I write fanfiction for LoL, HSR, ZZZ, GI, and more as my ADHD dictates.
https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalubriWrites/pseuds/SalubriWrites
https://ko-fi.com/salubriwrites
https://twitter.com/SalubriWrites
PFP & Background by @xno_box on Twitter!
I'm Salubri :) She/Her, 18+ writer (Minors DNI) based out of the US. I've been writing since I was a wee thing, and its both my job and my hobby. I'm still new to uploading my works to places like Tumblr and AO3, so once i understand how to organize my projects, I'll be putting together grand libraries of all my stuff.
I'm a published author for TTRPGs such as Vampire the Masquerade and Call of Cthulhu. Horror genres are my bread and butter, but I love writing romance. Especially in my fanfictions.
MY DMs and asks are open! I take requests on slice of life stories, and live for engagement.
Some of my Fandoms I write about!
League of Legends
What in "Hell" is Bad?
Zenless Zone Zero
Honkai Star Rail
These are also coincidentally my hyperfixations right now.
You can find my Archive of Our Own link here!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Though a majority of my WHB stories are on Tumblr.
That's all I have for now! I'll come back and edit this as I'm interested in it.
Hey I literally wrote this in a fever dream of the course of whenever Locke was announced.
Maybe there'll be a chapter 2, but all I knew is that I saw a chance to make Yone fuck someone, and I took it.
You can also read the ao3 version here, if Tumblr isn't down. https://archiveofourown.org/works/86705911/chapters/229484771
Part 1
Chapter 1
“How much longer?” The wind carried his voice in a way that no instrument or implement could. Weaving over boulders and through the dirt beneath their feet, it caught up on Corvin’s coattails as he strode ahead.
“Other side this hill… I thought your kind don’t get tired?” Looking back with a smirk, Locke stared over his glasses and down at the Yokai who trailed behind. It took some getting used to as both men were used to walking alone with only shadows and paranoia for company. Now Corvin Locke essentially had a living shadow perpetually on his tail. Then there was the matter of Yone never walking alongside him. That probably perturbed him more than the fact that Yone wasn’t even alive.
“Force of habit from my younger days.” He replied loftily once when it was brought up over dinner. That was the end of the conversation, because Locke understood that when Yone spoke of younger days, it meant when he was alive.
Lots of weird things can be found in Runeterra, a world where the Gods descend from their heavenly pillars and inhabit human bodies. Some cultures even allowed those entities to rule them as though they were all equal. Undead islands filled with profane, howling wraiths trapped by a tragic love curse… and whatever was going on in Piltover. Strange things no doubt, but nothing stranger than Corvin Locke and Yone.
At first glance they were an odd couple - Yone was a masked swordsman wearing a green and black hakama that looked like oil and water had been mixed into the fabric. Beneath the mask he had the eyes and jawline of an Ionian soldier. His long black hair flowed and fluttered like smoke from a funeral pyre - the flames being the bright mask fixed to his face. Like it was made for him.
Corvin Locke on the other hand was dressed in his blues with the magic coat indicative of his lineage and occupation. A bandelier of nails hanging loosely off his hips that clinked together like coins with every left step. Sharp features, blonde hair, and blue eyes hidden behind his protective specs - poster child levels of Demacian ideals. If not for the magicked, petricite nails and the mask and equipment he carried on his back, Corvin would fit right in.
An Ionian demon hunter working alongside a Demacian one, meeting on the West shores of Noxus hunting the same prey. Yone called it an Arzakana, Corvin called it a poor, possessed son of a bitch, but both understood its danger and the threat it posed if allowed to go unchecked. Turned out the pair worked well together, and so that poor Noxian with a mask stuck to his face was buried with little ceremony and off they set together. Just for a while they reasoned in the beginning, both clinging to the very human ideal that safety lies in numbers. Furthermore, what’s better than one reckless demon hunter with nothing to lose on the mad, wild hunt for a Legion of demons? Two of ‘em, bonus that one of them was already dead.
Turned out they both had more in common than they realized, beyond their mutual anathema for Noxus and how it ruined lives. Both were a one man army, both had demons bound to them, and both of them borrowed the power of the Lesser beings to hunt the infernal. Soon Yone’s trailing in the distance became an assurance (it was nice knowing someone had Corvin’s back) and Corvin’s little pit stops to create more holy munitions were seen as pleasant respites from the hunt. Months had passed and after traveling back and forth the Northern coasts of Valoran, their road led them back to the Demacian borders.
“We don’t get tired,” Yone called out a little louder, speaking effortlessly while Locke on the other hand spoke shortly to keep from sounding winded. “I was asking for your sake, Will o’ Wisp.”
“Funny,” the hunter called, hoisting his kit higher up his shoulder and shrugging off the petname before leaning into the incline. “You think I don’t do enough cardio or somethin’?”
“You can never do enough cardio.”
Near the top of the hill Corvin found the chance to catch his breath, and it was there that the world seemed to slow down. At least, his world did.
The hill’s peak was still a way off, but from this angle it seemed to have horns. Don’t be mistaken though, this was an ordinary hill, and the little horns that it seemed to have were actually spires to a set of towers. There was still a bit of distance to close before they saw it in its fully glory, but even just that teensy little glimpse made Corvin’s step stiffen. Fuck, now was not the time to have an episode. Of course, of course Yone could smell the lacey webbings of fear gathering on the mortal man and suddenly caught up.
Coming to stand side by side, he followed Corvin’s frozen gaze and fell on the devilish little hilltop.
“Ready?”
“Let’s get it over with.”
Waiting for Corvin to get a headstart, Yone waited to speak again until after the spires of the towers began to take shape.
Built in the classic architecture of Demacia, the Locke Estate sat alone in a field detached from the rest of the city. Rows of sanitary arborvitae trees lined the walkway towards the main drive. A black titan against an endless sea of stars that stood just as silent as it did ominous. Once they reached the peak, if Corvin squinted at his childhood house he noticed all the curtains were shut. No one was home, so why was part of him still looking for a candle moving between the windows, or the swell of music to rise out the chimneys?
“Nervous to be back here? Home?” The masked hunter asked, lingering at Corvin’s side as they took in the black outline that blotted out the night sky. He knew what Yone meant by that question: “Do you feel the sutures holding you together coming undone as scars of the past open up? Are you well enough to face these ghosts and not get in my way?”
“I don’t get scared,” he barked back, refusing to acknowledge the true question by pushing himself off the iron wrought fence post. Behind him Yone snorted as his own words were handed back. “And this place ain’t home, never was.”
After his old lady passed - rest in piss - dad couldn’t bring himself to sell the estate. Good fucking luck pulling that off in Demacia, Corvin would give anything to hear that sales pitch.
“Welcome! This is a historic ancestral home; comes with hosting several rooms, guest and servant wings, a huge library, and plenty of rooms and alcoves - perfect for entertaining salons. Why are they selling? Oh, the family fell on some emotional troubles after the death of the matriarch. No, no she didn’t die in the house. Here’s the foyer, built in classic pre-Duran architecture. And this way you’ll find the parlour - also with those sweeping high arches. This is where the Locke family frequently hosted seances where they’d trap the possessing spirits and study their anatomy. Over here we have the dining room - this is where they performed the ritual that bound a Marquis of hell to their son! You can see that they did an excellent job refurbishing the finish, you wouldn’t know it was there otherwise! Oh, how many people died here, you ask? Well, it depends on how you define death.”
After mom, dad couldn’t stand the place but likewise couldn’t stand to let it go. Maybe he thought that one day soon he and his only son could reconcile and Corvin would return to exorcise the home of its ghosts. Rather than stand and face the consequences of his hubris actions, father traveled often. Traveled long and far away, hiding in places that made him feel safe. Lounged in cushy villas and new money casinos with cover fees that his ghosts couldn’t afford. In a way Corvin Locke couldn’t blame his father, cause he was running away from it too.
Only now as the pair took turns hopping the garden wall, every bone in Corvin’s body was asking him why the fuck he was running back into that hell hole.
For Mother’s book collection, of course.
Mother came from a long line of demonologists, dating back to the war of the two sisters Kayle and Morgana. Centuries of technique and tenacity bred into the all women lineage of demon hunters and exorcists. At the altar father became a Locke, because it was the only thing he wasn’t allowed to take. The Locke’s had penned many of the books and encyclopedias on the Lessers - copyrighted name by a Great-Great-Grandmother Locke - but there was one that Corvin had on his mind as Yone landed nimbly beside him and they set off through the grounds.
The Lesser Keys was an heirloom, bound and rebound with years of research within its thin pages. Tradition decreed that every Locke that came into possession of The Lesser Keys authored a chapter. He despised that book, it was both the answer to getting away from mother but also the guillotine blade that hung over his head. Corvin’s very birth was a punishment upon Minevra Locke, and she in turn was always seeking retribution against him. A cute little push and pull between mother and son, one that even in death Locke was looking to continue by disappointing dear old mom.
For example, Corvin had found a friend to hunt at his side, one who was now becoming a disembodied shade to move through the keyholes and unlock the kitchen door. Well, friend was a generous term to describe Yone, but in the spirit of pissing off mom, Yone was an excellent friend.
Second example, once they acquired The Lesser Keys, Corvin was going to share that knowledge with his friend. Oh, that would make mother roll in her grave, knowing that the family’s precious trade secrets were being spilt. Being bound to an Arzakana that had marked him, Yone had an innate grasp on the chain of events that create a demon. After overcoming the language barrier of differentiating Arzakana from Possessed (though the Ionian name did have a ring to it) - there was one thing Yone still couldn’t do well. Which happened to be the thing the Locke family did best.
When exorcising an underworldly creature like demons, Arzakana, or whatever you want to call them, you need a name. The Lockes. Loved. Finding names. It was the nosey, political streak in them, and Corvin was no different in the matter as he spent little time taking in the dark mudroom they entered.
Tonight’s mission was simple - get The Lesser Keys and get out.
The groundskeepers must’ve moved from the gardener’s suite on the edge of the property and took over. Someone to draw the illusion to the outside world that the place was lived in. Benevolent parasites who were turning the corpse of the house into a home.
Not much had changed since the last time Corvin was here, the furniture was in good condition and not a spec of dust in the place. There were little changes though, ones he liked. Such as the line of shoes postured by the kitchen’s side door, a sign that the occupants didn’t use the oppressive front door. The dining table in the grand hall was clean and void of the decorative cutlery that mom insisted always be out. All that furniture in the parlour was rearranged to be less like a battle ground and more like a common area. A game of King’s Gambit was in progress on the coffee table, and an empty tea cup balanced on the arm of a couch.
Standing in the doorway and afraid to enter, like he was the infernal barred from entering, Corvin searched himself for feelings. A younger him would’ve been angry to see this - how dare people build something lovely and pleasant on the bones of his suffering! How was it fair that this family estate that he simply occupied was becoming a home for them?
Better this way, he decided with a firm nod looking over his shoulder to watch Yone take in the opulent paintings on the walls. Maybe when the time came, Corvin would pass the deed off to the groundskeepers.
“Is this your family?” Yone asked, using his mask’s horns to gesture upward towards one of the darkened paintings.
Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, Corvin could scarcely make out the hem of the painted dress and the dress shoes that flanked it.
“That’s a polite thing to call it, but yeah. Come on,” preferring if they didn’t dawdle and go on a tour of his traumatic family line, the blonde hunter walked a few feet ahead. Sure enough his darker shadow followed. “Someone lives here, can’t have them stumbling on us.”
Weaving through the manor’s complicated structure, Corvin Locke’s steps moved precisely over each squeaky floor board and moved in silence. Yone on the other hand wasn’t as acclimated to the esoteric placement of hall tables, runner rugs, and abstract sculptures hanging from the walls. Occasionally behind Corvin he’d hear the bump of flesh colliding with some marble or stone statue, followed by an Ionian curse.
“How can you see where you’re going in this dark and with those glasses?” He exclaimed after stubbing his toe on the fourth end table and nearly taking out a stack of books.
“I don’t need to, I grew up here ‘member? And they aren’t glasses,” Corvin added with a snap. “They’re protective ware.”
Coming to a standstill the pair came stand by side once more, the pair stood in respectful silence in front of an ornate, hermetically sealed door. At last, the prodigal son.
“Do I need to know anything special about this place before we enter?” Yone asked with a reverent tone as Corvin’s fingers fluttered at his sides, itching nervously to step inside.
“Nah, it’s just a library.”
Unlike the parts of the estate that they encountered with their little pockets of humanity from the family who lived here now, the library was a time capsule. Everything was as it was the night Corvin closed the doors, which was the way that mother left it the night of the ritual. The one where she gave in completely to the demon who grew inside her, fed off the resentment she harbored for her son. Supping on the piece of her soul that mourned the daughter she’d never have, and maybe the death of the Locke’s pristine dynasty. Passing through the door, using his foot to hold the door open for Yone to follow, he kept his hands tight behind his back. Force of habit.
The family library was vast and ornate, dwarfing the estate so much so, it was like the idea of housing people came as an afterthought to the original architect. Hosting three floors of books, each shelf was brimming. Not a single surface was without a stack of three or more books. Reading chairs where stacks built castles and protective forts, long tables with city scapes shaped by the spines and dog ears.
Walking in silence, their pairs of footsteps echoed and reverberated through the massive space. Fingers fluttering with nervous energy, Corvin turned his head just enough to sneak a peek at Yone.
“Never seen anything like this back in Ionia? Figured they were all about magick and shit.”
“It is, but I was poor and mundane.” Replied the hunter, lingering to stare at a slew of open books before catching up. “I hardly knew how to read, let alone practice magick. I went to work early on in life… and looking out for my brother might as well have been a full time job too.”
“Hah, you act like an older brother.” Corvin grinned when Yone snorted. “Was it just the two of you, then?”
“My mother as well, we got by, and my mother saved everything to send me to a dojo to learn my craft. The war got in the way of that though.”
Nodding empathically, he remembered their discussions about the Noxian war. Corvin was lucky when the tyrannical forces first began their encroachment, too young to be drafted. Yone however wasn’t spared the horror though, they talked about it at length some nights. Only when the shadows that licked the outer reaches of the campfire looked like things that made the Yokai remember.
“No one special then?” Corvin asked non-chalantly, and again Yone huffed a laugh.
“What do you mean… a lover?”
“Y-yeah,” now it was his turn to laugh awkwardly. “Did you have anyone you were sweet on?”
“I knew many men and women before and after my death.”
“After??”
“The power from the Arzakana’s gives me some… corporeal capability. Anyhow, I wouldn’t label any of them not special. They were all very special to me.”
“Okay, okay,” finding a rhythm as they walked, Covin continued with his gently intrusive questions. Were all Ionians swinging types, or was it just him? How many people did he get with, whether sex alive was better than sex dead, was that technically necrophilia? Whether or not Yone found the questions disquieting he never let on. Nor did he ask where all this questioning was even coming from.
Where was it coming from?
All of their conversations had ever been about exchanging information, talking about hunting techniques and trying out each other’s weapons. Traveling with Yone had provided a wealthy font of knowledge for the hunter, but recently there was something else. One night while bathing in a moonlit lakeside in the Noxian occupied countryside, the silver light cut the Ionian hunter in a new way. Blinded by the light, Corvin was forced to see Yone… differently. With a fresh lens that made his diaphragm turnover and the base of his spine itch. Like the first time kid-Corvin realized that maybe girls weren’t that icky and bad after all. Except it was Yone.
Which in his mind didn’t make sense, because the duo had been moving together for months. Sharing meals, culture, and workout routines, the friendship they cultivated was one they were both denied in their youths. From a platonic distance Locke had seen what lay underneath those iridescent robes, taking in the miles of scars that mapped a life cut short. Likewise Yone memorized the hermetic tattoo etched into Corvin’s back, the one that housed a goetic demon in his body. Hells they’d bathed more scandalously than this; hours lounging with the waterline their only privacy as they exchanged horror stories until sun up.
One night though? Under a full moon? Watching how the rush of water scrambled to cling to the divots of scarred flesh, sheets of black hair moving like liquid ebony through his hands? The ivory sheen of moonfire that framed Yone and his scars like an angelic reckoning. Something about it brought Corvin to his knees right there, falling like a sinner before the sight of redemption made tangible, loveable.
Luckily Corvin could pass it off as kneeling in the water to wash his hair when Yone turned around, but the emotion lingered after the ghost had moved on. Even after they lay on their bedrolls that night, where dead tired snores intermingled with the crackling of the fading firelight. Corvin stared at the branches that turned in their sleep overhead as a different thought turned over in his mind. One away from thoughts of damnation and the next hunt. One of Yone in the water, and suddenly wanting to know more about him.
Ever since Corvin caught himself stealing extra long glances at Yone when the Yokai wasn’t looking. Seeking that light again, hoping for another glimpse of that holy array of factors that made Yone look so good. Then he’d store it away in his mind; a compiled list of details, sights and sounds that reminded him of the Yokai, then graft them into illustrious scenes that Corvin could fall asleep to. If he was lucky enough he might even dream of Yone too. Sometimes when they walked too, when the road was even and threats were low, his mind would wander to interesting hollowed trees where he thought that Yone would look dashing. It got to the point where the pair would fall asleep with their backs to each other, his idea because, “that way we can keep an eye on all sides of the wood.” Which was true, if you squinted at it cockeyed and not for too long.
That way Yone wouldn’t notice how Locke’s eyes squinted and his body curled inward as he tried to imagine ghosts of lover’s past in the Ionian’s arms. Letting his thoughts unhinge from the humdrum of hallowed preparations to thoughts of softly tapered hands that glided over waists lit up with delight. Conjuring up ghostly images of an unmasked man’s lips kissing shining, lip-shaped starlight into bare necks and leaving a constellation on their skin. It was easier for Corvin to imagine these companions in Yone’s arms, pushing and pulling at each other like a tempest and the sea, because the alternative was-
“Corvin.”
“What?” Whipping his head, Corvin jumped at his name and realized that they’d stopped walking. His feet took him to the final destination but his mind was elsewhere; imagining Yone in a state of undress that he was familiar with, doing things that he was burning to experience. Their stroll through the library brought them in front of a set of old, old shelves. The family archives. “Suh matter?”
“Will o’ Wisp - I asked you a question,” the Yokai answered simply, lips forming a thin smirk as Corvin’s face twisted into the question of, ‘you did?’
“Did you leave behind someone when you chose this life?”
“Ah,” his dramatic pause that hoped would deter Yone’s curiosity only did the opposite, and Corvin shrugged. “I wouldn’t call her special… but circumstance brought us close. Not a lot of kids with my hobby on the block.” Making himself look busy, Corvin started to mumble out the titles of books branded on their spines, walking through the crypt of ancient texts penned by the ancestors. Looking busy wasn’t enough to keep Yone from probing though.
“Her?” The hunter echoed with a curious hum. “Did she also have a Marquis of hell fused to her soul?”
“Hah! Good one. Our relationship was never like that… well, maybe it could’ve been. In another life maybe. She used to be into the usual girl stuff and drank the Demacia juice. Have a family, raise up a couple boys to become generals, make her family proud, all that. Some days I figured she only saw me as a little brother.”
“You act like a little brother,” Yone teased, his thin smile widening when Corvin shot him a glare.
“You’re just copying me.”
“And you’re reacting to it.” Awkward laughter made the open books close by flutter at this sound they had never heard before. Once they settled, Yone pressed further in a softer, borderline sympathetic tone. “What happened to her?”
“She found her way into the hunting demon business too - but it's vengeance that’s on her mind.”
“Ah.” The Ionian hunter responded, touching his mask as if that one statement told him everything he needed to know about her. “Would it be foolish of me to wager that she’s the swayable type?”
That made Corvin laugh again, and once more the dust on the shelves recoiled at these foreign follies. More laughter had been absorbed by this ambiance in one night than it had since the lumberjacks that cut down their bodies aeons ago.
“You’d have more luck telling a mountain to get up and out of the way.”
“Do you ever wish that your relationship with her could’ve been more?” Yone pressed as there was a click of the chunky lock on the delicate cabinet doors. The conversation was thankfully forgotten as the door swung open and Corvin reached inside, walking his fingers over the titles of each book. Like the whole world was watching, everyone held their breath until his touch landed on the dustiest one on the middle shelf. Sitting perfectly at eye level, like it had been placed there in a prophetic foresight that he would grow to just that height when the time came, The Lesser Keys.
Grandma Locke had rebound the book last as a baby shower gift when mom was with child. Memories of the gray old woman with one eye milky white and the other lightning in a bottle blue were hazy, he remembered being afraid of her leathery skin. Her texture and the way she moved reminded Corvin of flypaper, and his active imagination could easily see the helplessly fluttering wings of her prey dancing on her arms and hands. Unlike Grandma Locke, the book’s leather was hydrated pig skin, durable stuff that was meant to last a couple more Locke progeny. Shame that, Corvin thought stonily as he pulled the book down and cradled it like the child he may never have.
Behind the hunter Yone could be heard shifting eagerly, excited to take a look at this relic that would solve all of his hunting problems.
“That wasn’t hard to find at all,” he remarked when Corvin drew close, counting the dog ears and bookmarks in the enormous tome.
“Not meant to be, it’s my right after all. Now,” grunting with effort Locke hoisted the encyclopedia onto the nearest reading table. The table groaned and the impact of flesh on wood reverberated through the room. The Lesser Key’s impact sent dust and sound spilling into the estate beyond where the dreamers lay. Frozen and waiting to act, the pair looked at each other then the door like a pair or children hearing a parent open the bedroom door upstairs. Waiting to see if anyone would come to investigate the crashing sound.
An eternity condensed itself into ten minutes as they listened to the noises of the house settling. A rainstorm of course was whipping itself into an excited flurry outside, shaking the window panes and making branches scrape the stone walls. Corvin’s heartbeat was loud enough for the both of them as the anticipation subsided and the men exchanged sheepish smiles.
“I’ll get the door, needa find a candle too. Places too damn dark, can’t read in here.” Locke muttered more to himself than Yone, leaving the Ionian ghost behind to explore the library on his own.
Ducking his head out into the hall, Corvin had one more deep listen, trying to remember what the sound of footsteps descending the staircase might sound like. Hypervigilance cursed onto him as a kid meant that little got past him now, despite years of absence. When no people in nightgowns carrying bayonets shakily emerged behind the bannisters, he closed the library door and set a seal on it. That way if someone did try to come snooping, they’d get a nasty shock.
Doubtful it’d be used though. This wing of the estate had been the dustiest, the occupants were smart enough to know that it was terribly haunted and to stay far away. Satisfied that no one was waking up to investigate, Locke closed the door and spun around in time to see Yone.
At the far end of the library the hunter was standing in front of the ultra tall windows, with their curtains drawn and descending all the way to the floor.
“There are no lights in here, unfortunately.” Yone was speaking with his usual soft cadence which was amplified by the quiet and wide acoustics. Dramatically yanking, the hunter pulled the curtains back and they staggered along on their rusty tracks. Moonlight spilt into the library and illuminated everything from the chandeliers down to the hilt of Yone’s blade. “But the storm hasn’t begun yet, there is still some light we can use to read… Locke?”
Corvin could hear his name being spoken from somewhere else, somewhere much more mundane and grounded as he was stunned into reverent silence. Bathed in the moon’s heavenly body, the bandages shimmered like quartz on Yone, conductive and electrifying. His outfit, those greens and blues that looked like oil and water congealed, now separated and became a scrying pool of infinite possibility. Then there was the mask, a proud and ominous portend that would send any intelligent person fleeing… it beckoned now.
Even as Yone was calling out and moving across the library, afraid some ill magic had befallen his companion, Corvin couldn’t stop staring. How was it too good to be true? How could the hunter who approached swiftly look so incredibly ravishing? With a hand to the blade hilt prepared to cut away the magic spell placed over Locke; unaware that he held the incantation on those beautiful lips.
With the distance closed and Yone able to see clearly, he paused just before reaching Corvin. Perhaps it was the truth when the hunter said he was illiterate… but he could certainly read the expression on the other’s face. The starry eyed, dumb expression of someone seeing the Light. Or a man wandering the Great Sai and coming across the Great Mother’s blue waters. Or whatever other metaphor you can think of for a lovestruck fool, but Locke was looking like it and Yone saw it.
“... Corvin.”
Breaking the spell, Locke’s face broke and the hunter was able to check himself. Then the humiliation set in. Oh fuck, did he really just stand there this whole time? At least it wasn’t like the lake where he almost drowned like a turkey in a rainstorm.
“What’s the matter?” Failing to play it cool, he could feel his ears burning despite the rest of his body running cold with dread.
“Where are you going, Corvin?” The ghost’s voice sounded different now, and closer as he continued walking. Where to? Locke was unsure, but he was feeling a myriad of emotions about being caught ogling Yone like that. Standing still was not part of the plan though.
“We got the book, we don’t have to stay anymore,” he decided to reply, making his way back to the heavy book. “Let’s get outta here.”
Hefting the book into his arms, Locke turned and was ready to leave… but Yone had another idea. Approaching the nearest, emptiest table that Corvin would have to pass if he wished to exit; Yone took a seat on its edge and the wood didn’t even think to protest at his weight.
“Why? It’s about to rain, we’re dry and unbothered here. There’s a little bit of light.” As if the damned man knew what he was doing now, Yone tilted his head just so that the full moon crowned the mask’s horns. Once again Corvin felt his legs lock up, refusing to take another step unless it was towards Yone. Aligned with the moon, it was like a current had snatched him up and pulled both man and book towards that table.
As Corvin approached, Yone spread his legs coquettishly and the hakama’s fabric slid across his thighs. Dulled bandages became alight and he looked otherworldly.
“What are you doing?”
“Sit, read to me.” The innocent request sounded more like a command, and maybe it was that Demacian blood that lay dormant in Locke as he couldn’t help but obey.
Turning his back to the table, Corvin backed himself up to lean against the edge where Yone’s robed top half became a backrest. Correction, would’ve become a backrest had he given into that temptation. Was he overthinking here? And why was Yone acting so calm? Regardless he wouldn’t assume that that was what the Yokai wanted and remained as upright as possible. It was hard to do because The Lesser Keys is a huge damn book, basically the size of a human child. Corvin needed both arms to support its weight as he stared at its cover.
The answer came perfectly timed though as Locke situated himself and stared at the daunting literature that was giving him an arm workout. Yone began to move. His legs, which offered plenty of space, began to close slowly like a venus flytrap encircling its happy and unknowing prey. Likewise Locke was watching, hearing the nice fabric drag over the polished tables that had never accommodated something so gorgeous.
Pinned snuggly close against the Yokai, Corvin could feel his breath rustling the tips of his hair. A respectful distance, but no way he was going to lose track of Yone as the books’ pages were illuminated clearly.
Within the hunters, their infernal passengers were getting comfortable too. Arzakana and Marquis seemed to purr and twine together, pulling the mortal hosts closer together like string.
“Go on, read to me.”
The Lesser Keys wasn’t a luxury piece of literature - it was a nomicon to peruse and explore, for expanding one’s consciousness and learning the true name of a Commander who was tormenting you. Not to be read cover to cover, each page split individually and with care while a handsome devil-man perched his chin neatly on the reader’s shoulder.
What a messy mess you’ve found yourself in, Locke thought with his jaw clenched as he flipped through the book’s pages hastily. His body was tensing up as it fought against gravity and desire to sink into Yone’s chest. This was weird, right? It had to be weird, there was no other explanation that Corvin could think of- well, that wasn’t true at all. There was a softer underlying meaning to all this, but he was just afraid to acknowledge it.
“It is loftily amusing to the student of Magical literature who is not quite a fool—and rare is such a combination!—to note the criticism directed by the Philistine against the citadel of his science.” Locke began reading after landing on the chapter uninspiringly named “The Initiated Interpretation of Ceremonial Magic”. His core was beginning to ache from the awkward angle, not helped by the weight of the behemoth balanced on his hip bones. Still he refused to lean into the hunter who loomed behind him, breath hot on him and hands moving unaccounted for.
“Even when we learn that scriptures written by Celestials, by a profound and minute study of the text, may be forced to yield up Qabalistic arcana of cosmic scope and importance, we are too often slow to apply a similar restorative to the companion volume, even if we are the luck holders of veritable editions.” For Locke this was absolutely, abysmally unfun. Parts of his memory activated, recalling whole swaths of passages he’d been forced to memorize at the hands of mother. Were it not for how close Yone was drawing now, his hands coming into focus as they reached up and touched Corvin’s elbows, the boring writing may have put him to sleep.
“Relax, Will o’ Wisp.” He soothed with that tone that wasn’t bossy by default, pulling against Locke’s stubbornly upright middle. “You’re alright, you’re safe.”
Was that what Yone thought this was about? That he was afraid or something? Hilarious, until he realized that he was listening to the other’s commands, even if from the exhaustion of trying to stay upright at this awkward angle. Especially now that the book was pressing even harder down on him, and Yone’s arms felt so electrically pleasant around him.
“Better.” Was it just Locke, or did the edge of the masks’ nose bridge graze his earlobe just now? “Look, now it’s easier to see the words… continue.”
But Locke couldn’t continue.
Not when there were thousands of sensations racing through his blood stream, and not one made sense. Was Corvin dreaming? Had he fallen asleep thinking too long on the thought of Yone’s fingers working its way under his shirt and now it was appearing in his dreams? Vision tunneling in the moonlight, his eyes stared down at the hefty book in his hands, it was like his soul was detaching from his body-
No! Get back here, Corvin ordered himself with a squeeze of his eyes when Yone’s hands slid back out of sight. Dream or no, he wanted to experience this so badly.
Once the hands returned to supporting Yone against the desk, Locke licked his lips and found the strength to keep reading. It still didn’t feel real, was a clap of thunder going to wake him up and they’d be back at camp?
Gods please no, he thought airily with a flip of the page. He wanted to be lucid for everything. For about three pages of boring exposition about the art of incantations and the sympathetic basis for them, nothing else happened. Yone remained still as a corpse, arms behind him holding the both of them and the book up. Occasionally his breath would exhale like an a breeze and Locke would wonder if he’d moved closer in the time that he was absorbed in the writing.
Just as Corvin was beginning to wonder if his personal chair had fallen asleep to the riveting words of his ancestors, Yone moved. The wrapped chest shifted as he leaned up, and those lips were suddenly so close to the tips of his ears. Words were coming out of his mouth in that soothing, authoritative tone that made Locke’s gut unclench and let the butterflies in, but he couldn’t understand them. Was it the language of the First Lands? It was beautiful and sharp, like the blades he wielded and the smile on his lips when Corvin shivered.
“I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.” Yone’s voice sounded through Locke’s mind, foreign when spoken aloud but comprehensible between them. “My perseverance paid off.”
“What do you mean ‘make you wait’?” Locke interrupted the storytime to demand, but his reply was one of Yone’s hands reaching up and turning his face back towards the book. After which it trailed back down and began to stroke the lengths of his forearms, sending zephyrs of delight through Corvin.
“Keep reading, Will o’ Wisp.” He spoke aloud, and the beautiful murmurs stopped until Corvin did what he was told.
“Magical phenomena, however, come under a special sub-class, since they are willed.” He continued, occasionally through gritted teeth as his body shuddered at the sensation of softness. “... Their cause is the series of “real” phenomena called the operations of ceremonial Magic.”
“I’ve seen how you stare at me in camp. The way you watch me dress, stretch, and sharpen my blade.”
Aw shit, Corvin thought with a rush of panic, The Lesser Keys feeling heavy on his belly as his arm nearly gave out from Yone’s caressing.
“Your past traumas have given you a talent to hide your true emotions… but I’ve seen how you can barely keep yourself composed in front of me. My only regret is that I didn’t make my own advances obvious for you to spot.”
“Ah ah,” he said out loud suddenly, and Yone’s hands reached up to grab the book. Locke swore loudly as the hunter’s legs wrapped around him quickly, pinning him in place to keep him from tossing the book aside and taking the first piece of Yone he could into his mouth. The curse swept up into the stone rafters and hung like bats. “You’re not done reading.”
Yone would be a fucking tease, Corvin thought bitterly. The type to force someone to read this fuckass book from his tortured past instead of making out on this table. All the while the Yokai was free to drag his fingers gingerly along Locke’s barred arms, play with the hem of his shirt, then remove the bandelier of nails. And keep talking in Locke’s damn ear.
Not to mention the demons, horny little beasts. Yone’s Arzakana and the Marquis were twisting and coiling around each other like a two snake breeding ball, exchanging energy between themselves like saliva then transferring it back to their hosts. Sending each of the men rippling, teasing them with just drips and drabs of what they could truly experience. It pleased Locke to an extent to see that not even Yone was impervious to their infernal antics. Occasionally his breath would catch and his head would droop, chin landing on Locke’s shoulder for support as the transference of sensations hit a sweet spot.
“No matter, we’re here now… and if you’d allow it, I’d like to get to know you better. May I?”
“Yeah,” Corvin hissed while licking the tip of his finger to spread the pages. Something about that made Yone’s body tense up. He didn’t quite know what this get to know you better stuff was going to look like… ‘cause sure, Corvin had done things in the dark with people that he didn’t remember. Some of them were probably men, any port in a Harrowing after all. But it was always hush-hush, the less he knew about the people he shared beds with, the safer they were from the things Locke hunted.
Now with the moon acting as a spotlight, he watched Yone’s hands emerge from the corner of his eyes again. Back to touching the hem of his shirt they moved with purpose and fervor, slipping underneath the fabric to feel Corvin’s belly. There was an indent along his hips where the book’s weight left an impression and Yone’s fingers investigated that. The mask’s horns rubbing against the side of his head was now an indicator that Yone’s chin was fully perched on Locke. Also the Ionian man was speaking again in that language he couldn’t understand, the one that made Corvin’s nerves tingle.
“Have you ever let a man touch you like this? You struck me as the type when we met to keep everyone at arm’s length. Between your walls and your powers, you are the type to deny yourself such joy.”
Focusing on the boring passage he read aloud, Corvin didn’t want to reply. Yone’s accusation wasn’t fully false, he just couldn’t confidently answer that first question. He’d fooled around with plenty of people, mostly in the depths of loneliness when booze makes everyone look ravagable. Men he did remember falling asleep with never did more than hand shandies and long, clutching kisses while finishing on each other.
Rolling the shirt up in neat pleats, the hunter’s hands grazed over the exposed belly. Whenever it felt like Yone’s attention was wavering from the book, Locke tried to sneakily close it up like a parent trying to return to their own room after a bedtime story. And just like a needy child, Yone would snap back to chide him and request another chapter.
Dutifully Locke read on in hushed tone and managed to get through a couple more pages when Yone’s fingers hit a roadblock… in the form of a silver belt buckle. Corvin couldn’t see what was going on because the book’s fatness blocked his view below the waist. The tinkling of the belt not quite coming undone began to intermingle with the tenor of Locke’s hush, until finally he closed the book with a snap.
“What? They don’t have belts in Ionia?” Corvin chuckled, reaching down with one hand, the other grasping Yone’s in an intimate grip. Before he removed the accessory, before whatever sloppy hookup came after that, he wanted to feel the texture of those bandages. He’d seen the cuts and callused blisters that lay beneath them which told a story worthy of being bound in something richer than burial shrouds. Now he held that epic in his hand, an act that he had lingered extensively on in his idle fantasies. The ones that took up every waking minute that weren't invested in demonic exorcisms. Was their journey together just one chapter, or could it be the epilogue that Yone was worthy of? A closing afterward in Locke’s story too?
Deciding that the answer didn’t have to be reached now, Locke ripped the belt off his pants in a swift motion. Impressed as Yone looked, the lip biting expression didn’t last long as the leather cracked through the library like thunder, making the pair freeze again. More practiced than before, they listened for the creaking of motions elsewhere in the house. While they did, Corvin spied that sneaky hand again on the move again. This time it pulled back the catch on his trouser’s buttons.
“Keep an ear out, Will o’ Wisp,” Yone whispered against his ears as his fingers wriggled their way between cloth and fuzzy skin. “Don’t want to get caught, right?”
Fuck, his fingers. Corvin was feeling wound up before, but after some experimental strokes, he really felt it. The Marquis howled excitedly as Locke inhaled sharply, forgetting to reach for the book again. In reply the Arzakana swallowed up a portion of the demon, eating the other’s pleasure with biblical proportions of greed. How was it possible that Locke could feel envious of a pair of demons for experiencing fully what he was only allowed to sample?
“Don’t forget about the book,” he whispered in Corvin’s ear, twisting his wrist in the man’s pants so that his hand had more space to stroke. “We’re looking for a demon’s true name, remember? Stay on task, Will o’ Wisp.”
Fuck this demon, Locke thought even as he reached to pick up the book again. Forced to hold it atop his belly again, the last thing Corvin saw before beginning to read again was Yone’s fingers coming away with a thin trail of precum. That vision would haunt him as he obeyed and started up again.
With that overactive imagination of his, Corvin thought about how Yone’s hands first tested and learned the length of his shaft. Each time by tracing his fingers up its length, over the head, and back down to the other side of the base. It felt like fire. A beautiful type of burn that immolated his senses, but that wildfire was extinguished when Yone would pull away to remind Locke to keep reading.
What drove Corvin the craziest was despite having his cock massaged out of sight and feeling each digit of Yone’s fingers grazing over him? Yone was still in his ear whispering in that damned language he didn’t understand, projecting their meaning into his mind. And the things he said, fuck.
“Is this why you wanted to know about my past loves?” He asked while purring the words, why did that make his cock leak? Maybe the embarrassment of the accusation, or from how Yone’s fingers split from a fist to massage his head in a new way. “Were you jealous of them? Did you want to be the one touched like this?”
“The spirits of the Goetia are portions of the human brain,” speaking up to drone out the question, Locke kept reading. In response Yone’s grip and tempo changed from long and painfully sweet strokes. Soon the sound of friction and flesh filled their corner of the room, sporadic and out of beat with the spoken words. “Their seals therefore represent methods of stimulating or regulating those particular spots.”
“What spot of yours would I need to stimulate? Do you prefer being stroked like this? … Or maybe later I could attempt something deeper.”
Of all the tortures Corvin Locke endured in his life this was by far the worst. Also the best, an overstimulating assault from all sides. The weight of the book pushing down on him, if the man squeezed his eyes shut he could imagine it was a person. Maybe even Yone. That magic touch was making it hard for him to focus, the words had begun to congeal and spill, lines blurred while his tongue lost its dexterity. The demons were ravenous now, the noises and feelings they emitted rang in his ears. Corvin’s skin crawled with a hundred sensations and no space for him to process, deafeningly loud even though the library was so-
“Ssh, shh, shh,” his voice hissed out like a piston, matching the rhythm of his fist around Locke. “You’re being noisy. Do I make you feel that good?”
It was more than that. Yone felt incredible and if not for the constant reminders, Corvin thought that he’d be hoarse the next morning. He just wanted Yone to know how good he felt, to scream how badly he wanted this, and unabashedly beg to feel this sexy man’s-
“Corvin.”
“Sorry,” he could barely speak, hips resisting against the restraint of the book to try and fuck himself to completion in Yone’s grasp. “You’re way… way too good at this.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Purring and butting the ridges of the mask against Locke’s head, Yone wrapped his arm around the other man’s waist and continued to stroke. “Why not take a break? Put down the book, rest your eyes, you’ve been studying so hard and-”
Corvin couldn’t have dropped The Lesser Keys faster as he all but threw it towards a nearby arm chair. Not bothering to watch if it would bounce off the cushion and land safely, Locke reached back and bent Yone’s face into his.
They tasted like sulfur and sweat, a dense communion that made another gutted moan well up in his chest. His other hand - aching from having to cradle that fucking tome - was working its way beneath the burial bandages dressing Yone’s thighs. Parting the fabric like he had those pages, which made the Yokai shiver again with faulty composure, he needed to feel the softness. Locke desperately needed to map every sensation from tonight, in case these were all that he’d have to fall asleep with one day.
Yone hummed a low, satisfied moan in reply as did the Arzakana when the Marquis unleashed a deluge of need onto the demon and its host. He would not drown in the pleasure though, someone needed to hold Corvin steady as his cock thrummed and leaked. Wrapping his legs firmly, the Yokai used both hands to pull the man’s trousers down past bucking hips. Cradling all of Locke in both hands, Yone stretched his mouth wide to encase each kiss and capture each moan that came forth. They were still in a library after all, such noises were inappropriate.
“I didn’t take you for a screamer.” He teased between gasps for air, hardly needing to breathe himself as Locke dove in again and again. “I like it. Shame that I might have to wait longer to hear you properly.”
No not longer, Corvin thought to himself while cramming their lips together, his tongue searching for Yone’s. If he had to wait another half a year to feel the weight of this beautiful creature bending him over, Corvin might die. He wasn’t as composed, leaving traces of saliva on the edges of the Yokai’s mouth and knocking his glasses askew, all while trying to navigate the mask’s horns.
“Give me those.” Plucking them off Locke’s face, the Ionian hunter set them safely aside before looking back at his partner. For a brief moment there was a blissful peace, one that the library had never seen before as Yone’s eyes softened and his smile brightened. In response Locke felt something at the middle of his back. Yone’s erection finally made an appearance, but no matter how Locke tried to twist and get on his knees, the hunter hoisted him back up.
“Not so fast, pretty as you may look on your knees before me,” he whispered, hand tracing Locke’s features in admiration. “I’m afraid I’m obsessed with this look on you right now.”
Red faced and panting through an open mouth, Corvin’s blue eyes were piercing on his crimson complexion. In the excitement his shirt and coat was removed, the moonlight playing tricks over his chest. Heavy and hungry pants expelled hot breath, all this treatment had fucked Corvin up, but not fucked him out. One arm was tossed over Yone’s shoulders, looking for the best way to push their faces together for more sloppy kisses. Angled against the table, his right leg was now lifted up and over Yone’s, spreading his hips wide for the Yokai to play freely. It left him half balancing, half leaning against the bandaged body while his cock and balls were pleasured.
Corvin looked completely undone, no longer the severe and aloof exorcist that Yone had traveled with. Now he’d been reduced to nothing but a hungry man lost in the throes of a gluttonous reverie. If the Yokai could have it his way, he’d never let Corvin Locke be anything else.
“Don’t stop,” Locke half begged and half commanded, though there wasn’t a lick of authority in his voice. Hearing that made Yone smile, and the mask tilted amused at the request. “I’m close.”
“Close to what, Corvin?”
“Where I’m from, we call it cumming.” The strength to be lucid for one crack of a joke didn’t last long, as in reply Yone’s grip tightened and the tempo changed.
“Oh really?” Forfeiting full length strokes, Yone instead moved to play with the tip of Locke’s head. Watching those beautiful eyes close and head roll, he caught the man’s head on his shoulder. Pressing his lips against the man’s blonde temple, he kissed away the beads of sweat and sampled his tension. “Do you like it better when I do it like this? Or do you prefer something else?”
“That’s good, owh fuck it’s good. So good.” So good, Yone. Corvin had to stop himself from saying that name aloud, that felt too intimate for whatever this was. Never once did it dawn on him that Yone was calling out his own name all night.
“Fast like this, then? Look at me, Corvin. Keep those beautiful eyes on me. I want the full experience” Swapping hands for the final stretch, Yone brought his hand up to Locke’s face and placed it over his mouth. “Here, give me your tongue, stick it all the way out. All the way, that’s it.”
Pinning Corvin’s tongue between his fingers in a vice while the rest of his fingers clasped down on his lips, it trapped the man with no choice but to scream into the hunter’s hand. That way Yone would be able to feel the vibrations of his moans and panting. A kinky little makeshift gag, Locke thought with an excited tense as his hips started moving on their own. Nothing was going to keep him from fucking himself into Yone’s hand, pushing closer to climax. Free at last, Locke dug his fingers into the Yokai’s thighs as hard as he could. Hoping that they would leave lasting marks, sweeter and sexier than the ones from his living past.
“Yes, that’s it,” Yone urged sweetly, thumb stroking Corvin’s cheek as the blood rushed through both of them. Eyes drifting downward, Yone reached down to kiss and suck on the trapped bit of tongue between his fingers. “Come for me like this.”
That was what pushed Corvin over the edge - the soft kisses on the tip of his pincered tongue while his head was overstimulated. Sounds of his cock getting wetter as his cum leaked and lubricated Yone’s hand, soaking the bandages. Demons screaming in their own fit of energy transference. A sublime homily for Locke to meditate on and live for. If it weren’t for Yone’s legs wrapped around him, Locke may have collapsed. His knees knocked together and quickly lost feeling as the sound of spunk droplets hit the library floor, mixing further into the chaotic ambience. As designed his yells heralding a mindblowing climax were muffled, captured and held in Yone’s palm. The demons between them had an orgasm of their own, the energy from both men turned back onto them was overwhelming.
“Oh yeah. Yeah.” Corvin panted into his gag, slumping into Yone and the table. Clutching tight in fear that Yone didn’t have him, Locke held on until his hand cramped and had no choice but to release Yone.
Taking away his hand from the man’s mouth, the Yokai wrapped his extremities around Locke to keep him from falling to his knees again. All the while humming approvingly and kissing the short blonde hair. Loud gasps reverberated off the wooden paneling of the library and began to fade, and it was in the afterglow that the pair noticed just how dark it was. The moon had completed its traversal through the sky, and that telltale darkness that preceded dawn filled the tall room. All the pair could see was each other, up close with their noses crushed together. Both covered in sweat and sharing a breath.
“That was incredible to watch.” The hunter purred, stroking the blonde hair stuck to Locke’s forehead out of the way so that he could plant a kiss there. “I adored seeing you in my hands like that.”
Corvin was speechless, his throat felt hoarse from screaming (Not as hoarse as he would’ve liked though). His hips ached and when he looked down at the floor, the proof of how hard he came was speckled in white clumps. It felt like his body had been on fire, now ashened and smoldering from the remnants of ecstasy. He wanted to respond to Yone, to express his own feelings. Wanted so badly to tell him that they needed to do this again. Except fatigue was taking him, the walk from their camp was finally catching up with him. And the thought of making that trek again with The Lesser Keys made his knees even weaker. His tongue was heavy from the workout it got tonight and every time he looked to the other hunter to speak, he was struck by how hot all of this was. That it came true.
To make matters worse, Yone had scooped him up to lay on the table and was now using the hakama and his coat as a blanket. Soothed and cuddled like that, made to feel so safe left no time for revelry in the afterglow, and worry started to settle in. One that once this night was over, it would mean nothing. That they would go back to their ends of the camp, bathe at an even further distance, avert their eyes awkwardly rather than respectively. Locke would’ve shared this intimate (and scarring) piece of himself with someone that he only shared traumas with, and that he’d be left with only a stupid, fat book and a legacy he couldn’t outrun.
“We have to get out of here,” Locke insisted while trying to get off the table. Even though his bones were heavy and eyelids drooped precariously, he was desperate to not let the night end. “They’ll be awake soon.”
Hushing him Yone pulled the spent man closer and held on tight. Maybe he could pick up on Locke’s fervor. “We’ll leave soon, you just need a few minutes of rest.”
“Can we… could you maybe…” The man’s fear of losing this opportunity was no match for drowsiness and Yone rocking him softly. “... I don’t want this to end.”
Locke didn’t hear his answer - he fell too quickly into a sweet dream of Yone lifting his glasses up atop his head so they could watch each other kiss. No fear that when he woke up the next morning there’d be a rift between them. Occasionally in his sleep he’d shiver and the Yokai thought he heard a name spoken on Corvin Locke’s lips. The name of a special someone who occupied more than just the space behind his shadow. If he’d managed to stay awake a bit longer, he would’ve seen Yone admiring him in the rising dawn. Taking in the vulnerable, reckless one man army fighting against a Legion of demons. He also would’ve heard Yone’s reply, just as the Yokai scooped him and the book up in his arms and prepared to return to camp.
The warmth of spring, helping melt the snow to help the spring blossoms bloom but he can easily lose control of himself and can end up burning down entire gardens
I wrote this story a while back, you can find it on AO3 under the same name, BUT I wanted to put it here too.
In the wake of surviving conflict, the Doorman and Drifter return to their base to find that a fight has occurred in their absence - and the ritual is at a risk of failure. With some quick thinking and handiwork, the Doorman has an idea for how to create a new entry portal to summon the Patron.
“Fucking damnit. I had it!”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.”
Together they watched the bullet hole spread like fire, coating the woman in Drifter’s arms with corrosive starlight. Before the vampire could sink his teeth into her neck, desperate for a taste of vitae, she was nothing but ash in his hands. Watching that life slip through his fingers made the beast’s stomach tighten and grow desperate, not from remorse or sorrow, but hunger. New York was a difficult hunting ground built like a maze and everyone seemed to know its streets better than he. Had the city really changed that much since he was last here?
Balling his hands and cradling the crumbs of his meal, the Drifter’s eyes snapped to glare at the bratty god.
Looking smug at what he’d done, the bellhop lowered the gun to his side. Sharp blue eyes smiled where his thin lips remained still, framed beneath the subdued locks of flamboyant and crimson hair. No mere bellboy though, the Doorman held his ground as the vampire approached angrily. Watching him advance the tall man did not recoil at Drifter’s angry approach, angering the vampire further.
“Lucky thang you are, being so pretty.” He snarled, stepping in close and stuffing his nose close to but not against the pressed collar. Yeah, like it was the being’s good looks that stopped the Drifter from making a meal of him and not the power in the Doorman’s veins. Fuck the god smelt divine, but Drifter was smarter than to sink his teeth into that holy skin. He’d been fooled by its fire before, but had also tasted its cool flavor on his tongue. The Doorman’s blood was a privilege to taste, and the vampire could tell the way it flowed like lava beneath the being’s skin, Drifter would have to find a meal elsewhere. “And that I’m not that hungry.”
“Then I shall count my blessings,” the man replied with a smile, expression placid as those sharp eyes dared the Drifter to try it. As their gazes held a beat too long that would’ve made spectators uncomfortable, Doorman secretly hoped. It’d been too long since Drifter made a meal of him. With the moment passed, the Doorman’s gun disappeared from this world with a flourish, and the pair began to walk. “Come, time slips from us.”
All around them signs of carnage oozed up the walls and smoke fell into the gutters. Bullet casings, shredded pages, and gore crunched beneath the men’s feet as Drifter sniffed for a quick bite. The turf war was hard won, the vampire couldn’t remember the last time he’d had that much fun on a hunt.
“Don’t tarry,” called the Doorman, clicking his tongue every time the vampire sniffed towards a corpse. “The ritual won’t fulfill itself.”
“Can’t help myself - if only someone didn’t steal my food.” Drifter rumbled accusingly, snatching for an arm slipping into the gutters as they walked. Shaking it desperately, only a few drops of blood splattered on his face and the Drifter used his thumb to eat the crumbs.
Clicking his tongue in annoyance, the Doorman had half a mind to leave the vampire and make for the shrines himself. The truth was more simpler than that - the Doorman needed to see this ritual complete. They didn’t have all night and eternity to summon the Patron, maelstroms were long awaited and short lived.
“My apologies, then.” He replied, sounding contrite but not hiding the smirk on his lips as they moved. “Once we finish the ritual, perhaps I’ll offer myself as compensation for your troubles.”
Upon hearing that the arm lay forgotten inside a trashcan as the vampire lumbered to keep up with the Doorman. “Oh yeah? Will you run for me?” He asked, purring with delight as he eyeballed the deliciously slim waist and scrumptious bottom inside the custom tailored pants.
“If you wish.”
“Oh yeah, I do wish. Gonna hunt you down like a coon and eat you alive.”
“Promises, promises,” knowing that that would only excite the Drifter further, the entity disguised as a bell hop continued. “You know I won’t give up that easily.”
“Ça c'est bon, that’s very good. That’s what I like about you, Red. A little tussle, some runnin’ around, gets the blood really pumping.” Oozing some of that southern hospitality, the vampire buried his nose into the entity’s neck again, what was he thinking he’d smell? The quickening of an eldritch pulse, or the rush of quicksilver blood beneath the facade? Or perhaps it was more to disgust the Doorman, who craned his neck as if trying to put distance between them without surrendering ground. “Put a few bullets in me while we’re at it, that’s the kind of foreplay I like.”
“You disgust me,” the Doorman replied with an indifferent snarl, but the gentle uptick in his lips gave the ruse away. The truth was once again, quite simple.
“I looove disgusting you, Red,” the vampire sniffed, cracking his palm over the Doorman’s ass before lurching out of pistol whipping reach. “Now, let’s get to this ritual, shall we?”
The first signs of trouble were not the number of corpses that littered the street as the pair wandered back to the shrine. Rather it was the absence of troopers and the smoke. Rising above the trainstation turned temple, it coiled and danced warningly and without end. Looking at each other, neither man had to say a word to know why that was worrying. That was why the god enjoyed working with the Drifter, they both knew what mattered.
Splitting in their desperation to reach the fire, Doorman slipped into a sprint on the ground while the Drifter lunged overhead. Propelling himself and swinging from lamp posts, the vampire would get to the shrines first, which was for the best. The eldritch keeper was no good to Drifter dead if there were unwelcome guests whaling on the Patron’s portal. All powerful and arcane as Red was, it was crippled in this form. Man has limits, that the vampire knew too well as he landed with a threatening, concrete-breaking thud at the mouth of the shrine. Bristling and teeth bared, the monster was prepared to make hors d'oeuvres out of the opposition.
“Oh,” the vampire said, a little taken aback by the wreckage and silence. “Well lookie here, notta damn soul around.”
The Old One’s shrine was in shambles; body parts and busted troops lay strewn about as though they’d been ripped from a toybox. Rebar, arcane sigils, and portions of the architecture crumbled just by looking at them. At the center of the shrine, the Doorman was pacing-
“How’d you get up there without me seein’?” Laughing and shaking his head, the vampire took the steps up to the tabernacle two and three at a time. “Faster than a whore runnin’ from the churchbell.”
“Spare me the flattery,” not amused by his similes, the god’s previous playfulness was lost as he stood over the grand dais. One hand behind his back, it was balled into a fist as Drifter and Doorman came to examine the shattered leylines. The receptacle where the Patron would have been born was broken, and the components to complete the ritual destroyed.
“Well,” the vampire began, sucking air through his teeth with uncertainty. How did he begin to articulate that this was bad? “Shit.”
“Agreed,” replied the Doorman simply, sounding defeated.
“What? Got nothing fancy to say now?”
“I’m thinking,” he defended himself, chewing on his lip absentmindedly as the eldritch’s focus lay on the broken floor. “You should try it sometime.”
“It’s a better look on you,” the Drifter replied quickly, walking around the summoning circle. “So this means we can’t finish the ritual and get our little pat on the back from the Patron?”
“In a sense, yes.” Pausing to look over his shoulder, the Doorman’s blue eyes swept the carnage. “Where is everyone else?”
Stopping to listen, the Drifter was ready to answer that question with no great pleasure. Picking his way through the wreckage and debris, looking for a snack, nothing caught his eyes or ears. Not a single heartbeat reached up from the sewers and flotsam of the city. No breath, no footsteps, the city that never slept was a graveyard.
“Well I’ll be,” the vampire replied exasperated, looping his thumbs in his belt and giving one look around. “I think they killed each other, Red.”
“Everyone? Are you sure?”
“Sure as shootin’.”
“Which means that it falls to us to fulfill the ritual.”
“Mhm,” going for one more lap around the shrine in hopes of anything to snack on, Drifter orbited back to the Doorman. He found the god kneeling, red head and slim shoulders working furiously over something on the ground.
Squatting elegantly, the eldritch being was using some of the debris as a drawing utensil, painting a hermetic design. Giving him space to think prettily, the vampire went on another loop, since magic wasn’t really his forte. It was boring, hard to grasp, and took years to even be a novice at. Magic didn’t serve Drifter the same way a good set of claws could.
He knew the bare necessities to get through the night, but the Doorman? He was breathed into existence by sunrises and his veins were knitting together with the points of the Northern star. Practically made of the stuff, inside and out, it was better to leave these things to the professionals.
“Looks like all that thinking is paying off,” he called out on his stroll, picking up and tossing pieces of the shrine’s guardians that he thought were useful back to the dais. Even if it weren’t, he felt the need to annoy the Doorman a little, just to break up the tension. Waiting for a while before saying anything else, the Drifter returned to admire the hunched over figure. Those big blue eyes - usually soft as the Grand Rapids in the middle of a Hurricane - were still as he focused hard. “I know that look -got a bright idea?”
“I believe so,” his sentence was interrupted by more fervent scribbling, and with a snap of spindled fingers, Drifter felt the unmistakable push of the arcane. Expelling outward, wild and raw energy tried to lash like a hungry thing. Putting a hand to his belly, the Drifter could relate, his lips were dry and the lack of blood on his lips was more noticeable now. “I believe I have a way to complete the ritual, but it will be… unorthodox.”
“You have my interest,” drifting like his namesake, the vampire returned once more beside his companion. The Doorman didn’t do unorthodox, that was more the vampire’s thing. Unorthodox coming out of the eldritch’s lips could mean a great many things, but most of all it meant something fun.
The seal that Doorman drew in place of the scattered one was made of a combination of chalk and the ashes of their fallen allies. Bubbling on the surface of the sigil, the Drifter could feel its heat even from a distance, which set his instincts ablaze. Fear, like a sickly dog, rose its hackles at the threat of pain and danger, suddenly the man wanted nothing to do with this strange new idea. Except the Doorman was looking at him now.
Not giving him the disdainful side eye that he often did in the company of others, like he was a second rate beast. Softly he took in the Drifter now, approaching with a knowing smile on the beast. It stilled the primal fear the vampire felt as the eldritch extended a hand.
“I was thinking of a… tantric approach.” A white glove ran itself up the Drifter’s arm, working its way underneath the collar of the tattered coat. Dried blood stuck to the pristine fabric. “I believe if we use an erotic form, we can weave our essences and make a new entrypoint for the Patron.”
“Erotic?” Sounding more alarmed than he meant, Drifter pointed between the two of them and then to the floor. “You wanna… here?” As if it had the presence of mind, the hermetic seal glowed enthusiastically back.
“Well we don’t have to have intimate relations if you don’t want me,” the Doorman replied loftily, though he was undressing already. Which was bribery in itself as he took great pains to keep the clothes from wrinkling for now. It was unfair how pretty the godly thing was, how the bellboy’s coat slipped easily down his back and revealed the pressed white shirt. His bone structure was prominent beneath the fabric, a set of leylines that made up the otherworldly being. “It may not be as effective, but I have the means of… doing it myself.”
“Now, now, let’s not go jumpin’ to conclusions, mon cher.” Hastily the vampire stepped out of his shoes, taking care that when he stumbled and lost his balance it wasn’t onto the chalk ritual. “You’re putin’ words in my mouth that just ain’t true.”
“Would you like me to put something else in your mouth then?” Smiling over his shoulder, the Doorman let his trousers fall down past his ankles and step from them. All those fancy clothes with their easy clasps and buckles meant he was stripped down before the vampire. Wearing nothing but the white button-up and black socks, his silhouette against the ominous light of the impending ritual- he was divine. Literally divine, on the precipice of being at his full power, the Drifter felt a lump catch in his throat and a pit form in his stomach as the god lifted his arms up over his head to stretch, revealing a pearly full moon beneath the shirt’s hem.
“Yeah, yeah actually.” Licking his front teeth excited, Drifter knelt down for worship as the Doorman shifted his weight. Pretending not to notice, the god knew exactly where the vampire was while he reached up to cup the gorgeous cheeks. “You got just the thing for me, Red.”
When the vampire’s teeth chewed delicately on the eldritch god, a delighted little gasp slipped out of him.
“You’re foul, you know that?” He asked, pushing his hips backwards into the creature’s open mouth. “Taking whatever you’re given, a desperate hungry beast.”
The Drifter couldn’t reply, his mouth was full of ass and his hands were prying the Doorman’s cheeks apart. Like a doorway all its own, the vampire growled and purred at the sweet opening.
“Call me whatever you want, dawlin’,” his accent slipped into its heavier tones as the Drifter sank into excitement. “So long as it’s comin’ from you.” Letting his tongue unfurl, it reached like a tendril to penetrate the god.
“Oh, what a dirty mouth,” he gasped, it wasn’t long before the eldritch's cries reverberated through the desecrated shrine. Hardly able to stand, the Doorman’s legs shivered with delightful intensity as he tried to reach backward and hold the vampire’s shoulders for support.
“That’s it, mon cher,” he purred, helping the man off his feet. Angling Doorman to posture on his hands and knees, the vampire’s fingers penetrated him next. His breath and cries were still restrained, the god’s focus remained on the ritual. Drifter wasn’t a smart man, magic wasn’t his forte afterall, but he knew that if this tantric magic was going to be a success it was going to take a lot more than just some light foreplay. “Come undone for me.”
“Shut up,” the Doorman snapped between gutted moans, barely hanging on to the revolted facade. It would be impossible to maintain that tune when the sex was divine, and Drifter’s kisses were so iambic. Moving poetically from light and free to deep and stressed - sometimes slobbering marks that pooled in the Doorman’s contours, to sweet nibbles that electrified. “You’re- you make me-”
“Mm? What’s the matter, Red?” Fingers still working his hole, Drifter tilted the man’s face for their eyes to lock. Face was slack and gaze unfocused, the Doorman was all but lost to the pleasure, ritual of the Patron very nearly forgotten. All that mattered in those pretty eyes was summoning an almighty climax. “Gettin’ a soft spot for me?”
Reminded of the task at hand now, those beautiful eyes sharpened and the Doorman took action. Holding the vampire by his bloodstained tanktop, he tossed Drifter to lay on his back directly over the seal. Standing upright on his knees, the god had a smug expression as he watched the vampire’s body writhe from pain. Once his body made contact with the ritual’s chalky and ashy outline, he locked up as though electrocuted. Racing through his marrow, the vampire would’ve preferred to be locked in a hot car in Arizona at the height of monsoon season.
“Aw, fuck,” Drifter roared, the pain was a nasty surprise at first, and if he had been allowed to resituate himself, get more comfortable, maybe it would subside. Like a reinforced bar had been slapped over his extremities, the vampire couldn’t tilt his head or lift himself upright. Out of the corner of his eye, Doorman was unbuttoning his shirt to expose his chest. There was no other way to explain it but he looked good; almost good enough to distract Drifter from the agony as it felt like his bones were being ground together. His body was in metamorphosis, beneath the clothes it wasn’t sure what shape it should take. Unsure of what Drifter wanted most. A pair of voluptuous breasts for the vampire to suckle on? A cock that fit his hand that he could use to steer the god, maybe. In the end it decided on what was needed for the ritual - an orifice covered in bloody slobber from Drifter’s mouth and hands.
“In good time, my pet,” soothed Doorman, grinning to himself and listening to the monster’s cursing. “All in time.”
Breath hitched in his chest as he guided the Drifter’s shaft, it was so tight the vampire moaned through gritted teeth as the contrast of sensations pulled him apart. Was he supposed to cry out from how delicious and snug his cock was, wrapped up in the embrace of the creature’s body? Or was he to scream and pant through how it felt like hooks were digging into and yanking away his back?
Clenching his jaw tight, feeling his fangs stress in his skull, the Drifter kept his gaze on the man who straddled him, finding succor in his beauty.
“It’s a good fucking thing you’re pretty.”
Humming and switching his hips, the Doorman was losing self-control, using the vampire’s body like a dowsing rod.
“That’s it,” he whispered, and Drifter could feel the Doorman bottoming out as the head of his cock reached somewhere deep. Deeper than he’d ever gone or been before. “Yes, that’s it, Drifter.”
Hearing his name on those kissable lips was almost enough to push the monster over the edge. Sinking his nails into the Doorman’s ankles, he began to feel lightheaded as the power and mana that filled him ebbed. From his limited field of view, he could see that the magic that surged unrefined and awesome through him was starting to seep out. As their hips moved and hands clutched, the Doorman began to glow. Eyes that were once an inviting flax blue now began to shimmer green with each flutter, every panting breath came out like a rolling fog. It swept down the eldritch’s bare chest and the room began to change, the maelstrom’s energy funneling into the wrecked shrine.
It was working, the vampire thought hazily, finding some strength to lift his knees upward from their restraint. The magic that poured out of Doorman was refined, and was building the portal as he predicted. Amazing, Drifter thought to himself, pushing his knees up further to allow the Doorman to lean back against them.
“You’re doing so good for me,” the vampire purred, wrestling control of his hips again. Not in an attempt to stir the Doorman into a pleasured frenzy, but to maintain the flow of mana. With their bodies moving like that, the pain of the hermetic energy subsided as it was shared between them. Drifter’s pain helped his body to arch, which in turn made the Doorman double over and tense around the cock inside him. Knitting magic together like that, the components in their thrusts and incantation on each other’s breath, the vampire didn’t know he had this power. Maybe magic wasn’t so boring after all.
Unable to launch a witty remark as a counter, the Doorman only gasped and emitted low tones as gravity and mana commanded him to sway and grind. The red locks of hair began to float as the air in the room turned upside down. Debris from the shattered shrine began to float, as did the decimated body parts of both friends and foes, and the lights flickered and died.
“It’s coming,” the Doorman whined, squeezing himself tight around Drifter as they were plunged into darkness. “I- Yes. I feel it.”
Unsure as to what the Doorman was referring to, the beast opted to sit back in silence and watch the show. What he was sure of was that the eldritch being was about to blow, both from the power coursing through him and the rising orgasm. His body twitched and tensed to the lurid motions, while the magic that he manipulated lit up his body. Literally, his eldritch skeleton glowed as though exposed to radium, its toxic color moving through the blood vessels and marrow. As the Doorman opened his mouth and eyes to cry and shed tears of ecstasy, infernal light poured from them. Above them the air coalesced, formed a visible and tangible shape - a door?
“It’s coming. It’s coming, don’t stop now.” He cried, finding the power to double over and bury his delicate fingers into Drifter’s knotted hair.
So was he, the vampire thought as his eyes locked with the man’s neck. The white shirt was slipping down the Doorman’s back, exposing his bare shoulder. Green and blue pulsed under the sweat-sheened skin like a toxic warning, his blood affected by the ritual. Tasting it might be dangerous for the Drifter as he licked his lips and watched the eldritch man’s face. He was grunting as though each thrust of cock was knocking the wind out of him, over and over, sweet eyes staring past the ritual.
Here goes nothing, the vampire thought to himself and tilted his head into the man’s shoulder.
“Yes, yes,” his scream was incomparable, the Doorman’s body tightened as a reaction to the pain of the vampiric kiss.
Pulling at the Drifter like a trigger, the rush of blood filled his mouth while his cock rushed to fill the god. Overhead the light was blinding, the vampire panicked at first that daybreak had come faster than expected. Not that it mattered much; if he was going to die this was the perfect end. On his back covered in someone else’s blood, with a perfect climax.
It was not daybreak though, instead it was a doorway opening; a portal to another world as a shape beyond mortal comprehension emerged. Grasping onto the edges of the torn fabric, that Patron lifted itself from one reality into the next, clawing out of the rift created. All to the harmonic tune of the Doorman’s screams, his body shocked still and unmoving as it seized and released rhythmically.
Drool and tears dripped through the Drifter’ hair and neck as the god came. A marvelous release, the pressure of the Doorman’s orgasm took the wind out of the vampire as he drank deeply. A feast for the senses, the entity looked beautiful as he came undone, his blood filling Drifter’s mouth was like nirvana, the smell of sweat and sulfur came off his body as it ran hot, his hole was tight and massaged an orgasm from the vampire, and his voice was so sweet as the Doorman whispered in his ears.
“I-is it over? Did we do it?” Collapsing into Drifter’s chest, he surrendered himself to exhaustive aftershocks.
“We made it,” the vampire whispered into his ear, lips tickling the red locks as the eldritch thing began to relax. “It was all you, mon cher. You did well, and looked damned good too.”
Too spent to hurl back a remark, the Doorman’s face buried deeper into the vampire. Meanwhile above them, the misty shape of the Patron looked down on the pair. Was it expecting them to part and kneel before it, waiting for their wishes and dreams to be granted? It was going to have to wait a little longer, the Drifter decided as he tickled beneath the Doorman’s chin.
“What are you doing? Ah-” letting out a yelp, perhaps the first surprised emotion anyone ever saw the god make, the vampire rolled off the hermetic seal. Laying the Doorman out, a pair of red eyes floated overhead now, ripping away Doorman’s white shirt and letting it flutter off the dais to the ground.
“Now it’s my turn, dawlin’,” the vampire growled, kissing each of the god’s ankles before hefting it onto his shoulders. “Patron can wait.”
Before he could get another word in, the Doorman’s back bowed to the exquisite pain. Reflexively his long fingers reached to dig into Drifter’s knotted muscles, body rising up to meet each deep thrust.
“I got the blood of a god in me now,” Drifter whispered, licking an ear as he hit the Doorman’s spot. Feeling a deity melt in his arms was delicious, almost as much as the blood that coursed in their veins. “Who knows how long ‘til I’m satisfied.”
“Don’t take too long,” the Doorman said, but from the whine on his breath begged to differ. It begged for this to never end. “We still have wishes to be granted.”
“Speak for yourself, mon cher,” the vampire replied, locking the Doorman’s wrists above his head, kissing him deeply as he thrust. “I got all I want right here. Dinner is served.”
AYE WE'RE BACK???
I took a bit of a break from writing and updating, my bad. I did however get the motivation and inspiration to finish Amnesia Game. I hope you guys enjoy this, cause I had a lot of angst writing it.
Not for any particular reason, just feral for this pair. It inspired me to maybe write a sequel with a role reversal - this time with Black Swan as the subject.
We'll see.
Part 3: Shatter
If those fears were ever to manifest, it was today. Nerves he hadn’t felt on the rooftop in Pier Point arrived before her, they were now following Elias back and forth through his apartment as he prepared the guest bedroom. Everywhere they could find purchase, they sought to; like climbing up onto the pillows of the bed he was making for the third time. It was perfectly fine the first time, but shaking out the sheets and snapping them in the air like a whip was the only way to fight back against his fright. Or they sat on the dresser, where he organized then reorganized toiletries and anything else he could think a guest could need. When was the last time anyone had stayed with Elias, and a woman no less? Diving underneath his feet, making the Memokeeper stumble over every little possibility and wonder what he was even planning to do with her.
Simply waiting was out of the question, Reca needed to keep himself busy but there was nothing left to do. All of his films were organized, memorized the briefing on his next assignment, and went so far as to volunteer his time to help some of the other keepers on his floor with their own bureaucratic tasks. From her perch on the dresser between the wrapped up toiletries and towels, Mira watched Reca fuss.
“Of course! There is one thing I can do to make sure that this little heist goes as smoothly as can be.” Reca replied, snapping his fingers at the Assistant Director’s suggestion. “You really are brilliant, come on up,” he snatched the camera up before she could move herself, stuffing Mira into his pocket and almost forgetting to lock the apartment door behind him.
Almost a month of nonstop hologram calls and traveling to other planets just for a chance to be near her passed. Moonlit dinners on clifftops, walking through museums on frozen planets, and breaking into a Curios storage room on a sophisticated space station. Together they’d done it all, or close to it, in such a short time. Any excuse to see Black Swan, it was as ridiculous as it was thrilling to see her mischievous smile. Even better when her lips found him, a reward for stepping out of his comfort zone, daring him to do things he’d never done before. Now was his prize, after all those times of going to her, she was coming to him. To the Garden where no mundane person was permitted. It was forbidden to have outsiders who were not memokeepers themselves enter the Garden, and while the documentation the couple worked together to fabricate was flawless, Elias couldn’t leave any of today up to chance.
Striding towards Customs with intent, his heartbeat skipped to move in time with his steps, fretting and worrying all the way. Consequences for their carelessness would be dire, Reca needed to make sure that everything went perfectly. There would be no do overs.
“Ah! Mr. Salas,” Reca said brightly, throwing his arms dramatically wide at the custom’s officer who was on his break. “How are you my friend?”
“What do you want, Reca?” The man grumbled, putting aside his tablet before turning his tired eyes to the memokeeper. Officer Salas was head of the Garden’s intake portals, everything that came in and out of Fulli’s realm passed under his consistent eyes. Which was why it was important that he be the one Reca persuade to turn a blind eye at an interloper’s presence. “Where’s your better half?” He asked next, eyes sweeping around the memokeeper as he came to lean against the counter next to him.
“My better half? Right here,” Reca said confidently, though didn’t understand as he produced Mira.
Raising an eyebrow, the officer looked down at the Assistant Director before looking at the memokeeper. “Are you… okay?” Oh no, maybe Elias was being too obvious that he wanted something.
“Never been better! I couldn’t help but notice that you’re quite busy today,” the memokeeper smoothed out his expression. Inwardly he was beginning to panic, Officer Salas was in bad spirits which meant that he might not be willing to negotiate. He would only have himself to blame if this didn’t work. Behind them Reca’s eyes fell on the Custom’s gate, where it was all hands on deck. Dozens of workers checking over manifests, reviewing reports as memokeepers returned from afar. Maybe if he was a better fast talker he could go and bring her in himself, use his leverage to shoo off the subordinate officer’s inquiries.
“It’s a little slammed, not that you’d know, you’re only here when you want something.” Salas observed, watching as the Assistant Director reached out for him. Knowing it would improve the man’s spirits, Mira jumped onto the counter top and offered a foot for Salas to touch.
“Nothing gets past you, Officer.” Reca laughed, putting a hand to his chest pretending to be flattered. “I do want something, you are absolutely right. I want to help you make your job a little easier today! There’s quite a crowd coming back from assignments, you’ll be busy interviewing the returning memokeepers.”
Forcing a pause in the conversation, Office Salas bent over his shoulder to watch the latest fleet of ships pull into the Garden’s bay. “Yep, it’s gonna be jammed, there was an incident in Amorpheus that a lot of us are coming back from… is your better half gonna be on that shuttle or something?”
How did he know? Reca asked himself hurriedly, but recovered quickly as the checkpoint became abuzz. “I think it’s still too soon to refer to her as that, but yes, I am expecting someone today-”
“Expecting someone?” The Customs officer said, suddenly taking an interest. Leaning forward, he raised a finger in the air so that the Assistant Director could use the pad of his fingertip as a backscratcher. “And your lady knows?”
Now Reca was staring at the man with blatant confusion, and the Officer’s own face was starting to do the same. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, what lady?”
“Oh,” Salas said, straightening up and looking past Reca now, ignoring him for the moment. “Speak of the devil.”
Heart threatening to drop out of his stomach, Elias spun around and watched the Custom’s Officer abandon his post to approach the tall woman who stood among the memokeepers. She was dressed in her sensible fashion; flat shoes, loose pants, and a tight fitted top. Her purple hair was tied up in an elegant twist that exposed her long neck, which was adorned in gorgeous jewels that barely reached the twinkle in her eyes. Looking over his shoulder once, Office Salas caught sight of Reca’s jaw on the floor before approaching Black Swan himself.
Panic stricken, Elias began to make rushed strides towards the pair, but Ms. Swan held out her hand at her side subtly, to tell him to stop. Left to only fret at the edge of the checkpoint, Mr. Reca reminded himself that acting out of form would only raise suspicion. He had to trust that Black Swan had some trick up her sleeve to slip past the officer, and waited until the Officer and the woman exchanged words. A thousand awful ideas made his stomach coil up like a maddened spring. Hopefully the officer was enough of a gentleman to not put restraints on her if he noticed something awry.
Hopefully Reca had the self control to not demand an explanation if she was incarcerated. Which begged a new question: how prepared was Elias Reca to put it all on the line for the love of just one girl?
Luckily it appeared he wouldn’t have to answer that question today as the Officer’s posture changed. Walking toward him, Black Swan drifted after Salas.
“Both of you get out of here,” was all he said, pointing at the man and woman before going back to his tablet. “I got another 10 minutes of break, I want it in peace.”
“You’re just going to let her in?” Reca blurted, too shocked to just accept this miraculous decision.
“Of course I’m gonna let- oh, oh,” the officer began to say, but when his eyes locked with Reca, something seemed to click. “This is that thing, isn’t it?” He directed the question to Ms. Swan, who only offered a thin lipped smile in return.
“What thing?”
“Let’s go, Elias,” Black Swan said smoothly, fitting her hand into Mr. Reca’s and leaving Salas alone. “Why don’t you show me around, there must be more to see than just the checkpoint.”
It didn’t take long for the memokeeper to recover from the startling turn of events, his guest’s intrigue and enthusiasm to visit the Garden brought him back to the moment.
First they visited the mirror lake, one of the main storage arks. Mirror lake was a deep well, memories stored from different planets and forgotten civilizations catalogged in its depths. It got its name not because it was filled with water, but because of the impenetrable, glass seal that kept the memoria locked beneath. As a result, the seal was highly reflective, having colorful interactions with the trapped memories in the depths.
“How far down does it go?” Black Swan asked, inching her way over the protective glass seal, peering into the endless pit of memories.
“I’m not sure, it was completed before I joined the Garden,” Reca explained, bravely walking over the barrier to join the woman. Standing together, looking straight down into the dizzying depths, Reca realized that there was nothing to be afraid of. He used to avoid Mirror Lake like it was a plague, his acrophobia threatening to take him to his knees even thinking about it. With Ms. Swan at his side it wasn't so bad, beautiful even. It made him want to dance, but with no music that desire was stifled. Watching her fractured reflection move across the glass would be art in motion, especially if he could make her laugh hard enough that her hair tumbled from its place. Mirror Lake’s light would send ripples through her shadow like no other.
“What’s that smile for?” She asked, breaking his concentration by bumping her shoulder into his. Spurred on by it, the pair began to walk, going in easy circles around the edge of the pit and admiring their images.
“Reflecting, I suppose,” Elias replied, daring to loop his fingers into hers as they walked. Immediately he began to sweat, it was the first public display of affection they would have. How his heart raced at the idea, allowing himself to be seen entwined with such a beauty. Black Swan’s hand took him easily, she was so collected it was astounding. “I’m happy to have met you, I daresay I’d never have overcome my fears on my own.”
That made Black Swan smile, a wide one that said she knew more than she let on, but Reca didn’t mind. He quickly accepted that she was layers upon layers of secrets, plans within plans. If he did it right, and she was willing, Elias would gladly unravel all of Black Swan.
“This is my apartment,” he declared at the end of the day. Using his foot to push the door open, Reca carried Ms. Swan’s one little bag, which he had despaired at its size. Was she only planning a few days with him? Would that be his only reward in exchange for the weeks of daring and bravery he exhibited for her?
Before her arrival, Reca had a plan to whirl through the rooms and give her a grand tour. Instead now he found himself lingering near the kitchen and watching her move through the space itself. Like she always belonged there, she knew to slip her shoes off by the front door without mention, and she was aware of the short step down into the living room from the main hall.
“A successful bachelor pad vibe,” she hummed, running her finger down the spine of one of the framed movie posters. Leaning into the kitchen, her eyes admired the barely used appliances and the set and round dining table in the middle of the room. “Do you cook, Mr. Reca?”
“When I’m home,” Elias lied, unsuccessfully remembering the last time his kitchen had been so full of food. “Which isn’t very often,” he added, drifting toward his minibar where an unopened bottle of gin and tonic water waited.
Once she had made a quick tour of all his decorations and bent in to look at her guest room, Black Swan leaned over the counter as he mixed a drink. Her eyes followed him as he juggled the shaker, amused at his little tricks which he had practiced to make look like he was a seasoned tender. “Now that I’m here, what do you have planned for me?”
Sliding the cup within her reach, Reca held his own up for her to touch, “revel that you are here. I still can’t believe it.”
“Excited to see me?” Black Swan asked coyly, pausing for the cheers and slow sip, batting her long eyelashes at Reca as he reached across the bar and took her hand. After an extended silence of his thumb stroking her palm, she grinned wickedly when he led her toward the back of the apartment. “Where are you taking me?” She asked when they passed the guest bedroom, moving further into the depths of the home.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to show you ever since, well, since Pier Point.” Elias explained, his voice reaching a deep, secretive pitch that made Ms. Swan step in closer. Close but still not touching, Reca couldn’t believe that he forgot how tall she was, her curves threatening to eclipse his edges as they walked.
“I applaud your self control to be so patient,” Black Swan hummed, about to finish her drink in one sip as he pushed a door open and flipped the light on.
Dimly lit, the room was full of shelves, and on those shelves were reels of film. Hundreds of them, all neatly labeled and stacked politely in an order that made sense only to Reca. Unable to withhold his enthusiasm anymore, Elias paced into the middle of the room before turning to take in her stunned expression. “This is my film collection! Hundreds of films that will never see a movie screen.”
Reca was so completely confident that she was taken by him, he didn’t notice the break in her expression before she recomposed herself. How her smile sat unsteadily on the line between pity and impressed, wondering if this was all her visit was going to be. Not until she stepped up next to him with her cup piously in hand while she took in the tall shelves only she could reach.
“You wanted to show me your cinema library?”
Doubt struck the man’s core, and he found himself glancing nervously at Mira. What the fuck are you thinking, Elias? Was what her gaze politely inquired. Gathering himself, he conjured up a smile that oozed self assuredness.
“Of course! It’s my most prized possession, very dear to me… as are you. Look here,” deciding maybe it was better to shut up, Elias reached for one of the reels that had the least amount of dust on it. “I think you’ll like this one. I shot during the slaying of the 900,000 Xianzhou pilots. It follows the story a young delinquent Foxian girl who becomes an ace pilot-”
Interrupting Reca before he could spiral off into an analysis, her hand fell on his shoulder, fingers sliding down to play over his chest. If Black Swan moved a little bit slower, she would’ve heard his heart trying to run to her. “I’d love to watch it with you.” She was so close that when the woman inhaled, all other words on his lips evaporated. All he could do was exhale how beautiful Ms. Swan was.
“That would be nice,” he was aware of how pitiful and strung out he sounded, but Elias didn’t care. Knew she didn’t care either, because it was established what an impact her smile had on his thoughts. How just one little taste of her sweetness disrupted all rationale.
“This one looks interesting too.”
Following her hand, Elias watched as Black Swan reached one of the higher shelves, out of his reach without assistance. Down she pulled the first one that seemed to have caught her eye, Reca wondered when he last watched The Kingdom. It was in worn condition, watched hundreds of times no doubt from the way the packaging of the reel no longer held a glimmer.
“That one is a tragedy, technically. Two siblings raised in the same house, but chosen for different missions to fulfill their destiny to their family.”
“I love a good tragedy,” Black Swan half whispered, eyes glinting excitedly as she placed it in his hands. “We can watch that one for dessert.”
Perhaps she had a different idea when she initially suggested that, Reca realized too late. No no, she definitely had a different idea. What Elias wanted to blame it on was his sense of chivalry. Black Swan had just traveled across a galaxy to sit on his couch with him, it would have been inappropriate to take advantage of her travel weary body and mind. Instead he blamed it on the truth, which was that he was engrossed in his own work. They both underestimated just how in love with himself Elias Reca was.
While she lay back on the couch, dinner plate in her lap, tongue wrapping seductively around her fork, he was giving commentary on casting decisions. What a fool he was. Not even during The Kingdom did he try to kiss her. All that time Black Swan was looking at him, reaching out and gently nudging his leg with her stocking clad toes. Instead of scooping up her legs to kiss and unravel them, he grabbed and massaged her feet while pointing out his favorite moment in the movie. He didn’t get the hint until long after, after she closed the bedroom door on him with a defeated snap.
“Is everything to your liking?” He asked from the guest bedroom doorway, holding his drink lazily while she fluffed the pillows and closed the blinds. Reca was exhausted, the dishes from cooking dinner wouldn’t be able to wait, and the next morning he promised to take her to the Fulli temple.
“It’s sufficient,” she said easily, toying with the hem of her turtleneck. That had been the final come on, her hands silently asking if he wanted to do the honors. Even then Elias couldn’t get the hint, with alcohol coursing through his veins and urging him to cross that line. “I just… I’m a little nervous about sleeping in new places.”
“I am an idiot,” he admitted in the present. Now sitting up in bed and holding his head in his hands as Mira glared at him. On the opposite wall, she was replaying the night’s events to shame her co-director, making Reca watch over and over all the ways he missed his chances.
What he should’ve said was, “would you prefer to not be alone?” What he said instead was, “if you need anything I’m right upstairs. I can wake you with coffee in the morning if you’d like.”
“Yes, yes, I’m a fool, thank you for your feedback.” He hissed to Mira, crawling across the bed to manually shut her down, and ended up eyeballing his bathrobe. “Would it be inappropriate if I went down there now? What if she’s too tired, or annoyed and disappointed, or- alright, alright!” Reca startled when his assistant director’s eyes flashed back on with their own annoyance.
Cursing himself and wondering how to smoothly salvage this moment, Reca procrastinated by wondering how much clothing he should wear. In the end he dressed in his softest silk, but left behind the slippers (though he was convinced she’d find the frog slippers amusing).
Mirror Lake’s reflection cast green, purple, and blue across the living room. His TV screen watched Elias linger at the bottom of the stairs, where he leaned over the bannister to sneak a peek at the bedroom door. The door was closed but the light was on beneath, yellow light fracturing the hues from the Garden. His palms were sweating and his knees tried to lock in place as he stepped off the stairs, drifting like a will-o-wisp toward the guest door.
When was the last time he had been nervous? More to the point, when had he last been nervous with Black Swan? That was easier to answer, only when they climbed the skyscraper at Pier Point. There were never nerves or fear of boundary crossing with Black Swan. Everything they did together felt natural, consensually moving within each other’s space. Maybe he was more nervous because he didn’t feel nervous? It had something to do with that gut feeling weeks before. His body was tight and breath short because it was anticipating something his brain could not comprehend. As if his knees knocked together in this same spot, his knuckles had wrapped on the wood, and he exhaled with a practiced determination. Have they done this before?
“Elias,” Black Swan said when she opened up at his beckoning. She was wearing a light, pastel night dress that looked eerily familiar. Perhaps from a dream she was in when the distance was too great. Leaning in the doorway, the woman spoke with surprise but the way she held herself said something else. It asked, “what took you so long?”
“Ms. Swan,” he said curtly, clenching his hand to stop himself from shaking, also from reaching for her satin clad hips. The fabric whispered devilish suggestions about where his lips ought to be at that moment. “There has been oversight on my part. One that I’ve come to rectify.”
Raising an eyebrow, Black Swan crossed her arms and nodded for him to continue. With an expression unreadable, only her smile gave away that she was excited to see him. She knew exactly what was coming next, but Ms. Swan needed to push Reca out of his comfort zone one last time. Force him to confront his own ego.
“I seemed to have gotten carried away earlier with showing you my collection. You don’t want all the excuses for my obtuse behavior tonight, but I wanted to emphasize how excited I was to have you here. Being able to share what I love with someone important to me was a rare treat, so thank you for indulging that.” He could wax on for hours about how much it meant for her to share the evening with him. Express his joy for her interest in him, but all of that felt unnecessary. She knew it already, from all of their holo calls, his surprise visits to her across the known universe.
“That is all very sweet and thoughtful of you to say, Elias,” Ms. Swan said stiffly now. Once more her expression was stony, but her hands were reaching out to grab that clenched fist behind his back. “Except I don’t want your words anymore. Come here, show me how sorry you are.”
Obediently he half stumbled into the lit room, falling into her arms as Black Swan guided them. No more heights, more check points, nor cinema libraries, all that was left to explore and experience fully was her. Starting with her perfectly in the middle of the bed, Black Swan felt like a mountain to climb, armed with only his hands and mouth to map her vistas and taste her heights. Grappling, their fingers interlocked as he navigated which desire to scale first. Starting with the flimsy straps of her nightgown, he rolled the thin material off her shoulders. With excitement Elias ran his mouth over her shoulders and collarbones while his fingers continued to pinch and feel. Tactically, he kissed her fingers before moving Ms. Swan’s hands above her head, framing her like a sunrise. Finding the swaths of soft hair under her arms made him smile, and for now he’d fight back against the urge to linger there. Smoothing the hair down, their eyes met for an instant before she pulled Elias in for another kiss. Incensed by his admiration, Black Swan purred, moaned, and twisted her hands into his gray hair, forcing his lips to bruise her neck. Her hips ground into his rhythmically, Reca subconsciously squeezing his knees into Black Swan’s sides to keep from being thrown off.
Few words were exchanged, it didn’t feel like they had to speak a word to one another. Every sigh and shift communicated the next desired step. Sitting back up, Reca paused to admire the blushing purple scar on her shoulder. As he balanced himself on top of her, Black Swan pulled away at his robe. It fell with a heavier than expected thud that startled both of them. Whipping their heads, she laughed first as the Assistant Director gave a guttered croak and hopped out of the robe.
“Excuse me, I’ll turn her off,” Elias said the way a pet owner would lock their overly nosy animal away.
“You don’t have to do that… Leave her on the dresser,” the woman said coyly, biting her tongue flirtatiously as the memokeeper stared. “I’ve never made a sex tape before.”
At least that was established, he thought with a smile to himself. Turning his back on her, Reca snatched up Mira and angled her on the dresser. “Neither have I… but it can’t be that different from shooting a… regular film.” His voice trailed off after turning back to face the bed.
Like a magic trick, when Reca moved to face the bed Black Swan was completely naked, the little gown tossed disappeared. Leaning back on her hands, the woman’s long legs were crossed neatly to only tease a sweet belly. Purple hair tumbled down out of its hold and cascaded over her breasts, the bruise Reca left complimenting her locks.
“I’m feeling… overdressed,” he laughed, hooking a thumb awkwardly in the hem of his boxers.
Tilting her chin, Ms. Swan’s smile grew wild as he fell to his knees on the floor before her. “All this talking I told you not to do,” the woman laughed, a moan caught in her throat as his lips and fingers massaged her calves.
“Shall I show you what else I can do?” Reca asked, smiling madly at her groaning reaction.
“Shut up and taste me.” Slipping to lay back on the bed, Black Swan allowed him to uncross her legs and kiss his way into her. At the juncture of her thighs, a field of dark, spiraling hair snared his kisses. Not able to hold back here, Reca crammed his mouth over her sweet mound, burying his nose and inhaling her deeply. How sexy, her confidence to be as natural as fresh memoria. Black Swan tasted mercurial on his tongue, and the protean scent of her sweat curled in his lungs. All the while she cooed and moaned in a dulcet, practiced tone. As if she rehearsed and sampled her voice to determine what noises would elicit the most enthusiastic responses from him.
“Oh, Elias,” she breathed as her fingers curled into the bedsheets and her legs locked him in place. With each wet kiss he placed on curly hair and curvy lips, Reca felt her toes flexing and curling into his back. “What are you doing to me?”
Not needing to answer with his voice, Reca hungrily kissed and mouthed his way through her excitement. His actions spoke plainly, he was going to take her apart bit by bit and savor every little contented sigh and buck of her hips. Locking her around him, the man urged Black Swan to tighten her thighs around his head and push him deeper. In return she replied with her hips, arching her cunt into his face and crying soft notes that hung in the air.
Working her into a wondrous frenzy, the memokeeper used both his lips and fingers to trace Black Swan’s opening. Moving from kneeling before her at the bedside, Reca borrowed her leg hold on his shoulders to lift her bottom off the bed, pinning her hips to his chest. It allowed him to peer over her curly hair and admire her redness, a combination of the blood rushing to her head and his tongue flicking against her clit.
Reca needed to know what she would truly sound like when she was writhing and clawing at his hips to release her from the throes. All of her perfectly timed and leveled grunts and moans of excitement were lovely, but that wouldn’t do. This kind of restraint flew in the face of everything he knew about Black Swan. Her confidence was ever reaching in all aspects of her, hearing her rehearsed and tempered cries felt like the antithesis of confidence. Moving with fervor, his fingers flashed in and out of her, searching for those obscene noises, looking to unleash Black Swan’s full ecstasy. With his own practiced technique, she rose and fell in his hands, eyes flashing wild and unable to stay open. Bearing down into her, he wouldn’t stop until she begged him. Or pleaded for something else, he would have loved to give Black Swan more. To spread her out evenly on the bed and go further. He wondered if he would be her first, as her nails dug into his arms and she mouthed the words he wanted.
On second thought absolutely not, Reca decided as he draped her hips on top of the covers. She could have any being she wanted, with those verbose hips and breasts capable of causing uproars. What he was determined to be though was Black Swan’s best yet, to leave her dizzy and holding onto him for stability. Moving back up to meet her lips, Reca planted little kisses along her belly and up the curvature of her breasts. Rising and falling dramatically, she heaved for air as their eyes met and a smile stretched across her lips.
“What a mouth,” she gasped giddily, kissing traces of her orgasm off his cheeks and nose. “I want to do that for hours… later!” Black Swan laughed as he pretended to prepare to retreat back down. “I want you to taste me after I’ve come all over your sweet cock.”
What a mouth, he thought exasperatedly in response, eager to strip for her now. Following his hands Black Swan’s eyes widened and tongue dragged over her teeth when his erection, fully realized and eager, landed against his thigh.
“You don’t need any further preparations,” she teased, stretching out a finger and tracing the head of his cock. Her nail grazing against the sensitive foreskin conjured stars in the corner of his eyes as Elias struggled to stay upright. “I wonder, though.”
Not prepared, the man’s body crumbled into the mattress as she crawled across to swallow him whole. Black Swan’s tongue coiled and gently jerked off his shaft as his head grazed the back of her throat. His hips and thighs burnt as the pleasure raked over his body alongside the discomfort of contorting into the bed. She didn’t allow his legs to readjust, hands descending down on his ankles and keeping him pinned bent in half. It was exquisite agony as his muscles strained and stretched, Reca’s belly spasmed and lurched to the tune of her soft hums vibrating his shaft. Was this to return the favor of what he’d done for Ms. Swan?
“Oh my- Fuck, you are incredible,” he panted, an arm draped over his face so he could watch the constellations behind his eyelids. “Please, don’t make me finish in your mouth.”
Teasing him was dangerous, but she didn’t acknowledge the threat of pinning his contorted body for her to please. All that was scraping over his mind was the tension in his thighs while she sucked him. Every little noise Elias made she responded with one of her own, throaty moans that tickled his shaft and vibrated through his belly. Craning his neck, he caught sight of their reflection in the hanging mirror behind Mira, who was recording everything as planned.
With his knees bent beneath Reca, his hips were driven high into the air to try and alleviate some of the pain. Meanwhile her palms pressed with enough pressure to keep them down, preventing Elias from finding release. He kept his fingers twisted in her hair, which snared him like netting, but he had no control over the motion of her lips. Bobbing at an excruciating tempo, Black Swan pleased him at her own pace, until his belly spasmed and his balls tightened in her hands.
“Oh dear,” she teased, dragging her tongue from base to tip, eyes flashing excitedly at how flushed Reca was. “You’re not going to come so soon, are you?”
“No,” Elias lied, trying to struggle away from her now so that he could climb back onto her. When he tried to move though, Black Swan kept him in place with just one hand, while the other kneaded and tugged playfully at his sack. It sent debilitating tremors up his core and across his thighs, she giggled at the man’s strangled moans as he fell back into the bed. “Not until you told me to.”
Curiosity piqued, Black Swan inched her way up and peered down at Reca, allowing his legs to stretch out. His aching body unclenched as he flexed his feet, working sensation back into them, but kept his gaze locked with hers. As if she was hypnotizing him, the woman brushed their noses and lips tempestuously close, and her hand continued to stroke him the way her mouth did. “Really now? Not until I say?”
Gasping for air as she spoke, Reca raised his head to watch with his own eyes as she mounted him, holding his erection steady. Tears tested the corners of his eyes as he watched and felt the stings of hunger from her lips playfully kissing at his tip. Frustratingly every time Elias bucked his hips to try and penetrate her, she swayed and dipped herself out of his reach, eliciting the wildest sobs from him.
“Not a moment sooner, just please, please.” He begged, making Black Swan smile wildly. “I want to be inside you so badly. Please, my goddess.”
Purring approvingly, she guided her hips into place and slid down his length. A guttered moan brewed in Elias’ chest as his hands sought for something to hold as his balls ached for release. Her fingers twined and grounded his resolve, leaving Reca gasping for breath as Black Swan squirmed on top of him, as if making room for him. He’d made a promise, no matter how silly and impossible, now Reca would have to keep it.
“Goddess, I like that,” she hummed, first grinding and rotating her hips in wide motions, taking his erection along for the ride. Throwing her head back, she enjoyed the bulk of his dick grazing her center, teasing and feeling the spots that made her hold him close. “I don’t think your god would, though.”
Screw my gods, Reca thought distantly, watching open mouthed and dumb struck as the luminescence from Mirror Lake painted Black Swan’s breasts and belly in pastels. Let all my waking moments belong to you. In a weakened attempt to prove his loyalty, Elias lay still and only begged with his eyes while she used him for herself. Shifting and grinding her hips downward, Black Swan rewarded him by leading one of his fingers to draw circles over her clit.
“You may touch me, you have deft hands for making me happy.” She teased, biting her lip and tensing up her shoulders as Reca’s thumb moved. Working in calculated circles, the sounds she made in response reached that wild pitch that he’d been looking for. No longer was she in control of her emotions, diving in and moving to primal desire. It was absolutely cinematic, watching her belly fill with air that she would utter out in stuttered falsettos. Jolting and seizing to the building ripples.
“Thank you,” he panted, staring at the ceiling as her opening gripped him as though in a vice and tugged his cock. “You feel so perfect, I can’t believe it.”
Left in her merciful grasp, Elias couldn’t remember the last time he had orgasmed quite like this. Or the last time he had brought someone to bed, especially someone as beautiful as Black Swan. Together they lazily climbed the breathtaking ascent of an orgasm, moving at her pace as she fucked him perfectly. With just her thighs, the woman wrested all control of the situation, and he relished how helpless it made him feel. Hanging on by only the grip she had around his cock, the world swam then thrummed with colors and textures that were beyond comprehension. At the center of that swirling vortex was Black Swan, a hand on his belly to stabilize herself as she rolled her hips and cried her pleasure.
“Call me your goddess again,” she rasped, bending down as if to taste the heaviness of his breath.
“Goddess,” Reca replied, grabbing onto her hips now that her posture shifted. Thankful that she now lay against him, leaving room for him to hold her hips and thrust into her. “Hold on to me, I want you to scream my name as you come to me.”
Wrapping her arms around his neck, Black Swan pressed her lips into his ears and hairline as Elias planted his feet into the bed for the best angle. Humming calmly into his skin, that first thrust was experimental and delicious. It delivered a steady stream of tension through their bodies that made both of them cry out. Her back arched and his thighs tightened as Black Swan whispered one more command in his ear.
“Don’t hold back, Elias. Make love to your goddess.”
Whether she urged Reca with sour commands or honeyed words, the results would have been the same. Possessed by the very gods he angered, his hips slammed against her, jutting Black Swan forward with even, incensed strokes. Even with her arms wrapped tight around Elias’s neck, she had to pinch her knees into his sides to stay on top. Maddened by the teasing, his own orgasm felt out of reach now, but he wouldn’t stop until he felt her release on top of him. Determined to keep going until he felt himself bottom out deep inside. Leaving scathing kisses on her shoulders, Reca had to be reminded to breathe as he only wanted to hear her coming undone in his arms.
“You’re insatiable,” she half laughed, half moaned when Elias found the strength to roll Black Swan onto the bed. She looked marvelous on the high thread count, satin cradling her hips and the fractured colors of the Garden splashing on her body before he had the chance. “Do you need to rest?”
“I refuse.” Crawling back to her, Reca hefted one leg over his shoulder, followed by the other, he only rested to drink her in. Sprawled out with an arched back, fingertips tickling herself seductively, eyes flashing as she dared him to go further. Such beauty wasn’t meant for the likes of mere mortals. “If it takes grinding my bones into dust to make you happy, so be it. Who knows how close we came to missing each other? The thought chills me.” Emphasizing each word with little kisses, before he could resume his passion for Black Swan, she held a hand to his chest. “All that warms me now is feeling your touch, hearing your heart, knowing that you are mine in this moment.”
One hand feeling for his own heart, the other taking his chin, she kissed Elias. With a sweetness that was cooler than a long sip of water, greater than a religious experience, she set his head to rest on her chest. Angling her legs to fall away and settle on his hips, she drew him deep, a startled moan escaping Black Swan as he reached her limit.
“That’s enough, dear Elias.” Whispering into his ear, Reca watched a set of fingers dance in front of his face, tracing lovely runes on his cheeks and down his nose. “I can’t bear waiting any longer – come back to me.” Then-
Before he could wax and wonder what that alluded to, his mind was broken open. Like the glass ceiling was shattering, fragments of translucent moments rained down on him, first in drizzles. Through his fingertips they slipped, passing through his outstretched hands like molecular waves, oozing down his face, and landing in his consciousness as they spread like a horizon. Memories, thousands of them, now they rushed and downpoured across his body, drowning his synapses and bones.
Overwhelmed by enlightenment, Reca’s body writhed and moved against his will, scrambling feebly to roll away. Black Swan kept her legs hooked around him, nails digging into his sides, and continued to paint symbols on Elias, breaking the memetic seal that repressed his mind. Each flick of her fingers unlocked a new moment, shattering the trance that kept him in the dark. Hands of sharded nostalgia grabbed Reca by the shoulders and pulled him up to the light. Tranced by her movements, they produced every forgotten moment for him to witness all over again, setting his body on fire.
Every bitter tear at the prospect of losing the other, all the laughter at his corny jokes, each contented sigh, an endless deluge of shared joy and struggles. Days of good morning kisses, breakfast in bed, reading each other’s assignments to one another. Hours of coordination, working together in unrivaled synchrony. Nights spent at the edge of Mirror Lake, strolling through the Garden’s archives, laying in her arms while she read to him. Thousands of lifetimes came back to him in a tsunami that consumed, every minute dripping through the shattered firmament, returning now. Falling asleep and waking up to that opalescent smile, and looking forward to it happening again and again. The rush of accomplishment and the thrill of achieving that simple ambition, to hear her voice.
Sweat from his shivering body was dripping down Black Swan’s sides, saturating the bed’s top cover. Though they tickled, she continued to hold Reca, kissing his face and feeling his body grate and thrust against her with the compulsion of his mind reintegrating itself. Feeling the physical impact of the shatter echo through his body, Black Swan’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as she came so close to coming undone. His breath pouring down her neck was so sweet, tickling her skin and clenching his erection still inside.
Finally his body collapsed, spent. Instead of pulling away and rolling to lay on his back, Elias hugged her against him, pressing his cheek against her collarbones, hearing her blood rush. Taking a moment to rest, he curled into her, feeling his cock bottom out in her depths, the memokeeper sighed deeply and parsed through the most recent memories.
“Goddess suits you.” Were the first words he said now that he was back to his senses, propping himself up on his elbows and admiring her flushed face. Inside her only the very entrance of her beautiful cunt gripped at his base, it was almost enough to distract him. “You are an ephemeral being worthy of worship.”
“Welcome back, darling.” Black Swan always got a little high watching her lover’s eyes change and shift with recognition at the end of each shatter. Seeing his light widen and brighten at the mere sight of her, remembering just how happy they are together. Illuminating the room like a newly born star, his infectious smile plagued Black Swan while he touched her cheeks. “You walked across Mirror Lake today.”
“I did, you helped me,” he laughed, sitting back on his knees and moving her legs to spread wide, massaging her thighs where knots from their love making would no doubt form. “You should wear that skirt more often, especially if you want me to conquer my acrophobia.”
“You liked that?” A little disappointed that he seemed spent, Black Swan allowed Elias to pull away from her, granted with some difficulty as her body refused to let him free. His stuttered gasp as Reca finally lay back on the bed, wrapping his fingers around his adamant erection to soak up her juices.
“I didn’t realize that positive reinforcement was all it took,” he teased, licking at his fingers like a beast lapping up honey. Both of them shuddered at the other’s reaction, but before they could crawl back into each other, an indignant croak sounded from the dresser.
“Yes, Mira,” the memokeeper laughed, approaching the Assistant Director and scooping her up, brushing the tip of his nose against her beret. “You played your part beautifully, as always.”
“What happened to grinding your bones into dust to make me happy?” Black Swan asked, pouting sarcastically as Reca swooped her up and carried her - with some difficulty - back to their bedroom. Every time his knees threatened to buckle, realizing that he was not as strong as he wished he was, Black Swan would laugh and try to work out of his arms to climb the rest of the way. He wouldn’t have that, eventually he finished the ascent and helped Black Swan into the bathtub.
“That still holds true,” he assured her, using a fine washcloth to suds her body, his other hand already reaching to finish the job. “Except we do have eternity, and I don’t wish to rush your pleasure.” Leaning in to listen better for her sighs, he pressed a wicked smile against her forehead. “I still want to be deserving of you, after all.”
It was a little strange to have him be the one exacting aftercare on Black Swan - after all he had been to forget hundreds of lifetime’s of memories. Except the afterglow of knowing that she’d always been his made him exceptionally loving. Compelled to double down on his devotion to her, Reca cradled her through a final, exquisite orgasm. His own climax would gladly wait as he grit his teeth through the tingling sensation as his fingers lost feeling inside Black Swan. Holding their heads together and staring deep into her eyes as she came, the bath water splashing up and over onto the floor as she convulsed.
“Fuck,” was all she could gasp as he helped her to stand outside of the bathtub. Flourishing a robe around her shoulders, he knotted it tight and bent her down to kiss him, working his fingers through her wet waves.
“Is that right?” Elias asked teasingly, pulling the blankets tight so that her staggered praises could be warm against them.
“I missed you,” she managed with one more satisfied huff, pulling herself against his naked chest and tracing those magic sigils into his skin. This time, instead of splitting his awareness in twain and spilling out secrets, they made Elias’ skin light up in pastel auroras that complimented the glow of Mirror Lake in the distance. “Can we watch the movie in bed?”
“Right now?” Reca asked with false exasperation, already commanding Mira to light up the opposite wall.
Before the couple spun the raw footage of Elias’ arrival and check in at Pier Point, dropping his bags in front of an industrial themed dresser. Leaning over into the mirror, he was examining himself, pulling his fingers over the wrinkles and shadows. It was a side of himself that Elias Reca barely knew, and even now he leaned down to whisper into Black Swan’s hair, “am I really that vain?”
Giggling at his corny jab, she wound her fingers into the Memokeeper’s side, moving in so close that all she could smell when she inhaled was the remnants of his cologne. It - he - smelt like home. “That and more, wait until you see the view from the rooftops.”
