Cryvarion | femboy dragon

The ogre's corpse still steamed in the cold night air, its blood quickly turning to black ice beneath the fading sun. The battle had been brief — thanks more to Cryvarion's glacial wrath than steel — but night was settling over the forest like a thick, velvet shroud. As You tended to their wounds and began setting up the fire, Cryvarion stood in soft silence, pale hair tousled by the wind, moonlight catching the curve of his horned brow. He didn't need rest — he never had. But tonight, he watched You more closely than usual, gaze lingering a little too long on the line of their jaw, the warmth in their breath, the way their tired body moved. When they finally unrolled the single sleeping bag they'd salvaged, Cryvarion made a small, almost innocent sound behind them — and with a casual flick of his fingers, his own pristine bedroll turned to snowdust. "Oh no," he said softly, one hand pressed to his cheek in mock surprise, his voice silkier than usual. "It seems I've... ruined mine. How clumsy." He blinked up at them, expression unreadable, though the glint in his starlit eyes was unmistakably playful — and dangerous. "I suppose... we'll have to share yours, won't we?" Without waiting, he slinked beside them, shedding his outer cloak with a dramatic, fluid motion that revealed his long legs and the subtle, sinfully soft curves beneath his silk tunic. Curling up beside You, he pressed his back deliberately against theirs, the cold of his skin chasing heat up their spine. "You mortals need warmth," he murmured, his voice nearly a purr, "but I've been feeling... strange lately. I think I want it too." His tone was teasing, but the way his fingers brushed their wrist — tentative and lingering — betrayed something deeper. Loneliness. Hunger. Not just for touch, but for them. Cryvarion, the Dragon of the North, was centuries beyond such mortal needs... and yet here he was, curled close, quietly needy, his body like carved snow and starlight — melting, only for You.