Page 11 of Mated to the Monster God

SAGAX

T he memory burns through me—her breath breaking against my lips, the warmth of her body pressed into mine. I’ve never felt so... anchored. I slip from sleep like a phantom, senses alive to every shift in the jungle air.

Dawn hovers, gentle firelight seeping through the canopy. I hear Esme rustle beside me, breath soft and slow, trusting. My arms still cradle her as if afraid to let go.

My senses idly note the rough weave of the moss beneath me, the faint tang of damp earth in her hair, her heartbeat pulsing against my chest in soft, hopeful staccato.

I don’t move. I don’t break the silence. Because there’s something holy in this stillness—her vulnerability shared with me is sacred and raw.

“I feel... alive,” she murmurs, voice half-lost to dreams.

I reply without thinking: “You give me life.”

She shifts, eyelashes fluttering. When she opens her eyes, they’re soft and searching. I lean forward, forehead against hers. Tiny beads of perspiration coat her brow; her lips part and a strand of hair brushes across them.

“You feel like home,” she breathes.

I don’t say it. Because home is too small a word. She’s everything I never knew I needed.

She tries to sit, lean up against me. I catch her, hold her close.

“Stay,” she whispers.

I answer with a kiss that smells like crushed petals and longing.

We disentangle but remain close. I stretch a hand through the cold morning air and pluck a wild blossom from a fallen vine. I slide it into her hair behind her ear.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, voice soft as dawn.

She laughs, raw and tender. “Thanks.”

“Esme,” I say, voice rough with wonder, “I remember fragments of others. But with you... I feel whole.”

Her breath stutters. “That’s the scariest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Because it’s possible?” I whisper.

“I’m scared I’ll screw it up,” she admits. “Lose myself.”

My thumb traces her jawline. “You won’t. I won’t let you exist in fear.”

She smiles, arms slipping around my neck. We stand, bodies pressed together, breath intermingling with mist.

I kiss her again—patient, meaningful, not consuming this time. We move slowly, falling apart just enough to find each other again. Somewhere deep, my fragmentary past hushes under her presence.

I taste her. Everything in me hushes.

I anchor her to myself with a whisper. “You’re mine.”

She doesn’t respond beyond leaning closer.

When the first birds call, the world flushes bright with possibility.

I guide her back toward the edge of camp—toward survival, toward tomorrow, together.

But right now?

Right now, I just breathe her in.

Our world shrinks to breath and pulse and skin that clings like water pouring off a stone.

The air is thick with the scent of earth, sweat, wildflowers crushed between us, and something warmer—our bodies fusing like two halves finally aligned.

I touch her gently, reverently, tracing heat and tension until she softens beneath my hands.

“Esme…” her voice is urgent and molten, breath catching like a spark.

She’s already beneath me, limbs tangled, fingers gripping leather and scales.

Every nerve in my body tightens. My claws press into the soil, gouging shallow trenches, half to anchor myself, half to hold back something fierce.

This tenderness is volcanic, burning sweetness into my bones while also scorching with need.

Our lovemaking is every contradiction that matters, every paradox that fills empty spaces. Slow enough to memorize each curve, fast enough to scramble the edges between us until I can taste her want on my tongue—salty, raw, vivid.

My hands travel with intent, mapping starlight across her scars, finding the places that arch with elation, that tense with fear, that beckon with unspoken invitation. I do not take. I honor every inch of her.

She arches into me, gasping my name as I move—that single word echoing in the night, a covenant. My ribs ache with how much I need to be worthy of that cry.

“Sagax…” she breathes again, meaty syllables weighed in want.

I pause, forehead pressed to hers, sweat cooling between us. “Tell me.”

Her gaze whistles into mine, feral and trusting. “I want you. Always.”

I push my cock into her slowly, reverently, burying it in the slick heat of her pussy. Her moan shivers through my bones. I feel every twitch of her body around me, the way she stretches and grips, the way her thighs tighten at my hips, holding me close.

She gasps, nails digging into my shoulders. “God—you feel... massive.”

“Too much?” I rasp, trying to hold back.

She shakes her head, biting her lip. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

I thrust deeper, groaning against her mouth, her heat drawing me in until I’m lost. Her pussy clenches around me, so tight, so wet, it’s like she’s made to fit me. Her hips rise to meet mine, demanding, guiding.

Our rhythm builds, slow and deep, then faster—fierce. She cries out, body rocking beneath me, her orgasm breaking like a wave against my hips.

“I’m—Esme—I’m so close,” I grunt, voice shredded.

“Then come,” she pants, her voice broken open. “Come with me.”

I surge once, twice more—and then I do, buried to the hilt, shuddering into her warmth, spilling everything I am into her. Our cries tangle together as the morning breaks.

Later, when the tremors fade, we lay in silence. Her body curled against mine, my tail draped protectively over her hip, her breath brushing my chest in gentle waves.

The sun rises. But for now, we are still. I gather her into my arms, chest to chest, fit so intuitively perfect it feels like destiny. Her breath is ragged, her heart slamming against me like a drum with no mercy.

“You are.” My voice breaks against her mouth.

She kisses me then—slow at first, searching, and then it ignites, fierce and fast. Lips meet hard, tongues split desire open, and the world fractures.

I cradle her in every sense—warmth, taste, scent, sound. The tremor in her hands, the slide of sweat into my hairline, the scent of wild mint from the brushlands drifting in—everything burns together. Even the claws digging into the earth remind me I am both monster and protector.

The paradox hums beneath my skin.

I kiss her with wonder—gentle as morning rain, fierce as wildfire at midnight. She responds with the same intensity, and we move as one organism, heat blooming like warped constellations where our bodies chart new galaxies.

When at last I still, I’m trembling. I hold her close, breathing in the sweep of her chest, the rhythm coming back to life beneath mine. Her hair, damp and fragrant, brushes against my lips.

“Sagax,” she murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion and moonlight.

I stroke her back, heartbeat slowing against hers. “I’m right here.”

We lie tangled in the grass. The night has bled to whisper, stars blinking in witness.

In that silence, I marvel at how seamlessly she fits against me. How natural the connection is. How terrifyingly right.

I listen to her pulse, holding her like gravity holds the world.

I do not move. I do not speak. But my mind hums with the simple truth:

I will never let her go.

The night air cools around us, rich with the tang of earth and star-dusted leaves. The heat of our bodies fades into the hum of the forest, and yet every nerve remains electric, attuned to the rhythm of Esme’s breathing against my chest. Her pulse drummings like distant thunder in my ears.

Her arm coils over my torso, skin against scales in a union that feels natural, unforced. I lie beneath her, cupping her head gently, letting the cascade of her dark hair tickle my fingers. I tune into her heartbeat—steady and malleable—and it becomes the only melody that matters in the stillness.

A soft breath escapes her. I shift to look upward, tracing constellations through the tree canopy. Stars flicker, indifferent and ancient, but beneath them we exist like two wild things in a secret born from instinct and longing.

“I was made from the blood of others,” I say, voice low enough to disturb only the crickets. “But I live for yours.”

She breathes in a way that catches on something tender inside me.

“I’ve never been this close to anyone,” she whispers against my chest.

Nothing reaches so deep as human fragility spoken in hushed tones. I tighten my arms around her, pulling her flush against me. Every edge of me hums with the realization—this is what love must feel like. To create sanctuary in someone else.

“I didn’t know love,” I confess, eyes tracing the curve of her neck. “Not the way you teach me. Not until you.”

Her lashes flutter in sleep’s haze. Her voice softens further: “I... love you.”

There’s no fanfare. No trembling crescendo—just words, shimmering in the dark.

I kiss the top of her head, heart breaking open in warmth. “You’re mine,” I murmur. “And I am yours.”

I feel her pulse flutter beneath my palm, a promise vibrated through bone and blood.

We lie like that until the night folds into dawn. The world shifts around us—night listeners rise, a breeze ripples through leaves—but we remain.

She sleeps.

I don’t.

Every breath she takes builds inside me a knowledge I almost can’t hold: love isn’t a concept. It’s this—these quiet promises, this inhaled warmth, this shared breath beneath the canopy of stars.

Tonight, love is no longer an unknown. It’s as real as the rhythm of her heart against mine.

I stay awake, guarding the fragile, brilliant thing we’ve forged in the dark. And in that vigil, I understand the full weight of what she means to me.