Mars

He tells himself he is unaffected, that he has simply grown accustomed to your presence after travelling together for so long without interruption. Yet the moment your scent reaches him through the steam and unwelcome distance, the first of many locks inside him loosens with an humiliating ease.

Warmth spreads low in his chest before he can entirely register what is happening, causing his fingers to flex once against the edge of the spring. After another, intentional moment of avoiding you, does he slowly glance toward your shape from beneath dark lashes.

For one suspended moment he devours the view you spoil him with while your figure emerges through the drifting mist as you pause near the edge of the spring.

Suddenly, you feel more aware of yourself beneath his attention despite all the confidence you usually carry. The chemise, which hugs your body, is thin enough to feel indecent under his stare even before the water touches it. It is concealing and revealing in equal measure, and you almost regret choosing it at all… almost.

But then you become aware of how intensely Blade notices you. To anyone else he may seem unchanged, but you have been with him long enough to notice the gentle flex of his jaw and the flustered way his gaze flicks across the water's surface. He acts as if he has no interest in looking at you at all, which only makes the truth far more obvious and amusing.

"You're avoiding me," you murmur eventually, and try your hardest to cover your own nerves behind a thick layer of teasing confidence despite the butterflies fluttering inside your stomach.

"You took long enough," he replies instead, in a voice that is almost too smooth. Blade's gaze shifts at the darkened sky with maddening composure while entirely unwilling to acknowledge the accusation, though the slight roughness beneath his tone betrays him anyway.

The first step into the spring sends warmth curling around your ankles and calves immediately, which eases a soft breath from your lungs as the heat seeps into your body. Chased away is the the cool mountain air with every step you take, but the stone beneath the water is smoother than expected and your balance falters briefly.

Before you can steady yourself, Blade lifts one hand toward you through the steam without even looking directly at you. As much as he may feign disinterest beautifully, he still offers you everything all at once. The gesture feels so natural that it reveals how caring he can be under all the gruff layers.

Your fingers slide into his palm, and his grip tightens instinctively around your hand with a warm and certain hold the moment your skin touches his. It is then that Blade finally looks at you properly, now that you descend further into the spring. This time he fails to conceal the way his stare clings to your curves as the water soaks through the thin fabric instantly.

His eyes flick downward before returning quickly to your face as if he resents his own lack of control, but it is already too late. The view is seared into his mind; how the chemise clings to every curve of yours, outlining your body while a single droplet slides slowly along your throat and collarbone.

To him it feels like another eternity has passed until you finally settled beside him in the water, close enough for your shoulders to almost touch while the spring envelops you completely in a soothing heat. For a long while neither of you speak at all, you can't even remember the last exchange before silence became your closest companion.

Yet, the sound of silence has never frightened you with Blade; these moments have never felt empty. Rather, they are rich with the tells of his breathing, the awkward shift of his body, and eventually a curiosity when he feels safe.

Steam drifts between your bodies while the scent of cedar and salty minerals wraps itself around you both, and little by little you begin closing the distance yourself. Your knee brushes against his first beneath the water, then your shoulder nudges his in the most innocent of touches. Were it not for the accidental graze of your fingers against his own, Blade might have ignored all your cues entirely.

But instead, you receive a reaction, however subtle it may be since Blade seems to freeze further. Until you turn your palm upward beneath the water, an offering without words that his eyes understand now that he gazes toward the movement before they lift up slowly back to your face.

There is always hesitation with him when tenderness is at play. Not that he means to reject you, but rather that intimacy requires him to surrender to something much more scary. As though he still cannot understand why softness continues reaching for him despite all his sharp and ruined angles.

Yet after a pause that stretches long enough, his fingers finally slide against yours and intertwine carefully beneath the water. The contact draws a slow breath from him that he tries unsuccessfully to hide thanks to the comforting notes of your scent that have begun to mix with the steam of the hot spring.

"You look tired," barely more than a soft murmur while you trace your thumb along his knuckles. Blade's lashes begin to feel heavy at the faint touch, his body instinctively seeks more of you rather than the hard stone.

"I'm always tired." He tries to sound dismissive as per usual, but his hand feels impossibly warm despite the spring as it lightly squeezes yours even at the tough act he wants to upkeep.

"That's not what I mean." A gust of air sings between the cedar trees as silence follows before Blade exhales through his nose, not quite amused and not quite resigned either. "You notice too much."

"I'd rather call it... that I only have eyes for you." It's another one of your playful attempts to loosen the tightly wounded knots around his heart, and sometimes, like tonight, it works.

Blade's gaze shifts toward you again with that familiar unreadable intensity that always causes your pulse to stumble once he arches a brow at you.

In these unguarded, private moments Blade has the habit of looking at you like someone who is trying very hard not to need something; trying very hard not to want someone.

So you lean in closer, in careful stages, since rushing won't ever do you any good with this Blade. Eventually, your shoulder presses fully against his, and your free hand rises slowly to brush a damp strand of dark hair away from his face.

Blade closes his eyes for the briefest second at the contact before reopening them again, yet he looks at you much softer now.

"You don't have to act unaffected with me," you whisper while allowing your fingertips to linger against his temple. "We play this game every time where you try your hardest to convince me that you don't want things. I know you want things."

Blade sighs softly at that, and the first response he can offer is a gentled headbutt in a flustered attempt to get you off his case. But you don't cease, you press, you cradle, you care. Which causes Blade's jaw to faintly tighten before responding with honesty. "Every time we touch, every time I want, I wait for things to end badly."

"Not this," you resist softly, with such honesty that Blade has to wonder where you find the audacity to trust in him so much. "I can promise you this won't end badly," another insistence of yours that tugs at the corner of Blade's mouth.

He turns his face slightly into your touch before seeming to realise what he is doing, and the restraint that snaps right back into its place makes you ache for him even more. It's like playing cat and mouse, though the cat doesn't realise it's a predator.

"If I didn't know you any bettter, I would assume you to be fishing for compliments," you go on while tenderly pushing your fingertip against Blade's cheek. "I'm not-" He begins, only for you to continue."You make me feel good," a quiet confession, because your voice feels nearly drowned out by the sound of water moving around the rocks. "Wanted. Safe. Happy." Your fingers drift lower against his jaw. "I wish you would stop behaving like wanting me is something shameful."

Blade stares at you in silence after that, he seems almost offended at the choice of your words.

You watch the conflict move behind his eyes while your thumb strokes slowly across his cheekbone, and eventually his hand leaves yours beneath the water only to settle against your waist instead. Large fingers spread over the soaked fabric clinging to your body before tightening gradually, to pull you closer between his spread knees until the warmth of him surrounds you entirely.

"Shameful? Is this your way of provoking me tonight?" He wonders in a soft murmur. Your mouth stretches into a small grin before you simply dare to giggle right into death's face. "Yes, apparently only drastic measures work with you."

Blade exhales close to a laugh before his eyes flick briefly toward your lips. His restraint hangs by threads now, you can confirm as much through every lingering touch, every prolonged stare, every measured breath against your skin.

So you kiss him first. Kiss him slowly, so sweetly which would allow him to pull away if he wishes so. But he never does—once you're in, he is falling.

The sound Blade makes when your lips meet is lithe enough to disappear beneath the steam, yet you feel it vibrate through his chest as one arm slides firmly around your waist and the other lifts toward the back of your neck.

Then he is kissing you in response, his infamous restrain unravels second by second the longer you remain pressed up against him. Each slow give of his mouth against yours grows heavier with all the wanting Blade usually buries beneath silence every day. His fingers flex against you through the fabric of your chemise while your own hands drift over his shoulders and throat, where they trace scarred skin and discover old tales.

You lose count of how many times your mouths meet. The only thing you are certain of is that Blade follows you whenever you part slightly for a breath of air while he greeds for more kisses, more touches, more you.

"Needy," you whisper against his lips eventually, yet your tone is covered in honey, decadently drenched with affection more than teasing. Blade opens his eyes just enough to fix you with a deep look that utterly fails to conceal how affected he is. "This is your fault," nothing more than a wanting rasp whispered against your lips since he already seeks you out again.

"Whatever happened to your restraint?" You whisper then as you deny him the kiss by leaning back, only for his hand to tighten warningly at your nape. The gesture causes a soft laugh to bubble from your throat.

Blade's forehead lowers briefly against yours, in a way that leads to an intimacy which nearly steals the breath from your lungs entirely. You feel him exhale slowly against your mouth before his hands finally guide you fully into his lap until you straddle him.

The heat appears to increase once your thighs settle against his own beneath the water. Now, your soaked clothes cling between your bodies while Blade leans back slightly over the stone edge of the spring to look up at you properly.

A fierce surge of unparalleled want rises through you at the beautiful sight painted in front of you: He looks so full of want and strange surrender beneath you. Damp and dishevelled hair frames his face, while kiss-swollen lips beckon for further attention as unbearably gentle eyes swallow you whole.

Your fingers drift slowly along the scars crossing his shoulders and chest, where his palms roam your body with increasing confidence as they slide over your hips and waist in attempt to memorise the shape of you through soaked fabric and heated skin alike.

It is then that you kiss him again. Again. And again. Every kiss slower than the last, deeper than the last, until the world beyond the spring disappears entirely thanks to the overwhelming lust overtaking every flicker of doubt.

The pressure of his hands, the warmth of his mouth, the subtle shift of his breathing whenever your hips move unconsciously against his beneath the water makes restraint seem like a folly.

In a moment where his lips are inhabited, Blade's head tips back briefly at one particular movement before he catches himself. Though you saw the moan he swallowed thickly, felt the dig of his fingers as they clung to your thighs… and you definitely feel the growing hardness insisting on your attention.

"There you are," you breathe so light like cotton candy and smile so sweetly against his jaw as embarrassment finally flickers across his features for the briefest moment. "You enjoy this too much." Oh, how Blade tries to make his voice sound like a warning, but it's gentled down now, mellow from his desires he always attempts to keep in check until the last minute.

"And you are cute when you lose composure." You whisper the words with nothing short of unbridled adoration; yet how come such words drive a man into madness? Blade lets out another low exhale that nearly resembles laughter before one hand slides upward along your spine beneath your wet hair, pulling you flush against his chest until your heartbeat presses directly against his own.

Heat blooms immediately between your bodies now that there is no defence zone to remain while your thighs spread wider across his lap. When your hips shift instinctively against him this time, the reaction you draw from him is impossible to miss. A rough breath catches low in his throat, one that you feel much more rather than hear it since Blade is an expert at stifling his sounds against the curve of your neck.

Here, he presses slow lingering kisses against damp skin that make your entire body melt into him without resistance. The sensation of his lips against your pulse feels unbearably intimate in the drifting steam and mountain silence, while his hands worship your body with a hunger that becomes harder to conceal.

Though the truth spills from him in dozens of tiny betrayals once you learn where to look. The slight furrow appearing between his brows whenever your nails scrape along his shoulders and back, or the way his eyes lower whenever you praise him too sincerely. His entire body grows still when you hold him gently, as if part of him still cannot believe tenderness remains aimed at him.

You can feel him wanting more. Feel it in the way his grip tightens whenever your hips shift against his; feel it in the way he breathes your name against your skin. Then he kisses you once more with enough longing behind it to leave both of you breathless.

The spring grows hotter the longer you remain tangled together, though perhaps it only feels that way because Blade has finally stopped pretending he is unaffected by you.

His hands no longer hesitate when they settle along your waist, and his mouth no longer pulls away quite so quickly after kissing you. Even his gaze changes little by little beneath the lantern glow, growing heavier each time your hips grind against the heavy bulge hidden underneath the soaked towel wrapped around his waist.

Though the sweetest indulgence of all is how terribly responsive Blade is to softness. Every time your fingers comb through the damp strands at the nape of his neck, every time your lips brush slowly against the corner of his mouth, and every time your eyes lock with his, you feel his hands tighten around you in silent demand for more.

The final nail in Blade's coffin is the moment your hand settles lower beneath the surface. His stomach tightens sharply beneath your fingertips while the muscles along his thighs tense underneath yours, and suddenly the restraint he has been clinging to all evening is nothing but a frighteningly fragile memory.

Sudden, crude touches have never unravelled Blade. No, what does it for him is the slow, certain descend of your hand—the only hands whose touch he welcomes. At least with you he can be a glutton, greedy to feel your touch all over while your mouth continues kissing him with unbearable gentleness, as if you are comforting him and teasing him apart all at once.

Your hips have been rolling against his lap for several minutes now, the soaked fabric trapped between you doing absolutely nothing to lessen the sensation. Every slow drag downward has him swallowing sharply. Every careless grind of your hips pulls another strained breath from him. The water disguises how desperately his body responds to you, but not completely, at least not from you.

Then, finally, the mask slips entirely as his fingers dig into your hips, firm enough to still your movements for one suspended second. His lashes flutter lower as one hand clamps hard against your waist, and the other braces against the stone edge behind him like he suddenly requires the support.

You feel him growing harder beneath the heat of the spring every time you shift against him, feel the subtle jerk of his hips whenever your body presses too perfectly into his. And now your hand is making matters worse—much worse.

But you would be insane to let him retreat now, not when he is this affected. No, you chase him, you lean in over his body and press your breasts flush against his chest as your lips find his all over again. "So responsive," you whisper over his lips rather than kissing him once more, unable to help the smile that pulls at your mouth.

Blade opens his eyes just enough to fix you with a stare that might have felt intimidating if his hands were not still clutching you with such obvious need. "You enjoy provoking me."

"You make it so easy tonight." Shot back too soon, too sure of yourself which causes him to smirk in response as pure want flickers in his body. "Brat," he breathes out before the clashing of your lips as a soft sound escapes him then, indecisive whether it be exasperation or reluctant amusement, but you feel the tension inside his body loosen another fraction.

Blade rarely laughs outright, but moments like this come close enough to feel precious. You brush your nose gently against his before kissing him all over again, this time slower to savour the way he immediately follows your mouth when you attempt to pull away again. He cannot help it anymore, cannot keep himself from bucking his hips against your willing hand as the wanting in him has risen too close to the surface.

He drops his forehead heavily against your shoulder while your fingers curl more purposely around his girth beneath the water. A rough sound leaves him then, low and strained and startlingly vulnerable compared to his usual nature.

He is trying so hard not to lose himself; proven in the unsteady grip against your waist, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing against your throat, in the visible effort it takes for him not to move helplessly into your touch.

"You're trembling," you note too casually as you speak softly into his damp hair. "It's cold outside," Blade mutters hoarsely against your skin, though the words lose all sharpness when his hips betray him with an involuntary thrust beneath the water.

He makes you chuckle against his temple as affection spills through your chest at the terrible excuse. "Liar." But you kiss him all the same before he can retreat behind embarrassment, while your hand continues to pump along his erection with agonising patience.

Blade melts into the kiss instantly, his mouth parting against yours with a rough inhale before he suddenly takes over control. His hands roam your body almost desperately, to squeeze your ass and slide the drenched fabric of your chemise further up your hips like he needs to feel you whole, right inside this very open space of the hot spring.

Spread deeper over his lap, the movement presses you directly against him for heat to shoot through both of you at once. A breathless gasp slips from your throat this time, now that your hips rock more fully against the prominent hardness trapped between your bodies, and Blade nearly breaks apart from it.

His eyes shut tight while the friction turns messy quickly after those slow rolling movements become deeper without either of you consciously deciding it. Your thighs tighten against Blade's lap while his hands guide your hips helplessly against him again and again.

"You feel too good," he breathes eventually, his voice carrying a roughened cadence that makes you wish he were to always sound like that. "Stop feeling so good, stop moving like that," Blade tries so hard to regain his mind, his composure, under your relentless kisses as your mouths continue meeting between words.

Which only makes teasing him even more irresistible. You shift against him again, slower this time, to bring a strained breath forward while his hands flex hard against your thighs, trying (and failing) to steady either of you properly.

"Careful," he warns quietly, though the word sounds entirely too wrecked already. "You say that," you murmur while brushing your lips along his jaw, "but you're the one holding me down in your lap. You want this even more than I do."

The statement dissolves into another low sound when your fingertips threaten to undo the knot of his towel the same moment your hips grind down into his lap again. One trembling exhale leaves him then, and his head tips back far enough to expose the long line of his throat to you entirely.

He looks beautiful like this; ruined by softness, ravished by wanting.

Unable to resist, you kiss along his throat, while his hips jerk once more beneath you despite all his attempts. Blade curses softly under his breath, though the sound gives way for another ragged inhale when you suck gently at the pulse beneath his jaw.

"You're cruel tonight." A grin spreads slowly across your mouth at the accusation because he sounds genuinely overwhelmed, his usual composure reduced to shaky breaths and grasping hands. "You're really that close?" you whisper against his skin with obvious delight, and Blade opens his eyes just enough to glare at you through visible embarrassment.

"You have your hand wrapped around me. How do you expect me not to be close?" He spends so much of his existence holding himself together through sheer force alone that witnessing him unravel willingly inside your arms feels intimate in a way words could never capture.

"And?" You seem entirely unbothered though, almost coaxing in the way you wait for him to fill the rest of the sentence as you give him another, generous grind of your hips.

Blade exhales sharply at that, as a faint flush finally appears high across his cheeks beneath the lantern light. "And you keep grinding against me like you want me to lose control," his eyes narrow at you with wounded dignity.

"You're adorable tonight," you murmur before kissing him again, so faint he is not sure if it truly happened. "All desperate."

"Watch yourself. I am not desperate." The great terrifying Stellaron Hunter sits half-submerged in steaming water while growing visibly more flustered because you called him adorable, or maybe it was the way you said desperate.

You cannot help the soft laugh slipping free against his mouth and Blade actually groans afterwards, dragging one hand down over his face briefly while his chest rises and falls harder than before. "Don't laugh at me."

You kiss him before he can regret saying it aloud. Though this collision is messy, needy, wilder as your fingers cling to damp hair while Blade nips on your lower lip, while his tongue conquers that filthy mouth of yours, and his intent steals your thoughts.

Too much happens at once, to the point it is hard to tell apart instigator from victim. One moment he, once again, encourages the grind of your hips as he moans into your mouth and bucks his heavy length up into you, before he just as suddenly forces your movements to still completely. His fingers are firm at your waist now that he presses his forehead against yours and exhales shakily through his nose.

"Enough," he mutters eventually, yet his voice still sounds wrecked. Blade is trying to regain control, trying very, very hard to the point you cannot find pity within you. "If you continue, this ends badly for me," he adds to get the message across, "and you."

"Ow," you whisper but the chuckles make it impossible to appear compassionate. "That sensitive?"

Blade lets out a low groan before lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes again, visibly struggling to steady himself while steam clings to his lashes and damp hair shadows his expression. "You need to stop."

"You don't sound very convincing." You brush your nose gently against his, while smiling so sweetly it only makes his expression grow more tortured.

"We are in public." The strained seriousness in his voice only causes the devil in you to do its worst. "There's nobody here," You sound so smug, so sure to get away with driving Blade to the brink of madness with your constant grinding and how nicely, very nicely, your fingers pump his length.

"There are rooms directly above us." He looks genuinely torn now, caught somewhere between desire and self-restraint while your fingers remain trapped gently inside his grip beneath the water.

"But you're not stopping me, not really," you whisper near victoriously. Blade's composure has unravelled so thoroughly that even his usual sharpness appears softened around the edges, buried beneath warmth and embarrassment and the terrible realisation that you know exactly how much power you hold over him tonight.

"You are enjoying this far too much," he mutters against your throat while closing his eyes briefly since the sound of your laughter alone might undo him all together. Then he exhales slowly before releasing your wrist beneath the water, but his hand immediately settles possessively at your waist again.

"Because you're cute when you're overwhelmed," a whisper filled with enough love it causes Blade to slowly open his eyes again. Successfully lured out of his spot, he locks you down with a stare that is more dilated pupils than anything else. The embarrassment remains, yes, but it has shifted after being teased so thoroughly.

The sight of him makes desire curl through you all over again, with damp hair falling into his eyes and lips swollen from kissing, while his cheeks remain flushed from how close you pushed him in the water.

"You won't be laughing later," he warns quietly, but before you can respond properly, Blade catches your mouth in another kiss and drags you flush against him again. One final slow grind of his hips against yours pulls matching breaths from both of you then as you feel exactly how hard it is for him to stop here.

How badly he wants to let go beneath your hands and mouth and praise. Yet somehow he manages it anyway, burying his face briefly against your neck anew while his breathing steadies little by little against your skin.

"You're insufferable," he murmurs, though his hands refuse to let you go. "And you love me." The statement calls for a pause, before his response almost disappears beneath the sound of the lapping water. "Enough to let you get away with this once," Blade answers against your mouth.

Once.

Your pulse stumbles instantly beneath his threat, but you would be caught in a web of lies were you to confess your regret over the torture inside the hot springs. Never has he ever let you get away with mischief close to the level of tonight, which makes this all the more precious.

Blade brushes one final kiss against your mouth before deciding. "We should go inside." The way he says it leaves very little room for misunderstanding, causing you to smile immediately despite the heat rushing through you. "Finally giving in?"

One of his hands slides slowly along your thigh beneath the water while his eyes remain fixed on yours. "You've spent the entire evening provoking me," he murmurs. "You can deal with the consequences."

Anticipation spreads through your body at the sound of his promise, and at the thought of the night that waits ahead. Blade appears almost playful beneath all that lingering restraint, loosened enough by affection and longing that a lightness finally peeks through the cracks.

You kiss him once more before his hands slide slowly down your thighs, where he lifts you carefully from his lap despite your soft protest. The moment you stand from the water, the soaked chemise clings transparently enough to your body that Blade visibly loses his train of thought for a second time that evening.

His eyes drag slowly over you before he exhales sharply through his nose and looks away with obvious effort. You cannot help your grin, cannot stop judging how cute he appears to be tonight. Before all that cuteness vanishes as the sudden predatory grace to his movement when he reaches for your hand to throw you over his shoulder and carry you inside your room.

۶ৎ "Have you ever felt... muted, my lady?" he asked during one of his frequent, uninvited visits. You struggled to grasp his meaning until he leaned in closer, his scent like crushed violets and ozone. "As if the world around you is muffled by a heavy shroud? As if you are standing just out of reach of a great, thrumming music?"

۶ৎ "I... no," you responded, your voice wavering with uncertainty. "I mean, aside from the constant fatigue and the bouts of insomnia, I feel fine. I suppose I just have a weak constitution." You truly believed your own lie, unaware that your "illness" was merely your magic choking under the weight of the iron.

۶ৎ It drove his senses to the brink of madness to see you so oblivious. You thought him eccentric, perhaps a bit macabre because of his humor, but he saw the truth: the iron was poisoning you, masking the vibrant creature beneath. If he could only strip that metal away, he knew you would see colors that didn't exist in the human spectrum, smell scents a hundred times more intoxicating, and feel a touch... far more sensitive than any mortal could endure.

۶ৎ But Flins could not touch the iron. The one time his fingers had brushed the chain by accident, his reaction was so violent—a searing, visceral rejection—that his human glamour nearly shattered. He had felt his true, jagged form threatening to rip through his skin, a revelation that would have ended his game far too soon.

۶ৎ And then there was the selfish core of his obsession. He claimed he wanted you to be free, but in reality, he wanted you to be his. He wanted to witness the moment your eyes adjusted to the blinding brilliance of the otherworld, his world, but more than anything...

۶ৎ He wanted to finally touch you. He craved the sensation of your warmth against his unnaturally cold, porcelain-slick skin. He wanted to taste the impossibility of your lips and finally inhale your true scent—not the floral notes of your shampoo, but the heady, wild musk of the Fae blood singing in your veins.

۶ৎ He fantasized about marking you, leaving bruises with his lips that would bloom like dark flowers on your skin. He wanted to watch you squirm beneath him as he introduced you to pleasures no human man could ever conceive, pushing your mind into a blissful, static-filled void.

۶ৎ He wanted to possess you so thoroughly that your thoughts would become a monologue of his name, until his scent was the only air you breathed. And then, an opportunity arose—one as dangerous as it was perfect.

۶ৎ The forbidden fruit. Fae fruit.

۶ৎ He knew the legends were true: a full human who consumed the fruit of his homeland would spiral into a permanent, hollow madness, their soul effectively burned away by the intensity of the magic. The pure power running through their blood would act like a lethal intoxicant, leaving them either a mindless puppet or a corpse.

۶ৎ A human... a complete human would break. But you were not whole, and that was the gamble he was willing to take. There was only one thing in existence that iron magic could not suppress.

۶ৎ Fae magic at its most primal, ingested source. Once inside your body, the fruit's power would be so overwhelming that the iron would no longer be able to mute your spirit. You would either succumb to his every command, or your dormant side would wake with such ferocity that you would rip the necklace off yourself just to stop the internal pressure.

۶ৎ When you finally tasted it, the reaction was more exquisite than he had dared to hope. The scent of you—the real you—erupted, filling his senses like a thousand gardens blooming in an instant. He watched, enthralled, as gold and silver sparks flickered in your pupils while your human consciousness struggled to process the influx of power.

۶ৎ "Oh, how terribly unkind of me," he murmured, his voice a low purr as he caught your swaying form. His arm coiled around your waist like a serpent, steadying you. "To have offered such a delicacy without explaining the... profound effects."

۶ৎ "Wha..." You could barely draw breath. Your nervous system was screaming, every nerve ending firing at once, but the epicenter of the agony was your throat. The skin beneath the iron was turning a violent, angry red. With a surge of strength you didn't know you possessed, you shoved him back, gripping the edge of a heavy table for support. "What the hell did you give me?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a fury he had never seen.

۶ৎ It felt as though something inside you was trying to claw its way out, to shred your skin and manifest in the air. "Fuck..." Your voice cracked. The pain was astronomical. Even the friction of your clothes against your skin felt like tongues of flame. "It burns! It hurts!"

۶ৎ You reached for the necklace, but the moment your fingers touched the metal, it felt like grabbing a live wire. The iron was fighting the magic now, and you were the battlefield.

۶ৎ "Ah, yes. My poor, Milaya¹," he whispered. In less than a heartbeat, he was behind you, his body pressing yours firmly against the table, pinning you in place. "I would tear the very sky asunder to finally bring your true self into the light." He began to speak in a tongue that sounded like grinding stones and melodic glass, a language you couldn't understand but which vibrated in your very marrow. His voice seemed to fill the room, the walls, the very air in your lungs, making escape an impossibility.

۶ৎ "Stay away..." you gasped, but it was a pathetic, broken plea. Your fingernails dug into the wood of the table until they almost bled. You knew it was the necklace; you knew he wanted it gone. But the defiant, human part of you clung to your grandmother’s warning, even as your skin felt like it was being flayed alive by the awakening power within.

۶ৎ "I see," he began, and that soft, polite smile of his twisted into a glint of teasing and cheekiness you had never seen before. You could have sworn the thunder began to manifest outside at his very whim, the cold rain dropping furiously against the windows as if the sky itself were weeping in anticipation. "You are incredibly stubborn; I admire that, but..." His long, cool fingers hooked beneath your chin, tilting your head back until his eyes found yours—eyes that drank in the human fury he seemed to enjoy so much. "Take it off."

۶ৎ Your hand flew instinctively to the necklace, ignoring the searing, white-hot sensation against your palms. It was as if your soul—that fragile, lingering part of your humanity—could no longer ignore the gravity of his command. It was as if the magic now roaring through your blood had no choice but to obey or tear your very vessel apart.

۶ৎ And then... it happened. The sharp, discordant snap of the iron breaking filled the room like a gunshot, and then...

¹Milaya (Милая): My sweetheart/my dear (femenine).

²Dushamoya (Душа моя): my soul (femenine).

︵ . ︵﹒︵୨ ꒰ Obsession ꒱ ୧︵ . ︵﹒︵

The world had become far too much.

The sound of the rain was no longer a rhythmic patter, but a thunderous, rhythmic drumming that vibrated through your very marrow. The rush of your own breath sounded like a gale, and the frantic staccato of your heart against your eardrums was deafening. Even the colors of the room had sharpened into something jagged and blinding; it was as if the light you had perceived with human eyes had been a mere imitation—viewed through dirty, clouded crystals that could never hope to capture the true, searing brilliance of the world.

You could no longer bear the weight of it. Your pulse raced with a terrifying velocity, and the scent of the wet earth from the cemetery outside—mingled with the sudden, heady musk of your own awakening essence—swirled into a sickening vortex. It made you nauseous, a physical vertigo that threatened to shatter your mind. Your human vessel was finally fracturing under the strain, unable to contain the raw, ancient power of a soul that had been caged for far too long.

"Hu...rts..." The word was a broken sliver of sound, barely a ghost of a whisper, but it was more than enough for his perfect, predatory ears to catch.

It was then that you felt it—the ghost of a soft, lingering kiss pressed over the bridge of your nose. His lips were unnaturally cold, yet as soft as the finest silk. His fingers, which had been anchoring your chin, slid upward to cradle the salt-slicked skin of your cheek. You were crying, the tears hot and heavy, though you hadn't even realized when the first sob had broken through.

"Please focus on me, Dushamoya²," he murmured, and then came that sensation again—the ghost of those soft lips pressing against your feverish skin. It felt as though your body had become a blank, open page, every touch so vivid it seemed to pierce through the surface to brush directly against your raw nerves. You couldn't have known how utterly hypnotized he was, how deeply he was reeling from the sheer, intoxicating reality of having you finally unchained.

The scent of your true kind was rising from you now, drowning out the world. He listened to the frantic drum of your human heart—a mere vessel for the brilliant, unearthly soul you carried. His eyes, like twin pours of molten sunlight, traveled down to your throat where the iron had left its mark. The sight of that angry, weeping redness taining your skin made him furious; it was a sacrilege that such a horrendous thing had ever been permitted to touch you.

Flins stared at you, watching your eyes remain squeezed shut, your eyelashes clumped together with the weight of the tears still rolling down your cheeks. Yet, the agony was no longer tearing you apart; it had begun to melt into a heavy, rhythmic thrum. "Open your eyes, my dear."

"I can't..." you replied, your voice a fractured thing. Everything was still far too loud, far too bright. "I feel too much... everything—what have you done to me?"

You felt one of his long, unfairly elegant fingers hook behind your ear, brushing your hair aside to fully expose the ruined skin of your neck to his gaze.

"My apologies," he began, his free hand finding its way to the first button of your shirt. You felt the fabric shift under his graceful movements as he worked the fastenings, eventually peeling the collar back to expose the curve of your shoulder. Goodness... the skin was a scorched crimson, and he could still smell the lingering, bitter tang of the iron. He wanted to scrub every trace of it away—to erase anything that reminded him of the moments when you weren't entirely his. "Allow me to make your senses finally focus on one thing."

He tilted your head back with a slow, cat-like grace. First came his breath against your skin, unnaturally cold and smelling of winter air; then, the velvet softness of his nose brushed that sensitive hollow of your throat. Your body instinctively surged, wanting to both recoil and lean into him. Finally, his lips met your skin—damp and impossibly soft—pressing directly into the bruised path where the iron had damaged you only moments ago.

"...?!"

It wasn't painful. Instead, it was as if a phantom feather had brushed your skin—as if the unnatural coldness of his lips was simultaneously a soothing ointment for your bruises and a trail of liquid fire ignited within your nerves.

He felt it instantly: the sharp, sudden tension in your frame before the involuntary surrender of your body into his hands. A teasing, predatory smile curved his lips as his nose explored the column of your throat. With a bold, possessive movement, he took the soft skin of your neck into his mouth, sucking with an intensity that made his intentions agonizingly clear. And then, he heard it.

"Ngh...!"

That soft, broken sound—an involuntary whimper that made him want to turn you around and tear you apart right there on the table.

"I dont want you to open your eyes," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin as he admired the blooming redness of his most recent mischief. He pressed a kiss into the hollow of your ear—that agonizingly sensitive spot—eliciting a shuddering reaction from your body. One of his hands moved to shield your eyes, keeping you submerged in darkness, while the other anchored you in place, exactly where he wanted you. "You aren't yet ready to see the world as it truly is."

He lashed his tongue against your skin in a slow, deliberate stroke, and your back arched instinctively. In this newfound sensory overload, you could hear the thrum of his heartbeat—steady and ancient—and then, that smell.

It was an intoxicating musk that seemed to coax your senses out of hiding. You couldn't tell if the scent belonged to you or to him, but it made your head spin. Even though your mind was a chaotic blur, your body was reacting with a primal urgency to something you didn't yet fully understand.

You felt the biting cold of the table as your elbows leaned over the wood, your chest pressing against the surface to steady yourself. The sensation helped ground you in the darkness, making it feel as if all your remaining senses were attuned solely to him—to the precision of his touch, the soft intent behind his kisses, and the way his tongue explored the line of your neck. His kisses trailed downward to your shoulder, where he caught the skin in a sharp, sudden nibble.

"You..." He pressed a final, lingering kiss to your shoulder, right beside his most recent decoration—a flush of pink that was already deepening into a dark, telltale mark. "You make me want to stop playing the gentleman, my love. You make me want to force the night, the moon, and every star beyond the sky to watch as I become a sinner just for you."

When he finally uncovered your eyes, lifting you until you were perched upon the table, the world rushed in. The swirling magic within you had finally begun to settle, cooling into a steady hum. Everything was impossibly bright, but now you noticed something more: a deep, ethereal blue aura clung to him like a shroud of quiet fire, the very manifestation of his ancient soul. His hand reached out, a single finger poised to brush the bruised, angry skin of your throat, but...

Slap!

Perhaps you weren't entirely in your right mind, or perhaps the Fae blood in your veins had finally woken up with a vengeful spark. You didn't care that he was clearly something far beyond human; you lunged forward, fist bunching in the fine fabric of his clothes, hauling him so close that his intoxicating scent nearly drowned you.

"I don't know what the hell you think you’ve done to me," you began, your breath ragged and hot against his face. The heat wasn't just blooming in your cheeks; the lingering ghost of his kisses felt like a brand on your skin. "But you’re going to finish exactly what you started, and you’re going to do it now. Then, you’re going to explain what the fuck is going on before I lose my temper."

Flins studied your face, captivated by the volatile cocktail of fury and determination. He saw the desire you were trying—and failing—to hide, and the part of you that was still utterly terrified by the crumbling of your reality.

"I will," he whispered, his hand lingering over the cheek where he had earlier wiped away your tears. He was incredibly serious now, his voice a low, sacred vow. "I promise."

"You better." you retorted, refusing to let go, your forehead pressed against his as you breathed over his lips.

A slow, teasing smile curled his mouth. He was clearly savoring the way you were now unashamedly demanding to be consumed by him and his flames. "Whatever am I going to do with that mouth of yours?" He began to trail kisses along your jawline, his lips following the delicate curve until they fell back onto the sensitive skin of your neck, where the redness was already starting to fade as your body’s new, accelerated healing took hold.

He pressed one last, lingering kiss there—a deep, possessive mark that made your back arch deliciously, forcing a sound from your throat that sounded dangerously like a moan.

"Such an unashamed lady," he murmured. His hand pressed against your chest, guiding you back until you rested on your elbows. He looked down at you, relishing the defiant hunger in your eyes as the marks of his kisses bloomed across your skin like dark, bruised roses in the moonlight.

You watched as he finally drew his gloves off, cast aside as if the mere barrier between his skin and yours had become an unbearable sacrilege. It was as if he physically needed to feel the feverish heat of your pulse against his own preternatural cold, direct and unyielding.

You weren't sure what was more devastating: the suffocating, torturous slowness with which he began to undress you, or the way he systematically tested every soft, aching curve of your body. His touch sent tremors through your frame, forcing your back to arch against the hard wood of the table as he drove your mind and soul toward a jagged edge. All the while, the remaining magic of the fruit continued its work, peeling back the mundane film from your eyes until you finally began to see the world as your true self always should have—vibrant, terrifying, and beautiful.

He stole a lingering kiss that seemed to draw the very breath from your lungs. You could still taste the phantom sweetness of the forbidden fruit in his mouth too as he swept you up, his powerful hands anchoring beneath your thighs to carry you toward his bedroom. Your arms wound tightly around his neck, grounding you as his kisses made you lose all track of time and the fading world outside.

It felt as though he had physically transported a piece of his snowy, ancient homeland into the room with you. The air grew sharp and charged with the scent of frost and magic as the bedroom door clicked shut, the sound final and heavy.

And you knew, as his gaze locked onto yours with a terrifying, blue-fire intensity, that you couldn't escape anymore.

The moment the last of his clothes touched the floor, it was as if your newly awakened senses snapped into a singular, sharp focus: him.

Inevitably, your eyes traveled downward, lingering for just a heartbeat, and you felt a fresh wave of heat creep as rapidly toward your hairline as he gracefully climbed into the bed with you. Flins didn't miss the deepening flush or the way your gaze had stuttered over his form; as he settled between your thighs, he offered only a knowing, dark glint in his eyes, choosing to let the observation pass without a word—for now.

His lips claimed yours, and you responded with a hunger that felt entirely natural, yet terrifyingly potent. Perhaps it was the way his unnatural body made your own feel everything ten times more intensely, or perhaps it was the raw intimacy of the way he held your hand, anchoring you as he began to sink inside. He moved with a torturous slowness, as if he wanted you to feel every agonizing second he had spent waiting to finally savor you, until at last, he was seated completely within you.

"Ah...!" You couldn't stifle the sound that escaped your lips, muffled against his mouth. Your back arched instinctively, a visceral reaction to the sheer, overwhelming tide of pleasure that no human touch could have ever provoked.

He shifted his weight onto one elbow, while his other hand clamped firmly onto your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. He began to move, a rhythmic, purposeful glide that made the world tilt on its axis. As his breath brushed against your ear, he whispered a string of low, melodic words in that ancient language you still couldn't understand, though your soul seemed to hum in recognition.

"You feel divine," he murmured, pressing a kiss over that aching, sensitive spot on your neck and stealing another sharp gasp from your lungs. You could hear a soft, dark laugh escaping his lips, a sound of pure, predatory triumph as he watched your body squirm beneath him. "I could spend an eternity unraveling you, and it still wouldn't be enough to satisfy my hunger over you, my treasure."

You tried to respond, you truly tried to... but between the sensation of his skin against your, him deeply buried over you and... and the way the world around you seemed to react so naturally to what was happening in that room, the way you felt the room slightly colder, the way a soft unexplainable wave of electricity traveled through your skin, touching all of your soft spots at once and the way he was so natural in taking you, drinking you in, tasting every one of your reactions as if those were the better jewel he ever got.

"More... Ng—Ah! Don't you dare stop," you breathed out, the words half-command, half-moan. Your mind was a blur of mindless heat, but you still found the strength to sink your hand into the deep blue, silky strands of his hair, giving a sharp, impatient tug to bring his lips back to yours. "Is that all you have? More—ah!"

His hand on your waist slided unashamedly over your lower back, exploring lower until his palm covered the cheek of your ass. Then he began to move as if he wanted to steal every sound you could produce, not from your mouth, but from your soul instead.

"Oh, Celestia..." A low, shuddering groan escaped him as he gave in to the rush, his body vibrating against yours with a terrifying tensity. His voice was dark, heavy with a desire that felt thick enough to touch. Even with your heritage finally surfacing, you felt small, caught in the storm of a soul far older and hungrier than your own. "At this rate, the deads will rise from their tombs just to witness you, my unashamed, beautiful treasure."

It wasn't until you were suspended over the very edge of the abyss, your senses sinking into a deep, crushing wave of pleasure, that you realized you could barely take any more. Thick tears—born of feeling too much, of being too carefully handled and too thoroughly possessed—welled in your eyes. But his lips never let them fall; he kissed your cheeks with such a desperate, worshipful devotion that the intensity with which he was taking you felt almost like a holy contradiction.

Then, the world finally shattered.

As he buried himself deep within you with a final, soul-shattering stroke, his glamour—that perfectly crafted mask of magic—flickered and broke. And you saw it...

Wings.

They weren't solid, but made of a raw, pulsing light—a celestial bleed of deep violet and electric blue that carved through the shadows of the room. They were massive, terrifyingly beautiful, and humming with a power that made the very air vibrate.

Your body was ruined, trembling and spent, yet your hand moved on its own. You reached out, fingers ghosting against that impossible light. The contact didn't feel like feathers or skin; it was a violent jolt of pure static, a rhythmic thrum that centered right in your chest. The wings arched under your touch, fluttering with a sharp, sentient shiver—as if his very soul was recognizing yours—before the light snapped shut. In a heartbeat, the brilliance was gone, swallowed back into the darkness as if they were never there, as the facade settled once more.

His weight remained heavy and warm over yours as the sheer scale of the night’s events finally began to settle into your bones. Your eyelids felt leaden, barely fluttering open when you felt the ghost of his lips against the corner of your mouth.

A Fae… All this time, that was his secret.

You forced yourself to look at him one last time before surrendering to the pull of the dark. Those beautiful pools of light—his eyes, stripped of their human mask—stared back at you with a terrifyingly pure devotion. His fingers, cool and steady, tucked a few stray strands of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

"You have a lot to explain..." you managed to murmur. Your voice was a mere rasp as he shifted, moving his body beside yours with a fluid grace that proved he didn't feel even a hint of the exhaustion currently crushing you.

"Rest, my dear," he whispered. His lips pressed against your forehead, a touch so soft it felt like a benediction, as he pulled you flush against his side. "Let the night take you once again."

As if his words were a literal enchantment, your consciousness began to slip away against your will. The manic rush of the fruit had finally bled out of your system, leaving only the hidden side of the moon—the part of you you never knew existed—to finally shine bright into the silence of the room.

﹒‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

“Yeah, well, when you’re in a band that makes millions, the label doesn’t exactly care about your personal vendettas. Fans have been begging for this for years. You know how much money this is going to make?”

“I can’t do this, Anaxa. You know what he’s like. He’s gonna make this a living hell for me.”

Your manager’s eyes soften just enough to make you look away. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. But it’s just a tour. A few months, and then you never have to see his face again if you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Anxiety coils inside your stomach like a live wire. You’d thought you’d buried that part of your life—left it to rot somewhere in the wreckage of what used to be your band and your relationship. Mydei’s name still leaves a bitter aftertaste whenever it slips out of someone’s mouth.

But the label wants it. The fans want it. 

“So, what—you just expect me to pretend we didn’t break up in front of the entire world?” you snap, though there’s less fire behind it this time.

Anaxa shrugs and sets the contract on your coffee table. “Pretend, don’t pretend. Hell, make it part of the show for all I care. As long as you’re both on that stage together, the crowd’s going to eat it up.”

You hate how practical he sounds. How it almost makes sense. You glance at the contract, at the neat, tidy letters spelling out your own name and Mydei’s right next to each other, and feel something bitter curl up in your chest.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter.

Anaxa pats your shoulder as he heads for the door. “Try not to do it on stage. Though that might actually sell more tickets.”

You flip him off without looking, and Anaxa just laughs on his way out. The contract sits there on the coffee table, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to look away. Your eyes blur over the words, and all you can think about is him.

Mydei.

You’ve spent months forcing yourself not to say his name out loud, not to think about his legs tangled with yours in bed or the rasp of his voice in your ear when he couldn’t keep his hands to himself before a show. You don’t let yourself think about the songs you wrote together. You definitely don’t think about the way it all fell apart. It was easier when you could pretend that part of your life was over—when you didn’t have to picture his face or hear his voice in your head, mocking you with every love song you swore you’d never sing again.

With a resigned sigh, you grab the pen Anaxa had placed next to the contract papers and flip to the last page. Your signature comes out a little shaky, but it’s done. You let the pen drop onto the table and lean back against the cushions.

The rehearsal studio feels too small. It’s ironic, really—after spending years crammed into dingy vans and shitty motel rooms together, you’d think it wouldn’t bother you. You’re the first person there (Anaxa had threatened to personally drag you out of your apartment if you didn’t show up on time), and because you don’t know what else to do, you set about adjusting your mic stand.

It’s stupid. You know it’s already set to your height, but it gives your hands something to do. The room is way too quiet, the walls lined with soundproofing and a few faded posters from when your band—the Chrysos Heirs—was at its peak. There’s a familiar, musty smell—stale air and old fabric—and it makes your chest ache just a little.

Without really thinking about it, you start humming one of the old songs—one that never made it to an album, just something you and Mydei had messed around with one night in the back of a bus. The melody flows out of you like muscle memory, soft and a little shaky at first, but gaining strength as you let the lyrics slip past your lips.

“Kiss me once and call me baby,Lie to me and say I’m crazy—Can’t believe I let you take me—”

The door swings open mid-verse, and you stop singing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

Mydei steps inside, and for a second, you can’t move. It’s like being punched in the gut—seeing him again after all this time. He looks almost the same, and that’s what pisses you off the most. The same messy hair, the same worn leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, that same stupid, self-assured expression. The only real difference is the hint of stubble lining his jaw, like he didn’t bother shaving before showing up. Typical.

He stops just inside the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his eyes lock onto yours. His expression doesn’t give away much—just a calm, uninterested look, like he couldn’t give a shit about being here. Your stomach twists, anger simmering just under your skin. You’d spent months convincing yourself that you’d moved on, that he didn’t matter anymore, but seeing him here, right in front of you, makes all that effort feel pointless. You hate that he still looks good. 

He doesn’t say anything, just drags his gaze over you like he’s sizing you up. You force yourself not to react, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, even though your hands are shaking where they grip the mic stand. You can’t let him know how much this is messing with you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Mydei glances at the mic stand, then back at you, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or just plain indifference. You don’t know which is worse. You half expect him to make some smartass comment about your singing earlier, but he doesn’t say a word. Just sets his guitar case down on one of the couches and starts unzipping it, still not acknowledging you.

The way he’s ignoring you grates on your nerves. You’re tempted to snap at him just to get some kind of reaction. But you know how that game goes—how he’s always been good at pushing your buttons and making you the one who loses their cool first. You’re not giving him the satisfaction today.

You busy yourself with the mic stand again, even though there’s nothing to fix. It’s something to do with your hands, at least. The air feels thick, and your chest feels tight, and you can’t stop your mind from wandering back to late-night songwriting sessions and whispered promises that ended up meaning nothing. You wonder if he thinks about those nights too—or if he’s just moved on completely while you’re still stuck in the aftermath.

The door swings open again, and Castorice and Hyacine walk in, chatting and laughing about something. They both pause when they see you and Mydei, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.

“Hi,” Castorice greets, adjusting the hem of her faded purple band t-shirt. “Everything okay here?”

You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. All good.”

Hyacine gives you a small smile, her pigtails swinging, and starts setting up her bass. Castorice nudges Mydei with her elbow as she passes by, but he just shrugs her off and keeps tuning his guitar. She rolls her eyes and grabs her drumsticks.

You can’t help but glare at him, half-hoping he’ll look up so you can throw something snarky his way. Maybe if he’d just stop pretending like you’re invisible, you wouldn’t feel like your chest is caving in. You’re caught between wanting to scream at him and wanting to leave before your hands start shaking too hard to hide.

Phainon slips in a few minutes later, his snowy hair wind-ruffled and his jeans ripped at the knees. “Already at each other’s throats, huh?” he mutters, mostly to himself, but you hear it.

“Nah,” you bite out. “No one’s dead yet.”

Phainon chuckles and unslings his guitar case. It’s forced, yes, and you know he’s just trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t help much. Mydei doesn’t even acknowledge the comment; he just keeps strumming a few notes like he’s deliberately tuning you out. You look away.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode One.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP] Soft lighting. Castorice sits on a stool, tapping her drumsticks against her knee absentmindedly. She grins when she notices the camera.

CASTORICE: The first practice? Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I mean, I knew it was gonna be awkward, but—wow. I half expected the room to just spontaneously combust. (Laughs) They didn’t even look at each other for the first half hour. I thought I’d have to throw a cymbal at someone just to break the ice.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her bass leaning against her shoulder.]

HYACINE: Honestly, I wasn’t sure if they’d even show up. _____ got there first, and Mydei came just before me and Cas showed up. When we walked in… (Sighs) It was like stepping into a freezer. I kept looking at Castorice like, Are we really doing this?

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning against the wall with his guitar propped up next to him.]

PHAINON: You could cut the tension with a knife. I was just waiting for one of them to snap, honestly. ____ was messing with the mic stand like it owed her money, and Mydei—(snorts) he just acted like he didn’t give a shit. Everyone knows he does, though. I could see his hands shaking a little while he was tuning his guitar.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, slouched on the couch, arms crossed.]

MYDEI: First practice? Whatever. I showed up, didn’t I? (Shrugs) _____ was already there, singing something I wrote. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel like arguing. Didn’t feel like… dealing with that. (Pauses) We got through it. That’s what matters.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere off camera.]

YOU: I didn’t think he’d actually come. And when he did… (shakes head) I was just angry. At him, at myself. At the fact that he didn’t even look at me. We used to be… I don’t know. Better than that. He didn’t say anything to me, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to break first. We both have too much pride.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, twirling a drumstick between her fingers.]

CASTORICE: Eventually, I just started playing something random to break the silence. That usually worked back then—get the rhythm going, and the rest will follow. I guess some things never change, because once I started up, Phainon joined in, and Hyacine just kinda jumped in too. ____ and Mydei just stared at each other like it was some kind of weird staring contest.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, laughing softly.]

HYACINE: I thought one of them was gonna strangle the other before we even got to the chorus. But after a few minutes of us just messing around with the intro, _____ gave in and started singing. Mydei followed—stubborn asshole—but it actually sounded good. Like, almost better than I remembered.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, smiling with his eyes crinkled at the corners.]

PHAINON: It was a mess. A beautiful mess. That’s just how it is with us. Always on the edge of imploding but somehow making it work. They didn’t say a word to each other the whole practice, but the music spoke for them. It’s weird how that works, huh?

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still looking annoyed, but his jaw clenches a little.]

MYDEI: We got through the set. It wasn’t… terrible. (Pauses) She still sings like she’s got something to prove. Never really lost that passion. I guess that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost hesitant.]YOU: The music was the only thing that didn’t feel different. That’s the worst part. We still fit together on stage. I don’t know how to feel about that.

ii). he had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye.

The venue is packed, lights flashing in time with the beats of the opening song. Castorice is good. That hasn’t changed, not even a little. The heat of the stage lights is already making sweat prickle at the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark mass of people in front of you. You can barely make out individual faces past the glare, but it doesn’t matter—they’re all screaming, hands in the air, chanting your band’s name like a war cry.

To your left, Hyacine’s fingers fly over the bass strings, head bobbing in time with the rhythm. Her eyes are focused and sharp, lips curved into a smile. Next to her, Phainon strums his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples. He’s got that manic grin on his face, the one that always surfaces when he’s deep in the music.

You’re trying to focus—keep your voice steady, keep your hands from shaking—but it’s hard when you know he’s right behind you, adjusting his guitar strap and dragging his pick over the strings just loud enough to be a distraction. You swear he’s doing it on purpose, plucking random notes like he’s got nothing better to do, just to see if he can make you crack.

You refuse to look back at him. Instead, you take a slow breath and lean into the mic, eyes half-lidded and voice low as you speak to the crowd.

“Hey, everyone,” you drawl, and the noise swells, cheers and screams merging into a single deafening roar. You give them a crooked smile. “Feels good to be back. Did you guys miss us?”

The crowd roars. You can feel it—the way they’ve been waiting for this, for you. You ignore the way it makes your throat close up a little, focusing instead on the setlist displayed on the prompter. The opening song is one of your older hits, the kind of thing that used to play on the radio at least once a day back when it was first released. You’ve sung it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. He’s right there, and you hate how you can feel his presence without even looking.

The drums kick in, pounding through your ribs, and you throw yourself into the first verse.

“Bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds, Hide the bruises on your knees, Say you never cared— I know you’re lying through your teeth.”

Your voice is steady, loud enough to carry over the instruments as the crowd sings with you. You almost lose yourself in it. The light pulses red and white, casting shadows across the stage, and you grip the mic stand tighter, putting every ounce of frustration into your performance.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mydei move closer to his mic, his guitar slung low and his fingers dancing over the strings. You force yourself not to look at him, focusing on the rhythm instead, on keeping your breathing even as the verse transitions into the chorus.

“Bittersweet vendetta, Carved your name into my skin, Kiss me like a secret. Make me wish I’d never let you in.”

You push your voice harder, practically shouting the last line, and the crowd’s response is instantaneous—voices rising to meet yours, some of them screaming loud enough to rival the speakers. You finally risk a glance to your right, just in time to see Mydei’s lips curve into a smirk, his head tilted like he’s daring you to acknowledge him.

He leans into the mic, and his voice slices through the air.

“She lies like she means it, Fake love on her lips—”

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, but you don’t miss your next cue, even though your mind is reeling. That’s not the original line. He’s never changed it before—not in all the years you performed this song together. You shove down the surge of anger, forcing yourself to keep going as if nothing happened.

The audience reacts immediately—some laughing, some whooping. You know they heard it. You know he did it just to get a rise out of you. You hate that it’s working, that your pulse is thrumming in your ears and your hands are shaking even as you keep your expression blank.

You don’t look at him. Instead, you pour every ounce of your irritation into the next verse, voice dropping low and venomous.

“Cut me down with your clever words, Always knew how to make it hurt, Fake your way to heaven, But I’d follow you through hell first.”

You swear you hear Mydei laugh under his breath, but he keeps playing like nothing’s wrong, his fingers moving over the strings like second nature. Your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s fury or something uglier—something that feels like regret buried under years of resentment.

The bridge comes crashing in, and you give it everything you’ve got. Your voice is raw and unrestrained.

“Swore I’d never write about you, Guess I lied again somehow, Made my bed on broken promises, Tell me—are you happy now?”

The crowd’s roar almost drowns you out, but you don’t let up, spitting out the words like they’re poison on your tongue. You’re breathless by the time the final chorus hits, and the last line comes out almost like a snarl.

When the song ends, the audience erupts, and you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from your forehead with your palm. Your ears are ringing, but you catch a glimpse of Mydei as he steps back from his mic, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at you. Nor does he seem to particularly care that he just tore through one of your most iconic songs with a cheap, unnecessary jab.

You force a smile and wave to the crowd.

The moment the stage lights cut out and the cheers of the crowd fade behind the heavy backstage door, you’re off. You don’t bother thanking the crew or even stopping to catch your breath—you just march straight to the green room, hands still trembling from the adrenaline and the anger. Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that you barely hear the door swing open behind you.

You whirl around just as Mydei walks in, still wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. The sight of him—smirking like he didn’t just pull that shit on stage—makes your stomach twist with rage.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you don’t care.

Mydei just raises an eyebrow, like he’s confused about why you’re yelling. “What was what?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb,” you snap. “You changed the fucking lyrics. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He just shrugs and tosses his towel onto one of the chairs. “Oh, that. Yeah, I thought it sounded better. More honest.”

You take a step closer, jabbing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just rewrite shit on stage without telling anyone. We practiced that song a hundred times, Mydei. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re really gonna get this worked up over one line?” He scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Come on, it’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” You laugh, but it’s humourless and cold. “You made it sound like I’m some kind of manipulative bitch in front of thousands of people! How the hell am I supposed to not get worked up about that?”

“Maybe if it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t bother you so much,” he says, leaning back against the wall.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Mydei shrugs again, his voice low and taunting. “You always were good at faking it—feelings, sincerity, the whole tragic frontwoman act. Sorry if I just cut through the bullshit.”

Something snaps inside you, and before you even realise it, you shove him backwards with both hands. Mydei doesn’t stumble, but his smirk falls for just a second—just enough to make you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“Fuck you,” you spit out. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”

His face hardens, and he pushes off the wall to get right back into your space. “Don’t I? I know you lie like it’s second nature. You get off on being the victim, pretending like you’re the one who got hurt. But we both know you’re just as guilty as I am.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You’re breathing hard now, fists clenched at your sides to keep from swinging at him. “You’re the one who decided to leave the band first. I’m not the one who bailed.”

“Yeah, because sticking around and watching you sabotage everything we built together sounded like a blast. You’re impossible to deal with. Always have been.”

“You think I’m impossible? You’re the one who picks a fight every chance you get. It’s like you can’t stand if I’m not miserable,” you shoot back. “Newsflash, Mydei—not everything’s about you and your bruised ego.”

“Says the girl who can’t stand it when someone calls her out,” he says, lips curling into a mocking grin. “Maybe I hit a nerve because you know I’m right. You’re so used to being adored that the second someone questions you, you lose your shit.”

You shove him again, harder this time, and he doesn’t move—just stays rooted to the spot, glaring down at you. “God, I hate you,” you seethe, voice cracking despite yourself.

“Funny. Didn’t sound like hate the last time you were screaming my name.”

You freeze, heat rushing to your face, and the anger bubbles into something darker—something desperate and bitter. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? Always gotta have the last word, always gotta prove something. You’re pathetic.”

“You’re one to talk,” he grits out. “Still hung up on shit that happened years ago. I’m pathetic? You’re the one still singing about heartbreak like it’s gonna make people feel sorry for you.”

You want to hit him. You want to scream at him until your voice breaks. Instead, you shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists, yanking you forward until your chest brushes his. His face is inches from yours, breath hot against your cheek.

“Admit it,” Mydei murmurs, low. “You’re pissed because I called you out, and now you can’t hide behind your lyrics like a coward.”

You wrench your hands free, but you don’t move back. You’re too close, breathing hard. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” you whisper, voice tight.

His eyes bore into yours. “And you’re a goddamn liar.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Hyacine pushes the door open with a scowl. She takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head. “Seriously? Already? I knew this tour would be a shitshow, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill each other on night one.”

You finally rip yourself away from him, swiping at your face like you’re trying to scrub the confrontation off your skin. Mydei doesn’t look at you. He just picks up his towel and wipes his hands.

Castorice slips in behind Hyacine, still buzzing from the performance. “God, you two are like feral cats. Can’t we just chill for five seconds?”

“We’ve got interviews in ten minutes,” Phainon pipes up from behind her. “You guys need to get your shit together.”

Hyacine levels both of you with a glare. “I don’t care what personal shit you’ve got going on, but don’t pull that crap on stage again. Mydei, you don’t change the lyrics without telling us. _____, stop feeding into his bullshit. You’re both being idiots.”

Neither of you says anything, but you’re still seething, trying to force down the bitter ache in your chest. Mydei rolls his shoulders and turns away, his shaggy hair falling down the nape of his neck. When you finally turn and leave the room, you can still feel his eyes on your back, and it makes your skin crawl. You tell yourself you’re just glad to be away from him, but the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Opening Night – Sold Out.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, her expression thoughtful.]

CASTORICE: Okay, look, I’m not gonna go around pinning the blame on anyone. That doesn’t do anyone any good. (Shifts slightly) I just think that we’re all adults here, and what Mydei and _____ were doing didn’t do us any favours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, scowling at the camera.]

HYACINE: They’re pretty f***ing immature, if you ask me. Sometimes I think Mydei and _____ forget that they’re not the only people in the band. They founded it, sure, but what about me, Cas, and Phainon? This isn’t just some petty high school-level battle of the bands shit. This is our f***ing careers we’re talking about.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back with a cigarette rolling between his fingers.]

PHAINON: Yeah, it’s real inspiring when your frontmen are trying to rip each other’s heads off backstage. Real rock and roll. (Scoffs) Look, they’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. You put two people with that much history on the same stage, and it’s like throwing a match into gasoline.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, arms spread out on the back of the couch.]

MYDEI: It’s not my fault she can’t handle the truth. We’re supposed to be putting on a show, aren’t we? Guess what—drama’s a part of it. If she wants to get pissed because I added a little honesty to the setlist, that’s on her. (Shrugs) I’m not gonna apologise for making it real.

[CUT TO: YOU, visibly tense, gripping the edge of your seat.]

YOU: He didn’t change the lyrics because it was real. He did it to hurt me. There’s a difference. It’s not about the fans, or the show, or whatever bullshit excuse he’s telling himself. It’s about control. He just couldn’t stand the fact that I was getting through it without him, that I was… fine. (Pauses) Or at least trying to be.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, rubbing the back of her neck.]

CASTORICE: (Sighs) You’d think that after all these years, they’d have learned how to work together without turning it into a battlefield. We’re not in high school anymore. We’re on tour. If one of them messes up, it’s not just their mess to clean up—it’s all of ours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, looking more annoyed than before.]

HYACINE: It’s exhausting. We’re just trying to make music, not mediate whatever unresolved shit they’ve got going on. Half the time, I feel like I’m babysitting. They either need to figure it out or shut the hell up and be professional for once.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, giving a resigned laugh.]

PHAINON: Honestly, if they’d just screw and get it over with, we might finally get some peace around here.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, AGAIN]

MYDEI: Phainon said that? Not a chance. I’d rather set my guitar on fire.

[CUT TO: YOU AGAIN, rolling your eyes.]

YOU: Yeah, well, might be the most impressive thing Mydei’s done in a while.

iii). do i love him? do i hate him? i guess it’s up and down.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting upright with your arms crossed.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you tell us about the band’s early days? How did the Chrysos Heirs come together?

YOU: God, that feels like forever ago. (Pauses) It was just me and Mydei at first. We were… just kids, really. We’d meet up after school in my dad’s garage—him on guitar, me scribbling down lyrics on whatever scraps of paper we could find. It wasn’t anything serious back then. We just wanted to make noise and piss off the neighbours.

INTERVIEWER: Did you always know it was going to be a band?

YOU: (Shakes head) Not at all. We didn’t plan for it to be anything more than a way to kill time. We’d play until our fingers ached or Dad came out yelling at us to cut it out. (Smiles a little) It was messy and loud and—fun. We didn’t think much past that.

INTERVIEWER: When did it start to feel like more than just noise?

YOU: When Castorice came into the picture. She was incredible. She had this way of making everything tighter, more precise. Like she just knew what needed to happen to make the sound click. Mydei knew her from some music workshop thing—said she was the only drummer he’d met who wasn’t full of shit. (Laughs softly) One day, she just showed up with this beat-up drum set and told us our timing was crap. And she was right.

INTERVIEWER: What was your reaction to her criticism?

YOU: Oh, I was pissed. I didn’t want some stranger telling us we were doing it wrong. But she wasn’t mean about it—just honest, I suppose. And once she started playing, we couldn’t really argue with her. She made us sound like an actual band.

INTERVIEWER: And Hyacine and Phainon? How did they join?

YOU: They came later. We’d been playing these tiny, shitty bar shows—barely getting paid, just trying to scrape together enough for gas and food. It was clear we needed a bassist. Castorice was the one who pushed for it. She said we sounded hollow without that low end. She knew Hyacine from some other band that had just imploded—some drama I never got the full story on. Hyacine came in and just took over. She was relentless, always pushing for perfection. It drove me and Mydei crazy at first, but she made us sound good. Really good.

INTERVIEWER: And Phainon?

YOU: (Smiles fondly) Phainon was a surprise. Mydei found him at some underground gig—he was up there shredding like it was the easiest thing in the world. Mydei practically dragged him to rehearsal the next day, and Phainon barely said a word. He just picked up his guitar and played like he’d been with us the whole time. We didn’t even have to teach him the songs—he just… knew. It was weird, but it worked.

INTERVIEWER: What was it like performing together back then?

YOU: Incredible. We weren’t perfect by any means—we’d f**k up chord changes and stumble over lyrics, but people didn’t care. There was this energy that made up for it. The crowd felt it too. We’d get off stage, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding, and just laugh about how much we almost screwed up. Those shows were something else.

INTERVIEWER: And what about you and Mydei? You two were already together by then?

YOU: (Pauses, glancing away) Yeah. It just happened. It wasn’t really something we talked about—it just made sense at the time. We were always around each other anyway.

INTERVIEWER: What changed?

YOU: (Exhales slowly) Success changed things. Suddenly we were everywhere—touring, interviews, non-stop shows. We didn’t have time to breathe, let alone talk about anything that mattered. It was just… go, go, go. And when things got tough, we didn’t know how to handle it. We didn’t talk. We just fought. About stupid shit—lyrics, setlists, tempos. It wasn’t about the band anymore. It was about us, trying to hurt each other without admitting that’s what we were doing.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown across the back of it.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you talk about why you left the band?

MYDEI: (Exhales, looks away for a moment) It wasn’t… one thing, you know? People always want it to be simple, like there’s one big reason I just up and left. But it wasn’t. There was just—too much shit piling up. Tension between all of us, pressure from the label, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it?

MYDEI: Sometimes. Maybe. I didn’t really think about what it would do to the others at the time. I needed to figure out who I was without the band. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay with how things were going.

INTERVIEWER: Were you unhappy with the band itself, or just the dynamics between the members?

MYDEI: Both, I guess. The band was everything to me at one point. It was the one thing I thought I could count on. But then it just got… complicated. We went from just being a bunch of idiots messing around to something huge, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure. The music stopped feeling like ours—like mine. It was just what everyone else wanted from us.

INTERVIEWER: How did the others react when you told them you were leaving?

MYDEI: (Chuckles bitterly) Not well. Castorice tried to talk me out of it—said I was being impulsive and throwing away something we’d built from the ground up. Hyacine was pissed. She didn’t say much, but I could tell she was angry. Phainon didn’t say anything at all. Just kind of… stared at me like I’d betrayed him or something.

INTERVIEWER: And _____?

MYDEI: (Stiffens) She didn’t take it well. She said I was running away—like I always did. We fought about it for hours. Nothing we said made sense by the end of it. Just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think we both knew it wasn’t just about the band at that point.

INTERVIEWER: After you left, the Chrysos Heirs seemed to almost dissolve overnight. Can you talk about that?

MYDEI: (Breathes out slowly) Yeah, I heard about it a few months later. It wasn’t something I expected. I thought they’d keep going without me, honestly. I didn’t think I was that important. (Pauses) Turns out, though, that me leaving kind of pulled the rug out from under everything. 

INTERVIEWER: Did the others ever talk to you about it?

MYDEI: Castorice called me once. She didn’t say much, just that they’d decided to take a break, and that without me there, it wasn’t working. She didn’t blame me, exactly, but I could hear it in her voice. Like she was trying not to say that I’d screwed everything up. (Shakes his head) Phainon never reached out. I don’t know if he was angry or just—disappointed. Hyacine texted me some stuff, mostly updates, but nothing about how they felt about it.

INTERVIEWER: What about _____?

MYDEI: (Tenses visibly) We never spoke to each other after I left.

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the band dissolving hurt her the most?

MYDEI: Yeah. I know it did. The band was everything to her—more than it was to any of us, I think. She was always the one pushing us to go further, to make better music, to keep going even when it was hard. So when it all fell apart… I know she took it personally. Like she failed or something. Especially when I saw her trying to do solo stuff after that. 

INTERVIEWER: Did you listen to her solo work?

MYDEI: (Nods) Every track. It was good—different, but good.

The studio lights beat down on you like a relentless sun, and you resist the urge to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. You force yourself to smile through it, shoulders squared and posture just right, even as your muscles ache from holding the same position for too long. Castorice mutters under her breath about how awkward it feels to act casual when there’s a giant lens pointed right at your face; you can’t help but agree. It’s been ages since the last group photoshoot, and the discomfort is hard to ignore.

Mydei stands at the far end, stiff and distant, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s staring at some fixed point behind the photographer’s head, looking like he’s seconds away from bolting. It drives you insane how obvious he’s being about not wanting to be here. You catch his eye once, and the look he gives you is so blank, it’s almost insulting.

Castorice throws an arm across Phainon’s shoulders, and the two lean into each other. Hyacine sits cross-legged in front of you, holding up two peace signs and grinning widely.

“All right, good! That’s enough for the group shots,” Aglaea, the director of photography, calls out, clapping her hands together. “Everyone but Mydei and _____, take five. I want a few duo shots.”

You stiffen. Castorice glances between the two of you with something close to worry, but when you shoot her a tight smile, she just shrugs and heads off with Hyacine and Phainon in tow.

Mydei hasn’t moved an inch, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, jaw tight. You take a slow breath and will yourself not to let him get under your skin. Not again.

Aglaea gestures you both forward, clearly sensing the awkwardness but too professional to comment on it. “All right, you two. Let’s lean into the chemistry a bit. I want intimate and raw—like the world’s finally looking at you both behind the professional masks.”

Your lips press into a thin line. Mydei doesn’t react at all.

“Face each other,” Aglaea instructs, waving a hand to adjust the lighting. It catches on the bright gold of her blouse, and you blink a little. “Mydei, hands on her waist. _____, put your hands on his shoulders. Closer. I need to feel the tension. Like you’re caught between fighting and kissing.”

You almost laugh at the irony. That’s practically all you’ve done since he showed up again—hovering somewhere between wanting to scream at him and wanting to grab his face and never let go. The thought burns. You squash it as you step forward.

Mydei’s hands settle on your waist, and it’s as if electricity crackles through you, setting every nerve alight. His touch is hesitant, like he’s not sure he has the right to be this close anymore. Your hands come up to his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar leather and muscle, and you force yourself to look up at him.

His eyes catch yours. Neither of you moves. He looks at you like he’s seeing something he thought he’d lost, and it makes your heart twist painfully.

“Closer,” Aglaea calls out, voice clipped. “Mydei, lean in like you’re about to say something you’ve been holding back for years. _____, tilt your chin up—give him that look, like you’re angry but imploring.”

You do as she says, your breath hitching when his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and his hands shift on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to memorise the feel of it. Those strands of hair that he always braids because he claimed it made him look “edgy” brushes against the curve of your cheek. You can feel his breath fan across your face, warm and familiar, and it hurts how natural it feels.

When you look to the side, Aglaea is frowning. “Closer,” she says again. “I need to see that longing.”

You don’t bother hiding your scoff, muttering under your breath, “Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look like he’d rather be doing literally anything else.”

His eyes snap to yours, defensive. “Sorry I’m not putting on enough of a show for you,” he mutters back, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Maybe if you actually gave a damn, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth,” you hiss.

He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip just a fraction, enough to make your pulse jump. “There you fucking go again. Acting like you’re the only one who cares about this.”

You force yourself to keep the smile plastered on your face for the camera, teeth clenched. “Oh, forgive me for thinking you don’t give a shit. It’s not like you haven’t disappeared for months without a word.”

“You think I wanted to leave?”

“You didn’t exactly try to stay,” you snap, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You left me to deal with the fallout while you got to play the tortured artist somewhere else. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like none of it mattered.”

“You didn’t want me to stay,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You didn’t even ask.”

The accusation slices through you, and your grip on his shoulders loosens. “How was I supposed to ask when you made up your mind without me?” you fire back. “You made it clear that I wasn’t worth staying for.”

His expression hardens, like he’s trying to cover the hurt bleeding through his anger. “That’s not fair. You never once asked how I felt about it. You just decided I didn’t care.”

You want to scream at him for being so oblivious—for acting like you didn’t spend weeks waiting for a call that never came. Instead, you force your lips into a tight, brittle smile. “Guess you made it pretty damn convincing when you left even though I asked you to stay.”

Something in his eyes cracks, just for a moment, but then Aglaea’s voice cuts through.

“Yes! That’s it!” she crows. “Keep it up. Mydei, cup her face.”

He doesn’t move at first, just stares down at you, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. Then his hand lifts, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek like it’s muscle memory. The way he looks at you, then, makes your throat close up.

You want to push him away, but your hands stay where they are, like they’re glued to him. Aglaea calls out more instructions, but her voice is distant—just noise behind the thunder in your chest.

When she finally calls for a wrap, you step back, your hands falling limply to your sides. Mydei’s arms drop away from you, his face shuttered and closed off again. You don’t look at him as you turn on your heel and walk off to the break room, every muscle in your body screaming with the urge to just get away from him before you say something even worse.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

The screen fades out into grainy footage from an old concert: Mydei and _____ on stage, harmonising, Mydei strumming his guitar while _____ sways with the mic. The audience sways as one, flashlights held up as they move in time with the song. The video fades out.

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting cross-legged on a couch, an easy smile on his face.]

PHAINON: Back then? Man, they were something else. You’d think they were fused at the hip with how much time they spent together. Writing songs at three in the morning, huddled over some crumpled notebook, arguing about chord progressions one second and laughing the next. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people make something so good while simultaneously wanting to strangle each other. It was weirdly sweet.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting in a green room with her legs swung over the arm of a chair.]

CASTORICE: _____ used to steal Mydei’s hoodies every time we hit a new city. Didn’t matter how hot it was—she’d be drowning in that thing, sleeves halfway covering her hands. Mydei’d just roll his eyes and mumble something about it smelling weird when he got it back, but he never complained. They’d go on these stupid little coffee dates whenever we had downtime—just the two of them, sneaking off like no one would notice. We noticed. Everyone noticed.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting on the floor of the green room.]

HYACINE: Honestly? Their songs were the best ones we ever wrote. Together, they just… clicked. It was effortless. I think the first time I heard “After Midnight”, I kinda wanted to throw up from how sweet it was. But you could tell—every word, every note—they put their whole hearts into it. It was like they were making something for just the two of them, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece of it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, still sporting that easy smile.]

PHAINON: But, y’know, things got complicated. Like they always do. They’re both stubborn as hell, and neither of them knows how to sit down and talk without throwing metaphorical knives at each other. Still… (Laughs softly) I stand by what I said. If they screw each other and get it over with, everyone’s gonna be okay.

iv). wanna kiss his face with an uppercut.

You’re sprawled across the hotel bed, face buried in the pillow, when your phone rings. You groan, tempted to ignore it, but the screen flashes Anaxagoras’ name, and you know better than to let it go to voicemail.

You pick up and press the phone to your ear. “Yeah?”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Anaxa deadpans. His voice is brisk, no-nonsense as always. “I’m just checking in.”

“Fantastic,” you say dryly, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. “Photoshoot went great. Almost fought Mydei. Twice.”

“Great Kephale,” he mutters, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you two still at each other’s throats?”

“It’s kind of hard not to be when he acts like breathing the same air as me is a personal insult,” you snap. “Aglaea made us take those stupid couple shots, and he looked like he wanted to die the whole time. It’s—” You break off, clenching your jaw. “It’s annoying.”

Anaxa grunts, unimpressed. “You’re letting him get to you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Then stop it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to get through this. It’s one shoot and a few public appearances. You’ve handled worse.”

“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be worse. We’re supposed to be professionals, but he’s—he’s making it impossible.”

Anaxa doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his tone is firm. “Look, if he wants to act like a child, let him. You don’t have to stoop to his level. Smile for the camera, grit your teeth if you have to, and don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s pissing you off.”

You hate that he’s right. “Yeah. I know.”

“You want me to handle anything?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head even though he can’t see it. “I’ll deal with it.”

He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, just hangs up like always. You let your phone drop onto the bed and slump back down, staring up at the ceiling. You hate that it’s still gnawing at you—the frustration, the hurt, the way Mydei’s indifference feels like a punch to the gut every single time.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You can handle it. You’ve been through worse.

A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. You blink, wondering if you imagined it, but then it comes again—more impatient, this time. You groan and push yourself up, dragging your feet as you cross the room. Your muscles still ache from the photoshoot, and your mood hasn’t improved because of Anaxa’s call.

You pull the door open, expecting maybe Castorice or one of the others, but it’s Mydei. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw set in that familiar way that makes you want to slam the door right in his face.

“What do you want?” you snap, not even attempting to sound polite.

He glances away, gaze fixed on some spot above your shoulder. “I— Just wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” you interrupt. “Like you fucking care.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” you snap back, “because you spent the whole fucking day making it perfectly clear that breathing the same air as me is unbearable, and now you’re playing concerned? Do you even look at yourself?”

“Maybe I do care,” he tells you, and you cut in again.

“You’re the one who looked like he’d rather die than put his hands on me. Trust me, I noticed.”

“It’s not that—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, and steps closer. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” you shoot back, shoving his shoulder. “You can’t just act like a dick and expect me to read your mind. Or are you still too much of a coward to admit anything out loud?”

That hits a nerve. His eyes flash, and he steps into your space, so close you can feel the heat coming off him. “Maybe if you didn’t act so fucking righteous all the time, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind around you,” he spits out.

“Yeah?” you challenge, shoving him again just to get him to react. “Maybe if you didn’t keep running away every time something actually matters, we wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid cycle!”

He grabs your wrist, yanking you even closer, and you can feel his breath on your face, warm and ragged. “I’m not running.”

“Yes, you are,” you hiss, your voice cracking despite yourself. “You always do. You think if you act like nothing happened, it’ll just go away. Well, fuck you, Mydei, because it doesn’t.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but his jaw works soundlessly, and you’re so sick of it—so tired of dancing around whatever’s been festering between you since the band split. Before you know it, your hands are gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him forward just as he crushes his mouth against yours.

It’s not soft or careful—nothing about it is gentle. It’s teeth and heat and frustration, like trying to punish each other for every stupid fight, every missed chance. He makes a low, frustrated noise, backing you into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now, and his grip on your waist is bruising, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans against your mouth, pressing you back until your spine meets the wall.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, barely catching your breath.

He just smirks, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, his voice rough and breathless. “Yeah? You’re not much better.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesn’t even try to hide the shiver that rolls through him. You hate him—you hate him so much for making you feel like this, for pushing and pulling and never letting you breathe. But right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands on your body and heat pooling inside your stomach, the only thing you can think of is him taking you against the wall.

You barely register the way Mydei lifts you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pins you to the wall. His mouth is hot and unrelenting against yours, like he’s trying to erase every insult you’ve ever thrown at him. You’re just as ruthless, biting at his lips and tugging his hair hard enough to make him growl.

He eases you down when you moan—embarrassingly loudly, but you don’t give a fuck. His hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, and you don’t stop him. You let him tug them down, the denim sliding down your legs and pooling at your ankles. Mydei lifts you up, just so you stand on your tiptoes long enough for him to kick them aside. Every brush of his skin against yours feels like an assault—every touch a reminder of all the hurt, all the anger—but you don’t pull away. 

You hate him. You love him. You need him.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he pulls back, panting, his eyes dark and wild. You’re wet by now, enough that your underwear feels cool from where a damp spot has formed already.

“You always have to have the last fucking word, don’t you?” he grits out.

You scoff. “Someone’s gotta knock you off your high horse.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s rough. Without warning, he drops to his knees, his hands slipping under your thighs to keep you steady as he buries his face between your legs.

You gasp, one hand flying to the wall to brace yourself, the other still tangled in his hair. Mydei doesn’t waste any time—he’s ruthless, licking you through the fabric of your panties. It makes your head spin. You choke on a moan, trying to squirm, but he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly in place.

“Mydei—” you start, but his teeth graze your inner thigh, and your words dissolve into a shuddering gasp.

“Shut up,” he mutters, yanking your underwear to the side and pressing his mouth against your folds with a fierce sort of hunger. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your head falls back against the wall, a keening sound leaving your throat.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you manage to choke out, even as your thighs tremble around his head.

He laughs against you, the vibrations making you bite down on your lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re still running your mouth,” he taunts, giving your thigh a squeeze. “Wonder if I can make you shut up.”

He doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his tongue in a manner that has you seeing stars. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he just groans in response, the vibrations sending another shockwave through you. Your hips jerk forward. He grips you harder, dragging his mouth down to lick at your folds like he’s starved for it.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. You can’t help the way you tug him closer, grinding against his face despite yourself. Mydei merely hums approvingly, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you higher, pressing you harder against the wall.

When his tongue dips inside your clenching hole, your knees almost give out, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming, maddening pleasure. You’re barely breathing, trying to swallow down the sounds threatening to spill out, but when he curls his tongue just right, you can’t stop the loud, desperate moan that breaks free.

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick and his eyes burning. “You done being a brat now?”

You glare down at him, panting and still shaking. “Fuck you.”

His smirk only widens, and before you can blink, he’s pressing his mouth against you again—rough, merciless, relentless. It doesn’t take long before your vision blurs and your head tips back, his name tearing from your lips as you come against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your grip on his hair has gone slack, and even then, he licks you through the aftershocks like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands, and says, “You’ll give me one more, won’t you?”

Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but his smirk only grows as he straightens up, dragging his hands up your sides and pushing your shirt higher until it’s bunched under your arms. You’re still too dazed to protest when he lifts it over your head, tossing it to the floor before his hands find your waist again, pulling you flush against him.

He dips down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his lips—sweet and dizzying all at once. You’re still recovering from your climax, but it doesn’t matter—he kisses you like he’s making up for every second he hasn’t touched you, rough and a little desperate, his hands squeezing your hips.

His hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra. You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he unhooks it and slides and straps down your arms, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, but his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes your back arch off the wall.

You don’t even think before your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, and he helps you get it off before crashing his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart under your fingertips. His skin is warm and slightly slick with sweat, and you can’t resist scraping your nails lightly down his abdomen just to feel him shiver.

He bites down on your lower lip in retaliation, and you gasp into his mouth. It earns you a low chuckle. You’re about to shoot back with something sarcastic when his hands slide up to cup your breasts again, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and your retort dies in your throat.

“Thought you were gonna give me attitude,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips curving into a cocky grin. “Guess you can be good when you want to.”

“Shut up,” you breathe out, but your voice comes out shaky. He laughs softly, bending down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Your hands fly back to his hair, fingers twisting in the strands, and he groans the tug.

Your hips buck against his, and he grinds back without hesitation, the hard line of his cock rubbing against your thigh through his jeans. You can feel just how badly he wants you; the thought sends another wave of heat flooding through your veins. You tug at his hair hard enough to make him look up at you, his lips red and swollen.

“Quit teasing,” you pant. Mydei’s eyes flash with something dark and hungry.

He doesn’t bother replying—just scoops you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. His mouth is back on yours, demanding, and you feel him fumbling with his belt between your bodies. You don’t have the patience to wait, so you reach down to help him, your hands brushing against his as you yank the buckle open and shove his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock.

He groans in relief when your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly and spreading his pre-cum across the length. He bites back a curse. His hands tighten on your thighs, and you don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch. You give him a little smirk, but it falters when he presses his tip against your entrance, not quite pushing in yet.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes roaming over your face.

You roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

You don’t get to finish because he thrusts into you all at once, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your head tips back against the wall, and Mydei buries his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin as he adjusts to the tight warmth of your cunt. His breath is hot and ragged, each exhale brushing against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your thighs.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice rough and strained. His hips pull back just enough to drag his length almost completely out before he slams back in, his pace brutal from the start. The force of it makes your back scrape against the wall, and you can feel every inch of him—thick and girthy, splitting you open in a way that has your body straining towards him.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, nails leaving crescents on his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm, each thrust hitting deep and perfect. You’re clinging to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he drives into you. The wet, obscene sounds of your skin against skin echo through the room, mingling with your breathless mons and his low groans.

“Fuck—so tight,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging along your throat, teeth scraping and biting hard enough to leave a slight stinging in their wake. “You feel so fucking good. S’like you were made for me.”

You whimper, your hips rocking against his instinctively, desperate for more. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name shakily. It spurs him on. He grins against your neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to your pulse point before sucking a bruise into your skin.

“Yeah? That good, huh?” he taunts, his tone mocking but laced with genuine awe. One of his hands slides from your waist to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb grazes over your nipple, and the sensation has your back arching off the wall, pushing your chest further into his hand.

Your head is spinning, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly as he fucks into you hard. You can feel every ride and vein dragging against your walls, every thrust forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.

His mouth finds yours again; his teeth nip at your bottom lip before he slips his tongue inside. You’re so lost in him, so overwhelmed, that it takes you a second to realise his other hand has slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with almost punishing pressure.

“Fuck—” Your hands are back in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, but he doesn’t let up, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing insistently as his cock drives into you again and again. “I can’t—fuck, I’m—”

“Gonna come again?” he growls against your mouth, his pace never faltering. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? That’s it. Good girl.”

His words make your thighs clench. Your climax comes over you without warning, tearing a strangled cry from your throat. Your walls clench around him, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure blazes through every nerve ending. You feel your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist.

Mydei doesn’t slow down; he just keeps fucking you through it, each thrust coaxing another wave of sensation that leaves you gasping and boneless in his grip. Your mind is a haze, barely able to process how good it feels to be taken like this. You’re dimly aware of his breathing getting rougher, his hips stuttering as your body milks him.

You drag his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, biting until you taste copper. He groans into you. You feel him shudder just before his rhythm falters. With one last, deep snap of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, spilling hot and thick as his body shakes with the force of his release.

His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, both of you panting and trembling. He stays inside you, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, his hands sliding up your sides to hold you close. You’re still reeling, your pulse racing, but you manage a small, satisfied smile, brushing your lips over his with a gentleness that almost feels out of place after what just happened.

For a long moment, neither of you move—you just breathe each other in, letting the remnants of pleasure tangle in the space between you. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.

“Still think I’m running my mouth?” you whisper, still trying to muster some semblance of defiance.

Mydei simply nudges his nose against yours. “Maybe,” he says, a little bit hoarse, “but at least I finally shut you up.”

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode Two.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting on a stool.]

CASTORICE: You want to know about the relationships? (Grins) Oh, man. It’s like a dysfunctional family reunion. Some of us slipped right back into old habits, and some of us… well, it’s complicated. Mydei and _____? (Snorts) Don’t even get me started. You can feel the tension from three rooms away.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]

HYACINE: There’s definitely still some… uh, unresolved stuff. We used to be so tight. All of us. I mean, we fought, sure, but we’d always make up eventually. Now? I don’t know. It’s like everyone’s got their guard up. Phainon’s doing his best to keep things light, Castorice just barrels through any tension like she doesn’t notice, but Mydei and _____… (Pauses) It’s like walking on eggshells around them.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back against the wall with his guitar across his lap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone kind of forgot how to be around each other. We spent years being everything to one another—friends, family, bandmates, rivals. When the band split, it wasn’t just the music that fell apart. It was us. Now it’s like… we’re all trying to figure out where we stand again. The way Castorice and Hyacine laugh like nothing’s changed, while Mydei and _____ act like they’re on opposite sides of a war zone. It’s exhausting.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still slouched on a couch with his arms crossed.]

MYDEI: I’m not gonna sit here and pretend everything’s fine. It’s not. The band breaking up after I left? I’m sure that wasn’t just some decision they made over drinks. Castorice acts like we’re one big happy family again, but she knows it’s not that simple. Phainon’s always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over, but that just makes it worse sometimes. I don’t know.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair.]

YOU: It’s frustrating. We used to be so close. All of us. And now it feels like every word has teeth. Castorice is trying so hard to keep us from falling apart again, and Hyacine’s just… tired. Phainon’s stuck playing mediator, and Mydei—(shakes head)—he still looks at me like it’s probably my fault. Maybe it is. But it wasn’t just me who made it boil down to this.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, balancing her drumsticks on her finger.]

CASTORICE: We’ve always been a mess. That’s kind of our thing. But it used to be that we were messy together. Now it feels like we’re just trying not to accidentally set each other off. I miss how easy it used to be. Back when Mydei and _____ could actually talk without biting each other’s heads off. Back when Hyacine would just crack a joke instead of staying quiet.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, resting her chin on her hand.]

HYACINE: Sometimes it feels like we’re playing pretend. Like we’re trying to convince ourselves that we’re still friends when we’re really just… people who used to know each other. Cas keeps pushing for us to hang out after shows, but it never feels right. Everyone’s just waiting for someone to break the silence. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll get better once we’ve been on the road for longer.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, eyes thoughtful as he fiddles with his guitar strap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone’s just afraid to be the one who cares the most. Back in the day, we knew each other better than anyone else did. Now, it’s like we’re scared of stepping on each other’s wounds. Mydei’s carrying too much pride to apologise, and _____ is too stubborn to forgive. Castorice and Hyacine just want everyone to get alone, but no one’s talking about the elephant in the room. We’re good at pretending on stage, though. Real good.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.]

MYDEI: You don’t just come back from something like that. You don’t go from being everything to each other to nothing without it leaving a scar. I’m not saying it’s all her fault. (Hesitates) I’m just saying that it’s easier to be mad than to admit I might’ve messed up, too. That’s why I keep my distance. It’s just… easier that way.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost weary.]

YOU: I never thought it would feel this hollow. I don’t know what I expected—a clean slate, maybe? But it doesn’t work like that. We’re still carrying the past with us, and it’s dragging us down. I guess… I just wish he’d talk to me. Even if it’s to say he hates me. At least that would be something.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, shrugging with a half-smile.]

CASTORICE: Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. We’re stuck with each other. That’s just how it is. Even if we have to scream it out or throw things at each other, we’re gonna make it work. Because the way they look at each other sometimes? There’s still something there. They just gotta get over themselves long enough to see it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, adjusting his guitar.]

PHAINON: They’ll figure it out. We’re not just a band—we’re more than that. And sometimes, being more means we break and put ourselves back together. We’ll get there.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, giving a faint smile.]

HYACINE: If we can just stop letting the past dictate everything, maybe we can start being friends again. Maybe more. I don’t know. But I do know this—on stage, we’re still the same. Maybe the music will help us remember how to be us again.

v). so i write him all these letters and i throw them in the trash.

When you stir in your sleep, the mattress beside you is cold. 

It’s late—past midnight, probably. Your stomach grumbles; you sit up and shuffle tiredly over to the mini-bar and grab a bag of salted cashew nuts, tearing it open. There’s no trace of Mydei. It’s as if he was never here, didn’t fuck you against the wall like it was all he could think of, didn’t lay down on the bed next to you and curl a strong arm around your waist.

You wish you could say you were just disappointed. The truth is, you had expected nothing else, but disappointment still curls around your ribs.

It’s stupid. You walk over to the glass table placed in front of the plush armchair towards the side of your bed. There’s a notepad and a slightly blunt pencil placed on top of it. You sink into the armchair, popping a handful of cashew nuts into your mouth and chewing. 

The words should be flowing by now—anger and frustration always make for good material—but tonight, they’re stuck somewhere between your ribs, buried under the feeling of his mouth on your skin.

It shouldn’t feel like this. You knew what you were getting into. You knew better than to expect anything else from him. But the way he kissed you, like he was trying to make you forget every fight—made your chest ache. You’re not surprised that he’s gone. You’re not even hurt, really. Just angry. Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at yourself for caring that he did. You shove a few more cashews into your mouth and wipe your fingers on your sweatpants before picking up the pencil.

Your hand moves almost without thinking, words scrawling across the page faster than you can catch up with them.

You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong. We’re always dancing on the edge of a goodbye, But I’d risk the fall just to feel you by my side.

You pause, glaring at the lyrics. You should throw the notepad across the room, rip the page out, crush it in your fist. Instead, you just sit there, tapping the pencil against your knee. You can still feel the way his mouth moved against yours, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to keep writing. It’s better than sitting here drowning in the memory of him.

We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.

The pencil scrapes harshly against the paper as you press harder than you mean to. The words taste bitter in your mouth, but at least they’re honest. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to write them down—because admitting that you want more than just his hands on you feels like exposing a wound you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

You swallow down the knot in your throat and lean back, squeezing your eyes shut. It would almost be easier if you hated him. If you could just shove him out of your head and pretend he was nothing more than a bad decision. But it’s not that simple. You don’t just want him; you want the old him, the one who used to light up when you walked into the room, who teased you until you were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. You want the Mydei who didn’t always look at you like you’re a problem he can’t fix.

You know you’re being unfair. He’s not the only one who’s changed. You’re not the same either—too guarded, too tired. Sometimes you wonder if you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment because it’s easier than admitting you still love him.

Your chest aches, and the next words come almost like a confession.

You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.

You finish the verse and set the pencil down, pressing your fingertips to your lips like you can still taste him there.

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. But he looked at you tonight like he was starving—like you were something he couldn’t resist. And you let him have you because a part of you needed it, too. Needed to feel wanted, even if it was just for a few hours. Even if he was gone before you woke up.

You shove the notepad away, letting it fall to the floor as you curl up in the armchair, knees pulled to your chest. The song lingers in your head, the lyrics clawing at your heart. You feel ridiculous for letting him get under your skin like this, like a bruise that won’t heal.

The truth is, you’d let him hurt you a thousand times if it meant he’d look at you like that again. Like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe that makes you a fool, but you don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to him.

Shaking your head as though to dissolve it of its thoughts, you tear out the sheet of paper with your lyrics on it, fold it into a square hastily, and shove it inside the pocket of your sweatpants. You stand up and grab your lighter from your bag. You need a smoke.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a simple black stool, hands loosely clasped in your lap.]

YOU: Writing with Mydei… God, it used to be so easy. We didn’t have to think about it. (Smiles softly) We’d just be sitting on the floor of his shitty apartment—barely any furniture, just the couch his neighbour was gonna throw out and that one rug we stole from Hyacine’s place. One of us would pick up the guitar, start playing something, and it was like everything else just faded out.

INTERVIEWER (off-screen): Was it always that natural?

YOU: (Nods) Yeah. It just worked. Sometimes we didn’t even talk before starting a song. I’d be on the floor, writing down whatever came to mind, and he’d be next to me, leaning against the wall with his guitar. Sometimes I’d hum something, and he’d just—pick it up. It was like we were reading each other’s minds.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, sitting with his back slightly hunched, elbows on his knees.]

MYDEI: We wrote some of our best songs at 3 A.M, dead tired, arguing about lyrics while eating instant ramen. She’d always overthink the words—had to make sure they said exactly what she wanted. I didn’t care as much. I guess I figured the feeling mattered more than getting every word right.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have an example for the same?

MYDEI: There was this one song (pauses, shakes his head). We wrote it after this stupid fight. I’d stormed out, pissed as hell, but when I came back, she was sitting on the floor, scribbling lyrics like her life depended on it. I didn’t say anything. Just sat down and played along with whatever she was humming. Neither of us apologised, but… I guess that was our way of making up.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: We never talked about it, you know? We’d write all these songs that were practically confessions—about each other, about how much it hurt when we fought, or how we couldn’t stand being apart—and then we’d just… move on. Never acknowledged it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret that?

YOU: (Hesitates) Sometimes. But the songs made it pretty obvious. We were practically begging each other to figure it out without actually saying it.

[CUT TO: MYDEI]

MYDEI: She always wrote like it was her way of… bleeding out whatever she couldn’t say. We made something good out of it, though. Even if we never said it out loud. And… yeah. Sometimes I miss that. The simplicity of it. Just us and a guitar and whatever shit we were working through. I didn’t need anything else back then.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: It’s funny. We used to write about heartbreak like it was this distant concept—something that happened to other people. Never thought we’d end up writing about each other.

vi). i want to get him back (and then?)

The rooftop is quiet at this hour—too early for most and too late for the rest. The sky is more navy than blue, more shadow than light. You push the heavy metal door open with your shoulder, and it clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You tug your hoodie tighter around you, retreating into the warmth, and dig around in your pocket for your cigarettes.

The lighter sparks on the second try. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, and something in you loosens. You hate how easy it still is to find comfort in bad habits.

That’s when you notice him.

At first, it’s just the faint glow of a cigarette at the far corner of the rooftop. But you know it’s him—know it in the shape of his silhouette, the way he leans forward with one elbow braced on the ledge, hoodie pulled low over his face. Mydei. Of course.

You hesitate for a beat, frozen halfway between the door and where he stands. It would be easier to leave—pretend you didn’t see him, pretend you didn’t spend the night tangled up in him and then wake up to cold sheets and silence.

But you don’t.

Your steps are quiet as you cross the rooftop, stopping a few feet away from him. He doesn’t look at you, just exhales slowly, eyes on the horizon. You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the tip burn orange, watching the smoke curl upwards and vanish into the sky.

“Why’d you leave?” you ask. You mean the hotel room, but not only that.

He’s quiet for a long time. You wonder if he’s even going to answer.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says eventually, still not looking at you.

You huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. “You didn’t want to be there.”

He doesn’t argue. The silence stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just tired. He glances at you. The wind picks up a little, brushing your hair across your cheek. He notices—always notices—and shifts just slightly so he’s blocking the breeze. Neither of you says anything about it.

“You looked peaceful,” Mydei says. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You think not being there was better?”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod. You don’t push. You’ve learned not to with him. “It’s not just about tonight,” you say quietly.

He nods, eyes dark and shadowed. “I know.”

The sun starts to edge over the horizon, painting faint streaks of pink and orange across the navy sky. It’s beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way, like something you’re scared to touch because you know it’s too delicate to last. You both watch in silence for a while, letting the smoke and the light fill the air between you. There’s a comfort in it, strangely enough. The way the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like it’s stuck. The way mornings come anyway.

You look at Mydei again.

He’s tired. You can see it in the curve of his mouth, in the slump of his shoulders. But he’s here. Part of you wants to ask him why. Why he came up here. Why he didn’t leave the hotel entirely. Why he lets himself touch you but won’t let himself stay. Instead, you say nothing.

He offers you his lighter when yours gives out, and your fingers brush when you take it. It’s a brief touch, barely there, but it’s enough to make your chest ache in that too-familiar way.

You smoke the rest of your cigarettes side by side, not speaking, not needing to. It’s the kind of silence that used to exist between songs in the studio. When you stub the last bit out on the ledge, you take one last look at the sunrise. The light catches on his face now, gold and soft, and you want to say something. You don’t even know what.

So instead, you pull your hoodie tighter and nod. “I should go.”

He nods too, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you either.

You turn back towards the door, and as you do, a folded piece of paper slips from your pocket. You don’t notice it fall, fluttering once before landing gently near his feet. You don’t notice it, because you’re too busy disappearing back into the stairwell, too wrapped up in keeping your shoulders straight and your breathing steady.

He doesn’t move for a while after you’re gone.

Then, slowly, Mydei leans down and picks up the paper. The handwriting is unmistakable—your quick, slanted script, a few smudges where the pencil dragged.

He reads it once. Twice.

Then he folds it back up, holds it in his hand like it might crumble, and watches the sun break over the city, alone.

The lights shift from the vibrant spotlights of the previous set into something softer, slower—dimmed gold and dusky purple spreading like ink over the stage. Your mic is cold under your fingers. You roll the cord absently through your hand. You can’t see much beyond the footlights; only the sea of shadows, the faint outlines of swaying arms and cell phone lights blinking like stars.

But Mydei’s there, across from you. This next song is just you and him, after all.

He’s adjusting the strap of his guitar, head bowed, eyes hidden beneath the fall of his hair.

It’s the same stage. The same lights. The same song. Why does it feel so different?

The crowd doesn’t know what they’re about to hear. Most of them don’t even know the song, you’re pretty sure. It’s some B-side from one of your earlier albums. You remember when you wrote it. The quiet of three in the morning, the late-night arguments that bled into music, the unraveling of two people who couldn’t speak to each other unless it was in chords and half-rhymed lines.

Here you are again. Older. Worse at pretending.

The intro begins with gentle chords, the kind that hurt more than they soothe. Your mic is already at your lips. You inhale like it’s your first breath of the night.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care this time, Said your name like it didn’t still taste like goodbye. But you look at me like you never learned how to let go…”

Your voice holds, though it feels like walking a tightrope. Every word comes out measured, like if you let it slip, your heart will come out tumbling too. You don’t look at him, not yet. You can feel his presence—like gravity—but you don’t turn your head.

Not until he sings. Then, you do. He meets your gaze.

“I said we were fire meant to burn out fast, But I keep finding you in every song I’ve written last. You don’t ask me to stay, and I don’t ask you to try… But we’re still standing here, pretending we’re fine.”

His voice—God, his voice. It’s rougher than it used to be, edges carved by years and distance, but it still wraps around your lyrics like it was always meant to. He’s not just singing. He’s looking at you like he’s saying every word for the first time. It knocks the air from your lungs.

Your heart’s pounding now, and you hate that it still reacts to him like this. Like your body remembers the way he used to hold you when no one else was watching. 

The chorus crashes over both of you.

“So lie to me, baby, say it’s still love, Say the ending never mattered, that this beginning’s enough. We were smoke, we were stars, we were doomed from the start, But tonight, just tonight, sing like you still mean every part.”

Mydei steps closer. You do, too. It’s instinct, not plan. You don’t even realise it until you’re nearly toe-to-toe, voices tangling into harmony, eyes locked.

You wonder if the crowd can feel it. If they can hear the way your throat tightens, how the vowels tremble when he looks at you like that. Like he’s trying to remember the shape of you—not just your face, but your soul. The bridge comes. You always dreaded it.

“Maybe we’ll break like we always do, Maybe we’ll forget this in the morning too. But for now—God, for now— You still feel like a home I never knew.”

The line lands like a punch to the chest. Yours, and maybe his too.

You let it ring out, raw and full. For a second, it feels like the two of you are back in that tiny studio years ago—barefoot, angry, tired, in love. Writing a song you were both too scared to mean. But you meant it. You always did, and you do now.

The last chorus is quieter, a lullaby instead of a plea.

“And I’d sing this with you a thousand times… if you’d let me.”

You drop your hand from the mic, breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s silence. Just you and Mydei.

He doesn’t move. He’s staring at you with something unspoken lodged in his eyes, something that looks too close to regret.

You turn away first. Your heart’s already too full. One more second and it might burst.

The crowd roars behind you, applause crashing in waves.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, lounging back on the couch.]

CASTORICE: It was just a fact. Mydei and _____. You didn’t say one name without the other. (Shakes her head) And the way they used to look at each other on stage? Insane. Like, we’d be in the middle of a song, and I’d be watching them instead of playing because damn. The rest of us could’ve vanished into thin air, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

(Laughs lightly, rolling her eyes.)

CASTORICE (CONT’D): It was kinda funny, actually. Like, okay, we get it, you’re in love. Can we get through the set without you two making heart eyes at each other? (Pause) But, y’know… it was also kinda nice. Seeing people that in sync. That kind of connection isn’t something you fake.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bass resting on her lap.]

HYACINE: They were disgusting. I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Grinning) Like, you’d be tuning your guitar, and they’d just be standing off to the side, whispering to each other like they weren’t literally about to perform in front of thousands of people. And yeah, sure, couples sing duets all the time, but with them? It was different. Like they were letting us in on something private, something meant just for them. Even if it was a song they’d performed a hundred times before, it always felt like they were saying something new.

(Chuckles, eyes soft with nostalgia.)

HYACINE (CONT’D): They made you believe in that kind of love, y’know? The all-consuming, this-song-is-about-you kind of love. You couldn’t watch them and not feel it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting with his arms draped over the back of the chair, smirking lightly.]

PHAINON: Yeah, they were that couple. The ones who made you roll your eyes but also kind of wish you had what they had. Like, I remember this one show—Mydei had just finished this crazy guitar solo, and instead of, I don’t know, reveling in the applause like a normal person, he immediately turned to _____ like she was the only one whose reaction mattered. And she just grinned at him, and I swear to God, he looked like he won the lottery.

(Shakes his head and scoffs.)

PHAINON (CONT’D): They were reckless with it. Loud about it. No hesitation, no holding back. They didn’t just love each other, they showed it. And that’s rare. You don’t get that kind of honesty on stage very often.

(His smirk fades just slightly.)

PHAINON (CONT’D):  …That’s why it was so hard when it ended.

vii). ‘cause i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh.

The crowd is louder tonight. Not louder in volume, necessarily, but just… like they’re expecting something. Like they know something you don’t.

You glance at the setlist as someone does your in-ear check. Your duet with Mydei is coming up next—the same one you’ve done every night for years. It’s not your most popular song, but it’s yours. It always has been. Something about it felt safe even now, when everything else between you and him was held together with duct tape and willpower.

You take a sip of water and step towards the side of the stage, waiting for the intro cues.

But when you hear the first notes, they’re not yours.

Your stomach drops. The chord progression is soft, a little unfamiliar. It’s not one of your tracks, or a part of the agreed setlist.

Your gaze snapes to the center of the stage where Mydei stands—guitar in hand, face calm. He’s adjusted his mic, and he’s… smiling? Not a grin. Nothing cocky. Just this small, quiet thing, like he’s doing something that matters to him more than he’s ready to admit.

“This one’s not on the list,” he says into the mic, casual, like this doesn’t upend everything. “I wanted to try something new tonight.”

Your brow furrows. You step a little closer, careful not to draw a scene. Castorice gives you a sharp look from behind her kit, like, Did you know about this? You shake your head once. 

Mydei starts to sing.

“You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong.”

It hits you like a punch to the ribs.

That lyric. That exact line. You know it because you wrote it, alone. In that hotel room weeks ago, scrawled in a burst of emotion you weren’t proud of, folded up and shoved into the pocket of your sweatpants. You’d thought it got tossed in the wash or lost somewhere in the shuffle between cities.

Apparently not. Apparently he found it. And instead of asking you—like a normal person would—he set it to music. He built a melody around your bleeding heart and decided to sing it to a crowd of thousands.

“We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.”

It’s a beautiful melody, and you feel something inside your chest twist, hard. He sings softly but unsteadily, like he wasn’t sure that you’d hear it—or worse, that you would.

He doesn’t look at you while he sings. He scans the crowd, eyes on the horizon. But the meaning is clear. You can feel it in the tightness in your chest, in the hush that’s fallen over the audience, like they know this isn’t just a love song.

You fold your arms over your chest, more for grounding than anything. Castorice doesn’t play a beat. Hyacine and Phainon watch silently, hands loose on their instruments like they’re ready to jump in if needed, but they don’t. Neither of you do.

This is his moment, and your words.

“You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.”

You exhale shakily. You feel exposed, as if you’re standing naked in front of an entire arena. The words weren’t just lyrics—they were confessions. Grudges. Regrets. Things you never had the guts to say out loud. And here Mydei is, saying them for you.

No. Singing them.

Your fingers curl into your palms. You don’t know whether to be furious or deeply, deeply moved. 

He finishes the song in a whisper, almost. The last chord rings out like an unanswered question. The audience is silent for a beat too long. Then they erupt—whistling, cheering, screaming. It’s a standing ovation for something they didn’t even know was a story.

And still, Mydei hasn’t looked at you—until now.

He turns, finally, just a little, and meets your eyes across the stage. You don’t smile. You don’t clap. You just stare at him, speechless and conflicted.

Then, Mydei steps back from the mic and gives the signal to move on with the set. You turn your face away before the next lights come up, blinking hard. Your heart’s racing. You don’t know what happens after this; what this means; what you’re supposed to say.

You only know one thing: That song was yours, and now, it’s his, too.

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is buzzing—crew rushing around, the muffled roar of the crowd still seeping through the walls, someone shouting about cords and lights and encores. But all you can hear is the blood in your ears and your name echoing in Mydei’s voice as he sang your lyrics.

His voice, but your words. Your heart on a scrap of paper you never meant for anyone else to see.

Your footsteps are harsh against the floor as you turn the corner and push the door open. The dressing room is too bright, too sterile compared to the intimacy of the stage. Mydei stands with his back to you, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, hair pushed off his forehead like he ran his fingers through it too many times.

You close the door behind you with a click. Quiet, but final. He hears it.

“Hey,” he says, not turning around yet.

You stare at the back of his head. “Don’t do that to me.”

Mydei pauses. Slowly, he turns to face you. “I figured you’d be mad.”

“Mad?” You laugh, breath catching somewhere in your throat. “You think I’m mad?”

“You look mad.”

“I am mad,” you snap, taking a step closer, heart pounding. “You sang a song you weren’t supposed to have. You didn’t even ask me, Mydei. You just—just stood there and threw it at me in front of ten thousand people like it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t mean nothing,” he says. “That’s why I sang it.”

You’re both quiet. The silence stretches and tightens until it’s almost unbearable.

“You could’ve told me,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “You could’ve talked to me. About the song. About anything. But you don’t. You never do.”

Mydei exhales slowly, resting his hands on his hips like he’s bracing himself. “I didn’t know how.”

You tilt your head, lips parting in disbelief. “That’s such bullshit, Mydei. We wrote songs together. We told each other everything through music. And now you’re just—standing there, acting like it’s some impossible thing.”

He looks at you, then. Really looks. And for a moment, he’s not the cold, distant version of himself he’s been for months. He’s just him. The boy who used to fall asleep beside you in the tour van. The one who hummed half-finished melodies in your ear at midnight in whatever motel you were crashing in. The one who used to kiss you like the world might end before morning.

“I didn’t know how to say I missed you,” he admits. “So I used your words instead. Because mine never come out right.”

You don’t want to forgive him. You really don’t.

But the hurt in his voice is real. So is the way he’s looking at you—like you’ve always been the only person in the room, and he’s just been waiting to see you again for real.

You take one shaky step forward. Then another.

When your lips crash into his, it isn’t careful or slow. It’s everything you’ve been holding back: Rage, longing, grief, hope. His hands find your face, yours grip his shirt, and everything around you blurs until it’s just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his sighs and the undeniable truth that this still feels like home.

You part, breathless.

Neither of you speaks at first. You’re still close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, the heat of his skin under your fingertips. 

Your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you tell him, “I want to get you back.”

Mydei doesn’t hesitate. “You already have.”

It hits you harder than the kiss did. Something cracks inside you—something small and soft and long-buried. You almost don’t realise you’re crying until he wipes your cheek with the back of his hand.

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” His thumb traces the edge of your jaw. “You’re allowed to be.”

You step back first, gently. He lets you go, but his eyes follow you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

As you adjust your jacket and run a hand through your hair, something slips from your pocket—folded paper, creased from being handled too many times. You don’t notice, but Mydei does.

He kneels to pick it up after you’re gone, quietly unfolding it to find another unfinished song. Lyrics in your handwriting. His name, half-crossed out and rewritten three times.

He reads the first line. Smiles.

He doesn’t hand it back to you. He tucks it into his jacket, like he already knows how it ends.

[CUT TO BLACK] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: Reunion Tour. THE END.”

And true to their words, his eyes are pinned on you even as he raises his glass for a lazy sip of JD and coke.

You tear your eyes away with an eye roll, forcing your attention back to your friends.

“We are not together,” you say firmly, maybe too firmly. “I am not getting back with him. It’s been months, I’ve moved on, and if he hasn’t? That’s on him.”

The girls trade looks, and then Hysilens smirks like she’s just won a bet you never agreed to.

“Wanna bet?”

“Oh, screw you, Hyse.”

Her laughter disappears into the swell of the music as she slams back another shot, then grabs both you and Cas by the wrists when the DJ slides into the instrumental of Only Girl in the World.

“You gotta dance, girl, c’mon!” she hollers, pulling you out onto the floor.

And you do—because it’s easier to laugh and sway and drown yourself in the lights than to think about his stare burning through the crowd. You were here to enjoy yourself, after all.

It takes at least four more songs and a countless drinks before Cas leans into you, complaining that she’s dizzy, and you shout that you’ll grab her water, then wait for Hysilens (who’s also swaying on her feet) to usher her back into the booth before you leave.

You weave towards the bar, skin damp from the heat, throat parched, ordering three waters over the music blaring from the speakers.

That’s when it happens.

A hand slips around your waist. Firm. Familiar.

“Hey.”

You don't even need to turn your head to know who it is, his cologne gives him away.

You let out a deep sigh and he quirks a brow.

“What? Not even going to greet me now?”

You shift your weight to the leg farthest from him, “Not here, Mydei.”

“Relax, Castorice and Hysilens are too busy dancing to even see,” he insists.

You stare up at him in disbelief, but under the strobe lights, his eyes are molten—steady and unashamed, like he already knows how this night will end. The bass vibrates up your legs, matching the restless beat in your chest.

The bartender sets your order down with a clink, “Three waters,” he says.

You grab it quickly, “So? What about it?” you throw back, but it comes out weaker than you’d like.

Mydei just watches you, head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. You squirm under his stare, shifting from his hold, pretending not to feel how his fingers brush your hip when you move past him.

You slip away before you can cave, weaving through the crowd until the dance floor opens up again. Cas and Hyse are there, drenched in the flashing red lights, arms thrown around each other as they scream along to whatever remix the DJ’s playing now.

“Water!” you shout over the noise, raising the glass.

Castorice grins wide, hair sticking to her temple, “You’re a saint!” she slurs, then promptly almost trips on her own feet before Hyse steadies her, she looks at you, exasperated.

“I think we’re done,” Cas says, voice raised but slurred with exhaustion, “I’m definitely dizzy.”

You don’t even try to hide your relief, “Good. I’ll go with you.”

Cas waves her phone in the air, “Nooo, I’ll book it! Everyone calm down, I am sober enough for an Uber!”

“Sure you are,” Hysilens chuckles.

It takes her three tries to type in the address, but somehow she manages. You wait with them by the club’s entrance, the music still thudding behind you, the air outside sticky and loud with traffic.

Cas is giggling about something—probably nothing—while Hyse leans into her shoulder, muttering about hangovers and morning classes on Monday.

“Driver’s here in a minute,” Cas says, eyes squinting at her phone like it’s trying to fight her, “you better text when you get home, or I’ll— I’ll punch you tomorrow,” she slurs.

It makes you laugh, “Yeah, yeah. I will.” You know they’ll forget to check anyway, and you’ll just say you fell asleep the moment you got home.

The car pulls up, headlights sweeping over the sidewalk. Hysilens grabs Cas by the elbow before she can wander off, “C’mon, champ.”

She hugs you suddenly, hard and clumsy, “Don’t miss us too much,” she teases before the brunette shoves her gently into the car.

You wave them off, the taillights fading around the corner, the noise of the club dulling behind you.

For a moment, it’s quiet—almost peaceful.

Then a low, familiar engine revs from behind you.

You don’t even have to turn to know who it is.

And despite every nerve in your body telling you to walk away—you don’t.

…

You feel the aftermath before you see it.

The dull ache settles into your bones before your mind even catches up. Every nerve feels tender, worn thin—the kind of soreness that hums quietly under the skin, more memory than pain. 

The sheets beneath you are still warm, the air heavy with the scent of him, citrus, that cologne, and something that’s just so… Mydei.

You shift carefully, turning your head to the side. 

He’s still asleep beside you, chest rising and falling in that unbothered rhythm of his, hair a mess across his forehead. 

Even now, there’s that same faint furrow in his brow—like he’s dreaming about something that pisses him off.

You stare for a second too long before forcing yourself upright, wincing when the movement pulls at your thighs, a painting of red and yellow scattered all over them.There’s a bruise—maybe a bite mark?—blooming near your collarbone—fresh, right over the pulse he loves to find.

Of course there is.

Mydei was always a biter.

You slip quietly from the bed, the floorboards cool beneath your bare feet. His shirt—no, your shirt, you took it from him—lies halfway under the couch, tangled with his jeans, a casualty of the night before. You gather your pants in a silent sweep, not daring to look back.

His bathroom mirror greets you with harsh honesty. The fluorescent light flickers once, then steadies, revealing everything you didn’t want to see. Your hair’s a mess, your lipstick smudged to the edges of your mouth, your neck painted in shades of red and purple.

You press your fingers to one of the marks. It stings.

For a second, you think about taking a bath—maybe even blow-drying your hair—but you stop yourself, because it feels wrong, too familiar. Like staying too long. 

You make yourself look presentable anyway by washing your face and combing your hair down.

Your eyes drift to the hook by the door after. Hanging there is one of his sweaters—black, soft, probably one he won’t notice missing right away. You pull it on anyway. It’s loose on you, the hem falling to mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing your hands whole. It smells like him.

You hate how comforting that is.

With a deep breath, you move around the apartment, collecting the last of your things—your purse on the nightstand, your earrings on the coffee table. You make sure not to wake him or his roommate, Phainon (who probably wasn’t even home), when you grab your shoes from beside the couch.

The city outside is still half-asleep when you book the Uber, the blue glow of your screen lighting up the dark living room. 

Estimated arrival: four minutes.

You stand by the door, hand on the knob, staring at the floor. There’s an empty can of a redbull on the kitchen counter, a half-crumpled shirt of his from god knows when, and the faint echo of laughter from a time you can’t bring yourself to remember.

You twist the knob and step out before you can think twice.

The door clicks shut behind you and your phone pings to let you know the driver was already outside. You sigh as you get in the car, and for the first time all night, the ache in your chest hurts more than the ones on your body.

It wasn’t always like this.

Mydei used to smile when you’d talk about nothing—tracing lazy circles on your thigh, nodding like every word you said meant something only he could understand. 

He used to pick you up from class when it rained. He used to fall asleep with his arm draped over you, heavy and safe. He used to kiss you like he meant forever.

Now, when you try to remember how it all fell apart, it’s like sifting through static, your ears ring whenever you try to recall. 

You don’t even remember what started the fight—something stupid, probably. Something about missed calls, or plans forgotten.

But you do remember how his voice was—raised, sharp around the edges.

(“Why do you always have to make everything about you?”

And yours, breaking.

“Is it so bad that I want to actually let you know how I feel?”

Then more words—overlapping, cutting, neither of you were listening anymore.

A hand through his hair, a bitter laugh.

Your throat felt raw.

The sound of a door slamming.

And then—quiet.

Just the echo of what he said right before it shut:

“Maybe we should stop pretending this still works.”

You don’t even remember what you said back. Maybe nothing at all. Just standing there, staring at the space where he used to be.)

Before you knew it, the taxi you were in tells you you’re at your destination, and you disassociate during the whole interaction, running on autopilot, only snapping back to reality when the lock of the door clicks behind you.

“I really should end it, huh?”

masterlist.

taglist is open!! comment on the MASTERLIST to be added! red means u can't be tagged: @crystalkat6747 @ssetsuka @eilaazzz @emilettew @firefliesoul-corner @violetisreadinghush @fantasyloverisa @iruanmey @mydeilver @milkhalo @pe4rlple @evclipsesstuff @honeyochii @castomeii @lyambdaa

usagi's note: i hate college. this semester has been a fever dream and not even in the good way. anyway i AM making a comeback because i will get to have like three or four weeks off when april starts and i figured now would be a good time to post rock bottom cuz it's essentially where i am right now warahel.

also i didn't write any smut for this. CUZ HELLO ITS THE FIRST CHAPTER. and also because i... am a coward. IM SORRYYYY. there will be some sort of smut in here, because its like rlly connected to the plot, what am i kidding it's LITERALLY the plot. but not now, maybe um... maybe next chapter idfk ive only written the ending and the start LOL anyway yea see u after this week cuz oh my goodness i might actually fucking die my calendar is red because of all the deadlines i have. send your prayers.

@usagiarchive 2026. do not repost, translate, or use for AI. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated!!

Now you were sat in his lap, steeling yourself for the appointment that was rapidly approaching as Boothill mistook your silence for apprehension. Placing soft kisses into the crook of your neck and along the exposed skin of your shoulder, the cowboy does his best to calm your nerves. Completely oblivious to the possibility that his actions would only serve to set you further on the edge.

"We can call it off if you like," Boothill reassures. "You know I won't force ya to do anything you don't want to. Just say the word, sugar, and I'll send him on his way."

Only a moment passes before you raise your head, leaning back to look Boothill in the eye as you shake your head in gentle disagreement.

"I'm okay, love. It's just… a little nerve-racking. I've never done anything like this before." Despite being the truth, your reply comes out sounding a little too uncertain to his ears. This sets a pout on your cowboy's face.

"Just promise me you'll holler if ya change yer mind?"

"I promise," you coo at him, sounding much more self-assured this time while giving him a sweet smile.

"Good," his warm breath fans your lips as he nuzzles his nose against yours, causing you to giggle.

Your response was one he was willing to accept, reminding himself that he could trust you to tell him the truth. Your comfort and safety are of utmost importance to him, and he refused to have it any other way. He pecks gingerly at the corner of your mouth before he pulls back to get a good look at you, practically purring at the sight that he'd already seen just moments prior. Heck, he even watched you get dressed and still behaved like he was just seeing it for the first time.

Perched on his lap and squirming under his searing gaze, you wore a thin, silken nightgown with a lacy trim. Creamy and off-white in color, it framed your figure perfectly, emphasizing the curves and slopes of your body in a way that engaged the imagination. Invigorated the appetite. He would never tire of basking in your beauty, draped in delicate fabrics.

He could only hope that tonight's new participant would also share this same appreciation.

Sudden knocking at the door breaks Boothill from his reverie and makes you jump slightly in his grasp. Your awaited guest has finally arrived.

You wait in silence, now alone on the bed as Boothill had left to draw the curtains and welcome the visitor at the door. The main room is deafeningly quiet as you listen closely to the greetings being exchanged between the two men; however, you couldn't quite make out their words. They were only moments away from entering your bed and you couldn't control the ceaseless flow of sinful images that were conjured in your mind. Your head was spinning, thighs instinctually pressing together, impatient and needy, the longer you were forced to wait.

After what felt like an entire amber era, Boothill reappears, sauntering back into view with his crosshair eyes locked onto you. Following close behind is none other than Ashveil. His approach is more timid than the cowboy's, clutching his brimmed hat to his chest as if it could calm the beating of his heart. When his silver eyes finally meet yours, his cheeks immediately bloom with a rosy, red hue — the esteemed ashen detective can't possibly be this adorable!

"Detective," you address him smoothly, having successfully subdued the urge to pounce him right then and there. Part of you wants to see him melt into a puddle of embarrassment, and the other wants to see if there's something else hidden beyond those innocent, blushing cheeks. Something greedy, ravenous, or starved of intimacy.

When he doesn't immediately respond, you begin to suspect that the former would be the most probable outcome.

"C'mon boss! No point in getting shy now," Boothill nudges at Ashveil's arm teasingly. "It'd be awfully rude to leave this beauty hangin'."

The detective sputters briefly before collecting himself, brows furrowed and face burning as he sucks in a grounding breath.

"M-my apologies," he shifts his bashful gaze from you to Boothill, and then back to you. "I suppose I'm just a bit out of practice. You really must forgive me."

"Well…we can help you with that," Boothill smirks, flashing you a glance that tells you everything you need to know. He's given you an opening, and you're taking the bait.

The two of you close in on the detective, like wolves upon a defenseless lamb.

Boothill frees Ashveil's hands of his hat and cane, nimbly removes his outer coat, and sets them all neatly to the side. From the edge of the bed, you take Ashveil's hand and gently guide him to your side, making sure to not rush him on his bad leg. Once he's comfortably seated on the bed beside you, he allows himself to take a proper look at you. You follow his gaze as it travels lasciviously across the exposed skin of your body, at the suggestion of form beneath your loosely fitted garment.

For several seconds, he does nothing but take in the sight before him, and while that's all well and good, it isn't what you've set out to do. Emboldened by the way he's devouring you with his eyes, you take his gloved hand into yours.

"Don't worry, detective. This isn't a crime scene." Serving as his guide, you place his hand in the space just below your breasts. "You can touch me as much as you want."

A shaky breath escapes his lips as you encouragingly press his hand further up your body. It was honestly shocking how inexperienced and shy he was under your instruction. A man as beautiful as him was sure to have many admirers vying for his attention, so why are his movements so restrained and unsure?

Boothill takes his place behind you and interrupts your train of thought.

"Wouldja like a demonstration? I can show ya how she likes it," the cowboy drawls. His familiar cockiness riling you up and sending heat straight to your gut even without seeing the devilish smirk that's undoubtedly plastered to his face.

Ashveil's eyes leave your body for the first time to acknowledge Boothill's offer. "Please," is all he says. A brief nod and the withdrawal of his own hand to further indicate his answer.

Boothill chuckles at the gesture and suddenly he's leaned over your shoulder, hands reaching around you to grope your breasts. You sigh needily, but his touch is fleeting as they travel upward to grab hold of the lacy straps of your gown. With deft fingers, he drags the straps down your shoulders until they hang by your elbows, leaving the remaining fabric to just barely cling to the mound of your chest. He's deliberately moving at a snail's pace, making sure to breathe hot against your neck and ear, wanting to tease both you and his audience of one. And unfortunately for you, it's working exceptionally well.

Boothill delights in the way Ashveil looks at you. Attention unbroken, lips slightly parted, and an increasingly obvious tent in his slacks. You've definitely noticed it too. You swallow thickly at the thought of him getting aroused just from looking at you. Your folded legs begin to shift restlessly beneath you, barely able to withstand the tension that's building between the three of you — it's almost tangible, thick and viscous as it deprives your lungs of oxygen.

After deciding you've been patient enough, the cowboy follows through with his task and pulls your gown's neckline down to pool below your now exposed breasts. He fulfills your silent pleas for contact by cupping them in his hands while his lips latch onto the sensitive skin of your shoulder. You gasp at the initial chill of his metallic fingers, but they quickly inherit your warmth as he begins kneading your tender flesh. You were soft and pliant under his hard and unyielding touch.

You can't help it when your lungs begin to falter. Boothill knew exactly where your sweet spots were, and he didn't plan on playing fair. But what made everything feel so much more intense was the all-consuming gaze of Ashveil. He hadn't even done anything to you yet, but his presence alone was enough to heighten your senses. A whine escapes your lips, and it's clear that you want more.

Boothill's lips withdraw from your shoulder to press against the shell of your ear, his hands continuing their motions: massaging, pinching, pulling.

"What's the matter, darlin'?" The huskiness of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. "If ya want somethin', just say it. Otherwise, this old wolf might get stuck as an observer all night."

Understanding that Boothill is referring to him, Ashveil flushes an even deeper red. "Don't mock me," he warns, but it lacks any danger.

A rumble of laughter erupts from Boothill's chest and subsequently dampens the spot between your legs.

"I'm only pullin' yer tail. But you'd best do somethin' quick before I decide I want her all to myself." Upon delivering his advice, he licks sloppily into your ear, ripping an uncontainable moan from your throat as a means of spurring his senior into action.

And it does.

Ashveil, having finally mustered the courage, shifts his seated position until he can comfortably lean closer to you, hovering mere inches from your face.

"May I kiss you?" He asks for your permission, appearing determined and almost apologetic in his advances. The contrast between the behaviors of the two men bracketing you makes your mind fuzzy, and arouses you to no end. You can hardly form a coherent thought in your current state of impatience, so you opt to respond with your actions instead.

You quickly close the gap between your lips, crashing into him with unabated fervor. His lips are remarkably soft and plush against your own, and you can feel yourself become instantly addicted to the sensation. You're all too eager to deepen the kiss — dying to keep your mouth and tongue occupied while Boothill continues toying with your breasts — and Ashveil does his best to keep up with your pace. You part your lips to let him in, allowing him to lap at your open mouth as he slowly begins to realize his own growing appetite.

Your tongues mingle hastily, saliva now dripping past your lips, clinging to your chin, and the sound is downright filthy. Ashveil's hand had found its way to rest on your jaw at some point, but you've only just become aware of it because his grip has tightened. Holding you firmly in place, he nips and sucks at your lower lip, drawing out various moans and whines; some of which were his. The sound of his arousal sends blood rushing to your cheeks. It's hot and heady, and appears to have an affect on both you and Boothill.

The numerous lewd sounds have gotten to the cyborg behind you, and he becomes aware of his own waning patience. He'd simply been waiting for the cue that would allow him to take things to the next level, and when he hears Ashveil moan into your mouth, he knows it's time. He hurriedly drops his hands to where the hem of your garment sits and gathers the fabric between his fingers as he hikes it up to sit around your waist. Without preamble, his fingers dips below the waistband of your panties, desperately seeking out your dripping core.

A bolt of electricity shoots through your body when he finds it; smooth, silver fingers drag slowly between your folds, coating themselves in your slick. You gasp into Ashveil's mouth, jolting in his grasp as his junior strokes at your cunt.

The detective's eyes open to see your lashes fluttering in ecstasy. He pulls back from your parted lips to peer down between your legs, and what he finds there snaps the final thread of humility and self-restraint he'd been clinging to. He watches for a moment as Boothill's hand maneuvers steadily beneath the lacy material of your underwear; as your stomach flexes and trembles with pleasure; as your hands scramble for purchase among the sheets; as your mouth hangs open with pretty, airy whimpers spilling from your lips.

"Fuck," he utters under his breath. His eyes have darkened considerably, and his once shy demeanor is now slowly melting away.

But you don't hear nor see this. Your head is thrown back over Boothill's shoulder, eyes shut as you concentrate on the movement of his fingers. You're hungry for his attention, but he's still holding back. He does nothing but repeat the same slow and languid strokes with no intention of speeding up. He's really only aiming to cruelly string you along until you're begging for more.

Before you can even verbalize your annoyance, your eyes shoot open at the feeling of Boothill's hands leaving you only to then see your nightgown being recklessly torn from you body, followed quickly by your panties. The men seem to have reached a silent agreement when you weren't looking as they haul your body to the center of the bed, where you now lay with your back against Boothill's chest; bare and ready for Ashveil's taking.

"Since yer the guest of honor, I'll let you dig in first," Boothill says coolly. He hooks his hands under your knees and spreads you wide for his senior. Your face is burning up with embarrassment at being presented in such a compromising manner, but you don't resist it. You want this. Your cunt clenches around nothing at the sight of the fully dressed detective lowering himself in front of your naked body, an appreciative sigh leaving his chest.

"Aeons you're gorgeous," he breathes against your inner thigh. "And already so wet. Did you really want this that badly?" His hands steadying himself on the backs of your thighs — careful not to poke you with the seal-binding nail that protrudes beneath his right wrist — as he brings his face within a hair's breadth of you. You swear you're already dripping onto the sheets below when he inhales your scent deeply, his hot exhale against your most sensitive spot making you squirm in Boothill's vice-like grip.

You've been so distracted, observing him in painful expectancy, that you had completely forgotten about his question. He has to nip at your thigh with his sharp canines to bring you back to your senses, shooting you a dark and demanding look from between your legs. "Is this what you want, pretty girl?"

"Yes," you breathe, exasperated. You've got the most pitifully needy look on your face and it stirs something within Ashveil's chest. "Please, I can't wait any longer."

And with that, he eagerly obliges.

He dives in, flattening his tongue against the entirety of your cunt before licking a thick stripe up to your clit; a hungry groan vibrates against you. You cry out, finally getting closer to the feeling you've been chasing. Your hands immediately tangle in his dark hair, pulling him close enough to smother him, but he doesn't mind it. In fact, he revels in it. His mouth obediently suckling at your sensitive bundle of nerves and messily drooling all over your weeping folds. He moans when he laps at the juices that leak from your slit — the flavor heavenly on his taste buds. He whimpers when you tug at his hair after he's buried his tongue between your walls. He's diligent in his deduction of what gets you going, cataloguing each of your reactions in the back of his mind for safe keeping.

The way he's slurping at you is pornographic. Wet pops and guttural groans fill the cool, conditioned air of the room and you swears it's begun to spin. He's eating like a man starved; gulping down your essence like you're the last oasis in an endlessly sun-scorched desert.

Boothill is straining against your lower back at his point, his silicone prosthetic testing the stretch of the black leather that confines him. He wets his parched lips when he notices you're getting close, envying Ashveil's position. Your legs are shaking in his hands, hips bucking against Ashveil's rapacious mouth on instinct. He wants to be the one to drink you down, but he can learn to share if it means he gets to watch your face twist in pleasure.

"Go on, sweet girl. Cum for us. Give the boss a good taste of ya," his voice comes out gravelly, teetering on the edge of a growl.

This rapidly ushers you to the precipice of your release when, without warning, Ashveil presses a gloved digit into you, curling to repeatedly graze your g-spot with terrifying precision. And with that, you're sent instantly spiraling. A broken moan tears from your lungs as you convulse against the solid chest and hands of the cowboy as he licks and nips at your ear, studying the shift in your expression when the rolling tides of your first orgasm wash over you.

The man between your thighs continues his steady ministrations, but begins to reluctantly ease up the pace. Only when you start to whine from the encroaching overstimulation does he withdraw his now drenched finger. He places one last open-mouthed kiss to your twitching lower lips, trailing lighter pecks along your inner thigh before gently biting you. When you whine in response, he has to grapple with himself to overcome the animalistic urge to sink his teeth even further. Unwillingly, he lets your supple flesh escape his jaws as he pulls back from you.

Breathless, you go limp against Boothill. Your eyes shut as you're left reeling from your devastating high before you're gently shifted to lay on the plush comforter of the bed. You feel the bed dip with Boothill's departure from your side, but his destination remains unclear to you.

Your heart leaps into your throat when you hear the rustling of clothes being undone; the familiar jingle of a belt buckle coming loose. Curiosity gets the best of you as your eyelids flicker open, but what you don't expect to see is the two rangers now undressing each other. Boothill greedily tongues at Ashveil's mouth, chasing the lingering flavor of you on his lips and your jaw nearly drops through the floor at the filthy scene you're witnessing. It's so unbelievably hot that your body instantly perks up again; desire burning anew.

Their lips part, a string of their saliva mixed with your slick stretching between them as Boothill pulls Ashveil's compression shirt up and over his head, revealing one of the most alluring torsos you've ever seen — perhaps even rivaling Boothill's. His large, muscular chest tapers down to an obscenely slim waist that disappears beneath his high-waisted pants. But the thing that catches your eyes is the blackened skin of his right side. It consumes all of his right arm and shoulder, interrupted by winding streaks of silver along his forearm; it cascades down his chest and onto his stomach, vanishing into his waistband. You wonder just how far it goes. If it would feel any different against your skin.

You watch them with intense focus, heart hammering in your chest as they continue making out, hands fumbling with each other's buttons and zippers, desperate to shed the layers that separate them. Ashveil is the first to succeed in freeing Boothill; his proud, silicone cock finally springing from its restraints. You suck in a steadying breath, eyes glazing over at the sight of your lover's deliciously sleek curvature. Saliva pooling around your tongue with the eagerness to feel him filling your mouth.

Boothill tuts against Ashveil's lips when the latter tries to push his leather pants further down his steely legs, nudging his hands away while breaking their kiss for the last time. In one continuous movement, Boothill removes his own pants and tosses them across the room with no decorum, leaving his body completely bare. And instead of returning to stand in front of the detective, he drops to a kneel between his legs before turning to catch your eyes, knowing you had been watching their every move — ever the showman.

"C'mere sweetheart, I'd like yer help with somethin'," he calls sweetly to you.

You obediently crawl to where Ashveil stands with the backs of his legs against the bed, taking a seat just off to his right while holding Boothill's gaze the whole way. He gives you a sharp-toothed grin before taking your hand in his.

"Could ya take care of this fer me?" He brings your knuckles to his lips to kiss them lovingly. It's so gutwrenchingly sweet that your heart skips a beat; pure, unabashed adoration filling your senses regardless of what he just requested of you. But he doesn't even need to ask, you'd do anything for him.

You hum warmly in response, love blossoming in your chest as your hands find their way to the front of Ashveil's pants. Lifting your gaze from Boothill, you seek out Ashveil's to gauge his reactions to the favor you're about to fulfill. He's currently looking at your hands where they rest teasingly along his waistband, his swollen and glistening lips parted in anticipation. Spontaneously deciding you'd like to bully him just a little, you drop your hands to the spot where he's most pent up.

He stiffens, biting his bottom lip to silence a whimper as your hands work at his clothed boner. You snicker deviously beside him when his hips start to twitch, but not wanting to keep Boothill waiting too long, you return to the task at hand. Your fingers are nimble as you unbutton, unzip, and tug his pants and underwear down his thighs, graciously releasing him from his confines. You grin wickedly when his eyebrows furrow at the sudden chill of the room, his member already leaking with excitement.

"Have a seat, detective," you instruct seductively. He obeys without hesitation, the bed dipping from his weight as he sits next to you. Boothill takes it upon himself to free the rest of Ashveil's legs, the discarded pants joining the rest of the clothes that lay strewn about the room.

With his body now completely nude, you follow his altered, black skin down below his waistline. You note how it continues to descend on a jagged path past his right knee. Your inquisitiveness urges your hands forward to drag along his side and you're shocked to discover that it's smooth — unnaturally lacking imperfections. It's similar to how wounded flesh never fully returns to its natural state, but in a way that doesn't feel quite human. But you're not at all unsettled by this; it only piques your interest further. Your hands continue their survey as they drag along his chest, shoulder, back, and finally his arm where your fingers meet the bits of silver that wind around his forearm.

The contrast is stark. From smooth black to solid silvery planes that jut slightly from the surface of his skin. They remind you of the steel panels of Boothill's body, but they bend and curve with him as though they're one with his organic flesh.

You notice that he's begun to tremble beneath your touch and you're suddenly struck with a realization: this could very well be an injury and your inconsiderate touch might be causing him some degree fo discomfort.

"Does it hurt?" You lift your eyes to his face again, but he doesn't meet your gaze nor answer your question. Instead, he seems entirely focused on something happening below him.

Guided by his line of sight, you see it.

Boothill has Ashveil's cock grasped in one hand as his tongue travels from the base to the tip. His glowing red eye is honing in on every minute change in Ashveil's countenance, but briefly shifting to lock onto you as you join the action. Your cheeks burn under his piercing gaze and the air is stolen straight from your lungs. Fuck. You've never experienced penis envy as severely as you do in this moment.

But you also wouldn't mind being in Boothill's place either. Ashveil looks absolutely delectable as your lover continues to lick stripes along the underside of his shaft, lathering him in spit.

For a moment, you live vicariously through both of them, pressing your chest into Ashveil while the heat swirls in your gut again. The needy, breathy whines from Ashveil; the slurping and dragging of Boothill's lips. They're both so intoxicating and you can't just sit back and watch for long.

With Ashveil resting most of his weight on his arms, he's leaned back just enough to allow you some wiggle room. You bend down, the side of your head resting against his lower stomach as you come face-to-face with Boothill, mouth full and eye lidded. The angle is awkward and a bit uncomfortable, but you don't want to be anywhere else.

Boothill frees his lips with a pop before he smirks at you. "Come to get a taste, princess?" He asks, but it isn't a question.

Leaning around the member that divides you, he plants a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your expectant lips. His tongue is salty when it slides against yours and you moan into his mouth. You're desperately licking further into his wet cavern when he slowly guides you back to where Ashveil stands, waiting and twitching at the thought of two tongues working at him while simultaneously working at each other. The two of you part just enough for his tip to slot itself between you again and the scene is utter debauchery.

You can feel Ashveil's abdomen tighten against your temple when you and Boothill begin licking in tandem, moans muffled against his cock as his intoxicating taste and smell overwhelm your senses. He is quickly unraveling above you, his chest heaving and breath staggering as he fights to contain himself for even a second longer. He doesn't want to finish yet.

But he can't help himself when your tongue bullies the sensitive spot just below the upper ridge of the head. One of his hands tangles roughly in your hair to hold you in place as he shudders, white ropes of his release erupt between your lips and fall messily against your cheek. You let him grind himself along your parted lips as he rides out his orgasm, your eyes hooded and glassy as they remain locked with Boothill's while he licks away whatever is left on the tip.

When Ashveil's hips have stilled and his hand leaves your hair, you slowly return to your seated position, licking your lips clean of his salty, sweet essence.

Boothill ogles you as some of the stickiness drips from your cheek and onto your lap, your hair mussed and cheeks rosy. You look absolutely divine and he's going to ravage you next. He doesn't even waste a second before he's on you. His mouth licks your thighs clean of Ashveil before he moves to do the same to your cheek. The substance gathers on his tongue before he presses it into your mouth, your lashes fluttering shut in response, accepting his advances in earnest and without protest. Arms come up to encompass his neck as you cling to him.

Within a few seconds, he's corralled you back to the center of the bed, never interrupting your kiss until he's resting between your legs. You can feel him pressed firmly against you — in the place where you need him the most — and before he even has the chance to do anything about it, you're whining like a bitch in heat.

"Boothill, please, inside… I need you inside me, now." You beg without even being told to and he chuckles at how good you behave for him.

"Patience, sweet girl. Let me get prepared first," he coos reassuringly. His fingers come up to rest against your bottom lip, waiting for admittance when he breathes a command. "Open up."

You obediently take his fingers into your mouth and begin lathering him with spit, licking between each silvery digit and coating him generously. When he deems them wet enough, your arms drop to your chest as he sits back on his heels and brings his hand down to pump at his erection. He does his best to transfer your saliva from his hand to his length, but decides that he'd best be thorough for the sake of your comfort — or at least that's what he convinces himself to believe, free of ulterior motives.

To get the extra lubrication, he lays the underside of his cock flat against your soaked pussy and grinds on you. The slippery squelch that rings through the air makes you whimper. He drags himself through your wetness once, then twice, and then again and again. Your hands have taken hold of his shoulders and your nails scrape at his metal. You're trying so hard to suppress the suspicion that he's purposely dragging this out longer than he needs to just to piss you off, but he incriminates himself when he smirks at you with that damned cocky glint in his eye.

Bastard, you think as you chew at your bottom lip, doing your best to endure his torment for a little while longer.

Boothill takes great pleasure in the way that your eyes narrow at him, how your eyebrows quiver as they struggle to decide whether to be satisfied or upset. He'd absolutely love to give you a chance to cuss him out, to wrestle pointlessly against his immovable body, but he can hardly endure another moment of his own teasing. He needs to feel you swallowing him whole.

Just as you're about to open your mouth to get bratty with him, he pulls his hips back, a hand to steady himself as he presses against your entrance in earnest. Not once does he break eye contact with you as he slips past the threshold with astonishing ease; a line pinched between his brows, his pupil starts to glow red again with every inch that gets buried within you. The overwhelming warmth of your walls is familiar and yet it still drives him wild each time he sinks to the hilt, breathing out sighs of satisfaction at how perfectly you squeeze him.

Your hands have begun running along the grooves of his perfect, steel body. The one you've come to know by heart from the seconds, minutes, hours you've spent admiring his immaculate form. A soft moan dies behind you lip as you continue to hold it firmly between your teeth.

"That won't do, sweetheart. Let us hear you," Ashveil chimes in.

He'd been observing you and Boothill being sweet on each other for some time now, only needing a moment to recover before deciding he's ready to get a closer look. Settling by your side, he nuzzles his nose against your ear sweetly before cruelly mirroring what he saw Boothill do to you earlier in the night. His tongue darts from his lips and swirls lewdly in your ear, and just like before, the sensation, combined with the feeling of Boothill's completely engulfed shaft, tears an unbridled moan from your lips.

"Good girl," he praises and has you moaning again with only the sultry husk of his voice in your ear.

After hearing you announce your pleasure, Boothill is propelled into action. His hips start a steady pace, pulling back until only the tip remains before leisurely sinking back into you until he's fully engulfed again; each drag of his cock along your walls has him moaning back to you, but he only allows you a moment to re-acclimate to the stretch before he's craving a deeper angle, wanting you to suck him in even further. He momentarily interrupts his own rhythm to draws yours knees up to your chest, resting your ankles against his shoulders as he kisses affectionately at the skin of your calves.

You mewl at his blatant display of affection while he's completely buried in your cunt, absolutely savoring his sweetness despite there being no shortage of it.

Once he's had his fill of body worship, Boothill leans down, arms planted firmly at your side, to capture your lips in a searing kiss. Your mouths fit together like puzzle pieces and your tongues converse like old friends. Your hands comb through his black and white hair before they take hold at the back of his neck, rubbing and scratching pleasantly at his skin as if to beckon him closer. Without needing to adjourn the kiss, Boothill begins to thrust into your heat again, moving with purpose and intent as he strives to give you everything he has to offer. The new pace that he sets isn't rough by any means, but it still has you crying into his mouth at the sheer pressure of him in your gut.

Always so observant, Ashveil had halted his singular attack on your ear to fully witness what was unfolding before him. He could see just about everything from where he lay at your side and he grew hard at the sight of Boothill folding you into a mating press; which gave him a clear view of your point of connection. His mouth watered when he saw Boothill disappear into you, your body so eager to envelop him over and over again. His pulse and temperature rise exponentially as yours and Boothill's combined moans and the wet sounds of separation ring through his ears. Being part of the lonely audience is driving the detective crazy with need, and if he doesn't find something to distract himself soon, he fears he might spontaneously combust. To remedy himself, he decides to resume his previous activity and attaches himself to your ear again.

Your ears have always been especially sensitive, so the abrupt attack from Ashveil has you babbling, moaning, and whining incoherently into Boothill's mouth. The complete and prolonged bombardment by these two men spells your imminent undoing as you fight to remain coherent in spite of their onslaught. The relentless plunge of Boothill's hips as he effortlessly hits the right spot, the overwhelming sound of Ashveil licking and sucking at your ear, it all becomes so oppressive that tears begin rapidly building at your lash line. They stream down your cheeks when you squeeze your eyes closed, thinking to yourself that maybe if you can't see anything, you would be able to reel yourself back to safety; to ground yourself and minimize the damage of the earth-shattering climax you're about to experience. But Boothill won't let you.

"Look at me, baby," his voice is so soft and pleading against your lips that you comply without question — or without much thought at all —, effectively sealing your fate when you see that he's looking at you with hearts in his eyes. His expression is so utterly lost in pleasure, in the feeling of you, that you're instantly done in at the first sight of him.

The tether snaps and you're sent hurtling across space and time with no lifeline in sight. You thrust your head back into the pillows beneath you as your mouth hangs open in a silent scream, body shaking and hands gripping at Boothill's roots as though they could anchor you to reality. He groans in response and your walls spasm violently around him, innately seeking to wring him of everything he's worth. Your second orgasm rips through your body, igniting every inch of your nervous system and setting your skin ablaze. Finally, your voice returns as broken, shaky cries escape you.

Boothill grits his teeth when he feels his own peak closing in on him, grunting and groaning in concentration to keep himself from expiring too quickly. Only when your moans begin to regulate does he let himself go. With a long, drawn out moan, his hips stutter against you. Pumping one last time with his full range of motion before he's spilling, hot and sticky, into your womb. He goes rigid, breathing heavily as your cunt swallows up all that it can from his leaking member.

Tears continue streaming from the corners of your eyes, past your temples and into your hairline, as Boothill kisses them away and rocks into you steadily to ride out both of your highs. It takes a while for your tense muscles to relax again, your body no longer trembling, but still occasionally jolting in response to his gentle movements. You can feel his excess dripping from your folds each time he moves against you, only to push what remained deeper into your core. Your cheeks burn at the thought.

When your breathing returns to normal, Boothill pulls out, the most obscene squelch announcing his departure. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, but are grateful for this moment of rest when he removes your legs from their inclined position at his shoulders. He slumps at your side, opposite of Ashveil, as he cuddles into you; kissing at your shoulder, jaw, and cheek before settling to nuzzle into your hair.

"I love you," he whispers. Your heart fluttering innocently as you turn to him and respond in kind.

"I love you too."

At some point during your climax, Ashveil had withdrawn from you to address his own arousal. He'd been pumping incessantly at himself to no avail. He needed something more to sate his appetite, but he's polite enough to give you time to recover and canoodle with your lover. Instead of outright stating his need and requesting your immediate attention, he opts to mouth and nibble at your shoulder, hoping you'll turn his way sooner rather than later.

Only about a minute had passed before you turn to look at him, suddenly feeling guilty for having left him unattended for so long. You're still a bit spacey, but you've never struggled with stamina or want before; even with a cyborg, built for power and endurance, as your partner. Perhaps you could be labeled a nymphomaniac, but you didn't care.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, detective," you coo as you fully turn your body to face him. "Can I help you with anything?"

Your voice is soft and breathy, body heavenly as you lay tantalizingly pressed into his chest. One hand rests at his collarbone while the other strokes lightly at his jawline. He clenches his teeth to calm the beast within him that wants to devour you.

"I want to feel you… please, use me however you like. I just need to feel you on me." He sounds a bit pathetic, but in a way that makes you want to ruin him. You want to make him beg and cry and whimper for more, so that's exactly what you'll do.

You sling your leg around his waist before hoisting yourself upright to straddle him, your hands planted on either side of his head and trapping him where he is. Remnants of Boothill drip onto his lower stomach and his hardened shaft nudges at your ass. You smirk at how he's already biting back a whine.

"You're so polite. I suppose I do owe you a reward for being so well-behaved," you ponder aloud as you lean down to press your chest against his. "But be warned, I don't play very nice from up here."

His eyes widen at your threat, but instantly shut when your lips collide. You bite and tug at his bottom lip before shoving your tongue into his mouth. He moans against you and his hands fly to your hips as he bucks into you on instinct, but this earns him a particularly harsh nip to his lip.

"Careful, wolfie," you warn. "You're not the one in charge here…"

He whimpers like an abandoned puppy, if he had wolf ears they would have flopped to the side of his head in defeat.

"If you keep up your good behavior, I'll let you take over when I'm done," you bargain with him and suddenly his make-believe wolf ears perk up again.

Your lips return to his, licking and prodding at him as you please. You let him squeeze at the flesh of your hips as you drown yourself in his plush kisses. The sounds he makes as he works to maintain focus are so infuriatingly sexy that you can no longer ignore the way you're pulsing with desire again. Only able to last for a few minutes against his whiny lips, you lift your hips and grasp his throbbing cock in your hand, parting from the kiss.

He nearly cries out at your tight hold on him, but successfully bites it back behind his canines. His gorgeous incisors pressing brutally against his lower lip. When you hold him directly to your entrance his eyes screw shut, his toned abdomen hardening beneath you as he readies himself for what's to come.

"Open your eyes," you demand. When his pretty lashes flutter open again, you immediately collapse onto him, burying him within your walls in a split second. Fortunately for you, being on top gives you more control and thus improves your resolve substantially. You can toy with him like this without worry of succumbing to the pleasure too quickly.

Ashveil moans loudly, unable to bite it back this time. His nails dig into your hips as he struggles to get used to the tight fit; the nails of his prosthetic fingers leave red half-moons in your skin when he slowly starts to loosen his hold. However, he can't quite catch his breath, and you aren't considerate enough to let him return to baseline before you repeatedly raise and drop your hips on him like a tamping rammer.

Boothill watches, amusedly, from the sidelines. He loves it when you get like this, though he pities the man under you as he's laboring tremendously just to breathe. He didn't realize the boss was so high-strung. Even if he hasn't taken anyone to bed in a while, surely he couldn't have gotten this pent up, right?

The cowboy simply wasn't aware of how wrong he was. The broken-legged wolf hasn't had the time nor energy to lay with someone — much less court someone — in the last several decades. When he isn't on a case, eating his delivery meals, or out drinking with his old buddies, the detective is busy hibernating in the cryotherapy refrigerator that sits in the corner of his cramped office. He hasn't felt the touch of a lover in Lan knows how long. One could only imagine how much the voracity within him aches to be fed.

Tears begin to well up in his eyes, threatening to slip past his lashes. The clap of your ass against his lap is wicked, and he wants so badly to match your rhythm from below. But he remains bound to your agreement, hanging onto the deal you struck like it's the only undeniable truth left in this world. He reminds himself that the payout will be well worth the hell of idleness that he must endure. His tears fall as his moans become ragged, chest heaving while he ogles your breasts while they bounce tauntingly in front of him.

"Tell me what you want," you demand.

Without so much as a thought, he whines breathlessly. "Please. I want to fuck you. Please. Please let me fuck you."

"Fuck. Be a good boy, and I will," you chew at your bottom lip to calm yourself as best as you can; you hadn't expected such a quick and easy answer. His unabashed response took you by surprise and honestly made it really difficult for you to remain stoic in your endeavors.

His needy sobs fill the air, punctuated by the moist slap of skin and your breathy sighs. He's obeying you so thoroughly and crying so prettily that your authority is beginning to falter. Since the silent acceptance of your pact, he hasn't acted on his instincts at all, save for his hands that claw at your skin. He wants this badly.

As you approach your third, you're beyond ready to pass him the torch. With a few final bounces, you clamp down on him and moan as you hit a shallow, but satisfying peak.

You crumple against his chest, face pressed into the crook of his neck and realization settles in his stomach. He swallows thickly at the thought. It was finally his turn to take control.

"Is… that all?" He inquires jokingly between puffs of staggered breaths.

"Can it, mutt," you cover his mouth with your hand, an utter lack of heat in your words.

He grins against your palm, collecting himself with a few steadying inhales before he laps wetly into your hand. You squeal at his offense, but before you can tear your hand away from him, his fingers firmly encircle your wrist. He holds you still as he starts to playfully nibble at the space between your pointer and thumb.

"Well, I hope you're ready. You've only made my hunger worse," he noses at your fingers. "And I'm playing by your rules, so don't expect me to be gentle."

The last bit comes out as a low growl, his teeth bared and grazing your palm. Your heart drops in your chest. A chuckle rumbles through him when he feels you clenching in response.

With a huff of air through his nostrils, he rolls over to trap you beneath him, still completely sheathed. Finding your second wrist, he raises both to pin them above your head in a single, vise-like grip. His eyes are dark as they scan your frame, a dangerous grin splayed on his lips as he comes into his dominance. He dips his head to lick a thick stripe along the center of your chest, pausing at the space where your clavicles meet.

"There's only so much bullying an old wolf can take," he sighs, mostly to himself, but loud enough for you to hear it.

You're about to open your mouth to apologize to him, but your words instantly die in your throat when he inhales deeply against your jugular, his eyes closed as he hones in on your scent. You suddenly feel like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. His nose drags along the exposed skin of your arms and chest, stopping at seemingly random points along their route to simply sniff, like a bloodhound on a trail. The uncertainty of his intentions makes your breaths shallow, your heart stuttering in your chest as you go completely still to let him continue searching without interruption.

Boothill is looking on in awe at this point. He knew his senior wasn't someone you should take lightly, but this side of him was completely new to him and honestly had the cowboy a bit on edge. He wasn't entirely sure of where this was going, so he makes it a point to keep his guard up in the event that he has to step in. His eyes constantly darting between your face and Ashveil's to get a proper read on the situation.

When Ashveil's nose halts at your breastbone, you hold your breath as you await his verdict.

A final breath heaves from his chest, as if letting himself off a leash, when his eyes meet yours. His once silvery orbs have disappeared and given way to something much darker. They're abyssal, but his pupils have a reddish-pink glow. They no longer look like they belong to the shy detective who couldn't even meet your gaze without blushing. The man above you felt like an entirely different person, but you're not given time to ponder any further when he bares his beastly fangs and engulfs one of your breasts without warning. You yelp out in shock — your heart nearly leaping out of your chest — at the sudden pressure as he holds you between his sharp teeth and swirls his thick tongue across your supple flesh. His hips begin moving again, establishing a brutal pace while his free hand clutches at your unattended breast.

You scream and strain against Ashveil's unshakeable hold, the sensations too abrupt and profound for you to really process what is happening. But you do know one thing with absolute certainty: you're really fucking excited. The apprehension had morphed into a morbid arousal when you realized that there was, in fact, something frightening lurking beneath Ashveil's mask. Something voracious.

Your cowboy is just about ready to pull the plug on your behalf when he hears your initial scream, but pauses halfway when it turns into strangled moans. He blinks at you, leaning in closer and thoroughly studying your countenance to better gauge your current state. He notes that your eyes are screwed shut, brows creased, and face impossibly flushed as your mouth hangs open in overwhelming satisfaction. A huff of relief leaves his lungs, understanding that you're doing perfectly fine despite how rough Ashveil is being. For the time being, he decides to settle closer to your side, silently keeping a close eye on you.

Ashveil, not noticing Boothill's proximity, releases your breast and moves on to leaving bite marks across the expanse of your chest. His pace hasn't wavered, his cravings far from being satisfied as he continues to ram into you. You're scrambling to catch your breath and your arms are still wrestling for freedom, but he doesn't care; entirely focused on marking your chest to his liking. The only thing that catches his attention in the end is your body signaling to him that you're on the brink of yet another climax. He raises his hungry gaze to watch your face as he gets you painfully close to the edge before cruelly withdrawing from you.

A labored sob escapes your lips and your eyes fly open to look at him as he leaves you high and dry. Your hips buck uselessly in search of him, only to earn a predatory chuckle from the perpetrator.

"Ashveil," you whine, voice going hoarse from all your screams and gasps. "S'no fair!"

"You started it, dear. Now turn around," he commands as he releases your wrists.

Hardly comprehending his request, you blink cluelessly at him; your mind still reeling from his prior mistreatment. Your inaction seems to agitate him as he impatiently tugs and pushes you into his desired position: flat on your stomach.

While reorienting yourself, you're met with Boothill's comforting visage as he lay propped up on an elbow beside you. Your teary eyes are captivated by his familiar beauty as he leans in to kiss you.

You sigh longingly when he breaks the kiss to speak. "Ya farin' alright?" He asks and to which you nod the affirmative.

However, your moment of respite is cut short when Ashveil bullies his way back into your cunt from behind. The weight of his body pressing into your back as he bottoms out with an animalistic groan. You gasp at the sheer fullness you feel — not just between your legs, but all the way up to your lungs and throat.

The starving beast on top of you picks up where he left off, his hips snapping ruthlessly against your rear as he fucks you deeper into the bed below. Your mind goes blank as he hammers into you, using your body as a means to an end. If you could form any coherent thoughts, you'd be going wild over the idea of being used by such a pretty man. Instead, you're fucked senseless and left with your eyes rolled back and jaw hanging open in a silent "oh".

When Ashveil's peak is finally within reach, he lets you know by biting down on your shoulder hard. It isn't quite enough to draw blood, but you'll definitely be bruised in the morning. You scream out in protest, but your inner muscles tighten violently around him; constricting him as he chases after his high. In one swift movement, his arm snakes up the front of your body to capture your throat in his claws. Your lashes flutter as he squeezes at your jugular, restricting the flow of blood to your brain.

His growls are fragmented against the aching flesh of your shoulder and his thrusts have become desperate and erratic. He's huffing exasperated breaths through his nostrils and into your hair when suddenly he stalls, hips jerking sporadically when he empties into your already filled womb. He mixes shamelessly with Boothill at your core.

Feeling the hot mess oozing from your cunt, onto your thighs and the sheets below, sends you over your own edge. Boothill, having watched over every second of this encounter, recognizes your approach and kisses at your gaping mouth, trailing across your lips and along your jaw. He soothingly talks you through it with repeated encouragements like: just like that, you're doing so well, you're perfect, and don't hold back.

Your final release is rapturous as you choke on your moans, mind fuzzy from the lack of blood flow and the severe dichotomy between the actions of the two men before you. The sheets below you are sure to be soaked through as you gush around the cock that remains buried to the base. Ashveil had finished, but he continued to grind against your ass to let you revel in your high for a while longer.

Loosening his hold on your neck and releasing your shoulder from his maw, having returned to a state of clarity, the sated wolf licks apologetically at the indents left by his teeth. He feels a bit guilty for letting himself go to such an extent, but your quivering body and soft mewls calm his anxieties. When your sounds subside and devolve into stable, heaving breaths, he removes himself from you and collapses at your side. A hand remaining at the small of your back to rub affectionate shapes into the damp skin.

Boothill continues peppering your face with kisses when you fall into the pillows below you. He brushes your hair behind your ear, looking at you adoringly before he leans in to nuzzle and kiss at your moist temple. "You alright, love?"

You don't open your eyes, still absolutely wrecked, but you hum pleasantly in response.

With one last kiss, Boothill shifts to leave the bed. In a few moments he's returned to your side with towels and a bottle of water. He breaks the seal on the bottle, but leaves it closed near your hand while he busies himself with wiping you down. You sigh contentedly at his gentle strokes across your forehead and cheeks.

Ashveil recovers himself and aids Boothill in cleaning you up. They work together to delicately maneuver your body, treating you like precious porcelain and making sure they don't miss a single inch of your skin. Occasionally they'd pause to press their lips against your figure in an act of reverence. By the time they've completed their self-imposed assignment, you've recuperated enough to take a couple of sips from the water bottle Boothill had left you.

The two excuse themselves briefly to take care of the residue left on their own bodies before they reunite with your sides; Boothill on your right and Ashveil to your left. Both of them nestle against your neck, breathing in your scent. Boothill pulls a fresh blanket over your bodies before his arm wraps around your ribcage, resting just below your breasts as his hand rubs soothing circles into your skin. Ashveil intentionally remains outside of the covers, but his arm rests at your hipbone, massaging you through the blanket to the best of his ability. Tranquil silence hangs over all of you like a gossamer canopy, filling the spaces in-between with intimate breaths.

Ashveil is the first to break the silence.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whimpers, his warm breath fanning your jugular. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I completely understand if you never want to see—"

You interrupt him before he can finish his rambling. "I'm okay, Ashveil. You don't have to apologize."

A small sound escapes him when you bring your hand up to pet at the side of his head. He sniffles lightly under your reassuring touch, so relieved that he's moved to tears.

You giggle when you realize he's crying for the second time tonight. "Y'know, for such a powerful man, you really are quite sensitive." This earns you a weak grumble as he buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck. "I think it's cute."

"He is pretty cute when he's being a crybaby," Boothill chimes in. "Though I must admit, ya really threw me for a loop when ya got on top."

The detective, knowing Boothill is addressing him, raises his head to look in the cowboy's direction. A look of genuine concern on his face. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"She was enjoying it," he answers plainly.

Your cheeks burn at how his statement leaves his lips with such nonchalance. You don't add anything to the conversation as you hide your face in your hands.

"Aw sweetheart, feelin' shy even after everything's been said and done?"

Ashveil is also left speechless, a flush on his cheeks as he processes what's been said.

"Oh c'mon, why're ya both bein' so bashful all of a sudden?" The cowboy continues to poke fun at you two.

But you can't handle anymore of his taunting and clap a hand against his lips to shut him up. "Leave us alone!"

He laughs warmly against your palm before kissing into your fingers.

"I'm just joking, baby."

The three of you continue to bicker and joke for some time before you start to doze off between them. Perfectly comfortable in their combined embrace. You didn't have to say it, but each of you knew that this wouldn't be the last time a meeting like this would take place.

“God, you’re so greedy,” he growls between your mouths, his hands making quick work of the thin material of your garments, reeling in some of his self control to stop himself from tearing them right off you. His large hands work with a frantic, almost needy lack of coordination, leaving your clothes in a heap on the floor. His eyes don't know where to look, flickering from your breasts down to cunt, watching as he squeeze your thighs together.

Varka looks ruined from the mere sight of you, lashes fluttering, his pupils blown out wide, almost completely swallowing the blue of his irises. Without a warning he hooks his hands under your thighs, hoisting you up like you weigh nothing as he takes three long strides towards the wooden tactical table nudged in the corner of his tent. Maps and inkwells scatter and tumble onto the floor as he clears it, pressing you down against it with a heavy huff. His breathing is ragged and you can tell his self control is slipping from his grasp. He shoves your legs wide, his knee forcing it's way between your thighs to keep you spread open for him, groaning when he catches sight of your glistening cunt clenching around nothing.

“Look at you, so needy,” he murmurs, his words rough against his throat. Varka makes quick work of his belt buckle and shoves his pants down just far enough so he can reach into his boxers and take out his cock. He leans over you, letting you sling your arms around his broad and muscled shoulders as he nudges his cock—swollen, thick, and glistening with a needy bead of precum at the head — against your entrance, his entire frame trembling with the effort to not simply lose control right then and there.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he lets out a hoarse groan. You've got nowhere to go, forced to remain pliant in his hold as he glides his cock through your folds, letting your wetness coat him. He's huge, hard and aching, the head of his cock throbbing each time he watches your clit.

"Fuck," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. "You and this goddamn cunt."

His breath is a hot, humid exhale against your ear, smelling of woodsmoke and the sweetness of the wine you shared earlier. Every muscle in his massive frame is coiled like a spring, his abs and biceps rippling with a sharp, involuntary force that he can't seem to throttle.

"Just the tip," you gasp when you feel him nudging at your entrance, your fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. "Varka, please—just the tip."

He lets out something that doesn't even sound remotely close to an apology, but rather a sharp, guttural moan that rumbles from deep in his chest, sounding more like pain than pleasure. He’s pussy-drunk and he hasn't even tucked you yet, but the feeling of your warm cunt clenching around the tip of his cock already has him looking ruined and desperate. The sight of your pussy —wet, swollen, and glistening under the lantern light with a mixture of your arousal and his —is a drug that has stripped him of his patience and pride.

"I can't," he whimpers against your skin as his hips rut forward. "God, you're so fucking beautiful, I—I can't stop."

He tries to listen. He tries to control himself. He really does. For a heartbeat, he just breathes you in—the scent of your skin, the salt of your sweat, and the heavy, greedy scent of need pouring off of both of your bodies. But then you clench around just the tip of him, a soft, fluttering invitation, and Varka finally loses the war.

His hips jolt forward with a sudden sharp jerk. He doesn't just push inside, he buries himself, the entirety of his massive, rigid length driving home in one long, devastating stroke that positively knocks the air that his mouth once stolen right from your lungs. The table groans and slides an inch across the dirt floor under the sheer force of his thrust.

"Varka, ngh!"

"Fuck—fuck, I'm sorry," he nearly sobs, his face twisting in pleasure as he feels your walls clench and stretch to accommodate him. You're warmer than he remembers, tight and snug around him, your cunt drooling, making a mess of the table beneath you. He’s deep, deeper than he should be, his balls grinding against you as he fills you past the point of saturation. "You're so tight, baby—you're taking me so fucking well, I—"

He starts to move, his rhythm messy and frantic. He’s devouring you, mind, body and soul — his mouth finding yours again in a searing kiss, ensuring that every one of your moans land right on his tongue as you sob out your need. He can feel you leaking down the length of him, soaking the table, making a mess and it fills him with a jostle of pride knowing he was the only man who could get you this wet and needy. Every pulse of your pussy is another nail in his coffin, another reason for him to lose his mind.

"Look at me," he growls when your head falls back with a particularly loud moan, his voice a wrecked octave that barely scrapes past his throat as his hips continue to pat pat pat, driving his cock into you. "Do you want the whole camp to hear us? Want to wake up my soldiers and have them realize you're getting fucked nice and dirty?"

You vigorously shake your head, your nails dragging down the massive expansive of his back, trying to grasp at anything to keep you grounded as Varka fucks you. It's nasty and mean and sweaty but you wouldn't want it any other way. Two thick digits circle your lips before he pushes them inside, pressing down on your tongue.

"Attagirl."

He was a man, but not only a man.

His hair was white. Not the white of age, but the white of fresh snow, of lion's mane, thick and wild and falling past his shoulders in waves. From within that mane, two ears rose, furred and tufted, swiveling independently as he regarded you. His eyes were amber. Gold, shot through with veins of deeper brown, the pupils vertical and narrow, locked onto yours with predatory focus. Below his left eye, a single dark mole.

His face was beautiful in the way a storm front is beautiful. High cheekbones. A strong jaw. Lips that curved into a smile both gentle and utterly assured of its own authority.

Next thing that you’ve noticed is that his body was almost bare. His shoulders were broad enough to block out the sky. His arms, braced on either side of your head, were corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the skin, his hands large enough to span your entire ribcage. A necklace of bone and fang hung between the hard planes of his chest, which was dusted with fine white hair. The hard muscules of his abs glistened, and from his navel, the thick happy trail thickened as it travelled down his stomach, disappearing beneath the low-slung waistband of his red pants. 

And the fabric of them was so strained that you could see the shape of his cock. The thick, curved length, the heavy weight of the balls beneath. His smile deepened as he watched you, eyes half-lidding with pleasure.

Your mouth went dry. It was quite obvious what this smoking hot Lion Man wanted from you. 

"You see," he murmured. "I am not so different from you, honey. Not where it matters."

One of his hands left the ground beside your head. He brought it to your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek with impossible tenderness. The touch was a contradiction: the hand of a killer, gentle against your skin.

"You are so soft," he said. "Like a little mouse. I could close my fist and break every bone in your body. And yet you look at me like you want to bite me." His thumb traced your lower lip. 

You did want to bite him. You wanted to bite him and run. You wanted– you didn't know what you wanted. Your body was a traitor, liquid heat pooling in your belly, your nipples tightening to aching points against the fabric of your bra.

"Jing Yuan," he said again, reminding you of his name. "Your future mate. Say it."

"No."

His eyebrow arched. 

"No?"

"No." Your voice was steadier than you expected. "I didn't agree to this. I didn't– you can't just take someone–"

His head tilted, ears swiveling forward, and something shifted in his expression. Something close to curiosity, as if you had presented him with an interesting puzzle.

"But I am the king," he said. "I’m strong and thus, I can have what I want." The words hung in the air between you. His gaze sharpened, vertical pupils dilating slightly. For a long moment, he stared at you, and you felt the full weight of his attention.

"Interesting," he said, "You are afraid of me, but," he inhaled deeply and smiled, “judging by the smell coming from down there,” he murmured sultry, hand brushing your thigh, “not of what I want.”

You whimpered, and Jing Yuan lowered his head. His forehead pressed against yours, his mane falling around you like a curtain, shutting out the sun. His breath was warm against your lips.

"I will not hurt you," he said. "I will never hurt you. You are too precious. Too rare."

His nose brushed yours. His tail, heavy and warm, curled around your calf.

"But I will have you," he said. "Here, or in my den. That is not a question. That is simply… what will happen." He gripped your hip, his fingers denting the soft flesh, and pulled you against the rigid heat of him.

"You will fight," he murmured. "You will say no. You will scratch and bite and call me terrible names."

His hips rolled. Once. The thick length of him dragged against your center, separated by mere millimeters of fabric, and your core clenched in response.

"And then you will come for me," he said, "again and again, until i decide that im finished."

Your heart was a war drum. Your body, that traitor, was arching into his touch, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him.

He sat back and the loss of his warmth was immediate, almost painful.

"The grass is too exposed," he said. "And the ground is hard. You deserve better than dirt."

Jing Yuan stood and before you could scramble away, before you could even fully process what was happening. One arm hooked beneath your knees, the other behind your back. Then you were in the air, cradled against his chest.

"Put me down," you gasped. "Put me down right now!"

"Hmpf."

Jing Yuan shifted your weight. Suddenly you were upside down, draped over his left shoulder like a sack of grain, your head hanging down his back. His heavy hand settled over the bare curve of your ass.

"What the hell!? Let me go!"

"No."

His tail swished lazily behind him as he began to walk away from the spot, leaving your camera in the grass.

"I like you like this." His thumb traced the crease where your thigh met your ass. "Soft. Open. Ready."

"You are insane," you snarled. "You are a predator and I am a human being and you cannot just abduct me–"

"And yet, here I am. Abducting you."

His pace was unhurried. The grass whispered against his calves. In the distance, the gazelles had finally lifted their heads, watchful but not alarmed – they recognized him, you realized. They knew their king. There was noone here to help you, and you panicked, hands beating against his broad back, legs swinging in a desperate attempt to escape his grasp. 

The Lion Man didn't even flinch and the only thing your shuffling did was send your shorts falling down into the dry grass.

"I will scream!" you said.

"You free to do so."

"I will– I will bite you!"

His tail curled around your anckle, the tuft brushing the sensitive skin.  

"Oho~ I look forward to it."

“I will run!”

Jing Yuan stopped mid-stride, the savanna quiet except for the distant cry of a hornbill and the desperate sound of your breathing. His hand was still spread across your ass, fingers denting the flushed skin.

"Ah," he said, and you felt the word vibrate through his shoulder blade into your sternum. "Then I must make running… difficult~"

Before you could process the shift in his tone, his grip tightened. His left arm locked around your thighs like a vice, pinning you immobile against his body, and his right hand rose.

Slap!

The first hit cracked through the golden air like a rifle shot. Pain bloomed across your left ass cheek, sharp and immediate, radiating outward in waves of heat. You screamed,  sound punched out of you by the force of the impact. Your body jerked against his shoulder, but he held you fast.

"Will you run?" His voice was conversational, almost pleasant.

"Yes!"

Slap!

The second hit landed on the same cheek, harder. Your vision whited at the edges. The sound was wetter now, skin meeting abused skin, and you could feel the imprint of his fingers burning across your flesh like a brand.

"Yes, you fucking–!"

Slap!

The third landed on the other cheek. Then the tender curve where your ass met your thigh. Then the backs of your thighs themselves, each blow measured, deliberate, the patience of a creature who had never once been rushed. His hand was so large that each slap covered half your ass at once. The heat was building, spreading, transforming into something that burned all the way down to your cunt.

"Will you run?" 

"YES–" Your voice cracked on a sob. "YES, I'LL RUN, I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, I'LL–"

Jing Yuan spanked you again, and this time his fingers dragged forward, slipping between your legs from behind, and the calloused pad of his middle finger dragged directly across your soaked pantines.

You both froze.

Your entire body locked up, muscles spasming, a sound escaping your throat that was equal parts humiliation and raw need. His finger was still pressed against you, not penetrating, just there, resting against the outline your swollen lips.

"Ah," he breathed. "You say you’ll run, but your body says something else entirely."

"Fuck you," you whispered. "Fuckyoufuckyoufuck–"

Slap!

"–FUCKING–"

Slap!

"–MONSTER–"

Slap!

"–LET ME–"

Slap!

"–GO–"

His hand stopped. For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the thundering of your heart. Then his thumb began to move, slow circles across your burning skin, tracing the outline of each handprint he'd left behind.

"Your ass is so red," he murmured. "Like the sky at sunset."

His finger slid lower. Found your entrance. Pressed.

"And your pussy," he continued, his voice dreamy, adoring, "is soaked. If you hate me so much, why does your body love me?"

You couldn't answer. Your throat was too tight, your face buried against the hot plane of his back, your fingers twisted in his mane. He was petting you now, soothing the burning flesh he'd abused, and the tenderness after the violence was somehow worse, somehow more devastating. You let out a pathetic sob that wrecked your whole body.

"Shh," he murmured. "There. There."

His fingers found the waistband of your underwear – that flimsy scrap of cotton, utterly inadequate protection against what was going to happen. He hooked his thumb beneath the elastic, unseathing the claw and pulled.

The fabric tore, the sound sharp and final, the elastic snapping, the cotton ripping. Jing Yuan tugged the ruined scrap free from between your legs – it dragged across your soaked cunt, collecting your slick, your arousal, the evidence of your body's betrayal – and then he held it before his eyes. His pupils dilate, his nostrils flare, his lips part around a sharp exhale.

"I’ll take these," he smirked and folded the scrap of fabric neatly, tucking it into the pocket of his trousers. “Will need that for the times when you're too sore…”

His fingers found you immediately after. Slipping through your slick folds, parting you, exposing you to the cooling evening air. Two fingers sweeped through your wetness, gathering your arousal on his skin, and then he brought his hand to his face. You listened carefully, paralyzed, as he slid his fingers into his mouth.

His eyes fluttered closed. His throat worked. His ears swiveled forward, catching every microscopic sound of your breathing, your heartbeat, the desperate sobs.

"Mmm," Jing Yuan hummed around his own fingers. "Delicious. You taste even better than you smell, love. And you smell incredible."

"Please," you whispered. You didn't know what you were begging for. "Please, I–"

"Please what?" His voice was soft, almost tender. "Please stop? Please continue? Please put you down? Please keep you?"

"I don't know," you whined, face red and wet with tears and snot. You were ashamed. Truly ashamed by the feeling in you belly, by how messed up your thoughts were, by how your poor hole clenched, spitting out more slick.

His hand slid between your legs again, and this time his fingers didn't tease. Two thick digits pushed into you without warning, without resistance, sliding home to the knuckles in one slick thrust.

Your vision went white.

The sound you made – you didn't recognize it. High and keening, desperate, your entire body convulsing around the sudden fullness, your toes curling from pleasure. His fingers were so much longer than yours, so much thicker, reaching places that you hadn't even known existed. Your cunt clenched around him instinctively, greedily, trying to pull him deeper.

"There," Yuan breathed. "There it is. Just let your man take care of you, yes? I'll prepare you well, sweet one. I'll make you ready for me."

He started moving with slow and deep thrusts, the ball of his palm pressing against your clit with every stroke, his fingers curling to find that sweet spot inside your tender cunny that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The sound of it – wet and filthy, your body accepting him, welcoming him, gripping him – filled the quiet savanna air.

"You like this, dear?" he murmured, and  when you whimpered, there was genuine surprise in his voice, genuine wonder. "Oh, you do… You like when someone takes care of you. You like when someone makes you feel good."

His fingers crooked sharply, pressing directly into that sweet spot, and you moaned, gripping his asscheeks for the dear life.

"Yes, like that." he breathed. "I promise I will always take care of you, honey. You will never be unsatisfied. You will never want for touch, for pleasure, for the feeling of being loved. I will give you everything your body craves, and I will give it until you beg me to stop, and then I will give you more."

His thumb found your clit. Circled it. Pressed.

Your fingers found his tail. Grabbed it. Pulled.

"Yes," he groaned, his composure cracking for the first time. "Yes, hold onto me. And if you need to bite, bite–" He lowered his head and sank his teeth into the meat of your thigh, not breaking skin but close, so close, the pressure of his fangs a brand. "–more marks are better. I want to wear you on my skin."

His fingers were pistoning into you now, relentless, each thrust aimed directly at that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your vision blur. His palm slapped against your clit with every stroke. His teeth released your thigh and he licked the indentation he'd left, soothing, worshipful.

"Come for me," he murmured against your skin. "Come on my fingers, sweet one. Let me taste you again."

Your orgasm hit you like a falling tree, like a wave, like the entire weight of the sky collapsing. Your body arched against his shoulder, your cunt clamping down on his fingers in rhythmic waves, and you felt the gush of fluid soaking his hand, dripping down your thighs, splattering the dry earth beneath his feet.

Jing Yuan made a sound of pure satisfaction. His fingers slowed, gentled, coaxing you through the aftershocks, slipping out of your spasming pussy. He brought his wet hand to his mouth again and licked it clean, his pupils blown wide.

"Sweet," he said softly. "Has it been long since someone touched you? Human men must be blind." And he continued walking towards what looked like a cave, carved into the heart of a kopje, the entrance screened by flowering acacia and the trailing vines of wild jasmine. Inside, the walls rose smooth and curved, lit by clusters of phosphorescent fungi that cast everything in soft gold. The floor was layered thick with furs – zebra, impala, something large and spotted that you didn't manage to identify – and piled high with silk cushions in jewel tones. A low table held fruits and a clay jug. A brazier glowed in one corner.

"My home," Jing Yuan said. He was already climbing onto the furs with you still thrown over his shoulder, his weight depressing the soft pelts. "Do you like it?"

"You live in a cave…"

"I am a lion."

He was gently lowering you now, your back meeting the fur and your body sinking into the impossible softness beneath. "You have furniture. You have cushions. You have–"

Jing Yuan knelt over you. His thighs bracketed your hips. His hands found the hem of your ruined shirt and pulled, the fabric tearing like tissue, like paper, like it was nothing. Cool air hit your bare breasts. You were naked, your cunt still wet and dripping, your ass still burning red, your nipples tightening to sharp peaks in the dim light.

Jing Yuan bit his lip, golden eyes feasting on the sight of you. His gaze traveled down your body like a physical touch, slow and thorough, lingering on the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your belly. His tail had gone rigid, the tuft twitching. His pupils had blown so wide that his amber irises were reduced to thin gold rings. 

"Mmm," he hummed. "Pretty."

His hands began to move. Palms sliding up your shoulders, over the delicate architecture of your collarbones. Fingers tracing down your sternum, circling your areolas, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked harder and you gasped. Down, down, over the soft give of your belly, the jut of your hip bones, the trembling muscles of your thighs. 

"Mhm," he hummed again, and the sound was deeper now, rougher, edged with hunger. "Perfect. Everywhere I touch is perfect."

His hands left your body. You felt the loss like a physical ache.

He reached for the fastenings of his trousers. The fabric fell away in an instant. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, curving up toward his stomach, and you forgot how to breathe.

The shaft was long, the head a flushed helmet that flared wider than the base, weeping a constant stream of translucent fluid. Below the head, circling the shaft, were ridges. Not sharp, not the barbs of a true lion, but pronounced, textured, designed to catch and hold and stimulate. The shaft itself was veined, thick cords of blue and purple visible beneath the taut skin, pulsing visibly with every beat of his heart. At the base, nestled in a nest of soft white curls, hung his balls – heavy, full, so swollen with need that they looked almost painful.

The entire organ twitched. Drooled. Yearned toward you like a living thing.

Jing Yuan watched you assessing him. His chest was heaving, his mane of hair disheveled, a flush spreading across his cheekbones and down his throat. His ears were flat against his skull. His tail lashed the furs behind him.

And then he dropped to all fours. The movement was fluid, animalistic, his broad shoulders rolling as he braced his weight on his palms, while crawling toward you. His cock swung beneath him, heavy and wet, leaving a trail of pre-come on the dark fur. 

While you scrambled backward, his eyes never left yours. Your heels dug into the pelts. Your hands pushed uselessly at the furs behind you. Your back hit the cool stone of the cave wall.

“Wait, j-just give me a second!” you sobbed pathetically.

Jing Yuan kept coming. His face was level with yours now. His breath was hot and rapid, his lips parted, his fangs visible. His pupils were black, his iridium swallowed entirely by want. His tail whipped back and forth, back and forth, a metronome counting down to something.

"Nowhere to run," he breathed. "Nowhere to hide. You're on my territory, little mate. And I am very hungry."

His hands landed on your shoulders. His weight pressed forward until your back was plastered against the hard stone. And his mouth crashed into yours. His tongue was thick and heavy, muscled like the rest of him. He pushed past your lips, past your teeth, and kept going, delving deep into the wet heat of you, stroking along the inside of your cheeks, swallowing your sounds, your protests, your whimpers, and answering each one with a deeper thrust of that relentless tongue. 

It was obscene, the way he ravaged your mouth, the wet sounds of his claiming filling the space between you, slick and rhythmic, thick tongue licking the insides of your mouth. His hand found your jaw and gripped, forcing your face up, forcing you to accept him. His thumb pressed into the soft hollow beneath your chin, tilting your head back against the stone. Your drool pooled at the corners of your lips, escaped down your chin, and Jing Yuan groaned into you, scraping your lip with his fangs, swallowing your helpless sounds as if they were the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

You should fight. You should bite. You should–

Your hands rose. Your fingers threaded into his mane, and your tongue, traitor that it was, began to move with his, meeting each thrust with a stroke of your own. 

He felt it immediately. His entire body shuddered, a deep purr starting in his chest and vibrating through the kiss, and when you suckled gently at his tongue, he pulled back just far enough to look at your face. A string of saliva connected your lips to his, stretching, glistening, and he watched it break with hooded eyes. A single drop fell onto your breast.

"There you are," he said. His voice was wrecked, scraped raw. "Now be a good mate and tend to your male." He shifted his weight, rising, and his feet settled on either side of your thighs. His cock rose between you, the head level with your lips.

Your breath stopped.

It was so close. The weight of it, the heat, radiating against your face like a furnace. Pre-come beaded at the tip, gathered into a trembling droplet, and fell onto your lower lip.

Jing Yuan's hand found your hair. His fingers carded through it, adoring, gathering the strands and drawing them back from your face. He tucked a lock behind your ear. 

"Open," he murmured, "for me."

Your mouth opened before your mind had processed the thoughts.

The tip passed your lips, and the world collapsed to just this: the taste of him, salt and musk and the flavor of wild places. His cock was a living thing against your tongue, pulsing with its own heartbeat, the broad flat of it heavy and insistent as it pressed past the threshold of your mouth. Your lips stretched around the sheer girth, and you heard him exhale above you.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's it, sweetheart..."

His hand cradled the back of your skull, fingers threading through your hair with deceptive gentleness. You could feel the claws there, retracted but present, blunt pressure points against your scalp. His thumb traced the hinge of your jaw, pressing slightly, and your mouth fell wider. He pushed deeper.

The head of his cock was broad and hot, shaped wrong and right all at once, the ridge beneath it catching on your lower lip as it slid inward. Those ridges. You felt them with the flat of your tongue. They pulsed against you, slick with the endless flood of pre-come that wept from his tip, and you tried to imagine what those ridges would feel like inside you. Your poor sopping cunt clenched on nothing at the thought.

Jing Yuan pushed deeper still. The tip met the back of your throat, teasing that soft wall of muscle, and he paused. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, wiping away a tear you hadn't noticed falling.

"Breathe through your nose, love. Relax this muscle here." He pressed gently at the hollow of your throat. "Let me in. I know you can."

Your throat spasmed, rebelled, and Jing Yuan waited, patient as stone, immovable as the savanna itself, his cock a hot brand against your tongue. And when the tight channel finally relaxed enough, his cock slid into your throat like it belonged there, like your body had been shaped specifically for this purpose. 

The stretch was immense. You felt your throat bulge around his girth, felt the pulse of him against your esophagus, and more tears spilled hot down your cheeks. Saliva and pre-cum flooded your mouth, overflowed, dripped down your chin, and onto your breasts. You couldn’t speak. You couldn't swallow. You couldn't do anything but whine and gag and whimper around the pulsing fatness of him.

"Oh, love," Yuan’s voice was hushed. His other hand came up to brace against the wall, knuckles white with restraint, claws scraping against the stone. "Look at me, I beg…"

You looked up. The position was obscene – your face pressed into the white curls at the base of his cock, your nose buried in his pubic hair, his shaft disappearing past your stretched lips, buried to the root. Drool and pre-come painted your chin in strings of glossy fluid as you tried to breathe around him. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your face a mess of tears, spit, and his slick. 

His gaze traced every detail. The single mole beneath his eye seemed darker against the flush spreading across his cheekbones. His eyes were hooded sensually, pupils blown wide, black swallowing gold, and his lips parted on each shallow breath. 

"Beautiful," he panted. "The most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

Jing Yuan pulled back. The slide was slow, his ridges dragging against your throat, tongue and the inside of your cheeks. The sensation was overwhelming – too much and not enough. You whimpered around him. His cock jumped against your palate.

"More?" His smile was soft, too patronising for your liking. Still, it sent the pulsing wave of heat from your core to your neglected cunny. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, feeling where his flesh stretched you wide. "You want more, sweetheart? You want to be good for me?"

You nodded as much as you could. Jing Yuan patted your hair and pulled back, leaving your poor mouth empty before feeding you with his cock again. He found his pace, slow at first, patient, letting you adjust to the rhythm of him – the thick push forward, the drag back, the way his ridges caught and pulled at your soft tissue.

Each thrust seated him deeper. Your throat opened and accepted his throbbing cock. Your hands had found his ass for support, fingers digging into the plump muscle, gripping his cheeks as he used your face. His skin was hot and damp beneath your palms, flexing with each controlled movement. With another lash, his tail wrapped around one of your hands.

"That's my good girl," he crooned. "Taking all of me. Such a tight little throat– ah! Made for me!"

His pace increased. The slap of his balls against your chin became rhythmic, each impact spreading his pre-come across your skin in glossy smears, thin strings connecting your chin to his balls every time he left your mouth. Your vision blurred with tears, and you could smell nothing but him. Arousal had already soaked your thighs, dripped down to wet the furs beneath you, and you knew he could smell that too. His nostrils flared with each breath. His pupils dilated further.

"You're dripping, love," he said, and his voice had roughened, lost its velvet polish. "Your pussy is weeping for me. Can you feel it? Every time I push into this sweet throat, your little hole clenches…"

His thrusts were deeper now, less controlled. His hips had developed an animal rhythm, and his chest was sheened with sweat that ran in rivulets down the hard planes of his stomach. The muscles there jumped and flexed with each movement. His mane had fallen around his face, white strands clinging to his damp temples. His ears were flattened back against his skull in feline concentration.

"Your mouth is so hot," he gasped. "So wet. Like your cunt, I know it is, I felt it, I need–"

His hands flew to your head, and he stopped. His cock was buried to the root in your throat, your nose crushed against his pelvis yet again. His entire body was trembling. His tail lashed around your arm, pulling you closer, and his claws extended, just slightly, pricking the delicate skin of your scalp.

"Look at me."

You forced your eyes up, trying to find his face through the veil of tears. His gaze was incandescent, burning, the look of a king who has found something worth worshipping.

"I’m going to come down your throat," he stated. "I’m going to fill you so full that you taste me for days. Every time you swallow, you will taste your man. Every time you breathe, you will smell me on you."

With that, Jing Yuan started moving again. His pace was brutal now, desperate, the controlled patience stripped away to reveal the hunger beneath. His cock pistoned into your throat, each thrust seating him deeper, his ridges catching and releasing with wet, obscene sounds. Saliva and pre-come had formed a frothy white ring around the base of his shaft, and your lips were swollen, bruised-looking, stretched beyond their limits. You gagged, and he moaned, the vibration of your throat around his cock clearly sending him higher. Your hands clawed at his ass, nails leaving red trails, and he growled deeply.

"Take it," he rasped. "Take all of it. Swallow for me, sweetheart, swallow around my cock–"

His hips slammed forward one final time, seating himself impossibly deep, and you felt it. The first pulse was a flood. Hot and thick, impossibly copious, his come filled your throat in a rush that had you choking instantly. But he held you there, his grip gentle but immovable, and you had no choice but to take it. 

The second pulse. The third. Each wave was heavier than the last, his release seeming endless, and you felt it escape, come spilling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin to join the mess on your chest. It came from your nose, thin streams of white, and you coughed, gagged, your throat convulsing around his pulsing cock.

Jing Yuan watched you with his eyes half-closed, lips parted, his entire expression one of gentle adoration. His thumb traced your cheekbone, smearing come across your skin.

"I've waited for so long," he whispered. "I thought I would never– hell, sweetheart, you're still swallowing– find s-someone like you."

When he pulled back, it left you gasping and choking, a trail of saliva and pre-come stretching from your lips to his fat girth. You collapsed forward, your face pressing into his muscular thigh, your tears, snot, and cum smearing across his hot skin.

"Ah, darling," Jing Yuan murmured. His hand stroked your hair, your cheek, the curve of your shoulder. "You did so well. Took me so deep. But now," he kneeled, and his hand slid down your back, gripped your hip, yanked you close, and finally, rolled you onto your tummy, "now we must reproduce~"

His weight was a universe collapsing onto your spine, his chest a furnace against your shoulder blades, his mane spilling around your face in a curtain of white silk that smelled of sun-scorched grass and the deep musk of his skin. 

You scrabbled at the furs beneath you, fingers clawing through the dense animal pelts, heels digging for purchase as his cock slid in the cleft of your ass, the thick weight of him dragging through the sodden mess of your folds. Your entire body seized.

"Still trying to run?" His voice was honey over gravel, amused and breathless, his hips continuing that torturous rock."Still think there's somewhere else you'd rather be than pinned beneath your mate?"

"P-please." Your voice was a ruin, scraped raw by his cock, by your moans. "You already– you already got what you wanted–"

"Oh, dear," Jing Yuan settled his weight more firmly onto your back, one massive palm planting between your shoulder blades and pressing you flat against the zebra pelt. The fur was coarse against your cheek, smelling of earth and him."I've barely started."

His free hand rose and fell.

The slap cracked through the cave like thunder, his palm connecting with the crest of your burning ass cheek, and the forgotten pain rose again, radiating outward in waves of heat that traveled straight to your clit. You screamed into the furs, your body arching involuntarily, but his hand on your spine held you immobile.

“No! Stop!” Your throat was raw, and some drool seepedinto the furs under your chin.

"I won’t stop. Not until you learn your rightful place, which," his fingers traced the blooming handprint, pressing into the heat of it, "Is under me, well fed and well bred."

His hand landed on your ass again. Each blow was measured with the patience of a creature who had all of eternity to reduce you to this – a sobbing, writhing thing beneath his palm, your ass a canvas of his ownership. 

He spanked the tender curve where your ass met your thigh, and you howled. He spanked the backs of your thighs, and your cunt gushed slick onto the fur. He spanked the same cheek three times in succession, each impact landing on the same abused spot, and by the third you were babbling nonsense and his name and please, please, please.

"Please what?" His hand smoothed over the tortured flesh, soothing, almost tender. "Please stop? Please continue? You have to use your words, love. Your man can't read your mind."

Your answer was a wet sob into the fur and the small arch of your back that presented your neglected cunt to him.

"Ah, well." His hand squeezed your ass, kneading the welted flesh, his fingers digging deep into the burning heat. "I suppose your body knows better."

His words detonated in your chest. Jing Yuan felt your reaction – the sharp inhale, the way your cunt clenched miserably – and his chuckle was dark honey, pouring directly into your ear.

"There she is. There's my good girl. You just needed someone capable enough to handle you, didn't you, love? Someone who won't let you run from your own pleasure."

His cock found your entrance. Not pushing, just resting there, the weeping tip pressing against your dripping hole like a key testing a lock. You could feel every pulse against your most intimate flesh. 

"No." You tried to scramble forward. His hand on your spine pinned you. "No, wait, please, I can't– you're–"

His mouth opened. His fangs, those lethal curves of ivory, settled against the junction of your nape, resting there, a promise of pain to come.

"I need you to be very still now, honey." His voice was barely a whisper, reverent and desperate. "Can you do that for your man? Can you be still and take what I give you?"

You couldn't speak. You nodded into the furs, tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Good girl. My perfect mate."

He pushed.

The head of his cock stretched you wide, wider than his fingers had, wider than anything had ever stretched you, and the sensation was beyond pain – it was invasion, his flesh forcing your flesh to accommodate, your poor hole fluttering and catching on each ridge as he seated himself inch by inch. You heard yourself make a sound, high and keening, an animal noise of submission and terror.

And then Jing Yuan bit down.

His fangs sank into the meat of your nape, not deep enough to seriously injure but deep enough to claim, and the spike of agony was the key that unlocked your body. Your cunt, which had been resisting his invasion, suddenly relaxed. Your inner muscles softened, surrendered, and he bottomed out in one deep thrust.

The sound Jing Yuan made was not human. It was something between roar and moan, muffled against your flesh, vibrating through your bones. His entire body shuddered against yours, his hips pressing flush to your burning ass, his balls heavy against your clit. 

After a second that felt like infinity, his fangs retracted, and his tongue immediately began to soothe the wound, in loving strokes that made the pain transmute into something else entirely. 

"Hell! You feel– you're so– ah~" He couldn't finish. His hips moved involuntarily, and you both gasped.

“H-heavens, dear, just let me hold you,” Jing Yuan breathed against your hair while his forearm slid across the front. Your spine arched back against his chest, when he trapped your neck and head between the massive curve of his forearm and the solid wall of his shoulder. The muscle there was obscene, corded and veined, flexing against your throat with every breath he took. You could feel the sheer strength of him, and the knowledge that he could crush your windpipe without any effort, made something unhinged and totally wrong flutter in your heart. 

"Shh." His lips pressed against your temple, and you could hear the impossible strain in his voice. "I have you..."

It felt like he was everywhere. Inside you, above you, around you, his scent flooding your lungs, his weight pressing you into the pelts, his cock buried in your aching cunt. His arm kept your head tilted back against his shoulder, and the position meant you couldn't look away from the cave ceiling, couldn't hide from the overwhelming sensation of him. You could only lie there, impaled and filled, while he breathed hot against your cheek.

Your belly seemed to bulge slightly with his intrusion, and when his free hand slid down and under your body to press against the slight swell over your pelvis, he made a sound of pure worship.

"There," he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. "There it is. Feel that, love? Feel how deep I am?”

Jing Yuan withdrew slowly, his ridges dragging against your clutching walls in reverse, and the sensation was too much – the textured pull, the way your body tried to grip him and couldn't, the sucking sound of his cock leaving your greedy hole. His head reached your entrance, hovered there, and you whimpered at the loss.

He hummed at that and thrusted forward, making his balls slap against your abused clit. The sound of his pelvis meeting your ass was a wet crack that echoed off the cave walls. His hand slid from your belly to your mouth, two thick fingers pushing past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, and you gagged around them, saliva flooding your chin.

"That's it." His voice was strained now, the polished veneer cracking to reveal the desperate animal beneath. "That's my good girl..."

His thrusts found a rhythm. Slow withdrawal, agonizing drag, then the brutal plap when he drilled into your poor cunny. Each impact drove his fingers deeper into your throat, his cock deeper into your cunt, his balls slapping wetly against your clit in a rhythm that made your toes curl. The sounds – the wet plap plap plap of your bodies meeting, your garbled moans around his fingers, his deepening growls – ricocheted off the stone walls, multiplied, became a symphony of your surrender.

"Yes," Jing Yuan hissed. "This is how my queen should sound. Clenshing on my cock, choking on my fingers, crying because she feels too good. You were– ah, fuck– made for this, honey."

His angle shifted. His hips rolled differently, the head of his cock suddenly pressing against something new – a ring of inner muscle, tight and resistant, the final gate to your deepest self. You felt him find it because his entire body went rigid, and when Jing Yuan spoke again, his voice was raw with desperate need.

"Oh~ Oh, my love~” He grumbled, massaging your tongue with his fingers. “Pray tell, are you still a virgin here?"

You couldn't answer. His fingers were in your mouth, your throat in the crook of his arm, his cock pressing against that final barrier with a needy twitch. You shook your head weakly, tears flying, and his pleased groan vibrated through you.

"My perfect mate. Saving this for your king." His hips pressed forward, just slightly, testing, and the sensation was overwhelming – not pain, not pleasure, but something beyond both. His voice deepened to the obscene grumble, deep and sensual, when he resumed his pounding. "Don't worry, honey. I’ll make it feel so good~"

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. The orgasm that crashed over you was immense, your cunt clenching around his pistoning cock in waves of desperate spasms. You screamed around his fingers, with your vision whiting out completely, your entire body convulsing beneath him.

And then you heard the roar.

His hips lost all rhythm, slamming into you with animal desperation, each thrust driving his tip against your womb with bruising force. His balls drew up tight against his body, and the sounds he made were no longer words – they were growls, snarls, the vocalizations of a creature who had forgotten his human shape.

"Take it," he snarled. "Take it, dear, take all of it, take– take–!"

His tip breached your cervix.

The pain was blinding, a spike of white-hot agony that immediately transmuted into the most exquisite pleasure you had ever experienced. Yuan was inside you, truly inside, his cock seated in the deepest chamber of your body, and you felt the first pulse of his release. 

Hot. Copious. Endless. 

His cum flooded your womb in creamy waves, each pulse of his cock milking more of his essence into your empty chamber. Warmth spread through the inside of your belly, making your abdomen swell as he filled you beyond capacity.

Yuan was still coming when his hips began to move again. Slow, shallow thrusts that kept his cock seated deep, his release spilling around his cock, dripping down his balls to pool on the furs beneath you. His arms relaxed, letting your head fall face-first into the furs. His mouth found your sweaty nape again, kissing, laving the mark he'd left with gentle sweeps of his tongue.

"There," he murmured. "There, sweetheart. All better. I got you."

When he finally pulled out and kneeled behind you, the sensation was almost worse than the penetration. His cock slid free of your clutching flesh, and immediately, his release gushed out of the gaping emptiness, dripping down your thighs in thick white rivulets. You felt too empty and obscenely open, your cunt unable to close around the absence of him, your inner lips swollen and parted, your hole a perfect circle that slowly began to contract back in shape.

Jing Yuan’s gaze dropped to the junction of your thighs, and his pupils blew wide at the sight.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, my love. Look at what I've done to you."

His fingers, gentle now, traceyour labia. His release continued to seep out, viscous and pearlescent, and he gathered it on his fingertips and pushed it back inside. You whimpered at the intrusion, pussy desperately clutching at his digits.

"Good girl," he whispered. "My perfect mate, so full of me."

Jing Yuan lowered himself onto his side, gathering you against his chest, pulling the furs up over your trembling body. His heartbeat was strong and steady against your back, slowly decelerating from its desperate race. His hand found your belly, splaying across the slight swell, and he held you there, warm and possessive.

"Sleep now, love." His lips pressed against your hair. "Your mate will watch over you. Always."

The purr began slowly, a deep vibration that started in his chest and traveled through his entire body, then yours, until you were both humming with the same frequency. His softening cock, gave weak pulses against your hip, releasing the last few drops of his seed onto your skin.

"Thank you for the gift," The Lion Man murmured. You weren't sure if he was speaking to you or to whatever gods had delivered you to his territory.

The golden light of the phosphorescent fungi seemed to dim, settling into something intimate. The furs beneath you absorbed the mess of your bodies. 

And in the grasp of the obsessive Lion Man, you closed your tired eyes.

Night settled over the savanna like indigo silk. The waterhole reflected the first stars, and the gazelles had long since departed, leaving only the trampled grass and your abandoned camera as evidence of the afternoon's vigil.

Two figures stood at the edge of the clearing. The man was tall, blond, his long hair catching the dying light as he bent to retrieve the fallen equipment. His green eyes swept the viewfinder, the cracked lens, the deep impressions of a heavy body settling into the dust.

"Well." His voice was light and satisfied. "I told you it would work."

The woman beside him adjusted her black sunglasses, though the sun had fully set. Her baby blue hair stirred in the light breeze.

"He was obsessed with her from the very beginning." Her tone was assessing. "His scent markers are all over this area. We shouldn’t interfere, unless we want our heads bitten off."

"Exactly. Given that they have already begun mating, he will most likely not let us near her for the next week." The blond turned the camera over in his hands, examining the crack. "Though that's fine. The white lion hybrids have been struggling with genetic diversity for centuries. A human mate will introduce fresh variation."

"Assuming the pregnancy takes."

"It will." His smile was certain. "Jing Yuan is nothing if not thorough."

He tucked the camera into his jacket, and two figures turned, melting into the tall grass.

.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated!

Series Masterlist: Creatures Features

(if you want me to tag you, comment on the series masterlist please)

Jing Yuan is unironically very hard to write. He is also one of my favourite characters, so yeah… 8000+ words c:

Also, a fun thing about writing smut and like sensual scenes in general. I noticed that it's kind of hard when you try to write a lot of action and poses because like... where the hell did I make him put his hand? Her hip or belly? How should I make him move it to her neck? Is that kind of move even possible?

Anyway, I hope you forgive me for the headlock scene. I just feel that it's written a bit awkwardly, but I don't have the mental capacity to rewrite it rn :c

My darlings (taglist): @nazifa613, @spookydragonsong, @noentalrae, @fayebyte, @melimelisworld, @itslovelyangel, @cum-fvk, @forbidden-permission, @luv-isolde, @rinki-tinki, @alwaysseventypercent, @koseyisntcozy, @rochunsfw @lizurich, @constellationsyslibrary, @lavielavigne @hungryhornet @fuuyi-acrimosa, @damarezen, @itslayka, @anothergojostan, @blanksbedroom, @violetisreadinghush, @cccccccccccleo, @valentine-mybeloved, @bedrottingdoll, @horny--jail, @avenixs, @mildmasochist, @caramel-chai, @elianasmoon, @eminenceplant, @tree-ag, ...

(hope i've tagged everyone!)

You stir slightly with the new presence and comforting heat, whispering the soft, sleepy syllables of his name that makes his heart keen in his chest. It pounds away at the cage of his ribs—alive—he’s sure you can feel it thundering in his chest with how little space remains between you two.

“It’s just me, my love.” He murmurs in a low tremor, pressing his nose against the curve of your neck, taking a deep inhale of your soothing scent accompanied by a gentle kiss to the skin. A silent show to tell your unconscious self that he’s here. He’s home.

Even in sleep, your body knows him. Every curve, every breath, every soft feel of skin on skin. So you relax immediately, shifting your hips slightly in the smallest grind, and oh—

Phainon’s breath catches in his throat. He feels it all at once. A falter in his heart where it trips over itself like a hormonal schoolboy, stuttering out to your subtle movements. And pulse in his boxers, a twitch against your plush ass that sits directly onto where he’s growing hard underneath you. How easy he is, going without you for days, and only to get achingly aroused for you while you slumber. Certainly, if you were conscious, he has no doubt that you’d tease him non-stop.

But he can’t help the low whimper that bubbles when you move again, furrowing yourself deeper into his warmth, harder against his bulge with a drowsy sigh—a sound of heaven that reaches his burning ears and shooting straight southward.

He shouldn’t, he knows. You’re tired, he’s tired, and you both have all day tomorrow to indulge in each other’s bodies. How can he disturb your rest when you tried your best to stay up for him? The kind thing to do is to allow you to sleep in peace and enjoy the calming rhythm of your breath that he’s missed for days.

But Phainon is tired of being strong. Right now, Phainon is weak. Your lover is too weak to the way you fill up his shirt that you went to sleep in, shared fragrances whittling down his restraint. He’s too susceptible to how your body fits against his, the hushed snores you emit, and even the cute way your cheek nuzzles against the pillow.

“I’m sorry, my love…” He utters quietly into the slope of your shoulder. “I just… I need you, so bad. I missed you so much.”

His hands find light purchase on the soft of your hips, pulling you closer to erase all margins between you. Like any spare room is simply unbearable. He can’t hide the groan at the slight friction, precum beginning to collect in his boxers, soaking through as he rolls his bulge into the curve of your clothed ass, breathing and kissing reverently along your neck’s arch, whispering low praises though you can’t hear it.

Perfect. You’re simply perfection in everything you do, whether conscious or not. Sleeping so soundly and prettily, it makes him almost feel bad. Almost.

But then he starts pushing the sensitive, leaking head of his cock into the crevice of your thighs, slicking up the warm mounds before sliding his length into the pillowy flesh, and all resolve seems to simmer away.

“Li-like this, my dear. I’ll take care of you t-tomorrow, I promise…” Mouthing little marks into your neck and rutting subtly, Phainon speaks in a low tone, unable to hide the rasping ache trembling through his voice. “Ha… feels ‘s good… ‘m sorry, sweetheart… just—fuck—I missed you, missed you s’much.”

He could cry from this. Your thighs are so warm. Warm and soft like your body welcomes him home after days and nights away, so willing and ready despite being in slumber. It’s moments like these when Phainon is intensely reminded of how much he adores you.

He’s dripping enough pre that his dick slips and glides easily through your thighs and you’re blissfully unaware of the way he carefully bucks into you. Cautious enough not to wake you, needy enough that he chases the curling heat in his gut. It’s a little messy, the same way it is when you’re awake, too. The sound of repetitive ‘shlicking’ echoes throughout the room, mingling in with your calming breathing and his huffs as he pumps into the slippery mess between your legs.

Using you like this like this, sprinting after his orgasm, makes Phainon feel desperate—but he is. Phainon is just always desperate for you. Phainon is just a man in love.

He thinks about what you’d do if you were awake to feel his love for you. Would you turn and kiss him, thread your gentle hands through his hair, tugging him close and whispering for him to take what he needs? Would you reach over between your thighs and guide his cock into your delicate entrance, letting him push thick inch after inch in, and swallow all your sweet staccatos? Just the imagination causes him to leak even more.

Your panties are surely soaked by now. He makes a note to take you shopping soon, spoil you in new sets to take them off again that same night so he can love you—properly this time. Shower you in love the way he should and not rolling delirious thrusts into the heated gap between your legs. It’s a date, he thinks. It can be a date when he’s not so drunk on your slippery thighs squeezing perfectly around his girth, when he isn’t pressing himself against you like he’s trying to merge your souls together, and rubbing his tip along the lips of your pussy through your panties.

The turgid head of his dick catches on your clit, just barely. Just enough that he hears a drowsy mumble of his name slip from your lips, dream-littered and quiet—the sound is agonizingly beautiful, flawless in drowsy pitch, perfect to his ears.

“Phai…” Your little mumble is barely audible in the midst of his sloppy rutting.

“Da-darling,” his hips stutter along with his voice, a whiny cry that’s muffled into your shoulder, “so pretty, so soft, so good… mmph, ‘m close… you’re gonna make me cum…”

Phainon litters loving kisses into the space where your shoulder meets your neck, skyward irises fluttering shut as he succumbs to the tightness curling achingly. The kind of tightness that itches at the heat in his body, hips rocking fervently, twitching between wet mounds of flesh until he’s spurting warm, gooey ropes of white onto your thighs.

“F-fuck—” Broken moans and whimpers of your name escape with quick breaths, hot against your skin as his hips finally slow to a tender roll through your warmth, letting the final billows of his high wash over him, bringing a sudden exhaustion along with it. “‘M sorry, my love, I’ll take care of you tomorrow…”

With a trembling hand, Phainon swipes the fallen strands of your hair away from your warm temple, leaning in to press an adoring kiss to your cheeks—still none the wiser to his seed coating your lower half now. He doesn’t bother to tuck himself back in, content with your bodies staying fitted like two poles drawn together. Still perfect, still his. Even caught in rest, you know exactly how to help him. Truly, how lucky he has gotten.

To hold the weight of your precious heart and have his accepted by you—it makes every long night worth a thousand dawns.

“Goodnight, my light.”

To others, he is the one who bears the weight of the world, the one who will bring forth the first gleam of a blazing light. But here—with you in his embrace and breaths falling in sync—he is Phainon. And he is yours.

Her question makes your heart skip—heat rising on your skin.

“What?”

She doesn’t bother elaborating or giving you context, just waits for you to respond. You cough a little, feeling awkward, and wondering what kind of answer she’s looking for.

“Well…I mean. I think he’s a good boss. He’s friendly, and devoted to his job. He runs the prison well.”

Sigewinne nods, but doesn’t comment. Just keeps…staring.

Feeling pressured, you force yourself to think of more to say.

“Um…he’s deserving of his title and the respect he garners. I…enjoy speaking with him? Like when he invites me to partake in tea breaks. I dunno…he just kinda reminds me of a big, fluffy puppy. He looks scary but he’s actually pretty…cute, y’know?”

Finally, Sigewinne smiles. She takes your hand in her tiny ones, giving it a squeeze.

“Thank you for answering my question. You can go now.”

You blink at her dumbly, but nonetheless excuse yourself from the room.

Two days later, Wriothesley invites you to his office for tea. And to your surprise, when you walk in, you find Sigewinne waiting there as well.

“Thank you for coming!” she says as you enter the room. You flash her a smile, taking a seat in one of the open chairs around the table.

“Of course!”

“Sigewinne has a tea she wants us both to try,” Wriothesley explains, a fond look in his eyes as he watches the resident nurse flit around—pouring hot water into the teacups that have been set out.

You nod.

“I see.”

“Although, I don’t know why you won’t just steep the tea in the pot,” Wriothesley complains to her, just as Sigewinne places individual tea bags in each cup. “Are we not all being served the same tea?”

She cutely huffs.

“For your information, no we are not. Your and Y/N’s tea is unique.”

“Oh?” Wriothesley leans forward to look into the teacups as the colors from the herbs begin to bleed into the water. “What’s so unique about it?”

“You’ll see,” she responds with a playful look, one that causes Wriothesley to amusedly raise his eyebrows. However, he doesn’t say anything more—simply waiting for the tea to appropriately steep.

“...are you using the herbs I brought you?”

You can’t help but notice the smell wafting from the cup in front of you is a little familiar. Sigewinne nods.

“Wow! I’m surprised you noticed.”

“Ah, so this must be the reason you wanted me to lend you Y/N for a task the other day,” Wriothesley chimes in, his icy blue eyes once again shifting to Sigewinne. 

“Do I get to know what herbs you requested Y/N to bring you, exactly?”

The resident nurse shakes her head, quietly laughing when Wriothesley sighs and deflates back into his chair. 

“It’s meant to be a surprise! I want to see what you think about the taste without knowing the ingredients.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

Folding your hands on your lap, the office descends into silence for a brief moment, the three of you intently watching the teacups in front of you. Then, Sigewinne finally claps her hands and declares—

“Okay, they’ve steeped long enough. Go ahead!”

“Finally,” Wriothesley happily mumbles, reaching forward to pick up the pristine little plate on which his cup of tea resides. He brings the cup to his nose, inhaling deeply, and then takes a tentative sip.

“Hmm…”

He frowns, his brows pinching as he tries to discern the flavors he’s tasting. 

Curiosity getting the better of you, you take a sip from your own cup—wincing as the hot liquid accidentally burns your tongue.

“So?” Sigewinne prompts, staring excitedly between the two of you.

“It’s…pleasant,” you respond, clearly not as big of a tea connoisseur as the Duke. “It has a hint of sweetness.”

“It tastes like a Rainbow Rose smells,” Wriothesley adds, taking another sip. His gaze slides to you. “Did you pick some for her?”

You shake your head.

“No, I didn’t. Or…at least I didn’t pick any fresh ones. I did go to a vendor and purchase something in a bottle that looked like crushed, pink dust.”

Sigewinne cutely laughs. 

“As expected of you, Your Grace. Yes, one of the ingredients is dried Rainbow Rose petals. Do you like it?”

Wriothesley makes a pleased sound.

“I do. The taste is light, but pleasant—like Y/N said.”

“Good! I want both of you to drink up.” 

Sigewinne finally picks up her own tea, and you can’t help but notice the difference in color when compared to yours and Wriothesley’s. She really is drinking something different…but why?

“Aye aye, captain,” Wriothesley responds, which makes Sigewinne laugh. You smile at the cute interaction between them, and have some more of your tea as well.

Together, the three of you engage in friendly conversation—catching up about recent topics while indulging in tea and a few different snacks that Wriothesley had pulled out for the occasion. As you drink, you can’t help but notice you feel…warm. A heat that spreads out from your stomach, and slowly creeps into your limbs.

You’ve never felt this way before but…maybe the tea is just extra hot today? 

You glance up to Wriothesley and notice that he’s a little flushed as well. Which is…reassuring? You think. Since you’re obviously not the only one affected.

“Oh! Y/N!” 

Sigewinne’s sudden call of your name draws you from your thoughts, and you look over at her. She smiles.

“I forgot to ask, but are you dating anyone?”

“Sigewinne,” Wriothesley gently scolds. He leans forward and sets his teacup on the table, the cup now empty.

His tone practically says “It’s not appropriate to ask questions like that” without actually saying it. Sigewinne pouts.

“Aww, c’mon. We’re all friends here! I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

Hearing that the melusine considers you to be a friend, you decide to grace her with an answer—ignoring the tingling of the taste buds on your tongue.

“No, I am not seeing anyone,” you inform her with a polite smile. Sigewinne nods happily at your answer, which makes your smile waver.

Is she happy you’re single?? Ouch.

“Okay, good,” she says. “I’d feel a little bad, otherwise.”

You blink in confusion at her words, watching her as she pops off her chair and heads towards the door. Wriothesley raises an eyebrow at her.

There’s sweat beading on his brow.

“Where are you going?”

“Away,” she responds. “To give you two some privacy.”

You and Wriothesley glance at each other, mirroring each other’s confusion.

Your tummy starts to ache.

“Why are you leaving us alone, exactly?”

Stopping just in front of the office doors, Sigewinne turns on her heel to face the two of you. There’s a smug grin on her face. 

“This is what happens when you don’t follow doctor’s orders.”

You frown, raising a hand to your chest, wondering why your heart is suddenly racing. 

What’s this about doctor’s orders?

You glance over at Wriothesley…only to see that he’s frozen in shock—his eyes wide with realization.

His pants feel too tight.

“Sigewinne, you did not—”

There’s an edge to his voice when he speaks, his eyes narrowing. He plants his feet on the floor and prepares to stand and confront her, but before he can blink, Sigewinne has drawn her pistol—a tranquilizing bullet hitting him square in the chest, where a little patch of skin is showing. 

He makes a noise of surprise, and quickly flops back into his chair to avoid falling on the floor—his limbs immediately going numb.

“Sigewinne!” you gasp. You’re not sure what’s going on, but the fact that she’d just shot Wriothesley is…

“It’s okay,” she says with a little sigh. “The effect will wear off in a few minutes. And…I’m sorry I scared you. Let me explain…”

She holsters her gun and smiles at you, trying to calm you down.

“As the nurse of the Fortress of Meropide, it is my duty to look after all residents, including Your Grace. And over the last few months, I’ve noticed him becoming more… irritable.”

“Sigewinne…,” Wriothesley mumbles, but the girl waves him off.

“After observing him for a while, I realized that his stress levels were getting high. And as his doctor, I recommended him a way to manage his stress, but he refused. He insisted tea was enough to soothe his nerves, but that’s simply not true. So…when you started working here, and I saw how well the two of you were getting along, I…got an idea.”

Sigewinne glances over at Wriothesley, noticing how he’s begun to shift his boots against the floor. 

Her tranquilizers won’t be in effect much longer. They never work as well on people Wriothesley’s size…

So, she decides to cut to the chase.

Reaching into her pocket, Sigewinne pulls out the DO NOT DISTURB sign you’d seen her making the other day. She holds it in front of her, and beams at you.

“Simply put, the Duke needs to have sexual intercourse to relieve his tension. After watching the two of you and seeing you interact on both physical and intellectual levels, I determined that you would be ideal partners for each other. So, I invited the both of you to partake in an aphrodisiac made from the herbs you gathered for me.”

“You…you drugged us?” you gape, completely thrown by everything she’s just told you. She immediately gets defensive, her cheeks puffing.

“I medicated you,” she corrects. “And in the end, I’m only acting as a doctor. This all could have been avoided if Your Grace had just taken care of his own needs, as I’d insisted. Since he didn’t, I could only logically assume it's because it’s his preference to have a partner, rather than going at it solo. So, if you want to blame anyone for this, please blame him.”

“Sigewinne—” 

Gripping the arms of his chair, Wriothesley breathes out a heavy sigh and begins to push himself up. You can’t help but notice his face is much redder now, and you’re not sure if it’s from embarrassment, the effects of the drugs, or both.

Seeing that Wriothesley has nearly regained his strength, Sigewinne hurries to exit his office.

“Anyway! The effects of the tea should wear off in a few hours, but only if you relieve yourselves. Otherwise, it will last much longer. So I suggest you let loose and indulge yourselves. You like each other! Enjoy this time!”

Wriothesley opens his mouth to say something, but his words catch in his throat the second Sigewinne opens his office door. He doesn’t want anyone outside of his office walls to hear him or know what’s going on.

“I’ll hang this sign on the door,” Sigewinne continues, her voice hushing. “So no one comes in while you two are…busy. Just remove it once you’re done, okay? Have fun!”

With a supportive little fist pump, Sigewinne then closes the door, leaving you and Wriothesley alone.

A few long beats of silence pass, then Wriothesley finally sighs.

"I…apologize for this. I never meant for you to get roped in."

You turn to look at him, only to find that he's standing with his back to you, his hand raising to rub at the back of his head.

You can see his muscles flexing as he does so, and you hate to admit that it causes the heat inside you to grow.

"It's…not your fault," you respond, laughing a little awkwardly. "I doubt it's easy to follow directions when your doctor tells you to jack off to rectify your hardass-ness."

Wriothesley glances at you over his shoulder.

"Have I been acting like a hardass?"

"You've been a little snippy at times," you tell him, smoothing your sweaty palms down your legs. Seriously, your clothes are starting to make you feel claustrophobic…

"Not to me, specifically. But I've noticed it towards some of the prison residents."

"Shit," he sighs, rubbing his temples. You continue to watch him, your eyes wandering the expanse of his back. For a second, you don't understand why he won't face you. Then it clicks.

"...are you…hard? Is that why you're not turning around?"

"It's…pretty bad," Wriothesley admits, his shoulder sagging in defeat. "I don't know what all was in that tea but…as an aphrodisiac, it's doing its job."

"Yeah…," you agree, swallowing heavily. You can feel wet arousal pooling on the fabric of your panties. His office has also started to feel like a sauna, but you're not sure if it's the air that's hot, or your body.

However, you're still not willing to breach the topic of "relief" with him. You haven't reached that level of desperation…yet .

So, you think of something else to carry the conversation in the meantime.

"So…Sigewinne said you like me?"

"Ah, you caught that."

He laughs a little, and begins pacing around the room, still careful to keep his back to you. You can't help but notice his stride is a little…impeded.

"If I'm being frank—yes, I do. You've been…a pleasure to have around, since I hired you. Actually, one of the reasons I picked you in the first place was because of how you acted during your interview. Most people are scared of me and therefore talk cautiously. You're certainly respectful, of course, but…you're a bit playful, as well. And I found that quality to be attractive."

"Ah, so I charmed you," you respond playfully. "Remind me to add that point to my resume later. "Managed to woo the Lord of the Fortress of Meropide". That sounds pretty good—"

"And there you go again," Wriothesley laughs. He steps behind the chair he'd been sitting in previously, and then finally turns to face you—the back of the chair tall enough that his lower half is out of sight. 

"Although, if I recall her words correctly, Sigewinne stated that we "like each other". So, is there something you'd like to say as well?"

Your eyes go wide, and you feel more blood rush into your head. Wriothesley smiles, wide enough to show teeth. 

"C’mon now. It's not fair that I praise you and get nothing in return."

You pout.

"To be fair, I didn't know why Sigewinne suddenly asked me what I thought of you…"

"That’s understandable, but still. I'd like to know what you told her."

Wriothesley maintains his playful demeanor, despite the way his knuckles begin to turn white at his sides—a deep-seated need slowly sinking its claws into him.

You sigh.

"I just…told her that you're a good boss, and are deserving of your titles and the respect you garner…"

You trail off, suddenly remembering the last thing you'd told Sigewinne during that conversation. Wriothesley clearly notices there's something you're leaving out, one of his eyebrows raising.

"And?"

You take a deep breath.

"That you're a cute puppy."

He blinks in shock.

"...excuse me?"

Oh god, you wanna phase through the floor.

"I said that even though you look scary, you're really just like a big…cute…puppy."

For a moment, Wriothesley can only stare at you. Then, he throws his head back and laughs. 

Embarrassed, you plant your palms on your thighs and push to your feet, instinctively wanting to run away…only to realize that your legs have gone weak. 

With a distraught noise, you flop back into your chair. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Wriothesley notices.

He coughs, pulling himself back together.

"Well, I've certainly never heard myself described in such a way before. I can't say I totally hate it, but I'm not sure if I agree with the term "puppy"."

You force an awkward laugh, finally losing steam as the arousal inside you begins to cloud your thoughts. Sigewinne obviously wasn't messing around when making her aphrodisiac…you've never felt so horny before that it has literally hindered your mental and physical faculties.

The office is silent for a few tense moments, but finally, Wriothesley heaves a heavy sigh. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his shoulders slumping as he hangs his head.

"You may revoke your good opinion of me, considering how inappropriate it is for a boss to even consider such a thing, but…I think my dick is gonna explode soon, so I'll just come out and ask."

You swallow, anticipating his next words.

"Would you be…interested in having sex?"

Your body shivers in excitement at the idea, the lustful part of your brain screaming at you to jump him already.

"I…would," you admit, managing to keep it together. Wriothesley's entire body jolts impatiently at your words, but he’s able to keep himself grounded. 

"I don't think I'll be able to survive…this without some relief. And…I trust you. So…"

"So we're in agreement," Wrioslethely supplies, waiting for your confirmation. You nod your head. 

"We are."

In the next beat, he's is crossing the space between you, a "thank god" barely making it past his lips before he crashes them into yours.

Immediately, you’re groaning into him—your arms wrapping around his neck and his hands finding the backs of your thighs. He lifts you from your chair easily—your chests pressing together as he holds you close.

You’ve always been acutely aware of how large Wriothesley is, but you don’t think it fully sinks in until now—as he manhandles you with ease, quite literally carrying you with one arm as the other sneaks beneath your shirt and tugs it over your head.

You’re forced to break the kiss as he does so, but the second the fabric has been discarded, you’re tangling your fingers in his hair and dragging him in for another. 

Your action evokes a pleased little rumble inside his chest.

“You taste sweet,” he mumbles, his palm roaming over the exposed skin of your back. The warmth of his skin against yours makes you ache.

“It’s probably the aphrodisiac,” you reply breathlessly, a shiver raking your spine when you feel his fingers toy at the waistband of your pants.

“Hmm, shall we posit your theory?”

Before you can even think to ask what he means, the room is spinning—too many things happening at once. However, it’s nearly impossible to miss the feel of your pants being shucked down your legs.

When everything settles, you find that you’re no longer chest to chest with Wriothesley, but rather, face to dick.

“Wh—”

Your cheeks heat up as you finally digest the position he’s put you in—your ass in his face, and his crotch in yours—his body now firmly planted in a chair as he spreads his thighs and makes himself comfortable.

“Wriothesley!” you say in shock, your palms gripping his legs for support as you attempt to turn and face him. However, you quickly realize with the position he has chosen, you’re fairly helpless to do anything—completely at his mercy as he locks his arms around your legs and grips your ass in his hands.

“Hm?” he responds nonchalantly, one of his fingers slipping under the edge of your panties. You shift a little, trying to glare at him, but only succeed in having his clothed dick poke you in the cheek. He tenses at the sensation, and you feel his cock strain helplessly against the fabric of his pants—begging for more friction.

“I’m just testing your theory, like I said,” he continues, a surprised mewl tearing from your throat as he leans his head forward and nuzzles his nose in the damp fabric of your panties.

“If you think it’s the aphrodisiac making you sweet, let’s see if it’s also having that effect elsewhere—”

Before you can protest, Wriothesley is tugging the crotch of your underwear aside—his tongue licking a hot, languid strip between your folds. You gasp at the feeling, your nails digging into his thighs through the layer of clothes that he wears.

Above you, the Duke makes a pleased sound, repeating his previous action—noting the way your body writhes against his hold. His fingers grip your ass tighter, his brows furrowing as he presses his tongue inside your entrance—your arousal quickly coating his taste buds.

“Yep,” he mutters after a moment, his voice tight and his throat bobbing as he harshly swallows. “You taste…addicting.”

His words have your cunt squeezing around nothing, although he quickly dives back in and rectifies that problem—stretching your walls out around his tongue. 

“Fuck…,” you pant, your head dropping as your strength wanes. Your muscles progressively start to feel like jelly, thanks to his ministrations. Especially, when he moves his mouth to your clit and begins rolling his tongue around it—a whine escaping you as the desire inside of you sears white hot.

And yet, despite the way Wriothesley presses on—groaning into your pussy as he eats you out—you’d be remiss to forget about the fact that he’s currently affected by the aphrodisiac as well, and has his own needs that need to be taken care of.

So, gathering what strength you have, you manage to push yourself up onto your forearms—your hands moving to the waistband of his pants. You frantically work open the button and zipper of his slacks, and then hook your fingers under the elastic of his underwear, tugging the band down.

…only to have his freed cock immediately spring up and smack you in the face.

Your eyes go wide, and in normal circumstances, you’d expect Wriothesley to laugh at the comedy of what has just occurred. However, too immersed in the way your cunt tastes and feels, and the way your body continues to twitch in his hold, he doesn’t even notice. And, too amazed by the sheer size of Wriothesley’s dick as you finally lean your head back and get a good look at him, you don’t bother saying anything.

No, instead you simply part your lips and take the head of his cock into your mouth—sucking lightly, your tongue teasing at his slit. The groan that’s immediately torn from his throat is involuntary—the sound becoming muffled by your pussy as he momentarily stops to savor the feeling of your mouth on his dick—your tongue flattening on the underside of his shaft as you slowly take more of him into your mouth.

Then, he goes back to eating you out with renewed fervor—your eyes nearly rolling back into your skull when he sucks at your clit.

The room quickly fills with the sound of sloppy and messy oral, your head bobbing up and down Wriothesley’s cock. Saliva drips down his length, his pre-cum smearing against your tongue, and you can’t help but moan.

Everything feels so good—from Wriothesley’s tongue on your cunt, to the way his cock fills up your mouth…

“Fuck,” Wriothesley growls. His fingers move to pull at the folds of your pussy, spreading you open wider. You can feel his hot breath on your skin as he moves his mouth back to your clit, where he then stays—his tongue flicking rhythmically against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

The pace and motion he settles on is one that you know will very quickly damn you, and he figures this out as well based on the way your thighs begin to shake in his grasp. Your body attempts to jolt away from him—trying to escape the onslaught of pleasure he intends to give—but he leaves no wiggle room. He holds you tighter, enjoying the feeling of your mouth on his cock, and how your efforts slowly start to crumble along with your sanity.

“I…,” you mumble the word around dick, trying to warn him of the orgasm you can feel quickly approaching. Your entire body swims with arousal, your head feeling light. 

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he pants. “Let’s cum together.”

You feel his cock throb against your tongue, and, dutifully, you do your best to continue sucking him off—your lips once again suctioning around his shaft. Your actions immediately evoke a pleased groan from the Duke, and you feel his thighs tense in your grasp—his own orgasm quickly approaching.

However, despite your best efforts to continue, everything falls apart the second your climax finally crests.

With a cry, you come undone—your body writhing in his hold. You go brainless almost immediately, the strength in your arms wavering, and Wriothesley’s cock stuffing into your cheek—your hot breath fanning over his length.

Luckily, the vulgarity of the entire situation is enough to push Wriothesley over the finish line—his dick painting the inside of your mouth with his cum. And to his surprise, once he’s spent, you actually pull your head back, close your lips, and swallow.

Shit, he thinks. 

His dick is just starting to soften, and yet somehow, it’s also already getting hard again.

There’s a few beats of quiet that are filled only with the sound of you and Wriothesley panting. Then, once he’s caught his breath, he says—

“Let’s get you right side up.”

—and the world spins again.

Honestly, the fact that he can manhandle you this easily is criminal.

“You okay?” he asks, sitting you on one of his thighs. He brushes a few stray hairs from your face, staring at you with a hint of concern.

You nod your head, grateful that the carnal desire you’ve been afflicted with is clearly less, now that you and Wriothesley have both gotten off. But…even despite that, you still feel hot and tingly. Like you want more.

You glance down at his lap.

“Mmm. Seems like you’re in the same predicament as me.”

“Think you can handle another round?” he asks. You meet his eyes, playfully raising your eyebrows.

“I’m almost tempted to say no, and see what you do.”

Wriothesley rolls his eyes, his hands grabbing your waist, and in the next moment, you find yourself slung over his shoulder.

“Hey—!” you protest, attempting to look at him, but he only caresses your ass with his free hand.

“If you have that much spunk left in you, you can handle another round,” he says, carrying you down the nearby staircase, to the floor below his office. “But, I’ll be kind this time and make you more comfortable.”

His boots echo against the metal floor as he walks, and for a second, you wonder where exactly he’s taking you. But, soon after, Wriothesley pushes through a nearby door, and you find yourself in a moderately sized bedroom.

It must be his, you realize, feeling a little silly that you’d never pondered before now where the Master of the prison actually sleeps.

“Here we are.”

Wriothesley gently deposits you onto his bed, and then immediately reaches for his tie. You watch him with bated breath, your heart doing a tiny flip as you realize that he’s finally stripping out of his clothes. He opts to leave on the leather belts encircling his arms and neck, instead focusing the bulk of his time on shedding his suit, and undoing the many buckles on his boots. 

By the time he’s finished—his erect cock once again sitting heavy between his legs—you’re practically drooling at the sight of him.

His lips twitch into a little smile.

“I’m happy to know that you like what you see. However, in the time I spent undressing myself, you couldn’t be bothered to remove what little clothing you have left? C’mon now, are you waiting for me to wrestle you out of them?”

Still feeling cheeky, you flash him a grin.

“Hm, I’d like to see you try.”

Wriothesley immediately cocks an eyebrow, his eyes glinting at the challenge you’ve just issued, and your attitude wavers, realizing what it is you’ve done. You open your mouth to say you’re only teasing—your hands already raising behind your back to undo the clasp of your bra—but it’s too late.

In one swift motion, Wriothesley grabs your ankle and twists you onto your stomach—his weight settling above you as he kneels onto the bed. You shiver when his knuckles brush against your skin—his fingers swiftly undoing your bra.

“You’re just a little brat, aren’t you…” 

He speaks the words fondly, with a hint of amusement, and yet, they still go straight to your cunt. 

“Don’t say things like that,” you respond, instinctively raising your hips when Wriothesley hooks his fingers on your underwear and begins tugging them down your thighs. He stares intently at your backside as he does so, an idea popping into his mind.

“Why? Because you like it too much?”

He discards your panties on the floor along with the rest of the clothes you’d both shed, and then grabs your knees, forcing you to spread your legs, so he can properly settle between them. 

Another blush rises on your face at his words, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. At your lack of response, Wriothesely continues.

“In my understanding, brats tend to like it a little rougher, so…” 

His hands ghost up your thighs, to your hips, and he grips you tightly—forcing your lower half off the bed until you’re propped up on your knees—his cock sitting heavy against your ass.

“...what say we continue like this, hm?”

Bracing yourself on your forearms, you turn your head back to look at him—your body tensing as you watch him fist his cock and drag it downward, between the lips of your pussy. 

His icy eyes catch yours.

“Any objection?”

“...no,” you mumble, your fingers anticipatedly fisting in the sheets. 

Wriothesley nods—

“Good.”

—and then presses the head of his cock inside you.

Immediately, you drop your forehead against the mattress—willing your body to relax for him as he slowly inches inside of you.

His tongue had certainly been enjoyable, but this? Fuck. Nothing compares to the sensation of him slowly stuffing you inch by inch—the girth of his cock positively delicious as he forces your cunt to stretch to accommodate him.

It’s so much that by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, your body is shaking—your breath coming out in quick, desperately little pants.

Seeing your reaction, Wriothesely soothes a hand up your spine, his warm palm settling between your shoulder blades. He decides to start slow—to give you a little more time to adjust to him. 

And honestly, he’d love to take his time in general—to really savor the sight of you beneath him, your cunt swallowing his cock so perfectly, but alas. The effects of the aphrodisiac make him impatient with need, and it’s not long before he’s moving faster—little gasps and whines finding their way past your lips as he begins fucking you back onto his cock.

“Ahh…seriously you’re…so fucking tight,” he curses. His fingers dig into the plush of your hip—his jaw clenching, and his racing heart pumping lust through his veins.

Your cunt clamping on his dick seriously might be his personal slice of heaven.

“Wrio, I—,” you can’t even get the words out, your brain short-circuiting. You can’t think straight anymore—not with his cock rubbing you in all the right spots, making a mess of your insides, and quickly rocketing you towards another—

Wait, no, it’s only been a minute—!

“Fuck! ” 

You choke the word out, your spine curving and your knuckles turning white as your second orgasm of the night is unexpectedly forced out of you—your pussy spasming around Wriothesley’s dick.

The last of your strength officially drained, you collapse forward onto the mattress, your cheek smushing into the covers.

…however, Wriothesley doesn’t allow your lower half to fall along with the rest of you—his hold on your hips keeping your twitching pussy firmly planted on his still-hard dick.

“We’re not done yet, sweetheart,” he reminds you, his cock continuing to languidly drag between your walls, drawing out the tail end of your pleasure.

You can’t help but whimper at his words, already feeling a bit oversensitive thanks to two consecutive orgasms. Wriothesley does his best to soothe your frayed nerves.

Leaning over you, he gently tangles his fist in your hair—coaxing your head off the mattress so he can kiss you. 

The kiss is messy, but sweet—the angle of your bodies forcing his cock deeper inside of you, his hips completely flush against your ass.

“You’re doing so good,” he tells you, peppering a trail of kisses against your cheek, and across your jaw. His praise causes you to whimper, a shiver raking up your spine when his tongue drags across your skin—his teeth nipping at the nape of your neck.

His actions successfully get you to relax—your body becoming more pliable in his grasp as he once again begins to move. And soon enough, the wet sound of sex fills his bedroom once more.

Wanting to help him cum (and to feel his seed fill you), you do your best to help Wriothesley along—purposefully flexing the walls of your pussy as he fucks you. However, in doing so, you accidentally start yourself down the path of yet another orgasm…

Feeling the familiar, aching pleasure beginning to build inside of you once again, you quickly stop what you’re doing. You think that a third orgasm honestly might kill you, but…it’s too late.

Wriothesley has already noticed your growing arousal, and decides that he likes it better when the two of you cum together.

So, he sneaks one of his hands between the apex of your legs, and begins rubbing at your clit.

The garbled, desperate cry that leaves your mouth immediately becomes seared in his mind for a long time to come.

“No, Wrio, I…I can’t. I—”

Your words come out jumbled, tears beading on your lash line.

Momentarily removing his hand from your clit, he once again reaches forward and grips your hair—pulling your head back so he can kiss you. His lips swallow up your worries.

“You can,” he insists, his voice whispering in your ear, and his hot breath fanning over your skin. 

“I want you to cum with me, pretty girl. You can do it.”

You give no protest aside from a cute little whine, and that's good enough for Wriothesley.

Releasing your hair, his hand finds your clit once more.

He then proceeds to fuck you into the mattress—pursuing his orgasm with abandon. A groan leaves his mouth at the way your pussy starts clamping on his dick once again—tightening up with each pass of his fingers across your clit—your pussy slick and messy with your own arousal.

Unable to think straight, you can only hold on for dear life—clinging to his sheets like a lifeline. You can’t even process the sounds that are coming out of your own mouth—a damned, desperate symphony moans.

To Wriothesley, it all sounds like a siren's cry—beckoning him closer to the edge.

“Shit,” he pants, feeling his cock throb, and his balls tighten. The motion of his fingers on your clit quickens—your toes curling as the coil of pleasure in your tummy continues to wind—so close to snapping.

Sweat beading on his brow, Wriothesley leans forward, curling his body against yours. His teeth nip at the shell of your ear, his husky voice sending goosebumps across your skin.

“So good for me…,” he breathes, his hips smacking into your ass. His broad strokes deteriorate into needy rutting, and the sensation has you quite literally sobbing—his cock now incessantly grinding into your g-spot.

You can’t take it anymore.

Shoving your face into the mattress, you bite the sheets and scream—your entire body shaking as you cum for a third time, your cunt milking around Wriothesley’s cock.

He curses at the feeling, his face burying in your neck. Wrapping his arms around you, he hugs you to his body—fucking inside of you a few more times before finally joining you in ecstasy. 

His teeth sink into you as his orgasms peaks, a heady groan muffled against your skin as his balls empty—pumping you full of his cum.

It’s not until the intensity of his pleasure has died down that Wriothesley ultimately releases you from his hold—your lower half immediately flopping down onto the bed, and his softening cock slipping out of you.

The Duke takes a moment to simply look at you, and how fucked out you are. Your eyes bleary, skin flushed, and the imprint of his teeth engraved in your flesh.

He grunts at the sight, and settles in beside you—his arm curling around your waist as he tugs you back against him. His tongue immediately begins lapping at the bite mark he’d inflicted, attempting to soothe the sting.

After a few seconds, you begin shaking, and Wriothesley immediately pauses, scared that he’s hurt you in some way.

…only to realize that you’re laughing.

“...puppy…”

He props himself up, glancing at you.

“What?”

“You really are like a puppy,” you giggle, your finger lifting to brush a stray tear from your eye. “The way you bit me, and then immediately started licking at it in apology. So cute…”

You break into another tiny fit of laughter, and Wriothesley rolls his eyes, yet can’t help cracking a smile.

“Well, I’m glad to know I didn’t break you, at the very least.”

His hand rubs against your waist.

“...right?”

Finally getting ahold of yourself, you roll onto your back and smile at him, your hand reaching out to cup his cheek. He immediately leans into your touch, and it makes your heart flutter.

“I’m not broken, no. Just…sore. And gross. And sweaty.”

Wriothesley chuckles.

“Well, I think I can rectify some of those issues. I do have a bathroom, with a tub.”

“Wow,” you respond, watching him as he scoots to the edge of the mattress and gets to his feet. He waits a second for you to join him, but you don’t move.

“My…limbs feel like jello,” you admit, raising your arm and flopping it back down bonelessly for emphasis. Wriothesley rolls his eyes, but nonetheless leans over the bed and scoops you into his arms.

You rest your cheek against his chest, admiring for the first time how soft it really is.

“Whatever shall I do with you,” he playfully sighs, carrying you into the adjacent bathroom. He sets you on the vanity, moving over to the tub and turning on the tap for the hot water. You hum.

“Mmm, I can think of a few things you can do. The first of which is helping me into the bath once it’s ready.”

Wriothesley quietly chuckles. Returning to your side, he takes your hand, and brings it to his lips.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once the tub has filled, the Duke keeps true to his word—once again carefully cradling you in his arms as he seats himself in the tub basin, before positioning you in the space between his legs.

The steaming water immediately soothes the ache of your body, and you sigh in relief—sinking back against Wriothesley’s body. He lightly wraps one arm around your waist, the other resting on the edge of the tub.

For a few long minutes, the two of you bask in silence, simply enjoying the refreshing feel of the bath. 

…then, you start to notice something beginning to grow—pressing at your back.

“...really? Is the aphrodisiac still getting to you that much?”

“No,” he admits after a beat, leaning forward to kiss your neck. “I think this one is actually all me.”

You roll your eyes, but nonetheless crane your head to the side—allowing him access to more of your skin as his mouth begins to wander.

“I thought I made it clear that my limbs are jello right now.”

“I can work with that,” he responds, and you feel him grin. His hand slowly trails down your stomach, and between your legs.

“I’ll do all the work. You just get to make pretty sounds and feel good.”

His fingers slide between the folds of your pussy, and you jolt as he passes over your overly-sensitive clit. But seriously…how are you going to say no to him?

“What am I going to do with you?” you sigh, echoing his earlier words. His chest rumbles with laughter, and he grabs your chin with his free hand—turning your head so he can kiss you.

“Mmm, I can think of a few things.”

The next morning, you find yourself in a back in your clothes, standing beside Wriothesley just inside his office door.

“I’ll go first,” you say, to which he nods. “I have some errands to run anyway. You can wait a minute and then come out after me.”

“Sounds good.”

The two of you stare at each other for a second, before you finally square your shoulders, and reach for the door handle. 

Before you can twist it, Wriothesley catches your wrist. When you look back at him, you find that there’s a blush on his cheeks.

“So, I’ll…see you later?”

His suddenly bashful demeanor causes you to smile. Pressing onto your toes, you cup his cheeks and softly kiss him. He immediately grabs your waist—deepening the kiss.

“You’ll see me later,” you promise. 

With that, the two of you finally separate, and you disappear through his office door.

Wriothesley takes a deep breath at your departure, combing a hand through his hair as he waits for the right moment to make his own exit.

To be safe, he decides to wait a good few minutes. But finally, he opens his door—preparing to venture into the main area of the fortress, and make his normal rounds.

…however, he only makes it a step before remembering the sign Sigewinne had made.

With a sigh, he immediately backtracks and tears the DO NOT DISTURB sign off of his door, crumpling it between his palms.

When he turns back around, he nearly jumps—Sigewinne standing right in front of him.

“So,” she says, a pleased grin on her face. “How’d it go?”

Narrowing his eyes, Wriothesley only stares ahead, and walks past her. She easily follows after him.

“The fact that you’re out and about this early in the day means something likely happened between you and Y/N.”

“No comment,” Wriothesley responds, which makes Sigewinne giggle. They pass by a few prisoners as Wriothesley makes a B-line for the elevator to the production zone. Once there, Sigewinne squeezes herself in along with him.

As the elevator begins to descend, only a few seconds pass in silence, before Sigewinne asks one last question.

“As your doctor, it’s my recommendation that you continue to regularly relieve your stress. So, are you going to be dutifully carrying out my orders from now on?”

Wriothesley makes a little face, glancing away from her.

“...maybe.”

Sigewinne smiles. 

That’s good enough for her.

But why was your name, just shy of the top score in second place? The smile on your lips faltered, jaw clenching instead realizing just who you lost to.

Alhaitham, the Akademiya’s beloved scribe known for his intellect, aloofness, and determination to learn whatever piques his interests.

“What? Are you so surprised that I got the top score yet again,” a voice whispered down. Your body shivered, hairs raised, as you turned your back to glare at the tall man. Even in his stoic features, something about the look in his eyes always made you feel like he was looking down on you. 

The butterflies that were once in your stomach seem to bubble and melt at the boiling lava beginning to take shape instead.

He only scoffed at your expression, his lips curving up to a small smirk. There was, that patronizing look again. You wanted nothing more than to loudly connect the palm of your hand to his cheek, but you couldn’t. You had lost once again, and your pride was beginning to not be able to take all the losses anymore.

“Instead of being enemies, why don’t you just give it up already? How many tests has it been since your ‘proclamation of war’? You have yet to win and defeat me, am I wrong,” he remarked. You balled your fists up nudging your shoulder, leaving him to shift so you could move past him.

“You’re such a jackass Alhaitham. It’s no secret that everyone in our class despises you,” you muttered, marching off. The silver-haired man did not respond, teal eyes watching your form disappear from his visage. His eyes narrow where you once stood before tutting, digging his hands into his pocket and leaving the crowd as well.

Why wasn’t he able to wring in his rapidly beating heart when you were just here? It didn’t make sense to the scribe. 

Night hung high in the sky, the moon’s rays illuminating from Alhaitham’s window. A rugged sigh left Alhaitham’s lips, glaring at the blank ceiling in his room. His eyebrows furrowed, gripping his bedsheets tightly still fazed from earlier seeing your angry expression at him.

He knew he didn’t understand people’s emotions that well. Being emotionally was something he prided himself on not being. As much as he felt this was one of his strengths, he had enough reasoning to recognize it as one of his weaknesses as well. For being an intellect, it was difficult for him to empathize and interpret emotions, especially when they aren’t derived from what he feels are logical motives.

It seemed like a fallacy how much his heart would thump erratically in his chest, cheeks threatening to turn flushed when you were in his presence. That fire in your eye and rude comments would just make it worst. He thought it was anger at first, but that doesn’t really fit all cases he interacts with you.

Alhaitham sighs again, lifting his arm up to cover his eyes, feeling his cock twitching to life. His eyes glowered at his pulsating length, his pink tip already budding with his precum; urging him to pay attention to it. He could only curse himself at his thoughts of you making him hard and pent up.

He tightly grabbed onto his length, sucking in a sharp breath and feeling the pleasure reverberate through him. He squeezed firmly causing a moan to leave his lips, slowly stroking down to see the tip of his cock fully exposed to him. A shaky sigh left his lips as he soon speed up hearing the echoes of skin slapping in his room.

Something has to be wrong with his Akasha terminal for him to be behaving in this manner, why else would he be fantasizing about his rival? Most people didn’t imagine a person they hated, begging and whining to take their cock in their mouth, struggling to fit it all in, looking up at him for approval. 

The throws his head back, pushing his thumb on his slit, feeling a knot in his stomach developing. His hips were meeting his pace, fucking into his jerking hand. 

He whispered your name before biting down harshly on his lip, face scrunching up as ropes of cum finally escape them staining his nude chest. He wiped the sweat on his brow, finally letting go of his softening cock before looking at the mirror next to him. 

He sneered, noting how disgusting he felt as globs of his thick cum slid on his chest and lower stomach. He looked like a man deprived, something he never thought he fall to.

Either his terminal was hacked or one of the knowledge capsules he recently used has begun rotting at his brain. 

That had to be the logical reasoning for this. The only explanation for why he craves someone he despises.

He needed to fix this quickly.

Hearing the scribes finally ending class, Alhaitham only sighed before furrowing his eyes seeing the Akasha Terminal beep. A message popped up in his visage, mouth slightly gaping in surprise seeing it was from you. 

“Meet me in the library. I’ll be in the 4th private study room. I need to talk to you. Don’t keep me waiting”.

The curves on his lips tugged up, perhaps he could get rid of his problem as quickly as he wanted. Still, he wasn’t sure what your own motivations were for reaching out to him. Could you be suffering from the same fate?

Alhaitham soon found where you were, closing the door and locking it before shutting the blinds down so no one could see. You sat in one of the chairs, arms crossed and glaring at him as he finally turned himself towards you.

“I know you must be curious about why I asked you to meet me,” you muttered before sighing. Your gaze drifted away, anger and pity swirling within your eyes.

“...Allies, just for today. Let me study with you,” you whispered. You closed your eyes clenching the tightly to not see what expression Alhaitham had on his face. You were sure he was tugging a rare smile on his face, overjoyed at the fact you had caved this far.

“...I’m sick of having my pride hurt because of you, losing time and time again. In Liyue, there’s a saying from a War General: ‘If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat.’ Studying with you will give me a chance to peer into your mind, hopefully giving me the next advantage for the upcoming test in a month.”

As you opened your eyes, you were slightly shocked to see Alhaitham had his usual stoic expression on, not one of condescension. 

“You missed the first part of that: “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.” If that is true, then what do I gain out of this as your adversary? I do not see this as a net win for me,” Alhaitham replied. You clicked your tongue, sighing for a second lifting your hand up to brush part of your hair.

“That’s why I’ve also wanted you to come here to negotiate. Now, what do you want that you see this as an equal transaction,” you grumbled. Alhaitham looked down briefly, thinking back to the period of lust that overtook him last night. This would be the best opportunity to address it.

“Look, I have suspensions that my Akasha Terminal is corrupted. I confess that I’m having lustful thoughts about you, something that doesn’t make sense as you irritate me to no end. The opposing feelings have even caused me to lose sleep, something that is even more annoying and could potentially hurt me in my studies.”

Your eyes widened, cheeks getting hot as you scowl at him.

“W-What?! I knew you were an asshole but I didn’t take you as a pervert! No one should admit to that kind of shit!” you barked. Alhaitham sighed, rubbing an impending headache threatening to form.

“I know. It’s unlike me. Based on most cultures and research I’ve done, people are supposed to admire their potential lover, not loathe them. So I just need to fuck you and get it out of my system, and I will go back to normal again,” he sighed. 

You remained quiet, the embarrassed expression still clearly written all over your face before biting your lips.

“...Fine. Whatever will get me on top of the class ranking and to see your face when I actually win.”

Alhaitham, eerily silent, walks over to you— using his foot to push the chair so you were now facing him. As you were about to open his mouth to berate him, you gasped feeling his large palms place themselves on the end of your Akademiya robes. He slowly pushed it up, revealing your underwear.

He scoffs, eyes flickering to your gaze before going back towards your underwear, noting the damp pool beginning to form on the cloth.

“You’re already this wet?” he stated before a small chuckle erupted from him. “If I didn’t know better, I think you get off, humiliating yourself by fucking the person you supposedly hate the most.” As your lips quivered, eyebrows furrowing and cheeks becoming hotter, you jabbed a finger at his forehead.

“Said the guy who ‘supposedly’ hates me, begging to fuck me. Look in the fucking mirror!” you seethed. Alhaitham simply rolled his eyes, grabbing onto the fabric of the underwear and pulling it down onto the floor. He didn’t understand why his mouth was watering, seeing your already drooling cunt squelch on just the idea of his cock inside of you.

Two long fingers dove themselves inside your cunt leaving a soft moan to escape your lips. His head rested on your plush thigh, watching your cunt completely devour his fingers as he continuously thrust them inside of you. As if hypnotized, the scribe pressed his calloused thumb onto your clit observing you jolt in pleasure. He’ll be sure to keep note of that.

“F-Fuck…just hurry up already,” you whined. Alhaitham tried to avoid rolling his eyes at your nagging, easily shutting you up as he curled his fingers inside of you, thumb pressing rough "circles on your throbbing clit. Seeing you throw your head back, it was easy to see how much you were losing yourself to pleasure, cunt tightening on his fingers massaging your insides so meticulously. 

His nails dug into the meat of your thigh that was threatening to close and squeeze his head as he lazily pressed kisses on the other thigh he was resting on. Your hands had wandered to your chest, eyes shut tight with his name on your tongue.

“F-Fuck. I’m gonna—” Feeling the pressure on your burning clit getting worse, you could feel tears develop in your eyes soon cascading down your cheeks feeling overwhelmed by the pleasure caused by his fingers.

“—H-Haitham!” you choked out, back arching as you finally reached your high. His lips tugged into a small smile, seeing your body shift and move as you rode out your climax. Slowly dipping his digits out—glistening with your arousal—he brought his thumb to wipe against a tear before opening his mouth and swirling his tongue to taste the sweetness of your slick as well as the saltiness of your tear.

“Heh. I think you look much better crying and whining and glaring and hurling insults at me,” he chuckled, causing you to narrow his eyes. Just as you were catching your breath, your eyes widened watching him tug his pants down, cock immediately popping up. He tried hiding the smirk on his face visibly watching you gulp. Your nervous hands grabbed onto your robe

He soon positioned you so your torso pressed up against the table, ass side in the air. He could see your juices drip down the sides of your thighs and onto the marble floor.

“Shit…” you whispered out. “L-Let’s just get it over with quickly. We still need to study. I only booked this room for 3 hours.” Alhaitham pressed the tip of his cock against your dripping folds, swiping it along your slit. You sucked a breath in and whined feeling him nudge it against your overstimulated and burning clit.

“That’s plenty of time. Besides, you’ll decide how long I take for this next part,” he replied. You quirked your eyebrow up, body shivering in pleasure as he continuously rubbed his tip along your folds, globs of your slick already coating the base of his length. It was hard not to cum just by the feelings of your soft folds against his cock. Still, he had to remain in control. He wanted to draw this out as long as possible.

But why? He’d try figuring that out later.

He towered over your body, leaning over to your ear. You could feel his hot breath on the shell of it.

“Beg for me,” he stated. You slammed your fists down.

“Excuse me?!” you shouted at him. You felt him blow hot air into your ear causing your body to tremble once more.

“You heard me, beg for me. Don’t act like I don’t see your hips shifting trying to encourage me to just fuck you already. I didn’t take you for a cock-thirsty slut,” he murmured. You slammed your fists down on the table again, shutting your eyes tightly and feeling your cheeks burn.

“I fucking hate you—” just as you were about to curse him out further, you felt his hips snap forward, cock burying itself inside of you causing you to gasp. You could feel him stretching you out, cock nestled in the deepest part of you.

“Fine,” he choked out, using his hand to grab onto your hand. He roughly rutted inside of you, fingers weaving with your own feeling the table shift with every thrust. His free hand grabbed onto the plush globe of your ass before smacking down on it, causing you to yelp. Feeling you squeeze and tighten against him was ecstasy, as he clenched his jaw to try to prevent himself from moaning your name repeatedly.

“I loathe you. I loathe you so much…but I loathe myself even more for wanting to be inside of you like this,” he choked out. He grunted once more ramming his cock deeper, dragging it along your gummy walls causing your back to arch.

“T-This was better than I could imagine.  Whoring yourself onto my cock for your studies. T-This was supposed to fix my contrary feelings but you made it worse,” he seethed. He grabs the globe of your ass again, watching his cock disappear inside of you repeatedly. He brings his thumb up against your other puckering hole, before pressing the tip of his thumb down inside of it causing you to moan and choke out at him.

“N-Not there! I-It’s embarrassing H-Haitham. F-Fuck!” you stammered out as your walls began to cave down onto his cock.

“Heh. My theory was right. You are into humiliation,” he mocked, causing you to whine again. His pace was brutal, the vibrations of his thrusts reverberating against the fat of your ass. You could feel his heavy balls striking themselves on your needy clit too.

“I hated the way you’d throw insults at me for just beating you at some stupid test, but archons I loved the determined look you always flash when you said you’d beat me. I loved our irritating game of cat and mouse.”

Alhaitham felt his stomach churn as it did before, cock pulsating and struggling to plunge inside of you from how much you had tightened. His pace had become much sloppier, still curved up to hit that favorable spot inside of you. With his eyes, glazed in lust, he noticed you were even meeting his pace.

“Haitham!” you cried out, as you once more reached your high. Alhaitham cursed under his breath swiftly leaving your folds. He didn’t want to cum inside of you yet. No, he wanted another opportunity for that, to witness your face so closely as he painted your insides with his cum.

He quickly guided you to his knees and rapidly jerked his cock in his hand. Your lips quivered, eyes focused on his haltering hips.

“F-Fuck (Y/N),” he choked out, cock twitching as globs of his cum spurted out and onto your face. You gasped once more feeling him press his softening cock across your cheek, smearing the cum all over as he caught his breath.

“So pretty for me…” he muttered, finally moving away. You scoffed again, wanting nothing more but to wipe your face off but yet, something about it made your cunt throb in delight. You tried fixing your hair and moving up before you felt Alhaitham wipe his cum with the fabric from his jacket.

“Now can you put up your end of the bargain? I don’t think we have much time left…” you whispered. You heard him chuckle. Something was cute about you avoiding his gaze now. Alhaitham placed a textbook on the table that the two of you just fucked before sitting down on the table. He swiftly grabbed your hips, having you hover against his half-soften cock before lining you up again and burying it inside you.

Hearing you whine, Alhaitham pressed his face to your nape feeling your body shiver against his.

“A-Again? God! You really are a pervert!” you stammered. He simply sighed, leaning up again. That irritation he had of you was creeping back up.

“Call me what you want. Reward and punishment system is said to have helped many students get the academic markings they want,” Alhaitham muttered, before leaning into your ear again. “You get it wrong, and I won’t fuck you the way you desperately want me to. Don’t act like you don’t enjoy my cock inside of you anymore.”

Your body jolted feeling him lazily thrust into you as a warning, as your hands grabbed onto the arm of the chair, closing your eyes. Your heart rapidly thumped in your chest, cheeks on fire once more.

“You are truly the worse,” you whined, shifting your hips as you felt his cock throb inside of you. He grunted.