Xemnas

By the time dinner finally crept close, the kitchen had grown warm with steam and quiet tension. You stood at the counter preparing the meal while Unum worked nearby, sanctifying each dish with careful precision so it would be safe for everyone—especially you. The soft glow of divinity followed his hands as he murmured blessings under his breath.

Your own hands, however, were far less gentle.

The knife struck the cutting board again and again, each chop sharp and unforgiving, as if you were carving your irritation straight into the vegetables. The rhythm was too fast, too harsh. Unum noticed immediately. He had noticed, in truth, ever since the children’s checkup ended—since the tightness in your shoulders, the way your smile never quite reached your eyes. 

It amused him.

A quiet chuckle escaped him at the sight of your furrowed brow and wrinkled nose, an expression so familiar it tugged something fond—and dangerous—in his chest.

You snapped a glare in his direction. “What is it?” you asked, irritation bleeding clearly into your tone.

Unum lifted his gaze from the bowl he was sanctifying, the soft glow around his hands dimming as his full attention settled on you. Amusement lingered briefly in his eyes, but it faded when he noticed how tightly you were gripping the knife, your knuckles blanched white.

“That,” he said calmly as he stepped closer, “is the sound of someone taking their frustration out on innocent vegetables.”

He moved in behind you, close enough that his presence boxed you in—not threatening, but inescapable. One arm braced lightly against the counter as his other hand reached forward, closing gently around your wrist. He didn’t force you to stop; he simply steadied the motion, grounding it. His touch was warm, deliberate, and your cheek flushed pink when his breath brushed the back of your neck.

“You’ve been like this since the checkup,” he continued quietly. “Your anger is loud tonight.

There was a pause—you froze.

His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse, as if he were listening for something deeper than your heartbeat. You felt him swallow behind you, that strange, unspoken yearning tightening in his chest. With deliberate patience, he coaxed the knife from your fingers, guiding your hand open and threading his fingers through yours instead. His free arm slid slowly around your waist, drawing you back until your body was pressed flush to his.

The hunger in him was unmistakable. Oh, how he wanted to consume you.

Then—carefully, though something sharp hid beneath the calm—he asked, “Did Septem say something to you?”

“Septem made Noor eat less,” you murmured, your voice small, trembling. “Why would Septem—”

Your words faltered, swallowed by the stillness that settled over Unum. His grip tightened slightly around your hand—not in anger, but in restraint. The arm at your waist pulled you closer as he dipped his head, brushing his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in as though your scent anchored him.

“Why don’t you stop Septem, Unum?” you asked, your tone sharp with confusion and hurt. “Aren’t you angry?”

“You know I can’t,” he replied quietly. “Septem outranks me. What he commands, I must obey.” A pause. Then, more honestly, “So yes. I am angry.”

His teeth grazed your skin in a brief, possessive nip, making you gasp. His voice dropped, thick with something dangerous. “I don’t enjoy another man taking your attention from me,” he murmured. “You are mine.”

You melted against him despite yourself, your knees weakening as he leaned you forward against the counter, his mouth lingering at your neck. You moaned when his hands tightened, exploring your breast with a claiming urgency that made your pulse race. He hummed, pleased by your reaction.

“Wait—Unum,” you breathed. “What are you doing?”

“Mine,” he answered.

Then he froze.

A soft, broken hiccup escaped your lips.

Unum pulled back slowly, dread flooding his expression. His thoughts spiraled—had he hurt you? Gone too far? The sensation in his chest was different now, sharp and unfamiliar, as though something vital were cracking open.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, voice unsteady, confusion laced with panic. He reached for you, whispering your name—

—and you slapped his hand away.

“You really care more about claiming me than listening to me,” you cried, fury and pain spilling over. “Like I’m some object you own!”

You stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Unum staring at the space you’d occupied moments before.

Anger burned through him.

You rejected him. Why? You were his. The children were his. Had he not provided it? Protected? Was he not enough?

His thoughts circled relentlessly, always landing on the same answer.

Septem.

The one man he could not defy.

His jaw clenched as his fist slammed into the counter, the sound echoing through the empty room. Frustration stung his eyes, tears slipping free before he could stop them. These feelings—jealousy, fear, desire—twisted inside him, driving a desperate need to ensure you would never look at anyone else the way you looked at him.

But even as the thought took root, he knew one thing with terrible clarity:

If he wanted to keep you, he would have to learn what this feeling is. 

—--------------------

You lay curled beneath the thin morning light, listening as two mourning doves sang softly to one another outside your window. Their cooing was gentle, intimate—too peaceful for the storm churning inside you. You watched them through the glass, their small bodies pressed close on the branch, while anxious thoughts gnawed relentlessly at your mind.

You had disrespected a god.

The realization returned again and again, heavy as a weight on your chest. What punishment awaited you? Silence felt worse than anger. Unum had not appeared since the outburst, and that absence terrified you more than his presence ever had. Each passing day stretched your nerves thinner, and cowardice kept you rooted where you were, afraid to seek him out, afraid of what you might find in his eyes.

You were still lost in those spiraling thoughts when the sound of a door opening cut through the quiet.

Your body froze.

Heart pounding, you slowly pushed yourself upright, every muscle tense, breath shallow—as if moving too quickly might seal your fate. Before you could even turn toward the sound, something small and solid collided with you. You were knocked backward as Shams and Noor barreled into you at once, laughter and warmth crashing over you without warning, yelling, “Good Morning!”

You yelped, startled, instinctively throwing your arms up as they clung to you, their sudden presence shattering the silence you’d been drowning in. Their laughter filled the room—bright, carefree, contagious—and despite everything weighing on you, it pulled a smile from your lips.

You snuggled your babies close, breathing them in, grounding yourself in their warmth.

That was when you noticed him.

Unum stood just behind them, having appeared so quietly you hadn’t heard him approach. In his hands was a simple tray of pancakes, steam still curling faintly into the air. He watched you for a moment before moving, his steps soundless as he walked closer. Without a word, he knelt and placed the tray carefully on your lap, his gaze never leaving yours.

You froze beneath the intensity of it.

He reached up, cupping your cheeks in his hands, thumbs warm against your skin. A smile tugged at his lips—not wide, not cruel, but unsettling all the same, teeth just barely showing. “Morning, how did you sleep?” he murmured.

He leaned in and kissed you tenderly, softly, as if nothing had happened between the two of you—no raised voices, no fractured trust, no silence that had stretched for days. The normalcy of it made your chest ache.

Slowly, almost without realizing it, you leaned into his touch. Your head tilted back just enough to bare the line of your neck to him.

Unum’s pupils dilated at the sight of your exposed skin. A slow, possessive hunger stirred in him—an urge to claim, to mark, to make permanence where uncertainty lingered. He lingered there, unmoving, savoring the moment rather than taking it.

His gaze darkened with private fixation, mouth curving into a faint, knowing smirk. He took visible pleasure in how easily you yielded, how your body responded before your thoughts could intervene—choosing to read it not as habit or fear, but as devotion.

As a submission.

And he enjoyed it. He enjoyed the control he held over you.

A low chuckle slipped from him as his thumb traced your jaw. “You missed me?” he teased lightly.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks, the tips of your ears flushing despite yourself. You looked away. “The bed felt a bit colder than normal.”

Yes. Of course, you had missed him. You hated that you had.

Your gaze dropped to the pancakes just as Shams tugged at your sleeve. “Mom, we helped Daddy mix the batter!”

“Oh? You did?” You giggled, warmth blooming briefly—until you noticed Noor’s stare. Fixed. Hungry.

Something twisted sharply in your chest.

Septem’s orders echoed in your mind, bitter and cruel. You quickly cut a piece of pancake and offered it to Noor. “Here, baby. Eat some.”

Noor froze. Then he shook his head, covering his mouth before bolting from the room.

“Noor—” You stopped yourself mid-call. Shams ran after her twin, leaving the room painfully quiet.

You leaned back, jaw clenched, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Unum had gone very still.

The shift was subtle, but unmistakable. His hand tightened briefly at his side. His jaw set. The warmth he’d worn moments ago drained from his expression, replaced by something colder—older. His gaze flicked toward the doorway where Noor had disappeared, and for a moment, Septem’s name seemed to sit there unspoken, heavy and unwelcome.

Slowly, deliberately, Unum sat beside you, close enough that his presence pressed against yours.

“I have a meeting with Septem,” he said evenly.

The calm in his voice was practiced. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I’ll see that he allows Noor to eat properly,” he continued, eyes narrowing just slightly.

It sounded like a promise.

Or a warning.

—

Later that day, you sat beneath the open sky, watching the children tumble through the grass as they wrestled and laughed, their voices bright and carefree. Noor shrieked with laughter as Shams pinned him down, only for the balance to tip moments later. You smiled faintly—but your attention kept drifting, your thoughts snagging on something heavier.

Unum.

You were so lost in thought that you almost didn’t notice Ignis beside you until she spoke.

“Is something weighing on your mind?”

You stiffened slightly, then turned your head. Ignis was watching you—not prying, just observant, her expression gentle but sharp in that way she had. You exhaled, shoulders dropping.

“A little,” you admitted. “I… well. Unum and I—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “We got into a fight. I guess that’s the shortest way to put it.”

Ignis hummed thoughtfully. “So you’re not speaking?”

“No—! I mean—” You shook your head quickly, frustration creeping into your voice. “That’s what I thought at first, too. I yelled at him. At a god.” You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I was sure that would be the end of it.”

She raised a brow, waiting.

“But then,” you continued, quieter now, “he brought me flowers. And breakfast in bed. Just yesterday.” You stared down at your hands, fingers twisting together. “He acts like nothing’s wrong… like we didn’t hurt each other at all.”

Ignis glanced toward the children, then back to you. “And that confuses you.”

“Yes.” You nodded slowly. “I don’t understand him. I don’t know if he’s apologizing… or pretending. Or if he thinks affection can fix something he won’t even talk about.”

Your voice softened, almost fragile.

“And that scares me more than if he were angry. I just want to understand him…” 

Across the field, Unum’s gaze never left you—sharp, possessive—like the world had narrowed to a single point he refused to release. Dark red stains marred his clothes, carefully concealed beneath layers of fabric and stillness, hidden under a tree well enough that neither you nor the children would notice.

Ignis, however, did.

She watched him from afar, eyes narrowing just slightly, and murmured under her breath, “Sometimes gods are afraid of losing something.”

“What?” You frowned, turning instinctively—but there was nothing there. Only the children’s laughter drifting through the air, only the tall grass swaying lazily beneath the sun.

Ignis straightened beside you, her expression smoothing into something unreadable. After a brief pause, she spoke lightly, almost dismissively, “Why don’t you go take a bath?”

You blinked. “A bath?”

She waved a hand, her gaze flicking once more toward Unum before deliberately looking away. “Your scent is… bothersome today.”

The words lingered longer than they should have.

You hesitated—but Ignis was already rising to her feet, gently ushering the children back toward the garden path as though the choice had already been made for you.

“Go,” she said again, softer now. “I’ll watch them.”

—

The antechamber to the baths was quiet, familiar. You stood where you always did before undressing, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt. You pulled it over your head slowly, Ignis’s words echoing in your mind.

Afraid of losing something.

You froze halfway, staring at nothing as the question slipped from your lips in a whisper. “Losing what…?”

You dropped the rest of your garments into the woven basket without looking, missing the dark red–stained robe buried beneath the folds. The mirror caught your reflection instead. You lingered there, eyes unfocused, replaying the moments you and Unum had shared—the closeness, the tension, the way his presence had felt too heavy to escape as he would have eaten you whole.

Your fingers brushed your lips unconsciously, remembering the heat of his breath, the pressure of his mouth. A faint blush crept across your cheeks.

“…It can’t be,” you murmured, doubt and unease tangling in your chest. “Me… can it?”

You wrapped the towel more tightly around yourself, as if it could guard you from the thought. With one last glance at your reflection, you turned and stepped into the bathing chamber.

The baths were quiet—stone walls still warm from the afternoon sun, steam drifting lazily through the air. The scent of herbs clung to your skin as you took another step inside.

Then you noticed you weren’t alone.

Gray, star-flecked eyes lifted to meet yours.

Unum.

His red hair, usually untamed, lay slicked against his face, darkened by water. He stood near the basin, rinsing dried blood from his skin, his attention divided between the task and a wound along his back. When he realized you were there, a slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. 

Under the quiet weight of his presence, your gaze betrayed you, tracing along his well-built body without shame. You tightened your grip on the towel, gently biting your lips as you felt a strange arousal. Part of you ached to step closer, to give in to the pull he held over you; another part urged retreat, warned you to turn away while you still could.

You never made the choice.

Unum noticed everything.

The hesitation. The want. The way your body led toward him even as your mind searched for escape.

His mouth curved—not quite a smile. Something more knowing.

Before you could decide, he reached out and closed his fingers around your hand, firm but unhurried, stopping you where you stood. His touch wasn’t asking—it was anchoring. Claiming. He brought your hand close to his lips. His lips pressed lightly against your knuckles as if reminding you that you were adored. 

His gaze never left your face as he stepped closer, close enough that you felt the heat of him through the steam, close enough that the choice felt like it had already been made for you. He towered over you, leaning his face closer to you. To kiss you. To tease you.

“Let me wash your back,” he murmured slightly, possessively. “I know every place your hands can’t reach.”

“You… wouldn’t mind?” you asked softly as you stepped fully into the bathing chamber, stripping the towel from your body and leaving it behind like a discarded thought—your last line of defense.

Unum’s breath hitched—just once—but his eyes darkened immediately, tracing you with open hunger.   There was no shame in the way he looked at you, no attempt to hide it. Your body was not something to be glanced at and forgotten; it was something to be claimed, studied, and adored. Something meant for him.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, he thought his action worth it—worth the lines he’d crossed, the restraints he’d shattered, the things he’d destroyed just to keep your eyes from drifting beyond his reach.

When he took your hand, his grip was firm, decisive, guiding you into the bath as though there had never been another option—his thumb brushes against your knuckles, grounding, possessive.

“Never,” he answered quietly.

His other hand settled at your hip, warm and certain, fingers curving as if they already knew the shape of you. Not claiming you aloud—but making it unmistakably clear. 

You were here.

 And you were his and only his.

“Unum…” Your gaze flickered from his yearning eyes to his lips before you looked away, heat rushing to your cheeks. You placed your hands against his chest, intending to collect yourself—but the moment you touched him, he drew your body closer, firm and unyielding.

You gasped at the sudden movement, your breath hitching as your body flushed warm beneath his hold. His presence enveloped you, overwhelming in the quiet way only he could manage, his forehead lowering until it touched yours.

“Don’t look away,” he begged, his voice low, frayed at the edges with restraint. One hand rose to cup your cheek, firm and reverent, anchoring you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. “Please keep your eyes on me and only me.”

Then his lips found yours—hungry, unguarded. Your body pressed instinctively closer as your arms slid up his back, fingers curling into the damp fabric there. Your kiss softened, exploring the faint scar along his lip, until he caught your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down just enough to steal a breathless whine from you.

He pulled back before it could deepen, eyes dark and glowing as he took in your dazed, love-drunk expression. A low chuckle left him, equal parts amusement and want.

“As much as I love you melting in my arms,” he murmured, thumb brushing your swollen lip, “I’d rather do it properly—in bed. Not in a bath.”

“So what now?” you asked, a hint of disappointment slipping into your voice before you could stop it.

Unum’s lips curved faintly. “Taking care of what is mine,” he teased, clearly pleased by the way you softened under his attention.

He reached for a nearby bar of soap and drew you back against him, settling you onto his lap with unhurried confidence. His hands moved to your shoulders, firm and practiced, kneading away the stubborn knots you’d been carrying for days. The tension eased under his touch, warmth spreading through you as your body gradually gave in.

Your breath caught when his rough hands cupped your breast, caressing your nipple just enough to make your pulse stutter. He leaned in, brushing a slow kiss along the back of your neck, sending shivers racing down your spine. You clutched at his arms instinctively, grounding yourself in his strength as  His hands exploded your curvy body, cleaning you. His presence slowly closed around you, devouring all your senses. 

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, amused, pleased.

“Unum… wait,” you whispered, breathless, feeling Unum nip the crook of your neck.

A low sound of protest rumbled in his chest as his tattooed fingers clutched your inner thigh slightly. “What is it?” he asked, his eyes darkening.

You hesitated, then forced yourself to speak. “How was your meeting with Septem?”

His stillness was immediate.

A pause—brief, controlled—before his voice returned, lower than before. “Why,” he said quietly, stiffening, “are you thinking of others right now… when I’m here?”

“What—ah!” The sound tore from you before you could stop it as his restraint finally fractured. He pulled you closer, his grip turning firm, possessive, overwhelming. His teeth bit into your shoulder blade—not playful, not gentle—sending a sharp reminder of his strength straight through you. You tried to push him back, but he bound your hands together with his whip. He wasn’t going to hold back anymore. 

His voice dropped to a furious whisper against your ear. “If I have to make you forget everything but me by fucking you,” he growled, “then I will.”

Your body betrayed you, trembling as he began fingering you, thrusting roughly, watching your hip buckle under his touch alone. He took unmistakable pleasure in hearing you moan his name. He loved how exposed you were, how easily you came undone. He wanted more than your body; he wanted your focus, your thoughts, your obedience. He wanted to leave no room in your mind for anyone else.

With his free hand, he tilted your face toward his, forcing you to meet his gaze before his mouth claimed yours. Then he began to stimulate your right bud, making you mewl. The kiss was deep, consuming, leaving you breathless and unsteady. You tried to speak—tried to ground him.

“Fuck. Unum—” You panted heavily, feeling lightheaded.

Only for him to answer by sliding his tongue in your mouth. His presence closed in your mind until there was nothing but him. He massaged your tongue, groaning softly. He slowly rocked his cock against your ass, wanting you to feel how aroused he was. 

His thumb circled on your clit skillfully, while his other tattooed fingers continued to massage your inner walls. He could feel your walls twitching around his finger. He could tell your body was yearning for more. He smirked.

 With your vision blurred, your legs lightly trembling as he slowly turned you around just enough to look at you—truly look at you—melting, dizzy from him alone. 

That pleased him most of all. But he wanted more. He whispered to you, “We are not done, sweetie.” 

A slow smirk curved his lips, dark and satisfied. He loved the sound of your whimpers—the way they trembled and broke just for him—as he slowly pulled his fingers out from your needy pussy. The slick warmth clung to his skin, and for a moment, his expression shifted, frustration flickering through his eyes. He had denied himself for too long. Taking his fingers out of the water, he stared at them with open disappointment, jaw tightening at the thought that he couldn’t taste you properly because of it.

“I suppose,” he murmured, almost to himself, voice thick with hunger, “I have to eat you out.”

Before you could protest, he lifted you effortlessly out of the water, settling you over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. The sudden shift made your breath hitch, the world tilting forward as your stomach fluttered. You instinctively clung to him, fingers digging into his skin for balance. He steadied you by gripping your thighs firmly, possessively, as if reminding you exactly who held you there.

“Unum…” you whispered, unsure whether it was a plea, a warning, or surrender.

He didn’t answer. He was already too focused.

“Damn, babe… You look so good,” Unum teased, voice low and heated, as he used his fingers to spread your folds apart slowly. He swallowed thickly, a faint string of drool gathering at the corner of his mouth. Smirking, he blew a soft stream of air against your cunt, watching with open amusement as you jolted in surprise. His chuckle vibrated against you as he tightened his hold.

“Thank you for the meal~.”

“Wait—Ah!” The sound strangled in your throat when his tongue finally brushed along your nub. Your body reacted instantly, heat surging through you, breath catching as your fingers twitched in his hair. He didn’t miss a single reaction. He watched your face carefully—how your eyes grew heavy, how your lips parted, how your entire body flushed and softened under him.

He smirked, licking slow, deliberate circles around your clit, savoring every twitch. You struggled to steady yourself while he ate you hungrily, your fingers gripping his hair a little too tightly. The intensity made your thoughts blur.

“Unum—muhm… what’s going—hah—on with you? Ah!”

He answered with a groan, deep and almost desperate. He felt drunk on you, intoxicated by your sweetness, by the way you responded to him so openly. You tasted addictive—sweet and overwhelming—and he devoured you like he’d been starved. His tongue moved in steady laps between your legs, relentless and intent. When your body clenched around the rising pressure low in your stomach, he felt it—felt how close you were.

You tried to shift away, overwhelmed by the sensation, but Unum reacted instantly. He nipped harshly at your inner thigh, a sharp warning. Looking up at you from between your legs, eyes dark and burning, he growled,

“I didn’t tell you to move.”

His grip tightened, possessive and unyielding.

“Now,” he added, voice rough and commanding, “be a good girl… and let me eat you.”

Unum shoved you closer, holding you firmly in place as he delved his tongue in deeper, unwilling to stay restrained any longer. A broken moan escaped your lips as your body instinctively leaned forward into him, chasing the sensation even as it overwhelmed you. Your breath came in heavy pants, chest rising and falling rapidly, shivers racing down your spine as pleasure tangled with the raw intensity of his need. You moaned his name like a prayer. “Unum~ ”

His tongue moved with greedy purpose, savoring the hope and heat he tasted. He tilted his head slowly from side to side, searching, exploring, determined to draw out every reaction from you. It wasn’t just hunger—it was deprivation finally snapping. He had denied himself for too long, and now that he had you like this, he refused to hold back.

A soft, almost desperate whimper left him, the sound betraying how deeply he had been starving for you. His grip tightened, not to hurt—but to anchor you there, to keep you from slipping away again. There was something unhinged beneath it now, something raw and aching. He wasn’t just indulging.

He was reclaiming.

And he wanted more.

When he finally pulled back to breathe, you slumped against him, cradling his head instinctively. He gave a low chuckle, licking his lips clean before glancing up and pressing his forehead gently to yours. You were close—he could see it in your unfocused eyes. He kissed you softly, drawing a helpless mewl from your throat.

“So cute~” he murmured, adjusting his hold so your bound hands rested around his neck, anchoring you there — making sure you stayed close, exactly where he wanted you.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered you until you felt him poised beneath your entrance. Your head rested on his shoulder, your thoughts hazy, light swimming through your mind as your body struggled to keep up with everything you were feeling. His breathing grew heavier against your skin, restraint wearing thin as he teased your slick heat with the tip.

His voice dropped into a rough whisper, warm and possessive against your ear.

“I know I said I would take you properly… but since you chose to give your attention to someone else…” His grip tightened at your hips, not painful — but certain. Claiming. “I’ll have to remind you who you belong to, love.”

He littered your jawline and neck with slow, deliberate kisses, lingering at each mark as though sealing ownership into your skin. Each press of his lips sent small shivers through you, your breath catching before he finally pulled you into a deep kiss — and thrust himself inside.

“Unum—fuck~” you gasped against his lips, the sudden fullness stealing the air from your lungs as his pace turned rougher, restraint finally snapping under the weight of his need. The kiss broke messy and breathless, your words dissolving into him.

He bit down on your lower lip, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest. His hands gripped your ass tightly, fingers digging in with possessive insistence, holding you exactly where he wanted you — making sure you couldn’t pull away, making sure you felt every inch of him.

He panted against your skin, breath hot and uneven, control unraveling faster with each thrust. God, you’re making it hard, he thought, jaw tightening as pleasure blurred the edges of his discipline.

He drove into you in deep, relentless strokes, and your body answered him instinctively, clamping around his cock as if trying to keep him there. He could hear you — soft, broken mumbles of his name — feel your fingers clawing at his back as you tried to steady yourself, tried to endure the overwhelming rush building inside you.

You felt yourself growing wetter, heat pooling low in your stomach as Unum pounded into you with desperate intensity. Every thrust felt deliberate, claiming, almost punishing in its depth.

He whimpered softly, the sound almost vulnerable despite the force of him. “Fuck, love… you’re close, aren’t you?”

You answered with a strained whine, and something in him softened for a split second. He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek — not gentle, but grounding — before angling his hips just slightly. Each thrust began striking that sensitive place inside you, precise and merciless.

Your hand raked down his back, nails biting into skin. He snarled at the sting, eyes flashing — loving the pain, loving the mark you left on him. It made him feel claimed too.

You leaned back slightly, dizzy, hearing the faint shift of water around you as Unum continued moving beneath you — steady, powerful, unrelenting.

“Unum!” you screamed in pleasure as you came undone, your voice breaking as the sensation tore through you, your body trembling helplessly through the release.

Unum shifted, pulling you closer until you leaned heavily against his chest, your weight sagging into him as if your strength had melted away. His pace faltered, turning sloppy as your walls pulsed around him, squeezing him tight, each flutter dragging a strained sound from his throat. He rode out your orgasm, chasing his own, breath breaking into uneven, heated exhales against your ear.

He bit into the crook of your neck — not enough to truly hurt, but enough to leave a mark, enough to remind you that you were his. The pressure lingered, possessive and deliberate, before his lips brushed over the same spot as if soothing what he’d claimed. His breath was warm and uneven against your skin as he murmured sweet, hazy nonsense, his words slurred with pleasure and devotion, soaked in something dangerously affectionate.

“Good girl… You did so well learning your lesson.”

The praise wasn’t gentle — it was satisfied. Proud. Like he had been waiting for this moment, waiting for you to unravel exactly the way he wanted.

You could feel it in the way he moved now — the loss of rhythm, the way his control frayed at the edges. His hands tightened around you, fingers pressing into your skin as if grounding himself. His breathing shook slightly, heat spilling against your neck, every thrust less measured and more desperate than the last.

He bit your exposed neck again, harder this time, marking you openly — sealing it. Then he drove into you one final time, a deep, claiming thrust before he came inside you again. A low, broken groan tore from his chest, thick with relief and possession, as he held you tightly against him.

He didn’t pull away.

He stayed there, buried inside you, breathing hard — savoring the connection, loving the way your body still trembled around him.

After a couple of minutes, he leaned back slightly to look at you. Your eyes were heavy, lashes fluttering as sleep threatened to claim you. A soft, amused chuckle left him at the sight. He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there a moment longer than necessary, a flicker of concern crossing his features — wondering if he had pushed you too far.

Carefully, he pulled out and sat down with you on his lap, unbending your hands.  You whimpered softly at the loss of connection, your fingers twitching as if to pull him back.

“I know, love,” he murmured gently, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “But I need to take care of you.”

He reached for the luxury soaps he favored, the scent rich and calming as he began to wash you slowly, reverently. His movements were no longer frantic or demanding — they were careful, almost devotional. He chuckled under his breath when you instinctively nuzzled into his hand while he wiped you down with the washcloth, seeking warmth, seeking him.

He adored that.

He loved that even now — tired, softened, vulnerable — you leaned toward him without thinking. That your body searched for his touch as if it were the only place you felt steady.

He bent to place light kisses along your skin, trailing them gently as he cleaned you, attentive to every small reaction — every soft breath, every slight shift beneath his hands.

“Unum…” you slurred softly, your voice thick with exhaustion as you rubbed at your eyes.

He glanced up from where he was washing your feet, meeting your hazy gaze. A boyish smile tugged at his lips — almost innocent, almost proud — as if silently claiming you all over again, not through force this time, but through care.

“Yes?” he answered, tone softer now.

“Tired,” you murmured, the word barely leaving your lips.

He hummed thoughtfully while rinsing you off, the sound low and content. “Don’t worry,” he replied gently. “I’m finished with you. I’ll wash myself quickly.”

You nodded sleepily, watching him through half-lidded eyes as he stood and cleaned himself. Steam curled faintly around his frame, water tracing slow paths down his skin before disappearing at his feet. Your cheeks warmed when you noticed the red scratches lining his upper back — the marks you had left behind in your desperation. They stood out against him, raw and unmistakable. Embarrassment fluttered in your chest, and you quickly looked away, suddenly very aware of what you’d done.

He noticed immediately.

“What?” he teased, amusement dancing lazily in his voice. “You don’t like your handiwork?”

You pouted faintly, still refusing to meet his gaze, rubbing your arm in shy deflection.

He chuckled, deep and pleased, rinsing the last of the water from his body. “Adorable,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. There was pride in his tone — not just at the marks, but at the proof that you had lost yourself with him.

When he finished, he walked toward you without hesitation, still warm from the water. His presence alone felt steady, grounding. He reached for you gently. “Let me take you to bed.”

He lifted you with ease, one arm supporting your back, the other beneath your knees. Before stepping away, he wrapped your towel more securely around you, tucking it in as if afraid you might catch a chill. The possessiveness from before had softened into something quieter now — attentive, almost domestic.

You instinctively leaned into him, your cheek brushing against his chest as he carried you to the dressing room. The movement made your legs tremble faintly when he set you down, your body still sensitive and weak. His hand stayed at your waist longer than necessary, steadying you until he was sure you wouldn’t fall.

He turned to dress, tying on his schenti and fastening his choker with practiced ease. He reached for his robe —

Then paused.

His eyes flicked back to you, standing there small and sleepy, wrapped in nothing but a towel and his scent.

A slow smirk curved his lips.

Instead of putting the robe on himself, he stepped forward and slipped it over your shoulders. The fabric engulfed you, sleeves hanging past your hands, hem brushing the floor. It was warm. It smelled like him. It felt like being claimed in a different way — quieter, but no less deliberate.

He adjusted the collar around your neck carefully, his fingers brushing along your jaw as he made sure it sat just right. His gaze darkened slightly — not with hunger this time, but with quiet appreciation, like he was admiring something precious.

“Looks good on you,” he said softly.

“Thanks, Unum.”

You stepped closer to him, the oversized robe pooling around your feet as you leaned into his muscular chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek made your exhaustion feel heavier, safer somehow.

He immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in without hesitation. A warm smile tugged at his lips.

“That’s my job as your husband,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lazily along your side. “Now let’s get you to bed.”

You giggled softly, the sound light and drowsy, when he scooped you up again with effortless strength. Your arms slipped around his neck, your head resting against his shoulder as he carried you out of the dressing room.

The world felt distant, hazy at the edges, but his presence was grounding. His scent, his warmth, the way he held you so securely — it made it easy to let go.

By the time he reached the bed, your eyes were already drifting closed.