Tasty Alphabet (Patreon)

Your foot slipped, hard, fast, and in a completely unpredictable way. You're a half-elf; things like that shouldn’t apply to you, and yet...Water and stone are a dangerous mix, a slippery trap, one of those that nearly had you falling face-first onto the ground.

The only thing that saved your pride was Arthur’s reflexes, catching you before the fall was completed.

The rain had started just minutes earlier, heavy and dense enough to soak your clothes despite the cloak covering them.

A detail Arthur paid no mind to.

The impact against the wall wasn’t violent, though it echoed in your ears. No—it was cushioned by him. And now he’s against you, and this sudden closeness hits harder than anything else.

You're chest to chest.

His forearm protected your head, the other hand anchored firmly at the dip of your hip.
He’s soaked too, and you can’t help but notice the water trailing down his neck, his jaw. Sliding from his hair, now darkened slightly by the downpour.

Even his ocean-blue eyes seem darker.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low. “You almost fell.”

You swallow. “Yeah, sorry.”

You can feel him—every part of him—warm despite the rain. Your hands landed on his chest by reflex, and you feel his heartbeat pulsing beneath his skin.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs.

You blink, not sure if it’s a statement or something more.
The words hang between you, dripping with more weight than they should. He doesn't elaborate.

Doesn’t need to.

Your breaths mix, and for a second, Arthur’s gaze drops to your lips. You part them, caught off guard, and his eyes climb back up. His thumb shifts—just a graze along your waist, like an instinct you immediately regret losing when it fades.

“Are you hurt?” he breathes, his voice rough, still laced with adrenaline.

You barely nod. He’s too close. Far too close.

One of his legs has slid between yours—casually, by mistake, surely…
Except it doesn’t really feel like a mistake.

His knee presses just enough that you feel the contact, his thighs aligned with yours.

He’s breathing hard. So are you.
And his scent…The orange and honey that surrounded the boy never left the man, it simply evolved, added a spicier, more masculine note.

"I don’t think so," your voice sounds foreign, weak, and trembling.

That makes him pause. His brows knit together.

"Let me just…"

His fingers skim the folds of your clothes, trace along your belt, searching for skin—and when they find it, you gasp.

Your blood surges like magma.

Arthur’s looking for a bruise, a mark, some sign of harm. If he were to look up now, he’d see you—flushed, lost, burning.

In the best way possible.

This is wrong! You’re not together—and yet your body seems to call out to his, the way his needs yours.

His hands linger. His name escapes your lips.

"Did I hurt you?"

A rough whisper, close to your ear. And he knows. He knows how sensitive that spot is!
He knows, and yet his voice slides there, warm and low. A shiver races down your spine, making your thighs press together.

It’s unfair of him. He’s rendered you still, nearly submissive...

Not that you’re complaining.

His palm moves lower, slowly, down to your upper thigh. His fingers explore with a precision almost too gentle. Too careful.

Too calculated?

There’s no injury. But his hands keep searching. Probing.

And his lips drift graze your ear, then your jaw. And when they trail along your neck, you let your head fall back against the wall and close your eyes. Right there, where the skin is thin and hypersensitive.

You moan, and his lips curve.

Greedy bastard. He knows.

He doesn’t kiss. Not yet.

He tastes from a distance. He breathes your skin, and you want more.
More, more, more.

"Does that feel okay?"

"Yes."

His lips taste you at last—claim you without overwhelming you, but you’re already a slave.
A slave to every exhale, every shift in his breath.
Every beat of his heart.

When he speaks, his voice vibrates against your skin:

“You’re shaking. Are you sure you’re alright?”

You open your eyes again, your gaze hazy.
You don’t know what to answer.
Not with his hands on you.
Not with his knee grazing your inner thigh, in a position he doesn’t correct right away.
He could say it’s to steady you. To check your balance.
But you know, and he knows too, that it’s not just that.

He could’ve moved away a long time ago.
He didn’t.

And you haven’t said a word.
Why would you, when it feels this good?

He seeks your eyes—finds them—but seems unable to bear what he sees there.
A rough breath escapes him, and he closes his eyes.

“If you only knew… how hard this is,” he mutters, resting his forehead against yours.
There’s frustration in his voice, frustration in your body.

But it’s wrong.

Why is it that the most pleasurable things are always the most forbidden?

“Arthur…”

Gently, he steps back, raises a hand to your cheek, and strokes it with his thumb. You almost swoon when he presses it to his lips.

You’ve never been this jealous of a finger.

The cold seeps back between you as he pulls away, but warmth follows in small waves as he softly rubs his nose against yours.

A tender, familiar gesture.

Too gentle and restrained for what he feels, what you want, what you need.

But it’s all either of you can allow.

A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips.

“Come,” he says, offering his hand.

You take it slowly, slip your fingers between his, and search for the light where the sky is grey and rainy.