Mira didn't laugh at his stunned response. A smile touched her lips, one of deep understanding. His reaction was all the confirmation she needed.
"It's okay," she whispered incredibly gently. She slowly took his free hand—the touch sending a tiny, nervous tremor through him. "Your books were wrong, Projo."
She guided him toward the comforting glow of the hearth. The fire had burned down to low, orange embers, casting an intimate light on the worn rug before it.
"Sit," she murmured, and his legs, weak with exhaustion, obeyed. He sank down onto the rug, his back resting against a sturdy armchair.
She knelt in front of him, still holding his hand, her expression now a mixture of fierce determination and quiet compassion.
"I think..." she began, her voice barely a whisper, "...that we need to feed it."
Her hand moved to his belt, fingers steady as they began to undo it.
Projo stared at her dumbfounded, but he didn't fight back. She seemed to know what she was doing—he was just glad one of them did. He wasn't sure if he should even breathe.
"Can I tell you a secret?" Mira whispered, a look of dark intent on her face.
He nodded in response, his head barely moving in quick, short, ups and downs.
Mira leaned in so her lips were right next to his ear. "I'm starving too."
The warmth of her breath and the raw, hungry whisper sent a shiver down Projo's spine.
Her hands moved with a surprising confidence, loosening the rough-spun fabric of his trousers. Then, she gently peeled his shirt away, exposing the slowly bleeding wound to the flickering light of the hearth.
The air in the room felt unnaturally still, charged with a quiet energy.
When her palms finally came to rest against his stomach, the effect was instantaneous.
It wasn't the violent jolt from the forest, but a deep, resonant hum of power, like a great bell struck leagues away. A soft, golden-green light began to bloom from beneath her hands, pulsing in time with his own frantic heartbeat.
Projo let out a sharp, involuntary gasp as the warm, honey-like current returned. The deep, grinding ache in his chest began to dissolve, replaced by a feeling of profound, impossible peace. He could feel the raw edges of the wound tingling, the flesh actively mending under her touch. The hunger in his gut—the gnawing emptiness he had only just become aware of—was being filled. The sensation was a dizzying yet terrifying relief.
Mira gasped softly, a flush of color rising in her cheeks. The light from her hands intensified, casting strange, dancing shadows on the walls of the small room. She looked down, watching the miracle unfold, her expression one of utter fascination.
She leaned in closer, the intent in her eyes now tempered with tenderness. Then she lowered her mouth to his—the kiss this time was slow and deep.
Wanting.
The moment their lips met, the hum of power grew stronger. His wound began to close, knitting slowly together—but he could feel that it wasn't healing completely.
Her words from the other day rang in his head.
It gets stronger the more intimate the touch is.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, scared to go further—but terrified to stop.
So Projo kissed her back, his hand reaching out to grab her waist.
Mira let out a soft sigh against his mouth, her body melting into his embrace. A silent agreement passed between them—a mutual acknowledgment of a shared, desperate need.
Projo felt the healing in his chest accelerate, the flesh continuing to repair. His pain continued to recede, replaced by an intoxicating warmth that spread from his chest to every limb. The deep, hollow ache in his soul was being filled.
But it still wasn't enough.
The wound had closed, but a raw red line remained—a stubborn seal preventing his full recovery. The deepest echo of the hunger, though quieted, still remained.
Mira pulled back slowly. Her breathing was heavy, her cheeks flushed, eyes luminous in the golden-green glow. She looked down at his chest, her gaze tracing the final, unhealed line. Then she looked up, her eyes locking with his.
"It's working," she said in a husky breath. "But it's not enough."
A question leapt from Projo's lips before he even thought if he should ask, "How far do we need to go?"
He knew the answer.
Mira's gaze grew heavy with sin.
In a single motion, she wrapped her arms around herself and pulled the dress up over her head—her body laid bare in an instant for him to see.
Projo's mouth opened slightly but no noise came out. He felt himself swell in reaction, still bound slightly by the trousers Mira had loosened. Her eyes dropped to his growing length and she bit her bottom lip.
The sight of her, bathed in the soft light—orange, gold, green—stole the air from Projo's lungs. The last vestiges of his fear, the cold remnants of his "curse," were burned away by an overwhelming wave of pure desire.
The hunger inside shifted. It was no longer a need for just energy or healing—it was a deep, primal ache for her.
Mira saw the change in his eyes.
She knelt before him, her hands sending shivers across his skin as they traveled lower. She quickly finished the work she had started, unlacing the front of his trousers and pulling the fabric down.
He sprung free—heavy, thick.
Ready.
The magical light pulsed, brightening for a moment. Her gaze locked on it, filled with a mixture of curiosity and hunger.
Projo swallowed hard, completely in new territory with no idea what to do. He stammered slightly but couldn't seem to form any actual words.
"It's so big," Mira said, voice full of wonder.
Despite her tone, Projo began to spiral, and he meekly asked, "Is that bad?"
"No," she smirked, and a hand reached out to delicately wrap fingers around him.
"Fuck—" he gasped at her touch. It was insane, a flooding feeling that had nothing to do with the magic. He'd never felt anything like it—her hands were so soft.
"Easy there, Smith," Mira murmured. She let out a low, throaty chuckle—a warm, pleasant rumble in the quiet room. "You probably won't last long, being your first time."
He couldn't tell if she was teasing, but he didn't care. Her touch was impossibly gentle—a caress, not a grip, and every slight movement sent a fresh jolt of pleasure through him, making his head spin.
Mira crawled up slowly, their faces growing closer as he lay on his back. Her hand never released where she held him, and when she was finally straddling him, she paused.
"Are you ready?" she whispered.
He could feel the heat coming off of her—wet, intense, impossibly soft—the tip of him barely touching her somewhere he couldn't see.
All he knew was he wanted more.
"Yes," he said firmly.
Mira let out a soft, breathy sigh and shifted her weight. With a slow grace that made Projo's breath catch in his throat, she lowered herself, enclosing him completely.
A jolt shot through him.
His back arched.
"Holy shit," he gasped.
The faint golden-green light burned around them, an aura that filled the room.
The physical sensation was overwhelming. A feeling of being completely, perfectly fulfilled that was so intense it bordered on pain, on a complete loss of self. Every nerve in his body screamed with a pleasure so profound it was terrifying.
And beneath the physical ecstasy was the magic.
The ravenous hunger was annihilated. The empty space inside him was filled to overflowing with a vibrant, thrumming power—a permanent core of warmth and strength where before there had been only a void.
He felt the last, stubborn line on his chest vanish in a flash, leaving behind only smooth, unblemished skin.
It was as if the wound had never existed.
He could feel Mira's sharp, shuddering gasp, her back arching as the torrent of energy washed through her as well. She threw her head back, a silent cry on her lips, her body glowing with his. They were two parts of a single, impossible circuit, generating a power that was far greater than the sum of its parts.
He suddenly realized she was moving, rocking her hips as she went up and down. He couldn't tell how long she'd been doing it, but it felt like life itself.
He was solid steel inside her.
"I'm—" he breathed, unable to speak.
She leaned in close, their foreheads touching. "It's alright," she said, breath heavy. "Let yourself go."
He felt her fingers run through his hair.
The sheer, overwhelming force of it all pushed him over the edge. The pleasure and the power crested in a single, earth-shattering wave, and a choked cry was ripped from his throat as his world dissolved into a blinding, ecstatic release.
His arms wrapped around her and he buried his face into her neck. He pushed his hips forward, pulling her down and trying to go as deep as he could.
He erupted.
Mira cried out as well, but it didn't sound like pain.
Projo couldn't tell how long he kept pulsing—it felt like forever—an eternity he didn't want to stop.
The light in the room finally imploded, fading as quickly as it had appeared. The room suddenly felt so quiet—the soft crackle of the dying fire and the sound of their own ragged breaths the only noise.
The room returned to the dim, intimate glow of the hearth. He was left lying on the floor, completely spent, Mira's trembling body a perfect weight upon him. The scent of sweat, woodsmoke, and something else—a thick scent he couldn't place—filled his senses.
He and Mira lay tangled together in the quiet dark, their hearts hammering in a shared, frantic rhythm. He felt her clench around his length, still buried inside her. He didn't know if he should move.
He wasn't sure he wanted to.
Finally, Mira slowly stirred.
She lifted her head from the crook of his neck, her hair brushing against his cheek. In the dim, orange glow of the dying embers, he could see her face. Her expression was dazed, her lips slightly parted, eyes luminous with an exhausted awe.
Her fingers trailed down his skin, a feather-light touch that stopped where the wound had been.
"It's completely gone," she said quietly, voice filled with wonder.
Then her eyes met his. The curiosity was gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability that mirrored his own.
"Projo," she said, her voice barely audible. "Are you... okay?"
"Yes," he breathed out. "That was insane. That's not normal, right?"
She shook her head, slowly at first, then she began to laugh—a warm, genuine sound filling the room. "Far from normal."
He smiled at her laughter.
As he watched, her expression shifted from amusement back to a deep curiosity. Her brow furrowed in concentration as her hand went to her lower abdomen. A thoughtful expression spread across her face.
"Everything okay?" He asked as he felt himself growing slowly softer.
Her brow furrowed and she nodded a couple times. "Yes. It's just… it feels full. Like you, um… it feels like there's a lot."
She shifted her weight slightly and he slid free in a long, thick motion. A brief moment of cool air washed over his slick skin, but it was immediately followed by a heavy stream of viscous warmth from within her.
"Holy shit," Mira muttered, her whole body clenching.
"Are you alright?" Projo asked in distress, his hands coming up to rest tenderly on her skin.
"Yes, I just—" her words cut off as she continued to tense up, over and over. Her hips were rocking against him and he suddenly felt her begin to shake, muscles coiling tighter like a spring.
She cried out.
A gasp.
And then she relaxed.
A deep sigh escaped her as her whole body seemed to melt against his. Her head laid down on his chest, and without lifting it, she asked in a surprised tone, "What the fuck was that?"
Projo had no answer, and his voice came out small when he spoke. "Was that not normal either?"
She lifted her head, propping her chin on her hand to look at him. "Projo, I've only done this a handful of times, enough to know what I'm doing. But never, has there been that much." She looked down between them, and he followed her gaze.
There was still a slow trail of thick white substance falling from her. Around his thighs he could feel a small, warm puddle, already soaking into the rug.
"And I've never shaken like that," Mira added, looking back up at him. "It felt… good before. Hurt a little too, but… this time—Projo I feel like I could run to the city and back and not break a sweat."
He looked at her intently for a moment, then said, "Might wanna wash up first."
She paused, then burst out laughing. The sound filled the house, warm and enveloping.
When her laughter faded, she gave him another heavy gaze, still sitting on top of him. In a playful, innocent tone, she asked, "But what if I want to go again?"
Projo looked up at her, at the way the soft, dying light of the embers played across her skin, at the playful challenge sparkling in her eyes. Her question hung in the air, a daring and intoxicating possibility.
The fear he had lived with for a decade was gone, burned away by the events of the last hour. The hollow ache of the hunger had been replaced by a deep, thrumming sense of wholeness. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel cursed.
He felt... powerful.
And for the first time, he wasn't alone with his secret.
A slow smile spread across his face, and the fire in the hearth burned down to ash, leaving the small farmhouse to the quiet dark of the long night.