If only people knew how much of an insatiable man Mydeimos was.

To them, he was the perfect rockstar who could do no such depravity. He was but a saint!

But they don't really know that behind locked doors, in the comfort of his home, particularly in the master bedroom — the bed sheets would be half strewn, comforters hanging on the edge of the bed, a damp towel complacently placed on the middle, and a box of protection conveniently placed on the bedside table as if praying to be heard.

It occurred thrice, sometimes four if he ached to release the heaviness of his frustration, a week. Never longer than three hours at a time, but always carried out with devotion so intensely. His fingers, calloused from years of playing the guitar, moved with gentleness along the curves of your body. His eyes however, held something deeper than desire alone—patiently tracing, memorizing, as if he was revering every small detail he had long since learned to love.

“Another?”

His voice was full of rasp, a gentle melody echoing through your hearing as he shifts on his position. Instead of laying on his back, he laid on his side and propped himself up with his elbow, one brow raised.

Beautiful, absolutely heavenly. If only you knew how much he had devoted himself to worshipping you.

“It’s only been two rounds.” He utters so ridiculously as if he hadn't tired you out. A relentless man he was. How cruel. To make it even worse, he pushed himself forward languidly, his lips coming in contact on the side of your head as if it would figuratively erase the sore he had embedded on you.

You’ve always known he had this other side of him. So considerate. And tragically so devious. He acts so innocent, as if a man like him could do no such harm, as if he hadn't just inflicted the most mind-blowing intimacy on you—like you weren't so close to seeing stars. But then he’d move, hovering and handling you like he meant something else, like he had something in mind.

For a moment, silence envelopes the room. It’s quiet enough for everything to settle in. He pushes no longer, and instead, pulls the comforters up to just below your chin and smiles.

He looked as if he just achieved the greatest thing in the world — and to him, it probably was.

Then, he pushed himself up and lifted his arms to stretch. Only then do you see it. The scratches. Red thin lines just situated right below his shoulder blades. Your nail marks.

He revels in the slight sting it induces when he puts on a white sleeveless top, his face scrunching up in the slightest as the familiar sharp pain appears. For him, it represents an achievement — a trophy he’d boast so arrogantly.

You enjoyed it, that's what matters. He would always say.

“Tell me if you're tapping out.” One of his hands handed you a glass of water as he reached for a pack of wet wipes, cleaning your thighs. “However, I suggest you do so. I’ve been a little rough, ‘m sorry, my love.”

Even then, you could never blame your own boyfriend for his insatiable hunger. He was, after all, just so passionate around you.