disclaimer: I do not claim ownership or rights to any of the series or characters that I write about except my own. you may not translate, repost, or train ai with any of my works whatsoever for any reason.
blog credits: | blog header @/romancist-i | anti-ai divider @/strangergraphics | red divider @/pixopix
you move to a sleepy coastal town called moorwick in search of your missing father. what comes next is bargaining with a literal legend.
wc; 1,400
warnings; very detail + prose heavy, brief mention of violence, a missing person, very northwest "small town with secrets" vibes
divider; @/strangergraphics
if you enjoyed and/or would like to see more, please reblog and share your thoughts with me!!
Something in your life had always felt amiss, like an unexplainable discomfort always resting on the edge of your periphery. It was there just out of sight of your mind, of pervading your every thought, yet it was a lingering sensation that never quite let you be.
Your father's disappearance had haunted you for as long as you could remember, even though your memories of him were far and few between. Mother told you he had been a good man, a bit stuck in his peculiarities, but she had attributed it to the place where he had grown up, a sleepy town flanked by roiling seas and the endless peaks of treetops.
You found yourself there, a town called Moorwick, after receiving multiple attested letters from the mayor of the town containing a certificate of your father's death—an opportunity of finality to the questions and wonders you'd held in your head for most of your life. It did not quash the ache to know more, to seek answers for yourself that would've been omitted or politely disguised by a formal letterhead calling it case closed.
The people of Moorwick liked to keep their secrets and weren't partial to you, despite being the grown child of one of their own. You had an outsider stench and a wandering eye that raised their hackles. It felt like disobedience. When you had arrived, it was clear that they anticipated that after some niceties and condolences, you would have been on your way back to the city, sufficiently placated as any reasonable person in mourning would be, but you did not go.
The mayor of Moorwick, a man named Colson Sinclair, had given you the key to your father's old cabin on the fringes of town, nearest to the great maw of the Atticus Forest, and charmed you with a gleaming smile as he told you to stay as long as you needed to. There was some tension in his words, hopefulness that you might refuse his hospitality and realize this pursuit of information had always been moot.
Their displeasure was palpable when you continued to show up across town in the coming days and weeks, taking most of your meals from the corner booth at the local diner, sweetening burnt coffee and gnawing on the rubbery dinner specials. They always thought it was quite odd that you showed up in the evenings to order coffee and a quick meal, but no one ever dared to sit across from you in the booth to ask why you did.
After the diner, you would wait late when darkness fell across Moorwick, and the last of warm, glowing amber dimmed in the windows of houses far off from your father's cabin. It was easy enough to watch the town from this distance, to know when it was safe to collect your things and step outside into the misty night air.
The thing about Moorwick was that it always rained, whether in some cold torrential downpour that flooded the streets and leaked through the ceiling of the cabin, or a gentle mist that found a way to seep into your bones and wrap you in a dreadful chill. It made your elbows and knees ache, your fingers tightly grasping a flashlight, to cramp and swell. By the time you would return home just before sunrise, your toes were wet and pruned in your rain boots, and your clothes peeled off your body like a second skin.
There was a reason why you left the cabin in the dead of night, set an alarm to blare at you at three o'clock in the morning: you had someone to meet in the forest, waiting within the depths of the trees and shadows. You never wasted time dallying to make yourself presentable because there were only so many hours in the night, and only so much time you had to make the trek back to the cabin before being noticed when the guise of nightfall had lifted.
So, you crept along the shadows for as long as you could, then crouched and crawled through tall, robust grasses that whipped back in your face as you pushed through them. Your knees were already cold, pants sodden by rainwater and soft earth that swallowed your weight as you moved one leg forward and then the other.
Once you were through the trees, beyond the safety of the town, the air around you changed. The fog came to attention, writhing and coiling, serpentine in the way it encircled your body as if examining you closely to see whether to toss you away or allow you the privilege to go deeper.
The Atticus Forest permitted you to venture its depths, but the fog followed you wherever you went in its domain, as was only right. You were a guest in this great place, and at any time, it could cast you out.
Then, once you were far enough, you called out into the fog and darkness. Three times more, you yelled into the black air and through the immense trees so he could locate you from wherever he had wandered in this ancient place. And, once a wailing wind began to rise upon you, you quieted and waited for him to come to you.
The screams of lost and tormented souls carried on this invisible wind, rustling branches and howling hauntingly through clusters of tree trunks. They followed behind thunderous hoofbeats throbbing inside your head like blue lightning, and drummed inside your chest as if trying to match your heartbeat.
Suddenly, the air around you recoiled, shrinking away at the sounds of the dead and then the otherworldly shrieks of a horse. Just as the fog retreated, a massive white stallion appeared in the pillar of light from your torch. His muzzle was shredded flesh and muscle and exposed bone, eyes glowing red in your warm light. The horse chomped on the bit fused into his jaws as he picked up his large feet and pranced impatiently in place, held steady by his rider.
The man astride the white steed was silent and motionless, ramrod straight in the saddle, chest still as he did not need to take breaths. He wore black armor weathered by time and smelled like he had been lying on the forest floor for a long time, of wet dirt and moss. A crimson cape draped from his shoulders, ending in tatters that fluttered like red flames when caught in your light.
"You took your time tonight, Horseman," you told him, to which he offered no verbal response but leaned his large body sideways off the saddle, extending his arm out to you. "The rain is supposed to get worse. We might not be able to accomplish much tonight."
Without a word, the Horseman gestured you closer impatiently. To think, less than a year ago, he had been holding an axe to your neck as he held you off the ground by your hair. You were going to become a part of his legend, one of the many heads he collected because he no longer had one of his own.
But you were smart under pressure and had made a bargain with the Horseman. If he were to help you find your father, you would find him his lost head. Both felt like impossible challenges that would run you in circles until you could think of something better, or he would tire of waiting and kill you, anyway.
For now, you had time that you didn't plan to squander.
You picked up your heavy feet, suctioned to the ground by mud and rainwater, and let the Horseman wrap his arms around your waist once you were near. He hoisted you up from the ground and helped you to straddle the saddle. Your back was flush to his breastplate, secured in your seat by his arms as he gripped the reins and jutted the white steed in the ribs with his spurs.
As the white steed began to prance again, emitting an awful wailing sound as he surged forward, you were reminded of how your heartbeat quickened at this proximity with the Horseman and often let your mind wander to contemplate what it meant.
you move to a sleepy coastal town called moorwick in search of your missing father. what comes next is bargaining with a literal legend.
wc; 1,400
warnings; very detail + prose heavy, brief mention of violence, a missing person, very northwest "small town with secrets" vibes
divider; @/strangergraphics
if you enjoyed and/or would like to see more, please reblog and share your thoughts with me!!
Something in your life had always felt amiss, like an unexplainable discomfort always resting on the edge of your periphery. It was there just out of sight of your mind, of pervading your every thought, yet it was a lingering sensation that never quite let you be.
Your father's disappearance had haunted you for as long as you could remember, even though your memories of him were far and few between. Mother told you he had been a good man, a bit stuck in his peculiarities, but she had attributed it to the place where he had grown up, a sleepy town flanked by roiling seas and the endless peaks of treetops.
You found yourself there, a town called Moorwick, after receiving multiple attested letters from the mayor of the town containing a certificate of your father's death—an opportunity of finality to the questions and wonders you'd held in your head for most of your life. It did not quash the ache to know more, to seek answers for yourself that would've been omitted or politely disguised by a formal letterhead calling it case closed.
The people of Moorwick liked to keep their secrets and weren't partial to you, despite being the grown child of one of their own. You had an outsider stench and a wandering eye that raised their hackles. It felt like disobedience. When you had arrived, it was clear that they anticipated that after some niceties and condolences, you would have been on your way back to the city, sufficiently placated as any reasonable person in mourning would be, but you did not go.
The mayor of Moorwick, a man named Colson Sinclair, had given you the key to your father's old cabin on the fringes of town, nearest to the great maw of the Atticus Forest, and charmed you with a gleaming smile as he told you to stay as long as you needed to. There was some tension in his words, hopefulness that you might refuse his hospitality and realize this pursuit of information had always been moot.
Their displeasure was palpable when you continued to show up across town in the coming days and weeks, taking most of your meals from the corner booth at the local diner, sweetening burnt coffee and gnawing on the rubbery dinner specials. They always thought it was quite odd that you showed up in the evenings to order coffee and a quick meal, but no one ever dared to sit across from you in the booth to ask why you did.
After the diner, you would wait late when darkness fell across Moorwick, and the last of warm, glowing amber dimmed in the windows of houses far off from your father's cabin. It was easy enough to watch the town from this distance, to know when it was safe to collect your things and step outside into the misty night air.
The thing about Moorwick was that it always rained, whether in some cold torrential downpour that flooded the streets and leaked through the ceiling of the cabin, or a gentle mist that found a way to seep into your bones and wrap you in a dreadful chill. It made your elbows and knees ache, your fingers tightly grasping a flashlight, to cramp and swell. By the time you would return home just before sunrise, your toes were wet and pruned in your rain boots, and your clothes peeled off your body like a second skin.
There was a reason why you left the cabin in the dead of night, set an alarm to blare at you at three o'clock in the morning: you had someone to meet in the forest, waiting within the depths of the trees and shadows. You never wasted time dallying to make yourself presentable because there were only so many hours in the night, and only so much time you had to make the trek back to the cabin before being noticed when the guise of nightfall had lifted.
So, you crept along the shadows for as long as you could, then crouched and crawled through tall, robust grasses that whipped back in your face as you pushed through them. Your knees were already cold, pants sodden by rainwater and soft earth that swallowed your weight as you moved one leg forward and then the other.
Once you were through the trees, beyond the safety of the town, the air around you changed. The fog came to attention, writhing and coiling, serpentine in the way it encircled your body as if examining you closely to see whether to toss you away or allow you the privilege to go deeper.
The Atticus Forest permitted you to venture its depths, but the fog followed you wherever you went in its domain, as was only right. You were a guest in this great place, and at any time, it could cast you out.
Then, once you were far enough, you called out into the fog and darkness. Three times more, you yelled into the black air and through the immense trees so he could locate you from wherever he had wandered in this ancient place. And, once a wailing wind began to rise upon you, you quieted and waited for him to come to you.
The screams of lost and tormented souls carried on this invisible wind, rustling branches and howling hauntingly through clusters of tree trunks. They followed behind thunderous hoofbeats throbbing inside your head like blue lightning, and drummed inside your chest as if trying to match your heartbeat.
Suddenly, the air around you recoiled, shrinking away at the sounds of the dead and then the otherworldly shrieks of a horse. Just as the fog retreated, a massive white stallion appeared in the pillar of light from your torch. His muzzle was shredded flesh and muscle and exposed bone, eyes glowing red in your warm light. The horse chomped on the bit fused into his jaws as he picked up his large feet and pranced impatiently in place, held steady by his rider.
The man astride the white steed was silent and motionless, ramrod straight in the saddle, chest still as he did not need to take breaths. He wore black armor weathered by time and smelled like he had been lying on the forest floor for a long time, of wet dirt and moss. A crimson cape draped from his shoulders, ending in tatters that fluttered like red flames when caught in your light.
"You took your time tonight, Horseman," you told him, to which he offered no verbal response but leaned his large body sideways off the saddle, extending his arm out to you. "The rain is supposed to get worse. We might not be able to accomplish much tonight."
Without a word, the Horseman gestured you closer impatiently. To think, less than a year ago, he had been holding an axe to your neck as he held you off the ground by your hair. You were going to become a part of his legend, one of the many heads he collected because he no longer had one of his own.
But you were smart under pressure and had made a bargain with the Horseman. If he were to help you find your father, you would find him his lost head. Both felt like impossible challenges that would run you in circles until you could think of something better, or he would tire of waiting and kill you, anyway.
For now, you had time that you didn't plan to squander.
You picked up your heavy feet, suctioned to the ground by mud and rainwater, and let the Horseman wrap his arms around your waist once you were near. He hoisted you up from the ground and helped you to straddle the saddle. Your back was flush to his breastplate, secured in your seat by his arms as he gripped the reins and jutted the white steed in the ribs with his spurs.
As the white steed began to prance again, emitting an awful wailing sound as he surged forward, you were reminded of how your heartbeat quickened at this proximity with the Horseman and often let your mind wander to contemplate what it meant.
you move to a sleepy coastal town called moorwick in search of your missing father. what comes next is bargaining with a literal legend.
wc; 1,400
warnings; very detail + prose heavy, brief mention of violence, a missing person, very northwest "small town with secrets" vibes
divider; @/strangergraphics
if you enjoyed and/or would like to see more, please reblog and share your thoughts with me!!
Something in your life had always felt amiss, like an unexplainable discomfort always resting on the edge of your periphery. It was there just out of sight of your mind, of pervading your every thought, yet it was a lingering sensation that never quite let you be.
Your father's disappearance had haunted you for as long as you could remember, even though your memories of him were far and few between. Mother told you he had been a good man, a bit stuck in his peculiarities, but she had attributed it to the place where he had grown up, a sleepy town flanked by roiling seas and the endless peaks of treetops.
You found yourself there, a town called Moorwick, after receiving multiple attested letters from the mayor of the town containing a certificate of your father's death—an opportunity of finality to the questions and wonders you'd held in your head for most of your life. It did not quash the ache to know more, to seek answers for yourself that would've been omitted or politely disguised by a formal letterhead calling it case closed.
The people of Moorwick liked to keep their secrets and weren't partial to you, despite being the grown child of one of their own. You had an outsider stench and a wandering eye that raised their hackles. It felt like disobedience. When you had arrived, it was clear that they anticipated that after some niceties and condolences, you would have been on your way back to the city, sufficiently placated as any reasonable person in mourning would be, but you did not go.
The mayor of Moorwick, a man named Colson Sinclair, had given you the key to your father's old cabin on the fringes of town, nearest to the great maw of the Atticus Forest, and charmed you with a gleaming smile as he told you to stay as long as you needed to. There was some tension in his words, hopefulness that you might refuse his hospitality and realize this pursuit of information had always been moot.
Their displeasure was palpable when you continued to show up across town in the coming days and weeks, taking most of your meals from the corner booth at the local diner, sweetening burnt coffee and gnawing on the rubbery dinner specials. They always thought it was quite odd that you showed up in the evenings to order coffee and a quick meal, but no one ever dared to sit across from you in the booth to ask why you did.
After the diner, you would wait late when darkness fell across Moorwick, and the last of warm, glowing amber dimmed in the windows of houses far off from your father's cabin. It was easy enough to watch the town from this distance, to know when it was safe to collect your things and step outside into the misty night air.
The thing about Moorwick was that it always rained, whether in some cold torrential downpour that flooded the streets and leaked through the ceiling of the cabin, or a gentle mist that found a way to seep into your bones and wrap you in a dreadful chill. It made your elbows and knees ache, your fingers tightly grasping a flashlight, to cramp and swell. By the time you would return home just before sunrise, your toes were wet and pruned in your rain boots, and your clothes peeled off your body like a second skin.
There was a reason why you left the cabin in the dead of night, set an alarm to blare at you at three o'clock in the morning: you had someone to meet in the forest, waiting within the depths of the trees and shadows. You never wasted time dallying to make yourself presentable because there were only so many hours in the night, and only so much time you had to make the trek back to the cabin before being noticed when the guise of nightfall had lifted.
So, you crept along the shadows for as long as you could, then crouched and crawled through tall, robust grasses that whipped back in your face as you pushed through them. Your knees were already cold, pants sodden by rainwater and soft earth that swallowed your weight as you moved one leg forward and then the other.
Once you were through the trees, beyond the safety of the town, the air around you changed. The fog came to attention, writhing and coiling, serpentine in the way it encircled your body as if examining you closely to see whether to toss you away or allow you the privilege to go deeper.
The Atticus Forest permitted you to venture its depths, but the fog followed you wherever you went in its domain, as was only right. You were a guest in this great place, and at any time, it could cast you out.
Then, once you were far enough, you called out into the fog and darkness. Three times more, you yelled into the black air and through the immense trees so he could locate you from wherever he had wandered in this ancient place. And, once a wailing wind began to rise upon you, you quieted and waited for him to come to you.
The screams of lost and tormented souls carried on this invisible wind, rustling branches and howling hauntingly through clusters of tree trunks. They followed behind thunderous hoofbeats throbbing inside your head like blue lightning, and drummed inside your chest as if trying to match your heartbeat.
Suddenly, the air around you recoiled, shrinking away at the sounds of the dead and then the otherworldly shrieks of a horse. Just as the fog retreated, a massive white stallion appeared in the pillar of light from your torch. His muzzle was shredded flesh and muscle and exposed bone, eyes glowing red in your warm light. The horse chomped on the bit fused into his jaws as he picked up his large feet and pranced impatiently in place, held steady by his rider.
The man astride the white steed was silent and motionless, ramrod straight in the saddle, chest still as he did not need to take breaths. He wore black armor weathered by time and smelled like he had been lying on the forest floor for a long time, of wet dirt and moss. A crimson cape draped from his shoulders, ending in tatters that fluttered like red flames when caught in your light.
"You took your time tonight, Horseman," you told him, to which he offered no verbal response but leaned his large body sideways off the saddle, extending his arm out to you. "The rain is supposed to get worse. We might not be able to accomplish much tonight."
Without a word, the Horseman gestured you closer impatiently. To think, less than a year ago, he had been holding an axe to your neck as he held you off the ground by your hair. You were going to become a part of his legend, one of the many heads he collected because he no longer had one of his own.
But you were smart under pressure and had made a bargain with the Horseman. If he were to help you find your father, you would find him his lost head. Both felt like impossible challenges that would run you in circles until you could think of something better, or he would tire of waiting and kill you, anyway.
For now, you had time that you didn't plan to squander.
You picked up your heavy feet, suctioned to the ground by mud and rainwater, and let the Horseman wrap his arms around your waist once you were near. He hoisted you up from the ground and helped you to straddle the saddle. Your back was flush to his breastplate, secured in your seat by his arms as he gripped the reins and jutted the white steed in the ribs with his spurs.
As the white steed began to prance again, emitting an awful wailing sound as he surged forward, you were reminded of how your heartbeat quickened at this proximity with the Horseman and often let your mind wander to contemplate what it meant.
after stressing and literally crying over math homework for five hours, I'm finally throwing in the towel for today and gonna finish the headless horseman piece and throw it up here
I'm quite happy with it so far, and if you decide to read it, I hope it'll be enjoyable and if you've read my headless horseman story in the last, maybe it'll bring you a little nostalgia!
managed to get a little more writing done while at work. the headless horseman piece is at 1k and will probably end up being around 1.2-1.4k. this is definitely more for me, but if you choose to read it later, I hope you get some enjoyment out of it!
So, you crept along the shadows for as long as you could, then crouched and crawled through tall, robust grasses that whipped back in your face as you pushed through them. Your knees were already cold, pants sodden by rainwater and soft earth that swallowed your weight as you moved one leg forward and then the other.
Once you were through the trees, beyond the safety of the town, the air around you changed. The fog came to attention of you, writhing and coiling, serpentine in the way it encircled your body as if examining you closely to see whether to toss you away or allow you the privilege to wanted deeper.
your moth-man lover enjoys close proximity to you in more ways than one.
wc; 873
warnings; mdni/18+; sexually explicit details, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids, detail + prose heavy in some spots
divider; @/kodaswrld
sequel to SOFTNESS
if you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging this and sharing your thoughts with me!!
The lighthouse beacon called him home to you every night.
You knew his arrival by the distant flutter of his wings, a sound resembling fabric caught on a strong breeze, and his feet making contact with the iron grates that made up the wraparound walkway of the gallery deck. Two clawed toes stuck through the hexagonal gaps, always making his landings uncomfortable as he struggled to free himself, step above the holes to make his way through the trapdoor that you left open for him.
He knew where to go and how to navigate to the lower floors to find you. Sometimes he interrupted you while you studied old blueprints of the lighthouse, hoping to unravel some sacred engineering knowledge that you weren't already aware of, or he'd watch you broom the floor from a safe distance after far too many times feeling the coarse bristles against his setae.
Then, there were some nights when he found you asleep on the job, cocooned messily in your thick comforters on the mattresses you kept stacked on the floor. They were shoved oddly to a corner near, just in view of a window longer than it was wide. Not big enough for a body to fit through, but for a slant of dusty moonlight to filter through the murky window and lay a long stripe across your bed.
He liked to be in that light when he was with you, sprawled across the sheets, relishing their strange softness and the fabric gliding across his setae. What he enjoyed even more was to be immersed in all of the comforts of your body: the feeling of your skin, your lips pressed lovingly against his, your limbs an endless entanglement. Nights where he wanted that closeness always quickly evolved into your body being hastily stripped of clothing (it had taken him a while to learn how to), with your hands pushing firmly into his soft back as he fucked you.
You remembered being startled by the sight of his cock the first time as it unsheathed: long, curved, and pale with a modest girth that you didn't expect would get you anywhere. His dark pink tip wept terribly with a milky, viscous fluid crawling down the length of it. He had been anticipating this for a while, perhaps from the very beginning, and had been exhibiting more self-restraint than most humans you knew.
When you spread your legs for him, he made a pleased sound, a cross between chittering and a masculine hum. With a great sense of urgency, he climbed on top of you and nestled his cock inside of you. You watched him seat himself as far as he could go, even as he manipulated your legs and tried to push your thighs wider like that would grant him deeper access. But, he seemed to understand that he would get no further when you laid a hand against one of his defined pectorals and adjusted your hips to accommodate how far he reached inside of you and where the curve of his cock hit your walls.
The first thrusts he had taken were experimental, gauging. His large black eyes were focused on you, observing your expressions and the way your body writhed under him, as if he was fascinated to see it. He rested his weight on his arms, lowering himself far enough to kiss your lips, long tongue pushing through your teeth into your mouth, where he mingled your tastes and pulled a moan from your throat.
His gentleness fell away all at once after that. Every thrust became harder, faster, wilder in a way you never experienced before. He wasn't fucking you as a man, but as something far more bestial and ancient and not wholly knowable. Your fingernails clung to his shoulders, into his soft scales as he thrashed you deep into the mattress, hips knocking yours, cock numbing your insides as his narrow tip scraped your ridged walls.
You felt his ragged breaths against your neck, his lips always somewhere on your body, sampling the salt of your sweat and the lotion you had used when you'd last bathed. Then, through his orgasm, a groan resonated deep in his chest and rose into the back of his throat, where it carried on his breath and fanned out across your skin on stuttering breaths.
His release was explosive; hot, gushing stuff that saturated your insides and left you with a sensation of fullness, like his cock was the only thing keeping it all from spilling out. Once the tension in his shoulders softened under your fingertips and he'd gone flaccid, he removed himself from your body. His spend oozed steadily from your hole while you lie there motionless and unsatisfied, thinking of how long it would take to finish yourself off.
But, after that thought, he had recovered and backed down your body until his head was tucked between your legs, fuzzy antennae brushing your thighs as he opened his mouth and engulfed you.
550 for the lil headless horseman piece. my goal is to get to around 1k for it and so of be me re-exploring in a sleepy town bc I'm considering taking that up as a project to rewrite
I still have all the old chapters, but the story is so outdated that it needs to be reworked
922 words and I'm not done so I imagine this will end up being around 1300-1400 words. I'm really enjoying writing this little piece and the writing quality makes me happy
550 for the lil headless horseman piece. my goal is to get to around 1k for it and so of be me re-exploring in a sleepy town bc I'm considering taking that up as a project to rewrite
I still have all the old chapters, but the story is so outdated that it needs to be reworked
good morning, I shook coffee creamer all over my kitchen when I was tryna make my iced coffee and spent 15mins spraying my countertops and mopping the floor so morning gets sticky....
your moth-man lover enjoys close proximity to you in more ways than one.
wc; 873
warnings; mdni/18+; sexually explicit details, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids, detail + prose heavy in some spots
divider; @/kodaswrld
sequel to SOFTNESS
if you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging this and sharing your thoughts with me!!
The lighthouse beacon called him home to you every night.
You knew his arrival by the distant flutter of his wings, a sound resembling fabric caught on a strong breeze, and his feet making contact with the iron grates that made up the wraparound walkway of the gallery deck. Two clawed toes stuck through the hexagonal gaps, always making his landings uncomfortable as he struggled to free himself, step above the holes to make his way through the trapdoor that you left open for him.
He knew where to go and how to navigate to the lower floors to find you. Sometimes he interrupted you while you studied old blueprints of the lighthouse, hoping to unravel some sacred engineering knowledge that you weren't already aware of, or he'd watch you broom the floor from a safe distance after far too many times feeling the coarse bristles against his setae.
Then, there were some nights when he found you asleep on the job, cocooned messily in your thick comforters on the mattresses you kept stacked on the floor. They were shoved oddly to a corner near, just in view of a window longer than it was wide. Not big enough for a body to fit through, but for a slant of dusty moonlight to filter through the murky window and lay a long stripe across your bed.
He liked to be in that light when he was with you, sprawled across the sheets, relishing their strange softness and the fabric gliding across his setae. What he enjoyed even more was to be immersed in all of the comforts of your body: the feeling of your skin, your lips pressed lovingly against his, your limbs an endless entanglement. Nights where he wanted that closeness always quickly evolved into your body being hastily stripped of clothing (it had taken him a while to learn how to), with your hands pushing firmly into his soft back as he fucked you.
You remembered being startled by the sight of his cock the first time as it unsheathed: long, curved, and pale with a modest girth that you didn't expect would get you anywhere. His dark pink tip wept terribly with a milky, viscous fluid crawling down the length of it. He had been anticipating this for a while, perhaps from the very beginning, and had been exhibiting more self-restraint than most humans you knew.
When you spread your legs for him, he made a pleased sound, a cross between chittering and a masculine hum. With a great sense of urgency, he climbed on top of you and nestled his cock inside of you. You watched him seat himself as far as he could go, even as he manipulated your legs and tried to push your thighs wider like that would grant him deeper access. But, he seemed to understand that he would get no further when you laid a hand against one of his defined pectorals and adjusted your hips to accommodate how far he reached inside of you and where the curve of his cock hit your walls.
The first thrusts he had taken were experimental, gauging. His large black eyes were focused on you, observing your expressions and the way your body writhed under him, as if he was fascinated to see it. He rested his weight on his arms, lowering himself far enough to kiss your lips, long tongue pushing through your teeth into your mouth, where he mingled your tastes and pulled a moan from your throat.
His gentleness fell away all at once after that. Every thrust became harder, faster, wilder in a way you never experienced before. He wasn't fucking you as a man, but as something far more bestial and ancient and not wholly knowable. Your fingernails clung to his shoulders, into his soft scales as he thrashed you deep into the mattress, hips knocking yours, cock numbing your insides as his narrow tip scraped your ridged walls.
You felt his ragged breaths against your neck, his lips always somewhere on your body, sampling the salt of your sweat and the lotion you had used when you'd last bathed. Then, through his orgasm, a groan resonated deep in his chest and rose into the back of his throat, where it carried on his breath and fanned out across your skin on stuttering breaths.
His release was explosive; hot, gushing stuff that saturated your insides and left you with a sensation of fullness, like his cock was the only thing keeping it all from spilling out. Once the tension in his shoulders softened under your fingertips and he'd gone flaccid, he removed himself from your body. His spend oozed steadily from your hole while you lie there motionless and unsatisfied, thinking of how long it would take to finish yourself off.
But, after that thought, he had recovered and backed down your body until his head was tucked between your legs, fuzzy antennae brushing your thighs as he opened his mouth and engulfed you.
