With silvered moonlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains, the room is steeped in a quiet, luminous glow. Books and scrolls lie scattered across the table, their aged surfaces drinking in the pale radiance. The only sound that dares disturb the stillness is the soft hum beneath your breath, accompanied by the occasional whisper of parchment shifting under your touch.

It is well past midnight—an hour where even the most diligent have long surrendered to sleep. Fortunately, neither you nor your husband belong to the cathedral of most. While the world rests, Dan Heng remains seated across from you, absorbed in the scrolls passed down through generations of the previous Imbibitor Lunae.

His gaze is unwavering, tracing each line of ink with meticulous care. The brush in his hand moves only when necessary, deliberate and precise, as though each stroke carries the weight of something far older than either of you. You find yourself watching him—quietly, almost absentmindedly—as he turns from one scroll to the next.

His dark hair catches the moonlight in soft strands, the subtle teal undertones rendering him almost otherworldly in the dim glow. He has tied it up tonight, a rare choice that leaves the line of his neck more exposed than usual. The glasses resting upon his nose sit perfectly, framing his features in a way that feels unfair—like the world has conspired to make him even more beautiful than you remembered.

And the longer you look, the more details begin to surface—the ones you have memorized countless times over. The quiet sharpness of his eyes, softened now by focus. The faint tension in his brow. The calm, composed way he carries himself, even in something as simple as reading. Each time, the same thought returns, persistent and disbelieving—how did you ever manage to place a ring upon this man’s hand?

Lost in your thoughts, you fail to notice how your gaze lingers—unwavering, unhidden. And Dan Heng, ever perceptive, has already taken note of it. Of the way your eyes rest on him, softened with something warm, something quietly consuming.

It is enough to draw a faint flush across his cheeks.

Even after years of marriage, it has done little to dull the effect you have on him. If anything, it only seems to deepen it. How could it not, when you look at him like that—like he is something to be cherished, something worth memorizing?

He clears his throat, the soft sound cutting through your thoughts.

You blink, returning to yourself—only to catch the telltale signs you know all too well. The tips of his ears have turned a delicate shade of red, twitching ever so slightly. In a futile attempt to compose himself, he lifts a scroll closer to his face, as though it might shield him from your gaze—and the feelings that come with it.

“…You’re staring,” he murmurs at last. There’s a subtle hesitation in his voice, like he’s carefully stepping around something unspoken. “Is there something on my face…?”

The question halts you for a moment.

That tone—quiet, uncertain, laced with something deeper—and the way his breath seems just a touch heavier than before.

Oh.

You know exactly where this is going.

Without a warning do you move closer, placing yourself onto his lap and earning a soft whimper from him. His breathing has already shifted into a heavier pace, a crystal-clear expression of his hazy mind. You can feel the way his movements have grown wobbly as well, perhaps your seat has truly fogged up his already troubled mind.

Instinctively, you place your hand against the dragon's chest and he— without a word— obliges to your silent demand, allowing his back to hit the ground beneath.

Settling your hand by his head, you pin him in one place, gazing down on your beloved— who is admittedly in a trance. It is a play you've partaken in a hundred times, that familiar gaze on you is nothing less than tender and borderline needy.

“Why, can't I admire my husband now? You're all dolled up tonight.” you tease softly, leaning in to press a kiss on the tip of his horn— to which, the Vidyadhara responds with another muffled whimper, one he does not try to hide as he does so usually.

Dan Heng's hands snake around your waist to grip the fabric of your clothes, anchoring him against your softest touches. You are a witch, he thinks— bathing him in touches so gentle, he could have never imagined they existed until you. You can make a mess of him, yet he'll never push your hands away because he knows, it is not in your nature to be overbearing.

“I...” Dan Heng breathes out in another futile attempt to regain his composure. “I should be the one admiring you—” A groan bubbles up from his chest as he interrupts in own sentence, the warmth of your lips on the spot beneath his pointed ear is enough to render him speechless.

You can't help but smile victoriously— to see the guard of the Express be a whimpering mess, you swear the Aeons above have blessed you. But as you pull away to straddle his hips, sharp nails dig into the skin on your nape, wordlessly pulling you into him, only pressing his lips against yours.

Taken aback, you freeze momentarily, letting him peck your lips demandingly. With each moment of your silence, he only grows more demanding, one scaled hand pressing against your nape while the other palms at your hip. Overcoming your initial shock, you angle your head and catch the rhythm of his lips. His hand only presses your further against him, as though a single kiss can steal his words to you.

The moment you pull away to regain your bearings, another whimper leaves him— a verbal sign of his disappointment at the absence of your warm lips. A soft chuckle echoes within the closed chambers as you watch him gasp with half-lidded eyes, mumbling inaudibly to himself.

The man beneath you is gone, by a few light touches only. To think that having the Imbibitor Lunae so pliant within your grasp by mere body heat, it sounds ridiculous. But how can you resist the temptation before you? You ought to savor what you are given.

With little thoughts to your clouding mind, you pluck the jade hairpin off his hair, allowing the dark hair to spill in its glory. “I should be apologising, no?” you ask as you place the hairpin on the ground beside him. “Sorry, love, got carried away. You just look so beautiful like this.”

The sincerity in your words does not miss him, it only serves to spreads the warmth within his ocean-fed heart. You truly believe he's radiant, don't you? Oh, how he wants to reciprocate those sweet words— he would, hadn't he been rendered speechless by a mere kiss.

Instead, his grip on you tightens and he pulls you right back into another kiss. This time, his forked tongue sweeps against your bottom lip, demanding access— and you allow him to slide into your mouth without protest. Your tongues intertwine in a slow, familiar dance. With each whimper and moan falling off his heavy chest, you find your mind more clouded than ever and lost in the way he's palming every part of you that he can reach.

The need for air does not avoid you long. Hesitantly, you pull away with nothing but a string of saliva connecting your tongues. Huffs of warm breath leaves you as you steady yourself but the man beneath you is far from being in that state. The light of moon above illuminates the Vidyadhara's teal-bathed horns— if one were to witness this sight unprompted, they'd be bound to think he was woven by Idrilla THEMSELF.

You can see how needy he's grown by the way he's twitching beneath your grinding hips. Each roll only heightens the sensitivity and endurance of it all. The words have swallowed past his tongue, unable to tell you how much he loves this— your touch, your voice, the way you wrecked with only a few familiar tricks. If he could, he'd dress up like this forever, just to have you on him.

You press another soft kiss on his cheek, hoping to calm his gasping form down. However, control does not favour you entirely tonight. The dragon's urge to please his beloved wife overshadows the want to be made love to.

In the blink of an eye, you feel your back hit against the cold, hardened floor, ripping a soft gasp from you. Above you hovers your beloved husband, who is gazing down with those delirious eyes and long hair spilling on your wrinkled clothes. Dan Heng is a strategic man, and currently, his mind is occupied with ways to have you squirm and gasp his name beneath him. For all know, he will achieve it.

As his lips press against your collarbone, you know you're in for a long night.

How the hell do yall write smutfics, this isn't even one and I was staring my screen like this mid way thru it:

Beneath the Dawn Device’s unwavering radiance lies a bustling Okhema. Action-Hour has just begun, and the merchants alongside the shopkeepers waste no time in opening their stalls, their voices already rising into the morning air. Bright fabrics are unfurled, polished wares arranged with care, and the scent of warm food drifts lazily through the streets.

Children’s laughter rings clear as they gather beneath Aglaea’s golden thread woven high above, daring one another to leap higher, to reach closer, as though they might grasp divinity itself. And between it all, the little Tribios flit through the streets like fragments of light—tiny, radiant guides leading humanity gently toward its countless destinations.

“Snowy, wake up!” Tribbie calls, her voice bright and insistent as it echoes toward the slumbering god before her. Behind her linger Trianne and Trinnon—the remaining fragments of the Passage Titan—quiet yet watchful, their presence carrying a weight far older than the lively city below.

Beside them stands you—Trianne’s so-called 'Worldbearing Star'. A title you have protested more times than you can count, one that feels far too grand, far too misplaced upon your shoulders. Yet they insist. To Trinnon’s logic, if the Worldbearing Titan himself bears Amphoreus upon his existence, then it is only fitting that his beloved be the guiding star that walks beside him through every phase—life, death, and all that lingers in between.

However, Khaslana does not stir at Tribbie’s call. He remains as he is—motionless, unbothered, slumbering like an ancient monument carved into existence. One pair of his arms continues to uphold the Dawn Device, unwavering even in sleep, as though such a burden has long since become second nature. You would argue it is a habit inherited from his human self. Despite being a tireless Flame-Chaser in the past, Phainon had never once passed up an opportunity to rest when it presented itself—and it seems even ascension has not rid him of that trait.

Tribbie glances toward you with a look that can only be described as troublesome, mischief and mild exasperation mingling in her expression. Beside her, Trianne looks far less amused—her posture already stiffening, as though preparing to scold the Titan himself. Truly, such laziness does not suit the Worldbearing Titan… at least, not in her eyes.

“Wake up, Snowy. We have a guest,” Trinnon tries again, her voice calm and measured, carrying a gentler authority.

It proves just as futile.

Tribbie sighs, long and dramatic, as Khaslana remains entirely unresponsive. You consider stepping in—suggesting that perhaps they should try again later, that there is no need to force themselves to wake him from such a deep slumber.

But of course, they are stubborn.

Trianne floats forward, drawing in a breath until her chest rises with the effort. “Little [Name] has come to visit you, Snowy!!” she calls out, her voice ringing with half her strength, determined to pierce through the thick veil of his sleep.

For a moment, the attempt crosses the possibility of a failure. Then—at last—one golden eye flutters open.

Relief ripples instantly through the fragments of the Passage Titan, their tension easing as Khaslana slowly begins to wake. His other eye follows, heavy with lingering drowsiness, and the Tribios collectively release soft sighs of triumph. Beside them, you cannot help the quiet chuckle that escapes you, light and unrestrained.

Where others might tremble before the Worldbearing Titan, you find yourself laughing more freely than anyone.

Khaslana lifts his head, the motion slow but effortless, his awareness settling over the scene before him. For a being of such scale, such ancient weight, he has retained an almost startling amount of his humanity. And the moment his gaze finds you—truly finds you—his expression softens, brightening into something unmistakably warm.

“Oh,” he hums, voice still touched with sleep, “I have four lovely guests.”

His gaze drifts over the group, but it does not linger long on the others. Inevitably, inevitably, it returns to you—carrying something quieter, something unspoken, as though the rest of his sentence exists only in the space between you both.

And you are the loveliest of all.

Trianne huffs, clearly irritated, though it is a fleeting thing—one that will undoubtedly fade within minutes. “We may be lovely,” she snaps, “but you certainly weren’t, with the way you were sleeping!”

A soft laugh escapes Khaslana, low and unbothered, as he tilts his head slightly to better observe the four of you. There is amusement in his gaze, gentle and unguarded—until Trianne fixes him with what is meant to be a warning glare. In practice, it resembles more a child’s attempt at intimidation than anything truly threatening.

Before he can respond, she turns sharply and flies off, her indignation carrying her forward. Tribbie follows with a small shrug, and Trinnon hesitates only briefly before trailing after them, leaving you behind in their wake.

You can only smile fondly as you watch them leave, their voices fading into the lively hum of Okhema below. You know well that none of them have taken anything to heart—bantering with Khaslana has always been one of their favorite pastimes, rivaled only by the hours they spend in Aglaea’s presence. It is a familiar rhythm, one you have seen play out countless times, and one that never truly changes.

Out of nowhere, something brushes gently against you.

You turn, only to find Khaslana already watching you—his immense form lowered, bringing himself down to your level with a care that feels almost reverent. There is a softness in his gaze, something warm and unguarded, as though the vastness of his existence narrows to you alone. One of his fingers shifts slightly, brushing against you in a motion meant to mimic a poke—a small, almost playful gesture he once did so easily, and now can only imitate.

“My beloved has taken time out of their day to visit me,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with quiet fondness. “How could I ever ignore such a call?”

The way he speaks—so earnest, so effortlessly devoted—affects you no less than it once did when he was still Phainon. A devotee in every life, it seems. Some things, even ascension cannot change.

A soft smile curves your lips as you rest your hand lightly against his finger, grounding both yourself and him. “A flatterer, through and through,” you tease gently, though the warmth in your voice betrays you. You have heard words like these a thousand times before—yet they never quite lose their weight.

As expected, his response comes not in words, but in action.

A free pair of his arms begins to move, slow and deliberate, forming a quiet barrier around you. The world beyond is gently obscured, his towering presence shielding you from the eyes of Okhema. To him, you are something far more sacred than even a Coreflame—something that should not be witnessed carelessly, something to be hidden away from the gaze of others. Though, as always, you are quick to recognize the exaggeration woven into his beliefs.

Still, you step closer. Raising your hand, you let it come to rest against a small portion of his cheek. The contact is featherlight, almost insignificant in scale—a touch so gentle it should not register upon a being of his size.

Yet, it does and Khaslana stills completely.

For a fleeting moment, it feels as though everything about him—his breath, his thoughts, the quiet hum of his existence—pauses, just to feel that fragile, fleeting warmth. As though the vastness of the world he carries fades into nothing, leaving only the soft press of your hand against him.

Silence settles between you. It lingers, unbroken, stretching into minutes as he remains there, unmoving, basking in the small flame of your touch. You can tell, even without him saying it, that he is fighting the pull of sleep. That familiar heaviness threatens to claim him once more—after all, even your voice alone has always been enough to lull him into rest.

“How was your day, Dawnlight?” the Worldbearing Titan finally murmurs, his voice softer now, almost drowsy. His sunrise-gold eyes flutter open again, seeking you out as though he fears you might disappear the moment he closes them.

Those eyes…

They have never changed. Still loving. Still unbearably, hopelessly devoted—no matter the life, no matter the form.

Once, long ago, Phainon had asked you the same question, his head resting against your chest as he sought refuge in the sound of your voice. Back then, it had been a simple wish—to fall asleep without nightmares, to let your voice be the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him.

Now, stripped of his mortal shell and reborn beneath the Era Nova, Khaslana waits for that same answer.

Not for the sake of conversation— But in the quiet hope that, if he listens closely enough, he might drift into sleep once more… and dream of a world where he can hold you once more.