Work Text:
Atlas yawns into his wrist. Normally, he might try to hide it, but by the fucking gods is he ready to be home, today. Complication after complication – he’s already a solid two hours late. His coworkers might not call him on this, at least. Everyone on his shift has felt about the same, today. Most of them have already wandered out by now, but not him.
No, he’s sitting vaguely near the door, waiting on Bhyram. Or, more accurately, for his coworkers to leave his poor boyfriend the fuck alone.
Mm. That might be a tad dramatic.
So far, he’s just been over there talking with the desk staff, which – to Atlas’ knowledge – he does enjoy from time to time. He’s brought a basket of goods for them, sweet and savoury in equal measure, little treats that make the night shift more interesting. It’s incredibly nice of him. No wonder he’d want to make idle chat with them. Still, Atlas bristles and tells himself he’s just being irritable. Nothing actually wrong is happening, after all. It’s just – dragons enjoying his baking.
Then again, he always has been good about relying on instinct.
One of the newer, more frustrating interns makes her way around the counter, but to his utter surprise, trots over to him and not Bhyram. Atlas carefully trains his face to keep its current expression. Is this going where he –
“Hey, Doctor Doran! That's your gardener, right? Housekeeper?”
“Ah. Yes,” Atlas replies, stiffly. Stop while you're ahead.
“Uh huh! Well, I don’t want to be, uh… rude or anything, or inappropriate, but is he single?” asks the mirror.
Motherfucker, I ought to cut your tone straight out for even uttering such a -
“Ah, I… believe so, yes?” Atlas lies, sounding suitably uncertain. Take the fucking hint. He does not want to be talking about this.
“Perfect, thanks!” she chirps, then turns back the way she came. Atlas hates himself for leaning slightly closer to hear better as she sidles right up to Bhyram to talk. “Excuse me. You’re Bhyram, right? You made these?”
“Mm? Oh! Hi, yes, that’s – that’s me,” Bhyram says, as happy as he ever is to talk to someone. He turns to face the intern. “I did, yeah, uh – I… do that sometimes. You’re… umm. Oh, I don’t remember your name, I’m sorry. Mirror, though, right? You’re… Nature, I think I’ve heard you talking before when I’ve been down in the lobby here but I don’t think we’ve spoken. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Winterberry!” she says, practically wagging her fucking tail. “It’s Winterberry. It’s nice to meet you too, uh, gosh, your coat is so sparkly!”
Of fucking course! It’s always the same thing! No originality! No tact! Not that Atlas is really any better, but for fuck’s sake, somehow he ended up with the man, so clearly he has to be doing something right. These interns know nothing. He’s gay! He’s not going to fuck you!
“Oh, thank you,” Bhyram says, with a smile, automatically bringing a paw up to run it through his mane. “It’s, uh, well, you know I always like to hear that I’m doing something right, I can’t tell myself. Hah. I’m – I’m glad my, uh, effort pays off.”
Winterberry sits, her tail curling around her forepaws – and, as brazenly as possible, in Atlas’ opinion, it brushes Bhyram’s paws in the process. “I gotta say, it’s really paying off.” For whatever reason, she follows that up with a little laugh. “You look really good, Bhyram.”
And now she’s trying to be all cute. You’ll never make it through medical school. You want to become a surgeon? Not happening!
“Um. Thank you,” Bhyram says again, this time with a hint of confusion. He cocks his head slightly to the side; probably judging her through the touch, taking measure of her physical wellness, her body language, everything. Because of course he is. It is a natural, normal part of Bhyram’s magic and physiology. But damn him if it doesn’t make Atlas growl. It takes effort to keep that internal. “Look while it lasts, I guess, uh, it’s about to be spring and I’m going to shed the whole thing. That’ll be fun to clean up for a couple weeks.” Bhyram sighs.
“You might just need… some extra paws to help, huh?” Winterberry says, just audible from the distance Atlas sits, as she leans in. “You’re single, right?”
Single! As fucking if! Bhyram has TWO partners, and you’re going to fail to get one because of your lack of awareness. Moron. Can’t you see he’s uncomfortable with that statement? Oh! No! Of course you can’t, because you don’t know him! And you never will!
Atlas stands up, just to move, and adjusts his bag. He’s normal and calm about this and simply dreading the journey home, is all.
“Sometimes I,” Bhyram starts, and then the mirror’s words process in his brain. “Wh. Uh? Oh – oh. Um. Ah.” He clears his throat. He does look uncomfortable, subtle little motions of his body, and Atlas knows that underneath the blindfold he’s probably wincing. “I, uh. See. Uh, n. I am, yyyes, but I’m – I’m not looking for, uh, for… anyone. To. For. Just, at all, really. Um. Sorry.”
Winterberry doesn’t back down. She doesn’t seem phased by that at all. If she tries to push this…
“Four fucking eyes and not a single one of them seems to be functioning,” Atlas mutters aloud, nearly inaudible to his own ears.
“Well, that’s okay.” Wait, she’s actually backing off? “Another time then, maybe?”
One of Bhyram’s ears flicks back, towards Atlas. Did he hear that? He probably heard the muttering, but it’s hit or miss if he actually caught the words. “Oh, I don’t know,” Bhyram says, clearing his throat. “I, uh. If I start to. Look for – for a new partner, uh, I’ll be sure to… let you know.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Winterberry says with a final wink. Gods above, do mirrors look stupid when they do that. For whatever reason, she does not get up immediately, but the doors behind Atlas’ left open with dragons wandering in, which gives him the perfect excuse to be obnoxious.
“Good gods, is it getting cold out!” he says aloud, as if startled. “Bhyram? Have you finished giving out your pastries?”
“Mm?” Bhyram’s head swings up and around. “Oh – yeah, I have. Um, keep the basket for now, I’ll – I’ll have Doctor Doran or Nurse Hayrix bring it back to me tomorrow,” he tells the front desk staff, and gets up. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Winterberry,” he adds to the mirror as he trots over to Atlas.
“Let’s head home,” Atlas says as normally as possible, resting one folded wing against Bhyram’s side to lead him out.
“Yeah, let’s,” Bhyram agrees, following along next to him, acting as if he needs Atlas to guide him. He’s here without his dog, after all. He shakes his coat out as they step through the doors and into the frigid winter night air.
He wasn’t lying when exclaiming about the cold. It is just that damn cold. It’s wretched. Awful. Atlas waits until they’re around the next block before shoving himself against Bhyram’s side without warning. “Bloody mirror,” he grumbles, face nuzzling Bhyram’s mane.
Bhyram unfolds his wing and drapes it over Atlas’ body as best as he can, despite being shorter and smaller. “I, that was… uncomfortable,” he agrees, after a second. “I’m. I – don’t know why I said – no, I do know. Augh. I didn’t think… I didn’t have an answer ready for that… question.”
Yes, good, attention for Atlas! Not that awful intern! “I’m going to slice through her sails,” he intones.
“Well – I don’t… think. That will be happening,” Bhyram counters, after a moment. “Um, she doesn’t know… about. Me, or you. Which is – is the… is on purpose. I know. So that’s just – just something I have to figure out how to, uh, work – to answer. Which I should – I guess I should have an answer ready for that in the future. If it comes up again. But I thought – it feels kind of self-centered to prepare an answer for that, right? Just assuming people are going to, um. Hit on you? That feels arrogant somehow.”
“You’re incredibly attractive, Bhyram, even dragons not attracted to masculinity can see that,” Atlas says. Bhyram exhales in a single little breath of laughter, amused and flattered. “But regardless of what she does or does not know, I do not like her, and she cannot have you.” More weight pressed up against his boyfriend, trying to make his point. Fuck, he wishes he had brought Graham. Warmer and an excuse to drape himself over his neck…? Ideal. They’re not flying anyway; it’s a little too cold to do that comfortably for Atlas.
“Aw, I – I know,” Bhyram says, supporting the extra weight with ease. “She could never be, uh, I couldn’t… be involved. With. Her. For a lot of reasons. No, uh, you and Will are all I could ever want. Leave her be, she was just going for it, I can’t, uh. Blame her for – for that, really, she’s a lot braver than a lot of dragons. That’s something to admire.”
Atlas growls. “I disagree on the grounds that her bravery leads her to ask me the same five fucking questions every damned day, despite the fact that they can be found very easily in a reference book.”
“Well.” Bhyram considers that. “I also do that, sometimes. And it’s better to ask than to risk getting it wrong, right? When doing medical things? If it were me I’d want to be… really sure.” He pauses. “Oh, I can’t read normal books, though. Or at least not most of the time. That – that kind of does, um. Maybe it’s just really hard to find the information? I don’t know, I like to give people, uh, the – the benefit of the doubt.”
“She wants the job I have, Bhyram. You can’t be going to consult the books in the middle of a surgery just to verify the simplest, most routine thing,” Atlas grumbles, half-heartedly. As he talks, he gets to thinking. He’s still seething. There has to be something he can do about that…
“Oh. Hm.” Bhyram thinks about that for a moment. “How long has she been, um, training? For this?”
“A few months here, on top of the rest of her schooling.”
“Oh.” He considers that. Yes, she still hasn’t learned very simple steps to extremely routine procedures. “Mmmmhm. Um… Well, maybe – maybe there’s just a slightly different job she’d be better at? I know being a surgeon is, uh, you have to be… decisive,” he finally says. “And – and quick-thinking.”
“Like what, a patient advocate?” he says, still ruminating. “Never listens, too much energy, but damn if she isn’t bold. May well be a decent fit.”
“That’s – someone who, uh, basically someone who does all the talking for people who have trouble with it for whatever reason, right? She’s very confident, she might be really good at that.” Bhyram nods, brightening. “Someone should tell her about that.”
“Mh.” Atlas just nods. What he needs is something affirming. Something each of them can experience together, something that the likes of Winterberry could never hope to come close to…
Bhyram makes an amused little hum. “Okay, well, if I talk to her again I’ll try and bring it up,” he says. “Some other time. You should put your scarf up over your head, kaerleste, it’ll keep your ears warmer.”
“Oh – yes, I should,” Atlas agrees, pausing his walk to do just that. Of course, he’s right. It makes the rest of the walk home much more – hm. Not agreeable, but closer to it. Easier. Atlas spends the rest of it in thought, listening to Bhyram chatter at him about something or other. Truthfully, he doesn’t hear a single word (though he does pick up on Bhyram’s laughter, pressed to his side as he is). He’s too busy coming up with the perfect little plan, something he can do…
Ah. Right as they get to the front door, he’s got it.
…that won’t be fun, will it?
Atlas takes a few days to get used to the idea. Truthfully, he's… debated about it in the past month or two, just non-seriously. The encounter that night, coming home after Eleutheromanian – that changed things. Ramped up the fear, again.
He does not want to be afraid of the thing that is Bhyram. The thing that is Bhyram is Bhyram, and Bhyram is very much that thing. Of course, Atlas doesn't particularly like being afraid of his boyfriend. Will, for instance, is not afraid. It weighs on him that the two of them are, in fact, inherently not on equal grounds. Atlas knows he is second favourite to Will. Perhaps this could help with that.
And, even if it doesn't, it is still something a stranger flirting with Bhyram will never get to experience, to feel, to know all that is him.
He brings it up one night, crossing the house at a late hour. Will is already asleep, curled in Atlas’ bed, unbothered by Atlas sneaking out. It's not so late that Bhyram is likely to be out. The man need not wake so early as Will and Atlas; he's probably still up reading. There's an absence of light peeking out under Bhyram's door frame, not that that means much. He was blindfolded all night.
Just in case, he knocks very softly and whispers, “Bhyram?” If he's up, he'll hear it and also probably Atlas’ pounding heart. If not, Atlas goes back to bed. Simple.
“Yeah?” comes his voice back out of the darkness, soft, curious. “Need something?”
Cautiously, Atlas pushes the door open. “Did I wake you?” he asks from the doorway.
“No – no, you're fine. I haven't gone to bed yet. Come in if you want.”
Yes, please. It’s awful to stand in here in just Atlas’ nightclothes in this room. The outside door is left open enough that really it might be colder in here than out there. He shuts the door behind him and hurries to join Bhyram on the bed. “I don’t know how Hypnos stands this room,” he mutters.
Bhyram closes and puts aside a book, shifting enough to pull back a blanket for Atlas to slide under. “He's a construct, but he does complain if it's too cold. He doesn't like it.” Careful paws tuck the blanket around Atlas’ shoulders and side. “Why'd you come in here? It's warmer in your room.”
“I know. I’ll go back when I’m ready to sleep so I don’t worry Will.” Atlas sighs, content and worried both. The warmth is nice, but not enough of a distraction. “I… wanted to make a plan with you.”
“Oh, uh, sure,” Bhyram replies, sounding mildly surprised. “What kind of plan? You mean, like… going out somewhere?” He sounds… hopeful about that.
Atlas nods. “In part, yes. I, ah – I haven’t figured out that part specifically, so if there’s anything in particular you’d like to do with me, well…” he waves a paw. “Really, what I’m looking forward to is at night. Or, well, would probably be better suited for after dinner at the very least. Not necessarily at night proper.”
Ah, fuck. He’s rambling, now. Stalling.
“...uh huh?” Bhyram prompts, audibly amused. “A specific… evening to night-time activity. Is this an at home thing or an outside home thing? Like a 419 thing?”
Atlas’ ears fly up. It does sound like that, doesn’t it! Shit.
“No! No, ah – hell, it’s – private. Private, specific to the three of us at home and -”
Stop stalling!
“- Bhyram, I want to feed the thing in your soul.” There. He said it.
That catches him off guard. Bhyram had started absent-mindedly petting the blanket over Atlas’ side; his paw stills now, belaying his shock. “...uh,” he manages, after a long fifteen seconds or so, “wwww. The. You… know – hold on. The whatever-it-is? My – magic that hurts?” A pause. “No, obviously. Uh. Y. Are you… sure?”
“I – I am.” He says that, sure, but is it completely true? “Ah… Mostly. I want to be sure,” he explains, dropping his head to the sheets to find that paw and nose at it. “It’s part of you. I’m… afraid of it. You know this. I know this. That is what helped break me out of my rage, that night, and the time I felt it before that was getting blinded.” He takes a breath. Go on, Atlas.
“It’s part of you,” he repeats. “I – I love you. I want to love all of you, every bit. Or – ah. At least make peace with it.”
“Oh,” Bhyram says, “oh, wow.”
He reflexively puts his paw on Atlas’ head, around the back to pet through his mane and scratch behind his ears, down to where his collar sits and back up again. “I… okay. Yeah, um, I – yeah, I can see… how this would be a – a good idea. Okay. Um. But. That – this means I have to… hurt you. With it. It – it can be something small, I think, uh, but – it'll still hurt.”
Atlas doesn’t bother hiding the unhappy whine he makes – he doesn’t want to lie about this. “Yes, I know. I’d – I would let you choose what that entails. I may not care for the pain, but I will bear it. I want this,” he murmurs, tilting his head towards Bhyram’s paw.
Bhyram leans over and kisses the top of Atlas’ head. “Okay,” he agrees, softly. “We can do that. I – I'll take it back afterwards too, I won't let you suffer. I'll try to be… gentle with you. Here, probably at night, so you can – can sleep afterwards, and so can I.”
He nods. “I’d – yes. That’s sort of the… plan, or at least what I was thinking.” Suddenly, he laughs, startling himself a little. “Bloody hell, it feels strange to plan for you to get high off of me, as if I’m some – fine quality designer drug. Or perhaps I’m a strain of some suspect substance, something cut with cornstarch.”
Stop fucking talking. Atlas winces.
“Oh – oh, gods, that's right, I will, won't I?” Bhyram presses his muzzle against Atlas’ head, warm breath in his mane. For a moment he formulates his words. He sounds a little amused when he speaks. “You are… it doesn't matter to it what it eats. But I think you're the highest quality. Maybe we should plan to have you smoke afterwards. To sort of… calm down a little.”
Atlas hums. “Is that a good idea?” he asks, dubious. “For both of us to be incapacitated?”
“We can set things up beforehand so we don’t have anything to do,” Bhyram tells him. “Have dinner first, do… all that just before bed. Though if you’re worried about it we can just – not do that, uh. I just think that it might… help. You. With any leftover…” he trails off and gestures with a paw. “It – it can be, um. Jarring. Unsettling.”
“No, you're right. It probably would help. Mh, you'll have to smell the smoke, though.” Atlas makes a face.
“I’ll put a little hat on over my antennae,” Bhyram tells him, with a smile. “I’ll be fine, really.”
Atlas snorts. That would be cute, sort of funny to see. With the antennae hidden, Bhyram almost looks like a standard tundra – bizarre. Still, he'll try to… minimise the smoke.
“Mm… tomorrow night? I don't work tomorrow or the following day,” he suggests.
“That works for me,” Bhyram agrees immediately, already purring a little in his chest. Just a faint, soft little vibration.
“It's ah, a date, then.” He feels a little silly to be so flushed about that sentence. They've been together how long now…? “You think on what you might like to do beforehand. I – ought to go back to Will, lest they wake up without me and assume I've slipped out of the house entirely…”
“I’ll – yeah, I’ll think about it,” Bhyram agrees, and kisses the top of Atlas’ head again. “Go on back. Wouldn’t want them to be lonely.”
Oh, is it tempting to stay… Atlas pulls himself up. “Good night,” he murmurs. “I love you. Sleep well.”
That purr strengthens quite a bit at that. “I love you,” Bhyram replies, letting him go. “Goodnight.”
“You make it hard to leave.” Atlas bumps his nose against Bhyram's head. As much as he doesn't want to, he does want the warmth of his room. Before he can convince himself otherwise, Atlas makes himself slink back to his own bedroom. Will still lies there, right where he left them, positioned for Atlas to curl back around them like his own personal heat source. At least now it's a little bit easier to actually go to sleep.
Atlas wakes with Will. They're working, he isn't – he can at least kiss them on the way out. Which, really, turns into making out against the front door until Atlas practically has to push them out, lest they be late. He and Bhyram will be busy today, he tells them, they wish him luck, he wishes them a decent shift, and then Will heads out.
Okay. Hell. Time to start the day.
He starts the oven first thing, leaving it to preheat. He's already had his coffee with Will, might as well use the time until Bhyram's awake productively.
His bread isn't the fancy twists and rolls or whatever of Bhyram's skillset, but he can put in the effort. And it kills a few hours, and he can spend rise times sweeping. As long as he doesn't stop moving, he can keep the anxiety at bay.
It’s approaching midmorning when he hears sounds from Bhyram’s room; quiet paws, then running water in the bathroom. Bhyram emerges from the hallway a few minutes later, coat brushed out, blindfold tied securely over his face. He yawns once as he pads out into the kitchen.
“Hey, good morning,” he greets Atlas, scenting the air.
“Morning, love,” Atlas calls back, glancing over his shoulder. “I'm making bread. And – ah, cinnamon rolls, if you can smell cinnamon all the way over there. I haven't put them in the oven yet, they're still on the counter.”
Belatedly, he realises that maybe he should have cooked some actual breakfast. He curses under his breath.
Bhyram’s ears flick forwards. “You’ve been busy,” he observes, trotting all the way over to bump his head against one of Atlas’ shoulders. “Thank you! Iiiii love a good cinnamon roll.”
“Stole a page from your book, I'm afraid. Bread is rather useful for stress, isn't it?” Atlas smiles, unfurling his wing to wrap around him.
“It is,” Bhyram agrees, leaning into the touch, nestling his head against Atlas’ neck. “At the very least you can, uh, have less… antsy energy about things. I go crazy with it otherwise. You’re stressed, huh? About wh- oh, right! Right, yeah.”
Shamefully, yes. “I still want to do it,” he says resolutely. “But that's – mm. That's tonight. For now, I ah, had a suggestion for what to do with our afternoon, if you'd like to hear it.”
“Yeah, of course,” Bhyram agrees, immediately. “What are you thinking?”
“Well… if you’re willing to spend a little while as a gaoler, it’s snowy out, but sunny and otherwise rather nice. Just, ah, cold, as is typical…” Atlas twists his neck, leaning a little to peek out what sliver of the window he can see from his spot in the kitchen. “I was thinking we could go have a picnic somewhere. You enjoy being out in the snow, and if you’re large, I can just steal your heat.”
Bhyram sidles around Atlas’ front, wraps both paws around his lower back, and picks him up in a hug for a moment, nuzzling his throat. “I would love that,” he purrs, as Atlas flails to grab his shoulders for balance. “I don’t mind being a gaoler at all, you’re always welcome to steal my heat.”
Atlas does not squawk, he does not do that. He simply hangs there, hindpaws grappling against Bhyram’s stomach, and lashes his tail once to dispel the anxious energy, that is it. “Put me down,” he says, somewhat strangled.
“Oh, since you asked really nicely,” Bhyram tells him, and sets him gently back down on the kitchen floor.
“It is unfair that you can do that,” Atlas grumbles. “We’re vastly different in length.”
“If I’m anything at all, it’s strong enough to pick up things I probably shouldn’t be able to pick up,” Bhyram says happily, and leans up to kiss the side of Atlas’ face. Reflexively, Atlas turns and kisses him properly before he can leave.
Once they’ve parted, Atlas hums. “We’ll have to make a lot of food for a gaoler. Cook with me? The gods know I’ve got plenty of bread in the works already. I figured we could use it for something.”
“I’d love to,” Bhyram tells him, combing his ruffled mane back with one forepaw. “Let me get something to tie my mane up so I don’t get fur just – just everywhere. I’ll be right back.”
Atlas laughs, following that up with a comment about fur being nutritious just to hear Bhyram’s audible disappointment. Oh, good. One less thing to worry about, then. One less plan Atlas can continuously go over in his mind.
Bhyram comes back suitably dressed, and Atlas directs him to at least make himself some coffee and a snack before jumping into the kitchen. Hypocritical? Absolutely. He’d still prefer Bhyram being fed. Bhyram, evidently, prefers the same in return, because he coaxes Atlas into putting down the ingredients for long enough to have his own midmorning meal.
The two of them set to work making an absolutely massive pot of a hearty potato and vegetable stew, based on a recipe Bhyram remembers from growing up in the Icefields. With a few leftover ingredients from the recent trip to Port Tempest, it comes together nicely. Savoury, filling, good with the bread Atlas pulls out of the oven to cool. They pack it up in containers that can keep the stew warm while they walk – multiple, since they don’t really have one gaoler-appropriate sized thermos – and leave some set out for Will to have later after work. Bhyram also makes some of his delicious cider to bring with them as well while Atlas packs the now-finished cinnamon rolls. Is all of it a little extreme for a simple lunch outside? Sure, probably. But it was time spent talking together, sharing a space, and listening to the metal music Bhyram enjoys that Will tends not to like. It’s good. It’s nice.
All of that gets packed into two bags that, after Bhyram goes and retrieves Graham (as he puts it) from his room, get settled over the base of his neck just in front of the shoulders, tied together. Slightly makeshift, but it’ll do just fine. It’s nothing for him to carry all that. He kneels for Atlas to get those situated, then tilts his head invitingly, one ear flicking towards his back, that huge fluffy mane between his abnormally large gaoler wings.
“Hold on, hold on,” Atlas says, barely managing to hide his excitement. “Let me get Hypnos situated first, and get my coat.”
Of course, Hypnos grows with Bhyram. An enormous spaniel, far too big for his usual little doggy coat. So, Atlas goes and gets one of Will’s coats. It’s not a perfect fit, in fact it might be a tad snug, but the wing holes on it are far less large than one of Atlas’ coats, and the bright colour will suffice in lieu of Hypnos’ usual high-vis work vest. It’ll have to do. Then, Atlas pulls on his own coat, his gloves, and his boots. He debates for a moment, about taking his collar off, and decides that he’s going to have his scarf thickly wrapped anyway and chooses to leave it on.
Only then does Atlas come back to his big boyfriend, tells him to stand still, then jumps up on his hips to gently scootch up to the warmth of his mane. God he loves being able to lie here. He’s comfortable, soft, warm, and his motions are soothing. It’s a shame that he doesn’t quite smell like Bhyram – which is, in fact, the entire point – but he’s perfect anyway.
Bhyram is very gently purring at him, maybe without even noticing it. “Ready to go, then?” he asks, his voice colored by that far south Icefields accent. “I'll get the door, you stay nice and warm.”
“We have everything, yes,” Atlas affirms, claws grasping at the thick strands of his mane for stability.
“Off we go, then,” Bhyram says, and gets up and heads through the house to the front door. He uses the large-breed door, waits to make sure Hypnos is out, and locks it behind them all with one paw before handing Atlas the key.
They're going to Kingfisher Park, where Atlas is fairly certain they should be able to secure one of the gazebos that includes a small table. If they can't, though, he'll just stay on Bhyram’s back, safely nestled in his fur.
God, how wonderful to be carted around. It’s far warmer like this – Atlas can actually feel his fucking tail tip and all of his paws. There’s some residual embarrassment, but with how warm and content he is despite the chill, it’s far easier to ignore it in favour of excitement and delight. And, it doesn’t even seem to make anyone look their way. It’s a nice enough day in the middle of the winter that the park isn’t entirely empty. As a major travel hub for all of Sornieth, Aergate hosts a wide variety of dragons of each elemental alignment, and today there seems to be a significant amount of various Ice dragons wandering around with their far more bundled up non-Ice companions. Just like Atlas. He isn’t the only dragon being directly carted around, but he is probably the largest one.
Bhyram certainly looks at home forging a path through the deeper areas of snow, unbothered by the cold. His coat shines in the sunlight, the iridescence of the blue-black portions shimmering while the brilliant sparkling membrane of his wings catches the light, transforming it into pretty purple patterns over the snow when he extends a wing for balance or to feel for a nearby obstacle. He breathes in great plumes of steam that drift down to the snow in clouds. He was made for this, even in this form.
“What do you think?” he calls back to Atlas as they enter an area of Kingfisher Park that contains many stands of trees, several winding paths (currently buried), and most of the public-use structures and gazebos. “Anything open for us?”
“Mm.” Atlas nods and very carefully tugs on one of Bhyram’s ears to guide his face in the right direction. “This way, there’s an open gazebo for us. It’s a little snowier than the rest, which is probably why it’s open. It doesn’t have a trodden path to it yet, not that that matters to you of all people. Or Hypnos.” He’s also glittering out here, even in Will’s silly bright red coat. Bhyram happily plows right through the snowbank and over to the gazebo at Atlas’ urging.
There are no mesh screens in this one, not right now; there’s no point in having them in winter when there are no bugs to worry about and the park staff take them out. Bhyram opens up the door, feeling over it and around the frame to get an idea of the size first, then ducks in and stamps his paws a couple times to dislodge spare snow before crouching down. “Unpacking is up to you,” he tells Atlas. “Just come back to me if you get too cold.”
Not a problem at all. Atlas slides down Bhyram’s tail to the ground – ack, there’s the cold paws – and carefully picks his way over the snow to the table in the center of the space. He just swipes off the thin layer of accumulated snow with his wing, then goes about taking everything out of the bags so that Bhyram can pull them off. The thermoses are good quality, enchanted; he’s not too worried about them merely resting on the table for a little while.
He calls Bhyram over once he has everything laid out. Atlas, with his one, normal size container and a separate thermos full of warm cider; Bhyram, with his five same-sized containers of food and one comically large jug of cider. Hypnos, too, has a container of food to eat, separately, also up on the table because he is very polite (and really, who’s going to stop them? From a distance, he sort of looks like a wingless tundra anyway). All of it looks a little silly. It makes Atlas grin.
There are benches by the table, free to use, but they’re cold wood, and why bother with that when Atlas could settle himself down on his boyfriend’s curled-up tail, safely off the freezing floor? Bhyram makes a little cushion out of his tail fluff and uses his wing as a windbreak. It’s warm next to his huge, soft side.
Comfortable, wonderful. Atlas loves this, loves and appreciates Bhyram’s care and attention (and his tolerance, considering Atlas attempts to fight him on it at first). Lunch passes by with more conversation. No music out here, just nature sounds and distant chatter. Dragons playing in the snow, picking snowball fights with one another, the occasional winter bird call. A time or two, Bhyram tells him something he’s overheard from dragons far out of Atlas’ hearing range. His ability to hear from so far away endlessly interests Atlas.
The food is delicious, scarfed down at a measured pace if only to avoid scarfing it down entirely, as well as the cider. Atlas enjoys feeding Hypnos a carrot from his stew with permission – the not-so-little dog is a construct, after all, not a truly organic dog. The onions and garlic and other seasonings in the stew pose no threat to him.
After the stew, Atlas and Bhyram spend long enough chatting that he ends up getting cold again. He does try to hide it, not that he’s able to escape Bhyram’s keen awareness of his body for very long. Atlas ends up huddled under Bhyram’s chest, boxed in by fluff on most sides, while he breaks out the cinnamon rolls. Not as warm as the stew, still enjoyable.
After that, they pack the containers back up and sit for a bit observing their surroundings until Bhyram gets a bit bored of the same set of sounds and requests they go for a walk. Atlas loads the bags back up onto his shoulders and takes his place in Bhyram’s mane again.
Off they go from there. Despite living here for far shorter of a time, Bhyram has frequented this park more than Atlas has, and takes him on a winding route through some of the quieter areas of the park. He points out birdcalls and shows Atlas the bright clear creeks that run through the rocks and earth, water trickling under shining sheets of ice. All of these are things that Atlas would never pay attention to himself, things that don’t generally stand out to Atlas on a given day. But Bhyram, with his sheer enthusiasm, makes Atlas take joy in them. He’s just so damn earnest about it all, little things he points out with a bright tone and delighted body language. It’s dreadfully charming.
Eventually, they must turn back and go home, but for a long while, it feels nice to spend time in the park. They’ll have to do it again sometime, Atlas decides.
Bhyram carries Atlas home, Hypnos trailing along, a pep in his step that wasn’t there on the way out. Being out in nature does wonders for him, apparently, though Atlas already knew this. He seems a little reluctant to go inside, especially as going in means washing mud from his paws. Atlas helps dry him off afterwards.
The rest of the afternoon passes calmly enough. The picnic and walk helped Atlas’ anxiety lower, and talking and cleaning and hanging out with Bhyram helps keep it low – until the evening approaches. It’s getting more difficult to keep the dread out of his thoughts, the looping thoughts that remind him of Phaistokaia and getting his eyes burnt out with ghostfire that never actually happened to himself. The echoes of it haunt him still. He fights to remind himself that it’s just Bhyram, that horrible thing, and that he does, in fact, wish to experience it again. And really, the pain itself won’t be as bad, this time. No ghostfire. No major injury. Whatever Bhyram gives him will be minor, easier to… handle. Hopefully.
Still. Atlas does not like how restless he’s getting. He requests that they venture back out, go get dinner at a casual restaurant together. Will is home by then, invited along, and they elect to stay home and ‘absolutely demolish this stew – I would fuck this stew if I could, I know it’s going to be so good.’ Whatever that means. Well. That’s fine. The two of them go back out.
Savoury, heavy Icefields food for lunch. Lighter, still warm and delicious Plateau food for dinner. Atlas brings Bhyram to a local noodle shop they’ve been to a few times. Comfort food, a small and intimate location. It’s a place Bhyram has grown to enjoy quite a bit as well.
Bhyram stops him as they get close. “Atlas,” he says, “I, uh. Wanted to ask. Is it… alright, when we go in, if – it… if we look like we're, uh, you know. Together? I know you're not usually – I mean, you don't want people… seeing. That. Usually.”
What? The question breaks him out of his thoughts, anxious as they are. Goddamn, he’s getting sick of feeling so… strung out. He’s glad to be out again. “Yes, that’d be nice,” he says without much thought. He’d love to lean on him, warm and soothing. Comforting. “Ah, if they have a booth or something available… If they’re busy they may only have the two seater tables.”
Bhyram visibly brightens at that, his ears flicking up and forward, posture straightening up a little. “Oh!” he says, and smiles, stepping closer, enough to brush against Atlas’ side. “I – yeah, no, if they don't have anything that's – that's fine, obviously, but if they. If they do. I would… like that.”
“I would too,” Atlas says immediately.
And, luckily, there is a booth for them. Atlas takes the inside corner, Bhyram sits next to him, and Hypnos gets to stretch out on the booth across them. Thank the gods for Hypnos – in some way, his being there justifies the booth over one of the smaller two-seater tables. Atlas orders for the two of them, bowls of noodles full of greens and mushrooms and all sorts of delicious things. Atlas’ favourite.
Bhyram cuddles up to Atlas’ side while they wait for food to arrive, talks to him with sweet words and an enamoured tone of voice. He seems so excited to be here, like this, and his energy helps draw some of Atlas’ tension back out of his body. Atlas takes to combing through Bhyram’s mane, up until food arrives and he must take his left paw back in order to eat.
Dinner is a much shorter affair than lunch had been, as intended. They walk back home side by side, each of them in renewed higher spirits. Then, when they’re finally done with going out for the day, Atlas hangs his coat, peels off his scarf, shakes just to hear his tags jingle – he’s gone an entire day out and about wearing it! – and happily goes to pull on comfortable clothes after a very cursory rinse off in the shower.
Once clean, comfortable, and antsy once more, Atlas crosses the house to find Bhyram chatting with Will in Will’s room. He knocks on the doorframe. “Am I interrupting?” he asks.
“Mmmm, no, I’m just bothering Bhy with my, um, latest work drama,” Will says, as they sit on the floor brushing out their tail.
“I don't know half these people, but I do know the other half, and that's enough to keep up,” Bhyram adds. “Are you ready, kaerleste?”
“I’m so glad you tolerate me,” Will purrs, approving.
Atlas rolls his eyes. “He does more than tolerate you,” he tells them, then looks up at Bhyram. “Ah… as ready as I will ever be, yes.”
Bhyram nods, pushes himself off the wall where he'd been leaning, and heads out of the room, beckoning for Atlas to follow.
As they head to Atlas' bedroom, Bhyram says, “uh, so, first… thing. I guess. Is. There needs to be a wound involved somewhere. Would… you like to be in charge of what that is? I don't know if controlling, uh, how much damage gets done would make you any more comfortable with this whole… thing.”
“Not… particularly, no,” Atlas says. “Whatever you deem correct.”
Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind picking what it is, if it were going to be staying with him. It won’t. Bhyram will take it, and heal it, and by proxy of Atlas hurting himself, that means he’d be choosing a place of harm on Bhyram, and – mental gymnastics or not – the thought makes him feel a little queasy.
“O-kay. Then, uh, I'll probably… I can either get you with something and take it, give it back, heal it again. Or I can just get myself with it, which is simpler. But, uh, I don't want it to be something that hurts too much, so, uh, it might be a good idea to do it first on you? So you can – stop it, easily, determine how much you have to feel?” He clears his throat and adds, with a smile, “or I also could just go bite Will real quick and get it from them. I'm sure they wouldn't mind.”
Atlas laughs, somewhat taken off guard. “I – yes, I’d have to agree with that.” Will would jump at the chance, he’s sure. “Just, ah… Whatever it is, it might be nice on me first. I’ll know what to expect, then.”
“That's kind of what I was thinking, yeah,” Bhyram agrees. “Which is why I offered that even though that's – kind of like biting you twice, which is not… exactly nice. As long as you're okay with it, I'm happy with that.” Enter Atlas’ room, close the door, over to the bed. Bhyram hops up. “Could you grab a couple towels you don't mind getting a little bloody?”
Atlas nods. He crosses the room to his bathroom and just grabs the towel he used earlier. A little damp, sure. Not enough to be a hindrance. “This should do.” He carts it over. “Where do you want me?”
Bhyram pats the bed next to him. As Atlas clambers up, he pulls off his blindfold, running his claws through his mane and blinking a few times. There's hardly any light in here; it's just dim enough for him. He takes in the room, and then his gaze lights on Atlas. He looks him over for a moment. Slow, lingering observation, ending with a smile. “Right here with me,” he murmurs. “Come here. If you're comfortable – I think… give me your arm? If I do the upper arm but not near the shoulder, it shouldn't hurt much. And it won't – it won't make much of a mess out of my fur. At least, not as much as it could.”
Ah, so it begins. Atlas swallows and lies down on his side. He takes probably more time than is absolutely necessary to get settled in place. “That sounds as good as any,” he murmurs, stretching out his arm to pet Bhyram’s chest for a moment.
Bhyram dips his head down to kiss Atlas’ paw before sliding the towel underneath his arm and running his paw along it. He leans over and bumps his muzzle on a spot near Atlas’ elbow. “Here okay?”
“Mm,” he affirms.
Bhyram nods. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you so much. I love how much you'll do for me. I love how far you're willing to go for me. Thank you.”
He opens his mouth and gets one fang against Atlas’ arm, then bites down. Quick, sharp, forceful. He punches effortlessly through scales and skin and into muscle beneath; his other teeth press into Atlas’ flesh, but don't break skin.
“Fuck,” Atlas hisses, reflexively. God, that hurts. Bhyram is being gentle, he knows he is, and how lovely is he for doing so – hell, it still hurts. If he were to keep a puncture this deep, he might not be able to comfortably use that limb in the morning. Atlas’ tail lashes over his blankets.
Bhyram pulls his head back and fang free, and as he does so he immediately heals the wound. He does it as soon as his tooth is clear. “You're alright, I got it,” he says, swiping his tongue across the fang to clean the blood away. “That's more than enough. You okay?”
Atlas forces himself to stop gritting his teeth. “Your teeth are bloody sharp,” he says. Breathe. “I’m alright, yes. I’ve had far more grievous injuries.”
“Yeah, I – hah, yeah, my teeth used to be kind of worse but I, uh, I dumped the wear on other people and now they're kind of a little bit… a lot,” Bhyram agrees, with a faint smile. “Do you want to – take a break for a minute, or just… go for it?”
“You’re so pointy.” Atlas nudges his face, then lies his head down again. “No, no – I’d like to -” hm, it does feel rather insulting to say get it over with, but… “- just do it. No sense in delaying things.” His heart hammers in his chest.
Bhyram nods. “Okay,” he says. “Then – one thing. Do your best not to break contact with me. I'll be holding on, but try not to pull away. If you break contact while it's – on you, then it, uh… it hurts. You know. You've felt that.”
By the Eleven, does he. He nods. “I – will do my absolute best.” He shifts his tail across the bed and twines it with Bhyram’s as best he can.
That gets a smile from Bhyram. He reaches out and takes one of Atlas’ paws in both of his, then brings it to his muzzle to kiss the back of Atlas’ claws. “Breathe, tornskeida,” he murmurs. “I'm only going to hurt you a little.”
It’s – faster than Atlas remembers.
Strange, considering the lash out he felt, without even doing damage to him, was lightning quick just a few months ago. Oh, how the brain loses sense of time in memories so easily, grains of sand slipping away.
This thing comes at him suddenly, expected and wholly startling all at once. Still, the magic feels alive. Other, something with its own vision and voice – told through action – as stupid as the notion is. Atlas’ body tenses in an instant, that primal fear returns. It slithers in under his scales, through his veins, carving away a raw path as it circles him, holds him in its grip. Its teeth consider him, not quite biting. Idly, Atlas wonders if it feels… vindictive? It was so vicious, last time, but – no.
What the hell is he thinking?
This is Bhyram.
Atlas is prey, hunted and snared, heart rabbit-quick, making him feel nearly lightheaded, but this is purposeful. He wants this. It hasn’t started hurting. He’s just terrified.
“I know, I know,” Bhyram tells him, quietly. “I know it's a lot, I know it's… really frightening. But you're doing really well, sweet thing. It's just me. That's a – a monster, I know. But you can feel it, right, through me? What I'm doing with it?”
A distant sensation like he's doing the exact same thing he's doing with Atlas right now – holding on, speaking softly, soothing, managing – to that thing. His emotions are an open book. Atlas can read them as clearly as Bhyram has read his.
Mostly what he gets is affection, pride, excitement, a little hint of guilt about the excitement. There's more, but that's all deeper, not as easy to understand. Bhyram runs a thumb over the back of Atlas' claws silently.
It’s so overwhelming and it hasn’t even started yet. Atlas whines semi-involuntarily. “I can, I can, it’s -” a monster? Yes, technically. Still. “You’re, hhh, you’re not a monster. Not to me,” he tries.
He can feel Bhyram hear that, consider it. He can feel Bhyram examine his emotions through that thing, compare them against what he's just said. And he can feel warmth, a sympathetic love, gratitude, and a feeling like being worthy. “I'll always be a monster,” Bhyram tells him. “That's okay. It's alright if I am. You can still love a monster. You've already shown me that.”
Again, Atlas whines. He does not want to be afraid of his partner. He doesn’t, he doesn’t. He’s doing this for a reason.
But well, if anyone were to understand how to love a monster, how to be a monster, how to love as one… Atlas supposes that it’d have to be the two of them.
Neither one is completely palatable.
“I love you,” Atlas manages. There’s no other more applicable response. Please keep going, he urges without words.
The corners of Bhyram's mouth twitch up in a little smile. His gaze is still fixed on Atlas’ paw, petting over the claws, adoring. “You get it,” he replies.
They don't actually need to speak any words out loud to communicate. Bhyram understands. The thing coiled around Atlas twists and tightens and readies itself to bite down.
Adrenaline surges. Fear, fear, hurt, get away! Atlas struggles against Bhyram's hold completely without his control. That paw holding his own tightens nearly to the point of pain, secure.
Reassurances, just wordless, intangible thoughtforms, flit across the intrusion. Bhyram is trying to calm him down. He knows, he knows. It takes a little while for Atlas to comprehend.
He fights, tooth and claw, to be still. To stop struggling and simply lay there. He's shocked that he manages it, then fights to be able to think again. Eventually, he manages. He wants this, he reminds himself, and he does. Fuck, he does. He faces that coiled thing, wretched, hungry, devouring, and no longer fights, despite his instinct. Atlas can't tell how long it's been. Probably, only a few seconds. It feels like eternity. He'll never be calm, not with this, his muscles strain with effort, his breathing loud and harsh, his growls turning to audible whining instead. Still, he lies there motionless.
“There you go,” Bhyram tells him, softly. “Shhh, shh, let me do this. I have you now, <sweet thing, perfect thing, beautiful little creature caught in a snare.”>
Atlas cannot pause to think and comprehend that – it finally sinks is fangs in fully. A flash of pain, sudden, unforgiving, a bite back in that same place of his arm just as stinging as the first time. The noise he makes hurts his own ears – more startled than pure pain, loud nonetheless. Again, he tries to yank his arm back until he fights for placidity once more. And again, he just manages. The magic seems to purr.
Bhyram does not let go of his paw. He shuts his eyes and raises his muzzle a little bit with a sharp inhale, then a slow, measured exhale, accompanied by a pleased shiver. Then – absolute euphoria. Overwhelming, one-sided, spilling over to Atlas just enough to feel a hint of it. Fuck, is that how it always is? It’s strong, shockingly so. He never noticed this before, back in Phaistokaia. It was there, of course it was, but Atlas hadn’t been able to think, and certainly hadn’t been able to notice.
<“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it,”> Bhyram murmurs. The words aren’t in a language Atlas knows. They aren’t, he shouldn’t understand them. But he does understand them, he understands them perfectly. The meaning is clear. <“You do feel so good, just like I knew you would – and I don’t even need to feel bad about hurting you, I’ll fix it, I will. I’m allowed to have this, have you. Take you, have you. Mine.”> He shivers again. Atlas mirrors the motion, helpless. “You’re doing so well,” he says, in Draconic, leaning forward to kiss Atlas’ paw again. “I know you’re scared, I know, you’re doing so good for me. I’m so pleased with you.”
His voice is soft, low, purring. Through the thing Atlas can feel his relaxed, predatory satisfaction. There is nothing stopping Bhyram from ripping Atlas to pieces from the inside out, and part of him – Atlas can feel – wants to. Part of him wants to dig in and feast and shatter his bones and pierce his organs and take and take and take. But he doesn’t do that. Bhyram is in control. He purrs and pets over Atlas’ paw instead, breath hot against Atlas’ claws.
“There you go, see?” he whispers. “See? <Pretty thing, see?”>
Atlas works his jaw. “See – what?” he barely manages.
“How much I'll take from you, how much I won't take,” Bhyram tells him. His voice is ever so slightly sing-song, meandering. “You're safe with me, <beloved.> I'll hurt you, yes, but only as much as you want. I'm the only thing that will do this to you. I'm the only monster that gets to bite you. You're my prey.”
Another shiver. Fear? Attraction? Overwhelmed? Pleasure? No, probably not much of that last one. Some residuals from Bhyram, sure, but Atlas is not Will. He’ll never be Will. They’re content to let this thing, this biting, hungry thing, mingle in them long enough to feel disoriented when Bhyram pulls it away. Does… Bhyram want that from Atlas, too? No, no, he can’t. He knows Atlas is different, his Atlas, his to keep and protect and bite when necessary or wanted. No more, no less.
It’s strange, to be kept like this. Prey. Prey. Bhyram owns him. Keeps him well. Keeps others safe from Atlas just as much as he keeps Atlas safe from others.
None of that can he convey with words. He doesn’t need to. Bhyram can feel it. Aloud, he gasps: “yours.”
“Mine,” Bhyram purrs, and there’s a sensation like a knife sliding under his scales, under his skin – painless, but present, sharpness and movement and threat and harm. It doesn’t hurt. But it should. Even it thinks it should.
“Do you want me to let go?” Bhyram asks, after a moment. From the shift in his emotions, it’s evident he’s forced himself to ask, brought himself back to a state where that’s important. He drags concern for Atlas back to the surface of his mind, even though he’s swamped in the residual ecstasy of feeding.
Yes, he thinks immediately. But – really? Atlas shakes his head, a stilting motion, stiff. Not yet. Not yet. He wants to… experience this. Normalise it a little more, if he can. Push himself. It's fine. Bhyram won't let it decimate him. It's him, and Bhyram said he won't hurt him unless he has to. Not again.
That little motion – despite his reservations, which he knows Bhyram can sense – earns him a deep, delighted purr. Bhyram scoots himself closer and leans against Atlas’ side, nuzzling at his neck. He is very happy with that, proud and warm, and there’s a less obvious but definitely very present sensation of – what is that? It’s a sensation, from Bhyram, of feeling wanted, feeling loved. That’s what he’s experiencing in response to Atlas right now.
And god, all Atlas can feel in response to that is bone-shattering relief. He might have fucked up severely, might have had the thing snap at him, but here he is, doing his hardest to be accepting, and getting accepted in return. It's so incredibly relieving, overwhelming; he's filled with pride, and gratitude, and happiness, and even a notable amount of pleasure from Bhyram's praise. Terror, still – that'll probably never go away, but that is secondary. Felt alongside everything else. Felt alongside Bhyram.
Maybe a little deliriously, Atlas feels alive, trapped and loved as he is.
Bhyram leans against him, purring, resting his head on Atlas’ shoulder. He’s relaxed, loose and comfortable, to the point where after a little bit his emotions start to get a sort of hazy, wandering feeling – he’s… a little drowsy. That seems to pull him back out of it. “Mm… I should nnnot fall asleep,” he determines, and yawns, sharp teeth flashing white in the low light, one of them just barely stained with blood. He snaps his jaw shut with an audible thunk.
Those pale eyes focus on Atlas, though they’re dilated, betraying his state even if his actions didn’t. “You’re such a good boy,” he tells Atlas, affectionately. “Staying here for me. Such a good boy. You did great, you did, let me get that out of you so you can relax a little.”
“I'm trying,” Atlas says, mildly strained.
“I know, sweet thing, my love, I know,” Bhyram assures him, audibly adoring. He reels the thing back away from Atlas, easing it out of veins and from under scales, pulling it free from Atlas’ throat and lungs and heart and mind. He’s gentle about it, careful and loving, pulling its teeth and claws and beaks and whatever else it is away with extraordinary delicacy to make sure it doesn’t hurt Atlas on the way out. He’s intent on it – for a moment, all his thoughts, everything in his mind, is focused into a single task: remove his horrible, awful, beautiful devouring soul without harming Atlas. And he does, and then it’s gone, and the connection is gone, leaving Atlas alone in his body with a bleeding bite on his arm and nothing else.
“Oh – I’ll get that,” Bhyram says, and through the hold he’s still got on Atlas’ paw, he reaches out and snatches the bite back. The pain ebbs away. Then Bhyram kisses Atlas’ paw again and loosens his grip enough to let him pull away if he wants.
He would. His body, at least. Enough to become as flat as he can. He doesn't move. He goes very limp instead, all his tension leaving in one great heave. All that remains is his beating heart, still rabbit quick. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Am I -?” He brings his claws of the paw Bhyram isn't holding up to his face. When did he start crying? Or was it just plain tears? His face is wet.
Bhyram doesn't let go of his paw, instead petting over his claws, then rubbing his muzzle against them like an affectionate cat. “Pretty thing, perfect thing,” he rumbles, absent-mindedly.
“Mm…” Atlas breathes, working to get his heart rate in order. It takes a few minutes, each of them lying together, feeling, relaxing. After some time, once he feels he can think again, Atlas hums again. “Are you alright?”
“Mm?” Bhyram picks his head up. He’s smiling. “Yeah, I’m great, I feel great. Why do you – oh, because of the thing? Hah. Yeah. Mmh. I’m great.”
“‘N the arm,” Atlas adds.
Bhyram blinks at him, then cranes his neck around to look at his own arm. There's a spot of dark liquid seeping through his fur. “Oh, right,” he says, mildly. “It's fine, it doesn't even really hurt.”
Atlas nods. Good, yes. It'll be healed in no time, he knows. Bhyram's a little freak; he loves him so much.
“What about you?” Bhyram asks. “You… okay?”
Is he…? He takes a second to consider that. “Mostly,” he says eventually. “Calming… down, still.” It's just taking its sweet time.
Bhyram thinks on that for a few moments. “Anything I can do tooo… help?” he asks. “Want me to just, y’know, hang around with you, or…?”
“‘S smoking still on the table?” Atlas answers with a question. If not, well. He can deal.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Bhyram says immediately, kissing Atlas’ paw again and finally letting go, or at least loosening his grip enough that Atlas can just move away. “Definitely, yeah.”
Reluctantly, Atlas pulls himself up and away on shaking legs. God, why the hell is he trembling…? He’s fine. It’s fine. “Stay here. I’ll – be outside. I’ll be quick,” he says, dropping heavily off the bed.
“Y – you sure?” Bhyram calls, sitting up, looking a little distraught. “You’ll be so cold, no, you can stay in here. It’s fine, I swear.”
“…you’re sure?” Atlas echoes, looking back at him. He searches his face, then sighs. Truth be told, he really doesn’t want to be outside, and sure he could smoke in his office, but he’s afraid of coming back down those steps while feeling this bizarrely strung out and exhausted while also high. Seems… inadvisable. Downstairs it is, though he must go up and collect his cigar and lighter. “I’ll bring you… a bandana, or something,” he says, relenting.
“Yeah!” Bhyram lets himself flop back down on the bed, though he does very carefully grab the towel and spread it underneath himself so he doesn’t get blood on Atlas’ bedspread. Not that it would matter, it’s all red and black anyway. “I’ll be fine. It probably won’t even do anything to me.”
Atlas rumbles, then walks out of the room. He nearly walks into the door frame in the process – good gods, what is wrong with him? Has the connection really left him that rattled…? Apparently so, but if he thinks on it, it is, perhaps, not all that surprising. That night in Phaistokaia was one of the notably bad days of Atlas’ entire life. He huffs, slinks upstairs (slowly, slowly), collects what he needs, then takes a while to go back down the stairs (slower, even slower). A last stop to Bhyram’s room to grab one of his bandanas – regardless of whether he uses it or not, Atlas is still fetching one – and then he can return to his room.
“Ugh,” he groans, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. He’ll light the cigar in a second – everything needed can go on the nightstand. The bandana first… He offers it to Bhyram in the same motion of flopping down on the bed next to him.
“What’s wrong?” Bhyram asks, taking the bandana. He reflexively folds it and ties it over his eyes, then sits there, then takes it off again with a sigh and starts to get it over his antennae instead, pinning them down against his head and nestling them in his fur.
“Why am I so shaky?” Atlas complains. “This is stupid.”
“I mean I did eat part of your con – conceptual… wholeness through your soul,” Bhyram says, fiddling with the cloth to tie it under his chin. “Or… whatever that thing does.”
Atlas waits until he’s got it tied to roll back over and grab the cigar. “I – I guess. Awful,” he mumbles, bringing it to his mouth and flicking the lighter open. The cigar bobs as he speaks. “I feel like I should be fine. Physically, I’m fine, aside… from the blood pressure.”
“Honestly you did way better than most people do,” Bhyram tells him. “Will is very abnormal. And Merrick was way, was really, just way too tough. To be freaked out by – anything. She’s great. Uh, most people I’ve ever gotten with that thing really really really hate it. A lot. There’s – or, there was, there used to be a lot of, you know, like… screaming. Crying. You saw the, uh.” He gestures vaguely with a paw, staring up at the ceiling. “The mercs in the alleyway? They didn’t like that at all. Haha. I mean they liked the being killed less. Obviously. But part of it was they really didn’t like being bit by the, me.”
Atlas sighs. “I guess this is now the second – er, technically third? Fourth? – time I’ve dealt with it. That has to… give me something.” He gets the cigar lit. Simple familiar. His paws aren’t shaking, though he feels they ought to be.
“This is…” Bhyram considers. “Yeah, fourth, if you count – the. Little. Uh. I do feel bad about that, y’know, I do.” He glances off to one side. “I didn’t – mean to… do that. Which – wow, that sounds worse. That sounds worse.”
Mm, no, he’s not considering that one until the smoke is in his system. He takes a drag of the cigar, quick puffs at first, and sets the lighter down. When he exhales, he manipulates the air to blow it further from the bed, towards the bathroom’s open door. “I’m not surprised,” he says finally, settling his limbs again. “It – needed to happen.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t feel a little bad about it,” Bhyram mutters. “I feel worse about that than I do about killing three people last week. No. Four. Four people.”
Atlas shakes his head. “I’m no better, really. I did deserve it. Fuck, I really did…” Mmm… no, no, more smoke. Take in, hold, let it settle in.
“Yes. But.” Bhyram reaches over and touches Atlas with a paw. “That doesn’t mean. I can’t feel bad about it. These things are both, they can both be true.”
After a second, he adds, “why are we talking about this? Neither of us want to be talking about this.”
“Not high enough, I guess,” Atlas muses. “In time…” More smoke. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I can’t do anything about not being high enough,” Bhyram mutters. “Unless Will still has those. Whatever they were. Lying around? Eh. He might be asleep by now. Not helpful. Uh, want to talk… I don’t know, I just don’t want to talk about something that upsets you. I don’t like when you feel bad. It kind of gives me a feeling that’s a little bit like wanting to break something. Though I don’t – I don’t do that.”
Atlas snorts, rolling over to place the cigar in the ashtray he brought down for a moment. “I highly doubt Will would be upset with you if you, ah, simply asked to get high off of him. You might end up stuck in his room for a little while, though,” he says, flipping around to face Bhyram again. Smoke can wait for a second, he wants – yes, good. Face in fur. Comfortable.
“I could,” Bhyram starts, thoughtfully, and then, at the touch, says, “well, now I can’t. Hey, cute thing.”
“Nothing stopping you,” Atlas says, muffled. That’s already so much better… He slips an arm over Bhyram’s shoulders, tugging him close.
“I would have to move you,” Bhyram points out. “And that. Is illegal.”
“Says the notably wanted criminal.”
“Some laws are okay to follow. Like not moving my boyfriend when he needs to snuggle.”
Atlas laughs. “‘Need’ is a serious word…” His claws run through Bhyram’s mane. “You’re soft.”
“I’m soft,” Bhyram agrees. “I’m freshly brushed.”
“I love that you’re freshly brushed,” Atlas says immediately. Hm. Oh, he might be feeling that haze a little bit… Mm. He’s not going to fight it, no, absolutely not.
“I’ll be your pillow,” Bhyram tells him. “And blanket. I’m not big enough for both. I’ll try though.”
“That could be changed so, so easily.” Tempting, too. Atlas loves getting held by a big gaoler that he trusts. But this? Also ideal. Wonderful. He nuzzles Bhyram’s neck.
“Y'want me to go get Graham again?” Bhyram’s claws comb through Atlas’ mane, down his neck, hugging him close. “I can do that, sure. Be a whole bed for you.”
God, that’s so tempting. He shakes his head. “No, no. You’re – you. The you I love. Be that,” he says.
Intense, delighted purring. “When you say things like that, it makes me so happy,” Bhyram tells him without hesitation. “I hope you know that. I hope you get how much I like that.”
“I’m not capable of sensing it, but I can. Make a guess,” Atlas says. He reluctantly pulls away from Bhyram enough to rescue his cigar from the tray. No sense letting it burn down without being actively smoked. Again, he exhales and whisks the smoke away.
“Speaking of sensing things. Hey. I want to know.” Bhyram shifts a little, enough to lay one paw on the bedspread to pick at a pilled fiber. “What did you think of that?”
Atlas blinks. “Of my cigar…?” he says. As if to prove a point, he takes another drag. “Well. It does the – works. It works, very well, if I let it. Which I am.”
“No the – the…” Bhyram mimes biting something with a little comical biting sound effect in his throat. “You know. That. I don't know what the thing is called, I can't – I don't have a name for saying its name.”
“‘The thing that is also you,’ is how I’ve been… referring to it.” Atlas shrugs. He sets the cigar down again. “What about it – oh, yes. Right. What did I think about what? Which part?”
“Just kind of the whole thing. Do you… I don't know, think of it any differently now? Is it less… freaky?”
“No. But it is… familiar? So maybe that means yes.” Atlas squints. The haze is thick, now. “I’m – hm. Maybe both.”
“Huh.” Bhyram considers that. “I think… that's good.”
“Hm.” He tries to formulate a better answer. “It feels… exhilarating. In all senses of the word. Good and bad. I – can sort of understand the appeal Will finds in it. Just not the terror aspect.” Atlas drapes his wing over Bhyram. “It's a very innate fear that takes me. Hard to overcome. But the connection… it makes it – not easier, but it does give it some upside.”
Bhyram snuggles up against his side immediately. “I'd hoped it would,” he mumbles, smushing his muzzle against Atlas’ shoulder. “You don't ever have to do that again, I'll never make you do it again, don't worry. But I am glad I got to do it once. I like to know you. Have you like that. And I'm glad you got to know me without there being some – other bullshit going on. Like the eyes. That was so distracting.”
“Without shredding your limbs,” Atlas adds. “Mh. It's a very possessive state. I think. Do you always feel like that?”
“Only with you and Will. But then yes. You guys let me do it. I could take that kind of thing by force, if I wanted. It would want that. And – wow, is the feedback, I mean, I do want to feel it. But, uh, I won't just grab you and bite you whenever and take that, because – well because that's a shitty thing to do. Obviously. But also I don't need to. You'll give it to me if you want to, if I ask for it. Because you're mine and you love me and you want to be mine and I earned that. And I love you. And… stuff like that. That kind of goes to my head a little.” He pauses. “A lot.”
“And… what about generally? Without the…” Atlas waves a paw. “The high. Possessive?”
“Uhhhhhh. Not as… without a filter,” Bhyram replies, “but I definitely do feel very like that. More some times than others. I try to keep a lid on it a lot of the time so I'm not being a -” he pauses, thinking. “What's the word. What's the word. Tilafyll. How do I. Weird person? Freak? I think? Is the closest… word. So I'm not being that. Though I do let myself feel like that more now that I know you like it. And Will likes it.”
Atlas smiles a little, pleased. “It’s hot,” he says simply.
“See I didn't know that at first. So I tried to be not weird about it. But now I know that so I don't try as hard to not be weird. So yeah. I do feel really… possessive, a lot, uh, a lot of the time. You're mine and I love you. So this is a normal amount of possessive to feel right now, I'm just chatty about it.”
It's nice to hear. Atlas loves those reminders, that he is, in fact, still very much wanted and loved. He's been working hard lately to keep himself in check. The reassurances help.
Oh, he almost forgot about the cigar again. He twists to get it, smokes, then just keeps it in his claws. It's awkward to hold it so high up, but he won't be forgetting it this way. Mm. Yeah. This was the right decision. This feels good. Comfortable. He's finally feeling calm again thanks to the haze; his heart rate is nearly back to where it should be.
“I like hearing you talk,” Atlas says so much later it may as well be nonsequitor. “Tell me… mm. More things. Or ask me something. I don't want to go to sleep yet.” Another pull, another breeze to whisk away the smoke. “What do you do like this anyhow?”
“What, while all… weird like this?”
“Mmmmhm,” Atlas lazily confirms.
“Uhhhhh. Used to be just lie in one place for a few hours and stare at whatever was there until I fell asleep or something. Now usually it’s with Will, so, you know.” Bhyram makes a halfhearted attempt at an illustrative gesture.
Atlas stares at it, considering. “Mm. He's a little bit of a whore, isn't he?” he says affectionately. That's funny to him, for some reason. Of course Will would end up trying for sex – that's literally what happened last time. What was he expecting…?
“A little!” Bhyram laughs. “I think he takes pride in it. I know he takes pride in it. And, well, I like it. I’m not going to complain about that.”
“Do you ever wish I was a little more like that…?”
“More like Will? No, you’re perfect just as you are. You’re needy in your own way. I like that. I like the difference.”
If he were less hazy, he might be inclined to argue that for some reason. Mm… why would he? That's silly. He is kind of needy, it's fun. What? Oh.
“I think,” Atlas declares, “that now I'm relaxed. Full of smoke, just as I should be.” He takes a final drag, then twists to snub out the last little bit. It wasn't a full length cigar anyway – it was one he'd smoked a couple nights ago, about halfway down. He turns back to Bhyram to pull him close with all his limbs. “Because I'm inclined toooo… agree.”
Bhyram makes a delighted little mrrr in his throat, definitely something he’s picked up from Will. He helps scoot himself close to Atlas to nestle up against his chest, paws at his shoulders, immediately nuzzling his throat and rubbing his face against Atlas’ scales. “Good,” he rumbles, and puts a little kiss on Atlas’ throat, then another, then several more.
“Mmm, that’s so much better,” Atlas hums, sliding his head across the blankets, up and out of the way to give Bhyram space to do whatever the fuck he wants. Much more pleasant to be kissed and rubbed against than it is to be snared. He does, (very) distantly, feel a little bad about that. Both of these things are Bhyram. Fangs and claws and horrible things and soft, soft fur. All of it is him, his boyfriend, his lover, his equal-favourite tundra in the whole entire world. “Don’t ever change,” he adds, lazily petting down one of Bhyram’s side.
“I’ll try,” Bhyram answers, in a laugh, returning the motion over Atlas’ chest and belly and hip. The kisses continue, shifting from light little touches to longer expressions of affection. “You’ve made a different person out of me. I was someone else before I met you. I like who I am now, with you.”
“Not just Will?” Atlas asks, with a gentle, pleased sigh. “He's more… has an effect.”
“Not just Will, no!” Bhyram confirms, nipping very gently at the bottom of Atlas’ jaw. “You change me in different ways. You both leave… yourselves on me.”
Atlas seems to shiver, a little smile taking its place on his face. Everything feels so nice. So nice. Good, ideal. He throws a hindleg over Bhyram's flank. “The good parts, I hope,” he hums, then nods. “I have those. At least two.”
“Good parts? That probably depends on who you ask.” Bhyram shifts, getting his entire chest and body slotted neatly up against Atlas’ cool scales. “Maybe some people would say I’m worse now. Definitely some would. But I don’t care about any of what they think. I know what I am. I know what I want to be. I know I want to be with you. I know how much you mean to me. I know how much I love you.” Each statement is punctuated with a nip or a kiss, Bhyram’s free paw trailing delicate claws over Atlas’ body.
“I am not sober enough to comprehend that,” Atlas lies. Truthfully that's just so much. What does he say to that…? So many things come to mind – for once in his life – that he has no idea where to start. Gratitude, elation, absolute delight, phrases that convey these things. Bhyram can sense them, probably. Or maybe not? He does have that silly bandana on. Atlas’ paw finds the back of Bhyram's neck, up by the base of his skull, resting there, going along with Bhyram as he moves.
“And I’m probably not sober enough to be saying things like that,” Bhyram agrees blithely. “I don’t think it made a whole lot of sense. Maybe I should do something else with my mouth. Your mouth. Come here.”
“I'll taste like smoke,” Atlas murmurs, shifting his body again to face him properly once more. Fuck, he's so handsome, gazing back at him like that.
“It's worth it,” Bhyram tells him, gaze raking covetously over Atlas’ features before he stretches his muzzle up for a proper kiss.
Atlas rumbles deep in his chest, immensely pleased. He meets Bhyram halfway, eager for affection. Any reservations about smoke or taste leave him in favour of getting impossibly closer to his boyfriend, his partner.
Bhyram is extremely enthusiastic in his kissing, immediately, rumbling with delight. The fact that he’s intoxicated on his own soul’s euphoric feedback does nothing to make him any less skilled, claws at Atlas’ collar and a tongue in his mouth. He twists his tail around Atlas’ and pushes him down against the bedspread. The paw at his collar trails down to his hips and back up again, testing, seeing how much he’ll move.
God, how is he meant to keep still? Or, no, he's probably not meant to. Is he supposed to be moving? Feels like it. It's hard to think about anything at all. Atlas shifts, full bodied, one wing splayed out to the side. More room to work, or press as close as he can? Hard choice. He just ends up wiggling a little, and barely manages to catch the whine in his throat.
Bhyram laughs, a low chuckle in his throat. “Cute thing,” he mutters, claws catching at Atlas’ hip. “Sweet thing. Look at you. I get to see you like this. I get to feel you like this. Wiggle all you want, I like feeling you move.”
“I'm not even moving in a sexy way,” Atlas protests. “I'm just moving because I don't know – what else to do with myself.”
“Let me decide,” Bhyram tells him, a claw tracing aimless shapes over the join of his hip to his thigh, over the cloth of his house pants. “Mm? Let me decide what to do with you?”
Unfair, the things he says and what they do to him. Atlas shifts again, this time to stretch his leg out and away. Definitely more room to move this time.
“How – mm, how is it that every time I smoke around you, I end up on my back?” Atlas says in lieu of a response. He's not complaining, of course. The end of his tail flicks across the sheets.
“The first time, you asked,” Bhyram tells him, claws toying with the waistband of Atlas’ pants, then dropping to pet over the cloth covering his vent.
“So it's my fault then?” Atlas says absentmindedly. He hums and presses his hips up against Bhyram's paw. “Mmh, please do that again.”
“If you want something different, then ask me for it,” Bhyram tells him, rubbing his paw down hard over Atlas’ vent with a pleased hum. “Or I’ll put you right back there again.”
Atlas scoffs. His mouth moves faster than his brain. “Why would I do that?” he says, rolling his hips into Bhyram's touch. “I can't just ask for – that's embarrassing, that's not allowed.”
“Yes it is,” Bhyram tells him, going over his vent a few times more, a steady rhythm into his motion. “Because I told you to ask. So you’d just be doing what you’re told. Right?”
“But that's different, that's following a command,” Atlas whines. What's not clicking? “It's different.”
Bhyram makes a thoughtful hum. “Let me put it… this way,” he says, after a moment. “I want you to ask me for what you want. If you do, I’ll give it to you. If that’s orders, then I’ll give them to you. But I want you to ask.” His pressure, his touch – they don’t change. He’s not giving Atlas any more right now.
In frustration, Atlas tries to grab for Bhyram’s wrist in an effort to make him give more. It does not work; Bhyram just stops moving altogether, and Atlas cannot force his paw. He's too strong. Damn it, is he really going to make him – speak? Use words? Yes? It seems that way. This is stupid. What are they even talking about anymore.
His ears fall back. “…that’s illegal,” he says flatly.
Bhyram actually laughs out loud, startled and amused. “You're forgetting I make the rules here,” he states, grinning. He twists his wrist free and toys with the waistband of Atlas' pants. “So ask.”
Mmm… He could. He doesn’t.
Atlas grabs hold of Bhyram’s shoulders and rolls the two of them. At the same time, he angles his head to bite at Bhyram’s throat – mostly getting fur – and growls softly as he settles on top of him.
“Oh!” Bhyram says, startled, exhaling as Atlas’ weight comes to rest on his hips and belly. His paws go up, one to Atlas’ shoulders, one to his side, steadying him where he sits. That winter-coat mane of his is far too thick to bite through, much too large for Atlas to actually threaten, so he lays there for a moment, combing his claws through Atlas’ mane and listening to that growl.
“This is what you want?” he asks, finally, smiling. “I can work with that, kaerleste, I can give you what you want.”
“Maybe,” he says, muffled. He was arguing something, wasn’t he…? Maybe? It doesn’t really matter. He’s thrilled to be sitting up here, wings mantled, close.
“Maybe?” Bhyram echoes. The paw at Atlas’ shoulders drops to his waist. “Oh, alright, I’ll put you on your back again, then.”
Atlas’ ears fly up as he lets go of Bhyram’s throat to stare at him. “No, wait!” he says, startlingly loud. “I – hold on.”
“Uh huh?”
“You’re bullying me,” Atlas says, a disgruntled look taking shape on his face. “What if I want to do… something different?”
“Well then you have to aaaaask,” Bhyram tells him, looking downright smug. Bastard. Atlas goes to bat at his chest, only to get immediately distracted by the soft fur of the very end of his winter mane.
“I hate you,” he says, flat. “I want to -” no, ask “- can I… ride you?” He can already feel his ears burning.
“Hm!” Bhyram hums, tilting his head to the side with a very satisfied little smile. He examines Atlas’ face for half a second before using his grip on Atlas’ hips to shift up against him, an experimental grind. “Yes. Definitely. I like that.”
Atlas’ tail takes to wagging. Exactly what he wants! Maybe he can be in control…?
“But.”
Oh come on. Atlas’ wings droop.
“I need a couple things to make that comfortable for you. For both of us. I think.” Bhyram’s smile gets more smug. “You may get to be on top, but you’re not in charge. Hah. I want you to go and get lube annnnnnnd. Whichever toy you like best -” he shifts a paw from Atlas’ hips to his vent, trailing over it once again, over his pants, but unerringly over the spot where he will be able to get at his slit later. “Whatever toy you like best for your pretty little slit. Mm? Go get them from Will. He knows where he keeps everything. Go ask him for it.”
Atlas swallows. He’s doing a poor job at appearing like he’s completely unaffected, considering he hadn’t really thought to try that up until Bhyram started petting him again. He’s so easy, he knows he is – if he isn’t careful he’ll get hard or something and he’s not even undressed yet. (As if he isn’t halfway there already.)
He chooses to focus on that first part first. If he does this right, he won’t have to worry about that last bit. “I could be in charge,” he argues with gusto. “I can do both things! Be in charge and sit up here on top!”
“Nope,” Bhyram tells him, cheerfully, and pats him on one side. “You’re not doing that. Get up and go get your things from Will.”
The noise Atlas makes is wholly undignified. He’s gawking. He can’t stop that from happening. Goddamnit. “Wh – why not?” he argues.
“Because I don’t want you to, and that’s the only reason you need,” Bhyram says, and gives him a little push. Nothing too strong, but enough to knock him to the side a little. “Go.”
Grumbling, Atlas slides off the bed and onto his paws. Only reason he needs, bah. Atlas could be a great top, probably. Maybe. Thinking about it makes his head feel a little strange, different from the smoke. He shakes his body. “I’m going,” he says, once he’s back to standing normally.
“Good boy,” Bhyram purrs, rolling to one side to watch him go. He leaves his hips laying flat on the bed, legs stretched out, smooth curves of glossy fur over muscle. His gaze fixes on Atlas, dragging over him – head, wings, body, tail. He leans on one forepaw patiently.
A whine, quiet, escapes Atlas as he hurriedly trots out of the room. It’s late at night, sure, but not so late that Will is completely asleep. No, far from it. Atlas can hear Will’s music playing and his humming from the moment he steps into the living room. It only gets louder as Atlas gets closer.
Will is going about his lengthy bedtime routine. He’s not spending the night with Bhyram or Atlas, so he’s free to go about his entire multistep process in relative peace. He startles, just a little bit, when Atlas knocks on the side of the half-open door.
“Wh – honey? Atlas?” Will says, turning to look at him. “What’s, um. Aren’t you staying with Bhy, tonight?”
“Yeah,” Atlas says, then blinks. “Yes.”
Will squints at him, then hastily washes his paws of whatever thick cream is on them in order to grab his glasses. His eyes alight with recognition, understanding. “Ohh, you’re feeling it, aren’t you?”
“Feeling what?”
“Mm, you’re looking a little relaxed there, honey. What’s up? Did, um, Bhy need me for something?”
Why does everything go back to Bhyram? Wait, stupid thought, of course it does. He’s his owner. He’s their owner, both of them, just – slightly more literally for Atlas. He blinks again. “No, I – well. Yes? Yes.”
Will nods, gestures with his paw. Go on.
“He wants lube.” Will looks at him still, head tilted slightly, smiling. Atlas sighs and continues: “Bhyram wants me to get lube – because whatever I have in my room clearly isn’t good enough? – and, ah. For me to. Look in the toy drawer.”
“Mmmm… Oh, yeah, mmkay, I see what this is,” Will says, to which Atlas fails to comprehend. “Hyp, stay, I’ll be right back,” he adds with a look over his shoulder. Atlas follows the gaze, and sure enough, there Hypnos is, half curled on a folded towel. The dog wags his tail a couple of times, then lies back down.
Ooohhh, he’s so soft. And very cute. Look, that’s his little buddy… Hypnos looks sleepy, too. It’s bedtime. He’ll sleep with Will, probably, unless Bhyram also leaves Atlas’ room to join Will after they’re done. Maybe. But god, look at Hypnos. Atlas’ tail wags.
Will laughs a little bit. “Come on, boy,” he says, and it takes Atlas a second to realise that Will is addressing him. Fuck, right, he had a – a task to do.
Atlas trots after Will into his room, where he’s got the string lights on and a little cone of incense nearly burnt out across the room. Warm, vanilla, oh how Atlas likes it in here. Very Will. Very comfy. Will does not let him get too distracted this time, as he beckons Atlas over to the chest of drawers that contains their stash and pulls it open. “I think, um, he probably wants this bottle of lube specifically, because, um – I don’t know. Whatever it is about this formula, he says it doesn’t ‘smell strongly?’ Or something? I don’t… think any of them do, but his nose is better than mine. They all smell the same to me, ‘cept the scented ones,” Will explains, offering a bottle for Atlas to take, a little less than half empty. “I should get more of this one, I guess.”
Atlas nods dumbly, as if he has effectively processed more than seventy percent of those words. He takes the bottle.
“Did he want a specific toy?” Will prompts.
“The, ah… The little vibrator. That’s, mm… good for.”
“…mhmm…?”
What the fuck is up with everyone asking him to say so many words all the time? Does he really need this many words? Just to ask to be fucked?
He makes a gesture as if fucking himself on his claws instead.
Will snorts hard enough to make the feathers on his wings audibly shake. “Okay, okay, I’ll take pity on you. This time. Because you’re so fucking high, and it’s very funny to me.” He turns again to dig in the drawer – and of course he produces exactly the thing Atlas is looking for in less than three seconds. “Here, now go back to Bhyram and present this to him. Mm, no – hold on, not with your – yes, there you go honey. Now go. I’ll see you in the morning, or, um, at the very least in the afternoon. Good night.”
“Guh-‘ight,” Atlas tries, voice muffled by a sex toy as it is. Will pats his shoulder and gently coaxes him to spin around and walk out of the room, vibrator held carefully in his teeth much like a dog carrying a bone. His tags jingle as goes, as they always do. Probably, it’s not far off the mark. At least he manages to remember to close the bedroom door again as he crosses back into his own room to sit before the bed.
Bhyram is laying where he was when Atlas left, watching. He observes as Atlas sits down and waits for instruction. Frankly, Atlas is a little surprised he just stayed there, and didn’t touch himself or anything, probably. Atlas would not have had the same conviction, which – oh, right, maybe that’s another reason Bhyram is in charge.
“Good,” Bhyram says, with a smile. “C’mon up here. C’mere. Pretty thing. Come here. And take your clothes off, they’re in the way.”
That’s a lot of shit to do all at once. Or – no hold on, what the fuck is he thinking? Try to jump on the bed and simultaneously jump out of his pants? He’s going to trip and land on his wing wrong if he tries that. No, that’s stupid. He sets the lube up by Bhyram’s paws, and gently lays the toy down next to it before he strips down completely. Fuck the laundry. It stays on the floor. The fact that the laundry bin is not that far away does not matter. Not his problem. That’s a problem for sober Atlas. Atlas as he is jumps up onto the bed as directed, like a good boy.
Immediately Bhyram reaches up and snags his head, then draws him down for a kiss. Just one, and then he lets him go. “I’ll get you ready,” he purrs, shifting a little to leave room for Atlas to lay down. He gestures at his own self, lazily sprawled in dark blue and black and violet across Atlas’ red blankets. “You know what to do here.”
Yes he does. Sucking his partners’ dicks has been his favourite thing the past couple of months. It feels good and right and he enjoys the sensation of it, the weight and warmth and the heady satisfaction he gets from doing his job well. Fulfilling, almost. Like reaffirming himself of his present over his past. Atlas has no qualms about shuffling closer, about running his claws up and down Bhyram’s vent, his thighs, his hips, his belly. Getting worked open is only slightly distracting from his favoured task – he focuses on Bhyram’s cock as soon as it emerges, working the head of it with his tongue, the base with his paws, and eventually taking it all into his throat at once. He whines as he does it, just a little bit, when he’s pulled off enough to do so. Fuck my throat or something, he urges with little tugs at his hips.
“That's enough,” Bhyram calls to him, drawing back from his own work. “Off, sweet thing.”
“But you haven’t gotten off yet,” Atlas whines, pulling off and wiping his muzzle with his forearms.
“I know,” Bhyram tells him, sitting up. He shifts and twists and gets off the bed. “Stay,” he tells Atlas, and trots over to the bathroom, up on his hindpaws.
Wh – leaving him? Atlas stares at him as he leaves, unable to comprehend why the fuck he would possibly be leaving now. Just to work him up, get him stretched and ready and his cock out and leaking, and then clean up and go to bed? That’s not fair at all! Atlas whines again, audibly but wordlessly, as he lies there staring at the bathroom door.
A pause, the sound of water, the gentle squeak of the towel ring. Bhyram returns a minute later, paws freshly washed. “Good boy,” he praises, seeing Atlas where he left him.
Oh, maybe Atlas is just stupid. He visibly brightens anyway.
Bhyram, his dick still out and wet, climbs back up onto the bed. He steps over to a comfortable spot and lays himself down on his back, reclined far enough that he's almost laying down – but not quite. A few adjustments of his wings, and then he picks up the bottle of lube from where he tossed it earlier, pours a little in his paw, and takes his cock in paw, slicking it up.
“C’mere, now,” he tells Atlas. “You asked, so now you get what you want.”
Fears tossed to the wayside, Atlas happily gets up to climb on Bhyram's lap. As it stands, Atlas is much larger than Bhyram in terms of length, but not enough to where positioning himself over Bhyram's cock is too awkward or uncomfortable. Bhyram is strong, and Bhyram is bulky, and Atlas is (comparatively) long and lean. He fits nicely in Bhyram's lap – a place of honour. Rumbling deep in his chest anew, he bats Bhyram's paw away to take hold of his cock and guide it into his waiting hole.
“Mmmnn. Yeah,” he says in response to the stretch, more of a breath than a real word. That's a fun new angle. He sinks down slowly until their tails are flush, his weight back on Bhyram's hips, an easy and familiar slide despite the difference in position. “I love having you inside me,” he adds, claws flexing in the soft fur at Bhyram's shoulders.
“Fuck, yes,” Bhyram agrees, a half-breathless groan of his own. His paws settle at Atlas’ hips for the moment and his wings twitch at the sensation. “You’re always so tight for me, my Atlas, mine.”
He shifts a little, hitching his hips up against Atlas. They're already as close to one another as they can get, but that little movement tells Atlas that his boyfriend is more than capable of thrusting up against him even when reclined like this.
“Good boy,” Bhyram continues, a little raggedly. “Pretty thing… hold on to me, keep your paws out of the way.”
One of Bhyram’s paws comes up to pet over Atlas’ cock, then down to tease at his slit. “I'll take care of you.”
Atlas groans, hips giving the barest stutter. Already, he can feel just how wet he is, can feel the extra heat pooling that tells him so. “While I fuck myself on you?” he asks. So brazen. The language he picks gives him a little thrill. “Won't that, ahh – make it hard? For you?”
“You don't need to be worrying about that,” Bhyram tells him, and a claw sweeps over his slit and then hooks in, slipping easily with all his slick. “Mmh. So wet for me, too…”
Atlas nearly doubles over as a gasp is forced out of him. “Bhyrammm…! Fuck -”
“Go on,” Bhyram tells him, indulgent and smug. “Fuck yourself on me, since you want to so bad.”
He shudders and nods. Atlas never gets to hear Bhyram talk like that, and all it's doing is going straight to his dick. It's embarrassing to hear, totally crass; god does he love it. Bhyram is right, too. Atlas is so wanting of this. He lifts himself up, pausing at the top to moan and enjoy the feeling, then slowly drops back down. Bhyram's claw never leaves his slit – he just fucks it into Atlas at a comfortable pace for the moment.
Fuck, he's going to end up getting loud, isn't he? He's never gotten to set the pace like this before. Tomorrow, he's sure his thighs will be screaming. Who gives a shit. It feels good being on top. Different, more – exposed. As Atlas sets his pace, then rapidly picks up that pace, he's incredibly aware of just how open he is. Free to the open air, unlike lying on his side or back. There's no fabric or pillows to hide his face in. He could toss his head back, maybe, but he's transfixed by watching Bhyram. His face, his paws, so pretty lying under Atlas, so benevolent to let Atlas ride him like this.
“Look at you, pretty thing,” Bhyram purrs, and on Atlas’ next motion down he adds another claw. He’s shifting his own hips up subtly into Atlas’ motions, working with him, encouraging him. His other paw finds Atlas’ cock, encircling it, making a slick, tight space to fuck into as he moves. “Just look at you. Spread your wings for me, mm?”
Why…? The request is a little odd, but he's eager to obey. Atlas steadies himself better, more weight on his forepaws in order to balance. He spreads his wings out, not fully, but more than the current mantle he's holding. “Like this?” he asks, uncertain.
“Good boy,” Bhyram purrs, lovingly. “You listen so well, beautiful thing.”
“For you,” Atlas says. The praise goes to his head, lofty, lightheaded.
Bhyram pulls his claws free from Atlas’ slit, prompting a whine from him. Is he not moving quick enough? A punishment? Or, no, Atlas is getting ahead of himself. He literally bites his tongue and watches as Bhyram picks up the vibrator, runs his claws over it to coat it with slick, and deftly slips it in instead.
Atlas curses, hips stuttering as he adjusts to the stretch of the toy. It’s familiar, sure, but still thicker than Bhyram’s claws. Oh fuck, he loves how that feels, shamefully maybe a little more than he likes Bhyram or Will’s paws. Neither compares to their tongues, of course, but god. It draws a low moan out of Atlas, and he dips his head to steal a kiss as thanks.
“Good boy,” Bhyram whispers, against his mouth. “Pretty boy, sing for me, mm?”
Helpless to do anything other than obey, Atlas drops his muzzle to Bhyram’s mane and simply lets himself be vocal. Cries and keens, whimpers and moans, he doesn’t bother with trying to muffle absolutely any of it. Distantly, he knows he might be embarrassed about that later, but right now he’s so overwhelmed he can’t spare the extra brain power on anything other than raw pleasure and listening to his owner.
“I am, I am,” he babbles, panting heavily against Bhyram’s fur. “Good for you, that’s – nn, all I want to be.”
“You are,” Bhyram tells him, “you are, sweet thing, you are.” His paw moves, somewhere, and he brushes it over the rune on the toy and flicks it on.
Atlas’ pace falters. He falls forward entirely, weight resting on Bhyram’s chest, a strangled noise punched out of him. “Bhy, Bhyram,” he keens, bottoming out and grinding, unable to sit still or make his legs work enough to ride him properly. A litany of curses, garbled and difficult to make out, escape him as he claws at Bhyram’s fur.
“There you are,” Bhyram growls, pleased, picking up the slack with movements of his own hips, bracing his hindpaws on the bed. He keeps both paws at work as he does – approaching Will levels of multitasking, which explains why he doesn’t say anything else.
After a few moments, Atlas tries to move again, to meet Bhyram’s thrusts as best he can. He’s overwhelmed, stuffed completely, unable to make words or coherent thoughts. All of it feels so unbelievably good, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He wants to fuck Bhyram’s fist, grind on his belly to push the toy in further, sit up and continue to ride Bhyram with all he’s got. Everything, all at once. He wants. He wants.
There’s no way he can last like this. It’s a miracle he hasn’t come all over himself already – it’s still building, rapidly, hot pleasure coiled tight enough to ache. There might even be tears in his eyes.
“Bhy, I’m – I can’t, I’m -” he tries.
Bhyram is not unaffected by this. There is a faint shiver in his motions, a growl in his breath. “What do you want, beloved?” he asks, a low, fierce rumble. “Ask.”
“Wh – ask?” Atlas says, lifting his head enough to gaze at Bhyram’s face. They’re both close, so close, so why -?
Bhyram lifts his own muzzle enough to lean forward and nip at Atlas’ throat, just under his jaw, next to the collar. At the same time he pulls the toy fully free, away from Atlas. No, no, fuck – he can’t do that! “Ask,” he murmurs, and then, “...no. Beg.”
Atlas hisses, horror and frustration both. “Like Will?”
“Yes,” Bhyram says, sweet as anything. He’s smiling. “Beg.”
God, Atlas could cry. If he were sober, maybe he’d snap instead. As it stands, he breaks immediately. He’s in no place to argue further. It’s so much, if he could just –
“Please!” he cries, claws twisting through the strands of Bhyram’s mane. “Please, you can’t just leave me like this! I’ve been good! Please let me come, I’ve been – I’m listening! Asking! Won’t you please, sir? Bhy?” He noses at Bhyram’s jaw. “Give me the toy, I – I need it, I’ll do whatever you’d like…!”
Bhyram draws in a sharp breath, ears flicking forward. “Oh, good boy,” he breathes, “yes, of course, pretty boy, of course.” He immediately slips the toy back into Atlas, thrusting up properly with it, with himself, stroking Atlas’ cock as he does. Everything, everything.
That’s it. That’s all the little bit he needs for the fires to return twofold, licks of flame all encompassing. The shout he makes as he comes is certainly going to leave his throat hoarse, not that that really registers while he’s too busy grinding against every single thing he’s given. White spend rubbed into black fur – he’ll feel a little bad about that when he has the capacity to think. He’s boneless, vision whited out, shaking and shuddering with the aftershocks. Still, he forces himself to recover as quickly as possible, get back up and continue to fuck himself on Bhyram’s cock, be the perfect little toy for Bhyram to make use of.
He doesn’t even really get the chance. Bhyram takes his paw off Atlas’ cock to take hold of his hips instead, around his back. For a few thrusts he uses Atlas like that, pulling him down when he rolls up. His breathing is harsh. Just a couple breaths – then Atlas can feel pulses of warmth as Bhyram reaches his end. Atlas gives a weak groan – he’s so full.
Claws dig into his lower back, holding him down in place, and he can feel the familiar stretch of Bhyram’s knot, locking him in. Unthinkingly, Atlas clenches around it. Bhyram’s low growl hitches and kicks up for a moment, and he does dart his head forward to get his jaws on Atlas’ shoulder, but he doesn’t bite down. Just gets his teeth against his scales and holds them there, harmless, until he’s spent and he can relax.
Atlas’ head lies on the bed next to Bhyram’s shoulders. He tries to form several words, all of them curses; all of them fail. Heavy pants are what make it out; he’s thoroughly spent. All of his weight rests on Bhyram’s chest for a few long moments, until he gathers the strength – and brain power – necessary to at least try to lean some of it on one of his wings, now flopped to the bed askew.
Bhyram’s growl shifts into a purr, and he releases Atlas’ shoulder and licks over it a couple times, unthinkingly. Grooming him. Then he nuzzles at his neck. “Mmh. There you go, pretty thing,” he mumbles, through his purring. “My good boy, my Atlas, my pretty toy.”
Mmm, yes, he is. Atlas nods, somewhat slowly, against the bed. He feels a shiver run down his spine, almost, threatening to have the shortest of hairs in his mane standing straight up. Yes, he is Bhyram’s good boy, his pretty little thing, his pet to keep and to hold and to use as he likes. He answers that purring with rumbling of his own as he lets his head drift through clouds of pleasure and submission.
“Love you,” he mumbles.
“I love you,” Bhyram replies, fervently, rubbing his muzzle against Atlas’ throat. “You’re my everything.”
Atlas laughs, a little helplessly, paw finding Bhyram’s cheek. Soft, familiar. Oh he loves that, the words, the touch, everything. He loves this monstrous tundra. Bhyram leans into that touch, and Atlas can feel his smile against his paw.
Oh, how wonderful to feel so loved.
He’s content to lie there forever. The rest of his life, just like that. Atlas is exhausted. As soon as the knot recedes, Atlas summons his remaining strength to simply flop entirely to one side, just barely managing to avoid lying on one of Bhyram’s wings. Alas, Bhyram won’t let him do that.
“No, sweet thing, up,” Bhyram purrs to him, laughing. “You can’t just go to sleep, you have to get clean first.”
“I don’t care, I’m tired,” is what he really tries to say. It’s probably coherent enough.
“You will in the morning,” Bhyram argues back. “C’mon, up. I’m getting up too, to clean off, so if you stay you’ll be gross and lonely.”
He can’t do that to Atlas! Half whining, half grumbling, Atlas forces himself to move. Fine! Fine! If he absolutely has to! To the bathroom he goes – thank god it’s so close to the bed, if he had to walk down a hall he’s sure his hindlegs would give out – to clean himself out and wash up roughly and quickly. Not perfect, better than nothing. Bhyram goes too, to wash and wipe down his chest and belly and vent, something he gracefully makes no comments about. He does have to physically stop himself from getting distracted and leaning on Atlas multiple times, though.
It’s good enough. His fur is damp, he gives it a few extra quick grooming licks, it’s good enough. He leads the way back to the bed to climb up and lay down and beckon Atlas with one wing. “Come here,” he says, one last time for the night. “My Atlas.”
That needs no argument, no questioning. Atlas returns to his master, his partner, and happily slots his longer body with Bhyram’s. It's a little too warm in here for Bhyram – Atlas hopes it'll be okay. Together, they lay atop the blankets until Atlas simply must pull a cover over for himself. Bhyram settles a wing over the blanket, tucking the Atlas-bundle against himself as best he can.
As he gets settled for the final time, Atlas manages one last thing. “My Bhyram,” he says. “Good night.”
“Hey, kaerleste,” murmurs a soft voice near his head. “Myl kaerla… wake up, mm? It’s getting kind of late. Almost eleven.”
“Go ‘way,” he mutters.
A soft laugh. “Hold out your paws, myl kaerla, you’ll change your mind.”
Groaning, he reluctantly sticks a paw out of his nest. Just one, outstretched.
A smooth, metallic surface touches his paw. The outside of a travel mug, slightly warm to the touch, indicating something hot within. “Careful,” Bhyram tells him, claws brushing over Atlas’ paw, gently, lovingly. “It’s hot. I know you prefer it hot enough to hurt.”
Atlas pokes his head out of the covers. It's dark in here, only the barest sliver of light shining through the thick black out curtains of his room. He squints at the mug. Takes a sip. Absolutely scalding.
“Mmm… nectar of the gods,” he mumbles, barely audible.
“Only the best for you,” Bhyram replies, sitting back on his haunches, watching, a little smile flitting across his face.
Atlas blinks at him. He's so groggy. “‘S your blindfold…?” he asks.
“It’s on top of my head, kaerleste,” Bhyram tells him, in the exact same tone of voice.
He squints again. Oh. So it is. “S'eleven. It's… sunny outside.” He doesn't actually know if it is or not. “…probably.”
“Off and on,” Bhyram tells him. “It’s a little cloudy.”
“Oh.”
Atlas drinks his coffee and tries to wake up a little more, as much as he'd like to sleep. He can still feel the edges of the magic from his cigar clinging, enticing. Indulgently, he lets it linger. Just for a little while.
“How long have you been up?” Atlas asks, once he's remembered how to form sentences consistently.
Bhyram leans on the bed, resting his head sideways on his forearms and gazing up at Atlas. “Just long enough to make coffee, that’s all,” he hums. “Maybe forty minutes at best.”
“Mmm… thank you,” Atlas says. “You could join me up here, you know.”
“I think I will,” Bhyram says, and stands to hop up on the bed and lay down half over Atlas’ flanks, draping his wings over the bed and off onto the floor. There’s a little rumble echoing in his chest.
Mmm, isn't that nice? For a little while, Atlas is content to lie there and enjoy his weight and enjoy his coffee. He's so comfortable.
“Mm, Bhy?” he asks after some time, leaning forward to set the mug down.
“Yeah?” Bhyram replies, voice muffled where he has his muzzle pressed against Atlas’ shoulder, cuddled up next to him.
“How are you today?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, and then, “oh, like the – uh. The… uh. No, it’s worn off, I’m fine now. My arm is a little sore, but, uh, it’s pretty much healed up. I’m okay.” A pause. “Are… you alright? After… all of that?”
Atlas hums. He drapes his now free paws over and around Bhyram. Good question, isn't it? “I'm… tired, of course, my thighs ache. More than that – ah.”
He really did say all of that stuff, didn't he. How mortifying. Maybe he shouldn't get high around his partners, ever.
Bhyram, of course, immediately starts to purr. “Yeah, thought they might,” he says, rubbing his muzzle against Atlas’ scales. “I… had a great time last night. Hah. You were so wonderful. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” Atlas says, “and it was a wonderful time, yes. But, hell. I think – mm. I may have gone a bit far. I don't know what I was thinking, what was I on about -” trying to take control? “- ssssome things?” Ugh.
“It was very cute,” Bhyram tells him. “What are you worried about?”
Quite a few things, honestly. If Bhyram regrets it, or disliked all the smoke, or if Atlas hadn't performed well enough, or overstepped his bounds… Little anxieties that he feels rather stupid for considering. He knows Bhyram can feel that tension on him – and not just through his emotional aura, too. Atlas is sure he's physically tense by now, more than he was when he opened his eyes.
“I don't know why I was so… insistent about trying to… take control,” Atlas says awkwardly. “I really don't. That was stupid.”
He's tried it with Will, got shot down, and even admitted that it wasn't a good idea after the fact. He's been in this place, so many times, and still does these things. Stupid. Bad choices. And to try this with Bhyram, of all people? Or, well, to try to argue?
“Maybe it was misplaced confidence, or something,” he adds, muttering.
A paw strokes over his shoulder, over and over, soothing. “It’s alright,” Bhyram tells him, unbothered. “I can handle you. That’s my job. To keep you in line when I need to. You’re kind of… you can be stubborn, sometimes, that’s just how you are, that’s alright. I know how to deal with that.” He plants a kiss on the back of Atlas’ neck.
“Always have been a bit of a stubborn bastard,” Atlas agrees. “I was just high, I suppose. I think I still am, just ever so slightly. The magic lingers, sometimes. Embarrassing.” He huffs. “I don't regret my decisions prior to smoking, however.”
“It’s not embarrassing. Or at least I don’t think it is. I think you’re very sweet like that,” Bhyram counters. After a moment, he hesitantly adds, “do you… regret your decisions after… doing that?”
Atlas lifts his head. Ah, shit. There he goes with wording. Pesky words. He shakes his head. “No! No, I – I don't, no. Yesterday was… needed, I would say. All of it. Don't let my insecurities fool you otherwise.” Atlas twists until he can find one of Bhyram's paws to hold. “I had a great time.”
He feels the exhale as Bhyram lets out a tense breath. “Oh, okay, good, I – was. Worried for a second there,” Bhyram says, and laughs, quietly. “Yeah, yesterday was… really nice. Really really nice. We should do stuff like that more often. Um, minus the – the biting. Probably.”
Laughing, Atlas nods in agreement. “I love you, all of you – and I don't want to do you a disservice by trying to lie to you that that wouldn't still be just as terrifying. I'll never be Will,” he says.
“I don’t need you to be Will,” Bhyram tells him. He can feel him shift, to press the top of his head against Atlas’ scales, as close as he can get. “Thank you for being… willing. To know me. Freakish… thing that I am. Thank you for loving even that. Even though it’s – I’m… horrible. Terrifying. You did it anyway. I love you. It loves you.”
“Freakish, yes. Monstrous, horrible, terrifying thing that you are – I would have you no other way,” Atlas says with reverence. “What else could – hm. Wrangle me, and Will but you?”
Bhyram smiles and exhales a laugh against Atlas’ scales. Warm and soft. He snuggles a little closer. “Only me,” he murmurs. “You two are a lot to handle. But I have you.”
“You do have us,” Atlas hums, then more quietly, “you have me.”
The two of them lapse into silence after that. Comfortable, warm. Sure, they’ll have to get up and go actually start the day. Get something other than just coffee to eat. Have an actual shower. Do the laundry, wash the sheets, all sorts of things, all sorts of ways to kill time until Will gets off of work and the three of them can spend the evening together.
All of that can wait, at least for a while longer.
There’s a weight that lifts off of Atlas’ shoulders, off of his soul directly. He was expecting this, hoping for this. Ever since Eleutheromanian’s death, he’s felt it, felt the ghostly echo of the thing in Bhyram’s soul snapping at him. Even now, months later, with everything forcefully pulled back to normality with blood and tears, that was really sitting heavily on him.
Is this healing? Is it dramatic to be thinking like that? Atlas doesn’t know, nor does he want to explore that thought further. If he’s so inclined, he can ask Will about it later, or even another day. They’re good at that sort of thing, at knowing… emotions, and reactions, and cause and effect. Far better than Atlas is. If he’s wrong about it, then he’s wrong about it.
Right now, in the moment, snuggled up with his boyfriend all warm and sleepy, it certainly feels like the end of a chapter that was drawn on for far too long.