(R-18) Return of the Surge

Vaelora threw her legs apart wider, her voice laced with both frustration and heat. "Here! Here, you fool!"

"Ah, I see," he said with a nod. "I more or less knew."

"H-Haaah?! Are you messing with me?!"

"Calm down. I did know… but I wasn't sure if you meant the first hole or the second."

"..."

Vaelora's frown didn't disappear, but a red hue flushed across her face. Her eyes darted to the side, and she muttered, "…Idiot… Any hole is fine... But since it's your first, I'll let you use m-my... love hole."

"..."

Yam blinked. He stared at her for a long moment.

"What now?!" she snapped, still blushing.

"…No, it's just…" he scratched his chin. "You look… breathtaking right now. More than ever. I was thinking maybe you'd put me under another spell."

Her breath caught in her throat. "Hiiuuughh—!"

"Eh? What kind of spell is that?" he asked, tilting his head.

It was no spell, as Yam thought. It was just her dignity shattering from how easily he'd flipped the tables on her.

"Well… Thank y—!!"

Before she could finish, Yam interrupted her.

"D... Don't just thrust it in while I'm blushing!!" she cried, face beet-red.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize!" she snapped again, flustered beyond belief. "Just… keep that energy. Don't slow down now…"

Yam's gaze dropped, and he noticed a faint rise on her lower abdomen. "What's this here?" he asked, poking the small bump.

"Stop that, you dummy!" she yelped, slapping his hand. "That's none of your business! Now, move your hips—slowly at first, okay?!"

Despite her caution, Yam grabbed her arms—firm, sudden, and assured—before driving his hips forward with a force that sent Vaelora into a startled jolt.

'Oh no… he's going to split me in half!'

Each motion shook her petite frame like a wind-tossed rag doll, her small, frontal peaks jiggling in response.

By the fifth thrust, a cry escaped her lips as her body surrendered, surging with heat and overwhelming sensation.

"Hey… h-hey, can we take a break…?" she whispered, her voice barely a thread.

But then she looked up—and realized.

Yam wasn't his usual stone-faced self anymore.

His lips were curled into a dangerous smirk.

"Y…Yam…?"

"Vaelora, I just made a discovery," he murmured, his tone raspier than before, like something had awakened inside him. "So… I'll be ignoring everything you say from now on."

Her eyes widened.

"After all, your hour," he added coldly, "just ran out."

With one hand, he clasped both of hers together and resumed plunging—not hesitating, not relenting. Vaelora's breath caught again as his rhythm turned merciless.

'This sensation… is this what is called sexual pleasure?' Yam wondered. 'It's strange. Though, not as fulfilling as I imagined—but still… more than I expected.'

"Forgive me, Vaelora," he whispered, "but I must continue with abandon."

With that unnerving declaration, he kept on, plunging his swollen slab forward, again and again as if chasing some hidden truth obscured deep within the pink cave.

Vaelora didn't answer anymore. She knew now—only killing him could make this stop, and she wasn't exactly in fighting shape right now.

'I just have to wait this out,' she thought hazily. 'but will my cunt even be in one piece after this?'

Yam shifted her effortlessly, raising her body to the high back of the bed. From behind, he kept slamming it into her, each thrust seeming to stretch her little love hole. Her breaths became shallow, quick, almost desperate.

Still, her body responded. Her insides clung to him involuntarily, each push feeling like fire melting ice.

'Ugh… he's so deep…'

And then, unexpectedly, she spun around—fluid and swift. Her legs wrapped around him, her tongue diving into his mouth in an impatient kiss.

She'd given up. Or more accurately… given in.

But Yam also didn't falter. He held her thighs tighter, their bodies kissing together with their lips. His rhythm didn't break.

It was as if—through her—he was trying to shake loose the chains around his own soul.

Then, suddenly—

"There," Yam muttered, eyes narrowing. "That surge… I feel it rising again. Vaelora, will you be alright?"

"Yesh! Yesh!" she cried, head tilting back, voice breathy and cracked. Her eyes were unfocused, lips parted, cheeks soaked with sweat and slobber. "Fill me up with your baby-making milk!!"

"Hhgnh!" Yam's entire frame tensed. For the first time, a strained expression crossed his face. He clutched her body tightly and let go with a stifled groan, pulling her into his chest.

"Aaaannhhhghgh!!" Vaelora moaned. "Ah, Yam you're awesome, so awesome. I love you so much!"

Her voice dissolved into gasps as her trembling body melted against him. A white, warm trickle traced down her thigh. She didn't care. Not now.

Yam stared blankly at the result of their union—his breath labored.

"So… this is the fluid that once sparked my creation?" he murmured, as though in disbelief.

Vaelora clung to him like a child in a storm. Dazed. Floaty. From the insemination.

But after a few moments, he gently peeled her arms away.

"I'm going to wash up," he said, his voice flat, his composure snapping back into place. "This was a waste of time, after all."

Vaelora blinked, stunned. "C'mon, let's just go for one last round! I'll show you!" She nagged.

"Wha—hey!" She suddenly grabbed for his waist, nearly slipping. "How dare you call it a waste after everything we just—! I gave you my best moves!"

He didn't even look back as he nudged her arms off.

"It was a waste," he repeated, stepping away. "The sensation vanished the moment… that white substance left me… the pleasure disappeared."

Vaelora's flush deepened. "Oh. Um… yeah, that happens. Sometimes. But still! You could've at least basked in the afterglow for a minut—"

"It was fleeting," he replied, pausing by the doorway. "But… I won't deny it—your body was unusually warm. And surprisingly… lovely."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Y…Yam…"

He tilted his head slightly, voice dipping to a smolder:

"Almost as pleasant… as bathing in the blood of my enemies."

"Of course!" Vaelora exploded. "You just had to ruin the moment, you battle-crazed monkey!"

*

In the bathroom, under the shower, an utterly handsome man stood silently.

Water traced down his sculpted body, his wet gray hair clinging to his skin, and light gleaming off the intricate scars carved across his back like ancient scripts of war.

Then, quietly—she entered.