Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"That's it, darlin, mark me... Show me who I belong to."

Chapter Text

His eyes are on you again. Cool gray, beneath his silver fringe. Almost as if he’d been carved from stone and set into motion by some spell. Certainly, he hasn’t lived the life of a human being. How else could he keep you locked away in this room, without windows?

Should you be grateful he doesn’t keep you restrained? Indignant that it’s probably because he knows you’re too tired to run anymore?

But even in the beginning, he never bound you. He never hurt you. He just scrambled after you as you jiggled the doorknob, to no avail. He wrapped his fingers around your wrists, his long legs around yours, and he held you against his chest. Sitting casually with you on the rug by your bed. As if you were reading a book with him, not trying to escape him. Adjusting his hold as you writhed. Like a python, wrapped around its prey. Then he breathed deeply, slowly, until your own breaths calmed, instinctively matching his. Your body would betray you, like this, many more such times.

Your abductor held you down as many times as it took for you to understand that you couldn’t escape. You managed to get a solid bite into his arm, in the early days. You’d attacked him as he slipped the lanyard from his smock. It earned you a hiss from him, but not a word.

He smelled so strongly of coffee and aftershave.

If he wasn’t on your side of the door when you tried the knob, he always knew somehow. You would hear rapid footsteps, and then he would unlock the door, and catch you by the waist, or an arm, or a leg. And he pulled you back. He tucked you into bed. Ran his thumb over your forehead, gentle eyes illuminated only by the moonlight filtering from the hall, and then he left. The look he gave you sent your flesh wriggling under your skin. Like his gaze never left you, even when his body left the room.

Calling for help didn’t work. Calling “fire” didn’t, either. You’ve given that up, by now, too. The place is either soundproofed or isolated. You try not to entertain the idea that no one would give enough of a shit to help. That he lies to his neighbors if they do ask about the noise, and that they’d take his word when they’ve never even heard one directly from you. Is there anyone who would even look for you? Would they have given up by now? Are you dead to the world?

He’s never spoken to you. Not when you’ve asked him where you are, or who he is. Or what time it is. That’s right. You don’t have a way of measuring time here, without sunlight, aside from meals. Three meals, and then nothing, for what feels like eternity, after he slips out of the door and locks it behind him. You assume he is sleeping then.

Your “mornings” begin just after you’ve woken up. He never interrupts your sleep. The door opens quietly, and he cradles a wooden tray in his arms. He always places it gingerly in front of you on the bed, then goes over to the other side of the room and sits on a stool. He’s never given you a food you don’t like. He serves your favorites, often. So often, you might be getting sick of them. He doesn’t even eat with you, he just… watches. Storm-cloud eyes brimming with electricity.

On days like this, he pulls you to the bath across the hall and insists on washing you himself. Lathering up his long, calloused fingers and dragging them over your skin. The first time he tried this, the bathroom floor looked like it had flooded before he was done. Afterward, he winced as he tended to a nasty bruise on your forearm, where you’d hit it against the porcelain. Now, his fingers dive beneath copious iridescent bubbles, caressing the curve of your breast. Kneading it. And you don’t resist.

You can tell yourself it’s because it’s easier not to, or that it’s because you’d probably cry if you had to wash yourself instead. You can ignore the soft sound that escapes your mouth as he brushes over a nipple, let the sloshing of the water drown it out. You can even look away from the little smile that plays on his lips. You can refuse to meet his ardent gaze. You can squeeze your eyes shut when his hand slips between your thighs. You can deny him the satisfaction of watching them roll back.

You can’t let him break you.

He dresses you, as always, in clothes that fit perfectly. In exactly the sort of style you would wear. He knows these things already. The things you like. He has a keen sense for reproducing them. He’s decorated your… this new bedroom in a way that feels uncannily similar to your own. From a time before this. Familiar, down to the arrangement of the furniture. Sometimes, when you wake up to dim lamplight, eyes still unfocused and adjusting to the light, you could almost be convinced it was all a dream.

Recently, he’s begun drawing you on his visits. Or, perhaps, he’s been drawing you for a long time. Before he stole you away. But tonight… yes, it is night, if you could judge from the glimpse you got of the hallway… he’s painting you. His body half-blocked by the easel and canvas. Dramatic shadows thrown by the lamp across his fox-like features. His arm moving in a frenzy across the surface. Completely unfazed by your movements, as you brush your hair out of your face, or fidget with your hands. You don’t bother to stay still for him, partially for spite. Partially for restlessness. He doesn’t give you much to do here. And forget about internet access. You’ve already been through every book and comic on the shelves.

He’s never shown you his drawings. If he’s going to stare at you, if he won’t even talk to you, the least he could do is show you what he’s made in your image.

While he’s fussing over some detail, you cross the room, to his stool and easel.

Your fingers graze a corner of the canvas, and his eyes lock on you. A fine line rests between his brows. His irises twitch. Is he waiting to see your reaction? Is this eagerness or anxiety?

You take the painting in your hands, still wet, pigment smearing on your fingers, and you look at it. You barely recognize the creature on the canvas. Sure, the hair color is the same. The skin tones are accurate. But the way the light hits the figure is so… Is this how he sees you? So softly ethereal?

Your hand rises toward his face, without your permission, and he flinches. He has the fucking nerve to flinch, as if you’re the one who abducted him.

The urge to expose him gets its claws into your mind and won’t let go. He’s seen every inch of you, and he’s never so much as undone a button on his shirt. But he’s taken so much from you: your expressions when you eat. Your gasps and hiccups in the bath. Your privacy. Your sense of time. Your dreams. Your sanity.

You reach for the ribbon on his smock.

“Don’t.” A startling pink creeps across his pale cheeks. It reminds you of poisonous animals in the wild. Of a warning. That a mere touch could kill.

He has a lovely voice. Like a spring breeze carrying the scent of fresh blossoms and dewdrops, even when he’s scolding you. It isn’t fair.

Your eyes sting. It’s been so long since you’ve heard another human being’s voice. You could do almost anything to hear it again.

You try again for the ribbon. Your vision whorls as a hand shoots out and pulls you down. You dig your fingers into his shirt collar and drag him with you, to the hardwood floor. The metal stool clangs and clatters horribly as it falls, spiking your pulse. Your extremities and limbs smack into each other, trying to grab hold. Heavy breaths overlap as you both wrestle for control. The heat of his body against yours. Twisting and scratching at him. Just trying to get your hands on him, until he has one arm tight around you from behind, and one hand hooked into the waistline of your pants. Tugging.

You’ve never heard his breath come out so ragged. He’s never taken off your clothing so roughly before. Not in such a rush as this.

"How long has it been since you last touched yourself?" He rests his chin on your shoulder, his warm breath scratching against your neck. You feel something firm against your lower back, through the fabric of his apron. "Are you as worked up as I am?"

Chapter Text

Xander’s vision swirls as his eyes peel themselves open. There are humming sounds, vibrations above and below them. Surrounding him. It takes him a few moments to put together that they are voices, and a few more to understand that he is practically being crushed between the bodies that house these voices.

He has made a mistake, as many summoners do. But not a common mistake, oh no. Of course not. It couldn’t be something small, like choosing the wrong candles or the wrong kind of salt. It just had to be something as drastic as drawing the bloody teleportation sigils backwards. So instead of, you know, summoning, he sent themself to a realm of demons. Where the demons hold the territorial advantage. Where they can trap him and toy with him however they want. And that’s exactly what they have been doing, for what’s felt like weeks.

There were candles here, too, and a circle much like Xander’s own. Like they’d been waiting for him. If they didn’t set this up, would he have crossed dimensions like this? Now the candles flicker in the corner of his vision, and the circle lays ruined. He’ll never make it back, will they?

“I told you to be careful, Luzri. Humans don’t have the stamina that we do,” the gentle one chides. He has a voice like a marshmallow floating in hot cocoa. It suits him. He's always putting Xander back together when they're a shattered, crying mess.

“I know, it’s just… I can’t stop fucking him,” says the lean one. His chest fits neatly against Xander’s back. Skin glides over skin, slick with sweat. His hips draw back, dragging his cock against the walls of Xander’s ass, then they snap forward, yielding a loud smack and a filthy squelch. The bed creaks beneath them like the boards of a ship thrown about in a storm. Luzri’s lips brush against his ear. “Besides, you like it rough, don’t you, boy?”

With each thrust, something wet and thick pours down Xander’s thighs, stirred by the movement inside of them. He must be overflowing with cum by this point. There’s no longer telling any difference between his own cream and Luzri’s or Garran’s.

“At least give the poor thing some food… you didn’t let up when he fainted, and now they’re already awake again.” The tender demon brushes a clawed thumb over the human’s cheek, then hooks a finger into the ring on their collar, pulling him down into a kiss. His lips open for Xander, soft and full, sucking on their tongue so sweetly. He’s conveniently forgotten to leave the bed, himself, despite his scolding.

“You’re no better, Garran. I can feel you still buried inside of them, too.” Luzri slides a hand down, between Xander and the soft demon, to their abdomen. His walls squeeze around Garran as Luzri prods at the outline of him, from outside. “Isn’t that right, pet? Isn’t your cunt still nice and full with his dick?” Luzri drags out a line of saliva between Xander and Garran as he cups their chin, pulling him up, changing the angle of penetration. Fucking them in earnest again, his balls slapping against Garran’s. His quick, frenzied movements contrasting against the other’s slow, adamant grind over his g-spot.

A pathetic sound tears itself from Xander’s mouth. It drags out as little whimpers between his breaths. Garran coos at him, running his fingers over the scars at his chest. Thumbing at a nipple. Every nerve in his body feels like it’s been rubbed raw. As Luzri whispers in their ear, the shivers running down his back morph into talons tearing at his flesh.

“Show him how pretty you take it, hmm?” Luzri’s voice trembles. “Show him how pretty you cum on our cocks.” Xander doesn’t feel “pretty” right now. He knows his mascara is running by now, and some of their rouge has smudged onto Garran’s blue lips. As it goes when drool has been spilling out of one's mouth for over an hour. But they know by now that’s exactly how Luzri likes him. Messy. A broken toy, panting between two creatures.

But that thought only adds to the pressure inside of him. And now Luzri’s humming on each thrust like a wolf in rut, claws digging into their thigh. He’s close, too. Xander takes two fingers and pinches his t-dick with them, surprised at the little sting this yields. Garran’s breath changes. His gaze on the other two, while Luzri holds Xander up by the throat... Those perpetually tender blue eyes taking on the sharp edge of anticipation... That’s what finishes Xander off.

Luzri’s hums transform into snarls, met with a growl of Xander’s own as their orgasm tears through him, like teeth through flesh. Searing through his stomach, his groin. His grip on them is so tight it almost hurts. Their hair is thrown about wildly, obscuring his vision as they feel a pair of hands go to his hips. Garran’s thick fingers pulling him down. They must look like a trio of beasts, now. Thrashing against each other and grunting. The pushing inside of him stutters and slows, as more warmth floods each of his openings. Luzri pulls his fangs from Xander’s shoulder and licks over the skin.

A claw pushes Xander’s bangs back out of his eyes. Garran’s hazy afterglow unfolds into shock beneath his pale curls. “Luzri… do you see what I see?” He’s staring at Xander’s forehead. The rougher one reaches up and feels along their hairline. It tickles.

Luzri goes rigid behind him. “You ever seen anything like this? On a human?” “I haven’t even heard of this,” breathes Garran.

“What… the fuck are you devils on about?” Xander’s voice comes out hoarse.

“Ohh, pet.” Luzri chuckles, taking his wrist and holding it up in front of them. Their nails have grown into talons, pigment darkening the tips of his fingers down to his first knuckle. 

Xander's stomach twists.

“You’re not just our little specimen," Luzri continues. "You’re a fucking phenomenon. You’re shifting.”