⊱ wish fulfillment ⊰

"Put what?" He says in faux obliviousness as he towers above you, dick hanging in front of your hole.

"God, you full well know—" a drawn-out moan exits through your lips as he prods his tip against your entrance. He's so close but so fucking far that it infuriates you to no end.

Phainon takes his cock, wrapping his hand around its thick, thick girth, and drags the head slowly in circles over your slicked folds. Up, down, up, down, up, down—coating every surface of your cunt with your fluids.

"Aw, sweetheart, can't handle it?" He purrs sinfully, voice dripping over your ears like hot honey. "I haven't even put it in yet."

You groan in both pleasure and frustration, "Ahh—exactly! If only you'd jus—"

His cock falls on your cunt with a loud, wet slap, meaty length slotting against you perfectly. You go quiet for a second, and then mewl at the prolonged contact. You clench around it, seeking some kind of stimulation, something, because Phainon gets off on dangling his dick like a carrot in front of you and you keep chasing it to inevitably fall into this trap. Because you can never get enough.

"Look at you." He muses while you cover your eyes with your hands, unable to handle this torture. You know his eyes are twinkling, thoroughly enjoying seeing you twitching, the cute dimples on his face peeking from his enjoyment.

"My limelight." He utters name reverently, doing anything but. "So needy."

Another lift of his cock and a slap.

"So eager for my fat dick."

Slap.

"For me."

Phainon pushes his finger under your folds to fully expose your clit, the mere brush of his fingertip sending shivers down your spine. One more time, he lets it plop down, and it thwacks against your swollen nub. Thighs jerking, you blather little prayers of 'please, please, please', only for Phainon to withdraw. You've given up on being angry; now you just want him inside of you. Slowly removing your palms, you peek down and let out a small whimper at the view.

All you see is the top of his gorgeous cock, head crimson with pearly precum beading out of it. He's just as worked up as you are, but for some reason he's not putting it the fuck in.

He's toying with you. That's what it is.

So you push up on your hands, leveraging the movement to grind yourself against his length.

"Hey—!" Phainon groans at the sensation of his dick pressed right up against him, coupled with your warm, slick pussy.

"Phai, pleeease put in f'me..." You whine and arch your back wantonly, skin on fire.

In only 10 seconds, you're able to see the moment he breaks; when his gleeful azure eyes darken and his groans turn guttural. He separates from you, making you cry in protest, only to meet you face to face, his body hovering over yours and his hands gripping both sides of your waist in a vice.

It's then that you feel the languid drag of his dick into your cunt.

"Ahh—! Fuck, Phainon—!" He meets every ridge of your walls, millimeter by millimeter.

He's taking his precious, endless time, just as he did before, to make you feel. Every step of the way. His precum and your arousal swirl where you meet, little clear threads and bubbles of it oozing out by force of his veiny cock.

At the end of the maddeningly slow thrust, your cunt kisses a thatch of gray hair, and Phainon goes completely still, save for his quiet panting. He warms your insides, and you keen at the fullness—the sheer bliss of having his cock nestled deep within you, stretching your tight walls and moulding them to his shape.

And then he pulls out all the way and snaps his hips forward.

"Fuck!"

He thrusts over and over again just like that, stroking every sensitive spot painfully slow at first and rocking your walls next. Phainon sets the pace, a tsunami of force and arousal that pulls you under to drown you. Your lips hang open in an 'o' with each thrust, and fire pools in the base of your tummy.

"Hah—look at all of your juices. Wetting my—fuck—cock so well—" He breathes, eyes clouded with lust and mesmerized at the way his cock disappears into you, only to return more glossy each time.

Unbidden, you moan loudly, begging him to keep filling you, to keep making you feel his dick change the very chemistry of your cunt.

"Should've—mmh—made you beg for this before, darlin'—who knew you'd like it this much?"

"Yeeeeeah," you agree, feeling spit trickle out of your mouth. "Hate it when—when I can't feel you—finally put it in, baby..."

"Made my patience snap—" Phainon says and accentuates it with a hard, wet, plunge into you. His heavy balls slap against your skin, brushing the base of your pussy.

"Shit—'m cumming—" and fuck, you realize in your cockdrunk haze, he's gonna pull out. You don't want that.

"Inside." You whine, bringing a hand to caress his face, pinky gracing his sun tattoo. "'M on the pill. Inside."

And how could he say no? You already made him fuck you thoroughly, what's another step further?

Phainon lets himself go, releasing his seed deep into your pussy, his body spasming from pleasure. The spurts, white and viscous, shoot out and squelch against your throbbing walls and cervix. His cock, too fat to allow any of the cum dribble out, sits fixed in place, and your groin distends slightly, vulgarly, from the loads of seed.

The fullness of him combined with his hot cum sends you over the edge, and you cry out, hugging him closer to you with your legs, trying in some way to get him deeper inside you.

"You feel that?"

Yeah. Yeah you do.

other times, he'd much rather annoy you by pulling you in close where you can see his all the colors in his star-like eye and then just. pulling away. when you look at him, disgruntled, he feigns ignorance like the menace he is, nonchalant even when he can see your eyes drop very obviously to his mouth.

when you've finally had enough and yank him close by his collar, you can feel his lips curve smugly against yours. this is right where he wants to be.

if you're of a shyer nature, though? he has a field day messing with you, delighting in the reactions he can draw, in the way your breaths turn shallow and in the way your eyes refuse to meet his gaze. he won't actually kiss you, but his lips travel across your cheekbones, ghosting over your skin, lingering over the curve of your ear until you shiver before he returns to your jaw.

either way, he'll make you ask for it, and he'll do it unapologetically. he's not a mind reader, you know.

if you want something, well, you'll just have to use your words, darling.

wriothesley.

before he pulls you in, he observes.

his hands rest gently at your waist, and he simply drinks the sight of you in, taking in the light in your eyes, the way your body rises and falls with your breaths beneath his palms, the way your lips part ever-so-slightly, waiting.

not because he has to, not because he needs to. time isn't always guaranteed, and he isn't one to put much stock in fortune, so he'd like to savor this moment. though, he'd always call himself lucky to be with you.

and when he finally does give in?

it starts off slow. slow, like a pot of water only just beginning to simmer, still heated, still restrained, one hand moving up to caress your face. the other stays at your waist, anchoring you right where you are.

though passionate, it is measured; he knows his strength, and he'd rather not lose control.

though, he is just a man. when you take matters into your own hands and loop your arms around his neck to leverage yourself closer to him, it is all he can do to hold back.

push a little more, and before long, he'll have you hoisted in his arms against a wall or sat on top of his desk so he can get to it, properly.

baizhu

the thing about baizhu is that he cannot exert himself too much.

he's always absorbing some ailment or the other, and he is an incredibly busy man, so as disappointing it may be, he physically can't spend his time kissing you to his heart's content.

but he's nothing if not accommodating for you. his favorite kisses are the ones he can steal quickly in the in between, whenever your guard is down and your eyes light up at the sight of him: when he sees you out in the city, when he catches a glimpse of you in the morning when you're still resting, when he catches you working away at whatever you've set your mind to.

he lives for the moments he can gently brush a featherlight kiss against your cheek, your forehead or your fingers when he takes your hand in his, he lives for the way your breath hitches when he does. he leans in, soft as can be, his verdant hair brushing against your skin, ecstatic for even the lightest of touches.

he lingers in more ways than one, for his lips leave an impression that haunts you long after he leaves.

and if eventually, you tip your face in his direction, leaning your cheek towards him subconciously when you see him next?

he'll be just as happy to oblige.

phainon.

oh, he's never been picky when it comes to lavishing you in affection. he gives out kisses generously, no matter the occasion; to comfort, to tease, or simply because he feels like it.

asking him to pick a favorite spot to kiss you would drive him up the wall. how can he decide, when every part of you is divine? and when it comes to the kisses he enjoys most? it is just as hard a competition.

but there is one scenario that he holds close to his heart.

he adores, with every fiber of his being, times when you are truly happy.

no matter the reason, momentous or insignificant, when your face is bright with joy, laughter echoing unfettered and unrestrained, that is when he picks you up and spins you around and around in his arms, basking in the light you give off, covering your face in kisses over and over and over.

he may be the deliverer, the sun of his world, radiant beyond all else, but what is the sun in the face of the one he loves the most? it is you he revolves around; and there is truly no sight in the world comparable to that of your face lit alive in exuberance. even if it is merely a passing moment, he has no burdens in the face of your smile.

and so, without fail, every single time you smile or laugh, expect a kiss from him. and then maybe another. and another one, for good measure, before he melts into you, his plush lips curving into the kiss with a content sigh.

and if that action was to spark more laughter from you? well, that's perfect, isn't it? he'd consider that another good thing in this world of his.

mydei.

oh, you think him stoic? you think him a warrior immovable? you think him made of stone? you'd be wrong, in all counts.

this man is a yearner.

he proves it in every single glance he sends your way, sharpness softening at the sight of you. his eyes follow you when you enter the room, almost transfixed by your presence.

he proves it in every single call of your name, tender and sweet. he says it both like a secret and like a caress, something he cherishes. what nickname could ever match the call of your name?

and he proves his yearning each and every time he pours his heart out onto your lips, laying himself bare to your touch.

he cradles your face like it is the most precious thing he's ever held in his palms. he always starts off slow, showing you just how much he treasures you. and when the kiss turns deeper, his brows furrow ever so slightly in concentration, as his grip tightens and he pulls you even closer. still. it isn't close enough.

he puts his all into each kiss, like with everything he does.

and he will not say it until you ask, but you keep a lot of his internal strife at bay. so if you ever find yourself needing to distract or comfort him, just pull him into a kiss.

because for him, when he's wrapped around you, your warmth melting into his, the world dissolves away; there is nothing else in his mind or his heart, just you, and only you.

✦ notes: thought i'd finally get around to doing this part 2 which i started in 2024, esp with characters i haven't witten for before. and i'll be real with you, i thought this would be easy, a nice light break. no, it was not. it was genuinely like pulling teeth (a slow and agonizing affair) head in hands.

i tried with love, i tried with spite, somehow this is out. HSJHJKSD i will do better next time i promise—

He can’t quite remember how spending time at your place became the norm, merely that one work event some time back ended with him in your bed and you in his arms, yet no skin was revealed nor touched. Neither of you spoke about it, but the choice to stop didn’t cross your minds, either. Eventually, his clothes found themselves in your closet, as if they somehow marched their way here with him none the wiser. There are days where you wear an occasional shirt of his, too, like this afternoon.

It’s Sunday, and the skies are clear today. If Phainon were to listen closely, he would be able to hear the cicadas chirping outside the window, but, at least, he can identify the clues of the summer season by the light painted across every surface of your apartment.

There’s a cup of coffee resting beside the cutting board in front of him, of which he is finished with, now busy sneaking glances at you from the other side of the counter, focused on peeling carrots you need to cut, next, face contoured in an expression so cute he almost can’t stomach it. Phainon has to look away—you tell him he can go sit in the living room since this recipe is a secret.

You’re so silly sometimes, and he likes that about you, maybe even more than your fiery wit, your drive, or your kindness. It’s just a salad— how could you even hide such a recipe for him? He sinks into the cushions, anyway, since you smiled as you watched him walk away, and then nodded happily once he sunk into the cushions.

A book in a language he doesn’t understand lays on the pillow; one word or another familiar only because he’s watched your mouth form the letters when he patiently waits for you to finish calls in the office before leaving, and, on more unfair nights, answer those that cannot wait as some clients have no understanding of work-life balance. He snorts just recalling your miffed words and even more annoyed attitude, stifling the sound. The face you make during these are even cuter, he thinks, despite hating when you’re beyond exhausted.

He always makes it up to you the next day, and it’s because of that reason that he’s here, flipping through pages he’d need at least a year to comprehend to some degree, as he listens to you hum from the kitchen. The glow from the window is enough to light the room at this hour, the ray of yellow reflecting off your hair and following the curve of your neck towards the line of your shoulder, and down the cotton-soft fabric of his shirt as it comes to a point at your elbow before bending across your forearm, ceasing at your hands. Every few beats is the sound of a dull knife meeting the cutting board you’ve taken station over. Your fingers must be curled around the handle his were wrapped around minutes before—hold smaller, he knows, from that one cold night he walked you to his car after another few hours of overtime, worried you’d slip on ice.

You turn back after what he believes is the chorus, catching his surprised gaze with a chuckle as your eyes flit towards the book in his lap, a knowing grin disappearing with your attention returning to the salad bowl. It shouldn’t take that long to prepare it, especially with Phainon’s earlier help, no matter how you make the dressing from scratch, a gift in exchange for him bringing the vegetables from his garden.

Phainon thinks he’ll bring you strawberries next week, if not tomorrow, since he was a little bit greedy and couldn’t resist the blueberries that just ripened. These carrots are his apology, one you won’t really realize nor forgive, but in his mind, he is quite sorry since he won’t get a chance to bake the blueberries into treats with you until next year.

Tending to a garden takes a lot of patience, you see, and Phainon comes from a family of farmers, the love of it ingrained into his blood despite moving into the city. Some would say that remembering it as easy as counting—as breathing; or, whatever other platitudes people like to say about the feeling—but Phainon knows it through this. So he sinks deeper into the sofa, flips another page of words he’ll begin studying the meanings of when he returns home tonight—or maybe he’ll stay a little longer since you never tell him to go, and head to work with you in the morning, pretending you hadn’t arrived together—and he watches you in the kitchen, putting your finishing touches on one of the many lunches you share, of which he’ll recall as a hazy dream in his memories, the mundanity of it all blending together.

A salad really shouldn’t take this long, but he doesn’t stand from the place you’ve granted him, here, and keeps it warm for when you’re ready to join him. He laughs, anyway, so you look over and ask him what's so funny? but he shakes his head with a smile growing across his face.

And Phainon waits.

Twelve missed calls, six voicemails, and twenty-three texts from Dante is what you’re greeted with upon waking up - and it’s barely noon. Scrolling through the texts, you’re met with the ramblings of a madman, pleading for you to come over, to see him, to cancel your plans for the day. With a quick shower and change of clothes, you oblige in his wanton demands and head over to the loft.

You only manage a single knock before the door swings open and Dante is dragging you inside by the sleeve of your sweater.

“Dante! The hell has gotten into-“

”No time. Don’t ask.”

He pulls you straight into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. Throwing you over his shoulder, he launches you onto the bed with a ‘thump’, your smaller form springing on the mattress. Dante reels over you, snatching your coat off and ducking his head into the curve of your neck with a deep inhale, nose sniffing your skin like a damn bloodhound.

”You showered,” he mopes, teeth pulling at the fragile skin of your throat. You squirm under the weight of him, hands pushing at his chest to levitate some of the burden.

”Yeah, so what?’

“You weren’t supposed to - I said not to. Did you even read my texts?”

”Dante, you’re being ridiculous. Do you even hear yourself?” You lift your head up to look at him, pushing him off of you. Dante makes a sad whine, a demeaning sound coming from the devil hunter. His messy locks flop down in front of his face and he lets out a long sigh, hands pawing at the fabric of your pants.

”I’m sorry, babe. God, you don’t have any idea how hard this has been without you,” he mumbles sheepishly, eyes fixated on the faint red mark he left on your neck. His hands trembled against your legs, clearly trying to hold himself back in order to have a coherent conversation with you. “I thought I could handle this alone, but I keep thinking about last week…how warm you felt, like that pretty little hole was made just for me,” he interrupts himself with a groan, hunching over as if in pain. You reach a hand up and push back the already sweaty strands to see his face, feeling his fevered skin brush your fingertips.

”Why didn’t you call me over sooner? You know I would’ve came,” you murmur, observing his needy state with a bit of concern.

”Didn’t wanna be a bother. I thought I could handle it on my own, y’know? I always have, but with you in the picture now-“ He lurches toward your hand on him, nuzzling into it with a choked breath. “Please…please, just-….just let me-“

You pet his cheek as you think over the proposition, mouth pursed. You finally agree with a small nod, pulling your hand away.

“Is it safe?”

”I won’t hurt you. I would never,” Dante reaches for your wrists, thumbs rubbing at the pulse points. He stares at you with his best ‘puppy-dog’ look, a pout on his lips. “I’ll be good, I promise. God, please, just let me fuck you - you got a man begging here.”

You chuckle and shake your head, pulling him back to you with a mumbled ‘c’mere’. Dante wastes no time latching himself back onto you, pulling your shirt off and biting down on your shoulder with a chesty groan. His hands work at your pants as he marks up your skin, the bites hard but nothing compared to the ones you’ll receive soon enough from his fangs. Clothes gone, you writhe under him and he sits up and sheds his own clothes, sparks of red already flitting off of his skin. Blue eyes morph red and he squeezes your thigh reassuringly, throwing you a shaky smile.

”You remember the safe-word, sweetheart?”

”Ciabatta.”

“Right.”

With a quick peck to your forehead, Dante rolls out his shoulders, cracking a few joints in his spine and neck. Warm, amber light coats his bedroom and Dante’s body morphs into his devil trigger, his nine-foot form casting a daunting shadow over your bare skin. Your breathing quickens at the sight - you’ve seen his DT before, but never like this, never between your legs and teeth glistening in your direction. Sensing your fear, Dante runs a knuckle over your cheek, mindful of his claws. A low, rustling rumble echoes from his vocal chords, bending down to meet his ghastly face to yours.

”It’s still me…” he breathes out, voice altered but still holding his signature lilt. Wings cocoon your body, cradling your form as he lifts you up to dangle in front of his chest. The heat of the flames rippling over his scales threaten to scorch your delicate flesh, the heat making your sweat glands break open and perspire. Dante’s mouth opens and an orange tongue lined with bumps and grooves laps a line across your own chest, taking in the decadent taste of you. Despite your trepidations, you can’t hold in the moan that drops from your mouth, eyes fluttering closed. Transparent, tangerine saliva drips down your abdomen as his tongue roams around, stimulating nerves from your throat to your navel, bumps dragging across smooth skin.

“My mate…Mine, mine,” Dante growls out, clawed fingers pinching at your thighs as he pushes your knees to your chest, wings supporting your weight from behind and below.

”Dante, c-careful, Jesus,” you whimper out, laser-focused on his claws dangerously close to shredding your skin open. All you get in response is another resonant growl, steam pillowing off his breath. Before you can warn him again, the sandpaper tongue swipes at your hole, making you shudder and go limp against his wings, forgetting your train of thought. One thing about Dante was that on the surface, he came off as reckless, impulsive - but it couldn’t be further from the truth. He had backup plans for his backup plans, and thought out every little thing. As much as your body was sounding off alarms to scramble away from the devil, he was taking the time necessary to warm you up before indulging himself - a preliminary ‘thank you’ for being a willing victim. You look up at Dante’s face, or what used to be his face, and lock eyes with the fiery orbs glaring down at you. It was hard to tell, but you could swear that little shit was smiling down at you, knowing you’ve put two and two together. A bass of laughter shakes his form, leaning forward to bump his forehead to yours as carefully as possible.

”Told you. No harm.”

You let out a shaky breath at his smartass remark, but it’s futile to steady your breathing. Dante’s tongue pushes into your hole, pointed and flexed as it slides between your inner walls. The feeling is indescribable, and for lack of a better word: devilish. Your juices coat the length of his tongue as it assaults you repeatedly, twisting in and out while talons keep you folded upright against your squirming. Heat floods your core as your release builds upon itself, gasps and symphonic moans invading the quiet room.

Dante can’t hold his instincts back when the taste and smell of your essence is practically reducing every cell in his body into a lust-driven beast. Ejecting his tongue, his wings cradle you down to the bed, knees kissing your ears in a mating press. Your thighs quake against his scaled palms, missing the fullness of his tongue. You open your mouth to ask what he’s doing, but the words jumble into a whine of pain as his head propels to take a bite at your shoulder. Fangs puncture skin and the devil seems to purr as the crimson nectar dribbles from the bite and into his mouth. The receptors in his brain are screaming at him to bite down again and again and again til you’re a battered, bloody mess - every centimeter of flesh peeled back and consumed in the most carnal way.

Thankfully, the human conscious in him refrains and with another nibble to your neck, he withdraws and centers himself with the pulsating warmth beckoning him in. He doesn’t need to check how wet you are - he can smell it, the pheromones rippling off your sex in waves that rivaled a tsunami. A bulbed shaft stretches into your slick and your head shoots up with a scratchy yelp, pain radiating to your hips. A huff of steam leaves the devil’s nostrils, halting to save you more pain despite his needs. Dante watches your fingers go white against the bedsheets, hanging on for dear life, and you can see his wings wilt at the realization he’s letting his devil instincts get the best of him. A clawed hand grips both of small ankles to hold you in place, the other letting go to scoop up one of your hands. Scales run over the skin gingerly, your fingers curling around his thumb for security.

“Deep breaths, baby. Big, deep breaths for me,” he hums out, the mechanic whirring of his vocal chords carrying his voice past your panicked thoughts. You obey, chest rising and falling as your blurred eyes trace the flame spitting from the top of his head. Dante can feel your walls unclench around him and he takes it as a sign to keep going. It’s a slow and painful process, but inch after inch, he manages to squeeze about half of himself in before hitting your cervix.

‘Damn human anatomy,’ Dante curses internally, but makes peace with the complication, thankful enough that you're taking it like a champ. After a moment of stillness, ensuring you’re okay, he starts to move. Armored hips lurch in and out of your tight hole, hushed growls filling your ears. All you can do is lay there, pliant and accepting. Your hold on his finger tightens as your body rocks around with the thrust of his unnatural cock, his name the only coherent word you can manage while he jabs at your g-spot continuously. Dante’s teeth find their way back to your flesh, leaving bloody constellations along your legs. So consumed by the fullness of his girth, you don’t notice the ruby fluid dripping down your limbs from the bites, barely registering his tongue greedily licking you clean. Bursts of white spot your vision, core muscles tightening as your orgasm tears through you and a scream of pleasure brings tears to your eyes.

“Mine…Mine to fuck, mine to…to take…gonna look so good when you’re full of my cum…” Dante snarls against your skin, pounding his cock into the wall of your cervix with ferocity. He can’t take it anymore - he needs to come, he needs to watch it drip out of you precious cunt. Securing his hand around your ankle, Dante runts himself into your hole, gusts of wind sending goosebumps down your frame as his wings flap behind him with excitement. With a bellowing roar from him, you can feel the powerful deluge of seed swarm your body, gushing out and down your center. You feel like you’ve been hit by a semi-truck, limbs trembling and aching as you lay lifeless under him, gasping for air.

A glare of red light makes you wince, eyes straining against the light to see Dante devolve to his human form, dripping so much sweat it’s like he jumped in a pool. Dropping your ankles, he pushes himself between your legs and plants a sloppy, loving kiss on your mouth, hands threading in your hair. You kiss back weakly, shaky hands holding onto his arms. Pulling his head back, he examines you for any serious injuries, eyes conveying a battle of concern and satisfaction.

“You okay? Hurt? Was it too much? God, sorry- sorry, I-“

“Dante, I’m fine,” you let out a wavering chuckle, sitting up slightly. “That was…incredible. You were incredible.”

Dante meets your eyes again with a surprised laugh, in disbelief you’re praising him in a state like this. His fingers trail down to the bites along the outside of your thighs, vaguely recalling how your skin felt between his fangs in his primal craze. He remains plugged inside you, the intimate mixture of releases leaking between your bodies.

“Look at you…” Dante traces along a more gnarly mark in admiration, blood trickling over his finger. “How’d I get so damn lucky, huh?”

He brings his fingers to his lips and sucks off the blood, that all-too-familiar teasing gleam in his eyes as they lock on yours. A throaty moan leaves him as he swallows, fingers falling away with a string of spit. The scene goes straight down to your heat, walls closing around on him with need. Sitting all the way up, you grab his hand and playfully nip at his wrist, dilated eyes devoted to memorizing him in this moment.

“Can we go again?”

“Again?” Dante laughs, raising both eyebrows at you. “Honey, I don’t think th-“

“Please,” you pout at him, kissing along his hand til you can slip two of his fingers between your lips. Dante’s jaw goes slack, a heady breath fanning over your face as his cock twitches inside you from your plea. With a hard swallow, he nods, free hand cupping your face.

NERO MESSIER THAN HE MEANT TO BE SPARDA REVVED TOO HARD INSIDE, ON YOUR STOMACH

You’re on your stomach, ass up, face buried in the sheets, and Nero’s trying so hard to be quiet. He’s panting against your spine, trying not to lose it as your body rocks with every sloppy, desperate thrust. His metal arm clutches your waist, keeping you right where he wants you… No, where he needs you.

“F-fuck—you feel so good,” he grits, voice cracking, cheeks flushed a deep crimson. “I swear to god, baby, you’re gonna kill me like this…”

You moan his name—soft, ruined. He chokes. Actually chokes on air, and then you say it. You say the words that ruin him. “Inside. Nero… please. I want it.”

Everything stops, because shut up he is trying so hard not to cum.

He pulls back just enough to stare down at you, wide-eyed, pupils blown. His mouth parts like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. His next thrust hits deep, harder than before, as if your plea just flipped a switch in him because it did.

“Shit—fuck, baby—are you sure?” he gasps, voice wrecked. “You say shit like that and I’m gonna fucking devil trigger, I swear to god…”

You nod, reaching back to grab at him, begging with your body now too. He groans. Loud. Desperate. He can’t hold back, and with one more thrust, he’s gone.

Nero cums with a growl, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulses inside you. His body curls over yours, trembling with the force of it, one hand fisting in your hair, the other braced against your lower back as he fills you full—hot, thick, way too much.

“Ah, goddamn it,” he whines into your neck, lips brushing your ear. “You’re so good—so fucking perfect…shit, I didn’t mean to, but I wanted to…”

He stays there, cock twitching with your cunt fluttering around him, milking every drop. When he finally pulls out, he watches it leak from you and his eyes go wide, reverent, wrecked. He exhales a curse, dragging a hand down his face.

“…I’m gonna be broke from buying Plan B.”

You hum, still hazy, a teasing lilt to your voice. “Then stop doing it.” He glares. Blushes. Cums again in his fucking mind.

“You’re the worst,” he mutters, reaching for a towel, then staring at the mess on your thighs instead.

...But he doesn’t clean it up. Because just then you slowly roll onto your back aching, dripping, and stretch like a goddamn goddess. Your stomach’s already smeared with him, slick between your thighs, glowing in the low light. And Nero loses it again.

“Oh—oh fuck,” he gasps, jerking forward like a man possessed. His cock, still hard, twitches at the sight. “I—I can’t—”

He fists himself, frantic, not even trying to hold back. He finishes all over your stomach and tits with a hoarse cry, hips stuttering, ropes of cum painting you again like it’s instinct, unholy thought filling his head.

“I’ll do it again,” he pants. “As many times as you let me.”

DANTE UNHINGED IN THE HOTTEST WAY SPARDA HITTING THE JACKPOT INSIDE, ON YOUR TITS OR ASS

Dante’s not just fucking you—he’s painting you. A masterpiece of moans, soreness, and his cum exactly where he wants it. His favorite spot? Depends on how feral he's feeling.

When he finishes inside, it’s deep and messy, punctuated by rough groans and his hips twitching as he empties himself into you. But Dante’s an exhibitionist with no one to impress but you. So sometimes, just to prove a point, he pulls out last second and strokes himself, watching your tits bounce or your ass jiggle beneath him and whistles at the sight of you looking like a fertility goddess. A second later he covers your body with thick ropes of cum while grinning like the devil himself.

"Gonna need a round two just to clean it up.”

He wants you to feel it drip, see it pool on your belly, or drip down your thighs. To him, you’re not just his partner, you are art itself, and he makes the finishing touches.

On the occasions when he finishes inside you (which is every time), he’s nested deep. Not just emotional damage deep, you swear you can feel his dick reaching your throat: thick, throbbing, filling every inch to perfection. His hips grind slowly, then a little faster, and your legs are shaking from how long he’s kept you right on the edge. You already had your orgasms. What is taking him so long?

“Shit… you feel too good, baby,” he mutters, burring his head in the crock of your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he leaves a soft kiss there. “So tight, like you were made for me, yeah?”

Then he sinks in fully with one final thrust, and you feel the twitch. The hot warmth of him spilling inside, not pulling—even worse, he is not even trying to, because he loves this level of closeness and intimacy. Body to body, soul to soul.

Your body clamps down involuntarily, and you whimper at the sheer fullness and the way it stretches you, the way you swear you feel it in your belly. He chuckles, sinfully and proudly reaches down, pressing a hand flat to your lower abdomen.

“Well, look at that,” he pants, eyes glazed with lust and something a little unhinged. “All mine, sweetheart. You are so beautiful when you are full of me.”

You shiver beneath him, dazed, needy, a little too into it. Your breath catches at the pressure blooming inside, the slick, hot mess. He pulls out slow, and when your hips jerk, his cum leaks out in thick white drips.

“Now you really look divine,” he murmurs, thumbing it back in like he can’t help himself. “Shit, I’ll grab Plan B in the morning, I swear. Just...let me enjoy this one, alright?”

You nod, voice lost somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. Right now, you don't have the mental capacity to respond or to think about anything other than him.

And the worst part is that you secretly love it. Love the way he fucks you like he’s claiming you for the very first time. Love the way he shows just how much he loves you. Love the way you already want more.

VERGIL TAKE EVERYTHING I OFFER SPARDA THE APROACHING STORM INSIDE, ON YOUR THIGHS

He always finishes inside. Always. You won't catch this man slacking or not doing anything the way it's supposed to.

There’s something empowering about the way he holds you when he’s close—one hand gripping your thigh to keep you from moving so much, the other hand cradling your throat, not tight, just enough for you to feel how fragile you are under him. His face is buried in your neck, breath cold despite the furious way his hips grind into yours.

“You will take it,” he murmurs, voice low, trembling with control, with hunger. “Do you understand?” You nod, too far gone to speak, thighs trembling from the pressure building with every thrust. You can feel it—his restraint snapping thread by thread, unraveling.

And then it hits, like a silent storm that no one knew would come. As an unexpected surprise that was more than pleasant.

He sinks in with a final, bruising thrust and stills. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release flood you, thick and deliberate, marking you. He groans low in his throat—a rare, vulnerable sound—as his jaw clenches against your shoulder. You clutch at his back, panting, moaning, full in the deepest, most primal sense.

He doesn’t pull out, never does.

He stays inside you, hips pressed flush, as if trying to carve the shape of himself into your womb. You shift under him, overstimulated, but his hand presses your hip still.

“You feel that?” he breathes against your ear. “Mine.”

When Vergil finishes inside you, it’s not just sex, it’s a silent promise to keep the connection between two souls sacred. He doesn’t moan or curse, just breathes out your name like a command, like a claim, because he has control over you, but you are also his weakness.

Each time, his eyes go half-lidded, that stoic expression crossing his face, like he’s giving you something sacred that will break any minute, something he shouldn’t even think about. He’s breaking a rule he made for himself, and when his cum leaks out of you, hot and heavy, he only watches it, lips twitching faintly. “Waste nothing.”

But on the rare occasions he doesn’t finish inside you, when he has to pull out, because you’re sore or overstimulated or too full already; he’ll wrap a hand around himself at the last second and cum over your thighs, groaning through gritted teeth. Something about the way it drips down your skin drives him feral. His breath hitches, drunken on the sight of the mess both of you created.

There’s awe in him when he sees you like that—ruined, shivering, legs sticky with him. “Look at you,” he mutters, voice caught between worship and mockery, typical Vergil. “Greedy little thing. Always asking for more... and yet you can barely take it.”

The words aren’t cruel, not really. They come wrapped in quiet praise, veiled affection, something soft only you ever get from him. He leans down, mouth brushing your temple. And then stares at you like he always does, in a whisper so raw it almost doesn’t sound like him:

“I love it.” A pause. “I love you.”

Yeah, you have this man wrapped around your finger … or inside you.

Your body stirs faintly under the weight of Phainon's trembling form, but sleep clings to you like a heavy fog, your heat-scented skin radiating waves of intoxicating warmth that drive him deeper into madness. His fluffy ears twitch with every ragged breath you take, his tail thumping erratically against the bed as he presses his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.

The scent.

Your scent.

it floods his senses, sweet and musky, pulling at the primal instincts buried in his hybrid blood. He's supposed to wait, supposed to respect the boundaries Khaslana drilled into him, but how can he when you're like this? So vulnerable, so his to claim.

"P-please... wake up," Phainon whimpers again, his voice cracking with desperate need as his hips grind harder against your thigh. The fabric of your pants bunches under the friction, his hardening cock straining against his own shorts, leaking precum that soaks through and smears wetly onto you. He nuzzles closer, his sharp canines grazing your collarbone in a mix of apology and possession, a low growl mixed with a whimper rumbling in his chest—not aggressive, but possessive. 

No one else gets to smell you like this.

No one else gets to touch you. 

You're his precious kitty. His everything, and this heat of yours is a siren call he can't ignore.

His hands, rough from woodwork, clutch at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks—marks that scream 'mine mine mine' even if you don't see them yet. He shifts, straddling your leg more firmly, his body heat mingling with yours in the dim intimacy of the room. The air is thick, charged with the slick sounds of his humping, each thrust forward making his balls tighten with aching want. 

"I-I can't stop... it hurts so bad without you," he confesses in a broken sob, his tongue lolling out to lap at your skin, tasting the salt of your sweat mixed with that irresistible heat pheromones. Saliva trails down your neck as he licks broader strokes, cleaning and marking you all at once, his obsession bubbling up in the way he whispers against your ear.

"You're mine, right? Only mine... no one else can have you like this." His voice drops to a possessive hiss, even as his body submits to the rhythm, hips bucking faster, chasing friction that does nothing to sate the fire raging inside him. He wants to bury himself in you, to knot and fill you until you're bloated with his cum, until the everyone knows you belong to him.

But he waits—barely—for your eyes to flutter open, for you to acknowledge him, to let him help like he so desperately needs to. His free hand slips under your shirt, claws retracted but pads pressing warmly against your stomach, inching upward as if seeking permission in your awakening.

When your lashes finally part, hazy with sleep and the haze of heat, Phainon's pretty blue eyes lock onto yours, wide and pleading, pupils blown with lust and unhinged devotion.

"[Name]... you're awake. Let me— ahn!—let me make it better for you. P-please.." He doesn't stop his movements. He can't. His cock throbbing visibly through the damp fabric as he ruts against you, breath hot and panting over your lips. In this moment, submissive as he is, his heart coils tighter around you—refusing to let go, refusing to share.

Your eyes meet his, and in that hazy instant, the heat surging through your veins overrides any lingering drowsiness. You watch as phainon desperately rut into you, as lust began to cloud your mind.

Phainon's plea hangs in the air, his body trembling atop yours, cock twitching against your thigh with urgent need. You nod faintly and it's all the permission he needs. His ears perk up, tail wagging furiously as a broken whine spills from his throat.

"YES! Yes yes yes—thank yooouuu—!" he sobs, voice thick with relief and hunger. In a frenzy of motion, his hands fumble at your clothes, claws snagging fabric as he yanks your pants down your hips, exposing your slick hole to the cool air. The scent hits him harder now, unfiltered, and he groans, shoving his own shorts aside to free his throbbing cock. It's thick, veined, the tip already glistening with precum, knot swelling at the base in anticipation of locking inside you.

He doesn't waste time. Phainon grabs your thighs, spreading them wide as he positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock nudging against your hole. "Gonna fill you up... make you mine forever," he pants, eyes glazed with devotion, before thrusting forward in one desperate shove. His length sinks deep into your heat, stretching you around him, the slick sounds of entry filling the room as your walls clench instinctively.

"F-fuck... so tight," he whimpers, hips snapping immediately into a brutal rhythm. He's submissive in his begging, but the way he fucks you is pure possession—each plunge burying him to the hilt, balls slapping against your ass with wet smacks. 

“Phai— wait!—” Your breath was taken away from you as you feel every ridge, every pulse of his cock as he grinds against that spot inside you, his knot bumping your entrance but not yet forcing in. His hands pin your hips down, keeping you open and vulnerable beneath him in this raw missionary hold, his chest pressing to yours as he licks and nips at your neck, marking you with saliva and light bites.

The pace builds fast, his whines turning to growls of obsession. "No one else... only me breeding you," he hisses between thrusts, cock pistoning relentlessly, churning your insides with slick friction. Precum mixes with your arousal, leaking out around his shaft as he chases release, but he holds back, wanting to drag this out, to claim every inch. Your body arches into him, heat demanding more, and he obliges, angling his hips to hit deeper, the tip kissing your g-spot with each forceful drive.

But Phainon isn't done with just this. His mind races with visions of locking you in place, ensuring his seed takes root. "Need... hahh—need to knot you properly," he gasps, pulling out suddenly with an obscene pop, your hole clenching around nothing. Before you can protest the emptiness, he flips you onto your stomach, hands gripping your waist to yank your ass up high. Doggy style suits him perfectly—his hybrid instincts kicking in as he mounts you from behind, tail curling over your own possessively.

"Like this... gonna breed you like this," he breathes hot against your ear, slamming back inside with a single, brutal thrust. The new angle lets him go even deeper, cock spearing you open as his hips piston wildly. His balls swing forward, smacking your inner thigh with every pound, while one hand reaches at the flat of your stomach to press on the bulge, heightening the burn. He leans over you, weight pinning you to the mattress, teeth grazing your shoulder as he bites down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to stake his claim. "Gonna pump you full... watch it drip out, then plug you up again. You're staying bred, kitty. Mine."

The room echoes with the filthy symphony.

Skin slapping skin, your moans mingling with his desperate whines, the squelch of his cock plunging into your hole. Sweat slicks your bodies, his skin brushing your back as he ruts like a beast, knot swelling thicker now, teasing your hole with each withdrawal. He grinds it against you, stretching your rim wider, but pulls back just shy of locking, prolonging the torment. His free hand claws lightly at your sides, leaving red marks that scream ownership.

Not satisfied yet, Phainon's instinct demands more variety, more ways to bury himself and ensure you're overflowing. He withdraws again, cock bobbing slick and angry, strings of arousal connecting you. "Hold on... gotta make sure it sticks," he murmurs, voice laced with unhinged devotion. He rolls you onto your back once more, but this time hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half—the mating press, intimate and inescapable. Your knees nearly touch your chest, ass lifted off the bed as he looms over you, blue eyes boring into yours with manic intensity.

It feels so hot.

"Look at me... see how I claim you," he demands softly, submissive plea twisted with command, before driving back in. The position crushes you beneath him, his cock hitting impossibly deep, bullying your walls as gravity aids each downward thrust. His knot finally presses insistent now, the bulbous base grinding against your stretched entrance, demanding entry. You feel it pop past the ring with a lewd stretch on one particularly hard slam, locking him inside as his hips stutter.

"Ah—! Yes yes yesss—! More!—" he cries, though it's you he's begging through, body shuddering as his orgasm crashes. Hot ropes of cum flood your insides, pulsing thick and endless, his cock twitching with each spurt. He doesn't stop moving even knotted—shallow grinds, rocking to push it deeper, ensuring every drop coats your insides. His tongue lolls out, lapping at your face in sloppy affection, hands cradling your head as if you're precious, breakable—his to protect and possess.

But Phainon's fire isn't quenched. As the knot holds, he shifts you both, rolling so you're straddling his lap in a twisted reverse, his cock still buried deep. "Ride it... milk me more," he whines, hands on your hips guiding you up and down the locked length, the pressure building another load already. Cum squelches out around the seal, dripping down his balls, but he ignores it, focused on the nasty intimacy—your body impaled on him, forced to take every inch in this breeding perch.

He maneuvers again, easing you onto all fours while knotted, the tug pulling a gasp from both of you, then mounts you sideways, spooning tight as he resumes shallow thrusts. Each position milks him further, his seed overflowing, marking you inside and out. "All mine...," he whispers obsessively, nuzzling your hair, even as exhaustion tugs at him. 

Finally, spent and locked, he collapses around you, cock still pulsing faintly, ensuring his claim lingers long after the heat fades.

SEPERATE ENDINGS — REAVER | KHASLANA

SPECIAL CHAPTER — ❝AT THE SAME DAMN TIME!❞

wc— 1695. | edited.