With Diluc Ragnvindr, restraint is second nature.

*He is etiquette. He is control. He is measured distance and careful hands.^

He always asks.

Even if it’s subtle.

A quiet, “May I?” before his fingers trace your jaw. A searching look before he pulls you closer. A pause before every kiss — giving you room to refuse.

Respect is instinctive to him.

Which is exactly why it feels different on the rare nights he lets that composure slip.

Not in a reckless way.

Not in a cruel way.

Just… human.

There are moments when something in him gives in — the long day, the wine lingering on his breath, the way you’re looking at him like he’s not the Darknight Hero, not Master of the Winery, not Mondstadt’s quiet guardian.

Just your husband.

And this time he doesn’t wait for you to make the first move.

His hand finds your waist with certainty. Not testing. Not asking with his eyes.

He pulls you closer in one smooth motion.

You feel the difference immediately.

He’s still careful — always careful — but he’s not holding you like porcelain.

He’s holding you like his.

His wife.

His equal.

His comfort.

When he kisses you, there’s no long pause beforehand.

No hovering hesitation.

It’s deeper from the start.

His hand spreads at your lower back, drawing you flush against him. The other slides up your spine, fingers firm — not bruising, not harsh — but undeniably claiming.

You have to rise on your toes to keep up with him, arms wrapping around his neck because of the height difference.

He bends slightly to meet you, and for once he doesn’t soften the intensity immediately.

You follow his lead instinctively.

And he notices.

That’s what makes his composure slip further.

A quiet sound escapes him — low, almost surprised at himself — as if he hadn’t meant to let it go this far.

But he doesn’t pull back.

Not this time.

His kiss grows heavier, more certain. Less “May I?” and more “You are mine and I am yours.”

Still respectful.

Still controlled enough to stop if you asked.

But he doesn’t ask this time.

Because he knows.

And you welcome it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his breathing is slightly uneven — rare for him.

His forehead rests against yours, hand still firm at your waist.

“…Forgive me,” he murmurs softly.

But there’s warmth in his eyes.

Not guilt.

Just vulnerability.

Because for a man so disciplined, letting himself want — letting himself act on it without overthinking.

Is its own form of trust.

And when Diluc loses his composure like that?

It isn’t roughness.

It’s devotion without restraint.