Work Text:
He’s ready for the Sanguine Hunger.
The air in Orpheus’s chambers is a physical presence Frederick moves through, woven from the scents of old paper, drying ink, and the uniquely cloying sweetness of Orpheus’s anticipation. It’s a fragrance Frederick has come to associate with his most prized possession. Of rot and devotion.
Moonlight, thin and silver as a surgeon’s needle, pierces the gloom, and he watches it catch on the prone figure on the bed as if drawn to the heat of his anxiety. Orpheus is already a wreck. Frederick observes his breathing, a shallow, ragged affair, his limbs possessed by a fine tremor that speaks of a feverish, desperate energy. His wide eyes, dark pools of bottomless adoration, follow Frederick’s every move as the vampire drifts into the room.
He is a shadow given form, a violation of the room’s stale air, his silver hair a nimbus of spun starlight in the oppressive darkness. He brings the chill of the grave with him, a stark contrast to the human furnace of want that is Orpheus.
Frederick knows he does not need to ask. He can feel the thrum of Orpheus’s devotion like a second, frantic heartbeat against his own still one, a frantic Morse code of submission that only he can decipher. But he enjoys the ritual, the slow, delicious unfurling of Orpheus’s will, a process as deliberate and satisfying as peeling the petals from a rare, night-blooming flower.
He settles onto the edge of the bed, his weight barely dipping the mattress. His presence is a pocket of absolute cold in the otherwise stuffy room. He extends a hand, trailing a single, cool finger down the side of Orpheus’s throat. He feels the frantic pulse there, a trapped bird beating its wings against the cage of its skin, and a slow smile curves his lips.
Leaning in, he lets his lips ghost over Orpheus’s ear, enjoying the way the chill of his breath raises a visible pattern of gooseflesh on the novelist’s skin. “Orpheus,” he murmurs, his voice a low, silken whisper designed to bypass thought and vibrate directly in the soul. “A question for you.”
“Anything,” Orpheus breathes, the single word a prayer, a vow, a complete surrender of his faculties. His entire body trembles with the need to please, to answer correctly, to prove his worth.
The question is a formality, a cruel and beautiful piece of their nightly theater. A preparation for tonight’s ritual — the Sanguine Hunger.
“Are you ready?”
A choked sob of pure, unadulterated bliss escapes Orpheus. Frederick watches as he forms the answer, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it feels like a holy madness. “Of course I am,” he rasps, his voice cracking. “I love you.”
Frederick's smile widens. “I know. Your heart and blood give you away.” He presses his palm flat over Orpheus's chest, feeling the desperate, frantic rhythm against his cool, unyielding hand. It is, without a doubt, the most vibrant sound he has ever known. “If I had a heart that beats, I’d want it to sound like this.” His thumb strokes a lazy circle over the thin shirt. “But since I don’t,” he continues, his voice dropping an octave into a register of pure command, “I’ll have to settle for draining every last drop of plasma from your frail, mortal body, won’t I?”
The threat, wrapped in the guise of a lover’s lament, is the key to Orpheus’s undoing. Another choked sob tears from his throat as he arches helplessly into the touch, a supplicant before his god. “Anything,” he whimpers, the word losing all meaning and becoming pure sound, pure need. “Anything, master. To keep you here with me.”
This human is pathetic. A deep, possessive fondness, the closest Frederick can come to warmth, stirs within his still chest. This man, this celebrated novelist, has given everything up for him. His career, his will, his very lifeblood. He is such a perfect thrall: intelligent enough to be interesting, and broken enough to be utterly, beautifully obedient.
“Good boy,” Frederick praises, the words a potent balm. He tilts Orpheus’s head to the side, exposing the long, elegant column of his throat. “The Sanguine Hunger has just begun.” Orpheus’s skin is a pale canvas, marred only by the faint, silvery scars of previous feedings — a constellation of his ownership.
He lowers his head, not to bite, but to inhale. The rich, intoxicating scent of Orpheus's blood is a complex vintage, coppery and sharp, with undercurrents of sorrow and desperate passion. It makes his fangs ache and a dark hunger coil low in his belly. He licks a slow, wet stripe up Orpheus's neck, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling his frantic pulse flutter against his tongue.
Orpheus cries out, a sharp, keening sound as his hips twitch on the mattress. “Patience, my dear novelist,” Frederick chides softly, his lips still against the heated skin. Then, he sinks his teeth into the flesh.
The sensation is exquisite. The yielding of his skin, the initial burst of heat, and then the rhythmic pulse of Orpheus’s life flooding his mouth. He drinks deeply, a communion. With every mouthful, he tastes the man’s adoration, his willing sacrifice, his hopeless love.
The taste is impossibly complex, a vintage of sorrow and quiet desperation that Frederick has found nowhere else in his long existence. There are notes of ink and old paper, the phantom taste of the man’s trade, but beneath is a flavor of obsessive devotion. It’s the taste of a soul that has willingly burned itself down to ash for the sole purpose of warming Frederick’s cold hands. He savors it, rolling the lifeblood over his tongue like a connoisseur sampling the rarest of wines.
He feels Orpheus’s body began to change under his hands. The initial, rigid tension of agonized pleasure dissolves into a boneless, languid surrender. The novelist’s fingers, which had been clenched into fists in the bedsheets, slowly uncurl. The sounds he makes are no longer coherent groans of pain and want; they have devolved into soft, ecstatic sighs, the purring of a creature utterly content in its own subjugation.
A stolen warmth spreads from his throat through the rest of his dead form. It’s a phantom sensation of life, an intoxicating memory of sunshine on skin and a heart that beat with its own purpose. He chases the feeling, drinking more deeply, wanting to fill the eternal emptiness inside him with the essence of this singular, broken man. A hopeless endeavor, but the attempt itself is a form of ecstasy.
He could drain him dry right now. The thought is a flicker of dark temptation, a glint of true predatory instinct. He could take it all, every last drop from his pathetic human slave, and leave this trembling body a pale, empty husk. The power he holds in this moment is absolute, the power of God holding a mortal’s entire existence in the cup of his hands.
But he resists. Orpheus is far too precious a vintage to be consumed in a single night, a collection to be curated, maintained, and savored for as long as his fragile body can endure. And with that precious vintage comes the carnal need to smash the precious thing into pieces, broken until nothing can ever fix it.
Frederick pulls back, but only an inch, just enough to look at his work. Orpheus’s head is thrown back against the pillows, his throat a long, pale arch offered up in sacrifice. His lips are parted, a soft sigh escaping them, and his eyes are rolled back in his head, showing only the whites, a picture of debauched, angelic ruin. Blood, dark and rich, slicks Frederick’s own chin and lips, a stark crimson against his marble-pale skin. He finds the image breathtaking.
It’s art, pure and simple.
With a slow movement, he licks the crimson from his own lips, a selfish, possessive act, tasting Orpheus again. It’s a reclamation, a reminder that everything that comes from Orpheus. His plasma, his love, his very life ultimately belongs to and is consumed by him. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the decadent aftertaste.
Not enough. The first feeding was for sustenance, to quell the deep, aching hunger. This next part is purely for pleasure. His pleasure. With a low growl of indulgence that rumbles deep in his chest, he leans in again. He doesn’t bite the same spot. Instead, he moves to the other side of Orpheus’s throat, to a stretch of flawless, unmarked skin.
“A little more,” Frederick whispers against the fluttering pulse, though he knows Orpheus cannot truly hear him, lost as he is in the haze. This bite is shallower, quicker, less about drinking and more about marking, reinforcing of his claim. He takes another two slow luxurious swallows before pulling away for good.
With a tenderness that would shock any outside observer, Frederick begins to lick the wounds clean. His tongue is methodical, lapping away the excess red liquid, the enzymes in his saliva already beginning the process of closing the wounds and preventing unsightly scars. He cleans his property — like grooming a pet — soothing the hurt he himself inflicted.
He pulls back completely, the last trace of crimson gone from Orpheus’s skin, leaving only the angry red marks of his claim. The novelist is utterly limp, his breathing slow and shallow, lost in the euphoric daze that follows a deep feeding. He’s so beautiful. Perfect.
And now, he’s ready for his reward.
“You’re being such a good boy for me, Orphy,” Frederick whispers, his voice a silken thread pulling the man back from the edge of consciousness. He sees a flicker of awareness in Orpheus's unfocused eyes. “I think it’s time for your reward.”
The word ‘reward’ acts like a key turning in a lock. A new kind of energy, different from the blissful surrender of moments ago, sparks through Orpheus’s depleted frame. His previously limp body gains a new, specific tension. It’s the response of a creature perfectly conditioned, his mind and body now shifting from the ecstasy of the bite to the desperate, aching anticipation of what comes next. Frederick observes this shift.
The novelist’s adoration is a multifaceted jewel, and he enjoys turning it in the light, watching it refract a different kind of worship with each new angle of torment.
To Frederick, this is not an act of kindness or generosity. The reward is merely the second act of the evening’s performance, another method of consumption. It’s a completely different way to feast on Orpheus’s devotion. The blood feeds his body, but this? Oh, this is the sight of a brilliant man completely undone by lust, begging for a touch he’s only given by Frederick’s grace and by the vampire master’s own accord. This feeds the ancient, cold pride that resides in the core of his being.
With deliberate, theatrical slowness, his long, cool fingers go to the buttons of Orpheus’s tunic. The fabric is warm and soft from the novelist’s body heat, a stark contrast to the chill of his touch. He undoes the first button, then the second, taking his time. He watches as Orpheus’s clumsy, shaking hands come up, attempting to assist, to hasten the process and feel Frederick’s touch on his bare skin.
Frederick stops him. He captures both of the man’s wrists in one of his hands, the grip gentle but absolute. Orpheus’s struggles are as weak and useless as a fledgling bird’s.
“Let me,” Frederick commands softly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I want to be the one to undress you. I want to take in the pathetic sight of my thrall.” It’s no mere request but a reassertion of control, denying Orpheus even the agency to bare himself. He must be a passive recipient, a gift to be unwrapped by its owner.
He releases Orpheus's wrists, and the novelist’s hands fall limply to his sides, the brief spark of initiative extinguished. Frederick returns to his task, peeling the fabric of the tunic back. He lets his gaze travel over the exposed torso. Moonlight lances across his pale chest, highlighting the lean muscle, the sharp line of the clavicle, and faint, silvery traces of old scars.
His attention moves lower, to the simple trousers hugging Orpheus’s perfect frame. He unfastens them with the same unhurried grace, his knuckles intentionally brushing against the taut skin of Orpheus’s lower abdomen, feeling the muscles there jump and clench at the incidental contact. He pulls the trousers down Orpheus’s legs, letting the rough fabric scrape against his sensitive skin before casting them aside. The final reveal leaves Orpheus completely bare, splayed out on the dark sheets like a sacrificial lamb laid upon an altar.
And the sacrifice is already weeping. Frederick’s eyes fix on the proof of his power. Orpheus shivers, and he sees his cock, already half-hard, slick, cock dripping a single bead of pre-cum. “No underwear?” the vampire feigns surprise. He runs a finger through the slickness, collecting it. “Were you expecting to take me tonight, dear?” He brings the finger to his lips, tasting the man's salt and desperation with a slow, thoughtful expression. “You taste impatient, my human whore.”
Without another word, he lowers his head. He starts at Orpheus’s inner thigh, pressing a cold, open-mouthed kiss there, dragging the very tip of a fang across his sensitive skin.
Orpheus jolts, a helpless whimper escaping him.
The reaction is instantaneous and exquisite. Frederick savors it, a connoisseur of his thrall's suffering. Frederick keeps his mouth pressed to the spot, feeling the aftershocks of the jolt tremble through the muscle beneath his cold lips.
Satisfaction blooms in his chest. This is a vulnerability few have ever seen, let alone been granted the privilege to exploit. To mark this place, even so lightly, is an act of profound intimacy and desecration. He has moved from the formal site of the feeding from the neck to a place of raw, human vulnerability, and Orpheus’s body acknowledges the shift with this beautiful, pathetic spasm.
He inhales deeply, his senses sharp. Over the fading metallic tang of crimson, the air is now thick with the scent of Orpheus's arousal, a sharp, salty fragrance that has intensified with the shock. Gooseflesh has pebbled across of the pale skin of Orpheus’s legs, a roadmap of his sensitivity. Frederick sees it all, catalogues it all.
Every twitch, every hitched breath, is data he files away for future use, future torments.
“Stay still,” Frederick murmurs against his skin, and the command is a low vibration that travels straight up Orpheus’s spine. He feels the immense effort in Orpheus’s thigh as the man fights his own screaming nerves to obey, the muscle locking up under his mouth. This struggle, the war between mortal reflex and immortal devotion, is utterly delicious to him.
To reward this valiant, doomed effort at obedience, he soothes the faint line his fang just drew. He licks it, a slow, wet, deliberate stroke of his tongue. He tastes the clean salt of his skin. The gesture is both a balm and a further claim, like a wolf licking its mate's wound.
The effect is immediate, and even more gratifying than the first. The novelist makes a low, wounded sound in the back of his throat, his hips twitching with a need he’s trying so desperately to suppress. The soothing tongue after the sharp fang has overloaded his senses, short-circuiting his ability to process anything but raw sensation.
A profound satisfaction settles in Frederick, playing Orpheus like a master violinist playing a priceless Stradivarius. A sharp note here with the fang, a soft, lingering one there with the tongue. He is the composer of Orpheus’s ruin, the novelist's body an orchestra. He finds a deep, almost spiritual fulfillment in his ability to elicit such a complex symphony of reactions from this one man.
Frederick presses another cold, open-mouthed kiss higher up the thigh, near the sharp jut of Orpheus's hip bone. This time, he uses no teeth, only the unnatural chill of his lips and the wet heat of his mouth. He tests a different stimuli, mapping the territory of Orpheus’s desire with methodical precision, learning every secret his body has to tell.
This new sensation earns him a low moan, a desperate sound that vibrates against his lips. Orpheus’s hip lifts from the mattress, a pathetic, seeking gesture, tilting his body to get more touch. This pleases Frederick immensely. The prey is learning to crave the predator's caress, to seek out the very thing that is undoing him.
The anticipation has been drawn out perfectly now. Orpheus is a live wire, a bundle of frayed nerves and raw, weeping need. Frederick feels a sense of sated, absolute control. The foundation of exquisite torment has been laid, and now, he can begin to build upon it. He can see the novelist’s cock, stark and fully erect now, twitching with every new sensation he applies. The reward will be all the sweeter for this delay.
He licks a slow path upward, deliberately torturous, enjoying the way the novelist squirms and whimpers beneath him. “Stay, slut,” Frederick hisses against his skin, impatient. When his lips finally brush the sensitive skin at the base of his cock, Orpheus is trembling uncontrollably.
“Please,” Orpheus begs, his voice cracking.
Frederick's breath is ragged, exhaling hot air against the sensitive tip. “Please what?” he asks. “Use your words, novelist. Tell me what you need.”
“Please, master,” Orpheus chokes out. “I need… I need you to…”
Frederick finally grants him his wish, taking just the head into his mouth. The contrast of his cold lips and Orpheus’s searing heat is a shock to the mortal’s system. He hears him cry out as he moves with torturous slowness, using his fangs to gently scrape along the shaft. He holds Orpheus’s hips down, controlling the rhythm, forcing him to endure the pleasure at his pace.
“You’re so responsive,” he taunts, his voice muffled. He pulls back just enough to speak, a string of saliva connecting his lips to Orpheus’s glistening flesh. “Are you going to come for me? Like a good boy?” The praise cracks like a whip. Orpheus’s hips begin to cant. “Aw,” Frederick muses, pulling away completely. The novelist whines, a high, frustrated sound of pure loss. “What a useless little toy I have.”
“Close… I was so close–” Orpheus whimpers.
Frederick silences him by taking him back into his mouth, deeper this time, faster, more aggressive. He swallows him down to the base, feeling the frantic thrum of his pulse against his throat. He brings him right to the edge, feeling the tension coiling in his thighs. And then, with perfect sadism, he stops again.
“Not yet,” the vampire says, a cruel smirk on his face. He watches a single tear of frustration trace a path from Orpheus's eye and licks it away. “Relax.”
He repositions himself, moving with serpentine grace to sit between Orpheus’s legs. He leans forward and captures his mouth in a bruising kiss, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him yelp. Then he sits back, the picture of cool command. “Now, dear,” he says, his voice dropping. “You’ve been so patient. I think it’s time you are allowed to touch me.”
Orpheus’s eyes widen. “Master?” he breathes, as if this is a gift too great to comprehend.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Frederick takes Orpheus’s trembling hand and guides it to the fastening of his own leggings. “Your reward, novelist. Take it.”
With fumbling fingers, Orpheus undoes the buttons. He pushes the fabric aside, his hand mapping Frederick’s body until his fingers brush against the damp, shocking heat of his enterance. Frederick hisses, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath.
“Please,” Orpheus cries, a ragged prayer. His own cock is rigid, slick, forgotten.
Frederick's expression is a mask of ecstatic, sadistic pleasure. “You may look, and you may touch. But only as I tell you.” He takes Orpheus’s wrist, his grip like iron. “One finger.”
He feels the hesitant finger push inside him. The wet heat envelops it. A moan, long and shivering, escapes his lips as his hips lift to meet the intrusion. “Fuck,” he breathes, his eyes blazing. “You feel good.” He takes Orpheus’s hand, forcing a second finger inside. “Spread them,” he commands, his voice tight. “I want to feel you stretching me open, my pet.”
He watches Orpheus obey, and he feels the man's fingers part inside him. He cries out, a sharp, uncontrolled sound. “You want to fuck me, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice a venomous, hypnotic caress. “My dumb, needy little slut. You want to pin me down and fuck me so hard it makes you look stupid.” He forcefully pushes Orpheus’s fingers deeper, making him curl them to hit that perfect sensitive spot. “You want to replace your fingers with your stupid, huge cock, don’t you, Orpheus? Do you want to breed your precious vampire?”
The words, the raw need, the affirmation of his identity, break something in Orpheus. “Yes,” he gasps, a raw sob. “Yes, fuck–I’ll make you… you’ll want it–”
With a shocking, wet sound, Frederick pulls Orpheus’s hand away. He holds the two glistening fingers up and shoves them into his thrall's mouth. “Taste me,” he commands. “Taste what you do to me.”
Orpheus sucks greedily on his own fingers. Before he can recover, Frederick pushes him flat and crawls over him, aligning himself with his dick. He grinds down, teasing. “Now,” he commands. Orpheus surges upward. Frederick hisses as the human’s thick, hot length fills him, a brand of heat and pressure that feels sacrilegious and divine. “Frederick, you’re… so tight,” Orpheus groans, his mind blanking.
Frederick digs his nails into Orpheus’s shoulders, the sharp sting a necessary anchor in the rising tide of mortal heat. The small crescent-shaped marks his nails leave in the pale skin are a private signature, a claim he makes anew each time. “Of course I am,” he snarls, his voice a low growl that vibrates through both their chests. “Now move already. Slowly, whore.”
The first few thrusts from Orpheus are hesitant, as if he’s terrified of damaging something so precious. The gesture is so typical of the man, the stoic novelist, that Frederick almost scoffs. With a predatory grace, Frederick wraps his long, pale legs around Orpheus’s waist, locking his ankles together and cinching him tight. He takes control of their rhythm, his own hips beginning to rock in a frantic, punishing pace that forces Orpheus to match him. He shows his thrall the kind of brutal, desperate motion his body craves.
“Is this what you wanted, novelist?” he pants, the words hot against Orpheus’s ear as he rides him hard, their bodies slapping together in the quiet room. “To feel yourself inside me? Does it make you feel powerful?” He leans forward, his voice a demonic whisper, a scalpel dissecting Orpheus’s fragile mortal ego. “You think this makes you my lover, don’t you? To be buried deep inside something that can never truly want you back?”
Each question is a deliberate lash, designed to strip away the layers of Orpheus’s composure; flaying the intellectual and leave only the raw, carnal animal beneath. He feels the subtle shift in Orpheus’s body, the way his movements become less controlled, more frantic. The novelist is beginning to fracture, and Frederick relishes the sight of the cracks forming.
“Look at me,” Frederick commands, and Orpheus’s head snaps up attentively, his eyes wide and unfocused with pleasure and pain. The reserved, thoughtful man is gone. In his place is a panting creature, his face a mask of pure, unthinking need. A triumphant, cold pleasure lances through Frederick. This is his true creation. Not the novels Orpheus writes, but the man he becomes in these moments: a being of pure, mindless submission. Like a stupid slut who’s only existence is to live and serve his master, and he loves his captivity.
“That’s it,” he hisses, a sound of dark encouragement. “Fuck your master properly, then!”
The final permission shatters what little is left of Orpheus’s control. He moans, a guttural, primal sound, and begins to move with a savage force that is entirely his own now. He’s no longer hesitant, now slamming into Frederick with a frenzied energy. This is the music of utter surrender, and it is, without doubt, one of the most the most beautiful sounds Frederick has ever heard.
The pleasure builds in his own cold body, a strange and violent sensation, coils tight and low in his belly. The feeling of Orpheus’s cock hitting his cervix is an electric shock, a jolt of pure, agonizing pleasure that makes his vision white out for a split second. “Fuck!” the vampire cries, canting his hips. “Do that again. Fuck, DeRoss, right there!”
As Orpheus thrusts again, blind and desperate, Frederick decides he wants more. He wants all of him at once. He shifts his head, his target the soft, vulnerable flesh of Orpheus’s shoulder. He sinks his teeth in, biting down hard, not just to feed, but to brand. To mark is an act of supreme ownership. Orpheus cries, a sound of pure agony and ecstasy that is swallowed by the act. The hot, coppery tang floods Frederick’s mouth. He swallows it down, a heady cocktail of life and lust. The dual sensations of being violently filled by his thrall while simultaneously filling himself with his thrall’s life is unbearable, perfect synergy. The ultimate act of consumption.
This is what sends him over the edge.
His orgasm is not a gentle cresting of a wave, but a violent fracturing of his undead composure. A sharp, piercing cry is torn from his throat, a sound he’s not made in a century. His entire being, his eternal stillness, shatters into a million white-hot shards of pure sensation. The world dissolves into a void of feeling; the heat of Orpheus inside him, the slickness of blood on his tongue, the brutal rhythm that continues to drive him deeper into madness.
Frederick’s hot, tight cunt clenches around Orpheus, a greedy rhythm that is entirely involuntary. It feels like a trap snapping shut, a final, physical declaration: mine. He milks the human with a desperate, possessive force, determined to take every last drop of his offering.
The biting, the brutal, involuntary tightening are too much for Orpheus. Soon he’s sent tumbling into oblivion. He leans forward, burying his face in the crook of Frederick’s neck, his movements becoming even more frantic, deeper, harder, chasing a release that is already consuming him. Just as he’s about to pull out, a reflex of a body spent, Frederick’s voice cuts through the haze, low and lethally sharp, a whip-crack of command in the storm.
“I did not tell you to stop. Cum,” he orders, his tongue flicking out to lick the fresh, weeping wound on Orpheus’s shoulder. “Cum inside me.”
With no will of his own left to command, Orpheus obeys. His body convulses violently, a final, ragged cry that is half-sob, half-roar, torn from his lungs. He spills his seed deep inside Frederick’s body, the hot gush a brand of ownership from within, a final, total surrender disguised as a conqueror’s victory.
He collapses on top of him, utterly spent.
For a long, suspended moment, the only sounds in the room are Orpheus’s ragged, gasping breaths and the frantic, slowing beat of his heart against Frederick’s still chest. The vampire remains perfectly still beneath the dead weight of his thrall. He catalogues the sensations: the damp heat of Orpheus’s skin, the faint tremors that still wrack his exhausted frame, and most importantly, the frantic, fluttery beat of that mortal heart against the cold, silent cavern of his own chest.
The sound of life clinging on after being pushed to its absolute limit, a frantic drumbeat of survival that serves only to underscore Frederick’s own eternal quiet.
The air is thick with the acrid, metallic tang of blood, sex, and salt. Frederick feels the hot, mortal seed inside him, a foreign, impossible warmth pooling in his cold, dead body. To another, it might feel like a violation, a trespass of transient life into his static eternity. But to Frederick, it’s the ultimate trophy. Proof that he can command Orpheus to perform the most fundamental mortal act of creation and turn it into an act of complete self-annihilation.
He idly runs a hand down Orpheus's sweat-slick spine, feeling the sharp ridges of his vertebrae, the exhaustion radiating from his very bones. The human is utterly spent, reduced from a thinking, feeling being into a collection of twitching nerves and depleted resources. The perfect emptiness, the void he creates in Orpheus so that only devotion to him can rush in to fill it.
This physical union — the Sanguine Hunger — is merely a ritual. The true act of possession happens in these moments of quiet aftermath, in the ownership of this collapse. This absolute vulnerability.
He shifts slightly, not for comfort but to better inhale the scent rising from Orpheus’s hot skin—the scent of their union, perfume of a soul claimed. He finds he has no desire to move. He wants to keep his thrall pinned beneath him like this for all night, to simply luxuriate in the physical proof of his victory.
Orpheus lifts his head, his eyes unfocused, his face a mess of sweat, tears, and absolute, soul-deep devotion. He looks at Frederick as if he’s seeing the face of God. “I love you,” he declares in a broken whisper.
Frederick runs a hand through his thrall’s damp, matted hair, the gesture almost gentle. He brings the novelist’s face close, pressing a cold, proprietary kiss to his lips, tasting his own blood on them. “Of course you do,” he says, his voice soft, final, a pronouncement of absolute truth as he licks the salty tear tracks from Orpheus’s cheek.
“You’re mine, thrall.”