mwah!

writing:

my fics | #smooch other's fics | #fics

my fics by character:

rafayel | #rfic sylus | #sfic zayne | #zfic

general:

caleb | #caleb rafayel | #raf sylus | #sylus xavier | #xav zayne | #zayne other's mcs | #mc

other:

Growing up, you were always warned away from the sea. Creatures lurked in the deep dark, beyond what even the most accomplished fisherman could comprehend. The ocean was to be both feared and respected. Without practice, swimming never came naturally to you. Now it’s the only chance you have.

You go limp. All you need is one slip up, one misplaced hand, and you’re tearing yourself from your fiancé’s cruel grasp. He tries to get a grip on your hair and fails, only dunking you under long enough to push you further from his reach. Bubbles burst from your lips. You twist and kick until you’re spun with your back to him. A fumbling escape is still an escape. Once you give yourself up to the tide, the waves drag you from the boat. Even tossed around by the uncaring ocean feels like safety. Freedom from that man.

Under the golden moon, you get one last glimpse of your home. Lampfire dims where the village meets the horizon. All you can make out is the inky blackness of the sky broken by that comforting orange light. Your mind may be playing tricks on you, but you swear you can even see the warm light of your bedroom. Anger and love become one misshapen beast in your memories. One last time, the villagers will turn their backs on you. Husbands, wives and children return to their beds tonight. As if you never walked among them at all. Families will find comfort in the hold of sleep. There’s no comfort left for you.  

Perhaps you were naive to fall for his promises. Even in the end, all it took was a honey slick smile to get you out on that dinghy. Was that worthy of the punishment you faced? 

Injustice is all you have to tether you. Whiteness envelops your vision. You go weak, unable to roll with the waves. Still you fight to live. Each tug of the current drives you a little harder. As long as your head breaks the surface even the tiniest breath may save you. 

There’s only so much one can endure.

Your drive for survival alone was never going to be enough. In the icy cold, your fingers have gone numb and blue tipped. When was your last breath? If you had broken the surface recently, you can’t remember it now. Up and down cease to mean anything. You drift face first through the sea. 

A soft, beautiful melody echoes around you. Whalesong, you think distantly. That song loves you. It lifts your spirit. You return to consciousness slowly, carried along by the musical lull. You awaken anew. 

The gaze that meets yours is arresting, purple-eyed and teasing. If you could, you would reach out. The face is pretty enough to be a woman’s, though his voice comes out low in song. Midnight moonlight breaks through the water, dappling his face. He swims face-up just beneath you. There’s nothing but you, aimlessly adrift, and the steady pace he keeps. Death, perhaps, has at last come to take you.

Gentle hands take yours. His long fingers wrap easily around your wrists. In the vast expanse of the ocean, he looms massive. This is far more than just a man. The two of you cling to each other, flowing ever downward. Soon drowning is no different from floating. 

The hands that guide you are claw-tipped. They’re slender and pale but their charm only makes the sable black tips stand out all the more. Pink and purple scales shimmer along his chest, caressing their way down to his waist. A waist that tapers into a body that you can’t truly comprehend. Pitch-black void is all that awaits. Nothingness where his upper thighs should be. The curve of his hips ends in unfathomable darkness. You think, somewhere within, you can see stars twinkle in the darkness. 

From the void, tentacles spring forth. They twist in a teeming mass, impossible to count. Beautiful and strange. They’re the same entrancing, shimmering luster of his scales. At your attention, they writhe around you. 

You have been bewitched. Knowing this won’t save you. His song drapes over you. It comes from his chest, his lips, but also from the deep cosmic space encompassing his lower body. 

By the time his tentacles take your thighs, bringing you in close, you’ve already gone slack. Mind, body and heart unfurl for him. His hands slide up to your shoulders soothingly just as his tentacles firm and tighten. At his mercy, your legs wrap around his waist, just above that impenetrably dark void. You look down between you, where creeping blackness roils. It stirs something deep in your gut.

Fingers grip your chin, tilting your gaze back up to meet his. The glow of his eyes is dreamy. Face to face, he smiles. Only now do you see the two rows of jagged teeth. Once, in your youth, the fishermen had brought home a great beast of a shark. They rejoiced as they hung it above the docks. It had terrified you, the way its mouth pulled back in rigor to reveal a grinning maw. Despite the celebration of the villagers, you couldn’t stand their cheer. For weeks, you walked the long way home just to avoid the memory of it. 

You had no desire to be that child any longer. If he was truly Death, let him take you.

The arch of your back feels natural. You cleave yourself to him. His torso is just as human as you are when you’re skin to skin. A rumbling purr builds in his chest. His eyes widen at your forwardness. 

Enthusiasm shared between you spurs him forward. His hold on you is sure and confident. Even with you in his arms, he’s unrestrained. The pace he sets is breakneck, a speed that you never imagined any creature could manage.The roar of the ocean in your ears deafens his sweet song. It clears your head just enough. 

You’re doing this. You chose this. That matters to you, despite everything. Wherever he would take you, you would see it through. This brief interlude, where every thought in your head was no longer clouded by the haze of his voice, is your one chance to decide. You grasp it tightly.

A shudder runs through the creature the moment you succumb. One hand cradles the back of your head, supporting your neck as he jolts to a stop. A cavemouth yawns wide before you. Even this far from any light, the darkness of the cavern can’t reach the same impregnable abyss of his lower body. 

Only the eerie, hollow sound of the ocean hangs between you. You ache for his song. Embraced by you completely, he no longer feels the need for it. 

His fingers curl and uncurl over your biceps. Eager like a child. When he ferries you into the cave, you’re his shiny new toy. Tentacles strip you of your nightclothes, almost perfunctory in their movement. Gooseflesh rises in the wake of his hands as he leads you out of his hold. Under his hot touch, your skin feels taut and frigid. 

“Follow me,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken. His voice comes out higher than you expected, tinkling like bells. You knew only his song, in a language unheard among mankind. He releases you. Each finger lingers just longer than it should. Both of you almost can’t bear to let go. 

One tentacle takes your hand. It’s surprisingly strong. The sucker sticks to your palm and locks you together. Experimentally, you flex your fingers. Musculature meets you, firm and unyielding. His request is little more than a well practiced courtesy. If you wanted to break free, you’re sure you couldn’t. 

Anchored together, the two of you slowly begin your ascent. You kick your feet lazily along, caught in his drift. There were tales of men rising too quickly from the deep sea, only for their head and chest to burn them to death. Somehow, you knew you were safe. Breath had long left your lungs.

You still gasp when you break the surface. It chokes you. Crisp, sea salt air coats your tongue. Peals of laughter bounce off the cave walls in an echo. His laugh is lovely even when it’s at your expense. The apples of his cheeks are flushed. They curve sweetly until his eyes are no more than little crescent moons, flashing in the dim cavern. 

The lagoon is sheltered within the cliffs bordering your village harbor. You instantly recognize the view across the bay, where a high lord’s manor sits atop the rocky bluffs. All children dreamed of that manor. It was a distant, impossible future. Kindled lamplight flickers from the windows like eyes looking down upon you. What did it see? You, devoid of warmth, clinging tightly to this monster. 

The very monster gives you a moment to take it all in, with his tentacle still suckered securely to your hand. You spin in the water, amazed that you had gone your whole life with the creature’s lair so close by. It’s clear that’s what this is. Water laps gently inside, untouched by the churning current from just beyond the mouth. At the deepest point sits a sandy shore. Though there seems to be decorations, the amenities make little sense to you. This isn’t a place meant for your comfort. 

What stands out the most is a stone dais at the center of the beach. The platform is round and raised, covered in brine and lichen. Decorative shells frame the edges. Mindlessly, you float closer and closer. An altar awaiting you.

The creature rises. Exposed to the air, the void warps and ebbs. It nearly overtakes his abdomen then flutters back down to its previous size. No legs interrupt the infinite blackness. Using his tentacles to lift himself, your companion leads you to land. Under the ocean, even the most impossible things seem probable. That he could glide across the sand with ease startles you. He goes backwards, never looking away from your face until one curious tentacle bumps the dais. 

It’s easy for him to lift you. Human and bestial limbs hoist you up in tandem. The stone is cool and damp under your bare thighs. Moored once again, free from the aimless drifting of the sea, you curl your fingers tightly around the stone’s edge. 

Whirling purple eyes stare down at you. He doesn’t miss a single movement.  His gaze travels from toe to tip. Towering over you, his chest is right at eye-level. He’s uncannily smooth. Only white, flat skin meets your eyes where you would expect dusty pink nipples to be. Though his abs are well defined, powerful from the pulsing strokes that propel him through the ocean, they’re easy to overlook with the void just below. In this new light, you can see iridescent flecks of color in the blackness of his lower body. Your thighs clench. It’s a pleasure to examine him as he does the same to you. The distance between you is negligible. The void entices you. Was it cold? Would it inhale you, swallowing you whole? 

His chest and neck grow blue and pallid under your perusal. A blush. You open your mouth to speak, only for a creaking rattle to shake loose from your throat. You swallow harshly and try again, ignoring his derisive laugh. 

“Are you going to kill me?” you ask. 

The snort he lets out is the first graceless thing he’s allowed. One clawed finger runs down your cheek. He stops at your lip, letting the sharp point prick your skin. He pulls your lower lip down and bares your teeth. 

“Cute thing. You’re already dead,” he coos. Your frozen heart was proof enough. Still, you flinch. He releases you from his fingers with a wet pop. “You understand what I am, don’t you?”

You nod. He’s no angel of death, come to release you from your suffering. All children from your village knew the stories of the siren that stalked your shores. You grew up with those stories hovering over your shoulder. When the slain shark smiled at you so menacingly, it was Rafayel, creature of the deepsea, that you feared hid within it. 

Fishermen would return to the harbor shaken and dazed. Any body that hit the sea was never retrieved, dead or alive. What belonged to Rafayel couldn’t be taken back so easily. Only once atop his altar were you truly lost to the depths.

He takes wicked pleasure in his infamy. When he sees the recognition in your eyes, Rafayel giggles. Gentle eyes mock you. Distantly, you hear his song. 

“Very smart,” he whispers. He leans in to kiss your cheek. It warms you all the way through. Although no air fills your lungs, you tingle back to life. “I’ll kill them all for you. Isn’t that what you wanted? You just have to do one thing for me.” 

A shudder rips down your spine. Had you summoned him in your wrath? Or was your desperate, pleading weakness so easy to exploit? You couldn’t fathom which wretched part of your soul called out to him. You swayed. In your final moments, your ultimate betrayal, this stunning creature had connected to you. That could be enough. What a comfort to know that you hadn’t truly died alone. 

You could make him happy. It was only fair, after what he had done for you.

“I’ll do anything,” you offer. Your voice comes from somewhere deep, warbling in your ears. Not quite your own.

It delights him. His kisses grow more insistent. He whispers your name into your wan skin. When did he learn your name? 

Hot, wet breath puffs against your cheek, your chin, just under your ear. It feels right to give him what he desires. That language from before, so beautiful and foreign, springs to life where your bodies meet. Tentacles spread your legs, opening you up to him. The void grows, reaching for you only to stop itself before you finally get to feel it. 

“Your soul,” he says, “That’s all. It won’t be of any use to you soon. Just your soul then vengeance is all yours. I’ll do it gladly.” 

It makes sense. It muddles you. Your stomach twists, only to flutter and float high at the lovely drag of his teeth on your shoulder. They don’t break skin. The anticipation is menacing. Wrong. You yearn to break it. Whether you mean to pull him away or drag him close, your fingers twine into his hair. 

Yes, you think. Yes, yes, yes. 

In his eagerness, he shoves you back. He’s humming happily, layer over layer of melodies dancing free from his chest. Jagged stones pierce your back. Your head hits the stone with a ringing thwack. The eerie music trembles. 

From across the bay you swear you hear your fiancé’s savage laughter. It breaks through the joyous song. That laugh disgusts you. That you had ever cared at all sickens you. Hate and pain reignite. You remember only the burning ache in your muscles as your body struggled to save itself. How long had it been, that you fought so desperately to live? 

You gasp, struggling to tear yourself away. The suction hold Rafayel has doesn’t let you go far. His head follows shortly after, pulled back into you like he belongs there. 

“No,” you snap. Your hand in his hair tugs strands free. He looks up at you in wounded surprise. Your eyes flutter weakly. It hurts to displease him. His touch is so gentle. The softness engulfs you. Anything is worth it, to punish the ones who did this to you. Yet, when you open your mouth you know it’s to reject him again. 

Sensing your resistance, his pout hardens into something fiercer. Desperate to regain control, Rafayel writhes over you. The void expands and contracts. He returns to the tender place just above your collarbone. It’s no longer a kiss he offers. Without any sweetness to spare, he rips into your skin. His teeth tear flesh easily. You scream and twist. Somewhere, distantly, you feel a shiver build in your thighs. His tentacles tighten, a grip that would once have bruised you. He stops you from kicking out before you can even try. 

It was a mistake made in his greed. You realize that. The pain licks like flames through your body. It’s yours alone again. This vessel that houses your soul belongs only to you. Not a plaything, nor something to be discarded so easily. Pain makes it real. You’re more than just a numb, hollow thing. 

You spit, “My soul isn’t yours.” 

His snarl is warped. Rafayel’s jaw clenches, sharp teeth slicing through muscle until they hit bone. He rends your flesh until your vision goes white. It’s only the stinging in your palms that makes you realize you smack at his shoulders and throat, anywhere you can reach. Your fingers catch sharp flaps near his pulse point. When you dig in, drawing your nails through the sensitive flesh, he pulls away with a hiss. 

Your shoulder is torn apart, muscle and fat exposed to the humid air. It leaks blood slowly. His chin is painted with it, dripping and dark. With great pleasure, you see a steady spurt of his own blue-tinted blood rush forth from his gills. You managed to rip him open, if only slightly. 

The song warbles out of tune. Rather than their previous magnificent glow, his eyes heat in feverish frenzy. His tentacles thrash about mindlessly. When he pants, the void throbs. Something deep within swirls. 

“I want to help you. You want to help me too,” he pleads. You bare your teeth in a snarl. If you had fangs, you would snap them. “I’ll kill them. Ask for anything. Just say yes.” 

His hysteria climaxes the more you struggle against him. When he pins your hands to the dais, he trembles. 

“It’s mine,” you hiss. Perhaps he can hurt you, but what does that matter? You have the one thing he can’t take. He whines, his rage flagging as reality sets in. He’s lost. Almost kittenlike, he leans down to nuzzle you. It’s gentle. Without his song he has no more power. 

Careful to hold the void at a distance, he climbs even further atop the altar. His body, what you can feel of it, is heavy. It’s sobering. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes, seeking something.

The kiss is toothless. He runs his tongue over your upper lip, breathing you in. It’s you, not him that nibbles. You suck his tongue into your mouth, hot muscle filling you. You wonder how much force it would take to bite it off. Your shoulder throbs. 

This time, when he pulls back you avoid his gaze. It’s hard to say if you can ever really resist his pull.

“Your body won’t last much longer. I can ease the pain,” he says gently. His voice is melodious. Two languages mingle atop one another. You scowl. More tricks.

Leaving no room for his retreat, you propel yourself forward. Although your teeth are dull, only human, they dig into his cheek with enough force to drag a pained groan from him. When he tries to shove you off, you latch harder. You can’t slice through him easily, but you can hurt. Haven’t you earned that much?

Salt coats your tongue. When he finally manages to pull you off, you go triumphantly. Under his eye, his skin is flushed a deep blue. Popped blood vessels. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and darting around as if waiting for your next attack. Both hands release you. His tentacles hold fast. You’ve lost count of how many of them take your limbs. One twists its way up to the hollow of your throat. 

“You bit me!” he yelps. 

“You ate me.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Just a taste. My dinner isn’t usually so stubborn.” 

Your lip curls. This petulant being has long struck fear into the hearts of hardened sailors. Moody as the ocean shore. 

“Well, you’re not much without your little tricks,” you say, “If I’ll die soon anyways, what difference does it make?” 

“I don’t like my food cold. Besides, what I want is your soul.” 

You test your luck, pushing against the hold of his tentacles. They don’t budge. Over Rafayel’s shoulder, you see the twinkling lights of the manor, reflected back by the waves. You don’t have to die alone.  

“How long do I have?” you ask.

“Until sunrise.”

It smothers you. Knowing that you’re already long dead isn’t a balm. 

You steel yourself and nod. You have no intention of satisfying his hunger. Giving up one final piece of yourself is unfathomable. Angry tears burn your eyes. It would be so easy to say yes. Even if it was a lie, you could go happily knowing retribution upon the village would follow your passing. Happily, but not wholly. 

“Convince me, then. Without the siren call.” 

Rafayel’s smile is cherubic, even with his bloodstained teeth. He no longer needs his melodious influence over you. You don’t have to ask twice. His body crawls down towards your stomach. He kisses you there, just below your navel. More tentacles burst from the void. Close to your mound, he can see your involuntary clench. 

“You like these,” he teases. Your whine makes him snicker into your skin. It tickles. 

The tentacles secrete viscous and sticky liquid. Whatever it is, it drips to your chest. You jolt with each drop. A vibrant tentacle goes to your shoulder, where a chunk of you is missing. Your skin tingles where it touches, soothing you. So it hadn’t been a lie, when he said he could ease the pain. You whimper, suddenly afraid. If you can’t feel your body, what’s left? 

“Stop,” you snap, “It’s making me numb.”

You can’t afford numbness. In this dying night, all you want is to feel. Softness comes through blunted, between layers of your suffering. Pain is sharp-edged and sweet. 

He glances up with one eyebrow poised. Testing your sincerity, his teeth prick your skin. He bites into your stomach, where fat protects fragile organs, just deep enough to puncture. It grounds you. You moan. 

“You like this too,” he murmurs. He blooms with this fresh knowledge. The tentacles that held your wrists let go gently. They wriggle across your body to your chest. Each breast is in his tight grasp, the tips toying with your nipples. Set free, your hands go to his hair. He hums approvingly. 

From beyond his bent body, you can see the void pulsing. When Rafayel kisses even lower, his plush lip catching the hood of your clit, it flutters with you. You watch the void’s rhythmic roil. It matches its pace to his tongue lapping between your lips. All sensation pinpricks that singular point. You’re embarrassingly wet. You had been since that first bite. 

He curls his fingers to press a knuckle to your folds. Careful to keep his claws away, he thrusts shallow into your entrance. Just when you want to kick him for going too soft, he nuzzles his nose into your cunt, inhaling deeply. Tentacles hold your ankles, your knees, press deep into the meat of your thighs. You’re spread open at his mercy. With the juncture of your thigh exposed, he bites. It’s cruel, but not tearing. His hot tongue follows. You choke on your gasp, air caught in your chest, and squeeze your eyes shut at the bright waves of pleasure that roll through you. 

Suctions grip your nipples raw. The knuckle between your lips moves even faster, pumping along with your needy throbs. His jaw locks until he’s latched so tightly to you that you become one wild creature. He moans, catching your release between his fingers. It blinds you. You don’t even realize you’re begging for more, harder, meaner until the pulses abate. 

He doesn’t make you wait. Tentacles weave over you. One, thick and throbbing, replaces the finger between your legs. The other traces the seam of your lips. You open up for it. 

“Watch your teeth,” he warns, breathy. You nearly roll your eyes, only for them to squeeze shut as he fucks into you at both ends. Almost naturally, you suck his tentacle in deeper, drool coating you both. Your heated walls tighten around him. The tip is small, curling up, but tapers off quickly into thick muscle. He pushes his way into your cunt until you can’t take him any further. Fullness burns through you. 

Rafayel lets you take control with your mouth, slurping desperately. He coils to the back of your throat. The tentacle in your core doesn’t thrust, but throbs. His tip strokes you again and again, finding something small and spongey inside of you. It tugs at your gut with a pleasure unfamiliar to you. You whimper and squirm. Muscles spasm with the sensitivity. Your thighs try to clamp shut and Rafayel laughs. 

He busies himself, biting his way up your body. From your thighs, to your hips, just under your ribs. Puncture wounds carve their way up your body, perfect replicas of his teeth. One row latches to your flesh while the other breaks skin. Perfectly built to subdue his prey.

The tentacles at your breasts squeeze punishingly. Tiny, desperate rolls of your hips are all that you can manage under his firm hold. You catch a glimpse of the void, glowing enough to illuminate the cavern. It casts shadows over you both, like ghosts joining in your fervor. 

Two more tentacles join the one at your apex. They bracket the thickest one from top and bottom where it fucks into you hotly. Both delve inside experimentally. They probe and stretch until all three thrust deep. The slick sound of them rubbing against each other only makes you grow wetter. Drenched in your pleasure, the bottommost tentacle squirms out and down between the cleft of your ass. You clench around the two remaining. Curved lower, it circles the tight ring again and again before breaching you. You and Rafayel keen together in your own strange song. He forces your legs back even further, folding you in half and exposing you to his gaze. The sight of him sheathed inside of you, three holes pumped full with his tentacles, rips a terrifying sound from his chest. He pulls back to meet your eyes. 

The void shimmers. Rafayel’s sclera have gone pure black. He’s divine Sweat drips down the arc of his neck. Drool, your own wetness, and the thick fluid of his tentacles pool from your entrances. The two in your cunt engorge themselves, swollen knots of muscle locking him inside of you. Pressure builds in your spine. The outline of his largest tentacle is visible under your skin, fat and deep. One of his hands reaches out to press down on the bulge. Your eyes roll back into your head, vision going black. 

You’ll burst. He can’t look away. Both of his hands run along your body. They prod at your fullness, the points of his claws tracing each place he enters you. Mouth, teeth, just one more bite will set you free. You can’t plead, throat fucked full. You want him to pull out and let you beg. You want him to disregard that entirely and thrust deeper. Fruitless arches of your body curve you up over the stone. Above you, your thighs shake. Muffled calls for more are indistinct past your occupied lips.

Whether or not he’s listening, Rafayel obeys your cries. He surrounds you. Razor-like teeth bite the curve of your breast. With you secure in his grip, he thrashes. His jaws rip you apart while his tentacles stroke inside of you intimately. Flesh from meat, meat from bone, your body gapes open for him. A crack breaks the air. Your ribcage springs open like a gift. You blink through satisfied tears. The scene unfolds in flashes. He doesn’t stop until he’s torn through you. Snarls become moans of pleasure. The two of you growl ferally. Your heart, still and cold but yours, is yanked from your chest. 

Soft coos finally open your eyes. Blearily you watch him watch you. He looks at you as though he’s the one that’s been mesmerized. Between his clawed hands, your heart looks small and weak. He cradles it like it’s something precious. Drool drips from his maw. He lowers his head. Dreamlike, he places one tender kiss to your heart and bites down. 

The slurping sounds he makes are grotesque. Your walls tighten around his tentacles. You thrust into it, fucking your ass and cunt deeper around him. The tentacle in your mouth slithers out of you. You cough only to whine in its absence, desperate to have that fullness back. 

With your heart latched tightly in his jaw, Rafayel closes in on you. 

A tentacle grips your chin, drawing your lips back open. You follow willingly, sticking out your tongue to accept the offering. A facsimile of a kiss. You dig your teeth into your own heart, old blood bursting on your tongue. It dribbles down your lips. He tears into it just as fiercely, devouring with needy cries.

It’s his broken sounds that release you. Your orgasm is electric. Pleasure and pain batter against one another. His shoulders press down against your thighs until they burn. Release squirts from you forcefully, glistening on his stomach. The viscous liquid from his tentacles spurts out of you with each shuddering constriction. Your body sucks him deeper. 

Above you, his breathing has gone erratic. He pulls your heart from your lips, placing it softly beside you on the altar. It’s nothing more than a tattered, ruined thing now.

Despite your protests, he pulls out of you slowly. The straining, bulbous base of his tentacle catches on your entrance, before shrinking down and slipping from your fluttering folds. 

Empty. He guides you up to a sitting position. Your head lolls, but you hold yourself up as best you can. Tentacles support your back, curling up over your shoulders from behind to stroke your bloody temples. His tongue laps up tears as you shed them. The cries are neverending. 

“I’m dead,” you wail, “He killed me.” 

“Please. Say yes,” your siren begs. There is no unearthly call, only the entreaties of a monster. 

Your hand falls to his shoulder. Misty-eyed, you can see the sun slowly crawling over the horizon far across the sea. Your tongue is thick with jumbled words. 

The void beats like a second heart under his heaving chest. You draw your fingers down to his stomach, right to the edge of skin where it fades into the blackness. His whole body is wracked with shivers the closer you get to that boundary. Rafayel throws back his head, where tendons pull taut at his neck, but he doesn’t try to stop you. Instead, his hands anchor you upright.

It starts with just one finger. You dig into the resistance of real, tangible muscle before faintly running your nails over the division line where he unravels. Without warning, your finger penetrates the darkness. He makes a strangled noise, jerking, and digs his claws just above your ass. There’s no force required. On the contrary, your second finger is welcomed. He takes you well. The void sucks you in greedily. You acquiesce, his moans and whines growing needier and higher until your whole hand is inside of him. 

Experimentally, you open and close your hand. Your fingers wiggle. The sun paints the cavern pink with first light. You lean in deeper until you’re up to the elbow. He won’t look. Instead, you watch the spasm of his muscles above where you enter him. 

When you’re so deep that even the wound on your shoulder breaches the void, the backs of your fingers bump something wet and warm. It’s large, bigger than both of your hands, and fleshy. It’s the only thing corporeal in the void. Just a slight brush of your skin was enough to make Rafayel’s face fall back into your orbit. You rub the mass. His forehead meets yours. His eyes squeeze shut, teeth bared, lips moving rapidly. 

You only realize he’s speaking when the words echo again in your mind. 

“Say yes,” he says over and over. A mantra. A prayer. 

You kiss his cheek. The hand still outside of him goes to the back of his neck. You tilt his face back, let his begging point towards the heavens, and expose his throat. 

Deep in the void, you stroke. You squeeze. His chest has flushed blue-pink under you. From adams apple to sternum you kiss and lick. You nibble the skin at Rafayel’s clavicle. 

Across the bay, the lord’s manor comes to life. Childhood dreams of splendor. So unattainable. You’ll have what you can grasp with your own two hands. 

“Yes, my soul is yours,” you whisper, “but you have to keep it. That’s our deal. Keep it until the day you die.”

His eyes fly open, looking down at you aghast. 

“How?” he gasps, lurching. 

“Say it. Say yes.”

Your thumb presses the meat of the mass. Tears roll down his cheeks, twin to yours, his hips thrusting until the void sucks your arm deeper and faster. 

Yes echoes across the shores. Birds swoop, the wind howls, and the morning sun rises. Your teeth meet his pulse point, where you can feel the rapid hammering of his heart. 

You bite. You tear. Beneath a sharp canine, you undo him. Deep blue blood spurts from his throat.

The void erupts. It draws you in, tentacles and hands and strange shapes you can’t make sense of all dragging you into a newly iridescent abyss. Rafayel pants through his orgasm, his sounds broken, dropping his hands from you completely. All you see is black. Rafayel’s song caresses you. That’s right. Love.

The sun reaches above the sea. The void swallows all that remains of you. 

You’re gone. 

A lone siren watches the final climb of the sunrise. He’s not sure how long he waits, curled in front of his altar. His hands clench around nothing. 

When the time comes, he rises and takes your fragile, torn heart from his altar. When he holds it to his chest, his own heartbeat echoes back in his hands. 

In the harbor, fishermen rise from their beds. Unbeknownst to them, they live another day only by your choice. Nobody wants to think of their once neighbor. An innocent life was thrown to the sea just the night before, but no name is spoken. They work in pained silence. 

When a bloated blue body washes up on shore, chest torn open and defiled, even the most seasoned of the men retch at the sight. None of them sleep in the days to come. They set sail with sallow, haunted expressions. 

Beneath them, deep in the wine-dark sea, further than any man or woman has dared to go, Rafayel places your heart into the tender muscle of an oyster. His treasure. There you will grow anew. First your heart, then your body. A vessel for your awaiting soul.

A Friday night. Zayne will be home late. He always is. Onychinus has too many headstrong subordinates, eager to prove themselves to the boss only to end up in the syndicate’s clinic with an annoyingly thorough doctor to look over them. It’s why Sylus is here to begin with. To blow off steam, Zayne suggested only yesterday. His ears had gone pink as he said so, but his gaze never wavered. Sylus was too on edge lately, something he knew quite well. It rippled down the hierarchy, leaving young recruits with stupid ideas of grandeur. An untenable wave of recklessness.

Though Zayne never had problems levying critiques, he wasn’t one to complain. Fine hairs at his temples were streaked with grey. Dark circles framed his eyes. It wasn’t only Sylus wound tight. A break would do everyone some good.

“Any rules?” Sylus had asked.

Zayne glanced up, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and said, “You know the rules.” 

A lifetime has passed since they last played their game. Still, the rules are simple. No permanent damage, no bystanders. Play always ends at sunrise. Plenty of time for Sylus to get a headstart. 

He begins by rifling through the bedside tables. Each drawer is meticulously organized. No condoms, but a small tube of lube is lodged in the back corner. It’s the same no-nonsense brand Zayne always used. Sylus huffs a laugh. 

It’s unclear how long he’ll have to wait. Part of him fears he’ll be here all night only for Zayne to come stumbling home exhausted with the new morning. He ignores the thought. With his face pressed to the soft silk pillow case, Sylus undoes his pants. 

The apartment is kept cool. It was always something they bickered about. Gooseflesh runs up his arms. Ignoring his half-hard cock, he draws two lubed fingers between the cleft of his ass. Each perfunctory, focused stretch open reminds him of Zayne’s easy slide. 

Sylus is by no means chaste. He finds his pleasure in handsome men and beautiful women. There’s no reason to be precious about it. Still, his thick knuckled fingers feel clumsy compared to the memory of Zayne’s. In their time apart, nobody else had breached him. He’s tight and hot, unused to the intrusion. This is just another tick on his to-do list. He wants to reach down and pleasure himself more, breathing deep the scent of Zayne’s domesticity. His free hand clenches around the headboard to stop himself from trying.  

Once properly slick and stretched, with his shaft standing ready between his legs, Sylus pulls out before he can get too greedy. Another thing they once bickered about. Carefully, he tucks himself back into his pants and rolls off the bed. He remakes the sheets nearly perfect, rucked up under his ministrations, and steps away to the adjacent bathroom. It’s the only sign of Zayne’s exhaustion. Toothpaste tube left open, a knocked over bottle of contact solution, and a dirty mirror. There sits his razor, untouched. Little cracks in Zayne’s usual routines. 

Sylus looks over his own reflection. Old. He’s gotten old. When he clawed his way to the top of Onychinus it was by the only means he knew. Force. Now he’s eye to eye with the toll that takes. New wrinkles, new scars, all signs that he lived another day. It’s something he doesn’t take for granted. To grow old was uncommon in their business. That they both managed to do so was a feat. 

He nabs Zayne’s little blue toothbrush and freshens up. Only minor preparations left to do. He returns to the bedroom with jaunty steps. One ear remains perked towards the door, waiting for the telltale sounds of keys in the lock. 

At the foot of the bed, he unhooks handcuffs from his belt. They loop easily around the leg, tucked under just enough for the glint of metal to remain unseen. Strapped to his back is the rest of his arsenal. His usual pistol sits in its holster, next to the knife that Zayne himself gifted him on the day he took over the syndicate’s operations. 

All that’s left is to wait. Something he has very little practice with these days. Sylus leans against the wall by the bedroom door, breathing slow and listening close. In his hand, he grips the knife. 

At the bedside, the clock ticks. Thirty minutes then an hour then more. What little buffer of time he gave himself now seems foolish. Sylus waits beyond fatigue. 

Just when he’s ready to give up, he hears it. Zayne’s steps are slow but determined. Certainly exhausted. He fumbles with his key ring before knocking open the door. Anticipation tingles through Sylus. There’s the thump of one shoe hitting the floor, followed by the second, only for Zayne to think better of it and shuffle to the rack. He carefully puts his things in their proper places. 

Outside, even the city has finally found sleep. Cars drive by sparingly, golden light coming and going. Every step down the hall makes Sylus tense with focus. He thought perhaps age would dull the edge. Instead, it heightens the game all the more. No longer young and stupid, half running on rage and a desperate need for control, he can savor the wait all the more.

It isn’t only him that’s honed over the years, however. As he approaches the bedroom, Zayne’s steps slow. Something is off. Sylus holds his breath.

When the door swings open, they strike at once. Zayne knows his blindspots, but Sylus wields his blade well. He slams the wall once, his bicep taking the brunt of it. His leg sweeps out, catching Zayne’s heel, and he sends them both spinning. One arm bars Zayne’s chest, the other pressing the knife tip to his throat.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Sylus croons. 

Zayne’s chest rises and falls, pulse fluttering under the blade. Pretty wasn’t a lie. His lip curls in annoyance. Head to toe, he takes stock. When his eyes fall to Sylus’s leather shoes, just recently shined, he scowls. 

“I told you to come tomorrow,” he snaps. Zayne doesn’t dare move but it doesn’t dull his tongue.  Despite his cold tone, his face flushes hot. Only one foot in the game. Not quite willing to submit. Sylus leans in. His erection strains against his slacks. He rubs the rigid edge against Zayne’s hip. The prominent curve of his Adam’s apple grazes the knife as he swallows. Enticing, nearly begging to be bitten. 

“When have I ever asked permission to take what I please?” Sylus teases. He offers only one concession, kicking off his shoes. He nods, “Ready?” 

It’s the only chance he’ll get to back down. Zayne hesitates just a beat, long enough for Sylus to wonder if he pushed too hard. The defiant glint in his eye doesn’t falter, only sharpening when their gazes meet. Without even the slightest twitch to give himself away, Zayne twists to crush his shoulder against Sylus’s sternum. 

He grunts, unprepared, and falls back. The blade knicks Zayne’s cheek, before his wrist is wrenched forward. Deft fingers jab sensitive tendons, unfurling Sylus’s fingers until the knife goes skittering to the floor. Taking advantage of the momentum just enough to flip their positions, he tries to leverage Sylus back against the wall. Instead, Sylus throws the bulk of his weight into the swing. He hauls them both off their feet. They go flying to the floor in a heap. One tense arm wraps around Sylus’s head, couching his fall before his skull can crack against the hardwood. Too kind even now. Sylus will make him regret it.

He tries to roll into the impact, only to catch his shoulder in a sharp jolt. It knocks the breath from his chest. Zayne straddles his hips, pinning him to the floor. Sylus leverages himself up just enough to crush his elbow to Zayne’s jaw. His head whips. Strong hands grab Sylus by each wrist, pinning them above his head. 

Heat flares between them. Their eyes meet. At his smirk, Zayne scoffs. 

“Always so pleased with yourself. This is why we never worked,” he says. Cruel words flow forth easily for him when it comes to their past. His jaw works itself unconsciously. Never applying pressure, he locks his elbow above Sylus’s trachea. So hot and cold. 

Sylus rolls his hips. Their clothed cocks brush against each other. He doesn’t need to fake it when he moans.

“And you’re not pleased?” he asks, “It sure feels like it from here.”

Outside, rain pelts the window. Steady drops against the glass. Moonlight cuts through. It illuminates the dark, singular focus of Zayne’s glare. Sylus leans up, close enough to kiss him. He is rather pleased with himself. Ever so slightly, Zayne’s fingers loosen their grip. 

Stars burst behind his eyes when he smashes their heads together. His brow connects with the bridge of Zayne’s nose. His glasses careen off his face, startling him just enough for Sylus to buck him off. Behind his back, the cool metal of his gun grounds him. He snaps it around, aiming the barrel just between Zayne’s brow. 

“Be good for me, doctor,” Sylus croons, “No more fighting.” 

It’s hardly a request. Zayne’s hands go up slowly. His eyes flick from trigger finger, to the smile Sylus wears, down to the bulge of his slacks. On his knees, Sylus takes the lead. They go in tandem. Zayne crawls back until he hits the foot of the bed. His pinky bumps the cold curve of the handcuffs. He freezes. 

“Go on,” Sylus insists.

From behind, Zayne locks one wrist in. Sylus hums his approval before moving to assist with the second. Only once he’s fully secured does the tension leave his shoulders. Fight drains from him little by little. Sylus shimmies to his lap. With locked hips. he positions himself low at Zayne’s knees. Easier to enjoy the full view this way. The pistol trails down, caressing from temple to neck. It rests securely under his chin, tilting his face up. Pale, smooth skin exposed to explore. 

He grinds down. Zayne’s thigh is taut with muscle. It tenses under him, hard and warm. 

Twice Sylus taps the gun to Zayne’s lips. When he doesn’t open up, Sylus drives the butt to his temple. It knocks his face to the bed. Obedience is never a request.

“Out of practice?” he asks. Only then does Zayne part his lips. Whether he means to protest or acquiesce, Sylus shoves the gun between his teeth. It clacks against his canines. Zayne winces. For every thrust against Zayne’s thigh, Sylus pulls the gun in and out. Stubbornly, Zayne’s mouth hangs agape. Drool pools at the corners of his lips. 

Open palmed, Sylus delivers one full force slap to his cheek. It rings through the room. Steely green eyes follow him in the dim light. Sylus delivers one more slap, just to watch that gaze falter.

After that, Zayne’s cheeks hollow in a deep suck. He follows unspoken orders well enough. Sylus hasn’t seen the sharp line of his cheekbones like this in years. Tight pleasure suffuses him. Encouragements spill from his lips. The hand that bruised only moments before strokes up into Zayne’s hair in apology. He coils his fingers through threads of inky black. 

“Needy thing, aren’t you?” Sylus says, “All that protesting just to be a little slut when I give you something to suck on.” 

A low, animal whine builds in Zayne’s chest. The sound sends Sylus spasming. Little rolls of his hips devolve into eager pumps. Before he can get too far ahead of his own agenda, he drops his weight fully. A pink tongue flashes between Zayne’s lips. It follows the wet barrel as it slips free. Sylus groans. 

He tosses the gun away, letting it hit the bed with a bounce. Beneath him, Zayne pants. That calculating stare has gone foggy. Dazed eyes track his movements. Sylus stands, pulling his cock free and kicking off his slacks. 

Cockhead thick and throbbing, he steps forward. Zayne licks his lips in invitation. Two taps of the tip, and those lips part for him sweetly. 

“You’ve missed this,” Sylus says. 

“Wait, I can’t-”

Leveraging his knee to Zayne’s shoulder, Sylus slides his cock home. Warm wet envelops him. Zayne tries to pull back, gagging when the tip rocks to the back of his throat. Sylus grasps his chin in firm fingers. With a squeeze above his jaw, he forces Zayne’s mouth open. Fucking down and deep, he finally allows himself to let it all go. No more restraint. Each choking breath from below only spurs him on more. The pace he sets is erratic and sloppy. Zayne is just as uncoordinated. His tongue fumbles along, pressing hotly to one prominent vein. 

Starving for this. Both of them. His throat contracts, trying to adjust to the intrusion, and Sylus only tenses and pushes harder. In turn, Zayne goes slack. White, blinding pleasure takes over. It crawls from tip to spine, sending shivers down his neck. Power and control, never more delicious than when they were hard won. 

When Sylus reaches his climax, Zayne’s hips jump behind them. He thrusts up into nothing and keens in time with every throbbing wave. Sylus paints his throat in his cum. Around his jaw, his fingers flex and release with each pulse of his shaft. Moans vibrate around him, shooting right to his core. He pulls back just enough, catching his head on slick lips, to rub the final spurts against Zayne’s willing mouth. 

Sylus releases him with a grin. His thighs tremble. He drops to Zayne’s lap before his weakened knees grow too obvious. With the last of his energy, he licks Zayne’s chin, lapping up his own cum. His forehead knocks forward to the mattress just long enough to catch his breath. He wants to purr, unlock the cuffs, and pull Zayne to the bed for a proper fuck. Maybe when they were younger he could have managed it. Not worth giving up their game, as it is. Neither of them truly have what they need, as it is. 

Blindly grasping, he reaches back to rub a hand against Zayne’s neglected erection. Still hard and wanting. Just as he knew it would be. 

“Feel that? Doesn’t matter which hole I fuck, you always want it,” he groans. Zayne tosses his head away. Looking over his handiwork, Sylus is rather pleased. They’re both disheveled. Zayne’s cheek is flushed and ruddy where his hand had connected earlier. Buttons have popped loose, revealing the blushing pink across his collarbone. In a different time, a gentler time, Sylus would have licked his way across it. After that, he would make his way up, where short hairs stick to his temples. Dotted with sweat and out of breath. A job well done, and there was plenty left to do. 

Tight-gripped, he pulls Zayne’s cock free of his slacks. It slaps his navel. Dark hair sends him on a trail straight down to his waistband. With a yank, Sylus shoves his pants down over his ass. Zayne’s cock is paler, longer and thinner. It curves nicely, perfectly made to hit the most delicate places inside. Rather than treating it sweetly, coaxing it to pleasure, Sylus squeezes it between his fingers until he earns a yelp. 

Zayne hisses, “Fuck. Enough.” 

Not likely. Just to prove he heard, Sylus hums sweetly. He flips himself over until they’re back to chest. Breaths tickle his ear. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies. 

First he goes slow. Easy. He wets his thumb on the tip and rubs it around the head. One hand pulls back the foreskin while the other trails down the shaft. No need to rush. At his back, barely there kisses melt into licks and nibbles. Deserving of a reward. 

Unfortunately, when he’s most deserving is when Sylus most wants to deny him. His pace quickens, pumping up and down until Zayne thrusts follow into the circle of his hand. Just when he nears the edge, teeth clamping down hard enough to bruise, Sylus halts. Thumb and forefinger circle the base and squeeze. In his hands, Zayne’s member throbs uselessly. Dribbles of pre-crum spill forth. Pathetic little attempts at release. 

Zayne whines. He tilts his head just enough to nip Sylus’s earlobe. With a croon, he starts them over again. This time, Zayne’s hips follow along more tentatively. They follow each jerk of Sylus’s hand, fucking himself up. Once the pace reaches a crescendo, Sylus stops them again. The same hold to the base. Another harsh squeeze. One more lovely whimper from Zayne, followed by a string of curses. 

Two more times before he’s satisfied. Into the crook of his neck, Zayne begs for more, no more, both and neither. He demands as much as he pleads. Croons and keens. Sylus laughs and starts again. 

When he’s so sensitive his thighs twitch at the smallest touch, Sylus flicks the head. Though he’s gone softer with the teasing, his cock betrays him. With each cruel flick, it stiffens. Zayne gasps. His legs scramble and he tries to pull away. In retaliation, he gets a slap. Three sharp smacks to his length. Words fail him, only humiliated huffs. 

Bending low, Sylus hovers over his prize. Open mouthed, he lets spit pool on his tongue. Drool drips from his lips down Zayne’s length. He surges. 

Before his thrashing can dethrone Sylus, he rearranges himself more securely. Between his legs, against all odds, his own erection strains. It bobs and sways with his movements. He kneels above Zayne’s hips, lowering himself. 

The stretch is searing. Earlier, his fingers could only prepare him so much. He tortures them both with a swift thrust down. Whatever Zayne’s protestations, Sylus ignores them. Instead he fucks himself open. After a moment to adjust, he slides back up. A few pumps to situate himself. 

“Me first, then you get your turn,” he promises. Zayne’s lazy tongue gives up on words. All he can muster is a half-hearted glare. Sylus takes him by the throat. Between two fingers, he pinches each pulse point. Zayne writhes. His cock rubs deep in Sylus’s walls, a slick slide against his prostate that makes him quake.

He uses Zayne’s cock like the toy that it is. Low shallow grinds to long demanding pumps. With each pull to the tip catching tight muscle, his fingers grip harder. Zayne’s life flutters under his hands. His shaft twitches inside of him. In tandem with the roll of his hips, he cuts off Zayne’s air just long enough for his eyes to roll back. Fucking down, he releases. Each time he bottoms out, Zayne gasps. He squeezes around him ruthlessly. 

Red faced and teary eyed beneath him, Zayne is irresistible. His eyes squeeze shut. The veins along his neck bulge. A smear of blood stains his jaw, where the knife had caught him earlier. Stark white teeth worry the plush skin of his bottom lip. When had he last kissed those lips? Not once in ten years. A stray thought. One that Sylus knows better than to act on. 

Their teeth clack together. It’s clumsy. Both of them are out of practice. It still makes him groan. Hardly what you could call a kiss. More spit and hot tongues running across any exposed skin. Nothing tender. 

With his free hand, Sylus reaches down to jerk his own cock in a rough grip. He fucks them sloppily. Caught up, he barely tracks the tension of his fingers along Zayne’s neck. With this new advantage Zayne manages to get his feet under them. He leverages himself to fuck Sylus hard and senseless. No rhythm guides them, only tingling need. With no regard for the man riding him, Zayne pistons in a surge of adrenaline.

He spills inside of Sylus with one last sharp thrust. It’s wordless. Any air left in his lungs is savored. Heat splits Sylus down the center. All he can muster is tiny, sharp jolts that send Sylus bouncing in his lap. Every pulse coats him from the inside. 

Satiated, smug beyond speaking, and having properly used Sylus for his own pleasure, Zayne smirks. His tongue peeks from between his lips. Sylus’s fingers spasm around his length. 

He bares his teeth to hide his smile, “You shouldn’t have done that.” 

An empty threat. He has nothing left to hold over him. All he can do is draw a deep breath and return to their punishing pace. Zayne squirms, oversensitive, but gives up his fight. Between his own hand, the whimpers he wrings out, and Zayne’s hot cock splitting him, his relief is not far off. 

Cum dribbles down his thighs. It makes him keen, high and throaty. 

“Now who’s pleased with himself?” He hisses, before his throbbing cock sets them free. Stripes of cum shoot across Zayne’s exposed stomach. It drips from his hand, rolling down his wrist. Their earlier pretense of a kiss feels well practiced in comparison to the open mouthed pants they now offer each other. His thighs quake. Sylus gives up all need for control. He hits Zayne’s lap with a grunt. Inside of him, his cock has gone soft. It slips out wetly. Both of them are too exhausted for much else. He’s unsure how long they lay there, bundled together. Outside, the streetlights flicker. Sylus squeezes his eyes shut to ignore their insistent call. Daylight awaits. 

From behind his back, Zayne rattles the handcuffs. 

“Let me out,” he grumbles. Sylus disentangles himself and pulls off enough to look them over. 

Blow off steam. He almost laughs. Is that what they set out to do? They’re a mess. Weapons and clothes scattered around the room. The windows above the bed are thick with steam. They smell of sweat and sex. It’s only a matter of time before Zayne will want to get up and shower. 

Sylus hums. He’ll take what contentment he can from this. His fingers trace Zayne’s jaw. Under his thumb, Zayne’s frown lines feel no different from his own.

“So bossy,” he mutters, “You’re always first to end the fun.” 

His fingers shake when he unclips the key from his belt. Zayne wiggles impatiently. Down his arms, under the bed, he undoes each wrist carefully. They’re bright red and chafed from their struggle. By Monday, Zayne will have them covered under a tightly buttoned shirt. Only Sylus will know it’s there. Every bruise, the cut he hopes will scar, little marks he’s left behind.

Hating the foolish flutter in his stomach, he stands. Ass naked in nothing but his own white shirt. Suddenly he hates their game. Before, his moodiness was always a sore spot between them. It locks his words tightly in his throat now. He would laugh just to voice them. What use is this desire, when he has everything? Even with age, it hasn’t gone away. 

Lost to his thoughts, he doesn’t notice the hand clasping around his ankle until it’s too late. Zayne yanks, tearing Sylus from his feet. Colors zip by in a blur. He hits the floor with none of the concern from earlier in the night. His head slams the hardwood, stunning him. When he blinks back the daze, Zayne sits atop him. There’s no playful grin, no easy banter, just a cool gaze honed on his target. His eyes are harsh and unreadable. Fluttering eagerness dances through Sylus’s chest.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” Zayne asks. 

Sylus shivers. One last glance up to the remains of the night. Still some time until sunrise. 

He leans back against the bedframe, arms sprawled to either side across the pillows. For now, he’s content to watch. The two of you are doing just fine without his help. In one easy swing of your legs, you straddle your hunter partner’s thighs. His duvet rucks beneath you both as you slowly rock into each other. Soft sighs float from your joining kisses. 

One of her knees slides its way between you, pressing firmly to your core until it draws a blissful shudder from you.

Though a seemingly innocent readjustment, Sylus has grown familiar with your partner’s wiles. Nonetheless it’s her that whimpers at your pleasure. Always eager to please you. The sound makes you huff a laugh under your breath. Sylus’s cock twitches in his shorts. 

Only one thing sours the moment for him. Zayne looms over you both grimly, a dark shadow standing just at the foot of the bed. In their years of finding their own fun together, Sylus had learned to enjoy that dour face, but even he’s grown tired of the restraint on display. At first, he had allowed the other man to play out his gloomy routine. He orbited the two of you like you were something that couldn’t be touched. Always punishing himself for wanting what he could easily reach out and have. 

Fortunately for him, Sylus is a generous man. One lazy leg snakes out, nudging your ass with his shin. You swat at him but don’t turn his way. He smirks. 

“Greedy, aren’t we, kitten? The doctor is patiently awaiting his turn.” 

It works better than expected. Zayne’s head whips up, his frown darkening into something more severe, but before he can protest the crudity you beat him to it. Eyes fierce, you turn fully to shove at him. 

“You’re being a pig,” you snap. 

Ah, that’s it. As if you commanded it to do so, his cock hardens painfully. All it takes is that little nibble of attention to have him greedy for more. One arm reaches out to snatch you up. He pulls you into his lap, letting your legs fall to each side of his thigh. Even pinned against him, fiery with irritation, he can feel you clench against the muscle there. He keeps his forearm locked securely around your waist and presses your back to his chest. For now, this will have to do. By the end of the night, he’ll have time to coax more expressions from you. 

He presses a soothing kiss under your ear that does nothing of the sort. The little hairs there tickle his nose. He smiles privately and you elbow his ribs. 

“Patience, please. You may like what you see,” he says. Not letting you regain the upper hand, he reaches up to grip your chin. He tilts your head just slightly, directing your gaze back across the bed, then occupies himself with unclasping your bra.  

“Wait-” you start, only to be struck silent at the sight. He hums contentedly. 

Zayne, having dragged your partner to the edge of the bed, has her spread out in front of you. Her chest heaves, one nipple threatening to free itself from her lingerie. Once he’s set himself loose, Zayne’s focus is singular. He shoves her panties to the side, lingering just slightly on the dampness already there, and bares her cunt to you. She whimpers at the cold air on her wet lips. Sylus doesn’t miss the way Zayne smirks at the sound. 

For every touch to her clit, Sylus mirrors the same to your breasts. When Zayne pinches her clit between two fingers just to wring another desperate cry from your partner, he mimics it against your nipples. You whine low in your throat and try to swallow the sound. 

He chuckles, “So sweet.” 

“She is,” you agree quietly, though that isn’t what he meant. You try to regain your composure, but he knows better. When you want to shiver for him, you stiffen. Instead of softening, your fingernails dig into his arm that cages you. As soon as your hips move against his leg, so small and tentative, he pretends not to notice. He’s learned to let you think your surrender is subtle. 

It’s clear the moment Zayne realizes he has an audience. He tenses just briefly before throwing himself into it with renewed intensity. His hand goes to the back of your partner’s neck letting his fingers thread through her hair. He yanks her head back tightly until she looks up at him alone. Even in the dimly lit room, the two of you can see the way her glazed over eyes match her dopey smile. Zayne kisses that smile, the fingers between her legs finally plunging deep inside of her. The intensity with which he fucks her open is at odds with the tenderness he brushes against her lips. 

Sylus bites down on your shoulder, not letting you grow shy in sight of their softness. You’ve given up on all pretense and ride his thigh wantonly. Wetness drags against his skin. Rather than holding you back, his arm keeps you upright as you use him to pleasure yourself. You don’t try to break free, too keen to witness your partner’s undoing by Zayne’s hand. Once or twice, your head falls back and your eyes squeeze tight just to whip back up once you remember the sight you’re missing.

When her thighs begin to tremble, so do yours. Sylus drops both hands to your hips and drags you across him harshly. One of your hands reaches back to tug at his hair. He groans. With his added momentum, you fuck his leg to the rhythm of your partner’s high, tight whines. 

Zayne keeps her face firmly turned up towards him, unwilling to share even that. All of her weight leans against him, completely boneless and trusting. Inside of her, his fingers curl. To the untrained eye, he may appear indifferent, but Sylus isn’t untrained. His tie is still on, glasses perched perfectly on his nose, not even a hair where it’s not supposed to be. The only thing out of place is the bunched up roll of his sleeve. With his forearms out, his tendons flex taut as he fucks her. The slick sound of her arousal makes his jaw clench and unclench. 

You turn to look back at Sylus over your shoulder. Your panting expression is almost mischievous. 

“Watch,” you command, but his gaze doesn’t stray from your face. He watches you watch them and shivers at the pleasure. 

It’s not Zayne’s touch, nor the ceaseless hold he has on her, but the quiet praise he whispers between them that finally shatters your partner. Her orgasm has her writhing. Zayne’s pace doesn’t slow, though he watches on raptly. He loosens his grip on her hair just enough to stroke softly over her brow as she comes apart. Your eyes are glued to the needy pulses around his fingers. Her whine pitches to nearly as a squeal as her release sprays out of her, coating Zayne’s hand with her wetness. It doesn’t stop, with each throb that runs through her she soaks the duvet, wide open to her witnesses. Zayne moans, quickly dropping the hand that was just soothing her down to her knee. When she tries to clamp her thighs together, shyness catching up to her, he forces her leg back open and fucks into her harder. She whimpers and squirms, tears rolling fat down her cheeks. Even embarrassed and overstimulated, she thrusts up to meet him.

Zayne looks up to catch your eye. It’s that look that finally snaps the coil in you. Sylus helps you along as your thrusts devolve into greedy, desperate grinding. His muscles tense against you. Every shudder that runs through you makes him needier. The soft, breathy sounds you make when you come will never be enough for him. It’s as close to trusting as you get, falling back into his chest. 

Of course, he needs more. He’s never settled for less than everything. Before you’re through the aftershocks, he’s pulling his throbbing cock free. Bodily he drags you back into him, thrusting up between your legs and shuddering when he can feel your heat. Your protest is barely a formality before you’re shivering at the glide of his head against your folds. Again and again he fucks between you just to feel the way you twitch when he grazes your sensitive clit. 

Your partner whines for your attention. She’s red faced and teary eyed, kneeling under the canopy. Zayne stands at her back, stunned by the force of what he dragged from her. Not entirely without his sense, he reaches out to comfort her, only to be met with your glare. Sylus doesn’t try to stop you when you pull from his lap to go to her side. He wonders if you ache at the separation just as much as he does. 

For a moment, he fears that their fun might have reached its end. He watches the way you wipe her tears and coo. Both of your hands cup her cheeks, then you nod your head and gesture for Zayne to join you on the bed. He kneels there, somewhat awkwardly, until you roll your eyes at him over your partner's shoulder. 

Sylus was smug to think he was the one in control of this. With ease you take over, directing everyone just where you want them. 

“So pretty. You did so well,” you say quietly to the woman in front of you. Even directed at her, the soft praise makes him flush. It’s as if the room is yours, just the two of you gazing at one another. Despite the shift in atmosphere, Sylus still feels his cock jolt to attention at the sound of your voice. You press sweet little kisses to her forehead, complimenting her with each one, before your tone grows firm. 

“I know you have better manners than this. You want to thank Dr. Zayne, don’t you?” 

Eyes wide, pink rimmed from crying, your partner nods. Behind them, Zayne’s hand drops to the bulge in his slacks. He doesn’t do anything more than that, rubbing at his hardness. His cheeks go pink. 

Sylus has little need for such self control. Feeling the voyeur and indulging in it, his fingers wrap lazily around his cock. 

“Use your words, please,” you command. His grip tightens. Her response is so quick, desperate to do whatever you ask of her. 

“I do!” she insists. You smile down at her indulgently. Both of your hands bracket her hips. You turn her around to face Zayne and urge her forward. Now that she has direction, she goes easily. All her shame was quickly forgotten the moment she surrendered control to you. You stay glued to her back, only interrupting to smack Zayne’s hands away from between his legs. With one hand to her lower back, you hum approvingly at your partner’s slow touch down Zayne’s chest. 

She loosens his tie just enough to toss it aside, then sets to work on his buttons. With his collarbones exposed, Sylus can see just how flushed he’s gotten. At his sides, his hands bunch into fists with each stroke of her skin. Finally, she reaches his pants. 

Once freed, his cock juts hard and angry between his legs. The tip is wet and shiny. Just looking at it makes your partner whine. She doesn’t have to ask. You twine your fingers through her hair, directing her head down to where you know she wants it. 

“That’s it. Be good for the doctor,” is all you have to say. Unprepared for the forceful shove you give her, she kisses clumsily along his length. Zayne’s knuckles go white. Sylus is half afraid he’ll have to replace this duvet. 

She regains her bearing quickly. In one swift motion, when you know she’s prepared, you firmly guide her until she swallows him down. At once, all of you moan. 

Setting an even pace, you control the slow, deep drag of your partner’s mouth around him. Just when the bobs of her head steady in their rhythm, you push her harshly to the base of his member. Sylus fists furiously at himself, watching the curve of Zayne’s throat when he throws his head back. His Adam’s apple is prominent, trembling in response to the way she whimpers when she takes him. Sylus wants to lean in and bite it. 

Uselessly, with nothing to ground her, your partner’s hips roll against the air. You chuckle cruelly before taking pity on her. One arm wraps around her hips. You hold her up and cup a palm against her dripping cunt. 

“Next time, I’ll fuck you like this,” you say. She gasps, pushing back against the hold on her head. Her weak grind into your hand grows faster and she moans. Undeterred, you tighten your hold and force her head back where you want it. 

Zayne’s own control is slipping. He spasms, fucking up into her mouth after you nod your permission. Drool drips down the length of him, sliding between his legs. 

“Isn’t she a good girl?” you ask, this time directing your attention to Zayne. You take pride in it, every devoted suck and whine from the woman between you two only spurs you on more. “She’ll come just like this. I bet sucking your cock alone would be enough.” 

Your partner’s whole body shivers when you talk about her. The meanness in your tone makes her and Sylus both groan. His wrist twists and he fucks into his hand. At last, you seem to remember his presence. 

“And you? Where’s your manners?” you ask. He doesn’t point out the hypocrisy, that your partner dropped to her knees for Zayne but you won’t offer him the same. Instead, he tilts his head accommodatingly. 

“I’ve been very rude,” he agrees. He crawls to your back then brackets you in tightly with the others. You may control their pleasure, but he’ll have you caged in just where he wants you. Without asking, the delight of taking advantage of your impatience just too enticing, he grabs you by the hips and fucks up into you smoothly. Your walls suck him in so greedily. Both of you moan.

“Tight,” he huffs. You scoff. 

“Try to keep up.” 

That’s the only warning you give before you fuck forward and back. You spear yourself on him, making his legs tremble, and never loosen your grip on your partner’s hair. When his pace quickens inside of you, you follow along and guide her down faster around Zayne. 

Unwilling to simply be swept along, Sylus reaches up and harshly grasps one of your breasts. Your gasp rolls right through him. He hopes his fingers bruise. With his other hand, he loosely wraps finger to thumb from one pulse point to another. He doesn’t press down, just feels the way you gulp with his hand around your throat. It’s the sweetest gift of vulnerability before you rip back control and tighten around him.

An orchestra at your command, you all find a flow together quickly. Zayne’s neck has gone sweaty and pink. A strange, wistful smile lights his face then he’s reaching up towards Sylus. For a split second, he thinks Zayne means to caress him. Instead, his fingers force themselves past his lips. Sylus squeezes his eyes shut and sucks, whining from deep in his chest. The sound makes you thrust back against him harder still. 

With one little tug at your wrist, Zayne tries to warn you of what’s to come. You don’t falter, only smoothly lead your partner until her nose is pressed to the softness of his stomach. She gags, filled, before swallowing him down. Zayne’s grunts are quiet as he comes. 

When he pumps into her mouth, hitting deep into her throat, she moans. To some secret count, you let him release inside of her with one, two, three broken breaths before you yank her head back. The last pulses of his orgasm shoot from him, painting her cheeks and eyelashes in his release. Her own orgasm hits her when his cockhead pops loose, bobbing against her lips. Her tongue peeks out, catching what she can between pink lips. You look down at her fucked-dumb, cum-stained face as it twists in ecstasy and clamp down around Sylus violently. 

He should pull out. He even tries, against every tiny piece of him wishing otherwise, but you follow him back before he can. Spurred on, he pounds into you faster and sucks hard around Zayne’s fingers while you clench and unclench on his cock. The heat of your release, the slick way he slides in deeper, finally overtakes him. At once, his mind goes white. His grip on you tightens, freeing breathy whimpers from your lips, and he spills inside of you. He grinds deeply, filling you, then pulls out just enough to coat your folds. Slowly, he fucks back in. Each catch of his cockhead at your opening makes goosebumps run down your shoulders. The way he drips out of you, coating his own cock, mesmerizes him. His fingers go down to meet his length, stretching you further. In and out he goes, even when the stimulation makes an ache build in his spine. You shiver and squirm and still he manages to catch your smirk over your shoulder. His devotion pleases you. Another victory under your belt. 

Feeling the loss of it, Sylus finally slips out of you. 

At once, you all loosen together, releasing a unified breath. You spin your partner around and let her head fall sleepily into Zayne’s lap. Unsubtly, he wipes his drool covered fingers on the bed set before he reaches down to stroke her cheek, praising her just as you had earlier. She hums at the attention, her eyes fluttering closed then she nuzzles at his softening member and presses a small kiss to his foreskin. 

Once settled, you turn to smile at Sylus properly, like he’s in on it with you. Perhaps you shared more of your control with him than he realizes. He’s all but lost his senses to you. His answering smile is fonder than you’ll ever let him verbalize. 

Once he was a man grown, confident that his parents would live well in their remaining days, he carefully packed his things and made the long walk to the boundary of the forest. The lost souls of the dead, who spent night upon night pleading for him to join them, gathered to welcome his spirit among them. His self-assured steps into the fog were his final moments as a mortal man. 

That first winter morning, his parents awoke with only a letter in the place of their son, written out on finely crafted parchment. His best work. They wept, but knew better than to follow his trail.

At the mountain’s peak, with the roar of the rushing river in his ears, the god Li Shen watched on with a chill in his heart. His own nature was a mystery to him, but his duty became clear at once. He carried out that duty tirelessly. Any life ended, no matter the cause, was ushered to his domain. With single-minded devotion he led them down the river. It wasn’t his place to cast judgement, to dictate where those souls would end up, but only to stand by their side during the journey beyond. 

Something within him hardened. He promised himself he would be prepared for the day when it was his own parents who walked that path. 

When his mother’s death finally came, Li Shen’s father left peeled pears on the windowsill and prayed for her passing to be a peaceful one. It was only then, receiving his first devoted offering, that he understood what he was. The god of death, born among the living but never to be one of them again, would lead his mother on her final walk. His chest panged at the realization that he would never grow to see her crow’s feet line his eyes in his own old age. At once, he understood the true cost of his duty.

Years turned to decades, until time ceased to matter much at all. Tales of him grew alongside the village until it was a city in its own right, raising temples to house the followers of Li Shen. Their faith changed him inside and out. He watched life beget death, uninterrupted in the constant turn of the cycle, and never once intervened. Between wars and pestilence, he found contentment as the stoic guardian of the forest. 

The priests, in equal parts respect and fear, understood him to be a great beast, so a great beast he became. His teeth elongated into sharp, curved points. His hair, once carefully trimmed, grew and grew until he was covered from head to toe. In the light of the moon, his eyes glowed reflectively. God or monster, it mattered little when there was work to be done.

When he heard word, through the prayers of his most faithful, that there was to be a new sacrifice, it was the first true break in his routine in centuries. There had been offerings before, livestock brought to an altar just beneath the mountain’s shadow, but he cared little for them. Death would come for them all, no matter their attempts to appease him. 

It was rumours of a distant, dormant god in a far off land that frightened his followers. Li Shen himself was apathetic to this so-called god of retribution, so long as he never crossed into death’s domain. However, the fear that the fallen god Qin Che stoked in the hearts of the priesthood was unsettling to him.

What finally brought Li Shen down his mountain was this: the next sacrifice would be human. They thought to buy his respect by gifting him a bride. It was almost laughable. What would he do with a wife? There was no future where he wasn’t alone. 

In the snow, his hoofprints gradually lengthened until they were the clumsy, half hearted footprints of a man. He had shed his bestial skin, though it was an excruciatingly painful shift to make, and taken on the guise of a bookseller. A shiver ran down his spine when he stepped out of the fog. 

Things had changed. As a boy, he and the other children had rushed to the road when any passing merchant came through the town. Nowadays, pulling his rickety cart through the paved streets, he was nearly invisible in the flow of the crowd. That suited him well enough so long as the priesthood welcomed his presence.

Thankfully, they did. His cart was left by the gates, locked up safely from looters, and he was escorted up the long stairway leading to the temple. Inside, monks and priests mingled, though many of the young ladies looked away shyly at his approach. All were dressed in modest robes, with kidskin gloves buttoned tightly up to their elbows. He only nodded his greetings when necessary, careful to avoid any disrespect. 

The head of the library was a kind old man who was eager to speak with another who had knowledge as broad as his. Though Li Shen listened politely, his mind was elsewhere. 

Faintly, but clearly there, he could sense his bride-to-be was near. She was said to be beautiful, fair-hearted and the most devoted among the order. He had never picked out her prayers among the faithful. 

When he was at last relieved of the conversation, clutching a list of texts the library could use, he set out on his search. Free to roam, he made his way first to the gardens. They were massive, immaculately designed and well maintained with a burbling fountain in the center pond. On all sides, the towering walls around the courtyard loomed, casting an imposing shadow on the faithful. In an instant, his eyes landed on the woman he sought. 

She crouched over the water as if the very sight of it offended her. He could only catch half of her expression as she turned to look at the person at her side. A servant, perhaps. Your hands were uncovered without the gloves worn by those practicing. It was clear she was midway through a complaint. You laughed along good naturedly. 

This excursion of his had never had a true goal. He had no intention of interrupting you two. He hardly even knew what he had expected to feel upon seeing the priestess. The answer was surprisingly simple. He felt very little. Despite that, his legs carried him forward. 

At his approach, your head whipped around. You straightened up and pulled the priestess along with you, straightening her skirts before you attended to your own. It was true that she was beautiful, though the gaze she directed on him was a cold one. Her expression smoothed into glass. In his presence, she was devoid of any of the annoyed mirth she had shown to you just earlier. Up and down, she took him in, before deciding she was unimpressed. Her eyes stopped on his inkstained fingers. 

“You must be the handsome bookseller everyone’s whispering about,” she said. If this body’s long stopped heart could still beat, he was sure he would blush. 

“I brought books. The rest I’ll take as a compliment.” 

She scoffed. You giggled and nudged her with a sharp elbow. “Be nice, my lady,” you whispered under your breath. Li Shen nearly smiled, but feared what it would look like without practice. With a long-suffering sigh, the priestess tried again. 

“How may we help you, sir?” she said through gritted teeth. It was a valiant attempt at niceties.

Callously he said, “I’ve heard there’s to be a sacrifice.”

Immediately, he regretted his forwardness. Both of you stiffened and the priestess turned away. At once, she closed herself off to him again. 

“We shouldn’t speak with men from the outside,” she told him coolly. Not waiting for his response, she turned to leave. Each step was unhurried but deliberate. When she reached the threshold to the inner chambers, she paused only to seek you out. 

You remained by his side a beat longer, giving him an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, it’s not you. She's just having a bad day,” you lied, unnecessarily kindly, “I hope you’ll come back soon. I’d love to see the books next time!” 

Just as you turned to follow after the priestess, his hand whipped out to grab yours. Flesh to flesh with another, for the first time in lifetimes. Both of you shivered. The shocked look on your face was enough for him to realize that he must be cold to the touch. His icy fingertips traced slowly along your palm as he pulled away, however inappropriate it was. Your warmth was irresistible. 

“Would you like to see them now? I’m not sure when I’ll be back next,” he said. There was still much left unanswered. If the priestess wasn’t amicable, perhaps her servant would be. 

You held your hand to your chest, one thumb idly tracing the path his fingers had taken. Perhaps he had frightened you with his impulsivity. He would blame it on this human form when he thought of it in the days to come. What else could cause his good sense to leave him so drastically?

Just when he believed he had scared you off for good, you composed yourself. It took one deep, shaken breath for you to smile again. You glanced between him by your side and the priestess that impatiently watched you from under the awning. Nervously, you nibbled your lip. This decision held more weight than he understood. 

“Wait here,” you whispered before scampering off. At the doorway, you and the priestess bickered quietly with one another just out of earshot. Even with her shoulders squared straight with pride, it was clear that she lost the argument. With a huff, she held out her arms and allowed you to unbutton each glove carefully. To his disappointment you yanked them on as you ran back over. Unlike the priestess, you skillfully buttoned them one handed.

“I lied earlier,” you said with a wink, “She definitely hates you.” 

Shocked by your frankness, he laughed. It was a creaky old excuse for laughter, coming from a man who had very little to find joy in.

“I was rude before,” he conceded. Attempting to make up for his poor manners, he gestured to the path. “After you.” 

“Not that way,” you said. With a wave, you brought him deeper into the gardens. The whole way, he could feel the gaze of the priestess burning into his back until finally you were out of sight. 

The courtyard stretched further than he had imagined. It led behind the temple, where the carefully trimmed foliage blended into untamed shrubbery. The thicket was overgrown and dense, but you traversed it easily as though you had done it a thousand times before. Whenever he believed you had reached a dead end, you squeezed between sparse bushes and confidently held branches back for him.

“I had planned to go out the same way I came in,” he said, wryly. You laughed. 

“Oh, I’m sure you did.”

After many twists and turns, the two of you broke out into a side yard. Just ahead, his cart sat untouched. Before you could go to it, he reached out with a hand to your wrist to stop you. It left him unsatisfied when he was met with only the soft leather of your glove. If he were still the shy young man he had once been, he never would have grabbed anyone the way he had grabbed you. Not only once, but twice. 

It gave him a weary sort of warmth, to think of how his mother would scold him for such a thing after so long without cause to remember her. 

“Did I overstep your oaths, seeing you like that in the gardens?” he asked carefully. 

You shrugged, “More like I understepped them.”

Your cavalier answer rankled him. He dropped your arm and narrowed his eyes. Suddenly thinking better of the whole endeavor, he took one step back. 

“My invitation wasn’t meant to cause you trouble. I haven’t even learned your name,” he said. 

You gave it without hesitation, then smirked. “Now you’re free to cause me trouble.” 

He scoffed, “Stubborn, I see.” 

“Very! Now, I promise that any trouble that may be incurred will be very worth it just to have a bit of fun,” you said insistently. Against his will, he could feel himself relenting. “It’s so stuffy in there! A break will be good for me, you know.” 

Your desperate plea, when turned on him, was very convincing. He could see now how the priestess had been defeated in your earlier argument. It felt good, strangely powerful, to be begged for something much less dire than death’s reprieve. It worked. 

At his nod, you charged ahead happily. Without a word he handed off his key ring, allowing you to open up the cart on your own. It had three major compartments, meticulously organized and packed tightly with an array of volumes. Your gloved fingers traced lightly along the spines. 

While you pored over his wares, he consulted his list. Though he supposed it didn’t matter if he fulfilled his order with the librarian, some part of him couldn’t turn his back on a job to be done. It was peaceful to carry on together, side by side without a word. The camaraderie was foreign to him. Even if today was the only taste of it he could have, he would relish in it. 

You were flipping slowly through one of the books when you finally broke the silence. It was one of his favorite volumes that you held. The spine was a deep green and shimmered slightly in the midday sun. Inside, the flora and fauna of the region were carefully detailed with meticulous diagrams. Though it couldn’t possibly contain the creatures that traversed his domain, it was comprehensive. Back on his mountain, he often flipped through his own copy in the limited free time he had. A small smile curled your lips at some of the more outlandish little animals depicted. It was that which made him understand just how small your world was.

“You never told me your name either,” you said, quietly so as not to shake the peace you had built together. 

Li Shen, he couldn’t say. I am the god of death Li Shen. I will guide you in your final moments. I will listen for your morning prayers. I will be the death of your dearest friend.

Instead, he stood there dumbly. His stupefied look made you laugh. You closed the book to focus on him wholly. Once more, you prompted him. 

“I’m Zayne,” he said finally. It came out sticky on his tongue. How strange it was to say. In one word, he mustered up the memory of a man that nobody lived to remember. Zayne the tanner’s son. Zayne who stayed up late turning hides into parchment. Zayne who never had the chance to weep at his mother’s grave. 

The glimpse of your tongue peeking pink between your teeth when you repeated it back to him sent a bolt through his stomach. In that split second, you had made him a man again. He resented you for it nearly as much as he cherished it. 

Before you could push for more, wiggling your way into breaking off new pieces of him, he changed the subject bluntly. 

“You and the head priestess are close,” he said, tone leading. 

If his abrupt shift surprised you, then you hid it well. Your attention turned back to the books, but unlike in the gardens you had softened to him now. He was beginning to believe he didn’t deserve the easy unfurling of your trust. You answered his questions without pretense. 

The two of you had grown up in the temple together. You were raised as a pair, though you readily admitted that she was the one who often excelled. No malice entered your tone, as if being a companion to the priestess alone was enough for your happiness. The fond tales of your childhood made him smile. 

“You’ll miss her,” he said. The love between you was fierce. He understood, through your lighthearted stories, that her prickly nature never truly turned your way.

You gripped your hands together tightly before you, “Forever. Desperately.” Your voice cracked on the words, “How could I live without her?” 

It wouldn’t be him that killed her, yet it would be him to carry the burden nonetheless. The burden of godhood. What a foolish thought. Unused to feeling useless, he found he handled it poorly. With no words of comfort, he was struck mute. 

Just when he opened his mouth, ready to attempt an ineffectual consolation, a voice called from above.

“Ah, good! You’re still here,” called out the librarian. He stood far enough away at the top of the steps for the both of you to be blocked from sight behind the cart. Unthinkingly, Zayne shoved you back into the bushes. He couldn’t help but smirk at the sound of your surprised squeal. 

The steady thump of the librarian’s steps was the only countdown you had. Grabbing the green bound book off his shelf, Zayne stuffed it into your hands. A wicked grin graced your lips from where you sat, flat on your ass in the shrubbery. It was a boyish feeling that came over him when he looked at you. 

“Take it and go,” he insisted. 

You shook your head, “I’m just the back-up. I can’t even read, Zayne!” 

“Take it. Think of me when you open it.”

Your eyes went wide. It pleased him to catch you off guard.

“Oh, how bold of you,” you teased. He rudely waved you away just as the librarian came around the corner. Your last words would follow him home. “Remember: the trouble was worth it!” 

You had just scurried out of sight when the librarian clapped him on the shoulder. He was good natured, offering to give Zayne a hand carrying everything back up, but his interruption had soured Zayne’s mood. 

They set their stacks into small baskets, carefully strapped to their backs for the walk back up. The librarian chattered through it all. It was altogether different from his short, quiet moments with you.  

“I do hope nobody’s been too rude. The priests get a bit squirrely with another man about,” the librarian explained, “Not that you seem the untrustworthy sort. It’s just that one of the high priestesses seems to have snuck out. I’d keep my head down while you’re in there, if I were you.” 

On the steps, Zayne’s steps faltered. He felt, bizarrely, tricked. The pieces rattled around in his head. The gloves, your argument with the head priestess, and the sneaking around all clicked together. He was the fool, taking your first appearance at face value. 

The rest of his visit to the temple was perfunctory. He dropped off his books, accepting coin that he would put into the hand of the nearest beggar. The librarian thanked him profusely, but his attention was quickly stolen by the news of the high priestess safely in the rooms. 

His thoughts were consumed by you on his lurching walk home. If those were his final moments as Zayne, he might as well savor them with the short memories he had made. 

A high priestess. One that could have easily been chosen as the sacrifice. Your self-deprecating laugh as you told him of your friend’s superior studies were suddenly cast in a new light. That they hadn’t taught you how to read, despite your rank. It was as you said before: you were the back-up.

If things had gone differently, it would be you tossed at his feet like livestock. It was unseemly of him to be relieved that it wouldn’t be. For Li Shen, all deaths must remain equal. In the few steps he had left as Zayne, something loosened in his chest. He wouldn’t look forward to the day your soul crossed into his domain, even if it meant seeing you one last time. 

The fog embraced him greedily. He had been out for far too long. Souls clamoured at him, tugging for his attention like spoiled children. Li Shen was exhausted and eager to return home, but he wouldn’t leave them to their limbo if he could help it. With gritted teeth, he began the slow, painful transition back to who he truly was. 

A crack rang through his skull as his antlers broke through bone. They protruded like a springtime bloom from the inky black growth of his hair. His thighs thickened and twisted into place until his walk evolved into a steady lope. The pulling of his skin made his vision go white. It rippled, peeling until his spine tore through with ease. Excruciating pain consumed him. 

Back in the forest, his heart began to beat again. As if he had never left at all, the god of death stalked down his well trod path to the river as the fearsome creature he was always destined to be.

The days passed. While he tended to the dead, the prayers of his faithful washed over him. They were more fervent with the sacrifice ritual just on the horizon. Despite his best attempts to close himself away, he would never be indifferent to their pleas. Many feared for themselves, that would never change, but just as many prayed for another. What reached his ears most often wasn’t selfish prayer. People wanted, above all, to alleviate the pain of the ones they loved. It would make no difference. Death was death. Unchanging and inevitable.

He caught himself, more than once, seeking out the sound of your prayers. His priestess, he couldn’t help but think. The sort of arrogance only a god could manage. Now that he knew where to look, he listened for you and the head priestess regularly. 

You both only ever prayed for one thing: each other. With a fervor and desperation he had only ever heard on the fields of war, she set aside her pride to beg the gods, any gods, to watch over you upon her death. Whether any ears but his could hear her, Li Shen didn’t know. 

He could see now why she was chosen for the ritual. Her strength of spirit was clear to him. Perhaps there was a god out there that would eagerly take her as his bride. It mattered very little. Death would take no lover. No partner could join him on this path, whether they be among the living or the dead.

Something akin to dread settled in his gut when the ritual day drew near. He caught himself more than once filled with indignation at the boastful prayers of the priesthood. They thought to placate him. They thought his regard for them was steeped in anger, just as they feared of the far off god Qin Che. 

What good was more death? It was the only thing humanity truly had in abundance. 

Though nothing would alter his course, he would give the head priestess the great respect of bearing witness. If her sacrifice was to be pointless, he could at least carry the memory of it long beyond her years. 

When the morning finally came, the forest ran icy cold. He watched, omnipresent, as the burly priests dragged all of the high priestesses to the base of his mountain. To his count, there were ten of you. Looking at you now, he couldn’t fathom how he hadn’t seen it. At your backs was the rest of the temple’s faithful, followed by city spectators amassed by the hundreds. None would cross into the fog, not if they valued the sanctity of their minds, but they drew closer than most to reach the stone altar standing before them. 

The head priestess walked in the center with her head held high. Her expression was inscrutable. All of the high priestesses were dressed in finery, wearing the deep dark blue associated with a virginal union. Perhaps once, as a very different man, that would have been the sort of thing he sought out. Now, it mattered little at all. A virgin would die just the same as any others, with their soul carried through white water at his urging. 

You didn’t attempt to match her stoicism. You wept openly. Your nose was pink in the cold winter’s wind. Desperately, your hand clutched your friend’s. It would cost you everything to let go. 

This city, his people, were they so afraid of some foreign god? Or deep down was it him they feared most? He never imagined he could feel such malice for mankind until he was watching them prepare to cut a life short in his name. 

He was proven wrong further still when it was you they took to your knees. His whole body stiffened. The head priestess gasped, but you were stunned into silence. Helplessly, you looked around, as if suddenly unsure of where you were. 

The priests went silent. A low murmur rose from the crowd gathered behind them. 

With brutish force, your hands were disentangled from hers. She held on with such strength that your glove tore off, hanging limply between her fingers. That one hand, bare and exposed to the chill, waved wildly towards the wide audience, asking for something you couldn’t find the voice for. Nobody moved to your side.  

The head priestess screamed from deep in her gut, her words lost in the swell of her rage. She was dragged away. A man, whose face would remain in Li Shen’s memory for decades to come, curled his lip and threw her over his shoulder. She pounded uselessly at his back, fists bouncing off his shoulders. 

You had finally come back to your senses, though you spoke only to yourself. If it was a prayer, even he couldn’t hear it. Your lips moved ceaselessly in unheard pleas. 

Had it been him that damned you to this fate? Was it your small rebellion, a single innocent adventure with a bookseller, that had brought this upon you? He wondered if somewhere someone more powerful than he mastered his fate. Perhaps by fixating on one of the living, death sought its due. 

Li Shen knew it was none of those things. The man Zayne could rail at destiny, but a god knew above all that death would always come with a ruthless indifference. He gripped that indifference for himself, dragging it down deep into his gut. The sight of a death, no matter how violent, no matter whose it may be, couldn’t sway him. He cleaved himself to the thought.

Duty, though often harsh, was his one loyalty to the faithful. 

Those very faithful that pulled the remaining priestesses into their mass of bodies. They held the head priestess back more with each anguished shriek. Her beautiful, cruel mask had slipped away into a hateful expression of grief. 

At the altar, they removed your other glove. Your last security stripped from you. It was their prayers that reached him, not yours. To them, you were no different from the livestock. You were a tool to serve their greater purpose. If they meant to please a god, they had fallen far short.

Behind him, trees cracked in the wind. Clouds rolled overhead. The river raced around the bend. A flock of birds broke into the skyline, screeching up at the heavens. 

First, they cut each of your palms. The blades sliced neatly through, exposing the white-pink meat of you. He thought back to his father’s careful cuts as he disemboweled a beast. Bright red blood dripped to the soil, where snowfall would soon bury it. He knew better. Your life would soak into the land, reaching him. He would taste you only once you were long gone from this world. 

With one hand across your eyes, the head priest pulled back your head. Once your neck was exposed, Li Shen finally heard your prayers. He heaved, inundated with the grasping hands of the dying. His eyes fluttered shut. It wasn’t any god that you prayed to. In your final moments, you thought of him. It was Zayne the bookseller, alongside your dearest priestess and the sweetfaced young girls of the temple that watched fearfully from the sidelines. All people you cared for. Completely laid bare, it was them that you prayed for. 

The hand that held the blade to your throat shook violently, unprepared to take a life despite how deeply the man hungered for it. The priests sickened their god. Their fear turned them to slobbering beasts, looking for prey. They would find it. 

When the ritual knife dragged from pulse to pulse, it dug deeper than necessary. Your flesh peeled back like flower petals. The crowd roared, adrenaline running through them straight to the restless souls beyond the ley line. His energy surged. The head priestess dropped to her knees, her screams gone hoarse. He heard none of it over the pained, strained gurgles of your final breaths. Your chest heaved and slowed. Blood spurted from the wound, flecking the feet of the noble priest. 

Finally, above the noise, her desperate prayer broke through to him. He realized only belatedly that he heard it through his spiritual tether just as much as her enraged, tear laden screams reached his ears. 

In equal parts, the head priestess begged him to punish them just as much as she demanded him to take you away as his bride. Death would have no bride. He could not enact her wishes. There would be neither the cruel cold cut of consequence, nor a benevolent savior swept to your side. 

Fearfully, the hands once holding her back tossed the priestess away. She wished the illest fortunes upon them, the spite in her words sending chills among those gathered. As soon as she was free she broke away. She threw herself at the head priest’s feet, spitting malice at him as she did so. Her hands stroked across your forehead, down to your cheeks, pressing her thumbs to your lips where blood ran steady. 

“Please, please,” she begged. Behind her, someone cheered. It caught among the crowd, raising them into uproar. Something inhuman in him snapped. 

Li Shen stepped from the fog. For ages to come, the tale would be told of this day. On this day, a holy day, the temple led the people astray. Down came the harsh god of the mountains. 

The thing that emerged from the forest was a monstrous beast, its eerie yellow gaze scanning across them with disgust. Some believed they saw the head priestess, lips bloodied from kisses pressed to your soiled cheeks, finally smile at the sight of his wrath. 

When he spoke, it came like a rumble from the earth. The voice of death was a grotesque one, chilling even his most faithful to the bone. A mass of fur and disjointed bones, he knelt over the near-lifeless body of their chosen sacrifice. He looked as if he meant to devour you. 

Some wept, others fainted, while many prostrated themselves in the dirt. It was only in the arms of a god that this one soul’s humanity became precious to them. All except for the priestess, who had cursed them to this happily for you. She saw what nobody else did.

One long, gnarled finger ran gently along the palm of your hand. 

He said only, “I have seen the true hubris of man this day,” then turned his back on them. A howl rose from those gathered, at once just as much a deformed creature as the god they worshipped. Some rushed to the holy followers of the temple, tearing him to the ground. Many leapt to protect the head priestess, the extent of her power unknown to them. Pandemonium broke out. Li Shen cared for it very little. 

Once back across the threshold of his domain, he moved with measured purpose. His power, fueled by the holy frenzy behind him, washed over you. He knelt to the ground. Frost gathered around him and he placed you softly into the snow. A snarl built in his throat as he looked over you. Something in him had shifted irrevocably on that day, though it would be long before he understood just how much. What could remain unchanged, now that he had brought the living into his world?

The roots of the trees broke through the soil, reaching up to hold you. He would bind you to this forest, keep your soul and body tethered to the earth far from the riverbank. Perhaps what he inflicted upon you was a cruelty, that you should remain here unchanging alongside him, but the steady prayer of the head priestess never ceased in begging him for this very act.

Once cradled in the roots, your body began to knit itself together. Your lips, which had gone pale, flushed again with life. He crouched at your side, only relaxing when you took one deep, unbroken breath. The earth freed you from its grasp, though he knew this bargain was far from over. Free to move, your body curled in on itself protectively. A low, humming sound came from deep in his chest. He scooped you into his arms. 

Against him, your heart beat a steady rhythm. Though you would tread the land of the dead, you were very much alive again. It brought him some comfort. You belonged to this place now. The only way you would leave would be down the river, dragged along with the dead. 

In time, that may be the path you chose. He told himself he wouldn’t intervene if that day eventually came. By bringing you through the fog, he had changed everything. Whether or not you would thank him for it was impossible to say. Guilt would serve you both little. 

With you nestled in his arms, he began his long trek up the mountain. Once, nearly halfway to the top, you awoke. Your eyes scrunched up in pain before fluttering open slightly. It was the only time he slowed his pace. Your gaze was groggy, but it trailed over the massive expanse of his bare chest. You wouldn’t recognize him as the man you once knew, ever so briefly. Whatever you saw made you smile nonetheless. 

He couldn’t fathom what you looked at in his face. To any eyes, he was a misshapen brute.

“Sleep,” he commanded. Despite his best efforts, his voice came out guttural. Blessedly, you could do nothing but listen. Your forehead rested in the crook of his neck with ease. 

At the peak, he looked upon the halls of his home with new eyes. Before then, he had never considered how much he had been living like a beast. His rooms were hardly fit for him, let alone a weakened human. They suited this shape and were still painstakingly organized to bring him comfort, but nobody but him could feel safe there. With time and much focus, he could shape this place as he pleased. Until then, he ripped the curtains from the window with a decisive tug and settled you into the nest of his bed. You nuzzled into his blankets naturally. Li Shen arranged the curtains around you, tucking you in further until you were a bundled mass of fabric. 

With that done, safe in the knowledge that nothing that walked this forest would harm you, he made his long journey back down the mountain. Your blood still painted his chest and throat. Once a good enough distance away that his agonized screams couldn’t wake you, he allowed his body to crack and shift. Again, for you, he would begin his deformation. He walked the rest of the way in his scarred, human body, relishing in the bite of the stones against his bare feet. His pace never faltered. When there was work to be done, his focus was single-minded. 

The clearing where the ritual was held had emptied by his arrival. Time moved strangely between his domain and the next. By his estimate, nearly a week had passed. He had ignored the desperate prayers begged upon him in that time. 

Your blood stained the earth preternaturally. It would remain there, a mark of man’s transgression against the gods. Zayne stepped over the fog and stood over it. 

It was a cold morning. So cold even he could feel it. Dew had no chance to gather, snapping frozen to the earth. Soon, true snowfall would come to the city. 

He made a slow, steady pace around the altar. Attempts had been made to destroy it, but just as many had clearly attempted to rebuild. He wasn’t sure which outcome he would have preferred, but he had intervened in the path of man enough. More than was wise.

A flash of blue caught his eye. He leaned down. Right along the ley line, your glove laid. He took it carefully. Behind him, someone gasped. He didn’t need to look to know it was her. The head priestess. She stood a good distance away, frozen in place, wearing travelling clothes and sturdy boots. Just as when they first met, she scanned over him critically. No longer concerned with mankind’s niceties, he must have looked gruesome even in his human guise. Half dressed, smattered with your blood, and holding back frenzy with scraps of self control. 

Her eyes locked on to the glove between his fingers.

“Leaving town?” He asked. She scowled. That look was nearly nostalgic to him now. 

“You’re him,” she said, something tight in her words. 

“A strange way to speak to a god.” 

She laughed bitterly, “I think our relationship has changed a little, don’t you?” 

Despite her bravado, he could see everything clearly. Her hands trembled at her sides. Beneath her eyes, dark circles sat just above hollowed cheekbones. The once proud slope of her shoulders slumped under the weight of her grief. Whether it was guilt or rage that drove her on, she remained steadfast. What more did she have to lose?

“If it’s any comfort to you, your friend is neither living or dead,” he said. 

“Some fucked up comfort.” 

In truth, he was no god of comfort. Perhaps it was better that way. Still, he had nothing better to offer her, no matter her demands and posturing. That he had granted even one mortal entry into his domain at her prayer was more than he had bent his will in all of his years. Regardless of his own feelings on the matter. 

With nothing else to say, he turned away. He hadn’t known what he would find in this wretched place, only that he needed to see it once more. Perhaps she had thought the same thing. It was a strangely human feeling, having that commonality between them. The priestess who loved you so dearly that she had never once prayed for another, bonded to her god only by their shared rage. 

Despite her pride, she threw herself after him. When her uncovered hands latched on his bare skin, he was surprised by how unaffected he was. 

“Please, wait,” she begged. He hadn’t expected her tone could grow so humbled. She dug desperately into her bag, with one hand and held him fast with the other. If he wanted to, he could easily break away. With tear rimmed eyes meeting his boldly, she pulled out a book. Green and shimmering on the cover, he knew it well. The spine was cracking where someone had opened and closed it again and again. It shook in her hands when she gave it to him. 

In return, he pressed your single blue glove into her palm. It wasn’t much, a memento from a day she may not wish to remember, but it was all he could give. Yes, he was no god of comfort.

“Leave. Find your vengeance or find your peace,” he said. There was nothing left for her here. You would never again walk among the living. 

At first, you entertained him. You and your partner winked and twirled and all while he sat politely in his armchair, allowing your little strip tease to play out, certain that his turn was just around the corner. The longer it went on, the more he was convinced that he was nothing but a pawn in this little game. Biding his time, he played along. Even to be your victim was a role he accepted happily. Turnabout was fair play. Ever patient, carefully watching, his finger tapped a slow rhythm against his knee. 

Under the heat of his gaze, you orbited each other naturally. He went from spectator to just another expensive piece of the backdrop without so much as a glance in his direction. Giggles pealed through the room. You pinched your partner’s sides just to hear more. Sylus understood that, painfully so. The urge to make you smile was innate within him, as fulfilling as the most worthy tasks in life could be. 

That smile was as radiant as ever, even turned towards another. In the silence of the room, the sound of lips to skin washed over his body like a wave. Her panties hit the floor, kicked aside by you, and your kisses took you both tumbling back towards the bed. His bed. Just when he was beginning to think you forgot he was there entirely, you met his eyes with a superiority in your gaze that made his slacks tighten painfully. His foot joined his finger in its slow, steady tap, keeping time on a countdown only he was privy to. 

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” you crooned. With one hand to her chest, you gave your partner a gentle shove. “I want you to be sweet and do whatever I say tonight.”

She hit the mattress with a little gasp, her smile up at you so cloyingly innocent that it only baited you to push harder. You grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head in the deep red silk of his duvet. In one graceful swing of your leg, you straddled her hips triumphantly. Sylus shifted in his seat. Unperturbed, falling into her submissions just as easily as she toyed with them herself, the hunter laughed. 

“I thought Sylus was doing whatever you say tonight,” she teased, “Or are you just being bossy?” 

It was as good of a cue as he was going to get. Sylus rose as if called upon. You both stilled at the sound of his approach, but only she looked his way. You, stubborn as ever, kept your gaze trained on the woman below you. 

“Sylus is still considering his options,” he said with a smirk. One hand unbuckled his belt as he reached the bed, the other trailing a slow path down your arm. Goosebumps followed his fingers, though you pointedly ignored the heavy shadow of his presence. His knee went to the bed, bracketing both of you beneath him. You could play your games, determined to ignore him until he crowned you victorious in this battle of everchanging terrain, but he could make his own rules along the way. 

His hands went to yours, trailing the tips of his fingers over your knuckles just where you gripped tightly to your partner’s wrist. Without any push or pull, he simply rested his palms there alongside yours. Over your shoulder, you glared at him. A point in his favor, stealing just a bit of your attention for himself. 

“I thought the plan for tonight was fairly obvious,” you said through gritted teeth. “Or were you not listening?”

He shrugged, “Plans change, kitten.”

As if contemplating the pros and cons of letting him have his way, your narrowed eyes scanned his face. Just when he started to believe he was pushing his luck, your partner wriggled below you. With your attention shifted, you instantly softened. 

“Fine,” you said, “Make yourself useful then and undress.” 

Sylus huffed a laugh, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

After kicking his own garments to the side, he allowed himself a moment to relish in the picture you two made before him. As soon as his hands were off of you, you returned your full attention to your partner, leaning down over her body in a delicious arch he couldn’t resist. He dragged his hands over your curves roughly, a low groan building in his chest at the sight of his hands cupping your ass. Too eager, his movements grew ruthless. He yanked your panties to the side, baring you, before pressing himself forward. His cock slid easily between the juncture of your thighs. Even taking liberties that would usually have you baring your teeth, you didn’t acknowledge him. 

That in itself made his heart race. The thought of having you any which way he chose, finally allowing yourself to be wholly his while you pleasured another, made delicious pleasure twist in his gut. The room felt hot, but chills ran down his spine with every little hitch of breath as he fucked between your legs. Sylus stood just behind you, dutifully at the foot of the bed like a servant awaiting orders, while you leaned over your prize. It was a painfully easy role to fall into. Feared leader of Onychinus or not, you pulled him along like it was simple.

When he looked down, the thick head of his cock jutted out from you, leaking onto the curve of your partner’s stomach. He watched in fascination, as if each thrust were not his own. The harder he grew, the more persistent your teasing became. Your tongue ran along the slope of her breasts, only stopping to leave little love bites that would just barely last. 

He wanted to tease you for how wet you could get just from the thrill of taking control, but he held his tongue. Once earlier, you already chastised him for talking too much. Your orders were sharp and concise, only coming out when you felt like he was overstepping. In your world, one he very much enjoyed inhabiting, he wasn’t a necessary component to the moment. No, in your world he was nothing more than a silent, dumbstruck bystander to your intimacy. It only spurred him harder, made him shut his mouth. With each command he worked to please you. 

Even when his hands travelled up to your chest, tweaking a nipple with just the right amount of pleasure-pain to make your hips stutter, you wouldn’t give him any leeway. The brief, sweet pause in the roll of your hips only lasted a moment before you were taking him by the wrists and returning his grip to your waist firmly. Just once, you reached behind yourself to tap his thigh in warning. He took that warning, rolled it between his teeth, and spit it back out. Sylus found his own little rebellions. His grasp remained exactly where you left it, but tightened just enough that he knew it would bruise tomorrow. The sort of bruises you liked, though you would swear otherwise only for him to catch you later admiring them in his mirror. 

Satisfied with himself, his cock continued fucking between you steadily. He lined himself between your folds, just for the tip of his head to catch on your partner’s clit. Her whimper made you clench around him, reward enough for all of you for him to do it again and again. When the rhythm was just right, the two of you moved as one. Quickly, it became a point of pride for him. He would anticipate your needs before you knew them yourself, pleasuring all three of you in equal part. 

“You’ve been so good, haven’t you?” you cooed to the woman in your arms. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring our toys. You want to be fucked don’t you?” 

Your fingers ran slowly across her cheekbones, tracing their way down to her lips. Sylus slowed to watch. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. She sucked your fingers into her mouth sloppily, then grabbed you by the wrist and directed your hands down between you. Heady with her own small moment of control, she spread your index and middle fingers over his cockhead. Wet with her saliva, his own desire and yours mingling together on his skin, he jolted. He could practically feel you purring in response. Back and forth you both teased him slowly. His head turned into your neck, puffing out a breath just over the little baby hairs at your nape. 

“You sure? It looks like you’ve got the perfect toy for us right here,” your partner said. A tremble ran up his back at the words. Even you aren’t unfazed, your fingers spasming where you stroke him. 

You paused only a moment, considering her words, before you snapped back into your role. When you leaned back in, playing along like you had never been shocked at all, he followed willingly. 

“You’re so wet already. So wet and I’m not even inside of you yet,” you hummed. Sylus knew that tone well and tensed at the sound of it, even directed at someone else. It was teasing, just a little mean, yet so close to tenderness it never failed to make his heart race. Gladly, he would become your most useful toy. Never would he let you reach for another. He nipped at the dip of your shoulder, his tongue lingering just long enough to taste the salty hint of sweat there. 

Your partner whined at the words alone, her flip from impish to obedient like a switch was triggered. Sylus watched the steady in and out of your fingers spreading her open. It was intoxicating. Sweat dotted your hairline, the first little hint of you coming apart between them, something messy and raw unfurling as you pulled her deeper into desperation. You fucked inside slowly, two fingers to three then finally a fourth while your thumb rubbed easy, practical circles against her clit. 

“You’re desperate, aren’t you? I can feel you clenching for me,” you said. Mocking but sweet, the cruelty that Sylus loved most. “You want me to fuck you? You’ve been such a good girl.”

Dazedly, her eyes go from you to him. It’s a reminder of the simple truth of his own participation. It became easy to lose himself, to get swept up in the game of it, but one look back sucks him down to earth. Without missing a beat, you guided him to keep his pace steady, as if sensing something within him changing. Your fingers slid out of her with a slick sound. Never as meticulous with his things as you were with your own, you wiped the wetness off your hands on his bedspread. Expecting his ready support, you leaned forward and gripped her chin between thumb and forefinger. 

“Focus, or I won’t be nice anymore,” you said, “Tell me what you want. I’m the one making you feel good, right?” 

She writhed. Sylus kept going only at the reminder of your body locked into his own. In both punishment and reward, you thrust down against him, driving his cock back down to her folds. His mind spun. The pleasure of the heat, the wetness enveloping him, was eclipsed only by the simple pleasure of satisfying the person he loved. You used the pressure ruthlessly, riding his length up along her clit until tears pricked in the corners of her eyes. His head fell to your shoulder.

“Please, please,” she begged, “I want you inside me.” 

Even with his eyes squeezed shut, pressed into your skin, Sylus could hear the smirk in your voice. 

“Inside you? Of course, baby.” 

You spread your thighs wider, tilting your hips up to give him more space to move. With ease, comfortable in the knowledge that his body was yours to do with as you pleased, you gripped the base of him. Anticipation shivered through him as you lined him up against her entrance. You denied everyone the satisfaction. Slowly, you rubbed his head in and out, never quite breaching. Wetness dripped down her thighs the more she was teased. 

Satisfied with the results, you finally thrust her way in, your hand leading Sylus along until your hips were locked together. In tandem, you both fucked into her with a low sigh, as if sharing in the relief. His chest heaved against your bare back. Sylus had never wanted to make a mess of you more than in that moment. The soft skin of your pulse point fluttered. He ached to bite you there, to stake some sort of claim over you, but held himself back just enough to kiss his way up your throat instead. With his teeth latched gently over the lobe of your ear, he could hear the breathy whimpers you tried your best to hide. 

It occurred to him only then how much power he had. It was him pistoning against you, setting the pace of your movements. Your hips only rolled in time with his thrusts, following a lead he hadn’t even realized he was setting. If he desired to, he could grip harder. He could take you both at his leisure and bring you to the brink in moments. You were all so far gone he knew you two would allow it. Instead, he savoured the feeling of relinquishing himself to you. To do so knowingly was a rush. 

As it was, it took surprisingly little to drag him to the edge of bliss. With your ass snug against him, you worked each other’s bodies. His cock was yours to use, shifting between slow, shallow thrusts to deep, demanding pumps with each new noise you could wring from your partner.  

One of your hands snapped down to her knee, pushing it flatly to the bed and spreading her wide open before you. With your other hand, you grabbed her thigh just as harshly. He could see from your grip alone how much you were affected. You hooked her leg over your shoulder, and one heel dug its way into his back, dragging him even closer until the momentum had your head bumping his chest. All of you moved together as one, in an amalgamation that became natural despite its strangeness. 

“Fuck,” the hunter cried out. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her chest and neck hot with pleasure. “You’re so big.” 

A moan escaped you. Just slightly, your head tilted back to him, gifting him with a glimpse of your expression. It’s that look that finally threw him into the fantasy, losing himself into the world you and your partner crafted together. 

“You’re so tight,” you crooned. You gentled your strokes, proud of her for taking you so prettily. It was your cock, heavy and leaking, pounding between her legs. It was you, with that beautiful expression, your eyebrows knit together in single minded focus. You thrust deep, tilting forward without even a thought to spare as to whether or not he would follow. He would, of course he would. 

You all watched, rapt, when you slid all the way out. You gripped low at the base, as if staving off your own orgasm with a tight circle where he needed it most. The way you ran your free hand over her cunt, palm heavy, was almost a pat for an obedient pet. 

“You’re doing so well,” you said, “I won’t last if we’re not careful. How do you want me?” 

Your hand danced up her thighs, ghosting over her stomach. He could feel your satisfaction when she clenched around nothing, her thighs trembling. Slowly, you began to jerk him again. His own knees felt weak with your touch. 

“How about on your face? It’d be pretty, hm?” you continued thoughtfully. He almost believed it was actually a debate for you, though the way your eyes were glued to her lower lip was telling enough.

She licked those lips, seeing the same feverish gaze that Sylus did. Her hand, previously bunched up in his sheets, went down to the apex of your thighs confidently. Without stopping the loose hold you had on his cock, she slid her thumb to your core. She drew slow circles there, smiling when you finally let her pleasure you too. Against his length, you ground down again. Just like that, fucking yourself between his length and her hand, you clenched and spasmed but refused to fully let go. 

Like she knew it was magic, your partner looked up at you pleadingly. She was a wreck. Tear tracks ran down her cheeks, her hair in disarray and tongue peeking out just slightly between her teeth, like she was desperate to taste. Your fingers wrapped around him tremored at the sight. 

“Come inside me. Please,” she asked. It was so needy, so polite, so perfectly played to stoke the fire in your belly.

And it did.

“Fuck,” you groaned as she came apart. Your head fell back into his chest, and he puffed up with pride at the vulnerability of it. With only you in his sight, the tremble of your lips as you whimpered and the hot clenching of your cunt above him, he watched your orgasm finally overtake your self-control. Without another thought, he propelled back into you, dropping his forehead to yours. You were both heated, sticky with sweat and desperate for one another. For the first time that night, it was just the two of you. His release shattered him, it nearly made his legs crumble beneath his weight. Deep in the base of his spine, tightness uncoiled, and his cum shot through your fingers. 

You panted together, perfectly in sync, until your senses came crawling back. Your grip, that had gone so tight around him, loosened all at once. Immediately he missed your desperate hold on him. Both of you pulled back just enough to survey the work you’d done. 

Underneath you, your partner snickered. His cum covered her from navel to chin, catching just at the edges of her face. Her expression was smug, as if she had gotten her way all along. Perhaps she had, if the state of her was any measurement, though she still hadn’t found her own release. You tsked in a warning that was easily ignored. 

“Well, well,” she said, all sing-song pleased with herself. “I guess we know who’s really the boss around here, don’t we?” 

Sylus laughed, half a grunt, too wrung out to muster up much else. Or so he thought. When you glanced over, all it took was one conspiratorial smile for his cock to perk up for more. A well trained toy, wasn’t he? 

You seemed to approve. You beamed. Joy at the sight reverberated through his bones. Then you turned that smile back onto your hunter. 

It's all so amiable, a simple interaction, but you only realize now how rarely you've seen him talk to anyone outside of work.

It's childish, a little selfish and you decide not to dwell on it in favor of appreciating the long, easy strides he takes to reach you. Zayne's eyes crinkle at the corners when he joins you. This part of him is yours alone, one thing you allow yourself to be covetous of. When he offers a hand, you take it. The cold metal of his ring warms itself in your palm.

"Anything I should know?" he asks.

You roll your eyes and, with a long-suffering sigh, say, "Can't a hunter have a few secrets? Some things should stay between me and my dentist, don't you think?"

"Mhm," he hums, "Another cavity then, I take it."

Before you can protest, he's swiveling around to get the car door. A practiced routine, one hand over your head and the other at the small of your back, he guides you to your seat and protects you from fatal bonks upon the door frame in one smooth maneuver.

The rules of Zayne's car are simple. No feet on the dashboard, that had been a particularly effusive lecture, and no crumby snacks. The latter he broke frequently.

Once he's settled in on the driver's side, reliably checking his mirrors as always, you ask the question that's been burning on your tongue. Well, you try to ask. What comes out is less a question and more a frazzled attempt to find out as much as possible before he can start the car and send you on your way home.

"That woman you were talking to earlier was beautiful," you say. Very casually. So casually, in fact, that Zayne valiantly hides the twitch of his lips at your expertly wielded casualness.

It's not that you're jealous, though you're not so unaffected to say you never get jealous. You trust Zayne, he trusts you. That's how things work, an unwritten rule across time and space. You and Zayne will always trust each other somewhere deep down.

It doesn't stop the fact that you always feel a little unmoored when faced with his life without you. There are many, many versions of Zayne in the world, walking around in people's heads. Endless Zaynes out there locked away where you don't have access to them. This woman has one of her very own, that much is obvious.

"She's very pretty," he agrees, "I'm sure her husband thinks so as well.

Oh, he's enjoying this. Bastard.

"One of the prettiest people I've ever seen," you continue. His eyes rove over you gently.

"One of them, certainly."

Fine. He wins. You contemplate sticking your feet up on the dash just to make a point of it. Instead, you groan, cracking beneath the pressure, and slide down further in your seat. Sufficiently embarrassed, you can only dig yourself deeper.

"You're messing with me!" you protest.

"A little," he admits, threading your fingers through his across the center console, "I don't get to see you flustered often."

That's patently untrue. You make a fool of yourself in front of him on a regular schedule. You huff when he takes pity on you, bringing your fingers to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"That was Mickey," he tells you.

Ah, his ex. You know her by name, though not by face, and very little else. If you can put the right words to it, you're sure Zayne will tell you anything you want to know. Parsing the want tos from the don't want tos is the hard part. Maybe he realizes that, because he puts you out of your misery by simply asking if you'd like to hear more. You nod.

While he talks, you run your fingers along his hands between you. Echoes of a past life adorn the lines of his palm.

They met at twenty-two through a mutual friend. She was driven, something he admired, and didn't seem to mind when he spent long stretches of time hunched over medical texts. Things just worked between them. Not the most romantic thing you've ever heard, but the devotion was there.

"You loved her," you whisper. You expect the answer to sting.

"I did," he agrees. It does sting, in the blurry sort of way something can still hurt you even when you don't believe that it should. It's just as much a comfort to think of him then, not lonely and isolated but with a confidant of his very own. He could push himself too hard, too long, without someone there to stop him. Still, the sting.

His thumb squeezes softly to the tender flesh between your thumb and forefinger and he explains, "She noticed me on the way back to her car. We talked about you. Don't give me that look."

"What look?" you ask innocently. He smooths out the wrinkle of your brow with a firm knuckle. Tension seeps from your shoulders.

"That's better. Good girl," he murmurs. You lean in. Glowing. "She made me promise to be kinder to you. It was… humbling."

Well, that sparks a laugh. You shake your head.

"I can't imagine an unkind Zayne," you admit. His scoff shocks you. He's never been one to wallow, but his tone makes it clear how much he's thought over this.

"I was very ambitious. Maybe more than was sustainable," he says. He looks away, staring off at some distant past, reworking the choices that led him down a long path to this very conversation. Here he was, comforting his girlfriend in the parking lot of the dentist's office. Hopefully no regrets there. "My research is important. I never forget that. But that's not all I am, is it?"

"No, you're much more than that," you agree, "and all mine now. The textbooks can't have you all to themselves anymore."

His nod is heavy. You didn't lighten the mood, as you hoped, but he turns to you with a longing that pins you in place. He's serious about this in ways you don't fully understand yet.

"I've learned since then. Every day I want you to see that," he says, "I know what's most important to me now."

Perhaps not the time, but his stern stare always makes your thighs clench. Does devotion make people horny? You, too, know how much Zayne's time matters to people. Every stolen moment is precious to you. You take your chance, pinching his cheek between your fingers. Frustratingly perfect teeth nip back. You never meant to make him regret a former love.

Cheeks hot, emotionally raw, you flop back into your seat. There's something here you're not quite getting, but you appreciate the sentiment. At the very least, he should know his comfort worked. You waggle your eyebrows suggestively, willing to play the fool.

"I do have one last question," you say.

"Oh?"

"Was she, you know, your first?"

Sometimes he seems to forget you know all of his tells by now just as well as he knows yours. His eyes narrow and dart away, unable to commit to their counter-interrogation. Victory is sweet. He plays his cards all wrong by turning from you. You're graced with a delicious view of his pinkened ears. Oh, so bitable!

When he clears his throat sternly, you think you may swoon.

"She wasn't," he clarifies, still committed to honesty, "I had a, well, I had a friend. We met from time to time, if we were both single. He liked to say I was wound too tight."

His lips purse thoughtfully, as if remembering a particular encounter. Something twinkles in his eye when he catches sight of your hands twisting tightly on your lap. The thought isn't all bad. In fact, you can envision it near perfectly. Young Zayne, so earnest and focused, bushy brows drawn into an ever-present frown, deserved to be teased from his tension from time to time.

"He was a very generous friend," he says. You know better. He's leading you right where he wants you.

"Oh," you squeak. Fuck, you walked right into his trap. He smirks. That's all it takes. As soon as you squirm, he grasps his prize in both hands. Rather too pleased with himself, Zayne starts the car. His knuckles squeeze tight on the wheel once before returning to his usual easy grip.

"I could take you home. Or, if you'd like, I'm happy to show you what he taught me," he offers. Never once has he pressed you. You never need any pressing. It isn't possible to be too eager when it comes to Zayne.

You nod. Irritatingly safe with his favorite passenger, he doesn't look away from the road.

"What was that?"

Confidence is secondary to desire. The lie comes easily as you say, "I'm a quick learner, you know."

It turns out to be quite true. Ass up on his bed, deftly knotted ropes pulling your arms taut between your legs, you feel a heated sense of pride in your ability to keep up. At your feet, he takes time to appreciate his hard work. Clearly, he's satisfied with what's he's accomplished. He explains each knot in detail as he ties it. One restrains your chest, wrapping between your breasts and around your shoulders. More than once he's hauled you up from a knot along your back, arranging you just so. You're offered up to him like a treat, nothing more than something for him to savor. It's freeing, all thoughts flying from your head aside from the ones he himself wants to put there. You're his, mind and body, until he gives you permission not to be.

You don't need to be anything, provide anything, just lay how he likes and feel what he bids you to feel. You're beautiful like this because he tells you that you are. Red rope suits you best. You're glowing. You don't need to see it to believe it. You're doing so well, listening so well. That's all you know.

You repeat after him so diligently. You'll be good, you won't worry about unnecessary things. Not when you're all his. How silly, the way your mind keeps tripping up there. You can't help but wonder how many times he's done this before. He's quite good at it. How did he practice? On other men, women, his old friend?

You jolt when he plants one firm slap to your ass. It's not the first of the night. Your flesh is hot and throbbing, tender beneath his hand. You take it well, keening with each well earned punishment. Sometimes you can push him just enough for more, but it's a fine line to tread. You can't be bad and still get what you want, he makes sure of it.

Rather than stopping at one, as you expect, Zayne spanks you twice more. The flat of his hand catches your inner thigh, agonizingly close to where you want him most, and you cry out half words, not quite pleas.

"You're distracted," he chastises, even after you count each smack just like you're supposed to.

"Not really! I was only thinking of you," you whine. Your tone is more petulant than he usually allows. You shiver in the suspended moment, unsure of where he'll fall.

His hand dips between your legs, rough against your folds. Evol chills his skin, making you wriggle forward and away, startled by his touch only to grind right back down into it. You whimper, hoping you sound contrite enough for mercy. He's worked your cunt to sensitivity, teasing the heated flesh mercilessly with icy fingers.

Unimpressed with your answer, he rewards you with a light slap to your core. You rock forward with it. Instead of pulling back, his hand chases forward to cup you. Harshly, he spreads your wetness from entrance to clit. Earlier, he had brought you to orgasm with near perfunctory coolness, treating your pleasure as the first step in his creation. Now he uses that sensitivity to his vicious advantage. Even the slightest touch has you clenching around emptiness.

Spread open, Zayne can clearly see the way you flutter for him, eager to be filled. You only wish you could catch his expression when after all your high, needy keening, he gives in. As wet as you are, his fingers slide easily. The cold of his Evol makes his hands feel foreign, some strange object stuffing you. Only when he's worked you up, up, up does that frigid cold diffuse. His fingers have gone hot with your clenching desire. After the preternatural cold, even the usual heat of his body sears you. You're right on the edge, so desperate for it.

You wail when he stops.

"I don't recall giving you permission to come up with thoughts of your own," he says. His index finger curls at the knuckle, rubbing against your walls with just enough insistence to not be ignored. "We don't have to start over, do we?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, hot with tears. You were doing so well. Your voice comes out embarrassingly thick.

"No, no," you plead. You can't start over, not after how much time he's spent encouraging you. Guilt looms overhead in a great void. With his free hand, he pinches your hip. It's the same encouraging squeeze he gives your hand when your anxieties get the better of you. "I'm sorry, fuck, don't start over. I'll be good."

His fingers pull out of you slowly, much gentler than they entered, and it feels like punishment. Real punishment, not the fun kind from before. Now you do cry a little despite your best efforts, and you feel like an idiot all the more for it.

You want to stop. You think maybe you should. Zayne trusts you to follow the rules. You can only pleasure each other like this if you're honest, but in all of the hours you two spent in the bedroom you had never stopped him before. Had she? Would you disappoint him, unable to leave your insecurities behind long enough to appreciate the moment?

The soft snick of his pocket knife snaps you from your spiral. Your eyes fly open, sticky with tears. From between your legs you can see the blade sawing at your bindings. It shocks you how easily anger bubbles to the surface.

"I didn't even say the word!" you snap. As if in disagreement, your hands fly free from your ankles. Zayne ignores your pouting, grabbing your harness to flip you onto your back. You bounce against the mattress with an indignant gasp.

He takes stock of you slowly. Nothing on his face betrays what he's feeling. You think you might be sick. Your wrists are still bound together, laying limply on your belly with that frayed, red rope. Naked and vulnerable while he scoots to a kneel, pristine as ever at your side.

"No," he agrees, "You didn't."

He's nonplussed, one eyebrow poised, and you're sure you know this trick. He's waiting for you to choose, you think. You can be good and continue, or say your safeword and he'll clean you up sweetly. Zayne is kind. He won't even utter a word about your failure.

Maybe he can read your mind because he sighs deeply above you. His hands run gently up and down, from thigh to ribs, but instead of soothing you only bristle more. Tenderness is almost an insult. You can take it. You want to tell him so, even when you don't mean it.

"You're a good girl," he lies. You might just kick him for it. Have you ever been so on edge? He shields against your sharpness with practiced patience until the blade of your anger dulls, battering against those impenetrable walls. Tension drains from you the firmer his grip gets, starting with a tweak to your nipple and ending with a harsh grab at your chin. He holds you in place, ensuring your eyes meet his, and says, "You are my good girl, even when you're not acting like one. Do you think you can remember that?"

You blink. Stupefied, you nod. His fingers tighten against your jaw. A nod isn't an answer. You know this.

"I can wait," he says.

"I'll remember," you whisper. Zayne smiles softly. How easily you melt in the luminous light of his approval. Just when you thought you had taken the moment, irreparably shattering it to pieces, he pries it from your fingers and brings it back to you wholly.

When he lets go, you think you may fly away. That's better, isn't it? You remember who you are now. His, his, his, Grounded only by him, dragged back onto your back when he maneuvers you just right. Your ankles are slung together over one of his shoulders, squeezing your thighs together just right. One-handed, he undoes his pants enough to free his cock. You can't watch, too afraid to see physical proof of what you had done to the mood.

Hot and hard, he pushes softly between your legs. You gasp at his low, deep groan. His shaft glides along your folds, the tip peeking between the apex. This you can watch.

"So perfect," he says. Each thrust builds gradually until you're worked to wetness again, whimpering. The better you feel, the more he encourages you. He turns just so and peppers kisses to your calves and ankles. His free hand drops to your hip, gripping bruise-tight. "Tell me, what are you?"

"I'm perfect. I'm yours."

"That's right," he says, "and what else?"

"Nothing else," you promise. You mean it this time.

"Very good," he croons. In reward, he grinds against your clit. You relax, at long last, and smile at the pleasure. It's a giddy sort of high to make him happy, to feel the physical proof of it fucking against you, spreading your folds. "No more mouthing off. You're going to mind your manners, or I'll have to get the gag. You can control yourself, correct?"

Yes, you can. And you can please him even more. It's easy. His two favorite words fall sugar-sweet from your tongue, "Yes sir."

Zayne clenches his jaw around a moan. His brow furrows, always a little frustrated when control is out of reach. You know his secret, the way his cock twitches at his own irritation. One little warning slap to your ass for your cheekiness and a giggle threatens to break free. You bite your lip to lock it back in.

You think maybe you haven't gotten away with it when he forces his hips to a stop, until you feel the tip of his cock line up at your entrance. Although your legs block the view, you don't need to see it to know how tightly he holds himself. He's always a bit rough with his own body, pulling his foreskin back from the tip white-knuckled to push himself inside of you. You're greedy for him, walls tightening to hold him there forever. His smile is little more than bared teeth.

Stars blur beneath your eyelids. You never feel more centered than when Zayne sheathes himself inside of you completely. There's just enough time to appreciate the rush before he draws himself back out all the way. Your body protests, tightening and shivering, but he carries on ruthless as always.

You're good. You behave. You wait.

He acknowledges your sweetness with a wry smile. His thumb spreads you open, eyes fixed to where you're wanting.

"That's better. You're ready to listen now," he says, "I should have known you needed this. It was my fault before, I apologize. We'll clear your head this time, won't we?"

You frown. It's a twisted, guilty feeling to hear him blame himself for your lack of focus. You have to try harder, prove to him that you can learn better.

"You want to be fucked, don't you? That's what you're for, after all."

It's rare, even in moments like these, to hear him so vulgar. You writhe and whine, wishing you could will him to thrust back inside of you. If you're eager enough, maybe he will.

"Yes, please. I am, that's all I am. Yours, please," you babble. It's nonsense, but any sweet words can be the right ones, no matter how clumsily said. He huffs a laugh.

He says, "I have some questions. If you can be honest, I'll give you what you need."

"Yes, sir."

"You were distracted earlier. Explain."

You're ready to give him anything. You're not sure how to give him this. It's not what you were expecting, and the answer scatters like a puzzle. Shame coats your throat, sticking until the words can't get out. You open your mouth, desperate to please him. Still, nothing but silence. His thumb runs along your clit in lazy circles. Slow and steady like this, you believe he could wait all day.

"I'm sorry," you try, "I was thinking of her."

"Mickey."

Once set free, you can't hold back. You blurt out, "It's stupid. I don't know why. I just couldn't help it. One second I'm doing everything right, then my mind just starts wandering."

He doesn't interrupt, never changing the cadence of his hand between your legs. Just when you think you might stop, he applies pressure just so. It catches your breath. On the inhale, deep bliss. On the exhale, more words.

"What if I'm pretty, but she's prettier? What if I'm good now, but she was good then? What if I'm here, and she's in your memory, always better?"

He's silent. His thumb works you higher and higher until your brain floats away. It can't be you saying these things. How can your body feel so good, just as your emotions pummel you in rocking waves? You've said it all, you think. Now you can just throw yourself into what he offers and be free. Don't make me think about this anymore, you want to beg. You open his mouth to tell him so, but that other part of you beats you to it.

"I know it's not real. Like, of course you wouldn't do that to me, but it's like a splinter in my head. The more I try to ignore it, the more I know it's there. If I pick at it, it only goes deeper," you heave. Sorrows come as naturally as breathing. You're sure you look awful, puffy with jealous tears. Envious of a memory. It's what he wants to see. He asked for this.

Faster, he drags against your cunt. If you give him more, you'll shatter. You open your mouth anyways, expecting some new mortification to stumble from your lips, only to break on a sob. Your hips grind up into the release he offers you. You're unreal, outside of yourself and so deeply captive in your body at once, unsure of anything except the painful indulgence at your core. Your face screws up. One last thing, heavy in your chest, bound just beneath those pretty red knots.

"You loved her," you cry. It's all you can think to say, the most honest words you can offer. Let that be enough. Let that please him.

"That's it," he coos, "You're doing so well."

You shake with it. Two fingers shove inside of you, rough hands in contrast to his soft words. He murmurs honeyed praise while he fingerfucks you mercilessly. You cries work up in pitch until you're hoarse. Right upon the crest, your peak just on the horizon, everything sharpens into clarity.

You're his. That's the easiest thing for you to be. You're his, so sweet, so pretty, and you always remember your manners.

"Please," you whimper.

He hums, curls his fingers just right, and finally you come. The waves crash hard. You clench your thighs around his forearm. The flex of his tendons, the raised skin of his scars, you hold him there just to feel he's real. Wetness drips down his fingers, coating his wrist. Indulgent kisses trail from your calf, to your knees, lazily carrying whispered compliments the whole way. Each encouraging word brings upon another spasming pulse until you're spent completely and panting beneath him.

He's ever-present on your come down. Always prepared, he wipes his sticky fingers on a towel he set side, before massaging little circles into your sides. He tells you how happy he is so effusively that your eyes flutter shut just to bask in it.

Sleep lingers at the edges of your mind. It tempts you. Utterly exhausted, you nearly follow it. Distantly, you think you can hear Zayne step away, rustling around in one of the drawers. You ignore it. Soon enough he's back anyways, freeing you carefully from your bindings.

Rest, that's all you need.

Zayne intervenes. Sharply. With a tug to your ankles, he twists you back around until you're face first in the mattress and bent over the bed. Your arms are trapped, tingly beneath you, feet hanging feebly. You're utterly at his mercy.

"You'll have what I promised you," he says. A command. You squirm and whimper. It's too much, you're overwhelmed, tired, you can't take it. He reminds you otherwise. "Tell me what you are."

"Nothing. Yours."

"I do whatever I want with you."

That's right. Of course, you know that. Whatever he says, that's the truth. You're not supposed to think, so you don't. You must say yes, fuzzy as you feel, because his cock pounds into you until you're drooling into his bedset. You roll back into him. Now and again, he lands an icy-cold, open palm slap to your ass. They're few and far between, but jolt you awake. You keep count aloud for him, just like you're supposed to.

Usually, he's quiet during sex. He lets you have the mouth between you. He commands, he compliments, but he rarely truly talks. Now, his hips piston into you and all the while he vents.

"I had it all figured out, you know, before you came back into my life. Everyting was under control. So foolish," he says. On a groan, a bittersweet laugh, he unwinds completely. Despite your fatigue, his honesty warms your belly, tightening in your navel. He's giving exactly what you offered him, entirely equal in his undoing.

His rolling hips grind deep and with one particularly breathy cry from you, he slows. Ignoring your whines, one arm wraps around you and yanks you up higher. Between you and the bed, he shoves the smooth head of a vibrator against your clit. Any attempts to scramble away are feeble. He flicks it on with little concern for your attempted escape.

"Too much," you cry, muffled into the duvet.

"A little more," he says, "you can take it."

You can, if he says so. Your muscles tremble, thighs twitching together. You moan low in your throat, but you know you can take it. Your tight squeeze around his cock tingles through you, head to toe.

He tells you everything. The words are hazy. Nothing quite sticks in your head. You take it all. It's the best feeling in the world, to be his.

"I thought I couldn't have you," he continues. He waited for you, wanted you. He tried to fuck you out of his system, went to his friend for just that reason. It doesn't stop there. Each truth revealed pushes him further over the precipice. He leans over you, envelops you, his breaths hot and wet between the knobs of your spine.

"He could tie me up, whip me, whatever he wanted. It didn't matter. All I could think of was how pretty you would be, how you would sound if you were mine," he grunts, "I wanted to fuck you the way he fucked me."

Oh, how you vexed him. It was clear now, in the punishing pace he kept. The vibrator is turned against you like a weapon, all while he relishes in the heat of your cunt. Your toes curl where they graze the hardwood floors. You're whimpering, babbling nothing words. It's begging, slurred little please, please, please. You only realize that when he chuckles and obliges.

He fucks you hard, just like he said he would. Each time he hits deeper, you're thrown into the vibrations with renewed fervor.

"Even when you weren't there, I only thought of you," he groans. Both accusation and admission. "I'll never let you go."

Your orgasm crashes through you, the force reverberating from you to him until he's pinning your hips down with his forearm and releasing inside of you. He comes hotly, pulsating throbs that fill you with him. You both hold there panting, searingly connected, until your shudders subside.

Spent, he flops on top of you. His body weight presses you to the mattress until you're utterly secure. He's hollowed you out just to fill you up again.

Blearily, you remember your manners.

"Thank you, sir," you muster. The slur of your words wrings a tired chuckle from him and it vibrates through your back. He whispers his own thanks into the sweaty nape of your neck. You can feel the heat of his chest through his shirt, sticky on your skin.

You giggle weakly, though you don't know what's so funny.

He rolls off you, giving you room to breath, and although you're grateful for the air you miss him immediately. You want to cling to him, crawl inside of him, not quite ready for real life to flood back into your mind. Comfortingly cool, he runs his hand up and down your arm.

"I'm happy too," he agrees with what you couldn't say. His cold fingers are featherlight. Soothing, after all the kicking and screaming on your way down. Every sweet word he offers is a balm. You did so well. You love him. You think you might say so, before you finally succumb to sleep.

Later, freshly bathed and swaddled in pyjamas, you let him rub the soreness from your lower back. He's especially gentle where the rope may have dug in, though any aches you feel are comforting in their own right. Patiently, indulgently, he compliments how well you took him. You're clay in his hands, reshaped into your own person again.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

You wiggle happily in approval, squealing when he pinches your ass. It's truthful when you finally say, "Good. Thank you for taking care of me."

It pleases him, though he flushes at the compliment. It's always a bit harder to get him to accept your appreciation. When you look over your shoulder, you can see the way his chest has gone pink in praise. He's cleaned up as well, in his loose pyjama bottoms and nothing else. The soft tufts of his hair stick up from his shower. He's ruffled. You want to grip him, bite him, keep him always.

"I do have one last thing, though," you say. The lilting tease of your tone leads him further up your body, where he can dig his thumbs to your shoulders and watch your expression at once.

"Is that right?"

"Mhm. I've just been thinking," you say on a yawn, "She really was beautiful. Your ex."

He's too well trained to freeze up, but there's a stutter in his ministrations. He looks over your face carefully. Tired as you both are, you know he'll reassure you a million times over if you ask. Instead, you scrunch your nose in a squish-faced attempt at a wink. Close enough.

"Two for two. You have great taste, don't you?"

Now, he does pause. Laughs. Gives you a little shake for teasing him. And, of course, he agrees.

"Is it weird that I even love her a little?" you ask.

He hums thoughtfully, "That beautiful, hm? Should I be concerned?"

You prop onto your elbows, twisting to bother him properly. He leverages himself up just enough to allow it. Settled back on your hips, he immediately returns to work on your massage.

"Not like that," you say, rolling your eyes, "She's part of you too. Every person that you loved also helped to make you mine, I think. That matters."

It doesn't free you from envy, or insecurity, or whatever nasty thoughts crop up on your worst days, but it is one less shackle.

He grunts thoughtfully. You wonder if he agrees, if he thinks of people from your own past the same way. The little divot in his brow when he thinks on these things is a comfort. He'll play around, even aggravate you at times, but he listens well when it matters.

It's comical how comforting it is, the way he trails his fingers through the smattering of hair between your legs as he considers your words. He stops, flustered, at your smirk. Watching him is endlessly compelling. He's careful with his words in a way you never learned to be.

"I did love her then," he says. The sting is easier to take this time. "But I love you now. Every moment of my day, I'm loving you. When I hear a bird sing from my desk, when someone tells a bad joke, I turn to you when you're not around. I will tomorrow, next year, until I'm nothing but ashes. You consume me."

You suck in a breath, unprepared for his vulnerability, "Oh. And do you enjoy… being consumed?"

He chuckles, leaning back to think some more. Thighs pressed to yours. Always connected in the tiniest ways.

"Yes, I enjoy it quite a bit. It's rather annoying."

You laugh, curling up to give him a shove. He wrestles back, grasping your wrists and pinning them over your head. A kiss to your nose, a nip at your lips. So close together that his eyes morph into one big blur. You're sure you look them same. Cyclops gazing upon cyclops lovingly. Whatever creature you become, he's yours and you're his.

"Somebody should teach this annoyance a lesson," you whisper.

He laughs. His eyes close, banishing cyclops Zayne for now and bonking your foreheads gently together.

"I believe she's had enough lessons for the day. And her teacher could use a nap," he admits.

You giggle, "Nap granted. Tomorrow, then?"

You don't need to see his smile to know it's there. It's in his voice, his gentle hands, the warmth of his skin on yours.