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Lately, hormonal spikes have occurred much more often—crashing into his system unwarnedly and stirring up waves of emotions he’s more drained to take. It didn't take him long to track and prepare himself whenever a cramp itched deep within his abdomen. Half was love, blissful and joyous as the tiny contraction further validates the wellbeing of the fetus inside him—but half was the worry that came along with it, drawing him into uncertainty, into the ups and downs of mood swings that Dan Heng thought himself had never felt before—at least in this life.
But on the same page, those crashes also made him hyperaware of the need slowly unravelling in him. Slowly becoming more reverent and responsible for his strange cravings and his intense need for warmth. As avoidant as he is, the unravelling got him needy and wanting more than just gentle touches. But more of something intimate, something that felt like his own instead of shared with the warmth nestling in his stomach.
Sometimes the need enrolled much deeper, much more obvious, deepening without him ever noticing. Enough for his scent to flutter around the archive, spilling out from gentle gaps and cracks as if searching for something, someone to latch onto—an omega at his finest. At his most vulnerable, his body was still actively seeking out his other half, yet his mind felt like a chamber caging those desires in—slowly building up until it had maximized the capacity, leading to breakage, to collapse.
Instead of want, instead the blissful feeling of contentment knowing this stage of the miracle inside him was growing well, forming slowly that the features of its face were recognizable—a blend of his draconic features, and a drastic trait that screamed Blade's—worry could not help but chimed in, slowly deteriorating his mind like rot.
The express knew it, that's why Dan Heng felt embarrassed when someone noticed how obvious his scent had gotten—that now they could make out the hint of freshness and the breezy hint of maple leaves in his hormones—even though it's normal for omegas in this particular stage to have those symptoms, but how could this archivist stop something so quickly to spread like rot?
He wished someone could shake the worry out of his mind—truthfully wished so, as he knew such a gentle miracle in him could not handle the black tide of doubts constantly overloading its parent's mind. Then the consequences, he recalled the warnings, the advice—something along the lines of ‘bad for the baby’, ‘worsening his health’ and eventually pulling him down to the sea itself, drowning him there and possibly worsening his mentality after birth.
Dan Heng, saddened as he is, struggled as he is, always tries to gaze through the fog—-always tries to think as in a way that's most beneficial for Blade, for the baby growing in him.
'Maybe he's busy' he reasoned, his heart ached in longing, his mind protested in rationality, 'he can be busy and visit me at the gaps of his mission'. The more excuses he made up, the more blunt his mind ever replied him with.
Helpless, Dan Heng had no choice but to turn to the ‘trigger’ inside that himself was always refusing to look for. In his gaze, self-pleasing was never sinful, and he knew his physical self better than anyone in the express had ever laid their hands on his abdomen and praised the warmth there.
As to why he can't seem to turn towards it during helpless moments like this—simply, Dan Heng doesn't know. Perhaps this was some irrational fear he hadn't had the chance to find out yet, perhaps the trust left in himself was low—perhaps he feared the aftermath. Where he's most vacant of all, no one could touch, could reach, could tell him he's okay, tell him that they've got him.
But, words could never win time, doubts and uncertainty couldn't be so persistent at times—leaving strong, empty gaps in his mind that Dan Heng had mistaken them as a break amidst the fogs far too many times.
Now that the express crew doesn't disturb him as much, the door remains locked every day now—and pondering leads him right where he found the thought that now felt almost as fascinating—inviting him to do such, inviting him to inch his hand downwards, inviting him to tug away the thin briefs shielding the sensitive place.
Sleeping pants hung awkwardly around his thighs, blanket pushed far away from the mattress, leaving out an empty space as if Dan Heng had already known how messy he’ll get before he could ever decide on how far he’ll go tonight. The stack of books he’d set out for himself fell down a thudling sound, the machinery hum of the data bank reminded him of such enclosed space he called his bedrooml—just not now, he’ll be selfish, just so he could remember what pleasure felt like.
'Just for a moment' Dan Heng naively reminded himself once again, shame tugged at him, shame trembled at his fingers---staring down at his crotch and watching the pink nub twitch in anticipation through half-lidded eyes, trying to recall how much time had passed since the last time he touched himself.
The answer remains unclear. For a month or two, time didn't make sense in space, his mind was constantly occupied by work, fulfilling his duty as a guard—though now it's more like the express crew protecting him, not vice versa.
That night, Dan Heng did not let his hand wandered down too far at his aching pussy—breath quickening awfully easy as he cupped the sensitive place, finger pads feeling the tightness, the fluffiness there—felt as arousal fluid dribbling down lazily, sinking down a wet spot on his briefs---and jolted, and whimpered, wondering 'what have i done?' and 'what am i doing?'
Still, he steadily pumped one digit in anyway, couldn't help the tremble wrecking his body, brows scrunching as the warm, velvety walls inside responded to the intrusion. Clenching, tightening, gushing out arousal fluids—the tightness inside clinging stubbornly onto his finger, eventually needing another digit just to make sure he could move, could curl those digits and bring himself pleasure.
Dan Heng couldn't help the moan that slipped out once the fingering took effect. Fingers nestled closer, seemingly trying to reach the furthest they could, feeling how far deep the canal is, feeling each rake, each tiny texture causing a grip that strong, that slippery.
Slick coated those digits evenly, slowly finding a rhythm as Dan Heng moved his hand in and out, tardily, steadily—all while shifting his hips, finding a perfect angle that allowed space for him to start thrusting in. His mind had already ran like an engine, recalling back to the nights he had spent with Blade, not the sensual ones, but the ones Blade fingered him hard—penetrating deeply and forcing him to gasp out, claws ripping the quilt, back arched up, taking it all in.
And Aeons did he miss those nights.
Small, shy little 'smack! smack!' followed as his hand moved, palm covered his clit, bringing tingles of pleasure onto the soft nub as he eased another digit into the tight warmth, sending stars popping beneath his eyelids as Dan Heng found himself rolling his eyes back—mouth held agape yet not a single sound came out beside stuttered breaths and half-formed words.
The poor archivist didn't notice how bad his scent had gotten, how obvious and sex-scented his hormone was now—heavy and strong enough to taste the faint odor of filth, lingering around the archive as if the heavy aroma of still-hot soup.
If this was him just a few minutes ago—Dan Heng will probably freak out, anxiety along with guilt creating a confusing mix, mind racing to comment on how filthy he was, for collapsing into his fantasies and letting it blind him.
But this was now, not the past—and at this point, his senses are highlighted enough to make thoughts go dreamy.
It’s ironic how he’d planned out for tonight to be a mental reset, an escape to this hellish cycle of doubts by sleeping so soon—never had he thought mental reset was self-pleasure, never had he thought he’d let neediness spill.
Dan Heng kept his gaze upward, eyes glued to the dimmed ceiling as his fingers worked himself open, little noises followed the squelches of his throbbing pussy, both as if fighting each other—his softened vocal with the rough pace he’s jamming into the sensitive hole, slowly building up friction.
The stretch burned pleasingly once Dan Heng curled his fingers, scissoring and pressing down his textured thumb against the pinkish nub—enough pleasure for him to loll his head, back bouncing from the warm quilt beneath him as pleasure soon intensified, spiking through him like electricity.
“Hmngh..” The archivist soon got vocal, not that he could help it—stopping meant doubt swallowing him again, yet continuing felt like stacking up stairs to an orgasm he knew damn well couldn’t afford considering the state of his pregnancy.
His usual breezy, omega scent now felt sweet as pollen, floating around the archive as if micro spores he couldn’t catch nor prevent.
Lust-driven, his pace soon grew unrelenting, worked himself deeper now that he has an aim to reach—teeth grinding down the soft flesh of his lips until his tongue tasted blood, until the azure pupils of his felt stingy, raw from pleasure—worry and everything in his mind blanking out, giving him the temporary bliss he was wishing for.
Tears soon gathered at the corner of his eyes, azure pupils widening as pleasure sank into his system as some sort of cannabis—addicting and felt illegal at once. Urging him closer to the point of no return, urging him to pass the line he drew out—from turning his brain off to tethering at overstimulation.
Dan Heng did not muster a dare to glance down, feared the bump of his abdomen, feared to witness his palm moving at a desperate rate, hastily, messily chasing pleasure. The objective he had originally set out now felt much further—from self-rediscovery to reaching climax, to making his thighs quiver and ache as they bear the warmth of climax unfurling through him.
Anxious as he is, the slapping sound bouncing off at his pussy points a different route, wet palm smacking against the fatty skin of his pussy, other hand pressing down and rolling at the clitoris, moaning out as pleasure intensified, like setting his own body aflame. Hurting, tiring, yet unable to stop, to deprive himself of a second of pleasure.
“Mnf— Blade…” That’s what he truly yearned for, isn’t it? For the swordsman to be here, for him to embrace, whispering sweetness into his ear, cuddle him and rammed his calloused fingers into this throbbing pussy.
It’s a shame for no one to watch this—for no one to see how his fingers were glistened by omega slick, how the channel below clenched, spurting out obscene fluids that coated his palm unevenly—dribbling down the clenching buttocks, smeared over the glistening folds as he slammed in once again.
Mind fraying as he pumped in deeper, fingers curling and scissoring the tightly channel, feeling each time it throbbed in response, fluid plugged in tight, flowing, dribbling out each time he pulled out and slammed in full.
His needy moans fell in rhythm with the obscene, embarrassing wet noises—blended into the chorus, bouncing across the room, across archived logs, across unread books, landed back into his cochlear like a cruel reminder or how far gone he went.
The pillow was warm, heavily smelled of his misty scent with an obvious note of sweat—Dan Heng let his head sank down, surrendering to pleasure, drunkenly staring down his bared torso, gaze taunt at how fast his hand was going, thrusting in and out quick enough to draw clear fluids wantonly, deliberately drenching the quilt below a wet spot.
After some hours of this blissful torment, soreness finally caught up, his relentless fingers finally felt exhaustion, ligament pulled tough, unmovable—did pleasure come, corroded over him like a wave of bliss slammed over his body full-force.
A sobby moan spilled out, pupils thinning as the long waited orgasm washed over him. Following with a violent wave of tremble, a punch of exploding scent—it’s saddening that the swordsman he hoped to be here the most didn’t get the chance to bask in this warmth, to hold him as pleasure consumed him whole.
His cunt pulsed once, achy and numb, gushing out fluids that were once clogged up by those unrelenting thrusts, the milky-white discharge oozing out from his throbbing pussy. Dan Heng scooped up a small amount, feeling the clammy texture and brought the heavy smell of sex to his nose—eventually tasting it, tasting his own discharge, his own cum.
“Mn..” The archivist hummed, unguardedly needy, unnecessarily warm and drained, “tasted weird... Ren likes this?”
The murmured question remains unanswered, the room didn’t reply to him with warmth nor gentleness—only silence, only the distant hum of machinery, only the bluish glow of screens staring back at his ruined figure.
Perhaps that’s why doubts sabotaged him again, surrounded him with crude reminders—something this mushy mind of his won't be able to defend, to think of a different topic easily.
A trembling exhale that scraped his lungs raw, Dan Heng tilted his face upwards again—mindlessly hoping there would be someone already watching him, mindlessly hoping Blade would be there, selfishly thinking he’d be met with a kiss if the man was here now. Which only disappointed him more, realizing all of them were imaginated, fabricated by need, by want—thoughts contradict each other, hurting, disappointing—everything overlapping all at once.
But Dan Heng himself was no stranger to such moments, when thoughts feel less like his own and more like a dagger stabbing everywhere it could reach—sleep was inevitably the best option he could have.
Curling, slick-covered hands now cupping the small bump of his abdomen, slowly tracking growth, unbearably loving, protecting as if that part of him mattered more than himself ever was. The archivist tugged the blanket all over himself, squirming as the drenched spots touched his sensitive skin—and eventually, finally, sleep claimed him, pulling him down under the realm of dreams.
A tear shed, spilled from the corner of his eye, unknowingly landed onto the opened book, smearing the words—proving how heavy his sadness ever was.
It's not like Dan Heng hadn't sought out help from outside before—Himeko was there for him, always stable, always reliable like a pillar he could lean on any time—but she too, her presence might be warmth, might be care, but it had never completely soothed the aches of his heart, the unrelenting of his mind.
Eventually, a distress call was made to Blade. As in all the people could’ve comforted him and brought him peace—none of them could ever do well as the swordsman ever did, and as threatened as they are, Dan Heng had more proved Blade’s importance to himself.
The other line picked up faster than the express crew could have expected—whoever the receiver was, it felt as though they'd been waiting for a call, a sign, whether desperate or hesitation filled—anything that could guarantee them that Dan Heng needed them more than ever.
Which easily gives away said receiver was Blade, still waiting, still hoping for a signal he’s wanted by Dan Heng, needed by him even if it's just for a night.
The call settled, a deal was made even though both of them knew once tangled into something as hard to resolve as emotions—it’s hard to withdraw, especially if those hormonal changes wrecked Dan Heng felt worsening as days passed.
That night, the archive door slid open with a small click of lock—Blade stepped in with much recognition from the crew, the key was clenched in his palm due to worry, so palpable that someone as reserved as him couldn’t help it. Mind weightened, heart squeezed tight the more the machinery hum swallowed his figure—crimson eyes solely focused on the huddled mess resting atop the bluish platform.
Each step he took felt as if walking on eggshells, each step tangled with emotions he couldn’t exactly name—worry, exhaustion, a mix of adoration so unbearable that he had to cancel whatever missions ahead waiting for him.
Upon approaching closer, Blade’s heart tingled as the sight unfolded before him—Dan Heng all curled up, blanket pulled by his chin, small bits of wetness still rested by his lashes, face softly tinted pink as to more punctuation to the tears. The thought of himself arriving far too late settled uglily in Blade’s mind—being only able to hold his partner in the aftermath and not during landing heavily in his chest.
His scent was palpable, easily to pick up at the first whiff. Smelled of the freshness held by leaves in an early morning, smelled of maple leaf that had fallen down a rain water puddle—something Blade’s nose would seek for in a room full of people.
“Heng’er…” He softly called, kneeling onto the illuminating platform, hand gently carding through the matted locks, wondering whether it was the heat causing him to sweat this much or was it fever.
Dan Heng looked small like this, vulnerable and weak—as if a spring colliding tight, didn't know how to let go and therefore kept on colliding until he couldn't physically take it anymore. Enough for this swordsman to feel worried for, enough for him to plague Blade’s mind for days.
The blanket heap replied with a short-lived hum, exhaustion clear, sadness even clearer. Instincts screamed at him, urging him to console, to hold the trembling man in his arms until tremors fade into nothingness.
Feverish warmth soaked through dense layers of Blade’s bandages, enough for worry to bloom—surpassing hesitant, surpassing the mental notes he had of his partner’s vulnerable state—Dan Heng’s sensitivity, doubts, and the scent that grew unmistakably wrong.
Blade had held him through highs and lows, spent more time with him to learn about his subconscious habit and understand how wrong those scent glands were the moment he stepped foot into the archive.
Yet, all the worry felt like a radio’s static went dead silent the moment Dan Heng shifted awake—glancing over his shoulder with a confused noise as if he hadn’t expected anyone to come, see him in this state. Hadn’t expected the swordsman to be here so suddenly, face etched with bone-deep concern.
Blade’s hands cupped his partner’s face in a heartbeat, thumb smoothing over the droplets of tears still clinging to his face as the swordsman’s crimson gaze raked over him once again—checking, asserting as if this weak, frail man was someone dear, someone deserved for Blade to call off missions for.
To which, he is. And Blade wished to tell him just that, make him remember how loved he is. “Shift over,”
“Huh–” Those words made him jolt, surprised by the fast turn of events—one moment Blade was asserting over him, now the swordsman looked like he wanted to squeeze the life out of him, “ what..?”
The reply was sheepish, a shy little “no..” followed by such evident mortification—he didn’t expect himself to be caught this quickly, didn't expect himself to unravel this apparent.
“Why?” Asked Blade, words sounded muted, silent in the dimly-lit room for Dan Heng’s sake.
“Ren, it’s h-hard to explain—” He was going to lie, avoiding the topic until Blade yielded and choose to sit beside him—but instead, those crimson eyes narrowed in distress, dark red meeting saddened blue, derailing his mind hastily—tardily pushing him into a dead corner.
Sighing, Dan Heng had no choice but to tell him exactly what happened, mind already racing of the aftermath, to Blade’s reactions to his filth.
He thought himself will be met with disdain, a slight gruff, an annoyed huff—even glancing down to hide his shame, yet none of that ever occurred, to his surprise. Blade stayed quiet, sitting silently in the dim, hand still holding his, waiting for him to finish his spill out his doubts too—reading him like an open book, like they’ve been spouses for years to understand each other’s frequency.
“You’re not mad?” Words came out more vulnerable than Dan Heng had thought, sheepish, eroded useless by doubts before he ever got the chance to say it—asking meant seeking clarification, asking also meant feeding into the fear inside him.
“I can’t blame you for that. Hormonal crash had been violent for you, I can feel your scent sour from miles away.” Blade replied steadily, keeping his voice calm, gentle enough for Dan Heng to not suspect disdain or anything underneath it. Even if he does, the closest of negativity he could ever find was ‘worry’, ‘marrow-deep worry’.
At the mention of his wronged scent, Dan Heng was suddenly made hyperaware of the smell radiating from his scent glands, no longer the freshness he’s used to but felt unbearably dulled, depressing and heavy as a replica of the weight in his mind.
The soreness hadn’t faded fully, his nervous system felt raw, tangled as a bundle of mealworms, such simple mention can feel like a punch to his guts. Never had Dan Heng felt so lost—not of bodily autonomy but the emotions he had once grasped so well now felt scattered that even the man he once held warmth for could not reach him.
Frightened, the archivist pulled his gaze away from Blade, letting the blanket swallow him, curling up until he felt the strain from his back, until he felt the other’s gaze burn to his figure does he paused guiltily.
But Blade was here to meet that, to meet him before doubts could rot further—hands embracing him tight, squeezing air out his lungs, following his dulled smell as if they still represent ‘home’. Represent something Blade still sought out for in a room full of people, something Blade’s still proud to carry until this very moment.
Their scent collided as nature—warmth touching warmth, scent meeting scent and tangled into the usual fusion of freshness and red-spider lilies. Dan Heng visibly relaxed at that, the sigh breathed out of him felt as if his mind had soothed down—doubts stopped, thoughts paused, all uncertainty faded into silence.
Blade didn’t mind the mess, didn’t mind the dirtied mattress, didn’t mind his partner’s bare body and instead abuse that factor to spread warmth further—body embracing him fully, palm spread over his abdomen, gently checking the warmth there as he whispered soft praises into Dan Heng’s locks, peppering kisses there like being overly affectionate can shove away skepticism.
The swordsman pressed his nose to the crook of Dan Heng’s neck, seeking familiarity like a hound to blood—he felt his partner’s tremble the moment his lips met the sweat-stained skin, breathing him in all his might, appreciating him as apologies for the time Dan Heng was left alone by himself.
“Heng’er.. Do you need more of me?” Blade murmured once again, hands exploring further of the exposed flesh, feeling the aftermath of his departure on Dan Heng’s body—the tiny winces that escaped the archivist’s sore body, how flesh melted in his palm as he cupped them shows evidently of how much the encounter wrecked him—adding salt to the wound was how Dan Heng refused to meet his gaze, relying only on body language to communicate.
A hum, followed by a nod of head—Dan Heng responds to him more by actions than words, couldn’t trust his voice, couldn’t bear facing the man who was the source of his longing, who was the man he dreamed while touching himself just hours ago.
“Shy?” A kiss, pressed to the matted strands of inky hair, trailing down to the line of his shoulder, sending tingles throughout Dan Heng’s body—not enough to disturb him of his rest, rather out of worry, a soft chuckle Blade was so tempted to draw out—seeking comfort too, telling him he’s still okay. Anything could ease down this fuming heart of his.
“Don’t tease,” Dan Heng uttered from the blanket heap, voice unbearably needy as he fought the tremble threatening to tip over just from Blade’s hand roaming and cupping his sore thigh. “Please..?”
But the little plea was suddenly replaced by a small gasp, sensation blooming like butterflies in one’s stomach—Dan Heng’s body couldn’t help but coil up in reflex as he felt that familiar warmth put pressed against his backside, steadily nestling in between his cheeks—seeking arousal, seeking any sense of anticipation
And Dan Heng, doesn’t want Blade to misinterpret what he wanted again—sheepishly pressed down at the massive shaft, his sighs came to light the moment he felt its length growing as of arousal, warmth blooming at his abdomen, bared crotch slowly gotten wetter and wetter—not much prone to arousal despite he had just wrung himself dry, still needing, still wanting to be pleasured.
He hadn’t known how much the small, needy wriggle of his hips were tormenting the swordsman, how could Blade refuse such desire now that it had been awfully clear how needful his partner had become?
Its blunt head pressed against Dan Heng’s fluttering hole, letting him feel and compare the length once again, sending jostle of excitement throughout his body, the channel couldn’t help but throb—responding naturally to arousal, stirred up the copious fluid inside as he struggled to restrain.
Yet, all attempts were in vain, Dan Heng only felt himself getting wetter and wetter by the minutes pass, coating over Blade’s tip a thin, glistening layer of slick smelled heavily of the vidyadhara essence and his wronged scent.
But never had Blade shown a sign of refusal—only if Dan Heng was willing to turn back, only if he bit back shyness and watched as the swordsman’s face tinted pink. Weak against the feeling of his partner’s bare body alone, not just this filthiness unfolding.
Inching his bandaged hand towards the thin, sweat-stained waist—a reassurance, making sure the trembling soothed down to slight tremor of reaction rather than fear—did he allow himself to move, to delve his calloused digits in between those thighs, spreading them apart to make room, aligning himself easily.
Dan Heng gasped aloud once he felt the once enclosed space now bared to the air, heat touching the hairless mound there—tight ring twitched messily, eventually stretched out as Blade shifted in his tip—just an inch, fearing pain, fearing loss of control since both of them were far too aware of the growth of the miracle, far too prone to the changes occurring during pregnancy.
Immediately, weak against the sudden intrusion, Dan Heng’s tight hole clenched around the blunt head, velvety walls clamping down, trying to make sense of the strangeness filling him up. His heartbeats spiked, breath quickening despite his best efforts to stay calm—the presence of Blade felt like a balm to his nerves that were constantly on fire, keeping him in grasp, keeping him utterly spoiled and pleased.
Standing between sinking in or letting worry hold him afloat—that’s when Blade chimes in, cupped the beneath of his partner’s thigh, gripping and holding up the soft flesh—making room for himself, helping as he knows how sore the omega is, understand that Dan Heng needed to preserve bits of strength in his body.
“Ah–? Blade!” Dan Heng moaned confusedly, mind suddenly blank, worry fades into nothingness, as if they didn’t exist in the first space—making room for pleasure to fill, to drown him in.
The archivist felt as heat burned once again, the familiar sensation he tried to satisfy earlier, now met with such ease—Blade’s presence pressed up at his back, textured hand lazily held him open—simply giving him no reason to retreat into his thoughts again, refusing and returning back to worry himself sick.
Thrusts came gentle, sliding in a slow, steady pace to stretch Dan Heng open once more, setting a gentle rhythm the archivist could ask to slow down right away.
And Dan Heng, in return to the gentleness, would let the noises spill out naturally–half because sleepiness was tugging at him, half because pleasure is cracking his shell open, as if a pearl—hiding its treasure beneath the hard shell, he too hid emotions deep within, yet Blade drew them out easily, learning him inside out like an open book.
Hums and pleased sighs were breathed out by each sultry thrust, gentle and yet intentional as if they were meant to unravel him from inside. The swordsman’s hands on his body felt like anchors to hold him afloat from neediness—so easily dazed already by pregnancy that his senses seemed to blur, addicted and satisfied all at once.
They never talk much, sex like this was never rushed, treated like something they could rely on to express emotions, not desire—the two of them got caught up in each other too much to notice that slowly deepened into the need to touch, and be touched. The swordsman hadn’t talked much, hadn’t cooed, hadn’t praised—not because he trusted Dan Heng to fully manage these strange emotions, but because none of those confirmations were needed, Dan Heng needed to bask in more of Blade’s presence than clarification whether he did good or needed to relax.
Instead, Blade communicates through each reverent kisses placed in his partner’s hair, or scattered across the back of his neck, peppered soothingly onto the line of his shoulders—further enclosing the archivist in affection, reinforcing his exhausted mind more than words ever could.
Each time doubts reoccur inside of his head, even just one second—Blade angled his thrust a bit harder, thick girth grinding against those oversensitive walls, making him see stars, making his scent bloom wildly, blended to Blade’s soothing one.
Blade’s scared hand cupping at his partner’s lower region subtly pressed him backwards, quietly savoring over how malleable Dan Heng always was, soft beneath his hand, doubts corroded his mind yet his body trusted Blade enough to become pliant.
Guiding him to arch up his backside for Blade to meet him halfway—the archivist gasped aloud each time he did that, it took Blade all the restraint he has to not echo a soft chuckle—fearing to ruin the moment, fearing to ruin the state of bliss his partner was so desperate for.
Noises spilled out as music to the swordsman’s ears—days spent hearing explosions, the static hum of radio on stations, the murmur of people he deemed irrelevant—all felt as rewarding once Dan Heng’s soft moans filled the archive, not softened enough to blur out the distant hum of machinery, but enough to soothe down the Mara deep within rakes of his tormented brain.
Dan Heng blushed to the tip of his ears, all the sloppy sound echoing from where they’re connected bounced across the room, across archive logs, across opened books, soft but undeniable of the gentle pace Blade’s thrusting into. Penetrated to the hilt, Dan Heng moaned out noisily, embarrassed that his body was convulsing around the intrusion, embarrassed that his walls are clamping down the thickness, almost as guiding the girth pressing down all the right places—sending him tipping over, scent blossoming tardily.
Deliberately, Blade draws out slow, for the archivist to feel his member sliding out the warm heat, feel the tightness loosened as he draws out—then slammed in again, a muffled smacking sound of skin against skin snapping between them, easing the archivist’s fluttering scent poorly, shaft grinding against the velvety walls—grinding against the soft mound nestled within Dan Heng’s aching hole and inching him closer to the climax.
The archivist’s hands jolted ahead, claws blindly gripping on a nearby pillow in his nest as he soon buried his face into the heavily scented cushion—hiding his face, hiding his blush, muffling his noisy moans—shy beyond repair.
“If you insist, Heng’er,” Blade could only chuckle, tightening his grip on his partner’s body once again as he glanced over Dan Heng’s shoulder—finding the reason of such shyness instantly, the archivist’s clit had been neglected for too long, oozing out bits of urine, dribbling down idly onto the ruined sheets below, sinking down a damping evidence of arousal.
Ah—the mental note recalled slowly, pregnancy does cause significant pleasure onto the bladder—even though the swordsman hadn’t made any rough contact with the cervix, but simply penetration could send him tipping near the edge effortlessly. Scent ran wild, nerves highlighted, not only mentally, but physically Dan Heng was struggling as well.
“D-don’t look.” The archivist whined, feeble attempt of a protest, he knew—Blade had been around long enough to understand what he truly meant, had stayed with him long enough to realize what he needed is to finish, not a rest.
And with that, the swordsman quickened his pace once again, crotch smacking unevenly against Dan Heng’s backside, gradually building up orgasm while savoring how warm the archivist was, how his sensitive walls gripped Blade’s cock perfectly—rolling his hips against him with just a bit more force, Dan Heng came with a dazed moan, breath hitching restfully—as if he’d finally learned to let go.
Blade’s heart tingled as he watched pleasure wash over his partner in a pleasant wave, like cool water in spring—and evidently, Dan Heng’s scent gradually brightened, freshness felt clearer, richer, along with the swordsman’s darker notes into a mixture of their bond.
Pressing his nose into the crook of Dan Heng’s neck, sniffling directly from the scent glands as he drove in bit more forcefully, nesting his length inside of his partner’s warmth as the climax finally reached him—the knot came naturally, swelling a bulge as Dan Heng’s cunt pulse and grips tight.
Needy moans couldn’t help but punctuated out, the omega coudn’t help it—too sensitive to be knotted at this moment, but is too needy to refuse—hot seed came spilling out of the blunt tip, filling up the canal in burning warmth—enough to drive him into another wave of squirt, enough for their fluids mixing into something pure filth.
“B-Blade..” He called, as droplets of urine slowly drawn from the aching urethra, running a hot trail down his thigh, collecting beads of sweat as it made its way through—landed a dark spot on the quilt as Dan Heng trembled from the release. Mind blank from bliss, body numb from pleasure and Blade’s touch, Dan Heng couldn’t help but utter, “I’m too f-full..”
“You did well. ”Blade murmured against his dark locks, lips pressed against his hair, sniffing Dan Heng’s like he never wanted to let go. Letting go of the omega’s thigh, the now free hand reached up a nearby blanket to drape over Dan Heng’s sore body—shielding, cuddling him to keep warmth as they waited for the knot to ease down.
“Rest.” The swordsman’s hand naturally retreated back to the soft bump at his abdomen, cupping, checking the warmth as sleep gradually claimed over Dan Heng like a soothing wave to shore—pulling him down to rest, quieting down his mind as Blade lay awake, watching over his figure.
Blade knew this at heart, that he would never be able to refuse a chance closer to the archivist—regardless of the reasons, he’d turn down missions whenever Dan Heng’s mentioned anyway.