NOT is an apocalypse erotica written and directed by kenny. This film features an original track of the same name by Big Thief.
STARRING: Simon Riley x Afab!reader
Spoilers: outbreak au, zombie au, zombie!simon, scientist!reader, chubby coded reader, angst, fluff, dead dove, dubcon, smut, pinv, monsterfucking, violence (general), GROSS, cannibalism (not against reader), violence (not against reader) but erotic, sick freaks, scarred and cleft lip Ghost (i'll die on this hill), Gaz as a side character, reader is a bit sadistic in the name of science, dom!leaning simon, sub!leaning reader
Synopsis: When the outbreak happened, scientists were hoarded into labs, and the military grew quickly into their guard dogs. The only one you'd managed to befriend gets bit, and you come to realize that the lines of your morality are much blurrier than you thought.
Duration: 12.2k
“Shit.”
You were unable to halt the regretful notion from falling out of you as he entered your line of sight. The air was stale, filled with nothing but mourning silence interrupted by the sprinting pierce of your heartbeat. You’d run when they’d told you, taken off with such a needy pounce that, if given the chance, you’d wince at your mannerisms.
But the chances were irrelevant. Your sanity was dying alone in a room.
Simon had been restrained, a solid silver band around each wrist, conjoined eventually by a common chain that was secured to a bar installed for this very purpose. His one allotted item, a creaky wooden chair that was too small to hold him, was filled by his slumping body. His balaclava had been torn and punctured, jawline exposed fully, joined by little samples of his face you could make out through the other heterogeneous holes. His skin was covered in blood, the edges of the fabric forced into crusted peaks from how much of the ruddy substance it’d been made to absorb. Bits of skin that he’d shot off the infected were stuck there, too; smeared across old lines and weighing down the mask.
He looked at you when you opened the door, agonizingly indifferent to the situation. You’d be crying, you’d be panicking, you’d be many things if it were you. But he was just dirty. Sitting there soaked in residue sourced from the bodies that had lost to both the outbreak and to him. He took it like it wasn’t a problem, like it didn’t make him sick because he wasn’t granted the right to be.
He grunted at your reaction to him, a discarding of the harm that happened with such a blunt exclaim. “Y’shouldn’t be here.”
The rejection made your teeth scrape, prison bars aiding the limitation of all you wished to say.
Simon had been put in the quarantine room, the sole occupant of an empty wing that you’d silently prayed you’d never have to use. Beyond the door, directly connected to it, were four more reinforced walls made for observation. It was home of a small control panel, a large window, a first aid kit, a sink, and whatever other miscellaneous things that were important enough to be demanded.
You exited his part of what was ultimately a large rat cage and went into the half that would become your own. You filled a bowl with saline and rooted for one of the rags left lying around, walking back to him when you had what you wanted.
“I had to see it for myself.”
You set the dish down on the floor, squatting in front of him to submerge the cloth in it’s confines. You wrung it out, standing back up and stepping closer.
“Can I?”
You listen to him sigh, defeat sinking into his posture where function typically held it up. It took a lot to make a man out of Simon Riley, to make him see outside of his own technical wiring. He just nods at you, hands clenching once when your own make contact with face.
The glimpses you get of what lies under his covering feel risqué, disrespectful. They’re something you’re only getting on account of his victimhood, a glance at the nakedness of a man on the crux of death. You wanted nothing more than to see him under different circumstances; to be someone he granted the honor of witnessing him, not just someone he trusted wouldn’t speed up his current falling.
You swiped the rag over all the dried livelihood, maneuvering the best you could around shredded cotton that stood sedentary when you shoved against it. You were making decent progress on his chin, wondering if it’d be possible to soften the mask as well so it wouldn’t make him itch as he rotted away.
God, you were going to be sick.
“You can take it off.” He was staring at you so delicately, sullied by the weight of loss but giving you this one thing in spite of it. “Won’t be alive enough to think about it when you leave.”
You’d never been so internally polarized, needing so badly for this act to be a sacred thing and knowing there was no longer time for moments of sanctity with him.
You lifted it from his face, breathing in the intimacy and letting it jostle around somewhere more contained within you. You couldn’t tell him how much this meant. You couldn’t tell him the gravitational upending that would take place in his disappearance. These last hours were for him, were for his suffering. You were just there to help carry it.
It took copious effort to not gawk at him. You knew he didn’t like his face, didn’t like people’s eyes on it. Your vetting would have been nauseating, just like the judgment you’re sure he’d borne many times in the past. A lot of the skin was scarred, ranging from various deep velvet gashes across his cheeks to white nicks along his mouth and eyebrows. There were old burn marks crawling up the left side of his neck and kissing the underside of his correlating bit of jaw. His top lip beamed up in a small line, breaching the right side of his cupid’s bow and ending below his nostril.
You thought he was beautiful. Enough to steal the air from your lungs, or line verses of poems with the kind of adoration meant for nautical deities or the things nature made but couldn’t explain. You wanted to tell him so, wanted him to know you meant it.
But he wouldn’t look at you. And you understood, fatally, that it wasn’t something to be decided on, to be expressed. He had his facts, and you had yours. These two paths no longer existed in a world where crossing was possible. He’d die thinking he’d cursed your eyes with an offense equal to what lurked outside the lab walls; and you, inversely, would tuck the sight of him into your heart where the rest of him already lived.
You made a point to see him, and to say nothing about it. You didn’t appear bothered, you didn’t appear shocked. You just tilted his head and began grating the guts off his forehead from where they’d soaked through the balaclava.
The soreness in your throat could be rivaled only by the feeling of swallowing a golf ball, the impending lack burrowing greedily into the soft parts of you as you swallowed all urges to weep.
You bent down again, rinsing off the first layer of grime that’d been removed, and watching the liquid turn murky and textured as it accepted the offering you’d placed within it. You wrung it out once more, returning dutifully to your pyre.
“How’d it happen?”
He sniffed, the question and it’s respective answer both equally insignificant. His own lack of care was beat out every time by the desire to fulfill your indulgences. Whether spouting bad puns when you were down or reciting the tale of how he’d lost the fight, he would do it with the same urge to satisfy you. To be someone you wanted around.
“Crowd of ‘em got too close. ‘S my job to protect you, ain’t it?”
You felt your fingers tighten around the slick give of the rag.
“It is.” It felt like poison, that dawning. How foolish it was to forget that growing fond of a shield didn’t cease it’s purpose, that eventually it would get hit so you wouldn’t. That there was no mercy in an apocalypse. “Just wasn’t expecting it, I guess.”
He was shifting much more now that you were touching all he kept hidden. You worried, as you brushed over knife cuts and bullet grazes, that you were hurting him. That your attempt to increase his comfort was doing nothing but burdening him.
He wasn’t hurt, not in the way you were thinking.
Simon took no pride in being a hardened entity, simply did what it took to keep himself on his feet. An alien trapped inside the grubby hands of mortal needs. He ate plates of solid color, foods indistinguishable from each other in his busy brain. He trained and yelled and ran and shot. He didn’t choose. He didn’t think. He had routine and he had commands and that kept him dangling above the abyss instead of drowning in it.
That’s part of the reason he found you so intoxicating. You were malleable in the areas he wasn’t, trusted with the fate of the world and still willing to mingle with those on the fast-track to infection. Those who stood outside the walls.
You chose him. In more ways than he lets himself think about. You chose him to talk to at night, you chose his jokes to laugh at, you chose him to defend you. Now, you were choosing to meet such an ugly sight with a softness he was unaccustomed to. You saw his shackled hands and cleaned him, cared for him.
He didn’t understand you. He was addicted to you. He couldn’t let any of that be known on the chance he’d lose it entirely.
He was unsure if all monsters were unlovable, but even with the possibility of exception, he was certain the rule applied to him.
This way, at least he got to die still in your good graces. You’d think of him kindly one day, after all of this was over and you got to settle down with someone far more worthy than him.
It was painful, having you hold him like this. Knowing that, not only was he undeserving, but that he’d never get the chance to have it again. He’d never get the chance to have you at all.
You’d gotten him as sanitized as you could, deciding that it was leagues ahead of when you’d first entered and feeling alright leaving it as it was. You let the washcloth rest in the solution, pushing it aside and speaking before you could talk yourself out of it.
“Can I see it?”
A lot of your reasoning was built purely on exposure. The more brutality you could physically view, the quicker it would sink in that he was really being taken from you. That, within a day or two, he’d be nothing but a subject you studied. A carcass housing a way out of the dark.
He hesitated a moment, debating the damage of such a thing. He knew you’d seen pictures of it, knew you worked tirelessly to unpack the virus in an attempt to kill it. He knew you weren’t a child and were capable of handling unruly sights.
The bare truth was simply that he didn’t want you to. But that wasn’t good enough to stand on it’s own, and he couldn’t explain it further.
“Pull it up.” He extended his arms, hands unable to reach across enough to tug up his sleeve.
When you did, the majority of the wound was revealed. It was square on his wrist, and you had to move the cuff up as much as possible to get a better look at it.
It was so tiny. The fragile jaw of a fetal being. Each tooth perfectly outlined under his disdain and thick coat of hair, carved cruelly and resolute into his skin. The mark’s surrounding area was a blistering red, giving way to the sour yellow of an old bruise, then finally the inky black that was spreading venom upward in veined lightning strikes.
The virus didn’t behave like the ones you were used to scoffing at in media. It truly was a sickness, slow to crawl and slow to kill. It had taken them all the time you’d been here just to get things in the world semi-orderly again, and figure out how to cope with the raging plague that was showing no signs of stopping. You didn’t know if it had mutated yet, if it could affect people in different ways, if there was even any hope of restoring normalcy. In most cases, infection went unnoticed until it was too late.
“‘S ironic. Dyin’ to bloody baby teeth.”
It wasn’t a joke, but you find yourself laughing small and wilted. Your eyes are locked on his penance, oblivious to the way his world’s axis is you. That it’s probably unhealthy and definitely nonreciprocal, but in the months he’s spent with you, you’ve redefined something in him. Some ancient belief he’d thought was set in stone.
You brush your fingers over the injury, cupping his wrist and holding him like he’s tangible light. Like he’s something with substance. Like he’s not the hollow killer he is to everyone else who values his presence.
You value him for this. For how he feels. For who he is.
He watches as your lips start to tremble, despite the way you tighten them in a plea to make it stop. He knows it’s not the job of the condemned to comfort the innocent, but he can’t make himself not try.
“Gettin’ off easy for all the things I’ve done.” He jerks his wrist, nudging your hand off him. You return his sleeve to how it sat before, taking the hint that he was done holding the weight of your sadness. “Far worse fates than bein’ your lab rat, yeah?”
You give him a small smile, the kind that clearly means nothing to either of you but is done out of courtesy. A way of saying you see what he’s doing, that you’re not rejecting him, that you’re not happy but you’d fake it for him if he needed it.
The image of the bite stays burned on your eyelids, replaying like tv static whenever you dared to blink. You look at him in a way you shouldn’t, a way not reserved for friends. You hope the grief can justify it. You know it never will.
“Does it hurt?”
You assume it does, you don’t know how something with that appearance could avoid being painful, but he’s so calm. He’s talking to you like he would’ve any other day where he was the half-alive hero he always had been. You know of his time in the military, you know he’s here because he can handle things. You suppose you’re more just asking for the sake of it. For the sake of hearing his voice respond cohesively to you before the sound of it slips away from comprehension.
“Yes.”
He stares back at you with that same undefined look, leaning too far for people of your status. You want him to push harder, you want to undo all that’s been done.
“We’re gonna figure it out, you know. The cure.” Blind hope supplied by a blind leader. You were a pristine picture of deceit, but it was better than spewing the truth. You’d accept your lie if it hurt you less, you hoped he’d do the same. “You won’t be like this forever.”
He eats up your sentences with the vigor of a man who’s been not living long before he was dead; assigning that fleeting assurance to every earthly craving he’d ever had beaten out of him, every instinct he’s ignored the screams of. With that meaning, it’s almost honest. He wouldn’t be like this forever, soon he’d be nothing at all.
It helped, in it’s own right. Hearing those words straight from the mouth of his shepherd
He can’t offer you assurances of his own, he’s never had that power. He just nods.
“I believe you.”
His descent was every bit as unbearable as you’d been prepping for. It felt selfish to think about how hard it was for yourself given what was happening, but you couldn’t help it. You felt his absence every second it grew, a pinprick in your soul having it’s edges plummet until the gape was comparable to a trench. A bountiful plane that used to contain multitudes, now just ash.
You’d gone out and retrieved a new mask for him, lacking his preferred signature, but a mask nonetheless. You knew what he’d told you, felt it rip at your sluggish insides as it sunk in, you just didn’t care. He wasn’t exposed because he wanted to be, and you figured it’s only right he die with his dignity.
It made it more difficult to look at him, the covering making him look so close to the being you loved, yet holding within it nothing further.
By the time you’d brought it back to him, the streaks of tar had reached his neck, and you imagined yourself draping your declarations and your affections over him just as you did the cotton. It was a stupid fantasy, fit for a schoolgirl or someone ignorant to the ways of the world, but it was all you had.
You could have spoken every word you knew of. He was too far out to accept them now.
You’d sealed the door shut with every internal promise you’d ever made to him still inside. You swore you’d meet the god responsible for the downfall that got you here. You swore you’d show that god just how much they’d taken. You swore you’d never move on, never forget, never leave this moment.
You weren’t sure the longevity of the storm, but you promised to bear through it. That’s all he would want you to do.
The sound of your door opening angered you. This was a classified unit, and you felt almost protective of the creature housed on the other side of the glass. You were the one studying him, you were the one he trusted to. He wasn’t for others to see, to prod at, to understand.
You looked to your left, the critical interruption morphing into a brown-skinned man with buzz-length curls atop his head. He was dressed in the same tactical gear Simon often was, and the sight sickened you. You’d never see him in it again.
“You can’t be in here.” It reminded you of what he’d said to you yesterday. You lacked the warmth he’d held, extending no kind greetings to this stranger. This projectile wasn’t for modesty, this was offense. “This area’s restricted access. You need to leave.”
It was too harsh to sound real. You didn’t speak this way so unprompted.
Grief did odd things to people.
“No - I know, sorry. I’m Kyle.” He appeared slightly off balance by how short you’d been, probably hearing of you as someone different than who you were presenting as. “They flew me over to…you know, replace him.”
Your face twisted, his audacity curdling the neutrality you’d been fronting. It didn’t surprise you that the organizers had already filled his position. You didn’t even think it was a bad thing to have done. It was just the way he’d said it.
Replace him.
How laughable.
His fingers pushed into the sides of his legs, fidgeting in a way Simon never did. “They haven’t given me an updated badge yet.”
Your distaste softens where your expression does not. It makes sense. You have no qualms, logically, with the strategy being presented to you. You know it’s not Kyle you’re mad at. You know your anger is somewhere irrational and undefinable; and that you’re really just coasting on fury until your flood gates open to something deeper.
It doesn’t make you want to know him. It doesn’t sooth the bone-deep sting you’re nursing.
You catch his eyes drifting to the same north star yours have been locked on for the past day. His face is tight, something you can’t read proudly residing there like it cost him nothing to feel for the chained corpse in the cage.
He pays no mind to your resentment, speaking openly, “Did you know him?”
You angle your body back to Simon and debate not answering. You lose the argument.
“We’re all trapped here. We all know him.”
It’s not particularly true, but Kyle is not someone you deem worthy of knowing how far in Simon went within you. You wouldn’t explain your molecules to him, or your blood, or your brain. You wouldn’t explain your heart either.
“Well, not everyone’s in here watchin’ him.”
A test. An invitation.
One you had no interest in fostering.
“Nope.”
You stare straight ahead at Simon, too still and too human. His chest was going up and down, mesmerizing in the cynical way every natural disaster is. It’s the one thing you had at the moment, watching him breathe and wondering if at some point he was going to start lashing out, running into walls.
You didn’t leave room to elaborate on what your brief reply meant, but the new guard seemed to be unfazed.
“We served in 141 together before the outbreak.” You pivoted your head, interest peaked. “Never thought I’d see him like this.”
Once, a few weeks into being here, you’d been delirious with sleep deprivation, asking Simon to keep you company at an hour far too late to be hospitable. You hadn’t expected him to agree at the time, but he had. He sat down and let you rant about fear, about death. He talked back sometimes, and every syllable exchanged made you more certain you wanted him in your life. You asked how he was so put together in the face of global disaster, and he’d shared stories about his hardest deployments, about his team.
He’d mentioned this one. Kyle. Gaz.
It was nice putting a face to a name. It made it easier to share a space with him, knowing that the two of you were indirectly connected through a common name.
You felt your lungs deflate, sighing with begrudging tolerance.
“I work in Virology, and we got here around the same time. Formed a bit of a trauma bond, I suppose.” It viscerally disagreed with your system to speak of your relationship in past tense. Something that was no longer being added to, leather-bound and left to pick up dust. “Never worked in a place where you gain a test subject from your friend dying.”
“Mm.” The sound rings in your ears, nonverbal agreement plucking the reminiscent strings of every question Simon had ever answered with grunts. “They’re makin’ you dissect him, then?”
It’s so blunt that it makes you laugh a bit, spiteful and agonizing as you realize how little it takes to sum up your place here.
“Something like that, yeah.” Your gaze flits to his gun, a single second distraction from your one-sided staring contest. “A lot of the military guys kill themselves when they get bit. I’ve been here almost five months and this is the first…” Your throat chokes up involuntarily as you have to categorize Simon as one of them. “um - infected, that I’ve seen up close.”
He lets the statement simmer, making no movement to coddle the impact of the blow. You don’t either, in all fairness. Something like that earns no gentleness. Something like that must be felt in all it’s terror.
You continue, despite knowing you shouldn’t.
“I still don’t know why he let this happen to him.” You infer that, if he could see his face, he’d hate it even more with that sludgy midnight syrup pumping through his veins. “He was dying either way. He could have kept his body, at the very least.”
Kyle’s nose twitches minutely, teeth clenching visibly at the speculation on someone he once considered a teammate. You wondered if you’d upset him, if he’d be short with you. He didn’t claim to know Ghost, wasn’t in his head quite like Price had been, but he’d understood the persistent trepidation. He’d understood pattern.
“Dunno’ how connected he was to his body. He’s useful this way. Givin’ information.” He frowned so severely that slight lines snuggled into his forehead. “More useful than he’d be dead.”
You could have cried at how cold it all sounded. At how it must have felt for him to make that choice. You didn’t want the information if this was the cost. You wanted him to find rest. You wanted him to feel like he deserved it.
He certainly didn’t deserve to be used as some vessel for progress. To put himself through torture on the slim possibility you’d crack the code because of it.
“He’s in pain.” That cracked tv screen replayed the traitorous image of his injury. You tried to calculate how long it may be before you saw anything else when you closed your eyes. You had no answer. “I saw it, it -” Your voice cracked, embarrassing and entirely too human. “It was horrible.”
“‘S what he knows.”
It’s said so casually, with so much finality. You feel the incision it makes, feel each individual letter press through that surgical slice and burrow into the most protected parts of you. You must wear it on your face, in your stance, how much it hurts.
It was what he knew. You understood that before it happened, and you understand it now. He talked aimlessly on occasion about how many times he’d thought about pulling the plug. All the anti-hero bullshit about how much better off the world would be without his shadowy self clogging up all the good that gets done. You saw how carnally he needed to be given a purpose. The lengths he’d go to in order to fulfill it.
It made sense that would extend to the most deadly of cases. How much he probably wanted it to extend that far. How much he wanted to prove he was devoted, could be worth something.
He was as stubborn in death as he was in life.
You let your chat with Kyle fizzle out, giving nothing but a hum back to him and bathing in the solitude that came after his exit.
You’re not sure you’d ever felt so alone.
The next 52 hours were charted meticulously, watching every mammalian spasm he used to be unable to suppress trickle out until he was nothing but methodical stoicism. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t given you any indication he was ever going to. The question of whether the bite had just fully wiped him out became prevalent. You had watched it spread, that you were sure of, but maybe it simply didn’t take. Maybe he was just done, and the melancholic metronome of his breathing body was a fluke. The remnants of a soul once activated.
Those 52 hours had been without sleep, sheer will and adrenaline keeping your eyes peeled, nausea battling the boredom that was sure to seep in eventually. You wrestled many times with the rational prompt of leaving, of resting, of coming back as something that could actually be of use to him. It was just harder than it seemed.
He didn’t know you were there. Your presence was unacknowledged by him as far as you were aware. The consciousness held by the infected hadn’t been mapped out yet, but by their brutality, it had been collectively assumed they didn’t have much.
You stayed because you were selfish. Because you needed him even when he didn’t need you back. You needed to keep him in your peripheral, needed to keep your pen jotting down every inhale that each 60 second segment contained.
You were obsessed. You could feel it. But obsessed people got things done.
Your resolve gave way eventually, sleep beckoning you like a mistress you couldn’t refuse. You didn’t turn the lights off when you left. You couldn’t stomach walking to your room while he sat in the dark.
Now, returning to your post, you wished you’d never deserted him.
The vacant balaclava was torn down the middle, the gap for his eyes parting into sagging curtains that hung loosely on his cheeks. He was on the floor, hunched, knees as close to his chest as he could get them. Half of his chair was frayed and splintered at the base of the wall it’d been thrown against, the other half a few feet away from it. And, in his hands, one of it’s legs.
His teeth were sunken into the wood like he’d bit through butter. He wasn’t gnawing at it, wasn’t doing this for the purpose of consumption. The treatment more resembled a newborn’s painful teething. Like there was an itching in his gums so unruly that he’d take any pressure he could just to sate it.
The front of his face was visible because of what he’d done, and you saw how far that black had travelled. It danced behind each of his scar lines like the most elegant, insufferable backdrop. The bags under his eyes were enriched with the color, the once pink shine of his gums following suit.
But, whatever the virus had bullied him into becoming, it hadn’t tainted his eyes. They were still doughy, still unwillingly soft. It hadn’t taken that from him.
It hadn’t taken that from you.
You understood, then, that his hunger would overtake him if not dealt with.
The dreadful truth about the apocalypse is how apparent it becomes that human life has never been valued. Animals had been preserved and rationed as efficiently as possible once the pandemic hit an official status. Many insect species were killed in ignorance, not wanting the risk of quicker transmission.
Everyone knew cannibalism would arrive sooner or later, once things got serious enough. And, when you’d been taken into the lab, they informed you that you were far closer to that point than advertised.
You hadn’t had to eat human meat, not yet. But, as they’d told you, they’d taken the populations of those condemned to death penalties and life sentences and housed them in special facilities. It was a last resort for the living, with another off-book use.
In the case of a quarantined infected, the prisoners could be pulled from as a food source.
Your hands stopped trembling soon after you’d gotten here, fear deep enough to lick marrow but your determination equally as high. You’d squeeze when they shook, and eventually they stopped squirming without your permission.
This was different. This brought the tremors back.
Death took a separate form entirely when it was forced upon you. It was filthy work, staining what it came into contact with and leaving no room for petty analysts to decipher it.
An invitation, however, was impossible to manage without letting death into yourself, as well. You were calling it. You were stepping quietly to managers and speaking quietly in code. It was less irredeemable this way, they’d said. You weren’t organizing the violent murder of another person, you were furthering the research that could save the world.
You would have to ask for a sacrifice. And you would have to track every millisecond that sacrifice spent in the bubbling maw of whatever monster awaited it.
You should have accounted for this, realistically. Simon was obviously going to need sustenance at some point. He had a way of dulling your professionalism, even after his own demise. Surely you couldn’t be expected to think critically when that meant feeding your best friend the rusty spirit of some guilty sulker.
Shock and horror had no home in the new world. Only work. Only survival. And that’s all this was. His survival depended on this.
When you left this time, you did flick the lights off. If his face had to be bared, you wouldn’t prolong it. You wouldn’t be cruel to him.
Travel that’s blessed with a stamp of necessity from the government is almost always done by aircraft. Driving is too noisy, draws too much attention to the goods inside.
It took about a day, following your request, for the inmate to be delivered. You hadn’t been alerted when he’d gotten there. You were bracing for a call, for someone to be tasked with summoning you considering you’d been the sole jury on this decision. But you got nothing.
You’d been where you always were now, in observation, when Kyle simply opened the door and dragged him in as unceremoniously as any prey would’ve been. The man was almost as tall as Simon, his width meek in comparison. You’d asked for larger bait if possible, not wanting Simon to remain peckish once done eating.
This guy would do nicely. As unfortunate as it was.
Gagged, bound, and blindfolded. Even through all that was inhibiting him, he wore his future like a brand. You could see that he was braced for the worst, that he knew this would be the last place he existed in.
Kyle’s face was tense in the most minuscule of ways. Lips in too tight of a line, eyes hardened as though the space behind them was vacant. He seemed to be performing the role of a puppet, hands belonging to someone grander, using him to throw fish to a shark.
He could not be responsible for the snap of that shark’s jaw. He did not choose this.
You did.
You knew that Simon had seen a considerable amount of death throughout his time in the 141, you assumed Kyle was much the same. You wondered what his kills had looked like in the past. If he’d held the handle of a blade and forced the sharpness into trapped skin. If it’d been in search of information or simply in search of emotion. Something to tell him he was still alive.
That’s what Simon used to say to you. That he’d done what others had ordered; and that life was not a force, but a currency. What others lost, he gained. The dying flicker of someone’s soul would serve as kindling for the flame in his own. The one that always burned low and cold, no matter how much tinder he dumped onto it.
Perhaps this man would produce a similar result. Perhaps he’d make Simon real again for the split second it took for fire to catch on wood.
Kyle doesn’t look at you, nor you at him. He walks over to the door separating you from the end of the world and holds for your approval to poach it. You settle yourself at the panel, 2 buttons of red and green await the smudge of your fingertips on them.
Red and green. Open and close. Good and bad.
Yet another small nod at how critical harsh duality was clung to in the post-outbreak wasteland. You used to be either alive or dead. Life got harder when a grey area was added to these 2 opposites. It was overcompensation at it’s finest, but even you couldn’t argue that some things were not meant to have a compromise.
Your index digs into the temple of the hard green plastic, the quarantine door opening with a hiss of steam and an audible crank of the track it’s on.
The worm wiggles on his hook. You’re tempted to apologize but make no move to.
“Kyle,” you say. He angles himself towards you, slightly upset at your prolonging of this act. “Chains are two feet long. Try to keep double that.”
He nods, stepping forward into the make-shift den. Simon had stayed bundled up in his corner since you’d seen him yesterday.
Now, as direct wanderers approach something they cannot comprehend, his head raises in interest.
He’s slow to process what’s in front of him. You watch his gaze soak Kyle in it’s heady toxin, the burden of being acknowledged by a predator. His fingers twitch, the first sign of unintentional movement you’ve seen from him. You write it down, breaking his existence down into bullet points like he’d never been conscious at all.
When his stare shifts right, his whole body bolts up and forward, pouncing like a ravenous snake. It’s so violent that you jump back in your seat, that you worry for the structural security of the pipe he’s chained to.
Kyle barely flinches, and the pure dichotomy of soldier and civilian instincts makes you question if you’d ever have gotten along with these men under normal circumstances. It makes you question how much humanity can vary.
Simon flings his arms in another preening yank, trying to grasp the only meal he’s been offered in days.
Kyle seems to remember where he is and what he’s there for, and shoves the former prisoner at the entity begging to kill him. The result is instantaneous.
Kyle steps out as quickly as he can. You, alternatively, find yourself unable to look away.
His hands plant firmly on the man’s shoulders, his teeth hooking like fangs into flesh that is far too eager to bend and break at the will of an undead being. You watch chunks of skin be torn off in long, narrow sheets. Blood careening out like the break of a hurricane when it finally hits the welcoming shore. It spills and spills; ignored by your friend, too focused on the gooey parts that he can bite into and tear apart.
You track all the organs you see excavated from a corpse that still lashes like it’s ignorant to what’s being done to it. Liver, pancreas, kidneys, large intestine, small intestine.
When he reaches the brain, horrifyingly, the only thought that manages to break through the haze is ‘how cliche’.
And you beg to know, as he chews around bone and chomps through tendon, how it feels to be so unrestrained in your animosity. How it feels to be an animal in every right, with no hint of punishment from what used to be your peers.
Simon is big, and he eats like a glutton until every ounce of that livestock is pearly calcium on the blood-stained floor, or cubes of the finest cutlet, churning wonderfully in his stomach.
You only remember to close the door once he swallows his last bite and strays back to his chosen corner. You chastise yourself, obligatory jabs that this is not someone who would treat you warmly should you come into contact, that the door needs to be closed for the safety of everyone involved.
And, shamefully, that no amount of unabashed brutality could make something beautiful. That not all things deserved admiration simply because they were unconventional.
It was a disgusting sight, truly. Not something fit for the mind of a person hoping to remain unchanged.
But Simon had already changed you. You didn’t know if you had it in you to be disgusted.
“Is that all?”
Kyle’s voice draws your attention to the door that led out of observatory. His back is to you, presumably had been for the entire duration of Simon’s feeding.
Many of the military personnel you offhandedly spoke with used their tolerance as material they could boast. They could withstand the sight of any gore any living thing could produce. They were macho enough to kill, to be killed, to hate and vandalize.
It was commonplace for them.
The fact that Kyle had no interest in viewing whatever had occurred made you respect him more. It made you respect yourself less.
It was your job to witness, not his. That was believable for now.
“Yes - yeah, that’s all. Thank you.” You didn’t know if gratitude was appreciated or expected for something like this. He didn’t seem interested in it. “You can go.”
Then, you’re all alone with him again. Moments you used to cherish and now have to justify with academia.
You used to chat about movies, about the past, about how the future had never been guaranteed and how it’s shocking so many people lived like it was.
You stare at him, at the mess he’d made, and question if he’d enjoyed what he’d eaten. If he still had flavors he kind of liked and vehemently disliked. If his texture preferences had persisted, or if they’d intensified. You questioned if you’d ever figure out a way for him to tell you so.
You sit down in the same chair you’d condemned that inmate to death in. The seat you’d been glued to for almost a week. You probably wouldn’t depart for another few hours at least, still at odds with leaving him by himself.
Still selfishly hoping he didn’t want you to.
You’d fallen asleep on the console that night, fogged pupils burning harsh lines into the back of your brackish eyelids. Your hand was numb from the weight of your head, having rested on your folded arms. Your back hurt, as did your legs and neck alike.
You felt no remorse, however. Ironically, you felt more comfortable around him than you did on your stiff cot in your stuffy quarters.
You take a moment to stretch out the ache in your muscles, standing up to see what the dark had made of your forgone companion. You assumed he’d still be curled, still be hiding his face behind his knees. You expected the shame to beget itself once more, to force his hand even after he could no longer perceive it doing so.
You didn’t know how to feel at the absence of it.
His stomach was lovingly pressed to the floor, shirt riding up a bit to expose a sliver of rear midriff. His left cheek was much the same, cloth and skin mingling with the icy pressure of tile. His arms were spread up and out, as though mimicking the start of wings. A vessel posed in piety, holiness encased in immortal rot and rapture.
Bones sat atop scuff marks on the ground, the smaller ones having been snapped in half from the frenzy he’d entered when feeding. Blood had claimed most of the territory for itself, now dried and waxy in a perimeter of sacrilege around the man. This, alone, was as loud of a warning as you could get.
Crucifixion would have been a more merciful end than this. He had that going, at least.
You saw no movement from Simon, his face resembling that of sleep. He hadn't exhibited this behavior in the days you’d been his guardian. You hadn’t heard of this phenomenon in any other infected, never heard a whisper of something this strange.
It was more likely his body was done being puppeted. Though, you’re lost as to why it’d happen now, why it’d happen at all.
His chest remains stationary, his fingers don’t twitch; and, for one paralyzing minute, you’ve well and truly lost him. It feels nothing like the news he’d been bitten, nor like the sight of his skin greying rapidly.
It feels like finality. Like his body being zipped into a bag and hauled away.
And, like the fool you’ve proven yourself to be, you run towards the end in hopes of stopping it.
You press the button, the door hisses open, and you know vaguely that you should have called Kyle. You know blatantly that this is dangerous, that you need protection, that you could die.
It’s indescribable how little logic means when emotion is called into question. When the soul is at stake.
You approach him slowly, the deafening thump of your heart making your blood feel thick where it sloshes in your veins. It weighs your limbs down, makes your head light in a way that feels lethal.
You breach the safety barrier. You can see the line in the sand dissolving by filthy ocean waves. You can feel like lack of emanating heat, so far from human yet so close to mortality.
You squat down, shaky where you balance and careful where you analyze. You remember how often you’d taken to this pose in your childhood, examining insects or rocks, watching nature eat and birth itself in the cyclical way it always had. You felt far from intrigue when doing it now, much closer to unfounded faith than fascination.
You raised your arms to touch him and pulled back just as quick. It wasn’t certain if the virus was spread exclusively through biting. You didn’t know if it could be transmitted through touch, if you had any cuts his illness could sneak through.
It was common knowledge not to put your bare flesh on a contaminant, especially one so unexplored.
You rose, planning to snag the rubber gloves that you knew sat in one of the drawers in observation. You turned, in a rush, and were pulled back equally fast.
The palm of Simon’s capable hand grasped tightly at your ankle, knocking you off your feet. Your collision was violent, your reflexes being the only thing saving your forehead from meeting the floor. You felt the flex of his fingers, the mythological strength he used to yank you backward.
You slid against grime and gore, thrashing and clawing. Flakes of that ruddy stain piled up under your nails as you fought, never standing a chance at victory. It took a couple of weak tugs to get you close enough he could release his hold, latching onto your hip and turning you onto your back.
The switch costed you what little leverage you had, now completely separated from any attempt you could make at freedom. You couldn’t feel the temperature of the ground through your clothes, but you felt the pressure along your spine, a reminder of your mistake harshly digging into the back of your skull.
He got on top of you, and you ready yourself for the never ending sting of sickness. For the pierce of his canines. The weight of his body on yours is more than enough to pin you down, and the slight twitch of his head has your hands flying up in defense.
He doesn’t lunge, he doesn’t prod, doesn’t even scratch. His chest is heaving, and you can hear the slight whistle of a whimper on each harrowing exhale he makes. It reminds you of a dog, exerted and begging after a long day.
Up close, you can see the blood spatters around his parted lips, sprayed on and blotted off but never fully removed. There are specks of it on every bit of him, dots of deep red with some having snail trails of where they’d dripped off of him. Scarlet lines trek towards his irises, and, though burdened and bloodshot, they trudge over your face with deep concern.
Guilt, you think, burns there too.
He leaves the fear on your face as is, sweeping down onto your useless hands, up as though they could make any difference should he actually choose to harm you. The sight seems to make him antsy, his breaths quicken, his own fingers flinch.
And, for some reason that must only make sense in his mind, he nudges your hand with the back of his. It’s a simple tap, one he repeats multiple times until you finally see it as a call to action.
Your fingertips slowly find the meat of his wrist, halting his movement and making him grunt at the contact. You curl them under his sleeve, pushing it down just enough to reveal the wound responsible for all of this.
You remained gentle, touching the bite with a kind of respect you’d only ever give Simon. This disease didn’t deserve your softness, but he did. You couldn’t embody anything harder, couldn’t bring yourself to be scientific when someone you loved was trapped inside the thing you studied.
He visibly calms with the affection, bowing his head like a worshipper as you caress the culprit of his undoing. This ugly, spiraling thing absorbing all the care you can muster and giving it to the internal being locked inside the beast. It’s disgustingly tender, private in a way that couldn’t possibly exist under the eyes of an outsider.
You took a moment to breathe, to let yourself feel the semi-sturdy trust being established between the two of you. It was a reintroduction, a rekindling of something that once could have burnt down a forest it you’d let it.
You start sitting up, tactile and timidly, giving room for him to adjust as you did it. Before long, slowly but surely, he inched his way off of you, chains chittering as he retreated back to the corner he felt safest in.
You didn’t feel solid when you stood, extremities trembling with the force it takes to befriend something rabid. You walked backwards until you were beyond his reach, not in fear of what he’d do if you turned your back, but with desire to keep him in your vision. To keep this experience painted on you for as long as possible.
The close of the door was excruciating, motorized monotony clashing hard with the pure nuance you’d just witnessed.
Up to this point, you’d been working with the assumption that the illness was mindless. That it ate up everything one kept inside and filled the empty slots with a ravenous famine. That it built tools that did nothing but take, nothing but eat.
You see now that it’s no such thing. His memories remain at least somewhat intact, with a newfound instinct that parallels animals on the brink of extinction.
This is a new battlefield entirely, an extension of the mandated finish line proctored by clueless government leaders. This was life inside of death. Light inside of dark.
This was hope.
The next twelve hours curdled into a primitive hypothesis that your colleagues would have called you idiotic for entertaining.
Simon’s insistence that you acknowledge his bite made you wonder if the cogs in his head were spinning the cracked frames of what happened in the last hour he was himself. If he was clinging on to the images he could see the clearest, the ones that were fairly recent but belonged to a timeline different than the one you were in now.
And, consequently, you also wondered what kind of outcome you could produce by playing into it.
You harnessed all the same materials you’d had on the day of reckoning, sulking into quarantine with a bowl of saline, a rag, and a quaint reverence that only ever became apparent in his company.
It most likely wasn’t a good idea to be approaching him again so soon. You were still entirely in the dark about what mannerisms he would take to, about if the disease was still progressing, about if he’d grow tired of your hovering and put an end to it.
He’d touched you yesterday, you’d touched him right back. You’d stroked criticality like the scalp of a cat, patient and enamored. You didn’t feel bad, didn’t feel affected.
The virus was slow but it was not silent. It held pride in the scrape of it’s footsteps, every bootmark an indication of how happy it was to be invading. Surely, you would have seen the black dispersion, the bruising, something. You would have seen something if you’d been contaminated.
And you hadn’t. So you came back.
Moth to a flame.
He stood up when you entered, stare falling to the items balanced in your shaky hands. You listened to his breath stumble a bit on it’s climb upward, a tremor forcing his head minutely to the left.
A raspy exhale, a twitch. You didn’t know the connotations of these actions. You made a mental note to start forming a pattern with them for the possibility of translation.
You stepped closer, back straight and shoulders squared in hopes of appearing confident. The solution rocked gentle waves in synchronization with your strides. You loved this being, you’d been in unnecessarily near proximity more times than you’d care to count. You could do it again. You wanted to do it again.
You wanted to be someone he let help him.
His back stayed hugging the wall, looking almost more scared of you than you of him. He had the fangs and the nails of something nasty, something that would delight in corruption. He’d developed these sinister assailants in his exile, but they didn’t register to either of you. He let you set the bowl in front of him without ever showing intent to use his strength, so you simply chose to believe he wouldn’t.
He had no chair this time around, so when you bent to soak the rag, you rose again immediately after.
All the vitriolic sayings you’d heard throughout your lifetime were rigid in nature, unforgiving and immovable in their purpose. Sink or swim. Do or die. Make or break. Everything harsh and everything happening right now. You moved or you fell, these were your options. This was the ideology that was taught to you. This was the ideology you were expecting when starting this interaction.
When reeling in a feral entity, it would kill you or it would not.
But here, with plumes of apprehension wrapping widely around you both, equal and equidistant in your conjoined hesitance, you understood black and white were things of fiction. He feared your ethos the way you feared his potential, each image incorrect and muddied with personal insecurity.
He was not threatening you, and you were not saving him.
This was just perseverance, a forged connection withstanding the trials of time and hardship. Just an elevated version of any other unifying issue. Just another thing to push through.
His jaw felt rougher than it had back then, the unhinging weapon of a killer resting nervously in your palm. You slid the damp cloth through the sewing pin pricks of his incoming stubble. It was noticeably patchy, small planes being untouched by hair due to the abundance of scar tissue. It was endearing, in a way, seeing something so specific to him after watching him be eaten alive by something general. It made the blood cling harder to him, forcing you, in return, to scrub with more pressure.
You didn’t mind it; angling him every direction you could, cleansing the sharp edges and dipping into the texture his skin held to ensure every bit of congealed plasma was gone.
You heard that same hurt-dog whimper rattle around in the back of his throat, sounding out with every breath he took. He said nothing as he took you in, letting you control his movement, letting you take the reins for as long as you wanted them. He basked in the sting of you seeing the sins he had stamped all over him, in the fact you were choosing to absolve them.
Once you finished his face, you raised his hands up, one by one. You let the rag suck up every bit of extinguished life that stained his fingers. And, by the end, they looked capable of kindness again. Callused and scuffed and too big for his own good, but still something that didn’t have to cause harm if he didn’t want them to.
For that short time, you joined him in the state outside humanity. You were two of the same unearthly species, one grooming the other so they didn’t sit in filth alone.
Simon allowed it to happen with all the eagerness of someone who’d been craving it. An idea based on complete nonsense struck you. Not scientific, not founded on principle, just the desperate coping of someone who couldn’t make themself give up.
“I cleaned your face last week when you got bit.”
You didn’t look up at him. You were unsure if your speaking would affect his status, if it would make things better, if it would make them worse. Your biggest fear, you suppose, was that it wouldn’t affect anything at all.
“Do you remember that?”
Your eyes went from his collarbones to your own shoes, preferring the sight of a red-slicked floor to that of your best friend’s gaze holding no warmth for you.
You stay that way, despite hearing sounds beckon back and forth behind his teeth, a verbal confirmation he can no longer enunciate. Frustration drives an increase in his breathing, words stuck inside a carcass with no way to escape.
He settles for something else instead, turning his hand around where it sat in yours, now palm to palm. His fingertips press into your knuckles. He squeezes.
Yes.
You can feel the force seep into the gesture, a testament to the power he has just under the skin, a promise that he won’t use it on you.
He squeezes again.
I do.
The illness maintained a sentience you were unprepared for.
Your curiosity was immense walking away from him, burning the edges of the picture you’d painted. It was a refusal of obedience, a deviation from all you’d seen portrayed.
Simon responded to you. He showed proof of neurological processes you were certain he shouldn’t have access to. He showed food preference and emotional bandwidth. He made it clear to you, explicitly and undoubtedly, that he was alive under all the decay. That the man you’d known kept his wits about him while his body was whisked away.
He knew what you were to him, and evidently held recognition for those he once loved. And, as a scientist, the urge you struggled with most of all was pushing.
You wanted to trace every boundary this prospect held. You wanted to know if the registration stopped at some point, if there was an amount he had to have known you in order to know your face when it counted.
He’d told you, only once, about a man he hated.
Pre-outbreak, back in the 141, he’d been a part of a mission that sent someone to confinement instead of to the grave. It’s the most worked up you’d ever seen him, vagrantly going on about the atrocities he’d seen that man do, about how he’d asked for the clearance to kill him and been denied. How much it had gutted him to surrender him to higher power. To not have the assurance that execution brings.
The apocalypse escorted that man out of his classified status and straight into the livestock pen of the common criminal. There was no hierarchy in the end, just puzzles and those who solved them. Just you and him.
With some specific inquiry, you found the facility he’d been herded into. It took two minutes for his name to be searched, and with a rush order placed on his arrival, it took only a single night for him to be shipped.
Kyle pulled his leash straight into your open arms once again. He didn’t give you any inclination that he remembered who he was leading, but the subtleties gave him away. He hadn’t been so harsh with inmate number one, he hadn’t wailed him about like he contained no value. This was a personal kind of disrespect, an intimate one.
He looked almost disappointed when you dismissed him. He’d been so hellbent on avoiding the carnage before, but now resembled a child being denied dessert. It was almost comical, and it could have stayed that way, had he not pressed into your avoidance.
He said it wouldn’t be safe to leave the job in your hands alone. You weren’t armed, you weren’t trained, you weren’t ready to take out an enhanced soldier who’s mind was muddied with unstoppable rage.
You told him you knew what you were doing. He told you that didn’t bridge the gap.
You only got him off your back when you exposed that a different plan was being followed through. That this wasn’t a routine feeding, that this was an experiment and he wasn’t needed for it.
And, in that regard, it was your job. It was your job and it wasn’t his, meaning you held authority and could express it to the fullest degree.
You swore you’d be careful, and that if you got ripped to bits it was on you and not him. He left very begrudgingly, letting the door swing shut instead of closing it himself. You didn’t make a move until the sound of his footsteps were no longer audible.
The hostage was dressed as the last had been; blind, gagged, bound. All signs of power stripped away and stapled back on like a grievance personified. Power was nothing but proof of guilt around here. Power was nothing but restraint.
And, in his case, it was nothing but a vow of hostility. A place to reap what he’d once sewed.
He didn’t squirm as you walked him into quarantine. You’re sure if his mouth had been uncovered, some volatile exclaims would have flung their way out. In the moment, you felt only gratitude that you wouldn’t have to listen to the kind of words that come from a man like him.
Simon, sturdy and in wait, clenched his jaw when the man finally looked at him. At the creature he’d grown into.
He’d done the motion so abruptly that a small click sound echoed out into the dull air. A punishing threat and a humid promise that whatever storm was rolling in was guaranteed to be excruciating.
For the first time since your brief introduction, you heard the man make a noise. A wet, petulant sob soaked through the wad of stitched cotton that’d been shoved into his mouth. You’d never seen someone realize they’re doomed. Not like this, not at the hands of another.
The stink of fear was prominent, floating in bloated pulses off the sentenced criminal you currently held upright. There was such little distance from human to animal. The outbreak emphasized this heavily, how moronic it was to live as though you’re an elevated version of something. As though you share no commonality with a bear, with a rabbit.
He was face to face with a predator, and he felt it just as the mouse did when squared against a cat, unavoidable and non negotiable.
You mused on that his arrogance put him here, that he could have ended up anywhere else had he kept his nose clean. But, deeper down, you would have given Simon anything. Anyone.
This ruse was believable, a mask you didn’t mind wearing to keep up appearances, but it wasn’t authentic. You possessed a desire to explore the virus, yes. More than that, though, you wanted to know every detail of how it affected him.
You weren’t doing this for generalization, to help the others. Not entirely.
You just wanted to bring him back. You would have wrangled in any being, any object, that could aid that goal.
It wasn’t right, you don’t think. It wasn’t moral. It wasn’t ethical.
Looking at the man being glared at by the person you cared the most about, you found yourself void of care. Something prodded at your ribs from inside, an insidious declaration that you were just as much a monster. That this wasn’t instinct, or necessary.
This was obsession. This was devotion.
With that tidbit fully established, you shoved him forward past the four foot perimeter, much like Kyle had done days ago.
You wondered if this was what true allyship felt like. If this feeling rivaled that of wartime destruction on the behalf of a government agreement. You didn’t know if this was something all friends would do for each other. Maybe Simon had never been a friend at all. Maybe he’d always been something more.
This was far less mindless than it’d been previously. The second that man was in his reach, he was eviscerated. Simon tore limb from sternum, four times over just to watch the muscle stretch and break. Organs were torn out with his teeth, skin shredded with blunt nails and a fiery will. Above all else, agony was prioritized. He did as much as he could with the man still alive, grinding down sanity until he was hollowed out. Less substance than a zombie. Just a murderer begging to die.
Not a single speck was swallowed. Simon wanted nothing to do with him. This was all justice, all anger.
You watched, once more, as he lost himself in the elegance of a brutalist pursuit. This had been years in the making, and he was every bit as primed as he said he’d be.
It was heated in the places it shouldn’t be. A lesson in eroticism and the thin line it walked between homicide and holistic vulnerability. Teeth met the thin veil of a neck for many reasons, all overlapping and interconnected.
There shouldn’t be any joy in seeing such a thing, yet you were completely fixated on how easily he dismantled a being that was supposed to be superior. There shouldn’t be excitement in it, shouldn’t be arousal, yet that was no deterrence for the feelings that persisted anyway.
He stood in the middle of it all, bloodied and heaving like a body put to work. Pieces of the enemy were scattered like snow around the spacious room.
You stood just opposite him, right outside the reach of his arms.
“You didn’t eat him.”
It was a rather insignificant thing to commentate on. Though, that was valuable data, all things considered. His hunger wasn’t domineering, it couldn’t hijack his rage or his drive for penance. Death was death, and fuel was fuel. He was unwilling to cross those two wires.
He agreed in a sound you were growing familiar with. He didn’t eat him. This you both were able to settle on.
Your vision drifted toward the man’s head on Simon’s side of the room, sitting still in a viscous, honeyed puddle that you had no business gawking at. He’d been alive not minutes ago. Life was fickle like that.
You jolted your gaze to where it’d previously been at the loud clash of chains. The shock forced you back a bit, laying in wait as he attempted to break his tether, attempted to get closer to you. You hadn’t even realized he’d wanted it.
“Simon - hey -”
It was continuous, longing tugs filled to the brim with every bit of supernatural strength he carried. The cuffs had been designed for someone with immense physical power, but even the designers hadn’t accounted for the variability of the virus. He’d been strong even as a man, let alone as something much more.
Your breathing labored, your certainty balancing on the thinnest of tightropes. He wasn’t listening to your words, wasn’t listening to your warnings. He had a mission, and you’d never seen him disregard an order.
You still held true to the belief he wouldn’t hurt you. He’d had many chances to do it up to this point and he hadn’t. He’d seemed saddened at the fear you embodied the first time you’d been in quarantine. He knew who you were. He didn’t want to kill you. He’d never tried to bite you.
And, just when you were beginning to buy the snake oil you were peddling yourself, a snap ricocheted anywhere it could reach. It bounced off the door, off the blood, off the porcelain floors. It claimed every square inch it could reach, submerging you in a deadly concoction of terror and tantalization, blurring every line you’d ever let yourself have faith in.
You made the mistake of staring him down, of meeting his eyes. It was a reflex, more than anything. A hindbrain plunder of assessing the threat you might be at risk of.
He took it, fondly, as an invitation.
“Wait -”
You couldn’t even see the end of your sentence before he was shoving you against the wall. Commands meant nothing, constraint meant even less. The sense of death just for the sake of it was intoxicating, and he was higher than he’d ever gotten while alive.
You could feel the dig of his fingers into the fat of your hips, the blood that was saturating your clothes from how covered in it he was. Your upper back was flush against the cold, but he was tugging your lower half forward to slot against his. It was such a minor bend, but the distance felt lethal.
You said his name again, the repetition sour on your tongue but your mind at a loss of what else to do. He was close enough that you could smell the metal and dirt that clung to his clothes, could feel the focal point of ruin and debauchery. It frayed like a cut cable, spitting out sparks hot enough to melt steel and yet palatable enough to fan your internal flame.
You put your hands on his shoulders, intending to get him away from you, intending to do something that you’d be able to stomach in an hour. He only seemed to delight in the contact.
He pushed against you, clothes failing to save you from the grind of his cock against the unbearable sensitivity that’d built up from seeing him in action. Your grip dropped, palms falling flat on his chest with no force behind them. It was new, touching him there. Damp with that keen scarlet and the steady beat of his heart.
He fussed with the hem of your pants for nearly no time at all, gentlemanly remains no doubt peeking through the haze before being squandered by the fact Simon was nothing of the sort. The fabric came apart at the seams, sides ripping away from each other and landing as meaningless scraps on the ground. More shriveled rags to lap up the mess you’d made.
It was an awfully loud thing to happen, your slight gasp burdening the space when it did. You hadn’t been expecting it. You hadn’t been expecting any of this.
It was occurring too fast to think about. He repeated the motion with your underwear, leaving you bare and him scrambling to catch up. His haste was a marvel, getting his pants down to mid thigh before losing care for the rest.
He finally, finally had you. Months of unrest and weeks spent undead.
His love, his need, had been the only thing that stayed centered through everything. Stuff shifted around it, orbiting like the earth around the sun. But the sun had remained the same, had stayed whole despite the things that depended on it. You had remained as the same crushing totality, the same person he couldn’t help but indulge in.
He wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck, stepping into the role of puppeteer, an escape from being the one on strings.
He held your forehead to his and pressed into you, force and desperation stopping him from being the kind of lover he’d have rather been. Your nails dug into his chest from the stretch, a curse fleeing your mouth in a strangled whimper that he drinks up like he’s dying for it. He doesn’t let you hide from him, doesn’t let you run from the feeling. The tips of your noses are touching, and he’s hellbent on keeping your eyes locked with his.
He’s close enough to kiss you, to delve into just how disgusting you’d let things get under the guise of loyalty, but he doesn’t. The blood smeared across his face has made it’s way to yours, and that feels more obscene than anything he could do on his own. A large, evident stamp of the levels you’d stoop to, of the way you could be owned by someone else. By him.
Then, he moves, and you wonder how you’d ever avoided doing this with all the months you’d spent in his company. It’s torturous, fast and deep and all consuming in a way you hadn’t thought existed.
The revolting things that the virus had done to him combined with the delicious sweep of him against that rough spot inside had you clenching hard enough to make the both of you cry out. The grey of his skin was even starker against the jet black of infection, and the reminder that this was the corpse of your best friend rained down on the last little bit of consciousness you had.
“Mm - shit -”
His teeth nipped along your jaw, the liquid bits of the man still on the floor smudging onto the skin there. It wasn’t enough to break it, wasn’t enough to make you one of him; it was just enough to remind you he could. That there was so much power and so much danger housed behind his six feet of bone and muscle. That he could make you miserable if he wanted, and all he desired was to make you feel good.
That, you think, was what tipped you over the edge. The fullness and the heat and his unyielding reverence even in the face of dystopian challenges.
It wasn’t a graceful fall by any means, months of stress and care and want all bubbling to the surface, begging to burst each time he thrusted back inside you. Letting go was euphoric, something you didn’t see a point in warning him about and something that spread through you quicker than sickness could ever strive for.
He worked you through it, continuing the rhythm and inadvertently sending you quietly into slight overstimulation. You needed to feel closer, to feel Simon and not just the decomposing image of him.
You reached up to the hand cradling your neck, stroking your fingers over the indents of his bite mark. A cotton-soft moment that added meaning to every moment you’d manufactured throughout the last week.
He whimpered like it hurt, pace stuttering before halting entirely when his pelvis was fully nestled against yours. You felt warmth coat the new parts of you he’d touched tonight, the end and the beginning to something without set limits.
You shifted, and he held tighter onto you, territorial to a fault in that unchanging way he’d always been. You kept your fingertips tracing over each divot of each mark where a tooth had once sunk, lazily basking in the afterglow like you were two normal friends in a normal situation.
You didn’t know what kind of person this made you, but whatever kind it was, you’d be it for him.
Right now, you were standing outside of the door of a bathing, drunken Sukuna. You had been instructed by him personally to come bathe him. Needless to say, you were terrified. This would be your first encounter with bathing another person, that wasn’t yourself.. a naked man, let alone one you found attractive and equally terrifying.
“S- Sukuna? Can I come in?” A few moments of silence goes on until you hear a deep slurring voice beckon you by name. You feel anxiety and curiosity swirl through your mind as you slowly open the door to a tipsy looking Sukuna, and also completely naked, nothing left to the imagination. You didn’t take Sukuna to be one to enjoy bubbly baths, but it seems he did.
He gives you a look over and exasperatedly huffs at you. His cheeks are slightly flushed from the alcohol, and he beckons you closer with a wet finger, his right upper hand held a rather large glass of sake, and the other were leisurely resting on the sides of the tub.
“I told you to come here dressed a certain wayyy.” Sukuna slurs his sentences, and your eyebrows quirk together, you look at Sukuna strangely. You don’t remember Uraume instructing you to dress or bring something with you other than yourself and a stool to scrub him, and you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him slur his words like this before.
You approach the tub with wandering eyes, and you try not to let them drift around his body too much. Your imagination was going wild without you meaning it to. Sukuna grabs your wrist and your eyes widen. You let him bring you close to him in the tub, and you can feel your body warming up at the contact.
”Y’were supposed to.. to wear the special kimono I brought you..” Sukuna slurs and pouts at you, pointing at your usual modest kimono you wore with a frown. The kimono he had in mind was.. much less modest. It was off the shoulders, and was your favorite color. Perhaps it was better the situation didn’t work out, considering you were supposed to be bathing him..not be his personal doll.
“Hmph. I guess Uraume didn’t tell you. What a nuisance.” You look increasingly concerned, and Sukuna takes a long sip of his sake. You knew that Sukuna had a bit of tolerance for alcohol, so he must have been on a very large number of drinks to be this inebriated.. you had never seen him this tipsy. It was an amusing yet concerning sight on him.
”Oh.. I’m sorry.” You awkwardly apologize, sitting down on the stool as you accept your fate. Sukuna watched you intently as you rolled your sleeves up; dragging a wet bar of soap down one of his left arms. You felt the muscles lightly with your hands, trying not to show how obviously terrified and turned on you were. Sukuna shivered slightly as your hands rubbed over his chest and you paused.
“Hm.. did you not like that?” Your hand pulls away and Sukuna immediately grabs it back, gliding it down his body cockily. His eyes stare you down as you continue scrubbing, and you babble to yourself, flustered by Sukuna’s neediness.
“Do you have to stare?” You grumble slightly at him, and he leers at you, his eyes crinkle as he realizes he’s making you uncomfortable. He doesn't look away from you.
“Yesss. It’s part of the processss.” He slurs his words, and you decide to keep scrubbing him. You remember the last time you tried avoiding him, it ended with a very irate Sukuna, who decided to unleash his wrath on you. You couldn’t sit comfortably on your ass for days, his handprint was acutely imprinted on your rear. A part of you had enjoyed the punishment, the more rational part of you hadn't.
“Sure it is,” you laugh a little at him, and Sukuna’s face sulks as you laugh at him. He brings the cup of sake to your lips, and you pause your scrubbing. Just when you were getting close to his dangerous region, his stomach.
“Drink, it tastes good.” Sukuna offers you his cup, and you pause, putting your lips on the cups lip, and Sukuna tilts it so the drink goes down your throat. You pull away with a slight groan, it burned down your throat. Sukuna laughs heartily at you, taking it back and drinking where your lips had touched, you catch his tongue lapping at the lingering saliva.
“It’s just sake.. you must be a light-weight!” He laughs in your face, and you pout at him, bringing the soap over his shoulders harshly, Sukuna growls at you, taking yet another sip of his alcohol, you can smell it in his breath due to how close together you were. Your nose wrinkles at him.
“It burns your throat, huh? Interesting…” Sukuna rubs his chin thoughtfully, and his hand rolls around as he reclines back, enjoying your hands on his body, clearly. Now, you sat behind him outside of the tub, and you began to wet his hair carefully, trying to avoid getting anything in his eyes.
”Please.. Sukuna, close your eyes.” You look down at him, and he can feel your clothed chest behind his head due to how you were now standing over him, his head pillowed by your breasts.
“No.” He tries to sit his face in your bosom, and you back up so he cannot do so. You wouldn't let him do anything too brash while he was like this.
”I’m going to get water in your eyes.” You're tempted to laugh at him, here, you were in control. He couldn't embarrass or humiliate you like normal.
He groans like an annoyed child, and shuts them, but not without splashing a fist in the water. You yelp as some of it gets on your kimono, he could be so childish sometimes. You felt the warm water and the fragrance of bubbles fill your nose. Sukuna smelled like jasmine and sandalwood.
“Sukuna!” You watch his flat expression turn into a happy sneer, and your hands reluctantly return to his head, now starting to scrub some rice water into his hair, his eyes closed shut finally, he hummed as your delicate fingers massaged his scalp. He could definitely get used to having you bathe with him, whether that was in the tub or out of it. Even though you were annoyed at him, you protected his eyes from getting stung by any possible contact with the mixture.
"I think you're drunk." You whisper in his ear as you let go of his head, and he groans in disappointment, his red eyes staring holes into your soul.
"'M not.. jus'.. mind your words around me. Wanted to talk to you." He hiccups, and you feel your face flush at his neediness. He speaks less formally when he was drunk. This was a side of Sukuna you weren't used to seeing. You open your mouth to answer, and suddenly you feel his hands grab your arms, you look alarmed, and all of a sudden before you can protest, he pulls you harshly into the tub with him, fully dressed in your quickly dampening kimono. You feel absolutely angry.
"Suk- Ryomen Sukuna!" You yell a combination of frustration and embarrassment as the water ripples and spills out of the tub around the both of you. He drunkenly laughs, and pulls you into his chest, you feel awkward as he sits his head on top of your own. Your wet kimono was a sensory nightmare, you needed it off.
"...If you wanted me to get in, you should've just said so." You cover your face in your hands, feeling incredulous at the situation. Sukuna hums thoughtfully, and began to undo the obi tied firmly on your back. It took him a while to, and then he slithered the fabric off of your body, salivating at the sight of your naked body. He flopped the wet fabric outside of the tub, uncaring where it landed. Your arms cross around your body, and you sigh knowing you couldn't try to hide even if you wanted to.
Sukuna appraises you with flushed cheeks, and his hands bring you back to him, sitting his head on top of your own. His drunkenness emboldens him, and he squeezes a breast leisurely, hiccuping above your head. You squeak and sit there with flushed cheeks unsure if Sukuna would be able to remember any of this the next morning. You decide to let him have his fun, quietly sitting in his arms, your eyes close as the two of you sit in silence in the tub for many minutes.
Your eyes had shut from the warm water and bubbles soothing your weary soul. Sukuna quietly nibbled on your shoulder, but he wasn’t full on biting you like he normally did. His nibbles stung, like little pricks from a sharpened needle.
You didn’t think he was entirely there tonight.. so you would just keep quiet, unless he was going in over his head, then you’d put a stop to his drunken neediness.
”I’m not gonna leave you be.. okay?” You look at your legs in the tub, your eyes glancing between the massive size of his thigh and your own.
Sukuna’s arms tighten around you at your comment, and his mouth sucks your cheek. You twitch and stiffen, awkward at his random oral fixation.
”Sukuna!… Geez..” You huff as he licks the spot he suckled, his hands kneading your thighs like his own personal stress toy. You could tell he was getting a little too adventurous, so you paused him with a single movement.
Your head leaned back over his shoulder to look at him, and your eyes softened at him, speaking to him as patiently as possible, because the last thing you wanted was to get possibly drowned.
”..You’re drunk Sukuna, settle down, please.”
He pouts like a child, and reluctantly loosens his hands around your thighs, but not without squeezing your bottom for good measure. At this point you squirmed away from his front, now on the other side of the tub. He frowned as he stared at your back, you were intentionally facing away from him.
“What’s gotten into you?” You can’t help but ask lightly laughing at him. Your shoulders shake with laughter, and you feel Sukuna move closer behind you, his head sits on your shoulder. He’s sulking.. sulking. Unbelievable.
”Hmph. Nothing, chubby. I’m just.. admiring the view.” His eyes glance down past your stomach and between your thighs, and you feel tempted to smack him, but you pity his drunkenness.
“Watch your eyes, Sukuna. Don’t want you to fall on yourself.” You decide you can tease him since he’s the drunk one and you’re not.
“What? I’m not going to fall, woman.” He says, as he leans his heavy body weight on you. You groan loudly at him. And his face smooshes into the side of yours. Your face is so hot, but you know he won’t remember any of this, probably. You're ignoring the fact he's pressing all of himself behind you, his body firm against you. You hear him clear his throat, he's about to speak more nonsense. You hold your breath, unsure what was about to come out of his big mouth.
“Hmm.. You.. know…” he abruptly stops talking, and decides to smell your wet head instead. You audibly sigh and lightly push his head away with your hand, confused by his behavior. He was not at all ever this.. friendly. Perhaps you had temporarily tamed him. The attention was kind of nice. His head finds its way back to where it rested, and you decide to give up.
“I would kill for you,” he cryptically speaks into your ear, his hot alcohol smelling breath makes you twitch. Your eyes widen at the words he says, and you go quiet for a moment, processing how to respond, if you even should respond. His voice vibrated deeply as he began to say more to you.
"...I would slaughter anyone who dares to disrespect you, whether that be verbal or physical.. it doesn't matter, they are dead by my hand, by my spear." His eyes close as he imagines killing anyone that crossed a boundary with you. He was plenty eager to spill blood for you. Over time at his estate, you had unwillingly grown de-sensitized to the death that often permeated Sukuna. Especially the blood.
"Only I can tease you. Only I can touch you." He hisses, growing jealous at an invisible enemy. As far as you were concerned, he was the only man you were occupied with in your short time on earth. You wonder where this is coming from. They do say that alcohol brings out the truth.
And then he goes back to tucking his head into your shoulder, humming a song you don't recognize. His hands are tight around you, like he's afraid you're going to get up and leave him.
You don't say much after that, a bit stunned by his declaration. You look down at your body in the bath tub, silently analyzing his grip on you. You were starting to understand why he was so obsessed with you.
The remainder of the bath goes smoothly, he doesn't splash you or try to grope you any further. Instead, you both get out together, and you dry a drunk Sukuna, the alcohol making him slightly less coordinated.
"You better not fall over. I'm barely your height." You grumble as you tighten your own towel, it sinched to your body nicely, and Sukuna could feel his mouth salivate. You watched him blatantly ogling you again, swallowing thick spit.
"'M not going to fall, if anything you arrrre." His hand smacks your ass through the towel and he laughs loudly. You yelp and rub your rear, frustrated with his immature behavior. He still chuckles as he brings you out of the bathing chambers, and into his room. His hand giant on your shoulder.
"Sleep with me, pet." You bristle as he calls you that, but you decide not to scold him any further. It was already late, and he needed to sleep off the sake.
"..Fine.." You move to your room which was connected to his, as if his favoritism couldn't be any more obvious. You dress in your warm nightgown, it's arm's sleeves long, and the skirt stopping at your ankles. Sukuna barely dresses for bed, opting for only pants, not interested in wearing undergarments underneath them. You return to his room with crossed arms, a bit flustered with the fact you would be dealing with him once again, in his bed.
"Hhehh.. what a pretty pet," he beckons you to bed with a hand, patting the spot next to him. He watches you crawl to the center with him, laying on your side next to him. He brings you into his arms and hums, smelling you now that you were clean and dry. Your hands tentatively reach out to hold his body, and you close your eyes growing sleepier the longer you were close to him. He had already fallen asleep, the moment his arms rested around your body. You could feel a hand on your ass, your side, your hip. You fell asleep.
-
"Master, how many drinks did you have last night?" Uraume walks with a hungover Sukuna, his body slouching more than usual. His hand covers his forehead and he sighs. All he could remember was being in the bathtub with you, and then going to sleep. He doesn't remember much of what was said, only remembering bits and pieces. How had he gotten you to sleep in his bed? How had he gotten you naked?
You watch behind a pillar, laughing to yourself at his unkept demeanor. You decided you'd let him come to you, not seek him out. You remembered everything.
Summary: Ryomen tries to keep you in bed, but it’s in the most dramatic and ridiculous way possible.
FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF
Wc: 1.3K
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The air in the temple was thick and still, heavy with the weight of centuries. The faint scent of incense, long since burnt out, lingered. Mixing with the subtle tang of cologne that seeped into every corner of Sukuna Ryomen's chamber. Outside, the world stirred to life, but here, time moved slower, cocooned in shadows and silence.
You woke to the soft press of warmth at your side, the solid weight of a presence that was both unsettling and oddly comforting. Blinking against the dim light, you realized Sukuna was still asleep, sprawled beside you like a king. His tattooed arm was wrapped possessively around your waist, pulling you close enough that moving felt like disturbing a force of nature.
You took a moment to relish this feeling of peace, looking over the man's exposed body, the silky duvet draped around his hips. Admiring his back muscles for a few seconds as he was sprawled out on the bed, your eyes roaming over the scars on his back, the tattoos... mainly his muscles..
The steady rise and fall of his breathing was hypnotic, but the pull of the waking world tugged at your senses. You sighed softly as you decided to get out of the warm bed. Carefully shifting, sliding your soft hands which were such a contrast to his rough and calloused skin, underneath his arm. Gently trying to lift his heavy arm off of your body so you could break free.
But the moment you shifted his arm, quietly easing away, a sudden pressure locked around your wrist, firm and unyielding.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The voice was low, laced with sleepy menace. Sukuna’s eyes snapped open, glowing faintly in the dim light. His gaze bored into you, sharp and unrelenting, stripping away every excuse before you could even speak.
You froze, heat flowing up to your cheeks as his fingers tightened around your wrist, pulling you back against his side. The heat of his body pressed into yours, solid and demanding as he wrapped his muscly arm around you again. Keeping you pressed against his side.
"You're not leaving, woman."
A soft sigh escaped your lips as you were once again being dragged back into his side, warmth covering your body again. He didn’t even open his eyes, just pulled you in tighter like you were his own personal, life-size plushie. His grip wasn’t rough, just annoyingly firm. He buried his face somewhere near your neck and let out a satisfied sigh, the kind that made it very clear that he had no intention of letting you go.
"Ryomen." you murmured firmly, determined to get out of bed already.
"Hmm..?"
"I have things to do."
"No you don't"
You huffed, kicking lightly at his shin underneath the blanket. “You’re impossible.”
He only grunted, tightening his arm one final time as if that settled the matter.
If it were anyone else, he would've had their heads for even slightly talking back to him.
But It was you, someone he, well... tolerated. Is what he would call it, though Len knew it was more than just him merely tolerating her. Everyone did, it was clear as day. She got away with stuff no one else would ever get away with. But no one spoke up about it of course, no one dared to.
A minute passed like that, the both of you lying tangled in the sheets, his arm firm around you, your brain slowly untangling from sleep’s haze. The warmth was comforting, sure. You could admit that. But you were also becoming increasingly aware of a problem.
“'Ryo, I need to get up.”
“No,” he repeated, burying his face deeper against your shoulder like an oversized, uncooperative cat. “You’re not going anywhere.”
You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “You can’t just say no.”
“I just did.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m immovable,” he corrected smoothly, and to prove it, he flung one leg over yours, effectively trapping you under what felt like a very dramatic, very smug weighted blanket in the shape of a man.
You groaned, pressing your palms to his arm. “I’m serious. I need the bathroom.”
“You’ll live.”
You twisted enough to glare at him over your shoulder. His eyes were still half-lidded, expression drowsy. With that, she knew she wasn't going to get away from him anytime soon.
-
You tried to wait him out.
Lying still, breathing slow, pretending to relax. Surely if he thought you’d given up, he’d loosen his grip, and you could slip away unnoticed.
Minutes dragged by. His arm stayed exactly where it was. His breathing had slowed down again. At last, you made your move, inch by inch, careful, deliberate. One hand gently pried at his wrist while you shifted your hips toward the edge of the mattress. You could almost taste freedom. Just a little more and-
His grip clamped down like a vice, hauling you back flush against him in a single, effortless tug.
“Don’t think I don’t know your tricks, woman.” His voice was smug in your ear, sleep-rough and victorious.
You huffed, glaring at the ceiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you tried,” he said, satisfaction dripping from every word, even appearing on his stupid, smug expression.
You shoved half-heartedly at his arm. “You’re heavy.”
“That’s the point. I’m your paperweight.”
“Paperweights aren’t supposed to crush things.”
At your words he just let out a hum, totally ignoring them as he enveloped you in his arms again. Now laying fully on top of you, his body warmth seeping into yours as he trapped you beneath him.
-
Eventually, you tried brute force.
Rolling hard, using your whole weight to slip free. For a second, you succeeded, half your body dangling off the mattress, freedom within reach.
Then Ryomen surged after you, catching you around the waist and dragging you back with such enthusiasm the mattress bounced. He sprawled on top of you, pinning you down completely, chin propped on his hand like he was admiring a masterpiece.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, as though the declaration carried the weight of divine law.
“Get off,” you wheezed, squirming under him.
“Never.” He leaned in, his grin sharp as he looked down at you. “The second you touch that floor, you’re doomed.”
You froze, looking at him with a dumbfounded expression “...What?”
“The curse,” he said, deadly serious, though his eyes glittered with mischief. “I cursed it. The moment your feet touch the ground, you’ll die instantly.”
You blinked up at him, incredulous. “You— what?!”
He nodded solemnly. “The bed is safe. The floor is death. Choose wisely.”
“You cursed the floor.” You replied
“Yes.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Didn’t I?” His grin widened, wicked and unrepentant. “Do you really want to risk it?”
You gaped at him, utterly done. “That’s your tactic? Pretend you cursed the floor so I stay in bed?”
“Pretend?” he echoed, hand splaying over your stomach, thumb brushing lazy circles as though to soothe you into compliance. “I don’t pretend.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you? Because you’re still in the bed. Seems like the curse is working perfectly.”
Every attempt you made at logic, he batted away with increasing absurdity, his grin growing sharper each time. And each time, he’d drag you back down into the blankets, wrapping himself around you like a second skin, as if he could mold the very concept of “morning” into something that began and ended with him.
And the worst part, the part you hated to admit, was that it was working.
Because as annoying as he was, as dramatic and insufferable as his antics were, there was something undeniably comfortable about the way he refused to let go. The heat of him pressed against you, the brush of his hair on your cheek, the lazy rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. It was infuriating. It was ridiculous.
being able to play songs in your head is cool and all but not really if you can't control what and when it plays so this is a visualization of me trying to concentrate while angel of music plays in my head
plants that look like they're dying immediately after you forget to water them one (1) time but also recover immediately after you do are my best friends actually. very clear signals, hold no grudges, that's a relationship that works for me
My vampires CAN walk into the sunlight but doing so would reveal what they would look like if they aged normally
Younger vampires don’t have much to worry about but older vamps have reason to avoid sunlight as they age. They are still immortal, but their aged, sunlit selves are significantly weaker than their non-sunlit forms. Vamps over 100 years old run the risk of crumpling over, fully immobile, but still conscious
Stop me if you hate the concept: short, fat, hairy lady gets isakai'd into a high fantasy, and instead of "oh look at all these ethereal elves woe for I am but a flawed mortal" routine she lands in Dwarf territory and is immediately revered as the most enchanting and desirable maid in all the land. This immediately becomes a zesty romantic drama. Thoughts
Sukuna being the boyfriend of plus size!reader and being her personal guard dog; HAPPILY! Ever since the moment he met you, he knew you would be the softness he needed in his life. He’d always heard people around him say that life comes with balance, and that all good has some bad, and bad has some good, yk, stuff like that. He thought that was bullshit, but then he saw you. You were so literally soft looking, that he knew you had to be made of pure sunlight. He also couldn’t help but be insanely attracted to you in a way he’s never been attracted to anyone before. Your wide hips, soft curves, plush tummy, and thick thighs and arms all drove him crazy. He could imagine stuffing you full, then watching you birth the most healthy children (he’s got that old monarchy mindset lolz). He saw everything he wanted in life in you—besides the merciless violence! ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა
You can’t tell me this man wouldn’t enjoy a thick woman!! He’s very much a thigh man, rather than an ass and tits man, although he does love those too!!🙏🏻
Tags: dragon!sylus x fem!reader, smut, cunnilingus, breeding, creampies, biting, slight injury, some bleeding, primal kink, courting rituals, mating rituals, sylus has two cocks :333
Summary: Sylus begins to act strange and you think he may have caught some sort of illness. He's strangely warm, irritable and eating more. However this "illness" turns out to be more intense than you could have ever imagined... (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )
"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you."
You freeze.
His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do."
His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made.
"You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.
AN: Okay so, this fic was SO fun to write I may have gotten a little carried away hehe. This was a little bit out of my comfort zone but I am so happy with it!! Plus it was about time I did a oneshot for dragon!sylus. After what he went through he deserves as many babies as he wants ;(
Enjoy!!
Sylus had been unusually irritable lately, and it wasn’t just in the way he grunted or snapped when spoken to—it was in everything. His eyes seemed sharper, flicking around like he was constantly on edge, and his tail, which normally lay relaxed behind him, had developed a twitchy, agitated flick. He wasn’t acting like the level-headed fiend you’d come to know and love.
Even he seemed aware of the shift; there were moments he paused mid-sentence or mid-motion, as if catching himself acting out of character. When he returned to the cave after hunting, he couldn’t seem to keep still. He paced the stone floor in restless circles, ran his claws along the wall, muttered to himself under his breath. His whole body seemed to vibrate with pent-up energy, with something unspoken roiling beneath the surface.
His appetite had doubled, maybe even tripled. He devoured whatever meat, vegetables, or fruit he managed to scavenge or hunt for the both of you, sometimes not even bothering to sit down before tearing into it. He would eat so quickly it was like he hadn’t tasted food in days, and when he was done, he still looked unsatisfied. It was primal, instinctive, like something inside him was demanding more than he could give it.
And then there was the heat.
He’d started to feel noticeably warm to the touch, which was strange for a reptile. The first time you noticed it was when he brushed past you, and you flinched, startled by the heat radiating off his skin. Since then, it had only intensified. Whenever he hugged you, lingered too close, or let his fingers graze your arm, you felt it—his body running hot, almost feverish. It was unnerving. And his touches had changed too. They weren’t violent, but they carried a kind of hunger, an urgency that hadn’t been there before. He gripped a little tighter, held on a little longer. Like proximity alone wasn’t enough to settle whatever storm was brewing inside him.
It worried you terribly. Was he getting sick? Could dragons even get sick? The question gnawed at your thoughts, carving out little pits of anxiety in your chest no matter how often you tried to push it away. The heat that seemed to bleed from his skin, the sharp glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the unpredictable mood swings and restlessness...it all felt off. Like something inside him had shifted, and you didn’t know if it was something natural or something dangerous. You'd never seen him like this. He wasn’t just irritable, he was volatile. Every movement held tension, like he was wound too tightly and one wrong word might snap him in two.
You knew better than to voice your concerns aloud. Suggesting he try any kind of human treatment would go over about as well as trying to leash a wildfire. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, and brush you off with a dismissive sigh. Sylus was proud, fiercely so. Stubborn as a stone wall, and not exactly someone who tolerated being fussed over. An illness? He'd laugh at the implication.
Still, you couldn’t just sit back and watch him burn from the inside out.
So the next time he finally dozed off—after hours of pacing, mumbling under his breath, and tossing scraps into the fire like they’d wronged him personally—you waited until his breathing evened out and his face slackened. He lay sprawled out on the nest of furs you’d both piled near the hearth, the orange firelight casting shadows across his angular features. One arm was thrown loosely over his chest, the other curled slightly beside him. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that looked almost peaceful. Almost.
You moved with painstaking care, the cool, damp cloth in your hand trembling slightly from how tightly you gripped it. Your feet barely made a sound against the stone floor as you approached, every step deliberate. When you reached his side, you crouched slowly, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it might wake him before you even got the chance to touch him. You leaned in, gently pressing the rag to his brow, hoping the cold would cut through the heat pouring off of him like he was lit from within.
For a brief moment, you felt relief. He didn’t stir. Maybe, just maybe, he would sleep through this.
But then something shifted.
Without warning, a firm pressure clamped around your wrist. You gasped, flinching, and the rag slipped from your fingers. Your gaze dropped, heart stalling in your chest, as you realized his tail had slithered around your arm in one smooth, silent motion. Like it had a mind of its own.
His eyes snapped open a second later, glowing faintly in the dim light, red pupils slitted and sharp. He looked at you without blinking, like he’d known what you were sneaking up on him the entire time.
"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" he murmured, voice husky with sleep and something else—something darker. There was a flicker of amusement there, curling at the corners of his lips, but beneath it was something far more intense. Possessive. Primal. Like he wasn’t just waking up, but awakening to something deeper.
You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it wanted to escape.
You opened your mouth to answer, but the words caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between nervousness, concern and something you couldn’t name.
"I'm helping you, silly. You're sick," you mumble, voice soft but threaded with a note of stubborn concern. Your lips purse, irritation flickering across your features as you glance down at the thick coil of his tail still looped possessively around your wrist. "Now let go of me," you add, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in your voice.
To your surprise, he does. The tension releases almost instantly, the pressure around your wrist vanishing as his tail retreats. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, rubbing at your skin where the warmth lingered.
"I am not unwell," he says after a pause, voice rich and steady, threaded with an unmistakable certainty. "Only mortals burn with fever."
You frown, eyebrows drawing together in quiet frustration. "Yeah, but... you've been acting really strange lately," you reply, your voice lowering, touched now with genuine worry. "You’re restless, snappy, and you never eat this much. I just...I want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not hurting."
The confession slips out before you can think better of it. You stare at him for a moment longer, searching his unreadable expression for some crack, some tell that might confirm or deny what your instincts have been screaming.
And then you move, slow and tentative, inching closer to him as if drawn by an invisible force. When you rest your head lightly against his chest, you feel the heat radiating off him in waves, hotter now than it had been earlier. His body is solid beneath you, unmoving, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. The sound of his heartbeat thuds against your ear, rapid and deep, like a distant drum.
You think, for a moment, that he might relax.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his entire frame stiffens. There’s a flash of tension through his shoulders, and then his tail moves again—but not with the idle instinct of before. It wraps around your waist in a slow, deliberate spiral, the grip firm but not cruel. He lifts you effortlessly, his strength startling in its subtlety, and then plants you down several feet away from him.
You blink, stunned, arms still half outstretched in the air where you had been.
The new distance between you is not just physical. It feels like a chasm, sudden and inexplicable, heavy with all the things he won’t say. You sit in silence for a heartbeat too long, the echo of his rejection ringing in your chest like a hollow bell.
He avoids your gaze, eyes cast to the fire, jaw clenched tightly.
"Hey! You can't ju—" you begin, voice raised in disbelief, frustration bubbling over—but the look he gives you stops you dead in your tracks. It's not angry or loud, but it carries a quiet authority that slices through the air like a blade. His eyes flash with a warning, cold and unreadable.
"Silence, love. Sleep on the other side of the cave tonight," he says, each word deliberate, clipped. There is no room for negotiation in his tone. It’s final. Commanding. His eyes close again, as if your protest doesn’t deserve his attention. Like the matter is already settled in his mind.
The dismissal stings more than you expect.
It hits like a slap, raw and disorienting. You reel back a step, mouth parting slightly as you try to process the flood of emotion that crashes down on you all at once. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. They churn in your chest, thick and suffocating. What the hell? All you had done was try to help. You had stayed up, watched over him, worried yourself sick, and this was how he repaid you? By pushing you away like a child being told to go to their room?
Ugh. Stubborn. Always so impossibly, frustratingly stubborn.
Your jaw tightens as the ache behind your eyes starts to burn. He didn’t get to do this. Not after everything. If he thought you were just going to walk away, tuck yourself into the far corner of the cave like a scolded pet and let him suffer in silence, he clearly didn’t know you as well as he should.
Because humans don’t give up on the ones they love.
"Sylus!" you bark, louder this time, anger sharpening your voice. You stomp across the stone floor toward him, every step punctuated by the slap of your feet and the pounding of your heart. "You know I’m not doing that! I’m not going to just curl up in the corner like you didn’t just say that to me!"
He says nothing, but you can see his jaw twitch. That slow, deliberate breath leaves his nostrils again—heavy, controlled. Tired. Still, he doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t look at you. It’s like he's deliberately trying to sever whatever invisible thread connects the two of you.
You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, fighting the overwhelming desire to scream. "What is wrong with you? Just talk to me! Look at me! Say anything!"
But all you receive is silence. Stubborn, infuriating silence.
Your fists tighten at your sides. The cold cavern air suddenly feels stifling.
Fine. You could be stubborn too.
Without thinking, you finish crossing the cave, heart pounding loud enough to drown out your better judgment. Every step echoes with stubborn purpose as you close the gap he created between you. You don't hesitate. You don’t ask. You simply act—climbing over him, swinging a leg across his large body, and settling yourself squarely atop his waist. The furs beneath you shift and rustle, but he doesn’t stop you. His brow furrows slightly, the only sign he even notices, but otherwise, he remains infuriatingly still.
Still silent. Still distant.
You lean down slowly, hands braced on either side of his torso, and fix your gaze on his face, searching for some flicker of emotion—anything to tell you he’s still there beneath the silence. The heat rolling off of him is overwhelming up close, like standing too near a smoldering hearth. It curls around you, prickling your skin, quickening your breath. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken things.
"Sylus..." you murmur, your voice low, raw with feeling.
No response.
"Sylus! I know you can hear me!" you bark, sharper now, frustration rising with each second he continues to ignore you. Your heart twists painfully.
Still nothing.
You sigh, the sound long and defeated, your chest aching with the weight of his silence. Carefully, gently, you lower your forehead to his, hoping maybe the closeness will shake something loose. His skin burns beneath yours, unnaturally warm.
"I just want to know what’s wrong with you," you whisper, voice so quiet it nearly disappears in the cavern's stillness. "Guess your species are terrible communicators."
Still, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. But you feel it—something in him coiling tight, like a rope being pulled taut. He may be still, but he’s not unaffected. Something inside him is shifting, stirred by your proximity, your touch.
Acting on instinct and desperation, you close the small distance between your mouths and press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be fleeting, a soft reassurance. But it lingers. Longer than it should. Your lips stay, pressed gently to his, drawn in by the heat, the subtle shape of his mouth, the restraint that pulses beneath his immobility. Your eyes slip closed as your hands move—one cupping the side of his jaw, the other resting on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart.
Then you feel it. A breath. Deeper. Shakier. His chest rises and falls faster.
And in a blink, the world flips.
One moment you’re above him, tethered by warmth and hope—the next, you’re on your back, the furs catching your fall as a gasp escapes you. "Ah!" The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Your eyes fly open to find him hovering above you, strong arms braced on either side of your head. His large body cages yours in completely, heat surrounding you like a second skin.
His eyes are open now. And they are glowing.
There is something feral in his expression—not cruel, but ancient and wild and hungry. His gaze drags across your face with a depth that makes your breath hitch. Every inch of him is tense, restrained, as if holding back something that wants very badly to be unleashed.
He still hasn’t spoken.
But he is no longer ignoring you.
"You're making it very difficult to control myself, love," he growls, his voice like gravel softened by heat, thick with restraint and something darker coiled beneath it. The words roll over your skin just moments before his lips do. His breath fans against your neck—a warning, a promise—before he dips his head, and you feel the sharp, precise puncture of his teeth sinking into your skin.
This isn’t a playful nip. This isn’t a teasing show of dominance. His bite breaks the surface, deliberate and deep. You feel the sharp pain bloom instantly, a white-hot flash that steals the breath from your lungs. A gasp escapes you—startled, raw—and your hands fly up to clutch at his shoulders. Your fingers dig into him as your back arches against the sensation. Warm blood trickles down your shoulder, and your skin tingles where it flows.
You weren’t unfamiliar with Sylus's biting. He'd always had a possessive streak that came through when things turned intimate or emotional. But this—this felt different. It felt desperate. Like he was trying to root himself in you. Like something inside him was slipping, and you were the only thing keeping him from losing his grip.
His mouth lingers at your neck, his lips now parted just slightly. You feel the tremor in his breath before his tongue slips out and glides across the bite. Slow. Deliberate. He licks away the blood he’d drawn, and the pain dulls under the hot, wet press of his mouth. In its place comes a deep, spiraling heat that blooms low in your belly, tightening your grip on him.
"S-Sylus..." you breathe, barely able to form the words. Your voice trembles. "If you were just...er, in need—you know I would've helped you ages ago."
Still, he doesn’t answer.
You feel the way his body stiffens slightly against you. His hand slides up along your side, slow and controlled, as though he’s still deciding what to do with the storm inside him. Then, he leans in again and presses his lips gently to your neck, just beside the wound. This time, the touch is less claiming and more conflicted—like he's trying to soothe something in himself rather than stake another claim.
He stays there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of your skin, your blood, your closeness. You feel the tremble in his chest where it presses against yours, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch as though resisting the urge to hold you tighter. The cavern feels impossibly still around you, as if the very walls are holding their breath.
At last, he lifts his head. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, he looks completely unguarded. They glow faintly, with a trace of something wild, but it’s the emotion in them that catches your breath—raw, aching, afraid.
"It's more than that," he says, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Just...honest. Like every word costs him more than he knows how to show.
You stare at him, heart hammering, throat tightening.
Oh no. It's bad news, isn't it?
The thought slams into you with the force of a crashing wave, stealing the air from your lungs. You blink rapidly, trying to keep your vision clear, but the sting in your eyes wins. Tears begin to well, hot and fast, blurring the edges of your world as your chest tightens with dread. Something in his voice, in the way he looked at you—it had to mean something terrible. Something irreversible.
"What is it? Please tell me you're okay!" you blurt out, your voice cracking and shaking as panic rises up your throat. Your hands cling tighter to him, desperate and trembling, fingers curling into the fabric of whatever covers his back. As if somehow, your grip could keep him from slipping away. As if love alone could hold back whatever awful truth he was about to reveal.
Sylus blinks, visibly startled by your sudden burst of emotion. The intensity in your voice clearly catches him off guard. His eyes, once glowing with wild tension, soften slightly. His expression shifts—no longer hard and guarded, but touched with a flicker of something else. Something gentler.
Wordlessly, he draws you closer. His arms wrap around you more securely, with purpose now. Not to restrain, but to reassure. His hands press to your back, his warmth enveloping you like a cocoon. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and deliberate. A slow drag of velvet.
"No need to fret," he murmurs. "All is well."
You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes wide, your breath caught halfway in your lungs. Your heart pounds in your ears. There’s a moment of suspended silence where you brace yourself for the real answer.
"It's just mating season."
You freeze. Your body goes still, and your mind... blanks.
Of all the explanations you had been preparing for—a curse, an ancient affliction, some kind of irreversible breakdown of his control—that had not even crossed your mind.
Mating season?
You blink once. Twice. And then the realization crashes over you, dragging with it a rush of relief and a sudden, absurd clarity. The heat, the irritability, the pacing, the biting, the overwhelming hunger—both physical and something deeper. It all made sense now. It fit together like puzzle pieces you hadn’t realized you were holding.
You let out a breathless huff, lips parting as the tension begins to unravel inside you.
And then you laugh.
A full, startled, ridiculous laugh bubbles up from your chest and bursts free before you can stop it. It catches you completely off guard, but you can’t hold it in. The absurdity of it all—the sheer contrast between what you imagined and what it actually was—breaks something loose in you.
You double over slightly, pressing your forehead into his collarbone as your shoulders shake with the sound. It’s laughter born of relief, disbelief, and the strange, heady rush of realizing everything isn’t falling apart.
Sylus stares down at you in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly. Clearly, he doesn’t find your reaction particularly amusing. If anything, his expression deepens into a look of resigned irritation, as if this wasn’t quite the response he expected.
But still, he doesn’t pull away. His arms stay around you, anchoring you to him, the heat of his body steady and real. His tail curls lightly around your leg, a quiet, instinctive motion. Protective. Possessive.
And despite the glare he levels at the top of your head, there’s no real venom behind it. He lets you laugh, lets you melt the fear from your chest with every shaky breath, until your voice begins to soften again.
Eventually, you lift your head, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.
"Is something humorous?" he asks, his voice low, edged with a faint note of offense, though there is no true malice behind it. His eyes narrow slightly as they study your face, as though trying to decipher the cause of your sudden laughter. But even in his quiet suspicion, his arms never loosen their hold around you. If anything, he draws you closer.
You shake your head quickly, the laughter dying in your throat as a rush of guilt creeps in. "Honestly, you had me scared" you say, your voice softening, breaking slightly at the end. "I really thought you were going to die on me."
That doesn't seem to ease him. He exhales through his nose in a deep, low grunt—not dismissive, but something closer to acknowledgment. The sound vibrates against your body, a warm, strange comfort. Then, with a fluid, instinctive movement, he adjusts your positions. His strength is effortless as he shifts, guiding you until you're lying beside him on the furs, your body drawn into his larger frame like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
His arm curls around your waist, securing you against his chest. It isn’t just for comfort—there is something possessive in the gesture, protective, as if he’s anchoring you there by will alone. The heat of him envelops you entirely, bleeding into your limbs until the cold stone floor feels like a distant memory.
"Does this mean..." you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper. But the thought drifts before it finishes, scattered like leaves on the wind. You have so many questions tumbling through your mind: What does this mean for him? For you? Is this temporary? Instinct? A sign of something deeper? But they all blur at the edges, softening under the pull of exhaustion.
Your body is finally registering the toll of the night. You had stayed up far too late, keeping vigil while Sylus paced, brooded, fought himself in silence. You hadn't let yourself rest until he did. Now, the weight of sleeplessness pulls at your limbs like gravity, and your eyelids feel impossibly heavy.
Outside, the first blush of morning glows gently. Sunlight begins to pour through the narrow cracks in the rock that serves as the cave’s natural door. The pale beams stretch across the stone floor like golden fingers, warming the air with soft radiance. The quiet sounds of the wilderness beyond stir faintly, muted by distance—birds beginning their morning calls, wind rustling through high branches.
Sylus doesn’t answer your unfinished thought. He merely presses closer, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. His breath fans across your skin in slow, even waves, and the low, rhythmic sound that rumbles from his chest is unmistakable. A purr. Deep and velvety. Content.
The sound settles into your bones, a vibration that eases the tightness from your shoulders and lulls the last frayed edges of fear from your heart. There is something incredibly grounding about it—like being cradled by the earth itself. One of his hands rests on your waist, fingers spread, as if silently promising that you are safe, that he will not let go.
You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of smoke and warmth and him. Despite the adrenaline, despite the questions that remain unanswered, your body begins to let go. Your thoughts drift. His purring fills the quiet like a lullaby spun from heat and breath and unspoken devotion.
Sleep takes you gently.
And you surrender to it, wrapped in Sylus’s arms, as the light of a new day filters through stone and silence alike.
As the days passed, you began to notice other, more subtle changes in Sylus's behavior—the kind of shifts that spoke not just of mood, but of instinct, of ritual. Of purpose.
It started gradually. At first, it was the gifts. Sylus had always brought you little trinkets here and there—a gleaming stone from a riverbed, a silver ring once forgotten in the ruins of some fallen estate, or a flower pressed flat and preserved between scraps of parchment. But now? Now he returned from his ventures with arms full of treasure.
You began to receive things that looked as though they had been pulled from the vaults of kings. Gemstones the size of your knuckles. Necklaces heavy with gold and set with fire-bright opals. Crowns, actual crowns, one with a missing jewel that he promised to "replace shortly." Delicate filigree bracelets and earrings of such craftsmanship that you wondered if they had come from the hands of mortals at all.
You accepted them, of course. How could you not? They dazzled the eye and stirred something deep within your chest—awe, gratitude, wonder. And then there was the way Sylus looked at you when you accepted each piece. The way he watched your reactions with quiet intensity, hunger and satisfaction warring in his gaze as your fingers traced the contours of every offered treasure.
"Is this suitable to your liking, beloved?" he would ask, voice a rich hum in your ear. There was always a thread of tension in his tone, a need that ran deeper than pride.
You’d smile and nod, sometimes laughing softly at the extravagance, sometimes whispering thanks as you leaned into his warmth. That always seemed to satisfy him. His shoulders would relax, his tail would curl in closer around you, and a low purr would rumble from deep in his chest.
And the gifts didn’t stop with jewels and gold.
His hunting habits changed too. Where once he had returned with modest catches—a brace of rabbits, a string of fish, the occasional deer—now he came back with trophies that left you reeling. Massive elk, towering wild boars with tusks the length of your forearm. Game that would feed you both for weeks. And then, one evening, he returned dragging behind him the largest bear you had ever seen.
Its massive body sprawled across the cave entrance like something out of legend. Thick fur matted with snow and blood, claws that could gouge stone. You stood frozen in the firelight, staring at it, unsure whether to marvel or panic.
Sylus merely stood beside it, chin slightly raised, one clawed hand resting on its flank like a proud hunter presenting a trophy.
"For you," he said simply, as if it were nothing.
You had blinked at him, stunned. "Sylus, I...I don’t even know how to cook that."
He grinned, utterly unbothered. "Then I will learn."
The gifts. The feasts. The constant nearness. The careful watching of your every reaction. You had thought it was simply Sylus being more open, more affectionate in the wake of your recent closeness.
You were trying not to overthink it. Truly, you were. Every part of you wanted to believe that all the changes were just instinct, affection taken to a slightly obsessive level. You’d chalked up the treasure hoarding, the feasts, the increased proximity, the way he hovered just a little too closely sometimes—all of it to simple fondness. Maybe even a primal form of love. But nothing could have prepared you for what awaited you after returning from a brisk walk one particularly chilly afternoon.
The moment you stepped through the threshold of the cave, you froze in place, heart lurching with confusion.
Sylus had completely transformed everything.
Gone were the scattered, mismatched piles of pelts, the half-organized piles of gold, the signs of his usual indifference to comfort or aesthetic. In their place was something deliberate. Thoughtful. Nest-like. The entire back of the cave had been cleared and restructured, centered around an enormous bed of furs that had been meticulously arranged. It looked almost ceremonial in its care.
The old sleeping area had been expanded, padded with thick layers of fur and hide—including the bear pelt from the beast he had dragged home days ago. It now lined the center of the nest, skinned, cleaned and softened into a thick, luxurious base. Softer animal hides had been layered on top, and the perimeter was reinforced with woven branches, dried moss, and feathers, creating a barrier of warmth and comfort.
It wasn’t just for practicality. It was beautiful.
There were little details everywhere. Smooth stones from your favorite riverbank placed in a pattern near the fire pit. Bits of dried herbs—the ones you loved for tea or the scent they gave when burned—tucked into the seams of the bedding. A string of beads you thought you’d lost was now nestled between two thick furs, as if it had been intentionally displayed.
You stood there for several seconds, mouth slightly open, completely unprepared.
"Sylus..." you breathed, your voice caught somewhere between awe and bewilderment. "What’s the meaning of all this?"
He looked up at you from where he knelt, smoothing out the bear fur with surprising tenderness. His expression was completely unreadable. Calm. Focused. As if this were the most natural thing in the world. "You were shivering at night," he said simply. "This will keep you warmer."
That might have been enough for anyone else. Practical. Logical. An easy excuse.
But his eyes told a different story.
He watched you too closely. Not just to gauge your reaction—but to savor it. There was something ancient and yearning behind the glow in his eyes, something that vibrated in the silence between his words. He was waiting. Not for your thanks, but for your approval.
Noticing your lack of response, Sylus's expression begins to shift. The warmth in his eyes dims, replaced by something sterner, more guarded. His tail flicks once behind him—a sharp, agitated motion that echoes his growing unease. He straightens his spine, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.
"Do you not like it?" he asks, his voice quieter now but unmistakably tense. There’s something beneath his words that makes your chest tighten—disappointment, certainly. But also something rawer. Doubt. Hurt. The faint tremor of vulnerability from someone unaccustomed to feeling exposed.
Your eyes widen, and guilt rises quickly in your throat. You hadn't meant to be silent for so long. You were simply overwhelmed—by the effort, by the meaning behind it all. But now, seeing the shift in his posture, the way his eyes avoid yours, you realize how that silence must have come off.
You quickly close the space between you, reaching out instinctively. Your hands lift to cradle his face, palms warm against his heated skin. You guide his gaze back to you, gently but insistently, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, searching your face as though still bracing for rejection.
"No," you say softly, firmly, your voice thick with emotion. "I love it. I really do. It's beautiful. I just...I don’t understand why. You don’t have to do all this. The gifts, the meat, the rearranging—I was already happy. I was perfectly content with how things were before."
Sylus doesn’t recoil. Instead, he leans into your touch just slightly, as though the reassurance eases something deep in his chest. The tightness in his shoulders begins to uncoil, and the tension etched into his brow softens. A quiet exhale escapes him, almost inaudible.
"You laughed," he murmurs after a moment, his voice roughened by something too ancient to be called simple sorrow. "When I spoke of mating season. I assumed then that you deemed me unworthy as a mate—ill-fitted to claim or keep one such as you."
You blink, taken aback. The memory of that moment resurfaces—your burst of laughter, the disbelief, the release of tension you hadn’t realized he was carrying so heavily. It hadn’t been mockery. But now, you see how it must have been received by someone like Sylus—a creature whose understanding of humor, especially human levity in the face of instinct, is limited by centuries of solemn tradition and a worldview where gestures hold more meaning than words.
"So...the jewels? The meat?" you ask gently, your voice cracking slightly as realization begins to sink in.
He lets out a low, almost frustrated huff, glancing to the side. His tail curls around one of your ankles without thought, anchoring you to him in a quiet, possessive motion. "To prove I can provide for you," he says simply. "And for our offspring that I hoped you'd bear."
The words hit you like a wave, your breath catching in your throat. Your heart swells and shatters at once, a knot forming deep in your chest. He really wanted a baby with you? To form new life? With you??
Because that was it, wasn’t it? This powerful, ancient creature—so feared, so composed, so unreadable to others—was doing everything in his power to show you his worth. Not by demanding your affection or asserting his claim, but by showing you how he could build a life around you. Make a place for you. Prepare for a future, one you hadn’t even considered yet.
He had rearranged his entire world to make space for you in it. Courted you to prove himself just as many of his species had done with their mates.
You looked at him now with new eyes, your throat tightening as you caressed the edge of his jaw.
"Sylus...you don’t have to prove anything to me. I never doubted your strength. I never doubted you for a single second. Sometimes humans laugh when we feel relieved. That's all."
You notice that he seemed to perk up ever so slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. His posture straightened by a fraction, the glow in his eyes shifting with something new—not quite relief, but intrigue. A subtle ripple of tension unwound in his shoulders, though he tried to mask it.
"Mortals laugh when they feel better?" he asked, voice low and gravelly, as if the question itself was unfamiliar. There was a curious tilt to his head, the tone almost scholarly—as if he were cataloging your species' behaviors like one would study a rare flame.
You nodded, giving him a gentle smile. "Yes. Laughter is...a release. I wasn’t mocking you, Sylus. I was relieved. It meant you weren’t dying. And...I think you would make a wonderful mate. And father. To our baby."
His grip on you suddenly shifted, tightening with sudden purpose. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that grounded you firmly against him—possessive, almost reverent. His pupils expanded rapidly, red irises eclipsed by black. A primal heat surged behind his gaze, burning steady and intent. You felt the growl in his chest before it even reached his lips, a low, rumbling vibration that poured through your body like a tremor.
"Then...you accept?" he asked slowly, the words thick with restrained emotion. "You will take my seed into you? You would bear my offspring?"
Your heart skipped a beat—no, several. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat. He said it with such conviction, with none of the coy hesitations or evasive phrasing you were used to. Just truth. Raw and full of meaning. The ancient kind of promise that didn’t ask, but waited.
You hesitated, swallowing hard. "I mean...I do have my doubts," you admitted, fingers curling against his chest. Your fingers graze the edge of his scales. Your voice trembled slightly under the weight of his gaze. "I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry children of yours. Dragons are...different. Your children, they’d be massive, wouldn’t they?"
You tried to laugh. It came out tight, nervous. A shaky sound that barely carried.
But Sylus didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. Instead, something deeper flickered behind his eyes—a hunger, yes, but also certainty. Purpose. Legacy.
A low, pleased growl rolled from the depths of his chest, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped as you felt his tail move, the strong, silken muscle winding slowly up your leg. It caressed your skin with practiced control, the movement deliberate. Purposeful. The hem of your dress lifted inch by inch under the teasing weight of his tail.
"Nonsense," he growled, and this time his voice was like smoke and stone. "You are more than capable. I would never choose a mate who was not capable of the task. Your body, your spirit, your frame—they are all sufficient. More than sufficient."
His claws ghosted over your hips, drawing you in closer, like a hunter gathering something sacred. You felt the heat of him, not just his body but his intent, his longing, the centuries of instinct that pulsed just beneath his skin.
"I'm not even sure if it will work..." you murmur, your voice laced with uncertainty. "Humans only ovulate for a short time. If that window's already passed—"
Sylus moves before you can finish. His body leans into yours with quiet purpose, and in an instant, the air shifts between you. His breath ghosts over your neck, warm and steady, and you shiver as his nose traces the delicate line of your throat. The movement is slow, deliberate—not just intimate, but instinctual. He inhales deeply, the sound low and resonant like something ancient stirring in his chest. The rumble that follows isn’t quite a growl, but it thrums through you like thunder beneath the earth.
"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you."
You freeze.
His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do."
His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made.
"You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.
Your breath catches, your face flushing as your heart pounds against your ribs. You can feel the heat rising in you, pooling low, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
You search his face for doubt, but find none. Only certainty.
So, you were ovulating, and he could smell it—and worse, he wasn’t just aroused by it; he was called by it.
You feel your nerves ease, if only a little. Sylus was dependable—fierce, steady, and impossibly sure in the way only something ancient could be. For all his intensity, he had never once let harm come to you, had never faltered in his protection. And now, with the weight of everything shifting between you, that truth brought the smallest measure of calm. If he said he would keep you safe, you believed him. If he said he would protect the life growing between you, you knew it to be a vow etched in something deeper than words.
The idea of having a baby had once seemed distant, more fantasy than reality. Something soft and quiet that belonged to another version of your life, another world entirely. But now? Now it felt inevitable. Natural. Fated. Like every step had led to this moment, and all that was left was to lean into it.
He wanted this with you. You could see it in everything he did: the nesting, the offerings, the way he curled around you at night like a guardian warding off the dark. His every action had been leading here, even if you hadn’t recognized it at the time. And though nerves still fluttered in your chest like a thousand wings, the deeper truth remained. You wanted it too. You weren’t entirely prepared, not yet, but you were ready to say yes.
You looked into his eyes, your heart thundering, and gave a small but certain nod. "Okay. I accept."
Those three words changed everything.
It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him, something primal and powerful released from its cage. You barely had time to react before he swept you off the ground with effortless strength. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he cradled you against his chest, his expression focused, almost reverent. In mere seconds, he had crossed the room and laid you gently down on the massive bed of furs he had so meticulously prepared—his gift to you, his offering.
The nest was impossibly warm, soft and inviting, wrapping around your back and shoulders like it had been waiting for this moment. You could feel the heat of his body above you, the power in his frame held taut just beneath the surface. He hovered for a breath, eyes raking over you, and then his tail moved—snaking up one leg, coiling slowly with deliberate grace.
The fabric of your dress tightened as his tail looped beneath it, and you barely had time to gasp before you heard the slow, purposeful sound of it tearing. With practiced precision, his tail shredded the fabric, beginning to peel it away from your body with a hunger that had been restrained for too long. Each thread undone was like a silent declaration: mine, mine, mine.
You felt a rush of cool air against your skin, and your breasts were exposed to his gaze. You could sense his eyes on you, drinking in the sight of your bare skin and hardened nipples, you felt a shiver run down your spine. Your breasts bounced slightly as you shifted, and you could feel his gaze following the movement, his eyes hungrily taking in every detail.
You instinctively tried to shield yourself, your arms moving to cross your chest, but he was quicker. His tail wrapped around your wrists with gentle but unyielding strength, keeping you exposed beneath him. Vulnerable. Claimed.
He leaned in closer, breath hot against your skin, and you felt it hitch as he studied you like something sacred. There was a deep rumble in his chest, not quite a growl but something more ancient—a sound of possession and awe.
"This will not be gentle," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel smoothed by fire. "But do not fret. I will take care not to hurt you, beloved."
His words settled over you like a brand, searing into your skin. There was something sacred in them, a promise forged not in softness, but in strength—and devotion.
And the way he said it, with such conviction and tempered need, made your breath stutter and your fear crumble, replaced with something far more powerful:
Desire. Acceptance. Surrender.
His voice was a low rumble, "I want to see you. All of you." His eyes met yours, seeking consent, respectful despite the fierce hunger within. You nodded, your heart still pounding, but the fear was gone, replaced by a strong lust you didn't know you had.
He reached for the remnants of your dress, his touch gentle yet firm as he pushed the rest of the fabric off you. It slipped down your body, leaving you bare except for your undergarments. His breath hitched, his gaze roaming over you, worshipful and hungry.
"You're beautiful" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Like a dream I never dared to have." He leaned down, his lips met yours, a soft, tender kiss that belied the intensity of his gaze. It was a question, a request for permission to explore further. You responded, your body melting into his, your lips parting to deepen the kiss. He tasted of smoke and spice, a heady combination that made your head spin. His claws, those large, warm claws, traced the curve of your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
You gasped, breaking the kiss, your body arching into his touch. He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine. "I want to hear you," he whispered, his breath hot on your ear. "I want to hear every sound you make, every gasp, every moan." He captured your mouth again, his tongue delving in, exploring, tasting. His hands continued their journey, tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, the soft flesh of your thighs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your undergarments, pulling back to look at you.
He slid the underwear down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. You felt a shiver of anticipation and vulnerability, but the heat in his gaze, the raw desire, kept you from feeling exposed again. He stood up, his tail unwrapping from your waist, and you missed the contact instantly. But he was back in a moment, his hands on your knees, gently pushing them apart.
He knelt down, his gaze still locked with yours, and you felt a jolt of surprise and excitement. His rough claws traced up your inner thighs, his touch feather-light, sending shivers through you. You could feel the heat of his breath on you, and you squirmed, your body aching with anticipation. He smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and leaned in.
His long tongue found your aching bud, hot and wet, and you gasped, your body arching off the pile of furs. He made a sound, a low growl of pleasure, and the vibration sent waves of sensation through you. He gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he explored you, his tongue and lips driving you to the edge. You could feel the pressure building, your body coiling tight, and you grasped the furs beneath you, your knuckles turning paler.
"Thank you for agreeing to give me the gift of new life" His gaze held you captive, even as his tongue continued its torturous, delightful dance. You felt a flush spread across your body, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.
But you didn't look away. You held his gaze, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body writhing with each flick of his tongue. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel it, the pleasure building, coiling tight like a spring ready to snap. "Sylus," you gasped, his name a plea on your lips.
He growled in response, his fingers digging into your thighs as he redoubled his efforts. The room spun, the golden light blurring around you. Your body tensed, every muscle coiled tight, and then, with a cry, you shattered. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in sensation. You felt Sylus's claws on you, steadying you, his tail wrapping around you, holding you close as you rode out the storm. When the world came back into focus, you found yourself cradled in Sylus arms, your body still trembling with aftershocks. He was looking down at you, his eyes soft with concern and something else...a deep, profound satisfaction.
As you finally noticed the absence of his usual belt, your eyes widened in shock. There, at you waist, were not one, but two substantially sized cocks, side by side, both throbbing with desire. You could've sworn he only had one before?? A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you felt a surge of panic. You tried to wriggle free, to create some distance, but Sylus's grip only tightened. He growled, a low, primal sound that sent shivers down your spine, as you managed to shift into a crawling position. But your brief moment of triumph was short-lived.
With a swift move, he grabbed you around the waist, pulling you back towards him. You could feel his hot breath on your neck as he forced you face down onto the soft furs, his body pressing heavily against yours. "You cannot run from this," he rasped, his voice thick with lust and determination. "Be still." The fear that had been lurking within you surged back, filling every fiber of your being. You knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that there would be no escape. Not this time. Not until he had marked you, claimed you, bred you. His need was too great, his desire to leave his seed within you too strong to change your mind now.
As Sylus began to push his first cock into you, you felt a searing pain and a sense of being stretched to the limit. You realized, with a jolt of fear, that he hadn't been lying when he said this wouldn't be gentle. His cock was like a battering ram, forcing its way into your tight pussy with a ferocity that left you breathless. He let out a fierce growl of pleasure, pushing himself as deep as he could possibly go inside your walls.
He pumped feverishly, his hips moving with the strength and power of a beast. You groaned, your voice hoarse and barely audible, as your pussy was forced to take the pounding he was giving you. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that left you gasping for air and gripping the fur beneath you.
His cock was huge, and it felt like it was tearing you apart, stretching your walls to the limit. You felt like you were being ripped in two, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure as he pounded into you with reckless abandon.
You were at his mercy, unable to escape the torrent of sensations that he was unleashing on your body. Your mind was a jumble of pain and pleasure, your body torn between the pain of his thrusts and the thrill of being taken by a creature so powerful and dominant. You felt his second cock rubbing itself between the rounds of your ass.
As Sylus continued to pump into you, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure, he leaned in close and whispered in your ear.
"You'll never want for anything, beloved," he growled, voice low and reverent, thick with the weight of promise. It wasn’t just a statement. It was a vow. An oath carved from the bones of instinct, older than memory and heavier than gold. His breath was hot against your neck, his words brushing over your skin like fire.
"Not once," he continued, a possessive rumble threading through each syllable, "not once you're full with my children."
There was no shame in his tone, no hesitation. Just certainty. Purpose. He spoke like a dragon made flesh, a creature built for legacy, for claiming, for protecting what was his with unrelenting devotion. His hand traced your side as he spoke, the motion slow and reverent, as if feeling the space where new life would soon grow.
"Yes...yes give me as many children as you want Sylus, I want them all..." you begged, feeling yourself beginning to drool into the furs.
Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to have a profound effect on Sylus. His eyes flashed with a fierce light, and his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure.
Without warning, he pulled his cock out of you, the sudden withdrawal leaving you feeling empty and uneasy. But before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you around, his hands grasping your hips and pulling you back onto his cock. You felt him shove his cock balls deep inside you once again, the sudden invasion making you gasp with shock and pleasure.
You were stretched to the limit, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a mask of pleasure and desire. He pumped into you with a fierce intensity, his hips moving with a rapid, pounding rhythm that left you breathless and gasping. You felt his second cock sliding in harmonious rhythm across your stomach as he continued to pump the other inside you.
Sylus's movements grow frantic, each thrust more desperate than the last. The heat builds between you, an unstoppable force that drives you both to the edge. His breath hitches, and you can feel the tension coiling in his muscles, ready to snap.
With a final, forceful thrust, he slams deep inside you, a low groan ripping from his chest as he cums. The heat floods into you, a searing wave of release that leaves you both gasping. As he rides out the last pulses of his climax, he leans forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. The bite is sharp, claiming, sending a shock through your body that mingles with the aftershocks of his release.
You're both slicked in sweat, your chests rising and falling in a staggered rhythm as you cling to each other, trembling and utterly spent. The cave around you is dense with heat and the scent of exertion, the air thick enough to drink. Your skin is flushed, tingling, every nerve alight from the intensity of what has just passed between you. You feel the large amount of cum he shot inside you begin to spill out, making your thighs stick together. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins—his warmth wraps around you like a living cocoon, steady and ever-present.
Every breath you take is his, pulled in from the narrow space between your mouths, and every exhale becomes a shared offering. His body is heavy over yours, enveloping, protective. You’re still reeling, caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief, when Sylus leans down and claims your lips in a kiss—fierce, unrelenting, yet reverent. It isn’t rushed. It’s deep, meaningful, and possessive in a way that leaves your heart pounding anew.
"Can you help me up?" you whisper, voice trembling, your limbs aching with fatigue. You lift a shaky hand, fingers brushing the fresh mark on your shoulder. The skin there is tender and warm, a physical memory of him etched into your flesh.
Sylus pulls back just enough to look at you, a small smile touching his lips. There’s affection in his gaze, but it’s layered with something else—something feral, possessive, unwavering. You blink at him, puzzled by the look he gives you, your breath catching as your body anticipates an answer.
"We aren’t finished, beloved" he murmurs, his voice like a caress wrapped in iron. The timbre of it thrums through your bones. He motions to his other member, still throbbing with need on your stomach. "I still have seed stored. I told you this would not be brief. We won’t be done until I am certain—utterly certain—that my seed has taken root."
The words wash over you like a second wave of heat. You feel it building again—not fear, not even hesitation. Just the slow, inevitable rush of anticipation. Your breath shudders as he presses closer once more, and the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. He is so sure. So devoted. So...inescapably yours.
This isn’t just instinct anymore. It isn’t mere biology. It’s a vow, an offering, a claiming that comes from something sacred and ancient within him.
And as his lips brush against your throat, his tail curling possessively around your thigh again, you know one thing for certain:
Sylus isn’t finished.
And this becomes abundantly clear as he pushes his second cock inside you.
The next two days blur together in a haze of heat and aching limbs. Sylus is relentless—a creature driven by instinct and obsession, bound not just by desire but by an instinctual need to claim and secure what he now considers his. The cavern is filled with the sounds of breathless gasps, low growls, and the slick sound of bodies tangled in devotion and purpose.
There is barely a moment to rest. He presses into you again and again, each time with a ferocity that leaves you trembling, breathless, dazed. He rarely lets you catch your breath before pulling you close once more, whispering possessive promises into your ear, vowing over and over that he will not stop until he knows that his seed has taken root.
Still, there are brief breaks. Moments when he leaves to hunt, returning with food to replenish your strength. He never brings back just a meal—he returns with offerings: rare fruit, tender meats, things he’s sure will sustain and strengthen you. His eyes scan you for any signs of weakness, worry carved into the lines of his face even through the veil of lust that constantly clouds him.
One such time, you had tried to redress yourself, more out of instinct than shame. But when he returned and found you clothed again, his eyes darkened, the low sound of displeasure vibrating in his chest. He had stalked over to you, roughly tearing the garments off of your body, scattering them on the stone floor in pieces.
"Sylu-"
"No," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "You are to remain bare for me. Ready. Always."
And with those words, he had taken you again roughly, until the floor was soaked in his cum, as if to remind you that your body was his haven now—a vessel for something sacred. And this continued hourly, even when you had just awoken from a nap. He simply would spread your legs and begin pumping himself inside you. You welcomed this of course, figuring he was just following what his instincts were telling him to do.
Eventually, his frenzy began to slow. The fire that had once consumed him now burned low and steady, replaced by a quieter, more reverent form of devotion. Weeks passed in a blur of rest, warmth, and gentle touches, and then came the shift—he began to note that you smelled different. His sharp senses detected it before you felt a thing. He would murmur it against your skin, nose pressed to your neck or your belly, voice thick with wonder.
"You carry new life," he’d whisper.
At first, you rolled your eyes and laughed it off, teasing him for being so certain. You didn't want to get your hopes up. But soon, you began to feel it too—a flutter, faint and flickering like butterfly wings deep within. The first time it happened, you froze, a hand going instinctively to your belly. Sylus noticed immediately, his head snapping up, eyes wide.
"Did you feel it?"
You nodded slowly, hand still pressed to the gentle curve of your stomach. He was elated. Absolutely overcome with joy. He knelt before you and kissed your belly with a soft, contented purr rumbling from deep in his chest, his tail wrapping protectively around your ankles.
True to his word, he kept his promise. You never wanted for anything. He hunted only the best for you, brought the juiciest fruit, the most nourishing roots. He prepared meals with painstaking care, even if he didn’t eat most of it himself. When your back ached or your feet swelled, he massaged you with surprising tenderness, his large hands easing every knot and tension from your tired limbs. At night, he curled around you like a shield, his wings a blanket of protection, whispering soft things in a language you didn’t always understand.
Eventually, your clothes grew too tight to wear. Your belly swelled gloriously with life, and you gave up trying to force yourself into fabric that no longer fit. You wandered the cave freely, naked and glowing, your hands always resting protectively on your rounded stomach. Sylus didn’t mind in the slightest. He thought you looked divine.
Even in the later stages of your pregnancy, when walking made you tired and your body ached from the weight of his child, he still looked at you with hunger in his eyes. He remained ever ready to take you, though now with more patience, more gentleness to not hurt you or the baby. His touches were slow, reverent, his need no less intense but guided now by something softer—an unshakable adoration.
To him, you were more than his mate.
You were the future of his lineage. A living miracle he worshiped with every breath.
He was awoken one morning by the soft, fragile sound of you whining beside him—a breathy, instinctive noise that sliced through the quiet like a blade, shattering the peace of dawn. Instantly, he was alert, his senses snapping into sharp focus. In one smooth, practiced motion, he propped himself up on one elbow and leaned over you, red eyes scanning your body with fierce, frantic protectiveness. His hands hovered inches from your skin, as though afraid to touch and yet desperate to find the source of your distress.
When he found no visible wounds, he moved lower, his tail curling around your leg and lifting it gently. What he saw next made him still completely—and then smile, slow and reverent. A sheen of clear fluid glistened at your thighs. His chest swelled with emotion, and a warm, knowing glow filled his gaze.
It was time.
His breath caught in his throat, and the world seemed to narrow around this one miraculous truth. He leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, and gently shook you awake, voice husky with emotion. "Wake, beloved," he murmured. "The hour is upon us."
What followed was the longest, most grueling day and a half of your life. The cave became a sanctuary of primal sound and sacred pain—the sharp edge of your cries echoing off the stone walls, the slow, rhythmic cadence of your breathing, and Sylus’s steady, grounding presence through it all. The space that had once been a den of passion now transformed into a place of birth and bond, of new beginnings.
He had prepared for this, of course. He always did. A nest of soft animal pelts had been lovingly arranged just days prior, thick and warm and perfectly layered to support your aching, straining body. You lay upon them, your skin damp with sweat, hair plastered to your temples, your belly tightening again and again with each new contraction. The pain was searing, unforgiving, your body fighting for every inch of progress.
And Sylus never left your side. Not for a moment.
He positioned himself behind you, his body acting as both cradle and shield. His larger frame curved protectively around yours, arms curled reverently over your middle, claws softened and carefully restrained so they wouldn’t harm you. He rubbed slow, grounding circles into the swell of your belly, the weight of his presence a balm against the storm.
His lips brushed your shoulder often, murmuring affirmations and praise, voice a low, calming purr that vibrated through your bones. His tail coiled gently around your thigh, anchoring you when you trembled. Whenever you cried out or whimpered in agony, he was there—not panicked, not shaken, but steady. Fierce.
"Breathe, my love," he whispered again and again, the words threaded with admiration. "You’re strong. So strong. You were made for this."
There was never a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He watched you with awe, holding space for your pain and your power, never wavering. His devotion took on a quiet intensity, every touch purposeful, every breath synchronized with yours. When you broke down in tears, sobbing through another wave of pain, he kissed your temple, held your hand, and wrapped you tighter in his warmth.
He treated you like something sacred—not just the mother of his child, but the miracle who bore his legacy. There was reverence in the way he touched you, in how he shifted with you through every hour, how his purring grew louder as your contractions deepened. You were his whole world in those moments, and he made sure you felt it.
As the hours stretched into exhaustion and time lost all meaning, he remained your constant.
And when the sharp, piercing cry of a newborn echoed through the cave, Sylus felt the breath leave his lungs entirely. The sound struck him like thunder, powerful and sacred, and his eyes locked on the sight before him: you, cradling the small, wriggling form against your chest. You were slick with sweat, flushed from exertion, but your smile—soft, exhausted, and full of wonder for your new baby—was the most radiant thing he had ever seen.
He moved toward you reverently, as if approaching something divine. But as he leaned in closer, a deep instinct stirred within him, passed down through countless generations. His tongue flicked out ever so slightly, and his body tensed with the urge to clean the newborn himself—the way his kind had always done.
You caught the motion and gave him a knowing look, gently placing a hand on his cheek. "No licking," you whispered with a tired laugh. "That’s not how we do it."
It took some convincing, his instincts hard to quiet, but he eventually yielded, watching with wide-eyed fascination as you showed him the human way. Warm cloths, gentle strokes, soft murmurs of comfort.
He knelt beside you, silent and attentive, absorbing every detail.
And though he did not get to perform the ritual of his bloodline, he found something just as profound in learning yours.
Together, you welcomed new life in a way that blended two worlds into one.
sylus can sense you as soon as he steps into the base. he knows you’re not far, knows you’re just a few steps away. but he doesn’t know why.
today is a wednesday. no breaks or holidays upcoming on your schedule (which he familiarized himself with). so… maybe an off-day? a sick leave? his stomach curls at the thought of you being ill. but simultaneously melts at the thought of you coming to him to recover.
he finds you curled up on his softest couch in the living area. caressed by an eerie warm light. wrapped in a blanket, eyes far away despite the book in your hand. he starts to worry when you barely notice him come closer. he waves a palm before you to draw your attention to him.
you blink, tired eyes finding the concerned gaze of your beloved. each line on his face asking, begging you to tell him what’s wrong.
“hi.” you murmur as he tilts you forward. he slides his leg between you and the backrest, his other plants itself on the ground, his arms drape over your shoulders, he leans against the armrest and he pulls you with him back into his chest. urging you to sink into him, let him carry the weight that makes your shoulders slump and your eyes lose their light.
his lips trail over the crown of your head, the shell of your ear, the plump of your cheek and finally the gasp from your lips. his timbre low and thoughtful, “how was your day?”
there is a clog in your throat that makes you swallow. a burning between and behind your eyes. a set in your jaw at his question that tells him more than words can convey.
“bad.” he concludes in a murmur, pulling back to cradle the softness of your face and turn it towards his. crystalline eyes confirm his suspicions.
“tell me?” he tries, thumb gliding back and forth over your warm skin. heated cheeks beneath his ministrations are doused with droplets of saltwater.
and so you cry, you hiccup and sob, you try your best to speak, to tell him— but how do you put it in words? how fed up you are? how much you feel you’re stuck in a loop? how far behind you feel? how no matter how hard you run, which route you take, you feel like you will end up nowhere?
how do you tell him you want to win when you have no idea how to play? that you want to breathe but your lungs are filled with smoke? that you are tired. so, so incredibly tired that nothing means anything anymore?
it’s a mess out your lips. stuttered syllables and tumbling words. and yet he nods like you are speaking clearly. he squeezes your hands like he understands.
he presses his forehead to your cheek as if he bears the pain with you too— and he does, not entirely, but the ache in your chest resonates into his own like an awful symphony.
and he will take it time and time again if it made even the slightest difference to you. if it made you feel less alone.
and you will never be alone. not while he breathes.
he does not speak when you ramble. his eyes may wander to check on your body for any injury or pain, but his attention is solely on you. he is taking notes in his mind on what made you snap, who made you upset, at which point was it all too much— while nuzzling his face into your neck.
and when you falter, your voice ceases to a whisper and then nothing at the thought that he might not be listening. that he might not want to listen to you drone on and on about your miserable week; be a weeping victim of your own circumstances, he hums something patient into your shoulder. “keep going.”
“i’m saying too much.” you sigh. your nails run over his scalp, your attention abruptly shifting to his needs and not your own. “how was your day?”
“good.” he simply says, reveling at the trickling needles down his spine at your touch. “keep going.”
you do, you trail your nails over his head, down the nape of his neck, and under his chin. and when you don’t say anything, he kisses your palm, whispering. “keep talking, beloved.”
taken aback at his request, you frown. “it’s really just… you don’t want to hear it.”
gentle. so achingly gentle, he breathes. “but i do.”
“it’s not important.”
“no.” he rasps, coming up again to peer down at you. to make sure you know, you understand— that everything you say is important to him. everything you are is important. your everything— your thoughts, your stories, your opinions, your experiences— is everything to him.
“no,” he says again, slow and raw and genuine. he brushes strands of hair away from your scarlet rimmed eyes and brushes his lips over each one. “it’s you.”
and you will always be important.
his arms are a solace to the world that feels endless. his presence is salvation to your rupturing soul. and he feels like an end worth running towards.
your awful day ends. tomorrow, the world will ask you to try again. and you will. but for now you are here, and so is he, and you rest knowing he always will be.
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