#it would have been a release of tension

[grinchwrapsupreme]

[jamiesfootball]

Technically the Richmond coaches had two chances to move Jamie to center and then didn’t take it: once when Zava showed up and once when they switched everyone at practice.

Both times they assumed he wouldn’t do it

At the very least we know he was willing to do it the second time (he even asked if they meant to give him the same position), but honestly? The Jamie who came to them worried about the effect of Zava on the team might’ve done it too. He is well on board with being a team player at that point, which he also demonstrated many times in season two. He probably would’ve been hurt by it, but he would’ve agreed to do it

(Then we could’ve had a whole season deconstructing how Jamie conflates scoring with winning with value in a way that really isn’t healthy but I digress)

For the record I don’t think this would have fixed anything. They probably would’ve figured out how effective Jamie is in midfield sooner, but they still would’ve had Zava, and after Zava there would’ve been the tension of whether to keep Jamie where he was or have him step back up to striker, especially since they weren’t doing total football yet. In a lot of ways, having Jamie step up and volunteer for it later really sidesteps a lot of drama

I��m more so lamenting the fact that with Jamie, when it came to ‘be curious not judgmental, they chose to remain judgmental of his past behavior instead of curious about his new ones.

[incandescentflower]

*sigh*

[scarletspider2the2ndpower]

Chasm: Curse of Kaine (Vol. 1/2024), #1.

Writer: Steve Foxe; Penciler and Inker: Andrea Broccardo; Colorist: Brian Reber; Letterer: Joe Caramagna

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads

The Girls Are Never Gone

a girl does a summer internship with the historical society cleaning up an old estate where a girl died 30 years ago, so she can investigate it for her ghost-hunting podcast

she’s a skeptic who privately thinks she’ll be able to find evidence of non-supernatural, but weird things start happening to her and the other two girls in the house

spooky lake & creepy dolls

bisexual diabetic MC with a service dog, f/f

[clits-and-clips]

I think I need to buy a punching bag for when everything is overwhelming me and annoying me

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

ৎ୭ ⸻ rafayel has quite the storm raging in his mind during his artistic expedition to aridum. which, the root of his crisis he was trying to wean himself off of wasn't supposed to tag along to make him spiral further. funny thing is, you just think he's sick. he is. just infected by something far worse than you can imagine: crippling dependency.

ৎ୭ ⸻ SO MUCH BUILD-UP, momentary sickfic, anxious attachment issues, rafayel being hot and cold with the reader, angst, exhibitionism for like 0.01 seconds bc of bond shenanigans, switch4switch and constantly changing dynamics that comes with it, handjob, slight obedience kink, impromptu bondage play with rafayel's neck piece praise kink, obedience kink blink and you miss it, p in v, CLOTHED SEX ITS SO HOT 2 ME, unprotected sex, multiple rounds.

ৎ୭ ⸻ hello lads fandom, FIRST WORK HERE (it sucked my soul out i've been working on this for like tHREE weeks)!!! this is my adaptation of rafayel's nightly rendezvous card intertidal zone. a lot of it is based on my reading and understanding of the card, i'm so sorry for releasing this when caleb just released but, i hope you enjoy, much love <3 ( lil tag: @comatosebunny09 )

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

In retrospect, finding out Aridum was a city in the middle of a desert should have made you stop and think more about how the climate would actually affect Rafayel before diving straight into travel plans.

You know, a Lemurian.

Who, logically, wouldn’t fare well in the dry heat.

Rafayel flicking off your genuine concern like it was a bug on the surface tension of his fish tank was the first red flag you should have paid more attention to. In your defense, since he’d been there before and was confident enough to initiate banter, it was easy to give in and trust he knew what he was doing as he batted his lashes at you with those pretty dual-colored, sparkly wide eyes that left you starstruck in the face and said, “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.”

Well. He was with you now and he wasn’t fine.

Because for once in his life, Rafayel didn’t have enough energy to run laps around you. Just a few minutes outside the hotel, lingering near the grand fountain square framed by towering palm trees that offered scant shade, and he began to deflate pitifully like a garish balloon leaking its vigor into the sweltering air. His usual dynamism, the kind that pulled attention to him as effortlessly as a river carved its path, had dimmed to a sluggish ebb, so much so you found yourself glancing over your shoulder every ten seconds, vigilance heightened by the unsettling absence of his ever-present current. The languid pace like he was moving through molasses made him look like an entirely different person than the one tugging you through the airport with even the luggage excitedly rolling behind him.

And it had been just a single day since you’d set foot in Aridum.

That wasn’t to say the trip had been a disaster or he was in terrible shape — you two were still on day one. Back in Linkon, he was, on paper, enthusiastic about pointing out local landmarks for you to go together like he knew the city personally, but he had quickly lost that energy when it actually came to the execution. You chalked it up to him not being able to get any sleep the previous night because of a mix of jetlag and the discomfort of a new bed, but regardless, it was still concerning to watch him only interested in stopping by street stands where he could buy himself cold water bottles and stand in a shaded corner in order to drink them slowly under shelter, while also dragging you with him, so there wouldn't be even a split-second distance between you two.

You were thankful you didn't have many plans in mind. Rafayel always packed enough enthusiasm for the both of you, but now, as you watched with wide-eyed worry how his spark had suddenly wilted, the drastic shift in his personality left him finding everything he suggested doing utterly unnecessary for the day. On top of that, after only managing to sit still for five minutes or so, it'd become obvious to see that the environment of this city, complete with a sun beating down hot enough to cook you alive, had taken a toll on Rafayel's temperament far more drastically than expected — rendering his eagerness completely sour.

But still, you wanted to cheer him up, you did. It broke your heart seeing someone who brought so much life into every room shrivel down to such a defeated shell. Maybe that's why you couldn't help yourself when you caught him pouting at something on the phone screen as if it'd done him a great offense.

So, you began teasing. “Rafayel, we haven’t even been out for thirty minutes, you're sweating already?"

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you countered, only to squint at his face more closely. “Wait. You’re not?”

He threw his arms out like he was expecting a grander reaction. “Do you know what that means?”

“That you’re a human raisin in the making?”

He groaned, a sound that was more theatrical than pained, but you still caught the edge of frustration in it. “It means I’m seconds away from crumbling into sand. You’ll have to gather me up and carry me home in a jar.”

You started walking towards one of the fountains near some empty seats where shade was available, while he dragged himself behind you like a zombie. "Let's sit you down before you begin to form cracks."

The fountain’s spray misted faintly in the air, enough to make the stone bench beneath feel less like a skillet. Rafayel took extra care positioning himself on one of the seats before collapsing backward, draping one arm over his flushed face.

He took the bottle of yet another ice cold water you fished out from your bag without protest, but his free hand found your wrist and lingered there — light at first, then tighter, like he needed to anchor himself. The unexpected heat radiating from his skin sent a little jolt up your arm. You were about to comment on it, but then he tipped the bottle back and drank, and you swore you could feel the tension in his throat as if it was your own.

When he finished, he let out a breath — not a sigh, just an exhale that sounded heavy, deliberate, sprawling beside you, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing restlessly as he tilted his head back and squinted at the cloudless sky.

“I think I’m dying,” he announced, as if that wasn’t thr fourth time he’d said it today.

After your attention was made aware that he indeed wasn’t sweating by the dry hairline of his, though, the mood to banter had dissipated like a mirage. You began fussing. Was it normal that he didn’t sweat? If a normal person was like this, they needed to be taken to the hospital. However, Rafayel had done nothing but up the ante in complaining, that had to indicate nothing was seriously wrong, right? He’d know his body the best. Right?

“I told you to put on sunscreen this morning. Did you?”

He scoffed, “I don’t need it,” — and you heard the imaginary Lemurian in his tone rolling his eyes at your human expectations.

“Not with that attitude,” you shut him down, already skimming through your bag at an increasingly faster pace. “Now, keep still.”

Finding what you were looking for, you uncapped the bottle, reaching out with one hand to tilt Rafayel’s head left and right to gauge where to start. His skin under the pads of your fingertips felt almost brittle and paper-thin — unnatural on Rafayel, making you unconsciously rub like it was a stain you could get rid of. Without meaning to, you frowned, and he made a soft, lukewarm grumble, nudging your leg with his foot, reminding you what you were doing. Which was fussing over a grown man who should have been responsible from the start and able to take care of himself.

“Show me your forehead,” you said, wanting to get it out the way first.

He obediently carded his bangs back, silent, half-hooded eyes flicking everywhere on your face going ignored as you rubbed sunscreen in and felt what alarmingly was similar to a fever. It was a relief to hear him humming at the feeling, you hoped it would help as you quickly moved to spread the white lotion over his cheeks and smeared a stripe right across the bridge of his nose as he fixed his hair, squinting at your ministrations.

Though, somehow, he looked contented enough that you had to stop him from nuzzling into your hand. “Rafayel, I’m working here.”

All you got was a breathy, “Mmm,” as if he was speaking through the pleasant haze of sleep.

How contradictory of him, as always. For someone constantly grumbling about the unbearable heat, he leaned into every touch with a docility that defied reason — and worse, he initiated them, either molding against you like water taking the shape of the container it was poured into, or his fingers ghosting over your skin as though drawn by instinct. You couldn’t make sense of it. The mere thought of physical contact when the air was this heavy and oppressive made your skin crawl, but he seemed to revel in it. No, thrived on it.

It wasn’t just the way he didn’t flinch — he leaned in harder, his breaths hitching faintly, brow furrowed like he was wrestling with a need he barely understood. You’d swear the heat radiating from your skin would only make it worse, yet he tilted his face into your touch as though your thumbs brushing his cheekbones offered a balm, a strange, cooling relief.

Maybe, he perceived your skin to be indeed cooler than his.

It had to be something unique to his Lemurian physiology. His reactions didn’t make sense otherwise. What human would ever enjoy the sensation of warmth pressed against warmth in such sweltering conditions? And yet here he was, biting back what suspiciously sounded like a placid sigh, while you struggled to reconcile the peculiar contradiction.

“C’mon, don’t let me do all the work,” you muttered, quieter than you intended, the heat and the moment distracting you entirely.

You must have sounded a tad bit worried, because Rafayel didn’t react with his usual playful defiance or the melodramatic sulking he resorted to when things didn’t go his way. Instead, he fell silent, sinking more fully against your side as though he belonged there, and successfully narrowed the angle you were working with. His head tilted slightly, guiding your hand to the sharp line of his jaw with an unspoken invitation, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, the haze of his voice turning soft and almost vulnerable. You couldn’t even see his face properly from looking at the top of the purple mop of hair blocking you.

"Do my neck too?"

Before you could decide, his hand encircled your wrist. Not tightly — not forcefully — but with a loose, guiding pressure that was maddeningly deliberate. He led your lotion-slicked hand to curve around his throat, the smooth, simmering heat of his skin pressing against your palm.

You hesitated, the instinct to pull away warring with the strange tension settling between you both, but his thumb found the delicate underside of your wrist and began tracing slow, thoughtful patterns that seemed designed to leave you paralyzed. You knew damn well how tenderly and skillfully he handled paintbrushes, and it was evident by the practiced precision of each touch that he was using the same sensibility on you, whether he was fully aware of it or not, which sent a warm burst of blood rising to your cheeks.

Seeming restless, Rafayel sat up straight and finally allowed you a clear view of him. His head tipped further back, exposing more of his neck to your hand, eyes darkened into to a shade of purple that seemed otherworldly in the harsh light of day. They glittered like faceted amethysts film-burned blue around the edges, soaking in every sunlit fleck of your features with a focus that made your chest tighten, like you were being studied with the assessment of the artist Rafayel before another’s painting, his focus unbroken save for the low hum he let slip, soft and unguarded.

You swallowed hard, aware of how exposed you were. The bustling world of Aridum hadn’t stopped turning just because the two of you had stumbled into whatever this was. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, but it wasn’t just the desert heat making you feel like you were suffocating.

This shouldn’t have been happening. Not here, not now.

Your breath shuddered as you finally regained enough sense to break the silence. "Do it yourself," you murmured, voice uneven as you pressed the bottle of sunscreen into his chest. You looked away, clumsily rubbing your hands on your arms to mask the way they trembled, pretending to rid yourself of excess lotion while wishing desperately to erase the heat radiating off your skin.

Rafayel sighed, a low sound of reluctant acceptance, as he pulled himself upright. His fingers glided over his neck, spreading the sunscreen where you hadn’t, his movements smooth and unaffected as he worked the lotion over his collarbones and along the nape of his neck. The sight was annoyingly graceful, as though he wasn’t feeling the same unbearable tension you were. If you’d have thought of bringing a small electric fan along today, it would have been inches from your face already.

"Maybe we should’ve gone out at night," you said abruptly, grasping for any lifeline to shift the moment’s focus. Your gaze darted to him as he worked, your cheeks burning hotter than the sunlight that baked the streets. "Now I feel bad."

"What for?"

"Making you come along. This must not be very inspiring.”

Rafayel let out an honest-to-goodness laugh. It rolled from his throat so easily and naturally that it seemed even he wasn’t aware of it until the sound tapered off into a quiet chuckle. Shaking his head, he leaned toward you until his temple rested lightly on your shoulder, his gaze unfocused as he stared absently at the fountain ahead. "I’m not giving up time with you just because the sun here wants me dead."

He completely bypassed the part about inspiration, but the sincerity in his words hit you like a splash of cool water on overheated skin. Your shoulders relaxed as you melted into a sigh, letting your head fall atop his, but the sticky warmth made the closeness unbearable almost instantly.

You promptly peeled yourself away with an, "Ugh.” He had already filled his making-you-feel-hot quota for the day, in every sense of the word.

Rafayel straightened just enough to meet your gaze, "That’s how you answer my heroic declaration?" he asked dryly, one brow arched in faux offense.

He didn’t budge, though, even though the heat seemed to bother him more than it did you. The stubborn set of his jaw spoke volumes, and it took a gentle nudge of your elbow to get him to finally sit upright. Even then, he let out a dramatic whine from deep in his chest as if being forced to separate was a personal betrayal.

"You’re lucky I’m rewarding it with mercy," you shot back, brushing a hand through your hair to vent your own rising frustration with the heat. "Come on, let’s head back. I need to get my fishie in the water before he dries up completely."

"But you wanted to see—"

"There’ll be plenty of opportunities in the future," you interrupted with a wave of your hand. "If anything, this was a good lesson about choosing the time we go out more carefully."

To your relief, Rafayel didn’t push back. He rose to his feet with you, though his sluggish movements and the slight downward pull of his lips suggested reluctance. As much as his leaning on you had been irritating in the heat, the sight of his faint frown made your chest tighten, and without thinking, you looped your arm through his and pulled him closer, even though the contact made your already overheated skin feel unbearable. His shoulders straightened slightly at the gesture, but the small crease between his brows didn’t disappear.

"I hear it’s seafood night at the hotel restaurant," you offered, attempting to lift his mood. He was obviously bummed out, but his stubbornness refused to show why outright. It was cute to a degree — childish almost, so endearing you couldn't find it in yourself to grow impatient with him. But you hated seeing him down. "If we head back now, we might snag a rooftop table.”

"Snag? Puh-lease. Worst case scenario, one glimpse of me and I could get us prime seating any time, anywhere," Rafayel scoffed. Still, the corner of his lip twitched upward as if tempted to smile, and you found yourself mirroring the reaction immediately. “And that whole thing would still be less bothersome than you assuming I haven’t secured us a reservation already.”

Later that evening, after dinner on the rooftop, the mix-up with the room service attendant delivering Rafayel’s envelope to your room turned out to be a convenient excuse to check on him. It had been hours since you insisted he take time to rest, and while he promised to settle in and let you know how he felt after freshening up, you hadn’t heard from him since.

You were greeted by the humidity hitting you in the face like a solid wall of rain when the door got opened though, instead of your boyfriend. Thick as fog like it had its own gravity.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, his hair dripping and clinging to his flushed skin in lazy dark purple rivulets, robe loose, the soft fabric blotched dark with water where droplets had slid from his neck and shoulders.

The room behind him radiated a different kind of heat — not the oppressive dryness of the desert, but the heavy, steamy warmth of someone trying to crawl their way back to comfort in the only way they knew how.

He looked better, at least.

The brittle edge that had been clinging to him seemed softened, as if he’d soaked away some of the tension in the beath he’d clearly stepped out of upon you knocking on his door.

Still, the sight of him — damp like a wet cat instead of a fish in his natural environment, robe-clad, the faint sheen of exhaustion still lingering in the way he leaned against the door frame left an odd twist in your chest.

He didn't look any worse for wear than he had earlier in the day when he’d claimed he wanted to spend the rest of his night marinating in ice cold water, and while seeing him not suffering was a relief, you clearly weren't expecting for him to actually mean what he said, even though the water obviously wasn’t ice cold.

The envelope, as it turned out, held a ticket to the memorial hall and an invitation to an art salon gathering hosted by one of his friends. Neither looked to be sparking any interest in Rafayel, however, despite him having come here for as much stimulation as possible for his inspiration.

You understood. It just wasn’t possible when he wasn’t feeling well.

The room itself was telling the entire story, in fact, chaotic in its stillness against the beauty of the floor-to ceiling windows framing the desert skyline in soft, shimmering lights of the city crowned by the full moon hanging proudly above. Papers were scattered across the floor in uneven piles, some curling slightly at the edges where they’d caught the artificial moisture in the air, blank and untouched, and some haphazardly sketched in a way you couldn't even begin to guess what they would become later. A few uncapped pens sat nearby, ink untouched, next to a can of soda that had long since gone warm. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been doing — or trying to do — in the hours since you’d left him.

So, you told him to stop forcing himself. Come enjoy the scenery with you.

It was your first instinct, but the words didn’t feel enough. You weren’t an artist, you didn’t know what would be good for the block he was going through. Even though your concern was genuine, you were clumsy at best at consolation.

But, he did lower himself onto the floor beside you anyway, his hands brushing against the scattered papers as he sat and leaned back on his palms. Like this, it was easy to imagine him search for his vision to come to him among the mess as he was attempting to draw, and end up with his gaze drifting out the window instead.

And then, as if he were a tide and the moonlight was pulling him inexorably to shore, he began to open up. Pushed by your mention of watching the view together, he spoke of sceneries. Of what traveling to discover secret corners of nature meant to him before everything changed — before he started creating. About how he used to just look at the world and feel it. Admire it. He didn’t need to do anything with it back then. A sunset was just a sunset, the sea was simply the sea, and neither asked anything of him but to exist alongside them.

Once he began to create, however...

Those discoveries done from a place of pure enjoyment became material, their beauty and pain turned into fuel. The act of looking became an act of taking. Of extracting. He started to see the world not as it was, but as something that could be stripped bare and transformed. A beautiful, bleeding wound. Every sunrise painted became a slice taken from the sun. Every ocean wave he put down on canvas was a handful of ocean lost. He couldn't experience sceneries for themselves anymore without having to to capture and translate them into a demand.

He didn’t look at you while he spoke, but the portrait of his honesty could be interpreted by even the most art-blind.

It was then that he dropped the bomb on you: “If one day, I become someone who only takes from you… If I were like that, would you leave me?”

That question dropped into the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything you thought you understood about this moment.

But Rafayel was watching you in a way that made your pulse trip over itself, dissecting every flicker of your expression, like you were sitting in the middle of a high-stakes exam you hadn’t studied for. His fingers splayed on the ground besides yours were mere inches away, but even in that minimal distance, you sensed him drawing further back — a subconscious, reflexive reaction to fear, as if he needed to protect himself by retreating into some remote part of his mind, distant and closed off from the rest of him.

"Oh you silly fishie..." was your immediate response despite the whiplash he'd inflicted upon you, fondness rolling off your tongue easily, folding over itself into a dull ache for the struggle he was going through. "I won't leave you."

Your hand slid towards him, pinky finger crossing over until it brushed against his — gently, giving him ample chance to pull away before you covered his entire hand with your palm.

He was feverish again, despite all attempts made to soothe him, and the urge to smooth the pads of your fingers over his flushed skin, mapping each ridge and freckle that dotted his knuckles, surged forward within you. And you gave in, trying to make up for what you knew words would never be able to express, as you lightly rubbed lines onto the back of his hand.

It seemed to melt something in him, and he eased into your touch. It was an involuntary response to you reaching out for him — he tilted into you like he always did. It only lasted a second or two, however, before you felt him falter; like he noticed the instinctual motion midway, then consciously pushed down the reaction by gripping his thighs in an effort to sit back and avoid leaning in. Your heart dropped a little, confused, and you stole a peek at his face through the corner of your lashes to try to guess what he was thinking about.

What you saw only amplified how wrong everything felt. His features, which normally softened whenever you reached out for him, tightened, pensive. He frowned, holding back — hesitant about something, unreadable except for a subtle unease creeping in around the edges.

Even before he broke the silence, you had the awful premonition that his next words weren't going to be what you hoped to hear.

"Are you sure?" he asked, measured and quiet, and you knew you were right. This was trouble.

You squeezed his hand lightly despite wanting to do the very opposite, reassuringly, "Do you really think I’d stay even a second longer with someone I know is bad for me?"

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

Instead of acknowledging him and his cue for more reassurance and affirmation, you'd shifted the attention from him to trust in your decision making. You hadn't meant to, you hadn't done it deliberately — but...

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

So much so that Rafayel being the more emotionally in-tune of the two of you even in his vulnerable state was setting a humiliating new standard for how low you could go.

It was pathetic, really, how utterly you failed to pick up on what should have been an obvious cue. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind that he’d taken your clumsy words as a glaring sign you found his struggles trivial, insignificant compared to your own convenience. All you’d managed to do was shove him deeper into the spiral of insecurities he was already battling.

This was supposed to help him clear his head. All it had achieved so far was adding onto his concerns.

Despite your determination to pour everything you had into assuaging the gnarled knot of his self-doubt, you were woefully unqualified for the task. Unmoored, you floundered blindly through half-finished thoughts, grasping for ways to communicate your feelings — gracelessly, imprecisely — all in hopes of soothing whatever ugly thoughts tangled around your boyfriend's brain like weeds choking the life from fertile soil.

Your stammering words stuck to the roof of your mouth like taffy, thick, unwilling to yield, and suddenly useless, coming out slow as you spoke. “What I mean by that is… My life has been consumed by you. In the best way possible. You made it ito a beautiful, chaotic mess bursting with life. I couldn’t possibly leave you.”

And he heard it — you felt it in the faint shuddering breath he drew as a silent response.

His thumb swiped over your pinky in absent response, stroking soothingly over the thin bones as he stared at your joined hands. His shoulders hadn't relaxed even marginally, but there was still an immeasurable kindness in the gesture.

“Besides, you’re not someone who takes. That’s not true at all. You’re just…”

He looked up then, turning his head to you, a doe-eyed, half-dazed blink breaking past the glassy stare he'd fixed on the empty space in front of him. His hand twitched underneath yours, flexing as he made a questioning noise, wordlessly urging you to elaborate as he invited comfort from your explanation. The way he tilted his head, the corners of his furrowed brows slightly angled upwards — the effect was childlike, innocent almost.

Receptive.

Breaking through your hesitation to touch him lest he shrink away again, you lifted both hands to cradle his cheeks gently, smoothing your thumbs across the high sweep of his cheekbones until his eyelids slid shut.

A soft sigh fell from his parted lips, his body pliant in your grasp as he melted under your fingertips, as if the gesture were more potent than any reassurance you might offer. The climbing tension within your ribcage dissolved with a single exhalation at the sight — helplessly endeared by his sheer willingless to submit to your awkward, inexpressive attempt at consoling. Subtle adoration burned quietly beneath each featherlight caress you placed along the slope of his nose or the soft patches underneath his eyes.

"You're just feeling a little anxious," you continued carefully, brushing a stray piece of damp hair away from his temple. It stuck stubbornly, refusing to let itself be tucked behind his ear before you tried again, gentler this time, hoping to soothe any lingering reservations you hadn't managed to wash away. “That’s probably why you’re overthinking things.”

In the brief silence that followed, anxiety bubbled low in your stomach once more, especially when he seemed to be focusing somewhere on your neck and ignoring looking you in the eye directly. It came as yet another whiplash and a sinking feeling simultaneously when he covered one of your hands with his, tilting his chin to plant a kiss into the centre of your palm as if making up for the withdrawal from earlier.

"What, were you playing tricks on me?" you murmured.

Shaking his head, "A token of my gratitude," he clarified. A gentle huff of laughter slipped past his lips, so faintly that you would've missed it had you not been staring at him with rapt attention in your bewilderment. "For you. Who accepted someone like me."

You frowned, eyebrows immediately drawing close. “Rafayel—”

He leaned in all of a sudden, one of his arms slid behind your back, while the other stretched across in front of you, caging you in with an unnerving ease. Both his hands rested flat against the floor now, framing you on either side like a living barricade. Your own left arm shot down to slap a palm down so you wouldn't topple over on your side. The droplets falling from his damp hair onto your neck was a sharp, sudden cold in comparison to the alarming heat radiating from his body, making you jolt in place as he loomed close enough for his breath to fan across your face.

"You're burning up again," you said weakly, trying and failing spectacularly to disguise your nervousness with indignance as his lips brushed softly against the apple of your cheek before ghosting lower, pausing just beneath your ear, testing for a reaction.

Meanwhile, him taking your hand that was balled up in a fist on the ground to slowly bring it towards his mouth left you frozen and dizzy from the contradictory sensations prickling under your skin.

Rafayel hummed against your wrist in response, dropping light kisses along the ridge of bone connecting your thumb to the rest of your fingers in the interim. It was impossible to ignore how every one of his touches ignited something different within you — the sensation of him painting the length of each finger with tender brushes of his lips and heated exhales sent pulses of liquid warmth flowing through your bloodstream.

The abrupt shift had left you uncertain about many things, chief among which being whether your previous efforts actually sank in at all or not.

Apparently they had.

The combined assault was distracting, but even amidst the whirlwind of thoughts vying for attention, you struggled to fully comprehend just how drastically the moment had veered off course — how your own worry-stricken attempt at appeasing him ended here instead, with your pulse hammering in your ears as he pressed even closer, draping his arm around your waist to turn you sideways until you were nearly sitting on his lap, faces inches apart.

A glimpse hope of maintaining control over the situation arrived in the form of a can toppling over during his handling of you, clattering on the hardwood flooring and startling you enough to snap free of the strange trance Rafayel had ensnared you in during his momentary lapse in focus.

Being so close gave you a good look at the change in him that manifested suddenly; his features visibly hardened as he turned his head at the disturbance, seemingly irritated to have been interrupted midway — a dark glint shone through his lashes before shifting over to you, misty, hazy, indescribable in its raw complexity.

His bathrobe hung loose, the neckline slouched further down one shoulder from having moved so much earlier, displaying more skin than was appropriate, and you weren’t sure if you were imagining the faintest hint of familiar coloration mottling his chest.

Which was dry.

Not only had his skin absorbed all the moisture that clung to it like a sponge after stepping out of the bathroom, there was no hint of perspiration whatsoever — not a bead of sweat lining the ridges of his collarbone or dampening the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

As if responding to your inner thoughts, he lamented, "As you said, I'm anxious... Well, more like... Restless," before leaning in further to bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. "Ever since I arrived here, I feel..."

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush against the expanse of his chest and filling your nose with the scent of bodywash. It was no less than holding a solid block of heat capable of radiating more than enough warmth to replace an actual human furnace. The sheer amount of radiated temperature seemed ridiculous in such conditions, but the way he tried the loosen the already disheveled robe covering his other shoulder despite coiling around you, which had to be the source of the biggest discomfort concerning heat, was even more ridiculous. Shouldn’t he have let go of you before complaining?

"The air feels like it's burning, like there's not enough moisture anywhere. My heart's racing and I feel so miserable," he admitted quietly, muffled in the material of your shirt.

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

This wasn't normal by any means, especially since you were now a hundred percent sure Rafayel couldn't sweat in order to regulate his internal body heat.

How could you let this go on for so long? He had been suffering these symptoms for a whole day now, hiding it all under layers of petulant frustration and overdramatic complaining to escape having to ask for help.

He was always like this. So secretive and reserved about his struggles underneath all the goofiness, especially those directly related to him being a Lemurian.

You put a hand on his burning chest and pushed yourself away to put some distance between the two of you and this moment, ignoring his quiet gasp and the way he clutched your waist. "I'm taking you to a—”

Suddenly, the world spun off its axis, a dizzying blur of motion that ended with your back colliding against the floorboards.

The impact sent a ripple through the room — drawing pens clattering and rolling away, half-sketched papers crumpling beneath you, while others scattered into the air like startled birds, carried by the gust of displaced air.

As you blinked up, trying to shake the daze from your mind, the world sharpened into focus.

The light cascaded over Rafayel like liquid mercury, accentuating every sharp edge and soft curve of his form. His bare legs straddled your hips, knees pressed firmly into the ground on either side of you, pinning you in place with an effortless authority. His hands had found yours in the chaos, and now your wrists were restrained above your head, his long fingers encircling them with a grip that was firm yet somehow shaky.

The bathrobe he wore hung precariously, one shoulder already exposed to the moonlight’s caress while the other threatened to follow suit, the fabric dipping low to reveal a tantalizing V that stretched from his clavicle down to his navel. Tendrils of lilac hair curled lightly downwards with gravity, catching the light from outside, glittering like morning dew against a canvas of violet satin and plopping down onto your face, each impact making you blink. And his face, suffused with a flush so intense that it seemed to glow under the pale lighting, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to stain his fair skin with an undeniable rosy bloom.

The cool floorboards beneath your skin were contrasting harshly with the heat of his touch, and the helpless position left your pulse racing in a way you couldn’t entirely blame on adrenaline.

Rafayel lowered himself until his nose brushed lightly against yours, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes caught halfway between hazy drowsiness and burning intensity — a vivid shade of sunless plum made darker not by the shadows cast across his features, but a deeply buried and masterfully concealed emotion on the verge of making itself known to you.

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

It was something far stronger than fleeting arousal or casual infatuation — you hadn’t been looked at this way before. Weren’t even sure if a man could look at someone like this. There was nothing superficial or mundane about this particular weight. It sought to consume you. To burn you alive, leaving you to crumble into ashes like incense offered up to a deity. And the worst part? You had no idea what exactly you were being consumed by, or why.

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

“No. I’m not going anywhere,” he hissed as if sensing your plan, breath dragging along the edge of your ear. "I'm just... restless.”

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

Your mind reeled, dizzy from the intoxicating cocktail flooding your senses — from his breaths washing over the side of your neck, to the overwhelming sensation of Rafayel on the verge of draping over you like a living brand, hot and firm, trapping you in place.

"Especially when you're by my side," he purred.

Oh.

He pulled back to stare you down, heavy-lidded and glinting like knives honed razor sharp, yet somehow tender in his approach. If anything, it served only to accentuate the danger of whatever it was simmering below the surface. This was different than his Ebb Day state, but similar enough in its intent to be instantly recognizable — especially since it bore all the marks of the manic rush he fell victim to when succumbing to the lure of his instincts.

It was something primal in you that scattered your thought process into oblivion and made you look away instinctively, averting your attention toward the window off to your left — but the sparkling view of night time in Aridum was soon curtained by a flash of Rafayel's hand as he cupped the side of your face in one smooth motion.

The slight roughness of the pad of his thumb brushed along your cheekbone until his fingers sank into your hair, fanned along the outer edge of your ear, and turned you back to face him. The gesture felt proprietary, like he wanted to make certain he'd captured every last scrap of your undivided attention, like it physically hurt to allow even the smallest opportunity for you to withdraw and escape his grasp.

“Rafayel,” you forced your common sense to come out of its hiding place. “I don’t think—”

"But even so, I can't let you go. I don't want to," he breathed against your lips, punctuating his command with an achingly slow drag of his nose tracing yours. The contact made something molten unfurl in your belly, warm and sticky-slick and pooling in the hollow space below your navel, curling its tendrils through your veins like sweet, syrupy nectar. "What should I do?"

It would be easier than breathing to surrender and give him whatever he was asking for, but... but...

It felt wrong when he was so distressingly hot to the touch, not to mention you couldn't shake off the feeling he was doing his best to distract you from your worry by acting more brazenly suggestive than you'd ever seen him be before.

"You should rest, I don't think you'll enjoy getting worked up in your current condition—"

Your efforts were derailed with the subtle scrape of chapped lips running up the slope of your neck and a bite into the fleshy part below your ear as punishment for daring to answer his plea with platitude.

A shudder shook your frame, nerves firing off confused messages in quick succession throughout your brain, half demanding the sudden pressure recede and half urging more from the tingling heat. Your hand flew to grip his bare shoulder, fingers digging in until the tight bunch of muscle strained beneath his fevered skin — not enough to stop his ministrations, but enough to serve as a weak deterrent.

"Such lovely lips, spinning such pretty excuses," Rafayel huffed, drawing back and sweeping his thumb across your chin with gentle disapproval. "When we both know you don't want me to let you go either."

The words trailed off into something softer, tender, almost wistful, and were followed by the pad of his finger slipping past your parted lips, stroking along the underside of your tongue before drawing back and skimming across the wet patch he'd left glistening upon your bottom lip. As if magnetized, his smoldering stare followed, entranced by the minute trembling of your mouth, darting occasionally upward to capture your own hooded eyes at the sudden boldness of his gesture. He licked his own lips slowly as if thirsty, mirroring the same lazy stroke he'd used against your mouth, allowing you to take your fill of the sight.

No.

Before you could fall into his enticing trap again, your palm pressed firmly against Rafayel's chest until he eased back obediently, giving you space to rise, every single sensation previously pink at the edges quickly melting into clarity about taking care of him properly.

"This isn't the right time," you insisted breathlessly once you managed to catch your breath and speak, steadfast with the strain of iron will alone — pushing forward when your mind threatened to wander where his moistened lips had been just seconds before.

The mood was quickly dispelling, much to Rafayel's clear irritation, judging by the petulant slouch of his shoulders. You emphasized your point by putting your hands on his forehead, cheeks, neck, every patch of skin you could reach, the clear intent of medical examination being communicated silently until he relented with a dramatic sigh, turning his face upwards to expose more of his throat as if giving permission.

"It's fine," he groused reluctantly, although his grumbling somewhat relenting in volume under your gentle inspection. "I'm not dying."

"That's the opposite of what you said earlier today. Are you sure you don't want—"

His hands closed firmly around your wrists, tugging you off gently before you could finish speaking. "It's really not that bad.”

You’d be more convinced if he'd just told you about how miserable he was feeling.

"Is it a Lemurian condition?" You frowned up at him, taking note of how carefully he cradled your hands in his palms, stroking the insides of your wrists. "If it's making you feel awful, shouldn't we see someone about it?"

Rafayel tilted his head at you with a peculiar sort of fondness written across his features. It was difficult to identify what precisely made his smile curve upward into something distinctly knowing, yet warm — something infinitely affectionate yet impossible to quantify.

"Already doing that," he answered cryptically, tilting forward until he met your forehead with his own, nuzzling into the creased spot directly between your brows, eyelashes fluttering shut.

Ugh, this man.

"Do you know for a fact if you'll be okay?" you asked as delicately as possible without sounding too overbearing. That would definitely push Rafayel closer to defensive territory again and have him brush off any attempt at assistance, or even conversation, so you needed to walk the tightrope of concern while still keeping it mild enough for him not to clam up. "This trip still has a few more days left. What if you don't get better?"

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly with a ghost of a smile, perhaps pleased by your attentiveness —— "I enjoy this kind of concern."

—— which was starting to irritate you a little. "Well, I don't. Seeing you suffer and not doing anything isn't enjoyable."

He had the audacity to grin at that, broad enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes as he ducked his head coyly before turning it sharply to brush the tip of his nose against the shell of your ear and murmuring, "Not enjoying seeing me suffering does imply some enjoyment in seeing me otherwise."

"Rafayel!" You snapped finally, jerking out of his embrace with exasperated incredulity, only to meet an unrepentant smile waiting for you beyond your escape. He wasn't deterred whatsoever, which was a little unnerving.

Or rather, the rapid shift to your own pent-up restlessness was about to become in the next two days.

The limbo between then and the memorial hall day unfolded in a whirlwind of contradictions, each more puzzling than the last — starting from the abrupt ending to your interlude in front of the window, where he suddenly pulled back without any warning at all, leaving you cold and stunned with the excuse that he wanted to go to sleep, subsequently kicking you out of his hotel room as if possessed by a demonic force capable of inducing selective amnesia.

Like he wasn’t asking to fold you in half like a laptop mere moments ago.

The result was you forcing mandatory house rest until the day of the memorial hall visit came, settling awkwardly between coddling and hovering — a weird blend of fussing over his health like a mother hen and trying desperately not to make him feel infantilized as a result of said fussing.

All of that only ended with him either clinging close or deliberately distancing himself in confusing waves that seemed to occur at random intervals with little rhyme or reason.

It was simultaneously bewildering and heartbreaking. You had no idea how to react when he gave you zero insight into his thoughts and behaviors unless coaxed open, and even then, his answers were cryptic.

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

Maybe you shouldn't have pushed. But you worried.

Especially when he was dismissive like that despite being openly going through something other than a fever and a creative block, made worse by his inability to leave the hotel due to the hostile environment. Both of which you could do nothing to help with.

He would sit at the edge of the bed, his sketchbook propped open but untouched, pencil hovering above the page as though waiting for some divine spark that refused to come. At times, he’d stand by the window, reminding you of a cat sitting by its food dish for its owner to fill it with dinner, paw swiping irritatingly at its empty confines. Then, just as abruptly, he’d abandon his spot to sprawl across your lap instead while you were busy with paperwork online, one arm draped loosely over his stomach as he stared blankly at the ceiling in defeat, and demanding you play with his hair.

Then, some time later, it was back to deciding being near you was unbearable, pulling away entirely whenever you reached out for reassurance, no matter how casual or friendly your intentions, retreating back into his personal bubble to focus on attempting to get something on paper mindlessly, pages fluttering with restless action, crumpling here and there under the rough treatment before being smoothed out hastily.

The cycle continued nonstop. Restlessness, fatigue, clinginess, building you up while you didn't let it show because time and place, solitude, then back again — you never knew what Rafayel's whimsies were going to bring, and the uncertainty of it wore you thin, fraying your already wan nerves.

The humidifier was a desperate, last-ditch effort, the kind born out of sheer frustration and the kind of exhaustion that makes rationality optional.

You’d bought it from a small local shop at the crack of dawn, spurred on by the memory of walking into Rafayel’s suite only hours before, where he’d bullied the hotel staff into delivering two oversized sacks of ice — each roughly the size of a small child — and ordered them to be dumped unceremoniously into his bathtub.

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

By the time you returned and set it up, the machine had barely begun spitting out its first gentle stream of cool mist before Rafayel sat down beside it, legs folded beneath him like a solemn monk meditating in front of some sacred relic. His quiet intensity as he stared at the thing made you wonder if he was grateful, resentful, or some combination of both — because with Rafayel, it was never as simple as one emotion at a time.

Still, the day turned out to be noticeably easier on him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the worst had passed.

He still looked like death warmed over, often pink on the face and worn, but at least he wasn’t on the brink of staging another late-night ice-bag heist.

He even tolerated your awkward attempts to distract him, accepting your offerings of snacks, endless glasses of ice water, iced tea, whatever cold beverages you could scrounge up, and a marathon of that one TV show the two of you had been meaning to watch together.

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

You were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the kind of person who showered people with attention. You weren’t the mom friend. You didn’t hover. But something about Rafayel in this state, rightfully whiny, subdued, far too fragile for your liking, made you want to roll him over in bubble wrap and shove him in your pocket to keep him safe from everything.

In some ways, you were more anxious than he was.

The helplessness swung at you like you were a tree and it was an axe, the inability to snap your fingers and fix him, to just make it better was torture. Worrying felt inevitable, but useless. And the not knowing what to do with yourself in between bouts of fretting? That was worse. Still, he wasn’t showing any signs of further deterioration, which felt like a victory you didn’t want to jinx.

You were so relieved you briefly considered leaving all your savings to the shop clerk who’d sold you the overpriced humidifier. She had probably thought you’d lost your mind, judging by the way you thanked her like she’d just handed you a ticket to salvation, practically singing her praises as she rang up your purchase. And honestly, if you could go back in time, you would’ve thanked her even more profusely.

Because it worked. Rafayel was better — well, better-ish. Better enough that you decided it was safe to move forward with the plan to visit the memorial hall.

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

The sheer impossibility of it left you breathless, like you were standing at the edge of a fever dream made real. The water stretched out endlessly, shimmering beneath the brutal sun, and you couldn’t stop marveling at the sheer absurdity of it — a body of water so vast, so alive, nestled in a place it had no right to be. It felt like a miracle.

It was a miracle.

And just when you thought the desert couldn’t surprise you further, the skies proved you wrong soon enough later, crowning the experience with snowfall at the end of the trip. Snow, delicate and silent, drifting from the sky like a benediction.

You couldn’t help but marvel at it all — at how the world had managed to gift you two impossibilities in the span of a single day. It felt like the desert itself was defying logic, bending over backward to offer something beautiful, something extraordinary, as though it wanted to prove it wasn’t all hardship and sunburnt misery.

But Rafayel stood by the edge of the ocean with a look that made your chest ache — a look that spoke not of wonder, but of mourning. To you, it was a miracle, but to him, it was a tragedy: a dying ocean trapped in a place it could no longer thrive, its very existence a reminder of something slipping away. An everlasting eulogy engraved into reality.

He didn’t look away from the canvas of pain he had set up and started painting for himself until you voiced all of what you thought out loud for him to see.

And this time, you truly felt like you had broken through — like you’d reached him in a way that mattered.

It was there, in that rare, fragile moment, that Rafayel dove straight through your hesitation, sidestepping the awkward pauses you were fumbling with, and pulled you into an embrace before you even had the courage to ask if you could. It was as though he had heard the unspoken thought aloud, plucking it out of the air with startling precision.

And then he’d confessed — softly, almost too softly — that at the time, he had wanted to come here before, with the most important person in his life.

Those words lodged themselves in your chest, a bittersweet ache blooming alongside the unmistakable joy bubbling up within you. You hugged him back as tightly as you could, pouring all the gratitude you didn’t know how to put into words into that one simple gesture. Gratitude for trusting you enough to share that. Gratitude for showing you yet another new side of himself, something unguarded and rare. A treat, indeed, one you hadn’t expected but cherished all the same.

Relief flooded through you, so potent it felt like a physical weight lifting from your shoulders. You hadn’t even realized how tense you’d been until that moment. Your body relaxed, and with that relaxation came fatigue, the kind that crept up on you and left no room for resistance. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep during the entire way back, lulled into a rare sense of peace you hadn’t felt in days.

And yet.

Like clockwork, he withdrew the instant you arrived back at the hotel.

Rafayel never thought he’d truly understand what it meant to drown.

As a creature of the sea, he wasn't meant to in the first place.

Not until you.

The realization had hit him like a storm breaking over still waters — not all at once, but in slow, rumbling waves that built. He didn’t even feel himself breaking; it was more like a slow erosion, the kind that wears stone into sand. Quiet, but irreversible. Your optimism. Your touches. Your encouragement. Inching in and in and in one step at a time.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

He had been holding himself together in the driver's seat, hands knotted around the steering wheel and knuckles bloodless with how tightly he gripped. Every inch of him vibrated with anxiety, away from where you lay fast asleep beside him, breathing shallow and uneven like he was afraid of exhaling too loudly. But there you were, oblivious, asleep, your head leaning softly against the window as if his world hadn’t collapsed in on itself.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

It wasn’t the desert heat that was killing him, though it might as well have been. (Everything about this place grated against him — the air, the dry scrape of his skin, the silence of the fading ocean that was too vast to be comforting. Too big. Too empty. Fading. Fading. A warning from cities away that this land was no place for a creature like him.) He wasn’t meant for this — for the cracked earth and the relentless sun and the suffocating absence of water. His body ached for moisture, for the cool, familiar embrace of the sea, but it ached even more for you. (He didn’t even realize how long he had been watching you from the corner of his peripheral vision — how long he had been unraveling, thread by thread.)

You’d tilted his world off its axis, turned everything he thought he knew into something unrecognizable. Once, pain had been his anchor. It was always there—constant, unyielding, something he could hold on to when nothing else made sense. It had driven him, fueled him, given him purpose when nothing else could. He had sought it out like a man dying of thirst seeks a mirage, and it had never failed him. Pain was constant. Pain was reliable. Pain was everything. Inside. Outside. It was all he had ever known, and it had kept him alive — fed the anger that gnashed his insides with teeth and claws, soothed the beast that prowled just under his skin, tempered the instinct that drove him relentlessly onward. Toward destruction. Towards home.

He had used it as a shield, as armor, as the whip he wielded against those who dared to clip the tails of his people. A weapon. A tool. A brush.

And then there was you (who he'd willingly sought out, angry and grieving and resentful and hurt.)

You, who didn’t fit into his carefully crafted world of suffering and art and revenge. You, who had made him forget (as easily as you forgot him) what it felt like to hurt, to ache, to yearn for something greater than himself. To hate. To see others bleed while his fingers flew across canvas after canvas, leaving only beauty in their wake — only soaring wings, only gleaming scales, only flowing water, only living fire, only reaching skies, only rushing wind, only rising floods...

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

Except now, he did yearn. He yearned in a way that was foreign and unbearable, in a way that felt like drowning — not in water, but in light, in warmth, in the overwhelming weight of wanting something too much. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he wanted you this much — needed you this much — when he didn’t even know who he was without all the hurt and hatred inside. It wasn’t fair that he felt something hot and ugly churning under his skin whenever you smiled up at him in admiration, filling his stomach with lead until he thought he might collapse beneath its heaviness. It wasn't fair that there were times when he thought it might actually be better not to have met you again at all.

(That thought filled him with dread so immense it threatened to crush the breath from his lungs; the possibility of having spent his entire life stumbling aimlessly through darkness towards a destination he was no longer sure even existed — )

He watched you sleep, the rhythm of your breathing steady and unbothered.

His gaze lingered on your hands, resting loosely in your lap, fingers twitching faintly as if even in sleep, you were reaching for something. (Reaching for him?) He wanted to take them in his own, to press them to his lips, to hold on so tightly he’d never have to let go. But he couldn’t. (He wouldn’t.)

Because the moment he did, he knew he’d lose whatever fragile standing he had left.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

His thoughts spiraled, looping back on themselves in a tangle of contradictions that refused to resolve; questions without answers, fears without resolutions. What had he become, to need you like this? To depend on you like this? To depend on you so completely that even the idea of your absence felt like the loss of something vital — something essential — an emptiness he wasn't prepared to face.

(What must you think of him? Did you even know what you did to him? What would you think of him?)

He had told himself he could manage it, that he could stay close enough to feel your warmth but far enough not to burn. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He was already burning. He had been burning since the moment he met you. An addictive pain — the kind that made him ache for more even as it seared him from the inside out.

And before he knew it, the car was parked beside the hotel entrance around the far corner of the garden, and Rafayel didn’t remember driving there at all.

He blinked, confused for a moment as to how exactly he had managed to pilot the vehicle, when you stirred quietly in the passenger seat, drawing his attention like a moth to flame.

You groaned softly, eyelids fluttering, but remained firmly locked within slumber's grip as he unbuckled your seatbelt for you, as gently as if he were handling fine china. Your head leaned sideways against the headrest and faced him, slack and soft with sleep. His fingers twitched around the plastic buckle, curling into a fist until he thought they might cramp under the strain.

He leaned forward, forehead coming to contact with the cool leather surface of the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut tight enough to blot out your presence entirely.

There was too much to process — too many feelings, thoughts, sensations threatening to overwhelm him if he looked directly at them, instead swirling through his head like debris caught in a vortex, invisible yet disorienting nonetheless.

But they all blipped out of existence the moment he turned his head around, following the impulse to look.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

The urge struck Rafayel with all the force of a lightning bolt — bright, sudden, unavoidable — and suddenly the knuckles of his fingers were sliding across your cheek, feather-light in gentle arcs along the arch of your cheek, savoring every inch of satin flesh as it shifted beneath his caress.

The sensation of touch buzzed pleasantly underneath his skin previously starved, reveling in the sweetness of contact after so many days of withdrawal.

The artificial light coming from outside bathed your sleeping form in a glow that cascaded like a gentle waterfall, chiaroscuro shadows casting angles upon your features, emphasizing every line and curve, and for a long time, all he could do was stare. He could feel your breath against the tips of his nails, warm puffs of moist exhales against his calloused flesh, and found himself fixating on the gentle undulation of your chest as you breathed — unconsciously, mindlessly unaware of what such a simple act did to him.

The memory of your voice echoed in his mind, soft and certain, cutting through the chaos like a beam of light.

"Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?"

You had a way of reframing everything, of taking the pieces of his broken world and rearranging them into something that almost looked like hope. (He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.) It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

You hadn’t asked to become such an integral part of his existence — so intrinsic and fundamental and irreplaceable. Yet somehow, here you were. Here he was. The absence of water, the grief of it. The grief of what it meant to lose something so essential, so intrinsic, that one didn’t know how to live without it. And that grief had found a new home in you. You, who had become his ocean, his escape, the source of every ache in his chest and joy in his heart.

(Isn't it a surprise that there's an ocean in the desert? Isn't it a surprise you're the muse calling to him and not the muffled, fading cries of the dying ocean in pain, not the skeletal remains of an era he'd never get back?)

He gazed, and gazed, and gazed, drinking you in like a thirsty man lost in a sea of golden sands, watching the subtle play of lights over the curves of your face — the delicate angle of your chin, the arch of your nose, the graceful slope of your neck as it curved into collarbone and shoulder — memorizing every detail he could, without the pressure of having to wrench himself back before he drowned in your wake, without the need to pretend to your face he was anything less than desperate to be with you all day, every day, in every way possible. And that the sound of your voice in his ears was enough to get the paintbrush running across paper from the sheer momentum of his imagination.

But he couldn't keep going like this.

Somehow, somewhen, between the start of your journey and now, this thing had begun shifting irrevocably past his ability to contain it any longer. Had grown exponentially until it seemed to dwarf his capacity to handle it. All it would take was being away from you for a mere few hours to bring him to a level of misery that was honestly embarrassing.

And you had no idea.

No idea that orbiting around him in these past few days like a second moon had only served to exacerbate the foul joy of watching you fawn over him.

It made him sick to his stomach to admit it, but soaking in the knowledge (in his soul, through the bond) that you cared so deeply for him went straight to his head like some drug he hadn't realized he needed.

It felt so despairingly good that he would wrap himself around you like a vine climbing towards sunlight if he could for the rest of his days, absorbing your rays of affection like photosynthesis... or a parasite.

(Was he being punished by the sea that this love was eclipsing his fury and vengeance? Or rewarded that he held both equally in his grasp despite how terribly wrong it felt at times? Regardless, his inspiration was the punchline, once only capable of singing into the canvas elegies of lament and sorrow, now composed ballads and odes that poured out effortlessly.)

You would hate him if you ever found out just how perversely his emotions swung in every direction; so high one moment that the ecstasy of relief nearly shattered his reserve of control, and so low the next that he feared he'd choke to death from the guilt that clawed up the back of his throat like a strangled animal's cry for mercy.

This entire ordeal had flipped the script completely — instead of keeping you at arm's length as he normally did (regarding… everything), Rafayel now clung onto you desperately like Tantalus to a branch of fruit he’d finally gotten a grasp of, and what if he was exposed? The question rose like bile in his mouth whenever he began slipping.

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

It remembered. It never forgot. It told him you'd flee and never look back if he let a sliver of this dependency that bound him tighter to you with each passing day slip out from his fingertips — if he allowed you even the tiniest insight into the strange workings of his head and his heart.

Because you didn’t understand. You couldn’t. You had no idea what you were talking about when you told him you wouldn’t leave. How could you, when you didn’t know the depths of what you were promising to stay for? You didn’t know the true nature of Lemurian love, its ferocity, its weight, its cost. The all-consuming, all-encompassing reality of it — how they loved as if it was the only thing tethering them to existence itself. How they lived for it, how they died for it. How he had been dying for it.

If you saw it — if you saw him — you would run. He knew you would. Because if he laid bare just how much he depended on you, how much of his breath, his will, his very being hinged on you, you’d be overwhelmed. You’d leave.

Why else would he be tearing himself apart like this? Miserably trying to wean himself off you, forcing himself to let go only to grasp harder each time he felt you’d finally come to hate him and slip away?

He didn't know how long he sat there in silence.

Just a bit longer, he would keep watching you with these feelings out in the open. Just a little bit longer. He couldn’t bear to wake you up.

By the time you stirred, groggy and disoriented but blissfully unsuspecting, it felt as though several eternities had passed in the span of minutes, and he had to struggle with all the strength of a raging current to force himself back into this skin of his that felt too tight and suffocating around him.

But, still resting his temple against the steering wheel with an arm slung on top of it and another hanging lazily at his side, feigning ease, nothing betrayed his inner turmoil.

He watched quietly as you slowly regained your bearings, resisting the temptation to reach out and brush aside that one piece of hair out of place on your head, letting you find the words first.

(So adorable. So endearing.)

(It was not only snowing in his desert. There was also an ocean in there.)

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

"How long was I asleep?" You blinked at him blearily, one hand lifting to rub the lingering tiredness from your eyelids as you peer into the darkness of night beyond his silhouette. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Everything he'd been thinking about vaporized and left behind nothing but softness, so tender it scared him; it seeped into the spaces in his heart left vacant and curled inside them, filling every corner, until it made the next smile he offered you come free of burden. "You were sleeping so well, cutie. I didn't want to disturb you."

The unconscious put of your lips and the way that strand of hair bounced around when you slid down your seat a little had him leaning in before he knew what he was doing, smoothing the unruly thing, fingertips betraying him by skating across the outer edge of your ear while he watched you tilt your cheek instinctively.

His body warmed immediately, gravitating towards you in a half-hug that kept you cradled close to the side of his frame as he nuzzled into your hair above your temple with a hum, dipping his nose deeper into the crown of your head near where your neck curved gracefully upwards before inhaling deep — greedy, thirsty, like he’d die if he couldn’t seep up all the scent of you.

Your breathing hitched a bit, and that’s what halted him right at the corner of your mouth with a sharp exhale — he couldn’t be doing this, he was just thinking about how he needed to pull back and —

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

He was supposed to be on his way to there like yesterday.

If only his body didn’t move like a most willing pupped tethered by strings to yours and refused to walk away whenever he tried.

“…Rafayel?”

It suddenly hotter in this car like a tide pool at noon. So stiflingly hot he was breathing fire even with the snowy weather outside. So unbearable the deepest V-cut known to mankind that had his whole chest out for the world to ogle did nothing to help.

He could… He could skip.

Yeah, he needed this. It had been literal days of non-stop withdrawal and a push-and-pull of his frustration that you wouldn’t touch him (because oh noo, he was sick — which, he wasn’t!) and stubbornness to not let you touch him. He’d gotten to a point that he was drunk off your scent alone and he couldn’t keep doing this forever, and why should he? Why did it matter about this event at all? Who cared — who cared about some stupid gathering? He wasn’t functioning anyways until he—

Stop. He had to stop. He was already so late.

He imagined catching himself by the scruff of his neck and yanking himself back to the driver's seat, within safe borders. Far away from your mesmerizing lips and wandering eyes and cute squirming in your seat under the thin cover of innocence.

And pulling away and practically fusing with the car door was exactly what he did.

He needed to prove to himself, just this once, that he could function without the constant reassurance of your presence — that he wasn’t helplessly anchored to you, no matter how much the pull of your moon whispered otherwise.

He had to dilute himself. This — and his inspiration problem, involving you or not, was his to figure out. And he had to figure it out if he wanted you to stay by his side.

"...Do you wanna go back to your room first?" he heard himself ask you quietly.

"You're not coming with me?" The tiny furrow of worry between your brows spoke volumes about your confusion, and despite wanting to reach out and smooth it away, to wipe every ounce of uncertainty from your face with a tender kiss, Rafayel clenched his fingers around the door handle of the vehicle until they cramped, his heart aching strangely inside his chest as you stared quizzically at him.

He brought out the invitation that came with the memorial hall ticket, waving it a little with little to no enthusiasm, "I still have to attend my friend's art salon thing."

The way your shoulders deflated and face dropped at the mention made him waver in — not enough to follow through with ditching the whole thing, but certainly making his resolve weak enough to crack like glass under pressure. "But you don't look well. You need to rest."

How could someone manage to resist getting spoiled like this, he thought miserably as he closed his eyes while you continued fussing, peering worriedly up into his face with the cutest scrunch to your forehead, palms searching along his cheeks heat before trailing down the length of his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to give in to that impulse of being coddled to bits by your hands alone.

He was a weak man.

You nearly lifted off the passenger seat and fell into his lap the way he embraced you, his arms coiling around you like kelp around a rock, holding fast as though you might slip away with the wind. His face buried into the crook of your neck, breath warm and uneven against your skin, his grip snug yet teetering on the edge of too much — like he didn’t trust himself to let go. There was a desperation in the way his hands trembled slightly, his fingers pressing into your sides, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave the faintest impression of how badly he needed this. When your pained whine broke through, it was like snapping a thread, he instantly loosened his hold, guilt washing over his features as he pulled back just enough to make room for you to breathe. But he stayed close, his forehead dipping to rest against your shoulder as a heavy sigh rumbled deep from his chest, raw and apologetic. You leaned heavily into him, your fingers threading into his hair in a gesture that should have comforted him, but instead left him drowning deeper in the tangled sea of his emotions.

"See? You're burning up again," you mumbled as your cool lips grazed his temple in a comforting kiss. He was no better than a child. He knew it. And he hated how much he basked in your coddling, reveled in the unspoken message behind your words: Don't hide it. Tell me when you hurt. I care. "Maybe we can go together? Will you feel okay if I'm there?"

He would. He would feel more than okay, because that's what made him function.

But he couldn't keep being like this.

"Do you wanna turn me into a sea creature beached on the sand after the ocean recedes," he whispered, mostly kidding except not really, hiding in the dip of your neck just below your ear, hand tracing absent shapes into the small of your back above your tailbone. "Unable to breathe on my own, waiting helplessly for your tide's return?"

Your fingers stroking through his hair slowed, then stilled entirely at the edge of his nape. You pulled back only far enough to meet his lowered stare, confusion dancing within your own, bright and clear and genuine. You had no inkling of what was going on with him, and he didn’t want you to find out either. He would be fine. He was going to handle it.

"Don't you trust me?" Rafayel said. "How about we make a promise? I promise... I'll be okay without you tonight."

It hurt to lie to you so directly, but seeing your doubt dissolve to appease him helped soothe that sting considerably. (Even if it felt a little too convenient to rely on such flimsy methods.) You nodded, seeming convinced in spite of yourself, and his stance firmed — strengthened with your faith and affirmation alike, like he'd just taken a double shot of espresso. He would be okay. He wasn't going to keep imposing his feelings upon you even if a part of him desperately yearned to, no matter how difficult the prospect seemed.

(Say no, a small part of him whispered traitorously, selfishly, insistently. Ask me to stay. You know I can't say no to you, he wanted to plead. Needed to be affirmed once more, reassured that he was welcome to indulge, to remain, to lean into the comfort you offered freely.)

"Okay..." you echoed uncertainly, but gave him another soft smile — tentative yet warm, gentle encouragement. He watched quietly as your expressions shifted in quick succession, cycling through shades of hesitation and worry before settling on resignation. You nodded again, firmer this time, seemingly steeling yourself against whatever doubts you harbored. He wanted to kiss it all away.

But instead, he gently pushed you back, sinking further into his seat, looking out the view beyond the windshield to gather his wits against the force that was your presence beside him.

"You can head back," he repeated, not turning to meet your searching stare. "I can handle it."

The art salon had an air of cultivated elegance, grandiosity reflecting into soaring ceilings and walls adorned with curated artworks, with conversations floating in fragmented pieces, the occasional laughter punctuating the steady hum of "cultured" discourse — all the while Rafayel stood at the periphery, his posture consciously maintained with the kind of deliberate nonchalance that masked a profound discomfort, one hand buried in his pant pockets and the other holding a flute glass of champagne, ghosting the suffocating room with an expression of aloof disdain, attention drifting from painting to painting without ever settling. Humans circled him like murmuring specters, their faces a study in muted curiosity and empty civility. He loathed their presence. (Yet, here he was.)

The room's overwhelming sensory overload grated against his composure — cloying mingling of varnish and wine, sharply polished sheen of curated lighting, artifice of smiles that never reached their eyes...

He should leave. (No, he had to stay.)

The dichotomy was a pendulum swinging between contempt and an unspoken compulsion to endure. He’d insisted he didn’t need you here, insisted on proving — to himself as much as to you — that he could function without your constant presence. But the more he replayed his own words in his mind, the more it was obvious the joke was on him.

He rolled his eyes as an overly enthusiastic laugh erupted nearby, a sound sharp enough to pinprick through his already thinning out patience. His hand twitched in his pocket, the movement a reflexive manifestation of his barely-contained frustration.

(Focus.)

The art, exquisite as it was, did little to distract him as the chatter blurred into a meaningless drone, the edges of the room constricting him under the weight of pretense.

And then. The tug.

At first, it was delicate — an unsuspecting tremor sifting through his awareness, like the faintest ripple across an otherwise still surface that he thought he was imagining and hoping this was you. But it swelled rapidly, a deluge of sensations sweeping him off his feet towards your pull with a force that left his breath stuttering and the floor wavering beneath, erupting into vivid, agonizing clarity.

His lips tingled, a ghostly imprint of a kiss not yet given.

Heat bloomed under his skin, first at the base of his throat, spreading like a slow, insidious current. The faintest pressure, then, at his collarbone, radiating outward, like silk dragging over sensitive skin, a tingling warmth that prickled and spread, until it seemed to rewrite the very contours of his form, leaving him trembling with phantom caresses that lingered far too long to ignore.

He could feel the press of your palms against his chest, the drag of your nails over the planes of his stomach, each sensation so precise it made his breath catch, and the ache in his hands mirrored the way you gripped at yourself. Every brush of your hand — every hurried, seeking stroke — burned through him like smoldering embers, and he swore he could hear the faintest hitch of your breath, feel the tremor in your thighs.

A siren song of need that echoed his own, calling him under, drowning him in you.

Come to me, come to me, stay with me.

His breath hitched with the oxygen turning into lava-hot needle prickling in his lungs, his legs going limp as noodles and giving way. He collapsed into the nearest chair with a jarring lack of control, the motion abrupt, almost violent.

One hand clamped onto the edge of the table as he hastily discarded the champagne glass to cover where the bond was glowing, fingers digging into the wood as if it were the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

A single candle at the table’s center responded instead of Rafayel, its once languid, uninterested flame quivering violently, and then erupting into an erratic flare, a burst of light so sharp and sudden it cut through the room like a gasp. The activity drew murmurs from those nearby, heads turning, eyes widening as the flame seemed to writhe with a life of its own as wax spilled over the edges of its holder, dripping down in frantic rivulets, glistening like molten gold beneath the trembling glow.

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch violently and slap it away, the contact snapping him partway out of his spiraling thoughts. "Don't."

He was already rising, the chair scraping noisily against the floor as he pushed himself upright with a force that bordered on frenetic. The friend stood as well, confusion clear, but Rafayel didn’t wait to explain — with a curt shake of his head, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, leaving the other man standing there with his hand half-raised, a bewildered, "Hey, where are you going, come back!" hanging unanswered in the air.

The murmurs of those left behind — curious stares, the faint scrape of chairs and clothes ruffling — faded into irrelevance, they barely even registered. The bond burned like a tether, yanking him back to you, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to disobey.

By the time he reached the cool air of the night outside, he was seething. He had heard you loud and clear.

You merciless, cruel, horrible witch of a woman, punishing him with your sweet truth in an act so loving yet selfish, selfless yet entirely possessive, driving him completely to his wit's end until the only remaining thought was yours — to worship you wholly, thoroughly, obsessively, as deeply as he wanted.

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

Because for his sanity to be tested like you intended it would be, of course you had to be in there of all places.

He was able to crash in the way he wanted like a dam bursting without knocking holding him back. In fact, he didn’t even bother calling out at all.

And honestly, he wasn’t even lucid enough for coherent thoughts such as those the moment his vision tunneled on your frame in the middle of his space, your back turned to him, an unaware and unintentional siren in a fluffy white robe loosely tied at your hips.

His robe.

Rafayel was moving before he registered the full picture — prowling the distance between you within seconds, hand snatching up yours and spinning you around. Just being this close and touching you uninhibited got the synapses firing faster than bullets in his head. He pushed forward into your space with no preamble, crowding you against the floor-to-ceiling window. He spared another two or three precious seconds taking in your startled expression with vindication (“Rafayel, what are you doing here?” before putting a stop to all the unnecessary talking with a kiss.

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

One knee pushed between your thighs, a subtle but undeniable acknowledgment of what he’d felt, and you faltered, clutching the sides of his shirt so abruptly the lily decorations peppered through out clinked. A quiet noise escaped past your lips, muffled by his own and intensifying the building pressure simmering in his gut as he played with the collar of your robe — his robe — and drank greedily from you.

He felt a push at his chest.

The separation between you that couldn’t be more than a tight space to breathe each other’s air brought the world rushing back into focus — Aridum’s quiet, serene snowfall materialized behind your head like a mockery of their frenzied tangle of limbs, the ambient sounds of the city bustling in the distance dampened.

Your eyes searched his, glazed and hazy with steadily-building arousal, yet waiting nonetheless for an answer, shiny lips parted in wordless wonder.

Rafayel could say nothing. The words were there, soda fizz under the surface threatening to erupt into something incomprehensible at best if he opened his mouth.

His palm engulfed your cheek and drew you right back in, continuing the kiss with more urgency to prevent you from tumbling out from his grasp again — let the action speak for him.

The need that thrummed deep beneath rendered him mute, save for strained sighs and grunts of effort louder than the rustle of fabric and the thuds of feet shuffling around on the floor as he plundered your mouth, tongue chasing yours. It tasted like toothpaste and chapstick, like fresh mint leaves, like nurturing warmth cooling his into something calmer.

Rafayel’s hand left your face and slid down your back to seize your waist, dragging you closer, flushing your hips against his firmer and pushing his thigh more brashly. Not even a second later, his other hand bracing your wrist against the window pulled your arm into him to spin you around like in a dance, switching positions without breaking away.

And you bit him.

He recoiled with an “Ah,” that was more surprised than pained, drawing away just enough to swipe his thumb over the curve of his bottom lip where your teeth had punctured him.

“Why are you here?”

Something rotten and vicious was about to bare his fangs at you through a smile he barely stopped from telling on himself by holding back, ‘You called,’ from slipping.

The other, more acceptable answer came in a quick and effortless sweep of your legs off the floor, draping them over either side of his waist, one palm supporting you underneath like the cradle of a hammock as he pivoted towards the bed. “This is my room,” he said — low, simple, keeping eye contact to witness your frustration. “You’re the one who walked in here.”

He saw in the curl of your mouth that you would’ve continued arguing semantics if not for Rafayel bending to deposit you gently atop the bed for you to settle safely beneath him. The mattress creaked under his shifting as he eased further and started descending to resume getting lost in your kisses until a finger landed upon his lips.

“What I meant was,” you started, and Rafayel exhaled against your touch and nuzzled into it like an obedient pet coming to heel with a lowered tail before his master. “Shouldn’t you be at that art salon?”

He stared, blood about to keel over the boiling point.

His beloved was pouting. So adorable that he wanted to bite down.

You’d been so patient with him, hadn’t you? The little divot between your brows called out to Rafayel, begging to be kissed.

“I regret going in the first place,” he said, getting closer to breathe those words directly against the curve of your ear, savoring its delicate shell and the heat emanating from it against his lower lip — basking in the short tremble he could pull out of you that told him all he needed to know. “Stay here with me—”

His arm dipped around your waist and tugged you insistently closer, shakily eager, while your hands scrambled at his biceps, the side of your neck stretching upward to meet his halfway and melting further into him like candle wax molding against Rafayel and pooling liquid sweetness inside him like a basin filled.

Ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring!

What the hell? Now?

A surge of irrational anger flared inside Rafayel, sharp and sudden, as if the hotel room phone had personally wronged him so bone-deep that his ancestors themselves had been insulted by its shrill, untimely ring. He clicked his tongue sharply against the roof of his mouth, a frustrated noise brimming with disdain as he reached out with the intention of silencing the nuisance immediately.

But before his hand could reach the red button, your fingers curled gently around his wrist, halting him mid-motion. The touch was soft, warm, and unassuming, yet it cut through his irritation more effectively than words ever could. His breath hitched as he glanced down at your hand, stilling under the quiet weight of what you were going to say next.

“Wait,” your dulcet murmur came. “What if it’s something important?”

More than this?

The irritation got you a side eye for that — but he quickly caught onto where this was heading from the way you gave him a pointed, sultry glance under your lashes and the faintest devilish curl at the corners at your lips. The grip around his wrist turned into your fingers interlacing with his as you guided him to accept the call, holding his gaze so intensely throughout that the beginning of the reception’s announcement went unheard in his ears.

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message."

Rafayel hadn’t even found a chance to breathe, let alone process what was even happening when you pushed him off and knocked him flat onto his back, straddling his hips with surprising speed which elicited an involuntary jolt from him.

He froze, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the thick, burning, moistureless air that was overheating him. A thousand words tumbled in a rush into his mouth at once, all died under his breath in a sigh as his senses swam and short-circuited in response to your boldness, the sheer power radiating off your figure captivating him. For a single, stretched heartbeat, all he could do was look up — look at you.

The light from the ceiling framed your form in a way that bordered on divine, spilling past the loose strands of hair that fell around your face and catching on the curves of your silhouette like a lover's caress. Shadows slithered around you, dipping into the soft folds and valleys of the bathrobe that clung to you in all the places his gaze couldn’t help but follow.

And then the vision struck, slicing through his mind like a blade dragged cleanly through water.

No, you brought it to him, conjuring it as surely as though you had whispered it directly into his mind.

The blues wouldn’t just be blues — shadowy cobalt would bleed into the depths below, heavy and still, fading into fractured glacier blue as the water grew lighter near the surface, where the sun struggled to break through. The greens would soften into glassy jade, shimmering faintly, caught in the shifting light as if the water itself pulsed with life. Shadows would stretch in drenched charcoal, not oppressive but endless, framing the brightness above almost like curtains opening.

And there, close to the surface, you would hover like the sun underwater, light spilling from you in ripples and shards. Your form would glow with submerged gold, warm and radiant, a halo of sunlit pearl surrounding you where the sunlight hit the water and scattered around your silhouette. You wouldn’t simply stand still — you would drift, your movements impossibly fluid, arms outstretched in a gesture that could be comfort or inevitability, a quiet invitation to a homecoming. Shadows would gather around your curves in bruised honey, soft and subtle, fading into the glow that surrounded you, the kind of light that looked almost too warm to belong in the cold ocean.

The person who the painting was drawn from the perspective of would see you not as a person, but as something greater. His arms would float above him, slack and surrendered, the only movement from his fingers angled upwards, glowing faintly with washed ash gold, the last vestiges of warmth clinging to his skin, while the rest of his form darkened in the embrace of storm-drift gray. Faraway air bubbles would be glacier silver-blue catching the warm light as they ascended toward the unreachable surface, reflections flickering like distant stars against the background of salt-shadow teal.

This was a homecoming.

The bursting of colors landing on his imaginary canvas came to a head when the branding heat of your mouth found his ear, screeching into stuttered motion and scattering like seagulls afterwards. His head lolled sideways under the zapping pressure, inviting more of the world-halting caress that left him all limp.

Then it was gone — only a cool tingling remained where yout moist breaths once ghosted him —

"Hey bro, why'dya leave? Get back here—"

Shocked as if he had short time memory about it being a voice message, he squirmed for a beat, eyes flitting in panic between the call display and you with the mortification of every single drop of blood in his body rushing southwards.

His friend’s voice fractured into static buzzing under the pounding of his ears when you bowed forward once more, towards the red mark on top of his mark that was practically vibrating under his skin, trailing kisses across its glow. Every skin contact point with you burned even with the layers of clothing in-between, melting into an acute throb as you reached the base of his throat and dipped into the hollow between his collarbones — fingers dancing along the strip of his neckpiece before delving underneath, dragging down and delicately, deliciously tugging.

That was all it took for Rafayel to flip your positing and roll you beneath his body, propping himself up with one forarm and holding your wrist to just — stop you for a minute, expression tight as he asked, “Are you sure?”

Your intentions were crystal clear, but it was necessary to check in before continuing any further even though he needed this like air right now, and the prospect of hearing it straight from your lips that he was wanted —

Looking somewhere off to the side, you replied, “Otherwise you’ll actually go back,” thoughtfully, but there was something resentful in there, the statement almost bitter sounding in its delivery.

The overjoyed press of his lips to hide the smile he just knew would annoy you betrayed what he was thinking on the spot.

“So cute,” breached containment however, full of affection as he moved aside your hair behind your ear tenderly, fore and middle fingers taking your love’s sensitive edge between them and caressing, causing you to turn your face further away from him. “You must have missed me quite a lot.”

That sentence was accompanied by the press of his knee into the junction between your inner thighs, innocent enough unless you factored in that one certain revelation of earlier that entirely changed the context in intent. Especially when your pupils dilated visibly before him as you choked out a tiny gasp of surprise, revealing your guilt in glaring clarity.

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

A wicked impulse seized him — one daring him to keep playing this card to unlock so many possibilities as to how he could have you tonight.

He could have you show him what you’d done while he watched until you begged to be touched — on your back with legs wide open for his viewing pleasure, or hovering right above his face in 4K Ultra HD quality that he could just lay down and enjoy and perhaps contribute with his breath if he felt generous enough. You were having fun all on your own, yeah? He just wanted in on it. Not knowing wasn’t a sin, but not learning was.

If you didn’t think you were ready to bear the consequences of this decision of yours, you should have rethought before choosing the room he frequented, shouldn’t have turned him into a fish out of water in public by calling out to him like that, should have known better that Rafayel could be the vilest when he was provoked.

“Or, are you?”

His words were a double-edged knife. Pick the surface-level meaning and you ended up with him teasing you about missing him quite literally, nothing more, nothing less. Take him for what lay beneath, however...

Unfortunately, or, fortunately, you were one slippery fish.

"Why should I be ashamed?" The confidence that dripped from your reply rang genuine. You were so unbothered by his instigation that he realized this was going to be harder than expected, perhaps more rewarding as well. A delightful prospect. "Do you wish I wouldn't miss you?"

Oh, your pride, your grudge was truly an impressive sight —

gleaming razor-sharp even under scrutiny, glittering steel reflecting his image in fragments, and yet tempered by enough warmth to invite him closer instead of warding him off.

"Not at all." His heart sang. "But it couldn't compare to how much I missed you."

"And you still left," came a mumble, sounding more dejected than anything, carrying the weight of his deeds for the past two days.

It was that easy to change his mood.

Rafayel cooed instinctively, rubbing soothing circles into the skin above your knuckles as he pressed a string of quick kisses into the curve of your wrist — lips brushing tender apologies along its path until he reached the palm of your hand cupping his face, where he lingered to feel you stroke delicately over his lower lashes.

"I'm here now," was his gentle promise, one spoken nuzzled against the backs of your fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you going to say to your friend? You didn't even pick up his call," you admonished softly, drawing his attention towards where the voicemail was still being displayed on the hologram screen hovering from the nightstand, accepting a prompt about how to proceed.

Rafayel made a show of leaning back to sit back on his heels, staring down at you as he slipped his fingers underneath the tightly-belted thick, sash-like band to pop the clasp to the side apart, the metal closure disengaging with a small clack as the ends slid free and exposed the zipper underneath.

He drank in your every reaction — every detail of you sprawled out before him: your robe coming undone ever so gradually, tantalizing glimpses of skin peeking between its parted folds, a little bit of collarbone here, the curve of your breast there, teasingly hinting at the shape of a nipple underneath the white fabric, then another flash of thigh, an exposed inch of inner leg from your feet shifting restlessly alongside his shins.

He pulled the whole belt free in one smooth yank — the sudden momentum making it snap with a harsh crack. It curled like a ribbon in his palm as he surveyed you, gauging your reaction; watching your widened stare catch onto cloth held loosely in his fist as he flung it haphazardly to the side.

Then, he started tugging at your ankle to raise it higher — dragging his knuckles along your heel, the sole of your foot, caressing into the arch of your instep, traveling along the softness of your calf all the way down to your knee, a single fingertip trailing underneath, slinking gradually but surely toward the inner side, tracing hypnotic spirals into the silky flesh that made your breathing hitch unevenly.

The ends of your robe were riding further up past your thigh along with the slow march, your naked skin revealed in gradual increments the higher his palm slid — revealing more and more until his hand stopped at the underside of your thigh, entirely disappeared from view because of the bunched up cloth, and pulled your leg up gently to drape it over the curve of waist.

Falling right back in on instinct, he leaned down, propped above your splayed form on his forearm beside your shoulder and bent to drag his nose upwards along the line of your cheekbone, saying, "I'm busy."

Your answering snicker was endearing and familiar, drawing forth a swell of warmth inside him like the sun rising over a tranquil ocean's horizon. "Still trying to run away?"

“Just returning to the original plan.”

There would be no running away now — not anymore, not ever, at least not from you and what you made him feel. He'd tried; failed, obviously, as evident in his return here, where the answer awaited him with open arms.

"Who says I'm going to agree? I still haven't forgiven you.”

Rafayel adored that one pout of yours, the one that curved at its edges like the swoop of a bird's wing, delicate and lovingly rounded in its downturned shape. It drew his mouth upward to meet its match, slotting perfectly against its twin seamlessly in the union of a kiss, lingering as if they belonged together like puzzle pieces. You melted sweetly under the fondness contained within the gesture, sighing quietly in surrender; every angle of his mouth was drawn to yours inexorably, it was gravity pulling falling stars back to their courses.

"Not yet," he amended dutifully once he could manage words again, and felt your smile widen before sealing his mouth over it. "Let me."

"If you beg," you shot right back, the curve of your mouth pronounced against his chin, smug satisfaction dripped from every word and its delivery as you pulled away again just enough to meet his half-hooded stare evenly — daring him to refuse you. "Properly."

You kissed the little groan that was about to spill past his lips, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Neither was it intended to.

"How would you like me to repent?" He dragged the question into an offer, a honey trap ripe for plundering. "On my knees? On my back?"

He let his arousal to show on his fact at those mental images, conjured by practiced ease, crafted to seduce. The soft puff of your exhale danced across his chin, sending his nerves tingling. A sign he was on the right track? Or did it merely betray surprise at whatyou had in mind? Either possibility stirred his blood.

"You know what someone in your position shouldn’t do?" you whispered, low and hushed, conspiratorial yet laced with a dangerous authority that quickened his pulse. His brows rose involuntarily, the shift in your tone sending anticipation skittering down his spine. Your lashes swept low, casting faint shadows on your cheeks as your pointed stare locked onto him, sharp enough to pierce. "Ask me what to do when you’re supposed to be coming up with ideas on your own. That’s weaponized incompetence."

His head snapped back so fast that something audibly clicked in his neck.

Mouth wide open.

"Weaponized in—" The sensual, submissive haze he’d been wrapped in evaporated like morning dew under the brutal heat of the desert sun, vanishing so quickly it left him sputtering. The words faltered on his tongue as insult overtook every carefully cultivated mood, his composure fracturing into clumsy indignation. Propped up on his elbows above you, his face twisted into a comically muddied mix of offense and disbelief, his tone taking on an incredulous sharpness as he glared down at you.

"Say that again and I’ll spit bubbles at you!" he snapped, his threat hanging in the air like a gauntlet thrown by a petulant prince.

"Pffft!"

The insolent brat you were being in that moment, daring to laugh straight in his face, was both impossibly cute and maddeningly infuriating. He stared down at you, eyes narrowing with mock offense, the knowledge that your laughter was entirely at his expense gnawing at his frayed patience. He was torn between kissing you senseless or flipping you over and finding some other way to wipe that smug, adorable smirk off your face.

"What do you mean weaponized incompetence?" Rafayel shot back, the words almost trembling with disbelief. "You think I can't please you properly without you guiding me through it step-by-step? Is that what you're saying?!" His irritation swelled, a balloon of indignation puffing up and threatening to burst as he fought, tooth and nail, to keep the whine rising in his throat from escaping. "I like you telling me what to do because I enjoy indulging in your desires! Not because I’m incapable of being creative in bed!"

A frustrated huff crowned his ranting, "Stop laughing!" he barked, though his rising pitch only seemed to add fuel to your uncontrollable amusement.

You shook your head firmly, slapping your hands over your face to muffle the sounds of your laughter, but it was no use. Your entire body curled inward instinctively, knees drawing up as you rolled to your side, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your mirth. It only made it worse for his pride — your stifled giggles shaking through you like tremors, every failed attempt to contain yourself sending them bubbling up again.

Rafayel let out a growl of frustration, throwing his body off yours with an exaggerated thud, landing face-first into the pillow beside you in utter defeat. The mattress jolted slightly from the force, but the muffled yell he buried into the pillow caused a chain reaction that only made your laughter harder to suppress. The giggles came fast and bright, and he swore they sounded far too gratifying for his current temperament, his scowl deepening with every shake of your shoulders and every wheezing gasp for air that he felt in the bed, he didn’t even need to look.

The fact that you were utterly immune to his wrath, impervious to every “Stop,” he threw your way, made it all the more maddening. How was he supposed to maintain the upper hand, to reestablish even a shred of dignity, when he couldn’t even intimidate you?

"I'm sorry," you gasped finally, though the apology was weakened by the cracks of laughter still slipping through. You managed to sit upright, though it took visible effort, your hands brushing away tears from the corners of your crinkled, joy-stricken eyes. A few lingering giggles escaped as you cleared your throat, attempting to sound sincere but failing miserably. "I didn’t think you’d have such strong feelings about this topic."

Rafayel lifted his head from the pillow, his hair disheveled, his glare shooting daggers your way, though the deep flush blooming across his cheeks betrayed his struggle to keep his composure. He opened his mouth to retort, to say something, but instead all that escaped was a muffled, irritated groan as he flopped back down into the pillow.

“Rafayel.”

He rolled onto his back with dramatic flair, hands folded primly over his stomach and ankles crossed, the picture of theatrical innocence. The pout he wore, however, was pure spite, lips pushed forward just enough to make his point. “If you think I’m sooo weaponizing my incompetence, maybe I should actually start doing that. Let you handle everything yourself. Clearly, you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Rafayel…”

“No, no, go ahead,” he cut in, stubbornly resolute, almost belligerent in its exaggerated persistence. “I’m useless, right? I don’t know what I’m doing. Teach me. I won’t even lay a single finger on you.” He puffed his cheeks, a childish act of defiance paired with the way he turned his head away, sulking with the finesse of spoiled royalty.

The exaggerated display drew a sigh from you, long and exasperated, but tinged with a quiet amusement that he didn’t miss. He wasn’t fooling you — not for a second—but he relished the moment all the same.

“Well,” you began, feigning hesitation, with false reluctance. “Since you’re already laid out, I guess…” You trailed off as you shifted to straddle him, slow enough to test the limits of his so-called resolution, the soft white robe you wore parting ever so slightly as you moved, revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin before your knees closed firmly around his hips, framing him like twin prison bars.

His eyes darkened as he watched you, taking in the sight hungrily, every detail sinking into him like a drug he couldn’t resist. His hands betrayed him almost immediately, fingertips skimming the hem of the robe where it hung loosely, their touch feather-light as they ghosted over the tops of your thighs. It was instinctive, reflexive — completely unrepentant.

“I thought you weren’t touching me,” you teased with a playful lilt that interrupted the heat thickening the air between you like an unwanted knock on the door.

His hum was deliberately innocent, his head tilting as though to feign ignorance. But the dark gleam in his eyes and the smirk curling at the corners of his lips told a different story entirely. “I really like this robe,” he murmured with a calculated drawl. “What, I can’t touch my own clothes now?”

The claim was absurd — blatantly so — but it made you pause, his fingers grazing the fabric in question as though testing its texture, when in reality, it was clear he was savoring the warmth of your skin beneath it.

(Truthfully, it was also you who looked lovely draped in what was his — but that went without saying.)

Your mouth opened, the gleam of a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the words dissolved into nothingness as his hands shifted, palms hot against your sides, skirting along your ribs in an intentional, testing motion. He knew the heat of his touch stole the breath from your lungs, burning through the fabric like a spark setting fire to paper.

“You go on,” he said, infuriatingly smug as he leaned back into the pillows, his hands never straying far from your sides. “Help yourself. Take as long as you need. I’ll just… be appreciating this fabric in the meantime.”

His fingers traced the lines of your ribs, the motion slow, languid, before sliding downward to hover just above the curve of your stomach. They lingered there, resting near the knot of the belt holding your robe together. The edge of his thumb dipped just slightly beneath the fabric, brushing over its folded loops, a movement so subtle it was barely there, as though he wanted to test how much he could push you. He toyed with the fabric, rolling it between his fingers like he was unraveling a puzzle.

The pause in his pent-up desire — the break that had proven to be a blessing — was wearing thin. The front he was putting on, all casual indifference and smug bravado, was crumbling, betrayed by the way his gaze kept flickering back to you, and, of course, the growing press of his impatience beneath you, hard and neglected, made it abundantly clear that he was more than ready to pick up where you’d last left off.

You broke first.

With nary a warning, your hand shot out, snatching the ends of the thin, ribbon-like scarf draped loosely around his neck. You wound the fabric around your fist once, twice, tightening it just enough to make your intentions clear…

Then you yanked.

The pull wasn’t violent — no, it was far too calculated for that. Enough pressure to catch him off guard, to tip him forward slightly, but not enough to hurt. It was a demand, plain and simple, one he found himself surrendering to before he even had the chance to consider resistance. His wide-eyed surprise melted almost instantly like cotton candy in water into something darker, something sharper, as his lips curled into a grin that spoke volumes about just how much he was enjoying this game.

"First, you ask to beg for my forgiveness," you continued, pulling him a little closer, and his chest tightened as though the leash around his neck extended all the way to his lungs.

Your gaze pinned him down like a blade, your lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a smile — something far more addictive.

"And then," you murmured, sweet but laced with unmistakable bite, "you start ordering me around like a brat."

A jolt of concentrated heat shot through him, not from embarrassment but from the sharp edge of thrill that ran through his veins. He let the tension in his body slacken just slightly, a calculated move that allowed him to lift from the bed a little, meeting your challenge with his own. The faint tug of the scarf against his neck only heightened the electric energy between you, and he found himself biting back a grin.

“Well," he said at last, letting his weight sink into the bed with a noncommittal shrug, the barest shift of his shoulders enough to convey his defiance. "I’m just playing my part." He tilted his head just enough to make the scarf strain, wanted to see what you’d do with the provocation. “The sleazy husband.”

“You want a reward for that?”

“Acknowledgment of how committed to the role I am would be nice.”

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

“—handsome," you went on, and his smirk faltered ever so slightly. “Disarmingly clever, annoyingly witty," you added, the sharp edge softening with each word, though the grip you kept on the scarf didn’t loosen. If anything, you pulled him closer, closing the space between you inch by inch. "—and worst of all," you finished, dropping into something softer, something so intimate, "Completely, devastatingly, undeniably competent."

“Well, aren’t you good at apologizing…” he said into himself, embarrassingly beet-red at having fallen for your trick.

“I’m still waiting for yours, you know,” you pointed out distractedly, playing with the crystal flame lilies scattered on his wine berry shirt, tracing the petals of a bloom while seemingly entranced, following the silvery droplets dangling in a chain. “But I’ll be graceful this time and keep going with mine...”

Before he had a chance to blink or register the motion — your free palm slipped underneath the thin fabric covering his heart, caressing right alongside the pulsing red mark — and squeezed with a vengeance (such a fierce boob grab!), applying enough pressure that the pads of your fingers sunk into flesh, then widened the buttonless V-cut of his shirt by yanking, no, downright ripping it open by the lapels with both hands, and Rafayel damn near felt like a virgin at how scandalous that single action was that he almost covered himself up.

But then again, he could hardly claim innocence right now, could he? He was practically a champagne bottle about to pop down there. Just from that. Who was he, the main female character getting her corset ripped in a bodice-ripper novel?

“Ohmyg—hi? What happened to hello? How are y—”

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kisses were rained along his collarbone, the length of his neck, and nipping gently at the spot behind his ear that got the hairs on his nape rise to attention. It would’ve been funny what a child’s play it was to tease him until his ears matched the scarlet blossoms on his shirt, except nothing about this particular situation bore humor — least of all, his response to it.

Which was practically none at all. Because he simply lay there, stiff as a plank from how turned on he was, and you worked him diligently as if he was an instrument and you were the virtuoso.

It was also because he was zeroed in on the cleavage peeking out from the gap in your robe as you made your way further downwards, tongue flickering along the dips and bumps of his upper abdomen — surely able to feel more than hear each inhale and exhale getting closer to moaning territory the longer you kept teasing. He even caught a nip slip here and there, getting impossibly harder in response, culminating in him twitching and tightening beneath you whenever you — purposefully! — brushed against his erection.

“Rafayel,” you sighed dreamily, and he moaned for real this time at how his name fell softly past your parted lips, pouring into a pleased hum against his navel where a trail of wetness gleamed — followed by fingertips curling gently around the hem of his pants’ band. “You’re so quiet. Not leaving it up to chance, huh?”

And the only response he gave was an impatient roll of his hips toward your head, granting you permission — eager acquiescence, even — while a loud, unabashed gasp slipped into his lungs as your hands found the zipper of his pants. With a practiced tug, you freed it from its track, and his pants slid low on his hips, just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. Your fingers followed immediately, hooking under both fabric barriers to ease them down until they rested tautly just below his hips. The motion tugged on his shirt as well, once secured by the overlap tucked into his waistband, and with nothing anchoring it anymore, the luxurious fabric parted effortlessly, exposing the sculpted expanse of his chest and abs in one sweeping reveal. His stiffening length, freed from its confines, ached visibly — leaping subtly toward contact, as though craving the touch it had been denied for far too long.

"See? You're being so good... why do you keep wanting to provoke me?" came your lilting reproach, spoken against the soft skin of his pelvis, lips fluttering teasingly across its planes in playful grazes of their silky plush. "

“Permission to talk?”

A sharp, in-drawn breath escaped him the moment a single finger traced along the underside of his shaft, lingering over a wildly pulsing vein — evidence of the frenetic race of his heart currently pumping pure liquid lightning straight through his veins — but he recovered quickly, allowing it to dissolve into an exhale long and drawn-out instead.

“Go ahead, handsome.”

His hips lurched instinctively in search of something tangible, of a sensation besides the torturous tickle of warm breaths dancing lightly along his arousal, "Give me my reward, then. I've waited so long for this, it's been torture."

“Doesn’t sound like you minded the wait. You left me, didn’t you?”

Ah, yes. The grudge. You were becoming like Rafayel the longer you stayed by his side.

"You know I hate waiting. Let alone like this," he said, all whiny and punctuated with a shudder — one that was met with an accompanying jolt that surged straight from the base of his erection when your lips brushed teasingly alongside it. "I didn't think you'd be this cruel..."

"Are you really asking?"

"Can you give it to me instead of wasting time talking?" came his blunt retort, brows drawn together in an impatient furrow that radiated ‘I’m being wronged,’ energy.

"Not wasting time at all, just wanted to spend more time with you. Feels nice, right? You deserve this,” you murmured comfortingly against the swell of his abs rising and falling with each heavy breath — and oh, he almost melted into a puddle at that, visibly deflating with his chest cavity just filling up all warm and fuzzy with love.

It did feel nice but — just — just — fuck — he needed to be touched or he actually was going to disintegrate into sea foam. Not joking.

A brief kiss landed on on the left side of his Apollo belt in consolation before a drag of your tongue along its path followed, transitioning into you breathing more warmth directly into his base, then placing a loving peck to his tip — eyes twinking at the tremble that surged through him. “I really love seeing you so reactive. Does it feel that good? Just breathing on you like this?”

His hips pushed upward in tiny nudges, bumping insistently against your cheek, practically begging to be held properly inside your mouth. "It doesn't feel good at all — just, come on, hurry... I keep my lube in the top drawer on the left... It's edible, you know..."

Thankfully, you didn't smirk at him. Didn't stop to tease him about his eagerness, either, wordlessly going about reaching over to rummage for a bottle in his nightstand — an act that forced you to draw away from his straining member completely, your warmth vanishing suddenly in one agonizing instant, causing him to nearly whine from the loss.

You popped open the lid to squirt some lubrication into your palm and recapped it while staring down at him with a curious gleam. "You had something like this with you the whole time—"

Your words got cut off upon him grabbing your dripping hand and directing it straight where his impatience stood angry at the delay, shuddering out a moan at how incredibly silky the glide was.

"Finally... yesss," he hissed, thrusting upwards to feel more friction — the delicious slickness spreading across your enclosed grip driving him absolutely wild. "Ahh—kkhfff... Keep going, you have to keep going, don't let go... Please. Please?”

Something in your face twisted weirdly at his breathy begging, making his heart flip at the unflinching lust in your widened gaze trained firmly onto his jerking hips.

He had your fist trapped around his swollen cock, urging you into pumping it once you settled into a steady rhythm stroking its turgid crown, twisting and curling into each new swipe upwards along his pulsing flesh; encouraging you by squeezing tighter every few strokes until you took over completely. Then, he threw his arm over his forehead haphazardly, basking in the blissful waves flowing through his veins at long last, watching you watch yourself pleasure him through fluttering lashes, breathing hard through half-parted lips.

"That's it," he sighed huskily, rocking his body into the hand rubbing and grinding against his dick's ridge with expert motions; thumb circling its glistening head and caressing alongside its slit where precome beaded out generously, smoothing over the entirety of its surface and working into the underside, swirling tantalizingly over the bulging vein there until all his thoughts melted into a haze of pure sensation, mind wiped clean of everything except the singular, simple fact that he desperately needed to come. "Like that — nnhhh, yes! That feels amazing — feels perfect — love those sweet little fingers... So close already, I can't, I can't—"

At his muttered groans, your pace stuttered noticeably before resuming its previous speed, which wasn't fast enough according to the stretching throb inside his core, his blood rushing loudly through his ears like boiling rapids. "No, faster..." he urged you, rutting into your palm even harder in a frantic effort to increase the pressure and bring him to the precipice quicker. "I can't hold on much longer — need more, I need more. Tighter. Tighter."

The corners of his vision pulsed white and Rafayel whimpered as he jumped inside your curled fist when the unexpected sensation of having your forefinger slide through his sticky fluids gathered at its tip, swirling clockwise before ascending back up in an unhurried stroke that carried a slippery coating alongside it to smooth out the glide to put pressure right into the slit — a sensation that lingered for seconds afterward with ghostly echoes, drawing a sudden choked gasp from his lips at how intensely good that single touch felt.

“Thaaaaat’s it, yeah, I love that, you have such a beautiful voice.” Your free palm swept up alongside his ribs to rub gently against their curve as though to soothe the ragged sounds ripping past his throat; traveling upward to cradle his head against yours where your cheek brushed alongside his temple, holding him still with tender care and easing some of the tremble wracking through him. "Can you feel how much I'm enjoying us being together like this — how badly I've missed you? Please let me hear those pretty sounds, I wanna hear them loud and clear. Will you be generous for me and share it all?"

His reply died in his throat in favor of a low keening sound — something raw and broken — when you squeezed tighter.

The way your nails dug ever so delicately into the sides of his cock, applying pressure just shy of pain was truly exquisite torture, making his head swim and rise up from the bed so he could crush his lips against yours, biting hungrily into your plush mouth and delving deep into its depths until oxygen became nothing but an afterthought. Every neuron of him burned alive in chain reaction as your tongue wound and slid alongside his, curling along the underside before retreating for him to suckle on your lower lip eagerly until it swelled red.

"Mmnghhfuck! Hhhaaa—keep—" Words spilled past his slackened lips like ribbons unfurling, senseless as he struggled to convey how excruciating it was to contain his euphoria within, desperate for any sort of outlet to relieve the pressure rising inside him rapidly —

— and then broke off suddenly on a low moan when he caught a flash of your unoccupied hand that was just cradling his neck having found its way between your thighs, the view out of sight because of the robe —

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

His orgasm slammed straight into him, so unexpected and yet wholly expected all the same that he gasped around it like he was in a headlock, utterly disoriented by the sudden assault on his senses, soaring impossibly higher with each jerk of his hips into your fingers' grasp and shooting thick white streaks across his stomach; leaving behind faint smears wherever it hit its mark — warm, sticky ropes landing atop his defined abs and even reaching as far as his sternum.

He knew something was wrong when it didn't stop.

Far from it, really: each pulsing contraction seemed to force more of its fluid past his cock's narrow slit, painting your pumping digits liberally with his release — even staining the lapels of your robe in messy spots. It lasted so long that Rafayel started seeing stars sparkling around the edges of his blurring vision; making everything appear fuzzy like static. "Nggh—too much—ah! Aaa—hhh! Nnhhfff... Khhffffcking hell... Can't believe—still going—"

"Don't hold back now, just ride it out, nothing wrong with it," you murmured fervently, brushing some hair back from his sweat-soaked temple and — then — kisses, so many kisses. "I know you wanted this so badly, it's okay... You deserve this. Let go for me, yeah? Can't you let go for me? All this stress will go away. Isn't that nice?"

What came out instead was an embarrassingly high moan, hoarse with overuse, entirely at odds with the self-assuredness he'd wanted to project with each thrust of his hips, spurred onwards by instinct alone in a mad dash for euphoria.

Just how pent-up was he?

He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt pleasure this acute, sharp as shrapnel beneath the layers of desire, making him so out of it that he wasn't even aware of the embarrassing mess he made like he’d just wet himself being cleaned up with a tissue by you.

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

He surged forward, wound his arm around your waist and tossed you to the side gently so your back lay flush against the sheets before following suit in a tangle of limbs that ended with you under him — where he belonged: cradled between your thighs, seated fully inside their heated clasp as he hovered above you — one elbow propped beside your shoulder while the other wandered aimlessly downwards and undid the trusty knot holding your robe together in one go.

"Rafa—"

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I can't, I'm so thirsty," he said, as he raised the lube-and-come-sodden hand of yours up to his mouth to lap at the trails trickling over your wrist; sucking on your fingertips in apology — no trace of shame coloring his cheeks as he did, far too focused on the task of cleaning them thoroughly to be distracted by something as trivial as embarrassment. He didn’t even taste himself. Just the blueberry.

So engrossed in it that he didn’t even notice you burning holes with your gaze at his lips sealing around your thumb while he ran his tongue underneath it in short, quick flicks until it was glistening once more, except this time with spit instead of lubricant.

All the while, he traced the clean strip of skin revealed by the parted folds of your robe with a searing hand, starting from the valley of your cleavage between your breasts all the way down the slight convex curve of your torso leading towards the V that marked the point where your thighs began, drawing delicate circles into your navel, slipping downward inch by tantalizing inch in search for hidden oasis.

Taking notice of how wrecked you looked through the curtains of your fingers splayed over his eyes and forehead, Rafayel rewarded you an equally debauched looked as his lips curled into a smirk against your palm.

A loud, viscous pop of your wetness echoed in the room when his fingers tenderly made contact — positively dripping for him. Your mouth flew open upon feeling him draw his forefinger's pad gently against your entrance, lingering teasingly at the seams in an excruciating crawl, tracing lightly around it as you pulsed hungrily against his fingertip.

"So thirsty," he mumbled absentmindedly to himself — mouth watering.

Rafayel pushed open your legs by the backs of your thighs to allow his head better access. If he was on a normal day, he would plant feverish kisses on the insides of your quaking knees and thighs and mark you everywhere, made it more sensual, more teasing, but he was borderline parched — not to mention more impatient than a driver stuck behind a cyclist in a one -lane road.

You yelped at his mouth diving between your legs in reckless abandon. His tongue lapped up your slick in deep, obscene flicks, then plunged inside into the warm haven awaiting him inside, devouring your sweet nectar in loud slurps, uncaring of how sloppy and unrestrained he was currently acting; far too hungry to concern himself over anything save for indulging greedily in your flavor.

"Rafayel, shit, that feels—oh my god..." He had to push your hips down by splaying his hand along the plane of your stomach as you arched helplessly, otherwise you would have simply lifted right off from his greed ravaging you without mercy or restraint. "That's so—you're so—fuck! What—what’s gotten into you? Ahh...!"

Any hope of responding to that died the second your hand tangled itself tightly into his hair and tugged to bring him impossibly closer against you, his head blanking. It felt so good when your heel planted itself onto his shoulder blade and pressed insistently there in a silent plea for more, sending ripples of heat fanning out across his nerve endings in their wake.

Without hesitation, he latched his lips around the swollen bud peaking proudly from beneath a layer of velveteen flesh and flicked upwards, suckling hard before closing around it fully — then rolled his tongue in circles around its rim with the intent to render your world spinning madly with each passing stroke. The fingers locked around your trembling thighs kneaded deeply into their skin, coaxing the delicious, involuntary spasms coursing throughout you until the only thing you knew was the blissful torment his hot mouth wrought.

"You're so delectable on my tongue, did you know? The prettiest moans come pouring out from your lovely lips when I'm between your legs like this," he said, the sentences pieced together like beads on a pearl necklace fragment by fragment between licks and sucks, sounding just short of reverence. "Your taste drives me wild, I swear it's addictive... Am I making it up to you yet? Please say yes. Tell me it's working."

"Yesyesyesyesss—" A sharp inhale cut off anything else you tried to babble further as Rafayel rewarded you with another generous helping of his enthusiasm by diving back in and running his tongue in earnest up through your center. "You feel amazing, you — feel — so — g-good—"

"—don't think that's enough, though. Didn't you call me incompetent earlier?"

"What," you choked out angrily when a puff of warm breaths skated dangerously close to where you were most sensitive. "Oh my god—"

"I hold grudges, cutie. You taught me that," he said in a sing-song reply, lighthearted in tone, nearly drowned out by the thready groans bleeding through.

"I apologized already — what more do you want? Stop teasing, Rafayel!"

A pregnant pause followed as he stared up at you from between your legs, and saw your eyes widen with realization at just what you'd requested.

"As you wish," he relented, a dark edge to his mischievous grin when he rose back up and braced his knees against the mattress better, pulling your hips tight into the cradle of his thighs until one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder. "Have it your way — and don't forget you asked for this."

The slow sink inside your wet heat was traitorously misleading: a gentle, sweet meeting at first that masked what was brewing underneath.

A dragged out whine fanned his flames as you threw your head back. “You asshole—”

"I could have made you come once, twice..." he said, in a smooth purr that dripped sinfully past his lips.

Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp; the first wave of pleasure rolling through you upon being filled suddenly in one deep plunge. Your torso twisted to allow you to hide your face into the curve of his forearm draped next to your shoulder.

"You know I love taking my time with you," he continued, pausing to bury his face into your hair to breathe you in deeply, adjusting your leg to fall from his shoulder straight onto his hip. You took advantage of Rafayel getting close, grabbing onto his back so quickly that you missed the first time and yanked his shirt down to bunch halfway down his midsection and get stuck at his elbows. "And you just had to take that from me. I don't know which one of us is greedier... "

An apology was voiced, muffled by the crook of his elbow, almost incoherent by your gasps.

He cupped your chin and made you look at him. “Are you comfortable? Not hurting you, am I?”

Your throat clicked audibly. Then you shook your head rapidly in answer to both inquiries: yes — no — everything was okay — and Rafayel breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

And then, out of nowhere your fingers started moving around the expanse of his upper back, and before he could question the non-sexual way it came across when he was literally inside you, you said, "You're sweating."

"Yeah...?" Confusion muddled his hazy mind clouded with dull pleasure begging for him to start moving again, but you looked at him with wide, eager expectation dancing behind your expectant eyes — as if you couldn't quite believe what you'd seen.

"No — your temperature. It's still high but you're sweating now," you told him excitedly. "Rafayel — that's huge! This means your body is cooling itself down!"

He huffed.

"Of course it is, I've got the hottest woman in the world under me," he said with a roll of his hips, earning an enthusiastic moan from you in the process. Your arms snaked themselves around the back of his neck tighter until both forearms crossed at their crease, palms moving upwards in an intoxicating drag through the back of his skull. "You the cure to all of this..."

His forehead dropped unceremoniously yours where it stayed, and he sucked in an uneven, shaky groan that tapered into something resembling a whine as he started rutting steadily against you, driving into that spot where you liked it the best with growing desperation with the occasional staccato grunt at the fluttering squeeze and murmured encouragement.

At some point, his mouth wandered towards your pulse, scraped his teeth against it gingerly before latching on it in an open-mouthed kiss that was hard enough to bruise.

You tilted your chin skywards with a sigh to give him better access and tangled your fingers encouragingly deeper into his hair, and something inside him sparked awake in response, a fiery need demanding him to paint every inch of your skin violet, rose and mauve so that it may glow evermore brightly for everyone to see —

"Way too beautiful for your own good... Driving me crazy... Every single day... Couldn't keep my hands off you the moment I got in here..." he hissed furiously as though he were possessed, snapping his hips harder upon finding the angle he desired, searching relentlessly for something within you both to satisfy the frenzied race to the peak taking control of him completely; searing kisses littering everywhere he could reach along the underside of your chin and neck whilst spewing senseless litanies into your skin in between them. "Can't believe I could have this forever... Right? Say I can have this forever. It'll drive me insane if you don't, I swear—"

"Forever," you echoed hoarsely, your nails digging tightly into his scalp as his pace increased once more. "Y-you can have me forever—anytime, wherever—"

Your assurances came with a startled cry of ecstasy as he sank his teeth into the juncture connecting your shoulder and collarbone in a bite that bordered on a savage instinct to ensure he was there, he'd been there, and would always be there. "You're not leaving, are you? Aren't gonna leave me anytime soon, right?

Every syllable was marked with a measured grind into you as if determined to force every word inside your head by burying it deep in your core — imprint it permanently into your brain; until the only thing filling your thoughts was him and him alone. "Not letting you — I'm not letting you. I can’t let you go, it’s too late — too late. Say it. Say it.”

"As — many times as I ne-ed to," you panted underneath him, arching upwards so beautifully for him as his grip loosened marginally to let you find that perfect angle that caused your back to bow like a perfectly tuned instrument in his hands; singing nothing but divine music. "'S not changing, ever. Won't change... Agh!"

His hips bucked in answer to your nails sinking deep into the skin of his shoulders as though clawing for dear life. "Yeah? Yeah? Promise—?"

All you could do was sob into his mouth hungrily swallowing yours — a mess of moans falling endlessly past your lips swallowed whole, accompanied with plaps and slaps of wet thrusting. There'd never be a time when he wasn't craving the taste of your flesh burning scorching white hot against his own, craving more and more until everything blurred into a haze of delirium.

"Tell me... Tell me—hah, tell me, princess. Let me hear it..." His chest rumbled deep within where yours rubbed deliciously against his bare flesh with each fervent roll of his body. Even then, it wasn't nearly enough; couldn't possibly be, not with how ravenously thirsty he was for anything and everything having to do with you: your sounds, your expressions, those intoxicating stares filled with nothing but need for him and only him. Not while his stomach twisted itself in knots tight enough to tie sails and yet remained impossibly empty at the same time, yearning for the sweet relief of gratification flowing freely and quenching his deepest thirst. "Wanna hear you, gotta hear you say it—"

"I'm right here, m'here, not going anywhere, not leaving... I'myours, just don't let go, don't let go of me—"

He heard it as though you were underwater; faint, muffled underneath the thick fog clouding his senses, so indistinct yet simultaneously loud enough to drown out anything else within reach.

Every coherent thought vanished from his mind, melting into thin ribbons streaming across an ocean of red flames, then bursting forth anew into embers scattering throughout his vision in a dizzying display, igniting behind his eyelids with blinding light every time he blinked them closed. When he opened them, new constellations blossomed instantaneously; bright orange ones with maroon tinges shining bright among the black canvas.

"M'not gonna—! Can't let go—couldn't even if I tried. They wouldn't even be able to pry you away from my cold, dead hands."

More vivid blotches appeared before him at random intervals, painting his desert landscape in abstract patterns shifting so erratically they threatened to form fractals at any moment, jagged shapes overlapping and warping themselves until they resembled colorful stains splattered across walls in chaotic messes; or perhaps simply the shadows of clouds skirting the edges of his sight drifting past without a care — all blending together and merging seamlessly as though water droplets bleeding into fine lines until none could tell where one ended and the others began.

"Gonna be... gonna be stuck with me for life," Rafayel said, sounding entirely half out of his mind with the way he was babbling endearments (something about a bride) in-between little laps that trailed upwards along your quivering sternum toward your heaving chest; kissing you so fervently as though possessed, driven wholly by base instincts demanding he give in to whatever compulsion overtook him. "Always been mine. Always. Always—can't ever leave, yeah? I won't forgive you—won't forgive you this time—"

"Rafayel, I'm gonna come, please..." you whispered hoarsely against the crown of his head nestled between your breasts, your hands grasping onto his shoulders helplessly in an attempt at anchoring yourself. "I can't keep going, I'll fall apart. Please, don’t stop, don’t stop—"

One of his fingers slid down to repeatedly flick through your swollen folds, teasing and circling around your clit while his tongue swirled around a nipple; pulling and sucking hungrily with fervent desire, giving a pointed twist once he'd latched on.

"Come for me, then, do it, c'mon, cream all around me, let me have it, let me have this — you can do it, I’ll help you along.” His lower body lifted suddenly, pulling back until only his cockhead remained caught inside; followed by a quiet pop indicating his lips breaking contact from where they were buried in your chest. "I need you so bad I can hardly stand it anymore... Wanna feel you — feel all of you — need all of you..."

All it took was one sudden shift after a steady build-up of rhythm of shallow, quick thrusts: the smallest rotation of his pelvis and thrust straightwards, hips knocking against yours in a violent shove of flesh meeting slick flesh for you to fly apart spectacularly when he buried himself into that specific area right below your cervix.

With a shuddering breath that dissolved instantly into a shrill cry tearing through your throat, your thighs locked tight around his waist — holding him prisoner while your nails sank fiercely into his scratched back as your entire body trembled uncontrollably through the aftermath.

“Yeah, there you go, cutie.” A comforting, grounding caress landed on your forehead, tracing the arc of its curve towards the back of your ear; then repeating itself multiple times in slow, unhurried strokes — to remind you he wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. “There you are, that was beautiful. You got me seeing stars.”

"It's... It's snowing outside... In the desert," you said faintly, eyelids slow in their blinking, and Rafayel thought how utterly gorgeous you looked, all worn down and exhausted and so drunk in your post-orgasmic euphoria to talk nonsensically about what was happening outside.

"Yeah," he agreed, equally hushed as he peppered a trail of soft kisses across the bridge of your nose. You closed your teary lashes instinctively against the ticklish sensation. "It's so soft... and beautiful..."

You were the snow in his desert. Though, too blissed out to pick up on what he was implying.

Too busy stiffening up when you felt his cock jump inside you.

"You... you're still hard?"

“I didn’t come in the first place, whoops. Busy being too competent, I guess,” he said breezily, tilting his hips so that he pressed deep inside, directly into the tender spot inside you where pleasure flared to life unbidden.

"Let me... Let me rest, fuck, give me a minute..." Your hands scrambled for purchase against his scarred back; anchoring yourself by clawing surface level trenches down along its expanse and dragging red tracks as he continued his grinding in torturously slow and shallow rolls. "Need — I need to catch my breath, you're gonna make me pass out, shit, hold on — !"

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

The first was the short prologue to what was coming, picked up from where he’d left off in the same position — head buried in your neck, making you tightly embrace him like he’d fly off the earth if he wasn’t held. No sooner did his hips start bucking roughly against yours before he spent himself inside in long pulses that coated you inside in heated spurts, sending sparks rippling out into your limbs from where you clenched weakly around him through your own release that hadn’t yet run its full course.

The prettiest sounds in the whole entire world spilled from him as he pulled out with a schlick, dripping his neglect-thickened seed onto the sheets, and you were naive as to think this was it. You both had indulged yourselves enough for the night, fucked through the absence-abstaining makes the heart fonder phenomenon, it had been fantastic to witness him get so serious. Surely now would be a good time to cool off and step into the bath together now that you’d been able to make him sweat and the sex-heavy humidity clinging thickly to your body was getting more comfortable the more you became aware of it. The room was absolutely boiling, stuffier than a sauna like he’d projected all the heat trapped inside his body everywhere. Perhaps opening up a window wouldn’t hurt…

“That was one,” he said then, staring down at his flushed erection straining proudly between his legs like a compass needle pointed north — the faint strand of semen connecting his tip and stomach swaying and snapping apart. “This isn’t anywhere near enough.”

To your shock, Rafayel got off the bed, hauled you in by your legs until your bottom half was dangling from the bed, and folded you completely in half with no warning. Your legs were pushed against your chest and were hooked over his shoulders, and the speed of with which all of it happened punched out a wheeze from you.

"Can I? Are you okay?" he asked urgently, patting your thigh rapidly twice, pausing — then adding another firm slap there before you nodded hurriedly in confirmation rather than a verbal response, because fuck, his weight holding you down felt absolutely incredible like this.

Your ankles started bobbing in sync with his hip thrusts as he drove deep inside your heat, the sink easy, smooth and soft and the mess you both made between your legs pouring out and splattering everywhere as he kept mumbling, “I can’t stop, I’m sorry, I can’t stop, can’t stop—”

This round lasted longer, though it was the worst frenzy you’d seen Rafayel in. Nothing was slow about it, he was mercilessly pistoning himself into you and unpredictably switching between shallow and deep that had your clit being scraped against and A-spot drilled into. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open from how intense pleasure was kneading you violently like a dough. If it wasn’t for his mouth gluing itself onto yours, the entire floor and the poor downstairs guests probably would have heard what was happening with how loud his moaning became — because he was downright voluntarily overstimulating himself.

With one particularly desperate sob, Rafayel finally buried himself to the hilt within you — throbbing — in harsh jets of liquid fire with jerking, abrupt twitches of his hips, milking himself into your body as he found yet another release that was as intense and concentrated as the previous. You cried brokenly, shuddering as that final thrust abused your clit over the edge of orgasm number two, involuntarily flinching and trying to get away when he pushed all the accumulated, positively flowing stringy mess right back into your puffy cunt with a strange, entranced look on his face. You had to slap his hand away and kick his weight off you, powerless and exhausted and fully feeling like your vagina was gaping and would never close back up.

A soft kiss on your cheek brought you back to earth.

“Still alive?” he croaked, gently maneuvering you higher up the bed and laying you back comfortably. You had to avoid the giant, wet and shining spot that had to be dripping down on the floor at the edge of the bed, face burning as Rafayel’s sweat-drenched forehead leaned against yours. “I’m not going easy on you… I have to say I’m impressed how good you’re taking it.”

You realized, once more with feeling, that he was rock-hard against your hip despite having already come three separate times — two of which had filled you to the point of pouring out of you — and had no sign of calming down any time soon.

He was beyond insatiable.

Though the third and final time was far sweeter, the pace much slower and drawn out as though he’d suddenly regained some sense and clarity. By that time, you were growing deliriously tired, the earlier carnal fucking accommodated itself to you by morphing into tender lovemaking. Rafayel had you on your side, comfortably able to hug pillows and anchor yourself, while straddling your thigh and hooking your other calf over his waist and held it there firmly, out from your space to let you breathe with his back straight. Just looking down at you with obvious, sensual longing to lean down for kisses the entire time and looking so fucked out had been enough to rekindle your desire.

He was driving himself languidly into you, either eyes closed and head thrown back, or focused dead-on at the spot between where he was slipping in and out of you — watching your cunt eagerly swallow his white-coated cock and attempt to suck him right back in each time he pulled out until only his tip remained buried. Over and over.

And eventually, his shaky breaths and sweet sighs started turning into fast-paced, restrained moans. You saw him hanging on the precipice of wanting to go fast again, the tension his body pulled taut like a bowstring about to snap.

At one point, your robe and his shirt had found themselves slingshotted into the far, opposite corners of the room at some point but he still had his pants and was positively drenched in sweat like he’d just taken a bath and shining under the dim lighting.

"Drained all of my stamina, I'm empty, completely dry... I’m gonna need an IV drip. I can’t believe it. This is crazy, you know... I could die happy like this... But I wanna come. I wan—nnah come inside you so bad again, wanna fill you up—make you full with me—"

He went completely motionless and stayed burrowed in you when your palms cupped his face gently, forcing him to look down at you with his shiny eyes. "You've got to calm down first."

“I don’t think I can,” he murmured, panting, “I really can’t. You feel so—”

Your thumbs stroked the outer corners of his eyes with aching tenderness. “We’ll stop and try to calm you down a bit continuing then, okay? Try for me. No need to rush when we have time to ourselves. No one’s going anywhere.”

He stumbled and nearly fell to his elbows on top of you. “Tell me to,” he said, in a begging voice. “You can just tell me to calm down. Anything you want, anything. You know I’ll listen.”

All these months of living with the revelation about the bond and it still came as a shock to you, but you figured if it was for his own good...

So you ordered him: "Calm down and relax, Rafayel. Everything’s fine, you’re okay."

And god, did he listen well.

You were shocked, as you always were each time, to see just how willingly compliant he was. Seeing his body literally change its chemistry to conform itself to your desires and let go of all tension was unbelievable. You immediately felt bad that you’d forced it on him somehow like some admitted, invasive tranquilizer, because you could have made him relax naturally, with your own labor, a glass of water and massage, maybe, gradually work him through it—

“There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t think about it too much. Just focus on me, yeah?” A quiet command that lacked any real intent to order accompanied an equally soft kiss planted softly against the corner of your mouth, and all thoughts went flying out of the window when you saw how mellowly at peace he was, gazing dreamily at you without the slightest care in the world.

After that, everything became a blur once again. But a pleasant one. Slow, like molasses trickling lazily throughout your bloodstream at room temperature — soothing all aches into pleasure-flavored coziness at being joined, no rampant race towards a climax involved. There was no concept of time whatsoever: just the two of you together.

After your pillow talk about what he believed inspired him — what he wanted would, you internally filled in the blanks — and how he was running out of reserves exclusively saved up for the purposes of his art, you had to make it clear to him that there would be no pain involved in your relationship.

You didn’t know if he expected to be hurt by you in the future or implied he had no problem with that happening, but you couldn’t even tolerate him saying those things for the sake of love, or whatever it was. Him being intimately familiar and nonchalant with the concept bothered you down to the bones.

Not only were you trying to work around the huge rock he’d just dropped on top of your heart with the revelation that Aridum had to represent pure suffering to him as a Lemurian, you were also slightly upset he’d wanted to subject himself to it because he was lost more beautiful things in life had made their way into his life to inspire him as well. His paintings, all of them, had taken a new context and an additional layer of tragedy with that revelation, despite the fact that he’d basically said you made him draw from a different fountain and clogged up the other one.

It was a bittersweet happiness to hear Rafayel wanting to explore brighter, happier sides of life together when the sketch he showed you he was working on while you were sleeping depicted a man drowning in the sea and a figure beckoning him from above, close to the surface. Something still very painful.

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

“I see a dying man hallucinating. Maybe that’s someone close to him and his brain is comforting him with a vision. I don’t know.”

“Interesting take. Maybe it’s not just a man at all. Maybe it’s a reunion. It looks peaceful, doesn’t it?”

Now you looked again, it did look peaceful. Just like Rafayel was right now, next to you on the bed with his forehead almost touching yours.

"I'd like to think he isn't drowning, then."

Rafayel just smiled.

[nanaslutt]

my pretty little wife

ʚ incl: nanami x reader x higuruma

ʚ cont: fem reader, threesome, oral (f!r), double penetration, praise, dirty talk, teasing, pet names (sweetheart, honey), established relationship

ʚ note: the winner of my fic give away @reivunzwho i hope you enjoy!! >.<

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

“How did you two meet?” Higuruma asked, caressing your thigh with his thumb. The sensation sent tingles down your spine, making you all too aware of your body.

“We uh, we went to the same Jujutsu Tech school.” You answered.

“She was one year my junior.” Nanami answered from behind. You nodded, lips parting when his hand curled around your hip.

Higuruma grabbed your chin, tilting your gaze upwards and away from the large hands caressing your body. “Such a small world, isn’t it?” He asked you, smirking at the lust in your eyes.

Higuruma was never one to bring friends home after work, but the new guy at the office–Nanami Kento, was too similar in personality to pass up a friendship with. The two had been going for drinks every couple days, and when you texted Higuruma telling him you missed him and wanted him near, he decided to bring the drinks home.

Unbeknownst to you, the Nanami he was bringing home was the same Nanami you had a crush on in all four years of school. Never was anything acted upon, but you had spent more than a single night fantasizing about the man who currently held you between his legs, his chest to your back.

He was so much larger than he was all those years ago. Even his hands had grown for christ sake, and all of it was too much.

“What was she like as a student?” Higuruma asked, deft fingers working on the buttons of your shirt. He spoke to Nanami over his shoulder like he wasn’t currently undressing you.

Nanami hummed thoughtfully, hands slipping along your thigh, using a single finger to drag the skirt upwards. His touch burned your skin, goosebumps rising in his wake. “A troublemaker, and a bit of a headache–but good.” He answered, “strong, she always carried the burden of the others around her.”

A warm buzz hummed through your body at the praise. You hardly realized your bra covered breasts were out now as Higuruma dragged your shirt down your arms. 

Nanami made a sound behind you that made you preen. “So beautiful.” You gasped at the closeness, not realizing he had gotten so close. “Even more distracting than before.”

His words made you give pause. You didn’t think Nanami cared about anything other than going to classes and doing lessons. But he noticed you? A heady rush raced to your head.

“She is a beautiful thing, isn’t she?” Higuruma agreed, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra with practiced ease. You sighed when you felt the tension around your torso release, your breasts free. “I am so lucky to have such a strong, beautiful wife to come home to every night, and wake up to every morning.” He bragged.

Nanami hummed, agreeing. His hands had reached the tops of your thighs now, and he gripped the tops on either of them and parted them with ease. “Yes, she is very reactive as well.”

Higuruma smiled proudly, sliding your bra down your arms and exposing your breasts. His eyes fell to the mounds, admiring them with lust and love in his eyes. “Do you want to show him how reactive you are for me, sweetheart?” He asked.

Your throat bobbed, but you nodded. A smile found his lips. “And is he allowed to touch? Are you comfortable with that?”

You nodded again.

A kiss was placed by your ear, and you gasped. “Tell me to stop at any time, and I will. I would never want to make you uncomfortable.” With your given consent, his hands slid under your thighs and cradled them, causing you to fall back in his arms when he leaned back with your legs spread, exposing you.

Your hands shot out behind you, gripping his forearms. “Fuck, sorry.”

You could hear the smile in Nanami’s voice when he spoke, “you can touch me, too, honey.” That nickname from his lips. You felt liquid heat pool behind your panties.

The familiar feel of Higuruma’s hands on you made you look between your too spread thighs, spread over Kento’s knees. Hiromi was on his stomach on the couch, jacket discarded and his undershirt unbuttoned to the third, exposing his muscled chest. His eyes looked behind you at Nanami, “You will never see a prettier cunt, Kento.” He promised.

You held your breath as he hooked his fingers in your panties and pulled them down, exposing you for the both of them bit by bit. Nanami groaned behind you, looking over your shoulder while simultaneously spreading your legs more. “Fuck…” He cursed quietly, but you felt the heat of it on the side of your face. “Spread her lips for me.”

Higurma did, using his thumbs to open you up. The expression on his face was clouded, lust filled, his eyes were low and his face was flushed, he looked like he did before he came. This was clearly working him up as much as it was you.

“Taste her, taste her pretty pussy and tell me it’s as sweet as it looks.” Nanami’s voice saying such vulgar words should be a sin, it certainly felt like it. You arched your back into him, squeezing around nothing when you felt the proof of his arousal under you. It felt big.

Higuruma stuck out his tongue dramatically, looking at you from under his long dark lashes before his tongue found your clit. You sucked in a sharp breath when he flattened his tongue and shook his head back and forth, lavishing your clit with attention before his plush lips wrapped around the bud and he sucked–hard.

You cried, turned your head to Nanami’s neck and screamed. He grunted when you wiggled on him, unable to handle the onslaught of pleasure. “You really should stop moving.” He whispered. “How is he meant to eat properly if you keep moving around?”

You gasped, looking up at him. The tips of his ears were red. “It feels so good.” You cried.

He nodded, leaning down, hovering his lips over yours. Your cunt pulsed at the closeness, and wetness dripped onto the eager tongue between your legs, which was lapped up with an eager moan. “I know it does, sweetheart, he looks good with his tongue. Would a kiss make it better? Would it distract you from his tongue ravishing you?”

God his words. You hardly got the first nod out before his lips were on yours. You expected his kiss to be slow and passionate, but he was rushed and you could taste the arousal in his kiss. Two tongues lashed between your lips, dizzying you.

Nanami grunted against your lips, and his hands tightened under your thighs. You were about to pull away when you felt something wet and hard hit your bare thigh.

“Don’t stop.” Higuruma ordered, voice heady. “Good girl, keep sucking his tongue. Yes… Yes, that's it.” Something pressed against your entrance, something big.

“Higuruma-” Nanami gasped between kisses. 

Your husband shushed him, and you tightened your entrance when you felt the head of a cock against it. “I know how bad you want this.” He said, “please her, please my wife from the inside while I suck her pretty clit.”

Nanami was breathing heavier against you now, his back rising and falling quickly. You shuttered when his cock was pushed inside you–what felt like five inches shoving in all at once before the rest of him slid in more gradually. The both of you groaned simultaneously at the intrusion, and Nanami thrust his hips up, pressing himself balls deep against you.

The pressure was intense, it felt like someone was pushing your stomach from the inside. But he was also pressing on a sweet spot inside you that made your eyes roll to the back of your head. “My dreams paled in comparison to how amazing you feel.” Nanami groaned against you. “So tight, honey, you feel perfect.

Higruma groaned, and you whined when his lips suctioned around your clit again, before he popped off just as quickly. “I changed my mind.” He said. 

Nanami’s lips disconnected from yours, and you leaned in to kiss Higuruma. Nanami was still inside you, but you could feel him twitch and throb against your walls with need. You tasted yourself on your husband's tongue, moaning with him before he pulled away and looked at you with the most loving expression.

The clinking of a belt made you turn your gaze down, to where he was undoing his belt with a single hand. “Do you think you can take us both?” He asked, “in here?” he tapped your clit before rubbing two fingers around the base of Nanami’s cock where you were stretched around him, you both groaned at the feeling.

You shook your head, mouth opening and closing dumbly. “I-I don’t know, I’ve never taken that much before.”

Higuruma nodded, “I know, sweetheart.” His hands caressed your face and you leaned into the touch like a kitten. “But do you want to try? Hm?”

You did, so badly, but you were afraid of being split in half in the process. Nanami and Higurma were around the same side, Nanami having more length where Hiromi had girth. Though, you had been cockwarming Nanami for some time now, and could feel yourself adjusting as the seconds went by.

“We will take it slow. Careful.” Nanami encouraged from behind.

That was the last push you needed before you nodded. “ALright, good girl. We’ll take care of you.” Hiromi whispered, locking his lips with yours, distracting you while he lifted your right leg over his shoulder. It was a stretch, and it burned at first, but quickly dissolved when the angle made Nanami’s cock bump into something sweet deep inside you. Each time Hiromi moved, it rubbed that spot.

“Careful, she feels like she’s going to cum. She is twitching around me like crazy” Nanami said behind you as Higruma lined himself up.

Hirimi raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? Are you close, my love?” You nodded frantically, leaning into Nanami’s neck when your husband pressed two fingers inside you along with Nanami’s cock and stretched you. It felt impossibly tight, and it burned, but the sensation blurred with the pleasure he was giving you when someone's thumb rubbed your clit in soft circles with firm pressure.

“You’re doing very well.” Nanami praised, making you whine. Higruma had three fingers now, and was thrusting himself against where you and Nanami were connected. Kisses peppered your neck. “Relax, loosen yourself around me.”

You held your breath, fighting the urge to tense when you felt your husband press the head of his cock against you. You were unable to resist when his head popped inside along with Nanami. “Yes- Yes, my love, I’m in.” He smiled, hands cradling your face. You hadn’t realized tears were falling down your face. “You did it, you did so well.” He was sliding in as you spoke, and it burned.

Nanami made a pained sound behind you, muttering the word “tight”, and you felt him twitch rapidly. His nails dug into your skin as he held himself back.

Higuruma was nearly fully seated inside you when Nanami pulled back, making you shutter. “We’re going to move now, slow at first, okay? That okay, honey?” Hiromi asked.

You nodded through a cry of pleasured pain. Higuruma pushed into the hilt then as Nanami pulled nearly all the way out. A purely male sound spilled from his lips. “I’m not going to last inside you.”

Higuruma laughed, the sound strained when he pushed back in. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and your legs shook when they continued to rub against that sweet spot. The pressure was so intense, it was so fucking much, you had never felt so full. “I’m not going to last either, you- you both feel so warm.”

“And she’s so wet.” Nanami added, quickening the rubbing on your clit. You had no time to warn them you were cumming before you clamped down on them and shattered.

Both men grunted loudly, groaning and gasping as your walls shuttered and milked around them. Your mind was elsewhere then, no longer one with the earth. Through it all though, they didn’t stop moving.

“Good fucking girl, good girl.”

“Wet our cocks, god- that feels so good.”

“So pretty when she finishes too, what a sweetheart.”

“It’s dripping down my balls… God, that was a big one.”

Their praise and words melded into one, their voices unidentifiable as you were now putty in their hands for them to mold, and mold they did.

Their thrusts got harder then, and you screamed when they synced up and both slammed inside your too tight cunt. “I love this.” Hiromi groaned, burying his face in your neck. His body crushed yours, your pebbled nipples rubbing against his coarse shirt.

You nodded, tears running furiously down your cheeks now. Your entire body vibrated and shook now, you had no control over it.

Nananmi panted behind you, kissing and biting your ear lobe, making your eye twitch. “Where do you want me?” He asked breathlessly, thrusts faltering.

You already knew Hiromi was going to finish inside you, as he always did–and you wanted Nanami too as well. You were on the pill, and something about being filled with both their cum set you off.

“Inside.” You whined, tightening around them to emphasize your words.

Nanami released an inhuman groan, and stilled. His thighs shook violently under you, and you felt him release inside you first. Everything was so hot and wet, and Higuruma kept thrusting, working you both over. “Agh- I can feel it- fuck, fuck it’s so warm honey, so- so warm.” Higuruma was rambling now, dizzy with his impending high.

Nanami’s abs jerked and his body contracted around yours when he came down from his high but kept being stimulated with Higuruma’s thrusting. “God-” He moaned long and drawn out.

Higurma grunted. “I’m going to cum, sweetheart. Gonna fill you up with Nanami, and you’re going to take it like my good little wife, aren't you?”

You nodded vigorously, gripping the back of his neck and pulling his forehead to yours while your nails dug into Nanami’s forearm. 

“Such a good girl, my sweet wife-” His words cut off with his orgasm, and he stilled. He jerked above you, moans and grunts spilling from his throat as he spilled inside you. Nanami groaned behind you, eyes rolling back in his head at the feeling of his cock being flooded around with cum.

His body buzzed when he came down, and he smiled against your lips as he took your mouth, whispering how good you were, how pretty you looked.

Neither of them pulled out, keeping you warm and stuffed save for the trickle of their arousal you felt spill out between you–which seemed absurd because of how full you were. But for the most part, they were plugging you up good.

“So, Nanami? She is a reactive thing, isn’t she?” Higuruma asked.

He kissed your cheek, creating a loud smacking sound. “Incredibly so, and she takes everything so well.”

“The best.” He agreed. “My perfect little wife.”

[ttsukiimi]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ MILLION DOLLR BABY!

★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ⎯ for as long as you can remember, you’ve been friends with Satoru Gojo—just friends. Then why is now insisting that you’re the perfect woman to birth the Gojo clan heir?

★ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ⎯ gojo x fem!reader, smut (mdni), implied experienced!gojo x virgin!reader, gojo clan au, breèding k⍣nk, best friends to lovers/f⍣ckers, implied s⍣xual tension, unprotected s⍣x, slight mention of size difference, mentions of passing out, slight cl⍣t play, slight t⍣t play, bigd⍣ck!satoru.

When Satoru had first proposed this..idea of his, you’d almost choked on the succulent dumpling you were chewing on. Your eyes widened and you looked over at the white haired, heaven sent man beside you, and while, yes, yes he was so fucking attractive, you just didn’t want to waste years of friendship for something you were both unsure of.

You knew that the Gojo clan was in dire need of an heir with Satoru’s ability, considering he himself was the clans one and only trump card. But, where you really the one that could carry out this oh, so important task? You simply couldn’t carry that burden on your shoulders.

“‘Toru,” you called out softly, swallowing the last remains of your food before you reached out and cupped his bigger hand in yours. The warmth of his hand alone had you ready to stutter out your whole sentence. “Look, I—“

But could you really continue speaking with the way his azure eyes bored into you as he stared, his free hand taking ahold of yours and holding it tight, practically engulfing your palm in his? You think not.

“Please. I’ve been being bugged all day, you don’t understand.” He pleaded, a pathetic whimper of your name leaving his lips as he pulled you closer to him by the arm. “You’re the only one I wanna do this with.”

“Please.”

And so was the escalation of how you ended up under your best friend of—how many years had you spent with him again? You couldn’t remember with how foggy your brain was as his lips slid across your neck while he peppered hickeys along your skin.

Your hands tangled in his soft hair, urging him to venture further down your neck to the valley of your breasts.

“‘Toru,” you mouthed, looking up to his lust-clouded eyes as you placed his hand on your tit, squirming as he immediately squeezed the flesh. His hands expertly groped at your mounds as his fingers moved around your already firm nipples, swiping at your sensitive nubs.

Satoru chuckled breathlessly, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll give it to you soon, needy girl.”

He then planted a deep, wanton kiss to your lips—a kiss that released all of his pent up feelings and sexual tension into one. Your body shivered as you felt his breath fan past your pulse point.

“Just know you’re leaving this room nice ‘n full, ‘Kay?” And with that he was latching his mouth to your breasts, making quick work of sliding his robe off with a swift pull of the bow holding it together. He sprang up, hard and excited to finally have the woman he’s been head over heels with for years.

Fuck. Your eyes widened at the sight—was he really hiding this from you all this time? Surely, concealing something this size would be a hassle, right?

Satoru’s grin only widened at the expression displayed on your face, feeling pride build up in his chest. He hurriedly grabbed at the base, pressing his tip right up to your aching and pulsing cunt.

“Y’ready?”

“Mhm hm!”

“‘M going in,” as he slowly wedged himself between your folds, watching as you stretched to accommodate his size and groaning at the view.

Was this what heaven felt like? Had Satoru Gojo finally tasted a slice of his own paradise?

He had, and there was no backing down now—no escaping from the seemingly endless ruts of cock into you, the hands harshly planted to your hips, and the feeling of being filled up repeatedly.

He watched you squirm under him, all the while burning with the desire to ruin you, but he knew with how tight you were clamped down around him—that this might’ve been your first time.

The thought made his ego skyrocket.

“You take it so well,” he praised, spreading your thighs further apart to gain a better glance of just how wet you were, gritting his teeth in resistance.

Satoru could, without doubt, have you pass out by the second round—if he wanted you to. But his goal now was simply to get you pregnant—to plant that million dollar baby into you.

However…a little sidetracking could do. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little fun with you.

“It’s so..deep inside me, ‘Toru. Are you sure it’s s’possed to be—“ your words came to a halt, a particularly hard rut of his hips shutting you up for good; only leaving room for cries of pleasure to leave your lips.

And, maybe, just maybe he should have proposed this idea earlier. Maybe he should have just made it known to you how good he could give dick.

With each movement into you, Satoru let himself go a little, let himself get a little rougher, let the head of his cock graze the just-right spots inside of you; spots you never knew existed.

He already knew your body so well.

His hand journeyed down to your thighs, letting go of its original place on your hips to your pussy, thumb drawing your clit in brain-fuzzying circles.

You mewled, back arching off the bed and your hips moving on their own to meet his thrusts, clawing at the bedsheets for anything that may keep you grounded—because everything your best friend did threatened to transport you to pleasure utopia.

“S’toru, feels like my—“ he cut you off once more, breathing hard against your lips after he finishes kissing you.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asked, smugly of course, knowing he’d be the first man to ever make you cum. You nod and Satoru took this as a queue to drive rougher thrusts into your cunt, reveling in the lewd squelches and the slap of your bodies resonating throughout the room.

You came to a crescendo, and your body fell limp. Your thighs shook around his waist as you climaxed, mouth falling open and face curling into a blissed-out look.

“Fucking pretty even when you cum,”

And while it would’ve taken him—normally—another round to finish, virgin pussy had him on a chokehold. Especially yours.

So, naturally, it wasn’t long—perhaps 3 or 4 more thrusts until Satoru Gojo—your former best friend—came inside you. Fully intent on knocking you up.

No, he didn’t have any intention of pulling out either, wanting to keep his seed deep inside you until he’s sure you’re pregnant.

He lay to your side, still inside you, not showing any signs of getting soft anytime soon. But, no matter what had happened, Satoru was still your best friend.

Just now a best friend that knew how your walls felt around him.

[sugoroo]

#AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES...

ʚɞ summary: the chronicles of what happens when you share a living space with the jjk men: expect tension, embarrassing revelations and (of course) séx! . . . ft. gojo, geto, toji, choso + nanami.

warnings. fem!reader, masturbation, panty stealing, plushie humping in choso's, penetration (p in v), doggystyle, oral (f receiving), 18+ minors dni.

SATORU GOJO — THE LOUD ONE!

satoru gojo is the most irritating, annoying and overly loud roommate you could possibly have.

at all hours of the day, he can be heard through the thin walls separating your rooms doing one (or all) of the following things: shouting down the phone to his bestfriend suguru, raging at his teammates for losing a match in a video game... and even jerking off.

yes, that's right.

and whatever satoru is doing to himself in there simply cannot feel good enough that it warrants the sheer amount of obnoxious moans that he releases; you're sure of it. he has to be playing it up purely to get on your nerves — and to his credit, it works.

so eventually, after yet another hour of trying to focus on doing some work on your computer but being unable to get anything done due to the noises coming from the other room of the apartment, you decide to do something about it.

without stopping to knock, you unceremoniously barge through his door, mouth already open in preparation of the spew of complaints you have ready to throw his way.

but, rather embarrassingly, once you lay eyes upon what he's currently doing, any and every word in the english language disappears from your mind without so much as a puff of smoke.

satoru, for his part, doesn't react at all save for looking mildly amused at your reaction. in fact... you think the pale hand he has wrapped around his cock even speeds up its languid strokes at the sight of you.

"girl, finally!" he sighs dramatically, lips spreading into a wide, impish smile as he beckons you with the curled finger of his other hand. "been waiting for you to get the hint for months now. i was starting to think you didn't want me too, honestly."

"you— what?" you push out awkwardly, wincing through your confusion as you fight the fruitless battle to tear your eyes from his unnecessarily big cock and meet his bright eyes.

"you heard me," satoru hums with an easy shrug, letting out one of those all-too-familiar, almost pornographic moans when he squeezes his own hand around the leaky tip of his shaft. "...or do you not want me too?"

sighing, you raise your thumb and forefinger to rub your stressed temple, shaking your head at the sheer audacity of this man. "you're ridiculous, gojo. i was hoping you were just pretending to jerk off in here— but no, of course you actually are."

"mhmm," he groans raspily between increasingly loud squelches of his cock. wait; is your scolding only helping him get off even faster? oh, you can't make this shit up. "keep talkin' to me just like that, baby."

"first of all, don't call me baby," you scoff, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction with a scowl etching its way onto your features. "and secondly, if you're gonna do this... stuff right next-door to me, can't you atleast try to keep it down? some of us have work to do."

satoru rolls his eyes at this, as if he's somehow the one being inconvenienced here; but any real irritation quickly evaporates into pleasure when he starts fondling his heavy balls, tongue lewdly lolling out of his mouth like a bitch in heat.

"i-i'll keep quiet. shit— i'll do whatever you fuckin' want if you just... just get me over the edge here, pretty girl. hah— help a guy out, would you, roomie?"

and damn if that isn't an enticing offer. finally getting rid of the noise around here so you can actually submit a work assignment on time for once?

yeah... you're definitely on board.

"fine," you mutter, attempting to sound as uninterested as possible as you shuffle closer to the bed. "what do you want me to do, gojo? and don't even bother asking me to suck your dick or anything, because who knows the last time you properly washed that—"

satoru snorts out a strangled laugh, shaking his head quickly and peering up at you with wide, darkened cerulean eyes. "n-no... not that. just— just talk to me, please? and call me satoru, not gojo, damn."

"okay..." you huff thoughtfully, brainstorming what you can say to get this over as quickly as possible. eventually, you purr: "are you gonna be a dirty boy and make a mess all over your hand for me, satoru? hmm?"

and, to your surprise and... arousal? that's all it takes to get him to explode, thick ropes of sticky white cum trickling from the reddened tip of his cock as he whines in ecstasy.

huh. maybe your work can wait a little longer.

SUGURU GETO — THE ONE WHO MAKES YOUR PANTIES GO POOF!

suguru geto is a man of many talents.

but in his humble opinion, the one he is most proficient at? oh, it has to be stealing various pairs of his cute little roommate's panties without her even taking notice.

yeah; that's right, his entire underwear drawer is not actually filled with articles of his own clothing, but rather with scraps of material he has swiped from your room over the past few months.

"ugh, i lost another pair of panties!" comes a frustrated groan from you room; you must be on the phone to one of your friends, suguru muses. "i swear, it's like there's a black hole at the bottom of that washer or something."

ah, if only you knew.

if only you knew that while you're busy stressing over the mystery of your missing underwear, suguru is slumped just against the other side of the thin wall that separates your rooms, one of the aforementioned pairs wrapped tightly around his throbbing cock.

he does this more often than he would like to admit — waits until he hears you get on the phone to jerk himself off. why? well, because then he can listen to your pretty voice while he bucks up into his fist. that's why.

"such a clueless girl..." suguru mutters under his breath as his eyes flutter closed, letting himself get lost in the combination of the soft fabric of your panties surrounding his shaft and the sound of you speaking ringing in his ears. "has no idea where her precious underwear keeps wandering off to."

meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, you have a mischievous smile pulling at your lips as you pretend to be utterly oblivious about your panty thief to your confused friend on the other end of the phone.

as if you wouldn't work out it was suguru snatching them — after all, who else could it possibly be? but you figured it was better this way, letting him think he's holding all the cards in this situation.

it only makes it all the more enjoyable for you.

leaning a little closer to the wall, you can faintly hear the familiar sounds of him getting himself off as you slowly dip a hand beneath your own skirt; and you're not wearing underwear, of course, because you don't have a single pair left thanks to your roommate.

you end up dropping the phone carelessly to the ground when suguru's deep, satisfied groan sounds out from his room, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as his orgasm swiftly brings you to your own.

so lost in your own pleasure are you that when the door softly clicks open, you don't have time to compose yourself before suguru strolls right on in, seeming much too casual for someone who just came in his hand.

"well well well," suguru hums smugly, tilting his head to the side and peering down at you with a condescending smile. "what do we have here, hmm? did you really think you could outsmart me, beautiful?"

oh.

maybe you really are clueless if you genuinely thought he didn't know you were pretending to be as such... but would it really be such a bad thing if he decides to punish you for your attempt at deception?

TOJI FUSHIGURO — THE ONE WHO NEVER PAYS RENT!

toji rarely (if ever) pays his part of the rent for your shared apartment.

he doesn't even bother trying to lie to you and tell you he'll scrounge up enough cash to cover it next time it's due, because he already knows you wouldn't buy that for a second.

so, instead, he offers you something else to keep you sated. something that he can say without a shadow of a doubt he can give to you better than anyone else could even hope to.

cock.

because if he keeps you in a perpetual state of bliss underneath the sheets of his bed, how can you possibly have any time remaining to think of such trivial things like paying the entire monthly rent on your own?

"mmm... what was i saying again, toji?" you slur, voice just delirious with pleasure as he pounds into you from behind, one strong hand effortlessly keeping your face pressed against the mattress.

"nothin', baby," toji lies easily, threading his thick fingers through the back of your hair in a distractingly tender gesture as his mean hips keep up their ruthless pace. "just relax and let y'erself feel me, yeah?"

"but—" you protest weakly, followed by an involuntary hiccup as his pudgy cockhead reaches that spongy spot inside of you once again. "i have a feeling it was important..."

"nah," he grunts dismissively, free hand snaking down to where your bodies are connected to rub messy, stimulating circles around the puffy bud that is your clit. "don't worry about it, pretty."

"...okay. if you say so." you mumble eventually, brain far too hazy from his skilful ministrations to bother putting up much of a fight against his convincing words.

toji's scarred lips spread into a victorious grin behind your back at how easily you give in. he just loves having you like this — so cockdrunk you can't even remember what you were talking about from one moment to the next.

and when the time inevitably comes for you to pay the rent on behalf of both of you yet again, he already knows you won't bat an eye; because, in the big scheme of things, what's a little cash matter if it means you get to have access to his sinful dick game whenever you so desire?

yeah... he'd say it's a pretty fair trade.

but the best part of all is that toji thinks he's the mastermind behind this little arrangement when in reality, if you were looking for a roommate who could pay their rent, you would never have picked someone who looks as jobless as he does in the first place.

but you'll continue to let him believe it was his idea; because, after all, he fucks you better when he's feeling proud of himself.

CHOSO KAMO — THE SECRETLY PERVERTED ONE!

choso doesn't mean to be perverted; not really.

but whether intentional or not, he finds himself desperate for anything that reminds him of you each time he gets himself off: a t-shirt, a pair of underwear, or even one of the cute little plushies you have lined up on your bed.

he wonders, fleetingly, what you'd think of him if you could see him humping one of your stuffed toys while you're out at work — would you be disgusted? would you kick him out and start the search for a new roommate?

or would you, just maybe... take pity on the poor boy and lend him a helping hand?

by the benevolence of some undefined higher power, choso doesn't have to mull over the answer to his question for much longer. because apparently, he was so desperate to release the desire coursing through his veins that he forgot to check the time before starting like he usually would.

so when he hears the tell-tale sign of the door opening and indicating that you've just come home from work, he has nowhere near enough time to cover up what he's been up to in your room while you were gone.

well, shit.

"hey cho, what are you doing in my— oh." comes your dumfounded voice as you peek your head around the slightly ajar doorway, eyes widening in a manner akin to a cartoon character at the sight of his sinful state.

choso blushes profusely, attempting to hide his face by ducking it into his shoulder with a muffled whimper of embarrassment. to his horror, his pathetically hard cock is fully exposed to your view, nestled between the soft limbs of one of your plushies where he had previously been thrusting.

you both stay completely silent for a few long moments, neither of you daring to move a single muscle... but it isn't long before your body is climbing onto the bed to join him before your mind can even begin to process your movements.

"w-what are you doing?... are you gonna hit me? because that would be okay, you can d-definitely hit me if you want!" choso squeaks hurriedly, peeking out from his shoulder and looking for all the word like a puppy who just got caught doing something naughty by its owner.

"i'm not gonna hit you, choso," you chuckle softly, carefully tugging your abused, slightly sticky plushie out from underneath him and tossing it away. "i wanna help you. don't you wanna try doing that to something other than a stuffed toy, hmm?"

"...oh, f-fuck!" he whines loudly, hips rutting just once against the mattress before his cock cruelly betrays him and spurts buckets of cum at the mere thought of being inside of you.

choso hides his face in shame again, figuring he must've absolutely ruined his chances with you now. because there's no way you would still want to help him after witnessing that little display, right?

wrong.

when you tug his head away from his shoulder by one of his scraggly pigtails and pull him into a searing kiss, he realizes maybe his pretty little roommate was just as perverted as him all along.

KENTO NANAMI — THE RESPECTFUL ONE!

kento is very fond of you; his sweet roommate who always wakes him up for work in the morning if he happens to accidentally oversleep and leaves him homemade dinner in the fridge to cheer him up after a late shift.

he figures these things making him feel attraction towards you is fairly normal — but it's the other, not-so-intentional things that make him go crazy for you the most.

when he spots you walking around the apartment in nothing but one of his oversized shirts and a pair of socks because your clothes are in the communal washer... or when he silently observes you bend over to grab something from the bottom cupboard in the kitchen?

yeah, those are the things that really make it hard for him not to pounce on you like some kind of feral animal.

it all comes to a crux when you come home in tears one night, babbling about your fool of a boyfriend having the audacity to cheat on you. hmph, nanami never liked him anyway.

but there's no time for petty jealousies now — no, now is the time for him to make you realize that what you've been craving has been here all along, living in the room right next-door to yours.

so he pulls you into a gentle kiss, pouring all of his pent-up affection into the gesture as he effortlessly lifts you up onto the kitchen counter, positioning himself between your spread legs.

"i want to make you forget about him, beautiful," nanami whispers, voice rough with sincereness as he places a soft peck on the corner of your lips. "may i?"

and you're nodding shakily, but it isn't enough. he reaches up with a large hand to grasp your chin in a firm yet tender grip, thumb stroking over your skin. "use your words for me, dear. come on, i know you can do it."

"y-yes. please, kento."

and that's all it takes for nanami to fall to his knees, brushing his lips over the insides of your thighs as he slowly works his way upwards. god, he's wanted to do this for so long — if for nothing else then to thank you for taking such good care of him and never asking for anything in return.

but oh, is he going to give you something in return now; specifically, in the form of his hot mouth attached to your cunt, tongue lapping up every drop of your translucent juices as if it were the finest wine on the menu of a high class restaurant.

he can't help but wonder, while he's buried nose-deep in your sweet pussy, why on earth a man would choose to cheat on a goddess such as yourself.

but he supposes it doesn't matter, if it means that he's the one who finally gets to worship at your altar from now and for as long as you'll allow him the honour of doing so.

© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

[s0dium]

𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖��𝐍

Haikyuu men x Reader

A/n: This is part of my Olympic event, please click on the for more! If you would like to suggest something for this event don't hesitate!

Synopsis: What do Haikyuu men do after the Olympics? Well, they do you

Warnings: Spanking, fingering, praise, groping, squirting

The camera zooms in on the bustling Olympic stadium in Paris, its energy palpable even through the television screen. The crowd's roaring cheers reverberate, celebrating the electrifying victory of the Japanese volleyball team. Among the sea of jubilant teammates, the camera focuses on one player, your boyfriend, glistening with sweat and wearing an infectious smile: fresh from clinching the gold medal.

As he steps away from the celebratory huddle, a reporter, microphone in hand, intercepts him. The reporter's voice is enthusiastic, mirroring the atmosphere, "So, what are your plans to celebrate the big win?"

He chuckles, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, his grin widening, "Well, after drinks with the guys," he pauses, "I have a little post-game ritual."

Intrigued, the reporter leans in, the crowd's cheers serving as a dramatic backdrop, "Oh yeah? What's that?"

He winks at the camera, "Secret."

Yes a secret it was, one that only you and him knew. One that started off with you being bent over his knee with his fingers deep in your creamy cunt.

"Been thinking about this all day," he murmurs, right hand caressing the fat of your ass while his left curls and massages the sweet part of your gummy walls that makes your eyes roll back. At this point you have given up resisting, letting your body hang limp over his muscular thighs.

As his fingers probe and massage your gspot, the wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, an intoxicating symphony that drowns out all other thoughts. Each movement, each touch, creates a chorus of slick, rhythmic noises that seem to echo in your mind, pushing you further into a state of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"So good," you whine and you don't know it but the tips of his ears go red from the sound of your voice. Your brain begins to haze, the world around you blurring until all that exists is the sensation of his ministrations. His touch is both fast and demanding, knowing exactly how to tease and please, drawing you closer to the edge. He reaches a spot inside you that you can only dream about reaching with your own fingers.

"I know baby, I know you feel good. Shit, i cant feel you squeezing my fingers." he groans at the feeling of your cunt convulsing around his digits. He is already two fingers deep in you but at this point he's thinking about stretching you further and slipping in a third. So he does. Using your dripping arousal as lubricant he slips in a third finger making your thighs tremble from the sudden intrusion. The stretch is delicious, who knew a volleyball player's hands had other uses besides volleyball?

"I won for you princess, the whole time i was playing I was thinking about you."

You can feel your pussy tighten and convulse at his words, the clicking sound of your arousal a testament to your connection, your mutual need.

Time loses all meaning as you surrender to the overwhelming sensations. His fingers, his praises, every part of him is dedicated to driving you wild, and you find yourself unable to hold back the moans that escape your lips. The noises you make together are primal, raw, and they pull you deeper into the abyss of pleasure.

"M'feel weird," You choke. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps as the sensations become almost overwhelming. You feel something press down on your core like there is a pressure building inside you, a sweet, urgent tension that demands release.

"Shhh its ok, let it go baby." He coos and before you can respond he delivers a sharp smack to your ass. "make a mess on my hands, come on~"

The pleasure is so intense, so all-consuming, that it creates an almost paradoxical sensation. The euphoria is so great it feels as though you might lose control, as if you need to pee. It's a raw, primal feeling that heightens the urgency and the pleasure, pushing you further toward the edge.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your senses overwhelmed by the sheer intensity. Your mind races, caught between the need to let go and the fear of losing control. Then, it hits you. with a curl of his fingers against your wall, you surrender to it, letting the sensation wash over you.

Your are too lost in the ecstasy to realize that you are squirting all over his hand. It's like an explosion, your body trembling, your mind going blank, consumed entirely by the pleasure he has given you.

"Just like that, let it go y/n let it go." His hands rubs circles on your ass as your body shakes and trembles from your orgasm.

"So perfect so perfect, the best prize I swear."

HINATA, KUROO, BOKUTO, OIKAWA, TSUKISHIMA, Kenma, Ushijima, IWAZUMI, AKASHI, ATSUMU

[sloaneispunk]

“teacher’s pet”pt.2 (mdni 18+)

teacher!in-ho x you

getting involved with his student was risky, but how far was he willing to take it until he would be confronted?

༯ ──── ❤︎ ──── ༯

“you know, something’s up with you and mr in-ho… you’re like way friendlier than most students and teachers are.” you friend commented as you were walking out the school gate.

“what? no!” you glared at her, looking away.

to be fair, it was pretty obvious. you just didn’t want it to end, it felt good having a handsome man like mr in-house wrapped around your finger. but you didn’t know who you were trying to protect more, him or you.

the next day when you stepped into class, you gave him yet another wave, causing him to do the same.

if mr in-ho wasn’t so good-looking, you would say his lessons were mundane. but luckily for you, your interest had peaked miraculously ever since you started attending his class.

when the bell rang, you packed your bags, ready to leave. but just as you brushed past his table, you felt his hand grab onto yours.

“stay back.” he whispered, making you look back at your friends that had left.

“why? did i do something wrong?” you asked as he slowly but hesitantly released your hand.

“no, not at all… i just thought we could spend some time together.” he shrugged, seemingly with pure intentions.

but you saw right through.

bullshit.

“it is your lunch now right?” he asked.

he swiftly half sat on his desk, signalling for you to take his teacher’s seat instead.

“yea, it is. did you stalk my timetable?” you teased causing him to let out a chuckle.

“just happened to see it.”

“okay then. so, how are you liking this school?”

“oh, i’ve taught in this school before. i just haven’t been back into the teaching scheme in awhile.”

“oh, i didn’t know that.” you replied, hands rested on your hands as you stared at him, intrigued. “so i’m guessing you liked teaching him, or you would’ve found another school.”

“of course. there’s something in the air of this school, makes me keep wanting coming back.”

“maybe it’s the student… maybe a student.” you wiggled your eyebrows as you joked, testing waters.

“possibly.” he shook his head in disbelief.

“i’m assuming you don’t have a wife?” you questioned.

“well… i did, but she isn’t with us anymore.” he said, his tone changing, sounding much softer, much more vulnerable.

“oh…i’m sorry, i don’t mean to pry. i’m sure she must have been very beautiful… inside and out.” you offered him a smile as you placed your hand over him comfortingly.

in-house looked down to where your hands were meeting, breath suddenly caught in his throat.

“thank you.” he cleared his throat before gently pulling away. “so, are you doing anythung after school?”

“no, not really. alot of assignments are piling up, i should go home straight away.” you told him as he nodded sympathetically.

“so you’re a hard-working girl, huh?”

“of course, have you not seen me in your class?” you laughed.

“i have… alot.” the last word said almost in a whiser, barely able to hear if you weren’t fully paying attention to him.

you could feel a string of tension in the air, you breath quickened as he started to move away.

“i should go, should probably eat before my next class.” you made up an excuse, grabbing your stuff and dashing for the door.

before in-house could stop you, you were gone.

shit, did he take it too far?

for the rest of the periods, you couldn’t focus. it was so wrong. so, so wrong.

this was the moment you realised how bad you had it too. in-ho, the man you knew for barely a month had already had you in a chokehold.

when classes ended, you were going to head home. but then came a slight misfortune, it was pouring.

you stood at the gate with a huff as the rain grew heavier by the second. all your friends had took off, heading to a nearby diner together, leaving you behind.

fuck it, you thought. you walked in the pouring rain, feet dragging as you let out curses under your breath.

just then, there was a honk.

as you shielded your eyes from the rain you saw who it was, mr in-ho.

“what are you doing?!” he asked as he pulled up beside you, “get in before you get sick!”

with no other choice, you pulled open the car door, hopping into the passenger seat as you felt his eyes tearing into you.

“thank you.” you breathed out as you looked at yourself, you were soaked. “i’m sorry about the car seat, this looks like a really expensive car.”

“don’t worry about it… are you okay? is it still cold? i can turn off the air conditioning.” he replied, his eyes full of worry.

“no, i’m okay. thank you.”

“do you have an address where i can drop you off?”

in-ho gave you his phone, letting you put your address into his gps before he drove off.

at first, the car ride was silent. it wasn’t an awkward silence, it was a comfortable one. one where you could hear the humming of the engine and the water splashing onto the windshield.

“why did you take off just now?” in-ho suddenly asked, turning to you for a split second.

“i-i just… you- i don’t-”

“it’s okay, you don’t have to answer.”

“no. it’s just that i don’t want to misinterpret anything and end up regretting it for the rest of my life.” you vomitted out.

he stayed silent.

“and what would that be?” he asked after a bried moment of silence.

“that you were into me…” you said softly, “…like how i am to you.”

he only hummed in agreement.

shit, was this it? did you mess up?

before you could somehow salvage the situation, the car came to a stop.

“we’re here.”

“i’m sorry, i knew i shouldn’t have said that. i-i was just misinterpreting the whole thing a-an-”

but you were cut off with in-ho’s soft hands cupping your face, barely giving you any time before his lips met with yours.

you let out a muffled gasp before you melted into him.

at that moment, he was all you knew.

in-ho, in-ho, in-ho.

when he pulled away, you involuntarily let out a whine, causing him to smile.

“it’s our secret.” he said as you nodded frantically. “you know what? since you’re my favourite student, i’ll give you my number…”

he then took out a piece of paper, scribbling his number on it and placed it in the palm of your hand.

“don’t lose it.” he instructed as you were still caught up in what exactly just happened.

with that, you exited his car, giving him a small wave as per usual. he made sure that you got into your apartment before he took off, a stupid smile never leaving his face.

that night, you were on your bed, tossing in turning. you couldn’t sleep.

‘maybe this was the time to put his number to good use.’ you thought.

you crawled over to your nightstand, taking you phone as you typed in his number.

‘hey! i hope this is the right number.’ you texted.

within a minute, your phone had buzzed.

‘Y/n?’

‘yea. sorry i don’t mean to bother you.’

‘It’s alright, i was just grading papers. It’s late, why aren’t you asleep?’

‘couldn’t. but if you’re busy we can talk when you’re free. :) ’

‘Nonsense. Papers can wait. Did you catch a cold?’

‘no, i’m okay. thanks for the ride though!’

‘Anytime, Y/n. You have my number, call me if you ever need a ride home. :)’

you were kicking your feet like a pre-tesn texting their first crush.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow in class okay? Get some sleep, need you to be awake for my class.’

you giggled.

‘okay. goodnight mr in-ho!’

‘Goodnight, Sweetheart. Sweet dreams.’

yup. you were fucked.

༯ ──── ❤︎ ──── ༯

( bungee jumping of their own - 2001 )

[lalunanymph]

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 ❤️

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, claim my story as your own, or feed my works into AI.

[prael]

Day 1: Scandal

Aespa Karina x male reader smut

words: 4,260 12 Days of Praelmas Masterlist

They're calling it the scandal of the century. A downright disaster. People scrambled in the aftermath, but the damage had been done, the proverbial milk spilt. And oh, did the milk spill alright. It sounds like everyone had tuned in right around the country. Hell, right around the world.

If they didn't catch it live, then they certainly caught the post-game replays.

There are a lot of those going around.

No amount of damage control could have prevented it from exploding all over the Internet and into every gossip rag imaginable. But damn it if her PR team hadn't tried to stop it anyway. They had gone on the offence—attacking everyone and anyone who had even so much as hinted at the incident. Filing every legal document they could just get it removed.

It doesn't matter. The damage is done. The ties are cut and you're both hung out to dry.

Well before it happened, there had been warnings. Karina was still fresh off the back of her first Dispatch leak. The two of them weren't even really dating. Two young, rich and hot adults were just fooling around, so once it hit the press and the online articles came in, she took the axe to that relationship right away. She could always find another dick to ride on.

That she did; your dick, and damn did she ride it.

It was a friend of a friend thing. You know one of those 'I showed this girl your picture and she wants to get to know you' things. To be honest, you thought it was a joke. Of course, you did. How often does some K-pop starlet want to have dinner with you?

Anyway, three months down the line and you're two and half months deep into, well, being deep into her.

Her apartment is nice. Her bed is nicer, or at least it is with her in it.

You spent night after night together doing every nasty, carnal thing she wanted. She loves it. You would come to realise she's a bit of a nymphomaniac—and you fucking love it. But, even still, you kept it casual. Kept it quiet.

Didn't work too well.

There was a close call, once.

You put it down to getting a little too comfortable. The guard slipped for just the briefest moment of weakness. Though, if anything, you would at least put part of the blame on the whole system. See, Karina can't catch a flight without the entire thing being documented. She arrives at the airport and they're all there waiting with cameras in hand to get the latest snap of her airport fashion as she comes out of the van. They know what flight she's on and the exact departure time, and then when she lands there's another group of fans waiting.

So it goes without saying, you two can't just waltz in there hand-in-hand. So you book the same flight, seated far enough away from her that no one would question a thing. You shouldn't speak, not until you're safely at the other end and in the privacy of the hotel room, but Karina is Karina.

So she texted you, this one time in the departure lounge. A twenty-minute window and directions to the toilets of the private lounge. There, in the small cubicle, you slipped down her jeans, turned her around, bent her over and made her feel good.

It was quick and messy. Nothing like how the sex would be in her hotel later that night. You had her cheek pressed against the door of the cubicle, your hand covering her mouth to stifle the noise, and your dick going balls deep in her hot pussy while her hand rubbed away at her clit. It was desperate and hungry—more the need to release the sexual tension than to enjoy it.

But damn was it fun.

She deepened the arch of her back and presented herself just that bit more for you and you watched every inch go inside her with each thrust. Watched as your cock spread apart those soft pussy lips of hers and vanished into the warm embrace of her body. Her ass shook as your hips slapped against it and eventually, her legs trembled so much that you had to wrap your arm around her waist to keep her up.

But when you came—and you came deep—someone entered the bathroom. Their presence was unknown until you heard the faucet run. For a brief, horrifying moment you thought it might be someone waiting to bust you.

A security guard or maybe a tabloid reporter ready to get their story. The scandal of the century? Not quite.

Just another passenger. They didn't even realise who they were next to as they washed their hands. But the idea that you both could've been caught, had Karina let that moan slip or if you hadn't just stopped pounding her against the door so hard that it rattled the hinges.

Afterwards, with your spent dick sliding out from between her tight thighs, it was something Karina whispered in your ear. She said, "That was close. We'll have to be more careful."

If only you knew just how careless she was about to be...

See, it was a pretty normal evening. She texted you a time to come over, and you took all the usual precautions. (There's a side door into the block and a service elevator that Karina made sure to get the passcode for.) Admittedly, you got there five minutes early, but it wasn't the first time it had happened, and since the first time, Karina made sure to leave a sock on the bedroom door just in case it happened again. She was streaming, you see, an Instagram live session. One of those things where the adoring fans get to listen to their idols talk about themselves, or their day, or sometimes with Karina, something a little out of the ordinary.

So you waited. A drink of water, sitting on her couch, and letting curiosity take over. You opened up her Instagram, watched her for a few minutes, and smiled to yourself because, as usual, she was simply being Karina. No topic, just rambling, but there were thousands watching anyway, because well, why wouldn't they?

A smile crept onto your face as you watched, knowing that she was in the next room, just looking that good, and soon enough you would be in there ravishing her. There were thousands upon thousands of other people, jealous of you without even realising you existed, who would give almost anything to be in your shoes—to be able to do the things you do to Karina. Fuck, some of them would probably sell everything they owned.

Then she started saying goodbye to people. Signing off, wishing them a good night, whatever. So you locked the phone and waited until she came down the hallway.

She was moving quickly, right towards you. Bare feet hitting the wooden floor in hurried little slaps. She jumped right into your lap without so much as a 'Hello', and she clamped her legs, clad in tight yoga pants, around your waist. She grabbed either side of your face and kissed you, a hand reaching back and pulling on the hair at the base of your skull as she did.

And it wasn't soft either.

It was fierce and aggressive. Her tongue forced its way into your mouth, pushing against your own, flicking over your teeth. She ground herself against the erection growing beneath her and breathed hot breath against your lips while biting down on the lower one.

"You," she gasped. "Take me to the bedroom... Now."

"Hi to you too," you joked, putting your arms under her butt.

She was so very easy to carry. Maybe because you had done it so many times before. But she had always been a light little thing, so slender apart from exactly the places you would want her to be big. It always made it so easy to pin her against the wall with her leg over your shoulder, to press her up against the shower and bounce her up and down on your cock while steam filled the bathroom. But mostly it was great because you could easily throw her down on the bed.

Tonight wasn't going to be any different.

Except it was, wasn't it? But neither of you knew that just yet.

As you walked toward her room, holding her gorgeous body up with nothing but a firm grasp on her ass, she kept whispering things to you. Whispered them right against your ear, her voice low and husky as she did. She told you about all the things that she wanted you to do to her. The things that she wanted to do to you. Like some raw, filthy script of a play long overdue to be performed.

"...and then I want you to put it right back in my pussy and cum in me again and again," she said it right as you pushed through the door. Look, Karina's room isn't that huge, but when you're dying to get your cock into her, going all the way to the bed seemed like such a pain when there was a perfectly good wall right there. You turned and pinned her against it.

There you two stayed for a while, locked in that embrace, kissing and nibbling. She wrestled your shirt off over your head while you peeled up her sports bra. You bent your head down to her chest and kissed along the valley between her breasts. Her soft skin warm against your lips, and you kept pressing them down on her, leaving faint wet marks until you reached one of those pert pink nipples. You cupped her tit and you sucked. Hard.

A little whimper of appreciation followed by a slight tremble through her body was the response.

You went from one to the other. Fingers caressing one and your mouth on the other, switching between them, never fully committing to either, keeping her guessing as to which nipple would feel the bliss next. Karina knew what she wanted, and she simply wouldn't wait. Maybe the rush to get fucked could be blamed for all of this.

See, while you sucked her tits, she pulled down her leggings and her underwear. Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was convenience, but she didn't even pull them past her knees. Instead, as you continued your adoration, she unbuckled your belt and let your trousers fall to the floor. Your underwear didn't last long either. She gave a couple of lazy strokes up the length of your cock, just enough for her to feel it getting hard. Enough for her to know you could give her what she needs.

She twisted between you and the wall and leaned against it; her tits pressing against the white paintwork, and she stuck out her ass. "Don't hold back," she instructed. "I need it."

For all the focus you gave her tits, Karina does have a hell of an ass.

So with her arms up above her head and grasping high, she looked perfect. The swell of her hips, the curve of her ass—it was just to be grabbed and slapped. Those legs looked fucking perfect, slightly muscled from hours of dance practice but still so thin and lean. And between them... fuck. If there's such a thing as a pussy so good it should win awards then Karina better prepare her speech.

You weren't gentle.

Gentle doesn't work for her. Gentle is boring. Normal. Vanilla. Karina's tasted it all before and she's bored. You won't remember the first time she said those words to you. She made you promise not to judge her but she told you exactly how depraved and slutty she really wants to be in bed.

So when she said, "Fuck me hard," you did exactly that.

Spit on your cock was enough to get it slick. You stroked the tip up and down across her waiting pussy a couple of times and found the right place. Then you slid it right inside her, letting it rest buried for just a moment before you pulled back. You didn't even go halfway before you thrust it right back into her. Right down to the balls. Deep as you can go.

A pleasured hiss passed over clenched teeth as her cheek pressed against the wall and she nodded, just once, telling you that she wanted more. You fucked her harder, feeling her hot insides clench at your cock. Her hips smacked against the wall with each thrust, the room echoing with the sounds of your flesh coming together. The squelch of her wet hole was barely audible over her cries. Cries that steadily increased in volume the longer you held her against the wall, the more aggressively you bucked your hips against her, the harder you drove your dick into her body.

"Don't stop!" she cried out as her legs shivered.

No danger of that.

Maybe you should have.

Karina was struggling. To not fall apart in your hands, to hold herself against the wall, but also just to keep breathing as the intensity of your deep pounding washed over her, making her shudder and shake in front of you. One of her hands flew down to between her legs. The tips of her fingers went in a circle around her clit.

But as much fun as taking her against the wall was, she would fall if you continued.

So you did what you knew you could so easily do, just threw her. Her quivering body collapsed onto her bed after a small stumble. Right into the one place in the room, she shouldn't be.

See, Karina was sitting just here, maybe ten minutes earlier. You were watching, on your phone. She had chatted and joked and waved goodbye, just where you were about to fuck her.

She clambered up the bed and onto all fours, looking back at you with lust-drunk eyes, urging you on, needing to be fucked some more. So you crawled right up behind her, took a grip of those beautiful hips and you slipped your cock back inside her.

One stroke and you bottomed out within her.

Two strokes and she began moaning again.

By the third, you were slamming her forward with each push.

The bed creaked in protest as you hammered yourself into Karina, keeping up with what she wanted as she pushed back at you, meeting every buck of your hips with equal force and speed. At least one orgasm tore through her body. You felt it in the way her body contracted around your thick shaft as you drove it deep inside her, but also heard it in the way she screeched through gritted teeth. Saw it as she clawed at the blankets, grabbing handfuls of material and pulling at them as her body tensed up.

"Cum," she pleaded with just the one word.

And that's what you did. Her little pussy made sure of it. Feeling her spasm around you, squeezing your throbbing cock so tightly that you couldn't resist but join her in ecstasy. So you flooded her sweet cunt, sending ropes of cum into her waiting body, painting her walls, feeling every inch of her pussy pulse as her body urged yours to give her everything it had. Her cries mingled with the heavy panting as you emptied your balls within her.

You couldn't keep it up. Fucking Karina sometimes feels too intense, takes so much energy out of you, makes your muscles burn. So you had to withdraw from her and rest back on your haunches, catching your breath, your heart racing. But Karina is Karina.

She turned around and before you could move, she had taken hold of your thighs and moved forward. Her lips wrapped around the tip of your glistening cock and began sucking on it. As her tongue rolled across the slit and along the underside, tasting your seed and her own juices combined. Her cheeks hollowed, eyes staring up at you from behind damp hair and you felt her moans reverberating through you.

How can she do this every time? How can she make you recover so quickly? Because you did. No sooner had Karina placed her head in your lap than you grew hard again. You were left fighting that war against conflicting desires: whether to push her off and have her again or keep the pleasure of having her mouth on you. Every swirl of her tongue across the sensitive parts of your cock, the feeling of her lips gliding along its length, her throat opening and the tightness taking your crown.

"Oh shit..." you groaned. "Are you trying to kill me?"

She didn't answer but you noticed her hips wiggle slowly side-to-side.

It wasn't long before she relinquished the grasp she had on your thighs and let you pull her into position. A roll onto her back. A pillow under her lower back. You hooked one leg over your shoulder while she held the other out wide, laying right on the edge of the bed. You sank into her again and again, rocking the entire bed with each thrust.

And how you only wish now that you had at literally any point taken a look to your right. Maybe you would have questioned why her phone was still there. Maybe you would have made her check the thing was actually off.

Of course, you know now the mistake that Karina made.

You pushed her down into the bed, pressing her leg against her chest as you fucked her. Fucked her deeply. You had changed the tempo now, switched to something slower, more powerful and purposeful. That load you left in her cunt made the whole thing a mess. You pounded into her and it spilt between you, running down her ass and soaking her bedding. Karina gasped as her second climax crashed through her.

Her phone caught it all.

Every minute.

When Karina came, so loud, so hard, so intense that she didn't know who or where she was, people were watching. Her fans watched. When she said your name as she stared up into your eyes with such gratitude, they were listening. And when you came for the second time, she made sure everyone could hear.

"I feel it," she whispered, her fingers digging into your arms. "I feel it. All of it. Give me more. Fill me."

She pulled at her thighs, spreading herself open and making you groan into the crook of her neck as your throbbing dick pulsed, unleashing another load of thick cum deep within her body, making another wonderful mess. Leaving her already soaked cunt saturated. Together you lay like that, two exhausted bodies wrapped in an embrace, your cock twitching, occasionally releasing a few drops inside her. Karina giggled.

"There's nothing better than that feeling," she groaned. "Nothing... better."

She looked right into your eyes as she said it.

"It's my favourite thing in the world."

So you kissed her, both of you falling into the tangled mass of sweat-soaked blankets while you stayed on top of her. She didn't want to let go, not yet, not while the closeness and warmth were shared. Your bodies pressed together with your softening cock still inside her until eventually you slipped out and came to lie beside her. She nestled up against your chest.

In the silence that proceeded, there was a vibration across the room. Your phone is still in your pocket, somewhere on the floor. You let it ring out, while you lay there, breathing heavily. Again it vibrated. "Ugh," you groaned, "Leave me alone."

"Is someone missing you?" Karina teased.

"Doubt it," you replied.

Karina let her hand trace patterns across your chest, moving slowly towards your hip. You knew the game. Get you hard again, and ride you into the middle of next week. It worked, too. Even though you protested, her hand wrapping around your shaft soon brought it back to life. Sensitive strokes had you squirming and groaning.

"Well, whoever it is will just have to deal with the fact you're mine tonight," she purred.

Then you heard an unusual noise. Another buzz. But not your phone. From somewhere else. But you paid it no attention as Karina got up from your chest, swung her leg over you and began lowering herself down onto you. What started as slow gentle fucking quickly progressed back to something far hungrier and desperate. Her nails dragged lines across your torso, your hands gripping tightly at her waist to steady her. You watched as your cum leaked out of her cunt and onto you as she rode.

You reached between her legs and scooped up a blob, bringing it to her lips.

"Lick it," you told her. "Taste it."

And she opened wide for your fingers and cleaned them up. "That's what you wanted?"

"Yeah. Tell me what it tastes like."

"Tastes like us," she moaned, fucking you faster, pushing you deeper.

Then she leaned back, making a show of the way she rolled her hips against you. Bouncing as she impaled herself on you. Her head rolled back and her eyes closed as another orgasm approached. It built slowly, the intensity growing higher and higher until she teetered on the edge, balanced between bliss and rapture. The way her tits bounced had you hypnotised. Focus locked on her. Ignoring the phone that continued to ring.

She was close. Really close. Riding you frantically. Her moans turned into short desperate gasps until she had no voice left. You heard the scream before and saw how hard she came, but now you had front-row seats to watch it all again. Her muscles tightened and spasmed. Her rhythm faltered.

Your phone rang.

"Shit. Oh fuck!" she screamed, throwing her head back, arching her spine and freezing mid-thrust.

Her cunt gripped you tightly. Squeezing, milking. Urging you to release within her once more and give her that final gift. You felt her leak over you. Watched as her pussy throbbed as she rode out those final moments, struggling to continue as her strength failed. You grabbed her hips and did the work. Thrusting up into her repeatedly. Feeling her cum dribbling down your shaft and over your balls. Fuck, she's messy.

She panted desperately and let her arms drop by her side, staying arched and leaning back. You helped her balance. She needed it.

Your phone kept ringing.

You ignored it. You fucked up into her, wanting nothing more than to cum inside her again. Your muscles burned. You clenched your teeth. The pressure in your lower abdomen was unbearable. But you pounded up into Karina, making her call out with each thrust, while your grip on her probably turned her hips purple. The pleasure in you rose and rose, so fast, so intense, and without warning it broke.

You came again.

Holding her down and shooting your cum deep inside her. Gasping for air as you did, flooding her body with rope after rope until her insides dripped. Her thighs became glazed in the evidence of your passion.

Then you lowered her down to lie against your chest and you held her close. Until her breathing settled and you could hear her purr, "I think you've outdone yourself this time."

"I think you'll kill me," you joked in return.

"But imagine how happy I'd be if you died from giving me too many orgasms."

A laugh. Another vibration. "Whoever that is must really need me," you grumbled.

"Fuck them," she laughed.

"Why, when I can keep fucking you?"

Karina bit her lip. She seemed pleased with that answer. Then you realised that even as you softened within her, she hadn't stopped grinding against you. Making those slow circles, keeping herself stimulated and trying to get you hard again.

"You're relentless," you marvelled.

"And you love it."

"I love-"

There's a bang at the door and then a bell.

Karina groaned. She sighed. She relented.

Then she rolled off your spent cock, letting it slip from her swollen cunt and you both stared at the ceiling. "Maybe they'll go away?" you mused. They didn't.

"Come on," she huffed. "Stay there. Let me get rid of them."

You listened to her walk across the hardwood floor in her bare feet. Unstable steps courtesy of your enthusiastic rutting.

She pulled on a robe and left the room. Your phone vibrated again as she left, so finally you rolled out of the bed, crawled to find your pants and pulled the damn thing out.

More missed calls and messages than you could count, and not just one person. Your friends, Karina's friends, and... Karina's manager? Face recognition kicked in and the phone unlocked. You're staring at Karina's messy bed.

You're staring at Karina's messy bed on your screen.

The icon has the word 'live' beside it.

You're staring at Karina's messy bed on Instagram Live.

Your heart stops beating. Your breath catches in your throat. You swallow nothing. Wait. One. Two. Three.

"What the fuck are you doing!?" is the scream from across the apartment. You look at the phone again. Karina's messy bed, on Instagram Live, with millions of viewers.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

That was when the realisation of your combined carelessness struck you both—separated by a wall, finding out from two different sources.

Now, they're calling it the scandal of the century. A downright disaster.

[cavillscurls]

MESS OF MINE

joel miller x f!reader

You needn’t think—not when he’s here.

warnings/tags: MDNI. Jackson!Joel. Soft!Joel. Established relationship. Fluff. Intimacy. Praise. References to past smut. Reader is in a pretty heavy sub-space. Dom/sub dynamics. Daddy kink. DD/lg dynamics—seriously, do not read if this off puts you. Caregiver!Joel to the max. Pet names (baby, little one, good girl, darling). A smidge of grinding/dry humping. Brief reference to food aversion. Food consumption. wc: 1.8k

You haven’t left his house in three days.

Haven’t had to. Snowed in. The blizzard that’s taken Jackson by storm an absolute blessing in disguise.

And sure, you feel for Maria and the strain it’s put on organizing her patrol routes. You know plenty of mothers struggle to entertain cabin-fevered-children, and you sympathize with those who have to make treks for rations they hadn’t prepared for.

Still, you can’t help but revel in the selfishness. It’s his fault, really. What else does he expect three days of doting will do to a girl?

You’re on the floor in his living room. Tummy down on the center of the rug, socked toes facing the fire he’s carefully tended to. You’re in one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties, nothing else. You don’t need much else. When the flames aren’t keeping you warm enough, he’s happy to compensate.

There’s a soft tune buzzing from the record player, and you take the time to savor the words on the pages splayed out before you. You’ve been reading a little slower today. Everything seems to slow down when he’s got you like this.

You don’t think you could ever tire of the life you’ve lived these past three days. Joel always takes care of you, in every way, big and small. But there’s been a shift towards all that is so big, the lack of responsibility and expectations allowing you to sink deeper into the roles you both understand well.

So he takes the weight of everything big, promises to nurture it, and handle it with care. And you relish in the freedom that is feeling so small, releasing your usual tension and burdens for an aloofness that would otherwise not be acceptable. You’re not sure how long you’ll have it, and you aren’t willing to spare a moment.

Your mind wanders, less focused on the words inscribed before you and more on the images that paint your memory. That of his hands, that have gently washed your hair. That lay out your clothes—or lack thereof—and deliver you cups of tea. That glide over your skin morning, noon, and night, coaxing breath and cries alike. That hold you still, close, when he sucks on your neck and fills your womb, the remedy for all grievances. Silences your mind, the numbness bright and freeing.

“Baby?” he beckons, and it sounds like he’s repeating himself. Like you didn’t hear him the first time, and perhaps you didn’t. Too entranced by the cozy little oasis he’s created around you, for you.

You cast your eyes towards his voice, dripping in honey, the way that always makes your belly warm. He’s leaning in the archway between the kitchen and living room, a gentle smile curling at the edges of his lips.

“Are ya hungry?” he asks, and you scrunch up your nose.

Admittedly, you’ve been a bit indolent. But it’s easy to languish in the comforts of mindlessness when he makes it so easy. You haven’t cleaned a single dish, washed a single article of clothing, or cooked a single meal, in three days. You’ve hardly walked from room to room without Joel adamantly at your side. The lack of energy exertion squanders your appetite.

He tsks his tongue and slants his eyes at you disapprovingly.

“C’mon, baby. You’ve hardly eaten today. Let me make you a snack at least, yeah?”

You sigh. You don’t want to give him a hard time, even if it’s only for the sake of regaining his attention. So, you offer him a lackluster nod, and he smiles in return—something prideful, that of a man who is pleased to preserve you, and even more so when you’re willing to let him.

He disappears into the kitchen for a handful of moments, and when he returns, sets the plate of chopped veggies down on the coffee table. You sit up, and instead of reaching for it, extend your arms towards him. An overwhelming desire to be held takes you, as it has for these many days, many times. He’s been off doing chores for nearly an hour now, and you can feel yourself growing impatient, needy.

“Nuh-uh,” Joel chastises, shaking his head and stepping back just out of reach. He isn’t fazed by the pout that befalls your lips. “Not till you finish your food.”

You huff, making a show out of crawling your way to the edge of the table and snatching one of the carrots up. You peer up at him as you bring it between your teeth, taking an aggressive chomp out of it as if to prove that even though you’ll listen, it doesn’t mean you’ll like it.

Joel shakes his head and chuckles, pleasantly amused. He approaches you while you chew, knees to your nose, and you crane your neck back to get a good view of him like this. So close, towering, and dripping with power and ease. You’ve never known anyone so mighty, yet so loving.

He reaches a hand down and gingerly pets the crown of your head. “That’s a good girl,” he muses, and the low purr of his voice sends a pang of want through your gut.

You chew a little faster now. Make sure he knows how good you are, how good you’ll remain for him and him alone.

A soft little whimper leaves your throat at the loss of his hand, and the sight of him turning back towards the kitchen.

“Just gotta finish a couple more things, darlin’,” he calls over his shoulder. “I expect to find that plate clean when I come back!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you think, turning your attention toward the colorful spread. As if your body means to spite you, you feel a sudden grumble in your stomach. You are feeling pretty hungry, and he knows. He always knows.

You eat slowly but steadily, determined now to finish before he returns. He’s scooped a spoonful of Tommy’s homemade hummus on the side, the flavors making you bounce a little in delight. The chickpeas are out of season, and Joel only has a handful of his share left for the winter, but he always gives you extra. He knows how much you enjoy it, and the selflessness of the act today only furthers your growing want.

Fifteen minutes pass before you hear his footsteps return towards the living room, and you’re swallowing your last mouthful. He shuffles his way towards the couch, and you watch in silent fascination as he lowers himself with a heavy groan and crack of his knees. He sighs, spreading his meaty thighs wide, and letting his eyes close for a brief moment. You know, despite how much he enjoys his time with you, the days cooped up haven't been easy on him. He’s a doer by nature, perhaps the exact reason he’s channeled all of his energy into caring for you.

His eyes find you as soon as they open, and you wait with bated breath for him to pat a palm against one of his thighs.

“C’mon now,” he murmurs. You don’t need to be told twice.

You abandon your empty plate, which he acknowledges with an approving nod, and slowly crawl your way around the coffee table. You nudge yourself between his feet, rising to your knees, flashing him wide eyes, and waiting for his hands to grip you under your arms and scoop you into his lap. You’re all flimsy limbs and needy fingers, straddling the mass of him—the stretch that you feel in your inner thighs does not go unnoticed, much to accommodate—and wrapping your arms eagerly around his shoulders. You bury your nose into his neck, slumping into his chest, and sigh.

You’re warm, and content, and full, and so small.

He hums, the deep sound rattling through his chest into yours, and you shiver both at the sound and the gentle touch of his fingertip tracing over your bare thighs. You can’t help but wiggle in closer, the rough friction of jeans against your soft cotton panties dizzying.

“Daddy,” you whisper, voice raspy with disuse.

Gentle touches turn to kneads, palm-fulls of your thighs squeezed between his fingers, one hand drifting up and taking a handful of your ass. His touch is grounding, comforting. Turns your body into molasses so you may drip into him with ease, head fuzzy, inundated by his sheer presence. Your eyes droop shut, and a little yawn creeps up through your throat.

“S’about that time, little one.” His voice is so soft, it’s hardly there. Like coaxing a baby animal out of hiding. “Should get ya settled for a nap.”

You whine a sound of protest, but make no effort to move. He’s right, of course. You could fall asleep right here, right now. Bathed in his warmth, the crackle of the fire, the soft tunes. His other hand has trailed up your spine, drawing soothing circles, lulling you in.

“M’not tired.” A lie, but you’re greedy. Greedy as your cunt he hasn’t touched all morning, that starts to grind gently against the front of his jeans. “Wanna play, Daddy,” you mutter into his neck, placing a chaste kiss on the vein that protrudes there.

A low growl settles in his chest, but his hand at your backside slides towards your hip, wrapping his fingers around it and holding you still. You can feel him swell below you, all the restraint in the world unable to stop him from reacting to you the way he does. The way he always does. He’s turned you greedy.

“How about,” he starts, his tone one of reason, though it drops an octave with desire, “you take your nap right here on Daddy’s lap, and he’ll wake you when it’s time, hm?”

You admire his restraint, you really do. You also cannot deny how good he is, tactful in the way he lets his hand trail all the way up your back until it’s woven into your hair, scratching gentle circles across your scalp, the way he always does when you need help falling asleep.

Your breathing slows, eyes still screwed shut, but you give him another humph of disagreement, and he chuckles. He presses your nose deeper into his neck, wraps a heavy arm fully around you now, and flushes you against him, using the weight of his hold to settle you.

Yeah, he’s good.

“One hour, that’s all,” he reasons.

You sigh, already nodding off somewhere between sleep and wake, the dull thrum in your lower belly overcome by the sensations of slumber.

“You swear it?” you press, and he places a kiss on your temple.

You feel his smile against your skin, brighter than the sun itself. And you’re reminded, just before you slip away, how lucky you are for the gift of mindlessness. A silent promise to yourself that when you wake, you’ll cherish the dwindling hours of the day, unsure if tomorrow holds the same luxury.

“On my life.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

141 with a fem!reader who instead of not wanting kids can’t have kids?

This is a popular request, anon. I've had several submissions from various users. Since the theme/idea is similar, I thought I would combine them into one.

Heavy angst ahead, folks. I decided not to sugarcoat with this one. It's heartbreaking. It's sad. And yes, there is comfort and love mixed in.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, angst, infertility, pregnancy, miscarriage, mention of surgical procedure, emotional hurt/comfort, implied abortion/d&c, minor blood

Word Count: 900

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

This time, it sticks.

Somehow.

Miraculously.

After years of struggling, of being told it would never happen, of false results and shattered hopes—it’s happening.

You’d be in denial if it wasn’t for the test results in your hand. It is solid, a print out of what your doctor told you over the phone.

John stands next to you, reading the piece of paper over your shoulder. His shoulders are riddled with tension, lips a thin line. It’s clear that he wants to join in on your joy, but something holds him back.

“Are you happy?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

“I am—I.” John clears his throat. “But last time?”

Last time looked just like this. Last time everything was fine—until it wasn’t. Until the blood and the pain and the hospital visit.

“It might not be like last time.”

John gently grasps the sides of your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “You don’t have to. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

“It’s okay, John.”

“Are you sure?”

You nod, and John places his lips to your forehead. “I worry.”

“I know,” you murmur, turning your face into his touch. “But you’re here. And that’s all that matters.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

It all has to go. All of it. There is too much damage.

No uterus. No fallopian tubes. No ovaries.

Gone. All of it. Gone.

Johnny sits next to you on the sofa, his head in his hands. His sigh is heavy as he rubs at his face. When he comes up for air, you know his world is shattered, just likes yours.

“The surgeon said they might be able to save some eggs.” Even you don’t believe the words leaving your mouth. It’s a farce.

“Might?” asks Johnny.

“They won’t know until they’re actually inside.”

Johnny is oddly silent. It’s not like him to be quiet.

“Are you upset?” you ask, tentatively.

“No,” he says sharply. “Not with you. Never with you.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, because an apology feels right but you’re not sure why you’re doing it at all.

Johnny places his hand on your knee, squeezing gently. “For what?”

Tears pool, threatening to spill over. “For not being enough.”

He leans in, face serious. “The fact that you think that at all means I’ve failed you. That I haven’t loved you enough.”

“Johnny.”

He draws you in. “This doesn’t make you less worthy of my love.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

A heartrate monitor beeps nearby. They’ll release you soon now that you’re awake and aware.

It’s all coming back in pieces.

You remember the cramping, the spotting, and then the bleeding that wouldn’t stop. You remember the cold linoleum floor against your cheek, of losing consciousness, of gaining it again only for the room to spin. You remember how cold you were, and Simon’s hands—of how his voice cracked when he said your name.

You don’t recall the trip to the hospital. You only remember how Simon demanded help while the staff told him he needed to calm down.

But he’s here now—and no one is yelling. He sits in a chair next to your hospital bed, face grim and skin pale like he hasn’t slept in days.

There have almost always been complications—always been issues while trying to conceive, but of those that have ended, it’s never been like this.

You turn your head, and as if sensing you, Simon glances up from his silent musings. You offer your hand. Simon takes it, and though he doesn’t squeeze hard, you feel the desperation in the way he clings to you.

“I’m not risking you. Never again.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Your friend opens the gift, presenting it to the gathered crowd. Everyone fawns over the set of baby blankets. There are several in total, all pale pastels.

You smile and agree that it’s a wonderful gift. Outwardly, everything is fine. Internally, your mind is still at home, lingering on the four pregnancy tests hidden in the bathroom bin beneath a pile of toilet paper.

Each one negative. Each one a glaring stain on the long list of failures.

Kyle emerges from the kitchen with the father-to-be, a massive grin on his face. This baby shower is a reminder to you of all your shortcomings. For Kyle, this is hope—a vision of the future.

And you haven’t told him. Haven’t said a word about those four negative tests.

How many years of trying now?

But you’re still young.

Don’t stress about it.

It’s so easy for others to stick their nose in, which is why you don’t share anymore.

Kyle plops down next to you. The happiness there is palpable, so thick it’s almost like butter on the tongue. You’re going to shatter it—hurt him yet again.

He presents his hand, palm upward.

You snatch it like a lifeline, and squeeze—hard. Kyle frowns at your entwined fingers. His gaze sweeps upward.

In your friend’s hands is a onesie for a newborn. Everyone coos, and something in you breaks. You’re smiling, but you sense the threatening tears.

Kyle’s frown shifts to a sad smile.

He knows. You don’t have to say anything.

Lifting your joined hands, Kyle brings the back of your palm to his lips. Placing a quick kiss there, he then kisses your forehead. He adds another kiss to spot just behind your ear.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

No one is watching.

“I love you.”

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