Dumpster Fire Full of 🌽Corn🌽

you seemed to have become really good at this in such a short time, at scrambling his brains to the point where he stopped knowing when his thinking got sidetracked from work, work, more work, and work again. and work is the furthest thing from his mind now, when all he's focused on is the fact that you only came by for a second, already on your way to the museum… or the mines… or fishing. he didn't register the words you chirped at him and eiland. he couldn't have, when you waved and smiled and just… looked like that.

it bothers him now that you barely breezed past him all day today, he couldn't help but wonder when you'd come by to actually talk to him so he could talk to someone other than olric and ryis that he actually enjoys being around while he's sober.

not that he'd admit it, of course. at least not quite yet.

it's already so late that the street lights have started attracting bugs, everyone has gathered at the inn, and he's scanning the room in hopes of seeing your figure mingling with the townspeople, grabbing something to eat from reina, playing along with whatever elsie may be gossiping about, or really just sitting there trying not to get lost in the endless swirling sea of chatter. but nothing. not a peep, not a glimmer of your grin at the large door. the night keeps getting more and more hopeless for march.

the crowd stays as lively as ever, and he usually doesn't mind, not when he's slowly feeling lighter and lighter, gently swaying on his feet as he hiccups and slurs along with the rest of the townsfolk when they decide it's high time for a sing-along. tonight, though, whatever drink hits his tongue feels like ash, dead and grey and horrid, making his stomach turn.

"where ya goin'?" olric looks at him, one eye open and leaning back on his chair. a dangerous choice, march imagines at least five tragic outcomes of this action.

"home. not feeling well." he rubs a hand on his stomach to emphasise his point, though he's been sour all evening, nobody could doubt him even if they were sober enough to do so. and with a halfhearted wave of his hand he turns and leaves them all behind as he walks out into the night. march gives himself exactly two seconds to feel the breeze in the air before his face returns to the scowl that so many people know on him.

an entire day has passed, he thinks while making his way back home, and you barely came by. an entire day and you gave him the same smile that you give everyone else. even eiland got the same treatment, he got to smell your very light perfume as you fluttered past them on your way west with a sword strapped to your back. now his mood sours even more.

a rock lands a few steps ahead as he's kicking it on the way to his house, focusing more on its path to avoid his mind going to other places. the places he really shouldn't be entertaining. the places where his jealousy will get the better of him. where he'll imagine the rock is eil—

"fuck!" he groans, shaking the thought out of his head, knowing it will get him nowhere other than into a spiral of jealousy and hardly covered up aggression towards everyone that speaks to him — something he knows he should work on, but not when it means admitting that he wanted to be the special one, the person you'd smile at the most, the person that could make you at least as flustered as you make him.

"march, hi!" a voice as light as the breeze stops him as he's about to forcefully push open the front door. his head whips around, ears as hot as the sand in the summer, cheeks tingling with the blush that's spreading across them with no help from the beer this time.

"h-hi."

march tries, he really does, to keep a hold on at least some of that frustration, because what's coming for him may be worse. he keeps a grip on the corners of his lips, willing them not to rise. he keeps his fists balled up, not letting himself run a hand through his hair, though there's no point in fixing it since you've already seen him in all his sweaty and messy glory.

"back so early?" you chirp, leaning against the anvil by the entrance, standing at a very comfortable distance from him. maybe a little too comfortable.

"not feeling the crowd. and you? back so late?" he nods at you, keeping one fist against the door where he froze it when you caught up to him.

"got… a little sidetracked." you chuckle, a devastating sound. "not feeling the crowd either."

he lowers his gaze, seeing the way your leg slightly wobbles, almost struggling to hold your weight. the way you still smile at him despite so clearly being hurt is enough to make his walls drop, at least until he can be mad at you safely again.

"what's up with your leg?" he asks, as cold as he can make himself be when all he wants is to kneel in front of you and fix you up if you let him.

"ah! it's fine, actually, just a sprain probably."

"a sprain doesn't bleed." march scoffs, pushing himself off the door and allowing himself a few steps towards you, where he can now see just how tightly your fingers are gripping the edge of the anvil, knuckles going pale against the dark steel. "either you walk inside with me or i throw you over my shoulder. your choice."

he watches you squirm, not that bright and cheerful anymore, not when you need to accept help. from him. a breath of relief escapes him when you let go of the anvil and hobble along with him, walking into the shop while he secures the lock after you. march should be used to seeing you here at this point. it's been the place where you bothered him the most at first, always chatting away with olric while he was concentrating on very detailed work at his desk, but at the same time trying to will his ears not to perk up every time you giggled at something his brother said. he can't have been that funny…

every so often he caught you looking over his shoulder, trying to sneak a peek at his latest project, and every time he'd go to protect it from your view out of pure habit, not thinking you would be interested in what he's doing but instead tease him for it. it feels weird to him not to try and cover up everything he's worked on this time, to just let you limp over to his chair and nearly sit, but it slides away from you, and you're falling, falling…

"done playing brave and strong?" he huffs, having lunged forward to grab you before you managed to land on the floor. you serve him a smile, a sly little curve barely visible in the darkness before the lights flicker on, but he just clicks his tongue, refusing to feel the warmth that crawls up to his cheeks. it's not fair, not fair at all how you get him flustered at the drop of the hat. it's not fair how his heart keeps hammering against his ribs, so loud in his ears, echoing so hard he's half-certain you could hear it. his grip on you tightens, and without much ceremony he lifts you up, hooking his other arm under your knees.

that might have been a mistake on his part, because as he's making his way to his bedroom — where the bed he's planning to place you on won't slip from under you — all he can smell is your scent. in his head he's seeing you breeze past him like so many times already, making him want to drop everything and follow in your every step like a puppy, the same way that he wanted to drop his hammer this morning, eiland's requests be damned…

march grits his teeth, not caring that you can so clearly hear it as your head is leaning against his chest — a feeling he knows he'll definitely revisit when he's not trying to push down the betrayal rising in his stomach — but the sight of your brilliant smile as your light steps took you away today keeps flashing before his eyes. he pushes the door open with his knee, slowly lowering you down onto the edge of the bed where you immediately sink into the mattress with your wounded leg outstretched. without a word, he reaches for the box of random stuff he got from valen a while ago where it sits forgotten on the bottom shelf.

just from a quick glance your way — another mistake on his part — he decides not to believe his eyes. you most certainly, definitely, absolutely did not just check him out. at least as far as he's ready to believe. not when he's bent over like that, his trousers maybe a little too short now, in need of fixing some stitching… no, it must have been his mind playing tricks. he feels his cheeks warm up too fast, damn it, and he hides the colour in his face in the darkness, avoiding the little lamp on his bedside table as much as he can.

he puts the box down on the bed beside you, glad to have an excuse not to look you in the eyes as he kneels down in front of you, shrugging his jacket off and throwing it over the chest at the foot of the bed before carefully taking the leg you've been sparing into his hands and examining it. not too bad, he decides as the box opens and he fishes out everything he needs, just in a very awkward place. you shouldn't be moving your foot too much as you'd most likely just keep it agitated, not allowing the wound to close properly if it doesn't get any rest. and knowing you…

"how did you manage this?" he says with a scoff.

you shift on the mattress, no doubt trying to see his careful hands working the bandage around your ankle and calf with such precision.

"stupid rock exploded too close to me." you murmur, still looking down at him, a fact he's a little too aware of now, feeling your eyes pierce his skin like a million heated needles.

"i— exploded?" he lifts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. but that… that may have been the biggest mistake he's made so far with you. because what meets him there is your pretty face illuminated only by the warm glow of the lamp beside you, keeping half of your face hidden in the shadow, but the side that's light? golden. like the sun itself. march has to remind himself to breathe in that moment, replaying the last few seconds of your conversation to himself as if to restart at the last chapter. "what the hell is happening in those mines?"

you chuckle, sighing once he returns to tightening the bandage on your leg. "stuff i neither can nor want to think about right now. it's… interesting down there. full of wonders. oh, and—" you reach into your pocket and take out a small, but brilliant piece of what seems to be—

march inhales sharply, nearly dropping your leg on the floor. your heel rests on his thigh as his hands fly upwards to cup the item you're handing him. the most incredible, beautiful piece of gold ore he's seen in his life. gold. actual perfect gold ore. the exact size he would need to examine on his desk, too. he takes it from your hand, gulping as your fingers brush against each other, and leans over to the light to get a better view. his breath hits your hand, something he becomes aware mere moments after it happens. his chest is pressing against your legs, face so close to your thighs he can feel the warmth radiating from your body.

he dares not move for a while. even if it kills him.

pretty sure his heart stopped there for a few moments and started again when you cleared your throat and spoke, march pulls away to move from you. he busies himself with putting the rest of the bandages into the box and crawling away to put it back on the shelf, not trusting his legs to work after this.

"so you like it?" you ask, not letting your eyes leave his figure while he's making himself not return the gaze.

"like it?" he scoffs, finally sitting on the floor in front of you. "it's perfect. it's literally in the name. perfect gold ore. i love it."

however, his face drops when that quick mind of his lands on something he doesn't want to think about anymore. was this really for him or was it as fleeting a gift as your smile that morning. he can't believe he's still bothered by it, it shouldn't matter, not when you're right here in front of him, and if he were to look at you properly instead of relying on his peripheral vision, he'd see a softer version of that same curve on your lips, this time just for him.

"well good," you lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees as he puts the piece of ore away, "because i had a feelin' you'd like it. love it, whichever. that's the only reason why i went to get it." march tilts his head to the side, raising a brow at you. "what? i really did. knew i should've gone back up to the surface at that point, at least to catch you before you go to the inn but—"

the bed barely has time to creak before march shuts you up with his lips on yours.

his hand is warm, rough, cupping the side of your head almost too tenderly, as if he's afraid you'll melt like a piece of metal on his anvil. his lips are clumsy, trying to give and take at the same time, unsure of what he actually wants to do, but luckily you're moving along with him, letting him try to kiss you with the intensity that he feels in his chest. his breath escapes into your mouth between two very needy kisses, hot and quick, and it takes a second before you're reaching behind his back and tangling your fingers into his hair.

it's hard to stop once he starts, nearly impossible, because you're responding so perfectly. because all of a sudden march's knees are digging into the mattress too, and he's pressing you down into it, caging you between strong arms flexing when he's holding up his weight on them and the knee that's slotted between your thighs. your hands, your damn hands gently go along the back of his head, making his entire body shiver and nearly collapse on top of you. he's barely holding onto the reins his own desire, the beast that's been banging on the inside of his chest for far too long to be contained now, it's demanding to be fed, demanding to get satisfaction between your bodies.

your little moan against his bottom lip almost ends him.

march is almost completely surrendered when you slide his headband off and toss it aside, making space to trail your wandering hands all over his scalp. it's nearly burning up with excitement, but fear as well. fear that he's not doing it right, that he's messing up by being too eager — something he doesn't even know how to stop at this point — but your body arches up into him regardless, and that thought simply evaporates out of his mind.

it feels natural, having your curves pressed against his body, feeling your waist under his callused palm so warm to touch. march never thought he'd get here, feeling your softness and the goosebumps on your sides. but now that he is, he's not ready to part with the sensation.

until you tug on his hair.

and he fucking groans into your mouth.

and you buck your hips upward, rubbing yourself against his thigh.

and he's sinking deeper into this spiral of want.

and sinking.

and losing his mind.

and his lips find your neck, deciding to kiss it just to feel your pulse quicken under them.

driven completely by his body moving before he has time to think, he lowers his body against yours, not completely stopping you from rutting against his thigh, but making it a little harder, in turn feeling your movements against his crotch. he's beyond saving as soon as his hips move as well. rolling with the grace he never knew he had, what may only be described as a desperate rolling of waves one over another, he's breathing hard against your neck, fighting the urge to bite you — as punishment for making him so needy. as punishment for ignoring him. as punishment for being so tantalising with your soft yet strong body and your warm neck and your pretty, pretty moans that have him scrambling to stay alive.

the heat from his body seems to be pooling in his cheeks as well as in his abdomen, that tightness that he's somewhat used to now increasing at least tenfold, overwhelming when he's rolling his hips against you, and he's certain there is only one way this can end. march can't hold it in anymore, he licks a stripe up your neck and bites down, letting himself groan against your wet skin, gripping your pliant body like he needs it to stay afloat. the pleasure is quickly taking over him, taking over any and every molecule of his being that's telling him to pull back, pull himself together, pull away and stay calm. he's done staying calm.

the way you throw your head back might just be his undoing. he's moving faster, chasing after something he thought he shouldn't want while you helplessly lift your hips to rub yourself against his leg like that, moaning and whimpering in frustration, like it's there for you as well — that finish line glowing golden behind your eyelids. march tightens his hold on your waist, lying pressed against you while your fingers tug on his hair. it's right there, he can feel it, if only he can—

the whine that leaves your lips is heavy. he's never heard a sound so powerful, and with a stutter of your hips he knows you've found your peak. the heat is even stronger in his abdomen, he presses a little harder against you, replaying that tight sound in his mind until he's cursing into the warm skin of your neck, bucking his hips like a desperate animal while release takes over him, covers his brain with wool, stuffs his ears with it, until the only things he can feel are the echo of your pleasure in his mind and the cum leaking from his oversensitive cock.

the only sounds in march's room are two breathing patterns intertwined together as you lie trapped underneath him.

somewhat tentatively, your hand leaves the messy strands of his fiery red hair to glide down between his shoulder blades. he shivers at the tenderness with which your fingers touch him, sliding just under the fabric of his shirt to feel the muscles underneath. he should move. he really should. he should get off you and make sure he doesn't catch your leg that should be resting, get cleaned up… should he help you clean up as well? probably, maybe it would be the nice thing to do when he just used your body to get off, even if it is in his pants.

but you just keep… holding him there. not pushing him away, not making him get off you once you got your fill too, so he just tries to… lean into it. he lets go of your waist and instead digs his hands under your body to embrace you and hold you against him. he hasn't done that before, and yet the touch feels familiar. like something he's been craving but didn't know it. like something he might even be able to get used to.

but it soon comes to an end when you squirm underneath him, adjusting your hips so he's not crushing you completely.

"can you… i need to take these off." you request, and it takes him a moment to realise you mean your underwear. oh. he scrambles off you, cursing as he knocks the edge of the bed with his foot, and he helps you sit up. as he stands there in front of you he can hardly look away, not when you pause with your fingers hooked under the waistband of your pants, not when you chuckle and continue the movements anyway, not when he can feel the wet patch on his pants, not even when he gets hard again, only minutes after blowing his load to the feel of you.

"you're just gonna—" he starts, but one look at your smirk only tells him he should be making a move himself.

"are you not gonna give me something to change into?"

he's forgetting where his clothes are, where his mind has gone, where he is. quickly, he grabs the first thing he can reach, a change of clothes that should be okay for you, but there's no way he's letting you walk out of here, at least not tonight. wounded leg and all, of course.

you've already changed into his clothes by the time he decides he probably should've looked away, the blush on his face may as well be permanent, the way it creeps back as soon as he shakes off the dream-like feeling that wraps around his body and mind every few moments. wow, you must think he's some kind of a loser, the way he reacted as soon as you told him you had done something for him just because. and he might be… he very well might be. an absolute loser, who can't think much further than how he's going to do that with you again, get you to touch him like you just did, gently caressing his back like you don't want to ignore him and breeze past him in the mornings.

"come on." you murmur, and he notices that you've already got yourself into his bed.

into it. not on. covered with his duvet, pushing your hair to the side as you lie down on the cold white pillow.

"you want me to—" he points at the empty space behind you, and you wreck him by giggling.

"i'm not going home tonight, march." you say as if it's the most normal sentence in the world. "and i'm not sleeping on the floor. neither are you, come on."

march moves in slow motion.

his steps are a line of half-remembered movements that somehow lead him to the edge of the bed again. he grumbles as he takes his shirt off, throwing it over the jacket on the chest at the foot of the bed, following it by his pants and underwear that he replaces when he turns around to not risk you taking an accidental glance. almost naked, almost completely bare, he slides under the covers and immediately faces away from you, but there's no escaping the feeling of your body so close to him. surely there's no way he got addicted to feeling your touch after only a few minutes… surely, it must be something else, it must be the weather getting into the real autumn mood, the air cooling down enough to where he's going to have to think about wearing actual clothes to bed instead of barely covering himself in order to not soak the sheets with sweat.

then he feels the duvet shake a little as your body shivers.

"what was that?" he murmurs, half turning to your side of the bed. well, his side, but yours for the night.

"what?" you ask, pulling the covers over you a little tighter.

"you're cold?"

"yep."

he sighs, trying to find a way out of this. there isn't a spare blanket, but he could give you more clothes. he's about to get up and hand you some when your hand closes around his.

"come closer."

now a shiver runs down his spine. march turns his head and sees you curled up on the side of his bed, so still, odd when he's used to you fluttering around town always on your way to the next thing. but you're gently pulling him a little closer — and he gives in.

his body slots against yours like a puzzle piece.

march tries not to breathe as he lies down again, his chest pressed against your back, very keenly aware of the softness of your ass against his crotch. still hard. unlikely to go down soon. or ever. you don't let go of his hand, instead leading him to drape his arm over your torso, leaving his palm to just… sort of dangle there. halfway between your navel and your chest, and march knows where he'd rather have it — if he were brave enough, of course. still, he keeps a little bit of distance between his face and the back of your head, just so he's not forced to inhale your scent and get lost in it all over again. it has to get easier, he can't be aware of every heartbeat in these four walls forever.

"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses you, huffing as he flexes his fingers across the slightly uncovered skin of your stomach, "enjoy playing with my feelings?"

your laugh is quick, soft, and completely disarming.

"stars forbid a girl wants some body heat from a cute blacksmith."

march shakes his head, refusing to let the corners of his lips quirk up at that. "cute?"

"aren't you?" he can hear the smile in your voice. you're bold. toying with him like this when he doesn't even know where he stands with you… or even himself.

"shouldn't you tell me that?"

"i wouldn't do this… with just anyone, march." he rolls his eyes at you. "i'll tell you again… in the morning when i'm not as… tired." your voice keeps trailing off, so he knows you must be telling the truth, you're surely about to pass out any second now, what from the exhaustion of mining, what from the drop in adrenaline of… he chases the memory out of his head.

"sure. good night." march closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind of the images of you. you from just a few minutes ago, arching into him seeking release. you from earlier tonight, smiling at him like you're ecstatic to have run into him before he made it to bed. you from this morning, smiling at him — and only him in his head — as you waved and hurried off to find something to gift him. sometimes he feels like an absolute idiot, pining in silence and torturing himself instead of just laying it out there and giving you a chance to accept him as he is — flustered, clueless, and desperately horny for you.

march can feel your breathing slow down as the clock ticks on.

he's already used up his bravery for the day — hell, maybe even a month — but your skin is so warm he can't resist but slowly move his hand until it's resting above your heartbeat. there's something soothing about it, the rhythm even and constant, that makes march's head feel lighter, lighter, lighter as he rests with his eyes closed and finally decides he can let go of consciousness.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

the door to march's bedroom open with a loud creak.

olric stumbles into the room, apologising to the hinges, the floor, the wall, and march takes those few seconds to snap out of the initial panic and… panic even more once he realises you're still in his bed. that wasn't a dream, and he can't have his brother finding out about it, even if he is completely wasted by the sounds of it.

"h-hey march!" he slurs, half-yelling as he holds onto the door frame. "ya missed out! ha, reina mixed sum stuff an' let m' be her guinea pig!"

in a moment of sheer desperation, march tries to cover you up as much as possible, shielding you from view with his body and the covers. your soft, cold hand rests on his forearm where it presses against your neck, and only then does he realise he's got you in a headlock. but… you're not pulling it away. if he could show his reaction to you, he might even be shocked, albeit a little aroused as well, but you're holding his arm like this is the best placement for it.

"what the shit?" march mumbles, louder than intended. thankfully, olric took it as a reply to him.

"he-hey man, tomorrow! you gotta come t'morrow! don't ca— oh damn," he stumbles, barely saving himself from the fall by grabbing onto the door knob, "care if yer stomach hurts you goooootta come!"

you're quiet, march has to give you credit for it, but your pulse is quickening under his forearm, and it's doing something to him. he's getting uncomfortably hard, the bulge in his underwear precisely pressing against your body, the feeling of which is not helping him right now. march can feel your smile widen, the muscles on your cheeks shifting and he reflexively tightens his hold on you, saying this is not the moment. but you've never been one to listen.

with slow, barely there movements, you're lowering your hands under the covers and march has to try and move along with you to not put unnecessary attention to what's really going on in his bed.

"olric, leave me alone, i was just about to fall asleep." march grumbles, loud enough to cover up the sound of fabric being dragged along the sheets. you've successfully taken off the clothes that he gave you earlier. oh he's done for. rock hard and in a pickle, trying to be loud enough for his brother to not hear, but not loud enough to draw attention to his movements. "we'll talk tomorrow, just… let me sleep." his arm flexes against your neck, bicep twitching on your cheek to try and warn you, but you don't stop. instead, you're already shifting, hand reaching behind you to brush against his aching bulge, and he's doing all he can — which is really nothing — to stop himself from bucking into your touch.

he recalls the feeling of your pliant body as he was grinding his hips against you, your hands tugging on his hair, your moans… he needs it all again, but this time he's not sure he could be satisfied with just that. it's a slippery slope, having you here freshly undressed and looking for trouble, because you're already reaching into his underwear, wrapping that cold hand around his cock. his brother is apologising to the door for bumping into it again, but march can't even roll his eyes at it because fuck you feel so good, slowly stroking him so good he's instinctively pressing closer against you in search for more of your warmth. you're so soft, his cock is flush against your ass now and it takes him more self-control than he has available to stop himself groaning against the back of your head.

"you said sumthin?" olric murmurs, finally having finished his conversation with the door.

"no!" march exclaims, too loud, too panicked, "just go…" he can't take it anymore, not with your gentle hand guiding him, your legs parting slightly, your… your damn wet pussy just perfect as he nudges it with his tip when you release his cock. march is so gone, head swimming with desire, with the wish to feel you but also punish you for being such a temptation for him. for making him act like a fool, for making him scramble to make up a believable lie to his brother, for making him panic and try to hold you as close to his body as possible to not get found out, for enjoying his arm around your neck holding you in place.

his reward for holding out this long is just a touch away now, and all march has to do is to angle his hips a little, trying to be inconspicuous and not make a damn noise. it's proving to be more difficult than anticipated, especially when he feels your breath hitch, a dainty little huff against his forearm that he reflexively tightens and groans to cover up the sound of your moan.

"'m gonna go t' bed now," olric announces, to which march can't help but sigh in relief, "but… one more thing…"

march can't do it anymore, he nudges your soft folds apart, olric be damned, and now he finds himself in the warmest, softest dream he's ever had. his arm is tight around your neck, a warning not to be loud, and your hand rests on his forearm, as if grounding you while his cock sinks into you, pushing into your slippery, squishy cunt.

"… i know yer all sulky today because of the farmer not comin' by. 's a little obvious…" olric continues, and march can hardly take in half of his words as he's struggling to stay afloat while your pussy squeezes him as you adjust. "give 'er a break, march… she's doin' her best, so… maybe be nicer to 'er, yeah?"

march breathes heavily against the back of your head, pressing you into his chest as he tries to get enough breath to speak.

"yea. fine." he squeezes through his teeth. "good night."

without another word, but with plenty of stumbling noise, olric closes the door to march's room and leaves you all alone again.

"be…" you start, straining against his forearm, "nicer to me, huh?"

march huffs. you've made it all but easy for him. tonight and all the times before, with your fleeting smiles and offhanded touches, with your gifts and your attention and your goddamn teasing. he moves his hips now, slightly pulling back before snapping them forward like he's been dying to do to you.

"you liked that, did ya?" he grunts into your hair, holding you in place as he takes you like he wants. "liked bein' a menace while my brother was here? liked makin' me work extra hard to be quiet?" his hips snap forward again, this time not giving a shit if you squeal or not… in fact, hoping you do. "or did you wanna get caught?"

the noise you're making has him roll his eyes as your warm walls squeeze around him, making his hips stutter while he's moving them, repeatedly thrusting into you. his anger is bubbling up, frustration growing thicker in the air as he fucks into you, harder, harder, snapping quick punishing thrusts into your cunt like it doesn't matter that his heart is racing. because you will be the end of him with how well you take him. the pulses of your squelching cunt — and now he doesn't give a damn that you're noisy — the tiny little whimpers as your nails dig into his forearm, everything about you screams to him that you're right where you want to be, fucked out of your mischievous mind on his bed.

now, when the danger is gone, when the door to his room is shut, when the creaking of the bed is only between the two of you, he grunts and curses against your ear, baring his teeth as the tip of his cock hits a beautiful spot in you, the spot that has you whimpering into the darkness.

march really has no idea what he's doing. all that his mind and body are agreeing upon is that he simply has to keep fucking you as long as you're making those sounds and clenching around his shaft like that. and for now, that's all he needs to keep him thrusting. the symphony of your choked little breaths and stuttered curses keeps his rhythm steady, keeps his mission clear even when his brain is chock-full of static, the electricity sparking in the code of your name.

it's infuriating, the power you have over him, how he wants to have you even when you're doing your best to bring him down to his knees like he was mere hours ago when he wrapped your leg in bandages, to make him flustered like every time you say hi in that stupid giggly tone that leaves him stunned for a full minute.

a harder thrust, a higher pitched whine. he's enjoying turning the tables on you, now you're the one who can't even form a word that doesn't sound like his name, you're the one blushing and begging and tightening with every pointed thrust of his thick cock into your spongy walls, like you're trying to keep him there forever. oh how it feels to have the higher ground now, he grazes the shell of your ear with his teeth, just as he feels the pressure in his abdomen get impossible to handle without breaking into pieces. he won't choke you any tighter, though you sound like you're exactly where you're supposed to be — on the precipice of pleasure with him stuffed inside you.

"f-fuck march i'm gonna—" the sweetness of your moan mixed with the filthy slapping sound of his hips on your flesh makes for a concoction that march will never be able to get out of his head.

he shakes out of a haze at your words, gritting his teeth against the side of your head. "yeah? fuck… you're that filthy are you? getting off to me puttin' you in a headlock?" he struggles to taunt you any more, being so damn close himself. he's losing the thread, all the words he wants to say just turn into a long string of fuck please please need you in his mouth. your soft hand leaves its place on his forearm, reaching down between your legs to rub little circles on your swollen clit, something he heard felt good from juniper's countless tipsy lectures at the inn. seems like something actually stuck in march's head, because he's feeling the effects of your movements in the fast fluttering of your perfect pussy around him.

march is so close to tumbling over the edge with you when your entire body shudders and he feels his cock get coated in slick, warm release, fucking you through it all. you're moaning more softly now, all satisfied as you pulse for him, curses slipping from your lips like praises. he groans one last time as you squeeze around him and pulls out reluctantly, keeping his cock between your warm thighs as he thrusts between them, whispering nonsensical babbles and finally… finally letting go. orgasm wrecks him like a carriage, knocking him sideways as you squeeze your thighs together and his tip spills pearlescent white cum between them. he fucks your thighs all through it, stuttering in his rhythm as he feels more and more weightless, loosening his arm around your neck.

everything goes quiet.

save for your heartbeats.

there's no other sound that echoes in march's head, no other distraction from the feeling of your soft, sweat-slicked skin against his. he flexes his hand, until then tightly balled into a fist, and glides it down your torso, almost as if making sure you're really there and it hasn't been a sick trick of his imagination. your breathing gets a little deeper once your neck is free of the pressure of his forearm, and it takes only a few moments for your hand to reach his, resting atop his rough palm. it's no longer cold like it was when you reached for him to come closer, now it feels like comfort.

march is not thinking clearly. he presses his lips against your bare shoulder, instinctively trailing kisses up to your neck like he knows on some level it would beat with the rhythm of your heart and he would be able to tell that you don't regret this. he needs to know you don't regret this.

"march…" you begin, and he freezes. "not to be a pain, but… i don't wanna lie in a puddle of your cum."

he blinks the haze away, then blinks again, registering what you said. "my…"

"march—" you snicker, body shaking against his chest while his hand rests on the top of your thigh, gently squeezing, not even realising he's doing it. damn, the way you say his name in the bliss of pleasure does damage to his heart, stabbing it with arrows adorned with feathers of your voice, devastating him to the point he wants to make you cum again, and again, if anything just to hear that noise again.

"right… sorry." he pulls back, gasping as his softened cock slips from between your thighs, slick with your release. "but i'm not doing that now."

he can tell you're about to protest, but before you get the chance he grips you tighter and flips you over his body to the other side of the bed where you land unceremoniously, holding onto his forearms. once you're settled again, he pulls you into his chest, warm like you never left. like an overgrown cat, reluctantly accepting affection, he glides his other hand up and down your side, in what seems almost unconscious movements. it feels nice under his fingertips, though, the softness of your skin so different from the tools he is used to.

"gross." you wrinkle your nose and he really can't care less about the puddle currently drying on the other side of the bed.

"you're gross." he murmurs through what can maybe even be classed as a smile. a sweet, soft little curve of his lips as he buries his face into the back of your head. at least until the morning.

march doesn't think about what will come after. not about the explanation for why he's keeping olric staring at something on his desk while you take the chance to sneak out of the house, not about the annoying wash he will need to do to clean the sheets, not even about how the hell he will be able to function around you knowing about what you did tonight. instead, he thinks about tonight, not about tomorrow. all of that will happen at some later point, after he's done taking this moment and finally understand that he is special. at least a little bit. at least to you.

At first, you fought. You cried. You screamed. You pounded your fists against the reinforced glass until your hands ached.

You had been so much fiercer in the beginning.

Now? You were numb. Almost bored.

Days blurred together, each marked only by meals of unfamiliar but oddly palatable fruits and endless silence from your captor.

The questions haunted you: Why did it take me? Where are we going? What does it want?

Fear had long since faded into fatigue. You were too tired to be terrified anymore.

In truth, some days, you thought you would’ve preferred death over this drawn-out uncertainty.

But then… something changed.

One day, the alien stumbled into the ship, and you froze.

It was wounded.

A deep gash ran down its arm, green blood—neon and thick—oozing from the torn flesh. The limb hung at an unnatural angle, barely attached.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as it clumsily moved through the ship, almost forgetting your presence entirely.

It collapsed onto a pile of thick rugs, panting, trembling.

You observed behind the glass, transfixed.

It was the first time you’d seen it in pain. The first time it looked… vulnerable.

Maybe, just maybe, this was your chance.

It stitched itself with crude but efficient movements, applying strange, iridescent substances you couldn’t identify. It let out a low, guttural sound—half a roar, half a groan—and then lay still.

You sat down, quietly, eyes on its shifting, unsteady breath as it twisted in discomfort.

It wasn’t out for long.

Minutes later, it stirred abruptly, eyes opening wide with a sharp inhale.

Then it disappeared and returned shortly, holding a tray of those strange fruits you’d been living off of.

As always, it slid open the small hatch of your chamber and pushed the tray inside.

But this time, you moved.

You reached out, quickly, instinctively and grabbed its wrist.

It froze.

For once, it didn’t pull away. Maybe it couldn’t. The wound had slowed it down.

But still… it let you touch it.

Your hand trembled slightly as your fingers wrapped around the rough, scaly texture of its skin. It was cold. Not quite like a reptile, but close. Unfamiliar. Alien.

You didn’t expect it to go this far, that it would allow contact.

You swallowed hard.

“Are you… hurt?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

No response.

“I saw you. You collapsed.”

A pause.

“Let me help you.”

You didn’t know what you could do. You had no training, not even with human medicine, let alone whatever this was. But the words came anyway.

“You’ve been feeding me. Taking care of me. Let me return the favor.”

Still, it said nothing. But it didn’t move either.

Maybe it was trying to understand your intent—measuring the risk.

Then, slowly, it shifted its hand beneath yours.

Your fingers slid over its palm as it moved. Coarse. Cold.

You repressed a shiver.

The creature took a step back, eyeing you carefully. You were still kneeling, looking small, unthreatening.

You knew how you looked to it. Fragile. Weak. But that was the point.

You wanted this—this moment. A crack in its guard.

If it trusted you, even a little, maybe… just maybe… you could turn that into a chance.

A way out.

The creature took two ragged, guttural breaths before stepping closer to the chamber. Its clawed finger slid over the padlock in a slow, deliberate motion. With a soft, mechanical click, the door released.

What?

Was that it? Was it really that easy?

Had all it taken was appearing small—fragile—for it to trust you?

Before the door had even swung halfway open, you were already slipping through the gap, adrenaline firing through your veins. You moved fast, fueled by a desperate, animal instinct to flee.

But freedom didn’t last more than a breath.

A hand, massive and unrelenting, wrapped around your throat and slammed you back against the cold glass chamber. Your skull hit the surface with a thud, and all the air was gone from your lungs.

Panic overtook you.

The creature’s clawed fingers squeezed, just enough to restrict your breathing but not crush it entirely. Its grip was so strong, so terrifyingly effortless. The sharp curve of its nails dug into the tender skin at the nape of your neck, pressing hard enough to hurt, to warn.

You clawed at its wrist, nails scraping over its scaled skin, desperate for air.

It didn’t flinch.

Even with blood still dripping from its wounded arm, it held you firm, as though pain meant nothing.

Your feet dangled, your body pinned like prey, caught and immobilized.

It could kill you. Right now. Just one twitch of that wrist and it would all be over.

Your vision blurred at the edges. Your eyes welled from the pressure.

“Please—” you gasped, voice cracked.

The grip loosened, barely.

Air returned in small, painful sips, but the hand remained, keeping you locked in place, back pressed hard to the smooth surface behind you. You coughed, instinctively reaching to support yourself, but the creature didn’t move away.

It leaned in closer, massive frame radiating heat. Its head dipped low, its strange mandibles brushing your cheek. Its breath, hot and coarse, ghosted along your skin, and then came the sound.

A low, rumbling growl vibrated from deep within its chest. Not quite a purr. Not quite a snarl. Something primal.

It grew louder, reverberating in your ears and against your ribs, until it cut off sharply.

Then came the voice… deep, guttural, foreign… but unmistakably clear.

“If you try to escape again, I won’t hesitate.”

He didn’t say what he would do. He didn’t need to.

You nodded quickly—yes, yes, you understood.

You were no threat. Not now. Not yet.

Slowly, his grip slackened, and you dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping, fingers clawing at your throat as your lungs fought for air.

You looked up at him.

He towered over you, chest rising and falling rapidly. The wound on his arm had reopened, neon blood dripping down in thick lines, staining the floor.

Even in pain, even with one arm nearly useless… he was still dominant. Still terrifying.

And yet…

You saw it. Something behind the rage, the instinct, the brute force. He was hurting. Breathing heavily. Off-balance. Vulnerable… in his own way.

This was dangerous. All of it. You knew that.

You rose to your feet—slowly. Carefully.

Every movement was cautious, as if one sudden gesture might awaken some dormant, primal instinct in him.

You kept still once upright, eyes locked on the heaving rise and fall of his chest. The green blood still poured from his arm, trailing in slow rivulets down his thick, scaled skin. It was grotesque and oddly beautiful. Like art painted in pain.

You had never seen anything like him before.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke, your voice soft and unsure.

“Tell me how to help you.”

Silence.

He didn’t look at you immediately. Instead, he walked toward the part of the ship where he’d earlier attempted to patch himself up.

You watched him, his steps heavy, his breath audible. With a sharp tilt of his head, the long, rope-like dreadlocks shifted around his shoulders with grace.

He turned, mandibles twitching, the low clicking sound they made vibrating in the air between you like a warning or a signal.

He held something out.

A skin stapler—if you could even call it that. It was massive compared to any human medical tool, mechanical and crude, made for strength over finesse.

Then, without a word, he turned his back to you.

And only then did you see the true damage under the light.

A jagged slash, deep and raw, tore across his back. It wasn’t just bleeding—it was gaping, the green fluid seeping from it in thick, steady drops. You could see sinew beneath. Maybe even bone.

You stifled a gag, covering your mouth briefly before forcing your hand back down. Your stomach churned.

This was worse than you thought.

His back muscles twitched under the strain, contracting with each breath. Even still, he stood tall, tense, waiting.

You had to do this.

You needed his trust. And if earning it meant holding back the bile in your throat and pretending your hands weren’t shaking uncontrollably, then so be it.

Your fingers trembled as you took a step forward. You reached out with your free hand and gently touched his shoulder to steady yourself and him.

He flinched.

His skin was cold, much colder than you expected, and the contrast between your warmth and his body made him shudder. But he didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, before pressing the device to his torn flesh.

You braced yourself, and then pulled the trigger.

The stapler hissed as metal bit into skin.

He grunted, guttural sound rumbling from deep in his chest. His hands slammed down onto the metal table in front of him, claws digging into it, leaving deep gashes in the surface.

You kept going.

Staple. Staple. Staple.

With every burst, his muscles flexed. His arms shook under the pain, and the table beneath him groaned under the pressure of his grip.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t strike out. He simply endured.

By the time you were done, the line of staples snaked clean across his back, sealing the worst of the wound. You stepped back, your hands slick with sweat and blood, the device trembling slightly in your grip.

You had done it.

He leaned against the table, his breaths deep and uneven. You watched his back shift with each inhale as he flexed the stitched muscles, testing the damage, testing your work.

Your hands were still trembling slightly when he turned and took the stapler from your grip.

Then, he faced you.

He didn’t speak. He simply watched.

The kind of stare that made the air feel heavier.

You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing. But he seemed to be waiting for something—anything.

And when you remained still, uncertain, he closed the distance.

His hand reached for your face, fingers curling around your cheeks, thumb and forefinger applying just enough pressure to coax a reaction. You flinched slightly.

“What else do you want?” you asked, voice low and guarded, a frown forming on your face.

But the alien didn’t respond. He merely observed, eyes flicking across your features like he was trying to learn you, maybe even memorize the softness of your skin beneath his clawed fingertips.

His hand left your face, trailing down to your neck, then your shoulder, tracing a path beneath your arm and along your forearm. You shivered involuntarily when his thumb pressed firmly against the underside of your wrist, pinning your pulse.

He felt it.

Your heartbeat.

Unsteady.

And undeniably human.

A low purr resonated from deep within his chest, vibrating through the air like distant thunder. It wasn’t threatening, but it was possessive. Satisfied.

You let him explore you, not out of desire, but out of necessity. Every touch was a test. You didn’t know what he would do next and neither did he, maybe. But still, he touched like someone who had been holding back for too long.

When his hand slipped under your shirt, brushing just below your bellybutton, you stepped back instinctively, muscles tightening.

You couldn’t read his intentions, maybe he didn’t fully understand them either.

“I’m… ticklish,” you said quickly, a shaky breath escaping as you gently pushed his hand back up to your stomach.

Whether he believed the lie or not, he withdrew, wordlessly. Then, with fluid strength, he turned you around by your shoulders.

His claws traced along your back now, slow,intentional strokes.

Right over the spot that mirrored his own injury.

The gesture didn’t feel like threat.

It felt like recognition.

You bit your lip, steadying yourself when his touch followed the length of your spine. You had to clamp your hand over your mouth when his claws reached the small of your back. A tingling ripple ran across your skin.

He paused there.

Then, nothing.

Just silence.

Until you felt it.

Hot breath—on your neck.

It ghosted over your skin in slow waves. You froze, every instinct inside you telling you not to move.

His mandibles clicked, close to your ear. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your head turning slightly away, just to escape it.

That’s when his grip tightened. Hands holding your shoulders firmly, anchoring you in place.

Don’t move, your mind warned.

Don’t give him a reason to think you’re resisting.

His breath returned, heavier now, brushing over the nape of your neck and then came the sharpness. You hissed softly as you felt the faint sting of his mandibles grazing your skin.

There was moisture.

Not blood—at least not yours.

Then, a slick warmth dragged slowly over the same spot.

His tongue.

You hadn’t seen it before, but now you knew. It was real, and it was on you.

Testing you.

Tasting you.

You clenched your jaw, holding in the gasp that threatened to escape. The sensation was foreign, unnerving, but strangely cautious. He wasn’t being careless. He was exploring. Reading your reaction. Studying how far he could go.

You were being mapped with his mouth, his claws, his curiosity.

And all you could do was endure it.

You hadn’t expected things to escalate this quickly—yet they had.

The sensation that bloomed where his mandibles had latched onto your skin again was so alien, so unfamiliar, you could barely contain the noise that threatened to rise in your throat. It wasn’t like anything you’d felt before, stinging, with a strange heat. And that’s what unsettled you most.

And still… that same unknown sent a pulse of something dark and electric down your spine.

Your knees trembled—not just from fear, but from the way your body responded to the contact. Helplessly, shamefully. Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest, as if caught in a tug-of-war between terror and… something else.

Another hiss slipped from between your clenched teeth when his tongue swept along your wounded nape, tasting the blood he had drawn moments before. You could feel the deliberate slowness in the way he licked over the bite, like he was trying to understand you—your scent, your flavor, your limits. This had to be a test, didn’t it? A threshold he was pushing you toward, waiting to see whether you would flinch… or endure.

If you could survive this, if you could hold your ground, maybe he’d trust you. And if he trusted you, then eventually… maybe you’d be free.

Then his hands were on you again, turning you to face him.

His breathing was ragged, strained, his chest rising and falling fast.

His mandibles were slick with crimson, your blood still fresh on him.

You should’ve recoiled in horror.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your eyes lingered on the tautness in his body, the tension in his shoulders. His gaze bore into you unrelenting and unreadable. Yet there was something unmistakably raw in it. As if he didn’t fully understand what he was doing, only that he needed to.

One clawed hand rose slowly, catching the hem of your shirt and giving it the smallest tug, pulling you closer until you were pressed to him, your face just above the curve of his chest. He was colder than any being you’d ever touched… and yet somehow, from within, he radiated heat. Like a furnace buried under stone.

Your breath stuttered as you tilted your head up, eyes meeting his.

He studied you the way a predator studies prey, but there was no hunger. Just intensity. Curiosity.

And then, without a word, one long, talon-tipped finger rose to your lips.

You held your breath.

He dragged it gently across your bottom lip, then pressed inward, urging your mouth open, just enough to trace the warmth inside. Your lips parted automatically, breath catching as the cold of his skin met the heat of your tongue. You didn’t even realize you’d made a sound until his chest rumbled in response—a satisfied purr.

He was testing you again. Learning the intricacies of your body the way someone learns the pressure points on a weapon.

And still… you didn’t pull away.

“Ooman, your heart is racing… yet you don’t seem scared.”

His guttural voice struck the air like a blade, freezing you where you stood.

Those red eyes—dark and unreadable—pierced you from above. There was something almost gentle in the way he stared, but it was impossible to ignore the sheer force behind his stance.

And he wasn’t wrong.

Your heart was hammering inside your chest like it was trying to escape your ribs… yet you hadn’t ran.

You hadn’t screamed.

He had touched you—bitten you—and you hadn’t moved.

Maybe worse… part of you didn’t want to.

Shame curled hot and thick in your chest, but shame didn’t undo the way your body had reacted. You were only human. You couldn’t control everything. Not when it felt this strange… this overwhelming.

He pressed his thumb further against your tongue, forcing you to choke slightly, the reflex hitting before you could stifle it. Tears welled up in your eyes from the gag, but even as your vision blurred, he didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze sharpened, his mandibles twitched, and the shimmer in his eyes suggested… fascination.

He liked that sound. Like he had just discovered a new function in a toy he hadn’t yet finished learning to play with.

“Are you sad, ooman?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. That question was… unexpected. But you realized quickly why he asked it.

He had only ever seen you cry when you begged him to let you go, sobbing behind reinforced glass. You were sad then. Terrified.

But now?

“…No,” you whispered.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth, glancing at the saliva stretched between his fingers. He examined it with the same curiosity a scientist might give a strange specimen before flicking his gaze back to you.

“Then what do you feel?” he asked again, this time quieter.

You didn’t know how to answer.

Fear, yes. Curiosity, definitely.

But the heat coiling inside you, the warmth spreading down your spine and pooling between your legs—it wasn’t curiosity alone. It was something deeper. Something primal. Something neither of you seemed able to name.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted.

And you meant it. The confusion, the contradiction of everything in your body and mind. It was too much to untangle.

But something about your honesty changed him.

He studied you again, slower this time. And then his claws returned, sliding under the hem of your shirt. With one decisive movement, he tore the fabric, the sound ripping through the quiet as you gasped.

Your stomach, exposed now, just below your ribs, was bare beneath his stare. A sharp sound left your lips as he pressed a single claw to your abdomen, not aggressively, but intently.

He was testing you again.

The touch crawled up, just below your chest, and stopped when you tensed, your eyes shut tight in fear and… anticipation. But he didn’t go further.

“Why is your heart racing again?” he asked, voice low and impossibly close.

You opened your eyes, meeting his.

“Are you scared, ooman?”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to lie, to give a simple answer and end this test. But there was no hiding from him.

You nodded. Then, unsure… you shook your head.

His mandibles clicked, clearly confused by your response.

“Use your words,” he commanded, the demand more like a nudge this time.

Your face burned with shame.

“I… I am scared,” you whispered. “But I also feel… hot. Wherever you touch me.”

You couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, so you looked away, resting your forehead lightly against his chest. Partly to hide, partly because he felt so real.

He was massive. You hadn’t truly registered the sheer scale of him until now.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his voice hoarse, strained. Desperate to understand.

You nodded again.

“Speak,” he said, more forcefully now.

“…Yes.”

The sound rumbled from deep in his chest—a pleased, almost feral purr that vibrated through his body and into yours.

He liked that answer. All of it. Your hesitation, your embarrassment, your honesty.

And then, without warning, he moved.

In a swift motion, he slid an arm beneath you, gripping you just under your thighs and lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing. A yelp escaped you—startled, unsteady—as your hands instinctively wrapped around his neck.

You felt the wetness of his healing wound bleed onto your pants, staining them green. The contact was hot and sticky, and your panic spiked just enough to make your breath hitch.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered into a crouch and dropped you onto the pile of thick, ragged furs that covered the floor. The makeshift bedding cushioned your fall, but your body tensed as he loomed above you.

He knelt now, towering yet strangely calm.

The light overhead cast shadows across his skin, accentuating the dark blue hue of his chest. Scars, some old, some fresh, lined his torso, like a war map drawn across his body. He didn’t speak, didn’t gesture. He simply presented himself.

And you stared, drawn in despite yourself.

He didn’t wait for your permission this time. His hand grabbed your wrist firmly and brought it to his chest.

You hesitated.

Then… slowly, he let you explore.

Your fingers traced the hard lines of his muscles, the roughness of scarring, the slickness of partially healed wounds. He made a noise, deep and choked, when you grazed one of the fresh cuts.

Your eyes drifted up to his dreadlocks, long and heavy, brushing over his chest like strands of ink.

Hesitantly, you reached for one, curious now. You wrapped your fingers around it, stroking once, then again, before giving it a light squeeze.

That’s when it happened.

His entire body jolted, his muscles seizing as though you’d flipped a hidden switch. He collapsed forward slightly, one fist hitting the ground to steady himself, breath tearing from his chest in ragged bursts.

Your eyes widened.

Whatever those were… they weren’t just hair.

You let go immediately, crawling back into the furred rugs as he struggled to regain composure.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

But your mind raced.

What was he?

And what had you just done?

You thought, for one breathless moment, that maybe this was your chance.

Maybe that flicker of weakness, his body buckling from your touch, meant you could shift the balance. Regain some control. Use it against him.

But that illusion vanished the instant he caught his breath.

He looked up at you with a low inhale and you saw it. The shift. The hunger. The intent.

Like a predator fixing its gaze on something it knew it could catch.

You stared, uncertain whether to brace or beg.

He didn’t give you time for either.

With a sudden, terrifying grace, he lunged forward, crawling fast over the rugs until he loomed above you. His forearms landed on either side of your head with a thud, enclosing you in his shadow.

You barely had time to gasp.

Warm blood dripped from his healing wound, trickling down to your cheek. You clenched your jaw to keep still, holding your breath, afraid to move or speak. Maybe this was it, maybe you’d pushed too far.

Then he lowered his head.

You heard the click of his mandibles before you felt his teeth.

He sank them into your shoulder, not deep enough to break bone, but enough to make you cry out. Sharp, white-hot pain bloomed across your skin as you twisted beneath him, but his weight pinned you like prey caught in a trap.

His hand pressed hard over your chest, flattening you against the furs, and then he struck again. His mouth finding your other shoulder with terrifying speed.

Another bite. Another cry.

This time, something was different.

He lingered.

You felt his tongue glide slowly across the mark he had made, the heat of it dragging across your skin, soothing and igniting at the same time. The sting of pain morphed into a low, building ache. You gasped, but not from pain. From…

Frustration.

But not the kind born of anger. This burned lower, deeper. A need you didn’t recognize, spreading like fire in your belly.

Your nipples stiffened under the thin fabric of what remained of your torn shirt. You weren’t sure when it happened, but his hand, still pressing on your chest, seemed to be aware before you were. Every brush of his palm made the sensation worse. Unbearable.

His mouth trailed lower, tongue dragging along your collarbone, then upward toward your neck.

You knew what was coming. Another bite. Another mark.

And some primal instinct in you snapped.

You acted before thinking, before fear could stop you.

You reached up, grabbed one of those thick, heavy dreadlocks hanging over your face… and yanked.

Hard.

He reacted instantly.

His body spasmed, his torso pitching forward until his chest nearly collapsed onto yours. A guttural sound erupted from him—not a growl, not a roar, but something building in his chest, shaking through his ribs like a lion’s warning.

His breathing turned ragged, desperate again. You felt him straining against the instinct to move, to react—to take.

His fist slammed down into the furs beside your head to steady himself.

You’d hit a nerve. Literally.

You let go. You could’ve stopped there.

But you didn’t.

Driven by something reckless, something stupid, you leaned up—and bit the same dreadlock between your teeth. Not enough to maim… just enough to threaten. To warn.

To show him that you could.

And that’s when it changed.

His hand shot up, clawed fingers wrapping around your throat.

Not with full strength, but enough to knock the air from your lungs and force you to release your bite.

He held you there, suspended between danger and awe. The grip at your throat was firm, unrelenting… but conscious. Just enough pressure to remind you: he was in control now.

Yet his eyes… they told another story.

Because in that moment, he wasn’t just looking at a fragile, soft-skinned thing he’d captured.

He was looking at something dangerous.

Something wild.

Something that bit back.

Your teeth might be small, but they could’ve torn through that sensitive appendage. And he knew it.

You saw that realization land behind his eyes.

And you saw something else too.

Respect.

Predator or not, he now understood:

You were not prey.

You stared up at him, breath hitching under the pressure of his hand, your body thrumming with adrenaline, confusion, heat.

“You bite like an animal,” he growled, voice low. “Yet you’re not one of them.”

The hand around your throat stayed firm, his grip no longer punishing, but purposeful. Curious. Possessive.

He studied you like a puzzle he hadn’t expected to find inside his cage.

Your chest rose and fell beneath him, breath caught somewhere between panic and anticipation, your lips parting reflexively as his thumb pressed against them—harder this time. Enough to make your head tilt slightly, your jaw strain. Enough to draw out those same desperate, involuntary sounds that had already begun to unravel him.

Mewls. Gasps. Whimpers that betrayed you, that sent heat rushing through both your veins and his.

He made you feel weak, pinned under his massive frame, restrained, breathless and yet the trembling in his chest betrayed a dangerous truth: he was just as undone as you were.

There was green blood staining the rugs now, hot and slick, smeared along the curve of your hip where he’d held you. His claws flexed at your sides, eager, restrained, and trembling. The Yautja was trying to hold himself together, and you… you were the reason he was falling apart.

In all his years of battles, of honor duels, of hunts through hostile terrain and endless bloodshed, he had never been brought to this edge. This need.

And not just because you fought back.

It was how you did it.

You didn’t bare fangs to kill.

You bared your teeth to warn, to challenge. To play.

And in his world… that meant something else entirely.

The way you looked up at him, defiant even as his hand rested on your throat. The way you gasped around his thumb, shame flushing your cheeks but never reaching your eyes. You weren’t meek. You were alive. Burning.

That was a language he understood.

It wasn’t what he expected when he first claimed you. You hadn’t fought then. You’d been taken without a struggle. No weapons, no resistance, just a shaking, wide-eyed creature.

He was supposed to drag you back. A trophy. A specimen.

Maybe even meat, if the elders had deemed it so.

But he hadn’t brought you to them.

He hadn’t handed you over.

He hadn’t harmed you.

Not even once.

Instead, he kept you.

Why?

He hadn’t known the answer… until now.

Now, your body squirmed beneath his. Your heat mixed with his, and your spirit rose like a flare against his instincts. You weren’t just prey. You were spark.

His chest began to tremble with a low, guttural noise, not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Something deeper.

Amusement.

He laughed.

It was alien, yes, but unmistakably pleased.

A sound from deep inside his chest, vibrating through your body like a drumbeat.

You blinked up at him, startled by the change. The gleam in his eyes was no longer just predatory. It was amused. Intrigued. He tilted his head as if seeing you for the first time, not as an obligation, not as cargo.

But as entertainment. A wild, feisty creature dropped into his hands.

You felt it then, something shift in the way he looked at you.

You weren’t just a captive anymore.

You were his distraction… his companion… his toy.

And in a life filled with blood, silence, and cold steel…