#sub arcana

Moving in with Muriel was easy enough, you had been together on the hunt for a year, after all. The two of you had long surpassed any discomforts that new couples would face while adjusting in each other's spaces. You found it easy to fall into his orbit, melding together in peaceful harmony.

But one thing you didn’t expect, however, was Muriel’s lack of…everything in his home. Yes, you anticipated it somewhat, but there was nothing to occupy his time or his mind other than work, nothing for him to relax other than a single, woodcarving chisel. There needed to be more, you needed him to have the necessities of life. 

So you started bringing home books. Simple, short novels from the shop that would give him a little more wonder to his day. But not many Vesuvians knew how to read, and the thought that you gifted something that he couldn’t use made you panic–but as he picked up the small volume and flicked through, feeling the texture of the pages and taking in the summaries, you felt your anxiety quell. You think that Asra must have taught him when they were young, and the thought of the two pointing to words in a too-large tome has you smiling. 

“Thank you,” Muriel breathed, a fascination in his eyes at your gifts, small and lovingly worn in his hands. When was the last time he had gotten a chance to read? A long time. Too long.

He had finished the book in a day.

It was hard to pull him away from it. Many times you caught him flipping the book back open, making his way through chapter by chapter. Nothing could pull him away; he’d use one hand to hold it open while brushing Inanna or stirring stew in the hearth, and it was a miracle that he didn’t try to take the book with him while tending to the chickens. 

Muriel finished it during dinner, his attention focused on the page as he spooned hearty stew into his mouth across from you. It was a short book, only about one hundred pages, but it filled him with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. 

“Was it good?” You asked, smiling around your spoon, finally catching his attention. He flushed, sheepish as he nodded. “Yeah, I liked it.”

 “I’m so glad! Why don't you tell me about it?” 

Unfortunately, you had only so many books, and Muriel had begun to get picky with his findings. He liked reading fairytales and poetry, he liked mystical adventures with beautiful creatures, and you only had so much. 

So you took him to the market in search for more, sifting through dusted novels and doggy-eared journals for something he’d enjoy. And enjoy he did, walking back home with you with the smallest smile on his face, a new little treasure in his bag. 

Nothing was like seeing the awe on his face when the first official library in Vesuvia opened, and while he didn’t attend the grand opening (far too many loud people, he had said), he went frequently thereafter, making unintentional friends with the librarians and allowing himself to bask in the light of the large windows. 

You kept an eye out for new literature while you were out likewise, searching through the selections to find something new.

And it was meant as a joke, really. You meant it to be a funny gag gift when you brought home a novel with a hand-drawn cover of a delicate, foresty woman holding onto a well chiseled man. 

Muriel’s face had erupted in red, steam practically shooting from his ears. He grumbled, giving the cover a side eye. You hadn’t thought much of it after that, admittedly, aside from the laughs it gave you. 

You stir awake, turning over on your side. Muriel’s sitting up in the bed, the bedside candle lit and flickering, illuminating his large form delicately. He’s holding a book in his hands, and you hear his breath softly hitch as he flips the page, his hand coming up to his face and his teeth catching on his thumb. You’ve never seen him react like that before when reading.

“Honey?” You call out.

You hear him choke on his breath and he quickly snaps the book shut, pinching the flame out with his fingers.

“Go back to bed.” He says tightly.

“What were you reading-“

Muriel quickly lays back down with his back towards you. “Nothing!” He practically yelps. “Go to sleep!”

You snuggle back up against him and he begins to relax again. How odd. 

Muriel was quiet the morning after that, and while he likes to think he’s sneaky, you know he’s hidden that joke gift book under his pillow. When he steps outside to chop more wood, you take a peek at the book under his pillow. You crack it open to his bookmark, letting your eyes fall on a paragraph. 

“-The impish magician finds the nymph under him, her long legs spread open. She smells like lavender and honey, and he wants to eat her whole. 

“My hero,” she croons, watery, doe like eyes staring up into his. “Treat me gently, I beg of you.”

The magician's hand is in between her legs, fingers pressing into her p-“

Ah. You hadn’t expected this little book to be that graphic. No wonder Muriel had been so shy about it! You look over your shoulder at the window, carefully peering to see him still halving wood. With a grin full of teeth and a mind full of mischievous ideas, you flick through a few more pages.

…

The next following days you put your plan into action.

Admittedly, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on him. Fortunately for you, Muriel also seemed to be in a touchy-feely mood, reciprocating the touches and kisses. In the back of your mind, you wonder if that novel had anything to do with his more spontaneous libido as of late. 

Your hands press against his sides, lightly brushing against his ribs and drawing out a breathy little sound that makes you grin against his lips. His mouth is wet and soft against yours, parted as your tongue swipes against his bottom lip. It makes him shiver, his fingers clutching into the knit of your sweater. The hearth is still burning, the low flickering of the fire warming your skin almost as much as the kissing is. 

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” you breathe out, your teeth catching gently on his lip. Muriel makes a whimpery little sound, and you think about how much more you want to hear it. He hums in curiosity, eyes still lidded when you pull away to fetch a bag from under the bed.

You open up your bag, taking out the linen-wrapped package. “What's that?” He asks, interest peaked as you hand it to him. “Open up and see.”

Muriel looks down at the package in his hands and carefully, like he thought it might bite him, he peels away the covering. The sight inside makes his breath hitch, his skin blooming hotter. 

White and sage lace, silks, all wrapped into each other to form a gorgeous set of lingerie. He feels his hands tremble a bit, and somewhere in the back of his mind says that this feels familiar. 

And then it hits him; this fits the exact description of what the character in the novel wears during one of the scenes in which– oh, oh, Muriel’s face has gotten so very red–

“Like it? I flipped through that book you like so much and thought about doing something special for you.” You rest your hand on his thigh, snapping him away from his flustered focus. He looks at you, biting on his lips. “So what do you say? Wanna put it on, honeycomb?” 

Another piece from the book, an endearing nickname for the forest nymph that has him feeling less than innocent. 

You’re watching him as he pulls off his sweater, inch upon glorious inch of skin exposing, light brown with scars and stretches. He’s gained weight since you’ve both made your peaceful life together, indulging in things he never thought he’d be able to savor. No longer is his skin clinging to muscles. He's soft, squishy over that strong body, and it takes everything in your power not to sink your fingers into his stomach. 

The pants follow next, then his simple underwear, until he’s completely nude in front of you. Vulnerable in all the best ways. He’s biting his lip, gently touching the lingerie in the wrapping. 

“Do you want help?” You offer, meeting his shy gaze. “Mm,” Muriel can only whine, slowly, stiffly nodding his head. “Please,” he tacks on for extra measure, possibly a little less shy than you thought; he knows how hot it gets you when he uses his manners. 

You feel a little shiver in your spine, one of excitement as you grab the panties and twirl them around your finger. “Come on, big boy,” you whistle playfully and your big boy snorts with a roll of his eyes, standing to his feet before the bed where you sit. “Or should I say, little lady?” 

Now that gets you a nice little sound, a stuttery gasp from his kiss-swollen lips. “You like that?” You grin, holding out the leg holes of the panties for him to step into. Muriel grabs onto your shoulders as he does, nodding sheepishly in agreement. “That’s a good girl,” you snap the band around his hips, the sage silks and lace framing his hips and ass snuggly. His hips jerk, already dampening the fabric with his arousal. “So, so pretty. And you’re all for me.” You lean forward, eyes flicking up to his as you press a kiss to his stomach, over the thick happy trail leading into the scrunched elastic of the underwear. 

“Ssstop…” Muriel whimpers, turning his face in embarrassment. 

“You want me to stop? Are you sure?” You fiddle with the bralette you’ve yet to put on him. “Or are you just being shy again?” 

He huffs, face still profoundly red. “Shut up.” He grumbles, though empty of malice. You’ve got your answer, so you hold out the last bit of lingerie for him. Muriel loops the straps over his shoulders, turning around for you to fasten the clasps. You don’t miss how he shivers when your knuckles brush against his spine, or the way his breath catches in his throat when those fingers trail down the length of his back. 

“Turn around, let me see you, honeycomb.” 

Muriel follows your order without a second thought, shuffling to face you. And he looks gorgeous. Green truly is his color, there’s no doubt about that. The bralette hugs his chest, the scalloped-edged cups framing his breasts. Your eyes rake down lower, down his beautiful scarred chest and stomach, thick patches of hair littering the path, all the way down to the hem of his panties. You almost drool at the way his clit bulges against the cloth, swollen and needy. 

“Look at you…” you grab his hips and squeeze, fingers looping under the band of his panties to give them a playful snap. “Back on the bed, hun, come here,”

He crawls into bed after you, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he does. Every shift of his thighs has the heat between his legs growing stronger, a measly friction that makes him feel even more desperate. Muriel’s the one to initiate another kiss, his hands carefully placed on the tops of your thighs. You thread your fingers in his hair, smiling against his lips. You have to use your grip to pull him back to speak, a thin line of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. 

“So eager…Lay down, that’s it,” the blankets are soft below his half-naked skin, although failing to warm him quite like your touch. You spread his legs apart, excitement surging through you at the sight of his dampening underwear. 

Teasingly, you run your fingers up the inside of his thigh, up to where he needs you the most. “What was the thing your book talked about? The magician putting his fingers in the nymph’s flower?” 

Muriel chokes on a gasp, hands shooting up to cover his face. “Ugh-”

“Come on, honeycomb, don’t you want that too? You’re already dressed up just like her.” Your thumb rubs over his bulging clit, drawing a whimper from his lips. He nods from behind his hands.

“Ah, Ah, I gotta hear you say it.”

Muriel peeks from behind his fingers. “Don’t make me say it…”

You don’t grant him any reprieve, only giving those just-barely-there rubs of your fingers over his clit. He keens, hips flexing up frustratedly. “Please,” he gasps out, “puh-put your f-fingers in my, inmyflower.” 

“Oh, good girl.” You grin, relishing the shiver that runs through him. He breathes out shakily when you pull his panties aside, fingers spreading him open. You whistle low, sliding your fingers through his folds, slick discharge and arousal gathering on your skin. “Now that’s the prettiest rose I’ve ever seen.” 

Muriel huffs, flustered. You take the time to position your thumb over his clit, rubbing slow circles as you ease a finger into him. His eyes twitch, jaw falling slack at the long-awaited stimulation. “Now that’s a pretty face.” You coo, leaning over to press a kiss against his jaw, teeth teasingly nipping at the skin. “And you’re taking me so well too…” Another finger slid in, two pumping in and out, curled up against the squishy walls of him.

“H-hughh,” his large hand carefully reaches down to where your hand meets his pussy, fingers brushing your wrist. It’s almost like he’s in awe of it, the way you make him feel, the sight of it. His clit sticks out and he can see the way it throbs and twitches when you press your fingers into a good spot. 

You take his hand in yours, the one not currently finger fucking him open, and squeeze it tight. “You’re so romantic, honeycomb.”

His whole body feels hot, like a never-ending fever. You always make him feel all…mushy and soft. You make him feel like he’s special and good, and he whimpers when you lean back up and take a good look at him, embarrassment running deep. But, he doesn’t think it’s a bad kind of embarrassment when it’s you. 

Muriel clenches down on your fingers when you drag them back out, teasing a third against his hole. “How wide do you want me to stretch you tonight, little lady?” You coo down at him, a devilish little thing. 

He swallows, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth. He’s never been good at saying outright what he wants. “Wide,” he breathes out, thighs trembling while you languidly stroke over his folds. 

“Mm, three fingers?” You slowly slide the three in, savoring his shaking moan, before pulling them back out. Muriel whines at the loss, hips bucking up. 

“Or maybe four? Or did you want my whole hand? I know you can take it, I’ve seen you do it before, honey.” 

The man below you groans, turning his head to hide in the pillows. “You’re teasing me…” you hear him whine, his chest heaving with his worked-up breaths. 

“Oh, I know, I’m just so mean to you, aren’t I?” He spares you a knowing glance and you have the absolute pleasure of watching his jaw fall slack and his eyes roll when your fingers plunge back into him. He’s full with three, toes curling when you spread them. “Ah- ah- ah-,”

You pick up the pace, thumbing his clit with every thrust of your fingers—and oh how he squirms, his thighs tensing and shaking, his stomach crunching and body twisting when you relentlessly fuck his sweet spot. Muriel makes such lovely sounds, gurgled little cries as he tugs at his own hair, still squeezing your hand that he won’t let go.

“That’s it, you’re so close, aren’t you?” He nods curtly, biting back a gasp. 

“Puh-please, please, I-I’m so close, I’m so close–” His hips buck up once, erratic, teeth grinding. The way he speaks is almost a hiss, hushed and strained. The mossy green of his eyes bounce across your face, lips open in a gape, almost frantic. “I-it’s, it's gonna–”

“I know, just let it out, honeycomb,” you lift his hand to your lips, kissing his sweaty knuckles, and that seems to be what sends him over that beautiful crescendo.

 Muriel gasps, strangled, a moan creeping from his scratched throat like gentle hands around his jugular. His body tenses, hips thrusting up–and he squirts, a forceful arc of it spraying from his spasmed core. It paints your stomach, wetting your skin and spitting with each languid thrust of your fingers. “Thaaat’s it, good girl.”

It seems like almost an eternity that he shudders and shakes, his trembling body slowly falling back until he’s boneless against furs and knits. Muriel distantly smells himself when you free your fingers from his cunt, and perhaps he's too worn to be shameful, only crooning softly at the gape. Sweat and cum soaks the hem of his panties, cooling in the settling air. A log from the hearth falls with dimming embers and it becomes clear just how wrapped up in him you’ve been. 

“Thank you.” Muriel breathes out, chest still heaving, glistened with sweat under the lace. Wordlessly, you lean down to kiss him, falling between his legs. He reciprocates eagerly, lips parting for your tongue, a shiver riding up his spine. You can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the wetness of your stomach pressing against his. Whether he notices or simply doesn't care is up to you, a languid kiss all that matters. 

He’s the one to break the silence after a lifetime of kisses and shared breaths, his arms coming to wrap around your back, his foot nudging your ankle. 

“There’s another scene, after this one.” 

You grin, bottom lip caught between your teeth. He blushes brilliantly, but the proposal is still there, up to you to grab. 

Cloves grind efficiently under the pestle, the circular motions of Asra’s wrists crushing the bulbs into a fragrant mess of powder and chunks. He likes to think that life is peaceful, and domestic even now since you’ve been brought back. But he knows that’s not entirely true.

Asra would never regret bringing you back. He would never regret those long nights burning the candle at both ends, ripping his own hair out for a spell or ritual that would possibly work. He couldn’t ever regret it, not when he has you back. But that didn’t mean you were the same.

He supposes that necromancy would do that to a soul, to be ripped from one plane to another; but it didn’t mean he loved you any less, and it didn’t mean you were any less his. Part of him suspects that maybe your current behavior was always there, hidden in plain sight, masked by his rose-tinted glasses and puppy love crush. 

To say you were clingy was an understatement. It was almost like you wanted to live in his skin. And he isn’t so sure he would mind. 

When Asra’s thoughts lull, he realizes what should be crushed clove is now a nearly fine powder. It would make it awfully hard for a cup of tea, so instead, he dumps the powder into a jar. You loved your pumpkin bread, and he could give it to Selasi to make you an extra special loaf. It was the last of his clove, so he supposes he’ll need to make another trip soon. He’s heard that some vendors in Nopal have gotten their hands on some good spices from Prakra, at a deal too, but Asra doesn’t pay with the typical funds anyway. He thinks he’ll bring an extra shiny trinket for them instead. 

His only issue, that is, would be you. Ever since the resurrection, Asra became…limited with where he could go. It’s not that he didn’t want to spend every moment with you, but being by your side when he knew he couldn’t have you (even if you wanted him so badly)…he couldn’t stand it. So he had to slip out when you were sleeping, unfurl your grip from him and replace himself with a pillow. It didn’t always work, and you’d catch him at the door while he wound his scarf around his shoulders. You’d beckon him back, a sour look on your face, and Asra had wanted nothing more than to curl back into your embrace. But sometimes, he just couldn’t. He’d make sure to make it up to you, he says to himself every time. 

Warm arms wrap around his middle, a chin resting on his shoulder. “Asra,” you breathe, squeezing his sides lightly, living in his smell of smokey incense and herbal tea intensely. “You weren’t there when I woke up.” 

He can hear the pout in your voice, and he turns in your arms. Your eyes are lidded with sleep, little lines from the pillow's wrinkles pressed into your cheek. “I was just down here,” he reassures, reaching his hands up to cup your face tenderly. “Don’t you want breakfast?”

You shift your eyes from him to the counter after a moment, looking at the fresh stack of pancakes. Your stomach growls almost immediately at the prospect of sustenance, and Asra laughs cheerfully. “C'mon, let's get some food in you.”

You let go of him reluctantly. “It would have been nice to see you in your apron.” You say almost nonchalantly and Asra feels his face get a little hot at the idea, as simple as it was. It felt good to be wanted, even if what you wanted was to see him in a dingy patchwork apron. “Then you should get up earlier.” He says back instead, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

You praise Asra’s cooking endlessly, quickly devouring the fluffy pancakes, only mildly burnt. A quick glance at his stack reveals that he’s taken the more burnt of the dozen, albeit dousing them in honey and syrup. 

“We should stop by the marketplace,” Asra says around a mouthful of half-chewed pancake. “I’m running low on some spices, and I know you don’t like it when I leave too far away.” Or leave at all.

You nod, dragging your finger through the syrup and honey pooled around your empty plate. You suck it off your finger and the magician stares a little longer than he should. “You don’t need to keep going to Nopal and wherever else if we have what we need here.” You say after popping your finger from your lips, snapping Asra back to focus. He clears his throat. “R-right,”

You smile, a pleasant curl of your lips that makes him feel warm. “Maybe we can get some pumpkin bread while we’re there.” You lean forward, and Asra starts to pucker his lips. His brows furrow when you take a bite off the fork he didn't even realize he was still holding. “Was getting soggy.” You grin impishly, swallowing the honey-saturated pancake. 

…

The sun is bright and warm in the marketplace, discussion chittering and buzzing across the crowd. Asra feels your hand fall into his, your warm skin clasping against his, palm to palm. In the past, you took to holding his hand for guidance through such a large crowd, but Asra knows you’ve grown strong, and you don’t need to hold onto him anymore. But you still do. He used to joke that you must be trying to leech off his energy with how tiring the marketplace can be, but he’s long since figured out it’s your way of guarding him. 

You pass a multitude of shops on your way to the spice stands, things like pendulums and flashy shells catch Asra’s attention before you tug him back in the right direction. “You get distracted too much.” You tease and he pouts. “We’ll just have to visit them on the way back.” He playfully scrunches his nose, squeezing your hand for good measure. You squeeze back, a little firmer than him, fingers intertwined. 

You zone out a bit as Asra trades and barters for spices, craning your neck up to watch the fluffy clouds go by. One reminds you of Faust and her long, noodle-like body. 

“I’ve got a special deal for someone as breathtaking as you.”

Your head snaps back into the stand, your jaw setting and teeth gritting upon inspection of the interaction. It’s a new vendor, a young man with sunburnt skin and wavy hair. A man all too close to what’s yours. 

Asra pointedly ignores the remark, changing the subject to how much he wanted to purchase—but you don’t. You stalk back behind him, firmly hugging your arms around Asra’s waist. 

“Oh! Done cloud watching?” He asks, rummaging around in his bag for something to barter with. The vendor’s smile sours. 

“Yes.” You respond, eyes narrowed into a glare where they land on the young man behind the wooden counter. “You were talking about a deal?” 

The vendor laughs nervously. “Y-yes- I was just talking about a deal for new customers! Ten percent off!”

“That’s not what you said.” You squeeze Asra a little tighter, pressing your nose against the crook of his neck. The magician shivers, his cheeks turning red at the display of affection. 

“A-and may I ask, you are-“

“His boyfriend.” You stop the vendor in his tracks, kissing Asra’s neck for good measure and punctuation. Asra yelps a little, nervously laughing and the vendor’s face blooms the reddest red you’ve ever seen. 

“O-ok I’ll get these another time, thank you!” Your partner stammers, quickly tugging you away while you give the poor man another long, territorial glare. 

You’re pushed into a secluded area, shaded by rugs and silks for sale. “What are you doing?” Asra nearly hisses, embarrassment and something else painting his face. 

“I’m protecting you.”

“That- that was not- I mean, y-you,” he fumbles over his words, his face getting redder by the second, coloring that gorgeous golden skin you love so much. Asra feels a giant knot of emotion and conflict well up in his chest; on one hand, it was completely outrageous for you to respond like that and fluster him so, but on the other hand…oh, how Asra loved to be wanted. He liked how you grabbed him up and put your claim on him- how you’ve gotten so possessive and territorial- oh, it gets him hot-

He kisses you suddenly, grabbing your shirt and tugging you forward roughly. You can taste the desperation and honeyed pancakes on his tongue, feel his energy meld with yours the closer he presses himself against your body. You hold him tightly, digging your fingers into his hips and waist in a way that makes him whimper. 

Asra pulls away with a stuttering breath before it can go too far, his pupils blown where they sit in amethyst eyes. “I need you.” He whispers, sliding his hands under your shirt. 

“Not here,” you take his hands in yours instead, despite how much you want to feel him all over you as quickly as possible. “No one else can see you like this, only me.” It sounds more like a growl when you say it, and Asra can’t believe how much it turns him on. He shouldn’t be encouraging that behavior, and he shouldn’t be allowing you to hide him away and keep him as your own, but he does. He does because it feeds that frenzied, obsessive version of himself from the height of the plague when he cheated death herself. It soothes that heart-wrenching ache for you he felt, something he never wants to feel again.

So you take him home, taking any shortcut you could remember–and you only contemplated stopping in an alleyway to have your way with him once. Neither of you knows how you made it back to the shop without cracking, and you don’t think you really care to speculate, not when you have your Asra waiting for you like this. He has the mind to turn the sign to ‘closed’ before you pounce, kissing him fervently. The magician all but melts, throwing his arms around your neck and moaning against your lips. The sound only fuels that fire in your gut, the grinding gears in your mind that screech and hiss Asra, Asra, Asra.

Your teeth catch on his bottom lip and he whimpers, curling his fingers against your scalp. “Take me to bed,” he breathes against your lips, but he finds himself ill-prepared for when you hook your arms under his thighs and hoist him over your shoulder. “Ah- haha!” He squeals, gripping onto you for dear life as you ascend the stairs to the small, cozy bedroom. 

You drop him onto the cushy mattress, smiling as he bounces and laughs an exhilarated laugh. Asra’s giggles melt into a moan when you kiss him again, this time only spending a few moments at his lips before moving lower down his jaw. You can feel his pulse flutter under your lips, that golden collar of his hiding the most vulnerable of spots. But you like it, you like seeing your Asra in such a pretty collar–it means he’s yours. 

“Mine,” you find yourself whispering in between kisses and licks. “You’re mine, no one else can have you.” 

“Yours,” he mimics, a rumbly little sound reverberating from his chest when you tease your teeth against a nearly faded hickey. “Only yours- oh gods, only ever yours.” 

Your hands grab at his clothes, hastily ripping him free of his shirt. Asra doesn’t take the time to mourn the buttons, his mind growing plagued by lust and desperation. His skin feels like it's burning by the time you touch him, and finds himself making a choked sound when your fingers brush his nipples. “Yes, yes, just like that,” he gasps when you lean down and lick over his nipple, taking the hardened peak into your mouth. Asra’s head falls back against the fluffy pillows, mouth gaping and hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. 

You look up your lashes at him, reaching lower, your palm going to cup his swollen crotch. His breath stutters, legs widening almost mindlessly. “Yes, touch me there,”

You pop off of his nipple, scraping your teeth against it gently as you do. “You drive me crazy,” you circle your fingers over his bulge, rubbing against his confined cock. Asra bites his lip. “You live in my head constantly, all I think about is you,” you forgo your touching to tug at his pants, and Asra eagerly unbuttons and kicks them off. He spreads his legs again, exposing his bare cunt and cock, both swollen and wet for you. 

“I couldn’t stand hearing that man speak to you like that.” You growl, taking his small dick between your fingers and stroking it almost a little too quickly. He makes a sound that you drink in, filing away for a lonely moment. “No one is allowed to speak- to look at you like that, I’ll keep you tied up here if I have to.” Your eyes are locked with his, filled with a look of something devious and dark. Asra shivers, and he knows he needs to correct that behavior, but he's starting to believe he might just be as insane as you. “I’d never leave,” he pants, keening when you rub your finger over the weeping head of his cock. “I’d- h-huhn, I’d never leave, not ever, not w-when you’re touching me like that, oh right there just like that-!” 

You stop before Asra can reach his gratification, watching his cocklet twitch pitifully at the sudden lack of attention. “Not yet, I want you to come from my cock.” 

He feels a little dizzy at that, painfully aware of how empty and aching his cunt feels. Looking at him now, you’ve become alert to your own needs, swollen and throbbing in your pants. “Take them off,” Asra pleads, making a show of guiding his hand down and pushing his fingers into himself. Your breath hitches, eyes locked on how he spreads himself for you. “I need you, make me yours.”

You groan, almost salivating at his words and actions, forcefully pulling your pants off your body. Asra moans at the sight of your cock hanging heavily between your legs, fingers plunging in a little faster, and he begins to think he could get off on just the image of you. He spreads his fingers and shows off his hastily prepped hole, gaping the pink, gummy flesh as you knock his legs apart. “Mine, mine, mine,” you chant, replacing Asra’s hand with your own and spreading his lips open as you guide yourself into him. There’s a mutual sound of satisfaction–your dick filling him completely, and his walls hugging you snuggly. “Yours, yours, yours!” He gasps when you bottom out completely, your pelvis flush against his. 

You set a steady pace, easing in and out, in and out, until you can hear the slapping of your balls against his ass and the stuttery panting of his breaths. “I have to- hah, mark you as mine, make it clear no one else can have you,” you begin to ramble, hands hooked under his thighs, your hips thrusting forward quicker, quicker, quicker. 

Asra hiccups under the force of your hips, bouncing up on the bed with each thrust. He shakily wraps his legs around your hips, crooning in delight when you grab and hold his legs tighter around you. “Mine, mine, inside and out,” you moan, leaning down lower, bracing your arms by his head. Asra wraps his arms around you almost instantly, holding you chest to chest as you continue to fuck into him. “My Asra, mine, mine.” 

You angle yourself on the next thrust in, hitting upwards, the head of your cock spearing against that sweet spot of his. The squeal that tears from his throat is almost instant, his nails digging into your back. You delight yourself in the feeling; your Asra is claiming you back, he’s putting his mark on you too, and it only makes your obsession grow. 

“There, there, there!” He cries, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, pure pleasure coursing through every artery and vein. He’s never felt as good as he does now, he wishes you'd burrow yourself in and never leave if this is how you’ll make him feel. 

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, mouth latching on to faded hickeys and bites. Asra can't help but hold the back of your head in place, his eyes rolling back when you sink your teeth in. “Yes, yesyesyes! I’m so close, so close, pleasepleaseplease–” 

He can feel your tongue drag over the fresh bite, hips jackhammering into him so hard he knows he’ll be limping in the morning; but he doesn’t care, he can’t care when he's so close. You wiggle your hand between your bodies, pressing your palm against his leaking cock and doing your best to rub in time with your humping, and Asra is finished.

He swears his vision goes white, his legs tightening like a coiled snake around your waist, and his nails digging into your back and hair, tugging and scratching, overwhelmed in the senses. Hot, liquid cum squirts from his cocklet, splattering against both of your stomachs and the color slowly returns to his sight, his scream coming out in a strangled mess. 

“Come, come in me,” Asra begs weakly, overstimulation slowly creeping across his body, but it can’t stop now, not when you’re so close too. He guides your head back up from his neck, bumping his forehead against yours. “Please,” he hiccups. “Make me yours.”

Really, it’s all you need to finish; your wonderful, intoxicating Asra begging you to finish inside him, how can you tell him no? You hump into him, growing uncoordinated with the last few stuttery thrusts until you spill in him. Sound rushes into your ears, your body tensing as you pump your lover full of your cum. 

Asra makes a pleased sound, slumping back against the bed, utterly boneless. You ease yourself in and out a few more times, ensuring you’ve drained yourself completely into him, truly claiming him from the inside out. 

“Oh, oh wow,” he laughs when you dislodge yourself and watch the cum drip from his spent pussy. “That was so good, you're so good,” he babbles, pulling you back down to kiss you eagerly.

You melt against him, moaning into his mouth when he licks at your lips. Asra’s face is flushed with exertion when you part with a wet sound, eyes filled with pure love and adoration, and it's all because of you. 

It started with an accident, as all things usually do. 

It wasn’t intentional, but with Julian's tastes for the more extreme in pleasure, you figure you should have done it earlier.

His long fingers grip your hips, digging into your flesh for dear life as you rock deeper and deeper into his mouth. You feel that if he was allowed, Julian would opt to stay with his face shoved between your thighs for an eternity. But, alas, this is the best you can do. You lace your fingers through his wild hair, clutching deep as you pull his head up, and force him back down, He makes an aborted sound, one that muffles into a groan of pleasure as the head of your cock pops into his throat and slides in deep, weighing heavy against the canal of his throat. Julian bats his damp eyelashes up at you, thick brows furrowed and you don’t think you’ll last long at all tonight.

And, it seems you were right. You felt that tightening in your gut grow until it was nearly unbearable, pre sliding down the back of his tongue. If possible, his mouth salivates even more in pure anticipation of what's to come–and you made a split-second decision to pull out from his hot, wet mouth, and release on his face instead. Julian's eyes widen in surprise, and at just the right moment for your cum to splatter over the bridge of his nose and into his-

“Fuck!”

…eye. 

To put it simply, that's what piqued Julian’s interest; the burning in his eye and the immediate pain he so desired. Though, you reacted how he would have expected, furiously scrubbing his eye clean over the bathroom sink while he bent to your whim awkwardly. Even then, the thought never leaves him. The thought that you could have let it sit, that you could have been a little meaner about it, that you could have pried his eyelids open and spit in his eye for good measure–

He’s getting ahead of himself. After all, how could he expect you to want to fulfill that desire?

…

It seems you’re more open to his deviant nature than he expected. Well, he should have expected after you indulged his wicked ways more than once before. But he confesses when he lays in bed with you, his head against your shoulder and his fingers idly tracing over your chest. 

“I liked it.” He says, only partly zoning out, the rhythmic sliding of his finger over your skin starting to lull him. “Liked what?” You ask, leaning your cheek against the top of his head. “The uh-” he swallows, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. “The time you accidentally, ah, c-came on my eye.”

“Oh- Oh,” you snort in reflex, laughing just a tad awkwardly. “I still feel really bad about that- but you, you liked it?” You bring a hand up and clasp it over his where it lays on your chest. Julian feels warm at the touch of your thumb gliding over his knuckles. “Yes, I liked it quite a lot actually.” 

“I erm, have actually…f-fantasized a bit about you doing it again. And doing some other…things to my eye too.” He trails off, almost sheepish at the confession. 

Your interest peaks and you give his hand a light squeeze in reassurance. “What other things?”

Julian clears his throat, seemingly stalling for a moment. “Uh, I’ve fantasized about you, ah, t-taking my eye out to, well, have your way with my head.” He chuckles to try and lighten the mood, biting down on his bottom lip in anxious wait for your reply to his sick and twisted reque–

“That’s hot.”

He almost chokes. 

“H-hot? It’s not- it's not…too much?”

“Too much? Ilya, honey, you asked me to gut you and I did just that,” you raise your hand and brush his bangs out of his face, meeting his hooded eyes, grey and red. “You should know by now that I love indulging your fantasies.” 

Julian laughs in pure relief, face flushed a light pink. “I, I suppose that’s true.” He sighs in comfort when you press a kiss between those eyes of his. “I fully expected you to shun me.” He admits. 

“Shun you? Oh, Jujubee, you’re too caught up in that head of yours. I would never shun you. Even if I didn’t like something that you like, I’d never shame you for it.” You squeeze his hand, bringing it up to kiss his knuckles. Julian lets out a shuddery breath, biting down on his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t?” 

“Of course not. Now…” You trail off, pressing another kiss to the inside of his wrist. Julian flushes beautifully. “Why don’t you tell me more about that fantasy of yours…”

…

Days come and go, and your list of items continues to dwindle. Ever since Julian confessed his newest bloody desire to you, you had made it a point to start gathering the materials you needed for the event. Proper cleaning supplies, refills for your aftercare kit, and the ingredients you needed for a potent pain reliever in case it got to be too much. Although Julian never needed them before, delighting himself in the agonizing pain, you still make sure to prepare them nonetheless. 

He watches you prepare with poorly hidden excitement, peering over your shoulder as you stock supplies and offering a bitten lip smile when you catch him spying. You can’t help the smile at his anticipation, and if it wasn’t for something so brutal, it would have been wholesome. 

The night arrives with Julian on his knees, legs folded under him and hands in his lap as you pad across the room, fetching all that you need. You approach him with a cup of sloshing liquor, holding it to his lips. “For your nerves.” 

He gulps it down quickly, droplets of the bitter booze falling into the corner of his mouth and dripping down his chin. You pull the cup away and he takes in a stuttery breath, eyes fluttering as you wipe up the wetness from his chin. Julian catches your thumb in his mouth, sucking off the liquor. You offer him a smile, dragging your thumb from his mouth and smearing the spit over his lower lip, and set the cup aside. “Good boy.” He shudders. 

“Are you ready? You know your word and colors?” 

He nods swiftly. “Plague; red, yellow, and green.” He recites easily, face flushed a pink and chest heaving just slightly. You give his cheek a pat. “Good. Good boy.” You say again, just for good measure, and Julian shivers like it’s the first time he’s ever been praised. 

With your tools in reach, you straddle Julian’s lap and grab a scalpel. He opens his eyes wide, pointing at his ruby red sclera, muttering a small ‘this one’. You bring your hand up and hold his eyelids open with your finger and thumb, and press your blade where eyeball meets eyesocket. With a quick slice, you sever the muscle connecting the two. Julian hisses in immediate pain, groaning lowly as blood bubbles up from your blade and spills down his lower lid. You repeat with the lower lid until Julian’s eye is cut loose from the connective tissue, bulging out of his skull like a stress ball. 

You prod his eyeball with the point of your scalpel a little more, a wicked grin rising to your face as he whimpers and cries with each poke. “Still good? You still want more?” 

He nods, and that's what dislodges his eyeball loose, now dangling from the socket. “Ye-hehh-ess,” his erection pokes through his underwear, straining against the fabric and rubbing against your thigh. You rock against it, rubbing your own chubbing cock against his, earning you a pretty, gurgling whine.

With his approval, you take his dislodged eyeball gently between your fingers and sever the tendon holding his eyeball to his socket. Blood has already flooded from his socket and down his cheek, caking into the skin and dipping into the corner of his mouth. His tongue slips out, curling to the side to taste the copper and a deep, shuddery moan leaves his lips. 

You set the eye in a bowl of ice, cast aside for later. “You’re doing so good, Ilya! My good, handsome man.” You coo sweetly, scalpel handle between your fingers as you cup his face and lean forward to press a kiss to his hollow eye socket. 

“Now…how should I open up that pretty little head of yours? Should I gouge it open with a knife? Should I press my thumbs deep inside and crack you open like a melon? Oh, so many choices…” 

Julian visibly shakes, whimpering out a low string of curses, in languages both you recognize and ones you don’t. The pain is like liquid fire through him, pounding in his skull violently and agonizingly; and he’s never been in such euphoria. “Stuh-stab me, I-I need it, I- I,”

You hush him, pressing a bloody-lipped kiss to the hunch of his nose. “I will, baby, I’ll make you hurt like you want.”

He smiles in a wobbly fashion, looking so lovesick and filled with adoration despite the deep maroon coating his cheek like vibrant blush. You pick up a larger knife and his blush grows stronger.

Cradling the back of his head, you aim the tip of the knife at his red velvet socket. Julian licks his lips fervently, anticipation bubbling within him like a violent boil. And with an exhale of a breath, you drive the blade in and pierce through his flesh. 

Julian screams, a bloodcurdling, raw-throated scream. It’s brutal against your ears but you don’t flinch, you don’t stop twisting the blade into his skull. His screech gurgles into sobs and incomprehensible babble, fingers digging into your thighs so tightly you’re positive it’ll bruise. Then, you feel a wetness bloom under you and trickle against the floor.

Julian has wet himself and is continuing to wet himself. It stains his underwear and dampens both of your thighs, dripping down his folded legs and pooling onto the hardwood floor. He hiccups, still holding on tightly to your thighs. “M’sorry,” he says wetly, tears flowing from his healthy eye and snot building under his nose. His skull is brutalized by your blade, his face made a delectable mess; hot fluid pain still thrums in him, only making his cock twitch and throb against his piss-soaked underwear. 

“Oh sweetie,” you pout, slowly unsheathing the blade and basking in his broken whimper. The knife clatters onto the floor and you hold his face in your hands. Hot blood smears across his face and your hands, the still streaming wound gathering blood on your hand and trickling it down your knuckles and wrist like a macabre lace. “You’re such a good boy, you don’t need to apologize for having an accident!” You lean forward and press a kiss to his open, trembling mouth. Julian leans his face into your hands, panting heavily. “You’re doing so good, do you want to keep going, my Jujubee?” 

The redhead swallows roughly, gulps in a few more breaths, and nods his head quickly. “F-feels so good, I need- I n-need mmmore,” his lips brush against yours, slick with spit and blood. You kiss him hard, and Julian moans wantonly into your mouth. You rock against him, rub your hard-on against his, and fill your ears with those beautiful sounds coming from his maw. Julian ruts uselessly against you, uncoordinated in his attempts to grind his cock against yours. You grant him a bit of reprieve, reaching a hand down to grope him through his wet briefs. 

Your lips wrap around his tongue and suck, a high-pitched whine emitting from his throat as he bucks his hips up into your cupped hand. By the time you pull away his chin is already covered in blood-infused drool, a translucent pink dripping down his neck and pre bubbling at the tip of his pissy underwear.

“Are you ready for our main event?” You croon, lifting your hand away from his swollen, leaky dick. Julian babbles in agreement, hips haphazardly searching out your touch. “M’ready, ready- p-please,”

You stand from his lap, feet placed on either side of his lap as you push his hair out of his face. The wound is still angry, though the bleeding has seemed to slow. You’ll certainly fix that. 

Julian slides his hands up the sides of your thighs, fingertips brushing against the hem of your underwear. A silent question aside from his steady whimpers. You grin, and he shivers. 

He tugs down your underwear, groaning low in his throat as your cock bobs free, heavy between your legs. “My good Ilya, you want me to fuck you? Do you want me to fuck your skull and make you hurt?”

Julian’s eye flutters, hands still brushing up and down the sides of your thighs. “Yes,” he gurgles. “Wuh-want you to shove your c-cock in my skull- I want to hurt,” 

His needy, pain-coated words make your body burn hot, devious desire building deep in your chest. Your cock throbs at the thought of burying yourself in his hot, gooey eye socket.

You grab the base of your cock, rubbing the head against the opening of his socket. Julian hisses, clenching his teeth. Blood smears across your tip, lubricating for what’s to come. With a deep breath in, you start pushing yourself into his bludgeoned skull. 

It’s a feeling you’ve never felt before, something so otherworldly. You groan deep in your throat, jutting your hips and pushing another inch of your dick into his eye socket. It’s hot, so very hot and sticky wet—and you can’t get enough of it.

You grab either side of his head and fuck yourself deeper in, sucking further and further until your pubic mound bumps against his brow bone. Julian’s jaw falls slack, his good eye rolling back and a sound like a strangled squawk sounds from his mouth. 

Your cock is almost impossibly stuffed in his skull, feeling almost as if you're pressing into his brain and scrambling the soft muscle. 

“Hah, you good there, Jujubee?” You breathe, combing your fingers through his wild hair. Julian gurgles, squeezing your thighs. “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” 

The pain has muffled, dulled into a buzzing ache—and then bliss. If Julian had the brain, he’d say it was because you were mushing his with your dick, but it just feels too good to question it. 

A smile rises on your face and you rock your hips. Julian squeaks, cock twitching in his underwear. “You already sound so dumb already, haha, have I already fucked your brains stupid?”

He babbles another few ‘uh-huh’s, drool sliding down his chin. 

You rock your hips again, pulling out an inch and pushing back in. Another glob of drool pools down his lip. Julian weakly tugs at your legs, guiding you forward and you take the hint, forming a rhythm of how you fuck in and out of his skull, burying yourself in the gushy tissue, membrane, and slurred moans. 

With how pent up you’ve been from the foreplay alone, you won’t last long at all. Your balls slap against his cheek with each thrust in, blood riveting down your shaft and coating your pubic hair. 

Julian’s in utter bliss, gurgling and groaning as you chase your own high; any stressful thought, any worry of the next day fucked from his head- literally. 

“Uhf- y-you’re so tight, Ilya. Bet you really wanted this, huh?” You pull out, only the head of your cock cushioned in his sticky flesh. “Ugh, ughn, uh-Huh! Huh-uh! S’gud, huuurtss,” he swallows and you can feel the tensing of his muscles constrict your dick as you push back in. “Luh-love it,”

“Touch yourself,” you pant, fisting the auburn hair at the crown of his head and tugging his skull forward to meet your thrusts. “Want you to- ah, fuck, cum with me,”

Julian obeys, his hand falling into his lap to palm at himself, choking on a gasp. He’s uncoordinated, grinding his palm against the peak of his clothed erection in a way that has him gasping like a fish out of water. 

The sound only spurs you on, fuels your budding high like feeding wood to a fire. Julian gets louder and louder, squirming below you. He tenses his thighs and ruts his hips into his cupped hand, pre bubbling through the fabric of his underwear and smearing across his palm. “W-wanna, wanna,” he cries, shuddering as you scratch your nails over his scalp. “Do it, cum f’r me, baby.”

He sobs in some kind of relief, his body tensing as he practically squeezes his poor cock, rutting like a desperate animal until he cums with a loud and broken moan, hiccuping as the aftershocks wrack his body and render him limp and useless. 

Hearing his climax is when pushes you over the edge, nearly curling over him as you hold his head close and cum into his skull. Julain croons, pleased with the warmth that pools in his head. Slowly, you unsheathe yourself, your dick coated in blood and residual cum. Satisfaction runs deep in your veins, and as Julian leans his cheek against your sweaty thigh, that's just the cherry on top.

Unfortunately, you have to move him to fetch the kit you've prepared, quickly padding across the room to grab all that you need. “You did so good,” you praise him, kneeling down to his level and taking a damp rag to his face. Julian loosely smiles, humming low in his throat. “Really?” He asks. The emblem on his throat starts to glow, and you assume his insides are beginning to heal. It pushes your semen out of his eye socket and you clean it up as it excretes, cooing softly to comfort him from the uncomfortable process. “Yes, really. You’re always my good boy, aren’t you?” 

Julian giggles in a slurred type of way, watching you reach for the bowl of enchanted ice. His eye still lays on top, nestled in the chill. You grab it gently, carefully widening the rim of his eye socket and placing his eyeball in. Before your very eyes, the muscle begins to tether together until his eye is sucked back into its place, good as new. Julian has seemed to sober up in a way too, much more coherent than before. 

“Thank you,” He croaks almost sheepishly. You take a pain-relieving elixir bottle from the kit and uncork it. 

“For what?” You hand the swirling blue drink to him and he downs it quickly and burps from the carbonation with a light blush. “For indulging me tonight.”

“Oh, Ilya, you don’t have to thank me for that! I wanted to do this with you, remember?” You take his hands in yours and bring them up to your lips, kissing his knuckles. He chuckles, sweetly, looking at you as if you were the stars and the moon themselves. 

“I love you, dearest. Now, how about a bath, huh?” You squeeze his hands lightly. 

“Only if you're getting wet with me.” He gives a wink and you snort. 

“You’re insatiable, you know that, right?” You tease.

You were never really conventional. At least not in the way that mattered. You had a thirst of curiosity unquenchable with simple trips to faraway lands. And for a while, you believed that you would never be satisfied.

But then you met Asra.

Your curiosity led you into a cave, one surrounded by glowing ivy and ferns, mushroom bulbs erupting from the mossy earth before the rock entrance. It was breathtaking, purely magical as you entered and came to the sight of glowing flowers illuminating the inside. The air seemed fresh, crisp against your tongue despite the dank atmosphere of other caves you’ve crawled your way through. You took another step forward, and your foot hit something wide, sleek, and fleshy.

The new mystery starts to slide, disappearing into a shaded area in the cave's corner. You beckon a little closer, and the mass wriggles again, coiling and retracting within the shadows- and then emerging. A long thick tail made up of lavender scales comes forth, taking up space and caging you in. A torso follows, golden brown skin and glimmering jewelry; and then his face, oh, his face- the gentle amethyst of his eyes and mischievous curve of his lips, the fluffy white curls on his head and he seemed much too lovable to be a monster you heard about in fairytales.

And really he was. Asra was the most enchanting being you had ever laid eyes on, and for the first time as you took in his large and sleek body and tail, you felt your curiosity satiated.

Though it seems that Asra is not only enchanting but incredibly clingy as well. Maybe that’s not the right word—enamored seems more accurate. There’s never a dull moment when you cross the threshold into his domain; always a time full of laughter and sunbathing and fresh, ripe fruit. At first, you thought it was just Naga hospitality despite everything you had read and the horrors humans have faced in the grasps of one, but Asra was just so calming and approachable, he was someone you couldn’t imagine baring fangs and spitting venom.

Asra greets you with a steady flicking of his tail, the end rising up and wagging gently in the air. “Not tired of me yet?” You chuckle, flicking a stray curl out of his face. His tongue peeks from his lips with a quick flick, tasting the air and your place within it. “I never could be, not of you.” He coos, following after you as you tread deeper into his home.

“You were a little later today.” He sighs, coiling up against the area you’ve decided to settle in, right next to the glimmering lagoon. Asra can’t help but admire the way the teal light of the gentle current reflects off your face. “Ah, I was? I didn’t realize you tracked the time.” You let your hand dangle in the cool water. “But, I did make a little friend right before I got here.”

“Friend?” He asks cautiously. He can’t help the twinge of jealousy that strikes his chest and pools in his gut. “Yes! I met the cutest little bunny rabbit on my way here and I just had to give him some of the grapes I had in my bag. But don’t worry I still have some left, I know how much you love it when I feed you…”

Asra feels his chest become lighter again and he nearly laughs at how foolish it was to get jealous over a rabbit. Unless…you meant you found another hybrid–

“Still with me, Asra?” You snap your fingers in front of his face and his eyes focus again, the little slits expanding slightly. “Of course, forever and always.” He purrs, bumping his face against your still outstretched hand. You laugh and he slides his chin across your wrist as thoroughly as he can manage. Whether or not the rabbit was one of his kind or not, his smell on you would deter even the most persistent of a rival–at least he sincerely hopes; he wouldn’t want to have to take you away, though a day spent with you hugged up in his arms and coils smelling so strongly of him doesn’t sound all that bad.

“Since you were late, I should have you all to myself for a little while longer, shouldn’t I?” With a gentle curl to his lips, Asra reaches out to grab at your satchel and rummage. You let him, an amused grin on your face. “Oh, is that true?” You muse.

“Mhm,” he finds the grapes you mentioned before, plucking one from the bundle and popping it into his mouth. “It’s only fair, for keeping me waiting for my favorite human.” His tongue darts from his lips, lapping up the drops of juice left behind from the fruit. Warmth pools in your body and you suddenly feel a little sweaty.

“I suppose that’s a fair deal,” you swallow, plucking the vine of grapes from his hands. Asra pouts before you pluck a grape and hold it to his lips. “I’ve never been bored with you.”

Asra opens his mouth, rows of sharp and dangerous teeth slowly revealed with the peek of his tongue. You press the plump grape onto his tongue and he closes his mouth around your fingers before you can pull them away. His teeth scrape dangerously close to your fingers as they pierce the flesh of the fruit, his tongue curling against your fingerpad. You feel him swallow and take ahold of your wrist, lost in the feeling of your warm fingers against his long tongue. You but down on your bottom lip, watching him take your fingers deeper with awe.

You had always liked him, that much was clear; though it was stupid of you to think your feelings were one-sided, that this was just normal behavior for Nagas, not when he’s holding your wrist with your fingers down his throat.

Asra looks almost drunk when his eyes open up again, a low trill from deep in his chest–and his teeth scrape your fingers. Your yelp is more like a groan and he licks the pad of your fingers again in an apology. “I…” you pull your fingers from his mouth and a trail of pink translucent saliva follows. He speaks before you can. “I have…a confession to make,” he heaves, bumping his chin against your hand again, smearing his own spit against his skin as he scents you. “I love you. I always have, since that first moment and I,” he kisses your fingertips again, dragging his tongue against the still trickling bite on your finger. He groans, nudging his nose against your palm and inhaling. “I need you, like the air I breathe, you’re all I need. I think I’d die without you.”

“Take me,” Asra pleads, taking your spit-soaked hand in his own and holding it tight. “Make me yours, I need you, mate me, please.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, blood rushing into your ears and you’ve never wanted something more. It’s spontaneous and rush-filled, but it feels right. Like everything in your life had led you to this moment with him.

Asra breathes a big sigh of shaking relief, his hands clutching at your shoulders as you lean in, lips a hair's breadth away from his. He can’t handle the wait, and so he rushes forward, crushes his lips against yours in a desperate connection. You can feel every ounce of his love and obsession in the kiss, the way your name whines from his lips when you press your tongue into his mouth. His trembling gasp when you suck on his tongue fills you with heat, spreading through your body and pooling down below. You’re getting hard, just from a wet kiss- yet you can’t blame yourself when he’s making all these sweet sounds.

And Asra’s fairing no better, the end of his tail wagging almost violently in the air, his hands sliding up to your face and cupping your face desperately. He nearly fights you when you pull away, chasing after to press sloppy kisses against the corner of your mouth. “Please,” he heaves. “Don’t wait any longer, fuck me.”

A shock of arousal shoots up your spine and your dick twitches in your pants. “So impatient.” You can’t help but tease, pulling away enough to get a look for…where are you supposed to…

Asra follows your gaze, a little giggle escaping his lips. “Here…” his hand slides down to the slit under his belly in the tail, using two fingers to spread it apart. You gape at it, reaching out to gently prod at the squishy, wet lips of his cloaca. He shivers, tail thumping against the ground. You had read about this in passing, those erotica novels about inhuman creatures, but you didn’t think they were accurate.

You take his hand's place and feel around, sliding your fingers across the edge before spreading it wide, peeking into the slightly cavernous hole. His cock peeks from inside, slowly wiggling its way out. And so, you press your finger in and gently coax it out.

The sound that comes from his throat is high-pitched and cracking, his hips pushing forward and his tails end brushing against your leg. “Don’t tease- not yet,”

His cock emerges, and you find yourself a tad bit confused. In the novels…

“Aren’t there supposed to be two?”

Asra’s face falls. “Where did you- did someone else show you theirs? Who did it, you can tell me-“

“No!” You quickly spit out. “No, no! I just- a silly book, that’s all.”

His bristle lessons. “Ah, yes, of course. I’m…a little different.” He says almost bashfully, glancing down at the short cock protruding from his cloaca.

“That’s ok, I think it’s lovely,” you press a soft kiss along his chin, and Asra trills. “And you felt so soft inside…I can’t wait to be inside you.” The trilling turns to a stifled moan. “Do it- do it now,” he gasps out and you would laugh at his insistence if you weren’t already uncomfortably hard in your pants.

You have to work around Asra’s hands while shimmying your pants down your hips, sighing in relief when your cock bobs free. He stares down at it in some kind of awe, deep purple eyes wide and his heart hammering in anticipation. Another trickle of discharge drips from his vent.

You kick off your pants the rest of the way and throw them aside, sliding your hands across the wide expanse of his tail. “Can you- uh, lean back a little…” Asra lays back against his own coils, his tail still wrapped around your ankle. You straddle his tail, aligning yourself up with his hole and slowly sinking in.

“Oh! Oh gods, oh gods, just how- ohh..” Your hips press flush against his cool scales and he grabs at your hips, holding you deep in. “I love you- I love you, I love you. All mine now, hah, filling me up,” Asra babbles, face flushed and hands sliding down his torso, down to his scaled front where his fingers frame his stretched cloaca. “Gods, you feel so good, so wet.” You give a testing rock of your hips, a mutual groan following.

Asra’s continuous stream of babbling fills your ears as your thrusts become more rhythmic, skin slapping against skin and sticky arousal sticking to your pelvis.

“Mate me,” he chokes out. “Breed me, m-hah, make me y-yours, forever.” Asra sounds purely delirious, clenching weakly around your cock and spitting out pleas and praise. It fills you with such intense heat, makes you drive deeper into his soft wetness, and seek out those high-pitched keens. “You want babies?” You dig your fingers into his scaly hips and grind in deep, your pelvis rubbing against his little swollen cock.

“Fuck, yes!” He squeals of all things, his tail reaching up to your waist and curling around in a possessive grip. “Fill me, fill me up and, ah-hahahh, give me your babies.” His arms curl around your neck, tugging you down until your nose brushes against his chin. “I’m gonna make you all nice and round, fill you with my babies,” you press sloppy kisses along his jawline and Asra leans his head back in wait. “Bite,” he whines. “Bite me, mark me, pleasepleaseplease-”

You don’t think too hard, lost in the hot wet pleasure of him that you sink your teeth into the flesh of his shoulder. He sobs, a great heaving sob, and cums against both your stomachs. The clenching is enough to make the knot in your stomach border on snapping, your thrusts growing sloppy. “Cum in me,” Asra hiccups, his tail tightening around your waist, fingers holding the back of your head. “I want a family- I want your babies in me.”

Your teeth dig in deeper, copper staining your tongue as your bury yourself into the hilt, and with a few more stuttery thrusts, you cum deep inside him. He croons in delight, a relaxed and contented sigh passing his lips as you dislodge your teeth from his shoulder and lick away the pain. His tail loosens its hold and you slump against him, your softening cock still seated in his warmth, plugging him up.

“I love you, so very much,” Asra settles his hands against your back, rubbing circles into your skin. “I’d rather die than be without you.” He confesses, a grim statement in comparison to his soft touches. “You don’t have to worry about that, I’m never leaving you.” You lift your head up and nuzzle your nose against his. “I love you too.”

Your world is dark and red and plague coats the streets as thickly as molasses. It seems the city has crumbled a little more with each person that falls. With a life so bitter, you clung to the ounce of hope you had and applied for apprenticeship under a doctor at the palace. Asra left, desperate for distance from the city but you couldn’t join him—you wouldn’t, this was your home and you’re determined to piece it back together no matter what it takes.

The pungent smell of rubbing alcohol and the distant tang of coppery blood assault your nose even through your mask. The skittering of beetles from the pit buzz in your ears like terrible white noise, fueling your unease—but you persist, this is your job now. You chose this.

“I trust you to go on your own this time. It’ll be no different, it’s just like we’ve done together.” Doctor Devorak speaks monotonously and his eyes are bruised with sleep deprivation. Constantly, he hunches over books and furiously scribbles notes in an attempt to find a cure. Would it be in vain? You’re unsure, but if this takes a little stress off his shoulders, you’ll do it. “Be careful.” He says after a moment's hesitation.

In your bag, you carry all the equipment you need for your patient. Count Lucio.

You’ve gotten as used to his cocky persona as much as one possibly could. Even riddled with the plague, he still acts as though he’s the same man as before. He knows he isn’t—though denial is the greatest placebo. You’ve gotten used to your mask by now and your lenses barely fog up anymore. It scares Lucio, though he doesn’t show it willingly. You rap three times on his chamber doors before entering.

His room smells of disinfectant and night air that seeps through his cracked window. “Good evening, Count.” You greet coolly, approaching his bedside and placing your bag on top of an oak wood dresser. Lucio scans his eyes over you, red and puffy. “Which one are you?” His voice is rough and scratchy, you assume he’s been having coughing fits. You answer him with your name and he seems to perk up. “Your voice is too muffled with that thing.” Lucio gestures vaguely at your beaked mask. “Where’s Doctor Jules?” He watches as you unpack your bag and pull out various tools.

“Working.”

“He’s no fun. You know what they say, three's a party.”

Lucio is a terrible flirt and he doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care about boundaries between doctor and patient. If it were up to him, he’d have both his favorite doctors in his room with him after hours. But that isn’t what this is, he’s reminded. He’s a dying man and it’s a procedural matter.

You don’t answer his cocky remark and gather your stethoscope. You plug it in your ears and press the metal disk to his chest. “Hey! A little warning might be nice!” Lucio groans, nearly jolting at the cold metal. “Quiet, I need to hear.”

Luckily, he shuts up and you listen to the rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat. You move it over his lungs and his breath rattles. “I need to put it under your shirt.” You lean back up and Lucio grins. “Oh? If you wanted me shirtless you just had to ask.” He grins and you roll your eyes. “You don’t need to take off your shirt, I’ll put it under.”

You lift the hem of his linen shirt and press the metal to his naked chest. It draws a gasp from him that you ignore. You move it across his chest where you need to listen and reach around to press it against his back. His lungs sound like a baby’s rattle, scratchy and clogged. His skin is warm to the touch though you can barely feel it through your thick gloves.

You move the metal disk higher and lower as you need it and Lucio’s heart rate accelerates as you move back to his chest.

“Remember to stay calm, we needn’t any heart palpitations.” Your voice is smooth and methodical. Setting the stethoscope aside for a moment, you fetch a band from your bag. “Would it be wrong for me to say you make my heart skip a beat?” Lucio croaks, completely ignorant of your lingo.

“Yes, that’s what a heart palpitation is, milord.”

“Right, I knew that.”

You grab Lucio’s right arm with gentle hands, turning it to expose the crook of the reddened flesh and tying the band tight around his bicep. He winces at the pinch of skin and watches you like a hawk as you place the stethoscope under the band and plug it back into your ears. You watch the clock across from his bed, counting each beat of his heart with practiced ease. Lucio barely holds in the painful cough once the full minute is over, turning his head and covering his mouth with the palm of his hand.

You take a moment to write down his vitals and rub his back while he swallows thickly and clears his throat. “Why are you doing that.” Lucio’s voice comes off more nasally than usual, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder where your hand lays. “I’m offering you comfort. Do you want me to stop?” You feel you may have crossed a line despite the count's provocative nature.

“No! No. By all means, keep touching me.” Lucio attempts to keep the familiar swagger in his tone yet you don’t miss how desperate he’d sounded for that split second.

You don’t reply to him, just moving your gloved palm to his forehead and the heat seeps through the leather. You sigh softly. “Fever still high. May I try something, milord?” You question and Lucio scoffs—well, the best he can without sending himself into a hacking fit. You take that as a ‘whatever’ and loosen the fingers of your glove, pulling it off. Lucio watches with interest as you place your bare hand to his clammy forehead and summon a simple cooling spell. He groans softly and leans into your hand.

“How’d you do that?”

“I’m well acquainted with magic.”

“Magic, huh? Must’ve lucked out with you, eh?”

Again, you pass over his comment and press your fingers over his temples and behind his ears, alleviating him of possible migraines. Your patient sighs a deep breath, the tension in his body slowly relaxing. “Keep that up and I’ll have to order you a raise.” Lucio hums and you remove your hand, slipping your glove back on. “I’m not getting paid, milord. I volunteered to help.” You clarify and the count gawks at you.

“You willingly chose to do this? Man..” he clicks his tongue and makes a sound of disbelief.

You continue the routine you’ve practiced with him before, taking notes on his behavior and advancements with his sickness.

“Have the assistants been helping you with your physical therapy?” You question, setting the quill down in its holder as you address Lucio. “Hmph, they haven’t even tried.” He huffs, staring ahead at the painting across from his bed—a commissioned portrait of a man defeating death, how ironic.

“That’s no good..” you mumble. “I’m assuming no one has taken you walking?”

“No. None of them want to touch me—I mean, I’m the COUNT, who wouldn’t want to fawn over me??”

You let him ramble as you take note of the lack of aid from his assistants. “I’ll help you with simple stretches today. I’ll give word about the slacking.” You announce, taking a moment to pop the joints in your arms and back. If you weren’t mistaken, the count would be like dead weight at this point, and stiff joints wouldn’t help you in this endeavor. “Are you ready, milord?” You prepare yourself to haul him upright at the edge of the bed, only waiting on his consent.

“If you hurt me, I’ll kill you.”

“This won’t hurt, I’m only going to relieve your body aches.”

Lucio gives you a skeptical look before nodding his head, pushing his arms out to allow you to grip under his arms, fingers pressing into his ribs as you help to position him. “First we’ll start with your arm; we can tackle your prosthetic later, though I’m sure you might need to take a break from wearing it to keep your skin from chafing…” you ramble on, more so to yourself than Lucio. He winces at the notion of removing his prosthetic, lips curling into a snarl. “No, the arm stays on.”

You only nod. “Yes, milord, I’ll make sure to inform the others of your decision.”

Lucio sits as straight as he can, back still aching as you take his right arm and start with overhead stretches. Sweat stains litter his shirt, and you make a mental note to have someone help him change after your checkup. Your thumbs glide down the inside of his arm, down over the red veins and to his wrist, pushing his hand down, holding, up, holding. Lucio watches like a predator watches its prey, yet sitting there with his hand in yours, back hunched, he seems more of a sad child; one who wears a pout on his face and kicks his feet where they dangle from his chair.

A strand of dull blonde hair falls into his face, and you push it back without really thinking about it, briefly raking your fingers through in a swift moment to instill its place among his hairline. Lucio closes his eyes, a rattling sigh and a sniffle of his nose. Something tells you to stay just a moment longer, and so you do, only under the guise of massaging his temples to relieve his headaches.

“We’ll do bed stretches for your legs, we needn’t overdo it.” Your voice, muffled by the leather beak of your mask, breaks him from his stupor. Lucio nods and clears his throat, which only leads to another coughing fit that you rub his back through. “Lay back when you’re ready.”

He raises his brow, then chuckles raggedly. “I knew you’d come around,” Lucio heckles, half falling back onto his elbows. You tut and guide him back yourself. “You have to lay back so I can stretch your legs.”

He rolls his eyes, rubbing the cool metal of his hand over his forehead. “Let me have a little fun, won’t you?”

You don’t answer, unwilling to fuel his fantasies. Your gloved fingers wrap around his ankle, one hand holding by the heel of his foot and the other in the crook under his knee. Slow and steady, you push his leg forward, knee bending near his chest. You don’t push it, just holding for a few seconds before pulling back and repeating.

Lucio doesn’t know if it’s just the fever talking, or the warm solid body maneuvering his, but he can feel the already present flush on his face getting hotter, his heart beating faster within his rib cage. He takes a deep breath, then out. This isn’t too bad, just stretching. Just his doctor's apprentice stretching his legs for him, with that hideous mask that for some reason has butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“Good job, keep breathing just like that.”

Shit. He really wishes you wouldn’t talk like that right now.

Now you’ve set his foot on your shoulder, using it as leverage to push it back, focusing on the hinge of his hips, and by god does that send his blood right between his legs. You don’t notice the stirring in his trousers, nor do you stop and look—then again why would you look.

You release his leg and move to the other, repeating the same cycle from before with intense concentration in those hollow eyes of your mask.

Lucio’s breathing is getting heavier, you notice, so you stop. “Milord, are you o… oh.” The air in the room freezes, everything still and your heartbeat rises in your ears. “I apologize, I’ll leave you to tend to yourself,” you flounder, immediately turning to pack up your bag. Nothing prepared you for this, none of your training ever taught you how to approach this kind of situation.

“Wait!” Lucio struggles to push himself up, but he gets there, braving his arms behind him. “You’re not just gonna leave are you?”

That scene is still replaying in your head, the Count flat on his back with his legs fallen spread on the bed, eyes trailing down in between his legs—somewhere you never should have looked. “I, I mean, this is unprofessional,” your hands clenched at your chest, soft leather creaking at your joints. “That would be taking advantage of you.”

Lucio scoffs. “Taking advantage of me? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my role, I could have you executed if you so much as pissed me off.” He swallows, pressing his hand down on the bed in between his legs, his wrist and forearm blocking the soft tenting in his pants. “So believe me when I’m asking you to do this,” there’s a new softness on his face, like he was just moments away from getting onto his knees—well if he could get on his knees.

You straighten your back, hands falling to your sides. “Ok, then. Ask me properly.” You demand, heart beating wildly in your chest nonetheless. For a moment Lucio looks almost surprised. Then, a catlike grin spreads across his pale face.

“Please Doctor, would you touch me?” He damn near purrs the word, the persistent flush on his face darkening for other reasons. “You wouldn’t leave your patient crying, now would you?”

You gather your bearings, heart hammering in your chest. A tad too stiffly, you begin searching through your bag. “Hey, I did what you wanted. What’re you doing now?” Lucio bobs his head around in an attempt to peer into your bag. You snap it shut after finding what you needed. “I won’t do it dry. Lay back, this won’t hurt a bit.” You unscrew the jar of vaseline, setting it down with a little clack onto his nightstand. Lucio’s already laid flat on his back by the time you turn around, struggling to shimmy out of his pants.

You grant him some reprieve, replacing his hands with yours and tugging down the waistband. “Finally,” he groans, cool air wafting over his hot skin. His half-hard dick lays on his belly.

“Now, stay still.”

With a gloved hand coated in lubricant, you grab his cock, slowly pumping him into full hardness. Lucio grips at the bedsheets, expensive linens wrinkling under his hands. The leather of your gloves glides across his heated flesh softer than he imagined it’d feel- the worn-in material like pure heaven.

“Doctor,” he gasps again, pants still snug around his thighs while he gives a pathetic buck of his hips. You press your free hand against his lower stomach, thumb rubbing right under the head of his cock. “Stay still, we needn’t cause any distress. Your palm acts as a stabilizer against his stomach, keeping him from the rowdy attempts at what his previous, healthy, body would have reacted with.

“I hope this relieves some stress, milord,” you twist your wrist and Lucio shudders. “Your health and well-being are my greatest priority.” Your thumb strokes along his jutted hipbone, mask-clad head tilting the tiniest bit to the side as you watch him writhe and pant.

“That’s-“ a heaving cough wracks through his body, making his stomach clench and cock twitch in your hand. “Th-that’s not sexy talk at all.” He groans, eyebrows furrowing and sweat dripping down his temples. “Oh?” You rub your thumb over his slit and a shuddering moan falls from his lips. “You seem to be gaining gratification right now, is this not sufficient? Would you like me to be a little more…intimate?” You press down lightly on his lower stomach, feeling his dick jump again in your hand as you start pumping faster.

“I-it would be, hg- fuck, helpful,” Lucio chokes, hastily trying to kick his pants off his thighs, the need for more mobility clawing up his spine until he's wiggling like a worm trying to get free.

You sigh, letting go of his dick and letting it fall against his stomach in favor of grabbing the hem of his waistband and sliding them down his legs. They fall to the floor with a soft thump. Lucio lifts his legs up to his chest, trying to make purchase on the edge of the bed rather than dangle off. “Don’t squirm, you’ll only hurt yourself.” You take his dick in your hand again and give another pump, something that makes his legs tremble. “Don’t tell me what to- ohhh,” his eyes roll back, lashes fluttering when you start stroking again, fast and methodical. He shouldn’t be much longer now, not with how he's starting to leak on your gloves.

His toes curl in his socks, his cool metal hand fumbling to brush up his shirt and thumb over a peachy nipple. You roll your eyes under your mask. You might as well.

You reach up and let your fingers rub over his second nipple, and the rumbly groan of delight that leaves his ragged throat is clue enough that you’ve made the right move. “You’re- you’re fucking creepy-” Lucio keens, weakly rutting his hips up.

“This mask is for my protec-”

“I know,” he heaves a great big breath with you carefully stroke his dripping slit. “The mask- it-it’s creepy but it's hot and, and-fuck!”

One well-timed grind of your finger under the head and tug on his nipples has him cumming abruptly, his thin hips giving aborted thrusts as weak loads of cum splatter against his stomach and taper off to drip down your gloved knuckles. Slowly, you taper off your stroking until he's gone soft in your hand. “I hope you feel satisfied. Now,” you give a disguised grimace under your mask at your gloved hand. “I should be taking my leave-!”

Lucio locks his legs around your hips, nudging you up against his as your knees knock against the edge of the bed. He leans upon his golden arm. “S’ not enough,” his heels dig into your tailbone. “Fuck me, fuck me like you mean it.” Your shock limits you enough for him to grab your soiled hand and bring it to his face. “You love your Count, don’t you?” He holds your wrist as he drags his tongue over your palm, licking up his own mess. “I’ll reward you, you can use me like a toy-”

The moment he tries to kiss your palm you yank your hand away with a sucked in breath, your heart hammering in your ears. “I granted you reprieve, that’s it. Nothing more.” You pry his legs off of you, stumbling back against the desk and using a handkerchief to wipe the remaining semen and drool off your glove. Lucio scowls. “So you’re just gonna leave?”

“You’ll see me again, with Doctor Devorak when we conduct your routine examinations.” You hide the tremor in your voice well- you’ve learned to do that with how many people you’ve had to tell wouldn’t make it through the night.

“This was unprofessional, and it won’t happen again, understood?”

Lucio guffaws. “Under- I am the Count you cannot tell me what will and won't hap-” he breaks into another coughing fit, curling into himself as his body shakes and trembles.

You close your bag after packing everything in. “I’ll send someone to bathe you.” You grab your bag and pivot to leave. “And, milord,” Lucio perks up. “Don’t lick my gloves, I dissect cadavers with these.”

He deflates. “Doesn’t matter, I'm going to die anyway.”

This is the first time he's confessed the truth. The cold, hard, skittering truth. Lucio is going to die, he's going to die and people are going to be better off without him. Nobody is going to remember him.

“Goodbye, milord.”

Muriel’s never had a high libido. Nor has he ever been able to last a long time. You remember the first time you got intimate, in the tent under the stars. You pressed your hand between his legs, a few strokes outside his pants, a few sweet words—and he had creamed himself. Poor Muriel, he was terribly embarrassed that night, stuttering out his apologies. To be truly honest, you found it extremely hot.

Though you wish he would last just a little longer, to let the fun last. Maybe that’s why you’re doing this to him, holding him on the edge despite how nicely he asks.

He’s warm and welcoming, stretched wide from your fingers. He nearly came from just a bit of foreplay, gripping the pillows with strength you thought would rip them. Muriel’s breathing has gotten a little funny, heavy against the drool-dampened pillows. The only downside of this position is that you can’t see every pleasure filled face he makes—though it’s a price to pay for the glorious view you have from behind. You find purchase on his hips, slowly rocking into him, inch by inch. “You take me so well, baby,” you lean back, spreading his cheeks to watch yourself sink into him.

A groan sounds from below, trembling little puffs of air. He’s doing his best to hold it in, he truly is. You bottom out, pelvis pressed flush against his ass—then, you pull out, a heavy slide against his walls. You thrust back in, and Muriel moans, the loudest sound you’ve heard from him all night. “I-I don’t, I think-“

“Keep holding, Muriel, we just started.” You shift your knees, settling to lift one leg up to brace your foot against the bed, kneeling behind him. The newer position presses you against him snuggly, a slow drool of pre dripping from his cock.

Keeping a firm grip on his sides, you begin thrusting, an even pace that has Muriel keening nonetheless.

The coil in his stomach is tight, ready to snap and spill at any moment. He’s trying to be good, he wants to be good—but at some moment, his resolve collapses. Muriel clenches tight, sucking you in and spilling his seed onto the blankets below. “Oh, Muriel,”

“M’ sorry, I’m sorry,” you can hear him whisper, slurring his words just slightly. You’re about to pull out, to finish yourself off when his large hand shoots back, grabbing onto your hip. “Keep going,” he rasps.

And honestly, who are you to refuse him? Your hips snap forward, quicker now, searching for your own high now that Muriel has found his. The reaction is immediate, a high noise that rips from his throat, gravelly and rough. This has never happened before, he’s never felt something like this—pushing him past the edge and steadily submerging him in that feeling. He’s sore, sensitive, but it feels too good.

“Fffaster..” you hear his voice weakly call, cheek squished against the pillow. An eagerness overcomes you, an energetic rush as you hump into him quicker, the head of your cock grinding against that sweet spot inside of him.

Muriel’s vision goes white, searing hot pleasure panging from that one spot. You’ve tested the waters with prostate stimulation before, though never like this, never this much. You’re thoroughly railing him, rocking the bed with your combined weight. At some point, Muriel loses balance on his hands and knees, and you take advantage, pressing him down into the quilts. His swollen dick rubs against the softness, squished between his navel and the bed. You brace your hands by his head, knees framed on either side of his thighs.

You’re getting closer, that familiar warmth seeping through your bones. Muriel’s soaking the bed underneath, a steady dribble with each hit to his prostate. “S’ too much, too much..!” He’s nearly ripping his hair out, toes curling and flesh stinging with each slap of your skin against his. “M’ gonna cum, I’m so-uhn!” Muriel spurts against the blankets, a weaker load, milked of everything he has to give.

The weak clenching is just enough to push you over, colors dancing behind your eyes as you cum inside of him. A mutual moan of satisfaction fills the air, mingling with the thick scent of sex. You stay in just a moment longer, pressing your forehead in between his shoulder blades. “Oh, hah, are you ok?”

Muriel nods, panting heavily. “Y-yeah, yeah—could we,” he swallows dryly, his liquid mind trying to put together words. “D-do, again?”

“Yeah, honey, yes,” you laugh against his sweaty skin, slowly pulling out. “I mean, now?” Murie rephrases, turning to his side as you lean up, picking his leg up from under his thigh. You can see your cum leaking from his hole, sliding down the insides of his thighs.