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The balcony of Gunnhildr Manor overlooked the sleeping city of Mondstadt, its rooftops silvered by a moon that hung low and lazy in the May sky. A soft breeze carried the last sweetness of spring blossoms, but the air still held an edge of evening chill, the kind that made you lean closer to someone simply to borrow their warmth. Or in their case, to share it.
Jean stood with her back against the stone railing, her bare shoulders prickling with gooseflesh despite the loose white silk that pooled around her thighs. Her blonde hair, usually pinned in a severe ponytail, fell straight and soft past her waist, catching the starlight like spun honey. Beside her, Kaeya swayed almost imperceptibly, his long midnight blue hair unbound and shifting like water over his bare chest where his white shirt hung open. The loose black pants sat low on his hips. His eyepatch was absent, and the eye he kept hidden from the world gleamed gold in the dim light, the old scar from Diluc’s blade a thin white line cutting through his brow and down his cheek. Perfectly functional, as he always reminded her. And perfectly forbidden to everyone but her.
They were not talking about work. They had promised each other that much. No reports, no duty rosters, no whispers of Abyss activity or diplomatic headaches. Just the quiet creak of the manor’s old timbers and the distant sound of the fountain in the courtyard below.
Jean shivered, and Kaeya noticed immediately. He always noticed.
“You’re cold,” he said, not a question. His voice was low and fond, and he stepped closer until the warmth of his torso nearly touched her arm. Nearly. He ran cold, always had, because of his Cryo vision. But tonight she didn’t mind. The chill in the air made his cool skin feel like a balm rather than a lack.
“So are you,” she replied, tilting her head to look up at him. Without his eyepatch, his lopsided smile seemed less like a mask and more like a secret they shared. “But at least I shiver prettily.”
He laughed, a short sound that vibrated through the quiet. “Prettily, she says. Jean Gunnhildr, Master of Knights at the Knights of Favonius, second only to Varka himself, and here she is fishing for compliments on a balcony in her nightgown.”
“I am not fishing.” She lifted her chin. “I am stating a fact.”
“Then you won’t mind if I state one of my own.” He closed the last inch between them and draped his arms loosely around her waist, pulling her into the cradle of his body. His cool chest pressed against her silk covered warmth, and she exhaled a soft breath as she let her hands rest on his shoulders. The breeze swirled around them, and they began to sway, a slow rhythm with no music, just the wind and their breathing. “Your shoulders,” he murmured, his eyes tracing the line of her collarbone. “They are causing a diplomatic incident.”
“A diplomatic incident,” Jean repeated, fighting a smile. “With whom, exactly?”
“With me. I am the Quartermaster, third in command, and I declare your shoulders a threat to the orderly conduct of this evening.” His fingers traced small circles on her lower back through the silk. “I may have to confiscate them.”
“You cannot confiscate my shoulders, Kaeya.”
“Watch me.” He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the curve where her neck met her shoulder, lingering just long enough for her to feel the brush of his cool lips. She did not shiver from the cold this time.
She slid her hands up from his shoulders to frame his face, her thumbs stroking the scarred skin beneath his golden eye. He let her, his gaze softening in that way it never did for anyone else. “You are ridiculous,” she said quietly.
“Ridiculously devoted to your shoulders. Yes.” He grinned, but there was a tenderness underneath it, a quiet awe that he still tried to hide behind his charm. “And to the rest of you, I suppose. In descending order. Your elbows are also quite lovely.”
“My elbows?”
“Highly underrated. But we can discuss anatomy later.” He swayed them again, the silk of her gown whispering against his bare chest. The moonlight caught the edge of his scar, and she traced it with her fingertip. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her touch.
“You are warmer than you think,” she said. “Despite the Cryo.”
“That’s you.” He opened his eyes and looked at her with such unguarded fondness that it made her chest ache. “You never fail to heat up the icy blood in my veins.”
The flirting had been playful, almost comical, but the air between them was shifting. The wind picked up, rustling her hair against his arm, and she felt the cool press of his hip through the thin silk where her nightgown had ridden up. He did not move to adjust it. Neither did she.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, “when I took the Quartermaster position, I didn’t realize the best perk would be having a legitimate excuse to corner you in supply closets.”
“You corner me everywhere,” Jean said, her own voice softening into something breathier. “I think you just like having me in small spaces.”
“I like having you anywhere.” He pulled her tighter, and their swaying slowed until they were barely moving, just pressing into each other. His cool chest against her warm one. His bare arms around her silk clad back. The golden eye never left hers. “But especially on this balcony. Especially like this. Especially when you look at me like I’m not a monster.”
Her heart twisted. She cupped his face more firmly, her thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. “You are not a monster, Kaeya. You are my Cavalry Captain. My Quartermaster. My…” She hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. “Mine.”
The word hung between them, simple and devastating. His breath caught. For a moment, the teasing mask slipped entirely, and she saw the raw, quiet man beneath, the one who trusted her with his scarred eye and his cursed blood and the cold that ran deeper than any vision.
Then he smirked, but it was softer now, almost reverent. “Yours,” he repeated. “In that case, your ‘monster’ believes that you are currently freezing. May I suggest a more… efficient method of heat exchange?”
“Are you asking to kiss me, Captain?”
“I am asking to devour you, Master Jean.” He lowered his mouth to her jaw, not kissing, just hovering, letting her feel the cool whisper of his breath. “But I’ll settle for a kiss. For now.”
She turned her head, and he met her lips with a gentleness that belied his words. The kiss started slow, almost chaste, his cool mouth moving against her warm one. But then her fingers tangled in his loose hair, and his hand slid up her spine, and the chill air became irrelevant because she was burning from the inside out.
He broke the kiss first, his forehead resting against hers. Both of them were breathing faster. His cool skin had warmed against hers, or maybe she had simply stopped noticing the difference.
“Jean,” he said, her name a rasp in his throat.
“Kaeya.”
He smiled, that sharp edged smile she loved, and then he buried his face in her neck. His nose pressed against the pulse point beneath her ear, and he inhaled slowly, like he was memorizing the scent of her. His arms tightened around her waist, and she felt the tension coil in his shoulders, in the line of his back, in the way his hips pressed just slightly closer.
The wind gusted again, lifting her hair around them both, and she leaned her head back against the railing, exposing more of her throat to him. He made a low sound, almost a growl, and his lips parted against her skin. Not kissing. Just breathing. Just waiting.
The air on the balcony was no longer chilly. It was thick, electric, heavy with the promise of what came next. She melted into him. Completely, utterly, without a shred of the composure she wielded like a sword in the grand halls of the Knights of Favonius. Her knees softened, her weight sank against his chest, and she became nothing more than warm silk and quiet surrender in his arms.
Kaeya laughed. Not his usual low, measured chuckle, but something enthusiastic, almost boyish, startled out of him by the sheer unexpectedness of her giving in so easily.
The sound snapped Jean back to herself. Her cheeks flamed. She shoved him in the chest with both hands, hard enough to rock him back on his heels. “Stop laughing,” she said, her voice thick and embarrassingly whiny, the kind of tone she never used with anyone else. “It is not funny.”
He did not budge. Of course he did not budge. The man was all lean muscle and stubbornness. Instead, he caught her wrists, tugged her forward, and kissed her again. This one was deeper, slower, a deliberate teasing that made her forget why she had been embarrassed in the first place.
Her arms looped around his neck of their own accord. Her fingers threaded through his loose midnight hair. And then, to her eternal mortification, she giggled. An actual giggle, soft and breathless against his lips.
He pulled back just enough to grin at her, wicked and sharp edged, his golden eye gleaming with mischief. “There she is,” he murmured. “The woman who commands armies, undone by a little kissing.”
“I am not undone,” she protested weakly.
“Your giggle says otherwise, darling.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but he spoke again, his voice dropping to a low, sugared murmur. “You know, if you keep melting like that, I might get the idea that you actually enjoy my company. And then where would we be? I would have to hold you all night. What a tragedy.”
Jean’s eyes narrowed. Then, quick as a cat, she leaned in and nipped at his Adam’s apple. Just a graze of teeth, just enough to make him feel it.
He swallowed thickly. The movement was stark against the pale column of his throat. His golden eye widened, then softened into something helpless. “Jean,” he said, his voice rougher now. “You are going to be the death of me.”
She grinned. A real grin, unguarded and bright, and in this moment she looked more like the girl who had once chased him through the streets of Mondstadt with a dandelion stem instead of the commanding Master of Knights.
Kaeya grinned back. There was a shyness beneath it, almost bashful, as if he could not quite believe that this was real. That she was here. That her teeth had just been on his throat and she was smiling at him like he was the only man in Teyvat. His happiness radiated off him like heat, incongruous with his Cryo vision, and it made her chest ache in the best way.
The rest of the world had fallen away. No Varka. No paperwork. No whispers from the Abyss or diplomatic tensions with Snezhnaya. There was only this balcony, this moonlight, and the impossible man in front of her.
She raised one elegant eyebrow at him. A question. A challenge. A promise.
He understood. His grin softened into something tender and predatory all at once. Without a word, he cupped the back of her head and kissed her again, but this time his hands slid to her waist and lifted. She gasped against his mouth as her bare thighs met the cold stone of the balcony railing.
Three stories below, the cobblestones of the courtyard glinted like scattered pearls. A fall from here would break bones, shatter spines, end everything. But Jean did not look down. She closed her eyes and felt Kaeya. Felt his kiss, felt the strong hand splayed across her lower back, firm and supportive, fingers pressing into the silk to keep her steady. Felt the way his other hand braced against the railing beside her hip, a cage of lean muscle and absolute devotion.
He would not let her fall. She knew this the way she knew her own name.
If anyone in the nearby rooftops or the manor’s other windows happened to glance up right now, they would see something scandalous. The Master of Knights, perched on a balcony railing in a thin white nightgown, her bare legs parted to make room for the Cavalry Captain between them. His half open shirt hanging off his shoulders. Both of them flushed red and breathing hard and kissing as if their lives depended on it.
The thought made her whimper. A small, needy sound that escaped before she could catch it. They broke apart for air.
She leaned into him, her forehead dropping to his shoulder, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. “Kaeya,” she breathed.
He cradled her. One arm locked around her waist, the other curving up to stroke her hair. “I have you,” he murmured against her temple. “I have you. Let’s go inside.”
He stepped back from the railing, lifting her easily as if she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist out of instinct, and the silk of her gown rode up to her hips, but she did not care. She buried her face in the crook of his neck as he carried her across the balcony.
With one hand, he slid the glass doors open. Warmth rushed out to meet them, the heat of the room she had left hours ago, the fireplace long since banked but still radiating comfort. He stepped inside, and the change in temperature made her shiver against his cool skin.
He slid the doors closed behind them with a soft click. Then he pulled the heavy curtains across, thick velvet that blocked out the moonlight and the prying eyes of Mondstadt. The room fell into dimness, lit only by the dying embers and a single candle on her nightstand.
Then he pressed her to the wall.
Gently. So gently. Her back met the cool plaster, and he pinned her there with the weight of his body, not crushing, just present. His hands framed her face, and he kissed her like he had all the time in the world.
She kissed him back, just as slow, just as deep. But her hands wandered, sliding down his bare chest, tracing the line of his collarbone, skating over the waistband of his loose black pants.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing hers. “You are aware,” he murmured, “that the Quartermaster has certain privileges. Access to restricted areas. The authority to requisition supplies.”
“What supplies are you requisitioning tonight, Captain?” Her voice was low, teasing, a mirror of his own devilry.
“You,” he said simply. “All of you. Every inch. I filed the paperwork. Very official.”
She laughed, a soft breathy sound. “I do not recall signing the approval of any requisition form.”
“I forged your signature.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “I am very good at forgery. It is the curse of the Alberich bloodline.”
“You are impossible.”
“And you are wearing far too much silk for my liking.” His fingers toyed with the thin strap at her shoulder, pushing it down an inch, then pausing. “May I?”
“You may not,” she said, even as her hips tilted toward him. “Not until you tell me what else you have forged in my name.”
He grinned against her throat. “Budget approvals. Deployment orders. A very strongly worded letter to the Dawn Winery about their grape shipments.” He kissed the hollow of her neck. “A love sonnet. Terrible rhymes. I threw it away.”
She nipped his earlobe. “You wrote me a love sonnet?”
“I wrote fourteen. Burned thirteen. The fourteenth is sewn into the lining of my coat. Just in case I die dramatically in battle and you find it.”
Her heart clenched. She softened beneath him, her teasing edge giving way to something raw. “Do not talk about dying.”
“Then do not ask about forgeries.” He pulled back to look at her, his starglitter mismatched eyes soft, his scarred cheek pressed against her palm where she had cupped his face. “I am exactly where I want to be, Jean. Pressing you against a wall. In your bedroom. With your legs around my waist. This is not a death wish. This is living.”
She kissed him hard for that, and he sighed into her mouth, content and hungry all at once. The candle flickered. The curtains held the night at bay. And the only thing left in the world was the slow, steady heat building between them, threatening to catch fire any second now.
They broke apart for air, and instead of coming back, he started going down her neck. Not fast. Not gentle in the way that soothed. Gentle in the way that destroyed. His lips traced a slow, wet path from her jaw to the curve of her shoulder, and he paused there to press an open mouthed kiss against the tendon that stood out beneath her skin. Jean clung to him. Her fingers twisted in his loose hair, nails scraping his scalp, and she whimpered. A small, broken sound that she would have been mortified by in any other context.
Here, with his cool breath fanning across her collarbone, she let it loose without shame.
She could tell he was already struggling too. The evidence pressed hard against her inner thigh through the thin fabric of his loose black pants, unmistakable and insistent. And she could feel herself in answer, wet and ready and wanting, a molten ache that made her shift her hips against him.
But Kaeya had other plans. She saw it in the wicked gleam of his golden eye when he pulled back just enough to look at her. He was going to torture her tonight. Delectably. Deliberately. The kind of slow burn that left you gasping for air you did not need.
"Just close your eyes, Jean," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her chest. "Don't think. I have you."
She did. She closed her eyes without hesitation, trusting him the way she trusted few things in this world. The darkness behind her lids was warm and soft, and she focused on the points of contact between them. His chest against hers. His hips cradled between her thighs. The wall at her back, solid and cool through the silk.
She was fit. Years of sword work and climbing ruins and chasing down Abyss mages had sculpted her into something lean and powerful. Her legs, wrapped around his waist, were strong and shapely, the muscles defined beneath smooth skin. Her biceps, where her hands gripped his shoulders, were firm and rounded. Her stomach, visible now as the silk gown had ridden up to her ribs, was a flat plane of toned muscle that tensed every time he shifted.
Kaeya noticed all of it. She felt his gaze like a physical touch even with her eyes closed.
Then his hands began to move. His hands, which were beautiful in a way that seemed almost unfair. Long fingers, elegant and slender, with calluses on the pads from years of sword grip. Pale skin that looked almost luminous in the candlelight. He traced them up her sides, skimming over her ribs, then down her thighs, dipping beneath the hem of her nightgown.
He did not go where she wanted. He danced around it, his fingers ghosting over her hip bones, her lower belly, the sensitive skin just above her knee. Torture. Pure, exquisite torture.
She could not move. Her legs were locked around his waist, her back pinned to the wall, and she did not want to break the spell by struggling. So she stayed still, trembling under his touch, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
His mouth returned to her neck. He kissed the hollow beneath her ear, then the flutter of her pulse, then the tendon that led down to her shoulder. She arched into him, and he rewarded her with a soft laugh against her skin.
Then he kissed her on the lips again. A real kiss, deep and consuming, and she melted into it entirely. But just as quickly as it began, he pulled back. Separated. Left her mouth chasing after him like a flower following the sun.
Her lips brushed air. She opened her eyes, dazed and desperate, and found him watching her with that infuriatingly composed expression, though the flush on his cheeks and the ragged edge of his breathing betrayed him.
She pouted. Actually pouted, her lower lip pushing out in a way that was thoroughly unbecoming of the second highest ranking knight in Mondstadt. He had not caught her in another kiss. He had left her hanging, bereft, and she wanted to smack his chest again.
"You look adorable when you do that," he said, his voice thick. "Like a kitten who has been denied milk."
"I am not a kitten," she growled.
"No. You are a lioness. Which is why this is so much more satisfying." He leaned in, but instead of kissing her mouth, he pressed his lips to the tip of her nose. "You are also very wet. I can feel it through the silk. You are going to soak my shirt, darling."
Her entire face went scarlet. The boldness of him, the casual way he named her desire, made her want to disappear into the wall. But she was Jean Gunnhildr, and she did not disappear.
"You are hard enough to cut glass," she retorted, her voice steady despite the blush. "And you are not wearing a shirt. You are wearing half a shirt. There is nothing to soak."
His turn to blush, though it was much less visible than Jean’s considering his substantially darker skin. A faint red crept up his ears, spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck. He looked almost shy for a heartbeat, caught off guard by her directness. Then he grinned, a little helpless, a little hungry.
"Patience, love," he said softly. "Patience."
He kissed her forehead then, a paradox of reverence and restraint, and she felt the tremble in his fingers where they pressed against her hip. He wanted her just as badly. But he was going to draw this out until they both unraveled, and she loved him for it even as she wanted to strangle him.
So she closed her eyes again. Let her head fall back against the wall. And surrendered to the slow, sweet agony of being completely, utterly his. Jean squirmed, gestured towards the bed.
The walk from the wall to the mattress took only a few strides, but Jean felt every one of them. Kaeya’s arms were steady around her, her legs still locked around his waist, her bare thighs slick against his skin that is slowly gaining heat despite the ice in his veins. The candlelight flickered across his face, catching the golden eye and the scar and the soft curve of his mouth. She stared at him. She could not help it.
She was pretty sure she had a stupid lovesick grin on her face. The kind that made her look like a poetry struck novice rather than the Master of Knights. Her cheeks ached from it. But gosh, she loved him. She loved him so much that it made her chest tight and her throat thick and her thoughts go soft around the edges.
He laid her down on the bed. The sheets were cool and rumpled from earlier, the pillows plush beneath her head. He knelt over her, one knee on either side of her hips, and looked down at her with an expression that made her heart stutter.
Then he reached for the thin strap of her white silk nightgown.
She let him. She lifted her shoulders so he could slide the silk down her arms, and the fabric pooled around her waist, exposing her body to the warm air and his gaze. She did not cover herself. Instead, she kept her eyes on his face, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his breathing changed.
Her nightgown came off completely. He tugged it down her hips, over her thighs, and tossed it somewhere onto the floor. She did not hear where it landed. She was too focused on the way he swallowed, his mismatched eyes tracing the lines of her body.
She moved to help him with her bra. A simple white thing, practical but pretty. She arched her back so he could unhook it, and he did, his long fingers fumbling for just a moment before the clasp gave. The straps slid down her arms, and she tossed the bra aside carelessly. She had never been less interested in lingerie in her life.
Then her underwear. A matching white pair, thin and simple. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and drew them down her legs, slow and deliberate, his knuckles brushing her hips, her thighs, her knees, her ankles. She lifted her hips to help him, and then the last piece of fabric was gone, discarded somewhere on the floor, and she lay fully naked beneath him.
Every part of her is exposed. Her toned stomach, her sculpted legs, the soft swell of her breasts, the dark thatch of hair between her thighs. She felt vulnerable and powerful all at once, a strange and wonderful contradiction.
Kaeya did not move. He simply looked at her. For one long second, he admired her, his gaze tender and reverent, as if she were something sacred. He took in the curve of her waist, the strength of her arms, the flush spreading across her chest. His gaze softened, and his lips parted slightly, and he looked at her like she was the only beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Jean smiled shyly. The lovesick grin faded into something smaller, more fragile. She turned her face to the side, burying her hot cheek against the pillow, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. Naked and seen and loved, and it was almost too much.
He chuckled softly, a warm sound that vibrated through the mattress. Then he brushed a strand of her long blonde hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear with a gentleness that made her chest ache.
"Hello, gorgeous," he murmured.
She flushed red. The color spread from her cheeks down her neck, across her chest, a wildfire of pleasure and embarrassment. She turned her face back toward him, and her voice came out softer than she intended.
"Hi, handsome." She reached up and touched his chest through his still half open shirt. "I want to see you too."
He chuckled again, but it was shakier this time. He sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. The white fabric landed somewhere behind him. She did not care where.
She stared.
His abs were really nice. Super nice. A lean, defined map of muscle that narrowed at his waist and flared at his shoulders. And his shoulders. Jean loved his shoulders. Broad and strong, with the kind of slope that made her want to sink her teeth into them. His arms were long and elegant, matching his hands, but corded with strength. And his legs. He was very tall, and his legs matched, long and lean and powerful, the muscles shifting beneath his pale skin as he moved.
Jean just... gosh, she loved him. Every inch of him. The scarred eye and the cursed blood and the cool skin and the impossible heart he hid behind his smiles. She loved him so much that it spilled out of her in a shaky exhale.
He reached for the waistband of his loose black pants. She watched, breath held, as he hooked his thumbs into the fabric and pushed them down. He had to lift his hips to get them past his thighs, and then they were gone, and he was naked too.
She could tell he was very ready. There was no mistaking the evidence of his desire, full and straining against his belly. Her mouth went dry, and her thighs pressed together reflexively, chasing the ache that pulsed between them.
But she knew he would not. Not yet. Not until he worshipped her first. He always put her first. In every argument, every battle, every quiet night like this one. He would spend hours learning the landscape of her body before he even thought about his own pleasure. It was one of the thousand reasons she loved him.
He lowered himself over her, bracing his weight on his forearms, his cool skin pressing against her warmth. His golden eye searched her face, asking a question he had already answered.
"Jean," he breathed.
"Kaeya," she whispered back.
And then his mouth found hers, soft and slow, and she let herself fall into the gentle, devastating worship she knew was coming.
But the kiss did not stay soft for long. The moment her lips parted beneath his, something electric sparked between them, a current that ran from her mouth straight down to her core. He tilted his head, deepened the angle, and the kiss became something else entirely. Not gentle. Not slow. It was hungry and desperate and tasted like the edge of a storm. His tongue swept against hers, and she moaned into his mouth, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders. The cool silk of his skin against her palms, the heat building between their bodies, the way he kissed her like she was the only source of oxygen in the world.
She kissed him back just as fiercely. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her hips rose off the bed to meet him. And for a long, breathless moment, there was nothing but the clash of their mouths and the pounding of her heart.
Then they broke apart for air.
Jean gasped, her chest heaving, her lips swollen and red. She blinked up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe. Kaeya hovered above her for just a second, his own breath ragged, his golden eye wild with want. Then he moved.
He crouched down between her legs. She felt the mattress shift beneath his weight, felt his hands slide up her calves, her knees, her thighs. He pushed her legs apart gently, firmly, and she let him. She would let him do anything.
He started with the inside of her right thigh. A kiss. Soft and lingering, right on the sensitive skin where her leg met her hip. She shivered. He moved higher, pressing another kiss an inch above the first. Then another. Then another. A slow, torturous trail of warmth that made her thighs tremble.
He switched to her left thigh, mirroring the path. His lips brushed the crease where her leg joined her body, and she whimpered. He kissed her hip bone. The dip of her waist. The lower curve of her belly. Every inch of skin he covered, he claimed, and she closed her eyes and let herself feel.
No thoughts. No responsibilities. No titles. Just Jean, and Kaeya, and the impossible sweetness of his mouth on her skin.
He worked his way up her body without rush. Her stomach, her ribs, the space between her breasts. He kissed the hollow of her throat, her collarbone, the line of her jaw. And finally, finally, his lips met hers again.
The second kiss was just as intoxicating as the first. Deeper, maybe. Slower. He cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and she melted into him without reservation. She gave herself to him wholly. Every wall she had ever built, every defense she had ever raised, every carefully constructed layer of composure and duty and restraint. All of it fell away.
She did not hold back. Not her breathless gasps, not the soft mewling sounds that escaped her throat, not the way her hips rolled against his. She let herself pant. Let herself moan. Let every sound spill out of her like wine from an overturned cup.
Only Kaeya could get these sounds out of her. Only Kaeya could make her feel this way. Raw and seen and utterly, shamelessly wanted.
And she knew he loved her sounds. Because the moment she moaned, his hands went faster. His exploring fingers, which had been tracing lazy patterns on her ribs, suddenly became urgent. One hand found her breast, cupping the weight of it, his thumb brushing over her nipple. She whimpered, arching into his palm.
His other hand started going down. Sliding over her stomach, through the soft hair at the base of her belly, lower and lower until his fingers brushed against her wetness. She gasped and turned, rolling onto her side so he could get a better angle. She presented herself to him without shame, her back to his chest, her hips curled toward his hand.
He kissed her shoulder in thanks. A sweet, whispered press of his lips against her skin. Then he paused.
"You okay?" he murmured against her ear.
She nodded, her throat too tight for words.
"You?" she managed, her voice a broken whisper.
"More than okay." She could hear the grin in his voice, soft and reverent. "You are a dream, Jean. A beautiful, impossible dream."
She grinned too, despite the ache between her thighs. "Please," she said. Just one word. But it was enough.
He did not make her wait. She felt his long finger slide through her slick folds, felt him circle her entrance with maddening slowness, and then he pressed inside. Just one finger. Just the first knuckle. He stretched her slowly, carefully, giving her time to adjust.
His other hand stayed on her breast, thumb still teasing her nipple, a counterpoint of pleasure to the fullness of his finger. She buried her face into the pillows, muffling a sob of sensation. His chest was against her back, cool and solid, and she could feel his heart pounding as wildly as hers.
"You are tight," he observed, his voice thick. He pushed deeper, curling his finger slightly, and she gasped. "Relax, Jeanie."
She whimpered into the pillow. "Hard to," she breathed, her words slurred with pleasure, "when you make me feel like this."
She did not give him time to respond. She flipped herself around in his arms, twisting until she faced him, her knees bracketing his hips, her chest pressed against his. The movement pulled his fingers out of her for a fleeting second, and she mourned the loss, but then she was looking into his eyes, and she forgot how to mourn anything.
Then her hands were everywhere too.
She mapped his chest first, her palms sliding over the lean planes of muscle, the flat discs of his nipples, the faint trail of hair that ran down his belly. He shuddered beneath her touch. Then her hands found his back, nails dragging lightly up his spine, and he groaned against her mouth as she kissed him fiercely.
She moved lower. Her lips left his and traveled down his jaw, his throat, the prominent Adam's apple she had nipped earlier. She kissed the hollow at the base of his neck, and he groaned again, a deeper sound that vibrated through his chest and into hers.
His hands did not stay idle. While she explored his throat, he slid one hand between her legs again, finding her slick and ready. He pushed two fingers into her this time, stretching her wider, and she gasped against his skin. He scissored them gently, opening her, preparing her, and she rewarded him by dragging her nails down his back. She felt the crescent marks she left behind, and the slight sting of them made him hiss in pleasure.
Her own hand traveled lower. Down his stomach, over the ridges of his abs, past his navel. She felt the coarse hair at his groin, and then her fingers brushed against him. He was hard. So hard that it was almost painful to look at, pressing against her stomach, hot and insistent where the rest of him ran cool. She could feel his restraint trembling through his entire body. She could tell he was struggling, fighting the urge to flip her over and sink into her completely.
Her hand hovered low, just above him, not quite touching. She looked up at his face. His jaw was clenched, his golden eye dark with want, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple.
"May I?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.
He nodded. A single, jerky motion.
She wrapped her fingers around him.
He was well endowed. Not monstrously so, not the stuff of tavern rumors or exaggerated ballads. But enough. More than enough. When he was inside her, he filled her up completely. Perfectly. Stretching her to the point where she felt just on the edge of too much, but it never crossed that line. It was like he had been made for her, or she for him. Every ridge, every curve, every slight pulse of him in her palm was familiar and thrilling all at once.
Right now, he did not enter her. She simply held him, feeling the weight of him, the heat of him despite his Cryo nature. She moved her hand, slow and deliberate, sliding her fist from base to tip. A bead of moisture glistened at the head, and she swirled her thumb over it.
Kaeya lost it.
He clutched onto her like she was the only solid thing in a storm. His free hand fisted in her hair, pulling gently, and his other hand still had two fingers buried inside her. He added a third finger. She groaned, the stretch suddenly sharper, deeper, and her hips bucked against his hand.
She squeezed him in return. Her fingers tightened around his length, a firm, deliberate pressure, and he gasped. His whole body went rigid against hers, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his breath hot and ragged on her skin.
"Jean," he choked out, her name a prayer and a curse all at once.
She grinned against his temple, her hand still moving slowly, torturously, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside her. They were a tangle of limbs and breath and desperate, quiet sounds, neither willing to yield the upper hand, neither willing to let the other fall.
"You started this," she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. "Patience, love."
He laughed breathlessly, a broken sound, and bit her shoulder in retaliation. Not hard. Just enough to make her squeak.
"You are going to ruin me," he said.
"Good," she replied, and squeezed him again.
His breath hitched. His fingers inside her curled, and for a moment they were locked together, a perfect circuit of tension and desire. But then his hand caught her wrist, stilling her movement.
"Stop," he said, his voice raw. "Jean. Stop. Right before I shatter."
She stopped. Immediately. Her hand went still around him, and she felt the violent tremor that ran through his thighs, his stomach, the cords of his neck. He was balanced on the edge of a cliff, and she had been about to push him over.
He pulled his hand out of her slowly, his fingers slick and glistening in the candlelight. She felt suddenly empty, and she whimpered at the loss. But he pressed a kiss to her forehead, a soothing gesture, and took a moment to compose himself. His breathing slowed from a gallop to a canter. His eye closed, then opened, and the wildness in it had banked into something controlled. Something intentional.
She was absolutely ready. Every nerve in her body hummed. Her thighs were slick, her core aching, her entire being focused on the weight of him still in her hand. She let go reluctantly, and he shifted above her.
He entered her slowly. Maddeningly slowly.
The head of him pressed against her entrance, and he paused there, looking down at her with an expression that was half reverence and half plea. Then he pushed forward, just an inch. She gasped. He had stretched her well with his fingers, three of them, patient and thorough. But he was thicker than his fingers, and there was always a moment, that first moment, where her body had to remember how to accommodate him.
She struggled for just a heartbeat. Her muscles clenched involuntarily, and she bit her lip, her hands flying to his back. He felt it too. He was a tight fit for her, and she was a tight fit for him. But it was the good kind of tight, the perfect kind, the kind that made them both gasp. Like a glove. Like they had been sewn together by some generous god.
He pushed deeper, and she wrapped her arms around him, her nails digging into his shoulder blades. She left red marks down his back, crescent moons of desperate affection, and he groaned against her throat. He kissed her there, open mouthed and sloppy, his teeth grazing her pulse point.
She was trying so hard not to shatter before he even started to move. But the fullness of him, the stretch, the way he filled her completely, it pressed against every sensitive spot she had. Her vision blurred at the edges.
Then he started moving.
A slow withdrawal, a slower thrust. Just the first stroke, and Jean saw stars. Actual stars, bursting behind her closed eyelids, white and gold and blinding. Her mouth fell open, but no sound came out. She had forgotten how to make a sound.
"I have you, Jean," he whispered against her ear, his voice a low, steady anchor. "Shhh. I have you."
She cried out. A broken, helpless sound that was half sob and half moan. He silenced her with a kiss, swallowing her cry, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as his hips began to find a rhythm.
He moved faster. The bed creaked softly beneath them, a counterpoint to the wet sounds of their bodies meeting. Her cries came out faster too, muffled by his mouth, her throat, her own hand pressed against her lips. But he pulled her hand away and laced his fingers through hers, pinning it to the pillow beside her head.
He was always gentle with her. Even now, with his jaw tight and his muscles corded and his restraint fraying at the edges, he was gentle. He watched her face for every flicker of discomfort, every sign of too much. And she trusted him. With her body, with her pleasure, with the soft, vulnerable parts of herself she showed no one else.
And he trusted her. With his scarred eye, his cursed blood, the cold that lived in his bones. With the parts of him he had spent a lifetime hiding.
They moved together like that for a long time. Neither of them was untrained; they were both fit, both strong, both accustomed to pushing their bodies to their limits. Their libidos had only grown stronger over the years, fed by familiarity and trust and the quiet thrill of still discovering new things about each other. They knew each other's bodies so well now. The places that made her gasp. The places that made him lose his rhythm. The way she liked to be held after. The way he liked her fingers in his hair.
Eventually, the world fell away as their speed reached its peak. The coil inside her snapped, and she shattered beneath him with a cry that he swallowed against his lips. Her inner walls clenched around him, a powerful, rhythmic throbbing that started deep in her core and rippled outward like waves from a stone dropped into still water. Each pulse of her muscles squeezed him, pulled at him, and demanded more.
And he gave her everything. She felt him reach his peak an instant after her, a guttural groan vibrating through his chest and into hers. His hips pressed flush against her, buried to the hilt, and then he was spilling inside her. Hot and thick, liquid warmth flooding her depths, filling her so completely that she swore she could feel every pulse of him. He released in waves, each one triggered by the relentless throbbing of her muscles around him. Her body refused to let go, squeezing and milking him long after he thought he was done, drawing out his pleasure until he gasped against her throat, trembling and helpless.
She felt him coat her inner walls, felt the slick evidence of their joining seep deeper with every involuntary clench of her body. The heat of it spread through her, a second kind of warmth that mingled with the sweat on her skin and the ache in her thighs. Her back arched off the bed, and he buried his face in her neck, and they clung to each other as the wave crashed over them and receded, leaving them breathless and trembling and utterly, completely spent. His release seemed to go on forever, stretched out by the urgent, pulsing grip of her muscles, until they were both left breathless and shaking, tangled together in the aftermath.
It took quite some time to get here. The candle had burned low, and the room was thick with the smell of sweat and skin and something sweeter underneath. But they had never been in a rush. Not tonight. Not ever, really, when they were like this.
Afterward, he collapsed beside her, one arm thrown over her stomach, his face turned toward hers. She smiled, exhausted and glowing, and reached up to brush the damp hair from his forehead.
"Hi," she whispered.
He grinned, soft and shy and very, very happy. "Hi yourself."
She laughed, a quiet, breathless thing, and pulled him closer. The curtains still hid the moonlight, and the world outside the manor did not exist. There was only this. Only him. Only the slowing of their hearts and the warmth spreading through her limbs and the knowledge that there would be more nights like this.
Both of them were sweaty, their skin slick and cooling in the dim room, but she did not care. He smelled like him. That particular scent of frost and cedar and something darker underneath, something that had no name but lived in her memory like a song. It was addicting. She breathed him in deeply, and her own scent mingled with his, clean and warm, like sun dried linen and the faint sweetness of dandelions.
He kissed her forehead. A soft, lingering press of his lips against her damp skin.
She grinned against his arm. He grinned back, his starglitter eyes crinkling at the corners, and for a long moment they simply stayed there, tangled and quiet and perfectly still.
Then he moved to get up.
She whimpered in protest. A small, pitiful sound that she would deny later, her arms tightening around him as if she could anchor him to the bed by sheer will.
He chuckled, low and fond. "Come on, Jean. We cannot fall asleep with the sheets like this." He gestured vaguely at the tangled, damp mess beneath them. "And we smell like sex."
She groaned and buried her face deeper into his chest. "But we smell like us."
He grinned and pressed another kiss to her hair. "And we do not want other people smelling us tomorrow. Imagine Varka's face at the morning briefing."
She pouted, her lower lip pushing out in a way that was thoroughly unbecoming of the heir to the Gunnhildr clan. "Varka’s not a dog. It is not that pungent."
He gave her a look. One eyebrow raised, his expression nothing but amused skepticism.
She sighed dramatically and stuck her arms out toward him, a silent demand.
He laughed and scooped her up effortlessly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist like a koala, clinging to him as he straddled her out of the bed and across the cold stone floor. Her bare breasts pressed against his chest, and she shivered slightly from the sudden absence of blankets, but his cool skin felt like home.
He carried her all the way to the bath.
The small adjoining room was still warm from the heated water they had drawn earlier, a luxury of the Gunnhildr manor that Jean rarely indulged in. The tub was deep and wide, carved from pale stone, and steam rose gently from the surface. He set her down on the edge, and she stood on shaky legs, her muscles pleasantly sore.
He stepped in first, then offered her his hand. She took it and lowered herself into the water, gasping as the heat enveloped her. He sat down, and she immediately flattened herself against his chest, her arms wrapping around his ribs, her cheek pressed to his collarbone.
He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into hers. "Clingy."
She giggled, a breathless, contented sound. "You are comfortable." She nuzzled against him. "And the water is nice and warm."
He held her. His arms came around her back, one hand resting low on her spine, the other cradling the back of her head. They floated together in the heat, the water lapping gently at their skin, washing away the sweat and the evidence of their earlier fervor.
But she was not done being close. She flipped herself over, turning in his arms so that her stomach pressed against his and her face nestled directly into his chest. She laid on top of him completely, her legs parting to straddle his hips, her arms tucked beneath his shoulders. The water sloshed softly around them, and she sighed in pure bliss.
He did not complain. His hands found her back, tracing slow circles over her wet skin, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"Better?" he murmured.
"Much," she said, her voice muffled by his chest, and fell quiet
He reached down between her legs and rinsed away the evidence of their night. His fingers were gentle, thorough, cupping handfuls of warm water and letting it run over her skin until nothing remained but clean, damp flesh. She did not open her eyes. She simply lay against his chest, boneless and trusting, and let him work.
Then he rinsed himself, the same careful movements, the same unhurried attention. The water grew cloudy for a moment, then cleared as he let it drain slightly and refilled with fresh warmth.
He grabbed the bottle of shampoo. The scent of lavender and chamomile filled the steamy air as he poured a generous amount into his palm. Then his fingers were in her hair, massaging her scalp in slow, firm circles, working the suds through her long blonde strands. She melted against him completely, a soft moan escaping her lips. He smiled and continued, taking his time, making sure every inch of her hair was clean.
When he was satisfied, he rinsed her. Tilting her head back, cupping his hand to shield her eyes, letting the water run through her hair until it ran clear. Then he did his own hair, his midnight blue longer than hers, falling past his shoulders in wet ropes. He worked the shampoo through with practiced ease, rinsed, and reached for the conditioner. He applied it to her hair first, combing through the tangles with his fingers, then to his own.
They waited in comfortable silence for the few minutes it needed. She traced idle patterns on his chest. He kissed her temple.
Rinse again. Then body wash. He lathered a soft cloth and ran it over her shoulders, her arms, her back, her stomach, her legs. She sighed at each pass. He did himself quickly, efficiently, and then he pulled the plug.
The water drained away with a soft gurgle. The air felt cooler against their damp skin. He stepped out of the tub first, wrapping a large towel around his waist, then reached for her. She stood on shaky legs, and he dried her with the same gentle thoroughness he had shown all night. Every inch of her. Her arms, her back, the soft curve of her breasts, between her legs, down her calves to her toes.
He wrapped her hair in a smaller towel, twisting it up so the wet strands would not drip down her neck. Then he wrapped his own hair, which required a second towel given its length, and tied it loosely atop his head.
She did not move to dress. She simply stood there, naked and clean and glowing, and stuck her arms out toward him again.
He laughed softly and scooped her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, koala tight, and he carried her back to the bedroom. He stripped away the sheets quickly with one hand. A maid would deal with them tomorrow. There were fresh blankets folded at the foot of the bed that they prepared long before the balcony, predicting what may happen later. He laid her down, pulled the blankets over her, and then crawled in beside her.
Jean immediately stuck to him like glue. She pressed her entire body against his side, threw an arm across his stomach, hooked her leg over his thigh, and buried her face in his neck. She was warm and soft and utterly, completely relaxed.
He loved it. He loved this version of her, the one that only emerged in the quiet hours after intimacy. She was always extra affectionate after. And more vulnerable. She let her guard down in ways she never would during the day, whispering soft confessions, nuzzling against him like a kitten seeking warmth. He loved that she felt safe enough around him to be this way.
But more than that, he felt safer with her wrapped around him like this.
He did not feel safe often. It was not a luxury his life afforded. His background saw to that. The haunted childhood before he came to Mondstadt when he was eight taught him that safety was an illusion. He never talked about that bit of time in his life. Then the blood of Khaenri'ah running through his veins was a secret that could destroy everything he had built. And the job. Kaeya Alberich, Cavalry Captain and Quartermaster of the Knights of Favonius, was definitely at the top of every criminal mastermind's kill list. The number of illegal plans he had ruined, the number of people he had captured over the years, it was a staggering tally. Sometimes he could not even walk the streets of Mondstadt without some idiot attempting to jump him from an alleyway.
He had learned to sleep lightly. To keep a blade within reach at all times. To never fully surrender to rest.
But with Jean? With her weight pressing against his side, her breath warm on his throat, her heartbeat steady against his ribs? He felt safe. Not just his body, though that was part of it. His soul felt safe. The twisted, guilty, scarred thing that lived in his chest, the part of him that still flinched at shadows and waited for the other shoe to drop, rested in her presence. She held it as gently as she held him.
He pressed a kiss to her damp hair and closed his eyes.
"Thank you," he whispered, so softly that he was not sure she heard.
But she tightened her arm around him and murmured, "Always," against his skin.
She felt him slowly go slack against her, the tension he carried even in rest finally bleeding out of his shoulders, his jaw, the furrow between his brows. His breathing deepened, slow and even, and his mismatched eyes stayed closed, the scarred lid peaceful for once. His long hair, still damp beneath the towel, spilled across the pillow like midnight silk.
Jean propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him.
She did this sometimes, when sleep had claimed him first. She watched the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips parted slightly, the way the candlelight softened every sharp edge of his face. Without the eyepatch, without the smirk, without the calculated charm he wielded like a weapon, he looked younger. Not the eight year old boy who had been left at the Dawn Winery, but something close. Something unguarded.
He was at peace at this moment. Truly at peace. She could see it in the slackness of his features, the way his hand had curled loosely against her hip, the way his body had molded itself to hers without reservation. This was a man who rarely slept deeply, who woke at the smallest sound, who kept a dagger beneath his pillow and his secrets closer still. But here, with her, he had let go.
She felt so blessed. The word seemed too small for the enormity of what she felt, but it was the only one that fit. Blessed that he trusted her with his vulnerability. Blessed that he felt safe enough to close his eyes and drift off without guarding his back. Blessed that she could offer him something no one else could.
And she was blessed for another reason too. Because he would always make sure she was safe. Not because she needed him to, she was a knight, she was strong, she had fought beside him a hundred times. But because he chose to. Because beneath the devilish grin and the sharp tongue and the carefully cultivated air of mystery, Kaeya Alberich was fiercely, quietly protective. He would burn the world down if someone threatened her. She knew this the same way she knew the weight of her sword.
They kept each other safe. Not as a debt, not as a duty, but as a promise. Wordless and absolute.
She lowered herself back down, pressing her cheek to his shoulder, and her own eyes grew heavy. The candle guttered in its holder, the last of the wax pooling at the base. The room was warm and quiet and smelled of lavender and sleep. Outside, the wind had died, and even Mondstadt seemed to hold its breath.
Jean smiled against his skin and let her own body surrender to exhaustion. His arm tightened around her reflexively even in sleep, drawing her closer, and she felt the steady beat of his heart against her palm.
They drifted off together, tangled and safe, and the night wrapped around them like a blessing of its own.