with tender tongue undo me

Vizaeth tips his head back with a sigh as Rhylfein’s lips ghost across his pulse. His quarters are dim and quiet, faint candlelight dancing over their skin—he wants to be naked already, but Rhylfein won't be rushed. Making him wait is part of the fun. Vizaeth schools himself to stillness even as a hot tongue licks a stripe up his neck. The more he squirms, the slower he gets what he wants. Rhylfein nips his ear.

“Turn around.”

He does so, uncaring how eager he seems in the motion. With a single tug, Rhylfein pulls free his sash and sends his robes to fall in a dark puddle around his feet. Every thin, scarred inch of him comes under scrutiny, as it does every time he exposes himself this way. Even without a knife, Rhylfein cuts him open, though it’s never judgement in those crimson eyes. The look is more like hunger. Like greed. Like his ruined flesh is something Rhylfein craves with the same desperation he once craved Pharaun’s flawless skin.

The corner of Rhylfein’s mouth ticks up. He takes Vizaeth’s hands and sets them at the fastenings of his own robes.

“Undress me.”

“Make me.”

The smirk becomes a grin becomes a growl. Rhylfein tackles him to the bed, his kiss rough and full of teeth, gripping Vizaeth’s wrists tight where they’re pinned above his head.

“Brat.”

“Fuck me.”

“Do as you’re told and maybe I will.”

A sharp, hot wire springs to life between them as Vizaeth unhooks and unfastens each button and clasp—if he doesn’t obey, it will slice through him, carve him into desperate, unsatisfied pieces. Beneath his archaic layers, Rhylfein is as slight as ever, yet that wire renders him enormous. It’s not that he’s of House Dyrr—such ranking falls away when they’re together like this—but that there’s something in him, in his blood perhaps, or embedded in his flesh, that elevates him. Exalts him. Vizaeth reaches for the laces of his breeches, the final barrier between them, but Rhylfein catches his wrist.

“Tell me.”

“I already told you.”

“In more than two words.” He strokes slow circles on the inside of Vizaeth’s wrist with one thumb. “Come on, Thaezyr, put that vicious tongue to use. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“You can do better than that. How?”

“I don’t care, I just want you to fuck me.” Vizaeth tries to pull his hand free, to no avail. “Rhylfein—”

“I want to hear you say it.”

His face heats. For some reason, Rhylfein likes forcing him to give voice to his desires, to make decisions as if they’re equal parts of this equation. It’s ridiculous, like a priestess asking if the knife has a preference as to where it enters the offering’s heart.

“I want…I want you to lie behind me and fuck me.” Patient silence, that hot wire tight around his ribs. “And to keep hold of me. And touch me.”

“Where?”

“You know where—”

“Where?”

It comes out a whisper. “My cock.”

Rhylfein finally releases him. “There. Was that so hard?”

Vizaeth doesn’t answer, just hurries to unfasten the laces. Skin on skin, things are easier. Touch is so much simpler than words.

Rhylfein holds him tight, and it’s strange how good it feels to be restrained. To know he can’t get away, that right now this is what’s happening, this is the only thing that’s happening. He hooks his leg back over Rhylfein’s to allow the other boy to press into him in a slow-burning stretch that puts white fire in his head, and swallows his moan. He doesn’t need another variation of whore carved into his door—and it’s always his door, because no-one dares to try it on the short-tempered scion of House Dyrr. Said scion bites the muscle of his neck.

“If I wanted to get off in silence, I’d go use my hand.” He rocks his hips and Vizaeth cries out as he hits deep. The teeth are replaced by soothing lips. “Good boy, that’s more like it.”

A choked, desperate sound claws its way out of his throat at the words, a cataclysm given voice. He scrabbles at the arm across his chest. Rhylfein tightens his grip.

“Oh, I felt that. Not letting you go, pretty boy, not when you sing so sweet for me.”

Vizaeth writhes, digging his nails into Rhylfein’s arm so deep they leave dark gouges. Rhylfein runs his fingers along the centre-line of his scar, all the way down over his stomach to wrap around his cock.

“Good boy,” he purrs again. Vizaeth keens, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “Look how good you take it, so hard for me, and so wet—damn, handsome, look at that.”

He raises slick fingers to Vizaeth’s lips. Vizaeth takes them all the way to the back of his tongue, and Rhylfein chuckles.

“Tastes good when you’re enjoying yourself, doesn’t it? Want me to keep touching you?”

All he can do is whimper a plea around Rhylfein’s fingers. They slip free of his mouth and return to his cock, strokes matched to the roll of Rhylfein’s hips. Every time he moans—good boy. He’s beyond his body, attached to nothing but the endless murmur of Rhylfein’s voice. Fire in his chest, bones cold and brittle, hollow and full of boiling desperation—he can’t take much more of this.

“My pretty boy, you fuck so good.”

“Rhyl…Rhylfein, please…”

He can’t get his breath. The bed creaks as Rhylfein fucks into him faster, chasing the same high he’s terrifyingly close to.

“I love it when you beg. Your voice is perfect.” Rhylfein kisses along his jaw, hot and breathless and messy. His grip on Vizaeth’s cock tightens. Vizaeth makes a strangled noise, struggling for freedom at the same time as he bucks his hips into the friction. Rhylfein kisses his shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The tears come with the climax; he can’t stop it, can’t control it. Rhylfein, wrapped up in his own orgasm, doesn’t realise what’s happening at first. As soon as he does, he pulls Vizaeth around, hands fluttering at his face, his shoulders, brow creased, mouth tense.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you like it? If you didn’t like it, why didn’t you tell me to stop!” All Vizaeth can do is choke on incoherent sobs, ugly and raw. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to, I swear—Viz, I’m sorry.”

His stomach aches. No, deeper than that; the hard, dark place in the centre of him hurts, a hollow of gristle and bone and bad memories. He curls into himself, and Rhylfein draws him close, up against the warmth of his chest, still asking what’s wrong and what answer can he give? He’s not good, he’s not perfect, he’s not beautiful—he’s a patchwork of scars and necromancy posing as a boy and if Rhylfein knew how he got this body, he wouldn’t want to fuck it, he’d want to destroy it.

He doesn’t know how long he lays like that, in the awful black behind his eyes and the undeserved comfort of Rhylfein’s arms. He’s detached. Unmoored. Maybe his not-quite-fixed magic has come undone again. Is this what it feels like when your soul unravels?

“I’m sorry,” Rhylfein says again, soft into his hair.

“Why? You got what you wanted.”

“Not if it hurt you, idiot.” Rhylfein takes his chin and makes him look up. “I won’t talk to you like that again, I guess.”

A tightness clutches Vizaeth’s chest. “No, you…I…I want…”

Rhylfein brushes a thumb across his lips.

“Tell me.”

“I want you to do it again.”

“Make you cry, or…?”

No-one’s ever looked at him the way Rhylfein’s looking at him right now, like they care about his answer. Fresh tears spill from his traitorous eyes.

“Tell me I’m good.”

The kiss tastes of saltwater. He’s a drowning child, clinging to Rhylfein with shaking hands. It’s pathetic, but despite what a mess he is, Rhylfein doesn’t stop touching him, and every motion carries with it a strange absolution. He’s not bled at all. Is it possible for such forgiveness to be real without a sacrifice?

“Hey.” Rhylfein kisses the corner of his mouth. “Feel better, pretty boy?”

All he can do is nod. Rhylfein smiles that lopsided, cocky smile that makes his heart thud too hard, and wipes a dark smear of tear-streaked makeup from his cheek. “Want me to stay?”

“You’re not allowed.” His voice comes out charred, a rasp in the back of his throat. “Your cousin—”

“Oh, fuck it if I get caught with you again. Nenrina can throw a tantrum about it if she wants, I don’t care.” He draws Vizaeth to him and settles his chin atop his head. “I’m staying in your bed tonight. You got a problem with that?”

They're so close he can hear Rhylfein’s heartbeat. Feel it thudding in his own chest. They don't run in time, but rather alternate beats, sound curved into sound. He wraps his arms around Rhylfein’s waist.

Rhylfein laughs softly. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Reverie comes blank and blissful. His dreams, though empty, have the strangest, most unfamiliar feeling to them, and it’s only when he wakes that he remembers the name for it.

Safety.