DO YOU TRUST ME? DO YOU FEAR ME?

There must come a point after laying siege against the inevitable that the hopelessness sets in, and he had been waiting for it. For that ache in his chest at the knowledge of being so catastrophically misdirected. As a boy he had promised fervently that he would fix things; slay a tyrant and feed the poor and eradicate the chance of him, small and desperate, ever existing again. In the end it was ego. He could have healed the little things, but instead he wanted to set the world on fire.

And it went up magnificently, flames licking at stone, the hulking castle in stark relief against the night sky. The velvet black and its encrusted jewels--the cloak the giants had draped across the world--did not char at the heat, and the survival of his only constant should have been a relief. It was not, could not be. He had been torn asunder. Life seeped from him, from between the cracks of his fingers and the rend in his flesh. Ego, again, and something else to siege against. Except the hopelessness set in.

He was alone in the streets with ash on his tongue. They had won. He had lost. He could not feel his legs or the brick he leaned against. Blood poured black in the cracks of the stone.

He had forgotten that he had made a deal with a devil.

She uncurled from the shadows, pale skin and amber eyes and the grace of a hunter. "How unfortunate that you will not see the sun rise on your victory."

"Not as unfortunate as missing it turn you to ash."

She laughed, full bodied, and it was like the drag of nails. He could not fathom that he had ever grown accustomed to such a sound. The devil was an unpleasant extreme, one he had taken when his forces had been small and his bones had prodded at his skin. In the streets of another desolated town, where the residents had been slain in their sleep, he had begged for the help of a beast, and she had appeared with blood on her chin. Perhaps it was a mistake, something else to make the inevitable less real.

"You will not take my soul," he said, voice thin.

"And I do not want it."

She was close enough that he could smell the stagnancy on her breath.

"Do you trust me?"

She has sat at his side, pressed shoulder to shoulder and shaking with laughter. He has watched her press a bandage into the hands of a child. He has felt her claws on his throat, seen the flash of her teeth, and known she would be his death.

"Then do you fear me?"

QUIET, LICK, INK

Quincey pressed quill to paper and watched the ink spread, and spread, following the flow of his wrist, and knew the patterns meant something because he had been picturing them in his mind's eye for days, waiting for this very moment, but he was tired. The journey had been long, and lonely. His thighs ached. His eyes waned. But Quincey could not sleep, not just yet, else he'd curl into the sheets, into his god, and forget all else. Or he would wish for all else to cease existence, that he had no grimoire to fill and no people to fear. Quincey would lose himself in the fantasy of birdsong and loving arms and demand the world wait another day. So he wrote. Drew his complex symbols, immortalised forbidden power, and lingered briefly on the moonlight-soft figure in their bed.

Ink soaked into the pads of his fingers and smudged against the side of his hand. Stained him black and decay and all things his god wasn't. Shrike would stay pure-white innocent, and Quincey would stain further, and it was right.

"Quin," Shrike breathed into his ear. "You are being maudlin."

"And you are sneaking around again."

The sheets had pooled to the ground, unnoticed, and Shrike was kneeling at Quincey's back. Dirt would smudge them both before the bed was filled. Their hands sought out Quincey's waist, grip tight.

"What else is a god to do, when their love returns home in the dead of night and spurns their side in favour of a book?"

"They are patient, because their love is covered in ink and has not bathed for days."

Shrike buried their nose into Quincey's neck, where his pulse roared, "You have smelt worse."

Every nerve, raw and aching, soothed as Quincey laughed. This honesty, he adored it. Their touch, he could drown in it. And he did, relaxing until he was loose in Shrike's hold and his spine curved into their contours. He turned and ghosted his lips across the sharp jut of his god's cheekbone, catching the smooth press of soft strands along the way.

"I have missed you," Quincey said.

"And I am still missing you. Come to bed."

"But my hands--"

Shrike took Quincey's wrist in their hold, tugged, dipped their head, and Quincey's breath stuttered, eyes fluttered, at the wet silk of their tongue.

"Can be cleaned."

HOAX, TOUCH

Shrike's tongue traced the lines of Quincey's body from neck to stomach. Their teeth scraped delicately against his skin, teasing, and Quincey could only articulate his desperation with a whine. He gripped at the slight curve of a horn and in response Shrike sucked a bruise into his hip. Desire thrummed through his veins, and he was all but begging for his god to spill it, taste it. To know how completely he belonged to them. So he tugged, and Shrike followed, cold breath prickling at his skin.

White strands clung to Shrike's spit-slick lips, fine like spider silk; their cheeks a red hue, and their eyes, lantern bright, a band of gold around fathomless black. Debauched from the simple act of tasting the salt of Quincey's skin. To render a god so, with the mere act of allowing them to touch, to take. He could barely fathom the rush it would bring to see them indulge on his lifeblood--or his very flesh. He yearned to know whether it bring about a frenzy, or stitch together the torn skin over Shrike's ribs. Would Quincey's sacrifice give power, completion? Would a shred of him bring the god closer to divinity?

Quincey dragged his hand from horn to jaw, and felt the tickle of eyelashes and hair against his palm. His thumb found the edge of Shrike's colourless lips and pressed until they gave, until he could feel the sharp edges of their teeth. It would take little to split skin, and with the heave of Shrike's chest, the wildness in their eyes, he knew they would let him. So Quincey pressed. Felt the give. The sharp pain

Shrike pulled back. "No."

"Shrike--"

"Do you think" --their hands grasped his clothed thighs-- "that I would stop after a single drop?"

And they slid closer to the hot length of him, straining against his ties, but refused to touch.

"What if I did not want you to?"

"Then you would be a fool."

A claw ghosted over where they both knew he was leaking, and Quincey sobbed.

"Because I want you like this. Begging. Beautiful. Here. I would have you whole, Quincey."