Archive of Our Own

When he was a child, Diluc often asked his father what his mother had been like.

“She was… good,” Crepus would answer. “That’s the best way I can put it. Good to everyone, at everything. A living sun.”

“Did you love her?”

“Of course I did, my Diluc. I loved her tremendously.”

The first time Crepus said that, Diluc thought that he, too, wanted to be loved by Crepus like his mother had been once. He wanted to see that secret smile Crepus only bore when he looked at old pictures of her, alone in his office when he thought everyone was asleep. The reverence in it, the sheer adoration… Diluc didn’t know yet what those words meant, but he could feel them in his father’s gaze. Crepus had loved Diluc’s mother more than he had loved anything and anyone else in this world — more than he loved life.

And, probably, more than he loved Diluc.

Growing up, that last thought haunted Diluc. That no matter how good he was, how perfect and well-raised and proper and smart, he could never outshine a mother he had never met before — a shadow so much bigger than him swallowing all the light he emanated. Everyone around him constantly talked about how much he looked like her, acted like her, spoke like her, was like her. Like, never other, never better. Maybe that was why Diluc loved Kaeya so much; at least, Kaeya had never met this legendary mother Diluc had to live up to. Kaeya could see Diluc as he was — a person of his own right. Kaeya could love Diluc more than he loved Diluc’s mother, because he didn’t know her.

But it wasn’t enough.

Diluc wanted Crepus to love him too.

There was not a single person in this world who could doubt Crepus loved his sons. Diluc knew that. But in the wake of his fourteenth birthday, he found he didn’t care for this type of love.

He wanted more.

He wanted to see that smile Crepus only showed when he looked at his mother’s picture. He wanted to hear Crepus say his name like he said hers, sometimes, when he felt lonely and touched himself to their past love.

It didn’t matter that Crepus was Diluc’s father. Or rather, maybe it did — to the shriveling part of him that still cared about what was good and what wasn’t. But the bigger part — the one that listened to his body — was done being good.

She had been good, once.

Diluc was not good.

Diluc could never be good, because he could never be her.

And because he could never be her, the barren land begging for Crepus’s rain would always remain just that.

Most days, Diluc could live with this awful reality in which he envied his dead mother and was madly in love with his own father. Talk about a pitiful son. A son who was no good — nothing like she had been.

But whenever the anniversary of his parents’ marriage came, Crepus would grow melancholic and distant — and Diluc, so starved off love, would take it upon himself to be the best boy he could. Look at me, Father, he wanted to say. I’m good, like her. I impressed the tutor, finished all my homework, did a sparring session with Kaeya, tidied up my room. Am I good enough yet? Do you love me?

Do you love me like you loved her?

That anniversary was no different, but Crepus did not care for Diluc’s prowesses. There was only her. Her her her. If he spoke, it was of her. If he laughed, it was in memory of her. If he cried, it was in the secrecy of his office — because he missed her.

Diluc hated it. His cheeks flamed and his eyes filled with tears as he listened through the door of his father’s office. “How many years has it been, my love?” Crepus said, laughing sadly. “Too many, and I still miss you. If only you could see how much Diluc has grown, my star.”

Diluc let out a sob. He had to be the most awful human on the planet, crying because his father missed his dead mother. He had to be dysfunctional. What would his father think if he saw him like this? Curled up on himself and crying for reasons only he could understand?

Even then, did Diluc fully understand the extent of his heart’s demands? Sometimes his heart felt too big — so big, so full of all these little sorrows grown big sorrows grown monstrous sorrows, that it leaked through his eyes until rain turned to deluge and he couldn’t, wouldn’t stop sobbing.

Everything hurt. And knowing he could never share that hurt — that burden — with anyone only heightened it.

The door of Crepus’s office opened, a growing beam of light by Diluc’s feet cut by Crepus’s imposing shadow. “Diluc?” he called, his voice wobbling with worry, but Diluc couldn’t think beyond his tears. He felt himself being carried in his father’s strong arms, buried his tear-streaked in Crepus’s neck, melted into that embrace. Crepus smelled like cedar wood and lavender and— and Diluc could have bottled that scent to keep it in his heart if it was possible. His his his.

Crepus made several attempts at calling for Diluc’s attention, but Diluc was too far gone in his own hysterical sobs to stop. Eventually, his father resorted to just holding Diluc and rubbing his back, soothing this sadness he did not comprehend the best he could.

Diluc wasn’t sure how much time passed. All he knew was that, at last, he was in his father’s arms, and it was all that mattered. Even as he caught sight of the family album on the desk, or the old gadget from Fontaine that took stills, he felt he could surpass them as long as Crepus was next to him.

But then, Crepus let go of him. He let Diluc sit on the couch in his office and knelt by his side, big hands holding Diluc’s small ones on his lap. “What was that about, my Diluc?” Crepus asked softly. “What were you doing here, crying alone?”

Diluc shook his head. He could not lie — not to Crepus — but the truth was too much, even for Crepus.

No one could know.

“Diluc, son, I can tell something’s been bothering you,” Crepus continued. “Do you miss your mother?”

Diluc wanted to laugh. If he said the truth — ‘No, Father, I wish I were her’ — Crepus would never want to see him again. “It’s not that,” was a properly vague answer.

Crepus sighed. “Then what is it? You’ve been behaving strangely the past few days, and… I can’t help but worry. What is wrong? You can tell me anything. I’m your father; I’m here to help you.”

“You can’t,” Diluc blurted out, then immediately regretted it. He looked away from Crepus’s folded hands on his lap — those hands he had dreamed of, pinning him to the bed, tightening around his neck. He had stolen looks at some books at the library, when he and Kaeya would sneak into the adult section and gulp down the scandalous things written there.

With every new erotic setting, he would imagine his father. Fucking his face, entering him in every possible way, tying him up for his personal use.

There was no way he could say that to Crepus. None.

And yet… and yet with every circle Crepus drew with his thumb over Diluc’s hand, Diluc felt his walls crumble one by one. His touch did things to him — kindled sparks that sizzled from his hands to that core of obsessing demands between his legs. “You will hate me…”

“I could never.”

Diluc’s heart stuttered. Crepus had spoken with such certitude… Diluc swallowed, stared at a spot in the wall free from her photos. “Am I sick, Father?” Diluc started, the remnants of his sobs quaking in his voice. “Am I sick for being jealous of her?”

“Jealous of whom, my baby?”

Diluc winced at the nickname. Like he was just a kid, his father’s love an unattainable dream — not the kind of love Diluc craved, at least. He sniffled, rested his hands on top of Crepus’s big, calloused ones. Let his fingertips play with the thin layer of hair coating them. “Mother. I’m jealous of Mother.”

Crepus was neither dumbfounded nor angry; he simply stared at Diluc with a slight frown. “I don’t understand, baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” Diluc bristled. “I’m anything but a baby— I’m… I’m a— a disgusting, a sick—”

Crepus tightened his grip over Diluc’s hands. “You will not speak of yourself like this in front of me, Diluc. What’s with the sudden self-deprecation? You’re usually so confident…”

“— I am — sick. I am sick, Father, and I’m filthy, and I’m—” His breathing became ragged, his eyes blurring with a new wave of tears. “I’m sick. I’m an awful person. I’m undeserving of Mother’s love and, and I want to be like her— want your love and your smile and your — and you and— and Father, Father, I’m no good, no good at all— awful, I’m awful—” Fat tears rolled down Diluc’s cheeks. The sobs doubled down when Crepus gently reached for him, pulling him in a firm embrace. Rooted there in his father’s arms, Diluc’s anguish only festered — hands cramping in Crepus’s back. “I hate myself for feeling this way but I— I can’t help it— I can’t… I can’t, Father, I’m… I don’t deserve you.”

“I still don’t understand what you mean, my love, my little moon.”

The words landed true. Diluc pushed his father away, then cupped his face, holding him into place as he stared into his eyes. Reaching far into his debauched heart, he plucked the sin he had sowed long ago the first time he touched himself, imagining his father between his legs, fingers buried in his cunt. “I want you like she wanted you. Father, I love you — like Mother did.” He let go of Crepus, balled his fists on his lap and cried silently. “Will you forgive me? Will you forgive those… this…” He didn’t dare say it. Fantasies, heated desires, holy sins. “Do you hate me?”

“Diluc, I repeat: I could never hate you — not even if I wanted to. What—”

“I want you in my bed. I want to be your— do things with you that—” His lips quivered. “Like— like a… the things you do with… a—” He inhaled, exhaled. “A wife— a—a spouse… A… A lo—lover…”

Crepus released a long-held breath, eyes widening as he processed the words. Stunned was too kind a word to describe the shock on his face — and with each second of silence that passed, Diluc hoped he had just dreamed the last few minutes.

But he hadn’t.

“I don’t know what to tell you— surely, you must know I can’t give you that…” Crepus said calmly. He chuckled — not the least nervous, barely fazed.

He didn’t take Diluc seriously.

“I still want it.”

Crepus shook his head. For the first time, Diluc wished he could stop smiling. “You’re fourteen now; adolescence is a confusing time. I’m sure those… desires you speak off will fade. When you meet a pretty girl, or a pretty boy. Kaeya only has eyes for you.”

It was not a battle Diluc could win. Not against Crepus, and not against himself.

He scurried off Crepus’s room, shame fueling his escape.

There was no going back after his confession.

Weeks passed after Diluc’s outburst and Crepus had no idea how to act around him. He missed his son — terribly so. The Sundays they would go on hunts together, the quiet moments they’d spend in Crepus’s office working together, the fishing sessions with Kaeya. He had always prided himself on his strong bonds with his sons, but… had he lost Diluc, then?

And to what?

Did he truly mean those words he had said? I want to be your lover.

It was a terrible, odd time for Crepus. Eating breakfast alone with Adelinde for only company, watching as Diluc waited until he was gone to eat his own. Even Kaeya was distant, sticking to Diluc and avoiding any conversation deeper than small talk with Crepus.

Where had he gone wrong?

Two months had passed already. On the last day of October, Crepus had had enough. In his youth, when he used to spend hours under the scorching sun for a few coins, he’d needed unwavering confidence to climb his way up the hierarchy until he’d gone from the boy who picked grapes to the man who owned the winery. He’d needed faith and boldness to court Diluc’s mother, the rich daughter of a man born in noblesse who had no respect for the new rich. He’d needed hard work, hard talks, hard decisions.

That night, he would have to make more.

He waited until everyone had gone to sleep before he posted himself near Diluc’s bedroom, standing awkwardly behind the door while wording his thoughts. I will always love you, no matter what, son. But I am your father and I can’t give you what you want. Those desires you speak of are seeded in confusion — I would know, I had plenty of strange urges when I was your age—

A sound tore through the silence.

Crepus froze.

It was—

A moan.

A sigh — a firefly grazing his skin, raising a thousand questions and a thousand more buried needs.

If curiosity was a sin, Crepus could sit on the devil’s throne. He pushed the door to Diluc’s room, peering into an awning just wide enough for a sliver of a scene that would forever change him.

Pale, moon-kissed hands moving languidly between spread out thighs. Back arching, body writhing, lips parting in a silent plea.

Diluc.

Diluc.

Crepus was entranced. His gaze, riveted on the broad, milky plane of Diluc’s inner thigh, mentally lapping at the slick glistening near his cunt.

Diluc’s fingers had to be knuckles-deep, moving in and out of him in search of his release. He moaned softly — no, called for something, for someone.

Father. Father, please.

Ever so slowly, Crepus closed the door and walked away from the sight of his debauched son calling for him to fuck him. He walked away as if it could chase the thoughts that spread into his mind like the most welcome weeds in a garden.

But there was no running from what he had just witnessed. Even in his dreams, the moon-kissed hands thrumming those squelching sounds, the rosebud lips mouthing his name. It was only a matter of hours before they led his own hand between his legs.

That night, Crepus came from the memory of his son touching himself.

His shame was unimaginable.

So was his obsession.

Every night, he would sometimes linger in front of Diluc’s room before retreating to own. And every night, when he would hear the telltale sound of his moans, he would stop and listen to them, picture how they would taste in his mouth, how Diluc’s soft breath would caress his ear, and then replay them in his mind while stroking his cock in his bed.

It was disgusting.

It was delightful.

He would lie for hours in bed, consumed by guilt — yet unable to stop as his palm squeezed his cock. Such a pitiful attempt at emulating how those plump lips would eat it up — those that spoke in moans and those, lower, lower still, engorged with obscene heat. He felt like a wild dog, rutting against his pillow until he would come and stain it, imagining those milky thighs clasped around his lips.

I want you like she wanted you. Father, I love you — like Mother did.

Am I sick? Am I disgusting?

Crepus came into his hand with a stuttering breath. A faint sheen of sweat dampened his forehead, and he stared at the ceiling of his room while calming his ragged breaths. He wiped his hand against his underwear, cheeks flaming, but more than the shame or the guilt or the obsession, even, was this truth that bloomed into him.

He was sick. He was disgusting.

Crepus was in love with his own son.

He would know.

He had been in love before.

Once.

There came a night when everything went wrong, then everything went right, then everything descended in the rightest kind of wrong.

As per his habit, Crepus had stood outside of Diluc’s room, getting drunk on his sighs. As per his habit, he had closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cold wood, taming his erection the best he could, biting his lips to choke the moans begging to push past them.

But then, Diluc whimpered. He whimpered. And Crepus’s hold over the doorknob tightened, his white-knuckled grip slipping ever so slightly.

Enough to make Diluc notice.

His breath caught as he stumbled into Diluc’s room, right as his son squealed, scrambling to push down the nightgown on his pale thighs. “F-Father?” he squeaked, horror written all over his face.

Quickly, Crepus closed the door behind him, fearful of any wandering ear. Then, he turned toward his son.

And he fell, harder.

Diluc was the picture of innocence — wide amber eyes staring in apology at his father and fluffy red hair pooling over his back. But there were so many oddly sensual details that betrayed that false pretense — vectors to the chaos unleashed in Crepus’s heart. His nightgown drawn over his hips, barely covering what Crepus knew to be thighs drenched in wetness. The sleeve that had slipped off, exposing a round, delicate shoulder — calling for him to bite it. His flushed neck and rosy cheeks, his glistening fingers, his ruffled bedsheets, his underwear thrown over a chair.

“Father— Father I’m— I’m sorry,” he whispered, hushed voice chaining apology upon apology. He was mortified — understandably so.

Crepus did not hear him anymore. The scent — like flowers in spring, like salt, like sin — drove him crazy.

He didn’t know when he snapped, or how he moved. He didn’t know whether to fear or love the confusion morphed to surprise on Diluc’s face once he’d noticed the bulge in Crepus’s pants. He should have despised that man who knelt on his son’s bed, panting, and spread his son’s legs open. He should have hated him — that father who swallowed a moan at the sight of the cute pink pussy, criminal in how delicious it looked. His son’s pussy.

He didn’t despise himself. Not as he glided his hands down Diluc’s thighs, and not as he rode up Diluc’s nightgown to his chest, uncovering his small perky breasts. If Diluc’s frantic rising and falling stomach was anything to go by, he was enjoying this.

Who was Crepus if not a family man, ready to indulge even the oddest of his son’s fantasies?

That was the excuse he repeated to himself — chanting it as if in prayer — while he buried his face between Diluc’s thighs , tonguing softly at his awaiting hole. He didn’t think rationally anymore — only moved like a machine powered by Diluc’s soft cries. He tasted salt, bitterness — slick coating his stubbled cheeks and chin. Dug into the tender cavern of his son’s cunt, tongue reaching farther into him, carving him into a thing made only to be loved, used, pampered, indulged, and fucked into oblivion.

He wanted his cock into that hole. He needed to fuck Diluc stupid and fill him up with cum. It was no longer a thought, a deluded fantasy for late nights in his bed. No — it was his purpose, and his right, and his duty — cumming into his son until his stomach bulged from it.

He pulled away from Diluc, hungry eyes scouting for his reaction. Was he truly sick, to marvel at Diluc’s wide eyes and disheveled hair, at the euphoria seeping through every pore on his skin?

Maybe.

Maybe he liked being sick. Maybe he liked being wrong, and disgusting, and pinning his son’s legs against the bed with one hand only to pry open his pretty pussy and watch it throb around nothing.

Maybe he didn’t care. How could he, when Diluc’s cunt swallowed his fingers like that was its one purpose? When his son arched his back, slowly rocking into Crepus’s fingers, clumsily pushing into him?

When Diluc begged? Begged, like a whore — his sweet and innocent son, spread out on a bed begging for his father to fuck him stupid.

Crepus curled his fingers into Diluc’s cunt, preening as his baby keened, one small hand grabbing Crepus’s wrist to jam it further into him. So Crepus let him. He lay into his stomach, kissed Diluc’s glistening inner thigh, and watched as his son used Crepus’s hand to fuck himself with. He caught Diluc’s free hand, twining his fingers with his son’s — then opening it like a fan before licking his middle finger. His mother used to like that — stuffing Crepus’s mouth with her fingers while they had sex.

I want to love you like Mother did.

The reaction was immediate. Diluc twitched, his cunt throbbed around Crepus’s fingers. Slowly, Crepus took Diluc’s middle finger into his mouth, sucking on it at a languid pace.

“My baby,” he murmured, and instead of recoiling like he had once, Diluc only whimpered. “My baby, look at you. You’re gorgeous. You’re doing so well.”

Diluc babbled something incomprehensible. He let go of Crepus’s hands, then, lying still for a moment. Pale moonlight danced over his rising stomach, his curves gently kissed by the moon. “What— what made you change your mind?”

Crepus swallowed, his breathing slowing to quietness. With the back of his fingers, he caressed Diluc’s thigh, a feather-light touch to remind him that, yes, this was real, and yes, it was wrong. But no, Crepus wouldn’t stop. “I don’t know. I heard your calls at night — and I answered.”

Realization dawned upon Diluc’s face with a blush. “You… heard me?” He opened his mouth, squeaking a little as both of his hands flung to his face, hiding his face away from Crepus. “No way…”

“Are you embarrassed?” Crepus asked in a murmur, leaning forward until his tout body was draped over Diluc’s — so much bigger than his son’s, tall like all the Ragnvindrs at the prime of their age and muscled like a man had to be after years of hard work in the fields. One calloused hand glided down Diluc’s thigh, hooking his leg around Crepus’s hip.

Diluc nodded silently, though he did peek from between his fingers as Crepus lowered his hips. “Of course I am… I was… I was touching…” He huffed, unable to finish his sentence — as though he wasn’t half naked under Crepus, his nightgown lifted to his breasts.

Crepus chuckled. He ran the back of his fingers up Diluc’s waist, mesmerized by the light that bounced across his body along the surreptitious jumps of his muscles, shivers raking his skin at Crepus’s caress. “You were touching yourself, and calling my name,” he finished, right as he palmed Diluc’s breasts, thumbing his erect nipples. “Right?”

Diluc gasped, his hips bucking under Crepus’s ministrations. “Y-Yes…”

“Naughty boy,” Crepus whispered in his ear, lips brushing his jaw. “My naughty, beautiful boy. I heard you call for me at night and since then I…” He licked Diluc’s neck, his tongue dragging on damp skin. “I keep thinking about you singing in my bed.”

Diluc let out a whimper. His arms went slack, sensing Crepus’s intentions, to let his father remove the nightgown — leaving Diluc naked under Crepus.

Crepus’s breath caught. He took in the perfect, nimble figure of his son — moon-kissed skin dusted with freckles, hair like wild flames fanned over the pillow — and exhaled.

He had always known Diluc was beautiful. But this beauty — raw, unguarded, devoid of any superficial mask — was to slay gods.

Was it really his child? Pretty as roses in the morning, pale thighs streaked in leaking salt? Was it really Diluc, usually so restrained and perfect and polite and good, sprawled over the bed in nothing but moonlight?

Crepus leaned forward, kissing Diluc’s forehead — then his nose, his chin, his neck. He took a nipple in his mouth, a shiver of satisfaction echoing through his body as Diluc whimpered, carding his fingers through Crepus’s hair. “Your beard tickles!” he whined, but the little imp was still pushing on Crepus’s head, keeping him there as the latter sucked on his son’s nipples.

He didn’t complain further though, falling silent but for the lovely sounds he made as Crepus took the time to properly love his breasts. As he did, Diluc clasped his ankles behind Crepus, pushing onto them to rub Crepus’s crotch against his own.

Crepus groaned. He pushed away from Diluc, urgency moving his fingers to the buttons of his pants. “Is it this, that you want?” he asked, finally freeing his suffering cock from its confines. It sprang alive, already leaking, twitching, the red tip smeared in precum.

Diluc opened his mouth, barely taming an appreciative whimper. His lips were— wet. Proof that his mouth was watering. He wouldn’t turn away his gaze, small hands hovering near Crepus while the latter finished undressing. Once he was done, he knelt over Diluc, looking down at him with clouded eyes.

Diluc did not look back. He was staring at Crepus’s cock. “Touch it,” Crepus ordered.

Diluc grabbed Crepus’s cock, tentatively running both of his hands over the thick length. Another groan tore through Crepus, the small, warm hands pressing so deliciously around his aching cock. “Good boy,” Crepus praised, rocking his hips along Diluc’s strokes. “Good boy, you make your old father feel so good…”

“Really?” Diluc timidly asked, thumbing the tip with infinite care.

“Really.”

Then, Diluc replaced one hand by his mouth — the other continuously stroking the base. Crepus bit down a scream of pleasure, thighs shaking as Diluc ran his tongue over the shaft — down, up, down, up — before taking the tip in his mouth. Diluc closed his eyes, blissed out beyond relief as he sucked on Crepus’s cock, slobbering all over it with inexperience.

It did not matter, that he didn’t know what he was doing. That his hands were clumsy and his tongue uncertain. Crepus was still unmade, grabbing the headboard for support, resisting his barest urges to push his cock down Diluc’s throat and pump into his mouth. It felt so damn good — nothing came close.

Nothing, except—

“Enough,” Crepus said, gently tugging at Diluc’s hair. “Stop, Diluc.”

Diluc raised fearful eyes toward Crepus — until Crepus cupped his cheek in reassurance. “Do you want me to lie down?” he asked then, once he was certain Crepus wasn’t backing down on this point of no-return.

“Please, do.”

Diluc plopped down on the bed. How he knew that he was supposed to open his legs, Crepus wasn’t sure, but he did. He pushed on his own thighs, his eyes never leaving Crepus’s as he offered his inviting hole to him. It was a pretty pink color, flowing with juices, twitching along Diluc’s breathing. “I saw people do it in the fields, and read books about it,” he explained. “And since then, I wanted you to do it to me… When I do it alone, it doesn’t feel the same.”

Crepus thumbed at the pretty pink hole, his breath catching as it almost swallowed his fingers — right as Diluc whined and gasped. Bringing the thumb to his mouth, Crepus tasted the same salt he had drunk moments before. He grabbed Diluc’s hands, pinning them above his head, and then, slowly, he sank into him.

The surge of heat was maddening. Crepus’s eyes rolled into their sockets, a long moan tearing through him. Diluc was tailored for Crepus’s cock — a perfect, living cocksleeve. He fit so perfectly into his son, it was as though his pussy existed for that purpose — to be engorged with his father’s length, walls clamping down on pulsing veins, sucking him off like a mouth would.

Below him, Diluc was delirious. He babbled incomprehensible words, but Crepus did not need words to understand what he wanted; his cunt’s tight grip and his begging stare were enough. Pushing on his knees, he covered Diluc’s body with his own, holding his hips while his forehead dig into the pillow by Diluc’s ear, and he thrust into him.

It became harder and harder to reel in his animalistic instincts as the night progressed. Listening to his son’s breathy cries, every new request of his more obscene than the previous as he let his mouth run in Crepus’s ear, Crepus wasn’t sure how he hadn’t come yet. It wasn’t for a lack of desire; unlike other emotions, pleasure in enormous quantities did not, in fact, numb him. Quite the contrary. He felt so immensely good, the only reason he didn’t manhandle Diluc to chase off his own high was because he wanted his baby to come on his cock.

He was doing so well after all. Gasping and sobbing and squealing in Crepus’s arms. “Fill me up,” he kept saying. “Daddy— fill me up, come in me, please please please please—”

“Shh, baby,” Crepus called in Diluc’s ear. “You first. Don’t you want to come, too?”

“I do… I feel so good, I—hng—aaaah…”

“Then let go, my baby, my love. Let go.”

Diluc shook his head. “No! I want your cum…”

Crepus pressed down his body onto Diluc’s, locking him in place as he picked up his pace, rubbing his pelvis against Diluc’s clit. “I want you to come, Diluc,” he repeated, lust-addled voice dripping with a moan. “Do it for me, for Daddy— be a good boy for me. Don’t you want to make your daddy proud?”

“I do…”

Crepus pushed deeper, harder. He hit the back of Diluc’s cunt yet pushed anyway, pounding into him at a relentless pace. “Then come for Daddy,” he breathed in Diluc’s neck. “Let go. Come for me, Diluc. Come for me — and milk me.”

Diluc sucked in a breath, then cried out, his legs cramping as he came on his father’s cock. “Daddy,” he drawled, throwing his head back, locking his ankles on Crepus’s back to keep him there. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—” he sank his teeth in Crepus’s shoulder, muffling his own cries.

“My boy, you’re perfect,” Crepus praised through the delicious pain, grinding deeper even, fucking Diluc through his orgasm — allowed, at last, to chase his own high. “Now make me come.”

Through his cries, Diluc opens wild eyes, quieting his requests to the best of his ability. Fat tears rolled on his cheek, pearling on his eyelashes, as overstimulation made his body quiver.

And yet, the sweet soul did not once try to push Crepus away. He ran his palms down Crepus’s chest, palming his breasts, and kissed Crepus on the neck. There, he sucked slowly, small tongue running across Crepus’s jugular, his licks only disturbed by Crepus’s now furious thrusts.

It had to hurt, to be pounded into like that. It had to feel sore and uncomfortable — to be used as a toy, his small pussy smashed by a cock much bigger than anything it had ever accommodated to before. But Diluc still stayed there, ankles clasped on Crepus’s back, pushing on his legs at the same rhythm as Crepus’s thrusts to help him orgasm.

He stopped sucking on Crepus’s neck, his hot, ragged breath brushing Crepus’s ear. “I— I  love you, Daddy,” he started, voice hiccuping. “Please, can—can you come for me?”

Crepus moaned — though in his heart, he only felt relentless affection for his boy, so sweet, his first attempt at dirty talking. How lovely, that he could ramble with the filthiest of speeches when he lost himself in euphoria — yet stammered when he tried to do so purposely.

But it worked. His shy voice hiccuping with sobs, his tearful eyes seeking Crepus’s as he cupped Crepus’s face and rested his forehead against his. “I want your—” He pursed his lips, looking away, head bobbing along Crepus’s thrusts. “I want your babies…”

Oh, my Diluc. The dam broke, and all the pent-up frustration from the last weeks spilled into Diluc in many, many spurts of hot cum. His vision flashed, his hands gripped Diluc’s thighs with white-knuckled strength to keep him plugged around his leaking cock.

He didn’t even notice Diluc had orgasmed again, his cunt spasming around his father’s cock, Diluc hiding his face in Crepus’s neck, one hand clenched around a fistful of hair.

When Crepus finally regained his composure, he kissed Diluc’s cheek, then gazed down at his ruined pussy and, instead, saw the slight bloat of his stomach.

It was appropriate, to label Crepus an animal then. The next few hours, his arousal rekindled by the vision of his fucked out son’s stomach bulging with cum, he spent spearing Diluc with his cock.

He did not stop fucking Diluc when the latter came again — once, or twice, or thrice. He fucked him until he was crying, shaking, head lolling along Crepus’s ministrations. He filled him up until cum leaked through his cunt, staining the sheets and drawing out every fold into his pussy, his ass. And when he tried to stop, fearing he might have hurt his lovely, Diluc tugged at his sleeve, opening one tearful eye and mouthing a gentle ‘more’.

So Crepus gave him more. He fucked him all night long, and when he wasn’t pumping cum into him, he was kissing every inch of his body. Licking at the bud of his nipples, dragging his lips down the plump stomach, biting the flesh of his ass, tonguing at his asshole, cleaning Crepus’s seed off Diluc’s used pussy. Crepus kissed Diluc’s forehead and his eyelids and the inner side of his wrist, sucked slowly on his neck, then resumed fucking him until he was dried off cum and Diluc couldn’t move anymore.

They stayed intricately linked together for the rest of the night — Crepus’s soft cock still sheathed into Diluc’s cunt as per his son’s own request. He would deal with the evident self-loathing later — when he wasn’t covered in Diluc’s sweat. No doubt that Diluc wouldn’t stop — not after getting the feast he had always wanted — and… Crepus found he liked the idea. It rang louder in his head than the already rising guilt.

Before he drifted off to sleep, cradling his baby into his arms, Crepus lay one small, tender kiss on Diluc’s lips, his heart soaring when Diluc smiled in his sleep.

The kiss was chaste.

Somehow, it felt like the worst transgression of that night.

When Diluc woke, he did not move out of his father’s arms. Still full with his father’s soft cock, he gently stroked Crepus’s beard, then looped his fingers through the dark red curls.

Love me like you loved her.

As Crepus instinctively pulled Diluc closer in his arms, the latter sucking a breath as his father grew hard in his sleep, Diluc knew that would never happen. Crepus would never love Diluc like he had loved his late wife.

But Diluc found he did not mind.

Because that sight of Crepus — that fucked out smile on a peaceful face — was only for Diluc. Only Diluc knew what it was like, to rub his smooth cheeks against his father’s stubble, to tease him by rubbing his nipples, to hear him groan as he rolled over his son and lazily thrust into him while waking up.

There were few times when people were entirely honest. There was this myth that wrath dragged honesty from the safest of shackles, but it was wrong. Under the right — or rather, the wrong — kind of wrath, anyone could say anything just to maim, a weapon swinging wildly and tearing through anything, including its wielder.

But exhaustion — now that was a titan to shatter mountains, a force to fuse coal into diamonds and diamonds into sand.

“Only you,” Crepus breathed into Diluc’s ear, his voice groggy with sleep, as he throbbed in Diluc’s pussy with the slow rock of an orgasm. “Only you could make me feel so good…”

Diluc might have cried as he heard those words. He couldn’t tell — he was too busy coming around his father’s cock, his body singing with the birds and rising with the sun.

But he heard those words right.

He heard those words perfectly right.

Only you only you only you.

Only Diluc.

Only him.

* * *