Work Text:
Childe stumbles over the threshold, hand clutched to his injured side while dark blood oozes between his fingers. The door behind him closes with a harsh groan of its rusted hinges and he leans against it heavily, taking a few slow, deep breaths. Just a little more, and then he can collapse, he promises himself. He just has to make sure he won’t bleed out.
The room is dark, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering in through grime-covered windows. This ancient cabin in the depths of the forest is little more than a shack, and it has no electricity, so moonlight will have to do. He doesn’t have the strength right now to start a fire, or even light a candle.
A shiver runs down his spine, and on instinct he lifts his head, scanning the room for danger. The cabin he rented as a safe house while on this job, in case anything went wrong—and fuck, has it gone wrong—has only two rooms, both almost bare of furniture. It’s easy to tell there’s no one in this room with him, but from the corner of his eye he spots a shape just beyond the doorway to the bedroom. It’s dark and shadowy, tall, vague around the edges and it’s watching him. He snaps his head round but the shadow’s gone as soon as his eyes move to it.
His mind must be playing tricks on him, though that conclusion doesn’t stop his heart pounding furiously, the blood leaking from his wound at an alarming rate. He’s feeling dizzy now, woozy and unstable, so he ignores the chill in the air as another symptom of blood loss and instead stumbles to the sink in the corner. A first aid kit sits on the side next to it, and Childe musters his energy, taking off his shirt and getting to work stitching up the gash. He’s had to work under less ideal circumstances before, but only once. At least the wound isn’t on his back where he can’t reach, he thinks hazily, tying off the last clumsy stitch and starting on bandaging his torso. Thank the gods for small mercies, right?
The place does have running water, and he washes his hands and takes a long drink before hobbling through to the bedroom. He lies down carefully on the bed, removing only his boots and socks beforehand. (Leaning down to take his socks off sends sharp stabs of violent pain through his body, but he’s never been able to sleep with socks on, and it doesn’t even occur to him to leave them.)
His head sinks into the pillow and he allows himself the first noise of discomfort he’s made since he was stabbed. A low, wretched moan trailing off into a whimper escapes his throat, and the silver moonlight-tinged world around him darkens without his permission. He holds desperately onto the faint hope that he’ll be able to wake up again as he slips into unconsciousness.
blood. the scent of fresh blood fills the cabin the instant the door is opened. so much of it, Morax thinks he might be imagining it.
he shifts out of the shadows, hungry and curious. no, it’s not his wishful thinking—there’s a man here, in his home, and it’s bleeding.
if he had lips, he’d lick them. he once had lips, he remembers. he didn’t look so very different from this young man, once upon a time. he lifts his form taller, narrower, as he thinks of it, trying to estimate. he studies the man and in that instant recognises it: it’s the one who came before, who woke him up.
so hungry, for so long, he’d grown weak. his best choice had been to hibernate here in this empty cabin and wait for prey to come to him. the presence of an intruder had roused him, but by the time he’d woken fully, the man had been gone, leaving only its scent lingering in its wake.
now it’s back, bleeding more than a mortal body should stand, that blood overpowering its natural scent to the extent it took him this long to pick it out. the man lifts its head and looks around, and he slips into the crack of the doorframe, embracing the shadows, before he can be seen. it stares at where he’d been, and a curious shiver runs through Morax. can it sense him? is there something different about this human?
he watches it dig a needle into its own flesh, closing up the wound, washing away the blood, then moving to the bed and lying down. it makes a pained noise and he feels the first twinge of concern for it. strange.
he slides a dark tendril down the sink drain and laps up any traces of blood he can find. even watered down, it’s potent. there are a few undiluted drops across the stone floor too, dark and rich, and he takes them for himself. he creeps back into the bedroom, and the man is already asleep. defenceless, and yet… its brow is furrowed, sweat beading, as it fights against Death’s clutches.
he doesn’t want it to die. the thought permeates him slowly, and he turns the idea over for a while, pondering. this man is much too interesting; much too delicious to be a single meal and then simply gone; much too beautiful. can he keep it?
if he’s going to keep it, he should help it survive. and if it’s not going to be a meal, he should think of it as… Him. he watches Him sleep, and begins to focus his limited power where it’s most needed.
A cool hand brushes his hair back from his face and rests comfortingly on his forehead. That’s nice, Childe thinks, mind sluggish and still hazy as he comes to. The touch is reassuring, calming—
Memory snaps back and Childe throws himself upright, arms up ready to fight and eyes opening to… nothing? There’s no one there. At once the pain of his injury hits him and he collapses back with a stifled yelp, sweat breaking out across his brow. Once he can think again past the stabbing pangs, he decides he must’ve imagined the touch. It must have been a dream, he assures himself. Unless this cabin is haunted. He tries to smile at the thought, but only grimaces. Dizziness washes over him and he sinks back into sleep.
Sunlight is pouring through the window panes in long, golden spears when he next wakes, but it’s the soft touch on his shoulder that calls him back to consciousness rather than the pool of warmth across his bare feet. His mouth is dry as dust, his limbs stiff, and his injured side is still a dark, throbbing lance of pain, but he ignores all of that to focus on the one unexpected sensation. He breathes steadily, keeps his eyes carefully closed, and catalogues it.
A hand, it’s definitely a hand; a firm touch, cooler than his skin. He can feel long fingers gripping gently. He’s fully awake, lucid, and he’s not imagining it this time—presumably that means he wasn’t last time either. It doesn’t feel dangerous, somehow. Whoever it is, are they trying to wake him? He opens his eyes and the touch vanishes completely, like it’d never been there at all. There’s still no one in the room. No one he can see, at any rate.
“Who’s there?” he croaks, but there’s no answer. Nothing moves, there’s no breath of wind, no creak of wood, nothing to suggest another person (or any other entity) is anywhere near. Dammit, Childe thinks to himself, frowning. This is not what he needs right now. He takes stock of his body and finds a blotch of blood seeping through his bandage. He needs water too, and food—preferably something that doesn’t have to be cooked. Gritting his teeth, he gets gingerly to his feet and traverses the short walk to the other room.
A packet of biscuits in the cupboard makes for a meal, and he starts to feel better after five glasses of water and some painkillers from the first aid kit. The threadbare armchair is falling apart at its joints and so full of dust he’s afraid of sneezing and popping his stitches, so as soon as he’s replaced his bandages and finished eating he returns to bed.
“G’night,” he mumbles to the empty room. If there’s a ghost, better to be polite to it, he thinks. And if there’s no one there, there’s no one to judge him for his foolishness.
a hand is a tricky shape to impose on his form, but a hand is what’s required to help Him. he scares Him at first, trying to soothe His mild fever with a cooling touch, and it hurts Him to react to the fear, but he eases the pain as best he can when He falls back asleep.
blood is welling from His injury, and Morax knows this is too much for him to fix alone, so he tentatively wakes Him again. He doesn’t startle this time, and He speaks to him, and His voice is as beautiful as the rest of Him, almost sustaining by itself.
he follows the man as He moves carefully around the cabin, keeping out of His line of sight, hiding in corners and shadows, making himself small or sliver-thin as needed. He moves gracefully despite His injury, and though the scent of blood is once more in the air, it’s clear that Death is no longer hovering over Him.
this human he’s chosen to keep is strong indeed, and he studies Him with ever-increasing intensity, certain he’s made a good choice. if only he could shape himself to match Him—but his strength is not yet returned. he must be patient. that time will surely come.
Childe drifts in and out of sleep, dreams rising and falling like ocean waves. Dark corridors, running feet, silver slashes of knives, pools and pools of crimson blood. The muzzle flash of a gun, lips open in a scream. Shadows. Pain. He wakes trembling, sweating and shaking. Fingers stroke through his hair and he keeps his eyes firmly shut as he breathes slowly, calming at the touch. His wound feels, surprisingly, much better. He swallows and steels himself.
“Who are you?” he whispers, and the touch vanishes, though he hasn’t opened his eyes. “Wait,” he begs, louder. “I won’t look, I promise. I just… Please?” It’s all too weird, but if there’s any time he can ignore common sense and believe in… whatever this is… it’s now. There’s no light coming through his closed lids, so he deduces it must be night again. Injured, alone, in the dead of night in the middle of a forest and thousands of miles from his home; he’s never believed in the supernatural before, but now seems like a perfect time to start.
The fingers return, almost tentative, stroking along his hairline. He relaxes a fraction, letting out a breath. “Are you a ghost?” he dares. The movement stops, though the faint pressure still remains. “I’ll take that as a no,” Childe guesses, and the fingers start moving again, apparently confirmation. Alright, Childe thinks. They have a system for communicating already. That was… surprisingly easy.
“Not a ghost, but not human either?” Childe suggests, and the fingers stroke down his cheek. Correct. “Can you speak?” A pause in the movement, cool fingertips static on his cheekbone, just below his eye. No. “Do you have a name?” Yes, as the fingers trail gently along his jaw and back up to his temple.
“What is it? What do I call you?” Childe asks, burning with curiosity, despite the fact there’s no way for the being to tell him. The touch disappears, and Childe holds his breath. Wind whistles down the narrow chimney, stirring the still air in the room, and in the corner the door creaks slowly. The sound is odd, the combination of the two noises producing something almost like a word.
“Morrrrr… aaaaaxx”
Childe starts and almost makes the mistake of opening his eyes, catching himself at the last second.
“Morax?” he asks breathlessly, his heart pounding. “Your name’s Morax?” A hand cups his cheek, thumb smoothing over his lips. Yes. “I’m Childe. It’s nice to meet you.” Childe desperately wants to ask what the being—Morax—wants. But: yes or no questions only. He’s limited.
“Are you going to hurt me?” he asks, and the motion stops at once, denying it. “Okay, good. I thought not,” Childe assures him. Oh. Morax sounds like a male name, right? “Are you male?” he wonders aloud, and his reward for a correct assumption is to have those long, cool fingers resume tracing the angles of his face. It makes him only want to ask questions to which the answer will be ‘yes’.
“If I open my eyes, are you going to disappear again?” he murmurs. Yes. “But you’ll still be here, somewhere?” Yes. Childe sighs. “Okay. I have to get up. I need food and drink, and to tend to my injury, and…” He needs to relieve himself—he drank five glasses of water before he went to sleep, and now his bladder is insistent. There’s no bathroom inside the cabin, only an outhouse round the back, and an outdoor shower (demonstrating the difference in climate between this place and his home).
When he reluctantly opens his eyes, Morax isn’t there, as expected. “Are you invisible?” Childe murmurs, carefully levering himself off the bed without putting too much strain on his injured side and grunting at the effort it takes. “Or are you hiding?” There’s no response. He’s tempted for a split-second to duck down and peer under the bed, just in case. But his wound overrides his curiosity, so he shakes his head and tends to his needs instead.
silken hair under his fingertips.
questions, communication. no fear.
connection, more than just curiosity now. different. a new kind of want. one Morax hasn’t felt in millennia.
and His skin, soft and warm, with His heartbeat pulsing just beneath the surface, the life within Him as vibrant as sunlight fracturing off running water.
just touching Him makes Morax ache. he can’t get enough.
Over the next few days, Childe mainly sleeps, letting his injury heal. By the time the cabin’s out of food, he’s well enough to venture into the forest a little way, finding some edible plants and mushrooms. He traps a rabbit, skinning it and cooking it over the fire.
His wound is healing surprisingly quickly, and in the back of his mind he wonders if Morax has anything to do with that. But he doesn’t ask. It feels unlucky somehow, as if saying something will jinx it.
Morax does stay close to him though, and over the days he comes to be able to feel when Morax is around, watching him, like a faint prickle of hairs on the back of his neck. Whether it’s his imagination again, he has no idea, but he decides to trust the feeling.
In the heat of the day, Morax’s cool hands soothe his heated brow, and in the chill of night he can feel the bed sink a little next to him, as if a body is sitting or lying by him on the mattress. Sometimes he wakes with hands trailing across his shoulders, or down the centre of his chest, or brushing across his hip. He smiles softly and dozes under the tender touch. Sometimes he wishes he could touch him back. Sometimes he wishes he could do more than just touch.
“Is this your house?” he thinks to ask, sitting in the single, rickety chair at the dining table as he eats his supper one evening. He’d found a large patch of edible mushrooms that day, and his salad of wild leaves and a few berries has been greatly improved by the addition. Morax is behind him, one hand on the back of his neck, making shivers tingle their way down his spine. If Childe turned to look he would vanish, but Childe’s learned by now not to try, no matter how much he wants to get a glimpse of his companion.
Yes, Morax answers, fingers sliding up a little into the short hairs at his nape. Childe’s breath stutters and he swallows.
“But you’re not bound to the cabin. You’ve followed me outside before, right? I wasn’t imagining that?”
Correct.
“So if you’re not a ghost, what are you? Some other kind of spirit?”
No.
“A demon?”
Something like that. The answer comes with a fluttering of Morax’s fingertips, similar to ‘maybe’ and ‘I don’t know’. Their communication’s become more nuanced over the days they’ve been together, and with each response Morax gives, Childe can imagine him saying it aloud. He’d have a soothing voice, he thinks, just like his soothing touch. Something silky smooth, dark and mysterious. That would suit him well.
Morax being ‘something like a demon’ doesn’t worry Childe. He’s given no indication he’d harm him, and Childe’s own profession as an assassin has hardly left him with a shiny, sin-free soul, nor in a position to judge others’. It does make him consider Morax’s motives though—what he wants with Childe, and what’ll happen when his injury’s healed enough for him to leave. Morax’s touches have become more… possessive, of late. When the time comes, will Morax let him go? It’s not an answer he’s ready to face just yet.
On the other hand, Childe feels a strange sense of wonder at how their relationship’s grown, despite Morax not having spoken a single word. He listens, without judgement, to Childe’s worries and fears, his ambitions and hopes. He’s consoled him with soft touches when he described his childhood, how he misses his siblings, regrets the end of his relationship with his parents after falling in with a bad crowd, how they sent him away.
He’s told Morax how he was recruited into the Tsaritsa’s army, rose quickly through the ranks and joined a special classified team, whose job it is to spy or assassinate, retrieve vital intelligence or valuable artefacts, extract captured prisoners—anything the Tsaritsa needs to further her goals. She’s moulded him into her weapon, and he’s proud to serve her in any capacity.
She’ll be disappointed in him at his failure in this mission, he’d explained to Morax, who’d rested a hand comfortingly on his shoulder as he’d tensed in worry. It was meant to be an easy job, and he’d been sent in alone. Retrieve a data stick and take out a scientist while causing a little chaos in the process. Simple—practically his trademark by this point. It should’ve been a walk in the park, but somehow the intel he’d received had all been wrong, nothing had gone according to plan, and he’d escaped with a deep knife wound, only just making it back to the cabin in time to stop himself bleeding out.
“Do you think she’ll be angry with me?” he’d asked. Morax’s fingers had fluttered across his collarbones and he’d huffed out a breath. Of course, Morax couldn’t possibly know that. He’d never met the Tsaritsa and even if he had, her moods are notoriously difficult to predict.
Now, at the dinner table, Childe smiles at the memory of Morax doing his best to reassure him. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, and Morax’s hands clasp his shoulders briefly. Then they slide forwards, dipping inside the open collar of his shirt, fingers splaying across his chest. His hands are smooth, uncalloused, and feel heavenly against his bare skin, demon or not. He sighs contentedly, the intimate touch conjuring that familiar, pleasant warmth that settles low and simmering in his belly.
days and days pass, and his connection to Childe only grows stronger. He seems to like his touches, and He tells him of His life. from His stories, Morax knows He’s clever, strong, loyal, and fearless. He hunts in the forest, gathers wood and builds a fire in the hearth.
it’s been years since Morax has seen that fire lit, and he watches the flames as avidly as he watches Childe. the two are similar, he thinks. bright and lively, colourful, beautiful. the contained strength and the potential for destruction.
the flickering light eats away at the edges of his shadows unpredictably, and if Childe just turns, He’ll surely see small pieces of Morax where the firelight reveals him. he almost wants Him to, though the sight of his real form isn’t something to which any mortal should be subjected.
instead, Childe gives a soft hum and shifts in His chair, letting His eyes slide shut. Morax takes the invitation, brushing his hands across the warm, wide plane of His bare chest. His heart beats faster, His skin flushing in response. always these little hints of His desire, echoing back Morax’s own, faintly enough that he can never be certain.
he watches the curl of a smile on His lips, and thinks maybe he’s already as certain as he needs to be.
Childe startles awake in the middle of the night a few days later with a hand clutching his shoulder, shaking him slightly. Morax has never done that before so he sits up at once, eyes snapping open and scanning the room for threats.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers without expecting any reply, then hears a noise from the cabin’s front door. Someone is here. Someone physical, presumably human. They’ve found him. A cold wash of dread floods his veins, but no fear. Whatever happens happens, and he’s prepared for this. At least his injury’s partially healed—enough to give him a fighting chance.
He silently slides the pistol from under his pillow, where he’d stashed it right at the start of the job, before things had gone so wrong, and creeps towards the other side of the room. The bedroom door is ajar, and if he stands in the right spot he can peek through the crack, the waning crescent moon casting barely enough light to watch a figure slink into the cabin. The front door squeals on its hinges as it swings shut and the intruder freezes. Childe holds his breath and waits, gun cocked and ready.
There’s a burst of motion and the bedroom door explodes open, crashing against the wall. Childe fires his pistol twice in rapid succession, the gunfire almost deafening in such a small space. Both bullets hit their target, but in the dark and with the enemy moving quickly, neither shot is fatal. The man barrels into him, staggering clumsily, and Childe is knocked to the floor beneath his foe, his gun spinning away into the far corner. Both of them cry out, but neither has time to consider their pain if they want to survive this fight.
A glint of silver warns Childe of the knife in his opponent’s hand and he blocks with his forearm, jarring his shoulder and gasping when the tip of the blade scores a line of fire across his upper arm. He gets his other hand up, punching the man hard in the face with the satisfying crunch of his nose as it breaks. Blood sprays across both of them, adding to the metallic tang of copper already in the air and mixing with the acrid bite of the gunpowder.
He hooks his elbow round in a follow-through and catches the guy in the temple, trying to weaken him, knock him out if he can, throw him off. The man howls in pain, blood seeping from the bullet wounds and his face but still struggling against him. Childe gets both hands around his wrist, slamming his hand against the hard flagstone floor to make him drop the knife. They scuffle, rolling over and scrabbling for purchase. Childe feels blunt nails claw at his face and jerks back for an instant, and a brutal punch to the gut comes out of nowhere, winding him.
His vision blurs, dizziness engulfing him, and his arm suddenly flares with vicious, bright red pain. Poison on the blade, he thinks, dully, pushing and kicking at his attacker while his strength is sapped away. Took a minute to enter his bloodstream, but it has hold now. He scrambles backwards and the enemy lets him go, sensing his victory is within reach. The man stands, still dripping blood but with an ugly smile on his face, and raises the knife.
Childe screws his eyes closed, holding his breath… and there’s a whoosh of air, a dull thud, a blood-curdling scream abruptly cut off. A ripping, tearing, rending sound that makes Childe’s guts shrivel and ache. Then silence. Childe keeps his eyes shut, feeling his strength ebbing lower and lower.
“Morax,” he whispers. He knows the intruder is dead, but he’s about to follow and he wants to feel his friend’s touch one last time before it happens. A hand rests against his forehead, cool as river stone, just like when they first met. He lets out a broken sob. He doesn’t want to go.
Morax’s other hand tears at his sleeve, baring the knife wound, and then Childe’s vision turns crimson behind his eyelids as the demon’s large palm covers the gash and a searing heat blazes through it. Before he passes out, he swears he can feel the poison being drawn out of his body, scorching vermillion fire replacing it in his veins.
He slumps to the floor, unconscious, a gentle, invisible hand cradling his head as he falls.
a warning of the other man’s arrival is all Childe needs, and He fights as marvellously as He does everything else.
the sudden hot bloom of blood from bullet wounds has Morax salivating, but he watches Childe battle the man without interference.
the scent is wrong when Childe is cut, and he senses Him weaken at once from the taint on the blade, though Childe doesn’t realise it Himself for a while. in His already wounded state, the additional strength He loses tips the balance away from His victory, and the enemy gains the upper hand.
when Childe closes His eyes, asking for Morax’s intervention, he’s glad to give it. he engulfs the enemy, rips it apart, feasting on its energy as it’s snuffed out and drinking its blood dry, strengthening himself to levels he hasn’t reached in decades. almost subconsciously, his form begins to stabilise and solidify into something more akin to his original shape.
an icy-cold aura from behind him arrests him where he kneels, and he spins in shock and dismay to face Childe. the taint from the blade is all throughout Him now, traces like dark roots draining the life from Him, and Death is hovering so close he can feel It in the air.
but he can do something about it. he summons new strength, sets his will and draws out the blight, catching Childe when He falls and holding Him close.
hot, strong, precious life pulses in his arms, and Morax sighs with relief.
Childe wakes in bed, gasping and sitting upright. A wave of nausea hits him but he swallows it down, and then he’s fine. He’s fine. How? He was dying, and then Morax… somehow Morax saved him. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the daylight, and examines his arm while the sense memory of that intense, molten heat crackles through his mind. The knife wound is a faint line, pale like a scar long-since healed (and he has enough of those to know the look of them). He’d expected to see a burn scar, the flesh melted or crinkled or… something. But there’s nothing else, no hint of the incredible power Morax had used to heal him.
He takes a breath and looks around the room, and the sight almost makes him choke. He hadn’t seen what’d happened to the assassin before he’d passed out, but the daylight reveals the gruesome truth. The man’s body is lying in the middle of the room, with his head several feet away. The skin of his neck is ripped and stretched, as if his head had been twisted round and simply torn clean off. His chest looks as if it burst open from within, flesh gaping, ribs splayed, organs on show.
And there’s no blood. Anywhere. Not at the neck wound, not inside the chest cavity. Not even the drips and splashes on the floor Childe knows were made in the struggle after he’d shot him.
It’s terribly macabre, and it’s not… it’s not how he would’ve done it, he thinks, but after all the end result is the same: the man who was trying to kill him is dead, and he’s alive. Isn’t that what matters most? And it is a stunning display of Morax’s power. Breathtaking, without exaggeration. He shivers. A part of him knows it’s not normal to react this way—feels guilty, even—but to see the evidence of Morax’s raw strength and supernatural abilities, it’s… he can’t lie, it’s captivating.
He quickly tries to justify his reaction, his hands twisting the blanket as his thoughts spin. Not the death itself, of course, and not the method. Just the… the ease with which Morax achieved it, judging by how swiftly everything had happened. He stares for a long minute, then closes his eyes.
“Morax?”
Here, the touch on his arm seems to say.
“Thank you,” Childe whispers. His thoughts flash back to the poison, the memory of his life slipping away making him feel weak again for a moment. He scrubs a hand across his face almost in disbelief. “Oh, gods, thank you. I don’t know how you saved me, but I… I’m not ready to die.”
A hand strokes his cheek, conveying the notion, Neither am I ready to lose you.
Childe frowns slightly. “I still can’t hear you, but I can understand you so clearly. Am I going crazy?”
I am stronger, now I have fed. A fleeting touch to his lips.
“Fed? Oh, was it the blood?”
Yes, and the death. A swipe of a finger across his throat; a second’s cool press to his chest over his heart. Childe swallows, awed. Was it fate, for them to meet? An assassin and a demon who feeds on death. Could there be any better pairing?
Morax’s hand brushes up his shoulder to the side of his neck, and Childe’s body flushes with heat. Suddenly the idea of those hands—containing power that had ripped a man’s head clean off—resting on his own neck, choosing to caress him instead, is so hot as to be dangerously intoxicating. He moans, low and needy, his cock filling. The fingers stutter against his skin and he smiles.
Can you keep your eyes shut? Morax asks, stroking his thumbs just below Childe’s eyebrows.
“I… mmm, give me a second,” he requests, waiting a moment for Morax’s touch to vanish. He has an idea of what the demon wants—hopes, at least, that it’s the same thing he wants right now. The first aid kit has just enough bandages remaining to make a blindfold, and he’s back sitting on the bed within a minute, wrapped in comforting darkness.
Two hands push gently at his shoulders. Lie back.
His head sinks into the pillow. Morax cups both his cheeks, tilting his head, and then lips press against his. Childe almost gasps—it’s the first time any part of Morax other than his hands has touched him—but he can only respond in kind, kissing back, trying to surge upwards for more. Until now, his companion’s been ephemeral, but he’s suddenly solid, real, for all Childe still can’t see him.
His lips are plush, yielding; his mouth tastes warm and wet, oddly clean and slightly sweet like fresh spring water. Childe inhales the taste and scent of him, stamping it into his memories, wanting this moment to last.
The mattress shifts and Childe feels the heat and the press of a knee by his thigh. Desire burns through him, almost as hot as the scorching magic that saved him. He reaches his arms up and they touch a body; smooth bare skin and wide shoulders, solid with muscle. He moans and they break the kiss, Childe gasping for air.
“Let me touch you,” he begs softly, hands already grasping, sliding up towards the back of Morax’s neck. He cards his fingers into the long locks, touches an ear and gulps an astonished breath when his fingers trace the pointed tip.
Yes, Morax sighs, palm smoothing against his chest. Please.
Childe slowly feels his way across Morax’s head, moaning in delight when he maps out the smooth, antler-like horns at the crown. He runs his fingertips across his face, as gently as Morax has ever touched his own, feeling the sharp jaw, high cheekbones, arched brows and straight, narrow nose.
“Oh, gods, you’re perfect,” he sighs, and the soft lips quirk into a smile beneath his fingers. Morax’s response is to kiss him again, and they lose themselves in the bliss of it, mouths opening to each other, tongues tasting, tangling. Want and need, desire, lust and something deeper fill Childe’s body almost to bursting. He’s achingly hard, and when he pulls Morax closer, the hot, thick weight of the demon’s answering arousal is electrifying.
He whines, bucking his hips up into the pressure of it, and almost hears Morax chuckle, though it’s his smile against Childe’s cheek that’s really conveying his amusement. The demon tilts his head, nose tracing along Childe’s jaw and leaving faint flushes of delicious pleasure across the sensitive skin there. His tongue laves at Childe’s neck and he lowers his hips deliberately, rutting against Childe until he can’t help but whimper. If he’s not careful, he’ll come just from that, but he wants more.
“Please,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes tightly shut behind the soft darkness of his blindfold. “Please, Morax. I… I need you!” More waves of heady pleasure ripple up through his core as the demon shifts his hips. “Ahh…!” he pants, losing more self-control by the second. He needs his clothes gone, needs to feel everything with every nerve laid bare. “Ngghh… Mo—Morax!”
A gentle kiss pressed to his tingling, over-sensitive lips says, Hush, my love. Fingers plucking each item of clothing from his body say, I’ll take care of you. He’s bared within moments to the heated air, his cock twitching and leaking pre already, and Morax’s hands stroke down his skin. He’s touched him every day, dozens of times since they first met, but never like this. Shivers and sparks radiate from wherever his fingers make contact and Childe bites his lip to stifle another whimper.
Morax circles a nipple, the motion slow and deliberate and gentle enough to be frustratingly teasing. His thumb flicks across the nub of it, and every sensation already feels heightened thanks to the blindfold, so this is almost too much to bear. Childe can’t help arching into his hands, soft little cries falling from his lips in despairing, agonising pleasure.
Those talented hands continue their journey downwards, smoothing across his abs and sweeping wide, avoiding his straining cock to hold his hips in place with only the slightest pressure. Childe tilts his head back and parts his lips for a kiss, sensing the demon’s movements above him from the clues available—the shifting of the mattress, the heat radiating from his body, the smooth slide of skin against tingling, sweat-slick skin.
Morax’s tongue plunders his mouth and Childe melts beneath him, gasping air when the kiss ends, only for the demon’s mouth to be replaced by the pads of three fingers pressing to his lips. He lets them in eagerly, sucking and swirling his tongue, tasting a faint flavour that brings to mind ash, smooth slate, gemstones and glaze lilies. It’s different from the taste of his mouth; exotic, other-worldly, and intensely alluring.
When Morax is satisfied with how well Childe’s wet his fingers, he uses his thumb against Childe’s jaw to signal him, withdrawing the dripping digits as Childe opens his mouth obediently, then wasting no time in pressing the tip of one of them to Childe’s tight entrance. Childe gasps, panting at once and almost embarrassed by the needy whine he lets out. “Yes,” he begs, “yes, inside, in— ohh!” when the finger breaches him.
Morax works him open gently, patiently, kissing his mouth in between long, slow strokes of his fingers that have them sliding lightly (and, as everything Morax does, deliberately) past his prostate, until Childe’s a writhing mess beneath him, tears soaking into his blindfold, voice cracking. Then and only then does Childe feel a different touch, hot and hard and thick, nudging against his stretched hole. Morax pushes inside and Childe moans brokenly at the stretch, the fullness. He’s so big, but it’s perfect.
So tight! Morax conveys with a slow squeeze of his fist around Childe’s neglected cock and an almost audible groan. He lifts one of Childe’s legs and Childe moves with him willingly, making more room for their bodies to fit together. Morax uses the adjustment to his advantage, working his way deeper with smooth, heavy motions, confidence and power radiating through the contact, and it’s not long before the demon’s hips are pressed close. Childe shudders, every exquisite inch hot and throbbing inside him. The air shifts, sighing down the chimney, whistling through the little cracks around the window, making the door creak in its frame. It sounds like
“Chhhhh—iiiiilll—de”
“Fuck!” Childe gasps, reaching up blindly to pull Morax down into another kiss. He can’t speak, but still finds a way to moan Childe’s name? Impossible, incredible. Childe kisses him until his head swims.
Then, “Move,” he pleads, gasping for breath, and Morax does, slowly at first but soon ramping up until he’s fucking hard into him, each slam of his hips accompanied by a flash of pure pleasure as his thick cock bullies against that magic spot. Childe’s eyes roll back beneath the blindfold and his orgasm crashes down on him without warning. He screams with it, coming untouched in thick spurts across his stomach, shuddering and bucking, muscles clenching.
Morax’s hands tighten on Childe’s hips, his thrusts slowing only slightly, and just as Childe’s orgasm is fading into burgeoning overstimulation he feels Morax stutter, still, and pulse hot inside him, spilling his pleasure deep. The demon leans down, still coming, and Childe can feel his broad chest rising and falling against his own, feel his silent panting breaths against his cheek.
Their lips brush together but they’re both too stunned, too replete and too exhausted to kiss properly now, only nuzzling gently against each other instead. When Childe feels Morax pull out, he wraps an arm around him to keep him close.
“Stay,” he whispers. “Stay with me.”
Fingertips press lightly to his temple, followed by soft lips and a promise. I will, comes the answer.
desire, longing, need, then…
a slow, sensual joining, frantic passion, and…
bliss.
aching, perfect bliss.
utter contentment, a bond, and a promise.
Childe leaves the cabin for good one week later. No more assassins have come to find him and he’s recovered well enough from his injuries to travel. He buries the body (and the head) of the dead man in the forest and removes all trace of his presence from the house before he leaves.
He has to go back home to report the failure of his mission, but his spirits aren’t as dampened by that as they could be, because he has a secret he’s bringing with him. Across his back, hidden beneath his grey shirt and stretching from shoulder to hip, is an intricate tattoo—a winding brown dragon framed by amber geometric diamonds: Morax’s design. It links them together, strengthening them both. And in Childe’s shadow, hidden from view but only ever a breath away, is Morax himself.
Childe tilts his head back to look up at the cloudless summer sky. Just outside his line of sight, a familiar and talented hand more dear to him than any other slips into his, their fingers interlacing, and squeezes.
mine.