Work Text:
The town grew still as they crossed the open gate, every weary, sun-beaten villager dressing Crick and Temenos down with squinting eyes. They were decently far from his family’s estate—or whatever was left of it, at this point—but the stares bothered him all the same, a stark reminder of glares hot and itchy on the back of his neck, whispers just out of range, and that sick taste of guilt in the back of his throat, made stronger whenever he dared to think that’s not fair, or I’ve done nothing to you. He had, he reminded himself, when every warm memory was formed off the back of another’s misery.
Were he any less of a knight, he’d have shrunk behind Temenos for comfort. Temenos would have let him, even. Without hesitation. He’d have been an insufferable tease about it, but Crick would be safe there, hidden behind the wool of Temenos’ cloak. Especially when it was Temenos who’d steered them off the road to this town, citing tired feet and gnawing hunger.
(Crick, for what it was worth, only half believed him. He’d seen Temenos wilting under the heat of late summer, even on the most densely shaded roads. And he’d seen his longing stares at every body of water they passed, no matter if it was suitable for a dip. That this town faced a lake was likely no coincidence. He found he couldn’t begrudge the urge.) (But knowledge of his lover, unfortunately, did nothing for the nerves that settled heavy on his shoulders.)
“Everyone is staring, Temenos.”
Temenos hummed, a hand settling on Crick’s wrist. He leaned in close, cupping Crick’s ear to whisper, “They aren’t hostile, my lamb. Merely... sizing us up, so to speak. I believe they have a favour to ask of us.”
With an exhale, Crick shifted to grip Temenos’ hand in his own. He forced himself to consider Temenos’ words, watching the townsfolk right back with fresh eyes.
He was still an other, but he found curiosity in their stares. A flicker of hope shining behind communal, heat-induced misery. And him, not as a disgraced Leaflander but as a loyal knight, stood companionably close to a man so obviously of the Sacred Flame that it mattered not that both of them had resigned from their official posts. Aelfric had far from denounced his chosen, who near glowed with the overwhelming strength of his power.
The town’s centre was a small, worn place. A single bell stood, settled onto a block of wood grown dark with damp that lingered, even under summer’s beating sun. A wooden stage sat in front of that, although it too was... quaint... barely large enough for two men to stand. Not that they wouldn’t, as Temenos made obviously to situate himself there, pulling his ever obedient knight along with him.
It was with robes hiked up to his knee and foot poised to pull himself onto the stage, Crick’s hands hovering at his waist, that someone approached them. An older man in a worn straw hat, his chin scruff as much grey as sandy brown, eyes deep set, nose crooked. He was the perfect picture of the Leaflands’ common farming man, a painting come to life as it gripped their hands both in a firm shake.
“Travellers. You’re of the cloth, aren’t you? Our town has a humble request.”
The town was not wealthy enough for a mirror. Crick determined quickly he was thankful for that small mercy as he stared at his arms, draped in fabric light as air and white as snow. His every breath seemed to set the fabric in motion, swaying gently around him. The effect was appropriately haunting and otherworldly, and he itched with the wrongness of those words applied to him—as wrong as the thick layer of pale face paint the townsfolk had dabbed onto his skin, and as wrong as the simple fact it was him they were shaping into their sorrowful Goddess of the Lake, when a man as gorgeous as Temenos stood shining at his side.
But they’d needed Temenos for his skills, not his beauty. Crick couldn’t begrudge them that, especially when he’d just as readily agreed to aid them as Temenos. It didn’t matter that he felt too exposed in the thin layers of pale fabric draped over him, or that he felt ill-equipped to move as gracefully as expected of his role.
One of the villagers—a girl barely more than fifteen, with freckles dotting her sun-kissed cheeks—brought a veil to him, and while he hesitated, he still lowered his head for her, letting the fabric kiss his ears as it covered his hair entirely, leaving only pale skin and paler cloth and lips as red as blood.
Another villager clapped and squealed, radiating pride. “Perfect,” she declared, and then their Goddess of the Lake was grabbed by the wrist and pulled into the darkness outside.
All that effort to dress him up, and in less than ten minutes he was fishing the edges of his clothing out of an inky lake, cursing under his breath as yet another villager rowed him towards where Temenos lay in wait.
The man was older, quieter. But not gruff or unkind, the way age had left some. Glen was his name, he said, shaking Crick’s hand like it was all good and normal to meet a man dressed like a mournful spirit. He laughed at Crick now, not slowing the boat at all even as Crick struggled to fit all the layers of fine fabric in his lap before they grew dark and heavy with damp. He had a new respect for Agnea’s graceful dancing now, struggling to imagine doing anything more difficult than putting one foot in front of the other.
For how still the lake stood, its edges buzzed with life and noise. Crickets sung unseen from tall grasses lining the shore, and a frog croaked lowly despite the hour, all paired with the methodical splash of oars meeting the water’s surface, over and over. Crick fiddled with his skirts, staring at the moon reflecting off the water’s surface. “Glen, sir, do you truly believe this will work?”
“Ain’t you holy types supposed to be pissing out faith?”
Crick didn’t look up, but he imagined the unimpressed look on Glen’s face, looking at this grown man—a knight no less—fretting and fussing. His cheeks grew warm, embarrassed.
He heard Glen sigh, long and low. “Boy, you look as nervous as my eldest on her wedding day. Take a breath, will you? It works or it don’t, won’t be your fault if it doesn’t. Bein' frank, think the whole idea is a bit odd myself, but the girls seem sure of it, and yer cleric there seemed awful thrilled by the idea—”
“—He loves theatrics,” Crick muttered, sighing. Right. Temenos thought this would work, or at the very least thought it was worth trying. He’d listened to the townsfolk’s pleas with rapt attention, and Crick had known from how his eyes lit up that he thought the idea was... if not good, at least harmless and absurd. He was always easily sold on novelty.
And Crick felt for the plight of this town, driven away from swimming in a lake so close to their own home by the force of cranky, superstitious elders. While the specifics of this area’s politics eluded him, he couldn’t help the way it pricked something at the back of his neck hearing their pleas. He wondered, quietly, if there was someone in the elder’s ears. Someone like his father, crafty and cruel and uncaring for the consequences save for more wealth, more power. Temenos had likely seen the thought form on his face. Perhaps they’d investigate later. But in this moment... it would be a great kindness to return to them this simple pleasure, for both them and him.
And... Temenos’ magic was a sight to behold, even at its most pragmatic. Something made for show was certain to be a delight.
He didn’t regret agreeing, but...
“I suppose I’m feeling a little out of my depth,” Crick admitted, flashing a wry smile. “I’m not a good actor.”
Glen snorted. “Makes two of us then. Lucky you don’t gotta do much but splash around, eh?”
Mumbling an affirmative, Crick looked up in time to see a flash of movement in the reeds, so close now he could reach out and touch. He couldn’t see into them in the thick dark—but he knew whoever lurked could see him, glowing beneath the moon’s gentle light, tucked into the edge of a boat with no choice but to sit sweetly as he was shepherded to his destination. He understood, suddenly, the weary looks sheep aimed into the forests beyond their pastures. The urge to call out welled up in him with equal suddenness, but he dropped his hand as quickly as he’d begun to raise it, gripped by a need to better play his role of silent, sullen observer.
Eventually, Glen came to a stop, halting the boat with a log stuck out of the shallow floor. He grunted, and Crick gathered himself, standing with as much elegance as he could manage as he stepped into the foot-deep water, arms full of fabric. He bowed, thankful, and Glen tipped his hat, the barest hint of a smile gracing his bearded, weathered face.
“G’day, ma’am. And good luck.” He winked, and Crick’s face flared anew, eyes wide. He swore he heard a low chuckle as he gathered himself, though he couldn’t place it.
And then Crick was alone near the edge of the lake, hidden by draping willow trees and a thick mist forming off the cool water.
Glen was right to tease Crick for how easy his role was. He recalled the rosy-cheeked teenagers explaining their plot, using a worn and lovingly hand-drawn map. A boat would take him the largest stretch of the way, making use of a small island and the drooping trees to shield them from any curious night owls in the neighbouring village. But the water grew too shallow to use a boat the whole trip, so Crick would have to trudge his way the rest of the way through. (A villager’s eyes had twinkled with excitement then, a grin on her face as she expressed how alright it’d be if his legs became tangled with weeds and debris, how it’d only add to the sight.)
Finally, when he came to the edge of that small island, Crick would face the moon and walk towards its mirror on the water’s surface, letting his sleeves and skirts unfurl in the inky water. Temenos, they assured him, would be watching, waiting for him. Temenos would make him a sight they’d never forget.
He untucked the veil from behind his ears, the gauzy fabric falling to cover his bangs and his sharp jawline, painting all of him in hazy, ghostly white. It was only now that he could really see himself, his reflection swaying in the water as he moved. Funny how indistinct it was now, with his vision obscured by silk and his every step sending that visage scattering. But what little he could see... It was odd, to know how eerily beautiful he looked.
Crick knew when he’d reached the right spot.
He hadn’t been certain, but there was a moment where the air changed and he knew, knew that tingle of magic in the air as well as his own breath. He stopped immediately, craning his neck like he could see, could find where Temenos crouched among the shadows, hands clasped in prayer.
He saw nothing. The moon was too bright and his vision too obscured, everything pale and hazy, an endless expanse of navy before him broken only by his own gently dancing sleeves.
He felt, however, the moment Temenos’ magic surged. Warmth, and hope, and all that faith he questioned so resolutely, all tucked around him like his fondest embrace. The lake’s cold water felt so far away, all of him warm, and he unfurled with a pleased sigh, swaying waist deep in the lake, taking slow steps towards that distant village shore.
Crick knew of Temenos’ mastery over the other elements as well. He’d seen him start a fire with the snap of a finger, seen him use a thimble-sized tornado to send a wasp spinning harmlessly away. It was still a shock to feel himself buoyed up, something cold and hard beneath the thin soles of his borrowed shoes. He badly wanted to look down and see what Temenos had done, heart thumping with the reminder of his effortless strength. He resisted, just barely, and focused instead on the slow wade forward as a thin, sturdy sheet of ice formed beneath the water, unnatural in its perfect shape and sturdy, motionless presence.
Suddenly, Crick wished he could see himself out of more than embarrassment. He wanted to know the spectacle from its intended vantage point, to see how his clothing unfurled like a flower in bloom, how Temenos’ magic clung to its edges and painted him in pale, unnatural light. He wanted to see himself floating on the water’s surface, unburdened by the laws of nature, his steps sure and unhurried as he walked ever forward. He wanted to see the orbs of eerie light that bobbed at the edges of his vision, escaping his orbit to dance their way across the lake. He wanted to see how it looked when he raised his hand, cupping that distant village in his palm so gently before squeezing his fist closed, a silent promise for all those batty old gossips to run away with.
Temenos’ last gift was the lack of light, all that magic that had lit him gone as easy as it’d come, blessing him with shadow’s embrace as he turned and fled back the way he’d come, leaving whatever unfortunate observers were present to watch as the lake grew as still as death once more.
There was a hunting cabin south of the lake, far enough from town to remain, hopefully, undisturbed. Crick hiked his way there as fast as he could, pleased to find a lantern already lit and a basket of something pleasant-smelling set on the counter, covered by a linen cloth to keep it warm and fragrant.
He let out a slow exhale, shoulders slumping. His part in this scheme was through, and he’d never again need to play the role of mournful spirit.
…But he’d enjoyed himself, in the end. It was hard not to, surrounded so wholly by Temenos’ magic. As warm as his touch and gentle as a morning breeze, Crick could still feel how it danced across his limbs and brushed feather-light against his nape, the memory lingering even when the hum of magic in the air had long faded.
The door opened then, with Crick lost in thought, and his head swivelled to catch Temenos stepping in, picking a leaf out of his hair with a beleaguered sigh.
Their eyes met across the room. Crick stiffened. For a moment he’d forgotten Temenos was meant to join him to ensure the two of them were both far from any more suspicious villagers looking for foul play.
They might find their evidence still. The plot was far from foolproof. Someone could have smelt the magic on the air, or seen a wisp of Crick’s flowing sleeves as he fled into the forest. Or someone could have slipped up and revealed the ruse, or been coerced into sharing. And maybe they had their own beautiful spirit, or their own powerful cleric. Or maybe they’d just smell a falsehood in the air and refuse to capitulate.
Crick knew if things escalated–if there was smoke, or fighting, or even a call for help–he and Temenos would come running. But for the moment his sole remaining job was to stay firmly out of sight, preferably in as little of the incriminating outfit as possible.
...Which meant he needed to change.
“Temenos, do you know where my clothes have gone?”
He heard the click of a lock. “Wait, little lamb.”
Crick stilled with a fist bunched in a gathered handful of his dress, eyeing Temenos’ smile. A smile that grew dangerously with Crick’s obedient stillness, his eyes tracing a slow line up the length of Crick’s body to settle on his painted face.
Flushing from the attention, Crick looked past Temenos’ shoulder, giving his most withering, commanding glare. “My clothes, Temenos.”
Temenos clicked his tongue, and Crick’s focus shot back to him as he took a step closer, uncharacteristically menacing. “Come now, my lamb. You’re being terribly demanding for such a mournful spirit. Terrorizing these poor villagers! They’re lucky to have stumbled upon such a righteous, pious cleric.”
Crick stiffened. For a moment the terror in his heart was real, a shock of it shooting like ice down his spine. He was unarmed, and this was Temenos, Temenos who took down a fell god, Temenos the beautiful and downright terrifying force of nature he’d sworn his loyalty and heart to.
Then he caught the playful quirk of Temenos’ lips, the mischief in his brows, the desire simmering in his eyes. That bone-chilling fear receded, but wariness remained, his eyes darting from Temenos’ face to the shrinking distance between them to the bed in the corner and the table to his left. He couldn’t leave the cabin, couldn’t flee into the woods to put some distance between them, not without violating the promise he’d made. But he was still faster than his lover.
Temenos lunged (poor form, not trying at all,) and while Crick yelped he still jumped easily out of reach, squeezing himself between the table and wall in a flurry of fabric. All Temenos managed to grab was the limpest wisp of cloth attached to... something... on Crick’s person (a sleeve? His veil?) He frowned down at it, like it’d offended him personally, and Crick barked out a laugh that set Temenos’ glare right back on him proper.
He feigned left and Temenos followed. Right, the same. Crick laughed, thrilled with the sight of Temenos moving with the type of speed he usually reserved for tiring out especially rowdy children.
Temenos sighed, shaking his head. “To think you would laugh even at a time like this. What a cruel, nefarious spirit you are.”
There was a smile there, hidden in the corner of his lips. Crick could have easily been lost in it—and almost was—but then Temenos fully hoisted himself onto the table, shoes and all, and Crick yelled and shoved the chair between them, fleeing for the bed.
“Temenos! Er- righteous, pious cleric! You can’t exorcise me, my purpose isn’t served!” Crick protested, hands raised.
Crouched on the table, Temenos looked more a feral spirit than Crick ever could. “Who said a thing about exorcisms, little spirit?”
Again with the nicknames? Crick thought, though what he said was, “Then what do you want from me?!”
Temenos slid off the table, rushing towards him with a grin, unmistakable laughter in his voice as he replied, “You would like to know, wouldn’t you!”
Crick shrieked and jumped over the corner of the bed, narrowly dodging those reaching hands once more. “I would!” he insisted, though he too couldn’t hold back his giggles any longer, high off the rush of Temenos’ smile and this silly, ridiculous game they’d begun.
...Actually, if he were to strip the dress, he really wouldn’t stand out too much. Then he could run outside, and Temenos would be hard pressed to keep up with his stamina. Not that he’d really run, but there was an energy buzzing beneath his skin that wanted more.
Of course, there was no time to peel his dress off. For all his fun, damp fabric still clung to damp ankles, crusted with lake muck and sand. And there really was so much fabric, more than Crick had ever worn at once, more than any person should be burdened by at all. And the room was small, Temenos never more than three feet from him.
And in that moment’s rumination Crick found himself crowded against the table, exertion-warmed hands settling on his waist.
“I’ve got you,” Temenos crooned, smile wide.
Crick gasped, hands clutching at the edge of the table. His heartbeat still hammered in his chest, and Temenos’ touch was making him dizzier than normal, like his insides had been filled with cotton, all the space taken up so nowhere remained for all his air to go. “So you have,” he confirmed, his voice tight with a matching breathlessness.
Temenos faltered, his gaze sharpening. “Crick?”
“I’m here,” Crick confirmed, blinking some of the cotton away. “You... surprised me.”
“Bad surprise?”
“Good surprise.” He exhaled, pushing past the burn of embarrassment. “I liked it. What we were doing. I want to see where you’re going with it.”
Temenos cocked his head, a smile blooming on his face that would have killed a weaker man with its beauty. He did love learning new things, Crick supposed, and though he itched knowing he’d granted his lover some dangerous information about him, he found he didn’t really regret it.
Especially when Temenos shoved him against the table with renewed purpose, his smile turning predatory. “I’ve caught the spirit of the lake all to myself. Now... whatever shall I do to him?”
“Temenos....” Crick protested, squirming in place.
He gasped with poorly concealed excitement when Temenos responded in kind, pressing him more firmly into the edge of the table. “Well if it isn’t my little lamb! I didn’t recognize you in that costume. What reason could such an upstanding Godsblade as yourself have for such... scintillating dress?” Temenos’ hand wandered as he spoke, tracing the length of Crick’s torso beneath his clothes.
Crick shuddered, eyes locked on the slow motion of his palm, searing against his chilled skin. He licked his lips. “It was a favour, Temenos.”
“A favour?” he echoed, hand starting downwards. “And you agreed? Surely you’re aware of what a danger you are like this. You could drive even the most pious man to distraction. Unless...” His hand stilled, thumb steady against the curve of Crick’s clothed groin. “My dear, did you wish to be found like this?”
Is this pious man with us right now? Crick thought, barely holding in an eye roll. He only managed with the heat of Temenos’ touch reigning him in, drawing his focus. He met Temenos’ eyes. “I was waiting for you.”
“Goodness, really?” Crick saw the hint of a true smile on Temenos’ face, before lips pressed to his neck, kissing a hot trail along the tensed muscles there. He shuddered, tilting his head back for more, that smile turned knife-sharp against his skin as Temenos’ words sighed against his pulse. “I suppose I’ve been left no choice but to reward your... tenacity, little lamb.”
“Tenacity...” Crick echoed, his own hands freeing themselves from the wood to grab at Temenos instead, holding him close as he resumed his thorough mapping of Crick’s neck. He felt dizzy again, a little lost by what Temenos found so captivating about his costume, a little overwhelmed by the attention being lavished on him. “Are ghosts arousing to you, Temenos?”
Dislodging from his neck with a wet pop, Temenos drew back to meet his eyes, grabbing his cheeks to hold him steady. Crick frowned, confused. Temenos frowned back. And frowned. And frowned. Until the corners of his lips quirked, and Crick felt his own move to match, the both of them bursting into raucous laughter.
“Crick! Haha, gods help me, you’re serious!” Temenos laughed harder, somehow, releasing Crick’s face to embrace him instead, cackling into the meat of his shoulder.
Caught up in Temenos’ mirth, even—or perhaps especially—because it was aimed at him, Crick laughed helplessly along. “Well!” he protested, though he only held Temenos tighter, “How am—hahaha—am I supposed to know—Temenos, really!”
His chest ached when he finally calmed himself, Temenos grabbing his face and forcing their eyes to meet. “Look at me. Crick, I do not wish to fuck a ghost.” (Crick breathed out another laugh. Temenos pinched his cheek, hard.) “Focus. Crick. I am not interested in you as a ghost. I am interested in you. Captivated by you. Always, of course, but especially like this. You’re enchanting. Like something out of a dream.”
“It’s only a dress,” Crick protested. But though he said that, he considered Temenos in his place, his every motion smooth like water, the shape of him obscured by so, so much white. He blinked. “Oh, I see.”
Temenos sighed, fingers dancing along his sleeve. “I wish you could, truly. A shame there are no mirrors. I’d have you before one in a moment.” He smiled, entwining his fingers in Crick’s own. “And then I’d take you right there on the floor.”
Crick’s breath caught, squeezing Temenos’ hand tight in his own, his hips jumping. “Temenos, please.”
His smile grew. “You won’t hide from me, will you? You’ll be good and let me see whatever I please?”
“Anything, Temenos.”
“Can I have you here then, on this table?” His eyes sparkled with unmistakable excitement.
Crick whimpered, nodding his head.
Temenos kissed him, bending him back against the wood to do so, one hand holding the back of his head while the other moved from palm to wrist, stroking circles against Crick’s hammering pulse. He kissed back, helpless, seeking solid ground in the press of lips against his own, but finding only more breathless want in the heat of Temenos against him, the slick wetness of a tongue against the seam of his lips.
Objectively, he knew Temenos wanted him. He’d seen how his eyes wandered when Crick changed, been teased by his roaming hands, and shared languid, heated kisses long into the night. He’d heard praise and filth alike from that perfect mouth, and had his name sung like a prayer on more than one occasion. Yet it was still a shock to be wanted so carnally, to be pushed around and groped and leered at. To be the object of Temenos’ fantasies. It was almost—almost—more arousing than his touch.
“We need...” Crick breathed into his mouth, hand grasping a fistful of Temenos’ sturdy travel robe, grounding himself in its familiar, worn texture. The hand in his hair grasped just the same, and Crick moaned when Temenos tugged, forcing his eyes to the ceiling.
Lips traced down his neck, too feather-light to be a kiss, too intentional to be a mistake.
“Yes, my lamb?” Temenos found his Adam’s apple, sucking at it.
Thoughts scattered, Crick stared at the wood grain above him. “We need...” Temenos scraped teeth against his skin, making his hips jump. “Oil!”
Temenos chuckled, releasing Crick’s neck to kiss at his ear. “Eager, aren’t we? And what if I said no? Would you find something else to satisfy yourself?” His voice dropped lower, hips grinding against Crick’s with agonizing slowness. “...Or would you drop to your knees and slick me yourself?” He sighed, kneading at Crick’s hipbones. “I think we both know very well what a needy thing like you would do, and I’d love to have a demonstration... But...”
“...But,” Crick echoed, swallowing hard.
Temenos sighed again, more beleaguered, drawing back to cup Crick’s face in his hands. He was pouting, and Crick noticed suddenly the colour smeared on his mouth, right as he explained, “I had intentions for that lipstick they’d put on you... But it seems greed makes fools of us all.” He tapped Crick’s lips, tracing along the edge. “You do make a lovely picture like this, though.”
“We can purchase more,” Crick offered, head spinning with Temenos’ fantasy.
Temenos smiled at him, dropping his hands. “Fantastic idea. I will be taking you up on that.” He reached into his robes then, effortlessly procuring a vial of oil. “For now, I shall not be letting you go an inch from me. You are, after all, a crafty spirit whose wily tricks have let you very nearly evade my capture once already.”
Crick laughed, as much with excitement as amusement, pulling Temenos close to him to kiss. “I’ve decided I no longer want to flee, actually. You made an offer I couldn’t pass up.”
“You did say I could have you however I liked,” Temenos agreed, hands moving to stroke at his thighs. “And you’ve proven to be exceedingly obedient. Now, come, leg up, let me see you.” He tapped Crick’s thigh, and Crick obeyed without hesitation, letting Temenos hoist his leg up and lean his weight onto the table, giving him access to better slot himself between Crick’s legs. It rucked his dress up, finally, and Temenos cooed as he stroked his bare legs, pushing the cloth up as he went. “I wonder... what underclothes does a lovely spirit like you wear?”
“You’ll be disappointed,” Crick insisted, voice tight. “Just... white.”
“I could never be disappointed,” Temenos corrected him, ducking to kiss his raised knee. “But one can always hope.” He pushed Crick’s skirt up fully, exposing his simple drawers and the half-hard cock within them, stirring more at Temenos’ obvious ogling. He squeezed Crick, once, and visibly thrilled at how he threw his head back to moan, throbbing beneath his palm.
“T-Temenos, gods...”
“None of that, little lamb. We wouldn’t want them to see you like this, now would we?” With a huff of laughter, Temenos kissed his cheek, pulling Crick’s undergarments down to his thighs with a wink and a grin. “They haven’t nearly earned this sight.”
That heat in his eyes had cooled to a simmer, some of it sneaking instead into his smile, more warm than Crick had expected with the tone of their play thus far. But then, Temenos had more than once complained about whatever besotted expression Crick had on his face when they laid together, no matter how often he insisted he couldn’t help it. And how could he, when he was presented with Temenos’ body and all the trust that entailed.
If Temenos was feeling the same way now... Crick laughed at the thought, breathless.
“Pleased, aren’t we?” Temenos rolled the vial in his hand, pouring entirely too much over his fingers. Crick stopped laughing immediately, drawing his leg up further. “I’m beginning to believe you wished to be caught.”
“...I would have liked to have won, actually,” Crick admitted, absolutely and definitively not pouting. “I was considering stripping and running outside for a proper chase.”
Temenos barked out a laugh. “Now wouldn’t that have been a sight! A shorn sheep on the loose.”
“Well, my shepherd saw fit to chase me around and threaten to exorcise me—”
“—Excuse you, I was very clear that was not my intention.”
Crick balked at him. “How else should I take you lunging at me like a wild animal?”
“Take it as the truth: I want to devour you.” Temenos kissed Crick with as much hunger as he’d claimed, and it was with his mouth as a distraction that Crick felt a slick finger stroking his taint, dancing back until it pressed at the edge of his ass and slipped in, easy with the slide of the oil. He whimpered, clutching Temenos closer to him, his hips jumping.
“How is it, my lamb?” Temenos asked, smoothly thrusting his finger in to the base, his palm dragging against Crick’s balls. He nodded, inhaling shakily, and was rewarded with a warm smile and a sure hand rocking against him, not thrusting as much as grinding against him, teasing against heated nerves.
“More, please—” Crick whined.
Temenos crooked his finger, prodding at hot muscle, and Crick shuddered, grinding down on his hand with renewed vigour.
“So soon?” He teased, slowly drawing that finger back to tuck a second in, his eyes locked on what Crick could only imagine was the way his rim stretched around them, drawing Temenos deeper in.
He groaned at the thought, hands gripping at the table. “I can take it. I’ll take anything from you, Temenos, please.”
Temenos cocked his head, watching Crick with some discerning gaze. “I cannot tell whether you are being overly accommodating or if you need me inside you that badly.”
For a breath Crick stared at him, uncomprehending. Accommodating? As if Temenos’ finger in him was an overstayed house guest. As if his touch was anything less than a gift. He was almost offended. Perhaps it was Temenos’ intention, or maybe his foolish shepherd would doubt even this.
Regardless, he let himself go, forced himself past that shame and embarrassment, let his face twist with pleasure though he wanted to hide it, nails digging marks into the worn table beneath him. “It’s you—” His finger thrust in, rewarding— “Ah, Temenos—you know it’s you. I want you, however you’ll have me. You—gods, right there—you make me feel so good, Temenos.”
Temenos sped the motion of his fingers, his gaze flicking elsewhere. But Crick could see the pink in his cheeks, and he smiled to himself for only a moment, until another firm thrust knocked the breath out of him.
Lips pressed to his knee, a hand stroking his calf with a tenderness that scarcely matched the sure, solid strokes inside him. “I’ve got another finger for you, my lamb, but I’ll need something from you in return.”
Crick’s mind raced, watching how Temenos’ thumb squeezed his leg, digging into the firm muscle possessively. In only a second he managed a thousand decadent little fantasies, his cock throbbing. “Anything.”
Temenos laughed, drawing his fingers back. “You trust me too wholly.”
“It’s—ah—warranted. You’re—my guiding light.”
His laughter softened, cheek nuzzling against Crick’s bare leg. “My lovely Crick. You don’t even know how I want to ruin you.”
Crick whimpered, thrusting uselessly against Temenos’ fingers, still in him only barely, teasing at what he wanted—needed. “Please—” he begged, “I want that, Temenos, please—”
“I know,” he confirmed. “Now, be a good little lamb for me. I’ll give you what you need, but I’d like you to touch yourself.”
Crick moved, gripping himself firmly in hand. His other hand snuck lower, curious, and Temenos let him trace past his own balls, fingers meeting where he was stretching Crick open. He squeezed his eyes shut, panting at this new proof of how Temenos could change the very shape of him.
“Stroke for me, lamb, just once.” Crick obeyed, and Temenos crooned his approval, guiding a third finger into him.
He squeezed himself to stave off some of the desperation that came with Temenos so deep within him, those long fingers resuming their steady pumping with renewed vigour, his eyes dark with desire. Crick could imagine the ache of his own cock, untouched within his slacks. He wanted to soothe it for Temenos, and his mouth watered at the reminder of what Temenos had wanted to do to him, before. But this wasn’t the moment for that, want as he did, and his wandering mind was dragged back to him as Temenos thrust deep one last time and then drew slowly out, leaving him aching for more.
He reached for the waist of his trousers, pulling them off and shucking them to the side. Crick watched, still squeezing the base of his cock, while Temenos undid the buttons on his thin shirt, letting it fall open to reveal the smooth expanse of his chest, the pale hair drawing a line down his stomach, and the sharp jut of his own erection, proud and stiff and painfully flushed. Crick squirmed again, ogling shamelessly, though Temenos made no move to crowd into his space as he had a moment before.
Instead he stared right back, unbothered and unhurried, and Crick realised he was being recorded into that razor sharp mind of his forever, with his mussed hair half-covered by a veil, his dress rucked up to show off the hand squeezing his own erection, and a muscled leg lifted to expose the meat of his ass and the teased hole within, surely flushed from Temenos’ attentions. He must have been a sight, and he recalled suddenly Temenos’ comment about a mirror. He’d have liked that, he realised, squeezing himself firmer. Temenos looked so dashing, Crick wanted to be the lovely thing he messed up, wanted to see exactly how beautiful Temenos could make him.
Temenos closed the scant space between them, his hand settling warm on Crick’s jaw. Crick followed his guidance, letting his head tilt back just an inch, pressing eager into his palm.
“You’ve been such a good little spirit for me,” Temenos crooned, his thumb dragging across the seam of Crick’s lips. They parted obediently, desperately, and Crick moaned softly around the digit as it pressed inside, teasing along the edge of his tongue. “A part of me wants to keep you like this all night. You said you’d take anything from me, after all. I could put that to the test.”
His thumb pressed deeper, hand clasping Crick’s face. Crick whimpered, pleading.
Temenos shushed him. “At ease, my Godsblade. I had a thought, earlier. And I don’t believe it will be satisfied until I’ve wrecked you.”
Shuddering, Crick’s eyes fell lidded, his gaze focused on the unhurried thrust of Temenos thumb in and out of his mouth, the possessive curl of his fingers on his jaw. He knew that Temenos’ desires aligned with his own—they’d shaped many of them together, after all—but it left him hot with the reminder all the same, and distracted him entirely from Temenos’ approach until the blunt head of his cock pressed against his rim. He whined, pressing against it, toes curling with want.
Temenos kissed his cheek, moving his hand to hold Crick’s. He nestled the head of his cock in Crick with a slow push, the swell of it stretching him, guiding him open, his head thrown back as he gasped at the blissful ache and the thrill of how easily Temenos sank into him.
“Temenos—oh, gods, please, more,” he begged.
“Shh, it’s alright. I’ll give you what you need. You’ve been so wonderfully patient. But I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t,” Crick insisted. “I want you to fill me. I want you to wreck me, Temenos, just like you said, I love you, I need you in—” Temenos grabbed his hips, thrusting into him to the base. Crick wailed, the hand still holding his cock squeezing to the point of pain, desperate to stave off how impossibly close he’d come to falling over the edge. He was stretched, he was filled, and his head spun to know it was Temenos in him, Temenos filling that ache in his core, Temenos smoothing hands along the fabric on his torso, the skin of his exposed thighs.
Temenos kissed him, his own motions uncoordinated, the press of their mouths wet and messy. He pressed their foreheads together, hugging himself to Crick, rocking his hips in slow, indulgent motions all the while. “I love you too, my perfect Crick, so warm for me, so giving. Do you know how your body sucks me in? You were made for this, truly.”
“Only, ah, for you,” Crick insisted, his own eyes falling shut on the sight of Temenos smiling crookedly at him, joined so close he could feel strong, travel-built thighs against the curve of his ass.
“Good boy,” Temenos sighed, drawing back from Crick, dragging against his nerves anew as he went. “I did—oh, ah, good—catch you fair and square, after all.” He thrust back inside, everything smooth and slick with oil and need, Crick taking everything he could from his guiding light, his beloved, his insufferable cleric who found such a thrill at the sight of Crick draped in white, who had learned exactly what made Crick’s head spin with want and used it to please them both.
He flexed his hips, testing, and found with glee that though he couldn’t help much, Crick could rock to meet Temenos’ steady motions, grinding the searing head of his cock deeper into himself, deep enough his stomach flipped with every push.
Temenos smiled at him, his face flushed, and Crick’s heart hammered at the tension in his brows, the sweat dampening his bangs to his face. He wished his shirt was off fully so he could see the flex of his arms as his fingers dug bruises into Crick’s skin, see the way his shoulders pinked with exertion, and know it was all in service of seeking his pleasure with Crick’s body.
Giddy, Crick managed a laugh tapered to a moan, sure the look on his face was so, so smitten, more sure when Temenos glanced at him and smiled shakily, just as besotted.
“Should—see yourself, gods.”
“The dress, Temenos, I can’t—”
“The dress,” Temenos parroted, his smile excited. “Nations would fall for your beauty, men would throw themselves at your feet—”
Crick’s toes curled, too far gone to even attempt shame at how Temenos’ words lanced through him, as hot as him buried deep. “Oh, Temenos, gods—”
“—would steal you for their pantheon if they saw you like this.”
“I wouldn’t—” Crick pleaded. Temenos shifted his hips, raising Crick’s leg, and the next thrust hit perfectly, had stars in his eyes and words on his lips, a helpless babble of, “Oh, there, there, please—”
“There you are,” Temenos smiled hazily, his eyes unfocused with effort. His bangs swayed with every hard thrust, sweat beading on his brow. “I’d never let them touch you. You, ah, are mine alone, Crick.”
“Yours, yours, Temenos, I’m close—”
“—My Godsblade, my lamb, my veiled spirit, my good boy, Crick, my Crick.” He kissed at his jaw, over and over, Crick gasping and clawing at the table with both hands, his cock abandoned and throbbing between them, rubbing against the ruined fabric, staining it, his chest heaving.
Temenos took him in hand, stroking once, thrusting deep. His voice was low in Crick’s ear, a mumble of, “Come, my lamb,” and Crick could only obey, ever his loyal Godsblade, keening and tensing and wrapping his legs around Temenos’ waist, dragging him closer.
“Temenos, Temenos, Temenos,” he prayed, his orgasm as hard as it was fast, wracking his body with the force with which it hit him. He could barely process his own body any longer, but he felt himself tensing, pulsing, Temenos so hot inside him, around him, his breathing laboured and loud, his hips still pistoning determinedly onward.
And then came the sharp gasp in his ear, the dull teeth in his neck, and Temenos throbbing, spilling wet heat so deep inside him.
A moment passed, the both of them squeezing their clasped hands, their pulses hammering with such force Crick could only imagine his heart wished to leap from his chest to nestle into Temenos’. It was a grotesque thought, and Crick laughed helplessly, slumping back against the table.
His legs felt like jelly, his ankles itched with sweat and lake water both drying on his skin anew. There was cum on his borrowed skirt, and spit smeared down his chin from Temenos toying with his mouth. His makeup was surely far beyond ruined by now.
Smiling at him, Temenos smoothed hands down the length of his torso, his cheek nestling against Crick’s shoulder. “Leaf for your thoughts?”
“I was only thinking... If anyone from the village saw me now, there would be no question of if they’d seen a ghost or a man.”
Temenos snorted, following Crick’s eyes down the length of his body. His smile grew cat-like and smug. “You do look especially... spirited, one could say.”
Crick groaned. “That was nothing, Temenos. It’s only a joke because I know you hoped it’d be one.”
Laughing, unrepentant, Temenos rolled his hips, softening cock still nestled inside, and Crick’s unimpressed glower melted with a whimper, his hands swatting at Temenos.
“Apologies,” he said, not the slightest bit apologetic. But his touch was gentle as he eased himself out, and Crick whined at the emptiness and distance both, grasping for Temenos as he unpeeled himself and turned away.
“You’ll be cross if I let you dry like that,” he admonished, and though Crick knew he was right he still laid back on the table, pouting at the ceiling. He only ceased when Temenos returned, wiping a damp cloth over the mess on his legs, his thighs, his stomach, dripping from his pleasantly aching rim.
“Please don’t use that cloth on my face,” Crick asked, though he knew he was far too relaxed to stop Temenos if he tried.
Temenos clicked his tongue. “How poorly you think of me. There’s a tub behind the house, little lamb; you’ll be taking a proper bath once you’re recovered.”
“Oh,” Crick replied, unwilling to voice how badly he wanted to fall asleep instead, smeared makeup and cum stains and all. He’d never hear the end of it. (Temenos probably knew anyway, but Aelfric help him if he made it easier for his insufferable husband to tease him.) “What of the clothes?”
“What of indeed... it would be such a shame if they were ruined, don’t you agree? Torn apart when the star of the show—you, of course—tripped on a stray rock, tearing up all that pretty fabric. Well! Not to worry, I very kindly disposed of the outfit myself, so no curious townsfolk will ever discover the ruse.”
Crick’s mind ran, his brows furrowing. He pushed himself up on his elbows, meeting Temenos’ eyes. “You don’t... You wouldn’t steal this dress, would you? That’s—“
Temenos smiled at him, pressing a finger to his lips. “Of course not, my dear.” A lie, and Crick frowned at him. Temenos ducked forward, kissing him once, speaking against his lips. “They simply asked me if I’d burn the evidence afterwards, and I told them I’d do so once we were on the road again, so as to raise less suspicion. But I fear I’ve grown terribly attached to my little spirit...”
Crick sighed, draping his arms over Temenos’ shoulders. “I... suppose it cannot hurt, as long as we’re careful. And I would... like to run around with you like that again, properly. Even if you’d lose badly and get annoyed with me.”
“Such big talk from a little ghost!” Temenos teased, peppering kisses across Crick’s cheeks. “I will simply have to cheat, then, to have you at my mercy once more.”
“Insufferable,” Crick muttered, hugging Temenos closer to him. “Shameless.” A kiss, tucked against his jaw. “Cruel, unrepentant.”
More kisses, while Temenos laughed at him. “Careful, my lamb. I may think you’ve grown to resent me.”
Crick glared with no heat, his kisses growing firmer, more incessant. “I love you. I love you more than anyone and anything. You terrible fox of a man. Gods help me, I love you even for your jokes and tricks and bullying.”
The hesitation in the corners of Temenos’ smile faded, the hands holding Crick’s face reverent. “I love you,” he replied. “More than one could know.”
They left the next day, hands clasped tight. Folded small and bundled within Temenos’ robes sat a costume, somehow, miraculously, unstained.