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Machina X Flayon said that he would buy the costume himself, and it arrived on his doorstep with no issue. As he huddled it close, it squished against his breasts which brought on a warm feeling in his chest, it was like when his son demanded to be carried everywhere. Nudging the door closed with his foot, he scuttled through the living room, eyes darted around, the family photos on the restored T.V cabinet, and the chandelier hung like an anvil above his head. His head poked into the kitchen, The dishes will remain in the sink until seven in the evening on a Wednesday, or otherwise, eleven thirty most nights. If you asked him what he thought of this arrangement, he wouldn’t make a positive or negative judgment, it was as neutral as the act itself - it had to be done and it was. It was simple, quaint even. Oh yes, he lived a very quaint existence with a house, dog, son, husband all made up the hustle and bustle of his daily routine. It amused him while driving - purposefully to and from school, the grocery store, the other school for ballet practice - that he wasn’t unfulfilled by his small existence. He started out just like Procyon, a little dog that yapped and bit at Bettel's ankles for attention. Uttered "Bettel, I'm very fond of you" in front of strangers, showed a bit too much skin for a polite jester's considerate gaze. If Machina X Flayon was guilty of anything, it was being possessive.
He turned and ascended the creaky stairs to the master bedroom.
His package was placed on the bed and imagination ceased. His tail sliced through the tape like a box cutter and he drew upon unused strength to draw out the flaps. Beneath the neat bubble wrap and tissue paper was smooth fabric between his fingers, His iridescent eyes scanned every detail as he held it up from its container, resulting in the realisation that it was worth the money and wait for it. He nodded, setting it back down in its cardboard home, it was perfect. Yet, the flavour of satisfaction lingered bitterly on his tongue, something wasn’t right, not guilt, but an emptiness, only exacerbated when he held up the purchase before his criticising gaze.
He kissed his teeth, if there was one thing he hated, it was the razor-sharp precision he has in discerning his own mood. It served him well in most of his life, however it becomes exhausting when he’s aware of how upset he was but wasn’t ready to do anything about it. There was something wrong with him. He sighed, he was too old to feel like this. Nor, at the moment did he have time, because he was supposed to be attending something in the next forty minutes with his husband, and he hadn’t even finished getting ready.
It all started with that damn Blind Guardian shirt.
“Careful Bettelbear…” He teased, long feminine claws wrapped around his husband’s length. The slow drawl of his girly speech mismatched his hard and fast pumps, Bettel’s precum coated his cock, dripped all the way down to his white pubes and made it easy for Flayon to jerk him to orgasm. Bettel’s fingers dug into the spaces between his, he felt how Bettel’s arm was straining, shaking trying to resist. Each needy gasp only locked Bettel down to his own ruin. “Don’t wanna ruin this shirt, right?”
“Flaybaby-” He gasped, “-Wait, Flay!” Beautiful androgynous lips expelled a pleasured sigh, “Oh god-!”
Hot semen suddenly covered the pilot’s hand, and he grinned like a demon. As he went to climb on top of him, he retracted, the man in front of him looked more exhausted than he should’ve.
It was something to quickly spice up their sex life, a spur of the moment idea from Flay as he didn’t want to have a consulting round over which new toy they should buy (and how to hide the package). And life went on. Their son went to school, Phantom taken for walks, jobs worked, bills paid, and time rolled onto itself as the ocean does as it becomes the shore.
One Tuesday afternoon, Flayon had a guest over. The mechanic that worked on the R-TRUS propped himself up on a tall ladder and took to adjusting the canopy on the chandelier in the living room. Flayon’s eyes glazed over it, he and Bettel had argued over and over, either get rid of it or repair it because it was one of the things that drew them to this house – vintage of course. It swung just too much when Bettel was upstairs, absorbed in his work. When he relayed this to his husband, his tone changed from ‘sure we’ll fix it,’ to ‘destroy the whole thing’ in less than a minute.
“Princess, I think you should go check upstairs.” Said the mechanic, turned down at him. They had known each other for an exceptionally long time in an amicable, professional relationship – ‘princess’ was a nickname with too long of a story to tell. Does a soldier ever truly get peace? It was at this moment, as Flay walked past him, put his hand on the handrail of the stairs, and realised how small his life was.
-
Bettel dug out the issue that night as they laid in bed,
“Hey, never do that again.”
Flayon was still, staring into his husband’s eyes, mouth slightly ajar. He feigned dumbness, but relented at the sight of Bettel’s knowing, unamused expression.
“I was actually worried about that shirt.”
“I would have got it out!” He pouted. The moment plays over and over in his head even as it was happening. It felt like entering the R-TRUS when the power’s out. Home, his second skin, and spiritual spot of respite - cold and empty, uncomfortable, and unnatural. As the silence drew on, Flay was reminded of the difference between him and Bettel, where one found the matter of sex to be largely unserious, the other took it very deeply.
Bettel’s response only solidified it more, “Yeah but, not the point. I wish you’d just tell me before you go ahead with something. It’s not like you.” Was this rejection? He had hardly experienced it with him, having disagreements on a matter of taste? Sure, it happens. He thought about the package on its way, days before it arrives on his doorstep, like a stork delivering an unwanted child.
Flayon hardly let life venture away from his grasp. Nothing needed to change, not the chandelier, not the T-shirt. However, he was more akin to a hand warmer, lovingly grasped until the heat sunk too far into the skin and the hand freed itself from the shackles of him. However, that was a part of him, not the shirt, but the racy sex acts. The indulgence in the forbidden, letting himself be the conductor on a show to let that husband of his find what they both like. Nothing was worth doing if he wasn’t doing it for Bettel. They were the only two people in the world. But he didn’t like this, he didn’t like Flayon.
“I’m sorry.” It came out faster than expected, and flatter too. Neither were impressed, both knew he didn’t mean it as much as the words spoke for themselves.
Bettel sighed, a noise he hardly heard directed towards him, “It’s alright.” However, the expression on his face lingered. A deep, stern frown, with lips drawn to a thin line. They called it the ‘once in a blue moon look,’ only emphasizing how serious he was. Yet, somehow, Flay couldn’t accept his disagreement, it felt so much stronger than it was as if Bettel thought he was gently touching his wife’s shoulder, instead he was right hooking him in the face. All Flayon was, was a vessel predestined for violence, physical and emotional. He sat up, clutched the soft duvet, and slid his dainty legs out of the warmth of the bed, feet hit the fluffy carpet, and he half expected it to break underneath.
“Flay, flay wait-” Bettel said as his wife’s legs carried him out of the room.
Flay murmured, “I just want some fresh air.” He closed the door.
He ventured downstairs into the living room and in no time, he found himself plopped onto the couch – staring – glaring up at that vintage glass anvil, waiting for it to fall. Flayon’s claw drew a diagonal line in the air, cutting through the emotions that swelled up inside him as if he were about to vomit. What he knew, hidden under sludge of puke, was the uncomfortable knowledge that Bettel didn’t share this feeling, his husband did not reject him for what Flayon rejected himself for. Flayon knew, as one knew that the next day would have a beautiful rising sun, that Bettel accepted him for who he was. Yet, their eyes couldn’t meet, and where his husband saw the disagreement as a subjective matter of taste, Flayon felt it was deeper, a rejection of something core to him.
He suddenly felt he was in his twenties again, on the floor of the Japan apartment cuddling his Furby at two fifty in the morning, sobbing, wishing for someone to unconditionally accept every cell of him. That was the thing about babies, they unconditionally love their mothers, accept them for who they are, and adapt to their needs for their own survival. He fought with all the strength he didn’t know he had, just to be able to hold his son in his arms, and yet they were the same – fighting for their existence.
A pair of footsteps made it down the stairs. Flayon’s motherly hearing could deduce that it wasn’t one of the kids, and it was far too heavy to be Phantom. He closed his eyes, in the darkness where even the moonlight hardly illuminated anything, he pretended to sleep. Time must have given him the grace to think before his husband trotted into the living room. Bettel leaned over and kissed the crown of his head.
“I hope all of your pain goes away.” He said softly, but his voice was fragile and thin, on the edge of breaking into something more.
-
To his lover, he was their most damned follower and made it clear that the feeling had to be mutual. He watched with curious, bewildered eyes as Hakka encountered Shinri, and the two were so swept up in their own affections that they treated the dating process as a race to the altar, and before Flay knew it, Hakka was popping out more kids. Moving like that was not an option, everyone must pass all the tests before remaining in his life. Bettel excelled with flying colours, breaking down every boundary he had cemented like he was trying to remain boxed in at Kowloon. He hadn’t noticed it at first, willing to lend a hand, a few life tips and tech support, but the physical barriers of their bodies eventually became a suggestion. Bettel grew up, Flayon matured, and looked back on every relationship he had previously as play. Bettel, ignited his spirit more than anything else, as if Flay had been created to cross the stars to find him. He paused the thought, Betelgeuse (which he never pronounced as anything other than ‘Bettel goose’) was a runaway solitary star, wading through space, experiencing countless orbits to find…him. Flay’s heart swelled with romance but dulled immediately with guilt. Procyon B, X, was dead, and yet – as mature and motherly as Flayon became, those childish feelings gripped onto him as children would fight over a favourite toy. Lingering on his back was a scab that never quite seemed to heal, when he'd remember it was there, Flayon picked at it as termites would eat the foundations of a house. His brilliant, million shade eyes would gaze upon the full living room with his son, dog-creature, and husband, he felt that one day that their backs could straighten and twist their heads in his direction and utter, ‘get out.’
He rested his real hands into his lap, one deep breath in, out, another in, out. His eyelids opened to a regular scene in his quaint life, sitting before the vanity in his master bedroom.
“Hey Flaybaby.” Bettel said as he waltzed into the room, dressed to the nines. He leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Juniors with my brother, and I’ve already taken phantom out. Let’s blow off some steam ‘eh?” He smiled at that. Aside from Flayon’s incredible intelligence, no one could ever impersonate Bettel because of his numerous nicknames for their son: Junior, son-boy, son. He was very creative. Flayon turned away as his gut sank and anchored itself to the bottom of his body. He glared so hard at the sun that the ball of light could have exploded right there. Still, he played along.
“I’ll blow your steam.”
Bettel burst into laughter and Flay’s shoulders eased.
-
Not even music played in the car as Bettel drove home. The more he abided by the speed limit, the quicker it took for Flay to go crazy. Each second passed as a quick time event in deciding whether he should ruin their pleasant evening by bringing up a minor spat that was going to sour the whole mood. He isn’t normally like this, which added to the frustration. He’d consider himself to be the biggest believer of frankness in a relationship, yet it was Bettel, the one person that made all of his previous relationships look like childish attachments. His love was so deep it was nauseating, every thought of affection manifested in his body. So, he couldn’t – he just wanted to make him happy, and it ruled out all room for mentioning the other night. It was as if Flayon and Bettel both were from hell, sent to the purgatorial surface to terrorise each other for as long as they lived. It didn’t matter if they were arguing between their teeth at least once a day, because both Flayon and Bettel knew that no one was going to love the other like they loved each other, no one could come close to the enmeshment. Woven into each other’s bodies like fibres to make a basket. Busted up one another only to be repaired with blended blood as if every wound were filled with red, iron-like kintsugi. Bettel is perfect, nurturing and kind, gentle and patient, yet packed to the brim of his flesh suit full of anxiety. Which was where Flayon knew he came in, steady and forceful. The words they shared became merged, a lawfully wedded ‘duolect,’ sometimes Bettel said things in the way of Flay, sometimes vice versa.
When he picked up the microphone in that tiny, tiny karaoke booth – the one that gave Bettel the ‘heebie jeebies’ – Flay let out an awkward belch and stuttered into the microphone as the long intro of Hollow waltzed in. He giggled, Bettel laughed. He missed the first line and a half of lyrics; it didn’t matter but he felt his insides tear up in the immortal confines of his body. No singular bad feeling mattered when they could just make each other laugh from nothing.
“Bettelbear,” Flayon breathed gently. His husband stopped humming, however, Flay knew the song quite well. “It’s so weird being married.”
“Livin’ the dream, aren’t we?” His husband replied in his sardonic tone. His tone never bothered Flayon, being the genius that he is always able to discern whenever he was having a deep and meaningful moment or a long bit.
“The chandelier is so stupid, that T-shirt’s so stupid. It’s all stupid, we’re stupid. I love it." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bettel tense. It was a very him way of phrasing it.
“What do you mean?”
“I guess I was just worried for nothing, anxious that it’d be the start of everything breaking but…” He really did have so much fun. Eating at their ‘spot,’ going to the remaining arcade in the city, singing their hearts out at karaoke.
“I thought you were a genius,” Bettel remarked, “Does someone as smart as you beat themselves up constantly over a mistake?” he paused, “You made me.”
“Made you what?”
“I’m the way I am because of you, do you think I would change that? Destroy it just because you thought it was unsalvageable? Hell no, it’s all stupid, and the only thing that I would do differently if I had a do over was just to meet you earlier.”
His eyes welled up; his wounds filled with the most beautiful, red kintsugi. “Fucking asshole, you’re gonna ruin my makeup! Get away from me before you-” He couldn’t hold the play fighting, breaking out into laughter and tears. His shoulders eased; heavy awful weight lifted off of them.
“Hey now, I’m not going anywhere.” Bettel said with finality. On cue, he turned gently into the driveway and the car stopped. He was trying to be romantic, and Flayon hated being bested, even if it was from the one person who he loved more than eighteen thousand lives put together. He grabbed him, hands not on the jacket like a normal person, but specifically the collar of the stupid T-shirt. Bettel’s lips crashed onto his, welcoming his back after such a long time apart. His hand was already in his husband’s hair, and Bettel’s arms were around him, pried Flayon’s mouth open with ease. Flay let out a needy gasp and inhaled the mixed scent of his perfume with his husband’s cologne, a sweet strawberry scent mixed with a musky masculine one, complementing each other. Flay wanted to just lick every centimetre of his skin.
Their heartbeats finally drummed as one.
“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, babe.” Bettel said, a cheeky smirk on his lips, one hand grasped his wife’s head in place, the other rested on Flay’s back.
“Don’t ever call me that again.” Flayon pouted, then reached up to kiss him again.
--
Out of the narrow walk-in closet emerged a youthful shadow of Gavis Bettel’s wife, draped in a beautiful sailor uniform. Only the best of the best was suitable for Machina X Flayon. Other ones were far too cheap and fake, the clothes that graced his form were modest and clean. Navy blue with few and far between accents such as rings on the cuffs, and a white V shape on the collar. As he did a feminine twirl in it, he felt the skirt brush against his legs, as low as his knees. It was showtime.
Bettel looked at him, arms crossed casually, eyeing the outfit, "The world's really gone to shit y’know, if a pretty girl like you jumps at the chance to be with an ugly bastard double her age." Flay's eyes widened, blush rose to his cheeks as if he was actually a young lady. Certainly, impromptu but appreciated.
“Mister, you're being silly! I've got nothing else better to do,” He said in his perfected girl voice, mastered after years of voice acting training. The scenario detailed itself as he spoke, “and I’ve got nowhere else to go.” Intentionally batted his eyelashes at him, both were skilled at improv, and the fantasy was one that they were both adept at playing, it soothed something primal in Flayon’s mind whenever he returned to it.
Absent-mindedly, Bettel took off his jacket. “Look kid, I just did what anyone would have done, that blonde and purple freak was leering at you, ready to pounce.”
Flay let his tail wrap about Bettel, and when he had backed him onto the bed, he used it to unbuckle his belt. He gave him a cutesy look, "I don't know…He wasn't that bad, right? At least let me make it up to you for the trouble.”
Bettel pretended to warn the schoolgirl in front of him, “There’s no need for any of this and you, you’re-” As he spoke, his hands told a different story, grabbing onto Flay’s waist, palms moving back to get fistfuls of his chubby ass. “-far too young for me, little lady” His hands felt so warm, Flay’s thighs quivered lightly at the acceptance of him. “Mister-”
“-Bettel-”
“-Mister Bettel, you’re so date-to-marry! Isn’t that worse, you’re looking at a teenager for a wife.” He laughed, he knew the ghosts of crow's feet appeared at the edges of his eyes.
Bettel, as his hands slid under the shirt, felt the fabric for the first time and accidentally broke character. “This is nice, must’ve been expensive.”
His wife smiled at him, and his quick thinking took it in stride. “Mister, you know I go to a private school, right?” He let out a sickly-sweet giggle. “I need practice before I start doing compensated dates.”
Settled back in, Bettel replied, “Compensated dates? No, no, that’s no good.”
“Mister, you’re boooooring! Every girl’s doing it now!” He leaned in close, two warm breaths, hot with anticipation mixed together. “Promise you won’t tell anyone? I’ll be good…” Bettel stuttered, sitting on the edge, eyes sparkling with excitement, and a goofy grin spread across his cheeks. A nice tent pitched in his pants. Bettel’s long fingers grabbed Flayon’s chin, forcing his wife to look him in the eyes, arm around his waist again.
“I’ll just need to show you why you shouldn’t fool around with guys like me.” He said with a smirk. Bettel captured Flay’s lips in a kiss, without question, Flay leaned in, hands reached for his shirt, but the kind stranger pulled away and uttered, “Don’t touch my fucking shirt.” All Flay felt was arousal surging through his body, like how an electrical current is carried across water. His husband resumed the kiss. Although Flayon, for as much as he liked to play, couldn’t hide his mature skill in kissing. He knew exactly how to make Bettel’s mouth pry open, how he knew how to brush his socked knee against his husband’s jeans to make him quiver.
“Young lady, I think you might be lying to me.” Bettel purred, naughty hands finding the zip of Flay’s skirt. “Or girls your age are far more mature than they should be.”
He giggled in character, “Stop it!” However, the skirt fell down his thick thighs and revealed a beautiful pair of white panties, red pubic hair threatened to spill over the confines of the fabric. His legs shook, and his hands, now resting on Bettel’s shoulders, sunk their fingers into the bony flesh.
“Liar.” Bettel said, He felt it to his core, his womb thumping with excitement. His husband laid back onto the queen-sized mattress, pants unzipped effortlessly, and his semi hard cock welcomed itself into the conversation. Flay grinned, already knowing what he wanted, he climbed on top of him, the skirt quietly discarded, and settled his length between his soft, fat thighs. Bettel let out a gasp. “Told you, such a bad liar. Since you’re so inexperienced, why don’t you start by moving slowly up n’ down?”
Flay nodded, playing along, doing exactly as he was told by the ‘kind stranger,’ and took pleasure in how quickly Bettel became fully erect between his legs. Dribbles of beady precum dripped down the length, slicking up his thighs.
“Hey Mister, am I doing good?” He asked with his fangs showing. He put more effort into it, the bottom of his thighs smacking against Bettel’s waist, cock rock hard and happy to be enveloped in such warm soft skin. Bettel’s breathy moans told him everything, as if Flay didn’t already know his husband loved his thighs, especially when they were gobbled up by tights or thigh highs. (Even though unfortunately, Bettel is also an ass guy but Flay is fixing him.) The tip of his tail flicked, and as he continued to squish him, the length of his tail reached up to his husband’s face, and Bettel’s tongue outstretched and licked it. Flay jolted, an erotic shock cascaded down his spine, Oh that stupid man- He knew this tail was so sensitive!
“God you’re so good.” Bettel breathed out. Flay wrapped his tail around his tongue and pulled in warning, however his husband managed to think of closing his jaw, so the end of his tail was stuck between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. His thighs trembled and his head began to spin. His wet cunt soaked the delicate fabric of his panties, his core beginning to submit itself to Gavis Bettel. He moaned and then was able to free his tail from being held hostage inside his mouth, droplets of drool dripped onto the bed and Bettel’s torso. His instinct was to lick it off, make himself cum from self-pleasure, however something else got in the way. He felt Bettel’s body shake, taking in deep, laboured breaths as he groaned out and that poor dick of his, firing a shot of cum onto the last third of Flay’s shirt.
“Oh Mister! Your dick milk is all over my uniform!” Between his thighs he felt nothing of Bettel’s arousal weakening, his cock standing strong still even amidst an explosion of cum. He had to take control again, Bettel manhandling his tail was his luck, he needed to exert his genius over him, drawing upon everything he knew Bettel liked. He pulled the shirt over him, exposing the gorgeous lacy white bra he had on. The shirt tossed into the abyss. He palmed his breasts, knowing that Bettel’s eyes would not be taken off of them. He grinned with fangs as he saw Bettel’s lips let out a shaky breath.
Flayon purred in a low voice, “Wanna see my schoolgirl tits?” Before Bettel could whimper out an answer, he unclipped the bra with ease, out spilled his mature, post-breastfeeding chest and meaty nipples hung low. Bettel, after seeing them countless times, was drawn in immediately, and his masculine desires possessed him before he could really think it through. He sat up, the palms of his hands were filled with soft, motherly flesh. Flay clung onto the bra, it dangled in front of his husband’s face, “How much should I charge for this?”
Bettel took the bra into his hands and buried his nose into it. Flay gasped, he’d never seen such a dirty act from him before, it was as disgusting as it was arousing and posed so many questions that he didn’t have the dopamine to answer right now, because whoever this Gavis Bettel was in front of him, he needed everyone to get their hands off of his dick, bitch. He saw the corners of Bettel’s lips curled into a smile, he matched that expression.
“Free of charge, make it part of the service.”
Sardonic bitch. He held back from uttering it because of the situation. Flay knew exactly what Bettel wanted, and leaned close, topless with his breasts dangling in his face. His cunt drooled when Bettel’s tongue met his perky nipple and sucked without being told. Eager, heterochromatic eyes looked up at him. Heat enveloped Flay, it overpowered every other sensation except for pleasure, as the two were hand in hand. Bettel kissed his wife’s breast.
“Bettel!” He whimpered. A deep ache lodged itself inside him, his body was hasty in wanting to be filled and stretched, he bit his lip to pace himself, they were already moving fast through the scenario. Bettel switched breasts, letting go of Flay’s nipple with a wet kiss, and sucked on the one he had ignored thus far. His mouth enveloped his breast, and he toyed with his nipple like he did with his tail. Flayon let out quiet moans, his heart thrumming fast as all of the erogenous zones were hit. However, he couldn’t cum from just his chest, he needed more.
When Bettel had his fill, he pulled away and said, “Aren’t we warmed up now?” He nodded, unable to quickly think of an in-character reply. Bettel slid himself back, further onto the bed, which gave Flay space to undress. His fingers hooked onto the thin sides of his underwear; a trail of slick briefly didn’t want to let go of the fabric. The purity of the panties, soiled by sweat lines and pussy nectar that soaked through the fabric, it laid lazily off of Flay’s finger. He thought about if Bettel wanted to sniff them, then instead, grinned.
“But you don’t deserve ‘em!” He threw them aside. All too quickly he was naked before the love of his life. Bettel was human in his eyes, every part of his body was beautiful, even the scars that Flay had given him. He pointed at the T-shirt and flicked his finger away, Bettel knew and compiled, the Blind Guardian shirt thrown to the void.
The position was quickly negotiated with flickers of eyes and Flay moving to the top of the bed, laid on his back and tried to cover his blushing pussy with his beautiful, cum stained thighs.
“Mister, please be gentle…” He gave his husband his most pathetic, dewy-eyed stare, the girly tones in his voice echoed across the room. Before Bettel was Flayon’s dripping wet cunt, plush and expecting that cock it craved. Bettel’s hard cock slid between Flay, threatening to deflower the pristine cunt of such a beautiful girl. Good thing that he produced enough pussy slick for the both of them, Bettel’s underside was coated quickly.
His husband took a deep breath, cupped Flay’s round chubby cheek into his hand, and lowered his hips. The head of his cock kissed the schoolgirl’s entrance, and her body left the purity of youth for the perversion for adulthood. ‘I love you’ was a phrase that came hard to Bettel, but he spent every waking moment showing rather than telling. He eased his hips inside his wife, letting him enjoy the sensation of a thick, meaty cock plunge itself against walls that wrapped him up in his embrace. Flay’s legs spread out, their bodies connected; it felt like a welcome home. All of the pleasure concentrated in the friction of the head of his cock against Flay’s cervix. He fluttered his delicate eyelashes at him, Bettel began to move.
Flayon’s lips spilt out gentle, soft moans from shallow rocks of Bettel’s hips. His girly lips smiled with full view of his pristine fangs, whining, “I thought it was going to hurt.”
“You’ve got no idea, little lady.” Bettel pulled his length up and out of him, then slammed hard back down in the hole that was rightfully, willingly, his. Flay jolted, pressure and pleasure both shocking him and it rebounded across his tiny body. His G spot was missed by centimetres. It felt like being edged.
Flay mewled, “Ah, so deep…” His husband pistoned hard. Their eyes met after a moment, and Bettel grabbed Flay’s chin again, tilted his head up to kiss him while he kept pounding his hips against Flay’s core. He let his husband’s tongue enter his mouth again, an utter acceptance of wanting to seep his entire person underneath his skin. His tail wrapped around his waist again. He was so hot and wet, and perfectly tight for Bettel.
Bettel’s head, used to the position because Flay’s cunt was made for him, knew exactly where to go, and when Bettel settled into a rhythm that he enjoyed. Of course, his wife made a show of it, hitting his g-spot let out the most beautiful chorus of moans – there was no point in doing it if they weren’t at risk of being overheard. He didn’t need any extra stimulation, no nipple play or toys, as long as Bettel remembered where all of his pleasure was concentrated, Flay could spend the next life cumming his brains out.
“I love you,” Flay said, gasping for breath, “keep loving me Bettel, into my next life.” Hot thin tears rolled down his red cheeks, as Bettel processed his words, his eyes grew dewy and he kissed his wife, slamming his hips up and down, dragging the full length of his cock inside Flayon over and over.
“Don’t ever say that ever again.” He kissed Flay. He wanted to keep Bettel’s kiss going longer but his body tipped over the edge.
A dulcet voice filled the room, Flayon spasmed around his husband, milked his cock for everything that it was willing to give. Bettel’s hips smacked hard against Flay’s thighs, cervix jumping for joy as it got its lights fucked out. He remained balls deep inside has hot thick cum flooded every centimetre inside his wife. They panted in unison, deep diaphragm feeling breaths as the ecstasy was pushed out of them. Flay felt his vision spin, his head hurt from balancing his and Bettel’s pleasure. Best first-time sex ever.
-
Flayon dozed off, legs quivering and his eyes didn’t want to stay open. Sticky, sweaty, and happy, he laid with Bettel as they marinated in the afterglow, ignoring the sensation of cum flowing out of him.
Downstairs, they heard the door unlock. He thought about moving, but he felt pinned to the bed, and it would take so long for him to clean himself up. Given how the door was gently unlocked with a key, it must be his brother with their son.
“You go get that; I look disgusting.” Flay murmured.
Bettel stretched and groaned as he ran his hand up and down Flay’s arm. “you’re never disgusting.” He got up and searched for a pair of pants at least.
Right before he left his reach, Flay wrapped the end of his tail around Bettel’s hand, there was no need to say, ‘I love you.’