In my peripheral vision, I can see Azrael beginning to peel clothing off his heavily muscled form. With each article shed, the strange, brewing tension in my chest grows, and it takes more effort than it should for me to complete the simple task of bed making.
Just as I finish and straighten, Azrael drags his boxer briefs down his narrow, sculpted hips to reveal a trim patch of dark hair that leads to a long, thick cock some shades darker than his bronze skin.
Suddenly, I can relate to a lonely grape left to dehydrate into a raisin beneath the heat of the sun, because dear God—all the fluid in my body seems to evaporate... or at least travelsouth,and much too far away from my rational mind that is now failing to supply the myriad of reasons why I hate this man.
When my eyes linger for a breath too long, Azrael notices, but in a bizarre and undeserving display of politeness and humility, he says nothing. Just clears his throat and proceeds to massagehis brow as he continues our conversation as if he didn’t just catch me ogling his enormous dick.
“I am older than I cancount,literally; have been alive, in one form or another, since before the birth of this world... Most worlds. Physical, anyway. Not only that, but I am a god that presides over death. Death and endings…”
Dropping his hand, his gaze meets mine, glistening as he releases a heavy breath. “You cannot begin to fathom the horrors I have witnessed—the birth and death of countless worlds, countless people. Countless... loved ones. Which speaks nothing for the near infinite versions of myself that have been birthed continuously throughout my own evolution. Versions of myself that I cannot even recall.”
Azrael must see something in my expression that makes him catch himself. Compassion perhaps. Or my tiny human mind being blown away.
He straightens—carefully, so as not to jostle his precariously glued head—clearing his throat, offering me a smile weighed down by resignation. “After all that, what’s a little beheading?”
The silence is heavy between us, and I get the feeling this guy is a hair away from having a breakdown, so I offer the only consolation I can give.
“At least it’s not your dick.”
A surprised laugh rumbles from Azrael’s chest, the smile on his face true. “A merciful fate, indeed.”
As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something... affable about Azrael.
Unhinged, but affable.
And if he weren’t trying to court mysoulbound,I’d probably like him. Would probably be inwardly geeking out at meeting someone I’ve read countless variations of in mythology and comic books.
My stomach seems to form a knot at the realization.
Silver lining: myslightlythickened cock is completely soft in the wake of Azrael’s depression. With the beds made and my desperate need to end this bizarre fucking day, I yank my shirt over my head.
Azrael offers me the other pair of pajama pants.
I shake my head, tugging down my jeans and underwear before I kick them aside.
“I sleep nude.”
When I look up again, it's to find a certain softness in Azrael’s gaze as his eyes unabashedly rake over me. Unlike me, he has no shame in admiring my body—or my dick and the tattoos that drift down to the base of my cock. Even as it begins to thicken again. My cheeks flame with the unfamiliar sensation of embarrassment, and the all-too-familiar sensation of shame.
Perhaps I should take those fucking pajamas.
My gaze locks with the floor as I reach for them. The action is done so abruptly that it causes my fingers to graze his.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself while completely ignoring the tingling it inspires in the head of my dick.
I yank the pajamas on, wishing God would strike me down with a bolt of lightning if only I didn’t have to endure a moment more of this humiliation.
I take it as a small mercy when I hear a loud thump hit the floor behind us, severing the back-breaking tension between us.
We both turn to find, lying at the feet of his shadow, a small, dark green leather-bound book engraved with whorls of gold and an illustration of two people—both bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Violette with their wings, horns, and tails—holding hands, heads bowed towards one another. The words above it are in a script I can’t read.
Azrael’s shadow stares at me.
My gaze slides in question to Azrael.
“I think he’s giving you a gift.”
My brow pinches with suspicion, but I squat to pick it up. Opening it, the soul-soothing scent ofold bookfills my nostrils as I scan the pages. Foreign script coupled with beautiful, intricately detailed illustrations decorate every page. When I settle on one in particular—a female of formidable build carrying a griffin-like beast, shot through with arrows—the picture shifts into a black and white animation. She trudges endlessly through a wintry forest with the creature on her back.