Let Me Wrap My Teeth Around the World

Objectively Jade is the one I tend to pervert more, simply because I have a fascination with gap moe characters but I’m going to avoid that urge just this once…

Jade, like I aforementioned, is someone who has a lot of mannerisms of traditional romanticisms but displays them in strange ways. The best way I can describe it is when a cat drags a dad mouse on your chest while you’re sleeping and fully expects you to be bursting with gratitude. The intent and function of the gift is there but the execution is just so out of left field.

So Jade will trail his lips from your palm to the delicate veining of your wrist where your pulse is against his lips, smiling gently up at your flustered expression. You suppose he’s setting you up for something romantic, by the nice clothing he’s detailed you two in, a bouquet of unidentifiable flowers (plants?) gifted to you as soon as he’d met your eyes.

What you didn’t expect was the necklace he presented to you.

A vial hung from end of the chain, intricate silver working overtop the glass keeping the blood inside from spilling out. He explained, with a sort of genuine fascination in his voice regarding the entire concept, that this was a particularly intimate couples ritual in certain areas of the sea. It was meant to convey trust and devotion, especially if both parties exchanged these vials.

He placed it neatly into your palm, softly forcing your fingers to enclose around it – feel the heat of his blood stored only millimetres from your skin. You were… well, uncertain? Really, it all came down to having no idea how to respond to the way his eyes looked.

Jade was so seldom vulnerable, even being your partner. He expressed secrets and emotions he kept from others, even his brother, but rarely did he stop being the Jade Leech who schemed, teased and articulately confronted life. You realize his sincerity in this moment was meant to be reciprocated. Furthermore, you think *he* thinks this is the most romantic thing in the world.

In a sense of the idea it is, but it lacks the predictably of what you’re used to, which is why you hesitate to respond at first.

Jade I think in general finds niche expressions of love much more titillating than anything too casual or normal. Of course, he still invited you to classic candlelit dinners and dresses you in the mornings you’re feeling tired (truly more for his own amusement), but you can tell he’s more involved in projects that he’s curated himself when showing his love.

Before you moved in together, he’d crafted a terrarium for you. It matched the one in his room, complimenting but not copying, which he claimed was what he found most enjoyable about the creation of the two. Or if you’ll participate, a macabre gift exchange will never disappoint him.

Place bow-wrapped animal skeletons on his bed and he’s grinning, mind racing with how much of the process you actual participated in. Skinning? Cutting the flesh from bone? The psychology of your choices exhilarates him. Give him more to dissect. Suggest plants for his personal projects and Jades going to be teasing you (with great affection in his sleazy smile) for the next millennia. Sometimes he just wants to eat you. Literally. Of course, he poises this all with class and composure (likely hiding his excitement), so it can sometimes be hard for you to decipher when he’s truly been affected.

Togetherrrr… hm (I know what I said, changes of heart happen orz). I think in general twins have kinda become their own trope in fanfiction/fandom because of their notoriety, which is why the tweels portrayed as sharing a partner is expected. I was an avid enjoyer of Hikaru and Kaoru (OHSHC 🫡) as a tween so I entirely understand the appeal, trust.

I think the reason twins work so well as a medium is the idea of synchronization in actions, as in the ability to have such an interconnected bond that working together is fluid. Floyd and Jade are especially fascinating in that regard because they strongly display their very unique personality traits while still having some intrinsic vibe to them. I find things like that hard to explain but y’know.

Floyd’s physicality is the first intimidation, but I think as you get to know them, Jade becomes the worse threat of the two. Floyd is a lover of harassing you and loving on you till you pop out your stomach, but at the end of the day he has sympathy for you feelings. It’s a subtle sort of thing, but you recognize and appreciate his way of being “gentle” with you.

Jade on the other hand is affectionate but objectively conniving. They both are, I can’t single out either for being “more” sleazy, but Jade’s way of going about it is so psychological which I find very unnerving.

He’s the one who’s sliding his glove up your thigh under the dinner table just to watch you fluster, preening under your fury at his cool exterior, even as he riles you up. He’s the one who pulls you into his side, leaning close to your in a sort of intimate, private discussion – truly his tongue is all filth, grin twitching up when your breath hitches and you wriggle out of his hands. You’re so cute.

Floyd has a similar love of teasing, but he displays it with far less tact. Uncaringly comments on how he wishes these scrubs would leave so he can just make out with you already (as you had told him no only minutes before with the very excuse that you were in front of company). Floyd gropes unapologetically as well, leaving you stammering out hissed threats. There’s only a bored look on his face, nothing sexual in his touch, just the kneading of his hands on the most appealing part of you at the moment.

Jamil with an intensely masochistic reader… I instantly received a flash montage of my vast collection of bl, and for anyone who has read any bl with an duplicitous, objectively insane masochist in it is going to recognize the dynamic I’m envisioning. If not, walk with me.

Inherently, Jamil possesses an intensely egocentric personality. Regardless of anything else, he likes being selfish and having attention drawn onto him – positively that is, preferably devotional. He likes the favour he receives to be submissive because it’s controllable, an alluring but impossible type of dynamic in his current position. For one, professionally he’s restricted in a way where’s he’s in that role, which he’s evidently unhappy in, and two, he’s aware enough to recognize how gross of a feeling it is.

It feels slimy, almost. Suffocating to allow himself to be driven into the wallows of his mind where these thoughts are humoured. He likes it, but it disgusts him. Jamil has been taught to not be indulgent. He was raised in that mindset, it’s simply part of him.

So when you walk into his life, arms swung out like the dumbest prey animal walking into a dark forest, he can’t react properly. What does he do with this? You *want* him to hurt you.

And you’re persistant. It scares him because he knows that egotistic derived version of himself is so easy to undercover the way you’re forcing it, like he’s the grass in the ground ripped up from your grasping hands. Jamil can feel it, of course, when he starts slipping up around you. He’s become too incentivized by you’re prodding, how welcoming you’re smile is when he snaps at you.

You don’t mind. Ever. Some sick satisfaction in his irritations, your muscles only growing more relaxed – as if him letting go of his composure was physically easing your stress – the worse his anger lashes. He likes that.

You’re so… receptive, he supposes. Unbridled by societal etiquette and repose. You’ve been whittling this out of him, intentionally, watching with glazed pleasure when he finally slams you into hard rock pathway, palm tightening on your airway. He’s horrified, but you’re just smiling. Grin etching wider as tears burning from lack of oxygen slip down your face, intense euphoria clouding your gaze. He lets go and leaves as fast as it all happened, leaving you twitching on the ground. You’re winning.

And then like… as I said, overblot Jamil is so much less restrained. Fundamentally a representative of Jamil’s worst qualities. Even you’re not fully prepared when he comes onto you – he was strong as a merchant son’s bodyguard, but as a magic infused amalgamation he was a monster.

To be honest I think a lot more of the harm Jamil can do to someone is psychologically rather than physically, though the latter is used to enforce the former. Subservience is the important thing to him in this state, and you provide that so smoothly he’s almost delirious with the thrill of it all. You react so well too, you’re not so strong that it’s annoying to break you apart. You’re pliable but not easy, so perfect for him.

Your skin bruises like most people. Your muscles tire and strain like most people. Your body is just as weak as any other; Your euphoria is not – it’s unique and deplorable and belonging entirely to him.

Masochistic characters and readers have a special place in my heart <33

The itching grate of unrefined wool is something of a soothe while you silently further agitate your own temper. It’s the only distraction, to stuff the wool into the sloshing bucket until it’s nettled fibres are clogged with water and you can relieve yourself in the fact that, at the very least, your day is near done. Evening, as it is now, signals two things, and besides what you’ve already mentioned, the second thing is why you’ve put going into town to the latest time possible.

Summers are never quite warm, and you’re left trailing goosebumps as you lift your hands from the water to the air. You shake them off lightly before hauling the bucket with you to the edge of the forest, heaving it to a drastic tilt until all but the wool has puddled onto the ground. You’ve repeated this process constantly in the last hour, if only to avoid leaving your estate. Saddled along your scratching self-loathing – but truly it was that idiot boy’s fault for ripping the fabric a week ago, forcing you to repair the multiple outfits you had crafted for an order due today.

A boy that is not really a boy anymore, you suppose. Though his adulthood hasn’t refined that naively blunt personality. How he’s not been swindled of all his fortune you’re still pressed to figure out.

Polite as he is, the accident last week was still making his name bitter to your ears. Since the rest of the villagers are enamoured by him – and his admittedly pretty face – you’ve stuck to the forest just around your home for the time being.

The unfortunate thing is that he’s the one you need to deliver to.

So you’re forced to dampen your pride and, having already pushed the meeting time to the very last second, finally head out.

He and his father have a cabin outside the village, crammed into a dense alcove of woods only a few miles from the river. From talking to Silver when he was still a literal boy, no less than sixteen, you have a rough estimation of the path he takes twice a month to resupply. Fortunately, one of his sparkling personality traits is his accommodating nature, and has therefore offered to meet outside the smithy to pick up the clothes himself. The date falls on one of the weeks he doesn’t typically arrive in town, so neither you nor Silver will be making your exchange over the clamour of preening mothers and the many young girls who’ve developed a puppy-crush.

The lantern you’d clipped to your satchels strap bangs to the same rhythm the bag does your hip, clamouring noisily as your feet thud against the hard-packed mainroad. At this hour, any fun being had is either by obnoxious patrons at the inns bar, or children sneaking off into the night – in hopes, rather of when most kids would try and steal pastries from the bakery, of catching a werewolf.

Allegedly, and you would have to be careful about trusting sources, since they all came from someone half drunk or half dead, a wolf tall as trees and lumbering two-footed as if a man is living around the area. A myth you’ve been hearing since forever ago, lip twitching with the tempered urge to reject the whole enlarged story.

You’re… ambivalent to the stories nowadays, is the best way to put it. When Silver first introduced himself to you, probably ten or so at that point and as unsure as a puppy, you’d tried to entertain him with stories of the werewolf, like you did with most of the younger residents. Back then, it was a bit of obsession for you, highly glamorized news that was a particular point of an interest in a village that never did anything.

”Eyes like the worst winter day, that’s what ma’am said,” you recorded in carefully chosen, dramatic intonations the entire nearby population has heard recited twice to each individual. Silver was huddled to your side, the side of his reddening nose and cheeks pressed tightly into your ribs. Just on the crest of turning fifteen, you were teeming to be having conversation with someone who would listen for more reason than just monetary exchange.

Silver didn’t talk much, but he was attentive and sweet and made you feel important, a feeling you found yourself indulging in giddily. Tugging him aside during the towns yearly fire festival, just as you did every time he visited, felt natural – for both of you.

It was cold without the fires, but the fast pace of your tongue as you broke down everything that happened since he last visited was as much an incentive as anything to outlast the freeze. He was younger than you by four years, so you obviously took the brunt of the nip while he cradled himself into your body heat.

Everything that kept him warm came from you, down to the very clothes he wore.

“Like a wolf, but… big, very big,” you whispered hoarsely, partly for the effect and partly because of the brittle wind that was drying out your mouth, but keeping your nose irritatingly wet. Wiping it absently, you pointed to the wood stack beside you both with the rounded edge of your glove. “About that, if you’d believe it. I don’t even think bears get to that size.”

When you received no reaction, not the slightest widening of eyes, you angle your chin down to peer at Silver questioningly, who, in turn, was staring right back at you. His eyes sparkled like a pint of sun-glittered water, inhumanly beautiful. You thought, just for a moment, that this mortal earth, under the preference of mankind’s will, did not deserve such a beautiful child to shoulder its burdens. Moreover, there was some mysteriously unexplained thoughts contorted in that young mind, usually, though not purposefully, walled off from outsiders.

Silvers eyelashes flitted as his expression turned contemplative, focused on the smeared snow below his boots. “Can you tell a different story?”

His voice was neither petulant nor insistent as he whispered to you, gaze just barely giving away the discomfort in his slightly pursed lips.

“Yeah, sure.” Airy, it barely felt like you said anything. Tightening the arm you’d looped around him, your attention glanced the forests edge before wetting your lips for a different fairytale. Imperceptibly, Silver smiled gently against your side.

You wouldn’t say you’re close; regardless of how much younger he is, his lack of presence in the village has made it hard to maintain any building affection. The responsibilities of adulthood are no less an obstacle, and have given reasonable distance from your once all-important friendship. Despite this, his smile still finds you in a crowd to remind you of when you were much younger and undeniably happier.

Your back curls extensively to adjust the satchel, setting it down next to the exposed wood beam supporting the smithies outdoor facilities – ash piles next to the large ovens and other tools you purposefully avoided learning the titles for. Oakwood and iron aren’t surprising scents as you settle to lean against that same beam, carefully watching the position of the sun as you wait.

The grains of wood scratch against your shawl as you shift, squinting at the weening light of sun. It’s become dim enough that you’ve struck a match and lit the lantern, grasping the thin metal handle with a growing unease. It squeaks against its gritted joints, jostling as you use it to scan the near pitch black streets.

The illness, perhaps?

He’d explained it like an incurable disease, receding after a few days of suffering once a month. Concerning as it is, he’s conservative about elaborating on it and refuses visitations – his father doesn’t typically approve of hosting in the first place. It’s the only time he reproaches you for attempting to pry. Distressed in an unbecoming way of his usual character.

Your on the path to his home before you deliberate the likely inadvisable decision, breath prickling the air in a thin cloud. Objectively speaking, treading the forest in waning natural light without much for survival supplies was about the shittiest idea you’ve had since thinking it would be fun to learn how to smelt. Still, the motion of your soles tapping the brush continued assuredly.

A keen sense of displacement followed in your footsteps as soon as the entrance to the trail was hidden by the winding nature of the path. Unease, or rather unfamiliarity, in how your gait shifted lighter, instinctive in how your entire body accommodated to become less noticeable in the growing darkness. Of course, the glowing lantern you had was about as secretive as one expects, but without it you’d be blind.

The time of year pertains to a particular atmosphere of cooling air, suggesting the beginning of autumn. Your lungs inhale air as freshly imbued as if you’re nose had been switched with some animals, though you realistically know it’s your nose getting reprieve from the claustrophobic confines of your workshop. Dust, fabric strips and mildew growing somewhere unnoticeable has made breathing much more laborious than, frankly, it should be.

Now, in the quiet solitude of the woods, you realize you should be leaving your home more.

The clink-clanking of your lanterns joints follows your rhythm, boots compacted the dirt beneath you and arms brushing the foliage of bushes every time you swing them too far. Every sound your reddening ears catch are from your own presence, like a vacuum that forces you to acknowledge of the blood in your veins moving through constricted vessels and thrumming arteries. It’s a type of quiet, that in the framing of a storybook, would suggest you’re about to get mauled.

“Surely not,” you breathe out, head swaying the slightest to watch your left and right, then just to humour yourself, below. You falter slightly to watch the way your boot lands, then continue on undisturbed.

What bothers you about the silence – and this is a thought you’ve been given time to ruminate on, given the ridiculousness of this paths length – is that you know with no uncertainty that this forest is stocked with birds and small predators lurking about. Scuffling through the brush, calling out to their kin, whatever sound it may be, you should have heard at least one by now.

Yet? You remain ostensibly alone.

It isn’t until you’re stopping to switch the shoulder you’re satchel is burdening when you finally hear the crack of a fallen branch, someplace far off.

There’s a comforting notion to it, a swell of anxiety in your chest that asks the question of what accompanied you. Slowly, you repace yourself forward again after a moment of consideration. Your vision is sharper to the movement of nature around you, hoping to all higher beings above that you haven’t attracted something terrorizing in its unpredictability of being.

—————

Dizzying, blurred green spans his vision, a disorientating feeling like having just woken. The world feels incomplete, experiencing it through senses that work only enough to let him not stumble over his own footsteps.

But it’s hot. Cloyingly, the salt of his sweat sticking to his brow as if the heat that was scornfully tearing up his insides wasn’t enough of a distraction. Unyielding and overbearing, it’s easier to fall back on the instinct of his hindbrain – following in the steps of a consciousness that prioritizes the base necessities instead of higher logic.

Silver doesn’t know exactly how he ended up in the middle of the forest, though his assumptions from past experiences of this exact scenario have him heaving a shuddering breath of realization.

He tips his chin up, peering at the large, encompassing shape of the moon in the nights sky. Its light reaches him even through the trees thick burrow of foliage, alighting the hollow slits in those distinctive iris’s. It’s a familiar sensation, to have his human senses stripped down to their nude informality and ripped to then be expanded into the beastial form he now inhibits.

The fact that a full moon overlays his rut, however, is an uncomfortable peculiarity. Not only is he in lesser control of his actions during the days spanning his transformations, but the animalistic urges of such phases – which he awkwardly began having the same year he met his very first, and only, crush.

Love of his life and entirely out of the question.

Silver’s thundering chest heaves as he straightens to his full height, haunches smoothly supporting the weight of the almost insurmountable strength this body carries. Its late in the night, quiet, he observes without thought.

He knows he doesn’t have much longer to be conscious in this form, before he has to trust himself not to do something unseemly. A fear, deeply imbedded as he’s become closer with the village – with you. He finds it horrifying to acknowledge what he is. Undoubtably the years of getting used to the cycle has made the distinction of these strong, reoccurring thoughts of revolted disgust.

Monstrous. Reason enough that he’s tried to leaven the attachment he’s extended, and in return, received just as kindly. It’s mortifying.

Regardless, moral parry is hard to concentrate on when he’s had the same conversation with himself to no days end. Sharp wind whistles, painted trees overhead as his shadow as he gathers himself to the path back to the cabin. If, a very uncertain if, he can return soon enough so father can chain him down, then he can reprieve himself of this worry.

Absolutely no chance of that.

Steadily, his face veers questioningly to the right, ears keen on the repetitive sound of footfall. His feet are guiding him in the direction quickly but with extensive effort to be silent, almost at a winds crawl as he approaches.

An outburst of some feeling of resolved comfort thumps in his chest as he finds the figure, before a striking horror has his heart hitting the top of his throat in panic. Silver’s control is slipping minutely each second he watches you, inattentive to any sensation outside of the scratch of your familiar long deep blue cloak and scent of your skin just barely found beneath the fabric.

Gods above that *scent*.

He missed you. He misses you every day, secretively and romantically like some bachelor from a young’s princes fairytale. It’s deluding but the joy he finds in daydreaming about you and what you two could being right now if you were together is such a thrillingly heartwarming pastime he couldn’t possibly let go of it.

Satisfying himself with the seconds of acknowledgment he got from you twice a month was enough. It was supposed to be.

Along the blurring edges of his mind, he can sense a wrongness in the way he’s reacting to your presence. A want he’s had to hastily shove down in the past now so fully consuming he nearly chokes on it.

A misstep and his giant paw is crunching a twig, a crackling thunder compared to the deathly silence you’d both been so used to. Silver can see the twinge of fear in your eyes.

Despite himself, he doesn’t retreat out of your sight. He’s so incredibly sorry, he hopes you’ll forgive him.

______

Unimaginably painful sensations of small stones denting into your back lease a throaty scream from your throat as your skidding onto the dirt – of your own fault, tripping hastily on a tree root. Your lantern brandishes a last flicker before going out with the dirt that had dampened the flame, clanking uselessly beside you.

A beast’s figure is outlined by the moonlight behind it, white fur almost glowing in their edges. Your hands shake as your clump dirt into your fists, veins throbbing stressedly. The one brave action you can claim in that hesitant moment is that you’re eyes did not stray from the sight of it.

Werewolf, unquestioningly. You can’t make out its features, completely blacked out. Ears tip up from its head, a long tail still behind its leering form. Not quite how the accounts described it, but you wish they were a little more wrong. Perhaps it could’ve been a bit smaller? Less wolf more rabbit even.

Its movement pauses for a deliberating moment before it leans down – at last, you register its features.

Much in the same way a man will receive such dumbfounding news that he can only grin at the insanity of it, your lips wobble in a horrible imitation of a half-smile at the realization of who this is.

Different. Changed, in a way that you suppose is predictable of such a transformation, as you would have to guess that’s what had to have happened. Beastly but not fully, like he was crossing between the two states. His face is recognizable in a way that makes your heart ache, a cataclysm of memories when you meet each others eyes,

Yet you can tell he’s not quite right. Of course he’s not.

In your train of thought, you hadn’t resurfaced to realize just how close he’d managed to get himself to your head – his massive hands planted on either side, he dipped his nose into the crevice of your neck, gently nudging your chin up and sideways to accommodate him.

Your breath hitched, startled by the light touch of his breath on you.

Silver thought with a sort of conviction that only deluded men in love have, that he would never be able to supply himself enough air to settle the hot electricity that spikes his spine with each inhale. It’s you, inside his lungs, so close. He hasn’t been this close to you in so long.

Silver’s gentle when his maw opens, teeth grazing over your skin while he feels his tongue prickle with the taste of you. It unfurls to lave over your neck, then down your clavicle in one long motion – his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head with the euphoria of it all. He’s wanted something like this with you since forever ago, it feels delirious to acknowledge he’s gotten this far.

You can see it in his eyes, that while it’s undeniably Silver, the core part, the human part that rationalizes the impropriety of the situation is gone. But you know; still handles you so softly.

It’s his nature, to have trained himself with the discipline of strength and still refuses to abuse its potential. Of course, it’s not as if you could push him off at the moment, but you imagine if you did, this transformed version of him would only whine a protest before backing off.

He huffs against your neck, as if he could tell your mind was wandering and drew it back to present.

The air cools the saliva he left behind, goosebumps running over your skin as his warmth briefly leaves you. Silver leans back onto his knees, clawed hand smoothing over the ruffled fabric of your clothes. He’s sorry, he remembers it took you awhile to get the sizing on this one right, now it’s all dirtied and stained. He’ll help you get materials for a new one. Later.

Dirt scrapes under his feet as he pushes back, and for a moment it seems as if he’s about to leave. Grasping, still gently, the meat of your thighs, he crevices himself between your legs, your knees rested atop his shoulders. Your hips lift up into his face and you immediately gasp at the feeling of his face pressing into your crotch, his tongue soaking the area of your dress that hid everything from him. You almost had to laugh, watching him lean into the heat of your thighs, eyes glazing over resplendently.

This seemingly pathetic act did more for him than a normal man, however. Of the few times he thanked himself for his heritage: his senses supplying him with the delirious scent of your cunt was his most grateful. Just barely he could taste it, through the thick layers of cloth where his tongue flattened eagerly over the area, leaving it soaked with his own spit.

Composing yourself enough to peek down was a challenge, all to be broken by the desperate veneer of his glassy eyes – practically a wordless beg. He was impossible, frustratingly pretty even as a werewolf and you fear he might know it.

You sling an arm over your face, groaning as you let your head roll back in exasperation of yourself. Truly, were you the type of woman who was corralled so easily by a pretty face? No, you know better than that. The reality of your willingness is much harder to accept.

Admittedly, and this is something you’ve had to wrestle with your consciousness since Silver passed into adulthood just a few years after you, you’re affection for him had riddled itself with more than feelings of friendship. It was embarrassing to be just as enamoured by him as everybody else, some part of you wanted to resist his charm. Just as well, some part of you feels more entitled to your feelings because of your childhood companionship. It’s entirely childish.

“Silver…” in your peripherals you see his ears swivel up, head tipping slightly to watch you intently. Your voice wavered as you said his name, heart burning at the thought that you haven’t said his name with any amount of emotion in a very, very long time. You think he knows it too, by the way his claws bunch into your skirt expectantly, hoping for more.

You don’t speak anymore for a long while, this entire moment waiting for you.

“I love you.”

Your eyebrows twitch, eyes snapping onto Silver’s familiarly blank expression. When you meet his eyes, a smile so pleased appears on his face, a replication of those complicated expressions he tossed you in passing all those years. Longing.

“I love you,” he repeats, voice rasped. Your heart thunders and crashes into the top of your throat, quickly propping yourself onto your forearms to better meet his gaze. His lips part to say more, then close again.

He’s losing his control. You both see it. He can’t say more – he’s operating on the humanness his body can remember, the core of Silver’s wants, no matter how much he has denied them all these years. You’re not sure how to give him what he wants, and now he’s leaving you by yourself with the unbridled bluntness of his confession.

A quiet whine vibrates down the inner side of your thigh, the tip of his left hand slowly bunching your skirt closer and closer to revealing yourself to him. He’s leaving you a chance to push him away, you realize. Watchful of your reactions even as he pushes for more.

“Go ahead,” you say on an exhale, lowering yourself to rest on your back again. You’ll put more thought into this after, you promise yourself. It’s hard to make this romantic when you’re becoming just as affected as Silver. Likewise, you imagine Silver will be desperate to explain himself when he’s more… well, himself.

It’s painful when his claws splinter into your thighs, blood coalescing in rivulets down onto the ground. It’s excitement, but a pained hiss still grits through your teeth. He’s swift to slide your dress all the way up, ears pinned against his skull as he apologizes his tongue over the wounds. He’s careful of his claws as he comforts the softness of the pads of his fingers over your skin. You sigh, staring up at the night sky, simply to calm yourself down from your own anticipation as his spit replaces the blood.

Are you crazy to be undeterred in your pleasure by any of this? Majority of people may say so, though the opinions of others haven’t swayed you much before, so why would they now?

Once he satisfies himself with his work, he eyes the last piece of fabric, not particularly interested in teasing himself more as he slips it down your hips. You jerk when the cold air hits your cunt, legs held apart by their placement on his shoulders.

Silver’s eyes close, savouring the nearing heat of your sex as he scoots your hips closer. “Beautiful,” he whispers mutely, breath puffing on oversensitive skin. You squirm, unable to ignore the intimacy of everything – the knowledge of how much more of your arousal Silver can sense. It hadn’t quite registered to you before, but his canine-esque appearance had to have an effect on his sense of smell. You couldn’t even begin to wonder if he disliked your scent when he abruptly flattened his tongue over your heat.

Silver has always been bigger than you. Not in a burlesque way, but a noticeable sort of athleticism. His transformation made it feel like every thing had doubled in size.

Silver’s tongue completely covered your cunt, tastebuds squishing into every fold. Your legs locked around his neck, straining. His arms had moved to curl around your thighs, still rested over his shoulders, but his hands had been cleverly placed on your hips to keep you from bucking away from his touch.

So lost in reverie, you jerked back to clarity when you heard the – with no other words to describe the wantonness of the sound – lecherous moan he mouthed against you at your taste. His grip on you tightened as his movements became more proactive, tongue lapping at the aroused slick that slipped from your hole, satisfied hums vibrating against your clit and repeating the cycle of give and take.

His fingers flexed over your hips, lightly groping the fat of your stomach in a kneading motion. If you weren’t choking on your own voice, you’d be laughing at the contrast of such a cat-like motion.

“Silver-!” Your fingers scraped into his scalp, his ears once again perking in interest at the perfect way you seemed to always say his name. It hadn’t even been ten minutes and you were twitching uncontrollably, escape the terribly overwhelming feeling of your cresting climax.

Silver slowed for the moment he took to process the implications of your erraticism, then redoubled in his enthusiasm. His expression hadn’t changed, except for what you could recognize as a glimmer of anticipation sparking in his eyes the more wetness preceded his gift.

“More,” he muttered, kissing your clit, “please give me more.” His tongue, impossibly, erotically long and thick – oh to the lords above did it fill you – spread your hole and punctured into the softened walls of your cunt. The world spun.

When you awoke again, he was still between your thighs, licking your folds in more of a comforting receptive motion than for satisfaction, as before.

He smiled warmly when he saw your lashes flutter. “Hi,” he whispered sweetly, raising his head, revealing the drenched state of his chin and neck. He seems inclined to not wiping it off.

Your chest heaved as you pushed yourself up, blinking in disbelief of the enormity of the pleasure you just felt. “Hello,” you replied automatically, using the already ruined state of your skirt to wipe off his face. He leaned into your hand, stare unreadable as he watched you.

Distantly, you could sense the thrum of your recent orgasm. The quantity of his saliva kept your folds wet, as it seems he swallowed any cum he could take from you.

“Feel better?” Your fingers raked through his hair once, curiously fidgeting over his wolfish ears. Silver glanced off sideways, contemplating before shifting slightly away from you awkwardly. He nodded, barely.

It was so obviously strained you couldn’t believe it came from the boy you’d always known to be so easily secretive with his emotions. Though, you suppose, this form may have altered a few things. Regardless, his discomfort is-

Oh. *oh*.

Feeling it before you see it makes it no less shocking. Listen, you’re not some naive teenage girl anymore, but the fact that you’ve remained unmarried all these years has made certain matters of the male species entirely foreign. What you do know, is It should not be this big.

Silver cringes when he sees the way you’re eyes stun, pursing his lips. Trying to be discreet, he moves to hide himself from you, but his proximity just presses his cock harshly against your balmy skin.

He growls low on his breath, freezing completely. Uncertainty seeps out of every pore of his frame, instead whipping his eyes up to you for guidance, to make the denial easier for himself.

You can’t bring yourself to.

Slowly, your gaze tears from his face down to his crotch, swallowing thickly. Lord save you. Is this how he was as a human as well? You’re not even completely sure something like that could be handled by one of those prostitutes you’ve heard about. Even Silver seems hesitant, not because he believes either of you doesn’t want to anymore, but you think some part of his human mind is cautioning him against it.

You don’t have such an angel on your shoulder to advise you, unfortunately.

The waiting is too long for him, so he makes the choice, not that you were ever opposed.

He crawls overtop of you again, licking then kissing the vulnerable area of your pulse point. Comforting you, you suppose. The head of his dick slides between your folds and a jolt of firing electricity splinters down your spine at the groan Silver lets out by your ear. He’s much more sensitive than you are in this state, every sensation threatening the composure he’s been doing so good at upholding.

It taps against your hole, and it’s obvious enough that even to Silver, in his deluded state, this isn’t going to happen if he doesn’t work for it. Unwillingly pulling his hips away, he rests on his haunches. His palms massage over your thighs soothingly as he stares unblinkingly at your cunt, brain visibly whirring for an answer.

At one point, he drags his claw-tipped fingers over your entrance, then realizes that clearly isn’t going to work by the stricken expression that contorts your poor face.

And then his tongue is back inside of you.

It’s strenuous, taking and taking and taking. He doesn’t relent, not when you babble about it being too much, not when your legs lock so hard around his neck you should’ve been choking him. He doesn’t budge and it’s terrifying. His grip is a vice and you’re bucking and squirming doesn’t make any part of him move, anchored to your slit.

Because you realize he’s not stopping until he can fit his cock into you. Its never not pleasureful for you, as if every motion he persists is exacted to your preferences of euphoria. Of course, he’s deriving his own relief from this; Tasting you, surrounded by your scent is a type of dream-like state he can’t drive himself out of.

It’s automated, his actions. Sucking on your clit so harshly until you’re squirting all over his face and he’s huffing out a pleased breath as he licks you up again and again and again. It’s never ending.

You’re panting by the time his face, after what must have been at *least* an hour of happily eating you out, raises. Flushed, hot and sweaty, you’re body still twitches in the aftershocks of it all.

This time, Silver wipes his own face off before leaning up again to lick your neck, salty with the beads of your sweat. He soothes a calloused palm over your shoulder, then down your arm to squeeze your hand. It’s a bit comical how it leaves none of your hand in view, but the gesture is too genuine to ruin it by laughing.

Silver guides your fingers down to your puffy folds, clearly urging you to confirm he’s done a good job preparing you. You enter two tentatively – the most you’d ever indulged yourself with privately – then three, and to your mute horror, a fourth. Silver blinks, deferring his opinions from your reactions. Supposedly this should suffice.

Gently, he slides your hand to rest on your stomach, cradles the underside of your lower back with one hand, grasping his cock with the other. He smears the tip through the mess he’s made of your cunt, earning a quiet whine out of both of you. His frame curls over you, nose pressed into your neck as his cock head catches the rim of your hole and he attempts pushing inside.

It stretches, oh it stretches so much wider than what his tongue could ever do. As soon as his head is fully seated, he’s grounding himself on the palms stationed either side of your head, staring down at you heatedly from above. You’re just as breathless, instinctively grasping his forearm, to hold something solid. He just halts there, shaking with the exertion of keeping himself still. Every once and awhile, you feel a centimetre more press into you with the inevitable twitching of his hips, his own body begging him to move.

It’s its own form of torture when he starts up again – distantly, a nagging pain becomes more persistent the farther he stretches you open. It’s an honest miracle he’s in at all.

Silver stops again and you assume he’s all the way in, a large but still comfortable size, much more accommodating than what your eyes had perceived. Relief is brief and quick to disappear when you glance down and see what must have been the other half still outside of you.

Fuck.

The base is the thickest, and you can almost imagine the way the rest of those trailed veins would feel grating against your walls. His teeth scrape against your neck, inevitably needing to exert some of his energy somewhere else as he begins licking and kissing up and down your neck and chest as before. He tilts his chin up, surprising you as he licks over the seam of your lips.

Without thinking, you open for him,

His tongue swipes along your teeth, dwarfing your tongue as he flattens it inside your mouth. You can feel the point of his canines, sharp enough that you realize his he had to have been careful to keep them from harming you while his tongue was jammed deep in your slit. This man never ceases to amaze you.

When he pulls away, he’s smiling that type of smile that has driven you crazy for the past decade. It seems he’s fine not being fully seated inside to start pulling back, then forward in a rhythmic rocking motion.

It drags his shaft deliriously inside of you, adding another inch each time you become wetter for him. Occasionally, he’ll soak his fingers in viscous spit and rub it along cock before pushing it back inside. Silver is so in tune with your reactions, observant of how your cunt stretches for him, that he sees the opportunities to force more and more until your only an inch away from taking him all.

You can’t breathe properly. For the third time, Silver paused, admiringly pressing his palm into the way his cock had created a bulge in your stomach, watched it appear and disappear with a few soft rocking motions. When you whine, he tilts his head and does it once more, examining your face carefully.

Your lash line fluttered with tears, and in a sort of sentiment, gross as it is, he licks the tears away, then kisses the lids of your eyes.

He strikes the last inch into you and you gasp, and you come to understand quickly that the gentle way he kissed around your face was to distract you from the shock of it. Your nails dig deep into the etched muscles of his back, clawing desperately to keep yourself from passing out.

He shudders, a racking shake before he’s expelling the tension in one heavy, drawn-out breath. His entire dick slides out of you except the tip, then slams right back in.

Silver was and has always been a quiet person, so when his mouth is so near to your ear that you can catch every little moan and grunt as he paces himself inside of you, it sparks a certain desire in your gut.

You can’t tell if it’s you or Silver, but where you connect is impossibly soaked with slick, creating a lewd shlick each time his hips reconnect with the back of your thighs. His hand has stayed firmly where that bump keeps cresting in your stomach, pressing down because the sensation is another affirmation that he finally has you – to you, it’s a driven insanity.

It makes his length feel even more impossible, tip finding something deep inside of you that you feel should have been left untouched. It stings but if he stops you would have to kill because it’s *so good*. Every spot you could never reach with your own hands is reached and abused with an unwitting precision, his accuracy in guessing your bodies wants once again proving to be your downfall.

Not that you’re the only one affected. Silver is a cacophony of indecipherable euphoria inside that lust cornered mind. Fortuitously finding you in the beginnings of his rut rather than the height was a blessing, for he can tell you’re already beginning to show signs of exhaustion. If he were in that state… he’d do things to you he could never forgive himself for.

Whats ironic for him is that this “disease”, the very excuse he used to drive you two apart years ago, is what got him to admit his love. He’d always thought of it as a bane from the heavens, some sort of punishment for things he couldn’t understand. But now he’s connected with you so intimately he feels he could fly to heaven and satisfy himself with having just this one moment with you.

Dying in your arms is sanction, undoubtably.

The grass beneath Silvers claws rips as he digs his fingers down into it, the way his cock was driving into you reaching to such an intensity that you can only tip your head back and cry out, holding on for dear life.

He’s close, he knows he is. He can feel the knot forming at his base, growing painfully, dizzying his focus. He shouldn’t cum inside, he can’t. You’re not married to him and he doesn’t even know if you return his feelings – it’s wrong.

But he can’t stop instinct and you’re so warm. You can feel it, his shaft widening in girth, a width your hole wasn’t accommodating before. It has you going slack-jawed, eyes shooting wide with alarm. You glance up to Silver for answers, but he’s diving for your neck and suddenly everything is coming to a climax.

The base of his dick shoves itself inside of you, nearly twice as thick as the rest of him. It burrows and locks inside your cunt as his teeth sink into your shoulder, blood drawing into his tongue. It laces down your collarbone, pooling one your chest. Your shocked to stillness when he growls at you’re squirming, lapping up the blood.

His hips shutter one last time before he’s painting your insides white, an indescribable feeling of warmth and fullness. The knot keeps anything from possibly escaping the confines of your cunt, soaked.

There’s this oddly soothing rumble in his chest as he soothes the rest of the blood, petting the bulge in your stomach pleasantly before he’s peppering kisses over your face. You’re tired, no doubt sporting bruises and a whores amount of lovers marks on your body, but the sensation of his lips fluttering on your face has you giggling, pushing his face away to get him to stop.

Silver steals one last peck from your lips before sitting up straight, observing the mess you two have made. His knot keeps from pulling out – as you soon experience at the sharp pain when you try to scoot away. He’s quick to maneuver you onto his lap, rested up against a tree so you can lay on his chest.

Heartbeat clamours in your ears as you press your ear against the left side of his chest, arms loosely rounding his waist. He’s happy to stay in this position until you start playing with his tail, the mistake of such an action not reaching you until his cock is twitching inside of you again and he’s groaning.

Silver doesn’t stop you, but you observe from the hesitant expression on his face that he’s not willing to push you any further. He’s much more expressive when he can’t speak, you note, so you let it go. Instead propping them around his shoulders and twiddling with the end-strands of his hair.

Vision fades to darkness and Silver is left to cradle your body as the night finishes its passage.

_______

Seated stiffly in the couch across from yours, Silver slides a teacup atop a saucer in your direction without meeting your eyes.

His house smells of rosemary and wood, pleasantly herby because of the drying plants that are strung from the kitchens windows. There’s a fruit platter between the two of you that hasn’t been touched.

You woke in Silver’s cabin, his father seemingly not in-house. He made you breakfast, silently moving through the house as you recovered the memories of your night with his secret. Irrevocable marks on your neck that couldn’t be hidden by the sweater he’d lended you had made him uncomfortable, you suppose.

“Silver.” He flinches, only slightly. His eyes are hard as he meets yours, concern for your condition than anything. You could probably tell him you were disgusted by him and never wanted to see his face again and he’d just be relieved that you were alive enough to hate him in the first place.

He’s been eyeing the bruises, but mostly the bite mark that scrawled roughly on the arch attaching your shoulder and neck.

“Listen, I…” his mouth twists. “I apologize for keeping this from you. It wasn’t my intention for my condition to harm you in this way.” Silver has a particular skill for being calm in objectively mortifying situations, you’ve seen it. But the fact that his hands are shaking bad enough that he has to set down his tea is startling to you.

“Do you remember anything?” You watch him, taking a sip only because a sensation other than tension is more than welcome.

“Somewhat,” he admits carefully. “My memory isn’t reliable in that state. I could have…” he falters, shaking his head dismayingly. “Regardless of what I’ve done, I can imagine I’ve ruined many things for us.”

His smile is so bitter you feel it in your own gut. How can he find it in himself to smile like that? Heaven itself could come crashing down and that would still be less devastating.

Its the way he says it, as if it’s unquestionable.

You hate the way your voice shakes. “So you don’t? Nothing?”

“Mein herz…” his face twists again, as if reproving himself for even thinking of bringing up that nickname – years of disuse making it more somber than anything. “I love you.”

His smile looks the exact same as it did last night, as it has twice a month for so many years.

“For as long as I’ve known you, children at the time, it was… you wouldn’t have taken me seriously before, I’m sure.” He’s right, he seemed so young back then. He *was* young. He steadied his tone, turning his head to watch out the window absently. “Cowardice stopped me when I was young, and now, as an adult, it was supposed to be a responsibility to not hurt you. But I have. In the most horrific way possible.”

“I put distance between us because that was the easiest way to keep myself from doing something reckless. Confessing…” the world splits in your vision, clawing at your own knuckles to stop the trembling. He seems so much older now, burdened.

“I’m so sorry that I was the one that fell in love with you, truly.”

The taste of jasmine tea stales in your mouth and your jaw sets. Your standing in front of him before either of you can stop you, covering his eyes with the palm of your hand, you kiss him.

Silver tastes sweet, the way people describe fond memories and family recipes and once in a lifetime sunsets. Despite himself, Silver chases after your lips when you back off, gaze peeking through the gaps in your fingers as your hold loosens, then drops.

“You’re still completely naive, how could your father have allowed you to enter the world like this?” You pet his cheek, tension of the room easing with the way Silver’s eyes widened boyishly, cheeks fizzled pink. You’ve never seen him so affected.

“I love you.” You press a kiss to the corner of his lips. “I love you.” To the space between his brows. “I love you.” To where his pulse is thundering under your touch.