisses down the column of her neck, bruising down her collarbone. All the while, his hand travels back down the familiar path to her core, and Jean moans as his fingers dip into her still-slick folds. The exploration isnʼt meant to be long, only to spread her enough to accommodate him, and this is something they donʼt need to talk about. Everything is fluid motion, a dance with steps embedded deeply in eitherʼs muscle memory, Jean pushing his pants just enough to release him as he marks her jaw with his kisses.
He barely needs to guide himself inside her. Diluc watches Jean close her eyes with the welcome intrusion, foreheads pressed together, before he himself loses to the pleasure—the tight heat of her being the first stimulation to his cock after all this time is almost overwhelming, but also feels like coming home.
He pushes slowly until heʼs completely seated and he has to pause then, the sweet pleasure of her walls shaking him, their mangled breaths mixing in the barely existent space. Jean cups his face and kisses his cheek fondly. “Okay?”
“You feel divine,” he tells her.
“Do I?” She smiles, making Diluc lose yet another breath as she circles her legs around him, pressing him even further in, clenching around his throbbing cock. Jean moves first, slowly thrusting up to take his cock deep inside her with a stuttering breath and eases back down, and the much needed friction is already making Diluc see stars. “You make me feel so full.”
“I love you,” he blurts out, starting to trust himself to move, and Jean giggles.
“Bit early to say,” she says between choked moans, “ahh—Diluc, faster please?”
“I love you,” he petulantly insists, starting to pick up pace, driving himself deep inside her, feeling the divine pleasure of his head hitting her cervix amidst her tight wetness, reveling in the primal sounds of his hips meeting hers as he goes quicker. “Archons, I love you, and I will say it whenever I please—oh, fucking hell, Jean—”
They lose their words for a while, losing most of whateverʼs inside their minds but the other. Jeanʼs sighs and moans are melody to his ears amidst his name that she says repeatedly like a prayer, only interspersed with praises to their archon, and just like that Diluc feels like both god and devotee himself.
He feels her squeezing him tighter, the heat and pressure of it driving him closer and closer to his climax, and he knows Jean, is, too—she canʼt focus to kiss him back when he does, he can feel her nails scraping his back. Diluc moves his hand to rub on her clit, pressure and pattern the exact way he knows will drive her to orgasm quicker, and Jean lets out a lovely, sweet, drawn-out whine. Itʼs song to his ears, really.
“Love,” he tells her urgently, pressing his forehead to hers, “love, Iʼm close.”
“Donʼt stop,” she begs him, “please.”
“Where do you want me, Jean?”
“God, inside,” she chokes out, “please, please, fill me— oh God, donʼt stop, you feel so—Diluc!”
Always with his name on her lips, without fail. Jean comes apart first, her walls spasming around him, milking him to his own finish, and Diluc comes inside her with a groan he buries at the crook of her neck. He knows he is heavy, but Jean is strong and wonʼt mind, so he leans himself on top of her as they catch their breaths, him still inside her as they ride the aftershocks of their pleasure. She seems to recover first, releasing her death grip on his shoulders to gently caress and embrace him; always so loving, his dear wife.
“I love you,” she cheekily says, kissing his temple, and he can tell she says it with the ghost of a laugh. “This is a good time to say it.”
Diluc snorts. “Not exactly prime time, I don’t think,” he shoots back, propping himself on his elbows to kiss her, “just a little late.”
“Oh, it’s not! It’s the perfect time to say it, you know, for the follow-up talk.”
Diluc laughs, kissing her again, and Jean pouts to the kiss. “Who even needs follow-up talk after two kids, Jean?” He asks, moving to pull out of her, but Jean’s legs stubbornly still wrap around him. Diluc raises an eyebrow. “Want me to stay inside you?”
“Hmm,” she hums shyly, “please?”
“Get on top of me then, love, I’m heavy,” he says, hissing a little as her walls drag on his sensitive member as he maneuvers them so she can lie on top of him. Jean sighs in contentment, nuzzling her face on his neck as she flops on him, all-encompassing, like the comfort of a weighted blanket over his existence. It’s likely going to lead to trouble, really—he can feel Jean periodically gently squeezes his dick, and it’s only so long until he’d be hard again because of her. The sun is rising. “Jean, it’s already sunrise.”
She lazily plants a kiss under his jaw. “Provided Dawn and Leon don’t wake up early, we can have another quickie in the shower, love.”
“Aren’t you so responsible,” he chuckles fondly, suppressing back a moan as Jean shifts a little on top of him.
“You’re a good influence,” she says, looking up at him sluggishly through long lashes, “I love you. Really. So, so much, Diluc.”
“We’re not having a follow-up talk, Jean.”
She hits his chest with her palm. “Stop ruining the moment, Ragnvindr.”
Diluc laughs and collects her in his arms, tightly embracing her in as if they can be any closer, any more connected than they already are. “I love you too, sweetheart. You have no idea, really, how much I do,” he gently whispers, kissing her forehead. “I thought I loved you when I was fourteen, but that boy didn’t know love like I do now. You’re everything to me,” he tells her genuinely, cupping the side of her face and running his thumb on her cheek. “So do forgive me if I don’t care to wait for the proper moment to say it. I will tell you whenever I please that I love you. I love you, I l—“
“Okay, that’s enough,” Jean laughs, taking his hand in hers. “I get it. You love me.”
“I do. Do you want me to say it again? I love you.”
“Yes, yes,” she smiles sweetly at him, and Diluc is somewhat floored that he gets to see this, feel this, have this. That he can have his world held in his arms, and build a bigger universe with her like this. Even if he had never known his Archon like they do know the God himself, this alone would make him believe not only in Gods and Heavens but that he’s the most blessed man in the entire world. She caresses his cheek. “If you love me so much, turn our bedroom heating on or use your vision to warm the room starting tomorrow, please. It’s getting so cold.”
Diluc freezes. Jean rolls her eyes. “You think I don’t know you fix the kids’ rooms but don’t heat ours? Diluc, I love you, all the good and the bad, including all your dirty little tactics.”
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, pulling her tighter, “it must be uncomfortable being cold. I just want you all to myself for a while.”
Jean laughs. “It’s alright. With you it’s very tolerable, my personal warmer,” and then, with a smile that convinces Diluc angels are real, and that he has one in his embrace, as deeply connected as humanly possible, even, “and I’ve always been, and will always be all yours.”
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