Chapter Text
Fenrir heard it in the way voices carried differently through the corridors — lighter, warmer, unguarded in a way they never were during working hours. Not that there was much conversation to begin with.
His colleagues weren't the talkative sort. The lab attracted a certain kind of person: quiet, contained, comfortable with isolation. People who'd traded connection for clearance, family for classified work.
A mix of nationalities, drawn here by the work rather than any sense of home. They moved through the space like satellites in separate orbits, intersecting only when necessary, maintaining professional distance even in moments that might have invited warmth.
Chairs scraped across floors as people gathered their things. A few nodded to each other in passing. Fewer still exchanged any words at all. No one mentioned plans for Christmas Eve. No one asked where anyone else was going. The silence felt deliberate, protective — as if acknowledging the holiday would mean acknowledging what they were all missing.
Fenrir wondered if they were alone too. If they'd go home to empty apartments and manufactured routines, pretending the day was no different from any other. Or maybe some of them preferred it that way. Maybe isolation had become so familiar that the thought of family gatherings felt foreign, uncomfortable, wrong.
He couldn't tell. He'd never asked. And no one had ever asked him.
The words that did drift past his workstation were sparse, professional. See you next week. Take care. Safe travels. Pleasantries that meant nothing, revealed nothing. Fenrir kept his eyes on his monitor, fingers moving across the keyboard in their usual rhythm, as if the data in front of him required his complete attention. It didn't.
He'd finished his assignments hours ago. But staying busy meant he didn't have to acknowledge the emptiness growing around him.
One by one, the lights in the neighboring stations blinked off. The hum of computers powering down created a strange silence, one that pressed against his ears and made his own breathing too loud. He glanced up once — just once — and caught someone walking past, coat already on, face carefully neutral. Not happy. Not sad. Just... leaving.
Fenrir looked away.
Christmas had always been important to Swedes. He remembered that from his childhood, from the years before everything became sterile labs and classified clearances. The traditions were sacred: the dinner table set with herring and ham, the gathering of his family around the tree, Donald Duck at three o'clock sharp.
Because that's what you did on Christmas Eve. It was about togetherness. About being with the people who knew you, who wanted you there.
He had none of that now.
The lab had taken it all — slowly, methodically, the way it took everything else. Relationships became security risks. Phone calls were monitored. Visitors were forbidden. Even casual friendships dissolved under the weight of secrecy and surveillance. Everyone here understood: the work came first, and the work demanded isolation.
But understanding something didn't make it hurt less. Fenrir felt like a single devotee in an empty chapel, kneeling on cold stone while everyone else had long since abandoned their faith. Praying to something that was always listening. Scraping his knees raw on indifference. Giving away pieces of himself to a deity that never promised anything in return — only the possibility of grace, if he was good enough, obedient enough, devoted enough.
And his deity had a name.
The thought of him sent a familiar ache through Fenrir's chest. Longing and fear braided together so tightly he couldn't separate them anymore.
Deimos was the closest thing he had to a connection, even if that connection looked nothing like what he'd once imagined love should be. Their arrangement had been going on for months now. Fenrir didn't know what to call it. Fuck buddies felt too casual, too mutual.
Because what they had wasn't mutual. It was worship, really — Fenrir on his knees, offering everything he had, while Deimos decided whether to bless him with tenderness or punish him with cruelty.
Four times a week, like clockwork. Like religious observance.
It didn't matter where: the lab after hours, the supply closet when the urge struck Deimos mid-shift, Fenrir's apartment when Deimos decided privacy was warranted. It didn't matter when: morning, afternoon, or late into the night; when exhaustion made Fenrir's thoughts sluggish and compliant.
What mattered was that Deimos wanted it, and Fenrir never said no.
He didn’t want to. Saying no to Deimos would be like a devotee refusing communion — unthinkable, heretical, a betrayal of the only thing that gave his life meaning.
One day, Deimos would cradle his face and murmur praise into his skin, would call him dove and dear and touch him like he was something precious. Those were the days Fenrir lived for — proof that his devotion meant something, that he'd pleased his deity enough to earn gentleness.
The next day, Deimos would have him on his knees, fingers twisted in his hair, calling him a desperate little thing who'd take anything he was given. Slut. Whore. Those were the days that broke something inside him, left him raw and hollow and aching.
Both versions felt true. Both versions left him aching.
The worst part was not knowing which one was real. Or if either of them were. Deimos was a cipher, unreadable even after months of intimacy. Fenrir had seen him tender and vicious, controlled and hungry, but he'd never seen him vulnerable. Never seen past the mask to whatever lay beneath.
Was there even anything beneath? Or was Deimos exactly what he appeared to be: a deity without mortal weakness, beautiful and terrible in equal measure, dispensing mercy and punishment according to laws Fenrir would never understand?
He wanted to believe in the tenderness. Wanted to believe that the soft words and careful touches were the truth, and the degradation was just... a test. A way to prove his faith. Every religion had its trials, after all. Every devotee had to prove their worth.
So Fenrir knelt. And prayed. And scraped his knees raw, trying to be good enough. And Deimos watched him suffer with those dark, unreadable eyes and never once revealed whether Fenrir's devotion meant anything at all.
The consistency of their encounters — four times a week, regular as Sunday service — had to mean something though. Didn't it? Deimos wouldn't keep coming back if Fenrir was just a body, just a convenient release. The attention itself was a kind of blessing, proof that Fenrir hadn't been completely forgotten by the divine.
Or maybe that was just what he told himself to survive the loneliness.
His phone sat dark and silent on the desk beside him. No messages. No calls. There was no one left to reach out, and even if there were, what would he say? Merry Christmas. I'm spending it alone in my apartment because I have no one.
The thought made his chest tighten. He pushed it away and focused on the screen again, though the numbers blurred together into meaningless shapes. Around him, the lab settled into its nighttime configuration: lights dimming to standby levels, security systems engaging with soft electronic chirps, the building exhaling as the last few stragglers made their way to the exits.
Fenrir should leave, too. There was no reason to stay. But going home felt worse somehow — walking into that quiet apartment, the fridge half-empty because he never remembered to shop, the walls bare because he'd never bothered to decorate. At least here, the emptiness here had a purpose. At home, it was just empty.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Deimos.
They always did, eventually. Like water finding the lowest point, like a devotee's prayers always returning to their god, his mind circled back to the man who occupied so much space in his life despite how little he understood him.
He wondered if Deimos was alone tonight, too. Probably not. Men like Deimos didn't do loneliness. They did solitude, which was different. Chosen. Powerful.
Fenrir's loneliness wasn't chosen. It was inflicted.
A soft chime echoed through the empty lab — the final security sweep before the building locked down for the night. Time to go. He couldn't put it off any longer.
He shut down his workstation with mechanical efficiency, gathering his tablet and keys, pulling on his coat. The fabric felt heavy on his shoulders, or maybe that was just exhaustion. He couldn't tell anymore. The days blurred together, punctuated only by Deimos's visits and the endless stream of data.
The walk to the exit felt longer than usual. His footsteps echoed against the polished floors, reflected in the glass walls that turned the corridor into a hall of mirrors. He caught glimpses of himself as he passed — pale face, tired eyes, the slump in his posture that he never managed to correct, no matter how many times Deimos reminded him.
Shoulders back, dear. You know I don't like slouching.
Even now, even absent, Deimos's voice lived in his head.
You're perfect, Deimos would say, and it sounded like a hymn. Ancient. Powerful. The kind of religious truth that didn't require belief because it simply was. You belong to me. A liturgical response. I'll take care of you. The benediction. And Fenrir, on his knees, head bowed, would whisper amen with his body even when his mind screamed heresy.
The cold hit him the moment he stepped outside. December was unforgiving, the kind of cold that sank into bones and stayed there. Snow had been falling on and off all day, leaving a thin white blanket over the streets that would turn to slush by morning. The city lights reflected off it, casting everything in a muted glow that would've been beautiful if Fenrir had been in the mood to appreciate it.
He wasn't.
The walk home took twenty minutes. Usually, Fenrir didn't mind it — the movement helped clear his head, gave him space to decompress from the lab's intensity. Tonight, it just felt long. Empty streets lined with decorations, warm light spilling from windows where families gathered. He could hear laughter from some of the apartments he passed, the tinny sound of Christmas music bleeding through walls.
His apartment building was quiet when he arrived; most of the residents were already gone for the holidays. The lobby was decorated with a sad little tree, its lights blinking in an irregular pattern that suggested one of the bulbs was dying. Fenrir didn't bother with the elevator — only three floors up, and the stairs gave him something to do with the restless energy building under his skin.
By the time he reached his door, exhaustion had settled over him like a blanket. Heavy. Suffocating.
He just wanted to be inside. Wanted to pour a drink, collapse on the couch, let the television drown out his thoughts until sleep took him. Tomorrow would be the same. And the day after. An endless string of empty hours until the lab opened again and gave him something to focus on besides the ache in his chest.
Fenrir reached for his keys.
And stopped.
There was another pair of shoes by the entrance.
His brain stuttered, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Black leather, expensive, polished to a mirror shine. Not his. He didn't own shoes like that. Didn't know anyone who—
Oh.
Oh no.
His heart kicked against his ribs, sudden and violent. The keys slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a metallic clatter that sounded too loud in the quiet hallway. He stood frozen, staring at those shoes like they were a bomb that might detonate if he moved wrong.
Deimos was inside his apartment.
The realization came with a strange doubling effect — half of him flooding with panic, the other half with something that felt dangerously close to hope. He shouldn't be here. Fenrir hadn't invited him. Hadn't given him a key. Hadn't—
But of course, Deimos had a key. Of course he did. The cameras, the watching, the way he always seemed to know things about Fenrir's life that he shouldn't — it made a sick kind of sense that he'd have access to Fenrir's home too.
How long has he been coming here?
The thought made Fenrir's stomach twist. How many times had Deimos let himself in while Fenrir was at work? While he slept? How many hours had he spent in this space, touching Fenrir's things, learning the layout, claiming it the way he claimed everything else?
Fenrir bent down and picked up his keys with shaking hands. He should leave. Should turn around and walk away, find a hotel, call someone—
Who would he call? He had no one.
And beneath the fear, beneath the violation of privacy and the horror of having his last refuge invaded, was that traitorous spark of warmth.
Deimos came here. On Christmas Eve. For me.
It didn't matter that it was wrong. It didn't matter that every instinct screamed danger. Fenrir was so desperately lonely that even this — even this — felt like being wanted. So, he unlocked the door.
The smell hit him first. Cigarette smoke, sharp and acrid, mixing with something else. Something that made his mouth water despite everything: the rich, savory scent of cooked meat and potatoes. Swedish food. The kind his mother used to make before—
Fenrir stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His hands were still shaking. The apartment was dim, lit only by the lamp in the corner and the faint glow from the kitchen.
And there, seated at Fenrir's small dining table as he belonged there, was Deimos.
He wasn't wearing his usual lab attire. No pressed shirt and tie, no jacket that made his shoulders look even broader. Instead, he wore a simple black sweater, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar loose enough to show the hollow of his throat. His dark hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd run his fingers through it. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals that caught the light.
He looked... domestic. Human, even with his usual mask on. Dangerously, impossibly beautiful in a way that made Fenrir's chest ache.
But that was the cruelest illusion, wasn't it? Because Deimos had never been human — not in the way that mattered. He was something else entirely.
A deity who'd descended from his throne just long enough to remind his devotee that prayers had consequences. That worship, when finally answered, came with a price.
Fenrir had spent months on his knees, metaphorically and literally, offering everything he had to this man. His time. His body. His dignity. Scraping himself raw on the cold stone floor of devotion, hoping — praying — that one day Deimos would look at him and see something worth keeping.
And now here he was. In Fenrir's home. On Christmas Eve. Like a god who'd finally decided his believer had suffered enough to deserve a blessing.
Except gods didn't bless. They claimed. And Fenrir was starting to understand the difference.
Deimos turned his head slowly, gaze finding Fenrir with the precision of a man who'd been waiting. Who'd known exactly when he would arrive. A smile curved his lips — small, controlled, but with something warm underneath that Fenrir didn't trust.
"Welcome home, dove," Deimos said, his voice low and smooth as silk. "I hope you don't mind. I let myself in."
Fenrir stood frozen in the doorway, coat still on, keys clutched in his hand like a weapon he'd forgotten how to use. His mind raced through a thousand responses — anger, fear, confusion; but what came out was something small and uncertain.
"What are you doing here?"
Deimos took a long drag from his cigarette, eyes never leaving Fenrir's face. When he exhaled, the smoke wreathed his features like something from a dream. Or a nightmare.
"It's Christmas Eve," he said simply, as if that explained everything. "You shouldn't be alone."
The words landed wrong. Too gentle. Too concerned. This was the man who'd choked him last week while calling him a desperate slut. The man who watched his every move through cameras and called it care. And now he was sitting in Fenrir's apartment, smoking and cooking and acting like this was normal.
Like he had every right to be here.
"I—" Fenrir's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "You can't just—"
"Can't I?" Deimos interrupted, tilting his head slightly. The gesture was almost playful, but his eyes were sharp. Calculating. "You look upset, dove. Are you not happy to see me?"
It was a trap. Every word Deimos spoke was a carefully laid trap, and Fenrir never saw them until he was already caught.
Because the truth — the horrible, pathetic truth was that Fenrir was happy. Terrified and violated and confused, yes, but underneath all of that was relief so profound it made his knees weak.
He wasn't alone anymore. Deimos was here. Deimos had come for him.
"I..." Fenrir swallowed hard. "I'm just surprised."
"Mm." Deimos stubbed out his cigarette in a small dish that definitely hadn't been there this morning. Evidence that he'd been here before. Many times before. "Come sit down. Dinner's almost ready."
It wasn't a request.
Fenrir's feet moved before his brain caught up, carrying him deeper into his own apartment like he was the guest and Deimos the host. He shrugged off his coat with numb fingers, hanging it on the hook by the door. The normalcy of the gesture felt absurd given the circumstances.
As he approached the table, he could see it properly: two place settings, carefully arranged. Real plates, not the mismatched ones Fenrir usually used. Cloth napkins. Tall glasses. On the counter beyond, a pan full of meatballs that sizzled softly, and a pot of potatoes sat waiting.
His mother's Christmas Eve meal. The one he'd mentioned once, months ago, in passing. A throwaway comment about childhood traditions that he'd forgotten the moment it left his mouth.
Deimos had remembered.
"You..." Fenrir's voice came out hoarse. "You made—"
"I remembered you talking about it," Deimos said, standing with fluid grace. He moved to the kitchen, and Fenrir watched him navigate the space with unsettling familiarity. Opening the right drawers. Knowing where the serving spoons were. "Swedish meatballs and potatoes. Your mom used to make them every Christmas Eve."
Fenrir felt something crack open in his chest. "I don't remember telling you that."
"You did." Deimos glanced back over his shoulder, eyes dark and unreadable. "Three months ago. You were tired. We were in your office, and I asked what you missed most about home."
Three months. Deimos had held onto that detail for three months, filed it away like every other piece of information he collected about Fenrir. The watching wasn't just physical. It was complete.
"I thought..." Deimos turned back to the stove, voice going soft. "I thought you might like something familiar. Something that felt like home."
It should have been sweet. Romantic, even. But the wrongness of it — the invasion, the presumption, the control — poisoned the gesture. Made it into something twisted. Fenrir wanted to scream.
Wanted to demand how Deimos got in, how long he'd been coming here, what else he'd touched and learned and taken. But the words wouldn't come. Because beneath the fear was that terrible warmth, that desperate hunger for someone to care enough to remember what he liked.
Even if the caring looked like this.
"Sit," Deimos said again, plating the food with practiced efficiency. "You must be exhausted."
Fenrir obeyed. The chair was his usual one, the one that faced the window. Deimos had even known that — had set the place settings so Fenrir would naturally gravitate to the seat he always chose.
Every detail accounted for. Every preference was catalogued and used.
Deimos set a plate in front of him, and the smell hit him fully: rich and savory and achingly familiar. His mother had made this exact meal. The memory rose unbidden — sitting at a crowded table, his brothers arguing over the last meatball, his father laughing, everyone together.
He hadn't thought about that in years.
"Wine?" Deimos asked, already reaching for the bottle.
Fenrir nodded, not trusting his voice. He watched Deimos pour — expensive red that caught the light like blood — and couldn't help noticing the label. French. Vintage. The kind of wine Fenrir would never buy for himself, because it costs more than his monthly wage.
"I wasn't sure what you'd prefer," Deimos said, settling into the seat across from him. "But I thought something rich would pair well with the meal."
As if this were a date. As if they were a normal couple having a normal Christmas Eve dinner. As if Deimos hadn't broken into his apartment and invaded every last sanctuary Fenrir had.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Fenrir stared down at his plate, chest tight, not knowing whether to eat or run or cry or—
"Emil."
His old name. The one Deimos used when he wanted Fenrir pliant and obedient. It worked too well, the sound of it settling over him like a command he couldn't refuse. Fenrir looked up.
Deimos was watching him with that expression he couldn't read — something between affection and possession, tenderness and hunger. His hand rested on the table between them, palm up. An invitation. Or a demand.
"Eat," Deimos said softly. "Before it gets cold."
The meatballs were perfect. Rich and tender, the seasoning exactly right, the sauce coating his tongue with familiar comfort. The potatoes were soft, buttered the way his mother always did them. Every bite was a memory, a ghost of warmth from a life he'd lost.
Deimos simply watched him. Every bite. Every swallow. Those dark eyes tracking his movements with an intensity that made Fenrir's skin prickle.
"Good?" Deimos asked after a moment.
Fenrir nodded, not trusting himself to speak around the emotion clogging his throat.
"I'm glad." Deimos took a sip from his cup, the gesture slow and deliberate. "You're too thin, dove. You don't take care of yourself."
The criticism stung, even delivered gently. Because it was true. Fenrir forgot to eat more often than not, surviving on coffee and whatever he could grab between tasks. Food required energy he didn't have, attention he couldn't spare.
"I'm fine," he managed.
"You're not." Deimos set down his glass. "But that's why I'm here. To take care of my jewel."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like a noose tightening.
"Deimos—"
"More?" Deimos was already reaching for the serving dish, spooning another meatball onto Fenrir's plate before he could protest. "Eat, dear. All of it."
There was something about that tone. The way Deimos talks is always so subtle, so specific that Fenrir almost could point a finger at it. Something so real, almost physical. And that’s when it hit him.
It wasn't a suggestion.
Fenrir picked up his fork again, the food suddenly heavy in his stomach. Across from him, Deimos finally began eating his own meal, but his attention never fully left Fenrir. Every few bites, his gaze would flick up, checking, monitoring, controlling.
The food helped. Fenrir took longer bites than he probably should, letting the meat soften the sharp edges of his panic. That warmth spread through his chest, loosening the tight coil of fear that had been there since he saw those shoes.
Maybe this was okay. Maybe Deimos really had just wanted to do something nice.
"You've been lonely."
The words cut through Fenrir's thoughts like a blade. He looked up sharply, meeting Deimos's eyes.
"I can tell," Deimos continued, voice soft and certain. "The way you've been moving at the lab. Slower. Heavier. You haven't been sleeping well either."
Fenrir's throat went dry. "How do you—"
"I pay attention, dove." A small smile curved Deimos's lips. "Surely you know that by now."
Right. The cameras. The monitoring. The constant, unblinking surveillance that Deimos had woven through every aspect of Fenrir's life.
"Everyone left today," Fenrir said quietly, looking back down at his plate. "For the holidays. They all have... family. People."
"And you have no one."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with neither pity nor judgment. Just acknowledgment of Fenrir's isolation.
"No," Fenrir whispered. "I don't."
Silence fell again. Fenrir could hear the soft clink of silverware, the distant hum of traffic from the street below. The apartment had never felt smaller.
"That's not true, though. Is it?"
Fenrir looked up. Deimos was leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table, his full attention focused with laser precision. Fenrir hated it.
He hated how Deimos, how this man in front of him just… dissected Fenrir like some kind of bug or a frog for an exhibition. Fenrir hated how Deimos pried into his innermost thoughts, how he dug up a part that he, Fenrir, buried so deep down he wanted to cry.
"You have me," Deimos said simply.
The words landed like a physical weight. You have me. As if that were enough. As if Deimos's attention and control, and invasion, were the same as love. The same as family.
And maybe, they were. Maybe Fenrir had been alone for so long that he'd forgotten how to tell the difference.
"I..." Fenrir's voice cracked again. He took another sip of an adjacent glass with water to cover it. "I didn't think you'd... I mean, you've never..."
"Never what?"
"Come here. Like this. On a holiday."
Deimos tilted his head, considering. "Would you have preferred I didn't?"
Yes, Fenrir's instincts screamed. Yes, this is wrong, this is a violation, and I should be terrified—
"No," he heard himself say instead. "I'm... kind of glad you're here."
The truth and the lie tangled together until he couldn't separate them anymore. Deimos's smile widened, just slightly. Victory without gloating.
"Good. I'd hate to think I wasted all this effort."
Effort. As if breaking into someone's home and buying them a home-cooked dinner was just another calculated move in whatever game Deimos was playing. But then, he'd remembered the meatballs. He'd remembered such a small, insignificant detail about Fenrir's childhood and used it to create something that felt briefly like care.
That had to mean something. Didn't it?
They finished the meal in relative quiet, punctuated only by small comments from Deimos about the food, the wine, and the way the snow was falling outside. Normal conversation. The kind people had on dates, on special occasions, when they were together.
Deimos stood, gathering the plates with smooth efficiency. "I'll clean up. You relax."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." Deimos's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and warm. The touch sent electricity down Fenrir's spine. "Let me take care of you, my dove."
There it was again. That phrase that sounded like affection but felt like ownership.
Fenrir stayed in his chair, watching as Deimos moved through his kitchen, like he lived there. Washing dishes, wiping down counters, putting things away in exactly the right places because of course, he knew where everything went.
How many times had he been here? How thoroughly had he mapped out every corner of Fenrir's life?
The thought has terrified him. Maybe it did even more than that, underneath the food and the exhaustion and the desperate loneliness. Yet the fear felt so distant now. Almost muffled, easier to ignore.
When the kitchen was spotless, Deimos returned to the table. He didn't sit. Instead, he reached into a bag Fenrir hadn't noticed before — expensive leather, sitting by the door as if it belonged there.
"I brought you something," Deimos said, pulling out a wrapped box. Red paper, gold ribbon. Christmas colors. "A gift."
Fenrir stared at the package like it might bite him. "You didn't have to—"
"Open it."
The command was sweet and gentle, but absolute. Fenrir's hands moved without permission, reaching for the box, fingers fumbling with the ribbon. The paper tore easily, falling away to reveal black tissue paper underneath.
Red lace greeted him. Delicate, expensive, unmistakable lingerie. The kind of thing you bought for someone you wanted to see wearing nothing else. Fenrir's face burned as he touched the fabric — soft, silky, clearly tailored to fit his size perfectly.
Of course, it would fit. Deimos knew his measurements. Deimos knew everything.
"I thought red would suit you," Deimos said, voice dropping half an octave. "Christmas colors."
Fenrir couldn't speak. The gift was beautiful and humiliating in equal measure. A present that was really a costume, something for Deimos to dress his cute toy in and enjoy.
"Do you like it?" The question held an edge. A test.
"Yes," Fenrir managed, because what else could he say? "It's... it's beautiful."
"Good." Deimos's hand found the back of Fenrir's neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "I want you to put it on for me."
Not a request. Never a request.
Fenrir stood on unsteady legs, the box clutched to his chest like armor. His heart was hammering again, the warmth inside turning into something heavier, thicker. Anticipation mixed with dread mixed with that terrible, traitorous want.
"Now?" His voice came out small.
"After we have another drink." Deimos reached for the wine bottle, refilling both their glasses despite Fenrir's already being half full. "Sit with me a moment longer, my dove. I want to look at you."
The weight of that gaze was familiar to Fenrir after months of being watched, but tonight it felt different. More intense. More present. Usually Deimos observed from a distance, through screens and cameras and controlled encounters. But here, in the intimate space of Fenrir's home, there was nowhere to hide.
Because Deimos saw everything.
"You've been good," Deimos said after a long moment. "These past months. So obedient. So perfect for me."
The praise made Fenrir's chest tight. He craved it more than he wanted to admit, those small acknowledgments that he'd pleased Deimos, that he'd done well.
"I try," Fenrir said quietly.
"I know you do." Deimos's fingers traced the rim of his glass. "That's what I like about you, Emil. You always try so hard to be good."
The way he said it made good sound like something shameful. Something weak.
Maybe it was.
Because Deimos moved through the world the way icons moved through churches — remote, untouchable, forever trapped behind glass and gold leaf. You could pray to them. You could kneel before them. You could offer everything you had and hope it was enough. But you could never truly reach them. Never know if they saw you as anything more than just another devotee in an endless line of the faithful.
They sat in silence, the apartment growing darker as evening settled fully over the city. Outside, Fenrir could hear distant church bells marking the hour. Families would be gathering now, sitting down to their own Christmas dinners. Children opening presents. Couples exchanging gifts. And here he was, alone with the man who'd systematically dismantled every boundary Fenrir’d ever tried to maintain.
"I think about you often," Deimos said suddenly. "More than I probably should."
Fenrir's breath caught. Was that... confession? Vulnerability?
"I think about you too," he admitted. "All the time."
"Do you?" Deimos leaned forward. "What do you think about?"
Everything. Your voice. Your hands. Your face, that is always covered with that mask. The way you feel, the way you smell, the clothes that you put on. The way you watch me. Whether you feel anything real for me or if I'm just a toy you've grown attached to.
"Just... you," Fenrir said instead. "Whether you're... if we're..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't voice the question that had been eating at him for months: Do you care about me? Am I anything more than a body to you?
"If we're what?" Deimos prompted, eyes sharp.
"I don't know." Fenrir looked away. "Never mind."
A long pause. Then Deimos stood, moving around the table with predatory grace. He knelt in front of Fenrir's chair, hands coming to rest on his thighs — possessive, claiming.
"Ask me," Deimos said softly. "Whatever you want to know. Ask."
The invitation was too tempting to resist, especially with that darned want singing in his veins and Deimos's hands warm against him.
"Do you..." Fenrir swallowed hard. "Is this just... are we just..."
"Fucking?" Deimos supplied bluntly.
Fenrir flinched but nodded.
Deimos was quiet for a long moment, studying Fenrir's face with that unnerving intensity. Then he reached up, cupping Fenrir's jaw with one hand, thumb brushing across his cheekbone.
"You're mine," he said simply. "That's what we are."
It wasn't an answer. Or maybe it was the only answer Deimos knew how to give.
"But what does that mean?" Fenrir's voice broke on the question. "I don't... I can't tell what you want from me. One day you're gentle and the next you're—"
"Both," Deimos interrupted. "I want both. All of you. Every version you have to give me."
His hand tightened slightly on Fenrir's jaw, not painful but firm. Controlling.
"You belong to me, dove. Everything about you. Your time, your body, your thoughts. I take care of what's mine."
There it was. The truth laid bare. Not love. Not affection. Ownership. And maybe, just maybe, Fenrir should have pulled away. Should have demanded Deimos leave. Should have—
Instead, he leaned into the touch, chasing the warmth like a moth to flame.
"Okay," he whispered.
"Okay?" Deimos's eyes darkened. "That's all? Just okay?"
"I don't..." Fenrir's breath shuddered out of him. "I don't know what else to say."
"Then don't say anything." Deimos stood, pulling Fenrir up with him. "Go put on my gift. I want to see you in it."
The command cut through the haze, sharp and absolute. Fenrir found himself nodding, taking the box, moving toward the bathroom like a puppet on strings. Behind him, he heard Deimos settle back into his chair, the soft scratch of a lighter as he lit another cigarette.
"Don't take too long, dear," Deimos called after him. "I've been patient. But my patience has limits."
The warning was clear. Deimos had given Fenrir something this evening — the dinner, the gift, the pretense of normalcy. But that pretense was wearing thin, and underneath it was the same hunger that always drove their encounters.
Fenrir closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, breathing hard.
His reflection stared back at him from the mirror: flushed face, dilated eyes, the mark of Deimos's hand still visible on his jaw where he'd held him. He looked like someone on the edge of something dangerous.
He looked like someone who'd already fallen.
The lingerie slipped from the box like liquid, red and delicate against his shaking hands. It was beautiful. Expensive. Perfect.
And it fit exactly as Deimos had known it would.