Chapter Text
Being a sacrifice to a magical deity really fucking sucks.
Rosco doesn’t know how it works either, being undead and all, but that hasn’t stopped frightened and naïve townspeople from taking one look at him and going after him with pitchforks and torches and all other manner of impromptu weapons to chase him down.
So here he lays, upon a stupidly hard altar, ropes biting into his skin and his stomach rumbling with hunger as he awaits his apparent destiny. Or destruction – he isn’t completely sure. It wasn’t like the people who had done this to him had taken the time to sit and tell him exactly what was going to happen. And with his limited knowledge about this, he can only assume he’s going to be killed – again. If that was even possible, but he knew it was going to hurt.
The incense that had been left around the edges of the small altar is irritating to his nose, the ropes holding him chafing his already sensitive skin and tugging at his staples.
Who the hell still sacrificed people in this day and age? Rosco almost wants to speak to their manager, but before that he had to find a way to escape first, preferably with a weapon in hand. And what should be easy in theory is hard when put to the test, the ropes that bind him oddly strong and unbending, like they’re woven with steal instead of fibers. He tugs and twists and grunts, but the bindings do not come undone, and it leaves him a panting, sweaty mess that glowers up at the ceiling of this little shrine he had been tossed into like a sack of potatoes.
This is what he gets for investigating. This is what he gets for looking the way he does and wandering into a town full of traditional, naïve hermits who can only see stapled flesh and assume the worst. He could wait to see if he’s rescued by one of his friends, but he doesn’t want to deal with that humiliation. So he pulls and tugs and even tries to gnaw at the ropes around his wrists, ignoring the way humidity rises even as the night settles, causing his skin to pebble with sweat.
The delicate skin of his wrists is rubbed raw from the rope, the braid of the bindings leaving an imprint in his flesh. But he keeps trying, because the only other alternative was to sit and wait for a fate he wasn’t even sure existed—
“Hello.”
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, an odd echo in his ears that rings false. But there’s nothing there when he looks around, and the panic that settles in his gut twists painfully. There is an urge to answer, to call out his own greeting, but he’s seen enough horror movies in his life to know that would be fucking stupid. Especially with a voice as ethereal as this one, that whispers into his ears another greeting that he ignores for a second time.
His silence only emboldens the being he can’t perceive, as he sees the smoke and tastes the sweet ash that fills the air. It’s gossamer strands of nothingness cluster around him, stardust lost in the galaxy as it settles over his torso. Rosco might not be knowledgeable about minor gods and whatnot, but he knows enough about sacrifices that a bead of sweat drips from his temple as phantom hands touch his chest.
“So you’re mine,” the insufficient creature above him whisper, oddly solid nails scraping down his torso until they touch the bare skin of his midriff.
“No, pretty sure I’m still mine,” he bites out, just to be petty and combative in a way he can’t be with his hands.
He’s quick to shut up when those dangerously sharp nails dig into the skin around his mouth as the fingers press against his lips to silence him.
“And this is mine,” the deity continues on, like he hadn’t spoken.
Just to be a bastard, Rosco licks at the fingers.
Where most would recoil in disgust, the fingers instead push into his mouth, pillowed against the plushness of his tongue as they press down and gag him.
“Shh,” is the admonishing shushing that just pisses him off more. “You ruin the view by talking.”
And because he has a lack of survival instinct and a curiosity to see what happens, Rosco sets his teeth to what he hopes is skin and bites down.
He expects…well, a reaction. And maybe whatever this is might be a reaction, but it’s not one he had been hoping for. He had kinda expected to be slapped and flung away, where he could then somehow wiggle to freedom. But instead the gossamer glimmering above him chuckles, pulling their fingers from his mouth and cradling his cheek.
“There’s fire in your blood,” the phantom over him murmurs, and when Rosco blinks, the smoke has solidified into a smile too sharp to be anything but dangerous. “I like that.”
From the smile comes the eyes, burnt sienna and liquid sunsets, set in a face that is both youthful and eternal. The flames of the creature’s hair settle into gentle waves about his face, a look that screams of a mischievous cat that now has a rat between its paws that it can bat back and forth until it dies from fear. And Rosco can feel the swell of that fear fill his borrowed heart as a body follows, settling on top of him with a real heaviness and heat that makes him flush.
The creature is all bare skin and sheer silk, golden adornments clinking musically as they tilt their head in consideration as they cast burning eyes over his body. Next to it, Rosco is a haphazardly spliced together monster, all mismatched skin and artfully shredded clothes. Curious hands grasp onto the fraying threads of his too short shirt and tug.
“Hey, hands off the merchandise!”
For his troubles, he received a dubiously raised eyebrow. “And what do you think you can do about it if I refuse?”
Before he has a moment to argue back, the wicked hands push his shirt up to his chin, exposing his flat stomach and the shadow of ribs. He flinches as the daggered tips of those nails coast down his chest, barely avoiding the peaks of his nipples, almost ticklish if not for the fear of pain that never comes as they play over the lines of his stomach. Teasing, testing, burning eyes focused on his face with each touch to see how he reacts. Like a specimen with its wings pinned down and his gut slit open to expose what his tender insides hide.
So he scowls, trying to gather back his courage even with his disadvantage.
“Try to eat me and see what happens,” Rosco threatens, even though he’s not even sure what would happen. Maybe a bone would get lodged in this deity’s throat or something, but it was better than nothing, because he had nothing else to go on. “I hope you choke on a bone.”
But the smile he receives is too wide, and Rosco feels dread pool in his stomach. “Oh, don’t mind if I do.”
Nails click along his belt, the fingers oddly dexterous despite the length of those talons. They undo the clasp with ease, followed by too-white teeth that grin up at him as they tug the zipper down with a quiet purr. And maybe Rosco can understand not wanting to eat his clothes, but he doesn’t understand why it feels so intimate as sharp nails curl over the edge of his underwear and tug it down. He felt less like a meal and more like a, well, feast.
Or maybe a snack.
Because this compelling creature wastes no time in swallowing him whole.
Wrong bone, and it doesn’t even choke the wicked creature. Which, okay, Rosco might be a little offended by, but he hadn’t expected to be offered to a deep throat champion. Maybe gods didn’t have gag reflexes, he thinks with some aroused panic as he feels himself start to respond. He tries to not focus on the pleasure of that hot mouth and sinful tongue, trying to conjure up old grannies shriveled tits, dog shit, something, anything to—
The throat around him swallows.
Rosco doesn’t yelp. No, he most certainly doesn’t.
(And if you point it out, he will deny, deny, deny.)
It doesn’t help that he can feel what he assumes is a piercing, touching the sensitive skin and rolling along veins as the bastard bobs his head. It’s purely physical, Rosco tells himself as his body betrays him, hips arching as far as they could upwards, towards the heat and towards the suction. He tries to hold onto the frayed edges of his stubbornness, to think of anything other than the pleasure as it floods his veins and fills his gut with a hot heat.
A throat swallows around him, and Rosco sneers.
“You bastar—”
The being pulls off, licking his lips with a hum, finally confirming the little metal piercing in that devilish tongue. “Call me Malim.”
“I’d rather not!”
“Your loss,” the wicked creature says, humming as he rubs his cheek against Rosco’s thigh. “But it would be nice to hear it from your mouth.”
Malim’s nose presses to the base of his cock, humming low and deep in his throat, the vibrations wickedly pleasurable against his aroused skin as he clenches his eyes shut in an attempt not to cave to the sensations. Thumbs caress over the sharp protrusions of his hipbones, an oddly comforting touch that, for a moment, softens Rosco and his struggles.
Touch was an inconsistent companion in his life, even surrounded as he was by the rag tag group of friends who had a common goal. Forget intimacy altogether, so he can only blame his haphazardly spliced together body for how it desires to press closer to the source of wet heat that kisses over the veins in his lower stomach, those fire-touched eyes looking up at him through heavy silken lashes.
“C’mon,” the creature goads, sitting up and smiling down at where Rosco glares up at him. “Say my name and I’ll promise to treat you nice. I don’t offer this to just anyone, you know.”
“Lucky me,” Rosco grits out, but his mask of confidence is splintered by the nervous sweat that trails down his neck.
“Luck has nothing to do with this,” Malim murmurs, and in Rosco’s moment of inattention because he’s too busy watching that shapely mouth form words, he is unprepared for those slender hands to grab the bunched fabric of his pants and tug them off entirely.
“Hey!”
“If luck was involved, I would have a nice, quiet sacrifice that would beg for my attention, my mouth, my fingers, content to be consumed by my eternal hunger,” Malim continues, deaf to Rosco’s affronted noises as he presses his palms to the patchwork skin of the thrashing man’s knees and slowly slides his hands up, adding pressure as he reaches the thighs. “Good thing I don’t want a meek, quiet thing, or else I already would’ve cut your tongue out.”
A hot mouth descends over the multi-colored skin of his torso, the metal of the piercing clicking over the staples. It leaves a burning path as it travels along the line of hastily mended skin, digging in just slightly to test if the scar separates under the prodding of the wet muscle. It doesn’t, but the teeth that follow attempt what the tongue could not.
“Hey—!”
Rosco cuts himself off as a noise builds in the back of his throat that he is not keen to let out, too close to a whine as it claws up and fills his mouth. He can feel the victorious grin pressed against his skin, Malim intensifying his efforts by pressing errant kisses to the space of shadows between the slightly protruding ribs, down the slope of his stomach to swipe a tongue over the indentation of his navel and dipping inside.
“Malim—!”
Rosco knows he has lost the moment he speaks the name.
Those fire-born eyes slit in delight as Malim looks up at him from where he lays perched like a lazy housecat, grin too sharp to be anything except ruinous. And it cuts through his resistance, the spider-silk strands easily tearing apart under the gleam of the blade as Malim kisses the hipbone that protrudes from his skin.
“Was that so hard?” the creature asks, teasing and cruel as teeth replace lips and bite down lightly. “See, you can be a good boy when you need to be.”
If Rosco is anything, it’s combative.
“You’re all talk and no cock,” Rosco grunts out, grinning as the creature pulls back with a frown. “Doubt you even have one—”
His words dry up very quickly as Malim pushes his billowy pants down enough to expose what Rosco had hoped was an insufficient dick. He is proven very wrong very quickly.
With a grin, Malim leans forward to press it up against his own, the band of gold at the base and the piercing at the top a standout against his skin. It slides lovingly against him, and Rosco shivers with revulsion (arousal) as the piercing touches him.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Malim leans forward, teeth sharp as they nip at his bottom lip, and when Rosco gasps in surprise, a tongue fills that space easily.
It’s not so much a kiss as it is a branding, a declaration. The mouth is oddly sweet, with a heat that scalds. Malim cradles the back of his head as he leans further in, fucking the thick muscle down into his throat and licking over teeth and palette with a soft sigh as he rolls his hips down to rut and grind.
With a snap of Malim's fingers, the ropes around Rosco’s waist fall away, leaving the ones around his wrist in place. Freedom, but with a price, and Rosco pays it with his mouth as the genie devours him. Teeth nip at his lower lip, a tongue licking over his own to draw it out into some bizarre game of cat and mouse, but Rosco has the sinking feeling that he’s the mouse. Because the trap is laid there in the genie’s mouth, unseen as it lays waiting as he tentatively kisses back. He can’t even be surprised when it triggers, the snap of the cage around his body as he’s pinned down tight between the hard stone and the slender torso.
“Ma—” Rosco chokes out, turning his head to the side to evade that questing tongue. “Malim, hold on!”
Lips turned downwards into a pout, false tears of rejection gathering at the corner of Malim’s eyes, the odd creature pulls away. Just as Rosco breathes a sigh of relief, it’s punched out of him as his leg is hiked over a leanly muscled shoulder, pulling a yelp from him as his body is pulled forth and his other leg pushed to the side to allow for the beautiful beast to fit himself in the space Malim had carved.
Malim ruts his cock in the valley where thigh meets groin, sighing in pleasure at the sensation of the staples that are placed there rub along the length of his arousal. His mouth is hot from where it presses to Rosco’s knee, an oddly tender touch that does not match the passion in which he thrusts against the fractured skin. Like adoration, a soft emotion that doesn’t belong in this back and forth, this give and take. Except Rosco seems the one to be doing all the giving, nothing for him besides the magical being’s attention and desire as Malim leisurely takes his time with each thrust, making sure the tempo is slow but the passion behind it intense.
And if Rosco happens to grind down to meet it, well, no one has to know. Because pleasure overrides common sense, the whole absurd situation he is in easier to swallow if he just doesn’t think about it, falling into the instinctual mindset of sex—
His brain reboots as he feels fingers nudge down between his legs. A finger presses against the sensitive area, wet and determined as it strokes over the muscle.
Panicked, Rosco reacts, the foot wrapped loosely around Malim’s waist kicking up towards the face intense with concentration—
Malim catches the foot easily, grinning down at the scowl Rosco gives him.
“How naughty,” he tuts admonishingly, pressing a kiss to the rather delicate ankle bone. “You know, I think I’ll keep you. I like your fire.”
“I hope you burn then,” Rosco sneers, trying to jerk his captured foot away.
But the momentum of his tug is used against him as Malim lets go, hands going to his waist instead to flip him over onto his front with ease. It leaves Rosco to stare out into nothing as the warm body settles over him, mouth attaching to the slope of his shoulders and licking over the nape of his neck.
“We can burn together,” the deity offers, voice low and soft as he grinds down, cock slipping between the valley of Rosco’s thighs and nudging up against his own. “But first, let’s get the spark going between us.”
There’s a hand on the dip of his waist and another that slips down between the hard slab of the altar and the chilled flesh of his torso, wrapping slender fingers around his own erect cock as Malim gives a testing thrust. The jewelry that decorates his flesh burns hot against Rosco’s skin, an unfamiliar sensation that is not unpleasant, and for that Rosco hates it, because he was born to be contrary.
He refuses to make a sound, biting down on his forearm to smother himself and the embarrassing noises that churn in his throat.
“Ah, ah, ah,” the being admonishes, and the hand on his waist moves to strike a light tap across his ass. When Rosco yelps, the sound loud and accusing, Malim smiles. “There you are, my little spitfire.”
“Did you just fucking hit me?”
Malim hums, playing innocent. His hips don’t stop moving. “No, I punished you.”
“You fucking—”
Fingers invade his mouth, and Rosco gags around them as they push into his throat.
“I want to hear the noises you make, not your screechy complaints.”
The hand that holds his cock captive sinks to the base, pushing back until his body follows, up onto his knees, so that there’s more room to thrust and grind and send him bouncing forward with each movement. No power is on his side, leaving him to the mercy of the creature that uses his body.
Between his thighs does the deity take his pleasure, the slick smack of their skin echoing in the deceitful shrine to this false god. The only thing that covers the sound is Rosco’s own panted breath, the curses that intersperse sharp but weak.
Being a sacrifice sucks, Rosco manages to think past the shivering pleasure that settles like a stone in his gut. But this was infinitely better than being eaten. He much prefers this type of devouring, because he could at least walk away from this with minimal damage and a story he would censor to hell and back when he relayed it to interested parties for a laugh. About his dramatic escape, explosions and a wild car chase added in for good measure, whatever. Just not…this.
This was something that could only be thought about under silk sheets and the heavy velvet curtain of darkness. Even as a hand slithers around to curl temptingly around the heaviness of him and slowly starts to move in time with the thrusts, Rosco tries not to think about it, tries not to see himself meeting each thrust or hear the gossamer thin pleas that fill his mouth. His body moves without his instruction, surrendering itself to exploring hands and shuddering when teeth set themselves into the curve of his shoulder and bite down.
Rosco jerks forward, a thin, needy sound scraping his throat as he arches.
A hand slides up the length of his straining torso, up to his chest where it cups and molds itself over the peaked flesh, rolling a nipple between the valley of two fingers.
“That’s it,” Malim praises, nuzzling his nose behind a flushed ear and pressing a light kiss there. “Look at how compatible we are.”
The hand on his chest slides up, lightly wrapping around his neck. There is no pressure, only a gentle guidance that Rosco instinctually follows as he leans back, pressing the slick skin of his back against Malim’s chest. This close, he can feel the rapid beating of a heart, at odds with how the tempo of his hips slow to a destructive grind.
“Yes,” the deity murmurs, holding him close, “I think I will keep you.”
The hand on his neck touches his chin, turning his head so that his lips could be gently consumed by the hot mouth that waits just over his shoulder. Pressed like that, the intimacy slow and bleeding, is how he finally reaches the peak. Between the twisting hand, the cock that slots between his thighs, and the anchoring kiss, he’s not strong enough to hold on.
The pleasure is followed by Malim, who paints his legs in pearls and diamonds, the mess sticky and unbearably hot, dripping strands over his thighs and down to his knees. The ropes that encase his wrists fall away, leaving him to slump forward onto the blessedly cool stone of the altar as he fights to regain his breath and feeling to his arms. He can feel heated eyes look over his body, but he is relaxed enough not to give it much thought as his eyes slide closed.
Except—
“Let’s make a deal.”
And being fuzz-brained as he is, Rosco can only mutter, “Deal?”
“Mmhm.” The hot body presses against his side, voice lowering to a destructive whisper as lips press to his ear. “I want to leave this place, so I want you to take me with you. I’m tired of being bound to this boring little village, and you present an opportunity that I would be daft to let go willingly. I want freedom.”
Rosco peels open one eye and glares up at the deity. “How?”
“Oh, simple.” The smile he is given cuts through his ribs, up to where his heart falsely beats in his chest. “You need to eat me.”
It takes a moment, but the shock of the words sends him wheeling back. If not for the tight grip on his wrist keeping him in place, he would have sailed off the altar.
“Like hell—!”
A palm slams over his mouth, fingers digging in threateningly. “Let me finish speaking before you start imaging the wrong things.”
Rosco isn’t sure how one could hear eat me and not think of cannibalism, but sure, whatever. He glowers instead, because that’s all he can do.
“I need you to take a piece of myself within you, and I will nest inside your little patchwork heart.” A nail taps at his chest. “It’s nothing dramatic, just a bit of pleasure involved. Do we have a deal?”
The hand moves from his mouth, leaving it vulnerable to Malim’s lips as he leans down to kiss him. Terms and conditions, Rosco thinks, trying to hold onto the thought as he acquiesces to the mouth. He needs to know the terms and conditions—
Malim pulls away, taking Rosco’s thoughts with him as the mouth presses to his neck instead. The strained moan he fights to keep down does not listen, and it filters into the air soft and sweet. Betrayed by his own body, eyes fluttering closed as the mouth presses hot, wet kisses up his neck, Rosco is more concerned about how to keep himself quiet than the hand that gently leads his own to the space between Malim's thighs that lays heavy with gold.
“Right here,” Malim whispers against his skin, a groan cutting off his sentence as a palm touches him. “Right here is where you will consume the part of me that will release me from this place.”
“You want me to…” Rosco trails off, looking rather dubiously down at where Malim starts to thicken in interest once more under his hand. “Are you serious?”
“Do you think I would lie?”
Yes, Rosco doesn’t say, even if he’s tempted. Instead he says, “I’m not sure I can expect you to fully tell the truth.”
“Oh, it’s the truth…just slanted. But you have my word that no harm will come to you.”
“I don’t know how much that’s worth,” Rosco mumbles, but sits up with a sigh. “If it gets me out of here then…fine. Just don’t comment on my lack of technique.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The next kiss is softer, and Rosco doesn’t fight it as he closes his eyes and leans into it. If he doesn’t think too much about it, then it’s rather…pleasant, but like hell was he going to admit it. Still, he’s touched like he’s precious, hands cradling his cheeks to pull him closer, soft sighs pressed to his mouth that taste sweet, like overly ripe peaches in summer. He can taste the juice and feel the pit under his tongue, the illusion heavy in his mind as he leans in more, to gather the flesh upon his tongue and drink down the taste of magic which tingles pleasantly in his mouth.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, Rosco thinks as he reaches out to touch the filled flesh that hangs heavy and wanting between Malim’s legs. He lets out a confused noise when a hand on his wrist stops him.
“So eager,” the genie whispers against his mouth, grinning as Rosco scowls at him in return. “Now, now, I’m not stopping you. Why don’t we make this more comfortable for you, hm?”
Before Rosco can ask what he means, the genie snaps his fingers, and the sterile environment of the sacrificial alter bleeds away into a world of reds and oranges. The hard stone slab under him becomes soft, the scent of burning incense fading to ripe peaches that is almost cloyingly sweet.
And there, lounging on overly plush cushions, the genie himself waits, satin falling away to expose silken skin over tight muscle and dark tattoos, gold chains draped across his body like a temptation put before Rosco like a snake with an apple. There’s an inane urge to set teeth to skin, to see if it is as sweet as it looks, to drink the juice of lust and eat the flesh of the damned. And Rosco is Eve, pulled forth by the siren song.
“Come here, my chosen host.” Malim holds his hand out, fingers gesturing softly. “Take my hand.”
Rosco does, and Malim winds those long fingers around his hand like a shackle as they tug him forth. Between the cradle of his naked thighs, Rosco hesitantly shuffles into place. It’s not a place he’s ever been before, and he feels that creeping sensation of insecurity as he feels those intense eyes look over the slope of his body.
“Can’t you close your eyes or something?”
Malim hums in disinterest, and Rosco shivers as a sharp nail travels up the valley of his spine, weaving between the knobs that protrude from the thin skin and up his back. “No,” is the annoyingly simple answer, wicked in its directness. “I want to see you.”
Rosco doesn’t flush because of the words. He doesn’t! If he can’t see it, it’s not there!
(Even if he can feel the heat settle in his face and travel down his neck.)
But Malim is quick to chuckle, rubbing his knuckles over the heated cheek where stitches and staples bisect the skin. “Don’t worry – nothing you can do will deter me from seeing this through, even if you’re sloppy and terrible at it. I just might like that.”
Okay, so Rosco hasn’t sucked a dick before, but how hard could it be?
The truth is that it is very, very hard. In theory it shouldn’t be, but reality had a way of showing him the error of his ways as he stares down at the one-eyed snake, its poison dripping thick pearls of pleasure down as he engages in the world’s longest stare down. And he knows he’s going to lose, as he sets his hand around the shaft and gives it a tentative stroke. Really, it should be similar to how he touches himself, no?
Of course, he had never engaged in autofellatio, so he has no idea how to tuck his lips around his teeth as he leans down to give a testing lick to the tip and over warmed metal.
His nose wrinkles in distaste.
Above him, Malim laughs.
“Take your time.”
“Take your time, he says,” Rosco whispers under his breath, giving the turgid length a punishing stroke, but the genie only sighs and leans back, gesturing for him to continue.
Which leaves Rosco with little instruction on how to go about this. So he falls into what might be instinct, wrapping his hand around the bottom while his mouth kisses over the tip. Just small, simple things to acquaint himself with this task that he isn’t completely sure how to complete without looking like a fool. But Malim doesn’t rush him, only running his sharp nails through his hair in a tender touch that doesn’t match the way they scrape over his scalp possessively but never painfully.
Still, it feels like a threat, and Rosco can only be obedient to the leash of fear that tightens around his neck as he dips his head low, taking more and more of the hot, silken flesh into his mouth in an effort to complete his task. He ignores the surprising arousal that bobs between his own legs, seeking attention despite how he ruts against the pillows he lays down on. Rosco tries to keep his movements small and unnoticeable, but the light, derisive laughter above him gives him away.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Rosco pops off with a snarl, but the effect of his glare is dampened by the wetness of his chin. “You got a problem?”
“It’s a problem when my chosen host won’t let me involve him in my pleasure.” A thumb wipes at his chin, gathering the evidence of said pleasure and bringing up to a grinning mouth. Malim hums at the taste. “Let us find mutual release in each other.”
Rosco is tugged and pulled until he straddles the slender torso, face flushing as he realizes what position he is in as he stares down at the erect cock while Malim situates himself out of his view, hands kneading his ass.
“No way, man, this is embarrassing!”
“Sorry, can’t hear you.”
“The fuck you can’t—!” Rosco breaks off into a whine, body jerking forward as something wet licks in that intimate area between the cheeks that are pulled apart. It’s overwhelming, and Rosco has to lean his forehead down against a lean thigh as he tries to remember how to breathe. Honestly, he forgets more than that, struggling to recall his own duty that lays waiting for him as his body is explored in a way it has never been before.
Fingers replace the tongue, sinking knuckle deep as Malim pulls back, voice low and wanting as he says, “Not holding your end of the deal?”
“Shut up,” Rosco hisses out between clenched teeth, glaring over his shoulder at the amused look. “You can’t just throw a cat into water and expect that it knows how to swim.”
“Aw, poor pussy can’t swim,” is the teasing return, and Rosco is so very tempted to just get up and leave, which he would, if he knew where the exit was in this little magical space. “But I’m sure he can learn.”
Rosco means to retort, really he does, but the words melt into whines as the fingers flex and move, tasting of burnt caramel on the back of his tongue as the flames of pleasure are turned too high. But he is nothing if not competitive, and he grits his teeth as he gets to work.
He doesn’t even attempt to make it pleasurable – it’s all teeth and tongue, his hand roughly fisting the base as he tries to hurry this up towards the finish line and declare victory.
A disappointed sigh tells him he is not accomplishing it.
“Don’t make me get the leash,” is the low warning, and it’s enough of a deterrent that Rosco softens his approach. A kiss is pressed to the back of his thigh as a reward. “Good boy.”
The name does nothing but make him angry (aroused, horribly, painfully aroused). It shouldn’t, but he can’t help how the praise settles tight around his traitorous, desperate heart. To ignore the tight clench inside his chest, he focuses on trying not to choke as he takes the cock in his mouth, closing his eyes and trying to breathe through his nose. It’s too much too fast, and he’s forced back when a hand grips the back of his hair and pulls.
“Easy. It’s not a race.” The hand loosens, running gentle fingers through the riotous mess of his hair. “Take your time. Don’t try to take it all at once.”
Rosco wants to shrug off the instructions, to do this his way, but Malim must sense how he is keen to toss away the information, because the grip on his hair tightens once more.
“If you want to choke that badly, I can’t always make it so that you can’t move and I’ll be the once to control the pace. Imagine, not being able to breathe, the panic in your chest as your eyes fill with tears and the world grows dark. I don’t mind the act, but I imagine you do.” The hand loosens once more, nails dragging temptingly down his neck and around the knobs of his spine. “Alright?”
The odd threat works. In his inexperience he keeps the touches soft and his mouth wet, trying to focus on giving rather than what he was receiving. Which was hard, considering the fingers always seemed to hone in on that little bundle of nerves and stroke around it teasingly. His determination wavered, but it never broke, no matter how those wicked fingers pressed and moved. He certainly wasn’t a deep throat champ, but he was trying his best.
His jaw hurts, his knees feel numb from where they are pressed into the floor, and his body is moving on its own to meet the fingers that settle deep inside of him – and it shouldn’t be enjoyable, but somehow it only adds to the building pleasure that builds up. Even the embarrassment from this position, exposed to strange eyes and curious fingers, is not enough for him to stop.
He bobs and sucks and tries not to choke or gag, the praise that is randomly interspersed between humming licks only spurring him on and making him clench over the intrusions. Really, he could just use his teeth and end this charade of pretending fool’s gold was worth anything, just a quick snap of his jaws…but he’s also ridiculously competitive and wants to see this through to the end. And it becomes easier with repetitive motions, finding a sort of freedom in pulling back to lick over veins and mouth over the heated flesh.
A kiss is pressed to the back of his thigh, hands slithering down to knead at his stapled skin. Without the stretch of them inside of him, it’s easier to focus on giving rather than receiving, and Rosco can ignore the heated observation that watches him as he moves. Well, not easier, not with that heavy gaze that he can feel rake over his skin with phantom fingers. The bitter taste of metal and precum is able to be overlooked, almost turning sweet the more he licks and sucks, and the soft sighs he can hear from the creature behind him only spurs him on.
“Almost there,” he hears, the words soft and edged with a pleased sigh. “Make sure you swallow, because then I’ll make sure you take it into your body in a different way.”
The implication is clear when fingers grope over his ass, pulling the cheeks apart one more time to blow cool air against the intimate space that hides away. That unknown creates a crater in the pit of his stomach that rests alongside the arousal, cracked open to spill uncertainties and desperate wants.
It doesn’t take much more of his awkward fumbling and choking for him to hear the hissed sigh and for his mouth to fill with heat. His first instinct is to spit it out, the bitterness sudden and unpalatable, but the sudden hand on the back of his head pushes him down.
“Drink it.”
The command is woven is magic, sizzling over his skin as it wraps around his neck and keeps him tame. His throat obeys without his own input, swallowing the bitter heat, feeling it pool heavily in his gut next to his arousal that still burns. Even with the ease of magic, some still escapes, past the loose seal of his lips and down his chin.
Malim tuts and pulls him back.
Panting, Rosco is pliant as Malim shifts him around to sit across his lap, the soft croons of praise muffled by the cotton that fills his head and the unfulfilled pleasure that settles in his veins.
“Good boy.” Fingers gather up the mess on his chin and tap at his lips. “Don’t waste it.”
Rosco opens his mouth, but the obedience in him has long since left him (if there had been any at all), and his teeth are quick to snap over the knuckles as he glares at the amused deity.
“Good thing I like that fire in you,” Malim muses, replacing his fingers with his mouth, careful to avoid the sharp teeth that snap at his tongue. And it’s easy to smother that fire into a smolder as the deity wraps a hand around the still aching cock that has yet to find release and gives it a teasing pump.
The whine tastes sweet on Malim’s tongue, who drinks it down like a man who has been wandering the desert for far too long in search of something to quench this wicked thirst, and Rosco can only let himself be consumed by that hungry mouth. It’s wet and messy, a tongue shoving back the bitter taste of release into his throat, where he’s forced to swallow. It settles heavily in his stomach, a gathering of pearls that creates a small treasury that weighs him down with each swallow.
Even when he’s out of breath and his lungs scream for release, Malim only pulls him closer, grip tight and unbreakable. The intangible fear finally manifests into true panic, and Rosco pushes against the hold despite the weakens him from the way the hand tugs at his cock. It’s too much and not enough, the air in his lungs burning as he tries to breathe around the invasive tongue and sharp teeth that anchor into his bottom lip while a wicked hand plays over his sensitive skin, pulling from him his pleasure and his breath.
It's less of a fall and more of a plummet. There's wind in his ears and stars in his eyes, blinking brighter in the encroaching darkness that tints his vision. A hand wraps lightly around his throat, the warmth of the palm almost calming if not for the way his body is starved of air.
“Ma—” he tries to bite out, but his words are swallowed by the hot mouth and explorative long tongue that licks over the roof of his mouth before it fucks back into his throat.
It’s there, on the brink of consciousness, where his body finally let’s go, how he can feel himself jolt and shake as he finally, finally reaches that peak, spilling into the hand that milks him while his soul is sucked out of his mouth. The world still fades, the whisper of magic he drinks down making him limp and heavy eyed as he can distantly feel Malim finally pull away, the deity’s chuckle muffled.
“Shhh,” is the soft sound pressed into his ear by a plush mouth. “Just let go. I’ve got you, my dear host.”
The words compress together, syllables and consonants melting into each other until all Rosco can hear is the hiss of a snake and the fizzle of fire going out.
~*~
Rosco hurtles into wakefulness, the sense of weightlessness disorienting as his heart races. He is alone, untied upon the stone altar, clothes unwrinkled as he looks down to inspect himself. A dream, he wonders as he slides his hands down his torso, trying to find evidence of…of what exactly?
He swings his legs over the edge of the altar, looking around, almost hesitant as he calls out, “…Malim?”
Nothing.
There is no answering call, no whisper of silk over skin.
Rosco waits until he feels foolish, scowling at himself as he pushes himself down and onto his feet. Of course it had been a dream, what else could it have been except—
I’m here.
He stumbles.
The laughter is warm and mocking, phantom nails gliding down his spine as his ears are filled with the sound.
I’m right where I want to be.
“Right where?” He looks around, under the altar, up at the roof. “Are you invisible?”
Something like that.
“Don’t you have your freedom? Why are you still hanging around here?”
Didn’t I tell you? I’ve made a nest in your hollowed heart.
Rosco pauses. “You meant it literally?”
How you interpreted it is not my fault, silly little golem. Malim sighs, and Rosco flinches as he feels insufficient lips at his ear, nipping at the pierced cartilage. Don’t worry, I’ll be the best roommate you’ll ever have.
“I hope you know you’re paying rent,” Rosco grumbles, and tries not to flush and trip over his feet for a second time as he hears I’ll pay with my body. I think we both know how you want to be in charge next time.
“Who says I even want you?” The lie lays heavy on his tongue, and he pretends not to taste the bitterness of it.
The laughter he receives is soft and full of derision. I’m in your heart now – lying won’t get you anywhere, my dear host. Don’t worry, next time I’ll pretend that you’re the one in charge.
“There won’t be a next time!”
Keep telling yourself that…what’s your name?
“Should’ve asked for my name before you went to town on my body,” Rosco grumbles as he starts to make his way away from the altar.
Oh, stop pouting. You enjoyed what we did. And you’ll continue to enjoy it.
The false vessel of his heart gives a squeeze that he ignores.