I’ve always found the Vyastil hauntingly beautiful, but there’s something about Cielo that’s different. I felt somethingshift in my chest the second I set eyes on him at my shop, and I haven’t been able to get him out of my head since.
And that makes this part easy.
Turning on the water, I twist the knob over to as hot as I can stand it, then take the first jar and stand with my back under the spray, my forehead pressed against the tiles, one hand on my dick, and the other ready to catch what I spill.
It doesn’t take me long to get fully hard. All I have to do is think about Cielo’s mostly naked body pressed up against me last night. The heat of him, the way he rumbled in his chest, the way he held me…
Fuck.
The fantasy comes easily after that. I can picture his long, pierced tongue wrapping around mine, gliding down my neck, teasing my nipples, dipping lower. I can almost feel exactly how it would be when he got his lips around me, carefully protecting me from his fangs, his mouth pulsing around my cock as he coaxed an orgasm out of me.
My wrist starts to ache with how fast I’m jerking myself, but I’m so fucking close already. My abs jump as the first orgasm sneaks up on me, and I only just manage to bite back a sob as I shove the tip of my dick against the opening of the jar and cum.
And cum.
And ohfuck, I’m still going.
I didn’t realize how much I had in me, but it fills the jar nearly halfway, and my hands tremble as I cap it, then set it aside.
Reaching for the soap, I feel my heart start to slow as I lather myself up and rinse off. There’s a bit of pink running off my shoulders in tiny rivers from the recent dye job I did, and I get distracted by watching the color swirl down the drain.
My hair hangs long over my shoulders when it’s not braided or pulled into a bun, and it reminds me of Cielo’s long locks. Hishair feels different from human hair—the strands thicker and tougher, like I could wrap them around my fist and pull, and it wouldn’t cause him pain.
My mind conjures up visions of his mouth after that—little fangs poking over his lips—one slightly longer than the other. And god, his eyes—the black scleral pools with rainbow orbs sitting on top. The way he watches me, tracking me through each room, is heady.
If it were anyone else—anything else—I would have been antsy and furious.
But with him, it’s different.
With him, I want to be seen.
My dick’s hard again, and I grab the other jar, quickly jerking myself to completion at the thought of his long tongue slipping into my ass and licking me into oblivion. Would he like the taste? I have no idea what it’s like for them. Everest has hinted that Rathyn feels pleasure—that he wants things other than sucking dick—but I don’t know for sure if that extends to all Vyastil.
It’s the one thing that’s gotten in the way of my motivation to make toys for the Vyastil.
I have a feeling they want more, to experience these very human sensations, but I have no means of understanding exactly what that might look like. I could ask Cielo—at least, once he’s absorbed enough ASL to have that conversation—but I’m not sure if I should.
Letting out a trembling breath, I cap the second jar, wash my hands and arms, and then swipe soap over my dick before rinsing off and reaching for my robe.
I don’t hear anything on the other side of the door, so I assume Cielo’s still asleep, which makes all of this easier. I take my time with my hair, twisting thick locks in a single Dutchbraid along the center of my crown before gathering the rest into a messy bun.
I throw on a little lip gloss, pull on a loose shirt and a pair of leggings, then slip back into the bedroom where I find Cielo still slumbering. He’s on his back now, one arm flung over his head, his mouth parted with each soft breath.
He looks calm. Like the weight of both his world and mine isn’t resting on his shoulders. I wish it could be like that all the time, but I know the moment he wakes, he’ll feel it. The pain of being cast out from Erethar. The strangeness of the human realm—a place where he’s not even fully welcome.
A place where he can’t even speak a language.
I wish to the gods I could do more.
I debate waking him to let him know I’m off to work, but instead, I rip off a piece of an old electric bill, grab a pen and scribble a note, leaving it on my pillow for him to find, along with the bottles on the bedside table. My chest aches at the idea that he’ll be by himself all day and lonely, but I can’t neglect the rest of my life just for him.
No matter how much I want to.
My walk to work is thankfully short—across the street and around a back alley to get in and open the shop—and I settle behind my desk, taking care of inventory before I open.
But I’m not fully here. Not my mind, my body, or my heart.
No, the rest of me is back in my little apartment with the battered, bruised monster in my bed, wondering if my presence and my cum are enough to help him heal.
