Fallen General's Omega (BL)

We’re finally sane now. Hungry and sane, I think to myself as we devour the baked potatoes and rice that Noelle had cooked. It feels like it’s been forever since we’ve done something so... normal. Just eating together, without the haze of desperation, without the frantic need that had consumed us for the last three days.

Three days of knotting and coming, over and over again, until I thought I might actually lose my mind. I glance down at my member, sore, beaten, and limp. Gods, I don’t think I can come anymore. No, I know I can’t. It’s overworked, and frankly, so am I.

We’re sitting on the floor of the living area, in front of the fireplace. The flickering light casts a soft glow over Noelle’s bare skin, highlighting the curve of his collarbone, the smooth lines of his chest. We look ridiculous—two grown men, naked, eating awkwardly from mismatched plates, our bodies bruised and marked from days of unrelenting passion. But somehow, it feels perfect. Like this is where we’re supposed to be.

Eventually, we finish the food, and I lean back, drinking a glass of water, the coolness soothing my parched throat. "I thought I would die," I say with a small laugh, the exhaustion and humor mixing together.

Noelle looks at me, that soft, easy smile spreading across his face, and it nearly takes my breath away. He’s beautiful—so beautiful, even now, especially now. "I think I actually did die," he replies, his tone light, but there’s something deeper in his eyes—a quiet satisfaction, maybe, or just the peace of being here, together.

I look at him—really look at him—and I can’t help but admire how perfect he looks, even now, wearing nothing but the collar I’d placed around his neck. My collar. The sight of it, the way it sits snug against his skin, sends a rush of warmth through me. Mine.

"Don’t look at me like that," he murmurs, his voice soft but teasing as he lies down on the wooden floor, stretching out next to the fireplace. The flames crackle softly behind him, casting long shadows across the room, but the floor isn’t cold. Not with the fire’s warmth, not with him here.

I shove the plates aside, not caring where they land, and lie down next to him, my body instinctively drawn to his. In my line of sight is the old ceiling board, worn and stained from years of use. But I can’t focus on it. Not when he’s next to me, his warmth pulling me in, his presence grounding me in a way nothing else ever has.

And then, in the soft quiet of the room, he says it. "I love you."