#drgons

A/N: This scene explores themes of power dynamics, surrender, and intense intimacy between a divine being and her mortal lover. It contains sensitive content, including consensual choking, depicted as a form of trust and vulnerability. Please read with discretion.

Word Count: 498

The encounter begins with Hyunjin in a state of desperate need, seeking solace in your embrace. His initial, frantic advances are tempered by your command, shifting his energy from one of hunger to one of reverent worship. He explores your body with a intimate focus, his mouth bringing you to a state of heightened pleasure. The dynamic deepens as he introduces a gentle, surprising pressure on your throat. This act of controlled dominance unlocks a profound and unexpected kink, revealing your desire to surrender your immense power and be utterly possessed by him, merging vulnerability with ecstasy.

The rustle of the page is the only sound in your sanctuary. The weight of the ancient tome on your desk is a comforting anchor, a focus for a mind that can comprehend the birth and death of galaxies. In this quiet office, you can almost forget the dragon-scale armor that sleeps beneath your skin, the god-power that hums in your veins.

The door opens without a sound, but you feel the shift in the air—a crackle of distressed energy that announces Hyunjin before you even look up. His footsteps are silent, but his presence is a storm cloud moving through the room. You keep your eyes on the constellation you're tracing, a map of dead stars, but all your senses are now fixed on him.

He’s agitated, you think, the thought a calm ripple on the deep, still ocean of your consciousness. What’s troubled him?

You don’t get a chance to ask. He’s behind you in an instant, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, his face burying into the curve of your neck with a desperate, shuddering sigh. The warmth of his body presses against your back, and his familiar scent—of crisp cologne and something wild, something uniquely him—washes over you.

"Baby, I need you," he whimpers, the words muffled against your hair.

A shiver, entirely involuntary, wracks your frame. It’s a strange conflict—the primal, draconic part of you stirs, recognizing a claiming touch, while the detached god within remains an observer. But you, the you caught in the middle, are simply overwhelmed by the raw vulnerability in his voice.

"Jinnie, please," you breathe, your voice strained. Your hand, which moments ago traced celestial patterns, now grips the edge of the desk, your knuckles turning white. This isn’t a request. This is a demand. A hunger.

He doesn’t listen. His mouth grows more insistent, his lips trailing a path of fire along your throat before he seals them over a sensitive spot and begins to suck, hard.

A sharp hiss escapes your lips—a sound of pure, instinctual warning. The air in the room grows heavy, charged with the ozone tang of a gathering storm. The lamplight flickers. He forgets himself. He forgets the power he’s trifling with.

"Hyunjin, stop," you command, and your voice is no longer just yours. It layers with the rumble of tectonic plates shifting, the roar of a primordial beast.

He freezes. You feel his entire body go still against you. He pulls back just enough for you to see his eyes—usually so bright, now dark pools of desperate, frantic need. He looks dazed, as if intoxicated by your very essence. A slow, apologetic smile touches his lips, but it doesn’t reach his haunted gaze.

He raises a hand, his thumb gently, almost reverently, brushing over the mark he’s left on your skin. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice thick. "It's just… you taste like a storm. Like power and eternity."

Then he leans in again, but this time, his movement is different. It’s slower, deliberate. He isn't claiming; he is pleading. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the same throbbing spot, and his tongue flicks out for the briefest, most polarizing taste.

A different kind of tremor goes through you. This isn't a challenge; it's reverence. It’s him acknowledging the deity, the monster, and the woman he loves—all at once. And in that single, complex gesture, you feel the formidable walls around your immense, ancient heart soften, just a little.

You pull back, creating a sliver of space between you. The charged, stormy atmosphere recedes, replaced by a flicker of warm amusement. You cup his face, your thumb stroking his jawline as you look into his still-dark eyes.

"And what is it you want, Jinnie?" you ask, your voice a soft, knowing murmur.

The desperate need in his eyes sharpens into something more focused, a mischievous, predatory gleam lighting his features. He smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips that doesn't hide his intent for a second.

"I want to taste you," he states, his voice dropping to a husky, confident whisper. "Chan and the others already have. It's my turn now."

A low, rich laugh escapes you, the sound echoing with the warmth of a thousand shared suns. The sheer audacity, the childish, possessive jealousy wrapped in such a carnal request, is so quintessentially him.

"Jinnie," you chuckle, shaking your head in fond disbelief. "Why have you never just asked me before?"

At that, the bold mask slips. The mischievous smile falters, and a flush creeps up his neck. He draws back slightly, his gaze dropping to where his fingers are now fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The formidable idol, the man who just moments ago was trying to devour you, suddenly looks like a shy boy.

"I've... I've been too shy," he admits, the words almost inaudible. He risks a glance up at you through his lashes. "It felt... too big to ask for. Like asking for a piece of a star."

The admission melts the last of your resistance. The dragon preens at the reverence, the god is amused by the mortal fragility, and the woman is utterly, completely charmed.

Reaching out, you tilt his chin up, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "Silly boy," you whisper, your voice laced with affection and promise. "You never have to be shy with me. The stars, and everything else... are yours for the asking."

A soft, breathy giggle escaped him at your sigh, the sound a stark contrast to his earlier desperation. His touch, which had been so frantic, was now deliberate, reverent. His fingers, which had gripped you with such need, now gently brushed over the thin fabric of your top, finding your nipples already pebbled and aching.

A deep, shuddering sigh of pure pleasure left your lips, the sound a silent thank you that he understood perfectly. The tension of moments before melted, replaced by a thick, honeyed warmth that pooled low in your belly. The dragon within, so quick to rise in defense, now purred in contentment, soothed by his worship.

He laughed again, a shy, hushed sound against your skin as he carefully maneuvered to remove your shirt and then your bra. The cool office air hit your newly bared skin, but you had no time to feel a chill. His hands cradled the weight of your breasts, his thumbs stroking the sensitive curves before he lowered his head.

His mouth was hot and wet and perfect as he took one hardened peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the taut bud. A low, guttural sound of approval rumbled in your chest—a sound that was more than human. It was exactly what you wanted, what you needed: the searing heat of his devotion, the intimate pressure that made your head fall back and your hands fist in his hair, not to push him away, but to hold him closer.

This was no longer a frantic claiming. It was a communion. And you surrendered to it completely.

His mouth was a brand of searing heat on one breast, his tongue lavishing attention on the peaked nipple while his other hand kneaded its twin, his thumb brushing back and forth in a rhythm that made your back arch. You were lost in the sensation, a low hum of pleasure vibrating in your core, when his hand slid from your breast, tracing a blazing path down the quivering plane of your stomach.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. He leaned up, his lips finding yours in a breathless kiss, and you could taste your own scent on his tongue. "You're already so wet for me," he breathed into your mouth, his voice thick with awe and desire.

You laughed, a husky, breathless sound. "I might have the patience of a saint," you murmured, your hands sliding into his hair, "but my body does not. It wants you in it. Now." You tugged gently, guiding his gaze back to yours, your eyes dark with promise. "But tonight... tonight you'll taste me on your tongue."

A sharp, desperate whimper escaped him, the sound going straight to your already throbbing core. He didn't need to be told twice. He moved with a frantic grace, his kisses trailing down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your hips, until he was kneeling before you.

His face was level with your clothed center. You felt the heat of his breath through the damp fabric, and you squirmed, a flush of self-conscious heat warming your cheeks. But you let him be, let him indulge in this freaky, intimate worship. He pressed his nose against the wet patch, inhaling deeply, and the sound he made was pure, unadulterated hunger.

Then, in one fell swoop, he tugged your panties down your legs and tossed them aside. He didn't hesitate. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them, and he nearly buried his face in your pussy, taking another deep, shuddering sniff.

"God, you smell incredible," he groaned, the vibration a promise of the pleasure to come.

The universe collapsed into a single, searing point of contact.

Your laugh was a faint, breathy exhalation, a prelude to the seismic shift about to overtake you. Every nerve ending, from the divine power coiling in your core to the most superficial epidermal cell, was polarized, drawn taut and waiting for the catalyst. And then it came.

The first touch of his tongue to your clitoris was not a blunt impact, but a precise, electrochemical event. The stratified squamous epithelium of your outer skin gave way to the infinitely more complex mucosa, a landscape of delicate, fluid-bathed folds. His tongue, a marvel of muscular hydrostat, was not smooth. At a microscopic level, its surface was a forest of filiform and fungiform papillae, each creating a unique, textural drag against the hyper-engorged corpus cavernosum of your bud.

You groaned, the sound a vibration that began in the rapid-fire synapses of your brain and traveled down the recurrent laryngeal nerve, forcing your vocal folds apart. As your head fell back, the sternocleidomastoid and trapezius muscles stretched to their anatomical limit, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat. The skin there, thin and rich with superficial capillaries, flushed with a sudden surge of warm blood, a primal signal of submission.

It was then his forearm made contact.

The initial pressure was a redistribution of kinetic force. The underlying platysma muscle tensed. Then, the firm, unyielding band of his radius bone settled against the anterior triangle of your neck. You felt it with preternatural clarity: the gentle, inexorable compression of the external jugular vein, the subtle shift of the sternocyhyoid muscle beneath. The flow of oxygenated blood from your heart to your brain slowed by a calculated degree, a fractional hypoxia that manifested not as panic, but as a roaring, scintillating static at the edges of your vision.

You bit your lip. The incisal edges of your teeth met the soft, non-keratinized mucosa of your lower lip with pinpoint pressure, triggering a cascade of nociceptive and tactile signals that shot directly into the trigeminal nerve, a sharp, counterpoint sting to the building pleasure.

The physiological paradox was absolute. Your divine biology, a system capable of channeling cosmic energies, was being masterfully manipulated through the most primal of mammalian pathways. The partial occlusion of your carotid artery, a lethal threat to any other, became the very thing that unlocked a new stratum of sensation. The slight dizziness, the roaring in your ears—it wasn't a deprivation, but an intensifier. It forced every whorl of his tongue, every individual papilla tracing your swollen nerves, to become the only data point in your entire existence.

The myofibrils in your thighs contracted with involuntary force, a prelude to a tectonic release building deep within the smooth muscle of your womb. He wasn't just touching you. He was reprogramming your fundamental operating system, proving that even for a god, the most exquisite universe could be found within the confines of a single, perfectly placed point of pressure.

"Look at you," he growled, the sound resonating through your very bones. "Taking it so well. My fierce, beautiful god."

The physiological paradox was absolute. Your divine biology, a system capable of channeling cosmic energies, was being masterfully manipulated through the most primal of mammalian pathways. The partial occlusion of your carotid artery, a lethal threat to any other, became the very thing that unlocked a new stratum of sensation.

This is it. This is the surrender I never knew I craved. To have my cosmic strength held in check by his mortal hand... to feel so utterly, devastatingly owned.

The slight dizziness, the roaring in your ears—it wasn't a deprivation, but an intensifier. It forced every whorl of his tongue, every individual papilla tracing your swollen nerves, to become the only data point in your entire existence. The myofibrils in your thighs contracted with involuntary force, a prelude to a tectonic release building deep within the smooth muscle of your womb.

"Jinnie... I'm...!" you tried to warn him, but your voice was a strangled whisper, stolen by the pressure on your throat.

He understood. His rhythm on your clit became relentless, a perfect, devastating friction. He wasn't just touching you. He was reprogramming your fundamental operating system, proving that even for a god, the most exquisite universe could be found within the confines of a single, perfectly placed point of pressure. And you were about to supernova.

The release was not a single event, but a cascading system failure of your physical form, a divine supernova contained within a mortal coil.

It began as a deep, rhythmic pulsation within the smooth muscle of your uterine walls, a series of involuntary, wavelike contractions that propagated outwards with seismic force. Each spasm milked the engorged tissues of your vagina, forcing a rush of fluid—a complex solution of sugars, electrolytes, and enzymes—through the vestibular gland ducts. The sensation was a blinding-white neural static, overloading every sensory pathway.

You let out a low, guttural moan, the sound a direct expression of the vagus nerve being stimulated beyond its capacity, a resonant frequency that vibrated through the very marrow of your bones.

Hyunjin did not retreat. As the evidence of your climax, pearlescent and warm, seeped from you, he met it with a fervent devotion. His tongue, a soft and seeking muscle, captured the outflow, and you felt the subtle suction as he swallowed, his own moan of pleasure vibrating against your hypersensitive, quivering flesh. The sound was one of pure, primal satisfaction.

"You taste like creation itself," he breathed, his voice ragged. You could feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the frantic desire in his fingertips as they pressed into your hips. "Please," he begged, his hips stuttering with a jackrabbit's urgency against your thigh. "Let me. I need to be inside you."

A breathless, sovereign laugh escaped you, even as your own body still hummed with the aftershocks. You placed a steadying hand on his chest, feeling the frantic, avian beat of his heart against your palm. "So impatient, my love," you whispered, your voice a husk of its former power, laced with a fond, ancient weariness. "You'll have to wait your turn."

The sound that ripped from him then was a raw, wounded growl, a feral thing of frustration and longing. In a single, fluid motion, he straddled your hips, his weight a familiar, anchoring pressure. The look in his eyes was desperate, stripped bare of all artifice.

"I am tired of waiting my turn," he confessed, the words torn from him. "I watch them have you—see the peace in your eyes after—and I burn." He cradled your face, his thumb stroking the arch of your cheekbone with a touch that belied the ferocity in his voice. He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was not gentle. It was a claiming, a desperate argument spoken with lips and tongue. It was hot, and long, and tasted of your own essence on his lips.

When he broke for air, his forehead rested against yours, his breath a hot, ragged gust against your skin. "Please," he begged once more, his voice cracking with a need so profound it felt like its own kind of worship. "Let me fuck you. Let me have this. Let me have you."

A long, shuddering sigh escaped you, the air leaving your lungs not as a simple exhalation, but as a release of the immense tectonic pressure building within your divine core. The sound was a low-frequency rumble that vibrated through the marrow of his bones where he held you.

Seeing the flicker of desperate, aching need in his eyes—a need you felt mirrored in the very atoms of your being—you raised your hand. Your thumb, its pad soft yet imbued with the infinite potential of creation, found the plump, vermillion border of his lower lip. You stroked it with a touch lighter than a photon's passage, feeling the minute texture of his skin, the slight moisture from his breath, the frantic pulse of blood in the capillaries just beneath the surface. It was a gesture of absolute reassurance, a covenant.

"Tomorrow," you breathed, the word a promise that hung in the charged air between you. "Tomorrow, you can have me. For as long and as hard as you can take me." You paused, letting the weight of the reason settle upon him, your voice dropping to a whisper that was both a warning and an invitation. "Because tomorrow, my heat begins."

The change in him was instantaneous and profound. It was not just in the widening of his pupils, the dilation that swallowed the warm brown of his irises into pools of black, bottomless want. It was a cellular shift. You could see it—the surge of epinephrine and testosterone, the minute flush of blood that warmed the skin of his cheeks, the subtle contraction of every muscle fiber in his body, priming him for the hunt, for the claiming you had just promised.

Fire-breathing dragons have been around in fiction seemingly forever. But how the hell would a dragon actually breathe fire? ‘Game of Thrones’ most recent episode ‘Beyond the Wall’ provided keen eyed viewers with a potential answer.