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“Please,” Tristan whimpered. He was so, so pretty when he begged.
Tristan had never submitted to anyone before. Was this submission? He wasn’t sure. It was hot, whatever the fuck it was, and it made it impossible to think of anything else.
He looked up at Mort and craved him. Not just his body, but his approval and his protection. Nobody had ever really protected Tristan before. He had been weathered by existence, the same way the desert rocks got sandblasted in windstorms. It had left him raw, sensitive, and with a perpetual anxiety. But when he knelt before Mort, he felt a comforting blanket made of Mort’s mere presence.
Mort stood up, towering over Tristan. He looked down with dark, hooded eyes.
“What is it you want, exactly? Tell me?”
Tristan started small. “I’ve never seen you without your hoodie off. Can I see you, please?”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
Mort’s hood fell away to reveal a pale form. His body was muscled, but in a sinewy sort of way. He was not a bulky kind of creature, but he was elegant. And he was marked. Tattoos ran from his neck to his waist, and below besides. They were ancient in origin, but they looked fresh.
“Wow,” Tristan breathed. “You look like some kind of a museum piece.”
“They’re markings of power,” Mort explained. “They are the inscriptions and sigils of my father, and the world from which I came.”
Tristan reached up with both hands, wanting to touch, but not knowing if he would be allowed. There was something dark and hallowed about Mort’s body. He’d barely touched him so far. Mort had sucked his dick, once, but Tristan had laid back for that part.
“Am I allowed?”
“You are. Good boy, for asking for permission.”
The praise could have been patronizing, but Tristan drank it in. It was like a warm flow down his spine, warming him all the way to the pit of his belly.
He put his hands on Mort’s stomach, ran his fingers over his abdominal plane. He felt the musculature, but he felt more than that too. He suddenly felt a hot pulse of energy that flowed from Mort into his fingers.
“Fuck!” He cursed under his breath and pulled away, looking at his fingertips. They were glowing red.
Mort snatched him by the wrist and pulled him up off his knees, staring at the same parts of him. Tristan tried to pull away, more out of animal habit resisting what felt like a trap, but Mort held him easily, inspecting his fingers with an intense glare. Then he transferred that same glare to Tristan, scaring the absolute hell out of him with a single question.
“What are you?”
“I don’t know.”
Tristan’s whimper seemed genuine.
Whatever he was, he suddenly reacted with Mort. When his fingers touched Mort’s sigils, there was a strong pulse of power, and of recognition. They hadn’t hurt each other, but they had scared the shit out of each other.
“Strip,” Mort commanded.
“What?” Suddenly Tristan didn’t seem so keen to get naked.
“I’ve never seen you entirely bare before. I need to check you for a mark.”
“What kind of mark?”
“Strip,” Mort repeated sternly.
“I don’t… you are…”
He was scaring Tristan, and he knew it. What he didn’t know was why. If the boy was hiding something, Mort had to know.
“The fuck!” Tristan swore as Mort reached for his fly and started pulling his jeans down, underwear as well.
There were plenty of markings on Tristan’s body, scars and bruises, and of course bandages from his latest foray into madness. Mort knew he was looking for something special, even as he was forced to tussle with Tristan. He would have liked to have gotten Tris’ full consent, but there were some things too urgent to allow him to spend time coaxing a wild thing like Tristan into submission.
“Let me go!”
“Stay. Still.” Mort used his reaper voice, the one that calmed even the most alarmed of souls. It should have stilled Tristan immediately, but of course it didn’t, because Tristan was different.
Tristan’s response to the command was to growl like a feral little animal and contort his body so hard Mort was afraid he was going to get hurt. Not so afraid he let Tristan go, though.
“Fucking asshole,” Tristan cursed, losing his manners completely. They would have to discuss this later, his lack of obedience, his refusal to submit to a simple order, and his disrespect. For now, Mort searched his body, pinning Tristan’s beautiful, scarred form to the floor. There had to be something here. Maybe not large. Not obvious. But something.
He found it in Tristan’s hairline, right at the back of his head where spine met skull. A little silver circle and cross gleaming in his skin. It was pale enough and fine enough that if you did not look with the eyes of a reaper, you might not see it at all.
