Untitled

You felt the thrum of the club’s bass before you even saw the front doors. It shook the ground in rhythmic beats, some kind of strange, unnatural earthquake, and seemed to pull anyone within a mile radius toward its center. Everywhere you looked, civilians were headed toward the entrance. Skimpy skirts, sleeveless muscle tanks, even pressed business suits - they all gravitated toward the Eros Club like droning, mindless machines.

As you cruised slowly down the street, your hand rested atop the steering wheel of your ride, Jackie released a low whistle from his perch in the passenger’s seat. He was so sinewy and bulked that he hardly fit in it. “Some place,” he said when you parked your car on the curb between a number of other vehicles. “No wonder every other club in town’s tanked to shit. Everyone’s comin’ here.”

You gave a hum and peered up the club through the window. The Eros Club was a three-story decker situated on a corner close to the water, with neon lights that cast the streets surrounding it in an eerie, yet exciting glow. A long, twisting line of people waited for entrance, kissing and grinding and complaining on their cells. Armed guards stood at the doors, standing rather close to a small woman personally checking each visitor before they went through.

“It won’t be standing for much longer,” you said, then climbed from the car.

This job was supposed to be simple. Simpler than most you and Jackie had done. Your client was a faceless shroud who spoke to you over the net, promising big bucks for the infiltration of the Eros Club. They claimed to be a rival club owner who was losing business; they’d heard from a friend of a friend of an enemy Eros was illegally drugging patrons until they were hooked and coming back every night for more. Your job was to secure a dose of whatever substance was being used and give it to your client’s men at the drop point.

Jackie hadn’t liked it at first. He was adamant about seeing the client face to face before agreeing to nabbing the drug, but he hadn’t needed much more convincing when you told him the amount promised.

“Sounds too easy,” he’d said when you informed him of your client’s approach. “Then again…” He’d flashed you that signature smile and you hadn’t been able to help but give it back. “We could use a night out on the town.”

As you left your vehicle and approached the club, weaving between sweaty bodies and over broken bottles scattered along the ground, you spared a glance over at your partner. Jackie Welles was a unit of a man, built like an ox and suited to take one down. Not only was he one of the best-looking men you’d ever met, he was also the kindest. In the same day, he would toss live grenades into gang dens, then untangle a stray cat from the plastic wrapping caught around its paws. He was funny, and caring, and above all else, loyal. No matter the situation, you knew you could count on Jackie to have your back.

And a part of you hated it.

You hated how close you had grown to the mercenary over the number of months you’d been working together, how you knew his middle name and his birthday and his mother’s favorite flowers. You hated that every time you shared a drink at After Life your knees would brush together and the simple touch would strike a match in your veins. And you hated yourself for, not once or twice, but almost every time you relieved some of your pent-up sexual tension by yourself, you imagined it was him hovering between your legs making you feel so deliciously.

“Aye. You with me, chica?”

Blinking away the dirty thoughts swimming through your head, you glanced up at Jackie. You had almost made it to the front doors - much to the chagrin and disdain of the people who had been waiting in line for hours. “Come again?” you said.

Jackie jerked his head toward the doors. “I said, you got the passes?” He watched as you fished through your pockets before producing the VIP passes your client had provided you with in order to get into Eros without much hassle. “Somethin’ on your mind?” he said as he accepted his pass. “Your head’s usually more in the game than this, V.”

Slipping the pass around your neck, you swallowed thick and avoided his gaze. “Sorry,” you said, and left it at that. He tilted his head at you in that way he did when he knew you were lying, but he didn’t push it. If anyone knew how to coax something out of you, it was him.

And you were terrified he would get this out of you, too.

The guards blocking the front doors looked you and Jackie up and down as you approached, arms crossed tight or hefting a baseball bat over a shoulder. “What business you got?” asked one.

In sync, you and Jackie both raised your VIP passes from around your necks. It only took a few moments of inspection for them to step aside so that you could face the small woman sitting on a stool. Up close, you were able to see she wore plastic gloves over her thin hands and beside her on a cart lay caps of what looked like ink. She beckoned you forward.

“Listen up, and listen well,” she said as she prepared a fresh cap from her tray. “No touching the dancers unless you want to walk home without one of your arms. No going behind the bar; if you want something - or someone - ask one of the bouncers inside and they’ll get it for you. No contraband allowed inside.” She motioned. “That means pieces. Unload it all.”

Jackie grumbled beneath his breath as he grudgingly unholstered his firearms and the machete strapped across his back before placing them in the trunk at one of the guards’ feet. You followed suit, dumping your belongings beside his. “Be good, carinos,” he murmured to his iron before the lid was snapped shut.

“One last thing,” drawled the woman before snapping a bubble of gum in her mouth. “Tongues out.”

Your breath caught in your throat, something between a scoff and a laugh. “What?”

She wiggled her ink-coated thumb. “If you want in,” she said as if she were talking to a child throwing a tantrum, “tongues out. Helps us know who actually heard the rules and who snuck in through the side door.” She tilted her head in exasperation. “It’s just a bit of edible ink. It’ll wash off in a few hours.”

Despite how appalled you were at the idea of having this random chick’s thumb on your tongue, it was the thought of more eddies in your account that made you open your mouth and lay your tongue flat. You clenched your fist as she pressed her thumb against your tongue, fighting off the urge to gag. When she was done, you wiped your lip and watched as Jackie stuck out his tongue to get his own print.

You were unable to help the pang of hot, searing jealousy that shot through you when he gagged slightly and she winked at him.

“Get that reflex under control, baby,” she teased as she pulled her arm back and discarded the glove. “Who knows when it’ll ruin a good time.”

“Are we done here?” you blurted. “No offense, but we didn’t come to get tongue tats and swap dick sizes.”

She was obviously bored of you. With a flick of her head, the guards opened the doors, and you both strode through quicker than necessary. Jackie’s limp - put there after he broke his leg as a boy and it never healed properly - slowed him slightly, but you’d become accustomed to matching your pace with his. Your frame silhouetted beside his bulk and muscle, the doors sealed shut behind you, a crypt trapping unfortunate souls within.

Jackie ran his freshly-inked tongue over his teeth, his features illuminated by the neon pink glow from the lights overhead. “Tastes like licorice,” he commented, then screwed up his face. “The bad kind.”

You murmured a low hum of agreement as you walked toward another set of doors that led into the main wing of the club. “The kind that’s been sitting in the sun for a week.”

“Heh.” He smiled, and you kept your focus straight ahead, trying to squash the butterflies fluttering in your belly. “And you know what that tastes like?”

“Please,” you said and placed a hand on the door. “I grew up in the streets, Jackie. I ate anything I could come across.”

You heaved open the door, and at once you were both enveloped in a hurricane of noise and light and skin. A gargantuan disco ball threw off flashes of neon lights across the club floor, bathing dancers and strippers and drunks in a dream-like hue. Booths were filled to the edges, every stool at the bar taken. Overhead, balconies overlooked poles and flashy cages that hung from the ceiling; inside, men and women wearing less than an inch of clothing humped the bars and whistled down at patrons. And if the customers weren’t ogling up at them, they were grinning stupidly at the glittery joytoys serving their drinks.

You were forced to stop for a moment to take it all in. You’d never seen anything like this. Sure, you’d been raised by a multitude of people in your childhood; madams of whore houses and gang leaders and club bouncers… suffice to say you’d seen a lot of clubs and dollhouses, but never something as grand as this. Jackie was right; no wonder all the other clubs in town were going under.

“Some place,” he said loud enough to be heard over the music.

Pulling yourself from the dazzling painting before you, you blinked a few times to clear your head and pursed your lips. “You know the drill,” you told him. “Don’t get distracted, okay? We’re here for a sample of the drug, and that’s it. Text if you find it, and we’ll meet back here.”

Jackie snorted through his nose as the bass dropped in the music and the floor rattled beneath your feet. “Me, distracted?” he mused and placed a hand on his chest. “You should practice what you preach, chica. You’re the one with your head in the clouds today. Although…” He cast a meaningful glance upward and winked at one of the young women in the dangling cages. You frowned. “Doesn’t seem like a bad place to be these days.”

Refraining from rolling your eyes, you huffed and left him near the doors of the club. You felt your boiling blood begin to cool to a simmer as you wriggled your way through the throng of parties and started for the bar.

Christ, you really needed to get this little crush done and over with. You’d known Jackie long enough to know what he liked; and it wasn’t what you were. He would never reciprocate your feelings; and even if he did, it would hardly be professional. The two of you were partners. So what if sometimes you crashed at each other’s places? So what if he sang you your favorite songs in the car when they came over the radio? So what if, when you’d once caught a bullet to the side, he’d crouched before you to stitch it up himself on your bathroom floor, needle held between his teeth and giant palm firm against your sternum to keep you still and breath on your stomach and -

“What’s shakin’, honey?”

You were yanked from your memories by the voice of the joy toy bartender behind the counter, staring at you with a flirty smirk painted across her lips. She polished a glass with nails that glowed neon here in the dim light.

“Sorry.” You took a seat at the bar - the first seat to have opened in a while - and rested your arms on the counter. It raised goosebumps along your skin. “I’m new here. What’s the most popular thing people get?”

“Why go with the flow, baby?” She grinned before she began to conjure up a drink, mixing liquors from bottles at her knees and pipettes from a sink behind her. “There ain’t another one like you, so don’t go and try to make a no one of yourself. Be true to who you are and what you want. ‘Ya hear me?” In a matter of seconds, she’d placed a shot glass in front of you; the drink within looked like liquid moonlight. How poetic. “Since you’re new, this one’s on me. Just be sure to come back, darlin’, yeah?” She winked, then crossed the bar to attend to her other guests.

Her words rattled through your head as you picked up the glass and swirled it a bit. You knew who you were; you were fucking V of fucking Heywood, for god’s sake. And yet… what did you want?

You scoffed, then glanced back and let your systems take a moment to analyze the contents of the drink in front of you, searching for any foreign substances. You knew what you wanted. But that just couldn’t happen. You were being stupid, crushing on your partner. Your friend - your best fucking choom. You spared a glance over your shoulder, at once spotting Jackie’s hulking frame where he sat at a wraparound couch with a trio of joytoys giggling and batting their eyelashes and touching his thighs. You grit your teeth and whipped back around.

Yeah - you were fucked.

A green alert from your systems told you the drink in your hand was perfectly safe. Nothing foreign or suspicious. Quirking your brow, you brought the shot glass to your lips and tipped it back. You weren’t going to turn down a free drink.

Nothing behind the bar - time to move on. You waved to the bartender in thanks, then got up and offered your seat to the next person waiting for a drink. Forcing yourself to keep from looking at Jackie and his new little entourage, you continued to scour the Eros Club for the drug.

Half an hour, then an hour ticked past you, and you still came up with zilch. None of the dealers - some of whom you’d grown up with on the streets of the city - had anything to present. Nothing in the food. Even a scan of the joytoys showed nothing to raise your alarm. You were empty-handed.

But not quite empty.

As you continued your search, you became aware of a warm, blossoming sensation making its presence known in the pit of your belly. It was heavy and light all at once, swirling like caged serpents aching to be released. It wasn’t long until you felt that familiar pang of need in your core, in between your thighs, did you realize what it was. You were turned on.

You tried to dismiss it as your hormones out of whack - whose wouldn’t be, surrounded by practically naked strippers and the smell of sex lingering in the air? - but as the minutes went on, you were unable to just pass it off. The tugging and demanding was becoming more urgent, and you felt your panties slowly soaking. Fuck.

Inhaling deep through your nose, you stopped for a moment to lean up against a steel pillar and clutch at your stomach. The ache was painful now, and sweat was beading at your hairline. What the fuck was this? Your mouth was producing saliva in overdrive, begging you to swallow, and you felt more empty than you ever had in your life. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, your nerves jumping with tingling sensation.

You lifted your head, feeling almost sick with desire, and your eyes locked onto a young couple leaning against the far wall. They were both a little more than red in the face; she was shaking out her top to let her chest breathe, and he was awkwardly crossing his legs in an attempt to hide his hard on. They murmured in one another’s ears for a moment, touched their tongues, then grappled hands and rushed out a side door.

Your lips parted as your mind finally connected the dots. There was no addictive drug here in the Eros Club; it was outside. The ink that woman had stamped onto your tongues; the drug was in that. You had been fucked before you even stepped inside. Of course people were trampling each other to come back here. The Eros Club was handing out aphrodisiacs at the door. Who wouldn’t want to fuck until they felt better?

You didn’t even have the chance to pull up your texts on your vision screen to warn Jackie. A wave of need ripped through you like a bullet, and you clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle the moan that escaped your lips. Oh, Christ. Pushing yourself off the pillar, you found yourself stumbling through the club toward the restrooms in the corner. Your breath was coming out in heavy pants as you squeezed through sweaty bodies, every moment of contact with another person sending vibrations of desire through your veins.

It seemed an eternity and a half before you reached the restrooms; by whatever grace was left in the world, there was no one else inside. You rushed to lock the door behind you, then tipped over the sinks and brought handfuls of cold water to your face. It dripped from your nose and your chin, your lips, as you panted and gripped the sides of the sink. Unconsciously, you ground your covered crotch against the hard edge of the counter.

There was no way you’d be able to make it out of here before you all but collapsed of horniness - forget about even getting back to your apartment. You needed to take care of things here and now.

Just as you were about to push into a stall and practically rip your pants down your legs to bury your fingers in your cunt, an alert popped into your vision screen. It was from Jackie. Just thinking of his name pulled a hoarse moan from your throat, one that echoed through the bathroom. You opened the message.

V

That was it. Only your name. No period, nothing special. Then -

V

V

V

Open the door

Now

Now chica

Your stomach clenched and your core ached as you realized how he knew exactly where you were; you each had private-channel trackers installed in your hard drives. Viktor had suggested it after a job gone wrong when Jackie had been dragged half a block to get the shit beaten out of him while you were searching the streets a neighborhood away.

Fuck these fucking trackers.

There was no way you could even look at Jackie while you were in this state. You knew the moment you laid eyes on him, you’d jump his bones. And while the thought sent shivers of desire running down your spine, you knew you could never live with yourself if you did. Of course Jackie would never feel the same way you felt about him; he was your friend. Your friend who had held your hair back while you thew up in an alleyway, your friend who had dragged your drunk and sorry ass home too many nights to remember. Your best friend, who had seen you in too many states of ugly and repulsive to ever want you the way you wanted him.

You ground yourself against the counter once more, letting a shaky moan be pulled from your throat. It reverberated throughout the bathroom, echoing back to your own ears like a jagged symphony.

You jumped when something banged against the restroom door. At the same moment, a flood of texts from Jackie swarmed your vision screen.

V

V

V

Answer me

Open the door

Now

V

NOW

CHICA

OPEN THE DOOR

V

DAMN IT V

FUCK

The banging on the door grew more and more desperate, more frantic, and you realized Jackie was trying to ram his shoulder into the metal. You gasped for breath, clutching onto the counter, your face still wet from splashing water on yourself.

He was going to break the door - or his shoulder.

Swallowing thick and trying to drown out your thunderous heartbeat by focusing on the pulsing music, you gingerly pushed off the counter and approached the door. Your legs shook and your cunt clenched, desperate to be filled. Fuck, it hurt. It hurt like nothing you’d ever felt before - it was a kind of sensation you had never even imagined existed.

As you reached out to flip the lock on the door, you briefly wondered if Jackie was under the influence of the drug as well. Surely he wasn’t nearly as down bad as you were right now; he was at least three times your body mass. That dose he’d been given couldn’t have possibly done the same number on him as it did you; he was far too bulked and beefed up for that.

Biting your tongue to keep from immediately launching yourself at him, you unlocked the door to the restroom and opened it.

Your breath hitched at the sight that awaited you on the other side.

Jackie filled the doorway like a persistent shadow, sweat beading at his brow and his lips parted as his chest rose and caved with labored breath. His shoulders were tensed, his jaw set and his fists clenched at his sides. He peered at you from beneath his lashes, and for the smallest, quickest fraction of a second, you were slightly afraid of him.

“Jackie,” you said, but his name came out in more of a whimper.

His eyes flashed and he stepped inside the restroom, hand blindly flipping the door shut behind him. He locked it with a click, his gaze never once leaving you.

You found yourself taking small steps back, your heart fluttering and your hormones screaming at you to drop to your knees and tug at his belt. But your brain was firing in a different direction, speeding into overdrive as your partner began to approach you, footsteps hitting heavy against the tile floor. Was he mad at you? Furious that you had screwed up this job so far, enraged that while he was out there looking for the prize, you were in here getting off on counter counters?

Or was he feeling the same effects you were?

It wasn’t until your back hit the opposite wall of the sinks did you realize Jackie had backed you into a corner. His eyes stared you down from beneath his brow, the cross earring swinging from his lobe with every crooked step he took. You pressed yourself against the chilly wall, palms pressed flat on the metal.

“Jackie,” you whispered.

He stopped only inches from your form, his arms encasing you on either side. When you inhaled, you caught a lungful of his cologne that singed your nose in just the right way. Your knees wobbled and you clenched your jaw to keep from moaning right there and then. Your core ached to be filled by the man in front of you, and your fingers twitched at your sides.

Jackie brought one of his hands to touch your neck, the soft expanse of skin just below your jaw, and this time you did finally whimper to him. A high-pitched whine escaped your throat as his tattooed fingers trailed across your delicate throat, which he could have so easily crushed at a moment’s notice. He cocked his head at the noise, earring swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

“I got’ta be crazy for this,” he murmured, perhaps to himself, as his fingers trailed down, past your shirt collar to your collarbone.

You released a garbled moan again, forcing yourself to keep up on your own two feet. “No,” you forced out. His eyes flickered to meet yours from where they had been lingering on your neck. “I feel it too.”

“Yeah?” His eyes became half-lidded, and when he leaned forward, you swallowed thick. “You feel it when I do this?” Slowly, tantalizingly, teasingly, he dragged his lips down the column of your throat - and then clamped his lips down when you moaned aloud. It echoed across the restroom like a call to action, like the blank starting off the race.

Everything exploded from then on.

Jackie brushed teeth along your neck as he sucked bruises and hickies into your skin, tongue laving over the raw spots. To spur him on, to bring him closer, your hands flew up to grasp at the back of his head. Your skin burst into tingles and miniature detonations where he touched you and you touched him, and it was almost too much to handle.

“Fuck, Jackie,” you whimpered out into the hot air.

Jackie had moved his ministrations down to the hollow of your throat, right between your collarbones, and he licked his tongue over a fresh bruise before tilting his head up to rest his forehead against yours. You longed to lean forward and kiss him, to kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, but you could only stare back at him as his gaze bore into yours.

“Jesucristo,” he huffed, his breath fanning hot across your face. You core ached and your pussy clenched, and now that you were so close you could sense the stiff, prominent erection tenting his pants. “You think we got a dose’a that shit?”

“I don’t care,” you panted, then grabbed his lapels to pull him even closer. “Dammit, Jackie, please fuck me.” Your brow furrowed, and your eyes screwed shut because if he suddenly came to, if he suddenly realized he was just on a drug and didn’t really want this, you didn’t want to see it. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long, at this point I don’t care if it’s the drug. I need you so bad. I’ve needed you since you shoved your piece in my face in that garage, and I’ve needed you every fucking day since. Please - please, Jackie, fuck me.”

You stared at the darkness behind your eyelids, waiting for him to pull away. Waiting for him to tell you he was sorry, it was just the drug talking, that he needed to go. But he never did. Instead, you felt him take your chin between his thumb and his finger to tilt your head up. He pressed his forehead to yours again, then leaned his head until his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Open those eyes, chica,” he murmured. “I want you to watch me while I fuck you senseless.”

Not even a moment after you opened your eyes, your heart in your throat, Jackie attached his lips to yours as if he were going to die if he didn’t. He attacked your mouth with his own feverishly, almost violently - and you you wouldn’t have it any other way. Teeth clashing and tongues laving and moans rising from your throats, you barely registered it as he moved his hands over your sides. They traveled over your hips, squeezing the flesh of your ass, before grabbing your thighs just below.

“Jump.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Keeping your lips locked to his, your arms wrapped around his neck as you hopped into his grasp and locked your legs around his waist. You didn’t need to hesitate; you knew, you trusted, that he wouldn’t let you fall. He’d always been there for you, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

Jackie carried you to the countertop, where he set you down on the edge and came to settle between your spread thighs. He pushed them a bit further apart as if testing you, teasing you, seeing just how far you could go without snapping. You whimpered against his lips, tugging at his jacket.

“Hips up, chica bonita,” he said, and you at once obeyed. You lifted your hips as he took ahold of your waistband, trousers and panties together, and ripped them down your thighs. Almost as if the smell of your throbbing sex, almost as if he could actually smell it, he released a groan and bucked his hips forward to grind against your cunt. Your moans joined his and your nails dug into the leather of his jacket.

“Christ, Jackie!” you practically howled.

With one hand, he began to unbuckle his belt - your starving eyes following his every move - and the other flexed two fingers up the dampness of your slit. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as a tidal wave of pleasure washed over you; if you weren’t bracing yourself against the counter behind you, you would have crumbled. An intensity like you’d never known before was taking over your systems, flooding your drives. The drug was amping itself up now that what you needed was finally within reach.

Jackie cocked his head again as he ran his fingers up and down your entrance, at last working his belt loose and shoving his pants down his thighs. His erection sprang from the confines of his boxers, and your mouth watered just looking at it. His member was just like the rest of him; big, and thick, and wide. It slapped against your thigh as he surged forward to slam his lips against yours again; it was almost painfully hard. If you thought the effects of the drug hurt you, you couldn’t begin to imagine how he was feeling.

“So wet for me already, mamita,” he drawled under his breath. He drew his hand from your core and you nearly whined before he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked your slick from his digits - all while maintaining eye contact with you. Then he brought his thumb, thick and calloused from years of manual labor, and brought it to your lips. You understood at once. Grabbing onto his wrist, you took his thumb into your mouth and gently sucked on it, swirling your tongue around the tip. He released a shaky sigh, then withdrew his digit and placed it over your clit. The moment he began to rub quick, harsh circles over it, you cried out - and yet they were swallowed up as he connected his lips to yours.

“Good girl,” he moaned, rutting his hips against your thigh. “Good fuckin’ girl, V.”

You keened at his praise, spreading your legs further for him as he took his thick cock in hand and began to line himself up with your entrance. Outside the bathroom door, the music pumped and people were shouting with glee and lust, but you could hear none of it. You were transfixed on the man before you, the man that was peering down at you like you were his entire world.

“Fuck me, Jackie,” you told him in a strained voice. “Fuck me like you want it.”

“You better believe I do, chica,” he rumbled. “Always have.” Without another word, he pushed himself into your sopping pussy in one fluid movement. You opened your mouth to moan, but nothing came out. You were far too stunned, far too high on cloud nine to even think about coming down. Jackie’s cock stretched you in the most delicious way, practically spearing you open as his hips lay flush against yours. He tilted his head back to the ceiling and groaned low from deep in his throat, a noise that had you clenching around him.

That seemed to set him back into motion. His large hands wrapped around your middle, just above your hips, and used that as leverage to begin pistoning his cock in and out of your pussy. Your back arched and your mouth fell open as he pounded into you mercilessly, chasing not just your relief but his as well. The drug was still coursing through the both of you, driving your bodies to the extremes to get what they needed.

His name spilled from your lips, slowly at first, then quickly, like a mantra or a desperate prayer. His member was dragging across your walls in the most perfect way, letting you feel every ridge and vein and velvety inch. He would pull out almost entirely, then slam back into you again, his grip on your abdomen the only thing keeping you from inching up the counter.

“Jackie!” you wailed up to the ceiling. “Jackie! Fuck, Jackie!”

“That’s it, mamita,” he panted, dragging you further down the counter toward him. “Scream my name for them all to hear.” He slowed his pace, only slightly, so that he could lean over you and gaze down at you with half-lidded eyes. “I want them to know who you belong to.” He straightened, then slammed into you with a particularly harsh thrust that brushed against that sweet, heavenly spot inside of you. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on the counter, your legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Right there!” you screamed, gripping onto his inked forearms. “Don’t stop! Please, don’t stop.”

“Tell me who you belong to, princesa.” He slowed his pace even further, instead opting to rail into you with deep, hard-hitting thrusts that left you seeing stars. “Tell me.”

You panted for breath, your cunt squeezing around him, begging for your nearing release. “You,” you breathed out, then yelped when he slammed into you. Your back slid slightly up the counter. “You!” you bayed, your throat beginning to go raw from the howling and begging. “Only you! Just you, baby, only you.”

Another thrust, one that forced black spots into your vision. The pleasure was right there, just on the brink, teetering on the edge.

“Tell them.” When you hesitated, Jackie leaned down and licked a short stripe up your throat. “Tell them who you belong to.”

Who were you to disobey? “Jackie!” you cried out, and you were faintly aware of the tears beginning to spill down your cheeks, born from the raw, unbridled pleasure and the pain of being kept from it. “Jackie Welles! Jackie - FUCK!”

“Cum for me, V.”

Spreading your thighs even further apart, he slammed into your cunt, bringing his thumb down to stroke at your clit all at once. It took only a number of thrusts until suddenly you were cumming. It was an almost violent, explosive, drowning-kind of orgasm that left you gasping for air you couldn’t draw in. You were blinded by the spots dancing in your vision, your limbs leaden and your lungs aching for air. You were above cloud nine; you were in heaven.

Above you, Jackie’s hips were beginning to stutter and falter in their rhythm. He yanked you down the counter again, slamming his hips into yours in a frantic sprint to his own finish. You watched him as he used you, unable to move or even speak as he groaned and grunted and railed into you one last time before he spilled into your pussy. A staggered moan was pulled from his lips as he emptied himself, his earring swinging as he slumped over you on the counter.

For a long, long while, you were both simply silent, still connected, sharing each other’s air as you regained your breath. Finally, Jackie stood straight again and slowly pulled his softening cock from your cunt. You winced as he fell from you, everything from your waist down practically numb. Your entrance, your clit, your thighs - sore, and red, and spent.

You said nothing, suddenly exhausted out of your mind and unable to do anything much, as Jackie grimaced tucking himself back into his pants, buckled his belt, then grabbed a few towels and wet them in the sink. He shushed your whimpers of overstimulation as he gently cleaned you up, keeping you quiet and still when he helped pull your pants back up and your shirt back down from where it had bunched up around your middle. Then he gingerly pulled you off the counter, slid down the wall of the sink, and cradled you in his arms.

Had the circumstances been different, you would have laughed. Jackie was holding you against him, nestling against your forehead and petting your hair on the filthy-ass floor of a club bathroom. But they weren’t different. You had just been drugged, and then fucked within an inch of your life by your best friend.

What a fucking mess this night had turned out to be.

Your bottom half ached as Jackie shifted you in his lap, keeping you cradled against him protectively. He smoothed your sweaty hair from your forehead, brushing the thumb you had sucked gently over the jut of your cheekbone.

“Jack-“

“Aye, carino, save that pretty voice of yours. We got to get you home-“

“Did you mean it?” Your voice came out sluggish and hoarse, strained from screaming his name.

Jackie peered down at you with a furrowed brow, carefully wiping away a tear stain on your cheek. “Mean what?”

“That…” You found your words sticking in your throat. You averted your gaze from his, instead focusing it on a corner of the ceiling. Another stroke of his thumb along your face at last coaxed the question from where it had been resting deep within your belly. “That you always have. Meant it.”

He stayed there for a moment so long it felt as if it had stretched into an hour. Before you could take it back, say it had just been the drug to try and cover your embarrassment, a small, crooked smirk spread across his features and he ran a hand over his face.

“Fuck, V,” he murmured, then exhaled a breath and craned his neck down so that your noses nudged together. It was a strangely passionate gesture, so foreign after the sinful acts you’d just committed. “Been wanting you just as long, chica. See you every day, looking like that, and it feels like I’m… I don’t know, a ticking fucking bomb. Didn’t know when I was gon’na go off.” He glanced up and around at the bathroom surrounding you. “Wish it would’ve been somewhere else, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”

You stared up at him, the ache blossoming through your used body momentarily forgotten. At first you thought it was the drug talking, that soon his eyes would darken and he would be ready for another round. He wasn’t in his right mind; he was just saying these things to get you riled up.

But as you held his gaze, and he gingerly leaned down to capture your swollen lips in a soft, gentle kiss, you realized it was all real. It was all true. No drug-fueled fuck sessions, no lies - nothing but the truth. He did really, truly want you, just the way you were.

Slowly, Jackie pulled away from the kiss to smooth your brow with his thumb and press his lips against your forehead. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

A drained, sluggish smile overtook your lips. “No,” you murmured and reached up to cup his weathered cheek. “I know you’d never hurt me, Jackie.”

You stumbled through the club together a while later, supporting each other’s weights as you stopped at the front doors to collect your weapons from the bouncers. The woman who had drugged you still sat on her stool, and she watched you both with a knowing, charming smirk. When you met her eye, she winked before turning to the next customer in line.

A tired sigh escaped your lips as you collapsed into your car’s passenger seat, having handed over the keys to Jackie upon his insistence. He climbed in beside you, his own lids drooping as he started the engine. Then a grin passed over his features as he dug around in his pocket before flipping a small object your way. You caught it, then opened your palms to find one of the small tabs of drugged ink lying on its side.

“What?” he teased as he settled his hands on the wheel. “You didn’t think I’d forget about the job, did you?” His thick brow quirked. “Not that I didn’t just have the best fuckin’ night of my life with my girl.”

You smiled and flipped the tab of ink into the air. “You’re something else, Jackie.”

You are humming quietly to yourself while kneading dough near the fire, your youngest sitting nearby with a collection of wooden animals Kwei carved over the years. Your eldest is helping his father repair a spear shaft, though “helping” mostly consists of asking far too many questions.

Kwei is patient. More patient than the younger version of himself ever could have imagined.

“…Father?”

“Hm.”

“What is Mother’s favourite animal?”

Kwei glances toward you. Without looking up from your work, you smile.

“You are asking him?”

The boy nods enthusiastically.

“I want to know.”

Kwei answers before you can.

“The snow fox.”

“How do you know?”

“You stop to watch them every winter.”

You finally look up. A surprised smile spreads across your face.

“You noticed?”

He simply looks back at you. Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you.

The way you always sleep facing the fire. The herbs you reach for when your head aches. The songs you hum without realising it. The way your eyes brighten whenever the first snow begins to fall. These things matter because they belong to you.

That evening, after the children have fallen asleep, you sit together near the fire. Your head rests comfortably against Kwei’s shoulder while he continues carving a small piece of wood. The only sounds are the gentle scrape of his knife and the crackling fire.

“Kwei?”

“Hm.”

“Can I tell you about something we celebrated on Earth?”

“You may.”

“It was called a birthday. We celebrated every year after someone was born.”

“…Why?”

“Because we were happy they existed.”

“You already exist.” He tilts his head.

“I know.”

“So why celebrate again?”

“Because another year has passed.”

“…Humans celebrate surviving?”

“I suppose that is one way to look at it.”

He considers this very seriously.

“It seems inefficient.”

You grin.

“It probably does.”

He resumes carving.

“I celebrate you every day.”

The words are so simple that they nearly steal your breath.

“I know.”

“So why would one day be different?”

You reach for his hand, brushing your thumb across his knuckles.

“It isn’t about being different. It is about reminding the people you love how grateful you are that they were born.”

His eyes stay on yours for a long moment, hen he nods once.

“I understand.”

But judging by his expression… You are fairly certain he does not.

Months pass. Winter gives way to spring. Spring becomes summer. Life continues exactly as it always does.

Hunts.

Meals.

Children running through the house. Quiet evenings together. The conversation about birthdays disappears from your mind. Kwei, however… Remembers everything.

A few weeks before autumn arrives, he quietly begins disappearing after his hunts. Not for long. Just enough that you notice. When you ask, he answers.

“I had something to finish.”

You do not question him.

Then, your birthday arrives. You have not mentioned it. You never expected to celebrate it. It has been years since anyone did. You are preparing breakfast when Kwei enters the house carrying something wrapped carefully in soft leather. You look up.

“You are back early.”

“I am.”

“Good hunt?” You smile.

“It was.” He walks directly toward you. Stopping close enough that you can see a hint of nervousness in his posture.

It is so unusual that you almost laugh. He holds the wrapped bundle out toward you.

“This is yours.”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

You carefully unwrap the leather. Inside rests the most beautiful carving you have ever seen. It is a snow fox. Its fur has been carved so carefully that every strand seems almost real. Its eyes are gentle. Its tail curls around its body exactly the way you once described seeing them sleep.

You stare, unable to speak. Your fingers trace carefully across the smooth wood.

“Kwei…”

“It is your birthday.”

“You remembered?” You look up so quickly your eyes sting.

“You told me.”

“I only mentioned it once.”

“You mentioned it.”

As if that alone explains everything. Your vision begins to blur.

“Oh…” The first tear escapes before you can stop it. Kwei immediately stiffens. His mandibles lower.

“You are crying.”

“I know.” You laugh through another tear. His expression changes instantly. Concern replaces everything else.

“Did I carve it incorrectly?”

“No.”

“Do you dislike it?”

“No.”

“Is the fox inaccurate?”

“It is perfect.” You shake your head, laughing even harder now. He still looks uncertain.

“You are crying.”

You set the carving down carefully before stepping forward and wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. He freezes for only a heartbeat before embracing you just as tightly.

“I love it.” Your voice is muffled against his chest.

“I have never received something so thoughtful.”

He relaxes slightly.

“You are not unhappy?”

“No.”

“So… these are happy tears?”

You nod.

“Humans are strange.”

“We are.” You smile against him. He is quiet for a long moment before speaking again.

“I wished to remind you.”

“Of what?” You pull back slightly. His hand comes up to gently cup your face.

“That I am grateful you were born. Because if you had not…” He glances toward the room where your sons are still sleeping peacefully. “…I would not have this home.” His thumb brushes softly across your cheek, wiping away another tear. “I would not have our sons.” Then he looks back at you. “And I would not have you.”

You reach up, resting your hand over his.

“I think… you understand birthdays now.”

Kwei thinks for a moment. Then nods.

“It is not about celebrating another year.”

“No?”

“It is about thanking fate.”

“For what?”

“For bringing you into mine.”

You laugh softly before standing on your toes and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Behind you, a sleepy little voice suddenly breaks the quiet.

“…Mother?”

You both turn. Your eldest stands in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Can I have a birthday too?”

You burst into laughter, Kwei looks at him very seriously.

“Yes.”

The little boy grins.

“Will Father carve me something?”

Kwei looks back at you for just a moment before answering.

“I believe… that has become a tradition.”

And from that year onward, every birthday in your home was greeted not with grand celebrations or loud gatherings, but with something far more meaningful. 

A hand-carved gift made with patience, thought, and love. 

One unique carving for each member of the family, each telling a story that only Kwei could carve, and only the person receiving it could truly understand. 

Years later, those little wooden figures would line the shelves of your home, each one a quiet reminder that love was not measured by the size of the gift, but by the care with which it had been made.

That is how it has always been, even if you go to the training grounds on rare occasions.

One of the older males steps closer, folding his arms across his chest as he watches the sparring.

“Kwei, you do not train as long as you used to.”

Kwei does not move. His eyes remain on the fighters.

“I train enough.”

A low chuckle comes from another warrior.

“Enough for what? To return home early?”

A few heads turn toward you. Not hostile. Just amused. You feel the change in the air before you fully understand the words.

“You used to stay until the final hunt was done. Now you leave before nightfall.”

“Marriage has made him efficient,” another says dryly.

“Or soft.”

There it is.

Soft.

The word is not shouted. It is not said with venom. It is worse than that. It is said as a joke. A harmless observation. It is not harmless.

You glance at Kwei but he does not laugh with the others. He does not argue.

“My skill has not changed,” he says evenly.

“But your priorities have,” one of them replies.

“A warrior must guard against weakness.” another says.

Silence stretches just a little too long. The harm is done.

You know Kwei’s pride. You know how deeply he holds his place in this clan. His strength is not just physical. It is reputation. It is discipline. It is honour.

You also know he has given you space beside him in that world, and not everyone approves. You always knew that.

The sparring match ends, breaking the tension. Attention changes. Laughter continues. The moment dissolves like smoke.

But just like smoke, something remains. You can't feel it in the air anymore, you feel it in Kwei.

You decide to go and drink some water. Hoping it would ease your mind. But nothing can calm your hammering heart.

When the gathering scatters, everyone heads back to their homes. You walk beside him as usual.

You reach for his hand. You have done it a thousand times without thought. It was an instinct at this point. But this time, when your fingers brush his palm, he steps forward. Just slightly.

Enough that your hand closes around air instead of his.

You stop walking for half a second. He does not look back. You lower your hand.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe he did not notice.

You tell yourself that. You try to convince yourself. But the space between you feels larger than the distance of one step.

At home, he is quiet.

He removes his armour. Sets each piece down exactly where it belongs. Cleans his blades in silence as usual.

You prepare the evening meal. The scent of roasting meat fills the air, warm and familiar.

Normally, he would stand behind you. Sometimes resting a hand against your waist. Sometimes offering commentary about the meat.

Tonight, he sits near the far wall.

When you bring him his portion, he thanks you. You sit beside him. He does not move closer.

You feel foolish for noticing. You tell yourself it is only one evening.

Silence was not rare with Kwei. He wasn't the talkative type. But what was rare was distance.

---

The next day, it happens again.

You are speaking to him about winter stores, about how much dried root you have left. He listens. He nods. But when you step closer to brush a stray leaf from his shoulder, he moves back.

“I am fine,” he says before you can even speak. You freeze.

“I was only…”

“I know.”

He turns away first.

You swallow your question. You do not want to accuse him of something you cannot name. You do not want to push him. You know how important his standing is. How important pride is.

So, you choose to say nothing.

That night, you lie beside him in the dark. You are close enough to feel warmth radiating off of him. But he does not pull you in like he always does.

He sleeps on his back.

You stare at the ceiling long after his breathing evens out. He is asleep.

The previous comments of the others rang in your ear.

"Soft."

You barely slept that night.

---

Dek arrives at your door with his usual steady presence. The clan leader fills any space he enters without much effort. His authority is quiet but firm.

“Sister,” he greets you warmly.

You smile and bow your head slightly.

“Dek.”

“I host a meal tonight. Winter approaches. We prepare together. You will join us.”

You glance over your shoulder. Kwei is inside, cleaning a blade.

“Yes, I would like that.”

Dek steps inside further, addressing Kwei directly.

“You will attend.”

Kwei does not look up.

“No.”

“No?”

“I have duties.”

“You always have duties.”

“I will not attend.”

The refusal is calm and final. Dek studies him carefully.

“And your wife?”

“She may go.”

The words are neutral. Dek looks between you both, understanding more than he says.

“Very well. I will see you tonight, then.”

You offer him a kind smile before he turns to leave, the automatic door closing behind him. When he leaves, you turn toward Kwei.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes.”

He does not elaborate. You nod slowly, knowing very well he is lying.

“I will not stay long.”

“You may stay as long as you wish.”

Again, neutral.

The distance feels wider now. If that is even possible at this point. But it made you think.

Did he no longer love you?

Did those words truly cut him that deeply?

Can Yautja divorce?

---

Dinner is lively.

The central fire burns bright and high. All hunters gather. Food is passed. Voices overlap in conversation. Dek sits beside you, asking about winter stores, about the repairs to your home. He listens carefully when you speak.

Across the fire, you notice her.

A female warrior.

Strong build. Dark markings along her jaw. Eyes that do not move away from you when you glance in her direction. You have seen her before near Kwei during training sessions. You never thought much of it.

Now, her stare feels dangerous. It sent a shiver down your spine.

When the food is brought, you accept your portion with gratitude. Roasted meat, thick and heavily seasoned.

"Is it to your liking?" Dek asks.

"I can't eat this much. Usually, Kwei eats what I can't. So, you might need to help me this time."

Dek nods, taking the task seriously. You lift the meat and take a bite.

At first, it is only slightly bitter. Then heat spreads down your throat.

Something is terribly wrong.

You swallow.

Your stomach twists violently.

You lower the food immediately.

The world tips.

You try to steady yourself.

Your throat burns.

You cough once.

It is wet.

You look at your hand.

Red.

Blood spills across your palm.

Voices around you blur.

Another cough tears from your chest, this one is harsher. More blood splatters on the table.

Dek is beside you instantly.

“Look at me.”

You try to focus.

Across the fire, the female stands. Too still. She is watching you. You force the words through the burning in your throat.

“She… did it.” you lift your blood-covered hand and point a finger at her.

Dek turns sharply.

“Seize her.”

Hands grab her before she can move. Your chest feels like it is collapsing inward. You think of Kwei.

Of the way he held you close during the night.

Of the way he stepped away when you reached for him.

You try to breathe, but the world goes dark before you can.

---

Kwei is alone when Dek finds him.

He is in the outer training yard, pushing his blade into a wooden post over and over again with precise, controlled force.

The rhythm is steady. Dek does not waste time. He rushes in, out of breath as he speaks.

“She has been poisoned.”

The blade stops mid-strike, Kwei does not turn at first.

“What?”

“She collapsed during the meal. There was blood from her mouth.”

The blade falls from Kwei’s hand, it hits the ground harder than it should.

“Alive?” he asks.

“For now. The healers are working.”

For now.

Kwei’s body moves before his mind does. He steps forward quickly, but Dek blocks him with a firm hand to his chest.

“You will see her. But first, you will see the one who did it.”

Kwei’s eyes darken.

“Who?”

Dek’s voice turns colder.

“The female who has trained near you these past seasons.”

Kwei’s jaw tightens instantly.

He knows.

He remembers her comments. Her presence lingered too long. The way she spoke of strength and purity. He had ignored it.

“Take me to her.” Kwei's sentence is more than a command, it is desperate without trying to be.

Dek knows better than to comment on it.

---

The holding chamber is lit by a single flame.

She stands in the centre, wrists bound, chin lifted. She does not look ashamed. She looks righteous. Proud.

Kwei steps inside.

The door closes behind him.

“You have harmed my mate,” Kwei says finally.

“She is not your equal.”

“She is my wife.”

“She is human.” The word is said like an insult. “She distracts you. You leave hunts early. You sit at her side while others train. You became soft.”

Kwei’s hands curl slowly into fists.

“You poisoned her.”

“Yes.” There is no hesitation in her voice. “She does not belong here. She does not deserve to stand beside you. I should have been chosen.”

“You were not.”

“You chose wrong.”

Kwei steps closer.

“You presume to judge my choices.”

“I judge weakness.”

“She has shown more courage than most warriors in this clan.”

“She is prey.”

“She is my mate.” Kwei growls. “You think strength is only measured in blood and bone.”

She lifts her chin.

“It is.”

Kwei leans closer, eyes burning.

“You do not understand strength at all.”

For a split second, she falters. Then she sneers.

“She will die.”

Kwei’s entire body goes still.

“If she dies, you will envy it.”

The door opens behind him.

Dek enters.

“Kwei, the healers call for you.”

Kwei turns immediately.

He does not look back at the female. He does not need to. Dek will take care of the rest, as clan leader, he needs to prove to everyone that such an action will not be tolerated.

---

The infirmary smells of metal and herbs. Cloths soaked in blood lie piled near the entrance. The healer meets him at the door.

“She is still alive.”

Still.

“We have removed most of the toxin. But it was acidic. It burned her internally.”

“Will she recover?”

The healer hesitates.

“She will live.”

The word should bring relief. It does not.

“But?” Kwei demands.

“The acid travelled through her throat. Her vocal cords have been damaged.”

Kwei stares at him.

“Damaged how?”

“Scarred. Severely. If she wakes… she may not be able to speak. She will be in a lot of pain.”

Not dead. But harmed.

Because he was not there. Because he cared too much about what others thought.

He steps past the healer before he is formally allowed.

You lie on the platform, pale and still. Your chest rises slowly. Bandages wrap around your throat and ribs.

There is dried blood at the corner of your mouth. Kwei approaches like he is stepping onto unstable ground.

He kneels beside you.

He does not touch you.

He is afraid he might break something else.

After a long moment, he places his hand over yours.

“You will live,” he says quietly.

The words are meant for himself as much as for you.

---

He meets Dek ouside.

"She is alive. The poison was acidic... I trust you find the correct punishment for such an act, brother."

Dek suddenly kneels in front of Kwei. With his head low, Dek lets out a shaky breath.

"I failed you, brother. I should have watched her. She was under my care in your absence, I failed." Dek bows his head deeper.

"Stand up. You didn't fail, Dek. If anyone failed, it is me."

Dek slowly stands.

"She is strong, Kwei. She will survive."

---

You wake up hours later. Your entire body feels heavy. Your throat burns. You try to swallow.

Pain shoots through your neck.

You open your eyes slowly. You find yourself in the infirmary.

Memory crashes back like a wave.

The dinner.

The meat.

The blood.

You try to speak but nothing comes out.

Only air.

Your eyes widen.

You try again.

A strained, broken sound escapes you, like wind through stone.

It hurts.

You gasp silently. Kwei is there instantly. He leans over you.

“Do not strain,” he says urgently.

You try again anyway.

You need to say his name.

Only a rough, cracked whisper comes out.

“K…we…”

That is all you manage as tears fill your eyes before you can stop them.

“The healers said, your throat was burned.”

You shake your head weakly.

No.

This cannot be real.

You try once more, a whisper barely forms.

Pain follows immediately. Your hand lifts to your throat, Kwei catches it gently.

“Stop,” he says, voice breaking slightly.

You look at him as fear fills your eyes. Not of death. Of loss.

Of something taken from you.

His jaw tightens painfully.

“You are alive. That is what matters.” he said, but it sounded like something he said to himself, to convince himself rather than you.

But he sees it.

The devastation in your gaze.

You always spoke easily, you laughed freely and you argued when needed. Your voice was part of how you stood beside him.

And now it is broken. No. It was taken.

Because he was not there. He presses his forehead gently against your hand.

“I failed you.”

You shake your head immediately.

No.

But he continues.

“I was ashamed that they called me soft. I let their words change how I stood beside you.”

Your fingers curl around his wrist, you try to speak again. A faint whisper escapes you.

“Not… weak…”

It is barely a sound. But he hears it.

“No- Not weak.”

He places your hand against his chest.

“I will not step away from you again.”

You close your eyes, your body is still tired. He lets you sleep, he stays there long after you drift back into sleep.

Outside the infirmary, the clan begins preparing for judgment, because she will answer for what was taken from you.

Kwei has not left your side, not once.

He sits beside your bed, sharpening his blade slowly. Not because it needs sharpening, but because he needs something to keep his hands steady and his mind occupied.

You wake to the sound of steel against stone. Your throat still hurts. Swallowing still burns. Speaking is impossible beyond breath and fragments of words.

But you are alive.

Kwei notices the moment your breathing changes. His blade stills immediately.

“You are awake.”

You nod slightly.

He stands and brings water, helping you sit up. His movements are slower than usual. As if you are made of fragile glass.

You sip the water.

It hurts.

You wince.

His jaw tightens.

“I will speak at the judgment,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

Judgment.

You remember.

The female.

Your fingers move weakly in the air. A question. He understands.

“She confessed.”

You close your eyes briefly as he continues.

“She said you were unworthy. That she should have stood beside me, she said I have grown soft.”

Your eyes open again, you study him.

He does not look soft, he looks carved from stone but there is something different now.

“What will happen?” you whisper.

Your voice no longer feel yours. It is so faint. Rough. Thin. Broken.

“She was deemed for execution. But I refused it.”

You blink.

Refused?

“She will be exiled. Clanless. She will live knowing she has no place among her own. Death would have been mercy. Exile is consequence.”

He is not defending her.

He is not excusing her.

He is choosing something worse.

You reach for his hand, he gives it instantly.

Your fingers squeeze his, you shake your head slightly.

He leans closer.

“You disagree?”

You move your hand slowly, carefully, shaping meaning in the air.

You do not want blood on your name. You do not want more violence because of you.

He watches every movement.

“You would have spared her,” he says quietly.

You nod.

After everything, you still choose mercy.

“They call me soft,” he murmurs.

You lift your hand and press it to his chest, then you shake your head firmly.

Not soft.

He exhales slowly.

“Not soft.”

But then you motion, trying to give him more words without using words.

"My clan." he says and you nod.

He knows what you mean. His clan. His tradition. His way.

---

The clan gathers at midday.

You are not present when judgment is passed.

You are stronger, but still in a lot of pain. The healer insists you remain inside.

Kwei stands before the clan alone.

Dek stands at his side.

The female is brought forward, wrists bound. Her head is still lifted. Still proud.

Dek speaks first.

“You poisoned a clan member. You attacked without honour. You endangered life within sacred walls.”

Silence follows. Then Dek turns to Kwei.

“Kwei, you were the one harmed by this action. You decide.”

Kwei steps forward.

“She wanted to weaken me by harming my mate.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd.

“She believed affection makes one vulnerable.”

His voice lowers.

“She is correct. But she mistakes vulnerability for weakness. I stand stronger beside my mate than I ever stood alone.”

A few warriors shift. Uncomfortable. Anyone who had the same thought now feels challenged.

“She did not weaken me. She reminded me of what I fight for. You speak of tradition. Of purity. Of strength.”

He looks toward Dek briefly.

“Then remember what our traditions demand. Honour." He turns back to the female. “You broke tradition.”

Her jaw tightens.

“I did what needed to be done.”

“You did what your jealousy demanded.”

Silence.

Then Dek raises his voice once more.

“From now, you are exiled. Stripped of clan marking. Your name will not be spoken here again.”

The female finally falters.

Exile is worse than death.

Death is quick.

Exile is endless.

Shameful.

“You choose prey over your own kind,” she spits toward Kwei.

Kwei does not react.

“She chose me,” he says calmly.

That silences her. The bindings are removed. Her clan mark is burned from her skin. She does not scream, but she does not look proud anymore either.

No one watches her leave.

---

Kwei returns to you as the sun sets. He steps inside quietly. You are sitting up now, wrapped in furs, watching the doorway.

“It is done.”

You study his face.

“Exile,” he confirms.

You nod faintly.

You let out a sigh. Finally, you feel calm.

He kneels in front of you.

“There will be whispers, for a time.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“They will say I defended you because I am soft.”

Your fingers lift slowly, you trace a shape in the air.

And?

“And I no longer care. Because I know, it's not true.”

Good.

He studies your face carefully.

“You will not regain your voice fully.”

You swallow. You nod.

You already knew, you already grieved it.

“When you speak, it will be a whisper. It may pain you. I would prefer if you don't speak. I wouldn't want you in pain.”

You nod again. At least you were still alive.

“I would understand if you resented me.”

You reach for him with more force than before.

He leans forward instantly. You press your forehead to his. Harder than you should. Your hand grips his armor.

You shake your head firmly.

No.

He closes his eyes briefly.

“You should have been safe.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

Not your fault.

“It was.”

You lift your hand and place it over his heart again.

Stay.

He stills.

“You want me to stay?”

You nod.

He exhales slowly.

“I will.”

---

Your throat aches for weeks.

You speak rarely. When you do, it is slow. A thin whisper. Most days, you use your hands.

The clan watches you differently now, not as a small and fragile thing. But as someone who survived.

Kwei is closer.

He walks beside you freely. He trains and returns immediately. He does not hide his affection anymore.

One evening, as the wind howls outside, you sit near the fire reading from his old hunt logs.

He carves a new weapon quietly beside you, the silence between you is no longer heavy.

It is warm.

After a while, he sets the carving aside, he moves closer slowly then he lowered himself beside you and rests his head on your chest.

The gesture is instinct now.

You relax into him, lying down further as your fingers begin to move along his skin.

Random gentle patterns.

He exhales slowly.

You smile, allowing yourself to fully relax. He tilts his head slightly, listening to your heartbeat.

“You are not weak,” he says softly.

You whisper carefully.

“Neither… are you.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you.

“Let them say I am soft.”

His eyes are steady.

“I would rather be soft with you than hardened without you.”

You lean down carefully and press your forehead to his. You do not need a voice to answer him.

He understands, and he is no longer afraid to choose you in front of everyone.

Winter comes as expected.

The clan is ready for its harsh weather.

The world feels quieter now. You stand outside the healer’s quarters, breathing slowly.

The cold air stings your throat, but it is manageable.

You are healing. Not whole in the way you once were. But you feel much better.

Kwei watches you from a short distance away. He tries not to hover, but he often fails in that.

You turn slightly and catch him staring.

Your brows lift.

He pretends he was not.

You lift your hand and gesture toward him.

You motion for him to come to you.

He obeys immediately, standing from the chair and walking over to you. His eyes never leaving you.

“Are you tired?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“I… want… to… try.”

The whisper is thin. But clearer than before.

His eyes widen slightly.

“You should not strain. You will end up hurting yourself.”

You look at him, then you try again.

“My… voice.”

Each word costs you, but they are words.

He swallows.

“You do not need to prove anything.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Not… proving.”

You pause for a moment and swallow.

“Living.”

That silences him.

He studies you for a moment. Then he nods once.

“Then I will stand with you.”

Later that evening, Dek requests your presence in the central hall.

You freeze slightly when Kwei tells you.

He notices immediately.

Your hand tightens around the fur you are holding.

“They will not judge you,” he says firmly.

You glance at him.

“They will listen.”

You hesitate, but you nod. You are tired of running, of being afraid to be seen. Kwei is a proud male, you should stand beside him with the same pride.

Even if you cannot speak as before.

Kwei steps closer when he senses your hesitation. He lowers himself slightly so your eyes meet.

“You survived poison meant to silence you. You owe nothing to anyone.”

You study his face. He does not look ashamed anymore. He looks protective.

Proud.

You nod, you will go and stand beside him with pride.

The central hall goes quiet when you enter.

Takes you a moment to realise that it is not out of pity but out of respect.

You feel it.

The difference.

Dek stands near the centre.

“Kwei’s mate has asked to speak,” he announces.

Everyone watches in silence. You step forward slowly. Your hands shake slightly.

Kwei moves to stand beside you, but not in front. As tradition, both mates should stand when one speaks. As they are one, speak as one, live as one and stand as one.

You take a breath.

You speak slowly, and everyone is listening.

“I… remain. My… voice… changed.”

A few warriors shift uncomfortably.

“But… I… did not.”

You swallow carefully.

“I am… not… weak.”

Your whisper echoes faintly in the hall.

But it carries.

Because they are listening.

“I choose… this clan. And… my mate.”

A few eyes flick toward Kwei.

He stands still.

You take one more breath.

“And… I stay.”

Silence.

Then Dek nods once.

“You are under clan protection, you stand as equal.”

Everyone stands as one. One by one, warriors bow their heads.

Not deeply.

But enough.

They are showing respect.

You did not need to be loud. You needed truth and to be heard. And you were.

Later that night.

You sit wrapped in thick furs. Kwei stands near the entrance, watching the outside. He seems quieter than usual. You study him, then you speak.

“Still… ashamed?”

He stiffens slightly.

You know him too well. He turns slowly.

“I allowed distance between us.”

You shake your head.

“You were hurt,” you whisper.

“By words,” he replies bitterly. “By pride.”

He steps closer.

“I let them make me question what I already knew.”

You reach for him.

He comes immediately yet again. You press your hand against his chest then you whisper carefully.

“You… came back.”

He closes his eyes briefly.

“Yes.”

You lean forward slightly. Your forehead rests against his sternum.

“You… stayed.”

“Yes.”

You look up at him.

“That… is strength.”

He lowers himself in front of you.

His large hands cup your face gently.

“I do not deserve your forgiveness so easily.”

You give him a small, tired smile.

“You… are my husband.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I will never step away again.”

You nod.

You believe him.

---

Weeks pass.

Your voice remains a whisper.

But it grew steadier.

You develop hand signals between you and Kwei. Small gestures with big meanings. Kwei also comes up with a couple of his own, it becomes a language between you two.

Your bond is even stronger now. He watches your hands as carefully as he once listened to your voice.

One evening, as you sit reading his old hunt logs again, he moves closer.

He does not ask permission. He simply lowers himself beside you and rests his head against your chest.

Like always.

Your fingers slide along his skin, tracing slow patterns.

“You know, they no longer call me soft.”

You glance down at him.

He tilts his head slightly.

“They call me devoted.”

You smile faintly.

“Better.”

He almost laughs.

“Yes. Better.”

Your voice may never return fully but your presence fills the room just the same.

You are not less and Kwei no longer fears the word soft because he has learned what it truly means.

Soft is not weak.

Soft is staying.

Soft is choosing.

Soft is loving openly in a world that demands hardness.

And he chooses you.

Every day.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

You were wrapped tightly in thick furs that shielded you from the lingering cold. You felt exhausted, you only took small steps, slowly as you crossed the threshold.

Your arms are cradled protectively around something small, something fragile.

Your newborn.

The door closes behind you, sealing the warmth inside, and for a moment, everything is still.

The fire burns steady, casting a soft glow across the room, illuminating the layers of furs that now cover nearly every surface. The nest in the corner is larger than it used to be, softer, it had been carefully prepared long before.

Kwei made sure of that.

He always does.

You take a slow breath, letting the warmth sink into your bones, into the ache that you still feel in your body.

You made it home.

And then-

Soft, quick footsteps break the quiet.

Your eldest appears from the back room, moving faster than usual, his curiosity stronger than his caution. He stops abruptly when he sees you, his gaze immediately dropping to what you hold.

He stares at you for a long moment.

"What is that?"

His voice is cautious, uncertain, as if he is not entirely sure what he is looking at. Your lip turn into a big smile.

"Come here, Me'Kah."

He hesitates for only a moment before stepping closer, his movements slow down as he approaches.

You shift the furs slightly, revealing just enough for him to see.

The small face. The gentle movement. The quiet breath.

Your newborn stirs, letting out a soft sound.

Your eldest’s eyes widen.

"It is… small."

"He is small," you correct softly.

Behind you, Kwei’s eyes never strayed far from either of you.

Your eldest leans closer, studying the tiny form with deep concentration.

"Why does he not move?"

"He is tired, just like me."

There is a pause, a long one, then he speaks again.

"Can I touch him?"

You glance up at Kwei, and though he says nothing.

"Yes, but very gently."

Your eldest lifts his hand slowly, his fingers hovering for a moment before brushing lightly against the baby’s arm.

The newborn shifts again.

Your eldest pulls back quickly, startled.

"It moved."

Your smile grows.

"He knows you are here."

Your eldest looks between you, the baby, and his father.

"He is mine?"

You tilt your head slightly, thinking for a moment.

"He is your brother."

Your eldest does not fully understand it yet, but something about it makes him stand a little closer.

"Like father and Dek?" Me'Kah finally asks.

"Exactly." you reply.

Later

It gets late quickly.

You sit inside the nest, your body finally allowed to rest, your newborn cradled gently against you, his breathing soft and rhythmic now.

Kwei kneels beside you, his presence close, grounding, his gaze fixed on the small life in your arms.

There is something different in him.

"You can hold him," you whisper softly.

Kwei stills slightly.

"He is small."

You smile, your eyes soft as you look at him.

"So was your first son."

His gaze flickers briefly toward the other room, where your eldest now sleeps, then back to you. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out. You guide the baby into his arms, adjusting his hold until the newborn is settled safely against his chest.

Kwei goes completely still. His entire body adjusts instinctively, as if he is holding something far more fragile than anything he has ever encountered before.

The baby makes a small sound.

Kwei freezes.

"He is just breathing."

Kwei looks down at him, studying every tiny movement, every soft breath, every small shift.

"This is… ours."

"Yes," you whisper.

He does not look away.

Not for a long time.

A Few Days Later

The rhythm of your home has changed. It is much quieter in some ways, fuller in others.

You spend most of your time with the newborn, your days consist of you feeding him, soothing him, holding him close whenever he moves.

Kwei moves around you constantly, adjusting the fire, bringing food, watching everything with alertness that never fades.

But not everything is as easy as it might look.

Your eldest stands near the doorway again.

Watching quietly.

Too quietly.

You notice it immediately, the way his shoulders hold tension, the way his gaze lingers just a little too long before looking away. Before you can speak, Kwei does.

"Me'Kah, come here."

The boy hesitates, but eventually walks forward, slower than before. His gaze flickers to you. To the baby. Then down to the floor.

Kwei lowers himself slightly, bringing himself closer to the boy’s level, his voice calm, steady.

"You are distant."

"I am not."

"You are."

The boy’s jaw tightens, his hands curling slightly at his sides.

"You are always with him," he says suddenly, the words spilling out before he can stop them. Your heart aches instantly. Kwei does not react at first. He does not dismiss it. Instead, he nods once, acknowledges what his son just said.

"And you think she does not care for you."

The boy does not answer. But he does not deny it either.

Kwei’s hand rests on his shoulder in an attempt to calm his son.

"When you were small," Kwei speaks up, "she held you like this."

He gestures toward the baby.

"She fed you. Stayed awake so you could sleep. Carried you when you could not walk."

The boy glances at you, uncertain. Kwei continues.

"You needed her. Just like your brother does now."

The boy looks at the baby again, his expression changing.

"He is weak."

"Yes, he is. And you were too. But she helped you grow. She made you strong."

Your eldest’s shoulders shift slightly. You could tell there was something he didn't say.

"But she still loves you."

Those words are not soft. They are firm. The boy looks at you now. You smile gently, reaching your free hand toward him.

"Come here."

This time, he moves quickly. He climbs into the nest beside you, sitting close to you. Your arm wraps around him instantly, pulling him close against your side.

"I did not forget you," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his head.

His voice is smaller now.

"You were always with me."

"And I still am," you murmur.

That Night

The nest is full.

You sit at its centre, your body finally relaxed, your newborn resting against your chest. Your eldest is pressed against your side, his tension is now completely gone, his small body leaning into yours as if he has always belonged exactly there.

Kwei stays close as well.

Closer than before.

His large frame is around all of you, his arm resting across both of his sons in a way that shields you all from any danger.

You glance up at him.

"We did this."

"Yes."

His hand shifts slightly, adjusting the fur around you, ensuring the warmth is perfect.

"You did this."

You shake your head gently.

"We did."

The baby stirs softly, letting out a small sound. Your eldest shifts as well, his arm moving slightly, almost unconsciously, until his small hand rests near his brother.

Kwei watches for a moment, then his hand lowers, covering both of his son's hands carefully.

You look at that moment.

At the size of his hand compared to theirs. At how naturally they fit together. And your chest fills with something overwhelming.

Not just love.

Something deeper. Something steady. Something that feels like it will last far beyond this moment.

You lean into Kwei, your head resting gently against him.

The fire crackles softly. Your children breathe steadily.

And Kwei, who once fought only for strength and honour, sits in the quiet of the life you built together, holding everything that matters most within his reach.

Not a warrior in that moment. Not a hunter. But something far greater.

A mate.

A father.

A home.

~Masterlist~

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

You never imagined your life would turn out like this—mated to a Yautja warrior, living in a sprawling clan compound on the lush, untamed jungle world, where towering crimson-leaved trees stretch toward dual suns and the air hums with the distant roars of alien beasts. The planet is a hunter's paradise, a place where honor is forged in the thrill of the chase, but for you, a human woman who once called Earth home, it's become a haven of unexpected domesticity. Your mate, K'zath, is a seasoned Bad Blood turned elder, his massive frame scarred from countless hunts, his mandibles clicking with that deep, rumbling purr that still sends shivers down your spine. He claimed you during a chance encounter on a distant colony world, where his ship had crashed and you'd helped him evade human authorities. What started as a fierce alliance blossomed into love, sealed by the ancient Yautja mating ritual under a blood moon.

When you discovered you were pregnant, the clan's healers—stoic figures in flowing robes adorned with trophies from their own hunts—warned of the unknowns. Half-breeds were rare, a blend of human fragility and Yautja ferocity, but yours came into the world with a cry that echoed like a predator's challenge. You named him T'kai, meaning "little storm" in the Yautja tongue, for the way his tiny fists flailed like thunder. Now, at three cycles old (roughly equivalent to a human toddler of four years), he's a whirlwind of energy: skin a mottled green-gold like his father's, with faint human freckles across his nose; mandibles that are still soft and budding, clicking clumsily when he speaks; and eyes that shift from your warm brown to K'zath's piercing yellow depending on his mood. He's fast, oh so fast, with the cunning instincts of a hunter pup and the boundless curiosity of a human child. Raising him has been a daily adventure, filled with moments that make you laugh until your sides ache and love until your heart swells.

One crisp morning, as the first sun crests the horizon and filters golden light through the woven vine curtains of your sleeping chamber, you stir in the warmth of your nest. The furs beneath you are soft, harvested from the great beasts of the forest, layered thickly in the massive circular nest that's imbedded in the floor—a Yautja tradition, symbolizing the unity of the family pack. Your head rests on K'zath's broad chest, rising and falling with his steady breaths, his armored skin warm against your cheek. His massive arm drapes protectively around you, claws retracted but ever-ready, a reminder of the warrior he is. The air smells of dew-kissed earth and the faint, spicy musk of your mate, a scent that grounds you in this alien world.

It's early, too early for T'kai to be awake. His room adjoins yours, a smaller alcove carved from the same reddish stone as the compound walls, decorated with glowing holographic trophies from K'zath's hunts and soft human blankets you crocheted. You expect silence, perhaps the distant call of a jungle bird, but instead, you hear it: the soft pitter-patter of small feet padding across the polished floor.

"Mama," comes a whisper, tiny and insistent.

"Hm," you mumble, eyes still closed, burrowing deeper into K'zath's embrace.

"Mama," he repeats, closer now.

"Hm, what is it, baby?" you murmur, half-asleep.

"Mama. Mud."

Your eyes snap open, and so do K'zath's. You both lift your heads slightly, peering toward the doorway where the morning light silhouettes your son. T'kai stands there, beaming with pride, his little body covered head to toe in thick, dripping mud. It clings to his budding dreadlocks, smears across his mandibles, and cakes his clawed feet. Muddy footprints trail behind him like a path of conquest, leading from who-knows-where straight to your chamber.

"Mud," he declares again, his yellow eyes sparkling with mischief as he starts rubbing it over his arms and belly, smearing it like war paint.

You sit up abruptly, the furs slipping from your shoulders, while K'zath rumbles a low chuckle that vibrates through his chest. "What did you do, little one?" you ask, a mix of horror and amusement bubbling up.

"Mud, Mommy!" T'kai giggles, his mandibles flaring in delight. "I find mud! Big puddle outside!"

K'zath clicks his mandibles in what you recognize as Yautja laughter, a series of sharp, echoing ticks. "Paya's teeth, pup," he growls affectionately in his gravelly voice, translated seamlessly by the implant in your ear. "You have tracked the hunt into our den. How did you escape your cradle?"

T'kai just laughs harder, toddling forward with arms outstretched, clearly intent on sharing his muddy glory. "No, no, don't come over here! You need to get cleaned up!" you protest, trying to sound stern but failing as a smile tugs at your lips.

He doesn't listen, of course—half-Yautja toddlers never do when adventure calls. With a gleeful squeal, he launches himself toward the nest, but K'zath's reflexes are lightning-fast. In a blur, your mate's arm shoots out, snatching T'kai mid-air by the waist. The boy dangles there, wriggling and laughing uproariously, mud flinging in tiny droplets.

"Rest, my mate," K'zath says to you, his voice a deep purr as he rises from the nest, holding T'kai at arm's length. "I will clean our little warrior."

You flop back into the furs with a dramatic sigh, watching as K'zath carries the squealing toddler out of the room. "Be good for Papa, T'kai!" you call after them.

"Good? Mud good!" T'kai protests, his laughter echoing down the hall as K'zath hauls him toward the bathing chamber—a natural hot spring integrated into the compound, fed by underground geothermal vents. You can hear the splash and more giggles as your mate begins the task, grumbling good-naturedly about "pups who hunt mud instead of prey." It's moments like these that make you grateful for K'zath's strength and patience; human toddlers are handfuls, but a half-Yautja one? It's like chasing a tiny predator with endless energy.

By the time they return, T'kai is scrubbed clean, his skin glistening, wrapped in a soft towel. He toddles over to you, climbing into the nest with wide eyes. "Sorry, Mama. No more mud... today."

You pull him close, kissing his damp forehead. "That's my boy." K'zath watches from the doorway, his mandibles twitching in pride, before joining you both for a lazy morning cuddle. The home stirs around you—the clang of weapons being sharpened in the training yard, the scent of roasting meat from the communal fires—but for now, your world is just this: your family, safe and loved.

Weeks pass in a blur of routine and wonder. The clan compound is a bustling hive of activity, built into the side of a massive cliff overlooking a verdant valley teeming with wildlife. Towering structures of bio-luminescent stone house dozens of Yautja families, connected by vine bridges and hidden tunnels. You've adapted well, learning to navigate the honor codes and rituals, even participating in minor hunts with K'zath's guidance. T'kai, ever the explorer, shadows you everywhere, his tiny claws gripping your clothing as you go about your days.

One afternoon, you decide to visit the market—a sprawling bazaar at the base of the cliff, where Yautja traders from across the stars barter trophies, tech, and exotic goods. The air is thick with the aroma of spiced meats sizzling on plasma grills, the chatter of mandibles clicking in negotiation, and the occasional roar of a caged beast for sale. You dress in a flowing cloak woven from iridescent threads, a gift from K'zath, which helps you blend in among the towering warriors. T'kai clings to the hem, his eyes wide at the sights: holographic displays of weapons, stalls piled with glowing fruits from distant worlds, and performers juggling flaming blades.

"Stay close, T'kai," you remind him as you weave through the crowd. "Hold onto Mama's cloak."

He nods solemnly, his little hand fisted in the fabric. "Yes, Mama. No run."

For a while, it works. You haggle with a grizzled trader for some Earth-like herbs—basil and rosemary, rare imports that make your hybrid meals feel like home. T'kai watches quietly, mimicking your gestures with his mandibles. But then, disaster strikes: a small, furry creature darts past—a k'rit, a harmless rodent-like beast often kept as pets, its fur shimmering like liquid silver.

"A Kitty!" T'kai exclaims, his eyes lighting up. Before you can react, he releases your cloak and bolts after it, his short legs pumping with surprising speed.

"T'kai! Come back!" you shout, heart leaping into your throat. You drop your basket and give chase, dodging between massive Yautja legs and market stalls. The crowd parts somewhat—humans are a curiosity here, and your mate's status affords you respect—but T'kai is a blur, weaving under tables and around crates with the agility of his father's species.

He's fast, so fast. You call his name again, "T'kai, stop right now! Listen to Mama!" But he doesn't, his laughter trailing back as he pursues the k'rit deeper into the market. Your lungs burn as you run, cloak flapping, bumping into a vendor selling crystal blades who grunts in annoyance. "Sorry!" you gasp, pushing on.

The chase seems endless. T'kai ducks into a side alley lined with food stalls, the scent of grilled skewered meats making your stomach rumble even as panic rises. You spot him ahead, giggling as the k'rit scurries up a stack of crates. "Gotcha!" he chirps, climbing after it with ease, his claws digging into the wood.

"T'kai, get down from there!" you plead, reaching the crates just as he grabs the creature's tail. It squeaks and wriggles free, darting into the throng again. T'kai slides down, landing nimbly, and takes off once more.

You weave through a group of youngblood warriors comparing trophies, their laughter booming like thunder. One notices your distress and points ahead. "Your pup hunts well, ooman," he clicks approvingly.

"Not helping!" you mutter, sprinting on. Sweat beads on your forehead; the dual suns beat down mercilessly. T'kai's path leads toward the beast pens, where larger creatures snort and pace. Your mind races with worst-case scenarios—him startling a predator, getting lost in the crowd.

Finally, rounding a corner near the tech traders' booths, you spot him—or rather, you spot K'zath. Your mate towers over the scene, holding T'kai upside down by one ankle, the boy dangling like a caught fish, laughing hysterically. The k'rit perches on K'zath's shoulder, unharmed, as if this were all a game.

"You cannot run off, my son," K'zath scolds, his voice a deep growl laced with fondness. "You must stay with Mama and listen. The market is no place for lone hunts."

T'kai swings gently, mandibles flaring. "But kitty fun, Papa! Chase good!"

You catch up, breathless, hands on your knees. "Thank... you... K'zath. He got away so fast."

Your mate turns to you, his yellow eyes softening. "My Mate, you are flushed. Sit." He sets T'kai down—right side up—and scoops you into his free arm, while the boy clings to his leg, still giggling.

"I'm okay," you laugh, leaning into him. "But this little storm needs a leash."

K'zath rumbles. "Yautja pups learn through consequence. But for now, home we go." He releases the k'rit back to its owner, who nods gratefully, and carries you both through the market, T'kai chattering about his "big hunt."

Back at the compound, you collapse into a chair by the hearth—a massive fire pit carved from obsidian, where holographic flames dance without heat for ambiance. T'kai curls up in your lap, suddenly contrite. "Sorry, Mama. No more chase."

You hug him tight. "It's okay, baby. Just stay close next time." K'zath watches, mandibles twitching, before joining you, his presence a comforting wall of strength.

Life on Yautja Prime continues its rhythmic flow: training sessions where youngbloods spar with plasma casters, communal feasts under the stars where stories of hunts are shared, and quiet evenings in your den, teaching T'kai human fairy tales mixed with Yautja legends. You've built a bridge between worlds—your home decorated with Earth books and Yautja weapons, meals blending steak with exotic game. But T'kai's mischief knows no bounds, his hybrid nature making him a master of chaos.

One evening, as the suns dip low and paint the sky in fiery hues, you're preparing a family meal in the communal kitchen—a vast hall with stone counters and automated replicators that hum softly. K'zath is out on a short patrol, leaving you and T'kai alone. The boy "helps" by stacking fruits, but his attention wanders to the replicator panel, a glowing interface with holographic controls.

"Mama, what this?" he asks, pointing to a button that activates the food synthesizer.

"That's for making food, sweetie. Don't touch—"

Too late. With a mischievous grin, T'kai slaps the panel, his claws activating a random sequence. The replicator whirs to life, spewing out a cascade of glowing blue gel—a Yautja nutrient paste meant for warriors in the field. It splatters across the floor, walls, and you, turning the kitchen into a slippery mess.

"T'kai!" you exclaim, slipping as you try to reach the off switch.

He laughs, mandibles clicking wildly. "Blue goo! Fun!"

The machine doesn't stop; T'kai's meddling has looped it. More gel erupts, filling the air with a sweet, sticky scent. You grab him, hoisting him onto your hip, but he wriggles free, diving into the growing puddle like it's a playground. "Whee!" he squeals, sliding across the floor.

Chaos ensues. You chase him through the gel, your feet sliding out from under you. "Stop, baby! This is not funny!" But it is, a little—his joy is infectious. The gel spreads, seeping into adjoining rooms, drawing curious clan members who peer in, clicking in amusement.

"Human pup causes flood," one elder rumbles, laughing.

Finally, you corner T'kai, scooping him up as gel drips from his dreads. "Young man, this is trouble!"

"But goo yummy!" he protests, licking his arm and making a face. "Ew, no yummy."

Just then, K'zath returns, mandibles flaring at the sight. "What hunt is this?" he demands, stepping carefully into the mess.

"Your son was playing with the replicator," you say, exasperated but smiling.

K'zath scoops T'kai up, holding him high. "Pup, you wage war on our den? This is not honorable mischief."

T'kai giggles. "Goo war fun, Papa!"

Your mate sighs, a deep rumble, then sets to cleaning with Yautja efficiency—activating a drone swarm that sucks up the gel. You help, laughing as T'kai "assists" by smearing more. By the end, the kitchen sparkles, and T'kai is exhausted, yawning in your arms.

As night falls, the compound quiets. Stars twinkle through the open skylight of your chamber, the air cool and scented with night-blooming flowers. You hold T'kai in your arms, rocking him gently in the nest. His small body relaxes against you, mandibles tucking in as he purrs—a soft, vibrating hum that echoes his father's.

"I love my Mama," he murmurs, nuzzling into your chest.

"Mama loves you too," you whisper, kissing his head.

K'zath watches from the shadows, his massive form silhouetted. Silently, he approaches, lifting you both effortlessly into his arms. T'kai's eyes are already closed, breaths even; yours flutter shut in contentment. He lays you in the big nest, covering you with furs, then crawls in beside you. His arm encircles your family, a protective shield. He loves you both so much—the fierce warrior softened by this bond. For a while, he watches you sleep, mandibles soft, heart full, before drifting off himself.

In this world of hunters and stars, your family is the greatest trophy.

Your gaze unfocused, hands folded too neatly in your lap.

You sit near him, but not against him.

You sleep beside him, but curled inward.

He tells himself it is nothing. Humans are quieter, smaller, and more contained. 

He was taught that closeness is for heat, for battle, for mating. Not for stillness.

And yet.

You smile less.

You touch him less.

One night, you wake before dawn and stare at the wall, eyes glossy with something you do not say out loud. 

When Kwei reaches for you out of instinct, you hesitate before leaning into his hand.

That hesitation unsettles him more than any wound ever has.

He seeks Thia the next day.

She listens without interruption as Kwei speaks.

“She is not injured. She is not ill. But something is wrong.” Kwei says and Thia could tell how scared he was.

“Does she withdraw?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Does she grow quiet instead of loud?”

“Yes.”

Thia thinks slowly. 

“Then she is lacking something.”

Kwei frowns. 

“Food is plentiful. Shelter is secure. She is protected.”

Thia looks at him for a long moment.

“She is human. Not prey. Not warrior. Human.”

She leads him to a storage chamber and retrieves a data log, old and well used.

“This was compiled for diplomats. It details human emotional patterns. Needs. Bonding behaviours.”

Kwei accepts it.

“Humans require closeness,” Thia continues. “Touch without purpose. Attention without demand. They strengthen through softness.”

Kwei stiffens. 

“Softness is weakness.”

Thia meets his eyes.

“Then your teaching is incomplete.”

That night, Kwei reads the logs.

He learns about oxytocin. About comfort touch. About how humans bond through closeness rather than dominance. How silence without contact feels like rejection. How being held is not submission, but reassurance.

He closes the log, and he thinks of you.

The next time you sit beside him, he moves closer.

Not abruptly, slowly.

Just enough that your shoulders brush.

You notice immediately.

Your posture relaxes.

Kwei watches closely, and takes mental note of every small detail.

That night, when you sleep, he pulls you closer without waking you. One arm wraps around your waist, careful, steady. 

You sigh in your sleep and turn into his chest as if you had been waiting for permission.

Something in Kwei also changes.

Over the following days, he continues.

He rests his hand on your back when you stand too long. He presses his forehead to yours when you go quiet. He allows you to curl against him without asking why.

The change in you is unmistakable.

You smile more. You speak more. Your eyes soften when you look at him.

One evening, you laugh quietly and tuck yourself against his side, head resting over his heart.

“You seem happier,” you murmur.

“So do you,” he replies.

He realises then that his own mood has changed. 

The tension he carried without noticing has eased. The constant vigilance has softened into something steadier.

“You need this,” he says quietly.

You glance up at him. 

“Need what?”

“This,” he answers, tightening his hold just slightly. “Closeness.”

You hesitate, then nod. 

“Yes.”

Kwei lowers his head, resting it against yours.

“I was taught softness makes one weak. But you are stronger like this.”

“And so are you,” you say gently.

He believes you.

For the first time, Kwei understands that strength is not only forged in silence and steel, sometimes, it is also built in arms held open.

Dante has never yelled at you and never will but right now you get the sense he wishes that he could.

Worst of all, you probably deserve it for putting him through the ordeal of attempting to care about you, fools errand that it is.

“I wish you’d trust me,” the man you love admits.

Your heart squeezes, mouth rushing to dispute him.

“I do…”

“No, you don’t. I wouldn’t have to beg you to believe every word I say if you did.”

“It’s not…” your voice finally cracks, the tears you’ve been suppressing spilling down your cheeks as you take a breath. “It’s not that I don’t trust you it’s that I don’t trust that I won’t eventually run you off. Every time I let someone in they eventually leave and punish me for it and I don’t want you to do it too.”

“So you don’t trust me,” he repeats.

You notice he’s gazing off into the distance when you steal a glance in his general direction, probably wishing he were anywhere but here, listening to you feel sorry for yourself.

“No. The problem isn’t you, it’s that I’m only worth something from far away.”

A sniffle punctuates your words and pierces the otherwise quiet night. The man who has now made his way out of the apartment sits next to you in the cold, large form bent in half to literally meet you where you’re at in a fetal position with your knees pulled against your chest.

“Is that really what you think?”

“Of course it is.” You sniffle, fighting the urge to raise your voice. “And I am selfish and small and afraid you’re going to realize it just like everyone else has.”

“Why are you laughing again?”

Your voice shakes, warm tears cascading down cool cheeks. The man at your side turns to look at you, laughing dying down into some semblance of a familiar smile, breeze ruffling the ends of his hair.

“You really think you’re some kind of villain, don’t you?”

Rolling your eyes, you rest a cheek on your knees, face turned away from him.

“I don’t want your pity.”

He laughs again, forcing you to look at him with furrowed brows and your mouth set in a displeased line to hide its quiver as if it’s possible to pretend you haven’t been crying this entire time.

“Good because I have none.” he retorts gently, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you against his side. “but I do have the ability to tell you the truth so listen to me, alright?”

Even in a frenzied, emotional state, you agree to hear him out, nodding silently while continuing to cry. A harsh truth is still just that and if you’ve pushed him to the point of being bluntly honest, you definitely deserve it.

“The closer I get to you, the more you amaze me.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, barking out a sardonic chuckle.

“That’s because I let you come and go and track demon blood all ove—“

He shoots you a silencing glance and you shut your mouth, reaching up to wipe your watery eyes.

“Actually, it’s because you aren’t half as bad as you’ve managed to convinced yourself and all that time spent in that head is keeping you from seeing it.”

Turning his head to tuck yours beneath his chin, he sighs.

“I won’t waste both of our time listing it out when you’re upset and will only argue but there’s nobody else like you.“

He feels you looking up at him and gazes down to meet your eyes, mouth set in the faintest hint of a smile.

“In a good way or a bad way?” you dare to ask, bottom lip quivering though your fury has abated.

That faint smile becomes more, crawling across his handsome face reassuringly.

“In a very good way.”

Kissing the top of your forehead, he pulls you into his lap to hold you against his chest.

“In the best way possible, actually,” he continues, cautiously wearing his heart on his sleeve.

In his lap, you first remain stiff and uncomfortable but it only takes a few moments for you to melt into him, your head resting in the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, just promise you’ll believe me from now on, alright?”

A bittersweet feeling washes over you, abating when the door to your room slides open, Dante popping his head in with a sly grin. He’s proud to be getting home while the sun is still mostly up, his jobs today were easy and uncomplicated, little bumps in the road on the way to where he wants to be the most.

“Hi you,” he coos, sliding onto the bed beside you. 

Usually you’d fuss at him for wearing his outside clothes in the bed but your mind is too preoccupied with the situation at hand to even care. 

Turning onto your side, you lean into him.

“How would you feel if I were pregnant?”

He looks down at you, a brow raised curiously. 

“Are you?”

You shrug sheepishly, averting your eyes to keep from seeing any hint of hesitation or unhappiness, if one were to appear, cross his face.

“I don’t think so,” you mumble, gaze still averted.

“Do you think you could be?”

His hand reaches across your body, fingers splayed, coming to rest just above your own.

“My period is late but that’s not super unusual when I’ve been stressed…” you trail off, swallowing thickly. “I uh, I took a test just to be sure. Just waiting on the results.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

Oh shit. 

This is a real scare and not just a cute what-if scenario. 

Dante looks over you, sensing your unease, snuggling closer against you.

“You really wanna know how I’d feel?”

You nod, looking back at him expectantly. 

There’s no need to demand he tell nothing but the truth, he’s incapable of lying to you anyway. 

“I feel like I’d be the luckiest man on earth to have a baby with you.”

Laughing, you roll your eyes. 

“Stop it.”

“I mean it. No kid raised by a mom like you could turn out bad.”

Your laugh, sweet and musical, fades into nothing but a smile as you continue to look up at him, reaching with your un-pinned hand to brush his hair off of his forehead.

“I’d only be doing the same job Eva did with you.”

He looks down at his hand that covers yours and sees the same blood that always covers it, even if it’s just a trick of his memory and the light. His hands are clean for now. His soul, on the other hand?

“It’s me that would be the questionable parent out of the two of us,” he admits with a sigh. 

Immediately, you shift your position so that you’re sitting up slightly, leaning backward to kiss his exposed forehead, hand dropping to his jaw to cradle it.

“You’d make an amazing dad, Dante. You’re perfect.”

Chuckling, he presses down on your hand.

“Never have taken you for a liar, little mama.”

“Don’t call me that!” you drag out the end of the word, tongue trilling and rising into a high pitched squeal as he leans over your shoulder and rubs his scruffy chin against your neck. 

Another brief period of silence follows while he considers the possibility of parenthood. It’s not something he thinks about often – not in the way other people may – yet the idea of a baby with your smile makes his chest tighten. 

A child created out of true love isn’t protected from pain, he knows that better than anyone. Still, he would do everything in his power to make a world worth living in if he were to be given such a gift. 

Breaking the silence, he admits the fantasy playing out in his head.

“I’d take the late nights.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhm,” he hums, kissing your shoulder. “Or the days, if you’d prefer.”

“So is it one or the other, not both?”

“Well, I do have a daytime job…” he shrugs, smirking down at you. 

“Sometimes it’s a nighttime job too,” you remind him with raised brows that only raise higher when you hear the peppy ding of a kitchen timer.

Five minutes goes awfully fast and nausea overwhelms your senses. You exhale through your nose sharply and Dante tangles your fingers together, gently encouraging you to stand up and head toward the bathroom.

“Wanna go find out?”

You nod, letting his grip on your hand lead you all the way to the sink where the stick that holds the answer to your recent worry rests. The pair of you gaze down at it as you pick it up, heads gently pressed together.

Negative. 

You hold the stick between your hands and exhale sharply out of your nose. 

In a rush of uncertain emotion, your eyes begin to well up with tears. Wrinkling your nose, you blink as hard as you can to will them away, turning your head to look at Dante.

“Hey, listen…if you were joking about all of that back there to keep me calm, it’s fine but we really need to de—“

Whatever you were going to say evaporates as he dips his head to collect your lips in a kiss. 

“I wasn’t joking.”

His chest heaves as he works to catch his breath, both hands finding your shoulders, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into each of them. 

“But I know we have a little work to do before we’re ready for something like that, right?”

Pressing your lips together, you nod. 

His financial situation isn’t exactly a dream for child rearing. You have to fix up the home you were left because your studio apartment doesn’t exactly scream baby ready. There’s the other stuff, too, the whole demon hunting thing…

“Yeah, yeah,” you confirm with a nod of your head. 

Despite your affirmative answers, tears well up and you sniffle, placing the stick down on the sink.

“Is it weird to say I’m still kind of disappointed?”

The man who is so crazy about you he was actually envisioning teaching your toddler how to wrestle moments earlier kisses your temple, cradling your body and pulling it into his side.

“Don’t worry, my hopes were up too.”

He shakes his head and sighs, a wandering hand sliding around your hip to squeeze your ass which wins him a watery giggle. Continuing, his second hand joins the first and gratuitously squeezes the soft flesh beneath it again, his forehead falling against yours while his blue eyes blaze.

𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 is both a sadist and a masochist. you can not tell me this man wouldn’t use his metal jaw at all while you two are goin’ at it, trust me when i say he’s gonna put it to good use.

he gets so heated when he sees his bite marks on you. he wants to show all the others just who you belong too, so expect to be marked everywhere. everywhere. he’s very territorial when it comes to his stuff, and you’re going to be included.

also LOVESS being marked on himself. he wants you to bite him until he bleeds, and he won’t take anything less. he’ll literally cum his pants immediately when you do, he also likes to show who he belongs too.

this is unpopular, but I just feel like hank would love to be bottomed out. you on top of him bouncing on his hard cock is a sight for sore eyes for him, because he knows full well he could take control if he really wanted to. he could quite literally pick you up and flip you over in seconds, but you have him wrapped around your finger so much that he lays there and enjoys himself. another note, he’s known to be quite selfish, so it makes since for him to lay there in lust while you do all the moving.

but don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean he’s in it for himself either. hank absolutely adores to see your face in euphoria. when your eyes roll at the back on your head as he fucks into you makes it intoxicating for himself as well. he’s so determined to have you yell out his name, and rivals at the fact that he’s the one making you feel good. it gets him going so much, the fact that you come to him to fuck you raw and no one else, because no one can do it like he can.

speaking of feeling good, this big guy has so much stamina that you both will be goin at it for HOURS. he’ll stop when you stop ofc, but man.. if you refuse so tap out you are GONE by the time he’s finished with you. hank has so much pent up aggression that the only way he can let it out is by killing (ofc) and fucking. when he’s so built up in lust, that’s all he can think about when he sees you. fuck. fuck. fuck.

WEAR HIS STUFF. this will drive him absolutely wild. hank is a very big dude, so seeing you in his jacket that very clearly to big for you does…something for him. not only that, but it transfers his scent onto you, which he adores. swear if he sees you in one of his spare shirts, you will not escape his grasp for a while. loves to fuck you while you wear his clothes, it honestly might be one of his main kinks.

loves to manhandle you, so expect to be tossed around in a lot of places. he won’t be too rough to the point where it’ll hurt you, but just know the both of you won’t stay in the same spot or the same position for long. does not care if you make a ruckus because of this, either. in fact, he wants others to hear what y’all are up to, so that they know not to mess with what’s his <3

𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐃 is a bit more tame out of the group, but don’t let that fool you. he can be an absolute freak if you so wish.

he has such a size kink. man comes in a huge package, so seeing you underneath him as he can quite literally just hold you down with one hand has him feel things he’s never had before. loves the fact he can just bound both your hands with his big one.

speaking of size, san-man loves to see just how well you can take him in, despite you being so small. he praises you and tells you that you do such a good job for him, and seeing the bulge in your tummy as he pushes in all the way has him seeing literal stars. cannot fathom how amazing you look.

this guy lives to serve, lemme tell you. we already know that sanford is a very determined man, so when he has his mind dead set on something, best believe he will get it accomplished. that includes marking you cum as many times as he can! he loves seeing your face and hearing the noises you make.

adores giving you head.. literally could stay down there all day and night if he could. he gets so drunk off the way you taste, and get even harder when you finish in his mouth. he just wants to taste you over and over and over again.

PLEASE suck and play with his chest. dude is big and buff, so he has a lot of body to love and share. he gets so flustered and riled up when you do, it’s one of his sensitive spots. when you lick and squeeze his pecks, he always has to stop you because before long, he could finish right then.

also, if you want to turn sanford on? be soft to him. seriously, seeing you all sweet for him drives him WILD. he’s so vanilla, and he kind of takes pride in that. he doesn’t just want to have sex, he wants to make love. so make sure you kiss him, and whisper to him that he’s doing you so good. hold him tight and close. he will lose his damn mind.

switches up so easily, it’s humorous. we all know sanford to be quite loud and boisterous; always feeling the need to announce himself. be it friend or foe, you know when he’s in the room by the sheer boom his voice develops when he speaks. don’t let such an action fool you, however. when you both are alone, you can tell sanford is feeling lustful by his tone. he gets quiet and, funny enough, a bit shy. also not that loud in bed because of this, but you don’t mind. in fact, it’s actually quite cute how you can make such a loud man go quiet at the sight of you. <3

𝐃𝐄𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐒 is a whore. plain and simple. doesn’t give a shit about it either, everyone likes what they like, right? he may be a cocky and flirtatious dude, but once you get him in the sheets? it’s all fair game from there. that person that was teasing you constantly in front of your co-workers is completely separate once you tend to his needs and wants.

firstly, he his the exact opposite from sanford when it comes too vocals. when he’s out and about, his voice is so raspy and low, which of course comes from all the smoking he does. even when he shouts while he’s on the field, it’ll take once or twice before deimos is heard. but once you get him in bed? that’s a whole nother story.

this guy is so damn loud. to the point where it’s actually a bit concerning. you sometimes have to even cover his mouth or shove your fingers down his throat to get him at least a little quieter, because just telling him is not gonna do it. but hey! it’s not like he minds… perhaps he even gets loud on purpose because of this ;)

just about anything can turn this guy on. does not matter where you are, what time of day it is, he will make sure you KNOW when he wants to get down and dirty. ofc he’s not gonna force you if you ain’t up to it, but if and when you are, best believe he is dragging you to the nearest (semi) secluded place so y’all can take care of business.

speaking of semi secluded places, because of this sluts sex drive, he ADORES quickies. like i said, the bare minimum of what you do can have him hard as a rock in seconds. it’s also the thrill that gets him going, too. the meer fact that someone can walk in as deimos is pounding into you (or the other way around) is both nerve racking and exciting to him. he finds pleasure in someone knowing just how y’all fuck, and that it’s only meant for the two of you. they want of piece of you? well too bad! he has you all to himself.

mutual masturbation is his main kink.. deimos is aware that he has a nice body, and is very aware that you like it. he likes that he can turn you on just as much as you do him. he especially likes the way you ogle at him as he sits in front of you, pants down to his knees and his shirt lifted up, pumping his dick with his hand right in front of you. he likes feeling wanted, but loves knowing what he does to you. he also loves seeing your body too! sit across from him and let him watch as you go at yourself too, he’ll lose his mind.

deimos LOVESSSS to be manhandled. when he does bottom, he wants you to be rough. choke him, edge him, move him around like a rag doll, etc. the sheer amount of times he’s cum in his pants back to back is wild, lemme tell you.

"Why, though?" You decided to focus on cleaning your weapon, the sharp smell of isopropyl alcohol filling the room.

"Because," Dante groaned, snatching the bottle of liquid from you, causing you to glare daggers at him, "I'm touch starved."

You blinked once, twice, trying your hardest to process both his honesty, and the logistics of his request.

"Why not ask for a hug, then? Or, I don't know, go to therapy?"

"Hah! I'm sure my therapist is gonna have a field day with me! So, my dad, a demon, disappeared without a trace, then my mother and twin brother died, but actually my brother is alive somewhere. My therapist is gonna need a therapist."

"Okay, okay, you made your point. Still, you could just rephrase it. Maybe leave out the demon bit." You wiped the barrel clean before setting it aside.

"I'd rather get punched. Now, please."

"Dante, a punch isn’t gonna solve it. Are you sure you don’t want a hug? I could cook you something. Or we could grab a few beers and watch a movie, or talk about your feelings." You shrugged.

Both of you had done this before — went out for drinks, danced, cooked together, fell asleep together — it was so intimate, almost like you were a couple. But the reality was that you weren’t. Not by a long shot. Unfortunately for you, Dante was protective of you in the way an older brother was. You thought that, perhaps, he missed Vergil so much that you were the closest thing he had to a sibling in years.

"A punch would be less time consuming. Cooome on, babe, just hit me!"

You hated when he called you babe. He called other girls babe, girls that were hot, pretty, girls that were his type, and it was the nickname that made you clench your jaw and purse your lips.

"Ugh, fine!" You sat up, rotated your wrist and flexed your fingers. "Are you sure this is going to help in any way?"

"Positive. Right here." Dante pointed at his cheek.

"What, in your face?"

"You're stalling."

Without a single ounce of hesitation you swung your arm, hitting the demon hunter square in his face, but it caused you more pain than it did him, and you stumbled back, holding your fist in your other hand.

"Son of a fucking bitch!" You cried out in pain, knowing damn well that would happen. Still, you couldn't say no to him. Ever.

"Are you okay?" Dante was visibly concerned — a rare sight since he was always cool and edgy, even when his own life was in danger.

"Fuck no! Feels like I punched a brick wall!" You practically growled at him, gaze quickly softening when you saw the pure look of terror in his eyes. "But hey, nothing a little ice can't fix, right?"

"Right." He nodded and got up, making a beeline for the freezer.

There was no ice in it, but there was a pack of frozen peas somewhere at the bottom of a drawer, which Dante picked up and brought to you. When you reached for it, he, instead, took your sore hand in his, gently pressing the cold legumes onto your knuckles. You winced, instinctively trying to retract your hand, but he held it in place, his fingers wrapped around your wrist to stop you from backing away.

The pain wasn't gone, but it was becoming bearable, and a relieved murmur escaped past your lips, one that sounded closer to a moan than a sigh. Dante's cheeks burned, tinted red with embarrassment and arousal because you were yet another girl in his life who just didn't want to be involved romantically with him. Not that he tried anything with you, because he always thought you deserved better. Sure, he was cocky and flirtatious, but he wasn't a dick. If no one reciprocated the flirting, he didn't push his luck. It was simple. And he wasn’t the type who did one-night stands, despite the rumours. Dante enjoyed having a connection to the people he took to bed, he became sexually attracted to those he knew on a deeper emotional level. But sometimes, when he was really, truly desperate, he would download Tinder and hook up with random girls.

And he reeked of desperation.

"Dante, you can let go of my hand now."  You told him, part of you hoping he wouldn't.

Who could blame you? He was an objectively attractive man, with a charming smile and a body sculpted by the gods themselves. Why would he ever want to get involved with you? Dante was your opposite — he talked, he sang, he danced, he was obnoxious. You were quiet, most of the time, and shy. In fact, when he first met you, he thought you had some form of speech impediment, with your nose in Boccaccio’s The Decameron, a book you stole from the public library because you were much too young to read. That’s when knew you were trouble, just like him.

"Yeah, of course." Dante stepped back. "How's your hand?"

"Better. How are you feeling?"

"Me? Why are you asking?"

"Hello?" You scrunched your nose and frowned. "You wanted me to punch you because you were touch-starved. Did it help?"

"I'll be honest, it felt more like a tickle than anything." He shrugged. "Are you sure you didn't pull your punch?"

There it was, the one thing that turned you from an introvert to a bat-shit crazy bitch — his stupid little mouth that he opened without ever thinking.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You're telling me I risked breaking my bones so you could feel better, only for you to not feel anything? I swear to fucking God, Dante, this is the last time I'm doing anything nice for you."

"Nice? You punched me!" He threw his hands up in exasperation, while your blood boiled inside of you, sending you into a blind rage.

"You asked me to punch you, you maniac! You should've fucked me instead!"

Your eyes widened at the sentence that came out of your mouth without a single thought, mortified at your own stupidity.

"Hugged. I meant hugged. Shit."

"No, no, hold up, you didn't say hugged." Dante tilted his head, one hand rubbing his chin. "Isn't that called a Freudian slip?"

"I- well- how the fuck do you even know what a Freudian slip is?" You tried changing the subject but he didn't bite.

"Google." He closed the gap between the two of you, and for the first time you felt intimidated by him. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

The bluntness of his question, coupled with the sudden change in the pitch of his voice made you feel like a cornered prey. There was no possible way he was serious. But he wasn't wrong — the nature of your jobs made it impossible for either of you to have partners, and besides, you've known each other for years. It was only natural that some form of physical attraction would have developed between you two, right? But why you? Why now? And the worst of all your questions, why not?

You didn’t want to think about how this would ruin almost a decade of friendship. All you could think about was the look of pure lust in his eyes as he held your gaze, and how months upon months of sexual frustrations accumulated inside of you, bubbling and boiling and exploding when you dropped the pack of peas on the floor.

"Yes. I want you to fuck me."

Without a sliver of hesitation, you felt him pick you up with ease, hands roaming up and down his back as he slammed you down onto the table, desperately pushing away all the guns and knives. How thoughtful of him. Your hands slithered under his blood red coat while he tugged at your t-shirt, pulling it over your head to expose your bare breasts to him.

"No bra? Kinky." Dante stopped to take a better look at you.

"Stop talking." You firmly told him, but the chuckle that erupted from your throat betrayed you.

He was the one person you felt most comfortable around, so much so that you didn't feel weirded out by him pressing his lips onto your neck, or his fingertips bruising the plush of your hips, or his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. No, it felt natural, too natural, like your skin was made to be touched by him.

With his coat on the floor, you tackled his shirt, effectively tearing it off of him because you were just as desperate as he was, and Dante pulled your body closer to his, your clothed cunt accidentally rubbing against the bulge in his trousers. You were aching from the lack of sex, and you uncontrollably moaned at the tiny bit of friction before mumbling a weak 'sorry.'

"Fuck, don't be. That's actually kind of hot." He shamelessly admitted, and you rose a brow.

"Yeah? Then you wouldn't mind me doing it again?" You chewed on your lower lip, but he could see past the fake innocence when you rolled your hips, frantically and feverishly rubbing your clit through the layers of fabric. "Shit, I could come just from this."

For a split second, Dante wondered if this was all real. What happened to your shyness? How was it possible that his best friend, the quiet, nerdy girl he'd known for such a long time, was worse than any demon he'd ever encountered? Not that he was a saint. Far from it, because when you threw your head back, desperate to climax, his is eyes darkened, black seeping into his sclera. It should've made you afraid, but it had the opposite effect. The thought that he could activate his Devil Trigger and quite literally snap you like a twig turned you on.

"Do it, then." Dante's hand snaked behind the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. "Show me just how needy you are."

Beads of sweat trickled down your forehead as you fucked yourself on the half-demon, fog settling in your brain with each breath, each movement, each beating of your heart. Faster. Harder. Faster. Harder. Faster.

"Oh-" Any sentence you tried to utter stopped in your throat, replaced by a string of whimpers and curses. Whatever you were trying to babble was reduced to incoherent words.

"Well shit, I didn't know you were such a filthy little slut."

"Just- oh- shut up-"

"Hmm, I don't think you really want me to shut up." Dante sneered when you picked up the pace. "I think you like it when I talk like this."

"N-not true!" You yelped as he pinched your nipple, barely doing anything and yet you were a mess already.

"So, you don't want me to call you a fucktoy, then? Bet you're dripping right now. Bet you want me balls deep inside of you."

"Fuck, I'm gonna come!" You proved his point when your entire body quivered under his, mind blank and vision blurry.

"There, there." Dante pressed his lips onto your forehead. "I got you."

The noise of his belt unbuckling made you snap your eyes open, filling you with newfound desire and guilt — poor Dante, his cock was probably aching by now while you had the time of your life. He stepped back, letting his trousers pool at his feet, and you lifted your skirt to peel your panties off. You caught him staring at you, taking the sight in, and what a sight it was — locks of hair fell out of your bun, sticking to your sweaty temples, your legs still shaking from the orgasm, and your cunt dripping wet.

"I'd love to eat you out, babe, but my balls are genuinely gonna explode." He confessed, earning a giggle from you. Even with his eyes pitch black and his Devil Trigger on the verge of activating, Dante was still Dante. And you loved that about him.

"Hurry up and fuck me, then."

"Are you that desperate that you forgot your manners?" He dug his fingertips into the plush of your hips, violently pulling you closer to him.

"Please hurry up and fuck me?" You pouted.

"Good girl, that's better." Dante pushed your leg to the side with his elbow, dragging his cock up and down your slit.

You didn't get the chance to take a look at it, but the tip felt huge, so much so that you gasped, propping yourself on your elbows to see better, and you were not disappointed. In fact, you were concerned. You could not take it.

"Dante, it's not gonna fit."

He shook his head with a half-smile, finding your concern quite cute.

"I'll make it fit."

It was both a promise and a threat, but you trusted him. God, you trusted him with your life. He slowly and gently pushed the tip, your slick more than enough to lubricate his cock, but he stopped every time you looked uncomfortable to make sure you were okay.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"No, you can- it's fine, keep going." You closed your eyes, the discomfort causing you to clench around him instead of relaxing, which made Dande forget how to breathe or think.

But the worst came to a halt when he was fully in, stopping briefly to allow you to accommodate to the size. Your breathing went back to normal soon enough, and the last ounce of pain in your body was swiftly replaced by a surge of electricity when Dante moved, slowly and softly rolling his hips, unable to abstain any longer. And you didn't want him to when his cock filled you up so good, reaching places you didn't even know existed inside of your body. Your fingernails dug into his back, clawing at his skin with desperation and impatience, like you needed more than what he was already giving you.

"See? I told you I’ll make it fit. And you take me so well." Dante said, dragging his mouth over your neck, your scent overloading his senses.

But it just wasn't enough. No matter how painful, you wanted it-

"Harder."

Assertive, demanding, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pulled back to look at you, as if not believing your request.

"A minute ago, you were wriggling in pain, now you want it harder?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation. "I want it harder, faster, please-"

You were shushed by two digits forcing open your mouth, and you instinctively wrapped your lips around them, sucking obediently.

"You talk too much." He gave you a taste of your own medicine. "Should've known you were just a dumb little cocksleeve."

The degrading words caused you to moan and drool around his fingers, tears welling up in your eyes. Each thrust had you clench tighter, the tip of his ridiculously large cock punishing your cervix. Pain and pleasure bubbled inside of you, sparking through your body as Dante practically ripped his fingers from your mouth, only to wrap them around your throat. He was a hungry man, and you were dinner — arching your back to get closer, deeper, you fucked yourself on his cock with his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, and he revelled in your worship.

"Shit, you like it when it hurts, don't you?" He whispered, squeezing harder while you nodded eagerly. "Of course you do."

Of course you did. How could you not when he fucked you so good that your dignity and modesty were long forgotten? When Dante stripped you of your decency to bring out the worst in you? You felt your second orgasm build up, causing you to twitch under him, eyes rolling back as you slipped your hands under his arms, holding on for dear life.

"Again- gonna come again, Dante! Fuck!"

"Atta girl." He held your quivering body, his own hips stuttering, brutally thrusting into you with raw, animalistic passion.

You came undone on his cock, fingers carding through his hair, pushing away white locks to look at his pretty eyes while his arm slithered under your lower back to both support you and bring you closer to him. Dante was close, his throbbing cock still stretching your sore cunt out. He bucked his hips, splitting you open while you latched your arms around his neck, tits pressed against his chest and your lips ghosting over his earlobe.

"Almost there, babe." Dante promised. "You're doing so well." He pulled back, nearly on edge, but you squeezed your legs tighter around his waist.

"Don't pull out." You demanded, and that was enough to help him reach enlightenment.

He filled you up, and when he did pull out, watching his cum slowly leak out of you, you could've sworn he whispered 'marry me' under his breath. Surely it was just the brain fog, or the post-orgasm high. Your whole body was numb, and you stumbled into Dante's arms when you tried to get down from the table, muscles sore and aching.

"You wanna get pizza?" He nonchalantly asked, as if he didn't just fuck his best friend.

"I- shouldn't we talk about this?" You avoided looking into his eyes, opting to stare at the floor instead.

"About what?"

God, he was either insufferably oblivious or remarkably good at pretending.

"Us." You sighed.

"What's there to talk about?" Dante's fingers found your chin, and he gently lifted it up, forcing you to look at him.

"Don't make this harder for me, please. You know things won’t be the same now. We’re not in a relationship and-"

"I don't follow." Confusion was written all over his face. "Do you not want to be my girlfriend?"

"Girl- I- hold up, what? Do you want me to be your girlfriend?" You tilted your head, baffled by his question, because of course you wanted to. You just never had the guts to admit that you like him. It was even more shocking that he liked you back. Wasn’t this all just a one-time thing?

"I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious when I fucked you. What, you thought I nut and dip? That I shoot a load and go back on the road? That I cum n go?"

"Wow, please never use those euphemisms ever again." You cringed at his words, trying your best to hide the smile that crept on your lips.

"Christ, babe, you know I don't do one-night stands unless I’m really desperate. And here I thought you were my best friend. Guess I was wrong." Dante gasped, dramatically feigning offence by placing a hand on his chest.

"I’m not your best friend anymore." You said, voice serious and cold, and his charade was quickly replaced by actual worry and offence. "I'm your girlfriend now. And your best friend."

"Okay, I was genuinely concerned. Fuck you." He flipped you off and you sneered.

"You already did."

"Wait, that's my line!"

“Hey!”

The demon looks around, searching for the source of the sound only to find itself quickly face to face with the man it was looking to flush out the entire time.

A wicked smirk crosses an inhuman face, the large creature leaning down to lord over the anxious man in front of it. 

“Ah, I was starting to think this woman wasn’t important enough for you to come after all.”

The man who came to save the day can already hear you fussing at him and fretting over the precious artifacts contained within this macabre gallery and research station but no matter what you say, they’re far less precious than the woman who procures them. You lay in a heap behind this intimidating inhuman creature, crumpled in on yourself. The smell of your blood is pungent in his nose, what was one discomfort brewing inside of him now turning into something lethal, clawing through his ability to be reasonable as his own primal demonic instincts begin to take over.

“Then you thought wrong, didn’t you?”

And with that, the demon steps back to put distance between itself and the hunter, sending the items that line the shelves it bumps against clattering to the ground. The creature chuckles, slowly inching its way back toward where you lie.

“Stay away from her.”

Dante tightens his grip on Rebellion’s hilt, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Are you going to do something about it, son of Sparda, or do I have to rough her up a little more?”

This has been how his entire life has gone. He loves something, he loses something, he’s reminded of why it keeps happening to begin with; of the legacy his father left behind. 

“She’s far more feisty than she looks,” the demon continues to taunt, walking in a half circle around your body like a vulture swoops over easy prey. 

“Still only a human, though, and no match for us.”

Us. 

As if they’re one in the same.

Dante chuckles coldly, lifting his weapon to point the sharp tip of it in the direction of his adversary.

“Are you done running your mouth? All you assholes do is talk.”

The demon opens its mouth to respond but before anything can leave, he slashes it across the chest at superhuman speed, managing to escape its grasp quickly enough to grab you and haul you over his shoulder. 

You groan in pain, the scent of your blood growing stronger.

There’s no doubt in his mind that you are hurt and pretty badly. Walking backwards, he does his best to keep you steady to avoid further injuring you, placing you down a considerable distance away from where the fight is taking place. He positions you so that you’re sitting up, eyes still closed, though one is already swelling so badly he worries you won’t be able to open it at all.

How could this happen? You’re supposed to be safe here, locked away.

He also notices that your arm hangs limply in your lap, bone poking at skin that is just barely holding it back. Eyes darting between the demon and your body, he takes a quick assessment of a visibly bruised ankle and a swollen, bloodied lip before hopping back up to take action.

“She isn’t like us. It’s going to take her quite a while to recover from those injuries if she even can,” the demon continues, ominously standing in place while you’re tended to. 

“You keep saying us but we are nothing alike,” Dante clarifies, standing and lifting Rebellion once again and sprinting across the room to drive it through the center of the creature. 

Once upon a time he may have agreed that he’s a monster too but now he knows better, all thanks to you. You’ve never looked at him differently after seeing his violence and understanding who he is, only softly insisting that he’s being too hard on himself.

“Besides, the only one who won’t be recovering is you,” he speaks clearly and proudly to the demon impaled on his sword, sliding it off with his booted foot and letting it drop to the ground.

A single blow won’t be enough to kill this fucking thing. 

Fortunately, he’s angry enough to really finish the job. Dante looks over his shoulder, assuring you’re a safe distance away, his fists aching to continue smashing what’s left of the creature beneath him. Your chest rises and falls softly, the bruise blooming on your face darkens, but you’re no longer in immediate danger.

Lifting his fist, he smashes it down into the armor plated face of your assailant. They do little to protect the sinew and bones beneath them though, crunching and squelching and ringing through the cavernous space that has always been the safest place for you to be.

Until today.

Anger and anxiety only fuel the man who loves you further as he hikes his elbow as high as he can and smashes a gloved fist into another part of an inhuman skull. Viscera drips from his knuckles while the creature bleeds out, painting the floor beneath it deep, glossy red.

He lifts his arm again and again and again, so many times he loses count, until all of the creature's movement ceases. Gore squelches and squeaks, the wet sounds of internal organs being pulverized over and over again mixing with his heaving grunts.

“Dante?”

The sound of your voice and unsteady footsteps is what encourages him to finally stop beating what’s left of the beast. 

He pauses, looking over his shoulder at your limping form and rises without thinking.

“Why are you up? You’re…” He trails off, looking at your arm hanging limply at your side. 

You’re really hurt, just as he thought.

“‘m okay,” you respond in an uncharacteristically meek manner, head throbbing and vision obscured due to the swelling in your eye. You can’t tell where you’re walking all that well, only that you’re headed toward safety.

Toward Dante.

“You are most definitely not okay,” he immediately shoots back, doing his best to keep the tone of his voice untouched by the anxiety that wracks his psyche at this very moment.

As is in your nature, you try to play it off with a watery smile, refusing to look him in the eyes while slowly shuffling in his direction, deciding at some point you need to reach across your own body to brace the clearly broken limb and wrapping your hand around your other forearm. 

Rushing to your side, he neglects to clear himself of the gore covering his entire body. 

He’ll apologize for it later – amongst the other things he has to be sorry about.

Dirty, wet hands grasp your forearms and he reminds himself to stay gentle with the state you're in, pulling you against his chest. Immediately you lean into him, letting him support your weight instead of making your injured ankle do the work.

Your brave face disappears in his arms, now buried in his damp shirt, your breaths escaping as gasping sobs. 

“I…I tried to fight back Dante, I really did, I–” 

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s alright. Take a breath, it’s okay.”

Unsure if he’s saying it to you or himself, he looks down at the top of your head and watches your shoulders heave with each sob that leaves you. Adrenaline still rushes through him, hair standing on end, teeth sharpened to a point beneath his lips. 

“Look at me, please?”

He knows it would make him feel better to at least see your face. A few moments pass, shame practically radiating from your battered form as you refuse to move an inch. 

“Please,” he asks more insistently, sighing when you shake your head and keep it in place against his torso.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you finally admit, voice muffled against his shirt and further distorted by your heavy breathing. 

He doesn’t want you to see him like he is right now either yet the two of you stand together as one, wrapped around each other like ivy. His hands slide from your arms to the back of your head, carefully and delicately lifting it away from where it has been buried against him.

Looking at you makes him want to cry too, your face covered with bruises and blood and scrapes. He looks down lower, at your hands, and notices they’re covered in defensive scrapes and bruises as well.

You really did put up a fight. He dares to half smile proudly, cupping your face, letting you lean into his palm in your weakened state. 

“Were you scared?” he asks gingerly, afraid of the answer.

He doesn’t want to find out that you thought you’d have to fight this battle on your own. 

Shaking your head, you continue breathlessly crying, barely managing to stutter out your response. “N-no, I kn…” you sniffle, unable to reach up to your face to wipe your tears away while you hold your arm in place. “I knew you’d come.”

“I’m so–”

“No,” you stop him, sobs now settling into quieter, steadier hiccups. 

There’s nothing to apologize for. You accepted the risk the day you decided you loved him and even if you ache, it has always been worth it.

“You saved me,” you finally manage to say, looking up to meet his gaze finally. “Really, really saved me.”

“It shouldn’t have happened to begin with and…” he stops himself, looking at the state of you – the blood in your hair, your swollen mouth. 

His thumb grazes your bottom lip, causing you to hiss in pain, and he realizes there are far more important things to worry about right now than how disappointed he is in himself.

“Let’s go get you fixed up and worry about the rest of this later, alright?”

Nodding in agreement, you feel your energy starting to wane again, body wobbling slightly as you start to stiffen. As you pass out again, he easily cradles you against his body, dipping his chin to keep you caged against his torso.