koku

you were standing in the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the 24/7 convenience store, a basket hanging from your elbow with an xl pack of condoms already inside.

“what else, what else…”

the air conditioning was too cold, raising goosebumps on your arms, brushing over the sprinkle of scales already adorning your skin. the cool air was combatting the warmth from the outside, but there was a deeper heat slowly coiling low in your belly, pulsing harder and harder, overtaking your very being quietly — a heat that couldn’t be tamed by the artificiality of the cooling device.

you’ve been feeling it for hours. the telltale thrum, the hypersensitivity of your skin, the way your gums ache faintly where your fangs wanted to push through.

ebb day is tomorrow. officially.

you still have a few hours to prepare.

your phone unexpectedly buzzed against your skin, a frantic, continuous tremor that has you fumbling for it. rafayel’s name light up the screen, a silly picture of him trembling together with the vibrations.

you swiped to answer, a teasing remark already on your lips.

“if you’re calling to back out–”

“please.” his voice cut you off, and it sounded wrong. it was not the smooth, sultry baritone he usually wielded like a weapon, articulating witty remarks at your expense. it was breathless, strained, cracking at the edges. “please, come over.”

you froze between aisles, your hand tightening on the phone. “rafayel?”

“i need you.” a low, fractured whine escaped him, and the needy sound went straight to your core, igniting the latent heat into a sudden, roaring blaze. “it’s… it’s early. it’s so early. i thought i had more time but it’s… i need you now.”

you could picture him too clearly.

at his seaside manor, in the vast, luxurious bedroom, with the curtains wide open, welcoming the full moon. rafayel, welcoming you, sprawled on his massive bed, his pale skin flushed and beaded with sweat, his hair a disheveled mess of purple.

you imagined him grasping his phone with a trembling hand, spotted with scales, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted in gasps.

fangs peeking through oh so beautifully.

“i’m at the store.” you said, your voice coming out rougher than you intended, your own state suddenly worsening due to rafayel’s intervention. “i’m getting the things. i’ll be there after checkout–”

“no.” he gasped immediately, and the desperation in his voice was loud, a hook that sunk into your chest and pulled you like a fish out of waters. “too long. ugh– i can’t– please. i can’t wait anymore. i feel like i’m burning up. we have everything here, so...”

“i need you. please, please, just ahhhh– come here.”

the plea was a whisper, broken and sweet, and that did it for you. you’ve always been weak for him. in this human form, in your true one, it didn’t matter; he had you wrapped around his pinky finger since you were children, even if he didn’t always know it.

“raf…”

you wanted to say something stubborn, to remind him that you were buying the very supplies he’ll be grateful for later, but another whimper came through the line, and your resolve crumbled to the ground.

“fine.” you heard yourself say, already turning and abandoning your basket on a shelf, condoms and all. “i’m coming right now. stay on the line.”

he let out a soft, relieved sound, and you could’ve sworn a sloshing noise accompanied his tune. “okay. f–fuck– okay.”

you left the store at a near-jog, the warm night air hitting your flushed cheeks.

the moon was almost up, a perfect, luminous circle in the sky, yet too bright, too full. it made your blood sing, your skin prickling with more and more clusters of scales.

you could still hear rafayel’s breathing on the other end of the line, quick and uneven, punctuated by tiny, swallowed sounds that he’s probably trying to hide.

that, and low, wet sounds — most likely his hand moving lazily up and down his stiff cock.

“tell me how you’re feeling.” you said as you slid into your car, your hand steady on the wheel even as everything inside you was starting to shake.

you have to keep your composure for just a little longer.

you also have to keep rafayel in check and make sure he doesn’t tip over.

“hot.” he breathed into the phone. “everything’s s–shit– too hot. my clothes… i took them off already. i’m just in the sheets. i nghnn– keep thinking about your hands.” his voice dropped, becoming that familiar, teasing cadence even through the haze of the heat.

“you have such nice hands. so soft– ngh– i keep thinking about them on ahh– me. groping me, pinning me down. do you think you can do that?”

your fingers tightened on the steering wheel, your knuckles whitening at his request. “rafayel.”

“i want you to.” he continued, his voice a low, needy murmur. the sticky sounds raised in intensity, no longer just background noise. “i need you so bad. i need you on top of me, baby.”

you pushed the accelerator harder, running a stop sign you didn’t even register. the streets blurred under your hazy vision, the city lights smearing into streaks of color. the heat inside you was building up with every word of his, with every little gasp and hitch of his breath.

rafayel was doing a phenomenal job at riling you up.

“what are you thinking about?” he asked all of a sudden, his voice a silken thread that woke you up. “are you thinking about me?”

“yes.” you admitted bluntly, the word torn from you without much effort.

“nhgh… t–tell me, baby.”

“the way you look when you’re between my thighs.” your voice was steady, booming from the speakers of his phone, but your hands were shuddering now. fingernails threatening to elongate into monstrously sharp claws. “the way you eat me out so good.”

he groaned, a breathless, shattered sound, and his hand sped up. the wetness staining his cock was palpable, the sound harsh yet delicate. “f–fuck yeah, i wanna taste your cunt so bad.”

a pause, then his voice murmured a confession once more. “i need to bury my face in you. i need to smell you. ahhhh– bet you’re drenched already, can almost s–sniff it from here.”

he was right. since the beginning of your conversation, the flimsy material of your panties was nothing but sticky. each and every request of his, delving into his nastiest wishes, generated more gooey arousal, effectively coating your panties in a generous amount of slick.

it also did not help that you were a lemurian, normally producing more slick than a mere human.

thankfully, you were pulling through the gates of his estate, the tires of your car crunching on the gravel driveway. you didn’t even bother parking properly — just killed the engine and eft the car where it stopped.

“i’m here.” you said into the phone, your legs carrying you up the front steps without waiting for another invite.

you swung the door open without a second thought.

rafayel was standing at the end of the hallway, and the sight of him made your clit throb.

he was fully naked, his skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, his hair plastered to his temples. his chest was heaving, his pupils so dilated that his irises were reduced to thin rings of purple. but it was the scales that caught your attention — a scattering of iridescent, pearl-white scales along his cheekbones, down his neck, across his shoulders.

painting his skin, lower and lower.

going beyond the base of his aching cock.

the scales shimmered in the moonlight, catching the light like tiny mirrors.

“baby!” his eyes found yours, and he smiled — a beautiful, unhinged grin, all sharp teeth and raw need. “you came.” he breathed, relieved, taking wobbly steps towards you.

he was deeply affected by the rising full moon, hands jumping away from his sides and searching for support onto the walls.

you were soon to be deeply affected as well as your nostrils inhaled the pheromones dominating the entire mansion: the smell was terrifically strong, a pungent odor that lulled you towards primal desires. you almost stumbled backward from the powerful aroma, palm shooting up and covering the bottom half of your face in an attempt to protect your senses.

“f–fuck, the smell…”

you needed to remain levelheaded.

you needed to remain the rational one, since rafayel was clearly indulging fully in the effects of the moon.

but it was hard. you could already feel your fans poking through your gums, could already sense the tremble in your body as rafayel caught up to you.

your entire being was calling for him, just like his own called for you.

his quivering hands clawed at your dress, pulling you fully inside, the door slamming shut behind you two and effectively trapping you in his den. taking advantage of the defensive stance you took, he manhandled you against the closest wall, caging you perfectly, his body a line of burning heat against yours.

“ah, ah, ah, you…” his face instantly found your neck, burying itself in the seductive dip between your throat and shoulder. and, with a loud whiff, rafayel inhaled your own tumbling pheromones. “ahhh– smell so fucking good.”

he did not stop at that, nuzzling further into your skin, dragging the tip of his nose up towards your pulse point, punctuating the spot right behind your ear. with that, he managed to caress a patch of sensitive scales, eliciting a moan out of your hidden lips, forcing your palm to abandon its post to tangle in his messy locks.

“baby, please, pull ugh– my hair, please.” he started to beg as he felt your fingers latch onto the roots of his hair, body curving into yours more and more.

his legs snuck their way between your own, parting your thighs and allowing his knee to dip into the material of your dress and make contact with your clothed pussy. his arms flew away too, finally taking hold of your torso and putting you into a needy embrace.

“raf, i–”

your voice echoed in his ears, blessing him with the delicious shudder of your tone. but something was wrong, he slowly realized between his hazy thoughts — you have yet to make your move, you have yet to show the same neediness he has been carrying for hours.

“i–is something wrong? no, please, baby…”

he removed his face from your neck, abandoning his mission to devour your scent gland in favor of discovering what was holding you back. a strong feeling of anxiety shook his entire body, and memories of abandonment flashed between his obscene fantasies.

changing the atmosphere entirely.

“go on, raf, it’s okay–”

“n–no.”

you couldn’t resist him, especially not now.

he decided to perch his head on your chest, entire body slouched over your own, and look up at you with his lust-filled orbits. the pout on his lips was dangerous, accessorized by his long and sharp fangs. his legs were now practically glued to yours… and you could feel his heavy cock pressing against your thigh.

“do you not want me, baby?”

oh, he was gonna be the death of you.

“raf, someone h–ngh–as to be rational, i can’t give into pleas–”

“we will be careful, like always…” he cut you off enthusiastically, tightening his hold on your midriff to block any kind of escape. worse, he dipped his face lower into your chest, pressing right against your exposed sternum… and sticking his tongue out to taste your sweaty skin.

“rafayel.” you warned through gritted teeth, gripping the base of his scalp and pulling his head back. but he was ready for such an action, simply letting out more length of his monstrous tongue and continuing his perverse ministration across the peaks of your breasts.

“i k–know what will help!” he chirped between licks, and the sensation of his rough, elongated tongue tracing the delicate flesh of your chest made your resolve shake.

you tried to hold firm, to remember the reasons why someone needed to stay level-headed, but he was a master of persuasion: his hands, which had been so needy and clammy, slid down your hips with a slow, teasing pace. and he stopped when he reached the fabric of your short skirt, fingers twitching at the hem.

“just a taste.” he whispered, long tongue retracting from your skin to wet his lips. “i ugh– to taste your pussy, baby. please.”

his voice was a raspy, desperate plea, and the sight of his body — the way he pressed himself against you, precum wetting the ends of your dress — broke something in you. you were supposed to be the rational one, but the pheromones were a thick haze in your lungs, intoxicating your very being.

your own body betrayed you, the ache between your thighs becoming a pulsing, insistent throb. your firm grip on his hair lessened, hand guiding his head unconsciously down your body, moving him in line with your center.

“ah– j–just a bit...” you breathed, your voice shaking now. “but then we m–”

move to the bedroom — he didn’t let you finish.

a submissive, relieved groan escaped him, and he was already sliding down your body. his bare knees hit the floor with a sharp thud, but he didn’t flinch. you tried to steady yourself, but rafayel had other plans — hiking your right leg up his shoulder, spreading you wide open for him. and you were taken by surprise, fingers curling and pushing his head around from the sudden movement.

“f–fuck yeah.”

he let out a sharp, encouraging moan against your exposed thigh, and you felt his lips press a wet kiss on the newly exposed patch of skin of your knee.

his hands shoot up, scattering the hem of your dress. he pushed the material up around your waist, silently prompting you to hold it down and away from him. the cool air of the hallway licked at your exposed thighs, prickling at your scale-scattered skin.

his gaze dropped, and he stared at the sight before him, cock twitching between his bent legs. the wet spot on your panties was dark and obscene, the cotton perfectly clinging to the shape of your pussy. you were absolutely soaked through, arousal escaping the comfort of your underwear in order to stain your inner thighs.

the rims around his blown-out pupils turned a bright blue, and a devouring hunger flashed across his features.

“oh, my baby.” he breathed, the words almost a whimper. “you’re s–so wet for me. i bet it h–hurts so much.”

he didn’t wait for an actual answer as he leaned forward to thoroughly inspect you. his nose pressed into the damp fabric, and he inhaled deeply, a tremble running through his body as he feasted on your scent. he nuzzled against the soaked cotton, his sharp fangs grazing your sensitive flesh through the thin barrier, and your knees nearly buckled.

your hand forced his head deeper instead of pulling it away, a silent surrender to the powers of the moon.

he took the signal with a groan of satisfaction. his tongue snaked out, long and monstrous, and he dragged the wide, flat of it across the dark spot. he licked slowly, savoring you through the fabric, his eyes rolling back from the aroma.

“you ahh– s’ good.” he mumbled against the fabric, his voice muffled by the fabric and his groans.

but he needed more than just soaked panties. so, with a swipe of his tongue, he wrapped the length twice around the gusset of your panties, tugging the material downwards. you felt the wet cotton drag along your sensitive flesh as it was removed, exposing your cunt entirely to his burning gaze.

“r–raf, please.”

he saw everything: your wet, swollen flesh glistened in the dim light, your clit engorged and peeking out from its hood. a fresh glob of your arousal slid down your inner thigh, and his adam’s apple bobbed at the bodily reaction.

“babyyy…” his breathing hitched, and he slowed down, his entire being focused on the sight and scent of you. “look at you.” he muttered, his voice heavy by lust. “so beautiful, so mesmerizing.”

and before you could form a response, he dived in. his lips glued onto you, and his tongue — still a long, monstruous muscle — latched onto your entire cunt. he licked a wide, flat stroke from your oozing entrance to your pulsing clit, and the feeling of his wet mouth against your slick flesh made you whine.

he did it again, and again, building a rhythm that was ruining you from the inside out. he was starved, licking and sucking and slurping you like an intoxicated man who knew no other flavour.

“rafayel, r–fa–yel!”

you threw your head back, the wall cold against your skull, as you fought for composure. but it was a losing battle: his mouth was too skilled, too curious to discover your pussy. he found every sensitive nerve with the tip of his tongue, swirling around your clit until you were seeing stars, then dropping down to probe at your entrance.

licking up the streams of your juices like they were the only source of water in the world.

you made the mistake of looking down at him. he was on his knees before you, his body trembling with the effort of restraint and desire. his eyes were heavy-lidded, focused solely on his task, and his gills —delicate, slit-like openings on his neck — fluttered slightly as he breathed through them, allowing him to remain glued to you without a pause for air.

he was relentless, dedicated.

he needed you to tip over into your animalistic side.

“i– oh, fuck–”

your voice cracked and morphed into a high, unhinged moan as he circled his tongue around your clit, wrapping it tightly with its length while he sucked the bundle of nerves with his lips. the tip of his tongue dipped lower treacherously, pushing against your greedy hole and effectively overflowing your mushy brain with pleasure.  

your hips jerked forward of their own accord, and you felt your fingers drag through his hair, pulling him even tighter against you, demanding more even as you were overwhelmed.

“hmhmm– ngh–” he moaned into you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your pelvis.

his hands slid up your thighs, thumbs spreading your lips wider, giving him unrestricted access to every inch of your center. he worked on you with a desperate, submissive fervor, eating you out as if his existence depended on your pleasure.

and it was working. the feeling built and built in your tummy, a coil of heat tightened and tightened with every flick of his tongue.

“al’st.” he gasped, pulling away just enough to see the defeat in your eyes. his lips and chin were shining with your wetness, his sharp teeth shimmering as he smiled at you. “cum in my mouth, please.”

your resolve had shattered the moment his mouth had made contact. so you just nodded frantically, a sobbing whine escaping your lips, and he leaped at the signal. his mouth descended again with renewed vigor, long tongue focusing on your engorged bud. he sucked hard, creating a devastating pressure, while he simultaneously probed the back of his tongue against your entrance, massaging the contracting muscles.

“ah, i’m–”

you came with a cry that echoed down the empty hallway, your body arching off the wall as wave after wave of pleasure rippled through you. your hand forced his face deeper into you, and he drank everything, his moans of ecstasy vibrating against your sensitive flesh as he swallowed your release.

and he didn’t stop. he kept licking, easing you through the shaking aftermath, his eyes locked on your trembling form with a satisfied, devouring gleam.

“ah, a–ah, ah.”

when you finally opened your eyes, you had a good look at his needy, disheveled face, still resting between your thighs. his lips and chin were slick with you, his long tongue still lazily licking at your flesh as if he couldn’t bear to lose the taste. his gills fluttered rapidly, and he smiled up at you — temporary satiated by your pussy.

… or so you thought.

“g–go again?” he pleaded, his voice high-pitched and weak. “please, please, please, ple–”

and you knew why he was begging so arduously: gazing downwards at the floor, you soon realized that he also spilled his release, most likely pushed over the edge by your own orgasm. the floorboards were covered in a thick layer of cum, white and sticky substance staining his thigh and your own resting foot.

 “please, baby, one more time– i love your pussy, i–”

you were still trembling from your own climax, chest heaving, gills fluttering on the sides of your neck. but something in his desperate, submissive tone made you sit up straighter, an ounce of rationality still guiding you. yeah, you felt the wetness between your thighs, the echo of his tongue still a pulsing memory, but you knew that you were far from satiated.

the moon’s pull was still in your bones, and his pheromones were a thick haze in the air.

you reached down, took a handful of his wet hair, and pulled his face away from your cunt. the slick was thick, mixed with his saliva, and it created a strong, sticky bridge between his lips and your nether ones.

“m–move…” you commanded, your voice coming out fragmented, tainted by your orgasm and the heat. “bedroom, now.”

his eyes flashed with relief, and he nodded so quickly that his locks flipped against his temples. “yes– yes, baby, anything.” with obedient, trembling hands, he pushed himself up from his knees, his muscular thighs quivering as he rose. he was still weeping, his cock stiff and red, the tip glistening with his own release.

but he made no move to wipe it away, fixated on obtaining you.

before you could step forward, he enveloped you in his arms, both hands sliding under your knees and lifting you as if you were made of feathers. your legs latched around his hips on instinct, your dress riding up to your waist, your naked slick pussy pressing against his abs. he took off with long, hurried steps, his legs no longer staggering.

“c’mere.”

his mouth was on yours before you could process his words.

“so ngh– good t’ me.” he mumbled against your lips, his tongue sharing your aroma. “so beautiful, so perfect– i’m ugh– not deserving.” he kissed you with a wide, open mouth, his sharp fangs grazing your lower lip as he pushed your dress higher with each push.

his words were a stream of subservient praises — celebrating your benevolence in assisting him with his heat — as he carried you through the living room and into the wide, disheveled bedroom. and his mouth never stopped; he fully slurped at your lips, devouring your mouth with the same fervor he ate your pussy.

he loved to caress your fangs with his tongue, grunting between lick as you were finally showing signs of turning.

“ah, ah…”

when he reached the giant bed, he turned and sat down on it, his back leaning against the headboard with a soft thud. he kept you on his lap, your knees straddling his hips, your soaked cunt hovering just above his twitching, dripping cock. his hands were instantly on your body tugging away at the dress, removing it from your body and letting your scale-splotched skin to bask in the full moon.

his sharp digits took a hold of your full hips, nails digging into the soft flesh as he tried to lower your body onto his.

“please, baby.” he breathed, his hips rolling upwards on instinct, his bare cock sliding against your wet slit. “i need to feel you around me– please, i fuck–”

you reached around, your hand finding the nightstand and its drawer, your fingers closing around a square packet. as you were retrieving it, his hands worked all over you, groping your waist, your tits, your thighs with a restless, ravenous need. his cock was jumping against your thigh with each squish of your body, impatient to ease into you.

“let m–me help.” he whispered as he saw you struggle. but you shook your head, at last ripping the packet open with your fangs.

the image made him groan — he loved when you used those fangs.

he wished you’d use them on him.

as you rolled the condom down his length with steady hand, your palm gliding over the latex as you smoothed it down the veiny cock, he gasped, his head throwing back against the headboard, his hips pushing up into your fist.

“fuck– baby, your hand, it’s ngh– so good­, i’m gonna–” his words devolved into a strangled moan as you gave him a last, twisting stroke at the base, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from cumming right then.

his gills fluttered rapidly, and his hands clawed at the sheets, his white-knuckled grip the only thing keeping him grounded.

you left him hanging on the edge for a sweet moment, your eyes locked on his trembling stomach and the way his scales shimmered harder. then, with a slow movement, you raised yourself up on your knees, aligned the tip of his cock with your soaked entrance, and slowly began to sink down.

the sensation was electric. his length slid inside you in a smooth, velvety thrust, the latex making it easy but no less intense. you felt him stretch you, push past your greedy muscles that spasmed around him, and you gasped at the fullness. he moaned your name, vibrating against your chest as he pressed his forehead into your shoulder.

“so fucking tight– so wet–.”

“ah, raf, that’s mhm–”

you took a moment to adjust, to feel him settle deep inside you, to take in the way his tip was kissing your cervix. then you began to move — slow rolls of your hips, lifting and sinking, pulling him out until only the tip remained, then sliding back down to the hilt. your clit slapped deliciously against his muscles, and so did his heavy balls against your behind.

his hands flew to your hips again, guiding you, but he never tried to take control; he merely held you, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your hips with reverence.

“yes, that’s ngh– it, use me.” he implored, his voice breaking into high whinse as you picked up the pace. you rolled your hips in a figure eight, harshly grinding against him at the bottom, and his lips parted on a silent scream. “oh, oh fuck, right there, please, baby–”

you leaned forward, lips bitten, your palms braced against his chest, and you rode him with a ferocious need. every stroke was accompanied by his gasps, the sharp, slutty breaths strung together with your own traitorous ones into a rhythmic chant.

“so good, so good, i’m– please, please, let me cum inside, i beg you–”

his words were slurred, mind so thick with lust he forgot he had a condom on. but he was attentive to you, never taking his eyes off your bouncing body. when you sped up, your thighs burning with the effort, your clit brushing against his pubic bone with every downward thrust, his head lolled to the side in pleasure.

the sensation was heaven for you too: the way his cock hit that sweet spot inside you, vein pulsing just the right way against your walls, the way his hands trembled as they held you, the way his moans sounded like prayers…

“cum for me.” you allowed, your voice raspy and commanding, and that was all he needed.

with a broken whine, he threw his head back, his spine arching off the headboard as he spilled into the condom, his hips jerking up into you with ragged, uncontrollable spasms. his mouth opened in a silent shout and his hands clawed so hard into your hips you knew they would leave bruises.

the sight of him cumming, his face stretched in ecstasy, pushed you over the edge. you rode him through it all, your second climax building and building until it broke. your inner muscles clenching around him as you shuddered through your release.

he whimpered into the air like a mantra: “thank you, thank you, thank you–”.

after a few more seconds, you finally slowed down. with your gills working overtime, your body washed in sparkling sweat, you remained motionless, straddled over him. his aching cock was still inside you, spent once more that night.

but ebb day had just commenced, and a mere fuck was not the solution.

you were still trembling, his overstimulated cock still twitching inside you, when he shifted his hips upwards — a lazy, circular rock which sent a sharp spark through your oversensitive flesh. you whimpered, a needy tune that you hadn’t intended to let out; the sudden trust took you by surprise, hitting your walls in a way that made your whole being shiver.

he did it again, this time with a sharper thrust, his strong hands pushing you down into his cock, and your palms flattened against his chest in a vain attempt to put some distance between the two of you.

“raf– wait, slow d–ah–own a bit.” you gasped, your voice cracking, the overstimulation short circuiting your brain. “i need a second–”

his laugh was low and mean, a strong contrast to the high-pitched moans he freely let out a few minutes ago.

“slow down? why? you’re still aching for more.” his hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs with a brutal firmness. his expression was no longer kind and pliant, the barely-there purple of his orbs changing into a blinding sapphire color.

he tutted at your scrunching face, digging his fingers harder into your skin and dragging you forth against his chest. “no, no, baby. i don’t like that.”

“raf?”

“you’re not gonna fight what you are. you’re a lemurian in heat, just like me… giving in is not a choice.”

before you could respond, he twisted out of you with a squelching, wet pop and shoved you forward onto the sheets. you tumbled onto the mattress, hands and knees catching you as he positioned you around like a puppet. his palm pressed the small of your back, forcing your spine into a beautiful arch, your face pressed into the pillows.

it happened in a blink of an eye, your body going pliant and obeying the desires of the man behind you. you could no longer see him, with your head buried in his cushions, but you could hear the shift of his weight as he knelt behind you, the heat of his body washing over your exposed skin.

shit, he was taking a dominant stance now — the predator inside him most likely no longer pleased by your ‘controlled’ approach to ebb day.

but you had to stay strong. you had to stop him from fulfilling the mating ritual since you were not his beloved. you had to–

“look at you.” he purred, his voice dripping with condescension, blue eyes taking in the sight before him: you, face down, ass up, supple flesh drenched and quivering with arousal. “so fucking wet… and you still have the nerve to tell me to slow down. pathetic.”

his fingers traced down your curved spine, pausing at the swell of your ass. then down to your used hole. with delicate fingers, he touched the gaping rim of the condom still lodged inside you, dragging it slightly out of you. you flinched, back arching even more, hips pushing into his touch unconsciously.

“a condom too… ruining all the fun.” he clicked his tongue, low and mean, but chose to abandon the rubber for now. he decided to reach around to find your clit, his skilled thumb pressing against it with just enough pressure to make you tremble into the sheets.

“you think you’re in charge, hm? you’re nothing but a slutty little whore who needs to be reminded of her place.”

he circled his thumb over your swollen bud, slow and torturous, while his other hand kept you pinned down. you whined, your hips pushing back instinctively, seeking more friction, but he was having none of it: he smacked your ass hard, the sharp slap echoing in the room as it landed on your flesh.

“don’t you dare act on your urges now. you’ll get what i give you, when i give it.” he warned as he increased the pressure on your clit, his movements forming teasing figure eights. you writhed against the sheets, tried to push back and speed him up, but his hand on your spine kept you arched and immobile.

“p–please.” you whined, your voice pitching high, now mirroring the state he was previously in— flushed face, dilated pupils, consumed by the urge to be used. “raf, i need–”

“you need to shut up and take what’s given.” he cut you off, his tone cold and superior. he removed his thumb without warning, and you whimpered in loss, eyes bubbling with tears from his cruelness. “see? that’s what you get for being impatient. now be a good girl and wait.”

wait?

for what?

he reached down, fingers curling around the rim of the condom still inside you. with a slow, torturous pull, he removed it. the sensation of the latex sliding out making you shiver, hole gaping in dissatisfaction. your cunt was practically begging for the rubber to return, for something to be inside it once more.

“greedy pussy.”

he pinched the tip of the condom, dangling it above your stinging flesh, and, with his thumb and index finger, he pressed and dragged out... letting the thick, white semen spill all across your ass. throwing the empty rubber away, he then smeared his cum over your cheeks with a rough, possessive stroke, making sure to dip his fingers over your asshole and the perineum.

the warm, sticky sensation made you cry out, and he laughed again.

“you like that, don’t you? being marked with my cum?” he rubbed the cum lower, into your slit, working it into your wet folds until you were dripping with a mixture of your arousal and his seed. “you were so dumb for putting on the condom.”

and with that vitriolic remark, he positioned himself behind you once more, the mushroom head of his engorged cock prodding at your slutty entrance. he rubbed it up and down, teasing the flesh without pushing in, controlling his urge to breed you for the sake of hearing you beg.

and you began to sob, pleas leaving your bitten lips with ease.

“p–please, raf, just fuck me, i need it so bad, please–”

“aww, look at you now — beg harder.” he purred, his tip still tracing slow circles over your hungry hole.

“please! please, rafayel, i beg you, just put it in, i’ll be good, just fuck me–”

“there it is.” he smirked, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “but oh, i’m sorry, baby– i think we’re out of condoms. what a shame.” his tone was condescending, and he rolled his hips just enough to press the head inside.

before pulling back. “i can’t–”

“i don’t care.” you babbled, your mind now a blur of heat and hunger. your previous carefulness was entirely wiped by your animalistic desire to be mounted and taken by rafayel. “j–just do it, fuck me raw! i need your ugh– cock inside me, please, raf–”

“finally.”

without other comments, he thrusted in one sharp, brutal motion. you screamed, but not in pain — the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled without any barrier felt heavenly. his hard cock, littered with scales, plowed into your soaked cunt until his hips smacked against your ass, his balls swaying against your swollen clit.

“yes.” he groaned, his voice now raspy with his own need. “this is where you belong: spread open for me, taking my cock like the cockslut that you are.” he pulled out slowly, then slammed back in, the squelch of your juices and his cum making a loud, obscene sound.

“fuck, you’re so warm, so wet, so fucking good.”

he set a ferocious pace, his hips jutting into you with the starved intensity of an animal in rut. each thrust hit that spot inside you, making your spine curve into him more and more. and you were kept in that deep arch by his strong arms, your voice reduced to a stream of moans and whines as it got drowned out by the pillows.

“ngh– baby, your pussy is squeezing me so tight.” he grunted, his hand snaking forward to grab a fistful of your hair and yank your head back. “greedy girl, sucking me ah–  so hard.”

“tell me you’re mine. tell me this is what you wanted.”

“‘m y’rs.” you gasped, the words tumbling out in stutters as you squeezed around his rugged scales. “gods, yes, fuck me harder, please–”

he released your hair with a satisfied moan and doubled his efforts, his strokes becoming messy and unhinged. he was so deep inside you that you could feel his cock throbbing against your walls, the tip kissing your cervix with every slam. his length seemed to grow inside you, expanding and stretching your sensitive walls in all dimensions.

you were completely affected by ebb day now, your pleasure so strong you could no longer separate where your being ended and his began.

but the night has just begun, and so did rafayel.

you felt it before you saw it: a second pressure, a new sensation against the flesh of your ass. another cock, thicker and more brutal in its proportions, had emerged from the base of his first and sprung upwards, settling directly between the sweaty valley of your cheeks.

it was a monstrous thing, wet with its own pre-cum, rocking against your asshole in tune with his other cock.

“is that– ugh–”

with every slam of his hips into your soaked cunt, this second cock rubbed relentlessly against your tight, untouched asshole. the friction was addicting, a blunt force that glided over the twitching rim of your second hole with every forward push.

you could feel the ridges of it, the scales that dragged across your delicate skin, and it made your eyes roll back from the pleasure.

“you feel that, baby?” he grunted into your ear, his voice a condescending purr. “my other cock, itching to breed that pussy too. you’re so fucking soaked, i am sure it will ngh– slip right in.”

you couldn’t respond. you were beyond speech, your face buried in the sheets, your voice reduced to a high, siren-like whine that filled the room.

the way his second cock humped against your asshole, the way his first cock was still plunging into your cunt — it was a sensory overload that threatened to spill all over. you clenched around him, trying to drag him deeper, and he groaned, leaning over your arched body.

“can’t even fuckin’ answer me.” he snarled, his pace slowing for a moment as he leaned down, lowering his sweaty chest against your back.

his sharp mouth found the juncture of your neck and shoulder, your pulse point, and he opened his jaw wide. his fangs grazed your flesh, a heated, demanding pressure falling over your skin.

he was…

“you want this so badly, don’t you? you want me to claim every hole.”

going to bite. he was going to mark you as his mate.

panic lashed through the fog of your lust. you were not lovers: you had agreed to this arrangement solely to protect his future beloved from the primality of the lemurian heat. so your arm shot up before you could think it over, your forearm wedging itself between his lips and your neck just as his jaws clamped down.

“ah.”

his fangs sink into your flesh with a wet, ripping sound. the pain was sharp and immediate, a burning sensation that made you scream into the pillows. you felt the hot trickle of blood cascade down your arm, and he let out a surprised, muffled groan around your limb.

his cock slid out of you during the chaos, leaving you suddenly empty and weak.

“n–no!” you cried, your voice a shaky mess of pleasure and desperation. “not that! rafayel, we aren’t– we’re not lovers! you can’t mark me like this. you have to save yourself for your chosen one, you know that.”

he froze — he stayed still, his fangs still embedded in your forearm, his breath hot against the wound. then, slowly, he released you. his jaw unclamped, and he licked the blood from his lips with a slow, seductive swipe of his tongue. but his eyes had changed. the lust was still there, but now it was underlaid with something far more dangerous: a cold, rageful possessiveness.

“you dare...” he said, his voice dropping to a level of condescending fury that made you shiver. “you dare tell me who to save myself for? you dare speak of a ‘chosen one’ when you’re the only one who has ever made me feel this?”

before you could respond, he moved with unnatural speed. his hands gripped your hips and with a brutal twist, he flipped you over like you were no more than a rag doll. you landed on your back, the sheets cold and damp against your sweaty skin. he was on top of you in an instant, his legs knocking yours apart as he settled his weight between your thighs.

his first cock pressed against your soaked entrance, and his second one rested heavily against your clit, both of them drenched in bodily fluids.

“you foolish woman.” he snarled, leaning down so his face was inches from yours. his eyes were gleaming blue, his scales catching the light like the facets of a gem. “there is no other chosen one. there is only you. you’re the one i want. you’re the one my body and my soul demands.”

“r–raf?”

“and i will not be denied.”

he thrusted forward, sheathing his bottom cock inside you in one single, devastating move. you were so wet, so inviting; there was no resistance, only a lewd, obscene squelch as your fluids started to froth at the juncture between your bodies.

you whined out a broken approval, and he groaned in triumph above you.

“that’s right.” he confirmed, rolling his hips harder and harder to pick up his previous pace. “your body knows the truth, even if your mouth lies. you’re mine.” he began to pump into you, his strokes sharp and possessive as he, once more, descended closer to your face.

“you can beg all you want for a different fate, but you will never escape this. you will never escape me.”

and with that, he sealed his lips over yours.

your hands clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he pounded you into the mattress. your legs wrapped around his waist, pushing him deeper, traitorously consenting to his declaration even as your mind spun with lust. he leaned forward more and more, trapping you under his massive frame, and he kissed you brutally, tangling his long tongue with your and forcing you to taste your own blood.

“say it out loud.” he demanded against your mouth, his pace never faltering, his mouth carefully traversing lower to your pulse point again. “say you’re mine. say it and i will fully take you, my mate.”

“i’m yours!” you wailed, the words torn from your very soul as his fangs scratched your skin in warning. “i’m yours, rafayel! please, just don’t stop, don’t you dare stop–”

a prideful, predatory grin spread across his features. he slowed his pace as his jaw opened once more, trying to time his movements to offer you the most intense pleasure. pulling out almost all the way, his tip snagging onto your hole, he stuck out his tongue to wet your skin as his hand lowered to his cocks… pressing his second length snug to his other and preparing it for penetration.

“ngh– raf– ah–”

as he plunged his fangs into your neck, finally marking you as his mate by drawing blood, he also rutted both cocks into your hungry cunt. the immense quantities of arousal lubed everything, allowing his two dicks to press deep into your without much difficulty.

and his timing was perfect, getting you to orgasm with a perfect o on your lips as he rocked your whole world.

“that’s right.” he purred, moving his head to nuzzle at the bloody bite on your skin, licking the wound with soft strokes of his tongue. “you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.”

and as he spoke, he picked up his pace once more, the slap of his balls against your skin filling the room, his resolve renewed. you were cushioned beneath him, a trembling mess, a willing partner to desire, and as he watched you fall apart beneath him — your eyes rolling back, your moans a constant chant — he too was pushed over the edge once more.

unlike last time, his thrusts stumbled into a rhythm that was clumsy but deep, as if he refusing to let go of you. unlike last time, you felt a swelling at your entrance, the way his top cock, the one that had been pressing against your clit moments ago, now grew in thickness.

the sensation was overwhelming. your walls were stretched further, and you could feel his cocks throbbing deep inside, ready to spill.

“breed.” he groaned against your neck, lips bloody, voice raspy. “let me fill you. let me breed your sweet cunt.”

and he did.

his top cock began to inflate at the base, the tissue swelling into a something that locked him deep within you. you whimpered in pleasure as the first shiny, pearl-white ovoid passed through his urethra and into your hole —a smooth, rounded glob that stretched you to the fullest before it settled inside you.

then another, and another, and another. each one leaving a trail of warmth as it popped through his cock and deposited itself in deep inside you. his hands stopped flat against your stomach, to keep you from moving away, and he felt the bulge begin to rise.

the eggs were gathering together with his thick cum.

“yes, yes.” he murmured, his tone a mix of wonder and satisfaction, eyes glassy with lust. “so many eggs already. and there’s more for you.”

he kept pumping, each thrust squeezing another round egg into you, and with it came wave upon wave of thick, pearlescent cum that filled every remaining crevice. your tummy bulged more and more, the skin stretching tight until you could feel the weight of his eggs sinking low inside you. you were so full that you couldn’t tell what was cum and what was ovoid; you only knew that he was still pumping, still depositing, still claiming.

“r–rafayel, i w–will ugh– i can’t hold– nngh!”

your protests were swallowed by another orgasm as he rutted his final drops into you, the bottom cock twitching inside you as it added its own thick semen to the swelling pool. your tummy was now a pronounced curve, the skin taut and shiny, and you could feel each individual egg pressing against the walls of your tummy.

“yes.”

finally, he stilled, his body shaking with the last spasms of release. he remained inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and hot against your sweaty skin. then, with a small whine, he pulled out: first the bottom cock, then the top one, releasing the lock on your pussy. you felt a gush of warm cream follow him, and when you looked down, you saw the mess he had made of you.

your pussy was ruined, swollen, hole gaping as thick, white cum started to drool out in hefty treads, pooling on the sheets beneath you.

he moved down your body, his hands sliding over your blooming skin until they rested on your swollen belly. he pressed gently, and you felt the first egg pop out with an obscene sound. the smooth, pearly ovoid rolled out onto the sheet, shining with your combined juices. then another, and another, each one escaping as he pressed firmer, each one making you whine from overstimulation.

your tummy slowly deflated, but not all the eggs were out yet — you could still feel a few resting high inside, near your cervix.

“shh, i’ve got you.” he said, his voice suddenly soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the brutality from moments ago. he shifted his hand from your belly to your swollen clit, his fingers gliding through the wetness with good intent.

“you’re doing so well, baby. let me help the rest out.”

he began to rub circles around your hyper-sensitive bud, while his other hand pressed firmly on the top part of your pelvis. the overstimulation made you sob out, but his sweet expression (his soft, purple orbs, the blush on his face, the cute smile on his lips) kept you grounded.

“that’s it, sweet girl, let them out. you’re so brave for taking all of that. now just one more– yes, there it is.”

with a particularly deep press of his palm and a swirl of his thumb, the last egg got out with a sultry plop, rolling to join its siblings on the sheet. your body shuddered violently, another spasm of climax racing through you, but he never stopped the gentle ministrations of his hand.

he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your belly, his lips tracing your skin as you orgasm again into his palm.

“such a good girl.” he whispered against your skin, his tone full of adoration and gratitude. “you took everything so perfectly, my partner.” he lifted his head to look into your hazy eyes, and there was nothing but contentment in his gaze. “let’s rest for a bit.”

at last, he removed himself from between your legs, allowing you a moment of respite as he lounged next to you on the bed. cradling your spent form into a delicate side embrace, he guided your head onto his chest, petting your wet hair away from your face.

“my sweet baby.”

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

here are some like... caretakerish/protectiveish dragon sylus hcs i have... i can elaborate..

dragon sylus after he scoops you away from your stressful life.. hm..

dragon sylus who gives you a some ancient draconic mark that ties you to him.. allows him to read your mind and understand what you are thinking.. hm...

dragon sylus who's mark makes you quite soft and pliant for him... you let him feed you warm meals and desserts that you neglected yourself from enjoying before.. and expensive meals you never even heard of...

dragon sylus who's pheromones smell so so so SOOO relaxing to you... presses you right against him and puts your face softly into his neck and 5 minutes later its all honk shoo mimimis from you in his soft cool bedding with nothing but the sound of forest and the fireplace and his soft rumbly voice against your ear.. when he wants you to really sleep he'll talk of ancient stories..

sometimes though... he'll say other things to fluster you... see if he can get your little thighs to rub against eachother so that he have an excuse to start...hm... hm..

dragon sylus.. whos cum is so virile that when its settled deep into your womb the first time he takes you, it almost nurses your body into safety, telling it thats it safe... making you crave more food... less anxious... NO I SHOULD STOP THEY'LL TAKE ME AWAY

His eyes flutter open, half-lidded, as he stares at you with those soft-blue eyes of his, the glossiness of sleep layering his irises like glass. Through the panes, you can make out the tenderness of his pupils, dilating ever-so slightly, your figure carving a spot into its refracting light.

He closes his eyes again. You sigh.

"Xavier."

Nothing.

"Xavier."

Nothing.

"Jeremiah."

He's up.

Xavier's brows furrow, the ends of his lips curled downwards as he stares at you from above, eyes blown wide, arms encaging your figure beneath his, head tilted slightly to the side as he blinks once, twice, thrice.

"Why do you know that name?" he asks, bottom lip slowly jutting out the longer you take to respond.

"We met him at Philo."

"Do you know the names of all the men you meet?"

You laugh. Xavier's expression remains unmoved, his question entirely serious.

"That'd be impossible."

"... So, you've met a lot of other men."

"Yeah," you reply, "that's usually how it goes."

He slumps against your figure, relapsing, as his face digs into the curve of your neck and shoulder, head tilted to the side while trailing kisses around your skin, immovable when you laugh from the ticklish feeling.

"Xavier," you manage to say in between giggly breaths, "Xavier, I was joking."

From his spot, just a little below you, by the base of your neck, he looks up, head tilting, blinking owlishly in that feigned-ignorance-and-pathetic way of his.

"Were you?"

"Of course I was!"

He doesn't budge from his spot as your weighted blanket. Face returning to the crook of your shoulder once more, he just wraps his arms around your torso, pulling you even closer to him, limbs a messy tangle.

"Xavier,"—you prod him, but to no avail—"Xavier, we have to get up. Today is laundry day, remember?"

"Five more minutes," he mumbles, pressing you so close he might as well coalesce into you, "just five..."

He did not, in fact, take "just five minutes."

It was three hours.

But Xavier wastes no time when it comes to taking naps together—upon gathering all of your clothes, he's quick to suggest using the machine's washing time as an opportunity to get more sleep. You dismiss his idea, stating that you have dishes from last night's dinner to wash.

He gives you that look of his—soggy and all—before suggesting, again, to use the time after washing dishes, while the machine is working, to get some more sleep in. You agree. He beams.

Xavier's wardrobe has a running theme of pale colors. Sorting them is relatively easy, with most of his clothes in one pile, your occasional shirt sprinkled in, while the darker colors remain significantly smaller in number.

"What scent should we do this time?" Xavier asks, hand on his chin, surveying your detergent options with the meticulousness of a laundry master. You laugh, and tell him that they all smell good in the end. He nods, but he chooses the scent you've mentioned liking on mutliple occasions, knowing it's your favorite.

(Xavier also likes this scent—he's gotten multiple compliments for it, and once, while out shopping with you, an older woman noted how the two of you had the same fragrance to your clothes. Xavier nodded fervently at the observation, pleased.)

While the laundry is running, the two of you return to last night's dishes. After Xavier scrubs at the plates, you place them into the dishwasher, which, in reality, is just a glorified drying rack.

In between the clatter of glassware and the running of water is your voice, existing with Xavier for longer than it does in the air, your words excited as you recall an incident that happened recently at work.

When you smile, the rhythmic motion comes to a halt, and Xavier's attention parts from the plates to look at you, your figure etched into his pupils, tracing through to his soul, imprinted, fitting the silhouette from centuries ago.

"Is something wrong, Xavier?" you ask, noticing his gaze. He shakes his head.

He just blinks, once, twice, thrice; you really don't know, it seems. The light swept over your face, setting your skin ablaze, its brilliance irrevocable—How beautiful, is all he thinks. How beautiful and lovely and sublime.

(For a moment, he half-considered envying the light, its warmth kissing your skin so simply. Xavier has too many enemies, it seems. Lumiere, sunlight, Jeremiah...)

Later, your dryer sings its cycle completion with a jolly tune. While fetching your clothes, you notice a striking abundance of fluff stuffed throughout the creases of your clothes, your nose wrinkling with confusion as you furrow your brows.

"What's all this?" you mutter, piling all your things into the laundry basket, bundles of cotton falling forth from the dryer.

"Oh," Xavier remarks, hovering beside your shoulder, staring down at the mess. "Bunbun exploded."

"What?!"

Just as he predicted, Bunbun's remains fall from the dryer, its stitching undone as half of its cotton stuffing has been scattered throughout your clothes. Xavier reaches for its floppy face, stretching the malnourished plushie, satisfied.

"Well," you say, picking up the bits of fluff. "Let's feed it."

The two of you hunch over the laundry basket, sifting through your clothes to find each individual piece of fluff, stuffing it back into Bunbun. Now fully nourished, Bunbun stands proud (and round), its unstitched back held shut by Xavier's hand and a dream.

"I don't remember ever putting Bunbun in the laundry," you mutter, folding your clothes. "I thought its washing instructions said not to put it in the dryer..."

"Is that what it said?" Xavier remarks. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, noticing that his gaze is directed towards Bunbun's figure, menacing.

"Did you just try to sabatoge Bunbun, Xavier?"

He turns to you, blinking, his bottom lip jutted out slightly as he tilts his head.

"... No."

"You rejoiced when it exploded!"

"What if," he starts, the slightest hints of a smile tugging at the ends of his lips, his innocent expression shifting to reveal the hints of mischief, "what if I said it was a joke?"

"Are you still hung up on what I said this morning?" you reply, disbelieving.

His eyes don't meet yours.

Sylus picking you up after a long day of work, doing your skincare routine, removing your jewelry before going to sleep.

Rain is a cruel mistress; it seems that it only chooses to appear whenever you're working overtime.

Bracing yourself to weather the storm, you raise one measly hand up to cover the top of your head, the other shielding your bag under the fabric of your coat as you step outside the office, wincing slightly, a bright light reflecting the droplets of rain.

It's a car. A familiar one, at that. Squinting, you can make out the shape, its color, black, and a figure sitting in the driver's seat, the door swinging open, approaching you with such leisure, you half-wonder if it's only raining over you.

You look at Sylus, whose gaze has long-acquainted itself with yours. He tilts his head to the side, a smile—which more resembles a smirk—tugging at his lips, while he unravels the umbrella in his hand.

"You didn't think to use it for yourself?" you ask, the rain no longer meeting your skin, your figure now completely dry whilst Sylus's pearly hair drips with rainwater.

"Not at all," he replies, bemused.

"How'd you know I just finished my work?" you then query, Sylus's free hand reaching to open the passenger door, his head lowering slightly as he leans over your figure, putting your seatbelt on, rain still pelting at his skin and clothes.

"And if I told you it was my intuition?" he says, leaving no room for your response as he closes your door, finding his spot in the driver's seat soon after.

"I wouldn't believe it," you remark.

"Then, you can assume it was something else."

You deadpan. "Isn't that how it works?"

He spares you a smile, one hand on the top of the steering wheel, index finger tapping at the material while eyeing you from across the distance of a center console, its actuality minimal despite the way it feels as though a universe separates you from him.

Amidst the rain, the aux plays a slow, melodic tune.

"Well, it was intuition," he says, other hand reaching at your thigh, thumbing at your skin, his palm warm. "And, in part, a little birdie."

"And my location," you add.

"And your location," he reaffirms, smiling still, its shape less like a smirk and more akin to the look only a man so devotedly in love could ever wear, his eyes crinkling slightly, his expression content, malleable under your gaze.

The two of you return to the N109 Zone, the rain stopping at the edges of the city.

Sylus leaves the car first, circling it to open your door, hand outstretched as he takes your bag.

"I have to do it all over again tomorrow," you mumble, referring to your work, "this endless cycle of abuse..."

Sylus chuckles, free hand reaching for yours, fingers entwined, curling slightly as he squeezes your hand.

"How about you work for me? Luke and Kieran could use a court jester."

"Me?! A court jester?"

He laughs again, thumb now smoothing over the back of your hand, so familiar with its shape.

"Perhaps another role can be negotiated."

"It'd be better if there were no role at all!"

After eating dinner, you half-consider just retiring to bed without removing your sunscreen or jewelry—but Sylus, reading your mind, rests his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to the bathroom without consideration for protest.

"I'm so tired," you say, voice already marred with the beginnings of sleep, your eyes struggling to stay awake. "Let me sleep while greasy..."

"No can do, sweetie," Sylus replies, sitting you down in front of the mirror, washing his hands with soap before removing your sunscreen with some toning pads. "Just bear it for a little, then you can sleep all you want."

His words are succeeded by a quick kiss to your temple.

You've taught him that products should be applied, and removed, to or from the face via circular motions. Sylus, the ever-excellent student, applies what he's learned meticulously, toning pads featherlight against your skin.

The hilt of a gun is so familiar to his callused hands, and the stains of blood which he's grown so used to washing off—but, even better than a comfortable weapon, or the curl of a fist cushioned within a boxing glove, is the feeling of your face within the palm of his hands, the residue of sunscreen staining his fingers, the ease of your brows as he washes away your long-winded day.

Then, his hand reaches for the back of your neck, unclasping your necklace with ease. Another kiss. He leans forward, removing the locks of your earrings, taking the hook gently through the piercing, tucking it neatly into your vanity's—which occupies nearly half of his bathroom—compartment

A third kiss to your well-loved face. He must sneak these in before he applies your skincare, as you've completely banned him from touching your face once your it's on.

"Wash your hands before each step," you mumble, words slurring together as your head lulls forward slightly. Though you can't see it, Sylus's expression shifts to reveal fondness, irrevocable, with the melting of his vermilion eyes, pupils smoldering, heart ablaze.

Leaning forward once more, Sylus presses yet another kiss onto the bone of your cheek.

"My, so demanding."

More words leave your mouth, all incoherent and jumbled, your eyes fluttering shut midsentence. Sylus, quite the opportunist, takes this moment to seal your lips with his, unable to contain the smile which sweeps over his face, its shape attributed to the gentleness of his touch, the softness of the kiss as he settles the skincare score here.

"Anything else?" he asks, beginning the first step of your skincare (not without washing his hands first, of course!), rubbing the product in circular motions. You don't say anything; Sylus continues forward, ever-the-excellent student.

And, when all is done, your head leans against his chest, your breaths slowing as you succumb to slumber. Ever-the-excellent student, Sylus picks you up, hands supporting your legs and back, carrying you to the bed with the stillness of a statue with a mission: not to wake you up.

Grocery shopping with Caleb, taste testing meals, eating together.

"Really?" Caleb asks, disbelieving tone not matching the smile which tugs at his lips. "More instant ramen, Pips?"

Without a morsel of hesitation, you toss the nuclear-4x-spicy-volcano-eruption package into the cart, pleased with yourself as Caleb continues forward, his exasperation half-committed.

"Your stomach's going to hurt if you eat this alone," he remarks, hand outstretched to ruffle your head, the other resting on the shopping cart's handle as to keep it on course. "Get something cool while we're here."

"That's impossible," you reply, marching forward. "I'm invincible!"

While you disappear into the snack aisle, Caleb makes a stop by the freezer section, grabbing you a bundle of ice cream, the flavors your favorite.

You'll thank me later, is all he thinks. Or maybe not. Actually, probably not. You'll chalk the ice cream's presence up to pure luck, downing it after suffering from spice without a single thought as to where it comes from. That's fine too. What matters is that you don't get hurt.

Per your request, Caleb drafted a list of ingredients to buy in order to make your favorite dish—yet, despite not being a necessary component, he finds himself crossing off the words "ice cream" and "instant noodles" from his notes, pocketing his phone soon thereafter.

Watching you sift through the various snacks, Caleb prepares himself to cross off "soda," too. It's routine to him: the order of which you go through the aisles, the items your gaze lingers on versus which ones you haphazardly sweep over, the way you compare your favorite flavors, brows furrowed, lips pursed as you rack your brain.

"They both look good," you mutter, comparing a strawberry soda to a grape one. "I don't know which to choose, though..."

Noticing the way your gaze adorns the pinkish packaging, Caleb thinks today is a strawberry day.

"I guess I'll have to go with strawberry, then!" you exclaim, shelving grape.

"And these," you start, now holding two different bags of chips. "This is a really difficult one..."

Noticing the way your bottom lip presses against your upper one, the way your nose wrinkles from thought, the way your eyes narrow, reading the packaging of both your options—Caleb thinks there really is no need to choose only one.

"Let's get both, then," he suggests, taking both bags from your hands. "Why choose?"

Your expression brightens instantly. "You're a genius, Caleb!"

He laughs. You continue forward, and, with the shopping cart separating your figure from his, Caleb stares. The slight hop to your steps, the way your head tilts whenever you notice cute packaging, the occasional glance over your shoulder, eyes crinkling when you call his name, pointing at some collaboration between your favorite characters and a candy brand.

Your very existence reduces his heart to a trembling thing, twisting his ribs, curling them inwards—and to think you don't even realize that you hold it within your hands.

All your favorite snacks—as well as the ingredients to your favorite dish—secured, the two of you return to Caleb's home, his arms filled with bags while you drink your soda, satisfied.

"Strawberry was the right pick!" you exclaim, holding the drink up to Caleb's lips, tilting it for him to drink. Sugar on his tongue, he hums, watching you race ahead to the door, unlocking it with your key.

The sweetness travels from his mouth to his eyes, circulating throughout his limbs, melting into his chest, your figure submerged within sunset irises, carving out his pupils, vested safely within the chambers of his heart, satiated.

While Caleb toils away at the meal, you offer him moral support in the form of handing him utensils, arm brushing against his as you observe the status of your dish, boiling in the pot.

He puts a spoon up to your lips, head tilting slightly as he asks, "Taste test?"

"It's good!" you say, giving him a thumbs-up for added effect. Caleb just grins, spoon now placed back in the pot, palm pressed against the counter as he leans in, eyes trailing from your eyes to your lips.

"Taste test?" he asks, again, grinning still, eyes fluttering shut when you press your lips against his.

"Also good," you reply, his hand parting from the counter to cup the side of your face, sunset eyes meeting yours.

"One more?"

You laugh. "I'll allow it."

"Thanks for your kindness," he says. Another kiss. The pot bubbles, and Caleb, though reluctant, turns his attention towards it, stirring it slowly.

Caleb examines the quality of his cooking through the expressions which enrapture your face, the way you nod approvingly upon the first bite, the way you save all of the best parts for last. Caleb examines the quality of his cooking through the dishes you leave, how clean the plates are, which sides you ask for more of.

"So?" he says, face leaning against the palm of his hand, his food growing cold while he watches you eat, the sight alone is enough to quell the rumble of his stomach. "What d'ya think, Pips?"

"You outdid yourself this time!" you exclaim in between bites. Caleb, though flattered, hands you a napkin, brows furrowed slightly as he's reminded of a time from your childhood when you choked on your food midsentence.

His lips part to remind you of that time—and to warn you not to eat so quickly—but the glimmer of your eyes, and the way you shift happily in your seat, stomps out all ideas of saying anything at all.

"Aren't you going to eat?" you ask, eyeing his side dish. He slides it over to you, feigning exasperation, reaching over to flick your forehead.

"How greedy," Caleb responds, laughing.

(But your existence drowns in his eyes, and your figure melts into his bones, and the squeeze of your hands are what allow his heart to contract, and oh, your smile, it crinkles your irises, and it scrunches your nose, just a little, and the expression exists with him for longer than it does on your face—and he wants more, and he wants you, and to covet you is the greediest thing any man could ever do.)

"I'm just helping you out," you say while scarfing down your food, "'cause, you know, this isn't thaaat good..."

Caleb laughs again. The clink of dishware, the sound of voices, the existence of two, melding together, pores sinking into pores, love melting into bones—This is it, Caleb thinks.

Everything; right here.

Gardening with Rafayel, pulling out weeds, taking a nap under a tree.

"I'm going to wage war on the weeds," Rafayel declares, sitting flat on the floor, clothes stained with dirt. "They're going to regret natural selection, the fact they evolved, the ancestors they came from, the—"

"Land versus sea," you remark, holding up two weeds, their roots entangled with clumps of dirt. "I think land would win."

"Excuse me?!"

"It's only been an hour," you say, ignoring his look of utter betrayal and disbelief. "Why are you sweating so much?"

"An hour!" Rafayel repeats, arm raised to his forehead, falling back into the dirt with a harsh thud! as his chest heaves dramatically, damn near gasping for air as his free hand reaches for his chest, palming at the skin above his chest's cavity.

"A whole hour! Oh, the agony! I might shrivel up and die at this rate!" Then, he sits up, pointing at you accusingly. "Is that what you want? Huh, huh?!"

"Just go inside," you say, dismissing him with the flick of your hand. "I'll do it myself."

Rafayel gasps, brows furrowed, bridge of his nose wrinkling while his lips part, hanging agape, head darting to and fro as if to say, "Are you hearing this right now?!" But there's nobody around to share his disbelief. So, Rafayel does what he does best: he feigns nonchalance.

"Fine then!" he responds, standing up, dusting the dirt off his clothes before crossing his arms. "You can fight these weeds yourself. Don't come crying to me when they win!"

He walks away, making no effort to hide the glances he spares in your direction, wondering if you're going to grovel for him to come back (if you did, he'd half-consider continuing to toil away at these weeds with you)—but you don't, because you're heartless (how ironic!) and cruel. And sick in the head. And you really, really don't have an eye for the things that really matter in this world (read: him! He's the thing that matters! Over here! Him!)

Ten steps and twenty glances later, Rafayel realizes that you really aren't looking back. Fine. Whatever. Not like he cares, anyway!

And so, Rafayel returns to his air-conditioned studio, bottom lip jutted out as he sits down at his couch, feeling ill from how sweaty he is, the ache of weed-pulling beginning to sweep through his arms. Leaning back, he stares up at the ceiling, sulking.

He turns to look at you again, your figure now separated from his by a thin layer of glass, hunched over as you continue pulling away at those vile plants.

There you go again, he thinks. Uncaring, unabashed, unafraid. You do things without much regard for anyone else; Rafayel hates that about you. He hates that he can't seem to leave you alone, he hates that his gaze seems to root itself in your existence, unable to be torn away, unable to stare at anything else other than the slight part of your lips as you dig into the dirt, your brows furrowed, arm raised to wipe at your sweat.

You look tired.

A couple minutes later, Rafayel returns to your side with a hat, dropping it clumsily onto your head while he hands you a drink. Crouching down, he meets your gaze with the haughty tilt of his head, pouting, while he drinks in your expression with the insatiability of a couple centuries.

"Are you really going to spend the whole day doing this?" he asks, thumbing at a bead of sweat which trickles down the side of your face, eyes trickling—for the most minute of seconds—to your lips as you drink. His gaze meets yours again.

"Yeah," you reply. "We have to get your garden in order before spring arrives."

He huffs. "What's so good about a garden?"

"Didn't you ask me to help you plant things?"

Rafayel invited you over to his place with the attention of gardening for twenty minutes, and lounging for the rest of the day. He did not intend for you to work away at these damned weeds as if your life depended on it.

Still, it doesn't look like you have the wherewithal to even fathom the enormity of his thoughts—considering, well, you have no memory of anything at all!—so, with a defeated look, Rafayel tugs you away from the weeds, ushering you under a tree where he's so coincidentally set up a blanket.

"Sleep," he mutters, fingers brushing over your eyes, the coolness of his touch contrasting the warmth of your skin. "You're always causing trouble for me, you know?"

You snort. "Me? Have you seen yourself?"

Though you can't see his face, you can make out the offense in his voice, as if he's shocked by your audacity. Before he can even respond, Rafayel notices the shift in your breathing, the relax of your muscles, brows easing over as you drift into sleep.

"Ugh," he mutters, sitting back, staring at your comfortable form as you've come over to his house, freeloaded off of his kindness, and now are sleeping, despite being the guest! There's really something wrong with your standards!

"You're lucky, you know," he says, voice barely above a whisper, wiping away at the sweat which forms across your skin. "Using me like this."

After a couple hours, you wake up, your head propped up against Rafayel's lap as he sketches in a handheld book, his expression incredulous as you turn towards the garden, mouth hanging agape once you realize it was completely weeded.

"What?!" you exclaim. "Where'd all the weeds go?"

Rafayel scoffs. "They all just decided to get up and leave once you fell asleep."

You turn towards him, his hand parting from the sketchbook to thumb at your face, pinching your cheek.

"Is that what you thought I'd say? No! I did everything! While you slept, I was out there, working like a dog, day and night, living off of—"

You laugh. Rafayel's words falter before his complaint can continue on, eyes growing wide as you grin, returning his gesture by cupping his face in between your hands, adoring.

"Thanks, Raf."

He looks away, lips jutted out, brows furrowing. "Hmph. Is that all?"

"I love you."

His gaze returns to you, eyes blown wide, mouth hanging slightly agape as he stares at you, figure drowned in his pupils, expression ablaze as if he had just witnessed the sublime.

"Ugh... Do you think words are enough? Am I an easy fish to you!?"

"I love you and appreciate you very much," you say.

"Blub blub blub."

You lean forward, the shadow of the tree reaching everywhere but your lips. When you part, Rafayel hums, chasing after you again, hand pressed against the back of your head as he presses you towards him.

"I don't work for free, you know!"

Expecting your arrival, Zayne leaves sticky notes around his house for you when he works late shifts, carrying you from the couch to his bed when he does return home.

There are times where you're forced to acquaint yourself with the silence.

Zayne's home feels larger than life when he's not here—locking the door behind you, entering the place with your bags—but, there are hints of his presence everywhere, warmth seeping in through the crevices, the cold beginning to shy away.

As if expecting your arrival (despite you not telling him you'd go to his place after work), there are sticky notes around the walls, on the fridge, on the countertops.

His handwriting, while quick and oftentimes merged, reveals hints of love, etched into the way he writes your name, clearer than other words—or the way he rewrites parts he thinks may be illegible, ensuring he's conveyed everything he needs to.

"Heat up the container with the red lid," the sticky note on the refrigerator door says. "It's your favorite soup. Side dishes are the containers on the top."

On the countertop: "Don't stay up too late. Don't wait for me to come home. Sleep first."

On the television remote: "Take breaks while watching. Don't stare at the screen for too long. Get up and look around."

On the cabinets filled with sweets: "Don't eat them all." You half-wonder if it's because he's planning to go through them all in your stead.

And, on the door to his room, its hinge parting to reveal his bed, neatly made: "Sleep here. Don't sleep on the couch."

When you reach for the container, pulling the side dishes away, there's another sticky note on the lid. The writing, smaller than the rest, clearer and more carefully enscribed, reads, "I love you. I'll be home soon. Eat well."

You pocket this sticky note, smiling uncontrollably, running your fingers over the words as you can feel the indent of the pen, the pressure of his adoration, the tenderness of his words, etched hours ago. Warm, you eat the food he prepared for you, sitting at the couch with a show put on the television, wrapped up in a spare blanket.

Despite Zayne telling you not to wait for him, you find yourself lingering on the couch for much longer than intended, gaze staring at the screen, dazed, as you peer at your phone, noticing the time. Midnight, you think, unable to bite back a yawn, your eyes glossy.

You don't know when you fell asleep after that.

Zayne arrives home, bag in hand, his scrubs folded neatly within as he changes into his slippers at the door, noticing an extra pair in the rack.

You're home, he thinks. The realization makes his heart stutter a little, organ swelling, feeling fuller and wholler and brighter. The buzz of the television resounds throughout the home, accompanied by the scent of food, your presence existing everywhere—in his home, in his chest, in his mind, lingering. He steps forward, noticing your figure on the couch, wrapped up in front of the bright light. He sighs.

"I thought I told you not to sleep here..." he mutters, approaching you from a distance, noticing your eyes, fluttered shut, mouth hanging slightly agape as you sleep without a single care in the world.

Zayne showers quickly, not wanting to keep you there for much longer, but not wanting to touch you before having cleaned himself from today's shift. Afterwards, he's quick to find your figure, lifting you up, still encased in the blanket as he brings you to his room, laying you down in his bed, replacing the spare with his own comforter.

"Zayne...?" you mumble, wiping at your eyes. Zayne's hand raises to your wrist, stopping the movement, lips parting to lecture you about how it's bad for your eyes—but then he catches a glimpse of your expression under the light, hazy, marred with sleep, yet adoration seeping through your gaze, and suddenly, he can't bring himself to say anything at all. He swallows thickly.

You've made such a lover of him, your existence pervading throughout his own, his lips unable to utter any word that is not your name.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says, quiet. "Sleep."

You lean towards him, burying your face in the fabric of his shirt, breathing in, warmth coalescing. Zayne rubs circles into your back, fingers tracing over the skin, feeling the tenseness of your muscles which he'll address later. For now, all that matters if that he's home, that you're here, and that, most wonderfully, the two of you are together.

There is silence—most of all, there is love.

You’re jogging toward the trees now, throwing caution to the wind as you follow the sounds of his pain. Just before you cross into the forest, you finally spot your boyfriend’s massive figure, his wine red hair being the giveaway. He’s facing a pine tree, tail stiff and laid low, touching his head and wincing repeatedly.

As he registers your scent and whips around to face you, you understand why: at least 15 black-tipped, spindly death daggers sprout from his cheeks and nose. 

“Valko?” You cover your mouth in shock, and he stumbles closer, falling forward against you.

“Hurts,” he grunts. 

Like always, you struggle to support his large body. Even more so now that one wrong move could further impale him. “What happened?” 

“Porcupines are supposed to be nocturnal,” he says, voice grim and shaky. “This one wasn’t.” 

If you had an extra hand, you’d drag it down your forehead right now. 

Skunks, raccoons, exceptionally angry squirrels—those had all happened before. A porcupine, though? That was new. Almost impressive.

“You just get into all sorts of trouble, don’t you.” Taking a step back, you brace your hands on his chest to examine him. “Let me have a look at you.” 

The quills look like toothpicks dipped in black ink. And while a few of them seem to have barely penetrated his skin, the majority mark the porcupine’s decisive victory. 

“Can you take them out?” he asks, staring down at you pleadingly. “If we hurry, we can still make the movie on time. I know I’m super late. I’m sorry.”

Twenty of nature’s finest knives in his face, and he’s worried about the movies?

“You obviously had a reason,” you murmur, cupping his less-affected left cheek in your hand. “I don’t know if I should, Koko. The tomato bath was one thing, but this… If I do it wrong, I’ll just make it worse.” 

His response is simple: “I trust you.” 

Cute. But not what you need right now.

Blowing out a breath, you stand up on your tiptoes and reach for one of the looser quills. Your fingers barely brush the tip of it when renewed anxiety shoots through you. “No, no. I can’t! I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You couldn’t if you tried.” He snorts, then winces at the pain. 

“Tell that to the porcupine.” You narrow your eyes. “I think it missed the memo.” 

His ears swivel in acknowledgment. He’s 0–2 in battles today. 

“All right, change of plans,” you announce, clapping your hands and turning on your heel. “We can go to the movies another day. Right now, we need to go to the vet.” 

“It’s not that serious,” he protests. “I’d do it myself if I just had a mirror. Let’s go back to the house, and—”

“I’ll get the car ready.” Your word is final. 

His ears droop atop his head. 

Ultimately, you had to ease him into the passenger’s seat so he didn’t accidentally nudge any of the quills. You debated just shoving him into the trunk so he’d have extra room, but figured extraction would be a difficult task in the clinic’s often-packed parking lot. 

In the waiting room, you try to shield him as best you can from quizzical looks and a particularly curious cat, but he’s without a doubt the largest patient in the room. Likewise, once he’s called to the back, his sheer size makes the exam room furniture look like dollhouse accessories. The central table is nearly the length of his tail alone, and it creaks under his every movement. But you stand dutifully at his side, making sure he’s as comfortable as can be, given the circumstances. 

The vet’s entrance is prompt as always—part of the reason why Valko prefers this clinic. The other is the giant fish tank in the waiting room that he gets to busy himself with. Today, he was in too much pain, but he typically holds intense staring contests with its oblivious inhabitants, bragging to you whenever he “wins.” 

“Well, I typically ask, ‘What seems to be the problem?’,” Dr. Song jokes as she shakes both of your hands. “But today, I don’t think that’s necessary.” 

Sighing, Valko scratches at his jeans. “I went out for a run, and I heard something grunting in a bush nearby. I thought it might’ve been a lost pup, so I went to check it out. Anyone would, right?” He looks to you for support. 

Smiling softly, you rub a hand down his back. “Right.” Not in most circumstances, no!

Nodding gratefully, he continues. “As soon as I crouched down and saw it, it whipped its tail at me. Next thing I knew, it had stabbed me a million times.” 

“Well.” Dr. Song sighs and pulls out a pair of tweezers. “You’re not the worst case I’ve seen. Sometimes, it’s the whole face—and neck.” She waves her hand forward, and Valko scoots toward her on the table. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” 

You take a step back to give her some space, but she quickly shakes her head. “Oh no, you stay standing next to him. I might need you to hold him down.” 

──────

Right when you wonder if Valko’s death grip will shatter every bone in your hand, Dr. Song holds up the final quill in triumph. “That’s nineteen quills total. Looks like Mr. Porcupine let you off easy.” 

Valko kicks the air in desolation. “Doesn’t feel like it.” 

“It will when you wake up tomorrow and you don’t have to wonder, ‘How did it even get my nostrils?’,” she retorts, heading to the door. “Now, let me just get your treatment, and you’ll be free to go.” 

The second she steps into the hall, Valko turns to you and whimpers. “It hurts.” 

Frowning in sympathy, you run your free hand through his hair. “How bad?”

“Really.” 

You start to shush him and scratch the backs of his ears how he likes, but approaching footsteps force him to regain his composure. Still, when Dr. Song re-enters the room, he holds your hand a little tighter. 

“All right,” she begins. “I’m going to disinfect and put ointment on the wounds, and…” She pulls out a familiar, conical object from behind her back. 

Valko freezes as soon as he sees it. Your own mouth parts in shock. 

Is that…? 

No way. 

“...to keep them from getting infected, either through scratching or contamination, I recommend you wear this recovery cone for a week. Just to be safe.” 

When she waves the transparent cone through the air, Valko sputters in consternation. “You want to put me in jail?”

“Of course not. You’ve done nothing wrong. But to prevent further irritation, it’s best that for the next seven days, you only remove this from your neck when absolutely necessary. Also, you should avoid certain skin-to-skin activities that may aggravate the entry spots.” 

You understand her implication, but Valko’s tail thrashes in unease. “What…what kind of activities?” 

The doctor smiles down at him. “The usual. Scenting, kissing, anything further than that. Now! Raise your head for me so I can clean the punctures.” 

Before he does, Valko gives you a look that needs no decoding: I think I’m gonna be sick. 

Day 1

Your keys clatter on the kitchen counter as Valko trails inside behind you. 

Knowing he’ll be glum about his current confinement, you try to get ahead of it, hoping you can offset the bad with so much good, he’ll forget about being in plastic prison.

“So, is there anything you want to do this evening? Watch a drama, make double chocolate chip cookies, play a video game? I could order in from your favorite steakhouse if you want. Or we could go for a walk?” 

Despite your efforts, his lips stay curved downward. His ears barely twitch at the mention of his favorite things. 

“Okay, what about—”

“I look dumb,” he mumbles suddenly, blinking at you through the cone. It surrounds his head like petals to a flower, stopping just above his nose. He looks like an upright bullhorn, or perhaps a frilled lizard, but you can’t tell him that. 

“You look safe,” you say instead. “That’s what matters, yeah?”

“Not when I look dumb, too.” With a huff, he reaches behind his head, eager to free himself of Conecatraz. But before he can undo the clasp, you’re crossing your arms and tapping your foot, giving him a withering glare. 

“You know you aren’t supposed to touch that. Put your hands down.”

“Make me.”

Oh, really? That’s how it is?

Scoffing, you cock your head at him, and the first signs of regret appear on his face. “‘Make’ you, huh? Should I call the vet and tell her what you’re up to? I’m sure she has advice for patients who break the rules. Like, maybe if you mess with your cone too much and stunt your healing progress, you’ll just have to wear it even longer to make up for it?” You start to turn, ready to stalk toward the house phone. 

“No, wait!” Lurching forward, he tries to bend down to snuggle you in apology—a favorite habit of his. But you sidestep him quickly, clicking your tongue in admonishment. 

As he loses his balance, he gives you a look of ultimate betrayal.

“Don’t pout at me. I'm doing this for you, okay? You heard the doctor. Where your face is concerned, skin-to-skin contact is off limits for now.”

As if he didn't hear you, he ducks toward you again, desperate to marry his cone to your shoulder. This time, you give his arm a healthy pinch, and he yelps in shock.

“No, Koko. It's for your own good.”

Frustration grows on his face, beginning to claw at your heart, too. He’s never had to limit contact with you like this. Even when you first met, he was stuck to you like a magnet. 

Sighing, you try to bring him some comfort. “Here. Get on your knees.” 

He follows the order without further prompting, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor. Even like this, he’s still half your height. 

“Come here.” Reaching through the cone’s opening, you pet the top of his head, running your fingers through his soft strands with care. When he leans into your touch, you trace his ears with light strokes and smile when he shudders. Gradually, the deep frown on his face shrinks to a mild line of displeasure. 

He wraps his strong arms around your thighs in a stubborn thank-you, and you can't help but coo down at him. “You’re my big, strong wolf, aren’t you? It’ll be over before you know it. You can handle this, no problem.” 

Day 3

Valko could not handle it, and there were many problems. 

In fact, while he was bored out of his mind the night of Day 2, he pried open his laptop and drafted a list of complaints.

Eating has become an unpleasant experience. While he’s permitted to remove the cone at mealtimes, he must eat in a separate room so your scent doesn’t lure his unprotected self over. Worse, you will not enter the room until he’s refastened the cone around his neck. The humiliation of having to cone himself solely to win your presence is quickly becoming too much to bear. 

You won’t let him go on errands with you, lest he get into something he shouldn't and aggravate his wounds. This makes him incredibly restless—especially when you come home smelling like other people and things, and there’s nothing he can do about it. This causes significant anxiety and emotional distress. 

He usually sleeps with his tail curled around you and his face shoved deep into your skin. This earns him a constant stream of your scent. However, a wall of pillows now separates your sides of the bed. Even worse, he is not permitted to remove the cone for the night. This causes discomfort and loss of familiarity, which undermines the restorative purpose of sleep. He will be sending you any medical bills that arise due to his sleep deprivation. 

Last, but perhaps most important: the cone obstructs his view of you, which he depends on for energy throughout the day. (You’re quick to deem this one questionable, because the cone is fully see through???)

A document of his grievances was taped to your blanket, just over your heart, this morning. 

Clearly, he had a lot on his mind. 

Now, you lie on the sofa watching TV, trying to cuddle with him as best you can. Your fingers are intertwined, and he’s sprawled awkwardly across your lap, face up and eyes begging. You try to ignore the incessant nonverbal pleading, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumb. 

Sometimes, he turns his head into your belly—or maybe a little lower—and inhales as deeply as he can through the plastic. When you gasp and swat at him, suddenly scandalized, he only huffs and grumbles, bringing you closer. “Just let me have this.”

As the sun dips in the sky, he almost relaxes. He grows captivated by the nature show you’re watching, ears going into overdrive from all the birdsongs and animal calls. It’s the calmest he’s been in the last three days, you think—until the “woodland creatures” portion of the show begins.

His mortal enemy lies in wait within.

“It’s not as big as the one that did this to me,” he growls at the porcupine stumbling around on the screen. “He was a monster.”

“I’m sure he was,” you answer automatically. You’re used to this by now. “How else could he have taken you down?”

Valko grunts in agreement, then pauses the TV. “Can we do something else now?”

“Okay.” You squint at him warily. “Something like what?”

Slowly, as if you won’t be able to see him, he trails his hand down your side, gently squeezing at your hip.

“No,” you sigh, firmly returning his hand to him. 

Tuning out his protests, you unpause the show. At that moment, a closeup of the porcupine’s snout fills the screen.

“Can you at least change the channel, then?” he mumbles.

Day 5

Since you’ve known him, Valko has never been one to give up. Driven and scrupulous, he approaches life with an outlook that’s both endearing and exhausting: if not now, maybe later.

It’s no surprise, then, when his attempts to hold and claim you like normal escalate to new heights. 

One time, you catch him in the midst of the most primal desperation. 

It’s not even noon yet, but here he is: laid out nude in the middle of your bed, head propped on his set of pillows while he clutches one of yours to his cone. With his instincts compromised and your scent already flooding his nose, he can’t yet tell that you’ve entered the room. And boy. If you thought he was shameless in public, Valko in private is a whole different animal.

His hand is all but glued to the heavy bulk between his legs, pumping and twisting like he’ll die if he doesn’t. 

His thumb circles his tip as he works his rhythm, abs flexing with each ragged breath. Every soft, broken moan of your name is an axe to your resolve. 

Before you do something you’ll regret, you try to back out of the bedroom and leave. But as soon as one foot is out the door, your shoulder hits the wall with a quiet thump. 

You freeze instantly, your heart dropping to your feet.

There’s no point in hoping he didn’t hear. To Valko, no sound is ever quiet.

He jerks his head toward you immediately, steady pumps getting wilder the moment your eyes meet. “Fuck,” he pants, writhing desperately on the sheets. His massive thighs tremble with every movement, sending tiny shocks of heat to your core. “Fuck.”

“Valk—”

“Please help me. Please, it hurts so bad. I need you so bad, please, it’s been days.”

You bite your lip so hard, you think you’ll draw blood. “You know I can’t.”

“I don’t care what the vet said,” he growls, fist finally coming to a stop. “I care about you.” 

Clinging to resolve, you cross your arms and stay put. At that, he closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep through his nose.

“Just— Help me finish, please. You don’t have to touch anywhere near my face. That’s the rule, right?”

As that pleading stare pins you to the spot once more, you bite your lip in consideration. He’s flushed all over, and a thin sheen of sweat coats his whole body. He really does need your help, but can you risk it?

When his mask slips, letting the hungry glint in his eyes shine through, you know you can’t.

“I won’t touch you, Valko. But you can use this.” Swiftly, you tug your shirt over your head and toss it onto the bed. He catches it with ease, and behind the cone, his face contorts in bewilderment.

“Use it?”

“To finish,” you explain, folding your arms across your bra. “It’s the safest way I can help you right now.”

Gazing at you like you’re a deity reborn, he presses the fabric to his cone’s exterior, right outside his nose. As he inhales, a deep, guttural groan escapes him. “Thank you,” he pants. His hand returns to his reddened length, and he redoubles his earlier efforts. 

Leaking arousal glistens on his skin, and you can hear how much easier it makes things for him. Covered in his own desire, he slides his hand up and down with no friction, creating lewd, wet sounds that echo through the room. 

“Thank you, thank you— Fuck, thank you. I’ve done this like ten times already, and it’s taken me longer every go,” he admits shamelessly. “This is so much better. Not as good as you, but so much better. Thank you.” 

He bucks his hips into his giant fist, and for a moment, you fear your shared bed might collapse under his ferocity. Once he starts licking the cone’s wall, as if he’ll be able to taste your shirt through the plastic, you almost want to avert your eyes and leave the two of them alone together. 

You don’t have long to ponder it. Soon after, Valko comes quickly with a deep groan of your name, coating his skin in spills of white. As he convulses in pleasure, you approach his bedside to stroke his hair through the cone’s opening—just like you have for the last several days. Valko whines at your touch. 

“Shh, baby. It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just two more days, yeah?”

His response is halfway between a growl and a grunt. Chuckling, you bend to kiss his damp, darkened hair. “Just two more days.” 

Day 7

At 12 a.m., you wake to an empty bed. “Koko?”

There’s no response to your call. Groaning, you throw off the covers and stretch your tired limbs. Where did he run off to? It’s barely been two hours since you went to bed.

Hugging yourself to keep warm, you pad into the dark hallway. The home gym is clear, and he’s not in the kitchen sneaking chocolate. Where could he be?

It doesn’t take long to find out.

In the living room, Valko stands at the back door, gazing at the moon through the window. 

He’s clad only in loose grey sweats. More notably, he’s missing his cone. 

The only indication that he knows you’re there is a near imperceptible twitch of his ears. “It’s day seven, did you know that?” he rumbles. 

Suddenly nervous, you shift on your feet. “I did.” 

“So you also know what I’ve been missing the last seven days.” He turns to face you, eyes stormy and narrowed. “What I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. What I begged you to give me, but you refused. Acted like you were doing me a favor,” he spits out, lips curling into a snarl.

In the moonlight filtering through the window, his amber eyes are a new level of otherworldly. Pale, greyish-white slivers flicker across his chest, making his taut abs seem to ripple in front of you. 

After seven days, he looks very, very grumpy.

You get the sense that you’re in trouble. 

“Koko,” you start, stepping forward to placate him, “you know that’s not—”

“Don’t ‘Koko’ me,” he snaps. “That’s reserved for people I’m close with.”

Is he serious? “You know I’m closer to you than anyone.”

“Right now? After this week? I’m not so sure. But you will be.” His tail swishes behind him as he takes a menacing step toward you. “Come here,” he growls out. 

“We can talk about this, but I’m not going to—”

“Three.”

“Okay, are you seriously threatening me with a countdown?”

“Two.” 

“That’s my thing! You know, when you won’t let me get out of bed, or when you bite too hard, or—”

He doesn’t let you get to “one.”

When he bursts forward at superhuman speed, he doesn’t even give you the chance to run. 

You’re in his arms in an instant, thrashing wildly as he tries to pull you both to the floor. “You’re heavy as fuck!” you bark at him. “Let me go!”

“No.” He overpowers you easily, lowering you to the carpet and quickly pinning you there. He only takes a moment to revel in your submission—your high squeaks and whimpers and feeble attempts to swat him off. Evidently, he has bigger plans for you.

While you wriggle beneath him, he deftly kicks off his sweats and quickly deals with your clothes. You’re wearing only a nightshirt—his, you notice all too late—and completely vulnerable to his impatience.

He rips a line straight down the middle, clumsily shrugging the worn fabric off you. While you’re too busy gawking to register his actions, he slides down your body, coming to a halt at your traitorously wet heat. 

“Usually, at least a little bit of my scent lingers here,” he says, inhaling you deeply. “You’ve lost it after not taking me for so long. But we’ll fix it, won’t we?”

When you don’t respond, his eyes flash up at you. “Won’t we?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper, signing away your fate.

“Yeah, we will.” Surging forward, he places an open-mouthed kiss to your entrance, swirling his tongue into you without warning. His ensuing groan could start a national scandal. 

“I’m gonna let you go, all right?” He nips your inner thigh. “Don’t try to run from me. I’ll catch you.” 

He watches closely as he eases off of you, but there’s no need—you obey. 

“Good girl,” he mocks, and you break his gaze with a huff. 

Chuckling, he sweeps his hair back and lies down on the carpet, grabbing your arm and dragging you to him. “Sit on me.”

“…What?”

“My face. Sit on it.”

“…What?” 

“Oh, I get it. Is this a ‘make me’ kind of thing? Well, if you insis—”

“No!” You hold your hands out in defense, grimacing when he grins at you. “You know we’ve never…done that before.”

He shrugs. “First time for everything. Hop on.”

You stay put, shaking your head with vigor no matter how hard your center pulses. “What if you can’t breathe?”

“Don’t need to.”

“I think you do, but okay.” Playing with your fingers, you search for another excuse. “What if I’m too heavy?”

Valko’s smile slips, and his top lip curls as he looks at you flatly. “Now you’re just insulting me.” 

In retrospect, you should’ve known that one wouldn’t get you very far.

“Fine,” you concede shakily. Crawling toward him, you put your hands on either side of his massive body and sit down on him in a straddle. Gingerly, you scoot up, and up, and up, until your hips are right below his chin. His smirk widens all the way. 

“Last chance to back out,” you offer helplessly. How would grilled porcupine taste?

“In your dreams.” In an instant, his arm shoots out behind you and guides you forward. You cry out the second your sensitive flesh meets his skin, nearly cursing from the foreign sensation. 

For a moment, all he does is breathe you in. Lewd, deep inhales, trying to siphon the scent from your depths. “Missed this,” he murmurs, words slightly muffled. “Missed you. Fuck, you’re so good. You smell so good.”

You’re afraid to look down, but you don’t have to. You can hear his smile.

Instead, you look behind you, seeing that his thick, veiny length is flushed and leaking already. Your gulp echoes in your ears. 

A soft press of his lips to your throbbing clit pulls you back to your senses. With another kiss, he positions the bud over his nose and your entrance over his mouth, so he’s sure to catch all your desire.

When he squeezes your hip, you know he’s asking for more. Gently, timidly, you rock against his face to appease him. Valko, though, ever observant when you’re involved, knows you’re withholding your full weight. 

And he won’t have it. 

Simultaneously, he delivers a sharp slap to your backside and nips your clit in warning. When you squeal out into the cool air, he soothes the sting with a searing lash of his tongue. 

“I’m trying!” you cry. “Whenever we do this, I’m always the one on my back! I feel weird.”

Squeezing your hips, he lifts you up just enough to speak. “Tough.”

Then, he plops you right back down, the smack of skin on skin spreading a wildfire across your cheeks.

Eager to explore, he glides his tongue around your core, poking and prodding wherever he likes. When you arch away from the pleasure, too sensitive to stay still, he decides he’s had enough. 

His tight grip on your hips is his first act of defiance. But when he starts bouncing you on his face, alternating between his mouth and nose, you’re more than ready to throw in the towel. 

“Valko!” you whine. Up and down, down and up. Up and down again and again. How long has he wanted this?

A response would require a pause in his actions, so of course, he doesn’t provide one. Instead, he flattens his tongue against your clit and makes you grind your hips down onto him, like he’s nothing but an extension of you. “Valko!” you repeat, stars quickly clouding your vision.

All he offers is an unburdened grunt, clearly not planning on stopping anytime soon. And why would he, when there’s so much to lap up?

A mix of his saliva and your arousal pools between you, with sound effects previously unheard of filling the room. You’re so wet, at one point, you almost slide down his face to his forehead—but he hauls you back up with a laugh, the vibrations only exacerbating the issue. When you pull at his hair, shy and embarrassed, he merely sucks your clit into his mouth and releases it with a pop. 

Captive to his relentless touch, it isn’t long before your muscles contract and release, sending more and more wetness gushing toward his waiting mouth. 

Your mind is a haze as he licks you clean, making sure not to waste a single drop. You do register, though, how he inhales once again when he’s finished. “Smells like me again. That’s better.”

Thinking his wrath has exhausted itself, you feel your body deflate like a popped balloon. You’re more than ready to melt into the sheets and sleep off the worst of the aftermath. 

“We should seal the deal, though. Just to be sure.”

Valko has other plans.

Before you can blink, he flips you over with force, driving your hands and knees into the carpet. When you yelp, he squeezes your backside in apology, only to slip his fingers down to your open slit. Once he confirms that you’re ready for him, he braces his hands on your hips and slides into you with ease. 

Your startled gasp is his grand opportunity. As you cry out his name, he shoves his fingers into your open mouth, making you sputter and swallow around them. With his other hand, he clamps your jaw shut so you’re forced to bite him, your blunt teeth barely a threat against his skin. 

All the while, he’s moaning and laughing, hips stuttering from his rapid thrusts. Each time his base slaps your backside, you feel him grow larger and larger, until you’re being speared on something you’re not sure you can take. But as your muscles contract around him once more, squeezing him with all that they have, you don’t think that matters anymore.

In tune with your own release, hot spurts shoot deep into your channel, followed by a searing, swollen pressure you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to. It’s at this point that the last of your strength crumbles. But when you start to slump into the floor, you find you can’t move too far—not without bringing Valko with you. 

As you both catch your breath, locked together until the comedown, he slides his hand out of your mouth and slaps your cheek lightly, signaling for you to open your screwed-shut eyes. When you do, he sticks his drool-coated fingers into his own mouth, canines poking into his flesh as he swipes his tongue greedily. 

All you can do is whine.

You don’t know when your bodies will loosen up enough for you to separate. All you know is that he’s got you here, right where he wants you, for a long, long, agonizingly long time. 

──────

“Are you satisfied?” you deadpan as the beast finally tucks you into bed. 

“For now.” You can hear his smirk as he flicks off the lights. Doesn’t make much of a difference, though.

It’s dawn. 

“But you can check back with me in an hour. Maybe my answer will be different.”

“In an hour, I will be dead to the world and recovering from you,” you grumble. Suddenly, you purse your lips. “I’m gonna miss that cone, you know.”

Even in the dim morning light, you can see his brows furrow. “What?” 

“You looked cute in it. Like a little puppy.” Reaching out, you grab his face and squish his cheeks between your fingers. “So cute.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his tail thumps the mattress. “Whatever. It did have its benefits, though. Tonight was so good, I wouldn’t mind a repeat.”

“You really think you can do that again? Seven whole days, no contact?”

“‘Course I do. It wasn’t that hard for me.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Not even you believe that.” 

“Yeah. This was fun, though,” he says through a yawn. “We should do it again sometime. Goodnight.”

As he rolls over and tucks his tail around you, blanketing you in half his body weight, a nagging thought won’t leave your head.

Should you switch vets?