Coral

27 | She/Hers | Gemini | Demisexual | 18+ | Writes for LaDs and Resident Evil

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Coral's Concoctions

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Leon Kennedy Masterlist

Rafayel Masterlist

Sylus Masterlist

Zayne Masterlist

Xavier Masterlist

Caleb Masterlist

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Steel Scales

Pairing: 18+ | Knight Sylus x Noble Reader

Tags: Allies to enemies, slow burn, forbidden love, fantasy/medieval au, deception, worldbuilding, character development, chivalry, angst, conflict of interest, romance, eventual smut, primal play, dirty talk, banter, possessiveness

Summary: Sylus was born for the sake of the dragons. Infiltrate, deceive, then execute. He was prepared to sacrifice his sanity, forever hidden behind his armor. Until the noble he is contracted to chips away at it, one steel plate at a time. Even if she wishes to find him, however, his heart lies behind a wall of treason.

Word Count: 636

Sylus Masterlist | Next

Sylus never removed his helmet. 

A secret he kept, revealed in the notches of his pupils, the gleam of his canines. Treason was hidden in his quarters: covert missives and vials of blood.

But you, his ever-so-curious noble, worked day and night to pry into the mystery of him, albeit involuntarily. Your affections were ferried by your scent - intrigue, security, and arousal. It was the gait in his walk, maybe even the timber of his voice that ignited something in you, despite the lack of his physical appearance. For all you had known, he could have had a sinister look, one seemingly unveiling his evil deeds. 

Yet you still dug deeper. Elegant flirtation often directed at a prince, found its way to him, winding its seductive song through the slits of his ribs. When it wasn’t elegant, it was shameless. 

“Will you ever tell me the color of your hair?” You had asked one slow afternoon, the two of you seated on a stone bench beside a lake. 

You had said his chuckle was ruptured, broken into individual syllables, unlike the faux courtship given by nobility. It never failed to make you grin, as you did now. 

“My lady,” he strung the beats of your title into one, enticing breath, “a Knight only reveals information they are required to.” 

“I would categorize it as required,” you slanted your body in his direction, knocking shoulders, “how else will I be able to fantasize about pulling it.” 

The tick in the corner of his mouth would have satisfied you plenty. Your candor, which had been widely criticized, tickled the instincts weaved into his heritage. The others had characterized you as a threat simply from your human traits. 

It was not you who signed the directives, nor was it you who partook in conversation regarding the slaying of dragons. The ideology forced upon you by your inner-circle would take months to unravel, but it was feasible, nonetheless. 

That was if it were him at the helm of such an endeavor. 

Intolerable thoughts, he had been told. Only once had he made the grave mistake of expressing his sentiment towards you, otherwise known as adolescent enthusiasm, the fault of feeling invincible. 

You too had fallen victim to such naivety. 

A Knight had no standing with a noble. His duty was to protect a land considered sacred. If it was a matter between your safety and the future of this Kingdom, his oath stated it was imperative to prioritize the latter. 

You knew that, having splayed your name across his pact with somber ink. 

Your hands had been so tiny, innocent eyes wide as they tried to decipher complex vocabulary. As he had expected, even back then, you did not falter. The miniscule tremble in your limbs and the bead of sweat accumulating at your hairline could only be seen by someone equipped with heightened senses - such as himself. 

And as your Knight, he would not reveal anything that would jeopardize your vanity. 

He had kneeled, his forearm crossing over his chest so his hand could rest over his heart. 

He had reported that night back to his Flight. He had accomplished what he had been sent to do - infiltrate. The rest would be achieved in time, even if it took months, years, or decades, Sylus was a patient man when it came to his schemes. 

Decades it had taken before he had a secure grasp on his betrayal. 

Decades it had taken before his scales began to crack under the weight of your affection. 

Sylus never removed his helmet. 

A secret he kept, revealed in the notches of his pupils, the gleam of his canines. Infatuation was hidden in his features: fond eyes and blatant smiles. 

Sylus never removed his helmet, it was his last defense. 

Until one day he did.

I can't wait to show y'all this one.

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Sylus Masterlist

Steel Scales

Fated Flight

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

5 Marks with Valko

Rafayel | Sylus | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier

(Everyone say thank you to @aghostreading13 for adding fuel to this fire)

One: It was in his nature to claim you. If there was a lack of time, he had to resort solely to his teeth, sharp canines finding any patch of visible skin. Not all bouts of rough lovemaking were done fully nude. Valko would take you on the nearest surface, sometimes even the floor, depending on how desperate he was. Your scent, the look in your eyes, and the way in which you spoke would determine when, where, and how he’d vault his hips into yours. 

He preferred to nibble on your neck, over the hump of your throat, or the nape of your neck. For a week that mark would remain, and he’d request you leave it on display for those around you to witness his claim. In return, he’d tip his chin up, unveiling the thick chords of his own neck. 

“Do your worst,” he’d tease, “leave your scent on me, gorgeous.” 

Every mark you left earned you a gruff groan. The rattle in his throat reminded you of a growl, one that sparked lively tussles. Traversing his shoulders and chest, your teeth would notch onto his hefty clavicle, a wet kiss following your brand. 

“The wetter it is, the longer you will remain on me. Mark your territory, play with your wolf.” 

His voice would vibrate against your mouth, his hands gripping your shoulders to keep you close. He’d hiss, begging you to bruise his flawless skin. 

“Let me show the other wolves how well my mate treats me.”

Two: Valko would never hurt you. Wild, primal play often was preceded with a lengthy conversation, as it should be, but Valko made an event out of it, often many days prior. Over dinner, maybe while cuddling, or during a post-sex haze. Your limits, his limits, and combined interests were always communicated. 

The first time his nails had dug into your skin, he paused, nose fluttering when smelling blood near the surface of your waist. 

“Keep going,” you begged, gripping his wrist, “it feels good.” 

“Yeah?” He’d provoke, “does my mate like when I leave my scratches? She wants to see them in the morning, huh, rub her hand over them as she touches herself?” 

Since then, he wouldn’t restrain himself. Neither did you. If he was heavy in your mouth, your knees bracketing his head as his tongue split your pussy, you’d rake your own nails over his thighs. It would be hard to sit after those moments, welts of red often striped over your rear.

Three: You weren’t sure whether he was taunting you when you asked why he often smeared his come over your skin. His response was related to scent.

“Any wolf will know what we have been doing,” he’d explain. 

As if he hadn’t already made that obvious with the bruises and arcs of teeth on you. This was personal. By the way in which his eyes watched his arousal glisten on your skin, it tickled something instinctual. 

“Keep it in,” he’d instruct if you weren’t busy the next day. “I want it dripping down your leg, then I know when I can fuck it back into you.” 

Four: Not all marks from Valko were given by his teeth, nails, or come. Some were given by the girth of his cock, the stamina of his hips, and his desire to remain connected. He’d divide your thighs with large palms, admiring the swollen, abused skin of your cunt. Pleasurably sore, he’d kiss you, half-heartedly muttering apologies while narrowed eyes would recognize his claim. The ears atop his head would perk forward, twitching when he’d use his thumbs to reveal your clit. 

Sometimes, he’d drag the crown of his cock over the unique contours of your cunt, drooling his seed over your bloated skin. 

“Wish you could see how swollen you are,” he always would express, “see how I look spread on your delicious pussy. Our scent . . . is just perfect.” 

His tail would swipe back and forth when you would hum in agreement, your hand descending to rub over your mixed arousal. If you brought it to your mouth, he’d suckle on your tongue, leaving an indent of his fang on your lower lip on his departure.

Five: Scenting was a mark you couldn’t see. It was also a mark you were unable to recognize. Yet, you would never deny him what he was so naturally inclined to do. Besides, it wasn’t not pleasurable for you. If you were leaving, he would toss you his jacket, nuzzling the top of your head with his cheek. Throughout the day you’d lift the collar to your nose, inhaling the richness of him. If his hoodie swamped you while he was away, as you circled your clit, you’d bite the fabric, drowned in his scent. 

He had walked into you spread out on his blankets, and he had taken you from behind, the hem of his hoodie hiked up to your ribs. When he had maneuvered you onto his lap, he had used the garment as leverage, yanking you down onto his length. From then on, the majority of the time, you were in at least one article of his clothing.

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Lawless (Part 5)

Pairing: 18+ | Outlaw Rafayel x Outlaw Reader x Outlaw Xavier

Tags: post-apocalyptic, survival, polyamory, bounty hunting, burlesque, gothic western, slow burn, dirty talk, secrets, violence, nitty gritty, angst, banter, Rafayel and Xavier fall first, widowed reader, high-stakes, eventual smut and everything in between.

Summary: after your loss, you'd vowed to run solo. Drowning sorrow in work, taking any job but murder, you were the last marksman in the county. Your latest job would set you right for the rest of year, until it's thwarted by a pair of outlaws, one armed with a smart-mouth and dagger, the other with observant eyes and a sword. You would rather never see the two of them again, until they approach you with an offer impossible to refuse.

Word Count: 3k

First | Previous | Next

“Are you sure she’s going to make it? Like, look at her. Hell, are you sure you are going to make it?” 

“Calm down, Raf, or you will burn the place down.” 

“Me? You better be joking, Xavie, because if it wasn’t for me you’d both be dead! I don’t want to hear it from Mr. Willingly Jumps Into An Illusion Cast By A Witch.” 

“The other option was watching her die. If I hadn’t, you would have.” 

Your eyelids were as heavy as the barrels of coal carried to power the local trains. Vision prevented you from seeing their reactions, or rather, the lack of. Neither had spoken since Xavier’s last statement. 

A shame, really, you would have enjoyed to see Rafayel finally put in his place. Xavier seemed to be the only one who could potentially extinguish the witch’s sizzling personality. 

“Xavier,” Rafayel said, surprise evident, “is she smirking?”

You wouldn’t know how Xavier responded, not when the chasm of oblivion beckoned you once more. 

The next time you came to, your eyes remained closed. You weren’t alone, another was at your side, the weight of their body sinking the bed. Silence accompanied this figure. 

Rafayel was incapable of such prolonged stillness. 

Xavier rocked with each sway of the room, his body shifting on particularly harsh jerks of your bed. Steel clashed, soot clogged your nose. 

“Where are we?” You mumbled, lips chapped, flaking pieces of skin slipping past the crease of your mouth. You coughed, and sat up, reaching out for the first solid sense of foundation. 

Your left hand gripped an upper arm, and you squeezed in fear, refusing to release until you verified safety. 

“Hey,” Xavier soothed, “you’re with us.” 

Us. 

Your head cocked, breath slowing. Listening, you waited to hear the additional sound of an exhale, or an impish comment - one about the ring on your finger. 

“You’re with me, sorry, I didn’t think to clarify,” Xavier mended. “Here.” 

The rim of a glass met your bottom lip, and on instinct, your lips parted. With an introduction of pressure, you tipped your jaw up and back, then swallowed chilled water. 

“My eyes,” you tried to explain, your other hand rubbing over your eyelids. No pain radiated, yet they still were welded shut. 

Xavier drew away, the bottom of the cup tapping a nearby surface. He returned. 

“My magic is light . . . it can be blinding. Nothing permanent, but it’s best if you keep your eyes closed.” 

“So, I basically stared into the sun,” you reasoned. 

Xavier’s low laugh was satin, stained with smoke. There were registers to his voice you had yet to hear. Like anything undiscovered, it caught your interest just as it instigated fear.

“More or less.” 

His sleeve was thin, your sweat dampening the fabric. Beneath the material, his skin heated, a firm bicep seducing the pads of your fingers. Slowly, you released him, tucking your hand beneath the blanket at your waist. 

“Where were we?” You asked. 

“The manifestation of your greatest fear,” Xavier said, solemn. “In your case, guilt and regret.” 

Embarrassment lit a fire at your cheeks. Before Xavier could pry into the full extent of your unseen scars, you altered the trajectory of the conversation. 

“Are we on a train?” 

Xavier would explain that this was how they had remained hidden - constantly on the move. The train would repeat loops throughout and around town, allowing it to be accessible by the two. 

It was composed of multiple carts, each one containing a means to live. One cart solely was designated as the bathroom, another the kitchen, and even a common living space. Individual carts near the caboose served as bedrooms, one for Rafayel, the other for Xavier. The bed you laid in was the light user’s. 

The sheets carried his scent. 

“It’s been a while since Rafayel and I shared a bed, but we will survive,” was Xavier’s answer when you asked where he had been staying the few days you had been unconscious. 

Drunk off delirium, you laughed. “He must be a difficult roommate.” 

Xavier’s hum melted over your chest, “not the easiest, but he has his reasons.” 

“Nope,” you denied immediately, “don’t tell me he’s some heartfelt witch that covers up his past trauma with an insufferable, flirty, unserious attitude.” 

Confirmation was given in the form of silence. Your sigh swept past your lips. 

“Xavier, that’s one of the most dramatic tropes you tend to find in story books.” 

“And is he not dramatic?” Xavier coaxed the blanket further up your arms, resting the edge over your shoulders. “We didn’t have a lot growing up, but we had books.” 

You didn’t respond. As much as you disliked what you naturally did - you became curious. 

Xavier continued, once more demonstrating his ability to be quick-witted despite his usual soft, calm tone. 

“Besides, isn’t being aloof and openly cold towards attachment a defense mechanism you’re currently implementing?” A hand squeezed yours atop the blanket, compressing your skin against the metal of your ring. “Rafayel told me you didn’t shoot him when you had the chance. You two might be more alike than you think.” 

Before you could protest, Xavier said “get some rest.” 

Then, he was gone. 

When you awoke a few hours later, Rafayel was at your side. While Xavier had sat on your left, Rafayel was seated to your right. You knew it was him by the sounds he made: the sharpening of a dagger, the huffs of frustration when the train quaked, upsetting the smooth slide of blade over whetstone. 

And a quip was out of your mouth, a rebel against your composure, “not so smooth now, are you.” 

“And she’s awake,” Rafayel responded. His dagger slid into its sheath, set on the nightstand, and the whetstone rested on the bed - you felt it near your wrist. “How are you feeling?” 

“Better,” you rose, scooting back until your head tapped the headboard. With an array of pillows between your spine and the wood, you relaxed. 

“Of course, now that I’m here.” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, cowboy,” you bantered, the flow of your jest far too easy to be swept in. Especially with Rafayel. As part of your routine, your eyes opened, attempting to pin the witch with your stare. 

Like the eyes of a phoenix, his irises blazed. 

“Cowboy, huh?” He shifted, twisting his torso to face you. The shock of your vision was forgotten in a flash, the man captivating your attention. “Is that an invitation to ride?” 

Words jumbled in the back of your throat, criss-crossed as if a ball of yarn. One tug and it’d unravel, a constant string of seduction tumbling from your lips. Rafayel toyed with that string relentlessly from a look alone. 

In his own way, he never stopped asking you to play. 

Your body slumped, and you cocked your head to the side, watching him. Lazy, you spoke your mind. “It’s not. As if you could handle riding me.” 

“There’s only one way to find out.” 

With a thud, your scalp hit a hard surface, your chin tipped back as you laughed. “Goodness, you don’t give up, do you?” 

After your observation, you leveled with his gaze, only to find a subtle tilt of his lips. Something swamped his eyes, sentiment that rivaled the tranquility of Xavier’s voice. 

“It made you laugh, didn’t it.” 

Hypnotized, you answered honestly. 

“It did.” 

The conversation lulled, and your sight darted around. Xavier’s room was elegant, organized in a fashion that snitched he had spent more often than not rearranging everything until it appealed to his aesthetic. Unlike his outlaw attire, the colors of his personal space were lighter, consisting of whites, lavenders, and golds. On a coat rack located in the corner of the rectangular room, Xavier’s black trench coat hung, his brimmed hat tilted over the top of the apparatus. 

On that revelation, you returned back to Rafayel. As you had assumed, he too was dressed down. 

His pants were high-waisted, a loose blouse tucked into the waistband. That was it. His feet were bare, toes rhythmically moving as he waited. 

“Are you planning a great escape, cutie?” Rafayel teased. “Show me some mercy and let me get my boots on first.” 

“No,” you said, “you’re just . . . you seem different.” 

“Bland? Normal? Human? I hope not, that would be a nightmare.” 

A kernel of intrigue popped. You wanted to see his room, to know how he spent his free time. Clearly, calling this place home allowed his defenses to drop. The only thing he had left to barricade himself behind was flirtation. So, inquiring about his room would lead to a conversation about his bed, most likely. 

“You’ve always been human,” you frowned slightly at the mention of such a thing as a trait, rather than the core component of his being, “being a witch doesn’t make you anything else.” 

As you had wished to see Rafayel speechless, you finally did. 

A beautiful rouge had burst beneath his eyes, extending over his temples, then painting his ears. His lower lip jutted, manufacturing a miniscule pout that scrunched the features around his mouth. Paired with the native curl of his hair, he appeared as innocence itself, a harmless man who desperately sought the praise of others. 

“Rafayel,” you tried. 

“Scooch.” 

“What?” 

“Scoot over, and don’t look at me.” 

That was how you found yourself shoulder-to-shoulder with a fire witch. Atop the blankets, his left foot knocked the outline of your right. In his lap his hands mingled with one another, fingertips kissing before running down the opposite knuckle. 

“Do you mean that?” He whispered. 

“Do I mean what?” 

The train horn blared, an ambience you were used to. 

“That witches are humans too?” 

Plural, he was referencing others. When Rafayel and Xavier referenced one another, they both utilized us or we. Like peering through a keyhole, you were seeing a small glimpse of his past. You had to tread carefully, any abrupt vocabulary would have him scrambling away like a spooked horse. 

“If I hadn’t, you and Xavier would be dead.” 

He chuckled, “I don’t doubt that.” 

Another jolt to the chassis, and your bodies swayed in unison. The lamp wobbled above, altering the shading of the room. 

“Has anyone . . . called you anything else?” 

Rafayel tutted, “my turn to ask a question about you.” 

“Alright.” 

Despite having your consent, he hesitated. As he had requested you not look, you kept your head forward. A hearth was installed into the metal of the train car, the chimney - a steel pipe. Charred logs had crumbled, the ash meticulously swept beneath the rack. It was only logical Rafayel lit them for Xavier with a snap of his -

“How long have you been married?” 

It was as if your entire body relented. Your ribs sagged, applying pressure to your lungs, the organs collapsing underneath the weight of your bones. Each breath was stunted, but no cry rasped from your throat. 

“Did Xavier tell you?” 

To you, your voice crackled. In reality, it did not. 

“No, I’m not as detached as you think I am. Xavier promised he wouldn’t tell, huh? He’ll keep that promise to you, don’t worry.” 

“That doesn’t . . . upset you?” 

Rafayel snorted, “not at all, that’s what I love about him - loyal to a fault. Besides, I would have found out regardless. Now, ask me how I found out, you’d be impressed.” 

You removed your hand from beneath the blanket, baring your ring finger in front of the eyes of another for the first time since your husband had passed. The band was imperfect, scratched and scuffed from front to back. It had bashed against train car ladders, scraped the side of your revolvers, and had been exposed to the harmful effects of the weather. Imperfect, yet beautiful, symbolizing an eternal bond. 

Between the pads of your forefinger and thumb, you spun it. 

Rafayel stared.

“How?” You obliged. 

“Well yours truly is a bit of a detective, if I do say so myself,” he began. 

You interjected, “yes, you do say so yourself.” 

“Anyways, just as you are now, you would touch your ring finger, even when wearing a glove. When Xavier carried you here, you held that hand to your chest, and once Xavier had removed your gloves, he not-so-subtly shoved your hand under the blanket.”

“You’re less a detective, and more that the clues were obvious.” 

“That, and you refused my advances.” 

Irritation thrummed beneath the surface, but you tamped it down. You turned to collect your own set of clues, hoping to devour an image of a cocky profile. Rafayel already had been consuming your reactions, his narrowed gaze instigating you to continue with your usual inferno. 

“And how do you know you’re just not that seductive?” 

As if he had been waiting for that exact response, he returned your shot with a round far quicker than yours. 

“No one is immune to this charm, sweetheart.” 

“No one?” You goaded. 

He repeated, “no one.” 

Your husband had been an outlaw, inept at strategy and close combat. He preferred fist and boot, often charging head-first into conflict while you had stayed vigilant from a distance. Fond of two different realms of a shared profession, an underlying disconnect trilled beneath the strength of your relationship. Acknowledged yet rarely discussed, conversation steered clear of the lack of understanding. 

In other words, you had never felt safe to tread risky waters. 

Rafayel beckoned to possibility. With him, you could ask questions you would have never before. 

“Not even Xavier?” 

The violet of his eyes glowed like burning coals at the base of a fire. His blouse, detached and stretched, revealed his collarbone, the hump elegant beneath his skin. The power in his strikes came from toned muscles, the embers of his flame. 

“Nice shot, cutie,” he mused, “you’ve got me cornered.” 

Lured by his admission, you prodded, cocking your head, awaiting his next move. 

Rafayel inclined his body in your direction, the weight of his shoulder suddenly colossal against yours. His irises were swamped in mischief, overflowing at the brim, melting your resolve like glass over a pyre. 

“I suppose a marksman like you might enjoy a game of roulette, no?” 

You sobered, hand instinctively reaching for an invisible holster. “Depends what is at stake.” 

“Your composure,” he bartered, “and my confession.” 

Something sparked to life in your core, a distant sensation you would associate with the start of a game. Board games had been a thing of the past, instead you had played with a stick and dirt, drawing lines and letters, taking turns. All you knew was the childish emotion that flourished was similar to the one you experienced now, prompting your consent. 

“Who goes first?” You initiated. 

“Sweetheart, don’t give a witch like me an option. I never hesitate to seize the advantage.” 

The mattress at your waist sunk, his hand bracing opposite to his body. It rotated his chest to face yours, his legs stacked as he relaxed on his left hip. 

His breath bled over your lips as he whispered, “your turn.” 

Rafayel’s chest armored a steady heart. It pulsed against your palm, uniform, a healthy tempo at rest. His eyes foretold an assumption - that you would push him away. Like the first time you had met him, you had him pegged as a performer. 

You understood, this was a bluff - your advantage. You never backed down from a blatant dare. 

His blouse twisted at the force of your grip, and you tugged him forward. His eyes had widened, and you smirked, satisfied when his hands staggered, accommodating the change in his balance. The tip of your nose brushed his, the once cool breath of his now sweltering. 

“Take your best shot, cowboy.” 

“Ah, that again,” he pretended to think aloud, his hips lifting, “guess I should ride, then.” 

The knees on the outside of your thighs caged you in. Rafayel was straddling you, blanketing you in his presence. But, the tremble in his frame divulged he was harboring restraint. If you had required it, you could remove him from your body. Yet you had no intention of doing so. 

For years you had felt enclosed in your own skin, burdened by gravity of your past. 

Those shackles disintegrated, your hands climbing the distance to his hair as you lowered yourself to lay flat. He watched your descent, eyes objecting from leaving yours. It slowed time, left you suspended in his cradle. 

“Your move,” you said. 

He dipped, his nose tracing the ledge of your jaw until he arrived at your ear. Lips puckered, air shooting through the circle of his mouth. It made you arch, one hand planted in his hair still, the other hooking onto the bend of his elbow. 

As your composure splintered, plummeting down into pieces below him, he confessed. 

“Xavier’s kiss tastes like control. He’s the only man capable of containing my flame.” 

Fire blitzed down your torso, skittering from limb to limb, fraying your nerves. Arousal, long since dormant, stirred. You felt it in the pit of your stomach, that irrefutable tug at your navel. Relief came in the form of tears and a harder squeeze where fingers grasped Rafayel’s hair. 

“You like that, sweetheart?” His lips droned over your earlobe with each word, his syllables languid, the depth of his voice ambiguous. “Curious about the light witch, are you?” 

Yes and no. In the cyclone of your thoughts, no direct answer unveiled itself. 

“Not just the light witch,” you breathed. 

Rafayel’s arms straightened, his head hovering, mauve bangs a curtain shadowing his features. In your ears, the thump of your heart echoed. Pride obstructed your ability to beg for an answer - anything. His reservations were contrary to his usual character. 

Your mouth possessed his attention. 

“I’m wild, unruly,” he spoke as if hypnotized, “like a wildfire.” 

“A wildfire destroys,” you argued. 

“It does,” he maneuvered onto his forearms, fingertips twirling the ends of your hair. You bore the force of his body. The edge of his nose crept along yours, his movements lazy, laden with an affection ferried by a lover. 

“And?” He continued, “would you let me ruin you?”

Taglist: @something-something-rafayel , @spacenott , @ahandacrossspace , @tiredkiwiii , @stillseiims , @fiyoripim , @iwillstealyouruwus , @cementia , @jhornytrash , @esylwen , @flibbertygibbets89

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

In honor of 500 followers, you decide which fic is updated next!

Captain of the Guard (Rafayel x Reader x Caleb)

Crimson Steam (Rafayel x Reader)

Lights, Camera, Action (Rafayel x Reader)

Save a Horse, Ride a Caleb (Caleb x Reader)

Lawless (Xavier x Reader x Rafayel)

Fated Flight (Sylus x Reader)

A Double-Edged Dagger (Rafayel x Reader)

Moonlit Reflection (Xavier x Reader)

Crown Catcher (Xavier x Reader)

Voting ended onAug 4

I'm neutral about all of them, no particular preference at the moment. I could use a nudge in the right direction!

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

10 Kisses with Xavier

Rafayel | Valko | Sylus | Zayne | Caleb | Xavier

One: Xavier had navigated the constellation of your kiss thousands of times before. Even so, every voyage guided by the siren’s call of your moans led him to a new discovery each time. Whether his movements were slow and lazy, or instinctual and rough - something made you react in ways most pleasurable. That particular evening, it had been his nails scampering down the valley of your back. Beneath him you had been arched, lips spread wide as his tongue buffed along the edges of yours. Xavier was thorough, sometimes even devilish with his advances. But every move was calculated. Even on the brink of maddening ecstasy, he rushed with elegance.

Two: True to his nature, Xavier enjoyed heated sessions beneath the stars. What would often start with a blanket and a basket of drinks paired with snacks would lead to the swordsman inching closer and closer to you. Sat side-by-side, his knee would be propped up, opposite ankle shoved below. With an extended arm he’d point to the stars, pinpointing galaxies, planets, and satellites. Although your relationship wasn’t fresh, you’d smile at his flirtation tactic. Because in order to show you exactly where he was pointing, he’d line his cheek up next to yours. 

Your heart would pound just as it did the first time he implemented his technique. 

Sky-blue eyes would capture yours, the moment suspended by a couple of breaths, before he shoulder slumped against yours, and he’d kiss you.

Three: Xavier was the poster-child for cuteness aggression. To him, it was a two-way street. You provoked his need to bite you, or so he had proclaimed. Sometimes, it was after a playful competition during a videogame. He’d huff, pout, then lean over to chomp on your upper cheek, without a single warning. In return, you might grab his hand, and nibble on the tip of his finger. Other times, it was completely random. You might be stepping out of the shower, or joining for that matter, when he’d graze your shoulder with his teeth, occasionally applying suction to leave a mark. He was relentless, always finding a reason to have his mouth on your body. 

Four: Patience was Xavier’s virtue when it came to lapping between your legs. Skilled with his lips, tongue, and teeth, he’d ease you into it. One hand would grip below your knee, strewing your leg over his shoulder or a piece of furniture. The other would spread you with a forefinger and thumb, greedy eyes tracking the crevice of your cunt. Often, he’d stare up at you before delving in, doe-eyes relaying his intentions with innocence, tongue sailing over his bottom lip. 

Depending where he started, he’d stamp kisses from ankle to thigh, or below your bellow button, along the line of your waist. If you were straddling his jaw, he’d kiss your clit, small pecks to initiate. His eyes would close, a moan vibrating against your sensitive flesh. 

“Just like that, starlight,” he’d encourage, voice gentle, only splintered by his timbre at the end. “Come on my tongue.” 

He’d swallow every drop that would swell from you, utilizing the flat of his tongue to clean his mess.

Five: He often tried to burn the house down. Or that’s what you called it. Xavier and his subtle regency called it cooking. It didn’t matter if you were in the kitchen or outside of it - smoke would inevitably furl. His lips would puff, jutting to form a scowl. 

“I did it right this time,” he’d grumble. "I didn't even need a recipe."

The burnt vegetables in the bottom of the pan certainly disagreed. 

Either way, you’d clasp your hands on his shoulders, rising on arched feet to kiss his cheek, then the wrinkle of his lips.

Six: Xavier and his knack for swordsmanship had led you to become his sparring partner. While there were many fine opponents, Xavier had claimed it was far different when dueling with you. You would hope so, you considered this flirting, if not foreplay. Xavier brandished his weapon as an extension of his desires. A swipe there, a thrust there, and soon your sleeves would be gone, fluttering to the grass beneath your feet. You swore when Xavier accompanied you shopping, he’d be deliberating which garment was easier to cut, which had more strings, and which were the most expendable. 

In return, when you were wearing nothing but pieces of fabric, you’d exaggerate your grip on the hilt of your sword. Stabbed into the ground below, you could twirl your finger around the length, mimicking circling the head of his cock. Imagination would run wild, memories rampant, blending to produce fantasies. It was when your thumb would brush over his slit, would he kiss you. Any time your palm was pressed to his base, thick veins imprinting your skin, he’d have to be occupied with his mouth on yours. His moans when you’d squeeze would heat your tongue. Teeth might knock, his intensity foreign.

Seven: On a warm, sun-filled day, Xavier would nap. Eyelashes laid gently over his skin would seduce your fingers to trace his features. From between his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose, his silent, heavy breaths would remain on tempo. If he was deep in the land of dreams, his lips would be slightly parted, mouth barely ajar. While you might have drool seeping from your mouth, or your hair a mess, Xavier slept as if a prince. 

“You can wake me with a kiss,” Xavier had said one day, frustrated he had awoken to just the pad of your finger on his bottom lip. “I don’t mind.”

“Like a fairytale?” You had guessed. 

He smirked, “is our love not just as, if not more, magical?” 

Since then, you’d kiss him awake when the opportunity arose. Morning breath be damned, his languid kiss would transform into a punch of intention. Once he had rolled, falling from the couch to pin you on the carpet. His sweatshirt had ridden up to his shoulder blades, your nails scratching lines over his ribs. He relished in it, leaving you there when he rose to make toast, cheeks flushed.

Eight: The flavor of Xavier’s kiss was often unpredictable. His love for sweet tarts was never a secret, not when you could taste the cream on your own tongue after licking his. From strawberries to raspberries, and of course, blueberries, you’d know exactly which confection he had picked up from the local bakery. If there were enough left for the both of you, a swipe of cream might paint his cheek, or perhaps your nose. If he was particularly ferocious that day, cream might decorate the peak of your breast, your ribs, or your hip. Afterall, he loved to nibble on sweet things.

Nine: Xavier was expressive. At the times he’d let you roam his body without his input, you’d bite. He’d gasp, a sound so breathy you’d watch his ears heat in welcomed embarrassment. Every kiss you left upon his legs, torso, arms, and head, he’d keep track of. Each moan you’d earn, every groan you’d pull from his chest, would be paid back tenfold. As much as he loved your attention, he equally enjoyed watching you squirm.

Ten: "If I'm away for too long, look up to the stars," he'd remind you before every departure. As he had taught you to read the words of the twinkling lights above, you’d huddle with your knees to your chest, watching light shoot from one end of the sky to another. 

You would never forget what he had taught you. On your back he had drawn the constellations with his tongue. If you twitched, he’d blow air, cooling his saliva until it grew sticky. A small punishment, he would muse. Individual stars came in the form of kisses, little stickers made by pursed lips. Planets and galaxies alike were crafted by a suckle between his teeth, then the swipe of his tongue, until your skin blossomed with rising blood. 

Upon you he would create a star chart. You were, afterall, his universe. 

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

10 Kisses with Valko

Rafayel | Valko | Sylus | Zayne | Caleb | Xavier

One: Valko and his primal instincts consumed your body - whole. Instinctively, he knew when what he did felt good. From your scent, to the beat of your heart: the musk of your arousal coated his nose, and the thrum of your blood through your veins made the ears atop his head twitch. Many things he did made you lose your mind. Your legs would spread, heels crinkling the planes of his sheets. Your arms would steeple, bent over your head, hands tearing into his pillows. And he’d hover, watching, golden eyes absorbing everything down to the sweat cascading down your belly to the bed. 

All from a few kisses. The first had been at your mouth. He always started at your mouth. Never one to hesitate, he wanted you open and ready before he accessed the rest of you. So, he’d begin by cupping the sides of your neck, mouth pressing over yours. His knee had braced on the bed, tail swiping back and forth when you gave in, falling back. He sunk into you with his tongue, sliding the edge of his along yours, guaranteeing a moan so volatile his ears temporarily pinned back. He’d chuckle, before descending, mouthing at your collarbone, sharp nails ripping through fabric. You’d curse. He’d make promises. But no matter, all he had to do was capture your mouth with his, and you were defeated. 

Two: While many habits exposed his nature as a wolf, the most prominent was his need to scent. In any capacity, he was a part of you. Whether it was a brand of his fangs, his natural aroma, or the stickiness of his come on your thighs. At first, you had wondered if it was the dominance interwoven in his personality. But, he’d admire his marks with reverence. Wherever he bit you, he’d lick the bloated skin, sloppy and wet. Scenting required his tongue, as well. You weren’t sure if that was unique to him, or all wolves. You didn’t ask - it felt too good, regardless. When it came to leaving his seed on your skin, he’d circle the substance with the pad of his thumb. Then, his finger would be slipping past your lips, suckling while his nail tapped your front teeth. Your eyes never strayed from one another. With a smirk made from desire, he’d kiss you. What had once been clear saliva strung between the two of your tongues, was tainted in milky hues.

Three: Not everything between the two of you was deliciously messy. Valko, at his core, expressed affection with the mindset of a leader. He took it upon himself to provide unconditional security - even in the throes of passion. Valko’s embrace allowed for sexual exploration. One night, you had tried something new, something scandalous, something that would make the most experienced blush. It wasn’t that it necessarily hurt, nor was it startling, but you had tensed. Perked ears had poised themselves forward, and suddenly you had the full attention of a predator. 

“Talk to me, gorgeous,” Valko had requested, the weight of his body grounding your entire frame. 

So you had explained while kisses lined your jaw. In between kisses he’d hum, acknowledging your words. Valko didn’t interrupt, neither with his voice or actions. If he sensed you approaching a difficult topic, his kisses would pause, or he’d maneuver to nuzzle below your ear, expressing his support.

Four: Valko promoted rough, physical play. Wrestling wasn’t an uncommon occurrence between the two of you, especially after a strenuous workout. Any time adrenaline or endorphins ran high, he was eager. He made a game of it, attempting to kiss you whenever the chance arose. If he had you pinned, you’d have a dramatic kiss on your cheek. If your hands were locked, arms straining, he’d lunge forward, pulling on your lip between his teeth. You could never let your guard down around him.

Five: At times he’d leave a handful of chocolate kisses for you to find. One might be atop your pillow, maybe next to your keys, or next to a television remote. You would never verbalize your thoughts out loud, but you knew hiding treats was a technique that owners would implement to keep their canine occupied. It was endearing, a pleasant surprise on a difficult day. Not all of his kisses came from his lips, although they tasted the same - rich, dark, and savory.

Six: Valko was liberation. It was natural, the motions of his body instinct. How he would crowd you against the wall, his leg between the two of yours, his hands on your hips. The slant of his head, the slack in his jaw, the twine of his tongue - all of it. The ears atop his head would spasm when you moaned, the wet slide of your tongues amplified by his elevated senses. He relished in it, the unabashed way in which you expressed your lust. With him, you never held back, comfortable in the volatility of it all. Valko had taught you to let go of your inhibitions, to succumb to intuition. 

By the end of the night, sweaty and gasping, you’d laugh, in disbelief of the words, actions, and sounds he had pulled from your aching body. Fangs would peek from between curved lips, his own smile of elation reflecting your release. As night air would cool your heated bodies, he’d nuzzle you beneath your chin, his large body attempting to curl into your arms. 

This was the same male who’d have you begging for his scent. Valko was the freedom of a forest, the branches of pine colored amber from the sun, the harsh brush of bark against bare skin. 

As he was freedom, he was also servitude and confinement. Those days were just as pleasurable as those of primal exploration. If you left, you’d sometimes come home to a whirlpool of your clothes on the bed, encircling a male adorned with a tail, extra ears, and sharp nails. Since he was nesting, he was seeking your presence, or he was nearing the window of time in which he ached to mate. You were ready, either way. This was when you would kiss him, taking the lead, invading his mouth with your tongue. He’d oblige, never one to protest your confidence.

Seven: It was rare to see a grown man pout, but it wasn’t unheard of. You saw it when he sat on the floor, framed by your knees. He’d tilt his head, ears and tail restless. 

“I can smell it,” Valko rested his cheek on the top of your thigh, his gaze dropping to the sopping crease of your pussy. “How wet you are for me, beautiful.” 

“And?” You traced the furry edge of his right ear, flicking it when it attempted to fold back. 

He groaned, eyes closing on his next inhale. “I want you to come on my tongue.” 

His kiss, when lapping over the bump of your clit, was vulgar. The sound of suction, his moans, and the drenched glide of his fingers into your cunt had heat flooding your cheeks. Those fingers of his that had dipped into you, always left soaked. If he wasn’t whipping his tongue over his own fingers, he was wiping them down his abdomen, chest, or thighs, saturating your scent into his body.

Eight: Despite his inclination to use his tongue, Valko had his moments of chaste, adorable pecks. In the morning on his way out the door, he’d pucker up, leaning over your shoulder from behind. The smack would be loud, and he’d chuckle to match your laugh. In public, with his arm around your waist, his hand on the jut of your hip, he’d nibble at the shell of your ear. At the beginning of your relationship, you two had vowed now to go to bed without a kiss. You used it to your advantage at times, teasing him by pretending you had forgotten. With mint on his breath, he’d hunt you down, pulling you against his chest to kiss you.

Nine: Valko loved when you left marks on him, especially with your nails. Welts down his back provided a burn he’d grit his teeth at, jaw clenched, eventually relaxing into a smile. When his hips were bounding over the swells of your rear, his hands piercing the mattress next to your head, you’d grip his forearms. Lines of inflated crimson would rise, high, near his elbows, or low, by his wrists. On a particularly harsh thrust, you’d rake your feisty fingers over the top of his hands. 

“I lick your wounds, won’t you lick mine?” 

He’d nuzzle the back of your head as you kissed the blemishes, enjoying the sting of your tongue.

Ten: Not once had Valko knotted you, and not kissed you. Lodged deep in your heat, his hips jerking as thrills of pleasure assaulted his body, he held you close. The first time he had been locked in you, the inflation of his cock stretching you right, you had expected a kiss as wild as his instinct. Except it wasn’t. It took time before he could pull away, and every second was spent with affection rubbed raw over your mouth. His gratitude melted at the tip of your tongues, shared, then consumed. It was slow, slithering like the honey in his eyes. Even after he would separate his hips from yours, and face you as you both rolled onto your sides, he would continue, mumbling expressions of love on certain breaths. Eventually, you two would fall asleep, noses touching, hands entwined.

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

10 Kisses with Sylus

Rafayel | Valko | Sylus | Zayne | Caleb | Xavier

One: Sylus always had that look on his face - one abundant with vanity. Both arms laid over the back of the couch, a glass of alcohol with a few cubes of ice cradled in his large palm. He had told you to always take what you desired, for he would always provide. And that evening, you desired his wicked mouth. No words had been said. He watched you saunter to him, eyes holding yours, smirked when you climbed into his lap, and parted his lips as you descended. His tongue had curled around yours, his breath sweet. The ice melted, glass sweating as it was long forgotten.

Two: Although demanding in nature, Sylus had the tendency to be gentle with you. Unless, of course, you requested otherwise. When he scooped you up to transfer you from couch to bed, he’d kiss your forehead, nose, and cheek. If you stirred when your head hit the pillow, he might kiss your neck. If your eyes opened, he’d crawl over you, and nibble on your lips until you were giggling, asking him to stop, but quietly begging for more.

Three: Sylus nuzzled, a lot. It must have been the dragon in him, you reasoned. From head to toe, he’d find something to touch. Once his nose had swiped back and forth over your bare stomach, the strands of his hair stimulating the peaks of your breasts. Another time, your feet had been hooked over his shoulders, the sweat of his abdomen staining the back of your thighs. He nuzzled your ankle, his kisses stamping down your calf.

Four: Sometimes, he’d wrap you in his wings. The leathery extensions of his body would cocoon you as he tilted your chin back, tugging on your jaw with his thumb. As much as his kiss always reduced you into smithereens, the tremble in his wings was a special type of satisfaction. Against your bare skin, you’d relish in it even more.

Five: Sylus didn’t flaunt you, obnoxiously. No, all his domination came in the form of just existing. The way he walked, the way in which he held a glass, card, or bouquet, and the way in which he spoke exerted whatever authority he desired to. At galas, meetings, or simple outings, he escorted you as if he served a higher power. It didn’t place him in any position as someone less, for those who admired your beauty understood you had the strongest man at your side. There would be no one capable, aside from Sylus, who stood as your equal. And in those moments, as you two danced in the center of a gala, dinner, or party, he’d kiss you sweetly. Nothing inappropriate, just a gentle press of his lips to yours. Those ignited the thrill in your veins just as much as the kisses he gave in the dark.

Six: It was rare when the two of you fought - seriously. You had your moments of vulgar, verbal foreplay, sometimes veering into playful banter that served to spark a challenge. A provoked Sylus was delicious. But a truly enraged Sylus was lethal. Not once would he direct such true, destructive chaos at you. But those who deserved it? Most certainly. If the two of you disagreed, he remained calm, listening to your reasons before confirming his own. At the end, he’d grip your hips and pull you close. At times you were stubborn and would turn away, earning you a “kitten, look at me.” You never rejected his kiss, understanding it was his form of comfort.

Seven: More often than not, you were simply unable to remain quiet. Not when Sylus vaulted his hips into yours, not when his fangs dug into yours skin, and not when his fingers gripped with enough traction to leave marks. If he was behind, his hand would trap your neck, angling your head over your shoulder so he could kiss you. Now, Sylus consumed your sounds, always encouraging you to be loud and wild. But not always did he take you in the most . . . suitable of places. Then, he’d never ask you to be quiet, it was simply impossible. Instead, he’d take responsibility, inhaling you, devouring whatever whimper, moan, or scream that vibrated against his teeth.

Eight: If you blew him a kiss from across the distance, he’d arch a brow. “For me?” He’d mouth, eventually smirking when you’d curl your fist. “Who else would it be for?” You’d form the words with your lips, equally as silent as him. Depending on the day, he might return the favor with a quick kiss, texting you later to be prepared to receive a proper kiss later. On some occasions, he’d perform, pretending to catch your kiss, inspecting it, then shoving it into his pocket. On those days too, a proper kiss would be on your lips the second he was through the door.

Nine: Sylus was a curious dragon; both in understanding new things, and figuring out what made you tick. First, it had been the skin care: a mask and cucumber slices. Next, it had been your lip balm. He’d allowed you to apply some with the tip of your finger. His teeth had captured your forefinger down to your first knuckle, then he had licked. It evolved into you transferring the flavor through kisses. Not that much remained after he was done with you.

Ten: It was only with someone you loved you wanted to kiss for hours. Sloppy, cute, or outrageous, Sylus complied. It was never stagnant. Sylus wasn’t shy, he knew what felt good to both you and himself. “Open your mouth, sweetie, and give me your tongue,” he might instruct, a glint in his eyes when you’d shiver. Or he might encourage you, instilling his belief to take what you wanted, “that’s right, kitten, bite me, and don’t let me go.” Either way, saliva often would dribble from the corner of your mouth, your lips puffy and sore. Whether it was on the couch as the sun set, or in bed as it rose, he’d give his mouth. It’d descend, roaming the bumps and crevices of your body until the inside of your thighs hugged his ears. He’d growl, “good girl, keep your legs spread wide.”

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Fated Flight (Part 9)

Pairing: 18+ | Dragon Sylus x Rider Reader

Tags: dragon rider au, bonding, violence, eventual smut, banter, dirty talk, stubborn Sylus, power sharing, praise-kink, soul-bound, slow burn (like beyond slow because I love Sylus' patience), banter, dystopian, first kiss, possessive reader (and Sylus), romantic, worldbuilding, biting, smut-related tags will be added as the parts progress.

Summary: Sylus commanded desire, made it his own, and swept you deep into its confines. Afterall, he would willingly pull you into its insatiability. Call him anything you want, but most certainly not desperate.

Word Count: 3.7k

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Our bond, Sylus, I bartered our bond.

Those had been the last words out of your mouth. As vines disintegrated into crimson dust, and snow fluttered to consume your heat, you had remained silent. 

So had Sylus. 

Daylight saturated his irises, scarlet bled out behind narrow pupils. Eyelashes were adorned with orbs of clear liquid, fresh tears collecting on his lids like dew on a Fall morning. At the hinges of his jaw, the skin sank then bloated. Clenching repeatedly, his teeth ground helplessly. 

A rage festered in his features, and he rose, turning away to run talons through his hair. 

“Is that all?” He asked, refusing to face you. 

Dumbly, you repeated, “is that all?” 

His chest rumbled, a low growl accumulating at the base of his throat. You imagined he was like a boiling pot, the lid toppling back and forth before scalding water burst forth. 

“Is that all you have to say?” 

You hadn’t expected gratitude for the sacrifice you had made, but this was far too cruel. While Sylus had rejected your bond since you first met, you had eagerly sought it out. He was the only semblance of family you had been given. The day your parents left you to the Guild, the markings at your wrists shackled a promise to your existence. You wouldn’t be alone, you’d be bonded, eternally tied to another throughout lifetimes. 

Even Fate herself couldn’t keep you two apart. 

Necromancy defied the very logic of life, cheated the very concept of consequence. You had taken the cards you had been dealt and swept them off the table, procuring your own deck. 

“What do you want me to say, Sylus?” You looked at his spine, following the line of his hide up to the base of his neck. 

He hissed, “is that even my name anymore?” 

A shard of your voice crept past your tongue, but no words formed. You couldn’t guarantee it was. 

“You will have to find your Rider to know,” you said. “Do you sense them?” 

“The only thing I sense now is your misery. It sours your scent.” 

You curled into yourself as if that might hinder the foul smell. While you were unable to discern what scent your sorrow might produce, nothing pleasant would exude from an emotion so awful. 

“Dragons take what we desire and hoard it. You latched onto our bond as if you treasured it,” Sylus turned his head, the corners of his eyes housing his gaze as he stared at you. “If you treasured it so much, how could you discard it?” 

Disbelief propelled your legs and you too were standing. Power expelled from your veins, igniting the back of your skull. It was weak, residual magic no longer fueled by the force of a dragon who commanded chaos. 

Vines poked through a sheet of snow and rosebuds sprouted forth, yet didn’t bloom. This was the extent of your strength, a reaction to the volatile emotion wreaking havoc across your body, mind, and soul. 

“And what would you have done!” You spat, rushing forward to grip his shoulder and rotate him to face you. It was a mercy he obeyed, for you would have been incapable of maneuvering his massive body. “If an answer was given to save your life, would you have ignored it?!” 

“I would have done what I wanted,” he stated, monotone. The answer to him was obvious. “As you should have done.” 

“I did!” You yelled. It was distasteful, how you reacted. Or rather, that was how he made you feel with how composed he remained. “You were my priority!” 

Sylus’ tail thumped loudly behind him, the edge imprinting in the snow. He whacked it again, his arms folding as he thought. One eyebrow arched, his eyes reading yours. How condescending he appeared, stoic and patient, increasingly infuriating. 

“Besides,” your words lashed like a viper, quick and lethal, “I gave you exactly what you wanted.” 

Now when you said such a statement, you didn’t falter. You rivaled his posture, jutting your chin in confidence as you leveled with his stare. A peculiar wave of freedom washed over your shoulders, down your body, and eventually flooded your feet to stabilize your legs. 

“Get on, I’ll drop you off at the nearest town,” was his curt response, and before your eyes he shifted. 

Climbing atop Sylus threatened your resolve. Within the span of a few weeks, you went from your First to your Final Flight. Ahead of you was a future you never considered. Even with the absence of Sylus in your life prior to your meeting, you had been a Rider. Now, that title no longer belonged to you. 

You felt naked. 

Everything you had known had vanished in a matter of a day. 

Your dreams, those that consisted of breaking through the clouded barrier and righting the wrongs spawned from Riders themselves, departed from your mind. It was a blank slate, foreboding. 

You did your best to take it all in - your Final Flight. The breeze abundant with multiple scents, the chill that came with the harsh shove of wind, and the fluctuations of Sylus’ body between your thighs. That lurch that deflected off the walls of your stomach, something you once disliked, became a sensation you would miss. 

Sylus had once said that what you had learned was false, that you had been fed propaganda. 

You wouldn’t confess you now knew he spoke the truth. As his ancestors had whispered into your ears, knowledge had been bred in the confines of your psyche, acting as a distant memory, overwriting what you had believed. 

Whoever you had been in the past, you were not the original soul. Dragons had been split. It rationalized a Rider’s greed, why they itched to soar through the skies. Flight was part of their existence, whether they realized it or not. 

Without a dragon, how you remained alive was a mystery. Your soul would gradually dwindle down into a flame barely capable of lighting a candle. Then, you would perish. Afterall, it now had no one to call out for. 

Sylus swooped low, his wing span extending to glide. Within a few hours he had crossed to the edge of the frozen desert, his claws barely tapping the tops of trees. A town would be near, and as if your luck wanted to bait the lonesome ache in your chest, buildings materialized. 

It was a cozy bundle of buildings, covered in smatterings of white from the distant snow. A river ran through the center, paired with a rickety watermill. Children ran about, thin, supported by the bones seen beneath their skin. Even so, they laughed, fighting one another with twigs. 

Your sword across your back might serve a purpose here. 

“Land Sylus, this is fine.” 

Powerful pumps of his wings slowed his descent, the gusts rousing the terrain below, kicking up pebbles and stray clumps of snow. When all of his talons caught traction, he crouched, allowing you to slide down and land with a grunt. Your wounds still bled, although slowly. 

You couldn’t describe the sound of Sylus shifting. Just that it was heavy and graceful. Soon, he walked on two feet, functioning as a hybrid. 

Your arrival didn’t appeal to the locals, they continued with their daily tasks. A woman nearby fluffed her blankets, hanging them off a rack on her porch. Her husband chopped wood, each breath he puffed crafted a small cloud. Each house down the row had similar activities, and while a few would glance, no one lingered. 

Flagging down someone who could assist you provided no difficulty. At the edge of the makeshift town, an abandoned cottage resided. 

“Just fix it up, and it’s all yours,” the man had said. 

Sunset would commence within a few hours, so you occupied yourself with clearing debris from storms. At first, Sylus simply observed, then he began to scout the area, returning with new slabs of wood to patch the holes in the siding. A hammer was in his talons by the time the sky stirred into a beautiful, dark night. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you muttered as you worked in the kitchen. 

Inside, candles had been lit, casting an amber hue along the walls, furniture, and food. Your sword leaned in the corner near the door. In return for a roof over your head, you offered protection. 

The townsfolk had smiled at your contribution. 

You busied yourself with slicing vegetables, ignoring the presence of Sylus’ stare down your back. He sat at the table, one leg outstretched, his talons tapping the wooden surface. 

He replied, “I’ll leave at dawn.” 

Scraping slices of potato into the pot above the fire, you returned to the basin of water, and scrubbed your hands. The absence of your markings swayed your eyes to analyze your wrists. 

“Let me heal you before I go.” 

You paused, the scrape of chair legs latching onto your frame. 

“Now?” You whispered. 

“Turn around, my stubborn Rider.” 

You wiped your hands on a rag, then rotated. “I’m not your -” 

Your rear met the edge of the countertop as Sylus braced his hands on each side of you, gripping the ledge. At a slant, he leaned over you, his eyes boring into yours. It stretched the skin around your wounds and you winced, hissing at the sting. 

“You infuriate me, tempt me, and provoke me,” he ground out, “even when you think you’re no longer mine.” 

His choice of words relayed an intent you refused to linger on. He did the same. 

“Remove it - your top,” was his order. 

You scoffed, “and what makes you think I do whatever you ask.” 

“Remove your top,” he repeated, this time with less finesse. 

Within one another’s gaze, you jousted, back and forth, relentless in attack and defense. His eyes were foreign, vast in emotion, set in an expression stoic and concrete. You wanted to scour the length of his sentiment, the truth to his actions. You searched, but within a dragon’s lair, it was futile. 

“Please,” Sylus added.

Weakened by his plea, you unlatched your furs, maintaining his eye contact. Leather sliding through buckles of metal resounded, loud to your human senses, unbearably so to those of a dragon. When the garment split, neither of you moved, stuck in the hold of a phantom bond. Everything beneath his stare felt far heavier than they ever were. 

The scent of blood infected the air, a set of talons fanning over your ribs. Still, his eyes held yours. 

“You’re quite the Rider,” he complimented, “any other mortal would be weeping in pain.” 

“I’m not a -” 

“Rider, yes I know, as you seem to enjoy reminding me.” 

His power was cumbersome, like burning coals rolling down your skin. It halted over your wounds as crimson mist swirled, and once more, dark chocolate coated your mouth. Each individual puncture felt as if they had been torn open, then welded shut by metal recently removed from a hearth. 

On instinct you reached out, hands bracing over sturdy pectorals. Your hiss was drawn out, an expression of agonizing pain. Your head tipped back as your eyes clamped shut, an arm looping around your waist to prevent you from losing your balance. Between your bodies, his hips knocked against yours. 

“Breathe, human, slowly.” 

“Fuck,” you cursed, “it hurts.” 

“Because you’re rejecting me!” 

“Feels like shit, doesn’t it - being rejected.” 

Sylus snarled, “keep goading me, my human, mortals are so foolishly bold.” 

Through a grunt, you aligned with his intensity, refusing to back down. A miniscule remnant of a shared soul remained, that would be the only explanation for your courage. “Yet I still get under your skin, don’t I? Dragons are so foolishly conceited.” 

While Sylus was no canine, you likened his reaction to hackles rising. That arrogance of his was both his strength and his weakness. His presence dominated the room. From head to talon, he radiated a bravado that only those lacking in sense would dispute. To deny him the privilege he relied on, bested his self-control. 

“You dig far further than just my skin,” his voice carried a threat, talons propping your chin up, the tip of his nose sailing over yours. “You drive me mad. I don’t know whether I desire to fight you, or fuck you.” 

His confession was a leech, siphoning not only your breath from your lungs, but the sanity from your inclinations. Truly, you were just as deranged as him. Because your heart did not clap at the wall of your chest out of fear. It was excitement. 

The pain at your ribs subsided, your body welcoming his strength and its chaotic bands of mist. Your focus had since been redirected to his proximity. Rubies glinted with satisfaction, each fleck in his irises promising an assurance in his next actions. 

“Give yourself to me,” he coaxed, his forehead shoring against yours, “discover our desire. Let me pull you into its insatiability.” 

Somewhere is the recesses of your mind, you understood his intrigue. Already, you had conformed to his advances. Your hands had left his chest, roaming over his shoulders, slowly approaching the base of his wings. You remembered his delight when you had touched such sensitive bases: the gasp against your lips, the shiver in the limbs themselves. 

You were melting into him, welding your frame to his brawn. It was as natural as breathing. 

Your eyes closed, emphasizing the thrill of his warmth. Soon, his talons were traversing over your back, massaging your shoulderblades, searching for extensions you would never produce. 

“I cannot give you the same pleasure that you give me.” 

“It still feels good,” you assured, desperate to praise his efforts. His curiosity aligned with apprehension. 

Human and dragon, similarities and differences. They were meant to be identified. For hours, days, weeks, and even a lifetime, the two of you had once been destined to uncover one another’s appetites one by one. 

“Your touch . . .” you attempted, “everything you do feels . . . right.” 

His kiss was flight itself. 

In your humble cottage, you soared, grounding yourself with nails beneath his wings, raking over flesh. Your stomach dropped as it did when he swept you into the air, your breath lodged deep in your throat as he brought you into his domain. Every inch of his body was utilized to keep you from plummeting into certain destruction - his talons at your back, the crane of his neck as he angled over you, the rigid lines of his legs as he bore your weight. 

Last time, Sylus had been driven by wonder, clumsy and eager. Now, he was fierce, hungry for what made you just as ravenous, if not more so. It was evident each vault of his lips over yours was done differently until he earned a specific reaction. As he switched positions, his head rotating, his jaw slacking, he listened. One particular moan from you lured his purr, and he did it again, pulling your top lip into the crease of his mouth to suckle. 

“Sylus,” you weren’t sure what you were asking for, your hands trekking the tendons of his neck, up to the base of his scalp. His hair overlapped your fingers, tangling in the silver tufts, yet you didn’t tug. 

It was the pressure against his head that brought him down. Your hands guided him, escorting his mouth to yours once more. 

Humans should repulse him. The slick slide of your tongue, the fragility of the shape of your mouth, the sounds of delight as he tasted - those should all be too easy. Baser instinct would like to argue you were too much of a burden, a liability to his future. 

Yet he rose, lengthening his stature to pack you between body and counter. It angled your head back, the arches of your feet flexing to adjust to his height. To assist in your pursuit of him would destroy that sense of power he craved. Admitting he wanted to haul you into his arms, and allow you to be positioned higher than him, would be devastating. 

His restless talons gave him away. Over the swells of your hips they descended, curling around to the back of your thighs. The bite of his pointed fingers stung, and you relished in his ferocity, nearly hooking a leg around his hip. 

Sylus denied the both of you. 

His hands captured yours, and he ushered your palms upon his body, steering over the humps of his chest and abdomen. 

“What is it you desire?” He asked, the tip of his tongue retreating over the center of yours. It tickled, it ignited a fearsome ache between your hips, it left a string of saliva between both of your mouths. “Whatever you want, I can make it yours.” 

He needed to know more.

Perhaps, he donned talon and energy to impress. Perhaps, he took delight in knowing your eyes tracked the flex of his muscles, the sweat stuck to his forehead after exertion. Perhaps, he had found himself fond of human literature, more specifically, the little bound papers of smutty fascination. 

Simple research, he had reasoned. 

Why? Because after your first kiss, he had every intention to kiss you again. This time, however, it would be him making your tail flick. Or, rather, something along those lines. 

While a tail didn’t flick, nor did wings expand behind your back, your power, although tiny and depleted, soaked into his senses. When your mouth yielded to his needy tongue, he heard your heart, scented your elation, and tasted your eagerness. And that alone, was from his mouth finding yours. 

From what he had read, humans coupled in a variety ways, not all solely for reproduction. Dragons were the same. However, they didn’t utilize much of what was dubbed foreplay. 

That challenge that was prevalent in your eyes, sharpened for his dispute, beckoned to his instincts to dominate. Yet, he had to wonder what it would be like to slowly meld that challenge into surrender. Beneath him, your pupils would expand, irises tainted with lust rather than defiance. According to what he had read, there were many areas upon your body designed to stimulate with fingers, tongue, and fang. 

“Sylus,” you advised. 

His name concocted as a warning was one of his favorite tones. The abyss in which your voice roamed, roused a desire hidden in the depth of his core. Not many would warn him, often too intimidated, more compliant than anything else. 

He loved how you played. 

“What can I do?” Sylus insisted, “show me how to pleasure you.” 

“Further down,” you instructed, confident. That authority you possessed amused his approval. 

Your thigh hitched over his waist, aiding his exploration, widening the apex of your body. The pads of his fingers slid over your belt, then continued, until heat radiated at his palm. 

“This is where you will take me,” he barely found the composure to form a sentence. “Fuck, kitten, you’re on fire.” 

Language was another benefactor of his, it seemed. Explicit vocabulary, cast by his lips, had your cunt rowing over his hand in one, determined motion. 

“Why kitten?” You pouted, a slight jut to your bottom lip relayed a bashful sensation. 

Sylus would crumble at your feet if you dared to gift such an expression again. 

Instead, he took control, leaning down till his lips ghosted your ear. To trace the shell of your ear with the tip of his tongue nearly had him faltering. 

“Those desperate, delicate laps you took at my mouth the first time were kittenish, my dear.” 

Your exhale would have rivaled his growl if you had the anatomy of a dragon. 

“Desperate?” You arched a brow, “that’s real rich coming from you.”

How he had purred, and had asked you to use him, echoed through his mind. Desperation wasn’t how he would describe his actions - that irked him. 

Recognition of such a vile emotion made his fingers bend, the hard hide of his talons coupling with the outline of your pussy. Your submission to the pleasure he supplied was his rebuttal. 

The sound that came from you was high in its pitch, almost a cry. Your eyebrows had furrowed, one hand reaching down to encircle his thick wrist. Arousal dampened the fabric framed between his hand and your sensitive skin. 

“I’m scared,” you breathed, your other hand cupping his cheek. 

“Of?” He acknowledged your fear. 

“Of you . . . seeing me like this.” 

His wings twitched, astonishment circling his chest. 

You were beautiful. Sylus had sifted through the realms for the finest jewels, the purest of golds, and the shiniest of metals. Nothing came near the radiant glow of your sexuality. The gloss of your eyes, drunk off erotic sensation, smeared your irises like stained glass. Your lips, rubbed raw from his mouth, bloated as if you had been burned by the exotic spices found in distant lands. And your cheeks, the tips of your ears, and your throat, all heated by a blush. 

The top he had asked you to remove, remained split down the center of your torso. The mounds of your breasts fenced a sturdy sternum, leading down to a belly he wished to trace with talon, and circle a bellybutton with his tongue. He’d drag the strap of your belt loose with his teeth, and nip at your navel with his fang. 

“Within a dragon’s eyes, you are the most beautiful thing I will ever have the pleasure of seeing. The one treasure I can touch but cannot hoard.”

What had possessed him to be so sincere could not be dwelled on. The musky aroma of your arousal seeped into the air, your hands scaling his body until they reached his jawline. Beneath his praise you were blossoming, unfurling like the roses you called forth. Naivety sprung its thorns into his mind, ensnaring his pride. 

He was fading. The control he paraded evaporated, not a trace to be found. 

Possession conquered, and triumphed over his logic. 

Claim. Rejoice. Consume. 

His next words cracked the sheen of ecstasy in your eyes. He knew it was wrong, but it was too late. He said it regardless. 

“You’re mine.”

Taglist: @beaconsxd , @youbitchedthepot , @kaijuno707 , @seraphineash , @ill-be-over-here , @satansdaughter123 , @cathedralofaudra , @potate07 , @maplereads , @kpop-athena , @qupidkiss , @webmvie , @guava-enjoyer , @stxrrielle , @rippahwrites , @seppys-return-to-madness , @extra-pickles , @thatweirdomidas , @renmantsofgildedcages

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Produce Passion

Pairing: 18+ | Zayne x Reader

Tags: Friends with benefits, drabble, feelings realization, domestic setting, low stakes, fluff, one-shot, light smut, kissing, parking lot shenanigans, mentions of sex, explicit language, dirty talk, mentions of inappropriate uses of vegetables, Zayne's impeccable restraint -> Zayne's erotic loss of it

Summary: "I love you," he rasped, navigating to your neck, "couldn't you tell by the way I fucked you."

Word Count 1.7k

Let me walk you through this one. Writer's block -> love for Zayne -> asking best friend for random prompts -> wanting to prove I can write a one-shot that doesn't progress into a full blown story (this almost became a whole story - don't ask) -> produce aisles and cucumbers. My first time writing for Zayne!

"Prove it then," you challenged, "prove you don't have feelings for me."

Hazel eyes remained gentle, calm, composed in that brutal way you found infuriating. Long fingers were curled around the handle of the shopping cart, the evening's dinner compiled in the basket, the ice cream beginning to melt. What had started as a tame shopping trip had quickly escalated into conflict. 

Because last night, when Zayne had taken you atop his desk in his home office, something within your heart had shifted violently. His soft voice whispering into your ear, his precise hands bracketing your waist, and his piercing eyes - fervent with passion, wild with ecstasy. All attributes you wanted to savor for a lifetime. 

"That is a rather bold conclusion," Zayne responded, reaching above his head to snatch a produce bag from the supplied roll. Methodically, he used his fingernails to split the plastic, and began inspecting the bell peppers with an eye only possessed by a doctor. "What evidence have you gathered to make such an accusation?"

"You haven't kissed me."

He faltered, a minute twitch of his index finger as he reached for the piece of fruit he had determined as adequate. Slowly, he deposited the bell pepper into the bag, then grabbed another one. You stepped closer, invading his space. His eyes glanced at you, a simple observation, then he was rounding the cart to place the bag next to the frozen lasagna. 

"Zayne," you prompted, an edge to your voice indicating frustration, "I can't do this anymore."

"The produce section of the grocery store is not where we should be having this conversation," he continued to grab more items, this time, filling a bag with celery. 

His professional demeanor had always attracted you to him: his polite respect for strangers and companions, his near damn perfect posture, his relentless ambition to get things right. It made when he lost control that much more enticing. The filthy words, his blazing eyes, the grunts as he buried himself to the hilt. It was one or the other, no in-between. 

You wanted the domestic side. Yes, shopping together was domestic indeed, but you could do such chores with your friends and family. You wanted the romance, the kisses in the kitchen while cooking, the hugs from behind as he explained the hardships of the day. 

Pining after this man for so many years had its downsides. You were desperate, on the brink of pushing limits, placing him in an uncomfortable situation. 

Around Zayne, you had been calculated. His words were sometimes few, but resonant. If you were about to enter a conversation with the potential to expand, you would become his focal point. And that stare of his, pure as ice, always melted your resolve. 

On a whim, out of fear of the serious, you had navigated a conversation months ago, ultimately settling upon a new dynamic. Friends, you two had forever been, so what was the danger of some benefits? Other men barely caught your interest, and if they did, it was fleeting. Zayne, on the other hand, had been the first person you imagined kissing when those thoughts were born from puberty. 

"Well, you don't seem to want to have this conversation anywhere else," you replied, venom curling your pronunciation. That wasn't true, you knew Zayne would be open to a conversation late in the evening, maybe at the coffee shop you two frequented before work. He would even consider it as you two caught your breath underneath his fancy blankets, skin marked in bites and bruises. 

You were projecting. 

Zayne had moved onto cucumbers. The sleek shine of the vegetable's skin pronounced beneath his pristine hands. He twisted his wrist, scouting for any imperfection. And your brain, lost in some delirium, reminisced. 

His hand had cradled his own erection quite similarly the night prior, near the base, poised so you could sink down upon him easily. That smirk he wore as your rode him sprinkled burning sparks across your skin, and your nails had dug into his chest, a form of restraint to prevent your mouth from finding his. 

You had always taken the initiative, Zayne had always guarded his inhibitions. You wanted his lips fused to yours, his tongue spearing deep and meeting your tenacity.

"Insertion of this vegetable has become more common."

You choked on nothing but your own saliva, "you aren't suggesting we - nevermind."

"No, I was just stating what I had learned at a meeting this week."

You weren’t entirely sure how to carry on the conversation after that. So, you didn’t. Zayne had always been comfortable with silence between you two, and of course, you had too. 

The rest of the grocery trip went by with mindless glances at random products, and occasionally looking at your phone. Zayne kept to his routine, checking expiration dates, comparing prices, and purchasing products only his personal research had approved of. 

It wasn’t long before the cart was tapping the bumper of his car, filled with the reusable bags he had taken from their designated spot in his pantry. Zayne unloaded the groceries into the trunk as you leaned against the passenger side door. Usually, you would aid in emptying the cart, but a petty stubbornness had compelled you to just watch. 

Zayne expressed his own dissatisfaction, huffing when he latched the trunk hatch and walked the cart to its corral. 

You observed, noting his stride, the confidence in his step. You went to open your door, only to find it locked. 

You frowned. 

Zayne strode past his vehicle to meet you at your side. Rotating so you faced him, your back to his car, your mouth opened. 

“What are you -” 

“For once, I won’t ask for permission.” 

His kiss was like ice shattering, a foundation crumbling beneath your feet. 

Zayne was rough.

Zayne was taking control, he was dominating.

And hell, if you didn't devour him in return. 

The handle of the car door dug into your waist, but that was the least of your worries, especially with the doctor bending your back over the curve of the car. Your hair brushed the roof of the chassis, hands grappling onto his upper arms. 

"I've wanted to kiss you," his voice was feather-light, that monotone, yet beautiful timber he often consulted you with, "for quite some time."

"Then why didn't you?"

He considered your question, lips resting over yours. His sharp nose nuzzled your cheek as he playfully nudged you. 

"I knew once I did, I would completely fall."

Your gasp felt unnervingly loud in the parking lot. A shopping cart rattled in the distance, car doors slamming. And here was one of the most composed gentlemen you had ever known, prying your lips apart with his tongue, and sweeping inside to taste. 

His breath punctuated his movement, harsh sounds relaying his desperation. Each smack of your lips drew heat into your abdomen, accumulating, eventually seeping from between your thighs. 

"Please do," you urged, "fall for me completely as I have for you."

His heart thudded against your chest, lips departing from your mouth to trail over your jawline. Above, flakes of snow swirled, caught in the overhead lights of the parking lot. They littered his hair, dots of white against raven-black. Your hand raked over them, the minor chill exhilarating. 

"I love you," he rasped, navigating to your neck, "couldn't you tell by the way I fucked you."

"Perhaps I need to reassess your performance."

His chuckle was saturated in mirth, "I always recommend a reevaluation before submitting final results."

Pain erupted from the slope of your neck, his teeth capturing a portion of skin to pinch. He suckled, each pull confirmed with a messy lick of ease. 

"Where did those pretty sounds go?" He teased. 

"Zayne, we are in public!"

"I'll admit,” he paused, catching his breath, “there's something undeniably addictive about stepping out of line.”

He wasn’t finished. 

“I don’t know where to start with you,” he exhaled, as if restraining those words had been a considerable burden.

With your head tilted back, flakes rested upon the skin of your neck, thawing in time with each swallow. Droplets trailed down to soak your hoodie, and Zayne watched, eyes riveted by the slopes of your body. It gifted you some time to observe his mouth, and how those lips had finally touched yours. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you rose, rising on the toes of your shoes to kiss him. He took one step back, bracing from your momentum. His body always had moved in ways that were subtle, never explosive, always a source of consolation. But his hands grasped, nearly clawing at your hips. An ache registered as he applied pressure, arresting your freedom, and yanking you against him. 

“Feel me,” his demand was carried by a whisper, hands roaming to your rear, nails digging into your flesh through your sweatpants. Your hiss was stolen by his ministrations, your body surrendering to his lead. “Feel exactly what you do to me.” 

You did. Pressed this close together, his length nudged against your navel. 

There was a joke buried in this situation, one hinting at the use of a cucumber. You would have verbalized it if it wasn’t for the onslaught of his lust. 

Your leg steepled, hooking your knee over the jut of his hip, cradling his cock in the vent of your heat. All he had to do was push your waistband down, undo his zipper, and vault his hips forward, sinking deep into the crease of your cunt. 

If he had wanted. 

Zayne wouldn’t. 

“The ice cream is melting,” he noted despite the reaction of his body as he lurched, driving the crown of his arousal over the outline of your pussy. “And we have perishables.” 

You knew him too well. 

“So shall we go?” You suggested. 

“It’s not safe to drive when distracted,” he reasoned. 

His hand dug into his pocket, procuring his keys. The car beeped, his arm outstretched, hand grasping the handle for the backseat. Your heart stumbled to a near stop, your limbs would be tangled in the narrow space provided, the windows would fog, and the chassis might rock. 

Zayne had a plan, the glint of his eyes ensuring security. 

With a voice laden in satin, he ordered regardless, 

“Get in.”

This had been in my drafts since February 23rd - yikes

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

I went back and forth about posting anything in general, since I know there is an influx of posts going on.

But, well, I decided to keep it short and simple.

As of right now, my alias Coral, is going on a hiatus. This obviously means all fics will also be joining this hiatus.

Just like everyone else, a lot is going through my mind. Immediately, I realized I'm not sure I want to continue to support the game. I don't know what that entails beyond quitting. Whether that includes the Fandom, the fanfic . . . I don't know yet.

No, this is not a protest. Honestly, I was beyond hyped for Valko and how he expanded on the world. But even if they were to sidestep again and bring him back . . . safe to say I got some "trust issues" with the game now, and what their removal of Valko says on their stance on harassment, racism, bullying, etc. That and how they feel about their own content.

So, I will be stepping away.

I feel for those (including myself) who were looking forward to his release, his voice actors, and the development team.

Thank you dear readers.

(Also RIP to the money I spent today on some extra things to get ready for Valko. Yikes.)

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Valko Drabble

Notes: Just some thoughts (right before work). Gave myself a time limit so I didn't write an entire fic. Mentions of biting.

Word Count: 537

It had been a push and pull the entire time. 

The weight of his body pinning yours, albeit reluctantly, detonated a barrage of challenge that led a smile to mold your lips. 

Sensing your impending advance, knees bracketing your hips relaxed, fingers at your shoulders flexed, and pointed ears on the top of a head twitched. 

Valko liked to play. 

Muscles relented, his body collapsing as your momentum rolled him onto his back. 

His head shook, that short, auburn hair rustling with each jerk of his skull. 

You had once said his actions often reminded you of a dog shaking off water. It had earned you a brand of teeth in your shoulder, a lap of a tongue to placate the pulsating ache. 

“Good boy,” you teased, the devious smile of yours widening. 

Valko mirrored your elation, sharp fangs catching your line of sight. Although vicious, predatory, and lethal, he exercised caution when it came to his bite - only with you. 

Eyes that swirled delectable honey, widened at your remark. They dripped in thick adoration, a special respect he would gift to a prospect his instincts surrendered for. 

“And where’s my reward?” 

Valko’s voice tore sounds at the seam, rough and gritty. 

You dipped, mouth capturing an ear covered in soft fur. With an exaggerated mimic of a bite, huff and all, you nibbled once on the tip. A laugh below you, a gust of air against your neck, and you released him. 

“Had your fun?” He encouraged, “or should the real wolf give a demonstration?”

Valko was a force of strength and courage. Confidence coated his vocabulary, the very cadence in which he spoke, but even so, beneath all that vibrato, he was personified restraint, a playground in which you could climb and let loose. Never would he hurt you, even as he postured, his tail whipping side to side in a display of primal interaction. 

You had mentioned you could manhandle him. 

He had said, “show me what you got.” 

Which had led to a bit of sparring, a bit of wrestling, and soon you both were on the floor in your living room. Easily, he could have thrown you around, pinned and smothered you in his scent as he usually would. As entertaining as this was to you, he equally enjoyed it. 

Until he fell into ecstasy, his movements turning rough, lips thin as he growled. You could handle it, you matched his fervor, grunting while pushing him down once more. Somewhere along the way the collar of his shirt had stretched, revealing a prominent collarbone. Your shorts had crawled up your thighs, his hands favoring the skin with small stings of his nails. 

Breathless, you succumbed, the manipulation of your body his expertise. 

Above you, the span of his chest heaved, his biceps solid, providing a foundation not even you could topple. 

“Well?” He cocked his head. 

Valko didn’t taste you the instant he could, instead he inhaled below your ear, a routine you would never rob him of. His nose ran along your skin until he toyed with the lobe of your ear, continuing to the shell. 

He chuckled, “do you need to see any more tricks before I get my treat?”

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Not Mine, Ours

Pairings: 18+ | Rafayel x Reader x Caleb

Tags: childhood friends, mercenaries, dark romance, reunion, polyamory, obsession, predator and prey, one-shot, dom/sub undertones, violence, dirty talk, primal kink, dubious consent, chasing/hunting, uniform kink, smut, biting, knifeplay, gunplay, light degradation, marking

Summary: As per tradition, after their first successful mission, a mercenary was allowed to participate in the yearly hunt. Another year, you had expected to remain on the sidelines. That was, until two letters arrived, sealed in blood-red wax. Designation: prey.

Sneak Peek:

Rafayel stalked, eyes dangerous in the spears of moonlight. 

The gun at his waist elevated with each cock of his hip, his boots echoing over the concrete floor. His black cargo pants were cinched with a belt, the form fitting shirt of his the same color, buried beneath a tactical vest. Across his sternum a sheath held a dagger, the blade diagonal, the tip kissing his clavicle, the hilt the top of his ribs. 

“You thought you could run, huh,” Rafayel winked, a bead of sweat trailing down his brow. A few more decorated yours. “We were promised a reward, we have come to collect.” 

As he advanced, you retreated. In an abandoned building on the outskirts of the hunting grounds, you weren’t concerned about stumbling over furniture. This game of cat and mouse you could maintain. The longer he prowled, the longer you could stall. 

“We?” You entertained. “You’re the only one here.” 

Rafayel jammed his hands into his pocket, tilting his head slightly. As if leisurely strolling, his pace neither increased or decreased. 

Soon, your back would hit a wall, and you’d be pinned. Many times before, Rafayel had expressed to what extent he would be willing to traverse if it meant you were locked in his cage. 

The wall was warm. The wall inhaled. 

Rafayel hummed, his eyes darting over your shoulder.

“Caught ya,” a whisper brushed past the shell of your ear, gloved hands bracketing your upper arms. Just as Rafayel stopped in front of you, the newcomer continued, “you should know to watch your back, pipsqueak.”

If you wanted to be on the taglist, just let me know. This one-shot is just more of me experimenting with dark romance and morally-grey characterizations. It's been an absolute rollercoaster. I look forward to posting soon!!

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Y'all, send help. The way Valko answers the phone mid-battle . . . You know he would answer mid-thrust I . . .

The woman I might become scares me.

And yes, that's now part of my footprint, and I ain't ashamed.

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

Concerned because I can't stop thinking about:

18+ | Vampire Rafayel chasing you

Tags: dirty talk, primal play, fingering

When he grabbed her wrist, her shriek was shrill, tapering off into a flurry of giggles when he yanked her back, mouth attaching to her neck, messy as he fought to control his breath. 

His fingers unbuttoned her trousers, rough with his ministrations as he split the fabric and dipped his hand inside. Slick skin met his hand, her knees buckling when he groaned, registering the evidence of their chase. 

She whined, hips grinding over his hand with each stroke, reaching back to grip his hair. Her head turned, and his tongue was flexing against hers, long fingers sinking inside just to curl and caress. 

“I can feel your cock,” she sighed, “Raf, don’t make me wait, please.” 

His other hand bracketed her throat, holding him to her. 

“I won’t run,” she assured, sensing his need to keep her close. “You have me, I’m yours to take.” 

His voice was dark, belonging to temptation, the shadowed figure in stories girls were told to stay away from. “I’m going to fuck you right here, darlin’. Stretch you out on my cock until you scream my name,” he moaned as if in his pain, “tell me to stop if you don’t want this.” 

“Raf,” she sounded desperate, utterly destroyed from their foreplay alone. 

The vampire removed his hand from her soaked heat, earning him a harsh jerk on his scalp. He relished in it, bringing his fingers to his mouth. Their eyes met, his lips parted, the flat of his tongue running from the base of his middle and forefinger up to the tips. 

His eyes closed briefly, opening to reveal raging sapphire. Fangs appeared when his top lip stretched in a smile. Rotating his hand, he licked the opposite side, slow as if savoring dripping syrup. 

“You wouldn’t taste this fucking good if you didn’t want it, huh.” 

“I felt it between my thighs early on,” she guided his hand back down, only releasing him when he returned to his previous position. Her head fell back against his shoulder, taking her pleasure, “I’ve been like this the whole time.” 

“I know,” his tongue found the line of her jaw next, tasting the salt of her sweat. “I could have caught you so much earlier, but I enjoyed watching you play, letting you think you had a chance.” 

She clenched around him, and he hissed. Her following words were brittle with lack of breath, “I like that.” 

“That I was in control the entire time?” He mused, the patience in his voice otherworldly. They moved together, his hips urging hers over his fingers. “That if I truly desired it, I could have fucked you anywhere I wanted?” 

She nodded, frantic. His human was close, he could tell by her heartbeat, her scent. 

“Why do you think I waited until we got here?” 

A response fizzed out of her mind, useless. She fell to her knees, Rafayel going with her. Their thighs aligned, knees resting wide so he could reach deeper. His palm was drenched, slippery where she needed him the most. 

“Because, my love, when you come on my hand, I’m going to pin you down and you’re going to open your legs for me, yeah? Then I can taste you. Here, you don’t have to hide, you can moan or yell, bite and scratch, writhe or thrash. When you come on my tongue, I’ll use my cock, fill you up, and sink my fangs into your neck as we come together.” 

Excerpt from Chapter Six of Crimson Steam (coming soon) but I really couldn't wait any longer to share!!

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

A Double-Edged Dagger (Part 3)

Pairing: 18+ | Assassin Rafayel x Assassin Reader

Tags: seductive, yandere, love and hate, possessive, toxic, obsessive, exhibitionism, stalking, control, marking, voyeurism, masturbation, rough, teasing and taunting, spit kink, light knifeplay, light bloodplay, enemies, dead dove, uniform kink, leather, punishment, dom/sub undertones, breath play, choking, angst no comfort, dubious consent, somnophilia, come-marking

Trope: Who did this to you?

Word Count: 2.8k

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You had been wrong, Rafayel’s kiss wasn’t sacred. Relics were pristine, often untouched and deceivingly fragile. Haloed and worshipped, they were sought after to provide guidance, both in life and whatever came after, suggesting salvation.

Rafayel might have offered guidance, but he would lead fools to condemnation. 

His hunger was overwhelming, your mouth his feast, the mess of your kiss his bottomless chalice. He drank, nibbling on your tongue, fully biting your lip when you protested by clamping your mouth shut. Despite your defense, Rafayel was relentless, swiping the flat of his tongue over the bump of your top lip. 

It was wet.

You gasped, your neck craning as you registered the obscene sensation. 

“That’s it,” he encouraged, voice raw, the timber of his seduction cultivated from behind his sternum, “open wider for me.” 

And for the first time in this endless battle, you made your most blatant mistake. 

“Why?” 

Rafayel paused. You scrambled, searching your vocabulary for anything that might have explained your innocence. But it was too late, your assassin cocking his head in a sign of mirth. 

“I see,” he mused, tracing your lips with his thumb. “I’m the first to taste this mouth. I thought there was nothing left for me to claim.” 

“You think I would kiss someone after what your mother did?” You spat, frenzied, unable to remain still as you rocked beneath him. 

“Yet you kiss me, the one destined to kill you. Am I just that irresistable?” 

“As if I enjoyed it.” 

“With how hard you were suckling on my tongue, I highly doubt that.” 

Shame flushed your cheeks, extending down your neck. A glint came to life in Rafayel’s eyes, full of twisted fulfillment. 

“Did it feel good?” He pressed, “my tongue on yours, my teeth on your lips, my taste in your mouth. Tell me you liked it.” 

You pursed your lips, jaw working, cumulating a glob of saliva at the front of your mouth. 

Your display of defiance did little to deter him. 

He swept your spit from his cheek, displaying his fingers between the two of you. He spread them, strings of saliva connecting his index and middle fingers. The implication was clear, he’d done the same should he have been removing his hand from the crease of your cunt. 

Rafayel chuckled, licking his forefinger from base to tip, “shall I teach you what we can do with this?” 

An answer would be pointless, his plans foreshadowed by his mouth engulfing his middle finger. He didn’t swallow, instead, stalking over you on his hands, dipping to hover his lips above yours. 

“Kiss me like you’re starving, I need you dripping,” his nail dug into the corner of your mouth, “here.” 

Rafayel tasted of crisp fruit fused with hazelnut, the residual notes of champagne. Addictive, you succumbed, reaching your hands beneath the collar of his attire, mirroring the actions of his previous partner. When your nails traced the bloated skin of his scar, you relinquished your control over to madness.

He was yours. 

And as he was yours, he was yours to kiss. 

You obeyed his command - devouring. Clumsy, the rhythm of your lips and flick of your tongue were raw and clueless. New sensations originated at your mouth, imparted by the man holding his weight above you. 

Rafayel rejoiced in your mania, matching your fervor, kissing as if he had never done so before. The edge of his tongue whisked over the corner of your lips, his jaw wide, breaths damp over your teeth. You captured him, meeting him halfway, the flat of your tongue finding his in the space allotted between open lips. 

He moaned loud, the sound igniting sparks over the length of your body. Briefly, you wondered if this was an effect of poison, the release before eternal rest. 

“You taste so fucking good, princess,” he panted, words imprinting into the heated skin of your tongue, “better than I could have ever imagined.” 

Seduction possessed you. Underneath the radiance of his rule, you thrived. To have the strongest man you knew floundering in desperation, provoked a power unknown. Confidence prospered, rushing through your veins, erupting a mass of thoughts. 

“I thought you said you wanted me dripping,” you challenged, arching when his mouth found your throat, the locks of hair atop his head scrubbing the bottom of your chin. His palm braced the curve of your spine, yanking you closer, your stomach glued to his. You threw your head back, allowing him to sample the crater between your collar bones. “Do better, Rafayel.” 

He preened, chuckling as his incisor pinched the soft skin at your clavicle, “is my princess a queen? Since when did you have the authority to order me?” 

It was all a ruse. He rose, arms straightening as you rested on the floor once more. Intoxicated, his pupils were the size of galaxies, consuming you like an addict. The rings of his irises were sharp enough to slice into your own obsession. It leaked at the seams. 

“Well?” He teetered between patience and agitation, “how shall I satisfy you, Your Majesty?” 

Your face contorted, yet another foreign sensation jolting your composure. 

“Oh? I see,” he smirked, “this dynamic pleases you? What else would you like to know?” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you licked your lips, craving his next kiss. Your words were an afterthought, barely heard in the moment. You were already imagining how his tongue would curl around yours when stimulated. “You haven’t even -” 

“Master,” he interjected. 

The title was spoken as if it were fragile, as if he himself was experimenting with a new concept. Hidden in the mist of his whisper, his intentions shone through his cadence. 

“The things I would do for you,” he groaned, defeated. Rafayel’s forehead met your sternum, nuzzling. “I’ve always been at your beck and call, you have just been too caught up in our hell to see it. Please? Let me be good for you?” 

The responsibility of his will left you speechless. 

His arms straightened, his lips parted, the swell of his tongue resting on his lip. 

From the tip of his tongue, saliva dripped, the long string dribbling onto your lower lip. It sank into your mouth, collected by teeth, then swabbed by your own tongue. 

“Good girl,” he praised, and bent, smacking his lips against yours in a simple gift. 

You were never in charge. 

You followed him as if pulled by a magnet, but he retreated, wagging his finger to scold. “Use your words, princess. You want more? Then tell me.”

It was impulsive - the way that you fulfilled a request you would otherwise consider outlandish. 

“Give it to me,” you baited 

“Then take it.” 

Mounting onto your elbows, you settled your mouth beneath his. Before he could trickle into your mouth once more, you caught the bead, pulling on his tongue with hollowed cheeks. You released him only once you were content, lapping at his lower lip to seize whatever had escaped. 

“Have anything else for me?” You arched a brow. 

“Fuck,” he fell into you, vaulting his mouth over yours, “you’re perfect.” 

You were powerless when faced with his kiss. 

A door slammed shut, footsteps thudding behind Rafayel. 

You tensed, but Rafayel refused to yield, his hand applying pressure over your forehead, tilting your chin back, delving his tongue over the valley of yours. The soft underside was slick, your psyche dissolving, his scent, voice, and heat the only occupation of your mind. 

Vaguely, you were aware of someone watching - the heavy cast of a stare. Anyone else, and you would have protested. Because no one else aside from Rafayel could sweep you up into a world so oblivious. 

Voyerism wasn’t an exceptional habit amongst those born into a clan of assassins. Instead, Rafayel and yourself were considered deviant, often declining invitations to the frequent orgies held by famed assassins. You had only gone twice for reasons not related to pleasure, on a quest for particulars linked to certain attendees. 

In the midst of such debauchery, Rafayel was the epitome of chastity - completely dressed, withdrawn, and faithful. With his arms crossed, a lone finger tapping his upper arm, his eyes never left you. 

I dare you, they seemingly said. 

Then join me, you had winked. 

There, in the center of the room was a velvet chaise long enough for his legs and wide enough for your knees should they plant to each side of his hips. Rafayel’s dare had nothing to do with his involvement, it was a threat. Finding another to copulate with in a storm of bodies would draw his dagger from its sheathe. 

No weapons were ordained at such gatherings. Rafayel would be executed on sight. 

You would never allow that. So, you never joined. 

You had seen Rafayel both times you had attended. 

Rumor had it he had only gone twice. 

Now, whomever was idling to watch prickled your senses uncomfortably. The source of apprehension was hard to decipher. As both of you were the surviving heirs to your respective clans, there was no scolding awaiting you. Rafayel’s obsession was public knowledge, a purposeful emission of information that served as a form of protection. 

To find you two kissing would be nothing to blab to other assassins about. Even if you two had given in to baser, feral tendencies, lying in the middle of the hall. 

Right here, right now was all your actions portrayed. 

That left one possibility as to why the stranger remained. 

“What?” Rafayel coasted his mouth to the lobe of your ear, pinching the thick skin between menacing teeth. “Is this your limit, princess? Things get too hard when another person shows up, huh?” 

All it took was your nails to dig into his shoulders for him to sense the shift of your mood. He turned to stone, listening. A buckle was unlatched, a button pushed through its void, and a zipper opened. 

Rafayel’s voice was that of a gentleman’s, sincere and noble: “if you’d like it to stop, just say the word, and I’ll make it so.” 

“Make it stop, Rafayel.” 

Gone was your tormenter. Rafayel kissed your forehead, skidding loose lips to the tip of your nose. As he kissed you, he removed himself from your body, kneeling while his mouth accommodated yours. Modest, his tongue never speared past his lips. This was communication, a promise he would right whatever was wrong. 

When he stood, he brought you with him. 

“Watch what I can do when I’m yours to command,” his forehead bumped yours, “then reward me with what I deserve.” 

In his eyes, flecks of tender captivation ebbed, renewed with scraps of rigid loathing. Emotion dispersed, fleeing from a man who found it inept. No crease marred his features, his lips downcast, although swollen, ultimately relaxed. 

Then, he turned. 

His footsteps were steady, compressing the rug beneath the soles. The imprints he left were hexes, the traces of an impending curse. Death danced at his fingertips, his tool a dagger, extending from the hold of his palm. 

“Good evening,” Rafayel greeted the onlooker, truly a professional, indifferent to the fear knotting in his victim’s eyes. “Care to explain yourself?”

The man reached for the vent of his pants, clutching helplessly at the tab of his zipper. Of all times, the teeth struggled to align, the tension inadequate. As Rafayel approached, the other retreated. 

A vase toppled over, dirt spilling out, stems a vibrant green. 

The man threatened to trip, and Rafayel gripped him by the front of his shirt, altering his trajectory to press him against a bookcase. 

“You wanted to watch,” Rafayel taunted, the flat of his blade compelling the man’s cheek, forcing his head to orient towards you. “So look.” 

Wide eyes met yours. You had seen this man before, an older assassin from a neighboring clan. His name escaped you at that moment, the assassin never achieving anything worth mentioning. 

“Did you really think I’d let you receive any indulgence from watching her?” Rafayel’s nose tapped the man’s temple, and he inhaled, “for tonight, I suppose we can blame the alcohol, otherwise how foolish you would look.” 

An apology wobbled from the man’s throat, the two words unable to be complete. Rafayel interrupted, his dagger drumming a few times to keep his victim in place. The slap of metal against skin - the control he had over something lethal, did vulgar things to your body. 

“I wasn’t done,” Rafayel reprimanded, chuckling as he leaned in close, whispering, “keep your eyes on her.”

“Rafayel,” you warned, unsure. 

“Trust me,” his eyes rolled to you, devious. In the corners of his eyelids, his irises flared. 

They didn’t leave yours as he continued. 

“You see that gorgeous mouth of hers?” He told the man, as if he couldn't believe it himself. “I think about it all the time. How she tastes, how glossy her lips will look after I kiss her, how they might stretch around my cock. Every time I came with my own hand, I wondered if it was a waste.” 

“Her skin needs to be marked, whether with my blade, teeth, or nails. So many scars made by me decorate her body. I plan to trace each one with my tongue.” 

For some reason, you thought of the cut that branded your spine. He wouldn’t drag his tongue over the short length, he’d start at the base of your back, inching up your torso until his saliva stained the base of your neck. In the bow of your spine, as he mouthed at your neck, his cock would rest, his release pooling in the dip. 

“You missed a way, in which you could mark me,” you blurted your thoughts, voice reserved and coy. 

His smirk reflected in the mirror of his blade, a sneaky canine greeting you. “My come, princess?” 

Silence was your response.

“You hear that?” He returned to toying with his prey. “And you thought you had the right to even watch. I’ve waited, and waited, and waited. She is mine.” 

His dagger descended, nicking at the zipper tab. Rafayel closed the vent for the assassin, swiftly humiliating the squirming man. 

“This pitiful cock wouldn’t fill her like mine, wouldn’t satisfy her the way she craves. Only I can, only I will.” Rafayel stepped back, “run along now.” 

The man darted, sprinting down the hall to return to the gala. Rafayel tutted as if it had been troublesome, inspecting his weapon before holstering it. His elegance as an assassin collected your breath, refusing to return it. 

“I feel your eyes on me, cutie.” 

As if the rug was a runway, he sauntered, bending to lean over you. 

“Did you like what you saw?” 

“I think you know the answer to that.” 

Led by his hand, Rafayel escorted you into the nearest room - an empty guest bedroom. Flinging you into a chair, he waited. 

“It’s only fair, isn’t it? You watched me fuck my fist, you should do the same for me.” 

Lost in his scheme, you leaned back, crossing your legs, and folding your arms. The padding of the chair was worn, providing a surface you found rather irritating.  

“Look at you,” he approached, directing your head back with a fistful of your hair, “spread your legs, show me how bad we both know you want it.” 

Your eyes dropped, noting the outline of his length tenting the leather of his pants. A sense of power thrummed through your veins, inciting another rush of confidence 

Hooking your left leg over the armrest, you did the same to your right, utilizing the opposite side. The skirts of your dress pooled at your waist, where you tugged them further up your abdomen, exposing your bare skin. You had forgone underwear that evening, often doing so when having to adorn a dress. 

Rafayel would presume it was for sexual reasons. In reality, it was the logistics of using the restroom that was your true motivation. 

You reached above your head, anchoring one hand to the top of the backrest to aid your body in arching. Your other hand found your pussy, your fingers creating a V, separating the crease of your arousal. 

You whimpered, the air assaulting the sensitive skin. Whether Rafayel was standing there or not, you would have pleasured yourself regardless. The ache was unbearable, clit swollen, pulsating in time with your heart. 

“Well,” you prompted, breathless, “if you have nothing to say . . . ” 

“My glove,” Rafayel said, tossing the garment on your stomach. “Before you sink those fingers of yours into your tight, delicious cunt. 

The room was still. 

“Wear it.”

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