current affairs — k.b & i.m
an: something from before I deleted my old account :)
izuku midoriya
ᯓ♪ the sheets are crumpled underneath you, izuku thrusts into you menacingly.
his perky mushroom tip hitting all your sweet spots, the veins on his cock send shock waves through your body. each eager thrust made you cry out into the sheets.
his calloused hand is placed on the flat of your back, pushing you deeper into your arch. his green curls stick to his forehead messily all while he’s panting out to you.
your hands clamp on to the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping you down on earth.
the sun is slowly setting outside, the golden hour glow shining on you perfectly from izuku’s view. framing all your curves and sweat that has been left on your skin from multiple and multiple rounds of sex.
it’s all that your room smells like.
izuku groans, his thrusts become more fierce, more precise. like he’s trying to prove something to you,
“haaah- so, so good! you just.. hnghh- take me s-so well..” he leans himself down so his head is laying on your back. you feel his tongue make its way up, the coolness of his saliva leaving a trail on your already shiny skin.
he’s trying to taste you,
because he wants all of you.
his rough hands move down to your waist. he kisses your right shoulder blade, biting on it softly before he shifts himself back onto the bed.
he pushes you forward with his thrusts, causing you to scream out, “izu!! c-can’t take it!!!”
he repositioned himself so now he’s kneeling on the soft mattress of the bed, he shifts himself so his cock is drilling right into your spongy spot that makes you cry.
fat tears begin to pile up on your waterline, the overstimulation from the day of sex. the day of you two connecting in more ways than one.
his rough middle finger makes its way to your clit, rubbing soft, little circles onto the bundle of nerves.
you let all those tears leave your eyes, crying and moaning softly. the sound echos right into the head of izukus.
he doesn’t stop.
he needs to prove his love to you.
his worth.
he continues his thrusts, hard, unpredictable. but he keeps it up for you.
your walls tighten around him, he throws his head back. his freckled arms tense, his hands dig into the flesh of your hips, nails marking little crescents onto your skin as proof he was there.
no matter how sloppy he wants his thrusts to be, he can’t. he needs you to gush on him.
he needs you to cream all over him to feel complete.
he wants to feel the tightness of your pussy one last time before sleep overtakes you both.
the tightness that wraps him so snug, so perfectly.
it elopes his thick cock so nicely that he has to paint your walls white.
so he continues, faster, harder, rougher.
you’re sobbing, full on. but you know his aim. his finger on your clit becomes three. his index, middle, and ring. all rubbing the exact same time, rougher now, pressing into the bundle of nerves, making you squirm.
your legs shake, and his breath becomes unsteady.
he lets out an eager groan, and you let out a broken moan,
“i’m s-so close!! ngh- you take me so w-well! c-cum! cum!!”
he chants like he’s casting a spell. he is eager for your pleasure.
his balls tighten, you arch your back into his thrusts.
then you gush. all that release exits onto the sheets on your king sized bed and onto his legs.
your walls clamp around him, he feels that it’s his time.
he cums, hard.
you’re still gushing around him, your liquid falling out of you.
his nails now digging blood out of you, he tosses his head back and cusses to all the sons above.
his thrusts don’t stop. he needs it to work. he needs his cum to stick to that sweet pussy.
need you to take his child, carry his baby.
have his sperm find your egg, let biology do its thing.
then you two become one.
he moves his large hand to rest on your stomach. he flops down beside you, pulling you into his chest.
he holds you tightly, like you could disappear,
“i would dive into the deepest ocean, to take your pearl.”
katsuki bakugo
ᯓ♪ the sound of netflix plays in the background.
but you two don’t care.
you’re riding katsuki with such tenderness, tears slowly peek into his eyes.
each bounce on his cock that is doing such wonders inside your pussy, it makes you let out sweet moans.
he replies to you with soft groans and whimpers.
his hands don’t know where to be placed, they wander all around your body.
from your hips, to your thighs, to your ass, then your tits. but they can’t stay in one place.
his blond hair is splayed across a black pillow, a decorative one, that you chose.
his crimson eyes move all over your body, they dance from your hands that are placed on his abs, to your eyes how they roll back, to the soft bounce of your tits.
each time you grind yourself into him, your clit rubbing against his pelvis, you both let out a moan in sync. slowly synchronizing your moves.
it’s like a dance.
you move yourself up, he slowly thrusts up into you.
you let yourself fall back down onto him, he falls back with you.
your nails rake at his abs, he lets out a hiss.
his voice is rough, but soft around the edges.
just like how he is with you,
“keep movin- fuck. just like that, yeahhh.. atta girl..” his hands find their placement on your hips, helping you move on him.
the routine of every rough fuck, every time he bends you over in unimaginable places. all fades away here, right now, right here.
with just you and him, together.
his red eyes stare right up into yours. you’re too focused to notice him starring, but he stares anyway,
“kats- s-so big…” you moan out softly, loud enough for him to hear against the soft slapping of skin.
every time you go slow, you’re able to feel all of him. the tip of his cock, the shape, the veins, the thickness, the length that sits so deep in your tummy.
tears slowly leave his eyes, not sad, not angry, but pure bliss.
pure bliss only you can give him.
he watches how your body reacts, like he’s staring at a work of art. he tries to understand your next move, but you’re unpredictable to him.
he’s trying to understand you like how he tries to predict a villain's next move. but you’re far from that.
the city lights peak in from the windows, helping the tv light up the room.
you look down at katsuki, the tear streaks running down his cheeks glicing in the light, he gives you a fucked out smile.
while you lean down to kiss off his tears, his hands move you up and down slowly.
you kiss down his face, making sure you kiss his scar on his cheek before your lips hover over his.
both of your breaths are synced up at this moment.
you can smell the minty toothpaste of his mixed with the gum he was chewing earlier.
he shifts his head up to reach your lips, taking them with a deep groan.
his left hand shifts down so he can rub your clit with his thumb.
he slowly licks his tongue at your bottom lip, you allow him in, like you always do.
he explores your mouth, your tongue intertwining with his. like a reassurement to you and to him, that you’re both still there with one another.
you begin to grind down on him, he pulls away from the kiss to throw his head back on the pillow, he lets out a moan. you start to kiss down his neck, pushing yourself to sit back up on your knees.
you begin to pick up the pace, only a little, but enough to notice a difference.
katsuki grinds himself up into you, trying to not separate the two of you any longer than he wants.
he feels his orgasm brewing, he feels the tightness, the heat.
he notices yours slowly forming inside you. he takes his right hand and places it on your stomach, pressing down lightly, causing you to whimper at the feeling.
his cock kisses so deeply in you, kissing your cervix softly.
both of you near your peaks, his right hand drops from his stomach and lands on top of yours, which is right on his peck.
you both breathe together, interlinking as one.
you both cum.
your pussy clenches around his length, he fills you up, and you take it.
your liquids gush out onto his pelvis. both of your heads are thrown back.
he opens his eyes that were closed and swears he sees you as an angel. the way the sweat covers your body, how your chest heaves, the way your hair clings to your face.
then deep in there, he knows he may soon be changing a part of your dna.
inside you, he’s soon changing your patterns, adding more life onto yours.
something you both have been asking for.
he softly pulls you against him so that you’re laying on his warm chest. both of you trying to calm down, cool yourselves down.
he looks down at you and smiles softly,
“yea baby, we’re free, we’re free..”
an: forgot how SAPPY I was
banners by @/uzmacchiato
yandere!emperor who arrived at your quaint little village with his men, surrounding the small population with armed guards and huffing horses.
yandere!emperor who needed someone to marry to continue the legacy. he wanted someone who'd go without a fight, who'd go and not miss their family. what better way to do that then get someone poor?
yandere!emperor who obviously chose you. he's hauled you onto the front of his horse with handcuffs, making sure you wouldn't protest his choice. not like you had any autonomy, anyway.
yandere!emperor who kept whispering in your ear for the long journey.
"you're lucky i chose you, doll."
"no one else could provide for you like i could. you should be grateful."
yandere!emperor who made you wear silks, bathe in fragrant oils, and sit on his lap on the throne. he didn't know how you'd never get used to this- especially coming from a poor family.
yandere!emperor who treated you more like a pet than a human being. he made you sit at his feet during dinner, feeding you morsels off of his fork, stroking your head like a dog.
yandere!emperor who had grown somewhat attached. no one is taking you away from him now.
sex ban — k.b + e.k
an: let me imagine here for a second
bouncing on a dildo while being watched by eijiro and katsuki.
your pussy squealing around the silicone that's suctioned to the floor as both of the men stroke their leaky cocks harshly. you put them on a sex ban after they both went off on a dangerous villain while on patrol without warning, after they promised to you that they'd be more careful.
your head is thrown back, your tits bouncing mesmerizingly with your movements. leaving both men whining and leaking all over their fists. "f-fuck, come on beautiful. don't do this to kats and i.." eijiro pleads out, his voice coming out harsh. his thumb rubs against his pretty tip that's leaking so so much pre. he always leaks so much compared to katsuki.
"stop bein' a b-brat, n' let us fuck you." katsuki groans out, his pace not slowing on his cock. his knuckles are white from how hard he's trying to replicate the feeling of you squeezing around him.
you run your hand down to circle your clit, you let out a soft moan that has both the mens eyes rolling to the back of their head. "n-no, you both were bad. broke the promise." you cry out, your pace moving quicker on the toy. your hips angled to find that sweet spot inside your pussy that you know both men know the placement by heart.
you look back and forth between the both of them, your eyes dazed out as you feel a heat coil up in your tummy. "'m gonna c-come.." you sigh softly, your hand rubbing faster on your clit as you buck your hips on the toy.
both of the men whine out, their cocks leaking. eijiro's stare is harsh while katsuki is trying to register that it's not him you're going to be coming around. their eyes track your movement like a hunter watching it's prey.
"I- fuck! coming!!" you cry out, tossing your head back. you don't stop circling your clit, your hips buck involuntary on the dildo. both men groan out at the sight, their own hips bucking into their fists. letting out the last bit of strokes they needed as the see you bounce on the now creamy dildo.
katsuki comes first. hard and loud. he throws his head back, his hips bucking up, up, uppp into his fists as he spills all over his lap and abs. his breathing is ragged, he strokes a few more times to milk the come out of himself with a sharp groan.
eijiro follows quickly after with a load moan of your name, he spurts rope after rope of come all over himself. his come is thicker and creamier then katsukis. it pools on his lap, his eyes never leaving the sight of you sitting innocently on the dildo.
you watch the both of them loose theirselves with a smile. you watch them both calm down and look at you, katsuki looks at you with a teasing smirk while eijiro looks at your with pleading eyes.
before you could start moving again, katsuki stops you. "don't think you're gonna come on that little shit toy again. you know were so much better." eijiro follows quickly after, "were both so much bigger too, don't think you can get away with that much longer."
safe to say, that sex ban didn't last long.
an: your honour pls let me whore out some more
banners by @/uzmacchiato
Yandere nerd who’s your best friend in school. Due to you guys both being deemed outcasts at school, the two of you found your ways to each other. However, what was originally a friendship of convenience, had blossomed into something much more.
Yandere nerd had initially looked down upon you, as he deemed everyone else to be below him in terms of intellect. He thought all of his peers were dopamine junkies who’ll crash and burn in their early 20s. However, you were different.
You approached yandere nerd on the stairs behind the school, where he makes camp at lunchtime. You didn’t point or sneer at his interests, or nitpick his appearance. You sat there, and you smiled. You smiled at him.
Yandere nerd had made up his mind there and then. He needed to protect you. From the feral and violent animals that high school breeds, you were an anomaly. You were kind, patient, and– unbelievably beautiful.
From that day on, he would always sit down with you at the library to ‘help’ you with your homework, but really he would just take over and complete for you. Although you feel bad, he insists that the credit is all yours, that you’re too smart to be dealing with frivolous activities like algebra homework.
Yandere nerd will buy you your starbucks order on the days of your test or exam, he considers it a little reward for studying so hard! Just don’t mind the fact that you’ve never been with him to starbucks..
Yandere nerd who’ll weaponise his school exclusion against you, he has no one else. Do you want him to sit by himself? To force him to be potentially victimised? Each and every time, your heart falters and you slump yourself in the seat in front him.
Yandere nerd who notices that your new lab partner is just the guy who makes has made his life hell, the same guy who’ll lift the flask in the air while you’re on your tippy toes, pleading for him to give it back to you yet the corner of your lip curls.
After the hottest guy in school has deemed you ‘fuckable’, you’ve been slightly elevated in the school hierarchy. Not enough to dump yandere nerd, but just enough that other people take up your time. Girls will ask you if you want to go to the bathroom with them, guys will wave you down to sit at their lunch table and they’re all taking what's his, bit by bit.
Yandere nerd hated that. He was supposed to be your foundation, your rock, your shoulder, your everything. His head throbbed at the thought that he was no longer needed.
Of course, he had an epiphany, a short boost through the ranks doesn’t mean anything! The higher you go, the harder you’ll hit the floor..
You came to the school the next day, with messy hair, your feet dragging throughout the hallways and your back hunched over. Yandere nerd hates to see you in pain.. But he absolutely loves the fact that this is all happening because of him.
You end up settling down during lunch on the stairs behind the school, the spot you guys used to sit together. He was a metre away from you, but his heart thumped from your presence. The only sounds that were shared were balls being kicked and girls giggling.
In five minutes or so, you erupted the silence with your tears, babbling between sobs on how that heartless jerk had texted you, saying it was a prank!
Yandere nerd doesn’t really what to say, his hands that are lanky and awkward pat your back without rhythm. He looks at your eyes that are glassy, and your cheeks that puffs out. God, you're so cute like this.
He knows he shouldn't think such things when you were unravelling right next to him, yet he can't help the desire that builds up inside of him knowing he's needed.
Popular Yandere Best Friend × Insecure Loner Reader
86.
You couldn't believe it. You read it over and over, bright red ink a stark contrast against your scribbled writing and messy smudges.
86!
God, you could feel your heart racing. Suddenly those sleepless nights, the energy drinks strewn across your desk, the exhaustion that weighed down on your bones at all hours of the day- none of it mattered. This was proof, hope! Maybe, if you just kept on trying, then maybe-
"Luka! what did you get?"
Oh, right. How could you forget?
Your classmates had already begun crowding your desk. Not for you, of course. For Luka. Gorgeous, brilliant, perfect Luka. Someone so beyond your reach- yet, somehow, your best friend. Well, your only friend. But you weren't his only friend. Not by a long shot.
Luka was a magnet. Everyone adored him- his beauty, his grace, his drive. His soft, radiant smile- like rays of sun that melt away the overcast sky. His eyes, a brilliant autumnal hue, as if carved from fire itself. His gentle, grounded voice that cut through all chatter and made people listen. It was as if the room itself bent to accommodate him.
"Ah, not that good...I got a 92." he said, laughing softly.
A knot formed in your stomach. You told yourself, time and time again, don't compare yourself to him. You knew, before you'd even gotten the grades, you'd never beat him. You can't. You're not good enough. Then why did your throat close up? You expected this, didn't you? Heat welled behind your eyes.
God, you just wanted to leave.
The cheers and congratulations had died down. Just when you'd hope their conversation would shift elsewhere- "Oh, [Name], what about you?" Someone prompted. Shit.
Maybe she finally remembered you existed, maybe she felt it was rude to not ask you when you were right there. You didn't care. But it got Luka's attention, and when his attention was on you, everyone's was. You wished that the earth would swallow you whole.
"Hah...u-uh," 86 was good. It was objectively good. It shouldn't embarrass you to admit it. You didn't fail. Should you say that you were sick, so you couldn't study well? Should you play it off as not that good? But, no- that's what Luka did. Shit. "I-It's just an 86." You said, rubbing your neck. Why did that come out so awkward?!
You heard a cacophony of soft Ohs and unexcited Wows. Their gazes burned into you. They were comparing you two. You were sure of it. Ofcourse they would, you both were best friends, after all. You could only imagine what they must be thinking right now.'
Why would Luka hang out with someone like them?'
'How are they even friends?'
'He probably pitites them. He's too kind for his own good.'
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to steady your breathing. Fuck! Not in front of all these people-
"[Name]! Congrats!" Holy- Luka's joy almost startled you, bright eyed and all. You pictured a golden retriever. If he had a tail, he'd definitely be wagging it right now. "You've worked so hard! I'm so proud of you."
"T-thanks. Uh, you too." Only then did you realize that you'd completely forgotten to congratulate him earlier, and he'd shown such enthusiasm for you, too- God, you didn't deserve him.
Some dispersed, while the others changed their discussion into something else- a rare moment where all the attention wasn't on Luka. Sometimes, you'd wonder, more than you'd like to admit, why he still kept you around. You tried to make other friends, God, you did- you spoke to people, helped people, listened, but after a week or two, everyone was either too busy, too overwhelmed, or just straight up avoided you. It was...strange. They seemed almost afraid of you.
You felt a warm hand wrap around your own, pulling you out of your thoughts. You hated how easily he calmed you. You hated how much you needed him.
Especially since he clearly didn't need you.
"Hey...let's go to the café after school today. My treat!" That came out of nowhere. Well, you supposed it couldn't hurt. It had been a while since you'd gone somewhere together.
You've been so stressed lately with classes, exams, your things going missing...(you were still salty about your favorite jacket. Where could you have possibly placed it?) and this constant, persistent feeling of being watched. Sometimes, you'd see movement- behind the pole, in the bushes, always in the corner of your eye. Your imagination drove you mad.
Maybe a change of pace would help.
"Okay, who else?"
"Just us, hun. It's been so long, and well," He hesitated. "I want to talk."
"Huh? About what?" Is he finally sick of you? 'Hey, let's not hang out so often anymore.' No no no. If you lost him too-
"We barely get any alone time in college. You're so...closed off, nowadays. I can't stand it. It feels like we're...drifting apart."
Oh. Oh, shit.
He squeezed your hands tight. Uncharacteristically tight. "I miss you. Even though you're right here. There's this- this wall between us, now. I hate it. I want you back. I want us back," he sighed.
"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Oh, how you wish you could. "Clearly there's something, or...someone bothering you. If you won't tell me, I'll find out. But I deserve to hear it from you." He brought your hands closer. "Please, [Name]. Let me in."
There you saw it. The meek little kid who approached you in middle school during lunch, stuttering through his introduction, as he asked quietly if he could sit with you. Who wouldn't speak unless spoken to. Who only ever laughed with you. Now years later looking at you with eyes so hurt, begging you to tell him what's wrong.
"It's you," you blurt, immediately regretting those words as soon as you register the shock on his face.
"What?"
"No- no, I mean, shit, that came out wrong," you sigh. "Look, please don't be mad but...I guess I feel jealous of you, kinda." Well, can't back down now. "You're just...so popular and smart and kind and everyone likes you. I...don't exist to anyone. I guess I've just been feeling lonely." You can't believe you're saying this.
"Lonely? [Name], you have me."
"Yeah, and I value you as a friend but you're all I have. I want to have other friends, too. To hang out, chit-chat-"
"Well, we can hang out anytime you want. You don't need anyone else for that. Just call me, whenever you want, and I'll be there. I swear. Just like I've always been."
You didn't know what you were expecting. It's like talking to a wall. "You don't understand, Luka. I want to have other people in my life too. You have so many friends, so much going for you! I have nothing. No one looks at me- and I love you and care about you and you're my best friend but...it's just not fair!"
The class had emptied out by now, no one to hear your outburst. You'd done it. You've lost him too. The one person you still had. "So that's what this is about?"
You waited. Waited for his anger, his hurt. But none of it ever came. "[Name], they don't deserve you." You stared at him. What? "They don't know you. Not like I do. They won't appreciate you for who you are. They'll use you and throw you away like trash. They don't have the right to you."
You watched, dumbfounded, as his demeanor shifted in the blink of an eye. "Still, I'm so happy you think so highly of me! You are everything to me, so I try to be everything for you. That's all I've ever wanted- to be yours, fully, just as you are mine." His eyes shone with an emotion deep, foreign. It scared you stiff. But it was gone as soon as it came.
"Though, I am sorry, hun. I didn't realize I've been neglecting you. The last thing I wanted was to make you feel lonely." He brought a hand up, stroking loose hair off your face. "You should've told me sooner. I would've dropped everything for you." He was smiling, soft and gentle. Just like always.
"Then again, you've always liked it when someone else took charge. I should've known." No, no, this was different. This-
"Tell you what? Forget about the café. Come home with me."
"L-Luka...what?"
"I won't let you refuse~" he giggled, voice sing song. "It's been so long since we've properly hung out. And..." he trailed.
"I have something to show you. I can't have you thinking all those thoughts about yourself, now, can I? I'll make you understand how much you mean to me. What you are to me. I'll show you. You'll love it."
Socially awkward stalker and his new sweet coworker
———————————————
It started off in a sweet and cliché way that he thought it was fate. There was no other explanation for it. Things like this didn’t happen to him, usually people looked at him in disgust. Muttering awful things before giving him a fake smile and then rushing off like he had some type of disease.
It always left a dull ache in his chest that he tried to push away. And when he ended reaching for the same book at the same time as you, he expected the same response. Quickly pulling his hand back like your touch burned him and flinched when you looked at him as if preparing to see the same look.
Maybe you’ll scream at him like the last person. Maybe you’ll just scoff and mumble how you don’t need it anymore before walking away to ‘clean’ your hands. He prepared for each negative reaction instead of this one.
What he didn’t expect was for you to smile at him. To apologize and offer him the book which lead him to be a flustered stuttering mess. He barely remembered much other than grabbing the book from you and rushing out. Not even giving you the chance to react by the time he was out the door and back in his car.
Ever since that day he couldn’t get you out of his head. How you smiled at him, how kind your eyes were and soft your touch was. He could only beat himself up for not being more confident. Running off like a coward instead of trying to talk to you.
The first person to treat him like a human being and he fumbled. Hard.
A groan left his lips each time it came to mind. At first he just wanted to find you to give you the book and apologize for his actions that day. It was only right with how sweet you had been.
But that innocent wish had turned into something more twisted. It started off with just waiting at the library until he saw you again. Then it became finding out your name when he ‘accidentally’ overheard a conversation with you and your friend until it became him watching your every move.
Stalking you both online and in person. He craved to learn more as time continued. Wanting to desperately be at your side 24/7 instead of the little time he had from when he got off work to when you get back home.
What he didn’t expect for was his wish to be answered like this.
Walking into work one morning, basically half sleep from staying up and looking through your social media page once more, he thought he was hallucinating when he saw you.
Maybe he had been looking at too many pictures of you or was probably more sleep deprived than he thought.
But that thought disappeared when you started getting closer. Your eyes lighting up when you saw him and immediately waving hi like yall known each other for years. That caused many people in the office to stare at him.
A sweet pretty thing like you smiling at him all bright like he hung the stars.
It caused him to turn red and he could feel himself getting sweaty. Starting to tremble, he forced himself to look away and head straight towards his desk in hopes to get away from all the attention. Especially yours.
But it was never that easy and it seemed like the universe was loving this sick joke they were playing on him.
Throughout the day he kept bumping into you. Whether he was on his way to the restroom or the break room. Or how you started to come to him for each question. He didn’t want to be rude. He wished he was more confident and would make more conversation than the awkward small talk or making up some excuse so he could leave whatever this was.
He so desperately wanted to be close to you. For you to stay with only him throughout the day but he could already hear the rumors starting. Noticing the glances he was getting and hearing yalls names together in the conversation.
No doubt people were trying to figure out how you knew him and why you were so nice? No one was this sweet to him. The only time they were was when they needed a favor but even then it was obvious it was forced. Not the genuine kindness you were showing him.
He even noticed when other people tried coming up to you. Tried making some type of conversation but you politely shut down each one. And each time you noticed him your eyes would light up once more but he would rush off before you had the chance to say anything.
By the end of the day, he was exhausted. It was one of those rare times he was glad that he was the only one left in the office.
A small sigh left his lips as he walked out of the break room and went back to his desk with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. But he froze when he noticed something on his desk. Something that shouldn’t be there.
Don’t work too hard! See you tomorrow!
His brain short circuit seeing the note and a small treat next to it. He wanted to believe this was some prank, but he recognized your handwriting by now and the small heart at the end that was uniquely yours.
A small groan left his lips and he crouched down as he covered his face with his free hand.
There was no way he going to survive the next 6 months.
——————————————
Please no putting my writing in any AI chat, bot etc. And also no reposting as your own. Thank you for taking the time to read (つ˃ᵕ˂)つ⸝♡
yandere!fae who watched from the canopy of the trees, his delicate fluorescent wings fluttering in the wind as he narrowed his eyes onto you. no one had entered his part of the forest in years- for many knew the consequences.
yandere!fae who's heart clenched painfully at watching you trip over a thick tree root. he had the magic to stop that- he had the magic to- no. he shouldn't. he hadn't gotten this infatuated since...
yandere!fae who eventually made his way down, his wings effortlessly carrying him to land on the mossy forest floor. "what's someone so precious like you doing in these lands?" he'd ask, his silver eyes inspecting your every facial twitch.
yandere!fae who'd eventually look forward to your regular visits. he'd provide you with everything you need! baskets, foraging materials, rare seeds, berries and fruits. you needn't depend on anything-anyone else.
yandere!fae who'd convinced you to allow him to provide you with dinner. he'd make you follow him into his surprisingly large mushroom cottage, the smell of healing and home entering your senses.
yandere!fae who knew you'd be oh so innocent. too innocent to not even know what accepting a fae's food meant.
yandere!werewolf who found you lingering by his territory, your body half-covered in the snowy ground. you were barely breathing, the thin clothes you foolishly put on doing little to retain your limited body heat.
yandere!werewolf who nurses you back to health, hand-feeding you soup, making sure the fur pelts are always up to your chin, providing his own body heat with you.
yandere!werewolf who doesn't let you leave even though your fever has significantly gone down. if you went.. out there without him again, you'd surely die!
yandere!werewolf who treats you like he imprinted on you. he doesn't need anyone else. this imprint may not have happened, but he feels it.
yandere!werewolf who, on the full moon, finally reveals his true form. he's massive as a wolf, bigger than a bear, with paws bigger than the size of your face.
yandere!werewolf who chuffed at you, nuzzling you with his snout to prove he wasn't dangerous. he was proving he could protect you.
yandere!werewolf who knew you had no choice but to stay with him now. if you told anyone else, you'd end up locked in a padded room.
Unrequited love is a quiet kind of agony—until a twenty credit worth antique twig promises to fix it. You makes your wish: Make him love me. It works, but not without a catch. Life is full of surprises, after all.
fanart by @/ieririr on x
Pairing: Phainon / Reader
Word count: 13934
Contents: inspired by Obsession (yikes), yandere! Phainon, toxic co-dependency, mentions of suicide and self-harm, psychological horror, guilt, animal death, murder, coercion, dubcon, unprotected sex, missionary, extremely unsettling behaviour from Mr. Aedes Elysiae
... .- ...- . / -- .
I. The Weight Of Unsaid Words
The fluorescent lights of the video and record rental shop hummed with a low, steady vibration that you had long since learned to tune out. It was a Tuesday afternoon, slow and quiet, the kind of day where time seemed to stretch out like warm vinyl.
You stood behind the counter, holding a stack of returned indie films, but your eyes kept straying to the glass front doors. Every time the brass bell above the threshold chimed, your heart did a brief, involuntary leap—only to settle back down into a dull ache when it turned out to be a casual customer or a lost tourist.
You were waiting for Phainon.
You had been waiting for Phainon, in one way or another, for nearly eight months.
It was absurd, really. You worked together twice a week. You shared the same circle of friends. You spent hours sitting in cramped booth seats at the late-night diner down the street, nursing lukewarm coffee while Mydei babbled on about music theory or local drama. Yet, whenever Phainon entered the room, you felt like a novice diver standing at the edge of a high cliff, terrified of taking the plunge.
"You're doing that thing again," a voice called out from the back aisles.
You blink, pulling your attention back to the stack of cases in your hands. Cyrene emerged from Row four, balancing a box of newly cataloged foreign films against her hip. She threw you a knowing, sympathetic look.
"What thing?" You asked, attempting a tone of total innocence as you began sliding the cases onto the display rack.
"The staring-at-the-door-like-a-victorian-heroine-waiting-for-her-sailor thing," she said, setting the box down on the counter with a thud. "He’s thirty minutes late for his shift, [Name]. He probably got caught up with his designs, again. You know how he gets."
"I wasn't staring," you murmured, though your cheeks warmed instantly. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, focusing intently on organizing the plastic cases by genre. "I was just... checking the time."
"Right. And the clock is conveniently mounted right next to the front door," Cyrene teased, leaning her elbows on the counter. Her expression softened. "Why don't you just tell him?"
You froze, your fingers resting on a worn copy of a French drama. "Tell him what?"
"Oh, come on. 'Phainon, I think you're incredible. Phainon, I've had a massive crush on you since the day you showed up to practice with grease on your chin and played the most beautiful melody I've ever heard.' Something like that."
"It wasn't grease, it was bike chain lube," you corrected automatically. She let out a soft, defeated sigh and sat down on the high stool behind the register. "And I can't just tell him, Cyrene. You know how he is. He’s... guarded. He keeps everyone at a subtle distance, even Mydei, sometimes. If I say something and he doesn't feel the same way, I lose everything. I lose the friendship, the quiet afternoons here, the way he looks up and smiles when I walk into the room."
"Or," Cyrene countered gently, "you win everything. Have you considered that? The guy looks at you like you hung the moon, [Name]. I watch him when you aren't paying attention."
You shook your head, a familiar wave of self-doubt washing over you. "That's just how he is. He's polite. He's a gentle person. He treats everyone with this quiet reverence... well, except when he's arguing with De about... which of them has the bigger biceps."
You reached down, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the smooth, dark surface of the disc.
"Besides," you added softly, looking down at your hands, "I don't even know how to bring it up. Whenever I try to steer the conversation into something more... personal, my mind goes completely blank. I get so guarded. I end up talking about movies or asking about his dog."
"Snowy," Cyrene smiled. "How is the little monster, anyway?"
"Phainon said he’s been acting strange lately. Eating weird things, hiding under the sink. He said he was going to set out some pest traps because he noticed rats, but he’s been so stressed with his final design portfolio that I worry he’s forgetting to take care of himself."
Before she could reply, the bell above the front door chimed sharp and clear.
Your head snapped up.
Phainon walked in, brushing a damp strand of dark hair from his eyes. He was wearing his usual faded jacket over a charcoal sweater, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked exhausted—dark circles smudged beneath his sharp, expressive eyes—but the moment his gaze met yours, the tension in his shoulders visibly melted.
"Sorry I'm late," Phainon said, his voice carrying that familiar, low, resonant timbre that made your pulse flutter. He walked over to the counter, setting his bag down on the wooden surface. "Traffic near the campus was an absolute nightmare, and Mydei took twenty minutes just to choose a sandwich at the deli."
"It's fine," you said, offering him a warm, soft smile. "Cyrene was just keeping me company."
"I was actually just leaving," Cyrene said with a dramatic wave of her hand, grabbing her shoulder bag from behind the register. She flashed you a subtle, deliberate wink before turning to Phainon. "Don't let her work too hard, Phainon. She’s been re-sorting the foreign section for an hour just to keep busy."
"I'll take over," Phainon promised, giving her a small, polite nod as she headed out the door.
Once the bell chimed again, a comfortable, heavy quiet fell over the shop. Phainon stepped behind the counter, hanging his jacket on the wooden hook by the back room door.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye. Every detail of his presence was intoxicating to you—the faint scent of rain and cedar that followed him, the careful, deliberate way he moved, the slight furrows in his brow when he was lost in thought. You wanted so desperately to reach out, to smooth those lines away, to tell him that he didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"How was your morning?" Phainon asked, pulling a stack of return logs toward himself.
"Quiet," you replied, leaning your side against the counter so you could face him. "Not many people coming in on a rainy Tuesday. Did you finish your rendering for the project?"
Phainon groaned softly, resting his forehead against his palm for a brief second. "Barely. My professor gave me a hard time about the structural proportions of the entryway. I stayed up until four in the morning redesigning the entire facade. It's still shit."
"You work too hard, Phainon," you say, your voice dropping into a tone of soft, genuine concern. "You need to rest. When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"
He looked down at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, intense focus that made your throat catch. "I sleep fine," he murmured. Then, a rare, playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Though I'd sleep better if Mydei stopped calling me at two in the morning to pitch lyrics that sound like they were written by an angsty middle schooler."
You laughed—a bright, genuine sound that seemed to light up the dim corners of the shop. Phainon’s gaze lingered on your face, watching the way your eyes crinkled, his expression softening into something so tender it made your breath hitch.
Say it, a voice whispered inside your head. Tell him right now. Tell him you want to be the one he calls at two in the morning. Tell him you love him.
You swallowed hard, opening your mouth to speak, but the courage vanished as quickly as it had come. The fear of ruining this—this perfect, fragile closeness—paralyzed you.
Instead, you gestured to the record racks. "Are you... fine being on your own later? I'd like to leave a little earlier, too. I've got... stuff."
"Yeah," Phainon said, his tone shifting back to its usual measured composure.
For the next two hours, you worked side by side in a harmony built on months of shared routines. You organized tapes, chatted about trivial things, and laughed over absurd movie plot summaries. To anyone looking through the shop window, you looked like two people completely in sync.
But beneath the surface, you were drowning in everything you couldn't say.
You looked at him while he reached up to place a tape on the top shelf, noticing the slight strain of his muscles beneath his sweater. You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to rest your head on his shoulder. You wanted him to look at you, not just as a reliable coworker or a sweet friend, but as the only person he wanted.
Tomorrow, you promised yourself, clutching your skirt until the edges pressed firmly into your palm. Tomorrow, I'm going to tell him.
.. / -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--
II: A Gift of Dust and Promises
The rain had settled into a steady, persistent drizzle by the time you had left. The streets downtown glistened under the amber streetlights, reflecting the neon signs of the late-night stalls and old bookstores like smeared watercolors.
You pulled your coat collar tighter around your neck as you walked down the cobblestone side street. Your mind was racing, your thoughts caught in a dizzying loop of anticipation and nervous energy. Tonight was supposed to be the night. You had spent the last two hours at the register rehearsing a simple, honest confession over and over in your head until the words lost all meaning.
“Phainon, I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”
It sounded too plain.
“Phainon, you’re the most important person in my life, and I want to be more than just your friend.”
It felt too dramatic.
You let out a breathy sigh, a pale cloud of vapor rising into the cool air. He likes simple things, you reminded yourself. Directness. Authenticity.
Hence, you opted to navigate the narrow (and creepy) alleys instead of heading straight home. Phainon had a quiet, almost childlike fascination with old things—tactile remnants of the past that held history within their grain. His apartment was filled with vintage brass compasses, mid-century architectural blueprints, and worn leather-bound notebooks.
If you were going to tell him how you felt, you wanted to ground the moment. You wanted to give him something meaningful—a token to anchor the memory, to show him that you truly paid attention to the quiet details of his life.
At the end of a dimly lit alley, tucked between a closed tailor shop and a shuttered bakery, sat Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios. It was an obscure, unmarked antique store you had passed a dozen times but never actually entered. Warm, dim light spilled from its dusty bay windows, illuminating shelves packed with bizarre glass bottles, stacks of parchment, and tarnished silver frames.
You pushed open the heavy wooden door. A brass bell overhead gave a dull, metallic clink, and the sharp scent of cedar, dried lavender, and aged paper immediately wrapped around you.
"We're closing in ten minutes," a dry voice echoed from behind a high wooden counter near the back.
You looked over. Sitting on a tall stool was an older woman with sharp, observant lavender eyes and brown hair swept under a huge hat. She was polishing a small bronze pocket watch with a velvet cloth, her movements deliberate and unhurried.
"I won't take long," you promised politely, offering a gentle smile. "I'm just looking for a small gift. For a friend."
The woman gave a short, imperceptible nod and returned to her watch, leaving you to wander through the labyrinth of crowded narrow aisles.
You browsed slowly, your fingers lightly skimming over the smooth brass surfaces of vintage pocket knives, intricate mechanical gears, and hand-carved wooden chess pieces. Everything was beautiful, but nothing felt right. A fountain pen felt too formal; an antique magnifying glass felt too novelty.
You turned into the rearmost corner of the shop, where the shadows hung heavier and the air felt curiously still. On a velvet-lined display shelf resting beneath a glass dome, something caught your eye—not because it was grand, but because of how starkly simple it was.
It was a small, minimalist box made of smooth, unpainted white paperboard. It sat entirely alone on the shelf, completely out of place among the ornate brass and dark mahogany surrounding it.
Curious, you reached out and carefully lifted the glass dome. You picked up the box, turning it over in your hands. Printed on the front in thin, charcoal-gray typography was a single phrase:
ONE WISH WILLOW
Break with intention. One use only.
Wishes do come true. Be careful what you ask for.
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. A wishbone made of wood. It was absurdly poetic—the exact kind of whimsical, slightly melancholic oddity that Phainon would find fascinating. He would probably place it on his desk next to his architecture sketches, wondering what to wish for every time he looked at it, and in extension he would think of you.
You slid open the top cover. Inside, resting on a bed of dark green velvet, was a single, thin willow twig. It was pale, delicate, and looked utterly fragile, as if a single press of a thumb could snap it into dust.
"I wouldn't linger on that one," a voice spoke softly from right beside you.
You nearly jumped, holding the box close to your chest. The shopkeeper had moved with impossible quietness, now standing at the end of the aisle, her sharp eyes resting heavily on the box in your hands.
"Oh," you said, steadying your breath. "Is it an antique? It looks... remarkably modern compared to everything else."
"It isn't modern," the shopkeeper replied, her tone flat and measured. "It's old stock. Older than this building. People buy things like that thinking it's a game or a clever conversation starter for a coffee table."
"And isn't it?" You asked with a faint, amused smile.
"A wish isn't a game," the woman said, stepping closer. The dim overhead light cast long, dramatic shadows across her face. "Intent is a dangerous force when given a physical form to break. Most people who buy those come back eventually, looking for a way to mend the wood."
You looked down at the delicate twig resting against the dark velvet. The shopkeeper's dramatic warnings felt like part of the store's theatrical charm, but there was a quiet, chilling sincerity in the woman's eyes that made your throat go dry.
"I'm not buying it to use it," you say softly, your thumb tracing the clean edge of the box. "It's a gift for someone special. He appreciates... unusual things."
"Someone special," the shopkeeper repeated, her gaze narrowing slightly. "A man?"
You felt a faint warmth climb up your neck. You nodded slowly. "A friend."
The shopkeeper stayed silent for a long moment, watching you with a look that felt less like suspicion and more like deep, weary pity.
"Twenty credits," the woman said abruptly, turning her back and walking toward the register. "Consider it a fee for curiosity. There won't be any refunds."
You blinked, surprised by the sudden transaction. The shopkeeper wrapped the box in a layer of brown butcher paper, tying it with a simple piece of jute twine.
You hesitated. It was absurd. It was superstitious nonsense. You believed you were a rational archivist, and you spent your days indexing factual historical data. Magic twigs in velvet boxes did not alter human emotion.
Yet, as you remembered Phainon’s polite, distant smile from earlier that afternoon—the agonizing distance that separated you even when you stood inches apart—your hand moved to your coat pocket for your wallet.
"I'll take it," you whispered.
"Remember," the woman said softly, sliding the package across the counter. Her voice lowered to a harsh, quiet whisper. "Desire makes people foolish. If you ever break that twig, make sure you are prepared to live with the exact words you utter. The universe has a cruel sense of humor when fulfilling a desperate heart."
.. / -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--
The rain drummed heavily against the glass of your apartment windows. The flat was quiet, lit only by the soft orange glow of a floor lamp in the corner.
You sat on the edge of your bed, the lacquered box open on the table beside you. The willow twig was in it. After the ominous warnings, and your insomnia blurring your head, you felt it unsafe to gift Phainon such a thing. You could try using it, just to conclude it's genuine.
You simply wanted to satisfy your own burning curiosity.
You picked it up. The wood was cold—colder than the ambient temperature of the room—and surprisingly heavy for its size. Its texture was slick and unnaturally smooth, free of any natural grain or bark imperfection.
"This is ridiculous," you murmured into the empty room. "I am a twenty-four-year-old adult sitting in my living room holding a stick."
You made a move to toss it back into the box, but stopped.
Phainon’s face flashed in your mind. His calm, pale eyes. The quiet precision of his voice. The maddening barrier of his absolute self-control. What if you didn't have to spend years waiting for him to notice you? What if you could just... melt the ice?
You squeezed your eyes shut. You brought the white willow twig up between your thumbs and forefingers.
You pictured Phainon clearly in your mind: standing under the soft warm light of the archive lamp, looking at you not as a quiet colleague or a pleasant acquaintance, but with affection. Love. You wanted to be his priority. You wanted him to love you.
"I wish Phainon loved me more than anything else in existence," you mumble, your pulse hammering in your throat.
You applied pressure.
CRACK.
The snap was loud—far louder than a twig of that size should have produced. It sounded like a sharp whip crack echoing through the small apartment.
A sudden blast of frigid air swept through the closed living room, causing the flame of the corner lamp to flicker violently. For a split second, you felt a bizarre sensation of weightlessness, as if the air had been vacuumed out of your lungs.
Then, silence returned.
The rain continued to hit the windowpanes. The lamp flickered back to a steady burn.
In your hands, the willow twig was broken cleanly into two jagged halves. The wood inside was strangely dark, almost charcoal-black at the point of the fracture.
You sat frozen for a long moment, waiting for... something. A sign? A revelation?
Nothing happened.
You let out a long breath, a self-deprecating laugh escaping your lips. "Stupid. Absolute scam."
You tossed the two broken pieces into the trash bin beneath your bed, shut off the lamp, and went to bed, thoroughly embarrassed by your own desperation.
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
III: The Unraveling
The next afternoon, you arrived at the shop ten minutes earlier than your shift. The morning air was crisp, and the sky had cleared into a pale, brilliant blue.
Phainon was already there.
He wasn't working. He wasn't sorting the discs or checking the morning delivery. He was simply standing beside the door, his hands clasped loosely together, staring intently at the empty space where you usually sat.
"Phainon?" you call, startled as you hung your coat on the rack. "You're early today. Is there an issue with the morning delivery?"
Phainon turned.
The moment his eyes locked onto you, you felt a strange, electric shiver run down your spine. His expression wasn't his usual serene, polite mask. His eyes were wide, unnervingly focused, his pale irises bright and sharp.
"No issue," Phainon said. His voice was lower than usual, carrying a subtle, breathless cadence. "I just... I couldn't stay at home this morning."
"Why? Did your heating go out again?" You asked, walking over to the desk and setting down your bag.
Phainon didn't step back to give you space as he usually did. Instead, he remained standing right beside your chair, his gaze following your every movement with absolute, unwavering tracking.
"No," he said softly, his eyes sweeping over your face, taking in your eyes, your lips, the movement of your breath. "I woke up at four in the morning, [Name]. And the only thought in my mind... the only thing that felt real... was that I needed to see you."
You looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke or teasing. But Phainon’s face was entirely severe. There was no amusement in his eyes—only an intense, singular focus that made the air between you feel terrifyingly thick.
"Phainon... are you feeling alright?" You whispered, your heart beginning to pound against your ribs.
"I have never felt more clear," Phainon replied. He took a single step closer, closing the distance between you until his knees brushed against the side of the desk. He reached out slowly, his fingers hesitating in the air before gently, reverently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
His fingertips were cold, but his breath was warm against your skin.
"I thought about calling you this morning," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a magnetism that made you forget how to breathe. "I thought about walking to your apartment in the rain just to see you. Then, I remembered you'd come to work today."
Your head reeled. A heady mixture of disbelief, wild euphoria, and a faint, subtle prick of fear rose in your chest.
"Phainon," you stammered, your voice trembling slightly. "You... you've never spoken to me like this before."
"I know," Phainon admitted softly, his thumb lightly stroking your cheekbone. The gesture was tender, but his grip on himself seemed remarkably fragile, like a dam holding back a violent flood. "I was blind before. I wasted so many months treating you like background music in my life. But when I woke up today... it was as if a veil had been torn away. You are the only thing that matters, [Name]. Everything else is just noise."
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
The transition from Phainon’s quiet admiration to complete, total fixation did not take months or weeks—it took less than forty-eight hours.
Phainon was everywhere. When you stepped out of your apartment building at eight in the morning, having skipped breakfast to catch a train to your college, he was already waiting on the sidewalk, holding a cup of coffee, wrapped in his dark wool overcoat against the morning chill.
"You didn't need to stand out here in the cold," you told him on the third morning, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck.
"I didn't mind," Phainon said smoothly, taking your satchel from your shoulder without asking and slinging it over his own. His pale eyes searched your face with a quiet, hungry focus. "The apartment felt hollow after five. Waiting here is the only part of my morning that feels real."
You smiled, brushing your shoulder against his as you walked toward the train. "You slept poorly?"
"Not well," Phainon admitted, his gaze drifting from the cobblestones to the side of your face with a steady, unblinking intensity. "But it doesn't matter much anymore. Exhaustion is a small price to pay for a proper start to the day."
You shook your head, a soft, amused sigh escaping your lips. "You're melodramatic, you know that?"
"How about this? I know what it feels to spend most time counting down the hours until I see someone again," he replied smoothly, stepping closer so his shoulder brushed yours with every synchronized stride.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint, metallic scent of the approaching autumn and the rich aroma of the roasted coffee beans from the corner shop he frequented. As you reached the bustling station platform, the rhythmic clatter of the incoming commuter train drowned out the morning chatter of students and office workers.
Phainon guided you gently by the elbow—a polite, habitual gesture by now—steering you away from the edge of the platform toward a pair of surprisingly vacant seats near the center carriage. His fingers lingered against yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulled away to take the seat beside you.
"What are your plans for the afternoon?" he asked, resting his chin on his knuckles as he watched you take a sip. "Your schedule usually frees up by two, doesn't it?"
"It does," you said, glancing over with a raised eyebrow. "Are you planning to wait outside my lecture hall with a sandwich this time?"
A faint, self-aware smile touched the corners of his mouth, softening the sharp angles of his features. "Only if you forgot to eat lunch. Though... I was actually hoping you might want to visit that bookstore near the station. You mentioned needing a new textbook last week, and I found the registry."
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
Cyrene pulled you aside near the breakroom kettle the next week.
"Okay, what happened?" Cyrene whispered, leaning in close. "Did he drink something strange? Did he join a cult? Six days ago, he barely said three words to you without clearing his throat, and now he looks like he'd jump in front of a moving train if you accidentally dropped a pencil in the street."
You stirred your tea, your gaze fixed on the swirling liquid. "He's just showing how he feels, Rene. You were the one telling me he had feelings for me."
"I meant he had a crush, not that he was preparing to commission a marble statue in your likeness!" Cyrene hissed, casting a wary glance toward the open breakroom door as if expecting Phainon to materialize from thin air. "There's normal romantic interest, and then there's whatever... that is. The man memorized your class schedule. I saw him checking a color-coded laminated planner yesterday, and I'm eighty percent sure it was yours."
You stirred your tea again, watching the small whirlpool settle. "It's not laminated," you muttered defensively, though you had to admit the planner detail was a bit much. "He's just thorough."
"He's a golden retriever with the soul of a Victorian poet," Cyrene corrected, crossing her arms. "Just... keep one eye open, okay? Make sure he has hobbies outside of orbiting you."
"He does," you said, though you struggled to name a single one that didn't involve you as of lately.
Cyrene arched a single brow, waiting.
"He... reads," you offered weakly.
"Right. And what does he read? Historical accounts of people who stared at doors until their objects of affection walked through them?" Cyrene sighed, uncrossing her arms and patting your shoulder. "Just set some boundaries, alright? Before you wake up and find out he's legally changed his name to match yours."
Before you could defend him further, the kettle clicked off with a sharp snap, and the door swung open. Phainon stepped inside, his dark coat dusted with a light morning mist, his pale eyes instantly locking onto yours with the absolute gravity of a compass needle finding true north.
"There you are," he murmured, his expression smoothing into a soft, devoted smile the moment he reached your side. "I brought you that pastry from the bakery across the street. The one with the raspberry filling you like."
You glanced sidelong at Cyrene, whose expression was a masterclass in polite disbelief.
"Thanks, Phainon," you said, taking the small white bag. "You really didn't have to."
"It's no trouble," he replied smoothly, already reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "Nothing is, as long as you're having a good morning."
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
Phainon feels like he's drowning. Everything is muddled. It's like he's floating. But he's not. He can feel it. The scream bubbled up in his chest.
Get out. Get out. Get out.
He sees it all through the eyes of another. It's his voice, but it's not. It's not his movements. He couldn't.
He screams inside his head. He pounds harder. He needs to get out.
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
IV. The Glass Shatters
Loudly, you gasp and swoop down—frightening Phainon only a little—to smooth your hands over his dog's white fur. "Puppy!" you're borderline squealing in glee, and that's a new sight for Phainon, "So big!" You encourage the dog to pounce onto your lap with quick taps against your thighs.
"Snowy," Phainon clarifies (as if you could forget), leaning over your shoulder to scritch under Snowy's chin, grinning when he starts barking in your coddling hold.
"I love you, Snowy," you whisper to the dog, and Phainon sits on the floor beside you after figuring the dog won’t be moving on from you anytime soon. You’ve been looking forward to this since he'd promised to take you to his place, and somehow all your expectations have been exceeded. "Didn’t know you liked dogs so much, [Name], I would’ve introduced you sooner."
"He looks like you," you keep your voice low as if raising it could startle the dog off, "And his fur feels so nice."
Phainon feels nauseous. His whole chest is tight with this unpleasant curdle. Quickly, he decides that he hates this feeling and wants it eradicated as soon as possible. Subconsciously, he must believe the solution is you because before he can really think about it, he’s lugging you off the floor and towards his room. He lays you on his bed and falls into your side with his dog now locked outside the room. He wanted you to touch him like that. Rather than link his hand with yours like usual, he splays your fingers into his mess of white hair.
Turning your head so your cheek meets the feather plush of his pillow, you find Phainon's eyes boring into yours. You blink at him with your hand limp over the side of his head, "Do you want me to pet you?"
He nods, crimson overtaking his cheeks and sweat beading over his palms. "Okay."
You card your fingers through his hair, gently prying loose knots apart over your knuckles before tenderly dancing your nails along his scalp. He presses his head closer, cheek now smooshed on your shoulder and eyes flickering shut.
Shakily, he raises an arm and lays it across your stomach. You can sense his hesitation in how the weight of his arm is so light it's imperceivable, then you press your hand flat against the back of his head and pet there, too. His arm relaxes, fully settling the weight on your gut.
This feels right. Crushed and warm.
Everything is right in this instance, in this world. But he's not sure he wants to. But not wanting to isn't exactly his job. His job is to make you happy. "I’m going to kiss you."
You go limp in bed and allow Phainon's hands to wander. He sits up and untucks your top before gliding his hands under those and resting over your midriff. He clears his throat and finds a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, he tries blinking the fire away but it only makes the pain worse.
The vicious pain in his chest bites up to his head. "I don't want to..." Phainon's hands peel off from your body to stow in his lap. You shrink into yourself, shoulders coming to your ears as red-hot shame climbs up your neck, "What?"
"This isn’t it," he leans back with his arms outstretched behind him on the mattress. Hotter and hotter the burning grows until it's all wet, stinging heat in his eyes, "You’re not into it…" he looks around his room and tries finding anything out of place (he was sure he made it perfect). The blinds are drawn. His door is locked. He sniffles and looks down, hoping you don’t notice the flooding along his lower lashes.
What if you finally do have sex and realize you never wanted him at all? What good is he doing then?
The statement comes off more monotone than intended, but you read in his everything: the slight twitch of his brow, the light sweat starting to form on his forehead, the way his sight flickers to your neck and eyes for half a millisecond.
You furrow your eyebrows at the way he tilted his head, and the slight anguish painted on his features. "I need you to shut up." He breathes, desperately, but does not relent when your hands dig into his shoulders. "Okay."
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
That night, you tried to establish boundaries.
You let him walk you home, but insisted on sleeping at your own apartment alone, refusing his offer to stay the night. Phainon had agreed without argument—his absolute devotion meant he complied with your every command, even when it clearly pained him.
"If that is what you wish, [Name]," he had said on your doorstep, his voice strained and hollow. "I will wait outside."
"No, Phainon. Go home to your apartment. Sleep."
"I will try," he said softly.
At 2:00 AM, you woke up with an unsettling prickle of ice along your spine.
The bedroom was silent. The city outside was drenched in a low, gray fog.
You got out of bed, pulling your shirt down to hide your skin from the chill, and crept into the dark living room. You walked over to the bay window that looked out onto the street below.
Standing directly across the street, beneath the amber glow of a flickering streetlight, was Phainon.
He wasn't wearing a coat despite the biting wind and cold drizzle. He stood completely motionless, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets, his face angled upward toward your second-floor window.
He wasn't pacing. He wasn't checking his watch. He was simply standing in the freezing rain, staring up at your darkened glass, waiting for the precise moment you would re-emerge.
You gasp, pulling back behind the curtain, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.
You ran to your front door, unbolted the lock, and threw it open. You sprinted down the two flights of stairs in your socks, burst through the glass front doors of the building, and ran into the empty street.
"Phainon!" you screamed through the cold night air.
He stepped out from under the streetlight, his hair soaked and clinging to his forehead, his skin pale and translucent under the wet light. As soon as he saw you, a soft, beautiful, terribly broken smile appeared on his face.
"You came down," he murmured, walking toward you with quick, eager strides. "I knew you would."
"What are you doing?!" You cry, grabbing his trembling, ice-cold arms. "You've been standing out here in the freezing cold for hours! I told you to go home!"
"I tried," Phainon whispered, looking down at you with pure, unadulterated adoration. "I got to the end of the block, and my body wouldn't move any further. Every step away from you felt like ripping my own flesh open. It was easier to just stay here and look at your window."
"Fine," you choked out, wiping a tear from your cheek. "You can... you can sleep on the couch. But do not come into my bedroom, Phainon. Do you understand me?"
Phainon looked up, his smile returning—bright, desperate, and empty. "I understand. I'll stay right there. I won't move an inch."
-.- - .. ... ... / -- .
V: The Anatomy of a Caged Bird
You did not sleep.
You lay in your bed with the bedroom door locked, the duvet pulled up to your chin, listening to the absolute, suffocating silence of the apartment.
Around 4:00 AM, you heard the faint sound of floorboards creaking outside your door.
You sat up instantly, your body locking with terror. You watched the narrow gap at the bottom of your door where the hallway light flickered.
A shadow blocked the light.
Then came a soft, rhythmic sound. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Phainon was pressing his forehead gently against the wooden door panel from the outside.
"[Name]?" his voice drifted through the wood, paper-thin and hauntingly calm. "Are you breathing?"
You held your breath, tears streaming down your face in the dark. What the fuck?
"I can't hear you breathing through the door," Phainon murmured softly. "Please just make a sound. Just let me know you're still alive in there. If something happened to you... I wouldn't have a reason to wake up tomorrow."
"I'm alive, Phainon!" You sobbed out quietly. "Go back to the couch! Please!"
"Thank you," he whispered back, his shadow remaining fixed against the bottom of the door. "I'll stay right here so I can hear you."
You buried your face in your pillows, trying so hard to catch the sleep that had completely evaded you.
-.- - .. ... ... / -- .
You'd asked him to go home the next day. "For Snowy," you tried to negotiate.
He called in an hour or two.
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. When Phainon finally spoke, his voice didn't sound like his own. It was hollow, flat, and completely devoid of inflection, carrying an eerie, mechanical weight that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
"[Name]," he whispered quietly. "Snowy died."
The words hung in the space between you, heavy and unnatural, bleeding through the speaker of the phone with a strange, muffled resonance.
"[Name]," Phainon repeated, his voice dragging across the syllables like dry paper. "Snowy is dead."
For a long moment, you could only stare at the dark wallpaper of your bedroom, the shock of his behaviour last night instantly colliding with this cold, terrifying piece of news. Your breath hitched, your throat tightening as your mind struggled to bridge the gap between his earlier dismissal to your privacy and this sudden, tragic vulnerability.
"Phainon... what happened?" You asked, your voice trembling, all thoughts of your own humiliation washing away under a wave of sudden, aching concern. "I... I'm so sorry. Was he sick? Did something happen while you were here?"
On the other end, there was a long, suffocating stretch of silence. Phainon stood in the center of his dimly lit apartment, the cool glow of the refrigerator casting long, distorted shadows across the linoleum floor. He stared down at the small paper bag resting at the bottom of the kitchen trash bin.
He didn't tell you about the pest control pellets he had scattered across the baseboards after coming home, entirely consumed by his spiraling thoughts of you. He didn't tell you how he had found the small white dog curled rigidly on the cold bathroom tile, his jaws slightly parted, or how the bitter realization of his own jealousy had hit him with the force of a physical blow. He didn't mention the numbing efficiency with which he had wrapped his small body in a towel and disposed of him, burying his own guilt beneath a rigid wall of silence.
"I... I don't want to talk about it over the phone," Phainon said finally, his tone flattening into something dangerously controlled. "Can you come over? Please. I... I just need someone here."
The vulnerability in his voice—so rare, so stripped of its usual guarded armor—shattered whatever hesitation you had left. His rejection to have sex with you from a day ago felt like a distant, irrelevant memory.
"I'm coming," you said immediately. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
When you arrived, you let yourself in with the spare key Phainon had given you months ago—a gesture that had once felt like a quiet milestone in your friendship. The apartment was uncharacteristically dark, save for a single lamp glowing dimly in the living room.
Phainon was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His hair fell forward in disarray. He looked hollowed out, drained of color and energy.
"[Name]," he murmured, not looking up as the front door clicked shut.
You hurried across the room, dropping your bag on the floor, and knelt down right in front of him. Without a second thought, you reached out, gently placing your hands over his cold, rigid fingers.
"Phainon, I am so, so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with empathy. "I know how much he meant to you. You don't have to go through this alone."
Slowly, Phainon lowered his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, dark, and hyper-focused. There was no grief in them—not the kind you expected, anyway. Instead, there was a raw, burning intensity that made the hairs on the back of your arms stand up. It was a look of absolute, desperate fixation, as if he were a drowning man who had just broken the surface of the water and locked eyes with his only lifeline.
"You came," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.
"Of course I came," you said softly, offering a sympathetic, reassuring smile as you squeezed his hands. "You called, and you're hurting. I'm always going to—"
You didn't get to finish the sentence.
Phainon moved with sudden, startling velocity. He leaned forward, catching you by the back of the neck and the small of your back, pulling you directly against him. Before you could process the movement, his lips crashed against yours.
It wasn't a tentative or gentle kiss born of a mutual, unfolding romance. It was fierce, possessive, and suffocatingly desperate—driven by a manic undercurrent that felt less like affection and more like an anchor thrown into a storm. His fingers tangled frantically in your hair, pressing you closer, as if he were trying to physically melt you into his skin to fill the cold, hollow space left behind by his own catastrophic mistake.
You froze for a fraction of a second, your heart leaping into your throat. His behaviour over the many months—subtly stating that he didn't feel that way about you—flashed violently through your mind.
He doesn't like you, a small voice whispered. He didn't feel that way.
Yet, here he was, kissing you with an intensity that bordered on frantic, trembling as though the world would end if he let go. The confusion was dizzying, but the warmth of his mouth, the familiar scent of his sweater, and the overwhelming desire you had harbored for months eroded your resistance. Your eyes fluttered closed, and slowly, hesitantly, you kissed him back, lifting your hands to rest against the solid wall of his chest.
When his shirt pulled free and up over his head, you ran your hands along the broad slopes of his shoulders and down dips and angles of his chest. He was cut, here and there. "What happened to you?"
His belt dropped and you hooked your legs around him, pulling him closer. His body pinned yours to the table. "I fell." When his hands found your back, you slid your legs apart, letting your dress scrunch above your waist. You quivered when his cock brushed heavy against you. "That's from a knife, Phai. What the fuck?"
He was rough and quick inside, and you arched into him, finding his mouth once again. His hands were at your back, your hips, your thighs and you felt something uncoiling inside of you. Something deep in your belly that made you clutch back at him as desperately. So long had you ached for warmth, for touch, for the tightening of your body against his.
Snowy died. And Phainon was hurting himself.
You came trembling around him, and he pulled back to watch you as you did. You laid back onto the table, open to him, his eyes locked on everywhere your dress no longer covered, even has he pushed into you over and over.
And then he pulled away.
"What the fuck? Get away from me," Phainon whispered, his voice breaking entirely as he stood up, and moved back, sliding down against the side of the wall until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He didn't look at you anymore. He couldn't bear to meet your eyes.
You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs, staring down at the man you loved—now curled in a heap of self-loathing and terror on the floor. The warmth of the room was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute cold.
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
VI: The Fracture in the Archive
Saturday morning arrived without sunrise, drowning the city in a dense, leaden fog that pressed flat against the glass of Phainon’s apartment windows.
Inside, the silence was absolute—heavy, atmospheric, and terrifying.
Last night was one way to lose your virginity. The absolute worst.
You stood at the threshold of his bedroom, your hand trembling as you slowly turned the brass doorknob. The lock disengaged with a sharp, mechanical click that sounded like a gunshot in the stillness.
Phainon was sitting on the floor directly outside the door.
He hadn't slept. He hadn't moved to the sofa. He sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, his back resting against the wall, his eyes fixed on the exact spot where the door met the frame. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands hanging over his forehead, and his sweater was wrinkled. Yet his posture remained remarkably erect, devoid of the natural slouch of fatigue.
As soon as the door swung open, his gaze snapped to your face. A violent, brilliant flicker of relief flooded his expression, as though he had spent eight hours underwater and had finally broken the surface.
"Good morning, [Name]," he said. His voice was raspy from disuse, but his tone was smooth, almost melodious.
"Phainon... did you sit here all night?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You kept your distance.
"Yes," he replied simply, leaning his head back against the wall to look up at you. "I wanted to stay close so I could hear you breathing."
"That isn't staying close, Phainon. That's... you sat on the floor outside my bedroom like a dog."
Phainon didn't blink. He offered a small, serene smile that sent a shiver down your spine. "A dog is loyal because it knows no other reality. I sit here because there is literally nowhere else in this universe I wish to be. Is that so shameful?"
He pushed himself up off the floor with effortless grace, stepping toward you. You instinctively took a step back into the room, but Phainon stopped at the doorframe, respecting the boundary you had drawn, though his pale eyes drank in every detail of your face, your messy hair, your tired eyes.
"I made coffee," he murmured, nodding toward the kitchen. "And I bought fresh pastries from the bakery three blocks down."
You blinked, surprised. "When? I didn't hear you leave."
"At six in the morning," he said. "I ran the entire way there and back so I would only be gone for five minutes. I didn't want you waking up to an empty flat."
The sheer, terrifying efficiency of his devotion made your stomach turn. It was terrifyingly calculated—every action, every thought, stripped of self-preservation and redirected entirely toward serving your existence.
"Phainon, what the fuck? We can't not talk about your dog dying! And we had sex! And then pushed me away like I forced myself on you! Not to mention you've been slicing at your skin for God knows how long—"
"I didn't mean to scare you," he stammered, his usual composure shattering into raw, desperate panic. He sank to his knees right there in the center of his living room, clutching his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, [Name]. Please don't hate me. If you hate me, I'll kill myself. Just tell me what to do. I'll do anything to make you happy!"
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
Monday morning arrived with the suffocating weight of an impending storm. The air beneath the Grand City Archives was colder than usual, smelling faintly of damp limestone and stagnant rainwater that had seeped through the ancient brick foundation over the weekend.
You stood at the bottom of the iron spiral staircase, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag until your knuckles turned white. You hadn't slept in nearly two days. Every time you had closed your eyes over the weekend, the image of Phainon kneeling on his apartment rug—his pale eyes wide, empty, and entirely focused on you—had burned behind your eyelids.
He was already there.
Phainon sat at his long oak desk, surrounded by towers papers. But he wasn't reading them. He wasn't cataloging, writing, or cross-referencing. He sat completely still, his hands resting flat against the dark wood, his head angled toward the staircase as if he had been tracking your approach long before your feet had touched the stone floor.
When your shadow fell across the archway, his entire posture shifted. The terrifying, flat stillness melted away into a expression of sheer, desperate relief.
"[Name]," he breathed, rising from his chair so quickly that the heavy oak legs scraped sharply against the stone.
He stopped barely an inch away, his presence immediate and overwhelming. The sharp, clean scent of cedarwood and faint rain drifted off his coat. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just shy of your sleeve, as if he were exercising every ounce of willpower not to pull you into his arms.
"You're four minutes late," Phainon said softly. His voice lacked any reprimand; instead, it was laced with a quiet, breathless panic. "I thought you had taken a different entrance. I thought... I thought you had decided not to come."
"The train was delayed, Phainon," you said, keeping your voice as flat and measured as possible. You forced yourself to step past him, setting your coat and bag on the desk. "It's fine. It's just four minutes."
"Four minutes is two hundred and forty seconds," Phainon replied, turning with you, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands. "Do you know what happens in two hundred and forty seconds, [Name]? A person's heart beats over two hundred times. A thousand thoughts pass through a mind. And every single one of mine was wondering if you were abandoning me."
You felt a cold knot form in your throat. You looked up, searching his face. There were faint, dark shadows beneath his eyes—proof that he, too, had barely slept over the weekend. Yet his skin was unnaturally pale, almost luminous under the warm desk lamps, and his eyes burned with an intense, unblinking focus.
"Phainon, you need to step back," you whispered, looking nervously toward the main reading room. "Mr. Anaxa will be here any minute. I only came because you said you needed me to be supportive."
"Let him come," Phainon said instantly, without a moment's hesitation. "Let the whole world come. They mean nothing to me. If Mr. Anaxa rids of me today, I will sit on the front steps of your apartment building until you come out. It makes no difference where I am, as long as I can see you."
"Stop it!" You hissed, grabbing his forearm and pulling him into the shadows of the alcove. Your fingers dug into the fabric of his suit jacket. "Do you hear yourself right now? You are a scholar, Phainon! You spent four years getting your degree, you have three published papers, you care about this project more than anyone I know! You can't just throw your life away!"
Phainon looked down at your hand on his arm. A small, chillingly beautiful smile touched his pale lips—a smile devoid of all his former pride and intellectual dignity.
"I didn't throw it away," he murmured, leaning down until his forehead almost rested against yours. "I traded it. I traded a meaningless life of paper and dust for the only thing that actually matters. You gave me a reason to exist, [Name]. Why would I care about ancient history and arts when my entire universe is standing right in front of me?"
Before you could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
Mr. Anaxa—a severe man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses—stepped into the central hall, holding a thick Manila folder. Behind him came the head architect, who carried a stack of catalog cards. The moment they saw you standing so close together in the shadows of the alcove, his eyes widened in deep concern.
"Phainon," Mr. Anaxa's voice boomed softly in the quiet vault. "A word, please."
Phainon didn't move. He didn't even turn his head. His pale eyes remained locked on your face, completely ignoring the head of the department.
"Phainon!" Mr. Anaxa repeated, his tone sharpening. "The board reviewed your quarterly report this morning. Or rather, the complete absence of your quarterly report. It was due on Friday afternoon. This is entirely unlike you."
You gently nudged Phainon's chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Go," you whispered frantically. "Please, Phainon. Just go speak to him."
Only at your command did Phainon finally tear his gaze away from you. He turned slowly, his expression shifting in an instant from desperate adoration to an icy, deadened indifference that made Mr. Anaxa freeze mid-step.
"The report is unfinished," Phainon said, his tone entirely flat.
Mr. Anaxa blinked, taken aback by the complete lack of professional deference in his most senior assistant's voice. "Unfinished? Phainon, that report dictates our funding for the entire wing! You’ve had three months!"
"Then revoke the funding," Phainon replied smoothly, stepping out of the alcove with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "I am no longer interested in managing the wing."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the archive. You gasped softly, your knuckles turning white against his hand gripping yours. Mr. Anaxa stared at Phainon as if the younger man had suddenly begun speaking a foreign language.
"Are you out of your mind?" Mr. Anaxa managed to say, his face darkening with anger. "If you walk away from this project, Phainon, I will have no choice but to place you on administrative leave immediately!"
"Then place me on leave," Phainon said without a single second of hesitation. He didn't sound angry, or defensive, or sad. He sounded entirely unbothered, as if Mr. Anaxa were discussing the weather. "I'll pack my desk now."
"Phainon, no!" You cried out, stepping forward, unable to contain yourself. "Mr. Anaxa, please, he isn't feeling well today—he's been under a tremendous amount of stress—"
"Do not apologize for me, [Name]," Phainon interrupted gently, turning to look at you with that terrifying, radiant warmth returning to his eyes. "If I am on leave, I don't have to spend eight hours a day doing useless art. I can spend all eight hours taking care of you."
Mr. Anaxa looked between the two of you, his expression morphing from anger to deep, unsettled pity and confusion. "Phainon... step into my office. Now. [Name], stay here."
"No," Phainon said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously firm. "She stays where I can see her. I am not entering any room without her."
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
By noon, the disaster was complete.
Phainon had been formally suspended pending a psychological evaluation—a directive he had accepted with complete, terrifying serenity. He had packed his few personal belongings into a single cardboard box within ten minutes, spent another five minutes waiting while you tried to compose yourself, and had ultimately been escorted out of the building by security when he refused to leave without you.
You spent the rest of your time in a state of quiet shock. You couldn't focus on anything; the letters blurred into dark, meaningless scribbles. Every few minutes, your eyes would dart toward the heavy iron doors at the top of the stairs. You knew, with absolute certainty, that he was standing right outside on the rain-slick pavement, waiting for you to come out.
"He's still out there," Mydei said softly, walking up to you with two cups of tea.
He set one cup down in front of you and took the seat beside you. The usual sharp, sarcastic energy that he carried was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, brooding concern.
"How long has he been standing there?" You asked, your voice raspy.
"Since twelve-thirty," Mydei replied grimly. "It's pouring rain, [Name]. He doesn't have an umbrella. He's just standing by the fountain, staring at the basement window. Anaxa threatened to call the police, but Phainon didn't even react. He just told Anaxa that the police couldn't legally keep him from standing on a public sidewalk."
You buried your face in your hands, a jagged sob catching in your chest. "What have I done... Oh God, De, what have I done?"
Mydei leaned in closer, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean, [Name]? This isn't your fault. Phainon has completely lost his mind. He’s acting like a textbook stalker. I don't know what happened to him over the weekend, but he is dangerous right now. You need to go home with me tonight. You can stay at my place until he gets help."
"I can't," you whispered through your fingers. "You don't understand, Mydei. If I go to your place, he'll follow us. He won't leave your doorstep. He'll ruin your life, too."
"Then we call the police."
"The police can't fix this!" You pulled your hands away, your eyes wild with terror and guilt. "You don't understand what's wrong with him!"
Mydei stared at you for a long moment, sensing the deep, incomprehensible panic in his friend's eyes. "Then explain it to me, [Name]. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a man who snapped overnight."
You opened your mouth to tell him—to tell him about the antique shop, the lacquered box, the willow twig, and the terrible, irreversible wish you had made in the quiet of your room. But as you looked into Mydei's practical, sensible eyes, you realized how insane it would sound. To the rest of the world, Phainon was experiencing a sudden, tragic psychotic break. Only you knew the horrifying truth: Phainon wasn't sick. He was cursed. And the cursed entity controlling his mind was your own foolish desire.
"I have to leave," you say abruptly, pushing your chair back and grabbing your coat.
"Wait, [Name]! Don't go out there alone!" Mydei called, rising to follow you.
"Stay here, Mydei! Please!" You pleaded, your hand on the staircase railing. "I need to fix this. I'm the only one who can fix this."
You bolted up the stone stairs, pushing through the heavy oak doors into the cold, rain-drenched afternoon.
The moment you stepped outside, you saw him.
Phainon was standing in the center of the stone courtyard, entirely soaked through. His silver-gray hair was plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off the tip of his nose and chin. His dark suit jacket was drenched, clinging to his broad shoulders. Yet he wasn't shivering. He stood as straight and still as a marble monument, his pale eyes locked onto the main entrance.
When he saw you, his face lit up with that dark, breathtaking radiance.
"[Name]," he called out, his voice cutting clearly through the roar of the rain. He took long, sweeping strides across the courtyard toward you. "You came out early. I knew you would."
You didn't run. You stood on the top step, watching him approach like a ghost in the storm. "Phainon... look at you. You're freezing. You're soaked to the bone."
"It doesn't matter," Phainon said, reaching the steps and looking up at you with complete, terrifying devotion. "The rain doesn't matter. The cold doesn't matter. Nothing hurts when I'm looking at you."
He reached up, taking your trembling hands in his ice-cold fingers. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, his breath hot against your skin.
"Where are we going now?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours with a pleading, childlike absolute trust. "Your apartment? Or somewhere else? Wherever you go, I will follow."
You looked into his eyes, feeling the crushing weight of your own guilt pulling you down into the abyss. "We're going to a shop," you whispered, your voice breaking. "We're going to find a way to fix you."
…. . − / −. .. … − / −. .
VII. The Echo of the Antiques
The rain turned into a blinding downpour as you dragged Phainon through the narrow alleys on the edge of the city.
Phainon walked beside you obediently, matching your pace perfectly. He held your left hand in a grip so tight it left red marks on your skin, but whenever you tried to pull away, his fingers would clamp down even harder—not out of cruelty, but out of a desperate, instinctual refusal to let you create a single inch of distance between you.
"Is this where you wanted to walk?" Phainon asked quietly as you turned down the narrow street lined with vintage storefronts. "It's dark here. We should go back to your apartment. I can lock the doors, and we can stay inside where it's safe."
"Just two more minutes, Phainon," you breathed, your chest aching from the cold air. "Just two more minutes."
You slammed your hand against the wet glass of the shop window—Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios.
The shop was dark. The stained-glass lanterns were off. hanging in the small glass pane was a wooden sign flip-turned to red: CLOSED.
"No... no, no, no," you gasped, grabbing the brass door handle and rattling it frantically.
The heavy oak door was locked tight. You leaned your face against the wet glass, peering into the shadowy interior. The velvet displays, the antique clockwork, the dried herbs—everything was still inside, but there was no sign of the woman in the big hat.
"It's closed," Phainon noted calmly from behind you. He pulled you gently away from the glass, his large hands resting on your shoulders, drawing you back against his wet chest. "It doesn't matter, [Name]. Whatever you were looking for in there, you don't need it. You have me."
"I need the shopkeeper!" You screamed at the door, hammering you fists against the wood until your knuckles ached. "Open the door! Please! Open the door!"
"Hush," Phainon murmured softly into your hair, his arms wrapping around your waist, locking you in an embrace that felt less like protection and more like a gilded cage. "Don't yell, my love. It's just an old shop. Let me take you home. You're wet, you're crying... it hurts me to see you like this."
You sagged in his arms, your forehead pressing against the cold, wet wood of the shop door. The bitter truth washed over you like the freezing rain soaking through your coat.
Even if the shopkeeper were inside, what could she possibly do? The warning had been written on the typed card in plain, unyielding English:
Wishes granted without condition cannot be revoked.
There was no magical counter-curse. There was no secret ritual to un-break the willow branch resting at the bottom of your apartment trash bin. You had asked the universe to alter a man's soul, and the universe had obeyed with absolute, indiscriminate precision.
Phainon gently turned you around in his arms. His face was inches from hers, his pale gray eyes shimmering with an intense, unholy clarity in the dark alleyway.
"Look at me, [Name]," he commanded softly, though his tone was entirely tender.
You slowly lifted your eyes to meet his.
"Why are you so afraid?" he asked, his thumb gently wiping away a mixture of rain and tears from your cheek. "I haven't hurt you. I will never hurt you. I exist entirely to protect you, to love you, to give you everything you could ever dream of. Isn't this what you wanted?"
The question struck you like a physical blow.
Isn't this what you wanted?
You had pined for him for nearly an year. You had laid awake at night wishing he would look at you with passion instead of polite professional courtesy. You had wanted to be the center of his world. And now you were. You were his god, his ruler, his sole anchor to reality—and in making yourself his entire world, you had destroyed the man he actually was.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice hollow and defeated. "This is what I wanted."
Phainon smiled—a radiant, beautiful, terrifying smile that did not reach his cold eyes. "Then stop fighting it. Let me love you."
…. . − / −. .. … − / −. .
By midnight, the rain outside your apartment had settled into a steady, rhythmic tap against the glass.
The living room was dark. You sat on the center of the sofa, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. You stared at the small wooden coffee table in front of you. Resting on the polished surface were the two broken halves of the One Wish Willow, retrieved from the trash bin and placed side-by-side like a corpse waiting for a burial that would never come.
Beside the table, kneeling on the carpeted floor, was Phainon.
He had changed out of his wet suit into a soft gray sweater and dark trousers. He didn't look tired. He sat on his knees, his hands resting on his thighs, his head turned slightly toward you. His eyes remained fixed on your face, tracking every rise and fall of your chest, every flicker of your eyelashes.
"You should sleep, [Name]," he said softly, his voice a low, melodious hum in the dark room.
"I can't sleep," you murmured, your voice stripped of all emotion.
"I can sit right here all night," Phainon offered, reaching up to lay his hand gently over yours on the blanket. His skin was warm now, but his touch carried the immutable weight of an iron chain. "I won't close my eyes. I will keep watch until the sun comes up."
"And tomorrow?" You asked, looking down at his hand on yours. "What happens tomorrow, Phainon? You don't have a job anymore. You don't have your research. You're going to get evicted from your apartment if you don't pay your rent."
"I'll sell my books," Phainon replied smoothly, as if discussing buying groceries. "I'll sell my furniture. I don't need an apartment, [Name]. I can move into your living room. Or I can sit on your balcony. As long as I am near you, material things have no meaning."
"And your friends? Your family? What happens when they come looking for you?"
Phainon’s expression flickered with a brief, chilling detachment. "If they try to separate me from you, I will remove them from my life. It is very simple."
You closed your eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
You looked at the broken willow twig on the table. The dark, charcoal-like core of the fractured wood seemed to stare back at you—a silent, permanent reminder of your own hubris.
You reached out with your free hand, picking up the two broken pieces of wood, and pulled them into your lap beneath the blanket. You had wished for his unconditional love, and you had received it in its purest, most monstrous form: an affection stripped of reason, humanity, and choice.
"Phainon?" you whispered.
"Yes, my love?" he answered instantly, leaning closer, his eyes shining in the dark.
"Did you... Did you kill Snowy?"
The apartment seemed to hold its breath. The steady, rhythmic tap of the rain against the window glass was the only sound left in the world, stretching out the silence between them like a tight wire.
Phainon didn't blink. His dark eyes remained locked onto yours, completely devoid of the hesitation or shame that usually accompanied a shameful secret. The terrifying purity of the wish held him in a state of absolute, unbending transparency before you.
"Yes," Phainon answered, his voice smooth, quiet, and disturbingly casual.
A cold shudder rolled down your spine, despite the thick wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You stared down at the two halves of the Wish Willow resting in your lap, their jagged edges pressing against your palms.
"Why?" you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the dark living room. "Snowy was your dog. You loved him. How could you just... how could you do that?"
Phainon shifted slightly, moving closer until his knees pressed against the edge of the sofa. His touch was tender, yet it carried the chilling weight of absolute detachment from everything outside of his singular focus on you.
"It was the day after you came over," Phainon explained, his tone conversational, as if he were recounting a minor inconvenience on his way to class. "I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to focus on my design layouts, but my mind wouldn't quiet down. I kept thinking about you. I kept thinking about how easily you slip away when the day ends—how you go back to your own house, how other people get to talk to you, how much of your life is spent entirely out of my reach."
He paused, his thumb softly stroking your knuckles.
"Snowy kept whining," Phainon continued, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen as though he could see right through the walls. "He wanted to go outside. He wanted attention. He was loud, and he was taking up the space in the room that should have belonged entirely to the thoughts of you. He was a distraction from my purpose."
You felt a sickening knot twist tightly in your stomach.
"That, and you liked him," Phainon scoffed gently, looking back up into your eyes with an unsettling, beatific smile. "Everything that demands my attention away from you, and yours away from me, is an obstacle. That afternoon, I had left those pest control pellets on the counter. It took only a moment to crush a few into his food bowl and mix it with some meat. He ate it without hesitation."
He spoke of poisoning his own pet with the same chilling indifference one might use to describe throwing away a piece of trash.
"And when he died?" you asked, your voice trembling as hot tears prickled behind your eyelids. "Did you feel anything at all?"
Phainon tilted his head, considering the question honestly. He reached up, his warm hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear that had slipped down your skin.
"I felt nothing," he murmured softly. "Except a sudden, wonderful quiet. The apartment was finally silent. And I could think only of you."
You pressed your eyes shut, the horror of the confession washing over you in heavy, suffocating waves. You looked down at the broken willow in your lap, realizing with terrifying finality that the monster sitting before you was entirely your own creation—and there was no waking up from it.
... .- ...- . / -- .
VIII: The Weight of the Room
Three months elapsed in a heavy, unnatural rhythm.
Autumn had settled over the city, striping the trees along the boulevard in shades of rust and decay, but inside your apartment, time had ceased to move. The days no longer possessed distinct boundaries. There was only the low hum of the refrigerator, the rain washing against the double-paned glass, and the perpetual, motionless presence of Phainon.
He had given up his lease entirely by the end of August. He had not gone back for his belongings; he had simply allowed the landlord to declare the unit abandoned, leaving behind his extensive personal library, his heirloom furniture, his winter coats, and the framed photographs of his family. None of it held any reality for him anymore. His entire physical universe had shrunk to the four walls of your apartment.
"You need to take a few steps, Phainon," you said quietly, your voice sounding raspy from disuse. You sat at the dining table, staring down at an untouched plate of toast. "You’ve been standing by the hallway arch for four hours."
Phainon turned his head toward you. His movement was fluid, yet eerily deliberate, like a clockwork mechanism that had been freshly oiled. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers—clothing you had ordered online for him because he refused to leave the flat even to buy garments.
"I am perfectly comfortable, [Name]," he replied smoothly. His voice was low, devoid of any harsh rasp despite his near-total silence throughout the day. "From the archway, I can monitor the front door, the fire escape window, and the table where you are sitting. If I move to the armchair, my line of sight to the hallway is obscured by three inches."
"No one is coming through the hallway, Phainon," you whispered.
"We cannot know that with absolute certainty," he said, taking two quiet steps toward you. He stopped precisely at the edge of the rug, his pale gray eyes searching your face with that wide, terrifying clarity that had never once dimmed since the day you snapped the twig. "And as long as there is a fraction of a percent of risk to your peace, my vigilance is required."
He knelt beside your chair, placing his long, cool hands over your knee. The gesture was outwardly affectionate—a posture of deep, reverent submission—but the pressure of his fingers was firm, an immovable anchor binding you to the spot.
"Eat your toast, my love," he whispered softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against your fabric. "You’ve lost weight this month. I counted your calories yesterday. You are three hundred calories below your recommended intake."
You felt a cold prickle of sweat trace your spine. "You're counting my calories?"
"I keep a log in my notebook," Phainon said, gesturing vaguely toward the small leather pad resting on the sideboard. "Your sleep cycles, your water consumption, your temperature, the number of times you cry when you think I am in the bathroom. I record all of it. It allows me to anticipate your needs before you even experience them."
You stared at him, a sudden wave of suffocating vertigo making the room tilt. "Phainon... that isn't care. That's... that's a inventory."
"It's love," he corrected gently, leaning up to press a lingering, soft kiss against the side of your neck. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of mint and iron. "A inventory implies I intend to trade you. You are my absolute. One does not trade an absolute."
... .- ...- . / -- .
The quiet was shattered at 2:00 PM by the sudden, abrasive buzzing of the apartment intercom.
The sharp sound cut through the silence like a blade. You flinched violently, knocking your knee against the table.
Phainon didn't flinch. In a fraction of a second, he was on his feet, his body shifting into a low, predatory posture between you and the hallway. His gray eyes narrowed, all warmth vanishing instantly, replaced by an icy, deadened hostility.
"Stay behind me," he said. The instruction was not loud, but it carried a terrifying, absolute authority.
"Phainon, it's probably just the building manager—"
"Stay behind me," he repeated, his hands coming up to guide you gently but forcefully into the corner behind the dining hutch.
He walked to the intercom wall unit, pressing the button with a single, clinical movement. He didn't speak. He simply held the line open, listening.
"[Name]?" Cyrene's voice crackled through the cheap speaker, tinny and distorted by static. "[Name], are you in there? Please pick up. It’s been three weeks since you called in sick. Boss officially filed the termination paperwork yesterday, but I don't care about the job—I'm worried about you. Your phone is disconnected. I brought the building super up with me. If you don't open the door, we're going to use the master key."
You gasped, taking a step toward the hall. "Rene—"
Before you could reach the speaker, Phainon’s hand locked around your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute—like a steel vise padded in soft leather. He pulled you back behind his shoulder effortlessly.
"Phainon, let me talk to her!" You pleaded in a desperate, panicked whisper. "She has the manager with her! They’re going to open the door!"
Phainon looked down at you, his expression entirely calm, almost beatific. "They won't open the door."
He released your wrist and stepped over to the entryway closet. He opened it quietly, reaching up to the top shelf where you kept a heavy brass tool set. He selected a heavy six-inch steel deadbolt bar he had purchased online two weeks prior, along with a cordless driver.
"Phainon, what are you doing?" You breathed, horror mounting in your throat.
Without a word, Phainon walked to the heavy oak front door. With smooth, practiced efficiency, he positioned the steel bar across the frame, alignment perfectly straight, and drove three heavy masonry screws through the steel bracket directly into the door jamb. The sharp whir-click-click of the power tool drowned out the sound of key turning in the lock outside.
From the hallway outside, the sound of a key sliding into the tumbler echoed sharply.
The lock turned. The door shifted inward a fraction of a millimeter—and then slammed brutally against the newly installed steel barricade.
"What the...?" the building manager’s voice muffled through the wood. "The safety bar is thrown from the inside! Hey! Is someone in trouble in there?"
"[Name]!" Cyrene screamed, pounding her fists against the heavy oak. "[Name]! Speak to me! Is Phainon in there with you? Did he do something to you?!"
You opened your mouth to scream, to cry for help, to tell them to break down the door—but Phainon turned to face you.
He didn't brandish a weapon. He didn't make a threat.
Instead, he slowly lowered himself back onto his knees right in front of the barricaded door. He took a small, silver folding knife from his pocket—the one he used to trim loose threads from your sweaters—unfolded the thin blade, and held it vertically against his own throat. The sharp point rested directly over his carotid artery, pressing just hard enough to draw a single, pinpoint bead of crimson blood.
"Phainon!" You shrieked, your hand flying to your mouth.
"If you call out to them," Phainon said, his voice entirely sweet, calm, and conversational, "if you tell them to break this door down, I will press this blade three inches into my neck before they can clear the frame."
"Phainon, please! Put that down! Put it down!" you sobbed, dropping to your knees a few feet away from him, your hands raised in absolute terror.
"I am not threatening you, my love," he explained gently, his eyes shining with an intense, crystal-clear devotion. "I am simply informing you of the physical realities of my existence. My mind, my heart, and my body only function to serve your sanctuary. If they breach this door, they will take you away from me, or take me away from you. In either scenario, my existence ends. The knife is merely a formality."
Outside, the manager was kicking the bottom panel of the door. "I'm calling the police! We're getting the fire department up here with an axe!"
"[Name]! Answer me!" Cyrene wept through the wood.
You looked at the single drop of blood trailing down Phainon’s throat. You looked into his pale, serene eyes—eyes that held no fear, no doubt, and no humanity, only the absolute, unyielding execution of your own wish.
You swallowed your own scream, strangling the voice in your throat until it died.
You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiped your tears with the back of your hand, and stepped up to the door.
"Cyrene!" You called out, your voice unnaturally loud, tight, and rigid.
The pounding stopped instantly. "[Name]?! Are you okay?! Is he hurting you?!"
"I am fine, Rene," you said, staring directly at Phainon’s unblinking eyes as the knife remained pressed against his neck. "I... I am completely fine. I am not sick. I am not being held against my will."
"[Name], your voice sounds terrible! Let us in!"
"No!" You shouted, your voice trembling slightly before you caught yourself. "No... please. Go away. Phainon and I... we just want to be left alone. We don't want to work at the archive anymore. We don't want visitors. If you call the police, I will tell them you are harassing us. Please... just go away."
A long, agonizing silence descended on the hallway outside.
"[Name]..." Cyrene's voice was broken, small, and filled with a profound, terrifying grief. "...what did he do to you?"
"Nothing," you whispered against the painted wood of the door. "He didn't do anything. I asked for this."
Footsteps slowly receded down the carpeted hallway. The sound of the elevator doors opening and closing echoed faintly, followed by absolute, suffocating silence.
Phainon waited five full minutes after the hallway fell silent.
When he was certain they were truly gone, he folded the silver blade with a soft click and slipped it back into his pocket. He reached up with his index finger, dabbing the single droplet of blood from his throat, and looked at it with mild curiosity before wiping it onto his shirt.
He rose to his feet, stepping over to where you remained collapsed on the floor, your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your body shaking with silent, exhausted sobs.
"You were wonderful," Phainon whispered, crouching down beside you. He gathered you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly from the floor and carrying you toward the sofa.
He sat down, placing you in his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist, and resting his chin atop your head. He began to rock you gently, back and forth, back and forth, with the slow, rhythmic cadence of a pendulum.
"Now no one will disturb us," he murmured into your hair. "No friends. No jobs. No archives. No opinions. Just you and me. The world outside can burn away, [Name]. We don't need it."
You didn't pull away. You didn't have the strength left to fight. You lay limp against his chest, listening to the heavy, steady, unhurried thrum of his heart—a heart that beat not out of life or passion, but as a mechanical clock counting down the endless seconds of your self-inflicted sentence.
You looked across the dark room toward the small side table.
Sitting on the velvet cushion of the open lacquered box were the two broken pieces of the One Wish Willow. The charcoal-black center of the fractured wood seemed to glint faintly in the gray afternoon light filtering through the blinds.
You realized then that the horror was not that Phainon had become a monster. The horror was that he was still Phainon—his voice was still smooth, his touch was still gentle, his face was still exquisitely handsome—but the soul inside him had been replaced by a singular, unyielding directive.
He loved you. He would always love you.
He would love you when the food ran out. He would love you when the electricity was cut off. He would love you as you sit together in the pitch-black living room, surrounded by steel deadbolts and sealed windows, watching each other fade into nothingness.
Phainon leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath cold and sweet.
"I love you, [Name]," he whispered, his gray eyes shining with an absolute, bottomless light that would never go out. "Tell me you love me too."
You closed your eyes, letting your tears soak into the gray fabric of his sweater.
"I love you, Phainon," you whispered into the dark.
And as his arms tightened around you—locking you so closely against his chest that you could barely draw breath—you knew that you would be saying those words forever.
…. . . -.. .–. / — . …
Additional matters I'd like to address:
Yes the shopkeeper is Madam Herta. How she got her hands on the one wish willow is a story for another day </3
I was contemplating making Phainon kill either of Mydei or Cyrene (but we don't follow canon storyline of course (get it?)) and settled for Snowy in the end (not funny)
He off screens Cyrene for attempting to invade on y'all though (CANON)
It would make sense either way: Phainon using the wish on you or you on him because the former wouldn't be likely I feel like. Phainon's definitely not that type of guy in my opinion (I learnt nothing from watching the movie. In all seriousness, Nikki's behaviour is valid /j)
All breakers (?) are morse code for the real Phainon crying for help because I decided to be a little extra!
Shapeshifter x fem!reader— secret pining on both sides, wall sex, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, couch sex, floor sex, window sex, more furniture sex, shapeshifting during sex, overstimulation, creampie, established relationship by the end
The local shapeshifter in your office was a bit of a known playboy. How could he not be? He could turn into your every fantasy and make your wildest dreams come true.
And he took requests. He’d turn into anything you ask him to. As long as you sucked him off real good in return.
He’s a bit of a douchebag but when he could shape his dick into any form and length he’s kinda earned it. His reputation is legendary around the office, he’s been with nearly everyone. You are one of the few who’ve yet to mess around with him.
They all talked about him like he was some kind of god. But there was one thing they were all curious about that no one had ever seen. His true form. The man was wildly composed and never broke form from the one his partner at the time had chosen.
And whenever someone dares to request his true form, he refuses them immediately. Won’t even look their way for the next few weeks. Letting them and everyone else know there will be consequences to asking such a thing.
“Come on, you got this,” one of your coworkers cheers you on…
While you make coffee. Completely ignoring him.
“You’re the one he wants most. If anyone could get his true form to come out, it’d be you,” another coworker of yours adds on, her excited tone grating on your nerves.
You’ve been over this with them a million times yet they just won’t accept it. It’s not like you’re against sleeping with him, even his work casual appearance isn’t anything to scoff at. He’s sexy in just the way you like. For a human anyway. But no one in your office knows just how big of a monsterfucker you really are.
And if you did fuck him and get him to show you his real form, you’re scared you’ll end up falling for it. As far as you know, that’s the only other thing he absolutely won’t do. Fall in love.
“He only wants me because he’s never had me. Once he does I’d just be another notch on his belt,” you grumble as you jerkily mix your coffee together, using it as a way to distract yourself.
“Yeah but he’s been waiting so long that at least you’ll get to see his real form before that happens,” your male coworker says with a snort.
You laugh with the rest of them, shaking your head. Trying to ignore the interest that snags at your chest.
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Hybrid-Dog!Staker!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Hybrid-Moth!Fem!Reader
X...X...X
18+
It didn't start off as stalking. But hesim didn’t stop it from happening.
X...X...X
Tags: M/F, explicit PiV, dub-con, Call of Duty, Simon “Ghost” Riley/Reader, omegaverse, Alpha!Ghost, Omega!Reader, Stalking, Possessive Behavior, Jon Price, Kyle “Soap” , John “Gaz” MacTavish, PWP, but some world building, bond marks, heats, author has never played Call of Duty, just way to inspired by all the amazing smut about these men, there is so much!, military inaccuracy, shifters/hybrids, no use of y/n, Yandere, Soft!yandere, retired 141
Word Count: 8k+
--AO3 Link--
X...X...X
CH. 1 | CH. 2 | CH. 2.5
It didn't start off as stalking. But he didn't stop it from happening.
Those kinds of things hardly ever start off as manic as they become. Compulsions usually begin as a small voice. Maybe one urgent need to take an action that is only slightly out of the ordinary. A person may resist this voice at first. Shake their head, deny it.
It startles them.
It should.
But many more may cave to them, at least every once in a while. That's not too bad—until it is. Until they're in too deep to back out, and the mania has taken over.
Ghost should have known the moment his hands twisted into a white knuckle grip around the steering wheel that something was wrong. The dashboard lights flash on. It's night, the blast of light usually blinds him. Too many long hours staring endlessly through night vision goggles must have done something to his eyes, he doesn't think much of it anymore, it's why he wears sunglasses past sunset.
But he sits in absolute stillness as they darken and he doesn't even notice. He certainly should have realized it when he slowly pulled out of his parking spot, staring past the waving light of the grocery store casting bright imprints on the rain soaked pavement.
He's looking past the store's glow. Past the haze. Past the other cars and the soaking kid whose been forced out in the downpour to round up the last of the shopping carts before close. The muted red of an old Kia's brake lights are flashing on the same black asphalt. The small, greenish-gray subcompact car moves to back out not so far from his.
He probably couldn't even fit in that car, he thinks. It's an idle, passing thought. He doesn't really care. He'd tuck in his knees and force himself in the driver's seat if he had too.
Maybe that should be another sign. It doesn't matter what his bones say. They don't fit together. Never even could. Her car isn't the only thing too small about her, after all.
Well, at least compared to him.
It's too late now. He's caught a scent and every instinct to find, catch, capture he's been relying on for the last... well, his whole life... won't let him back down. Not when it won't even be a hard hunt and the reward is better than a stiff drink on home soil with MacTavish talking his ear off and Gaz not being any less annoying.
He's not on home soil. In fact, he's not welcome back in England despite all his years of service. There's not enough land in the good country to satisfy all the retired soldiers now they're no longer needed. But the government promised them territory, and territory they got—it was just a little loop hole that they never mentioned where.
141 is all in America now. Still pack, still together. Hell, even all work together. Now instead of handling a rowdy squad, Price has his mits on a rowdy club. Though he actually seems to like the work, even if he hates the music. Kyle serves up a drink called "The Bomb" instead of messing with explosive rounds, and Johnny DJs. Apparently, it's always been a dream of his, now he even dyes his mohawk.
Ghost's with Price. He doesn't like the music either. It's pounding behind him most nights as he checks ids and waves people inside. Not a lot of action as a bouncer of a club that's not in a big city, but occasionally he gets to grab some piss drunk ass and throw them out, which is fun. Being in middle of nowhere Kentucky means sometimes he finds people that have a less understandable accent than Soap. That's always a jolt, especially when they're drunk. Ghost never thought he'd hear shittier English than Scottish English, but America never stops surprising him.
So no, he's not alone. Though Ghost has always been a loner, so he doesn't see them outside of designated hours as often as he should. People keep saying that was bad for him. He would rather "people" mind their own business. Pack included.
There was also therapy provided to him, that was supposed to help him readjust into civilian life. He went. Once.
Though they called three times a week to check in, he's never gone back. As long as the FED's or whoever paid out his contract keeps sending them a check, they don't really care if he comes in. Though they are contractually obligated to say they've been keeping tabs on him.
Ha.
If he wanted to be gone, he'd be gone. They all know it, which is why they haven't sent anyone to his apartment yet for a wellness check. At least when they hit his voicemail, it assured them he was still in town. Albeit, it also told them to leave him the fuck alone.
Right now, doesn't matter if he has or has not been repeatedly assessed for mental soundness. Doesn't matter if he knows every word of therapy jargon some ass in a neat blazer would slowly and politely tell him if he retold the story of what he was doing right now. He knows.
He knows enough about his own triggers to recognize he's already in deep.
Taking a deep breath, he shutters. He can still smell her.
Pelting rain on the roof of his jeep drowns out every coherent thought in his head. He's pulling out a little after the Kia does. Delayed enough to make it appear completely normal, but fast enough to keep an eye on where she's driving. Down the center lane of the parking lot. She turns right, choosing to head towards the exit with the intersection light instead of the other that empties right onto the street.
Always a cautious doll, that's makes him grumble out a good girl under his breath. The streets basically dead at this time, but that doesn't matter either. He wonder's if she's the kind to avoid left turns unless strictly necessary. He can't remember if he's seen her make one. She doesn't seem to like cars very much. Or the rain—though her type wouldn't.
It's not just the accents. The hybrids in this country surprise him too. He's met a lot of strange people in his time, exotic shifters a plenty. Mostly dangerous breeds though, and some rare crosses that he's half sure were genetically engineered, even if he never got a straight answer on that.
In England, most civi's are some kind of sheep shifter. A good number of rabbits and quail too. Prey, most of them.
Most of the American's he's met in his line of work were werewolves, or avians. Eagle shifters and hawks were common enough, and usually efficient. The wolves he never got along well with. They were often too wild for their own good, and had a hard time taking orders from those who weren't their own.
England never had wolves. Still doesn't.
England has foxes and hounds.
Wolves aren't around unless they're shipped in, or a sap inherited the gene from some other European bloodline. Those that do show up, don't stay. Something about the land doesn't suit them, and he knows that because they won't shut up about it.
Maybe that's why they dropped top pack 141 off to America—Royals didn't want a wolf hound on their land longer than they'd paid him to be, even if was born and raised there. Ghost would ask Price about it, but Price would probably never give a straight answer. Hell, maybe he asked to be moved. When Ghost chose to pack up with Price, he chose to stop caring about things like that. Gaz and Soap on the other hand were common foxes. Which is probably why they were so fucking annoying.
Ghost? Well, his family has been shepherds since men made the shift. Border Collies, if he was to be specific. All the men in his family line have been collies, but he's gotten shit for it his whole life. There's a lack of respect for working breeds in his generation. He thanks Lassie for that, and he made sure to prove himself to be anything but a helpful house pet in his time serving.
It also means he has a lot of energy. The military kept him busy and focused. Even though he's trying to settle into a peaceful life, it's not coming to him easy. He spends so much time alone in his apartment he's going to pace a hole in the floor. Nothing has been keeping his attention.
Work feels just a dead as being at home. And no matter how many hours he spent at the gym, he was still left with this buzzing need to do something that running on a treadmill didn't fulfill. The closest thing he gets to scratching that itch, is participating in the neighborhood watch Gaz convinced the pack to join.
He likes their town. Patrolling it makes him feel a little more in control of his life, but it always ends too fast. At first though, he'd been against it.
American civi's are a mixed bag. Prey, of just about every sort, sure. But a lot of big predators that like to take care of their own. They don't take to herding like the British do—it's not the same. Or so he thought.
Then a few months ago, he met her. The woman that's operating that Kia he's following. And all those fixated feelings finally sharpened onto a target.
They'd been slowly circling the roads of the neighborhood. Not too fast, not too slow, keeping an eye out for trouble. It's not just humans and shifters you have to look out for around these parts, but the wild animals too. Sometimes a monster from the deep woods gets a whiff of something tasty in the settlement and ends up on a rampage in rural towns.
This part of Kentucky isn't so far into the hillside, but they still keep a look out. Sightings of big beasts aren't unheard of, though the noise of civilization keeps most wary creatures at bay. They keep a sign on the truck which indicates to anyone who can read that they're part of the P.E.A.R.M. or the Private Enforcers of Alliance Regulated Might.
The members of 141 were now basically deputies without the connection to a single district. Authorized to be armed, and able to make arrests on behalf of citizens, use violent force, and generally act as independent officers. It was a certification they all passed easily, and it gave them a certain extra freedom most citizens didn't have. It was also required by the neighborhood watch they joined, which Price appreciated.
Most of the time the day patrols are quiet. And so are the night ones. This is a peaceful town, and of course it is. They're supposed to be enjoying their retirement in the quiet green countryside after all. This was their reward after a life of death and grimness.
Ghost thinks this is just another form of torture.
When his world changes, it's Sunday. On Sundays just about everything closes in town, including the club, so the whole pack has a lot of spare time. Today is one of the days they've convinced Ghost to come out on a ride with them. They're taking the road a little slower as they near the park, in case one of the kids they hear playing comes suddenly running out of the woods, when a swarm of small insects comes hustling out from between the trees instead.
The bugs look to be in a panic. Rustled up from a good resting spot maybe. Or so he thinks until they descend onto the truck. It's daylight, moths should be dispersing, but this group stays tight together. They land and crawl all over the pack, startling the hell out of Soap who's never been fond of creepy crawlies.
The delicate feeling of these small, dainty creatures all over his forearms does anything but disgust Ghost. They're plain moths, little gray things that are unremarkable to see in this area. But all together the batting of these wings creates the softest air against his skin, like sweet babies' breath. It's a gentle, pleasant feeling. He wants to cusp them in his hands.
Tough talk Soap can't handle it, he's about to squish one before Price tells them all to freeze.
"Do you hear that?" He asks.
Ghost strains his ears, and then he hears it. Besides the soft sound of beating wings, the moths all share one quiet voice.
"HELP!" They are begging as loud as they can, "COME QUICK PLEASE!"
The car is already in park and they're springing to action. These aren't moths, but a panicked swarmer. The pack's demeanor immediately shifts.
"Lead the way." Price demands.
It sounds like there's no time to explain. They'll access when they get to the area. Moths take to flight again, and a trail of them leads them into the park where the problem becomes evident before they even reach playground. The regular sounds of kids rough housing and yelling has turned into real terror. A monster has crept close, likely attracted by the noise of the children and hoping to score an easy meal.
It's some kind of bear demon. Three times the size of a normal brown bear with a twisted maw full of scars. It's a beast of the woods if Ghost has ever seen one, and doesn't take kindly to having its picnic interrupted. The roar it lets out makes his fangs shake, like the reverb of a bomb.
They kill it quickly, and even though it's a fast brutal fight, it's the first time he's felt totally on since they moved here. Claws out, hackles raised, orders followed. It's so easy to fall back into that mindset it almost feels like a crutch.
As the beast collapses, dead or at least near enough, they receive a round of applause from the surrounding civilians, which makes Ghost shift his weight between his feet. Uncomfortable. Why did Americans have to be so loud? And performative...
He draws his face mask up a little higher, just to make sure it's still secure. Technically he doesn't need to cover his face anymore, and in his den he doesn't. But only in his den. Which is more than he allowed himself before. When he was enlisted, he only took the mask of to shower most of the time.
Old habits die hard.
The beast taken down; someone is already calling the emergency hotline to come get the body. After thanking them, parents are ushering their children back to their cars. This day at the park is clearly over.
Ghost isn't paying much attention to them until the moths return.
He's not met many swarmers in his days. Insect shifters aren't nearly as common as their natural counter parts. She reforms when the moths all bundle together and thanks them profusely for listening to her. All Ghost's thoughts stop. All he can think is that she's perfect. Perfect height, perfect build, perfect hair. Perfect. She's talking now, and he has to force himself to listen beyond the pleasant hum of it on the air.
Words, right. She was on a walk when the beast came out of nowhere, she's so glad they were in the area to help before anything too terrible could happen.
Price, good man, tells her to take some credit. Her speed in calling to action saved some lives today. Well, probably. She doesn't take the compliment, obviously bashful and incessantly pushing the praise back onto them. Gaz and Soap are throwing out Lass's and flirty smiles like they weren't about to start crushing her to mush ten minutes ago.
Ghost is staring. And he hasn't stopped staring since.
The first time they met after the incident, it really was an accident. He was at the store looking at the dismal selection of tea, when she grabbed his attention. Normally he'd be annoyed by strangers coming up to him to say hello when he wanted to keep to himself, but his voice got stuck in his throat when saw her again.
She wrapped him up into a pleasant conversation and the whole time he felt like he'd been sucked into a whirlwind. Mostly he responded in grunt of agreement or disagreement, but this didn't seem to bother her much. He learns her name that day, and with it he loses a part of himself. Fate must be fickle; it would have been much better for her if she'd never seen wind or tail of him again.
There's something about her character that he wants to covet.
Is it the way she tilts her head to read boxes in the store? Is it something simple, like her smile? The way she casually shifts to help herself out in mundane ways? All of it? Something more intangible?
He talks to her more, trying to find out. That's all it is at first. He's not following her, he's just curious. He learns the way she drives to work and takes those roads more frequently, keeping an eye out for her little off-green car. He drives by the library and notes where she most often parks—but he never goes in.
She's in his periphery, is all.
He's driving her way again. Around this time, she's supposed to be headed in for her shift. When he got in the car, he told himself he was going to gym. But the gym is on the opposite side of town so now he's just taking the "long way". A very long way.
His timing is superb. He can see her down the street, driving peaceably up the road like she should be. Then the car suddenly jolts and wavers for a moment before she gets it back under control. Traffic slows as she slows down and pulls off as soon as she can. He's intently watching now, though he won't admit outright he's worried.
Compared to him, most everyone seems frail. But when she parks in an abandoned strip mall and looks about to cry, he drums his fingers against the very wheel straining between his hands right now. A moment hesitance, and then flicks his blinker on.
Yes, he acts against his better judgment when he helps her. He doesn't explain why he's in the area and she doesn't ask. It's a small town, and a busy time of day. In her world it's just another happy accident.
They assess the flat and he agrees it needs to be replaced or she's not getting anywhere. The thing is so sunk to the ground it looks like a dark inky puddle under the rubber. Except, that is the rubber. No good. She's so upset a few moths fly around her head in a tizzy.
Cute. He thinks.
It turns out she doesn't even have a jack. There's a spare in the trunk but she doesn't have the tools to take off the flat even if she could lift the car. Her shoulders deflate.
"Stupid of me." She says under her breath, "I know."
"Lucky you I stopped by then." He grumbles and her face lights up.
Too much gratitude, too much sweetness come next and he's glad his mask covers up the red tint he's sporting on his cheeks. He leaves his own car running with the AC and tells her she can sit inside if she likes. He's begging her too so he has something of her in his car. Her scent, a stray hair. But she refuses, insisting that she helps and so he doesn't press it.
It's just a flat, he fixes the car up quick.
"Thank you, Simon." Her slightly breathless thanks nearly sends a shiver down his spine. "Is there anyway I can repay you for this? You really saved me here."
A few blunt words are all he can manage. "Just be careful."
She smiles. "I will. But next time I see you, let me treat you to something, okay?"
"Fine."
There is a light in his eyes when he looks at her. He can't help it. And maybe the moth can sense it too, even if she can't read the rest of his expression under the plain black face mask he still keeps on. It's thin, at least. Thin enough he can scent her through it, and maybe she can make out the way his mouth moves when he talks. She's leaned a little closer to him, and he's trying to look unaffected.
"You've got very pretty lashes." She compliments.
He grunts, taken aback by the compliment. "Just get off to work or wherever you need to be." He dismisses her.
She laughs, thanks him again and waves good bye. He watches her car merge back into traffic before getting back into his.
It would be safe to say, the intent behind his curiosity shifted that day.
They run into each other often. Share a few meals outside between their cars and once he's actually convinced her to sit down in a nearby pub with him. Slowly, he learns his prey. She's a transplant into this town, like him. Well, not like him, but nonetheless she wasn't born in this part of the country. She says she's from the south west, but frankly he's not very well brushed up on American geography. It's dry where she's from she explains, and the summer here is too humid for her. This much he remembers.
He bought her a dehumidifier for her car, and he knows she uses it. Can see the thing glowing on the vent that blows right at her face as she drives past him.
She's perfect. Responsive, and she doesn't even know it. He doesn't need a town to herd if a little flex of his shoulders has a whole damn swarm of moths dancing left to right. It enthralls him.
God above, his head is all over the place. Maybe that's why he's tailing this little thing he can't get his mind off of. Curiosity has turned into something darker. Every free moment he has, he's stalking her around town. He knows it's wrong, but he just can't stop himself.
Today is the last straw. His sanity can't hold out much longer.
They've just run into each other in the store. He's too eager by a mile to be near her, so they keep "just so happening" to bump into each other in places he thinks it's not too weird to reveal himself. The grocery store is the best for that. They meet a lot at the store, gaining a kind of repertoire. She's taken to calling herself his "mate" and openly complimenting his accent when he manages to bark out a few words in her presence.
Mate. What a word to use so causally... At home it didn't sound so serious, but in that flat middle-American cadence, that single syllable has weight. A weight that stirs his blood something fierce when he hears her say it.
He's her mate, he's got to be.
He wants to be that so bad he's practically inserted himself into her daily life already, though she doesn't fully realize it.
His scent is all over her property. Sometimes he shifts and just paces out there instead of inside at his home. Hers already feels like his, really, though he hasn't put that to voice yet. Sometimes he sleeps there, in the back line of trees where the shadows hide him.
That's where he wants to be tonight. He's so riled up, he might lay out there despite the weather. He's got thick fur, and its summer. The rain won't really bother him much...
Her scent is still on his mind, sticking the front of his body where she hugged him at the store. Normally she doesn't have a very strong aura, but today it's like sap and he's sticky with it. The biggest thing keeping him from parking and jogging off into the darkness is the thought that it might get washed off.
Right now, in the rainy reality of his late drive, in his human body, he already knows she's headed that way. He doesn't even need to follow closely to guarantee it. So, he hangs back a bit, takes the long way around to her little two bedroom and plot of land. It's a quaint house, with a clothing line in the back yard and a little garden. Flowers in the front.
He likes that she obviously takes pride in her home.
What he doesn't like is seeing her not inside it when he finally swings around to check on the property. The living room lamp should be on, shining through the curtains. She should be prepping a small snack to eat before she settles down on her sofa to watch some awful racy reality TV show and pick up a knitting project. Instead, she's slumped in the driver's seat, looking strained and out of breath. The door is open, and the one leg she's tried to swing out of the car is soaked through, shoes and all.
The jeep jolts to a stop before he can think better of it.
"Simon?"
She calls his name. It's only then he really processes that he's gotten out of the car. Rain makes his hair stick to his forehead, and makes the cloth mask stick flush to his skin. It's not like the balaclava's he's worn in the military with a waterproof silicate to make it weather resistant. The wet fabric muffles his voice oddly when he does talk.
"What's going on here?" He demands.
Too often he finds her in trouble. Most Americans don't get in trouble this frequently.
"Need to bring in the groceries." She answers. Then laughs. "We were just at the store, remember?"
He's not amused. "I'll bring them in."
"Oh, don't do that. I'm...I'm fine. And I'm not really ready for company right now." She tries to deflect his offer. Her breathing is labored. "The house is a mess."
He's seen through her windows plenty. If her house is a mess than Gaz and Soap live in a horde. Even on the worst day it's a neat place. It's not an acceptable answer anyway, because the inside of her house has nothing to do with the obvious distress she's in right now.
"It's just groceries. I'll get you inside faster."
She hesitates to answer. "Nice of you Si," that nickname always makes his heartbeat a little harder. "but I don't need the help, I promise. I'll get up in a second. What are you doing here anyway?"
"Had another errand and was headed home." The lie is easy. "Live on this side of town too, you know." The second one is more of a stretch. He can get home this way, but it's certainly not the fastest.
Her eyebrows knit and she looks down at her hands. Her skin looks clammy and not just from the humidity.
"Hm. I... I guess so."
"Listen, love." He tries to turn her attention back on him. "Can't get out of the car, can you?" Shamefully she shakes her head. Her small voice about snaps his self-control in two.
"No." She sounds mournful.
"Need me to call an ambu—"
That put a little life back in her. She cuts him off.
"No! No, I'm fine I just... I thought I had more time."
"Time for what?" And in that tone of voice, he won't be refused an answer.
"I guess you can't smell it in the rain." She murmurs. "I'm in heat."
Heat. She's in heat.
The words bounce uselessly around his skull a moment.
"Were you cusping in the store?"
"Shouldn't've been. I was doing alright, until..."
Until she hugged him good bye. Rubbing her tits against his chest and leaving his head swimming with the siren's call of fertility. He knew something was different, but he couldn't put his finger on it. But that's not the part that makes his cock jolt awake.
"Are you saying I spurred you to heat, omega?"
The designation slips from his tongue too easy. He doesn't mean to use it, but he does use it, so a part of him must mean it.
She whines.
"I can help you."
He's always helping her. Waiting in the shadows, watching. He orchestrates things to make her days a little easier. Slowing traffic, or meeting her so that he can herd her to safer parts of town—even though she doesn't realize that either.
She shakes her head. "But I don't want you to help."
He hears her, but he doesn't move. Not an inch. He's soaked through to his bones now and the upholstery in her car isn't fairing much better. He might as well have turned to concrete.
This close, with the puff of her uneven breath enough to stir the thick air in the car he breathes in her. The air is already heady, making his head spin a little. He's leaned down, half in the door half out. His fingers flex around the top, nails digging into the fabric of the ceiling. A cord within him tightens, tension increasing and he's not sure what he'll do if it snaps.
Her eyes are watery from emotion, already wet lashes flash up slowly when she finally looks at him. His darkening gaze is boring a hole through her head. Intent, listening. She's basically told him to leave, but he can't make himself do it.
He's not sure he can anymore, he's in too deep. Just as his thoughts tick darker, her voice pulls him back.
"I want you to mate me." She finishes after a long, baited silence. "And that's not fair, I don't even know if you like me like that. And I'm not trying to scent bully you into anything. You're a nice man, Simon, and I really like you, but..."
A nice man! She thinks he's a nice man.
He grabs her head quickly, the hand motion snapping. Shock flickers across her face, but she melts when his mouth presses against hers. It's fast, just a pressing of his covered face against hers. It's enough to get his point across.
"You want my mark, doll?" Voice pure gravel. He can barely say the words.
"Yes." She gasps back.
"Then I'm going to mark you." He declares.
He decided he wanted to a while ago. Saying it to her face though, feels surreal.
"Really?" She asks him that like she's the one that feels like she's dreaming.
"Give me your keys, and stay there." He orders. "I'll be back."
"Alright." She clumsily presses her keys into his hand and he quickly get's moving.
His head is thrumming. He couldn't have asked this to work out better if he'd penned out every action himself. Maybe Price is right, and he should start going back to church. His mother was Catholic. Church was a good way to get into a community, especially when he has pups. Pups need exposure, and...
Hm. He's getting way to ahead of himself.
Not now, obviously he wasn't in rut, but the thought adds a determined gait to his step. He hardly even notices the rain as his mind races. Would the boys be collies? Would they have a cross? Moths are fuzzy, maybe they'll look like her in his colors, wouldn't that be something.
Well, the only way to find out would be to try. That part he's more than happy to get started on.
He goes to the front door to unlock it before heading back to the car to get the groceries and trying to get a hold of himself. Now at least he understands why she was buying so much water, and snack food. But there isn't a lot. In a trip the goods are inside, and now it's time to get them inside.
Easy mission.
She opens the door again as he approaches, already getting up and taking a shaky step onto slippery wet pavement.
"I think I can walk now—oof!" She makes a startled noise when he picks her up with one arm. With the other the car door shuts and he hits the button to trigger the alarm in one fluid movement. Her arms wrap around his neck as he swings her between his arms bridal style.
A squeak leaves her, just audible over the thunder. "Simon, I said I can walk!"
"And I told you to stay put."
"But—"
Ghost sighs. "Just listen to me, woman."
"I don't like being called woman." She mutters back, arms going a little tighter around his neck.
And I'd liked you to stay out of trouble. He thinks. But that's probably not going to happen.
"And I don't like standing out in the rain. Don't get everything we like, do we?"
How mad can he be when she rubbed her nose into his neck. He almost can't hear her voice over the rain. "I'm sorry. You're always helping me and I'm such a mess."
"Look like a mess about now too." He teases.
"Will you... will you mess me up more?" She asks as they step across the threshold of her quaint home.
Of course, her scent already permeates every inch of this space. He'd noticed when he put the bags down. He tried not to let it distract him, but now with this beacon of radiating desire in his arm, it's like the entire house rises up to seduce him.
He can't wait.
Any thoughts of getting her out of these clothes and warmed up before her heat takes over fly out his head. He'd intended on asking if she's already started nesting. Let her into her room. Maybe prep some food while being tortured by her needy scent calling every nerve in him to touch her. You know, do this the right way.
No.
The sofa is nearest. Her back hits it the cushions and she let out a surprised huff. He leaves her there just long enough to stalk over to the wide-open curtains and slam the shut. He's on her before she can even sit up again.
Hands everywhere. Down her sides and sliding under her knit sweater, touching a soft cotton t-shirt instead of skin. He practically growls as he pulls the tuck out from under her jeans. Up and over her head go both of them, he wants her skin bare. Now.
She moans when his hands cusp her breasts with both hands, her chest pressing into his touch. His hands slip upwards quickly though, too greedy for their own good. She no better. He doesn't refuse her grip when she slips her fingers into the scruff of his hair, scratching at his scalp and bringing their heads together.
A breathless question passes her lips. "Do I get to see your face?"
"I'm a bit a mess under this mask." He admits into her eyes. "A bit scarred, you know."
"Simon, I don't care, I want to kiss you."
The mask had become a part of him. He'd lost the skull when they retired, but the black was like a familiar friend. He didn't like people looking at him, he didn't like hiding a scowl. Didn't care for the stares he got because of his scars. It was a bother.
He ripped it off so fast, he startled himself.
She didn't get a chance to see his face before he answered her desire. A press of lips to lips, her mouth yielding to him. Her body yields too, grinding into the press of his hips over hers. The hardness of his cock trapped by his pants straining to make contact with the needy hole separated by three measly layers of fabric. Her wetness stains his clothes already, she must have seeped through her pants in the car.
"Wait." She gasps, but her lips are his and he's not letting her go. "Let." He takes her breath again. "Me look at you."
He doesn't comply to that one, instead tracing a sloppy line down her neck, nose pressing into her shoulder. She shudders when his teeth just brush her skin teasingly.
"I want to fucking eat you alive, doll." He admits.
"Hm, bite me then." She moans. "I trust you."
He clenches his jaw just a moment. She really must, she has no idea how crazed he is for her. How close he always is. He's called "Ghost" for a reason, if he doesn't want to be seen, he won't be. But maybe his constant presence has done something to her omega, made her more susceptible to him now.
If she was more conscious, she'd have more questions. His doll isn't dumb. She'd be suspicious and rightfully afraid. But the fact in the depths of her hind she yearns for and trusts him... He almost does it. His teeth throb, he feels the burning desire of bonding venom pulsing into place. He could. He could do it right now.
But this isn't how he's fantasized sinking his teeth into her. He wanted her to beg for it, to be as needy as he's been. She's not nearly wrecked enough for his liking.
"Not yet." He admonishes her while she whines.
"You're always there when I need you, don't you just want to take me, alpha?" She ask-begs. Maybe she's further into heat than he thought, she's practically babbling. "I want you, I want to be with you always."
"I've got you already." He takes hold of himself, then chastises her. "Tease."
"I'm not teasing, I want you." she mumbles. "You're the one teasing me with your teeth right now—"
She cuts herself off with a playful squeak when he threatens her shoulder with his teeth again and a pointed roll of his hips. "Apologize, omega. You've teased me since the first day we met. You're going to take what I give you, and you're going to be patient."
Fingers drag against his scalp again. His omega is compliant.
Her head rolls back and she moans, "Mhm, alpha, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for teasing you."
"Then make it up to me, doll." Ghost goads, "If you're really sorry."
"Well," the words come out slow, hind brain doesn't like language, "what do you want?"
"A taste of this cunt." A short, frank answer.
She laughs. "Aren't I slick enough?"
The scent on the air says yes. That's not good enough for him.
He shifts to slip a hand between them and cups her mound over her pants. She moans again, grinding herself into his palm. His touch says yes too—he already knew it. But he wants to be flooded by her, to finally indulge himself in what he's been so, so patient for.
"Take these off before I rip them off." He demands, but they're both scrambling to remove her pants mid-way through his sentence. Her underwear must be peeled off, it's stuck so flush with her skin. They're thrown elsewhere. He'll probably hunt them down later, but for now a more tantalizing treat is spreading her legs before him. It's dim, a single lamp in the other room casting enough of a yellow glow to let him see how she drips for him.
He sits back, loathing the loss of skin contact, but quickly repositions them. Her legs thrown over either shoulder and he hooks her around the thighs to drag her core to his face. The upper half of her body hangs down and her hands reach up to grab his forearms tightly.
He descends before she can protest. Whatever shock she has at the change in position is lost in the surprised yelp she makes once his tongue is on her. He's ravenous for her taste—how many nights has he dreamed about her slick on his tongue? It coats his face now; it pours from her in heat with the consistency of a faucet and he drinks it.
If he was drunk on her scent, he'd delirious now. Taking as much as he can, afraid it won't last but knowing he'll never go without again. His thumb moves over to thrum against her clit. She bucks, and moans, a light orgasm rippling up her back. It's almost like he blacks out after that, just barely holding onto the satisfaction of being here.
He keeps going, until she trembles in his arms. Hips buck, her fingernails dig into his skin, leaving marks—maybe even scratches—but he doesn't relent. She's tight and wanting and he can't wait to stick his knot deep in her, to make her jolt and squeeze on his length like this. Then he hears her break. A sob cuts through the rest of the pleasure noises, overstimulated and wet. Her body shivers.
"Please Simon, please stop!" She begs, "just fuck me, I can't take it anymore! I need—ah!"
She gasp-moans as he slaps her cunt lightly. She's made his fingers sticky, slick pooling in his palms. It splashes when he slaps her, making a lewd wet sound.
"Beg me better." He demands, feral for it. "Beg for my knot."
"I—" she makes an incoherent pleasured sound. "c-c-can't think."
"Don't think. Beg."
She pants deliciously. "Alpha." She whines.
He unhooks an arm, letting his hand trail down her chest and over the low of her stomach, pressing hard. She bucks up into his hand, a terribly delicious throaty moan echoing between his ears. She might have cum just a bit, and it's not enough. Her eyes roll back, her chest presses up into the air, but she needs more. Heat hits too high to be soothed by something as clean as his touch now.
The words rip out her after she moans, "Breed me hard, alpha. Stuff me full, never let me off. I want you to gouge me," her voice breaks, "please. Please, give me your knot. I need it, I need it so much. Please! Please?" The last is tinged with desperation.
He loosens his grip so she slips back onto the cushions with a huff. But he's quick to crawl back over her. Her wet, barely lucid eyes look up at his face her hands grace his cheeks lightly. It's a sweet touch, it just makes him want her more. Their mouths meet with a roughness she doesn't expect but consents to. Her hands moving lightly around his neck and her mews of pleasure.
His hands are busy undoing his belt buckle and throwing that into the same nowhere her underwear has disappeared to. He breaks away just long enough to unzip his pants and free his member, watching her flush, blown out expression with rapturous attention.
Nakedness can come later, right now he's too impatient to be parted for the period of time it would take for him to slip out of his pants and rip his shirt off.
Cockhead teasing her entrance, she keens, words gone now. He savors the first push of his hips, putting a hand on her stomach to feel himself fucking into her as she practically curls up around him. Her legs hook around his back, and while a part of him wants to hold her down and fuck her in that wild rough way that will make her never forget that she's his from now on, when her arms curl around his neck and press him into a sensual needy kiss, he slows. Even, brutal thrusts make her quake and kiss him with a lulling grind of tongues and lips.
His knot is already catching on her walls and she milks him so tight it's like she already wants it. "Jesus, love." He moans.
She whimpers back, "Knot, alpha. Please..."
And he is. He's so on the edge the heat of it is burning him alive. The throb isn't just in his balls but his teeth. He can't care if it's sick of him to want this, if he's taking advantage. He wants this now. He refuses to fix his lips to hers again, forcing her head back so she can bare herself to him.
His mouth spreads and he can fit her whole neck in his mouth. A possessive curl is so satisfied by that, he bites down before he can think too hard about it. A bond mark that's settled basically on her jugular. If he squeezed too hard he could kill her, it wouldn't even be difficult. That's where he wants her mark, to remind them both who owns her life.
When he pulls back, he's come down a little with the force of those thoughts, initially worried. Even through the white-hot rush of coming and a fresh bond. It's not a normal bite, he's not a normal man. She deserves a nicer bond mark. But instead of trying to push him off or feeling any inkling of unease through the tenuous new connection he's made, she tightens around him.
"Yes!" She hisses between her teeth. "Yes, thank you!"
He relaxes. Naughty doll likes it a little rough.
Panting, she pulls his head up from her neck and kisses him with such love and longing he might cum again. Involuntarily his hips buck and they both let out a shaky breathy moan. He likes the quick little squeeze her cunt does when he rocks into her with his knot, so he does it a few more times as the minutes pass. He's not in rut, so it deflates quickly.
"Next time I want you to present for me, omega."
"Yes, alpha." She purrs sleepily. "All yours to breed. Feel so good, thank you... thank you..."
He holds her a little closer. "That's right. Good girl."
"I'll bite you... in my... nest..." she mutters almost incoherently.
His hand brushes reverently over her hair. The soft ease of her satisfied breathing beside him pulls out the same rabid ease, that feeling all those wings and delicate little legs on his skin had pulled unbidden from the depths of his person when they met. It's a paradoxical feeling. So pleasant and yet it brings out a ferocious hunger to the surface of his psyche that's consuming and primal.
He wants to feel that again, maybe he'll ask her about it when the heat between them passes. As he thinks that, a single moth seems to appear from nowhere, slowly flying around them until it rests on his arm. It's wings gently flap twice, slow and sedated and he goes so completely still. The creature dissipates into his skin and a pleased sound rumbles his chest as his new mate snuggles a little closer to him.
Fucking perfect.
His phone is the car. He'll have to get it later. The pack would be happy to find out he's finally pinned down a mate. Happier still it's that sweet thing that led them to a good fight. An omega with good instincts (most of the time) and cute to boot. Doesn't matter if Gaz and Soap have been shacked up for years, they'll still be green as apples when they hear the news. He almost chuckles to himself.
It was dangerous to let himself in. But he'd already allowed himself too much. There was no going back now. Not that he wants to. Especially not with the thrum of bonding keeping him alert and a need for more already brewing in his stomach.
He might be territorial and a bastard. He might be gruff and mean. He might do things that will scare her one day.
He might be a stalker.
But... what she doesn't know, won't hurt her, right? Everything worked out in the end. As long as his little moth stayed close to his flame, she'd never have to worry about anything ever again. He'd make sure of it.
After all, he's always watching.
This is the first of two chapters, the second of which will be coming out soon. I think in a day or two, but we'll see!
I don't have any plans to continue this story, but I only planned on it being one chapter until I got a comment on A03 that inspired me to write more. So if you have an ideas (about anything really), leave a comment or shoot me an anonymous ask! My inbox is open.
Hope you enjoyed and be well my self indulgent friends.
dragon shapeshifter boyfriend can't keep himself sheathed around his little mate. what was supposed to be an innocent test ride on his back became dangerous -- fast.
he didn't have to be a large dragon to easily loft her onto his back and into the air. His skin was tough but smooth, he must not be too sensitive there, since he's got what look like sleek armored scales trailing the tips of his spine and shoulders.
Wrong.
Dragon riding is not a thing of friends. In her excitement, she didn't ask about the cultural implications of flight. It seemed too childish a question when one was offered the rare opportunity to fly.
She kept laughing, and smiling at him, so he kept saying yes. Until, before he knew it, he was encouraging her to let him take her on his high loop around the island.
Her squeals of awe found his ears through the roaring wind. Each time she went quiet, he cut low around a cloud. When she hollered, he tore them straight through the next patch of fog. She coughed and sputtered on a mouth full of mist. Gasping for breath, laughter rolled out of her like fresh thunder.
Each time he swooped and came back up, her weight shifted around and jeopardized his attention on altitude. The softest skin at the center of her legs squeezed around him, urgent, insistent. Desperate. She clung to him for dear life, trusting him as they ripped through infinite darkness.
They barely knew each other, and yet, here she was. Holding her wet core to the scaled apex between his shoulders. It's where wings would have been, if dragons still had a need for them. Eons of magical evolution made them useless in some wingless creatures. And for others, their purpose changed.
Ribbons of pleasure fluttered along his spine where she touched his most sensitive scales. She exclaimed and shifted, leaning toward to point at a glittering skyscraper, and clenched. Her most intimate muscles moved against his and he stumbled. Air caught him under his legs and they dropped suddenly.
She clenched again in fear. He apologized and leveled out, wanting to test her now. If he kept straight and steady, she rocked and clenched against the ridge between his shoulders. His eyes blurred and he nearly lost control again. If he wanted to keep her safe during this experiment, he couldn't lose control. So he took it back.
He became the undulation for her. Rocking himself under her like a wave. She was still laughing, but biting her lip. A different type of fear hitched in her voice. Excited and afraid. Exactly where he wanted her.
Another rumble sent chills across her skin and he became suddenly aware she should have been wearing her warmest layers. He told her to hold tight and rushed back to the nearest cave. Whoever's cave it was, they left the fire burning. They won't be gone long, but he only needed a moment so she wouldn't be at risk of losing a toe.
One arm gripped her to his side to slip her back to solid ground beside the modest campfire. She lost her hold on him and all of her weight swept along the muscled groove where his hip met his torso. Her feet stumbled over his clawed toes.
She must have been speaking in apologies, he thought, because her cheeks did the wonderful blushing again.
Mud and spit covered his brain. She was standing so close. He stood around her to reflect the fire's heat against her fresh skin with his metallic scales. His eyes focused on the bead of sweat at her temple.
He'd reached out to taste her without warning. Without thinking. She gasped when it met his tongue. Her eyes went wide but she didn't flinch. "Oh, wow..." She wasn't sure what to make of him...
Her salts hit his senses like snow rolls down a mountain. He was drunk on her at one sip, with hardly enough sense to steel himself. She was jasmine and juniper and eager twilight breeze. She couldn't help but react as he inhaled deeply, craning in to nuzzle the crook of her neck. She shuddered into him with peaking breasts.
She swelled against him where he hardened. His hot breath fanned her chest and she leaned fully into his massive chest. Gods he's soft in the strangest way. Like beaded silk. Her hands swept unsurely over his ribs, landing surely over his heart. Her tiny hands closed over one side of his chest as he rumbled with pleasure. She felt it from her nose to her toes. It blew air on the campfire inside her.
A warm nudge at her belly shifted her attention away from his solemn face. He couldn't move himself away in time. She saw all of him.
She gasped and held her gaze. She didn't want to waste a second of her beautiful unsheathed shifter. The smooth complex ridges at his lower abdomen had expanded to reveal his manhood. A part of him that was more male than dragon, and at her attention. If her blush was peachy before, it was blood red now.
A smooth shaft with a thick base of ridges in a decadent gradient of metallic silver and white. The sight of him set her to tightening; wondering if she could fit him. Wanting so badly to try.
"Oh, my," she mouthed. Not only was he the most wonderful man she'd ever met, he also has the most beautiful cock she can imagine.
Chef! reader who works for a seafood restaurant and Octopus shifter! König
König likes the cute chef buying fresh supplies straight from the fishermen by the shore.
so he snuck up into one of the crates that you already purchased. The drive didn't take that long but the constant rocking of the crate on the back of your car pulled König into a light nap.
Only for him to be woken up violently when you pulled him from the crate to wash his entire octopus frame hastily. Dawn breaking as you prep ingredients before the restaurant opens in a few hours.
You held him down and König is frozen from confusion for a moment while your hand grabs his bulbous head. Watching Thick meaty tentacles lazily slithering before you pulled out your giant cleaver and that's when König realizes. He is going dead meat if he doesn't do anything.
So he quickly shifts back to his human form, panicking and surprising you. You almost dropped the knife on König himself when he appeared naked, large frame cramped on your working station. His limbs flailing and knocking down your tools, causing a ruckus and making you panic because what the fuck
König's eyes are wide upon meeting yours. Too awkward to look apologetic so he just stared at you. You try to make sense of what happened before realizing that one of the octopus you bought from those fisherman is probably a shifter. You didn't even know how it got caught and contained for that long without making itself known.
Sighing, you placed your cleaver down before helping König off of your already ruined chopping board. Everything needs to be washed and disinected after this but for now, you need to get König somewhere and give him some clothes. It might not hurt the business if the restaurant opens a few hours late. Granted, your coworkers will question you for it but that's for later.
Right now, you have a naked octopus man just staring at you as you pushes him into the staff room. König on the other hand is just glad he didn't get himself chopped. Bonus points for having the cute chef leading him somewhere private.
Due the amount of links in the mixed monsters masterlist, the short stories and imagines are now here. You can check the long stories in this masterlist.
Shorts/imagines
Game night
Gargoyle
Were cat
Merman
Shadow monster
Lamia
Naga boyfriend
Parasite
Goblin
Rattlesnake naga
Death do us (apart)
Sexless monster
Hole in the wall (lab2)
Robot boyfriend
Naga girlfriend (chubby fem!reader)
Owl harpy
Centaur vore (male!reader)
Zombie
Gnoll girlfriend (trans!fem reader)
Male!fairty
Merman (chubby fem!reader)
Tarantula-drider
Coming home (centaur)
Shape-shifter
Were-Cane Corso (x fem!lioness)
Traveling monsters || part 2
Auctioned
Professor-fucker (naga)
Trapped in him (slime-monster)
Yeti boyfriend
Drider
Stung by you (insect-monster)
Switch-ing (insect-monster)
Tickle-monster (fem!orc x fem!reader)
Monster sandwich (vampire x goblins x fem!reader)
Praying hands (angel x fem!high priestess reader)
Daycare centaur teacher
The horniess of chimera
Centaur wedding
As close as possible (naga-constrictor x fem!reader)ç
Lizardman friend to boyfriend
What lurks in the shadows
Gnoll girlfriend
Shifter partner
Don’t run away from dark fairies (Male!fairy x fem!fairy reader)
Fairy-dust and orgasms (Fairies x gn!reader)
Without permission (succubus x gn!reader)
HRT (fem!centaur x transfem!reader)
Soup-hater (merman x fem!reader) [SFW]
Electrified love (Rattlesnake naga x electric eel naga x fem!reader)
Pouty rock (gargoyle x fem!reader)
Long day (monster under the bed x fem!reader) [SFW]
Centaur heat (centaur x transmasc!reader)
A fucking goddess (Goblins x fem!reader)
Hunger for you (Gnoll x gn!reader)
Repent for your sins (Fem!fae x vampire fem!reader)
Cold yeti dick
I do not consent to have any form of reproduction, replication, or translation of my stories without my explicit consent. This includes reposting my stories on other websites, platforms, etc.
something blue hits the road, and they pull over. inside the blanket is a small cat — shaking, silent, and far too used to being left behind. they take her home without questions. she stays close to the fire. stays small. brings them gifts in the only way she knows how, until she learns she doesn’t have to earn kindness. they keep her. and one evening, safe in familiar hands, she changes.
how it started
sudden changes
@cursed-carmine thank you for your pretty dividers🫶🏻✨
summary: A search for poisonous flowers leads you deep into the woods during a storm. With no other option but to find shelter, you settle for a dry cave. Unfortunately, it’s already inhabited by a formidable creature.
word count: 1,884
author's note: this was my favorite one to write. I am on a Fourth wing kick so... dragon eris. Lowkey fourth wing and everything is the same but its me and instead of xaden I fuck my dragon. This is dragon and princess though!! @sjmromanceweek
{Tags: smut, dragonshifter!Eris, Princess!reader, light breeding kink, daddy issues but its both of them, rough sex, forced proximity ofc, eris nervous about mating bond, virgin reader, x reader, no y/n}
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You had definitely strayed too far from the path this time. You had no choice, though. Oleander was nearly out of season, and you only needed a few more clumps of the soft pink petals, enough for a rich tea, and your father would be as good as dead.
The ground was soft and muddy beneath your slippers. Deadly at this altitude, and the rain was only getting heavier. The Sidra would be swollen and torrential by the time you turned back, and far too dangerous to cross.
But you had no choice. Brushing thick drops from your eyelashes, you continued on until a spattering of rosy pink flowers revealed themselves beneath a soaked bush. Gently, you plucked them and stuffed the blooms into the boning of your dress. The modiste had refused to sew pockets into your dresses, as a proper lady should never need to carry anything in them. That was one reason, but you knew the other. The King wanted you utterly helpless. And that was why you had to kill him.
A few hours ago you would have worried about searchers finding you tromping through the woods. Now you were certain no one could find you.
For a moment, it was comforting. But only for a moment. Ahead, thunder cracked and the mountainside shook, loosening boulders the same size as yourself. You had to find shelter. Quickly.
The sky had ripped open, gusts of wind bringing down a flood of rain that showed no signs of stopping. What wasn’t mud was loosened rock, and both were dangerous.
The mountain opened up into the mouth of a yawning cave. It seemed you had no choice in anything anymore. This was the safest place you could have come across.
Dry. That was all that mattered. You kept one hand on the wall, using it to guide you deeper into the dark until you no longer felt the chilly wind clawing through your wet dress.
Again, the mountain shook. This time though, there was no thunder to shake the ground. No, this was coming from inside the mountain.
Fear curdled away the feeling of luck until it became sour. Boom, boom, boom. A series of horrible thumps sounded. They grew louder, meaning they were coming closer.
Every fable read to you by your beloved mother flicked through your mind in grand procession. A harpy? No, this was too big. A gryphon? No, they hated high altitudes. It must be… a mountain troll. They were huge, but also stupid. You flattened yourself against the cavern wall. It could walk right past you if the rain muddled your scent.
Boom, boom, boom. Something glinted deep within the tunnel. A flash of bronze, like the swords and shields of the fallen soldiers that served your father. Hot steam sailed past your face as you came face to face with something that was certainly not a mountain troll.
Bigger. Covered in copper scales like large flattened coins. Its eyes were shiny amber stones, and you felt trapped within them. A dragon. A real one. It couldn’t be anything but real of course, and yet it felt strange to witness.
“Foolish girl, where do you hail from that you do not know to stay in your village?”
No voice shook the mountains, as you might have expected. The powerful baritone echoed only in your mind, like some strange magic.
Words failed you. Utterly. What excuse could you make to appease a beast of this size?
The dragon huffed a breath, its snout leveling itself at your breasts and breathing deep. A low laugh rumbled through your head. “You intend to poison me? With a handful of dainty blossoms. You shall have to try much harder.”
“They aren’t for you.” the words did not come out fiercely, merely a quiet murmur. Maybe it was not wise to correct him…
“Who are they for, then? Some playmate who upset you?” Sarcasm. You were used to being mocked.
“No,” it took all your strength to say, “it’s for my father. The King.”
The reptilian beast had no fur or hair or feathers, but some ridge along its eye gave the impression of being raised. “Curious.” He- it?- no, certainly he- considered you for another long moment. “What has he done to earn your ire?”
It seemed for the moment you were not in immediate danger, but it was best not to allow yourself relief. “Firstly, he did not tell me this cave was inhabited.”
Another laugh rolled through like thunder. “A grave injustice to you indeed.”
You were stuck here now, but maybe it wasn’t so bad. The dragon was excellent company. “I am to be married and shipped away to a man I have never met, nor written. Some ways away in Rask.”
The dragon stilled, then blew an irritated puff of steam through his nostrils. “That is regrettable indeed, small one.” His body crouched, haunches retreating a little ways back to allow you further entrance. “Perhaps this meddlesome storm was a blessing, if only to delay this.”
He was welcoming of you, then. You followed after, deeper into the cave. It grew dryer and warmer, the stone containing this massive creature’s heat. “It will delay it for sure, but my arrangement is inevitable. I am a prize,” you drawled sarcastically. “A princess with considerable dowry, and my virginity intact.”
Curiosity lit his big eyes. “Is that still what humans seek? Not love? Not compatibility?”
“Human males,” you corrected. “They are the problem.”
“And what if you were not… a virgin.”
Where exactly this was going… you could only imagine. “I suppose they would reconsider my worth in a partnership.”
“I could remedy this for you easily.”
“Absolutely not.” Yes, you imagined this conversation correctly. “You’re…” The words escaped you, but a vague gesture to his size and shape and ridiculous offer should be understandable enough.
“Worry not, small one, it is in a dragon’s blood to ravage poor little princesses.” The words came out a seductive tease as he lowered his great copper head until he was within an arm’s length. “I promise to be oh so gentle with you.”
Your nerves bubbled. A dragon was offering to fuck you. To ruin you wholly. And, it was the perfect escape. For you would not be virginal, and who would think to question such a terrifying memory of conquest? “I don’t even know your name-“
“Eris,” he crooned, “hailing from the Vanserra lineage.”
“But you’re so-“
“Big? I said not to worry, I can amend that.”
Light flared so bright you had to both shut your eyes and cover them with your hands. The dragon’s- Eris’s- body shifted and shrunk until a man stood before you. He had lost the copper scales, but his hair was of the same forge-fired color. The great horns he had worn still rose from the long length of it. His body was toned and lithe, every bit as powerful as his other form. And he was starkly naked.
Standing proudly at his hips was a cock the color of molten bronze, lined with soft spines that you had no doubt served some profane purpose. “I like the way you look at me, small one.” Out loud now, he spoke. His tease was every bit as deep and soothing as the voice in your head had been.
A brief silence passed as Eris waited for you to say something. Anything, really. Nothing came. But he could smell it. The light scent of your arousal found him and his lips bent into a smirk at the corners. “We have no choice but to wait out this tempest. Let us at least accomplish something as we do.”
He was beautiful, wasn’t he? And this was exactly the way out that you so badly needed, the kind you had spent weeks praying for, to any god who would listen. It seemed the gods of lust were the only available to answer that particular prayer.
“You will be gentle?”
His eyes softened. “Infinitely so.”
“Very well.” It would not do to wait, to allow yourself a second guess. A bit further into the cave was a pile of dry, soft furrs, and in a few steps you were laying yourself out like a fine feast.
“You really are a princess,” Eris mused, following after to kneel at your feet. “Shall I ask for the honor to undress you? Or would you prefer I fetch a ladies’ maid?”
“You shall do just fine.” It was becoming hard not to smile at his strange flirtation. His charm. He was right to be named after a sewer of discord with a plan like this.
Eris arched one perfect brow, then slowly peeled off your wet scrap of a dress. One hand perched beside your head, the other at the small of your back, arching your hips into the position he liked. The reddened tip of his cock brushed your entrance.
“I never expected a beast’s rutting to be so polite.” You couldn’t help the taunt.
Eris’s grin turned lopsided. “Dragons happen to be very refined beasts. A woman like you though… I am tempted to stray from the customs of polite society…”
Maybe, just maybe, you were very into this. “Far be it from me to deny you. To deny us both.”
His eyes went dark. “Ask me again, little princess, and I will give you everything you wish for.”
“Please.”
It took no groveling. Eris’s impatience showed as he filled you with one fell swoop. His movements were not cruel, but they were hungry. Deep, resonant strokes passed every barrier your body had to give until you were melting apart beneath him.
“What an honor it is to ruin your marriage,” he purred, pushing you deeper into the bed of furs.
Your answering moans only spurred him on. In and out, ebbing like the flow of the tide only to force his way back in until each thrust guided him straight to your cervix.
“Shall I give you a babe, as well? Watch their faces redden in anger when I keep you prisoner in my caves.”
Your stomach tightened, hot pleasure bubbling in your core. He knew exactly how to push, how to render you silent and oh so loud all at once.
Deeper. Harder and faster. One taloned thumb brushing along your clit. Eris played your body like a fiddle until you were gripping his horns for purchase and silencing your own cries with his kiss.
A climax overcame you, and the clenching of your muscles had a string of curses pouring from his lips. Hot, silky cum flooded into your womb.
The pleasure felt as if it would never end. And it wouldn’t. Not for a long while, at least. The soft spines that spanned his cock released and hardened until Eris was fully locked inside.
Eris panted through the last sparks of his climax. “You are comfortable?”
“Yes,” you answered breathlessly. Even so, he tucked your bodies under the soothing dryness of the furs.
“Dragons are fussy over their mates…” he murmured.
“Mates? We’re mates now?”
A coppery blush colored his high cheeks. “Well… I… I suppose that would be-“
It was your turn to cut him off now. “I think I might like that.”
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