Hey there, Armeen

“Sorry I came by so late.” You’re rocking back and forth on your heels when Draken finally rounds the corner to greet you. “I didn’t know your shop closed this early.”

“It usually doesn't.” But with the rain making so much sleet outside he’d sent everyone home before they had a chance of crashing and adding to his workload— something he didn’t feel the need to explain to the person leaving puddles in the lobby. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Draken doesn't normally need to ask. It's pretty easy to tell which customers are planning on making an actual purchase and who was just trying to scratch the bad boy itch Bonten’s news coverage had awoken in the masses.

You, however, weren’t either.

“I just need to see about getting a bike fixed for my brother.” Simple enough request but there wasn’t much space for another bike in the garage. “I bought it for him here last Christmas. I think someone named Inui helped me out.”

He’s about to suggest a different shop to you—one that’s close by and reputable enough—when you smile. It’s not a persuasion tactic, it’s not even directed at him, just somewhere slightly behind.

If Inui sold it, Inui could take responsibility for the repairs. “He’s gonna be back in the morning if you want to wait.” Only, it's obvious you don’t want to wait, Draken can tell by the way you’re chewing your lip.

“Is there any way I could leave the bike here until morning then?” You take a few steps back and motion outside. “I don’t really think I have the energy to push it back home.”

No wonder you were soaked. “Yeah, let me get it to the back.”

It’s a one person job, especially when the one person is as big as he is, but you’re determined to make sure it gets inside safely; hands tight on the handlebars, even when you’re finally out of the rain.

He doesn’t say anything to break your trance, just taps a couple times on your frozen hand and asks if you live nearby. He regrets the way he knows it sounds but the rain’s coming down even harder and the temperature’s only dropping with the sun. When you finally snap back to reality you’re anything but offended; just smile that same almost-at-him smile and nod.

“I'm a few blocks away. Besides I’m already drenched, a couple more minutes in the rain won’t kill me.” And it won’t, probably, but that isn't the point. You don’t give him a chance to feel bad about it, already halfway to the door when you turn around. “Hey, take good care of it for me? I wanna get it back to my brother soon. He’s kinda lost without it.”

Draken nods, already taking in the damage before you even ask. There’s something building on the tip of his tongue; a question maybe, a hesitant proposition he isn’t sure he wants to make, but the doorbell chimes in place of your forgotten goodbye; its echo reminds him he’s alone.

─────────

The second time you visit isn’t any earlier than the first but your bike free hands carry an umbrella to keep you safe from the rain. Inui’s quick to greet you, says he never forgets a face, but Draken’s sure his description had something to do with his remembering.

When it’s finally time for Inui to go home you’re still waiting in the lobby, legs crossed on one of the chairs as you flip through a magazine full of engine parts. He tries not to smile at the way you scrunch your nose, as if a furrowed brow is gonna help you process the information.

“This is like a whole different language.” You don’t look at him when you speak but you know he’s there, leaned against the front counter as you browse. “Is a 399 cc engine fast?”

He shrugs, nonchalant because he knows it is, just not in comparison to the bikes they had in Toman; the bikes most of them still have now. “It’s not as fast as mine.” He admits and it’s kind of cute the way your eyes shoot open. “Now come on, let me translate this language for you so I can give you a rundown on the bike.”

You don’t like the rundown; the exterior is mostly untouched which seems like a miracle once you look inside. There’s a lot of damage that’s going to take intricate rebuilding in order to make it functional again. “We’ve got most of the parts in the shop already but there are a few I’ll have to put in an order for. So there could be a couple weeks of just waiting.”

And there were a few here and there, not that it kept you from visiting. Even when you knew there wouldn’t be any progress you still showed up around the same time each week; sometimes with books, sometimes with dinner, always with that somewhere-else-smile.

Draken never could send you home, he may have tried once or twice—tried to figure out a good enough excuse to put distance between the two of you— but he never had one. None that would’ve made sense to anyone watching, especially not to you.

No, not you with the late night snacks and overwhelming consideration; a rare source of warmth and determination. Draken was desperate to get away from whatever trance you’d pulled him into, a siren song of nostalgia that reignited something he didn’t know he’d lost.

Until one night when he’s doubled over laughing at a grease stain across your face, from the grease covered rag you’d used to wipe soba from your hands. And it hurts to laugh this much, and it hurts to laugh at all but he can’t stop; not when you’re staring at him with those wide eyes and not when you start laughing too, and when you smile? When you finally smile that right-at him-grin— he’s fucked.

Not that he admits it.

And you’re too invested in spinning stories like candyfloss, of a childhood that seems too sweet not to be artificial. Draken can’t put his finger on it, can’t place the tangy flavor hidden beneath the sucrose but it’s there; addictive in its mystery.

When you speak of your brother you smile, not the ‘far away kind’ or the ‘in front of him’ kind but one that hits your eyes. One that illuminates from the inside and shines light onto your words like a performer center stage.

Those stories taste like honey; raw and unfiltered like a jar still full of the comb. They remind him of Mikey, of Emma, and he tries to swallow the frog in his throat that was born from your tales of tadpoles and lily pads; of ruined shoes and running away and your brother never leaving your side.

Draken’s thankful; for your memories, for the way they make it easier to remember his—for the way they dust off the things he’s locked away and make them seem new again. When he mentions Emma you grin, ask him to tell you more as you cuddle into the cushions of the oil stained sofa where he usually sits alone.

And he does. For the first time in a long time he does. And not just Emma but Mikey, Mitsuya, and the gang; all of Toman wrapped up for you with a pretty bow. Then he realizes the irony in his uncanny valley version of the truth, pinpoints the source of the sour under your sweet.

It wasn’t something bitter that ruined the taste, it was the sugar that salvaged it; the pretty way you’d chosen to remember the things that may have been ugly. You had picked up every broken piece and put them back together with gold. The Kintsugi of a childhood.

When the last part for your brother's bike arrives he hides it; tells himself there’s a few more things he needs to tweak and then tells you the same lie. When you shrug and say okay he whispers an apology under his breath, promises your brother he’ll have it back soon in the same one.

Draken’s not sure when soon is. He knows it can’t be far off, knows he can’t stretch this out much longer without you getting suspicious. Inui’s already been asking too many questions and when he asks Draken’s permission to borrow you for drinks the sound he makes is unintelligible. Eventually he nods—more confused than concerned— as he watches the two of you wave goodbye.

He brings you back three parts liquor and one part hands as you clutch to Draken’s arm for support. Inui shrugs when he’s accosted, too buzzed to take responsibility for his actions. “She wanted to come back here, you know.” His heels clack across the concrete, punctuating the end of his admission. “Go ahead, tell him how much you like it.”

It’s hard to speak through the hiccups so you nod towards the ground. When you do try to take a step you buckle. Draken’s hands fumble to find a safe place to hold while you nuzzle into his side.

You feel warm despite the snow you walked through and he knows it’s the tequila burning through your blood. Knows it’s the tequila that has you wrapping your arms around his waist, eyes closed as you hiccup into his shirt.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He mumbles and you nod as if you understand. When he asks if you can walk you nod again, then once more when he asks if you’re lying. “Guess we’re both liars, huh.” He doesn’t ask anymore questions as he sweeps you off your feet, up the stairs to the second floor loft.

This is where he sleeps most days; when it’s too late to make it back to the red light district, when you’re here way past close. It’s the first time you’ve been in it, though, and he’d probably feel more self-conscious if you weren’t already asleep.

You stir when he finally lays you down, wiggle around on the futon before cracking an eye to survey your blurry surroundings. Draken sits beside you when you grab for his hand; you fall asleep with a thank you on your lips.

He’s not there when you wake up but he leaves coffee by the bed; cream and sugar like you like it even though he’ll swear it came that way. When you sneak past him to go home he pretends not to notice that it’s safe in your hand; pretends not to care that you throw a wink at him for everyone to see, or that the hoops and hollers behind him heat his face.

When Inui finds the oil filter that’s missing from your brother's bike stuffed behind some old invoices he threatens to blow the whistle; like any animal backed into a corner Draken threatens to kick his ass. Inui concedes with an aggressive eyeroll and a pending threat turned promise.

“It’s not like you can’t see her when this is over.”

But Draken’s not convinced he can; or that he wants to, or that you want to, and this purgatory you’ve built in the garage feels safe in a way he hasn’t been able to feel on his own lately. He hates how fragile all of it seems, how fragile everything seems since Emma; just one strong gust of wind away from devastation—always one snowflake away from being buried alive.

And February always brings the heaviest snow, this year more than most. When the twenty-second finally rolls around, Draken's up before the sun. It’s the only day he ever fully closes the shop and he wonders for a moment, through the hum of his bike engine, if he mentioned it to you at all. He would feel bad if you made the trip in this weather just to find all the doors locked; he feels worse that he’s worrying about you today at all.

The headstones stand stark in contrast to the night's avalanche of snow. It would have been hard to navigate for anyone who didn’t know their way but Draken had permanent footprints etched on the pathway to Emma.

He spent most holidays here, days he thought they would’ve spent together; days he didn’t appreciate as much as he should have when he had the chance.

He tries not to beat himself up over it. Tries to remind himself that fifteen is young, that he wasn’t equipped for the kind of relationship she deserved but they’re echoes of other people’s comforts. The truth is he knows how often he could’ve done better, knows how many things he didn’t say because of pride; as if loving someone made him weak.

The irony isn’t lost on him that they spend more time together now than they did in their youth; a better partner to her in death than he ever was in life. He tells himself he owes it to her—that it’s the least he can do—but Draken knows, deep down, that there’s selfish intent; a last ditch effort at easing the guilt, leaving guiltier knowing she’s still the one comforting him.

Normally when he visits he fills her in on the day to day, it used to always be the same—shops doing fine, Hina’s alive and well, Takemichi still cries every chance he gets— but now? Now his day to day is you. It’s a bad time to realize just how much of him you’ve consumed, kneeling down at the foot of her grave, but he won’t lie, not to her.

A white stuffed bear finds kinship with the others, a peace offering for whatever he’s about to say. “The shop’s doing decent this winter. Better than decent, actually, we’ve made double the profits. Might even get my own place soon. Think it’s time to move outta the brothel.”

He’d been thinking about it for a while, finally graduating to a respectable adult, but there’d never been any real reason to make the change. These days he felt motivated, something so unfamiliar that it took til now to realize why. He smiles, “If you’re up there watching, I uh, I know you’ve seen her.” Your presence is a hard one to miss and Draken hasn’t been doing a good job of hiding it.

The breeze feels harsh against his cheeks, threatens to freeze the tears collecting at the inner corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Emma.” He can’t decide what he’s apologizing for so he apologizes for it all. “You deserved better than what I gave you. You deserved to hear how much I loved you. And I did, Em—I still do—love you. I’ll always love you.”

He runs his fingers across the engraving of her name, wonders for a second what it would have looked like with half of his.

There’s a future for them somewhere, in a timeline that isn’t twisted and unfair. He used to take solace in that belief, using this life as penance for mistakes no one could alter but the winter winds are harsh and full of change. Draken, for the first time in twelve years, wants something.

He wants you.

“You deserved a full life—a happy one. But I need to know it’s okay to live mine again, Em. I need to know you’ll be okay.”

There’s a sound a few rows over, something small he couldn’t have heard had the wind not died down—something he wouldn’t have eavesdropped on any other time—but it’s familiar.

It’s you.

Planted cross-legged on a blanket, thermos in hand, as you tell a story to someone below the ground. Draken can’t see the name, can’t see anything but the light behind your eyes, but the sound of your voice carries on the breeze. “You would really like him. He rides a Kawasaki like yours and he’s fixing it for you, so you really can’t complain.”

Draken sinks, the snow beneath him nothing compared to the frost in his veins. You’d been so adamant about the bike, so desperate to get it running again—he feels sick knowing why; feels his bones freeze, thaw, and freeze over again at his lack of discernment. When your voice breaks a part of him goes with it. It’s the farthest thing from what he wants but it’s everything he needed to hear.

He thanks Emma with a smile.

─────────

You seem surprised when he calls to tell you the repairs are done; hesitant when he asks you to come by and pick it up. When he tells you to come after hours you seem a little more composed but no less anxious and Draken can’t help but feel the same.

He leaves the garage door open for you while he works on other things—bikes he’s been neglecting in favor of yours, of you—but your sudden presence still takes him by surprise; still overwhelms him to see your face.

There’s no big reveal, no ta-dah moment for the months of labor, just a pristine Kawasaki posted up near the door. Your hands are already on it when he makes it over to you, shaky as they ghost over where the cracks used to be.

“It’s like nothing ever happened.” But something did, something that mangled the inside of that bike, and the inside of you with it.

Whatever hesitation Draken may have been holding on to is cleansed away by a splattering of tears. When you turn he’s there to turn into, stone chest a shelter from the earthquakes born of your sobs. It feels cathartic, he thinks, to watch someone else grieve and he’s thankful to you for the lesson; thankful, more-so, to be the one holding you on the floor of the empty garage.

There’s no awkwardness when the tears finally stop, no moment of shame when you realize that you’re cradled in his lap—just silence, your trembling breaths falling into rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest. You eventually pull away with a rush of whispered apologies; for the trouble, for the breakdown, for the tear stains above his heart.

Draken stops you with the shake of his head, gets you back on your feet and grins. “Should we test it out for him?”

There’s a split second where he thinks you may cry again, the violent inhale you swallow dampening the corners of your eyes. You hold it in for a moment, chest puffed and eyes closed, as you let the burn of stretching lungs distract you. With eyes still shut, you nod.

It’s the first time you’ve ever been on a motorcycle. “My brother always said it was too dangerous.”

Your use of past tense doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’ll have to apologize to him later then.” Draken let’s you slide on the back and situate before revving the engine. Once for your brother, once more when you snake your arms around him and squeeze.

Snow bites at the exposed parts of his skin, stinging like the pinpricks of a fresh tattoo and he wonders if this night will stay with him forever. He expects you to be scared, expects you to cling on and beg to slow down; so when he feels your grip loosen, feels your hands on his shoulders and your lips at his ear—he learns to expect the unexpected.

“Faster.”

Fast enough to escape Tokyo and its bustling city streets, neon blurring into stained glass refractions as you ride.

“Faster.”

Fast enough to outrun the past—outrun Emma, Mikey. Outrun the anger of twelve years spent grieving something stolen, outrun the betrayal of a best friend lost.

“FASTER.”

Your voice breaks clean above the growl of the engine, arms outstretched by your sides. It’s the moon that leads the way when the last bits of Shibuya disappear. And just like the tides, Draken follows it to the shore.

It’s hard to tell whether it’s the dropping temperature of the Bayside that makes him numb or just the circumstances that brought him here; that brought you both here. When he meets you at the water's edge you look anything but cold, hair whipping as you stare into the sea.

“In my psychology class they taught us how people become geniuses.” You start to explain and even though Draken’s unsure of the conversations direction, you’ve definitely got his attention.

“They said that repetition of information makes your brain grow branches and that the more they grow, the closer you are to being a genius about something.”

You don’t look at him when you talk, your eyes narrowing in on the violent waves. “My teacher said that our relationships with people are the same. The more time we spend with someone the longer their branches get.”

You pause to take a breath of saltwater air. “I think about them as trees sometimes. A little forest of all the people we’ve ever cared about growing roots inside our heads.”

Draken’s not expecting it when you snake your hand into his, isn’t sure how to respond to that kind of comfort—isn’t even sure if you mean for it to be comforting—but he starts by giving it a squeeze; encouraging you to continue.

“It just means that they’re never really gone, ya know?” When you finally look up there’s a change in the atmosphere, a chill that runs down his spine that beats out the winter cold. It isn’t that you’re looking at him any differently, or maybe you are, but it’s the way he’s looking at you—the way he sees you—for what feels like the first time. “They’re hardwired into us now, we couldn’t get rid of them if we tried.”

He’s always known that people leave fingerprints behind, that no person ever comes into your life and leaves it the same, but knowing that there’s some science behind it? Knowing that Emma and Mikey can never be uprooted from his mind? It’s calming; like the sound of the ocean licking at his feet, or the moonlight reflecting iridescent off your skin.

You’re calming, and you’re grieving, and you’re comforting him all the same.

Draken tugs at your hand, pulls you back to the bike without releasing it. “Come on, there’s somewhere I wanna go.”

You aren’t expecting somewhere to be the cemetery but Draken’s insistent on the location as he helps you down. He takes your hand again—surprised by how quickly he’s grown accustomed to the feeling—and leads you in the general direction of what he’s searching for. “What are we doing here?”

It’s fair to ask but he pulls you forward without an answer. Two rows down from Emma is where his destination lies, somewhere in this row of headstones, is your brother.

Draken smiles, softly nudging you when he sees your hesitation. “Can you show me which one is his?” You point, wordlessly, and watch as Draken lowers into a bow.

“My name’s Ryuguji Ken. I’m a friend of your sisters.” He kneels into a squat and studies the name etched into stone. It’s the first time he’s ever told you his full name, the first time he’s ever seen your last. “I’m the one who fixed up your bike. Put a couple upgrades in there that I didn’t tell her about, made it a little faster for you.”

There’s an inhale behind him, soft but afraid to interrupt. “She says you don’t like her riding them so I should apologize for bringing her here on it. The thing is, I plan on teaching her to drive, so I’ll probably have to visit to say sorry a few more times.”

The snow crunches under your knees when you kneel next to him, nose rubbed red from the sleeve of your sweater. “I’ve seen him drive though, so I’ll be learning from a master.” You nudge him with a wink.

“I just wanted you to know that I’ll keep her safe for you.” A promise he refuses to break.

It’s well past midnight when the bike rolls into the garage; well below ten degrees. With the adrenaline of the night wearing off the toll of hours in frostbitten air is beginning to show.

You rub your hands together to generate warmth, blow into them with a prayer of fire on your tongue but you’re no dragon, and Draken knows where to find heat.

He leads you up the stairs, to the loft that you slept in the night Inui abandoned you on his doorstep, eyes half open and stomach full of booze; the night where you first grabbed his hand. Tonight there’s no liquor, no tequila to keep you warm, but your eyes are still half open—exhausted from the crying alone.

It’s already warmer upstairs than it had been in the empty concrete garage but Draken kicks on the heating unit anyways, watches as you tinker with things across the room; a sweater, a chain, you have no shame in putting your hands where they don’t belong. “Do you always touch people’s things when you go to their house?”

“It’s okay, I think the guy who lives here likes me a little bit. He probably won’t get mad.” And you’re right, but the fact that you’ve said it out loud feels like a punch to the gut.

Draken clears his throat and opens some drawers, plunders through them until he finds a shirt and some clean sweats to hand you. “There’s towels in the bathroom. Go defrost.”

You take the clothes and do as you’re told. Draken tries to not to focus on the absence of a click when you shut the door, a telltale sign you’ve left it unlocked. Instead he starts to clean—picking things up just to put them down again; there’s no room in this loft for basic organization, forget about feng shui.

He’s changed and on the couch when the door swings open the second time, steam billowing out as if you’ve started a fire. This time it’s your throat that clears, a pile of fabric landing in his lap. “The sweats were a full grown man size too big but um, thanks for trying.”

“Really? These were from middle school.” It’s a humble brag. Draken tosses them to the side and looks over, jaw clenching as words die on his tongue.

He means to tell you that the sheets are clean, that you should get some rest, and that he’ll take you home in the morning.

He means to say that if you sleep in he can’t stay because the shop opens early but that you’re welcome to stay until he’s done.

He means to say thank you for today and that he’s sorry about your brother.

But he can’t. Not when you’re settling down next to him, t-shirt clinging to the dampest parts of you. Not when you’ve scooted closer, feet propped up on the coffee table, knees knocking into his.

Your eyes are on the TV, too small to decipher the pictures on the screen, but you’re focusing hard on the static—Draken’s focusing hard on you; focusing harder on trying not to focus on you.

He reaches over to turn down the heat.

It’s the humidity from the steam that has him sweating, not the way you’re playing with the hemline of your shirt—of his shirt. Not the way you’re pulling it higher and higher, flashing more and more of your inner thigh.

“I’m pretty sure I used all the hot water.” Your eyes flicker from the screen and back again, focused.

Draken just nods, squinting his eyes at whatever talk show follows the late night news. “It’s fine. I’m warm enough.” Hot, even.

A few more minutes pass, minutes that feel like hours, that feel like days and he wonders if you’ll both just waste away on the couch in his loft. He sinks deeper into the cushions, let’s them swallow him like quicksand as his head falls back to rest.

When his eyes close he feels the weight beside him shift, softly at first and then gone all at once. It’s the bed you’ve gone and climbed into, he can see a lump moving under the covers, duvet pulled up to your chin.

There’s no relief in his sigh, just a hot breath with heavy regrets; miscommunications and missed opportunities—mistakes he promised he wouldn’t make twice rearing their head to spit in his face.

Draken grew up taller and stronger than every boy he went to school with. He started a gang with his best friends in middle school and got a tattoo in grade five. Yet here he was, on the sofa of his own loft, hiding from the half-dressed girl in his bed.

“If it’s too cold on the couch we can swap.” Your whispers in the silence sound like screams and his attention snaps to you.

He doesn’t agree to the offer, just stands to his feet and crosses the room. When you start to shuffle he motions for you to slide. “You’re on my side of the bed.”

Not a lie considering the whole bed is his side. Draken had grown up taller and stronger than every boy he went to school with and that had its downfalls when sharing a futon—or upsides, depending on who was beside you.

Tonight, though, it’s you—tucked under the covers with your eyes feigning closed. Draken laughs, low and to himself, at the distance between your bodies; all your boldness from the couch soaked up into the sheets. “There’s not much room.” He turns his head towards you, watches as you peek open an eye and nod.

“I can go sleep on the couch—”

“—or you could just move closer.” Maybe your boldness hadn’t been siphoned into the mattress, maybe Draken had taken it for himself.

The first shuffle is miniscule, so small he doesn’t notice you’ve even moved. When he quirks his brow you try again, stopping just in time for your legs to collide. His breath hitches at the first touch of skin; ankles brushing with innocent intent that feels anything but.

There’s a storm brewing in his chest, the rumble of his thundering heart disturbing butterflies long laid to rest. The frenzied flap of their wings drowns out all other sounds, exploding through his stomach on their migration to his throat.

When you prop yourself up on an elbow, he does the same, silent as he watches you calculate the next move. He isn’t sure what’s stopping you—your nerves or his—but you’re chewing your lip again; a habit he’s noticed you fall to when there’s something on your mind.

He pulls it gently from between bared teeth and relishes in the quickened pace of your breath. You press them softly to the tip of his thumb in return, languidly kiss down the expanse of his palm. There’s no rush in your exploration, each press of your lips a gentle pulse of electricity beneath his skin.

Whatever innocence you held on to has retreated to the darkest parts of your eyes, no lingering signs of ambivalence when you stare him in the face and whisper. “Can I kiss you?”

Draken wants to say yes, wants to tell you that you didn’t need to ask, but the monarchs breaking free of cocoons in his throat threaten to escape with a single word. When he nods you move in closer, just close enough to study the contours of his face; lithe fingers tracing their way to parted lips.

He meets you halfway, slotting his mouth to the shape of yours, nervous hands tangling with still damp strands of your hair. This isn’t his first kiss, nor the first time he’s bit softly at pillowed lips, parting them to let himself inside. No this is nothing new, yet he trembles all the same, a stranger on your tongue.

There’s something heavy in the space between you, hot and tangible when you break away to chase your stolen breaths. Draken knows a line’s been walked over, something neither of you can uncross and he worries, for only a second, if you’ll regret that choice in the morning.

You must sense his hesitation, see the gears turning behind his eyes, because your hands are on him again; demure but steadfast in their need to consume. Draken takes them, guides them from the hem of his shirt and back to his chest with ease. You don’t stop him, don’t question the interruption, just watch as he sits up further to get a better look at you.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” He knows, thinks he knows, where the night is headed but he’s hungry to hear the words.

And you laugh, soft and airy; a cocktail of perplexity and relief as you shift onto your knees. “There are a lot of things I’d like to do with you, Ryuguji Ken.”

The way you drop his name, so casual—your fingertips falling to toy with the waistband of his sweats—has his head losing blood at a rapid pace. “Yeah? Like what?” There’s a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, infectious as it transfers to yours.

“Like take you out for drinks, and let you teach me how to drive, and—” Each ‘and’ brings you closer, your shifting knees finding a home on either side of his hips.

He swallows, “—and?”

“And I want to feel alive.” You lower down onto him, still yourself to feel the throb of his cock. “Don’t you wanna feel alive with me?”

Draken’s arm is around your waist in a flash, your positions flipped as he looms over you. “I want to feel everything with you.”

His lips find their way back to yours, greedy in pursuit of the adrenaline spiking through his veins. One tug at his shirt has him shedding the layer, quick to toss it aside. You waste no time in charting the landmarks of his skin, hands eager to map out the ghosts of his scars.

Someday he’ll tell you the stories, the not so saccharine versions filled with blood instead of honey. Tales of street fights and turf wars, of lineages and losses. He’ll tell you not to get jealous over his kiss with death, that he’s tasted you now, and there’s no going back.

The neckline of your shirt stretches to grant access to his mouth, molten tongue carving scriptures into your skin. When the restriction becomes too much you pull it upwards, farther and farther until it’s over your head.

Draken manages to look into your eyes before focusing on the exposed parts of you; surprised when there’s no fear—simply impatience. You kiss his lips in reassurance, run your thumbs across his cheeks when he smiles.

The swipe of his tongue across your chest elicits a new string of sounds, a cacophony of whimpers turning to whines as he pops a nipple between his teeth. A sharp inhale has your back arching, hips grinding up on the downfall.

He hisses when he releases you, the friction of your clothed cunt against his cock addictive enough to chase. He grinds into you a second time, then a third—anything to relieve the ache but there’s too much fabric; too many layers soaking up parts of you better left to his mouth.

You’re pulling at his waistband, clumsily trying to loosen the ties. He can see frustration in the folds of your forehead, the way you bite the tip of your tongue. “Who ties sweats? You know they aren’t actually helping you keep up your pants, right?”

“Stop worrying about my sweats.” There's a smirk curling the corner of his lip when he sits back to look at you—propped up and pouting as you roll your eyes. “It’s not about me right now.”

He bats your hands away from his waist in favor of holding your own, deft fingers hooking beneath the thin straps of your panties. A quick nod of your head is all he needs to strip you of them, the sudden breeze on your slick cunt making you whine.

Just like that his mouth is on you; a tender kiss that starts at your lips grows sloppy on its journey to a pair below. When he reaches his destination it’s with the hunger of a man starved, his patience no longer allowing for the pleasantries of introductions.

You moan, louder than he’s expecting, and it rattles something loose inside the cage of his chest; he lifts you higher, buries himself deeper—anything to hear that sound again. And you’re quick to oblige, fingers twisting in the bed sheets as you lose yourself to the obscenity.

When he presses a finger inside you he grants you a moment of reprieve, gummy walls threatening his eviction. He crooks his index experimentally and watches as you bite at the palm of your hand. A few more pumps allows room for another, the lewdness of the squelching turning his cock to stone.

“M’gonna cum.” A breathless warning—barely coherent from behind the wall of your hand—but the trembling of your body reads loud and clear.

Draken presses a kiss to your clit, his fingers pumping in time with the flicks of his tongue. He feels deranged, bordering on desperate, as he watches you come undone; the arch of your back pulling him further into the ocean between your thighs.

Moans turn quiet when the tremors pass, soft mewls between pants as you attempt to catch your breath. When he leans forward, you meet him halfway, licking yourself from his lips.

“Can you untie them now?”

Your thumb swipes across his tip to play with the pre leaking through the fabric; rubbing it between your fingers, dragging it down your tongue. He stands up, stretching the crumbs of his patience to loosen the knot and slide them to his feet.

For the first time tonight you seem shy, eyes darting, unsure of where to land—but Draken’s far past playing coy now that his cock is finally free.

The look on your face says it’s a formidable challenge and it dawns on him that two fingers may not have been enough. Any other time he would make sure, but the blood in his brain has long since dropped to the base of his balls and Draken can’t imagine burying anything inside you but the cock in his hand.

“I’m ready.” You answer before he can ask, all the reassurance he needs to slip between your legs.

“Just tell me if it hurts.” He makes you promise, cock tapping softly until you agree. He needs your word, needs to know that you’ll stop him if things get too bad, because the feel of his tip slipping through your glossy folds is already making him delirious.

When you nod he pushes forward, hand splayed behind your back as you cling to him. You gasp, eyes shooting wide when he pulls out only to sink back in deeper. When he thrusts again it evokes a wail, something guttural from your spirit that moves his hips for him.

His body feels like kindling, dried out and brittle, consumed by your flames only to be reborn from the ashes. He is alive, every pump of his hips—his heart— reminds him. And you, you are the source of his resurrection; necromancy of the soul.

Your hands find homes on the curl of his biceps, fingernails digging into the skin; a blood offering for the magic of your cunt. You whisper spells, summon him deeper, evocations falling from your sickly sweet tongue.

Faster, harder—Draken’s eager to give you both, his hand gripping at the headboard for support.

“Ken, please.” There’s something reverent about the way you whisper his name, a worshipful prayer as you lock your legs around him. He pistons into you with force—a merciful God in pursuit of euphoria. His lips find their way back to you in a kiss born of teeth and desperation, the feeling of your walls massaging his cock bringing him closer to the edge.

When you cum for the second time he sees a glimpse of Heaven; the way your eyelids flutter, swollen lips parted in the throes of a harmonic moan. You dig your nails in deeper—the pain of the cuts mixed with the pleasure of your cunt pulling him off with you.

Neither of you move to untangle as the high peaks and crashes. When Draken tries, you wince, already paying for the over exertion of your body. You drop your ankles and release him but he stays reluctant; to hurt you, to leave you, to disconnect and run the risk of never feeling this again—you again.

“It’s okay.” Your whispers soothe the panic in his eyes, the ghost of your fingertips bringing him back. “Let’s get cleaned up?”

He nods and slides out with a hiss, the winter air an unwelcome sensation. “Come here.” It’s not a request but he’s patient as you stretch and scoot to the edge of the bed. You squeal when he lifts you but press a kiss to his cheek in thanks when you’re placed on the bathroom counter to rest.

Draken was never good at saying I love you, not to Emma, not to Mikey, not to the women who raised him. He thinks sometimes—on the days when he decides to psychoanalyze himself—that it probably has something to do with never hearing it all that much.

Instead he learned to show it; from the first girl who ever saw past the tattoos and bloody knuckles, from her brother who showed him how to be a friend, from the women who taught him that no one truly deserves to be alone.

No, I love you wasn’t easy—but he knew how to kiss your bruises; wet a cloth from the cabinet and drag it soft between your thighs. He could be kind; massage the aches and pains away, and when his fingers roam—find themselves tracing circles around your clit—you don’t stop him.

Because Draken can be gentle; despite his size and reputation, he is benevolent. And when you drop your head into the crook of his neck, hips rutting into the palm of his hand, he shows you how generous he can be.

─────────

When the shrill sound of an alarm clock reminds Draken of the work day, he does something he’s never done before—he calls out. And when you wake a few hours later—pearlescent skin bathing in the sunrise—he knows what the decision was worth.

You almost seem surprised to see him, eyes still cloudy with sleep; you bat your lashes, as if he’s a mirage that threatens abandonment when you wake. “You’re still here?”

Draken can hear the lit at the end of your statement, knows it’s more a question of ‘why’ than a genuine observation but you shake your head before he can respond. “Never mind, I’ll take it.”

You crawl closer, throw your leg over his and nestle into him like the missing piece of a puzzle. It feels nice the way you have your cheek pressed to his chest, fingers swirling absentminded circles as your eyes drift back closed.

you look too prim and proper to be here, too good to be on the end of his cock but ken would rather die than let anyone else have you.

his jaw locks at the thought, pounding into your cunt so hard that it hurts. you are gripping him like a vice, clenching down like you want him to stay inside of you forever.

messy strands cover him, the perimeter of his dick is surrounded by a ring of white. his abs tense beneath the material of his tank top. his cocks throbs along your insides, desperately aching because of the tightness of your gummy walls.

"you like getting fucked like this?" draken growls, his biceps flex with every movement. he digs his nails into your skin when you eagerly bob your head.

he grits his teeth, leaning over you. you whine as the coldness of his chain meets your back. he thrusts so deep in your pussy, he digs a bulge into your tummy every single time. you swear you see stars.

tears cloud your vision and you whimper brokenly. "you know." his breath dusts along your ear as he pulls your head up. he glimpses over the tears on your face. "i don't like fucking you this way." you hardly have the ability to decipher his words over the squelching of your cunt.

"got you hiding that pretty face from me, got me fucking you like i hate you." his fingers wind around your throat, tilting you towards him to slip his tongue past your swollen lips. it is a messy exchange of spit. your cunt pulses around draken's cock and you mewl into his mouth.

"when i love you so much." he breathes out as he pulls away. he covers you completely, your head drops again, nails digging into your palms. your body rocks in tandem with his thrusts, mind blanking. you swear you see white the more he fucks you.

"please, please, please." you cry, your eyes squeezed tightly while your pussy drenches him. you feel hot everywhere, and you can certainly feel your stomach moving with each intrusion of his cock.

"what do you want, baby?" all you can focus on is him. his gravelly voice in your ear makes you moan. you want him like this always, you only want him to touch you.

"cum in me." you speak shakily, overtaken by him inside you. the rumble in draken's chest reverberates through your entire body.

his hard chest is flush to your back, he kisses along your neck. "say it again." he pounds into your body, pulling you back to meet every thrust.

"c'mon baby, tell me or you won't get it." he says like he would ever deny you. your hands frantically reach back to find his where they are gripping you.

"ken." you breathily whine, as if the thought of him depriving you hurt. "i want you to." you voice breaks with the weight of him slamming into you. "i want you to cum inside me." the words are all jumbled.

tears leak down your face, your body shaking. he fucks into you hard and fast. his head tucks into your neck, he nuzzles your hair, groaning lowly. your cunt sucks on him, tightly pressing down around the large girth of his cock.

your body shakes, cum leaking as he messily stuffs you. the sticky liquid splatters onto the floor. draken can feel you squeezing him so tight, his head goes blank.

his thrusts grow harder and sloppy. he fucks you like a fuck doll, like his personal slut at his beck and call. it is wet smacks of skin, harsh enough to sting before he finally presses his hips flush to the swell of your ass.

an onslaught of viscous cum is spewed along your gummy walls. he is left panting as he rests his weight against your back, cum leaks from your filled hole.

"did so good, baby." he breathes, kissing your hair and nape while his hand cups your distended stomach.

his callous palm strokes your flesh, gently rocking his hips.

"you okay?" you sniffle, bobbing your head.

draken kisses your shoulder and pulls out. you whine at the loss, thighs pressing together instinctively. he hurriedly tugs your panties over your dripping cunt. the fabric is soiled a second later. draken does not care.

something about you walking around full of his seed, makes him all the more possessive.

his large palms lift you by your waist to sit you on the counter facing him.

he tugs the towel from his shoulder, tucking his cock into his pants before he nudges your knees apart to wipe between your legs.

"you're too pretty." his narrowed eyes trail over your teary eyes and spit slicked lips.

"i love you, ken." he stills when your soft voice meets his ears. his breath shakes, he could never get over hearing you say that.

his forehead meets yours "i love you." the smile you give him makes draken weak in every way.

"i love you like crazy." he hopes you never forget it.