Chapter Text
Roathe caught Feyne's Citrine by the throat and slammed them against the floor. His Vinquibius stabbed down into the frame's shoulder while his claws raked across the glittering gems. That infernal crystal turret shattered somewhere behind him. Not yet believing themself beaten, they struggled. He had them pinned. It'd been a while since he'd gotten the better of them.
They hadn't been lovers, then.
Seeing that their frame was too damaged to fight, they transferred out onto their feet and swung on him with a sword from nowhere. He dashed out of the way of a white and gold claymore that spoke of stylized Orokin aesthetics — Duviri aesthetics — before it struck true.
He'd felt that blade nearly cleave him in twain enough times to know he wouldn't survive more than a few direct hits from the thing. He needed to best them. Quickly. Before they regained their momentum and turned this into a war of attrition. A war he would no doubt lose since his Conscripts had been, momentarily, dispatched.
He wove his way through their strikes. Grand motions that, nonetheless, belied a great deal of training and control. Hundreds of years of it. They knew exactly where their sword would land if he would only stand still. Roathe, in turn, scratched up their arms and legs and a few slashes across their back when he could fit the movement into their dance.
Feyne began to lose that tight control. Struck out in ways less predictable and all the more dangerous for it. A storm with skin, but one that was soon to break. They already tired from their bout. Shaky from the sudden ejection and prolonged exertion. Too slow to land a solid hit, and getting slower by the second.
Roathe, having finally retrieved his bayoneted rifle, disarmed them. The sword dissipated in a shower of voidlight sparks, and before they summoned it again, he set the tip of his blade just under their chin. A threat. A promise. A swift end.
"Surrender?"
"Fuck you." How their eyes blazed white with fury, the grey of their irises almost completely subsumed by the light of the Void as their pupils blew wide.
He stepped closer. Allowed the tip to dig in slightly. A bead of blood trickled out onto the stained blade.
"Oh my dear, sweet Drifter," the hand not holding his gun drew up to cradle their cheek with his claws, "that can be arranged."
Feyne stared him down for a beat. Breathing hard, bleeding freely. Stray curls falling free from its kaithetail. It was clear enough what he offered in lieu of quick death.
He felt the moment the power shifted from them to him in the slightest of nods. Even as they turned their head to the side to bite his hand. Surely, they would have broken skin if the chains hadn't gotten to them first. Wrapped their arms and pulled them back towards the throne.
The barbs he'd become so familiar with pierced a few places on their transference suit and dug into their skin. The metallic smell of their own blood only served to renew their struggle. Feyne snarled and snapped as he followed them up onto the dais. Blind fight burned in their eyes.
Beautiful. Deadly. Mine.
They grabbed the chains in hand. Pulled as though trying to detach them from the walls above the throne. Roathe heard a low groaning of metal, but the chains remained solid. He raised a brow. Impressive that they'd managed even that much. A testament to their raw belief in their own capabilities. But their strength was not completely endless. This even they knew.
Nonetheless, they tugged. He almost feared they'd pull their shoulders out of socket before the chains gave way.
"Insolent creature."
Vythelas, having regenerated, hissed disdainfully at his shoulder. "Thisss one still resistsss you, Master."
They gnashed their teeth at the demon's words.
He turned his head to respond, though kept his eyes on them. Not so confident the chains would hold. "Pathetic, really."
"Might we show them their place?" Catenach asked. A honeyed voice from his opposite hip.
Gulphagor nudged against his thigh. "R A V A G E."
Roathe considered the Conscripts, those fragments of himself that were, at once, familiar and foreign. He'd learned to accept them, but he and Feyne hadn't previously discussed their inclusion in shared intimacy. And though this promised to be anything but intimate-
"Gold."
Their eyes were clear. The Void within them calmed to the soft shimmer characteristic of them at their most lucid.
A sardonic smile curled the corner of his mouth. "Excellent."
Roathe set his rifle aside, raised a hand, and snapped his fingers. As always, the Conscripts knew his will. Whether they followed it was another matter entire, but for the time being, they were united in purpose. The trio worked in concert to properly display his lover. Gulphagor removed most of their transference suit with a lick down their front and up their back. A few scraps remained near the puncture wounds from the chains, but nothing to preserve their "modesty". Catenach bound them up in his own chains. Immobilized their shoulder joints such that resisting bodily was no longer an option. They whimpered as more barbs poked into their chest and back. The demon repositioned them with their upper half leaned over the throne's seat. Arms secured to the wall behind it. Presented their plush ass to him.
Ripe for the taking.
And then there was Vythelas. He'd waited for the other two to finish their preparations before flying beneath Feyne's hips. From between their spread legs, Roathe saw him cut a crimson rune into the skin of their lower stomach. Their blood welled up to fill in the lines beautifully. He returned to his side once he'd completed his work.
"What purpose-"
"Patience, Massster."
Were they not already flushed from the chamber's heat, he might've noticed the difference sooner. They shifted their balance from heel to heel. Winced when the angle of the barbs changed with their movement. Their fists clenched, then grabbed onto the sides of the throne.
"Oh that's not fucking fair," Feyne seethed.
Roathe stepped closer, careful to let his footfalls be heard upon the stone floor. "What's not fair, pet?"
Their teeth ground. Stubborn refusal to answer. Typical. On closer inspection, their breathing labored quite hard for standing still, didn't it?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Oh!
He chuckled. "I see."
"If I'm going to be an incoherent mess, you should at least have to work for it," Feyne grumbled.
Vythelas scoffed. "Ungrateful."
"Quite so." He skated his claws across their lower back. As expected, the sensation of new scratches opening made them shudder anew. "I don't think you all are finished demonstrating their place."
"Go fuck your-hmmph!"
Gulphagor shoved one of his tentacles into their mouth and down their throat. The rest cradled the back of their head and neck. Threaded through their hair. It would've been sweet, almost tender, except for the vigorous face-fucking. They coughed, attempting to remove him by force, but he was steadfast. Catenach splayed himself out along their sternum, occasionally compressing tighter against them to make his chains stab deeper. Vythelas floated to one of their thighs. Cut another rune into the meat of their ass.
Roathe stepped up behind them and retrieved himself from within his loincloth. He lined up then pressed inside. No fanfare besides another surprised sound of arousal. No indications of pain followed. (Or, at least, none that weren't there before.) Their cunt welcomed him in, already bloomed open and wet beyond reason from the first rune, among other factors. More juice gushed out when he grabbed them by one of the chains on their back and pulled their hips to his roughly.
What he hadn't expected was a second trickle of wetness from their asshole. He glanced over at Vythelas, who made a self-satisfied sound at his noticing of the handiwork.
"If Master would allow it…?" The demon parted his robe to show a small tentacle of his own.
He gestured in front of him. "Of course! After all," he dug his claws into their hip just to hear another strangled moan from them, "what is such a pet's use if not to please its betters?"
Feyne tried to cry out some indignant protest, but, seeing as it was followed by a pleased whimper, it wasn't terribly convincing. Roathe watched their hands to be certain. They put up an index finger at his pause. Still golden.
Still loving every second of this.
Vythelas positioned himself just over their tailbone. His slender tendril snaked out and pushed into their newly wet hole. They moaned out as they found themself filled in every way they wanted to be.
"There you are, whore. Fulfill your purpose."
He started thrusting, steady and deep. Almost as soon as he began, their cunt tightened vicelike around his cock. Of course, they came already from the sheer breadth of sensation assaulting them.
Vythelas crooned at this. "Jussst like that."
Void, what a sight. It was almost enough to stir within him a hint of religious fervour. The way they gave themself over to pleasure (and pain) so completely, allowed him (him!) to unmake them, and trusted him to put them back together when they were done pretending to be his plaything. He should never have been permitted to touch — let alone fuck — such a sacred creature. And yet, there he was, forcing sounds from them that would have profaned the heavens.
Roathe dug his claws into their hips. Held their trembling body as he pounded their cunt. Frenzied. Mindless. Wanting to take everything he'd been given and more until they were left ruined. Broken. Torn to pieces, exactly as they desired.
"G O O D. P E T."
He looked up to where Gulphagor caressed the back of their head with the tentacles not occupying their mouth. Their mouth which had begun to suck messily on that appendage. Such sweet submission deserved a reward. Only one would do. He sped his thrusts to take his pleasure from them. That divine warmth enveloped his cock and held him. Entreated him not to leave but welcomed him back inside with every pistoning movement.
More. More. Mine.
His cum filled their hole and slicked the passage more still. Vythelas, whose movement within their ass relied somewhat on his own thrust pattern, came inside them as well.
"Good pet, indeed," Roathe affirmed. He smacked their ass right on the carved rune. They cried out and tightened up around him again. He reveled in the sensation: their cunt milking his cock for every drop it could get.
Catenach hummed, almost vibrated, against their chest. He used the slight motion to widen the gashes from his chains. It only seemed to excite them further.
An idea struck him, then. If Vythelas could change the functionality of Feyne's body within the Dark Refractory (though, possibly, outside it as well. Hmm, a thought for later.), what was stopping him from making some modifications to his own? He remained paused inside them as he thought over what configuration he wanted to test out. The change rippled through him with the ease of flexing a muscle. His pet moaned out in shock as his cock shifted from a sine-waved tendril to a weightier, ribbed thing.
Gulphagor momentarily removed himself from their mouth. Curious to hear their thoughts, perhaps.
Voice thick with mucus and want, "Fuck…Roathe…"
He should have corrected their use of his name instead of his title, but to hear them say his name in such a desperate way weakened his knees. A possessive, hungry growl emanated from deep in his chest. He readjusted his hips against them only slightly, and they whined. A frisson of electric heat leapt through him.
"Yes, pet?"
"I…fuck." They broke off, overwhelmed beyond speech.
He ground in, rubbing the newly bulbous tip into the deepest part of them. Their knuckles went white.
Vythelas chuckled. "Use your words, ssslattern."
"Ngh! Fuck me, oh gods-"
It felt as though he were splitting them open anew when he reeled back and brought his hips to their ass. His cock wasn't exactly small before, but this was a different beast entirely. The stretch visible and visceral. They moaned, mouth left open. They cried their pleasure as though seeking salvation from it. None was coming, but they were. He felt every ripple, every twitch of their climax with direct and resounding clarity. If they'd felt divine before, they felt utterly transcendent then.
Gulphagor slid back inside. Feyne sucked on the tentacle, lost in lust and helpless to do anything but take it. And take it, they did. Every ounce of base, primal aggression came back to them three-fold. Blood roared in his ears. All feral instinct. All raw, burning power. He might've spent hours there, making them grip onto the throne upon which they'd teased him countless times. Extracted the price of such temptations in blood and cum.
Indeed, he plunged this monster into them at length. Opened, stretched them until they formed to him. A most perfect toy that he would break and fill again and again and again.
Ah. They've lost a lot of blood. Won't be long now.
It was true. Between the wounds from their duel and those scratches and cuts inflicted after, they would, soon enough, succumb to their injuries. Such was a condition of this Refractory: one of them had to die for the supreme ordeal to reach its conclusion. That the process became somewhat gentler once their courtship began didn't allow for complete escape from that reality.
So Roathe endeavored to sweeten this loss for them.
As enjoyable as taking them from behind was, he tired of it. Sensing his intent, Vythelas and Gulphagor each withdrew just before him. They whined, presumably at the feeling of cum flowing down their thighs. Or, maybe, at being so empty after being so devastatingly full. Catenach remained on their sternum, though his chains compelled them to kneel before the throne. Arms then shackled to the floor. Feyne looked up at him as he stepped past them to take his seat.
Roathe grabbed the hanging end of one the chains from their chest. Tugged them in between his legs. They knew just what he wanted without being ordered, though they shot his transformed cock a dubious expression. Larger than they were used to, of course.
"Clean it." Though stern, he'd left the wording intentionally vague in case they didn't want to go all the way down.
They do have some limits, after all.
Surely enough, they licked up the shaft. Took their time to lap up the mixture of juices caught in the ribbed protrusions. The combined taste elicited a soft groan. They ran the tip of their tongue along the thinner flesh there. Received a pleased purr from him for their thoroughness. He angled the tool down so they could lick the top side. As their tongue flattened to clean up towards his pelvis, the tip brushed the hollow of their throat. Showed exactly how deep it would go if they were to take him to the base.
Oh the sounds they would make…
Feyne leaned back and wrapped their lips around the head. They brought him in slowly, throat working to accept about three-quarters of the length. The muscles there hugging against the underside felt heavenly. Without use of their hands, their skillset was a touch limited. Their tongue remained flat except when they pulled him out just enough to play along the crown. He wrapped his hand around the base. The next time they went down on him, their lips kissed his hand. A much more reasonable goal than taking the whole thing.
The Conscripts saw that they intended to remain a while on their knees. To serve him the way he deserved. As was only right.
Vythelas nudged their knees apart and brought his tendril up into their cunt. At the same time, Gulphagor thrust one of his tentacles into their ass. The rest of those fleshy appendages formed to their back and hips and thighs for leverage. For comfort, even.
They breathed a soft whine around his cock. Their eyes met his blearily.
He sneered. "Back to work, pet." He tugged on the lead only once and without much force behind it.
They got the message, thankfully. Raised up before allowing him to slide back in. Their jaw strained with his girth, but they were determined.
Determined and so, so eager to please.
Roathe loved the sight of them on their knees — Where they belonged. To see them sink into that perfect submission. So adoring. So malleable. Complete and total trust in him. That was it, wasn't it? They allowed him to have them like this for a short while. They chose this. Chose him over and over again.
Placed their life, their death, their heart and soul in his hands.
Why?
Feyne salivated around his cock, easing the slide of him in and out of their mouth. The journey down smoothed out into near continuous motion. Wetter and softer as they adjusted to the stretch of it. Though, occasionally, they were thrown off rhythm by a hard, deep thrust up from Vythelas or Gulphagor. Often followed by a helpless little moan. So beautifully, wonderfully pathetic.
They paused again with him down their throat. They breathed fast against him as their body shuddered. Ecstasy. A whimper sounded from them when neither of the tentacles slowed their motion. He let them stay there, trembling, for a few moments more before he tugged the lead again. Their eyes flashed at him. Almost literally.
"You have a purpose to serve, whore." He held up the chain's end in his hand. "So unless you want me fucking that pretty mouth of yours myself, you'd best return to the task at hand."
Feyne growled, though in the next moment, they resumed their movement. Raising and lowering their head from his hand wrapped tight around the based. They ran the tip of their tongue along the slit as they came up, no doubt tasting a few drops of precum.
"Better." He subtly pulled them in with the lead, though not faster than they were going before. "Isn't it so much simpler when you obey?"
A delicious shiver ran through them.
"Sssuch a good set of holesss," Vythelas praised from beneath them.
Ah, that made them redouble their efforts. Tried to be so good and so pliant for himself and his demons. Another growl rumbled from him. The tightness of their throat. Their tongue working against the underside. The sounds of them, ravaged and ruined.
"Open."
He managed to pull his cock from the wet heat of their mouth just before the initial spray of his cum hit their cheek. Their parted lips caught the second spurt. Their chin, the third. Their collarbone, the last.
Beautiful.
Feyne swallowed that which had landed on their tongue. Took a second to breathe. Their eyes hazy from lust and blood loss. Over the course of the excursion, they'd become covered in shades of red and pink. It dripped onto the floor along with the cum from himself and Vythelas. Pooled beneath them on the stone. Wouldn't be long…
Catenach loosened the chains and brought them to stand. They swayed slightly, but Roathe placed a hand on their shoulder. Steady. He pat his thigh.
"Sit here, pet." He led them to set their shins on either side of his hips.
He took himself in hand once more. Put the tip at their entrance. They whimpered, sensitive and close to exhaustion. He wrapped his tail around their waist. Guided them down onto his cock. The head parted their slit and stretched them over it once more.
Their eyes rolled back. "Roathe-"
His tugging at the lead got their attention. "Your-"
"Prince! Yes, my Prince. I…oh, gods." Coherent thought receded as the head popped in.
"Shhh," he purred, "Just take it. Be a good whore," his tail steadily pressed them onto more and more of that hot length, "and take it."
They moaned, loud and long and so, so desperate for all of it. Filling them. Fucking them. They gave a great shudder once they sat upon him completely. He allowed them a moment to reacquaint themself with the thickness, though even with their limited movement, they ground down on his cock.
Roathe chuckled darkly, then took them by the jaw to make them look at him. "What an insatiable creature." He glanced past them to where his other two Conscripts waited patiently. "They still want more, and they shall have it."
"M O R E." Gulphagor resumed his place in their ass.
Feyne whined out a tight, "Thank you."
"G O O D. W H O R E."
With the benefit of this perspective, he saw what the demon's other tentacles were up to with greater specificity. Most of those appendages haphazardly grabbing onto whatever they could reach massaged wherever they laid. Hips. Thighs. Back. However, one of Gulphagor's non-penetrating tentacles fell over their hip. Snaked down to rub their clit.
Ahh, so that's how they came so easily.
Vythelas flew to the side of their head, ensuring he had an unobstructed view of their face as his tendril entered their mouth. They laved their tongue along it. Slowly. Sensually. Maintained heated eye contact with himself that made him want to fuck them into oblivion.
Catenach purred while he tore them apart at the seams. From such a vantage, Roathe noted that the main body of him at Feyne's chest formed to them as almost a comforting weight. Perhaps it wasn't so strange that the Conscripts took note of their preferences. They were parts of him, after all. Surely, they felt some measure of his own affection for them.
His tail lifted and lowered them upon his cock. The cum shot deep in their cunt seeped out onto him. Sticky. Warm. A fitting lubricant for such a tight fit.
And then he saw it, on a particularly forceful downstroke. A slight bulge in their stomach that became all the more obvious when he pressed inside completely. The image of him rearranging their insides in a very real way, of them becoming so full up of him that their skin had no choice but to change shape, it incited in him some of the fiercest hunger he'd ever known.
He laid a hand over the rune carved into that skin. "Do you feel it, pet?"
In the midst of their fevered moans and whimpers, they tilted their head with a small, questioning sound. Feel what?
He smirked, then pressed his hand into them to make the pressure more immediate. More blood seeped onto his hand. "Feel how I've remade you?"
Their cunt fluttered around him.
"Into my personal plaything." Faster. "My whore."
Feyne's eyes shut tight as they released a guttural scream. More fluid flushed around him. Made his movement smooth as silk as fucked them through it.
Roathe tugged the lead. "Can't escape it. You're mine."
They shivered and twitched hard on him. Tears salted their tongue while Vythelas plundered their mouth. Beautiful.
The instant their hands flashed to three fingers, the Conscripts retreated from them. Gulphagor pulled out of their ass, though he continued massaging their lower body a moment longer. Vythelas swept their hair back once he'd removed himself. A small pat to their head. Catenach unwound himself. Released their torso and shoulders and arms. They fell forwards onto him. He reached down to take his cock from them, but they placed their hand over his.
"Leave it, please. I…"
Roathe held them, tail still wrapped around their waist. Their blood soaked onto his chest.
Thickly, "I'm going to die."
"Yes, my dear."
They took a deep, shuddering breath. "It's cold this time."
One of his hands drew up to scratch their scalp at the back of their head. The other pressed them close, their chest to his. "I will warm you for as long as I can."
Another deep breath, this one with a rattling sound that would haunt his nightmares. "I'm used to it hurting more than this, at the end."
"Oh, my love," he used his hold on them to tilt their soft gaze up, "I would never have let it hurt."
They leaned forwards again, nestling up against him. His softened cock slipped from them in due course. They didn't seem to mind either way. He supposed they were beyond caring for such a trivial thing with the end so near. Feyne's breath labored a bit longer. Shorter. Reedier. Thinner. Until, at last, the quiet wheezing stopped.
The sound of the machine releasing them both cut through the temporary dream state they'd both indulged in. The illusion around him dissolved into black and grey and white. Roathe emerged from the water and padded over to Feyne's pool even as his head fogged from too many sensations catching up at once. Such fragile neurology. They took a while to slowly float to the surface of the water. He sat at the pool's edge. Waited for them to come back to themself.
Come back to him.
Their eyes opened, but they didn't pop up out of the water. They used their legs to propel them to the side before pulling themself onto the ledge with their arms. He let them wring their braid out, though he opened his arms in offer to them. They folded themself into him as naturally as breathing. Shaking.
"That was…different."
He ran a hand over their back, still covered in their transference suit and (likely) no more or less scarred than usual. "Different?"
They breathed him in, sending a light tickle of air against his neck. "That might've been the best death I've ever had." A slight smile.
"High praise." Roathe didn't protest when they straddled his hips. He'd grown used to their tendency of getting as close as possible to him. "No lingering pains?"
They froze. "Well…"
Bemused. "I see."
"Yeah, that transformation was…highly irregular."
He increased the pressure of his hand at their back. "Sore?"
"Mmh, very." They worked their jaw open and closed. "In more ways than one."
"Can you walk?"
…
"In theory-"
He held them under each thigh as he stood. They scrambled to clasp their arms and legs around him.
With an incredulous chuckle, "Honestly, pet, do you expect me to drop you?"
Feyne sighed. "No."
He set them down on top of the towel cart. They reached for one and went about drying the surface moisture from their suit. He quickly dried himself as well, throwing the towel over his shoulder before he picked them up in the same way. Their face laid to the side on the towel, water from their hair soaking in. His peripheral vision caught them softly smiling up at him as he carried them through the Sanctum and back to his room in La Cathédrale.
For them to still look at me like that, after what I've just done with them.
…
To them.
He perched them on the back of the couch, unzipping them from their suit and discarding his own garments. He dimly registered them loosing their braid. They dried the textured strands such that they wouldn't soak his sheets. He grabbed a small, circular container of sweet-smelling oil and sat behind them on the couch proper to apply the contents to the length and ends. (Quincy would have his cursed hide if he allowed their hair to dry out or break from repeated use of the Refractory.) He rebraided the tresses into some approximation of what they'd had it in before. Styled for business and for sleep, as they needed to rest after such a…lively death.
Once Roathe ensured his continued existence via hair care, he rounded the couch to take them up in his arms. They let him confer them to the bed without issue or complaint. Almost the instant he'd laid them down and turned to pull the blankets over them, the Conscripts appeared from whatever pocket realm they occupied when not actively summoned.
"Now see here-"
Feyne waved him off with a laugh. "No, no, they're fine." They pat Catenach as he settled on their chest. "Hi, yes, I'm okay."
Damn him. He's taken my spot.
Gulphagor wrapped himself around one of their thighs. The muscles there twitched somewhat, but they pet his head as well. Vythelas curled up against their opposite side. Drew light, nonsense patterns with his clawed hand.
"G O O D?"
"Yes, it was good." They yawned. "Thank you for lending him your aid." They punctuated this thought with a cheeky smile.
Ah, yes. Aid of a rather specific sort.
"Of courssse. Only the bessst for Master'sss companion."
It was strange to see them so comfortable with all three of them. And yet, what else had he expected? Feyne would never have rejected them. It simply wasn't in their nature.
"Love?" Their voice pulled him from his reverie. "What is it?"
Before he could answer, Catenach spoke with a conspiratorial air. "He thinks of you."
A low warning, "Catenach-"
But a curious glimmer had already entered their eye. "Really?" A vulpine smile directed straight at him. "Do tell."
It was Vythelas who answered instead. "He wondersss at your allowance of usss. To hold you as he doesss."
They grinned. "You don't say."
"And," Catenach piped up, "he yearns to lay his head upon your chest-"
He moved forth from the side of the bed. "That's quite enough-"
Feyne hummed their dissent, clicking their tongue against their teeth. "Vice Regent Grand Carnus Admiral Roathe, you will wait your turn."
He held their gaze, hand poised to remove Catenach. He let it drop. "Yes, Ser."
"Good boy. I think you can squeeze in here." They gestured to the bed beside them.
"Hmph! Having to barter for space on my own bed." Nonetheless, he nudged his way next to them on the side Gulphagor had claimed. He sat with his back to the headboard and one leg draped over the side.
He hadn't previously thought he could discern expressions from the Conscripts, but the way Catenach spread out upon Feyne could only be described as smug. Their arm pressed to his side as they took his hand in theirs. A bit of his jealousy dissipated at the gesture.
"Would you, maybe, describe that scene as intense?" Teasing.
He smiled down at them indulgently. "Yes, lover, I would describe a scene in which one of us dies as intense."
"Good." They kissed the back of his hand. "I was a bit worried you'd try to brush it off."
He hummed. "No, no, I have some limits."
Feyne huffed a small laugh before sobering. "How did you feel? Once I'd stopped breathing?"
"I," he cleared his throat, "Well, I knew it was but a temporary loss."
"Not what I asked."
Silence stretched between them. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, at least where Feyne was concerned. But to have him bereft of words? Much more unusual. They nuzzled his knuckles. He could take as long as he needed to think of his answer, and their comfort would remain regardless.
"Death is different for one such as yourself, but that ache of absence," a heavy sigh, "it is not so easily shaken."
They hummed in affirmation, then guided his hand to the pulse point at their carotid. He felt the steady thudding of their heart through the pads of his fingers. Their lifeblood, so close he could almost taste it. Beating. Rhythmic.
"Feyne-"
"I'm here."
That quiet assurance, that they were alive, and they wouldn't leave him to himself. Of course, they'd known that was what he needed. Even before he fully knew it himself. He kept his fingers there, cupping their cheek with his palm.
"Thank you."
They leaned into his touch. "Always."
A question poked at him. Though he might've kept it to himself before, he knew it was the sort of thing they wanted asked. "The possessive language I employed, was it acceptable?"
Before they had a chance to answer, their pulse sped in a manner far too revealing.
He loosed an affectionate laugh at their involuntary reaction. "Oh, really?!"
Their skin heat up and flushed beneath his hand. "No objections here." So bashful, though not from any sense of shame.
Roathe pressed a kiss to their forehead. "None to the language, at least?"
They pulled him back down for a proper kiss on the lips before he could straighten upright. "None of it."
The heat in their voice sent a low growl rumbling through him.
"But."
He stopped.
"I know I can't do everything we did in there." They scoffed. "Bleeding to death out here has consequences."
"Perish the thought."
They both laughed at the dark turn of phrase. Feyne leaned up for another kiss. One that he happily provided. Another. Again. Their pulse fluttered as their lips moved with warmth against his own. He straightened beside them once they'd both had their fill for the moment.
"Catenach can produce chains without the barbs, if you would prefer."
The demon in question grumbled, bitter. "They didn't mind it in the Refractory."
Feyne shook their head. "You're right, I didn't. But that's there." They laughed quietly. "Which is to say…"
Vythelas scratched at their side teasingly, though still not hard enough to break the skin. "Yesss?"
"I may have to lose more often."
He shot them a poisonous look. "Don't you dare think of holding back on me."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Though," they idly stroked Gulphagor, pondering, "maybe a constraint on my end."
"Hmm, I fear I've grown accustomed to your tactics with Citrine."
They stiffened somewhat. That frame in particular was a blessing and a comfort to them. They might've become mired in that fear had Gulphagor not started chewing on the meat of their thigh. Their eyes cleared before they had a chance to fully fog.
"G O O D. C H A N G E."
Feyne let out an almost relieved breath. "Change can be good, you're right." They leaned their cheek onto Roathe's thigh. "I can't afford to get stale."
"Precisely." He carded his fingers through their hair. "And besides, if you can best me with a frame less suited to you, you'll have duly earned your spoils." A soft implication of exactly the nature of "spoils" they could expect.
They smiled impishly at that. "If, he says."
Roathe tugged at an errant curl near the nape of their neck. Forced their eyes up to his. "Do not think yourself above such arrogance."
Their grin sharpened. He let go after a beat. Once their cheek returned to his thigh, they turned their head down to press a kiss to him. Another. Again. Nip.
"Careful, pet." The growl was stronger this time. "I am not so exhausted that I cannot put you in your rightful place once more."
He saw them consider his words carefully. Did they really want to agitate him so? Apparently not, since they nuzzled into his thigh rather than continue to bite him.
"A fair decision."
With a flash of teeth, "Still mulling it over."
"Mmhm." Doubtful, if they were as sore as they claimed.
"Okay, can you all swap with him?"
Catenach gave a long-suffering sigh. "As you wish."
The Conscripts each disengaged from them. He slid down to lay beside them before rolling on top. Their legs parted and caged either side of his body. Their heart beat strong beneath his ear. Vythelas sat beside their head. Gulphagor took up a spot on their opposite shoulder. And Catenach? He laid upon his back. The pressure wasn't entirely unpleasant, he supposed.
Feyne tangled their fingers into his hair. Their other hand took up one of his again. Brought the back of his hand to their cheek for them to rub against. He kissed the closest skin. They sighed so sweetly. Relaxed and at peace.
A purr rumbled through him and into them. His own show of safety. Of contentment. Of love. Feyne responded with a trilling that they tried to cut off. He pulled their hand down to kiss the back of it.
"Shhh, hold nothing back, my love." The purring infused his words with quiet pleading. So fragile was his voice.
He heard them gasp, perhaps taken aback by the vulnerability. The trilling returned. Chirps. Ever more affectionate sounds, more lovely than any song he'd ever heard. They shuddered in a way unrelated to the ambient temperature, and when he registered their core warming beneath him, he knew it was only a matter of time before they-
"Roathe." Their voice cracked. "Need you."
He kissed up their chest, to their neck, to their jaw. Cheek. Ear. For him to purr there, "How would you have me?"
Feyne whined at such gentle treatment. A different temperament, one best suited to these more tender moments. How it melted them to the core.
"Words, lover."
…
"I don't suppose you'd know what I mean if I told you to eat me out."
He sighed beleagueredly. "Sadly not."
They placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let me show you?" He started to sit up, but they stopped him. "You don't need to go far. Just…"
Their other hand traced down their stomach. He followed with his eyes to where they'd spread their cunt open with their fingers.
"Mouth here."
"Ah," he looked to their face once more, "I'm to have a feast of petaled flesh." Then, a horrific thought. "Is that poor excuse for seduction where the poets drew from?!"
They laughed, and though his heart sped to hear it, he still shook his head.
"How inelegant."
"I'm sure someone's thought of something better in…however long it's been since the Collapse."
Roathe rolled his eyes. "Doubtful. Regardless," he leaned down to press a kiss to their chest. Stomach. Further down the plain of them. Hip. "I'm sure the appeal hasn't waned."
"Massster?"
He glanced to Vythelas. A touch annoyed at the delay from his prize.
"Would you prefer their mouth occupied?"
"Not this time," then, staring heatedly up at them, "I'd like to hear them."
What a pretty flush.
"G O?"
Feyne sighed. "If you'd like. I guess there isn't a lot for you three to do right now."
Catenach hummed aloud. "Are you certain? Would you want for some…restraint?"
He waved the demon off. "Another time."
Vythelas bowed. "Until later, Massster and Ssser."
With that, the trio disappeared in three puffs of black smoke.
"Now, where were we?" He dipped his head to kiss their thigh.
"I believe you were-oh fuck, feasting." The interjection spilled forth from a teasing nip a bit closer to where they burned for him.
He murmured into the plush skin, streaked pink where he'd bitten and raised all over with reactive bumps. "Right you are." He brushed his lips up towards their cunt. Barely touched where they wanted most.
They raised their hips, trying to entice him. He swiped the tip of his tongue through the seam. Tasted that addictive nectar.
"Please-ahh!"
He licked from their glistening entrance to their clit. Flicked off of it before slowly, sensually delving into them. Again. More. And all the while, the vibration of his purr shook that sensitive flesh. They reached for something to hold onto. He offered his hand, and they clutched his like a lifeline. Their other hand held the back of his head as he lapped at them.
Meanwhile, his free hand gripped onto their thigh's underside. Soft skin over lean muscle, striped with myriad scar tissue. A visceral mosaic. A story made manifest. Simply another part of his beloved for him to hold and cherish. His fingers dug in.
Roathe met their eyes when his lips traveled to enclose the soft bud. The glow from their pupils sparkled. Utterly enraptured. An idea struck them, he realized the instant before they resolved to test it. Their hand in his hair moved to scratch his scalp. He'd never willingly admit to another how the comforting sensation strengthened that contented rumbling from him. They threw their head back at the increased intensity, and his own self-consciousness became an unimportant afterthought. Lost in the ecstasy of hearing them cry out like that.
I need to hear that again. Now.
He slid his tongue along the underside of their clit and sucked, gentle but insistent. The pressure on his hand in theirs tightened.
"Oh gods, Roathe!"
He eased the suction, returned to long, amorous licks. To open-mouthed kisses of the petals in bloom. To biting their inner thighs. They breathed hard. Their arched back laid upon the sheets once more. Their juices flowed freely to coat his tongue and chin. He drank of them, ate of them as though starved. They glared down at him, or tried to. Not quite able to muster it. They'd almost cum. Almost. It was a close thing. His eyes crinkled at the corners in mirth.
He pulled back only slightly to mumble, "I'm not through with you yet, lover."
And then his mouth was back on them fully. They growled in feigned displeasure, though they continued their work at the back of his neck. Their hips rocked against him. So eager and desperate. Not enough.
The more Feyne tried to grind up for just a bit more friction, the lighter the touch of his lips upon them would become. Meanwhile, his hand grabbed harder onto their thigh. Holding them in place. They whined his name pleadingly.
So innocent, "Yes, my dear?"
"Fucking. Stop playing with your food."
He hummed, close enough to their tender flesh that they felt it. "Perhaps."
They tried to bring their ankles together behind his back as leverage. A way to force him down onto them. His tail caught one of their calves and kept it from completely enveloping him.
"Ask. Very. Nicely," he breathed against them. It took all his restraint for his claws not to puncture their thighs. They may have enjoyed that, but he was mindful that this was meant to be dessert.
As though sensing that he'd held back for them, they resumed the circular movement of their hand. "Please finish me."
Now, that phrase required no further interpretation.
Both of his hands wormed under their thighs to hold them to him. Their abandoned hand clamped onto his shoulder while the other finally pressed him down with some success. He laid soft, steady attentions upon their clit. Kisses and light sucking aided by the involuntary vibrations that, nonetheless, blazed through the sensitive nerves. Feyne hardly needed to seek out further friction. Everything they needed, wanted, loved, was there for them to take, and take they did.
They managed something that sounded vaguely like his name while they came apart under him. A shaking, stuttering climax. He kept them on his tongue until they'd shuddered their last. Then a bit longer as he lapped up their spend. They whimpered. Hands that just a moment before sought to bring him in pressed at him to lean back.
He didn't go so far as to sit up, but he raised his head to peer at them. Panting. Pupils blown. Sinfully flushed. "Satisfied?"
"I…Yes." As though it were the most obvious thing in the universe.
Roathe let their thighs return to the bed and unwound from them enough to crawl up beside them once more. They glanced down to his cock, hard from the feast itself and those delicious sounds which had tested the limits of his self-control.
Hesitant, "Would you like some help with that?"
"Ah, no." He put a hand up to forestall their skeptical look. "It's quite alright, Feyne. You needn't press yourself for my sake."
"Alright," they leaned in to kiss his cheek, "You'll let me know if it becomes painful?"
He shook his head. "I'm more than capable of caring for such matters myself."
"You don't have to-"
"Just as you are not required to service me in such a way while in recovery." A pointed response.
They narrowed their eyes at him. No argument in response.
He drew them closer with his tail at their back. "And besides," Finger under their chin to tilt it up just so, "if you are so intent on assisting, imagine whom I'll be picturing while I…care for myself."
"Oh!" Feyne grinned. "Noted."
…
Roathe would, no doubt, discover why they'd made that note later, but that problem (if it was actually a problem) laid in the future. For the present, his only need was to ensure their comfort as they settled the weight of their body upon his. A contented sigh left them as his hand rubbed their back with some pressure.
What a joy, for them to be his main concern.