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“Owe me submission?” Mort considered the question out loud.
Tristan owed Mort his life, but he did not value that.
“No,” Mort finished. “I suppose you don’t owe me it. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Well,” Tristan said, half-begrudgingly, half in panic that he might be pushing Mort away. “I owe you something. You’ve been looking after me for over a month.”
“Yes,” Mort said. “I have been looking after you, haven’t I.”
“Yeah,” Tristan agreed.
“So perhaps, when I tell you I want you on your knees because you deserve a thorough punishment, you should kneel without asking me if you owe me submission.”
Tristan bit his lower lip and emanated a sound halfway between a whine and a growl. He was aroused, because this was the game he wanted to play. The game where Mort made him submit.
One day, Mort would remove these training wheels, and have Tristan do as he was told simply because he was told. But for now he used a firm hand and a guiding voice to put Tristan where they both wanted him to be.
He stood up, fisted Tristan’s hair, and dragged him down. His strength was many times that of the mortal, and so it was no effort at all to force Tristan into the submission he craved.
“One day you will be such a good boy you will not need punishment. You will obey with joy and willingness.”
Tristan quirked a lip. That didn’t sound like him. But he couldn’t really argue, because it was clear that Mort was more than ready to make him obey.
He was hard as hell. Loving every second of being held this way. Mort had done more than just provide these last weeks. He had made Tristan safe. Tristan had never been safe before, and for that feeling alone he would have gladly given up his self-determination. He was not using his life, or himself. Best that Mort have it all.
The floor was hard beneath Tristan’s knees. He looked up at Mort, though not without effort. The reaper’s grip was firm. Mort was making sure Tristan stayed where he had been put.
“When I have the claim laid on you removed, I will lay my claim on you in turn. You will be mine, and you will be obedient.”
“Or what?”
Both Tristan and Mort’s lips twisted at the impertinent question, both enjoying it for different reasons. Tristan loved to challenge, and Mort was fond of being challenged by his boy.
Mort loosed his pants, allowing his great pale cock to spring free. He was long, and he was thick, and he was hard. He had waited more than long enough to do this. Perhaps Tristan couldn’t touch his soul markings, but there were none on his cock.
There was only one order left to give.
“Suck. Me.”
Tristan’s mouth engulfed Mort’s cock with an eagerness to obey and please that would have seemed unthinkable if one had only listened to his words.
He had done this before. Mort had to wonder with who. Uncommon jealousy threaded through him. He did not like the idea of anybody ever having touched Tristan. Bad enough he be marked. But for someone to have had him this way and left… abandoned him to misery? It seemed unfathomable.
Mort let Tristan suck for several minutes, bobbing his head back and forth, pleasuring and taking pleasure at the same time. The sensations were not new to Mort, but they did have a certain unfamiliarity only because he had not fucked in over a thousand years. When you have forever, sex is less pressing a need.
Tristan was changing that, though. Just as Mort felt himself getting close to release, he reached out, took Tristan by the hair, and stilled him without removing him.
Mort held Tristan on his cock, not so deep that his boy couldn’t breathe, but deep enough that he would feel it in his jaw and in the seat of his scarred soul. Questioning blue eyes flashed up at him.
“I am going to keep you here until I think you have learned your lesson,” Mort began. “Actually, no, that’s not true. You could be here an eternity and never learn. I am going to keep you here until I see fit.”
Tristan made some sound against Mort’s cock. It was unintelligible, and irrelevant. He didn’t try to get up. Mort would have let him go if he saw panic or true intent to escape, but he saw neither of those things and so he held Tristan there for ten, twenty, thirty minutes, until his boy’s body began to relax and something akin to submission floated in his eyes.
Tristan was trapped. Caught. Held. And for the first time in his life, none of that made him want to run away. Instead, he felt himself relaxing into the space between Mort’s thighs, his jaw aching until he relaxed that too. He felt himself sinking into a kind of calm he might never have felt before.
