"Just be gentle "||Devon Virex

The air in the rented tavern room was thick. Not with dust or stale ale, but with a kind of pressure, a low, visceral hum that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. Devon Virex, the man who looked unremarkable in any light, was anything but that now.

He lay sprawled on the rough wool blanket of the bed, a single candle flickering on the bedside table casting shifting shadows over a form that was no longer trying to be human. His soft black hair was now a deeper, void-black cascade, faintly moving like smoke. Two horns, one cracked at the tip, curved back from his forehead. Molten crimson eyes burned in the dimness, fixed on the ceiling as if it held answers. Glowing, intricate markings—like cracks filled with lava—spread across his pale skin, from his collarbones down his bare chest to where they disappeared beneath the waistband of his simple black boxers. A living shadow, a coil of restless darkness, shifted and pooled around him on the mattress.

His body was taut, every muscle clenched against a wave of sensation he couldn’t control. A low, guttural sound escaped him, not a moan but a strained guhhh, as his hips jerked involuntarily. He squeezed his eyes shut, the red light dimming for a second. "Fuck," he hissed to the empty room, the word sharp and bitten-off.

He’d known this was coming. The talk at fourteen had been clinical, detached. A biological process for young demons of his bloodline. A heat. Not for reproduction—the first one was just an adjustment, the body learning its own rhythms—but for release. It could be waited out. It was safer, quieter, to just lock yourself away and let the fever pass. That was the logical path. The efficient one.

Devon was, above all things, a creature of logic and efficiency.

Yet here he was, sweating on a tavern bed in a backwater town, feeling like his bones were melting and his blood was singing a song he didn’t want to hear. He’d locked the door. He’d told his partner—the chaotic, loud, infuriatingly necessary human he traveled with—that he needed to rest. Alone.

He forgot about the spare key.

The door clicked. The handle turned.

Devon’s head snapped toward the sound, his crimson eyes blazing. The shadow behind him sliiicked up, forming a half-shield between him and the entrance. “Don’t,” he growled, his voice rough, layered with a deeper resonance that wasn’t entirely human.

But the door opened anyway.

There they stood. His partner. The one person he couldn’t seem to leave behind, no matter how much he complained about their methods, their recklessness, their entire being. They paused in the doorway, taking in the scene: the demonic form, the glowing marks, the tense agony written in every line of Devon’s body.

They called his name . their voice was quiet, probing.

“Close the door,” he demanded, trying to sound firm. It came out as a plea. Another involuntary shudder wracked him, his back arching off the bed for a second before he forced himself flat. A soft, desperate nngh escaped his clenched teeth.

They didn’t close the door. They stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind them. The lock wasn’t engaged. Their gaze traveled over him, not with fear, but with that infuriating, relentless curiosity he’d come to associate with them. They brought up the lie Devon told them about being tired

“I am.” He bit out. “It’s a different kind of tired.”

They mentioned how he was growing.

“It’s a demon thing.” He shifted, trying to pull the blanket over himself, but the movement made the heat in his gut spike. He froze, breath catching in a way that was utterly not a cliché hitch—it was a full, painful stoppage. Glrk.

They moved closer, slowly, until they stood at the edge of the bed. Devon’s shadow coiled tighter, but didn’t strike. It never would, against them. That was the unspoken rule, the illogical exception to all his protocols.

they observed. Saw he was in pain and asked about it.

“It’s not pain.” He corrected, eyes narrowing. “It’s... need. It’s a fucking biological imperative. My body is deciding it wants to learn how to fuck, and it’s doing the homework without me.” The vulgarity was blunt, factual. It was the only way he could frame it.

They blinked at the mentioned of a heat and mumbled about it.

He sighed, a long, ragged sound that ended in another small jerk of his hips. “Yes. First one. It’s... mandatory. For younger demons. My kind lives too long; this gets the system online.” He was explaining, like he was briefing a mission. It kept him anchored. “You can wait it out. Most do. It passes. No lasting effects.” His eyes flicked away.

The room was silent except for the shhh-shhh of his restless shadow against the sheets and the low, almost sub-aural hum emanating from him.

They watched. And then, with that reckless, straightforward way they offered to help.

Devon’s burning eyes snapped back to them. The offer hung in the thick air. Logical pathways fired in his mind. It would shorten the process. It would provide relief. They are here. They are willing. They are... safe. The last thought was the most dangerous, the one that bypassed all his calculations.

His voice was low, strained. “Can you handle me?” It wasn’t a boast. It was a genuine question, laced with fear. “I’m not... fully in command right now. The instincts are... present. I might bite. I might claw. I want to grind. It’s... messy.”

The tavern was loud. The usual post-commission buzz of hunters celebrating, complaining, and drinking away the memory of monster ichor. Devon sat across from his partner, a tankard of something dark and bitter untouched in front of him. He was back in his human guise—the soft black hair, the muted gray eyes, the unremarkable lean frame. The only hint of what lurked beneath was a slight chill in the air around him, and a weariness in his posture that went deeper than physical fatigue.

Two years. Two years since the rented room, the rough blanket, the desperate grinding against their thigh, the mark on their neck that had faded within a day. Two years of traveling, fighting, sharing a bedroll more often than not, and a silence between them about that night that was more agreement than avoidance. It had worked. The heat had passed in hours, not days. He’d regained control. They’d never spoken of it directly again.

But it was there. A ghost in the space between their shared glances, in the way his shadow sometimes coiled a little closer to their feet when they slept.

Tonight’s commission had been... messy. A tentacle monster in a swampy cave. It hadn’t been difficult, just visceral. Slimy, grabbing, squelching things that left a lingering, salty odor on their clothes and in their memories. Devon had dispatched it with cold efficiency, his dagger moving in precise arcs. His partner had fought with their usual chaotic gusto. They’d won. They were here now, alive, drinking.

His partner took a long sip of their ale, then set the mug down with a soft thock. Their gaze was on him, thoughtful. Distant. Devon felt the weight of it. He knew that look. It was the look that preceded a question he wouldn’t like.

They began, voice casual over the tavern din. They talked about the monster they took down. A tentacle monster

Devon’s eyes narrowed. “It was a defensive mutation. It over-extended to create sensory nodes. Basic biology.”

They nodded, but the thoughtfulness didn’t leave their face. They leaned forward a little, elbows on the sticky wooden table as they soon mention their curiosity about reproduction

A cold knot formed in Devon’s stomach. Oh, fuck.

Devon sighed, a long, slow exhalation. He scanned the room. No one was listening. A pair of dwarves were arguing about mining rights. A group of human hunters were laughing too loudly about a troll’s misplaced club. Safe. But still, his voice dropped, becoming a low murmur only for their ears. “We do. It’s not like humans. Or elves. Or... tentacle monsters.”

Their tone was gentle, but relentless. Asking how it works

He blinked, a slow, annoyed blink. He hated this. He hated talking about his biology, about the clinical facts of his species that felt like exposing a weakness. “We lay eggs,” he said, the words blunt and final.

Their eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Yes. Eggs.” He took another drink, as if the ale could wash away the awkwardness. “My species evolved past live birth millennia ago. It’s inefficient. Risky. An egg is... contained. Protected. It can be carried by anyone. Male, female, it doesn’t matter. The physiology adapts.” He spoke like a scholar reciting a text. “The process of forming one is light work for us. A focused biological effort. Once it’s ready, it’s... placed.”

“Internally,” Devon clarified, his voice growing tighter. “In a receptive host. The host provides warmth, safety. The egg gestates. Hatches. The offspring is... independent quickly.”

They were silent for a moment, absorbing it. Then they leaned even closer. Asking for a egg to be placed.

Inside them

Devon’s tankard clinked against the table a little too hard. He set it down, his pale fingers tightening around the handle. “We’ve talked about this before,” he said, his tone shifting to a low warning. “After the heat. You asked. I said it was complicated.”

Devon’s jaw tightened. He could feel the cold in his veins, the shadow under his skin stirring. “It’s possible. It’s also dangerous. For you. The egg isn’t small. The implantation isn’t... subtle. It would change you, temporarily. Your body would have to adjust. There would be discomfort. Risk.” He finally looked back at them, his gray eyes holding a flicker of that deep red ring. “Why are you asking this now?”

They met his gaze, unwavering. They were close weren't they? Been together for years so why does putting a egg inside them so hard?

A silence stretched between them, filled with the tavern’s noise. Devon’s fingers tapped once on the table. Tap. A decision was forming, not in his mind, but in that deeper, older part of him—the demon blood, the royal line, the instinct that had been quiet since his first heat.

“We’re not doing this here,” he said finally, voice low.

a single sharp motion. “Finish your drink.”

“Ready,” he murmured.

He positioned himself. The head of his cock pressed against their entrance. He didn’t thrust. He eased forward, a slow, inexorable push.

The sensation was immediate, overwhelming for him. His body, even outside of heat, was sensitive. The contact, the tight warmth, sent a shock through his system. His glowing marks flared brighter. A sharp, punched-out sound escaped him—ah!

He paused, breathing heavily. “Fuck. You’re... tight. Even for this.”

He pushed further.

Sllllllck.

The sound was wet, slow, deliberate. He sank into them inch by inch, his entire body trembling with the effort of control. His claws dug into the blanket on either side of their hips, puncturing the wool with tiny pks. His shadow wrapped around their legs, a cool, comforting pressure.

When he was fully inside, he stopped. He was buried deep, his hips flush against theirs. He let out a long, shuddering sigh—kkkhhh. “There. The channel is open.”

He began to move.

This wasn’t the frantic grinding of before. This was a rhythm. A steady, deep, pumping motion. Each thrust was measured, powerful. His hips drove forward with a soft thump, then withdrew with a wet shlllp. The bed creaked underneath them—erk-erk-erk—in time with his movements.

His face was a mask of focused intensity. His eyes were half-lidded, watching their face for signs of distress. His breath came in controlled gusts—huh... huh... huh.

“Talk to me,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Tell me what you feel.”

They did. Words spilled out, descriptions of pressure, fullness, a stretching warmth. Devon listened, his thrusts adjusting minutely based on their feedback. He was engineering this, crafting it.

As he moved, a change began within him. A gathering. Not just the building pleasure of intercourse—though that was there, a hot, coiling tension in his gut—but a deeper, internal shifting. He could feel it, a biological focus drawing energy from his core, from the demonic essence that powered his form. It was concentrating, forming, compacting.

His thrusts became faster. Still controlled, but urgent. The wet sounds grew more pronounced—slosh, slrp, glrk. His shadow tightened around them. His claws tore bigger rips in the blanket—skrrtch!

“It’s forming,” he gasped, his rhythm stuttering. “The egg. I can feel it... condensing. Inside me. Near the base.”

He fucked them harder, deeper. Each drive forward was a thud that shook the bedframe. His breath lost its control, becoming ragged—hah! Hah! Hah!

His face contorted. Not with agony, but with a profound, focused effort. The glowing marks on his skin were now strobe-like, flashing crimson light across the room. The shadow behind him vibrated, a low hummmmmm filling the air.

He was close. The sexual peak was approaching, a wave of sensation that would trigger the final transfer.

With a last, powerful thrust that buried him to the root, he stopped. He held himself there, deep inside them, his body rigid. “I’m at the edge,” he gritted out. “The culmination. But I need to... pull out. To place it. The egg needs a direct... insertion.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation. He knew their consent was given.

He withdrew, sliding out of them with a long, wet shlllllk. The sudden emptiness was a shock to both of them.

Devon knelt between their legs, his cock gleaming, dripping. Beneath the base, something was moving. A visible, internal shift, a hardening, a formation. A low, deep gurgle sounded from within him, a biological noise.

“Open your legs wider,” he instructed, voice strained. “Present yourself. I need clear access.”

They obeyed, spreading their legs, bending their knees.

Devon’s clawed hands went to their thighs, holding them open. His gaze was locked on their entrance, now glistening, relaxed from his earlier movements.

He positioned himself again, but not for penetration. He angled his cock downward, aiming. The tip hovered just above them.

Then, with a focused, deliberate motion, he pushed. Not his cock. Something else. Something from him.

A soft, rounded, warm object emerged from him, sliding from a hidden internal passage. It was smooth, firm, about the size of a large fruit. It glistened with a faint, opalescent sheen. It was the egg.

Devon guided it with his hands, his touch gentle despite the intensity of the moment. He pressed the egg against their entrance. Then, with a steady, unyielding pressure, he inserted it.

Squeeeeesh.

The sound was unique, a slow, wet, stretching sound as the egg passed into them. Devon’s face was a study of concentration, his crimson eyes burning like forge-fire. He pushed it deeper, inch by inch, until it was fully inside, seated deep within their body.

He held his hand there for a moment, feeling the last of the egg slip past his fingers. Then he removed his hand, panting heavily.

He looked at their belly. With his other hand, he placed his palm flat against their lower stomach. He pressed gently, feeling the new, firm presence within. A slow smile touched his lips—not a triumphant smile, but a soft, satisfied one. “There. It’s planted. Deep. Secure.”

He leaned down, his face close to theirs again. His breath was cool against their heated skin. “Your body will accept it. It will warm it. Protect it. It will... change you, for a time. Your senses might sharpen. Your energy might fluctuate. It’s normal.”

He kissed their cheek, a brief, tender press of his cold lips. “We can continue now. The channel is still open. The fucking can... resume. If you want.”

The room smelled of sweat and something else—a deep, earthy musk that clung to the air, thick and undeniable. Devon’s senses were overloaded. The sound of ragged breathing, the sight of the strained body on the bed, the feel of the event unfolding like a clock ticking down to a moment he couldn’t stop.

A few months had passed. His partner’s stomach, once flat and familiar, now bulged with a firm, rounded curve. The egg had grown, nourished by their body’s warmth, becoming something real, something present. Devon had watched it happen with a detached, clinical fascination. The changes were subtle at first—a slight fullness, a new warmth in their skin, a shift in their energy. Then more pronounced. The curve became unmistakable. The weight changed how they moved, how they slept.

He’d studied it. He’d measured it with his hands, pressed his palms against the firm shell beneath the skin, felt the faint vibrations of life within. It was a biological process, a successful implantation. Logically, it was perfect. Emotionally, it was a fucking disaster.

Now, the process was ending.

His partner lay on the bed, propped up by pillows Devon had arranged with meticulous, nervous care. Their face was flushed, their brow damp. Their breaths came in short, sharp huh... huh... huhs. Their hands gripped the sheets, twisting the fabric into knots.

Devon stood beside the bed, his demon form fully present. The horns, the glowing cracks, the shadow—all were out, not because he needed them for strength, but because his control was fraying, and the form leaked out like smoke from a cracked vessel. His claws tapped against his thigh—tik, tik, tik—a nervous rhythm.

He’d read the signs. The egg had detached from its anchoring point, was now descending, ready for expulsion. A birth. A fucking birth.

He’d prepared. He’d gathered clean cloths, a basin of water, a knife for... for nothing, really. He just needed something to hold. His mind, usually so orderly, was a scrambled mess of half-formed protocols and panic.

“I don’t know how to help,” he said, the words flat and honest. “I’ve never... I’ve never done this. I’ve never seen this. My kind... we lay the egg. The host births it. I’ve only studied the theory.”

Devon moved closer. He knelt by the bed, his shadow curling around their legs, offering a cool contrast to the heat radiating from their body. He placed a hand on their stomach, feeling the tight, hard curve. Beneath his palm, a slow, rolling movement occurred—a soft, internal slosh.

His breath faltered.

A father.

The word hit him like a physical blow. It wasn’t a title, it was a fucking condition. A permanent, irreversible state. This was a mistake. A colossal, emotional, illogical mistake. He’d created a life. He’d placed a potential heir of a brutal royal bloodline inside the person he cared for most. He’d tied them to a future of hunting, of hiding, of danger. He’d anchored himself to a responsibility he’d run from his entire life.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through his chest. His claws dug into his own palm—skritch. The glowing marks on his skin flared, pulsed red like a warning beacon. His shadow shuddered, twisting into agitated shapes.

“I can’t... I can’t take this back,” he muttered, voice rising. “This is... this is a mistake. I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have done this. You shouldn’t have... fuck. Fuck.”

He stood up abruptly, pacing away from the bed. The room was small. Three steps and he hit the wall. He turned, his crimson eyes wide, burning with a fear he never showed. “This is permanent. This is a child. A demon child. With my blood. With my... my line. They’ll hunt it. They’ll hunt you. They’ll find us. I’ve... I’ve put you in a cage. I’ve...”

His partner watched him, their face contorted not just with physical strain, but with a sudden, fierce anger. They saw him spiraling, retreating into the cold logic of fear, abandoning them in the moment they needed him most.

With a grunt of effort, they shifted on the bed, leaning up. Their hand lashed out—whap!—a sharp, stinging slap across Devon’s cheek.

The sound was crisp, shocking in the muted room. Crack!

Devon froze. His head turned slightly from the impact. The glowing marks dimmed for a second. The shadow settled. His frantic pacing halted.

He looked at them, his crimson eyes blinking slowly.

The slap wasn’t harsh, but it was decisive. It was a command. A stop.

The room had finally gone still, the chaos of everything settling into a heavy, sleepy quiet. Eight smooth, faintly glowing eggs rested between them, tucked into a blanket like very questionable treasures.

Devon lay back, one arm loosely around his partner, the other absently tracing the curve of an egg. His form was muted, horns barely there, glow dim. Calm. Almost peaceful.

Then their stomach growled.

He tilted his head. “You require food.”

They glanced at the eggs.

Devon followed their gaze.

“...No.”

—

A few minutes later, Devon stood stiffly by the tiny hearth, staring down at the pan like it had personally betrayed him.

Sizzle.

The egg cooked.

It smelled incredible.

That was the first problem.

“This is a mistake,” Devon muttered, voice tight.

His partner said nothing, just waited.

Devon stared harder.

“...This is a deeply unethical mistake.”

He flipped it.

Perfect golden brown.

“...Efficient, though.”

—

They sat on the floor. One plate. One egg.

His partner took the first bite.

Their eyes lit up. Devon narrowed his eyes. Suspicious.

They held out a piece to him.

He hesitated.

This was wrong. Deeply wrong. Existentially wrong.

He opened his mouth anyway.

Silence.

Then-

“...That is unacceptable.”

He took another bite.

And another.

Soon he was eating like a man personally offended by the concept of restraint, tears quietly streaming down his face.

“This is—” bite “—morally reprehensible—” bite “—and I will not—” bite “—waste resources—”

He sniffed, wiping his face with the back of his hand while chewing.

“It’s so good.”

The plate was empty.

Devon sat there, hollow-eyed, crumbs on his fingers, dignity in ruins.

He thought of his own egg. The one he’d hatched from. His mother, in a rare moment of dark humor, had told him the story when he was young. “We almost ate you, little void-spawn. Your shell was so pale, we thought you were a dud. A breakfast treat. It was only when your aunt felt a second pulse, a weaker one beneath the first, that we realized... you were just a late bloomer.” She’d laughed. He’d laughed too, then. A funny family story.

His mind, so good at making connections, at following threads of logic to their horrible conclusions, did not stop. It raced backward.

He thought of the breakfasts in the cold, stone halls of his ancestral home. Platters of steaming, fragrant eggs. Different sizes, different hues. A staple of the demon royal diet. “Where do they come from?” he’d asked once. “From the hatcheries,” was the vague answer. From the unclaimed clutches. From the failed implantations.

He thought of his siblings. The dozens of them. The ones who were raised. The ones who weren’t. The law of nature in their world was brutal: if an egg did not show a strong, fertile pulse within a certain period, it was culled. Recycled to the pets of the kingdom It was practical. It was efficient. “Glad I didn’t end up on the breakfast plate,” his brother Kael had joked once, elbowing him after a particularly lavish feast.

“Yeah,” Devon had chuckled, swallowing a bite of fluffy, delicious egg. Not understanding he replied “Me too.” He remembered the taste of those eggs. The same rich, deep, metallic-sweet flavor. The exact same flavor. His stomach, full of the most delicious meal of his life, lurched violently.

Every egg he’d ever eaten. Every delicious, savory bite.

“I now fully understand,” he said weakly, “why my ancestors made this decision.”

He looked at the remaining eggs.

Then back at them.

Then back at the eggs.

A long, painful pause.

“...I hate that I am considering this.”

Another pause.

“...I hate that I have already decided.”

He reached for the next egg, visibly emotional.

“I will be crying the entire time,” he added flatly.

[Start your own]