happy birthday to @thiswasinevitableid! this is too short and self-indulgent to be a birthday present
--
Vincent Capra’s father was dead, and Apollo was in South Carolina.
He woke up in a rented beach house, between someone else’s sheets. He moved slowly, so as not to disturb Vincent sleeping next to him, kissed Vincent’s temple and slipped out of bed. Vincent’s eyes had been dull ever since he’d gotten the call about his father.
Apollo put on his swimsuit and walked to the water, taking the long way to detour around the untouched dunes.
The wet sand at the waterline was hard under his feet. Cold spray needled his skin. He plunged into the water. A wave slammed him, bodily, and he slipped through it, hair drenched to his scalp, sucking in breaths of salty air before dunking his head underwater. He swam. The ocean felt like a living thing, a participant in his buoyancy, but only in the way a dog participates in a flea.
When his muscles were sore Apollo staggered out of the water again, teeth chattering, gooseflesh rising on his arms and legs. The current had pulled him a quarter of a mile down the beach, and he looked down the row of pastel beach houses to find the blue-painted one he was staying at.
He rinsed the sand off his feet on the white back porch. Then he slid open the back door, went inside, and ran himself a hot shower. He used the same shampoo he had brought from home, but the house was still strange, the white rag rug, the seafoam tiles, the wicker sofa, the painting of a sailboat in the kitchen.
Apollo dumped frozen fruit and yogurt into a blender for his breakfast.
Vincent had spent most of the past few days on the phone, trying to cancel his father’s credit cards and health insurance. In the evening Apollo made shrimp and grits and watched Vincent eat it slowly, like it tasted like sand, even though it didn’t. Apollo studied him as a concerned lover, but also as an alien being: Apollo could not imagine mourning a father. At least not like this.
This morning, Vincent emerged into the living room in sweatpants. In some ways, this was a rare treat, as Apollo’s gaze darted like a silver minnow to the bulge of his soft cock, but in other ways it was deeply concerning.
“Good morning,” said Vincent, sounding exhausted.
“Good morning,” said Apollo. Caspar Capra had died at 72, far too young and yet also (for Apollo) unimaginably old.
Vincent sat down at the kitchen table and drank his coffee in silence. “Little bird,” he said finally. “I’m not boring you, am I?”
“No. Never.” Apollo folded his hands in his lap. If time froze, I would sit here and stare at you until I starved.
An early christmas gift for @bellafarallones, based on a discussion we had on discord. This fill is NSFW.
“I hate you.”
“I hate you more.” Apollo rolls over in his bed to look at where Indrid is staring up at the ceiling from his own, “and I hope Santa burns all your gifts in the fireplace.”
At age eight, this is the most heart-rending threat he can think of, but Indrid turns his head to look at him, “You said he wasn’t real.”
“And he’s not. But father is.”
Indrid does not argue this point, so Apollo considers it won. They’ve been at each other's throats all week, for reasons they will not be able to articulate for several more years (eight for Indrid, twelve for Apollo). Tonight, Apollo kicked Indrid under the table at Christmas Eve dinner because he was talking too loud and father was starting to notice, and Indrid kicked back, so Apollo jabbed him in his ribs with his spoon and Indrid had startled and knocked his water all over the table.
His twin was sent to bed, and Apollo thought he had won, that his father could see how good he was, and then he had to go and try to investigate the few presents under the tree and, in the process, sent several glass ornaments to the floor to shatter.
So here they lay, no dessert and only the gross, bland ham and potatoes to tide them over until morning. The party was over hours ago, and Apollo has more than once thought of sneaking down to the refrigerator. But father might catch him. Somehow. Maybe he can convince Indrid to do it.
“Indrid-”
“No” his brother hurls a pillow at him, “no, whatever it is, I will not do it.”
“You are such a baby.”
“I’m one minute younger! And you, you are a, a jerk.” Indrid rolls onto his side, back to Apollo, “I hate you, I hate this whole holiday, I hate it, hate it, hate it.”
“I hate it more.”
The windows blow open and both boys startle upright.
“There’s snow.” Apollo watches the flurry of white stick to his hand.
“It doesn’t snow here.” Indrid is doing the same thing while peering nervously out the window, “we should turn on the light. And close the windows.”
Apollo hops up to find the light switch. It stays dark no matter how many times he flips it.
“Stupid storm must have messed up the power.” He turns, “Bring me the flashlight from under my bed.”
“Get it your…your..” Indrid’s eyes go huge and he whispers, “Apollo, don’t move.”
Apollo turns to look in the doorway. There’s a massive, hooded shape, staring down at him with yellow eyes.
“Indrid and Apollo Cold” the monster rasps.
Apollo is not a baby, he should pick up the heaviest toy he can find and hit this thing with it.
He bolts to Indrid’s bed, his twin throwing the covers over them both.
“What is that?”
“I do not know, maybe it will go away if we stay quiet.” Indrid whispers.
Slow, heavy hoof-falls cross the floor. A tiny bit of moonlight makes its way in the window, enough for them to see the outline of the monster standing by the bed.
“I…am…Krampus. I visit…the bad…children. You have been…cruel…to each other. Ungrateful. Selfish.”
They both wince, and Indrid puts his arms around him.
“I am sorry, I do not really hate you, and I hope father gives the good Legos to you this year instead of me.”
Apollo cannot speak, simply nods to show he agrees, clinging to Indrid’s pajamas.
“This…is…a warning.” The creature murmurs, so close it must be under the covers with them.
Then they’re laying awake on Christmas Morning, the room exactly as it was.
From then on, no matter how bad things get between them, come December they enter into an unspoken truce. No insults, no fighting. It’s like when they were little.
The year Apollo turned 33, he took the wheel of his life in hand for the first, real time, and promptly steered the whole thing into the nearest rock.
He left his fathers company, cut contact as best he could, and found himself without a job, place to live, or purpose.
He got a job at the mall, at Tiffanys. Found an apartment. Turned his simmering, patricidal instincts into more time at the gym and Sunday mornings in the woods looking for birds and the occasional engineering project (“you have to have a hobby” Indrid had said, “you will be amazed at how much energy you have when you are not dealing with him”).
Then, last year, a week before Thanksgiving, he met Vincent.
“Excuse me, I was hoping you could give me some advice on a gift.”
Apollo turns to find an unremarkable man in a grey suit, lavender tie adding a tasteful pop of color. He’s a few inches shorter than him, appears to make decent money, and is going grey in a way that looks dashing instead of depressing.
He puts on his salesman smile, “I would be glad to. What are you looking for?”
“Earrings, ideally ones with some length. Elegant but understated.”
Apollo does not roll his eyes; has a man ever come in here wanting something subtle? Or flashy? No, they all want the same thing.
“Right this way. Are these for a wife, a daughter-”
“My sister” the man smiles, “she’s been promoted to C.O.O and I wanted to get her something to mark the occasion. Are there styles that are considered classic? She tends to favor ‘timeless pieces.’”
Apollo helps him choose a simple pair of simple drop earrings with pearls. The longer they talk, the more he swears he recognizes him, but he doesn’t know from where. Apollo hates not knowing things.
“This is an odd question, but do you work at the mall as well? I think we have met before.”
“My day job is in security. But on the weekends, you might have seen me there.” He tips his head toward where a poor facsimile of the North Pole is sitting at the center of the mall, “my father did it before me. I like keeping up the tradition.”
“I see.” Apollo cannot believe he spent the last twenty minutes helping a mall Santa.
“But let's just keep that between you and me.” Vincent winks as he takes his gift bag, and Apollo is forced to confront the fact that a mall Santa has very nice eyes.
Indeed, Vincent forced Apollo to confront a lot of things. Like his sexuality, which up until then he decided he could live with as long as he never acted on it (he took a match to that promise the first time Vincent kissed him and never looked back).
It’s been an exercise in the mortifying ordeal of being known. Yet Apollo does not resent it, the way he has in the past. He wants to know Vincent, and be known in turn, and he’s fairly certain that means he’s in love.
The December wind knocks the last leaves from the bushes as he hurries into Vincent’s apartment. Dulcinea, Vincent’s spaniel-adjacent dog, skitters down the hallway to greet him, and he picks her up.
“Hello, I know, it is only me. Vincent is working late. Yes, I hate whoever has caused that too, but we must persevere.”
He feeds her and takes her for a spin around the block, then considers the fridge and decides that once he has an E.T.A he will order something in for the both of them.
Vincent’s place has in-unit laundry, so Apollo busies himself with emptying the dryer and putting things away. Technically, they still live apart, but a whole drawer of the dresser is his to use, as is half the closet.
They really need to buy more hangers. He doesn’t have enough to get everything into place.
He pushes Vincent’s clothing carefully to the side, moving close to the back edge of the closet. Here’s his favorite goldenrod shirt, here’s the suit he wore this July when Apollo got promoted to store manage, here’s a massive, leather coat-
Apollo pauses, pulls the coat out into the room with him. It’s far, far too big for Vincent, the leather weather-beaten and lined with sumptuous, silver fur. He peers back into the closet, spies matching bag hidden in a corner.
“What on earth is this for, Dulce?”
The dog raises her head from the bed, tail wagging at her name.
“I am certain I can work it out. Maybe a costume? No, it is still too big for that. Did someone else leave it here? One of my predecessors?”
“Not quite, little bird.”
Apollo yelps, dropping the coat on the bed.
Vincent stands in the doorway, brows drawn in concern, “I’m a little glad you found it. There’s something I need to tell you. I’ve been waiting for the right time. Things are…serious enough between us that I hope you’ll stick around awhile. Which is why you need to know the truth.”
“Is something wrong?”
“You’ll have to tell me once you know. It may be a little startling so please try to stay calm. And, um” he blushes, “I’ll have to undress to show you so I don’t ruin my clothes.”
“Alright. Anything that starts with you undressing can't be all bad.” Apollo says with all the calm he can muster.
Vincent moves out the doorway to stand by the other side of the bed. He’s giving Apollo an escape if he needs it.
A wave of affection hits him, even as nerves well up intensely enough that he gathers Dulce in his arms for support.
Vincent pauses unbuckling his belt, “You may want to put her down.”
Apollo kisses the top of her head and sets her down, “Is something going to happen to her, too?”
“Yes, but nothing dangerous.” Vincent steps out of his underwear and takes a deep breath.
Then he’s gone, and in his place is a goatman, towering over Apollo. His fur is shaggy grey, his feet end in craggy hooves, curved horns sprout from its head, and he watches Apollo with glowing, yellow eyes.
He’s seen this before.
“You’re Krampus.” He’s eight again, hiding under the covers, he can feel himself shaking and has a horrible urge to hide his eyes.
“Yes, Apollo, I am.” It’s still Vincent’s voice, just deeper and with more of a growl to it, “Well, I’m a Krampus.”
“But you are still you?”
Vincent stays firmly on the other side of the bed and gives a slow nod, “Still me. My mind doesn’t really change. Not much, anyway. And no, I don’t actually kidnap children.”
A dozen thoughts flood his mind. The one that comes out is, “good, I don’t want kids.”
A soft laugh makes him relax; that’s Vincent's laugh, no question about it. Then he’s laughing too as a large, wet nose presses into his cheek. Dulce is huge and fluffy, with burning eyes and sharp teeth, and wagging her tail so hard it whams into the wall.
“Be careful, she still thinks she’s a lapdog.” Vincent rubs her flank, “she’s trapped me more than once.”
“She does that when she is small, too, because you are a pushover.”
“Very true. Though I’m not the one who made her a bespoke squirrel toy wind-up toy to chase around.” Vincent pats her again, “go to your mat, girl.”
The dog trots off, barely fitting through the door, and Apollo smiles at the thought of her trying to nap on her normal mat by the heater.
“You really aren’t scared?” Vincent cautiously steps forward.
“I…I am. A little. When Indrid and I were younger, something like you came on Christmas Eve. It was not the scariest moment of my childhood, but it made an impression.”
Vincent offers a hand and Apollo takes it. It’s rougher than usual, nails more like claws.
“You were never in any danger then; the worst we do to children is scare them. They’re young, they’re still learning. Adults may earn actual punishment, though a good scare works on most of them as well. More importantly” he brings their joined hands to his chest, “you’ll never be in any danger from me, in this form or any other.”
“I know.” And he does. A lifetime of proof against it, yet Vincent makes him believe he deserves to be safe. He spreads his fingers across a furred chest, “you are very soft like this.”
“You can touch me all you like. I can also change back if that would be better.”
“You do not need to. I, ah, I would like to get to know you in this form. After all, you have seen me at my most formidable and not flinched away.”
“You do have a knack for chasing off rude customers.” Vincent ushers them down onto the bed, letting Apollo rest comfortably on his chest. He chuckles, “it feels so strange. I’m never taller than you.”
“You are perfect no matter your height. But I do enjoy having to look up at you for once.”
“You’re sweet, little bird” Vincent kisses the top of his head, “good thing too, if you were bad I’d have to punish you.”
He’s joking, and it’s the fact that Apollo can be certain of that which makes him press closer, “How would you punish me?"
“Well, since you’re my darling boy, it wouldn’t be anything too bad. Maybe taking you over my knee for a minute or two.”
“Mmm, that does not sound unbearable.” He runs his fingers more deeply through the fur and Vincent groans happily.
“Have I doomed myself to spend every night like this so you can cuddle up and play with my fur?”
“Perhaps” Apollo grins and pets him more deliberately. Then he pauses, temporal math clicking into place in his head, “wait, if you are some kind of ancient winter spirit, does that mean your driver's license is fake?”
“I did take and pass my test. But if you mean the age on it, then yes. I’m considerably older than 45. Does that bother you?”
Apollo means to shake his head and simply say no. His accursed blood vessels give him away and Vincent spots the blush.
“Do you enjoy having a much older man wrapped around your finger?”
He nods, hiding his face in Vincent’s fur. Feels rough palms guide his right hand up so Vincent can kiss it.
“Good, because I enjoy being there. My Apollo.”
They lay there for awhile, Apollo idly playing with his fur while Vincent strokes his back and tells him about his day, then about how when he’s in this form, he feels more of an instinct toward justice, more of an impulse to deal out consequences for the misdeeds he views when brushing against people.
Were it anyone else talking about punishment so close to him in the darkness, where it was just him and them, especially someone so much bigger, he’d panic, lash out. But this is Vincent. Who doesn’t mock him for putting up his birdfeeders, who didn’t sneer when Apollo wore nail polish for the first time, who does so many things just to make him happy.
“You know” a pointed nail curves teasingly up his back, “Krampus can do rewards, too. It’s the season for them.” His hand skates over Apollo’s ass, then between his thighs, “and you seem to have one in mind.”
“In my defense, you are very attractive regardless of your form. And I feel…I feel so young like this. It’s exhilarating. Is that bad?”
“I don’t think so. Though I think my motives might be a tad selfish.” He gives Apollo’s ass a fond squeeze, “what do you want, darling boy?”
“I want…I want you to rent us a cabin somewhere. And I am there all alone and it is–wait, does Krampus have a holiday all his own?”
“Krampusnacht.”
“It’s Krampusnacht, and I am lonely and young and naive. And handsome, obviously.”
Vincent laughs, “Perhaps you've been so good that I can't help but take pity on a poor young man in his cold home?”
“Yes, yesyes, especially an innocent young man who clearly needs a lesson in the pleasures of the flesh.”
His boyfriend tips his face up to kiss him, “I’ll book us a cabin first thing tomorrow.”
Conveniently, being in charge of his Tiffanys’ branch means Apollo does not have to beg or plead for a weekend off. He can simply pack his nicest lounging around clothing and let Vincent whisk him away.
The cabin is an elegant A-Frame, the interior catering to those on Valentine's Day getaways and second honeymoons. Apollo spent most of his day sprawled on the couch by the fireplace, reading, his head in Vincent’s lap. After a brisk walk around the nearby pond, they settled right back into the cozy bedroom to watch a movie.
Now it’s dark, a storm is kicking up, and he hasn’t seen his boyfriend in over half an hour. That’s all according to plan. Now he just has to get as close to sleep as he can with this much excitement thudding in his chest.
Apollo curls up under the blankets, grateful that the sheets are a pleasant flannel instead of an awful one. He’s in his underwear, but the bedding is so nice he barely feels the chill.
The warmth makes him doze. He’s nearly asleep when the lights all go out at once, leaving only the firelight to make sense of the shadows in the corners of the room.
He has a moment of genuine alarm when the bedroom door creaks open and a shadow blocks any remaining light from the living room. The room grows colder, the fire dims, and Apollo hides further under the covers just on instinct.
Purposeful hoofsteps cross the wooden floor, and then the covers are drawn back from his head.
Vincent stares down at him. Only his eyes are visible beneath the hood, and filled with an animal gleam, “Mmm, I was so hoping this house would have a lovely surprise waiting for me.”
“Please don’t hurt me, I promise I have been good.” Apollo’s voice sounds pathetically childish, even as he leans toward Vincent instead of away.
“I'm not here to do you any harm. My colleagues are not the only ones who can give gifts to the deserving” he lifts his head enough that Apollo can see the predatory grin beneath the cloak, “ you seem like you could use someone to help you keep warm on this long, cold night.”
He bites his lip, aiming for an innocence he has never possessed, “I have been cold… are you going to give me a magical blanket, or a hot water bottle or something?”
“Or something, yes. It's a very long night for me. I deserve a reward as well.”
Apollo squeaks when Vincent pulls back the covers to get into bed with him, but his boyfriend pins him in place with a gaze.
“Oh yes, now there's a sight for sore eyes.”
“Really?”
“Really. I like pretty things.” Vincent shrugs out of his robe, “you are very pretty. Now, are you going to be a good boy for me?”
He nods.
“Take these off” Vincent draws a finger along the front of his boxer briefs, “let me see my gift.”
Apollo does his best to wiggle alluringly as he tugs the fabric free. Vincent is naked, must have worn nothing under the cloak, and all the clever roleplay lines Apollo rehearsed in his head about how virginal and inexperienced he is die on his tongue. There’s no denying the creature staring down at him is strange. But it is undeniably Vincent, and so he brings his hands up to pet soft-furred cheeks.
“Something you want to say, little bird?”
“I have never done this before.” It’s not a lie; in all the times they’ve had sex, Vincent’s never been in this form.
“Lucky me, then, to get to introduce you to it.” Vincent scoots back down the bed and dips his head, and Apollo flops gracelessly back as he takes his cock into his mouth. He’d been expecting to be pinned, for Vincent to take him right away, so all he can do is weakly buck his hips as Vincent swallows him to the root.
“Ah! What, what a large mouth you have.” God he could slap himself for how he sounds sometimes.
Vincent raises his head and smiles, “All the better to tease you with” before licking a stripe up the shaft, “tell me, sweet boy, do you ever touch yourself?”
“N-no. I am good, I would never do such a thing.”
A low, rich chuckle, “No? You never lay in bed and imagine someone kissing you here” he sucks the tip of Apollo’s cock, “or touching you here?” The pad of his thumb presses against Apollo’s ass.
He whines, shaking his head.
“A pity. There’s no harm in it, and a pretty thing like you deserves to enjoy himself.” Vincent intersperses his words with more kisses to Apollo’s cock, “do you like your present?”
“Very much.” Giddiness bubbles up in his chest and he giggles, “you ought to have, have gift-wrapped yourself, or perhaps put bows on your horns.” He reaches down and takes a horn in either hand. They’re smoother than he expected, and he holds them tight as Vincent lovingly sucks his cock with a satisfied hum.
“I suppose I could have.” Vincent sits back on his heels, “the next time I visit, I’ll come all wrapped in ribbon for my good boy. But now” he gently rolls Apollo onto his stomach, then guides him onto his knees, “I have a new toy I’d very much like to use.”
Apollo moans as the blunt head of Vincent’s cock pushes into him, digs his fingers into the sheet beneath him, “It’s so big.”
A flattered laugh, “It’s just proportional, sweetheart.”
“Do not argue with me, old goat, I am trying to flatter youAH” he yelps into the pillows, “I am familiar with what your dick feels like and this is, is, ohgod.”
Vincent laughs as the game falls away a moment, “A lot? Yes, darling, I know. Imagine how it feels from my end. My perfect Apollo, tight and hot around my cock and so good he’ll let me do whatever I please.”
Then his voice is a growl in Apollo’s ear, “including carry him off in my sack and keep him with me forever. Would you like that, sweet boy?”
When he had been younger, it was all he wanted some days. To be taken away from everything, no matter where. “S-someone might notice.”
“And if they did? No one would come to take you from me. They understand you’re mine, my beautiful new toy, my Apollo” his nails dig into Apollo’s hips, “I’ll keep you wrapped in furs, warm and well-fed, safe no matter how dark and cold it gets, and you’ll be so good for me in return, won’t you?”
“Yes”
“Good boy” his movements are wilder than Apollo’s ever felt, and he lets himself be carried away by the sensation of Vincent draped over him, dwarfing him as his cock hits his prostate over and over again.
He cums with a whimper and Vincent kisses the shell of his ear, “That’s it, sweetheart, enjoy yourself, I’ll see to it that my gift to myself never wants for anything again” a bite instead of a kiss, “as long as he remembers who he belongs to.”
Apollo whines his name and arches into him as his boyfriend cums with a long, gratified groan.
“Are you alright?” Vincent murmurs, gingerly pulling out and letting Apollo collapse into his arms.
“Incredible.” He nestles closer, fumbles the blanket up to cover them.
“I wasn’t too intimidating? You know I’d never keep you prisoner.”
“I do” Apollo shifts upward so they’re face to face, “I never...I never felt like I could experience wonder. Or fear. In a way that was safe. You let me do both, and so much more, and I could thank you everyday and it would still never be enough. I…I love you.”
“I love you too, little bird.” Vincent cards his fingers into Apollo’s hair, “knowing you feel the same is the best gift you could give me.”
A belated birthday gift to @bellafarallones2 based on something we discussed on discord!
Apollo is not cut out to be an uncle. But at least he did not have to become a father.
It happened like this: when he and his brother, Indrid, were twenty-two, they were summoned to the throne room by their father. They were not alone, which was lucky as the look in the king's eyes was the kind that seldom bode well for their wellbeing.
“Would either of you care to explain this?” His father pointed to one of the four other people in the room, a young noblewoman holding a bundle in her arms.
“Oh dear.” Indrid murmured as she turned the bundle to reveal the face peering out of it.
“She claims the father was a Cold.”
“The features are unmistakably that of this house. As were those of the gentleman I met at the midsummer ball nine months ago.” The woman’s voice is not afraid, just tired. Apollo supposes she is beautiful.
Not as much as he supposes his brother holds no interest in women. And he certainly would not take someone he barely knew to bed. For starters, they could easily murder him while there, not to mention the fact that most people become attached after such things and the last thing he needs is dead weight following him about.
He glances at his twin, meeting his eyes behind those garish red glasses he wears. They are seldom of one mind about things. Maybe if Indrid was actually sensible, they’d have agreed on something since the age of twelve.
They agree on what must be done.
“He is mine.” Indrid steps forward, bowing to the woman, “I apologize, both for any distress this has caused you and for the fact that I was so outside my senses I cannot recall your name.”
“Clara.” She curtsies.
“I suppose this calls for a wed-”
“No.” Their father cuts Indrid off, “I have made plain I will not have some common noblewoman on the throne beside you when my time comes.”
Apollo smirks at the anger on Clara, her father, and her guards' faces.
“But her father wishes to marry her off without offspring in tow. So the boy will stay here and be raised as an heir. He is, after all, of our bloodline. No one will question it if they know what is good for them.”
“Understood.” Indrid offers his arms, “I can take him.”
Clara looks down at the silk-enrobed bundle, pathetic tears in her eyes, “Goodbye, Orion. Be good for your father.”
Just over three years have passed. For the first of them Apollo never saw the brat at all; he was in the care of a nursemaid, with Indrid spending a truly confusing amount of time with him. Gradually, he’d appear in the gardens, first in Indrid’s arms or, later, toddling between him and his bulldogish brick of a knight.
Apollo takes it as proof father likes him best that he assigned Sir Capra as his personal knight instead. Vincent is the only person who does not bore Apollo to tears or fill him with a desire to gouge their eyes out, is going grey at thirty-three in a way that he wears strikingly well. He is also, much to Apollo’s annoyance, nowhere to be found.
Indeed, the castle seems rather empty; ah yes, there’s some silly solar eclipse. Vincent asked if he wanted the knight to accompany him to a viewing. Apollo had snorted and said he had better things to do.
The trouble is, he has now done them. His father is not as omnipotent as he once was, but Apollo still fears being caught idle.
Something warm closes around his legs and his hand goes for his dagger.
“Dada!” Orion looks up from where he’s hugging Apollo’s knees.
“I am not my brother. I look nothing like him! I am far more attractive!”
“Uncle!” The word is a bit mushy in that little mouth. More worryingly, it does not cause the little leech to release him.
“What do you want?”
It sounded more demanding and less panicked in his head.
“Play blocks!”
“Then go play with the wretched things and leave me in peace!”
The boy frowns, then begins tugging on Apollo’s robe, stubby little nails tearing at the golden embroidery on the hem, “Blocks.”
“As soon as we get to them I am locking you in.” He mutters, following the urchin down the hall. He could just pull away and leave him to cry on the floor, but the noise is so horrible and he is not in the mood for a headache.
They reach the playroom, and Apollo calls out for Vincent once, in case the knight returned early. The Capras are a large family, and the older man thinks nothing of bouncing Orion on his knee or crouching to speak with him if they cross paths in the garden.
“Make a tower.” Orion says, more to himself than Apollo. He’s seated on the floor, surrounded by beautifully smooth, birch blocks. Apollo sits picking up a triangular one to study it; this is the same set he and Indrid played with as boys. He remembers the feel of them, the smell of opening the toy chest, wood warmed by the sun.
The playroom has changed since then. No longer drab, no longer stuffed with portraits of kings long dead. Instead, each of the four walls is painted to match a time of day; dawn, afternoon, dusk, and night. Orion’s back is to the night wall, making him look as if friendly hedgehogs are convening on him from the painted grass.
Apollo’s heart twinges and he wills his ribs to close around it, crush it. The boy is an impediment on the way to the throne. He must not become attached to him, see him as anything more than a potential tool or bargaining chip.
Orion is stacking rectangles haphazardly. They keep falling down after six or so block, and he’s huffing and pouting at them more each time.
“If you want it to be taller, you must widen the base. Honestly, did my brother teach you nothing?”
Orion cocks his head,confused.
Apollo sighs, removing his outer robe and rolling up his sleeves, “Watch closely.”
He starts with two rows of ten, then of nine, then eight, the boy gradually disappearing behind them the taller they get. When he’s hit the top rows, Orion stands and wanders around to join him, eyes wide and smile bright.
“There. See how much more stable this is? I could make it as tall as I please using the same principle.” He glances at the boy, “why do you want it to be tall in the first place? A small stack of blocks is no impressive feat of engineering.”
“Dragon.”
“Excuse me?”
Orion picks up a stuffed dragon from the floor and lets out a piercing yell as he rams it into the tower. The bricks fall in a clatter, the boy laughing uproariously the whole time.
Apollo wants to be furious. As it is he is confused, first by the action and then by the emotion it stirs in him.
He remembers taking turns with Indrid to knock the blocks down, the two of them seeing if a troll at the bottom or dragon at the top made the bigger disaster.
“Again!” Orion claps his hands together.
“You really are a little monster, aren’t you.” Apollo mutters, but does not feel the venom he meant to put into the words.
Orion drums his hands on his knees and then crawls over to watch the construction. Apollo widens the base more, making the structure more a true pyramid.
“There, it would take you a siege engine to destroy that.”
His nephew accepts the challenge, ramming the dragon into it and sending the blocks cascading once more.
“Again!”
“Very well. But this time, you must assist me.”
The eclipse comes and goes and neither of them notice it, moving from destroying the towers many times over to seeing if they can build a fortress for the conquering dragon out of the wreckage.
Apollo figures that is teaching the boy the realities of war, in case any asks him why he was wasting his time in such pursuit.s
Footfalls hurry down the tiled hallway and the door flies open. Indrid stands in it, his knight behind him.
“Oh thank goodness.”
“Dada!” Orion runs as fast as little legs allow and hugs first Indrid, then Duck.
“I am so sorry my treasured one, there was a mix up and no one came to watch you.”
“Yes” Apollo stands, draping his robe over his arm, “the foolish child though I was you and waylaid me when I was looking for Vincent.”
“If you laid so much as a finger on him-” Indrid bites.
“Dragon attacked the castle!” Orion yells gleefully, then turns to Apollo, making grabbing hands in the hair, “up? I dragon now?”
“It…seems you got along.” His brother still looks ready to break his fingers, which would be admirable were it not unnecessary.
“Indeed. I taught him the finer points of defense construction. Now that you have returned, I can turn my attention to more important things.”
Indrid scoops the boy into his arms, “Thank you. For watching him.”
Apollo turns, pulling on his robe, “Just do not expect me too again.”
He’s not sulking. Sulking is what one does when one is upset, and Apollo is not upset. Vincent being out on a date with someone from the city does not upset him in the slightest.
A stuffed dragon lands on his face and he growls, whipping his head to the side.
Orion, on tip toe, is peering at him over the edge of the bed.
“Play dragons?” The boy seems to sense his mood and is already looking like he regrets throwing the toy onto him.
He picks it up. It would be pleasant to rip the head off.
Then again, perhaps his nephew will let him take a turn as the beast, and he can knock some blocks over himself. That would be supremely satisfying.
After that, the boy seeks him out nearly daily, slipping from under the watchful eye of knights and nannies to demand Apollo enable his dragon-based havoc.
He learns that “Be dragon” means Orion wants him to lay on his back and balance him on his feet, holding his hands as needed so he can pretend he is flying. He decides to use the moments to discuss the finer points of offensive attacks, as well as taking an enemy by surprise. He doubts the boy takes much in, too busy giggling and roaring, but surely no one will think twice about once prince preparing another to lead armies.
One day, he finds his nephew has been given a small, felt sword. This results in Apollo being given the dragon toy, then chased about the room by the small knight. When he is caught, he takes to falling about dramatically, bemoaning his fate, cursing his luck. Orion thinks it is hilarious.
“Now” he says after a particularly drawn-out death scene, his eyes still closed, “you must remember, little drake, to check that your enemies are thoroughly vanquished. Indeed, your great great great great grandfather was brought low when his enemy faked his death andAH”
Orion’s means of checking whether he’s dead turns out to be hurling his whole body onto Apollo’s torso and hugging him. He’s laughing as he does. Apollo puts his arms around him, laughing as well.
The truth is not often an easy thing to handle. His father insists it is often the harshest things that are true.
Apollo knows two of them at once.
One: Orion is now the second person other than himself he would truly die for.
Two: he will never harm this boy. Even if Apollo tries for the throne, he will find some other way.
The door creaks open and he sits up, Orion still in his arms.
“Hello your highness” Vincent smiles at Orion, “and your other highness.”
“You saw nothing.” He cannot bear the thought of someone like Vincent thinking him soft, thinking him weak.
“If you insist. But I must say, that is a pity. If I saw what I thought I did, it made me happy to see.”
“Ah.” Apollo looks at his nephew as the boy waves at Vincent.
“Indeed, since his father and knight are at a function, and his night attendant is delayed, I was coming to offer to read him a story until bed.”
Orion shrieks in excitement and hurries toward the bedroom. It takes some coaxing and bargaining to get him to change into his pajamas, but the two of them–if he’s honest, mostly Vincent–get him settled into bed.
He should leave, but when Vincent pats the space on the other side of him, he sits down on the soft, butterfly-patterned comforter, shoulder to shoulder with his knight.
Apollo is not cut out to be an uncle. But he’s certainly starting to enjoy it.
Second place of the "First Rodeo" prompt poll was "Greener Pastures. For those who don't know, Apollo was introduced in this Amnesty Superhero AU. Thank you to @bellafarallones2 for playing in this space on Discord!
He was star of the rodeos but now they rob him blind
It took 18 years of Brahma Bulls and life on the line
To get this spread and decent herd but now he spends his time
Pulling night guard.
-Stan Rogers, Night Guard
“How many does that make?” Duck stands from where he’s examining the tire tracks at the southern end of the pasture.
“Seven.” Vincent removes his hat, fanning himself with it, “If they get anymore I’m in serious trouble. The car’s paid off but the house isn’t; I’ve already been to the bank once to explain the situation and they’re not happy.”
His neighbor stands, knees cracking worryingly for a man who’s only 32, “Cops got anythin’?”
“Nothing. I’m small potatoes, Duck, they don’t care about one old rancher losing his herd.” He sighs, “I’ve been on watch every night this week, but there’s too much distance to cover, and they know it. They got the last one out from under me.”
“You want me to help? Might go better with more eye’s on ‘em.”
Vincent considers it. He’s known Duck since he was 16, knows the offer of help isn’t given if it’s not meant.
But if this goes wrong, his friend doesn’t deserve to be hauled into jail with him.
“I’ll think about it. I have a plan tonight; if that doesn’t work, I might just take you up that offer.”
Vincent leaves a pile of windfalls from Duck’s orchard in the southwest corner of his property, and the cows can’t resist, munching happily as Vincent uses the scant oak trees for cover.
The black R.E.O pulls in silently, lights off. Dulce stomps her feet when the tires stop, but Vincent shushes her softly, petting a flank to keep her calm.
Two figures, the same size and height, leave the cab, ushering one of his heifers into the back of the truck. He can’t move just yet. He needs the proof.
As the truck begins pulling away, he pulls his Winchester from the scabbard on the saddle, takes aim, and fires four shots.
The cattle scatter, panicked, and Dulce nickers, alarmed. There’s two, responding bangs as two tires blow, sending the truck careening side to side before the driver loses control and plows headfirst into an empty drainage ditch. The passenger door flies open and one figure takes off across the road and into the neighboring field.
As Dulce trots over to the wreck, he hears another truck coming. The lights from Duck’s pick-up render the whole sight like a scene from a picture show, and the vehicle is barely stopped before the younger man is hopping out.
“Jesus fuckin christ, Vince, you scared the hell outta me. Thought you’d gone and got shot.”
“I’m alright. I worried the driver might not be. I didn’t aim anywhere near him, but I only got two tires with four shots.”
Duck hops down into the ditch as Vincent shines his flashlight on the door. When it opens, a figure is slumped over the wheel, and his heart climbs up his throat. Then the rustler stirs, groaning, and looks at Duck. His angular face is partially hidden by red glasses, and his pale hair is almost white.
“Hello.” The thief’s gaze moves from Duck to Vincent, then to the rifle, “Ah. I see. I understand my position is not an ideal one, and my bargaining power low, but I would appreciate it if you did not shoot me.”
Blood is running down his chin; he must have hit his nose in the crash. He looks more like a dazed deer than a threat.
“Get him into the house and get my cow back to the herd.” Vincent jerks his light in the direction the other man ran, “I’ll deal with that one.”
Duck nods and Vincent turns Dulce into the starlit night.
The second thief has made it a decent distance, but he’s only heading in the direction of more flat grass and so Vincent does him the courtesy of calling, “You may as well stop now. You won’t outrun me.”
He doesn’t stop, seems to try to sprint, only to fall a moment later. Vincent can hear him cursing the entire time he rides up.
When he dismounts, the man looks up, unafraid and sneering.
Vincent puts the barrel against his throat.
“The safety is on.”
“I know.” He sighs, “I’m not actually going to shoot you. But I need you to understand the gravity of the situation.”
The grin widens, “Coward.”
“Get up.” Vincent stands back so the man can climb to his feet. He seems unsteady on them, though it’s not until his hands are tied and Dulce is kneeling for him to get on that Vincent understands why; his ankle is sprained, though he’s been walking around on it without wincing this whole time.
The short walk back to the house is a litany of insults to his weight, age, intelligence, cleanliness, and parentage. Were it any other day, he’d be able to let it roll off him, remind himself that he’s not interested in the opinions of cruel people.
Were it any other day, he wouldn’t have spent the morning in the bank, staring down the loss of everything he nearly broke his back for.
The rustler thrashes and twists as Vincent helps him down, clearly trying to make a break for the ditch, or possibly for Vincent’s own truck. By the time they burst through the front door, he’s holding the boy by the scruff.
Duck is just hanging up the phone, and both he and the other thief jump at the bang of the windowpane on the door. The thief is holding a frozen bag of peas to his forehead, and in the light of the kitchen Vincent can now see he and the man trying to kick his legs out from under him must be twins.
“Apollo, for heaven’s sake, stop that. Hurting them is not going to do anything but make this hole deeper.”
“I will not be cowed by some fat, old man!”
“Be quiet.” Vincent turns to Duck, “was that the sheriff?”
“Yep.” Duck leans against the wall, frowning, “but he says he won’t send anyone out to pick ‘em up. When Indrid here gave me their names, that made a little more sense. These are Cold’s boys.” He glares at Apollo, “why they’re stealin from decent folk when their pa owns half the fuckin county is fuckin beyond me.”
“It is a long story. But I did tell you they would not send anyone; you needn’t have troubled with the call.”
“You ain’t exactly proved yourself the honest type.”
Indrid bites his lip, “If our actions have caused a financial burden, perhaps we could work it off?”
“At least one of you has sense, and some manners.” Vincent releases Apollo, but keeps a hand on his shoulder.
Apollo flicks his blonde hair from his face, then sinks his teeth into the side of Vincent’s hand.
“God fucking–” he catches himself, doesn’t swing out with his other hand to slap him. Instead he shoves at his shoulder and tries to pull away, tries to pull Apollos hair, but all the man does is bite down harder.
“Fuck, is he part Gila Monster?” Duck tries to pry Apollo off with limited success
“That is certainly one theory.” Indrid pinches his brothers nose, and after ten seconds of spluttering the other twin finally releases Vincent’s now-bleeding hand.
“Traitor! We could have run just then if you’d hit this brick with something.” He kicks Duck in the ankle.
“I am not going back to him.” Indrid says to him with what Vincent is coming to understand as very reasonable fear.
“Coward. Traitorous, useless coward!” Apollo lunges at his brother, but this time Duck is ready with the dog leash from the front door, wrapping it around his wrists and trapping them behind his back.
Vincent hauls the still-thrashing brat into the spare room, muttering, “I ought to put you over my knee” under his breath as he slams the door and slumps against it in the kitchen. Duck is watching him with concern.
“I…I’m sorry you had to see that. I don’t like to lose my temper.”
“Apollo has that effect on people.” Indrid sits back down as Vincent washes his hand and fetches a bandage from the bathroom.
“You don’t think he might have rabies, do you?” He’s only half-joking.
Indrid shakes his head, “It would be nice if it could be explained so simply.” He fiddles with the corner of the now-thawed peas, “I truly am sorry. And I wish I could say that we–or, I suppose, he–will not do it again. But that would be a lie. Father has his reasons for demanding we do such things. Apollo might steer clear of Capra Farms, but he will find someone else’s livelihood to undermine.”
“So, what, we’re just supposed to keep him here like a fuckin lion in a zoo?”
“That may be our best choice. At least for now.” Vincent looks at Indrid, “Can you bale hay and pick fruit?”
Indrid nods, almost eager.
“Duck, I suggest you take this Mr. Cold up on his offer. You need more hands than I do. I’ll keep Apollo here with me for now; maybe once he’s calmed down he’ll see reason.”
And if not Vincent thinks I always was good at breaking in horses.
Knowing when to ignore things is a skill. If Apollo can apply it now, he can get himself out of this. He will ignore the pain in the ankle that fat old goat made him bandage himself. He will ignore Indrid’s betrayal. He will ignore the inexplicable surge of heat that came with his captor threatening to put him over his knee.
He will ignore it. He will bide his time. And then he will take back his car, steal anything and everything of value Vincent Capra owns, and go home.
Apollo supposes he could use the phone in the kitchen to call the cops to fetch him. But Capra has earned vengeance, and that will take time.
When the door to his little room, with its small but comfortable bed and shelf of old books, is finally unlocked, he does his best to walk un-hobbled into the kitchen.
“Good morning.” Vincent does not turn from the stove, where he’s scrambling eggs in the early morning light.
Apollo says nothing, simply sitting down and pouring himself coffee.
Vincent turns, setting a plate of toast next to jam and butter, and the bowl of eggs next to a little vase of wildflowers. Apollo realizes he did not, in fact, take the old man's place at the table; there are two settings laid out.
“I want to apologize for my behavior.” Apollo says with as much sincerity as he can conjure, “my brother had the right idea. I will help around your…farm. To pay back what I owe.”
“Thank you for your apology.” Vincent replies mildly. Then he pauses in buttering his toast, “I’m sorry for how I acted. I doubt you can understand what losing livestock means, but all the same I shouldn’t have threatened you.”
He sets the toast down and Apollo realizes; the old goat is embarrassed.
Pathetic.
“I hope we might be able to start fresh this morning. I have a few jobs you should be table to do without aggravating your ankle.” He holds out a hand, “do we have a deal?”
Vincent doesn’t trust Apollo any further than he can throw him–which, after that bull bucked him in 73 and hurt his back, isn’t far–but at least the younger man can follow directions.
He fed the chickens and collected eggs, cleaned dishes and milked the cow Vincent keeps just for that. He also got himself barked at by Quixote before Vincent whistled at the dog to follow him out to the pasture.
When Vincent sets dinner on the table, the younger man actually thanks him before helping himself to the meatloaf and green beans.
There’s a clink as Apollo sets the fork down, staring at his plate.
“Is everything alright?”
“Why are you doing this? How are you doing this?”
“This being…?” He fills his water glass.
“The food, old man.”
“I’m not about to let you starve, or make a separate, sad meal just to punish you. So, you eat what I eat.”
“But why does it taste so, so good?”
Apollo seems so perplexed Vincent stifles a laugh.
“Because that’s how food is supposed to taste. I may not be a rich man, but butter and salt and nice spices are some of life's little joys,”
“Ah.” Apollo says, understanding without grasping his reasoning.
Vincent assumed Apollo’s life was a luxurious one up until now. Now he wonders if the twins had been like prized stallions, kept too close and penned in for fear of losing their value, greener grass only seen when they were let loose to do their fathers bidding.
“If you want a real treat, I still have cherry preserves from Duck’s last harvest. Can you check the freezer? There may be some ice cream in there that it would top beautifully.”
Apollo balks at the order a moment, but still stands up and opens the door. When he turns and nods, it’s with a far more genuine smile than the one he gave this morning.
It takes five days for Apollo’s ankle to take his weight, and once it does Vincent puts him to work more concertedly. He spends all of Saturday fixing a stretch of barbed wire, comes in sore and sunburnt but flops into bed after dinner feeling…oddly pleased with himself.
Sunday morning finds biscuits and gravy in the kitchen, with Vincent telling him he needs to run into town for some supplies for dinner. Apparently, the older man observes the silly tradition of not working more than needed on Sundays.
When the truck pulls out, Apollo takes a test jog around the house, and looks over his damaged car. Unless he can lure a mechanic out here, he’ll have to take Vincent’s truck when he finally makes his run for it.
Climbing up the porch steps, he finds Indrid waiting for him with a suitcase.
“Duck drove me back to the house when I knew father would be gone. I got my things, and a few of yours.”
“Good. I’m sick of wearing these hideous hand me downs. The pants are all too short and the shirts all too wide.”
“I was also sent with this” Indrid lifts a basket of cherries, “it turns out Duck’s orchard is prize winning. He also sells hay to half the ranches in the county.”
“I do not care.”
Indrid sighs, “I know.”
“Is he mistreating you?”
“No” His brother looks horrified, “Duck has been wonderful to me. Especially given the circumstances under which we met.”
“Oh. good.”
“Try not to sound so disappointed.” Indrid steps down, past him.
“I am not. Now go away. Vincent will be back soon and I want to sweep the house before he is.” He ignores how that sounds and wills Indrid to do the same. His brother cocks his head slightly, but says nothing else as he starts back up the road.
Vincent returns just as Apollo is tossing out the last of the dust and throwing a stick for Quixote to fetch. Dinner is pork chops, apple sauce, and onions cooked brown and sweet. Vincent sips his beer while Apollo sticks to an orange soda.
After their meal, Apollo is looking for something to read in the main bedroom when he notices the photo on the wall.
“That’s you.”
“After my first big win on the circuit. Two days later I put most of the prize money into the account that turned into this farm.”
“Ah.” Apollo feels something dangerously close to guilt.
“I do think I cut quite a figure back then.”
“Yes. Though you have only gotten better with age.”
It’s the kind of compliment that soothes the egos of little men who nonetheless have something the Colds need. Only when it’s out does he understand he means it. The Vincent in the picture, dark haired and beaming, dust on his cheeks, is handsome. The man beside him, grey haired, with more weight to him and more lines on his face, is stunning.
Vincent chuckles, accepting the compliment but not believing it.
“I…I was going to sit. On the porch. To watch the fireflies and…and maybe see if I could spot the owl who has been calling. Would you like to join me?”
Why is it so hard to ask? Why does it seem to take a thousand years for Vincent to answer?
Apollo is kneeling by the fireplace. It’s snowing outside, and Vincent sits in the chair before him, fully clothed, firelight making him look like a painting, like the statues of great men in the museums Apollo went to as a child.
The rifle is on his lap and he shifts the barrel out over his knees. Apollo leans forward, taking it into his mouth and sucking. Vincent murmurs that he’s doing well, that he’s so very pretty like this. The gun is not loaded, this he is certain of. Even if it was, he is certain he would not be afraid. It is safe like this, comforting, and as it always does the dream melts into the two of them in the fields, grass green as Vincent takes him into his arms.
He wakes up to the smell of coffee and toast, the way he has every morning for the last three weeks. Apollo is no fool; he knows what his dream means. Knows that every insistence to himself that he did not like men has been a lie, perhaps even the longest lie of his life. He also knows that his brother was kissing that silly cherry grower by the western fence last night.
If Indrid, odd and unappealing as he is, can make someone kiss him, surely Apollo can do the same.
They’re fixing the barn door today; it was knocked off its hinges by a bad summer storm. The chore passes uneventfully, the two of them discussing whether to go into town for a movie on Sunday, when Vincent’s jeans catch on a nail, ripping a hole in the thigh.
“That was close.” The older man checks to be certain there’s no injury, “thank goodness I wore the thickest pair.”
Apollo nods, eyes on the patch of now-exposed skin. There is a tattoo there. An arm and something green, he thinks.
Vincent has a tattoo. And if Apollo does not get a full look at it soon, he is certain he will lose his mind.
It’s been hot enough that, were it anyone else but Apollo, Vincent would assume the suggestion of a swim was solely due to the weather.
But he knows his Apollo. There is always an ulterior motive.
He scolds himself as they arrive at the swimming hole; Apollo isn’t his. He’s working off a debt, and one day he’ll fly off somewhere new, either by mutual agreement or by stealing everything Vincent owns.
That option should worry him more, but it’s hard to view Apollo as a threat when the hardened cattle rustler is animatedly talking about the heron they saw on their walk here while trying to get out of his clothes.
He strips down and climbs into the water as Apollo is distracted by a hawk overhead. When the younger man sees he’s already in, he looks almost annoyed. Vincent does avert his eyes as Apollo tosses his underwear away; he’s swam naked with plenty of friends, but he’s certain Apollo has not done the same. He doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable.
That worry evaporates when the blonde stands directly next to him, looking down with an intensity Vincent is trying not to read too much into.
Then Apollo huffs, grabs his leg, and sends him backwards into the water.
He twists away and comes up spluttering.
“Hold still!”
“Apollo, what on earth-”
“What part of hold still was unclear, old man?” Apollo grabs for his leg again.
“What are you trying to do?”
“See your tattoo. I need to know what it is of!”
“Asking is preferable to drowning me.” His exasperation is fond as he sets his leg on a rock so Apollo can see the blonde merman inked into his skin.
“It’s…it’s a man.” Apollo blinks, tilting his head.
“Yes. He wasn’t cheap, so please don’t insult him.”
“Do you like blondes?” Apollo’s eyes flick to his face, then back to the tattoo.
“It’s been known to happen.” Vincent lowers his leg back down so he’s standing comfortably.
“Blonde…men?”
“Yes, Apollo.” He says patiently, amused that his clever ranch hand seems so stymied.
“As in you like men to have sex with? While also being a man?”
“That's generally how it works.” He takes a step forward as Apollo goes stiff and faces him like he’s expecting execution.
“I think I would like to have sex. With you. Because I have been having dreams that are about your gun. And sucking on it. When it’s not loaded.”
“Oh, my gun is always loaded.” He teases.
Apollo looks alarmed.
“That was a sex joke.” He says reassuringly, and hazards putting his arms around Apollo’s waist.
“Oh. Ha. Ha?”
Were he being charming, being bold, Vincent would fear this was all an act. But the awkward shyness of it all leaves no doubt in his mind as to what the man in his arms is after.
“You’re an odd little bird, Apollo Cold.” He strokes an angular cheek.
“And that is a good thing?” Apollo sets his hands on Vincent’s shoulders.
“I certainly like it.” He tilts his chin up,meaning only to offer the invitation, but Apollo is instantly kissing him. It’s painfully, endearingly inexperienced, and the younger man seems to know it.
“I, I have not done this before. I am sorry if I am bad at it.” He takes Vincent's hand and kisses over the skin still a little pink from the healed bite.
“You’ve picked up plenty of skills on my farm. I think you’ll manage this one.”
Apollo grins, bright and breathtaking as a sunrise, “I may need a bit more practice. Though I would prefer somewhere less damp.”
Vincent climbs from the water and helps Apollo up after him, enjoying the way his cheeks redden when he’s eye level with his cock. Then he fetches the blanket they brought, lays it out in the shade of a tree, and lays down with his lover in the soft, green grass
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: older man/younger man - Relationship
Characters: motel owner who put hidden cameras in the rooms, motel guest who is honestly into it
Additional Tags: Age Difference, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Hotels, Masturbation, Video Cameras, Dildos, Explicit Sexual Content
Summary:
For years before he built the Oasis Motel, Vincent could think of nothing else but how badly he wanted to watch people like this, have them not give him a second look afterwards, not knowing he’d seen them showering or undressing for bed or making love. He thought he'd do it every night, at every opportunity.
But then he actually became a motel operator and found he didn't have the time. He made enough money to hire help, but he couldn’t risk letting anyone find out about the cameras, so he was on his own. An endless cycle of laundry, cleaning, repairing or replacing all the many things that broke, and filling out order forms for tiny soaps. When he touched himself at all, it was in his own bed, fantasizing, just like he’d done before he bought the motel in the first place.
An early christmas present to @bellafarallones2, set after the events of The Thrilling Adventures of the Green Knight
“We’re so glad you’ll be with us again!” Mrs. Williams tucks Vincent’s volunteer contract away in her desk, “you’re always very popular with the kids.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” His watch chimes 8:00 am, “I have to go to work. I’ll keep an eye out for your email come October?”
“Exactly.” She walks him to the office door with a wink “and as always, your secret is safe with us.”
The Tilden Shopping center is on the other side of town from The Bureau of Hero Oversight, and as he feared the late summer heat means some of the local villains are even more irritable. That means a traffic jam just on the edge of downtown as several members of the Pine Guard zoom past in pursuit of Baron Thorne. Vincent hopes for the villain’s sake that Indrid isn’t among them; even since he dropped a building on Duck, The Moth considers Baron Thorne his sworn enemy.
He’s just glad that Indrid’s self-appointed sworn enemy isn’t getting out any time soon.
“I’m surprised you want me for this.” Vincent stares at the security screens and the one way glass that has him looking down on the cell of Apollo Cold, AKA The Flame.
“We’re learning the hard way that we need an agent with the right temperament to deal with him. And it has to be one, so he can’t play us off each other.” Director Stern sighs, running a hand over his hair. Vincent swears that grey in it only appeared after he was promoted, which happens to be the same time Apollo was brought in.
“Can I ask what you mean by that?”
“Even-tempered. Hard to rattle. Used to dealing with obnoxious men who think they know everything. All things that training-in starter agents prepared you for. After all, you dealt with my know-it-all self just fine.” Director Stern rests a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, “more than that, call it…call it a hunch. We’ve worked together all these, and I know the kind of man you are, Agent Capra. That’s why I trust you with this.”
“That means a lot.” Vincent smiles at him, “anything else I should know?”
“He’s got half the staff convinced he’s psychic.”
“How?” Vincent manages to not sound too alarmed
“My suspicion is a combination of prior research, cold reading, educated guesses, and luck. Indrid confirmed he’s lying, though of course he insists he developed powers after Indrid ‘deserted’ them.” Joseph’s phone buzzes and he sighs as he takes it out, “treat him like a T.V psychic and you should be safe.”
“Understood.”
Vincent spends an hour reading over all the information Stern left him, then decides it’s time to introduce himself.
It’s a short staircase down, then a reinforced door–the only way in or out–to an empty, well lit room. Apollo’s cell is made of the kind of glass they use to keep tigers from eating toddlers at zoos, with no privacy save for a small bathroom, and furnished with a bed, a tablet with limited permissions, and nothing else. It’s grim, but from the notes it’s also the last resort since Apollo kept turning anything else they gave him into a weapon.
Currently, the villain is sitting on the bed, watching Vincent approach with malevolent disinterest.
He stands calmly in front of the cell, “Hello, Apollo. I’m Agent Vincent Capra. Director Stern has assigned me to be the agent in charge of your care.”
“And why should I care about that?”
He shrugs, “You don’t have to care. It just felt polite to introduce myself face to face.”
“That makes you braver than the rest; they all hide up in their little cave” He tilts his head towards the control room, “Not that it will help them. They’re dead men regardless of whether I know their faces.”
Two months of being imprisoned hasn’t made him any less dramatic it seems.
“Tell me” Apollo studies his nails, “does it bother you? That a ‘know-it-all’ former pupil has surpassed you?”
The usage of the exact wording unnerves him, but all he says is, “Not at all. Director Stern was a co-agent for years and we know each other well. I’m very glad for his promotion.”
“I suppose you all feel it’s better him than you, as his death for his role in this will be far worse than if he were some disposable agent.” A smile, “I’m going to turn his boyfriend into a rug while they are both still alive.”
Vincent waits for him to finish.
A frown, “Nothing? Usually that at least earns me a wince. Maybe the old goat has something metal under all that fat after all.”
“You’re not my first villain, Apollo.”
The younger man rises, walks to the glass as he says, “You know, you remind me of my father.”
“You killed your father.” Vincent replies calmly.
Petulance breaks the surface of Apollo’s features, “I was going to say that.”
“I’m sorry to have stepped on your toes.” Vincent turns, “if you need anything, you where I’ll be.”
Apollo certainly did, and proceeded to hurl all manner of insults at him without warning, when he wasn’t busy detailing exactly how he’d murder Vincent and everyone he loved.
It’s been like that for a month and a half now, and they’re still no closer to working out how Apollo knows certain things. Indrid, in spite of tearing the control room apart, could not find a device or any other proof that his twin had managed to install some means of spying on them.
But his errand this morning gave Vincent an idea.
As he trades off with the night shift, he casually stands near a certain vent in the control room, that he was picking out a certain necklace for his niece’s birthday at a store that closed before he got off work, so he had to go ahead of time.
Then he reads over the notes from the night (“Cold sat on bed with back to camera for two solid hours, talking to himself”), covers up the vent, and then goes down to say good morning.
Apollo is laying on the bed, eyes closed, and Vincent is nearly turned around to let him sleep when a cool, self-satisfied voice says, “A necklace? How dull.”
“A funny thing about the necklace, Apollo” he leans closer to the glass, voice quieter, “I never bought it. I wasn’t anywhere near that store this morning.”
The villain’s eyes snap open and he turns his head toward him, “Liar.”
“Not at all. I was doing something much more secret than that. Something no one at the agency knows about”
“What kind of secrets could a ridiculous old goat like you have?” Curiosity lurks beneath dismissiveness.
“Surely you can tell me, since you claim you can know anything about us you choose.”
A pause, then, “You were paying off a parking ticket.”
“No.”
“Seeing a mistress.”
“Not even close.”
“You’re a hitman?”
“Goodness, no.” He doesn’t hide the laugh in time.
“Do not mock me!” Apollo is off the bed and snarling in his face in an instant, “I demand you tell me, this instant.”
“I don’t think I will. A man has to have his harmless little secrets.”
He returns to the booth, Apollo yelling curses after him. Then he clicks on the intercom and says, “I’m going to say it aloud in a moment. Then I’ll give you a last guess.”
Once he’s certain the mic is off, he stands by the vent and says, “I play Santa Clause at a mall.”
When he hits the intercom back on, Apollo pipes up, “You were shoplifting. I knew it all along.”
He shakes his head, pleased to have solved the mystery, “Not quite. But a good guess all the same.”
He can deal with the sinking feeling that his brother has, in fact, beaten him.
He can tolerate the endless sameness of his days, even laugh to himself and how pathetic that the agency thinks of this as a punishment.
But he will not tolerate Vincent Capra keeping a secret from him.
He’s been trying since last week to work it out, even went so far as to search “what do ordinary men keep secrets about” on his tablet, yet he’s no closer to an answer.
This morning he’s waiting, wrists cuffed through the electrified, hand-sized openings in his cell while some sniveling orderly speedily checks through his room for contraband. Vincent comes in just as the man finishes, wishing him a good morning before turning his attention on Apollo.
He must have been running late today; he still has a travel mug of coffee in hand.
“Gambling.”
A slight laugh, “Good morning to you too, Apollo. And no.” The cuffs buzz open and the holes in the cell close the instant he pulls his hands away, “I’ll be working on some reports today, but yell if you need me. Not that you have any trouble with doing that.”
He’s already turning towards the control room. Apollo does not want to lose his attention so soon; not because he cares about him–quite the contrary–but he’s not ready to go back to having his conversation options be someone who isn’t really there.
“Bird watching?”
Vincent pauses, “No, not that either. Though I suppose it’s one of your more reasonable guesses; birders usually go places early. Though I’m not sure if there are many exciting ones in the city.”
“You could go to the waterfront. It is on a flyway.”
He should really just cut out his tongue at this point.
“I didn’t take you for an amateur ornithologist.”
“I am not.”
Vincent sips his coffee, “What kind of bird would you be?”
“Eagle owl.” Forget his previous thought; ripping his tongue out would be more fitting. Right after he slices Vincent’s vocal cords one by one to stop him asking questions in that way that makes it so easy to answer honestly.
“That seems fitting. I’m not sure what I might be.”
Apollo studies him, then smirks, “A grouse. Plump and grey.”
The older man touches his hair, “I’m not all grey yet. And I think I wear it well.”
“The same cannot be said for your physique. Did you just stop trying once you were surrounded by heroes and saw how pathetic you looked?”
A sigh; not upset, just disappointed, “Some day, Apollo, I hope you can find joy in things other than insulting everyone you meet.”
He snorts, “Joy? Joy comes with triumph, with victory, with making your enemies crawl on bloodied palms for mercy you do not intend to grant. All things that are outside my reach. For now.”
“Was there really nothing else in your life that made you happy?” Confusingly, Vincent has stepped closer to the glass.
“No. Unlike my brother, I did not need pointless amusements or people. The work was enough.”
Silence, then Vincent’s brown eyes look at him with unnerving clarity, “Apollo, have you considered that you’re so desperate to know my secret because you’re bored and unhappy without the life you had?”
His traitor of a tongue says, quietly, “I would rather rip my own fingernails out than go another day without a goal.”
In another life, such a statement would have been met with someone handing him pliers and telling him to get to it. Instead, Vincent says, “I’ll see what I can do.”
The Christmas trees are already encroaching on Halloween decorations as Vincent makes his way through the store. It feels a little odd to be using the company credit card to buy toys, but Stern agreed that anything that kept Apollo occupied and calm was worth spending Bureau money on. Apparently he’d been refusing books on principle–what principle, Vincent cannot say–but Vincent downloaded some onto the tablet just to tide him over. When he left last night, Apollo was wholly engrossed in Guns, Germs, and Steel.
He’d kept interrupting Vincent’s work that day, which was not unusual. But this time, it was to read him passages, rather than insult him.
When he returns to work the next morning, Apollo moves toward him excitedly before catching himself and returning to his usual disdainful expression.
“What is in that package? Is it mine?”
“Ho, ho, ho” Vincent smiles as he slides the box into the cell.
Apollo blinks at him.
“Do…did you never learn about Santa Claus?” That would explain how he still hasn’t guessed Vincent’s secret.
“I know what he is. I simply do not understand why you are referencing him in September.” Apollo opens the box, removing the Gearball Brainteaser, “or why you have given me a toy.”
“It’s apparently difficult to solve.”
Apollo gives him a dismissive wave, as if shooing him away, “Child's play.”
With that, he sits on the floor and does not look up from the puzzle for several hours. When he does, it's with a triumphant smile as he shows the solved sphere to the camera.
Apollo is not surprised he’s dreaming of being a bird; he fell asleep after watching the live feed from the aquarium’s aviary. It is easier to let himself watch it, knowing Vincent will not mock or punish him for it.
The last time he dreamed of being a bird, he was ripping viscera from the belly of what was either his father or brother; the face was too destroyed to say.
This time, he is something small, a sparrow or warbler, huddling in tall grass. Without seeing it, he knows there's something hunting him. And rain is battering his feathers, he’s so cold and afraid and surely a flock is near, but if he calls for them, whatever is stalking him will pounce.
Warm hands scoop him up, tucking him into a breast pocket of a grey coat. He knows, in that way of knowing things in dreams, that it’s Vincent who has given him this soft, safe place to nest.
He wakes up nauseous, surely from the saccharine nature of the dream, rolls over in his blankets, and tries to pretend he’s still nestled in a pocket.
It turns out the nausea was not from the dream. It was from food poisoning
Someone at the bureau had been putting expired or otherwise tainted food into his meals. According to Vincent, they were summarily fired when Stern found out.
It was a rather devious way of harming him, and he intends to congratulate whoever came up with it right before he boils them alive.
He’s laying on the cold floor for relief from the fever, blanket in reach for when he gets chills, when Vincent appears at the glass.
“Do you need more water?”
“No. I am fine. This is barely discomfort.” He closes his eyes, “I am not some, some weakling who needs soup or medicine or whatever it is people with no tolerance for suffering and frail bodies require when ill.”
“My mother always insisted on ginger ale. I still crave it when I get sick” Vincent sits down in the chair he’s taken to keeping next to the cell, then chuckles, “my fathers mother was a firm believer in putting whiskey in tea for the ill, even for children.”
“That seems like a good way to murder a child accidentally.” Apollo forces himself to roll on his side so he can see him.
“I’m the baby of the family, so by the time I came along she knew not to do it to me. My eldest sister does recall being given a hot toddy at age five that put her to sleep for most of the day.” He rests his head back against the wall. He’s wearing a white and lavender tie today, and Apollo wants to rest his own head just below the knot of it.
He must be more delirious than he thought.
“My father would always read to us when we got sick. The Hobbit was a favorite of mine.”
“I have read that one” Apollo sits up, “my favorite part was when the dragon pours molten gold onto the dwarves who dared enter his lair.”
Vincent looks at him with surprise, “I think we read very different books.”
“Nono, I distinctly remember the cover and the title.”
“Was that a book that was read to you, by chance?”
“By father, when we were small. It is now occurring to me that he may have made the story different to impart the correct lesson. No one puts beheadings in books for children.”
“No, there are a few in there. But I think the ending is much happier than you’ve been lead to believe.” Vincent looks down at him, “would you like me to read it to you?”
“I am not a child!”
“And that’s not an answer.”
“Yes” he grumbles, “after all, you are functionally a servant. You should wait on me when I am ill.”
Vincent indicates the tablet, and Apollo grits his teeth to keep from throwing up as he stands and passes the device through. After a few taps, Vincent pulls reading glasses from his breast pocket, and begins.
“Why are you humming that?” Apollo looks up from his book at Vincent. He hadn’t even realized he was humming “Silver Bells” as he filled in his paperwork.
“I suppose I’m already in a festive mood. I know it’s barely November but I can’t help it; I love Christmas. Picking out presents, spending time with family, all the lights. Cheesy, I know.”
“Exceedingly.” Apollo says, lacking his usual venom.
“I imagine it wasn’t celebrated in Abbadon.”
“Of course not. No doubt my brother has taken up the practice all the same.”
It’s a harmless truth, so he says, “I did see that he’d already put up a tree.”
“To please his brick of a hero, one assumes.”
“He may just like it” Vincent chides gently, “you aren’t carbon copies of one another.”
“Do not be ridiculous. That muscle without a brain is the reason he’s no longer even a passable shadow of his former self. But I suppose he is clever all the same; he found a loyal, durable shield to protect him while he flits about.”
Vincent takes a deep breath before replying, “Maybe he’s just found a partner he trusts.”
“He had one.” Apollo snarls.
“I’m not certain he’d call what you two had as trust.”
The villain scoffs, then softens, “I suppose not.” He gets up from the soft chair they’ve allowed him, padding over to Vincent, “I do envy him for what he has now.”
“That’s a hard thing to admit, isn’t it” Vincent sets his work aside to stand and face him, “I’m proud of you for being able to.”
A finger traces on the glass, “We could have such an arrangement. If you freed me.”
“Apollo, you know I’m not going to do that.”
“Why not?” The younger man raises his voice, “you like me, I can tell.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you loose to hurt god knows how many people.”
“What do you care? You would be safe! You would be helping me and I, I would offer you protection. And glory.”
“Does that strike you as something I want?”
Apollo pauses, clearly considering the question. Amber eyes flame, and Vincent knows he’s worked out the right answer and doesn’t like it.
“Fine” He hisses, slamming a fist into the glass, “I was lying anyway, a dull old goat like you is of no use to me.”
“I’m going for the day, Apollo.” It’s a fight not to yell back, to not be upset as he wonders if any of the progress he thought he was making in connecting with the villain was all an illusion.
“Go on then! Leave! I do not care! And when I finally free myself, I won’t even bother killing you personally! You can die here with the rest of these rats like you deserve.”
With that, he stalks away, leaving Vincent to retreat to the control room.
“What do you mean not here?” Apollo glares at one of the cameras feeding to the control room.
“I mean he’s on another mission right now.” Stern says through the microphone, “and I’m not at liberty to say when he’ll return.”
“How can you send him on another mission? You know very well I am the greatest threat to the country, let alone the city.”
“Be that as it may, you’re also not the only threat here. Vincent was the right man for the assignment. There will be other agents assigned to your care in the meantime.”
“Bring Vincent back or I will-”
“Slice my face off while my family watches, yes, you’ve said as much.” The mic goes dead, and no one responds no matter how much Apollo curses at them.
Eventually he tires of that tactic and goes to sit on the bed, back to the camera.
“Another villain” he mutters, “if I had been an even more powerful threat, they would never send Vincent after anyone else. I would have him all to myself.”
The twin in his head replies, “And if you had never been a villain at all, you would have had the same.”
He tucks his legs to his chest. He’s not upset, he’s not, he is simply frustrated that the version of Indrid in his mind has been less cooperative of late.
And he is not at all pleased when the real version appears the next day for his monthly visit. Still, Indrid has information and he needs it, so he steps to the glass.
“Is Vincent dead?”
“No.” Indrid replies suspiciously quickly.
“Did they have you kill him?”
“No” His twin crosses his arms, “he’s on another mission. Assuming all goes well, you will see him again.”
“Liar.”
Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, “Apollo, we are not at Abbadon anymore. That kind of thing does not happen here.”
“Of course you think that, you are a coward and a traitor and one day you will remember what you were made for and I will laugh to learn you dismembered that hero of yours while he was still alive. And you will be all to blame for it, like old times.”
Indrid returns his snarl, the tell that the barb has lodged under his skin, “This! This is why they sent Vincent away!”
“Aha! I knew it!”
“Oh, really?” They’re toe to toe now, both acting as if the glass is not there, “you knew that your last conversation with him upset him, and that they decided it was wise to give him a break from you because no one deserves to be subjected to your company for as long as he has? And yet you think you value him enough for someone to see him as a prize to take away from you?”
“I do! He is, he is better than anyone else here! When he is nearby I do not-” He stops himself before he says something he regrets.
Indrid leans back from the glass, “You do not feel like you are trapped.”
“Damn you and your powers to whatever pit of hell is coldest.” He looks away, “once I am free, I will give him one more chance.”
His brother removes his glasses, tiredly rubbing his eyes, “You truly think that is the part of you he likes?”
The “yes” fails to form on his tongue. He knows it is a lie. Indrid knows it too. And so there is no point to it.
“You are not the Flame anymore. That persona, that life, is behind you and it is going to stay there. Every hero and half the villains in this city will fight to keep you from it. I will die before I let you take up that mantle again.” He slots his glasses back on his face, “eventually, you are going to have to decide who you are without it.”
With that, he leaves, tossing his usual goodbye over his shoulder.
“Indrid?”
His brother stops, but doesn’t turn to look his way.
“Do you promise he is still alive?”
“On whatever honor either of us still has, I promise he is.”
Apollo rests his forehead against the glass, relieved, “Thank you.”
Indrid turns, surprised, but says “you are welcome” all the same.
Technically, Vincent’s mission ended a week ago, but Stern insisted he take a week of vacation before returning to work. Which is why he’s reading up on Apollo’s doings at eleven at night on Christmas Eve.
Cold spoke to Director Stern about possible community service.
Well that’s certainly unexpected.
Cold has begun doing remote service identifying labels for screen readers and entering data from trail cameras for public lands.
Vincent flips forward; Apollo kept that up even after being told that they really didn’t know when Vincent would be returning to his post here.
Cold continues engaging with staff less than previously. Interactions are neutral rather than hostile 70% of the time.
He checks the monitor, having told the agent on the night shift that she should get some dinner and he could watch Apollo for a while. The villain is on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
When Vincent steps from the control room door, bag in hand, Apollo is to the glass with impressive speed.
“Vincent!” He reins in his excitement, “I see you have returned.”
“I sense I was missed.”
“I…yes. It turns out your company is superior to anyone else they assigned to me.” He looks at Vincent’s face, notices the bruise under his eye, and Vincent wonders if he’ll mock him for getting it or threaten the person who did it first.
“What happened?” His hand touches the glass, as if trying to examine Vincent’s injury.
“I was undercover as a butler for a young man who was trying to fashion himself into a villain. Deeply uncreative and not nearly as formidable as some people I could mention. Still, he wasn’t thrilled when he found out who I really was and there was a scuffle. I won.”
“I am glad. And I wanted to say that I am…I am” he closes his eyes and spits out, “sorry. For what I said the last time we spoke. I will do my best not to do it again.”
“Thank you for apologizing.”
Blonde hair falls into Apollo’s face as he cocks his head, “Why are you here so late?”
“Your Christmas present.” Vincent smiles, “would you like to know my secret.”
“Yes” Apollo’s eyes widen excitedly.
Vincent opens the bag, tipping it to show the red suit inside, “I’m a mall Santa for much of December. My father did it when I was growing up and I kept up the tradition.”
Apollo snickers, “You are full of surprises. Confusing, mundane surprises.”
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Vincent asks teasingly, “after all, it was your gift, not anyone else’s.”
The villain meets his eyes, expression softer than fresh snow and, for the first time Vincent can remember, free of machination.
“You have my word.” He slips his hand through the gap. Vincent doesn’t bother engaging the cuffs before taking it, intending to shake it. But clever fingers curl too closely, too awkwardly for a shake, as if Apollo is afraid he might slip away.
Vincent cups the hand between both his own, rubs a thumb along it gently as he murmurs, “Merry Christmas, Apollo.”
The villain smiles at him, warm and small, “Merry Christmas, Vincent.”
A belated mermay gift for @bellafarallones2 for creating such an excellent prompt list! Content note: the roleplay is based around getting someone to sleep with you by buying them presents, but everything is consensual and even in the roleplay everyone is clearly having fun.
The Sea Star is the nicest hotel on the coast; the patchwork of waterways for mer guests means it glitters at all hours of the day, and the gold and marble lobby signals to human visitors that this is a place for individuals of taste.
It’s all a bit much for Vincent. He loves his creature comforts, but the feeling since he checked in has reminded him of his days at the Department of Defense, when he’d meet with contractors in places where residents would prefer to shock anyone who dared to cross the threshold with less than a million dollars in their pocket.
But he’s not here for himself. Not exactly, anyway.
He’s spent his afternoon reading on the balcony of his suite, one where there’s a private elevator for the human guest and a private water column for any mers who wish to book it. At five thirty, he changes into his swim-trunks and descends to the first floor patio, where a postcard-blue pool winds between tables, some set into like a swim-up bar and others set into islands above it. Mer and human guests wade and swim, some chat at tables, and almost all have drinks in their hands.
He follows suit, ordering a glass of wine and choosing a table for two set within the water. It’s not long before a new mer emerges from the underwater gate to the pool. Blonde hair falls just above his shoulders, and amber eyes take in the scene with a detached curiosity. His chest is bare, showing off a toned, lithe frame, and a tail like a metallic lionfish.
It’s strange, he so seldom sees Apollo from a distance these days. When they’re together the mer always wants to be close to him. Even when Apollo puts on a charm to give himself legs and cuddles up to him in bed he demands to be closer.
Normally, Apollo would swim straight to him. Normally, Vincent would have already ordered him something sweet. But tonight isn’t a normal night. So he sips his drink and watches his boyfriend wind his way to the bar.
Vincent has always posed issues for Apollo’s self control.
When they met, it was a struggle not to roll his eyes at the singularly ordinary human, one of many who’d come to talk with the Colds about the terms of their control of Kepler Harbor. And he fought not to sneer when the old goat sat on the shore and spoke with him, seemingly uninterested in Apollo’s threats, charm, or outright flirtation.
Bullying and flattery did nothing. Yet somehow he would spend evenings talking with the human anyway. And to his shock, the human preferred their mundane conversations to having his ego stroked. Apollo would count the minutes until they could sit on the beach and converse.
Weeks later, when the negotiations ended and the humans returned to their homes, it was fight not weep into his pillow, frustrated at his own affection and loneliness. Vincent left him an invitation to visit; all it would take was a swim up river and the indignity of asking his brother to enchant him some legs to see if the human really wanted to see him again, or if Apollo had simply been outmaneuvered, tricked into feeling something like fondness for the sake of the negotiations.
He lost that battle with himself and turned up on a rather surprised Vincent’s doorstep.
So, it only seems fair that he has, at last, learned a way to remove some of his boyfriends self-control. Consensually.
A month ago, on their two year anniversary, they’d been laying on a luxuriously cushy pool chair in Vincent’s back yard when Vincent revealed something fascinating.
“You know, it’s not too late to go to dinner” Vincent kisses the top of his head where it’s resting on the human's chest.
“I have no interest in going out. Besides, I am still banned from two of the restaurants on the wharf.”
“Biting other patrons is generally frowned on.”
“He had the gall to flirt with me while you were right there! Where I come from, insults to mates are not permitted.”
“I appreciate that, but as we’ve discussed I prefer good manners from my dinner partners” he trails a finger down Apollo’s back, making him shiver, “I know how you feel about me, sweetheart. And at my age I don’t feel like wasting time with jealousy.”
“You are thirty-nine. That is barely middle age for humans.” Apollo wiggles his tail, contemplating whether he wants to be sincere. It’s still so foreign to him, “Even if you were not already mine, no other suitor could compare.”
Were he not laying atop him and studying his face, Apollo would miss the little skip of breath, the slight shift in Vincent’s smile.
He cocks his head, “Do you like that idea?”
“I like the thought that I’d be lucky enough to get your attention a second time.” Vincent reaches for his wine glass, but Apollo pushes it back onto the table as he slides himself up so they’re face to face.
“What are you hiding, old man?” He rubs their cheeks together and purrs, “you can tell me. You know all I want is to make you happy. To be good for you.”
“Apollo” there’s a bit of a groan in the reply, and his human is blushing.
“Is it something to do with winning me away from others? Should I flirt the next time we are out just so you can pull me into some dark corner and show me I belong to you?”
The blush deepens. It’s rare for his human to look so beautifully flustered.
“It’s…it’s not just the thought of being able to show off that you’re mine.”
“Oh?” He rests his arms on Vincent’s chest and kisses his jaw, then pauses, “are you embarrassed?”
“A bit.”
“Surely nothing you will say is more humiliating than what I have confessed to you in the past.”
“I like the idea of us pretending to be strangers. And of me…buying your attention to a degree. But not just your attention. I get you back to my room while you’re all wide eyed and innocent, but you are willing to do whatever I want because I offer you shiny, expensive things and” he covers his eyes, chuckling, “gracious, listen to me. I sound like a dirty old man.”
Apollo takes his hand and meets his eyes, “No. You are brilliant. We should do that.”
“We don’t have to, it’s not really a side of myself I’ve ever indulged…”
Apollo nips his palm, “Then it is high time we start.”
This conversation is why he musters all his self-control and chooses a seat by himself at the pool bar, rather than swimming straight to the human. It isn’t long before another human wades over, swim trunks a hideous orange that mirrors his fake tan.
“Mind if I sit here?”
He does. Very much.
“Not at all. I, I have never been here before. Have you?”
“Few times” The man is in his space far too quickly, nattering on about his previous trips and how he first found out about human/mer hotels from his work as an advertising executive. He barely asks Apollo a thing, and if he gets an inch closer Apollo will need all his strength to keep from decking him.
After five minutes of smiling and “oohing,” a mer waiter sets a drink on the table in front of Apollo. There’s a pineapple slice and sugar dusted on the rim, and it smells delicious.
“From the gentleman over at the end of the bar.” The waiter inclines his head at Vincent, who lifts his glass in hello when Apollo glances his way.
“He’s invited you to join him.” The waiter’s tone suggests Vincent gave him a nice tip to act as a go between.
“You really wanna go hang out with that fat old load?” The other man says this loud enough that Vincent must hear it.
Rather than bite off a finger, Apollo simply says, “Yes” and swims to the bar.
Vincent waits for him to take his seat before smiling, “I’m glad my gambit worked. I’ve wanted your attention since you swam in.”
“Thank you for the drink” Apollo sips and purrs, “ohhh, oh that’s wonderful.”
“I made sure they made it with top-shelf champagne. I think you deserve it.” Vincent sips his white wine, smile perfectly friendly. It’s his eyes that Apollo watches, the glint in them far hungrier than usual. Almost greedy.
“That’s very nice of you.”
“I overheard you telling our friend” Vincent indicates the still-fuming ad-man, “that this is your first time in a place like this. How do you like it?”
It’s the perfect opening for his back-story, which he practiced this morning in the mirror while Vincent was picking out postcards in the lobby. He tells Vincent this is his first time away from his reef, that he’s wanted to come somewhere like this for so long, and that he’s a bit nervous traveling on his own away from his family (his initial version had a doting set of parents who’d told him to be careful but he couldn’t imagine it well enough to make the lie convincing).
The story seems to entertain Vincent, which makes pretending to be wide-eyed and foolish very gratifying.
He finishes his drink and sighs, “I wish I could order another. But money is rather hard to come by these days.” He bats his eyelashes at the human.
“I’m happy to buy you another. Or” he sets his hand atop Apollo’s, “you could join me in my room. I can make us cocktails, and you can order whatever you like from room service.”
“We hardly know each other…” Apollo bites his lip.
“I’m harmless, I promise. A ‘fat old load’ couldn’t do much to a stunning young mer like you.I’m also in the Poseidon suite, if a hot tub all our own and a stunning view for two sweetens the deal.”
“You can afford that?”
“I can afford a lot of things.” Vincent polishes off his drink, “shall we?”
Apollo loops their arms together, “Lead the way.”
They have to separate at the elevators, Apollo swimming up, up, up the private water column to the mer entrance to their room. The whole place is a masterwork of engineering and enchantment, water weaving through the floor or up into suspended ribbons. When he arrives, Vincent is just pulling on his robe, so he swims to the spot nearest the hot tub.
Before Apollo can say his clever, naive-sounding comment of wonder, the human moves to him and takes his hand.
“Is this still alright? We don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”
“I do, very much. I want to see what you have planned.” He rubs their cheeks together and adds, softly, “I trust you.”
Satisfied, Vincent steps back and gestures to the tub, “it’s already warm. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll join you momentarily.”
Apollo hops the divider into the bubbling water; it’s a nice, gentle burble, not that horrific, loud, insistent roiling that some hot tubs have. It always feels bad on his skin when he gets too close to those jets. This, however, is heavenly.
Vincent returns with a plate of fresh fruit and two, plastic champagne flutes, and they make small talk about their stays until he joins Apollo in the water and hands him a glass.
“I have never been in a place like this.” Apollo lies, “it’s wonderful, but isn’t it a bit large for you all on your own. It must get a bit lonely.”
“A little” Vincent runs his foot up Apollo’s tail, “but I don’t mind. I like expensive things. Like you.”
“I, I am not expensive!”
“No?” Vincent sets the glass aside and leans into his space, “so if asked to see what’s under those stunning scales, you’d let me without a second thought?”
“No.” Apollo swims backwards and crosses his arms, “I am not that kind of mer.”
The human stays put with a knowing smile, “I thought as much. What if I gave you, oh, the hundred dollars in my wallet?”
In spite of knowing the offer is part of the game, the feathered spines of his tail rise in indignation, “There are plenty of other mers here who do that. You could have just found one of them if this was what you wanted you, you fat, gray, dull seabird of a human!”
“I don’t want one of them. I want you.”
“Well, you cannot have me. Goodbye.” Apollo swims for the end of the tub. He assumes Vincent is going to grab him, and anxiety rises in his chest when he doesn’t. Is Apollo doing so poor a job at the game that Vincent has lost interest?
“What about a nice day out, tomorrow? You said you had a human form. Surely you could use some new things to wear.”
Apollo turns; Vincent still hasn’t moved.
“All I have to do is let you look?”
Vincent nods.
“Swear it.”
“I promise that if you give me the chance to appreciate your handsome figure, I will buy you anything you want tomorrow.”
He pretends to think about it, then swims to one of the shallower seats in the tub so that most of him will be visible above water.
“Good boy.” Vincent wades to him, eyeing him appreciatively, “your name is fitting; you’re divinity incarnate.”
He purrs and lifts his tail for further admiration.
“Such a striking mix of colors. I’ve never seen a mer with a tail half as beautiful and strong.” A warm hand pets up the center of it and Apollo wriggles happily before remembering what he’s supposed to be doing.
Slapping Vincent’s hand away, he hisses, “You said you’d only look.”
A sigh, “So I did. But you’re so perfect, I can’t really help myself. Do you see that box over on the nightstand?”
Apollo nods; it wasn’t there when he left this morning.
“It’s a pair of Celestron binoculars. I hear they’re top-rated when it comes to birdwatching.”
“You are the most perfect man ever. I, ah, I mean” he clears his throat, “if I let you touch me, I can have them.”
“Exactly.”
“Very well.” Apollo rests his wrists in two indents in the tile, knowing that when Vincent presses a small button in a nearby stone, two cuffs will close around them. He trills in alarm all the same.
“There’s no need to fuss, sweetheart. I just don’t want you deciding to snatch the box and swim off without honoring our deal.” Vincent’s hands are already on him, feeling him up from every angle. There are possessive gropes to his tail and hungry glides up his chest and he purrs when a stroke up his face ends in a tug of his hair; Vincent is usually tender with him, and it’s taken many, many conversations and the agony of being known for Apollo to admit that he wouldn’t mind a little roughness now and then if they can figure out how to do it without reminding him of the bad old days.
Another tug, followed immediately by a kiss on the cheek and a murmur of, “perfect boy.” He trills softly so Vincent knows he’s on the right track and lets himself relax. He can do that now that he has Vincent; close his eyes or turn his back and know that the person closest to him will take care of him when he does.
After a deliciously long time, the demanding caresses concentrate on the patch of scales hiding his cock.
Apollo squeaks, tries to pull his tail away, but the scales are already rippling open, revealing the narrow, flexible appendage and the slit beneath it, meant only for laying in.
Vincent shakes his head with an indulgent smile, leaves the tub, and returns with his hands behind his back.
“Here, I think you’ll like this.”
Apollo’s eyes widen as the present appears. It’s a latticework of diamonds and tiny pearls, forming into a necklace that, when Vincent clasps it into place, hangs across his chest like waves breaking on the shore. It’s the height of mer fashion and he’s had his eye on it for months.
“Let me guess: if I want this I have to let you…fuck me.”
“Now you’re catching on, clever boy.”
“Al-alright.” He bites his lip as Vincent straddles his tail, “just be gentle. I haven’t done this before.”
“No?” Vincent grinds against his scales, bulge growing in his swim trunks as he smiles teasingly, “just how old are you, sweetheart?”
“Nineteen.” He’s not sure what compels him to knock eleven years off his age, but one look at Vincent’s expression tells him it was the right move. He didn’t know humans could look feral.
“Well, then, darling, let me tell you something very important about all this.” He leans forward, growling in Apollo’s ear (he never growls, this is wonderful), “when you’re tied up in the room someone else paid for, you don’t actually get a say in how it goes.”
Vincent shoves his cock in all at once and Apollo trills, thrashing the end of his tail, “I, I thought you were going to use my cock!”
“Why? I’ve got a perfectly decent one right here and you’ve got a tight little hole that was just made for it.”
“That’s, that’s only for other mers! Not for humans. You can’t do anything useful with it.” He moans as as Vincent rests his knees on the bench, functionally pinning the mer to the wall and the seat as he fucks him.
“Are you sure?” He thrusts harder, “that doesn’t feel even a little bit good.”
“Nono, it, it feels wonderfulAH.”
A smug smile, “That’s what I thought.” He kisses Apollo roughly, “money isn’t the only thing I have going for me sweetheart.”
“Cl-clearly oh, ohyes.”
“I’ll make you a deal” Vincent slows, chuckling when Apollo whines and tries to prod him with his tail to go faster, “You can keep me company for as long as you want, and I’ll take good care of you. All you have to do is let me use this gorgeous tail whenever I please” he runs a thumb over Apollo’s parted lips, “and this, now that I think about it. I could get a nice blowjob every morning right here because I can hold your pretty face underwater and fuck it without you needing to breathe.”
“Vincentplease” He strains hard enough to bend a cuff, “please fuck me?”
“Alright, alright, demanding boy.” Vincent kisses him again and drives into him, raking his hands up his sides before yanking him into an even deeper kiss that lasts until the human cums in him with a groan.
Apollo is so close, and if Vincent would only touch his cock he knows he’d cum. Instead, they both look at where Apollo’s cock has been rutting against Vincent’s belly.
“Come on sweetheart, let me see how much you want it.”
He whines helplessly and writhes under his human, tail thrashing and tensing as he chases his release against his skin.
“Mmmmf” Vincent tilts his head back, grey hair clinging to his face where Apollo splashed it, “nothing like watching a cute mer be so needy he’ll fuck a ‘fat, grey, old mans’ cum back into himself just to get off and get a few presents.”
“No, nono, you’re not that at all.” Apollo pushes his tail closer, orgasm circling in his gut, “you’re perfect and handsome and wonderful and I nearly downed that man for insulting you, also the grey is very dignified you know I love it and I, I, ahhhhhnnn” he cums with a trilling gasp. It’s so intense all he can do afterwards is float limply while Vincent undoes the cuffs and gets them both onto the edge of the pool.
“Well? Did I do it right? Was it what you wanted?” He flops into the humans arms.
Vincent kisses him, “It was better than I ever imagined. Thank you, sweetheart, for indulging me.”
“You are the only being on the planet I truly feel like indulging.”
The human snickers and pets his hair. What Apollo said was the truth, but not enough of it.
“Vincent? I love you.”
A flattered, fond smile, “I love you too, darling. Now, how about we order a picnic from room service and find somewhere for you to try those binoculars?”
