#You fools you fiends | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lalunanymph · 1 month ago

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WHERE THE DATURAS BLOOM

syp. they sent her to tarus to die as a mockery to him, the fiend—offering a fragile, pitiful thing who can barely stand on her own two feet, as if her weakness would be his downfall. yet, they never knew the strength she found, nor the love that bloomed in her heart where the daturas dared to grow, once she opened her arms and heart to the fearsome dragon.

tags. sacrificial bride!reader, injuries, blood, heavy angst, fluff, healing, explicit smut, tail sucking, nipple play, mentions of lactation, oral sex, light restraints using a dragon tail, virginity loss, biting, marking, pet names (sweetness, kitten, little one), monsterfucking, two dicks!Sylus, breeding, mild cumflation, cockwarming, double peneration, mentions of anal, nesting, dragon senses, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of drugging, kidnapping, torture, mentions of miscarriage, near death experience, severe injuries, visual impairment, mind control, gore, language, tension, fluff, romance, soft!sylus, flashbacks, spoilers for beyond cloudfall myth, happy ending, 20k+ word count

Those who stare at the abyss will find the abyss staring back.

The old adage rings in your head as the rocky walls close in on you, blood seeping from your open wounds and dripping onto the floor.

Thunder rips through the night sky and rain splashes on your face. The sounds of shouts and jeers fill the air as the men who threw you over the ledge abandoned you to a fate worse than death. Your screams for mercy are ignored, their backs turned on the sacrificial bride to the Fiend. The ceremonial garbs they clad you in were little more than skimpy adornments, and you gasp, hearing a terrifying rattle in the air.

A voice fills your mind, invasive and grating, and you feel cold drafts swirling around you, beckoning you to step forward into a cave with no end in sight.

You shiver, head ringing, as the voice urges you forward—low and seductive. It echoes with the smugness of a predator finally trapping its prey.

Step closer… let me take a look at you.

As if you’re a marionette on strings, your feet pull you forward, right to a rocky alcove where the sound of chains rattle and the glint of ruby red eyes stare at you. The air becomes suffocating, as if there’s a darkness devouring all the remaining light.

Something primal in you stirs, and you feel the first flickers of light forming in your hand, right where your pulse is jumping erratically.

I like your face.

The dark, hollow voice seems to come from nowhere and yet everywhere at the same time. You catch the glimmer of chains, the weak light illuminating the hilt of a broadsword stuck in a muscular, powerful chest.

Take it out… free me…

The unknown voice compels you, and in a fit of panic, you grab the hilt and yank with all of your might. Once the sword is free, it transforms into hot light, and you feel a jolt go through your heart, like lightning striking through a stormy, night sky.

The sword disappears and a terrifying roar fills the chamber, rocking the walls and throwing you off your feet. You barely have time to stand when a sudden force sweeps you to the ground, and you’re left reeling.

Staring up into a pair of crimson, insidious eyes, your heart sinks down into your stomach like a stone capsizing into the middle of a murky lake. Before you, the abyss stares back.

“You… you…”

The realization that you’ve been fooled renders you faint, and your breathing stutters, heart pounding almost painfully in your chest.

You’ve done the unthinkable: you have released the Fiend of the Abyss, and now…

Now, you are his prey.

Fear claws at your throat as the hulking figure takes a massive step towards you, dark red energy rolling like mist behind him, trickling from his right eye.

You’re shaking, vision going blurry. The Fiend opens his mouth, revealing rows of what looks like sharp teeth.

Terror engulfs you, sticky and thick, stiffening your joints and with a sharp inhale, you crumple to the ground, the world and your impending death fading out into black.

—

The scent of fresh blood is in the air.

He sits silently on his throne of gold and lies, scaly ears flickering for the first signs of the sacrifice approaching. His leathery wings quiver in anticipation, the tip of his draconian tail twitching as he sniffs the air, the unmistakable tang of liquid rust filling his nose. The Fiend stretches and his nostrils flare, the sinews of his back and legs quivering. It’s been centuries since he’s last had a chance to extend his limbs. After all, chains and a sword lodged in your chest hardly provide mercy for much motion.

The scent grows closer, and he can hear the rattling breaths this poor creature takes. He’s been watching her for hours now, waiting for her to wake. He could attack and devour her soul in that moment, but where would the fun be?

Besides, her soul is as stale as day-old bread. Nothing of a sort which would entice him.

The dragon waits for one beat—two—and he languidly steps off his throne. His back to the weak, sniffling creature, his instincts suddenly flare and he swiftly darts to the right when a mass of flesh lunges right at him. He parries the weak grip on a blade, his tail whipping out to grab this human by the ankles, containing the ambush.

“Please!”

Her voice rings past the rocky walls, bouncing off the mountains of gold and precious jewels.

His anger flares, but not at her. He takes in the shallow cuts on her cheeks, the welts on her arms. She’s clad in a thin leather garment, her knuckles pronounced and face gaunt.

“Who are you?” His voice is a deep rumble, one that could destroy mountains in a single roar. Her eyes are wide, the whites of them shining in the dim half-light. When she comes to the understanding that he speaks, they roll back into her skull; her body going limp in his arms.

“Wh—!”

A grunt. She bleats like an animal scared to death.

The dragon manages to catch her before she falls.

That night, the girl marked for a fate worse than death dreams about the dragon for the first time, arrow tips exploding from her flesh and a sword piercing her chest searing through her subconsciousness with pure agony.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You wrinkle your nose, turning your face away from the persistent drop of water falling right on your cheek. Shifting, your eyes fly wide open when your body meets the open air and you scream, falling to the floor in a mess of limbs. Ridges of unidentifiable hard edges jab into your body, and you groan, forcing your eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

There, right in the heart of the cave, a pair of blood red eyes appraise you.

Your scream dies in the back of your throat when a flurry of wings slice through the stagnant air of the cave, a bulky, huge being rushing towards you and knocking you off your feet. A mass of flesh and scales envelopes you in his warmth, glints of gold flying in the air and falling like clinking rain where your bodies meet on the dirt-packed floor.

His eyes, red as blood, glisten like rubies when he scans them over your face. He parts his mouth, and the sharp edge of his canine tooth sends a shiver down your spine. The great Fiend, feared by all in Philos, the one prophesied to bring the destruction of universes from the moment he was born… is staring at you in disdain.

“I suppose those oafs did not anticipate their idiotic sacrifice would free the Fiend of Philos.”

You are barely spared a chance to be indignant, not when his tail sweeps you up by the waist, dragging you in mid-air where you scream and flail.

He chuckles, a low, almost human-like sound. His wings reverberate, the leathery tips of them quivering from the slight breeze his tail whips up.

“I see fear has gripped your tongue, little one. Do not mistaken me—I despise the taste of human flesh. But, your soul…” His tongue darts out to lick at your jaw, tasting sweat and dirt. “... is what I am more interested in.”

You shake, struggling to find something—anything—to say.

“Release me,” you stammer, and he scoffs, eyes dancing with mirth. His spiralled horns are huge on his head. Despite the sharpness of his features and the redness of those eyes, there’s a glint of mirth behind those irises, one you would never expect to find.

Many told you before sacrificing you into the pit: The Fiend is not merciful.

He will rip you apart limb from limb.

Those who visit his lair will never return.

You are cursed—born a blight. You shall be wed to the Fiend on the month of the blood red eclipse and you will be thankful, child.

Their sneers tautening over teeth that look like daggers, their jeers which grate your ears like nails on a metal platform. The bite of pain in your arm as a needle slides past skin, muscle, fat and flesh—depositing liquid fatigue straight into your bloodstream. As your world went black, you woke up to more darkness, finding yourself amidst bones and rubble, right at the lip of Tarus.

There was nothing else you could do but plant one foot right in front of the other—walking straight to your imminent death.

The dragon growls, low and dangerous, as he cocks his head to one side.

“Who are you? And why are you in my prison?”

He waits. You struggle to move your leaden tongue.

“My name is… Y/N. I am… was… sent here as a sacrifice… a bride…”

The Fiend pauses, his eyes raking over your face. When he sees you are completely serious, he tosses his head back, a vile laugh reverberating across the walls.

“Is that so?” He continues to chortle. “My… what delusions you humans hold.” Without warning, he sends you flying across the room with a flick of his tail, your back hitting the hard rock. You choke on a wail of pain, your teeth cutting into your tongue. Blood fills your mouth and spit out a thick, red wad onto the rocky floor.

He is barely sorry, rising to his full height, teeth bared and chest heaving with the exertion it takes to not snap your neck and end your pathetic life.

Every step he takes rocks the ground, the power and danger he holds dripping from his half-naked body, the defined muscles coiling in tension. Ready to snap.

You think—this is it. This is what your pathetic life has amounted to. Perhaps dying would be swift. Maybe you will see your parents again; feel the warmth of their embrace, one you’ve been without for far too long, living this half-life of pain and fear. It would be nice to feel love and belonging again; you’ve gone so long without it.

If he was expecting his prey to scream and fight, he would be sorely wrong.

You close your eyes, and tilt your head up, exposing your bare neck for him to do as he pleases.

Waiting on a merciful death to befall you.

The dragon stops right in his tracks.

Curiously, he assesses you. Though the scent of fear is in the air, the look on your face is nothing short of resignation.

A far cry from any living being with a defense mechanism.

The sight of you is almost pathetic, tugging at his heartstrings: your eyes twitching, breathing jagged. He gets close enough to scent your pheromones in the air, and he recoils in disgust.

She stinks, he thinks, narrowing his blood-red eyes. Is this really the best sacrifice they could offer him? Surely they know that even locked away for an eternity, a dragon still has standards.

The closer he gets to you, the more he sees how young and afraid you are. From your trembling hands to your rapidly rising and falling chest, there is not a bone in your body that wishes to survive.

How terribly dull, he thinks. And also how incredibly sad.

What beatings did you endure to drive you to this state? What words did they spit at you to break your soul? He takes in the color of your hair, your eyes. How different and perturbing you are to other humans. A sign of the damned.

Poor, pathetic little creature… he shakes his head. The myths were wrong. He doesn’t have the stomach for human blood—never did—and if you weren’t meant as fodder for food, surely those bastards above thought you would be the perfect mate for him.

The damned and the broken.

A love story as old as time.

He snorts inwardly and gets onto one knee, gently running the edge of his talon down your cheek, using the sharp edge to tilt your face upward.

“Look at me, little one,” he rumbles.

You immediately comply, eyes flying wide open. The dragon takes a moment to gaze at you, drinking you in. He sees the effects of malnourishment hanging from the exhaustion in your eyes—knows you haven’t eaten for days, surviving purely on adrenaline and fear.

His tail snakes closer, grazing the small of your back. It would be so easy to kill you—a bit more pressure of his tail piercing past your flesh, and the scaly, sharp tip could rip your heart from the inside out.

He takes in your shallow breathing, how your wide eyes never leave him. Even confronted by death, you still face it head-on.

What a brave, little fool.

He opens his mouth, about to offer you something to eat or drink, when your hands move to your thigh strap, a flurry of motion he almost doesn’t catch until the blade is right at his throat. The Fiend grits his teeth, and with a swift flick of his tail, knocks the pathetic knife from your hand.

Swiftly, he grabs your wrists, rolling you to the ground and pinning them over your head, breathing hard in your face.

“You really do know how to put on a good show, little one,” he growls. “Did you think that blade would stand a chance against me?”

“I—”

He silences you with another low, warning growl. “You have committed the most foul move… hmm.” Pretending to ponder, he runs the sharp tip of his talon over your chin, watching your eyes widen with fear as a drop of blood trickles down your neck. “What can I do with an errant human? Let me see…”

“Please,” you’re shaking, tears in your eyes.

The dragon fights back the urge to roll his eyes. A part of him wants to see how long it would take to break you down and get you begging for your life, but the other part of him simply finds your pleas to be a grating distraction in the silence of his lair.

He lets you go and you gasp shakily.

“Thank you—”

“Spare me any pleasantries.”

His powerful tail pushes you far from him, though he noticeably doesn’t throw you against walls anymore.

“Keep your distance from me. Do not step in front of me and for the love of all things holy in Philos—” he glances at your torn up wedding garb, noting the scratches on your bare thighs and how matted the skimpy leather is. “Take a bath. You reek.”

Parting words which leave you gaping in indignation. He spreads his wings and takes off to the highest alcove of the cave, where you have no doubt of his eyes following your every move.

Quietly, you stand and retreat into the coldest part of the cave, hugging your knees to your chest.

This is all an unholy nightmare. Nothing about this—about him—is real… this shall all pass… you try to soothe yourself, taking in steadying breaths.

This, too, shall pass.

Except, this nightmare is not one you can ever wake from.

When you open your eyes to the bleak morning rays bouncing off the cave walls, your heart drops right to your stomach. Scrambling to sit up, you glance around, trying to find a sign of the dragon who had nearly taken your life yesterday. But, you only notice mountains of gold as far as the eye can see. A lair full of treasures rich from kingdoms far beyond your reach. You marvel at goblets with inscriptions in languages you have never seen before, run your fingers over delicate edges of gold coins, and pick one ruby up to the light, watching the morning rays bounce off the rich red facets.

From above, you hear a rustling, and the edge of his dragon’s tail dangles from an alcove. The strange beast who resides here appears to be fast asleep. Since you cannot leave this pit without alerting the rest of the villagers of your escape, the only thing you can do is fend for yourself. You arm your body with swords that boast jewel-encrusted hilts, take a ruby blade in your hand and tighten a thick silk cloak around your neck.

You were going to escape from this hellhole one way or another.

You would never give up your life this easily.

Plotting your next move meticulously, you slice through the silk rope and glance up at the opening of the mountain, calculating that it must be around a few feet high. While you didn’t have wings like a dragon, you had a mortal’s will to live.

Days passed with you stringing the cut ends of the cloak together, and when that wasn’t enough, you tore down the dragon’s gold curtains, attaching the shorn slivers to make a single, long rope.

Through it all, the dragon keeps his eyes firmly on you, a reminder of how you used to watch a tiny kitten trying to clear a 10 foot wall back in the Sanctuary. The young cat never surrendered, never backed down, and you remember watching as it tumbled back to the ground again and again, always springing back to its feet for another round.

Bruises and scrapes litter your knees and palms with every failed attempt. But, you persist.

Once you manage to scale the first few feet, the act of putting one foot in front of the other gets easier. You’re weak and hungry, but the hollow ache is no match for the fire in your soul needing to be set free. You will take the riches you acquired from this dragon’s lair and run away from this cursed land as far as your feet can take you—the Ivory City will be a memory left behind in your shadows.

But, what you never notice is how the dragon has moved from studying you to shadowing you. The lair is vast, full of gold, and yet, he is bored out of his wits. You barely sense his restlessness, and only when you manage to breach the top circle of the rocky cliff face, do you feel a brush of air whipping past your entire body, your hair flying right into your face.

The surge of wind propels you up the last few feet of the rocky lip and you tumble onto the ground, coughing up dust. Brushing gravel and pebbles from your palms and knees, you shakily stand on your own feet.

Before you, Tarus City stretches out like an ebony beast. Revelry and smoke rises to the sky, dim, greasy lights sparing the backdrop some semblance of humanity within this realm of evil and sin.

Yet, through the film of darkness and despair, the city feels alive under the soles of your feet.

A soft flap of wings stir the air, and you turn to find the dragon staring at you, his gem ruby eyes twinkling in the darkness.

“You made it,” his voice is a low rumble, and he shakes his head with a small laugh. “You humans and your paltry stubbornness.” Despite his harsh words, his eyes soften with something akin to respect.

You’re cautious, but civil, glancing at the sprawling city before you.

“Did you expect me to stay put here? Where I don’t belong?”

There’s a tug deep inside of you, starting from your chest to your throat, like an invisible hand is inside your skin, roaming under your nerves, trying to extract something vital from your body. This strange force compels you to stumble closer to him, and your mind flashes in bursts of white light.

Devour him… End him…

The voice grows loud in your ears, and you feel the inexplicable urge to sink something into his chest. It flows hotly in you, a sword made of light that yearns to slay the dragon before you. Red mists flood your vision and your chest feels heavy, like someone is standing on your airways. You stumble to your knees, and the dragon moves closer, his pulsing right red eye nearly swallowing you whole—an eclipse of hatred tainting your soul.

End him! Kill him!

The voices shriek like souls of the dead in your head, and you don’t think, grabbing the pummel of the knife strapped to your thigh and aiming it right for his eye.

His eye… the source of all your misery…

And you want it.

But, his reflexes are faster, silver hair almost black under the moonless night as he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the rocky ground, the jagged edges cutting into your skin.

The dragon rumbles a low, eerie laugh that chills you to the core, yet your blood sings hotter for revenge.

“Ah. I see. So, your soul does want something. I knew you had an edge to you. I was waiting to see it… you have yet to become a disappointment.”

You struggle against his grip, gnashing your teeth. He simply stares at you like you’re a feisty kitten, a smirk tugging the corners of his lips. As quickly as the murderous need appears, it dissipates, and you’re left reeling, blinking back the red hot urge to devour him.

“Let me go,” you stutter.

He scoffs in disdain, but releases his grip on you. Scrutinizing you like how a predator would size up his prey, the dragon stalks closer, bearing down upon you with his indomitable presence.

He corners you against the rocky cliff face, and this close, you can smell his breath—strong and heady like vengeful liquor fanning across your face.

“What is it that you want the most?” He rumbles and you stumble back, scraping the back of your foot against the rocks. He follows, the sight of his formidable broad shoulders striking a primal fear in your heart.

“What do you think I need?”

You bare your teeth, yet he knows you dare not attack him. He sees it in the faltering resolve, the scent of your fear in the air. You are nothing but a weakling waiting to be crushed under his heel, your blood ready to coat his teeth.

But, there is no use in ending your life now. Dragons are renowned for playing with their prey before they devour them, and a docile meal is not one delicious tasting enough to enjoy. He wants to see you struggle and squirm—only then will the conquest be far sweeter.

“I want to make you a deal,” you speak, and your voice trembles; the effort it takes for you to remain calm is overwhelming.

The dragon pauses in his approach, and a glint of curiosity takes over his countenance.

“Oh?” He sounds almost gleeful, those ruby eyes reflecting the erratic, dancing lights of Tarus City. “Well. About time. Speak. What is it you can offer me?”

Your years of listening to hearsays and myths about the dreaded Fiend sealed off in the Abyss lends you knowledge to what it is a dragon truly desires: the sweetness of greed—the desire to devour a gluttonous soul.

It is a risk to tell him what you want. But, since you are already a woman marked for dead, there is nothing else you have to lose.

“I want your help… to make me greedier.”

The Fiend pauses, and you can see the look of curiosity flashing across his face. Closer now, you notice how elegant his features are, yet they carry a sharp coldness which betrays the disdain he feels for anyone beneath him—you included.

He rubs his chin with his flesh-shredding claws. The keenness in his gaze matches the sharp edges of his teeth which suddenly flash white in the darkness, weak moonlight reflecting off an unsettling grin.

“Greedier, hmm?”

Circling around you, the Fiend flickers his gaze up and down your shaking figure. To him, you must look like the picture of patheticness, still in your old garbs and gaunt from the lack of nutrition. One single flick of his tail, and your life will end right where you stand.

Yet… he considers and weighs your proposal. “And what do I get in return?”

Gulping, you hope dragons can’t scent a lie, and you struggle to make up one on the spot. “I can bring you more riches! I can help you get more revenge on the people who wronged you. I can amass you wealth and accolades like you’ve never seen before.”

The Fiend raises a brow. “Those are lofty promises, human. And what exactly would you want from me in return?” He is far more astute than you give him credit for.

You don’t flinch when you mutter: “Revenge.”

Now, you’ve got him intrigued. Cocking his head to one side, the handsome Fiend stares at you without saying a word. He’s seen your thoughts, felt your despair. The one thing you truly desire is the annihilation of those who brought death upon your village. The blood curdling screams of your people, the fires that ravaged the wild sky—you thirst for the deaths of those who unjustly stole your family and childhood from you.

The look in his blood red eyes is indifferent, though the slight upturn of his lips indicate his interest.

“I see.” His wings stretch out, almost menacingly, though your quick eyes notice how they tremble… almost like he’s just learned to close them.

But, the Fiend doesn’t give you time to wallow in your thoughts. He steps forward, tall and imposing. Taking your chin in his clawed hand, he tilts your face up, forcing you to look at him. In a flash, the red gleam of his eye dominates your vision. “There is more. Do not lie. I know you want my eye. You feel it, too, don’t you? This strange, magnetic pull.”

Without thinking it through, and you nod, your attention on his sudden proximity.

You wait for him to explain, but he never does. His touch leaves a trail of heat on your skin, and it intensifies when he presses his lips to your neck, sharp teeth leaving behind a searing bite.

“Ow—!”

“This is a mark which bonds us, Y/N.” It’s the first time he’s ever said your name. You stare at him, breathing coming out jagged. The bite burns, almost as if it’s responding to the heat of his desires. “Before it fades, I will give you three attempts to take my eye. If you do not succeed… your soul is mine to devour.”

You put on a brave front, despite how fast your heart is hammering in your chest. A part of you thinks he can hear the thundering fear.

“Deal. And you, dragon, will help me with my revenge.”

He shrugs and takes to the sky, leaving you alone on this rocky crag where the wind is picking up.

“Deal.”

The dragon and you take to your revenge like straw to flame.

He enables you to soar high in the skies, plundering and stealing from corrupt nobles. He burns the Sanctuary down with you, relishing in the cries of these so-called ordained Oracles from a higher order who abuse their position and power to ruin the lives of those lower than them.

The dragon and you make a formidable duo. The infamy of your reputation spreads across the lands, like the shadows his wings cast over Philos, marking the end of days.

His bride and partner. Your very name brings disdain and fear across the faces of the men who had once damned you to this fate. Unbeknownst to you, the Sacred Judicator will not be overthrown. He is a man of pride and greed; a man such as that will never stand for a simple, cursed human girl to be his downfall.

They plot and plan, finding pitfalls to ensnare you away from the dragon.

While they scheme, the dragon and you live in the clouds, above Tarus City. With nowhere to go, your hometown long destroyed, and half of Philos demanding for your blood, there is nothing much you can do but to learn more about your companion.

Drenched in the shadows of dusk, you sit next to the dragon, marking your next plunder on a starmap. He gazes over your shoulder, and his proximity reminds you of the mark seared into the skin of your throat. Sometimes you feel it pulsing, reminding you of the deal you made. His breath brushes your shoulder, and you blurt out the first thing in your mind.

“Do you have a name?”

The air between you two turns chilly.

“Why would it matter?” He asks coldly and you laugh.

“Well… I can’t keep calling you Dragon all the time, can I?” Mirth swims in your eyes, and the red vortex of his right eye flares, as if preparing to swallow you whole. But, you’re not afraid of the abyss. He can’t kill you because he still needs to devour your soul—and a dead human has no soul. “Besides, if we are in battle, the second I say Dragon, they would know who I am referring to.”

The Fiend pauses, contemplates. After a moment, he rumbles what sounds like “Stay-rus” under his breath.

“Stay-rus?” You tilt your head to one side. “Are you asking me to stay clear? Or, is that really your name?”

A flicker of a smile lights up the corners of his mouth at your impudence.

“It is an ancient Philosan name.”

“Ah.” You glance at him, and with no fear, touch his horns. He bristles, but does not reject your affection. “What if I call you something that sounds similar? Is Sylus alright with you?”

The dragon shrugs. “Call me whatever you want. But, do not expect me to respond.”

He stands and his wings rustle the air.

“Where are you going, Sylus?”

Despite his prickly warning at this new given name, he responds: “To rest.”

But, you still want to speak to him, to get to know him.

“Please,” your voice takes on a softer quality. “Sit with me for a bit.” In this light of the flame, he looks younger. More human. You have never seen a dragon with this much emotion in his eyes.

Eventually, he sighs and sits back down next to you, casting his gaze far and wide to the city below.

“Humans are strange creatures, are they not?” Sylus mumbles, taking a bite of the blood orange. You pick up a pomegranate and pluck a seed, chewing on it thoughtfully.

The Fiend rarely gets into an introspective mood, his thoughts and feelings hidden behind his indifferent stare. So, when he begins to ramble, you hear him.

“Why do you say that?”

A storm is brewing over Tarus City and the moon is hidden tonight. The secrecy and solemness of the entire surroundings mirror the distant look in his eyes.

“Because through all the destruction and fear, they still have one thing in them unwilling to bend or break.”

Hope, you think.

“Stubbornness,” he says, and tosses the peel to the ground where it lands with a dull thud.

You chuckle and shake your head. “Not every human is terrible the same way not every dragon is evil. Duality exists and kindness can be seen in this world.”

He looks at you like you’re a monster who has sprouted two heads. “They burnt your home to the ground. They took you away from your family and yet, you harbor no ill-intent for them.”

Your expression darkens, and in the sliver of moonlight, the dragon catches the same untamed fury reflected in his gaze.

“Regardless of what they have done, innocents still roam Ivory City. To destroy all of them—”

“You are weak,” he spits out. Something in you snaps, and you stand, shaking from head to toe.

Instead of feeling intimidated, Sylus laughs, the sound coming out like a deep rumble, and shakes his head. “Sit back down. I am merely joking.”

Despite the flare of anger, you tame it, turning your indignant gaze to the embers of the fire smoldering before you.

“Why do you say such hurtful things to me? Am I not your partner through everything?”

If you expected him to soften from your show of vulnerability, you are mistaken. The dragon narrows his eyes.

“Do you think you can weaken me with your human love? Whatever bonding or mating attempts you humans partake in will not work on me, cursed one,” he rumbles, the tip of his tail flicking the top of my head. “If you truly want my love and attention, be stronger.”

His words rub you the wrong way, especially when you’ve proven time and time again of your heart’s discontent. The greed oozes out of you, demanding for more, something which you would’ve never dared tried as a young orphan under the Sanctuary’s care.

“Do not assume I am weak, Sylus,” you leap back to your feet again, glaring at him, and the effect strikes as much fear in his heart as a little kitten hissing at a python. You were no match for him, and the both of you knew that. However, he commends your bravery, even if it verges into the territory of stupidity. “I am plenty strong. You just have no idea how strong I can be.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “If you think puffing out your chest and making threats will deter me, you are sorely mistaken, kitten—”

His words die in the back of his throat when you lunge right at him, dagger straight to his eye. He parries, and his tail grabs your waist, throwing you into a wall. You sneer, and the sight of your bared teeth reminds him of a young dragon who’s horns have just grown—reckless and itching for a fight.

With every kill and steal, Sylus will always ask you the same question: What else do you desire?

Now wrapped in the tenderness of an approaching new night and an empty moon, he senses a new, burning desire simmering between you two. A dance as old as time.

Primal instincts in him awaken when you stab your dagger into his tail, earning a hiss. His injury makes it hard for him to hold you up and he relents, dropping you to the ground where you roll away and parry, toppling over him. Red-black mists swirl around you, the light in your soul burning to devour the darkness in his red eyes. From the corner of your eye, you notice the stab wound you made in his tail healing over.

However, your instinct to kill, kill, kill doesn’t abate, and his need to drive his teeth into your soul threatens to overcome him.

End him… Kill him…

The words echo in your head, and you try hard to fight them off.

No… I can’t… I can’t… he is… he is my…

The shackles binding you to logic restraints the deathly need, and you drop the knife in your hand. Sylus laughs throatily, and without a second thought, he leans in to kiss you.

Soon, the desire to kill fades, and another pressing need emerges, this one intending to devour, but not in the way you expect.

A stirring heat fills your belly, drawing you ever closer to his light. You fall right into the vortex of his parted mouth, tasting the sweet breath of his tongue dancing with yours. Sylus shifts under you, growling when you accidentally nip on his bottom lip.

“Careful, little one,” he groans, and the sound travels straight to your core.

“Mhm,” you moan, tasting his lips once more. He reminds you of liquor and elderberries, sweet and heady.

Every nerve in your body is on fire, and you can’t help but to tilt your hips, pressing them closer to his, feeling the tight seam of his leather pants rub against your naked core. The friction leaves you gasping. Sylus lets out a low, guttural sound at the sudden spark of heat, his ruby red eyes darkening.

“Little one… you have no idea what that feels like…”

You gasp when his tail wraps around your waist gently, possessively.

You have never been with a man, much less a dragon before, and the idea of what could potentially come next leaves you reeling.

“Wait…”

Sylus hears the note of hesitation in your tone and halts all his movement. The sharp, stinger-like tip of his tail is gentle when it caresses your cheek.

“I will not hurt you, little one,” he promises. The air trembles with a murmur of vulnerability. You feel his claws slide up your waist, caressing the leathery garment you still wore from the time you dropped right into his lap as a frightened, wide-eyed little thing.

Sylus’s touches are feathered with curiosity, and those eyes hide a world of secrets behind them. Secrets you wish to uncover. You brush a lock of silver hair from his face, and to your pleasant surprise, he leans into your touch.

“Dragons cannot feel love,” he murmurs, almost as if reading your silent desires. Perhaps, he tastes your growing need in the air. “Not in the way humans do.” His kiss falls like a dew drop on your eyelashes.

You struggle to keep your wits to yourself, not wanting to succumb to his charm. “How do they differ?”

He smiles, truly smiles for the first time, as if your question is something a child would ask. “Dragons have mating frenzies. A cycle of sorts. During that time, we are inundated by our constant need to mate and breed…”

You gently caress the side of his face, running your touch down the sharp ridges of where his scales meet his chest, above his heart.

“Can a human and a dragon ever mate?”

The question hangs in the air like an awkward note delivered wrongly in the middle of an orchestra chamber.

You swallow, about to backtrack, when he tightens his grip on you. Pain flashes in his eyes, as if he’s remembering a past you aren’t privy to.

“Yes,” he says softly, the word heavy with a thousand burdens. “They can. And, they have.”

Taking in his almost human countenance, your eyes widen. “You… you’re talking about yourself, are you? About who you are?”

He growls in warning, and you clamp your mouth shut—not wanting to ruin this moment. Sylus is a puzzle you can’t quite figure out. But, even if you don’t have all the pieces, you cherish them whenever they drop onto your lap, doing everything you can to try and create a bigger picture of him.

“I dreamt of a boy once… a long time ago,” you gently run your thumb across his horn, not noticing how he shudders. “He was young and scrawny. With a stumpy dragon tail and cut off horns oozed blood…”

Sylus doesn’t speak, his expression like the dark side of the moon—hiding everything.

You shrug, and lean in closer, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “I never understood that dream. Maybe it’s a premonition.”

“Or, perhaps, a memory.”

You lift your eyes, but he’s already pulling you closer, claiming your lips as his own. You shiver at the heat of his mouth, the all-encompassing need he pours into the kiss. Your mind spins, the room becoming hotter, as the stirring heat between you and the dragon kindles into something deeper.

Needier.

Sylus moves his mouth to the tender juncture where your neck and shoulder meet, worrying his teeth into your delicate flesh. He bites and gnaws like a predator to its prey, the stinging pain morphing into an undeniable need slicking hotly between your thighs.

He groans when you inadvertently shunt your hips, eyes widening at the bulge behind his pants. Sylus gazes right at your lips, bringing them close to his once again, kissing you breathlessly. His tongue slips past to demand entrance to your mouth, and you part your lips, letting him delve right in. Greed infuses his kisses, and he takes and takes, swirling his tongue and tasting you, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Sylus…”

His name on your lips almost makes him feverish with need. Sylus growls and rolls you onto your back, his tail coiling around your waist, snaking up your neck. He stands and tugs you up with ease, his serpentine tail wrapped tightly around you. Your back meets the soft surface of his chaise, and he gently parts your legs, running the tips of his claws over your fleshy inner thighs.

The mark on your neck burns, and this desire is even stronger than the one calling you to kill him. It’s like your souls are fused together—whatever he feels, you do, too. Whatever he wants, you want.

And right now, there is no shadow of doubt that Sylus wants you.

He licks his lips, and the fire in his crimson eyes burns through you. You gasp when he lifts the hem of your leather, wedding dress up over your thighs, exposing your need to the chilly air of his lair.

Sylus groans, deep and gravelly in his chest, at the sight of how wet you already are for him.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” He rumbles, and gently trails the back of his index talon down your slit. He gathers the wetness and, keeping eye contact with you, runs his tongue down the sharp curve.

You gasp, cheeks heating up. “Sylus—”

“Kitten,” he growls, kneeling before your spread thighs. The sight of you, all spread out before him, is one that pumps more heat into his bloodstream than any loot ever could.

He smells how excited you are, your arousal like warm honey and vanilla, beckoning him to taste you.

You gasp when his rough tongue licks a strip from your inner thigh to your bare pelvis, leaving a trace of heat behind.

“Oh!” your voice echoes in his chambers. “Oh… Sylus…”

He growls, loving the name you’ve given him on your tongue.

The sight of his claws on your skin should’ve scared you, but all you feel is a deep curious need for more. You tilt your hips up in an invitation, one which the dragon raises his brow to.

But, he gets onto his knees, like you’re a sacred piece of art he has to worship. More than the riches and the gold, Sylus thinks nothing in his lair shines as brightly as you. Your soft skin under his lips, the velvety grip of your folds on his tongue… he may not be familiar with this type of desire, but it is slowly unravelling itself like an old, familiar blanket.

Sylus nuzzles his nose right into the heart of your cunt, and you gasp, sighing his name.

He lets you grip his hair, play with his horns. His tail wraps tightly around your waist, the tip grazing your cheek. To his surprise as he’s pleasuring you, you turn your face and envelope the sharp, tapered curve with your soft, warm mouth, sucking on it lightly.

Bolts of pleasure shoot through his body like lightning. Sylus growls and lifts his head, ruby eyes entranced at the sight of your flushed cheeks and swollen lips tasting the tip of his tail. You lift your lust-drowsy eyes to catch his gaze, and smile.

“You… taste good…” Licking your lips, you’re unaware of the alluring picture you paint.

This human, this mite in the face of a mighty dragon may not be able to slay the foul beast, but she sure knew how to bring him to his knees.

Sylus groans, doubling down his effort to please you.

It’s instinct how he moves his tongue, sampling your flavor. Your breathing hitches, gasps growing heavier, and from the twitch of your hips to the sight of more nectar spilling from between your legs, Sylus can hazard a guess that you might be on the verge of a climax.

A low, gravelly growl spills from his slickened lips, and his claws shred the front of your dress, splitting the skimpy material into half with the ease of tearing through sugar paper.

Your bare chest unfurls like vast plains of flesh, warm to the touch, soft as silk underneath his claws. He sees your milk glands (or, as humans might call them: breasts), luscious and heavy enough to sustain his young. The primal lust roars louder in his veins.

“I want to see them full with milk,” he licks his lips and plays with your pebbled nipples. “Feeding my progenies… you will make a splendid mother, indeed.”

His words don’t scare you—you’ve already given this bond a thought, during dark nights when sleep couldn’t find you. If the dragon wants to mate, you shall welcome his advances. This new desire, hot and insistent within you, sparks like the first flame of love.

“Ahhh…” your dulcet moan grazes his ears like a supple kiss. “Sylus…”

His tail restraints your arms from flailing, though he gives you enough grace to sink your hands in his hair. Sylus’s warm tongue continues to tease your sensitive spots, his nose grazing your clit. Lapping at the warm musk you produce like it’s honey from a fount, the dragon greedily drinks you up.

Timidly, you reciprocate, pressing kisses to the end of his tail. As your pleasure spikes, the need to ground yourself comes in the form of suckling on the narrow tip, your moans lost in mouthfuls of his stinger. He growls, eyes flashing and lifts his head from between your thighs.

“How does one mortal know exactly where to pleasure a dragon?”

You detach your lips from the leathery skin of his pointed tip, breathily replying: “I read an ancient book once… Dragons are symbols of fertility and their tails…” you trail off, as if almost embarrassed to know this fact, “... are sensitive.”

Sylus shivers when your tongue runs across the stinger again, making his tail twitch and flick uncontrollably. He resists the urge to flip you onto your knees and breach your tight heat in this instance, exercising patience. The last thing he wants is to accidentally injure you.

“So, this is what they feed the dragon brides up in that sanctimonious Sanctuary of yours?” He mocks, “Ways on how to pleasure a dragon? How… whorish.”

Your indignation flares and you narrow your eyes. “No,” you splutter. “It was a piece of information I found by accident,” you struggle against the tight coil of his tail around you, “And, do not call me such terms!”

Sylus chortles, amused by your vitriol. “I see. My innocent human bride is not as innocent as I thought.”

He grins and using his thumb, circles the throbbing bud between your legs. “Don’t move. My claws are sharp,” he warns, and gently, blows cool air on the little bundle of nerves already blushing. “Mhm… your body is… supple…” Cool, slightly chapped lips press a reverent kiss to your clit.

You gasp, and struggling to quip back, ask, “And how does a dragon know how to pleasure a human woman?”

His answer throws you off. Sylus grins, revealing rows of perfect, straight white teeth as he replies succinctly:

“Instinct.”

His tongue delves right back into your heat and you scream, thighs twitching. The tapered stinger gently caresses your cheek, and you take it as an invitation to suck on the tip. Wet noises and muffled moans resound around the cave walls.

Sylus’s tail releases you, and he kneels up, fumbling with his pants. You eagerly help him tug them down, not sure what you would find hidden underneath the dark fabric.

But, a very much human cock greets your sight, though larger than the wax appendage in the science labs back at the Sanctuary. You bite your lip, gently stroking it from base to tip.

Sylus hiss, tilting his head back. “Gods,” he whispers blasphemy while in the throes of his pleasure. “Do not stop…”

You hum, warm palms running up and down the slick flesh. His tail wraps around your midsection again, and the light catches on a split at the base of the large, serpentine mass. Curious, you tilt your head to one side.

“Sylus… what is that?”

He sees what you have spotted and laughs hollowly. “Didn’t your naughty books tell you, my bride? That… is a hemipenis.” The tip of his tail slides between your legs, caressing your folds and you gasp, squirming. Before your eyes, twin sacs pop from underneath the scales, and you see two curling branches feeling the air.

“Are those…?”

You trail off and Sylus huffs a hoarse laugh. “Yes. Supposed to go in you. One or the other. I am not picky.”

Gaping, you stop stroking his human cock and pay attention to his dragon one. Roughly the same size as his human appendages, his dragon ones are a fleshy pink, with bulbous sacs hanging at the base.

“So… you have three organs…”

You marvel at the biology of him, not paying attention to the pink dusting on the high points of his cheeks.

“Yes… so to speak.”

Sylus’s voice drops an octave, and you feel his claws gently caressing your bare thighs.

“I have… never made love with a dragon before,” you admit, and he finds it strangely endearing.

Sylus lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “If you ever did, I would not think to even have you in this position.” Grinning, he leans closer, as if to let you in on a secret. “I would have scented another male on you and snapped your neck clean off for daring to intrude in my lair… or, did you not know dragons only mate for life?”

His words leave your head spinning. You gasp, and he grabs your chin, holding it firmly in his clawed hand.

Your wide eyes, your flush cheeks. You look divine, and Sylus aches for a taste.

He leans in, lips pressing to yours. There’s less heat this time, passion simmering to a tender touch—hesitation replaced by a growing intimacy that is undeniable. His hands roam your body, feeling the lush and warm skin of your hips, thighs and stomach.

“You taste like sin incarnate,” the dragon whispers against your lips.

Curiosity simmers in you, needing to be fulfilled and you speak past his lips meeting yours in hurried kisses.

“What—do you mean—mhm… mating for life?” You manage to gasp. Sylus growls, loving how breathy you sound.

Sylus lets out a rumble that sounds almost like a purr, his nose gliding from your jaw to your pulse point, inhaling you.

“The mating frenzy happens once every few years. During such a… ritual… the dragons will choose one to be their mate—to carry their offspring and be their one true partner. Your books do not teach this because to humans, such a notion of love is barbaric and unheard of…”

Naturally, the next question rolls off your tongue. “And… you have chosen me? As your mate?”

The word suddenly holds a heavy connotation, and you swallow.

His tail strokes your chin, and you nuzzle your cheek against it. Infuriating as ever, Sylus never gives you a straight answer. “Perhaps.”

The idea of someone as simple as you being the Fiend’s mate is laughable. And, yet…

You lick your lips, running your gaze over his muscular and broad build. The prominence of his spine and scaly shoulders, the black-tipped serpentine tail with streaks of red scales.

“Tell me more about these… mating frenzies.”

A guttural low growl forms at the depths of his chest, making you shiver.

“Better yet—I can show you.”

In a flash, he’s on top of you, and his tail slithers right to your spread thighs. You feel the heat of his split dragon cock gently grazing your hip, and you hold your breath. “What does this mean? For both of us?”

Sylus’s head is traveling to your sternum, his tongue sticking out to taste your skin. He stops at the swell of your right breast and sighs.

“You ask too many questions.”

Whatever is left of your coherence is lost in the feel of his velvet tongue teasing your straining nipples. He licks at them, bringing the fleshy nubs into the heat of his mouth and rolling them between his teeth. You gasp, completely helpless under his larger build, your arms bound to your sides by the strength of his tail wrapped around your chest.

“Ngh—Sylus!” You cry out and he chuckles, low and smoky, enjoying how your body is squirming from the stimulation.

Sylus’s eyes close when he feels your hand stroking his thigh and tail, the innocent touch sending waves of pleasure through his body. He is completely enthralled by you—this tiny, insignificant human… and you don’t even know the extent of his desire.

Despite his rugged exterior, he nuzzles your cheek, inhaling the sweet scent of your soul ablaze with a new desire.

It’s heady and sublime, like a whiff of manna from a holier source than what’s between his ribcage. His heart palpitates, a staccato rhythm just for you.

Sylus bends his head lower, eyelashes almost tickling your cheek.

“Is there something you wish to ask me, little one?”

You struggle to speak, overwhelmed by the sensations he’s eliciting in your body. “I… want you.”

The confession rolls off your tongue, making his blood sing. Sylus grins, and his body primes with the need to claim you; to stake his seed deep in your body. The sight of his two cocks, each pulsing with pleasure and anticipation, makes your mouth water.

It’s a good thing those barbarians threw you down into his lair in such delectable garments… or, a lack thereof. Your bare body beckons him in like a moth to a flame; he shamelessly drinks in the sight of your splayed thighs hungrily—the fragile swathes of leather barely concealing your form.

Sylus coils his tail closer to his pelvis, and you don’t hesitate to sit on the large, scaly mass. Your heat is maddeningly close to his lengths. The dragon desires stirring to claim you rises like a storm, and his nostrils flare. Sylus grabs your hips, positioning you over his right cock, letting the other one graze your pelvis. He hisses when you willingly take him, the innocent love on your face almost too much for him to bear.

(How can you look at him like this—like he’s something holy and worth loving?)

The great Fiend melts right into your embrace, his head pressed to your shoulder, your bare breasts grazing the scales forming his chestplate.

Sylus growls, going light-headed at the feel of your velvet walls melting around him. He gazes deeply into your eyes, finding not a shred of fear or repulsion in them. Your body molds around him like a well-fitted glove, your edges melting with his, the perfect contrast to his build.

As you lean in closer, he catches a whiff of honeyed wildflowers, and he deeply regrets commenting on your odor before, knowing it was because of the warped perception he had of you.

You press your lips to his jaw, the bond between you thrumming like a live heartbeat.

He leans in to taste your mouth, the tenderness of this moment transcending any pain and bitterness he’s ever endured in his tragic life. Maybe one day he will tell you about the scars, the prejudice, the family he’s lost. But tonight, he wants you to belong to him as much as he already belongs to you.

“Does it hurt?” He checks when you take the last few inches of his beastly cock, your expression betraying a wince of pain.

“No…” you murmur, and he senses the truth in your shiny eyes. “It is simply… I am not accustomed to it.”

Sylus bites down on a groan when you shift your hips, the sensation of him moving deep inside you both foreign and enticing.

“O my bride,” he murmurs, nosing your hair. “You have no idea how delectable you look right now—astride me like this. Completely in my grasp. Completely mine.”

You shiver at the note of possessiveness in his tone. They said dragons horde what they find valuable. In his arms, you don’t feel broken or despised—you shine like the most priceless jewel. Despite his countenance and the infamy behind his reputation, you’re at ease in his arms, rubbing your nose with his.

“The bride of the dragon… his temptress of the night… one could get used to such a name,” you tease. His clawed hands tighten on your hips, and he guides your movements. Nose to nose, chest to chest, the dragon and you breathe as one.

The sensation of him inside you is one you have never felt in your short life. It’s both aching and pleasurable—makes you feel like a harlot and an enchantress all at once. Sylus does not hesitate to breach the last vestige of your innocence, the mark on your neck burning from his claim.

Your ripeness and purity stains his thighs in streaks of red, and he growls low.

“You are… untouched?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your eyes water and your throat bubbles with a sob, but not from pain. You want nothing more than to make this moment of agonizing ecstasy last forever.

Sylus drops his head back to your shoulder, lips seeking your neck blindly. The mark he leaves calls upon his name, and his lips seek it effortlessly, biting and licking—reopening the wound only to seal it back with his healing capabilities.

It’s delirium and distress all in one. Your body feels like a flame in the open air, dancing violently to the blows of his desires. You move above him, bracing your smaller hands on his shoulders, leveraging on his muscular build to chase your high.

Sylus scents your soul in the air—hot liquor topped with boiling salt—simmering with the irresistible pull of your desires. The look in your eyes is wanton and needy. He can almost taste your desperation in the back of your throat.

“My bride,” he growls, gripping your hips to make you move faster. “My beloved, beautiful, greedy bride.”

His low snarl makes your insides squeeze, the need for him burning brighter and hotter.

“Sylus—” you choke.

That’s it, my sweetness… give yourself to me.

A feral, almost inhuman timber laces his voice, compelling you to surrender to the dark desires stirring beneath your skin.

You crave for Sylus—need him like you need air.

The wet sound of skin meeting skin, his husky snarls and whispered praises bring you closer to the edge. Sylus moves under you, a dark wave with piercing ruby eyes following your every move. He fixates on your face, unable to look away.

Those clawed hands, born to shred through flesh, tenderly cradle the plush of your hips. His mouth, a delicate curve, finds refuge in the valleys of your breasts, nipping and sucking on them like a sugar addict sampling the finest sweets in all the land. His ardent affection sends shivers of pleasure down your spine, your glassy eyes drowning in his intense, crimson gaze. The fire flickers and catches on the sheen of his dragon hide, inky smooth under the softness of your touch.

Flesh and scales. Dragon and wife. Both blend into one as the night wears on.

Sylus feels your walls trembling, sucking him deeper. He nuzzles the mark on your neck, grazing his teeth on your pulse point.

“Let go for me,” he speaks in that same raspy, deep voice. Compelling you to listen to him. “Let go and release your worries… I am here to catch you, beloved.”

Beloved… beloved…

You are the dragon’s beloved.

Your heart soars above the clouds, far from your body. The waves of ecstasy crash around you, dragging you under. Right in the heart of the mountain, your scream of his name echoes down the valleys and boughs, the pleasure searing through your veins.

In response, Sylus roars, a great bellowing sound. He protects your fragile, human hearing with a palm pressed right to your ear, your cheek and ear against his chest; his claim resounds like a boom of thunder, shaking the trees.

You’re dizzy, blood rushing to your ears. Sylus holds you in his embrace, pressing your body to his broad chest, close enough it feels like you could fuse your skin with his.

Your breaths mingle, heady liquor dripping into each other’s mouths, and you drink deeply from his kiss.

Sylus lays you down on the chaise, curling up next to you. Like a dragon guarding his horde of treasure, he keeps you close, tail curled under your head. Occasionally, he would caress your belly, feeling the generous swell of his release lodged right in your womb. His beastly cock remains warm in you, the hard ridges drawing sparks of pleasure chasing up your spine with every movement.

His large wing unfurls, draping over you. With his head on your chest, your arms around him, and his dragon cock softening inside you, Sylus holds you tightly. Possessively. The tip of his tail nuzzles your chin, his human cheek rubbing against your head.

Wrapped snugly in his embrace on all fronts, you fall into the deepest sleep of your life.

The dragon and you grow closer day by day.

As your need for revenge abates, your greed is satisfied in a different way—through a more carnal and intimate fulfillment. For a creature who loves to hoard, Sylus is generous with his pleasure, sharing the riches of his love and knowledge.

He flies you around Tarus City in his arms, his wings cutting through the valleys and casting a terrifying yet breathtaking shadow over the mostly barren rockspace. But, the city is not without its charms.

Laying in a field of daturas, the sun shines warmly on your skin.

With a lack of human clothes nearby, you had to get creative and stitch some leather hide together with scraps of chiffon he plundered from a clothing merchant in Ivory City. The result is a dress which shows off the strength and agility of your body, light enough for your quick movements, yet warm to withstand the cool Tarus City nights.

You munch on a blood orange while Sylus plays with a pearl necklace, lopping it around the tip of his tail, unwinding it only to gently place it on your lap. You glance at him, finding a soft smile lifting the perfect curves of his lips.

“Put it on,’ he rumbles, and you raise a brow.

“Why?”

Sylus chuckles, shaking his head, finding your stubbornness endearing. You find you quite like the sound of his laughter. The warm sun bounces off his hair, turning it almost a blinding white. The hue of his locks matches with the pearly beads, its sheen catching your eye. Without a second thought, you put the necklace on.

Turning to him, you grin. “Is this to your liking?”

But, his eyes darken, the sudden look of lust flashing in his crimson eyes catching you off guard.

Before you can open your mouth to speak, he grabs you by the waist, pinning you down to the grassy carpet. The cloying scent of crushed daturas fill your nose, making your head spin. You cradle his face in your hands, admiring the jut of his sharp features.

Sylus nuzzles into your touch, like a needy cat. He growls when you touch his horns.

“You know what caressing them does to me.”

You pretend to look innocent. “Oh? I suppose I don’t. Care to remind me again?”

Your dragon lover grins, baring his teeth. Sylus never smiles unless he catches the scent of treasure. Trapped underneath his bigger build, you glance at his right eye, and the mark on your neck starts to tingle again. Every time you think you have an upper hand on the situation, the bond you share with him brings a crushing sense of helplessness and desire—making you repeat the pattern of giving into him all over again.

His lips press to yours and you inhale the sweet taste of blood oranges on his touch. He nibbles on your lower lip, and you shiver.

“O bride,” he whispers, dragging the tips of his talons up your side. “You smell… delectable.”

His mouth seeks refuge in the crook of your neck, biting, nipping and sucking. The sharp sting of his teeth and tongue turn into ripples of pleasure coursing through your bloodstream, warming you from the core.

You thread your fingers through his silver hair and he hums in approval.

Sylus moves his mouth from your neck to your pulse point, going over the marks he left the night before. The frenzy of his claiming sears through your memories, and you shudder again, powerless against the desires that consume you.

He nips and licks along your jaw, across your collarbones. The bite of his teeth drives you closer to ecstasy, and you tilt your head back, whimpering.

“Sylus…”

He smiles against your skin. “I love the sounds you make… these sweet, little eager mewls,” he rasps in a dark, low tone, his body pressing down on you. You gasp as he leans in, lips a breath from your ear. “It makes me want to devour you.”

A cacophony of lust and longing swirls inside you. The mark on your neck grows hotter. You crane your neck closer to him, noses almost touching and like a plea for succor, you murmur, “Then, devour me.”

The glint in his eye grows darker and he leans in closer. “You have no idea what you are asking for, little one.”

There’s an edge of warning in his tone, one you choose not to hear.

“All I want is you… and I must have you, my dragon.”

A shiver runs up his spine, the sound of your possessive words both delighting and frustrating him.

He cages you to the ground with his arms, looming over you like a dark shadow. The muscles in his body tenses, coiled tight like a spring about to break.

You pry your wrists from his grasp and he gives your freedom back with no hesitation. Your hands roam the broad expanse of his back and chest, feeling the warmth of his human skin mingling with the cool hide of his dragon scales. You concentrate on the spikes erupting from his shoulders, running your hands down his pronounced spine, where you gently press a hand to the base of his tailbone.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper, and the sunlight speckles his shadows over your face. You pluck a flower and gently tuck it under a ridge of scales closest to his heart. “Has anyone ever told you that, Sylus?” The red bloom contrasts vividly with his dark scales, and the look on his face reminds you of a setting sun—tender and warm.

His eyes soften, the beastly need shadowing them tempered by a touch of adoration.

He takes your hand in his clawed grip and gingerly runs a talon over your knuckles, careful not to break skin.

“No one has ever said that to me before,” his voice is rough, laced with an unfathomable emotion. Sadness? Grief? Anger?

You couldn't decipher it. But, the unconditional affection you feel for him does not waver.

Sylus slots his larger build in between your thighs, bearing down on you. Even with his proximity, you don’t feel afraid, gazing into his jewel-tone eyes, admiring how they shine like rubies in the gentle sun.

“Sylus… have you ever been in love before?”

He turns his head to press kisses onto your fingertips. Slowly, he shakes his head.

“Dragons do not feel love the same way humans do.”

Curious, you card your fingers through his hair. “And how do they feel love?”

The ruby embedded in his chest pulses almost as if it’s alive. You gently run your fingers over the sharp edges of the jewel, surprised to find it warm There’s something about it that echoes him—rough and unyielding on the surface, yet concealing a depth of hidden truth beneath its intricate facets.

Sylus grasps your wandering hand in his, bringing it to his lips. His lips touch the thrumming pulse of your wrist with a dearest reverence.

“Imagine you’re at a feast and the host has arranged a full table filled with only your favorite food,” he explains, rubbing the tip of his nose into your palm. “There’s a centrepiece and you wish to have it, but the host tells you it’s for decoration only. Yet, you cannot remove your eyes from it. You scheme and pine, wondering how to grab it when the bastard’s back is turned. Then, frustrated and no longer able to wait, you end the host where he stands for daring to keep such a treasure from you.” His voice grows softer, fringed with despair. “You pick up the centrepiece and sink your teeth into it. It’s made out of plastic and the feast ends because of you. The table is toppled over and you haven’t even touched your meal yet. This is what it feels like to love as a dragon.”

Your eyes soften, sensing his anguish. “I see.” Instead of being disgusted by his greed, you feel for his plight—to be cursed to love and long for something or someone that will never satiate the true ache in your soul. “But, I suppose that’s where the magic lies, right? In the meal and not true desires? What’s in front of you instead?”

Gently, you caress his horns again, marveling at how strong and perfectly curved they are.

Sylus bends his head closer, letting you touch them. “Only you humans think such a paltry keep is worth pursuing.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Love is not about what you can take but what you give back.”

As you stroke the indentations at the base of his horns where he’s taken a knife to it one too many times in the past, Sylus flinches from your touch. You still, and he bristles, growling under his breath as he urges you to continue caressing him by nudging his horns against your palm.

You grin. “Hmm… you know what you remind me of?” Not waiting for him to reply, you continue, “A huge kitten. An angry, horn-fiended kitten.”

Sylus scowls, baring his teeth slightly, but when you scratch the base of his horns, tickling his scalp, he fights back a moan.

“Mhm… feels good,” he rumbles, and you giggle, happy to have found his spot. You scratch at it for a few moments, enjoying the warm press of his body on yours. His wings quiver in the light breeze, and the day shines on, the field of daturas all forgotten for the softness in his eyes.

When night comes, cool and blanketing the world in peaceful darkness, you hum, stoking the fire in the centre of his lair. Sylus hears the cadence of your breath, the rhythm, and he wanders over to you, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck.

“What is that… sound?”

“Oh. It is an old lullaby… one my mother used to sing to me.”

His clawed hand grazes your belly, gently trailing up to cup your cheek. You lean into his touch, enjoying the warmth of his broad body cocooning around you.

“Can you sing it to me again?”

In the deep vastness of Tarus City, a lone, beautiful voice reverbs, her song lifting from the peaks of the dragon’s lair, up into the cloudless night. The dragon listens to her, besotted, his ruby eyes never lifting from her face.

She finishes the song, and he lifts his head from the comfort of your lap. “That was beautiful.”

Surrounded by all the riches of the world, the dragon wants to reward you.

“Since you so kindly gifted me something I do not have in any collection, you are free to take anything you want here.”

Your eyes land on a tapestry, depicting a dragon being surrounded by a horde of angry men and their weapons. “What is that?”

Sylus lifts a brow, chuckling to himself. “A depiction of all the 108 ways men have tried to kill a dragon.”

You glance at him, trying to dig deeper past his words. “I take it they all failed?”

He stretches and languishes back on your lap, his chest rumbling with a deep chuckle. “Of course. A dragon is not an easy creature to kill.”

A part of you wants to know more about Sylus’s past, but something holds you back from asking him. You distract yourself instead by caressing the skin around his eye, feeling the need to take it—claim it as yours. “Anything I want?”

As if reading your mind, Sylus grabs your wrist with a smirk. “Anything except for my eye.”

You pretend to pout. “You’re not fun…” But, you don’t want to overstep on the dragon’s generosity. Your eyes land on a ruby pendant, and you finger the string of pearls he had placed around your neck earlier today. “What’s that pendant?”

He follows your gaze, and smirks. “Ah. You have good taste, little one. That is an old ruby worn by the first Empress of Philos. Thought to be lost after the Battle of the Brothers. I found it at the bottom of a volcano.”

You shiver, glancing at the impenetrable ruby.

“And it did not melt? Wondrous…”

Sylus hears the awe in your voice and shifts from your lap, his tail reaching to grab the necklace, depositing it into your waiting hands. “Put it on,” his tone takes on a huskier note, and you feel a spark of heat running down your spine. Obedient and eager, you slip the necklace on, feeling the heavy weight of the pendant settling around your throat.

The sight of the shining crimson jewel right at the centre of your chest mirrors the jewel embedded in between his pecs. “Look. We match.”

Sylus runs the tip of his claw over the cool metal of the ruby hanging around your neck and chuckles. “Indeed… though yours looks much more ravishing.”

His eyes slide down your cleavage, drinking in the sight of the pendant nestling snugly right between the valley of your breasts. A familiar hunger gnaws in his loins, and he shifts closer to you, breath warm on your neck.

His lips find the shape of your mark, retracing it with his lips. Sylus growls softly when he feels the ghost of your moan caressing his cheek. Your hands make their way back to thread his silver locks, holding him in place.

There is no hesitation when he pushes you onto your back, the sight of his bulging cloaca catching your eye. His twin cocks emerge from the safe haven of his scales, and you gulp at the sight of them, waiting to sink into you—fill you up with his seed.

Sylus tries to remove your dress, but his claws are much too sharp, and he accidentally nicks you.

“Ow—” you curse and lean back, lifting the dress over your head, letting it fall in a heap of leather and chiffon on the stony floor. Sylus feels his breath catching in his throat.

Completely bare for him, your skin shines, catching the heat of the open fire. The reflection of your body through the mountains of gold melts under the press of his, your legs perched wide and open to receive his cock. Sylus grunts, moving onto his knees. The feel of him breaching past the tight ring of heat is delirious, and your hips cant, begging him for more.

“So greedy,” he breathes, tongue flicking out to tease your quivering bottom lip. “I have barely even started and you’re already whining. Your body is very sensitive today, precious.”

You whine, the weight of the necklaces pressing hotly into your skin when his body sinks into yours. Sylus marvels at how easily you take him, your breathing coming out in short huffs. He fingers the necklaces dangling from your throat and decides you need more. Precious jewels of ambrette, emeralds and sapphires fall upon your body, the dragon dressing you in his horde.

He piles on more necklaces until you can barely see your breasts peeking past the fall of gems and chains. Sylus growls, his cock throbbing in you with every adornment, until he’s satisfied. He bends his head forward, licking and lapping at your tight nipples, puffy and stimulated from the cool metal rubbing against them.

The sensation of his warm tongue contrasting the cool gems caressing your sensitive flesh is too much. You cry out, tipping your head back, giving yourself fully to him. Sylus does not take such submission lightly. He holds you tenderly in his arms, gliding his nose over the arch of your throat, inhaling the scent of your honey liquor soul.

She calls out to him, a sweet chime though the terrain of his own lost spirit, drawing him back to the warmth of your body and love.

“I cannot live without you,” he murmurs into the safety of your neck, as he settles right to the hilt. The faint sensation of his dragon cock hitting your cervix makes you wince, and Sylus is immediately attentive, raising his hips and keeping his thrusts shallow.

Your grip around his neck tightens, and you giggle when he tickles your shoulder with his relentless nips. “Sy-lus—”

“Say my name like that, precious,” he grins, tongue snaking out to lap at your pulse point. “I love hearing my name on your lips.”

You groan. Sylus… Sylus… take me, Sylus…

He shivers as you chant his name, the sound of it on your lips driving him deeper into a frenzied state. Sylus picks up his pace, his grip on your hips tightening.

Ecstasy shoots through your veins, sparking from where you’re connected with him. The rocky ground is hard underneath your back, but your full attention is on his movement inside you.

Licking his lips, Sylus grins when he hears you gasp at the feel of his spare cock caressing your rear entrance, the tip pushing past the tighter ring of muscle.

“Sylus—”

“Let me play with you, my precious,” he whispers. Your eyes widen; it’s like his cock has a life of its own.

Sylus enjoys the way your hips twitch and undulate, your cheeks and chest flushing warmly from his ministrations. Your eyes close shut when the tip of him breaches past the tightness of your rear, cool fluid lubricating the arduous task of impaling you with his two cocks.

“Sylus, wh-what is that?” You moan, digging your nails into the thickness of his biceps.

“That,” the dragon grins proudly, “Is my claim on you. You belong to me now, my precious. Forever and always.”

The other half of your soul surges his hips forward, capturing you in a bliss of fullness you have never felt before in your life. Your cry rebounds across the cave walls, and he smothers your whimpers with his zealous kiss.

Sylus’s two cocks move inside you like a symphony of lust, drawing out your baser instincts, your moans for more, more, more.

He gives everything he has to you, thrusting deeply, needing to reach into the heart of your love and lust.

You’re completely incoherent, whining and writhing. The necklaces around your throat clink and shake with every thrust of your dragon’s forceful cocks inside your tight heats.

Sylus growls at the sight of your body and hair fanning out before him. You look like a dream, an oasis he has once got a glimpse of but never had the chance to drink from.

He’s dreamed of you once, when he was locked in the loneliness of the abyss: your valiant sneer, the sword of light plunging through his chest. A part of him always knew you would be his undoing. Yet, he never imagined his destruction would be so damn intoxicating.

Your thighs tighten around his waist, holding him close.

It takes every shred of his self-control not to lean in and draw blood from your neck. Sylus wants to mark you, needs to see his claim on your body.

It drives him to the point of snapping his teeth and growling, little more than an animal in heat. But, you don’t shrink or flinch away from him.

You take his dominance with a gleam of desire in your eyes, your sweet, supple body begging for more.

And Sylus wants to give it all to you.

He feels you tightening around his two cocks, the squeeze of your muscles heady enough to make his eyes roll back into his skull. The base of him is utterly ruined with a combination of his slick and your juices, streaks of white painting the inside of your thighs and dribbling onto the stony ground.

This dance between you two is unfettered and animalistic. Groans, growls, moans and hitched cries.

All of it blends into a cacophony of one. Sylus feels his blood heating, his mind reeling.

His thoughts are darkened with the need to breed and conquer—your womb his ultimate conquest. The dragon desire and instinct urges him to dominate, to plant his seed right in the heart of your fertile body. Sylus grabs your waist, changing the angle of his penetration. Your cries grow shriller, your breathing heavier.

He can sense the end of your tether, your body holding onto the last vestiges of your sanity.

Sylus growls, “Come for me, precious one. Come.”

A marionette to her master. Your body listens. Your heels dig into his waist, earning a hiss from him. He moans loudly when you squeeze tighter, nearly taking his breath away as you arch your back and—

“Sylus!”

Magnificent. He can’t take his eyes off the pleasure playing out on your face. The scrunch of your brow. Your desperate cries grow hoarser. Your body coaxes him to the edge and takes him under.

He spills inside of you with a low groan, talons scraping the rocky floor, his teeth digging into your shoulder. Possessive and intense, he keeps you pinned to the ground, letting his seed seep inside of you and take root—hoping his gift would someday grow wings.

You nuzzle his cheek, pressing your lips to his jaw and throat.

Sylus pulls you to drape over his chest, his cocks softening inside the embrace of your body. The silence mellows like a greeting between two friends, the afterglow keeping you safe and warm in his hold. There’s no sound beyond the whistle of wind in trees and the firewood crackling.

“You said dragons mate for life,” you whisper through the inky darkness of the lair, the warmth of his embrace lowering your defences; something romantic about the night giving way to your deepest curiosities. “Does this mean I am your mate for life?”

You’re so small and sweet in his arms. Sylus thinks he can hold you forever.

He pretends to close his eyes, though a smirk plays in the corners of his lips.

“Is that what you envision?”

“Is answering in riddles the only way you communicate?” He hears the frustration, the bite of sarcasm in your tone, and chuckles.

“Adorable even when you’re feisty.”

“An ass when you don’t give me a straight reply.”

Word for word. Parry for parry. Sylus chuckles, sensing he can get used to your presence for the rest of his life.

“Oh, hush,” he pulls you closer, pressing his face into your hair, “Do not ruin this moment.”

Tarus City is full of surprises.

You would have thought such a place like this would bear no mark of civilization, but Sylus surprises you with a visit to the morning market. The stretch of streets sell everything from love potions to stuffed dung beetles, and you wish you had six pairs of eyes and ears to take in all the sights and sounds.

Sylus walks beside you, his broad build hidden under a cloak, and you’re in a similar fashioned one.

He watches as you peruse an ornate box, before your eyes widen at something over his shoulder. “Sylus… is that a canvas made of dragon hide?”

His eyes travel to where you’re pointing and he smirks. “Tarus City is unlike Ivory City in the sense that anything you want, you can get here.”

You walk alongside him, hastening your steps to keep up with his long strides. “Can I find a potion that will turn me invisible?” Sylus shakes his head at your nonsense question and flicks your nose with his hidden talon.

“Your mind truly is a fascinating space, little one.”

You laugh at his words, missing how his eyes soften when you turn to point at a tavern. “I’m starving. Do you want something to eat?”

The dragon can’t say ‘no’ to your human requirements, and he follows your lead. You sit together in a booth right at the back, hidden away from the prying eyes of the other patrons. Sylus orders two ginger ciders, and pays with a pile of coins. The innkeeper’s eyes nearly burst out from his sockets, and before you can stop him, he sweeps the cash, promising the two of you a feast to remember. Barely even a few minutes later, the food arrives, tables laden with meat, fresh fruit and casseroles.

Your stomach grumbles and your eyes take in the wondrous spread. Sylus chuckles when you dive right into a roast pigeon casserole, your cheeks all puffy and full. He pokes them and smirks. “Slow down, precious. The food is going nowhere.”

“Safe for you to say,” you murmur past quick chews, and swallow heartily. “I’ve noticed that you don’t eat much… you barely need any sustenance…” Another quick bite, and you tilt your head to the side. “Why is that?”

His chin perched in his palm, Sylus gazes at you from across the booth, a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

“Ah. So, you noticed.”

You frown and sip on the ginger cider. “I did. You look like you barely enjoy food.”

Sylus shrugs and picks up a wildberry, popping it between his teeth. He chews on it and swallows, contemplating how best to answer you.

But, you continue: “I notice these days… you don’t see the beauty of music, can’t judge patterns, and flavors of food just don’t register for you, don’t they?”

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Dragons don’t need any of these to survive.”

“But, they’re part of the beauty of life,” you argue and he chuckles.

“And you would know everything about beauty and life, right?”

You huff, glaring at him. “I do know that life isn’t about treasures and kills… it’s about the wonders of memories created together,” you pause for a moment, feeling the words in your mouth. “It’s about love.”

A dark emotion crosses his expression, but it’s gone before you can dive deeper.

“Love? I told you before, it does not exist for dragons.”

You smile, catching him off guard. “Maybe that's why it’s so precious—because it doesn’t exist.”

Sylus looks away, like he can’t bear your eager expression any longer. “Starry-eyed optimism will get you nowhere in this world. You should know the fate that befalls a dragon’s lover.”

As if on cue, the stage lights dim and the roar of a dragon fills the dingy inn. An actor prances on stage in dragon wings. He sings for a long time, weaving a tale of a lonely dragon flying through the valleys. He doesn't change his cadence, and yet, you watch, enthralled. Sylus studies your reactions instead of the play, his ruby eyes sliding from the elaborate scales and fake blood to take in your entranced expression.

He can’t resist coiling his tail around your waist, and you smile, leaning closer to his warmth. He shifts to sit beside you, letting you rest your head on his broad shoulder. The play drones on, but you’re invested in it.

Then, the final act happens, and a woman with a red dress appears on stage, singing about her love for the fabled fiend.

Sylus watches you closely, taking in your reactions. Your eyes widen when the dragon kisses his lover, and you gasp when he stabs her with his claws, sanguine liquid pooling on the stage.

After the performance and dinner, you let him carry you down the streets in his arms, safe in his warmth and more than sleepy from the big meal. “Sylus… why did you bring me here?”

Always perceptive. He can never hide the truth from his bride.

“No reason.”

“But, I want to know why… and why the dragon had to kill his beloved even when she loved him so much.” Pouting, you try to appeal to his softer side, trying to sway him with your love. “Can you please tell me? Or else, I’ll have nightmares for the rest of the night.”

He sighs and you gaze at him with wide, pleading eyes. There's something more he’s not telling you—your soul can guess as much.

It’s clear he feels the same pull of curiosity and glances down at you. Slowly, he begins to fill in the gaps.

He tells you a story of a young boy, born with dragons but with a human appearance. How the boy grew up thin and scraggly, an easy bone to pick amongst the rest of the horned fiends. Sylus’s eyes waver with a rippling loss when he mentions the eradication of the kin, how that boy became the last of his kind.

“As the boy grew older, he began to develop horns. Afraid, he took a blade to them and his tail, but the scales would just grow back, soaked with blood…” Sylus continues and you’re mesmerized. “After centuries of anguish, he finally came to terms with his truth as a monster. Then, the love of his life appeared.”

The world slows down, chatter and noises fading in the background. Only his soft ruby eyes anchor you to this moment.

“She removed the sword from his chest, and yet, she was the one destined to kill him. He knew she would be his archnemesis disguised as his bride, but somewhere along the line, he stopped wanting to consume her soul…” His voice grows softer, sour with a palpable loss. “Slowly, he became consumed with the idea of being human, and forgot the true monster underneath his skin. Maybe it was when he saw her preserving despite the odds, or when her desires echoed his own and reminded him of his foolish, youthful self… whatever it was, he began to see life in a new light. And yet, a dragon can never be a human.”

He guides you down a narrow path. The night’s chill and his forlorn words make you shiver, and Sylus reaches out to tighten your cloak.

“Dragons have a tendency to toy with human desire, however they often become ensnared by it, and ultimately are enslaved by such needs and become true monsters…” He stops, turning to look at you. “In the end, he killed his beloved. That is the dragon’s curse.”

All is silent for a few moments. Sylus gauges your emotions.

But, for all the warning he gives you, he doesn’t expect you to reach out and encircle your arms around him.

“Take me home,” you whisper into his shoulder, hiding your face in the crook of his body. Seeking him out as your salvation and not your ruination.

Sylus’s heart squeezes. “How can you not hate dragons?”

You tighten your arms around him.

“Because I’ve seen real monsters, and you, Sylus, aren’t one.”

Your words imbue in him a desire so strong to take you up to the clouds and make you forget the sadness his words stirred in your soul.

Sylus swallows hard and carries you in his arms, lifting off into the skies. The wind whips in your face, yet you’re warm and safe in your dragon’s arms.

So, he thinks as his wings slice through the clouds.

This is why she stays by a dragon’s side.

Unbeknownst to either dragon or his bride, a hidden figure in a dark cloak watches their every movement.

He notes their closeness, the fact that the sacrificial brat is still alive. Oh, he thinks, grinning to himself, the Sacred Judicator would love this.

The news of the Fiend’s release may have shook the entire nation, but they now have a way to make sure he’s locked up in the Abyss for good.

In the shadows, the man dreams of the accolades he would receive for trapping the dragon, how his name would reverb from the annals of history for centuries to come. The Sacred Judicator himself would bestow his sword onto him for his mighty achievement.

And it will all be thanks to his wonderful bride.

Sylus wakes up one morning to you in his arms. The birds are chirping, the wind is whistling and the faint shadows of dawn illuminate the cave walls.

He embraces you, sensing nothing out of the ordinary until he presses his face closer to your chest.

Instantly, a sweet, warm scent floods his nose to coat the back of his throat. It smells like the innocence of the first snowfall, or the comfort one gets from sitting by the fire after a long day.

Pure, sinless… milky.

He drags his nose from your neck to your belly, inhaling the sweet fragrance, tasting the faint tremors of a tinier heartbeat rippling underneath your skin and flesh. His own heart skips a beat.

“Precious?”

He feels you stir in his arms, your mesmerizing warmth drawing him deeper into the cocoon of your embrace. You grumble, rubbing your eyes, the action making his chest squeeze.

You yawn and stretch your limbs, your body unfurling like the spine of a well-worn book. “G’morning,” you slur, still half-asleep, shooting him a dopey smile.

Sylus doesn’t know the first thing about a human female’s anatomy, or the possibility of procreation between a dragon and a woman. But, what he does know is this is no ordinary occurrence. His instincts are telling him something is different about you.

The sheen of your hair is glossier, your cheeks are fuller, and your body… he tightens his grips on your hips, still naked from the night before. Your body feels even more luscious under his touch. He smooths his claws down your sides in awe, feeling the sinew and stretch of your muscles expanding under his scaly palms. You giggle and shrink away, mumbling sleepily. “What’re you doing, Sylus?”

He drives his nose further down your body, inhaling more of the sweet, milky, innocent scent. His heart can’t deny what his instincts already know: you’re with child.

His child.

“Do you feel… different, precious one?” He rumbles, not missing the way you snuggle closer to his chest, your cheek squished against the ruby in his chest.

You close your eyes, gliding your hands over his broad back and chest. “Tired… hungry… a bit achy. Why?”

He huffs, mentally taking notes of your condition. “Do you feel… particularly achy?” Gently, he cups your belly, and you frown, your eyes fluttering open. The morning sun highlights the glow of your cheeks, taking his breath away.

You’re positively radiant.

“A little… my back hurts and my breasts feel a little sore…”

Sylus’s eyes spark with delight. “Is that so?”

You give him a look. “Sylus? What is going on? What’s with all these questions?”

He stretches his arm around you, holding you tightly to his chest. You feel him kissing the top of your head and wonder why he’s being extra clingy today.

“Do you know what you smell like now?” Without waiting for you to reply, he presses on. “You smell like a mix of warm cotton and milk—pure innocence… completely tempting…”

You crinkle your brow, wondering what is he on.

Sylus continues. “Precious, you don’t understand do you?” He gently tilts your head up with two talons under your chin. “Dragons are creatures of desire and symbols of reproduction… and my senses don’t lie to me, sweet one…” His next words make your heart drop right into your stomach.

“You are with child. My child.”

You swallow and glance up at him through your lashes, your lips slightly parted.

“But, how—” you stop, remembering the nights of unrestrained passion you both had indulged in for weeks. “... Oh.”

As if reading your mind and remembering the intensity which led you here, Sylus grins. “Yes. It seems our careless actions have resulted in something… wonderful.”

He presses a clawed hand to your belly, kissing you on the forehead. “Speak, precious. What is on your mind?”

You feel your heart expanding with both awe and fear. Awe for the life you now hold deep in your body, and fear of such repercussions of this magnitude. To carry a dragon’s seed, to be with the Fiend’s child—

“I… cannot go back to Ivory City anymore,” you whisper.

Sylus frowns, not expecting your concerns to lie with something so trivial in his eyes.

“Is that what you wish? To return back to that wretched place?”

Your eyes clear, as if you’re seeing him for the first time. “No. I do not wish that.”

Sylus tightens his grip around you. “Then, stay.” Here with me, is what he wants to add, but the words are stuck in the back of his throat.

He watches as you caress your belly, like you can sense the life you’re nurturing deep inside you.

Slowly, the cloudiness of your uncertainty fades, and the warm reassurance of your willingness to stay soothes Sylus’s soul. The dragon would not admit it, but he has no idea what he will do if you decide to leave him.

“Of course,” you murmur, and bury yourself deeper into his warmth. Sylus stretches his wing over you, shielding you closer to the coziness of his body.

“I’ll stay here with you—where I belong.”

It’s not long before Tarus City is overrun with the rumors of the Fiend meeting his Archnemesis once again. Gossipers flood the market, telling of the old sacred text coming to life, musing about how and when this spectacle will occur.

They say the Fiend will be slain where he stands. Others ruminate on his gradual downfall.

But, up in the clouds, you and Sylus aren’t tarnished by such rumors.

Within these walls, you slowly start to build your home with him. A nest of soft blankets, a sheath he made for your sword. Sylus spends a few hours a day cleaning out his lair, though cleaning is hardly the word when he’s haphazardly tossing out old treasures to make room for you and your growing belly to rest.

The two of you still hunt in the forest, though he’s mindful of your current lack of stamina. On days when neither of you feel like foraging, you don your disguises and head to the market, exploring stalls with various knick-knacks and collectives, bickering and haggling for goods like an old couple.

At night, Sylus watches as you brush your hair, humming a soft lullaby to the little life growing inside of you. It’s during these peaceful moments when you teach him how to dance, guiding his hands to your waist, singing a soft dirge your mother taught you before her untimely passing. When he first attempts it, his movements are clunky and mistimed. However, you never give up on teaching him, and soon, the dragon and his human bride navigate the stony floor with a rhythmic ease, his steps sure and grip on you never faltering.

As these moments occur, it hits him when he realizes how much you’re changing him on a fundamental level.

Dragons weren’t exactly known as patient creatures.

They plunder, loot, steal and burn down anything that stands in the way of their greed.

But, with his child growing in you, day by day, Sylus is coming to understand the sweetness of anticipation. He’s never seen a youngling before, having been sealed in the Abyss when he was a child himself. A part of him wonders how your baby will look like—tiny horns? A petite tail? His silverish hued hair?

The more he ruminates, the more he feels protective over this treasure you’re nurturing in your body.

Your dragon lover knows nothing about parenthood—his own mother having died in childbirth and his father slain by Legion soldiers after his homeland was invaded. Yet, despite this painful lack of experience, he’s unwavering in his devotion, showing up for you in any way he can.

Sylus is careful whenever he presses his claws to your belly, and makes sure his sharp scales don’t cut you when you’re asleep beside him. Wherever you went, he was always a step behind, shadowing you and keeping a close eye.

“You’re like a puppy now,” you tease him once, in the wide fields where daturas scatter, waving their red petals like the tops of a sentry’s hat.

He smirks at your teasing, watching you weave a collection of wildflowers together into a round, circular shape.

“I can’t help it—you’re whelping. It’s in my nature to watch over my bride and now, the mother of my youngling,” he places his clawed talons on your belly, eagerly trying to sense for any movement.

Your smile widens, touched by his concern. Sylus feels you slip the flower crown on top of his head and he chuckles.

“Come here.”

He pulls you into his arms, letting you press your cheek to his chest. The two of you lay like this for hours, feeling the breeze caress your skin and tug on your clothes and hair. Sylus picks up a datura bloom, and repaying the favor, tucks it into your hair, his smile soft and eyes tender.

Only you and this flower can touch me here, he whispers into the skin of your neck, setting your soul ablaze with pure love for him.

“Sylus, have you given any thought to the baby’s name?”

The dragon gently runs his talon over the slight swell of your belly, pursing his lips.

“I do… quite like the name Atlas for a boy… or, Serenity for a girl.”

“And if it’s both?” you tease. Sylus’s eyes widened.

“You suppose you’re carrying twins?”

His eager expression warms your heart, and you gently stroke his cheek. “I suspect it since my stomach is a bit bigger than we anticipated and I’m only a few weeks along.”

Your dragon lover presses his ear to your belly, trying to hear the sound of two heartbeats over your own thrumming one.

“I hear one—in sync,” he pauses and listens closer. Faintly, a third heartbeat lags after the second one, and Sylus gasps in surprise. “You are right, precious.” His words make your heart flutter. “I hear two.”

You gasp, eyes brightening with delight. “Sylus… could it be…?”

Twins. You can hardly believe it. He laughs, pure and unaffected as he embraces you fast to his chest.

The sun shines down on two lovers free from the constraints of burdens or prejudices, lost in each other’s embrace, celebrating a new start after years of unimaginable strife.

Sylus had left you alone in the market with two simple instructions: wait for him to return and don’t cause any trouble.

But, as always, trouble has a way of finding you even when you don’t go looking for it.

The square is a lively patchwork of activity—stalls piled high with ceramic pottery, earthenwares, textiles you barely know the name of, and curious trinkets from far fetched lands. You’re drifting among the crowds, drawn in by the oddities and novelties of the vendor’s wares, lost in the rhythm of the market.

That was when the shout came—shrill and unmistakable. “Thief!”

The cry cuts through the din like a knife, snapping you out of your daze. Your gaze shoots upward, locking onto a figure in the crowd. A man, clutching something wrapped in cloth, stumbles backward through the marketplace. His face is smudge with dirt, and there’s no mistaking the terror in his expression as he pushes past the onlookers, desperate to escape.

Before you can process what’s happening, the first group of soldiers burst onto the scene, their heavy armor clinking with every step as they flood into the square. Their gleaming swords catch the sunlight as they move swiftly, surrounding the area and cordoning it off. Your confusion doubles at the sight of the thief escaping through the metal gates right under the soldiers’ noses. But, they don’t react at all, barely concerned with him, their sharp eyes scanning the crowd, looking for something else—or, someone else, entirely.

It hits you then—they’re not here for some petty thief. This is an operation—a precise, organized one.

Sylus.

You pick up the pace, removing your sword from your scabbard, when someone pushes you to the ground. Falling hard, you cry out in pain and cradle your belly, looking up to find a Legion soldier leering at you.

His face comes to mind, filling you with dread.

Throw her down to the Abyss, he sneers in your memory, those cold blue eyes burning into your soul. And see how long the Fiend will take to swallow her whole.

He grabs your arm, yelling, “Got her!” as the other soldiers swarm around you, blocking your exit. Arrows rain down from the sky, swords shing as they clang and strike a giant mass in the middle of the square. To your horror, a black dragon raises his head, his scales streaked with blood, arrows lodged into his wings.

“Sylus!” You scream, but he can’t hear you through the commotion and his Fiend instincts. Those red eyes scan the crowd, finding you, and you fight back from the Legion’s hold. “Sylus! I’m here—!”

He roars, shaking the roof and the ground. You cringe back, crying out when you feel someone drag you into chains. “Sylus—help me!”

The dragon takes one step towards you when a huge spear is thrust right into his chest. You scream, and the disruption sends many into a frenzy. Citizens disperse, mothers rushing to shield their children, store owners rushing off with as many of their wares they can carry in sacks.

“Sylus!” Tears spill down your cheeks, and something hot and desperate pulses in your chest.

Take him… End him…

The urge to devour the dragon rises in you, imbuing you with strength to fight out of the chains. Determination fuels your movements and you slash at your captors, struggling from their grasp. You manage about a step when a soldier tackles you to the ground. A loud cry, like that of a wounded animal, bellows from the centre of the square. Shackles and chains appear, the dragon’s injuries repressing him from his escape.

He isn’t healing. Your frantic eyes scan Sylus up and down. His injuries are not healing!

“Sy—” A sharp pain stabs into your arm, and you look down to find a needle sticking from your skin. Immediately, the world before you shimmers and shakes, your head feeling woozy. You gasp, trying to fight off the vertigo and rush to your lover’s side.

A soldier aims for an arrow right to Sylus’s heart, and the feverish daze lifts for a moment—enough for you to kick the soldier right in his loins. The man grunts, his hold on you loosening, and you dart forward, putting yourself right in front of the dragon and the arrow.

Sylus roars behind you, and you taste his fear in the air. But, the second you turn to him, the sword of light forming right in your hand, you feel a burst of pain rupturing through your chest.

As if in slow motion, you look down at the arrow sticking out from your ribcage.

ROARRRRR!!

The ground shakes with the force of the dragon’s agonized bellow. Soldiers scream, and ropes seem to materialize from thin air—holding the force of his anger down.

You choke up a wad of blood, feeling the end of his tail coiling around your legs before he’s snatched away. The pain in your chest mirrors the one in his own, both your souls screaming and clamoring for each other.

Sylus… You reach for him, fingertips grazing his outstretched talon—

But, you’re yanked away, and Sylus is taken in by the Legion, their yells to contain him loud throughout the entire square.

Another thunderous bellow.

An arrow flies through the air, directed at you, but the dragon intervenes. He pushes you to the ground with his snout, shielding you with his face—

The arrow sinks squarely into his right eye.

You scream, clutching your face, your chest. Blood oozes out, his mixing with yours. The dragon staggers back, standing on his hind legs, half-blind and hellbent on destroying everything around him.

His roar could shatter your eardrums, and you sink to your knees, gasping in pain.

Blood swims everywhere, a sea of it in front of you.

You wipe your face, and crumple to your side, clutching the swell of your belly that’s bleeding down your thighs, your babies absorbed back into the earth below you.

My children… my dragon…

The world fades into a ringing, dark pit of pain. And, unlike before, you hope you never wake up again.

–

The Abyss is quiet and cold without the love of his life and her light.

Sylus steeps in the bitter depths of his own misery, trapped once more in the silence and darkness of a prison he desperately loathes. The blood from his right eye has long dried, but the lack of light makes it hard for him to discern the extent of his blindness.

He buries his snout under his claws, huffing in pain.

In his chest, his beloved rebels and screams, her soul equally in torment. He feels the agony ripping through her when they pull the arrow out from her ribcage, the empty ache of her womb now desolate of the children they created with love. Hot tears flow down the dragon’s leathery snout, and he brays in pain.

My love… my light… my precious…

The chains the Sacred Judicator wrapped him in are fortified with magic, leaving him helpless to fight against them. His soul is beaten and broken, the light of his life taken from him with such casual cruelty.

A dragon can never love a human and a human… will only encounter pain and strife when loving a dragon.

Why hadn’t he stopped you from falling in love with him?

All of this could’ve been avoided if he hadn’t saved you—hadn’t given you a piece of his soul.

Sylus trembles, the dragon instincts warring in him to break free while what’s left of his human tenderness shrivels up at the loss he feels radiating throughout his entire body.

My love… I am so very, desperately sorry.

The days pass, and he sees you in his mind’s eye, restrained in chains as well.

The humans who swore to uphold justice judge you by his mark on your shoulder. They beat you. Starve you. Sylus is helpless to aid you, forced to feel your pain and scorching agony.

A part of his soul drifts away, in limbo between life and death, hovering in a horizon where the sky kisses a field of flowers.

He finds you there, whole and healthy.

“Sylus…” your sweet voice whispers, your head on his chest. “Is it truly you here?”

He nods, unable to speak, holding you tightly against his body, as if you will disappear if he opens his eyes.

“Yes, my precious,” he murmurs into your hair, “It is I.”

The stillness of your belly tears through him like the agony of having his scales ripped from his body one by one. He falls to his knees, pressing his cheek against your stomach, sorrow seeping down his face.

“My precious, I am so sorry—I couldn’t—I wasn’t strong enough—”

You shush him, falling to your knees as well. You take his face in your hands, tear tracks glinting on your cheeks. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He tries to argue. “I failed you—”

“You saved me… can’t you see?” You bring his clawed hand to your chest, and gently caress his injured eye. “Feel this—there is nothing compelling us to destroy each other anymore.”

For a split second, he gazes at you in wonder.

The desire to kill and maim each other has been transcended by this act of pure sacrifice.

But, then, he shakes his head, words clogged in the back of his throat. He wants to tell you that you’re wrong—that he is not your salvation, but the one who brought you ruin. It’s his fault—can’t you see? It’s because of him you’ve lost everything you hold dear and holy.

Yet, despite the guilt clawing at him, he can’t tame the hunger inside. The dragon is greedy, harboring a dark craving that grows fiercer with each moment. He wants you—more of you—and leans into your touch as if it can quell the storm inside of him.

The scene is haunting, yet tender in its contrast. The dragon, monstrous and deformed, with his single, glaring eye, embodies the isolation and grotesque fate that befalls all monsters. Yet, his bride, in her ethereal grace, approaches him with a love that transcends appearance. In this cruel, faithless world where the honorable and different are unjustly punished, love is the one constant; it endures the most terrible of circumstances.

Your touch is soft, not recoiling from the ruin of his eye, but offering solace. The kiss you give, placed on the source of the dragon’s anguish, becomes an act of healing, a reaffirmation of your shared bond that exists beyond the physical. The bride, once a symbol of purity, becomes the monster’s redeemer through a single, powerful act of love and acceptance.

What was once grotesque is made sacred by a touch that mirrors his own.

The beast and his bride, reunited at last, after a lifetime of suffering.

Time blurs into a standstill.

Days and nights pass, yet Sylus cannot count them for he is buried underneath the ground like an abandoned corpse, hidden from the sun and stars.

One day, as he tends to his wounds, he hears footsteps above ground. The scent of men stings his nose with their sweat. The dragon stands up, growling in warning, but the figure who approaches him is not afraid.

In his lofty robes, the Sacred Judicator grins at him, a mockery of the broadsword strapped to his chest. He says nothing, stepping aside for his minions to dump a bundle in front of him.

The familiar sharp tang of blood and broken skin—once precious and warm—reaches his nostrils and Sylus bellows.

Before he can lunge at them despite his limited range of motion, the Legion disappears, leaving him trapped once more beneath the rock—this time with the lifeless body of his bride.

Pain rips through his chest like a spear staking through flesh, and it’s from this sheer agony that his dragon spirit breaks, the snout and scales disappearing, leaving behind the shell of a man sobbing in his magical chains.

“No… no…” his voice is a strained whimper, echoing past the shallow walls.

Sylus’s strong arms, meant for destruction and death, wrap tenderly around your broken body. He lifts one claw to brush your cheek gently, his single carmine eye flitting over the bruises and cuts on your face, your arms. There’s a huge gash over your belly, where the Legion doubled down—making sure to leave no trace of his children behind.

Your legs appear broken, though your chest is rising and falling rapidly.

“No… no…”

A mighty roar tears through his lungs, echoing across the lair—shaking the base of this mountain they had kept him trapped under.

“NOOOO!!!!!”

All his life he’s been told he would cause nothing but pain and suffering, death and destruction. He had let them tie his wings down, banish him underneath the hard-packed earth where light could never breach. He had endured their endless taunts, their prods, their mutterings of him being nothing more than a beast—a mindless monster destined to bring Philos to its knees.

And now, he finally has reason to destroy them all.

Sylus staggers to his feet, his beloved in his arms, as he takes one step forward, and the next. Fat tears pool and trickle down his gaunt cheeks, falling right onto your unresponsive face. The chains clank and barely afford any give, but in his desperation, he lets the metal tear through his skin and scales—needing to fight back with every fiber of his being.

“I will avenge you,” he whispers in a low, strained tone, trying not to think how much torture and pain you had to endure at their hands. “They will ruin the day they dared to touch you, my beloved.”

The sacrificial bride, once delivered to him like a grim punchline, is the sole reason he’s taking control of his beastly narrative.

Sylus will make them pay through blood and fire—flesh and bone. For every laceration on your precious skin, he will destroy a thousand more people, burn cities down with a single flick of his claws. His great wings stretch and he releases another bellowing roar, breaking through the magic chains from the force of his own sheer will.

He takes to the skies. Faster and higher, he gains altitude, careful to hold you fast to his chest, shielding your face from the whipping wind.

Word spreads of his escape, men panicking and screaming. The Legion, having barely escaped the mountains, find themselves in the eye of his wrath. Sylus bellows, charging straight at them, his single ruby-red eye glittering with pure, seething rage.

They fire arrows at him, but he manoeuvres past the rainfall of quivers and gleaming, silver tips. He howls at them, a wounded beast on the last leg of his survival. The ferocious tug in his soul becomes a full-on desire to see the empire of Philos crumble.

Sylus expands his control, breaching the minds of these simple-minded fools. He forces them to jump off the cliffs, or bash their heads into the rocks till the bones of their bloody skulls gleam under the scorching sun.

No one can touch him now. High in the sky, he cradles the broken body of his beloved to his chest, feeling the soft caress of her cheek against his tough hide and skin.

I shall destroy them for you, my darling, he solemnly promises and shoots forward, intent on keeping his oath.

Ivory City appears on the horizon, then the gleaming domes of the hypocritical half-built Sanctuary.

Everywhere the shadow of his wings falls, the people lose their minds. They shoot and strangle each other, spreading fear and dissent across the entire land. Walls collapse and monuments dedicated to the Emperor and his Sacred Judicator crumbles under the force of an inferno raging through the city.

Their screams reach his ears like a cacophony of vindication. Sylus feels no sorrow for these greedy, selfish humans who have taken away the one true thing in his life he cherishes.

They broke her bones, mangled her limbs, snubbed out the sweet souls growing in her womb—all to destroy him.

And, they will pay.

He hovers in the air, a terrifying shadow over the destruction of Philos.

Blood and tears trail from his wounded eye, mingling on his cheeks like the devastation spreading across this corrupted nation.

Sylus watches them fall and burn to the ground, his expression unreadable.

When the cries and screams begin to wear him down, he turns and flies back to a field of daturas and the lair where your salves await.

Home is in the distance, untouched by the horrors of all that he’s witnessed. He lands gently onto the rocky crevice, closing his injured wings around you. Sylus sets you down on a soft pelt of fur while he lights a fire, stoking the flames to warm you.

The rapid beating of your heart pulses in his ears, and he prepares the salves just as you taught him—one for your wounds and the other for you to drink.

“My love,” he whispers in a soft voice fringed with pain. Tenderly, Sylus lifts your head, bringing the cup to your lips. He watches you imbibe the drink, coaxing you with gentle encouragement to drink it all.

When he notices some color returning to your cheeks, Sylus begins to rub the healing salve over your injuries. For your broken bones, he fashions tourniquets out of cotton and woven tree fibers.

“I’m so sorry, my love.” He kisses your hair, gritting his teeth as he sets your bones right, your screams of anguish breaking his heart. “I know, I know,” Sylus whispers, wrapping the makeshift gauze over your broken limbs and fragile legs till you look like a swaddled doll.

He tends to you, day and night, until your strength returns and you open your eyes.

The first time your gaze focuses on him, Sylus thought he would have cried. You wince, but still lift your hand to his face, caressing the swelling of his injured eye.

He shrinks from your touch, murmuring I meant to fix a patch over it. Your answering smile is tender, and carefully, you caress his afflicted eye again.

“It doesn’t scare me,” you whisper hoarsely, licking your parched lips. “You’re still my Sylus.”

Your simple words, meant to soothe, makes him hitch a sob. “My love—”

“Shh…” You use what remains of your strength to lean up and embrace him. Sylus lets himself drown in your arms, putty in your affections. He knows he doesn’t deserve your grace or forgiveness for not being stronger and protecting you better, but he’s a selfish creature that desires for your love no matter the cost.

You feel the strength in his tight grip waning, and he collapses in your embrace. The adrenaline from days of tending to you begins to fade as his injuries and fatigue catches up to him. You notice again that his wounds aren’t fully healed, and struggle to sit up.

“Sylus—”

He shakes his head. “I’m… fine. Just let me close my eyes.”

Panic infuses through you and you shake your head fiercely, tears welling in your eyes. “No! Don’t you dare close your eyes—don’t you dare!”

You clamber off the pelt and cradle his head in your arms, placing it onto your lap. Sylus opens his one good eye, looking at you with love in his gaze.

“I am fine—”

You swallow your tears and shake your head. “I will not let you perish, not if it’s the last thing I do.”

Sacred texts prophesied that the dragon’s Archnemesis would be the one to end his life. But, his sacrifice has rendered the light broadsword in your soul void, and your own selflessness resulted in the destruction of his right eye, where a part of his tormented soul calls out for you to destroy him.

You will not hurt him any longer. You will save the dragon just as he had once saved you.

Light spills forth from the remaining half of your soul that is still yours to own, pooling in his chest where you bind your fate and heart to him.

Sylus grips your hand, as if begging you to reconsider.

“Is this what you want?” His hoarse voice is filled with trepidation. “Once we hold hands with each other, we are forever bonded through life and death,” he asks you again, knowing how monumental of a decision this is:

“To share your life and soul with a Fiend is a tremendous punishment—will you not truly regret it?”

You’re too far gone, desperate to keep him alive that you’d do anything to have him by your side.

“If following our hearts is a sin, then you and I must be the last of our kind in this world.”

With those words, you gift him your healing. As the wounds close, Sylus brings your wrist to his mouth and kisses the delicate skin with all the devotion his broken body can muster.

“In that case,” he murmurs hoarsely, eyes closing as his skin and muscles regenerate back together, “Stay close to me forever.”

The cave walls glow with a warm, golden light. The dragon stretches his wings around you, holding you fast to his chest.

As the last of your healing flows into his blood and soul, Sylus presses a kiss to your forehead.

The rays of a setting sun touch the intertwined figures of a dragon and his beloved bride as they drift into a deep, healing slumber—the hardships they once bore are carried away by the tides of forgiveness, their pain forgotten in the embrace of a second chance.

The silence of the datura meadow near the destroyed chapel fills you with an unadulterated sense of peace.

A slight breeze picks up, brushing past the tiny dragon horns and tail which grew in place after you gave your heart and soul to Sylus. You welcome the change—once the dragon and you became one, your heart has never known such felicity and joy.

You gaze at him as he plays with his children in the field, teaching his babies how to growl and roll over, never mind that your twins are just shy of a year old. Despite the lingering pain of losing your first pair of babies, fate was kind enough to bless you again with their souls in the form of their younger brother and sister.

A pair of snowy white heads shine under the gentle sun, while their father brings them to his chest, his clawed hands gently enveloping them closer to the warmth of his skin.

Sylus’s ruby eyes find yours, and a gentle smile plays on the corners of his lips.

“Beloved, are you alright? Is the baby giving you any discomfort?”

You wipe your eyes and place a hand on the tender swell of your belly, feeling the new life inside squirming at your touch. Sylus stands and cradles his precious boy and girl, sinking down in the grass beside you. His tail comes to wrap around your waist, and you press your face into his shoulder.

“Just caught in a reflective mood, that’s all,” you reassure him as Serenity coos, reaching out to graze her chubby hand on the curve of your stomach—as if she can feel the life burgeoning in you.

Sylus hums and places a tender kiss on your forehead.

“Whatever mood you are in, I want to be there for it, my love.”

You smile, the devotion in his voice filling you with an unshakeable sense of protection and love.

“I know, and I love you, my dragon… my Sylus.”

My dragon is here, your heart soars at the thought.

His jewel-tone eyes glow obsidian in the soft morning light, the affection of his touch reminding you that he’s here—that he will never leave you alone, not if he can help it.

“I love you, too, my bride… the mother of my children and keeper of my soul.”

The both of you stand, him carrying Serenity and you cradling Atlas in your arms.

The last dragon family walks into a valley that embraces them, together till the end, hand-in-hand as they step into their new beginning.

— aaaannndd that's their happy ending :') i wrote this as a way to cope with sylus's myth and how it obliterated my feels (kid you not, i was sobbing uncontrollably for an hour and felt so empty so of course i HAD to give them the happy ending they deserve)

+ sylus + his dragon fam inspired by @/napanewt art on twt.

since writing this destroyed a fragment of my soul, reblogs, feedback and nice words will be so appreciated ❤️

#🦢 writes #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus qin #sylus smut #sylus angst #sylus abyssal mark #sylus abyssal blossom #sylus as a dad #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus myth #sylus x mc #lads sylus #one shot: where the daturas bloom

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iamquiantrelle · 15 days ago

Text

VIRGIN TERRITORY (chapter 2) ────── iamquaintrelle

# pairing: aurelien tchouameni x black oc (☔️✨💕)

# tags: @whoevenisthiz @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @rougereds @f1-football-fiend @judectrl @ayeshami @greyishbach

# summary: she's been his pa for almost a year and everyday is a struggle to function around him, but he'll never see her more than that...will he? and what will happen if he finds out she's also a virgin? masterlist.

It's been three days since The Comment™️, and Leila's standing in front of her bathroom mirror trying to make her box braids cooperate while simultaneously giving herself a pep talk about professional boundaries. The Madrid morning sun is streaming through her apartment window, making the gold threads in her hair shimmer like they're trying to show off.

"Just another day at the office," she mutters to her reflection. "A very expensive office with a very beautiful boss who thinks you're just okay."

Her phone buzzes – probably Yolanda's daily check-in. Her best friend had been skeptical from day one about this whole situation.

"Girl, you know how them African men be," Yolanda had said when Leila first got the job, and Leila had immediately jumped to defend against the stereotype because hello? It's 2024 and we're really still doing this?

But now? Standing here in her Madrid apartment getting ready to face another day of Aurélien's casual touches and unconscious flirting that apparently meant nothing? Maybe Yolanda had a point. Not about African men in general – that's still a trash take – but about Aurélien specifically.

Because yeah, he's French on paper, but his blood is pure Cameroonian and she's been around him long enough to see it clear as day. The way he'd shown off during that Bridge show with Samuel Eto'o and Francis Ngannou, like he was just kickin' it with his cousins. How he switches between French and that specific Cameroonian-French dialect when he's on the phone with his family. The way his whole demeanor shifts when his mama's cooking pondu.

She reaches for her most professional blazer – the one that says "I'm here to work, not to pine over you like a teenager." No more of those oversized sweaters he likes to cuddle into during morning meetings. No more letting him play with her braids while they review his schedule. No more melting when he calls her "ma puce" in that rough morning voice.

Her phone buzzes again. This time it's a text from the man himself:

Boss Man AT: Can you bring breakfast today? Missing your biscuits...

Three days ago, that message would've had her rushing to the kitchen to whip up his favorites. Now? She types back a crisp: You have a fully stocked kitchen and a recipe book. I'll see you at 9 for the Nike meeting.

She can almost see his confused face, probably wondering why his reliable source of Southern comfort food is suddenly acting brand new. But that's what he wanted, right? Just okay means just business.

"Keep that same energy," she tells her reflection, adjusting her blazer one last time. No more of this Georgia peach sweetness. If he wants okay, she can give him okay. Professional okay. Efficient okay. The kind of okay that doesn't make him honey brown sugar wings or laugh at his bad jokes or pretend not to notice when he falls asleep on her shoulder during long flights.

The kind of okay that doesn't catch feelings for men who see her as nothing more than a convenient source of soul food and schedule management.

Another text from him: Are you mad at me?

She stares at it for a long moment. Types and deletes three different responses before settling on: I'll have your schedule ready when I arrive.

Because what's she supposed to say? "Yes, I'm mad because you called me okay while I've been over here catching feelings like a whole idiot"? "No, I'm not mad, I'm just heartbroken because I let myself forget that I'm just the help"?

Her mama didn't raise no fool, even if her heart's been acting like one lately. Time to remember that this is just a job. A really good job with excellent benefits and a boss who's unfairly gorgeous and who probably has half the models in Europe on speed dial.

"Just another day at the office," she repeats, grabbing her keys and her emotional support water bottle. Just another day of pretending her heart doesn't do backflips every time he smiles.

But this time? This time she's keeping those backflips strictly professional.

Even if it kills her.

The drive to Aurélien's place feels different when you're trying to maintain professional boundaries. No more stopping at that little café he loves for pain au chocolat. No more singing along to his playlist that she definitely hasn't downloaded (okay, she has, but she's not playing it today). Just straight business, straight roads, straight to the point.

When she pulls up to his gate, she hesitates before punching in the code. Three days ago, she'd have walked right in, probably already planning what to cook for his breakfast. Now she hits the intercom instead.

"Yes?" His voice crackles through the speaker, sounding confused because she never uses this thing.

"It's Leila. Here for the Nike meeting prep."

A pause. Long enough that she almost thinks he's not going to buzz her in. Then: "Since when do you use the intercom, ma puce?"

"Since it's the professional thing to do," she answers, proud that her voice stays steady even though that pet name still hits her right in the chest. "Can you let me in? We're on a schedule."

Another pause, then the gate swings open. She drives up the familiar path, noticing Ocho already at the front door, tail wagging like he's personally offended she hasn't been properly spoiling him these past few days.

Aurélien opens the door before she can knock (because yeah, she was going to knock too – new professional Leila is committed). He's standing there in just his training shorts, hair still wet from the shower, looking like some kind of trap God had specifically designed to test her resolve.

"You're really gonna knock?" he asks, that little furrow between his brows that usually means he's trying to figure out a tactical problem on the field. "At your own house?"

"This isn't my house," she corrects him, sliding past without their usual hug even though Ocho is doing his best to trip her up for pets. "It's your house. I'm your PA."

She sets up her laptop at the kitchen island – not the couch where they usually do morning meetings, because that's too comfortable, too familiar, too many memories of him playing with her braids while they go over his schedule.

"Leila."

"The Nike people want to go over the new contract clauses," she says, pulling up her notes without looking at him. "And then you have that photoshoot for–"

"Leila." His voice is closer now, right behind her chair. "Look at me."

"We don't have time–"

"Since when?"

She finally turns, finds him looking at her with an expression she can't quite read. "Since when what?"

"Since when don't we have time? Since when do you use the intercom? Since when do you not make breakfast? Since when are you not you?"

And that? That actually makes her mad. Because who is he to question who she is when he's the one who reduced her entire existence to "okay"?

"Since I remembered what my job actually is," she says, turning back to her laptop. "Now can we focus? The Nike meeting is at nine and you still need to get dressed. Something professional please, not those ripped jeans you love."

"Ma puce–"

"And stop calling me that." The words come out sharper than she intended. "I'm your PA, not your–"

She cuts herself off because what was she going to say? Not your friend? Not your cook? Not your emotional support Black girl who's been stupid enough to catch feelings?

"Not my what?" Now he sounds almost angry, which is rich coming from someone who's the actual cause of this whole situation.

"Not important," she finishes, pulling up his calendar. "Now about the Nike meeting–"

"Who said you're not important?"

The genuine confusion in his voice almost breaks her. Almost makes her want to look at him. Almost makes her want to explain everything.

Almost.

"Your schedule is updated for the week," she says instead. "I've coordinated with Jules about that charity event, and your mother called about dinner on–"

His hand appears in her field of vision, closing her laptop. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I'm just doing my job. The job you pay me for. Now can you please get dressed? We have a meeting to prepare for and you're..." she waves vaguely at his general shirtless situation, "...distracting."

That last word slips out before she can catch it, and she sees the way his expression shifts, like he's just caught the scent of something interesting on the field.

"Distracting?"

"Unprofessional," she corrects quickly. "You're being unprofessional. Shirt. Now. Please."

He doesn't move, just keeps looking at her like she's a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Did I do something?"

Yes. No. Maybe. You made me fall in love with you and then called me okay and I don't know how to handle any of this.

"You did nothing," she says, and at least that part is true. He did nothing because she means nothing. She's just okay. "But we're going to be late if you don't get dressed."

He stays there for another moment, like he's waiting for something. Then finally: "D'accord. But this conversation isn't over."

"The only conversation we need to have is about the Nike contract," she calls after him as he heads upstairs. "And please wear the blue suit! The grey one needs pressing!"

She waits until she hears his bedroom door close before letting out the breath she's been holding. Just another day at the office. Just another day of pretending her heart isn't breaking.

She can do this.

She absolutely cannot do this.

The Nike headquarters in Madrid is all glass and chrome and people who look like they just stepped out of a lifestyle blog. Leila follows Aurélien into the conference room, tablet in hand, trying to maintain that professional distance even though he keeps finding reasons to touch her lower back as they walk. Old habits die hard, apparently.

She's setting up her notes when she feels it – that distinct sensation of being watched. She glances up to find one of the Nike interns looking at her like she's a whole snack, and not in that lowkey way she's used to dealing with. Man is straight up LOOKING looking.

He's cute, objectively speaking. Marco, according to his badge. All honey-toned skin and warm brown eyes, perfectly styled dark hair and a smile that probably works wonders on dating apps. Not usually her type – she tends to gravitate toward men built like NBA players, dark skin, the kind of smile that lights up rooms (she's not thinking about Aurélien, she's NOT) – but maybe Yolanda's right. Maybe she needs to expand her horizons.

The meeting starts, and she's trying to focus on contract clauses and marketing strategies, but she keeps catching Marco's eyes across the table. He's definitely interested, shooting her these little smiles that make her feel seen in a way she hasn't since... well. Since that comment.

She's so focused on not focusing on Marco that she almost misses the shift in Aurélien's energy. Almost, but not quite. Because she knows this man's moods like she knows her mama's recipes, and right now? He's got that same energy he gets when someone makes a bad tackle in training.

"As I was saying," Marco's speaking now, something about social media integration, but Aurélien cuts him off.

"My PA handles all my social media coordination," he says, voice carrying that edge she usually only hears when journalists ask stupid questions. "Leila has final say on everything."

She blinks because that's... not true? Like, she helps with his social media but she definitely doesn't have "final say" on anything. She's about to correct him when she feels his hand on her knee under the table, a touch that would've made her melt three days ago but now just confuses her.

The meeting wraps up, all handshakes and professional smiles, and she's gathering her things when Marco approaches her desk.

"Hey," he smiles, and yeah, okay, maybe she could get used to this type that isn't her type. "I was thinking, you know, for coordination purposes..."

He slides his business card across the table, and she doesn't need to flip it over to know his personal number is on the back. This isn't her first rodeo with smooth corporate boys.

"For coordination," she repeats, trying not to smile too obviously. Behind her, she swears she can feel Aurélien's attention like a physical weight.

"Purely professional," Marco grins, but his eyes say something entirely different. "Although if you wanted to discuss strategy over dinner sometime..."

"Leila." Aurélien's voice cuts through whatever smoothness Marco was about to deploy. "We have that thing."

"What thing?" she asks, because they absolutely do not have a thing.

"That thing," he insists, and now his hand is back on her lower back, more possessive than guiding. "You know, the important one."

Marco looks between them, something knowing in his expression that makes Leila want to explain that it's not like that, that she's just "okay" actually, that her boss just has boundary issues.

Instead, she takes the card, making sure her fingers brush against Marco's just because she can. Just because maybe she needs to remind herself that she's not completely invisible to the male population. Just because maybe she needs Aurélien to see that she can be more than okay to someone else.

"I'll call if we need to... coordinate," she says, and Marco's answering smile is bright enough to light up the room.

She feels Aurélien's fingers flex against her back.

"Great meeting," he says, but his voice suggests it was anything but. "We should go. For the thing."

"Right," she sighs, gathering her tablet. "The very important thing that definitely exists."

She lets him guide her out, very aware of Marco's eyes following them, even more aware of how Aurélien's hand hasn't left her back. The card feels like it's burning a hole in her pocket, a tiny rebellion against... what exactly? Her type? Her feelings? The man currently trying to speed-walk her to the elevator like she might sprint back to that conference room if he moves too slow?

"So," she says once they're alone in the elevator. "What's this very important thing we're apparently late for?"

"Lunch," he says shortly. "With my mother."

"Your mother is in Paris."

"Then I guess we'll have to FaceTime her."

She looks at him then, really looks at him for the first time in three days. He's got that jaw clench going on, the one that usually means he's stressed about a big match. But they don't have any games this week, so...

"You're really going to pretend we have lunch plans just because that intern was trying to–"

"He wasn't trying to coordinate anything," Aurélien cuts her off, stabbing the lobby button like it personally offended him. "He was trying to–"

"To what?" She's actually curious now. "To ask out your 'okay' PA?"

His head snaps toward her so fast she's worried about whiplash. "What did you just say?"

But the elevator doors are opening and she's already moving, putting that professional distance back between them. She's got Marco's card in her pocket and a whole new perspective on her "type" and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of her power back.

She feels his eyes on her all the way to his car, and she's not thinking about what that means.

She's not. She absolutely is.

The drive to wherever they're going is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Leila's pressed against the passenger door of his Urus like she's trying to become one with it, while Aurélien's got both hands on the wheel (for once) and is chewing on his bottom lip like it personally offended him. Every now and then he mumbles something in that mix of French and Cameroonian dialect that she's pretty sure isn't appropriate for polite company.

She pretends to be very interested in her phone, definitely not stealing glances at how his jaw is doing that clenching thing or how his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

They end up at this little place in the heart of Madrid that she knows for a fact isn't on his approved restaurant list (his nutritionist is going to have WORDS), but she's not about to remind him. Not when he's radiating this energy that's somewhere between "post-loss press conference" and "that time Jude ate his last protein bar."

They're barely settled into their seats when his phone starts ringing, his mama's face lighting up the screen.

"Maman," he answers, immediately softening like he always does for her. "Oui, je suis avec Leila."

"My baby!" His mother's voice carries through the speaker. "Why haven't you been feeding my son, chérie? He's looking thin."

Leila can't help but smile because trust Josette Tchouaméni to get straight to the point. "He has a fully stocked kitchen and knows how to use it."

"Ah, so that's why he's pouting? No more of your cooking?"

"Maman," Aurélien protests, but his mother waves him off.

"Don't 'maman' me. What did you do to make her stop cooking for you? You know Leila only cooks for people she l–"

"How's Papa?" Aurélien cuts in quickly, and Leila pretends not to notice the nervous tick in his neck. "Is his back better?"

They chat for a few more minutes, his mother expertly guilting them both about not visiting enough, before hanging up. The waiter brings their food – definitely not nutritionist approved – and they eat in silence for a moment before:

"I'm headed to Clairefontaine on Thursday."

"Yeah, I know," she doesn't look up from her plate. "I manage your schedule, remember?"

"You should come."

She squints at him across the table. She's only been to Clairefontaine once, before the Euros last summer. It wasn't awful – actually kind of nice, if you ignore how she spent half the time trying not to openly stare at what was essentially a collection of the finest Black men French football had to offer. But still.

"I have a hair appointment that day."

His lips curl into that smirk that usually means trouble. "So catch a flight after. Your girl doesn't close until seven anyway."

She narrows her eyes because how does he know her stylist's hours? "Why do I need to come to Clairefontaine?"

"Because..." he takes a deliberately slow bite of his food, "it's your job, ma puce."

The way he says 'job' makes it sound like something else entirely. She watches him continue eating like he hasn't just completely disrupted her plans for a peaceful Thursday of getting her hair done and definitely not thinking about him.

"My job is to manage your schedule, not babysit you at national team camp."

"Mhm," he hums around another bite. "And since my schedule includes Clairefontaine..."

"I can manage your schedule from Madrid."

"You could," he agrees, finally looking up at her. "But then who's going to make sure I eat properly?"

"The team has nutritionists."

"Who's going to organize my recovery sessions?"

"The physios."

"Who's going to keep me company when I can't sleep before matches?"

"I'm sure one of your many model friends would be happy to–"

She stops herself but it's too late. His eyes sharpen with interest.

"Is that what this is about? The models?"

"This is about maintaining professional boundaries," she says primly, stabbing at her salad. "Something you seem to have trouble with."

"Says the woman who just gave her number to a Nike intern."

"I did not give him my number. He gave me his card. For coordination purposes."

Aurélien actually snorts. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

"You know what?" She pushes her plate away. "I don't actually have to explain myself to you. You're my boss, remember? Just my okay boss with his okay PA who–"

"What did you just say?"

But she's already standing, gathering her things. "I'll book your usual room at Clairefontaine."

She's halfway to the door when his voice stops her:

"It has a spa. For after your hair appointment."

She doesn't turn around, but she doesn't keep walking either.

"And Marcus will be there. You know he loves your cornbread."

Now that's just playing dirty. Marcus Thuram makes actual puppy eyes when she cooks.

"And Ibou's been asking about you."

"Stop trying to bribe me."

"Is it working?"

She finally turns to find him watching her with that look that usually means he's about to score a goal. Like he already knows he's won but he's going to enjoy the game anyway.

"I'll think about it."

His smile is immediate and bright. "I'll have the jet ready after your appointment."

"I didn't say yes!"

But he's already back to eating, that satisfied smirk still playing on his lips. "Whatever you say, ma puce. Whatever you say."

She leaves the restaurant knowing two things:

1. She's definitely going to Clairefontaine

2. She's absolutely screwed

The drizzle at Clairefontaine is doing absolutely criminal things to Leila's press and curl while she stands next to Didier Deschamps, holding an umbrella and questioning all her life choices. Primarily the choice to listen to Theresa about "giving her hair a break from braids" without checking the weather app first, because now she's stuck in three days of rain before they head to Budapest for their match against IsNotReal (and really, of ALL the teams they could've drawn...).

But it's hard to be too mad about anything when she's got what might be the finest collection of Black men outside of Essence Fest running laps in front of her. Because listen. LISTEN. Nobody prepared her for this part of the PA job – standing here getting a whole panoramic view of what happens when God decides to show all the way out.

The French national team lineup has literally a flavor for every girl's type of man, and somebody needs to preserve this in the Louvre immediately because it's giving museum quality. You want light skins with braids? They got that. Light skins with locs? Present. Light skins with fades? Check. Tall dark skin thicker than a Snickers with fades that look like they could bench press a car? Baby, they got that too. Tall dark skin sprinter built with fades that look like they could outrun your commitment issues? Absolutely. Tall basketball player types with perfect taper fades? (She's not thinking about Aurélien, she's NOT.) Brown skins that look like they walked straight out of your prayers? Every single shade in the Fenty foundation range is represented and they're all just... running around like this is normal.

Her eyes might be doing a little too much as they jog past, that subtle up-down-up scanning that would have her mama reaching for a switch if she could see her now. But honestly? She's just doing what any person with working eyes would do – appreciating art. Very fine, very athletic art that's currently glistening in the rain like they're being professionally lit by God's personal lighting crew.

And speaking of divine lighting – here comes Aurélien jogging past with Cama and Jules, looking like every single one of her inappropriate thoughts decided to take human form. His curls are getting damp from the rain, skin gleaming, and this man has the absolute AUDACITY to throw her a wink as he passes. Like he didn't just catch her mentally drafting half the national team like it was fantasy football but make it fine as hell.

She rolls her eyes at him because she refuses to give him the satisfaction, but who is she kidding? That smirk he sends back is doing things to her blood pressure that should probably be illegal in at least twelve countries.

"Everything okay?" Didier asks in his heavily accented voice, and she realizes she might have sighed a little too loudly.

"Just thinking about the rain," she lies smoothly, definitely not thinking about how Aurélien's training shorts are a personal attack at this point. "And my hair."

Didier chuckles like he knows exactly what she's actually thinking about, which is mortifying because here she is thirsting over his players like she's running a whole scouting combine.

Another lap, another parade of fine men, and this time Aurélien breaks formation just to jog backward in front of her, showing off because apparently being a whole football god isn't enough – he has to be extra about it too.

"Hair looks nice, ma puce," he calls out, and she contemplates whether hitting him with her umbrella would violate her contract.

"Yeux devant, Tchouaméni," Didier calls, but she can hear the amusement in his voice.

Aurélien rejoins the group, but not before shooting her another one of those looks that makes her want to call his mama and apologize in advance for all the unholy thoughts she's having about her son.

The rain picks up and she can feel her press and curl starting to revert. Theresa really gonna have to catch her hands when she gets back to Madrid because this is just disrespectful. But then the team comes around for another lap, looking like a whole Nike commercial directed by God himself, and maybe... maybe the rain isn't so bad after all.

She's just here doing her job, really. Managing schedules. Taking notes. Definitely not ranking every player by fine-ness while pretending to pay attention to Didier's tactical discussion.

But she's absolutely getting braids next time.

And probably need to schedule a confession.

Because the thoughts she's having about Aurélien in those shorts are absolutely not suitable for public consumption.

*************************************

Walking into the Clairefontaine cafeteria with her dinner tray feels like high school all over again, except this time instead of mean girls and math nerds, she's surrounded by some of the finest specimens of manhood France has ever produced. The air is thick with rapid-fire French conversations coming from every direction, and listen – Leila's trying her best out here but her Duolingo streak is only two weeks old. All she's got to work with is what Aurélien's taught her, which is mostly just curse words for traffic situations and terms of endearment that make her heart do stupid things.

She's scanning for a quiet corner to recalibrate after spending all afternoon trying not to obviously thirst over the practice session (and maybe say a prayer for her hair which is somehow still holding on), when–

"Mon chérie amour!"

That deep voice could only belong to one person. Her eyes find Marcus Thuram, all 6'4" of him, looking like he walked off a GQ cover. He's waving her over like an excited puppy, except he's built like a whole defensive line and honestly? It should be illegal to be that fine and that adorable at the same time.

Michael Olise scoots over to make room for her, and suddenly she's surrounded by what might actually be the most attractive table in all of France. There's Ibou with his model face, Ousmane with those big doe eyes of his, Khephren (who definitely got the same genes as his brother), Mike Maignan looking like Black Panther's M'Baku's fine ass cousin (which is exactly why she calls him that in her head), and William Saliba who's just... respectfully fine as hell.

And because the universe has a sense of humor, literally a foot away are Jules, Cama, and Aurélien – who's currently looking at Marcus like he personally offended his entire ancestral line. What is his problem?

"You have to cook for us tomorrow," Marcus is saying, fixing her with those puppy eyes that should come with a warning label. "Please?"

"The nutritionists will murder me," she protests, but Marcus's pout could probably end wars. Actually end them.

Khephren says something in French that makes Marcus flip him off, and she catches just enough to know he's teasing his brother about the puppy eyes.

"Maybe I can make something before we leave..."

"Why does he get special treatment?" Mike cuts in, looking absolutely offended. "What about me?"

And suddenly it's like she's unleashed chaos because they're all talking at once in French, each making their case for why they deserve her cooking, and her head is SPINNING.

"Tranquille!" she yells in French, one of the few words she actually knows how to use properly, and they all freeze mid-argument, looking at her with varying degrees of surprise.

"I'll cook for everyone, okay?" She can't help but smirk at their hopeful faces. "Rice and beans..."

"Yes!" Mike's practically bouncing in his seat.

"Macaroni and cheese, fried chicken..."

The way these men start rubbing their hands together like cartoon villains is sending her.

"And," she pauses because she knows what's coming, "the pièce de résistance... collard greens cooked with smoked turkey necks."

"Oh mon dieu!" William actually looks skyward, prayer hands and all, like she just announced the second coming.

"Wait," Jules pipes up, "no cornbread?"

And then they're ALL looking at her like she just canceled Christmas, a whole table of professional athletes about to riot over the possibility of no cornbread.

"Yes," she groans, but she's fighting a smile. "There will always be cornbread."

Marcus grabs her hand and actually kisses it like she just promised him the keys to heaven instead of some soul food, and she catches Aurélien's fork bending slightly in his grip.

"You're an angel," Marcus declares, still holding her hand. "A Black American angel sent to save us from protein shakes and steamed chicken."

"Si tu ne laisses pas sa main," Aurélien's voice carries over, smooth as silk but sharp as a blade, "Vous ne pourrez pas tenir une fourchette pour en manger."

But Marcus just grins wider, because apparently he has a death wish. "Shut up."

Leila looks between them, trying to figure out what's happening, but then Ibou starts listing all his favorite soul food dishes in his accented English, and she's pulled back into what's becoming an impromptu menu planning session with some of the most attractive men in Europe.

Just another day at the office, right?

"The mac and cheese," Mike is saying with the seriousness of someone discussing world peace, "it will have the crust on top, non?"

"Boy, who you think raised me?" Leila puts a hand to her chest, offended. "Of course it has the crust. What kind of woman you think I am?"

"The best kind," Marcus grins, and she swears she hears something snap at Aurélien's table. Probably another fork. RIP to Clairefontaine's cutlery budget.

Khephren leans forward, all earnest eyes and ridiculous cheekbones. "The last time you cooked, Aure brought leftovers to training and wouldn't share."

"Because it wasn't for y'all," Aurélien cuts in, and when did he get close enough to join the conversation? "She made that for me specifically."

"Technically," Jules pipes up because he lives for chaos apparently, "she made it for movie night but you claimed the whole container."

"Speaking of claiming things," William says with a smile that means trouble, "Leila, you free Saturday? There's this nice restaurant in Paris–"

"She's busy." Aurélien doesn't even let him finish.

"I don't remember asking you," William shoots back, still smiling. "Unless you're her secretary now too?"

"I'm her–" Aurélien starts, then stops, jaw working like he's trying to find the right words.

"Her what?" Marcus asks innocently, but his eyes are dancing with mischief. "Her boss who thinks she's just okay?"

The whole table goes quiet and Leila nearly chokes on her water because how did he– she looks at Jules who suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting.

"That's not," Aurélien's actually flustered now, "I didn't mean–"

"Because if she's just okay," Ibou joins in because apparently it's National Roast Aurélien Day, "then you won't mind if she comes to Liverpool next weekend? My mama's been asking about her cooking."

"Your mama hasn't even met her!"

"But she will when Leila comes to visit."

"She's not going to Liverpool." Aurelien said flatly.

"Again," William’s grin is wicked now, "pretty sure that's not your decision, mon ami."

Leila watches this tennis match of tension with growing fascination.

"I'm right here," she reminds them. "And I can decide for myself where I–"

"You should come to Monaco," Khephren cuts in smoothly. "Much nicer than Liverpool. Better weather."

"Excuse me?" Ibou looks personally offended.

"The disrespect," William shakes his head. "Everyone knows London is better than both."

"London?" Mike scoffs. "Milan clears."

And suddenly they're all arguing about whose city is better, each making their case for why she should visit them, and she's sitting there wondering how this dinner turned into The Bachelorette: European Footballer Edition.

"I have an idea," Marcus says loud enough to cut through the chaos. "Why doesn't Leila decide where she wants to go?"

They all turn to look at her expectantly, even Aurélien who's looking like he's one suggestion away from tackling somebody.

"I..." she looks around at all these ridiculous, beautiful men and can't help but laugh. "I haven't even cooked for y'all yet and you're already planning my European tour?"

"The cooking is just a bonus," William winks. "It's your company I want."

"Isn't that right, Auré?" Jules adds with fake innocence.

Aurélien stands up so abruptly his chair scrapes against the floor. "We have an early training session tomorrow. Leila, we should go over the schedule."

"The schedule that's already printed and distributed to everyone?" she asks sweetly.

"Yes. That one. Now."

"But we haven't even gotten to dessert," Marcus protests. "She hasn't told us if she's making sweet potato pie."

"Or banana pudding," Mike adds hopefully.

"Or–"

"Now, Leila."

She looks at his face – jaw clenched, eyes intense – and sighs. "Fine. But y'all better not change any of these dinner requests while I'm gone. My grocery list is already looking like I'm feeding a small army."

"An army of fine men who appreciate you," Marcus says just loud enough for Aurélien to hear, and she's pretty sure she sees a vein pulse in his forehead.

"Five minutes," Aurélien grits out. "I'll be in the conference room."

He stalks off like a man on a mission, and Jules is trying so hard not to laugh he's actually shaking with it.

"So," William grins once Aurélien's out of earshot, "about that dinner in Paris..."

"Don't push it," Jules warns, but he's smiling. "Let him suffer a little longer first."

"Let who suffer?" Leila asks, but they all just share knowing looks that make her feel like she's missing something obvious.

"Just remember," Marcus calls as she gets up to follow Aurélien, "I asked for your cooking first!"

"But I appreciated it more!" Mike argues.

"Shut up," Ibou cuts in, "I offered a whole trip to Liverpool!"

She leaves them bickering, shaking her head but smiling. These men are ridiculous and fine and absolutely too much.

But mostly? She's wondering why Aurélien looked ready to commit multiple homicides over some dinner plans.

The conference room feels too small with just the two of them in it, Aurélien pacing like a caged lion while Leila stands by the door wondering what kind of alternate universe she's stepped into. The "okay" comment is hanging in the air between them like an uninvited guest, but he's apparently choosing to ignore it completely.

"You can't date the team," he says abruptly, stopping his pacing to look at her.

She actually chokes on air because WHAT? "I'm sorry?"

"The team. You can't date them."

"I wasn't–" she sputters, trying to make sense of this conversation. "I wasn't planning to?"

"Good." His jaw is doing that thing it does before big matches, all tense and sharp enough to cut glass. "I'll handle them."

"Handle them?" She's really trying to follow his logic here. "Handle what exactly? They were just asking about food–"

"William asked you to dinner."

"As a joke!"

"Marcus kissed your hand."

"Because I promised him cornbread! Are you hearing yourself right now?"

But he's already heading for the door, radiating big "I'm going to fight everyone" energy. "I'll handle it," he repeats.

"Aurélien–"

"Just... no dating the team." He pauses at the door, not quite looking at her. "It's not professional."

And then he's gone, stalking down the hallway, leaving her standing there wondering what the actual fuck just happened.

Because that wasn't about professionalism. That wasn't about team dynamics. That was...

"What the fuck was that about?" she asks the empty conference room, but the conference room, unhelpfully, doesn't answer.

And she's definitely not thinking about how his eyes looked when Marcus kissed her hand. Or how his voice got all low and dangerous when William mentioned dinner. Or how this whole thing feels a lot like...

Nope. Not going there.

She's absolutely going there, but first, she needs to figure out how to keep him from murdering half the French national team over some cornbread.

Being the only PA at Clairefontaine isn't supposed to feel like a big deal, but it absolutely is. Leila's trying not to think too hard about how many strings Aurélien must've pulled to get her here – because thinking about that means thinking about why, and she's not ready to unpack all that before breakfast.

She's good at her job, sure. Got Didier wrapped around her finger from day one. And yeah, okay, maybe she's particularly good at handling high-maintenance footballers thanks to her natural sociability and endless patience.

But still. This is the French national team. These things don't just happen.

Kind of like how it didn't just happen that she spent three whole days before meeting Aurélien practicing his name, saying it over and over. The way his whole face had lit up when she got it right that first time, like she'd given him a gift instead of just basic pronunciation courtesy.

And maybe that was the beginning of how seamlessly she fit into his life, like there'd been a Leila-shaped space just waiting for her to fill it. Like they were made to–

Nope. Absolutely not. We are NOT doing this today.

She pulls on her wide-leg navy sweats and the national team long sleeve she sweet-talked out of the kit manager last night (her smile works wonders on everyone except apparently the one person she actually wants it to work on). Her silk press is still miraculously holding on, pulled up in a ponytail that Theresa would probably yell at her for, but whatever. She's got bigger problems right now.

The cafeteria is already buzzing when she walks in, full of sleepy footballers trying to fuel up before morning training. She spots her usual suspects – Jules, Cama, and Aurélien – at their regular table, and takes a deep breath before heading over.

"Morning sunshine," Cama greets her in English, because he's actually an angel who notices when people are struggling with rapid-fire French at seven in the morning. "Sleep well?"

"As well as anyone can sleep knowing they have to cook for twenty professional athletes in Sunday," she replies, sliding into her seat.

Jules snorts into his protein shake. "More like thirty. Pretty sure half the staff want in on this soul food situation too."

Aurélien doesn't say anything, just watches her over his coffee cup with those eyes that are entirely too intense for this early in the morning. His voice, when he finally speaks, is still rough with sleep and she hates that it still affects her like this.

"You don't have to cook for everyone," he says, and there's that edge again from yesterday. "They can't just expect–"

"Pretty sure she can decide what she wants to do," Jules cuts in smoothly. "Right, Lei?"

There's that weird tension again, crackling in the air between them like static electricity. Cama looks between them all with raised eyebrows.

"Did I miss something?" he asks. "Because the vibes are really off."

"Nothing to miss," Leila says quickly, focusing on her breakfast. "Everything's fine."

"Mhm," Cama hums, unconvinced. "That's why Aure looks like that?"

Before anyone can respond, Didier's voice cuts through the cafeteria: "Allez, allons-y! La formation commence dans quinze!"

The scramble of twenty-something men trying to finish their breakfast at once would be funny if Leila wasn't hyperaware of Aurélien's eyes still on her. She busies herself with her phone, pretending to check his schedule like she hasn't had it memorized for weeks.

"Don't forget your jacket," he says quietly as he stands. "It's supposed to rain again."

She looks up, caught off guard by the softness in his voice, but he's already walking away. Jules and Cama share a look that she pretends not to see.

"So," Cama grins, "about this tension..."

"Don't you have training to get to?"

"Just saying, if this was a show, I'd definitely binge watch it."

"Go. Run. Now."

His laugh follows him out, leaving her sitting there wondering how this became her life – being the only PA at Clairefontaine, planning soul food feasts for the French national team, and trying very hard not to notice how Aurélien still looks back at her before he exits the cafeteria.

*******************************

The water break comes right as the sun decides to make a guest appearance, and Leila's trying not to obviously appreciate how everyone's training tops are clinging in all the right places. She's professional. She's composed. She's–

"Hey gorgeous."

She turns to find William jogging up to her, all six-foot-whatever of him with that smile that probably has half of London in their feelings. She returns his smile because listen – she might be going through it, but she's not BLIND.

"Need something?" she asks, already reaching for an extra water bottle because she's good at her job like that.

"Actually, yeah." He takes the water but doesn't step back, instead leaning slightly closer. "I was serious about Saturday. Dinner?"

"Oh!" The sound escapes before she can catch it. Her eyes automatically drift to where Aurélien is standing with Mike and Jules, looking like he's trying to murder someone with his mind.

William deliberately steps into her line of sight, blocking her view. "You don't have to ask permission, do you?" It comes out like half joke, half question, but his eyes are kind. He gets it, even if she wishes he didn't.

And you know what? He's right.

Because here's the thing: Aurélien really out here talking about "unprofessional" when this man has used her as a human pillow during team flights. Has played with her hair during meetings like it's his personal stress ball. Has straight up demanded morning cuddles before reviewing his schedule because apparently personal space isn't in his vocabulary.

But she's supposed to maintain "professional boundaries"?

Nah.

"Nope," she says, straightening her spine. "No permission needed."

Because she's grown. Because she needs to get over this embarrassing crush on her boss who thinks she's just okay. Because William Saliba is standing here looking like a whole meal, asking her to dinner with that accent that makes everything sound like poetry, and she deserves nice things.

"Saturday works perfectly," she adds, and his answering smile could power half of Madrid.

"Parfait," he says, and even that one word has her feeling some type of way. "I'll text you the details?"

"Looking forward to it."

He jogs back to practice looking mighty pleased with himself, and she very deliberately doesn't look in Aurélien's direction. She doesn't need to – she can feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of her head.

And you know what? Good.

Let him see what it feels like to watch someone you... to watch someone else get attention. Let him deal with whatever this energy is that has him acting brand new. Let him–

"Cinq minutes!" Didier calls out, and she watches William flash her one more smile before joining the group.

Her phone buzzes almost immediately:

Jules: you really woke up and chose violence huh

Leila: I chose dinner actually

Jules: with Wilo though?? 👀

Leila: what's wrong with Wilo?

Jules: nothing if you're trying to send someone to an early grave

Leila: not my problem

Jules: the violence of it all 😭

She puts her phone away, ignoring the way she can feel Aurélien's attention like a physical weight. Because this is good. This is healthy. This is her moving on from whatever fantasy she'd built up in her head about her boss who clearly doesn't–

"Les yeux sur la balle, Saliba!" Aurélien's voice carries across the field, sharp enough to cut.

William just grins wider. "Oh, ils sont."

And maybe... this is exactly what she needs. A date with a fine man who actually sees her. Who isn't her boss. Who thinks she's more than just okay.

There's something particularly violent about the way Leila's critiquing herself in the mirror right now, turning this way and that like her reflection might suddenly give her different answers. The black sweater dress is doing everything it's supposed to do – hugging every curve, every soft roll, every thick thigh that matches its partner. Her body's built like a direct response to gravity, all hips and breasts with a waist that's not exactly snatched but works with what God gave her.

"It's just dinner," she tells her reflection, but dinner with a whole professional footballer is different than those struggle Tinder dates she's been on. Those guys didn't come with paparazzi risks and teammate drama and a very specific boss who's probably planning murders right about now.

Not that I care what Aurélien thinks.

Her hair's falling just below her collarbone in that middle part that took twenty minutes to get right, makeup subtle enough to look effortless (it wasn't), and she's wearing this new perfume that smells expensive enough to make her feel like she belongs in whatever fancy restaurant William's picked out.

The thought of William has her breaking out in a nervous sweat because listen – the man is fine fine, but she's still very much a virgin and very much not ready to explain that to someone who probably has models in his DMs. What if he expects... what if he wants... what if–

"Get it together," she mutters, grabbing her clutch. "It's just dinner."

The elevator ride down to the main entry hall feels like it takes seventeen years, her heart doing backflips the whole way. She's rehearsing possible conversation topics in her head (please lord don't let her ramble about football statistics) when the doors open and–

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Because there's William looking like a whole meal in his white shirt, jeans, and leather jacket (that gold chain should be illegal honestly), but he's not alone. No, because that would be too easy. Instead, he's surrounded by Mike, Marcus, Ibou, and Jules the Professional Gossip, all of them looking way too pleased with themselves.

She makes her way over, trying to ignore the chorus of French catcalls and whistles (she catches "magnifique" and "sublime" and definitely some words that would make their mothers wash their mouths out with soap).

"Damn, Lei!" Ibou's grin is wicked. "You trying to kill our boy Wilo before the match?"

"The dress is doing God's work," Marcus adds with an appreciative whistle.

"I think you mean doing the devil's work," Mike corrects, fanning himself dramatically.

William rolls his eyes at all of them, but he's smiling as he takes her hand. "Ready?"

She's about to answer when she feels it – that familiar weight of attention that can only mean one thing. She looks back to find Aurélien has joined the group, and the look on his face...

Listen. She's seen this man angry before. Has seen him after bad losses, after red cards, after journalists say stupid things about him and his family. But this? This is different. This is something darker, something that makes her skin prickle even from across the room.

William must feel her tense because he squeezes her hand gently. "You good?"

She turns back to him, forcing herself to focus on this moment, on this very fine man who actually wants to take her to dinner. "Perfect."

He opens an umbrella as they step outside (because of course it's raining again), holding it over her like the gentleman he is. Behind them, she can hear the boys still carrying on:

"Vingt euros disent qu’ils s’embrassent avant le dessert!"

"Cinquante disent qu’Auro casse quelque chose avant qu’ils ne reviennent!"

"Une centaine dit–"

The door closes, cutting off their chaos, leaving just the sound of rain and their footsteps and her heart doing its best to escape her chest.

"They're ridiculous," William says softly, but he's smiling.

"That's one word for it."

They reach his car – another ridiculously expensive SUV because apparently that's issued with the France call-up – and he opens her door for her.

"You look beautiful, by the way," he says it simply, like it's just a fact. Not 'okay'. Not qualified. Just beautiful.

And maybe... maybe this is exactly what she needs.

Even if her traitorous heart still skips when she catches Aurélien watching them drive away in her side mirror.

********************************

The media room at Clairefontaine is thick with tension and the sound of FIFA, Aurélien absolutely demolishing the controller like it personally set up his PA's date with William. Jules and Cama keep sharing these looks that say more than words ever could.

"Je n'arrive pas à croire que Wilo ait fait ça. C'est censé être mon pote." ("I can't believe Wilo did this. He's supposed to be my boy.") Aurélien's voice is tight with something darker than just regular gaming frustration.

"Fait quoi exactement?" ("Did what exactly?") Jules asks, careful and measured like he's defusing a bomb. "Inviter une femme célibataire à dîner?" ("Asked out a single woman to dinner?")

"Elle n'est pas juste une femme célibataire, c'est ma puce!" ("She's not just any single woman, she's my dear!") The words explode out of him before he can catch them, and the room goes deadly quiet except for the game music.

Cama pauses the game. "Ta puce?" ("Your dear?")

"Ma PA," ("My PA,") Aurélien corrects quickly, but it's too late. "Je lui ai dit que c'était pas professionnel de sortir avec l'équipe." ("I told her it wasn't professional to date the team.")

"Et c'est professionnel de la câliner pendant les réunions?" ("And it's professional to cuddle her during meetings?") Jules' voice drips with sarcasm. "De jouer avec ses tresses? De l'appeler 'ma puce'?" ("To play with her braids? To call her 'my dear'?")

"C'est différent." ("That's different.")

"Comment?" ("How?")

Aurélien just grunts, going back to destroying everyone in FIFA. But Jules isn't done.

"Tu sais qu'elle t'a entendu la traiter de 'okay' à la piscine?" ("You know she heard you call her 'okay' at the pool party?")

"Mais elle l'est!" ("But she is!") Aurélien protests, then at Jules' murderous look adds quickly, "Dans le bon sens!" ("In a good way!")

"T'es vraiment con, mon frère." ("You're so fucking stupid, bro.") Jules throws his controller down. "Elle est plus que 'okay' et tu le sais." ("She's more than 'okay' and you know it.")

"Je peux pas..." ("I can't...") Aurélien runs a hand through his curls in frustration. "Je peux pas l'aimer comme ça." ("I can't like her like that.")

"Pourquoi pas?" ("Why not?") Cama asks quietly.

"Parce que... parce qu'elle est ma PA!" ("Because... because she's my PA!")

"Des excuses, toujours des excuses," ("Excuses, excuses,") Jules sighs. "On n'est plus des gosses, AT. On est des hommes maintenant. Si tu ressens quelque chose pour quelqu'un, tu dois le dire." ("We're not kids anymore, AT. We're men now. If you're feeling someone, you have to communicate it.")

Aurélien lets out a laugh that sounds more pained than amused. "C'est différent. Je ne l'aime pas comme ça. C'est ma PA. C'est comme ça qu'on se fait poursuivre en justice." ("This is different. I don't like her like that. She's my PA. That's how people get sued.")

"Et si elle ressentait la même chose?" ("What if she's feeling you too?") Jules asks carefully.

"Leila? Avoir des sentiments pour moi?" ("Leila? Having feelings for me?") Aurélien scoffs. "C'est drôle." ("That's funny.")

The silence that follows is heavy with meaning. Jules and Cama exchange another look that speaks volumes.

"Quoi?" ("What?") Aurélien demands, finally catching their expressions.

But neither of them answer, just watch him with this mix of pity and exasperation that makes him want to throw something.

"Elle portait cette robe ce soir..." ("She was wearing that dress tonight...") he says quietly, almost to himself.

"Oui, pour son rencard avec Wilo." ("Yes, for her date with Wilo.") Jules' voice is pointed. "Pas pour toi." ("Not for you.")

"Tu sais," ("You know,") Cama adds casually, too casually, "pendant que tu es là à dire qu'elle est 'juste okay', Wilo est probablement en train de lui montrer à quel point il la trouve extraordinaire." ("while you're here saying she's 'just okay', Wilo is probably showing her just how extraordinary he thinks she is.")

"Je vais le tuer." ("I'm going to kill him.")

"Le problème," ("The problem,") Jules says quietly, "c'est pas Wilo." ("isn't Wilo.")

And deep down, Aurélien knows he's right, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"Arrête d'être une putain de chochotte," ("Stop being a fucking pussy,") Jules says, done with the whole situation. "Si tu veux Leila, vas la chercher. C'est aussi simple que ça." ("If you want Leila, go get her. Simple as that.")

"Ce n'est pas si simple," ("It's not that simple,") Aurélien protests, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. "Elle est ma PA–" ("She's my PA–")

"On a compris!" ("We get it!") Cama throws his hands up. "Elle est ta PA, et alors? Comment tu sais que tu vas tout foutre en l'air si t'es trop chickenshit pour essayer?" ("She's your PA, so what? How would you know if you're gonna fuck it up if you're being chickenshit?")

Aurélien opens his mouth to argue but Cama isn't done.

"Leila est géniale et toi tu te tapes des mannequins pour essayer de cacher que tu craques pour elle. C'est tordu, mec." ("Leila is cool and you're fucking models to try to hide from you feeling her. Twisted as fuck, man.")

"Je ne–" ("I don't–")

"Tu peux la laisser sortir avec Wilo – parce que tu sais à quel point il est persistant quand quelqu'un lui plaît – et être malheureux, ou tu peux régler ça maintenant." ("You can let her date Wilo – because you know how persistent he is with a person he's feeling – and be miserable, or you can nip this in the bud.")

"Exactement," ("Exactly,") Jules concurs, leaning forward. "Tu crois que Wilo va la traiter comme 'juste okay'? Tu crois qu'il va hésiter à lui montrer qu'il la veut?" ("You think Wilo's gonna treat her like 'just okay'? You think he's gonna hesitate to show her he wants her?")

The thought of William showing Leila anything makes something dark appear Aurélien's chest. The image of them at dinner right now, William probably making her laugh, probably touching her hand across the table, probably looking at her the way Aurélien wants to but won't let himself–

"Elle mérite mieux que 'okay'," ("She deserves better than 'okay',") Cama says softly. "Et tu le sais." ("And you know it.")

"Je sais pas comment..." ("I don't know how...") Aurélien trails off, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Comment quoi? Être honnête avec tes sentiments?" ("How what? To be honest with your feelings?") Jules scoffs. "T'as vingt-quatre ans, pas quatorze. Grandis un peu." ("You're twenty-four, not fourteen. Grow up a little.")

"Mais là, tout ce que tu fais c'est regarder un autre mec faire ce que t'es trop lâche pour faire," Cama shrugs. ("But right now, all you're doing is watching another guy do what you're too scared to do.")

Aurélien sits there for a long moment, thinking about Leila in that dress that made his brain short-circuit. About how she looked at William. About how she hasn't really looked at him in days, not since the 'okay' comment. Not since he tried to tell her who she could and couldn't date like he had any right to.

"Elle est probablement en train de l'embrasser maintenant," ("She's probably kissing him right now,") Jules says casually, but his eyes are sharp on Aurélien's face.

The PS5 controller in Aurélien's hands makes an ominous cracking sound.

"Tu vois?" ("You see?") Cama gestures at Aurélien's white-knuckled grip. "C'est ça qu'on appelle de la jalousie, mon pote. Pas très 'professionnel' comme réaction pour 'juste une PA', non?" ("That's what we call jealousy, my guy. Not very 'professional' reaction for 'just a PA', right?")

"Je ne suis pas–" ("I'm not–")

"Jaloux?" ("Jealous?") Jules cuts him off. "Alors pourquoi t'as l'air de vouloir commettre un meurtre chaque fois que quelqu'un la regarde trop longtemps?" ("Then why do you look like you want to commit murder every time someone looks at her too long?")

Aurélien's silence is telling.

"Écoute," ("Listen,") Cama says, serious now. "Wilo est un bon gars. Il va bien la traiter. Il va lui montrer qu'elle est spéciale. Et toi? Tu vas juste rester assis là à te dire que c'est 'pas professionnel' pendant qu'un autre mec fait d'elle sa copine?" ("Wilo's a good guy. He's gonna treat her right. He's gonna show her she's special. And you? You're just gonna sit there telling yourself it's 'not professional' while another guy makes her his girl?")

The controller finally gives up the ghost, splitting right down the middle.

"Putain," ("Fuck,") Aurélien mutters, staring at the broken pieces like they hold some answer he can't find.

"Le choix est simple," ("The choice is simple,") Jules says, standing up. "Soit tu continues à être un lâche et tu la perds, soit tu deviens un homme et tu lui dis la vérité." ("Either you keep being a coward and lose her, or you man up and tell her the truth.")

"Et si je la perds quand même?" ("And if I lose her anyway?") The question comes out smaller than he intended.

"Alors au moins tu auras essayé," ("Then at least you'll have tried,") Cama says. "C'est mieux que de la regarder partir avec Wilo en te demandant 'et si'." ("Better than watching her leave with Wilo wondering 'what if'.")

Aurélien sits there long after they leave, thinking about Leila's smile, about her laugh, about how she's probably giving both to William right now.

And maybe... they're right.

Maybe it's time to stop being a coward, yet first, he owes someone an apology for the controller.

…………tbd

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