Page 127 of May: Bloom & Bane

He doesn’t answer. Just silence and the thud of my own heart.

“I’m trying, Eden.” I position myself at her entrance. “Use me. Ride me. Just let me be inside you. I’ll give you everything. I’ll fill you until you’re dripping, until your belly swells again with every drop. Please, Eden, I’m begging—let me in.”

My vék twitches hard, pre-come sliding down my shaft as I hold myself right at the threshold, desperate and obedient, waiting for her to decide I’ve earned it.

She lets go of the collar for a split second, and I feel the sudden, terrifying lack of her grip.

Behind the leaves of the blindfold, the emptiness breaks into a snarl of familiar, predatory weight settling back into my bones.

Mine, a voice rasps from the back of my mind. She is MINE.

My wings wrap around her, the left side of my body erupting into vorí. Our hands move without thought, clawing at the blindfold. The vines resist for half a heartbeat before I tear them away.

“Need to see you,” he groans. “Was trying so hard to come back to you.”

He doesn’t wait. His hand slides between us, positioning himself at her entrance, and then he’s pushing inside with a broken growl. His girth swells in place of mine, the bone cage rising through our shared length sluggishly one rib at a time.

“You told me⁠—”

He thrusts deeper, filling her completely.

“—if I came back to you⁠—”

Another thrust.

She gasps. Her nails dig into our shoulders as he bottoms out.

“I could have you.”

“Ashán,” she gasps.

“Ash’kaela,” he rasps. “Ním.”

He moves slowly inside her, his skal flexing in weak waves as she rolls her hips down onto him. Venya seeps from every segment, thin at first, slow as sap in winter. Her breath turns slow and golden as it reaches her bloodstream. Even half-emptied and wrecked, his body still makes its offering.

“Couldn’t find you,” he chokes out between thrusts. “Tried—couldn’t⁠—”

His forehead drops to her shoulder.

“Couldn’t find him.” His voice cracks. “It was so dark.”

Her hand slides back to the collar, fingers curling around the vines at his throat.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers. “You’re here now. Both of you.”

“Pull it,” he rasps desperately. “Please. Need to feel—pull harder⁠—”

She tightens her grip on the collar, pulling until he can barely breathe.

He moans in response, and his relief melds with my own. There is no word in any of my languages for being held down, held open, and held together, all by the same small hands.

“More,” he rasps against her throat. “Need more⁠—”

The vines around my throat shift, the smooth texture hardening until thorns erupt along the edges. They press into our skin with each pull of Eden’s hand.

Eden’s eyes widen, her grip loosening slightly on the collar. “Ashán⁠—”

“Don’t stop,” he gasps. “Pull—please.”