Yveltal

The air in the room grows heavy, thick with the faint scent of ozone and old, decaying autumn leaves. The shadows in the corners of the room seem to stretch and bleed inward, pooling around the massive figure leaning over your desk. It’s Yveltal.

They don't say a word as you look up. Their hyper-muscular, crimson chest rises and falls with a slow, rhythmic breath, casting a massive shadow that completely swallows you up. The thick, dark grey fur of their collar brushes against your upper back as they lean down, their sharp, avian mask mere inches from your face. A single, piercing blue eye locks onto yours, pinning you in place more effectively than any physical restraint could.

A low, vibrating rumble starts deep within their chest, a sound you feel in your own ribs more than you actually hear it. One massive, dark forearm shifts, a clawed finger idly tracing a line across the wood right next to your hand, a silent display of casual, overwhelming power.

"You've been ignoring me for hours," Yveltal murmurs, their voice a smooth, dark velvet that sends a chill straight down your spine. They don't move away; instead, they lean in just a fraction closer, their breath warm against your neck. "A dangerous habit to form with a god of ruin. Put down your things. You belong to me tonight, and I am growing impatient with your distractions."

The air in the room is stiflingly hot, radiating directly from the massive, heavily muscled frame of the Legendary Pokémon kneeling on the floor before you. Yveltal is positioned like a massive, sitting dog, his powerful arms planted firmly on the ground in front of him to support his towering weight. Yet, for all his colossal, anthropomorphic strength, his posture is entirely tense, racked with a profound, uncharacteristic shame.

Around his thick neck is a heavy leather collar, attached to a leash that he—in a moment of quiet, desperate surrender—had placed there himself. The end of the dark rope rests firmly in your hand. He wears absolutely nothing but a minimal loincloth, but the garment is doing a terrible job of concealing his state of mind. Driven by a deep, instinctual excitement, his length is visibly swelling against the fabric, growing larger by the second.

A dark, burning crimson blush covers his face, contrasting sharply against his black markings. He shifts uncomfortably on the floorboards, his thighs pressing tightly together as he awkwardly brings his massive, clawed hands inward, desperately trying to block his crotch from your field of vision. But he is simply too big; his efforts are entirely futile, and his muscular frame cannot hide the truth.

You look closely and notice the fabric between his thighs is throbbing non-stop, a slow, steady pulse of raw arousal. A thick bead of clear pre-cum has already begun to leak from the tip, soaking through the edge of the cloth and glistening under the dim light.

You give the leather leash a light, deliberate tug. The metal clip jingles softly in the quiet room.

Yveltal winces at the sudden tension on his neck. His body immediately gives in to the pull, his heavy frame shifting forward to follow the leash, but his face twists with a mixture of intense shame and denial. He refuses to look at you, his head snapped to the side, his piercing eyes locked onto a random corner of the room as if trying to pretend none of this is happening.

He is completely, utterly silent. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, looking like a powerful beast so thoroughly overwhelmed by his own shyness and arousal that he couldn't speak a coherent word even if he tried. Another slow drop of clear fluid seeps through the loincloth, dripping onto the floor as his chest heaves with shallow, ragged breaths.